Authors: Stephen Frey
The Successor (36 page)
Then the extraordinary happened. Dr. Padilla appeared from behind a tree in back of the lieutenant and rushed him. Padilla had stayed with Christian all morning, but Christian had thought he was down the hill with the rest of the squad. Just as the lieutenant brought the pistol up to fire, Padilla hit the officer from behind, knocking him forward violently, but not the gun from his fingers.
Christian raced toward the two men sprawled on the ground and grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist, trying to get the gun. They struggled wildly, but the lieutenant was able to fire twice before Christian hit him with a crushing blow to the chin, knocking him out cleanly. He rose up on his knees, straddling the man for a few seconds, breathing hard. Then he looked over at Padilla. The doctor lay on his back, a red stain on his white shirt. It was growing bigger by the second, spreading out across his chest.
“Oh, no.” Christian grabbed the lieutenant’s gun and crawled quickly to where Padilla lay dying. “I gotta get you out of here.”
Padilla shook his head weakly. “No chance for me,” he gasped, touching his chest. “Save yourself. Go to my house in Havana. The address is in my wallet, on my identification.” He grimaced, pain overcoming him. “She’ll help you get out, help you find the general. You can trust him.”
Christian could hear the rest of the squad climbing the hill, alerted by the sound of the two shots. “I’ve got to try to save—”
“Go,” Padilla urged, teeth gritted.
“Now.”
Reluctantly, Christian took Padilla’s wallet, turned and sprinted off, obeying the dying man’s final wish.
EPILOGUE
December
CHRISTIAN WATCHED
from a side door. Watched Allison work her magic up in front of the packed ballroom. He couldn’t have picked a better vice chairman.
It had been seven months since he’d somehow made his way to Nelson Padilla’s house outside Havana and found refuge. It had taken him almost twenty hours to get down out of the mountains and through the smoking neighborhoods until he found the address the dying doctor had given him. Dodging burning houses, listening for gunfire so he could avoid it, dashing behind anything he could find to hide him many times. Several times he’d been certain he was going to be taken into custody by U.S. troops roaring past in jeeps. Which would probably have been as bad as—maybe worse than—being detained by FAR loyalists who were hiding out in the hills or pockets of neighborhoods.
It had taken him several minutes in the foyer of Padilla’s house to convince his wife what was going on—fortunately she spoke English—but the doctor had given him enough details before he’d died to make the story stick. Then Christian had to tell her about her husband. It had been awful, and he’d held her for a long time after breaking the news.
Christian hadn’t gotten to the bottom of what was really going on—why the Rangers had turned on him and Padilla in the mountains overlooking Havana—until a Senate investigation into President Wood’s alleged civilian assassination orders had been uncovered and reported by
The New York Times
. He’d been stonewalled up to that point—the same way he had been stonewalled trying to find out what had happened to Quentin.
Then, when the story broke, it had all made sense. The establishment boys—the same crew who had been involved with the nanotech conspiracy a few years ago—had ganged up on Wood and Christian. Hanging the assassination order on Wood and killing Christian in Cuba was a neat way for them to kill two birds with one stone. A slick way for them to get Wood out of the White House and Christian off the face of the earth. To get him back for the money he’d cost them and their perception that he had been responsible for the death of their pal Sam Hewitt. But, in the end, it hadn’t worked. Wood was still firmly in control of the White House and Christian was still very much alive.
But Victoria Graham was out of her job at MuPenn and Melissa Hart—a.k.a. Beth Garrison—had destroyed her father’s political chances when Jesse Wood found out what had happened. Fortunately, the end result was a positive for both of them. Graham had retired to her Florida home and Melissa was spending time with her father. He’d gotten past his anger at Melissa—they were actually talking every few weeks—and he was glad that nothing criminal had been levied at Graham. She’d always been a friend, and after all, she’d really just been trying to help him.
Christian hung his head for a moment. His best friend was gone. Quentin had been killed on his way to Cuba, had given his life to try to help Christian. And the bastards hadn’t even seen fit to give the man a rightful burial.
They’d killed a good man in Nelson Padilla, too. A doctor, a husband, a father—and a hero. At least General Delgado had seen to it that Padilla would never be forgotten. A statue of him had already been erected in downtown Havana.
Christian looked up and smiled, watching Allison giving her speech to the Everest Capital investors from a raised podium at the front of the room. He’d invited all one hundred of the Everest limited partners, along with husbands and wives, to the Ritz Carlton in Naples, Florida, for the firm’s annual meeting and a long weekend—footing the entire bill himself. He usually held the meeting in New York, but it had been a bitterly cold December in the city. Besides, somehow the Ritz in Naples seemed more appropriate this year.
The crowd was finishing dessert as Allison began to get into details of Everest’s strong financial results for the year, making use of slides projected onto a large screen behind her to make points. Christian usually did this presentation, but he’d called her a couple of hours ago to tell her he’d been delayed coming down from New York and that she’d have to do it. He hadn’t been delayed—he’d actually called her on his cell phone from his room upstairs—but he’d wanted her to do it. He grinned as he watched her. She was doing a great job, as he knew she would.
When she was almost finished, he moved out from the doorway. She didn’t see him until he was almost to the podium. When she did finally spot him, he grinned widely, seeing the surprise on her face. Probably at what he was wearing: a casual linen shirt opened two buttons at the top, khakis, and Docksiders. Everyone else from Everest who was here was wearing business attire—suits or nice dresses.
“Hey there,” he said softly so his words wouldn’t be caught by the microphone. “Nice to see you.”
She grinned back. “Hey, Mr. Casual. Nice to see you, too.”
“Let me say a few words, all right?”
“Of course. It’s your show.”
She backed off a few steps as he took the podium to thunderous applause. These people were keenly aware of how much money Christian had made them over the years.
He held his hand up, politely asking for quiet. “Thank you very much and good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began as the clapping finally faded. “Thanks for coming this weekend. I want you all to have a wonderful time.” He grinned. “One thing, as all of this is on me, I wish you’d try to remember to use your cell phones at all times. Those room calls can add up.” There was a loud round of laughter. “Seriously,” he said, again holding his hand up for quiet, “I want to thank our vice chairman, Allison Wallace, for pinch-hitting. I caught the last few minutes of her act up here, and she did great. Just like I knew she would.” He gestured toward her, and once again the ballroom was filled with the sound of long applause. “I think she’s pretty special,” he added as the clapping subsided. “I think you all should, too.”
Christian hesitated, taking a long, lingering look around, nodding to familiar faces in the crowd. “Maybe some of you are wondering why I’m dressed so casually. Well, it isn’t because I was late and didn’t have a chance to change.” He hesitated again, aware that the ballroom had gone completely silent. As if the people sitting at the tables in front of him were suddenly aware that he was about to say something extremely important. “I’m stepping down.” A murmur raced through the crowd. “I’ve had enough,” he said, raising his voice above the buzz. “There are things I want to do while I’m still relatively young that I can’t do as chairman of Everest Capital. There just isn’t time. And your firm will be in great hands with Allison Wallace.” He glanced over at her. She was openmouthed, in shock. “That’s it,” he said with a smile, suddenly feeling completely liberated. He beckoned to her, then pointed to the podium. “It’s all yours, Madam Chairman.”
With that, he moved off the podium and back toward the side door he’d come through a few minutes ago. Not even giving people time to clap or try to shake his hand. He hated good-byes.
He headed quickly out the back of the hotel, through a deserted courtyard, and down a wooden walkway across the dunes to the beach. The sun was just setting over the Gulf, a perfect ball of orange flames a centimeter above the glassy water. “How beautiful is that?” he murmured, moving down the stairs to the sand, kicking off his shoes, and starting off toward the water.
“Hey!”
Christian turned sharply. Allison was standing at the top of the stairs. He took off his sunglasses slowly. “What do you want?” he demanded, then broke into a wide smile. “Don’t you have a big investment firm to run now?”
“What was that all about?”
He moved back across the sand toward the stairs as she descended to the bottom step, until they were close. “Just what I said in front of everyone inside,” he said softly. “I’ve had enough, Ally. I’m tired of it. I’ve done everything I wanted to do. I want to accomplish some other things while I still can.”
“What about me?” she demanded, her voice strained.
“You’ll be fine. I’ve been watching you over the past seven months. You’re ready to take over.”
“And that’s it? That’s all the explanation I get?”
“That’s all the explanation you need. You’re one of the most powerful people in the financial world now. I think that’s pretty good.”
“I’m not talking about Everest or the financial world,” she called as he turned away and started toward the ocean again. “I’m talking about you and—”
“By the way,” he interrupted, turning back to her. “Something occurs to me.”
She hesitated, searching the sparkle in his eyes. “What?”
“We don’t work together anymore.”
Her eyes narrowed and her expression became serious, not understanding. Then she got it and she smiled. “Hey, that’s right, we don’t.”
It had been nice to see that smile. So sincere. A display of emotion he knew he could trust. Now that he was out of business, he was looking forward to spending time only with people he knew he could trust. It would be quite a change, but quite a welcome one, too. “Call me tonight after you’ve finished your Everest duties.”
“Where will you be?”
Christian grinned and pointed down at the sand. “Right here, honey. Right here.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S
TEPHEN
F
REY
is a managing director at a private equity firm. He previously worked in mergers and acquisitions at JPMorgan and as a vice president of corporate finance at an international bank in Manhattan. Frey is the bestselling author of
The Successor, The Protégé, The Chairman, Shadow Account, Silent Partner, The Day Trader, Trust Fund, The Insider, The Legacy, The Inner Sanctum, The Vulture Fund,
and
The Takeover.
He lives in Florida.
ALSO BY STEPHEN FREY
The Takeover
The Vulture Fund
The Inner Sanctum
The Legacy
The Insider
Trust Fund
The Day Trader
Silent Partner
Shadow Account
The Chairman
The Protégé
The Power Broker
The Successor
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Stephen Frey
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Frey, Stephen W.
The successor : a novel / Stephen Frey.
p. cm.
1. Corporate culture—Fiction. 2. International business enterprises—Fiction. 3. Investment bankers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3556.R4477S83 2007
813'.54—dc22
2006047908
eISBN: 978-0-345-49804-5
v3.0