The Takeover (1995), page 23
Falcon's voice was controlled. He glanced at Chambers, who sat serenely across the table. "That is exactly what I am telling you."
"Are you also telling me that Dupont is out of the bidding?" "Yes."
"Why, Kiran? Why is Dupont dropping out of this? They have a lot more dynamite in their keg. They could keep going." "I dunno, Falcon.
Honestly. They said something over the phone about the price being way out of hand." "But we only upped the bid three dollars from their first offer...
Chambers reached across the table and turned on the mute button.
"Are you out of your mind, Falcon? The man just said Dupont wasn't going to bid any further. Leave it at that. Don't try to convince Bhutto he ought to push Dupont harder. Let it go. We won. Who the hell cares why Dupont decided not to bid higher? just accept it."
Chambers turned off the mute button.
Falcon stared at Chambers for a moment. He wanted to ask Chambers how he knew Winthrop; why they had been talking about Filipelli so early this morning; what had happened to those two senior executives at Penn-Mar; and why there was no Westphalia Nord anywhere in Germany.
All of these things he wanted to ask but didn't. Five million dollars were almost in his grasp. "Falcon, we need to put this deal together."
Bhutto's voice crackled through the speaker. "The deal's already together, Kiran. Once we've closed on the tender offer, we'll meet with Penn-Mar management out in Toledo. Until then, tell them to manage the company as if nothing was going on. Got that, Kiran?"
"What about Dupont? We gotta give them something." "I'm sure they own a few shares of Penn-Mar, right?" "Probably." "Then they're doing fine. They've already made some good money. You keep them at bay.
You got it?" "Sure, I got it." Kiran was resigned to the directive.
"One more thing, Kiran. Let me write the press release announcing that Penn-Mar has accepted our offer. You can look at it before it goes out." "No problem." "Good. I'll be in touch later on." Falcon switched off the telephone. It was done. They had Penn-Mar. Another bidder might crawl out of the woodwork, but, as he thought about it further, that development would be unlikely at this late juncture. He had his spies out there listening, and they had heard nothing.
It was incredible news, but now the work began all over again. NASO had committed thirteen billion dollars to the deal, and he had to get rid of most of that commitment at supersonic speed. That or risk the bank's collapse if Penn-Mar had a problem before he could sell the paper to other institutions. At least now he could get some help. The takeover was official, and he could physically return to the bank and not have to use his apartment as an office. He would be able to bring others onto the team to help him sell the notes and the bonds. Selling eleven billion dollars, the amount Boreman and Barksdale had determined that they wanted to get rid of, by himself, and quickly no less, would have been impossible.
He should have been ecstatic. They had Penn-Mar. Once the tender was closed and the commitments sold, NASO would deposit five million dollars into his account. But he was uncomfortable. Something was wrong. Dupont should not have given up so easily. In his years as a merger-and-acquisition specialist, he had never seen a deal go this way. He had never seen a huge multinational corporation back out of a hostile-bidding situation so meekly.
Falcon stared at the other three men seriously, then broke into a wry smile as he focused on Devon Chambers. "Mr. Chambers, may I present you the keys to Penn-Mar Chemicals!"
The other three men rose to their feet instantly and began to yell, shake hands, and pound the table. Even Chambers. Falcon sat quietly watching them. He could not show that kind of excitement. It was not in him.
Alexis danced effortlessly to the music booming from the speakers in the upstairs room of Club Tatou. Falcon sat at a booth table and watched her move as he sipped on a martini. She danced with several men, keeping perfect rhythm to the bass. They rubbed themselves lewdly against her in time with the Spanish beat. Two weeks ago he would have been insanely jealous. Now he didn't care.
She glanced at him every so often through the dancing bodies, aware that he was watching, but also aware that he seemed indifferent to her escapades. Falcon was able to mask every emotion but one, jealousy.
Had he been jealous, he would have pulled her firmly from the dance floor and taken her home as he had done before. But tonight something was wrong. He sat calmly in the chair as the men groped her. She glanced at him again. Something was definitely wrong, and it hurt her deeply, more deeply than she could have imagined it would at the beginning of all of this.
Falcon looked away from the dance floor and scanned the room. He didn't like this place. It had been hot in the early nineties when it first opened, but now it was full of greaseballs and low-level professionals. And the music was fringe stuff, nothing he recognized, much less liked. But Alexis was wild about Tatou, so of course they came here.
He was getting drunk, very drunk. And why shouldn't he? He had managed to put together the biggest takeover in history in less than three weeks. He had delivered Penn-Mar Chemicals to Chambers and Veens & Company on the proverbial silver platter. He had done what even he had not thought possible. He deserved to get drunk.
Barksdale had been ecstatic, unable to control himself. They had spoken several times after the conversation with Bhutto, and each time Barksdale reminded Falcon of a child. He actually giggled on the other end of the line. Boreman must be throwing him a big bonus for this one, Falcon thought. He had to kowtow to Barksdale for a few more weeks, until the five million dollars had been deposited into his account at NASO and then subsequently spirited away across the wire to an account he had set up at J. P. Morgan this afternoon.
After the initial jubilance, Chambers had seemed almost sad at the news of the victory, as if he were sorry to see the battle end so quickly.
Perhaps it was the fact that the man did not have long to live, and the end of the bidding for Penn-Mar probably marked the last major accomplishment of his life. He did not want to let go of life yet, but there was no choice, and the completion of the takeover would give his last few days little meaning. There was nothing left to drive him on.
Falcon looked up to find Alexis standing directly in front of him.
She was wearing a low-cut evening dress which had shifted to one side as a result of her gyrations on the floor. Her right nipple was almost exposed. "Fix your dress." Falcon nodded at Alexis's chest. "What's the matter, don't you like what you see anymore?" She was giving him her vulture stare. Her head was tilted down so that her dark eyes gazed at him from just beneath her eyebrows, and her mouth was slightly open. "I thought maybe it might turn you on to see me exposed in public." "What?" Falcon could not suppress a smile. This was a side of Alexis he had never seen before.
She sat in his lap and put her arms around his neck. "Why don't you take me home and show me some things?" "Things?" "Yes, you've told me that you wished I would be more passionate in your bed." "It's your bed too." "No. You're the man of the house. It's your bed and I'm only there because you want me to be. If I haven't been satisfying you, then I need to fix the problem. If you're willing to teach me, then I'm willing to learn." Alexis brought both of her hands to Falcon's face and kissed him deeply.
Jenny stared at them from the other side of the room. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Falcon respond to Alexis.
T he air was stifling in New York City. It had been hot as hell all summer and this was the worst day yet-at least ninety-five degrees, with the humidity close to a hundred percent. And it was only eight o'clock in the morning.
Falcon emerged from the subway, dripping with perspiration. It was unbearable down in the hole, at least ten degrees hotter than street level. And it was made worse by the fact that he was slightly hungover from the late night at Tatou. He tugged at his dress shirt several times. "Jesus Christ, this is ridiculous." The temperature at street level actually seemed refreshing. What was he thinking about? He should have taken a cab. He was going to be a millionaire soon, and he ought to start living like one.
Five minutes later, after a short walk through Midtown, Falcon negotiated Fifth Avenue and moved over the open courtyard before NASO's headquarters. He had not been here since the day Barksdale had recruited his help on the Penn-Mar transaction. It was nice to be back. Working at home was all right for a short while, but he wouldn't want to make a habit of it. At least not until "home" meant a farmhouse in Vermont. "Mr. Falcon! " Falcon turned in the direction of the voice as he was about to enter the revolving doors of the NASO building. An attractive black woman sat on the four-foot wall of the huge flower garden that ran the length of the NASO building. Falcon removed his sunglasses and moved slowly toward the woman. "Yes, can I help you? " The woman slid gracefully down the face of the granite wall. "I hope so." She smiled, and suddenly Falcon forgot the heat for a moment.
He smiled back. "What can I do for you?" The woman moved smoothly toward him, hand outstretched. As Falcon was about to take it, he could not help but notice the fresh scent which reached his nostrils.
It was not perfume, just a clean, natural smell, and it was pleasing.
"My name is Cassandra Stone. I'm a reporter for the Financial Chronicle."
"Whoa." Falcon's hand recoiled as if shocked. "What's the matter with you?" Stone looked at him curiously.
Falcon replaced the sunglasses on his face. "My mama told me never to talk to reporters, especially attractive ones." "Your motber never met me." "No, I guess she didn't." Slowly, beneath the sunglasses, Falcon's eyes covered her body. Her skin was a rich brown and her hair shoulder-length and wavy. Her face was thin, accented by huge, dark eyes that were surrounded by long, curving lashes. She was dressed sharply in a light blue sweater, white blouse, pleated pants, and half heels. Falcon decided that beneath the loose fitting clothes was probably an extremely attractive body. "Have you finished ogling me yet?" Stone smiled again. Evidently she had been through this before.
"Almost."
"And how do I stack up?" "Very well." Falcon ran his fingers through his hair. "And how about me? What do you think of me?"
Stone rubbed her lips for a moment. "Well, I don't really go for white men, but I suppose one of those prissy preppy girls might find you acceptable, in a pinch." She winked at him.
"Well, thank you so much." Falcon spoke sarcastically, as though hurt by her barb, but he was enjoying himself immensely. The woman was easy to talk to and, somehow, instantly trustworthy, which, of course, was one of the reasons she was a reporter. She could probably draw a story out of anyone, he thought. Falcon drew back slightly, then shook her hand in earnest. "Andrew Falcon. I'm sorry for all of that."
Stone smiled widely and waved the hand she withdrew from Falcon's.
"Are you kidding? I enjoy that kind of stuff. Most of the people I deal with are pretty stiff." "I can imagine." Falcon glanced at his watch. "So, what can I do for you?" "The Financial Chronicle wants to run an article on you, front page, left column."
"Why?" "Aren't you running the Penn-Mar deal for NASO? Aren't you the investment banker advising Veens & Company?"
Falcon hesitated. "Maybe." Stone laughed. "You act as if you've seen All the President's Men one too many times. You really don't have to be afraid of the press, at least not me. There are lots of aggressive types in the business, but I'm not one of them."
Falcon smiled. "How do I know? You could be a shark." "I'm not trying to expose anything deep and dark about you. Promise. I just want to do a story on the man behind the biggest corporate takeover in history. I don't think you should have a problem with that. In fact, you should be flattered. I could give you the names of people on whom I've done stories. You could talk to them. That would probably help."
"I'd want to be able to edit it before it went out." "You know I can't let you do that."
Falcon stared up the side of the NASO Building to the sky beyond. A front page Financial Chronicle story. There could be no more effective way than that to flaunt his success in Granville Winthrop's face. He might even be able to get in a few digs at Granville through the article without Stone realizing. He turned his gaze back to Stone.
"Day after tomorrow." "Where?" "Sparks." "I'll make the reservation and meet you there at noon." She turned and moved away without another word.
Falcon's gaze followed her until she reached the corner of the building. She had a nice walk.
Peter Lane tried to calm his nerves as he lay beneath the palm trees of the deserted St. Croix beach. But he hadn't been able to completely relax since Veens & Company had announced its takeover offer for Penn-Mar only a few days after he had convinced Farinholt to put twenty thousand dollars of the President's money into the chemical company.
He had been looking over his shoulder ever since. St. Croix was his third island hideout in the last two weeks.
He gazed at the huge palm tree swaying rhythmically above him in the midafternoon breeze. He should never have listened to that woman who had so smoothly approached him in Georgetown's River Club that Friday evening. But she had been so beautiful. He had been unable to resist her offer to buy him a drink or her offer of money, He had desperately needed that money, especially the amount she was talking about. And her request had seemed so simple.
After running from Victor Farinholt's office, Lane had driven straight from Washington to the Philadelphia airport. He hadn't bothered to return to his sparsely furnished apartment in Southeast because it would have been too risky. Within ten minutes, Farinholt would have realized that he wasn't coming back with the research data.
Farinholt would have erupted into a rage and sent someone to Lane's home. Fortunately, he had been prepared for such an emergency. The suitcase had been packed and stowed in the BMWs trunk for weeks.
He had driven all the way to Philadelphia for two reasons.
First, National, Dulles, or BWI would have been too obvious. After posting a man at his apartment, Farinholt would have sent people to the Washington airports, and probably Amtrak's Union Station as well, to stop him. Second, Lane knew that there was a direct flight from Philadelphia to St. Thomas every day at four in the afternoon. It was his flight to freedom.
Farinholt didn't really have anything on him, not yet anyway. But Lane knew that Farinholt would have tried to stop him any way he could, because somehow the old man had sensed that something was amiss.
Farinholt wouldn't have been able to detain him legally, but the old man's friends could be very convincing. Or so he had heard.
The worst part about the situation was that Lane didn't know why the people from whom he had taken the five hundred thousand dollars wanted him to put Lodestar into Penn-Mar. Perhaps the loan sharks had somehow learned of the takeover and concocted the scheme to destroy him. But that seemed highly unlikely because it didn't achieve their ultimate goal-recouping their money. More plausible was the possibility that Farinholt had an enemy who saw an opportunity to settle an old score.
And Lane was the pawn. But why had the woman specified that it should be the President's money that went into Penn-Mar? And how would the enemy have known of the takeover?
He hadn't known much at that point. But standing outside Farinholt's office he had known two things for certain. One, there was almost four hundred thousand dollars sitting in the Caymans waiting for him. And two, he wanted to stay a free man. That freedom would have been seriously endangered if he had stuck around Washington too much longer and become embroiled in some sort of scandal. Or worse, taken a long ride with Farinholt's friends before the scandal ever got started.
Lane had moved the money eight times since fleeing from Washington.
It cost him three thousand dollars in total to do it, but it was worth every penny. The money had to be clean by now. Still, he had less than four hundred thousand dollars already. If he lived like a pauper, that amount might buy him ten years of anonymity. Could he have been more stupid?
Lane stared up at the large leaves. They seemed somehow to resemble elephant ears as they moved in the soft breeze. Back and forth, back and forth. God, he was tired. He listened to the aqua blue water rolling constantly into the beach against the white sand, hissing benignly as it receded to the sea. He allowed his eyes to close momentarily, then snapped back to consciousness. He could not allow himself to fall asleep. There was no telling who might be trying to find him.
Lane propped himself up on one elbow and gazed out over the lonely beach. He squinted against the brightness of the sun's rays. There was nothing in sight except for a catamaran sailing far offshore. Lane squinted harder, trying to focus on the craft. There appeared to be only one person aboard, but he could make out no details with the boat so far away. He lay back on the sand. He had to stay awake. It was too dangerous to fall asleep.
Phoenix Grey moved stealthily through the palm trees until he reached a point directly behind the sleeping Peter Lane. Grey glanced back to see if he could see the catamaran pulled up on the shore several hundred feet up the beach. Good. It was out of sight.
Grey had been following Lane since flying from the Dominican Republic to Antigua, where he picked up the man's trail. Now it was time to act.
There was no danger that Lane would awaken-the man hadn't slept in forty-eight hours-but Grey worked quickly and purposefully anyway. He bent down next to Lane and delivered a quick chop to the side of the man's neck. It paralyzed Lane but did not kill him, just as Phoenix wanted.
Lane's eyes flew open immediately. He began to scream at the pain surging through his body. Unceremoniously, Grey inserted a large, spongy rubber ball into Lane's mouth. The brute strength with which he accomplished the maneuver dislocated Lane's jaw, causing him even greater pain, but Grey had no sympathy. The ball effectively muffled Lane's cries and would not leave residue in the throat and lungs as a cloth gag would. There probably would be nothing left of either the throat or lungs when it was over, but you could never be too careful.
