The Takeover (1995), page 8
The other committee members glanced at one another and leaned back in their chairs. Obrecht was not the only one who was relieved. Smith was the second most powerful member of the F.O.M.C, and without his attendance, Filipelli would have run through the meeting like a freight train.
Filipelli watched Smith open his leather attache case and arrange several papers before him on the grandiose table. He despised Smith.
He was part of the Yankee Establishment and flaunted it. A distant relative of John D. Rockefeller, Smith lived in a gorgeous Darien, Connecticut, mansion with his wife, Traci. Smith was worth at least forty million dollars-more than the rest of the committee combined-and he wasn't bashful about informing others of his wealth. More than once Filipelli had overheard Smith at an official Fed function telling someone about his chalet in Switzerland, the yacht in West Palm, or the Rolls. He was blond, blue-eyed, six feet two inches tall, permanently tanned, and without any outstanding physical features. His clothing was expensive but conservative, except for his neckties and suspenders, which were loud and provocative. His suits were cuffed and never double-breasted. He wore no jewelry save for a plain watch and a plainer, thick gold wedding band. Wendell Smith was a walking WASP billboard.
Filipelli tapped his fingernails on the waxed tabletop as Smith eased back in his seat near the chairman. "Are you ready to begin?"
Filipelli asked insincerely.
Smith nodded politely, revealing no emotion whatsoever. His dislike for Filipelli matched Filipelli's dislike for him. But Smith didn't overtly express his hatred the way Filipelli did. That would have been undignified.
Smith's lips curled slightly as he stared at the little Italian. To him, Filipelli was nothing more than a hood. He wore cheap suits, hair gel, cologne, a bracelet, and even a goddamn pinky ring. Smith grimaced. And he was chairman of the Federal Reserve. America had gone too far. Much too far. "Thank you so much for your cooperation, President Smith." Filipelli rolled his eyes. "The first order of business this morning will be Transtar Savings Bank in Boston. As you all know, Transtar has taken a bath on New England real estate. For all intents and purposes it is insolvent. We need to take control of it before the situation gets worse. Do you agree with this assessment, President Flynn?" Filipelli glared at Mary Flynn, president of the Boston Federal Reserve district. Clearly he wanted no discussion on this point.
Flynn cleared her throat. "I don't disagree. It will be a small bailout. Three or four hundred million at most." "Is it wise to go in so quickly?" Smith interposed, unwilling to concede quite so fast.
"My sources tell me that Transtar may, in fact, be able to raise some fresh outside capital. Maybe we could save the taxpayers the three or four hundred million by waiting a couple of extra weeks." He spoke in a tight-jawed, aristocratic voice.
The rest of the committee gazed at Smith. As president of the New York Federal Reserve, he was much closer to the investment bankers and the markets than any other member of the FOMCincluding Filipelli. And because of his wealth, the other members assumed he knew a good investment when he saw one.
Filipelli strummed the table again. He wanted this to go no further.
"And I suppose you will be one of these new investors in Transtar."
Harold Butler, president of the Atlanta Fed, snickered. He was the only obvious Filipelli supporter on the F.O.M.C, and the others had nicknamed him the "Lieutenant." Filipelli and Butler were longtime friends.
Smith inhaled slowly and pursed his lips. It was a Filipelli tactic to hurl insinuating missiles. None of the members was allowed to invest for his or her own account because of the possibility of a conflict of interest, and Filipelli knew this. He was simply trying to break the Smith calm. He tried to do so at every meeting. "I resent that, Chairman Filipelli."
Filipelli laughed. "Well, you resent everything about me anyway, so this doesn't surprise me." "You're right. I do," Smith said. He didn't mind playing the game with this little rube. He didn't mind telling him the truth either.
The other committee members glanced down. Never had a meeting become so personal so quickly. It was well known among the members that Filipelli and Smith did not like each other, but usually they were able to keep their emotions in check. "Do we have to have further discussion on the matter?" Filipelli pounded the table. He was impatient to move on.
"I don't think so," Butler said. "Open-and-shut case as far as I'm concerned." "I'll withdraw my objection," said Smith. There was no reason for him to burn powder on this issue. He glanced at Butler, who was smiling at him. What a jackass. "Good. All in favor of taking over Transtar Bank. All opposed." Filipelli did not even bother to look up from his notebook as he took the vote. "Mr. Secretary, please let the record reflect an eleven-to-one vote in the affirmative on the issue. Next issue." Filipelli glanced up. "Interest rates. Let's get some discussion going." No one spoke immediately. Smith glanced around, hoping he would not have to lead off. It would be better to be reactive today rather than proactive. He would have a better chance at garnering votes that way.
Finally, Flynn began. She had already been in the fray once and felt slightly more comfortable than the others about jumping in again. "Mr. Chairman, at your strong direction we have followed a rather restrictive course of action over the past three years in order to fight the high inflation that was roiling the markets when you were appointed. But given the inflation data of the past six months-it has been almost nonexistent-perhaps we should inject some reserves into the system to allow for growth. It would certainly benefit my area of the country." Flynn looked around for support.
Smith brought a hand to his face to hide a smile. Flynn's comments would be music to Granville's ears. If the Fed would only open up the money tap, the investment bankers could get busy and make some real money again. Smith rubbed a finger over his lips. Of course, even if they could override Filipelli on interest rates, the leveraged buyout issue remained. Filipelli wasn't about to allow that little game to come back. He and the President of the United States had made that quite clear.
Filipelli shot a glance at Smith, then refocused on Flynn. He sensed the same thing Smith had sensed, that the others might relent and vote for faster growth. "Should I take this to mean, President Flynn, that you are going to quit the Federal Reserve and enroll in an investment banker training course?" "That isn't fair, Chairman," Smith interjected before Flynn could respond. He could hold back no longer.
"Every time we're here, you put down the investment bankers. But they perform a very necessary function in our economy," Smith said calmly.
"They're money hungry. They don't care what they do to the economy as long as they pack their pockets with cash," Filipelli retorted quickly.
Smith disregarded Filipelli's criticism. "Let's open up the spigot and allow this country to grow again, Carter."
The others glanced up at Smith. First names were rarely used in this room. In a strange way it had become a more formal way to address another member of the committee than using his or her title. It meant the speaker was extremely serious about his point.
Filipelli leaned across the gleaming table and pointed a finger at Smith. "The reason this country's economy is in the position it's in, one of strength and stability, is because of me. Maybe GDP isn't growing meteorically, but inflation has gone down to two percent from eight percent since President Warren took office. And do you know why?
Because I was willing to take the heat from the press when I kept interest rates high and drove inflation out of the system. When you all were hiding behind me." He thrust a finger into his chest emphatically. "Now the economy has stabilized, inflation is almost nonexistent, and I'm not letting it come back! I worked too hard to drive it out!" Filipelli straightened in his chair. He could feel himself losing control of his temper, and that would be embarrassing for President Warren. "I'm not going to let you ruin the economy for the common people just so your New York investment-banking buddies can make more money." He said the words matter-of-factly, then folded his hands on the table.
Smith hated Filipelli with every fiber of his being, but he wasn't going to allow the man to get the better of him. Not inside of this room. He began again in a measured tone. "Mr. Chairman, let's try to put our personal differences aside and do what's best for the country.
Let's try to work for the good of the-" But Filipelli did not allow Smith to finish. "Don't give me that holier-than-thou crap!" He could control himself no longer. Smith had won the war of nerves. "You're interested in one thing, Wendell. One thing. And that's Wendell Smith. You make me sick, you son of a bitch!" The last words echoed in the great room. Immediately Filipelli regretted the outburst. A mistake. He "ever should have said the words.
Slowly, Wendell Smith rose from his seat. He nodded politely at everyone but Filipelli, then without a word headed toward the door, his footsteps on the wooden floor following Filipelli's insult into the recesses of the room.
The chairman watched Smith leave, then turned back to face the rest of the committee. They were appalled. He could see it in the way they were looking at him now. It would be on the Bloomberg screens in a matter of minutes, and then there would be hell to pay. This time he had gone too far.
Falcon rose from the seat as the stiff-looking maitre d' led jenny through Cher Martin, a trendy new French restaurant on Manhattan's Upper East Side. He watched her carefully as she approached. She looked as pretty as ever in an off-the shoulder, knee-length dress that revealed her delicate upper frame and only a slight hint of the cleavage below. Falcon breathed deeply. He needed to maintain control. He wanted her to be his secretary, not his lover. "Hi." She kissed him gently on the cheek as she reached the table.
He returned the kiss, noticing a subtle trace of tasteful perfume.
"Hi, yourself. You look ravishing. Is that a new dress?" He guided her into the booth. She seemed nervous, unsure of herself in these surroundings. "What?" Jenny looked around quickly, taking in the sights and sounds of the restaurant.
Falcon laughed. "I asked if that was a new dress." "What, this old thing?" Jenny touched the material lightly, then gazed directly into his eyes. "Of course it's a new dress, Andrew. I spent my entire life savings on tonight. It's not as if I'm asked out to a five-star restaurant by a handsome young investment banker every night." She paused, then smiled. "I didn't really spend my life savings." She touched his hand lightly. "Don't look so concerned." "I'm not concerned." He realized that he had been staring at her. She looked more beautiful this evening than he could remember-she had turned several heads as the maitre d' had led her through Cher Martin. He liked the way her mouth curled when she smiled. And he liked that she was impressed by the restaurant. He took a sip of the Scotch and glanced around. He shouldn't drink too much this evening. Not if he wanted the situation to stay simple. "Do you like my dress?" she asked.
Falcon looked back at her but didn't answer right away. He was lost in thought. "Andrew!" Jenny touched the back of his hand again.
"Yes. Yes, I like it." "Good. I know you don't really like my wardrobe very much. I bought this one with you in mind." "Madam, would you care for a cocktail?" the maitre d' interrupted Jenny rudely. He wanted to return to the front of the restaurant.
Jenny glanced at Falcon. "What do I want?" She wanted him to order for her. Somehow he found that appealing. "Want a drink? We'll have that nice bottle of Bordeaux you pointed out to me earlier, Rene."
The man nodded and glided away quickly. As Falcon took a long drink from his water glass, Jenny leaned toward him. "Thanks for sending the limousine to New Brunswick. My father was very impressed, as was the rest of the neighborhood." "Oh, sure, sure. I thought it would be fun. I didn't have time to come down and get you, what with the new job, and we couldn't have you coming up on a New Jersey Transit train, now could we? " "I would have come any way I had to."
And did the driver bring the champagne as I asked?" He ignored her admission.
jenny nodded. "Please don't ask how much I had. I'm embarrassed."
Falcon grinned. So she was already tipsy. She had seemed a little unsteady coming through the restaurant, but he had thought it just his imagination. "Don't smile at me like that," she said as she moved closer to him. "You look like the cat who ate the canary. That smile makes me nervous."
He glanced at her perfectly manicured fingernails. She was so different from the other women. Her attention was focused on him alone. She wasn't trying to see who else in the place she had impressed. She was there to impress him, and only him. And she was so vulnerable, which somehow made her more alluring. "Don't be nervous."
He smelled her perfume drifting through the air again. The scent was much stronger now. He had to be careful. He cared about her as a friend and that was all. A relationship with Jenny would take him in a direction he did not want to go. "Your wine, sir?"
Falcon turned quickly. "Yes! Ah, yes. The wine." He glanced at the label. "Lafite-Rothschild. Very nice."
Jenny moved slightly away from Falcon and smiled at the couple at the next table.
After the steward had finished pouring the wine, Falcon returned his attention to Jenny. "You're enjoying the evening, aren't you? 5) "Very much. I hope you are too." She raised one eyebrow seductively and lifted her wineglass. "Here's to your new job." Her voice became serious. "I'll miss you very much. I already do."
Falcon broke the short silence. "Here's to you, Jenny." He lifted his wineglass to hers. "You were a wonderful executive assistant at MD Link. I'm just very sorry that you had to go through that awful scene with Reid. That the job ended that way.15 jenny waved her hand as she took another long sip of wine. "Don't worry. I'm a big girl. I'm just sad about Reid." She paused. "But I can take care of myself.
I'll find another job." "Which is one of the reasons I asked you here tonight." She looked at him curiously. "I want you to be my executive assistant at the bank I'm joining. The National Southern Bank. I've already cleared it with my senior people.
I can offer you forty-five thousand dollars a year plus a commuting allowance." jenny stared at Falcon incredulously. "Are you serious?"
"Yes."
Her eyes lit up. "Well, my answer is yes. I don't even have to think about it. My God, you're a wonderful man." She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Forty-five thousand. I can't imagine what it's like to earn that kind of money. That's more than what my father makes, I think. Forty-five thousand dollars? Really?"
Falcon smiled. "Really." He stared into her eyes. She was so outgoing and full of life. So beautiful. Stay in control, Andrew, he told himself over and over. Stay in control.
Buford J. Warren, President of the United States of America, stared at Carter Filipelli sternly from behind the great desk of the Oval Office.
For several moments he said nothing, and then he began to laugh.
"Jesus, Carter. I knew you were a little hot-blooded, but for God's sake, did you have to call him a son of a bitch in front of the entire F.O.M.C? Couldn't you have taken him in your office and delivered the tongue-lashing?" "I'm very sorry. There isn't anything I can say.
I completely lost my temper. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. The guy is just so damn worried about himself and his Yankee buddies he gets to me. He really gets to me. I mean he's worth millions, and all he cares about in the world is turning that into millions more. The greed factor is written all over him. And he doesn't care about anyone who isn't like him. Catholic, Jews, Italians, Blacks. He hates them all. If you're not in the social register, he doesn't want to talk to you. He's a self-serving Establishment bigot! The kind of person you and I came to Washington to destroy."
"Why don't you tell me how you really feel about him?
Don't sugarcoat it, Carter, just in case the Republicans are listening in." The President winked.
Filipelli's eyes flashed around the room. "I know I've put you in a bad position. I'll give you my resignation, if that's what you called me in for." Filipelli spoke in bursts, like a machine gun.
"Nonsense.
I need you to stay right where you are. I worked too hard to have you confirmed. I do understand your anger and frustration at a man like Wendell Smith. I did come to Washington to fight the power and influence of men such as him because you're right, he is a self-serving Establishment bigot and this country can't move forward until his kind have been pushed out of the way. Pushed is the word. Destroyed might be too harsh." The President stared at the ceiling for a few moments.
"Maybe destroyed is the right word. Anyway, I don't want you to resign. But I do want you to apologize to him."
Filipelli glanced out the window at the White House Rose Garden. The bushes were in full bloom. It was an impressive spring display, but he could not appreciate it. His mind was on a million different things.
"I know it will be difficult for you, Carter, but you've got to do it.
I need you in your position, and I need you to be influential in your position. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mr. President." There was no room for argument. "Unless you take immediate corrective action, Wendell will have a huge opportunity the next time he enters that boardroom. All of those F.O.M.C members will be looking to give him the sympathy vote, and he may be able to influence them as he was not able to do before because of it. Don't get me wrong, they'll still be afraid of you. But he'll have that opportunity unless you go all out to head him off."
Filipelli sighed. "Okay, I'll publicly apologize to him." The President pointed a long finger at Filipelli. "You won't just apologize. You'll take him to lunch for the assembled press corps.
You'll compliment him on everything from his cuff links to his nose hairs. You'll never directly agree with any of his financial policy views, but you'll laud his insights."
Filipelli smiled slightly.
"T'"' "See, Carter. Smiling isn't so difficult." The President beamed. The wayward son had come to the mountain and seen the light.
"Come on, a little wider. Christ, I smile a thousand times a day if I smile once. I hate it, but I do it because people like to be around people who smile." "You can't trust financial people who smile a lot."
