Enemy In the Room (19 page)

“Call it teamwork, not second guessing.” She
smiled. “It sounds better and works better.”

“OK. Well, next time. But this time, it’s
Brookglen.”

She turned and walked to his door. “All
right. But you’d better send David an email and let him know. And
let me know if I can help on anything, and maybe after lunch you
can check over my assumptions and conclusions on Singapore.”

He sat down. “Glad to.” Then he turned back
to his spreadsheet.

Bill Porter was at his desk when the phone
rang. “Mr. Porter?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. My name is Taylor Martin. You’ve been
involved in some land developments in the north part of the state,
haven’t you?”

“Yes. River Mill is the most recent. Almost
two hundred homes around a lake.”

“It’s a wonderful development. Very
environmentally sound. I’m calling because my family owns several
hundred acres right at the edge of the national forest about sixty
miles north, not far from the river.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful property. Old forest.
Rolling topo. And we’ve just learned that the county is going to
run a sewer line right through our property early next year. We
think it’s time to involve someone like you to help us figure out
what to do, and so we thought we’d call.”

“Well, I’d be glad to meet with you and take
a look.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. When would you like to get
together?”

“Hmm…What about later this week? We could,
say, meet you at the River Inn, show you the property, then have
lunch. We’ve got plats and a letter from the county about the
sewer.”

“Sounds good. What day works for you? I’m
free on Wednesday and Thursday.”

“How about Wednesday? We can meet in the
parking lot. Say about eleven-thirty?”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll dress for walking the
property.”

“Yes. By all means. And we’ll bring the
plats. We’ll meet in the parking lot, go look at the property, and
then come back for lunch. My brother, cousin and I will meet you on
Wednesday.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Oh, and Mr. Porter. We don’t want anyone
else to know what’s going on with this property. So we’d appreciate
if you didn’t mention it to anyone else, And can we meet just with
you?”

“Of course. I’ll come alone.”

“Great. We’ll see you then. Thank you.”

At four-thirty that same Monday afternoon in
Moscow, David, Andrei and Peter Goncharov were about to visit the
third of the properties that their initial analysis had indicated
could be suitable for the USNet software group. As they drove up to
a decorative wrought-iron gate at the entrance to a red brick, two
story structure, Andrei pointed out the property’s distinguishing
features.

“This is the Polyanka complex. The Metro
station is just over there. We’re a little south of the Kremlin,
across the river.”

“So it’s a good central location?”

“Our employees would certainly like it,”
Peter said.

“Exactly,” added Andrei. “This was an old
Soviet factory site. The developer first built underground parking
and then these office buildings. The one we’re going to look at
over on the left has both a new two-story office portion and an
adjoining old factory building. It should be ideal for the light
assembly work you envision as the Russian versions of your software
go into production.”

A security guard opened the gate, and they
drove into a courtyard that had been freshly paved with asphalt.
Workers were painting the wood trim around what appeared to be new
windows on the office portion.

They left Andrei’s car and were greeted by a
heavyset man in his forties and a slightly taller woman who seemed
a bit younger. Andrei introduced David and Peter to the Russian
developer and his female American partner who represented the U.S.
investors in the enterprise.

David was immediately impressed with the
quality of the workmanship and with the thought that had gone into
the design.

Andrei had prepared a good summary of the
project, and the tour went well. As they were walking back to
Andrei’s car, David said to their hosts, “Thank you again for
seeing us on the holiday. We appreciate it. If we were interested
in this section, how soon could it be ready?”

The Russian replied, with his partner
interpreting,” As you can see, we’re nearly finished with the base
building and the first tenant’s office space. If you give us your
interior specifications quickly, we can be finished in two
months.”

“Good. Well, Andrei, Peter and I will talk,
and we’ll get back to you. If we decide to go forward, will you be
available tomorrow?”

“Certainly. Despite the May holidays, we’re
all here this week. Andrei knows our lease terms. We look forward
to hearing from you.”

David and Andrei were shortly back on the
avenue, heading north to David’s hotel near the Kremlin.

“I like that space,” David said, looking
down at the floor plans in his lap. “At dinner let’s review what
we’ve seen today.”

Ten minutes later David checked with the
hotel reception desk; he had no messages. He called home and said a
brief hello to Elizabeth. It was too early there to have any news
on Rob’s behavior. And it was too early to call the office. So he
checked his email and made a chart on his laptop with the major
positive and negative attributes of the properties they had
seen.

A little after seven Andrei and David walked
up to an unmarked door near the Bolshoi Theater and knocked. A tall
young woman welcomed them into what, a hundred years earlier, had
been the living room of a merchant’s elegant townhouse. The décor
reflected that earlier era; some of the furniture was ordinary, but
a few of the pieces were magnificent. There were only six tables,
four already filled, and their hostess directed them to the far
corner.

As they were seated, Andrei said, “This is a
wonderful restaurant. One family runs it and prepares all the
dishes. This is the daughter. The son and mother do the cooking. I
think you’ll like it.”

David smiled. “I’m sure I will.”

Andrei suggested that he order, and David
readily agreed.

Andrei reached for some bread. “David, I
have to tell you what happened this afternoon. When I got back to
the office, there was a message to call the Polyanka developer. I
did, and he wanted me to know that he would pay me a fee if we
could do a deal at his project.”

“You mean a bribe to push us there?”

“In a way, yes. This is one of those
cultural things. He knows that you are paying our firm a fee and
that we are representing you. He suggested that he also pay our
firm a fee on a successful transaction.”

“Without telling us?”

Andrei smiled. “I’m sure in his mind that
would be the case—a little extra undisclosed ‘incentive’ for the
broker to steer the client toward his project.”

“Well, that would be a bribe in my
book.”

Andrei raised his hand. “David, don’t worry.
The guys who taught me this business—now my partners—explained
early on that you can’t serve two masters. We accept fees only from
the party for whom we’re working. So I told him ‘No thanks’. I
actually think he was surprised--pleasantly surprised, by the
way.”

“Well, maybe he’s all right then. I’ll trust
your judgment. But it’s bad when people start taking bribes.
Decisions get made for the wrong reasons and pretty soon everyone
in the company is stealing or cheating. We have none of it at
USNet.

“So let’s talk about next steps. If Polyanka
is our first choice, let’s try to make a deal.”

After the waitress took their order, Andrei
said, “Actually, I’ve already drafted a proposal for your approval.
Here’s the hard copy, and I also emailed it to you. You can make
any changes you want in your room tonight, and I’ll deliver it to
them before nine in the morning.”

David smiled. “Great, Andrei. Great. Let’s
eat now, but we’ll keep talking about the details.”

“Fine. Na Zdorovy.”

Late that afternoon Kristen was in her
office reworking some of the figures for their final office
negotiations in Singapore, after she and Todd talked through them.
Her phone rang.

“Ms. Holloway, this is Phyllis Jordan, Mr.
Knox’s assistant. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good. Mr. Knox and Mr. Burke are doing some
capital items budgeting for the next thirty-six months. With Mr.
Sawyer overseas, Mr. Knox asked me to check with you to see if
there had been any developments on the Capital Tower
acquisition.”

“No, unfortunately, there haven’t. As Mr.
Sawyer probably explained when this first came up, we can’t do much
about Bill Porter’s actions and ethics until he actually closes on
the purchase. Then we’ll have been ‘wronged’, and we can sue. But
of course at that point he will own the property, and we’d be tied
up in the courts for years.”

“Yes, I see.”

“It’s terrible when you can’t trust people
to behave honestly.”

“Yes. Well, thank you, and I’ll relay your
comments to Mr. Knox and Mr. Burke.”

“Let me know if I can do anything else.”

“Yes, we will. Thank you again.”

Callie Sawyer’s desk at her uncle’s single
story real estate office in the Westwood area of Los Angeles was
near the receptionist. She had just finished proofing a flyer for a
new home listing when her cousin, Yusef, came out of his office.
Tall and a few years older than Callie, Yusef had a neat beard and
was wearing a conservative blue suit. Unlike Callie’s mother,
Yusef’s mother was of Persian descent, and so Yusef could easily
pass for a local on the streets of Tehran, half the world away.

Callie had of course known him all her life,
but only as a distant relative at family gatherings. When she
originally moved to L.A. to attend a fine arts college, he had been
in the Army; and so she was doing her best to get to know him. So
far, despite the family connection, he had been pleasant but
“professional”.

He came to her desk with keys in his hand.
“Time to pick up the Ansaris for their home tour. Do you have the
information on each property?”

Callie stood and smiled. “Yes. Copies for
each of them, and a map showing the homes, the schools, and the
shopping areas, as you asked for.”

He nodded and walked toward the front door
to the parking area. She picked up her purse and the handouts and
followed him.

Several minutes later they were driving east
in silence to the hotel where their clients were staying.

Callie finally said, “I enjoyed looking up
this information and putting it on the map.”

“Hmm.”

“Which house do you think they will
like?”

“Probably the second or third, because they
are closest to the best Islamic school for their children.”

“Oh. “

They stopped at a red light. Callie asked,
“Are a lot of your clients Muslims?”

He turned to look at her. “Not all, of
course, but most. Even though I came home from the Army only six
months ago, I’m already getting a lot of referrals.” The light
turned and he drove on.

“Is that why you changed your name from
Joseph?”

He shook his head. “No, I changed my name
back to its real name to honor Allah—God.”

“Oh.”

“But it does help identify me as an Iranian
Muslim, which so far has been good for business.”

“I see. Great.”

“Yes, that’s what America is all about,
isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

He paused, then glanced over at her. “In the
future, on a day that we are going out, please wear something a
little less revealing. My clients are generally conservative, and a
dress like that is inappropriate. When I have a chance, I will
privately apologize to the husband.”

Callie looked down at the dress which she
had picked out that morning because she thought it was so
business-like. “Uh, OK. I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful in the
future.”

“Good. Now, here we are, and I think that’s
them waiting by the entrance.”

WEDNESDAY, MAY 4TH

Two mornings later, Bill Porter drove north
in his expensive European sedan, talking on his cell phone most of
the way. Dressed in khaki pants and a cotton shirt, this was the
role he relished: a successful real estate mogul able to escape the
city on a weekday to evaluate a tract of mountain land, prime for
development. Hopefully it would eventually be his development. His
only regret was that there would not be enough time for golf at one
of several nearby clubs. He had to be back for a late afternoon
board meeting.
Oh well, at least when I arrive at the meeting in
khakis, they’ll know that I had a better day than most of them,
cooped up in offices…

The River Inn was located in a valley
surrounded on all but the south side by foothills. Porter parked at
one end of the lot, far from the rustic wooden main building—enough
people ate lunch early to fill the front spaces. As he got out, the
driver’s door of a white SUV parked further to the side opened, and
a medium-sized man dressed in khaki pants, blue shirt, and a light
brown jacket stepped out and raised his right hand.

“Mr. Porter? Hey. I’m Taylor Martin.”

Porter locked his door and walked over to
the SUV. Martin offered his hand and said, “My brother and cousin
are in the truck.” Porter saw a man in the front passenger seat and
another directly behind him. They smiled and said hello.

“Glad to meet you,” Porter responded.
Turning to Martin he said, “I’m glad we could get together.”

“We appreciate you taking the time,” Martin
replied. “Here, please sit behind me.” He opened the door. “Next to
Tom. Stan has the plats. We can talk on the way out to the
property.”

“Sounds good,” Porter replied, climbing in
the back seat. “Let’s go see it.”