Montaro Caine (8 page)

Madeline swallowed audibly before speaking softly into the phone. “As soon as I hear from Dr. Chasman, Monty, I will let him know that you have tried to reach him. Thank you.”

Gina Lao made sure that both lines had disengaged before she quietly replaced the receiver she had been listening in on, while in her boss’s office, Montaro Caine placed a call to Lawrence Aikens, Fitzer’s head of security.

“M
ORNING
,
CHIEF
,” L
AWRENCE
A
IKENS SAID AS HE PICKED UP
his phone. He had been listening to a report from his security officer Curly Bennett when he saw Montaro Caine’s name appear on his caller ID. At that very moment, he told Curly that his report would have to wait. When Montaro called him directly, Aikens knew that there was an important matter he had to attend to immediately. Not only was Montaro his boss, but Aikens was a Nebraska Cornhusker, and Montaro came from Kansas City, and Aikens felt that, in New York, men from the Great Plains needed to stick together.

“Hi, Lawrence,” Caine said. “How’s the family?”

“Oh, everybody’s fine, chief,” Aikens said. Then, alluding to Fitzer’s internal situation, he asked, “How goes it with you?”

“We do what we have to do,” Caine said. “Speaking of which …”

“What can I do for you, chief?”

“I need some information.”

“You got it.”

Caine had first met Aikens sixteen years earlier, when Caine was manager of operations at Mosko Chemicals, a pint-size chemical company where Aikens was head of security. Over the years, Aikens had become both a good friend and a strong ally. And Caine, who valued Aikens’s loyalty, his honesty, and his plainspoken Nebraska
ways, had brought him to Fitzer. Caine appreciated the straightforward nature of his security officer, a profession that seemed to attract a fair number of men more interested in throwing their weight around than actually solving problems. Even now, despite all the turmoil and turf wars going on at Fitzer, Aikens was one man who Montaro trusted completely.

“I need to find out everything I can about a man named Herman Freich,” Caine said. Aikens listened, jotting down pertinent information. “He’s about fifty, fifty-five years old—and a woman, maybe twenty-six, answers to Colette Beekman.

“I want to know who they are,” said Caine. “I want to know where they’re from, where they go when they leave Suite 2943 at the Waldorf Towers, what they do for a living, and who they work for. Get me a business and a financial sheet and anything else you can come up with.”

“How fast do you need it?”

“This afternoon.”

“I’ll do my best. Just hold on for a second.”

Aikens finished scribbling on his memo pad, then looked up at Curly Bennett, who was waiting to resume his report. Aikens had chosen Curly as his personal assistant over several other candidates, all with more experience, because he recognized Bennett’s instincts as those of a born investigator. In less than two years at his post, the young man had exceeded all of Aikens’s expectations.

“Curly,” he said, “Sorry about this. But everything else will have to wait. There’s an emergency situation and I need you to get on it right away.” Aikens ripped the top sheet from his pad and handed over the information. “The CEO needs this info in a hurry. Put as much manpower on it as you think necessary and get back to me—yesterday.”

Curly stood quietly studying what his boss had written.

“Get to it, kid,” Aikens said.

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied with a smile as he dashed out of Aikens’s office.

“I need it in hand by this afternoon,” Aikens called after him. When Curly was gone, Aikens returned to Caine, who was still waiting on the other end of the phone. “I’ll have something for you in a couple of hours, chief,” he said.

A
LAN
R
OTHMAN
, F
ITZER
C
ORPORATION
’
S FINANCE MANAGER
, drove across town in his black, S-class hybrid Mercedes sedan until he reached the garage of The Brougham Arms Apartments, an impressive upscale rental complex in the mid-Seventies overlooking the East River. The Brougham Arms represented an ideal location, providing both the privacy and convenience Rothman required whenever he made his ever-more-frequent visits to a certain penthouse apartment on the building’s twenty-ninth floor. Rothman left his car with the garage attendant, handed the man a crisp twenty, then walked to the self-service elevator. He moved through the garage almost as smoothly and as silently as his Mercedes.

All in all, Rothman thought as he stood alone in semidarkness waiting for the elevator doors to open, he had had an eventful and productive day. First, his CEO, Montaro Caine, had abruptly postponed two critical meetings regarding the continuing fallout from the Utah mining disaster and the persistent bad press and takeover rumors in order to have a confidential meeting with Michen Borceau at the Fitzer Lab. Then, there had been a rushed, rescheduled board meeting in which Caine had defended his increasingly rash decision-making process but refused to reveal what he had been doing at the lab or why it had necessitated postponing the meeting. Both Rothman
and operations manager Carlos Wallace had argued heatedly with Caine, demanding to know what he was up to. Afterward, the two men had circulated a memo expressing outrage at Caine’s behavior. “His shooting from the hip at such a delicate time for the company is disruptive and can’t help but be damaging to all concerned,” they had written. But Wallace’s and Rothman’s anger was mostly for show; they felt that Caine was proving their point that he was no longer up to his job. Now, Rothman had to meet with his associates to reassure them that his instincts were correct.

The elevator doors opened, and Rothman stepped in. He fingered the button for his destination and rode the elevator upward. Eyes alert, he stepped out onto the twenty-seventh floor, and, making sure that he had not been observed, he opened the door to an exit stairwell. He jogged up two additional flights to the twenty-ninth floor. Perhaps this was an unnecessary precaution, a bit more James Bond than the situation warranted, but he took it nonetheless, finding his way to apartment 2901 where Verna Fontaine, a stylish, well-built blond woman in her late forties, greeted him warmly. Verna was a senior vice president at Nevan, an international cosmetics firm that had recently been acquired by Colcour, a conglomerate owned by Richard Davis, the billionaire businessman who had started in oil and wound up in everything else.

“Are they here?” Rothman asked, stepping past Verna.

“They are.” She closed the door behind him, then led him to the dining room where Richard Davis, a wiry man of sixty-two, was seated between his lieutenants, Bob Wildenmiller and Thomas Bolton. Davis was intent on a takeover of Fitzer, and he had selected and cultivated Rothman to be his man on the inside. Over the past eighteen months they had spent in their secret association, Davis had found Rothman to be bright, tough, ambitious, and hungry for power—a combination that perfectly fit Davis’s plan for the restructuring of Fitzer Corporation after it was drawn into his orbit.

“Heya, Alan,” Davis called out as Rothman entered the living room. “How are ya?”

“Fine,” Rothman returned. “And how are you?”

“Good, good.” While Verna set out a silver tray arranged with soft
drinks, coffee, and cookies in the middle of the dining room table, Davis rose from his seat to shake hands with Rothman. Wildenmiller and Bolton also stood to shake Rothman’s hand, then Davis got straight to the point. “So, what the hell’s going on with our situation?” he asked.

“Everything’s on schedule, Richard,” said Rothman. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah?”

“Guaranteed.”

“You seem confident of that.”

“I am.”

Davis took his seat. Bob Wildenmiller, Thomas Bolton, and Verna Fontaine did the same, while Rothman slid into a chair facing Davis.

“Caine, on the other hand, seems to have a different scenario in mind. Canceling meetings? Running off to the lab? Any idea what that’s all about, Alan?”

“Blowing smoke,” said Rothman.

“I wish I could be so sure,” said Davis. “From the way he choreographed it, it looks to me as if he wants someone to think he’s baiting a trap.”

“I agree. That’s what he wants us to think. But there’s nothing to it. Believe me, I’ve been studying this guy; he is not above dealing in appearances. I know his style.”

“Maybe,” said Davis. “But he doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who would be doing what he’s doing without a damn good reason.”

“I don’t think he’s got one, Richard.”

“Then how do you explain his actions?”

“Nervous,” said Rothman. “He’s not a born businessman; that’s what I’ve been saying all along. He’s got too much to deal with and he’s poking around in the dark. Everything’s weighing on him and he doesn’t know how to carry it all. Plus, there’s a situation with his family. Frankly, all this sounds like a death rattle to me.”

“Come now, Alan,” said Davis. “The man is a tactician. You know that better than we do. Now, what the hell is he up to?”

“I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” said Rothman. “But if there is, I guarantee you, I’ll find out what it is.”

Davis seemed to be satisfied with that response. He propped his elbows on the dining table, then resumed speaking. “Well,” he said, “we’re not as sure of his motives, or lack thereof, as you seem to be, so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and let you find out what you can. And in the meanwhile, we have concluded that cutting him off at the knees would be the best counter.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “We’ve decided it’s time to move, Alan,” he said. “First, we begin with a gradual buy-up of as much of the stock as we can before we make our intentions public.” Davis then began to outline his plan to take over Fitzer.

An hour later, when Rothman rode the elevator alone down to the garage, he was smiling. Richard Davis was in a class by himself, no doubt about that; soon, Alan Rothman thought, he would find himself in that class too, and he would stop at nothing to get there.

T
HE CROWD AT THE
“21” C
LUB WAS THINNING OUT AS THE LUNCH
hour drew to a close. In front of Montaro Caine was a plank of salmon he hadn’t touched and a tumbler of scotch he had touched far too much of. His wife had been telling him that he needed to eat more and drink less. Every day at about this time, a text message from Cecilia would pop up on his phone—“Have you eaten yet?” “What’re you having for lunch, Monty?” Given the stress he was experiencing on all fronts, Montaro knew that Cecilia was right to worry. Yet, the facts remained before him in the forms of a full plate and an empty glass.

Larry Buchanan’s appetite, however, seemed to be faring just fine. When Larry was nervous, he ate; he was finishing off the last of his French fries while Montaro continued to press him for information about Colette Beekman and Herman Freich.

“I need you to tell me everything you can about those two,” Montaro said.

“I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you, Monty,” said Larry, but Montaro knew that his old college buddy wasn’t telling him the whole story.

“Tell me, where are they now?” Montaro asked.

“At the Waldorf, I guess.”

“No, they’re not,” said Montaro. “They checked out yesterday morning before they came to see me.”

“How did that go, by the way?”

Montaro glowered, irritated by Larry’s obvious diversionary tactic, the one he had been using ever since the two men were freshmen at the U of C and Larry relied on Montaro to get him out of trouble with girls. “Who are they, Larry?” he pressed.

“They’re investors, Montaro. Honest to God, that’s all I know.”

“How did they come to you? Do you know who pays their hotel bill?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, I do,” said Montaro. “Have you ever heard of a company called Socoloux Limited?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“They don’t let you in on much over there at that office, do they, Larry?”

“That’s a dirty crack, Monty. For Christ’s sake, will you get to the point?”

“The only known address for Socoloux is in care of your law firm.”

“No shit!”

“No shit, buddy. No shit. I put my best man on it and that’s all he could come up with. Now, who the hell are Beekman and Freich? What do they do? I mean,
really do
? I’ve got to know and I’m leaning on you, Larry.”

“Jesus, I can’t,” said Larry. “I told you before—being a junior in a sea of seniors has its disadvantages.”

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” said Montaro. “I’m gonna need you to give me some answers.”

Larry looked away. “I just can’t do it,” he said.

“Yes you can.” Caine stared unblinkingly at Larry. “Which one of the seniors handles them personally?”

Larry turned back to face Caine. He hesitated before answering. “Hargrove,” he said.

“The head man?”

Larry nodded. “Yes, Monty,” he said. “But look, if you’re thinking …”

“Yes, you know exactly what I’m thinking,” said Caine. “Goddamn it, I did you the favor of meeting with Beekman and Freich and I’ve got nothing to show for it. Now, you’re going to do me the favor of finding out everything you can about them.”

As the two men stared at each other, Larry began to sweat. He looked down at his plate in search of some comfort, but there was no food left on it.

D
R
. H
OWARD
M
OZELLE WAS AN OBSTETRICIAN WHO OPERATED
the Mozelle Women’s Health Center on East 67th Street near the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center and had done so for nearly forty years. He was a good-hearted man of considerable integrity, a throwback, many said, to a previous age. He rarely ever refused a patient regardless of their insurance status or their ability to pay. His idealistic approach was perhaps not particularly beneficial to his bank account, but it was not all that dissimilar from that of his wife of forty-one years, Dr. Elsen Mozelle, a professor of European history at Columbia University; she had passed up dozens of think tank and consultancy positions rather than abandon the teaching job she loved.