Paranoia (49 page)

The place was packed with journalists, glaringly bright with TV camera lights.

“. . . This acquisition,” he was saying, “will double the size of our sales force, and it will double and in some sectors even triple our market penetration.” I didn’t know what he was talking about. I stood in the back of the theater, listening.

“By bringing together two great companies, we’re creating one world-class technology leader. Trion Systems is now without question one of the world’s leading consumer electronics companies.

“And I’d like to make one more announcement,” Goddard went on. He gave a twinkle-eyed pixie smile. “I’ve always believed in the importance of giving back. So this morning Trion is pleased to announce the establishment of an exciting new charitable foundation. Beginning with seed money of five million dollars, this new foundation hopes, over the course of the next several years, to put a computer into thousands of public schools in America, in school districts that don’t have the resources to provide computers for their students. We think this is the best way to bridge the digital divide. This is a venture that’s long been in the works at Trion. We call it the AURORA Project—for Aurora, the Greek goddess of the dawn. We believe the AURORA Project will welcome the dawn of a bright new future for all of us in this great country.”

There was a smattering of polite applause.

“Finally, let me extend a warm welcome to the nearly thirty thousand talented and hardworking employees of Wyatt Telecommunications to the Trion family. Thank you very much.” Goddard bowed his head slightly and stepped off the stage. More applause, which gradually swelled into an enthusiastic ovation.

The giant projection of Jock Goddard’s face dissolved into a TV news broadcast—CNBC’s morning financial program,
Squawk Box
.

On half the screen, Maria Bartiromo was broadcasting from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. On the other half of the screen was the Trion logo and a graph of its share price over the last few minutes—a line that went straight up.

“—as trading in Trion Systems hit record volume,” she was saying. “Trion shares have already almost doubled and show no sign of slowing down, after the announcement before the bell this morning by Trion founder and chief executive officer Augustine Goddard that it’s acquiring one of its main competitors, the troubled Wyatt Telecommunications.”

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Flo, elegant, a grave expression on her face. She was wearing a wireless headset. “Adam, can you please come to the Penthouse Executive Reception Suite? Jock wants to see you.”

I nodded but kept watching. I wasn’t really able to think clearly.

Now the picture on the big screen showed Nick Wyatt being hustled out of Wyatt headquarters by a couple of guards. The wide-angle shot took in the building’s reflecting glass, the emerald turf outside, grazing flocks of journalists. You could tell that he was both furious and humiliated as he did the perp walk.

“Wyatt Telecommunications was a debt-plagued company, nearly three billion dollars in debt, when the stunning news leaked out late yesterday that the company’s flamboyant founder, Nicholas Wyatt, had signed a secret and unauthorized agreement, without the vote or even the knowledge of his board of directors, to acquire a small California-based startup called Delphos, a tiny company without any revenue, for five hundred million dollars in cash,” Maria Bartiromo was saying.

The camera zoomed in closer on the man. Tall and burly, hair gleaming like black enamel, coppery tan. Nick Wyatt in the flesh. The camera moved in even closer. His formfitting dove-gray silk shirt was dappled with flop sweat. He was being trundled into a town car. He had this “What the fuck did they do to me?” expression on his face. I knew the feeling.

“That left Wyatt without enough to cover its debt payments. The company’s board met yesterday afternoon and announced the firing of Mr. Wyatt for gross violations of corporate governance, just moments before bondholders forced the sale of the company to Trion Systems at a fire-sale price of ten cents on the dollar. Mr. Wyatt was unavailable for comment, but a spokesman said he was resigning to spend more time with his family. Nick Wyatt is unmarried and has no children. David?”

Another tap on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Adam, but he wants to see you right now,” Flo said.

91

On the way up to the penthouse the elevator stopped at the cafeteria, and a man in an Aloha shirt with a ponytail got in.

“Cassidy,” Mordden said. He was clutching a cinnamon-swirl bun and a cup of coffee, and he didn’t seem surprised to see me. “The Sammy Glick of the microchip. Word has it that Icarus’s wings have melted.”

I nodded.

He bowed his head. “It’s true what they say. Experience is something you don’t get until just after you need it.”

“Yep.”

He pressed a button and was silent while the doors closed and the cabin ascended. It was just me and him. “I see you’re going up to the penthouse. The Executive Reception Suite. I take it you’re not receiving dignitaries or Japanese businessmen.”

I just looked at him.

“Now perhaps you finally understand the truth about our fearless leader,” he said.

“No, I don’t think I do. As a matter of fact, I don’t even understand
you
. For some reason, you’re the one person here who has utter contempt for Goddard, everyone knows it. You’re rich. You don’t need to work. Yet you’re still here.”

He shrugged. “By my choice. I told you, I’m fireproof.”

“What the hell does that mean, already? Look, you’re never going to see my ass again. You can tell me now. I’m outta here. I’m fucking dead.”

“Yes, roadkill is, I believe, the term of art around here.” He blinked once. “I’ll actually miss you. Millions wouldn’t.” He was making a joke out of it, but I knew he was trying to say something heartfelt. For whatever reason, he’d actually taken a liking to me. Or maybe it was just pity. With a guy like Mordden, it was hard to tell.

“Enough with the riddles,” I said. “Will you please explain what the hell you’re talking about?”

Mordden smirked, did a fairly passable imitation of Ernst Stavro Blofeld. “Since you’re about to die, Mr. Bond—” He broke off. “Oh, I wish I could lay it all out for you. But I’d never violate the nondisclosure agreement I signed eighteen years ago.”

“Mind putting it in terms my puny earthling mind can comprehend?”

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Mordden got out. He put his hand on one of the doors to hold it open. “That nondisclosure agreement is now worth about ten million dollars to me in Trion stock. Perhaps twice that, at today’s share price. It certainly wouldn’t be in my interest to jeopardize that arrangement by breaking my contractually obligated silence.”

“What sort of NDA?”

“As I said, I surely don’t wish to jeopardize my lucrative arrangement with Augustine Goddard by telling you that the famous Goddard modem was invented not by Jock Goddard, a rather mediocre engineer if brilliant corporate gamesman, but by yours truly. Why would I want to jeopardize ten million dollars by revealing that the technological breakthrough that transformed this company into a powerhouse of the communications revolution was the brainchild not of the corporate gamesman but of one of his earliest hires, a lowly engineer? Goddard could have had it for free, as my corporate contract stipulated, but he wanted sole credit. That was worth a good deal of money to him. Why should I want to reveal such a thing and thereby tarnish the legend, the sterling reputation of, what was it
Newsweek
once called him, ‘Corporate America’s Senior Statesman’? Certainly it would not be politic of me to point out the hollowness of Jock Goddard’s whole Will Rogers shtick, that down-to-earth cornpone cracker-barrel image that cloaks such ruthlessness. For heaven’s sake, that would be like telling you there’s no Santa Claus. Why would I want to disillusion you—and risk my financial bounty?”

“You’re telling me the truth?” was all I could think to say.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Mordden said. “It wouldn’t be in my interest. Adieu, Cassidy.”

92

I’d never seen anything like the penthouse of Trion Building A.

It didn’t look at all like the rest of Trion—no choked offices or cluttered cubicles, no industrial-gray wall-to-wall carpeting or fluorescent lights.

Instead, it was a huge open space with floor-to-ceiling windows through which the sunlight sparkled. The floors were black granite, oriental rugs here and there, the walls some kind of gleaming tropical wood. The space was broken up by banks of ivy, clusters of designer-looking chairs and sofas, and right in the center of the room, a giant freestanding waterfall—the water rushed from some unseen fountain over rugged pinkish stones.

The Executive Reception Suite. For receiving important visitors: cabinet secretaries, senators and congressmen, CEOs, heads of state. I’d never seen it before, and I didn’t know anyone who had, and no wonder. It didn’t look very Trion. Not very democratic. It was dramatic, intimidating, grandiose.

A small round dining table was being set in the area between the indoor waterfall and a fireplace with roaring gas flames on ceramic logs. Two young Latinos, a man and a woman in maroon uniforms, were speaking quietly in Spanish as they put out silver coffee- and teapots, baskets of pastries, pitchers of orange juice. Three place settings.

Baffled, I looked around, but there was no one else. No one waiting for me. All of a sudden there was a
bing
, and a small set of brushed-steel elevator doors on the other side of the room slid open.

Jock Goddard and Paul Camilletti.

They were laughing loudly, both of them giddy, high as kites. Goddard caught a glimpse of me, stopped midlaugh, and said, “Well, there he is. You’ll excuse us, Paul—
you
understand.”

Camilletti smiled, patted Goddard’s shoulder and remained in the elevator as the old man emerged, the doors closing behind him. Goddard strode across the big open space almost at a trot.

“Walk with me to the john, will you?” he said to me. “Gotta wash off this damned makeup.”

Silently, I followed him over to a glossy black door that was marked with little silver male-and-female silhouettes. The lights went on as we entered. It was a spacious, sleek rest room, all glass and black marble.

Goddard looked at himself in the mirror. Somehow he seemed a little taller. Maybe it was his posture: he wasn’t quite as hunched as usual.

“Christ, I look like fucking Liberace,” he said as he worked up soapsuds in his hands and began splashing his face. “You’ve never been up here, have you?”

I shook my head, watching him in the mirror as he ducked his head down toward the basin and then up again. I felt a strange tangle of emotions—fear, anger, shock—that was so complex that I didn’t know what to feel.

“Well, you know the business world,” he went on. He seemed almost apologetic. “The importance of theatrics—pageantry, pomp and circumstance, all that crap. I could hardly meet the president of Russia or the crown prince of Saudi Arabia in my shabby little cubbyhole downstairs.”

“Congratulations,” I said softly. “It’s been a big morning.”

He toweled off his face. “More theatrics,” he said dismissively.

“You knew Wyatt would buy Delphos, no matter what it cost,” I said. “Even if it meant going broke.”

“He couldn’t resist,” Goddard said. He tossed the towel, now stained orange-brown, onto the marble counter.

“No,” I said. I became aware of my heartbeat starting to accelerate. “Not so long as he believed you were about to announce this big exciting breakthrough on the optical chip. But there never was an optical chip, was there?”

Goddard grinned his little pixie smile. He turned, and I followed him out of the rest room. I kept going: “That’s why there were no patents filed, no HR files. . . .”

“The optical chip,” he said, almost lunging across the oriental rugs toward the dining table, “exists only in the fevered minds and blotched notebooks of a handful of third-raters at a tiny, doomed company in Palo Alto. Chasing a fantasy, which may or may not happen in your lifetime. Certainly not in mine.” He sat at the table, gestured to the place next to his.

I sat, and the two uniformed attendants, who’d been standing against the bank of ivy at a discreet distance, came forward, poured us each coffee. I was more than frightened and angry and confused; I was deeply exhausted.

“They may be third-raters,” I said, “but you bought their company more than three years ago.”

It was, I admit, an educated guess—the lead investor in Delphos was, according to the filings I’d come across on the Internet, a venture capital fund based in London whose money was channeled through a Cayman Islands investment vehicle. Which indicated that Delphos was actually owned, at a remove of about five shell companies and fronts, by a major player.

“You’re a smart fellow,” Goddard said, grabbing a sweet roll and tucking into it greedily. “The true ownership chain is pretty damned hard to unwind. Help yourself to a pastry, Adam. These raspberry-and-cream-cheese things are
killer
.”

Now I understood why Paul Camilletti, a man who crossed every T and dotted every I, had conveniently “forgotten” to sign the no-shop clause on the term sheet. Once Wyatt saw that, he knew he had less than twenty-four hours to “steal” the company away from Trion—no time to get board approval, even if his board would have approved it. Which they probably wouldn’t have anyway.

I noticed the unoccupied third place setting, and I wondered who the other guest would be. I had no appetite, didn’t feel like drinking coffee. “But the only way to make Wyatt swallow the hook,” I said, “was to have it come from a spy he thought he’d planted.” My voice was trembling, and now I was feeling anger most of all.

“Nick Wyatt’s a very suspicious man,” Goddard said. “I understand him—I’m the same way. He’s sorta like the CIA—they never believe a single damned scrap of intel unless they’ve gotten it by subterfuge.”

I took a sip of ice water, which was so cold it made my throat ache. The only sound in this vast space was the splashing and burbling of the waterfall. The bright light hurt my eyes. It felt cheery in here, weirdly so. The waitress approached with a crystal pitcher of water to refill my glass, but Goddard waved a hand. “
Muchos gracias
. You two can be excused, I think we’re all set here. Could you ask our other guest to join us, please?”