The Chairman (2 page)

“The four of us keep all the Everest upside in the next fund,” Cohen continued. “And, as chairman, you decide how that’s divided.”

Gillette’s eyes narrowed. Twenty billion dollars. A tremendous amount of money. Easily enough to convince whoever had just tried to kill him to try again. “You said the widow wouldn’t share in the upside of the next fund.”

“That’s true,” Cohen confirmed.

“I assume she wouldn’t get that 25 percent voting block either.”

“No, she wouldn’t.”

“How does that work?” Gillette asked. “When does she lose that right?”

“As soon as we raise another fund that’s the same size or bigger than the last one. Once that happens, she’s just like everybody else. Her vote is equal to her pro rata piece of the current fund. Her dollar commitment divided by the size of the fund.”

There were implications to that—good and bad—Gillette would have to sort through. But it would take at least a year to raise VIII, so it would be a while before he’d have to deal with them. “Ben, we’re going to start raising the eighth fund next week,” he announced. “The target for Everest VIII is going to be ten billion dollars.” It was the first time he’d mentioned this to Cohen.

Cohen squinted and his mouth fell slowly open. “Ten billion?”

“Yes.”

“But we’re only a little over halfway through the seventh fund.”

“The partnership agreement states that I can start raising the next fund after we’ve invested 50 percent of the current one.” He’d checked that clause this morning, too.

“Sure, sure, but Bill always waited until we’d invested at least 75 percent,” Cohen countered. “He thought it was better that way. So the limited partners would feel like we were more focused on generating returns and not just raising more money so we could collect bigger management fees. We didn’t start raising VII until we were 80 percent of the way through VI.”

“Ten billion is a lot of money. We’ll need extra time.”

“Will the insurance companies and the pension funds commit that much?” Cohen asked skeptically. “Is there enough money in the market to do this?”

“There’s always enough money.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry.”

“It’s what I do best.” Cohen sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Christian, there’s something you should know.”

Gillette glanced over. “What?”

“Both Kyle and Marcie have been approached by other private equity firms. They’ve been offered very nice packages. Big salaries, guaranteed bonuses, and big pieces of the ups.”

Kyle Lefors and Marcie Reed were managing directors at Everest Capital. One rung below Cohen, Faraday, and Mason on the Everest organization chart. There were several other managing directors at the firm, but Lefors and Reed were the most talented.

“I knew about Lefors,” Gillette said.

“How?”

“Tom McGuire.”

“Of course.”

“But I didn’t know about Marcie.” Gillette took a deep breath. “I don’t want to lose either of them.”

“What are you going to do?”

Gillette heard the concern in Cohen’s voice, and the reason was obvious. There was really only one way to deal with the problem. Promote Lefors and Reed to managing partner and give them a piece of the ups in VIII. Of course, Cohen, Faraday, and Mason wouldn’t want that because it would mean less for them. Cohen and Mason might argue against the promotions calmly, but Faraday would go ballistic. He had a terrible temper.

“I don’t know yet. I need to think about it some more.”

“Just don’t—”

“Did I see Faith Cassidy at the funeral?” asked Gillette, switching subjects as he pulled out his Blackberry—a cordless, handheld e-mail and cell phone device—and began rifling through his messages.

Faith Cassidy had exploded on to the pop music scene last year with a debut album that sold millions. Her second album had come out recently. Through the sixth fund—the same one that owned McGuire & Company—Everest owned the entertainment company that controlled Faith’s music label.

“Yes, she was at the church,” Cohen confirmed.

“She’s an attractive young woman.”

“I suppose,” Cohen agreed indifferently, watching the trees flash past.

“Who invited her?”

Cohen stayed silent.

“Ben?”

“All right, I did,” Cohen admitted. “Bill liked her a lot. I thought it would be a nice gesture. You have a problem with that?”

When the Town Car had climbed the long, steep driveway and eased to a stop in front of Donovan’s mansion, Gillette stepped out and waited for Troy Mason to escort the widow up to him.

“Thank you again for delivering the eulogy,” she murmured from behind the black lace, still clasping Mason’s arm. “I know Bill appreciated your kind words.”

Gillette glanced at Mason’s bitter expression. Mason was tall, blond, and handsome. A man who would have been playing football on Sundays instead of buying and running companies if he hadn’t destroyed his left knee in the Rose Bowl his senior year at Stanford. He still walked with a slight limp.

Gillette and Mason hadn’t spoken since the decision of the partners had been announced yesterday afternoon. Normally they talked five to ten times a day.

“It was an honor, Ann,” Gillette assured her, turning his attention back to the widow. Trying to see behind the veil.

“People will be here soon,” she whispered.

Gillette nodded. “We should get you inside.” There was a gust of wind and the veil fluttered. For a moment he caught sight of her pale face and drawn lips. “May I use your husband’s study this afternoon?”

The widow slid her arm from Mason’s and moved beside Gillette. “You know people will want your time, don’t you?”

“No doubt.”

“Even if all they can get is a few seconds,” she murmured. “Because of all that money.”

Now that she was close, he could see through the lace. “Yes.”

“We chose wisely the other day,” she whispered, her back to Mason. “Bill would have voted for Troy. He loved Troy like a son.” She hesitated, gazing off into the distance.

Like the one she could never give him,
Gillette thought to himself.

“Offer me your arm, Christian.”

Gillette glanced over the widow’s shoulder into Mason’s burning eyes before turning to escort her down the stone path. “Thank you for your vote at the meeting,” he said. “Without it, I wouldn’t be chairman.”

“You should thank Miles Whitman. I was going to vote for Troy until Miles called and told me you were the best person for the job. I’m glad he did.”

Miles Whitman was Everest’s largest investor. “So am I,” Gillette agreed.

The widow clasped his arm tightly. “Take care of my money, young man.”

“Like it was my own.”

They were quiet until they were almost to the mansion.

“Always make people come to you, Christian,” she advised him as they reached the stone terrace in front of the main entrance. “Always make people see you on your terms. When
you’re
prepared. Never before.” She turned to face him. “I learned a lot over the last twenty years. Even as
just
the wife.”

3

Negotiations.
The purchase of a company—price, cash or paper, representations, warranties. Details of a senior executive’s pay package—salary, bonus, stock options, perks. Terms of a critical financing—interest rate, repayment schedule, covenants. Issues that the private equity professionals deal with constantly because the CEO of a company owned by a private equity firm can’t make a move without his chairman’s approval.

And, in a world dominated by constant negotiation, there is one hard and fast rule. It isn’t the one who wants something less who has the advantage. It’s the one who
appears
to want it less.

EVERYTHING ABOUT DONOVAN’S STUDY WAS imposing. The huge stone fireplace. Big desk. Dark wood walls. Expensive furniture. Oil paintings. Photographs of him with famous people—politicians, sports figures, entertainers—cluttering the credenza and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. All of it designed to intimidate the visitor.

Gillette took a deep breath. The scents of leather and wood smoke. It reminded him of his father’s study.

The wooden chair behind the wide desk creaked as Gillette eased into it. Through the dim light he gazed at himself in a gold-framed oval mirror hanging on the far wall. Black hair parted on one side, combed back behind his ears. Sharp facial features—a thin nose, strong jaw, prominent chin, and high, defined cheekbones. And intense gray eyes that people naturally locked on to. At six two and a fit 190 pounds, he was an imposing figure on the other side of the negotiating table—which always helped.

The image in the mirror blurred as the exploding limousine flashed through his mind once more. He grimaced. Two people dead. A few more paces and he would have been—

A knock on the office door broke the stillness.

“Christian.”

He recognized the heavy English accent immediately. “Come in.”

The door opened and closed quickly, and Nigel Faraday appeared out of the gloom. Faraday was pale, round-faced, and rarely without a drink in his hand if he wasn’t at the office. This afternoon was no exception.

“Bloody hell.”

“What’s wrong, Nigel?” Gillette asked, watching the Brit swirl the ice in his glass with his finger.

Faraday was Ben Cohen’s alter ego. Faraday hated details and had no desire to be tied down by a family. Thriving instead on Manhattan’s nightlife. Entertaining Everest investors three or four evenings a week, often until two or three in the morning. An expert at raising cash, he had that knack for knowing the exact moment to ask for big money—and getting it.

“Our plan was a bust,” Faraday muttered, throwing back a healthy swallow of scotch. “Fucking Cohen.”

“Not even going to try to deny the conspiracy?” Gillette asked, touching his forehead to make certain it wasn’t bleeding again. They weren’t particularly close, but he’d always liked Faraday. His sarcasm was entertaining, and, if you weren’t careful, the accent could be hypnotic.

“Cohen was supposed to get you down those steps faster, then tell you he’d forgotten something in the church and get away from the limo. But all that little fucker can do is run numbers. And babble Latin,” Faraday added, smiling. “Mason and I should have remembered that.”

Gillette almost smiled back—three days ago he would have—but he controlled his expression. Things were different. He had to maintain his distance now that he was chairman. “Next time you’ll do a better job of preparing.”

“You’re fucking right we will.”

Gillette shook his head. Faraday dropped the f-bomb constantly.

“Chris, I—”

“Christian,” Gillette interrupted.

Faraday chuckled, then coughed and wiped the smile away with the back of his hand when he realized Gillette was serious. “Well, look, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I was worried about you there for a few minutes, what with all that blood. I’m not going to lie and tell you I wasn’t disappointed that I didn’t get the nod from the limited partners yesterday. I thought I had more than a few of them in my pocket. After all, I raised a lot of their dough.” Faraday paused. “But I’m glad you’re all right.”

Of the ninety-three investors in the Everest funds, Faraday had won only three votes. Translation: The limited partners enjoyed the entertainment, and they committed dollars to Everest when Faraday asked, but they had no confidence in his ability to actually manage the money. To acquire healthy companies and make savvy operating decisions once Everest owned them.

“Thank you,” Gillette said quietly.

“I also came to let you know that Senator Stockman fucking wants to see you.”

Gillette glanced up from a manila folder lying on one corner of Donovan’s desk. “Looking for handouts, is he?” It hadn’t taken long for the parade to start.

“I’m sure he’d refer to it as ‘support.’ ”

“Aren’t you
fucking
sure?” Gillette shot back, spotting a razor cut on Faraday’s cheek. Faraday was swarthy and always nicking himself.

Faraday’s round face slowly broke into another grin. “Yeah. I’m fucking sure.”

Gillette nodded. “I’ll see him. But tell him it’ll be a few minutes.”

“Should I come back in with him?”

“No, send Cohen.” Faraday’s grin evaporated and anger flashed across his face, but Gillette motioned toward the door before the other man could complain. “Go.”

When Faraday was gone, Gillette glanced back into the mirror. Urgency and efficiency. Make the most of every second. Bill Donovan’s mantra. Over the last ten years Gillette had become a disciple.

Faraday worked his way through the crowd toward Cohen. A thousand people had been invited to the reception and all of them seemed to have accepted.

He tapped Cohen on the shoulder. “Hey, Moses.” His nickname for the little man.

Cohen excused himself from his conversation with Faith Cassidy. “What is it, Nigel?” he snapped, irritated at being interrupted.

The Brit grinned smugly. “Where’s your wife?”

“Why?”

“She’s usually smarter about monitoring your fucking pecker.”

Cohen pursed his lips. “Why do you like hassling me so much?”

“Because it’s so fucking easy.” Faraday gestured with his glass. “Our new leader has summoned you to the study. By the way, he’s calling himself ‘Christian’ now.”

Cohen rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

“Sit down, Ben.” Gillette motioned toward the two chairs in front of the desk.

Cohen chose the one farthest from the door.

“I need your help.”

“I want to help in any way I can, Christian. Especially right now when you’re just taking over.”

Gillette studied Cohen’s expression, trying to determine whether the signs of submission were sincere. “Senator Stockman wants to meet with me, and I need someone else in here while we talk.” Gillette watched Cohen relax. He understood that a new order had just been established, and that he was now second in command. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding later about what was said.”

“Thanks,” said Cohen, looking down. “I appreciate your including me.”

Gillette waited for Cohen’s eyes to come back up to his. “Did you talk to Mason?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And you were right, Christian. One drink and Troy wouldn’t shut up. He’s definitely bitter. Apparently, Donovan was planning to step down at the end of the year and turn everything over to Troy.”

Gillette nodded. It was exactly as he’d thought. “How about Miss Cassidy? Did you talk to her?”

Before Cohen could answer, the door opened and Senator Stockman walked into the study. He was tall and distinguished, with silver hair and a healthy tint to his skin. He strode purposefully to the desk and extended his hand without glancing at Cohen.

“Look at you, Mr. Gillette,” Stockman said as they shook. “Suddenly you’re a powerful young man.”

Gillette motioned for Stockman to sit in the chair beside Cohen’s. He’d met the senator several times over the last few years but always in Donovan’s presence. Before today, Stockman never seemed to remember his name.

“It’s such a terrible thing about Bill,” Stockman observed, crossing his legs at the knee as he sat down. “But one man’s loss is another’s gain. Isn’t that true, Mr. Gillette?”

“It’s a zero-sum world,” Gillette agreed quickly, gesturing toward Cohen. “Senator, meet Ben Cohen.”

Stockman tilted his head slightly without looking over. “What do you think happened to your boss, Mr. Gillette? Was it an accident like the police are saying? Or did Bill have help filling his lungs with water?”

“Why would I think Bill was murdered?”

“Because if you’d come out of the church thirty seconds earlier, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The office went deathly still for a few moments.

“Why did you want to see me?” Gillette finally asked.

“I thought it made sense for us to get together as soon as possible.” The senator smiled. “To talk about ways we can work together.”

Stockman and Donovan had never gotten along. They’d always made a point of being good at public palm-pressing, but they were at opposite ends of the political spectrum, and that had ultimately turned into an intense personal dislike. There was no chance that they would have ever helped each other. But maybe there was an opportunity here.

Gillette opened one hand and gestured. “I’m interested.”

“I’d like to ask a few questions about Everest first.”

“Go ahead.”

“How many companies do you control?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“And how much do those companies have in combined sales?”

“Wait a minute,” Cohen objected. “That information is highly confidential.”

“It’s fine, Ben,” Gillette said smoothly. “Senator Stockman would never disclose anything confidential about us to anyone. Would you, Senator?”

Stockman smiled thinly. “Of course not.”

“Answer the question, Ben.”

Cohen took an irritated breath. “The twenty-seven companies have combined sales of over eighty billion dollars.”

“How many employees is that?”

Cohen shot Gillette a quick look.

“Tell him.”

“Almost a million.”

“A
million
employees,” the senator said wistfully. “That’s a lot of votes. How many of those companies are you chairman of, Christian?”

“Seven,” Cohen answered for Gillette. “But with Bill’s death, as the new chairman of Everest Capital, Christian will automatically take those chair positions as well. That’s another thirteen.”

“Jesus. Chairman of twenty companies.
And
chairman of Everest.” Stockman chuckled. “I hope they can clone you, Christian. Otherwise, you won’t have time to take a crap let alone—”

“What do you want, Senator?”

Stockman folded his hands in his lap. “In a few days I’m going to announce my candidacy for president,” he explained, his voice low. “I want Everest Capital’s support, specifically those million votes. Employees listen to their chairman.”

Over the last few weeks, Gillette had heard rumors about a Stockman campaign for the White House.

“As you know,” Stockman continued, “I’m a Democrat. As you
also
know, Bill Donovan was a conservative. A senior member of the Republican National Committee, in fact. It never made sense to ask him for help. I would have had better luck with a brick wall. But I hear you’re different. I hear that even though you grew up in Beverly Hills, you relate to the common man. To the blue-collar set, especially minorities. Those people are a significant piece of my constituency. So, I want your support, Christian. I want you to tell all those Everest employees to vote for me, and I want you to be active behind the scenes. Calling on people who matter and getting them to support me.” Stockman glanced at Cohen for the first time. “We’re not talking about a one-way street here.” He ran the fingertips of his hand over the lapel of his suit jacket. “As I’m sure you both know, I have friends in high places. At the Securities and Exchange Commission, for instance.” He paused. “Over the years Everest Capital has made billions selling companies it controls to the public. True, Mr. Cohen?”

“True.”

“In fact, one of my aides told me you still own big pieces of several of those companies. In addition to those twenty-seven companies you own outright. Is my information accurate?”

Cohen nodded.

“With all the scrutiny on corporate accounting and control these days, public offerings can easily get bogged down by SEC bullshit. Even shelved sometimes.”

Cohen flashed Gillette an angry look, anticipating what was coming.

“Obviously, that’s not something you want,” Stockman pointed out, following Cohen’s glance. “I can help you there.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or not.”

“Hold on,” Cohen snapped. “We’ve taken fifteen companies public over the last ten years. We know plenty of people who can—”

“Have someone in your office call my assistant,” Gillette instructed Stockman, cutting off the conversation. There was no need for this to escalate. Not right now, anyway. “Her name is Debbie.” He rose and moved out from behind the desk. “Have them arrange a lunch for us next week,” he continued, taking Stockman’s hand, helping him up out of the chair and guiding him to the door. “We’ll go to the Racquet Club. Would you like that?”