The Insider (10 page)

Jay leaned in to examine the bandage on Will's head. “That looks painful. Must have been some celebration.”

“Racquetball injury. Got smacked with a backhand.” Will had prepared his story in advance, concluding that a racquetball injury struck the proper note: suitably preppy and virile, but not too klutzy.

Jay put his arm conspiratorially around Will. “Come on, Will,” he said in a stage whisper. “That crack habit was okay when you were an associate, but now that you're a partner, it's time to lay down the pipe.”

Will laughed in spite of himself. Jay was the Eddie Haskell of Reynolds Fincher. He adopted a serious, regular-guy persona with everyone else at the firm, but with Will, who had had his number since law school, Jay gave free and unapologetic rein to his inner Machiavelli.

“Excuse me,” Will said, removing Jay's arm from around his shoulder. “But it's that sulfur smell. It's hell getting it out of the clothes.”

Jay smiled. “Hey, don't be that way. You know, ten years from now, we're going to be running this place, you and me.”

“What's with this ‘we' business? That doesn't sound like you, Jay.”

“I'm using the word loosely . . . to mean ‘me.'”

“That's the guy I know.” Tiring of the banter, Will changed the subject. “Have you heard anything more about Ben?”

Even Jay was sobered by this turn in the conversation. “The funeral service is Saturday.”

“Is anyone from the firm going to speak?”

“I don't think so. I hear that the family somehow blames the firm for the suicide. What can you say? The guy just didn't make the cut.”

Will shot Jay a disgusted look.

“You know, Will, you've gotta stop treating me like I'm the recruiting director for the forces of darkness. Look around. We're on the same team.”

Before Will could field a retort, Jay headed off to join a group of corporate partners who were listening attentively as Don Rubinowski regaled them with tales of his last quail-hunting trip to Mexico. Will wondered how long he had to stay before he could slip out.

Just as Will inched toward the door, he spotted Richard Grogan approaching from across the room, a tumbler of scotch in hand. Richard, the co-chair of the firm's corporate department, had a client list that included a host of publicly traded companies. With his immaculate gray suit and perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair, he looked as if he had been genetically engineered to make board presentations.

Richard was the ultimate anal retentive; he even had a policy regarding the correct positioning of binder clips on documents. Jay Spencer was Richard's right hand, sitting in the second chair on a number of transactions for Richard's clients. It was widely known within the firm that he had taken up smoking just so that he would have an excuse to join Richard on his regular cigarette breaks outside the building. Will had never become one of Richard's “team” of associates, not because he wasn't talented enough, but because he was unwilling to join the cult of personality that Richard cultivated.

Will realized that his failure to suck up to Richard could have compromised his chances of making partner. Fortunately, he had found an ally in Sam Bowen, the other co-chair of the corporate department. Sam's style could not have been more different from Richard's. He seldom wore a suit, favoring khakis and rumpled button-down shirts. While Richard was five feet six and tightly wound, Sam was six feet two and gangly, with an unflappable calm. Although he could match Richard in his grasp of every facet of a transaction, Sam always treated his associates with respect, even when they made mistakes, and that was enough to inspire Will's loyalty. Sam's specialty was international mergers and acquisitions. He spoke five languages fluently and, Will suspected, with a north Florida drawl.

When Sam noticed that Richard was coming over to greet Will, he broke away from his group to perform a rescue.

“Congratulations, Will,” Richard said, extending a hand. Richard noted Will's wrinkled suit and the bandage on his forehead with an arched eyebrow. “It's great to have you in the partnership. You know, we haven't worked together enough lately. When the Jupiter deal closes, you should come around and see me about tackling a project together.”

Will performed a rough translation of Richard's statement. Richard had probably tried to sabotage his partnership candidacy because Will was not among his cadre of associates. Since that effort had clearly failed, Richard wanted to align Will with his faction within the corporate department.

“I'll definitely do that, Richard. Right now Jupiter's keeping me pretty busy. Taking over for Ben at a moment's notice has been challenging, to say the least.”

Sam joined them and raised a bottle of beer. “Welcome to the old bastards club, Will.”

“Thanks, Sam, but I still like to think of myself as a young bastard.”

“I stand corrected.” Sam laughed. “You are a young and vigorous bastard. A bastard in the very prime of life. Richard, this young man is going to be the future of our department,” he proclaimed.

“Will has certainly done a great job here over the past few years,” Richard said coolly. Will knew that the quickest way to turn Richard against him was to be seen being chummy with Sam. As he sipped his champagne, Will took comfort in the thought that, as a partner, he no longer had to be as concerned about Richard's temperament.

“Will, once again, congratulations,” Richard said. “See you at your first partnership meeting on Thursday. I'm afraid it's going to be a tough one.”

Will nodded his thanks as Richard left, limboing through an obstacle course of wineglasses.

“What's so tough about this meeting?” Will asked.

“We have a difficult personnel decision to make,” said Sam, looking uncharacteristically grim. “There's some talk about reducing our associate leverage to increase profits per partner. In English, that means laying people off. But it looks like the process is going to start with a termination.”

“Who's getting fired?”

“C'mon, it's a party. You'll hear about all of this soon enough.”

“Please, Sam. I really want to know. Who is it?”

“Claire Rowland.”

“Not Claire! She's always done great work for me, and she really seems to have a handle on the Jupiter due diligence. . . .”

“Whoa, there. This is not my idea. She got on Richard's bad side somehow. I don't think there's much we can do for her. . . .”

“What do you mean, ‘there's not much we can do for her'? It's not like she has cancer!”

Sam shook his head. “Sometimes you've got to know which battles to fight. Besides, if Claire doesn't get nailed this month, she'll probably get sent packing when the associate layoffs hit. She'll get more severance pay this way.” Sam took a long swig of beer. “Shit, did I just say that? I really am becoming an old bastard. You should have another drink and enjoy yourself. It's your party, pard. Now I've got to get home before my wife murders me.”

Claire Rowland was a talented young Stanford graduate who was heading up the team of associates conducting the due diligence review of Jupiter. He could imagine how upset she would be if she was fired from her first law firm job. Claire's work for him had been consistently excellent, and he resolved to speak up for her at the partners' meeting.

But Will had more pressing concerns at the moment. The burns on Ben's body demonstrated what Yuri and Nikolai were capable of. Once they had taken their profits from insider trading, they probably planned to bring their talents to bear on Will. He figured that he would be safe in the short run if he could prevent them from getting what they wanted—the closing of the Jupiter merger. In the meantime, he would try to find out who at the firm might be in league with the Russians.

As Will looked around for a place to set his empty glass, he noticed Annette, a plump, redheaded receptionist, waving to him through the glass door of the conference room. Annette was training to be a paralegal; she read her night school course books behind the reception desk when the phones were quiet.

When Will reached the entrance to the conference room, Annette pointed to the reception area.

“Two gentlemen are here to see you.”

“Who are they?”

“They said they had an appointment and that you'd know.”

Will hoped this was not another surprise partnership celebration.

Will saw Yuri and Nikolai sitting in the reception area, making themselves at home. Nikolai was trying to read a copy of
BusinessWeek
, his lips moving slightly as he sounded out the English words. Yuri had his feet up on the spindly wooden table in the center of the room, which looked as if it could barely support a newspaper and a couple of magazines.

“Great,” Will muttered.

Will glanced at Annette, who wasn't even pretending to be doing anything other than watching them.

Will strode toward the pair. Nikolai stood up and put down his magazine. Yuri brought his feet down from the tiny table with exaggerated ease.

Will knew that if a scene ensued, Annette would make sure that the entire office staff of the firm knew about it by the time they'd finished their first cup of coffee the next day. He needed to get them out of the building as quickly and quietly as possible.

“Good to see you again,” Will said, extending his hand to Nikolai. “Are you all ready to go? I made dinner reservations.”

Nikolai glanced at Annette, leaving Will's hand hanging long enough to create an awkward moment. Then he gave Will's hand a perfunctory shake.

“You are having a party, but you did not invite us? Very rude.”

“Fucking rude,” Yuri affirmed.

“It's a firm party. Attorneys only.”

“Then we will have party of our own,” Nikolai said.

Yuri and Nikolai shoved Will inside the elevator, and they rode down to the parking garage in silence. Yuri was carrying a small brown paper bag. A video screen in the elevator flashed CNN news. President Bush was speaking from the White House Rose Garden, squinting into the camera with a gaze that was intended to read as steely-eyed confidence but came off as something more tentative. Yuri and Nikolai watched the news without glancing at Will. They exchanged a couple of terse sentences in Russian about “Boosh.”

“Where are we going?” Will asked.

No response from the Russians.

“I'd rather talk in a public place,” Will said, feeling less in control of the situation by the moment.

The elevator doors opened on an empty parking garage. The Russians walked on either side of Will, their steps echoing on the concrete floor. Will looked around for someone who might at least serve as a witness to his abduction, but he saw no one.

They stopped in front of a black Lincoln Town Car, and Yuri entered the backseat. Nikolai motioned for Will to get in the front passenger seat. Will considered running, but Nikolai was standing too close. Will climbed in, and Nikolai slammed the door shut behind him. Nikolai walked around the car, opened the driver's-side door, and got behind the wheel.

Nikolai turned the key in the ignition and the pale green dashboard lights came on, but he did not start the engine.

Yuri reached around beside Will's seat. With an electrical whirr, Will's seat slid forward until his knees were pressed against the dashboard.
Zzzzzzzzz.

“Tell us about Jupiter,” Nikolai said. “We need to know that this is investment that we can recommend.”

“Anything I do for my clients is privileged. I can't talk to you about it. And besides, Katya misunderstood. There's no deal.”

“I am pretending that I am not hearing this shit,” Nikolai said, shaking his head in disappointment. He pushed a button, and the electric door locks clicked.

“I don't know what you think you know, but you've got it wrong.”

Yuri reached around beside the seat again.
Zzzzzzzzzz.
Will's seat tilted backward. For a moment, he had the sickening sensation that he was reclining in a dentist's chair. He leaned forward uncomfortably so that he could remain upright.

Yuri grabbed Will's shoulders and jerked him back down into the seat.

Yuri's hands were on either side of the headrest, and he was speaking almost directly into Will's ear. Will could smell onions on his breath. “We need to know that you are a team player, Will. You know what it means to be team player?”

“Yeah.”

“When you have shown us that you are a team player, then we can bring this opportunity to some friends of ours. Serious men. Men who are not to be fucked with. Once they become involved, any bullshit from you will reflect badly on us. And we will not allow that to happen.” Yuri's measured statements reinforced Will's feeling that he was in the middle of a dental examination, one that was not going well.

“We'll need more information on the deal,” Yuri continued. “Who is the buyer, when it is scheduled to close, everything. Then we're going to need regular reports from you on how it is going.”

“I told you, I can't do that. I could be disbarred. I could go to jail.”

“There are worse things, my friend,” Nikolai said.

Yuri adjusted the seat again, and Will was now almost flat on his back, staring up at the sunroof. He incongruously wished that his own car had a sunroof.

Nikolai and Yuri spoke to each other in Russian. From the tone, it sounded like they were bickering over something mundane. As their exchange became more heated, it slowly dawned on Will that they were working themselves up, stoking their aggression like football players slamming each other's shoulder pads before a game.