Stephen Frey (19 page)

“What are you doing?” she asked anxiously.

“Getting a drink.”

“Please don't, Bo.”

“What will you have, sir?” one of the bartenders asked, picking up a glass.

“Bo, pl—”

“Ice water.”

“And for the lady?”

“Ginger ale.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bo took the drinks from the young man and turned to find Meg smiling at him. “What are you smiling about?” he asked. “You look like the cat that swallowed a flock of canaries.”

She picked up a napkin from the bar and took the ginger ale. “You know exactly why I'm smiling. I'm proud of you. I know how much you love your scotch, particularly in a crowded room full of people you think are comparing you to Paul.”

Bo glanced at a row of liquor bottles on the bar. She was right. It would have been easy to give in today. But since making his vow of sobriety outside the Manhattan bar, he hadn't consumed a drop of alcohol. Though it had been hard as hell, it felt good to keep the promise to himself for once. “Thanks.”

“Good afternoon, Bo.”

Bo turned around quickly. Harold Shaw, chairman of the American Financial Group, stood before him. AFG was the holding company for an array of financial firms, including the country's largest commercial bank, its second-largest savings and loan, one of Wall Street's bulge-bracket investment houses, an on-line brokerage firm, and a massive insurance company. AFG controlled over three trillion dollars of combined assets. In constructing the sprawling financial services concern through a series of rapid-fire mergers, Shaw had run afoul of a morass of decades-old consumer-interest regulations designed to keep the different types of entities apart. But with a combination of high-level government connections, guile, and stubbornness, Shaw had barreled through regulators. After two years of integration, AFG was a smoothly running machine constantly gobbling up smaller financial concerns all over the country without opposition from banking and insurance regulators or the Department of Justice's antitrust unit. No one got in Shaw's way at this point.

“Hello, Harold,” Bo replied stiffly. Shaw was tall, angular, and hollow-cheeked, known for his terrible mean streak. He reminded Bo of Jimmy Lee, in both demeanor and appearance. Shaw and Jimmy Lee had been friends since college. “You remember my wife, Meg.”

“Yes.” Shaw gave Meg a cursory nod, then refocused on Bo. “What's this I hear about you going back to Warfield?” AFG's commercial bank was one of Warfield's largest lenders, with over five billion dollars of exposure to the fund.

Bo gritted his teeth, irritated at the question. “I'm needed.”

“Your father and I went way back, Bo.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“He wouldn't have approved.” Shaw had a well-deserved reputation for bluntness. “Your drinking is a problem. He and I had long conversations about this issue on several occasions, one of which took place not long before he died. There is no question that you are the most capable of any Hancock when it comes to numbers. The problem is, you're the least reliable.”

“You're wrong.” Bo glanced around, checking to see who was listening. “The year away helped me a great deal.”

“Paul can't have you here, Bo. You could easily destroy his chances of winning the election.”

“Good afternoon, Harold.” Once more Paul wedged his way into Bo's conversation.

“Hello, Paul,” Shaw said, smiling widely for the first time.

“Could I have a word with you, Harold?” Paul asked. Shaw glanced back over his shoulder uncertainly at Bo as Paul led him away through the crowd.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Meg observed. “Paul can't leave you alone.”

Bo nodded as he spotted Nick Kaplan through the crowd. Until two years ago Kaplan had operated a large leveraged buyout fund in Boston. During a difficult time for Kaplan, Bo had purchased assets with a book value of a half billion dollars from Kaplan's fund for less than two hundred million. A month later Bo had sold the assets to another fund for the half billion they were really worth. When Kaplan's fund had disintegrated last year, he had caught on with a large New York investment bank run by a close friend—poorer, wiser, and very bitter.

Bo saw the resentment in Kaplan's eyes. At the time, Kaplan had begged Bo for the two hundred million to help his fund stay afloat. Now Kaplan would never forgive Bo for Warfield's threehundred-million-dollar profit. But that was the way of the financial world. People forgot the favor, but they never forgot the profit. Particularly when they had lost it.

“Who are Paul and Harold Shaw talking to now?” Meg asked, glancing at the pair, who had been joined by a third man.

“Jim Whitacre,” Bo answered, shifting his attention.

“Who is he?”

“The chief executive officer of a company named Global Media,” Bo answered. “Global is the most important information technology company in the world.”

“The three of them look like they're carving up the world,” she observed dryly.

“I wouldn't be surprised if they were. Global Media and AFG affect the lives of every human being in this country in one way or another, and Paul's going to be our next president. If I were to guess, I'd say they were carving up the universe, not just the world.”

“How do Shaw and Whitacre's companies affect everyone?”

“Shaw is CEO of American Financial Group, the largest financial services conglomerate in the world. I've read statistics indicating that his firms have processed at least one financial transaction for every household in this country. A mortgage, a car loan, a stock market trade, an insurance policy, a credit card purchase. You name it, they do it.” Bo nodded toward Whitacre. “Global Media owns long distance and local telephone lines, a satellite company, a huge cable company, an Internet portal, an Internet advertising firm, and a dominant software maker, among other things. It also does a great deal of network consulting work for the federal government, specifically for the Internal Revenue Service.”

“Good God,” Meg whispered.

“God should have so much influence,” Bo muttered, spotting Michael Mendoza. He watched as Mendoza worked the crowd, pausing for a moment to say something to Frank Ramsey. “What did you mean the other day when you said that Michael Mendoza didn't always have my best interests at heart?”

Meg took a sip of ginger ale. “I know you and Michael have been close for many years.”

“But.”

“Michael is out for Michael.” Meg paused. “And I didn't appreciate the way he started seeing other women so soon after Ginny's death.” She and Bo had visited Mendoza and his wife Ginny in Washington over the years, staying at their town house in Georgetown many times. Ginny had died two years ago of complications from breast cancer. “I liked Ginny very much and I thought it was terrible of Michael to date so quickly, especially such young women.”

“Michael didn't see anyone for several months after Ginny's death. You can't expect someone not to want company. He didn't like being alone.”

“It was only a couple of weeks after she died,” Meg corrected, “and the woman was barely out of college.”

“How do you know that?”

“You aren't the only one with Washington contacts.” Meg glanced at Mendoza, who was coming toward them. “He considers himself quite the ladies' man.”

“Hi, Bo.” Mendoza took Bo's hand and shook it warmly, then kissed Meg's cheek. “Hello, Meg.”

“Hello,” she answered flatly, scanning the crowd.

“You look wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

Mendoza looked back at Bo. “And you look like someone I've never seen before.”

“What are you talking about?” Bo asked coolly. He desperately wanted to ask Michael about the memo to Jimmy Lee and the telephone call that, it turned out, hadn't been made, but he would wait for a more appropriate time.

Mendoza gave Bo an exaggerated up-and-down. “Suit coat on, top shirt button buttoned, tie pulled all the way up with a fairly neat knot, fresh haircut, immaculate shave.” He smiled wanly, then hugged Bo. “So now I know that it takes a funeral to get you looking neat.”

Bo's expression remained emotionless and he didn't return the embrace.

“You all right?” Mendoza asked, pulling back.

“Fine, Michael.”

“If the funeral comment upset you, I'm—”

“Forget it.”

Mendoza stared at Bo for a few moments, trying to understand. “Would you excuse us?” he finally asked, smiling politely at Meg.

“Of course.” Over the years she had become accustomed to people constantly needing Bo's time in private.

“Is there something we need to talk about?” Mendoza asked when Meg was out of earshot.

“Not now.”

Mendoza nodded. “Okay,” he said slowly. He pointed subtly toward Paul, who was now conferring with Catherine near the entrance to the large room. “I came over here to tell you that your brother is planning to bring the Warfield issue to a head.”

“What?” Bo's eyes shot to where Paul and Catherine were talking.

“Paul is hell-bent on making certain that you don't return to Warfield. He's going to call you into a meeting in your father's study in a few minutes and put the issue to a vote.”

“How do you know?”

“Bruce Laird pulled me aside as I came into the reception. He wanted you to be prepared.”

“I'm ready for Paul.”

“Yes, but can you beat him?”

“Catherine will vote with me.”

“Are you sure?”

Bo eyed Mendoza. “I'm sure.” He saw Paul making his way through the crowd. “What do you want?” he asked coldly as Paul made it to where he and Mendoza were standing.

“I need to speak with you in Dad's study.”

“This isn't the time or the place for a confrontation,” Bo replied.

“That's right,” Mendoza agreed, stepping between them. “Bury your differences on the day that you bury your father.”

“Stay out of this, Senator,” Paul ordered sharply. “You have my parents to thank for everything that you are and that you have achieved. Show your respect for them by steering clear of what doesn't concern you.” Paul shifted his gaze to Bo. “We're going into Dad's study, Bo, and we're going to finish this thing right now. You can come and hear what I have to say, or not. But I warn you, the security people will bar you from entering Warfield's offices from now on.” Then he was off, wending his way through the crowd toward the study.

Bo watched Paul disappear into the mass of people, then went to find Meg. “I have to deal with Paul for a few minutes,” he said to her over the noise of the crowd.

She nodded. “Hurry back.”

“I will.”

When Bo entered the study, Paul was sitting behind Jimmy Lee's desk, smiling smugly. Catherine stood behind Paul, fiddling nervously with a picture frame on the credenza. She did not look up as Bo came in.

“What do you want?” Bo asked, closing the door. The hum of conversation faded away.

Paul tapped the desk with his pen. The sound echoed throughout the large room. “I want to make you an offer.”

“What kind of offer?” Bo asked, trying unsuccessfully to catch Catherine's eye.

Paul took a deep breath. “I'll give you a billion dollars of the family money to manage. You can do it on your own with no interference whatsoever from Frank Ramsey or me. You can do it from Montana. We'll hire several assistants and build a small trading room in the ranch house, if you want.”

Bo removed his coat and tossed it over the back of the same chair he had sat in a year ago as Paul railroaded him to Montana the first time. “Why would I want to do that when I can manage everything at Warfield?” he asked, moving to a spot directly in front of the desk. He saw Catherine's face tense, anticipating the maelstrom.

“You aren't going back to Warfield,” Paul replied evenly.

Bo leaned forward and placed his hands on the desktop. “Why are you so dead-set against having me there?”

“For the same reason I was a year ago. You aren't doing any better than you were before you left. You were drinking like a fish in Montana, just like you were here before you left. If I let you go back to Warfield, you'll screw up the portfolio and make an ass of yourself in public.”

“How do you know how much I was drinking in Montana?”

“I just do.”

“Had the Hazeltine boys watching me all the way out there, did you?” Bo asked, knowing the answer.

“Watching you and your redneck buddies. The ones you met every afternoon at Little Lolo's.”

Bo chuckled and shook his head. “You're a bastard, Paul. I've always wanted to tell you that. Ever since that night Melissa died.”

Catherine glanced up, curiosity all over her face, as Paul shot out of the chair and charged around the desk to where Bo stood. “I was going to work with you, Bo,” he snarled. “I was going to try to find a solution that would leave you with some shred of self-respect, but I can see that won't be possible.” He turned to Catherine. “Go find Bruce Laird,” he ordered. “Let's get this thing over with.”

“Why are you doing this, Paul?” Bo asked, as Catherine exited the room. “Is it that you want to break me? Do you figure that if you send me back out to Montana, I'll drive myself crazy? Drink myself to death or maybe blow my brains out with a shotgun? Do you hate me that much? Or is it that you're worried I might bring Melissa back from the dead one day?”

“Shut up!”

Bo nodded triumphantly. “That's the real problem, isn't it? That's the incident that could take you down, and I'm the only person in the world besides you that knows about it.”

“I'm warning you, Bo.”

“I know where Melissa's parents are, Paul. I've kept tabs on them all these years. They're both still alive.” He hesitated. “And I'm the only one that knows where—”