Vertical Run (29 page)

It had been a nightmare.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” A short, sallow-looking man in an expensive suit. He had a ginger moustache and a warty complexion the color of putty, and spoke with a softly lisping British accent. Dave hated him on sight.

“Ah, yes,” Dave stammered, “I’m from the printers.”

“Right,” the Englishman said. “That’ll be the I.P.O. team you’re looking for. They’ve a Red Herring due tomorrow.”

Dave nodded briskly. “The S.E.C. will want it before noon, I presume.” It was important to demonstrate an understanding of the lingo. Any financial printer would know the ins and outs of Initial Public Offerings, and how critical it was that a Red Herring—a preliminary stock offering prospectus—comply with Securities and Exchange Commission requirements.

The Englishman replied, “Quite right.” He pointed Dave down a hallway and told him to turn left. He watched while Dave departed.

Dave had persuaded the next person he bumped into, a tall, distracted-looking man with luridly flowered suspenders, that he was a courier from a law firm. He’d told the third that he was a network service technician called in to troubleshoot a problem on the Ethernet.

Each encounter drove him toward the outer peripheries of the office, and away from the safety of the building core, elevators, and fire stairs. He was ready to scream with frustration.

In the end he found himself herded past a darkened corridor leading to the northeast. He glanced over his shoulder, made sure no one was watching, then dove into it.

The hall dead-ended in a secretarial area. No, not entirely a dead end. There was one last door at the far side of the secretary’s desk. Dave turned the knob. The door opened on a darkened office. Reflected streetlights from Park Avenue showed its dimensions—it was enormous, vastly larger than Bernie’s.

Dave made out a desk at the distant end. He stepped toward it, promptly barking his left shin on a low table. He cursed and rubbed his leg. He took the next several steps cautiously.

There was a brass Stiffel lamp on the desk. Dave switched it on. A small, circular pool of light opened across the desk and illuminated a massive, multiline telephone. He picked up the handset and dialed. It beeped, and requested him to: “Enter authorization code now.”

Damn. He hurled the handset back in the cradle.

Sit down, pal. Take a breather. Think it through. Let’s not make any more dumb mistakes
.

Good advice. He took it, sat down, lit a cigarette, looked around. The faint light thrown by the desk lamp was enough for him to make out the furnishings. He was awestruck.

The desk at which he sat was hewn of glowing mahogany and topped with white marble. Its projecting ends bowed out in graceful curves, and it sat on six symmetrical,
cylindrical pillars. Dave was certain that it was a Duncan Phyfe, and easily worth $75,000. Opposite the desk there were a quartet of serpentine-backed, inlaid, Federal lolling chairs—$6,000 each. A cherrywood high chest of drawers was placed against the wall, just next to the door. It would bring $50,000 if it was Chippendale, and Dave was reasonably sure that it was. A mahogany tall-case clock stood opposite the chest—a Manheim, Dave guessed, dating from the early 1800s. Someone had paid $35,000 to own it.

And there was more, much more. The contents of the office would bring tears to an antique dealer’s eye. The whole lot would be worth a million dollars, or near enough that it didn’t matter.

It was odd, he reflected, how those who added the least value to the national economy had, during the past decade or so, accumulated the most money. It wasn’t the companies who produced things that had gotten rich, not the automobile makers, nor the appliance manufacturers, nor any of the other industrial organizations. If anything, they had become poorer. Rather, it had been the predators who prospered, the doers of deals, the structurers of leveraged buyouts, the floaters of junk bonds, the takeover artists, and the raiders. People like Bernie Levy and Scott Thatcher would never squander a million bucks to furnish their offices. But people like Lee, Bach & Wachutt …

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a second telephone. It was resting on top of a gilt-trimmed huntboard behind the desk. It was a plain black telephone, and Dave recognized it for what it was—a private line bypassing the switchboard. Bernie had one and so did a dozen other executives whom Dave knew. It was more than a status symbol—it was a tool that allowed its owner to make and receive especially confidential calls without worrying that the switchboard operators might eavesdrop.

Dave spun his chair around, and lifted the handset. Dial tone. He punched in the number for the international
operator. “Thank you for calling AT&T International. This is Suzanne. How can I help you?”

Success!

Dave asked the operator to place a person-to-person call.

“What is the party’s name?”

“Mam … Mr. Kreuter. Mr. Jack Kreuter.”

“Residence or business?”

“Business.”

“And your name, sir?”

“David Elliot.”

A male voice behind him echoed, “David Elliot. Indeed.”

Every nerve in Dave’s body screamed, ordering that he fling himself behind cover and start shooting. He didn’t. Instead he placed the handset back on its cradle, and leaned back, rotating his chair.

The man was silhouetted in the doorway. An exquisitely cut suit exquisitely draped his tall, lean form. He had one hand casually in his pants pocket. He gestured with the other. “What magnificent self-control. A weaker man might have fainted. Even the most stouthearted should have jumped. Or so one might think. I am most impressed, sir.”

Dave simply looked at him.

“Might I come in? It is my office, you know.” His voice was baritone, perfectly pitched, and as musical as an opera singer’s.

“Certainly,” Dave replied. His back had been turned. The man had to have been standing there for more than a few moments. He easily could have crept away to call for help. He didn’t. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a danger—at least not a danger of the conventional sort. “Please close the door behind you.”

“Of course. By the by, have you occasion to employ
my office again, and wish privacy, all you need do is rotate this lever.” He twisted the lever. “Perfect security. A system of deadbolts. One requires it in my trade. Perfect security, I mean.” He stepped forward into the pool of light.

Dave studied his features. The man looked to be the very devil himself, as darkly handsome as Lucifer Morningstar ever was. With the grace of a hunting cat, he dropped into one of the lolling chairs and smiled. “Let me introduce myself.” His smile widened. His teeth showed. “Whenever I begin a sentence thus, I almost feel obliged to add I am a man of wealth and et cetera. Nicholas Lee, at your service. Do call me Nick.”

The chief executive of Lee, Bach & Wachutt. Dave had never met him, but he recognized both the name and the face. The face in particular—it had graced the cover of
Institutional Investor, Business Week, Fortune
, and a half dozen other magazines during the eighties. However, during the nineties it was more often to be found on the front page of
The New York Times
business section, usually beneath a headline containing the words “Federal Indictment.”

“Dave Elliot.”

“So I gather, and I must say that I am both charmed and delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Dave lifted a questioning eyebrow.

“Well, one always feels a certain frisson upon encountering a celebrity, doesn’t one?”

“Am I that famous?”

“Most assuredly, sir. The statutory fifteen minutes of fame promised by Mr. Warhol’s bromide is surely come upon you. Even now, the bulldog editions of the tabloids blazon your photograph. Not that one man in a thousand would recognize you. The change you’ve wrought in your appearance is most startling. By the by, the tabloids have dubbed you the ‘Amok Exec,’ a not uneuphonious sobriquet, you’ll agree. Further, certain sources kept by me on retainer report that tomorrow’s
Wall Street Journal
prominently displays your face in one
of those oh-so-complimentary stippled drawings of which its editors are so fond. The headline associated therewith is, I fear, rather less so. Complimentary, I mean.”

Dave groaned. “What are they accusing me of?”

“Accusations, none. Implications, many. In this era of libel lawyers grown plumply prosperous, no publisher of balanced mind accuses anyone of anything. Instead they pose questions, raise hypotheses, and strew their sentences with words such as ‘alleged,’ ‘speculated,’ and ‘supposed.’ For example, it is
alleged
that you hurled the unhappy chief executive of Senterex through a window forty-five stories above street level. It is
speculated
that you did so because he’d caught your spoor in the vicinity of the financial cookie jar. It is
supposed
that you’d been doing something naughty with corporate currency trade. That’s usually what it is, isn’t it? Dubious currency trading, I mean.”

“Usually.”

“Well, tell me, sir, did you do it? Diddle the dollars, I mean. No need to be shy. We are friends here, and I am most accustomed to keeping confidences. Do tell me, how much did you pilfer, and why? Was it one of the three R’s? Rum, redheads, and racehorses, I mean. Come, come, sir, midlife crisis visits us all. Do not be ashamed to admit its taint. You can tell me. I shall be most discreet.”

Lee’s coal black eyes sparkled. His skin glowed. He was, Dave thought,
too
interested.

“It’s not important now.”

Nick Lee leaned forward. Dave observed a small band of sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Of course it isn’t. It’s the merest curiosity on my part. Nonetheless, I should consider it a kindness if you would gratify it. My curiosity, I mean.”

Dave shook his head. He had just deduced why Lee was so interested in his and Senterex’s affairs. Now he planned to have some fun.

Lee simpered. “Perhaps we could work a trade. Trading
is my profession, after all. One buys; one sells; one hopes for a modest profit. It is the soul of capitalism. Trading, I mean. Thus, if you will be so kind as to give me a hint or two as to the factors underlying your current situation, then I, perhaps, might be able to do some small service for you.”

“It would have to be a rather large service.”

Lee steepled his fingers. “Ah, how cunning of you. You understand.”

“Sure I do. Tomorrow morning Senterex’s stock is going into the toilet. The news of Bernie’s death and the rumors of financial impropriety will do that. And if I …” His inner voice offered advice,
Bait the trap
. “If I or someone else …”—Lee licked his lips—”… have been playing fast and loose with Senterex’s corporate cash, then the company’s stock will dive even further. On the other hand, if all is well—or if the damage is only modest—then the stock will rebound. In either event, a man who knew the truth would be in a good position to make a killing.”

Lee was hooked. Dave was afraid that the man was going to drool. “Just so. Puts and calls—the leverage in options trading is so attractive.”

“Someone who had inside information might make $5 for every $1 he invested.”

Lee sniffed. “I tend to think in terms of making $5 million for every $1 million invested.”

“Whatever.”

“Well, sir, will you strike a bargain with me? The hour’s already late enough. Shortly trading in London, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Zurich, and Milan commences. If we are to strike a bargain, let us strike it now so that I can go about my business.”

“What’s your offer?”

“I make you my best. The lamentable fates of such peers and colleagues as Messrs. Boesky, Keating, Levine, Milken, and et cetera have persuaded me to make provision for hasty travel. One never can tell but that one might need to decamp on rather short notice. Hence,
across the Hudson at the Teterboro airport, I keep a Gulf-stream fully fueled and prepared at all times. It is stocked with all the necessities, including, I might add, some several bundles of Deutsche marks, Swiss francs, yen, pounds sterling, and, if memory serves, a roll or two of Krugerrands. The range of the jet is such that you might choose as your place of refuge any of the traditional South American bolt-holes, or if you wish, and as I might recommend, sunny Spain, balmy Portugal, or even carefree Greece. The cost of living in such places is low, the climate clement, and the authorities inexpensively pacified. My limousine is parked on Fiftieth Street, sir. The chauffeur waits. You can be airborne in an hour’s time, and all your troubles behind you. What do you say to that?”

“That you’d trade me to the authorities as soon as I was out of your office.” Dave brought a pistol up level with Lee’s chest. “According to the newspapers, you’re facing prosecution for every crime in the book. You’d offer them me in return for dropping a few charges. You’re a dealer, Mr. Lee, a trader. You’ve said so yourself. You couldn’t pass up a deal like that.”

Lee’s face fell. “No, really, I do not …”

“Shut up. I’ve got two things to tell you. The first thing is that I wasn’t looting Senterex’s corporate treasury. At least not alone. Bernie was in with me. Actually, it was his idea. We stripped the pension fund, the ESOP, and the treasury. And, we got it all. There isn’t a dime left. Senterex is bankrupt. Bernie couldn’t take the pressure anymore. That’s why he jumped out the window.”

Lee nodded furiously, his eyes aflame with greed. “Yes, oh, yes!”

“The second thing is this: You’re going to sleep.”

Lee’s head jerked. “Oh no. You can’t. The foreign markets open any minute now. I can sell short …”

“Too bad. But not to worry, I’m sure you’ll be awake in time for the New York opening.”

“Please,” he whined. “Please. Let me at least call Frankfurt.… ”

“Well …” Dave stood. Lee looked up eagerly. He reached for his telephone. Dave liked the angle at which he held his chin. Lee caught the look in his eye and squealed, “Don’t hit me! I bruise! In my bathroom. In the cabinet. Drugs. Sedatives. Sleeping pills. I have chloral hydrate. Just don’t hit me!”

The weight of Nicholas Lee’s gold watch felt good on his wrist. Dave needed a watch, and was pleased to discover that Lee wore the same heavy Rolex as he did.