Part 1 (1/2)
The Chairman.
by Stephen Frey.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
A special acknowledgment to my editor, Mark Tavani, who did a tremendous job on this book.My daughters, Christina and Ashley, I love you dearly.And the people who have constantly been so helpful:Cynthia Manson, Gina Centrello, Kevin Big Sky Erdman, Stephen Watson, Matt, Kristin and Aidan Malone, Jack Wallace, Bart and Allison Begley, Bob and Allison Wieczorek, Scott Andrews, John Piazza, Marvin Bush, Gordon Eadon, Jane Barrett, Andy and Chris Brusman, Jeff Faville, Chris Tesoriero, Walter Frey, Gerry Barton, John Grigg, Jim and Anmarie Galowski, Tony Brazely, Dr. Teo Dagi, Arthur Manson, Alex Fisher, Chris Andrews, Barbara Fertig, Mike Pocalyko, Baron Stewart, Pat and Terry Lynch, Rick Sloc.u.m.
1.
The Chairman. The chairman of a large private equity firm is the ultimate decision maker. Which companies to buy. How many billions to pay. Who to hire as CEO. How many millions to pay. The chairman of a large private equity firm is the ultimate decision maker. Which companies to buy. How many billions to pay. Who to hire as CEO. How many millions to pay.
If his judgment is flawed, the chairman loses everything. Maybe even his freedom. But if he negotiates the lies, lawsuits, and vendettas that haunt his world, he becomes one of the richest and most powerful men on earth.
CHRISTIAN GILLETTE GAZED OUT FROM the pulpit at a grim-faced congregation, then down on an open coffin-and Bill Donovan's face. Until two days ago, Donovan had been the chairman.
Gillette was just thirty-six, but suddenly that enormous responsibility had been thrust upon him, the decision to promote him made by a razor-thin majority of Everest Capital investors late yesterday at the climax of an emotionally charged meeting held in a conference room overlooking Wall Street. The controversial vote had come within three days of Donovan's death-as stipulated in the partners.h.i.+p's operating agreement.
”The world has lost a great man,” Gillette declared, ending his brief eulogy. Donovan wouldn't have wanted something long and drawn out. He'd been obsessive about efficiency-and the lesson had been learned.
As Gillette stepped down from the pulpit, he heard the m.u.f.fled sobs of family, the stony silence of enemies. Donovan had touched many lives for better and and worse. It was the inevitable consequence of being chairman. worse. It was the inevitable consequence of being chairman.
”I'm sorry for your loss, Ann,” Gillette said quietly, getting down on one knee before the veiled widow in the front pew. ”We all admired Bill very much.”
”Thank you,” she whispered.
Gillette rose and moved deliberately up the cathedral's center aisle, pausing to acknowledge high-profile guests: George Stockman, U.S. senator from New York; Richard Harris, CEO of U.S. Petroleum; Jeremy Cole, quarterback of the New York Giants; Miles Whitman, chief investment officer of North America Guaranty & Life; Thomas Warfield, president of J.P. Morgan Chase. Each one standing up well before Gillette reached him. Pledging their loyalty and a.s.sistance in low voices after taking one of his hands in both of theirs. Each with a different agenda, but all focused on one thing: Gillette's sudden control of billions.
Gillette gave them a subtle nod in return, studying their expressions with his piercing gray eyes. Gauging their sincerity. For the first time truly experiencing the power he now wielded. The three men who until yesterday had been his equals-Troy Mason, Ben Cohen, and Nigel Faraday-trailing him at a respectful distance as he worked his way up the maroon carpet. Not until Gillette had made it to the back of the church did the congregation begin filing out.
Dark clouds hung low over New York City and raw November gusts whipped trash and newspapers down Park Avenue as Gillette moved through the church's arched double doorway. It had been a warm autumn-until the day of Donovan's death.
Gillette paused at the top of the marble steps leading to the sidewalk, taking in the scents of wood smoke and caramel wafting from a street vendor's cart. Taking in the moment. He'd dedicated the last ten years of his life to Everest-the powerful Manhattan-based private equity firm Donovan had founded two decades ago with just $25 million of limited partner commitments. Typically logging eighty hours a week for the firm. Rarely taking a vacation day. Suddenly, that sacrifice had paid the ultimate dividend.
A pretty blond woman walking past the church flashed Gillette a coy smile. He watched her move down the sidewalk, looking away when she glanced at him again over her shoulder. He'd been seriously involved with just two women during the last ten years, both of whom had left after only a few months when they realized they'd always come in second to Everest. The lack of companions.h.i.+p only made his desire that much stronger.
As the woman neared the limousine waiting to take him to the cemetery, Gillette allowed himself a final glimpse.
”Come on, Chris,” Cohen urged, clasping Gillette's elbow and pulling him down the stairs. ”You don't have time for eye candy right now. We've got to get you to the cemetery.”
Until yesterday, Cohen and Gillette had been equals. Together with Mason and Faraday, they'd formed the managing partner team supporting Donovan. But now he'd risen above them. Now he had absolute power. There would be jealousy, maybe worse.
”Take your hand off me,” Gillette ordered. ”And, Ben, from now on call me Christian. Christian.” He watched Cohen's demeanor chill, but he didn't care. He was going to establish dominance quickly. ”Understand?”
”Is that a sine qua non sine qua non?” Cohen asked solemnly.
Gillette's right hand contracted slowly into a fist. He hated Cohen's habit of using Latin. ”Dead languages don't impress me.” He'd been waiting a long time to say that.
Cohen's lower lip quivered ever so slightly. ”So it starts already?”
”Do you understand?”
”Yes.” Cohen hesitated. ”Christian.”
As they reached the bottom step, a heavyset chauffeur emerged from the limousine and lumbered toward the back. The instant the chauffeur lifted the pa.s.senger door handle, the limousine exploded in a brilliant flash of white and yellow light, killing him and the blond woman walking past. The ma.s.sive concussion spewed jagged metal fragments hundreds of feet in all directions.
Gillette brought his arms to his face but he was a fraction of a second too late.
2.
Private Equity. High-risk investment dollars committed by large inst.i.tutions and wealthy families to a few financial gunslingers who operate from behind a shroud of secrecy. High-risk investment dollars committed by large inst.i.tutions and wealthy families to a few financial gunslingers who operate from behind a shroud of secrecy.
The gunslingers' mandate: Deliver huge huge returns. Fifty, 75, 100 percent a year-consistently. Much more than investors earn on money market accounts, bonds, or publicly traded stocks. And don't tell anyone outside the circle how you do it. Confidentiality at all costs. returns. Fifty, 75, 100 percent a year-consistently. Much more than investors earn on money market accounts, bonds, or publicly traded stocks. And don't tell anyone outside the circle how you do it. Confidentiality at all costs.
If they get it right, the gunslingers make their investors-and themselves-incredible amounts of money. Billions and billions. If they get it wrong, and the extent of the risks taken comes to light, they scatter for places where English is rarely spoken.
GILLETTE GLANCED PAST THE DRIVER into the rearview mirror of the hastily ordered Lincoln Town Car. The wound on his forehead had finally stopped bleeding at the cemetery, but there were several red stains on his starched white s.h.i.+rt, blood on his handkerchief, and he had a thin maroon cut at his hairline. Stark reminders of how close he had come to quickly following Bill Donovan into the ground.
”You okay, Christian?” Cohen sat beside Gillette in the backseat. A wisp of a man with thinning, curly black hair, Cohen remembered every number he had ever calculated. He took off his gla.s.ses and cleaned the lenses with a tissue. He was only thirty-seven, but he already needed bifocals-the price of staring at a computer screen day after day. ”You've got to be worried about what happened.”
”I'm fine,” Gillette answered firmly. Cohen was the one who looked like he'd seen a ghost right after the explosion. And he hadn't been hit.
”Maybe you should skip the reception,” Cohen suggested gently.
”No.”
”Looks like you might need a couple of st.i.tches.”
”I'm fine.”
”You don't always have to be so tough.”
”Enough, Ben.”
”We'll figure out who was responsible,” Cohen vowed angrily. ”We'll use the McGuire brothers. I'll call Tom tomorrow.”
McGuire & Company offered security services-surveillance, background checks, investigations, and executive protection. It was a worldwide operation with offices stretching from New York to London to Hong Kong. Tom and Vince McGuire, brothers and exFBI agents, ran the firm for Everest Capital, which owned the company through its sixth private equity fund.
”It won't take long to nail whoever did this,” Cohen added.
Gillette peered out the rear window. Faraday and Mason were in the limousine behind them. Escorting the widow from the cemetery to Donovan's thousand-acre Connecticut estate for the reception. ”Don't waste the time or the money, Ben.”