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  With the races and betting over, they retired to the Kurhaus Spa—a classic Walser timber chalet at the edge of the forest—for more serious conversation. It was there, alone together in the steam room inhaling eucalyptus vapors, that Tate began the process of identifying Quinn’s deepest, most exploitable weaknesses.

  “Is Andrea taking care of all your needs?” Tate asked.

  “She’s delightful, but I couldn’t do that to Margaret,” Quinn said.

  “I’m talking about logistics, David,” Tate said with a wry smile. “What are you talking about?”

  “Is that what you call plausible deniability?”

  “We pay our personal assistants to provide professional pampering to our clients. That’s it. Anything beyond that is between consenting adults.”

  “You really expect me to believe that?” Quinn said, indignantly. He flinched as he leaned back against the hot tiles. “That’s like unbridling a horse on a grassy meadow and expecting it not to graze.”

  Tate looked over his shoulder at Quinn, assuming an expression of concern. “If Andrea has made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’ll have someone else assigned immediately.”

  “No. She’s fine. A little too assertive maybe, but fine.”

  “We can easily make a change, David,” Tate repeated, sitting back—every inch the relaxed host, whose only concern is his guest’s comfort.

  Quinn rubbed his hands over his face to remove the excess moisture. “She knows where I stand. She’ll be fine.”

  After a moment of silence, Tate decided to push the issue to see how Quinn would respond. “This is the first time anyone has called Andrea too assertive. Most clients think she’s the consummate professional. You must have made an impression on her,” Tate said as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking back at Quinn. “I’d say she likes you.”

  Quinn’s only response was to sneer.

  “I’m serious,” Tate said, in response to Quinn’s obvious skepticism. “Everything Andrea does and says is deliberate and well-reasoned. She has a Masters degree in social anthropology from Swarthmore and is one of our best associates. In the three years she’s been with us, I’ve never had a single complaint.”

  “I’m not complaining, Wayland. Like I said, she’s delightful. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Tate finally let it drop, but not without noting that Vargas had already gotten under Quinn’s skin. He stood up and walked over to the oversized showerhead, positioning himself directly beneath it before pushing the button that drenched him in ice-cold water. As he stood there, tightening every muscle in his body to keep from shaking, he looked at his client. Quinn was a talented, accomplished CEO, hungry for even greater success and power. And Tate was just about ready to bet that Quinn would risk everything he had to get what he didn’t have. Still tingling from the ice water, he sat down again on his towel next to Quinn. This time, however, he waited for Quinn to initiate conversation.

  After a few moments of silence, Quinn bent his head down over his knees and stretched his arms to the tiles beneath his feet. On his way back up, he said, “Let’s talk about Kresge & Company. Slowing down the project isn’t going to be enough.”

  “America’s Warehouse launches in a few weeks. After that it will be a non issue,” Tate returned.

  “Doesn’t matter. The project needs to be terminated now.”

  “That won’t be easy, given the board’s commitment to it,” Tate cautioned.

  “I’m aware of that, but I can’t let it continue any longer. MacMillan scheduled Kresge & Company to present its recommendation for breaking up the company to the board next week, complete with a detailed implementation plan. Wilson Fielder already signed off on it. The managing director of the Chicago office is going to make the presentation. I found out about it just before I got on the plane to come here,” Quinn said before standing up and wrapping the towel he’d been sitting on around his waist. He paced back and forth for a few moments before he said, “I won’t let it happen, Wayland.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Tate asked as he tried to hide his glee: their conversation was unfolding exactly as he’d hoped.

  Just then, a large man opened the glass door to the steam room and stepped inside. Tall, blonde, and imposing, he looked German or Scandinavian. Unwilling to continue their conversation in another’s presence, Tate and Quinn took turns drenching themselves in cold water, waiting for the intruder to leave. During the quiet, Tate continued his assessment. David Quinn wanted what every other person on Forbes’ list wanted—power, glory, and dominion by controlling as much capital, land, and labor as possible for the endless benefit of themselves and their posterity. By virtue of his wealth, Quinn already had plenty of power, but keeping J. B. Musselman intact and under his control was his only chance for both continued dominion and lasting glory. Fortunately, the America’s Warehouse advertising campaign would give Quinn the status and a promise of the legacy he craved. Not permanently, but just long enough to allow Tate and his partners to pocket several billion.

  When they were alone once again, Quinn picked up the thread of their conversation: “I want to use Wilson Fielder’s family problems to raise questions about his competence.”

  “He’s on a leave of absence, isn’t he?” Tate asked, even though he already knew the answer. “Why not tell the board that Wilson’s sudden leave of absence raises serious questions about the project’s continuity. Then, all we have to do is postpone Kresge & Company’s presentation.”

  “Too risky,” Quinn said, getting up again and wrapping his towel around his waist. “Kresge’s already trying to convince the board that Fielder’s absence is not a factor. We need to put his competence in question. But it can’t appear as if I’m pulling the strings.”

  “How do you expect to place his competence in question?” Tate asked, egging him on.

  “I’ll need your help,” Quinn replied without prevarication, “Yours and Kamin’s.”

  Perfect, Tate thought, he’s exactly where I want him to be. He leaned over his knees, remaining silent for several moments. Then he looked up at Quinn. “What do you want me to do?”

  “If you were to raise certain questions about the Fielder family, suggesting that Charles may have suffered a mental breakdown and that the entire family had been in turmoil for some time, it would raise doubts about Wilson’s judgment on the Musselman project.”

  “How would that play when I was the one who recommended his father’s firm instead of Kresge & Company in the first place?” Tate said, pretending to be reluctant.

  “You simply tell them that you had no idea about Charles’ condition until you received certain information from one of his closest associates. Here’s where you’ll need to take some creative license. You could say that a confidential source told you that Charles Fielder has had mental stability issues for years. In recent months, his son Wilson had become increasingly troubled, even obsessed, over his father’s condition, displaying evidence of the same mental instability. It runs in the family. Bringing down the CEO of a large corporation and then dismantling his company are merely manifestations of Wilson’s self-destructive behavior and a deep-seated rebelliousness toward authority. He’s seeing a psychologist, which is true, by the way. His girlfriend is a psychologist. He’d become suicidal himself. His judgment on the Kresge project has to be questioned. Turn up the heat on Wilson Fielder,” Quinn said as he sat down again.

  Tate sat in quiet admiration, his back pressed against the tiles. Very impressive, he thought to himself. Quinn had definitely done his homework on Wilson Fielder. Heart-felt motivation was such a beautiful thing. He was more than happy to let Quinn do the talking.

  “Jules Kamin could add to the concerns about Wilson Fielder’s competence,” Quinn said. “If he could show how a breakup of Musselman will decrease rather than increase shareholder value, over the next five years, it would cast even more doubt on the project.”

  Tate stood up and walked over t
o the ice-cold drench one more time, putting Quinn on a different kind of ice. As he stood there, his thoughts turned to Vargas. She had accurately assessed Quinn’s core obsession and now he’d confirmed it. There were no more lingering doubts about his ability to manipulate David Quinn. Tate walked back to the tile bench and sat down. It was time to see just how far Quinn would go.

  “We may have to create some additional evidence to support our claims of incompetence,” Tate said.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Wilson Fielder mismanaged this project from the beginning. Whatever we have to do to convince the board of his incompetence is fine with me.”

  “What if Wilson comes back to defend himself?”

  “Then, we’ll play hardball.”

  “What are you thinking?” Tate asked, making Quinn specify exactly what he was willing to do.

  “We’ll sue Kresge & Company for gross mismanagement of the project and demand damages of ten times their two million dollars in fees,” Quinn said with anger.

  Tate pushed further, “What if Wilson decides to play hardball?”

  “Then, maybe his family will have to suffer again,” Quinn said, standing up once more and turning around to face Tate. “Nothing physical you understand, just some ugly gossip. A few damaging rumors with enough manufactured evidence to make the family seem out of control.”

  Tate raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “You’d actually go that far?”

  “It’s not something I’d enjoy doing. But if I had to, I would. This arrogant little prick tried to destroy me and everything I built at Musselman,” Quinn said, his eyes like beacons. “The gloves came off after Fielder told MacMillan that I should step down. The brass knuckles went on when he recommended the company’s breakup.”

  The room turned dead silent except for the sound of hissing steam.

  Tate couldn’t help chuckling to himself. The dual threat of being ousted by the board and having his company broken into pieces was enough to make Quinn vulnerable to a melody of manipulations. Maybe David Quinn wasn’t yet ready to cheat on his wife or trade on insider information, but he was willing to defame Wilson Fielder in order to keep Kresge & Company from forcing a breakup of Musselman. It was time to set the hook.

  “Okay, David. We’ll take care of it,” Tate finally said. “I’ll track down MacMillan and express my concerns about Wilson Fielder. You can count on Kamin and me replacing Kresge & Company at next week’s board meeting. One way or another, we’ll make it happen.”

  “Thank you, Wayland. You’ve just taken a big load off my mind,” Quinn said.

  “Oh, we’ll do more than that, David. Just wait until the launch of America’s Warehouse. By the way, Kamin is anxious to meet with you about Musselman’s next stock offering. He arrives tomorrow morning. Let’s plan on having a private dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Marvelous,” Quinn said. His reason for coming to St. Moritz was well on its way to being realized. All he had to do now was let Wayland Tate perform his magic.

  “Have you set your schedule for tonight and tomorrow?” Tate asked.

  “I think I’m going to retire early tonight. Catch up on some sleep. Andrea has me scheduled to hit the slopes first thing in the morning.”

  “Perfect,” Tate said with his infectious smile. “Jules and I will be ready for you tomorrow night.”

  9

  Tate – St. Moritz, Switzerland

  After spending the evening with clients, Tate returned to his room to make a few international calls. He started with Jules Kamin. It was midnight in St. Moritz, six o’clock in Boston.

  The secure cell phone buzzed in Kamin’s pocket as he walked to the small conference room that had become his office at KaneWeller’s Boston offices. At age fifty-five, Kamin looked like a young and trim Henry Kissinger, which Tate attributed less to heredity and more to the rigorous regime he’d convinced Kamin to adopt several years earlier. Kamin’s face, however, looked more weary and aged than his years when he answered Tate’s call. He’d just returned from the Fielder & Company closing.

  “How did things go?” Tate inquired as soon as the ringing stopped and he heard Kamin’s voice.

  “The closing went as planned, but we may have a problem,” Kamin said resignedly.

  “Fielder?” Tate said annoyed.

  “No. Our attorneys want to conduct a second round of inquiries into some of Fielder & Company’s client relationships.”

  “This could scuttle the entire deal, Jules,” Tate said, beginning to pace back and forth in the sitting area of his suite. “Who’s behind it?”

  “Cheryl O’Grady has been working Winthorpe behind the scenes, trying to convince him that Fielder & Company’s consulting practices may have involved conspiring to manipulate company stock prices.”

  “Every company conspires to manipulate its stock price. That’s what free enterprise is all about,” Tate said, feeling his blood pressure rising. “What’s motivating O’Grady?”

  “She doesn’t like me. Never has. She knows this is my deal. I think she would jump at any chance to keep me from taking over when Winthorpe retires next year,” Kamin said. He, too, began to pace back and forth in the conference room.

  “You should have fired her when you had the chance,” Tate said, turning off the lights in his suite to look at the moonlit mountains surrounding the resort.

  “You know why I didn’t. There were too many rumors that I was out to get her. Letting her stay was the only way to stop the rumor mill,” Kamin said.

  “Okay. Okay. It’s water under the bridge. How do we deal with her?”

  “Something’s given her new hope.”

  “Or someone. Who?” Tate asked, becoming more agitated by the second.

  “I don’t know. Maybe Redd,” Kamin said.

  “Not likely.”

  “He hasn’t been the same since Charles was shot.”

  “No one has!” Tate said emphatically.

  “I’m not suggesting Redd did anything intentionally. An offhanded comment or a hint of uncertainty might have been the only excuse O’Grady needed to intensify her probing.”

  “You think she baited him?” Tate asked.

  “Redd’s too smart for that. But she may have convinced him …”

  Tate interrupted, “… to tell her what’s really going on? Forget it.”

  “No,” Kamin said, his voice rising. “She may have convinced him to admit his own growing uncertainties.”

  Tate fell silent. He slid open the balcony door and walked out into the cold, hoping it might help drop his blood pressure.

  “Redd’s vulnerable, Wayland,” Kamin continued. “Has been since White Horse. And if he is, we are.”

  Bristling at the comment, Tate watched a red fox chase a snow rabbit across the blanket of white into the dark pines. The more unpredictable the fox, the more rabbits it snares. He smiled and walked back into his suite. “Maybe it’s time to kill the KaneWeller deal.”

  “We can’t …”

  “Easy, Jules,” Tate said. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time to assume the helm at KaneWeller, but Musselman will give us the resources to acquire Morgan. Anything you want to do at KaneWeller you can do at Morgan or another investment house, and that includes acquiring Fielder & Company. You may be right about Redd, and O’Grady is clearly a threat. It’s time to move the game to a new playing field,” Tate said, knowing it would be brutal for Kamin to leave KaneWeller after so many years of patiently positioning himself for the top spot. But there was no other alternative, Tate mulled. Not if we expect to preserve the partnership. O’Grady had always been a free spirit. She should have been removed from the equation when Kamin had the chance. Now, it was too late. Control had been lost. And Kamin knew it. If there was any lesson Tate had learned from history, it was that control belonged to the ruthless. Whenever it was lost, it had to be retaken immediately, no matter the cost.

  “How do we kill it?” Kamin asked wearily.

  “Leave that to me.
Contingency plans are already in place,” Tate said. “Right now we need to focus on Musselman. It’s time to start buying as much stock as we can.”

  “You’ve confirmed Quinn?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll put things in motion before I get on the plane. Buying can start first thing Monday morning,” Kamin said with a deepening resignation in his voice. He’d learned a long time ago that it never paid to disagree with Wayland Tate—not once he’d made a decision.

  “How many entities do we need?” Tate asked.

  “At least thirty,” Kamin said.

  “I’ll let Swatling know. If you have any reservations about Quinn tomorrow night, you can call it off,” Tate said, attempting to appease Kamin.

  “The stock was selling at ten percent below book value at today’s closing,” Kamin said, just having pulled up Musselman’s stock report on his screen.

  “Perfect. If Quinn is as hungry as he seems, we’ll be able to generate several billion on Musselman.”

  “I look forward to meeting him,” Kamin said, a slight glint returning to his eyes.

  “Needless to say, he’s very anxious to meet you. The depressed stock price is driving him crazy. We’re scheduled for dinner tomorrow night at eight.”

  “Have you talked to our new investors?” Kamin asked.

  “Not yet, but I will. Opportunities like this don’t come along everyday,” Tate said, feeling invincible. Things were coming together on Musselman just as he’d planned. The advertising campaign alone could double the company’s stock price within thirty days of its launch. Even if the America’s Warehouse strategy turned out to have no long-term sustainability—as Wilson Fielder and his Kresge team were predicting—Musselman’s stock price was projected to quadruple by the end of summer. Tate and his partners were not only poised to harvest a financial windfall from J. B. Musselman, they were insulated against all downsides. Any implementation failures would be laid at the feet of David Quinn and his management team. It was exactly the sort of scenario Tate relished.