Faraday groaned. "Have your own opinion once in a while, will you?"

"Hey, I-"

"Who's the black guy hanging around today?" Faraday continued, switching subjects. "The one who looks like he could break me in half with two fingers."

"Quentin Stiles," Gillette replied, amused at the way Faraday had easily segued from topic to topic. He was the consummate salesman. "My new bodyguard." The fact that Faraday had asked about Stiles indicated that Cohen and Faraday hadn't buddied up since they'd been pa.s.sed over for chairman. Cohen had known since this morning about Stiles but apparently hadn't told Faraday. They'd never been close, but Gillette figured they might form some kind of alliance after the events of the last week. He was glad they hadn't. "Stiles will be with me full-time from now on."

"I thought Tom McGuire was taking care of your personal security," Faraday said.

"I needed another set of eyes and ears, given what's happened."

"Hmm. Hey, what about Bill's old office? You going to take it?" Faraday wanted to know. "Because if you don't, I will," he volunteered quickly. "In fact, I should should get it. I'm the lead money-raiser around here. I deal with investors more than anyone else. It makes sense for me to have it. Always good to impress the investors with the best digs." get it. I'm the lead money-raiser around here. I deal with investors more than anyone else. It makes sense for me to have it. Always good to impress the investors with the best digs."

"I'm taking it," Gillette said firmly. "But thanks for bringing up our investors and getting us to the first agenda item. Which is the new fund."

"New fund?" Faraday asked.

"Yes. Everest Capital Partners Eight."

"I thought Seven was only 50 percent invested."

"Over 50 percent," Gillette made clear. "Which means I can start raising Eight whenever I want to." 50 percent," Gillette made clear. "Which means I can start raising Eight whenever I want to."

Faraday turned to Cohen. "Is that right?"

"Yes."

"I've already started the raise, Nigel," Gillette continued. "I met with Miles Whitman over at North America Guaranty yesterday morning."

Faraday sat back in his chair and folded his arms tightly across his chest. "Thanks for telling me," he muttered.

"I wanted to get things kicked off as soon as possible. Miles was available on short notice. He committed a billion five."

"A billion five?" Faraday asked incredulously.

"Yes. And, Nigel, there's no need for you to follow up with Miles. I'll deal directly with him on this."

"But, I-"

"Don't sweat it," Gillette broke in, hearing the insecurity in Faraday's tone loud and clear. "You're going to have your hands full bringing in the other thirteen and a half billion."

"Thirteen and a half?"

"That's right."

"Holy s.h.i.t. You mean we're going to try to raise fifteen f.u.c.king billion?" You mean we're going to try to raise fifteen f.u.c.king billion?"

"Yes."

"No one's ever raised a private equity fund that big."

"We'll be the first," Gillette said matter-of-factly. "By the way, Paul Strazzi is going to be in the market raising a $10 billion fund for Apex at the same time."

"That's comforting news."

"Have confidence, Nigel."

Faraday gave Gillette a quick salute. "Aye, aye, Captain. But in the future, could you at least let me know when you're going to talk to one of our big investors? We'll look like f.u.c.king amateurs if I call one of these guys and he says you've already been in touch."

"Of course," Gillette agreed. "Let's get together later and talk specifics. You're going to need to hire at least one more person. Maybe two."

"Maybe three."

"Like I said, let's talk later." Gillette looked around. "Next topic. I've agreed to sell Laurel Energy to U.S. Petroleum for a billion dollars. We invested three hundred million in that business, so it's an excellent transaction for us: a seven-hundred-million-dollar profit. And we know the buyer's good for the money. There'll be no financing contingency." He glanced at Cohen. "Ben, I've asked Kyle to take the lead on this one."

"Right!" Cohen jotted down a note to himself.

"I want to close the transaction quickly," Gillette continued. "No earlier than January first, though. We don't want our partners getting hit with capital gains taxes this year."

"Whoa," Faraday spoke up. "At least Bill let us have some discussion about selling a portfolio company before he made his decision."

"The offer came out of nowhere," Gillette explained. "Directly from Richard Harris, the CEO of U.S. Petroleum, at Bill's funeral reception. I had to make a decision right there." Here was another sign that Cohen wasn't running to Faraday to tell him about what was going on. "Ben was in the room with me when Harris made the offer."

"Shouldn't we get info on the seismic tests in Canada before we commit to Harris?" Faraday asked.

"We'll get those next week," Gillette answered. "If we win the lotto, we'll renegotiate. Any more questions?"

"Yeah," Faraday said. "Why does Cohen already know everything?"

"I've promoted Ben to chief operating officer," Gillette answered without hesitation. "Things happened fast in the last few days, and I needed someone with me while I negotiated. I'm going to need someone focused internally, too. Ben's the best suited for that job."

Faraday shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched back in his chair, annoyed. "What about our portfolio companies?" he asked, the edge in his tone sharpening. "Who's getting the chair positions now that Donovan and Mason are gone?"

"I'll chair fifteen of the twenty-seven. Kyle and Marcie will split the other twelve, six and six."

Faraday was quiet for a few moments. Finally he looked over at Cohen. "Did you know about this, too?"

Cohen looked away.

"Yes, he did," Gillette admitted.

"Christ!" Faraday shouted, yanking one hand out of his pocket and banging the table.

"Oh, G.o.d." Debbie dropped the pen and put her hands to her chest. She'd been focused on taking minutes and hadn't seen Faraday's explosion coming.

"Easy, Nigel," Gillette warned.

"Easy? d.a.m.n it, Chris. You're making major decisions, and I'm hearing about them days later. But Cohen's in on everything real time. I'm a managing partner here, too. And you tell me to be d.a.m.n it, Chris. You're making major decisions, and I'm hearing about them days later. But Cohen's in on everything real time. I'm a managing partner here, too. And you tell me to be easy easy?"

"I have to do what's best for the firm," said Gillette calmly. "I'm the chairman."

"Good for f.u.c.king you."

"Nigel, I don't think-"

"I didn't even find out first from you that you'd axed Mason." Faraday wasn't finished with his tirade.

Gillette's eyes narrowed. "So, how did did you find out?" you find out?"

"Troy called me." Faraday raised one eyebrow. "Did you know that Paul Strazzi hired him?"

Gillette stared back at Faraday but said nothing.

"Ha," Faraday crowed triumphantly. "You didn't didn't know." know."

"When did this happen?" Gillette demanded.

"Yesterday. Strazzi called Mason at his apartment after the funeral reception to set up a meeting. Strazzi knew what happened before I did, for Christ's sake. Before any of us but you, apparently."

So there was was a rat inside Everest. Miles Whitman had warned him that Strazzi would do anything to get an advantage, and having someone inside Everest would be the best way to do it. Now he knew for sure Whitman was right, and he needed to ID the traitor immediately. Quentin Stiles could help. And he could help find out who e-mailed him last night just before the attack in front of the gas station. a rat inside Everest. Miles Whitman had warned him that Strazzi would do anything to get an advantage, and having someone inside Everest would be the best way to do it. Now he knew for sure Whitman was right, and he needed to ID the traitor immediately. Quentin Stiles could help. And he could help find out who e-mailed him last night just before the attack in front of the gas station.

"And you aren't going to let Moses or me have even one chair position," Faraday continued, ranting. "You're going to promote Kyle and Marcie to managing partner and let them have the chairs right away. This is f.u.c.king bulls.h.i.t!"

Gillette glanced at Cohen. So Ben was filling in Faraday after all. At least on some things. Probably things he was p.i.s.sed off about, such as Kyle and Marcie's promotions. "Yes," he confirmed. "I'm going to promote them. And I'm going to give each of them 5 percent of the ups."

"That's ridiculous!" yelled Faraday, springing out of his chair. "They don't deserve 5 percent."

"Shut up, Nigel," Gillette snapped. "Kyle and Marcie are extremely extremely talented. Tom McGuire tells me Kyle's been approached several times in the last six months by other private equity firms." He glanced at Cohen. "Marcie, too. Right?" talented. Tom McGuire tells me Kyle's been approached several times in the last six months by other private equity firms." He glanced at Cohen. "Marcie, too. Right?"

Cohen nodded.

"So, if I don't promote them and give them a piece of the action, they'll leave. Then we'd have to hire people from the outside who'd squeeze us for more than 10 percent. People we wouldn't know." Gillette paused. "Sit down, Nigel."

Faraday sank slowly back into his chair, teeth gritted.

"I'm going to meet with Marcie and Kyle after this," Gillette explained. "I'll write an e-mail to the rest of the firm in the morning making the announcement."

"How much of the ups of Fund Eight are you going to give Cohen and me?" Faraday blurted out angrily, unable to control himself.

"Jesus, Nigel. Don't be so pushy," Cohen urged.

"f.u.c.k you, Moses. He's going to screw us. I know it."

"I'm going to give you what you deserve, Nigel," Gillette said calmly. "If you raise the fund quickly, you'll do well. If not, you'll be disappointed."

"How much are you going to keep for yourself?" Faraday demanded.

"I haven't decided."

"More than twenty-f.u.c.king-five percent, I'll bet."

"Like I said, I haven't-" Gillette stopped talking as the door opened and Cohen's a.s.sistant entered the room.

She leaned down and whispered something into Cohen's ear. Cohen's jaw slowly dropped.

"What is it?" Gillette demanded.

Cohen didn't answer right away.

"Ben."

Cohen shook his head. "Richard Harris was killed this afternoon in Dallas," he murmured. "Three blocks from U.S. Petroleum's headquarters."

Gillette felt his mouth go dry. "How?"

Cohen glanced up at his a.s.sistant, then back at Gillette. "He was run down near his office.

Cohen's face blurred in front of Gillette's eyes. First Donovan. Then the guy up in Canada. Now Harris.

12.

The Government. Serving and protecting, faithfully. Serving and protecting, faithfully.

Until the evil in those who wield power deem the probability of their crimes being discovered small enough to abuse their positions for personal gain. Or, worse, they're blinded by ambition.

If you've never been the target of a government conspiracy, you can't truly comprehend the frustration-and, ultimately, the fear-involved. If you have, you know that despite your innocence, you're very vulnerable. Because the government can do almost anything it wants in its pursuit of you-legal or not. And you can do almost nothing to stop it.

Then, even if you've been an atheist all your life, you suddenly believe in G.o.d. Because, at that point, he's your best chance. Your only only chance. chance.

TYPICALLY, PAUL STRAZZI SURROUNDED HIMSELF with his success: His office at Apex filled with elegant furniture and antiques. A Rolls-Royce limousine. His five-bedroom penthouse atop the most prestigious apartment building in Manhattan, a sprawling East Hampton estate, fine wines from France, and cigars imported from Havana by an old friend who knew his way around customs at Newark Airport.

Opulence. Everywhere, all the time.

But this office was bare-bones: ten by ten and windowless-a prison cell. Walls unpainted. Furnished with just a metal desk and two spindly chairs. Tucked into one corner of a run-down warehouse located in a war-zone section of the Bronx.

It reminded Strazzi of the East New York h.e.l.lhole tenement he'd grown up in. Despite how much he abhorred its appearance, it did serve one extremely important purpose. It provided him a place to meet with someone in secrecy. When that person was a U. S. senator, it took on an even greater importance.

He glanced to his left at the lone decoration on the wall. The only item he'd kept all these years as a reminder of a childhood he despised. Hanging by a twisted wire from a single nail, encased by a simple black frame-the letter from the insurance company denying his mother the money she needed to fight her cancer.

At the time the doctor discovered her sickness, she'd missed four monthly premiums in a row because she'd had to use the money she usually set aside for health insurance to put food on the table for her three boys. The man she worked for as a maid in Manhattan had repeatedly stiffed her, always telling her he'd pay her next week. Finally she'd realized that he had no intention of ever paying. And because she was a single mother-Strazzi's father had abandoned them years ago-there was no other source of income.

There had been no compa.s.sion from the insurance company. The pleas for making an exception this one time had fallen on deaf ears, and she'd died in her bedroom on a hot summer afternoon.