To the casual observer, the house in the South, filled with American Civil War period furniture must have seemed vacant, but inside there was unusual activity behind the heavy, light-tight velvet curtains at three o'clock clock in the morning.
Seven men, each beyond seventy years in age, had gathered at the back of a room. They sat around a large oval table of solid Ceylon ebony. The faces of these men would be somewhat familiar to anyone who read the business sections of all the major newspapers of the world. The man at the head of the table looked at the group. Then he nodded to the man at his right.
“Thank you for your report,” he said, “so everything has gone according to plan - with a few inevitable but absolutely acceptable deviations. Frank van den Bergh has always served us well, but his daughter became a bigger and bigger risk. Are you sure that John Marks is the right man for us?”
The other man nodded. “I am convinced, but of course - your consent presupposing – I’ll accompany him for sometime, until he thinks that he has figured out everything.”
He looked at all the other men, one after another, and each of them gave a brief nod of approval.
The man at the head spoke again.
“And the journalist?”
“She won’t do anything to hurt John Marks.”
“Good,” the man at the head of the table turned to his left.
“How are our interests in Europe doing?”
“We have everything under control,” was the terse reply.
“And our problem there?”
A thin smile appeared on the mouth of the other man. “The finance ministers will soon have to submit to certain constraints.”
Now the man at the head smiled too.
“Good,” he said again, “I think we’re done. Our next meeting will be communicated to you in the usual way.”
Without a word, the men nodded to each other as they left the room. They got into their cars that were parked in front of the building. A little later, only a slight cloud of dust told of their presence.
THE END
Guy de Levigne turned up the fur collar of his well-worn winter coat in an effort to protect his face from the biting snow. The storm had kept the villagers trapped in their homes for hours. Not another soul dared to venture out. He had the streets to himself, just the way he wanted it. He must not be seen.
The last few weeks had taken their toll... There was so much to plan and to be carefully put into place. He was nearly finished. He just needed to stash one more clue, as if to underline his well-kept secret. A sense of childish delight filled him. It had been so easy. His mission – he smiled at the somewhat grandiose expression – was almost accomplished, and if he was honest, he actually thought that the word ‘mission’ was quite suitable.
“Almost too easy,” he chuckled to himself. “I am not an amateur anymore but a little more excitement would not hurt.”
Nevertheless, the world would still speak in years, no, decades or even centuries of his actions. Of that he was sure. He had to do something. He himself had to take the reins, because someone had to stop what his partners were planning. His partners! He shook his head, and snow fell from his cap. His plan and his courage would make him immortal, if one day posterity were to get all the facts right. Someday…hopefully.
Determined, Guy brushed aside the emerging concern, for he really had no time for sentimentality now! The last clue was yet to be hidden. “Don’t get tired,” he encouraged himself. He had done endless thinking these last few weeks and it had paid off. In his time of distress he had had rather ingenious ideas. Coded clues that he had hidden in a specific order would one day help future generations to make a unique discovery.
He locked the iron gate to the small garden in front of his friend, Frédéric-Auguste’s shop. For years, Frédéric-Auguste had been storing the pieces of a statue that he planned to someday build. Guy opened the heavy wooden door and almost tenderly caressed the large metal parts of the statue. For a while he gazed in admiration at his friend’s creation; then he went to work.
Shortly afterwards, Guy locked the massive wooden door behind him and, satisfied, he walked out backwards, blurring his tracks in the snow.
“Another hour of snowfall and the last traces of my little excursion will be gone,” he muttered, grinning, and trudged home on the snow-covered road.
He did not notice the two men sneaking up on him under the cover of the blizzard until he felt the noose tightening around his neck. Images of his wife and son flashing through his mind, he thought his last thought: “I have fulfilled my mission.”
Then there was only darkness and nothingness.
John Marks was pleased with himself and with his life. The merger was perfect. It was the largest that his law firm, First International, had ever initiated and completed. It had been a lot of hard work. They had made their first contacts over two years ago, when at least once a week it had looked as if the negotiations would fail. Somehow, however, they had progressed, which was ultimately due to John’s tireless efforts. Finally, last week everyone unanimously agreed on the final issues and the contracts were signed.
John leaned back in his padded leather chair and crossed his arms behind his head. The firm’s fee would be at the higher end of a three-digit million-dollar range and one could surely finance the annual budget of an average small town with his bonus. Moreover, this success would clearly catapult him upwards. This morning in the elevator, one of the senior partners had given him an approving pat on the back. That was a good sign, and tonight there would be a reception where Frank van den Bergh, Managing Partner, would hopefully announce John Marks’ long overdue appointment to Senior Partner of the renowned, global law firm. John’s office was on the 65th floor of the First International Building. He pushed away from his desk, spun in his chair and enjoyed the panoramic view of Manhattan.
For a second, he saw the reflection of his face in the window and focused on his features. He certainly was not vain, but he was always careful to appear well groomed and distinguished. His dark, straight hair was clean-cut and meticulously maintained, of that his barber made sure once a month. His brown eyes matched the rest of his appearance perfectly. John was athletic, but not a very tall man. In school, he had often been the shortest in his class, which had caused him some vexation. His classmates had enjoyed teasing him, but it had not affected him much. His extraordinary self-confidence helped him to ignore such taunts from the beginning, and thank God during puberty, he underwent a significant growth spurt. He was sure of himself, and rightly so. He had not only graduated at the top of his Harvard class, but was also immensely successful in his position at a prestigious law firm. A smile of contentment stole across John’s face. Slowly he turned his chair back around and let his eyes wander in his spacious corner office. The interior designer had done a perfect job. All the furniture was made from high-quality cherrywood that was so shiny that John could examine his face in it. His heavy desk dominated the room, which was framed on one side by ceiling-high bookshelves. John scanned the backs of his volumes of law reports and he thought of his time at Harvard, when he had spent long days in the library trying to memorize their contents. At the wall opposite the bookshelf hung two lithographs by Salvador Dali, John’s favorite artist. One lithograph, The Persistence of Memory, the picture with the flowing watches, created in Dali’s surrealist period, was John’s favorite. He had asked that it be hung in a way that he could see it from every angle of the room because to him it symbolized the transience of the moment.
He remembered his earlier days at the firm. As a young attorney he had initially been assigned a small, noisy cubicle. He had liked his colleagues, but he had felt out of place, and under-appreciated. Thence, he snatched one case after another from his colleagues. Winning each one with flying colors, he earned promotion after promotion. Until he found himself in this chair against this solid, nicely polished, wooden desk.
Again, John smiled. He had made it. He had been promoted to Junior Partner of the firm and now he was about to reach the apex of his career ladder.
John looked back down on the city. Although he could not hear any noises through the thick glass window, he knew that the red New York fire truck down there was making a hell of a racket. Once, a law school colleague and his wife had visited him, both were employed by a Michigan law firm. After dinner in a trendy New York restaurant, they had stepped out into the street and heard the police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks rushing past. The woman then said: “I could never live here, with all this noise. Never.” “You just have to imagine that they’re working day and night, ready to save your life if necessary,” John had replied with a smile. “This will make you see everything in a different light.” The woman’s reaction still makes him chuckle. “I never looked at it that way. I’ll remember that!” The long chain of cars far below, which was laced with the typical New York yellow cabs, rolled like a never-ending stream through an urban canyon. It almost resembled a pearl necklace with many colorful, but mostly yellow beads.
It had always been John’s dream to become a lawyer, but not simply one who tried to keep petty criminals and felons out of jail, or one who helped poor people defend themselves against powerful corporations, or against the state and its institutions. John wanted something different. The kind of lawyer’s sense of mission that many of his fellow students had broadcasted had always been utterly foreign to him. From the beginning, he had wanted to reach for the stars, to be up there where only money and power mattered.
The phone’s subtle humming threw John out of his thoughts. He turned his chair back to the desk and pressed the talk button. “Yes?”
“Sir,” came his secretary’s voice. “The two reporters from Worldwide News are here. It’s your eleven o’clock appointment.”
“Thank you, Jennifer. Ask the gentlemen to have a seat. I will be right there.” John closed the file he had been working on and dropped it into one of the desk drawers. In recent days, there had been dozens of interview requests and invitations to talk shows. The merger had caused quite a fuss in the media and now everyone wanted to know more. The firm had blocked many of the questions from the outset, but Worldwide News reports were still showing on all major international news channels.
John got up from his chair with a bounce and walked over to the cabinet, he opened two of the ceiling-high doors and washed his hands in the built-in sink behind them. After a close look in the mirror, he ran his wet hands through his full, dark hair, dried them on a towel, and adjusted the knot of his silk tie. He closed the cabinet doors, quickly slipped on his elegant blue jacket and opened the door to his waiting room. He stepped outside to personally greet his visitors then he paused for a moment, slightly startled. He had expected two men, but to his surprise, a slim blonde, in a dark cashmere suit, maybe in her late twenties, held out her hand and offered him a refreshing smile.
“Hello, Mr. Marks. Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with us. I'm Samantha Cunningham.” She pointed at the man behind her, who was carrying a large film camera over one shoulder and a black shoulder bag over the other. “This is my cameraman, Ben Atwood.” John took the outstretched hand and was amazed at the firm handshake of the young woman. A slight hint of a pleasant, fresh fragrance reached his nose. He returned her smile.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cunningham. It’s my pleasure to welcome you.” Then he smiled over her shoulder at the cameraman, who was looking at him expectantly. “Hello, Ben, it’s been a long time. Good to see you.” “Hello, John,” the cameraman smiled. “Yes, it’s been ages. Fifteen years, probably, give or take a few years.”
Samantha Cunningham looked back and forth between the two men, surprised and confused.
“You guys... I mean…you know each other?”
“Yes,” Ben said slowly. “We know each other. But at some point our paths separated. “
“Let’s go into my office,” John quickly changed the subject. “We all have limited time and that really is a separate issue.” With his outstretched hand he gestured through the open door to his office. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee perhaps? Or would you rather have a cold drink?”
“I’ve asked them already,” volunteered his secretary, “a green tea and a coke, and a cappuccino for you, sir?”
“Yes, please! Thank you, Jennifer, perfect as always.”
The two journalists stepped into John’s spacious office. John followed them, after catching a glimpse at Jennifer’s beaming smile, he then closed the door behind him.
“Let’s sit over there!” John pointed to the small conference table. “Would you like to start with the interview, Mrs. Cunningham?”
“Miss Cunningham, please, or simply Samantha, at least as long as the camera is not running. And yes, if you don’t mind, I’d like to start right away. We have an hour, your secretary said and seven minutes are already over. Ben, are you ready?”
“Almost, but I still have to wire you.”
Ben pulled two clip-on-microphones from a side pocket of his big shoulder bag. One he clipped on the lapel of Samantha’s suit jacket, the other on John’s.
“Okay, I can start filming any second.” Ben lifted the camera onto his shoulder, looked through the viewfinder and panned through the room. Right at that moment there was a knock on the door.
“Ah, Jennifer, wonderful, thank you. Please, put it on the table over there,” John waited until his secretary had left the room again. “I suggest I sit in the chair and you, Samantha, on the couch. Sounds good?”
“Yes, that’s best for the light, right Ben?” Samantha did not even wait for a confirmation from Ben but sat down on the small sofa, pulled the cup of tea closer, and pushed the cappuccino towards the chair.
“Here, Ben, put your coke somewhere else.” She gave Ben the glass. “And I need a second shot for the cut.”
“I thought so!” Ben put the big camera down on the floor, took a small camera plus tripod from his pocket and screwed the two together. He set up the tripod so that the camera was pointed constantly at Samantha. He opened the display, adjusted the selection again and pressed the record button.
“Ok, Ben, start filming.” Samantha was getting impatient.
John sat down in the chair. At the same moment that Ben’s camera focused on Samantha and John and the red light flashed, Samantha put on a radiant smile. “We are in Manhattan, on-site at the offices of the world-renowned law firm First International,” she began the intro. “Last week marked the closing of one of the largest international mergers of our time. John Marks, business lawyer, in charge of First International’s M & A played a major role in bringing about the deal. He is sitting right here with me now. Mr. Marks, M & A is an area that is not perceived by the general population to be handled primarily by attorneys. Can you explain in a few words, what it is you do?”
“This is difficult to explain in just a few words, Miss Cunningham, because we ultimately deal with highly complex processes, but I will try. The term ‘mergers and acquisitions’, in short M & A describes in the broadest sense all actions that lead to companies merging or taking over one another. As a result of such mergers, synergies are created and released, which is economically viable and useful for both companies, both in the case of fusions and in the case of acquisitions.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?” Samantha probed.
“Well, every company is obviously very eager to get the best possible results with the least possible effort. They are in global competition with other companies in terms of trying to be more successful and perhaps even forcing the others out of the market. For example: A company may own a specific, patented manufacturing process and therefore, has a de facto monopoly. If another company now wants to produce its products in the same way, it has the option to purchase a license. But, it can also try to take over the competitor and in this way also the patent, which can be even more economical in the long run.”
“And what part do you play, or does your firm play here?”
“While many large companies employ their own M & A departments, usually an experienced law firm, such as First International is hired initially as a mediator to approach the other company and declare their intent of a takeover. In the vast majority of cases our clients initially like to stay in the background. If the takeover bid is met with interest by the other side, we then also take on the next steps which, depending on the contract, will include negotiations, contract design, and the use of external experts if applicable, up to the overseeing of the contract signing.”
“In this case, two large companies from two quite different political hemispheres combined together, the U.S. and Russia. I am sure your firm has overseen a lot of mergers in the past. Did you experience any unexpected difficulties this time around?”
“Absolutely, Miss Cunningham. I will just say this much: over the last few months of negotiations we have been treading a lot of new ground.”
“So who are your clients, in other words, where do your clients stand within a corporate hierarchy?”
“They are always at the top level, which is where the company's shares are held. Our client can be an individual but in the majority of cases we represent a bank or a venture capital firm; an institutional investor who has an interest in increasing the value of the shares that are deposited with or held by them.”
“From the perspective of a corporate shareholder, there are always advantages to an acquisition, but there are also negative effects. Through the amalgamation of companies on a large scale, some employees become redundant. There will be layoffs; people will lose their jobs. What is your, or rather, what is First International’s position on this, Mr. Marks?”
“This is a consequence of our economic system which is unpleasant but must be accepted in the interest of economic success. And above all, such a redundancy situation is always accompanied by appropriate severance payments which, in our experience reach six or seven figure sums.”
“That may be true for the executives of a company, Mr. Marks, however, often the ones hit by layoffs are those who work in production and lower level management.”
John felt slightly uncomfortable. What were this journalist’s intentions? Where was she going with these questions?
“Well, Miss Cunningham,” despite his discomfort John managed a friendly smile, “together with our clients, we understand the special responsibility and try to find a satisfactory solution in each case, as we did here. Remember that being laid off can also be a chance for a fresh start, and each person can make the best of it.”
“Sure, but you will agree that for some employee who has to pay off his mortgage and feed his family, the dismissal is first and foremost a disaster. Those who benefit from the mergers are the investors or rather those who are already wealthy. And those who have no money are excluded and may fall by the wayside.”
“Miss Cunningham, our entire economic system would have to be changed in order to let everyone participate in financial gain. And you will surely agree when I say that all such efforts have proven to be totally delusional equalitarian hopes, ranging from the early Christian communities to the unworldly flights of fancy of left-wing extremists and the failed communist systems of our time.”
Before his interviewer asked her next question, John noticed for a brief moment a contented perk of her lips.
“All right, but next to the investors there are a lot of other winners. Surely it would be interesting for our audience to know what a ballpark figure is for the fee paid to your office in cases like this.”
“Unfortunately, I am not authorized to disclose this information.”
“Mr. Marks, you and your firm will surely not rest on your laurels now. What other projects for the near future do you have up your sleeve?”
“Miss Cunningham, you will certainly understand that as attorneys, my colleagues and I strictly adhere to our duty of confidentiality towards our clients, and therefore we have to remain absolutely silent regarding such questions.”
“Of course, Mr. Marks, thank you for this interview.” Samantha turned her head towards Ben. “This was Sam Cunningham for Worldwide News.” She beamed a few more seconds into the camera and then the red light went out. “Did you get everything, Ben?”
Ben put the camera down. “From start to finish!”
“Good.” Samantha took a brief sip of her tea. “I think that my channel will show this clip during the seven o’clock news tonight. John, if you want, you can watch the recording now on the camera’s monitor.”
John thought about it for a moment and then decided. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Samantha.”
“Great.” Samantha got up from the couch. “Then we won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you again.” She held out her hand to John; he took and held it.
“Would you go to dinner with me sometime, next week perhaps?”
“I’d love to!” Samantha gave John a radiant smile. “We can talk about it later. I'll call you, okay?”
“I look forward to it,” he said, but at the same time he had the feeling that he had just been rejected.
“All right.” Samantha looked at Ben. “Shall we?”
She turned to the door. “I’m right behind you, as always,” grinned Ben who had by now packed up his equipment and set it on his shoulder.
John was the first one at the door and held it open for Samantha and Ben.
“It was nice to see you again, Ben,” John said as Ben walked past him. “See you sometime soon?”
Ben continued walking as if he had not heard John. Then he stopped, turned around and looked John straight in the eye. “I’m sure, John! We’ll see each other.” He stretched out his hand to John. John took it and felt a piece of paper in his palm.
“Take care, John. Call us,” Ben said, and followed Samantha, who was waiting for him in the hallway.
“Jennifer, would you please take the dishes.” John stood in the doorway while his secretary was removing the empty cups and glasses.
John closed his office door thoughtfully.
On any rational basis, the interview had gone well, and he had answered even the unpleasant questions competently. But he felt uneasy. His instincts told him that this woman was up to something. But what was it? The way they left seemed a little too sudden. They may have been pressed for time, except that there was still about half an hour left before the scheduled end of the interview. In hindsight, he could have kicked himself for requesting a date. What had he been thinking? John opened his right hand and looked at the piece of paper that Ben had slipped him. He unfolded it and read a phone number that Ben had scrawled in apparent haste. Even Ben’s strange remark about seeing him again soon disturbed him. Was there something that Ben had still wanted to tell him?
Even in college Ben had been notorious for his mysterious and sometimes conspiratorial behavior. Why would he have changed since they had lost sight of each other?
“It’s probably nothing,” he thought as he tucked the note into his shirt pocket.
John wiped away his thoughts of Samantha, Ben and the interview, sat down at his desk and delved back into his files.
Two floors below John's office, a sporty, but elegantly dressed woman in her late thirties was pacing up and down the room in deep concentration. Dominique van den Bergh had gathered her team to discuss the necessary security arrangements for the evening.
The sameness of Dominique’s surname and that of First International’s managing partner was no coincidence - Dominique was his daughter.
She had attended law school with the intention of joining the firm as an attorney. However, her interest in martial arts, weaponry and fast cars, had had such a negative impact on her studies that she was forced to dropout.
Later, she spent three years traveling in East Asia, perfecting her skills in Kung Fu, Thai boxing, and several other disciplines. Back in the United States, her father got her a job with the security services of the firm. Soon Dominique took over its management, due not to her family connections but to her indomitable will to lead and an unerring instinct for danger, coupled with ruthless brutality. For the past three months, she had been responsible globally for all of First International’s internal and external security issues.
Half a dozen broad-shouldered, fierce-looking young men, all former members of various military and intelligence organizations were seated around an oval conference table, at the head of which Dominique was sitting majestically. The floor plans of First International’s headquarters were spread on the table. She was scrutinizing the room, which she herself had furnished according to her own standards: Spartan, just the bare essentials. The huge oval conference table dominated the room. Apart from a few simple chairs around it and small steel cabinet with a coffee maker, it was the only piece of furniture. The walls were bare. Dominique did not allow any distractions at work.
Now she looked at each one of her co-workers, one after another, who were waiting patiently but attentively for her instructions.
None of the men who were sitting at this table had ever had as much respect for a woman as they did for Dominique. They did not see her as a woman, and Dominique made sure that she did not distract her male co-workers with her feminine attributes. To them she was quite simply their boss, and they were careful not to contradict her orders or say the wrong thing in her presence. Some of them had already experienced Dominique’s outbursts. Even as a little girl, Dominique had not been particularly popular with her playmates. With her domineering and ruthless behavior she would rub most people the wrong way. Only her father seemed to appreciate it.
Dominique moved to the steel cabinet, poured herself a cup of coffee and let her thoughts run free for a moment.
She thought about her father and how he alone had been responsible for her upbringing. Her mother had died at her birth, and her father had never again had a serious relationship.
She’d had so many different nannies that she never got attached to any of them. They all strictly followed her father’s instructions. As a little girl, Dominique was not allowed to play with Barbies or other dolls or even to wear dresses. Rarely, was she allowed to play with other children, with the exception of a few older boys. Early on, her father had made her feel like she should have been a son, that he had never wanted a daughter. And so Dominique, intending to please him, had made it her mission to be the son she thought her father wanted.
She returned to the head of the table, set the coffee aside, exiled her memories to the rearmost chambers of her brain, cleared her throat and began issuing her instructions.
“Tonight there will be only employees in attendance, including some of our top executives,” Dominique said. “Beginning at sixteen hundred hours, we will operate at security level one.” Dominique loved to use military time.
“Rodriguez,” she turned to the Latino man sitting to her right, “You assign the men to the floors. Don’t forget to position two people down in the lobby for the first check and two in the garage, right next to the entrance. Hans, you are responsible for the security checks in front of the elevator. Take four people for that.”
A blond giant at the left side of the table gave an affirmative nod.
“Everyone else: dark suit! You move around in the hall among the guests and keep your eyes open. All, I repeat, all irregularities will be reported to me by radio. I’ll then decide what to do. No highhandedness! Clear?”
The men nodded in unison. They knew what they had to do.
“You could have told me that you knew my interviewee!” Samantha’s forceful steps were echoing through the parking garage. Ben could hardly keep up with her. “I looked stupid,” she snapped while heading towards the white van with the words ‘Worldwide News’ written on its side. “You need to tell me these things! How do you know him anyway?”
Ben pressed the button to unlock the door. “Come on. Shift down a gear or two, Sam,” he muttered as he opened the back door and placed his equipment in the trunk. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Samantha was already sitting in the passenger seat.
“Tell me already, how do you know each other?” She nudged him impatiently while Ben backed the van out of the parking spot and steered towards the exit. He waited with his answer until they were out on the street.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll tell you, but then you have to explain something too.”
“Okay, I’ll explain something too,” snorted Samantha, “but I asked you first. Now, come on, how do you know John Marks and why are you so familiar with him?”
Ben was silent for a moment that seemed like an eternity to Samantha. He took a deep breath. “From Harvard,” he blurted out. “I know him from Harvard. We went to law school together.”
“You went to Harvard?” Samantha opened her eyes wide in disbelief. “Then why do you now follow me around with your camera?”
“Excuse me,” Ben suppressed the anger that was rising up in him. “Just because I’m your drone, it doesn’t make me a worse person!”
“That’s not what I meant,” Samantha relented, “it’s just because ...”
“Say it! Because I was stupid enough not to finish law school. I know.” Ben braked a bit too abruptly at the red light.
“No, I didn’t say that, but I always thought that all Harvard students were brainiacs who became hugely successful in their jobs.”
“You mean just like George W. Bush.”
“All right,” sighed Samantha, "I’ll take back the brainiac, but success at least is certain.”
“Not always, look at me; Bush Jr. at least became president.”
“You can do that too. You’re still young,” she flashed him a charming grin, “now tell me about John Marks. Was he a good student?”
“He was good, but it was not like his present position at First International was written all over his face. However, I don’t know what his GPA was when he graduated. I left Harvard a year earlier than he did, and we weren’t really in-touch anymore. Perhaps he still graduated at the top of his class.”
“How did he pay for law school?”
Ben looked at Samantha in surprise. “What’s the question?” “Oh, nothing.” Samantha looked out of the side window seemingly unconcerned. “He probably had rich parents, didn’t he?”
“As far as I know, he grew up in foster care and somehow got a scholarship.”
“Really? How?”
“No idea. I heard that some private person funded him. But why do you care?”
“I’m not really that interested but, professionally, it is good to know these things. You could really have told me before that you knew him. It would have been helpful for the interview to have background information on him.”
“You know, I thought it would be better not to tell you. I didn’t know how you would react. It would have been embarrassing if he had not remembered me, or if he had pretended that he didn’t know me. And also...”
Ben’s explanation was interrupted by the ringing of Sam’s iPhone. She took it out of the side pocket of her suit jacket, glanced at the display, turned to the side window and tapped on the device.
“Hello,” she answered, and after a few seconds, she added: “Yes, thanks, everything is great, as planned.” She listened again for a moment and said, “Yes, me too. Tonight we’ll know more.” She ended the conversation and put her iPhone away.
“Anything important?” Asked Ben.
“No, and don’t be so nosy. What were you saying: ‘And also…’?”
“Right, I was going to say: don’t think you can fool me. I’ve known you long enough now. Surely before the interview you were devouring any info about John Marks you could get your hands on. Damn it!” Ben smashed his palm onto the dashboard. “Come on, you stupid idiot over there! Move it! Are you sleeping?” He honked his horn aggressively and revved up the engine.
Samantha shook her head. “What’s your problem, Ben? Of course I got as much info as possible about John Marks before the interview. What’s wrong with that? But I still don’t know everything about him.”
“All right, then I’m going to ask you now: How come I feel that you know much more about John Marks than you want to admit?”
“Come on! Why are you saying this?”
“Look, Sam, I know the triumphant look on your face when you’ve managed to elicit what you wanted to hear. Besides, you left John’s office so hastily earlier, almost as if you’d captured something and wanted to get it to safety. What was that question as to how he financed law school? You knew the answer all along.”
Samantha was silent for a while. “Yes,” she said, “I’m sorry. I was trying to pump you. It was just too tempting because you’ve known him so long. Too bad you don’t know any more than I do.”
“And the other way around, Sam?” Said Ben. “What do you know that I don’t? You’ve got something up your sleeve!”
“I’m not sure yet. You have to be patient.”
“Who was it that just called? That has something to do with John. Doesn’t it?”
“That’s really none of your business!”
Ben knew that it was rare for Samantha to keep details from him. Maybe she was on to something and couldn’t yet predict the outcome. He asked no more questions.
The shiny high-rise with tall, reflective windows united tradition and vision in an impressive way. The building had been constructed in the 1930s when it replaced the original First International Headquarters. The original building had stood right in this spot in Southern Manhattan during the middle of the 19th Century. This huge building, as famous in New York as the Empire State Building, the United Nations Secretariat, or Wall Street was intended to stand tall as a clear and timeless symbol - the center of power!
First International’s executive offices spanned seven floors, from the 63rd to the 69th. Other employees were relegated to subjacent floors.
Express elevators took VIP clients directly from the garage to the spacious reception area on Floor 63. The ground floor lobby was used only for vendors and regular guests. Up here, in the realm of Frank van den Bergh, however, only those business partners were received for which this firm was so renowned. The entrance hall was designed in a successful blend of classic and modern architecture with Roman-style columns and contemporary works of art. Large, flat-screens presented news from around the world. White leather chairs offered waiting visitors a place to relax while courteous, good-looking receptionists behind the huge, burnished, white reception desk informed the executives of the arrivals of their visitors. A huge chandelier hung in the middle of the room from a 25-foot tall ceiling giving the room the last touch of elegance.
Numerous doors led from the foyer to the various meeting rooms of the conference center. The huge double doors that led to the adjoining convention hall were closed today.
Once a month, the firm invited 250 hand-picked senior executives and politicians to attend lectures and receptions in the prestigious hall. Being invited to one of these events was seen in management circles as an accolade, while not receiving an invitation was considered to be a bad omen for one’s career.
When John stepped out of the elevator, the murmur of voices in the large foyer paused for a few seconds. Faces turned towards him. Some guests glanced his way or gave him a nod when their eyes met. Then the many men and few women in dark suits returned to their conversations. White-clad waiters moved from guest to guest and poured champagne. John glanced at the audience. Most local and international partners and senior partners were in attendance. John recognized some old friends from offices in Europe and Asia who smiled at him. He felt pride rising in his chest as he remembered that they had gathered here to honor him. It was noticeable that on this evening no outside guests had been invited. Usually senators, representatives or dignitaries of the City might be on the guestlist. This time it was a purely internal event.
“Here we go,” a deep, sonorous male voice filled the entrance hall. “Here at last is the center of tonight’s event!”
Again conversations ceased. Everyone looked in John’s direction to the man who had shouted out the words. From a small group emerged a tall, about 70-year-old man with an athletic figure and full, silver hair. The monogram of First International on his shirt collar and the gold cufflinks stood out from his classic three-piece suit. He opened his arms and stepped towards John. The group stepped back respectfully and happily made room for him.
“John, how wonderful,” he exclaimed, “We were just wondering whether our best man was lured away by the competition.” One could hear some amused murmur in the hall.
“But, Mr. van den Bergh,” John smiled at the head of First International, “who would that be? We have no competition. I learned that on my first day here.”
“Well countered John,” laughed Frank van den Bergh. He put his right arm around John’s shoulder and raised his left hand to draw the attention again to John and himself. Frank van den Bergh’s booming announcement, however, had already told everyone that the person, who would be tonight’s center, had finally arrived. Nevertheless, the managing partner of First International waited a few more seconds to give his welcoming speech even greater importance. Finally, the last murmur in the hall died down.
“Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends,” began Frank van den Bergh, “may I ask you to suspend your undoubtedly highly interesting conversations for a moment?”
Although he had not raised his voice much, it reached every last corner of the spacious entrance hall. There was complete silence.
“Thank you.” He waited a few meaningful seconds before he spoke again, and nodded several times towards the crowd of the assembled leaders of his firm.
“Here next to me is John Marks,” he continued, “the man we want to celebrate together tonight. Since its founding more than 130 years ago, our firm, First International, has paved many paths and moved many mountains. Surely, I can humbly say that we have influenced the course of history to a great extent; have in some instances even changed history's course. Although we always try to remain discreet, First International’s name appears in connection with many major events around the world which are reported on a daily basis. Recently, we were able, as you all know, to achieve our greatest success so far; a merger of two, multi-billion dollar, international companies which would never have materialized without the help of First International and, in particular, without the hard work of the man next to me. We have every right in the world to be proud of this, and we are.”
Discreet applause was heard until Frank van den Bergh asked for silence again with his hand.
“Enough of words, dear friends. Now let us raise our glasses.”
The waiters in their crisp white uniforms moved deftly through the crowd with large trays of champagne-filled glasses, serving drinks to late arrivals. Frank van den Bergh waited until everyone had been helped and then raised his glass.
“To our success, to John Marks, and not in the least to First International!”
“To First International!” the crowd cheered.
Frank van den Bergh took a quick sip and put the glass back on the silver tray, held readily by a young waitress.
“And now, my friends, I ask you to adjourn to the great hall. Many of you have come from far away and have probably been waiting eagerly for me to finally say: The buffet is open! I wish you all a pleasant evening!”
After another short round of applause and under approving murmurs, the large double doors were opened, and the attendees flocked into the brightly lit hall. The foyer was emptying until finally only John and his boss stood together. Frank van den Bergh looked around briefly; then he turned to John.
“My dear John,” he began in a subdued voice, “as we are standing here alone now, I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank you again for your commitment in recent months. You have achieved so much. With everything you’ve done for our clients, you have never lost sight of the well-being of First International. This qualifies you for better things in the service of our firm. In short, tonight I would like to introduce you to some members of our Central Board. I have great plans for you.”
He waited until a small group, who had probably been late, disappeared into the hall and was out of earshot. He lowered his voice further for his next words.
“John, before we go into the hall, I want you to know something: Since you caught my attention, I supported you, wherever I could. In the last few years, I assigned you many difficult tasks, and you have never disappointed me. On the contrary, you have always by far exceeded my expectations. Let me just tell you right now that the next few weeks and months will bring major changes for you.”
John’s mind was racing. The five-member Central Board was the innermost circle of First International’s leadership and met once a month, chaired by Frank van den Bergh, at a remote location that changed every time. Never were any decisions or anything else discussed at the meetings released to the public. All the projects that had been assigned to him in the last years had come from the very top. What did this mean?
His boss’ voice brought John back to reality: “Ah, Dominique also gives us the honor of her presence. Well, as always, everything under control?”
Dominique van den Bergh did not flinch as she walked closer with a lilt and stood next to the two men.
“Of course, Dad. Hi, John.”
“Hello, Dominique.”
John did not particularly like Dominique, and at First International he was not the only one who felt this way. In fact, Dominique van den Bergh was popular with no one; but then it was not her job to be popular. First strike, then ask, was her motto in conflict situations. It was rumored amongst the First International staff that Dominique ate razor blades for breakfast. One night, a few weeks ago, she had defended herself against and hospitalized two would-be invaders that had, despite security measures, managed to get into the foyer of the law firm. Everyone knew that in contrast to her subordinates, Dominique never carried a baton.
“Too bad you didn’t come earlier, Dominique.” Frank van den Bergh seemed pleased that his daughter had arrived. “We just drank to John’s great success.”
Dominique stared blankly at her father. “That’s nice, Dad, but you know that I don’t drink. Congratulations, John. ... one moment.”
She turned away from them and put two fingers to her right ear at the tiny transmitter: “Yes?” Dominique listened for a moment. “Ok, I’m coming down,” she said turning to leave.
“What happened?” Frank van den Bergh called after his daughter. “Stay here. The broadcast of John’s interview on Worldwide News is starting soon.”
“Surely there will be a repeat tomorrow.” Dominique called back over her shoulder.
John watched Dominique as she crossed the foyer then left through a nondescript door on the narrow side of the hall. Her gait was powerful and cat-like. Dominique could have looked attractive to someone who saw her for the first time, if it were not for the Glock she was carrying openly at her hip. With her gun, and even more so with her constantly suspicious look, Dominique conveyed the message: Don’t make a suspicious move, or you’ll be in trouble.
Frank van den Bergh was also watching his daughter as her red hair disappeared through the small door. Neither the doubtful glance of his boss nor the almost indiscernible shaking of his head went unnoticed by John. Then the senior partner of First International let out a little sigh and grabbed John’s arm.
“Come on, John,” he said, trying to smile, “let’s go in too. Surely we’ve been missed already.”
“Damn it. We are going on the air in six minutes!”
Gordon Fletcher, managing editor of the news channel Worldwide News, lit another cigarette, though his last one sat in the ashtray, half-smoked and smoldering.
“Where is Sam’s piece about this merger?” He shouted through the open door of the broadcast control room, “Is she still editing?”
He ran his hand over his face as if he could not believe what was going on under his very eyes. The news channel, Worldwide News, was broadcasting by satellite around the clock all over the United States. In addition, the newscasts were being fed to countless cable networks throughout the country, reaching their subscribers via blogs and news apps.