The Protégé

  For Diana . . . I love you so much.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thank you to Dr. Teo Forcht Dagi, a very busy man who was always available to talk and to offer tremendous help with technical guidance; Mark Tavani, my editor, for his tireless efforts; Cynthia Manson, my agent, for her tireless efforts; and Matt Malone, my great friend, for his suggestions on this book.

  Thank you also to my daughters Ashley and Christina, whom I love very much, and to those who have always been there to answer questions and give encouragement: Stephen Watson, Kevin “Big Sky” Erdman, Gina Centrello, Jack Wallace, Bob Wieczorek, Scott Andrews, John Piazza, Kristin Malone, Gordon Eadon, Chris Andrews, Andy Brusman, Jeff Faville, Marvin Bush, Jim and Anmarie Galowski, Courtney, Walter Frey, Tony Brazely, John Grigg, Bart Begley, Barbara Fertig, Pat and Terry Lynch, Chris Tesoriero, Baron Stewart, Gerry Barton, and Mike Pocalyko.

  And to Diana. I love you, sweetheart. You’re my angel.

  PROLOGUE

  DAVID WRIGHT’S eyes narrowed as he watched the woman struggle. She was standing on her tiptoes, hands high above her head, wrists chained to iron rings bolted into the ceiling. Her long dark hair cascaded past her naked shoulders as she held her head back, straining against the chains, trying to ease the pain.

  Wright picked up the whip. Attached to its smooth wooden handle were ten narrow leather strands, each twelve inches long, each knotted at the tip. His breath turned quick and his heart raced as he drew the strands through his fingers, then passed them over her smooth skin. She moaned and shook her head when she felt the leather, trying to pull away, so afraid of what was coming. But her wrists were as high above her head as she could reach—she was almost hanging—so she could barely move. She was completely in his control.

  Wright had first come to the sex store in the West Village several months ago, interested in toys to share with his wife, Peggy. After several visits, he’d gotten to know the owner, a slight, chain-smoking man with a thin mustache who’d casually asked from behind the counter one day if Wright would be interested in something “live.” After a few moments, Wright had nodded and the man had led him through a hidden door in the back—into a bondage chamber.

  Wright had watched the first session, then quickly decided to participate. Now he did it one-on-one, spending an hour alone with a woman he chose from a folder of photographs. The fee for the hour was five thousand dollars, but money like that was no object for him. This was his fourth session in the last six weeks. He took a gulp of water—it was hot in the room—as he gazed at the woman’s slim arms and legs. He could see her muscles beginning to cramp, and he liked it.

  He made the first lash hard, even though he’d been told to start slow. Not for her sake, but to excite him more. The owner had told Wright that if he took his time in the beginning, the thrill would build more consistently and thus be more intense when he began to deliver real pain. But he didn’t care. He did what he wanted when he wanted.

  The second lash was as hard as he could make it. She screamed into one arm, and a tremor shook her entire body. But there was no need to worry about anyone outside hearing her screams—the room was soundproof.

  Wright took a deep breath. He’d used this woman the last three times. He liked her delicate features, her beautiful body, the way her skin rose quickly with the lashes. And he had no misgivings about the pain. She earned half the five grand—a lot of money for an hour’s work, especially for a woman who by day was an administrative assistant at a law firm. She knew what she was getting into, she knew what he was going to do to her. There was no reason for remorse.

  With the crack of the third lash, her head snapped back and she screamed at the top of her lungs, begging for mercy—which only made him want to hurt her more. He delivered the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh lashes in rapid succession, causing her skin to swell in long, narrow lines. After the seventh lash he rested, breathing hard, sweating profusely. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and took several more gulps of water, enjoying her sobs and moans.

  When he was finished drinking, he put down the whip and forced the woman roughly up onto a block of wood, reaching for a noose hanging from a ceiling beam. Forcing it over her head and around her neck as she tried to keep it away by ducking. It was his first time doing this—the owner’s suggestion. The owner had warned him to be very careful; things could easily go wrong. But he’d also told Wright what an incredible thrill it would be and how the woman had never had this done to her—so she’d be genuinely terrified.

  Wright unhooked the woman’s wrists from the iron rings, then brought her hands down behind her back and cuffed them. As he drew the noose firmly around her neck, she started to whimper. “Shut up!” he hissed, moving toward the wall where the other end of the rope was knotted to a cleat. He was going to tighten the rope, then pull the block of wood slowly out from under her and let her dangle for a few moments. Letting her think he was going to leave her there until she suffocated. Then push the block back beneath her feet when she started gasping hard. The owner was right: This was going to be incredible.

  It was then that she panicked, struggling against the noose and screaming wildly.

  He rushed toward her as she came perilously close to the edge of the wooden block, to steady her. But his foot slammed into the block as he reached for her, tripping him and knocking it from beneath her. He careened to the cement floor, then rolled quickly onto his back. Just in time to see her fall.

  The drop was short, only eighteen inches. But it was enough.

  Wright sprang up and rushed to the cleat on the wall, his fingers working madly to undo the knot. When he finally tore the loops free, he lowered her down, watching in horror as her limp body crumpled to the floor, the noose still draped around her broken neck. He knelt over her, staring into her empty eyes, his hands shaking horribly and blood pounding in his brain so hard that his vision blurred with each beat. “Christ,” he whispered, sweat soaking his clothes. She wasn’t breathing, and he couldn’t find a pulse. He didn’t know CPR, so he took her head in his hands and shook it gently. A pathetic attempt to revive her. But there was no response, not even a flicker of her eyelids. Just a dull, mannequin gaze. “Shit!” he whined, panic seizing him for real now.

  He crawled quickly to the door and cracked it, peering into the main part of the store. It was dark, as if the owner were gone. Which was strange. The other times, the guy had waited until Wright was finished—three in the morning a week ago. It was only a few minutes before midnight now.

  He opened the door wider, allowing light from the chamber to illuminate the store. Still no sign of the owner. So strange, but he didn’t have time to think on it now. He needed to take advantage of the opportunity.

  He crawled back to where the woman lay, removed the noose from her neck, the cuffs from her wrists, then found a rag and wiped down everything in the room, erasing his fingerprints. Then he dressed the woman and carried her through the store, laying her down in front of the door before climbing three steps to the sidewalk, peering up and down the darkened West Village side street to make certain it was deserted. When he was satisfied all was clear, he hurried back to her body, scooped it up, and ran down the sidewalk as fast as he could, gasping with each stride.

  When he’d gone fifty yards, he moved in between two parked cars and put her body down between them. He stepped back slowly, gazing down at her lifeless form, remorse overtaking him, hoping he’d wake up from this nightmare. A sudden sob racked his body, and he shook his head, then turned and raced back to the shop. It was about survival at this point. He had to stay focused on getting out of here.

  Back inside the shop, Wright gathered up the noose, the cuffs, and the rag he’d used to wipe down the place, then bolted. He dr
opped everything in a trash can several blocks away and headed for Seventh Avenue to catch a taxi. But when he reached the brightly lit area, he realized he didn’t want a driver identifying him later. So he half walked, half ran across Manhattan to Lexington Avenue and caught the subway, not looking anyone in the eye all the way home.

  Wright finally got back to his apartment on the Upper East Side a little before two in the morning. He didn’t want to wake up his wife, so he lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Wondering when the police would come for him.

  1

  CHRISTIAN GILLETTE strode purposefully down the long main corridor of Everest Capital, the Manhattan-based investment firm he ran.

  “Christian.”

  Gillette ignored the voice calling him from behind.

  “Christian!”

  Louder this time, but Gillette still didn’t stop. He glanced over at his assistant, Debbie, pen and pad in hand. She was struggling to keep up.

  “Mr. Chairman!” Faraday huffed, finally catching up with Gillette, and grabbing him by the back of the arm. Faraday was second in command at Everest. A talented money raiser from Great Britain who had an Outlook full of high-level connections in the Wall Street world. His accent was heavy, though he’d been in the States for fifteen years. “Wait a minute.”

  “Morning, Nigel,” Gillette said politely.

  “A fucking magnificent pleasure to see you, too,” Faraday muttered, breathing hard. He inhaled ice cream constantly—to fight stress, he claimed—but he’d been thirty pounds overweight since graduating from Eton. Long before he’d ever dealt with the pressures of a private equity investment firm. “I sent you three e-mails this morning,” he grumbled. “You haven’t replied to any of them.”

  “No time.”

  “One of them was extremely important.”

  “I’ll get to it when I can.”

  Faraday scowled. “I’m the number two person here, Christian. I need access to you.”

  Gillette jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got three conference rooms waiting for me. A guy representing the Wallace Family in One, one of our accounting firms in Two, and—”

  “The Chicago Wallaces?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus, they’re worth like twenty double-large.”

  Following Gillette’s lead, people at Everest sometimes referred to a million as “large” and a billion as “double-large.”

  “More than that.”

  “But they keep to themselves,” Faraday continued. “They don’t talk to other investors. I’ve been trying to get to them for years, to have them invest with us. But nothing, not even a return phone call. They’re very secretive.”

  “I know.”

  Faraday hesitated, waiting for an explanation that didn’t come. “Well, what do they want?”

  “To hire you.”

  “Really?” Faraday leaned back, putting a chubby, pale hand on his chest.

  “No, not really,” Gillette answered, grinning.

  Faraday sighed. “Well, what do they want?”

  “I’ll tell you this afternoon at three, when we’re scheduled to meet.”

  “But I have to talk to you now.”

  “All right,” Gillette said, giving in. “Talk.”

  “Hey, it’s fucking good news. I thought you’d want to hear right away.”

  Good news was always a welcome interruption. “What you got?”

  “Two more commitments to the new fund,” Faraday explained. “I got an e-mail late last night from the California Teachers Pension. They’re in for six hundred large. And North America Guaranty agreed to invest one double-large five minutes ago.” Faraday broke into a proud smile. “We’re done, Christian. Everest Eight now has fifteen billion dollars of commitments. I’m happy to report to you that we’ve raised the largest private equity fund in history.”

  Incredible, Gillette thought. And fifteen billion of equity could be leveraged with at least sixty billion of debt from the banks and insurance companies that were constantly begging to partner with them. Which meant he had seventy-five billion dollars of fresh money to buy more companies with. To add to the thirty Everest already owned.

  “What do you think?” Faraday asked. “Great, right?”

  “It took a while.”

  Faraday’s expression sagged. “It took ten months. That’s pretty fucking good.”

  Eleven years Gillette had known Faraday, and he was still amazed at the Brit’s language. He didn’t care if the guy dropped the F-bomb when it was just the two of them, but there were others around now.

  “The original target was a year,” Faraday reminded Gillette. “We beat that by two months!”

  Gillette spotted one of the receptionists coming up behind Faraday, a middle-aged woman who was waving, trying to get his attention. “Yes, Karen.”

  “Mr. Gillette, the commissioner of the National Football League is holding for you.”

  Gillette watched Faraday’s face go pale. They’d been waiting a long time for this call. Two years of work lay in the balance. “Transfer Mr. Landry to my cell,” he instructed calmly, pulling the tiny phone from his pocket.

  “Right away,” Karen called, hurrying off.

  Gillette moved to where Faraday stood and shook his hand. “You did a great job on the fund, Nigel. You really did.”

  Faraday looked down, caught off guard by the compliment. “Thanks, that means a lot.”

  Gillette’s cell phone rang, and Faraday glanced at it apprehensively. “God, I hope we get this.”

  Gillette pressed the “talk” button and put the phone to his ear, still staring at Faraday. “This is Christian Gillette.”

  “Christian, it’s Kurt Landry.”

  “Hi, Kurt. What’s up?”

  “Well . . . Christian . . . the owners met last night.” Landry hesitated. “And they voted to award the new Las Vegas expansion franchise to you, to Everest Capital. You got it.”

  A thrill rushed through Gillette. They’d offered the NFL four hundred and fifty million dollars. A tremendous sum of money for a franchise with no history in a city that was nothing more than a dot in the desert. Lacking a large, permanent population that might justify such a stratospheric price elsewhere. But with the strategy he and his team had devised, Gillette was confident the franchise could be worth five times that in a few years. Maybe more. Maybe much more.

  “Well?” Faraday whispered.

  Gillette silently mouthed, We got it. “I have some ideas for the team’s name, Kurt,” he said, watching Faraday pump his fists, then raise both arms above his head and do an embarrassing dance in front of Debbie. Shaking his head and laughing at the Brit’s exuberance. “How about the Craps?”

  “Christian, I don’t think that’s—”

  “Or the Twenty-ones,” Gillette kept going, enjoying Landry’s anxious response. “I can see the Super Bowl trailer now: The Twenty-ones and the Forty-niners for the world championship. Whose number is up?”

  “Had that ready for me, right? In case I had good news.”

  “I assumed you had good news.”

  “Don’t start designing logos yet,” Landry advised, chuckling. “How about lunch on Monday? We’ll talk details then.”

  Gillette already had a lunch Monday, but this was much more important. “Sure. I’ll have Debbie call your EA to arrange it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gillette slid the phone back in his pocket. “We’re done, Nigel, it’s ours.”

  Faraday was beaming. “Pretty good morning, huh?”

  Gillette checked his watch: ten-thirty. Still plenty of time in the day for things to go wrong. “We’ll see.”

  “Don’t get so excited,” Faraday said. “Wouldn’t want you to have a heart attack here in front of everyone.”

  But Gillette was already striding down the corridor toward Conference Room One. “Cancel Monday’s lunch,” he said to Debbie as she trotted beside him, scribbling on her pad. “Then call Kurt Landry’s execu
tive assistant and—”

  “I heard, Chris. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Debbie was one of his best hiring decisions. She was always anticipating, always executing, and always pleasant—even when he wasn’t. She was one of the few people he truly depended on. And one of the few people who called him Chris.

  As Gillette reached the conference room door, his cell phone went off again. He pulled it out and checked the number: Harry Stein, CEO of Discount America, a fast-growing chain of megastores that had taken on Wal-Mart—and was winning. Everest Capital owned ninety percent of Discount America, and Gillette was chairman of the board. As chairman of Everest, Gillette also chaired many of the companies Everest owned.

  “Go in and see if they need anything,” Gillette instructed, motioning toward the conference room. “Drinks, whatever. Tell them I’ll be right in.”

  Debbie shook her head as his cell phone continued to buzz. “It’s amazing.”

  “What?”

  “How you handle so many things at once and keep everything straight.”

  He froze, unprepared for the praise.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, rolling her eyes, taking his reaction as impatience. “I’m going.”

  Gillette grimaced as she moved inside the conference room and closed the door. He’d always been terrible at accepting compliments. Just like his father. “What do you need, Harry?”

  “Damn, Mr. Chairman, not even a ‘good morning’?”

  “What do you need?”

  “How do you know I need anything?”

  “You always do. What is it now?”

  “It’s what I told you about last week, but it’s gotten worse. We’re up to our eyeballs in alligators down in Maryland.”

  Stein constantly alluded to animals in conversation—which drove Gillette up a wall. “Remind me.”

  “We’re trying to put up this great new store in a town called Chatham on the Eastern Shore. That’s on the other side of the Chesapeake Bay from Balt—”

  “I know where the Eastern Shore is.”

  “Right. Well, this’ll be our first store in the region, and if we get in there, we’ll give Wal-Mart fits. It’ll really put us on the map.”