“Tell her not to bother.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know what it means. Good-bye, Mr.-”

“No… wait!” Walters nearly screamed. The clutch of admirals and the assistant secretary politely edged away.

Wiley made no reply. Not a sound, not a peep. At least he hadn’t hung up, though.

“Listen,” Walters said, trying not to sound desperate and failing miserably. “Maybe I can make time tonight.”

“Maybe?”

“Okay, I can. What time?”

“I won’t be free until about nine.”

“Then nine it is.”

“And bring along some of your directors, Mr. Walters. This is a fast train. I want to be sure you can commit to a deal.”

Walters was fiercely tempted to tell him to cram it. Who did this guy think he was, ordering him around like some snot-nosed junior executive? He worked up every bit of his nerve and said, “Sure, no problem. Where?”

“I’m in town, so how about your headquarters?”

Walters was about to reply when the phone line suddenly went dead. One of the admirals sank a thirty-footer. “Good shot, sailor,” Walters yelled over his shoulder. “Sorry, gotta go, boys, finish without me,” and he jogged back to the clubhouse, howling into his phone for Alice, the temporary assistant, to arrange champagne and snacks, and to contact three directors and tell them to be there at all costs.

Tell them the fifteen-billion-dollar man is back.

Dan Bellweather was personally awaiting Jack in the downstairs lobby when he arrived, alone, hauling a small black suitcase. Bellweather shook his hand with great enthusiasm, escorted him past the security people and up in the elevator to the tenth floor, where the spacious senior executive suites were located. “We’re glad you came back,” he happily informed Jack on the way up.

“I’m not exactly back, Mr. Secretary,” Jack replied, polite but poker-faced.

Bellweather smiled nicely. Oh yes, boy, you’re definitely back. After a moment, he said, “I understand you were a military brat.”

“I grew up bouncing around Army posts. Fun life.”

Bellweather could almost recite from memory the many places Jack had lived. “And you were in the Army yourself,” he noted, “and your father was a lifer. Why did you leave it?”

“The war was over. I did my part, time to enjoy the peace.”

“You mean make money, huh?”

“Sure, why not.”

“I admire that motive,” Bellweather said, and his smile widened and sparkled. Nice to see Jack had honorable ambitions.

They had reached the tenth floor and Jack encouraged Bellweather to step out first. After a fast trip down a long hallway, he ushered Jack into a large wood-paneled conference room where three other gentlemen in a mixture of thousand-dollar suits and blazers were picking at snacks on a side table and waiting.

“Jack,” Bellweather said, almost gushing with pride, “I’d like you to meet Alan Haggar and Phil Jackson, two of our directors. And of course Mitch Walters, our CEO.”

Like nearly every other CG director, Alan Haggar was a former high government official, a deputy secretary of defense, number two in the mammoth Pentagon hierarchy, who had left the current administration only six months before. He was short and flabby with a pinched face and narrow, indistinct eyes blurred behind thick bifocals: he appeared to have been hatched in a bureaucracy. His smile was tight, obviously forced and slightly nervous. He was the newest and, at forty-five, the youngest CG director.

To his right, Phil Jackson, a lawyer, had been a close confidant to many presidents-Republicans or Democrats, he went both ways-particularly when they got into legal trouble and needed a slick operator to stonewall, obscure, twist elbows, and finagle a way out. In a town loaded with powerful fixers, Phil Jackson had written the textbooks they all studied. He was tall, skeletally thin, entirely bald, stone-faced, with severely narrowed eyes that looked slightly snakish.

The four men quickly gathered around Jack in a tight huddle, hands were shaken, then Bellweather led Jack to a wall upon which hung twelve photographs in elegant gold frames. “Our directors, Jack”-he waved a hand reverently across the gallery-“I think it would be fair to say we’re led by a rather distinguished, illustrious group.”

What an understatement: at one time or another the heavyweights on the wall had ruled and/or misruled a healthy chunk of the planet. The engraved plaques attached to the bottom of the frames were a waste of space and money; few of CG’s directors required any form of introduction.

Included in the august group were a former French president, an Australian prime minister, a former British defence minister, a former secretary of state, even a former American president. Jack spent a politely dutiful minute moving down the line, gazing at the photos, before he glanced at his watch and suggested, “It’s getting late. Why don’t we get started?”

“Okay, fine,” Walters said. “Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

“Maybe afterward,” Jack answered, pausing briefly before he pointedly added, “if there’s something to celebrate.”

Only thirty minutes before, they had all listened to-or in several cases, relistened to-the tape of Jack running circles around their LBO boys. The four men couldn’t help smiling at one another. We know your games now, Jack, they felt like saying; nice try, but don’t think we’ll fall for your tricks again.

They quietly sat around the conference table, the four CG heavyweights on one side, Jack, alone and seriously outgunned, on the other.

Jack carefully placed his suitcase on the floor, unbuttoned his jacket, offered a nervous smile, opened by briskly thanking them for meeting with him on such short notice, at this late hour, then came right to the point. “I have met with four other firms about this offer. All four are intensely interested, all four are making seriously generous bids.”

A quiet moment of mild confusion ensued while Mitch Walters glanced at his directors and they quietly decided who would take the lead. Nobody seemed to feel this was a bluff. This mistake would not be repeated. Bellweather cleared his throat, edged forward in his chair, and said, “I don’t wish to be rude, Jack, but it’s not clear exactly what you’re offering.”

“A takeover. I’m sure you’ve all heard the particulars about the company, so I won’t waste your time with a regurgitation.”

“Yes, I think we’re all aware of the polymer and its remarkable qualities.” Nods from the others on his side of the table-Yes, yes, we want this deal. Come on, Jack, let’s get rich together. “Please continue,” Bellweather plunged in very politely.

“All right, here’s what I’m offering. I know the company, and I’ve mapped out a way to take it over. It’s vulnerable and ripe. Make the right moves and it’ll fall into our lap in no time. I’ve done a lot of research. It will work.”

No mights, no maybes, no probablys. It will work, simple as that.

“We have plenty of in-house expertise at takeovers,” Bellweather noted, careful not to sound pushy or dismissive.

“I know you do. And I’m open to better ideas, though I doubt your people will improve on my plan,” Jack replied, looking and sounding quite sure of himself.

Mitch Walters came to the point they were all wondering. “What do you get in return, Jack?”

“For starters, I intend to resign my partnership at Cauldron. It would be a conflict of interest for me to remain there.”

“A job, is that what you want?”

“A job, no. Call it a limited partnership, and I’d like an office in this building. A small out-of-the-way cubbyhole will suit me. No assistant, no staff; I don’t intend to be a burden. I don’t plan to be here often, but I’d like the accessibility.”

“Easy enough.”

“And I want to personally orchestrate the takeover. I’ll need help from a few of your people, of course. But it’s my baby and I want to bring it home.”