HAMILTONLEE WAS NOT IN A GOOD MOOD.“CHRIS’S BECOMING Amajor pain in our ass.”
Bozin had left just after the meeting adjourned. He and Hughes had lingered. The boardroom was one of the few places they could talk freely with assured privacy.
“It used to be amusing to see how far I could push him,” he said. “Now it’s just tedious. I really think the old bastard’s losing his nerve. I think he’d like to retire, but he’s afraid to leave things with us.”
“Has he suggested anything about retiring?” Hughes asked.
He shook his head. “But I’ve picked it up from the office gossip. He’s had a long-standing thing for his secretary. She wants him to quit and marry her. But he listens to her about as much as he does us.”
“Chris hasn’t looked all that good lately. Perhaps we should suggest retirement? Money can’t be a problem for him. Even so, the severance payment is in the millions.”
Hughes was referring to their shareholder’s agreement thatspecified a multi-million-dollar cash payment in the event any one of them died or retired.
“Maybe you should make that suggestion,” Lee said. “He’d tell me to stick it. Something needs to be done, though. We need Priority capability—without all the arguments. I really don’t see why Chris has so many reservations. He harbored little hesitation in the past.”
“I agree, especially considering what’s at stake.”
“Exactly. All those employees in Concord have a great life. They get paid well. Have the best health care in the business. When they retire, we give them a solid pension. They are taken care of from cradle to grave. We bust our asses providing that financial security for them. It’s not easy.”
He could see Hughes agreed.
“One thing I do agree with Chris on,” Lee said. “The paper industry is in trouble. China’s killing us. The environmentalists are driving us crazy. Times are tough, and we’re going to have to be a lot smarter to survive.”
“I caught what you mentioned earlier about Hank Reed’s contact with the other two union presidents,” Hughes said, “and how that wouldn’t be a problem this time around. What do you know that I don’t?”
He grinned. “I decided to stay a step ahead of our little busy-body.”
“That can be pretty tough. Reed’s got eyes and ears all over the mill.”
“I made sure when the bastard goes snooping into our computers, he finds some especially enlightening material.”
Hughes chuckled. “What is it?”
“Special memos I wrote just for him. He’s going to love them.”
“Has he got them yet?”
He rolled his arm and glanced at the white-gold dial of a Boucheron timepiece. Twenty thousand dollars. A gift to himself.
“I’ll know that in about ten minutes.”
11:00A.M.
JONDEFLORIO WOUND HIS WAY THROUGH THE REVOLVING DOORSinto the Blue Tower. He wore a single-breasted Brooks Brothers suit tailored to a perfect fit. His shirt was handcrafted, encasing his thick neck and long arms far better than any store-bought variety ever could. He chose his dress clothes carefully to not only project the right image but also camouflage his muscular legs and sinewy arms. He was only forty-three, but his hair had already grayed. A fact that didn’t bother him in the least. His face stayed clean-shaven, his hair cut short, his green eyes constantly studying everything around him.
He’d worked for Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company twelve years. In the beginning he was anonymous, but now he carried the title chief of security. Officially, he supervised the ninety-two guards the corporation employed across the paper mill, bag plant, sawmills, wood yards, railroad, and warehouses. Unofficially, he managed the company’s Priority program. His corporate biography that appeared in every annual report had been precisely drafted.
BACHELOR OF ARTS FROM SOUTHERN VIRGINIA INSTITUTE. OWNED AND OPERATED DE FLORIO INVESTIGATIVE AGENCY FOR 7 YEARS. HAVING STARTED WITH THE COMPANY AS A CONSULTANT, JON BRINGS A UNIQUE BRAND OF EXPERIENCE, APPLYING THAT EXPERTISE TO ENSURE OUR PEOPLE AND PRODUCTS REMAIN SAFE.
But almost none of it was true.
He held no degree. Southern Virginia had been chosen simply because the state abolished the college years ago and no enrollment records still existed, the diploma that hung prominently on his office wall a forgery. He’d never owned or operated a detective agency either. But the biography purposely did not specify where that agency had existed. He did, though, start with the company a dozen years ago and in a loose way worked as a “consultant”since he’d interned for two years as an associate under his predecessor, who’d run the Priority program from its inception. When that man decided he’d made enough money and wanted to take some time and enjoy it, De Florio was promoted as his replacement. Eventually, he was given an official title and office simply as a way to explain his presence since the board came to find it more convenient to have him nearby and instantly available.
Southern Republic owned facilities all across the southeastern United States, though its two largest revenue producers, a thousand-acre paper mill and a two-hundred-thousand-square-foot paper bag manufacturing plant, were in Concord. Annual revenues were in the $2 billion range, the threat from lawsuits, theft, and fraud constant. So much so that, in years past, the company perennially contracted with an outside security firm for protection. Eight years ago the service was internalized and placed under his direct supervision, publicly for cost-saving reasons, privately to accommodate the growing expansion of the Priority program.
He’d timed the start of his workday to coincide with the completion of the June board meeting. He knew the three owners had gathered, but the Rule was clear—anytime Priority orders were completed an immediate report of the outcome must be made to the chairman.
He rode the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor and confidently strolled off. Marble floors, paneled walls, and an arched coffered ceiling surrounded him. He crossed toward the management corner where suites accommodated the three owners. Chris Bozin was strolling out into the hall as he approached.
