8
Will was stunned as he and Drew exited the American Frontier headquarters. How could Sandstrom leave his own board meeting like that, even for a meeting with the president’s chief of staff? It made no sense—unless he meant to use the White House as an excuse to delay any sort of board call on the question of his leadership. It was an interesting gambit, if that was what he was pursuing. And what was President Rich up to?
The current American president, Spencer Rich, had been elected to office only a few months earlier. This was his first big crisis, and he’d inherited it, though he had championed energy independence and Arctic drilling specifically in his presidential campaign. Like Will, Spencer Rich was the firstborn from a prominent, wealthy family that had long ago made its mark in presidential politics after a successful run in business—specifically the oil business. His father, Thomas Rich, had taken the presidential office when Will was a toddler.
The Worthington and Rich families went way back and shared some Irish roots. Thomas and Will’s mother had been friends in their Harvard days. A common Irish heritage and their blue-blood lineages had drawn them together. Even though they were poles apart politically, the two continued their friendship after both had married and moved on to their respective circles. The two families had enjoyed each other’s company until life had driven them apart—at least that was what his mother had once told Will wistfully.
By the time Sean was born and Will started his schooling, the two families were no longer spending time together. Will hadn’t minded. He’d been quite a bit younger than Spencer and remembered him only as a hotheaded bully. The last time they were together was at Camp David, when Thomas Rich, midway into his first term as president of the United States, had invited the Worthingtons to spend a week with his family. Spencer’s mom, Victoria, had arrived in a huff where the boys were playing baseball, whisked Spencer into a limo, and evidently took him back to the White House.
Being the only child at Camp David was preferable to having to spend time with Spencer. The days spent there were hazy in Will’s mind, as he’d been only three or four, but he remembered feeling lonely. His father had been there just one evening before he was called back to New York City.
Now Spencer Rich was a strong, aggressive leader who naturally took charge and ran things. His father had paved the way for him, handing him a plum CEO job, followed by a successful run for governor in Texas, and finally his full support in the presidential primaries. Spencer was a lousy public speaker and survived a terrific hazing by the press, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. He’d won by the slimmest margin.
The Republicans also won back the Senate, thanks to a nearly bottomless pit of spending from all of the major industrial, mining, agribusiness, and oil companies, including American Frontier, which had been frustrated by regulatory schemes in Washington for years and years. That meant the Republicans owned the nation’s capital again, in more ways than one. Nothing was beyond their reach any longer in Washington, but they were much more careful, thorough, and discreet in their governance this time around. With little or no fanfare, they ratcheted back the reach of agencies and departments like the EPA, DOE, and DOI through the exceedingly boring budget process, while boosting the budgets of the Pentagon and Commerce. Meanwhile, K Street was fully employed with hundreds of business-oriented lobbyists, all working the appropriations process seamlessly.
People in the country had the impression that Washington was working like a business—largely because it was being run by the very same sorts of people who regularly managed big companies. Ayn Rand’s many acolytes had finally gotten the Washington of their dreams.
Will admired most of his peers in the financial and business world who were mostly after one thing—sound management of resources and finances for the benefit of large, institutional shareholders who demanded steady, increasing value in publicly traded companies. Will himself was accustomed to such serious pursuits.
As a child, he’d been drawn to the sorts of things that adults did. He’d begun to read books about finance and business when he was only 11. While others read fantasy and science fiction, Will was drawn to thick books on banking and industry. As a Worthington family heir, he felt a much greater burden to succeed, to lead, and to understand the world around him so he could control it most effectively.
Now, as an adult and financial leader in his own right, he admired those who did whatever it took to seize control of the reins of power in Washington and run the country, the way a strong-willed parent might run a family or a powerful CEO might run a publicly traded company. He admired it, but he didn’t necessarily have to agree with it.
Drew interrupted his thoughts. “Strange meeting, wasn’t it?”
“To say the least.” Will strode along the broad sidewalk south of Central Park. He’d wanted to clear his mind after the aborted meeting, and a brisk walk around and through the park made the most sense. Drew had joined him for the walk, as Will had known he would.
A horse pulling one of the expensive carriages that waited patiently for tourists rolled a lazy eye in their direction, then chose the moment they walked by to relieve itself. Will saw Drew wrinkle his nose and laughed. He didn’t mind the smell, really. It was part and parcel of the allure of Central Park. You either accepted it or you didn’t. And Will accepted it for what it was.
They turned left into the park on the East Side, opposite from the curious Apple retail store that was mostly just four big windows, two stories high. Tourists lined up to go inside, browse a bit, and then leave with a story to tell about the odd-looking store near Madison Avenue on the east side of New York.
“So what happens now, do you think?” Drew asked.
“I think Sandstrom intends to use the White House as a shield, to keep the board from sacking him just yet.”
Drew lifted a brow. “Will it work?”
“It might. If the White House insists on accountability from the existing American Frontier leadership in the middle of the crisis, then it’s impossible to press for a change now. And if the spill drags out for a time, which it might, and he does a good job managing the media firestorm around it, he might stand a chance of staying.”
“But you doubt that, don’t you?”
“I doubt he has the skills, either for the media or for the politics,” Will said as he weaved his way around the tourists who always populated the sidewalks of the broad entrances to the park.
“So how . . . ?”
“Because the president’s financial and political backers might insist on no change while the crisis is under way,” Will explained. “Which is what I’d do if I were Sandstrom and if I’d been helpful in putting this particular president in his job in the first place.”
“Sir, if I might offer an opinion?”
It was the “sir” that slowed Will momentarily because it was so out of place. One glance at the older man, whose brown hair was flecked with gray, told Will that was exactly why Drew had said it. Drew knew him well. That he’d stay on one particular mind track until presented with something that seemed out of order. Then he’d be startled into paying attention.
“Always welcome, Drew,” Will said evenly. “You know that. So what is it?”
“If you are serious about pursuing this—and I’m reserving judgment on whether that’s a prudent course or not—then I believe you should very publicly challenge the American Frontier CEO, regardless of whatever protection and comfort the White House might afford him. You should . . . how is it that you always put it . . . ‘call him out into the street’?”
Will burst out laughing. “Very good! Yes, that’s an apt way to put it. Good to see all those Westerns we watched being useful.”
When Will was nine years old, he’d discovered old Western movies and had loved them so much he’d begged Drew to watch a few with him. Three Amigos had become one of Will’s favorites. There was something black-and-white about Westerns that he loved. Maybe it was that the good guys always win and the bad guys are always punished. In the days of the Old West, calling someone out into the street was a quick and public way to take out an enemy . . . or, in this case, another candidate for your job.
“I think you should call Mr. Sandstrom into the street, so to speak,” Drew repeated. “If you believe that he’s led American Frontier on a path that threatens not only the shareholders—and you are certainly its most prominent shareholder—but the world’s ecosystems and biodiversity as well, you should act on that belief.”
“And how would I go about doing that?”
“Well,” he offered slowly, “I might consider paying a visit to your friend, the financial editor at the very same Wall Street Journal that predicted you were next in line to run American Frontier. They are sure to follow this story closely from all angles, from the criminal negligence case your sister will almost certainly manage, to the ramifications for the global economy.”
Will nodded. “True. This story is tailor-made for nearly every sort of reporting that they do. The owner isn’t exactly a friend, but the editor has known me for years.”
“And when I meet with him?” Will allowed a glint of conquest in his smile as he swiveled his head toward Drew.
“I’d hand him a copy of a letter, just before you postmark it and drop it in the nearest mailbox, calling for Sandstrom to step down as CEO.”
“And if he doesn’t resign?”
“Then you call him out into the street and let it be known—very publicly—that Worthington Shares intends to join in the shareholder lawsuit against American Frontier.”
“Is that wise?”
“I don’t know if it’s wise,” Drew said. “But I will say this. It may be necessary, both for the value of the Worthington Shares holdings in the company and for your own ambitions.”
Shortly thereafter, Will and Drew parted ways to head to their respective abodes. As Will pondered Drew’s words, he was struck by the possibility of soon realizing his dream—to be the CEO of American Frontier. Before the age of 40, he’d reach the pinnacle of success he dreamed of. He would control one of the most powerful companies in the world. Such a position is what he’d been groomed for, what he’d always wanted . . .
Just then, though, a still small voice inside asked, But is that really what you want, Will?
He halted midstep, confused.
The voice didn’t say anything else. Maybe he hadn’t heard it after all.
But as he reached his building and headed up the elevator to his suite, the first niggle of doubt descended. Was the trajectory he was on the right one for him?
Stepping to the window, he peered out over New York City—at the mass of humanity that moved in every direction like the fine threads of a spiderweb. He would have the opportunity to direct the forces that could influence the path of so many of those people walking below.
Straightening his shoulders, he shook off the doubt. Yes, he told himself. It’s what I was born to do.
He’d come too far to question his destiny now.