An hour later, after they’d finished their lunch—blackfoot chicken in morel sauce for him and dry-aged Swiss pork in sherry sauce for her—and were drinking their port, she pressed her knee against his.
“I’m going to need your help,” she said.
“You have my attention,” Treadwell said.
“I’ve taken steps to clean out the board of directors, who were getting as old as the execs I forced out. The new board is solidly on my side. Sound familiar?”
“I’ve done the identical—”
“I know you have. Now shut up and listen, there’s money to be made in what I’m going to tell you. Money for both of us.”
Treadwell sat back and nodded. Lunch was definitely looking up.
“My father wants to stay in place as CEO until he dies. We’ve made some real strides, but I want a lot more. I want to take on more debt—something he definitely doesn’t want us to do—to buy up our top three competitors, so we’re number one. And right now Justice under Farmer doesn’t give a damn about antitrust. Plus all that extra debt will mean big fees for BP.”
The kid had no idea that after tomorrow Rockingham wouldn’t be able to pay its electric bill, let alone become the champ of down jackets. Or that the money BP was going to rake in as one of the sole survivors of a worldwide economic meltdown would make the fees she figured BP was going to make nothing but chump change.
But Treadwell smiled and nodded. “First things first. What to do about your father?”
“I’ll have the board impose an age limit of sixty-five for our CEO. Daddy just turned sixty-five three months ago. He’ll fight it, of course, because he won’t think it’s fair—which it won’t be. But I’ll want you to back me up when it comes to a knock-down-drag-’em-out.”
Treadwell raised his glass to her. “Done.”
“Then let’s go to that apartment I’ve heard about. I need to tear your clothes off.”
The weather was pleasant, and Treadwell decided to walk the couple of blocks to his apartment, his limo driver following a discreet distance behind them.
“Anticipation, is that what this walk is all about?” Heather asked. She wasn’t happy.
“You’ll get what you want, sweetheart, but indulge me this time,” Treadwell said. “It’ll be worth it.”
“If you say so.”
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at Heather. “Excuse me a sec, I need to take this.” He answered the call. “Yes.”
It was Julia O’Connell. “Sorry to bother you, Reid, but this is important.”
“I’m busy, make it quick.”
“The woman I mentioned this morning from my department by the name of Cassy Levin says she has created a countermeasure to what she thinks is a worm in our system. It’s Abacus.”
Treadwell held himself in check. “How credible is this?”
“She’s loading it on a flash drive for me to beta test.”
“Is Hardy ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then get the material and make the problem disappear.”
“Christ,” O’Connell said. “Abacus is one thing, but what I think you’re suggesting is something completely different.”
“I don’t care. I want you to make it happen. Now. This afternoon. Do you understand me?”
O’Connell hesitated.
“Goddamnit, Julia, just make sure Butch takes care of it.”
“I’ll see what we can do,” she said and hung up.
“A problem?” Heather asked.
Treadwell smiled. “Just business as usual.”