Every Breath You Take Read online

  A wide squared-off archway with travertine columns separated the reception area from Sophie’s and Claire’s offices, which faced each other across a pathway leading to Mitchell Wyatt’s office and the conference room. His office door was closed, but Sophie opened it and walked across the room to his desk. Claire had already seen his office when he interviewed her for the position two weeks before, and had been a little surprised that it wasn’t fancier. The room itself was just large enough to be spacious, and it was furnished in the same understated, minimalist style as the reception area. His office, however, occupied the corner of the building, which gave him an uninterrupted, breathtaking view of Manhattan in two directions, and she surmised that, to him, the view was always paramount.

  His desk was clear except for a large crystal “fist” on a short pedestal at one corner and a sheaf of papers lying in the middle of the desk. Sophie picked up the papers, leafed through them, and laid them back down; then she turned to the credenza behind it, where a laptop computer was open, its bright screen lit up with the same Outlook program that Claire had used for her boss’s e-mails, business contacts, and calendar. Next to the computer was a wooden tray with more documents in it, which Sophie flipped through and then put back. “There’s nothing here to give you,” she said wryly. “Let’s go back to my desk, and I’ll tell you the names of the people who call him most frequently and I’ll give you a little background, so you’ll know who you’re talking to when they call.”

  Claire nodded and followed her out, but halfway across his office, the cell phone lying on his desk began to ring. “Should I answer that for him?” Claire asked.

  “No,” Sophie said. “He handles calls that he receives on his cell phone.” When Sophie closed the office door on the ringing phone, Claire said, “Does he prefer to keep his door closed at all times?”

  “No. As a rule, I close it if he had it closed before, and I leave it open if it was open before.” As she walked back into her office with Claire behind her, the telephone on her desk gave out a low, distinctive double ring. “That’s Mr. Wyatt’s private line. He answers it himself if he’s in his office, but if he isn’t, we always answer it,” she explained as picked up the receiver and pressed a flashing white button at the end of a row.

  “Mr. Wyatt’s office,” she said; then she listened a moment and replied in a friendly tone, “Yes, he’s here, Mr. Farrell, but he’s in the midst of a three-way teleconference. He should be finished very soon though, and—” The man on the phone evidently interrupted her, because she stopped talking, listened for a second, and then she said, “Yes, of course. I’ll bring him a note right now.” She put the call on hold, picked up her pen, and Claire watched her jot two sentences on a small pad that read, “Matt Farrell is on the phone—It’s urgent. He needs to talk to you now.” She underlined the words “urgent” and “now” twice; then she straightened, and with an unperturbed smile, she gestured for Claire to follow her. “You might as well have a glimpse of the faces that belong to the shouting voices you heard earlier.”

  She swung open the conference room door, Claire took one step into the room—and halted in stunned awe. Unlike the restrained décor and moderate proportions of the other rooms, the vast conference room was paneled in dark wood, gorgeously furnished, and completely equipped with a dazzling array of state-of-the-art audiovisual and teleconferencing equipment. Stretching almost the entire length of the room was a conference table inlaid with parquet wood and surrounded by at least eighteen overstuffed chrome swivel chairs upholstered in butterscotch leather. At the top of the long wall to the right of the conference table was a row of identical clocks indicating the time in different cities, and below the clocks were four giant, built-in television screens. At the moment, two of the screens were dark, but each of the other two was lit up with the image of a different man. Both men had gray hair and angry faces, and they were both shouting, apparently in their two different languages, at the same time—or at least they looked as if they were shouting. The sound system in the conference room had been turned down to a pleasant level, so Claire wasn’t certain if they were actually shouting, nor did she know whether the two belligerent men were addressing each other or Mitchell Wyatt. The draperies were drawn over the windows, and the spotlights in the ceiling were dimmed, giving the room a mellow glow, but providing ample light for Claire to see Mitchell Wyatt, who was seated at the center of the conference table, leaning back in his chair, looking at the screens and listening to the angry men with an expression of strained forbearance.

  From the corner of his eye, Mitchell saw Sophie walking toward him, carrying a note, and he decided it was time to put an end to his ordeal. Reaching toward a panel of buttons and switches near his elbow, he flipped Stavros’s audio connection off; then he angled his chair slightly so that the Russian would see that he’d turned his shoulder to Stavros and was speaking only to him. “I’ve turned off Stavros’s audio connection, so that you and I can speak privately,” Mitchell said in a companionable tone. “I’ve known Stavros for many years, and when he is this angry, he stops listening to explanations and begins concentrating on retaliation, Alexi. He is not going to let you change the terms of your agreement. However, if you want to back out of the agreement entirely, I’m quite certain I can persuade Stavros to let you do it—”

  The Russian’s face betrayed alarm, not relief, and his distress visibly intensified as Mitchell finished: “There are two other Russian trucking companies that he was thinking of buying when you contacted him and offered to sell him yours. I’ll talk to him tomorrow after he’s had a night’s sleep, and point out the obvious merits of buying one or both of your competitors—”

  “—And after he takes them over, he will lower his shipping prices until he’s put me out of business,” the Russian said furiously. “My business will be worthless then. I will end up with nothing!”

  Since Stavros had a reputation for doing exactly that from time to time, Mitchell didn’t reply. “If you’ve decided you want to keep your business, and that’s why you want to back out of your agreement to sell it to him, he will understand and overlook that when he calms down. If, however, you’ve decided to sell it to someone else instead, then you will be making a powerful enemy.”

  “He should worry about making an enemy out of me!”

  “He probably should,” Mitchell agreed with some amusement, “but he won’t. However, let us not end our own discussion with threats. You and Stavros can threaten each other later.”

  “Can you persuade him to pay me more?”

  “No. Stavros never goes back on his word, and he never lets anyone else go back on theirs. I can’t persuade him to let you change the terms of your agreement with him, but I think I can persuade him to let you void your agreement entirely.”

  “But—”

  “Sleep on it,” Mitchell interrupted politely. Reaching for the console, he flipped a switch to break the satellite connection with the Russian, and the left-hand screen went blank. He flipped another switch and Stavros’s voice became audible. “We’re alone,” Mitchell said, diverting his gaze to the words Sophie had written on the note.

  Stavros’s voice exploded in furious, heavily accented English, “Did you tell that whoreson what I said—did you tell him that if he tries to break our agreement, I’ll have his genitals hacked off and served to his mother on a saucer?”

  “A saucer?” Mitchell repeated with amusement, returning his attention to the screen. “Based on his behavior so far, you’re going to need a platter.”

  “He’s found another buyer for his company—”

  “No, he hasn’t, but that’s what he wants you to think. He’s simply trying to raise his price. If you stop threatening him and instead break off all communications with him for a couple days, he’ll come around. He’s a minnow who knows he’s being pursued by a shark, but instead of frightening him, it’s increasing his sense of self-importance. He wants to sell and you made him a very fair offer. Swim away and