Craig Hickman - The Insiders

Comfortably ensconced in the executive lounge at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, Quinn read the latest issue of Discount News while waiting for Wayland Tate’s envoy, Andrea Vargas. She arrived a few minutes after six o’clock looking as if she’d just walked off a runway of another sort.

“Mr. Quinn?” Vargas said, approaching him gracefully on long, shapely legs.

“That’s me,” Quinn said, pushing himself up from his chair.

“I’m Andrea Vargas,” she introduced herself, her large brown eyes glistening with charm. She extended her hand. “I’ll be your personal assistant during the retreat.”

Quinn shook her hand while considering the possible implications of her greeting. In what ways has she been asked to assist me? He chided himself for abandoning his latest attempt to lose thirty pounds, his usual response when faced with beautiful people.

“Someone will be here to get your luggage in just a moment,” she said, looking out the door toward the tarmac. “Is this your first visit to St. Moritz, Mr. Quinn?”

“No, but it’s been a few years. And please, call me David,” he said.

In heels, she was only slightly taller than Quinn’s six feet, but everything else clashed like Waterford crystal goblets and Melmac dinnerware-his roundness, her sleekness; his balding head of mousy brown hair, her tumble of loose, shoulder-length, auburn blonde waves; his bunchy gray rain coat over a stressed navy wool suit, her stylish black trench atop a short, powder blue jersey wrap dress.

After arranging for Quinn’s luggage to be loaded, Vargas escorted him across the tarmac toward the Boeing 767. Two other executives and their personal assistants were boarding ahead of them. The airplane looked like any other Boeing 767, except for the small gold letters on the fuselage near the tail wing. Executive Class was in the business of leasing aircraft and selling fractional ownership on larger jets to corporations. They were also one of Wayland Tate’s clients. Quinn followed Vargas up the stairs at the rear of the aircraft to a lavishly designed interior, reminiscent of an exclusive European hotel. She showed him to a cozy private cabin where his luggage had already been secured at the foot of a queen size bed. A seating area across from the bed comprised a round mahogany table flanked by matching leather lounge chairs. Beyond the lounge chairs was a short hallway lined with shelves holding magazines and books that led to a private bathroom with steam and shower.

Having assured herself that everything was in order, Vargas relieved Quinn of his overcoat and suit jacket, hanging them both in the mahogany closet. “We’ll be serving dinner after takeoff. If you need anything, just press ‘seven’ on your stylus,” she said while lifting an armrest, removing the cordless stylus, and handing it to Quinn. She explained how to access the onboard library of films, music, and financial market information, and then promised to return after takeoff.

As Quinn made himself comfortable in one of the lounge chairs, he found a leather folder with his name on it stuffed in a pocket below the window. It contained a personalized letter from Wayland Tate, welcoming him to the St. Moritz retreat. Accompanying the letter was a small brochure detailing the activities scheduled for the next three days. Quinn read with curiosity. Each morning from eight to eleven o’clock, well-known management and financial gurus were available for small group discussions and personal coaching on various issues and dilemmas facing today’s CEOs. Dinner would be served every night at eight o’clock. Between the morning sessions and evening dinner, leisure time had been scheduled for active or passive pleasures such as downhill or cross-country skiing, indoor and outdoor ice skating, winter golf on the frozen lake, international horse racing, steam and geothermal health baths, body massages, mud packs, or sightseeing in St. Moritz and the surrounding area.

Quinn was still perusing the lineup of activities when the plane reached its cruising altitude. Vargas returned with a dinner menu and handed it to Quinn. “I recommend the scallops. The veal reduction sauce is lovely.”

“When you have a minute, I have a few questions,” Quinn said.

Moving with effortless grace, Vargas lowered herself into the lounge chair across from him. “What’s on your mind, David?”

His eyes roamed over her as she crossed her legs and smoothed out her dress. She was easily one of the most beautiful women Quinn had ever seen.

Men were so pathetically predictable, Vargas thought. They were so easy to fuck with, especially for a woman who looked like Andrea Vargas.

Quinn chided himself for admiring her, restricting his attention to her eyes. “Can you tell me who else will be at St. Moritz this weekend?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. For the next few minutes she thoroughly reviewed the list of attendees by name, position, and company. There were twenty CEOs from major corporations, eight of whom were on the same flight with Quinn. Staff members, private bankers, various special guests, and personal assistants would be working behind the scenes to ensure that the St. Moritz retreat unfolded stress-free with as much enrichment and enjoyment as possible.

Quinn asked a few more questions about accommodations, departure schedule, Internet access, and dress code, all of which Vargas answered. When he finished, he took a few moments to look over the menu. “I’ll take your advice and have the scallops. You can choose the rest.”

During the next hour of their flight to St. Moritz, Vargas presented Quinn with plate after plate of gourmet fare?Kobe Beef Carpaccio, a mixed salad with Gorgonzola cheese, lobster bisque with chanterelles, North Atlantic sea scallops with veal reduction sauce and risotto, wine pairings from Napa and Sonoma, and Grand Marnier souffle for dessert. Although he thoroughly enjoyed the dinner, while listening to Mozart and watching a brief travelogue on St. Moritz, Quinn could never completely let go.

After dinner, he caught up on his latest pile of reading material from the office, interrupted only by Vargas’ occasional check-ins to make sure he was in need of nothing. With four hours left in the eight-hour flight, he told Vargas he was going to get some sleep.

“Can I get you something to help you relax? Ambien? Chamomile tea?” she asked.

Quinn knew he needed something to relieve the tension that had been building ever since he received news earlier in the day about next week’s board meeting. Kresge amp; Company had been invited to attend the board meeting, presumably to unveil its strategy for breaking up J. B. Musselman. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “Chamomile tea would be great.”

As Quinn changed into pajamas and a silk robe, he considered Wayland Tate and next week’s board meeting. Although Tate’s aggressiveness and manipulative style often made him anxious, Quinn was glad to have him on the board, especially now that control of the company’s future was in jeopardy. For David Quinn, J. B. Musselman was much more than a hodgepodge of distribution warehouses in the U.S., Canada, and Mexico, distributing everything from bulk packages of Fruit Loops to Adirondack furniture. It was the embodiment of everything he’d chosen to become. It was his seed, his immortality. And no board of directors or outside consulting firm was going to stop him from preserving what he’d built.

When Vargas arrived five minutes later, she placed a pot of Chamomile tea on the small coffee table and poured two cups. “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Not at all.” Quinn settled into one of the lounge chairs.

“You seem stressed,” Vargas said as she sat down across from him.

“It’s a troublesome time for my company,” Quinn said.