Steven Gore: Final Target

“When I met him at the country club two days later, I came ready to pitch the hell out of SatTek, but he was already a step ahead of me.

“Granger was sitting at the bar when I walked in. We started with a little small talk. Golf handicaps, that kind of thing, until my drink arrived. Then he eased into the subject, casual-like, and told me that he’d done a little research on SatTek’s financials.

“I froze up. Panicked because he might’ve figured out that SatTek was just treading water. The Grangers of the world don’t invest in swimming holes. They want to ride the raging river. They’re chasing new technology, not the old, even if it’s the best in its market.

“I gave him the pitch anyway because that was all I had. I ran through the whole product line: everything from how our acoustic detectors can pick up a terrorist sneaking across the desert ten miles away, to how our video amplifiers can drop an air-to-ground missile into a coffee cup. I really pounded it. It was the best presentation I ever made.

“After I’m done, Granger smiled at me and gave me a fatherly pat on the shoulder, and said, ‘You don’t need to sell me, I’m already sold.’

“I felt like an idiot. Granger is a guy with a reputation for knowing everything, and I just pointed at the sun and told him it was daylight.

“I got flustered. I think I even turned red. But he ignored it and said, ‘Have you thought about bypassing the venture capital route altogether, and taking SatTek public?’

“For a second, I thought maybe he got dumped from Westbrae for senility. What the hell do you think guys like me daydream about? I’ll tell you what. It’s standing on the podium at the New York Stock Exchange, ringing the bell, and then watching your share price explode through the roof.

“But I had no reason to think that would ever happen with SatTek and I admitted it. I told him that there was too much pink on our balance sheet and that the SEC would just laugh at us.

“Granger stared down at his bourbon for a while, took a sip, and then looked back at me and said, ‘I guess we’ll just have to wipe the smiles off their faces.’

“Man, what a rush. At the time, it felt like he was putting his arm around me, including me in something. But looking back now, I realize it was just him setting the hook.

“Then he swiveled his stool toward me. I remember his exact words:

“‘What you’ve got to understand, Scoob, is that success in business has very little to do with whether you’re in the red or in the black. It’s about how aggressive you’re willing to be.’ He paused and stared me right in the eyes, then he said, ‘You know what that means, right? Aggressive.’

“I really wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded anyway and asked him what he had in mind. But he didn’t tell me. Not right then, anyway. He just pointed at my chest and said, ‘Whatever it is, Scoob, don’t waste my time. You’re either going to be in or you’re going to be out.’

“The fact is, I was in even before I walked through the door.”

A t seven on the morning following Burch’s shooting, Gage displayed his identification to the security guard stationed behind the counter in the glass and steel lobby of the financial district tower housing Burch’s top floor office. The balding man in the gray uniform waved it away and offered Gage a toothy grin.

“Don’t you remember me?” the guard asked.

Gage inspected the man. There was something familiar about the Howdy Doody cheeks, but Gage couldn’t connect the face with anything in his past. He shook his head.

“I’m Sonny Powers. I was a bailiff when you were with SFPD.”

Gage smiled and stuck out his hand. “D Day.”

The courtroom riot in 1982 known as D Day had ended the career of the then-twenty-six-year-old Powers with a crushed knee. Gage was testifying in the homicide trial of three members of the D Block Boys, when four gang members in the gallery jumped the barrier to overpower the bailiffs. The clerk remotely locked the door, and the escape attempt devolved into a pointless melee. Gage shoved the judge under the bench, then weighed into the mix. He last saw Powers writhing on the marble floor while the paramedics tried to stabilize his leg.

Powers struggled to his feet to shake Gage’s hand, then held up the day’s authorized visitors sheet. He pointed at Gage’s name and the suite number. “You here about Jack Burch?”

“His secretary came in early to gather up some files for me before the press showed up. I didn’t want to become part of the story.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Not good.” Gage glanced back toward the storm-soaked street where a television truck pulled to a stop to feed a story to the early morning news. “Looks like I’m too late. I better get upstairs.”

Gage started toward the elevators.

“Don’t worry,” Powers called after him, “they won’t get by me. I’ve had enough of those assholes trying to sneak in and out of here.”

Gage spun back. “What do you mean?”

“A janitor popped the back door to let one in a while ago. Said he was a producer from ABC News, that 20/20 show, and wanted to use the freight elevator to bring up equipment.” Powers gestured toward the monitors on his desk. “I saw him come in.” He adopted an authoritative tone. “I read the janitor the riot act and told her to go find the guy and bring him down here.”

A rush of anger followed Gage’s recollection of the only other thing he knew about Powers: He’d ended up as a court bailiff because he was incompetent as a street cop. Gage cringed at the thought of Burch’s secretary, Anne-Marie, already at her desk organizing the SatTek and Moscow files: distraught, preoccupied, and vulnerable.

“How do you know he was with ABC?”

“The janitor said he showed an ID, just like all of them.” Powers reddened, then limped toward the end of the counter, as if abandoning his post to look for the man. “You don’t think he’s the guy who shot-”

“What did he look like?”

“Dark windbreaker. Black hair.”

Gage tossed Powers a business card. “Call my cell so I’ll have your number.” He then pointed at the entrance. “Lock the front door and block the back exit.” He sprinted toward the elevators and into an express toward the forty-third floor. His phone rang as the doors closed. He verified that Powers’s number showed on the screen, then punched the end button.

The elevator seemed to rise in slow motion. The annoying pinging seemed to be counting down rather than up. A final ping signaled the door opening in the empty lobby of Burch’s firm, lit only by the storm-muted sunrise. He listened for a moment, then headed down the long carpeted hallway toward Burch’s office in the opposite corner of the building.

As he crept along the wall, the snap of metal on metal broke the silence. It sounded to Gage like a file cabinet or a desk drawer. He edged toward the hallway corner and looked around it. Sharp fluorescent light emerging from a small storage room striped the gray carpet thirty feet away. Burch’s office door was open fifteen feet farther down.

Another snap, then the slap of a file and the shuffling of papers. The noises seemed to come from the storage room. Gage imagined the layout. Banks of file cabinets on the right and left walls. Copier at the back. Table centered in the middle.

Gage heard a groan as he approached the threshold. He balanced on the balls of his feet, and then peeked into the room. Anne-Marie lay on her side in front of the copier, hands and feet bound, packing tape over her mouth. She flinched at the motion in the doorway-

A fist shot toward him from around the doorjamb. It rocked him with a punch to the stomach. The burglar surged forward, jamming his shoulder into Gage’s chest, and ramming him into the opposite wall. Gage slumped to the floor as the man fled down the hallway.