Total Control by David Baldacci Page B
Authors: David Baldacci
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Espionage, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery & Detective - General, Crime & mystery, Modern fiction, Missing Persons, Fiction - Espionage, Crime thriller, Aircraft accidents, Aircraft accidents - Investigation, Detective and Mystery Stories; American, Intrigue, Books on tape, Conglomerate corporations, Audiobooks on cassette
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enchanted eyes of their two-year-old.
Poor old George Beard. He should retire from those boards. It was clearly all becoming too much for him. She told herself he wouldn't even have gotten close with his preposterous story if her husband hadn't been flying today.
She looked toward the front of the Lincoln and allowed herself to relax a little. "Actually, Tommy, I'm thinking of taking the train back."
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the main conference room of Tyler, Stone's New York office in midtown Manhattan, the video presentation outlining the latest business terms and legal strategies for the CyberCom deal had just ended. Sidney stopped the video and the screen returned to a pleasant blue. She scanned the large room where fifteen heads, mostly white males in their early to mid-forties, stared anxiously at one man sitting at the head of the table. The group had been sequestered in the tension-filled room for hours.
Nathan Gamble, the chairman of Triton Global, was a barrel-chested individual of medium height, in his mid-fifties, with gray-streaked hair brushed straight back and held rigidly in place with a substantial amount of gel. The expensive double-breasted suit was professionally tailored to his stocky form. His face was deeply lined and carried the remnants of an off-season tan. His voice was baritone and commanding; Sidney could easily envision the man bellowing across conference room tables at quaking underlings. The head of a far-reaching corporate powerhouse, he certainly looked and acted the part.
From under thick gray eyebrows, Gamble's dark brown eyes were glued on her. Sidney returned the stare. "Do you have any questions, Nathan?"
"just one."
Sidney steadied herself. She could feel it coming. "What is it?"
she asked pleasantly.
"Why the hell are we doing this?"
Everyone in the room, except for Sidney Archer, winced as though they had collectively sat on one gigantic needle.
"I'm not sure I understand your question."
"Sure you do, unless you're stupid, and I know you're not." Gamble spoke quietly, his features inscrutable despite the sharpness of his rhetoric.
Sidney bit her tongue hard. "I take it you don't like having to sell yourself in order to buy CyberCom?"
Gamble looked around the table. 'They offered an exorbitant amount of cash for that company. Apparently, nor content with making a ten thousand percent return on their investment, now they want to go through my records. Correct?" He looked at Sidney for an answer. She nodded without speaking, and Gamble continued.
"I've bought a lot of companies and no one has ever asked for those materials before. Now CyberCom does. Which gets back to my earlier question. Why are we doing this? What the hell's so special about CyberCom?" His eyes made an exacting scope of the table before settling once again on Sidney.
A man seated to the left of Gamble stirred. A laptop computer in front of him had drawn his attention throughout the meeting.
Quentin Rowe was the very young president of Triton and subordinate only to Nathan Gamble. While all the other men in the room were entombed in stylish suits, he was dressed in khaki pants, worn deck shoes, a blue denim shirt and a brown vest buttoned up the front. Two diamond studs were lodged in his left earlobe. He looked more suited to appearing on an album cover than stepping into a boardroom.
"Nathan, CyberCom is special," Rowe said. "Without them we could well be out of business within two years. CyberCom's technology will completely reinvent and then dominate how information is processed over the Internet. And as far as the high-tech business is concerned, that's like Moses coming down the mountain with the Commandments; there's no substitute." Rowe's tone was a little weary but carried strident undertones. He did not look at Gamble.
Gamble lit up a cigar, casually leaning his expensive lighter up against a small brass sign on the table that read NO SMOKING. "You know, Rowe, that's the problem with this high-tech
Poor old George Beard. He should retire from those boards. It was clearly all becoming too much for him. She told herself he wouldn't even have gotten close with his preposterous story if her husband hadn't been flying today.
She looked toward the front of the Lincoln and allowed herself to relax a little. "Actually, Tommy, I'm thinking of taking the train back."
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the main conference room of Tyler, Stone's New York office in midtown Manhattan, the video presentation outlining the latest business terms and legal strategies for the CyberCom deal had just ended. Sidney stopped the video and the screen returned to a pleasant blue. She scanned the large room where fifteen heads, mostly white males in their early to mid-forties, stared anxiously at one man sitting at the head of the table. The group had been sequestered in the tension-filled room for hours.
Nathan Gamble, the chairman of Triton Global, was a barrel-chested individual of medium height, in his mid-fifties, with gray-streaked hair brushed straight back and held rigidly in place with a substantial amount of gel. The expensive double-breasted suit was professionally tailored to his stocky form. His face was deeply lined and carried the remnants of an off-season tan. His voice was baritone and commanding; Sidney could easily envision the man bellowing across conference room tables at quaking underlings. The head of a far-reaching corporate powerhouse, he certainly looked and acted the part.
From under thick gray eyebrows, Gamble's dark brown eyes were glued on her. Sidney returned the stare. "Do you have any questions, Nathan?"
"just one."
Sidney steadied herself. She could feel it coming. "What is it?"
she asked pleasantly.
"Why the hell are we doing this?"
Everyone in the room, except for Sidney Archer, winced as though they had collectively sat on one gigantic needle.
"I'm not sure I understand your question."
"Sure you do, unless you're stupid, and I know you're not." Gamble spoke quietly, his features inscrutable despite the sharpness of his rhetoric.
Sidney bit her tongue hard. "I take it you don't like having to sell yourself in order to buy CyberCom?"
Gamble looked around the table. 'They offered an exorbitant amount of cash for that company. Apparently, nor content with making a ten thousand percent return on their investment, now they want to go through my records. Correct?" He looked at Sidney for an answer. She nodded without speaking, and Gamble continued.
"I've bought a lot of companies and no one has ever asked for those materials before. Now CyberCom does. Which gets back to my earlier question. Why are we doing this? What the hell's so special about CyberCom?" His eyes made an exacting scope of the table before settling once again on Sidney.
A man seated to the left of Gamble stirred. A laptop computer in front of him had drawn his attention throughout the meeting.
Quentin Rowe was the very young president of Triton and subordinate only to Nathan Gamble. While all the other men in the room were entombed in stylish suits, he was dressed in khaki pants, worn deck shoes, a blue denim shirt and a brown vest buttoned up the front. Two diamond studs were lodged in his left earlobe. He looked more suited to appearing on an album cover than stepping into a boardroom.
"Nathan, CyberCom is special," Rowe said. "Without them we could well be out of business within two years. CyberCom's technology will completely reinvent and then dominate how information is processed over the Internet. And as far as the high-tech business is concerned, that's like Moses coming down the mountain with the Commandments; there's no substitute." Rowe's tone was a little weary but carried strident undertones. He did not look at Gamble.
Gamble lit up a cigar, casually leaning his expensive lighter up against a small brass sign on the table that read NO SMOKING. "You know, Rowe, that's the problem with this high-tech