"I hate fog!" the cameraman announced bitterly as he glowered at the thick gray mist shrouding the coastline, obliterating the panoramic view of Half Moon Bay that he'd envisioned using as cinematic background for this interview. "I hate fog," he repeated, turning his scowling face up to the sky. "And I hate wind, goddammit!"
He had addressed his complaint directly to the Almighty, and, as if in answer, a fistful of sand blew up like a miniature whirlwind at the cameraman's feet and hurtled itself into his chest and face.
The assistant cameraman chuckled. "Apparently, God isn't very fond of you either," he observed, watching the irate man dust sand off his eyebrows. He held out a cup of steaming coffee. "How do you feel about coffee?"
"I hate that too," the cameraman muttered, but he took the cup.
The assistant nodded in the direction of the tall man standing a few yards away, gazing out at the ocean. "Why don't you ask Farrell to stop the wind and clear the fog? From what I hear, God probably takes His orders from Farrell."
"If you ask me," Alice Champion chuckled, joining the pair and sipping her own coffee, "Matthew Farrell is God." Both men shot an ironic look at the script girl, but they said nothing, and Alice knew their silence represented their own reluctant awe of the man.
Over the rim of her coffee cup, she studied Farrell as he stood looking out across the ocean—a solitary, somewhat secretive ruler of a financial empire called Intercorp, an empire he had created out of his own sweat and daring. A tall, urbane monarch who sprang from the steel mills of Indiana, Matthew Farrell had somehow purged himself of any of the characteristics that might have been identified with his lowly origins.
Now, as he stood on the ridge, waiting for the interview to continue, Alice thought he absolutely radiated success, confidence, and virility. And power. Most of all, Matthew Farrell emanated raw, harsh power. He was tanned, suave, and impeccably groomed, yet there was something about him that even his tailor-made clothes and polite smile couldn't conceal—a danger, a ruthlessness that made others try to amuse, rather than annoy him. It was as if his entire being gave off a silent warning not to cross him.
"Mr. Farrell?" Barbara Walters stepped down from the van, clamping her blowing hair down against her temples with both hands. "This weather's impossible. We'll have to set up inside the house. It will take us about thirty minutes. Can we use the living room?"
"Fine," Matt said, his annoyance at this delay concealed behind a brief smile. He did not like reporters of any kind, from any medium. The only reason he'd agreed to allow Barbara Walters to interview him was that there'd been a long rash of publicity about his private life and amorous affairs, and it was beneficial to Intercorp's image for its chief executive officer to be seen in his corporate persona for a change. When it came to Intercorp, Matt made whatever sacrifices were necessary. Nine years ago, after he finished working in Venezuela, he'd used his bonus and the additional money Sommers put up, to buy a small automotive parts manufacturing company that was teetering on bankruptcy. A year later, he sold it for twice what it had cost. Using his share of the profits and additional money he borrowed from banks and private investors, he formed Intercorp and, for the next several years, he continued to buy up companies that were teetering on bankruptcy—not because they were poorly managed, but only because they were under-capitalized—then he shored them up with Intercorp's capital and waited for a buyer.
Later, instead of selling the companies off, he began a carefully planned acquisition program. As a result, in one decade, he'd built Intercorp into the financial empire he'd imagined during those grim days and nights he labored in the steel mills and sweated on the oil rig. Today, Intercorp was a massive conglomerate headquartered in Los Angeles that controlled businesses as diverse as pharmaceutical research laboratories and textile mills.
Until recently, Matt had made it a practice to purchase only selected companies that were for sale. A year ago, however, he had entered into negotiations to buy a multi-billion dollar electronics manufacturer headquartered in Chicago. Originally, the company had approached him, asking if Intercorp would be interested in acquiring them.
Matt had liked the idea, but after spending a great deal of revenue and many months finalizing the agreement, the officers of Haskell Electronics had suddenly refused to accept the previously agreed-upon terms. Angry at the waste of Intercorp's time and money, Matt decided to acquire Haskell with or without their consent. As a result of that decision, a fierce and well-publicized battle ensued. At the end of it, Haskell's officers and directors were left lying crippled on the financial battlefield, and Intercorp had gained a very profitable electronics manufacturer. Along with victory, however, Matt also acquired a reputation as a ruthless corporate raider. That didn't particularly faze him; it was no more irksome than his reputation as an international playboy which the press had bestowed upon him. Adverse publicity and the loss of his personal privacy were the costs of success, and he accepted them with the same philosophical indifference that he felt for the fawning hypocrisy he encountered socially, and the treachery he faced from business adversaries. Sycophants and enemies came with extraordinary success, and if dealing with them had made him extremely cynical and wary, that, too, was the price he'd had to pay.
None of that bothered him; what did bother him was that he no longer derived much gratification from his successes. The exhilaration he used to feel when he faced a difficult business deal had been missing for years, probably, he'd decided, because success was virtually a foregone conclusion now. There was nothing left to challenge him—at least there hadn't been until he'd decided to take over Haskell Electronics. Now, for the first time in years, he was feeling some of the old adrenaline and anticipation. Haskell was a challenge; the huge corporation needed to be completely restructured. It was top-heavy with management; its manufacturing facilities were antiquated, its marketing strategies outdated. All of that would have to change before it could begin to realize its full profit potential, and Matt was eager to get to Chicago and get started. In the past whenever he acquired a new company, he'd sent in the six men who Business Week magazine had dubbed his "takeover team" to evaluate the organization and make recommendations. They'd been at Haskell for two weeks already, working in the sixty-story high rise that Haskell owned and occupied, waiting for Matt to join them. Since he expected to be in Chicago off and on for the better part of a year, he'd bought a penthouse apartment there. Everything was in readiness, and he was eager to leave and get started.
He had addressed his complaint directly to the Almighty, and, as if in answer, a fistful of sand blew up like a miniature whirlwind at the cameraman's feet and hurtled itself into his chest and face.
The assistant cameraman chuckled. "Apparently, God isn't very fond of you either," he observed, watching the irate man dust sand off his eyebrows. He held out a cup of steaming coffee. "How do you feel about coffee?"
"I hate that too," the cameraman muttered, but he took the cup.
The assistant nodded in the direction of the tall man standing a few yards away, gazing out at the ocean. "Why don't you ask Farrell to stop the wind and clear the fog? From what I hear, God probably takes His orders from Farrell."
"If you ask me," Alice Champion chuckled, joining the pair and sipping her own coffee, "Matthew Farrell is God." Both men shot an ironic look at the script girl, but they said nothing, and Alice knew their silence represented their own reluctant awe of the man.
Over the rim of her coffee cup, she studied Farrell as he stood looking out across the ocean—a solitary, somewhat secretive ruler of a financial empire called Intercorp, an empire he had created out of his own sweat and daring. A tall, urbane monarch who sprang from the steel mills of Indiana, Matthew Farrell had somehow purged himself of any of the characteristics that might have been identified with his lowly origins.
Now, as he stood on the ridge, waiting for the interview to continue, Alice thought he absolutely radiated success, confidence, and virility. And power. Most of all, Matthew Farrell emanated raw, harsh power. He was tanned, suave, and impeccably groomed, yet there was something about him that even his tailor-made clothes and polite smile couldn't conceal—a danger, a ruthlessness that made others try to amuse, rather than annoy him. It was as if his entire being gave off a silent warning not to cross him.
"Mr. Farrell?" Barbara Walters stepped down from the van, clamping her blowing hair down against her temples with both hands. "This weather's impossible. We'll have to set up inside the house. It will take us about thirty minutes. Can we use the living room?"
"Fine," Matt said, his annoyance at this delay concealed behind a brief smile. He did not like reporters of any kind, from any medium. The only reason he'd agreed to allow Barbara Walters to interview him was that there'd been a long rash of publicity about his private life and amorous affairs, and it was beneficial to Intercorp's image for its chief executive officer to be seen in his corporate persona for a change. When it came to Intercorp, Matt made whatever sacrifices were necessary. Nine years ago, after he finished working in Venezuela, he'd used his bonus and the additional money Sommers put up, to buy a small automotive parts manufacturing company that was teetering on bankruptcy. A year later, he sold it for twice what it had cost. Using his share of the profits and additional money he borrowed from banks and private investors, he formed Intercorp and, for the next several years, he continued to buy up companies that were teetering on bankruptcy—not because they were poorly managed, but only because they were under-capitalized—then he shored them up with Intercorp's capital and waited for a buyer.
Later, instead of selling the companies off, he began a carefully planned acquisition program. As a result, in one decade, he'd built Intercorp into the financial empire he'd imagined during those grim days and nights he labored in the steel mills and sweated on the oil rig. Today, Intercorp was a massive conglomerate headquartered in Los Angeles that controlled businesses as diverse as pharmaceutical research laboratories and textile mills.
Until recently, Matt had made it a practice to purchase only selected companies that were for sale. A year ago, however, he had entered into negotiations to buy a multi-billion dollar electronics manufacturer headquartered in Chicago. Originally, the company had approached him, asking if Intercorp would be interested in acquiring them.
Matt had liked the idea, but after spending a great deal of revenue and many months finalizing the agreement, the officers of Haskell Electronics had suddenly refused to accept the previously agreed-upon terms. Angry at the waste of Intercorp's time and money, Matt decided to acquire Haskell with or without their consent. As a result of that decision, a fierce and well-publicized battle ensued. At the end of it, Haskell's officers and directors were left lying crippled on the financial battlefield, and Intercorp had gained a very profitable electronics manufacturer. Along with victory, however, Matt also acquired a reputation as a ruthless corporate raider. That didn't particularly faze him; it was no more irksome than his reputation as an international playboy which the press had bestowed upon him. Adverse publicity and the loss of his personal privacy were the costs of success, and he accepted them with the same philosophical indifference that he felt for the fawning hypocrisy he encountered socially, and the treachery he faced from business adversaries. Sycophants and enemies came with extraordinary success, and if dealing with them had made him extremely cynical and wary, that, too, was the price he'd had to pay.
None of that bothered him; what did bother him was that he no longer derived much gratification from his successes. The exhilaration he used to feel when he faced a difficult business deal had been missing for years, probably, he'd decided, because success was virtually a foregone conclusion now. There was nothing left to challenge him—at least there hadn't been until he'd decided to take over Haskell Electronics. Now, for the first time in years, he was feeling some of the old adrenaline and anticipation. Haskell was a challenge; the huge corporation needed to be completely restructured. It was top-heavy with management; its manufacturing facilities were antiquated, its marketing strategies outdated. All of that would have to change before it could begin to realize its full profit potential, and Matt was eager to get to Chicago and get started. In the past whenever he acquired a new company, he'd sent in the six men who Business Week magazine had dubbed his "takeover team" to evaluate the organization and make recommendations. They'd been at Haskell for two weeks already, working in the sixty-story high rise that Haskell owned and occupied, waiting for Matt to join them. Since he expected to be in Chicago off and on for the better part of a year, he'd bought a penthouse apartment there. Everything was in readiness, and he was eager to leave and get started.
