Page 34 of The Fourth Option
“Thank you. Let’s go before I get caught up in a conversation that I don’t have time for.”
Their next stop was the gala at the Four Seasons. He had been invited to speak there too, but declined because his ex would be on the dais and he didn’t like the optics. Better to be in the audience, comfortably disdaining that limelight because it shot below his orbit. Still, he wanted to look rested and at his best to impress her, which meant getting out of here now so he could change into a tux.
“One thing,” Kimbel added smoothly, lightly touching his elbow. “Mr. Vargas watched the livestream. He wants a word.”
“Now?”
“Upstairs. Carolyn got us permanent office space in the new wing. Fourteen stories up. The least Tulane could do for our sixty-three million. There’s a video-call ready for you.”
Matheson sighed.
“We’ll keep it quick, sir. I promise.”
From the top floor looking south, the haze that hung over the city resembled breath on a mirror, blurring the jagged towers of the Central Business District into the leafy sprawl beyond. Farther still, the Mississippi cut a rust-colored path past cranes and drifting freighters.
Matheson stood with his shirtsleeves rolled. The room was cold at sixty-six degrees, just how he liked it. Still, beads of sweat lingered along the bridge of his nose. He checked the Breitling, wiped his brow, and stared through the tinted panes at the Big Easy.
“Feed is up,” Kimbel said, already seated. “He’ll join in a moment.”
Matheson turned and took his seat. No prep notes. No talking points. Just a businessman waiting to speak with someone who could have him flayed alive.
The screen flickered and the voice came through.
“Hello?”The deep voice was heavily accented Spanish.
“Hello. Can you hear us?” Matheson asked, his tone polished and clipped.
“Ah. There you are,” the voice replied. “I can see you now.”
Fulgencio Vargas was known to those who dealt with him on the shadier side of the ledger asCuchillo, “Knife.” His heavily pockmarked face appeared on the screen. It was lit from one side, shadows clinging to the crags. Behind him, the rolling green hills met the cobalt blue of El Salvador’s Pacific coast.
“You look well,” Matheson said.
A pause.
“It’s bright behind you,” Cuchillo responded with a squint. “Are you still in my new center?”
Matheson twirled a cuff link engraved with his company’s logo.
“Yes. Top floor,” he replied. “They’ve dedicated an office to Genyra.”
“I’ll bet that makes you feel important,” Cuchillo said. “Did you get one too, Kimbel? Going to run your empire from a glass fishbowl now?”
Kimbel chuckled with performative warmth that was a bit too loud and eager. It translated as nervousness.
“No, sir,” Kimbel said, in response to Matheson’s death stare. “Business as usual.”
Vargas shifted in his leather chair. “I had eyes on your little show today, Derek. The one with the flag waving and the white coats clapping. You’ve gotten better at pretending to be charming. Oscar-worthy performance.”
“Thank you,” Matheson replied. “But it was the FDA approval they cared about, the improvements in patient survival rates, the lengthening of lives.”
“Oh, yes. And also the building they have no idea came from me.”
Matheson’s jaw clenched. “The building is a starting line,” he said mildly. “The research that comes next, that’s the real investment.”
Vargas stared into the camera. “Don’t forget that it was my intervention, my investment, that saved Genyra from bankruptcy and kept you afloat through the FDA approval process.” He paused. “Your stock closed down point-three today. Wall Street doesn’t love you as much as Tulane does.”
“It was up five points last week,” Matheson shot back. “We crossed five billion in market cap. That’s very good for all of us.”
