Chapter 6 - Caroline
Caroline
Eddie sat across from my desk and shook his head. “No, I do like the angle of the article. There are a lot of recession indicators that can no longer be ignored. I just don’t think we should be using the term recession yet.”
“A recession is two quarters of negative GDP growth,” I insisted.
“And these are just forecasted numbers,” Eddie replied. “Once the actual numbers are reported, we can use stronger verbiage.”
“All right,” I said, making a note on my laptop. “I’ll get the changes made and send you the final draft after lunch.”
“Thanks, Caroline. It’s a great piece.” He let out a long sigh. “How’d your meeting with Blackstone go yesterday?”
“You mean you don’t know?” I asked. That was good. It meant Blackstone hadn’t called our bosses to complain about me. I’d been walking around all morning like my neck was in the guillotine.
Eddie frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that. Why would I already know? Did you do something to destabilize the global financial market?”
“Well…” I winced. “Not exactly, but almost. You know how the fed announced a twenty-five point rate cut this morning?”
I spent a few minutes recounting the entire meeting from the day before. Eddie was groaning by the end.
“My wife was right. I should have taken the early retirement package they offered last year. My heart can’t take this stress.”
“Everything is fine,” I reiterated. “It derailed their call by ten minutes. That’s all.”
Eddie took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Powell. Jesus Christ…”
“I know. I almost threw up when I realized who I had interrupted.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he said. “I’m shocked Powell is consulting a billionaire hedge fund manager on United States monetary policy. Blackstone has a lot more influence than I thought. Honestly, this is a massive story all by itself. How soon could you give me a thousand words about it?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know, Eddie. Are you sure we should run with this story?”
He blinked in surprise. “You mean you don’t want to nail Blackstone to the wall over this?”
“I just think we should keep our powder dry. For now,” I quickly added. “We can sit on this story and report it later if we want. I would hate to lose all my access to Blackstone after a single interview. Think of how much more we have to glean from him.”
“You make a compelling point. I’m just surprised to hear it coming from you. Jerome Powell…” He wiped his forehead again. “Just make sure you don’t let this access cloud your journalistic integrity.”
“Eddie, come on,” I said. “It’s me you’re talking to.”
“Which is why I’m being so blunt with you, Caroline.”
After Eddie left, I answered a few emails and then got to work outlining the next article on my to-do list. It was a companion piece to the recession article I’d met with Eddie about, this time focusing on the sharp decline in consumer confidence in the retail sector.
Inflation was sharply rising again thanks to all the new tariffs, and it was creating waves across the entire market.
Around four in the afternoon, I got a call from Blackstone’s assistant, Angie. “What does your schedule look like for the next seventy-two hours?” she asked.
“Um…” I opened my Outlook calendar. “I can make time tomorrow at lunch, or Friday afternoon, but that’s assuming I can finish—”
“Mr. Blackstone wants to meet with you today.”
I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, but I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m on a deadline today. Lunchtime tomorrow is my earliest availability. Send me a calendar invite if that works for Mr. Blackstone.”
I hung up, and returned to my work. It felt good to put him in his place, even indirectly through his assistant. But a few minutes later, my phone rang again.
This time, it was Rafael. “Caroline. We’re sending a car. Be downstairs in five minutes.”
“I already told Angie that my earliest availability is tomorrow,” I replied. “Blackstone’s biography isn’t my top priority right now, and it’s less time-sensitive than my workload here at The Journal.”
“I’m glad you mentioned that,” Rafael replied, “because I’ve been instructed to use that stick if need be. Mr. Blackstone has three members of the Wall Street Journal board of directors on speed dial, and he would hate to have to explain what happened yesterday while you were at our HQ.”
I clenched my jaw. “Great. I was wondering if and when you would use that against me.”
“Probably shouldn’t have done it then, huh?” Rafael replied. “Downstairs. Five minutes.”
He hung up.
I collected my things and knocked on Eddie’s door. “I’ve got to go. Blackstone’s demanding my presence to work on his biography, and he’s being a dick about it.”
“Fine,” Eddie said. “Send Marilyn your work on retail consumer confidence.”
“I can do both,” I insisted. “I’ll work late tonight. I won’t miss the deadline. Thanks, Eddie!”
I hurried away before he could argue with me.
A black car with tinted windows was waiting on the busy street outside the Wall Street Journal building. A suited man opened the door for me, and I slipped inside, fully prepared to argue with Blackstone about how my time was valuable and he couldn’t just summon me with threats whenever he wanted.
But the car was empty. I was the only passenger.
The suited man got behind the wheel and started driving. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t respond.
I considered calling Blackstone’s office to complain, but I didn’t want to give them the pleasure of knowing they had annoyed me. So I stared out the window and pouted in silence.
But the car didn’t take me to the Blackstone & Moreau building. We were heading west, eventually plunging into the darkness of the Lincoln Tunnel.
“We’re going to New Jersey?” I demanded.
More silence.
“Tell me where we’re going, or I’m getting out,” I threatened. “I doubt Mr. Blackstone would like to be accused of kidnapping a journalist. What’s the old Mark Twain quote? Never pick a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel?”
The driver glanced at me in the rear-view mirror, then said, “Teterboro.”
“Teterboro Airport?” I blurted out.
Sure enough, we drove past the Meadowlands and turned north toward the airport.
Our car was waved through a security checkpoint without stopping, and we drove directly onto the tarmac, parking in front of a sleek looking Gulfstream G650 private jet.
Rafael stood next to the staircase, as still as a statue except for the wind stirring his tie and dark hair.
“Don’t argue with me,” he said as I approached. “Take it up with Harrison.”
“How do you know what I intend?”
“It’s my job to know,” he said simply. “But also, it’s plastered all over your face.”
“Okay, then yes, I will take it up with Har—Mr. Blackstone.”
The interior of the plane exuded understated opulence.
It was all Italian leather and opulent wood veneers, with a plush lounging area in the front and a private stateroom in the back.
Harrison Blackstone was seated at one of the tables, speaking quietly into his cell phone.
He smiled at me and held up a single finger, indicating that I needed to wait.
I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s Jerome Powell interruption, so I stood angrily.
“Can I get you a refreshment?” a flight attendant asked behind me. Her conservative uniform couldn’t hide the fact that she was attractive enough to be a supermodel.
“Ginger ale, please,” I replied.
She brought my drink in a smaller tumbler with ice. I took it and sat in one of the seats opposite from Blackstone and pretended to browse my phone while impatiently waiting for a chance to chew out the billionaire.
“Sorry about that,” he said when his call ended. “Busy day.”
“Who was that? The President?”
“General Secretary Xi Jinping,” he replied.
I gawked.
“Ahaha, just kidding,” he said with a disarming smile. “That was our CFO. But you should see the look on your face.”
It took all of my willpower not to throw my ginger ale in his face. To my left, Rafael cleared his throat and gave me a look.
Damn. He really was good at reading people’s intentions.
“Thanks for joining us,” Blackstone said.
“I would love to say it’s my pleasure, but it’s not. I was threatened.” I glared over at Rafael.
“Good! I told him to,” Blackstone said.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“I have a meeting with the other partner of our firm, Lucien Moreau, in Paris.”
Lucien Moreau, the other half of Blackstone & Moreau, was a Parisian venture capitalist who was every bit as cutthroat as Blackstone.
He was a ruthless innovator who’d made his fortune investing in morally gray technology, constantly managing to avoid European Union regulators like a French investment Houdini.
“We’re flying to France?” I asked in shock.
“That’s where Paris is, yes,” Blackstone said with a sparkle of humor in his eyes.
“I can’t go to Paris at the drop of a hat.”
“Sure you can,” he replied flippantly. “It’s the perfect time to talk to me. We’ll have several uninterrupted hours during the flight.”
“I have a deadline tomorrow,” I shot back. “I need more than five minutes of notice before hopping on your private jet.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Next time, I promise to give you more heads-up notice, but this trip was a last minute affair for us as well.
” He nodded at my ginger ale. “Are you sure you don’t want anything stronger?
We have a full bar. I made sure we were stocked with fresh limes in case you wanted another vodka. ”
I stood up and shouldered my bag. “That won’t be necessary. I’m returning to…”
I trailed off as the plane began to move.
“Tell the pilot to stop,” I demanded. “I need to get off the plane.”
Rafael gave me a pitying look. Like I was a child trying to push against a brick wall.
“You might as well accept it,” Blackstone said.
“Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable. The pilot isn’t going to stop the plane unless you have a bomb hidden underneath that suit.
” His gaze quickly moved down my body, then back up to my eyes.
“You did ask for full access to me. Well, this is full access.”
I liked being in control. I hated having my schedule determined by the whims of a billionaire. But he had a point. This was the kind of access I had demanded when I agreed to write his biography.
Trying not to look like a pouting toddler, I dropped my bag in the seat and sat back down. I guess this is my life now.