Controlling Interest: In the Final Analysis You Are Alone

By Daniel R Hogan Jr

Money, power, greed, love, lust, family secrets, hidden aspirations, all intermingled with foreign terrorism spinning a tale of intrigue.

A financial dynasty endures.
A family prevails.
A surprising individual’s strength emerges.

“In the final analysis you are alone.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781728377513

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© 2023 Daniel R Hogan Jr. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  01/13/2023

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7752-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7751-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900888

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

MONEY AND POWER

"Money is like a sixth sense without which you

cannot make a complete use of the other five."

"Money is always dull, except when you haven’t

got any, and then it’s terrifying."

Money does not change you. Money reveals who you are.

"Money is power, freedom. A cushion. The

root of all evil, the sum of blessings."

Put not your trust in money but put your money in trust.

"There is only one thing in this world, and that is

to keep acquiring money and more money, power,

and more power. All the rest is meaningless."

A wise man should have money in his head, but not in his heart

"Wealth consists not in having great

possessions, but in having few wants."

Money often costs too much.

A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.

"Money is only a tool. It will take you wherever you

wish, but it will not replace you as the driver."

"It is not the man who has too little, but the

man who craves more, that is poor."

Money is a terrible master but an excellent servant.

Wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it.

"The happiest of people don’t necessarily have

the best of everything; they just make the most

of everything that comes their way."

When the well’s dry, we know the worth of water.

"Authority, power, and wealth do not change

a man; they only reveal him."

"The only way to predict the future is to

have power to shape the future."

"Power is always dangerous. Power attracts

the worst and corrupts the best."

Wealth is the ability to fully experience life.

CONTENTS

One                       Icc – Intercontinental Commerce

Two                     Hubert A. Westenfield, H.W.

Three                   Cecil C. Westenfield III

Four                    John R. Colgan

Five                    Beverly Mills

Six                      Edgar Burris

Seven                 The Meeting

Eight                 The Robbery

Nine                   Elizabeth Westenfield

Ten                     Paris

Eleven                Abduction

Twelve               The Visit

Thirteen             Capitivity

Fourteen            Susan

Fifteen               Discovery

Sixteen              Revelation

Seventeen         Imprisonment

Eighteen           Lunch

Nineteen           Darkness

Twenty              Plans

Twenty One       Report

Twenty Two       Jacques

Twenty Three     The Interview

Twenty Four       Bridgett

Twenty Five       $7,500,000

Twenty Six        Margaret – Home John - Home

Twenty Seven    Liberation

Twenty Eight     It Has Begun

Twenty Nine      Sibilings

Thirty                 The Rescue

Thirty One         Pregnant

Thirty Two         Le Nouvelles

Thirty Three      The Bank Visit

Thirty Four        The Phone Call

Thirty Five        Homecoming

Thirty Six         The Will

Thirty Seven     The Hospital

Thirty Eight      Chairwoman

Thirty Nine       Cousins No More

Forty                 Margaret E. Westenfield M. W.

About the Author

ONE

ICC – INTERCONTINENTAL COMMERCE

The jagged abrasion of light from the break of the day beat down on the behemoth building contemptuous of the diminutive denizens entering its lower extremities since the cessation of night fall. From far and wide they came to be consumed by it and its equally prodigious but less lofty neighbors. One hundred and three stories down from its majestic peak, a uniformed lilliputian was diligently polishing a large brass plaque containing letters three feet tall in relief stating:

ICC – INTERCONTINENTAL COMMERCE.

Grace, Gracieeee, hurry and brush your hair. You gonna to miss the school bus. Dean, make your lunch. Hurry. I don’t have time to drive you to school this morning. Have to be at the bank early. There’s a meeting. Gracie, Dean, hurry.

Mom, where is my red ribbon?

I don’t know. Wear the blue one. Get down here and eat your breakfast with your brother. I have to leave. Don’t miss the bus. The frantic mother yelled as she departed for ICC.

Sitting at a postage stamp size table in a small one room apartment savoring the hastily prepared morning coffee, a young man excitedly was speaking to his disinterested young wife.

Old man Anseworth is going to retire in a couple of months. I’m in line to get his desk, the wire desk. I’ve been his assistant now for two years.

She continued not listening while adjusting her undergarments beneath a too tight skirt. Sitting on the small single bed a scant feet from the table situated by the window in the area so designated as the kitchen, she stepped into her low heeled shoes.

I’m sure to get a raise. He persisted looking for some recognition from his tired bored roommate. Why Mr. Anseworth was even made an officer last year. That can happen to me. It’s a good desk. There are several who would like to have it.

I’m tired hearing about that damn bank and your worthless job. She said wiggling and wedging her swollen feet into the modest pumps.

With an accustomed pain look on his face, he listened as she, now standing, adjusting her clothing, continued, You been there three years without a raise. My father didn’t raise me to live this way. As she gestured about the small unkempt apartment. I make twice the money you do working as a freaking receptionist. Quit that lousy bank and get a real job.

He heard her say as he went out the door to catch the public bus downtown to ICC.

Early morning, before the automatic timer lit all the lights in the big bank lobby, college student Salvador Saia, coming from the twenty four hour Proof-Transit Department where he worked nights while attending school during the day, strode across the august banking floor stopping momentarily at the center atop a huge metal insignia embedded in the marble floor emblazed in bold relief ICC encircled with Grecian-Roman symbols. He looked above at the triple decked mezzanine beneath the four story high lobby ceiling of banking offices. Here in the center, gazing upward and all about, Sal was always filled with awe and inspired to become a Captain of Commerce and Master of Finance in one of those offices.

Sounds from a corner teller’s cage, the largest in the lobby, indicated that Mr. Ryan, Cashier, was preparing for his day. He prided himself on saying that for forty years he had never missed a day and, with the exception of the night crew and security, was always the first to be at work.

Upon completing the evening postings, Sal was to bring the night’s clearings to Mr. Ryan for correlation with that day’s work. The instructions were to place the information in a certain spot in a designated wooden box so constructed by Mr. Ryan himself for this express purpose. Receiving these instructions two years ago, Sal imaged that he would deposit them in an unoccupied work area prior to Mr. Ryan’s arrival. But, throughout that time, there was never a time that Mr. Ryan was not there. In the past, Sal would attempt to give the work directly to Mr. Ryan, but that was not to be. Mr. Ryan summarily refused all such attempts and insisted that they be properly place in the designated area. They did not exist to him until in the appropriate repository.

The morning exchange of conversation never changed:

On occasion Sal attempted to draw the stately Mr. Ryan into conversation.

How’s the weather today? The work was heavy last night.

All to no avail. He therefore decided never to engage in conversation and simply deposit the work as instructed. Almost automatic when the work was delivered Sal would receive,

Good morning Mr. Saia.

He would reply, Good morning Mr. Ryan.

This morning was no different, and, the delivery being made, Sal hurried thru the big brass doors opened by a security guard to exit to a nearby bus stop.

A well-worn green station wagon with fake wooden panels on both sides and again on the rear gate, within a woman drove dressed in a housecoat with her reddish hair in pink curlers. Beside her sat a balding middle age overweight man in a too light blue suit with a lifeless green tie resting on his bulging mid-section amid straining shirt buttons two inches above his peeling belt buckle. Behind them alternately sitting in the second and third seat of the vehicle were four children, two boys and two girls, between the ages of two and nine.

Twenty minutes ago they had departed their home in a modest fifty year old subdivision containing 275 residence and was now approaching the East Gentilly branch office of ICC.

Don’t pull up to the door. Let me off at the corner. Said Albert Gibson, assistant customer service manager of the branch office.

What’s the matter. Your family is not good enough for your snooty bank friends?

No Martha. It’s just that you not dressed. This is good. Right here. Let me out here.

If they would pay you a deceit salary, we could afford two cars like everyone else, and I wouldn’t have to drive you to work and embarrass you.

You kids be good. Albert said to the back seat as he struggled to get himself from the car. Scampering about thirty feet, clutching a cheap imitation leather briefcase, to the exterior entrance stairway. The glass doors gold leafed with a large ICC and the hours of business below were opened by the security guard. Albert quickly sought the seclusion and certification of his desk.

A long black chauffeured driven limousine pulled into the garage in the rear of the ICC main office building downtown. Depending on which lane was taken access was allowed to the drive-in banking windows, the armored car bays, service and utility entry, public and employee parking, and executive entrance.

You be back here at precisely 3:15PM. You hear me, not a minute later. Right by these doors. No excuses about traffic or any other damn thing. You hear.

Yes sir, Mr. Westenfield. The chauffer responded exiting the car to open the door for his passenger.

Cecil C. Westenfield, III stepped out, impeccably dressed in a dark blue double-breasted suit with very fine light blue pin stripes, Egyptian linen white shirt enhanced by a golden collar pin beneath a deep blue silk tie dotted with ever so slight small maroon dots, smooth round gold discs clasped the meticulously pressed shirt cuffs extending a discrete space beyond the coat sleeve, black silk stockings enclosed by fine black eight eyelet English leather shoes. He was the token President of Inter-Continental Commerce Bank with another as CEO, and President of InterContinental Commerce Limited. A member of the founding family, he was a tall man approximately six feet two inches with an aristocratic demeanor. His face was finely chiseled with delicate features, a long prominent nose, high cheek bones, large flappy ears, thin lips, weak chin, and pale uninterested blue eyes. He was the Executive Vice President of The ICC Holding Company of which his uncle, Hubert A. Westenfield was the President and Chairman of the Board. The Holding Company held all the stock in the bank, the limited corporation, and subsidiary other business enterprises pertaining to finance, insurance, investments, and lending. The Holding Company was majority owned by the members of the Westenfield family with a multitude of minority holders.

Cecil the III was the only son of Cecil Jr. who, with his brother Hubert, inherited their holdings from their father, Cecil Sr. Over the years Hubert had obtained the bulk of ownership and along with the voting rights of stock held by his daughter Margaret Elizabeth Westenfield combined with the voting rights of his sister-in-law, Cecil III’s mother, Elizabeth Westenfield from whom Margaret obtained her middle name, and with favorable minority stock holders, Hubert had a commanding controlling interest in the financial institution.

Good Morning Mr. Westenfield. Greeted the security guard as he opened the garage door entrance to the building’s outer lobby. The outer lobby elevators are being serviced. He continued. You have to use the bank elevators this morning.

Damn. I hate going into that bank lobby. Westenfield said aloud but more to himself than to anyone. ‘It’s bad enough my suite of offices are on the west end of the third floor mezzanine looking down on that monstrosity.’ He thought.

He proceeded to the large brass doors which were open revealing the entrance way impeded by the barred brass day gate being unlocked as he approached.

With the Sun rising higher in the mid-morning sky casting short shadows of the tall buildings, John R. Colgan, the CEO and Executive Vice President of Intercontinental Commerce Bank was approaching on foot to the east entrance of the ICC building. He was the effectively the real President of the bank with Cecil Westenfield as token titular President via family connection and stock ownership. John was the supreme decision maker and authority of the bank’s activity having been so designated by Hubert A. Westenfield, Chairman.

He moved with an athletic gait and a slight swagger of broad shoulders accented by a trim waist. He had rather regular facial features which taken whole made him strikingly attractive with a full head of wavy light brown hair which was always a tad too long curling in the back and graying on the sides. A smooth clear mild olive complexion belied his fifty-three years and enhanced the sculptured bone structure of his face.

Dressed in a single breasted gray suit, light blue button-down collar shirt, bright red tie with alternate green and yellow stripes, black-laced shoes, and gray socks, he stepped upon the first of the travertine marble steps leading to the entrance of the bank building. Taken two steps at a time, he paused at the platform ninth step of which there was three in the architect’s attempt to imitate a Roman Senate stairway, to look about rethinking the feeling of power upon ascending these stairs.

Musing over, and still feeling invigorated from an early morning work-out, he passed between the two huge Eagle statues entering the outer lobby of the building. Subsequently entering the bank’s august lobby with its huge brass doors now open for the business of banking to begin. He paused again in the lobby near the east end bank elevator which would take him to his offices on the second floor mezzanine. Looking down the vast lobby as it awoke with the buzz of activity, he enjoyed that it was always exciting to experience the sights and sounds of banking. On these occasions, he would recall the words of Mr. Hubert A. Westenfield many years ago after banking hours as they departed the bank via the main lobby. H. W., as John now and other intimates called him, when John, recently recruited from a small regional bank as an Assistant Vice-President in lending, asked upon noticing how awe struck John was as they stood before the massive, embedded brass circular insignia of ICC in the marble floor situated at the center of the magnificent lobby.

What do you hear?

Why nothing Mr. Westenfield.

Nothing? H.W. asked again.

I hear typewriters, adding machine, teller machine at rest with the small sounds they make after a day of constant use. He answered weakly hoping the reply was not silly and anxious to please.

What else?

John hesitated then added, the chatter of subdued conversation, random footsteps, and an unattended distant phone ringing. I guess that’s about all.

Ah! But there is something else. H.W. added. Something you can hear even in the dead of night when the lobby is empty, and the bank is closed. No machines, no people, no phones, the real sound of banking. Do you know what that is John?

Reluctantly he answered, No sir. What is it?

The sound of interest accruing, John. The sound of interest accruing.

Pressing the button to summon the elevator still gazing down the expansive lobby John thought that it had not changed much over the years. The old-fashioned wire teller cages were replaced with open marble counters, the furniture and now royal blue carpets and drapes had been updated, the lighting was improved with more recess illumination, but the lay-out was the same. Where he stood next to the elevator beneath the mezzanine which housed his offices still containing other senior offices and junior officer’s desk where most of the larger commercial loans were handled. Below directly to the left going westward in the lobby were the notes and discount department, adjacent to the wire transfer department and International department for the purchase and exchange of traveler’s checks and foreign currency. Beyond them further left was the commercial collection department and area for the processing of drafts, letters of credit, banker’s acceptance, coupons, and bonds. Across the lobby were the consumer accounts section for new accounts, customer service, and consumer lending. On the other side were the teller stations separated for commercial and consumer transactions. Due to the large volume of activity, they were dividing alphabetically in groupings of three or four letters enabling the customers to avail themselves of more rapid services by attending their designated section. Further down at the end of the alphabet were express tellers prepared to accommodate everyone as well as the new ATM machines providing self-service.

The elevator arrived.

When entering the building and the bank lobby, John Colgan, of Irish-Italian descent, greeting all he encountered with the quick inviting smile he inherited from his Italian mother. He would often enter the three block long lobby from the west end just to walk amidst the crowd of customers and bank employees pausing to engage in small conversations as he made the way to the east end elevator. But not today. He had an appointment with the Chairman H. W. for coffee this morning in the penthouse and he did not want to be late.

The bank elevator door opened, and two well-dressed young men exited. They still wore the telltale remnants of recent college, their college ring, college-colored stripe tie, khaki pants, multi colored socks, and brown loafer discussing last night’s sports page. Upon seeing the CEO they immediately desist and gave a mutual nervous ‘Good Morning’. John returned commenting that the home-team had been robbed. Exchanging places in the elevator, as the door shut, John smiled to himself reflecting that he was never so self-aware. Then, again, maybe he was but in a different way. Exiting at the top floor for the bank elevator, he proceeded to the building elevator to access the penthouse.

TWO

HUBERT A. WESTENFIELD, H.W.

Hubert A. Westenfield, 77years old, known by his close associates and friends as H. W. He had inherited a large percentage of InterContinental Commerce Holding Company from his father the founder and organizer, Cecil C. Westenfield, as did his older brother Cecil Jr. Cecil Jr. died early leaving a young son Cecil III and a widow Elizabeth Westenfield. H.W., along with Elizabeth and Cecil III, was bequest the stock held by Cecil Sr.. Over the years H. W. had managed to acquire many of the minority owned shares and with his own had managed to acquire the majority of ownership. Combined with the voting rights of securities owned by his daughter, Margaret, and those of his sister-in-law, Elizabeth, he was the undisputed authority and Chairman of the trillion dollar multinational corporation.

It was no secret that Cecil III felt he was robbed of his birthright and that he should have been the head of the family empire. But that was not to be. H. W. has worked in the corporation all of his life. By skill and intelligence he rose to the very top. It should be noted that under his management the company has increased in size, strength, and influence to be a factor in the global economy. Cecil III, particularly when his father was alive, lived the playboy life. Emulating his father’s penchant for yachts and women. He had no financial expertise, no bank experience, and appeared to be more crafty than intelligent.

John entered the semi-secret combination on the private elevator security control allowing entry to the Westenfield penthouse floors. It was known to a select group and to the necessary service personnel.

The elevator arrived revealing a small exclusive compartment of mirrored walls with brass trim and a bar at waist height. It had deep bright green carpet emblazed with a miniature ICC gold logo in the center. As the door closed a subdued rendition of the ‘Minute Waltz’ could be heard with a whiff of rose fragrance.

The small elevator traversed to the 102 floor. This was Hubert A. Westenfield private reception room adjacent to his office and the rest of his personal living quarters, library, and den. The kitchen, wine cellar, and other utility facilities were below on floor 101. The elevator automatic stopped and opened here requiring John to press floor 103, the uppermost floor, which revealed a large meeting room and well-stocked wet bar. The room was surrounded with panoramic large windows lending a most impressive lofty view of the city.

Upon entering the meeting room, John found it to be empty. ‘Of course’, he thought and immediately reentered the elevator to return to floor 102. He located H. W. there in his office before a hot-plate cart having breakfast. After a sip of coffee held with two hands, he looked at John and said,

You are late.

John greeted him and apologies even though he was not late.

H.W. placed the cup down gently exposing very long fingers and big hands. Everything about him was elongated for he was a tall man being humbled by the slump of aging. He was immaculately dressed in a dark blue cashmere suit, white linen shirt with a deep maroon silk tie. He wore black silk socks and incongruously gray house slippers. The fit of his clothes indicated that he was formerly a larger man for they hung loosely about his thinning body as his neck protruded through a too large stiffly starched shirt collar. The all but transparent skin on his long skeleton like face was laced with a network of pale blue veins covered sporadically with brown age spots and a prevalent aristocratic nose. Toneless blue eyes were set deep within their sockets beneath all but hairless brows with scant strands of white hair on a pinkish pate.

Since making the penthouse his permanent residence some years ago, he seldom left it, nor