Wilson nodded as the host escorted them—at Wilson’s request—to a thick stone-lined corner of the pub. When they were seated, Wilson dispensed with the normal social niceties. “Daniel Redd’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Carter concurred solemnly, without saying a word.
Wilson leaned over the table. It was time for plain talk. But before he began, Wilson reminded himself to be calm. His relationship with Carter had been nothing but stimulating and inspiring. If he couldn’t trust Carter Emerson, he couldn’t trust anyone. With measured delivery and a voice reserved for discreet conversation, he said, “Why has it taken my father lying on his death bed to find out what he was really doing at Fielder & Company? And I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. Daniel was feeding me bits and pieces, but only in answer to specific questions. Now he’s dead. Probably murdered by the same people who tried to kill my father. Who’s next? You? Me? We’re all under mounting surveillance, but we can’t go to the authorities because their involvement could jeopardize the liquidation of my father’s assets, which unknown to me until a couple of days ago, total more than seventy billion dollars. I need answers, and according to my father, you’re the only one left who I can trust.”
“I learned a long time ago that certain conversations must remain absolutely private,” Carter said in a dry voice as he looked down at the briefcase resting on the floor next to his foot. “The technology in that briefcase radiates digital noise interference, essentially turning our conversation into white noise. It also immobilizes and nullifies listening devices such as wireless microphones and GPS tracking devices. There are two telephone scramblers inside as well. You can take the briefcase with you when you leave. Operating instructions are inside.”
Wilson sat back, contemplating the mystery that was Carter—so like his father. “Tell me everything you know,” he said firmly.
“Your father came to me a week ago, expressing grave concern about clients who were misusing his methods of wealth creation. His plan was to blow the whistle on them, regardless of the consequences to Fielder & Company. He asked for my assistance in documenting the abuses, including historical context and economic impact, to prepare stories for The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. I immediately began clearing my calendar to concentrate on the files he promised to deliver upon his return from White Horse,” Carter said, his eyes heavy.
What Carter said made sense and even sounded like something his father would do, Wilson thought, but was it true? Wilson’s cynicism was growing. How much does Carter really know?
“Are you still willing to do what my father asked?”
“Now more than ever,” Carter didn’t hesitate.
“I have the files with me,” Wilson said, looking down at the briefcase sitting next to his side of the table. “Daniel reviewed the files with me on the flight back from Sun Valley.”
For the next forty-five minutes, while they ate a lunch of sandwiches and fruit, Wilson summarized the major areas of abuse by Fielder & Company’s clients. He cited several examples from the fifty-two files and answered Carter’s probing questions. When there were no more questions, Wilson looked deep into Carter’s eyes. “I don’t know how many people have already died, or how many may yet die to keep this information hidden, but I want to be ready to give this story to the press as soon as my father’s assets have been liquidated and all of us are under the best protection I can find.”
Carter nodded admiringly. “I am in full accord and eager to commence.”
“I can arrange to give you access to all of the company’s files. My father’s administrative assistant Anne Cartwright will be your contact. I’ll tell her you’re compiling a corporate history of Fielder & Company as a way of offsetting some of the unfavorable press surrounding my father,” Wilson said as he finished his meal.
They paid the check, left the underground pub, and walked out onto Dunster Street, carrying each other’s briefcases.
“Did Daniel identify any major suspects from among the fifty-two?” Carter asked as they walked toward Harvard Yard.
“No,” Wilson said sharply. If Carter knows more than he’s telling me, he’ll be able to boil the list down to prime suspects much faster than I can. “I was hoping you would…”
“That’s the first thing I’ll do,” Carter said, interrupting. “Do you anticipate carrying out the KaneWeller merger, or have the deaths of Daniel Redd and Cheryl O’Grady changed things?”
“I don’t know yet,” Wilson said, struck by Carter’s decisiveness and his sudden return to analytical detachment. He must know more than he’s telling me. “If Daniel’s law firm fails to produce and/or adequately explain the requested files, KaneWeller may have legitimate cause to back out of the deal. On the other hand, if the law firm hands over the files, KaneWeller may choke on the information. Either way, there’s a good chance they’ll back out.”
“What then?” Carter asked as the two of them entered Harvard Yard through Johnston Gate.
“Fielder & Company becomes a stand-alone entity again,” Wilson said.
“Who would assume control of the operation?”
“I would,” Wilson said, anxious to see how Carter would respond.
“After what happened to your father? That’s foolhardy.”
“Who else is going to stop the carnage?” Wilson said goadingly. “If KaneWeller backs out, no other firm will consider acquiring Fielder & Company for at least a year.”
“Whoever disposed of Daniel will do the same to you,” Carter said with surprising intensity. “You must assume that the people watching us have sufficient means to get away with anything. And I do mean anything.”
Wilson stopped in front of the Widener Library to search Carter’s eyes. What Carter had said was true. So why isn’t he telling me everything? For protection? There’s only one way to find out. “Then I’ll have to convince them to trust me.”
“You expect to reason with these people?”
“Why not? What better way to expose them?”
“The journey could damage you more than you can imagine.”
Wilson’s eyes narrowed as he responded, “If the deal with KaneWeller goes sour, I don’t see an alternative. I didn’t ask for this mess, but I can do something about it.”
“Take perspective, Wilson,” Carter said, as they faced each other in the quad between the Widener Library and Memorial Church. All of a sudden there were students everywhere. “Do you honestly believe that saving the world from one more corrupt conspiracy will make a difference?”
“Of course I do, and so do you.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Then why work so hard to keep your students from succumbing to the misinterpretations of one more historian? Why write so prolifically about what we haven’t learned from history’s bitter ironies? Why help me document the abuses at Fielder & Company? I’ll tell you why. To be free from lies. Your whole life has been about saving the world from one more corruption—one more lie. I was your student for two years, remember?”
Carter contemplated Wilson for several moments as passing students stared. “You are your father, Wilson,” he said warmly. “You have his gift for distinguishing the core of things. I saw traces of it in you at Princeton, but you have travelled well beyond those days. Your father would be proud.”
Wilson appreciated the comment but winced at “would”. He remained silent.
“You may be right about my longing to save humanity, but I assure you, it is not necessarily a godly trait,” Carter said with a solemn face.
Wilson smiled at the conundrum.
“If you decide to proceed with this,” Carter continued, “you may not be able to protect the people you love.”
“I’m working on that,” Wilson said as they resumed walking.
When they walked past Memorial Church, Carter slowed and turned to Wilson. “Leaping into the abyss rarely offers an attractive reward-to-risk ratio,” Carter said.
Wilson attempted t
o hold his gaze, but Carter had already picked up the pace again.
“Who do you trust at Fielder & Company?” Carter asked as they continued walking toward Robinson Hall.
“No one.”
“Keep it that way.”
Wilson nodded. Reconfirm the obvious.
“You know your every move will be scrutinized,” Carter said.
“I won’t be able to stomach the charade for long, I know that. Days, maybe weeks, definitely not months,” Wilson said when they arrived at the entrance to Robinson Hall, where Carter was scheduled to give a lecture in five minutes. He invited Wilson to listen in, but Wilson declined. He still had to find a solution to everyone’s safety.
“Tedious and treacherous, requiring immense patience and resolve. The stress on you and everyone around you will become unbearable. And the surveillance will only get worse,” Carter said, looking every bit the adventurer ready to embark on a new crusade.
Wilson nodded again, resigning himself to the reality that Carter, like his father, would never divulge anything before he was completely ready to do so. And right now, Carter was primarily preoccupied with Wilson’s safety, which left Wilson only one option—choose a course of action that would make Carter encourage him or stop him.
“Let’s hope we make it,” Wilson said.
They shook hands and arranged to meet again once Carter had been able to study the files. Walking away from Robinson Hall, Wilson felt like an overloaded pack mule. The looming prospect of taking over the helm at Fielder & Company unnerved him, but it seemed there was no other way to correct his father’s mistakes.
13
Tate – St. Moritz, Switzerland
Wayland Tate entered his suite at Suvretta House and deposited his gloves and parka on the entryway settee. He’d received Marco’s confirmation call a few hours earlier when he was on the slopes with clients. Everything had gone as planned. No loose ends. The promised funds had already been wired. Although extreme measures weren’t Tate’s first choice, he never hesitated to use them when necessary.
Tate opened the door to the adjoining suite where he found Diane Morita waiting for him at a marble table near the arched window. She looked dazzling in her red Japanese silk robe, but they had work to do. As he sat down at the table, Morita commented that the sun had accentuated the lines around his eyes, giving him a sexy weathered look. His only response was to retrieve a tube of eye cream from the bathroom.
“Where are the next two retreats?” Tate asked when he returned to his seat at the table and began gently applying the cream to the area around his eyes.
Morita smiled at his vanity. Turning her attention to the calendar spread out in front of her, she said, “Banff and Capri.”
“What do you think David Quinn would prefer? Snow lodge or Roman Villa?” Tate asked.
“Vargas says he’s totally relaxed and skiing his brains out. Seems he also has a thing for Banff.”
“Okay. It’s a little sooner than I’d like, but we can be ready. I’ll invite him tonight. Make sure Kamin’s available for Banff.”
Morita nodded and then gave her long black hair a flip over her shoulder as she looked directly at Tate. “I think it’s time to expand Vargas’ role.”
Tate sat back in his chair to observe her. Diane Morita had fastidiously handled Tate Waterhouse’s diverse array of client entertainment needs for the past seven years, including all the arrangements for Tate’s three-dozen client extravaganzas each year. Her MBA from Stanford and fifteen years of human resources experience at the Walt Disney Company had prepared her well, but it was a personal tragedy and an intimate relationship with Tate that had ultimately honed her unique client-handling techniques.
Ten years earlier, shortly after joining Tate Waterhouse as vice president of human resources, Morita had gone through an ugly divorce followed by a romantic fling with Tate, who’d just separated from his wife. When Tate ended the affair a few months later because he felt she was getting too attached, Morita tried to kill herself with an overdose of prescription drugs. It was Tate who rescued her and then nursed her back to health. Now, in addition to being business associates, they were friends with benefits. The bond that had developed between them during her recovery, however, went much deeper than sexual intimacy. What they’d discovered was a mutual lust for the emotional highs that came from exploiting the concealed flaws and obsessions of the world’s powerful elite. Like mythical gods toying with mere mortals, they shared a common vision of eternal glory—whoever manipulates most and best is the one and only true god. Their united lust for manipulation had become Tate Waterhouse’s most distinctive competence, something Tate playfully referred to as an unfair competitive advantage. And they made sure that each of the firm’s personal assistants possessed a natural affinity for it. Tate smiled appreciatively at Morita. “What did you have in mind for Vargas?”
“Client coordinator on the America’s Warehouse campaign,” Morita said, smiling back.
Tate raised his eyebrows slightly as he watched Morita. “She’ll be in daily meetings with him.”
“Exactly,” Morita said, looking as sly and cunning as a minx.
“You still believe she can penetrate Quinn’s armor of tradition and habit?” Tate asked, continuing to feel somewhat skeptical about Vargas’ ability to get Quinn into bed with her. If she could, it would make Quinn’s continued compliance that much smoother. But experience told him that piercing the veil of marital fidelity wouldn’t be easy with a legacy-driven moralist like Quinn. Unless, that is, recent pressures had opened more cracks than Tate realized.
“Unquestionably,” Morita returned, her eyes like steel.
“He may be warming up to her, but I don’t see him going that far, at least not in the near term. Our best bet is to stay focused on his zeal to create a legacy,” Tate said.
“I don’t have a problem with our strategy. Quinn wants the corporate hall of fame; we’ll give it to him. But there’s a hidden recklessness in the man, beneath his corporate exterior. It’s not just posthumous glory he wants.”
“Based on what?” Tate asked, growing more curious.
“Asking you to manipulate the board. His willingness to sue Kresge & Company. And the comment about Wilson Fielder.”
“He hasn’t sued Kresge yet,” Tate said, before pausing a moment, then he added, “What comment are you talking about?”
“He told Vargas that he wouldn’t hesitate resorting to dirty tricks to get Wilson off his back.”
“That’s just talk,” Tate said, downplaying the comment to see how Morita would respond. “He said the same thing to me at the Kurhaus.”
“My first impression as well. Then Vargas told me about his skiing. He takes risks. Reckless chances. Vargas grew up on skis; her parents were ski patrol at Aspen for years. I think her father still is. Trust me, she’s good. Quinn scared her today, doing figure eights on a near vertical slope with a cliff halfway down. She almost lost it.”
Tate leaned back in his chair again, this time crossing his legs and folding his arms with a sardonic smile forming on his lips. “Maybe he’s more frustrated than I realized.”
“Suppressed desires,” Morita said. “He’s lapping up her praises like a schoolboy and she believes he’s vulnerable. Getting her more involved will allow us to monitor him more closely, just in case he begins to mourn any of his lost integrity.”
“You think Vargas can pull it off?”
“When we give Quinn what he wants, his euphoria will have to go somewhere. Just like it did today. In that sort of situation, Vargas could make anyone vulnerable.”
“Are we vulnerable?” Tate asked.
“Vargas’ net worth passed the ten million mark last week. She’s elated and she likes Quinn. Give her a few weeks, and she’ll have him buying her diamonds.”
“That’s not what I mean. Are we vulnerable if we let Vargas get closer to us?”
“Absolutely not. I know this girl. She’s like you and me. She loves what s
he does.”
“Remind me, what’s our contingency with her?” Tate asked, knowing full well what the contingency protocol was for Andrea Vargas, in case she ever decided to blow the whistle on Tate Waterhouse or any of its clients. There were contingency protocols for each of the personal assistants who worked with Tate Waterhouse’s most preferred clients. To earn the seven figure incomes that went along with escorting such clients, each personal assistant had to designate a member of her family or a close personal friend for ongoing surveillance. The unspoken implication was that, if she ever divulged sensitive information about the internal workings of Tate Waterhouse and its clients, someone close to her would suffer. Tate wanted to make sure Morita had been thinking about Vargas’ contingency protocol and was satisfied with it.
“Her parents,” Morita said. “She knows the game and the stakes. And she loves playing it.”
“I’ll talk to Boggs & Saggett about the new assignment when we get back. Then I’ll talk to Vargas. In the meantime, let’s figure out how to deepen her commitment to us. Maybe a special bonus of Musselman stock if she breaks him,” Tate said as he stood up.
“I’m going to take a shower before dinner.”
“Would you like some company?”
“Will your offer stand for a few hours?” he asked with a charming smile. “Right now I’m in desperate need of some down time before the mingling resumes—and a chance to visualize Quinn’s wilder side.”
“The offer expires at midnight,” Morita said temptingly.
During a luxurious dinner buffet at Rotisserie des Chevaliers, Wayland Tate and Jules Kamin enthusiastically informed David Quinn that Musselman’s Chairman of the Board, James MacMillan, had made it official: instead of breaking up the company, Tate and Kamin would be discussing Wilson Fielder’s mismanagement of the Kresge consulting project at next week’s board meeting.
“What did MacMillan say?” Quinn asked anxiously. James MacMillan had mentored Quinn earlier in his career. Quinn returned the favor by asking MacMillan to be Musselman’s chairman. At age seventy-eight, MacMillan was healthier than most forty-year-olds. He’d been the perfect chairman, giving Quinn free reign as CEO, until profits started declining a couple of years ago. That’s when things had changed, much to Quinn’s dismay. MacMillan’s deep sense of fiduciary responsibility to Musselman’s shareholders had caused him to get increasingly involved in company issues. Now Quinn wanted his former mentor off his back.
The Insiders Page 8
