The Insiders

by Craig Hickman

  Quinn was melting inside as he watched Vargas’ body swaying back and forth before she disappeared through the door. Raw ecstasy, he thought. “Hey, I’m back,” Quinn said into the phone. “We still have miles to go before the grand opening, but we’re almost there.”

  “Everyone wants to know when you’re coming home to celebrate,” Margaret said.

  “I know,” Quinn said as a pang of conscience returned momentarily. “We’ve got a long weekend of warehouse visits, making sure everything’s ready for the grand opening. I should be back by the middle of next week. Tell the kids we can celebrate then.”

  “Don’t push yourself too hard, dear. You’re not the young buck you used to be, but I love you more than ever.”

  This time the pang lingered. “I love you, too, Maggie. I’ll call you over the weekend.”

  “Travel safely. We’ll have everything prepared when you get back.”

  Quinn put down the phone, feeling guilty. He wouldn’t be getting on an airplane tonight or tomorrow or the next day for any warehouse visits, all of that was being covered by his executive staff. He questioned himself one more time about joining Vargas in the master suite. As he left the library, the sound of music and revelry helped him answer the question.

  He found Vargas in the mosaic-tiled private spa, soaking in the sunken whirlpool bath and covered in bubbles. She looked so unbelievably alluring. There would be no turning back now. Quinn revealed the red roses from behind his back. Vargas rose slowly from the churning water and sensuously ascended the tiled steps one at a time, her smoky eyes focused on Quinn. “Thank you for the flowers. Come join me,” she said seductively as she took the flowers and descended back into the bubbles.

  Quinn’s entire body quivered with excitement as he dismissed all thoughts of anyone or anything except Andrea Vargas. He began removing his clothes, pleased that he’d lost ten pounds for the occasion—especially when Vargas noticed.

  28

  Wilson – Boston, MA

  After a restless weekend of treading water, Wilson met with Fielder & Company’s vice presidents first thing Monday morning to go over a few more basics concerning the firm’s business activities. The company was currently working on 476 consulting engagements in 412 client companies with average revenue-per-engagement of approximately $2.4 million. It employed 684 consultants and 243 staff, 927 employees in total, located in six offices—Boston, Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, London, and Hong Kong. Projected revenues for the year stood at $1.2 billion with anticipated pre-tax profits of $310 million. The firm’s share of large multinational corporations as clients was stronger than ever. Almost every client had inquired about Charles Fielder’s condition and how it might impact the future of the firm, but according to the vice presidents, only a handful of clients had expressed serious concerns or reservations about continuing to do business with Fielder & Company.

  Next, they reviewed the content of an internal memorandum and press release prepared by the firm’s PR staff, informing employees and clients that Fielder & Company and KaneWeller would not be merging and that Wilson would be assuming his father’s position as Chairman and CEO. When they reached agreement on the content, Wilson made a courtesy call to CEO Marshall Winthorpe of KaneWeller, who suggested a few minor changes to the memo to reflect KaneWeller’s reasons for backing out of the deal. Wilson then persuaded Winthorpe to limit his firm’s discussions with the press regarding Fielder & Company.

  Just before noon, Fielder & Company released, by fax and email, the following statement to 927 consultants and staff, 1852 past and present clients, and 128 business press contacts:

  In the interest of fortifying the company’s current focus on investment banking and brokerage-related businesses, the Board of Directors of KaneWeller has decided not to proceed with the acquisition of Boston-based management consulting firm Fielder & Company. For the near term, KaneWeller has chosen to defer its entry into the management consulting business.

  Fielder & Company’s new Chairman and CEO Wilson Fielder, majority shareholder and son of founder Charles Fielder, plans to continue the philosophies and policies set forth by his father during the firm’s twenty-two-year history and expects to expand the firm’s impressive record of assisting major multinational corporations improve bottom-line results and increase shareholder value.

  Prior to assuming leadership of Fielder & Company, Wilson Fielder spent seven years with the management consulting firm of Kresge & Company as an associate consultant, engagement manager, and partner. He co-directed the firm’s corporate transformation practice for the past four years. He earned degrees from Princeton University and the Harvard Business School.

  No further changes in Fielder & Company’s management structure or personnel are currently anticipated. Any requests for additional information should be forwarded to www.fielder.com or 100 Beacon St., Boston, MA 02140, 1-888-303-2121.

  With the press release memorandum on its way, Wilson met again with the vice presidents in the afternoon, hammering out the details of a whirlwind office tour. Over the next four days, they would visit Fielder & Company’s six offices, personally assuring every Fielder & Company consultant and staff member of the firm’s strong financial position, as well as Wilson’s commitment to carry on his father’s philosophies and policies.

  By the time they finished at three o’clock, the vice presidents had their assignments and the rest of the day to prepare. The first stop on the tour was scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, in the large, ninth-floor conference room of the Fielder Building. After that, they would fly to Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, Hong Kong, and London.

  Later that night, after packing for his trip and their move from Brattle House, Wilson and Emily went to the hospital to visit his father. Nothing in his father’s condition had changed. Once again, they stood by his hospital bed holding his hand and talking, hoping that he might be able to hear them and one day respond.

  “What would he have to say about your plan to convince the secret society to bring you inside?” Emily asked, her fear persisting, even though Hap Greene and his people had made her feel much better.

  “Control or be controlled,” Wilson quoted without hesitation. “That’s the world we live in, he’d say. Then he’d remind me how depraved and enslaved our society has become for embracing such a false dogma.”

  Emily put her arms around Wilson’s waist and hugged him tightly. “I do believe that everything he was doing at Fielder & Company was intended to bring about change. Profound change.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Wilson said before kissing her. “So do I.” He gazed into her eyes, their faces inches apart. “If you want to know the truth, I couldn’t do this without knowing that you feel the same way. But I couldn’t tell you that until you arrived at it on your own.”

  “You think I didn’t know that?” she said, giving him a nudge.

  Neither one of them liked the idea of being apart for the next five days, but they agreed that it would be better for Wilson to do this alone. It would also give Emily time to review the publisher’s initial round of edits on her manuscript. Fortunately, the anticipation of spending a whole week together in Venice had emboldened them.

  When Wilson and Emily left the hospital, they took their things to the fully furnished Back Bay apartment, overlooking the Fielder & Company building. After entering, they stood at the apartment’s newly installed one-way, bulletproof windows, watching the lights come on inside the Fielder Building. Hap Greene’s people along with building security personnel had just started conducting their nightly sweep. It was a little after midnight.

  “When will it end?” Emily asked.

  “Soon, I hope,” Wilson said, holding her in his arms. “One way or another, we’ll get out of this alive, free to pursue our dreams. I promise.”

  29

  Quinn – Lake Forest, IL

  Beneath the ample canopy trimmed in an eighteenth-century Chinese coverlet, Quinn lay deliciously drain
ed. The Levitra had worked miraculously during the past three days, just as his doctor promised.

  “Your hands are absolutely amazing,” Vargas whispered into his ear as he gently stroked her long, slender body. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”

  “Actually, no,” he said, but he was lying. His wife Margaret had told him the same thing years ago.

  “You could hire them out and probably make more money than you do as CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company,” she said giggling and running her fingers through his chest hair.

  Vargas had grown more carefree and silly during their three days together and so had Quinn. But her innocuous comment about hiring out his hands bothered him. Was it a Freudian slip in a lighthearted moment that had exposed her true self? His old suspicions had gradually started to return. No matter what she says about wanting to be with me, she’s still a hired hand, Quinn said to himself.

  She shifted her lithe body, lying face down and snuggling her head into a pillow. Quinn gently stroked her neck and back until she was asleep. As he lay awake next to her, waiting to escape once more into sexual bliss, Quinn grew more cynical. He began admitting to himself that his passion for Vargas had been little more than a fabulous fantasy, facilitated by Wayland Tate as part of a larger strategy to manipulate him and the J. B. Musselman Company.

  Musselman’s stock price had continued to climb on Monday, closing at 393/4. Tate and his partners have got to be raking in billions, Quinn thought. You and I, Jules, and a group of clients committed to helping each other make a lot of money, Tate’s words reverberated in his head. Quinn was finally admitting to himself that Tate might have orchestrated the whole thing. Was Tate really that good? Yes, Quinn told himself, and Vargas was probably getting a nice cut of the action.

  His new sarcasm wasn’t really the result of anything Vargas had said or done, other than maybe performing too perfectly. Nor was it attributable to Tate’s baiting and trapping him. He only had himself to blame for that. In truth, his growing disillusionment derived from the interludes over the past three days when he was physically depleted, emotionally melancholic, and mentally introspective. That’s when he first realized that his appetites were feeding on themselves—more control demanded more scheming requiring more appeasement and double-dealing, eventually leading to more indulgence and escape.

  Ashamed that his desperation in recent months had so easily impaired his judgment, Quinn began to reconsider his current state of affairs. Had it not been for his principles, the seductive cycle might have continued indefinitely. While he had indeed ignored them in recent weeks, he had never abandoned them. It was time to end the illusion and the manipulation.

  Once Vargas was sound asleep, Quinn quietly got out of bed and removed his briefcase from beside the nightstand. He put on a robe and left the master suite.

  Downstairs in the library, Quinn sat down at the antique desk and drew the telephone toward him. Wiping away the perspiration on his forehead with the sleeve of his robe, he removed a business card from his briefcase: Samuel P. Wiseman, Deputy Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Quinn punched in the numbers. He had met Wiseman a year earlier at a Chicago Children’s Museum fundraising event, where they instantly struck up a friendship. They’d seen each other twice since then, once at another fundraiser, and a second time when Quinn had invited Sam to join his foursome at a private golf tournament.

  The line rang twice before a voice on the other end caused Quinn’s heart to skip. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chicago bureau, Special Agent Mullrose speaking.”

  “Agent Mullrose,” Quinn said, his voice trembling slightly. “I’d like to speak to Deputy Director Sam Wiseman.”

  “He’s not in, sir. How can I help you?”

  “Do you have a number where I can reach him? It’s very important. He told me to call him personally if I ever needed his help. I need his help, and I need it now.”

  There was a brief silence on the line before agent Mullrose said, “Just a minute, sir. I’ll connect you. Can I have your name?”

  “David Albright Quinn, CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company,” he recited, closing his eyes and waiting. The senior security officer of the property management firm that maintained Lake House had assured Quinn that the mansion’s counter-surveillance system would intercept and jam any possible electronic eavesdropper, but Quinn’s nerves were still frayed.

  Five minutes later, Samuel P. Wiseman, Deputy Director of the FBI and acting head of the Chicago bureau was on the line. “How can I help you, David?”

  Quinn swallowed hard, his throat and his voice trembling slightly, “I’d prefer not to do this over the phone, but I have no choice, Sam. My people have assured me that the phones are clean. I have detailed information about a web of illegal stock manipulations and I’m fully prepared to tell my story, including testifying in court. But I want immunity for myself and the J. B. Musselman Company.”

  “You’ll have to give me a few more details, David,” Wiseman said.

  “If I do, what guarantees will I have?”

  “There can be no guarantees without more information.”

  “I have first-hand information about an organization that cleverly blackmails CEOs into manipulating stocks, making illegal stock purchases, and providing insider information to its clients.”

  “Give me a name,” Wiseman said.

  “Wayland Tate, CEO of Tate Waterhouse, the advertising firm.”

  “Who else?”

  “I need assurances,” Quinn insisted as he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead once again.

  “Who else, David?” Wiseman insisted.

  “Jules Kamin, COO of KaneWeller.”

  “What sort of evidence do you have?”

  “Loan documents, stock purchases, and my own eyewitness testimony,” Quinn said becoming more nervous. “But only for immunity.”

  “I’m sorry David, but I can’t promise anything without going over the evidence.”

  Quinn ran through his options, finally recognizing that he had no choice. “I’m under heavy surveillance. Can you at least allow me to determine how, when, and where the information will be delivered?”

  “Of course,” Wiseman said.

  “Come to my company’s Lake House mansion at the end of Illinois Road in Lake Forest tomorrow at one o’clock with a female agent that can pass for your wife. Identify yourselves as Dale and Shirley Frederickson from Austin, Texas, owners of the Cap and Tool chain of hardware stores. Bring some luggage to make it look like you’re going to stay for the night.”

  “We’ll be there,” Wiseman said.

  Quinn replaced the receiver and returned to the master suite where Vargas was sleeping. The seductive cycle had been broken. Now it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to tell his wife and children, and ask for their forgiveness. Maybe someday he would be able to forgive himself.

  For now, however, Quinn’s plan depended on continuing his relationship with Vargas. She was the only one who could keep Tate convinced that he hadn’t succumbed to feelings of regret or remorse—only bliss. Surprisingly, Quinn felt considerable guilt for having to keep Vargas in a charade to serve his purpose. Part of him still wanted to believe that she really loved him, the other part recognized the lie.

  Nevertheless, Quinn resolved to enjoy the remaining moments of his love affair with Andrea Vargas—until he had to face the insufferable consequences that awaited him.

  30

  Quinn – Lake Forest, IL

  At precisely one o’clock in the afternoon as Quinn was preparing to join Vargas in the large whirlpool bath, the phone rang. He picked up the extension in the master suite’s spa and bath area. It was the voice of senior security officer Jackson Ebbs informing him that Dale and Shirley Frederickson, a.k.a. Deputy Director Wiseman and companion, had arrived.

  “Take them to the library,” Quinn said. He knew that meeting with the FBI while Vargas was in the house presented a risk, but it also offered the necessary cover. Tate and
his people had to be assuming he was totally involved and preoccupied with Andrea Vargas, which he had been. In any case, Jackson Ebbs and his security team were well instructed to alert him if anything looked out of the ordinary.

  “Who was it,” Vargas asked from the whirlpool.

  “Just one of our clients and his wife, Dale and Shirley Frederickson from Austin, Texas. I told you about them. They’ll be staying at the Lake House tonight, but there’s nothing to worry about. We won’t have to do a thing. I only need to spend a few minutes making them feel welcome. Stay right where you are until I can join you,” he said with a big smile. “Pamper yourself.”

  “Hurry back,” she said as she half-rose out of the water and rested her breasts on the edge of the whirlpool.

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek. Saying goodbye to her would be one of the hardest things he’d ever done, Quinn thought. “Believe me, I won’t let this take any longer than necessary,” he said, wishing for a brief moment that he’d never called the FBI.

  When Quinn arrived in the library, Sam Wiseman greeted him and then introduced the woman standing next to him as Kirsten Kohl, head of the Bureau’s Corporate Crime Division. Wiseman looked like the prototypical version of a mature, experienced FBI agent, fifty something, perfectly combed brown and gray hair, even features, gray suit, white shirt, conservative blue tie and a trim, six-foot physique. His partner, Kirsten Kohl, was equally predictable, forty something, dark blue business suit, light yellow blouse, short brunette hair, plain features, and a stocky five-foot-eight-inch frame.

  The three of them sat at the center of the richly decorated, knotty-pine-paneled library, while David Quinn spent twenty minutes recounting the Musselman saga up to this weekend’s celebration with Andrea Vargas. He then gave them his copies of the documents he’d signed. The Nevada corporation documents that showed his stock options as collateral and the Nevis Trust papers that showed the borrowed funds to buy ninety-five million shares of Musselman stock on margin.