“I think the response to your leadership has been extremely positive. Headquarters has received numerous calls and emails expressing appreciation for the tour. I think it’s laid the perfect foundation for your future here.”
“I agree,” Frank O’Connor added in his pleasant, therapist-like voice. “Your five initiatives have created a lot of excitement.”
“They’ve also created a lot of high expectations,” Leigh Tennyson cautioned, seemingly hard-wired to anticipate change issues. “If we don’t show real progress on your initiatives within ninety days, the tour will become an obstacle, not a foundation.”
“Absolutely,” Wilson said, smiling at her. She was refreshingly candid and non-apologetic. He liked her more every time he listened to her.
“I must say, I have some concerns about the marketing and publicity initiative,” John Malouf said.
Silence filled the plane’s cabin. The rushing air and hum of the Rolls-Royce engines grew louder. Everyone seemed to sense this criticism was coming.
Malouf continued, “I have no problem supporting our consultants in their writing and publishing activities, but the wrong kind of publicity campaign could backfire.”
Here we go, Wilson thought. It was now clear that Malouf’s earlier comments about publicizing Fielder & Company’s furtiveness belied his opposition. Maybe Tennyson’s comment had made him anxious, Wilson thought. More likely, the partnership was forcing his hand. Either way, Wilson decided it was time to freshen the bait. “How’s that, John?”
“High visibility has its own risks,” Malouf said.
“Such as?” Wilson said.
“Losing clients who don’t want more public scrutiny, compromising our credibility as independent and unbiased consultants, exposing the firm’s methods and approaches to our competition, diverting our focus from real issues, do you want me to go on?” he concluded with barely suppressed hostility.
Wilson waited a moment to rehearse what he was about to say. Then he leaned forward in his chair and locked eyes with Malouf. “I understand your concerns, John. And we will address them. But in my judgment, the benefits of higher visibility clearly outweigh the risks, especially when it comes to expanding the firm internationally,” Wilson said firmly.
“Let’s talk about Kresge & Company’s mystique,” Malouf said condescendingly, his irritation beginning to show, as he sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “If they’re not careful, their increased publicity could destroy the aura of mystery and veneration that has surrounded the institution and its methods for decades.”
Wilson could see that anger was loosening Malouf’s tongue. “I don’t have a problem capitalizing on Fielder & Company’s furtiveness, although I think we should find a better word,” Wilson said.
A ripple of quiet laughter broke out among the other vice presidents as they took advantage of the break in tension to shift in their seats and cross or uncross their legs.
With obvious effort, Malouf softened slightly. “Sometimes, less is more, Wilson. I’m sure you understand that better than any of us. Kresge’s zeal for protecting its privacy and the privacy of its clients is legendary.”
This was the first serious challenge to one of Wilson’s initiatives and everyone was waiting to see how he would handle it, especially Malouf. Wilson responded matter-of-factly, “I am fully aware of Kresge’s position on privacy and publicity, but it’s outdated and behind the curve.” Wilson paused before continuing, “We live in a new era of public exposure and transparency. It’s time to learn how to capitalize on it.”
Malouf bit down hard on the freshened bait. “I can assure you, our clients will resent that attitude,” he said, no longer attempting to disguise his anger.
Make Malouf take action, Wilson told himself. “Privacy is a dying myth. It doesn’t exist, John. Secrecy is not only becoming unfashionable, it’s becoming impossible. We owe it to our clients to prepare them for a future when nothing they think, feel, say, plan, or do will escape the scrutiny of their employees, customers, shareholders, suppliers, competitors, the press, and society in general.” Wilson said, knowing exactly how arrogant he sounded. Bring me inside. “Creating more publicity-savvy consultants will make us more, not less, effective with our clients. Besides, I think it’s time we replaced Kresge & Company as the world’s premier management consulting firm.”
“That’s exactly why David Quinn and The J. B. Musselman Company fired Kresge & Company. Because privacy became a myth,” Malouf shot back spitefully.
Wilson’s blood ran cold as he listened to Malouf’s words and saw the cunning smirk on his face. For an instant, his confidence faltered, his mind jumping into hyperdrive to bring it back. What was Malouf trying to tell me? Was there a connection between David Quinn and the secret partnership? Or, was Malouf merely pointing out that I’d been wrong about Musselman?
Even though The J. B. Musselman Company had never been discussed during the week, Wilson assumed the vice presidents already knew that he was the Kresge partner who had prophesied Musselman’s doom. Then it struck him. Malouf was still trying to convince someone that Wilson was a loose cannon who needed to be stopped. Ashford? Spivey? He couldn’t believe it was Tennyson or O’Connor. Certainly not Throckmorton. Or was it intended for someone else, listening from a distance or to a recording when they landed?
The silence and Wilson’s runaway train of thought was broken by Leigh Tennyson. She looked at Malouf as she spoke, “I agree with Wilson. We can’t keep playing the same old game; it’s too risky. A more proactive approach to visibility could give us a big advantage.”
Wilson was shocked. The way Tennyson was looking at Malouf, there was no mistaking it. She had to be involved. Wilson was sure of it. Leigh Tennyson, who he’d come to admire and respect, was a card-carrying member of the secret partnership, signaling to Malouf that Wilson needed to be brought into the fold. We can’t keep playing the same old game, Wilson repeated in his mind.
“The initiative does represent a major departure from your father’s philosophy,” Corbin Ashford remarked.
The comment was both innocent and revealing. Ashford was talking to Wilson, not Malouf or Tennyson, and he seemed completely oblivious to any hidden agenda. But Wilson had to be sure. “My father changed his will a few weeks before he was shot,” he said slowly, letting the words sink in. “In his new will, he expressed a desire to put Fielder & Company on a high exposure path. He said it was time for the firm to come out of hiding.” Another pause. “I have committed the firm to act on his desire, and I invite all of you to do the same.”
From opposite sides of the cabin, Malouf and Tennyson exchanged looks of urgency, most likely pondering how much Wilson actually knew about their insiders club. He could see Malouf squirming. Wilson had just become a bigger threat to the secret partnership, but this tour had also made him harder to eliminate.
After that, there were no further questions or comments about initiative number four. The discussion turned to issues of implementation, timing, costs, responsibility, and anticipated obstacles. Malouf and Tennyson became more and more removed, apparently considering a new set of initiatives.
When the meeting ended, the six vice presidents relaxed quietly in the Gulfstream’s comfortable surroundings. Four days together, and this final meeting had provided more than enough dialogue, even for the talkative Spivey. And while Wilson still couldn’t believe that he’d been so easily deceived by Leigh Tennyson’s candid complaints about John Malouf, he’d now done everything he could to force the partnership’s hand. He hoped he’d done enough—and not too much. But his misreading of Tennyson continued to worry him. What else would they do to take him by surprise?
For now, all he could do was wait. A week in Venice with Emily would afford him the space and distance he needed to be patient and give the secret partnership enough rope to develop a response. He was looking forward to endless, uninterrupted hours with Emily.
38
Emily – Venic
e, Italy
Emily and Wilson landed at Marco Polo Airport in Venice a little before ten in the morning. It was a balmy spring day with calm waters reflecting a clear blue sky. The grand architecture—a glorious panoply of Byzantine, Gothic, and Renaissance styles—fit magnificently here, in this city on the sea. As they ascended from their water taxi in front of the Palazzo Ducale and the Torre dell’ Orologio on Piazza San Marco, the couple was greeted by three porters. These porters escorted them to Fielder & Company’s private apartment overlooking the restoration of the Teatro La Fenice, the oldest opera house in Venice. The first thing they did after the porters placed their luggage in the apartment was to fling themselves onto the king-size bed and sleep for two hours. When they woke, they showered and then sat on their balcony overlooking the Piazza La Fenice, nibbling at a lavish fruit and cheese basket and drinking Prosecco, courtesy of the management at Hotel San Fantin.
Smiling, Emily took hold of the sash around Wilson’s robe and led him back into the bedroom. For the next few hours they shared their deepest emotions. At one point, Wilson proclaimed his love from the balcony, causing Emily to clasp her hands over his mouth in sweet delirium. Such sacred intimacy was priceless.
That evening they immersed themselves in the Venetian experience, a long gondola ride through the canals to La Caravella’s for dinner and then back along the canals at night serenaded by their gondolier with Italian love songs. They strolled arm in arm past the endless shops and restaurants to their third-floor apartment. Venezia e Amore.
While some people like D. H. Lawrence thought of Venice as “an abhorrent, green, slippery city,” Emily and Wilson relished its uniqueness, preferring Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s reflection, “nothing is like it, nothing is equal to it, not a second Venice in the world.” Fawning over the city on water like new lovers, they spent the rest of the week exploring the labyrinth of streets and waterways, touring palaces, museums, and private collections, meditating in Dante’s Chapel, dining in Lord Byron’s favorite eatery on the Grand Canal, feeding the pigeons in glorious San Marco Square, enjoying a new cultural venue each evening, and of course, making passionate love most nights and mornings—and not always in their apartment. Through it all, they had been only vaguely aware of Hap’s men, Mike Anthony and Pat Savoy, watching over them.
One morning before dawn, they ran to Piazza San Marco to watch it emerge from night’s darkness into early morning light, before the pigeons, school children, and tourists filled the space that had been Venice’s social, political, and religious gathering place for centuries. The most beautiful drawing room in Europe, according to Napoleon. He was right, Wilson thought.
“I could stay here for a thousand years,” Wilson said as they walked along the piazza’s arcaded Procuratie Vecchie in the first light of morning.
“Why don’t we?” Emily said.
“Maybe we already have,” Wilson said, playfully.
Emily stopped to drink him in. “Please go on.”
“Last night was worth at least a thousand years.”
She laughed loudly and then led him to the center of the square where they smothered themselves in each other until a hundred pigeons had surrounded them.
Wilson looked up and screamed at the top of his lungs, causing the pigeons to take flight, “I love this woman.”
Tears came to Emily’s eyes and then to Wilson’s. “We’re so lucky we found each other—again,” Emily said with an initial soberness that turned to teasing. That’s how it had been for an entire week, every day the same, yet extraordinarily different—San Marco Basilica, Rigoletto, Rialto Bridge, Giovani, the Doge’s Palace, Vivaldi, the Grand Canal, Tintoretto, Prosecco wine, Veronese, Venetian Cuisine, Titian, and always the sweet intimacy of melting into each other. Their Venetian getaway had been absolutely idyllic.
On the day before they had to leave, high tides and early morning rains flooded San Marco Square with a few inches of water, transforming the ceremonial courtyard into an aqua alta sea of mirrors. The scene transfixed Wilson, leaving its timeless image engraved upon his mind. They walked above the water on wooden planks, but they still got soaked.
After changing their clothes and getting ready to leave the apartment for lunch, the telephone rang for the first time since they’d arrived. It was the Hotel San Fantin located directly across the piazza from their apartment, informing Wilson that he had received a fax. The hotel had a long-term contract to service the apartment and rent it out when Fielder & Company guests were not using it. Wilson told them they would come down to pick it up. But as he hung up the phone, he wondered why someone hadn’t just delivered it to the door—or to Anthony or Savoy, who were staying in the apartment on the second floor. Then he remembered that Anthony had taken possession of all duplicate keys when they arrived. The sudden return of paranoia felt like an ugly intrusion. He asked Emily if she was ready to leave.
“I need ten more minutes with my hair,” she said from the bathroom.
“Take all the time you need, sweetheart, we’re still on vacation,” Wilson responded from the small foyer of the apartment.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Hotel reception. They have a fax. I’m going to get it while you’re finishing.”
“I promise I’ll be ready when you get back.”
Wilson stepped into the bathroom to watch her. “I’ve always loved how you take care of yourself. Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“Thank you for bringing me here. This week has been divine.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek as she held a curling iron in her hair. “I adore you, Emily Klein. I’ll be right back.”
On his way down the stairs, he greeted Mike Anthony who stuck his head out the door of his apartment. When Wilson told him about the fax, Mike advised Savoy that Emily was upstairs alone and that he was going with Wilson to the front desk at the hotel. Wilson and Mike entered the lobby through the sliding glass doors and went directly to the reception desk, where they asked the clerk about the fax.
“Un minuto,” she said and then disappeared through a door behind the desk. Two minutes later, she returned with an envelope and handed it to Wilson. Wilson opened the envelope and unfolded a single piece of paper:
FAX TRANSMISSION
Pages: 1
Date: April 4
To: Wilson Fielder, Hotel San Fantin
Fax #: 041-523-1401
From: The Fenice Partnership
Subject: Mutual Benefit Insurance
Comments: She’s gone. The getaway’s over. Go home.
She’ll be safe as long as you don’t do anything stupid.
We’ll be in touch.
Wilson exploded with pain. He ran from the hotel lobby with Mike behind him, across the Piazza, up three flights of stairs, and into the apartment. Emily was nowhere to be found. Mike ran back down to the second-floor apartment where he found Pat Savoy lying in a pool of blood, with a bullet hole in his forehead. They frantically searched the apartments again, including the empty apartment on the first floor. Then they called Hap.
Hap’s voice was even and collected, despite his obvious anguish over Emily and Savoy. He urged them not to panic. “They won’t keep her in Venice. If they wanted to kill her, she’d already be dead. They’ll want her close by to control the situation and make sure they use her to blackmail you into cooperating. They’ll expect you to go back to Fielder & Company.”
“Can the FBI or CIA stop them from leaving Venice?” Wilson blurted.
Hap immediately warned Wilson not to go to the FBI, the Italian authorities, or the U.S. Consulate. “They can’t afford to have word of her kidnapping get out anymore than we can. It would only increase the probability of her death and their exposure. This is about manipulating you, Wilson. They’ll want her to talk with you, sooner rather than later, to reassure you that she’s fine and will remain fine, as long as you cooperate. When she does talk to you, we’ll need to listen for any piece of information that will help u
s locate her. She’ll be thinking the same thing. You need to get back here as soon as possible. We’ll prep you when you arrive,” Hap said confidently.
Then he instructed them to find the first plane back to Boston. Hap and the rest of his people would be checking all the airports along the Eastern seaboard for private jets arriving from Europe. They arranged to meet at the Back Bay apartment as soon as Wilson and Mike got in. “Leave everything where it is. Don’t pack your bags and don’t move anything. Lock the apartments and leave. I’ll take care of bringing Pat home.”
“How can you be so sure of everything?” Wilson asked, trying not to hyperventilate.
“I’m not sure, Wilson. It’s just experience and calculated judgment,” Hap said firmly.
Wilson remained silent. What Hap said made sense. What good would it do to stay in Venice? The secret partnership would want him back at Fielder & Company, so they could force him to do their bidding. Emily would be kept somewhere near Boston or New York, just in case they needed her to do some extra persuading. But that wouldn’t be necessary; he would do their bidding.
By the time Wilson hung up the phone and regained some semblance of control over his anguish, Mike had already booked two first class seats on a Delta flight to JFK, with a connecting flight to Boston. The flight left in two hours. They locked the apartments and exited the building, leaving everything as it was, just as Hap had instructed.
Wilson cursed himself repeatedly for leaving Emily alone in the apartment. His father’s godforsaken insider’s club was now his eternal enemy, and he would not stop until they were utterly and completely destroyed. But first he had to find Emily. Before they killed her.
39
Tate – JFK Airport, NYC
From behind a pair of slightly tinted sunglasses and an outstretched copy of The New York Times, Wayland Tate watched as Wilson Fielder exited customs at JFK and then rechecked his bags onto a connecting flight to Boston. Like a chameleon, Tate was in disguise—mustache, white-blonde hair, and earrings—using a false identity. He’d risked reentering the U.S. for only one reason, and that was to deal with Wilson personally. He knew Wilson would be tormented, but he wanted to judge for himself just how vulnerable or volatile Wilson had been rendered.
The Insiders Page 21
