She squeezed him as tight as she could, desiring never to let go of him. “I love you, Wilson,” she said as she took Wilson by the hand. “I think it’s time for something less stressful.”
Later that night as Wilson was lying in bed next to Emily, Bill Heinke called to inform him that KaneWeller had decided to withdraw from the merger with Fielder & Company. “We can challenge it, if you choose,” Heinke said with a voice that sounded either reluctant or weary.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll be taking Fielder & Company off the market for now,” Wilson said, looking over at Emily with eyes that said I’m sorry. Emily got up from the bed and went to the bathroom.
“I understand,” Heinke said in a low serious voice. “Liquidation of all non-Fielder & Company holdings is now fifty percent complete. We should be able to finish almost everything within two weeks. Some of the real estate holdings will take longer.”
UBS had been providing Wilson with daily encrypted updates on proceeds from the ongoing liquidation, which were immediately reinvested through concealed accounts. Daniel had set up the reinvestment structure and strategy, so he wasn’t worried, but he did want to find out how involved Bill Heinke had been with Fielder & Company.
“Fine,” Wilson said. “Were you able to find the missing files?”
“Not yet,” Heinke was curt, offering no explanation.
“In the wrong hands, that information could cause a lot of problems.”
“We are acutely aware of Fielder & Company’s exposure and have contracted the necessary resources to find the missing files. We remain optimistic. In the event that the missing files are not recovered, however, we are prepared to indemnify Fielder & Company against any and all resulting damages. We’ve already discussed the issue at length with Atlas Casualty and Surety. They provide our catastrophic insurance coverage. $1.2 billion in potential damages has already been preapproved.”
Wilson thanked Heinke and replaced the phone in its cradle. He’d said enough about the missing files to Heinke. If he was a member of the secret partnership, he’d alert his cohorts. If he wasn’t a member, then the conversation served to make sure there were no missteps by his firm regarding anything that had to do with the Fielder family. Wilson knew that his first moves against the secret partnership would have to come in the next few days, and they’d have to be the right moves. There would be no second chances.
When Emily returned from the bathroom, they held each other for several minutes without saying a word. Everything in their lives was about to change—more than either one of them could possibly imagine.
Music from Sorrento’s Spring Fest floated across the water as Tate strolled into the posh bedroom of his three-hundred-foot luxury yacht,
Bacchus
. The yacht was anchored in the Bay of Capri, on the south side of the Gulf of Naples, Italy. He answered his phone. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“This morning’s
Wall Street Journal
was sheer serendipity,” Kamin said. “Have you seen it?”
“Diane emailed it to me. Not bad huh?”
“Your complaint about Monday’s story must have put the entire editorial board on pins and needles—referees trying to make up for a bad call, just like you said.”
“Dispassionate, objective journalism at its finest,” Tate chuckled.
“America’s Warehouse could not have received a better preview, even if we’d written it ourselves,” Kamin exclaimed.
“We
did
write it,” Tate quipped.
They both laughed, heartily. All vestiges of the recent strain between them had disappeared. “Tell me about Quinn’s reaction,” Tate said.
“This is the best part,” Kamin exclaimed, more than eager to relate the juicy details to Tate. “The stock price rebounded to fourteen dollars and then moved steadily up to twenty-two at closing. Quinn was ecstatic. But when I told him that we’d finally finished selling his ninety-five million shares a few minutes before closing, he started crying like a baby, hugging everyone he could get his hands on.”
“Aahhh, Quinn,” Tate sighed. “You beautifully predictable and talented creature.”
“When he finally settled down, he pulled me aside and told me this was the happiest day of his life. He wants to acquire Hardware City before the end of the year.”
“He’s right on track,” Tate said.
There was a short silence on the line before Kamin spoke again. “You called this one perfectly, Wayland. The partnership has already banked over five billion dollars in profits on Musselman stock.”
Tate seized the opportunity to secure Kamin’s loyalty. “What happened today was the result of perfect execution, and that wasn’t me. That was you, Jules. Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Wayland.”
“Savor the long weekend, Jules. You’re entitled. Unless I hear from you first, I’ll call you Monday,” Tate said.
“Give my regards to Tiberio,” Kamin said.
“I already have. We visited Villa Jovis this morning. You know, it was much easier to dispose of undesirables back then. Tiberius just threw them off his thousand-foot cliff into the sea. And to think he controlled the entire Roman Empire from the Island of Capri for over a decade—he would have been a good partner.”
They both laughed vigorously before saying goodbye.
As soon as Tate clicked off, he placed a call to Morita in the New York office.
“I just talked to Kamin,” Tate said.
“Is he feeling better?” Morita asked.
“All his concerns seem to have vanished for now, but once the Musselman glow wears off over the next few days, his distrust and paranoia could return.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Nothing for the moment. Any news from Swatling or Malouf?” Tate asked, wondering about his other partners.
“Malouf hasn’t heard anything from KaneWeller or Bill Heinke. Swatling has completed his review of Morgan. He was quite optimistic. He’s bringing it with him.”
“Good. Did we get Quinn’s transaction documented?”
“Yes, I’ll have everything tonight—video, audio, and signed documents.”
“Where are we keeping everything this time?”
“Safety-deposit box at Chase.”
“Perfect,” he said before redirecting his attention. None of the Musselman success would have been possible without Morita’s behind the scenes support network. “Still planning to join us?”
“Of course. You think I’d miss Capri?”
“You must have been Italian in a former life,” Tate said, knowing how much Morita loved Roman archeology and history.
“Queen Zenobia of Palmyra,” Morita said, laughing. “The woman who manipulated the Roman Empire and controlled its most important trade routes for years. If I wasn’t her in a former life, I wish I had been.”
“Isn’t she the one who claimed to be a descendant of Cleopatra and some Persian ruler?” Tate asked, chuckling.
Morita laughed. “The very same.”
“Are you exhausted?”
“Only when I think about it,” she said.
“Why don’t you stay here for the week,” he said, aware that the recent string of retreats had worn her out.
“I can’t. There’s too much happening next week.”
“Sure you can. The
Bacchus
is now wireless. You’d have online access to your entire staff,” Tate said before turning on the charm. “You deserve it, Diane. None of this would be possible without you, I hope you know that.”
There was silence from Morita’s end, which made Tate smile. At least she was mulling over his suggestion. The intense pressure of recent weeks was getting to everyone, and the last thing he needed was for his most trusted confidant to lose her edge.
Tate continued, “The Villa Jovis Symposium runs through Tuesday. Don’t forget, it was the most luxurious villa in Roman history. You could even spend a couple of days at the Quisiana, without a single client to worry about. I know how much you love the narrow streets and hidden alleyways of Capri, not to mention the shopping. What do you say? We all need to spend some time celebrating Musselman.”
“Let me think about it,” she said. “I’ll let you know Sunday morning.”
“Thank you, Diane, for everything,” he said, smiling again as he ended the call and lay on his bed listening to the Mediterranean lap against the ship’s bough. He was certain that Morita would take him up on his offer.
Within seconds a knock came at his door. “It’s open,” he said.
“Are you ready, my love?” said the taller of two stunningly beautiful models who entered his master suite, locking the door behind them. They moved like silk in a breeze.
“I am. I am,” he said, inviting the women to lie down beside him, beneath the carved mahogany canopy adorned with Italian lace. Tate was definitely ready to celebrate.
Hap Greene was quietly enjoying the subdued atmosphere inside the Bostonian Club’s elegantly appointed library, when Wilson found him. His stylishly short gray hair made him look even more distinguished than Wilson remembered. Hap was in his late forties, but his six-foot-three-inch frame looked as fit as that of a thirty-year-old. He was impeccably dressed, as always, this time in an Armani charcoal tweed suit and a starched white shirt with a striking turquoise tie. Wilson was also in uniform—black pin-striped suit with white shirt and red club tie.
They greeted each other as old friends and then sat down for lunch in the main dining room. Wilson discreetly reached into his briefcase and pulled out the mobile nullifier Hap had sent him and placed it on the table behind the large salt and pepper shakers.
Hap smiled before commenting, “I wouldn’t place too much confidence in that gadget, Wilson. It was intended to frustrate the casual eavesdropper and maybe a PI or two, but not skilled professionals, at least not indefinitely.”
“That’s not very comforting,” Wilson said as he examined Hap. Precise, decisive, no-nonsense, with a flair for the unexpected—that was the Hap Greene Wilson had come to respect and admire. Wilson looked around the main dining room. His father had been a member here for years, but Wilson didn’t recognize anyone. Then he stared at the nullifier, questioning whether the secret partnership had already de-nullified it. He then looked at Hap.
“Don’t worry, the building is clean,” Hap said. “We swept it this morning.”
“You never use these things?” Wilson asked, nodding toward the nullifier.
“Sure we do. But you have to assume that serious surveillance teams will find a way to pierce them.”
The waiter arrived with water and menus, rattling off the day’s specials. They ordered quickly. When they were alone again, Wilson asked, “So how do we guarantee our privacy?”
“Regular sweeps of your premises with constant monitoring. But before we get into that, maybe you should update me on what’s happened since we last talked.”
For the next several minutes as they ate lunch, Wilson told Hap everything, including his intent to infiltrate the secret partnership. Just as Wilson was finishing, Hap raised his finger to his lips, giving Wilson the quiet sign. Then, Hap got up from the table without saying a word and walked to the restroom. Three minutes later, he returned.
“We have an eavesdropper, a Mr. Robert J. Swatling. Evidently he’s a member here. Do you know him?” Hap asked.
“He’s an associate of my father’s. Lives in New York City, but has a law practice here as well.”
“He and two others have just set up a portable wall-penetrating microphone and recorder in the private dining room on the other side of that wall,” Hap said, nodding toward the wall twenty feet away.
“How do you know?”
“It’s my business to know,” he said cheekily. Then, pointing to his ear, he explained. “I’m online with my people.”
Wilson couldn’t see anything in his ear. “What do you want to do?”
“Your nullifier and our jamming equipment outside will handle things until they bring in better equipment, and believe me they will, sooner or later. We know Swatling. He used to be a client.”
“How did you identify him?”
“The van parked outside has enough equipment to decipher every electronic eavesdropping device inside this building. After conducting a sweep this morning to give us a baseline, we’ve been monitoring changes. We also placed a few video cams. Swatling was identified as soon as he entered the building. When he turned on the microphone and recorder, we immediately assessed and jammed it. He’s using a level-two device capable of piercing most nullifiers, including yours, but only under ideal circumstances. Have you been using it regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t they using better equipment?” Hap asked, but the question wasn’t for Wilson. Staring at the Club’s large arching windows, Hap listened to input from his colleagues while formulating his own answer. “Swatling knew we’d identify him and his listening device, so what’s he up to?”
Wilson waited until Hap had finished listening to his colleagues. “You said Swatling was a former client. Who quit who?” Wilson asked.
“We did. His demands began compromising our ethics. Is he part of this secret partnership?” Hap asked as he took another bite of his salad.
“Until now, I had no reason to think so,” Wilson said, feeling vulnerable. “He’s a close friend of my father’s. They were board members here at the club for several years. I went to prep school with his son, Bobby. Haven’t seen him in years. I don’t know what to tell you. There’s still plenty I don’t know about my father.”
“I brought an additional team with me. All of you are under twenty-four-hour surveillance, counter-surveillance, and coverage for maximum physical protection.”
“You’re worried about Swatling, aren’t you?” Wilson said, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightening.
Hap nodded. “Swatling knows we’re meeting. He knows we’re jamming the conversation. He wants us to know he’s here. He’ll escalate. Better equipment, better surveillance teams, until he gets what he wants.” Hap stopped to study Wilson carefully. “Based on what you’ve told me and our preliminary assessment, not to mention Swatling’s involvement, I suspect this secret partnership will do whatever it takes to neutralize you.”
“What’s the price tag for your twenty-four-hour services?”