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.
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.
As Kohl reviewed the documents, Wiseman’s clear green eyes studied Quinn’s face. “Are you ready to have your life examined with a fine-tooth comb?”
“If that’s what it takes to make things right—yes, I am,” Quinn said, feeling certain once more about his decision to bring in the FBI.
Kohl looked up from the documents at Wiseman. “I don’t think immunity will be a problem.”
“When will you know for sure?” Quinn asked, feeling suddenly apprehensive.
It was Wiseman who answered. “We’ll get back to you within twenty-four hours,” he said. “Will you still be here?”
Quinn nodded as Wiseman and Kohl rose from their seats. Quinn walked them to the mansion’s ten-car garage, where they had parked their gray Ford Expedition.
Wiseman removed his tie and jacket and put on a yellow sweater. Kohl took off her jacket and put on sunglasses. They both assured Quinn that their return to the office would be disguised as a trip to Michigan Avenue for shopping. There were three FBI units in the area. Two would provide cover or intervention, if needed, for Wiseman and Kohl. The third unit would keep the Lake House under discreet surveillance.
As Quinn returned to the master suite, he wondered what an FBI investigation would mean for Andrea Vargas. Suddenly, a craving for her engulfed him. A wicked man’s lament, he told himself, grieving over a once fulfilled but now fleeting fantasy.
Lying on two towels spread over the steam room’s spacious sitting area, Vargas had been savoring the time to herself. When Quinn returned, she quietly prepped herself. Having a man consumed with her the way Quinn was carried its share of burdens.
Twenty minutes later, after surrendering once more to his ardor, Quinn lamented, “I wish I could stay here with you forever.” He was half lying and half telling the truth. “But tomorrow I need to spend some time with my family.”
“I’d love to stay too, but I understand,” she said, placing her arms around his neck and stroking the back of his head. “Your family needs to celebrate with you too.”
Quinn kissed her gently. They both stood under the large shower head in the steam room, feeling relieved as the cool water washed over them. Quinn’s relief was spiritual, having reclaimed his integrity by going to the FBI and now preparing to face the inevitable consequences. For Vargas, the relief was mostly physical, since her body was now in pain from their long weekend together. But she was determined to make sure that Quinn never knew. Little did she know he’d already slipped away.
Wilson’s purpose for conducting the whirlwind tour was twofold, one stated and one unstated. Aside from the much-publicized official purpose, the unstated reason for the excursion was, of course, to climb into the minds and hearts of the six vice presidents, planting seeds of trust and baiting those who were part of the secret partnership.
The kick-off meeting began at precisely eight o’clock in the morning with all 161 consultants and 64 staff from the Boston office seated in the stylish auditorium on the ninth floor of the Fielder Building. After a brief but generous introduction of Wilson and his years at Kresge & Company by Human Resources VP Joel Spivey, Wilson reviewed Fielder & Company’s illustrious twenty-five-year history. He spoke about his father’s basic philosophies of rigorous analysis, creative solutions, and exceptional results. Then he presented five initiatives that he promised to begin implementing in his first ninety days as Chairman and CEO of Fielder & Company. Embodied in his five point plan were two initiatives intended to make the secret partnership very uncomfortable. They would serve as Wilson’s bait:
Create a five-year growth plan, building on the firm’s existing philosophy, policies, and culture.
Open the door to global alliances with targeted firms in strategically attractive regions of the world.
Empower vice presidents, office-managing directors, and project leaders with greater autonomy and streamlined management systems.
Launch a marketing and publicity campaign focusing on the firm’s innovations, with new emphasis on writing and publishing by the firm’s consultants.
Expand the firm’s performance-based equity and profit-sharing programs.
After Wilson finished his hour-long presentation, the six vice presidents each took twenty minutes to review the firm’s performance in their areas of responsibility, while elaborating on their own initiatives. The presentations gave Wilson the opportunity to see them in action and assess their loyalty to him and Fielder & Company. Some of their acclamations of allegiance seemed more natural and true than others. Wilson took note of every nuance. Following the three-hour block of presentations, they held an hour-long question-and-answer session. Most of the questions dealt with the initiatives and were easy to answer, but some went deeper.
A stern-looking consultant in her late twenties, who had joined the firm out of business school nine months earlier, asked, “What new information do you have about what happened to your father in Sun Valley?”
“We have no new information,” Wilson said, “but I don’t believe he was responsible for anyone’s death.” Wilson had anticipated the question, but decided not to dwell on it. He quickly moved on to the next question.
A senior consultant in his early forties who’d been with the firm for more than ten years asked, “The publicity campaign in your initiatives seems to be a break from your father’s policy of letting our clients do the praising of Fielder & Company. Could you comment?”
“Given our current circumstances, I believe it’s what my father would recommend. More exposure is vital to our firm’s future growth and most of it will come from you, through articles, interviews, and books. My commitment is to make sure that what you write gets placed with the most respected publications and publishers. As you know, I started my career at Kresge & Company, and we all know how publicity-conscious they have become. We can do it better. Leigh, you used to work for BCG; would you like to make any comments?”