VP Leigh Tennyson seemed happy to reply. “I agree one hundred percent with what Wilson has said. The right kind of publicity has to be one of our strategic priorities, especially now with a cloud of uncertainty hanging over the firm. Word-of-mouth praises from our clients have served the company well in the past, but the world has changed and so have we.”
Wilson smiled to himself, thinking that she couldn’t possibly be part of the partnership, unless she was an exceptional poker player. The last thing the secret partnership needed was unnecessary publicity.
The most difficult question came from a thirty-something consultant who said he’d been with the firm for three years. “What was the reason for the moratorium on corporate restructuring engagements, and where do things currently stand?”
Wilson decided to give the question to John Malouf, VP of the corporate restructuring practice. “John, would you like to handle this one?”
“Supply and demand,” he said in his usual arrogant, enigmatic way. “Too few staff for too many clients. We simply had to slow things down. We should be ready to take on new clients by May.”
He handled the question skillfully, if not truthfully, Wilson thought. The real reason for limiting corporate restructuring engagements, according to Daniel, had been to stop the growing abuse of Fielder & Company’s methods and practices. Although a part of Wilson liked John Malouf—perhaps because he reminded him of his father—it seemed more and more likely that Malouf was a member of the insider’s club.
After the Q&A session was over and everyone was mingling around a lavish luncheon buffet, a recent recruit from the Wharton Business School asked Malouf why Fielder & Company had been dubbed the most secretive consulting firm in America. Wilson couldn’t help overhearing the conversation and Malouf knew it.
“Secrecy sells,” Malouf said.
“What about the new marketing and publicity initiative?” returned the recruit.
“Publicity also sells,” Malouf said.
“You don’t consider the two of them mutually exclusive?”
“Not if you publicize Fielder & Company’s furtiveness the way Kresge publicizes its mystique,” Malouf said, more talkative than usual.
“Is that what we’re planning to do?”
“That’s what I’m planning to do,” Malouf said as he glanced over at Wilson.
Wilson held Malouf’s eyes for a moment to let him know that he’d heard his response. Then, a man about Wilson’s age and height tapped him on the shoulder and informed him that they should be leaving for the airport. It was Hap Greene’s man, Mike Anthony, who was also serving as one of their pilots for the whirlwind tour. The game was afoot.
Bob Swatling fought down his mounting panic as he called Wayland Tate on one of the disposable encrypted phones. It was three o’clock in the morning in New York, nine o’clock on the Bacchus in the Bay of Sorrento.
Tate answered the phone from the upper deck where he was enjoying coffee with his lady friends. “What is it?” he asked, recognizing the emergency ID. He stood up and walked toward the ship’s stern.
“We just finished analyzing the telephone and video monitoring feeds after hacking into the Lake House security system. Fourteen hours ago, David Quinn met with Sam Wiseman, Deputy Director of the FBI, and Kirsten Kohl, head of the FBI’s corporate crime division. He spilled the beans on you and Kamin. Vargas was upstairs in the spa. She knows nothing about it.”
Tate’s body tensed, his mind immediately immersed in contingencies.
“Keep Vargas uninformed. I’ll contact Marco. You can advise Kamin. He’s in Rome. Tell him to switch identities and get lost for a few days. I’ll be doing the same,” Tate said decisively. “Double check the Musselman trading entities. Close down anything that won’t withstand an SEC inquisition. I’ll take care of the other partners. Call me again in two hours.”
“Will do,” Swatling said before clicking off.
Tate left straightaway for the ship’s bridge one deck below. He told the captain to raise anchor, display the yacht’s alternate identity, and chart a course for Monaco where he had full diplomatic immunity. Then he went to his private office off the master suite and opened the concealed vault. He withdrew two encrypted cell phones. His first call was to Diane Morita who was staying at the Quisiana on the island of Capri. He told her to begin executing emergency contingency plans and to advise key partners, the clandestine supplier network, and her staff—with the exception of Andrea Vargas. His second call was to Marco, notifying him to begin damage control immediately.
Less than twenty-four hours after Deputy Director Wiseman and Senior Agent Kohl had set the wheels of justice in motion, there was a soft knock on the door of the master suite at the Lake House. David Quinn got up from the bed and put on his robe, before entering the suite’s foyer to open the door. It was Jackson Ebbs telling him that Mr. Frederickson wanted to talk to him on the secure phone in the library. Quinn told Vargas that he would be right back.
“Quinn here,” he said when he got on the line in the library.
“It’s Wiseman,” The FBI executive said. “Immunity for you and your company has been approved. Arrest warrants for Tate and Kamin have been issued, but they’re currently out of the country. We’re trying to track them now. Federal Grand Jury subpoenas could come as early as Friday afternoon,” Wiseman said.
Quinn was both relieved and stunned. In return for immunity, Quinn had promised the FBI that he would testify, but he never imagined it would happen so quickly. He’d been expecting to have more time to end things with Vargas and prepare his family. Suddenly, that seemed impossible.
Wiseman continued, “We’re still uncovering the full range of surveillance on you. To say it’s extensive would be an understatement. Security systems at the Lake House seem adequate, but the sooner you leave the better. Go about your business as usual, until we advise you otherwise. Don’t do anything that will raise suspicions. I suggest you limit what you tell your family for as long as you can. You and your family will be relocated and placed under twenty-four-hour witness protection, prior to any subpoenas or arrests.”
When Wiseman finished, Quinn said, “All I ask is that you make sure surveillance at my home in Hinsdale and in my office at Musselman is jammed or curtailed.” Then he said good-bye and hung up. Despite Wiseman’s warnings, he’d have to tell his wife and family, before overzealous journalists exposed his sins to the world. When he returned to the master suite, Vargas must have seen the lingering torment on his face, even though he tried to clear his thoughts before opening the door.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, walking up to him and placing her hands on his chest as she looked into his eyes.
“Everything’s fine,” Quinn said, trying hard to act casual. He couldn’t afford to raise any doubts in Vargas’ mind, at least not until he and his family were under full protection. He could only imagine what Tate might be capable of doing if he found out too early. “For the first time in my life, I’m actually lamenting going back to work.”
Vargas kissed him on the lips. “Not as much as I am,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder, her lips caressing his neck.
Quinn turned his head and kissed her on the forehead, but he knew she was lying. He had seen the veiled pain on her face during the last time they’d made love. That would not be the time he’d choose to remember for the rest of his life. “Maybe we can get away again this weekend,” he said.
The two of them picked at a platter of fruit and cheese as they got dressed and prepared to leave what had been their love nest for the past several days. After they said their saccharine good-byes, Vargas left for Musselman headquarters to resume her preparations for the grand opening, and Quinn drove home to Hinsdale where his wife was preparing for a celebration.
Later that evening at the Quinn family home in Southeast Hinsdale, David Quinn struggled to feign excitement for the benefit of his wife, his four married children, and close family friends. Musselman stock had closed a few hours earlier at forty-eight dollars a share, making everyone jubilant. Everyone but Quinn. He could only lament that his family and friends, most of whom were Musselman shareholders, would soon know all his ugly secrets. By the time the celebration ended, it had become sheer agony for Quinn, who could no longer stomach keeping his lies to himself. But after thirty-two years of marriage, the least his wife deserved was a private confession.
Quinn held off through a sleepless night, before approaching his wife in the morning. She was in the kitchen cleaning up from the night before. When he asked her to join him in the living room, she immediately dropped what she was doing and followed him to one of the white Bellagio sofas and sat down. She was smiling until he reached down and turned on the central vacuum system to muffle their conversation. He calmly told her that there were people who might be listening. Then he moved closer to her on the couch and took her hand.
“Maggie, I’ve got something to tell you and it’s pretty bad. In fact, it’s downright ugly. And I’m horribly ashamed of it.”
All animation left Margaret’s face and her green eyes filled with fearful premonition as she tightened her grip on her husband’s hand.
He wished to God he’d never met Wayland Tate. “I got involved with another woman when I was in Switzerland,” he said quickly.
Margaret turned pale, her lips beginning to quiver. But she didn’t utter a word.
Cursing his very existence, Quinn would have gladly extinguished himself in that moment if he could have. “Wayland Tate arranged the encounter behind my back. I guess I was so distraught over the company’s problems that I didn’t see it coming.”
Although Margaret continued to hold his hand, she looked away.
“It was a terrible moment of weakness and I accept full responsibility for it. But it’s over. And, I promise you, Maggie, I’ve never done this before and I’ll never do it again. My only hope is that you will be able to forgive me.”
She sat motionless on their expensive sofa, her eyes glistening but barren. In a low hollow voice, she asked, “Is she who you were with this weekend?”
“Yes, but it’s over, Maggie. Believe me. It was all part of a scheme to manipulate Musselman. Tate sucked me into an illegal stock deal, but I’ve already turned him in to the FBI. He won’t be able to do this to anybody else ever again. There’ll be some ugly press in the coming weeks. But it’s over. He’s been exposed.”
“Are you going to tell the children?” Margaret asked, staring absently, obviously still in shock.
“Yes,” Quinn said firmly. His confession had been quick and to the point, like telling analysts about lower than expected quarterly earnings. He’d learned the hard way that analysts liked to get bad news early and straight. But this wasn’t about quarterly profits or stock analysts; this was about his wife and family. Regrettably, nothing in his experience had prepared him for this.
When the tears finally came, Margaret couldn’t stop crying. The more he tried to comfort her, the more she cried, saying, “All I ever cared about was you and the children.”
He stayed by her side for the rest of the day and night, trying to console her but with little success. Mostly, she just cried. Repeating the same words over and over again, until they were both emotionally exhausted. They finally fell asleep sometime after midnight.
Wilson – Charter Jet G650, Inflight
The Gulfstream G650 took off from Logan International with Fielder & Company’s senior executive team, two pilots, and a flight steward, en route to a repeat performance of their presentation in the Chicago office later that afternoon and evening. The sleek new executive jet came standard with twin Rolls-Royce turbofan engines, Mach 1.0 flying speed, a 7,000 mile range, 45,000 foot cruising altitude, and customized interior. The cabin could be configured to seat twenty passengers in comfort or seven to ten executives in plush, fully reclining seats, with stylish work tables, and individual computer monitors. Wilson had chosen the luxury configuration to carry himself and the six Fielder & Company vice presidents on their four-day, six-office dog and pony show.
As Wilson sat back in his soft leather chair, Frank O’Connor leaned across the aisle and said, “You show a maturity well beyond your years, Wilson.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said. “But don’t be too quick to judge. New circumstances and responsibilities have a way of bringing out the best in some people. Give me another assessment in three months.”
“In my experience, maturity is not something you can fake, even at the beginning of a new assignment,” he said, smiling.
“Thank you, Frank,” Wilson said sincerely.
“You’re also very good at the human dimension. Better than your father—and he was superb when he wanted to be. You seem to understand—or should I say empathize—with people at a deeper level,” O’Connor said.
“Not always,” Wilson said.
“None of us do all the time,” he said, smiling again. “But, I watched you today. You have a gift for it, and I’m never wrong about this sort of thing.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint you, Frank,” Wilson said, a little sarcastically, with controlled laughter.
“You won’t. The five initiatives you outlined already convinced me of that. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks,” Wilson said as Frank got up and walked to the small bar near the front of the plane.
Hopefully, Wilson thought as he looked out the window at Boston Harbor, his five initiatives would also strike the right chord and send the proper signals to those in the secret partnership. Someone would have to respond soon, because Fielder & Company’s days of low-profile secrecy and clandestine operations were about to come to an end. Anne had already sent out a request for proposals from the top advertising and publicity firms.
The rest of the week turned out to be a blitzkrieg for both Wilson and Emily. Emily’s editor flew in from New York City and they began working around the clock to finish the copy-editing of her latest manuscript by the end of the week. Wilson’s meeting with company employees in Chicago unfolded with few surprises, as did the meetings that followed in Dallas, San Francisco, Hong Kong, and London. Each office had received them with enthusiasm and excitement. Almost everyone seemed genuinely relieved that the KaneWeller deal had fallen through and that Wilson was carrying on his father’s leadership of the firm. Concern for his father had been abundant. Most employees seemed to believe his father would eventually be exonerated of any wrongdoing. Their expressions of concern and loyalty had been heartwarming.