The Insiders (27 page)

“
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:

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 us 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.

For the past twenty-four hours, Tate had been studying Wilson’s behavior and mannerisms on digital video, downloaded from one of Tate’s many private contractors. Reading another human being by the set of the mouth, look of the eyes, wrinkles on the forehead, speed of facial movements, and any other idiosyncratic gestures, had become integral to the art of manipulation for Wayland Tate. He now recognized Wilson Fielder’s most common mental and emotional states—tranquility and contentment, anger and hate, commitment and resolve, uncertainty and fear, and curiosity and discovery.

Unfortunately, what he saw on Wilson’s face as he exited security was not a welcome sight. Tate followed him to his connecting gate just to make sure, but there was no mistaking the combination of anger and resolve on Wilson’s face. Tate had hoped for uncertainty and fear, or at least a combination of anger and fear, but that was not the case. He returned to the main terminal before calling Morita, who was now in the New York offices of Tate Waterhouse.

“Plans have changed,” Tate said. “I’m going to Boston for a few days.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Morita asked, her voice filled with concern.

“I’m still traveling in disguise just to make sure,” Tate said. Then he added, “We need to take a different course with Wilson Fielder. If I’m wrong about our ability to influence him, I want to be close enough to adjust things quickly. Can you find me a suite at one of the larger hotels, the Westin or Marriott in Copley Square? I’m traveling under the name of Marsden Welker. You have the account numbers. Tell Swatling to meet me for breakfast tomorrow morning in my room—six o’clock,” Tate said, knowing that either one of the hotels near the Copley Place Mall would provide him with sufficient cover.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“One more thing. Who was handling surveillance in Venice?”

“Sutton and Turley.”

“Did they arrive on the same flight as Fielder?”

“Yes.”

“Tell them I want to see them tonight. Looks like the shuttle is light; I should be there within two hours. Have them meet me at Bar 10 in the Westin Hotel.”

“Anything else?”

“How’s the press handling Quinn’s death?”

“There was a lengthy obit in the
Chicago Tribune
. Fortunately, the article focuses on Quinn’s legacy, which was what he always wanted anyway. It concludes with a few details of the double suicide. None of it is negatively affecting publicity or customer visits, thanks to the twenty million new customers who went to the America’s Warehouse grand opening,” Morita said.

“Most people seem to delight in stories of the rich and famous failing in their personal relationships—makes them feel less envious and more satisfied with their economic status. Quinn’s death may actually increase customer visits,” Tate scoffed.

“I think it already has. The President even commented on the marketing campaign during a press conference on the economy. He said America’s Warehouse symbolized the American spirit and corporate renewal at their finest. I’ve ordered a transcript.”

“Poor Quinn, if he’d only learned to enjoy the ride. How’s his replacement doing?”

“He’s become national news as the man who replaced a tragic visionary. Musselman stock closed at eighty-two dollars today.”

“It’s all so fucking predictable,” Tate said, pausing. “How’s Vargas handling things?”

“A little harder than we expected. I think she actually liked him, but she’s ten million dollars richer as of last week,” Morita said, pausing a moment. “She’ll be fine, but…”

“She could use a rest. Right?” Tate said to complete Morita’s sentence.

“You don’t miss anything, do you?”

“I misread Quinn.”

Morita didn’t say anything.

“Still nothing from the FBI?” Tate asked.

“Nothing. They don’t have anything without Quinn,” Morita said. “But that won’t stop them from keeping us on their radar screen.”

“We’ll just have to sting them,” Tate said with a snort, looking around to see if anyone was watching him as he approached the gate to his flight. “How’s the story coming?”

“The press will have it by tonight. Vargas still has a few pieces of evidence to place, just to make sure.”

“Perfect,” Tate said, smiling to himself. “Deputy Director Wiseman and Special Agent Kohl will be up to their asses in alligators, explaining why they got duped by a deranged, sex-crazed CEO. How’s Kamin handling things?”

“He’s working from a villa outside of Rome, consumed with the Musselman sell-off and negotiations with Morgan. I think he’s actually excited about leaving KaneWeller,” she said.

“Let’s keep it that way. Don’t say anything about me being in Boston for now. I’ll talk to him in a couple of days.”

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” Morita asked.

“Not worried. Uncertain,” Tate said, making a slow search of everything and everyone around him before entering the jetway. He was worried, but he wasn’t about to let Morita know that. Too much depended on her cool-headedness. Besides, now that they had Emily Klein, Wilson wouldn’t do anything stupid. But he had to make sure.

“How did Wilson look when he got off the plane?” Morita asked.

“Angry and resolved.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. If he’s eminently dangerous, we’ll know in the next day or two,” Tate said as he arrived at his seat. “I think it’s time to tell him the truth.”

40

Emily – Learjet 60, Inflight

Emily slowly regained consciousness only to discover that she was tied to her seat inside a small jet airplane. She spied the label on the seat next to her—Learjet 60. Her eyes darted around the cabin. There was no one else in sight, but she could hear voices talking beyond the drawn curtain, several feet in front of her. The window shades on both sides of the airplane were pulled down. It was still light outside. They were traveling west, she thought, into a setting sun.

Replaying the abduction in her mind, she tried to remember as many terrifying details as possible. After Wilson had left the apartment to get the fax, she had stopped curling her hair and pranced to the open window overlooking Hotel San Fantin. She’d wanted to shout
buon giorno
and
ti amo
to Wilson as he came out of the hotel. That’s when she’d heard the hardwood floor creak behind her. She turned around quickly, thinking maybe it was Wilson already back with the fax, but it wasn’t him. Two men stood no more than six feet away from her—dark hair, swarthy skin, one with a mustache, and the other with heavy stubble. She’d never forget the terror she felt.

Whipping back around toward the window, she started to scream, but her cry was barely audible as the larger of the two men clamped his huge hand over her nose and mouth and grabbed her around the waist. The last thing she remembered was the smell of ether.

As she sat tied to her seat, she could only imagine what torment Wilson must be going through. She tried to move her arms and legs, but the leather lashings were too secure. Methodically weighing her options, she felt surprisingly calm and lucid, even though she’d been horrified by her captors only hours earlier. Wilson was right. This secret society, insider’s club, or whatever the hell it was, could not be allowed to continue in any form whatsoever. She wished she’d never questioned Wilson’s resolve to expose them. She’d only done it out of fear. Fear of death. Fear of harm. Fear of difficulty and struggle. Fear of being alone without Wilson. But now that her worst fears had materialized, she felt her a new resolve burning inside her.

She swore to herself that if she was able to get out of this alive, she would never again allow fear to control her. Never. She repeated the word never again and again until she remembered how her captors had fondled her body before she lost consciousness. She fought back the tears. Everything can be taken from you except your freedom to choose your thoughts and feelings, she said to herself, even in the worst of circumstances.

Wilson would be moving heaven and earth to find her. She knew that. The thought strengthened her. She would find a way to help him find her. Her emotions were on fire. The only way they could stop her would be to kill her.

41

Wilson – Boston, MA

When Wilson and Mike Anthony arrived back in Boston, they took a cab to the Back Bay apartment. Hap Greene and three of his associates were waiting for them. Wilson sat down across from Hap and the others. Driggs was the only one of the associates Wilson had previously met; Hap introduced the others as Jones and Taylor. He then informed Wilson that, since yesterday afternoon, 153 private jets had arrived from Europe at more than three-dozen airports along the northeastern seaboard. Hap studied Wilson before asking, “What are you going to say to her when she’s on the phone? You’ll only have a few seconds.”

Wilson appreciated the directness. He’d already given Hap’s question considerable thought. “Nothing. My guess is that after they get me on the phone they’ll shove the phone in her face to let her say a few words and then take it away. There won’t be any dialogue. Emily is savvy. She’ll be thinking the same thing we’re thinking. She knows we’ll be recording and analyzing every word she says. If she has any idea where she is, she’ll find a way to give us a clue without making it obvious.”