“They wouldn’t tell me,” Hap said, his eyebrows raised.
“Are you absolutely confident that they know what the fuck they’re doing?” Wilson asked, admitting to himself that there was nothing he could do about it even if they didn’t know what they were doing, except free Emily and leave the country like Carter had.
“They seem to have marshaled an impressive strike force,” Hap said, sympathizing with Wilson.
“I hope you’re right,” Wilson said, still considering the option of fleeing with Emily. “Are you certain that my father and the rest of my family are safe?”
Hap stepped back away from the door, “Each one of them is under heavy surveillance, twenty-four hours a day, four of our people and four FBI agents for every one of them.”
“That has to be raising suspicions.”
“We still haven’t seen any evidence of surveillance or counter-surveillance since your meeting with Tate at the Bostonian Club,” Hap said.
“Doesn’t that surprise you?”
“Actually, no. They know we’re here in full force, so they’re pretending to trust you, even when they don’t. They’re close to being free from Fielder & Company and they’re still holding Emily. But sooner or later they’ll figure it out. FBI agents throughout the country are already monitoring the movements of every CEO in the secret partnership, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Kohl wants the arrests to happen simultaneously.”
“How many arrests?”
“Over four hundred.”
“They’ll never pull this off without something going wrong. What’s the actual charge?”
“Conspiracy,” Hap said.
“Conspiracy?” Wilson said, louder than intended.
Conspirare
, the Latin root of conspire, means to
breathe together,
he thought. Manipulation is as natural as breathing to these guys.
“Conspiracy to defraud the United States,” Hap said as he pulled a business card from his jacket pocket. He began reading from the back of the card, “As defined by the Supreme Court, conspiracy to defraud the United States is ‘to interfere with, impede, or obstruct a lawful government function by deceit, craft, or trickery, or at least by means that are dishonest.’ They’re also going to make a case for treason, calling it ‘a breach of allegiance to one’s government and levying financial war against the American people.’”
“Carter has been planning this for weeks,” Wilson said, cynically. “Why did he need me?”
Hap stood up. “Distraction,” he said, not without sympathy. “You were his only means of finding cover from the partnership’s scrutiny. All he needed was a little time and enough counter-surveillance resources to accomplish what he did this morning. You provided both.”
Hap was right again. Wilson had distracted the partnership just long enough for Carter to deliver his final lecture.
FBI executives Kohl and Johns entered the Back Bay apartment with Hap Greene, followed by four FBI technicians carrying several cases of computer and video equipment. Wilson arrived a few minutes later. It was almost eight in the evening and there had been no more calls from Emily. Thankfully, regular reports from Driggs continued to convey that she was safe and unharmed. He wouldn’t allow her to suffer much longer, even if she was determined to destroy the bastards.
Within minutes, the FBI technicians had set up five laptop computers and a video camera at the dining room table and then proceeded to log in five reporters—Katherine Fischer from
The New York Times
, Peter Jacoby from
The Wall Street Journal
, Bob Woodward from
The Washington Post
, Martha Kinzer from
The Boston Globe
, and Barry Dietz from the
Associated Press
—for an encrypted high-tech video conference. When all the connections had been tested, Kirsten Kohl asked Wilson to join her in the dining room.
“Each of these journalists is on a secure, encrypted connection. They have been thoroughly briefed on our operation. Each of them attended the meeting with Carter Emerson earlier today. Now, they have some questions for you.”
Feeling a bit blindsided by Carter and now the FBI, Wilson’s growing cynicism flared. “Seems a bit Orwellian or maybe Chinese to have the FBI orchestrating the press.”
“We’re not orchestrating the press,” Kohl said with a distinct coolness. “It was a non-negotiable part of Carter Emerson’s demands.”
“Nothing surprising about that,” Wilson mumbled.
“We’re only here for background, Mr. Fielder,” said
New York Times
senior reporter Katherine Fischer. “Could you begin by describing your father’s relationship with Carter Emerson?”
“Aren’t we going to wait for the networks?” Wilson asked sarcastically.
“Broadcast journalists are scheduled for Friday morning after the arrests,” Johns said. “Nothing will be printed or broadcast until then.”
“And these reporters agreed to that?” Wilson said in disbelief. He didn’t like Johns or his self-righteous smugness. And he couldn’t believe all of this was going to unfold without any hitches. Carter had told him about wanting the press to be intimately involved, but no one had bothered to tell him about the details or the timetable—and it aggravated him.
“The national security implications of a premature leak on this story have registered with all of them. Plus, we have agents at each of their locations and sworn affidavits that nothing will be discussed or printed until Friday,” Kohl said.
“Of course,” Wilson said, ready to have Emily extracted immediately.
“What about your father’s relationship with Carter Emerson?” Fischer asked again.
Wilson reluctantly spent the next ten minutes explaining what he knew about Carter’s relationship with his father. As he summarized the relationship, he softened, admitting to himself how much he loved and respected both of them, despite the fact that he and Emily had been caught in their web of manipulations.
“What do you think motivated your father and Carter Emerson?” asked
Wall Street Journal
reporter Peter Jacoby.
Wilson stared at the small camera attached to the laptop computer at the center of the table and then at the five faces on the computer screens before answering, “My father and Carter Emerson believed that once the American people saw how frighteningly easy it was for those with wealth and power to manipulate our financial system and get away with it, they would revolt.”
“Could you explain what your father considered to be the failing of capitalism?” asked
The Post’s
Bob Woodward.
“Capitalistic Darwinism—cutthroat hierarchies that allow the strong to take advantage of the weak, the few to reap the financial rewards earned by the many. It’s the noble lie. Only philosopher kings or wealthy elite are capable of ruling,” Wilson said, paraphrasing Plato’s Republic. I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life, he thought, just like Carter and my father.
The questions continued for another two hours until Wilson had told them almost everything he knew about his father and the six people who had formed the Fenice Partnership eight years earlier. When the reporters finally logged off from the video-conference, Wilson was exhausted and nervous. There still had been no call from Emily. Hap again assured him that the updates from his people every half hour indicated that she was fine.
Kohl and Johns promised Wilson there would be no more surprises and no further need to talk to the press, unless he agreed to it.
Fat chance of either one of those promises being kept, he said to himself. Suddenly, he felt squeamish about all the other assurances they’d extolled.
“It will all be over by the weekend,” Johns said.
“Will we still be alive?” Wilson replied, his temper suddenly flaring. What an anal dickhead. If it weren’t for Kohl, I’d have zero confidence in the FBI.
“We’ve doubled the surveillance on Emily and your family,” Johns said.
“Certainly you’re not expecting leaks?” Wilson asked sarcastically. His nerves sufficiently fried that he no longer cared who he offended, especially Johns.
“It’s only a precaution,” Kohl said, warming up for the first time all evening. “We’ve never encountered a conspiracy with this scope and sophistication.”
“What worries you most?” Wilson asked, staring at Kohl.
“The number of people involved,” she said slowly.
“Bound to spring a fucking leak somewhere,” Wilson said, feeling himself slipping over the edge.
Hap put his hand on Wilson’s shoulder.
Kohl hesitated before responding, “We can relocate you and Emily to a safe-house anytime you choose.”
“If we disappear, so will every goddamned member of this partnership,” Wilson said, his edginess now out of control.
“Every one of them is under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Johns said. “They won’t be going anywhere without us.”
Hap tightened his grip on Wilson’s shoulder, knowing the defiant thirty-one-year-old was about to blow. “If we see the slightest evidence of counter-surveillance or any other questionable activity, we’re going to pull Emily out and move them both to a safe location,” Hap said, eyeing Kohl and Johns.
“If you’re still up to it, we’d like you to keep everyone at Fielder & Company focused on the transition,” Johns said in his official, matter-of-fact tone of voice.
“That’s what he’s been doing—at no small risk to himself and Emily,” Hap said, his voice rising. Johns was getting under
his
skin now.
Kohl and Johns gathered their things, reiterating their assurances and appreciation before leaving.
There was nothing else to do except wait for something to go wrong.
Swatling’s call found Tate in suite 2301 at The Westin Copley Place, in the middle of an acupuncture treatment. The acupuncturist, a beautiful Chinese-American woman, had arrived earlier in the evening to relieve Tate’s mounting stress. Tate was lying face up on the massage table as he put the phone to his ear.
“It’s not Carter,” Swatling said chillingly.
“What?” Tate said, sitting up. He grimaced from the nerve pain caused by his sudden muscle movement.
“The person attending the history conference at Stanford. It’s not Carter,” Swatling said, this time more loudly.
There was silence on the phone as Tate stood up; the towel covering him fell to the floor. He stood naked in the middle of the spacious suite. Acupuncture needles in his face, neck, and shoulders flopped about in every direction. He no longer felt the pain.
“Who is it?” he finally demanded. The acupuncturist attempted to give him a towel to cover himself, but he dismissed her.
“We don’t know yet,” Swatling said. “He’s disguised to look like Carter, but something didn’t seem right. Our people found a way to check his fingerprints when they made contact with him. It’s not him.”
There was more silence while Tate made his decision. “Find out who he is and what he knows about Carter. Then kill him. Our wait is over.”
“It may be premature to…”
Tate interrupted, “Not when you consider the context.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of our FBI contacts called earlier to inform us that several CEOs from major corporations in the Boston area are under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Something’s scheduled to go down on Friday. That’s why I sent you the message to make contact with Carter. Kamin and Malouf are waiting for a conference call, but that won’t be necessary now. Carter has made the decision for us.”
“What about the other FBI informants?”
“It’s time to pull the plug, Bob. You know what to do. I’ll see you in seventy-two hours,” Tate said, finally looking over at the acupuncturist, who was now staring at him in fear.
Tate placed the phone down slowly. What had she heard? He’d uncharacteristically forgotten all about her. He began gently removing the acupuncture needles until one of them disturbed a nerve, causing him to flinch with pain. He ripped the rest of them out, leaving several bleeding pinholes on his face, neck, and shoulders. When he turned to look at himself in the full-length mirror, it was a reflection that disturbed him greatly.
The startled woman ran to the bathroom for a warm damp towel. As she tried to wipe away the blood on Tate’s neck and shoulders, he pushed her away and walked into the bedroom. When he returned, he held a long-barreled pistol in his hand. He fired it once into her head. She’s heard too much, and I feel like killing.
As Tate stood above her, watching the lifeblood ooze out of her body, he vowed to himself that he would never be caught. He immediately called Morita to activate their exit strategy. Then he called Kamin and Malouf to let them know about Carter. The partnership was no longer of any use to him. It would soon be exposed. His firm and his clients would have to fend for themselves. The only thing he could do now was to protect himself and his key relationships.
Twenty minutes later, a cleanup crew dressed in business attire arrived at suite 2301. Tate smiled as he watched them go about their work. With money you can buy anything in this world, he said to himself. Two men attended to the lifeless body of the acupuncturist while others cleaned the room. Two women escorted him to the bathroom where they began working on a new disguise—an artificial nose, raised brow with bushy eyebrows, new receding hairline, sandy blonde wig, and an extended chin were carefully put into place, transforming Tate in a matter of minutes into a completely different-looking person. When they were finished, Tate got dressed while going over the documents of his new identity.
Thirty minutes after they arrived, the cleanup crew exited the suite looking like a group of business associates who’d just concluded a late night meeting—some were going out for drinks while others were leaving to catch flights. Three suitcases carried the remains of the acupuncturist.
Hap Greene was sitting at the dining room table eating a leftover sandwich from a nearby deli when Wilson joined him. It was two in the morning, and Wilson couldn’t sleep or bring himself to eat anything. “Anything else from Driggs?”
“No changes. She’s safe and sleeping.”