Wilson lay sprawled across the overstuffed chair and ottoman in the belfry library of the Fielder family home in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The two-story library had always been Wilson’s lair. His father turned the circular belfry into a cozy library lined with maple bookshelves when Wilson was eight. The large oculus window provided a lookout to the outside world and a beautiful view of Cambridge Common and Harvard Square. Growing up, he and his friends had used the library and its large round window as an imaginary battle station with a strategic lookout. That’s when he started calling the Fielder family home Brattle House. When he’d gotten older, the library became another place to have long intimate conversations with his father.
Last night, after spending several hours researching the latest surveillance and counter-surveillance practices online, Wilson had fallen asleep in his favorite overstuffed chair. His sister Rachel woke him with a violent shake. “Wilson. Wilson. Wake up. Daniel Redd was killed last night.”
Wilson cracked opened his eyes gummed up from sleep, struggling to bring them into focus. Rachel’s face was distorted. She looked horrified. “What?” he said, as her words began to sink in.
“Last night, just before eleven o’clock, Daniel and another attorney were hit by a drunk driver on Boylston.”
“Where’s the driver?”
“Dead. The car struck a truck and exploded.”
Still dumbstruck, Wilson grabbed the morning edition of
The Boston Globe
from Rachel’s hands.
Daniel Redd of Boston and Cheryl O’Grady of New York City were killed yesterday evening when a car racing at high speed swerved from behind a lane of stopped traffic and struck the two attorneys who were walking in the crosswalk at Boylston and Arlington Streets. The car continued through the intersection and exploded when it crashed into a delivery van. Remains of the driver have been identified as Thomas Wilkins of Boston.
Wilkins, who had been living on the streets of Boston for the past year, was driving a stolen vehicle at the time of the accident. Daniel Redd, age 47, was a partner with the Boston-based law firm of Weintraub, Drake, Heinke & Redd. He is survived by a son, William, age 24. Cheryl O’Grady, age 42, was Deputy General Counsel for the New York investment banking company KaneWeller. She is survived by her husband, Connor. The two attorneys had been working on KaneWeller’s recent acquisition of Fielder & Company, a Boston-based financial consulting firm. Chairman and founder, Charles Fielder, is still in a coma at Mass General suffering from a gunshot wound he sustained just last week in Sun Valley, Idaho. While the police have not officially drawn any connection between the two tragic events, they have not ruled out the possibility.
Wilson read the report two more times, still unable to fathom that Daniel was suddenly gone. Killed in a crosswalk because of Fielder & Company’s secrets. Why now? The fifty-two files? Sharing them with me? Meeting with Cheryl O’Grady? Had Daniel shared the files with her? Or was there something else Daniel failed to tell me?
“They did it. I know they did it,” Wilson said under his breath.
Rachel looked as pale as death, staring at Wilson in disbelief. “What’s happening to us?” she whispered.
An hour later Wilson was sitting in Bill Heinke’s office at Weintraub, Drake, Heinke & Redd, listening to Heinke’s account of Daniel’s tragic death.
“We’re all in shock around here,” Heinke said, placing his hand over his forehead and sighing. “However, I assure you that nothing with respect to your family’s assets or concerns has been jeopardized. Twenty-four hour security protection for your father, increased surveillance and counter-surveillance, liquidation of assets—everything will continue as planned.” Heinke paused a moment, his face distorted, before adding, “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Wilson waited for a few moments out of respect for Daniel, but his sorrow had already turned into rage. There was no question in his mind that the people who had tried to murder his father had now killed Daniel Redd. “Why were Daniel and Cheryl meeting?” Wilson asked.
“Wrapping up loose ends on the merger, before Cheryl returned to New York for meetings today.”
“What loose ends?”
“She wanted additional information about some of Fielder & Company’s clients. Daniel had been working non-stop, hoping to finish everything by this morning.”
“Which clients?” Wilson asked, feeling uneasy as he shifted in the leather wing chair across the desk from Heinke. He already knew the answer.
“We’re not sure. There was nothing found at the scene of the accident. We’re going through his files this morning. Daniel was very particular about his client files. He kept some in his office, some in the firm’s vault, and others in safety-deposit boxes. Give us the rest of the day,” Heinke said, sighing again as he folded his short, plump arms over his swollen stomach. Sweat had formed along his furrowed brow below a crop of receding gray-brown hair slicked back with gel. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. He continued, “We’ll have everything accounted for by this afternoon. As for your father’s estate, we have more than a dozen attorneys working on it as we speak. Daniel trained an exceptional group of attorneys. I’m personally assuming a supervisory role. Everything is proceeding as planned. Your father’s assets should be fully monetized within thirty days. KaneWeller is also anxious about the files, the late-night meeting between Daniel and Cheryl, and, of course, the expected negative publicity. They’ve been checking in every half hour for updates.”
“Please keep me informed,” Wilson said as he got up.
“Of course. By the way, do you happen to have copies of any of Daniel’s files?”
“No, I returned everything I had,” Wilson said, disguising his lie with abruptness. There’s no way I’m turning over my copies of the fifty-two files. Not now that Daniel’s gone. Fuck the bastards. I’ll be ready for them when they come after me.
Heinke grimaced slightly as he stood up. Things were obviously worse than Heinke was letting on. Hopefully, his body would be able to handle the added burden. The KaneWeller merger, the Fielder estate, and the reputations of all three firms were at stake, but none of that was Wilson’s primary concern at the moment.
Before leaving the building, he called his former mentor and family friend, Carter Emerson. Carter said he’d been expecting Wilson’s call. They arranged to meet in thirty minutes at John Harvard’s Brew House in Harvard Square, where the thick stone walls and heavy music of the subterranean pub would be enough to prevent anyone from eavesdropping. Walking to his car, he repeated the words of his father’s letter:
Complete the merger with KaneWeller and then liquidate all my other business assets as quickly as possible. Daniel Redd will help you. If you need additional help, go to Carter Emerson. Trust no one else.
Now, there was no one else. As he drove his father’s car from Back Bay to Harvard Square, his thoughts turned to Emily Klein and the first day they met in Carter Emerson’s history class. It was his sophomore year at Princeton.
Emily was late for Emerson’s course on interpreting history. As she rushed through the door, anticipating the distinguished professor’s glare, something entirely unexpected happened. The first person she looked at when she entered the amphitheater-style classroom was Wilson. Their eyes locked for several seconds. He had no idea who she was, but he watched her every move. Emily told him later that she could feel him watching her. Even though she was used to having men ogle her striking features, thick shoulder-length blonde hair, and well-defined, five-foot-seven body, this felt different for both of them. She quickly took an empty seat across the aisle from Wilson in the third row of the amphitheater. He continued to glance at her throughout the class until she opened her mouth to ask a question. After that his glances turned into near constant staring.
Professor Emerson had just finished reviewing the objectives for his course, “Patterns of American Thought and Their Influence on the Interpretation of History,” when he asked the class if there were any questions. A flood of mundane and predictable queries about books, reading requirements, tests, and papers spewed forth. After twenty minutes of these unbearably boring questions, Emily raised her hand and said, “Professor Emerson, based on the past twenty minutes, how would you evaluate our interpretation of the patterns of learning in American higher education?”
The class burst into laughter.
When things quieted down, Professor Emerson responded, “In answer to your question, I think we have a few misinterpretations to correct in the coming weeks.”
Another round of laughter rippled through the seventy or so students in the room.
Smiling at Emily, Professor Emerson dismissed the class a few minutes early. Afterwards, Professor Emerson approached Emily to thank her for the question. As they bantered sarcastically about the hidden barriers to getting a superior college education, Wilson joined them. Emily was noticeably impressed that he and Professor Emerson had known each other for years. Wilson introduced himself to Emily and the three of them talked and laughed about a variety of topics, until Professor Emerson had to leave. While walking out of the amphitheater together, Professor Emerson invited both of them to dinner at his home on Sunday.
After that, it didn’t take long for Emily and Wilson to become close friends. Carter had recognized the unusual chemistry between them from the beginning. They were seniors at Princeton when they started living together and began discussing a longer-term relationship, but neither of them had been ready to commit to anything other than their own career goals.
When Wilson turned into the parking garage across from John Harvard’s Brew House, his reminiscences shifted to Sun Valley, where a day earlier he’d driven past the Sun Valley Lodge. The Old World elegance, surrounded by rustic pine timbers and natural stone, made the famed lodge and its Duchin Lounge one of Wilson’s favorite spots for socializing after a day of skiing. It was there that he’d proposed to Emily a year ago last Christmas. He’d gotten down on one knee as the Duchin’s live jazz-blues band played “At Last,” and presented Emily with a four-carat diamond ring.
Six months later, they were still fighting over where to live and how to resolve their insane work schedules. He lived in Chicago; she lived in New York City. She was finishing a manuscript and treating patients; he was fast-tracking his career and traveling incessantly. When they finally decided to postpone the wedding until their career obstacles and obsessions subsided, Emily returned the ring and their relationship foundered.
It had been almost a year, and he still hadn’t gotten over her. Now the sobering effect of his father’s coma and Daniel’s death was forcing him to take stock of his life in ways he never had—especially his relationships. It was time to admit, even celebrate, that he’d always loved Emily and always would. Time to correct a big mistake and protect the woman he loved.
When Wilson arrived at John Harvard’s Brew House, Carter Emerson was standing at the polished-brass and dark-wood bar with an Irish stout in his hand. He looked more like an adventurer than a famed History of American Civilization professor at Harvard University. His rugged features and thick brown hair, not to mention the robust athletic body, belied his status as one of the world’s most respected public intellectuals. They embraced as old friends. “It’s good to see you,” Carter said, his bright blue eyes uncharacteristically gentle.
Having known him in his Princeton days, Wilson appreciated that expressions of empathy were a rare commodity with Carter Emerson. “Thank you for your messages of sympathy and support to the family,” Wilson said.
“I visited your father this morning,” Carter said slowly. “Dr. Malek seems genuinely optimistic, which is marvelous. But if Charles regains consciousness, he could become a target again. Malek’s an old friend of your father’s and mine. He told me you asked him about moving your father to a more secure location. I think it’s a good idea.”
Wilson nodded as the host escorted them—at Wilson’s request—to a thick stone-lined corner of the pub. When they were seated, Wilson dispensed with the normal social niceties. “Daniel Redd’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Carter concurred solemnly, without saying a word.
Wilson leaned over the table. It was time for plain talk. But before he began, Wilson reminded himself to be calm. His relationship with Carter had been nothing but stimulating and inspiring. If he couldn’t trust Carter Emerson, he couldn’t trust anyone. With measured delivery and a voice reserved for discreet conversation, he said, “Why has it taken my father lying on his death bed to find out what he was really doing at Fielder & Company? And I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. Daniel was feeding me bits and pieces, but only in answer to specific questions. Now he’s dead. Probably murdered by the same people who tried to kill my father. Who’s next? You? Me? We’re all under mounting surveillance, but we can’t go to the authorities because their involvement could jeopardize the liquidation of my father’s assets, which unknown to me until a couple of days ago, total more than seventy billion dollars. I need answers, and according to my father, you’re the only one left who I can trust.”
“I learned a long time ago that certain conversations must remain absolutely private,” Carter said in a dry voice as he looked down at the briefcase resting on the floor next to his foot. “The technology in that briefcase radiates digital noise interference, essentially turning our conversation into white noise. It also immobilizes and nullifies listening devices such as wireless microphones and GPS tracking devices. There are two telephone scramblers inside as well. You can take the briefcase with you when you leave. Operating instructions are inside.”
Wilson sat back, contemplating the mystery that was Carter—so like his father. “Tell me everything you know,” he said firmly.