The Insiders (28 page)
Hap looked at Wilson with a slight smile. “Good. You’re right about the dialogue. I hope you’re right about Emily.” After a pause and a glance at his associates, he continued. “One other thing. Tell the kidnappers that you want to hear her voice telling you she’s okay at least once a day. The more opportunity she has to give us information, the better. Even then, we won’t get many words from her. The first time all we’ll get is I’m okay. After they see you’re cooperating, maybe they’ll allow her to complete a sentence, but it won’t be a long sentence. And, they’ll scrutinize her every word just like we will.”
Wilson nodded soberly before expressing a concern that had been plaguing him.
“You said public knowledge of the kidnapping would increase the probability of her death. I don’t think we’ll be able to keep Emily’s kidnapping a secret for more than a week or so.”
“Which means we have to find her before that,” Hap said with a wildcat fierceness in his eyes.
Wilson had never seen that look in Hap’s eyes. It bolstered his confidence, but he also recognized that he was grasping at anything to brighten his hope. “How’s my father and family?”
“Everyone’s safe and heavily guarded. There’s been no change in your father’s condition,” Hap said. Then he reached under the coffee table and brought out three newspapers—
The Chicago Tribune
,
The New York Times
, and
The Wall Street Journal
. He dropped them on the table in front of Wilson. TRAGIC VISIONARY SHAPES AN INDUSTRY was the headline on the front page of
The Chicago Tribune
. The other papers carried similar headlines. Wilson read the
Tribune’s
sub headline “Double Suicide Brings Heartbreaking End to Pinnacle of Success”, and then looked up at Hap in horror.
“They killed them?”
Hap nodded slowly, “It’s definitely possible.”
“But why?” Wilson asked as he read with breakneck speed about David Quinn, his wife Margaret, and the J. B. Musselman Company. Moments later, he said, “The America’s Warehouse campaign seemed to be working brilliantly, at least for the moment. Why kill him now?” Without waiting for a response, he read further.
Hap and the others remained silent as Wilson finished scanning the three newspapers. When Wilson looked up again, Hap said, “It’s also possible that they killed themselves, just as the articles state.”
Wilson shook his head confidently. “No. They broke him, and he couldn’t live with it. They killed him to keep him from going to the authorities, just like Zollinger,” Wilson said, standing up from the black sofa, glaring at his team of former agents.
“They’re going to kill her, aren’t they?”
“Not necessarily. They need her to manipulate you,” Hap said. “You may be right about Quinn and his wife, but you’re a much bigger threat than one of their disgruntled CEOs. You’re sitting at the center of this thing, in control of the company that created this beast in the first place. They’ll stop at nothing to manipulate you. Only if and when they can’t, will they kill her. Then they’ll try to kill you. But we’re not going to let either one of those things happen,” Hap said. Then he added, “Let’s review the details one more time to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”
By the time they finished, Wilson was sure he’d summarized everything he knew about his father, Fielder & Company, and the secret partnership. But it still wasn’t enough to expose the secret partnership in the way he’d planned. Emily’s kidnapping had made it agonizingly clear that they had no intention of bringing him inside. And David Quinn’s death at the so-called pinnacle of success meant only one thing—they would not hesitate to kill him and Emily, just as Hap had said. Did I go too far in baiting Malouf and Tennyson—or not far enough?
Now he had to find another way to first appease and then expose the secret society. “I won’t let them kill her, no matter what I have to do at Fielder & Company,” Wilson said.
Hap pointed to Driggs, who would be staying with Wilson in the apartment, his eyes boring into Wilson. “Don’t go to the bathroom without Driggs. We’ll be in the apartment next door. First thing in the morning, we’ll talk about next steps at Fielder & Company.”
When she heard the cockpit door open and close, Emily quickly lowered her eyelids to almost shut. The aircraft was descending quickly. A woman wearing a Venetian carnival mask walked over to Emily and placed a blindfold over her eyes and earphones over her ears. It was the same woman who’d brought lunch and drinks earlier, but hadn’t spoken a word.
A few minutes later, after the small jet had landed, Emily’s right arm was injected with something that made her feel groggy and lightheaded. She was untied, lifted out of her seat, and assisted into what seemed like a delivery truck. She gradually began to lose consciousness, but not before the vehicle carrying her had stopped and she was lifted off the hard bench and taken somewhere else. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t in another vehicle.
When Emily awoke several hours later, she was lying face up on a cot in a cold space. Her eyes were blindfolded, her ears covered with tight-fitting earphones that made a constant humming noise, her mouth taped, her arms and legs strapped down, and she was covered with a heavy blanket up to her neck. She could feel the forced air of a space heater on her face and there was a faint smell of oil or gasoline in the air. While she couldn’t be absolutely sure because of the injection she’d received, her sense was that the ride in the vehicle with the hard bench couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes, which meant she was probably in a warehouse or hangar near the airport where they’d landed. Now all she had to do was figure out which airport and how to let Wilson know.
Just then, a computerized woman’s voice spoke through the tight-fitting earphones telling Emily that she would be talking into a phone to her boyfriend in a few minutes. She was to only say, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
Emily’s mind raced frantically to figure out how she was going to tell Wilson that she was at an airport, somewhere several hours away from Venice by jet—probably west. The more she thought about it, the more discouraged she became. She could be anywhere in the western hemisphere. Blurting out that she was at an airport would only get her moved. Besides, how many airports were there in the western hemisphere? She calmed herself down and focused. Any information would be better than none, if she could deliver it without raising suspicions. And just maybe, there would be more opportunities, not only to find out where she was, but to talk to Wilson. One step at a time. One piece of information at a time. Then it came to her. She knew exactly what she was going to say and how she was going to say it.
When the phone rang in Wilson’s apartment rang, Hap and his men were on their feet, out the door of their apartment, and into Wilson’s.
“I haven’t given this phone number to anyone except Emily,” Wilson said as Hap entered the living room. It was now on its fourth ring. Wilson was silently pleading for it to be Emily, while looking nervously at Hap for any last minute guidance.
“Go ahead and answer it. Everything’s set to record and trace the call as soon as you pick up,” Hap said.
Wilson picked up the phone. A male computerized voice said, “Wilson Fielder.”
“Yes.”
“We have your girlfriend,” the voice said. There was a click and brief pause before Wilson heard Emily’s voice.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice breaking as if she was about to cry. Wilson could hear her take a deep breath before she exhaled the words, “I’m j…” then he heard her whimper before she said, “…fine.”
There was another click and the computerized voice returned to the line. “If you want to keep her alive, you must completely remove yourself from our business affairs. When you do, she will be returned unharmed.”
“I want to hear her voice every day and the next time I want to talk to her,” Wilson demanded quickly.
“You’re in no position to be making demands, Mr. Fielder.”
The next thing Wilson heard was another click and the line went dead. Wilson stood motionless. Hap’s voice revived him. “Come listen to the replay.” In the kitchen, he and Driggs were hunched over a small digital recording device.
Grappling with what Emily had said and how she’d said it, Wilson walked into the kitchen. “Either they’ve hurt her or she was trying to tell me that she expects them to,” Wilson said, feeling like a pinned wrestler.
“Listen to this first. It might change your mind,” Hap said.
Driggs pushed the lever to replay Emily’s words at a slower speed. “Dooon’t woooorrry … (break in voice and deep breath) … I’mmm jet … (whimper) … fiiinne.”
“Play it again,” Wilson said anxiously, wanting to make sure he’d heard what he thought he had. After hearing it a second time, Wilson voiced what Driggs and Hap were now smiling about. “She said the word
jet
. It’s as plain as it could be at the slower speed, but I didn’t hear it when she was on the phone with me.”
“Emily’s more calm and lucid than we expected,” Hap said, leaning on the kitchen counter. “She added the crack in her voice and the whimper to hide the word. Even then, I’m not sure it’s enough to raise suspicions. Smart girl. She’s going to get us one small piece of information at a time.”
“She was flown somewhere,” Wilson said restlessly, looking at Hap for confirmation.
“Right. It could also mean she’s being held near where the jet landed,” Hap said, raising his eyebrows and returning Wilson’s stare. Then Hap called to Jones in the back bedroom, “Did we get anything on the trace?”
“They called from somewhere on the North American continent, but that’s all we got,” Taylor replied. “They were bouncing the signal.”
“Bingo. I wasn’t sure we’d get that much,” Hap said, smiling at Wilson. “Now we can get even more serious about pouring over the details on those 153 private jets.”
Wilson wasn’t sure how, but he believed Emily would find a way to give them more information each time she called. It was just enough hope to help him keep his torment at bay.
It was just after seven o’clock in the morning when, from his father’s office, Wilson began making a series of pre-scheduled, international calls to acquisition candidates in Asia and Europe. By thirty minutes past eight, he’d talked to twenty-three firms and made arrangements to meet with six of them within the next month.
At nine o’clock, he entered one of the conference rooms on the ninth floor to listen to the first of seven presentations from advertising and publicity firms. When the last presentation concluded at one o’clock, Wilson had boiled it down to two firms: BBDO, the first firm to present and the one with the strongest track record with professional service firms, and Tate Waterhouse, the last firm to present and the one with the best understanding of Fielder & Company’s history and current needs.
Wilson wasn’t surprised when Wayland Tate himself attended his firm’s presentation but immediately sensed that Tate’s presence was more than a courtesy call in symbolic deference to his father. When Tate invited him to lunch, he was sure of it. Wayland Tate was there on behalf of the secret partnership.
“I’m going to lunch at the Bostonian Club with two of our vice presidents. You’re welcome to join us,” Wilson said, kicking himself for not talking to Carter about Tate. But would Carter have told me the truth?
“I know the club well. It was one of your father’s favorites. You go ahead with your vice presidents,” Tate said graciously, no longer in disguise. “I have a few things I’d like to share with you in private. I’m staying at the Westin for the next couple of days. We can set up another time to meet.”
Tate’s words made Wilson’s blood run cold. There was no way he was going to postpone an opportunity to get Emily back. He immediately said, “Let me see what I can arrange with the vice presidents.”
After conferring with Frank O’Connor and Bob Throckmorton, Wilson told Tate he would be available for lunch. He agreed to meet Tate at the Bostonian Club in twenty minutes. Selecting an advertising firm to handle Fielder & Company’s new publicity campaign had suddenly become a secondary issue.
Wilson’s mind flew to memories about Wayland Tate and his firm. While it was true that Fielder & Company and Tate Waterhouse had long exchanged data and analyses on behalf of shared clients, he didn’t know any of the details. He repeated his father’s words again:
the most brilliant advertising executive of his generation
.
Then he recalled his own experience at the J. B. Musselman Company, where Tate sat on the board of directors. Wilson was certain that Tate had been the one who convinced David Quinn to launch the America’s Warehouse strategy. Tate was an unusually persuasive and driven man, a man his father had always liked. But Wilson could no longer deny the probability that Wayland Tate was part of the secret partnership. If he was being paranoid, he’d find out soon.
Wilson returned to his office with nothing but vengeance on his mind. He immediately called Hap Greene.
“We’ve been monitoring everything,” Hap said. “I have people inside and outside the Bostonian Club. Needless to say, we’re ready for your lunch. Are you?”
“I’ve never been more ready,” Wilson said.
“We’ll find her, Wilson. Just buy us some time. Like you said, let them think you’ll give them whatever they want.”
“My thoughts exactly. Here we go,” Wilson said before hanging up. He then talked briefly to O’Connor and Throckmorton, who both agreed that BBDO and Tate Waterhouse represented the two best firms of the seven for Fielder & Company’s publicity initiative.
Minutes later, Wilson walked into the Bostonian Club and was immediately escorted to a private dining room on the club’s exclusive third floor. The room looked like a nineteenth-century den with an impressive collection of classic and modern works, an Italian marble fireplace, glazed leather sofas and chairs, exquisite Persian rugs, and two Marsden Hartley originals. He focused on the décor to calm himself, musing on the irony of a beat generation socialist painter, like Hartley, supplying the backdrop for exclusive luncheon meetings among Boston’s elite. But the blue-blooded rich always ignored such contradictions. They bought whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, he thought, remembering detective Zemke’s comment about his father.