The Insiders (40 page)
“Tell them not to lose Tate and Swatling,” Wilson said, somewhat disdainfully.
“Don’t worry. The global implications have registered…”
The automated operator interrupted the conversation demanding another deposit. Wilson dropped in the coins.
“Wilson, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you might like to know that it’s safe to come home,” Kohl said. “We’re still searching for a few missing employees from Tate Waterhouse and Swatling, Dyer, and Reinthrow, but every other member of the partnership that we know about has been arrested, except for the six who committed suicide. All of the compromised agents are either dead or in custody, except one. And, yes, we are confident that we’ve identified them all.”
“Where’s the one who’s still unaccounted for?”
“He’s in Italy with Tate and Swatling.”
“Hap’s man?”
“No. CIA.”
There was silence on the phone.
“When are you coming back?” Kohl asked.
“When you have Tate and Swatling behind bars,” Wilson said, pausing, “And when I know where Carter…”
“We’ll find him,” Kohl said, cutting him off. “Next time, call collect.”
As soon as Wilson hung up the phone, Emily asked, “Where’s Carter?”
“They don’t know,” he said, “Tate and Swatling are in Venice. Carter’s probably there too.”
“You think Carter’s planning to meet with them?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’m not certain of his agenda.”
“I think he’s going to kill them,” Emily said.
Wilson nodded, staring at her, until a lobsterman asked if they were still using the phone. Wilson took Emily’s arm and returned to the yacht.
As if they hadn’t seen enough, they sat glued to the loft’s twenty-one-inch television screen until midnight, watching the endless news coverage of a distraught nation facing up to its long-neglected flaws. At the end of one of the news reports, ABC’s Charlie Gibson paused to reflect on Thomas Jefferson’s greatest fear for our then fledgling nation over two hundred years ago—that capitalism would not be accessible to all. Gibson ended his commentary by saying, “Had we been willing to pursue Jefferson’s vision of distributing capitalism to the end of every row and to the bottom of every hierarchy, instead of allowing the bulk of its benefits to enrich the wealthy elite, maybe America would not be facing this crisis.”
At first, Wilson thought the Gibson commentary might launch him and Emily into a heated Thomas Jefferson vs. Alexander Hamilton debate, like the ones they used to have at Princeton. Then it struck him. This was no longer a trendy topic for college campus polemics and public intellectuals such as Noam Chomsky, Paul Krugman, or Umberto Eco. The debate was over. American capitalism was about to be transformed, for better or worse.
Moments later, Wilson and Emily seemed to instantly share a mutual craving for escape into the place only they knew. Their lovemaking went on for hours as they savored the refuge and comfort of being lost in each other.
When Wilson finally closed his eyes to sleep, he tried to forget whose son he was. He still hadn’t completely decided whether to think of his father as a heroic revolutionary or a misguided fanatic. Only time would tell.
Wayland Tate walked past the two men armed with 9mm Glock automatics standing guard in the archway outside the door of the Venetian apartment. Three floors down, a third armed man paced back and forth on the orange and gray stone tiles of the courtyard. Two others sat across the small piazza observing the apartment building’s entrance.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours his hired guns had turned over every single object in all five rooms of the third-floor apartment, looking for some indication of Carter Emerson’s whereabouts. Carter’s clothes and personal items were still in the bedroom, but there had been no sign of him since yesterday.
Then, a few minutes after twelve noon, an eleven-year-old Venetian boy carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers with an attached note was ushered into Tate’s presence. Tate took the note and read:
Meet me inside the Teatro La Fenice at 17:30.
The door on the right will be open. Come alone. I will be watching.
CE
Tate studied the note before questioning the security guard who in turn questioned the boy. It was painfully clear that Carter Emerson was in total control of the situation. But Tate had no intention of allowing that to continue. During the next few hours, Tate, Swatling, and the compromised CIA agent surveyed everything within view of the reconstruction site, bribing whomever they could, from construction workers to the local
polizia
. They would not be unprepared for their meeting with Carter or the inevitable presence of Europol and the CIA. Regaining control of the situation was the only thing that mattered, and that meant mobilizing enough firepower to eliminate Carter and ensure their escape.
Tate knew that Carter had chosen La Fenice for some twisted, symbolic reason, but it made no difference to him. The ancient opera house, under restoration for the third or fourth time, would soon become Carter’s final resting place—unless he had some earth-shattering explanation for his actions over the past few days.
When the appointed hour of seventeen-thirty arrived, Tate and Swatling entered the specified door on the right, walking into the cavernous dome of the Teatro La Fenice. The partially restored opera house was breathtaking, but that’s not why Tate was breathing rapidly. He waited anxiously, standing with Swatling in the center of the theater below the circular opening in the ceiling.
Without warning, the same boy who had delivered the flowers earlier appeared out of nowhere and invited them to a triangle of facing chairs on the stage. They walked slowly past the orchestra pit and climbed the steps to the three wooden folding chairs. Before they sat down, the eleven-year-old boy disappeared behind the stage. Tate’s blood was boiling, but he concealed his emotions as always.
Without warning, they heard a loud voice booming into the theater. Tate turned around three times, trying to locate the source. “Welcome, once again, to La Fenice,” the voice said. It was Carter Emerson’s voice.
Tate continued searching in all directions, but there was no sight of Carter. He glanced at Swatling who gave him a shrug.
“Don’t bother looking, you won’t find me. I plan to remain hidden until I know it’s safe to enter.”
“What are you afraid of, Carter?” Tate shouted, his words echoing in the dome. “Have you betrayed your friends?”
“I have only betrayed myself, Wayland.”
“It’s a little late for conscience, isn’t it?” Tate said.
“Depends on your point of view,” Carter returned.
Tate stood up and began pacing around the chairs “Let’s stop the games, Carter. What do you want?”
“What do you want, Wayland?”
“I want to talk face-to-face.”
“Then call off your men.”
Tate sat back down but didn’t respond. The vast opera house remained silent for almost five minutes before Tate stood up again. “Okay, I’ll call them off.”
He pulled out a small communication device from inside his jacket and mumbled into it. Within seconds, two armed men, one on the second tier and Marco on the third, stood up and walked toward the exit door through which Tate and Swatling had entered.
“Tell your remaining firepower to disappear,” Carter said.
“And what about your firepower?”
“They will remove themselves with yours, and make sure we remain alone.”
“And you expect us to believe that?”
“Of course. What else should we expect from partners?” Carter said.
Tate whispered into his communication device once again, and the CIA agent, who had been a member of the partnership for over three years, stood up and shoved his rifle into a soft leather guitar case before leaving the theater.
“I’ll be right there,” Carter said.
Tate’s eyes motioned for Swatling to look at the back of the stage where the young boy had disappeared, but when he heard footsteps from behind, he quickly turned to see Carter walking toward them from the center of the theater. Tate’s eyes remained fixed on Carter, who climbed the stairs to the stage and sat down in the empty chair. The three partners exchanged stares for several moments in silence.
Carter spoke first. “I assume both of you have seen the news reports from home?”
“What’s your point?” Tate said, disgusted with the charade.
“Reconsideration of how capitalism is practiced in our country no longer seems to be a dream. It’s our new reality. We have succeeded, gentlemen.”
“Depends on your point of view,” Tate said mockingly.
“Touché,” Carter said. “Would you mind sharing yours?”
Tate just laughed. “There will never be a new reality. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“What about you, Bob?” Carter said.
“You violated the partnership agreement when you took things into your own hands,” Swatling returned.
“And so did you when you killed Zollinger,” Carter said.
“I hardly think you’re in a position…”
“Stop the nonsense,” Tate shouted, as he stood up and began pacing again. “What is it you want, Carter?”
“An end.”
“An end to what? The partnership?” Tate said, fuming inside. “I think you’ve already accomplished that.”
“An end to the manipulation,” Carter said.
“And if you eliminate us, will your conscience be clean?” Tate asked without waiting for a response. He now knew he had no choice but to kill Carter Emerson as soon as possible. “Your precious improvements to capitalism won’t last five years before things return to normal. The powers that be have already ordained it. Manipulate or be manipulated; that’s reality, Carter.”
“You have more illusions than I do,” Carter said.
“Depends on who’ll be around to interpret history,” Tate said, arrogantly. “After you shot Charles, I thought there was hope for you.” Tate looked over at Swatling and nodded slightly.
“That was the idea,” Carter said. “Charles and I knew it was the only way to convince you that I was on your side.”
Tate stood up abruptly and started walking off the stage. Swatling followed his lead. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Tate stopped and turned around, “You and Charles are ideologues. You may have destroyed this partnership, but you’ll never get your hands on the big one. They’ll crush you like a bug.”
“You’ve forgotten,” Carter said as he stood up and stepped to the edge of the stage.
“Forgotten what?” Tate said as he and Swatling walked backwards toward the center of the theater.
“Where we are.”
“You’re losing it, Carter.”
“La Fenice. Eight years ago. The inauguration of our partnership. We came here that night to see
Rigoletto
, remember?”
Tate and Swatling were now standing near the center of the theater. “So what?” Tate scoffed.
Carter extended his arms and began slowly raising them above his head. “You always did struggle with symbolism, Wayland.”
Tate held up his left wrist and placed his right hand over the buttons of the Rolex look-a-like that concealed a remote control detonator, set to ignite enough commercial blasting explosives to return La Fenice to rubble once again. There would be a ten-second delay after he pressed the two tiny buttons on opposite sides of the detonator in a one-two, two-one sequence, giving him and Swatling enough time to exit.
“How’s this for symbolism. What burned once will burn again.” Tate pushed the buttons in sequence, left, right, right, left, and then ran with Swatling for the exit.
Carter brought both of his arms down fast and ran for the archway behind the stage. Within three seconds, the wall of the theater above the exit door exploded, knocking Tate and Swatling to the ground and blocking their escape. Tate frantically clawed at the rubble, ripping his fingernails on the broken chunks of concrete as the ten seconds elapsed. The second explosion, the one Tate had planned for Carter, was heard throughout the city. It was the fourth time La Fenice would go down in flames.
Emerging from the tunnel that connected the opera house with a hidden dressing room on the subterranean floor of the apartment building owned by Fielder & Company, Carter was soaking wet up to his neck. The old tunnel, now almost completely filled with water, had been used by performing artists in the nineteenth century to shuttle back and forth from the stage to their dressing rooms. It had been sealed for more than a hundred years because of the rising water level. Charles had shown him the tunnel years ago. The past two days had been spent preparing it for his escape.
He quickly changed his clothes and then disguised himself with a false beard, sunglasses, and sea captain’s hat. Within minutes Carter was exiting into the alleyway behind the building, ready to disappear into the gathering crowd. He was almost finished with what he had to do.
As Carter left the alleyway and merged into the throng of people who’d come to see what caused the terrible explosion, two men grabbed Carter from behind, one on each side. “Aldrich and Warburg, CIA,” one of the men said. “We have instructions to escort you to Geneva, Switzerland. Your family is already there, waiting for you.”
“Your names tell me everything I need to know,” Carter said, studying the two well-built men. Congressman McFadden had accused United States Senator Nelson Aldrich and German-American banker Paul Warburg of being the ringleaders at the secret Jekyll Island conference of 1910, when the groundwork for the Federal Reserve System was first laid.
“That was the idea,” one of the agents said. “We have a helicopter standing by at the airport. Our water taxi is just ahead. We should arrive in a couple of hours.”
While Emily slept peacefully, Wilson stood on the deck of the sailing yacht unable to rest. Watching the lobster boats leave Mackerel Cove, he wondered whether the looming changes in American capitalism, whatever they turned out to be, would have any impact on these lobstermen. Would capitalism really be individualized for them? Would it be easier for them to buy more boats? To have more leisure time? To continue their education? To pursue hobbies? To serve their communities? To travel the world? Wilson hoped so, but he wasn’t overly optimistic.