The Insiders (7 page)

“I can only assume they’re worried about what we know and what we intend to do about it,” Daniel said and then lowered his voice. “The completion of this deal should ease their concerns. It shows you’re separating yourself from your father’s business activities and moving on with your life.”

“What if it heightens them?” Wilson said.

“What do you mean?”

“KaneWeller could uncover the abuses.”

“We’ve taken care of that. KaneWeller has agreed that it’s in their best interest to refrain from working with certain former and current clients. The background files on our fifty-two problem clients will remain in our possession. It was the only way to control access. My firm’s management committee isn’t all that excited about it, but under the circumstances, we had no choice. Like I said, today’s transaction should improve things.”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Wilson asked.

“We have to assume that the people watching us already know that we’re keeping the files. Preventing the information in those files from getting to the press, the SEC, the FBI, and anyone else is also in our best interest. They have to know that,” Daniel said and then paused. “How much longer are you going to need the copies I gave you?”

“Why?”

“Whoever tried to kill your father will strike again if they perceive any risk.”

Wilson studied Daniel again. “The same people who had Richard Beckstrom killed in prison?”

“Possibly.”

“You’re holding out on me again.”

“No, I’m not. The increased surveillance simply suggests a more serious investment in finding out what we know and what we plan to do about it. In my opinion, it’s the work of a well organized group of people.”

“How much do they know?”

“We have to assume they know everything, which means they know you have copies of the fifty-two file summaries.”

“I’ll have them to you tomorrow,” Wilson abruptly put an end to their conversation, saying good-bye to Daniel and leaving the boardroom. He found his own way to the elevator. Daniel’s in over his head, Wilson thought again, and his firm can no longer be trusted to protect my loved ones.

What little Wilson knew about surveillance and counter-surveillance he’d learned from Hap Greene, a former head of covert operations for the CIA. Hap ran Greene Mursin International (GMI), a highly discreet private investigation firm that Kresge & Company employed to ferret out hidden background information on clients, acquisition candidates, and prospective hires. Wilson met Hap several years earlier during a high profile Kresge project. They had quickly developed a close relationship, mostly because they shared each other’s irreverent attitudes toward society and the world in general. Hap was part of a growing trend among government and military trained spies, who were leaving the ranks of government service for the more lucrative and private world of corporate espionage. Corporate spying had become a hot growth business in recent years and no one was better at it than Hap Greene.

Before leaving Daniel’s offices, Wilson stepped into one of the small conference rooms encircling the foyer and called information for GMI’s New York office. When the call was connected, a GMI receptionist answered. Wilson introduced himself and asked for Hap.

“What firm are you with Mr. Fielder?”

“Kresge & Company. Hap and I have worked together on a few projects.”

“Do you have a number where he can reach you?” she asked.

“It’s urgent. I need to speak to him as soon as possible. Is there any way you can connect me with him now? I only need a couple of minutes,” Wilson said, his voice straining.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fielder. He will not be available for contact until tomorrow afternoon. Can I have someone else help you?”

“No, thank you. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon,” Wilson said before hanging up. He needed a crash course on counter-surveillance, and he needed it now.

8

Tate – St. Moritz, Switzerland

As soon as David Quinn appeared in front of the maître d’ of the Grand Restaurant at Suvretta House a few minutes after noon, he was escorted to Wayland Tate’s table near the windows. When Tate saw him, he stood to shake hands and welcome Quinn to St. Moritz. After the obligatory chitchat about Quinn’s flight and hotel accommodations, they ordered an assortment of sausages, salads, cheeses, and a bottle of Chasselas wine. During lunch, their conversation was light, mostly about the next three days of activities and events.

After lunch they traveled by horse-drawn sleigh to the north end of the lake, where Vargas had arranged reserved seating for St. Moritz’s renowned international horse races. The White Turf races had been rescheduled from their usual mid-February date because of an unusually severe winter in Switzerland. But today the weather was a balmy five degrees Celsius, no wind, and nothing but blue skies—proclaiming why St. Moritz was the world’s oldest and most famous ski resort. Thoroughbreds and jockeys from Europe’s premier racing stables were ready to compete in the hundred-year-old contest. The magnificent mountains, twenty-five thousand spectators, a royal betting frenzy, and extraordinary Swiss catering made this one of the most celebrated winter events on the continent.

To Tate’s relief and delight, Quinn took great pleasure in the spectacle of specially shod horses churning up the freshly packed snow on the frozen lake. The passion and excitement of the international horseracing crowd was electrifying. Each new heat of thundering hooves and spraying snow seemed to loosen Quinn a little more, especially after he started betting.

With the races and betting over, they retired to the Kurhaus Spa—a classic Walser timber chalet at the edge of the forest—for more serious conversation. It was there, alone together in the steam room inhaling eucalyptus vapors, that Tate began the process of identifying Quinn’s deepest, most exploitable weaknesses.

“Is Andrea taking care of all your needs?” Tate asked.

“She’s delightful, but I couldn’t do that to Margaret,” Quinn said.

“I’m talking about logistics, David,” Tate said with a wry smile. “What are you talking about?”

“Is that what you call plausible deniability?”

“We pay our personal assistants to provide professional pampering to our clients. That’s it. Anything beyond that is between consenting adults.”

“You really expect me to believe that?” Quinn said, indignantly. He flinched as he leaned back against the hot tiles. “That’s like unbridling a horse on a grassy meadow and expecting it not to graze.”

Tate looked over his shoulder at Quinn, assuming an expression of concern. “If Andrea has made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’ll have someone else assigned immediately.”

“No. She’s fine. A little too assertive maybe, but fine.”

“We can easily make a change, David,” Tate repeated, sitting back—every inch the relaxed host, whose only concern is his guest’s comfort.

Quinn rubbed his hands over his face to remove the excess moisture. “She knows where I stand. She’ll be fine.”

After a moment of silence, Tate decided to push the issue to see how Quinn would respond. “This is the first time anyone has called Andrea too assertive. Most clients think she’s the consummate professional. You must have made an impression on her,” Tate said as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking back at Quinn. “I’d say she likes you.”

Quinn’s only response was to sneer.

“I’m serious,” Tate said, in response to Quinn’s obvious skepticism. “Everything Andrea does and says is deliberate and well-reasoned. She has a Masters degree in social anthropology from Swarthmore and is one of our best associates. In the three years she’s been with us, I’ve never had a single complaint.”

“I’m not complaining, Wayland. Like I said, she’s delightful. Let’s leave it at that.”

Tate finally let it drop, but not without noting that Vargas had already gotten under Quinn’s skin. He stood up and walked over to the oversized showerhead, positioning himself directly beneath it before pushing the button that drenched him in ice-cold water. As he stood there, tightening every muscle in his body to keep from shaking, he looked at his client. Quinn was a talented, accomplished CEO, hungry for even greater success and power. And Tate was just about ready to bet that Quinn would risk everything he had to get what he didn’t have. Still tingling from the ice water, he sat down again on his towel next to Quinn. This time, however, he waited for Quinn to initiate conversation.

After a few moments of silence, Quinn bent his head down over his knees and stretched his arms to the tiles beneath his feet. On his way back up, he said, “Let’s talk about Kresge & Company. Slowing down the project isn’t going to be enough.”

“America’s Warehouse launches in a few weeks. After that it will be a non issue,” Tate returned.

“Doesn’t matter. The project needs to be terminated now.”

“That won’t be easy, given the board’s commitment to it,” Tate cautioned.

“I’m aware of that, but I can’t let it continue any longer. MacMillan scheduled Kresge & Company to present its recommendation for breaking up the company to the board next week, complete with a detailed implementation plan. Wilson Fielder already signed off on it. The managing director of the Chicago office is going to make the presentation. I found out about it just before I got on the plane to come here,” Quinn said before standing up and wrapping the towel he’d been sitting on around his waist. He paced back and forth for a few moments before he said, “I won’t let it happen, Wayland.”

“What did you have in mind?” Tate asked as he tried to hide his glee: their conversation was unfolding exactly as he’d hoped.

Just then, a large man opened the glass door to the steam room and stepped inside. Tall, blonde, and imposing, he looked German or Scandinavian. Unwilling to continue their conversation in another’s presence, Tate and Quinn took turns drenching themselves in cold water, waiting for the intruder to leave. During the quiet, Tate continued his assessment. David Quinn wanted what every other person on Forbes’ list wanted—power, glory, and dominion by controlling as much capital, land, and labor as possible for the endless benefit of themselves and their posterity. By virtue of his wealth, Quinn already had plenty of power, but keeping J. B. Musselman intact and under his control was his only chance for both continued dominion and lasting glory. Fortunately, the America’s Warehouse advertising campaign would give Quinn the status and a promise of the legacy he craved. Not permanently, but just long enough to allow Tate and his partners to pocket several billion.

When they were alone once again, Quinn picked up the thread of their conversation: “I want to use Wilson Fielder’s family problems to raise questions about his competence.”

“He’s on a leave of absence, isn’t he?” Tate asked, even though he already knew the answer. “Why not tell the board that Wilson’s sudden leave of absence raises serious questions about the project’s continuity. Then, all we have to do is postpone Kresge & Company’s presentation.”

“Too risky,” Quinn said, getting up again and wrapping his towel around his waist. “Kresge’s already trying to convince the board that Fielder’s absence is not a factor. We need to put his competence in question. But it can’t appear as if I’m pulling the strings.”

“How do you expect to place his competence in question?” Tate asked, egging him on.

“I’ll need your help,” Quinn replied without prevarication, “Yours and Kamin’s.”

Perfect, Tate thought, he’s exactly where I want him to be. He leaned over his knees, remaining silent for several moments. Then he looked up at Quinn. “What do you want me to do?”

“If you were to raise certain questions about the Fielder family, suggesting that Charles may have suffered a mental breakdown and that the entire family had been in turmoil for some time, it would raise doubts about Wilson’s judgment on the Musselman project.”

“How would that play when I was the one who recommended his father’s firm instead of Kresge & Company in the first place?” Tate said, pretending to be reluctant.

“You simply tell them that you had no idea about Charles’ condition until you received certain information from one of his closest associates. Here’s where you’ll need to take some creative license. You could say that a confidential source told you that Charles Fielder has had mental stability issues for years. In recent months, his son Wilson had become increasingly troubled, even obsessed, over his father’s condition, displaying evidence of the same mental instability. It runs in the family. Bringing down the CEO of a large corporation and then dismantling his company are merely manifestations of Wilson’s self-destructive behavior and a deep-seated rebelliousness toward authority. He’s seeing a psychologist, which is true, by the way. His girlfriend is a psychologist. He’d become suicidal himself. His judgment on the Kresge project has to be questioned. Turn up the heat on Wilson Fielder,” Quinn said as he sat down again.

Tate sat in quiet admiration, his back pressed against the tiles. Very impressive, he thought to himself. Quinn had definitely done his homework on Wilson Fielder. Heart-felt motivation was such a beautiful thing. He was more than happy to let Quinn do the talking.

“Jules Kamin could add to the concerns about Wilson Fielder’s competence,” Quinn said. “If he could show how a breakup of Musselman will decrease rather than increase shareholder value, over the next five years, it would cast even more doubt on the project.”

Tate stood up and walked over to the ice-cold drench one more time, putting Quinn on a different kind of ice. As he stood there, his thoughts turned to Vargas. She had accurately assessed Quinn’s core obsession and now he’d confirmed it. There were no more lingering doubts about his ability to manipulate David Quinn. Tate walked back to the tile bench and sat down. It was time to see just how far Quinn would go.

“We may have to create some additional evidence to support our claims of incompetence,” Tate said.

“As far as I’m concerned, Wilson Fielder mismanaged this project from the beginning. Whatever we have to do to convince the board of his incompetence is fine with me.”