Carter contemplated Wilson for several moments as passing students stared. “You are your father, Wilson,” he said warmly. “You have his gift for distinguishing the core of things. I saw traces of it in you at Princeton, but you have travelled well beyond those days. Your father would be proud.”
Wilson appreciated the comment but winced at “would”. He remained silent.
“You may be right about my longing to save humanity, but I assure you, it is not necessarily a godly trait,” Carter said with a solemn face.
Wilson smiled at the conundrum.
“If you decide to proceed with this,” Carter continued, “you may not be able to protect the people you love.”
“I’m working on that,” Wilson said as they resumed walking.
When they walked past Memorial Church, Carter slowed and turned to Wilson. “Leaping into the abyss rarely offers an attractive reward-to-risk ratio,” Carter said.
Wilson attempted to hold his gaze, but Carter had already picked up the pace again.
“Who do you trust at Fielder amp; Company?” Carter asked as they continued walking toward Robinson Hall.
“No one.”
“Keep it that way.”
Wilson nodded. Reconfirm the obvious.
“You know your every move will be scrutinized,” Carter said.
“I won’t be able to stomach the charade for long, I know that. Days, maybe weeks, definitely not months,” Wilson said when they arrived at the entrance to Robinson Hall, where Carter was scheduled to give a lecture in five minutes. He invited Wilson to listen in, but Wilson declined. He still had to find a solution to everyone’s safety.
“Tedious and treacherous, requiring immense patience and resolve. The stress on you and everyone around you will become unbearable. And the surveillance will only get worse,” Carter said, looking every bit the adventurer ready to embark on a new crusade.
Wilson nodded again, resigning himself to the reality that Carter, like his father, would never divulge anything before he was completely ready to do so. And right now, Carter was primarily preoccupied with Wilson’s safety, which left Wilson only one option-choose a course of action that would make Carter encourage him or stop him.
“Let’s hope we make it,” Wilson said.
They shook hands and arranged to meet again once Carter had been able to study the files. Walking away from Robinson Hall, Wilson felt like an overloaded pack mule. The looming prospect of taking over the helm at Fielder amp; Company unnerved him, but it seemed there was no other way to correct his father’s mistakes.
13
Tate — St. Moritz, Switzerland
Wayland Tate entered his suite at Suvretta House and deposited his gloves and parka on the entryway settee. He’d received Marco’s confirmation call a few hours earlier when he was on the slopes with clients. Everything had gone as planned. No loose ends. The promised funds had already been wired. Although extreme measures weren’t Tate’s first choice, he never hesitated to use them when necessary.
Tate opened the door to the adjoining suite where he found Diane Morita waiting for him at a marble table near the arched window. She looked dazzling in her red Japanese silk robe, but they had work to do. As he sat down at the table, Morita commented that the sun had accentuated the lines around his eyes, giving him a sexy weathered look. His only response was to retrieve a tube of eye cream from the bathroom.
“Where are the next two retreats?” Tate asked when he returned to his seat at the table and began gently applying the cream to the area around his eyes.
Morita smiled at his vanity. Turning her attention to the calendar spread out in front of her, she said, “Banff and Capri.”
“What do you think David Quinn would prefer? Snow lodge or Roman Villa?” Tate asked.
“Vargas says he’s totally relaxed and skiing his brains out. Seems he also has a thing for Banff.”
“Okay. It’s a little sooner than I’d like, but we can be ready. I’ll invite him tonight. Make sure Kamin’s available for Banff.”
Morita nodded and then gave her long black hair a flip over her shoulder as she looked directly at Tate. “I think it’s time to expand Vargas’ role.”
Tate sat back in his chair to observe her. Diane Morita had fastidiously handled Tate Waterhouse’s diverse array of client entertainment needs for the past seven years, including all the arrangements for Tate’s three-dozen client extravaganzas each year. Her MBA from Stanford and fifteen years of human resources experience at the Walt Disney Company had prepared her well, but it was a personal tragedy and an intimate relationship with Tate that had ultimately honed her unique client-handling techniques.
Ten years earlier, shortly after joining Tate Waterhouse as vice president of human resources, Morita had gone through an ugly divorce followed by a romantic fling with Tate, who’d just separated from his wife. When Tate ended the affair a few months later because he felt she was getting too attached, Morita tried to kill herself with an overdose of prescription drugs. It was Tate who rescued her and then nursed her back to health. Now, in addition to being business associates, they were friends with benefits. The bond that had developed between them during her recovery, however, went much deeper than sexual intimacy. What they’d discovered was a mutual lust for the emotional highs that came from exploiting the concealed flaws and obsessions of the world’s powerful elite. Like mythical gods toying with mere mortals, they shared a common vision of eternal glory-whoever manipulates most and best is the one and only true god. Their united lust for manipulation had become Tate Waterhouse’s most distinctive competence, something Tate playfully referred to as an unfair competitive advantage. And they made sure that each of the firm’s personal assistants possessed a natural affinity for it. Tate smiled appreciatively at Morita. “What did you have in mind for Vargas?”
“Client coordinator on the America’s Warehouse campaign,” Morita said, smiling back.
Tate raised his eyebrows slightly as he watched Morita. “She’ll be in daily meetings with him.”
“Exactly,” Morita said, looking as sly and cunning as a minx.
“You still believe she can penetrate Quinn’s armor of tradition and habit?” Tate asked, continuing to feel somewhat skeptical about Vargas’ ability to get Quinn into bed with her. If she could, it would make Quinn’s continued compliance that much smoother. But experience told him that piercing the veil of marital fidelity wouldn’t be easy with a legacy-driven moralist like Quinn. Unless, that is, recent pressures had opened more cracks than Tate realized.
“Unquestionably,” Morita returned, her eyes like steel.
“He may be warming up to her, but I don’t see him going that far, at least not in the near term. Our best bet is to stay focused on his zeal to create a legacy,” Tate said.
“I don’t have a problem with our strategy. Quinn wants the corporate hall of fame; we’ll give it to him. But there’s a hidden recklessness in the man, beneath his corporate exterior. It’s not just posthumous glory he wants.”
“Based on what?” Tate asked, growing more curious.
“Asking you to manipulate the board. His willingness to sue Kresge amp; Company. And the comment about Wilson Fielder.”
“He hasn’t sued Kresge yet,” Tate said, before pausing a moment, then he added, “What comment are you talking about?”
“He told Vargas that he wouldn’t hesitate resorting to dirty tricks to get Wilson off his back.”
“That’s just talk,” Tate said, downplaying the comment to see how Morita would respond. “He said the same thing to me at the Kurhaus.”
“My first impression as well. Then Vargas told me about his skiing. He takes risks. Reckless chances. Vargas grew up on skis; her parents were ski patrol at Aspen for years. I think her father still is. Trust me, she’s good. Quinn scared her today, doing figure eights on a near vertical slope with a cliff halfway down. She almost lost it.”