When Emily returned from the bathroom, they held each other for several minutes without saying a word. Everything in their lives was about to change-more than either one of them could possibly imagine.
24
Tate — Sorrento, Italy
Music from Sorrento’s Spring Fest floated across the water as Tate strolled into the posh bedroom of his three-hundred-foot luxury yacht, Bacchus. The yacht was anchored in the Bay of Capri, on the south side of the Gulf of Naples, Italy. He answered his phone. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“This morning’s Wall Street Journal was sheer serendipity,” Kamin said. “Have you seen it?”
“Diane emailed it to me. Not bad huh?”
“Your complaint about Monday’s story must have put the entire editorial board on pins and needles-referees trying to make up for a bad call, just like you said.”
“Dispassionate, objective journalism at its finest,” Tate chuckled.
“America’s Warehouse could not have received a better preview, even if we’d written it ourselves,” Kamin exclaimed.
“We did write it,” Tate quipped.
They both laughed, heartily. All vestiges of the recent strain between them had disappeared. “Tell me about Quinn’s reaction,” Tate said.
“This is the best part,” Kamin exclaimed, more than eager to relate the juicy details to Tate. “The stock price rebounded to fourteen dollars and then moved steadily up to twenty-two at closing. Quinn was ecstatic. But when I told him that we’d finally finished selling his ninety-five million shares a few minutes before closing, he started crying like a baby, hugging everyone he could get his hands on.”
“Aahhh, Quinn,” Tate sighed. “You beautifully predictable and talented creature.”
“When he finally settled down, he pulled me aside and told me this was the happiest day of his life. He wants to acquire Hardware City before the end of the year.”
“He’s right on track,” Tate said.
There was a short silence on the line before Kamin spoke again. “You called this one perfectly, Wayland. The partnership has already banked over five billion dollars in profits on Musselman stock.”
Tate seized the opportunity to secure Kamin’s loyalty. “What happened today was the result of perfect execution, and that wasn’t me. That was you, Jules. Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Wayland.”
“Savor the long weekend, Jules. You’re entitled. Unless I hear from you first, I’ll call you Monday,” Tate said.
“Give my regards to Tiberio,” Kamin said.
“I already have. We visited Villa Jovis this morning. You know, it was much easier to dispose of undesirables back then. Tiberius just threw them off his thousand-foot cliff into the sea. And to think he controlled the entire Roman Empire from the Island of Capri for over a decade-he would have been a good partner.”
They both laughed vigorously before saying goodbye.
As soon as Tate clicked off, he placed a call to Morita in the New York office.
“I just talked to Kamin,” Tate said.
“Is he feeling better?” Morita asked.
“All his concerns seem to have vanished for now, but once the Musselman glow wears off over the next few days, his distrust and paranoia could return.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Nothing for the moment. Any news from Swatling or Malouf?” Tate asked, wondering about his other partners.
“Malouf hasn’t heard anything from KaneWeller or Bill Heinke. Swatling has completed his review of Morgan. He was quite optimistic. He’s bringing it with him.”
“Good. Did we get Quinn’s transaction documented?”
“Yes, I’ll have everything tonight-video, audio, and signed documents.”
“Where are we keeping everything this time?”
“Safety-deposit box at Chase.”
“Perfect,” he said before redirecting his attention. None of the Musselman success would have been possible without Morita’s behind the scenes support network. “Still planning to join us?”
“Of course. You think I’d miss Capri?”
“You must have been Italian in a former life,” Tate said, knowing how much Morita loved Roman archeology and history.
“Queen Zenobia of Palmyra,” Morita said, laughing. “The woman who manipulated the Roman Empire and controlled its most important trade routes for years. If I wasn’t her in a former life, I wish I had been.”
“Isn’t she the one who claimed to be a descendant of Cleopatra and some Persian ruler?” Tate asked, chuckling.
Morita laughed. “The very same.”
“Are you exhausted?”
“Only when I think about it,” she said.
“Why don’t you stay here for the week,” he said, aware that the recent string of retreats had worn her out.
“I can’t. There’s too much happening next week.”
“Sure you can. The Bacchus is now wireless. You’d have online access to your entire staff,” Tate said before turning on the charm. “You deserve it, Diane. None of this would be possible without you, I hope you know that.”
There was silence from Morita’s end, which made Tate smile. At least she was mulling over his suggestion. The intense pressure of recent weeks was getting to everyone, and the last thing he needed was for his most trusted confidant to lose her edge.
Tate continued, “The Villa Jovis Symposium runs through Tuesday. Don’t forget, it was the most luxurious villa in Roman history. You could even spend a couple of days at the Quisiana, without a single client to worry about. I know how much you love the narrow streets and hidden alleyways of Capri, not to mention the shopping. What do you say? We all need to spend some time celebrating Musselman.”
“Let me think about it,” she said. “I’ll let you know Sunday morning.”
“Thank you, Diane, for everything,” he said, smiling again as he ended the call and lay on his bed listening to the Mediterranean lap against the ship’s bough. He was certain that Morita would take him up on his offer.
Within seconds a knock came at his door. “It’s open,” he said.
“Are you ready, my love?” said the taller of two stunningly beautiful models who entered his master suite, locking the door behind them. They moved like silk in a breeze.
“I am. I am,” he said, inviting the women to lie down beside him, beneath the carved mahogany canopy adorned with Italian lace. Tate was definitely ready to celebrate.
25
Hap — Boston, MA
Hap Greene was quietly enjoying the subdued atmosphere inside the Bostonian Club’s elegantly appointed library, when Wilson found him. His stylishly short gray hair made him look even more distinguished than Wilson remembered. Hap was in his late forties, but his six-foot-three-inch frame looked as fit as that of a thirty-year-old. He was impeccably dressed, as always, this time in an Armani charcoal tweed suit and a starched white shirt with a striking turquoise tie. Wilson was also in uniform-black pin-striped suit with white shirt and red club tie.
They greeted each other as old friends and then sat down for lunch in the main dining room. Wilson discreetly reached into his briefcase and pulled out the mobile nullifier Hap had sent him and placed it on the table behind the large salt and pepper shakers.
Hap smiled before commenting, “I wouldn’t place too much confidence in that gadget, Wilson. It was intended to frustrate the casual eavesdropper and maybe a PI or two, but not skilled professionals, at least not indefinitely.”
“That’s not very comforting,” Wilson said as he examined Hap. Precise, decisive, no-nonsense, with a flair for the unexpected-that was the Hap Greene Wilson had come to respect and admire. Wilson looked around the main dining room. His father had been a member here for years, but Wilson didn’t recognize anyone. Then he stared at the nullifier, questioning whether the secret partnership had already de-nullified it. He then looked at Hap.