Wilson cursed himself repeatedly for leaving Emily alone in the apartment. His father’s godforsaken insider’s club was now his eternal enemy, and he would not stop until they were utterly and completely destroyed. But first he had to find Emily. Before they killed her.
39
Tate — JFK Airport, NYC
From behind a pair of slightly tinted sunglasses and an outstretched copy of The New York Times, Wayland Tate watched as Wilson Fielder exited customs at JFK and then rechecked his bags onto a connecting flight to Boston. Like a chameleon, Tate was in disguise-mustache, white-blonde hair, and earrings-using a false identity. He’d risked reentering the U.S. for only one reason, and that was to deal with Wilson personally. He knew Wilson would be tormented, but he wanted to judge for himself just how vulnerable or volatile Wilson had been rendered.
For the past twenty-four hours, Tate had been studying Wilson’s behavior and mannerisms on digital video, downloaded from one of Tate’s many private contractors. Reading another human being by the set of the mouth, look of the eyes, wrinkles on the forehead, speed of facial movements, and any other idiosyncratic gestures, had become integral to the art of manipulation for Wayland Tate. He now recognized Wilson Fielder’s most common mental and emotional states-tranquility and contentment, anger and hate, commitment and resolve, uncertainty and fear, and curiosity and discovery.
Unfortunately, what he saw on Wilson’s face as he exited security was not a welcome sight. Tate followed him to his connecting gate just to make sure, but there was no mistaking the combination of anger and resolve on Wilson’s face. Tate had hoped for uncertainty and fear, or at least a combination of anger and fear, but that was not the case. He returned to the main terminal before calling Morita, who was now in the New York offices of Tate Waterhouse.
“Plans have changed,” Tate said. “I’m going to Boston for a few days.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Morita asked, her voice filled with concern.
“I’m still traveling in disguise just to make sure,” Tate said. Then he added, “We need to take a different course with Wilson Fielder. If I’m wrong about our ability to influence him, I want to be close enough to adjust things quickly. Can you find me a suite at one of the larger hotels, the Westin or Marriott in Copley Square? I’m traveling under the name of Marsden Welker. You have the account numbers. Tell Swatling to meet me for breakfast tomorrow morning in my room-six o’clock,” Tate said, knowing that either one of the hotels near the Copley Place Mall would provide him with sufficient cover.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“One more thing. Who was handling surveillance in Venice?”
“Sutton and Turley.”
“Did they arrive on the same flight as Fielder?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them I want to see them tonight. Looks like the shuttle is light; I should be there within two hours. Have them meet me at Bar 10 in the Westin Hotel.”
“Anything else?”
“How’s the press handling Quinn’s death?”
“There was a lengthy obit in the Chicago Tribune. Fortunately, the article focuses on Quinn’s legacy, which was what he always wanted anyway. It concludes with a few details of the double suicide. None of it is negatively affecting publicity or customer visits, thanks to the twenty million new customers who went to the America’s Warehouse grand opening,” Morita said.
“Most people seem to delight in stories of the rich and famous failing in their personal relationships-makes them feel less envious and more satisfied with their economic status. Quinn’s death may actually increase customer visits,” Tate scoffed.
“I think it already has. The President even commented on the marketing campaign during a press conference on the economy. He said America’s Warehouse symbolized the American spirit and corporate renewal at their finest. I’ve ordered a transcript.”
“Poor Quinn, if he’d only learned to enjoy the ride. How’s his replacement doing?”
“He’s become national news as the man who replaced a tragic visionary. Musselman stock closed at eighty-two dollars today.”
“It’s all so fucking predictable,” Tate said, pausing. “How’s Vargas handling things?”
“A little harder than we expected. I think she actually liked him, but she’s ten million dollars richer as of last week,” Morita said, pausing a moment. “She’ll be fine, but…”
“She could use a rest. Right?” Tate said to complete Morita’s sentence.
“You don’t miss anything, do you?”
“I misread Quinn.”
Morita didn’t say anything.
“Still nothing from the FBI?” Tate asked.
“Nothing. They don’t have anything without Quinn,” Morita said. “But that won’t stop them from keeping us on their radar screen.”
“We’ll just have to sting them,” Tate said with a snort, looking around to see if anyone was watching him as he approached the gate to his flight. “How’s the story coming?”
“The press will have it by tonight. Vargas still has a few pieces of evidence to place, just to make sure.”
“Perfect,” Tate said, smiling to himself. “Deputy Director Wiseman and Special Agent Kohl will be up to their asses in alligators, explaining why they got duped by a deranged, sex-crazed CEO. How’s Kamin handling things?”
“He’s working from a villa outside of Rome, consumed with the Musselman sell-off and negotiations with Morgan. I think he’s actually excited about leaving KaneWeller,” she said.
“Let’s keep it that way. Don’t say anything about me being in Boston for now. I’ll talk to him in a couple of days.”
“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” Morita asked.
“Not worried. Uncertain,” Tate said, making a slow search of everything and everyone around him before entering the jetway. He was worried, but he wasn’t about to let Morita know that. Too much depended on her cool-headedness. Besides, now that they had Emily Klein, Wilson wouldn’t do anything stupid. But he had to make sure.
“How did Wilson look when he got off the plane?” Morita asked.
“Angry and resolved.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. If he’s eminently dangerous, we’ll know in the next day or two,” Tate said as he arrived at his seat. “I think it’s time to tell him the truth.”
40
Emily — Learjet 60, Inflight
Emily slowly regained consciousness only to discover that she was tied to her seat inside a small jet airplane. She spied the label on the seat next to her-Learjet 60. Her eyes darted around the cabin. There was no one else in sight, but she could hear voices talking beyond the drawn curtain, several feet in front of her. The window shades on both sides of the airplane were pulled down. It was still light outside. They were traveling west, she thought, into a setting sun.
Replaying the abduction in her mind, she tried to remember as many terrifying details as possible. After Wilson had left the apartment to get the fax, she had stopped curling her hair and pranced to the open window overlooking Hotel San Fantin. She’d wanted to shout buon giorno and ti amo to Wilson as he came out of the hotel. That’s when she’d heard the hardwood floor creak behind her. She turned around quickly, thinking maybe it was Wilson already back with the fax, but it wasn’t him. Two men stood no more than six feet away from her-dark hair, swarthy skin, one with a mustache, and the other with heavy stubble. She’d never forget the terror she felt.
Whipping back around toward the window, she started to scream, but her cry was barely audible as the larger of the two men clamped his huge hand over her nose and mouth and grabbed her around the waist. The last thing she remembered was the smell of ether.