Just then, a computerized woman’s voice spoke through the tight-fitting earphones telling Emily that she would be talking into a phone to her boyfriend in a few minutes. She was to only say, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
Emily’s mind raced frantically to figure out how she was going to tell Wilson that she was at an airport, somewhere several hours away from Venice by jet-probably west. The more she thought about it, the more discouraged she became. She could be anywhere in the western hemisphere. Blurting out that she was at an airport would only get her moved. Besides, how many airports were there in the western hemisphere? She calmed herself down and focused. Any information would be better than none, if she could deliver it without raising suspicions. And just maybe, there would be more opportunities, not only to find out where she was, but to talk to Wilson. One step at a time. One piece of information at a time. Then it came to her. She knew exactly what she was going to say and how she was going to say it.
When the phone rang in Wilson’s apartment rang, Hap and his men were on their feet, out the door of their apartment, and into Wilson’s.
“I haven’t given this phone number to anyone except Emily,” Wilson said as Hap entered the living room. It was now on its fourth ring. Wilson was silently pleading for it to be Emily, while looking nervously at Hap for any last minute guidance.
“Go ahead and answer it. Everything’s set to record and trace the call as soon as you pick up,” Hap said.
Wilson picked up the phone. A male computerized voice said, “Wilson Fielder.”
“Yes.”
“We have your girlfriend,” the voice said. There was a click and brief pause before Wilson heard Emily’s voice.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice breaking as if she was about to cry. Wilson could hear her take a deep breath before she exhaled the words, “I’m j…” then he heard her whimper before she said, “…fine.”
There was another click and the computerized voice returned to the line. “If you want to keep her alive, you must completely remove yourself from our business affairs. When you do, she will be returned unharmed.”
“I want to hear her voice every day and the next time I want to talk to her,” Wilson demanded quickly.
“You’re in no position to be making demands, Mr. Fielder.”
The next thing Wilson heard was another click and the line went dead. Wilson stood motionless. Hap’s voice revived him. “Come listen to the replay.” In the kitchen, he and Driggs were hunched over a small digital recording device.
Grappling with what Emily had said and how she’d said it, Wilson walked into the kitchen. “Either they’ve hurt her or she was trying to tell me that she expects them to,” Wilson said, feeling like a pinned wrestler.
“Listen to this first. It might change your mind,” Hap said.
Driggs pushed the lever to replay Emily’s words at a slower speed. “Dooon’t woooorrry … (break in voice and deep breath) … I’mmm jet … (whimper) … fiiinne.”
“Play it again,” Wilson said anxiously, wanting to make sure he’d heard what he thought he had. After hearing it a second time, Wilson voiced what Driggs and Hap were now smiling about. “She said the word jet. It’s as plain as it could be at the slower speed, but I didn’t hear it when she was on the phone with me.”
“Emily’s more calm and lucid than we expected,” Hap said, leaning on the kitchen counter. “She added the crack in her voice and the whimper to hide the word. Even then, I’m not sure it’s enough to raise suspicions. Smart girl. She’s going to get us one small piece of information at a time.”
“She was flown somewhere,” Wilson said restlessly, looking at Hap for confirmation.
“Right. It could also mean she’s being held near where the jet landed,” Hap said, raising his eyebrows and returning Wilson’s stare. Then Hap called to Jones in the back bedroom, “Did we get anything on the trace?”
“They called from somewhere on the North American continent, but that’s all we got,” Taylor replied. “They were bouncing the signal.”
“Bingo. I wasn’t sure we’d get that much,” Hap said, smiling at Wilson. “Now we can get even more serious about pouring over the details on those 153 private jets.”
Wilson wasn’t sure how, but he believed Emily would find a way to give them more information each time she called. It was just enough hope to help him keep his torment at bay.
43
Wilson — Boston, MA
It was just after seven o’clock in the morning when, from his father’s office, Wilson began making a series of pre-scheduled, international calls to acquisition candidates in Asia and Europe. By thirty minutes past eight, he’d talked to twenty-three firms and made arrangements to meet with six of them within the next month.
At nine o’clock, he entered one of the conference rooms on the ninth floor to listen to the first of seven presentations from advertising and publicity firms. When the last presentation concluded at one o’clock, Wilson had boiled it down to two firms: BBDO, the first firm to present and the one with the strongest track record with professional service firms, and Tate Waterhouse, the last firm to present and the one with the best understanding of Fielder amp; Company’s history and current needs.
Wilson wasn’t surprised when Wayland Tate himself attended his firm’s presentation but immediately sensed that Tate’s presence was more than a courtesy call in symbolic deference to his father. When Tate invited him to lunch, he was sure of it. Wayland Tate was there on behalf of the secret partnership.
“I’m going to lunch at the Bostonian Club with two of our vice presidents. You’re welcome to join us,” Wilson said, kicking himself for not talking to Carter about Tate. But would Carter have told me the truth?
“I know the club well. It was one of your father’s favorites. You go ahead with your vice presidents,” Tate said graciously, no longer in disguise. “I have a few things I’d like to share with you in private. I’m staying at the Westin for the next couple of days. We can set up another time to meet.”
Tate’s words made Wilson’s blood run cold. There was no way he was going to postpone an opportunity to get Emily back. He immediately said, “Let me see what I can arrange with the vice presidents.”
After conferring with Frank O’Connor and Bob Throckmorton, Wilson told Tate he would be available for lunch. He agreed to meet Tate at the Bostonian Club in twenty minutes. Selecting an advertising firm to handle Fielder amp; Company’s new publicity campaign had suddenly become a secondary issue.
Wilson’s mind flew to memories about Wayland Tate and his firm. While it was true that Fielder amp; Company and Tate Waterhouse had long exchanged data and analyses on behalf of shared clients, he didn’t know any of the details. He repeated his father’s words again: the most brilliant advertising executive of his generation.
Then he recalled his own experience at the J. B. Musselman Company, where Tate sat on the board of directors. Wilson was certain that Tate had been the one who convinced David Quinn to launch the America’s Warehouse strategy. Tate was an unusually persuasive and driven man, a man his father had always liked. But Wilson could no longer deny the probability that Wayland Tate was part of the secret partnership. If he was being paranoid, he’d find out soon.
Wilson returned to his office with nothing but vengeance on his mind. He immediately called Hap Greene.
“We’ve been monitoring everything,” Hap said. “I have people inside and outside the Bostonian Club. Needless to say, we’re ready for your lunch. Are you?”