Wilson stared at the small camera attached to the laptop computer at the center of the table and then at the five faces on the computer screens before answering, “My father and Carter Emerson believed that once the American people saw how frighteningly easy it was for those with wealth and power to manipulate our financial system and get away with it, they would revolt.”
“Could you explain what your father considered to be the failing of capitalism?” asked The Post’s Bob Woodward.
“Capitalistic Darwinism-cutthroat hierarchies that allow the strong to take advantage of the weak, the few to reap the financial rewards earned by the many. It’s the noble lie. Only philosopher kings or wealthy elite are capable of ruling,” Wilson said, paraphrasing Plato’s Republic. I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life, he thought, just like Carter and my father.
The questions continued for another two hours until Wilson had told them almost everything he knew about his father and the six people who had formed the Fenice Partnership eight years earlier. When the reporters finally logged off from the video-conference, Wilson was exhausted and nervous. There still had been no call from Emily. Hap again assured him that the updates from his people every half hour indicated that she was fine.
Kohl and Johns promised Wilson there would be no more surprises and no further need to talk to the press, unless he agreed to it.
Fat chance of either one of those promises being kept, he said to himself. Suddenly, he felt squeamish about all the other assurances they’d extolled.
“It will all be over by the weekend,” Johns said.
“Will we still be alive?” Wilson replied, his temper suddenly flaring. What an anal dickhead. If it weren’t for Kohl, I’d have zero confidence in the FBI.
“We’ve doubled the surveillance on Emily and your family,” Johns said.
“Certainly you’re not expecting leaks?” Wilson asked sarcastically. His nerves sufficiently fried that he no longer cared who he offended, especially Johns.
“It’s only a precaution,” Kohl said, warming up for the first time all evening. “We’ve never encountered a conspiracy with this scope and sophistication.”
“What worries you most?” Wilson asked, staring at Kohl.
“The number of people involved,” she said slowly.
“Bound to spring a fucking leak somewhere,” Wilson said, feeling himself slipping over the edge.
Hap put his hand on Wilson’s shoulder.
Kohl hesitated before responding, “We can relocate you and Emily to a safe-house anytime you choose.”
“If we disappear, so will every goddamned member of this partnership,” Wilson said, his edginess now out of control.
“Every one of them is under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Johns said. “They won’t be going anywhere without us.”
Hap tightened his grip on Wilson’s shoulder, knowing the defiant thirty-one-year-old was about to blow. “If we see the slightest evidence of counter-surveillance or any other questionable activity, we’re going to pull Emily out and move them both to a safe location,” Hap said, eyeing Kohl and Johns.
“If you’re still up to it, we’d like you to keep everyone at Fielder amp; Company focused on the transition,” Johns said in his official, matter-of-fact tone of voice.
“That’s what he’s been doing-at no small risk to himself and Emily,” Hap said, his voice rising. Johns was getting under his skin now.
Kohl and Johns gathered their things, reiterating their assurances and appreciation before leaving.
There was nothing else to do except wait for something to go wrong.
54
Tate — Boston, MA
Swatling’s call found Tate in suite 2301 at The Westin Copley Place, in the middle of an acupuncture treatment. The acupuncturist, a beautiful Chinese-American woman, had arrived earlier in the evening to relieve Tate’s mounting stress. Tate was lying face up on the massage table as he put the phone to his ear.
“It’s not Carter,” Swatling said chillingly.
“What?” Tate said, sitting up. He grimaced from the nerve pain caused by his sudden muscle movement.
“The person attending the history conference at Stanford. It’s not Carter,” Swatling said, this time more loudly.
There was silence on the phone as Tate stood up; the towel covering him fell to the floor. He stood naked in the middle of the spacious suite. Acupuncture needles in his face, neck, and shoulders flopped about in every direction. He no longer felt the pain.
“Who is it?” he finally demanded. The acupuncturist attempted to give him a towel to cover himself, but he dismissed her.
“We don’t know yet,” Swatling said. “He’s disguised to look like Carter, but something didn’t seem right. Our people found a way to check his fingerprints when they made contact with him. It’s not him.”
There was more silence while Tate made his decision. “Find out who he is and what he knows about Carter. Then kill him. Our wait is over.”
“It may be premature to…”
Tate interrupted, “Not when you consider the context.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of our FBI contacts called earlier to inform us that several CEOs from major corporations in the Boston area are under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Something’s scheduled to go down on Friday. That’s why I sent you the message to make contact with Carter. Kamin and Malouf are waiting for a conference call, but that won’t be necessary now. Carter has made the decision for us.”
“What about the other FBI informants?”
“It’s time to pull the plug, Bob. You know what to do. I’ll see you in seventy-two hours,” Tate said, finally looking over at the acupuncturist, who was now staring at him in fear.
Tate placed the phone down slowly. What had she heard? He’d uncharacteristically forgotten all about her. He began gently removing the acupuncture needles until one of them disturbed a nerve, causing him to flinch with pain. He ripped the rest of them out, leaving several bleeding pinholes on his face, neck, and shoulders. When he turned to look at himself in the full-length mirror, it was a reflection that disturbed him greatly.
The startled woman ran to the bathroom for a warm damp towel. As she tried to wipe away the blood on Tate’s neck and shoulders, he pushed her away and walked into the bedroom. When he returned, he held a long-barreled pistol in his hand. He fired it once into her head. She’s heard too much, and I feel like killing.
As Tate stood above her, watching the lifeblood ooze out of her body, he vowed to himself that he would never be caught. He immediately called Morita to activate their exit strategy. Then he called Kamin and Malouf to let them know about Carter. The partnership was no longer of any use to him. It would soon be exposed. His firm and his clients would have to fend for themselves. The only thing he could do now was to protect himself and his key relationships.
Twenty minutes later, a cleanup crew dressed in business attire arrived at suite 2301. Tate smiled as he watched them go about their work. With money you can buy anything in this world, he said to himself. Two men attended to the lifeless body of the acupuncturist while others cleaned the room. Two women escorted him to the bathroom where they began working on a new disguise-an artificial nose, raised brow with bushy eyebrows, new receding hairline, sandy blonde wig, and an extended chin were carefully put into place, transforming Tate in a matter of minutes into a completely different-looking person. When they were finished, Tate got dressed while going over the documents of his new identity.
Thirty minutes after they arrived, the cleanup crew exited the suite looking like a group of business associates who’d just concluded a late night meeting-some were going out for drinks while others were leaving to catch flights. Three suitcases carried the remains of the acupuncturist.