“Thank you,” Wilson said with a sigh of relief and a whisper to Emily that everyone including her family was safe and sound. “What about Hap?”
“He’s back.”
“Where was he?”
“I think you better talk to him about that. Have you been watching the news?” Kohl asked.
“Since early this morning.”
“Looks like your father got what he wanted,” Kohl said. “Every government office in the country has been overwhelmed by a growing public outcry.”
“How do you plan to deal with it?” Wilson asked.
“Our immediate concern is preventing a virtual crash of the financial markets around the world. The President plans to address the nation on Sunday.”
Wilson said nothing as he contemplated the difficulty of the President’s task.
“Are you and Emily okay?”
“We’re fine. What about Tate and Swatling?”
“They’re in Venice.”
“You have them under surveillance?”
“Based on the tape from Detective Zemke, we convinced the CIA to maintain surveillance, until Carter’s whereabouts have been determined.”
“Tell them not to lose Tate and Swatling,” Wilson said, somewhat disdainfully.
“Don’t worry. The global implications have registered…”
The automated operator interrupted the conversation demanding another deposit. Wilson dropped in the coins.
“Wilson, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you might like to know that it’s safe to come home,” Kohl said. “We’re still searching for a few missing employees from Tate Waterhouse and Swatling, Dyer, and Reinthrow, but every other member of the partnership that we know about has been arrested, except for the six who committed suicide. All of the compromised agents are either dead or in custody, except one. And, yes, we are confident that we’ve identified them all.”
“Where’s the one who’s still unaccounted for?”
“He’s in Italy with Tate and Swatling.”
“Hap’s man?”
“No. CIA.”
There was silence on the phone.
“When are you coming back?” Kohl asked.
“When you have Tate and Swatling behind bars,” Wilson said, pausing, “And when I know where Carter…”
“We’ll find him,” Kohl said, cutting him off. “Next time, call collect.”
As soon as Wilson hung up the phone, Emily asked, “Where’s Carter?”
“They don’t know,” he said, “Tate and Swatling are in Venice. Carter’s probably there too.”
“You think Carter’s planning to meet with them?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’m not certain of his agenda.”
“I think he’s going to kill them,” Emily said.
Wilson nodded, staring at her, until a lobsterman asked if they were still using the phone. Wilson took Emily’s arm and returned to the yacht.
As if they hadn’t seen enough, they sat glued to the loft’s twenty-one-inch television screen until midnight, watching the endless news coverage of a distraught nation facing up to its long-neglected flaws. At the end of one of the news reports, ABC’s Charlie Gibson paused to reflect on Thomas Jefferson’s greatest fear for our then fledgling nation over two hundred years ago-that capitalism would not be accessible to all. Gibson ended his commentary by saying, “Had we been willing to pursue Jefferson’s vision of distributing capitalism to the end of every row and to the bottom of every hierarchy, instead of allowing the bulk of its benefits to enrich the wealthy elite, maybe America would not be facing this crisis.”
At first, Wilson thought the Gibson commentary might launch him and Emily into a heated Thomas Jefferson vs. Alexander Hamilton debate, like the ones they used to have at Princeton. Then it struck him. This was no longer a trendy topic for college campus polemics and public intellectuals such as Noam Chomsky, Paul Krugman, or Umberto Eco. The debate was over. American capitalism was about to be transformed, for better or worse.
Moments later, Wilson and Emily seemed to instantly share a mutual craving for escape into the place only they knew. Their lovemaking went on for hours as they savored the refuge and comfort of being lost in each other.
When Wilson finally closed his eyes to sleep, he tried to forget whose son he was. He still hadn’t completely decided whether to think of his father as a heroic revolutionary or a misguided fanatic. Only time would tell.
65
Tate — Venice, Italy
Wayland Tate walked past the two men armed with 9mm Glock automatics standing guard in the archway outside the door of the Venetian apartment. Three floors down, a third armed man paced back and forth on the orange and gray stone tiles of the courtyard. Two others sat across the small piazza observing the apartment building’s entrance.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours his hired guns had turned over every single object in all five rooms of the third-floor apartment, looking for some indication of Carter Emerson’s whereabouts. Carter’s clothes and personal items were still in the bedroom, but there had been no sign of him since yesterday.
Then, a few minutes after twelve noon, an eleven-year-old Venetian boy carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers with an attached note was ushered into Tate’s presence. Tate took the note and read:
Meet me inside the Teatro La Fenice at 17:30.
The door on the right will be open. Come alone. I will be watching.
CE
Tate studied the note before questioning the security guard who in turn questioned the boy. It was painfully clear that Carter Emerson was in total control of the situation. But Tate had no intention of allowing that to continue. During the next few hours, Tate, Swatling, and the compromised CIA agent surveyed everything within view of the reconstruction site, bribing whomever they could, from construction workers to the local polizia. They would not be unprepared for their meeting with Carter or the inevitable presence of Europol and the CIA. Regaining control of the situation was the only thing that mattered, and that meant mobilizing enough firepower to eliminate Carter and ensure their escape.
Tate knew that Carter had chosen La Fenice for some twisted, symbolic reason, but it made no difference to him. The ancient opera house, under restoration for the third or fourth time, would soon become Carter’s final resting place-unless he had some earth-shattering explanation for his actions over the past few days.
When the appointed hour of seventeen-thirty arrived, Tate and Swatling entered the specified door on the right, walking into the cavernous dome of the Teatro La Fenice. The partially restored opera house was breathtaking, but that’s not why Tate was breathing rapidly. He waited anxiously, standing with Swatling in the center of the theater below the circular opening in the ceiling.
Without warning, the same boy who had delivered the flowers earlier appeared out of nowhere and invited them to a triangle of facing chairs on the stage. They walked slowly past the orchestra pit and climbed the steps to the three wooden folding chairs. Before they sat down, the eleven-year-old boy disappeared behind the stage. Tate’s blood was boiling, but he concealed his emotions as always.
Without warning, they heard a loud voice booming into the theater. Tate turned around three times, trying to locate the source. “Welcome, once again, to La Fenice,” the voice said. It was Carter Emerson’s voice.
Tate continued searching in all directions, but there was no sight of Carter. He glanced at Swatling who gave him a shrug.
“Don’t bother looking, you won’t find me. I plan to remain hidden until I know it’s safe to enter.”
“What are you afraid of, Carter?” Tate shouted, his words echoing in the dome. “Have you betrayed your friends?”
“I have only betrayed myself, Wayland.”
“It’s a little late for conscience, isn’t it?” Tate said.