The Insiders

by Craig Hickman

  When Tate said good-bye to Kamin, he walked to the closet and retrieved another cell phone—one of the encryption phones he would use and discard. He punched in the number and waited for his personal assassin. Within seconds the call was received in Boston by a similar phone. “This is Marco.”

  “It’s Wayland. I want you to go ahead as planned. Tonight.”

  “Done,” Marco said, before ending the call and dismantling the phone. He dropped the pieces into a frog pond in Boston Common.

  10

  Daniel – Boston, MA

  Cheryl O’Grady was waiting when Daniel Redd arrived at the bar of the Exelsior, a swank New American-style restaurant overlooking Boston Public Garden. The maître d’ escorted them to a table in one of the restaurant’s secluded alcoves. Cheryl had called Daniel after the merger closing and asked for a private meeting. He’d quickly decided that a public meeting would raise fewer questions than a private encounter. When they sat down in the Queen Anne wing chairs, Daniel casually placed a small surveillance-nullifying device in the middle of their table.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she asked.

  “Depends on whether you’re thinking like KaneWeller or Fielder & Company.”

  “Both, and I’d say it’s a counter-surveillance device, not a recorder.”

  “Correct.”

  “You know what I want to talk about, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “We agreed they would remain in our custody,” Daniel said. “It was all spelled out in the documents we signed a few hours ago. Remember?”

  “Let me make this simple, Daniel. Either I get access to those files or I scuttle the merger.”

  Daniel searched her eyes. They looked no more sympathetic than an attacking Doberman’s. She was not about to back down. “I’ll let you see the files under my supervision—in our offices—on one condition.”

  “What’s the condition?”

  “You can only use the information as background. None of it can be copied or shared with your colleagues. And none of it can be used in any way to justify your scuttling of the merger.”

  “Agreed. My only interest is to understand exactly what we’re walking into—so we know what to avoid going forward.”

  “Let’s have a drink,” Daniel said. “Then I’ll take you back to our office.”

  After sharing a bottle of Shiraz and a platter of imported goat and sheep cheeses along with professional small talk, Daniel and Cheryl exited the restaurant onto Boylston Street. They walked to the intersection of Arlington and Boylston across from the Boston Public Garden and waited for the light to change.

  Daniel hoped he wouldn’t regret bringing Cheryl to the office to examine the fifty-two files. But all things considered, he had little choice. As Deputy General Counsel for KaneWeller, Cheryl certainly had the power and influence to scuttle the deal if she were so inclined. Allowing her to review the files with an opportunity to explain their true purpose, he told himself, might well be the only way to save the merger and distance Wilson from Fielder & Company. Hopefully, it would also avert any negative press that might compromise liquidation of Charles’ other assets.

  When the traffic light changed, Daniel and Cheryl began crossing Boylston Street. They walked past the center island, commenting on the beautiful budding elms and maples that lined the edge of the Public Garden.

  Suddenly, without warning, a car swerved out from behind a lane of stopped traffic, crashed through a street construction fence, and headed directly for them at high speed. As soon as the two attorneys grasped the horrifying reality that the car was targeting them, they changed directions and began to run, but it was too late. The car struck them in the crosswalk before crashing into the back of a parked delivery van and exploding into flames. Their bodies were crushed instantly, hurled from hood to windshield and into the air. Cheryl’s body hit the asphalt like a ragdoll, twisting and rolling for fifty feet until it came to a stop beneath a parked car. Daniel’s was thrown against the back of a parked SUV, shattering the vehicle’s windows before dropping lifelessly to the street. Both of them had died instantly.

  Later that evening, The Boston Globe posted a preliminary online report of a fatal Back Bay accident:

  Boston Globe City & Region Desk

  By SUSAN KITE.

  A car racing at high speed hit two pedestrians in Boston’s Back Bay earlier this evening. The car swerved from behind a lane of stopped traffic and struck attorneys Daniel Redd of Boston and Cheryl O’Grady of New York City, who were walking in the crosswalk at Boylston and Arlington. Both were killed instantly. The car continued through the intersection and crashed into a parked delivery truck before exploding into flames. Remains of the driver have not yet been identified.

  Even though the publicly reported details were sketchy, it was sufficient confirmation for Marco. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. It was a clean remote hit. The remains of the driver would soon be identified as a drunken street bum who’d gotten behind the wheel of a stolen car. The remote control equipment inside the car had exploded into a million indiscernible pieces, a method he’d employed for a dozen other hits. Marco’s two million dollar fee, with another million for no loose ends, would be wired to his Nevis account within twenty-four hours, as promised. Doing business with Tate was truly a pleasure.

  11

  Wilson – Cambridge, MA

  Wilson lay sprawled across the overstuffed chair and ottoman in the belfry library of the Fielder family home in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The two-story library had always been Wilson’s lair. His father turned the circular belfry into a cozy library lined with maple bookshelves when Wilson was eight. The large oculus window provided a lookout to the outside world and a beautiful view of Cambridge Common and Harvard Square. Growing up, he and his friends had used the library and its large round window as an imaginary battle station with a strategic lookout. That’s when he started calling the Fielder family home Brattle House. When he’d gotten older, the library became another place to have long intimate conversations with his father.

  Last night, after spending several hours researching the latest surveillance and counter-surveillance practices online, Wilson had fallen asleep in his favorite overstuffed chair. His sister Rachel woke him with a violent shake. “Wilson. Wilson. Wake up. Daniel Redd was killed last night.”

  Wilson cracked opened his eyes gummed up from sleep, struggling to bring them into focus. Rachel’s face was distorted. She looked horrified. “What?” he said, as her words began to sink in.

  “Last night, just before eleven o’clock, Daniel and another attorney were hit by a drunk driver on Boylston.”

  “Where’s the driver?”

  “Dead. The car struck a truck and exploded.”

  Still dumbstruck, Wilson grabbed the morning edition of The Boston Globe from Rachel’s hands.

  Daniel Redd of Boston and Cheryl O’Grady of New York City were killed yesterday evening when a car racing at high speed swerved from behind a lane of stopped traffic and struck the two attorneys who were walking in the crosswalk at Boylston and Arlington Streets. The car continued through the intersection and exploded when it crashed into a delivery van. Remains of the driver have been identified as Thomas Wilkins of Boston.

  Wilkins, who had been living on the streets of Boston for the past year, was driving a stolen vehicle at the time of the accident. Daniel Redd, age 47, was a partner with the Boston-based law firm of Weintraub, Drake, Heinke & Redd. He is survived by a son, William, age 24. Cheryl O’Grady, age 42, was Deputy General Counsel for the New York investment banking company KaneWeller. She is survived by her husband, Connor. The two attorneys had been working on KaneWeller’s recent acquisition of Fielder & Company, a Boston-based financial consulting firm. Chairman and founder, Charles Fielder, is still in a coma at Mass General suffering from a gunshot wound he sustained just last week in Sun Valley, Idaho. While the police have not officially drawn an
y connection between the two tragic events, they have not ruled out the possibility.

  Wilson read the report two more times, still unable to fathom that Daniel was suddenly gone. Killed in a crosswalk because of Fielder & Company’s secrets. Why now? The fifty-two files? Sharing them with me? Meeting with Cheryl O’Grady? Had Daniel shared the files with her? Or was there something else Daniel failed to tell me?

  “They did it. I know they did it,” Wilson said under his breath.

  Rachel looked as pale as death, staring at Wilson in disbelief. “What’s happening to us?” she whispered.

  An hour later Wilson was sitting in Bill Heinke’s office at Weintraub, Drake, Heinke & Redd, listening to Heinke’s account of Daniel’s tragic death.

  “We’re all in shock around here,” Heinke said, placing his hand over his forehead and sighing. “However, I assure you that nothing with respect to your family’s assets or concerns has been jeopardized. Twenty-four hour security protection for your father, increased surveillance and counter-surveillance, liquidation of assets—everything will continue as planned.” Heinke paused a moment, his face distorted, before adding, “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Wilson waited for a few moments out of respect for Daniel, but his sorrow had already turned into rage. There was no question in his mind that the people who had tried to murder his father had now killed Daniel Redd. “Why were Daniel and Cheryl meeting?” Wilson asked.

  “Wrapping up loose ends on the merger, before Cheryl returned to New York for meetings today.”

  “What loose ends?”

  “She wanted additional information about some of Fielder & Company’s clients. Daniel had been working non-stop, hoping to finish everything by this morning.”

  “Which clients?” Wilson asked, feeling uneasy as he shifted in the leather wing chair across the desk from Heinke. He already knew the answer.

  “We’re not sure. There was nothing found at the scene of the accident. We’re going through his files this morning. Daniel was very particular about his client files. He kept some in his office, some in the firm’s vault, and others in safety-deposit boxes. Give us the rest of the day,” Heinke said, sighing again as he folded his short, plump arms over his swollen stomach. Sweat had formed along his furrowed brow below a crop of receding gray-brown hair slicked back with gel. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. He continued, “We’ll have everything accounted for by this afternoon. As for your father’s estate, we have more than a dozen attorneys working on it as we speak. Daniel trained an exceptional group of attorneys. I’m personally assuming a supervisory role. Everything is proceeding as planned. Your father’s assets should be fully monetized within thirty days. KaneWeller is also anxious about the files, the late-night meeting between Daniel and Cheryl, and, of course, the expected negative publicity. They’ve been checking in every half hour for updates.”

  “Please keep me informed,” Wilson said as he got up.

  “Of course. By the way, do you happen to have copies of any of Daniel’s files?”

  “No, I returned everything I had,” Wilson said, disguising his lie with abruptness. There’s no way I’m turning over my copies of the fifty-two files. Not now that Daniel’s gone. Fuck the bastards. I’ll be ready for them when they come after me.

  Heinke grimaced slightly as he stood up. Things were obviously worse than Heinke was letting on. Hopefully, his body would be able to handle the added burden. The KaneWeller merger, the Fielder estate, and the reputations of all three firms were at stake, but none of that was Wilson’s primary concern at the moment.

  Before leaving the building, he called his former mentor and family friend, Carter Emerson. Carter said he’d been expecting Wilson’s call. They arranged to meet in thirty minutes at John Harvard’s Brew House in Harvard Square, where the thick stone walls and heavy music of the subterranean pub would be enough to prevent anyone from eavesdropping. Walking to his car, he repeated the words of his father’s letter:

  Complete the merger with KaneWeller and then liquidate all my other business assets as quickly as possible. Daniel Redd will help you. If you need additional help, go to Carter Emerson. Trust no one else.

  Now, there was no one else. As he drove his father’s car from Back Bay to Harvard Square, his thoughts turned to Emily Klein and the first day they met in Carter Emerson’s history class. It was his sophomore year at Princeton.

  Emily was late for Emerson’s course on interpreting history. As she rushed through the door, anticipating the distinguished professor’s glare, something entirely unexpected happened. The first person she looked at when she entered the amphitheater-style classroom was Wilson. Their eyes locked for several seconds. He had no idea who she was, but he watched her every move. Emily told him later that she could feel him watching her. Even though she was used to having men ogle her striking features, thick shoulder-length blonde hair, and well-defined, five-foot-seven body, this felt different for both of them. She quickly took an empty seat across the aisle from Wilson in the third row of the amphitheater. He continued to glance at her throughout the class until she opened her mouth to ask a question. After that his glances turned into near constant staring.

  Professor Emerson had just finished reviewing the objectives for his course, “Patterns of American Thought and Their Influence on the Interpretation of History,” when he asked the class if there were any questions. A flood of mundane and predictable queries about books, reading requirements, tests, and papers spewed forth. After twenty minutes of these unbearably boring questions, Emily raised her hand and said, “Professor Emerson, based on the past twenty minutes, how would you evaluate our interpretation of the patterns of learning in American higher education?”

  The class burst into laughter.

  When things quieted down, Professor Emerson responded, “In answer to your question, I think we have a few misinterpretations to correct in the coming weeks.”

  Another round of laughter rippled through the seventy or so students in the room.

  Smiling at Emily, Professor Emerson dismissed the class a few minutes early. Afterwards, Professor Emerson approached Emily to thank her for the question. As they bantered sarcastically about the hidden barriers to getting a superior college education, Wilson joined them. Emily was noticeably impressed that he and Professor Emerson had known each other for years. Wilson introduced himself to Emily and the three of them talked and laughed about a variety of topics, until Professor Emerson had to leave. While walking out of the amphitheater together, Professor Emerson invited both of them to dinner at his home on Sunday.

  After that, it didn’t take long for Emily and Wilson to become close friends. Carter had recognized the unusual chemistry between them from the beginning. They were seniors at Princeton when they started living together and began discussing a longer-term relationship, but neither of them had been ready to commit to anything other than their own career goals.

  When Wilson turned into the parking garage across from John Harvard’s Brew House, his reminiscences shifted to Sun Valley, where a day earlier he’d driven past the Sun Valley Lodge. The Old World elegance, surrounded by rustic pine timbers and natural stone, made the famed lodge and its Duchin Lounge one of Wilson’s favorite spots for socializing after a day of skiing. It was there that he’d proposed to Emily a year ago last Christmas. He’d gotten down on one knee as the Duchin’s live jazz-blues band played “At Last,” and presented Emily with a four-carat diamond ring.

  Six months later, they were still fighting over where to live and how to resolve their insane work schedules. He lived in Chicago; she lived in New York City. She was finishing a manuscript and treating patients; he was fast-tracking his career and traveling incessantly. When they finally decided to postpone the wedding until their career obstacles and obsessions subsided, Emily returned the ring and their relationship foundered.

  It had been almost a year, and he still hadn’t gotten over her. Now the sobering effect of his father’s
coma and Daniel’s death was forcing him to take stock of his life in ways he never had—especially his relationships. It was time to admit, even celebrate, that he’d always loved Emily and always would. Time to correct a big mistake and protect the woman he loved.

  12

  Carter – Cambridge, MA

  When Wilson arrived at John Harvard’s Brew House, Carter Emerson was standing at the polished-brass and dark-wood bar with an Irish stout in his hand. He looked more like an adventurer than a famed History of American Civilization professor at Harvard University. His rugged features and thick brown hair, not to mention the robust athletic body, belied his status as one of the world’s most respected public intellectuals. They embraced as old friends. “It’s good to see you,” Carter said, his bright blue eyes uncharacteristically gentle.

  Having known him in his Princeton days, Wilson appreciated that expressions of empathy were a rare commodity with Carter Emerson. “Thank you for your messages of sympathy and support to the family,” Wilson said.

  “I visited your father this morning,” Carter said slowly. “Dr. Malek seems genuinely optimistic, which is marvelous. But if Charles regains consciousness, he could become a target again. Malek’s an old friend of your father’s and mine. He told me you asked him about moving your father to a more secure location. I think it’s a good idea.”