The Insiders

by Craig Hickman

  By noon, Wilson was alone in his father’s office, pacing back and forth along the wall of windows. The last time he’d heard from Hap was over two hours ago. Emily had been taken to a warehouse near Princeton, New Jersey. Suddenly Hap marched into the office unannounced. Anne had become accustomed to the routine. “Emily’s fine,” Hap said in a high-energy voice. “She’s got a slightly overheated right cheek, but there’s no other indication of trauma.”

  “Fucking bastards. What did they do to her? If we have the slightest indication that she’s being mistreated, I want her out,” Wilson said, eyes blazing.

  Hap nodded his agreement. “We now have three teams, a total of twelve people, keeping her under surveillance. The number of people guarding her has increased from four to seven—three armed guards outside the warehouse, three inside, and a woman. They’re in constant contact with somebody. As of yet, we haven’t been able to decode their encrypted communications. But we remain confident that we can free her at any moment. We’ve also added another team to Brattle House and doubled the protection on your father.”

  “What’s the absolute minimum time we have to wait?”

  “After what Carter Emerson told the FBI this morning, I don’t think she’ll have to remain in custody for more than twenty-four hours.”

  “Any change in her condition?” Wilson asked, incensed by the thought of her mental and emotional torment, not to mention the blow to her face.

  “She’s tied down to a cot, blindfolded, and wearing earphones. She’s being fed regularly and has the opportunity to walk around every time she uses the bathroom.”

  Wilson pressed his fingers into his scalp, trying to alleviate his splitting headache.

  Hap waited a moment before responding. “My men already have orders to free her the minute they anticipate any mistreatment,” he said slowly and deliberately.

  “And what about the mistreatment we can’t see? Goddamnit, Hap, we’re asking too fucking much of her.”

  Hap waited a moment before responding. “I understand completely,” he said slowly. “Give me the word, and I’ll have her freed immediately.”

  Wilson stared at Hap and then walked to the windows overlooking the Charles River. Emily’s words “never fear” from the voice message to her parents stuck in his head. Those words were meant for him and he knew it. She’d become more determined to fight than he was. If only I could talk to her right now, what would she say? Would she want to be freed immediately? Or wait for the FBI to capture its prey? It was an impossible dilemma, he thought. Risking another’s life, not to mention the life of the woman I love, based on what? Stratagem? Suddenly, it pierced him, as if Emily had spoken it herself. Destroy the bastards. “I want her rescued at the first sign of anything unusual, and I mean anything. And, I don’t want her moved again.”

  Hap nodded, “You got it.” He immediately got on his cell phone to Driggs and relayed Wilson’s instructions.

  When Hap was finished, Wilson asked, “What happened this morning with Carter?”

  “At nine o’clock in William James Hall, room 105, after Federal couriers delivered the necessary assurances of immunity, Carter began briefing the FBI, the SEC, the Justice Department, the NSA, the CIA, partners from Ernst & Young and Booz Allen, and a few others no one would identify. The FBI had the place completely sterilized, but there wasn’t a hint of surveillance,” Hap said admiringly.

  “Is this really going to work?” Wilson asked as he sat down in his father’s chair at the end of the gray stone table.

  “Yesterday I wasn’t sure. But what happened this morning convinced me. The FBI performed brilliantly. I thought I had seen everything, but this tops it,” Hap said. “Even the guards in the hallways were dressed like grad students.”

  “How many people?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “How did they arrange the meeting so quickly?”

  “I asked myself the same question. They must have been scrambling all night.”

  “Why Ernst & Young and Booz Allen?”

  “Beginning tomorrow, those two firms will deploy approximately six hundred auditors and consultants, working around the clock, to verify Carter’s records and independently document eight years worth of stock market manipulations.”

  “Why so many if they’re trying to keep things under wraps?”

  “Only six seasoned project leaders know the full picture. They were the ones at the briefing. The work will be parceled out in segments to minimize leaks,” Hap said, his eyes dancing. “The more people involved, the harder it will be for anyone to see the full picture before the partnership is totally exposed. The FBI has done their homework on this one. They want to make sure an independent verification of Carter’s records is underway when they start asking federal judges to issue arrest warrants.”

  “How did Carter react?”

  “Brilliantly. He lectured for an hour and a half and then fielded questions for another two hours. Needless to say, the audience was spellbound. This was definitely the lecture of the millennium. I don’t think Carter has any more worries about whether his disclosure will bring a revolution.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “On an airplane.”

  “What?” Wilson asked, stunned by the words. Carter was still at it.

  “Somewhere outside the U.S. It was part of his immunity package. I assumed you knew?”

  “Hell no!” Wilson said, feeling stupid for being blindsided yet again. “Things must be worse than we think if the person who most wanted to see this is fleeing the scene.”

  “Given the FBI’s lightning-fast response, he could be anywhere by now.”

  “That’s why Elizabeth wasn’t home,” Wilson said, trying to think of what else he may have missed. “What’s his cover?”

  “A history conference at Stanford University. There’s an undercover agent disguised as Carter who’ll be arriving in San Francisco in a couple of hours.”

  “Does Tate know about the conference?”

  “Carter said he told him about it.”

  “Did he leave a message for me?” Wilson asked, his anger spiking.

  “Not to panic.”

  “What?”

  “He said not to panic. He would be in touch.”

  “Well, he’s done it again, hasn’t he?” Wilson said.

  “After what he did this morning, he didn’t have much choice, Wilson.”

  “What about us?”

  “Unless you want to call it quits, we’re scheduled for another debriefing at the apartment tonight with Kohl, Johns, and whoever else they’re bringing.”

  “Who else?” Wilson asked, pissed off about what else he didn’t know. He’d been so preoccupied with Emily that he was no longer thinking clearly or acting smart.

  “They wouldn’t tell me,” Hap said, his eyebrows raised.

  “Are you absolutely confident that they know what the fuck they’re doing?” Wilson asked, admitting to himself that there was nothing he could do about it even if they didn’t know what they were doing, except free Emily and leave the country like Carter had.

  “They seem to have marshaled an impressive strike force,” Hap said, sympathizing with Wilson.

  “I hope you’re right,” Wilson said, still considering the option of fleeing with Emily. “Are you certain that my father and the rest of my family are safe?”

  Hap stepped back away from the door, “Each one of them is under heavy surveillance, twenty-four hours a day, four of our people and four FBI agents for every one of them.”

  “That has to be raising suspicions.”

  “We still haven’t seen any evidence of surveillance or counter-surveillance since your meeting with Tate at the Bostonian Club,” Hap said.

  “Doesn’t that surprise you?”

  “Actually, no. They know we’re here in full force, so they’re pretending to trust you, even when they don’t. They’re close to being free from Fielder & Company and they’re still holding Emily. But sooner or
later they’ll figure it out. FBI agents throughout the country are already monitoring the movements of every CEO in the secret partnership, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Kohl wants the arrests to happen simultaneously.”

  “How many arrests?”

  “Over four hundred.”

  “They’ll never pull this off without something going wrong. What’s the actual charge?”

  “Conspiracy,” Hap said.

  “Conspiracy?” Wilson said, louder than intended. Conspirare, the Latin root of conspire, means to breathe together, he thought. Manipulation is as natural as breathing to these guys.

  “Conspiracy to defraud the United States,” Hap said as he pulled a business card from his jacket pocket. He began reading from the back of the card, “As defined by the Supreme Court, conspiracy to defraud the United States is ‘to interfere with, impede, or obstruct a lawful government function by deceit, craft, or trickery, or at least by means that are dishonest.’ They’re also going to make a case for treason, calling it ‘a breach of allegiance to one’s government and levying financial war against the American people.’”

  “Carter has been planning this for weeks,” Wilson said, cynically. “Why did he need me?”

  Hap stood up. “Distraction,” he said, not without sympathy. “You were his only means of finding cover from the partnership’s scrutiny. All he needed was a little time and enough counter-surveillance resources to accomplish what he did this morning. You provided both.”

  Hap was right again. Wilson had distracted the partnership just long enough for Carter to deliver his final lecture.

  53

  Wilson – Boston, MA

  FBI executives Kohl and Johns entered the Back Bay apartment with Hap Greene, followed by four FBI technicians carrying several cases of computer and video equipment. Wilson arrived a few minutes later. It was almost eight in the evening and there had been no more calls from Emily. Thankfully, regular reports from Driggs continued to convey that she was safe and unharmed. He wouldn’t allow her to suffer much longer, even if she was determined to destroy the bastards.

  Within minutes, the FBI technicians had set up five laptop computers and a video camera at the dining room table and then proceeded to log in five reporters—Katherine Fischer from The New York Times, Peter Jacoby from The Wall Street Journal, Bob Woodward from The Washington Post, Martha Kinzer from The Boston Globe, and Barry Dietz from the Associated Press—for an encrypted high-tech video conference. When all the connections had been tested, Kirsten Kohl asked Wilson to join her in the dining room.

  “Each of these journalists is on a secure, encrypted connection. They have been thoroughly briefed on our operation. Each of them attended the meeting with Carter Emerson earlier today. Now, they have some questions for you.”

  Feeling a bit blindsided by Carter and now the FBI, Wilson’s growing cynicism flared. “Seems a bit Orwellian or maybe Chinese to have the FBI orchestrating the press.”

  “We’re not orchestrating the press,” Kohl said with a distinct coolness. “It was a non-negotiable part of Carter Emerson’s demands.”

  “Nothing surprising about that,” Wilson mumbled.

  “We’re only here for background, Mr. Fielder,” said New York Times senior reporter Katherine Fischer. “Could you begin by describing your father’s relationship with Carter Emerson?”

  “Aren’t we going to wait for the networks?” Wilson asked sarcastically.

  “Broadcast journalists are scheduled for Friday morning after the arrests,” Johns said. “Nothing will be printed or broadcast until then.”

  “And these reporters agreed to that?” Wilson said in disbelief. He didn’t like Johns or his self-righteous smugness. And he couldn’t believe all of this was going to unfold without any hitches. Carter had told him about wanting the press to be intimately involved, but no one had bothered to tell him about the details or the timetable—and it aggravated him.

  “The national security implications of a premature leak on this story have registered with all of them. Plus, we have agents at each of their locations and sworn affidavits that nothing will be discussed or printed until Friday,” Kohl said.

  “Of course,” Wilson said, ready to have Emily extracted immediately.

  “What about your father’s relationship with Carter Emerson?” Fischer asked again.

  Wilson reluctantly spent the next ten minutes explaining what he knew about Carter’s relationship with his father. As he summarized the relationship, he softened, admitting to himself how much he loved and respected both of them, despite the fact that he and Emily had been caught in their web of manipulations.

  “What do you think motivated your father and Carter Emerson?” asked Wall Street Journal reporter Peter Jacoby.

  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 & 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.”