“Did you know this was coming?” Wilson asked.
“Carter advised me before his disclosure meeting at Harvard. We’ve known each other for many years. I have the utmost respect for him and your father. And while I will never be able to publicly condone their methods, they did the country and the world a big favor. You should be proud of them. Not a day goes by that I don’t pray for your father’s recovery,” he said, pausing briefly. “I sense you not only understand his quest but have one of your own. The country needs your input.”
Again, Wilson was moved by the President’s heart-felt sincerity and authentic appreciation, but he remained cautious. He waited for Emily to give him a sign of what she was thinking. She looked weary. Just as Wilson was about to tell him they’d think about it, Emily responded firmly, “We’ll come to your luncheon meeting, but right now we don’t trust anyone.”
The President’s admiring gaze alternated back and forth between Wilson and Emily. “I don’t blame you a bit,” he said. “Let me work on the trust issue. We need you to help us make sure Charles and Carter didn’t live their lives in vain.”
Wilson studied the President’s eyes, searching for a reason not to trust him. When he found none, he looked over at Emily and slowly nodded his head.
“I’ll have my chief of staff make the necessary travel arrangements. He’ll be in touch with you in the next couple of days,” the President said as he placed his hands on their shoulders and squeezed gently. “Your generation will have to finish this job.”
The words hit home. Did my father and Carter orchestrate everything? Including the President’s cooperation?
After they said good-bye to the President, Wilson and Emily lingered in the grove. He was worried about her. The trauma of the kidnapping and their hiding out in Maine had taken a toll on her physical health. Her doctor had put her on medication for bronchitis and recommended that she get as much rest and quiet as she could over the next few days. “Are you sure the medication you’re on isn’t affecting your judgment?” he asked with a playful smile.
“My judgment? You really think I don’t know what you’re planning?” she said, her face coming alive with new energy. “Here we are at Carter’s funeral service and neither one of us thinks he’s dead. I watched his wife and daughters the entire time. They may be mourning, but not over Carter’s death,” Emily said.
“I thought the exact same thing,” Wilson said.
“We have to find out what happened to him. Witness protection program? Kidnapping? Another one of his contingency plans? Who knows? But there’s no way you’re going to do this without me. Who else is going to keep you alive long enough to father our children?”
They smiled broadly at each other before embracing tenderly. “So who’s going to set the new date for our wedding?” Wilson asked.
Emily looked at him with a teasing grin. “Someone who can make and keep commitments.”
They muffled their laughter, mindful of those at the gravesite fifty meters away. Finding joy in each other at every possible opportunity, no matter how strange or twisted their future became, would be their only refuge. That would be Wilson’s first wedding vow.
71
Tate – Venice, Italy
Ospedale Civile. Venice, Italy. April 16th. A nurse entered room 369 just before two o’clock in the morning, to administer the specified doses of antibiotics and painkillers. Before she left the room she woke the patient and turned him onto his side to check the bandages on his back.
“I have a message from Morita,” she whispered into the patient’s ear. Her English was flawless with only the slightest Italian accent.
“Morita?!”
“Shhh,” she said quietly to avoid drawing attention from the armed guards standing by the door.
Tate smiled even though it hurt to move his mouth.
“She wants you to know you’re in good hands,” whispered the nurse.
“I need to get out…”
“Shhh,” she said, again. “They’ll be transferring you tonight.”
Tate closed his eyes and smiled. This time he didn’t feel the pain.
“Buona notte,” the nurse said as she left the room.
EPILOGUE
Boston, MA
Emily was still sleeping when Wilson left Brattle House for the bank. He couldn’t bring himself to wake her, so he left a note promising to be back soon. The ornate lobby of the Boston Private Bank & Trust on Boylston Street was almost empty when he arrived. He went immediately to member services, where he waited for a personal banker to take him to the safety-deposit vault.
He signed the admission form and showed his identification, along with the legal document that allowed him to sign on all his father’s accounts. Once the personal banker reviewed the paperwork with his manager, he led Wilson to the vault. Inside, the banker inserted his key and then Wilson inserted his key to open box 1952. The box was removed and placed on the table in a private room. The banker then excused himself, leaving Wilson alone.
He opened the box, but it was empty. He immediately left the room to find the personal banker. When he inquired about the last time the box had been opened and by whom, the banker told him he could not disclose that information without a court order. Wilson returned to the private room, closed the door and called Agent Kirsten Kohl’s private number.
When she answered, he told her about the empty safety-deposit box. She assured him that she would have a federal court order within the hour. “Two FBI agents will meet you at the bank at noon.”
“Thank you.”
“Wilson? I’m afraid I have some additional bad news for you. Wayland Tate has escaped from the hospital in Venice. Two men were killed, one from Europol, the other one was CIA. We have a full-fledged international search underway.”
“Nothing surprises me anymore, Kirsten. And I still don’t believe Carter is dead. Do you know where he is?”
“No, but we’re following some leads that I can’t talk about right now.”
“I’ll be back here at noon to meet your agents.”
“Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“The President has invited me to your meeting at the White House. Hopefully, I can give you more details then. I think we’re going to be working this together, for the foreseeable future.”
“Good. You’re the only reason I have any trust in the FBI,” Wilson said. “I think you want to change things as much as I do.”
“I do. And I think we have a platform to do it.”
“I hope you’re right, Kirsten.”
“Me too. Right now, finding your great-grandfather’s memoirs is an FBI priority.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
When the call was finished, Wilson looked down at the empty safety-deposit box. He thought of his father and then repeated the narcissistic maxim control or be controlled over and over again in his mind.
Moments later, a distinguished-looking man with thick white hair and a slight tan entered the private room and introduced himself as Felix Zubriggen, chairman of the bank. He was dressed impeccably and had a worldly-wise air about him. “I’m sorry Mr. Fielder, it seems the last person to access this box was Wayland Tate.”
“How could…”
Felix interrupted. “Carter Emerson is not dead, Mr. Fielder. His DNA was placed at the scene of the Teatro La Fenice by the people he was ultimately trying to overthrow. It’s part of an agreement allowing Carter and his family to continue living. His captors are capable of orchestrating anything. They plan to use any changes in the American system to their advantage, by accelerating the establishment of a new global financial system. They’re keeping Carter around, just in case they need him. The CIA, or some faction of it, is somehow involved, but we don’t know to what extent. Carter has been forbidden to set foot in the United States or have contact with you. Violation will result in his death and the death of his family. He’s asked me to be his liaison with you. Your father and Carter call me the Watcher.”
Wilson’s eyes grew wide as he remembered Carter’s words: if for some reason anything goes wrong, and I am no longer in the picture, someone will be in touch with you. “Where is he?” Wilson asked.
“Europe. It’s better that you don’t know the details for now. He and his family are safe, but under constant surveillance.”
“And the memoirs that were supposed to be here?” Wilson asked, looking down at the empty safety-deposit box.
“Your father thought it would be better if the world believed they were stolen by Wayland Tate,” Felix said as he pulled a sealed envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to Wilson. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
When Felix was gone, Wilson opened the envelope. It was a letter from his father:
My Dearest Son,
I am writing this letter six weeks after the first one you should have received from Daniel Redd. Felix Zubriggen is the bearer of this letter because he’s independent of all my other relationships and I trust him. My worst suspicions have now been confirmed. Our partners have contracted for our assassinations, mine and Carter’s, so I had no choice but to develop a drastic counter plan. Carter wanted nothing to do with it, but I insisted. Otherwise, we would have both died. My plan was to keep Carter alive to finish what we started. Forgive me son. I know that all of this has brought nothing but tragedy and turmoil to your life.
I am the one who removed the memoirs and placed them in a safe repository after I received a series of anonymous phone calls. The first call informed me that Wayland Tate had contracted for my death and Carter’s, with contingency backup contracts. We used our own sources to validate the information. Unfortunately, eliminating Tate would not have solved our problem or removed the contracts.
In the second call, I received a detailed description of our entire disclosure plan and a harrowing explanation of how and why it would never bring about the change we envisioned. The caller’s arguments convinced me that he understood the world’s power structure as well or better than we did. He and his group have known about us for years. The third call summarized the content of your great-grandfather’s memoirs and informed me of their location. I have no idea how they obtained their information. Sadly, I began questioning every relationship in my life, including my relationships with Daniel and Carter.
That’s when I removed the memoirs and began writing this letter for Felix to deliver if and when you came to the bank. Felix is a Swiss banker with a long history of selling privacy. He’s been my agent and banker for years. Carter knows nothing about the contents of this letter or the anonymous phone calls, and Felix will not inform Carter of this delivery unless you request it. Use him as necessary, but only after you’ve paid for your privacy.
In the fourth and final call, the caller invited me to join his group, claiming that working together was the only way to permanently transform capitalism and launch a new era of economic freedom. He gave me instructions for making contact. A painting commissioned by his group is set to be unveiled in London at the end of summer, as a symbolic representation of the struggle between freedom and oppression. I don’t know the name of the artist, but the painting is privately referred to as “The Beholders”. I was to make contact with the artist, who would give me further information. The last thing the caller told me was that his group had found a way to make capitalism more accessible and actionable, without requiring government action or acquiescence from the wealthy elite and their shadow government. I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you. However, my instinct and judgment tell me that an affiliation with this anonymous caller and his group could prove advantageous, even redemptive. If a parallel path to reform can be pursued simultaneously with changes emerging from our disclosure, it could help ensure a lasting transformation of capitalism.
Wilson, I know your heart and I trust your inherent goodness, but I also know that you’ll never find peace with yourself until you see this through to a final resolution. I am deeply saddened that I won’t be attending the art exhibit in London with you. Learn everything you can and then incorporate it into your own plans. I have always known that my obsession would be yours to finish, which is why I kept you from it for as long as I could. I want you to know how very proud of you I am. You are singularly prepared to make this world a better place. Protect yourself and the ones you love with the best people you can find, and then replicate it three times. Trust in yourself. Until we meet again.
Your Loving Father
P.S. The memoirs are located in a floor safe buried in concrete and steel beneath the hearthstone of the river rock fireplace at our White Horse chalet. There is a switch located beneath a single stone at the apex of the gable that enables the hearthstone to slide back revealing the safe. Simply remove the apex stone cradled in cement to turn the switch. The primary alphanumeric combination to the safe is “HWF1952cmwr”. The secondary combination is your birth date followed sequentially by the first and last letters of your favorite childhood hero.
Wilson remained in the private room alone with his thoughts for almost an hour. A few minutes before noon, he found Felix in his office. “What does Carter plan to do?” Wilson asked.
“Nothing for now. The powers that be seem satisfied that Carter is sufficiently content with his disclosure. They plan to let the reforms take place, and then turn them to their advantage,” Felix said. “But Carter is always working on contingency plans. Has been ever since I’ve known him. He said you should be patient and enjoy your life with Emily.”
Wilson studied the bank chairman. So these are the final pieces to the puzzle, he thought. At least for now. “Tell Carter that Emily and I knew he wasn’t dead and that we’re no longer surprised by his and my father’s incessant contingency planning. But if I don’t hear from him, through you, at least once a month, I’ll be knocking at your door,” Wilson said.
“I’ll pass your requests along, Mr. Fielder,” Felix said.
“What are you going to tell the FBI when they arrive?”
“The box was last opened by Wayland Tate, the day he met with you at the Bostonian Club. I have documents showing his signature on an admission form from that date and on the safety-deposit lease agreement, along with your father’s and Carter Emerson’s.”
“Okay, Mr. Zubriggen. You can talk to the FBI when they arrive. I’ll call Agent Kohl and tell her about Tate,” Wilson said, reconciled to the messy aftermath of his father’s and Carter’s choices. “You know how to contact me. I’m going home to plan a wedding.”
“I think that’s a good idea, Mr. Fielder. And I will be in touch.”
“Call me Wilson, I’ll call you Felix. And tell Carter I have some advice for him. The real lie is that hierarchies can be incorruptible. Tell him to relax and enjoy his sanctuary. He always wanted to live in Europe.”
“Until we meet again, Wilson,” Felix said, nodding his head and extending his hand.
They shook hands vigorously, “Until then, Felix.”
Back at Brattle House, sitting next to each other on the sofa at the foot of the guestroom bed, Wilson and Emily read and reread his father’s final letter with a mix of sympathy and wonderment.
“What are we going to do?” Emily asked.
“First we’re going to get married, before you get cold feet again,” he said with a broad grin. “Then I think we should spend some time in Sun Valley and London.”
Emily returned the grin. “You’re so predictable my dear, but I’m fully committed to helping you expand your horizons.”
They wrapped their arms around each other, quickly slipping into shared bliss—for a little while.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For more than a decade, this book has churned inside me like a perpetual motion machine, slowly building momentum on its way to finally becoming a completed work. During its long gestation, many people from various walks of life in this country and around the world have made important contributions, both large and small. These contributions have included insight, mo
tivation, example, philosophy, belief, struggle, research, expertise, feedback, legal advice, editing, joy, misery, cynicism, and laughter. The most notable contributions came from the following people, whose particular and sometimes peculiar inputs will remain unmentioned out of courtesy and appreciation. Larry Wilson, whose early mentoring and friendship inspired the naming of the book’s main character, Chris Raia, James Gulbrandsen, Harris Kay, Jeff Henderson, Lee and Nan Conant, Ray Balee, Bing Zhou, Joe Cannon, the entire Sao Paulo South Mission from 1996 to 1999, Michael and Pat Snell, Gina Patterson, Omar Cintron, Sarah Southerland, John Rizzo, David Beckmann, Lauren Woolley, Karen Miller, Tim McManus, and all the others on the BookSurge team, especially Julian, Blair, Emma of DC3 and Jason, Jenny, and Lauren of TDF1, the entire Varner family, Michael Silva, Eric Marchant, Pamela Lewis, Les Forslund, Craig Holyoak, Marcello Hunter, Mark Hoffman, Neil Andersen, Reid Robison, Kelly Purser, Doris Bigio, Dil Kulkarni, Roger Connors and Tom Smith, Kirk Benson, Margaret and Ray Lewis, Hester Kaplan, Don Mangum, Carl Bacon, David Rothschild, Steve Goldsmith, Jim McDonald, Mary Kowalczyk, Jim Brinton, Dick and JoAnn Losee, Peter Quinn, Jeff Gendler, Dixie Clark, Charles Dahlquist, Michael Yoshino, Harry Hansen, Paul Lawrence, Anthony Athos, Phil Matthews, Tom Mullaney, Bob Kidder, Jim Scarborough, Kim Clark, Doug Matsumori, Keith Adams, Karen Hansen, John Mahaney, David Rockefeller, Phil Matthews, Tom Mullaney, Justin Dart, Neal Maxwell, Alan Wilkins, Dallas Archibald, Craig Zwick, Bill Ewing, Marlon Berrett, Joe Allen, Craig Bott, Stephen Covey, Ken Shelton, Ralph and Trish Faison, Forrest and Cindy Dodson, Troy and Lori Clements, Dave and Sue Herron, Bill and Pam White, Harvey and Jill Seybold, Bob and Joan Scatena, my parents Winston and Verla Hickman, my siblings Larry, Deborah, and Mark, my children Jared, Kimberly, and Leigh and their spouses Aimee, Michael, and Jeremy, my grandchildren Leo, Zeke, Sylvi, and Iggy, my step children Samuel and Jacob, and finally to Laura Hickman and Stan Varner, to whom this book is dedicated, for their unending perception, encouragement, and perseverance.
The Insiders Page 35