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:
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.”
Wilson nodded as the host escorted them-at Wilson’s request-to a thick stone-lined corner of the pub. When they were seated, Wilson dispensed with the normal social niceties. “Daniel Redd’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Carter concurred solemnly, without saying a word.
Wilson leaned over the table. It was time for plain talk. But before he began, Wilson reminded himself to be calm. His relationship with Carter had been nothing but stimulating and inspiring. If he couldn’t trust Carter Emerson, he couldn’t trust anyone. With measured delivery and a voice reserved for discreet conversation, he said, “Why has it taken my father lying on his death bed to find out what he was really doing at Fielder amp; Company? And I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. Daniel was feeding me bits and pieces, but only in answer to specific questions. Now he’s dead. Probably murdered by the same people who tried to kill my father. Who’s next? You? Me? We’re all under mounting surveillance, but we can’t go to the authorities because their involvement could jeopardize the liquidation of my father’s assets, which unknown to me until a couple of days ago, total more than seventy billion dollars. I need answers, and according to my father, you’re the only one left who I can trust.”
“I learned a long time ago that certain conversations must remain absolutely private,” Carter said in a dry voice as he looked down at the briefcase resting on the floor next to his foot. “The technology in that briefcase radiates digital noise interference, essentially turning our conversation into white noise. It also immobilizes and nullifies listening devices such as wireless microphones and GPS tracking devices. There are two telephone scramblers inside as well. You can take the briefcase with you when you leave. Operating instructions are inside.”
Wilson sat back, contemplating the mystery that was Carter-so like his father. “Tell me everything you know,” he said firmly.
“Your father came to me a week ago, expressing grave concern about clients who were misusing his methods of wealth creation. His plan was to blow the whistle on them, regardless of the consequences to Fielder amp; Company. He asked for my assistance in documenting the abuses, including historical context and economic impact, to prepare stories for
