The Insiders

Wilson: “I’ll take care of the legalities,” Daniel said. “The Sun Valley Police won’t want your father to leave their jurisdiction, but we won’t give them a choice. Just make sure his doctor supports your decision and is willing to make the trip with your father.”

“Already arranged. Do you anticipate anything we can’t overcome?”

“Not if we can demonstrate medical need. I’m licensed to practice law in Idaho and my firm knows a few judges in town. If we run into serious problems, we’ll have the FBI claim jurisdiction; they owe us a few favors. But that’s a last resort. Don’t worry, Wilson. One way or another, I’ll make sure your father can leave Idaho. Need any help arranging for a medical airlift?”

“Air Ambulance is a client. The CEO promised me that he’d have one of their jets at the Sun Valley airport by eight tonight,” Wilson said.

“I’ll have all the legal issues relating to medical transport resolved by five o’clock. Can we find somewhere to meet privately after that? There are a few things I need to discuss with you face-to-face.”

Wilson hesitated a moment, wondering why Daniel needed private face time before leaving Sun Valley. Then he dismissed it as nothing more than overly cautious, analretentive behavior from a first-rate attorney in difficult circumstances. “I want to spend some time at the chalet before we leave. Why don’t we meet there?”

“See you there,” Daniel said.

2

Tate — New York City, NY

Wayland Tate simmered with boredom as he listened to his client ramble on about a recent Business Week article that had criticized his company’s management practices. Clients who’d become overly dependent upon him were the only aspect Tate despised about his chosen place in the world. His pale blue eyes roamed restlessly across the wall of plasma screens at the back of his office, where the news channels showed clips of Charles Fielder every half hour. The pictures make Charles look older than he is, he thought.

Tate stood up, walked to the closet behind his desk, and retrieved a bottle of moisturizing lotion from the top shelf. “I know what you mean, Jim,” he said absentmindedly, reassuring his client that he was still listening even though his thoughts were focused on more pressing matters: if Charles regains consciousness, we’ll have to extract him from the hospital immediately. But there was nothing to worry about; preparations had already been made. He removed his gold cuff links and carefully rolled up the starched sleeves of his monogrammed shirt. While interjecting an occasional “uh-huh” into his client’s soporific litany of woes, Tate rubbed the lotion into his tanned arms and elbows in slow rhythmic motions.

Caring for his physical appearance and personal magnetism had always been a priority for Wayland Tate, making him one of corporate America’s more interviewed and photographed executives. GQ magazine had recently included him in its 100 Most Influential People in the World issue, touting “his gorgeous, gray head of hair … an intensity behind the eyes that makes you wonder what he’s going to do next,” and the fact that he was “sporting a six-pack at age fifty-six.” But those closest to Tate knew that his high visibility had more to do with shrewd publicity management than with good looks or charisma. Almost half of the firms on Fortune’s 500 were either current or former clients of Tate Waterhouse, one of the fastest-growing international advertising agencies in the world, and he made sure everyone knew about it. The only criticism his new European and Asian investors had expressed pertained to his prominent presence in the media. Fortunately, their criticism came at a time when Tate no longer craved attention like he had in his younger days. Promising to tone things down was a fair quid pro quo for access to their limitless resources.

Tate’s boredom was beginning to burn calories when one of his administrative assistants interrupted with an urgent message that David Quinn, CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company, was on the phone-for the fourth time that day. Excusing himself from his client, Tate disappeared into a narrow corridor that ran along a wall of windows overlooking the East River and the South Street Seaport near Wall Street. He unlocked the door to his private quarters and took his time walking through the luxurious space, which looked more like an exclusive bar than an apartment. Picasso, Pollock, and Kandinsky originals filled the walls. The two de Koonings, one above each fireplace, were Tate’s favorites.

He climbed the spiral staircase that led to his silk-walled bedroom and marble bathroom. Pausing in front of the bathroom’s gilded mirror between two freestanding water basins, he rolled down his sleeves, and replaced the cuff links. Then he reached for a small tube of eye ointment, squeezing out a miniscule amount and applying it under his eyes and along his eyebrows with his left index finger. Although the anti-wrinkle ointment cost seven hundred dollars an ounce, it was worth every penny-he could easily pass for a man ten to fifteen years his junior.

After sitting down in the bedroom’s black leather lounge chair and placing his feet on the matching ottoman, Tate was ready to turn his attention to David Quinn. J. B. Musselman was a twenty-five billion dollar wholesale distribution conglomerate headquartered in Chicago and Tate sat on its board. He picked up the phone.

“David. Sorry I missed your earlier calls.”

“I need your help to get Kresge amp; Company off my back, permanently,” Quinn said, noticeably irritated.

“Weren’t they your idea in the first place?” Tate’s response was glib, deliberately provocative.

“You know the board forced me into this. It was their idea from the beginning. I simply recommended which firm, but that was before the bastards started analyzing ways to break up the company. I need your help to get rid of them before they convince the board.”

“I hate to say I told you so, David, but Fielder amp; Company would have been a smarter choice than Kresge amp; Company. You would have had more control,” Tate kept the smile that played across his features out of his voice.

“It’s Fielder’s kid who wants to breakup the company into regional businesses to exploit what he calls ‘the growing niche-oriented needs of local customers’ and give employees more opportunity for ownership,” Quinn was seething with anger and defensiveness. “He told MacMillan I was the single biggest obstacle to Musselman’s future growth and profitability.”

“Well, I don’t think you have to worry about Wilson Fielder for a while. He’s got his hands full with other things right now.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I would never wish what happened with his father on anyone, but I’m glad to get that arrogant little prick out of my life. Now, I want him and his firm to stay out.”

Tate remained silent and smiling.

“You went to school with his father didn’t you?” Quinn asked.

“I did. We were close friends,” Tate said, remembering the poetry readings at the SoHo bar where he first met Charles Fielder. He could still hear the message of Charles’ revolutionary verse: generations of concealed corruption enslave us in a system of coerced consent. He would miss his old friend.

“Do you believe he killed those women?”

“I don’t want to believe it, David,” Tate said. “But people change.”

After a pause, Quinn returned to his original agenda. “How do we make Kresge amp; Company go away for good?”

“My guess is that Wilson will take a leave of absence, which should slow things down long enough for us to launch the new advertising campaign. Musselman will reposition itself as ‘The Next Generation in Mass Merchandising.’ Kresge amp; Company becomes old news. I’m already working with Boggs amp; Saggett on a presentation for MacMillan and the rest of the board.”

“You know I’m not ready to leave this place.”

“Stop worrying, David. No one is going to remove you from the helm. The advertising campaign alone will send Musselman stock soaring. The board will think they’re in heaven. Trust me.”

It had taken Tate three years to get to this point with David Quinn. He’d spent the first year landing the J. B. Musselman account. The next two years were devoted to getting appointed to the company’s board of directors,