weeks before he was shot,” he said slowly, letting the words sink in. “In his new will, he expressed a desire to put Fielder amp; Company on a high exposure path. He said it was time for the firm to come out of hiding.” Another pause. “I have committed the firm to act on his desire, and I invite all of you to do the same.”
From opposite sides of the cabin, Malouf and Tennyson exchanged looks of urgency, most likely pondering how much Wilson actually knew about their insiders club. He could see Malouf squirming. Wilson had just become a bigger threat to the secret partnership, but this tour had also made him harder to eliminate.
After that, there were no further questions or comments about initiative number four. The discussion turned to issues of implementation, timing, costs, responsibility, and anticipated obstacles. Malouf and Tennyson became more and more removed, apparently considering a new set of initiatives.
When the meeting ended, the six vice presidents relaxed quietly in the Gulfstream’s comfortable surroundings. Four days together, and this final meeting had provided more than enough dialogue, even for the talkative Spivey. And while Wilson still couldn’t believe that he’d been so easily deceived by Leigh Tennyson’s candid complaints about John Malouf, he’d now done everything he could to force the partnership’s hand. He hoped he’d done enough-and not too much. But his misreading of Tennyson continued to worry him. What else would they do to take him by surprise?
For now, all he could do was wait. A week in Venice with Emily would afford him the space and distance he needed to be patient and give the secret partnership enough rope to develop a response. He was looking forward to endless, uninterrupted hours with Emily.
38
Emily — Venice, Italy
Emily and Wilson landed at Marco Polo Airport in Venice a little before ten in the morning. It was a balmy spring day with calm waters reflecting a clear blue sky. The grand architecture-a glorious panoply of Byzantine, Gothic, and Renaissance styles-fit magnificently here, in this city on the sea. As they ascended from their water taxi in front of the Palazzo Ducale and the Torre dell’ Orologio on Piazza San Marco, the couple was greeted by three porters. These porters escorted them to Fielder amp; Company’s private apartment overlooking the restoration of the Teatro La Fenice, the oldest opera house in Venice. The first thing they did after the porters placed their luggage in the apartment was to fling themselves onto the king-size bed and sleep for two hours. When they woke, they showered and then sat on their balcony overlooking the Piazza La Fenice, nibbling at a lavish fruit and cheese basket and drinking Prosecco, courtesy of the management at Hotel San Fantin.
Smiling, Emily took hold of the sash around Wilson’s robe and led him back into the bedroom. For the next few hours they shared their deepest emotions. At one point, Wilson proclaimed his love from the balcony, causing Emily to clasp her hands over his mouth in sweet delirium. Such sacred intimacy was priceless.
That evening they immersed themselves in the Venetian experience, a long gondola ride through the canals to La Caravella’s for dinner and then back along the canals at night serenaded by their gondolier with Italian love songs. They strolled arm in arm past the endless shops and restaurants to their third-floor apartment.
While some people like D. H. Lawrence thought of Venice as “an abhorrent, green, slippery city,” Emily and Wilson relished its uniqueness, preferring Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s reflection, “nothing is like it, nothing is equal to it, not a second Venice in the world.” Fawning over the city on water like new lovers, they spent the rest of the week exploring the labyrinth of streets and waterways, touring palaces, museums, and private collections, meditating in Dante’s Chapel, dining in Lord Byron’s favorite eatery on the Grand Canal, feeding the pigeons in glorious San Marco Square, enjoying a new cultural venue each evening, and of course, making passionate love most nights and mornings-and not always in their apartment. Through it all, they had been only vaguely aware of Hap’s men, Mike Anthony and Pat Savoy, watching over them.
One morning before dawn, they ran to Piazza San Marco to watch it emerge from night’s darkness into early morning light, before the pigeons, school children, and tourists filled the space that had been Venice’s social, political, and religious gathering place for centuries. The most beautiful drawing room in Europe, according to Napoleon. He was right, Wilson thought.
“I could stay here for a thousand years,” Wilson said as they walked along the piazza’s arcaded Procuratie Vecchie in the first light of morning.
“Why don’t we?” Emily said.
“Maybe we already have,” Wilson said, playfully.
Emily stopped to drink him in. “Please go on.”
“Last night was worth at least a thousand years.”
She laughed loudly and then led him to the center of the square where they smothered themselves in each other until a hundred pigeons had surrounded them.
Wilson looked up and screamed at the top of his lungs, causing the pigeons to take flight, “I love this woman.”
Tears came to Emily’s eyes and then to Wilson’s. “We’re so lucky we found each other-again,” Emily said with an initial soberness that turned to teasing. That’s how it had been for an entire week, every day the same, yet extraordinarily different-San Marco Basilica, Rigoletto, Rialto Bridge, Giovani, the Doge’s Palace, Vivaldi, the Grand Canal, Tintoretto, Prosecco wine, Veronese, Venetian Cuisine, Titian, and always the sweet intimacy of melting into each other. Their Venetian getaway had been absolutely idyllic.
On the day before they had to leave, high tides and early morning rains flooded San Marco Square with a few inches of water, transforming the ceremonial courtyard into an
After changing their clothes and getting ready to leave the apartment for lunch, the telephone rang for the first time since they’d arrived. It was the Hotel San Fantin located directly across the piazza from their apartment, informing Wilson that he had received a fax. The hotel had a long-term contract to service the apartment and rent it out when Fielder amp; Company guests were not using it. Wilson told them they would come down to pick it up. But as he hung up the phone, he wondered why someone hadn’t just delivered it to the door-or to Anthony or Savoy, who were staying in the apartment on the second floor. Then he remembered that Anthony had taken possession of all duplicate keys when they arrived. The sudden return of paranoia felt like an ugly intrusion. He asked Emily if she was ready to leave.
“I need ten more minutes with my hair,” she said from the bathroom.
“Take all the time you need, sweetheart, we’re still on vacation,” Wilson responded from the small foyer of the apartment.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Hotel reception. They have a fax. I’m going to get it while you’re finishing.”
“I promise I’ll be ready when you get back.”
Wilson stepped into the bathroom to watch her. “I’ve always loved how you take care of yourself. Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“Thank you for bringing me here. This week has been divine.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek as she held a curling iron in her hair. “I adore you, Emily Klein. I’ll be right back.”
On his way down the stairs, he greeted Mike Anthony who stuck his head out the door of his apartment. When Wilson told him about the fax, Mike advised Savoy that Emily was upstairs alone and that he was going with Wilson to the front desk at the hotel. Wilson and Mike entered the lobby through the sliding glass doors and went directly to the reception desk, where they asked the clerk about the fax.
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FAX TRANSMISSION
