“They called from somewhere on the North American continent, but that’s all we got,” Taylor replied. “They were bouncing the signal.”
“Bingo. I wasn’t sure we’d get that much,” Hap said, smiling at Wilson. “Now we can get even more serious about pouring over the details on those 153 private jets.”
Wilson wasn’t sure how, but he believed Emily would find a way to give them more information each time she called. It was just enough hope to help him keep his torment at bay.
43
Wilson — Boston, MA
It was just after seven o’clock in the morning when, from his father’s office, Wilson began making a series of pre-scheduled, international calls to acquisition candidates in Asia and Europe. By thirty minutes past eight, he’d talked to twenty-three firms and made arrangements to meet with six of them within the next month.
At nine o’clock, he entered one of the conference rooms on the ninth floor to listen to the first of seven presentations from advertising and publicity firms. When the last presentation concluded at one o’clock, Wilson had boiled it down to two firms: BBDO, the first firm to present and the one with the strongest track record with professional service firms, and Tate Waterhouse, the last firm to present and the one with the best understanding of Fielder amp; Company’s history and current needs.
Wilson wasn’t surprised when Wayland Tate himself attended his firm’s presentation but immediately sensed that Tate’s presence was more than a courtesy call in symbolic deference to his father. When Tate invited him to lunch, he was sure of it. Wayland Tate was there on behalf of the secret partnership.
“I’m going to lunch at the Bostonian Club with two of our vice presidents. You’re welcome to join us,” Wilson said, kicking himself for not talking to Carter about Tate. But would Carter have told me the truth?
“I know the club well. It was one of your father’s favorites. You go ahead with your vice presidents,” Tate said graciously, no longer in disguise. “I have a few things I’d like to share with you in private. I’m staying at the Westin for the next couple of days. We can set up another time to meet.”
Tate’s words made Wilson’s blood run cold. There was no way he was going to postpone an opportunity to get Emily back. He immediately said, “Let me see what I can arrange with the vice presidents.”
After conferring with Frank O’Connor and Bob Throckmorton, Wilson told Tate he would be available for lunch. He agreed to meet Tate at the Bostonian Club in twenty minutes. Selecting an advertising firm to handle Fielder amp; Company’s new publicity campaign had suddenly become a secondary issue.
Wilson’s mind flew to memories about Wayland Tate and his firm. While it was true that Fielder amp; Company and Tate Waterhouse had long exchanged data and analyses on behalf of shared clients, he didn’t know any of the details. He repeated his father’s words again:
Then he recalled his own experience at the J. B. Musselman Company, where Tate sat on the board of directors. Wilson was certain that Tate had been the one who convinced David Quinn to launch the America’s Warehouse strategy. Tate was an unusually persuasive and driven man, a man his father had always liked. But Wilson could no longer deny the probability that Wayland Tate was part of the secret partnership. If he was being paranoid, he’d find out soon.
Wilson returned to his office with nothing but vengeance on his mind. He immediately called Hap Greene.
“We’ve been monitoring everything,” Hap said. “I have people inside and outside the Bostonian Club. Needless to say, we’re ready for your lunch. Are you?”
“I’ve never been more ready,” Wilson said.
“We’ll find her, Wilson. Just buy us some time. Like you said, let them think you’ll give them whatever they want.”
“My thoughts exactly. Here we go,” Wilson said before hanging up. He then talked briefly to O’Connor and Throckmorton, who both agreed that BBDO and Tate Waterhouse represented the two best firms of the seven for Fielder amp; Company’s publicity initiative.
Minutes later, Wilson walked into the Bostonian Club and was immediately escorted to a private dining room on the club’s exclusive third floor. The room looked like a nineteenth-century den with an impressive collection of classic and modern works, an Italian marble fireplace, glazed leather sofas and chairs, exquisite Persian rugs, and two Marsden Hartley originals. He focused on the decor to calm himself, musing on the irony of a beat generation socialist painter, like Hartley, supplying the backdrop for exclusive luncheon meetings among Boston’s elite. But the blue-blooded rich always ignored such contradictions. They bought whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, he thought, remembering detective Zemke’s comment about his father.
Wayland Tate stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Wilson scoffed nervously to himself, knowing that this meeting would be far from private. Who else besides Hap’s team would be eavesdropping? It was a twisted spectacle of standard operating procedure in a postmodern corporate world.
“You bear a striking resemblance to your father,” Tate said.
Wilson smiled without commenting. How much gamesmanship do we have to go through before Tate gets to the real reason for his lunch invitation? He fought back his rising anger. He needed to remain calm and collected.
“He was a visionary, your father,” Tate said, staring at one of the Marsden Hartley paintings. “I have no doubt, whatsoever, that he will go down in history as the man who launched the transformation of capitalism, and I don’t mean the revolution Marx and Engels imagined. Thankfully, the rich turned out to be too smart for that. But your father was smarter than all of them. How’s he doing?”
Wilson placed his hands in his pockets. Tate’s candid comment had caught him off guard. “We hope he’ll regain consciousness soon.”
“Believe me, we’re all hoping for that, Wilson,” Tate said. “Shall we sit down?”
Wilson nodded, still surprised by Tate’s openness and candor.
“How’s your mother?” Tate asked once they were seated.
“She’s doing well, staying busy,” Wilson said.
“Glad to hear it. Back in our college days, your mother and father were the envy of anyone seeking true romance.”
Disarmed again by Tate, Wilson said, “I didn’t know you went to college together.”
“Columbia University, Class of ’69-the last summer of love. We all expected your father to become the next Jack Kerouac. Have you read his poetry?”
Stunned yet again, he’d never read his father’s poetry because he didn’t know it existed. Wilson felt himself sinking fast. “No,” Wilson said, nervously picking at the seams of his napkin.
“He always said he’d buried his literary past at the B-school,” Tate said while studying Wilson’s expressions. “But, luckily for us, he never lost his passion for changing the world.”
“There are things I still don’t know about my father,” Wilson said, as the waiter entered the room with a bottle of Chardonnay, antipasti, fresh bread, and the day’s menu.
After they had ordered and the waiter was gone, Tate picked up his napkin and carefully placed it in his lap. “I’m not surprised. Everything he was doing depended on secrecy.”
“What was he doing?” Wilson asked, now becoming annoyed with the way Tate seemed to be toying with him.
“Transforming capitalism.”
“How?” Wilson said as he moved his chair closer to the table.
“By documenting widespread abuses in the capital markets,” Tate said, pausing to take a sip of the Chardonnay. “Without noticeable failure, democracies rarely create change.”
There was no more holding back, Wilson told himself. “You mean he planned all along to expose Fielder amp; Company’s insider’s club?” Wilson asked as the tablecloth moved under his tensed elbows, almost spilling the glass of wine in front of him.
“At the right time and in the right way, yes,” Tate said slowly, continuing to study Wilson over the rim of his
