identify her location. Her eyes darted to every nook and cranny in the four-foot square space. Then she saw it. She lurched forward, then stopped. They could be watching her. Please God, let it be something I can use. It was the corner of a moldy, water stained match cover folded into a wedge between the floor and the toilet stand to keep the toilet from moving. She leaned hard to one side of the toilet, and then with her arm behind her, she discreetly removed the match cover, trying desperately not to destroy it. When it was free, she buried her head between her legs as if cramping and unfolded the aged match cover. Thank you, God. The printing was barely legible but she could read it:
She memorized the information and carefully replaced the moldy wedge. Her heart was soaring as she washed her hands and face in the small sink next to the toilet bowl. Then she knocked on the door.
The masked woman entered the bathroom and replaced the blindfold but not the tape to her mouth. Emily was escorted to a straight-backed chair and told to sit down. Her legs were tied tightly to the chair, and a table was pushed in front of her.
“Here is some soup and crackers,” the automated voice said, as the woman guided Emily’s hands to the bowl and crackers.
Emily picked up the warm bowl and raised it to her lips. Vegetable soup; it tasted good. She quickly inhaled the soup and was given another bowl. When she finished, she expressed her thanks.
“You’re welcome,” said the automated voice.
Emily had been silently rehearsing what she was about to say. “My parents expect me to call when I return from Venice. If they don’t hear from me, they’ll start asking questions. If I could just leave them a voice message, that would be…”
The automated voice cut her off, “Let me see what I can do. Do you have the number?”
Emily told her the number. Then the tape was reapplied to her mouth and her hands were retied to the chair.
A few minutes later, the woman returned. “You can leave a brief voice message for your parents,” the automated voice said. The tape was removed from her mouth along with the earphones. A phone was placed next to her ear and mouth. “When you hear the click on the line, you will have thirty seconds. Don’t do anything stupid or the recording will be erased before the message is sent,” the automated voice said.
Emily knew exactly what she was going to say. When the click came, she spoke quickly and enthusiastically:
“Mom and Dad, it’s me. Sorry I missed you. Just wanted you know that we’re back. We had a glorious time. When we arrived by sea at the San Marco port and I saw the Campanile d’Oro and the Palazzo Ducale, I started crying because it was so wonderfully beautiful. And, where we stayed was only minutes from San Marco. Never fear, I’ll tell you all about it when we visit you next week. I love you.”
When Emily was finished, the earphones and tape were reapplied and she was left alone. She’d done it. Now, Wilson and Hap Greene would have to decipher the message.
45
Wilson — Boston, MA
As long as Emily was still missing, Wilson had no choice but to listen to Wayland Tate, who spent the next hour spinning a tale of good and evil in the garden of American capitalism. Including, of course, their plans to replant the garden.
“Once transformed,” Tate said, “The new capitalism will give individuals more access to insider information, more options for trading, more avenues for taking even the smallest businesses public, more ability to raise and borrow funds, more freedom to act for themselves, more opportunities to collaborate with others, and more hope for people to become what they want to become. No more wage slavery. The primary role of government will shift from controller to liberator. Continuous education for everyone will finally become the undisputed priority of democracy.”
Wilson continued to flirt with the idea of trusting Wayland Tate as he listened to the story of how Fielder amp; Company and Tate Waterhouse along with their affiliates had declared war against the status quo by orchestrating a byzantine pattern of abuses that would force change. But something felt wrong. He was being manipulated and he knew it.
“What do you want me to do, Wayland?” Wilson said tersely.
Tate eyed him cautiously. “We need you to spin off corporate restructuring from the rest of Fielder amp; Company. Make it a separate entity. We’ve already arranged for the financing.”
“Why?”
“All our manipulations were accomplished through selected segments of our operations. At Fielder amp; Company it was the corporate restructuring practice, the rest of the firm is clean. Your father planned it that way,” Tate said as he took a bite of his lamb chop and chewed for a few moments. “Once you divest corporate restructuring, completely removing yourself from the partnership, we’ll negotiate with Hearst to get Emily back. Then, we’ll prepare for disclosure.”
“Why not do it as soon as Emily’s safe?”
“Daniel’s death set us back a few months. There are files and histories that have to be recreated. If the disclosure’s incomplete, it won’t have enough shock value to galvanize public opinion. We also need time to calm the waters with some of my partners who think you’re a loose cannon.”
“I assume you’re talking about the partners who know about your ultimate objective?”
This time Tate stared hard at Wilson before responding. “Until recently, only the seven original members, and to a limited extent Daniel Redd, knew about our ultimate purpose. Damien Hearst changed all that. Right now, I’m not sure who else knows, but we have to find out before we disclose anything.”
“Everyone in the partnership except the original seven joined because of the money?”
“Basically, yes,” Tate said, removing his napkin from his lap and placing it on top of his plate. “The abuses had to be real, performed by real CEOs with real motivations to exploit the system’s weaknesses for their own personal gain.”
“How many members are there in the partnership?”
“About three hundred and fifty.”
“And you expected to keep them under control?”
Tate raised his eyebrows but didn’t respond.
“Who else was in the original group?”
Tate hesitated with a genuine look of concern in his eyes. “The original group formed many years before the Fenice Partnership was officially launched after the first Gulf War. Robert Swatling, Jules Kamin, and John Malouf,” Tate said, hesitating again.
“And?” Wilson said.
“Carter Emerson,” he said slowly.
Wilson was immediately nauseated by the response, not because he’d never considered the possibility, but because Carter had withheld it from him. Tate watched closely as Wilson struggled to keep his nausea down. “That’s six.”
When Tate didn’t respond, Wilson repeated his question. “Who was the seventh?”
“Your mother. Charles was the only one who was married when we first got together. We all loved your mother. We did everything together in those early years. It was natural to include her.”
Wilson felt his jaw drop and his head spin as he gazed in disbelief at Wayland Tate. A wave of cold sweat swept over him. He felt as though his body was melting.
“Your mother removed herself from the group many years ago. It was too much of a strain on her, even though she believed deeply in what we were doing. Carter wanted to tell you everything, but we were uncertain about your reaction, until Emily was kidnapped. Then we knew we had to tell you. I’m sure you can appreciate the precariousness of our position.”
