“Until it’s safe.”
She gazed out at the bay, following the lobster boats on their way out to sea. “Will it ever be safe for us?”
Wilson matched her gaze, putting his arm around her. “I don’t know, Em,” he finally answered.
“It’s never going to end, is it?”
“Depends on what happens to my father’s partners,” Wilson said, feeling victimized by every one of them. “But don’t worry, we have enough money to protect ourselves, assuming the government doesn’t confiscate it.”
“That’s not very encouraging,” she said softly.
“I know. Sorry,” Wilson said quietly. “We’ll be okay, Em. We’ve got each other. It’s the one precious reality I’ve held on to through all of this. You are the most important thing in my life.”
She hugged and kissed him on the neck and cheek. Then a twinkle flashed across her eye as she kissed him on the lips. “I will always love you, Wilson, no matter how difficult or miserable our lives become.”
Wilson’s smile broadened. He was grateful to see her playfulness back. “And, I will always love you, Em, no matter how resentful or mean-spirited you become.”
She dug her fingers into his sides until he grabbed her hands and pulled them around him. They embraced and kissed again.
“What are you going to do when we go back?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Wilson said, staring at the open ocean beyond the cove. “Fielder amp; Company may not have many clients after today.”
Emily was quiet. When she spoke again, her tone was sarcastic. “We could always manage one of my parent’s B amp;B’s on the Vineyard. You would be a big tourist draw.”
“Now look who’s encouraging,” Wilson said before kissing her. “What about you? When are you going back to work?”
“Not for a few months. It’s no longer the most important thing in my life,” she said, looking away.
“What are you thinking?”
“About everything your father gave up to change the world.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said quietly. “I think about that a lot.”
“If he had it to do over again, do you think he would?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what he cared about,” Wilson said.
“Does it make you sad?” Emily said, her eyes probing his.
“Not really. I think I understand him better than I ever have,” Wilson said, shifting his gaze from Emily to the other side of the cove. “He got his wish. He changed the world.”
There was prolonged silence before Emily asked, “What’s your wish, Wilson?”
Wilson smiled, “You mean after the one about living with you forever?”
“That sounds wonderful. But yes, after that, what’s your wish?”
“I don’t have any others at the moment,” he said.
She looked into his eyes and they kissed again, slowly and gently.
After lingering on the deck a little longer, they decided to take advantage of the beautiful day. They tracked down Paddie, who was more than anxious to rent his boat to them for a second day. He set them up with all the gear and by eight-thirty they were leaving Mackerel Cove for a spot Paddie recommended a few miles south of the cove near Cliff Island. Emily took the helm while Wilson prepared the lobster pots. As they approached the west side of Cliff Island the water was unusually calm, so Emily cut the engine and helped Wilson drop their first pot. Wilson checked the second pot to make sure everything was ready. But before Emily returned to the helm to start the engine, he asked, “So, what did you think about Gibson’s comment about Jefferson and capitalism being distributed to the end of every row?”
“I think Jefferson was right,” Emily said.
“You think the wealthy will ever allow grass roots capitalism?”
“Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for socialism?” Emily said teasingly.
“Why does everyone assume that the only way to fix capitalism is to adopt socialism or some other form of utopian equalism?” Wilson said, leaning back to capture the sun’s rays against his face. Before Emily could respond, he added, “Assuming Jefferson and Madison and Franklin have been watching as their American experiment has unfolded over the past couple of centuries, I think they’d tell us there is no flaw in capitalism-just a flaw in our competitive natures. We require too many losers. Making capitalism workable and robust for everyone, without resorting to socialistic devices-that’s our challenge.”
With a mischievous look on her face, Emily reached down scooping up handful of bait. “If the rich and powerful can’t find a way to push capitalism to the end of every row, then we’ll just have to give them some new incentives,” she said, throwing the fish pieces out across the water.
They burst into laughter. It felt good. After that their conversation grew lighter. They dropped the rest of the lobster pots over a two-mile stretch off Cliff Island and then retraced their path to pick up the day’s catch. Ten lobsters. A quick run by lobsterman standards, but it had provided much-needed therapy for their stressed souls. When they arrived back in Mackerel Cove a little before three, Wilson placed a collect call to Kohl.
“I thought you’d never call,” Kohl said. “Have you seen the news lately?”
“No.”
“Swatling and Tate were trapped by an explosion inside a Venetian opera house.”
“La Fenice?” Wilson asked.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Fielder amp; Company owns the apartment building next door. It’s where Emily was kidnapped. It was one of my father’s favorite places, and evidently the birthplace of the secret partnership.”
Kohl didn’t respond, so Wilson continued. “Are they dead?” he asked.
“Swatling is dead. Tate’s in critical condition and under heavy guard at a Venice hospital. The CIA agent is in custody.”
“Any sign of Carter?”
“Not yet. They’re still going through the debris at La Fenice.”
“But he was there, right?” Wilson asked.
“Yes. We think he was the one who caused the explosion.”
“You have to find him,” Wilson said urgently.
“Why? Is he dangerous?”
“Only to himself.”
“You’re not making sense, Wilson,” Kohl said.
“Rising from the ashes. La Fenice means the phoenix. The secret partnership created by my father and Carter is dead, and their disclosure is already accomplishing what they intended for this country. The real solution will rise from the ashes of destruction. Carter’s going after them,” Wilson said.
“Who?”
“The Overseers, the Council, the Governors, or whatever you want to call them. Conspiracy theorists refer to them as the New World Order, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Illuminati, Shadow Government, the Rothschild Dynasty, Freemasons, or the Bilderbergers, but the conspiracy hype only facilitates their concealment. They’re a secretly chosen governing council. A half dozen or so people who represent the world’s most wealthy families and control much of the world’s wealth creation, monetary supply, financial credit, and central banks like the Federal Reserve. They also practice an exclusive trading game that makes my father’s insiders club pale in comparison.”
“You don’t really believe that?” Kohl said in disbelief.
“Ask the CIA. They know about it. I’ve been denying it for too long. They are the same elite who had my great-grandfather murdered because he was going to publish memoirs that would have exposed them. They assassinated Congressman Louis T. McFadden, William Tate Boyles, Wayland Tate’s grandfather, and possibly four American presidents. I’m afraid my family has been obsessed with exposing them for a long time. Trust me. You need to find Carter before he gets himself killed.”
