The Insiders

Tate closed his eyes and smiled. This time he didn’t feel the pain.

“Buona notte,” the nurse said as she left the room.

EPILOGUE

Boston, MA

Emily was still sleeping when Wilson left Brattle House for the bank. He couldn’t bring himself to wake her, so he left a note promising to be back soon. The ornate lobby of the Boston Private Bank amp; Trust on Boylston Street was almost empty when he arrived. He went immediately to member services, where he waited for a personal banker to take him to the safety-deposit vault.

He signed the admission form and showed his identification, along with the legal document that allowed him to sign on all his father’s accounts. Once the personal banker reviewed the paperwork with his manager, he led Wilson to the vault. Inside, the banker inserted his key and then Wilson inserted his key to open box 1952. The box was removed and placed on the table in a private room. The banker then excused himself, leaving Wilson alone.

He opened the box, but it was empty. He immediately left the room to find the personal banker. When he inquired about the last time the box had been opened and by whom, the banker told him he could not disclose that information without a court order. Wilson returned to the private room, closed the door and called Agent Kirsten Kohl’s private number.

When she answered, he told her about the empty safety-deposit box. She assured him that she would have a federal court order within the hour. “Two FBI agents will meet you at the bank at noon.”

“Thank you.”

“Wilson? I’m afraid I have some additional bad news for you. Wayland Tate has escaped from the hospital in Venice. Two men were killed, one from Europol, the other one was CIA. We have a full-fledged international search underway.”

“Nothing surprises me anymore, Kirsten. And I still don’t believe Carter is dead. Do you know where he is?”

“No, but we’re following some leads that I can’t talk about right now.”

“I’ll be back here at noon to meet your agents.”

“Wilson?”

“Yes?”

“The President has invited me to your meeting at the White House. Hopefully, I can give you more details then. I think we’re going to be working this together, for the foreseeable future.”

“Good. You’re the only reason I have any trust in the FBI,” Wilson said. “I think you want to change things as much as I do.”

“I do. And I think we have a platform to do it.”

“I hope you’re right, Kirsten.”

“Me too. Right now, finding your great-grandfather’s memoirs is an FBI priority.”

“Thanks. See you soon.”

When the call was finished, Wilson looked down at the empty safety-deposit box. He thought of his father and then repeated the narcissistic maxim control or be controlled over and over again in his mind.

Moments later, a distinguished-looking man with thick white hair and a slight tan entered the private room and introduced himself as Felix Zubriggen, chairman of the bank. He was dressed impeccably and had a worldly- wise air about him. “I’m sorry Mr. Fielder, it seems the last person to access this box was Wayland Tate.”

“How could…”

Felix interrupted. “Carter Emerson is not dead, Mr. Fielder. His DNA was placed at the scene of the Teatro La Fenice by the people he was ultimately trying to overthrow. It’s part of an agreement allowing Carter and his family to continue living. His captors are capable of orchestrating anything. They plan to use any changes in the American system to their advantage, by accelerating the establishment of a new global financial system. They’re keeping Carter around, just in case they need him. The CIA, or some faction of it, is somehow involved, but we don’t know to what extent. Carter has been forbidden to set foot in the United States or have contact with you. Violation will result in his death and the death of his family. He’s asked me to be his liaison with you. Your father and Carter call me the Watcher.”

Wilson’s eyes grew wide as he remembered Carter’s words: if for some reason anything goes wrong, and I am no longer in the picture, someone will be in touch with you. “Where is he?” Wilson asked.

“Europe. It’s better that you don’t know the details for now. He and his family are safe, but under constant surveillance.”

“And the memoirs that were supposed to be here?” Wilson asked, looking down at the empty safety-deposit box.

“Your father thought it would be better if the world believed they were stolen by Wayland Tate,” Felix said as he pulled a sealed envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to Wilson. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

When Felix was gone, Wilson opened the envelope. It was a letter from his father:

My Dearest Son,

I am writing this letter six weeks after the first one you should have received from Daniel Redd. Felix Zubriggen is the bearer of this letter because he’s independent of all my other relationships and I trust him. My worst suspicions have now been confirmed. Our partners have contracted for our assassinations, mine and Carter’s, so I had no choice but to develop a drastic counter plan. Carter wanted nothing to do with it, but I insisted. Otherwise, we would have both died. My plan was to keep Carter alive to finish what we started. Forgive me son. I know that all of this has brought nothing but tragedy and turmoil to your life.

I am the one who removed the memoirs and placed them in a safe repository after I received a series of anonymous phone calls. The first call informed me that Wayland Tate had contracted for my death and Carter’s, with contingency backup contracts. We used our own sources to validate the information. Unfortunately, eliminating Tate would not have solved our problem or removed the contracts.

In the second call, I received a detailed description of our entire disclosure plan and a harrowing explanation of how and why it would never bring about the change we envisioned. The caller’s arguments convinced me that he understood the world’s power structure as well or better than we did. He and his group have known about us for years. The third call summarized the content of your great-grandfather’s memoirs and informed me of their location. I have no idea how they obtained their information. Sadly, I began questioning every relationship in my life, including my relationships with Daniel and Carter.

That’s when I removed the memoirs and began writing this letter for Felix to deliver if and when you came to the bank. Felix is a Swiss banker with a long history of selling privacy. He’s been my agent and banker for years. Carter knows nothing about the contents of this letter or the anonymous phone calls, and Felix will not inform Carter of this delivery unless you request it. Use him as necessary, but only after you’ve paid for your privacy.

In the fourth and final call, the caller invited me to join his group, claiming that working together was the only way to permanently transform capitalism and launch a new era of economic freedom. He gave me instructions for making contact. A painting commissioned by his group is set to be unveiled in London at the end of summer, as a symbolic representation of the struggle between freedom and oppression. I don’t know the name of the artist, but the painting is privately referred to as “The Beholders”. I was to make contact with the artist, who would give me further information. The last thing the caller told me was that his group had found a way to make capitalism more accessible and actionable, without requiring government action or acquiescence from the wealthy elite and their shadow government. I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you. However, my instinct and judgment tell me that an affiliation with this anonymous caller and his group could prove advantageous, even redemptive. If a parallel path to reform can be pursued simultaneously with changes emerging from our disclosure,