The Insiders (43 page)
Wilson answered the phone apprehensively.
“Sorry to bother you so late, but I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”
“What is it, Kristen?”
“Carter Emerson’s remains were uncovered at the explosion site in Venice.”
Wilson sat down stunned. “Are you sure?” he asked, unwilling to believe that Carter was dead.
“The DNA tests were verified by Italian authorities and the CIA.”
Still unconvinced, Wilson asked, “Does his wife know?”
“I talked to her before I called you.”
“Where is she?”
“Geneva, Switzerland with her daughters. They’ll be here tomorrow for a graveside service at Cambridge Cemetery. The President plans to attend.”
Geneva, Switzerland, Wilson repeated to himself. That’s where Carter is. “I’ll be there.”
“For what it’s worth, Wilson,” Kohl said slowly. “I can’t officially condone what your father and Carter Emerson did, but I think positive change will come from it. Good night, Wilson.”
A FedEx letter arrived for Wilson just as the family was preparing to leave for Carter’s graveside service at Cambridge Cemetery. His mother, Rachel, Darrin, and their FBI escorts decided to go ahead while Wilson and Emily waited for Driggs and Irving to examine the thin package for explosives and other chemicals. When they were satisfied it was clean, they handed it to Wilson. Inside was a one-page letter from Carter and the key to a safety-deposit box. The letter was hand-written on Hotel San Fantin stationery. Wilson took a deep breath and walked to the den where he sat down before reading the letter. Emily sat next to him. They read the letter together.
Dear Wilson,
I should never have agreed to pull the trigger. We were both dead men walking and we knew it. Our only hope was to come up with a ploy so shocking and yet believable that it would keep one of us alive. With your father and Tate locked in a power struggle, the ‘role’ of staying alive fell to me, almost by default. Your father and I had to convince Tate of my loyalty and that I had no intention of exposing the partnership. But now, I can no longer live with what I did. My ambition for this life has been exhausted.
Your inclination will be to finish what we started, but it’s not worth it. This obsession has destroyed our lives and brought only suffering and misery to the ones we love. Things will never change. I know that now. The enclosed key is to a safety-deposit box at Boston Private Bank & Trust on Boylston Street. Your great-grandfather’s memoirs should be inside. They are what started us down this fateful path. Your father decided not to share them with you until after we had accomplished our disclosure. My advice to you is to let them sleep.
I pray your father will eventually emerge from his coma. I can only hope that the position of the bullet gives him some chance of recovery. Tell him that I miss him. Enjoy your life with Emily; she’s one in a billion. Forgive us, if you can. Lastly, would you mind watching over my Elizabeth and the girls? They know about everything, but I doubt they fully understand. Maybe you can help, especially with my grandchildren.
With Deepest Love and Sympathy,
Carter Emerson
Wilson sat motionless on the sofa next to Emily, no longer agitated or dumbfounded by the unending twists and turns. But Carter’s letter didn’t ring true.
Things will never change. I know that now.
Bullshit, Wilson thought. Neither Carter nor his father would ever believe that.
“Do you believe it?” Emily looked at him, giving voice to the question that was in his mind.
“No,” he said as he stood up and took Emily by the hand. “Do you?”
“No,” she replied without hesitation and wrapped her arms around him.
As they left for the graveside service, Wilson mulled things over. Generations of concealed corruption could only be overcome by generations of open revolution. His generation had no choice but to engage.
A small but distinguished group of mourners stood around the freshly dug opening beneath the black casket containing Carter Emerson’s alleged remains. Cambridge Cemetery. It was near the Fielder family plot where Wilson’s paternal great-grandparents and grandparents were buried. Wilson gazed out over the Charles River. Carter Emerson wasn’t dead.
Carter’s wife Elizabeth and his daughters Sarah and Amy were sobbing as they clung to each other. There had been no wake or viewing or traditional funeral service, just as Carter had requested. A dozen or so secret service and FBI agents stood several yards away near the line up of limousines, watching every movement. Hap’s men were there too. Another two-dozen agents and police officers were spread across the cemetery’s entrances and exits. The service was closed to the public and the press.
The President of the United States was there in person to deliver a short eulogy. Without condoning what Carter and Charles had done, he praised them for having the fortitude and foresight to expose the harsh reality of one of the nation’s deepest flaws: inequity. Then he repeated many of the things he’d said the day before in his speech from the Oval Office. Wilson wasn’t surprised. What else could he do? Even though the service had been closed to the press, somebody would find a way to discover what the President said and put it on the web within twenty-four hours.
After the eulogy, the President of Harvard University offered a prayer over the casket, asking for God’s understanding and blessing for one of Harvard’s most accomplished and brilliant scholars. Wilson watched Carter’s wife and daughters hold each other, but they seemed to be shedding tears of fear and apprehension, not sorrow and grief. Then the short service was over.
As everyone delivered their final condolences to Carter’s wife and daughters, President Roberts approached Wilson and Emily. His first words were addressed to Emily, praising her for her courage while being held captive. The fact that he seemed to know all the details surrounding Emily’s kidnapping took them both by surprise. “Are you experiencing post-traumatic symptoms?” the President asked.
“No, I’m doing fine. Thank you for asking. I appreciate your concern,” she said.
“If it hadn’t been for Emily’s fortitude, I would have thrown in the towel,” Wilson added, putting his arm around her.
“You’re an amazing couple. Walk with me,” he said, guiding them away from the gravesite and into a nearby grove of trees. “I’d like to invite both of you to a working lunch at the White House with Chief Justice Stanley Vandenberg, Senate Majority Leader Kip MacArthur, Speaker of the House Dorothy Brock, and a few cabinet members and advisors.”
Wilson and Emily were speechless.
The President stared at Wilson. “The only reason I attempted to minimize the crisis in my speech yesterday was to stabilize our weakening financial strength,” the President said, looking intense and sincere. “New York has already lost much of its global dominance to London, where more than fifty percent of the world’s equities are now traded. This crisis could bury New York and weaken the American economy for decades to come. London and Europe would benefit from our weakness once again, just as they did after the ’29 crash. It would also accelerate a massive capital shift to emerging financial centers in Shanghai, Hong Kong, Singapore, Mumbai, Dubai, and Sao Paulo. There’s no question that we have to address the changes your father and Carter envisioned, but we must do it without abdicating our global leadership. I assure you the White House is behind this one hundred percent. Congress has gotten the message loud and clear, and the court is committed to reform. There will be change. Trust me.”
“Did you know this was coming?” Wilson asked.
“Carter advised me before his disclosure meeting at Harvard. We’ve known each other for many years. I have the utmost respect for him and your father. And while I will never be able to publicly condone their methods, they did the country and the world a big favor. You should be proud of them. Not a day goes by that I don’t pray for your father’s recovery,” he said, pausing briefly. “I sense you not only understand his quest but have one of your own. The country needs your input.”
Again, Wilson was moved by the President’s heart-felt sincerity and authentic appreciation, but he remained cautious. He waited for Emily to give him a sign of what she was thinking. She looked weary. Just as Wilson was about to tell him they’d think about it, Emily responded firmly, “We’ll come to your luncheon meeting, but right now we don’t trust anyone.”
The President’s admiring gaze alternated back and forth between Wilson and Emily. “I don’t blame you a bit,” he said. “Let me work on the trust issue. We need you to help us make sure Charles and Carter didn’t live their lives in vain.”
Wilson studied the President’s eyes, searching for a reason not to trust him. When he found none, he looked over at Emily and slowly nodded his head.
“I’ll have my chief of staff make the necessary travel arrangements. He’ll be in touch with you in the next couple of days,” the President said as he placed his hands on their shoulders and squeezed gently. “Your generation will have to finish this job.”
The words hit home. Did my father and Carter orchestrate everything? Including the President’s cooperation?
After they said good-bye to the President, Wilson and Emily lingered in the grove. He was worried about her. The trauma of the kidnapping and their hiding out in Maine had taken a toll on her physical health. Her doctor had put her on medication for bronchitis and recommended that she get as much rest and quiet as she could over the next few days. “Are you sure the medication you’re on isn’t affecting your judgment?” he asked with a playful smile.
“My judgment? You really think I don’t know what you’re planning?” she said, her face coming alive with new energy. “Here we are at Carter’s funeral service and neither one of us thinks he’s dead. I watched his wife and daughters the entire time. They may be mourning, but not over Carter’s death,” Emily said.
“I thought the exact same thing,” Wilson said.
“We have to find out what happened to him. Witness protection program? Kidnapping? Another one of his contingency plans? Who knows? But there’s no way you’re going to do this without me. Who else is going to keep you alive long enough to father our children?”
They smiled broadly at each other before embracing tenderly. “So who’s going to set the new date for our wedding?” Wilson asked.
Emily looked at him with a teasing grin. “Someone who can make and keep commitments.”
They muffled their laughter, mindful of those at the gravesite fifty meters away. Finding joy in each other at every possible opportunity, no matter how strange or twisted their future became, would be their only refuge. That would be Wilson’s first wedding vow.
Ospedale Civile. Venice, Italy. April 16th. A nurse entered room 369 just before two o’clock in the morning, to administer the specified doses of antibiotics and painkillers. Before she left the room she woke the patient and turned him onto his side to check the bandages on his back.
“I have a message from Morita,” she whispered into the patient’s ear. Her English was flawless with only the slightest Italian accent.
“Morita?!”
“Shhh,” she said quietly to avoid drawing attention from the armed guards standing by the door.
Tate smiled even though it hurt to move his mouth.
“She wants you to know you’re in good hands,” whispered the nurse.
“I need to get out…”
“Shhh,” she said, again. “They’ll be transferring you tonight.”
Tate closed his eyes and smiled. This time he didn’t feel the pain.
“Buona notte,” the nurse said as she left the room.
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 & 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.”
