Craig Hickman - The Insiders

Dennison articulated the problem, just as his father and Carter would have. Maybe lasting change was possible.

Wilson — Bailey Island, ME

At six o’clock that evening, as Wilson and Emily ate lobster rolls from the marina restaurant, the national and local evening news focused almost exclusively on the nation’s reaction to the crisis. The lead story was the reaction on Wall Street. Panic selling had caused stock prices to plummet until the major stock exchanges hit their circuit breakers, the government’s safety net to prevent the markets from crashing the way they did in 1929. Trading on all U. S. stock, futures, currency, and commodity exchanges was halted. In London, Paris, Frankfurt, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Sidney, exchanges experienced similar panic selling before market declines triggered a halt to trading. Exchanges in Mexico, Brazil, and Argentina reached new lows before trading was halted.

Even though the New York Stock Exchange and other U.S. exchanges were expected to continue trading in the days and weeks ahead, until market circuit breakers went off, the term ‘virtual crash’ was already on the lips of every news reporter from New York to Beijing. Stock analysts and economists from every major country in the world were predicting that the worst was yet to come. During the rest of the evening, all the network stations and many of the cable channels canceled their regular programming in order to air one special news report after another.

If press coverage was any indication of America’s sentiments, Wilson thought, his father’s coveted transformation of the way capitalism works in this country seemed guaranteed. By all accounts, the entire nation was suffering from shock and disbelief. And the outrage was growing. Just as Carter had hoped, the disclosure was concentrating everyone’s attention on the same issue at the same time. The nation’s silent majority finally seemed to be demanding action.

After the evening news, Wilson and Emily used the pay phone to call Kohl. “Agent Kohl, it’s Wilson.”

“Your family is safe. Darrin is recovering nicely,” she said immediately. “All of them, including your father and Emily’s family, are under the highest level of security we can provide.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said with a sigh of relief and a whisper to Emily that everyone including her family was safe and sound. “What about Hap?”

“He’s back.”

“Where was he?”

“I think you better talk to him about that. Have you been watching the news?” Kohl asked.

“Since early this morning.”

“Looks like your father got what he wanted,” Kohl said. “Every government office in the country has been overwhelmed by a growing public outcry.”

“How do you plan to deal with it?” Wilson asked.

“Our immediate concern is preventing a virtual crash of the financial markets around the world. The President plans to address the nation on Sunday.”

Wilson said nothing as he contemplated the difficulty of the President’s task.

“Are you and Emily okay?”

“We’re fine. What about Tate and Swatling?”

“They’re in Venice.”

“You have them under surveillance?”

“Based on the tape from Detective Zemke, we convinced the CIA to maintain surveillance, until Carter’s whereabouts have been determined.”

“Tell them not to lose Tate and Swatling,” Wilson said, somewhat disdainfully.

“Don’t worry. The global implications have registered…”

The automated operator interrupted the conversation demanding another deposit. Wilson dropped in the coins.

“Wilson, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you might like to know that it’s safe to come home,” Kohl said. “We’re still searching for a few missing employees from Tate Waterhouse and Swatling, Dyer, and Reinthrow, but every other member of the partnership that we know about has been arrested, except for the six who committed suicide. All of the compromised agents are either dead or in custody, except one. And, yes, we are confident that we’ve identified them all.”

“Where’s the one who’s still unaccounted for?”

“He’s in Italy with Tate and Swatling.”

“Hap’s man?”

“No. CIA.”

There was silence on the phone.

“When are you coming back?” Kohl asked.

“When you have Tate and Swatling behind bars,” Wilson said, pausing, “And when I know where Carter…”

“We’ll find him,” Kohl said, cutting him off. “Next time, call collect.”

As soon as Wilson hung up the phone, Emily asked, “Where’s Carter?”

“They don’t know,” he said, “Tate and Swatling are in Venice. Carter’s probably there too.”

“You think Carter’s planning to meet with them?” she asked.

“Yes, but I’m not certain of his agenda.”

“I think he’s going to kill them,” Emily said.

Wilson nodded, staring at her, until a lobsterman asked if they were still using the phone. Wilson took Emily’s arm and returned to the yacht.

As if they hadn’t seen enough, they sat glued to the loft’s twenty-one-inch television screen until midnight, watching the endless news coverage of a distraught nation facing up to its long-neglected flaws. At the end of one of the news reports, ABC’s Charlie Gibson paused to reflect on Thomas Jefferson’s greatest fear for our then fledgling nation over two hundred years ago-that capitalism would not be accessible to all. Gibson ended his commentary by saying, “Had we been willing to pursue Jefferson’s vision of distributing capitalism to the end of every row and to the bottom of every hierarchy, instead of allowing the bulk of its benefits to enrich the wealthy elite, maybe America would not be facing this crisis.”

At first, Wilson thought the Gibson commentary might launch him and Emily into a heated Thomas Jefferson vs. Alexander Hamilton debate, like the ones they used to have at Princeton. Then it struck him. This was no longer a trendy topic for college campus polemics and public intellectuals such as Noam Chomsky, Paul Krugman, or Umberto Eco. The debate was over. American capitalism was about to be transformed, for better or worse.

Moments later, Wilson and Emily seemed to instantly share a mutual craving for escape into the place only they knew. Their lovemaking went on for hours as they savored the refuge and comfort of being lost in each other.

When Wilson finally closed his eyes to sleep, he tried to forget whose son he was. He still hadn’t completely decided whether to think of his father as a heroic revolutionary or a misguided fanatic. Only time would tell.

Tate — Venice, Italy

Wayland Tate walked past the two men armed with 9mm Glock automatics standing guard in the archway outside the door of the Venetian apartment. Three floors down, a third armed man paced back and forth on the orange and gray stone tiles of the courtyard. Two others sat across the small piazza observing the apartment building’s entrance.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours his hired guns had turned over every single object in all five rooms of the third-floor apartment, looking for some indication of Carter Emerson’s whereabouts. Carter’s clothes and personal items were still in the bedroom, but there had been no sign of him since yesterday.

Then, a few minutes after twelve noon, an eleven-year-old Venetian boy carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers with an attached note was ushered into Tate’s presence. Tate took the note and read:

Meet me inside the Teatro La Fenice at 17:30.

The door on the right will be open. Come alone. I will be watching.

CE

Tate studied the note before questioning the security guard who in turn questioned the boy. It was painfully clear that Carter Emerson was in total control of the situation. But Tate had no intention of allowing that to continue. During the next few hours, Tate, Swatling, and the compromised CIA agent surveyed everything within view of the reconstruction site, bribing whomever they could, from construction workers to the local polizia . They would not be unprepared for their meeting with Carter or the inevitable presence of Europol and the CIA. Regaining control of the situation was the only thing that mattered, and that meant mobilizing enough firepower to eliminate Carter and ensure their escape.