Emily — Venice, Italy
Emily and Wilson landed at Marco Polo Airport in Venice a little before ten in the morning. It was a balmy spring day with calm waters reflecting a clear blue sky. The grand architecture-a glorious panoply of Byzantine, Gothic, and Renaissance styles-fit magnificently here, in this city on the sea. As they ascended from their water taxi in front of the Palazzo Ducale and the Torre dell’ Orologio on Piazza San Marco, the couple was greeted by three porters. These porters escorted them to Fielder amp; Company’s private apartment overlooking the restoration of the Teatro La Fenice, the oldest opera house in Venice. The first thing they did after the porters placed their luggage in the apartment was to fling themselves onto the king-size bed and sleep for two hours. When they woke, they showered and then sat on their balcony overlooking the Piazza La Fenice, nibbling at a lavish fruit and cheese basket and drinking Prosecco, courtesy of the management at Hotel San Fantin.
Smiling, Emily took hold of the sash around Wilson’s robe and led him back into the bedroom. For the next few hours they shared their deepest emotions. At one point, Wilson proclaimed his love from the balcony, causing Emily to clasp her hands over his mouth in sweet delirium. Such sacred intimacy was priceless.
That evening they immersed themselves in the Venetian experience, a long gondola ride through the canals to La Caravella’s for dinner and then back along the canals at night serenaded by their gondolier with Italian love songs. They strolled arm in arm past the endless shops and restaurants to their third-floor apartment. Venezia e Amore.
While some people like D. H. Lawrence thought of Venice as “an abhorrent, green, slippery city,” Emily and Wilson relished its uniqueness, preferring Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s reflection, “nothing is like it, nothing is equal to it, not a second Venice in the world.” Fawning over the city on water like new lovers, they spent the rest of the week exploring the labyrinth of streets and waterways, touring palaces, museums, and private collections, meditating in Dante’s Chapel, dining in Lord Byron’s favorite eatery on the Grand Canal, feeding the pigeons in glorious San Marco Square, enjoying a new cultural venue each evening, and of course, making passionate love most nights and mornings-and not always in their apartment. Through it all, they had been only vaguely aware of Hap’s men, Mike Anthony and Pat Savoy, watching over them.
One morning before dawn, they ran to Piazza San Marco to watch it emerge from night’s darkness into early morning light, before the pigeons, school children, and tourists filled the space that had been Venice’s social, political, and religious gathering place for centuries. The most beautiful drawing room in Europe, according to Napoleon. He was right, Wilson thought.
“I could stay here for a thousand years,” Wilson said as they walked along the piazza’s arcaded Procuratie Vecchie in the first light of morning.
“Why don’t we?” Emily said.
“Maybe we already have,” Wilson said, playfully.
Emily stopped to drink him in. “Please go on.”
“Last night was worth at least a thousand years.”
She laughed loudly and then led him to the center of the square where they smothered themselves in each other until a hundred pigeons had surrounded them.
Wilson looked up and screamed at the top of his lungs, causing the pigeons to take flight, “I love this woman.”
Tears came to Emily’s eyes and then to Wilson’s. “We’re so lucky we found each other-again,” Emily said with an initial soberness that turned to teasing. That’s how it had been for an entire week, every day the same, yet extraordinarily different-San Marco Basilica, Rigoletto, Rialto Bridge, Giovani, the Doge’s Palace, Vivaldi, the Grand Canal, Tintoretto, Prosecco wine, Veronese, Venetian Cuisine, Titian, and always the sweet intimacy of melting into each other. Their Venetian getaway had been absolutely idyllic.
On the day before they had to leave, high tides and early morning rains flooded San Marco Square with a few inches of water, transforming the ceremonial courtyard into an aqua alta sea of mirrors. The scene transfixed Wilson, leaving its timeless image engraved upon his mind. They walked above the water on wooden planks, but they still got soaked.
After changing their clothes and getting ready to leave the apartment for lunch, the telephone rang for the first time since they’d arrived. It was the Hotel San Fantin located directly across the piazza from their apartment, informing Wilson that he had received a fax. The hotel had a long-term contract to service the apartment and rent it out when Fielder amp; Company guests were not using it. Wilson told them they would come down to pick it up. But as he hung up the phone, he wondered why someone hadn’t just delivered it to the door-or to Anthony or Savoy, who were staying in the apartment on the second floor. Then he remembered that Anthony had taken possession of all duplicate keys when they arrived. The sudden return of paranoia felt like an ugly intrusion. He asked Emily if she was ready to leave.
“I need ten more minutes with my hair,” she said from the bathroom.
“Take all the time you need, sweetheart, we’re still on vacation,” Wilson responded from the small foyer of the apartment.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Hotel reception. They have a fax. I’m going to get it while you’re finishing.”
“I promise I’ll be ready when you get back.”
Wilson stepped into the bathroom to watch her. “I’ve always loved how you take care of yourself. Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“Thank you for bringing me here. This week has been divine.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek as she held a curling iron in her hair. “I adore you, Emily Klein. I’ll be right back.”
On his way down the stairs, he greeted Mike Anthony who stuck his head out the door of his apartment. When Wilson told him about the fax, Mike advised Savoy that Emily was upstairs alone and that he was going with Wilson to the front desk at the hotel. Wilson and Mike entered the lobby through the sliding glass doors and went directly to the reception desk, where they asked the clerk about the fax.
“Un minuto,” she said and then disappeared through a door behind the desk. Two minutes later, she returned with an envelope and handed it to Wilson. Wilson opened the envelope and unfolded a single piece of paper:
FAX TRANSMISSION
Pages:
1
Date:
April 4
To:
Wilson Fielder, Hotel San Fantin
Fax #: 041-523-1401
From:
The Fenice Partnership
Subject:
Mutual Benefit Insurance
Comments:
She’s gone. The getaway’s over. Go home.
She’ll be safe as long as you don’t do anything stupid.
We’ll be in touch.
Wilson exploded with pain. He ran from the hotel lobby with Mike behind him, across the Piazza, up three flights of stairs, and into the apartment. Emily was nowhere to be found. Mike ran back down to the second-floor apartment where he found Pat Savoy lying in a pool of blood, with a bullet hole in his forehead. They frantically searched the apartments again, including the empty apartment on the first floor. Then they called Hap.
Hap’s voice was even and collected, despite his obvious anguish over Emily and Savoy. He urged them not to panic. “They won’t keep her in Venice. If they wanted to kill her, she’d already be dead. They’ll want her close by to control the situation and make sure they use her to blackmail you into cooperating. They’ll expect you to go back to Fielder amp; Company.”
“Can the FBI or CIA stop them from leaving Venice?” Wilson blurted.
Hap immediately warned Wilson not to go to the FBI, the Italian authorities, or the U.S. Consulate. “They can’t afford to have word of her kidnapping get out anymore than we can. It would only increase the probability of her death and their exposure. This is about manipulating you, Wilson. They’ll want her to talk with you, sooner rather than later, to reassure you that she’s fine and will remain fine, as long as you cooperate. When she does talk to you, we’ll need to listen for any piece of information that will help us locate her. She’ll be thinking the same thing. You need to get back here as soon as possible. We’ll prep you when you arrive,” Hap said confidently.
Then he instructed them to find the first plane back to Boston. Hap and the rest of his people would be checking all the airports along the Eastern seaboard for private jets arriving from Europe. They arranged to meet at the Back Bay apartment as soon as Wilson and Mike got in. “Leave everything where it is. Don’t pack your bags and don’t move anything. Lock the apartments and leave. I’ll take care of bringing Pat home.”
“How can you be so sure of everything?” Wilson asked, trying not to hyperventilate.
“I’m not sure, Wilson. It’s just experience and calculated judgment,” Hap said firmly.
Wilson remained silent. What Hap said made sense. What good would it do to stay in Venice? The secret partnership would want him back at Fielder amp; Company, so they could force him to do their bidding. Emily would be kept somewhere near Boston or New York, just in case they needed her to do some extra persuading. But that wouldn’t be necessary; he would do their bidding.
By the time Wilson hung up the phone and regained some semblance of control over his anguish, Mike had already booked two first class seats on a Delta flight to JFK, with a connecting flight to Boston. The flight left in two hours. They locked the apartments and exited the building, leaving everything as it was, just as Hap had instructed.
Wilson cursed himself repeatedly for leaving Emily alone in the apartment. His father’s godforsaken insider’s club was now his eternal enemy, and he would not stop until they were utterly and completely destroyed. But first he had to find Emily. Before they killed her.