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, it could help ensure a lasting transformation of capitalism.
Wilson, I know your heart and I trust your inherent goodness, but I also know that you’ll never find peace with yourself until you see this through to a final resolution. I am deeply saddened that I won’t be attending the art exhibit in London with you. Learn everything you can and then incorporate it into your own plans. I have always known that my obsession would be yours to finish, which is why I kept you from it for as long as I could. I want you to know how very proud of you I am. You are singularly prepared to make this world a better place. Protect yourself and the ones you love with the best people you can find, and then replicate it three times. Trust in yourself. Until we meet again.
Your Loving Father
P.S. The memoirs are located in a floor safe buried in concrete and steel beneath the hearthstone of the river rock fireplace at our White Horse chalet. There is a switch located beneath a single stone at the apex of the gable that enables the hearthstone to slide back revealing the safe. Simply remove the apex stone cradled in cement to turn the switch. The primary alphanumeric combination to the safe is “HWF1952cmwr”. The secondary combination is your birth date followed sequentially by the first and last letters of your favorite childhood hero.
Wilson remained in the private room alone with his thoughts for almost an hour. A few minutes before noon, he found Felix in his office. “What does Carter plan to do?” Wilson asked.
“Nothing for now. The powers that be seem satisfied that Carter is sufficiently content with his disclosure. They plan to let the reforms take place, and then turn them to their advantage,” Felix said. “But Carter is always working on contingency plans. Has been ever since I’ve known him. He said you should be patient and enjoy your life with Emily.”
Wilson studied the bank chairman. So these are the final pieces to the puzzle, he thought. At least for now. “Tell Carter that Emily and I knew he wasn’t dead and that we’re no longer surprised by his and my father’s incessant contingency planning. But if I don’t hear from him, through you, at least once a month, I’ll be knocking at your door,” Wilson said.
“I’ll pass your requests along, Mr. Fielder,” Felix said.
“What are you going to tell the FBI when they arrive?”
“The box was last opened by Wayland Tate, the day he met with you at the Bostonian Club. I have documents showing his signature on an admission form from that date and on the safety-deposit lease agreement, along with your father’s and Carter Emerson’s.”
“Okay, Mr. Zubriggen. You can talk to the FBI when they arrive. I’ll call Agent Kohl and tell her about Tate,” Wilson said, reconciled to the messy aftermath of his father’s and Carter’s choices. “You know how to contact me. I’m going home to plan a wedding.”
“I think that’s a good idea, Mr. Fielder. And I will be in touch.”
“Call me Wilson, I’ll call you Felix. And tell Carter I have some advice for him. The real lie is that hierarchies can be incorruptible. Tell him to relax and enjoy his sanctuary. He always wanted to live in Europe.”
“Until we meet again, Wilson,” Felix said, nodding his head and extending his hand.
They shook hands vigorously, “Until then, Felix.”
Back at Brattle House, sitting next to each other on the sofa at the foot of the guestroom bed, Wilson and Emily read and reread his father’s final letter with a mix of sympathy and wonderment.
“What are we going to do?” Emily asked.
“First we’re going to get married, before you get cold feet again,” he said with a broad grin. “Then I think we should spend some time in Sun Valley and London.”
Emily returned the grin. “You’re so predictable my dear, but I’m fully committed to helping you expand your horizons.”
They wrapped their arms around each other, quickly slipping into shared bliss-for a little while.