Fielder?”
“Kresge & Company. Hap and I have worked together on a few projects.”
“Do you have a number where he can reach you?” she asked.
“It’s urgent. I need to speak to him as soon as possible. Is there any way you can connect me with him now? I only need a couple of minutes,” Wilson said, his voice straining.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fielder. He will not be available for contact until tomorrow afternoon. Can I have someone else help you?”
“No, thank you. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon,” Wilson said before hanging up. He needed a crash course on counter-surveillance, and he needed it now.
8
Tate – St. Moritz, Switzerland
As soon as David Quinn appeared in front of the maître d’ of the Grand Restaurant at Suvretta House a few minutes after noon, he was escorted to Wayland Tate’s table near the windows. When Tate saw him, he stood to shake hands and welcome Quinn to St. Moritz. After the obligatory chitchat about Quinn’s flight and hotel accommodations, they ordered an assortment of sausages, salads, cheeses, and a bottle of Chasselas wine. During lunch, their conversation was light, mostly about the next three days of activities and events.
After lunch they traveled by horse-drawn sleigh to the north end of the lake, where Vargas had arranged reserved seating for St. Moritz’s renowned international horse races. The White Turf races had been rescheduled from their usual mid-February date because of an unusually severe winter in Switzerland. But today the weather was a balmy five degrees Celsius, no wind, and nothing but blue skies—proclaiming why St. Moritz was the world’s oldest and most famous ski resort. Thoroughbreds and jockeys from Europe’s premier racing stables were ready to compete in the hundred-year-old contest. The magnificent mountains, twenty-five thousand spectators, a royal betting frenzy, and extraordinary Swiss catering made this one of the most celebrated winter events on the continent.
To Tate’s relief and delight, Quinn took great pleasure in the spectacle of specially shod horses churning up the freshly packed snow on the frozen lake. The passion and excitement of the international horseracing crowd was electrifying. Each new heat of thundering hooves and spraying snow seemed to loosen Quinn a little more, especially after he started betting.
With the races and betting over, they retired to the Kurhaus Spa—a classic Walser timber chalet at the edge of the forest—for more serious conversation. It was there, alone together in the steam room inhaling eucalyptus vapors, that Tate began the process of identifying Quinn’s deepest, most exploitable weaknesses.
“Is Andrea taking care of all your needs?” Tate asked.
“She’s delightful, but I couldn’t do that to Margaret,” Quinn said.
“I’m talking about logistics, David,” Tate said with a wry smile. “What are you talking about?”
“Is that what you call plausible deniability?”
“We pay our personal assistants to provide professional pampering to our clients. That’s it. Anything beyond that is between consenting adults.”
“You really expect me to believe that?” Quinn said, indignantly. He flinched as he leaned back against the hot tiles. “That’s like unbridling a horse on a grassy meadow and expecting it not to graze.”
Tate looked over his shoulder at Quinn, assuming an expression of concern. “If Andrea has made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’ll have someone else assigned immediately.”
“No. She’s fine. A little too assertive maybe, but fine.”
“We can easily make a change, David,” Tate repeated, sitting back—every inch the relaxed host, whose only concern is his guest’s comfort.
Quinn rubbed his hands over his face to remove the excess moisture. “She knows where I stand. She’ll be fine.”
After a moment of silence, Tate decided to push the issue to see how Quinn would respond. “This is the first time anyone has called
“Kresge & Company. Hap and I have worked together on a few projects.”
“Do you have a number where he can reach you?” she asked.
“It’s urgent. I need to speak to him as soon as possible. Is there any way you can connect me with him now? I only need a couple of minutes,” Wilson said, his voice straining.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fielder. He will not be available for contact until tomorrow afternoon. Can I have someone else help you?”
“No, thank you. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon,” Wilson said before hanging up. He needed a crash course on counter-surveillance, and he needed it now.
8
Tate – St. Moritz, Switzerland
As soon as David Quinn appeared in front of the maître d’ of the Grand Restaurant at Suvretta House a few minutes after noon, he was escorted to Wayland Tate’s table near the windows. When Tate saw him, he stood to shake hands and welcome Quinn to St. Moritz. After the obligatory chitchat about Quinn’s flight and hotel accommodations, they ordered an assortment of sausages, salads, cheeses, and a bottle of Chasselas wine. During lunch, their conversation was light, mostly about the next three days of activities and events.
After lunch they traveled by horse-drawn sleigh to the north end of the lake, where Vargas had arranged reserved seating for St. Moritz’s renowned international horse races. The White Turf races had been rescheduled from their usual mid-February date because of an unusually severe winter in Switzerland. But today the weather was a balmy five degrees Celsius, no wind, and nothing but blue skies—proclaiming why St. Moritz was the world’s oldest and most famous ski resort. Thoroughbreds and jockeys from Europe’s premier racing stables were ready to compete in the hundred-year-old contest. The magnificent mountains, twenty-five thousand spectators, a royal betting frenzy, and extraordinary Swiss catering made this one of the most celebrated winter events on the continent.
To Tate’s relief and delight, Quinn took great pleasure in the spectacle of specially shod horses churning up the freshly packed snow on the frozen lake. The passion and excitement of the international horseracing crowd was electrifying. Each new heat of thundering hooves and spraying snow seemed to loosen Quinn a little more, especially after he started betting.
With the races and betting over, they retired to the Kurhaus Spa—a classic Walser timber chalet at the edge of the forest—for more serious conversation. It was there, alone together in the steam room inhaling eucalyptus vapors, that Tate began the process of identifying Quinn’s deepest, most exploitable weaknesses.
“Is Andrea taking care of all your needs?” Tate asked.
“She’s delightful, but I couldn’t do that to Margaret,” Quinn said.
“I’m talking about logistics, David,” Tate said with a wry smile. “What are you talking about?”
“Is that what you call plausible deniability?”
“We pay our personal assistants to provide professional pampering to our clients. That’s it. Anything beyond that is between consenting adults.”
“You really expect me to believe that?” Quinn said, indignantly. He flinched as he leaned back against the hot tiles. “That’s like unbridling a horse on a grassy meadow and expecting it not to graze.”
Tate looked over his shoulder at Quinn, assuming an expression of concern. “If Andrea has made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’ll have someone else assigned immediately.”
“No. She’s fine. A little too assertive maybe, but fine.”
“We can easily make a change, David,” Tate repeated, sitting back—every inch the relaxed host, whose only concern is his guest’s comfort.
Quinn rubbed his hands over his face to remove the excess moisture. “She knows where I stand. She’ll be fine.”
After a moment of silence, Tate decided to push the issue to see how Quinn would respond. “This is the first time anyone has called
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