Toronto. Friday, March 23, 1990.
Karen, still in her pink silk nightgown and wearing no makeup, joined Mike for an early breakfast in the penthouse kitchen. She was on a mission. "Let's talk," she said.
Mike lowered his newspaper. "What about?" he asked.
"The trust. I think we've made an enormous mistake."
Mike frowned and rolled his eyes. "Don't do this to me, Karen."
"I have to," she insisted. "We're sitting on over six hundred million dollars of stolen money, and there's no way in God's green earth we'll ever spend it, or do anything with it, other than fret and worry about someone finding out that we have it. I can't get it out of my mind."
"So what do you think we should do?"
"Get rid of it."
"Get rid of it!" Mike protested, then attempted to end the conversation. He stood, loosened his belt, unzipped his fly and lowered his jeans far enough to expose the scars created by the bullet from Servito's gun over ten years earlier. He pointed to the scars. "This is my reminder of what happened in Caracas. The bullet that did this was intended to kill me in a very painful way. Fortunately it didn't, but every day it reminds me of why it happened." He pulled his jeans back to the original position, returned to his chair and glared at Karen, resolve burning in his deep blue eyes. "Don't make me go there," he hissed.
Unimpressed by Mike's theatrics, Karen folded her arms and returned Mike's stare. She persisted. "You're sweeping it under the rug again, King. That history has been every bit as hard for me as it is for you. Besides, your scars aren't the issue and you know it."
"I really don't. What is the issue?"
"The money. As long as you insist on keeping it, you'll never be able to forget that part of our past. I don't care how hard you try to hide it, it'll always be there and it'll always be tainted."
"I've been thinking about it a lot lately," Mike conceded, finally accepting the futility of avoiding a forthright discussion about a subject he knew had been tormenting Karen for a very long time.
"So what have you been thinking?"
"I've come to a conclusion. You want to hear it?"
"Not particularly, if it involves keeping even one penny of that money."
"It involves something I said ten years ago, and it's been on my mind ever since. I said we should use the money to do some good in this world. I still think we should. I want to give it anonymously to the World Agricultural Foundation. It's one of the most efficient charities in the world. Instead of feeding hungry people, it teaches them to feed themselves." Mike paused to give Karen time to consider his idea. "If you agree, we'll get started fast, but if you want to give the money back to to the Feds, I'll never agree."
Karen smiled. "That's a beautiful idea. Let's do it."
"Okay, we need to talk to Dan Turner first. We need to find a way of giving the money away without any possibility of anyone tracing the source. I don't want us to go to jail just because we suddenly decided to wash our hands."
Karen reached across the table and grasped Mike's hand. "I can't tell you how happy you've made me," she said, delighted that she would soon be rid of the fruits of her former husband's crimes, a curse that had plagued her for too long,
Phillip, standing out of sight in the hallway, no more than twenty feet away, had overheard the entire conversation, each shocking and disappointing word penetrating his heart like a dagger. His parents had lied to him about his inheritance. Ten years earlier they had told him it was returned to the governments of Canada and the United States. He was excited and stunned to learn that his birthright was still in his parents' hands. He was horrified that they were planning to give it away. "I've got to stop them," he said quietly to himself, then began to dream of a new life with his father's millions.