The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

  “It’s hard not to admire it,” Morgan said, almost smacking his lips. Regardless how immoral it was, Jack had pulled off a stunningly beautiful swindle, and Morgan spent a moment contemplating its elegance. It was the scam of a lifetime. Jack was a very talented boy. “So what’d they do?” he asked.

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “I’m beginning to believe anything about this guy.”

  “They paid Jack one million to go away. A bonus, they called it, and both sides signed mutual nondisclosure agreements. One million and neither party could ever whisper a word about the other.”

  “A bribe to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Welcome to Wall Street. It’s a long, hallowed tradition.”

  Morgan could hear Charles stand, then shuffle his feet for a moment. “Wait a minute,” Morgan yelled.

  “That’s more than fifty thousand worth,” Charles replied. “Admit it, Morgan. I didn’t cheat you.”

  “No, you’re forgetting something. Proof.”

  “Find it yourself, Morgan. It’s out there, if you look hard enough.” The stall door opened and Charles stepped out. “Follow the trails and you’ll find it.”

  “No, wait,” Morgan yelled, and the noise bounced around the walls but nobody answered. He pushed open the stall door, leaned out, and peered into the men’s room. Empty.

  He stepped out, then opened the door to the stall so recently occupied by Charles. The metal briefcase that contained the money sat on the floor. Morgan lurched forward and opened it—also empty except for a small note: “Keep the case and the locating beacon tucked inside. Once again, Morgan, nice try.”

  Then a fresh thought struck Morgan. He began a mad scramble around the men’s room, a desperate hunt for his clothes. They weren’t in any of the stalls. Not in the big trash can, not in any of the nooks or corners.

  He cursed, kicked over the trash can, then made a mad dash for the door.

  He emerged just in time to meet the crush of theatergoers pouring into the lobby for the intermission.

  15

  The assault on General Techtonics began quietly and slowly. On October 12, in a small page seven article in the Defense News concerning the GT 400, an anonymous source expressed some generalized dismay about the speed of the testing and vehicle safety. Two days later, Defense Acquisition Review Journal printed a letter to the editor with a more pointed complaint about the GT 400’s rush to production and the possibility of safety lapses. Nothing too specific; just an overheated rant about the dangers of moving too fast.

  Earl’s hearings were scheduled for October 30. By the week before, nasty quotes in articles and disturbing rumors were appearing with disturbing regularity.

  On October 28, only two days before Earl’s hearing, and with brilliant timing, the Capitol Group put on the first public live display of the miracle polymer.

  The demonstration was held at Fort Belvoir, a sprawling base located close to the capital, thus a convenient location for the viewers CG was most concerned with. A slew of senior generals, every member of the House and Senate armed services committees, and a small army of senior Pentagon officials were offered free rides to and from the demonstration. They’d heard rumors about the polymer, curiosity ran high, and they came in droves. The press also arrived in force. A high-class caterer was on hand and guests were treated to a magnificent spread of exotic munchies. The reporters flocked to the table and began stuffing themselves.

  An array of armored vehicles were positioned in a large open field—four targets coated in polymer, eight without. While guests grazed on foie gras and pickled herring, a galaxy of firepower was unleashed on the targets. For ten minutes, explosive devices, rockets, and missiles rained on the cluster of vehicles. Nothing could survive such a beating. A dense cloud of smoke hung over the field, interspersed with bright flashes as the shooters kept blasting away. When the crescendo of violence finally stopped and the smoke cleared, eight ruined wrecks were burning brightly. The four polymer-coated vehicles were amazingly intact.

  Next the guests wandered in small gaggles over to the next field where an old M-113 armored personnel carrier was positioned about three hundred yards away from a large reviewing stand. The venerable 113 was a staple of the old Army, since relegated to the status of a relic. It was built of aluminum, thus very burnable, a relatively thin-skinned vehicle that had become a death trap on the modern, more lethal battlefield. Once again, a terrifying array of missiles, rockets, and bombs pelted the vehicle.

  After three minutes of splendid violence, the shooting stopped and the M-113 sat there without a dent, much less a hole.

  The guests were stunned. Before they could recover, Bellweather nearly bounced to a microphone on a small stage. He offered a few explanatory remarks about the extensive testing already done in the authentic laboratory of Iraq, but said little about the polymer’s amazing qualities. Why should he? They had witnessed it with their own eyes. The demonstration was like nothing anybody had seen before. An old cold war antique had been dragged out the graveyard, plastered in polymer, and survived everything they could throw at it.

  Then, in a memorable moment that had been carefully planned, with Bellweather still standing on the stage, jawboning the crowd, the rear ramp of the M-113 clanked down and ten men marched glibly out of the back. Unknown to the crowd, of course, as a precaution, the inside of the 113 had been triple-lined with tons of Kevlar. Bellweather beamed as the crowd gasped.

  He was tempted to play the huckster and say, Yes, that’s right folks, CG is so confident in its polymer that we’re willing to risk real lives! He held his fire, though; the big surprise was about to come.

  One of the ten men separated from the pack and walked confidently toward the bleachers. As he drew closer they recognized the beaming face of Mitch Walters, CEO of the company that produced this incredible miracle.

  After the cheers and clapping died down, Mitch stepped to the microphone and informed the crowd that CG intended to go for a no-bid, noncompetitive contract—not for itself, not for profit, certainly not for any selfish motive, but for our gallant boys in battle. Thousands of lives were at stake. The whole calculus of the Iraq war would be upended by this new battlefield contraceptive. The insurgents with their lethal bombs and rockets would be frustrated to no end. You saw it here, folks, the chance to win this war. The chance to make horrendous weapons no more useful than slingshots firing pebbles. He asked for their support and was confident he would get it.

  Then, without taking any questions, Walters ducked into the back of a long black limousine and sped away.

  The limo rushed him straight to the hospital. Walters clasped his head, and howled and moaned the whole way. Despite the plugs in his ears, his left eardrum was severely damaged. The tinnitus in his right ear didn’t clear up for three days.

  Eva’s trips to New York were becoming frequent. The reasons varied—an old friend in the city needed her counsel, an accounting seminar, a meeting with a bank, and so forth.

  She dropped in to see Jack every time. Jack himself, after a few weeks of furious activity in D.C., began spending more of his time at home in New Jersey. He explained to Eva that Bellweather and Haggar and Walters had matters well in hand. The Washington tango wasn’t his dance. He was comfortable leaving it in the hands of the pros.

  The night watcher from TFAC was poised down the street in his usual hiding place, lurking in the driveway of an empty house, when Eva turned into Jack’s driveway and parked. He jotted the car model and license number in his log, then settled back and watched closer. From the car model he knew it was her; just as it had been her three other times when he was on shift.

  “Rich guys got all the luck,” he bitched into his radio.

  “Her again?” the man parked in the base van two blocks down asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, her.”

  “What’s she wearin’ this time?”

  “Who cares?”

  A quick laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. Wan
ta bet about tonight?”

  “I say she stays. I say Jack gives it to her good. She’ll crawl out to her car in the mornin’.”

  “You’re on,” the base station manager said. “Twenty bucks.” It had become a fun game among the watchers, these frequent arrivals of Eva, a few hours inside, then a quick kiss at the door before Eva climbed back into her car for the drive to New York. No overnighters. To the best they could tell, no sex at all, unless Jack and Eva were into slam-bam-thank-you-ma’ams.

  The binoculars popped out and he placed them against his eyes. Eva, to his delight, was dressed to the nines in a short skirt, very short, that showed off her very excellent legs and great tush, and a tight upper bodice that illustrated her very ample bosom. He watched her bend over, stretch, and reach into the car for something. “Oh, that’s it, girl, bend further… oh please, a little more,” he mumbled out loud to himself, straining for a good peek. The moment dragged on and the watcher enjoyed every second of it.

  Next a short, confident walk to the door. Jack was obviously expecting her, they brushed lips, and she entered hauling two boxes of pizza and a small overnight bag. Mushrooms and cheese for her, meat lover’s delight for him. They moved straight to the dining room, where, no doubt, a few bottles of wine were already uncorked. That should help set the right mood.

  “Guess what she’s carrying?” the watcher informed the man inside the van.

  “What?

  “A suitcase.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Black overnight bag. The money’s mine. She and Jack are gonna do the bedsheet tango.”

  “I’ll stick with my bet.”

  “Thank you,” he said and laughed.

  Two hours later, the door opened and Eva stepped out, suitcase in hand. The watcher was now crouched in a clump of thick bushes only fifty feet from the door. He mumbled a curse and listened.

  Eva was saying to Jack, “Are you sure? My meeting’s not until late morning.”

  After a long moment, Jack said, “I’m sure.”

  “Why, Jack? I’m not used to throwing myself at men. I’m definitely not used to being turned down.”

  “Sorry. I’m just not ready.”

  The watcher couldn’t see it, but could almost picture Eva’s face. She was looking up into Jack’s eyes, he was sure, with an expression that registered between hurt and embarrassment. “I deserve a better explanation than that,” she remarked, now with a distinct chill in her voice.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You can do better than that, Jack.”

  “Okay, I’ll try. I’ve rushed into things a few times in the past and regretted it.”

  “I’m not the past, Jack.”

  “I know that.”

  “I won’t offer again.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Jack said. “When the time comes, I’ll be willing to fight for it.”

  Then for a long moment, silence. It struck the lurker in the bushes that Eva was wavering between telling Jack to kiss off or breaking down in tears. Tell him he’s a hopeless idiot, he wanted to scream. Kick, spit, and scream how much you hate him. He suddenly loathed Jack. Poor, poor Eva. How could he do this to her? Really, how could any man turn down such a fine piece of tail?

  He watched Eva spin around and stomp to her car, heels making loud angry clacks on the concrete the whole way. She climbed in, slammed the door, and burned rubber all the way down the street.

  Jack stared down the street after her, then stepped inside and closed his door.

  The meeting was short and to the point. Walters was sitting behind his desk, idly playing with a paperweight. Bellweather, with his arms crossed tightly against his chest, was hunched against the far wall.

  O’Neal and Morgan stood before the desk and wrapped up the final details about the meeting with Charles in New York, and his astounding revelations. They had been speaking for fifteen fascinating minutes. Mr. Big Shot Walters never invited them to sit.

  “He killed her?” Walters asked, coming forward in his chair.

  “That’s what Charles claimed,” Morgan answered.

  “And you believe it?”

  “I see no reason not to,” Morgan said. “The story was so elaborate, so detailed. Hard to believe it was fabricated.”

  “It was considerably more than we expected to learn,” O’Neal offered, a loud understatement, though somewhat short of an endorsement.

  The room fell quiet as the men considered the full import of Jack’s past. A con artist, a thief, and a murderer. Two of three they had hoped for, maybe even expected; the murder gave them pause.

  “Well, he was Delta,” Bellweather remarked, as if that explained everything. “Purebred killers. Jack certainly had the ability and experience to pull it off.” But he still wasn’t sure he believed it himself. Could Jack Wiley really be a murderer? Did he really kill an old lady? Could the smooth, aloof Jack they all knew be that viciously cold-blooded?

  Walters looked at the wall for a moment until he found the good news. “If it’s true,” he said, “it gives us the edge we’ve been looking for. If he steps out of bounds, we’ve got all the ammunition we need to yank him back.”

  “Except evidence,” O’Neal answered, injecting a bit of reality.

  Walters fixed him with a hard stare. “Do you believe it?”

  “Maybe. But we don’t know the identity of the source. This guy Charles is a blank slate. We got nothing that proves whether it’s true or not.”

  Morgan felt the need to throw his two cents in and said, “I’m convinced Charles was telling the truth.”

  “Are you?”

  “In fact, if I had to guess, Charles was Ted.”

  “Who?” Walters asked. He did not enjoy talking with this common investigator and made no effort to hide it. He was the CEO, after all; it was beneath his station.

  “Ted,” Morgan repeated. “The friend from Princeton who introduced Jack at the firm. Ted vouched for him. Ted was responsible for Wiley getting the job. After Jack walked with the old lady’s money and a million-dollar buy-off, Ted was left holding the bag.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know. A hunch.”

  “We don’t pay you for guesses,” Walters snapped.

  “There just was something in the way he told that part of the story. A pause, a hesitation, an intonation. I dunno, something. He’s Ted. I’m sure of it.”

  Walters leaned back in his chair and unleashed a skeptical frown. “Anything else?” he asked. “I mean anything factual?”

  “Yeah. He had names, dates, plenty of details. Only one thing explains that. He was in the firm same time as Jack.”

  “That it?” Walters asked. He now had his hands clasped behind his big head with his feet on the desk, pretending to be bored. It was his favorite managerial stunt, making them sweat, intimidating his underlings with indifference, forcing them to say more than they intended.

  “Only this,” Morgan said, looking Walters directly in the eye without blinking. Morgan had never met him before but he’d certainly heard the rumors; a tough-guy wannabe in Gucci loafers. Seemed about right to him. “He asked if you guys intended to hurt Jack or just humiliate him. This is important to him.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That you’re gonna bring a world of pain on Jack. He liked that, Mr. Walters. Liked it very much,” Morgan said. “Charles, or Ted, or whoever, is carrying a real nasty grudge.”

  Walters paused and glanced at Bellweather. “What do you think?” he asked, unsure he wanted to hear the answer. The accusation of murder was a new factor, one with a world of troublesome ramifications, but they were in too deep with Jack to walk away at this point. Jack had that damned contract that bound them together. And he had been with them almost every step, dodging and bribing their way through Washington.

  After a moment, Bellweather surmised, “Jack might be more than we bargained on. Depending on your perspective, we either over- or underestimated him.”


  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Question is, do we have anything to worry about?” Bellweather pushed off the wall and began pacing around the office as he talked. “If true, Jack is sly, deceptive, and very dangerous.”

  “Yeah, but if we can prove it, he’ll be a lot less dangerous.”

  O’Neal and Morgan studied their shoetips as Bellweather and Walters went back and forth, bickering over the pros and cons of getting the goods on Jack. Both did their best to appear bored and ambivalent as they bit back nasty smiles. It was a waste of their time, but they would bill CG for every second of this meeting, so who cared? Really, what was there to debate?

  Of course Bellweather and Walters were going to go for it—they’d throw a fortune at the hunt for evidence, if that’s what it took. This tale was simply too good to ignore.

  Walters, the expert in human behavior, would be the first to figure out the big possibility, O’Neal was sure. Bellweather might be more ruthless, but age and success had dulled his edge. Walters was all that, plus he was hungry and ambitious. He’d clawed and backstabbed and stepped over a hundred bodies on his way up to CEO. He would yank out his mother’s fingernails if it would gain him another inch of advantage. He was actually surprised it was taking Walters this long to figure out the enormity of the incredible break that just landed in his lap.

  They had uncovered Jack’s dirty little secret; now, if they could prove it, Walters had the weapon he needed to drive Wiley out of the deal. Here’s a blast from your past, Jack—evidence that you whacked an old lady, evidence you stole her money, evidence you blackmailed your firm into shoving it under a rug. Proof of just one of those charges would drive Jack to his knees. Sign over your shares, forgo a billion in profit, and it’ll remain our nasty little secret.

  Eventually Bellweather and Walters stopped talking. Walters stood and walked around his desk. “Do you think you can get proof?” he asked, directing a finger at O’Neal. “Something that would stand up in court?”

  “Probably,” Martie answered, making the word sound more like “absolutely, no big deal.” It was, however, not merely a big deal, but a huge one. He’d bill the Capitol Group for millions. He’d throw a dozen people at it, work them around the clock, invoice triple for overtime, and bill his client for every paper clip and wasted photograph. “Charles left us plenty of leads,” he continued, listing his reasons. “We know the victim. We now have it narrowed down to one firm. We’ll get the names of everyone in Primo during those years. Somebody will know something. Someone’ll talk.”