The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

  “I live nearby.”

  Wallerman looked around for a moment, then back at Jack. “I’m here alone. Mind if I join you?”

  “I’m expecting somebody,” Jack lied, glancing at the door as if somebody would walk through any second.

  “Then, I’ll just join you for a quick drink. Catch up on old times. The moment your guest arrives, I’ll get lost.” Without waiting for an answer he slipped into the seat across from Jack and held a hand up for the waitress. “So what are you doing these days?” he asked ever so casually.

  “A little of this, a little of that. Nothing interesting.”

  The waitress arrived. Wallerman ordered two gin and tonics, and make it fast. He reached into his pocket, dug out his cell phone, and carefully positioned it on its backside in the center of the table. “I’m expecting an important business call. No rest for the greedy.”

  The phone had been loaned to him only an hour before by Morgan, who at that moment was hunched over in a black Dodge van outside in the parking lot, overhearing every word. The phone had been recently reconfigured by TFAC’s tech department—the insides had been gutted and replaced by two wide-angle lenses facing apart, and a digital microphone so sensitive it could hear a fly fart. TFAC was quite proud of it. This was the first time the newest marvel would see use in a real-life setting.

  Morgan, munching popcorn in the van, had his eyes glued to the side-by-side video monitors. Jack’s face appeared on the left screen; Wallerman’s on the right. He slapped the console and blurted out, “Ha, got you now, you bastard.”

  Jack was staring straight ahead at Wallerman. “You seem to be doing well, Lew.” His tone was edged with surprise.

  Immaculately dressed as he was, in a brand-new, two-thousand-dollar blue suit bought by the TFAC boys, he looked like he was doing better than well. His nails were neatly buffed, his hair smartly trimmed by a two-hundred-dollar stylist. Even his teeth had been whitened and varnished to a high sheen. It took a lot of time and money, but he looked exactly like what he wasn’t: a Wall Street fat cat loaded with cash ready to pitch a deal worth millions, or billions.

  “I have to admit I’m doing better than I ever expected,” Wallerman offered, trying to capture just the right dose of humility. No answer from Jack, and it was clear he didn’t want to talk. “So, you married yet?” Wallerman asked in an effort to keep the conversation flowing.

  “No. You?”

  “Tried it once. That was one more than enough. Caught her red-handed in bed with this guy I was doing a hundred million deal with. I didn’t mind losing her, really. I married her because she put out. Turned out she put out for everybody. The hundred million broke my heart.”

  Jack laughed, politely at best. Rich-boy humor.

  Wallerman let a moment pass, then admitted very softly, “Truth is, Jack, I expected to find you here.”

  His eyes glued to the screen, Morgan studied Jack’s face for a response to this interesting confession. He was instantly rewarded by a dramatic change in expression—stage fright might be a good word to describe it. “What’s this about?” Jack asked, unable to hide his concern.

  “Let’s talk about Edith Warbinger first,” Lew insisted. “Long time ago, I know, but surely you remember her.”

  “Oh, that.” Jack leaned back in his chair, a clumsy attempt to look indifferent. “Too bad what happened to the old girl. But you’re right, it’s ancient history.”

  “She’s gone but not forgotten, Jack.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember when I asked you to cut me in? If I recall your exact words, you told me to screw myself. I needed the money back then. Needed it badly. It would’ve changed my life, Jack. You really hurt my feelings. An old pal from college, I introduced you to the firm and even vouched for you. How could you blow me off that way?”

  Jack sat stiffly in his chair and listened; he said nothing. He definitely looked rattled, though, in Morgan’s view. His lips were pursed. The skin seemed to tighten on his face. A pair of long creases appeared between his eyes.

  Morgan edged closer to the screen and couldn’t stop himself—he laughed. Ha—thought it was all behind you, didn’t you, you slick bastard. The perfect crime, perfectly executed, perfectly forgotten. Boo! Here comes Edith clawing her way out of a watery grave, come to exact her revenge.

  Wallerman was spinning a table knife on the tablecloth, a fitful effort at smothering his euphoria. All those years spent dreaming of getting back at Jack, years of digging and hoping and waiting, finally the moment was here. Morgan admired the way Wallerman dragged this out; the impulse to blurt everything, to stuff it all in Jack’s face had to be killing him. Hold on to it as long as you can, he wanted to say; let Jack contemplate all the ugly possibilities. Let him stuffer and stew.

  Eventually, Lew informed Jack, “After you left, I went through everything. Your files, your computer records, your client statements. You were good, Jack. You left nothing behind.”

  Jack seemed to relax. “Too bad, you wasted your time. You always were a jerk.”

  “Well, almost nothing,” Wallerman continued, still spinning the knife, still ignoring Jack’s face, but carefully dropping one little note of concern. “A few months later I was sitting in an investing conference, bored out of my mind, when I got a fresh idea.”

  “Oh, come on, Lew. You cheated your way through Princeton and stole investing ideas at Primo. You wouldn’t know a fresh idea if it sat on your lap.”

  Wallerman smiled at the insult. “Is there anything Jack might’ve forgotten? Anything he overlooked? You see, you had become a fixation for me. I couldn’t get you out of my mind—you ran with all those millions and left me in a lousy firm filled with greedy scum, backstabbers, and liars.”

  “Think about this, Lew. Maybe you belonged there.”

  Again, Wallerman seemed to enjoy the insult. This was his moment of triumph, and he wasn’t about to let Jack spoil the fun. “Then it hit me.”

  “This is fascinating. Tell me what you think I forgot.”

  “Your travel records. The second the conference ended I raced back to the firm travel office. I scoured the records for hours. You made plenty of overseas trips during those years old Edith was supposed to be on that boat.”

  “Now you’re boring me.” He didn’t sound bored, though.

  “You went to Copenhagen the week before Edith arrived. In fact, you stayed in the same hotel she later checked into. You even billed it to the firm. What were you doing there, Jack?”

  “Good customer relations. Making arrangements for Edith’s trip.”

  “How thoughtful. You sure burned through a pile of cash on your charge cards. Over twenty thousand on women’s clothing, another five thousand for luxury luggage. I’ve got copies of the receipts, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’m not. Are you through?”

  “Hardly. See, I asked myself, why would Jack be buying all those clothes and luggage for an old broad with all that dough? Then I answered myself—you weren’t.”

  “Now you’re speculating, Lew.”

  “The nurse you hired to take Edith’s place, she needed to look the part. She had to show up in fine clothes, hauling fancy luggage, looking like she could buy the damn boat.”

  Jack managed to produce a nonchalant shrug. It was unconvincing. He never dreamed he’d be hearing these words.

  “Then, about twice a year, you continued to make trips to a variety of locales spread around Europe and Asia. I’ll admit, Jack, I didn’t get it. Not until I plotted all those locations on maps did it make sense. They were all seaports.”

  “I like seafood and sunshine. Are you through now?”

  “Almost, Jack, almost. Next, I contacted Vermillion Shipping Lines, the company that owned Edith’s cruise ship. They were kind enough to check the log. You know what?” He paused to stare at Jack’s face, as if searching for a true answer. “Yeah, I guess you know. The dates and locations of your trips were an exact match to the days Ed
ith’s ship visited those ports.”

  Out in the parking lot, Morgan couldn’t tear his eyes from Jack’s face. Not for a second; he didn’t want to miss a single grimace, a single erratic shift of the eyes, a single pained mood swing. He was stuffing popcorn into his mouth, chewing violently, enjoying himself immensely. Jack seemed to sink lower in his chair. He began rubbing his temples, as if his head was splitting. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Mr. Cool and Calm was wilting before Morgan’s eyes, every twitch and pregnant pause being recorded in digital, high-definition color by the tiny cameras hidden in plain sight in the center of the table. Wallerman was masterful. Morgan greatly admired the performance.

  Lew paused for a deep gulp of gin and tonic. A little dribbled out the corner of his mouth, and he sloppily wiped it on a sleeve of his new two-thousand-dollar suit. “You just had to be sure your imposter was playing you straight, didn’t you?”

  Morgan now was watching the flames from the fireplace play across Jack’s face. Hooded eyes, lips drawn tight—perhaps it was the flickering light, but he looked almost saturnine. “Is that all you have?” he asked Lew in a low, menacing voice.

  “You wish, Jack. Once you know the basics, the whole fraud comes apart. I have a mountain of evidence. Did you know there’s no statute of limitations on murder?”

  The waitress arrived to take Wallerman’s dinner order. “Get lost,” Jack barked at her, very rudely. One quick glance at his face and she scuttled away from their table. “What do you want?” Jack growled.

  “What does any man want?”

  “You tell me. That’s why you’re here, after all.”

  “World peace. A rich, beautiful nymphomaniac who owns a beer factory. A billion dollars in the bank of my choice. Can you give me those things?”

  “Out of my price range. What do you want from me?”

  “Well, you see, Jack, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  Jack leaned across the table. His face was inches from Wallerman’s. “Indecision can be an unhealthy thing, Lew.”

  Wallerman replied with a quick smile, “Look over in that corner.” He pointed gleefully to the far end of the room and Jack spun around and looked. Two men in dark suits smirked at him. One flipped the bird; the other settled for a sarcastic wave. It was their debut and they hammed it up for all it was worth.

  Wallerman wouldn’t agree to this meeting without a safety blanket, and TFAC had obliged, providing the pair of happy thugs now smiling and glowering at Jack.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Lew mentioned—now all bravado—“the Rottweilers are mine, and armed to the teeth. Don’t dream of doing anything stupid.”

  Jack collapsed back into his seat. Staring at the tablecloth, he pleaded, “we can work this out, Lew. Just tell me what you want.”

  Wallerman stood, picked up the cell phone off the table, stuffed it in a pocket, and walked around until he stood beside Jack, who seemed frozen to his chair. He bent over and, about two inches from Jack’s ear, whispered, “I’ll be in touch, pal.”

  The meeting would be brief and unnoticed, as usual. Harvey Crintz waited till the yellow cab rolled to a stop by the curb, peeked inside to be sure it was the right one, then scurried to the rear door and hopped in.

  “How’re you doing?” the driver asked without turning around.

  Crintz spent a moment getting comfortable. He pulled his pants out of his crotch and sat back. “Glad you got my message,” he said. The cab began rolling.

  The driver, Tim Paley, peeked at Crintz’s face in the rearview mirror. Paley was a midlevel flunky in CG’s government contracts division. He was ambitious, hungry, and more than willing to do a little dirty work if it furthered his professional advancement.

  Crintz was an old friend, one who for the past five years had been bought and paid for by a special slush fund—a hidden pile of cash created for the worthy purpose of buying CG friendships in a city filled with underpaid midlevel bureaucrats.

  But Crintz, a Christian of the born-again variety and a dedicated family man, would never take cash to fix a contract or favor a bid. That would be a gross violation of his professional ethics and the law. He provided inside scoops and tips, nothing more—also a breach of the law, just not as serious.

  Five thousand a month in the Bahamian bank of your choice only bought you so much loyalty.

  “So what’s this about?” Paley asked.

  “I’m not sure. Are you people under investigation over the polymer?”

  “Don’t think so. Why?”

  “Because someone’s getting real interested in it, and you.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “DCIS. Agent named Jenson. She’s been crawling all over our contracting office the past few weeks.”

  Crintz held a low-level position in the office of the Pentagon’s inspector general, an obscure job but one that gave him a bird’s-eye view of everything. He had started his career in procurement, and after gaining considerable expertise in contracts and accounting made a midcareer shift to oversight of his old activities. His insights were invaluable, worth vastly more than $60K a year to CG.

  True to his background as a contracting agent for Uncle Sam, he was being flagrantly ripped off and was too stupid to demand more.

  “What’s she asking about?”

  “Hasn’t asked anything,” Crintz answered. “She demanded all existing files on the contract. Everything.”

  “All right, what do you think she’s interested in?”

  “Hard to tell. She hauls the files upstairs, I guess to make copies. She returns them a few hours later.”

  Paley remained quiet and thought about it a moment. “Who handled the contracting process for the polymer?”

  “You know her, I think. Sally Gramble. Johnson and Hughes assisted, but they’re both new and very junior. You probably already know this, but they weren’t the driving force. Mostly they did what they were told by people upstairs. Everything was top-down on that contract. I doubt you have anything to worry about from any of those folks.”

  Paley gripped the steering wheel and thought about it a minute more. “I’m not sure it’s a problem anyway. The contracts are pretty clean, aren’t they?”

  “Strictly boilerplate. Form contracts with a few alterations to tailor them to the requirement.”

  “Then what does she want with them?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  They were on the GW Parkway now, headed toward the McLean exit, stuck in the right lane and driving slowly, with traffic whizzing by on their left.

  “I’m not worried, it’s probably nothing,” Paley repeated. “What do you think?”

  “I think DCIS agents don’t collect hundreds of pages of contracts for light reading. I think anytime a DCIS agent is interested in you, it’s bad news. I’d worry, if I were you boys.”

  “I’ll pass the word,” Paley assured him with another glance in the mirror. “You want to go anywhere special?”

  “Back to the Pentagon, and step on it. I’m hungry and this is my lunch break.”

  An hour later, Paley was standing, grim-faced, in his boss’s office relaying Crintz’s report. His boss immediately picked up the phone and called the CEO.

  22

  Phil Jackson was right.

  Mia Jenson showed up on Jack’s doorstep shortly after nine on a dark Tuesday night. Ernie and Howie, the TFAC crew on duty, saw her pull up in a strange car then park, in Jack’s driveway. They immediately ran her plate via a deal they had with the local cops; ten seconds later, they had her name and address in D.C. Thirty seconds after that, they had her identity as a federal law enforcement officer.

  This hurried research was handled by Howie, the man inside the van. Ernie, the on-site watcher, was parked at a curb, two houses down. Ernie had poor hearing so he whipped out his bionic ear and sound booster, jammed the earphones over his head, stuck the amplifier out his car window, scooted down in his seat, and listened.

  Mia walk
ed directly to the front stoop, pushed the doorbell, and waited. He could hear her breathing, the sound booster was that good.

  The front light popped on, and a moment later Jack opened the door. “Are you selling Girl Scout cookies?” he asked. A real wise guy.

  “Not quite, Mr. Wiley.” Mia shoved her shield in his face. “I’m a federal agent with the Defense Criminal Investigative Service. I have a few questions.”

  Jack didn’t look surprised in the least. “Should I get my lawyer?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jenson. Why don’t you invite me inside?”

  “I’d rather talk here. You won’t be staying long.”

  “Is that the way you want it, Mr. Wiley?”

  “Look, Miss… What’s your first name?”

  “Agent. Special Agent, if you prefer to be formal.”

  “Lovely name.”

  “Thanks, I’m quite proud of it.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Do you know a man named Perry Arvan?”

  “Yes, so what?”

  “Did you approach the Capitol Group with a proposal to take over his company, Arvan Chemicals?”

  “I might have.”

  “How did you learn about the polymer Arvan developed?”

  “How did you learn that I learned about it?” Jack countered, smiling nicely.

  “None of your business.” No smile in return.

  “Okay, it’s none of yours either.”

  Ernie pulled a sandwich out of a greasy brown paper bag and turned up the volume full blast. His wife had made him this snack, pastrami on rye, his favorite. He took his first large bite and chewed slowly. This was getting fun.

  “Why did you choose the Capitol Group as your partner?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Didn’t it sound like a question?”

  “No, it was too stupid for a question. The Capitol Group’s one of the richest, most powerful corporations on the planet. The polymer’s right down their alley. I considered four other companies and settled on them. Call it a no-brainer.”

  Then, out of the blue, she asked, “Do you know Representative Earl Belzer?”