The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

  Ernie had no idea who Belzer was, wasn’t sure why she asked, but had enough common sense to know she was hedging at something important. He put down the sandwich and listened closely.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Jack said, “Can’t really say I do. Why?”

  “What if I told you I have pictures of you and Belzer together?”

  “I’d say you’re a liar,” Jack told her cheerfully.

  “Do you like Chinese food, Mr. Wiley? You barely touched the dim sum, so I’m curious.”

  After a long moment, Jack said, “I think we’re done talking.” Any hint of nonchalance or bluster evaporated from his voice.

  Mia quickly shoved a hand against the door before he could close it in her face. “We’re finished when I say we’re finished. Listen close, because I’ll only make this offer once. I’m going to bust up this nice little racket you boys are running. I’ve got a barrelful of evidence already. I collect more every day. It might take another week, or a few more months, but I’m going to come down on you and your pals at CG. It’ll be one of the biggest busts ever.”

  “If you’re so confident, why haven’t you moved yet?”

  “It’s going to happen soon enough, believe me. When I do, you and plenty of others are going to jail. Not some federal country club, but a real prison with the worst scum we scraped off the streets. They adore spoiled rich men in prison, Mr. Wiley. Do I need to explain what happens in those places? You watch movies. Surely you have the picture. A big good-looking Princetonian, you’ll be a big hit in the shower room.”

  “Very funny. Do I look frightened?”

  “Oh, it won’t be a comedy, Mr. Wiley. Only one or two of you will get a chance to avoid that fate. One or two of you will get smart, cut a deal, and turn state’s evidence. I’m offering you that opportunity, Mr. Wiley, the rare chance to be the first on your block. If not you, it’ll be somebody else. In this game, believe me, it’s not fun to be near the end of the line.”

  “Get lost,” Jack said, sounding very final, and he slammed the door. Mia stood there a moment, eyeing the doorknob in the darkness, then got back in her car and sped away.

  Ernie got on the radio and called Howie. “Wow. You got all that on tape?” he asked.

  “All of it,” Howie answered.

  “Better get it down to Martie, real quick. Sounds like big trouble.”

  “No kiddin’,” said Howie. Within five minutes he was playing the tape over the phone to Martie O’Neal.

  Mitch Walters was out of pocket and unreachable, in Bermuda, at what was billed as a CEO convention, a thin pretext for a bunch of chubby rich white men to sneak off and hit the links in a glorious setting.

  Phil Jackson was deep in a legal conference with a tearful U.S. senator who had just been caught red-handed by the FBI with half a million in cash stuffed in the deep freezer in his basement. The moment the Fibbies swung open the freezer door, the senator’s thoughts turned to one man, a Washington legend; if anyone could save him from becoming political roadkill, Jackson was the guy. While the FBI ransacked his house, he snuck into a bathroom, called Phil, and begged for help.

  He had no legal excuse for how the money got there, but had been smart enough to keep his mouth shut when the Feds showed up flashing their warrants and badges. Now, with a press conference looming in an hour, Jackson had his cell phone turned off so he and the terrified senator could bang their heads together and construct an alibi without being disturbed. This was it—his long, storied political career, his reputation, possibly his freedom on the line, with one good shot at explaining how such a big bundle of money mysteriously materialized in his freezer.

  In a stroke of good fortune, the senator’s wife had passed away only two months before, from cancer—a loving and loyal mate, a caring, doting mother to his two teenage children. Jackson was brutally candid about the price of freedom. After thirty minutes of tearful bickering, of swearing up and down that he would never soil his dead wife’s memory, the senator at last succumbed to the inevitable—trashing her was his best and maybe his only chance. He and his lawyer had their heads together now, plotting how to blame it all on her.

  That left only Daniel Bellweather, who at that moment was also slightly preoccupied. He was half clothed and rolling around the floor with Prince Ali and five naked call girls. All blondes, of course, and at a thousand per for a night of unrestrained frolicking, quite expensive entertainment. They were reliving their rowdy old times on the small living room floor of CG’s lavish riverside corporate condominium.

  The watchdog imam dispatched by Ali’s daddy to keep an eye on his son had a tumbler of gin in one hand, a big-breasted blonde in the other. Ali’s enthusiasms had proved too infectious for the iron-willed zealot. After three weeks together, the imam was drunk or high more often than sober.

  Though he generally considered cell phones a nuisance, Bellweather was glad he had brought his along this time. He shoved an anorexic blonde off his lap, pushed the receive button, and heard Martie say, “Listen to this.”

  For three minutes he sat there, ignoring Ali, ignoring the bevy of blonde lovelies, ignoring everything but the sounds of Mia’s brief interrogation and the ugly echo of her threats.

  The moment it ended, Martie asked, “What’s this picture she mentioned to Wiley? Anything to worry about?”

  Hell, yes, it was something to worry about—since no doubt Bellweather’s smiling face was plastered front and center in the photograph, it was a disaster—but Bellweather was still too stunned to speak. So she knew about the luncheon with Earl. How much else did she know? How long had she been watching? How closely? How much other evidence did she have? The questions came fast and rattled around his head.

  Phil Jackson’s confident assurance that she was just an overambitious busybody, blindly fishing, obviously missed the mark. She was the firm’s worst nightmare, a shield with the goods.

  “Yeah,” he told Martie, after he got his heart out of his mouth, “it’s a big damn worry.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She was a mild nuisance, yesterday. Today she’s poison.” He felt an almost irresistible urge to call Wiley and warn him he’d better stand fast, or else. Unfortunately that would give away that CG was having him watched and tailed.

  “Want us to check her out?”

  “Yes, but don’t get caught. Don’t even come close to getting caught, understand?”

  “She’s a federal agent. I definitely understand.”

  At nine the next morning, Mia entered Nicky’s office, quietly closed the door, and delicately eased herself into the lone chair, a worn, crumbling antique that looked old enough to predate the Pentagon. Nicky was on the phone, chewing out some hapless agent for blowing a promising lead in an important investigation. He cursed a few times, unusual for him.

  Mia cradled a folder on her lap and waited. “I’m busy, what do ya got?” Nicky barked the moment he hung up. It was only Wednesday. He looked worn out and exhausted already. Two dozen fresh cases were piled up in his in-box. His mood was foul.

  “We have to talk, Nicky.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “Remember when you asked me about the Capitol Group?”

  “Yeah, and you jerked me off.”

  Mia squirmed in her seat a moment. She certainly had, though she wasn’t about to confess it. “Here’s the deal. Just between us. I want your word that you’ll keep this confidential.”

  “No, you don’t have my word.”

  “Nicky, this is big.”

  “I don’t horse-trade with my own agents. If you got something, tell me.”

  Mia got up and shoved the folder in his face. Nicky splayed it open. He read it slowly. “Jesus, where’d you get this?”

  “A source.”

  “An inside source, obviously.”

  “Good guess. And I’m not going to disclose the name. Not for now, not even to you, Nicky.”

  “For godsakes, you’re a federal agent, not a reporter. There�
��s no damned First Amendment in this office.”

  There was a long pause as they glared at each other across the desk. Nicky used his fiercest glower to try to back her down. A waste of time. Mia had her jaw set, her arms crossed.

  This was the one big problem with a brilliant agent with a Harvard Law degree, he quickly concluded with no small amount of annoyance. She had a world of good options outside the service. She could tell him to screw himself and mean it. It was amazing that she took this thankless job in the first place; any day, she could catch a dose of sanity and shove off for greener pastures.

  “I suppose you have a good reason,” he said with a weak nod.

  “The best. I gave my word. And it’s the only way my source will continue to cooperate. A lot’s at stake here, twenty billion excellent reasons to keep my source talking. I’m not saying it’s going to happen, but people get killed or seriously hurt over a lot less. For now, the less who know my source’s identity, the better. That includes you.”

  Nicky didn’t agree, but neither did he raise an objection. What would be the point? “This for real?” he asked, holding up the folder, pinching it between his fingers as if it were a ticking bomb.

  “Quite real.”

  “You know what it means?”

  “I think I do. CG’s polymer wasn’t adequately tested. It means we have to call an immediate, drastic halt to the entire coating operation. Then a major fraud investigation against one of the most powerful and influential companies in Washington. Have I missed anything important?”

  “How about a major scandal that will rock the capital?”

  “Okay, we’ll add that to the list.”

  Inside the folder Nicky was holding like a contaminated vial of germs were the summary pages of a report prepared by a company called Summit Testing—the final results of a privately financed study, contracted and paid for by a company called Arvan Chemicals.

  The report claimed that after four months, the polymer’s miraculous protective qualities somehow broke down, eventually dissipating to nothing.

  One day the polymer could defeat nearly any bomb on the planet; the next it could barely stand up to a mild breeze.

  “When did they start the coating operation over there?” Nicky asked. He was catching on quickly.

  “About three and a half months ago. They’re shamefully behind schedule. But many hundreds of vehicles are now coated and vulnerable. The soldiers call them poly-plus roadies.”

  “You know what it means to try to stop this?”

  “Think what it means not to, Nicky.”

  “Why don’t you help me think about that?”

  “Thousands of soldiers are now rolling around Iraqi streets, thinking they’re impervious to the worst the jihadis can throw at them. They’re taking risks they would never contemplate otherwise. One morning they wake up and get a very nasty surprise.”

  Nicky waved the report in the air. “How do I know this is reliable?”

  “Yesterday I had a chat with the president of Summit Testing. The company’s credible. Its reputation within the industry is impeccable. They were hired, almost two years ago, by Perry Arvan to conduct a field test in Iraq. A private defense contractor agreed to serve as the guinea pig. Dozens of its vehicles were coated and sent into the most violent streets in Baghdad. For four months, no problems, everything worked great. Then one day the polymer broke down completely.”

  “How?” Nicky asked. “Why?”

  “They have a hunch. They aren’t entirely sure it’s right, though.”

  “Let’s hear the hunch.”

  “The reactive explosives in the polymer are nitrogen-based. It’s a rare occurrence, but they suspect ultraviolet rays from the sun break down the reactive qualities. Starts out gradually, then accelerates quickly. Physicists could explain it better than me, but apparently it’s known to happen.”

  It was suddenly clear to Nicky how volatile the summary in his hand was about to become. Senior people in the Defense Department had pressed hard for a quick, noncompetitive contract for CG. Nicky had heard rumors about shortcuts and favors. All big defense contracts generated plenty of nasty gossip, often spawned by jealous competitors, but in the strain of running a building that spends five hundred billion dollars a year, they were usually ignored as long as they weren’t too serious or perceptibly credible. This one just became all too credible.

  Nicky swiped a hand through the gray stubble on his scalp. “So you’re asking me to take this upstairs based on a guess? To stop the biggest, most publicized defense breakthrough of the decade because of a hunch?”

  “It’s no hunch that the polymer breaks down, Nicky. Let’s not argue, okay? You’ve got the report. It’s a stone-cold fact. The only uncertainty is what causes it.”

  Nicky collapsed back against his desk. He pretended to read the file again and think about it. He wasn’t squeamish, nor was he cowered by CG’s reputation and power. In twenty years in this racket, he’d seen it all. He’d been involved in taking down some of the biggest giants in industry, been cursed at and threatened, once had bricks thrown through his car window. No, he wasn’t worried about the fallout.

  What bothered him was Mia.

  He’d been getting pestering calls for days, asking what she was up to. As large and fragmented as the Pentagon was, it had a small-town culture with gossips and nosy busybodies on every hallway. She was hassling CG, and vacuuming up contracts and background material from the procurement people. She was doing this all on her own. The question was, why? He considered three or four reasons and liked none of them.

  But it really didn’t matter. He had no choice. None at all. Nicky finally said with clear reluctance, “All right, I’ll bring this upstairs to the director. But I’m not happy, Mia. I don’t like being the caboose.”

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Mia said, making an obvious effort to sound reassuring. “I’ll tell you everything when the time’s right.”

  23

  It took only six hours for the summary Mia put in Nicky’s hands to work its way up the chain to the very top. Three hours to be read, confirmed, and painfully contemplated by the director of the DCIS. An hour and a half to be viewed with undisguised horror by the undersecretary for procurement. Then another hour and a half for the director of test and evaluation to dream up a few lame excuses, none even remotely credible, before the procession of deeply addled senior officials marched into the office of the secretary of defense with the alarming news.

  The president of Summit Testing fielded calls from every level. At one point, he even gathered the evaluation team that had spent six long months in Iraq. On the speakerphone, they defended their scientific judgment and recited their impressive résumés—two PhDs in molecular chemistry from MIT, three master’s degrees from a series of other distinguished academic institutions—and recounted how they arrived at the incontrovertible conclusion that the polymer was a star that quickly fizzled into a flop.

  They explained that the study and pictures CG had bandied around town to such terrific effect in fact represented only their preliminary results. For three months and twenty-nine days the polymer had worked like magic. In jubilation they had prepared their report and labeled it as the final; the polymer was the thing dreams are made of, with an album of astonishing pictures to prove it.

  Only a few days after the “final” report was finished, and only two days before the crew was scheduled to climb on a freedom bird and fly home, did the word “final” turn into “disastrously premature.” The first bad news hit. Two coated vehicles were destroyed by roadside bombs.

  The wrecks were hauled back to the compound and rigorously inspected. The remarkable defensive qualities were entirely and mysteriously gone. History. The polymer was now nothing but a ridiculously expensive paint job. Over the ensuing weeks, as more of the polymer-coated test vehicles became casualties, the examinations continued. More wrecks hauled into their yard, more head-scratching, more disappointment as the team realize
d all those months were a waste. You see, they said, not all the vehicles deteriorated at the same pace, or even the same way.

  There were variations. Some coated vehicles degraded quickly; a few lingered months longer. Some vehicles exhibited a patchwork, a quilt of polymer with all its amazing qualities intact, intermixed with large dead spaces. Others seemed to turn off uniformly as if flipped by a big switch. Why remained a mystery. The answer was complicated and elusive. There were too many variables, too many unanswerable questions: how long a vehicle remained under cover from the sun; how thick the coatings were; how the intensity of the sun fluctuated with the seasons.

  All these things could be factors, or maybe none of them at all. It was impossible to say.

  The team remained in Iraq another two months, until the last of the coated fleet was completely defenseless. There were no visible signs of degradation, they said; the polymer gave up no clues as to its virility. Worse, there was no safe way to test for the degradation of the polymer they were aware of.

  Aside from flinging an explosive against the vehicle and watching it either burst into a fireball or shrug it off, you couldn’t tell whether the polymer was effective or not. A vehicle could survive the worst you throw at it one minute, and be a death trap ten seconds later.

  That troubling unpredictability meant the polymer was dead on arrival.

  The old, now disproved “final” report was stuffed in a drawer, never meant to see the light of day. Few copies had been produced. Distribution was strictly controlled. Aside from Summit’s own file copies, only Perry Arvan had received, or even laid eyes on, the fool’s gold, to the best of their knowledge.

  And no, nobody from the Capitol Group had ever called Summit to discuss or confirm the results.

  All attempts to locate Perry Arvan proved disappointing. His telephone service was disconnected. Ditto for his water and electricity and heating oil. His home was vacant and had been for a long time. According to New Jersey’s DMV, his cars had been sold off months before. There had been no use of his charge cards or his local bank for nearly five months.