by Brian Haig
“That’s not so easy. He’s a smart guy, and like I said, he prepared for this. But I have a suggestion.”
“What is it?”
O’Neal explained his plan—it was a great idea—and Walters quickly agreed to do his part.
It was impossible to sleep or nap.
Jack had his feet up on the coffee table and his eyes glued to the television in his hotel room, watching as William Pederson, a smooth-talking lizard in an Armani suit, stood outside the big cylinder that was home to CG’s headquarters, issuing his firm’s first response to the nasty rumors roaring about the city.
Pederson was enjoying himself immensely, juking and jiving into the forest of microphones jammed in his face. “No, we really have no idea what prompted the secretary’s shutdown order. We’re investigating now.”
“Is it true the polymer wears off?” one reporter yelled.
“I won’t say it’s possible and I won’t say it isn’t. We’re running tests now.”
“Why wasn’t it tested before?” bellowed another.
“Who said it wasn’t? I assure you it was, quite vigorously.”
After that wonderfully vague and obviously self-conflicting answer, Pederson’s eyes shifted to a reporter in the back of the mob wearing a conspicuously nice suit; an obvious plant. “Sir,” the “reporter” screamed on cue, “wasn’t the polymer invented by somebody else?”
Pederson acted as though the question annoyed him. His eyebrows knitted together. He stared down at one particular microphone. He tried his best to impart the impression that he was only answering under duress. “Yes, that’s right,” he said gravely. “Among the possibilities we’re exploring is that somebody ran a scam on us.”
The mob of reporters fell silent.
The same “reporter” in the back, a swarthy man with a big nose, asked, “You said it was a scam?”
“Well, let’s say it’s possible somebody committed a few indiscretions. Some of the documents we were given during the purchase of the company that discovered the polymer now appear, well, questionable.”
“You mean doctored or falsified?”
“We’re seeking two men, Jack Wiley and Perry Arvan, in our effort to get to the bottom of this.”
“Are you saying you were defrauded?”
“I’m saying no such thing.” A brief, well-timed pause—could he say it any clearer? He was screaming it from the rooftops to any idiot who would listen. “I’m saying that we’re seeking these two men to help clarify a few questionable matters. In fact, it’s so important to us that we’re offering five million dollars to anyone who helps locate them. Again, Jack Wiley and Perry Arvan are the names. Their photos are posted on our corporate website for anyone interested in the five million reward.”
Jack had an urge to laugh that was quickly tempered by an even stronger compulsion to hop the next flight out of the country and flee to Brazil, or anywhere, really. Anywhere, that is, where there was a thick, impenetrable jungle, accommodating legal authorities, and the possibility of disappearing forever.
Instead he picked a phone from his stack of cell phones, dialed a number, and had another quick conversation with his lawyer.
27
It was thought that Daniel Bellweather had the best chance to pull it off; if not him, there was no hope. He had once shared the same job, the same onerous responsibilities, the same pressure-cooker office, after all. And when he set his mind to it, he could be fairly charming in a brusque, uncompromising way.
The secretary of defense’s office had politely but insistently rebuffed the many requests by CG to meet in private about the polymer. CG had pulled out all the stops, even the big gun. Former president Billy Cantor had called, twice. He was politely but firmly told to take a hike.
An additional twenty billion of CG’s annual revenue was tied up in other defense contracts. Losing the polymer was a disaster, but things could get worse. The last thing CG could afford was an all-out scandal with the ensuing possibility of being blacklisted by the Pentagon’s procurement corps. For the first time in the company’s immensely profitable history, the unthinkable was on the horizon—bankruptcy, or at least a dramatic shrinkage, selling off profitable enterprises, booting half the executives, and cutting the partner and director earnings to squat.
So at the last minute CG dished out $400K for a table at the annual Gridiron Club dinner, a big bash held for Washington’s glitterati to gather together in a supposedly friendly atmosphere, where they set aside the partisan bickering and lampooned themselves.
The normal price for a table was $200K, but CG was taking no chances. It had a few very important stipulations.
The large black limo dumped Bellweather and a colorless assortment of lesser executives at the handsome entrance of the Capital Hilton. They stepped out onto the curb and raced inside to hobnob and be seen mixing it up with anybody who mattered in the current administration. The lobby was packed with media rock stars, politicians, influence peddlers, celebrities, diplomats, cabinet members, all jostling to look and act more important than the others.
A large retinue of reporters congregated outside trying to catch a glimpse of the rich, famous, and powerful, or maybe overhear some tidbit of priceless information.
Unfortunately, juicy rumors about the possible scandal had preceded the boys from CG. Bellweather quickly grew tired of the cold shoulders and speedy brush-offs. Only a week before, he would’ve been mobbed by aspiring government officials sucking up to arrange a pleasant nest in their next life. The brush-offs quickly became pathetically predictable—“Look, there’s Jim and I really must say hi,” or “My bladder’s killing me. Gotta run and drain the lizard”—as he watched them race off.
When the waiters began pouring through the lobby and announcing dinner, Bellweather stood in a lonely corner, nursing a drink, and waited till he was the last one left. He dodged through the dining room doors just before they shut.
He worked his way to his table slightly below the dais where the president and vice president sat, straining to look pleasant and affable, despite being surrounded by all the slimy media clowns both men detested to their cores. He passed tables stuffed with men and women who couldn’t stand the sight of one another—Democrats hating Republicans, politicians hating the press, who in turn viewed anybody in office like child molesters—everybody acting phony and smiling through gritted teeth.
The temporary truce was tenuous at best. It was a miracle nobody smuggled guns or poison into the room.
Douglas Robinson, the secretary of defense, nearly turned white when Bellweather suddenly materialized at his side. The timing was exquisite—everybody was standing by their seats, waiting for the festivities to begin. “Always nice to see you, Doug,” Bellweather announced, jamming out his hand.
“Get lost,” Robinson whispered with a snarl. He ignored the hand.
“Can’t. It’s my table.” Bellweather let the hand drop.
Robinson glanced down at the name placard in front of Bellweather’s seat. It clearly read Arnold Smith. “That’s definitely not your seat,” he told Bellweather, with a look meant to say, You’re a crook and a rotten thief—I’d rather French-kiss Osama bin Laden than sit next to a lying snake like you.
“No, no mistake,” Bellweather said, smiling pleasantly. “Smith bowed out at the last minute and deeded me his seat.”
A cardinal in brilliant red robes at the head table began saying grace. Robinson used the excuse to ignore Bellweather. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and swore to himself he was going to fire somebody first thing in the morning. His people were supposed to check these things.
Bellweather dutifully bowed his head and smiled. On top of the $200K price of admission, it had cost CG an additional $200K to get around Robinson’s security arrangements: $100K for this specific seat, and $100K for the phony name subterfuge. And it was worth every penny.
The cardinal said amen and both men fell into their chairs. Robinson reached out and found the scotch h
e’d carried in from the lobby. He drained the glass in a single gulp.
“Guess you’re pretty mad at me and my company,” Bellweather said very reasonably.
“If I had a gun, I’d blow you all to hell.”
“Can’t say I blame you. That phony report makes us look terrible.”
“Terrible? Oh, no, that’s an understatement. We’re talking soldiers’ lives. You cheated your country.”
“I know it looks that way, and believe me, I know how it feels.”
“You people, if anybody, should be ashamed of yourselves.” Robinson crossed his arms across his chest and stared hard at the tablecloth. Far as he was concerned, the conversation had just ended. He intended to spend the rest of the evening chatting about the weather with the heavy grand dame to his right, a notorious bore and a horrible prospect, but a necessary one. He turned his shoulder to Bellweather and assumed a posture that screamed, Talk all you want, pal, I’m not listening.
“You see, Doug,” Bellweather continued in the same reasonable tone, “the reason I know is because that’s exactly what happened to us. Same thing. We were taken in. Fooled, conned, cheated. Call it whatever you want but we fell for it.”
Robinson began rearranging his silverware. He’d stuff his fingers in his ears if it didn’t look so asinine, and if there weren’t so many prying media buzzards around to witness it.
Bellweather inched his seat closer to Robinson. “I think we were too anxious to find a solution for our boys over there. All these years, you know, seeing those awful images of kids being mangled and slaughtered. It got inside our soul. Hell, I’m not ashamed to admit it, Doug. We were so ready to believe the first person who offered a magic formula for saving our kids. Too ready, I guess.”
Robinson had turned his chair and now had his back turned to Bellweather. Inside his head he was singing an old college football song, trying to drown out the noise coming from Bellweather’s mouth—“Boolah, Boolah, fight, fight, fight…”
“Christ, Doug, you came out of the defense industry. We all did. It’s one big revolving door, because that’s the only way it’ll work. You become a defense expert, then spend your career bouncing between defense companies and government service. It’s not bad, and it’s not good, just the way it is. But that doesn’t make us all crooked or bent. Hell, we both wanted the same thing, our kids to stop being blown apart by bombs.”
If that short speech had any effect, Robinson didn’t show it. His lips were now mouthing the words “Tackle them… beat them down… victory at all costs…”
Bellweather grabbed his arm. “Look, you felt the same way, I know you did. I saw it on your face that first visit when we talked about the polymer. Like us, you were ready to jump on anything that protected our kids.”
Unable to ignore him any longer, Robinson faced him for the first time. “What are you saying?”
“Like you were, Doug, we were taken in,” said Bellweather, now feigning an expression of deep anger. “Two men, Jack Wiley and Perry Arvan, concocted this scheme. They’re liars and cheats, both of them.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Doesn’t matter. Point is, we jumped the gun, Doug. You, us, we all did.”
Bellweather could see on Robinson’s face that he was making headway. A slight loosening around the lips, a slackening of the eyes, the beginning of doubt—but it was enough.
He went on, “Today we offered five million bucks to anybody who helps us find those two bastards. They took the money and ran, Doug, both of ’em. By cheating us, they cheated you. Believe me, nobody wants to get to the bottom of this more than us. We want to restore the good name of our firm.”
The secretary squirmed in his seat a moment. “Say this is true, what can I do?” he asked in a rather caustic tone.
“There are a few things,” Bellweather mumbled, almost a whisper.
“Spit it out, Dan. And speak up, dammit!” His eyes darted around the room; the last thing he could afford was being seen in a confidential conversation with this crooked jerk. No doubt one of these sneaky media clowns had smuggled in a camera and it would look great splashed across the front page of the morning Post, a picture of Bellweather whispering in his ear about God knows what. He adjusted his expression to a deeper frown and tried to look like he wasn’t listening.
“For one, help us find these two,” Bellweather requested.
“How?”
“You’ve got the resources at your fingertips. Your own investigative services, for one thing. The FBI and CIA will do whatever you ask. Use them.”
“What else?”
Bellweather took a deep breath, then said, “Agent Mia Jenson.”
“Who’s she?”
“The DCIS investigator who provided the tip about the phony report.”
“What about her?”
“She’s biased.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She hates us. She’s been to our headquarters several times, throwing around nasty threats, hassling our people. It’s personal for her. She has a deep grudge, a vendetta. Don’t ask me why, she just does.”
“That’s a damned serious charge.”
“I know it is.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing serious, just reassign her. We’re requesting a fair shake, that’s all. Put somebody fresh on the case. Somebody impartial, somebody harboring no emotional baggage. We want a fair process, that’s all.”
“I’ll think about it. Anything else?”
“No, I’m finished.”
“Then will you please shut up? Let me enjoy what’s left of my evening.”
Nicky was waiting at her desk when Mia rolled into work the next morning. He didn’t invite her into his office this time.
“You pissed somebody off,” he told her with his head shaking.
“Always nice to hear,” she said and actually smiled. “What gave you the clue, Nicky?”
“You’re off the polymer case. That’s straight from the director’s lips. I had the impression she was just relaying the order herself. I think this came from the very top.”
“I wasn’t aware I was ever on the polymer case,” Mia noted.
“Neither was I. Is this a problem for you?”
Mia’s smile seemed to grow. “No, I expected it. I’d be hugely disappointed if it didn’t happen in fact. Do me a favor, put it in writing.”
“If you insist, I will.”
“I do insist.”
She took it so well that Nicky couldn’t hide his expression of relief.
“Of course now I have to appoint somebody to actually look into this thing,” he told her.
“Who you thinking of?”
“Clete Jamison.”
Mia offered a satisfied nod. “Good choice,” she said. “Clete’s thorough and tough.”
“He is, and he’s coming into this with an empty tank. It would help if you gave him some background.”
“My pleasure,” she said and seemed to mean it.
After a brief pause, Nicky added hopefully, “It would help even more if he knew the name of your source.”
Mia placed her things on her desk and sat down. “Forget it, Nicky. My source will only deal with me. That’s the stipulation. It’s a matter of trust.”
Nicky tore off his glasses with an air of impatience. “Look, I know there’s a lot going on here you’re not telling me.” He examined her face for a response—there was no response. “How bad is this going to get?”
“For the Capitol Group, very bad.”
“Your source is telling you other things?”
Mia shrugged and rearranged some papers on her crowded desk. The answer was yes.
“What’s your source’s motive? You can tell me that.”
“Truth, justice, the American way. Do the right thing. I know what a rare and unbelievable motive that is these days, and in this city, but that’s it.”
Nicky played with his tie a moment.
He’d never had an agent pull something like this. It pissed him off, confused him, made him want to stab a finger in her face and demand answers, but frankly he wasn’t sure how to handle it. “Mia, an order from the director taking you off this case is a serious step. If you’re caught dabbling in what is now an official investigation, I can’t protect you.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“It’s a promise.”
“I’m a big girl, Nicky. I know the rules.”
“You better be sure you do. This can get real ugly.”
“I’m terrified. Send me back to a half-million-a-year job in any of a dozen firms that would take me in a heartbeat. Throw some more threats at me, Nicky.”
By noon, the day after the Capitol Group’s spokesman offered five million bucks to anyone who helped find Jack Wiley or Perry Arvan, CG’s corporate website had received thirty million hits. The announcement was like the shot that started the land rush, a reasonable analogy in this case. Three hours after the promise was issued, so many users logged on, the site crashed. It took a team of programmers two hours, working furiously in the middle of the night, to get it back up, before the flood of hits resumed.
Several big newspapers glommed onto the story and, free of charge, printed pictures of Jack and Perry along with a speculative, fascinating synopsis of CG’s claims and the ensuing manhunt. By nine that morning, cable news rushed into the act and began flashing the pictures and discussing the big bounty. The faces of Jack and Perry were studied and memorized by countless more millions of citizens interested in snatching a cool five million.
O’Neal, by then, had a large call center set up, employing twenty of TFAC’s people and a large, shifting clutch of executives bused over from CG. The calls went to CG’s switch and were smoothly rerouted to TFAC’s call center.
By noon it was a disaster center. O’Neal had never tried this before, and it showed. He was thoroughly ill-prepared to handle the unceasing bombardment of information pouring in. Neither his own people nor CG’s hapless execs were trained for this sport. They lacked the expertise to filter the good from the bad, the plainly false tips from the seemingly accurate, the fruitcakes and loonies from the moderately sane.
