The Capitol Game (21 page)

“Today,” Walters insisted, “Dan is a senior statesmen. Last of the old breed, that sort of thing. He can open any door he wants.”

“I think he’s an ideal choice,” said Ryan Cantor, obviously speaking for his father. The boy had less brains than a turnip. His old man wasn’t much brighter, but he didn’t get to be president without understanding how Washington ticked.

“Be sure to tell your father how much we admire him,” Walters said, grinning. The message was received; the old man would hide behind the scenes but he would back up Bellweather, twist elbows, and make whatever calls were needed.

“What do we do about Wiley?” asked Phil Jackson, as if to say Jack had served his purpose and was outliving his usefulness.

“Easy,” Walters answered. “Assign him to Bellweather’s team. Lord knows, he’s got as much riding on this as we do.”

“But he knows nothing about Pentagon contracting,” said Alan Haggar, the former deputy secretary of defense.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, I see. Just get him out of the way.”

“You got a better idea?”

They all laughed.

Andrew Morgan was hunched over in his booth by the window, nursing his fourth beer as he quietly admired the gallery of James Joyce photographs on the wall. It was his third straight night at Ulysses, a legendary Stone Street bar where the rich and hopefuls of Wall Street gathered after work to boast and complain.

A quick glance at his watch, 8:00 p.m. He’d been there since five, watering and watching, long enough that his ass had slipped into a coma. He waved at the waiter to haul over another beer, his fifth. One more, he promised himself. Just one, a fast one, then he’d wander back to his hotel and call it an early night.

It was now three weeks to the day since his boss, Martie O’Neal, had dispatched him to New York City to dig up all the dirt he could find on Jack Wiley. Two other associates plumbed the more
traditional snoop’s sources, the firms Jack had passed through on his way to a partnership at Cauldron. Morgan was assigned the more ambiguous, less promising role of hunting in less structured environments for an informal source, primarily hanging around Wall Street hangouts and watering holes, praying for a miracle.

Three weeks of long days spent in fashionable restaurants and longer nights trolling in bars. Twenty-one straight days befriending Wall Street lizards, and rewarding their tedious ego-swollen stories with free lunches and drinks. Amazing how much they could drink and eat when someone else was paying the tab.

What a steep descent from his former days in the CIA, he thought. All those years undercover in Moscow, Cairo, and Peru, ducking and dodging, trying to turn KGB agents, hunting terrorists, and harrassing narcotraffickers. All good things come to an end, but after twenty-five years of honorable work for an elite government agency he was stunned at how far he had fallen.

A complete and utter waste of time, he’d told Martie after his first week. Seven days and nights wasted on mingling with arrogant brokers and haughty investment banker types. He’d located six Wall Street boys who knew, or knew of, Jack Wiley. None knew him well. All had the same thing to say: great guy, honest as the day is long, a Boy Scout in a resplendent suit. Played squash with him once was the closest recollection he got; Jack had spotted his opponent ten points, and kicked his ass off the court. He doesn’t even cheat at squash, Morgan had moaned. Stay at it, Martie had ordered. Sometimes a shot in the dark pays off. You never know.

Their client, after all, was willing to foot the rather impressive bills for a ritzy Manhattan hotel and all the expensive food and booze Morgan could guzzle. It was a big boondoggle, Morgan knew, and a very expensive one, but his interest in it had flagged weeks before.

From Morgan’s experience of the past three nights, Ulysses didn’t really start hopping till eight. The early starters and ambitious drunks were already there in force. But by nine the floor would be clogged up with the world’s youngest millionaires, and
an even larger number of motivated young ladies hunting a lifetime pass to a grand home in the Hamptons, a Maserati, all the trappings the right husband could buy.

Another hour and the place would be shoulder to shoulder with couples in lust, half for sex, the other half for money.

He was turning to study a troop of glittering young lovelies who had just entered when a man fell heavily into the seat across the booth. “I hear you’re buying free drinks,” the man said by way of introduction.

“I was, but I’m tired. Shove off, pal. Find yourself another table.”

“Sorry.” One of the business cards Morgan had been handing out by the thousands over the past three weeks landed on the middle of the table. “Thought we might have something to talk about, but okay, fine.”

He was getting up and starting to leave when Morgan reached over and grabbed his arm. “Maybe I’ve been hasty. What’ll you have?”

“Gin and tonic.” The man smiled and fell back into the seat. He picked up the card and inserted it back into his pocket.

While he signaled the waiter, Morgan used the opportunity to examine his visitor. Tall, about Wiley’s age, expensive, well-tailored gray suit, dark, oiled-back hair. More or less your typical Wall Street type. The suit, though, was a thousand dollars, definitely not two; chances were he was on the mid- to lower end of the food chain. After three weeks Morgan could write a book about the denizens of Wall Street and their culinary and haberdashery tastes. The waiter arrived and Morgan ordered one for his guest, another beer for himself. “So who are you?” he asked.

“Is that important?”

“If you want the drink, yeah, it is.”

“I don’t come that cheap, Mr. Morgan.”

Morgan leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. “I’m not sure I hear what you’re saying.”

“Then listen close, pal. You’re hunting for info on Jack Wiley. I have what you’re looking for. I’m not the charitable type, though.”

“I don’t remember running into you before.”

“You didn’t. A friend gave me your card.”

The drinks arrived and Morgan and his guest sank back into their seats and took their first deep sips together. Well, he was dressed and coiffed like a Wall Street type, but Morgan had a feeling he was a little out of place. Time to get the important detail out of the way. “How much?” he asked, swirling his beer in the air.

“Fifty thousand.”

Morgan nearly spit his beer across the table. His elbows flew off the table, his big head pushed forward. “Who are you kidding?”

“If you knew what I have, you wouldn’t ask such a stupid question.”

“What makes you think anything you have is worth that much?”

“For starters, you gave my friend your card almost three weeks ago. I figure you’ve been here at least that long. Three weeks in a luxury double suite at the Wall Street Inn, frequenting some of our fine city’s most exclusive bars and nightclubs. Somebody’s footing a lot of cash to learn about Jack.”

Morgan neither confirmed nor denied, just sat and tried to hide his astonishment. He was stunned. This guy knew everything: how long he’d been in town, the places he had visited, where he was staying. Morgan had been detected, followed, and apparently watched like a two-bit novice. Mr. Former Spook, a veteran of Moscow and Cairo and Colombia, and this guy across the table had totally outfoxed him.

His guest allowed himself a slight smile. “Also, you’re hired help. No offense, but that cheap off-the-rack suit doesn’t help you fit in. I don’t know how much a private dick costs, but three weeks of your time can’t be cheap.”

Morgan pointed his chin in the air and said, “So what?”

“So it’s not your money, right? Why should you care what it costs?”

“Fifty thousand would have to buy some very good information.”

“What do you have so far?”

“A few interesting tidbits. Some very valuable leads,” Morgan lied and tried his best to make it sound sincere. In truth, he had gained ten pounds, swilled enough booze that his liver was swollen, and learned absolutely nothing remotely interesting about Jack Wiley.

“You got nothing.” The smile widened. “This is Wall Street, buddy. Nobody’s telling some stranger tales out of school. No angle in it.”

“What about you? You’re willing to break the code.”

Morgan detected the first flash of anger—a slight tightening around the eyes, a jaw muscle flexing. Barely perceptible, but it was enough. “Maybe I’ve got reasons,” the man insisted, making an obvious effort to mask his strong dislike of Jack Wiley.

“Like what?”

“It’s personal. It’ll cost you an additional ten grand to find out about that.”

“Give me an idea what we’re talking about.”

“Fair enough. Here’s a hint. Did you ever wonder why Jack bounced in and out of so many firms?”

“Yeah, we thought about that… for about two seconds, ’cause it’s so obvious. Better offers, better pay. Greed. The usual motives. I figure you guys are all whores. It’s all about money.”

The man chuckled and sipped from his drink. “You don’t know much about Wall Street.”

“What part did I get wrong?”

“The only part you got right was about all of us being whores.”

“Now tell me something I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe you guys missed it. It’s right before your eyes. Jack hopped through four firms in twelve years. Four. The Street doesn’t work that way. It’s all about seniority, Morgan, about sticking around to get tenure. That’s where the big money is.”

“Then why did he leave?”

“Leave? Usually, he didn’t; he was shoved.”

“I asked why?”

“That’s the fifty-thousand-dollar question.”

“Come on, give me a little more to go on here.”

“No, you have enough.” The pleasant smile was replaced by a deadpan grin. “Now here’s the rules. Pay attention, because if there’s any mistake, you’ll never see me again. The payment will be in cash. You don’t have that much on you, and anyway, you’re just a flunky. So tell your bosses you think I’m a good investment.”

“Listen, you need—”

“No, I don’t need to do anything. But you definitely do. Call by tomorrow, or don’t bother,” the man said, and he was on his feet. He was holding a card by the edges and he quickly flipped it on the table. “When you have permission, call this number. Ask for Charles.”

“Wait… uh, Charles, I don’t have enough—” but before he could finish that thought the man rushed into the thick crowd and began making tracks for the exit.

It was unexpected and happened so fast, Morgan was caught flat-footed. He quickly recovered his senses, darted out of his seat, and began racing after Charles. He caught sight of a head of glistening black hair, and began dodging left and right, shoving people out of his way. Charles had about a twenty-foot lead, but Morgan was brutally clearing a path and closing fast.

Suddenly a pretty young blonde woman grabbed his arm and started howling at the top of her lungs. Morgan tried to break loose, but her grip only tightened. Her screams began to draw a world of attention. He quickly found himself hemmed in by young men, a mob of nice suits glowering at him, blocking him, and asking the young woman what he’d done to her.

“He grabbed and squeezed my ass,” she roared quite loudly, her arms flailing as if he’d assaulted her.

“I did not,” Morgan bellowed back in a tone filled with indignation. “I swear. Listen, I’ve got a wife and three daughters, for godsakes. I never touched her.”

She stamped a foot and pointed a scornful finger at his face. “Pervert. You sick, disgusting pervert,” she howled.

“I didn’t touch you.”

“Well, somebody did.”

“Not me.”

“I thought it was you.”

“It wasn’t, okay?”

The crowd around him settled down. The situation was harmless. Maybe the old guy did it, maybe he didn’t; so what? Just a harmless squeeze anyway, and who cared if this old lecher indulged in a quick feel? A few of the men backed off and returned to what they were doing. Others began talking among themselves. A few chuckled.

Morgan dodged through an opening that suddenly cleared and raced as fast as his feet could carry him toward the exit. But Charles was gone, disappeared into the night.

All right, so you think you’re smart, Morgan thought; the girl had obviously been a setup, the perfect diversion. He was surprised he had fallen for such a simple trick.

And he was nearly certain that the phone number he was given was connected to a disposable cell phone, probably under a false name. He could easily find out, but knew it would be a waste of time. Based upon what he’d just seen, Charles knew enough tradecraft to avoid such a stupid mistake.

Charles wasn’t as smart as he thought, though.

Morgan raced back to his booth. Charles had left his glass and, by extension, a clean set of fingerprints. By the next day Morgan would know Charles’s real name, where he lived, where he worked, and from there he would uncover his relationship to Jack Wiley.

When he got to the table the glass was gone. In its place was a small note: “Nice try, Morgan.”

T
he appointment was at eleven, and the escorts were standing and waiting at the stately River entrance to the Pentagon, ready to get the ball rolling as the black limo rolled up.