The Capitol Game (38 page)

Jackson was the legal cutthroat whose judgment would mean the most, and from the beginning he proceeded to take charge.

It opened with a hard, fast-paced interrogation of Thomas Warrington, the babyfaced lawyer from the general counsel’s office who had had the dismaying misfortune to meet Mia. Jackson treated him with all the cold contempt he reserved for a rookie attorney who had gotten his pants pulled down. “So you just let her waltz into our LBO section,” Jackson taunted, as if to say Warrington had stood aside and let her pillage the company safe.

“She had a shield,” Warrington answered, plainly terrified. “And she was very assertive.”

“But you failed to force her to explain why?”

“She never gave me the opportunity.”

“Idiot. Of course she didn’t.”

He winced. “I tried to get it out of her,” he complained, painfully aware of how pathetic that sounded.

“Beat it, get out of here. I never want to see your face again,” Jackson barked with a threatening glare. Warrington nearly scorched the carpet he moved so fast.

The other three men were all staring with deep intensity at Jackson’s face.

“What do you think?” Bellweather was first to ask.

The glare melted into his more typical expression of bored condescension. “My guess? She’s fishing. She smells something, but she’s got nothing. Not yet.”

“I don’t like the questions she asked Parner,” Walters complained. Then, as if anybody needed to hear it recounted, “About the takeover, about the testing, about the money to Belzer. They were too close to home. Why would she be interested in those areas?”

“Could be she was firing shots in the dark,” Haggar suggested. “Everything she asked could be gleaned from the newspapers. Everyone knows we bought Arvan—hell, Mitch shot his mouth off to every TV network and newspaper that would give him a second of attention. And everyone knows defense products are tested. Also, it’s fairly obvious to any observer that Belzer hammered the polymer through Congress.”

This provided a reassuringly harmless explanation that was comfortably plausible, of course. And it satisfied nobody, including Haggar, who had suggested it in the first place. He produced a slight shrug to show he wasn’t buying it himself.

“What do we know about this Agent Jenson?” Jackson asked, shifting his black eyes across their faces.

Haggar leaned forward. “I called a source in the IG’s office. Guy who used to work for me. He didn’t know her, but he pulled her file.”

“What’s it say?”

“Harvard Law, second in her class. Don’t ask me why she’s working in DCIS, it makes no sense, but there it is. Worse, she’s good at her work. Last year she earned two awards for excellence. Quite impressive for a rookie agent.”

“So she’s an eager beaver,” Bellweather said, trying to sound dismissive, as if that made any difference.

“Does your source say we’re being investigated?” Walters asked Haggar.

“No. He knows nothing about it. A lot of investigations, though, especially sensitive ones, are kept compartmentalized until the last minute. It’s possible he’s out of the loop. I told him to nose around, see if he can find anything out.”

“Sounds like we have nothing to worry about,” Walters said, relaxing back into his seat.

Ever the lawyer, Jackson snapped, “You’re a fool, Walters. You’re paid to worry. It sounds like she just came over to rattle our chains, but you can bet she’s not through. She was sending us a message.”

They discussed the perplexing problem of Mia Jenson till they were tired of talking. The meeting lasted forty minutes, long beyond the point where the conversation was at all useful. In the end, after much bickering and arguing, they decided no action was warranted. They would do nothing and watch, for now. They would prepare a few options in the event Mia Jenson developed into a bigger problem, but the ball was in her court.

Jackson, the expert in scandals, took the seasoned legal view that she was attempting to provoke them into doing something stupid. A classic cop’s ploy. She had good intuition, a strong hunch, and absolutely no evidence. She was hunting and bluffing, precisely because she lacked legitimate grounds to ramp up an official investigation: without that authority her options were severely constrained.

“So don’t do her any favors,” Jackson cautioned, staring pointedly at Walters, the hothead.

Bellweather said, “But we do have one loose end to worry about.”

“Jack Wiley, I know,” Jackson said. “I’ll pay him a visit.”

The shiny black Town Car rolled up to Jack’s house at five. Jackson had called ahead. Jack was waiting for him.

No warm hands were proffered, no phony pleasantries exchanged. Jack led Jackson to his big family room, where they fell into a pair of comfortable burgundy leather chairs and spent a moment getting settled.

Finally Jack asked, “What’s this about?”

“Have you been contacted by any DCIS agents?”

“What’s DCIS?”

Jackson briefly explained, then said, “An agent stopped by the headquarters this morning. She has nothing remotely concrete, but she’s nosing around.”

“About our polymer?”

“What else.”

“If she has nothing, why’s she nosing around?”

“We’re not worried at this point. You shouldn’t, either. It’s actually predictable. The polymer is a very large, no-bid, single-source contract. That sends up warning flags and suspicions. I’m sure she’s just poking around.”

“So it’s harmless?” Jack asked. His elbows were planted on the armrests, his fingers formed a steeple in front of his lips. He could’ve been a cocky college professor in the faculty lounge quizzing a hapless freshman. His posture and the skeptical tone of his questions were getting on Jackson’s nerves.

“I told you, I’m confident that it’s just exploratory. As long as nobody gives her cause, she’ll realize it’s a waste of her time and quit wasting ours.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“Glad to see you’re paying attention, Jack.”

“You’re worried about me. How touching.”

The slitty little eyes tightened and the narrow face squeezed into a lawyerly frown. “You don’t like me, do you, Wiley?”

“You’re perceptive.”

“I don’t like you either, but it doesn’t matter. I’m warning you that we’re all in this. You, us, we all sink or swim together. We’ve all blurred a few ethical boundaries, including you, Wiley.”

“Interesting choice of words, Jackson. Don’t you mean, broken a few serious laws?”

“Who cares what I mean. Assure me you’re on board.”

“Or what?”

Jackson came far forward in his chair, a hard lurch, until their faces were inches apart. His features crumpled into a tight mass of wrinkles; his jaws clenched tight, his eyes bulged. The expression was one he used, nearly always to great effect, to bully and intimidate powerful committee chairmen, grizzled judges, and hardened lawyers. He was quite proud of it.

“I’m not a man you want to cross, Wiley,” he hissed. “And in case you haven’t heard, CG’s not a group you want to tangle with. We’ve got more firepower and resources than you can handle.”

He allowed this portentous threat to fester; he watched Jack’s face for the typical reaction, a sudden collapse into resignation, a trem-ble around the lips, at the very least a quick shifting of the eyes.

Jack didn’t blink. Instead he leaned back into his chair, crossed his legs, and smiled. “With billions of dollars on the line, why would I want to screw it up, Jackson?”

Jackson continued to examine Jack’s face. The cool response bothered him. Not that he expected Jack to cry or bawl or choke or anything, but neither had he expected the cold amusement in his eyes.

Then again, he reminded himself, the face he was studying belonged to a hardened murderer and a thief. Between his years in Delta, then his involvement in the murder of Edith, and possibly his former CEO and CFO, and the mysterious deaths of three board members, how many had he killed? No surprise that Jack had ice water in his veins.

Well, Jackson could be just as pitiless and coldhearted. After maintaining the hard stare for an interminable moment, he told him, “Her name’s Mia Jenson. A lawyer, and a smart one. She knew your name. I have a strong premonition she’ll find an excuse to have a word with you.”

“Is she cute?”

“Keep it simple, Wiley. Don’t get smart. The takeover was friendly. You know nothing about how Defense got interested in our product. You know even less about how the DOD contract
came about. Your arrangement with us is a limited liability partnership, and your role was very, very limited.”

“Should I take notes?”

“Don’t mess with me, boy. You’re out of your league.”

“You done?”

“Yeah, I’m done.”

“Then it’s my turn,” Jack said, slowly and deliberately, still comfortably ensconced in his chair as if he had not a care in the world. “You and the rest of the Capitol Group are trying to edge me out of this deal. I’m not stupid, Jackson. Now you need me again. Don’t cheat me out of a single penny, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Use your imagination.”

Nicky Garner was loitering beside her desk when Mia came into work the next morning. “Got time for a few words?” he asked.

“For you, always, Nicky.”

“In my office, now.” He looked grim and unhappy. Nicky led as they made their way through the cluttered maze to the small room in the back corner. As section chief, Nicky was the only one to even have an office, a questionable privilege, if it could even be called that; a closet would’ve been more comfortable.

Nicky tried to set a good example in neatness, but it was hopeless. Files and legal manuals were strewn everywhere. Stacks of paper were piled against the wall, in corners, anywhere he could find room. Enough Post-it notes were plastered to his desk and walls to make the room look like it was painted yellow.

Nicky quietly shoved the door closed, stepped over a few piles, and walked to his desk. He leaned his hip against it and asked, “What the hell were you doing at the Capitol Group yesterday?”

“How did you learn I was there?”

“I was called up to the IG’s office last night, after you left. Hanrady, an assistant to the IG, said you raised hell at CG, ruffled a few feathers, and he got a call. He asked me what’s up.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth, as embarrassing as it is. I have no damned idea. Wanta tell me about it?”

“Relax, Nicky. Nothing to tell, really. Just following up on some complaints passed to me by some friends in contracting. You know about CG’s polymer?”

“Sure, I know. They say that stuff’s better than Miracle Glue.”

“It may be, but the application operation in Iraq is a horrible mess. Remember all the complaints about CG’s uparmoring program? Guess what? They’re up to the same tricks.”

“That kinda thing gets worked out between contracting officials,” Nicky said, now looking suspicious.

“I know. But our folks are frustrated. They asked me to put a scare into CG. The last thing they want is a repeat of the past few years where CG blew off all the complaints. People are getting killed over there.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m not stupid, I colored between the lines. I asked a few simple questions. If they’re nervous, that’s exactly how I want them.”

As good as Mia was, Nicky reminded himself, she was still a junior agent prone to making rookie mistakes. He pushed off the desk and said, “The Capitol Group is not some penny-ante outfit, Mia. They define the word clout. They are the big league. You don’t just go over on a whim and stick a finger in their eye.”

“I know who they are. They have everybody but God on their board,” Mia answered. “But they work for us, last time I checked. They take our money, don’t they?”

Nicky stared hard at her face, as if trying to see if he was missing anything. His phone rang and he picked it up.

“I’ve got work to do,” Mia said, and she shot out the door.

T
he plan was simple.

A few nights every week, Jack grew tired of his own cooking and slipped out to a local eatery. All local places, so he could enjoy a cocktail with his meal without being overly concerned about picking up a DUI on the trip home. Thursday’s usual was McLoone’s Rum Runner, a restaurant in Sea Bright with good seafood, great river views, dark wood paneling, a roaring fireplace, and a sailing ambience.

Thursday, and as usual, Jack was out the door at seven. By seven-thirty, he was comfortably seated in McLoone’s, at his customary table for two beside the roaring fireplace. Without a menu, he ordered the house favorite, stuffed shrimp, and his usual cocktail. The glass of scotch on the rocks was being delivered when a familiar figure passed by his table.

The figure came to a dead halt. “My God, Jack… Jack Wiley. That is you, isn’t it?” the man asked, feigning confusion.

Jack put down his scotch and looked up. “Hello, Lew.”

Wallerman took two steps closer, right beside the table. “What are you doing here?”