The Capitol Game (40 page)

“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.

P
hil 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 walked 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?”

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.