The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

“Led the league in sacks last year. And penalties. Mean Mike.”

  “That’s Mike, but don’t believe what you hear. He’s a real sweetie.”

  “Crippled one quarterback, put two more in the hospital. What’s your definition of a badass?”

  “The older one, Dan. He’s bigger and much meaner.”

  “And what’s he do?”

  “Pretty much whatever he wants,” she said, straight-faced.

  Jack chuckled.

  “Dad retired ten years ago. He and Mom live in Myrtle Beach. He runs a used car lot, the Army way. Every car washed and spitshined daily. Salesmen double-time around the lot. If you don’t buy a car he shoots you.”

  “Good technique.” Jack loaded two plates with spaghetti, handed one to Eva, and then led her by the arm to the dining room. They sat at the near end of the long table. Jack placed two wine bottles between them, one white, one red.

  Eva took a long sip, then looked him in the eye. “I’d like to start over.”

  “At least take a bite first. It’s not as bad as it looks, promise.”

  “I mean us, you and me.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “Well, you must admit the way we met, it was awkward… well, complicated.”

  “Was it?” he asked, forcing her to spell it out.

  “I was working. I was supposed to encourage you to choose us over the competition. You figured that out, obviously.”

  Jack sat back and took a sip of wine. “Go on.”

  “So being an ambitious junior executive, I signed on.”

  “Shame on you,” Jack said, but he was smiling. “How far were you supposed to go?”

  “You’re not that lucky, pal. Pleasant company was all I was asked to provide.”

  “I should’ve told them the deal was worth thirty billion.”

  “Thing is, you’re not what I expected, Jack. Far from it.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Cold, distant, and ruthless. A smiling shark, according to the dossier. The exact words were ‘handsome kneecapper with a ledger.’ You castrated several of our most vicious LBO boys. You were the talk of the headquarters.”

  “And what makes you think I’m different?”

  “Are you fishing for compliments?”

  “They never hurt.”

  She smiled and toyed with her fork for a moment. “So what do you think? Can I have a do-over?”

  After a moment Jack said, “How’s your spaghetti?”

  They talked throughout dinner, watched a movie, and at eleven, Eva pecked him on the cheek, slipped a business card into his hand, climbed in her car, and sped off in the direction of New York City.

  Before she left, they agreed they would get together the next time Jack was in Washington.

  11

  They would not be caught again.

  Martie O’Neal fell heavily into a seat and for two full minutes steadily ignored the man seated only two feet away and directly to his right. It was the last leg of the D.C. Metro and it roared along the tracks to its final destination, a dead stop at Alexandria station.

  O’Neal, who had some expertise in these matters, briefly scanned the rest of the car while Mitch Walters studied the floor and pretended to ignore him. It was midmorning, long past rush hour, more than two hours before the lunch crowd packed the cars, shoulder to shoulder. There were two old black ladies seated at the other end of the car, clutching shopping bags and bragging full bore to each other about their grandsons. A few seats away sat a young kid wearing a Georgetown sweatshirt, with his head tucked inside the hood and his nose stuffed in a thick textbook. Like all young people these days, he had earphones on, his head bobbing and weaving to the music, somehow managing to combine noise with study. He wasn’t a threat.

  A TFAC employee was located in each of the two adjoining cars, and after a minute, each appeared in the connecting windows with their thumbs up.

  “All clear,” O’Neal whispered to Walters. The absurd precautions made him feel silly, but Walters insisted.

  “What have you got?” Walters asked, still staring at the floor as if they weren’t speaking, feeling quite clever about his spycraft.

  O’Neal carefully slid a manila folder onto his lap. “Here’s everything we’ve gathered since last week.”

  “Looks pretty thin.”

  “Yeah, well, nothing much new on Wiley.”

  “That good or bad?” Walters asked, stuffing the folder in his briefcase.

  “Depends on your perspective, I guess.”

  “Start with is he still who he says he is?”

  “On the surface, yeah, everything checks out. He’s smart and ambitious. He likes money. He’s loyal only to himself, an opportunist. This guy bounces through firms and jobs like a revolving door. We knew all that, though.”

  “And below the surface?”

  “Understand, I’ve got nothing tangible that argues otherwise.”

  “Yeah, but I’m paying out the nose for your instincts.”

  “I just don’t think he adds up. Not yet. It still feels a little disconnected. I’d feel more sanguine if I found any indication that somewhere in his past he bent the rules or played dirty.”

  “Maybe the temptations haven’t been big enough.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “For Christsakes, he stands to make a billion dollars. The deal of a lifetime, O’Neal. Every man has a price and this one would bend the pope’s backbone into a soggy noodle. You thought of that?”

  “Sure,” O’Neal said and shrugged. In a lifetime of peeking through underwear drawers, he had earned a doctorate on human foibles and sins. The Jack engaged in this deal and the Jack from the past didn’t add up.

  “You’re not convinced, though?”

  “Look, you pay me to be paranoid, and I’m good at it. This deal you’re running, it’s not exactly clean, is it?”

  “You could say that.”

  “That’s what I figured. So here we got this guy, and there’s no hint in his background that he’s done anything like it. Not once, never. A few of our guys went up to New York and nosed around. Everybody said the same thing. Straight shooter. Stand-up Jack. Honest Jack. I’d just like to see a little moral consistency here.” He slipped a piece of gum in his mouth and began chewing hard.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We gotta keep looking.” A brief pause. “If we don’t find anything, get the hook in him in the event he tries any funny business.”

  “We tried that, Martie, remember? Your clowns blew it. What a disaster. I’m not exaggerating, cost us a billion bucks.”

  O’Neal shifted his broad rear on the seat. “You asked my advice, and you got it.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his side pocket and blew with all his force into it; then he balled it up and slipped it back into the pocket. “You’re flying without a net here, Mitch. It was me, with all the money involved, I’d want a good hard grip on his balls.”

  Walters picked at his nose and thought about it. He bent forward and rubbed his eyes. O’Neal was obviously playing on his anxieties, making a pitch for more action, more money, a fatter contract. And though the whole board had bought into this deal, Walters had to admit that the risks for him, personally and professionally, remained enormous. If Wiley somehow managed to screw him, there was no doubt who would be out tap-dancing on the gangplank. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. Jack Wiley was driving this train, juking and jiving, always a step ahead. And truthfully, Wiley had so far outsmarted the best and brightest CG had to offer. That little stunt with the burglars and Jack still stung. The way Jack had burned him, right there in front of everybody, still rankled. After a moment he said a little hesitantly, “You understand we can’t get caught again?”

  “Look, I know that last thing was stupid and sloppy. It—”

  “Stupid?” Walters hissed. “Oh, it was more than that. It was horrible.”

  “Yeah, well, you said fast, a
nd the guys went in blind. We’ll put some ex-spooks on it this time. They’re real good at this sort of thing.”

  “Don’t underestimate him again. I mean it. He’s very smart, and very cautious.”

  O’Neal bunched his shoulders and chewed harder on his gum. “We know that now.”

  “You know the phrase ‘plausible deniability’?”

  “Hey, these guys invented that credo. There won’t be a trace leading back to you. Don’t worry.”

  “I want full approval before you do a thing.”

  “Naturally.”

  “What about Arvan?” Walters asked suddenly, changing the subject—apparently the issue with Jack was settled.

  “We bugged the old man’s house and got a phone intercept. Still working on gettin’ one into his car.”

  “He suspect anything?”

  “Nope. The old man believes Wiley just swooped in out of the blue. A typical Wall Street vulture, that’s what the old man kept calling him.”

  “Is he worried?” Walters asked, barely able to conceal his excitement. He loved getting these insights. The game was so much more fun this way.

  “Yeah, definitely. He and the wife stayed home last night. You’d’ve loved that conversation. Bickered back and forth all night. They went over the numbers again and again. It’s hopeless. They’re worried about the kids.”

  “Explain that.”

  “They figure they had their run. They’re old now. The company was the inheritance they were gonna pass down. It’s the family piggy bank, and now it’s sprung a big hole.”

  “And how are they leaning?”

  “The old lady, she says call Wiley first thing in the morning and cut a deal. Dump this turkey before it destroys them. They’re too old to recover from such a disaster. Once the banks move… the company, the house, their cars, they could lose everything.”

  “Smart lady.”

  “Yeah, but the old man, well, he just ain’t so sure yet, Mitch.”

  “What’s he waiting for?”

  “He kept droning on about this miracle product. Says if he could just get it into the right hands in the Pentagon, all their troubles will be over.”

  Walters broke into a loud, satisfied chortle. “Ridiculous. It would take at least a year of tests and studies before the Pentagon showed the slightest interest. He’s got a day or two, at most.”

  O’Neal did not join him. He inserted a fresh piece of gum through his lips and chewed hard for a moment. The old ladies in the middle of the car had moved on to a heated discussion about the price of groceries; the kid remained engrossed in his book. O’Neal reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, removed what appeared to be a transcript, then flashed it in Walters’s big face. “The guy ain’t stupid, Mitch. He knows that.”

  “Oh. Well, tell me about that.”

  “He called his financial guy a little after midnight. Mat… Mat…”—a hurried glance at the transcript—“Mat Belton. Told him to get ready.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Told him to hit the phones hard first thing in the morning. Find somebody with deep pockets, offer him a big cut of their miracle product. Belton estimates ten million will do the trick.”

  “What trick?”

  “Bridging money, he called it. One guy is all they need—one moderately rich guy willing to stake ten million in return for fifty or a hundred million when the product comes home to roost.”

  Walters rocked back in his seat. He rubbed his forehead and thought about this. “He’s more desperate than I thought,” he concluded. But rather than look gloomy he broke into a huge smile.

  “What’re you smokin’?” O’Neal asked. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”

  “His company is publicly listed. We’re talking major SEC violations. Jailhouse stuff.”

  O’Neal stared back with a blank expression. Lacking a background in finance, he had no clue what the problem was.

  Walters shook his head and curled his lips as if Perry Arvan’s plans sickened him. “It’s insider trading. Offering an outside investor confidential, inside knowledge as a lure for his money, information he hasn’t even shared with his own stockholders, that’s a serious crime.”

  “If you say so,” O’Neal replied, as if to say, big deal, so what? The absurdity that they were breaking even more serious laws seemed relevant only to him.

  “Also, private loans are a corporate no-no,” Walters went on, now sounding very righteous. “The polymer was developed on company premises, using company employees, on company property. The shareholders own it. He can’t sell off pieces or encumber them with a major debt without their express knowledge and approval.”

  “I think he’s gotta get caught first,” O’Neal noted very reasonably.

  “You have this conversation on tape, right?”

  “Clear as a bell.”

  “So there it is.”

  “Yeah, there it is… a totally inadmissible conversation.”

  If that minor technicality worried Walters, he gave no hint of it. With a great screech the train ground to a stop; the two black ladies got up and waddled off, followed by the student, bouncing and rocking to his iPod. Both men sat staring at the floor, neither moving.

  “Send me the tape,” Walters finally announced, then stood, adjusted his suit, and, looking suddenly purposeful, departed.

  “No problem.”

  Jack was seated in his car in the middle of a large parking lot, reading a paperback novel, when the long black limousine slid up and parked less than three feet away.

  Mitch Walters popped out of the back, gripping a briefcase and unloading a smug grin.

  Jack stepped out of his car and they shook, rather limply. “Listen, Mitch, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Jack said.

  “Hey, you’re right, Jack, it’s a great idea.” Walters spent a moment surveying the parking lot, the surrounding streets, the large collection of junkheaps parked around them; not a single BMW or Mercedes in the lot, but plenty of old pickups that seemed to be fading and rusting before his eyes. His stare stopped at the large pile of red bricks with the words “Arvan Chemicals” across the entrance.

  “What a dump,” Walters remarked with a sour expression. He withdrew a long cigar from his pocket, neatly clipped the end, and spent a long moment puffing and sucking to get it lit. The call he made to Jack three hours earlier had not gone well, to put it mildly. Jack had confidently asserted that he had matters well in hand, before Walters unloaded the news about Perry Arvan’s hunt for a white knight willing to make a generous wager in return for a big chunk of the holy grail.

  Just as he suspected it would, this news caught Jack flat-footed and momentarily baffled: it was a rare opening and Walters exploited it to insist on taking a more active role in the takeover. Jack’s protestations were vehement and a total waste of breath.

  Walters had his mind made up: the time had come to push Jack into the backseat; time for the Capitol Group, and for Walters himself, to take the lead. It was also the first advantage Walters had on Jack and he intended to use it for all it was worth. He ended the conversation abruptly by informing Jack that he was about to jump on the smaller corporate jet for a fast sprint to Trenton Airport, drive to the factory, and pay a nasty visit on Perry Arvan.

  Jack could join him or not. His choice. Didn’t matter to Walters.

  “You say you have Perry on tape planning to commit a crime. Did I hear that right?” Jack asked, giving Walters a wary look.

  “Yep, him and his money guy, Belton.”

  “What crimes?”

  “Conspiracy on top of two or three major SEC violations. Dead to rights. One of my corporate lawyers listened to it and said it’s lockdown stuff. And if they called across state lines, you can add interstate fraud.”

  “Where did you get these tapes?”

  “None of your business,” Walters snapped, smirking and making no effort to disguise how much he was enjoying the moment. It felt so good
to be on top for a change. “You said it yourself, we’re partners. I don’t have to tell you a thing.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Who cares?”

  “In other words, no.”

  “So what?”

  “Was this the handiwork of your pals at TFAC again?”

  “Just say I came into possession of a very incriminating tape. Now I intend to use it. Arvan thinks he’s found a way around you, Jack, but I’m going to stop him.”

  “I don’t like it, Mitch.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “You intend to blackmail him,” Jack said, shaking his head.

  “Think of it as saving him from himself. That’s how I think of it.”

  “You’ll have to explain that.”

  “He’s about to engage in an illegal act. Several acts, actually. Like a Good Samaritan, I’m stopping him from making a bad choice.”

  “Very creative reasoning.”

  “Thanks, I’m quite proud of it.”

  “I suppose I can’t stop you.”

  “Good guess. You can come along and support me or get lost.”

  Jack looked frustrated but tagged along.

  Agnes Carruthers did not recognize the face of either of the two men who barged into her office, though the name of the younger one struck a chord from their phone conversation two days before.

  “He’s extremely busy,” Agnes staunchly insisted, edging forward and pursing her lips. The bigger of the two men was standing two feet from her in an effort to intimidate. This was her boss, her office, her domain. “You should’ve called, asked for an appointment,” she insisted, raising her sharp chin and staring down her nose.

  Walters placed his big hands on her desk and launched forward, about three inches from her face. “Listen up, lady. I’ve flown up from D.C. and don’t you dare tell me no.”

  “You listen up, buster. Mr. Arvan’s got more important things going on. I’ll see if I can fit you in next week.”

  “You won’t be in business next week,” Walters barked with a nasty, knowing smile. Another day or two and he would own this company. He had just made his first executive decision: he would personally fire this old hag and shove her out the door. He hoped she had a pension. He would personally assure she never got a dime. “You know who I am?” he asked.