by Brian Haig
Earl shook his head, dismayed by the horror of it. “Hell, that’d have to be looked into.”
“I like your logic. And were you to schedule the hearing for… oh, say about three weeks from now, a lot of critics will be ready to raise a noisy racket about it.”
Haggar, feeling like a third wheel, decided to throw in his two cents. “Make it a last-minute thing, Earl. No warning. In fact, announce an entirely different reason for the hearing.”
“You mean, call it a program review, maybe a cost overview. Something like that.”
“Perfect, something totally innocuous. GT won’t be expecting an ambush. They’ll send over a bunch of accountants and be totally off guard.”
“Great idea,” Earl mumbled, already picturing it in his mind. A bunch of number crunchers armed with spreadsheets and cost analysis proposals, gawking in shock as they were being pilloried about the intricacies of vehicular physics. Get a few staffers to work up a bunch of questions that would stump Albert Einstein. How fun. They’d be frozen in their chairs, peeing in their drawers, totally clueless. “Wonderful. What then?” Earl asked, popping a shrimp between his lips and clamping down hard.
Bellweather tackled this one. “But be careful. An outright program termination would incite too much resistance. Too much heat and noise. GT and the generals will scream murder.”
“Not just them,” Earl observed, sucking on a dim sum roll. “Teller’ll throw a real hissy fit. Don’t get between that boy and a TV camera.”
“So don’t kill it,” Bellweather advised, “delay it. Send it back for another year of rigorous testing until the safety concerns are ironed out and mollified. A good hard scrub before we waste all those billions, a reasonable pause before we expose our boys to uncertain dangers.”
Like that, Bellweather stopped talking. Earl stopped eating. Haggar began scribbling something on a napkin. The meeting seemed to lurch into a new phase. Jack knew enough to keep his face expressionless, his mouth shut.
By unspoken agreement, the ball had slid to Earl’s corner. He wiped his plump lips on a cheap white paper napkin and leaned back in his chair. “I believe it will work,” he concluded with a small, mysterious smile.
But there was nothing at all mysterious about it to Bellweather.
The former SECDEF who had first introduced Earl to this game looked slightly annoyed. “We will of course be very appreciative,” Bellweather muttered, sounding anything but. A long, awkward silence. “What do you have in mind, Earl?”
“Glad you asked, Dan.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Five million for my next campaign would certainly be nice.” Earl had dropped the country bumpkin and was suddenly the sharpy riverboat gambler. He was leaning across the table, eyes narrowed, gleaming with total concentration.
Bellweather threw down his napkin and nearly howled. “Christ, Earl, that’s too much.”
“Well… what’s enough?”
“Three million. That’s all we budgeted, all we can afford.”
“See, Dan, I’m also factorin’ the price of ushering this polymer of yours through the political thickets. I expect you’ll be looking for a noncompetitive, fast-track deal.” When nobody contradicted that, he continued, “I’m a one-stop shop, Dan, all that and a bag of chips.”
“Five is still too much.”
“Nah, it’s a real good deal and you know it. Kill the competitors, and grease the pole for your polymer. Nobody else can handle this.”
After a long, tense pause, Bellweather said, “Even you can’t do it alone, Earl.”
“Oh, damn, you’re right. I’ll need a little more to spread around. Throw another two million into my PAC.”
Bellweather looked ready to argue, but he didn’t have the strength. “You’ve learned this game too well,” he whispered.
“Yeah, well, I had a good teacher,” Earl said.
Martie O’Neal was happily hidden in the third stall to the left, comfortably ensconced on the toilet, when his cell phone began bleeping and rattling. He dropped the girlie magazine, lurched over, and spent ten frantic seconds trying to dig the phone out of the pocket of the trousers gathered around his ankles. “What?” he barked.
“Martie, it’s me, Morgan,” said the familiar voice.
“Whatcha got?”
“Gold, maybe, or maybe fool’s gold.” Morgan quickly filled in the story about Charles, omitting only a few insignificant details like how Charles found him, how he escaped, and that infuriating little stunt with the note in place of the glass. Some things are better left unsaid.
Martie asked the obvious. “He worth fifty K?”
“Who knows?”
“You, Morgan. You’re supposed to know.”
“I can’t vouch for his reliability,” Morgan answered, hoping he wouldn’t be called on that vague response.
“You got nothing? Fingerprints? A phone number? Anything?”
“Uh… he was very clever.”
“You mean he outsmarted you.”
“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Morgan stammered, trying to make it sound like no big deal.
“I don’t like that.”
“Me either. He was very slick. Could be a con.”
“That what you think?”
“I’ve been here three weeks handing out business cards by the bushel. It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs, an invitation to get rolled. What do you think?”
O’Neal had worked around the clock, without a day or weekend off since he got this job. The billings were great but the hours were killing him. Walters phoned nearly every day, pressuring for an update and hectoring him about the lack of results. His wife had begun bitching and moaning, about chores left undone, about dinner dates broken, about coming home too tired for conversation or sex. Jack Wiley was ruining his life.
Now the wife was threatening to have his battle-ax mother-in-law come for a long, miserable visit; things were about to go from terrible to horrible. All that hard work, effort, and expense and he had found nothing incriminating or even remotely distasteful about Jack Wiley. He was frustrated. He lay awake at night thinking about Wiley. He hated him, hated everything about him, the goody-two-shoes. He had been so confident he would find something; he had promised Walters instant results. “When are you going to meet him?” he asked Morgan, obviously committed.
Charles might be a shot in the dark, but O’Neal was past the point of caring. This was the first inkling that there might be some dark secret in Jack’s past, some chink in the saintly armor. He’d be damned if he’d let it slip by. Besides, it wasn’t his money.
“He said I better call today or forget it,” Morgan replied.
“He’ll insist on a meet tonight. Keep the initiative, limit our time to prepare. You know the game.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figure, too.”
“I’ll send two more guys up on the next flight. They’ll be hauling fifty thousand in cash. Can you handle this?”
“Kid’s play. Don’t worry,” Morgan replied, trying to sound calm and glib. In his Agency days, he’d done dozens of bagjobs like this. And all those operations were against real spies and terrorist thugs and bloodthirsty drug lords.
He’d only been fooled the first time, he reassured himself, because Charles had dropped in without warning.
They arrived fifteen minutes early for the start of the movie. His choice, Eva told him, whatever he wanted to watch. Then she raised her eyebrows over the flick he suggested—a brawling, manly epic filled with battles and slaughters—and argued for a different film, one that had received rave reviews, a blockbuster she coyly described as a warm old-fashioned western with a minor twist, called Brokeback Mountain.
They settled on a compromise, a forgettable romantic comedy with a pair of even more unexceptional stars. “So, how was your day?” Eva asked as they settled into their seats.
It was a weeknight. The crowd was sparse, so they had two prime seats all to themselves in the middle of the front row. Th
ey had come straight from work and met at the theater.
“Long, interesting, extremely profitable,” Jack said, noisily rummaging through a large box of popcorn poised on his lap. He’d missed dinner and this would have to suffice.
“What did you do?”
“Drove around town mostly. Bellweather has plenty of friends.” Very few of which they had met at their places of work, Jack might have added, but didn’t.
Bellweather and Haggar had given him an enlightening tour of the city’s hole-in-the-wall restaurants, splendid places to conduct illicit business in plain sight. By day’s end, Bellweather was suffering a murderous case of heartburn. Haggar twice had bolted from the table to contend with bouts of diarrhea. Making illegal deals apparently wasn’t for those with weak stomachs.
“Washington is a small town, at least among those that matter.”
Jack laughed. “So I’m seeing.”
“You sound disenchanted.”
“Then I’ve given you the wrong impression.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, I’m having a ball. It’s a side of democracy I never imagined.”
This was their second date since Eva dropped by his house that first time: they were beyond the getting-to-know-you phase, not quite at the I’m-very-comfortable-in-your-presence stage. After a moment, Eva said, “The rumors around the office are that you’re going to salvage our annual earnings.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“It’s a very big deal, Jack. They say Bellweather is spreading around a lot of cash to set this up.”
Jack looked away. “Rumors like that are dangerous.”
“Oh, you know accountants. We always need something to discuss at the watercooler.” After a moment, Eva asked, “Is it true?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Jack lied. It was more than a lie, it was a mountain of untruth. To the best he could tell they’d spread around promises of nearly twenty million that day—seven to Earl Belzer, five to an obnoxious, boastful, crotchety senator on the Senate Armed Services Committee, then another eight distributed judiciously among a variety of think tanks and reputed watchdog groups, in return for vigorous vows to tarnish and smear the GT 400. Jack lost count of all the promises, all of the handfuls of cash to be laundered through third parties, then doled out to the usual array of PACs and 527s, the capital city’s equivalent of money laundering. Haggar, with his passion for numbers, made careful notes after each meeting.
At one point, Bellweather bragged to Jack that CG had a highly respected specialist in such matters, a magician who could make money disappear off the corporate books, then reappear in politicians’ pockets without a trace of its source.
Jack was too amazed to be shocked. They made it look so easy. No, it was easy. In only a few short hours Bellweather and Haggar had bagged two of the Hill’s most powerful legislators and arranged the almost certain sabotage of their most threatening competitors. At the bargain price of only twenty million bucks, they would rake in billions. So little capital for such a mammoth gain.
After a moment of tense quiet, Eva put her hand on Jack’s. “If I’ve gotten too personal, Jack, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I am worried, about you.”
“Why should you?”
“Because I like you.”
“I mean, why worry?”
“This town is rough, maybe rougher than you think. Don’t let the smiles and backslaps lull you. You might be getting in over your head.”
Jack smiled. “In New York people cross the street when they see me coming.”
“Do they?”
“There are warning signs all over the city—watch out for big bad Jack. Mothers threaten their kids to be good or Jack will get you.”
“Oh, you’re that Jack.” Eva pretended to recoil back in her seat. After a moment she said, “Look, I’m sure you’re a terror to behold, up there. This is a different world, with different kinds of players.”
“Do you think they’re trying to hurt me or set me up?”
“I didn’t say that. No. As long as your interests are aligned with theirs you should be fine. It’s just that I care about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Eva, this country prints billionaires like postage stamps. Why shouldn’t I be one? Besides, this polymer will save the lives of hundreds or thousands of soldiers. If we have to cut a few corners to get it into the field, so what?”
“Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’ll start wearing body armor tomorrow, thank you.”
“And I’m offering my services,” Eva added, gripping his hand a little tighter. “I know these people, Jack. They’re sharks. Confide in me and I can help.”
“If I need a watchdog, you’ll be the first one I call,” Jack promised vaguely, but not the least bit unfriendly.
The movie was even worse than its reviews.
14
Morgan took an anxious step out of the cab and onto the curb at the corner of 10th Avenue and 53rd Street. He checked his watch—7:20 p.m. right on time. Charles had been abrupt and very demanding on the phone. Arrive by taxi, Morgan was told in a tone that brooked no objections. Don’t be a minute late. Come alone; no trailers, no wires, no funny business.
If Charles so much as suspected his instructions weren’t being obeyed to the letter, Morgan could stand on the street corner till the cocks crowed. Charles swore he would disappear, not to be heard from again.
Rivers and Nickels, the TFAC reinforcements, had landed as scheduled on the four o’clock shuttle at LaGuardia. They arrived hauling a briefcase stuffed with cash as well as a stern reminder from O’Neal not to screw this up. Martinelli and Tanner, the two snoops who had spent the past three weeks trolling the Wall Street firms, were also ordered to assist.
Five men. Four highly trained former government agents to back up Morgan, four hardened pros to make sure they learned a little more about Charles and his fabulous claims.
Morgan drew up the plan. It was well thought out. There were no objections from the other four. The idea was to trail Charles after the meeting, or, barring that, get a usable fingerprint, or at the very least a few good photos. Somehow, whatever it took, they needed to learn his real identity and the nature of his relationship to Jack.
The four backups were littered around the surrounding streets in a variety of poses and disguises. They arrived an hour early and picked out their positions with exacting care. Martinelli and Tanner were parked in separate cars, idling nearby, waiting to punch the gas and follow; Rivers and Nickels would trail on foot, wherever Charles led them.
Despite the hard warning from Charles, Morgan was wired and ready to broadcast.
For two full minutes Morgan stood on the corner alone, trying to appear relaxed and guileless as he pretended to watch the traffic. Out of the blue, he felt a light tap on his back, and when he turned around Charles was there, grinning. Morgan quickly put two and two together—evidently Charles had been waiting in a nearby store, marking time and watching until Morgan showed.
“Did you come alone?” Charles asked predictably.
“Yes, just me,” he lied.
“Are you wired?”
“No, I swear.”
“You’re lying.”
“Check me if you like,” Morgan offered with a smug smirk as he held out his arms and spun around. I mean it, go ahead, search as long and hard as you like, he said to himself. The bug was state of the art, very tiny, encased in a button in his coat; it wouldn’t activate until he squeezed it. The newest thing, totally dormant and undetectable by a wand or any known electronic detector until he chose to turn it on. That would come later.
“Doesn’t matter,” Charles said with a nonchalant shrug. “Come on. Walk beside me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“I have the money, Charles.” He held up the case for inspection. “It’s all here, fifty thou in cash.”
“Good for you. Now we have something to talk about.” Charles was already walking, so Morgan took off after him.
“Well, I’m here, so why don’t you start talking now?” Morgan asked, very sociably. It was an old ploy, one taught to all the scrubs in the Agency school in Virginia—divert the prey’s mind and get his attention away from the environment and the trackers. They were side by side now, moving slowly, a casual stroll. A cripple could follow them at this pace.
“Relax, Morgan. It’s worth the wait, I promise you.”
“I’m just wondering why you’re so paranoid.”
“I have my reasons. Believe me, they’re good ones.”
“All this secrecy and clandestine crap, why can’t we talk without all this cloak-and-dagger?”
This question seemed to get on his nerves. “Maybe you don’t know Jack as well as you think you do.”
They turned right and headed toward the narrower streets of the theater district. The crowds were growing thicker but Charles hadn’t tried any funny business yet. Morgan wore a yellow windbreaker so loud it virtually glowed in the dark, another trick he’d learned in his years as a spook. In the densest mob, in the dead of night, he’d be impossible to misplace. “Jack’s harmless,” Morgan insisted after a long moment. “We’ve seen nothing to indicate any problems.”
“You checked his Army record?” Charles asked with an amused grin.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Uh-huh. What did it say?”
“Clean as a whistle. War hero, loved by his troops, admired by one and all.”
For some reason this brought a condescending chuckle from Charles and a nasty side glance. “You guys aren’t as good as I thought.”
“Look, pal, we got his official record.”
“No, you got his unclassified file,” Charles said sharply. “There’s another record, the real one. The Army calls it a classified fiche.”
Through his CIA service Morgan was familiar with them. “What was he, a special ops cowboy or something?”
“In fact Jack was Delta. Everything’s smoke and mirrors with those people.”
Morgan had no idea whether this was true. “Can you prove that?”