by Brian Haig
Hamilton could barely produce a limp nod. If he had a gun he’d shoot Earl; he’d shoot himself, too.
“So, since we have all these reports and vile accusations of vehicle deficiencies”—Earl paused to steal a glance at his notes to be sure he got the words just right—“and since I’m sure you gentlemen from General Techtonics want the very safest equipment for our soldiers in battle, I’m gonna do you a big favor. I propose to this committee that we give you six more months to extensively test your vehicle.”
Hamilton was rubbing his temples. His bosses were going to kill him. A six-month delay would be financially devastating. More tests could cost billions. “Am I allowed to register a protest?”
“You certainly may. We live in a democracy.”
“How?”
“Write your congressman.”
Earl asked for a hand vote. Without objection or comment, he quickly got thirty-five in favor. Twenty of those yeas had recently received mysterious donations to their reelection committees; three had been promised assistance or support on various pet bills or pork requests; two new members were simply trying to garner favor with the committee chairman.
Amazingly, Earl had pulled this off with only one million dollars; the other million contributed by CG to his buying spree, of course, ended up in his pockets. Democracy at its best.
He slammed the gavel and the hearing immediately broke up. Mia ignored the noisy exodus of chattering congressmen, staffers, and reporters and stayed glued to her seat, pretending to read a memo, until the last member quietly closed the door behind him.
She got up and approached one of the C-SPAN cameramen, a large man with a big belly, awkwardly bent over gathering his equipment, preparing to move on.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said to his back. “Would it be possible to get a copy of your tape?”
He was playing with a machine on the floor. He never looked up. “Sorry, no.”
“Try yes instead.”
“Not mine to give, lady. Belongs to C-SPAN.”
“Would it help if I showed you this?” she asked, flashing a card at his back. He turned around and stared at it: Mia Jenson, Investigator, Defense Criminal Investigative Service. Then out popped her DCIS shield, which he glanced at also for another moment. “It’s quite real,” Mia assured him. “I’m a federal agent.”
“What’s this about?” he asked, now staring at her,
“That’s none of your business.” She glanced at the identity card hanging around his neck. “Listen, Carl, I’m asking politely now. I could just as easily come back with a subpoena.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be a pain.”
She gave him a slight smile. It seemed apologetic. “Oh, what the hell. Between you and me, Carl, we’re looking into a few irregularities in the GT 400.”
“I see.”
“Probably nothing. Chasing rumors. My bosses ordered me to come back with the tape.”
“Why don’t we bring this to my bosses?”
“I’d rather not.”
His forehead was wrinkled with suspicion. “Is there a reason why?”
“It’s a confidential investigation at this point. That’s how we’re treating it. Like I said, it’s merely exploratory and we’d rather not have GT learn we’re looking.” Her features wrinkled with disgust. “They’ll throw a battalion of lawyers at us, and hide anything incriminating. The investigation will be dead before it gets started.”
“Okay.”
“Make me a copy. Nobody’ll know. Please, Carl.”
“Sure. No problem.” Carl happened to have a high-speed tape copying machine, and two minutes later he handed her the tape.
Mia thanked him and disappeared.
They walked at a fast clip through the elegant lobby of the Madison Hotel until they were met by a duet of burly men; East Europeans of some variety, both of them. They looked like bookends, spectacularly muscled, fierce-looking, and no doubt armed to the teeth. Neither spoke a word of English. They greeted Bellweather and Walters with respectful grunts, escorted them to the elevators, then stood stiffly and quietly in the corner while the elevator whisked them to the ninth floor.
Next, a brisk walk down the long hallway to the very end, where one of the Madison’s most opulent and expensive suites was located. Another pair of brutish bookends was planted beside the door. After quick nods and more courteous grunts, they ushered the Americans inside. No patdowns, no questions. They were expected, obviously. And they were welcome.
The large suite they stepped into had been transformed from standard American luxury fare into an Arabian fantasy. The floors were plastered wall to wall with thick, handwoven oriental carpets. Shimmering silk fabrics and tapestries hung from the ceilings. The sofas and chairs had been replaced with enough oversize floor cushions to seat a hundred. The temperature was set at a sweltering ninety degrees. All the discomforts of home.
Two gentlemen in white robes with bright gold edging sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor. They were sharing a silver hookah pipe and munching from a large bowl of dates.
The one on the left offered a faint smile. “Ah, Daniel, nice of you to arrive on time.”
“Your highness,” Bellweather said, and bowed slightly. The exaggerated and entirely phony formality brought smiles to both their faces.
“Won’t you be seated,” Prince Ali bin Tariq requested with a commanding flourish of his right hand. Ali was the forty-third son of the Saudi king, formerly, and for an amazingly long eighteen years, the Saudi ambassador to the United States. Educated at Harvard and Oxford, he was highly westernized, an accomplished diplomat, a drunk, a womanizer, and a flamboyant rascal who had once treated D.C. as his own playground.
During his long tenure as ambassador he had helped fix three presidential elections, bought enough congressmen and senators to stuff two Rolodexes, fathered countless illegitimate children, purchased six fabulous homes from Palm Beach to Vail, along with three luxury jets to shuttle him around his real estate empire, and along the way became the senior and most esteemed member of Washington’s diplomatic corps.
Eighteen years away from his stuffed-shirt kingdom, eighteen years of sin and frolic, and all the pleasures and contentment unlimited wealth could buy.
During many of those years, Bellweather had been his frequent partner in bar-hopping and whoring around town. They shared women, they drank an ocean of booze, and on one amazing occasion they christened Ali’s newest Boeing 737 with a wild, fantasy, around-the-world orgy. Just Bellweather and Ali, and thirty women chosen for their physical variety and amorous skills.
That exhausting but remarkable trip had been the cause of Bellweather’s second divorce, the ugliest of the three. Definitely the most enthusiastic and sexually imaginative of the ladies, it turned out, was a very determined PI hired by his wife. The PI returned from the trip with a thick photo album showing Daniel in an assortment of insane poses.
After one glance at the album, he offered wife two a swift, uncontested divorce with a “fair settlement.” When she then mentioned her ambition to open a public photo gallery, he collapsed completely; whatever she wanted, she could have it. She took him at his word and looted him for all he was worth. The house, the cars, all of his cash that she knew about.
It was worth every penny. The thought of those terrifying photos in the public eye was nauseating.
Then, three years ago, after a series of media articles about the prince’s outrageous lifestyle became too ugly to ignore, his father called him home. It was one thing for a Saudi prince to bribe, corrupt, fix, and blackmail in a foreign land. Infidels, after all, were born incorrigibly corrupted; what was wrong with squirting a little more fuel on the fire?
His father, however, drew the line over a photograph of Ali in Entertainment Weekly, a leering smile on his lips, a bubbling flute of champagne in one hand, the other planted firmly on the rather skinny fanny of one of Hollywood’s most celebrated sluts, which said something. The girl was only sixteen
. Worse, she was made up to look only thirteen. Ali was crushed. For eighteen years he had lived the life of dreams. The idea of returning home, to a hot, sandy, dry country, to give up his American mansions, his powerful dedication to scotch, to live in a barren land without booze or blonde women—he’d developed a particular longing for golden hair—sickened him. He sent a long letter home, an elegantly worded missive telling his father to screw off.
But after the king threatened to cut off not only his inheritance and lifestyle emoluments, but also his head, Ali decided his affection for his family was calling him.
Bellweather and Walters had by now fallen onto their rear ends. Emitting a series of loud grunts, they were trying their damnedest to wrench their legs and knees into the same cross-legged stance as the Saudis.
His features twisted with pain, Bellweather asked, “You got a call from President Cantor?”
“Yes, yes,” Ali said with a quick wave. “Billy mentioned you have something interesting for us. Something quite lucrative.”
The moment Ali returned home, he had begged his father for a position in the Kingdom’s Ministry of Finance. High, low, didn’t matter. With his contacts and unscrupulous friends, he swore he could do a world of good for Saudi investments overseas. The king had a different idea and instead threw him in a Wahhabi-run rehab facility to dry out. A prison would’ve been more merciful, and less dreadful. Ali found himself in a small, unadorned room with only a bed and prayer mat, trapped in the middle of the desert with nobody but other spoiled and depraved reprobates for company.
He nearly went mad. It was such a steep drop from his former life. After a long, horrible two years of staring at white walls, of interminable sermons on faith and abstinence, of prostrating himself in prayer throughout the day, while he secretly dreamed of booze and blondes, Ali finally got his chance. He wrote a long rambling letter to his father swearing he was cured. A newly purified servant of Allah, he was now anxious to get out and make serious amends for his many sins. His timing couldn’t have been better. With oil prices shooting through the ceiling, the royal family was suddenly awash with cash. Gobs of it, many, many billions of Western money, was flooding the small kingdom. Black stuff was pumped out, rivers of green stuff flowed in.
Finding safe places to park all that cash had become a mammoth problem.
But at long last, after two horrible years of unmitigated misery, his father gave Ali the chance he had dreamed of, an opportunity to escape and make frequent trips to the West.
Over the wretched course of those two pathetic years, the only thing that had kept Ali from hanging himself in his cell were all the wild fantasies he stored in his head and replayed over and over. He developed a mental catalog; things he had done, things he would like to do again, new things he’d like to try. The time had come, at last, to indulge every last one of his preserved fantasies.
However, the man seated to Ali’s right, Bellweather knew, was a former imam and an iron-willed zealot, dispatched by the king to keep a tight rein on his forty-third son and be sure he didn’t lapse back into his nasty old habits. The temptations of the West were strong, and Ali obviously had a few willpower issues.
“How much did Cantor tell you?” Bellweather asked.
“A little. Something about a liquid you will squirt on your tanks and jeeps.”
“He told you what the polymer does?”
“More or less.”
“Are you interested?”
“More or less,” he repeated in that maddeningly opaque Middle Eastern way. In Arabland, apparently the words “yes” and “no” would draw a lightning bolt from the heavens.
“Then let me update you,” Bellweather suggested. He quickly proceeded through an energetic explanation of the polymer, a hilarious story about the dashed hopes of the GT 400, and the state of play in getting a defense contract. He made it sound like a gold mine—which it was—and a sure thing—which was drawing closer to reality every day.
Ali and his watchdog made loud slurping noises as they pulled tokes from the hookah. Ali listened politely but appeared only mildly interested.
Walters sat quietly and let Bellweather handle the pitch. Walters secretly loathed Arabs. His family name had been Wallerstein before he got it legally changed. He had aunts and uncles in Israel. A few cousins in the IDF. He wanted nothing to do with these Bedouin schlemiels, except for their money; about that he had absolutely no qualms.
“So now you want to sell us a piece,” Ali suggested the moment Bellweather finished.
“That’s the general idea, yes.” No fuller explanation was asked for, or indeed necessary. CG never put its own money on the line. They developed a project or takeover target, then quickly invited others to share the financial burden and gains. The financial term was “leverage,” shorthand for accumulating capital and spreading the risks of failure across multiple parties. In this case it meant buying all the influence that CG’s powerful group of insiders and power-peddlers could muster in the hunt for profit.
CG, however, carried it to absurd lengths. This was the secret to its success, the basic principle its founders had always preached. No matter how enticing the gamble, do it with other people’s money. They took funds from New York, Geneva, Frankfurt, Mumbai, Taipei, Moscow, really from anyone with deep pockets and the willingness to accept their stark terms. The source of the money made no difference. But the Saudis had long been their most frequent investor.
There was good reason for this. Billy Cantor, the former president and now CG board member, had during his time in office done the Saudis a few quiet favors. He had squelched several embarrassing inquiries that ranged from bribing American officials to some fairly egregious SEC violations. When several of the Saudi royals visited Las Vegas, and engaged in a wild bash that led to allegations they had kidnapped ten showgirls and treated them like a private harem, he had signed a secret order allowing them to jump on planes and flee home.
Then, after sixty American soldiers were butchered in a horrifying terrorist bombing at a U.S. air base outside Riyadh, with strong hints of government involvement, he had ordered the FBI and CIA to bring home their investigators and call it quits.
He did these favors not out of love for the Saudis. Truthfully, Arabs, Pakistanis, Indians—all those semi-dark people looked so much alike to him. He was well aware, though, that his long life in politics was grinding to a sad close. He had so little to show for it.
He’d been such a miserable president, with so few accomplishments to write or brag about afterward. No, he wasn’t likely to get rich off speeches and books, like the others of his ilk. With his heavy lisp and oversize tongue, he’d never been a good orator anyway. Even Nixon—Nixon!—had made a large fortune peddling books.
Sadly, the sum total of Billy’s insights and ruminations about statecraft or good governance could barely fill a two-page article. And after his regrettable attempt at reelection prompted a record landslide for the other side, it was clear the nation just wanted to forget him. So he’d spent his last months in office stuffing in as many favors to rich, unpopular countries and greedy defense contractors as he could get away with.
Now those old favors were paying back a thousandfold. The Saudi royal family came when Bill Cantor called. They had few fans in America, and a president, even a former one, even one with such a lackluster record and astounding level of unpopularity, was worth whatever he cost.
“This sounds interesting,” Ali murmured before he took a long draw on the hookah. After holding it for a long period he exhaled a large cloud in Walters’s direction. Walters nearly fell over. The smell was oddly pungent and seemed familiar. After a moment of careful sniffing, it came to him. Cannabis. Ali and his watchdog were sharing a huge doobie.
Well, what the hell. Maybe Allah had a thing against alcohol but not weed.
Ali selected a nice plump date from the bowl and studied it. “How much have you laid out so far?” he asked.
“About 128 million, between the purchas
e of the company and a fee to the finder. Then twenty million or so, for… well, let’s call it marketing expenses.”
Ali’s eyebrows shot up. “Twenty million?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“The price has gone up, Daniel.”
“Everything’s going up. The price of buying an election. The price of holding the seat. The bastards pass on these costs to us, their customers.” Bellweather leaned back and stretched his legs. The effort to twist his old body to mimic Ali’s contorted position was killing him. “Their greed is astonishing.”
“So all told, what, nearly 150 million?”
“More or less. We project another 250 million for production costs and assorted odds and ends. Raw materials, factory upgrades, new equipment, that sort of thing.”
“How much will you charge the government?” Ali asked.
“Impossible to say at this point. Depends how many vehicles they want coated. And how fast.”
“Yes, yes,” Ali said in a knowing tone. “Cut the bullshit, Daniel, it’s me. How much?”
Bellweather considered a bluff or a lie, but this was Ali bin Tariq; he was better wired in this town than the CIA and FBI combined. Finding it impossible to hide the proud smile, he said, “Conservatively, eight billion the first year.”
Without missing a beat, Ali said, “A sixteenfold markup. You’re talking almost a two thousand percent return.”
Bellweather attempted a humble shrug that quickly turned into a loud smirk. It was impossible to act humble about this. “Yes, it’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”
“My God.” Ali’s eyes lit up. He had to take another deep draw from the hookah. Walters was getting high off the exhaust.
“We’re at the stage now of turning this into a joint venture,” Bellweather informed him, suddenly very businesslike. “The risks are minuscule at this point. No, they’re negligible. But we like to take care of our friends.”
“How much can we get in for?” Ali asked without hesitation. His eyes looked like smokeholes but his instinct for business was perfectly lucid. Bellweather wasn’t at all surprised. In the old days, Ali could have sex all night long, slug down two bottles of scotch for breakfast, and still pilot his plane from Florida to Vail. His stamina was legendary.