The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

  Jackson had finally torn himself away from the senator’s road show and the warm glare of the rolling cameras. After arranging bail, stealing a quick shower, then spending five minutes alone with Lew Wallerman, he quickly decided he liked what Lew had to show him. In the right hands—his hands—it would be devastating. He grabbed the evidence and brusquely ordered Wallerman to wait in a side room until called.

  Jack came into the room and fell into the same chair he had occupied all those months before, when he and Walters had scrawled their names on that now regrettable contract.

  As before, the steering committee was arraigned on the opposite side, but this time deep frowns replaced the greedy smiles. No refreshments on the side table. No warm greetings. Nobody jumped up to pump his hand and tell him how swell it was for him to be there.

  Now Jack was the enemy.

  A tape recorder was gently whirring somewhere in the background, feeding the whole session to the secret room in the basement. The tape would be carefully doctored afterward. Certain parts would be omitted, but they were confident they would coerce or dupe Jack into making a few incriminating admissions. A few was all they needed.

  “We have some questions,” Jackson opened with a severe glare. “Have you heard the news about the polymer?”

  “What news?” Jack asked. He looked around the table, genuinely curious.

  “Our contract’s been suspended. The report you gave us was a phony, an interim report that was overcome by events and supposed to be shelved. The precious polymer you led us to has a short half-life. That’s a big problem for us.” Jackson bent forward. “So the first question is, where did you get that report, Jack?”

  They watched his face to see how this horrible update registered. Jack pulled on an earlobe and stared at the table. “This is news to me.”

  “Is it?

  “Yes, and I’m sorry. Can we fix it?”

  “We’re not here to answer your questions. Where did you get that report?”

  Jack took his eyes off the table. “I’m getting tired of that question, Phil. It’s still none of your damned business.”

  “It’s very much our damned business. We’re confronting the possibility of a major fraud investigation as a result of that report. You’re implicated as well, Wiley. Now, where did you get it?”

  “You have your facts wrong, Phil.”

  “Do I?”

  “It wasn’t me who used that report to persuade the Pentagon to buy the polymer. I questioned Mitch and Dan about shortcutting the Pentagon testing requirements. I was sure it was a bad idea. Both assured me it was no problem.”

  Jackson swung and examined the faces of Bellweather and Walters. “Is he telling the truth?”

  “No, he’s lying,” Walters insisted in a rush of words—of course it was true.

  Bellweather affirmed the bald lie with a hard nod.

  “Where’d you get that damned report?” Jackson demanded, more loudly and slamming a fist on the table.

  “You must enjoy the same answer. None of your business.”

  The four men on the other side of the table exchanged quick glances; without a word they decided to jettison the friendly approach, which really was never that friendly anyway.

  Bellweather pushed forward in his chair and tried to look sad. “Sorry, Jack, you’re making us do this,” he said, trying to make it sound deeply lamentable. His hand reached out and punched a button on the table.

  A few seconds later, the door swung open and Lew Wallerman entered. He swaggered to the head of the table and stood, smiling at Jack, smiling at them, smiling at the walls—he couldn’t stop smiling.

  A look of what could only be called shock registered on Jack’s face. He tried to recover but it was hopeless. “Lew, what are you doing here?” he asked limply.

  Lew was enjoying his moment in the limelight. He was thrilled to be here, and happier still to see the terror on Jack’s face. He was happiest of all, though, over the five million bucks wired only an hour before to the bank of his choice. That five now sat with the other two million chilling in a Bahamian vault. Lew was suddenly a rich man. “I’m friends with these boys here,” he boasted, directing an arm at the right side of the table, where the steering committee sat intently watching Jack’s face.

  Jack said nothing. No wisecracks or grating taunts for once. His lips were stapled shut. He was staring at Wallerman as though Jeffrey Dahmer had just joined him at the dinner table.

  “Hey, pal, don’t look so surprised,” Lew said, leering back. “I warned you we’d get together again.”

  “This is crazy, Lew. We can work this out.”

  “Can we?”

  “Let’s have a word, just you and me, outside.” Jack began pushing himself out of the chair.

  “Forget it, Jack.”

  Jack collapsed back into the chair.

  It was Jackson’s turn, and he shoved a large green file box toward the middle of the shiny conference table. “Know what this is?” he asked with a sadistic grin. He patted the top of the box fondly.

  Jack gaped at it. After a short moment that seemed to stretch forever, he muttered, “I can guess.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to guess wrong.”

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy educating me.”

  “You’re right. I’ll enjoy it immensely. Inside is a long and incriminating report from a Greek detective agency about the disappearance of Edith Warbinger. Also plane tickets, charge card receipts, and hotel billings that shed a great deal of light on an old mystery. More than enough light, Jack, to resurrect a murder investigation.”

  Jack couldn’t tear his eyes off that damned box.

  “It might be somewhat circumstantial,” Jackson continued in a maddeningly calm tone. “But in my view, it’s enough for a conviction. Murder, grand theft, graft, those are just a few of the high points.”

  He fell silent and allowed Jack a generously long moment to consider this news.

  “This is blackmail,” Jack stammered.

  “Well… yes,” Walters chimed in from the side with a dark smile. “You got us in this mess, Wiley. And you’re going to help us out of it, or we’re going to destroy you. You’ll go away for life, believe me.”

  “We regret we had to do this,” Bellweather said gravely, trying to look and act like the good cop amid a roomful of horrible cops. It wasn’t convincing. “You left us little choice, Jack.”

  “I can see it’s breaking your hearts. Tell me what you want.”

  “For starters, where did you get that report?” Jackson demanded for the fifth time.

  “Where do you think I got it?”

  “Perry Arvan.”

  “Good guess.”

  “Did you know it was a false representation? Who was behind this scam?”

  Jack sat up and rubbed his temples. “Why don’t you ask Perry?”

  “He’s gone. Disappeared into the Caribbean. Hasn’t been seen in months.”

  Walters complained, “He took our hundred million, saddled us with this pig in lipstick, and went on the lam.”

  “Good for him,” Jack mumbled. He was back to staring down at the table.

  “If you think that’s funny, it’s not,” Jackson roared. Incredibly, he thought he saw the hint of a smile beginning to form on Jack’s lips.

  Jack stood up. He looked at the faces across the table. A change seemed to come over him. “You know what?” He paused and appeared to make up his mind. “I’m tired of your stupid questions.”

  “No you’re not. Sit down and finish or I’ll shove this evidence up your ass.”

  “I don’t think you will. For a lawyer you’re painfully inept, Jackson.”

  “What?”

  “You know the phrase Mexican standoff? Maybe mutually assured destruction works better. The moment I’m arrested, I’ll start singing. I’ll have nothing to lose. I’ll cut the best deal I can get, and tell everything I know, which is considerable. We’ll all hang together.”

  Before anyb
ody could answer, Jack faced Wallerman and suggested, “Go screw yourself, Lew.”

  He ducked out the door before any of the stunned men could think up a reply.

  Mitch Walters shut and locked his office door. He walked back to his desk, trying to avoid the harsh stares from Bellweather, Jackson, and Haggar, who were sitting stiffly in the chairs splayed around the office.

  They were still stunned by Wiley’s response. They had been so sure he would collapse in fear and meet their every demand. They were going to force him to take the fall over this. The rest of his life in prison for murder, or a far shorter term for confessing to authoring this scam. That was the deal they were prepared to offer him. There really was no choice for Jack. That was the script they had cobbled together that morning; unfortunately, the lead in their nasty little play totally blew his lines.

  Jack had a good point, though. They were pointing loaded guns at each other’s heads. Their finely honed plan was now in shreds. Somebody should’ve seen it coming. If they all weren’t so exhausted and under such miserable strain, they would’ve seen the flaw in their plan.

  Nobody was ready to propose a new one.

  Walters could sense the coldness from the others. Three sets of mean eyes watching him. He knew they were going to hang this on him if he gave them half a chance.

  “Has anybody briefed the board about this yet?” Jackson asked.

  Walters glanced at his watch and said nothing. The name of the game had just switched to damage control. That meant three big questions: How screwed were they? What steps did they need to take to squirm out of it? And how much was this going to cost?

  “Not yet,” Bellweather answered, sounding miserable. “They’ll have to be told today, I suppose.”

  They all knew it was going to be ugly. It was nearly impossible to assess the carnage at this point. So much hung on the immense profitability of the polymer. In a year of sorely depressed earnings, the polymer was going to be the golden fountain that spewed out such immense profits, the savior that covered up so many sins and weaknesses. It had promised so much.

  The directors were going to throw a noisy fit. They would cry and howl and wail, and eventually they would demand heads.

  What to do about the impending legal situation was a different matter, a far touchier one. Handled properly, it would be mildly embarrassing, but they were confident they could contain the damage and avoid a major scandal. They would do the usual: stonewall, bury the evidence, and pull all the right strings. In this town, the right favors in the right circles, enough money tucked in the right pockets, and who knew—maybe, just maybe, they could limit this to a minor humiliation.

  Thank God they weren’t a public company and didn’t have to concern themselves with all those complications. There would be no stockholders’ revolt, no hammering of their stock, no antagonistic directors screaming for a bloody purge. Fortunately, no big concerns from the SEC either.

  “How are we going to manage this?” Haggar asked, getting to the point.

  Jackson jumped in. “First thing we’re going to do is destroy all the files.” He glanced at Walters. “No subpoenas have been issued. Not yet. Get rid of everything, incriminating or otherwise.”

  “Got it. A big, indiscriminate bonfire before close of business.”

  “Is there anybody in the firm who knows enough to do us harm?”

  “A few folks, probably. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Make a list and gather them together. Be liberal, don’t overlook anybody. Have legal counsel remind them about their legal obligations to the firm, then offer a strong recommendation about the right to remain silent.”

  “Easy enough.”

  “You might want to consider a few quick overseas transfers. Anybody who looks like trouble, send them to the other side of the moon. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too fast.”

  Walters nodded. What a relief to have the expert in scandals here, offering his sage advice.

  Jackson rubbed his jaw and looked thoughtful. “Here’s the only happy news. Nobody was killed or harmed as a result of the polymer. At least we don’t have to worry about our exposure to lawsuits from distraught families.” He seemed to be rattling down a mental checklist titled “How screwed am I?”

  “Right,” Walters said.

  “However, the Pentagon might launch a big suit to recover its expenditures. It’s worst-case, but we need to consider it. How much have they paid out to date?”

  Walters squirmed in his seat. He suddenly looked like his hemorrhoids were killing him. His eyebrows bunched together, and his lips felt rubbery. This was the one question he had hoped to avoid. He had lain awake the night before, sweating and contemplating the numbers.

  He briefly weighed lying, or just fudging a bit. What would be the point, though? “Roughly three billion as of a month ago,” he mumbled, garbling his words, hoping they couldn’t hear him. “Might be another billion since then. Hard to say. A lot of big costs were front-loaded.”

  Jackson heard him only too well and seemed to choke. “Four billion?”

  “Or maybe five,” he admitted, looking away. Actually five and a half, he well knew. “What’s the difference?” His eyes shifted back to their faces. “I didn’t hear anybody complain when it was pouring in.”

  Jackson began asking questions hard and fast, forcing Walters to disclose the full and complete possible financial damage. Walters tried his best to dodge and weave and trim, but Jackson was brutally relentless.

  It began to sink in what a terrible finanicial disaster this could be; it was far worse than anybody had imagined. There was a bad case and a worst case; the difference between them was almost insignificant.

  The bottom line was possibly six billion in direct losses—one promised to the Saudis, five to the Pentagon—plus many more hundreds of millions in sunk expenses—the hundred million paid to Perry Arvan, thirty-six million more to Arvan’s stockholders, twenty million to Wiley for his finder’s bonus, another twenty million spent on the influence-buying spree around Washington. Another three million frittered away to get the goods on Jack, money billed by TFAC, and over seven million in bribes paid to Charles and Wallerman, none of which would see the light of day on any corporate ledger.

  Then, whatever had been wasted on upgrading factories, hiring workers, raw materials, etc., etc. Throw in another two or three hundred million there, Walters guessed—the numbers were already dizzying.

  Nobody had worried about the costs when the polymer looked like a fountainhead of profit. Money had been spent profligately with little regard to the risks. They had been so sure of themselves, so optimistic about their amazing product, so quick to commit a hundred million here, five hundred million there. Chump change when the dream promised to produce tens of billions in profit.

  When you’re robbing a bank you don’t stop to count the change.

  Coming back as losses, the numbers fell like artillery shells.

  Their moods sank from bad to nearly suicidal.

  There also was the ancillary financial damage to be factored into the heartbreaking total. Globalbang, which Walters had coerced into canceling Arvan’s chemical contract, had never recovered. After the other suppliers witnessed Globalbang pulling the plug on Arvan, nearly all of them sprinted for the exits the moment their contracts expired. No way were they going to bank their economic survival on a firm that behaved so arbitrarily, so dishonorably, so cruelly.

  Suddenly denied the materials to manufacture its rockets and bombs, after several months of desperate efforts, Globalbang strangled to death on a last series of futile cost cuts. It went bankrupt and out of business.

  The Capitol Group had paid a whopping three billion for Globalbang back in the opening year of the Iraq war, when it seemed that buying any defense company was a license to print money. According to the general accounting principles, that stupendous write-off would have to go on this year’s annual earnings. Yet another casualty of the cursed polymer.

  Walters tr
ied to make the feeble argument that the steep losses offered a tax offset, as if that was a solace. It wasn’t, not at all. It was dawning on everyone in the room that, for the first time in the Capitol Group’s storied history, there would be no annual profit to be taxed.

  Jackson was scribbling numbers on a legal pad as fast as his ears and fingers could keep up. The creaming was worse than he ever imagined. As best he could tell, the loss could total a whopping ten billion. Ten billion!

  Once Jackson mumbled that number out loud, the magnitude began sinking in with Walters. His face went pale, his chest ached, he was having trouble breathing.

  The fat bonus he had planned on demanding, and had already mentally spent, was laughable. The three-million-dollar renovation of his Great Falls estate would have to stop. He’d have to withdraw the offer he made two weeks before for the lovely lodge in Aspen. He would be lucky to hold on to his job.

  Jackson and Bellweather looked almost as miserable. Both had vast fortunes already, enough and more to live in grand style for the rest of their lives. But like many rich men, it was never enough. In a city increasingly sprinkled with billionaires, both were nothing more than run-of-the-mill millionaires. Sadly, millionaires just didn’t get the respect they once enjoyed. A billion bought much better invitations, better access, vastly more people sucking up to you. And the word “billionaire” just sounded so much better; it had such a charming ring when the lips pursed to spit that lovely word.

  The polymer had been their ticket from the M-word to the B-ranks.

  Haggar wasn’t nearly as depressed about the numbers as the other three. They, as well as the other directors, all had big, expensive mansions, fleets of cars, vacation homes, yachts, greedy ex-wives, even a smattering of private jets to worry about. Big lifestyles required big profits.

  After a long, impoverishing career in stingy public service, Haggar had yet to cash in and had relatively little money. His lifestyle remained modest. He had few expenses—a fair-sized town house in Springfield, one kid so disgruntled, dumb, and lazy he was lucky to be attending an inexpensive community college. Plus he was still married to his first wife, the same college sweetheart he’d been hitched to the past thirty years, through good times and bad, sickness and health, and all that. In truth, they could barely stand the sight of each other. They slept in different beds, used different bathrooms, avoided each other as much as possible. But both, for their own selfish reasons, had seen his job in the Capitol Group as a reason to tough it out.