The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

  And they’d caught him fair and square, in the basement, holding a Hefty bag filled with junk in his right hand, with a big brick in his left hand.

  “But there might be a way you can help yourself, Mr. Jones,” Mia offered, with only a hint of reservation.

  Jones saw a ray of hope, for the first time. “Tell me. What is it?”

  “You want to talk about TFAC? If you have anything helpful, I’ll do my best to get you a little slack.”

  So she knew about TFAC, too. What didn’t she know? A lot, he hoped, because he suddenly felt an irrepressible urge to tell her anything she was interested in. Names, dates, his wife’s embarrassing incontinence issues—name it, and he’d talk her ear off. “What’s it worth and what do you want to know?” Jones asked, trying his damnedest to sound like he still had a choice in this matter.

  “I’ll try to get twenty knocked off. That leaves twenty, max. Behave like a model citizen, you’ll cut that in half.”

  The nods were so fierce he nearly broke his neck. Ten years suddenly sounded like a short holiday.

  “TFAC hired you to do this job, right?” Mia suggested.

  “Yeah, sorta. We’re contractors. TFAC brings us in for the occasional job.”

  “Who brings you in? Give me a name.”

  He thought about the twenty years knocked off his sentence—“O’Neal. Martie O’Neal.” The name couldn’t come out fast enough.

  “What were you asked to do?”

  “Look for dirt. Plant bugs in your phones. Leave a little gift somewhere in your home.”

  “The heroin. To set me up, right?”

  “I guess. What happens afterward, I don’t know.” He tried desperately to sound convincing. He would never knowingly try to hurt the nice lady with twenty years of his life in her hands.

  “Who’s TFAC’s client for this job?”

  “I dunno. I swear I don’t. They never tell us. I’d tell you if I knew, I just can’t.”

  “Have you done a job like this before?”

  “Yeah, coupla times.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Seven, maybe eight months ago.”

  “Who? Where?”

  “Some rich guy. Up in Jersey.”

  “Name?”

  “Wiley. Uh, Jack, or John, I think.”

  Mia seemed to be out of questions for the moment. The instant they got him to the station, he would spend hours being grilled on tape and filmed. Now that he was already squealing and on record with a few big admissions, the hardest part would be getting him to shut up.

  She turned to the uniform. “Get him the hell out of my house and book him. Make sure he’s kept away from the others.”

  Jones was led out the door, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he stumbled over his own feet. Castile and Phillips were also singing their hearts out, answering any question thrown their way. All three were small fry, almost insignificant in the big scheme, though. Mia didn’t really care how many years they got, if indeed they got any at all.

  As long as they spilled their secrets, as long as everything was on record and legally admissible.

  As long as they helped her bag the big fish.

  The same night, a Pentagon spokesperson, anonymously of course, leaked to the press that the $20 billion polymer contract was suspended, pending a careful review to determine its ultimate efficacy.

  The decision to drop the news this way, so lacking in richness or detail or attribution, came straight from the top. The Secretary of Defense was understandably furious, but controlled. There was, as yet, no definitive evidence that the polymer failed after four months—nothing but a musty old report done years before by some private company.

  In another week or two, assuming the original tests were correct, the first polymer coatings might start failing and they would know for sure about the polymer’s fleeting qualities. Until then at least, he wanted this handled without any grandstanding.

  But the secretary’s patience with all the dirty scandals emerging from the Iraq war was exhausted. There had been so many. The greedy contracting officer who took kickbacks. The tortures committed in military prisons. The sleazy oil deals made quietly under the table. The massive arms shipment that was mysteriously misplaced and ended up in the hands of Iraqi insurgents. And too many other disgraceful memories, large and small.

  So much of his limited time had been spent fending off congressional inquiries or wrestling with nosy, ambitious journalists who just wouldn’t get off it.

  Big wars involved big money; a little bit of profiteering was to be expected. Wars spawned greed, what’s new? Deplorable certainly, but human nature didn’t take a holiday just because the bullets were flying.

  This, though, was different, involving as it did one of America’s largest, most prestigious private equity firms. CG was a powerhouse, widely feared, vaguely admired, and uniformly envied in the corridors of power. A former American president, former secretary of state, ex–secretary of defense, all those impressive, famous foreign leaders, and countless lesser officials—barring a footlocker full of the most damning evidence, CG was not to be trifled with. The secretary definitely didn’t want to jump the gun, half-cocked. A single misstep at this stage and CG would pull out all the stops and make him pay dearly.

  So whatever was done had to be accomplished quietly, respectfully, and fast. No big public announcement, no fanfare was the order of the day. Word was passed down, through the deputy secretary, then the undersecretaries, then the assistants, and deputy assistants to the assistants, to all the grandly titled minions, that the only leaks on this affair would come through the secretary himself, or else.

  Naturally, long before his stern warning made it halfway down the chain, the nosy Pentagon press learned all about his gag order. And predictably, they launched into an all-out frenzy. They began working the corridors, jawboning their favorite snitches, fighting to be the first to get the scoop, vacuuming for all they were worth.

  To their immense surprise, there was remarkably little to learn. The stop order on the polymer had grown out of a vague warning from the Defense Criminal Investigative Service. Few knew the details, including anybody they talked to. No nasty charges had been preferred, no big investigation initiated.

  It certainly smelled like a big story, rife with the promise of a loud and embarrassing scandal. The secretary’s information crackdown hinted at fear, and in their world, where there’s fear, there’s the possibility of a Pulitzer.

  But with so little to go on, they were forced to hold their fire until, as inevitably happened, they found the crack in the ice.

  In military parlance, the scandal light was lit. The reporters smuggled in booze and videos and sleeping bags, continued to work the corridors, huddled in small packs to share the latest scuttlebutt, and hunkered down in their cramped office carrels for the wait.

  26

  Rufus Clark was a two-bit Chicago private investigator with a less than promising practice. Nasty divorces, property disputes, and missing cats and dogs were his usual fare. Two thousand in a good month, and those were rare. He was thirty-two years old, single, with two illegitimate children, and still lived with his mother.

  His lone claim to fame, pitiful as it happened to be, but one he proudly inflated to his clients, was one brief year he spent in the FBI, before being caught smoking a little weed and sleeping with some whores provided by a local crime lord whose questionable activities the Bureau was looking into. For once in his sorry life, Rufus got lucky. Too little evidence existed to do anything but show him the door.

  Given his questionable background and severely limited policing experience, Rufus tended to jump at any work he could get without any serious consideration about its legality. So when Martie O’Neal called with a generous offer of $10K for only one day’s work, Rufus dove in.

  He held the small photograph two inches from his nose and again studied the man across the lobby. Oh yeah, definitely him, he decided, taking a few steps closer.


  Martie had e-mailed him the name, work address, this old DMV photo, a few instructive background notes, and a brief list of questions for Rufus to get answered.

  His target was tall and thin, wearing a nice blue suit and holding a battered old briefcase as he stood by the elevator doors and waited. Rufus edged a little closer, within striking distance, just not enough to attract attention.

  The elevator door opened and Rufus closed the distance fast and darted in before the door could close. Then it was just Rufus and his target standing side by side. His target was too busy watching the numbers as the elevator climbed to notice him.

  “Excuse me,” Rufus blurted, producing a quizzical expression. “Don’t I know you?”

  Weak, but the best he could do on such short notice. O’Neal had recommended the old tried-and-true government background check story, but in Rufus’s professional judgment, his target knew too much about Mia for that to hold any water. He was improvising and hoping it worked.

  The target was staring at Rufus now. “Sorry, no.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’ve never seen you before.”

  Rufus’s chubby face scrunched up as he examined the man’s eyes. “Wait, you’re… John, right? John Jenson, I’m positive it’s you.”

  A look of surprise registered on John’s face. “That’s right.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Afraid I don’t. Sorry.”

  “I went to Lincoln Park High, like you. Few years behind you, though. Same class as your little sister.”

  “Which one?”

  “Mia, but she probably wouldn’t remember me either. Her being real smart, and me sort of struggling. A National Merit Scholar or something, wasn’t she?”

  “That’s right. We were very proud of her.”

  “So where is ol’ Mia these days? Probably married, surrounded by a boatload of kids.” Rufus paused to offer a wink and smile. “Between you and me, I had a big crush on her.”

  The elevator stopped on the eleventh floor and John abruptly stepped out. Rufus took a short hop and joined him. “Same floor, what a coincidence,” he announced with a big grin. “You work on this floor, or what?” he asked.

  John pointed down the hallway to his right. “My accounting firm’s here.”

  “Right. I’ve got an appointment down the other way.” He pointed a lying finger down the opposite hall. “So where’d Mia end up, anyway?”

  “D.C. Went to law school at Harvard then landed in a firm there.” He said this with considerable pride.

  “Yeah? One of those monster firms you always read about? Long hours, grinding away, no life.”

  “Not anymore, no. She tried that for a while. After the loss, though, she left her firm and switched to government service.”

  Rufus couldn’t think of a better way so he came right out with it. “What loss was that, John?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Dennis,” he lied without any hesitation. “Dennis Miller.”

  John’s eyes narrowed and he began inspecting Rufus more closely, roving from his scuffed black running shoes up his worn sweatpants, stopping at the torn T-shirt. Naming himself after a famous comedian was probably a mistake, but he’d seen him on TV the night before and it was the first and only thing that popped into his mind. Plus it might’ve been a good idea to dress a little fancier, Rufus realized, a little belatedly. He looked like exactly what he was, street scum looking to make a fast score.

  “Sorry,” John said, sounding very final. “I don’t discuss family business with strangers.”

  Rufus could hear, could almost feel the ten grand slipping out of his fingers. “Hey, it’s not like that, John. I’m no stranger. See, Mia and me, well, we were real close. I was just, you know, wondering what she lost.”

  “Who are you meeting with down the hall?”

  “Uh… my lawyer.”

  John leaned forward and suddenly grabbed him firmly by the shirt collar. “You’re lying. There are no lawyers on this floor.”

  “Hey, let me go. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The grip tightened and Rufus ended up on his tiptoes. “Who are you and what’s this about?” John hissed, showing his teeth.

  It was time to scrap Plan A. Only Rufus didn’t have a Plan B. He shoved John as hard as he could and made a mad dash for the stairwell. He never looked back, never even glanced as he bolted eleven floors back down to ground level, then slipped out a side entrance of the building.

  After three hours of riffling through old files in the city morgue, and another two in the library scrounging through death notices in the local papers, Rufus placed a call to O’Neal in D.C.

  He quickly summarized his encounter with Mia’s oldest brother, as if the day had been an unmitigated success, worth the whole ten grand, if not more. Then he said, “Point is, something happened. Some severe loss that drove her out of her big firm and into government service.”

  “So you figure she was looking for a new purpose in life. Serving some higher cause, that kind of gushy crap?”

  “That’s what I heard in his voice, yeah.”

  “What kind of loss would do that? She was making damn good dough.”

  Rufus pondered the question. Probably a ninety percent cut in pay—why would anybody even consider something so damaging, so stupid? Made no sense to him. “Hell, I dunno,” he admitted emphatically.

  “And you found nothing at the morgue?”

  “Nope. Her parents are still kicking, all the brothers and a sister are still sucking oxygen. You sure she was never married, right? No kids, not even a bastard.”

  “Never,” O’Neal answered, sounding deeply unsettled.

  There was something here, O’Neal was sure, and he was even more desperate to find it. He was being paid for his instincts in these matters—and right now his gut was screaming that the key to Mia Jenson was that mysterious loss, whatever it was.

  He wished he had more time to think about it, but things were coming unhinged fast. The morning had become a nightmare. Castile was supposed to call in about the break-in to Jenson’s house, but the call never came. Repeated attempts to reach Castile, both at his house and on his cell, went unanswered.

  O’Neal had a team out now trying to hunt down the missing burglars; unfortunately, it was a ridiculously small team, two men, a pair of sad losers he ordinarily wouldn’t have dispatched to the deli for a sandwich.

  Problem was, O’Neal had everybody with the slightest tinge of competence working overdrive to find someone much more important.

  Jack Wiley had fallen off the face of the earth.

  O’Neal hadn’t yet informed Walters that Wiley had slipped his net.

  He prayed he would never have to.

  Martie’s prayer went unanswered. The call he dreaded came at six that evening in the form of Mitch Walters in a foul mood, demanding an update.

  He started with Mia. Martie explained about the meeting with her big brother in Chicago, about the mysterious “loss,” and reassured Walters that TFAC was deploying as many resources as possible to unearth the story. In this case, “as many resources as possible” equaled a sorry louse whose total PI experience was hunting down lost cats and peeking into bedrooms. But he didn’t admit that, of course.

  “What about her home?” Walters asked. “Your boys pay her a visit yet?”

  “Last night,” O’Neal answered, hoping that was the end of it.

  “Did they leave her a little gift?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think?”

  “We’re, uh, having a slight glitch getting in contact with our contractors.”

  “A glitch?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Mitch. They went in last night and disappeared for a while. These boys are pros. They don’t bring no ID, they don’t bring cell phones. We’ll get it sorted out. Like I said, don’t worry.”

  He almost laughed
with relief when Walters asked, “What about Jenson’s office?”

  “Working on it. I warned you it would take preparation and time. Won’t be long,” he promised.

  There was a pause. Martie closed his eyes and hoped Walters was finished.

  Finally Walters asked the question O’Neal desperately didn’t want to hear. “Where’s Wiley right now?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just say that Wiley wasn’t as cooperative as we hoped. We’re worried about Jenson making contact with him again. Tell me you’re keeping a good eye on him.”

  Another long pause, this one on O’Neal’s part. He pinched his nose and confessed, “He, uh, well, he seems to have slipped away.”

  “Tell me I didn’t hear that.”

  “Sorry, Mitch. Yesterday, after he left your building, he went downtown, parked in a public garage, and disappeared.”

  “This better be a joke, O’Neal. But I’m not laughing.”

  “No, it’s quite true, Mitch.” He paused and struggled to keep his voice level. “Seemed innocent at the time, a momentary slip-up in coverage. But we reconsidered. Wiley obviously planned this escape a while ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s not complicated. We have his charge card numbers, his phone accounts, his bank account numbers, all of which we acquired seven months ago. He’s not using any of them. His bank accounts were electronically emptied out yesterday. He’s gone totally underground.”

  Walters began cursing at O’Neal, unleashing a world of anger and fury. O’Neal held the phone away from his ear until Walters’s well ran dry. It took a while.

  “That’s not helping anything,” he said to Walters.

  “You’re fired,” Walters replied back.

  “Don’t be stupid, Mitch. You can’t fire me right now. You need me more than ever, to put this thing back together.”

  He could hear Walters breathing heavily on the other end. A few more scattered curses and threats flew across the line, but they lacked any semblance of conviction, just empty shots fired after the surrender to an ugly reality. “Find Wiley,” he barked in his most menacing tone. “Do whatever it takes, find him.”