Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

“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.

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, and 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.”