Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

“Fifty thousand.”

Morgan nearly spit his beer across the table. His elbows flew off the table, his big head pushed forward. “Who are you kidding?”

“If you knew what I have, you wouldn’t ask such a stupid question.”

“What makes you think anything you have is worth that much?”

“For starters, you gave my friend your card almost three weeks ago. I figure you’ve been here at least that long. Three weeks in a luxury double suite at the Wall Street Inn, frequenting some of our fine city’s most exclusive bars and nightclubs. Somebody’s footing a lot of cash to learn about Jack.”

Morgan neither confirmed nor denied, just sat and tried to hide his astonishment. He was stunned. This guy knew everything: how long he’d been in town, the places he had visited, where he was staying. Morgan had been detected, followed, and apparently watched like a two-bit novice. Mr. Former Spook, a veteran of Moscow and Cairo and Colombia, and this guy across the table had totally outfoxed him.

His guest allowed himself a slight smile. “Also, you’re hired help. No offense, but that cheap off-the-rack suit doesn’t help you fit in. I don’t know how much a private dick costs, but three weeks of your time can’t be cheap.”

Morgan pointed his chin in the air and said, “So what?”

“So it’s not your money, right? Why should you care what it costs?”

“Fifty thousand would have to buy some very good information.”

“What do you have so far?”

“A few interesting tidbits. Some very valuable leads,” Morgan lied and tried his best to make it sound sincere. In truth, he had gained ten pounds, swilled enough booze that his liver was swollen, and learned absolutely nothing remotely interesting about Jack Wiley.

“You got nothing.” The smile widened. “This is Wall Street, buddy. Nobody’s telling some stranger tales out of school. No angle in it.”

“What about you? You’re willing to break the code.”

Morgan detected the first flash of anger-a slight tightening around the eyes, a jaw muscle flexing. Barely perceptible, but it was enough. “Maybe I’ve got reasons,” the man insisted, making an obvious effort to mask his strong dislike of Jack Wiley.

“Like what?”

“It’s personal. It’ll cost you an additional ten grand to find out about that.”

“Give me an idea what we’re talking about.”

“Fair enough. Here’s a hint. Did you ever wonder why Jack bounced in and out of so many firms?”

“Yeah, we thought about that… for about two seconds, ’cause it’s so obvious. Better offers, better pay. Greed. The usual motives. I figure you guys are all whores. It’s all about money.”

The man chuckled and sipped from his drink. “You don’t know much about Wall Street.”

“What part did I get wrong?”

“The only part you got right was about all of us being whores.”

“Now tell me something I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe you guys missed it. It’s right before your eyes. Jack hopped through four firms in twelve years. Four. The Street doesn’t work that way. It’s all about seniority, Morgan, about sticking around to get tenure. That’s where the big money is.”

“Then why did he leave?”

“Leave? Usually, he didn’t; he was shoved.”

“I asked why?”

“That’s the fifty-thousand-dollar question.”

“Come on, give me a little more to go on here.”

“No, you have enough.” The pleasant smile was replaced by a deadpan grin. “Now here’s the rules. Pay attention, because if there’s any mistake, you’ll never see me again. The payment will be in cash. You don’t have that much on you, and anyway, you’re just a flunky. So tell your bosses you think I’m a good investment.”

“Listen, you need-”

“No, I don’t need to do anything. But you definitely do. Call by tomorrow, or don’t bother,” the man said, and he was on his feet. He was holding a card by the edges and he quickly flipped it on the table. “When you have permission, call this number. Ask for Charles.”

“Wait… uh, Charles, I don’t have enough-” but before he could finish that thought the man rushed into the thick crowd and began making tracks for the exit.

It was unexpected and happened so fast, Morgan was caught flat-footed. He quickly recovered his senses, darted out of his seat, and began racing after Charles. He caught sight of a head of glistening black hair, and began dodging left and right, shoving people out of his way. Charles had about a twenty-foot lead, but Morgan was brutally clearing a path and closing fast.

Suddenly a pretty young blonde woman grabbed his arm and started howling at the top of her lungs. Morgan tried to break loose, but her grip only tightened. Her screams began to draw a world of attention. He quickly found himself hemmed in by young men, a mob of nice suits glowering at him, blocking him, and asking the young woman what he’d done to her.

“He grabbed and squeezed my ass,” she roared quite loudly, her arms flailing as if he’d assaulted her.

“I did not,” Morgan bellowed back in a tone filled with indignation. “I swear. Listen, I’ve got a wife and three daughters, for godsakes. I never touched her.”

She stamped a foot and pointed a scornful finger at his face. “Pervert. You sick, disgusting pervert,” she howled.

“I didn’t touch you.”

“Well, somebody did.”

“Not me.”

“I thought it was you.”

“It wasn’t, okay?”

The crowd around him settled down. The situation was harmless. Maybe the old guy did it, maybe he didn’t; so what? Just a harmless squeeze anyway, and who cared if this old lecher indulged in a quick feel? A few of the men backed off and returned to what they were doing. Others began talking among themselves. A few chuckled.

Morgan dodged through an opening that suddenly cleared and raced as fast as his feet could carry him toward the exit. But Charles was gone, disappeared into the night.

All right, so you think you’re smart, Morgan thought; the girl had obviously been a setup, the perfect diversion. He was surprised he had fallen for such a simple trick.

And he was nearly certain that the phone number he was given was connected to a disposable cell phone, probably under a false name. He could easily find out, but knew it would be a waste of time. Based upon what he’d just seen, Charles knew enough tradecraft to avoid such a stupid mistake.

Charles wasn’t as smart as he thought, though.

Morgan raced back to his booth. Charles had left his glass and, by extension, a clean set of fingerprints. By the next day Morgan would know Charles’s real name, where he lived, where he worked, and from there he would uncover his relationship to Jack Wiley.

When he got to the table the glass was gone. In its place was a small note: “Nice try, Morgan.”

The appointment was at eleven, and the escorts were standing and waiting at the stately River entrance to the Pentagon, ready to get the ball rolling as the black limo rolled up.

Bellweather emerged first, followed by Alan Haggar, and Jack brought up the rear. The escorts rushed them through security, then up two flights of stairs to the office of Douglas Robinson, the current secretary of defense.

It was the Dan and Alan hour from the opening minute. Bellweather, after a brief moment surveying the office, declared, “Doug, who’s your interior decorator? What an improvement over my time.”

“My wife.”

“Listen, be sure to give her my compliments.”

“I hate it.”

Bellweather laughed and squeezed his arm. “So do I. It’s godawful.”

A crew of waiters bustled in and began setting plates, glasses, and silverware on the large conference table off to the left. The secretary was busy, very busy; not a minute was to be wasted. To underscore that point, a uniformed aide popped his head in and loudly announced they had only fifteen minutes, not a minute more; the secretary apparently was due at a White House briefing of epic importance. Jack was pretty sure this was fabricated-the bureaucrat’s rendition of the bum’s rush. Another man, older, a scholar-looking gent of perhaps sixty, wandered in next and was introduced as Thomas Windal, the undersecretary of defense for procurement.