Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Then, in a memorable moment that had been carefully planned, with Bellweather still standing on the stage, jawboning the crowd, the rear ramp of the M-113 clanked down and ten men marched glibly out of the back. Unknown to the crowd, of course, as a precaution, the inside of the 113 had been triple-lined with tons of Kevlar. Bellweather beamed as the crowd gasped.

He was tempted to play the huckster and say, Yes, that’s right folks, CG is so confident in its polymer that we’re willing to risk real lives! He held his fire, though; the big surprise was about to come.

One of the ten men separated from the pack and walked confidently toward the bleachers. As he drew closer they recognized the beaming face of Mitch Walters, CEO of the company that produced this incredible miracle.

After the cheers and clapping died down, Mitch stepped to the microphone and informed the crowd that CG intended to go for a no-bid, noncompetitive contract-not for itself, not for profit, certainly not for any selfish motive, but for our gallant boys in battle. Thousands of lives were at stake. The whole calculus of the Iraq war would be upended by this new battlefield contraceptive. The insurgents with their lethal bombs and rockets would be frustrated to no end. You saw it here, folks, the chance to win this war. The chance to make horrendous weapons no more useful than slingshots firing pebbles. He asked for their support and was confident he would get it.

Then, without taking any questions, Walters ducked into the back of a long black limousine and sped away.

The limo rushed him straight to the hospital. Walters clasped his head, and howled and moaned the whole way. Despite the plugs in his ears, his left eardrum was severely damaged. The tinnitus in his right ear didn’t clear up for three days.

Eva’s trips to New York were becoming frequent. The reasons varied-an old friend in the city needed her counsel, an accounting seminar, a meeting with a bank, and so forth.

She dropped in to see Jack every time. Jack himself, after a few weeks of furious activity in D.C., began spending more of his time at home in New Jersey. He explained to Eva that Bellweather and Haggar and Walters had matters well in hand. The Washington tango wasn’t his dance. He was comfortable leaving it in the hands of the pros.

The night watcher from TFAC was poised down the street in his usual hiding place, lurking in the driveway of an empty house, when Eva turned into Jack’s driveway and parked. He jotted the car model and license number in his log, then settled back and watched closer. From the car model he knew it was her; just as it had been her three other times when he was on shift.

“Rich guys got all the luck,” he bitched into his radio.

“Her again?” the man parked in the base van two blocks down asked.

“Yeah, yeah, her.”

“What’s she wearin’ this time?”

“Who cares?”

A quick laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. Wanta bet about tonight?”

“I say she stays. I say Jack gives it to her good. She’ll crawl out to her car in the mornin’.”

“You’re on,” the base station manager said. “Twenty bucks.” It had become a fun game among the watchers, these frequent arrivals of Eva, a few hours inside, then a quick kiss at the door before Eva climbed back into her car for the drive to New York. No overnighters. To the best they could tell, no sex at all, unless Jack and Eva were into slam-bam-thank-you-ma’ams.

The binoculars popped out and he placed them against his eyes. Eva, to his delight, was dressed to the nines in a short skirt, very short, that showed off her very excellent legs and great tush, and a tight upper bodice that illustrated her very ample bosom. He watched her bend over, stretch, and reach into the car for something. “Oh, that’s it, girl, bend further… oh please, a little more,” he mumbled out loud to himself, straining for a good peek. The moment dragged on and the watcher enjoyed every second of it.

Next a short, confident walk to the door. Jack was obviously expecting her, they brushed lips, and she entered hauling two boxes of pizza and a small overnight bag. Mushrooms and cheese for her, meat lover’s delight for him. They moved straight to the dining room, where, no doubt, a few bottles of wine were already uncorked. That should help set the right mood.

“Guess what she’s carrying?” the watcher informed the man inside the van.

“What?

“A suitcase.”

“Yeah?”

“Black overnight bag. The money’s mine. She and Jack are gonna do the bedsheet tango.”

“I’ll stick with my bet.”

“Thank you,” he said and laughed.

Two hours later, the door opened and Eva stepped out, suitcase in hand. The watcher was now crouched in a clump of thick bushes only fifty feet from the door. He mumbled a curse and listened.

Eva was saying to Jack, “Are you sure? My meeting’s not until late morning.”

After a long moment, Jack said, “I’m sure.”

“Why, Jack? I’m not used to throwing myself at men. I’m definitely not used to being turned down.”

“Sorry. I’m just not ready.”

The watcher couldn’t see it, but could almost picture Eva’s face. She was looking up into Jack’s eyes, he was sure, with an expression that registered between hurt and embarrassment. “I deserve a better explanation than that,” she remarked, now with a distinct chill in her voice.

“I don’t have one.”

“You can do better than that, Jack.”

“Okay, I’ll try. I’ve rushed into things a few times in the past and regretted it.”

“I’m not the past, Jack.”

“I know that.”

“I won’t offer again.”

“I don’t blame you,” Jack said. “When the time comes, I’ll be willing to fight for it.”

Then for a long moment, silence. It struck the lurker in the bushes that Eva was wavering between telling Jack to kiss off or breaking down in tears. Tell him he’s a hopeless idiot, he wanted to scream. Kick, spit, and scream how much you hate him. He suddenly loathed Jack. Poor, poor Eva. How could he do this to her? Really, how could any man turn down such a fine piece of tail?

He watched Eva spin around and stomp to her car, heels making loud angry clacks on the concrete the whole way. She climbed in, slammed the door, and burned rubber all the way down the street.

Jack stared down the street after her, then stepped inside and closed his door.

The meeting was short and to the point. Walters was sitting behind his desk, idly playing with a paperweight. Bellweather, with his arms crossed tightly against his chest, was hunched against the far wall.

O’Neal and Morgan stood before the desk and wrapped up the final details about the meeting with Charles in New York, and his astounding revelations. They had been speaking for fifteen fascinating minutes. Mr. Big Shot Walters never invited them to sit.

“He killed her?” Walters asked, coming forward in his chair.

“That’s what Charles claimed,” Morgan answered.

“And you believe it?”

“I see no reason not to,” Morgan said. “The story was so elaborate, so detailed. Hard to believe it was fabricated.”

“It was considerably more than we expected to learn,” O’Neal offered, a loud understatement, though somewhat short of an endorsement.

The room fell quiet as the men considered the full import of Jack’s past. A con artist, a thief, and a murderer. Two of three they had hoped for, maybe even expected; the murder gave them pause.

“Well, he was Delta,” Bellweather remarked, as if that explained everything. “Purebred killers. Jack certainly had the ability and experience to pull it off.” But he still wasn’t sure he believed it himself. Could Jack Wiley really be a murderer? Did he really kill an old lady? Could the smooth, aloof Jack they all knew be that viciously cold-blooded?