Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Walters looked at the wall for a moment until he found the good news. “If it’s true,” he said, “it gives us the edge we’ve been looking for. If he steps out of bounds, we’ve got all the ammunition we need to yank him back.”

“Except evidence,” O’Neal answered, injecting a bit of reality.

Walters fixed him with a hard stare. “Do you believe it?”

“Maybe. But we don’t know the identity of the source. This guy Charles is a blank slate. We got nothing that proves whether it’s true or not.”

Morgan felt the need to throw his two cents in and said, “I’m convinced Charles was telling the truth.”

“Are you?”

“In fact, if I had to guess, Charles was Ted.”

“Who?” Walters asked. He did not enjoy talking with this common investigator and made no effort to hide it. He was the CEO, after all; it was beneath his station.

“Ted,” Morgan repeated. “The friend from Princeton who introduced Jack at the firm. Ted vouched for him. Ted was responsible for Wiley getting the job. After Jack walked with the old lady’s money and a million-dollar buy-off, Ted was left holding the bag.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. A hunch.”

“We don’t pay you for guesses,” Walters snapped.

“There just was something in the way he told that part of the story. A pause, a hesitation, an intonation. I dunno, something. He’s Ted. I’m sure of it.”

Walters leaned back in his chair and unleashed a skeptical frown. “Anything else?” he asked. “I mean anything factual?”

“Yeah. He had names, dates, plenty of details. Only one thing explains that. He was in the firm same time as Jack.”

“That it?” Walters asked. He now had his hands clasped behind his big head with his feet on the desk, pretending to be bored. It was his favorite managerial stunt, making them sweat, intimidating his underlings with indifference, forcing them to say more than they intended.

“Only this,” Morgan said, looking Walters directly in the eye without blinking. Morgan had never met him before but he’d certainly heard the rumors; a tough-guy wannabe in Gucci loafers. Seemed about right to him. “He asked if you guys intended to hurt Jack or just humiliate him. This is important to him.”

“And what did you say?”

“That you’re gonna bring a world of pain on Jack. He liked that, Mr. Walters. Liked it very much,” Morgan said. “Charles, or Ted, or whoever, is carrying a real nasty grudge.”

Walters paused and glanced at Bellweather. “What do you think?” he asked, unsure he wanted to hear the answer. The accusation of murder was a new factor, one with a world of troublesome ramifications, but they were in too deep with Jack to walk away at this point. Jack had that damned contract that bound them together. And he had been with them almost every step, dodging and bribing their way through Washington.

After a moment, Bellweather surmised, “Jack might be more than we bargained on. Depending on your perspective, we either over- or underestimated him.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Question is, do we have anything to worry about?” Bellweather pushed off the wall and began pacing around the office as he talked. “If true, Jack is sly, deceptive, and very dangerous.”

“Yeah, but if we can prove it, he’ll be a lot less dangerous.”

O’Neal and Morgan studied their shoetips as Bellweather and Walters went back and forth, bickering over the pros and cons of getting the goods on Jack. Both did their best to appear bored and ambivalent as they bit back nasty smiles. It was a waste of their time, but they would bill CG for every second of this meeting, so who cared? Really, what was there to debate?

Of course Bellweather and Walters were going to go for it-they’d throw a fortune at the hunt for evidence, if that’s what it took. This tale was simply too good to ignore.

Walters, the expert in human behavior, would be the first to figure out the big possibility, O’Neal was sure. Bellweather might be more ruthless, but age and success had dulled his edge. Walters was all that, plus he was hungry and ambitious. He’d clawed and backstabbed and stepped over a hundred bodies on his way up to CEO. He would yank out his mother’s fingernails if it would gain him another inch of advantage. He was actually surprised it was taking Walters this long to figure out the enormity of the incredible break that just landed in his lap.

They had uncovered Jack’s dirty little secret; now, if they could prove it, Walters had the weapon he needed to drive Wiley out of the deal. Here’s a blast from your past, Jack-evidence that you whacked an old lady, evidence you stole her money, evidence you blackmailed your firm into shoving it under a rug. Proof of just one of those charges would drive Jack to his knees. Sign over your shares, forgo a billion in profit, and it’ll remain our nasty little secret.

Eventually Bellweather and Walters stopped talking. Walters stood and walked around his desk. “Do you think you can get proof?” he asked, directing a finger at O’Neal. “Something that would stand up in court?”

“Probably,” Martie answered, making the word sound more like “absolutely, no big deal.” It was, however, not merely a big deal, but a huge one. He’d bill the Capitol Group for millions. He’d throw a dozen people at it, work them around the clock, invoice triple for overtime, and bill his client for every paper clip and wasted photograph. “Charles left us plenty of leads,” he continued, listing his reasons. “We know the victim. We now have it narrowed down to one firm. We’ll get the names of everyone in Primo during those years. Somebody will know something. Someone’ll talk.”

“I want it done fast.”

“I’ll put my best people on it.” Dozens of them at inflated costs.

“Don’t get caught.”

“Not a chance. A good cover and he’ll never know a thing. Anyway, we’re still watching his house. We’ll add a few more men, watch him everywhere he goes.”

“What are you waiting for?”

O’Neal and Morgan backed away and fled from the office. The moment the door closed, Bellweather put his rear end on the corner of Walters’s desk. “Good call,” he said.

“I know.” Walters walked back behind the desk and collapsed into his chair. He picked up the picture that O’Neal had left in the middle of the blotter.

It was taken by one of the trailers following Morgan and Charles that night. A color, blown up to ten-by-twelve, showing Charles meeting Morgan on the street corner. He pinched the bridge of his nose and studied it closely. The mystery man was maybe five inches taller than Morgan, thin, well dressed, wearing an expensive blue cashmere topcoat. The shot was blurry and mildly out of focus but showed that Charles had dark features, dark, swept-back hair, a large beak, and shrewd eyes. “Know who this guy is?” he asked without looking up.

“Not a clue. Who?”

“The billion-dollar man.”

The hearing was everything they had paid for. And every bit as entertaining as they’d hoped.

Four GT executives showed up-three accountants and a smooth-looking, unctuous lapdog from GT’s congressional relations branch, brought along to appear friendly and ride herd on the number nerds. The executives arrived ten minutes early and seated themselves at the long witness table. They came armed with spreadsheets, which they spent five minutes meticulously arranging on the table. They came fully prepared to answer the most vexing questions about the cost of the GT 400.

The two previous days, the three accountants had spent long hours in front of murder boards exhaustively preparing for the hearing. A team of inquisitors bellowed questions at them, contradicted, argued, and browbeat until the three never blanched at the most egregious assault. The hearing was only a pro forma cost review. A mundane event, nothing more. But given the egos in Congress, there was always the risk of some loudmouthed representative trying to grandstand at their expense. They were ready. They had all the answers. They sat quietly and tried to hide their cockiness.