Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

“Don’t you want to pay him back?”

“We’re still talking aren’t we?”

“Okay, look, it’s simple. I need proof Jack did it. If you could-”

“And I need cash,” Wallerman interrupted before Morgan could complete that thought. Screw the details, let’s talk money his face was saying. The second stein of beer now sat on the table, empty. Lew was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“How much?” Morgan asked, his eyebrows pinching together.

“It won’t be cheap. There’s a lot to consider.”

“For instance?”

“For one, Jack’s a dangerous man. There’s his history to consider. Delta, war hero, and he obviously killed Edith. He’s not squeamish about erasing problems.”

“How much?” Morgan repeated.

“I’d have to quit my job and run. It would mean the end of a lucrative, quite promising career. I’d need enough to live on.”

Morgan strangled the urge to burst out laughing. Whatever had become of Wallerman’s career, profitable or promising didn’t enter the picture. He was a sorry lush and a loser. He didn’t even have enough money to purchase a decent suit. The best thing that could happen to him was to scrap it all and start over. Morgan should charge him for the opportunity.

“Just tell me how much,” he repeated, more insistently.

“Only two million,” Wallerman answered, making it sound like an extraordinary bargain.

“Bad joke. How much?”

“I’m not budging. Know why? There is no evidence, zilch, nada, none. Jack is smart. After he left, I went through everything. The records of his transactions with Edith, bank transfers, everything. I even went through the hard drive of his old computer one night after everyone went home. You won’t find a thing, Morgan, not without me.”

“So what are you offering?”

Wallerman’s eyes were glued on a skinny little thing with a cocktail in her hand, leaning against the bar. Morgan forced himself to look twice before he believed she was real. Long, bony legs on full display, a ridiculously purple pageboy haircut, a thick tattoo of barbed wire around her neck, wearing an outfit that looked like it was designed by a sociopath.

She looked barely old enough to be potty-trained, much less purchase alcohol.

Wallerman finally tore his eyes away from her and stared hard at Morgan. “Let’s cut the crap, okay? My guess is you’re not a federal agent, you’re a hired thug. You’re being paid to burn Jack, and you need help.”

This was stated quite factually and Morgan weighed for a moment whether it was worth trying to bluff or lie his way through.

As though reading his mind, Wallerman added, “But if I’m wrong, and you are, as you claim, a Fed, two million is way over your head. Then it’s sayonara , pal.”

“No, you’re right, I’m a thug. I work for some people who want the goods on Wiley.”

“What people?”

“None of your damned business. Here’s all you need to know. They’re big and extremely powerful. Put the right material in their hands, they’ll destroy Wiley.”

“Then I’m your man. We have a deal?”

“Not until it’s clear what you’re offering. The money’s not mine and I’ll need to explain what it buys.”

“Use your imagination, Morgan.”

“I’m, what, how do they say it these days?… imagination-deprived.”

“And I’m the ugly skeleton from Jack’s past. I can approach him and ask for extortion money, or I know enough to make him jump a plane and flee for Brazil. He’ll disappear into a deep, dark jungle, and you’ll never worry about him again.”

“Are you willing to wear a wire?” Morgan asked, apparently with a different plan in mind.

“I love an audience. Sure, why not?”

“Do you think you can get Jack, on tape, to admit he killed Edith?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t give me that confidence act. How?”

“Might be that I have a few things I haven’t told you about. Things I won’t tell you about because I’m not an idiot and I don’t want to be cut out of the money.”

They spent a moment ignoring each other. Wallerman was letting his offer and terms sink in. Morgan was wondering if this thing was the real deal, or was Wallerman only a blowhard trying to lie and finagle his way to a big payday. But he had brought up Edith without prompting and he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about. And unlike Charles, Lew Wallerman had gone to no trouble to conceal his real identity or cover his tracks. If he screwed Morgan, TFAC could and would find him. The punishment would be severe. In this business, this was the definition of an insurance policy.

“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Morgan.

“Then I only get half. Up-front of course. If it succeeds, and it will, fork over the other million.”

“Let me make a call,” Morgan said. He got up, walked outside to the sidewalk, and, using his cell, called Martie O’Neal at headquarters.

As Morgan expected, the two million price tag prompted a long string of foul curses, but eventually the curses lapsed into quiet gags and groans, then Martie got over the sticker shock and the talk turned serious. Sure, it was a lot of dough. But after all these months of looking they still had nothing. Charles had given them a promising lead, but the son of a bitch had been too smart to allow the conversation to be taped. It was all hearsay from an anonymous source. Legally speaking, it was worthless.

Mitch Walters was now all over O’Neal’s ass. Walters was tired of empty promises, tired of lame excuses, tired of false leads that turned into disappointing dead ends, tired of throwing good money after bad. Worse, he was growing tired of TFAC. He was threatening to take his business elsewhere.

The two million wasn’t really an issue. A drop in the bucket for CG. Yes, Walters would approve it, O’Neal was sure. Oh, he’d bitch and curse up a storm, call O’Neal an array of filthy names, and unload a fresh vow to take his business elsewhere. But he’d pay.

With a cool billion at stake, Walters would pay any amount at this point.

The guard briefly gawked at the badge, then waved her by. After she passed and stepped into an empty elevator, once he knew she wasn’t looking, he grabbed the phone and punched the hotline. “A DCIS agent just came in,” he said into the phone.

“Headed where?” the shift boss asked.

“Upstairs. She just got in the elevator.”

“What floor, moron?”

He jumped out of his seat and made a mad dash to the elevator bank, in time to see it stop on the number 6, then he raced back to the phone. “Sixth floor,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Describe her.”

“Nice, red dress and short heels. Brunette, medium height, fine-looking… hot, actually.”

By the time Mia Jenson stepped off onto the sixth floor and spent a long moment waiting for the receptionist of the LBO section to get off her phone and pay attention to the shield jammed in her face, a lawyer from CG’s legal counsel’s office and a large uniformed guard were already standing behind her.

“What can we do to help you?” the lawyer asked. He was young and handsome in his superbly tailored, dandy dark suit; he carried himself like he knew it.

Mia turned around. Her smile was forced and stingy. “Agent Jenson, DCIS.” She held up her shield and allowed him a moment to examine it. “I’m here to meet with some of your people in the LBO section.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t need one.” She waved the shield in front of his face.

“To meet with them about what?”

“To ask a few questions about the polymer.”

“You’re on the wrong floor, then. If it’s another complaint about the production in Iraq you need to talk to our business partnership group. Second floor.”