Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Lew paused for a deep gulp of gin and tonic. A little dribbled out the corner of his mouth, and he sloppily wiped it on a sleeve of his new two-thousand-dollar suit. “You just had to be sure your imposter was playing you straight, didn’t you?”

Morgan now was watching the flames from the fireplace play across Jack’s face. Hooded eyes, lips drawn tight-perhaps it was the flickering light, but he looked almost saturnine. “Is that all you have?” he asked Lew in a low, menacing voice.

“You wish, Jack. Once you know the basics, the whole fraud comes apart. I have a mountain of evidence. Did you know there’s no statute of limitations on murder?”

The waitress arrived to take Wallerman’s dinner order. “Get lost,” Jack barked at her, very rudely. One quick glance at his face and she scuttled away from their table. “What do you want?” Jack growled.

“What does any man want?”

“You tell me. That’s why you’re here, after all.”

“World peace. A rich, beautiful nymphomaniac who owns a beer factory. A billion dollars in the bank of my choice. Can you give me those things?”

“Out of my price range. What do you want from me?”

“Well, you see, Jack, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Jack leaned across the table. His face was inches from Wallerman’s. “Indecision can be an unhealthy thing, Lew.”

Wallerman replied with a quick smile, “Look over in that corner.” He pointed gleefully to the far end of the room and Jack spun around and looked. Two men in dark suits smirked at him. One flipped the bird; the other settled for a sarcastic wave. It was their debut and they hammed it up for all it was worth.

Wallerman wouldn’t agree to this meeting without a safety blanket, and TFAC had obliged, providing the pair of happy thugs now smiling and glowering at Jack.

“In case you’re wondering,” Lew mentioned-now all bravado-“the Rottweilers are mine, and armed to the teeth. Don’t dream of doing anything stupid.”

Jack collapsed back into his seat. Staring at the tablecloth, he pleaded, “we can work this out, Lew. Just tell me what you want.”

Wallerman stood, picked up the cell phone off the table, stuffed it in a pocket, and walked around until he stood beside Jack, who seemed frozen to his chair. He bent over and, about two inches from Jack’s ear, whispered, “I’ll be in touch, pal.”

The meeting would be brief and unnoticed, as usual. Harvey Crintz waited till the yellow cab rolled to a stop by the curb, peeked inside to be sure it was the right one, then scurried to the rear door and hopped in.

“How’re you doing?” the driver asked without turning around.

Crintz spent a moment getting comfortable. He pulled his pants out of his crotch and sat back. “Glad you got my message,” he said. The cab began rolling.

The driver, Tim Paley, peeked at Crintz’s face in the rearview mirror. Paley was a midlevel flunky in CG’s government contracts division. He was ambitious, hungry, and more than willing to do a little dirty work if it furthered his professional advancement.

Crintz was an old friend, one who for the past five years had been bought and paid for by a special slush fund-a hidden pile of cash created for the worthy purpose of buying CG friendships in a city filled with underpaid midlevel bureaucrats.

But Crintz, a Christian of the born-again variety and a dedicated family man, would never take cash to fix a contract or favor a bid. That would be a gross violation of his professional ethics and the law. He provided inside scoops and tips, nothing more-also a breach of the law, just not as serious.

Five thousand a month in the Bahamian bank of your choice only bought you so much loyalty.

“So what’s this about?” Paley asked.

“I’m not sure. Are you people under investigation over the polymer?”

“Don’t think so. Why?”

“Because someone’s getting real interested in it, and you.”

“Be more specific.”

“DCIS. Agent named Jenson. She’s been crawling all over our contracting office the past few weeks.”

Crintz held a low-level position in the office of the Pentagon’s inspector general, an obscure job but one that gave him a bird’s-eye view of everything. He had started his career in procurement, and after gaining considerable expertise in contracts and accounting made a midcareer shift to oversight of his old activities. His insights were invaluable, worth vastly more than $60K a year to CG.

True to his background as a contracting agent for Uncle Sam, he was being flagrantly ripped off and was too stupid to demand more.

“What’s she asking about?”

“Hasn’t asked anything,” Crintz answered. “She demanded all existing files on the contract. Everything.”

“All right, what do you think she’s interested in?”

“Hard to tell. She hauls the files upstairs, I guess to make copies. She returns them a few hours later.”

Paley remained quiet and thought about it a moment. “Who handled the contracting process for the polymer?”

“You know her, I think. Sally Gramble. Johnson and Hughes assisted, but they’re both new and very junior. You probably already know this, but they weren’t the driving force. Mostly they did what they were told by people upstairs. Everything was top-down on that contract. I doubt you have anything to worry about from any of those folks.”

Paley gripped the steering wheel and thought about it a minute more. “I’m not sure it’s a problem anyway. The contracts are pretty clean, aren’t they?”

“Strictly boilerplate. Form contracts with a few alterations to tailor them to the requirement.”

“Then what does she want with them?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

They were on the GW Parkway now, headed toward the McLean exit, stuck in the right lane and driving slowly, with traffic whizzing by on their left.

“I’m not worried, it’s probably nothing,” Paley repeated. “What do you think?”

“I think DCIS agents don’t collect hundreds of pages of contracts for light reading. I think anytime a DCIS agent is interested in you, it’s bad news. I’d worry, if I were you boys.”

“I’ll pass the word,” Paley assured him with another glance in the mirror. “You want to go anywhere special?”

“Back to the Pentagon, and step on it. I’m hungry and this is my lunch break.”

An hour later, Paley was standing, grim-faced, in his boss’s office relaying Crintz’s report. His boss immediately picked up the phone and called the CEO.

Phil Jackson was right.

Mia Jenson showed up on Jack’s doorstep shortly after nine on a dark Tuesday night. Ernie and Howie, the TFAC crew on duty, saw her pull up in a strange car then park, in Jack’s driveway. They immediately ran her plate via a deal they had with the local cops; ten seconds later, they had her name and address in D.C. Thirty seconds after that, they had her identity as a federal law enforcement officer.

This hurried research was handled by Howie, the man inside the van. Ernie, the on-site watcher, was parked at a curb, two houses down. Ernie had poor hearing so he whipped out his bionic ear and sound booster, jammed the earphones over his head, stuck the amplifier out his car window, scooted down in his seat, and listened.

Mia walked directly to the front stoop, pushed the doorbell, and waited. He could hear her breathing, the sound booster was that good.

The front light popped on, and a moment later Jack opened the door. “Are you selling Girl Scout cookies?” he asked. A real wise guy.

“Not quite, Mr. Wiley.” Mia shoved her shield in his face. “I’m a federal agent with the Defense Criminal Investigative Service. I have a few questions.”