Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Jack didn’t look surprised in the least. “Should I get my lawyer?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jenson. Why don’t you invite me inside?”

“I’d rather talk here. You won’t be staying long.”

“Is that the way you want it, Mr. Wiley?”

“Look, Miss… What’s your first name?”

“Agent. Special Agent, if you prefer to be formal.”

“Lovely name.”

“Thanks, I’m quite proud of it.”

“What’s this about?”

“Do you know a man named Perry Arvan?”

“Yes, so what?”

“Did you approach the Capitol Group with a proposal to take over his company, Arvan Chemicals?”

“I might have.”

“How did you learn about the polymer Arvan developed?”

“How did you learn that I learned about it?” Jack countered, smiling nicely.

“None of your business.” No smile in return.

“Okay, it’s none of yours either.”

Ernie pulled a sandwich out of a greasy brown paper bag and turned up the volume full blast. His wife had made him this snack, pastrami on rye, his favorite. He took his first large bite and chewed slowly. This was getting fun.

“Why did you choose the Capitol Group as your partner?”

“Is that a question?”

“Didn’t it sound like a question?”

“No, it was too stupid for a question. The Capitol Group’s one of the richest, most powerful corporations on the planet. The polymer’s right down their alley. I considered four other companies and settled on them. Call it a no-brainer.”

Then, out of the blue, she asked, “Do you know Representative Earl Belzer?”

Ernie had no idea who Belzer was, wasn’t sure why she asked, but had enough common sense to know she was hedging at something important. He put down the sandwich and listened closely.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jack said, “Can’t really say I do. Why?”

“What if I told you I have pictures of you and Belzer together?”

“I’d say you’re a liar,” Jack told her cheerfully.

“Do you like Chinese food, Mr. Wiley? You barely touched the dim sum, so I’m curious.”

After a long moment, Jack said, “I think we’re done talking.” Any hint of nonchalance or bluster evaporated from his voice.

Mia quickly shoved a hand against the door before he could close it in her face. “We’re finished when I say we’re finished. Listen close, because I’ll only make this offer once. I’m going to bust up this nice little racket you boys are running. I’ve got a barrelful of evidence already. I collect more every day. It might take another week, or a few more months, but I’m going to come down on you and your pals at CG. It’ll be one of the biggest busts ever.”

“If you’re so confident, why haven’t you moved yet?”

“It’s going to happen soon enough, believe me. When I do, you and plenty of others are going to jail. Not some federal country club, but a real prison with the worst scum we scraped off the streets. They adore spoiled rich men in prison, Mr. Wiley. Do I need to explain what happens in those places? You watch movies. Surely you have the picture. A big good-looking Princetonian, you’ll be a big hit in the shower room.”

“Very funny. Do I look frightened?”

“Oh, it won’t be a comedy, Mr. Wiley. Only one or two of you will get a chance to avoid that fate. One or two of you will get smart, cut a deal, and turn state’s evidence. I’m offering you that opportunity, Mr. Wiley, the rare chance to be the first on your block. If not you, it’ll be somebody else. In this game, believe me, it’s not fun to be near the end of the line.”

“Get lost,” Jack said, sounding very final, and he slammed the door. Mia stood there a moment, eyeing the doorknob in the darkness, then got back in her car and sped away.

Ernie got on the radio and called Howie. “Wow. You got all that on tape?” he asked.

“All of it,” Howie answered.

“Better get it down to Martie, real quick. Sounds like big trouble.”

“No kiddin’,” said Howie. Within five minutes he was playing the tape over the phone to Martie O’Neal.

Mitch Walters was out of pocket and unreachable, in Bermuda, at what was billed as a CEO convention, a thin pretext for a bunch of chubby rich white men to sneak off and hit the links in a glorious setting.

Phil Jackson was deep in a legal conference with a tearful U.S. senator who had just been caught red-handed by the FBI with half a million in cash stuffed in the deep freezer in his basement. The moment the Fibbies swung open the freezer door, the senator’s thoughts turned to one man, a Washington legend; if anyone could save him from becoming political roadkill, Jackson was the guy. While the FBI ransacked his house, he snuck into a bathroom, called Phil, and begged for help.

He had no legal excuse for how the money got there, but had been smart enough to keep his mouth shut when the Feds showed up flashing their warrants and badges. Now, with a press conference looming in an hour, Jackson had his cell phone turned off so he and the terrified senator could bang their heads together and construct an alibi without being disturbed. This was it-his long, storied political career, his reputation, possibly his freedom on the line, with one good shot at explaining how such a big bundle of money mysteriously materialized in his freezer.

In a stroke of good fortune, the senator’s wife had passed away only two months before, from cancer-a loving and loyal mate, a caring, doting mother to his two teenage children. Jackson was brutally candid about the price of freedom. After thirty minutes of tearful bickering, of swearing up and down that he would never soil his dead wife’s memory, the senator at last succumbed to the inevitable-trashing her was his best and maybe his only chance. He and his lawyer had their heads together now, plotting how to blame it all on her.

That left only Daniel Bellweather, who at that moment was also slightly preoccupied. He was half clothed and rolling around the floor with Prince Ali and five naked call girls. All blondes, of course, and at a thousand per for a night of unrestrained frolicking, quite expensive entertainment. They were reliving their rowdy old times on the small living room floor of CG’s lavish riverside corporate condominium.

The watchdog imam dispatched by Ali’s daddy to keep an eye on his son had a tumbler of gin in one hand, a big-breasted blonde in the other. Ali’s enthusiasms had proved too infectious for the iron-willed zealot. After three weeks together, the imam was drunk or high more often than sober.

Though he generally considered cell phones a nuisance, Bellweather was glad he had brought his along this time. He shoved an anorexic blonde off his lap, pushed the receive button, and heard Martie say, “Listen to this.”

For three minutes he sat there, ignoring Ali, ignoring the bevy of blonde lovelies, ignoring everything but the sounds of Mia’s brief interrogation and the ugly echo of her threats.

The moment it ended, Martie asked, “What’s this picture she mentioned to Wiley? Anything to worry about?”

Hell, yes, it was something to worry about-since no doubt Bellweather’s smiling face was plastered front and center in the photograph, it was a disaster-but Bellweather was still too stunned to speak. So she knew about the luncheon with Earl. How much else did she know? How long had she been watching? How closely? How much other evidence did she have? The questions came fast and rattled around his head.

Phil Jackson’s confident assurance that she was just an overambitious busybody, blindly fishing, obviously missed the mark. She was the firm’s worst nightmare, a shield with the goods.

“Yeah,” he told Martie, after he got his heart out of his mouth, “it’s a big damn worry.”