Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Windal’s tone was flat, distant, cold, and officious. In part this was because he was getting his distance from what looked like an impending disaster, and from its author. In larger part, the head of the DCIS and two stone-faced senior agents were standing three feet from Windal’s desk, ensuring the legal niceties were strictly adhered to.

Walters felt like somebody had just driven a nine-iron into his groin. “Jesus, Tom, what’s this about?” he roared into the phone.

“A courier will drop off the official notification before close of business, Mr. Walters. The details will be noted in the notification. We’ll talk through our lawyers from now on,” Windal coldly announced before he hung up.

Walters’s chubby legs now were swinging off the side of the massage table. His mouth hung open; he couldn’t seem to close it. He couldn’t seem to put down the cell phone either. The sound of twenty billion dollars slipping away left him too lightheaded to do anything but gawk. Half a minute later, it was still parked at his ear as if Windal was chatting away on the other end.

For some reason, the only thing he could think about was the lobster bisque he had eaten for lunch. Two oversize bowls of the stuff, delicious going down, now threatening to be harsh and bitter on the way back up.

Merrill and Jorgenson were peeking at him with knowing smiles. Nothing so amuses the rich and successful than the sight of a fellow titan crashing and burning. Walters thought about cursing them, or maybe slapping the infuriating smirks off their smug faces. Instead he tried to manufacture a look of deep contentment as he mumbled into the phone, “Yes, yes, and of course, thanks. For a ten billion contract we’ll try our best to please.”

The other two weren’t fooled. They chuckled and shared snickers across the room. As a matter of form, Walters was always invited to these events. That didn’t mean they had to like him.

He jumped off the table and scampered to the bathroom. It turned out he was right-the lobster bisque tasted hideous second time around.

He skipped the shower and, still wearing his sweaty golf clothes, bolted for the airport, hopped on the big corporate jet, and raced back to D.C.

Martie O’Neal treated it like an all-out crisis. By Thursday morning he had managed to produce a fairly reasonable sketch of the source of all this trouble: Mia Jenson.

Single, born and bred in Chicago, youngest child, one older sister, three older brothers, father an insurance salesman, mother a stay-at-home type. The Jenson kids all went to college, but Mia was the undisputed star. She excelled at Dickinson but really blossomed at Harvard Law, where the accolades piled up. Nothing in her background or childhood raised any red flags.

But also, nothing yet explained, or so much as hinted at, why she had dumped such a promising, lucrative career for a miserly paycheck in law enforcement. O’Neal’s snooping instincts were screaming that this was an important mystery that needed to be answered. Perhaps the most important question.

She lived in a small yet elegant house in D.C., across the busy road from American University in a decent neighborhood of older, modest homes. She had paid cash. No mortgage, no debts at all; just a charge card balance she diligently disposed of at the end of every month. Total savings in the neighborhood of $700K, no doubt the result of her lucrative years in a private firm. She lived prudently and dressed frugally. With her looks, she could wear rags and stop traffic. No expensive habits, good or bad.

Given her lifestyle, and that she had willingly dumped a $400K salary, with a virtual guarantee of doubling that in a few short years, for a paltry $36K a year, Martie doubted she could be bought off for any price.

He decided to call an old chum in his former office in the FBI background unit and eventually was put through to the agent who had performed Mia’s check for a secret clearance. A welcome shortcut, but the agent’s best efforts proved wretchedly disappointing.

He turned up nothing of any particular interest. She dated occasionally, but nothing serious-not now, not ever. Apparently her beauty, brains, and self-confidence scared off a lot of men. A moderate drinker, there was no evidence of drugs or other nasty addictions. She liked to jog. She was Catholic, though not overly devout. She had plenty of friends, nearly all of whom had swell things to say about her. The striking exception was a classmate from law school, a male, who claimed she was a rabid lesbian feminist, an antisocial, sexually frustrated dyke. The evidence suggested otherwise and that claim was discounted. A bruised and frustrated suitor, most likely.

O’Neal was browsing his notes as he recounted these unhopeful facts to Bellweather and Walters. He had collected a lot more information but sifted out the useless clutter. Who cared what brand of shoe she preferred, or the name of her childhood dog? The two men across from him were grim and tense, and their mood was impatient. It was only six in the morning, still dark outside. Aside from the guards trolling the hallways, they were the only ones in the building. Walters had called him at midnight and insisted he rush in with whatever he had. “So you have nothing we can use against her?” Walters prodded the second he wrapped up, looking like he just got hit by a bus.

“No. Not really. But this is just preliminary. A little more time, I’ll find something. Always do.”

He didn’t feel it necessary to remind them that he had finally nailed their boy Jack. Not that they had congratulated or even thanked him. Then again, in Wiley’s case, a little more time had meant four long months with millions in billings.

“We don’t have more time,” Bellweather snapped. He rubbed his eyes and slid back his chair.

He and Walters looked exhausted. Both were unshowered and unshaven, wearing yesterday’s wrinkled clothes-in Walters’s case a golf shirt that showed off his overhanging gut and shorts that displayed his sunburned, hairy legs. Neither man had slept the night before, O’Neal concluded. Walters had developed a nervous twitch that made his left eye flutter. Bellweather seemed cooler and somewhat more collected, but the competition was light.

“Look, you warned me to be careful,” O’Neal complained. “That limits my options.”

“All right, what’s next?” Bellweather asked.

“Haven’t gone into her home yet. Who knows what could turn up there, or what nasty surprise we could leave. We could try to infiltrate her family. They always know more dirt than anybody.”

“Can you get into her office?” asked Walters, looking hopeful for the first time.

“It’s a secure facility,” O’Neal replied, wincing as if to underscore how tough it would be. “But yeah, probably. It’ll take a little creativity, though. You want to see how much she’s got on you, right?”

“That would be nice,” Bellweather observed. A wicked smile broke out, his first of the morning.

“But if that doesn’t work,” Walters snapped, playing the tough guy and pounding a hand on his desk, “it’s time to consider other measures. Something more extreme.”

“Extreme” was a vague and interesting word. It could mean blackmail, extortion, or perhaps something considerably more drastic.

O’Neal did not warm to this idea, nor did he ask for clarification. He was more than willing to bend and break a few laws for these people-or, more accurately, their money. No way, though, was he going to snap legs or waste anybody on their behalf. It was a stupid, desperate suggestion anyway.

After a respectful moment meant to suggest he was being thoughtful about it, O’Neal said, “Forget it, Mitch. Christsakes, she’s a federal agent.”

“So what?” Mitch was suddenly enjoying the thought of her dead.