Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

They were still stunned by Wiley’s response. They had been so sure he would collapse in fear and meet their every demand. They were going to force him to take the fall over this. The rest of his life in prison for murder, or a far shorter term for confessing to authoring this scam. That was the deal they were prepared to offer him. There really was no choice for Jack. That was the script they had cobbled together that morning; unfortunately, the lead in their nasty little play totally blew his lines.

Jack had a good point, though. They were pointing loaded guns at each other’s heads. Their finely honed plan was now in shreds. Somebody should’ve seen it coming. If they all weren’t so exhausted and under such miserable strain, they would’ve seen the flaw in their plan.

Nobody was ready to propose a new one.

Walters could sense the coldness from the others. Three sets of mean eyes watching him. He knew they were going to hang this on him if he gave them half a chance.

“Has anybody briefed the board about this yet?” Jackson asked.

Walters glanced at his watch and said nothing. The name of the game had just switched to damage control. That meant three big questions: How screwed were they? What steps did they need to take to squirm out of it? And how much was this going to cost?

“Not yet,” Bellweather answered, sounding miserable. “They’ll have to be told today, I suppose.”

They all knew it was going to be ugly. It was nearly impossible to assess the carnage at this point. So much hung on the immense profitability of the polymer. In a year of sorely depressed earnings, the polymer was going to be the golden fountain that spewed out such immense profits, the savior that covered up so many sins and weaknesses. It had promised so much.

The directors were going to throw a noisy fit. They would cry and howl and wail, and eventually they would demand heads.

What to do about the impending legal situation was a different matter, a far touchier one. Handled properly, it would be mildly embarrassing, but they were confident they could contain the damage and avoid a major scandal. They would do the usual: stonewall, bury the evidence, and pull all the right strings. In this town, the right favors in the right circles, enough money tucked in the right pockets, and who knew-maybe, just maybe, they could limit this to a minor humiliation.

Thank God they weren’t a public company and didn’t have to concern themselves with all those complications. There would be no stockholders’ revolt, no hammering of their stock, no antagonistic directors screaming for a bloody purge. Fortunately, no big concerns from the SEC either.

“How are we going to manage this?” Haggar asked, getting to the point.

Jackson jumped in. “First thing we’re going to do is destroy all the files.” He glanced at Walters. “No subpoenas have been issued. Not yet. Get rid of everything, incriminating or otherwise.”

“Got it. A big, indiscriminate bonfire before close of business.”

“Is there anybody in the firm who knows enough to do us harm?”

“A few folks, probably. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Make a list and gather them together. Be liberal, don’t overlook anybody. Have legal counsel remind them about their legal obligations to the firm, then offer a strong recommendation about the right to remain silent.”

“Easy enough.”

“You might want to consider a few quick overseas transfers. Anybody who looks like trouble, send them to the other side of the moon. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too fast.”

Walters nodded. What a relief to have the expert in scandals here, offering his sage advice.

Jackson rubbed his jaw and looked thoughtful. “Here’s the only happy news. Nobody was killed or harmed as a result of the polymer. At least we don’t have to worry about our exposure to lawsuits from distraught families.” He seemed to be rattling down a mental checklist titled “How screwed am I?”

“Right,” Walters said.

“However, the Pentagon might launch a big suit to recover its expenditures. It’s worst-case, but we need to consider it. How much have they paid out to date?”

Walters squirmed in his seat. He suddenly looked like his hemorrhoids were killing him. His eyebrows bunched together, and his lips felt rubbery. This was the one question he had hoped to avoid. He had lain awake the night before, sweating and contemplating the numbers.

He briefly weighed lying, or just fudging a bit. What would be the point, though? “Roughly three billion as of a month ago,” he mumbled, garbling his words, hoping they couldn’t hear him. “Might be another billion since then. Hard to say. A lot of big costs were front-loaded.”

Jackson heard him only too well and seemed to choke. “Four billion?”

“Or maybe five,” he admitted, looking away. Actually five and a half, he well knew. “What’s the difference?” His eyes shifted back to their faces. “I didn’t hear anybody complain when it was pouring in.”

Jackson began asking questions hard and fast, forcing Walters to disclose the full and complete possible financial damage. Walters tried his best to dodge and weave and trim, but Jackson was brutally relentless.

It began to sink in what a terrible finanicial disaster this could be; it was far worse than anybody had imagined. There was a bad case and a worst case; the difference between them was almost insignificant.

The bottom line was possibly six billion in direct losses-one promised to the Saudis, five to the Pentagon-plus many more hundreds of millions in sunk expenses-the hundred million paid to Perry Arvan, thirty-six million more to Arvan’s stockholders, twenty million to Wiley for his finder’s bonus, another twenty million spent on the influence-buying spree around Washington. Another three million frittered away to get the goods on Jack, money billed by TFAC, and over seven million in bribes paid to Charles and Wallerman, none of which would see the light of day on any corporate ledger.

Then, whatever had been wasted on upgrading factories, hiring workers, raw materials, etc., etc. Throw in another two or three hundred million there, Walters guessed-the numbers were already dizzying.

Nobody had worried about the costs when the polymer looked like a fountainhead of profit. Money had been spent profligately with little regard to the risks. They had been so sure of themselves, so optimistic about their amazing product, so quick to commit a hundred million here, five hundred million there. Chump change when the dream promised to produce tens of billions in profit.

When you’re robbing a bank you don’t stop to count the change.

Coming back as losses, the numbers fell like artillery shells.

Their moods sank from bad to nearly suicidal.

There also was the ancillary financial damage to be factored into the heartbreaking total. Globalbang, which Walters had coerced into canceling Arvan’s chemical contract, had never recovered. After the other suppliers witnessed Globalbang pulling the plug on Arvan, nearly all of them sprinted for the exits the moment their contracts expired. No way were they going to bank their economic survival on a firm that behaved so arbitrarily, so dishonorably, so cruelly.

Suddenly denied the materials to manufacture its rockets and bombs, after several months of desperate efforts, Globalbang strangled to death on a last series of futile cost cuts. It went bankrupt and out of business.

The Capitol Group had paid a whopping three billion for Globalbang back in the opening year of the Iraq war, when it seemed that buying any defense company was a license to print money. According to the general accounting principles, that stupendous write-off would have to go on this year’s annual earnings. Yet another casualty of the cursed polymer.