Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

“That’s not so easy. He’s a smart guy, and like I said, he prepared for this. But I have a suggestion.”

“What is it?”

O’Neal explained his plan-it was a great idea-and Walters quickly agreed to do his part.

It was impossible to sleep or nap.

Jack had his feet up on the coffee table and his eyes glued to the television in his hotel room, watching as William Pederson, a smooth-talking lizard in an Armani suit, stood outside the big cylinder that was home to CG’s headquarters, issuing his firm’s first response to the nasty rumors roaring about the city.

Pederson was enjoying himself immensely, juking and jiving into the forest of microphones jammed in his face. “No, we really have no idea what prompted the secretary’s shutdown order. We’re investigating now.”

“Is it true the polymer wears off?” one reporter yelled.

“I won’t say it’s possible and I won’t say it isn’t. We’re running tests now.”

“Why wasn’t it tested before?” bellowed another.

“Who said it wasn’t? I assure you it was, quite vigorously.”

After that wonderfully vague and obviously self-conflicting answer, Pederson’s eyes shifted to a reporter in the back of the mob wearing a conspicuously nice suit; an obvious plant. “Sir,” the “reporter” screamed on cue, “wasn’t the polymer invented by somebody else?”

Pederson acted as though the question annoyed him. His eyebrows knitted together. He stared down at one particular microphone. He tried his best to impart the impression that he was only answering under duress. “Yes, that’s right,” he said gravely. “Among the possibilities we’re exploring is that somebody ran a scam on us.”

The mob of reporters fell silent.

The same “reporter” in the back, a swarthy man with a big nose, asked, “You said it was a scam?”

“Well, let’s say it’s possible somebody committed a few indiscretions. Some of the documents we were given during the purchase of the company that discovered the polymer now appear, well, questionable.”

“You mean doctored or falsified?”

“We’re seeking two men, Jack Wiley and Perry Arvan, in our effort to get to the bottom of this.”

“Are you saying you were defrauded?”

“I’m saying no such thing.” A brief, well-timed pause-could he say it any clearer? He was screaming it from the rooftops to any idiot who would listen. “I’m saying that we’re seeking these two men to help clarify a few questionable matters. In fact, it’s so important to us that we’re offering five million dollars to anyone who helps locate them. Again, Jack Wiley and Perry Arvan are the names. Their photos are posted on our corporate website for anyone interested in the five million reward.”

Jack had an urge to laugh that was quickly tempered by an even stronger compulsion to hop the next flight out of the country and flee to Brazil, or anywhere, really. Anywhere, that is, where there was a thick, impenetrable jungle, accommodating legal authorities, and the possibility of disappearing forever.

Instead he picked a phone from his stack of cell phones, dialed a number, and had another quick conversation with his lawyer.

It was thought that Daniel Bellweather had the best chance to pull it off; if not him, there was no hope. He had once shared the same job, the same onerous responsibilities, the same pressure-cooker office, after all. And when he set his mind to it, he could be fairly charming in a brusque, uncompromising way.

The secretary of defense’s office had politely but insistently rebuffed the many requests by CG to meet in private about the polymer. CG had pulled out all the stops, even the big gun. Former president Billy Cantor had called, twice. He was politely but firmly told to take a hike.

An additional twenty billion of CG’s annual revenue was tied up in other defense contracts. Losing the polymer was a disaster, but things could get worse. The last thing CG could afford was an all-out scandal with the ensuing possibility of being blacklisted by the Pentagon’s procurement corps. For the first time in the company’s immensely profitable history, the unthinkable was on the horizon-bankruptcy, or at least a dramatic shrinkage, selling off profitable enterprises, booting half the executives, and cutting the partner and director earnings to squat.

So at the last minute CG dished out $400K for a table at the annual Gridiron Club dinner, a big bash held for Washington’s glitterati to gather together in a supposedly friendly atmosphere, where they set aside the partisan bickering and lampooned themselves.

The normal price for a table was $200K, but CG was taking no chances. It had a few very important stipulations.

The large black limo dumped Bellweather and a colorless assortment of lesser executives at the handsome entrance of the Capital Hilton. They stepped out onto the curb and raced inside to hobnob and be seen mixing it up with anybody who mattered in the current administration. The lobby was packed with media rock stars, politicians, influence peddlers, celebrities, diplomats, cabinet members, all jostling to look and act more important than the others.

A large retinue of reporters congregated outside trying to catch a glimpse of the rich, famous, and powerful, or maybe overhear some tidbit of priceless information.

Unfortunately, juicy rumors about the possible scandal had preceded the boys from CG. Bellweather quickly grew tired of the cold shoulders and speedy brush-offs. Only a week before, he would’ve been mobbed by aspiring government officials sucking up to arrange a pleasant nest in their next life. The brush-offs quickly became pathetically predictable-“Look, there’s Jim and I really must say hi,” or “My bladder’s killing me. Gotta run and drain the lizard”-as he watched them race off.

When the waiters began pouring through the lobby and announcing dinner, Bellweather stood in a lonely corner, nursing a drink, and waited till he was the last one left. He dodged through the dining room doors just before they shut.

He worked his way to his table slightly below the dais where the president and vice president sat, straining to look pleasant and affable, despite being surrounded by all the slimy media clowns both men detested to their cores. He passed tables stuffed with men and women who couldn’t stand the sight of one another-Democrats hating Republicans, politicians hating the press, who in turn viewed anybody in office like child molesters-everybody acting phony and smiling through gritted teeth.

The temporary truce was tenuous at best. It was a miracle nobody smuggled guns or poison into the room.

Douglas Robinson, the secretary of defense, nearly turned white when Bellweather suddenly materialized at his side. The timing was exquisite-everybody was standing by their seats, waiting for the festivities to begin. “Always nice to see you, Doug,” Bellweather announced, jamming out his hand.

“Get lost,” Robinson whispered with a snarl. He ignored the hand.

“Can’t. It’s my table.” Bellweather let the hand drop.

Robinson glanced down at the name placard in front of Bellweather’s seat. It clearly read Arnold Smith. “That’s definitely not your seat,” he told Bellweather, with a look meant to say, You’re a crook and a rotten thief-I’d rather French-kiss Osama bin Laden than sit next to a lying snake like you.

“No, no mistake,” Bellweather said, smiling pleasantly. “Smith bowed out at the last minute and deeded me his seat.”

A cardinal in brilliant red robes at the head table began saying grace. Robinson used the excuse to ignore Bellweather. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and swore to himself he was going to fire somebody first thing in the morning. His people were supposed to check these things.