The Capitol Game (18 page)

“Is he worried?” Walters asked, barely able to conceal his excitement. He loved getting these insights. The game was so much more fun this way.

“Yeah, definitely. He and the wife stayed home last night. You’d’ve loved that conversation. Bickered back and forth all night. They went over the numbers again and again. It’s hopeless. They’re worried about the kids.”

“Explain that.”

“They figure they had their run. They’re old now. The company was the inheritance they were gonna pass down. It’s the family piggy bank, and now it’s sprung a big hole.”

“And how are they leaning?”

“The old lady, she says call Wiley first thing in the morning and cut a deal. Dump this turkey before it destroys them. They’re too old to recover from such a disaster. Once the banks move… the company, the house, their cars, they could lose everything.”

“Smart lady.”

“Yeah, but the old man, well, he just ain’t so sure yet, Mitch.”

“What’s he waiting for?”

“He kept droning on about this miracle product. Says if he could just get it into the right hands in the Pentagon, all their troubles will be over.”

Walters broke into a loud, satisfied chortle. “Ridiculous. It would take at least a year of tests and studies before the Pentagon showed the slightest interest. He’s got a day or two, at most.”

O’Neal did not join him. He inserted a fresh piece of gum through his lips and chewed hard for a moment. The old ladies in the middle of the car had moved on to a heated discussion about the price of groceries; the kid remained engrossed in his book. O’Neal reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, removed what appeared to be a transcript, then flashed it in Walters’s big face. “The guy ain’t stupid, Mitch. He knows that.”

“Oh. Well, tell me about that.”

“He called his financial guy a little after midnight. Mat… Mat…”—a hurried glance at the transcript—“Mat Belton. Told him to get ready.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Told him to hit the phones hard first thing in the morning. Find somebody with deep pockets, offer him a big cut of their miracle product. Belton estimates ten million will do the trick.”

“What trick?”

“Bridging money, he called it. One guy is all they need—one moderately rich guy willing to stake ten million in return for fifty or a hundred million when the product comes home to roost.”

Walters rocked back in his seat. He rubbed his forehead and thought about this. “He’s more desperate than I thought,” he concluded. But rather than look gloomy he broke into a huge smile.

“What’re you smokin’?” O’Neal asked. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”

“His company is publicly listed. We’re talking major SEC violations. Jailhouse stuff.”

O’Neal stared back with a blank expression. Lacking a background in finance, he had no clue what the problem was.

Walters shook his head and curled his lips as if Perry Arvan’s plans sickened him. “It’s insider trading. Offering an outside
investor confidential, inside knowledge as a lure for his money, information he hasn’t even shared with his own stockholders, that’s a serious crime.”

“If you say so,” O’Neal replied, as if to say, big deal, so what? The absurdity that they were breaking even more serious laws seemed relevant only to him.

“Also, private loans are a corporate no-no,” Walters went on, now sounding very righteous. “The polymer was developed on company premises, using company employees, on company property. The shareholders own it. He can’t sell off pieces or encumber them with a major debt without their express knowledge and approval.”

“I think he’s gotta get caught first,” O’Neal noted very reasonably.

“You have this conversation on tape, right?”

“Clear as a bell.”

“So there it is.”

“Yeah, there it is… a totally inadmissible conversation.”

If that minor technicality worried Walters, he gave no hint of it. With a great screech the train ground to a stop; the two black ladies got up and waddled off, followed by the student, bouncing and rocking to his iPod. Both men sat staring at the floor, neither moving.

“Send me the tape,” Walters finally announced, then stood, adjusted his suit, and, looking suddenly purposeful, departed.

“No problem.”

Jack was seated in his car in the middle of a large parking lot, reading a paperback novel, when the long black limousine slid up and parked less than three feet away.

Mitch Walters popped out of the back, gripping a briefcase and unloading a smug grin.

Jack stepped out of his car and they shook, rather limply. “Listen, Mitch, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Jack said.

“Hey, you’re right, Jack, it’s a great idea.” Walters spent a moment surveying the parking lot, the surrounding streets, the large
collection of junkheaps parked around them; not a single BMW or Mercedes in the lot, but plenty of old pickups that seemed to be fading and rusting before his eyes. His stare stopped at the large pile of red bricks with the words “Arvan Chemicals” across the entrance.

“What a dump,” Walters remarked with a sour expression. He withdrew a long cigar from his pocket, neatly clipped the end, and spent a long moment puffing and sucking to get it lit. The call he made to Jack three hours earlier had not gone well, to put it mildly. Jack had confidently asserted that he had matters well in hand, before Walters unloaded the news about Perry Arvan’s hunt for a white knight willing to make a generous wager in return for a big chunk of the holy grail.

Just as he suspected it would, this news caught Jack flat-footed and momentarily baffled: it was a rare opening and Walters exploited it to insist on taking a more active role in the takeover. Jack’s protestations were vehement and a total waste of breath.

Walters had his mind made up: the time had come to push Jack into the backseat; time for the Capitol Group, and for Walters himself, to take the lead. It was also the first advantage Walters had on Jack and he intended to use it for all it was worth. He ended the conversation abruptly by informing Jack that he was about to jump on the smaller corporate jet for a fast sprint to Trenton Airport, drive to the factory, and pay a nasty visit on Perry Arvan.

Jack could join him or not. His choice. Didn’t matter to Walters.

“You say you have Perry on tape planning to commit a crime. Did I hear that right?” Jack asked, giving Walters a wary look.

“Yep, him and his money guy, Belton.”

“What crimes?”

“Conspiracy on top of two or three major SEC violations. Dead to rights. One of my corporate lawyers listened to it and said it’s lockdown stuff. And if they called across state lines, you can add interstate fraud.”

“Where did you get these tapes?”

“None of your business,” Walters snapped, smirking and making
no effort to disguise how much he was enjoying the moment. It felt so good to be on top for a change. “You said it yourself, we’re partners. I don’t have to tell you a thing.”

“Is it legal?”

“Who cares?”

“In other words, no.”

“So what?”

“Was this the handiwork of your pals at TFAC again?”

“Just say I came into possession of a very incriminating tape. Now I intend to use it. Arvan thinks he’s found a way around you, Jack, but I’m going to stop him.”

“I don’t like it, Mitch.”

“You’re breaking my heart.”

“You intend to blackmail him,” Jack said, shaking his head.

“Think of it as saving him from himself. That’s how I think of it.”

“You’ll have to explain that.”

“He’s about to engage in an illegal act. Several acts, actually. Like a Good Samaritan, I’m stopping him from making a bad choice.”

“Very creative reasoning.”

“Thanks, I’m quite proud of it.”

“I suppose I can’t stop you.”

“Good guess. You can come along and support me or get lost.”

Jack looked frustrated but tagged along.

Agnes Carruthers did not recognize the face of either of the two men who barged into her office, though the name of the younger one struck a chord from their phone conversation two days before.

“He’s extremely busy,” Agnes staunchly insisted, edging forward and pursing her lips. The bigger of the two men was standing two feet from her in an effort to intimidate. This was her boss, her office, her domain. “You should’ve called, asked for an appointment,” she insisted, raising her sharp chin and staring down her nose.

Walters placed his big hands on her desk and launched forward, about three inches from her face. “Listen up, lady. I’ve flown up from D.C. and don’t you dare tell me no.”

“You listen up, buster. Mr. Arvan’s got more important things going on. I’ll see if I can fit you in next week.”

“You won’t be in business next week,” Walters barked with a nasty, knowing smile. Another day or two and he would own this company. He had just made his first executive decision: he would personally fire this old hag and shove her out the door. He hoped she had a pension. He would personally assure she never got a dime. “You know who I am?” he asked.

“Sure do,” Agnes replied, not backing down an inch. “You’re the fella who’s gonna be outta here in two seconds, or I’ll call security.”

Jack eased himself around Walters. “Excuse me,” he said, using a hip to edge Walters aside, and putting on his best smile. “Please, if you can just tell him we’re here. Let him decide, please. If he says no, we’ll leave quietly.”

Agnes’s eyes moved back and forth between this nice-looking young man with such pleasant, respectful manners and the big, blustery windbag who was glaring back with a threatening sneer. “All right,” she said to the young man, firing another withering look at the bully before she got up and disappeared into her boss’s office.

She popped out a moment later, pink-faced, and ushered them in. Perry Arvan and Mat Belton were seated in chairs in the corner of the office, surrounded by stacks of spreadsheets. Between the mountainous piles of paper and their drawn expressions, they had been there all day, going over the dismal numbers and hoping for a miracle. Perfect, just perfect, Walters thought.

Jack stiffly performed the introductions, then moved against a wall and remained quiet. “What’s this about?” Perry asked, dropping a sheaf of papers and edging forward in his chair.

Walters pointed at Mat Belton. “I suggest you ask him to leave.”

“Why?”

“We’re going to have what you might call a sensitive conversation. It would be best for all concerned to keep it confidential.”

“I trust Mat.”

From the wall, Jack said, “Mr. Arvan, you might want to do as he says.”

Perry and Mat exchanged looks. “All right,” Mat said to nobody, then after a moment’s hesitation, to Perry, “I’ll be outside the door if you need me.”

The moment he left, Perry asked Walters, “Who are you?”

“The CEO of the Capitol Group. I’m sure you’ve heard of us.”

“Nope, sure haven’t.”

“We’re partnering with Jack here to buy your company.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He brought the idea to us and we decided to back him. Provide financing. Help market the products, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“So what do you say?”

“About what, Mr. Walters?”

“The sale. You going to pull the trigger or not?”

“Pull the trigger?” Perry reclined into his seat and his fingers formed a steeple in front of his mouth. “That how you boys speak of it? You make it sound so easy, so simple. A mild squeeze and it’s over.”

“Answer the question.”

“All right. Haven’t made up my mind.”

Walters sauntered over to the desk and put down his briefcase. With a theatrical gesture, he flipped it open and withdrew a small tape player, preloaded and ready to roll. Perry quietly removed his glasses as Walters punched play. The sound of Perry’s voice speaking with Mat Belton came through loud and clear.

“Listen,” Perry was saying in a tone garbled with excitement or perhaps relief, “I’ve got a great idea for saving the company…” and so on, as he ordered Mat to prepare a list of every wealthy investor in the company and out, rich men they would begin speed-dialing in the morning. Perry sat, wiped the lens of his glasses, and listened. Except for a small flutter around his left eye his face
was entirely impassive. The call lasted three minutes and ended with him and Mat debating how far they should go to sweeten the lure—Mat argued low, Perry high—deciding in the end to offer a thousand percent return.

“How’d you get that?” Perry demanded the moment it ended.

“Why does it matter?” Walters snarled. He wasn’t about to confess to Perry that his phones were bugged; it was self-evident anyway. If pushed, he would put on a show of innocence and insist that somebody—he didn’t know who—had left the tape on his doorstep. An anonymous donor. Who knew how he or she got it? And who cared? That the alibi was as woefully implausible as it was nebulous and impossible to disprove made it all the better.

“It matters to me,” Perry insisted with a dark squint.