The Capitol Game (25 page)

“I’ll start wearing body armor tomorrow, thank you.”

“And I’m offering my services,” Eva added, gripping his hand a little tighter. “I know these people, Jack. They’re sharks. Confide in me and I can help.”

“If I need a watchdog, you’ll be the first one I call,” Jack promised vaguely, but not the least bit unfriendly.

The movie was even worse than its reviews.

M
organ took an anxious step out of the cab and onto the curb at the corner of 10th Avenue and 53rd Street. He checked his watch—7:20 p.m. right on time. Charles had been abrupt and very demanding on the phone. Arrive by taxi, Morgan was told in a tone that brooked no objections. Don’t be a minute late. Come alone; no trailers, no wires, no funny business.

If Charles so much as suspected his instructions weren’t being obeyed to the letter, Morgan could stand on the street corner till the cocks crowed. Charles swore he would disappear, not to be heard from again.

Rivers and Nickels, the TFAC reinforcements, had landed as scheduled on the four o’clock shuttle at LaGuardia. They arrived hauling a briefcase stuffed with cash as well as a stern reminder from O’Neal not to screw this up. Martinelli and Tanner, the two snoops who had spent the past three weeks trolling the Wall Street firms, were also ordered to assist.

Five men. Four highly trained former government agents to back up Morgan, four hardened pros to make sure they learned a little more about Charles and his fabulous claims.

Morgan drew up the plan. It was well thought out. There were no objections from the other four. The idea was to trail Charles after the meeting, or, barring that, get a usable fingerprint, or at the very
least a few good photos. Somehow, whatever it took, they needed to learn his real identity and the nature of his relationship to Jack.

The four backups were littered around the surrounding streets in a variety of poses and disguises. They arrived an hour early and picked out their positions with exacting care. Martinelli and Tanner were parked in separate cars, idling nearby, waiting to punch the gas and follow; Rivers and Nickels would trail on foot, wherever Charles led them.

Despite the hard warning from Charles, Morgan was wired and ready to broadcast.

For two full minutes Morgan stood on the corner alone, trying to appear relaxed and guileless as he pretended to watch the traffic. Out of the blue, he felt a light tap on his back, and when he turned around Charles was there, grinning. Morgan quickly put two and two together—evidently Charles had been waiting in a nearby store, marking time and watching until Morgan showed.

“Did you come alone?” Charles asked predictably.

“Yes, just me,” he lied.

“Are you wired?”

“No, I swear.”

“You’re lying.”

“Check me if you like,” Morgan offered with a smug smirk as he held out his arms and spun around. I mean it, go ahead, search as long and hard as you like, he said to himself. The bug was state of the art, very tiny, encased in a button in his coat; it wouldn’t activate until he squeezed it. The newest thing, totally dormant and undetectable by a wand or any known electronic detector until he chose to turn it on. That would come later.

“Doesn’t matter,” Charles said with a nonchalant shrug. “Come on. Walk beside me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“I have the money, Charles.” He held up the case for inspection. “It’s all here, fifty thou in cash.”

“Good for you. Now we have something to talk about.” Charles was already walking, so Morgan took off after him.

“Well, I’m here, so why don’t you start talking now?” Morgan asked, very sociably. It was an old ploy, one taught to all the scrubs in the Agency school in Virginia—divert the prey’s mind and get his attention away from the environment and the trackers. They were side by side now, moving slowly, a casual stroll. A cripple could follow them at this pace.

“Relax, Morgan. It’s worth the wait, I promise you.”

“I’m just wondering why you’re so paranoid.”

“I have my reasons. Believe me, they’re good ones.”

“All this secrecy and clandestine crap, why can’t we talk without all this cloak-and-dagger?”

This question seemed to get on his nerves. “Maybe you don’t know Jack as well as you think you do.”

They turned right and headed toward the narrower streets of the theater district. The crowds were growing thicker but Charles hadn’t tried any funny business yet. Morgan wore a yellow windbreaker so loud it virtually glowed in the dark, another trick he’d learned in his years as a spook. In the densest mob, in the dead of night, he’d be impossible to misplace. “Jack’s harmless,” Morgan insisted after a long moment. “We’ve seen nothing to indicate any problems.”

“You checked his Army record?” Charles asked with an amused grin.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Uh-huh. What did it say?”

“Clean as a whistle. War hero, loved by his troops, admired by one and all.”

For some reason this brought a condescending chuckle from Charles and a nasty side glance. “You guys aren’t as good as I thought.”

“Look, pal, we got his official record.”

“No, you got his unclassified file,” Charles said sharply. “There’s another record, the real one. The Army calls it a classified fiche.”

Through his CIA service Morgan was familiar with them. “What was he, a special ops cowboy or something?”

“In fact Jack was Delta. Everything’s smoke and mirrors with those people.”

Morgan had no idea whether this was true. “Can you prove that?”

“I know it, okay? Point is, Jack can kill you with a toothpick. He can get into and out of Baghdad, in wartime, without being detected. He did that, you know.”

“Uh, no, we—”

“And check his record from Panama. He hunted down Noriega. It was Jack who kept him from escaping, chased him into the Vatican embassy.”

They walked and talked a little more before Morgan asked, “You got a copy of this file?”

“You’re kidding, right? You asked why I’m afraid of Jack and I’m telling you. I wouldn’t want him carrying a grudge against me.”

“That all you’ve got?”

“That’s barely an appetizer, Morgan,” Charles said, picking up his pace a bit. “Now shut up.”

Martinelli was about thirty yards behind the two men, squeezing the steering wheel as he weathered a symphony of honks and angry gestures. New Yorkers! He remembered the old joke about the tourist totally lost in the city and he stops and asks a native for directions, saying, “Aside from ‘get screwed,’ could you please tell me the way to the Empire State Building?”

He cursed and wished Morgan and Charles would pick up the pace. The taxi driver directly on his rear was nearly leaning on his horn. A quick glance in the rearview mirror—the driver wore a turban and had a thick Sikh beard. Amazing how quickly even foreigners dropped their hospitable native manners and adopted the surly rudeness of this city.

To his left and right, he could see Rivers and Nickels following on foot, both on opposite sidewalks, blending in quite nicely.

Then without warning, Morgan and Charles hung a right onto a one-way street with traffic going the wrong way. Martinelli
started to follow before a fusillade of horns reminded him it was one-way.

He uttered another loud curse, backed up, and began driving to the next block to try and pick them up again at the far end of the street. The Sikh was leaning outside the car window, howling obscenities, his middle finger stuck in the air.

They were on West 45th, passing theaters now. The best Morgan could tell, Charles never once glanced back, or even looked around to check if they were being tailed. Never once gazed at reflections in storefront windows, never bent down to tie his shoes and steal a furtive peek. Could he have overestimated this guy?

Morgan pressed his coat button, activated the mike, and asked, “Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

“I just want to know.”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

They took ten more steps when, without warning, Charles grabbed his arm and yanked him into the covered entrance of a theater. Morgan hadn’t been paying attention to the overhead billboards; he hadn’t a clue which theater, or which play. He kept his mouth shut as Charles smoothly handed two tickets to the doorman, and they were inside.

They had apparently arrived right on time for the start of the show. Only a few stragglers were still milling around the lobby, exchanging gossip or whatever. He saw that they were in the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, and according to the large poster on a stand-up easel, the night’s entertainment was
A Chorus Line.
“What are we doing here?” he demanded.

For the first time Charles faced him. “You look pale, Morgan. Don’t tell me you’ve seen
Chorus Line
before?”

“Well… no, I haven’t.”

“Good. It’s sold out. I paid a fortune for these tickets. Thought you’d be more appreciative.”

Morgan was pleased that he had lured Charles into naming the play before it struck him what Charles had done and why. Who
cared if the trailers knew where they were? It was sold out, so they couldn’t get inside. Such a simple, obvious ploy, why had nobody thought of it?

Charles seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Worried about your friends out on the sidewalk?”

“I told you I came alone,” Morgan insisted without the barest hint of conviction.

The final curtain bell was ringing and the last loiterers in the lobby began a mad hustle for their seats. Charles didn’t budge. “Are we going in to watch the show or not?” Morgan asked, speaking loudly so the boys out on the street could hear.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The men’s room.”

“Why? You want me to hold it for you?”

Charles didn’t smile or in any way reply to the infantile wisecrack, just began walking quickly to the men’s room. They could hear the orchestra blaring the opening notes of the theme song. The restroom was empty when they entered. Charles moved toward a urinal, reached down to his front, then spun around with a .38 caliber in his right hand. “Now, we’re gonna do this my way, Morgan. Don’t get nervous. I won’t shoot you unless you make me.”

Morgan’s mouth gaped open in shock. “A gun,” he gasped loudly.

“I believe that’s what it’s called, yes.”

Morgan balanced his feet and tightened his grip on the briefcase. “What’s this? A two-bit holdup?”

Charles studied Morgan’s face a moment. “I told you to come alone, and you’ve turned this into a street orgy. I warned you not to wear a wire, and you’re a walking DJ. You’re making me nervous, Morgan. This”—he began shaking the gun—“is to make sure you don’t break any more rules.”

Morgan adjusted his expression to one of resignation. “Hey, pal, I have no intention of getting myself clipped, not over fifty grand. Hell, it’s not even mine. Here,” he said, taking a step closer and jamming the briefcase in Charles’s direction—another five feet
and he’d be all over him. A quick kick in his groin, a chop across the forearm, then he’d make him eat that gun.

Charles immediately stepped backward and the gun popped into Morgan’s face. “Don’t. That would be very stupid.” The sound of the hammer being cocked was loud and ominous.

“All right.”

“Step back.”

Morgan stepped back.

“Put down that case.”

Morgan placed the case on the floor. Whatever the man with the gun wanted.

“Good boy. Now take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“The clothes, Morgan. Remove them.”

“Forget it. No. That’s just not going to happen.”

Charles leaned his back against the wall. “Listen to me. I offered you a deal, and I intend to honor it. But on my terms, not yours.”

When Morgan did nothing, Charles leaned toward him and announced very loudly, “Listen up, fellas. Your friend Morgan is about to blow this deal. Because of his silly modesty, you’re not going to learn things about Wiley you couldn’t imagine. It’ll cost you fifty thousand to get nothing.”

“Who are you talking to?” Morgan asked. This time, not only was he not convincing, it sounded asinine.

“Jack has a nasty scandal in his past, Morgan. Very nasty. It’s everything you’ve been hunting for, and then some. But you’ll never find it without me.”

Well, what the hell, Morgan thought. Charles had already made a fool of him—twice—so what was a little more mortification? Only one thing was worse than this: after all this time, effort, and money to come back empty-handed. With a great show of reluctance he removed his jacket and tossed it to Charles. Then his shirt, his shoes, and his trousers, until he was naked but for his socks and underpants. He couldn’t remember a more humiliating moment. “Get into that stall,” Charles ordered, waving the gun at the far one along the wall.

Looking very aggravated, Morgan dutifully entered the stall, and Charles closed the door behind him. He could hear Charles walk around, then the sounds of him entering the adjoining stall and sitting down. “What next?” Morgan asked, wondering how it came to this.