The Capitol Game (28 page)

“A few were collected from the suite.”

“And?”

“Could’ve been hers, or any of the countless maids who cleaned
the suite over the years. The crews on those boats turn over as regularly as fast-food joints. The prints weren’t on record, anyway. Another dead end.”

“Probably one of the qualifications for the job,” Morgan gamely concluded.

“Probably so. Here’s how the PIs figured it. Jack and the nurse, they opened up one or two Swiss accounts before the cruise. Over the years, she withdrew from Edith’s account, went ashore, and dumped it into theirs.”

“How much did Jack get?”

“If it was fifty-fifty, Jack cleared about ten million.”

“Yeah, but odds are, Jack being the mastermind and all, he bagged more.”

“I’d say that’s a good guess. Probably at least fifteen million, tax-free, salted away in a Swiss vault,” Charles said.

Morgan now was into the second-guessing game, and he suggested the obvious. “But nobody could prove it, could they?”

“Nothing could be proved. Nobody could prove Edith was dead. Nobody could prove the nurse was hired by Jack. Nobody knew where the money went. I told you, it was brilliant.”

“What did they do?”

“Understand that the last thing Primo wanted was for this to go public. The firm’s reputation would be ruined. Rich people don’t entrust their millions to crooks, or to investment firms too incompetent to protect against internal corruption.”

“But they fired him, right?”

Charles laughed. “Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

“They had a suspicion, Morgan, nothing more.”

“Yeah, but it was pretty damned—”

“And Jack could always sue them. Plus the CEO and CFO had that filthy little discussion with Jack they now wished to keep under the rug—the one about ripping off more of Edith’s fortune. Jack, you see, had them by the balls.”

“It’s hard not to admire it,” Morgan said, almost smacking his lips. Regardless how immoral it was, Jack had pulled off a
stunningly beautiful swindle, and Morgan spent a moment contemplating its elegance. It was the scam of a lifetime. Jack was a very talented boy. “So what’d they do?” he asked.

“You’re not going to believe it.”

“I’m beginning to believe anything about this guy.”

“They paid Jack one million to go away. A bonus, they called it, and both sides signed mutual nondisclosure agreements. One million and neither party could ever whisper a word about the other.”

“A bribe to keep his mouth shut.”

“Welcome to Wall Street. It’s a long, hallowed tradition.”

Morgan could hear Charles stand, then shuffle his feet for a moment. “Wait a minute,” Morgan yelled.

“That’s more than fifty thousand worth,” Charles replied. “Admit it, Morgan. I didn’t cheat you.”

“No, you’re forgetting something. Proof.”

“Find it yourself, Morgan. It’s out there, if you look hard enough.” The stall door opened and Charles stepped out. “Follow the trails and you’ll find it.”

“No, wait,” Morgan yelled, and the noise bounced around the walls but nobody answered. He pushed open the stall door, leaned out, and peered into the men’s room. Empty.

He stepped out, then opened the door to the stall so recently occupied by Charles. The metal briefcase that contained the money sat on the floor. Morgan lurched forward and opened it—also empty except for a small note: “Keep the case and the locating beacon tucked inside. Once again, Morgan, nice try.”

Then a fresh thought struck Morgan. He began a mad scramble around the men’s room, a desperate hunt for his clothes. They weren’t in any of the stalls. Not in the big trash can, not in any of the nooks or corners.

He cursed, kicked over the trash can, then made a mad dash for the door.

He emerged just in time to meet the crush of theatergoers pouring into the lobby for the intermission.

T
he assault on General Techtonics began quietly and slowly. On October 12, in a small page seven article in the
Defense News
concerning the GT 400, an anonymous source expressed some generalized dismay about the speed of the testing and vehicle safety. Two days later,
Defense Acquisition Review Journal
printed a letter to the editor with a more pointed complaint about the GT 400’s rush to production and the possibility of safety lapses. Nothing too specific; just an overheated rant about the dangers of moving too fast.

Earl’s hearings were scheduled for October 30. By the week before, nasty quotes in articles and disturbing rumors were appearing with disturbing regularity.

On October 28, only two days before Earl’s hearing, and with brilliant timing, the Capitol Group put on the first public live display of the miracle polymer.

The demonstration was held at Fort Belvoir, a sprawling base located close to the capital, thus a convenient location for the viewers CG was most concerned with. A slew of senior generals, every member of the House and Senate armed services committees, and a small army of senior Pentagon officials were offered free rides to and from the demonstration. They’d heard rumors about the polymer, curiosity ran high, and they came in droves. The press
also arrived in force. A high-class caterer was on hand and guests were treated to a magnificent spread of exotic munchies. The reporters flocked to the table and began stuffing themselves.

An array of armored vehicles were positioned in a large open field—four targets coated in polymer, eight without. While guests grazed on foie gras and pickled herring, a galaxy of firepower was unleashed on the targets. For ten minutes, explosive devices, rockets, and missiles rained on the cluster of vehicles. Nothing could survive such a beating. A dense cloud of smoke hung over the field, interspersed with bright flashes as the shooters kept blasting away. When the crescendo of violence finally stopped and the smoke cleared, eight ruined wrecks were burning brightly. The four polymer-coated vehicles were amazingly intact.

Next the guests wandered in small gaggles over to the next field where an old M-113 armored personnel carrier was positioned about three hundred yards away from a large reviewing stand. The venerable 113 was a staple of the old Army, since relegated to the status of a relic. It was built of aluminum, thus very burnable, a relatively thin-skinned vehicle that had become a death trap on the modern, more lethal battlefield. Once again, a terrifying array of missiles, rockets, and bombs pelted the vehicle.

After three minutes of splendid violence, the shooting stopped and the M-113 sat there without a dent, much less a hole.

The guests were stunned. Before they could recover, Bellweather nearly bounced to a microphone on a small stage. He offered a few explanatory remarks about the extensive testing already done in the authentic laboratory of Iraq, but said little about the polymer’s amazing qualities. Why should he? They had witnessed it with their own eyes. The demonstration was like nothing anybody had seen before. An old cold war antique had been dragged out the graveyard, plastered in polymer, and survived everything they could throw at it.

Then, in a memorable moment that had been carefully planned, with Bellweather still standing on the stage, jawboning the crowd, the rear ramp of the M-113 clanked down and ten men marched
glibly out of the back. Unknown to the crowd, of course, as a precaution, the inside of the 113 had been triple-lined with tons of Kevlar. Bellweather beamed as the crowd gasped.

He was tempted to play the huckster and say, Yes, that’s right folks, CG is so confident in its polymer that we’re willing to risk real lives! He held his fire, though; the big surprise was about to come.

One of the ten men separated from the pack and walked confidently toward the bleachers. As he drew closer they recognized the beaming face of Mitch Walters, CEO of the company that produced this incredible miracle.

After the cheers and clapping died down, Mitch stepped to the microphone and informed the crowd that CG intended to go for a no-bid, noncompetitive contract—not for itself, not for profit, certainly not for any selfish motive, but for our gallant boys in battle. Thousands of lives were at stake. The whole calculus of the Iraq war would be upended by this new battlefield contraceptive. The insurgents with their lethal bombs and rockets would be frustrated to no end. You saw it here, folks, the chance to win this war. The chance to make horrendous weapons no more useful than slingshots firing pebbles. He asked for their support and was confident he would get it.

Then, without taking any questions, Walters ducked into the back of a long black limousine and sped away.

The limo rushed him straight to the hospital. Walters clasped his head, and howled and moaned the whole way. Despite the plugs in his ears, his left eardrum was severely damaged. The tinnitus in his right ear didn’t clear up for three days.

Eva’s trips to New York were becoming frequent. The reasons varied—an old friend in the city needed her counsel, an accounting seminar, a meeting with a bank, and so forth.

She dropped in to see Jack every time. Jack himself, after a few weeks of furious activity in D.C., began spending more of his time at home in New Jersey. He explained to Eva that Bellweather and Haggar and Walters had matters well in hand. The
Washington tango wasn’t his dance. He was comfortable leaving it in the hands of the pros.

The night watcher from TFAC was poised down the street in his usual hiding place, lurking in the driveway of an empty house, when Eva turned into Jack’s driveway and parked. He jotted the car model and license number in his log, then settled back and watched closer. From the car model he knew it was her; just as it had been her three other times when he was on shift.

“Rich guys got all the luck,” he bitched into his radio.

“Her again?” the man parked in the base van two blocks down asked.

“Yeah, yeah, her.”

“What’s she wearin’ this time?”

“Who cares?”

A quick laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. Wanta bet about tonight?”

“I say she stays. I say Jack gives it to her good. She’ll crawl out to her car in the mornin’.”

“You’re on,” the base station manager said. “Twenty bucks.” It had become a fun game among the watchers, these frequent arrivals of Eva, a few hours inside, then a quick kiss at the door before Eva climbed back into her car for the drive to New York. No overnighters. To the best they could tell, no sex at all, unless Jack and Eva were into slam-bam-thank-you-ma’ams.

The binoculars popped out and he placed them against his eyes. Eva, to his delight, was dressed to the nines in a short skirt, very short, that showed off her very excellent legs and great tush, and a tight upper bodice that illustrated her very ample bosom. He watched her bend over, stretch, and reach into the car for something. “Oh, that’s it, girl, bend further… oh please, a little more,” he mumbled out loud to himself, straining for a good peek. The moment dragged on and the watcher enjoyed every second of it.

Next a short, confident walk to the door. Jack was obviously expecting her, they brushed lips, and she entered hauling two boxes of pizza and a small overnight bag. Mushrooms and cheese for her, meat lover’s delight for him. They moved straight to the
dining room, where, no doubt, a few bottles of wine were already uncorked. That should help set the right mood.

“Guess what she’s carrying?” the watcher informed the man inside the van.

“What?

“A suitcase.”

“Yeah?”

“Black overnight bag. The money’s mine. She and Jack are gonna do the bedsheet tango.”

“I’ll stick with my bet.”

“Thank you,” he said and laughed.

Two hours later, the door opened and Eva stepped out, suitcase in hand. The watcher was now crouched in a clump of thick bushes only fifty feet from the door. He mumbled a curse and listened.

Eva was saying to Jack, “Are you sure? My meeting’s not until late morning.”

After a long moment, Jack said, “I’m sure.”

“Why, Jack? I’m not used to throwing myself at men. I’m definitely not used to being turned down.”

“Sorry. I’m just not ready.”

The watcher couldn’t see it, but could almost picture Eva’s face. She was looking up into Jack’s eyes, he was sure, with an expression that registered between hurt and embarrassment. “I deserve a better explanation than that,” she remarked, now with a distinct chill in her voice.

“I don’t have one.”

“You can do better than that, Jack.”

“Okay, I’ll try. I’ve rushed into things a few times in the past and regretted it.”

“I’m not the past, Jack.”

“I know that.”

“I won’t offer again.”

“I don’t blame you,” Jack said. “When the time comes, I’ll be willing to fight for it.”

Then for a long moment, silence. It struck the lurker in the
bushes that Eva was wavering between telling Jack to kiss off or breaking down in tears. Tell him he’s a hopeless idiot, he wanted to scream. Kick, spit, and scream how much you hate him. He suddenly loathed Jack. Poor, poor Eva. How could he do this to her? Really, how could any man turn down such a fine piece of tail?