The Capitol Game (44 page)

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.

Walters tried to make the feeble argument that the steep losses offered a tax offset, as if that was a solace. It wasn’t, not at all. It was dawning on everyone in the room that, for the first time in the Capitol Group’s storied history, there would be no annual profit to be taxed.

Jackson was scribbling numbers on a legal pad as fast as his ears and fingers could keep up. The creaming was worse than he ever imagined. As best he could tell, the loss could total a whopping ten billion. Ten billion!

Once Jackson mumbled that number out loud, the magnitude began sinking in with Walters. His face went pale, his chest ached, he was having trouble breathing.

The fat bonus he had planned on demanding, and had already mentally spent, was laughable. The three-million-dollar renovation of his Great Falls estate would have to stop. He’d have to withdraw the offer he made two weeks before for the lovely lodge in Aspen. He would be lucky to hold on to his job.

Jackson and Bellweather looked almost as miserable. Both had vast fortunes already, enough and more to live in grand style for the rest of their lives. But like many rich men, it was never enough. In a city increasingly sprinkled with billionaires, both were nothing more than run-of-the-mill millionaires. Sadly, millionaires just didn’t get the respect they once enjoyed. A billion bought much better invitations, better access, vastly more people sucking up to you. And the word “billionaire” just sounded so much better; it had such a charming ring when the lips pursed to spit that lovely word.

The polymer had been their ticket from the M-word to the B-ranks.

Haggar wasn’t nearly as depressed about the numbers as the other three. They, as well as the other directors, all had big, expensive mansions, fleets of cars, vacation homes, yachts, greedy ex-wives, even a smattering of private jets to worry about. Big lifestyles required big profits.

After a long, impoverishing career in stingy public service, Haggar had yet to cash in and had relatively little money. His lifestyle remained modest. He had few expenses—a fair-sized town house in Springfield, one kid so disgruntled, dumb, and lazy he was lucky to be attending an inexpensive community college. Plus he was still married to his first wife, the same college sweetheart he’d been hitched to the past thirty years, through good times and bad, sickness and health, and all that. In truth, they could barely stand the sight of each other. They slept in different beds, used different bathrooms, avoided each other as much as possible. But both, for their own selfish reasons, had seen his job in the Capitol Group as a reason to tough it out.

Haggar planned on waiting till he made a bundle before cashing her in for his dream, a younger trophy, somebody with uplifted boobs, slimmer thighs, less wrinkles. Someone always ready and willing for a little sex.

Her plan was to wait till he was rich enough to be worth divorcing.

Well, what the hell, Haggar figured. After ten years of sleeping in separate beds, the dream could wait for another few years.

T
hey picked up Jack the moment he rushed out of the big cylinder that housed CG’s headquarters, jumped into his car, and sped away. Following him was too easy. Months before, they had planted a tracking device on the undercarriage of his Lincoln. Though he spent much of his time at home, they liked the cool assurance of knowing he couldn’t slip away.

They stayed at a safe distance, usually at least three cars back. The risk of being spotted was much higher than any chance of letting him slip, which was essentially zero. The tracking device was the newest thing, tethered to a satellite thousands of miles overhead; he could be driving in Europe and they’d know which street, to within ten inches. They followed at a leisurely pace, as Jack shot across the Memorial Bridge, then ground his way through the thick, midday D.C. traffic. Once or twice he got a few headlights ahead, but the TFAC trackers remained calm.

They had expected him to jump on 95 and bolt north, directly toward Jersey and his big house. Apparently he had business in D.C. to accomplish before he made the long drive home.

They were stuck at a red light when Jack made an abrupt left turn and sprinted into the busier streets of a shopping section. Every inch of his progress was followed carefully and closely on their screen. They were only mildly concerned when he made
another quick turn, then his Lincoln stopped for a moment, then picked up speed again and began doing slow circles on their screen.

“Better kick it up a notch,” the passenger ordered the driver. He glanced at his watch, then buried his face back in the tracking screen.

“What is it?”

“I dunno. Target’s doing small circles.” He thought about it a few seconds. “Maybe a parking garage.”

The driver tried edging around the cars directly to his front but it was no use. He pounded the horn a few times and was coldly ignored. D.C. drivers.

He finally turned left, then followed the tracker’s orders straight to a large parking garage on 18th Northwest. “Should we go in?” he asked.

“No, pull over. Let’s see when he comes out.”

By his calculation, Jack’s car had entered the garage only two minutes before. He watched the garage entrance for a moment before he saw people getting out of their cars, and attendants climbing in to park them.

“Damn it, it’s full-service,” he complained, banging a hand off the dash.

“We lost him,” the driver said, voicing the obvious.

“Don’t sweat it, we’ll find him. Cruise around. Keep your eyes peeled on the shops and local buildings. He can’t be far.”

Wrong guess, because Jack at that moment was seated in the rear of a taxi speeding toward Union Station. He had called for the cab from his cell phone, and dodged into the back a moment after the attendant handed him a parking ticket for his car. Thirty thousand dollars in large bills were stuffed in his pocket. Another pocket held his Amtrak ticket for an afternoon run to New York City. A rental car arranged by somebody else awaited him there.

This was his plan, the getaway meticulously plotted and prepared so many months before. It was always inevitable that CG would begin putting things together, eventually. Once they got an inkling of what he had done, things would turn dangerous. He
knew his house was being watched, knew about the trailers who followed him everywhere.

It was time to dump the watchers and trackers and disappear for a while. Time to go underground, time to see how things developed and make his next moves from there.

Everything would be handled with cash. A complete set of papers sat in the bottom of his briefcase, under a different name, a passport, charge cards, driver’s license. His money, almost fifty million in cash, was at that moment electronically careening through various overseas banks. It would not stop moving for hours, until all possible trace was lost.

A trusted friend with long experience in these matters was handling the transactions. By six, the money would be cooling its heels in an impenetrable Swiss bank, undetectable to anyone hunting for Jack.

He pulled out a cell phone and placed a quick call to his lawyer. The conversation was short and to the point. The second he finished, he ditched the cell phone with a quick toss out the window. Ten more disposable cell phones were stashed in the rental car in New York. Can’t be too careful, he reminded himself as the Capitol dome flashed by to his right.

Things were about to turn really interesting.

The neighborhood was dark and almost spookily quiet. The skies were thick with clouds that hid the moon, and that made them happy. They were parked in a narrow alleyway up on a hill less than a block behind her house. They could look down and see everything.

She got home from work later than the past three nights, at eight, and launched into her usual ritual. After seven days of watching and peeking, they could almost predict what she’d do next. They made a game of it and tried, but it was too easy to be fun. They quickly lost interest.

It was a small house with large windows—women had such a thing for light—and they could observe her every move with a pair of good German-made binoculars. First, thirty minutes in the
kitchen cooking roast beef and potatoes. Chicken the night before, now she was in the mood for beef. She carried her plate into her den, sat down on the couch, and settled in to catch the evening news as she nibbled from her plate. At nine she switched channels, started to watch a movie, quickly became bored, dumped the plate in the kitchen, and shifted to the bedroom.

She undressed and changed in her bathroom, emerging fifteen minutes later with her teeth and hair brushed, in a stingy teddy they all admired immensely. Nice long legs, broad shoulders, wonderful athletic build, they agreed. They laughed and shared a few lewd comments to illuminate the extent of their veneration. After fifteen minutes of reading, the bedside light flipped off. Nighty-night, Mia, one of them crooned.

That was three hours before. “Time to go, boys,” Castile, the boss, hissed at the others. The moon had just dodged behind some thick clouds, the lights were off in the surrounding homes. It was perfect.

They eased out of the car and crept through the small, well-kept yards of the two houses directly behind hers. Three men in all, scooting along in dark pants, black sweatshirts, and running shoes, and each had a balaclava hood rolled on his head, which they tugged down the moment before they entered her home.

Castile, the expert at locks, did the honors. He had it picked in less than a minute, he eased the door open, and one by one they snuck inside. The house was pitch-dark but for a few nightlights sprinkled in strategic locations. Just right. Jones hauled in the bag filled with the evidence it was his task to plant in some suitable location. Phillips crept swiftly and silently through the kitchen, through the tiny living room, straight to her bedroom door, which was closed tight, as they knew it would be. He hefted the baseball bat in his right hand and waited. He was the security hack. If the door opened, if she peeked out, he would bean her, hard, and they would bolt into the dark night.