The Capitol Game (49 page)

Crintz lost a lot of sleep the previous two days as he considered and debated the offer. The pros and cons rattled around his brain. This was more than he’d ever been asked to do, but technically only slightly more. No, on second thought, a little inside information was one thing; this was burglary and the punishment was much more severe. It
was
also one hundred grand, though. A hundred thousand dollars! His to do whatever he wanted with, his to spend, his to waste however he wished. The Mercury Sable in his driveway was old and tired, the paint was peeling, and he could hear the transmission grinding to death; he’d love to replace it with something fancier, say a racing green Jaguar, and the decision was made. Mia was about to buy him a car.

Crintz waited five full minutes until it was clear that Mia’s absence was something more than a bathroom stop. He walked quickly to the door and pushed the buzzer. A voice came over the intercom and he knew it was an assistant. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Crintz with the IG’s office, here to see Andy Kasprisan,” he said into the speaker, identifying an agent he knew who worked in the office.

There was an irritating buzzing noise as the thick door unlocked and he quickly pushed it open. The assistant’s desk was directly in front of the door, and he made sure to give her a good long glance at the Pentagon badge attached to his shirtfront as he passed. “Thanks,” he told her.

“He’s way in the back,” she mumbled, then pushed her nose into some papers on her blotter.

“Oh,” he said, an afterthought. “Is Agent Jenson in?”

“Nope.” The assistant never even looked up. “Dental appointment. Just missed her.” She pointed a casual finger at the sign-in
board on the wall. Crintz glanced at it and sighed with relief. Under ETR—estimated time of return—Mia had penciled in a time three hours away.

Crintz wandered around the maze of carrels for a few minutes until he located the one with Agent Jenson on the placard. The office was noisy, busy, and messy. Phones ringing, agents talking, all hotly engaged in the pursuit of waste, fraud, and abuse. Nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to him.

An agent with his nose buried in a memo was seated two carrels away from Jenson’s, and Crintz smiled at him, and said, “I’m with the IG’s office. Mia left something for me on her desk.”

“Suit yourself,” the guy said without looking up. He picked up his telephone and began making a call.

Crintz edged inside Mia’s carrel and settled quietly into her seat. The gray fabric walls blocked anyone from observing what he was doing. Unlike all the other carrels he’d seen in this congested dump, everything was neat and tidy, the papers arranged in orderly stacks. Even her phone slips were lined up like battleships awaiting inspection.

He pulled out a pen and his little green notebook, then began jotting notes. The phone slips first. The voice on the phone hadn’t been all that specific about what to look for, so Crintz figured he’d just snatch as much information as looked useful to justify his $100k. As fast as he could, he jotted the names and numbers in his pad. Then he moved to the stacks of files and papers on her desk, but nothing there looked all that interesting. She had a big caseload, and he was quickly lost in the stacks of testimonies, financial reports, depositions, etc.

He glanced at his watch. Seven minutes already, and he began to worry. At the rear of Mia’s carrel sat a large gray metal stand-up safe with four drawers—the same model found in nearly every carrel in a building that manufactured secrets. Regulations required the safe to be locked anytime the owner stepped away, but like nearly everybody except the most fanatic security loons, Mia was planning on returning and had left hers unlocked with the drawers slightly ajar.

Crintz got up and quietly slid open the top drawer. The files were neat and superbly organized, apparently like everything in Jenson’s life. They were alphabetized, too, though he found no Capitol Group files under C. He thought he knew why, smiled to himself, and pushed the drawer back the way he’d found it. He bent down to the bottom drawer where the W’s would be found, quietly eased it open, took one long peek, and struck gold.

There were about thirty thin files with titles beginning with W, then ten or fifteen thick green files labeled “Capitol Group,” but he didn’t know where to begin. It looked like at least a thousand pages. Far too much to read, much less memorize, and copying a pile of this size was out of the question.

And stealing all of it was definitely not an option, Crintz thought.

He got down on his creaky knees and began riffling through files as fast as he could, hoping he’d get lucky. Maybe he’d find some golden nugget that would warrant the hundred-thousand-dollar payoff. Jenson, he quickly realized, after scanning enough files, had been watching and tracking CG for months, if not far longer. She had the firm’s financial reports going back three years. As a private firm, CG wasn’t legally obligated to file with the SEC, but it did have to submit the material to the Pentagon procurement office every time it bid on a contract.

But Mia had so much more than that: the names and biographical data of all the key players; transcripts of all congressional hearings dealing with the polymer; a lot of background material on some company called Arvan Chemicals; and so on and so forth. From long experience in the Inspector General’s office he recognized what he was looking at; she was laboriously and studiously plotting a giant case.

Then a small, thin file tucked in the rear of the drawer caught his attention. It was in the back, hidden from view for good reason, he suspected. He had to strain to reach it but eventually got a firm grip with his thick fingers. It was labeled “Source One,” a mysterious title that quickly became clear.

Mia had an insider; source one was a squealing rat. Someone deep inside, he realized, as he glanced through the material. Whoever it was, had detailed the trail of events that led CG to take over Arvan Chemicals, then how CG bought, pressured, and finagled the Pentagon and Congress into arranging the sweet deal for a no-bid, single-source $20 billion contract.

The disclosures were verbal. Mia had treated their discussions like depositions and meticulously transcribed the results. By his estimate, there were at least forty pages of conversation in the form of questions and answers that he plowed through as fast as his eyes could move.

On December 29 the year before, there was this one:

Crintz paused a second. He realized she was talking about his paymaster, the little gnome who made sure he got his monthly bribes. He went back to reading.

Suddenly Crintz heard a collection of loud voices nearby. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He removed the papers he was reading, stuffed the rest of the file back in the rear, closed the safe drawer, and got back to his feet.

He took a good look around. Nobody was paying him any attention, but he was through taking risks.

He walked out quickly the same way he came in. His knees were weak with fear and excitement. On his way back down to his office, he made a firm decision. A hundred thousand was too little. It was time for a serious renegotiation. That little slush fund was loaded with cash. Some third-rate political peckerwood got seven million. Seven million!

Hell, the information in his fist was worth at least a million, possibly two. Crintz tightened his grip. The clutch of papers in his fist was his early retirement to a beautiful Florida resort, a glorious golf course, a boat, young girls in bikinis flaunting bronzed bodies, his life’s dream.

He relished the moment, and by the time he got back to his desk he was ready to hop on the Internet and begin the search for a nice little Florida condo, somewhere near the bars and the ocean.

The meeting opened with Walters and Bellweather thrashing and badgering Martie O’Neal, holding back no punches. Jack and Old Man Arvan were still missing, they yelled. Why in the hell was CG paying a fortune to TFAC, an incompetent firm filled with losers, bunglers, and hacks? TFAC was sloppy and stupid; its mistakes
were costing the Capitol Group billions. O’Neal relaxed against a far wall and let Walters and Bellweather vent and spew and fume till they were tired of hearing themselves talk.

A few hours before, Walters had authorized one million dollars to buy Harvey Crintz’s goods; the permission was grudging and attended by another of Walters’s crude tantrums.

O’Neal now held the product of that million dollars in his hand. He weathered their curses and threats with good humor, and endured their abuse with the gratifying knowledge that the moment they finished, he would make them eat their words. Go ahead, boys, he wanted to yell. Call me an asshole again. Burst a few blood vessels, scream till you’re hoarse.

But they didn’t seem to grow tired of abusing him, so he pushed off the wall and approached Walters’s desk. “Guess what I got?” he sneered.

Walters sneered back, twice as nasty. “Don’t play games with us.”

“All right. I found your leak. You got a rodent problem in this building. A snitch, someone feeding loads of incriminating info to Jenson.”

O’Neal tossed the papers onto Walters’s desk, then stood back and allowed the other two to read for themselves. Walters had forgotten his glasses and had to jam his face about three inches from the pages. Bellweather stood slightly behind him and leaned over his shoulder. O’Neal enjoyed the looks of growing horror on their faces.

“Jesus,” Bellweather blurted after he finished. “She knows about the slush fund.”

Walters was too stunned to say anything for a moment. He collapsed into his chair, gripping the armrests like a life raft.

“Relax, fellas. Not all is lost,” O’Neal announced, too happy to be the irreplaceable lackey once again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bellweather demanded.

“Remember, I was in the FBI. Those statements are nothing but paper. Unless they’re backed up by the living witness who made those claims, they’re worthless.”

“Worthless?” Walters managed to croak, still shell-shocked.

“Yeah, Mitch. In court, without that witness, it’s all inadmissible hearsay. God bless the Supreme Court. The accused has the right to cross-examine, and you can’t do that with pieces of paper.”

“What are you suggesting?” Bellweather asked.

“Isn’t it obvious, Dan?” Walters answered him with a sly smile, “Once we know who’s talking to Jenson, we take care of the problem. No witness, no evidence—no case.”

“You mean kill her?” Bellweather asked.

“Nothing that drastic is necessary,” O’Neal replied, smirking with pretended innocence. “There’s plenty of ways to make a source disappear. Money can cause a memory lapse. Enough money can even buy a complete reversal of old testimony. Maybe the source can just vanish for a while, take a long trip to a wonderfully remote place.”

Bellweather quickly said, “Don’t even mention murder in this office, Mitch. Or kidnapping either. We’re businessmen. We have reputations to protect. We don’t behave that way.”

The three men studied each other’s faces for a moment. The message was clear; nobody needed to say it. O’Neal had no famous reputation to protect, nor was he a “businessman” with a limited imagination. How O’Neal took care of the “rat” problem was up to him. Bellweather didn’t need to, or want to, know about it.

“So who is she?” Walters asked. The source was referred to as “she” three different times in Jenson’s papers.