The Capitol Game

19

By the second week of January, polymer-coated vehicles of all sorts were flying off the line. Humvees, Bradleys, M1 tanks, even the newest addition to the combat fleet, the Stryker, were lined up bumper-to-bumper to get a lifesaving face-lift. Fights broke out between the crews as they jockeyed to be next in line; the alternative was a long wait in a country where bombing had become the national sport.

FOB Falcon; Camp Graceland; Rasheed Airbase; Camp Cuervo; Engineer Base Anvil; Camp Whitford; Camp Whitehouse, FOB Rustamiyah, Baghdad-all had painting facilities that were beehives of activity. Converting the same crews who had been armor-plating the vehicles into painting teams proved to be kid’s play.

Even after spreading the chemical production around five different facilities located in five different states, the frenetic effort to supply sufficient quantities of the polymer fell abysmally short. Five or six large batches arrived in Iraq improperly mixed and had to be dumped, late at night, into nearby Iraqi rivers. Every other day, it seemed, the painting in Iraq ground to a halt. Quality control was another problem. Complaints poured back to the Pentagon about slipped schedules, shoddy workmanship, and the slapdash, miserably managed nature of the entire operation.

The leaders of CG weathered the storm of criticism the same way they had withstood the old chorus of complaints about its uparmoring program, a program that had also experienced notable problems. They ignored it. Frankly, it came as little surprise. The same inept managers oversaw the polymer application, the same lackadaisical crews worked three-hour shifts, stole off for long lunch breaks, and retreated to their air-conditioned trailers by three every afternoon for prolonged happy hours.

CG fell back on the tried-and-tested excuse that it was hard to hire good people for long-term duty in a scary war zone. What they wouldn’t admit was the bigger truth: in an effort to pump up profits, at the pitiful wages they were offering, nobody with half a brain would consider working for CG in Iraq.

After a while, once the noise grew too loud, CG shipped over a few new bodies and added night crews who quickly adopted the local work habits and managed to produce only a minor improvement.

But the results were spectacular, if you ignored the occasional blemish. In the first month, out of twenty attacks, only three coated vehicles were destroyed by roadside bombs. In each case, as investigations later revealed, the cause was faulty workmanship; CG’s coating crews had somehow, incredibly, overlooked the need to paint the whole vehicle.

To manage the finances of this exploding new company, CG assigned a veteran CFO, a carefully chosen executive well seasoned in defense contracts, who promptly handpicked a team of cutthroats with similar backgrounds. Military contracting officials were notoriously overworked and outnumbered, and often were far less skilled than their private-sector counterparts. CG’s team knew all the tricks, and took them to the max.

They padded the hours, added hundreds of ghost workers on the ground, jacked the cost of materials and production facilities through the ceiling, and double-billed as often as they thought they could get away with. And why not? The risks were almost inconsequential; in the unlikely event they were caught, a light slap on the wrist was the worst they could expect. The polymer was far too vital for the Pentagon to even consider anything as drastic as a punitive cancellation.

But if the incredible happened, and the Pentagon caught on, CG would express contrition, reassign its managers, pay a small penalty, and bring in a new team of clever shysters who would start over with the same tricks.

Eva continued to drop in at Jack’s like clockwork, every week. Their relationship seemed to be going nowhere fast, but she persisted. After all these months, they still hadn’t slept together, still hadn’t shared anything more passionate than a breezy peck on the cheek.

Jack’s visits to D.C. had tapered off to a predictable routine. Once a week, he made a quick drop-by visit to his small office in CG’s headquarters to make the rounds and get updates on the polymer. Even those trips had turned into a waste of his time. The executives who had been so open and communicative in the early stages seemed to have developed collective lockjaw. Nobody would admit it, but somebody had put out the word to ignore him.

A month before, Mitch Walters had coldly informed him of a new requirement: if he wanted to meet with the CEO, an appointment booked at least two weeks in advance was required. No problem, fine by him, Jack replied.

He had yet to call for an appointment. For over a month, he had not spoken with either Bellweather or Walters. They could cold-shoulder and shove him aside as much as they liked, as far as Jack was concerned; he had something they couldn’t ignore in that big contract, after all.

He owned a quarter of the polymer and its earnings.

By the way the cherry red Camry corkscrewed into Jack’s driveway, mowing down three bushes before it squealed to a grinding stop, the TFAC watcher wondered whether she was drunk, furious, or both. After five months of observing Jack’s home the watcher couldn’t wait for this job to end. He was bored and miserable. The excitement Eva’s visits once prompted was a thing of the past. The betting game had long since been discarded; there were no longer any odds on whether Jack and Eva would or wouldn’t.

Jack, for whatever reason-and many had been deliciously debated over the months-simply had no intention of letting Eva into his sack.

They admired his humbling willpower, and detested his indifference.

The TFAC man watched Eva stumble out the car and weave her way precariously to Jack’s front door. “She’s both,” he blurted into the microphone connecting him to the man parked in the van at the end of the block.

“What are you talking about?”

“Eva. She’s back, rotten drunk, and pissed enough to throw a punch. Old Jack’s about to get an earful.” He rolled down his window and listened. What fun. He was parked nearby, across the street, in the driveway of a young couple who were off on a European safari for a month. He could hear everything.

Eva pounded loudly on Jack’s door and stood there, swaying back and forth. “Jack, you bastard, come to the door. Come on, open up, I know you’re there.” She was bellowing loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, nearly the whole county. Lights began popping on in bedrooms. A few faces crowded up to windows.

After about a minute of her hollering and banging, the door opened. Jack stood there in his bathrobe. He invited her inside but she refused. “I’d rather have it out, here, buster. I want the whole neighborhood to hear this,” she announced at the top of her lungs. She was definitely getting her wish.

“If that’s what you want, fine,” Jack said, remarkably smooth and patient. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “What’s this about, Eva? What’s the matter?”

“You just shut up, ’cause this is my show. I’ll do the asking.” Her speech was slurred; the s’s came out with h’s, and the t’s virtually disappeared. She was totally, utterly smashed.

Jack shrugged.

“How long have I known you?” Eva demanded.

“Seven months, more or less.”

“Am I ugly?”

“No. You’re very, very beautiful.”

“You got a problem? Some fetish I don’t satisfy? Whatsa matter with me, Jack? Boobs too small? Butt not big enough? Too easy, not easy enough, what?”

He smiled and tried to get her to relax. When she didn’t smile back he said, “It’s cold, come inside.”

She leaned forward and gave Jack a strong blast of whiskey breath.

“You’re drunk, Eva. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“What if I said I’m in love with you, Jack?”

“That’s nice. I like you, too. I just don’t like to be rushed.”

She swayed drunkenly from side to side. She was beautiful. Even drunk, with messy hair and slack, boozy features, she was still beautiful, and sexy. When she nearly toppled over, Jack reached out and grabbed her arm. She brushed it off. “Why haven’t you ever kissed me?”

“Maybe I’m too busy to get involved right now. Maybe the timing’s not right. Listen, you drove all the way up here, you’ve been drinking, and you’re unsafe on the roads at any speed. Come inside. Let me put some food in your stomach.”

The watcher nearly slammed a fist on the dashboard. Food in her stomach? Wrong combination, you jerk. A stunning woman is standing outside your door, she’s inebriated and loose, and desperately wanting something more than polite conversation and a light kiss. Come on, Jack, he felt like jumping up and screaming-be a man. All these months of frustration, give her a night to remember. Just do it out of pity.

Suddenly the air seemed to go out of Eva. Her shoulders slumped and she sagged against the doorjamb. “Can I spend the night?” she asked, sounding suddenly both tired and meek.

“I think you’d better.”

“With you?”

“Don’t push it.”

The watcher could hear her sobbing as she stepped inside.

Definitely, Lew Wallerman was not Charles.

He was short and very, very black, for one thing. Morgan wondered how a black man ended up with a name like Wallerman, but was afraid to ask.

He wore decrepit clothes that were loud evidence of indescribably awful taste-brown checkered suit that would be hard to push at a Goodwill sale, blue-and-white polka-dot tie, and thickly striped shirt that was a mass of wrinkles and stains. His scuffed black shoes were at least ten years old and hadn’t smelled polish in years.

Lew Wallerman had loser written all over him.

They were seated in a small, shabby pub in Manhattan. It was midday but Wallerman had insisted they meet at this bar. He lost no time showing Morgan why. The place was rowdy, and seemed to attract the model crowd, meaning a small tribe of cadaverous young skeletons in petite skirts and enough leering men to make it worth their while. Wallerman had barely fallen into his seat before he ordered two beers with a scotch chaser. He was on his lunch break, he’d told Morgan. He ate out of a glass.

“So what’s this about?” he asked Morgan.

“Jack Wiley.”

The name struck an immediate chord. He bent forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Jack, huh? What trouble is he in this time?”

Morgan’s heart skipped three beats. He swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice normal, his expression only vaguely interested. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s Jack. Always just a matter of time with old Jack.”

“Tell me about that.”

“You know Jack? Ever met him?”

“Not really,” Morgan confessed.

The elbows came off the table. Wallerman offered a smug, knowing smile. “Just say that Jack’s always working some sleazy angle or another. A smooth operator with a million shady ideas.”

This sounded so good, but Morgan decided to inch into it. “You knew him in college?”

“Yeah, I knew him.” He launched into a tiresome spiel about their relationship, from beginning to end. They were separated by a year, and pursued different majors, but were both in the same eating club, Princeton’s peculiar variation on a fraternity. Both were always busy and caught up in separate pursuits, Jack with classes and lacrosse, Wallerman struggling just to get through the academic load. They occasionally ate together. They double-dated once or twice. Attended all the eating club rituals together. Friends but not particularly close ones, Wallerman admitted. They drifted apart after graduation, Jack heading into the Army, Wallerman, dreaming of big bucks, shooting straight to Wall Street and the fast action. They met again at Primo Investments.

“The very years I’m looking into,” Morgan replied, smiling broadly now, finding it impossible to conceal his excitement. He could smell the jackpot, at last. The drinks were being delivered. Wallerman snatched a large frosty stein out of the waiter’s hand and it shot straight to his lips. Not sips, big gulps.

With the back of his hand, he wiped the beer froth off his upper lip. “Yeah, I figured that,” he said, smiling back. “You heard about Edith, I guess.”

“A few things, sure. Rumors, mostly.”

“Let me tell you, whatever you heard is probably true. Jack walked away with a boatload of cash. Millions, many millions. He struck the mother lode with that old broad.”

“You think he had her killed?”

“You know what they say?”

“No, remind me.”

“The definition of a perfect murder is on the high seas. No corpse, no evidence, impossible to prove.” He was staring now at a hot young thing with a jewelry store attached to her lower lip. She was standing by herself, not drinking, not eating, just begging to be admired. “Jack knew that, of course.”

“But you think he did it?”

“Oh, sure he did it.”

Morgan seemed to smile and frown at the same time. “Say I could find evidence that implicates him, would you be willing to testify to that effect?”

Wallerman had been in the middle of guzzling his second beer. The drinking stopped and the mug slammed down on the table. “Are you crazy?” he yelled.

A few people at nearby tables turned and gawked. Attention was the last thing Morgan wanted.

“Quiet down,” he whispered gravely. He waited a moment until the stares went away and Wallerman put the beer back where it belonged, at his lips. Another long guzzle slid down his throat. The tension melted from his face-Morgan was amazed at how fast a shot of booze calmed him. He leaned forward and asked Lew, in a low voice, “My guess is we’re talking because you have a grudge against Jack, right?”

“We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“Be more specific.”

“He walked off with all that money, and I stayed in a lousy, crumbling firm. Less than a year later, the CEO and CFO died, and all the air went out of the place. I was stuck in a dead end with no way out.”

Morgan stroked his chin and thought about that. He took a stab and asked, “You think Jack had anything to do with their deaths, too?”

It didn’t seem like a question Wallerman had considered before. It did seem to intrigue him, though. “You think he arranged the plane crash?”

“Just an idea I’m throwing out.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“From what I hear, Kyle and Sullivan suspected him. They put a PI firm in Europe on his ass. Their deaths were awfully convenient for Jack.”

“It does sound like Jack’s style. He’s meticulous that way. But like I said, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Did you ask Jack to cut you in?”

The slits of Wallerman’s eyes grew narrow. After a hesitation he admitted, “We might’ve had a conversation along those lines.”

“And he refused, right?”

“Basically, and not politely either.” Another long gulp of beer, then he smacked his lips. “He told me to screw myself. It was very big money and I would’ve been content with only one or two million. He could afford it. It was no way to treat a friend.”

“Don’t you want to pay him back?”

“We’re still talking aren’t we?”

“Okay, look, it’s simple. I need proof Jack did it. If you could-”

“And I need cash,” Wallerman interrupted before Morgan could complete that thought. Screw the details, let’s talk money his face was saying. The second stein of beer now sat on the table, empty. Lew was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“How much?” Morgan asked, his eyebrows pinching together.

“It won’t be cheap. There’s a lot to consider.”

“For instance?”

“For one, Jack’s a dangerous man. There’s his history to consider. Delta, war hero, and he obviously killed Edith. He’s not squeamish about erasing problems.”

“How much?” Morgan repeated.

“I’d have to quit my job and run. It would mean the end of a lucrative, quite promising career. I’d need enough to live on.”

Morgan strangled the urge to burst out laughing. Whatever had become of Wallerman’s career, profitable or promising didn’t enter the picture. He was a sorry lush and a loser. He didn’t even have enough money to purchase a decent suit. The best thing that could happen to him was to scrap it all and start over. Morgan should charge him for the opportunity.

“Just tell me how much,” he repeated, more insistently.

“Only two million,” Wallerman answered, making it sound like an extraordinary bargain.

“Bad joke. How much?”

“I’m not budging. Know why? There is no evidence, zilch, nada, none. Jack is smart. After he left, I went through everything. The records of his transactions with Edith, bank transfers, everything. I even went through the hard drive of his old computer one night after everyone went home. You won’t find a thing, Morgan, not without me.”

“So what are you offering?”

Wallerman’s eyes were glued on a skinny little thing with a cocktail in her hand, leaning against the bar. Morgan forced himself to look twice before he believed she was real. Long, bony legs on full display, a ridiculously purple pageboy haircut, a thick tattoo of barbed wire around her neck, wearing an outfit that looked like it was designed by a sociopath.

She looked barely old enough to be potty-trained, much less purchase alcohol.

Wallerman finally tore his eyes away from her and stared hard at Morgan. “Let’s cut the crap, okay? My guess is you’re not a federal agent, you’re a hired thug. You’re being paid to burn Jack, and you need help.”

This was stated quite factually and Morgan weighed for a moment whether it was worth trying to bluff or lie his way through.

As though reading his mind, Wallerman added, “But if I’m wrong, and you are, as you claim, a Fed, two million is way over your head. Then it’s sayonara, pal.”

“No, you’re right, I’m a thug. I work for some people who want the goods on Wiley.”

“What people?”

“None of your damned business. Here’s all you need to know. They’re big and extremely powerful. Put the right material in their hands, they’ll destroy Wiley.”

“Then I’m your man. We have a deal?”

“Not until it’s clear what you’re offering. The money’s not mine and I’ll need to explain what it buys.”

“Use your imagination, Morgan.”

“I’m, what, how do they say it these days?… imagination-deprived.”

“And I’m the ugly skeleton from Jack’s past. I can approach him and ask for extortion money, or I know enough to make him jump a plane and flee for Brazil. He’ll disappear into a deep, dark jungle, and you’ll never worry about him again.”

“Are you willing to wear a wire?” Morgan asked, apparently with a different plan in mind.

“I love an audience. Sure, why not?”

“Do you think you can get Jack, on tape, to admit he killed Edith?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t give me that confidence act. How?”

“Might be that I have a few things I haven’t told you about. Things I won’t tell you about because I’m not an idiot and I don’t want to be cut out of the money.”

They spent a moment ignoring each other. Wallerman was letting his offer and terms sink in. Morgan was wondering if this thing was the real deal, or was Wallerman only a blowhard trying to lie and finagle his way to a big payday. But he had brought up Edith without prompting and he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about. And unlike Charles, Lew Wallerman had gone to no trouble to conceal his real identity or cover his tracks. If he screwed Morgan, TFAC could and would find him. The punishment would be severe. In this business, this was the definition of an insurance policy.

“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Morgan.

“Then I only get half. Up-front of course. If it succeeds, and it will, fork over the other million.”

“Let me make a call,” Morgan said. He got up, walked outside to the sidewalk, and, using his cell, called Martie O’Neal at headquarters.

As Morgan expected, the two million price tag prompted a long string of foul curses, but eventually the curses lapsed into quiet gags and groans, then Martie got over the sticker shock and the talk turned serious. Sure, it was a lot of dough. But after all these months of looking they still had nothing. Charles had given them a promising lead, but the son of a bitch had been too smart to allow the conversation to be taped. It was all hearsay from an anonymous source. Legally speaking, it was worthless.

Mitch Walters was now all over O’Neal’s ass. Walters was tired of empty promises, tired of lame excuses, tired of false leads that turned into disappointing dead ends, tired of throwing good money after bad. Worse, he was growing tired of TFAC. He was threatening to take his business elsewhere.

The two million wasn’t really an issue. A drop in the bucket for CG. Yes, Walters would approve it, O’Neal was sure. Oh, he’d bitch and curse up a storm, call O’Neal an array of filthy names, and unload a fresh vow to take his business elsewhere. But he’d pay.

With a cool billion at stake, Walters would pay any amount at this point.

The guard briefly gawked at the badge, then waved her by. After she passed and stepped into an empty elevator, once he knew she wasn’t looking, he grabbed the phone and punched the hotline. “A DCIS agent just came in,” he said into the phone.

“Headed where?” the shift boss asked.

“Upstairs. She just got in the elevator.”

“What floor, moron?”

He jumped out of his seat and made a mad dash to the elevator bank, in time to see it stop on the number 6, then he raced back to the phone. “Sixth floor,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Describe her.”

“Nice, red dress and short heels. Brunette, medium height, fine-looking… hot, actually.”

By the time Mia Jenson stepped off onto the sixth floor and spent a long moment waiting for the receptionist of the LBO section to get off her phone and pay attention to the shield jammed in her face, a lawyer from CG’s legal counsel’s office and a large uniformed guard were already standing behind her.

“What can we do to help you?” the lawyer asked. He was young and handsome in his superbly tailored, dandy dark suit; he carried himself like he knew it.

Mia turned around. Her smile was forced and stingy. “Agent Jenson, DCIS.” She held up her shield and allowed him a moment to examine it. “I’m here to meet with some of your people in the LBO section.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t need one.” She waved the shield in front of his face.

“To meet with them about what?”

“To ask a few questions about the polymer.”

“You’re on the wrong floor, then. If it’s another complaint about the production in Iraq you need to talk to our business partnership group. Second floor.”

He took her arm to guide her to the elevator, but Mia forcefully plucked his hands off. “Touch me again without my permission, and I’ll slap your ass in cuffs.”

The hands dropped, and the lawyer took a fast step backward and reassessed the situation. The lady was young, beautiful, and definitely vicious.

“I choose who I want to speak with,” she said coldly. “What’s your name?” she asked with a notable edge.

“Thomas Warrington, from legal counsel. You’ll have to explain why you want to talk to our people.”

“Well, a moment ago, it was a friendly visit to ask about some of our contracting people. Why, do you have something to hide, Mr. Warrington?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Because if I suspect you do,” Mia threatened, as if he hadn’t said anything, “I’ll return with a subpoena and a few of my more curious associates and turn your company upside down.”

Warrington looked at her; from his expression he didn’t know what to do, how to handle this snarling lady with a shield. Did she mean it? Could she get a subpoena? He had already painfully underestimated her once; he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

“Drop the ugly threats, Agent Jenson. We’re very open around here. I’ll accompany you if you don’t mind.” He tried out his best smile.

“And if I do?” She wasn’t smiling back.

“I’ll still accompany you.”

“Suit yourself. Who in your LBO section handled the takeover of Arvan Chemicals?”

The lawyer was unfamiliar with the details of the Arvan deal but wasn’t about to admit it. Not to her anyway. The receptionist and guard were staring at him, trying to suppress their amusement; he could feel the blood rushing to his face. “I’ll tell you when we get there.” He started to grab her arm, but quickly remembered what happened last time. The hand dropped to his side as if he had just touched a flame.

“Follow me,” he mumbled.

His first stop was the office of Samuel Parner, head of the LBO section. He ordered Mia to wait in the anteroom while he slipped into Parner’s office for a quiet, confidential chat.

What does she want? Parner whispered as if she might have her ear pressed against his door. She was vague but mentioned something about some contracting people in the Pentagon, and now the Arvan takeover, but that doesn’t make sense, does it? the lawyer answered. Nope, not if she wants to gab about the Arvan deal, so I’d better handle her myself, Parner insisted. Do we have anything to worry about? the lawyer asked. Not a thing, absolutely not, Parner assured him with a confident grin.

Don’t let the good looks fool you, the lawyer warned him; my balls are rolling around the floor by your receptionist’s desk.

Warrington stepped out and ushered Mia into the office. With a show of affected calmness, he offered her a seat. She fell into the rotating chair across from Parner’s big desk and carefully crossed her legs. Parner stayed in his chair, feet planted on the desk, and studied her with a pugnacious smirk. If she wanted to play macho games, she had come to the right place, the right guy. No introductions were offered, no handshakes extended. The lawyer moved to a corner, where he stood stiffly and tried his best to look threatening.

“What’s this about?” Parner demanded forcefully, switching his expression to a deep scowl.

“I’ll ask the questions,” Mia answered, not the least bit friendly or intimidated.

“Then I may not answer,” Parner shot back. He was not about to be pushed around by some pip squeak with a shield, no matter how great her legs-and they were indeed perfect, far as he could tell.

The lawyer quietly nodded his approval at Parner-that’s it, this is your turf, your office, and your rules, his nod said.

For a moment Mia said nothing. She also turned her eyes to the lawyer in the corner and, speaking at Parner, asked, “Did I read you your Miranda warning?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Because if I had,” she continued in a cool professional tone, “you would have the right to be silent, the right to have a lawyer present, and I have the right to use anything you say against you in a court of law.”

“I watch television. I know my rights.”

“Always nice to have an educated public. Surely you also know, then, that in the absence of that warning, Mr. Parner, you have no right to be silent. Since I’m a federal officer pursuing an official investigation, in fact, you have the obligation to answer my questions. Do you understand that?”

Parner glanced at the corner and the lawyer nodded again, not quickly this time, almost glacially. His specialty was corporate law, but best as he could recall, it sounded like a pretty good rendering of con law 101. He wished now he had paid more attention in class. He wished even more that some other lawyer from the office had been sent to handle this banshee.

Parner said, somewhat reluctantly, “I think I understand.”

“Let me help you understand better. I can ask you these questions here, in the comfort of your office, or I can come back with a warrant, drag you out in cuffs, and ask you in less comfortable surroundings. Do you understand that?”

Parner nodded again, without any more silly glances at Warrington. The fancy mouthpiece in the corner was slowly shaking his head, not in disagreement, but in amazement. This agent had raced from a friendly little drop-in visit to flinging around vile threats in nothing flat. Parner’s feet were off the desk now. He was shifting in his seat, playing with a paperweight, struggling to conceal his growing anxiety.

Parner managed a very weak, “You can do that?”

She offered him a bitchy smile. “Amazing how much power and authority the Supreme Court grants me, don’t you think?”

“Very amazing,” Parner agreed, and he meant it.

“Question one,” she announced, getting right down to business. “How did Arvan Chemicals come to your attention?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

Mia uncrossed her legs and edged forward in her seat. “You boys wait here, and I’ll be back in an hour.” She stood and began straightening her dress.

“Wait!” Parner yelled, and it was nearly a scream.

“Why should I? You’re wasting my time.”

“All right, I’ll answer your questions.” He paused, drew a few deep breaths, and tried to compose himself. “We have nothing to hide. The Arvan deal was brought to us by a New York investor.”

“Name?”

“Uh… I don’t remember.”

“See if this helps. Jack Wiley?”

Parner and the lawyer exchanged looks she wasn’t supposed to see. How did she know that? More important, how much else did she know? After a momentary hesitation-what would it hurt to answer truthfully?-Parner managed to produce a slow nod. “I think that’s the correct name.”

“And what did Wiley offer you?”

“I wasn’t present at the initial meeting,” he offered truthfully. “So I have no idea,” he lied. He had listened to that horrible tape of Jack running circles around his underlings at least half a dozen times, but was confident she had no way of knowing such a tape even existed.

“Was it a takeover?”

“Something like that.”

“Would you describe it as a friendly takeover, or an unfriendly one?”

“Friendly… definitely friendly, Agent Jenson,” he said, regaining his confidence. “Mr. Arvan developed a wonderful product that showed remarkable promise. But he was way over his head, and he knew it. He wanted to get it into the hands of a bigger company that could get into the field fast. I’m happy to say he chose us. We felt honored. He was handsomely paid.”

“How was it tested?”

“Thoroughly. And under the most authentic, arduous conditions.”

“I asked how, Mr. Parner, not how well.”

After another moment’s hesitation, Parner said, “Uh, I wouldn’t know, not exactly, anyway. I head LBOs, not test and evaluation.”

“I know who I’m talking to.” Then very calmly she asked, “Did your company contribute any money to Congressman Earl Belzer, of Georgia?”

“What?”

“It’s not complicated. Did you bribe Belzer, yes or no?”

Parner wasn’t about to answer that. No way. Not truthfully, anyway, and he was saved the trouble of having to tell another big whopper by Warrington, who somehow worked up his nerve, took a big step forward, and planted himself firmly in the middle of the discussion. “We’re through answering questions without a subpoena. This company has done nothing wrong, and I don’t like your questions.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Uh… are we under investigation, and if so, for what?” It was the question he should’ve asked the moment he laid eyes on her. He knew he was on dangerous ground, but wasn’t exactly sure why. “What’s your purpose for coming over here?” he demanded, continuing his feeble attempt to turn the tables.

Now Mia looked amused. “I came to introduce myself.”

“Introduce yourself?”

“Since you’ll be seeing plenty of me, I thought we should become acquainted.”

She was on her feet and out the door before they could ask her what she meant by that vague threat.