The Capitol Game

4

The existence of the taping system was known to barely a handful of CG’s most senior executives. Beyond that, there was just the small crew of closemouthed listeners hidden in the basement who monitored the action, sifted the nuggets from the useless chatter, and red-lighted anything alarming or worthy of interest to the big bosses upstairs.

Only the LBO boys were targeted. Only their conference rooms were wired. Consideration had once been given to a wholesale expansion, to tapping their phones, bugging their desks, even planting a few listening devices in nearby bathrooms. Put in enough bugs and wire to match Nixon’s White House. No way. As quickly as it was raised, that dangerous idea was discarded. The overhead of listeners would multiply sixfold. The chance of exposure would become immense. Why risk it?

The real action took place in the conference rooms anyway.

The system was a necessary precaution, the senior leaders of CG felt. At first, anyway. Over the years some of the LBO boys had been caught wheeling-dealing, cutting side deals, or committing CG to things that weren’t technically or even mildly legal.

More than perhaps any other firm in the world, the Capitol Group had a reputation that needed to be protected, whatever the costs.

Over time, the taping system acquired wonderful new purposes. The CEO and a few select directors frequently listened in to decide which of their aspiring LBO cutthroats had the right stuff and which needed to be booted out the door. Truth was, they enjoyed listening to the kids bicker and quarrel, raise the pressure, and go for blood. They loved having ringside seats at the most profitable game in town.

The full-time tenders worked out of a cluttered room in the basement, a small nook fitted with security cameras and a highly sophisticated taping console. They came and went through the service entrance at the rear of the building. They wore grease-stained coveralls, carried pails and brooms, and were coldly ignored by the snooty executives on the upper floors.

Mitch Walters, the CEO, had his big feet planted on his desk. His two big hands gripped the armrests as he craned forward and strained to hear every word, every nuance. The instant they heard Wiley’s farewell threat and the door close behind him, Walters punched a button.

The noise stopped. “Idiots. They underestimated him. He’s smarter than they are. Much smarter,” he announced for the benefit of the older man in the room.

Daniel Bellweather produced a weary nod. “You have to admire it.”

“You’re right, a perfect ambush. Didn’t let on till the very end.”

“Just let them act stupid, play like loudmouthed braggarts, then handed them their balls on a plate.”

Daniel Bellweather, or Mr. Secretary, as everybody in the firm still called him-without the slightest trace of affection-was a former three-term congressman and, for four years, secretary of defense under a mildly unpopular former Republican president. His tenure in the Pentagon had been somewhat rocky. There had been runaway spending on a few multibillion-dollar hardware programs that produced useless belly flops the military hated. Two martial misadventures that went horribly wrong and resulted in lots of corpses and hasty retreats. Then came the quiet revolt by a bunch of Army generals that had to be brutally quelled.

The former president he had served was now in the grave; dead, he became far more popular than when he was breathing. An average president on his best day, compared with the sorry losers who followed in his stead, he had been lionized as one of the greats, an afterglow that trickled down to his retainers and aides.

They were the sage architects, the wise elder statesmen of an administration notable for one unforgettable achievement: it produced no great disasters. Two full terms. Eight years without a single market meltdown, no big wars, and, in a modern record, slightly less than half his cabinet ended up under indictment or in prison.

No successive administration had even come close.

Mid-seventies, craggy-faced, tall, thick white hair, portly, but not too much, Daniel Bellweather had weathered nicely into the picture of an eminent Washington mandarin. For eight years before Walters, he had been the CEO. He steered the ship and attended to the details. He roared into the office screaming at six every morning and didn’t mellow out until six in the evening. He stoked the ranks with as much greed, fear, and insecurity as he could manage, and kept the immense profits flowing.

His tantrums were legendary. Firm lore had it that after one of Bellweather’s calmer tongue-lashings, a senior VP fled down to the parking lot, withdrew a pistol from the glove compartment, and reupholstered the interior of his Mercedes with his brains.

That myth was a wild fabrication. The man had flung himself from an upper-floor window and painted the car’s exterior.

But after eight years at the helm, eight years of steadily increasing profits, and after getting richer than he ever believed possible, Bellweather suffered his first stroke. A mild one. Little more than a bad headache, really; his first scary glimpse, however, that all good things come to an end. In shock, he stepped back from the unrelenting pressure and retreated into the fringe role of director.

Time to kick back and relax, he told himself; enjoy the fruits of thirty years of juking and jiving around Washington, of draining the swamp of as much cash as he could stuff into his pockets. It had been a terrific run; flee now, enjoy the good life, go on an epic spending spree, escape before it killed him.

A year rolling through the coastal enclaves of enormous wealth followed. Then six months bouncing around the Caribbean on his mammoth yacht-a full year and a half of lovely tranquillity, eighteen months removed from the mad hustle-bustle of D.C.-before he decided he had made a horrible mistake. He became bored and miserable. Always a pathetic golfer, if anything, he became more terrible.

And hanging around with a bunch of rich has-beens only reminded him of his own sorry diminished status. The perks, the sense of self-importance, and the action were calling him back. Plus, with all that time together, his rather young third wife suddenly discovered what her predecessors had learned: she loathed him. She took to sleeping in another bedroom, which was fine by him because the sex had turned dull and he was tired of her snoring anyway.

Also he learned about the yardman, Juan, a handsome young Latin hunk who trimmed a little more than the hedges.

Bellweather promptly sold the yacht, fired the gardener, dumped the wife, and had himself installed as managing director, a vague title that required very little work, yet gave him carte blanche to nose into any nook or cranny that interested him. The position of institutional magpie suited his tastes immensely, the exquisite privilege of looking over his successor’s shoulder and second-guessing him at every turn.

“Think it’s real?” Walters asked, sounding deeply depressed.

“Maybe. Who knows?”

“Good question. Who knows?”

“Well, Wiley-I guess he knows.”

“Yeah, and he didn’t sound like a guy who’s shooting blanks.”

“The Holy Grail project,” Bellweather repeated, letting the sound roll off his tongue. “If Wiley’s even half on the mark, that’s exactly what this polymer is. Do you know how much the military would pay for this miracle coating?”

Walters rolled forward in his chair and pinched his eyebrows together. He had a pretty good idea, and that depressed him all the more. “Who’s this company he’s talking about?”

“Could be anybody, really. He was very cagey.”

They had both listened to the tape, three times, replaying certain key sections until they thought they’d be sick; Wiley had never once slipped. Not once, not a clue, not a breadcrumb. Walters quickly summed up the little they knew: “The CEO of this mysterious company is a chemical engineer. Two years ago, his firm pushed sales of about four hundred million. It’s a penny stock.” He rubbed his shiny forehead in frustration and said, “Any of ten thousand companies fit that bill, Dan. Could be Hostess Twinkies, for all we know.”

“Who do you think he’s meeting with now?” Bellweather asked after a long moment of staring at the walls.

“No idea. But they probably look a lot like us. He mentioned New York and Pennsylvania. Could be corporate, say, GE or United Technologies. I hope it’s not another big takeover outfit.”

The names of a dozen fierce competitors rattled through their brains and for a long ugly moment they shared the same depressing thought. In the small, intensely competitive world of big-league equity firms, word would spread like a flash fire that CG had let the biggest catch of the year slip out of its grasp. Worse, CG, for a variety of reasons, specialized in defense work. It dabbled in countless other areas, diversifying to protect itself against the eventuality of an outbreak of world peace, unwelcome and unlikely as that might be. War, however, was its mainstay. Gouging a large chunk of defense pork remained its bread and butter.

Oh yes, the story of how CG clumsily let Wiley and the most remarkable defense product of the decade walk out the door would roar around town.

It would be more than Walters could bear. He could almost hear the snickers from his buddies at the Congressional Club. Could almost picture the insufferable smirks. “Yo, Mitch, what does fifteen billion slamming the door sound like?”-he could make up the sorry insults himself. Maybe he’d give up golf for a month or two.

Actually, a decade or two might be more like it, he sadly admitted to himself.

“We need to find our boy Jack,” Bellweather announced very firmly, an idea that got a quick nod from Walters. “Tonight. Before he has time to settle on somebody else.”

“He’s going to make us eat dirt,” Walters prophesied with a mournful scowl.

“We deserve it. Let him rub it in till he gets tired of it. Who do you want to handle it?”

“Keep it low-key, for now. He’s got us on the ropes and he knows it. But we can’t afford to cede leverage.” Walters folded his arms, recovered his composure, and calmly said, “Bill Feist. He has a real gift for this sort of thing.”

“Yep, a born ass-kisser. Send him up on the jet. Not the small one, the big one. Tell him to forget the normal wine-and-dine, and forget the half-measured approach. Think fifteen billion dollars.”

“Bill’s good at that, as you know.”

“This time, it’s worth every penny.” Bellweather pushed off from the wall and over his shoulder said, “And find out whatever we can about this Jack Wiley.”

Locating Jack turned out to be loaded with more complications than anybody expected. This task was handled by a private security firm located in Crystal City, a midsize, discreet outfit loaded with washed-up former Feds and spooks who often did work for CG.

TFAC, it was called, a cluster of initials that stood for absolutely nothing but seemed to have a nice ring to it. TFAC was among a growing number of private outfits in D.C., fueled by the explosion of clandestine services and operations after 9/11 that slid easily in the shadows between government and private-sector work. The Capitol Group was their second largest client, right behind Uncle Sam. The U.S. government could wait; the snoops dropped everything and promised instant results.

Locating Jack was kid’s play, or so they thought initially. They focused first on New York City, especially Manhattan, the normal habitat of single young millionaires. Just to be on the safe side, they also weeded through the other boroughs as well. Eleven Jack Wileys turned up. After two hours of running down the prospects, ten of the eleven fell out: six married; two tucked away in retirement homes; one ensconced in jail; one in the hospital coughing out his lungs and dying of AIDS, of all things.

Jack Wiley number eleven lived in Queens.

Queens!-no way could this be the right Jack. No self-respecting young bachelor millionaire would be caught dead living there, and he was quickly dropped before anybody wasted further time on tracking him down.

More troops were thrown into the breach and the search widened to northern Jersey, Long Island, and Westchester County, the usual burbs for well-to-do New Yorkers.

Dead ends piled on top of more dead ends. Then, voilà: a likely prospect popped up with his phone number listed, along with his address.

It looked right and it smelled right. The area code hinted at big money. They needed to be sure, though.

A female researcher claiming to be the dispatcher for a national delivery service called Jack’s assistant at the main Cauldron office, two blocks off Wall Street. “It’s a package marked urgent we’ve tried twice, unsuccessfully, to deliver,” she explained, sounding very distressed-the white foam container probably had some of those mail-order steaks that cost a fortune and turn rotten and stinky in the blink of an eye. “The address must be off,” she complained, loudly playing up her frustration. “Just thank the Lord Mr. Wiley had thought to include his work number with his order.”

The TFAC researcher rattled off the address, deliberately mixing up two numbers; the assistant promptly and sharply corrected the mistake.

It was him!

The address was punched into a computer, then, via the wonders of Google and its satellite service, they found themselves ogling a top-down satellite shot of the neighborhood. A technician adroitly expanded, shifted, and manipulated the picture until they were staring at a grainy, blown-up image of the roof of one Jack Wiley.

Jack, it turned out, lived in a large, roomy brick two-story in the town of Rumson, a leafy, very well-to-do northern Jersey suburb, one block from the Navesink River, and a ferry shot from the Big Apple.

One of the former Fibbies knew the police chief of a nearby borough. A friendly phone call and a nosy local cop was immediately dispatched for a quick look-see. He snapped pictures of the front, then left his cruiser and snuck around to get wide-angle shots of the sides and rear.

Georgian in style, red brick all around, about seventy years old, three chimneys, perhaps eight thousand square feet, with a large walk-out basement. One entrance in the front. One in the rear. Twelve ground-level windows.

A sticker on the lower corner of a front window declared that Jack had devices and security provided by Vector, a national outfit that happened, by happy coincidence, to belong to the Capitol Group.

A different group of snoops in a large room two floors below was laboring to unearth everything that could be learned about Jack Wiley.

The order was vague and nonspecific. Information of any nature or form on Wiley would be appreciated. They knew their client, though: dirt, as much as could be found, would be even more richly appreciated.

This team was led by Martie O’Neal, a former FBI agent who once ran the background investigations unit for the Bureau. Martie was a legendary snoop with a legion of helpful contacts in government and the private sector. Digging up dirt was his specialty and his passion. Given two weeks, he could tell you the name of Jack’s first childhood crush, whether he was a Jockey or boxer man, his preferences in extracurricular drugs, who he diddled in his spare time, any medical issues, his net worth, and how he voted.

He was given only five hours. Five fast and furious hours to unearth as much detail and dirt as could be found. He cherished a challenge and dug in with both fists. His squad of assistants gathered around and Martie began barking orders. The phones and faxes were kicked into gear and information began flowing in.

By one o’clock, Martie had Jack’s report cards from college down to elementary level; as advertised, he was a very smart boy. Twenty minutes later, Jack’s home mortgage was splayed across Martie’s desk: a fifteen-year jumbo at five and a half percent. The home had cost four million; Jack plunked down three mil, and now owed $700K. Never missed or even been late with a payment.

Jack was not only smart and rich, O’Neal decided, he was also tidy and diligent, and a savvy investor with a good eye for the deal. The most recent assessment listed the home as worth nine million.

By two, after calling in a big favor, Martie had his rather large and crooked nose stuffed inside Jack’s Army record, as well as his father’s. Jack’s ratings from his Army bosses were uniformly exceptional. The common emphasis was his coolness under fire, his exceptional leadership qualities, and his care and concern for his men.

His father served thirty-three years, a mustang who battled his way up from private to colonel and retired after twice being passed over for brigadier general. Nothing to be ashamed of there; the old man’s record was quite impressive. The old man was dead, after a long, spirited battle with cancer, buried in Arlington National right beside Jack’s mother, who had passed away five years before of a stroke that left her debilitated and nearly comatose for three horrible years as her husband and son cared for her. Army medical insurance had paid her bills until Jack and his father decided to go outside the system; Jack covered the rather hefty expenses after that. O’Neal even had the grave numbers in the event anybody cared to check, unlikely as that seemed.

By three, Jack’s love life was being peeled back. This was accomplished the usual way. From the report cards, O’Neal’s snoops began speed-dialing Jack’s old teachers, a path that led directly to childhood chums, and from there to his present acquaintances. They identified themselves as FBI agents. A routine background check for a security clearance Jack had applied for, they explained ever so casually with a heavy splash of boredom as though they cared less about Jack, and didn’t really care to nose through the old closets of his life. From prior experience, four out of five people typically accepted this at face value. The usual odds held and they hung up on anybody questioning their legitimacy.

Gullibility and the call of patriotic duty nearly always got the tongues wagging. How nice it felt to smear and spread rumors, to tarnish and trash reputations-anonymously, of course, and all in the name of Old Glory.

The names of Jack’s classmates began pouring in, more phone calls that yielded more names. Old friends begat newer friends, and the stampede was on.

A large board on a wall was created: the “Put-Jack-in-the-Box” profile, some wag named it, and that drew a big chuckle from the overworked searchers. The room quickly became wallpapered in yellow Post-it notes and a large spiderweb that linked together the widening network of Jack’s friends and business associates. By five, the researchers had more information than they could handle, with hundreds of leads that needed to be followed up.

A cursory profile had taken shape, though. Handsome, Catholic, no glitches in his career. No drugs, no medical problems, no arrests. Jack had never been sued, nor had he ever sued. He drank-fine imported scotch seemed to be his beverage of choice-but rarely to excess. There were a few college tales about Jack tying one on and whooping it up, all harmless fun, but nothing since then. He enjoyed the ladies, they enjoyed him.

He voted Republican, with one exception, a college roommate who made a hard run for a New Jersey Senate seat. Jack contributed the legal limit, and even did a little volunteer work in the campaign office. The roommate proved too radical even for New Jersey’s champagne liberals and got shellacked anyway.

The previous year’s tax return had been easily acquired and quickly evaluated by a financial forensics stud. That effort produced the following estimates: minus his real estate holdings, Jack’s net worth nested between fifteen and twenty-five million, probably around twenty; the previous year, his pretax income was six million and change; he invested carefully and conservatively, tucking the bulk of his money in tax-free municipal bonds; aside from his home mortgage, no debts, no child support, no alimony.

In short, after a superficial five-hour peek, Jack was discovered to be moderately wealthy, a wholesome, apparently well-adjusted, red-blooded, healthy American male who drove a three-year-old Lincoln (this was the only surprise; his profile nearly screamed Beemer or Mercedes). He had dated serially his whole life, tapering off a lot the past few years. Why was an open question. A good-looking, wealthy bachelor who had never been married raised obvious questions about his sexual disposition. The evidence, though, simply did not support a man who didn’t enjoy the company of women. Perhaps boredom, or an emotional setback, or plain disinterest accounted for it. Maybe he just enjoyed being single. His four-year fling at Princeton had been his only long-term romance.

If he had a current love interest, nobody knew about her.

Also, he owned a small, quaint cottage on the shore of Lake George; occasionally he spent weekends there, and all his vacations as best they could tell. No Vail, no Aspen, no Hamptons. No hobby ranch out of the middle of Nowhere, Montana, where he raised hobby horses and prattled around in cowboy duds, playing at Roy Rogers on the big range. None of the usual enclaves where the rich and hyperambitious mingled and vied to show off the swankest house, the biggest yacht, the gaudiest toys.

O’Neal was satisfied with the amount of information gathered and deeply concerned about the utter vagueness of it all. A lot of traits and colors that added up to barely a sketch: it remained anything but a painting. The absence of dirt or bad habits was particularly annoying.

O’Neal held out hope, though. After only a few hours of digging, what did they expect? Martie was confident he could find it, given enough time. He had vetted Supreme Court nominees, cabinet members, even a number of senior generals and admirals in need of background clearances. There was always something. Always. Some dark secret. Some hidden fantasy life or regretful sexual escapade, some concealed addiction or crime or loony aunt tucked away in an attic.

If it was there-and Martie O’Neal was sure it was-he would find it.

A terse written summary was sent by messenger and hand-delivered to Mitch Walters.

A scrawled directive from the big man himself shot back an hour later: Spend whatever it takes, do whatever it takes, keep looking.

In other words, find the dirt or concoct it.

At six, the taxi dropped him off, and Jack stepped off at the curb to discover a long, shiny black stretch limo idling, dead center, in his driveway. A rear door flew open and out popped a silver-maned man dressed in an elegant black tuxedo, who eagerly and noisily closed the distance. “Bill Feist,” he barked before he was all over Jack. A crushing handshake accompanied a huge smile: Jack quickly lost count of the backslaps. “Listen,” Feist told him, frowning tightly, “about that thing this morning, we couldn’t be sorrier. An awful embarrassment. Edward Blank, what a horse’s ass. We let him go this afternoon.”

Before Jack could react to that news, the frown flipped into a smile that seemed to stretch from wisdom tooth to wisdom tooth. “So, Jack, what are your plans for the evening?”

“Oh, you know. Slap a little dinner in the microwave. Catch up on the news. Then I thought I’d slip into my office and digest the offers I got today.”

“Time for that later. Hey, you got a tux?”

“Yes, why?”

“Don’t ask, just believe me, you’ll have a ball. I mean, literally, a ball.” A pause and the smile seemed to widen. “Incidentally, the tux has to be black.”

“Forget it, Mr. Feist. I have another meeting in the morning.”

“It’s Bill, and of course you do. Where?”

“In the city, but it’s early,” Jack replied, digging in his heels.

“I’ll have you home by midnight, promise.”

“Look, I appreciate the-”

“Don’t make me beg, Jack. Think of the kids I’m trying to shove through college. Spoiled brats, both of them-if I get sacked, they’ll come home, and my life will turn miserable.” He paused before he whispered, almost an afterthought, “Ever met the president?”

“What president?”

“Good one, Jack. We’re going to the White House. Come on, grab your tux.”

Whatever reservations Jack had felt instantly disappeared. “Give me a minute.” Inside five minutes, he was sinking comfortably into his seat in the rear of the long stretch limo, his tux packed neatly in the trunk, his new friend Bill shoving a scotch with two cubes in his fist. “Glenfiddich on the rocks,” Bill announced with a knowing wink. “Your favorite, right, Jack?”

“You’ve done your homework since this morning,” Jack noted, accepting the drink.

“We got off to a slow start, but we’ll catch up. I’m aware you don’t smoke, but would you care for a cigar?”

“Don’t overdo it, Bill.”

Feist chuckled. Unable to stop himself, he held up a paperback novel; the cover displayed an inhumanly handsome man with engorged muscles wrapped tightly around a lusty-eyed woman. The girl was dressed, or barely dressed, in an impossibly tiny string bikini; the guy wore an even skimpier loincloth. They stood knee-deep in the frothing waves of a white beach, a large orange sun setting gently behind some generic jungle paradise. Ecstasy in the Wild, screamed the luridly suggestive title in large silver letters.

“Read the first ten chapters on the way up,” Bill reported, slapping the cover. “Tammy Albert-lovely girl from the jacket picture. You actually dated her at Princeton?”

Jack took the question in stride. “How was the book?”

“Truthfully?” Bill didn’t wait for a response. “Awful, I mean really pathetic. Women actually read this weepy crap?”

“She can buy and sell both of us. Tammy’s sold over forty million copies.”

“For real?”

Jack smiled. “In college, she dreamed of writing the great American novel. Apparently she changed her mind.” Jack paused. “What’s this about, Mr. Feist?”

“It’s Bill, and forget business tonight. I’m only here to make amends for the morning.”

“Won’t be easy.”

“Didn’t think it would.”

“Well, give it your best shot.”

The large limo swept through the dying remnants of rush hour and nearly sprinted to the airport. Feist handled Jack like a pro; the banter and jokes and scotch never abated for an instant. After ten minutes, Jack was Jack, my boy. After twenty, Jack’s arm was limp from being squeezed and massaged.

Call-me-Bill’s best shot turned out to include a Boeing 747 parked at Teterboro Airport, fueled up, ready to launch. An armada of corporate and private jets was littered about, a convention of shiny Lears and Gulfstreams and Embraers. Beside the 747, the entire lot looked cheap, like a puny third world air force. Large gold letters-THE CAPITOL GROUP-were splashed on the side to be sure everybody knew exactly who to envy.

Bill bounded up the stairs and nearly danced into the expansive cabin, as if he owned the plane. Inside were only eight chairs, a large conference table, an entertainment console with a gigantic flat-screen television, two workstations, and a gleaming oak bar, all surrounded by enough burled wood to make a rain forest blush from envy. Designed to seat hundreds, the plane had been gutted and gentrified with enough luxury appointments to satisfy the wildest fantasies of only eight. “It’s often used for overseas flights,” Bill mentioned, as if any explanation was called for. “CG believes in taking care of its people.”

Speaking of people, two striking young women in cocktail dresses-one brunette, one blonde-occupied two of the seats. “Jack, this is Eva and Eleanor,” Bill announced with a wave of his hand.

It was impossible to tell which was more fetching. Tall, bare-shouldered, high-cheekboned, matched blue eyes-both were nothing short of stunning, with incredibly long pairs of legs that seemed to stretch to their earlobes. If they weighed two hundred pounds together, it would be a miracle. There was barely any back to Eleanor’s dress, barely any front to Eva’s.

The brunette, Eva, carefully eased out of her seat and approached Jack with her hand out and a dazzling smile, one that disclosed a spectacularly talented dentist. “I think you and I are together tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”

Before Jack could jump to hasty conclusions, Bill explained, “This shindig is a couples affair. Eva works at CG, the accounting department, if you can believe it.”

Jack didn’t believe it-the idea of anybody wasting legs like that on numbers defied reality. But he nodded and said, “I don’t mind at all.” Really, how could he?

Eva pretended to act relieved, as if there was any chance Jack would be disappointed.

The instant they fell into their seats the jet sprinted smoothly down the runway, lifted off, and gained altitude. A smiling young lady in a handsome blue uniform materialized out of nowhere. She was hauling a tray with four flutes of bubbly and a large silver bowl overflowing with black beluga caviar. Bill threw a wink in Jack’s direction. “We’re quite serious about making up for this morning.”

Jack took the first slow sip from his flute. There was no label, but from the profusion of spirited bubbles, Jack calculated at least a hundred dollars per flute. He dug a cracker into the caviar, pulled out a large dollop, and inhaled the first small nibble. The caviar was so fresh it made loud pops when he chewed.

Eva reached across Jack toward the caviar. “You played lacrosse in college, I hear,” she said by way of opening a conversation.

Jack nodded.

“So did I. Harvard, class of 1999.” Not only Harvard undergrad, it turned out, also the B-school, and Eva threw out a few of the professors’ names she was sure Jack would recognize. It further turned out that she happened also to be an Army brat and an All-America, three years, first team, goalie.

She flirted shamelessly, and laughed and smiled at the slightest tinkle of humor. Their life stories were nearly identical: military brats, MBAs from Harvard, college lacrosse stars, with a million common interests left to be discovered and explored.

Just another all-American couple brought together by the wonderful, caring folks at the Capitol Group. By Delaware, they were swapping names of Army posts where they had lived, and Eva was treating Jack to hilarious stories about a legendary B-school professor who had chased her around the classroom a few times.

He had been one of Jack’s favorite teachers. You never knew.

Thirty minutes after the limo departed, three men dressed in black and wearing gloves and sneakers quietly eased up to the rear door of Jack’s house. The door led to Jack’s walk-out basement; as they were warned it would be, it was locked. One man briefly studied the lock, withdrew a small kit from his pocket, and selected the perfect pick. The door swung wide open inside a minute.

The alarm was silent and connected directly to a Vector Security branch office in Red Bank, about twenty minutes away.

One of the three, a crackerjack at electronics and alarms, barely gave the alarm system a glance. Who cared? Howl for all you’re worth, he wanted to scream. The night crew at the Vector branch office was under orders directly from the regional headquarters to ignore it. A test, they were told, one requested by the owner. A technician shut it down a minute after it went off.

The three men climbed the stairs to the ground level. They paused and began a cursory survey. Enormous house for a bachelor, they agreed. Nicely furnished, too, and in a decidedly masculine fashion they all liked a lot-dark leather, wood paneling, and heavy furniture were the predominant theme, the kind of decor a girlfriend would loudly admire as she quietly schemed about replacing everything with whites and flowery pinks the instant she moved in.

They paused briefly to envy Jack’s cavernous family room-a massive walk-in fireplace; heavy, ornately carved pool table; and a mammoth flat-panel hanging off a wall. This is why you get rich, one remarked, and they all laughed. One man climbed the stairs to begin nosing through Jack’s bedroom and bath. The other two raced to the large home office, where the real work would be accomplished.

Jack’s tan buttery briefcase was located on the floor, wedged awkwardly between the trash can and desk. They attacked this first. The paper slides concerning this company with the miracle product were withdrawn then, one by one, photocopied on the portable copier one man had hauled in. Odd, one remarked, that the papers never yielded the name of the company. But so what? The slides were no doubt loaded with hints and clues that might be unraveled later, to reveal the name.

Next, Jack’s black book was located and also photocopied; the snoops down in D.C. could mine it for more information and leads. One man began digging through desk drawers, the other rifled through the big wooden file cabinet against the wall. Fortunately, Jack was the neat and organized type. They appreciated this. The files were alphabetically organized by topic-dental, financial, medical, social, and so forth. Three years of credit card purchases and four years of old tax returns were also withdrawn and efficiently photocopied.

O’Neal had given them a detailed inventory of topics to search for; they marveled at how easy Jack Wiley made it.

By then the upstairs man had finished with the bedroom-nothing the least bit interesting, certainly nothing incriminating, a place to sleep, nothing more-and was preparing to switch the search into the bathroom. On Jack’s dresser sat a silver-framed black-and-white photo of a handsome military officer with his lovely, adoring wife, Jack’s parents, no doubt.

But there were no photos of any other women, which certainly seemed to support the existing theory that Jack was currently unencumbered in the romance department.

He eased into the bathroom, stuffed his pug nose inside Jack’s medicine cabinet, and began poking around. Nothing worth noting here, either-the normal array of shaving supplies, mouthwash, toothpaste, and a spare bottle of shampoo. The strongest medicine in the cabinet was a bottle of aspirin-unopened and two years past the expiration date.

They would continue the search for two more hours. Everything-every paper, every paper clip-would be put away just as they found it. They were pros. They would leave only two traces of their presence.

Before they snuck back out the rear door, the electronics man would stuff bugs into all of Jack’s phones.

The other two would plant a five-pound sack of marijuana on a storage shelf at the back of Jack’s expansive three-car garage, slightly behind a mulch bag Jack might never touch, but certainly not before spring. An insurance policy; they had done this before and it worked like magic.

If it was needed, fine.

If not, they would sneak back at some later date and retrieve it.

The instant the jet cruised up to the private terminal at Ronald Reagan Airport, another black stretch limo raced up and cruised to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Jack, Bill, and the girls piled in, laughing at another Feist joke and having a ball. Feist began doling out the booze before they were rolling. He was a heavy drinker, matching Jack at least three for one, but he obviously had had plenty of practice, and he handled the booze well. A brisk ride ensued before they were idling at the side entrance gate to the White House parking lot. Bill rolled down his window and shoved some type of magic pass in the faces of the uniformed security guards. “Thanks, Earl, Tommy,” he made a point of saying quite loudly as they were whisked through without a second glance.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Feist,” one barely had time to mumble back as the limo shot by.

“You’ve been here before,” Jack observed.

“I worked here, under two different presidents,” Bill noted with an obviously insincere attempt at modesty.

A young naval officer packing enough ribbons and gold braid to capsize a battleship escorted the foursome upstairs, then across a broad hallway, straight into the spacious state dining room, where more than a hundred guests in resplendent finery were already congregated, sharing drinks, stuffing hors d’oeuvres down their throats, and gabbing about important subjects.

Eva and Eleanor were instantly adored by every male in the room. By far the two youngest guests, the most scantily dressed, and the loveliest, half the room admired them with every cell in their body.

The other half plainly detested them.

On just one side of the room alone, Jack picked out the secretary of state, secretary of defense, and chairman of the Joint Chiefs huddled together with their wives. Slightly to their right, the clutch of bespectacled gents whispering seriously among themselves were either Supreme Court justices or excellent imitations.

Bill and Eleanor split off, leaving Jack and Eva to drink, chat, and ponder the incredible fact that they were in the White House. The White House!

Bill immediately launched into a fast-paced whirl, virtually dancing around the room, gripping illustrious hands, complimenting the ladies, flitting from group to group, pollinating laughter in his wake.

If he was trying to impress Jack with who he-and by extension, the boys of CG-rubbed shoulders with, the performance was nothing short of impressive.

On several occasions Eva pointed out some luminary. “Who’s the big man Bill’s talking to? Isn’t he a movie star or something?”

“Was. I think now he’s governor of California,” Jack answered.

“What about the lady beside him? I’m sure I recognize her face.”

“On his left, the attorney general. The other one, the good-looking blonde, she’s the intern the president’s sleeping with.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Eva asked, looking more closely at the woman.

“I am, and you can stop now, Eva. The room is loaded with ridiculously famous people. I get it. Any moment they’ll notice I don’t belong here, and I’ll be forced to start waiting tables.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jack smiled. “Are you supposed to hustle me all night or can we have fun?”

Rather than pretend embarrassment, Eva laughed. “Am I that obvious?”

“I had you at hello.”

“I’m wounded,” she said, smiling coyly, apparently relieved to surrender her duties.

Suddenly the president and First Lady, accompanied by another couple, entered; the military band in the corner launched into a gusty version of “Hail to the Chief” and the roomful of powerful people began filtering dutifully in the direction of a reception line. Jack overheard somebody mention that accompanying the president and First Lady were the king and queen of a country he had failed to catch the name of, but where apparently everybody was tall, cadaverously thin, and had terrible complexions.

The royals stood shuffling their feet, making no effort to disguise that they were already bored out of their minds.

Eva grabbed Jack’s arm and nearly dragged him to the line. They found themselves crushed between a famous movie producer and a handsome, scowling senator who had run against the president and got creamed. The campaign had been long and nasty, an ugly mudfest. Together, they had polled the lowest voter turnout in history. It was the most expensive, and by general agreement, least inspiring campaign in history.

There was only one conceivable reason the senator was invited here tonight: “Hey, you sorry, loudmouthed loser, how do you like my digs?” they could picture the president asking him with a spiteful grin.

And the rampant rumors about the senator’s love life appeared to be accurate. He quietly ignored everything and everybody-that is, everything but Eva’s long legs and admirable fanny. The movie producer, on the other hand, launched into a long, simmering diatribe about the appalling situation in Swaziland. An obscure tribe of pygmies was apparently at risk of extinction from an equally indistinct disease the director pronounced differently each time he mentioned it. If only Americans didn’t care so little about the world, he moaned with a light flip of his hand, a miracle cure could be found. But for American indifference and stinginess, the tribe could be saved. Indeed, the only reason he had deigned to come here tonight, he confided loudly enough to be heard by everybody in the line, was to bring this abominable issue to the attention of Washington.

“A whole tribe? How awful,” Eva remarked, pinching Jack’s arm.

“Isn’t it?” the by now red-faced director snorted. “A whole line of DNA lost forever. What a terrible, terrible waste.”

“Maybe you should make a movie to bring it to the world’s attention,” Jack suggested, trying not to laugh.

The famous director’s face instantly shrank into a wrinkled scowl. “Yes… well, unfortunately, there’s no money in it.”

“How sad,” Jack said and he meant it.

The movie director was politely but firmly pushed and shoved through the handshakes before he could get out a half-strangled sentence about this poor ignored tribe and the poisonous microbe-like that, an entire tribe doomed to the dustbin of history.

Eva went next: nobody shoved or hurried her through. In fact, the president awarded her an extra ten or twenty hardfisted pumps with a smile that nearly broke his jaw.

Then it was Jack shaking the most powerful hand in the world. “Nice to meet you,” the president said, gripping and grinning with vigor.

“My pleasure, sir,” Jack replied, trying gracefully to ease out of his clasp and move on.

The president wouldn’t let go. He bent forward. “Hey, ain’t you the fella with that miracle goop I been hearing about?”

“Actually, it’s-”

“Jack, our boys are dyin’ like cattle over there.”

“Yes sir, I know.”

“Oughta get that stuff over there soon as possible.”

“I believe it might-”

“You know, you couldn’t do better than the Capitol Group.” The president’s free hand landed on Jack’s shoulder and squeezed. The smile widened and the grip tightened.

“I’ll definitely think about it, sir.”

“Do that, Jack,” he said, suddenly quite serious, before he flashed his trademark silly, lopsided, dismissive grin. “Anything I can do, be sure to let me know.”

The ambassadorship to the Court of St. James’s would fit the bill rather nicely, Jack was tempted to say, but a well-practiced shove from the president’s shoulder hand interceded and Jack found himself walking beside Eva to their dinner table.

“That was amazing,” Eva announced, shaking her head, leaving it unclear whether she meant meeting the president or the arm-twisting over CG.

Actually, it wasn’t at all unclear. “Absolutely amazing,” Jack agreed. The president of the United States had just hawked the Capitol Group. How much did that cost? he wondered.

“He’s right, you know.”

“That might be a first,” Jack replied. “Hasn’t been right about much so far.”

“I promise I won’t say another word after this,” Eva told him, placing her hand on his arm as they walked. “CG has the strength and resources to make your dreams come true, Jack.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

“You’ll sign with CG?”

“Don’t say another word. More champagne?”

The dinner was lovely and delicious, the speeches predictably horrible, with the president mangling the names of the pimply king and queen, and they danced till eleven before Jack reminded Feist of his promise to have him home by midnight.

Eva offered to fly back up with him, Jack politely and regretfully declined, said his thanks to Feist, and by twelve-thirty was sleeping peacefully in his bed.