Authors: James Koeper
When Nick
finished, Senator Raine paused, letting Nick's statement settle. Obviously
pleased, she let the panel know it by her silence.
"Is the
senator from Maine prepared to yield?" Chairman Callahan asked after a few
moments.
Senator Raine
shook her head. "Mr. Ford, this is a one point eight
billion
dollar
project, surely in a contract of that magnitude we have to expect some billing
irregularities?"
Nick smiled to
himself
—
Senator Raine played the game well: first dispense with the
objections, then drive the point home. He dove gladly into his appointed role. "Let
me make myself clear, in the course of our investigations we uncovered many
examples of clerical errors. I am
not
faulting anybody for such errors. Far
from it. I'm quite sympathetic to bureaucratic inefficiency, but that is not
the problem in this case. The reason I'm here before you today has nothing to
do with simple mistake, it has to do with gross improprieties bordering on
fraud. Inflating actual costs, creating fictitious costs, treating the Yünnan
Project as a cash cow."
"You
estimate, Mr. Ford, that Smith Pettit was unjustly enriched by in excess of
twenty-eight million dollars. Can you be more exact?"
"At this
point, no. There are tens of millions of dollars in questionable charges we
have yet to review. In addition, given the magnitude of improprieties we have
uncovered, I have come to the conclusion that examinations of the
subcontractors are warranted to verify their fees and expenses are appropriate
and reasonable. If we do in fact discover similar billing irregularities in the
subcontracts, we can expect total
—
"
A voice
exploded in anger. "
Point of order, Mr. Chairman
.
Point of
Order.
"
Eyes flipped in
the sound's direction, toward Senator Charles Whitford III, who glared a long
moment at Nick before speaking, his voice resonating in the now still chamber. "If
I may remind our
esteemed
witness, we have convened here today to hear
the results of an audit, not to engage in unsubstantiated and inflammatory
speculation
.
Unless the witness has hard
facts
to place before us in evidence, I
insist the chair instruct him to limit his speech accordingly."
Chairman
Callahan nodded deferentially in Senator Whitford's direction, then turned to
Nick. "Mr. Ford, Senator Whitford's point is well taken. You mentioned
subcontracts. Have you evidence of billing irregularities in any subcontracts?"
"Not at
this time, Mr. Chairman," Nick said, chastened. "We did not
originally intend to include a review of the subcontracts within the scope of
our audit."
"Then I
suggest, until such time as you can produce evidence, you limit your testimony
to facts on hand."
"Yes, Mr.
Chairman."
Chairman
Callahan turned to Senator Raine. "Senator, do you wish to continue?"
"I do, Mr.
Chairman. A few more questions."
Senator Raine
spent the next few minutes rehabilitating Nick; when she finished the questions
from the other subcommittee members began.
The senator
from Kentucky asked technical questions, the senator from Oregon insisted on
making speeches that weren't questions at all, and the senator from Florida
made mild, noncommittal statements, waiting for Senator Whitford, the big gun,
to join the battle.
Nick risked a
few glances at Whitford, each time to find the senator glowering in his
direction. Whitford, however, seemed content to let the other members carry the
questioning; he sat sternly, his hands folded in front of him and his famous
glasses parked in his suit pocket.
The hour of
testimony ended with just the one outburst from Senator Whitford
—
for
that Nick was grateful
.
Scott leaned
into Nick when Senator Callahan declared the short afternoon session closed. "Man-o-man,"
he whispered, "you really hit some kind of major nerve with Whitford. I've
never seen anybody turn so red. What the hell was that all about?"
Nick shook his
head. Whitford was about the last person he wanted as an enemy. "I wish I
knew, Scott. I really wish I knew."
The curtains
parted and the waiter reappeared. In his right hand, by a bamboo handle, he
carried what looked to be a box cloaked by an embroidered red silk cloth. He
set it gently on the table in front of Pu-Yi.
Pu-Yi eyed the
silk covered box for a moment, then continued with his meal. He left the waiter
standing with hands folded in front of him, head and eyes to the ground.
From the plate
before him, Pu-Yi used chopsticks to pinch the last piece of roasted eel. The
few bones he encountered on chewing he spit on the tablecloth to the side of
the plate
—
a small mound of bones which joined a half-dozen other mounds.
If the waiter
or Pu-Yi's eating companion gave the action a second thought, they did not show
it. Spitting
—
of food, of phlegm, of almost anything
—
was not only
accepted but common throughout China, though rarely at the dinner table. However,
in Huizhou it was unwise to remark upon anyone's manners. The city, a rapidly
expanding metropolis of luxury hotels and skyscrapers seventy miles north of
Hong Kong, catered to the triads, the Chinese criminal syndicates. China's Las
Vegas, though Pu-Yi had a much more interesting diversion than gambling in mind
tonight.
He examined the
young woman sitting beside him
—
sixteen, maybe seventeen
—
dressed
in a dark blue
cheongsam
, a silk dress with high slits up the sides,
worn tight and form-fitting. A traditional costume long in disfavor except at
houses such as this one. Pu-Yi caught the hint of fear and embarrassment in the
girl's eyes. The job was still new to her, Pu-Yi guessed; catering to the
sexual whims of a stranger still shocking
.
What would
those eyes hold, he wondered, when he had her pinned beneath him? When she
bucked at the pleasure, and at the pain?
The proprietor
had offered her to him. A gift. Pu-Yi, after all, was a man of importance. He
worked for John Li, and John Li's reach stretched all the way to Beijing. A
favor to one of John Li's men, especially his
Hung Kwan
, chief
lieutenant, might be repaid many times over. A good investment..
Pu-Yi finished
his soup, and only then acknowledged the waiter with a curt nod. On signal the
waiter gripped a corner of the silk cloth and jerked it to the air
.
Underneath was
not a box, but a metal mesh cage. In its bottom a snake, dusty colored and
mottled, lay coiled and unmoving.
Pu-Yi
considered the animal dispassionately for a moment, then reached for his plate
and banged it against the side of the cage
.
The snake's
coils tightened slightly, the only movement
.
The waiter's
lips trembled as Pu-Yi raised his eyes and glared
—
the instructions had
been clear: price was no object, but quality was.
Pu-Yi lifted a
chop stick from the table and poked it through the half-inch mesh, prodding the
snake. It unwound quickly, fluidly. Against the far side of the cage the snake
reared up and revealed itself. Its hood flared, four inches or more across
—
a
cobra.
Pu-Yi looked
again at the girl beside him. She shivered, but also grinned crookedly, both
apprehensive and fascinated, it seemed. Pu-Yi gently intertwined his hand with
hers. His fingers caressed for a moment, then found and encircled her index
finger, and suddenly, like a different type of snake, constricted sharply,
clamping vice-like
.
The girl's eyes
widened in surprise, but just as quickly relaxed as Pu-Yi drew her finger to
his lips. Gently, he kissed its tip
—
so delicate and pink.
Pu-Yi's eyes
jumped, from snake, to woman, and back, as he turned the girl's finger from his
lips and redirected it to the cage. He monitored her expression closely as he
forced her finger forward
.
The girl's
smile held steady for a moment, and Pu-Yi imagined her thoughts:
a game; a
joke to make me squeal like a school girl, but I will do nothing and call his
bluff.
Another foot
forward and the girl's smile broke. It turned flat
—
a sharp red gash
—
as
her face grew taught. Then, when her fingertip was but a few inches from the
cage, the girl screamed. "Bu shi.
Bu shi
." No,
no
. She
turned her free hand to a fist and thumbed it against Pu-Yi's shoulder
.
As if gnat
bites, Pu-Yi ignored the blows; he poked the girl's fingertip through the mesh
of the cage
.
The tongue of
the cobra shot out, three times in quick succession. With a hiss its hood
flared wider, a final warning before it launched itself forward, mouth gaping,
led by the fangs of its upper jaw. In that instant Pu-Yi jerked back the girl's
finger.
The snake hit
steel mesh, nothing more
.
Pu-Yi returned
the girl's finger to his mouth, again kissed its tip gently. He laughed then,
loudly. Amused and pleased. The waiter joined him after a moment, nervously. The
girl, her face white, eyes completely taken by fear, did not.
Pu-Yi looked to
the waiter. "The snake will do," he said in Cantonese
.
The waiter
nodded and produced a y-shaped utensil from his cadre jacket. He fit it between
the mesh of the cage and, expertly, pinned the head of the cobra to the cage
floor. He then opened a trap door on the top of the cage, reached in, and took
hold of the snake just behind its head. He released the y-shaped utensil, and
lifted the snake from the cage, his other, now free hand, stretching the snake
its full length, almost three feet.
One outside
corner of the cage hosted a short, razor-sharp blade. The waiter turned the
snake upside down and with a quick motion sliced open the snake's underside
just below its head. From the horizontal wound the blood of the snake flowed
freely into a waiting bowl.
When the last
drops had fallen from the snake's now limp body, Pu-Yi pulled the bowl toward
him. The drink would make him strong, and hard, ensuring a lengthy and
enjoyable night
.
Pu-Yi stared at
the girl. She lowered her eyes; her cheeks still white. It was good to be home
where the women knew their place, not like the American cows who so often had
to be reminded.
He lifted the
bowl in two hands, prepared to raise it to his lips, when the curtains again
parted and another waiter entered carrying a telephone. The waiter bowed low
and held the phone out to Pu-Yi.
"Who is
it?" Pu-Yi barked angrily.
"Mr. John
Li," the waiter said, and Pu-Yi's annoyance left him instantly
.
"Bring the
phone here," Pu-Yi demanded, and then, after the waiter had set the phone
on the table: "Out." He looked at the girl and pointed to the exit. "
All
of you.
"
All three
scrambled for the exit. When they were gone, Pu-Yi lifted the receiver. "Hello,"
he said.
The gruff and
familiar voice on the other line was all business; Pu-Yi expected nothing more.
"Be in front of my hotel. Two hours."
"Yes,
sir."
"We leave
again. A two a.m. flight. Out of Hong Kong."
Pu-Yi looked
after the departed girl, disappointed. "Tonight?" he confirmed.
"There
have been certain developments
—
unfortunate developments
—
in
Washington concerning the Yünnan dams. My presence is required."
"Yes,
sir," Pu-Yi said again. He did not ask for a fuller explanation
—
in
John Li's eyes he was a soldier, a trained weapon, nothing more, certainly not
one with whom to discuss developments or strategy, and frankly Pu-Yi preferred
it that way.
"Call Chen
Tao-tzi," Li ordered. "Have him place another call to Ford. Immediately."
"The
amount?" Pu-Yi asked.
"Eighty
thousand. Tell him the money will be wired to his account within the
hour."
The line went
dead, their discussion terminated with no exchange of pleasantries.
Pu-Yi looked
from the bowl in front of him to his watch. Two hours. It would take him close
to an hour to collect his things and drive to John Li's hotel, another quarter
hour to contact Chen Tao-tzi. That left only forty-five minutes, little time
for the diversions he had so eagerly anticipated.
The girl did
not know how lucky she was. Tonight Pu-Yi would satisfy himself, nothing more. Sometime
in the future, however, when he had the luxury of time, he would return and ask
for the girl. On that day her luck would run out.
Pu-Yi called
impatiently for the girl, then raised the bowl to his lips.
"Nick?"
Though the
voice registered dimly in Nick Ford's consciousness, he had no visible reaction
—
he
kept his back to the door, eyes fixed on the papers splayed over his office's
work table.
Judy, his
secretary, tried again, a little louder this time. "Nick?"
Scott, standing
to Nick's side, nudged him in the ribs. "Earth to chief. Earth to
chief."
Nick raised an
index finger, then shut his eyes, a column of figures running in his head. Point
seven six-two, point seven five-four, point seven six, point seven four-eight,
point seven five-eight, on and on
—
all well within the range of
historical variance. The standard deviation would be harder to check. He
reached for a manila folder. Over a hundred pages of computer printout
inside--his calculator wasn't going to cut it on this one. He'd have to assign
someone to run a regression analysis. Input all the numbers, or at least a
sampling sufficiently large to reduce the probability of error to plus or minus
—
Judy
interrupted his thoughts. "Nick," she said impatiently, "Meg
Taylor's here."
Nick turned,
then jogged his head as if to clear it. "Sorry, Judy, what was that?"
"I said
the fire alarm went off, we have to evacuate the building."
He lifted his
head, suddenly alert. "I don't hear anything."
She rocked her
head slowly and smiled. "I was kidding, Nick. Meg Taylor's here to see
you."
Nick nodded,
finally understanding
—
the new auditor
.
"And a few
messages." Judy laid three yellow memos on Nick's desk. "One from
overseas
…
a Chen Tao-tzi?"
Nick shook his
head, the name failing to register.
"Hong
Kong," Judy added.
Nick nodded
this time. "Right." He remembered now and picked up Chen Tao-tzi's
message. The man had first called a month or so back, claiming firsthand
knowledge of billing fraud in the Yünnan Project. In two subsequent calls he
had reasserted his claims but had yet to share any specifics, and Nick's
patience was beginning to wear thin. Still, Nick would return the call, at
least one more time..
Nick dropped
the message on his desk
—
he would deal with it later. He faced Scott and
pointed at the door. "Out," he whispered. "I want to talk to her
alone."
Scott shook his
head slowly and deliberately, then flopped into a side chair next to Nick's
desk, kicking one of his legs over the chair's arm.
Nick rolled his
eyes, then circled his desk and sat down, establishing a formality to the
meeting. "All right, send her in, Judy."
Judy
sidestepped toward the door and gestured to the outer office. Meg Taylor
appeared, walked past Judy into the room.
The buzz around
the office had done her an injustice, Nick couldn't help thinking. Five-six,
five-seven. Dark brown hair, cut above the shoulders. Great eyes, also brown. Professional
dress
—
not flashy, but fashionable and well tailored. A good smile,
genuine. Nick hoped she had a sense of humor to match.
Nick stood and
reached his hand over his desk. "Meg. I'm Nick Ford, and this is Scott
Johnson." On the mention of his name, Scott saluted crisply from his chair
and said, "Nice to meet you."
Meg returned
the greeting, her voice deeper and richer than Nick expected.
Nick pointed at
the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."
"Thank
you, sir."
"Please,
let's forget formalities. Why don't you call me Nick, and him," Nick
pointed at Scott with his thumb, "you can call anything you want."
Scott piped up
at the jab. "Scott will be fine," he said.
"All right
…
Nick,
Scott."
Nick smiled. "I've
read your résumé. Impressive." It was
.
"Thank
you."
"NYU
undergrad. Combined finance and accounting degree from Wharton. Top ten percent
of your class."
"What the
heck are you doing here?" Scott interrupted.
"Sir?"
"Scott,
remember."
Meg nodded
.
"Forget
the big accounting firms," Scott went on, "I can understand how you
could pass those up, but with that finance degree you have your ticket to the
big leagues. You must know what investment bankers are making on Wall
Street."
"Believe
me, I'm painfully aware of government versus private sector pay
disparities."
"But?"
Nick prompted.
"Truthfully,
I don't know. Let's just say the investment banking path seemed too pat. That's
the way some of my friends are going. I suppose I might be jealous in a few
years when they all own beach homes in the Hamptons, but
…
it just didn't
seem right for me. This does."
Nick nodded. "I'm
glad you feel that way. Almost makes me doubt your sanity, but I'm glad just
the same."
Meg smiled. Nice,
Nick couldn't help thinking.
"We do
take some pride in what we do," Nick continued. "Sometimes we even
feel like we're making a difference. I emphasize sometimes. Other times it
feels like we're knocking our heads against a brick wall."
"I'm
pretty much an optimist."
"We need
more of those around here. Do you have any questions?"
"The
personnel director answered most of them over lunch. Parking, computer access,
benefits, that sort of thing."
"Good. All
I can add is that we try to keep things pretty informal. Anything we can do to
make a tough job easier, we do. Scott can vouch for that; he's an expert at
finding the easiest way to do something."
Scott nodded
vigorously. "My first piece of advice: don't fall into the clutches of
Dennis. Avoid him like the plague."
"Dennis?"
Meg asked.
Dennis Lindsay,
the head of Special Investigations, and Nick's direct supervisor. Disliked
almost universally, Nick included. "And
my
first piece of
advice," Nick said, "unless Scott's talking accounting, one of the
only things he knows anything about, don't pay any attention to him."
Meg appeared
bewildered, uncertain how to react
.
"We like
to kid each other," Scott explained. "Actually, I know something
about"
—
he counted off on his fingers
—
"at least five
things, which puts me a few ahead of Nick."
Nick steered
the conversation in a new direction. "Meg, take this as a compliment,
because that's how it's intended. You seem a bit more mature than most of the
recruits we get out of grad school."
"You mean
older," Meg said.
Nick hadn't,
though clearly Meg wasn't in her early twenties. Perhaps thirty, thirty-one he
guessed. "No, I didn't mean it like that
…
"
"It's
okay. I worked for a few years after undergrad. Got involved in a startup
company
—
computer software. We busted, no public offering, no big bucks. That's
when I decided money wasn't worth chasing. So I went back to school
—
Wharton.
Applied my computer skills to accounting."
"Well, I'm
happy to have you on board. And we're going to have you jump right in. There's
a case we're working on: overbilling by the contractor of a hydroelectric
project in China. I'm going to have Scott get you up to speed on it. His
specialty is computer-aided forensic accounting. I thought the two of you might
make a good team."
Nick knew
firsthand of Scott's conquests, knew how attractive women found him. Suddenly
it seemed almost inevitable that a relationship would develop between Meg and
Scott. Somehow that bothered him.
Scott, sporting
a huge smile, said, "I could use your help around here, Meg. Ask Nick to
use anything more complicated than a calculator and he gets the jitters."
Nick shrugged. "Scott's
exaggerating, though not as much as I wish." He turned to Scott. "Could
you get Meg a copy of the files
…
my testimony, our interim report. Forget
the minutiae for the moment."
Scott nodded.
Nick turned
back to Meg. "I'm going to have you two focus on the subcontracts." He
began to explain what he wanted them to look for, lapsed almost immediately
into detail, and noticed Meg's face had gone blank. "Don't worry, you'll
catch on quick enough," he assured her.
"It's not
nearly as boring as Nick can make it sound," Scott added. "Once in
awhile we even get to do old fashioned field work. Surveillance. Undercover
work. Cloak and dagger stuff."
"I
wouldn't say cloak and dagger
—
Scott likes to exaggerate."
Scott shrugged.
"Too much Magnum P.I. as a kid."
"But he is
right," Nick continued. "We do conduct field work."
"Most of
us," Scott interjected. "Not me, though. Not right now. I'm on probation.
Nick's fault."
Nick groaned. "Your
own fault."
"Fault? That's
what we call cracking a case, huh? All I did was
—
"
"Enough,"
Nick interrupted, holding out a hand in Scott's direction.
Scott crossed
his arms. "Fine, but it's still your fault."
Nick blinked
hard and shook his head. "Let's get back to Meg, okay. Meg, let me tell you
a little bit more about what we do." And for the next few minutes, he did.
Afterwards he asked Meg if she had any questions.
Meg shook her
head. "No, not at this point."
"Okay.
…
You
find a nice place to live in the city?"
"I found a
place; I wouldn't call it nice. Small is actually the first word to come to
mind."
"In D.C.
we say cozy, never small. But don't worry, we'll keep you working so hard you
won't have any time to spend there."
Meg gave a
short laugh. "Great. I'd really appreciate that."
She was warming
up, relaxing, Nick could see. He found himself staring into her eyes a bit too
long and looked away abruptly. Suddenly tongue-tied, he left Scott to make the
rejoinder.
"Least we
can do," Scott said.
"All right
then," Nick said finally. "I'll let you two get started. We'll get
together again shortly to discuss specifics."
At that signal,
Scott jumped to his feet. "C'mon Meg," he said eagerly. He started
toward the door, but stopped when he got there. "Your office is right down
the hall, to the left?"
Meg nodded.
"Okay,
I'll meet you there in a moment."
She nodded
again and left. Scott returned to the chair by Nick's desk, trailed a second
later by Judy who had left her desk outside Nick's office
.
Scott whistled,
and Judy's eyebrows immediately sunk. "I'd almost consider pulling Ms.
Taylor aside for a little bit of womanly advice," Judy said, "if I
didn't know you were actually a big pussycat."
"And
I," Scott countered, "would most certainly consider pulling you aside
if you weren't married."
Judy shook her
head, her lips pursed to keep from smiling
.
Nick raised a
hand in the air. "All right, all right, enough. Am I the only person
around here with work to do? You," he pointed at Judy, "are supposed
to be typing my comment letter. And you," he pointed at Scott, "use
your judgment
…
nix that. Use
good
judgment. And I want a
preliminary report on the subcontracts, top priority. Next time I go in front
of Whitford, I want facts and figures."
"How about
lunch tomorrow?" Scott suggested. "The Pig and Whistle. I'll give you
a rundown on my ideas so far?"
"How about
tomorrow night instead. We still on?" For years he and Scott had met once
a week or so for a pizza and a few beers at a local sports bar.
"Yeah."
"Good, you
can fill me in then."
Judy cut in
proudly. "Nick's already booked for lunch tomorrow. Carolyn Reed. She
called Nick after the hearing."
Scott's eyes
arched. "
Carolyn
?"
Nick nodded
slowly, embarrassed. "Yeah."
Carolyn Reed,
the Comptroller General. The head of the GAO. Nick had worked under her when
she headed up Special Investigations. Considering their age difference, they'd
become surprisingly close, although business strictly delineated their
friendship
.
"Where?"
Scott asked.
"Lunch? Top
of the Royce building."
Judy's voice
took on an air. "Her private dining club"
"Swanky. You
know what's up?"
Nick shrugged,
and Judy answered for him. "I'm guessing she's thinking of stepping down
…
probably
wants to interview her successor."
"Uh-huh,"
Scott said sarcastically, and then, when Nick wasn't more forthcoming, added,
"Really, you have any idea?"
Nick didn't. "I
assume I'll find out tomorrow," he answered.
"Maybe
she's thinking of taking a lover."
Nick shook his
head in exasperation. "Right."
"Hey,"
Judy said, "Scott could be on to something. There's plenty of sixty-five
year old men around here who aren't shy about making passes at women half their
age, believe me. Maybe Carolyn believes in putting the shoe on the other
foot."
Scott nodded. "You're
single, she's single. And you both spend all your time at the office, so you'd
certainly see enough of each other."
"Consider
the consolidated balance sheet," Judy added, laughing now.
"Exactly,"
Scott agreed. "On a pro forma basis, the synergy of such a merger would
—
"
Nick looked to
heaven, then herded the two toward his office door. "Okay, okay, enough. Both
of you, out now. I've got phone calls to return, work to do."
The two left
smiling and whispering conspiratorially.