Authors: Brian Haig
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.”