Authors: Brian Haig
“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.