The Capitol Game (37 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Headed where?” the shift boss asked.

“Upstairs. She just got in the elevator.”

“What floor, moron?”

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

“Describe her.”

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

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

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

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

“Do you have an appointment?”

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

“To meet with them about what?”

“To ask a few questions about the polymer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll still accompany you.”

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

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

“Follow me,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not that I remember.”

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

“I watch television. I know my rights.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t understand the question.”

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

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

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

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

“Name?”

“Uh… I don’t remember.”

“See if this helps. Jack Wiley?”

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

“And what did Wiley offer you?”

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

“Was it a takeover?”

“Something like that.”

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

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

“How was it tested?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“You don’t have to.”

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

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

“Introduce yourself?”

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

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

T
he meeting convened in the expansive office of Mitch Walters. The pen-and-ink portrait of his head from the
Wall Street Journal
now hung, front and center, in the place of honor on his wall of fame. Only a select few were invited—Walters himself, Daniel Bellweather, Alan Haggar, and Phil Jackson, the steering committee for the polymer. It was an emergency meeting. It was also a tense one.