Stuffing the piece in his mouth, Earl mumbled, “There’s gonna have to be some hearings, naturally.”
A pat on the arm and a grave nod from Bellweather. “Only responsible thing to do, Earl.”
Earl scratched his head and said, “ ’Course, I’d need ample justification. Y’know, a spark to get it rollin’.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure one will come along.”
“How you figure to handle that?”
Bellweather thought about it for a moment. “I have a strong premonition that somebody in Defense’s procurement department is about to send you an anonymous letter. An insider, terribly bothered by the shoddiness of the testing. The vehicle was dangerously tipsy but nobody wanted to hear about it. He was brushed aside, and isn’t happy about it.”
Earl shook his head, dismayed by the horror of it. “Hell, that’d have to be looked into.”
“I like your logic. And were you to schedule the hearing for… oh, say about three weeks from now, a lot of critics will be ready to raise a noisy racket about it.”
Haggar, feeling like a third wheel, decided to throw in his two cents. “Make it a last-minute thing, Earl. No warning. In fact, announce an entirely different reason for the hearing.”
“You mean, call it a program review, maybe a cost overview. Something like that.”
“Perfect, something totally innocuous. GT won’t be expecting an ambush. They’ll send over a bunch of accountants and be totally off guard.”
“Great idea,” Earl mumbled, already picturing it in his mind. A bunch of number crunchers armed with spreadsheets and cost analysis proposals, gawking in shock as they were being pilloried about the intricacies of vehicular physics. Get a few staffers to work up a bunch of questions that would stump Albert Einstein. How fun. They’d be frozen in their chairs, peeing in their drawers, totally clueless. “Wonderful. What then?” Earl asked, popping a shrimp between his lips and clamping down hard.
Bellweather tackled this one. “But be careful. An outright program termination would incite too much resistance. Too much heat and noise. GT and the generals will scream murder.”
“Not just them,” Earl observed, sucking on a dim sum roll. “Teller’ll throw a real hissy fit. Don’t get between that boy and a TV camera.”
“So don’t kill it,” Bellweather advised, “delay it. Send it back for another year of rigorous testing until the safety concerns are ironed out and mollified. A good hard scrub before we waste all those billions, a reasonable pause before we expose our boys to uncertain dangers.”
Like that, Bellweather stopped talking. Earl stopped eating. Haggar began scribbling something on a napkin. The meeting seemed to lurch into a new phase. Jack knew enough to keep his face expressionless, his mouth shut.
By unspoken agreement, the ball had slid to Earl’s corner. He wiped his plump lips on a cheap white paper napkin and leaned back in his chair. “I believe it will work,” he concluded with a small, mysterious smile.
But there was nothing at all mysterious about it to Bellweather.
The former SECDEF who had first introduced Earl to this game looked slightly annoyed. “We will of course be very appreciative,” Bellweather muttered, sounding anything but. A long, awkward silence. “What do you have in mind, Earl?”
“Glad you asked, Dan.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Five million for my next campaign would certainly be nice.” Earl had dropped the country bumpkin and was suddenly the sharpy riverboat gambler. He was leaning across the table, eyes narrowed, gleaming with total concentration.
Bellweather threw down his napkin and nearly howled. “Christ, Earl, that’s too much.”
“Well… what’s enough?”
“Three million. That’s all we budgeted, all we can afford.”
“See, Dan, I’m also factorin’ the price of ushering this polymer of yours through the political thickets. I expect you’ll be looking for a noncompetitive, fast-track deal.” When nobody contradicted that, he continued, “I’m a one- stop shop, Dan, all that and a bag of chips.”
“Five is still too much.”
“Nah, it’s a real good deal and you know it. Kill the competitors, and grease the pole for your polymer. Nobody else can handle this.”
After a long, tense pause, Bellweather said, “Even you can’t do it alone, Earl.”
“Oh, damn, you’re right. I’ll need a little more to spread around. Throw another two million into my PAC.”
Bellweather looked ready to argue, but he didn’t have the strength. “You’ve learned this game too well,” he whispered.
“Yeah, well, I had a good teacher,” Earl said.
Martie O’Neal was happily hidden in the third stall to the left, comfortably ensconced on the toilet, when his cell phone began bleeping and rattling. He dropped the girlie magazine, lurched over, and spent ten frantic seconds trying to dig the phone out of the pocket of the trousers gathered around his ankles. “What?” he barked.
“Martie, it’s me, Morgan,” said the familiar voice.
“Whatcha got?”
“Gold, maybe, or maybe fool’s gold.” Morgan quickly filled in the story about Charles, omitting only a few insignificant details like how Charles found him, how he escaped, and that infuriating little stunt with the note in place of the glass. Some things are better left unsaid.
Martie asked the obvious. “He worth fifty K?”
“Who knows?”
“You, Morgan. You’re supposed to know.”
“I can’t vouch for his reliability,” Morgan answered, hoping he wouldn’t be called on that vague response.
“You got nothing? Fingerprints? A phone number? Anything?”
“Uh… he was very clever.”
“You mean he outsmarted you.”
“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Morgan stammered, trying to make it sound like no big deal.
“I don’t like that.”
“Me either. He was very slick. Could be a con.”
“That what you think?”
“I’ve been here three weeks handing out business cards by the bushel. It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs, an invitation to get rolled. What do you think?”
O’Neal had worked around the clock, without a day or weekend off since he got this job. The billings were great but the hours were killing him. Walters phoned nearly every day, pressuring for an update and hectoring him about the lack of results. His wife had begun bitching and moaning, about chores left undone, about dinner dates broken, about coming home too tired for conversation or sex. Jack Wiley was ruining his life.
Now the wife was threatening to have his battle-ax mother-in-law come for a long, miserable visit; things were about to go from terrible to horrible. All that hard work, effort, and expense and he had found nothing incriminating or even remotely distasteful about Jack Wiley. He was frustrated. He lay awake at night thinking about Wiley. He hated him, hated everything about him, the goody-two-shoes. He had been so confident he would find something; he had promised Walters instant results. “When are you going to meet him?” he asked Morgan, obviously committed.
Charles might be a shot in the dark, but O’Neal was past the point of caring. This was the first inkling that there might be some dark secret in Jack’s past, some chink in the saintly armor. He’d be damned if he’d let it slip by. Besides, it wasn’t his money.
“He said I better call today or forget it,” Morgan replied.
“He’ll insist on a meet tonight. Keep the initiative, limit our time to prepare. You know the game.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figure, too.”
“I’ll send two more guys up on the next flight. They’ll be hauling fifty thousand in cash. Can you handle this?”
“Kid’s play. Don’t worry,” Morgan replied, trying to sound calm and glib. In his Agency days, he’d done dozens of bagjobs like this. And all those operations were against real spies and terrorist thugs and bloodthirsty drug
