“Yeah, but odds are, Jack being the mastermind and all, he bagged more.”
“I’d say that’s a good guess. Probably at least fifteen million, tax-free, salted away in a Swiss vault,” Charles said.
Morgan now was into the second-guessing game, and he suggested the obvious. “But nobody could prove it, could they?”
“Nothing could be proved. Nobody could prove Edith was dead. Nobody could prove the nurse was hired by Jack. Nobody knew where the money went. I told you, it was brilliant.”
“What did they do?”
“Understand that the last thing Primo wanted was for this to go public. The firm’s reputation would be ruined. Rich people don’t entrust their millions to crooks, or to investment firms too incompetent to protect against internal corruption.”
“But they fired him, right?”
Charles laughed. “Not a chance.”
“Why not?”
“They had a suspicion, Morgan, nothing more.”
“Yeah, but it was pretty damned-”
“And Jack could always sue them. Plus the CEO and CFO had that filthy little discussion with Jack they now wished to keep under the rug-the one about ripping off more of Edith’s fortune. Jack, you see, had them by the balls.”
“It’s hard not to admire it,” Morgan said, almost smacking his lips. Regardless how immoral it was, Jack had pulled off a stunningly beautiful swindle, and Morgan spent a moment contemplating its elegance. It was the scam of a lifetime. Jack was a very talented boy. “So what’d they do?” he asked.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“I’m beginning to believe anything about this guy.”
“They paid Jack one million to go away. A bonus, they called it, and both sides signed mutual nondisclosure agreements. One million and neither party could ever whisper a word about the other.”
“A bribe to keep his mouth shut.”
“Welcome to Wall Street. It’s a long, hallowed tradition.”
Morgan could hear Charles stand, then shuffle his feet for a moment. “Wait a minute,” Morgan yelled.
“That’s more than fifty thousand worth,” Charles replied. “Admit it, Morgan. I didn’t cheat you.”
“No, you’re forgetting something. Proof.”
“Find it yourself, Morgan. It’s out there, if you look hard enough.” The stall door opened and Charles stepped out. “Follow the trails and you’ll find it.”
“No, wait,” Morgan yelled, and the noise bounced around the walls but nobody answered. He pushed open the stall door, leaned out, and peered into the men’s room. Empty.
He stepped out, then opened the door to the stall so recently occupied by Charles. The metal briefcase that contained the money sat on the floor. Morgan lurched forward and opened it-also empty except for a small note: “Keep the case and the locating beacon tucked inside. Once again, Morgan, nice try.”
Then a fresh thought struck Morgan. He began a mad scramble around the men’s room, a desperate hunt for his clothes. They weren’t in any of the stalls. Not in the big trash can, not in any of the nooks or corners.
He cursed, kicked over the trash can, then made a mad dash for the door.
He emerged just in time to meet the crush of theatergoers pouring into the lobby for the intermission.
15
The assault on General Techtonics began quietly and slowly. On October 12, in a small page seven article in the
Earl’s hearings were scheduled for October 30. By the week before, nasty quotes in articles and disturbing rumors were appearing with disturbing regularity.
On October 28, only two days before Earl’s hearing, and with brilliant timing, the Capitol Group put on the first public live display of the miracle polymer.
The demonstration was held at Fort Belvoir, a sprawling base located close to the capital, thus a convenient location for the viewers CG was most concerned with. A slew of senior generals, every member of the House and Senate armed services committees, and a small army of senior Pentagon officials were offered free rides to and from the demonstration. They’d heard rumors about the polymer, curiosity ran high, and they came in droves. The press also arrived in force. A high-class caterer was on hand and guests were treated to a magnificent spread of exotic munchies. The reporters flocked to the table and began stuffing themselves.
An array of armored vehicles were positioned in a large open field-four targets coated in polymer, eight without. While guests grazed on foie gras and pickled herring, a galaxy of firepower was unleashed on the targets. For ten minutes, explosive devices, rockets, and missiles rained on the cluster of vehicles. Nothing could survive such a beating. A dense cloud of smoke hung over the field, interspersed with bright flashes as the shooters kept blasting away. When the crescendo of violence finally stopped and the smoke cleared, eight ruined wrecks were burning brightly. The four polymer-coated vehicles were amazingly intact.
Next the guests wandered in small gaggles over to the next field where an old M-113 armored personnel carrier was positioned about three hundred yards away from a large reviewing stand. The venerable 113 was a staple of the old Army, since relegated to the status of a relic. It was built of aluminum, thus very burnable, a relatively thin-skinned vehicle that had become a death trap on the modern, more lethal battlefield. Once again, a terrifying array of missiles, rockets, and bombs pelted the vehicle.
After three minutes of splendid violence, the shooting stopped and the M-113 sat there without a dent, much less a hole.
The guests were stunned. Before they could recover, Bellweather nearly bounced to a microphone on a small stage. He offered a few explanatory remarks about the extensive testing already done in the authentic laboratory of Iraq, but said little about the polymer’s amazing qualities. Why should he? They had witnessed it with their own eyes. The demonstration was like nothing anybody had seen before. An old cold war antique had been dragged out the graveyard, plastered in polymer, and survived everything they could throw at it.
Then, in a memorable moment that had been carefully planned, with Bellweather still standing on the stage, jawboning the crowd, the rear ramp of the M-113 clanked down and ten men marched glibly out of the back. Unknown to the crowd, of course, as a precaution, the inside of the 113 had been triple-lined with tons of Kevlar. Bellweather beamed as the crowd gasped.
He was tempted to play the huckster and say, Yes, that’s right folks, CG is so confident in its polymer that we’re willing to risk real lives! He held his fire, though; the big surprise was about to come.
One of the ten men separated from the pack and walked confidently toward the bleachers. As he drew closer they recognized the beaming face of Mitch Walters, CEO of the company that produced this incredible miracle.
After the cheers and clapping died down, Mitch stepped to the microphone and informed the crowd that CG intended to go for a no-bid, noncompetitive contract-not for itself, not for profit, certainly not for any selfish motive, but for our gallant boys in battle. Thousands of lives were at stake. The whole calculus of the Iraq war would be upended by this new battlefield contraceptive. The insurgents with their lethal bombs and rockets would be frustrated to no end. You saw it here, folks, the chance to win this war. The chance to make horrendous weapons no more useful than slingshots firing pebbles. He asked for their support and was confident he would get it.
Then, without taking any questions, Walters ducked into the back of a long black limousine and sped away.
