“Never heard of them.”
“Doesn’t matter. Point is, we jumped the gun, Doug. You, us, we all did.”
Bellweather could see on Robinson’s face that he was making headway. A slight loosening around the lips, a slackening of the eyes, the beginning of doubt-but it was enough.
He went on, “Today we offered five million bucks to anybody who helps us find those two bastards. They took the money and ran, Doug, both of ’em. By cheating us, they cheated you. Believe me, nobody wants to get to the bottom of this more than us. We want to restore the good name of our firm.”
The secretary squirmed in his seat a moment. “Say this is true, what can I do?” he asked in a rather caustic tone.
“There are a few things,” Bellweather mumbled, almost a whisper.
“Spit it out, Dan. And speak up, dammit!” His eyes darted around the room; the last thing he could afford was being seen in a confidential conversation with this crooked jerk. No doubt one of these sneaky media clowns had smuggled in a camera and it would look great splashed across the front page of the morning Post, a picture of Bellweather whispering in his ear about God knows what. He adjusted his expression to a deeper frown and tried to look like he wasn’t listening.
“For one, help us find these two,” Bellweather requested.
“How?”
“You’ve got the resources at your fingertips. Your own investigative services, for one thing. The FBI and CIA will do whatever you ask. Use them.”
“What else?”
Bellweather took a deep breath, then said, “Agent Mia Jenson.”
“Who’s she?”
“The DCIS investigator who provided the tip about the phony report.”
“What about her?”
“She’s biased.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She hates us. She’s been to our headquarters several times, throwing around nasty threats, hassling our people. It’s personal for her. She has a deep grudge, a vendetta. Don’t ask me why, she just does.”
“That’s a damned serious charge.”
“I know it is.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing serious, just reassign her. We’re requesting a fair shake, that’s all. Put somebody fresh on the case. Somebody impartial, somebody harboring no emotional baggage. We want a fair process, that’s all.”
“I’ll think about it. Anything else?”
“No, I’m finished.”
“Then will you please shut up? Let me enjoy what’s left of my evening.”
Nicky was waiting at her desk when Mia rolled into work the next morning. He didn’t invite her into his office this time.
“You pissed somebody off,” he told her with his head shaking.
“Always nice to hear,” she said and actually smiled. “What gave you the clue, Nicky?”
“You’re off the polymer case. That’s straight from the director’s lips. I had the impression she was just relaying the order herself. I think this came from the very top.”
“I wasn’t aware I was ever on the polymer case,” Mia noted.
“Neither was I. Is this a problem for you?”
Mia’s smile seemed to grow. “No, I expected it. I’d be hugely disappointed if it didn’t happen in fact. Do me a favor, put it in writing.”
“If you insist, I will.”
“I do insist.”
She took it so well that Nicky couldn’t hide his expression of relief.
“Of course now I have to appoint somebody to actually look into this thing,” he told her.
“Who you thinking of?”
“Clete Jamison.”
Mia offered a satisfied nod. “Good choice,” she said. “Clete’s thorough and tough.”
“He is, and he’s coming into this with an empty tank. It would help if you gave him some background.”
“My pleasure,” she said and seemed to mean it.
After a brief pause, Nicky added hopefully, “It would help even more if he knew the name of your source.”
Mia placed her things on her desk and sat down. “Forget it, Nicky. My source will only deal with me. That’s the stipulation. It’s a matter of trust.”
Nicky tore off his glasses with an air of impatience. “Look, I know there’s a lot going on here you’re not telling me.” He examined her face for a response-there was no response. “How bad is this going to get?”
“For the Capitol Group, very bad.”
“Your source is telling you other things?”
Mia shrugged and rearranged some papers on her crowded desk. The answer was yes.
“What’s your source’s motive? You can tell me that.”
“Truth, justice, the American way. Do the right thing. I know what a rare and unbelievable motive that is these days, and in this city, but that’s it.”
Nicky played with his tie a moment. He’d never had an agent pull something like this. It pissed him off, confused him, made him want to stab a finger in her face and demand answers, but frankly he wasn’t sure how to handle it. “Mia, an order from the director taking you off this case is a serious step. If you’re caught dabbling in what is now an official investigation, I can’t protect you.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“It’s a promise.”
“I’m a big girl, Nicky. I know the rules.”
“You better be sure you do. This can get real ugly.”
“I’m terrified. Send me back to a half-million-a-year job in any of a dozen firms that would take me in a heartbeat. Throw some more threats at me, Nicky.”
By noon, the day after the Capitol Group’s spokesman offered five million bucks to anyone who helped find Jack Wiley or Perry Arvan, CG’s corporate website had received thirty million hits. The announcement was like the shot that started the land rush, a reasonable analogy in this case. Three hours after the promise was issued, so many users logged on, the site crashed. It took a team of programmers two hours, working furiously in the middle of the night, to get it back up, before the flood of hits resumed.
Several big newspapers glommed onto the story and, free of charge, printed pictures of Jack and Perry along with a speculative, fascinating synopsis of CG’s claims and the ensuing manhunt. By nine that morning, cable news rushed into the act and began flashing the pictures and discussing the big bounty. The faces of Jack and Perry were studied and memorized by countless more millions of citizens interested in snatching a cool five million.
O’Neal, by then, had a large call center set up, employing twenty of TFAC’s people and a large, shifting clutch of executives bused over from CG. The calls went to CG’s switch and were smoothly rerouted to TFAC’s call center.
By noon it was a disaster center. O’Neal had never tried this before, and it showed. He was thoroughly ill-prepared to handle the unceasing bombardment of information pouring in. Neither his own people nor CG’s hapless execs were trained for this sport. They lacked the expertise to filter the good from the bad, the plainly false tips from the seemingly accurate, the fruitcakes and loonies from the moderately sane.
Jack was spotted in too many places to count. He was seen seated on the rear deck of a big yacht in Miami, knocking back mai tais, surrounded by big-breasted girls in string bikinis. Thirty seconds later, he was huddled in an igloo in Alaska munching on whale meat. At the same instant he was spotted in a movie theater in Akron, partying on the slopes at Aspen, sleeping in a gutter in Seattle, and robbing a bank in Atlanta.
Perry, also, was everywhere and nowhere.
Each call station had a large stack of tip sheets to fill out. It seemed so easy, so organized, so infallible. In theory, it was. Every time a call arrived the information was jotted on a tip sheet, then deposited inside the in-box of one of three former Fibbies who would scrutinize the material and decide upon the action to be taken. By ten that morning, all three had found the time to curse at O’Neal and tell him what an ill-conceived crock this whole plan was. Their in-boxes had overflowed hours before. Every time Fox News or CNN or MSNBC flashed up pictures of Jack and Perry, a fresh deluge arrived and the chaos grew.