“Probably,” Martie answered, making the word sound more like “absolutely, no big deal.” It was, however, not merely a big deal, but a huge one. He’d bill the Capitol Group for millions. He’d throw a dozen people at it, work them around the clock, invoice triple for overtime, and bill his client for every paper clip and wasted photograph. “Charles left us plenty of leads,” he continued, listing his reasons. “We know the victim. We now have it narrowed down to one firm. We’ll get the names of everyone in Primo during those years. Somebody will know something. Someone’ll talk.”
“I want it done fast.”
“I’ll put my best people on it.” Dozens of them at inflated costs.
“Don’t get caught.”
“Not a chance. A good cover and he’ll never know a thing. Anyway, we’re still watching his house. We’ll add a few more men, watch him everywhere he goes.”
“What are you waiting for?”
O’Neal and Morgan backed away and fled from the office. The moment the door closed, Bellweather put his rear end on the corner of Walters’s desk. “Good call,” he said.
“I know.” Walters walked back behind the desk and collapsed into his chair. He picked up the picture that O’Neal had left in the middle of the blotter.
It was taken by one of the trailers following Morgan and Charles that night. A color, blown up to ten-by-twelve, showing Charles meeting Morgan on the street corner. He pinched the bridge of his nose and studied it closely. The mystery man was maybe five inches taller than Morgan, thin, well dressed, wearing an expensive blue cashmere topcoat. The shot was blurry and mildly out of focus but showed that Charles had dark features, dark, swept-back hair, a large beak, and shrewd eyes. “Know who this guy is?” he asked without looking up.
“Not a clue. Who?”
“The billion-dollar man.”
16
The hearing was everything they had paid for. And every bit as entertaining as they’d hoped.
Four GT executives showed up-three accountants and a smooth-looking, unctuous lapdog from GT’s congressional relations branch, brought along to appear friendly and ride herd on the number nerds. The executives arrived ten minutes early and seated themselves at the long witness table. They came armed with spreadsheets, which they spent five minutes meticulously arranging on the table. They came fully prepared to answer the most vexing questions about the cost of the GT 400.
The two previous days, the three accountants had spent long hours in front of murder boards exhaustively preparing for the hearing. A team of inquisitors bellowed questions at them, contradicted, argued, and browbeat until the three never blanched at the most egregious assault. The hearing was only a pro forma cost review. A mundane event, nothing more. But given the egos in Congress, there was always the risk of some loudmouthed representative trying to grandstand at their expense. They were ready. They had all the answers. They sat quietly and tried to hide their cockiness.
Thirty-five members of the congressional subcommittee were in attendance-an unexpectedly large turnout for such a tedious hearing. All were seated on the large podium, already looking bored out of their minds. All thirty-five had tried to squirm out of it, but Earl had bent elbows and traded favors in an effort to arrange a large audience. In addition, a small cluster of reporters, including one from the Washington Post and one from the New York Times, were on hand, seated in the empty rows of chairs reserved for guests. They’d been lured to the hearing by telephonic tips from a sneaky member of Earl’s staff he often used to plant stories or leaks. The reporters had been told to expect a big story and plenty of fireworks. A pair of C-SPAN cameras were rolling, a common sight these days, nothing to be alarmed about. Three bright-looking staffers were hunched in their seats directly behind the empty chairman’s chair, exchanging notes, smirking at each other, eager for the fun to begin.
The air of boredom broke with three minutes left to begin. The door in the rear cracked open and a new visitor stepped inside, an attractive female dressed in a flattering red business suit that nicely accented her dark brunette hair, long legs, and slender figure. She had large green eyes, a small, upturned nose, high cheekbones, and a wide, generous mouth. The thirty men on the podium sat up and took notice. A few male reporters noisily shifted seats to make room for her.
She looked around for a moment before the Capitol cop on duty rushed over and offered to help her find a seat. They wished they were him: oh, for an excuse to engage her in a conversation. They all watched as she shook her head-her long hair flipped back and forth, her features crinkled so beautifully. She chose her own seat, an aisle chair far in the back, where she was by herself. They watched as she sat, and they peeked and stared as her skirt rose and showed a little more leg. Great legs. Long legs. Legs that seemed to go all the way to the ceiling.
One of the reporters, tall and lanky, with a well-groomed fashionable three-day stubble, who obviously thought of himself as a cocksman, spun around in his seat and unloaded a flash of teeth. “Hey, babe, what paper you with?”
“I’m not.”
“I’m with the Journal,” he said, as if that meant something.
She said nothing. It meant nothing.
“My name is Rex,” he tried again. “Rex Smith. So why’re you here?”
By now every eye in the room was on her and Rex. Rex had had the nerve to do what they all wanted to.
The universal hope was that he failed miserably.
“I work in the Department of Defense,” she said. “I was having lunch nearby. Thought I’d drop by and watch.”
“You have a name?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” In other words, get lost.
“What’s yours?”
“Mia,” she said. No last name, just Mia. She began digging through her briefcase, visibly trying to ignore him.
Spurred on by all the stares he was attracting, Rex wasn’t about to back down. He couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say, so he offered the lame compliment, “Nice name.” Another smile and he asked, “So, what do you do in the Department of Defense?”
“Well, Rex, I’m a lawyer,” she answered without looking up.
“A lawyer.”
She finally met his stare. “Yes,” she said very calmly, very coldly. “I specialize in suing reporters for lying, defamation, or deliberate falsification.”
“Oh.”
“So I suggest you turn around and pay close attention to the hearing, Rex. Get every detail right. I’ll be watching.”
Rex stared blankly at her for a long moment, then turned around; he suddenly became preoccupied with his reporter’s pad. A few chuckles broke out among the other reporters. It was a brutal putdown. They admired her delivery.
Mia ignored the stares and chuckles and went back to digging something out of her briefcase.
As chairman, Earl entered five minutes late, fell gingerly into his chair, pulled his pants out of his crotch, offered the witnesses a pleasant, hospitable smile as if they were old chums, welcomed them to the hearing, then led off with a few empty peremptory remarks about the great importance of protecting our troops, buying them the very best equipment, and the role of this committee in oversight.
Then he fixed his bleary eyes on the three accountants. In his most homespun tone, he asked, “So you three fellas are all executive vice presidents?”
The older, plumper one in the middle answered, “Actually, sir, I’m a senior VP.” He motioned at the men to his left and right. “Rollins and Baggio here are executive VPs. They work for me.”
Earl nodded. “A senior VP, huh? Guess that makes you pretty high up over there.”