A row of deepening scowls were now glaring down at the witnesses. Rollins and Baggio began quietly inching their chairs away from Hamilton, avoiding the line of fire, trying to dodge a stray bullet from Earl, who looked like he wanted to pull out a gun and blast away.
Hamilton wanted to get up and bolt, but his feet felt like concrete. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled as contritely as he could the moment Earl seemed to be finished.
The aides hunched in the seats behind Earl launched into giggles as they fingered the large stacks of papers positioned on their laps. Hamilton couldn’t take his eyes off them-what would they hand Earl next? What other loathsome crime was this awful man going to accuse him of? What fresh claim was going to appear, without warning, out of thin air?
He needn’t have worried. Earl was out of ammunition-the remaining papers were a harmless collection of office memos and take-out menus carelessly added to the mix-but his aides had been ordered to appear ready to drown the witnesses in damning reports.
Earl fixed him with another nasty frown, then said, “I won’t waste any more time reviewing the vast hoard of material I’ve received”-he waved a dismissive hand through the air as though his aides had three trucks full of reports and terrible claims and dreadful assertions that, out of generosity, Earl would not rub in his face-“and I don’t know whether all these reports and complaints and technical analyses are true or not. I’m no expert in such things. But my daddy always used to say, where there’s smoke, there’s somethin’ burnin’.”
Hamilton knew he had to do something. He took a deep swallow and said, “I’m sure we can satisfy your curiosity on these rumors.” He paused and tried to look hopeful. “Now, uh, now that we know your specific concerns, I feel sure that-”
“Are you proposin’ another hearing?”
“Yes,” Hamilton said, exuding relief at the thought of someone else taking this awful beating. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
Earl stared at him in disbelief. “Do I work for you, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Uh… no.”
“That’s right, Mr. Big Shot. You might find this hard to believe, but this committee stays fairly busy with the people’s business.”
“I didn’t mean to imply-”
“Excuse me, sir,” Earl bellowed with a ferocious finger pointed at Hamilton’s face. “This is my committee. I set the rules. You speak only after you are asked a question. Do you understand that?”
Hamilton could barely produce a limp nod. If he had a gun he’d shoot Earl; he’d shoot himself, too.
“So, since we have all these reports and vile accusations of vehicle deficiencies”-Earl paused to steal a glance at his notes to be sure he got the words just right-“and since I’m sure you gentlemen from General Techtonics want the very safest equipment for our soldiers in battle, I’m gonna do you a big favor. I propose to this committee that we give you six more months to extensively test your vehicle.”
Hamilton was rubbing his temples. His bosses were going to kill him. A six-month delay would be financially devastating. More tests could cost billions. “Am I allowed to register a protest?”
“You certainly may. We live in a democracy.”
“How?”
“Write your congressman.”
Earl asked for a hand vote. Without objection or comment, he quickly got thirty-five in favor. Twenty of those yeas had recently received mysterious donations to their reelection committees; three had been promised assistance or support on various pet bills or pork requests; two new members were simply trying to garner favor with the committee chairman.
Amazingly, Earl had pulled this off with only one million dollars; the other million contributed by CG to his buying spree, of course, ended up in his pockets. Democracy at its best.
He slammed the gavel and the hearing immediately broke up. Mia ignored the noisy exodus of chattering congressmen, staffers, and reporters and stayed glued to her seat, pretending to read a memo, until the last member quietly closed the door behind him.
She got up and approached one of the C-SPAN cameramen, a large man with a big belly, awkwardly bent over gathering his equipment, preparing to move on.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said to his back. “Would it be possible to get a copy of your tape?”
He was playing with a machine on the floor. He never looked up. “Sorry, no.”
“Try yes instead.”
“Not mine to give, lady. Belongs to C-SPAN.”
“Would it help if I showed you this?” she asked, flashing a card at his back. He turned around and stared at it: Mia Jenson, Investigator, Defense Criminal Investigative Service. Then out popped her DCIS shield, which he glanced at also for another moment. “It’s quite real,” Mia assured him. “I’m a federal agent.”
“What’s this about?” he asked, now staring at her,
“That’s none of your business.” She glanced at the identity card hanging around his neck. “Listen, Carl, I’m asking politely now. I could just as easily come back with a subpoena.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be a pain.”
She gave him a slight smile. It seemed apologetic. “Oh, what the hell. Between you and me, Carl, we’re looking into a few irregularities in the GT 400.”
“I see.”
“Probably nothing. Chasing rumors. My bosses ordered me to come back with the tape.”
“Why don’t we bring this to my bosses?”
“I’d rather not.”
His forehead was wrinkled with suspicion. “Is there a reason why?”
“It’s a confidential investigation at this point. That’s how we’re treating it. Like I said, it’s merely exploratory and we’d rather not have GT learn we’re looking.” Her features wrinkled with disgust. “They’ll throw a battalion of lawyers at us, and hide anything incriminating. The investigation will be dead before it gets started.”
“Okay.”
“Make me a copy. Nobody’ll know. Please, Carl.”
“Sure. No problem.” Carl happened to have a high-speed tape copying machine, and two minutes later he handed her the tape.
Mia thanked him and disappeared.
They walked at a fast clip through the elegant lobby of the Madison Hotel until they were met by a duet of burly men; East Europeans of some variety, both of them. They looked like bookends, spectacularly muscled, fierce-looking, and no doubt armed to the teeth. Neither spoke a word of English. They greeted Bellweather and Walters with respectful grunts, escorted them to the elevators, then stood stiffly and quietly in the corner while the elevator whisked them to the ninth floor.
Next, a brisk walk down the long hallway to the very end, where one of the Madison’s most opulent and expensive suites was located. Another pair of brutish bookends was planted beside the door. After quick nods and more courteous grunts, they ushered the Americans inside. No patdowns, no questions. They were expected, obviously. And they were welcome.
The large suite they stepped into had been transformed from standard American luxury fare into an Arabian fantasy. The floors were plastered wall to wall with thick, handwoven oriental carpets. Shimmering silk fabrics and tapestries hung from the ceilings. The sofas and chairs had been replaced with enough oversize floor cushions to seat a hundred. The temperature was set at a sweltering ninety degrees. All the discomforts of home.
Two gentlemen in white robes with bright gold edging sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor. They were sharing a silver hookah pipe and munching from a large bowl of dates.
The one on the left offered a faint smile. “Ah, Daniel, nice of you to arrive on time.”
“Your highness,” Bellweather said, and bowed slightly. The exaggerated and entirely phony formality brought smiles to both their faces.