Authors: Brian Haig
They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment. Rumson was a forty-minute diversion off 95. As excuses go, it was so flimsy that she made little effort to sound convincing.
“Have you had dinner?” Jack eventually asked.
“No, and I’m famished. Let me take you out.”
“You like Italian?”
“Sure.”
“I’m in the middle of making spaghetti and I’d hate to waste it. Would you care to join me?”
“I’m impressed. A man who can cook.”
“Don’t be hasty.” Jack smiled, taking her elbow and escorting her inside.
Her hair was up in a ponytail, which bounced cutely when she walked. No makeup, and she really didn’t need any. She looked somehow, remarkably, even more alluring in bulky fall clothes than done up for the White House gala. She would be stunning in rags.
“Care for a drink?” Jack asked as they entered the kitchen.
“About a hundred miles ago. White wine if you have it.”
Jack retrieved a bottle and a glass, and while he pried off the cork and poured her a drink, Eva leaned against the counter and eyed the kitchen. It was large, spacious, and amazingly well-equipped
for a bachelor, or for that matter, even a master chef, with all the latest gadgetry and culinary accoutrements. “I’ve been in kitchen display stores that have less hardware.”
“If you see anything I’m missing, let me know.”
“You like to cook?”
“No, I like to eat.”
Eva allowed a moment to pass, then said in a very forthright way, “I had a wonderful time with you at the White House.”
“I had a great time, too.”
“Did you? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Maybe I meant to.”
“But maybe you’ve been too busy?” she suggested, smiling coyly.
“Maybe I’ve been trying to work up the nerve.”
“Come on, Jack. Shyness doesn’t seem to be one of your attributes.”
He smiled and handed her the wine with one hand and with the other stirred the spaghetti noodles. “What are your plans in New York?”
“Just a weekend fling. I have tickets to a Broadway play.”
“More than one?”
“Yes, a girlfriend from college who lives in Manhattan is joining me. Last week, she was dumped by her fiancé. A month before the wedding, the cad found someone else. I’m consoling her.”
“That’s nice of you. And the play?”
“A musical, actually.
Grey Gardens
.”
Jack shrugged. “Is it new?”
“It is, only the first week. Two old maids live in a decrepit old mansion amid tons of garbage and a hundred cats, looking back and singing about the crumbled relationships that ruined their lives.”
Jack laughed.
“I know.” She shook her head. “What was I thinking.”
Jack pulled a clump of soggy spaghetti out of the pot and pushed the noodles in her direction. “I need a judgment.”
Eva carefully tugged a strand off the spoon, pursed her lips,
studied it briefly, then flung it against the wall: it stuck. “Perfect.” She crossed her long legs, sipped her wine, and watched him pour the noodles into a strainer.
“Tell me about yourself,” Jack said.
“You first.”
“You already know everything worth knowing about me.”
“Do I?”
“CG’s snoops have been digging through my background with a huge shovel. I’ve gotten calls from a dozen friends about some outfit claiming to be the FBI doing a background check. Don’t tell me you didn’t read a thick file on me before we went to the White House.”
She looked ready to deny it but quickly decided otherwise and instead laughed.
Jack said, grinning, “You’ve seen mine, now show me yours.”
“All right, you win. Not much to tell. Twenty-eight, single, no entanglements, no prospects.”
“That’s enough, you’re boring me.”
“Two brothers, me in the middle, lots of moving, plenty of sports, good grades, scholarship to Harvard. One of my brothers plays pro football. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“Mike Green?”
“Yep.”
“Left defensive tackle? The Jets, right?”
A quick nod.
“Led the league in sacks last year. And penalties. Mean Mike.”
“That’s Mike, but don’t believe what you hear. He’s a real sweetie.”
“Crippled one quarterback, put two more in the hospital. What’s your definition of a badass?”
“The older one, Dan. He’s bigger and much meaner.”
“And what’s he do?”
“Pretty much whatever he wants,” she said, straight-faced.
Jack chuckled.
“Dad retired ten years ago. He and Mom live in Myrtle Beach. He runs a used car lot, the Army way. Every car washed and
spitshined daily. Salesmen double-time around the lot. If you don’t buy a car he shoots you.”
“Good technique.” Jack loaded two plates with spaghetti, handed one to Eva, and then led her by the arm to the dining room. They sat at the near end of the long table. Jack placed two wine bottles between them, one white, one red.
Eva took a long sip, then looked him in the eye. “I’d like to start over.”
“At least take a bite first. It’s not as bad as it looks, promise.”
“I mean us, you and me.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Well, you must admit the way we met, it was awkward… well, complicated.”
“Was it?” he asked, forcing her to spell it out.
“I was working. I was supposed to encourage you to choose us over the competition. You figured that out, obviously.”
Jack sat back and took a sip of wine. “Go on.”
“So being an ambitious junior executive, I signed on.”
“Shame on you,” Jack said, but he was smiling. “How far were you supposed to go?”
“You’re not that lucky, pal. Pleasant company was all I was asked to provide.”
“I should’ve told them the deal was worth thirty billion.”
“Thing is, you’re not what I expected, Jack. Far from it.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Cold, distant, and ruthless. A smiling shark, according to the dossier. The exact words were ‘handsome kneecapper with a ledger.’ You castrated several of our most vicious LBO boys. You were the talk of the headquarters.”
“And what makes you think I’m different?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“They never hurt.”
She smiled and toyed with her fork for a moment. “So what do you think? Can I have a do-over?”
After a moment Jack said, “How’s your spaghetti?”
They talked throughout dinner, watched a movie, and at eleven, Eva pecked him on the cheek, slipped a business card into his hand, climbed in her car, and sped off in the direction of New York City.
Before she left, they agreed they would get together the next time Jack was in Washington.
T
hey would not be caught again.
Martie O’Neal fell heavily into a seat and for two full minutes steadily ignored the man seated only two feet away and directly to his right. It was the last leg of the D.C. Metro and it roared along the tracks to its final destination, a dead stop at Alexandria station.
O’Neal, who had some expertise in these matters, briefly scanned the rest of the car while Mitch Walters studied the floor and pretended to ignore him. It was midmorning, long past rush hour, more than two hours before the lunch crowd packed the cars, shoulder to shoulder. There were two old black ladies seated at the other end of the car, clutching shopping bags and bragging full bore to each other about their grandsons. A few seats away sat a young kid wearing a Georgetown sweatshirt, with his head tucked inside the hood and his nose stuffed in a thick textbook. Like all young people these days, he had earphones on, his head bobbing and weaving to the music, somehow managing to combine noise with study. He wasn’t a threat.
A TFAC employee was located in each of the two adjoining cars, and after a minute, each appeared in the connecting windows with their thumbs up.
“All clear,” O’Neal whispered to Walters. The absurd precautions made him feel silly, but Walters insisted.
“What have you got?” Walters asked, still staring at the floor as if they weren’t speaking, feeling quite clever about his spycraft.
O’Neal carefully slid a manila folder onto his lap. “Here’s everything we’ve gathered since last week.”
“Looks pretty thin.”
“Yeah, well, nothing much new on Wiley.”
“That good or bad?” Walters asked, stuffing the folder in his briefcase.
“Depends on your perspective, I guess.”
“Start with is he still who he says he is?”
“On the surface, yeah, everything checks out. He’s smart and ambitious. He likes money. He’s loyal only to himself, an opportunist. This guy bounces through firms and jobs like a revolving door. We knew all that, though.”
“And below the surface?”
“Understand, I’ve got nothing tangible that argues otherwise.”
“Yeah, but I’m paying out the nose for your instincts.”
“I just don’t think he adds up. Not yet. It still feels a little disconnected. I’d feel more sanguine if I found any indication that somewhere in his past he bent the rules or played dirty.”
“Maybe the temptations haven’t been big enough.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“For Christsakes, he stands to make a billion dollars. The deal of a lifetime, O’Neal. Every man has a price and this one would bend the pope’s backbone into a soggy noodle. You thought of that?”
“Sure,” O’Neal said and shrugged. In a lifetime of peeking through underwear drawers, he had earned a doctorate on human foibles and sins. The Jack engaged in this deal and the Jack from the past didn’t add up.
“You’re not convinced, though?”
“Look, you pay me to be paranoid, and I’m good at it. This deal you’re running, it’s not exactly clean, is it?”
“You could say that.”
“That’s what I figured. So here we got this guy, and there’s no hint in his background that he’s done anything like it. Not once,
never. A few of our guys went up to New York and nosed around. Everybody said the same thing. Straight shooter. Stand-up Jack. Honest Jack. I’d just like to see a little moral consistency here.” He slipped a piece of gum in his mouth and began chewing hard.
“What do you suggest?”
“We gotta keep looking.” A brief pause. “If we don’t find anything, get the hook in him in the event he tries any funny business.”
“We tried that, Martie, remember? Your clowns blew it. What a disaster. I’m not exaggerating, cost us a billion bucks.”
O’Neal shifted his broad rear on the seat. “You asked my advice, and you got it.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his side pocket and blew with all his force into it; then he balled it up and slipped it back into the pocket. “You’re flying without a net here, Mitch. It was me, with all the money involved, I’d want a good hard grip on his balls.”
Walters picked at his nose and thought about it. He bent forward and rubbed his eyes. O’Neal was obviously playing on his anxieties, making a pitch for more action, more money, a fatter contract. And though the whole board had bought into this deal, Walters had to admit that the risks for him, personally and professionally, remained enormous. If Wiley somehow managed to screw him, there was no doubt who would be out tap-dancing on the gangplank. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. Jack Wiley was driving this train, juking and jiving, always a step ahead. And truthfully, Wiley had so far outsmarted the best and brightest CG had to offer. That little stunt with the burglars and Jack still stung. The way Jack had burned him, right there in front of everybody, still rankled. After a moment he said a little hesitantly, “You understand we can’t get caught again?”
“Look, I know that last thing was stupid and sloppy. It—”
“Stupid?” Walters hissed. “Oh, it was more than that. It was horrible.”
“Yeah, well, you said fast, and the guys went in blind. We’ll put some ex-spooks on it this time. They’re real good at this sort of thing.”
“Don’t underestimate him again. I mean it. He’s very smart, and very cautious.”
O’Neal bunched his shoulders and chewed harder on his gum. “We know that now.”
“You know the phrase ‘plausible deniability’?”
“Hey, these guys invented that credo. There won’t be a trace leading back to you. Don’t worry.”
“I want full approval before you do a thing.”
“Naturally.”
“What about Arvan?” Walters asked suddenly, changing the subject—apparently the issue with Jack was settled.
“We bugged the old man’s house and got a phone intercept. Still working on gettin’ one into his car.”
“He suspect anything?”
“Nope. The old man believes Wiley just swooped in out of the blue. A typical Wall Street vulture, that’s what the old man kept calling him.”