Sure, why not? If he screwed it up, they’d simply take it away from him. Maybe they’d take it away on general principle. “We’re agreeable to that,” Walters answered, a vague assurance at best.

“And a twenty million finder’s fee for bringing you this deal.” Jack paused and searched their faces, then specified, “Payable the moment we complete the takeover.”

The heads from CG looked at each other a moment. Twenty million? That’s it, only twenty? Peanuts for a deal that would quickly grow in magnitude to billions. He could’ve demanded fifty and they wouldn’t have blinked an eye. A hundred million was worthy of negotiation. Was he really leaving that much on the table?

Probably not, they collectively thought. Obviously the boy with a diamond in his pocket had something else up his sleeve, something much bigger. Jack waited until all the eyes were fixed on his face, then said very firmly, “And I want twenty-five percent ownership.”

A long moment before the mouths fell open. Bellweather actually squeezed his arms against his sides and popped his lips. Jackson and Haggar rolled their eyes and exchanged incredulous looks.

“Out of the question,” Walters snorted, speaking loudly and insistently for all of them. “We’re perfectly prepared to give you a larger finder’s fee. And certainly, a piece of ownership isn’t out of the question. A few percent, fine. But a quarter? Forget it,” he repeated, shaking his head emphatically. “I mean it. Not even negotiable.”

“Think again, Mitch,” Jack answered, not giving an inch. “I have two offers of twenty percent burning holes in my pocket. That and considerably larger finder’s fees.”

“But you wouldn’t be back here if you didn’t know we’re your best bet, Jack,” Mitch persisted with a sneer. He crossed his arms, worked his lips into a tight pucker, and made clear he meant it.

Instead of debating that point, Jack bent over and started rummaging through the small black suitcase he had hauled in and placed on the floor. He popped back up after a moment and tossed a green canvas bag on the conference table. The bag slid, then stopped almost dead center. Walters and Bellweather took one look, just one short look-with sinking stomachs, they knew exactly what was inside the sack. They didn’t need to be told-they knew!

Jackson and Haggar, the other two directors, stared at it. “What’s that?” Haggar demanded, clueless.

“Oh, this?” Jack asked, as if the question surprised him. “A nasty present I found in my garage,” he mentioned with maddening casualness. “Five pounds of marijuana. High-grade stuff, planted in my home to frame me. Enough to get me five to ten, my lawyer tells me. Can you imagine anybody doing something so slimy and stupid?”

Apparently not; at least, nobody ventured a response. Blank expressions all around; two sincere, two faking it for all they were worth.

Jack pushed back his chair and gazed thoughtfully at their faces. “The boys you sent were good, but lazy. Here’s one of the things they overlooked: electronically activated cameras in the ceiling that switch on in the event of a break-in.”

Walters took a stab at playing innocent and with a loud show of indignation declared, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And I don’t like being treated like I’m stupid.”

“I’m not-”

“Mitch, listen before you open your mouth. I have some expensive artwork, and in addition to the cameras, my alarm is dual-wired and my home is flooded with infrared beams. It gets me a nice discount from my insurance company. A signal is sent to Vector, with a simultaneous signal to a private security firm I’d prefer not to disclose.”

“So what?” Walters said as if he could care less.

“So my security firm dispatched a few people to my house. For over two hours the burglars rummaged around inside. Naturally, my people became curious. Where was Vector’s response? And why did the burglars remain inside so long?”

Jack let the questions linger in the air for a moment. Bellweather and Walters weren’t about to surrender or retreat, and both shrugged as though it was a complete mystery and they were dying to hear the answer.

Jack looked directly at Walters. “It was as if they knew I was in Washington and wouldn’t be back till midnight. So my boys staked it out until the burglars were finished, then trailed them.”

“Jack, Jack, I have no idea what you’re getting at,” Walters protested, his tone up about three octaves, nearly vibrating with innocence. He was battling an irresistible temptation to get up and flee. “You’re not inferring we had anything to do with this?”

Jack ignored him and pushed on. “Here’s where it gets more interesting. Afterward, these burglars-three of them, if you don’t already know-checked into a Best Western on 95, a few miles outside Princeton. Spent the night, had a nice leisurely breakfast at a local diner, and left plenty of fingerprints and DNA traces in their wake. The DNA and prints were collected, then run through a national database. One was a black hole, a cipher. The other two are former military. Their prints and DNA are on file and easily accessed. After the Army, they fell off the map, though I would bet they continued in government service of some sort. Probably CIA. What do you think?”

Bellweather, in his most deeply paternal tone, and with a frown so sorrowful it verged on tears, took his best stab. “Look, we’re sorry to hear about the break-in, Jack, all of us.”

“Are you?”

“Sure. It’s a lousy world filled with crooked people. I’m sure you live in a big, prosperous house, the kind that attracts burglars. But don’t go paranoid on us. CG doesn’t do this sort of thing.”

“The burglars work for a security firm here, in D.C.,” Jack continued-the denials were expected, his expression said. “TFAC, it’s called. Can anybody help me out? I’ll be damned if I can figure out what the letters stand for.”

By now Bellweather’s face was red and his jaw was clenched. “That’s enough, Jack. You’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s a disgrace coming in here accusing us of this.”

Jack stared at him a long moment, then bent down and dug around in his suitcase again. He flipped a large black-and-white photo onto the table. “The TFAC headquarters,” Jack said. Then, in an effort to be helpful, he pointed at the building in the background. “Who does that look like leaving the building two days ago?”

Four heads jerked forward. Four sets of eyes collectively gawked at the picture. The photo was slightly grainy and out of focus, but without question it was Mitch Walters, actually grinning stupidly at the cameraman as they passed on the sidewalk outside the entrance.

Grinning!

The last attempts at denial or phony innocence shot out the window. Why act any stupider than they already looked? Why issue more denials that were obvious lies? Walters was now staring down at the photo, dumbfounded, gaping in shock. How had they caught him? He wanted to sink into the woodwork and disappear.

Bellweather, now exuding anger, stared hard at Walters-how idiotic could he be, getting caught like that? He wanted to reach over and strangle the CEO.

Phil Jackson, the lawyer, reacted with the instinctive violence honed by decades of D.C. political brawls and scandals. “This proves nothing,” he yelled, on his feet and shaking his finger like a half-cocked pistol. “There are a million possible explanations. Nothing you’ve showed us will stand up in court. It’s all circumstantial conjecture,” he roared.

Jack relaxed back into his chair. He smiled pleasantly at Jackson. “You might be right, or you might be wrong, Phil. It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant.”

“Why’s that?” Haggar asked.

“What good would it do me to see you prosecuted? And if it were my intention to sue you, I wouldn’t be here tonight. My lawyer would, spewing threats and dropping subpoenas like confetti.”