“How’d you get that?” Perry demanded the moment it ended.

“Why does it matter?” Walters snarled. He wasn’t about to confess to Perry that his phones were bugged; it was self-evident anyway. If pushed, he would put on a show of innocence and insist that somebody-he didn’t know who-had left the tape on his doorstep. An anonymous donor. Who knew how he or she got it? And who cared? That the alibi was as woefully implausible as it was nebulous and impossible to disprove made it all the better.

“It matters to me,” Perry insisted with a dark squint.

“It won’t to the SEC when they listen to it. They’ll only hear you on the tape, plotting with your CFO to break the law.”

“I have ears. I know what it is.”

“Oh, good. Saves me the trouble explaining all the trouble you’re in. Do the words ‘criminal conspiracy’ mean anything to you? Old men don’t fare well in prison.”

Perry looked over at Jack. “You in on this too, son?”

Jack stared at the floor and refused to answer.

“So what’s the deal?” Perry asked in a matter-of-fact tone, again confronting Walters.

“Glad you asked. You agree to sell the company today and this tape will disappear.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Bankruptcy. Prison. Disgrace. It won’t be pretty. The FBI and SEC will be crawling all over this place tomorrow. They’ll subpoena your phone records, see who you called, and probably arrest them, too.”

Perry sank back into his chair and released a heavy sigh. “Don’t leave me much choice, do you?”

“Let me make this clearer.” Walters fought back a smile and mustered his most threatening snarl. “You have no choice, absolutely none.”

“Okay.”

The answer shot out so fast, Walters was obviously a little taken aback. He shifted his feet a moment, peered at Perry in astonishment, then recovered his balance. “Okay?”

“You got ears, too, Mr. Walters. Assuming we agree on a price, let’s get this over with.”

Before Walters could answer, Jack pushed off from the wall. “One hundred million dollars,” he announced, loudly and distinctly, like it was a nonnegotiable figure.

“A hundred million?”

“Yes, and in return, you’ll sign over all rights, all patents, all intellectual rights. All properties will be ours.”

Perry popped forward in his chair, wiping his hands through his white hair, apparently stunned. “A hundred million.” He gawked at Jack. “That’s a very generous offer. Why so much?”

“I think you know the answer.”

“The polymer.”

“Yes, that’s the deal. You walk away with a hundred million and we own the polymer.”

Perry stared at the wall a moment, dumbfounded. It was impossible to tell if he was angry, shocked, merely crushed, or all of the above. This was the first blunt admission of what this was really about. They didn’t care a whit about his company, his employees, the chance to resuscitate the plant and turn around the business that had been in Perry’s bloodstream for the better part of his life.

No, this was about only one thing: the polymer he had created with his own ingenuity and bare hands.

“How’d you learn about it?” he asked after a painfully long moment.

“I’d prefer not to say,” Jack replied, avoiding Perry’s eyes.

“You mean you won’t say.”

“All right, that, too.”

“Well, if that’s what you boys want, I think I’ll ask for more. It’s worth a fortune, probably billions. You fellas obviously think so. I’m not giving it away for a song.”

Walters shifted his large bulk and said, “Maybe you missed something here, Arvan. The price is set. This isn’t a used car lot. No haggling, no give. Wiley gave you our final offer.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Nice to see you’re paying attention. I can use that tape and pick up the pieces afterward.”

Trying to sound reasonable and restore a little amity to the conversation, Jack said, “Without the polymer you wouldn’t get one million for this company. You couldn’t give it away. You’re a hundred and fifty million in debt, and your business is collapsing around you. Take our price. Get out now while you still can.”

The bluff crumbled in Perry’s lap. “Guess you’re right,” he said, as if he had ever contemplated otherwise.

“Then you agree to the sale?” Walters asked.

“You fellas are holding me up, but you’ve got a deal. Uh… you know, long as you’re assuming the debt, too.”

“That’s part of the package,” Jack assured him quickly, speaking for both of them. Now that they had him on the ropes, it was important to meet his demands; don’t give him a chance to rethink it or back out. Jack told him, “I’ve already negotiated this with the banks. They’re prepared to sign a new covenant tomorrow.”

“And my employees?”

“Same as before. Three months’ severance to any employee who wants to leave. But there is, well, one last condition.”

“What’s that?”

“We’d like to present this to your shareholders and employees as a friendly takeover. We don’t want any complications, strife, or bad feelings. Between your shares and three other large stockholders-Parker, Longly, and Malcome-there’s enough votes to lock this in. This is important, Perry. We expect you to round up their support. Tonight.”

“Then you better offer the shareholders a decent price.”

“Seventy cents a share. That’s more than fair. About twenty percent above today’s market price. There’s thirty million shares outstanding. You own eight million, right?”

“Sounds about right. Mat knows a bit more about it than I do.”

Mat was called back into the room, and while he and Jack fought and haggled over the details, Mitch Walters leaned against Perry’s desk and dreamed about the polymer and its miraculous ability to print money. It was a remarkable coup, one Walters was quite proud of. The Capitol Group would pay Arvan $100 million in cash, hand over another $15 million to the shareholders-for less than $150 million in cash, a pittance, CG would own the most extraordinary military technological breakthrough of the decade. Sure, there was another $150 million in debt, and of course, the $20 million bonus promised to Jack to be factored into the equation: still, the grand total for a corporation with the size, resources, and wealth of the Capitol Group barely came to a rounding error on the annual statement.

It would not be CG’s money, anyway. Not a penny of CG’s capital would be at risk. Within a day he would dispatch a delegation to Russia or the Middle East and see who wanted a piece of the action. Both places were flush with billionaires hunting for profitable investments. The money would come quickly and easily, Walters was sure. Russia’s growing class of fabulously wealthy were particularly anxious to park their cash overseas. And the Saudis and Kuwaitis, given the spike in oil prices, were again flush with petrodollars, a flood of cash, a venture capitalist’s dream.

Two hundred million would be more than enough, but why not go for three? For that matter, why not five hundred?

What a day, what an accomplishment. He planned to get the boys in CG’s publicity department to kick it into overdrive: they could work all night for all he cared. Walters wouldn’t settle for less than the covers of BusinessWeek and Investor’s Business Daily. That night he would make the rounds of a few business cable shows that would allow him to boast and brag to his heart’s content.

A large front-page spread in the Wall Street Journal was something he had always dreamed of, something that now looked like a distinct possibility. He wondered if he could get a copy of the Journal’s portrait of him as a trophy to hang on his wall. He would put it right behind his desk, just above his head, so it would be impossible to miss. What a statement that would make.

He would use the trip back to D.C. to rehearse and refine his performance. He would be tired by then, but was sure he could muster enough energy and enthusiasm for this one bold stroke, a fast-paced dash through the cable business shows.