But there was nothing at all mysterious about it to Bellweather.

The former SECDEF who had first introduced Earl to this game looked slightly annoyed. “We will of course be very appreciative,” Bellweather muttered, sounding anything but. A long, awkward silence. “What do you have in mind, Earl?”

“Glad you asked, Dan.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Five million for my next campaign would certainly be nice.” Earl had dropped the country bumpkin and was suddenly the sharpy riverboat gambler. He was leaning across the table, eyes narrowed, gleaming with total concentration.

Bellweather threw down his napkin and nearly howled. “Christ, Earl, that’s too much.”

“Well… what’s enough?”

“Three million. That’s all we budgeted, all we can afford.”

“See, Dan, I’m also factorin’ the price of ushering this polymer of yours through the political thickets. I expect you’ll be looking for a noncompetitive, fast-track deal.” When nobody contradicted that, he continued, “I’m a one-stop shop, Dan, all that and a bag of chips.”

“Five is still too much.”

“Nah, it’s a real good deal and you know it. Kill the competitors, and grease the pole for your polymer. Nobody else can handle this.”

After a long, tense pause, Bellweather said, “Even you can’t do it alone, Earl.”

“Oh, damn, you’re right. I’ll need a little more to spread around. Throw another two million into my PAC.”

Bellweather looked ready to argue, but he didn’t have the strength. “You’ve learned this game too well,” he whispered.

“Yeah, well, I had a good teacher,” Earl said.

Martie O’Neal was happily hidden in the third stall to the left, comfortably ensconced on the toilet, when his cell phone began bleeping and rattling. He dropped the girlie magazine, lurched over, and spent ten frantic seconds trying to dig the phone out of the pocket of the trousers gathered around his ankles. “What?” he barked.

“Martie, it’s me, Morgan,” said the familiar voice.

“Whatcha got?”

“Gold, maybe, or maybe fool’s gold.” Morgan quickly filled in the story about Charles, omitting only a few insignificant details like how Charles found him, how he escaped, and that infuriating little stunt with the note in place of the glass. Some things are better left unsaid.

Martie asked the obvious. “He worth fifty K?”

“Who knows?”

“You, Morgan. You’re supposed to know.”

“I can’t vouch for his reliability,” Morgan answered, hoping he wouldn’t be called on that vague response.

“You got nothing? Fingerprints? A phone number? Anything?”

“Uh… he was very clever.”

“You mean he outsmarted you.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Morgan stammered, trying to make it sound like no big deal.

“I don’t like that.”

“Me either. He was very slick. Could be a con.”

“That what you think?”

“I’ve been here three weeks handing out business cards by the bushel. It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs, an invitation to get rolled. What do you think?”

O’Neal had worked around the clock, without a day or weekend off since he got this job. The billings were great but the hours were killing him. Walters phoned nearly every day, pressuring for an update and hectoring him about the lack of results. His wife had begun bitching and moaning, about chores left undone, about dinner dates broken, about coming home too tired for conversation or sex. Jack Wiley was ruining his life.

Now the wife was threatening to have his battle-ax mother-in-law come for a long, miserable visit; things were about to go from terrible to horrible. All that hard work, effort, and expense and he had found nothing incriminating or even remotely distasteful about Jack Wiley. He was frustrated. He lay awake at night thinking about Wiley. He hated him, hated everything about him, the goody-two-shoes. He had been so confident he would find something; he had promised Walters instant results. “When are you going to meet him?” he asked Morgan, obviously committed.

Charles might be a shot in the dark, but O’Neal was past the point of caring. This was the first inkling that there might be some dark secret in Jack’s past, some chink in the saintly armor. He’d be damned if he’d let it slip by. Besides, it wasn’t his money.

“He said I better call today or forget it,” Morgan replied.

“He’ll insist on a meet tonight. Keep the initiative, limit our time to prepare. You know the game.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figure, too.”

“I’ll send two more guys up on the next flight. They’ll be hauling fifty thousand in cash. Can you handle this?”

“Kid’s play. Don’t worry,” Morgan replied, trying to sound calm and glib. In his Agency days, he’d done dozens of bagjobs like this. And all those operations were against real spies and terrorist thugs and bloodthirsty drug lords.

He’d only been fooled the first time, he reassured himself, because Charles had dropped in without warning.

They arrived fifteen minutes early for the start of the movie. His choice, Eva told him, whatever he wanted to watch. Then she raised her eyebrows over the flick he suggested-a brawling, manly epic filled with battles and slaughters-and argued for a different film, one that had received rave reviews, a blockbuster she coyly described as a warm old-fashioned western with a minor twist, called Brokeback Mountain.

They settled on a compromise, a forgettable romantic comedy with a pair of even more unexceptional stars. “So, how was your day?” Eva asked as they settled into their seats.

It was a weeknight. The crowd was sparse, so they had two prime seats all to themselves in the middle of the front row. They had come straight from work and met at the theater.

“Long, interesting, extremely profitable,” Jack said, noisily rummaging through a large box of popcorn poised on his lap. He’d missed dinner and this would have to suffice.

“What did you do?”

“Drove around town mostly. Bellweather has plenty of friends.” Very few of which they had met at their places of work, Jack might have added, but didn’t.

Bellweather and Haggar had given him an enlightening tour of the city’s hole-in-the-wall restaurants, splendid places to conduct illicit business in plain sight. By day’s end, Bellweather was suffering a murderous case of heartburn. Haggar twice had bolted from the table to contend with bouts of diarrhea. Making illegal deals apparently wasn’t for those with weak stomachs.

“Washington is a small town, at least among those that matter.”

Jack laughed. “So I’m seeing.”

“You sound disenchanted.”

“Then I’ve given you the wrong impression.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, I’m having a ball. It’s a side of democracy I never imagined.”

This was their second date since Eva dropped by his house that first time: they were beyond the getting-to-know-you phase, not quite at the I’m-very-comfortable-in-your-presence stage. After a moment, Eva said, “The rumors around the office are that you’re going to salvage our annual earnings.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“It’s a very big deal, Jack. They say Bellweather is spreading around a lot of cash to set this up.”

Jack looked away. “Rumors like that are dangerous.”

“Oh, you know accountants. We always need something to discuss at the watercooler.” After a moment, Eva asked, “Is it true?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jack lied. It was more than a lie, it was a mountain of untruth. To the best he could tell they’d spread around promises of nearly twenty million that day-seven to Earl Belzer, five to an obnoxious, boastful, crotchety senator on the Senate Armed Services Committee, then another eight distributed judiciously among a variety of think tanks and reputed watchdog groups, in return for vigorous vows to tarnish and smear the GT 400. Jack lost count of all the promises, all of the handfuls of cash to be laundered through third parties, then doled out to the usual array of PACs and 527s, the capital city’s equivalent of money laundering. Haggar, with his passion for numbers, made careful notes after each meeting.