And no, nobody from the Capitol Group had ever called Summit to discuss or confirm the results.
All attempts to locate Perry Arvan proved disappointing. His telephone service was disconnected. Ditto for his water and electricity and heating oil. His home was vacant and had been for a long time. According to New Jersey’s DMV, his cars had been sold off months before. There had been no use of his charge cards or his local bank for nearly five months.
Eventually his oldest son was located, in Pennington, New Jersey, where he lived with his wife and three children. Yep, Dad’s been gone for months, he confirmed-right after the company was sold, he and Mom flew south, leased a nice yacht with a small crew, and vowed not to set foot back on American soil until they walked every lovely beach on every neglected island in the Caribbean Sea. Last time they called, they were in Saint Martin, inching their way south toward Trinidad and Tobago. Dad was fine, Mom slightly sunburned but having a blast; his father hinted that this was likely his last call for a long while.
Oh, yes, he could definitely see how his father’s long jaunt seemed a little peculiar, Perry’s son offered, very agreeably. Then again, Dad had the company he spent forty-five years building stolen under his feet by some big greedy corporation in D.C. If he wanted to vanish for a while, to put it all behind him, who could blame him? Plus, after forty-five years of unrelenting work and crushing responsibilities, why not steal away for a prolonged, sun-soaked hiatus where the most pressing issue was which rum to try next?
Do you happen to know the name of the boat? the head of DCIS asked with a grave edge. Nope, they never mentioned it. Where did they rent the boat from? You know what, they never mentioned that either.
As they spoke, the son silently congratulated his father on whatever it was he had pulled off. Three Pentagon bigwigs were on the phone line, peppering him with questions. Perry’s son wasn’t naïve. Their voices crackled with apprehension and accusation.
A scam of some sort, and whatever it was, it had to be huge.
Run, Dad, run, he thought to himself.
The call came at the worst possible moment. After two prolonged days of nearly constant drinking and occasional golf under the baking Bermudan sun, Mitch Walters’s back was killing him. He had valiantly teed off that morning, but after the fourth hole he gave up and limped off the course, kneading his lumbar, heading straight to the hotel’s massage parlor. A large black masseuse with fingers like power drills was just working his way down the lower vertebrae. Two other CEO types were getting the kinks worked out on nearby tables. To his right was Paul Merrill, the thirty-two-year-old, hyper-brilliant founder of a software firm, now on the Forbes list as one of America’s ten richest men. On his left, Carl Jorgenson, a hedge fund guru, also worth billions, just not as many as Merrill, was groaning quietly.
Briefly wondering who might be calling, he positioned the phone to his left ear and grunted, “Mitch Walters” into the receiver.
“This is Thomas Windal.” Very abrupt-no hello, no warm greetings.
It took a moment before Walters registered that this was the Pentagon’s undersecretary of procurement. “Uh, hi, Tom. How’s everything up there?”
“Bad. Awful, Mr. Walters. This call represents your official notification.”
Mr. Walters, not Mitch, he noted.
Walters slapped away the hand of the masseuse and sat up. “About what?”
“As of this moment, the polymer contract is suspended. We now enter a thirty-day period. That’s how much time you have to show that the polymer is effective or the suspension becomes permanent.”
Windal’s tone was flat, distant, cold, and officious. In part this was because he was getting his distance from what looked like an impending disaster, and from its author. In larger part, the head of the DCIS and two stone-faced senior agents were standing three feet from Windal’s desk, ensuring the legal niceties were strictly adhered to.
Walters felt like somebody had just driven a nine-iron into his groin. “Jesus, Tom, what’s this about?” he roared into the phone.
“A courier will drop off the official notification before close of business, Mr. Walters. The details will be noted in the notification. We’ll talk through our lawyers from now on,” Windal coldly announced before he hung up.
Walters’s chubby legs now were swinging off the side of the massage table. His mouth hung open; he couldn’t seem to close it. He couldn’t seem to put down the cell phone either. The sound of twenty billion dollars slipping away left him too lightheaded to do anything but gawk. Half a minute later, it was still parked at his ear as if Windal was chatting away on the other end.
For some reason, the only thing he could think about was the lobster bisque he had eaten for lunch. Two oversize bowls of the stuff, delicious going down, now threatening to be harsh and bitter on the way back up.
Merrill and Jorgenson were peeking at him with knowing smiles. Nothing so amuses the rich and successful than the sight of a fellow titan crashing and burning. Walters thought about cursing them, or maybe slapping the infuriating smirks off their smug faces. Instead he tried to manufacture a look of deep contentment as he mumbled into the phone, “Yes, yes, and of course, thanks. For a ten billion contract we’ll try our best to please.”
The other two weren’t fooled. They chuckled and shared snickers across the room. As a matter of form, Walters was always invited to these events. That didn’t mean they had to like him.
He jumped off the table and scampered to the bathroom. It turned out he was right-the lobster bisque tasted hideous second time around.
He skipped the shower and, still wearing his sweaty golf clothes, bolted for the airport, hopped on the big corporate jet, and raced back to D.C.
Martie O’Neal treated it like an all-out crisis. By Thursday morning he had managed to produce a fairly reasonable sketch of the source of all this trouble: Mia Jenson.
Single, born and bred in Chicago, youngest child, one older sister, three older brothers, father an insurance salesman, mother a stay-at-home type. The Jenson kids all went to college, but Mia was the undisputed star. She excelled at Dickinson but really blossomed at Harvard Law, where the accolades piled up. Nothing in her background or childhood raised any red flags.
But also, nothing yet explained, or so much as hinted at, why she had dumped such a promising, lucrative career for a miserly paycheck in law enforcement. O’Neal’s snooping instincts were screaming that this was an important mystery that needed to be answered. Perhaps the most important question.
She lived in a small yet elegant house in D.C., across the busy road from American University in a decent neighborhood of older, modest homes. She had paid cash. No mortgage, no debts at all; just a charge card balance she diligently disposed of at the end of every month. Total savings in the neighborhood of $700K, no doubt the result of her lucrative years in a private firm. She lived prudently and dressed frugally. With her looks, she could wear rags and stop traffic. No expensive habits, good or bad.
Given her lifestyle, and that she had willingly dumped a $400K salary, with a virtual guarantee of doubling that in a few short years, for a paltry $36K a year, Martie doubted she could be bought off for any price.
He decided to call an old chum in his former office in the FBI background unit and eventually was put through to the agent who had performed Mia’s check for a secret clearance. A welcome shortcut, but the agent’s best efforts proved wretchedly disappointing.
He turned up nothing of any particular interest. She dated occasionally, but nothing serious-not now, not ever. Apparently her beauty, brains, and self-confidence scared off a lot of men. A moderate drinker, there was no evidence of drugs or other nasty addictions. She liked to jog. She was Catholic, though not overly devout. She had plenty of friends, nearly all of whom had swell things to say about her. The striking exception was a classmate from law school, a male, who claimed she was a rabid lesbian feminist, an antisocial, sexually frustrated dyke. The evidence suggested otherwise and that claim was discounted. A bruised and frustrated suitor, most likely.