“Let’s bring Wiley down for a talk,” Bellweather suggested. “Send up the jet. We’ll get this straightened out this afternoon.”

“Good idea,” O’Neal said, having nothing better to offer. “He has no idea you’re behind Wallerman. It’ll be a big, nasty surprise,” he said, only wishing he could be there for the show.

“Any chance you can locate Perry Arvan?” Walters asked, directing a look at O’Neal. He still had his doubts about Wiley. Perhaps it was stupid pride, but he just couldn’t believe Jack had outsmarted him.

“I doubt it. I got no people in the Caribbean. I could hire some locals, but nobody I trust. Besides he could be hiding on a boat in the middle of a grove on some out-of-the-way island. Or he might be on the other side of the world. We got only what his kid said. The kid might be wrong, or he might be covering for his old man. Let the Pentagon look for him. They have a much higher chance.”

Walters nodded. Made sense.

For now they would concentrate on the bird in hand, Jack Wiley.

24

It turned out Jack had left his car in D.C. after his last visit. Some sort of vacuum lock developed in his brakes, he left the car at a repair shop, and took the train and taxi home. The car now sat in the CG parking lot, fit and ready to roll, but clearly some other means of transportation needed to be devised.

So Bill Feist was sent up with the smaller jet to fetch Jack. No need to pretend to be pleasant this time, and it was a point of pride with Feist to suck up only when he had to. From the opening moment, he was cold and distant. Jack came along willingly. He kept to himself. He folded his long frame in the seat and read a trashy paperback novel on the way down.

Feist sipped gin by himself and stared out the window at the ground whizzing by below.

An hour later, they landed at Reagan National and glided up to the private terminal. Thirty minutes after that, following a fast sprint in a corporate limo through D.C. traffic, they were standing outside the CG conference room.

Jackson had finally torn himself away from the senator’s road show and the warm glare of the rolling cameras. After arranging bail, stealing a quick shower, then spending five minutes alone with Lew Wallerman, he quickly decided he liked what Lew had to show him. In the right hands-his hands-it would be devastating. He grabbed the evidence and brusquely ordered Wallerman to wait in a side room until called.

Jack came into the room and fell into the same chair he had occupied all those months before, when he and Walters had scrawled their names on that now regrettable contract.

As before, the steering committee was arraigned on the opposite side, but this time deep frowns replaced the greedy smiles. No refreshments on the side table. No warm greetings. Nobody jumped up to pump his hand and tell him how swell it was for him to be there.

Now Jack was the enemy.

A tape recorder was gently whirring somewhere in the background, feeding the whole session to the secret room in the basement. The tape would be carefully doctored afterward. Certain parts would be omitted, but they were confident they would coerce or dupe Jack into making a few incriminating admissions. A few was all they needed.

“We have some questions,” Jackson opened with a severe glare. “Have you heard the news about the polymer?”

“What news?” Jack asked. He looked around the table, genuinely curious.

“Our contract’s been suspended. The report you gave us was a phony, an interim report that was overcome by events and supposed to be shelved. The precious polymer you led us to has a short half-life. That’s a big problem for us.” Jackson bent forward. “So the first question is, where did you get that report, Jack?”

They watched his face to see how this horrible update registered. Jack pulled on an earlobe and stared at the table. “This is news to me.”

“Is it?

“Yes, and I’m sorry. Can we fix it?”

“We’re not here to answer your questions. Where did you get that report?”

Jack took his eyes off the table. “I’m getting tired of that question, Phil. It’s still none of your damned business.”

“It’s very much our damned business. We’re confronting the possibility of a major fraud investigation as a result of that report. You’re implicated as well, Wiley. Now, where did you get it?”

“You have your facts wrong, Phil.”

“Do I?”

“It wasn’t me who used that report to persuade the Pentagon to buy the polymer. I questioned Mitch and Dan about shortcutting the Pentagon testing requirements. I was sure it was a bad idea. Both assured me it was no problem.”

Jackson swung and examined the faces of Bellweather and Walters. “Is he telling the truth?”

“No, he’s lying,” Walters insisted in a rush of words-of course it was true.

Bellweather affirmed the bald lie with a hard nod.

“Where’d you get that damned report?” Jackson demanded, more loudly and slamming a fist on the table.

“You must enjoy the same answer. None of your business.”

The four men on the other side of the table exchanged quick glances; without a word they decided to jettison the friendly approach, which really was never that friendly anyway.

Bellweather pushed forward in his chair and tried to look sad. “Sorry, Jack, you’re making us do this,” he said, trying to make it sound deeply lamentable. His hand reached out and punched a button on the table.

A few seconds later, the door swung open and Lew Wallerman entered. He swaggered to the head of the table and stood, smiling at Jack, smiling at them, smiling at the walls-he couldn’t stop smiling.

A look of what could only be called shock registered on Jack’s face. He tried to recover but it was hopeless. “Lew, what are you doing here?” he asked limply.

Lew was enjoying his moment in the limelight. He was thrilled to be here, and happier still to see the terror on Jack’s face. He was happiest of all, though, over the five million bucks wired only an hour before to the bank of his choice. That five now sat with the other two million chilling in a Bahamian vault. Lew was suddenly a rich man. “I’m friends with these boys here,” he boasted, directing an arm at the right side of the table, where the steering committee sat intently watching Jack’s face.

Jack said nothing. No wisecracks or grating taunts for once. His lips were stapled shut. He was staring at Wallerman as though Jeffrey Dahmer had just joined him at the dinner table.

“Hey, pal, don’t look so surprised,” Lew said, leering back. “I warned you we’d get together again.”

“This is crazy, Lew. We can work this out.”

“Can we?”

“Let’s have a word, just you and me, outside.” Jack began pushing himself out of the chair.

“Forget it, Jack.”

Jack collapsed back into the chair.

It was Jackson’s turn, and he shoved a large green file box toward the middle of the shiny conference table. “Know what this is?” he asked with a sadistic grin. He patted the top of the box fondly.

Jack gaped at it. After a short moment that seemed to stretch forever, he muttered, “I can guess.”

“I wouldn’t want you to guess wrong.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy educating me.”

“You’re right. I’ll enjoy it immensely. Inside is a long and incriminating report from a Greek detective agency about the disappearance of Edith Warbinger. Also plane tickets, charge card receipts, and hotel billings that shed a great deal of light on an old mystery. More than enough light, Jack, to resurrect a murder investigation.”

Jack couldn’t tear his eyes off that damned box.

“It might be somewhat circumstantial,” Jackson continued in a maddeningly calm tone. “But in my view, it’s enough for a conviction. Murder, grand theft, graft, those are just a few of the high points.”