Then a small, thin file tucked in the rear of the drawer caught his attention. It was in the back, hidden from view for good reason, he suspected. He had to strain to reach it but eventually got a firm grip with his thick fingers. It was labeled “Source One,” a mysterious title that quickly became clear.

Mia had an insider; source one was a squealing rat. Someone deep inside, he realized, as he glanced through the material. Whoever it was, had detailed the trail of events that led CG to take over Arvan Chemicals, then how CG bought, pressured, and finagled the Pentagon and Congress into arranging the sweet deal for a no-bid, single-source $20 billion contract.

The disclosures were verbal. Mia had treated their discussions like depositions and meticulously transcribed the results. By his estimate, there were at least forty pages of conversation in the form of questions and answers that he plowed through as fast as his eyes could move.

On December 29 the year before, there was this one:

QUESTION: “Describe how the Capitol Group persuaded Representative Earl Belzer to help with the polymer.”

REPLY: “Well, it wasn’t hard. Belzer has his hand out to anyone willing to kick in some dough. CG has a, well, what would you call it? A slush fund-I guess that’s the appropriate term. And, um, this money is secret, a hidden pot of gold for buying favors. And, well, I guess you can say Earl wasn’t reluctant. He dug his fist in deep.” (She laughed.)

QUESTION: “Did CG pay him money for a promise of support?”

REPLY: “Yeah, but you’d never find it. See, we have this guy, an accountant. He specializes in this stuff. He comes into the office once or twice a week. A little runt with big glasses, very unfriendly, never says a word to anybody. The magician, that’s what we call him.”

QUESTION: “And what does this magician do?”

REPLY: “Runs the slush fund. Makes money magically appear in people’s pockets. If it’s a politician, he finds ways to get it into PACs, you know, political action committees, or reelection accounts. He’s got thousands of tricks. False-front corporations, phony names, straw donors, he’s very creative. We’re a global company, and most of the fund is hidden overseas. He’s good, incredibly good. You’ll never catch him.”

Crintz paused a second. He realized she was talking about his paymaster, the little gnome who made sure he got his monthly bribes. He went back to reading.

QUESTION: “And how much went to Belzer?”

REPLY: “I don’t know the exact amount. Only the magician and the senior execs upstairs who cut the deals know that. A lot, though. We’re all in accounting, and, well, you know how we are. We thrive on rumors. I heard seven million.”

Suddenly Crintz heard a collection of loud voices nearby. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He removed the papers he was reading, stuffed the rest of the file back in the rear, closed the safe drawer, and got back to his feet.

He took a good look around. Nobody was paying him any attention, but he was through taking risks.

He walked out quickly the same way he came in. His knees were weak with fear and excitement. On his way back down to his office, he made a firm decision. A hundred thousand was too little. It was time for a serious renegotiation. That little slush fund was loaded with cash. Some third-rate political peckerwood got seven million. Seven million!

Hell, the information in his fist was worth at least a million, possibly two. Crintz tightened his grip. The clutch of papers in his fist was his early retirement to a beautiful Florida resort, a glorious golf course, a boat, young girls in bikinis flaunting bronzed bodies, his life’s dream.

He relished the moment, and by the time he got back to his desk he was ready to hop on the Internet and begin the search for a nice little Florida condo, somewhere near the bars and the ocean.

The meeting opened with Walters and Bellweather thrashing and badgering Martie O’Neal, holding back no punches. Jack and Old Man Arvan were still missing, they yelled. Why in the hell was CG paying a fortune to TFAC, an incompetent firm filled with losers, bunglers, and hacks? TFAC was sloppy and stupid; its mistakes were costing the Capitol Group billions. O’Neal relaxed against a far wall and let Walters and Bellweather vent and spew and fume till they were tired of hearing themselves talk.

A few hours before, Walters had authorized one million dollars to buy Harvey Crintz’s goods; the permission was grudging and attended by another of Walters’s crude tantrums.

O’Neal now held the product of that million dollars in his hand. He weathered their curses and threats with good humor, and endured their abuse with the gratifying knowledge that the moment they finished, he would make them eat their words. Go ahead, boys, he wanted to yell. Call me an asshole again. Burst a few blood vessels, scream till you’re hoarse.

But they didn’t seem to grow tired of abusing him, so he pushed off the wall and approached Walters’s desk. “Guess what I got?” he sneered.

Walters sneered back, twice as nasty. “Don’t play games with us.”

“All right. I found your leak. You got a rodent problem in this building. A snitch, someone feeding loads of incriminating info to Jenson.”

O’Neal tossed the papers onto Walters’s desk, then stood back and allowed the other two to read for themselves. Walters had forgotten his glasses and had to jam his face about three inches from the pages. Bellweather stood slightly behind him and leaned over his shoulder. O’Neal enjoyed the looks of growing horror on their faces.

“Jesus,” Bellweather blurted after he finished. “She knows about the slush fund.”

Walters was too stunned to say anything for a moment. He collapsed into his chair, gripping the armrests like a life raft.

“Relax, fellas. Not all is lost,” O’Neal announced, too happy to be the irreplaceable lackey once again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bellweather demanded.

“Remember, I was in the FBI. Those statements are nothing but paper. Unless they’re backed up by the living witness who made those claims, they’re worthless.”

“Worthless?” Walters managed to croak, still shell-shocked.

“Yeah, Mitch. In court, without that witness, it’s all inadmissible hearsay. God bless the Supreme Court. The accused has the right to cross-examine, and you can’t do that with pieces of paper.”

“What are you suggesting?” Bellweather asked.

“Isn’t it obvious, Dan?” Walters answered him with a sly smile, “Once we know who’s talking to Jenson, we take care of the problem. No witness, no evidence-no case.”

“You mean kill her?” Bellweather asked.

“Nothing that drastic is necessary,” O’Neal replied, smirking with pretended innocence. “There’s plenty of ways to make a source disappear. Money can cause a memory lapse. Enough money can even buy a complete reversal of old testimony. Maybe the source can just vanish for a while, take a long trip to a wonderfully remote place.”

Bellweather quickly said, “Don’t even mention murder in this office, Mitch. Or kidnapping either. We’re businessmen. We have reputations to protect. We don’t behave that way.”

The three men studied each other’s faces for a moment. The message was clear; nobody needed to say it. O’Neal had no famous reputation to protect, nor was he a “businessman” with a limited imagination. How O’Neal took care of the “rat” problem was up to him. Bellweather didn’t need to, or want to, know about it.

“So who is she?” Walters asked. The source was referred to as “she” three different times in Jenson’s papers.

“Consider what we know,” O’Neal, the investigator, began. “She works in accounting. She’s in the loop about the polymer. Here’s some other stuff Crintz got.” He planted Crintz’s little green book in front of Walters. The three of them bent forward and examined it together.