Deceived (18 page)

"Mr. Ford,
how much do you make?" Whitford asked.

Thrown off
balance, Nick shook his head, as if he didn't understand the question
.

"At your
job," Senator Whitford explained. "Your salary. How much do you
make?"

"Eighty-one
thousand dollars a year."

"A very
good salary, I think most people would agree, then again what does a partner at
one of the big accounting firms make?"

"I
wouldn't know."

"C'mon,
Mr. Ford," Senator Whitford coaxed. "Three hundred thousand, four
hundred thousand?"

Nick shrugged. "Some
do, I imagine."

"More than
some, Mr. Ford, I can assure you. And I can assure you of something else, many
of them aren't nearly as smart as you are. That must upset you at times."

"No sir,
it does not."

The senator
bobbed his head. "So you say.
…
Are you familiar with a man named
Chen Tao-tzi, Mr. Ford?"

Chen Tao-tzi
?
Where had he heard that name? Lowered eyebrows formed a deep cleft above Nick's
nose.

"Mr.
Ford?"

"The name
sounds familiar."

"Familiar?
But you simply can't place it, is that correct? Perhaps I can assist your
memory. Chen Tao-tzi resides in Hong Kong. I have here a log of Chen Tao-tzi's
telephone calls during the last few months. A total of four calls were placed
to your number, Mr. Ford. Each call lasted on the average three and one half
minutes."

Chen
Tao-tzi. Hong Kong. The informant who called periodically.
"Yes, I
remember now."

"Suddenly
it's all coming back to you, is that right?" Senator Whitford asked
sarcastically.

"You
jogged my memory, correct."

"Well now
that your memory is
jogged
perhaps you can tell us in what context you
know Chen Tao-tzi."

What did
Chen Tao-tzi have to do with this hearing?
Nick racked his mind for answers
but came up empty. Whitford obviously had an ax suspended, ready to fall, but
where? When? "He called my office for the first time about two months
ago," Nick answered hesitantly, "said he had information on the
Yünnan Project audit."

"Information?"

"Yes. Evidence
of billing improprieties.

"So?"
Senator Whitford said, as if expecting Nick to continue.

"I'm
sorry?"

"Chen
Tao-tzi called you
four
times. He must have been a wealth of
information. Can you tell me what bits of important evidence he has passed on
to you?"

Nick paused,
trying to guess where Senator Whitford was headed.

"Mr.
Ford?" the senator prompted.

"Well, he
didn't
…
That is to say as it turns out
…
"

Nick paused
again, and Senator Whitford exploded. "
Mr. Ford
, will you stop
hemming and hawing and answer my question? Anyone with the brains of a six-year
old can understand it. The reporter, I'm sure, will be happy to read it back to
you as often as you need to hear it."

Senator Raine,
obviously having reached her boiling point, cut in heatedly. "The witness
has every right to answer in his own way."

Senator
Whitford fired back with venom. "The
witness
has an
obligation
to answer. And I will sit here with the committee all day if necessary to get
it.
Mr. Ford?
"

Nick had learned
his lesson
—
hesitation created the impression he had something to hide. This
time he answered immediately, confidently. "He passed on no information of
value."

Senator
Whitford leaned forward, his face displaying surprise. "Did I hear you
correctly, Mr. Ford? Did you say
none
? You accepted four calls from Chen
Tao-tzi and received nothing, no information, in return?"

"That's
correct. He promised information, but did not deliver."

"So you
chatted about your home life, is that it?"

Nick did not
dignify the question with an answer, and Senator Whitford moved on: "May I
suggest you did in fact have conversations, but the information flowed in the
opposite direction
—
from you to him."

"I don't
know what you're talking about."

The senator
refitted his glasses and opened a red folder. He lifted a thin stack of papers
in the air. "I hold in my hand copies of brokerage confirmations. Trades
executed by Chen Tao-tzi through a Hong Kong broker. It seems Mr. Chen sold
shares of a particular company short four times in the last two months. Do you
know what a short sale is, Mr. Ford?"

Nick bit the
bottom of his lip before answering. Wherever this was going, it didn't sound
good. "It's in essence a bet that the price of a stock will go down."

"Correct. And
what stock do you think was sold short by Mr. Chen?"

Nick shook his
head. "I have no idea."

"Would it
surprise you to know it was Smith Pettit?"

Dammit.
Nick's
heart jumped; his body tensed. "Yes."
"Four short sales, each within one half-hour of speaking to you. How do
you explain that, Mr. Ford?"

Nick couldn't
keep emotion from his voice. "I can't," he said, rattled.

"Do you
have any overseas bank accounts, Mr. Ford?" Senator Whitford asked,
buffeting Nick with shot gunned questions.

"No."

"None?"

"No."

"No money
in a Caribbean bank?"

"No."

"Then
either the record keeping department of the Royal Bahamian BanCorp is in
desperate need of an overhaul, or you've had another memory lapse, because I
hold in my hand an account statement in the name of Nicholas Ford of Washington
D.C., U.S.A. in the amount of 107,000 dollars."

Four
photographers had taken up kneeling positions to the front of the bench behind
which the senators sat. Nick found himself staring into their camera lenses as
the shutters fired non-stop. He said nothing, his mind running in circles.

"Mr.
Chairman," Senator Whitford continued after a moment, "I suggest that
a fraud has been perpetrated upon this committee by Mr. Ford. I suggest that he
contrived to drive down the price of Smith Pettit's stock, and conspired with
Mr. Chen Tao-tzi to profit as a result by selling Smith's Pettit stock short. I
move that these proceedings be suspended until such time as Mr. Ford has
retained legal counsel, at which time I will move to drop the investigation
against Smith Pettit and refer Mr. Ford's case to the Justice Department for
prosecution."

With a look to
Senator Raine, Chairman Callahan said, "These are serious charges you have
raised against a man with a solid, impeccable record. I hope, Senator, you are
confident of your sources."

"I am. And
as I have a number of other questions I would like to ask Mr. Ford when the
hearings resume, I ask a subpoena be prepared to insure his attendance."

With little of
her prior enthusiasm, Senator Raine objected. "Mr. Chairman, I must
confess to being startled by some of the evidence the senator from Alabama has
produced, yet I must continue to decry his theatrics. There is absolutely no
reason to subpoena Mr. Ford. To infer that he might not appear at the next
hearing of his own volition is an unjustified slap at his long and honorable
record as a civil servant."

Senator
Whitford tipped his head. "Mr. Chairman, I believe I have presented
sufficient evidence to call into question Mr. Ford's
honorable
record,
however, I defer to the senator from Maine. If Senator Raine stands prepared to
guarantee Mr. Ford's presence, then I shall, with some amount of trepidation I
confess, withdraw my request."

"Very
well," Chairman Callahan said. "Mr. Ford"
—
Nick finally
raised his eyes; his mouth hung half open
—
"Senator Whitford gave
you a good piece of advice. Find a lawyer, a good one. We'll reconvene in two
weeks."

Nick heard the
bang of the gavel, felt Meg's hand grip his forearm, then the crowd of
reporters closed around him.

The receptionist's
look
—
consoling and sympathetic
—
told Nick everything. Eight-thirty
in the morning and the talk had already begun. Probably had been going on
non-stop from the night before.

Down the hall
Nick could see Judy's head buried in the
Washington Post
. He had seen
the articles, knew what she was reading. No time like the present to break the
ice. A few yards from her he called out, loud enough for others to hear. "So,
Judy, what did you think?"

Startled, she
raised her head and hurriedly ditched the paper behind her desk. "Nick,
I'm so sorry about
…
"

She couldn't
get the words out; Nick helped her. "Thank you, Judy. Really."

"What
they're implying, it's terrible. How can they print those lies?"

The question,
said with absolute trust, void of suspicion, warmed Nick. He forced a confident
smile. "Forget the print media, I'm thinking my future lies in television,
what about you?"

After a moment
of indecision, Judy laughed, a relief for both of them.

"Did you
watch?" he asked.

Judy nodded,
then growled under her breath, face pulled tight. "That guy was a real
bastard."

"Senator
Whitford?" Nick asked, as if the name had not been on his lips all
morning.

"Yeah."
She balled her fists. "I wanted to punch him out."

"Go for
the chin
—
rumor is he's got a glass jaw."

They laughed
again, and the tension level retreated farther. A few more quips and Nick
headed into his office. "Any messages?" he asked, calling back over
his shoulder.

"On your
desk. Pretty good-sized pile."

Nick didn't
plan on returning them anytime soon. "I don't want to be disturbed, okay. If
anybody asks, say I'm in a meeting."

He shut the
door, and as it closed, so did his charade. He swallowed hard, took a deep
breath; his shoulders slumped. He'd get through this, somehow.

The pile of
messages on his desk was as deep as Judy indicated. He flipped through them
quickly, recognizing most of the names. A couple were friends, calling, he
guessed, to offer their support. A couple of reporters' names jumped from the
stack
—
poison
—
he had learned that much from his eleven years. Their
come-on was always the same. "Hey," they'd say, "here's your
chance to set the record straight, to get out your side of the story." It
always sounded good, the only problem came when you opened the paper a few days
later to find the smiling, friendly, just between you and me, reporter had
somehow managed to bury a shiv between your shoulder blades. He threw the
reporters' messages in the wastebasket without further deliberation
.

Nick's eyes
drifted up from the messages, unfocused. His heart beat urgently; he rubbed his
forehead absently. So much for controlling his emotions and putting yesterday
behind him
.

Nick had been
given copies of the four brokerage slips. They were real. Chen Tao-tzi sold
Smith Pettit stock short four times, just as Senator Whitford had indicated.
Had
Nick played the dupe? Had Chen Tao-tzi called Nick under the pretense of
informer to take the pulse of the Yünnan Project audit and trade on the
results?

The bank
account in the Bahamas, how did that fit into all this? Nick had been shown the
account papers. There was no signature on file, but the money was there, and
under his name.
Who had deposited it and why?

Chairman
Callahan was right about one thing
—
he would need a very good lawyer
.

And what of the
ongoing investigation and the revelations he never got the chance to voice
during the hearing? What of Scott?

Nick couldn't
think of that now; couldn't deal with it anymore than he could yesterday's
hearing. He dialed Carolyn's number and learned she was out of the office, then
threw himself into a position paper prepared by the Accounting and Information
Management Division
—
a proposal on new accounting standards. Anything to
take his mind off the hearing and give him a chance to regain his bearings. Dry
and complicated, the paper fit the bill. He pulled a red pen from his desk and
began reading, marking comments in the margin as he proceeded. Every few
paragraphs his eyes drifted upwards and he found himself staring at the wall.

"Nick
…
"

At the whisper,
Nick looked up to see Judy, standing half in and half out of his office. Nick
rarely if ever had to repeat orders. He had told Judy he didn't want to be
disturbed and had meant it.

Judy seemed to
read his mind. "Sorry, but Carolyn's secretary just called with a message.
Carolyn would like you to meet her at the Dirksen Senate Dining Room for lunch.
Twelve sharp."

Another lunch with Carolyn
—
Nick would have been honored given
different circumstances. He nodded in resignation and put down his pen. As hard
as he tried, his mind refused to refocus on work.

Nick recognized
a few people. Here and there a senator, a cabinet officer, an agency head. The
faceless, however, filled the bulk of the dining room: clerks, interns, and
staff. Tourists took the remaining seats, easily recognizable by their shorts
and "I love D.C." handbags.

He had eaten
here
—
the Dirksen Senate Dining Room
—
before, but not for a number
of years. When he started with the GAO he came regularly for the cheap,
all-you-can-eat lunch buffets, both pluses given his limited resources at the
time. The reason he frequented the restaurant so often, however, had less to do
with the plentiful, inexpensive food than it did the clientele. For awhile he
kept a check list: three weeks and he had spotted two-thirds of the U.S. Senate.
It had amazed him. Not just that he, Nick Ford, ate in the company of senators,
but that tourists from Ames, Iowa did also. All shared the same buffet line,
the same food, the same tables. Of course after eleven years the novelty of
seeing senators had worn off, but Nick's pride in a country whose leaders ate
side by side with tourists stood undiminished.

Today, however,
Nick wished he were anywhere else but here. He felt on display. Of all places,
why had Carolyn forced him to come here?

He ordered a
glass of iced tea from the waitress, an older woman who joked easily with him. If
she knew who Nick was, knew the difficulties he was in, she didn't let on. She
had probably worked there for decades, he guessed. Seen senators come and go,
republicans and democrats, and outlasted all but a handful.

He checked his
watch. 12:12. Unusual for Carolyn to be late.

Nick resumed
his sweep of the room. Another thing he liked about the dining hall, the decor
had not changed. Same red leather chairs, simple white table cloths with fresh
flowers, and marble colonnades. It pleased him, somehow, that current fashions
had not penetrated here.

His eyes swept
left, back across the room, and met those of Carolyn's. He found her sporting a
forced smile.

Nick stood as
she approached.

"Sorry I'm
late," Carolyn said on drawing near. "Got tied up. Have you been
waiting long?"

"Just got
here," Nick lied.

Carolyn pointed
to the buffet. "Want to jump in line?"

Nick nodded and
let Carolyn lead the way.

The mussels
were a specialty, steamed and ladled with butter. The soup was too: navy bean. Nick
settled for the two, forgoing the multiple types of vegetables and carved leg
of lamb. Carolyn, he noticed on starting back for the table, had settled for
even less: the navy bean soup and a roll.

Again at the
table, Nick mixed the soup with his spoon absently. "Carolyn," he
said finally, "about the hearing
…
"

Carolyn shook
his head. "Not now, Nick. When we're done eating, why don't you escort me
to the capital. We'll talk about the hearing on the way."

The condemned
prisoner eating his last meal, the parallel was too close to miss. Whatever
appetite Nick had
—
little to begin with
—
deserted him. He continued
to play with his soup as Carolyn talked of old times. Times, Nick guessed,
unlikely to be repeated.

 They paid the
bill, Carolyn's treat, then started for the basement level. An underground rail
line ran between the lower level of the senate office building and the
underbelly of the Capitol. Few people utilized the subway; it existed primarily
for the convenience of senators.

As they waited
for the next set of cars, alone on the clean and well-kept subway platform,
Carolyn commented, her voice consoling, "Whitford can be a son-of-a-bitch,
can't he?"

An
understatement in Nick's estimation. "You don't have to convince me. The
whole thing was like a bad dream
—
the man gutted me in front of a
national TV audience and made it look effortless."

Carolyn tugged
at her ear lobe. "I know. I watched. He's good at it. Been doing it since
before you were born."

"Jesus,
I'll give him that. The foul-up with the spread sheets didn't help. All in all
I played the part of the lamb being led to the slaughter well, don't you
think?" Nick tried to smile.

Carolyn patted
him on the arm. "It's the oldest defense tactic there is: put the witness
on trial."

"And
that's how we arrive at the truth?"

Carolyn shook
her head. "Hearings before the age of TV were bad, with TV they're
terrible. There's a new theory on how you win these things, you throw a bomb at
the other side. Joe six-pack doesn't understand facts and figures, but he sure
as hell knows when someone's made to squirm. That's the way the game is played.
Politics, you've heard the word before. And the rules are
…
flexible
…
malleable
…
breakable.
Take your pick or select all three."

Nick heard a
soft rumble. A line of small subway cars soon appeared from a bend down the
tracks. The individual cars were small, maybe seven feet square, and sat four. "I'm
starting to wonder if there are any rules at all anymore. Whitford ambushed me.
The brokerage confirmations, the bank account statements
…
I can't explain
those right now, but they're phony, or there's been a mistake, something. I'll
get to the bottom of it, Carolyn, but how do I regain my reputation? How do I
do that?"

Nick took a
step away from the tracks as the cars neared. Research assistant, that was his
first position with the GAO
—
it didn't sound half-bad to him now. The
subway cars pulled to a stop. Nick and Carolyn entered the last car, sat on
opposing bench seats. The subway door shut a second later, locking them in
privacy.

"Nick,"
Carolyn asked as the subway pulled from the station, "what you just said
now, about the confirmations and account statements, I believe you but
…
I've
got to ask this, okay?
…
Are you sure you're telling me everything?"

Nick let his
head fall back against the glass panel topping his bench seat. "C'mon,
Carolyn."

She looked
down. "Sorry, but it's part of my job to ask. Phony or not, the evidence
Whitford raised is pretty hard to ignore. People are going to want
answers."

Too bad he
didn't have any.
"I'm clean, Carolyn. I have nothing to hide."

"You have
dirty laundry, you air it now, understand? Now I can help you, later I
can't."

"I've
always been up front with you, Carolyn. Always."

Carolyn seemed distracted
by the answer; she nodded, face blank. "Okay," she said after a
pause. "I believe you, but that doesn't solve our problem."

Nick's eyebrows
arched. "Problem?"

Carolyn's eyes
stayed down. She paused, then stumbled through an explanation. "Nick, my
job, it's not always as unsullied as I wish it were. Politics plays a role. So
does public perception."

Nick read
between the lines. "What are you saying?"

She refused to
meet his stare. "I'm saying I think you have to focus on yourself right
now. You can't let work get in the way. There's some explanation for everything
that came out at the hearing, and we'll find it, but in the meantime, I think,
considering the allegations
…
" Carolyn let the sentence dangle.

"Are you
suggesting I step down?"

"No. No. At
least not permanently
…
but I am suggesting, for your own good, you think
about a leave of absence."

Nick would be
lying to himself if he said he hadn't seen this coming, but so early, and from
Carolyn? Nick shut his eyes and let his head fall forward. The rhythmic sound
of wheels on tracks spurred his thoughts.

Carolyn pleaded
with him to understand. "Dammit, Nick, put yourself in my shoes. You've
been accused of manipulating an investigation for personal gain. Evidence has
been produced supporting the allegations. What would you like me to do? Huh?
…
I
want you to sit out the next few weeks, until things quiet down. Do it of your
own volition. When this all blows over, your position will be waiting for
you."

Carolyn paused,
giving Nick a chance to comment. When he let the opportunity pass, she
continued. "I know it's not fair. Personally I think it sucks, but it's
reality. I've got to do this thing by the book. Allegations have been raised. There
is significant evidence as to their veracity. That means either you take my
suggestion or
…
" Her voice trailed off.

"Or you'll
make it an order?"

Carolyn nodded
once, eyes closed. "One way or the other you're going to be relieved from
all work, including Smith Pettit. I'd rather the decision came from you."

"Who would
take over my work load, take over Smith Pettit?"

"Forget
work, Nick. Worry about yourself, understand? Excuse me, but you're in deep,
deep shit."