Bright’s first move the next day was in town and it was a no-brainer.
Admiral Mickelson’s secretary told him he was nearby at an event, heading up a round-table brunch with some college kids at the famous DC mortgage company he was on the board of, and Bright got to the manicured grounds of the redbrick building on Wisconsin Street around ten thirty.
After he was given a name tag, the large high-ceilinged room he was guided to had a solemn air about it. A church without its stained-glass windows. One thing corporations rarely skimped on, Bright thought as he took in the sideboards and massive fireplace that could roast an ox, was their obnoxious self-important inner sanctums.
The boardroom table at its center was the size of a small helipad, and at it were over a dozen people. Sitting at one side of the table were old male and female well-heeled fat-cat mortgage executives and on the other side were young nervous college students in cheap suits who wished to be them one day. When Bright saw the C-SPAN camera in the room’s corner, he realized the reason for the nerves.
When Mickelson came in ten minutes later, he made quite the entrance in his pristine white naval uniform. Every eye was on the admiral as he walked around the acre of table to the sole empty center seat that was waiting for him.
Bright watched as Mickelson opened the folder that was placed there and licked his finger. One of the white-haired gents beside him leaned in and said something to him, flipping through the folder pages. Mickelson laughed.
The admiral had turned his retirement years into pure gold. Besides this one, Mickelson was on the boards of five other Fortune 500 companies and was corner-office consultant at a multi-billion-dollar venture capitalist outfit that specialized in the defense industry. Bright wondered if Mickelson was the most connected person in DC. His day was filled with power breakfasts with lobbyists, board meeting brunches, lunches with book editors. He even taught a class over at Annapolis.
Bright paid him the best compliment he was capable of paying. He envied the man.
Mickelson looked up and cleared his throat. As he smoothed his snow white naval tunic, he put a more serious, time-to-get-down-to-business expression on his solid trustworthy face.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said with his bright white smile and his beautiful speaking voice as soft as the velvet on the chair beneath Bright’s ass.
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, Bright thought as he remembered how talented Mickelson’s daughter Ginny also was at slinging it.
The next hour was filled with a back-and-forth discussion to make tax accountants long for the grave. Talk droned on about exposure complements, capital requirements, single counterparty risks. When one of the students spoke nonstop for five minutes about the need to implement broader quantitative-impact study issues, Bright thought one of his blood vessels was going to rupture.
“We need to talk, Paul,” he said to Mickelson as he came up behind him at the sideboard coffee service during the break.
“What is it, Adrian?” he said out in the hallway.
As they strolled past oil portraits of forgotten old greedy men, Bright told him.
Oh, was he a bullshit artist, Bright thought. He actually seemed to take the news well.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“The Company is out of this now. That door is closed. We need your contacts in the Pentagon.”
“And tell them what?”
Bright shrugged.
“It’s up to you, Paul. I know you wanted to avoid getting your fingerprints on this. But our little plan of using your resources to budget this operation under the umbrella of the Company is over now. He’s still on the run. Still down south. If you get your people across the Potomac to find him, my guys will do the rest. Everything can still come up roses for us. But we need to find him.”
“This is where we’re at now?” Mickelson said, sipping his coffee.
“Yes, Paul. This is where we’re at.”
“I’ll get back to you,” he said.