The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

“Yeah,” Viv stuttered, pretending to study the stuffed ferret in the bookcase. “I was just . . . that ferret . . .”

  “You here for the briefing books?” Dinah interrupted.

  “I’m here for the briefing books.”

  “On the chair,” Dinah said, pointing a finger toward the desk across from her own.

  As quickly as she could, Viv wove across the carpet and slipped behind the desk, where she saw two enormous three-ring notebooks sitting in the chair. The spine of one was marked A-L; the other was M-Z. Pulling the chair out to lift the books, Viv noticed a pile of three picture frames stacked faceup on the center of the desk. Like someone was packing up . . . or someone was being packed up. The computer on the desk was off, even though it was the middle of the day. The diplomas that were once on the back wall were now leaning against the floor. Time froze as she bent toward the chair and her ID smacked against the edge of the desk.

  She took another glance at the top photo, where a man with sandy-blond hair was standing in front of a sapphire blue lake. He was tall, with a thin neck that made him extra gawky. More noticeably, he stood so far to the left, he was almost out of the frame. As his open hand motioned to the lake, Matthew Mercer made it perfectly clear who he thought was the real star of the show. The smile on his face was pure pride. Viv had never met this man, but once she saw his photo, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  Behind her, she felt a strong hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” Barry asked. “Need any help?”

  Jerking away, Viv yanked the notebooks from the chair and stumbled around the other side of the desk, acting like the weight of the books was keeping her off balance. Within seconds, she steadied herself and took a last look at Matthew’s desk.

  “Sorry about your friend,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Dinah and Barry said simultaneously.

  Forcing an awkward grin, Viv speed-walked to the door. Barry didn’t move, but his cloudy blue eyes followed her movements the entire way.

  “Just make sure we get them back,” Dinah called out, readjusting her fanny pack. As Matthew’s office mate, she’d sat next to him for almost two years, but she was still head clerk for the committee. Those books were vital business.

  “Will do,” Viv said. “Soon as the Congressman’s done, they’re all yours.”

  22

  WHAT ABOUT HIS HOUSE?” Sauls’s voice squawked through the cell phone.

  “He’s got a loft on the outskirts of Adams Morgan,” Janos said, keeping his voice down as he turned the corner of the long, pristine marble hallway in the Russell Senate Office Building. He wasn’t running, but his pace was fast. Determined. Just like everyone around him. That was always the best way to disappear. “He doesn’t own the place, though—or much of anything else. No car, no stocks, nothing left in his bank account. I’m guessing he’s still paying off loans. Otherwise, he’s got nothing permanent.”

  “Have you been to his place yet?”

  “What do you think?” Janos shot back.

  “So I take it he wasn’t there?”

  Janos didn’t answer. He hated stupid questions. “Anything else you want to know?” he asked.

  “Family and friends?”

  “The boy’s smart.”

  “That we know.”

  “I don’t think you do. He’s been in Congress ten years. Know how ruthless that makes you? The boy’s a razor—he’s thought it through. Even though he’s well connected, the game alone keeps him from reaching out to coworkers . . . and after we tagged his buddy at the U.S. Attorney’s . . . I don’t think Harris gets fooled twice.”

  “Bullshit. Everyone gets fooled twice. That’s why they keep reelecting their Presidents.”

  Following the room numbers on the wall, Janos was again silent.

  “You think I’m wrong?” Sauls asked.

  “No,” Janos replied. “No one survives alone. There’s someone out there he trusts.”

  “So you can find him?”

  Stopping in front of room 427, Janos gripped the doorknob on the twelve-foot mahogany door and gave it a hard twist. “That’s my job,” he said as he clicked the End button on his phone and stuffed it into the pocket of his FBI windbreaker.

  Inside, the office was exactly the same as last time he was here. Harris’s desk was untouched behind the glass divider, and Harris’s assistant still sat at the desk out front.

  “Agent Graves,” Cheese called out as Janos stepped into Harris’s office. “What can I help you with today?”

  23

  DURING MY VERY first job interview on the Hill, a burned-out staff director with the worst case of Brillo hair I’d ever seen leaned across his desk and told me that at its core, Congress operated like a small town. Some days it was grumpy; others, it was riled up and ready to pick a fistfight with the world. As someone who grew up in a small town, the analogy hit home. Indeed, that’s the very reason I’m pacing back and forth across the storage room, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end of the line. As any small-town resident knows, if you want to get at the real secrets of a town, you have to visit the hall of records.

  “Legislative Resource Center,” a woman with a matronly voice answers.

  “Hi, I’m hoping you can help me out. I’m searching for some information on a lobbyist.”

  “Let me transfer you to Gary.”

  In small-town talk, the Legislative Resource Center is like sitting on the porch with the grumpy old lady whose house is across from the only motel. It’s not a sexy place to hang out, but when all is done and said, she knows exactly who’s screwing who.

  “Gary Naftalis,” a man answers. His voice is dry, showing almost no emotion. “How can I assist?”

  “Hey, Gary—I’m calling from Senator Stevens’s office. We’ve got a company that’s been calling us on this bill, and we’re trying to figure out which lobbyists they’re working with. You guys still do that?”

  “Only if we want to keep the lobbyists honest, sir,” he laughs to himself.

  It’s a bad joke, but a valid point. Every year, over seventeen thousand lobbyists descend on Capitol Hill, each one armed with a tommy gun of asks and special requests. Combine that with the boatloads of bills that’re submitted and voted on every day, and it’s overwhelming. As anyone on the Hill knows, there’s too much work for a staffer to be an expert on it all. So if you need some research? Call the lobbyists. Want some talking points? Call the lobbyists. Confused by what a specific amendment does? Call the lobbyists. It’s like buying drugs. If what they give you is good, you’ll keep coming back. And that’s how influence is peddled. Quietly, quickly, and without leaving fingerprints.

  The thing is, right now I need those fingerprints.

  If Pasternak was playing the game, other lobbyists played as well. Fortunately, all lobbyists are required to register with the Legislative Resource Center and list the names of their clients, which gives me the chance to see who’s working for Wendell Mining.

  “Is it possible to just put in a particular company?” I ask.

  “Sure, sir . . . all you have to do is come in and—”

  “Can I ask you a huge favor?” I interrupt. “My Senator’s about to rip my head off and vomit down my windpipe . . . So if I gave you the name right now, would you mind looking it up for us? It’s just one company, Gary . . .”

  I say his name for the final sell. He pauses, leaving me in silence.

  “It’d really save my ass,” I add.

  Again he gives me the pause. That’s what I hate about being on the phone . . .

  “What’s the name of the company, sir?”

  “Great . . . that’s great. Wendell Mining,” I tell him. “Wendell Mining.”

  I hear the clicking of his keyboard, and I stop my pacing. Staring out below the dust-covered vertical blinds, I have a clear view of the narrow pathway and marble railing that run along the west front of the building. The morning sun’s beating down on the copper roof, but it pales to the heat I’m feeling righ
t now. I wipe a puddle of sweat from the back of my neck and unbutton the top of my shirt. The suit and tie were enough to get me back in the building without a second glance, but if I don’t get some answers soon . . .

  “Sorry,” Gary says. “They’re not coming up.”

  “Whattya mean, they’re not coming up? I thought every lobbyist had to disclose their clients . . .”

  “They do. But this time of year . . . we’re barely halfway through the pile.”

  “What pile?”

  “The disclosure forms—that the lobbyists fill out. We get over seventeen thousand forms each registration period. Know how long that takes to scan in and update our database?”

  “Weeks?”

  “Months. The deadline was just a few weeks ago in August, so we’ve still got a ton that aren’t in.”

  “So it’s possible there’s a lobbyist working on their issue . . .”

  “This is Congress, sir. Anything’s possible.”

  I roll my tongue inside my cheek. I hate government humor.

  “They add about seven hundred names to the database each day,” Gary continues. “Best bet is to just give us a call back later in the week, and we can check if it’s in there.”

  I remember that this is the second year Wendell Mining made the request. “What about last year?” I ask.

  “Like I said, nothing came up—which means they either didn’t have someone, or that person didn’t register.”

  That part actually makes sense. When it comes to getting earmarks, the smaller companies try to do it by themselves. Then, when they fail, they get smart and cough up the beans for a pro. If Wendell had someone pulling for them, the name’ll eventually show up in this database. “Listen, I appreciate th—”

  There’s a loud knock on the door. I go silent.

  “Sir, are you there?” Gary asks through the receiver.

  The person knocks again. This time to the tune of shave-and-a-haircut.

  “It’s me, you shut-in!” Viv calls out. “Open up!”

  I leap for the door and undo the lock. The phone cord is pulled so far, it knocks over the stack of keyboards, which go crashing to the floor as the door swings open.

  “Mission accomplished, Mr. Bond. What’s next?” Viv sings, cradling the two notebooks as if she were still in high school. That’s when it hits me. She is still in high school. Sliding inside, she whips past me with a frenetic new bounce in her step. I’ve seen the same thing on staffers the first day they get on the Senate Floor. Power rush.

  Gary’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Sir, are you—?”

  “I’m here . . . sorry,” I say, turning back to the phone. “Thanks for the help—I’ll give you a call next week.”

  As I hang up, Viv dumps the notebooks across the desk. I was wrong before. I thought she was the girl who sits silently in the back of the class—and while that part’s true, I’m quickly starting to realize that she’s also the girl who, when she gets around people she knows, never shuts up.

  “I guess you didn’t have any problems,” I say.

  “You should’ve seen it! I was unstoppable—I’m telling you, it was like being in the Matrix. They’re all standing there dumbfounded, then I weave around in super-slow-mo . . . dodging their bullets . . . working my voodoo . . . Oh, they didn’t know what hit ’em!”

  The jokes are coming too fast. I know a defense mechanism when I see one. She’s afraid. Even if she doesn’t know it.

  “Viv . . .”

  “You woulda been proud of me, Harris . . .”

  “Did Dinah say anything?”

  “You kidding? She was blinder than the blind guy . . .”

  “The blind guy?”

  “All I need now is a code name . . .”

  “Barry was there?”

  “. . . something cool, too—like Senate Grrl . . .”

  “Viv . . .”

  “. . . or Black Cat . . .”

  “Viv!”

  “. . . or . . . or Sweet Mocha. Howbout that? Sweet Mocha. Ooh, yeah, let’s get down to Viv-ness!”

  “Dammit, Viv, shut up already!”

  She stops midsyllable.

  “You sure it was Barry?” I ask.

  “I don’t know his name. He’s a blind guy with a cane and cloudy eyes . . .”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Nothing—though he kept following me as I walked. I can’t . . . he was slightly off . . . but it’s like he was trying to prove—not that it matters—but trying to prove he wasn’t that blind, y’know?”

  I lunge for the phone and dial his cell. No. I hang up and start again. Go through the operator. Especially now.

  Five digits later, the Capitol operator transfers me to Matthew’s old office.

  “Interior,” Roxanne answers.

  “Hey, Roxanne, it’s Harris.”

  “Harris . . . how are you?”

  “Fine. Can you—”

  “Y’know you’re in my prayers, sweetie. Everything with Matthew . . .”

  “No . . . of course. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of an emergency. Is Barry still floating around back there?”

  Viv waves for my attention, slowly moving toward the door. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers. “Just one more stop . . .”

  “Wait,” I call out.

  She doesn’t listen. She’s having too much fun to sit around for a scolding.

  “Viv!”

  The door slams, and she’s gone.

  “Harris?” a voice asks in my ear. I’d know it anywhere. Barry.

  24

  HOW ARE YOU? You okay?” Barry asks.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I shoot back.

  “With Matthew . . . I just figured . . . Where’re you calling from anyway?”

  It’s the third question out of his mouth. I’m surprised it wasn’t the first.

  “I’m home,” I tell him. “I just needed some time to—I just wanted to take some time.”

  “I left you four messages.”

  “I know . . . and I appreciate it—I just needed the time.”

  “No, I completely understand.”

  He doesn’t buy it for a second. But not because of what I said.

  A few years back, some coworkers threw a surprise birthday party for Ilana Berger, press secretary for Senator Conroy. As old friends of Ilana from college, Matthew, Barry, and I were all invited, along with everyone in the Senator’s office, and seemingly everyone else on the Hill. Ilana’s friends wanted an event. Somehow, though, Barry’s invitation went to the wrong address. Forever worried about being left out, Barry was crushed. When we told him it must’ve been a mistake, he wouldn’t believe it. When we told him to call the party’s hosts, he refused. And when we called the hosts, who felt terrible that the invitation didn’t get there and immediately sent out a new one, Barry saw it as a pity fix. It’s always been Barry’s greatest flaw—he can walk down a crowded street completely unaided, but when it comes to personal interactions, the only thing he ever sees is himself sitting alone in the dark.

  Of course, when it comes to Hill gossip, his radar’s still better than most.

  “So I assume you heard about Pasternak?” he asks.

  I stay quiet. He’s not the only one with radar. There’s a slight rise in his pitch. He’s got something to tell.

  “Doctors said it was a heart attack. Can you believe it? Guy runs five miles every morning and wham—it stops pumping in a . . . in a heartbeat. Carol is heartbroken . . . his whole family . . . it’s like a bomb went off. If you gave them a call . . . they could really use it, Harris.”

  I wait for him to get every last word out. “Can I ask you a question?” I finally say. “Do you have a dog in this race?”

  “What?”

  “Wendell Mining . . . the request Matthew was working on . . . Are you lobbying it?”

  “Of course not. You know I don’t do that . . .”

  “I don’t know anything, Barry.”

 
He offers a playful laugh. I don’t laugh back.

  “Let me say it again for you, Harris—I’ve never once worked on Matthew’s issues.”

  “Then what’re you doing in his office?!”

  “Harris . . .”

  “Don’t Harris me!”

  “I know you’ve had two huge losses this week—”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Barry? Stop with the mental massage and answer the fucking question!”

  There’s a long pause on the other line. He’s either panicking or in shock. I need to know which.

  “Harris,” he eventually begins, his voice teetering on the first syllable. “I-I’ve been here ten years . . . these are my friends . . . this is my family, Harris . . .” As he says the words, I close my eyes and fight the swell of tears. “We lost Matthew. C’mon, Harris. This is Matthew . . .”

  If he’s yanking on my heartstrings, I’ll kill him for this.

  “Listen to me,” he pleads. “This isn’t the time to zip yourself in a cocoon.”

  “Barry . . .”

  “I want to come see you,” he insists. “Just tell me where you really are.”

  My eyes pop open, staring down at the phone. When Pasternak first hired me all those years ago, he told me a good lobbyist is one who, if you’re sitting next to him on an airplane and his knee touches yours, it’s not uncomfortable. Asking where I am, Barry’s officially uncomfortable.

  “I gotta run,” I tell him. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Harris, don’t . . .”

  “Good-bye, Barry.”

  Slamming the phone in its cradle, I once again turn toward the window and study the sunlight as it ricochets off the roofline. Matthew always warned me about competitive friendships. I can’t argue with him anymore.

  25

  TOWERING OVER CHEESE’S desk, Janos carefully took a slight step back and painted on a semifriendly grin. From the anxious look on Harris’s assistant’s face, the FBI windbreaker was already more than enough. As Janos well knew, if you squeeze the egg too hard, it shatters.