The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

“Pardon?” I ask.

  Viv’s just as confused. “I thought you said . . .”

  “You have no idea who owns Wendell, do you?” Lowell asks.

  The room’s so silent, I hear the blood flowing through my ears. “Lowell, what the hell is going on?” I ask.

  “We traced it back, Harris. It was well hidden: Idaho, Montana—all the states that make it harder to do a good corporate records search. Whoever set it up knew all the magic tricks. After Antigua, it bounced to a fake board of directors in Turks and Caicos—which was no help, of course—but they also listed a registered agent with a local address in Belize. Naturally, the address was fake, but the name . . . it went to the owner of a government-owned concrete company in, of all places, Sana’a.”

  “Sana’a?”

  “Capital city of Yemen.”

  “Yemen? You’re telling me Wendell Mining is a front for Yemen?” I ask, my voice cracking.

  “That’s where the records run—and do you have any idea what happens if they start making plutonium and selling it to whoever’s got the fattest money clip? Know how many lunatics would line up for that?”

  “All of them.”

  “All of them,” Lowell repeats. “And if even one of them gets close . . . we’ve gone to war for far less than that.”

  “I-It’s impossible . . . they gave money . . . they were on the wish list . . . all the names . . .”

  “Believe me, I’ve been looking for a single Arabic name on the list. These guys usually only hire their own, but the way they’re hidden . . . I’m guessing they brought in someone over here to put on a public face and grease the right pockets—some CEO-type so it all looks clean. We’re looking at this guy Andre Saulson, whose name is on one of Wendell’s bank accounts. The name’s probably fake, but one of our boys noticed the address matches an old listing we had for someone named Sauls. It’ll take some time to confirm, but he fits the mold. London School of Economics . . . Sophia University in Tokyo. We looked at him a few years back for art fraud—he was supposedly trying to move the Vase of Warka when it was snatched from Iraq’s National Museum, which is probably how the Yemenis found him. Very high-end scams. Yemen brings him in for credibility, then Sauls hires Janos to flatten out the speed bumps, and maybe even another guy to help them maneuver through the system . . .”

  “Pasternak . . . That’s how they got into the game.”

  “Exactly. They bring in Pasternak—he may not even know who they really are—and now they’ve got one of the best players in town. All they have to do is get their gold mine. You have to give them credit. Why risk the wrath of inspectors in the Middle East when you can build your bomb right in our own backyard without anyone thinking twice? Set it up right, and Congress will even give you the land for free.”

  My stomach plummets. I can barely stand up.

  “W-What do we do now?” Viv asks, her whole face already shiny with sweat.

  We’re not just out of our league—we don’t even know what sport they’re playing.

  Running back toward the hallway, Lowell’s already in rescue mode. “Lock the doors behind me—both bolts. Time to ring the king.”

  I’ve heard the term before. Once he gets to the Attorney General, they’re calling in the White House.

  As Lowell disappears from the room, Viv notices his keys on the coffee table. “Lowell, wait . . . !” she calls out, grabbing the key ring and following him outside.

  “Viv, don’t!” I shout. Too late. She dashes into the hallway.

  As I run for the door, I hear Viv scream. I step out into the hall just as she backs into me. Up the hallway, barely around the corner, Janos presses his forearm against Lowell’s neck, pinning him to the wall. Before I can even react, Janos pulls his black box from Lowell’s chest. Lowell’s body convulses slightly, then drops lifelessly to the floor. His body hits with two dull thuds—first his knees, then his forehead—echoing through the empty hallway. It’s a sound that’ll never leave me. I look down at my friend. His eyes are still open, staring blankly at us.

  Janos doesn’t say a word. He just lunges forward.

  73

  RUN!” I SHOUT to Viv, yanking her by the shoulder and pushing her further up the hallway, away from Janos.

  As Janos barrels toward me, he lets out a smirk, trying to intimidate. He expects me to run. That’s why I stay put. This lunatic’s killed three of my friends. He’s not getting a fourth.

  “Keep going!” I call to Viv, making sure she has enough of a lead.

  From the angle Janos is coming from, he can’t see what I’m looking at: Just inside the door of the hideaway, the Senator’s leather golf bag leans against the wall. I reach for the clubs, but Janos is moving too fast.

  Just as my hand grabs a shiny nine iron, he plows into me, slamming me backwards into the threshold of the doorway. My back lets out a loud crack, but I still don’t let go of the club. Pinning me like Lowell, he stabs the black box at my chest; I knock his arm aside with the tip of the club. Before he realizes what’s happening, I ram my head forward, head-butting him as hard as I can in the nose. Same place I hit the scientist in the mine. The sweet spot, my uncle called it. Sure enough, a trickle of blood runs down from Janos’s left nostril, across the top of his lip. His hound-dog eyes widen the slightest bit. He’s actually surprised. Time to take advantage.

  “Get . . . off!” I shout, seizing the moment and shoving him backwards. Before he can get his balance, I hold up the golf club like a baseball bat and rush straight at him. Sometimes the best chess is played fast. As I swing the club, he protects the black box, cradling it close to his chest. He thinks I’m going high. That’s why I go low, arcing the club downward and smashing him as hard as I can in the side of his knee.

  It’s like hitting a boulder. There’s a loud crack, and the club vibrates in my hands. I still don’t let go. At the last second, he rolls with the impact, but it’s enough to send his leg buckling beneath him. Like before, he barely lets out a grunt. I’m not impressed. Feeling good, I move in closer for another swing. That’s my mistake. As he falls to the ground, he never takes his eyes off my club. Before I can even wind up again, he yanks the nine iron from my hands. He’s so fast, I barely see it happen. It’s a quick reminder I can’t beat him head-on. Still, I got what I wanted. Behind me, Viv’s turned the corner. Now we’ve got a head start.

  Janos slams against the concrete floor. I turn and sprint as hard as I can up the hallway. As I turn the corner, I practically plow into Viv.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask, sidestepping around her. She falls in step right behind me. “I said to run.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” She’s trying to sound strong. It’s not working.

  Behind us, the golf club scrapes against the concrete floor. Janos is getting up. As he starts running, the echoes of his footsteps are off beat. He’s definitely limping—but the beat’s getting quicker. He’s shaking it off.

  Frantically scrambling past the stacks of old furniture scattered on each side of us, I search the hallway for help. Down here, most of the doors are locked and unmarked.

  “What about that one?” Viv asks, pointing to a door that’s marked Sergeant At Arms. I lunge for the doorknob. It doesn’t twist. Damn. Locked.

  “This one, too,” Viv says, trying a closed door on our right. I hear her panting over my shoulder. We’re running out of hallway, and unlike last time, the Capitol police are too far away. We have a short lead, but it’s not enough—not unless we do something quick.

  Up ahead, on our left, there’s a loud mechanical hum. It’s the only door that’s open. The sign on it reads:

  Danger

  Mechanical Equipment Space

  Authorized Personnel Only

  I look over my shoulder to see how we’re doing. Down the hallway, Janos tears around the corner like a wounded tiger. He’s got the golf club in one hand and the black box in the other. Even with the limp, he’s already charging fast.

  “Move . .
.” I say, tugging Viv toward the open door. Anything to get us out of his line of vision.

  Inside, the concrete room is narrow but deep—I can’t even see the end of it—filled with row after row of buzzing ten-foot-tall industrial air-handlers, exhaust fans, and air compressors, all of them interconnected by a crisscrossing jungle of spiral ductwork that snakes out in every direction like the tendrils of a 1950s robot. Overhead, gas lines, copper tubing, and electrical work combine with the various pipes and ducts as they weave their way across the ceiling and block what little fluorescent lighting the room already has.

  By the door, there’s a wall full of circular glass pressure gauges that haven’t been used in years, as well as two rolling garbage cans, an empty box of air filters, and an empty, filthy mop bucket with a few random tools stored inside. Behind the garbage cans, a dark green army blanket sits crumpled on the floor, barely covering a row of six metal propane tanks.

  “Hurry . . . C’mere . . .” I whisper to Viv, clutching her shoulder and tugging her toward the tanks.

  “What’re you—?”

  “Shhhh. Just duck.” Shoving her downward, I grab the blanket and drape it over her head.

  “Harris, this isn’t—”

  “Listen to me.”

  “But I—”

  “Dammit, Viv—for once, listen,” I scold. She doesn’t like the tone. But right now, she needs it. “Wait till he runs past,” I tell her. “When he’s gone, go get help.”

  “But then you’re—” She cuts herself off. “You can’t beat him, Harris.”

  “Go get help. I’ll be fine.”

  “He’ll kill you.”

  “Please, Viv—just get help.” Our eyes lock, and she stares straight through me. When Viv first saw me speaking to her page class, and then heard about the Lorax story, she thought I was invincible. So did I. Now I know better. And so does she. Realizing what I’m asking, she starts tearing up. After everything we’ve been through, she doesn’t want to leave.

  Kneeling down, I give her a tiny kiss on her forehead. “Viv . . .”

  “Shh,” she says, refusing to listen. “Say a prayer with me.”

  “What? Now? You know I don’t believe in—”

  “Just once,” she pleads. “One little prayer. My last favor.”

  With no choice, I lower my head. Viv’s is already down. She grabs my hands as I close my eyes. It doesn’t do any good. My mind’s racing too fast, and then . . . as the silence seeps in . . . God, please take care of Viv Parker. That’s all I ask. I’m sorry for everything else . . . My brain empties, and my eyes stay shut.

  “Now was that so bad?” Viv asks, breaking the quiet.

  I shake my head. “You’re an amazing person, Vivian. And you’re gonna make a great Senator one day.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I’m still gonna need a great chief of staff.”

  It’s a sweet joke, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I haven’t felt this bad since my dad died. I feel the pregnant lump at the center of my throat. “I’ll be fine,” I promise, forcing a smile.

  Before Viv can argue, I pull the blanket over her head, and she disappears from sight. Just another hidden propane tank. Convincing myself she’s safe, I go for the tools, searching for a weapon. Needle-nose pliers . . . electrical tape . . . a tape measure . . . and a box of industrial razor blades. I grab the razor blades, but as I flick open the box, the blades are gone. Needle-nose pliers it is.

  Darting deeper into the room, I clang the pliers against the side of every metal machine I pass and make as much noise as possible. Anything to keep Janos moving past Viv. I keep telling myself this is the best way to protect her. Stop the ride and let her off. As I turn the corner behind an enormous air-conditioning unit, there’s a scraping sound back by the door. Italian shoes skid to a stop.

  Janos is here. Viv is hidden. And I’m ducked behind a metal grille that comes up to my chin. I pound the grille, pretending to hit it by accident. Janos starts running. C’mon, Viv, I say to myself, mouthing a final silent prayer. Now’s your chance . . .

  74

  THE SCRATCHY, STAINED army blanket reeked from a mixture of sawdust and kerosene, but as Viv ducked her head between her knees and shut her eyes, the smell was the last of her worries. Tucked underneath the olive green cloak, she could hear the scratching of Janos’s shoes as he entered the room. From the noise Harris was making—banging on what sounded like sheet metal in the distance—she figured Janos would run. And for a few steps, he did. Then he stopped. Right in front of her.

  Holding her breath, Viv did her best to remain motionless. Instinctively she opened her eyes, but the only thing she could see was the tip of her right foot sticking out from underneath the blanket. Was it covered up, or was that what Janos was looking at? As a slow grumble rippled through the air, Janos pivoted slightly, bits of concrete grinding beneath the tips of his shoes. Knowing better than to move, Viv gripped her knees, digging her nails into her own shins.

  “Hurry . . . !” Harris whispered in the distance, his voice echoing down the concrete hall.

  Janos stopped, twisting back toward the sound.

  Viv knew it was Harris’s lame way to distract, but as Janos started running, it was clearly working.

  Counting to herself, Viv was careful not to rush it. Don’t move an eyebrow until he’s long gone. Once again, she held her breath—not just to hide, but to take in every sound. The rumble of the air-conditioning units . . . the buzz of the overhead lights . . . and most important of all, the light rasp of Harris’s footsteps fading in the distance . . . and the gnawing, quick shuffle of Janos’s shoes as he gave chase right behind him.

  Even when they were out of earshot, Viv still took another few seconds, just to be safe. Finally peeking out from below the blanket, she scanned the entryway. Nothing anywhere. Just some garbage cans and her fellow propane tanks. With a sharp snap, she whipped the blanket off her shoulders and sent it flying toward the trash.

  Scurrying for the door, Viv burst out into the hallway and followed it back around to the left. “Help!” she cried. “Someone . . . we need help!” As before, the piles of discarded office furniture were the only things to hear her call. Mapping her way back to the Capitol police, she raced for the short staircase up on her left—but just as she turned the corner, she smacked flat into the chest of a tall man in a crisp pinstriped suit. The impact was hard—her nose collided with his magenta Zegna tie, pressing it against his chest. To Viv’s surprise, the man managed to backstep and roll with it. Almost as if he heard her coming.

  “Help . . . I need help,” Viv said, her voice racing.

  “Take it easy,” Barry replied, his glass eye staring just off to the left as he put a hand on her arm. “Now tell me what’s going on . . .”

  75

  RUSHING THROUGH THE twisting aisle between two adjacent air compressors, I listen carefully for Janos, but the churning of the equipment drowns out every other noise. At the entrance it was noisy; back here it’s deafening. It’s like running through rows of revving eighteen-wheelers. The machines back here are all oversized dinosaurs. The only good part is, if I can’t hear him, he can’t hear me.

  At the end of the aisle, I follow the path around to my right. To my surprise, the room keeps going, a labyrinth of ductwork and ventilation machinery that never seems to end, each room bleeding into the next. On my left, there’s a section of oval tanks that look like industrial water heaters. On my right, there’s an even bigger rectangular compressor with a giant motor on top. There are three different paths, which can take me in any direction: right, left, straight. To the untrained eye, with machine next to machine and all the ductwork blocking a clear line of sight, it’s easy to get lost and turned around. That’s why there’s a faded yellow line painted across parts of the floor. I’m guessing that’s what the maintenance people use to get in and out. I use it to the same effect, but instead of sticking to the line and giving Janos an easy trail to follow, I purposely avoid it, always picking a
random path.

  Halfway up the aisle, I crouch under a section of ductwork and follow the adjacent aisle even deeper into the dark room, which is looking more and more like a true cellar. Mildewed brick walls . . . damp, mud-caked floors . . . and not a window in sight. The cracked plaster ceiling runs low like a cave, then arches twenty feet upward to black, unlit peaks.

  The further I go, the more the machinery thins out, and the quieter it gets. A cool draft blows against my face, giving me flashbacks to the wind tunnels in the gold mine. There must be an open door somewhere in the distance. On both sides of me, stacks of intertwining ductwork still block my view, but I can hear the pounding of heavy footsteps. Janos is getting closer. The sound echoes on my right, then my left. It doesn’t make sense. He can’t be in two places at once.

  I spin around to follow the noise. My elbow crashes into one of the ducts, sending a metallic gurgle reverberating through the room. I shut my eyes and duck low so fast, my knuckles hit the concrete. Then I hear the metallic rumble echo behind me. Way behind me. Raising an eyebrow, I glance up at the dark arches of the ceiling. A high-pitched whistle rushes overhead. Huh. Down on my knees, I flick a finger against the duct. There’s a light ping on impact, followed by an echo of the ping about thirty feet over my shoulder. It’s like the sound equivalent of a hall of mirrors.

  When the Capitol was first built, air-conditioning didn’t exist, so when the Congressmen complained about the stifling temperatures in the Senate and House Chambers, an elaborate system of natural air tunnels was built underground. From outside, air would flow though subterranean tunnels, weave its way up into the building, and from there, snake through internal tunnels that resemble stone-lined air-conditioning ducts, eventually bringing cool air into the building’s cavernous rooms that didn’t have the benefit of exterior windows. To this day, while it’s obviously been updated, the system is still in place, collecting fresh air that’s fed directly into the air-conditioning units, then pumped through the still-existing ducts and a few remaining passages.