The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  Lowell didn’t care. And he wasn’t afraid to tell Janos. He didn’t get to be number two at Justice by running and hiding at every political threat. Sooner or later, the news about his wife would come out—so if it was sooner, well . . . there’s no way he’d hurt Harris for that.

  That’s when Janos started showing up at Lowell’s daughter’s preschool. And at the playground where they took her on weekends. Lowell saw him immediately. Not doing anything illegal, just standing there. With those dark, haunting eyes. For Lowell, that was it. He knew it all too well—family was a different story.

  Janos didn’t ask for much: Keep him informed when Harris called—and stay the hell out of it.

  Lowell had thought it’d be easy. It was harder than he ever imagined. Every night, the tossing and turning increased. Last night he was up so late, he heard the paper hit his doorstep at five A.M. Turning onto Connecticut Avenue and heading downtown, he could barely keep the car straight on the road. A droplet of water splattered against his windshield. Then another. It was starting to pour. Lowell didn’t even notice.

  No doubt, Lowell had been careful. Careful with his money . . . with his career . . . and with his future. But right now, as the shrapnel of rain sprayed across his windshield, he slowly realized there was a fine line between careful and cowardly. On his left, a navy Acura blew past him. Lowell turned his head slightly to follow it, but the only thing he saw was the crack in his side window. He looked back at the road, but it wouldn’t go away.

  Elmo beat Deputy General, he reminded himself—but the more he thought about it, that was precisely why he couldn’t just sit there any longer. Picking up his cell phone, he dialed the number for his office.

  “Deputy Attorney General’s office. This is William Joseph Williams,” a male voice answered. During his interview for the job, William said his mother picked his name because it sounded like a President. Right now, he was still Lowell’s assistant.

  “William, it’s me. I need a favor.”

  “Sure thing. Name it.”

  “In my top left-hand drawer, there’s a set of fingerprints I got off my car door last week.”

  “The kids that cracked your window, right? I thought you already ran those.”

  “I decided not to,” Lowell said.

  “And now?”

  “I changed my mind. Put ’em in the system; do a full scan—every database we’ve got, including foreign,” Lowell said as he flicked on his windshield wipers. “And tell Pilchick I’m gonna need some detail to watch my family.”

  “What’s going on, Lowell?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, staring dead ahead at the slick road in front of him. “Depends what we find.”

  60

  HARRIS, SLOW DOWN,” Viv begs, chasing behind me as I cross First Street and wipe the rain from my face.

  “Harris, I’m talking to you . . . !”

  I’m barely listening as I plow through a puddle toward the four-story brick building halfway up the block.

  “What was it you said when we landed last night? Be calm, right? Wasn’t that the plan?” Viv calls out.

  “This is calm.”

  “It’s not calm!” she calls out, hoping to keep me from doing something stupid. Even if I’m not listening, I’m glad she’s using her brain.

  I whip open the glass doors and charge into the building. It’s just a hair past seven. Morning security shift hasn’t started yet. Barb’s not in.

  “Can I help you?” a guard with some acne scars asks.

  “I work here,” I insist just forcefully enough that he doesn’t ask twice.

  He looks to Viv.

  “Nice to see you again,” she adds, not slowing down. She’s never seen him before in her life. He waves back. I’m impressed. She’s getting better every day.

  By the time we reach the elevator, Viv’s ready to tear my head off. The good news is, she’s smart enough to wait at least until the doors close.

  “We shouldn’t even be here,” she says as they finally slam shut and the elevator lurches upward.

  “Viv, I don’t want to hear it.” Early this morning, I picked up a new suit from the locker at my gym. Last night, after throwing our shirts in the plane’s washer-dryer and clocking a half hour each in the onboard shower, we spent the entire flight back using the plane’s satellite phones to track people down at the National Science Foundation. Because of the time zones, we couldn’t get any of their scientists directly, but thanks to a jittery assistant and the promise that we’d be bringing the Congressman himself, we were able wrangle a meeting.

  “First thing this morning,” she reminds me for the fifth time.

  The NSF can wait. Right now, this is more important.

  As the doors open on the third floor, I rush past the modern paintings in the hallway and head for the frosted-glass door with the numeric keypad. As quickly as I can, I punch in the four-digit code, shove open the door, and weave my way through the inner hallway’s maze of cubicles and offices.

  It’s still too early for support staff to be in, so the whole place is silent. A phone rings in the distance. One or two offices have people sipping coffee. Other than that, the only sounds we hear are our own feet thumping against the carpet. The drumbeat quickens the faster we run.

  “You sure you even know where you’re—?”

  Two steps past the black-and-white photo of the White House, I make a sharp right into an open office. On the black lacquered desk, there’s a keyboard with a braille display, and no mouse. You don’t need one if you’re blind. There’s also a high-definition scanner, which converts his mail to text, then gets read aloud by his computer. If there were any doubt, the Duke diploma on the wall tells me I’ve got it right: Barrett W. Holcomb. Where the hell are you, Barry?

  He wasn’t home when we went by last night—during the day, he’s trolling the Capitol. We spent the last few hours hiding in a motel a few blocks away, but I figured if we came here early enough . . .

  “Why don’t you just beep him and ask him to meet you?” Viv asks.

  “And let him know where I am?”

  “But by coming here . . . Harris, this is just dumb! If he’s working with Janos, they can—”

  “Janos isn’t here.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “For the exact reason you said: It is dumb for us to be here.”

  From her look, she’s confused. “What’re you talking about?”

  There’s a tapping sound behind us. I turn just as he steps through the door.

  “Harris?” Barry asks. “Is that you?”

  61

  YOU SCHEMING PIECE of shit . . . !” I yell, lunging forward.

  Barry hears me coming and instinctively tries to sidestep. He’s too late. I’m already on him, shoving him in the shoulder and forcing him backwards.

  “A-Are you nuts?” Barry asks.

  “They were our friends! You’ve known Matthew since college!” I shout. “And Pasternak . . . he took you in when no one else would hire you!”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Was that why it happened? Some business deal that went wrong with Pasternak? Or did he just pass you up for partner, and this was your easy shot at revenge?!” I shove him again, and he stumbles off balance. He’s struggling to get to his desk. His shin smashes into the wastebasket, sending it wobbling to the floor.

  “Harris!” Viv shouts.

  She’s worried because he’s blind. I don’t care.

  “How much did they pay you?!” I yell, staying right behind him.

  “Harris, please . . .” he begs, still searching for balance.

  “Was it worth it? Did you get everything you wanted?!”

  “Harris, I’d never do anything to hurt them.”

  “Then why was your name in there?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Your name, Barry! Why was it in there?!”

  “In where?”

  “In the damn lobbying disclosure form
for Wendell Mining!” I explode with one final shove.

  Staggering sideways, Barry slams into the wall. His diploma crashes to the floor as the glass shatters.

  Locking onto the wall, he presses his back against it, then palms the surface, searching for stability. Slowly, he picks his chin up to face me.

  “You think that was me?” he asks.

  “Your name’s on it, Barry!”

  “My name’s on all of them—every single client in the entire office. It’s part of being the last guppy in the food chain.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Those forms—filling them out—it’s grunt work, Harris. All the forms are done by support staff. But ever since we got fined ten grand because a partner didn’t fill his out a few years back, they decided to put someone in charge. Some people are on the recruitment committee . . . others do associate benefits and staff policy. I collect all the disclosure forms and put an authorizing signature at the bottom. Lucky me.”

  I stop right there, searching his eyes. One of them’s made of glass; the other’s all cloudy, but locked right on me. “So you’re telling me Wendell Mining isn’t your client?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “But all those times I called—you were always there with Dinah . . .”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Your what?”

  “Girlfriend. You still remember what a girlfriend is, don’t you?” He turns to Viv. “Who else is here with you?”

  “A friend . . . just a friend,” I say. “You’re dating Dinah?”

  “Just starting—it’s been less than two weeks. But you can’t say anything—”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “You kidding? A lobbyist dating the head clerk in Appropriations? She’s supposed to judge every project on its merits . . . If this got out, Harris, they’d string us up just for the fun of it. Her reputation . . . It’d be over.”

  “How could you not tell me? Or Matthew?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything—especially to Matthew. You know how much crap he’d give me . . . Dinah busts—Dinah busted his balls every day.”

  “I-I can’t believe you’re dating her.”

  “What? Now I can’t be happy?”

  Even now, that’s all he sees. Perceived slights. “So the help you’ve been giving to Wendell . . .”

  “Dinah said it was one of the last things Matthew was pushing for—I just . . . I just thought it’d be nice if he got his last wish.”

  I stare at Barry. His cloudy eye hasn’t moved, but I see it all in the pained crease between his eyebrows. The sadness is all over his face.

  “I swear to you, Harris—they’re not my client.”

  “Then whose are they?” Viv asks.

  “Why’re you so crazed for—?”

  “Just answer the question,” I demand.

  “Wendell Mining?” Barry asks. “They’ve only been with us a year, but as far as I know, they only worked with one person: Pasternak.”

  62

  . . . WENDELL MINING WAS working with Pasternak?” I ask.

  The words hit like a cannonball in my gut. If Pasternak was in on it from the start . . . “He knew all along,” I whisper.

  “Knew what?” Barry asks.

  “Hold on,” Viv says. “You think he set you up?”

  “M-Maybe . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “What’re you talking about?” Barry insists.

  I turn toward Viv. Barry can’t see us. I shake my head at her. Don’t say a word.

  “Harris, what’s going on?” Barry asks. “Set you up for what?”

  Still reeling, I look out through Barry’s door, into the rest of the office. It’s still empty—but it won’t be for long. Viv shoots me another look. She’s ready to get out of here. I can’t say I disagree. Still, I’ve been on the Hill long enough to know that you don’t start flinging accusations unless you can prove they’re true.

  “We should leave,” Viv says. “Now.”

  I shake my head. Not until we get some proof.

  “Barry, where does the firm keep its billing records?” I ask.

  Viv’s about to say something. She cuts herself off. She sees what I’m getting at.

  “Our what?” Barry asks.

  “Billing records . . . time sheets . . . anything that shows Pasternak was working with Wendell.”

  “Why would you—?”

  “Barry, listen to me—I don’t think Matthew was hit by that car accidentally. Now please . . . we’re running out of time . . . where are the billing records?”

  Barry’s frozen. He turns his head slightly, listening to the fear in my voice. “Th-They’re on-line,” he mumbles.

  “Can you get them for us?”

  “Harris, we should call the—”

  “Just get them, Barry. Please.”

  He pats the air, feeling for his desk chair. As he slides into place, his hands leap for his keyboard, which looks like a regular keyboard except for the thin two-inch plastic strip that’s just below the space bar and runs along the bottom. Thanks to the hundred or so pin-sized dots that pop up from the strip, Barry can run his fingers across it and read what’s on-screen. Of course, he can also use the screen reader.

  “JAWS for Windows is ready,” a computerized female voice says through Barry’s computer speakers. I remember the screen-reading software from college. The computer reads whatever comes on screen. The best part is, you can choose the voice. Paul is the male; Shelley’s the female. When Barry first got it, we used to play with the pitch and speed to make her sound more slutty. We all grew up. Now the voice is no different from a robotic female secretary.

  “Log-in user name? Edit,” the computer asks.

  Barry types in his password and hits Enter.

  “Desktop,” the computer announces. If Barry’s monitor were on, we’d see his computer’s desktop. The monitor’s off. He doesn’t need it.

  A few quick keystrokes activate prewritten computer scripts that take him directly where he’s going. “File menu bar. Menu active.” Finally, he hits the letter B.

  “Billing Records,” the computer says. “Use F4 to maximize all windows.”

  I stand behind Barry, watching over his shoulder. Viv’s by the door, staring up the hallway.

  “Leaving menu bar. Search by—” Barry hits the Tab key. “Company name? Edit,” the computer asks.

  He types the words Wendell Mining. When he hits the space bar, the computer announces whatever word he types, but his fingers are moving so fast, it comes out Wen— Mining.

  The computer beeps, like something’s wrong.

  “Client not found,” the computer says. “New search? Edit.”

  “What’s going on?” Viv asks.

  “Try just Wendell,” I add.

  “Wendell,” the computer repeats as Barry types the word and hits Enter. There’s another beep. “Client not found. New search? Edit.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Barry says. His hands are a blur of movement.

  The female voice can’t keep up. “Ne— Sys— Wen— Min— Searching database . . .”

  He’s widening the search. I stare intensely at the computer screen even though it’s all black. It’s better than watching Viv panic by the door.

  “Harris, you still there?” Barry asks.

  “Right here,” I reply as the computer whirs.

  “Client not found in system,” the mechanized voice replies.

  Barry respells it.

  “Client not found in system.”

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “Hold on a second.”

  Barry hits the W, then the downward arrow key. “Waryn Enterprises,” the computer says. “Washington Mutual . . . Washington Post . . . Weiner & Robinson . . .” It’s searching alphabetically. “Wong Pharmaceuticals . . . Wilmington Trust . . . Xerox . . . Zuckerman International . . . End of record,” the computer finally says.

>   “You kidding me?” Barry says, still searching.

  “Where are they?” I ask.

  “End of record,” the computer repeats.

  Barry hits the keyboard once more.

  “End of record.”

  “I don’t understand,” Barry says. His hands move faster than ever. “Full— Sys— Searching . . .”

  “Barry, what the hell is going on?”

  “Search error,” the female mechanized voice interrupts. “Client name not in system.”

  I stare at the blank screen; Barry stares down at his keyboard.

  “They’re gone,” Barry says. “Wendell Mining’s gone.”

  “What’re you talking about? How can it be gone?”

  “It’s not there.”

  “Maybe someone forgot to enter it.”

  “It already was entered. I checked it myself when I did the lobbying forms.”

  “But if it’s not there now . . .”

  “Someone took it out . . . or deleted the file,” Barry says. “I checked every spelling of Wendell . . . I went through the entire database. It’s like they were never clients.”

  “Morning . . .” a short man in an expensive pinstriped suit says to Viv as he walks past the door to Barry’s office.

  She turns my way. People are starting to arrive. “Harris, the longer we’re here . . .”

  “I got it,” I say to Viv. My eyes stay on Barry. “What about hard copies? Is there anything else that might show that Pasternak worked with Wendell?”

  Barry’s been blind for as long as I’ve known him. He knows panic when he hears it. “I-I guess there’s Pasternak’s client files . . .”

  A loud chirp screeches through the air. All three of us wince at the sharpness of the sound.

  “What in the hell—?”

  “Fire alarm!” Viv calls out.

  We give it a few seconds to shut itself off. No such luck.

  Viv and I once again exchange glances. The alarm continues to scream. If Janos is here, it’s a perfect way to empty the building.

  “Harris, please . . .” she begs.