Zero Game (26 page)

55

H
OIST . . .” THE FEMALE
operator answered.

“You were supposed to bring the cage straight here!” Janos shouted into the receiver.

“I-I did.”

“You sure about that? It didn’t make any other stops?”

“No . . . not one,” she replied. “There was no one in it—why would I make it stop anywhere?”

“If there was no one in it, why was it even
moving?!
” Janos roared, looking around at the empty room of the basement.

“Th-That’s what he asked me to do. He said it was important.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“He said I should bring both cages to the top . . .”

Janos clamped his eyes shut as the woman said the words. How could he possibly miss it? “There’re
two
cages?” he asked.

“Sure, one for each shaft. You have to have two—for safety. He said he had stuff to move from one to the other . . .”

Janos gripped the receiver even tighter. “Who’s he?”

“Mike . . . he said his name was Mike,” the woman explained. “From Wendell.”

Locking his jaw, Janos turned slightly, peering over his shoulder at the tunnel that led outside. His cagey eyes barely blinked.

“Sorry,” the operator pleaded. “I figured if he was from Wendell, I should—”

With a loud slam, Janos rammed the receiver back in its cradle and took off for the basement stairs. A shrill alarm screamed through the room, echoing up and down the open shaft. In a flash, Janos was gone.

Rushing up the stairs two at a time, Janos burst outside the red brick building and tore back toward the gravel parking lot. On the concrete path in front of him, the man in the
Spring Break
T-shirt was the only thing blocking his way. With the alarm wailing from above, the man took a long look at Janos.

“Can I help you with something?” the man asked, motioning with his clipboard.

Janos ignored him.

The man stepped closer, trying to cut him off. “Sir, I asked you a question. Did you hear what I—?”

Janos whipped the clipboard from the man’s hands and jammed it as hard as he could against his windpipe. As Spring Break doubled over, clutching his throat, Janos stayed focused on the parking lot, where the black Suburban was just pulling out of its spot.

“Shelley . . . !” a fellow miner shouted, rushing to Spring Break’s aid.

Locked on the gleaming black truck, Janos raced for the lot—but just as he got there, the Suburban peeled out, kicking a spray of gravel through the air. Undeterred, Janos went straight to his own Explorer. Harris and Viv barely had a ten-second head start. On a two-lane road. It’d be over in no time. But as he reached the Explorer, he almost bumped his head getting inside. Something was wrong. Stepping back, he took another look at the side of the truck. Then the tires. They were all flat.

“Damn!” Janos screamed, punching the side mirror and shattering it with his fist.

Behind him, there was a loud crunch in the gravel.

“That’s him,” someone said.

Spinning around, Janos turned just in time to see four pissed-off miners who now had him cornered between the two cars. Behind them, the man with the
Spring Break ’94
T-shirt was just catching his breath.

Moving in toward Janos, the miners grinned darkly.

Janos grinned right back.

56

W
ITH MY EYES ON THE
rearview mirror, I veer to the right, pull off the highway, and follow the signs for the Rapid City airport. There’s a maroon Toyota in front of us that’s moving unusually slow, but I’m still watching our rear. It’s barely been two hours since we blew out of the mine parking lot, but until we’re on that plane and the wheels are off the ground, Janos still has a shot—a shot he’s aiming straight at our heads. Slamming my fist against the steering wheel, I honk at the maroon car. “C’mon,
drive!
” I shout.

When it doesn’t budge, I weave onto the shoulder of the road, punch the gas, and leave the Toyota behind us. Next to me, Viv doesn’t even look up. Since the moment we left, she’s been reading every single word in the
Midas Project
notebook.

“And . . . ?”

“Nothing,” she says, flipping the notebook shut and checking her side mirror for herself. “Two hundred pages of nothing but dates and ten-digit numbers. Every once in a while, they threw in someone’s initials—
JM . . . VS . . .
there’s a few
SC
s—but otherwise, I’m guessing it’s just a delivery schedule.”

Viv holds the book up to show me; I look away from the road to check the schedule for myself.

“What’s the earliest date in there?” I ask.

Resting it back on her lap, Viv flips to the first page. “Almost six months ago. April fourth, 7:36
A.M
.—item number 1015321410,” she reads from the schedule. “You’re right about one thing—they’ve definitely been working on this for a bit. I guess they figured getting the authorization in the bill was just a formality.”

“Yeah, well . . . thanks to me and Matthew, it almost was.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“But it almost was.”

“Harris . . .”

I’m in no mood for a debate. Pointing back to the notebook, I add, “So there’s no master list to help decipher the codes?”

“That’s why they call ’em codes. 1015321410 . . . 1116225727 . . . 1525161210 . . .”

“Those are the photomultiplier tubes,” I interrupt.

She looks up from the book. “Wha?”

“The bar codes. In the lab. That last one was the bar code on all the photomultiplier boxes.”

“And you remember that?”

From my pocket, I pull out the sticker I ripped off earlier and slap it against the center of the dashboard. It sticks in place. “Am I right?” I ask as Viv rechecks the numbers.

She nods, then looks down, falling silent. Her hand snakes into her slacks, where I spot the rectangular outline of her Senate ID badge. She pulls it out for a split second and steals a glance at her mom. I look away, pretending not to see.

Avoiding the main entrance for the airport, I head for the private air terminal and turn into the parking lot outside an enormous blue hangar. We’re the only car there. I take it as a good sign.

“So what do you think the tubes and the mercury and the dry-cleaning smell is for?” Viv asks as we get out of the car.

I stay silent as we head under a bright red canopy and follow the sign marked
Lobby.
Inside, there’s an executive lounge with oak furniture, a big flat-screen TV, and a Native American rug. Just like the one Matthew used to have in his office.

“Senator Stevens’s party?” a short-haired blond asks from behind the reception desk.

“That’s us,” I reply. Pointing over my shoulder, I add, “I didn’t know where to return the car . . .”

“There is fine. We’ll have it picked up for you, sir.”

It’s one less thing to worry about, but it doesn’t even come close to lightening my load. “So the plane is all set to go?”

“I’ll let the pilot know you’re here,” she says, picking up the phone. “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

I look over at Viv, then down at the notebook in her hands. We need to figure out what’s going on—and the way I left things in D.C., there’s still one place I need to follow up on. “Do you have a phone I can use?” I ask the woman at the reception desk. “Preferably somewhere private?”

“Of course, sir—upstairs and to the right is our conference room. Please help yourself.”

I give Viv a look.

“Right behind you,” Viv says as we head up the stairs.

The conference room has an octagonal table and a matching credenza that holds a saltwater aquarium. Viv goes for the aquarium; I go for the window, which overlooks the front of the hangar. All’s clear. For now.

“So you never answered the question,” Viv says. “Whattya think that sphere in the lab is for?”

“No idea. But it’s clearly got something to do with neutrinos.”

She nods, remembering the words from the corner of each page. “And a neutrino . . .”

“I think it’s some type of subatomic particle.”

“Like a proton or electron?”

“I guess,” I say, staring back out the window. “Beyond that, you’re already out of my league.”

“So that’s it? That’s all we’ve got?”

“We can do more research when we get back.”

“But for all we know it could be good, though, right? It might be good.”

I finally look away from the window. “I don’t think it’s gonna be good.”

She doesn’t like that answer. “How can you be so sure?”

“You really think it’s something good?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe it’s just research—like a government lab or something. Or maybe they’re just trying to turn stuff into gold. That can’t hurt anyone, can it?”

“Turn stuff into gold?”

“The project
is
called
Midas.
”

“You really think it’s possible to turn things to gold?”

“You’re asking me? How should I know? Anything’s possible, right?”

I don’t respond. In the past two days, she’s relearned the answer to that one. But the way she bounces on her heels, she still hasn’t completely given up on it. “Maybe it’s something else with the Midas story,” she adds. “I mean, he turned his daughter into a statue, right? He do anything else beside giving her the ultimate set of gold teeth?”

“Forget mythology—we should talk to someone who knows their science,” I point out. “Or who can at least tell us why people would bury a neutrino lab in a giant hole below the earth.”

“There we go—now we’re moving . . .”

“We can call the National Science Foundation. They helped us with some of the high-tech issues when we did hearings on the cloning bill last year.”

“Yeah—good. Perfect. Call ’em now.”

“I will,” I say as I pick up the phone on the octagonal table. “But not until I make one other call first.”

As the phone rings in my ear, I look back out the window for Janos’s car. We’re still alone.

“Legislative Resource Center,” a woman answers.

“Hi, I’m looking for Gary.”

“Which one? We’ve got two Garys.”

Only in Congress.

“I’m not sure.” I try to remember his last name, but even I’m not that good. “The one who keeps track of all the lobbying disclosure forms.”

Viv nods. She’s been waiting for this. If we plan on figuring out what’s going on with Wendell, we should at least find out who was lobbying for them. When I spoke to Gary last week, he said to check back in a few days. I’m not sure if we even have a few hours.

“Gary Naftalis,” a man’s voice answers.

“Hey, Gary, this is Harris from Senator Stevens’s office. You said to give you a call about the lobbying forms for—”

“Wendell Mining,” he interrupts. “I remember. You were the one in the big rush. Let me take a look.”

He puts me on hold, and my eyes float over to the saltwater aquarium. There are a few tiny black fish and one big purple and orange one.

“I’ll give you one guess which ones we are,” Viv says.

Before I can reply, the door to the conference room flies open. Viv and I spin toward the sound. I almost swallow my tongue.

“Sorry . . . didn’t mean to scare you,” a man wearing a white shirt and a pilot’s hat says. “Just wanted to let you know we’re ready whenever you are.”

I once again start to breathe. Just our pilot.

“We’ll only be a sec,” Viv says.

“Take your time,” the pilot replies.

It’s a nice gesture, but time’s the one thing we’re running out of. I again glance out the window. We’ve already been here too long. But just as I’m about to hang up, I hear a familiar monotone voice. “Today’s your birthday,” Gary says through the receiver.

“You found it?”

Viv stops and turns my way.

“Right here,” Gary says. “Must’ve just got scanned in.”

“What’s it say?”

“Wendell Mining Corporation . . .”

“What’s the name of the lobbyist?” I interrupt.

“I’m checking,” he offers. “Okay . . . according to the records we have here, starting in February of this past year, Wendell Mining has been working with a firm called Pasternak and Associates.”

“Excuse me?”

“And based on what it says here, the lobbyist on record—man, his name’s everywhere these days . . .” My stomach burns as the words burn through the telephone. “Ever hear of a guy named Barry Holcomb?”

57

E
VERYBODY SMILE,”
Congressman Cordell said as he stretched his own practiced grin into place and put his arms around the eighth-graders who flanked him on both sides of his desk. It took Cordell the first six months of his career to get the perfect smile down, and anyone who said it wasn’t an art form clearly knew nothing about making an impression when cameras were clicking. Smile too wide and you’re a goon; too thin and you’re cocky. Sure, going no-teeth was perfect for policy discussions and sophisticated amusement, but if that’s all you had, you’d never win the carpool moms. For that, you needed to show enamel. In the end, it was always a range: more enthusiastic than a smirk, but if you flashed all the Chiclets, you went too far. As his first chief of staff once told him, no President was ever a toothy grinner.

“On three, say,
‘President Cordell’
. . .” the Congressman joked.

“President Cordell . . .”
all thirty-five eighth-graders laughed. As the flashbulb popped, every student in the room raised his chest just a tiny bit. But no one raised his higher than Cordell himself. Another perfect grin.

“Thank you so much for doing this—it means more than you know,” Ms. Spicer said, shaking the Congressman’s hand with both of her own. Like any other eighth-grade social studies teacher in America, she knew this was the highlight of her entire school year—a private meeting with a Congressman. What better way to make the government come alive?

“They got a place we can get T-shirts?” one of the students called out as they made their way to the door.

“You’re leaving so soon?” Cordell asked. “You should stay longer . . .”

“We don’t want to be a bother,” Ms. Spicer said.

“A bother? Who do you think I’m working for?” Cordell teased. Turning to Dinah, who was just making her way into the office, he asked, “Can we push our meeting back?”

Dinah shook her head, knowing full well that Cordell didn’t mean it. Or at least, she didn’t think he meant it. “Sorry, Congressman . . .” she began. “We have to—”

“You’ve already been incredible,” Ms. Spicer interrupted. “Thank you again. For everything. The kids . . . It’s just been amazing,” she added, locked on Cordell.

“If you need tickets to the House Gallery, ask my assistant out front. She’ll get you right in,” Cordell added, doing the math in his head. According to a study he read about the pass-along rate of information and gossip, if you impress one person, you impress forty-five people—which meant he had just impressed 1,620 people. With a single three-minute photo op.

Giving the top-teeth-but-no-gum-line grin, Cordell waved as the group filed out of his office. Even when the door slammed shut, the smile lingered. At this point, it was pure instinct.

“So how do we look?” Cordell asked Dinah as he collapsed in his seat.

“Actually, not too bad,” Dinah replied, standing in front of his desk and noticing his use of the word
we
. He trotted that out whenever the issue at hand was potentially ugly. If it were pretty—like a school photo op—it was always
I.

“Just tell me what they’re gonna bust our nuts on,” he added.

“I’m telling you, not much,” Dinah began, handing him the final memo for the Conference on the Interior Appropriations bill. Now that pre-Conference and the hagglings with Trish were over, the Final Four—a Senator and a House Member from each party—would spend the next two days hammering out the last loose ends so the bill could go to the Floor, thereby funding all the earmarks and pork projects tucked within.

“We’ve got about a dozen Member issues, but everything else played out pretty much as usual,” Dinah explained.

“So all our stuff’s in there?” Cordell asked.

Dinah nodded, knowing that he always covered his projects first. Typical Cardinal.

“And we got the things for Watkins and Lorenson?”

Again, Dinah nodded. As Members of Congress, Watkins and Lorenson weren’t just the recipients of brand-new visitor centers for their districts, they were also the Cardinals of, respectively, the Transportation and the Energy and Water subcommittees. By funding their requests in the Interior bill, Cordell was guaranteed to get eight million dollars in highway funds for a Hoover Dam bypass, and a two-million-dollar earmark for ethanol research at Arizona State University, which just happened to be in his district.

“The only speed bump will be the White House structural improvements,” Dinah explained. “Apelbaum zeroed them out, which truthfully doesn’t matter—but if the White House gets pissed . . .”

“. . . they’ll shine the spotlight on all our projects as well. I’ll take care of it.” Looking down at the memo, Cordell asked, “How much did you offer him?”

“Three and a half million. Apelbaum’s staff says he’ll take it—he just wants a big enough fuss to get his name in
USA Today.
”

“Any others?”

“Nothing big. You should probably give in on O’Donnell’s Oklahoma stuff—we gutted most of his other requests, so it’ll make him feel like he got something. By the way, we also got that South Dakota land transfer—the old gold mine—I think it was the last thing Matthew grabbed from the goody bag.”

Cordell gave a silent nod, telling Dinah he had no idea what she was talking about. But by bringing the gold mine up here—and pairing it with Matthew’s name—she knew that Cordell would never give it away during Conference.

“Meanwhile,” Cordell began, “about Matthew . . .”

“Yes?”

“His parents asked me to speak at his funeral.”

Dinah paused, but that was all her boss would say. As usual, though, she knew what he meant. Staff always did.

“I’ll write up a eulogy, sir.”

“Great. That’d be great. As office mates, I thought you’d want to take the first draft.” Turning back to the memo, he added, “Now, about this thing Kutz wants for the Iditarod Trail . . .”

“I marked it up how you like it,” Dinah said as she readjusted her fanny pack and headed for the door. “If it’s got a
K
next to it, it means
keep it;
if it’s got a
G,
it means we can
give it away.
Truthfully, though, it’s been a pretty easy year.”

“So we got what we wanted?”

Just as she was about to leave the office, Dinah turned around and smiled. All teeth. “We got everything and more, sir.”

Cutting back through the welcome area of her boss’s personal office, Dinah said a quick hello to the young receptionist in the denim shirt and bolo tie, then grabbed the last cherry Starburst from the candy bowl on his desk.

“Bastard eighth-graders cleaned me out,” the receptionist explained.

“You should see what happens when the AARP people come visit . . .” Never slowing down, she zigzagged through reception, bounding out through the front door and into the hallway. But as she glanced right and left up the white marble hall, she didn’t see the person she was looking for—not until he stepped out from behind the tall Arizona state flag that stood outside Cordell’s office.

“Dinah?” Barry called out, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“Whah—” she said, spinning around. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry,” he offered as he held her elbow and followed her up the hallway. “So we done?”

“All done.”

“Really done?”

“Trust me—we just solved the puzzle without even buying a vowel.”

Neither of them said another word until they turned the corner and stepped into an empty elevator.

“Thanks again for helping me out with this,” Barry began.

“If it’s important to you . . .”

“It was actually important to Matthew. That’s the only reason I’m involved.”

“Either way—if it’s important to you, it’s important to me,” Dinah insisted as the elevator doors slid shut.

With a single sweep of his cane, Barry looked around, listening. “We’re alone, aren’t we?”

“That we are,” she said, stepping closer.

Barry once again reached out for her shoulder, this time lightly brushing his fingers against the edge of her bra strap. “Then let me say a proper thank-you,” he added as the elevator bucked slightly, descending toward the basement. Sliding his hand up the back of her neck and through her short blond hair, he leaned forward and gave her a long, deep kiss.