Zero Game (27 page)

58

F
INAL BOARDING CALL
for Northwest Airlines flight 1168 to Minneapolis-St. Paul,” a female voice announced through the Rapid City airport terminal. “All ticketed passengers should now be on board.”

Shutting the switch for the PA system, the gate attendant turned to Janos, checking his boarding pass and driver’s license.
Robert Franklin.
“You have a good day now, Mr. Franklin.”

Janos looked up, but only because his cell phone started vibrating in his jacket pocket. As he pulled the phone out, the gate attendant smiled and said, “Hope it’s a quick call—we’re about to push back . . .”

Shooting the attendant a dark glare, he headed up the jetway. As he turned his attention to the phone, he didn’t need to check caller ID to know who it was.

“Do you have any conception how much money your sloppiness just cost me?” Sauls asked through the phone. His voice was as calm as Janos had ever heard it, which meant it was even worse than Janos thought.

“Not now,” Janos warned.

“He threw our technician into the sphere. Sixty-four photomultiplier tubes completely shattered. You know how much each of those costs? The components alone came from England, France, and Japan—then had to be assembled, tested, shipped, and reassembled under clean-room conditions. Now we have to redo it sixty-four damn times.”

“You done yet?”

“I don’t think you heard me. You blew it, Janos.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Sauls went silent. “That’s the third time you’ve said that,” he finally growled. “But let me promise you right now, Janos—if you don’t take care of it soon, we’ll be hiring someone to take care of you.”

With a soft click, the phone went dead.

“Nice to see you tonight,” a flight attendant said as Janos boarded the plane.

Ignoring the attendant, he went straight for his seat in first class and stared out the oval window at the concrete runway. Sauls was still right about one thing: He had been getting sloppy lately. From getting stranded on the first flight, to the second elevator—he should’ve seen those coming. It was the most basic rule of tracking: cover every exit. Sure, he’d underestimated Harris—even with Viv slowing him down, and despite the panic that had to be swirling through his brain, he still somehow managed to plot a few moves ahead. No doubt, all those years in the Senate served him well. But as Janos knew, this was far more serious than politics. Leaning back against the headrest and losing himself in the roar of the jet engines, Janos closed his eyes and took another mental look at the pieces on the board. Time to get back to basics. No question, Harris was playing great chess—but even the best grandmasters know there’s no such thing as a perfect game.

59

D
ADDY’S GOING TO
work now,” Lowell Nash called out to his four-year-old daughter early the following morning.

Staring at the TV, she didn’t respond.

As Deputy Attorney General, Lowell wasn’t used to being ignored, but when it came to family . . . family was a whole different story. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Say good-bye to Daddy,” Lowell’s wife added from the living room of their Bethesda, Maryland, home.

Never taking her eyes off the videotaped glow of
Sesame Street,
Cassie Nash sucked the tip of one of her braided pigtails and waved her hand through the air at her dad. “Bye, Elmo . . .”

Lowell smiled and waved good-bye to his wife. At formal events, his colleagues at the Justice Department called him
Deputy General Nash
—he worked twenty-five years to earn that title—but ever since his daughter learned that the voice of Elmo was done by a tall black man who resembled her dad (
Elmo’s best friend,
according to Cassie), Lowell’s name was changed.
Elmo
beat
Deputy General
any day.

Leaving his house at a few minutes past seven
A.M
., Lowell locked the door behind himself, then twisted the doorknob and checked it three times. Directly above, the sky was gray, the sun tucked behind the clouds. No question, rain would be here soon. By the time he reached the driveway on the side of the old stucco colonial, his smile was gone—but the ritual was still the same. As he’d done every day for the past week, he checked every bush, tree, and shrub in sight. He checked the cars that were parked on the street. And most important, as he pushed a button and unlocked the doors on his silver Audi, he checked his own front seat as well. The lightning-shaped fracture was still fresh in the side window, but Janos was gone. For now.

Starting the car and pulling out onto Underwood Street, Lowell scanned the rest of the block, including the rooftop of every nearby house. Since the day he graduated from Columbia Law School, he had always been careful with his professional life. He paid his cleaning woman over the table, told his accountant not to be greedy on his taxes, and in a town of freebies, reported every gift he ever got from a lobbyist. No drugs . . . no outrageous drinking . . . nothing stupid at any of the social events he’d attended over the years. Too bad the same couldn’t be said of his wife. It was just one dumb night—even for the college kid she was back then. A few too many drinks . . . a cab would take too long . . . If she got behind the wheel, she’d be home in minutes instead of an hour.

By the time she was done, a boy was paralyzed. The car hit him so hard, it shattered his pelvis. Through some quick thinking and expensive legal maneuvers, the lawyers expunged her record. But somehow, Janos found it.
THE NEXT COLIN POWELL?
the
Legal Times
headline read.
Not if this gets out,
Janos warned the first night he showed up.

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

H
ARRIS, 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

Y
OU 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.”