Zero Game (29 page)

Viv pummels me with a dark stare that gives me the answer. Her brown eyes glow through the smoke. “No.”

“Viv, you know I’d never—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“But I—”

“You did it, Harris. You did it, and it’s done. Now, you gonna make it right or not?”

Outside the building, someone barks safety instructions through a bullhorn. The police are here. If I want to give up, this is the place to do it.

Viv heads up the hallway. I stay put.

“Good-bye, Harris,” she calls out. The words sting as she says them. When I first asked her for help, I promised her she wouldn’t get hurt. Just like I promised Matthew that the game was harmless fun. And promised Pasternak, when I first met him, that I’d be the most honest person he’d ever hire. All those words . . . when I originally said them . . . I meant every syllable—but no question, those words were always for me. Myself. I, I, I. It’s the easiest place to get lost on Capitol Hill—right inside your own self-worth. But as I watch Viv disappear in the smoke, it’s time to look away from the mirror and finally refocus.

“Hold on,” I call out, chasing after her and diving into the smoke. “That’s not the best way.”

Stopping midstep, she doesn’t smile or make it easy. And she shouldn’t.

It takes a seventeen-year-old girl to treat me like an adult.

63

H
OW’S IT LOOK?”
Lowell asked as his assistant stepped into his fourth-floor office in the main Justice building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Let me put it like this,” William began, brushing his messy brown hair from his chubby, boyish face. “There’s no Santa Claus, no Easter bunny, no cheerleader who liked you in high school, your 401K is toilet paper, you didn’t marry the prom queen, your daughter just got knocked up by a real scumbag, and y’know that beautiful view you’ve got of the Washington Monument?” William asked, pointing over Lowell’s shoulder at the nearby window. “We’re gonna paint it black and replace it with some modern art.”

“Did you say modern art?”

“No joke,” William said. “And that’s the good news.”

“It’s really that bad?” Lowell asked, motioning to the red file folder in his assistant’s hands. Outside Lowell’s office and across the adjacent conference room, two receptionists answered the phones and put together his schedule. William, on the other hand, sat right outside Lowell’s door. By title, he was Lowell’s “confidential assistant,” which meant he had security clearance to deal with the most important professional issues—and, after three years with Lowell, the personal ones as well.

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s Watergate,” William said.

Lowell forced a laugh. He was trying to keep it light, but the red folder already told him this was only getting worse. Red meant FBI.

“The fingerprints belong to Robert Franklin of Hoboken, New Jersey,” William began, reading from the folder.

Lowell made a face, wondering if the name Janos was fake. “So he’s got a record?” he asked.

“Nosiree.”

“Then how’d they have his fingerprints?”

“They got ’em internally.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Their staffing unit. Personnel,” William explained. “Apparently, this guy applied for a job a few years back.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nosiree. He applied.”

“At the FBI?”

“At the FBI,” William confirmed.

“So why didn’t they hire him?”

“They’re not saying. That one’s too high up for me. But when I begged for a hint, my buddy over there said they thought the application was sour.”

“They thought he was trying to infiltrate? On his own, or as a hired gun?”

“Does it matter?”

“We should run him outside the system—see if he—”

“Whattya think I’ve been doing for the last hour?”

Lowell forced another grin, gripping the armrests of his leather chair and fighting to keep himself from standing. They’d worked together long enough that William knew what the grip meant. “Just tell me what you found,” Lowell insisted.

“I ran it through a few of our foreign connections . . . and according to their system, the prints belong to someone named Martin Janos, a.k.a. Janos Szasz, a.k.a. . . .”

“Robert Franklin,” Lowell said.

“And Bingo was his name-o. One and the same.”

“So why’d they have his prints over there?”

“Oh, boss-man, that’s the cherry on top. He used to work at Five.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Martin Janos—or whatever his real name is—he used to be MI-5. Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.”

Lowell closed his eyes, trying to remember Janos’s voice. If he was British, the accent was long gone. Or well hidden.

“When he joined, he was barely a kid—just out of college,” William added. “Apparently, he had a sister who was killed in a car bomb. That got him sufficiently riled up. They brought him in as a straight recruit.”

“So no military background?”

“If there is, they’re not saying.”

“He couldn’t have been too high on the totem pole.”

“Just an analyst in the Forward Planning Directorate. Sounds to me like he was staring at a computer, stapling lots of papers together. Whatever it was, he spent two years there, then was fired.”

“Any reason why?”

“Insubordination, surprise surprise. They put him on a job; he refused to do it. When one of his superiors got in his face about it, the argument got a little heated, at which point young Janos picked up a nearby stapler and started beating him with it.”

“Wound a little tight, isn’t he?”

“The smartest ones always are,” William said. “Though it sounds to me like he was a powder keg to begin with. Once he leaves, he goes out on his own, finds some work for the highest bidder . . .”

“Now he’s back in business,” Lowell agrees.

“Certainly a possibility,” William said as his voice trailed off.

“What?” Lowell asked.

“Nothing—it’s just . . . after Her Majesty’s Service, Janos is gone for almost five years, reappears one day over here, applies to the FBI under a new ID, gets rejected for trying to infiltrate, then steps back into the abyss, never to be heard from again—that is, until a few days ago, when he apparently uses all his hard-trained skills to . . . uh . . . to smash the side window on your car.”

Letting the silence take hold, William stared hard at his boss. Lowell stared right back. The phone on his desk started to ring. Lowell didn’t pick it up. And the longer he studied his assistant, the more he realized this wasn’t an argument. It was an offer.

“Sir, if there’s anything you need me to—”

“I appreciate it, William. I truly do. But before I get you knee-deep in this, let’s just see what else we can find.”

“But I can—”

“Believe me, you’re invaluable to the case, William—I won’t forget it. Now let’s just keep hunting.”

“Absolutely, sir,” William said with a grin. “That’s what I’m working on right now.”

“Any leads worth talking about?”

“Just one,” William said, pointing down to the folder, where a fax from the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network poked out from the top. “I ran all of Janos’s identities through the guys at FinCEN. They came up with an offshore account that bounces back through Antigua.”

“I thought we couldn’t get to those . . .”

“Yeah, well, since 9-11, some countries have been a little more cooperative than others—especially when you say you’re calling from the Attorney General’s office.”

Now Lowell was the one who was grinning.

“According to them, the account has four million dollars’ worth of transfers from something called the Wendell Group. So far, all we know is, it’s a shelf company with a fake board of directors.”

“Think you can trace ownership?”

“That’s the goal,” William said. “It’ll take some peeking in the right places, but I’ve seen these guys work before . . . If I gave them your last name, they’d find the twelve-dollar savings account your mom opened for you when you were six.”

“Then we’re in good hands?”

“Let me put it like this, sir—you can go get coffee and some McDonaldland Cookies. By the time you come back, we’ll have Wendell—or whoever they are—sitting in your lap.”

“I still appreciate what you’re doing,” Lowell said, holding his glance tight on his assistant. “I owe you for this.”

“You don’t owe me a Canadian penny,” William said. “It all goes back to what you taught me on day one: Don’t fuck with the Justice Department.”

64

T
HIS IS IT?
” Viv asks, craning her neck skyward and stepping out of the cab in downtown Arlington, Virginia. “I was expecting a huge science compound.”

Dead ahead, a twelve-story modern office building towers over us as hundreds of commuters pour out of the nearby Ballston Metro Station and scurry past the surrounding coffee shops and trendy eateries that are about as edgy as suburbia gets. The building is no bigger than the others around it, but the three words carved into the salmon-colored stone facade immediately make it stand out from everything else:
National Science Foundation.

Approaching the front entrance, I pull open one of the heavy glass doors and check the street one last time. If Janos were here, he wouldn’t let us get inside—but that doesn’t mean he’s not close.

“Morning, dear—how can I help you today?” a woman wearing a lime green sweater set asks from behind a round reception desk. On our right, there’s a squatty black security guard whose eyes linger on us a few seconds too long.

“Yeah . . . we’re here to see Doctor Minsky,” I say, trying to stay focused on the receptionist. “We have an appointment. Congressman Cordell . . .” I add, using the name of Matthew’s boss.

“Good,” the woman says as if she’s actually happy for us. “Photo IDs, please?”

Viv shoots me a look. We’ve been trying to avoid using our real names.

“No worries, Teri, they’re with me,” a peppy female voice interrupts.

Back by the elevators, a tall woman in a designer suit waves at us like we’re old friends.

“Marilyn Freitas—from the director’s office,” she announces, pumping my hand and smiling with a game show grin. The ID badge around her neck tells me why:
Director of Legislative and Public Affairs.
This isn’t a secretary. They’re already pulling out the big guns—and while I’ve never seen this woman in my life, I know this tap dance. The National Science Foundation gets over five billion dollars annually from the Appropriations Committee. If I’m bringing one of their appropriators here, they’re gonna roll out the brightest red carpet they can find. That’s why I used Matthew’s boss’s name instead of my own.

“So is the Congressman here?” she asks, smile still in place.

I look back through the glass door. She thinks I’m searching for my boss. I’m actually checking for Janos. “He should be joining us shortly—though he said we should start without him,” I explain. “Just in case.”

Her smile sinks a bit, but not by much. Even if she’d rather see the Congressman, she’s smart enough to know the importance of staff. “Whenever he gets here is good by us,” she says as she leads us back to the elevators. “Oh, and by the way,” she adds, “welcome to the NSF.”

As the elevator rises to the tenth floor, my mind bounces back to yesterday’s elevator ride: the cage pounding against the walls as the water rained down on our mud-coated helmets. Leaning back against the polished brass railing, I toss a thin smile at Viv. She ignores it, keeping her eyes on the red digital numbers that mark our ascent. She’s done being friends. She wants out.

“So I understand you’re here to talk to Dr. Minsky about neutrinos,” Marilyn says, hoping to keep the conversation going.

I nod. Viv nibbles. “Everyone said he’s the expert,” she says, trying not to make it sound like a question.

“Oh, he is,” Marilyn replies. “That’s where he got his start—subatomic. Even his early work on leptons . . . sure, it may seem basic now, but back then, it set the standard.”

We both nod as if she’s talking about the
TV Guide
crossword puzzle.

“So he does his research right here?” Viv adds.

The woman lets out the kind of laugh that usually comes with a pat on the head. “I’m sure Dr. Minsky would love to get back in the lab,” she explains. “But that’s no longer part of the job description. Up here, we’re primarily concerned with the funding side.”

It’s a fair description but a complete understatement. They’re not just
concerned
with the funding side; they control it. Last year, the National Science Foundation funded over two thousand studies and research facilities across the globe. As a result, they have a hand in just about every major science experiment in the world—from a radio telescope that can see the evolution of the universe, to a climate theory that’ll help us control the weather. If you can dream it up, the NSF will consider giving it financial support.

“And here we are,” Marilyn announces as the elevator doors glide open.

On our left, silver letters emblazoned on the wall read:
Directorate for Mathematical and Physical Sciences.
The sign’s so big, there’s barely room for the NSF logo, but that’s what happens when you’re the largest of the NSF’s eleven divisions.

Leading us past another reception desk and around the corner to a sitting area that has all the charm of a hospital waiting room, she doesn’t say another word. On our left and right, the walls are covered with science posters: one with a row of satellite dishes lined up under a rainbow, another with a shot of the Pinwheel Galaxy from the Kitt Peak National Observatory. Both are meant to calm anxious visitors. Neither one does much of a job.

Over my shoulder, the elevator doors open in the distance. I spin around to see who’s there. If we can find the premier neutrino expert in the country, so can Janos. Back by the elevators, a man with thick glasses and a rumpled sweater steps into the hall. From the way he’s dressed, it’s clear he’s just a local.

Reading my relief, Viv turns back toward the waiting area, which is surrounded by half a dozen closed doors. All are numbered
1005.
The one directly in front of us has the additional label
.09.
Only the National Science Foundation assigns rooms with a decimal designation.

“Doctor Minsky?” Marilyn calls out, knocking lightly and turning the knob.

As the door slowly opens, a distinguished older man with puffy cheeks is already out of his seat, shaking my hand and looking over my shoulder. He’s searching for Cordell.

“The Congressman should be here shortly,” Marilyn explains.

“He said we should start without him,” I add.

“Perfect . . . perfection,” he replies, finally making eye contact. Studying me with smoky gray eyes, Minsky scratches slightly at the side of his beard, which, like his wispy, thin hair, is more salt than pepper. I try to smile, but his stare continues to bear down on me. That’s why I hate meeting with academics. Social skills are always slightly off.

“I’ve never met you before,” he finally blurts.

“Andy Defresne,” I say, introducing myself. “And this is—”

“Catherine,” Viv says, refusing my aid.

“One of our interns,” I jump in, guaranteeing that he’ll never look twice at her.

“Dr. Arnold Minsky,” he says, shaking Viv’s hand. “My cat’s name was Catherine.”

Viv nods as pleasantly as possible, checking out the rest of his office in an attempt to avoid further conversation.

He’s got an upholstered sofa, a matching set of end chairs, and an outstanding view of downtown Arlington outside the plate-glass windows that line the entire right side of his office. Forever the academic, Minsky goes straight to his desk, which is covered with meticulous size-order stacks of papers, books, and magazine articles. Like his work, every molecule is accounted for. As I take the seat directly across from him, Viv slides into the chair that’s next to the window. It’s got a perfect view of the busy street out front. She’s already searching for Janos.

I check the walls, hunting for anything else that’ll give me a read. To my surprise, unlike the usual D.C. ego shrine, Minsky’s walls aren’t covered with diplomas, famous-person photos, or even a single framed newspaper clipping. That’s not the commodity here. He’s done proving he belongs.

Still, every universe has its own currency. The walls on both sides of Minsky’s desk are covered with built-in bookcases, floor to ceiling, filled with hundreds of books and academic texts. The spines are all worn, which I quickly realize is the point. In Congress, the golden ring is fame and stature. In science, it’s knowledge.

“Who’s that with you in the photo?” Viv asks, pointing to a tasteful silver frame of Minsky standing next to an older man with curly hair and a quizzical expression.

“Murray Gell-Mann,” Minsky says. “The Nobel Prize winner . . .”

I roll my tongue inside my cheek. Stature plays everywhere.

“So what can I help you with today?” Minsky asks.

“Actually,” I say, “we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about neutrinos . . .”