Zero Game (32 page)

71

N
EXT GROUP, PLEASE!
Next group!” the Capitol policeman calls out, waving us toward the visitor’s entrance on the west front of the Capitol. Shuffling behind the twenty-person group of high-schoolers armed with
Future President
baseball caps, Viv and I keep our heads down and our government IDs hidden beneath our shirts. On average, the west front handles four million visitors a year, making it a constant crowded mess of map- and camera-wielding tourists. Most days, staffers avoid it at all costs. That’s exactly why we’re here.

As the group shoves its way inside, I’m once again reminded that the Capitol is the only building in the world with no back—both the west front (overlooking the Mall) and the east front (overlooking the Supreme Court) claim to be the true front. Mostly, it’s because, with so many self-important people in one place, they all want to think their wonderful view is the best. Even the north side and south side get into the act, calling themselves the
Senate entrance
and
House entrance.
Four sides of a building, and not one of them is the back. Only in Congress.

Lost amid the tour groups, we’re in the one place where no one checks our ID or looks at us for more than a second. With this many people moving, all we can do is blend in.

“Put all cameras and phones on the X-ray,” one of the guards says to the group. It’s a simple request, but the students turn it into the final moments on the
Titanic.
Talking, bitching, moving—everything a fuss. As the kids make their usual scene, Viv and I slip through the metal detector without a second glance.

We stay with the group as they make their way under the grand domed ceiling of the rotunda and directly below to the Crypt, the circular room that now serves as an exhibition area for blueprints, drawings, and other historical Capitol documents. The guide explains that the rounded shape of the Crypt structurally supports not only the rotunda but also the Capitol dome directly above it. On cue, the entire group crane their necks up to the ceiling—and Viv and I slip out to the right, through the doorway next to the Samuel Adams statue. Racing down a wide set of sandstone stairs, I reach into my shirt and pull out the chain with my ID. Behind me, I can hear Viv’s jingling around her neck. From tourists to staffers in one minute or less.

“Narcs . . .” Viv whispers as we hit the bottom step. She motions to our far right. Up the hallway, two Capitol police are headed our way. They still don’t see us, but I’m not about to take a chance. Grabbing Viv’s wrist, I twist around the marble banister and tug her to the right, off the main hallway. A freestanding sign reads,
No Tours Beyond This Point.
I blow past it so fast, I almost knock it over. I’ve been back here before—it’s still open to staff. The hallway dead-ends at a black wrought-iron gate with a slight arch on top.

“Isn’t it amazing?” I ask Viv, shoving some pep in my voice.

“Incredible,” she says, following my lead. Behind the gate, under a rectangular glass case, a long black cloth is draped over what looks like a coffin. The plaque on our right, however, tells us it’s the wooden catafalque that supported the bodies of Lincoln, Kennedy, LBJ, and everyone else who has ever lain in state in the Capitol.

Over my shoulder, the click-clack of boots on the floor lets me know the Capitol cops are just about to pass. Trying to look like staffers but feeling like prisoners, Viv and I hold tight to the bars, staring into the tiny concrete cell. Located at the direct center of the Capitol, the small, dank room was originally designed to be a tomb for George and Martha Washington. Today, their bodies are at Mount Vernon, and this room is just for storing the catafalque. I shut my eyes. The Capitol police are getting closer. I try to stay focused, but even without Washington’s remains, this crouched little space still smells like death.

“Harris, they’re coming . . .” Viv whispers.

Back in the hallway, the footsteps are right behind us. One of them stops. There’s a crackle through his radio. Next to me, I can hear Viv praying.

“Yeah, we’ll be right there,” one of the cops says.

The footsteps pick up—there’s no doubt they’re getting closer—and then, just like that, they’re gone.

As usual, Viv’s first to react. Spinning around, she slowly checks back toward the hallway. “I think we’re okay,” she says. “Yeah . . . they left.”

Refusing to turn around, I still cling to the bars.

“Harris, we should hurry . . .”

I know she’s right—we’re almost there—but as I stare at the dark black shroud . . . watching it drape lifelessly over the almost hundred-and-fifty-year-old coffin stand . . . I can’t help but feel that, if we’re not careful, the next bodies around here are going to be our own.

“You sure this is the way?” Viv asks, running in front of me even though I’m supposed to be leading.

“Keep going,” I tell her as she follows the hallway to the right, weaving us even deeper through the sand-colored corridors of the concrete basement. Unlike the rest of the Capitol, the halls down here are narrow and cramped, a labyrinth of random turns that’s taken us past garbage rooms, paint storage, HVAC equipment, and every type of repair shop from electrical to plumbing to elevator care. Worst of all, the further we go, the more the ceiling seems to shrink, the headroom eaten up by air ducts, water pipes, and random wiring. When I used to bring Matthew down here, he would bitch because he’d have to duck to get around. Viv and I don’t have that problem.

“You swear this looks familiar?” Viv asks as the ceiling gets lower.

“Absolutely,” I tell her. I don’t blame her for being nervous. In the more heavily trafficked areas, there’re signs on the walls to make sure Members and staff don’t get lost. I glance up at the spider web of cracks along the walls. We haven’t seen a sign for at least three minutes. On top of that, as we go deeper, the hallway seems to fill up with stacks of discarded equipment: broken file cabinets, antique upholstered chairs, industrial-sized spools of cable wire, rolling garbage bins, even a stack of old rusted pipes.

We haven’t seen another human being since we passed the last sign for the elevator. Indeed, the only hint of life is the hum of machinery from the surrounding mechanical rooms. Viv’s still ahead of me, but with a final sharp right, she stops. I hear her shoes skid across the dusty floor. As I turn the corner behind her, the furniture and wiring and pipes are stacked higher than ever. It’s not hard to read her thoughts. Like any other bad neighborhood, the further we go, the less we should be walking alone.

“I really don’t think this is right,” she insists.

“You’re not supposed to.”

She thinks I’m being glib. I’m not.

Rushing forward, I pass half a dozen closed doors on my right and left. Most of them, like ninety percent of the doors throughout the Capitol, have a sign out front that tells you exactly what’s inside.
Electrical Substation. Senate Daily Digest.
Even one that says
Designated Smoking Area.
One is unmarked. That’s the one I go for—room ST-56, the nondescript, unlabeled door that’s halfway down the hall on my left.

“This is it?” Viv asks. “It looks like a broom closet.”

“Really?” I ask, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a set of keys. “How many broom closets do you know that have a double set of deadbolts?”

Stabbing the keys into their respective locks, I give the doorknob a sharp twist. The door is heavier than it looks—I have to put my entire shoulder against it to get it open. As it gives way, I jab the light switch with my fist and finally give Viv a good look at what’s inside.

The first thing she notices is the ceiling. Unlike the air-duct limbo stick they force you under in the hall, the ceiling inside rises up at least twenty feet over the long, spacious room. Against the warm burgundy walls, there’s a chocolate brown leather couch, flanked by matching Empire mahogany dressers. Above the couch, a collection of antique toy sailboats is mounted to the wall. Adding to the men’s-club feel, there’s also a twelve-foot fish—I’m guessing a marlin—up on the left-hand wall, a bag of golf clubs just inside the door, and on the right side of the room, an enormous 1898 nautical map of the Atlantic Coast from the Chesapeake Bay to the Jupiter Inlet.

Viv looks at the room for a total of thirty seconds. “Hideaway?” she asks.

I nod and grin.

Some people say there are no more secrets in Washington. It’s a nice, quotable statement. But it clearly comes from someone who doesn’t have a hideaway.

On the stepladders of power, some Members of Congress have great committee assignments. Others have great office space for their staff. A few get preferential parking right outside the Capitol. And a very few get personal drivers to make them look extra important. Then, there are those who have hideaways.

They’re the best-kept secret in the Capitol—private sanctuaries for a Senator to get away from staff, lobbyists, and the dreaded tour groups who want just-one-quick-photo-please-we-came-all-this-way. How private are they? Even the architect of the Capitol, who manages the entire building, doesn’t have a full list of who’s in each one. Most aren’t even on the floor plan, which is just how the Senators like it.

“So what does Stevens use this for?” Viv asks.

“Let me put it to you like this . . .” Over her shoulder, I point to the round light switch on the wall.

“A dimmer switch?” Viv asks, already disgusted.

“Had it installed his first week in here. Apparently, it’s a popular option—right after power windows and power brakes.”

She can tell I’m trying to keep things calm. It only makes her more nervous.

“So how do you know the Senator won’t come down here any minute?”

“He doesn’t use this one anymore—not since he got the one with the fireplace.”

“Wait . . . he has more than one hideaway?”

“C’mon, you really think they keep this stuff fair? When LBJ was majority leader, he had seven. This is just a spare these days. There’s no way he’d—”

My eyes stop on the hand-carved coffee table. A set of keys with a familiar key ring sits on top.

There’s a loud flush of a toilet. Viv and I spin left, back by the bathroom. The light’s on under the door. Then it goes black. Before either of us can run, the bathroom door swings open.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Lowell says, stepping out into the room. “Now do you want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into or not?”

72

W
HAT’RE YOU DOING?”
I ask, my voice already booming through the small room.

“Take it easy,” Viv says.

“Listen to her,” Lowell says, trying to sound concerned. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He nods at Viv, trying to make it look like she’s taking his side. He’s been Deputy Attorney General too long. All he’s got now are old tricks. He taught me that one the first year I worked for him in the Senator’s office.

“How’d you get in here?” I ask.

“Same as you. When I was chief of staff, they gave me a key.”

“You’re supposed to give it back when you leave.”

“Only if they ask for it,” Lowell says, pretending to be playful. Strike two. He may’ve been a great friend, but that disappeared the moment he sent me running out of that restaurant.

“I know what you’re thinking, Harris—but you don’t understand the position I was in. He threatened my family . . . came to my daughter’s playground . . . even smashed my head when I tipped you off that night,” he says, showing me the Band-Aid on the back of his head.

Now he’s going for sympathy. Strike three and he’s out. “Fuck you, Lowell! You understand me?
Fuck you!
The only reason Janos was there that night was because you
told him! You set it up!
”

“Harris, please . . .”

“So what’s the next dart you’ll jab in my neck? Did you tell him I’d be hiding here, too, or is that what you’re saving for dessert?”

“I swear to you, Harris—I’m not working with him.”

“Oh, and I’m supposed to believe you now?”

“Harris, let’s just go,” Viv says, grabbing my arm.

“Do you even realize how stupid it was to come here?” I ask. “You think Janos didn’t follow your every step?”

“If he did, he’d be standing here right now,” Lowell points out. It’s a fair point. “Now can’t you just listen for a second?” he begs.

“Whattya mean, like trust you? Sorry, Lowell, we’re all sold out of that this week!”

Realizing he’s getting nowhere, he studies Viv and sees his new target. “Young lady, can you . . . ?”

“Don’t talk to her, Lowell!”

“Harris, I’m fine,” Viv says.

“Stay away from her, Lowell! She’s not part of—” I cut myself off, fighting to stay in control.
Don’t lose it,
I tell myself. I bite the inside of my cheek just to kill the rage. We’re running out of time. I open the door and point Lowell toward it. “Good-bye, Lowell.”

“Can’t you just—?”

“Good-bye.”

“But I—”

“Get out, Lowell.
Now!
”

“Harris, I know who they are,” he finally blurts.

Watching him carefully, I check the pitch of his eyebrows and the anxious tilt of his neck. I’ve known Lowell Nash most of my professional life. No one’s that good a liar. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“I know about the Wendell Group . . . or whatever they call themselves. I had them put through the system. At first glance, they’re as solid as Sears—registered in Delaware, doing a furniture-importing business—but when you dig a little deeper, you see they’re a subsidiary of a corporation in Idaho, which has a partnership in Montana, which is part of a holding company that’s registered back in Antigua . . . The list kept going, layer upon layer, but the whole thing’s a front.”

“For the government, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“You could see it in the lab. Only a government would have that kind of cash.”

“What lab?” Lowell asks.

“In the mine.” From the look on his face, this is all brand-new. “In South Dakota . . . they’ve got an entire lab hidden in an old gold mine,” I explain. “You could tell from the machinery that the experiments—”

“They were building something?”

“That’s why we—”

“Tell me what they were building.”

“This is gonna sound nuts . . .”

“Just say it, Harris. What were they making?”

I look at Viv. She knows we don’t have a choice. If Lowell were in on it, he wouldn’t be asking the question.

“Plutonium,” I say. “We think they’re creating plutonium . . . from the atomic level up.”

Lowell stands there, frozen. His face goes pale. I’ve seen him nervous before, but never like this.

“We have to call someone . . .” he stutters. His arm flies into his jacket pocket, reaching for his cell phone.

“You can’t get a signal down here.”

Seeing I’m right, he scans the office. “Is there a . . . ?”

“On the dresser,” I say, pointing to the phone.

Lowell’s fingers pound across the digits, dialing his assistant. “William, it’s me . . . Yeah,” he says, pausing a moment. “Just listen. I need you to call the AG. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He again stops. “I don’t care. Pull him out of it.”

Lowell slams down the phone and races for the door.

“It still doesn’t make sense,” Viv calls out. “Why would the U.S. government build plutonium when we already have plenty? All it can do is get in the wrong hands . . .”

Lowell stops and turns. “What’d you say?”

“I-It doesn’t make—”

“After that.”

“Why would the U.S. government—?”

“What makes you think it’s
our
government?” Lowell asks.

“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.