Zero Game (37 page)

She thinks about it a moment. A week ago, like any other page, she would’ve said there were bigger things to do with my life. Now we both know better. Her smile is huge. “Actually, that sounds perfect.”

“Thank you, Viv.”

“Though you know those kids’ll eat you alive.”

I grin. “I hope so.”

“Miss Parker . . . !” her lawyer bellows for the last time.

“Be right there . . . Listen, I should run,” she tells me, offering a quick hug. As she wraps her arms around me, I can feel her ice pack on my back. She squeezes so tight, my arm starts to hurt. It doesn’t matter. The hug’s worth every second.

“Knock ’em dead, Viv.”

“Who, my parents?”

“No . . . the world.”

She pulls away with that same toothy grin she had when we first met.

“Y’know, Harris . . . when you originally asked me for help . . . I had such a crush on you.”

“And now?”

“Now . . . I don’t know,” she teases. “I kinda think I should get a suit that fits.” Walking backwards up the hallway, she adds, “Meanwhile, know what the best part of being a teacher is?”

“What?”

“The annual class trip to Washington.”

This time, I’m the one with the toothy grin.

“Y’like that, don’t you, King Midas?” she adds.

Turning around, she puts her back to me and heads for her lawyer. “I’m serious about that chief of staff job, Harold,” she calls out as her voice echoes down the long hallway. “Only eighteen years until I reach the age requirement. I’ll expect you there bright and early.”

“Whatever you say, Madame President. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

83

London

H
AVE A NICE EVENING,
Mr. Sauls,” the driver said as he opened the back door of the black Jaguar and held an umbrella over his boss’s head.

“You, too, Ethan,” Sauls replied, climbing out of the car and heading to the front door of the exclusive six-story apartment building on central London’s Park Lane. Inside, a doorman behind a burled-walnut welcoming desk waved hello and handed Sauls a short stack of mail. Getting on the elevator, Sauls spent the rest of the ride flipping through the usual assortment of bills and solicitations.

By the time he stepped into his well-appointed apartment, he’d already picked through the junk mail, which he quickly tossed in a ceramic trashcan just beside the antique leather-top secretary where he threw his keys. Heading over to the hall closet, he hung his gray cashmere overcoat on a cherry-wood hanger. Passing through the living room, he flipped a switch, and recessed lights glowed to life above the built-in bookcases that lined the left side of the room.

Eventually making his way to the kitchen and breakfast nook that overlooked Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park, Sauls went straight for the shiny, black-paneled refrigerator, where he could see his own reflection in the door as he approached. Grabbing a glass from the counter, he pulled the fridge open and poured himself some cranberry juice. As the door slapped shut, he was once again staring at his own reflection in the refrigerator door—but this time, there was someone standing behind him.

“Nice address,” Janos said.

“Nnnnuh!” Sauls blurted, spinning around so fast he almost dropped his glass.

“Don’t scare me like that!” Sauls shouted, clutching his chest and setting the glass on the counter. “God . . . I thought you were dead!”

“Why would you think that?” Janos asked as he stepped in closer, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his black overcoat, the other clenching the brushed-metal tip of an aluminum cane. He lifted his chin a bit, highlighting the cuts and bruises along his face—especially where the bones were crushed in his cheek. His left eye was cherry bloodshot, a fresh scar was stitched across his chin, and his left femur was shattered into so many pieces, they had to insert a titanium rod into his leg to stabilize the bones and keep the muscles and ligaments from being a flaccid sack of blood and tissue. Three inches down, the only things holding his knee together were the Erector Set pins that ran through his skin and straight into the fragments of bone. The fall was worse than he’d ever let on.

“I’ve been trying to contact you—there’s been no answer for a week,” Sauls said, stepping backwards. “Do you even know what’s going on? The FBI seized it all . . . They took every last thing from the mine.”

“I know. I read the papers,” Janos said, limping forward. “By the way, since when’d you get a private driver?”

“What’re you—? You followed me?” Sauls asked, backing up even further.

“Don’t be paranoid, Sauls. Some things you can spot from your bedroom window—like my car that’s parked in front. Did you see it out there? The iris blue MGB . . .”

“What do you want, Janos?”

“. . . model year 1965—first year they changed to the push- button door handles. Hard to shift with the nails in my leg, but really a beautiful car . . .”

“If it’s money, we paid you just like we said . . .”

“. . . unlike that old Spitfire I used to have, this baby’s reliable . . . dependable . . .”

“You did get the money, didn’t you?”

“. . . some might even say
trustworthy.
”

Backed up against the kitchen counter, Sauls stopped.

One hand still in his pocket, Janos fixed his eyes on his partner. “You lied to me, Marcus.”

“I-I didn’t! I swear!” Sauls insisted.

“That’s another lie.”

“You don’t understand . . .”

“Answer the question,” Janos warned. “Was it Yemen, or not?”

“It’s not how you think . . . When we started—”

“When we started, you told me Wendell was a private company with no government ties.”

“Please, Janos—you knew what we were doing down there . . . We never hid—”

“A private company with no ties, Marcus!”

“It’s the same result either way!”

“No, it’s not! One’s speculation; the other’s suicide! You have any idea how long they’ll hunt us for this? Now who signed the damned check—was it Yemen or not?”

“Janos . . .”

“Was it Yemen or not?”

“Just please calm down and—”

Janos pulled out a gun from his pocket and shoved it against Sauls’s forehead. He pressed it forward, digging the barrel against his skin. “Was. It. Yemen. Or. Not?”

“P-Please, don’t . . .” Sauls begged, the tears already welling up in his eyes.

Janos pulled back the hammer on the gun and put his finger on the trigger. He was done asking questions.

“Yemen!” Sauls stuttered, his face scrunched up as he shut his eyes. “It was Yemen . . . Please don’t kill me . . . !”

Without a word, Janos lowered the gun, sliding it back in his pocket.

As the gun left his forehead, Sauls opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, Janos . . . I’m so sorry . . .” he continued to beg.

“Catch your breath,” Janos demanded, handing Sauls the glass of cranberry juice.

Sauls desperately downed the drink, but it didn’t bring the calm he was searching for. His hands were trembling as he lowered the glass, which clinked against the counter.

Shaking his head, Janos pivoted on his good leg and turned to leave. “Good-bye, Sauls,” he said as he made his way out of the kitchen.

“S-So you’re not gonna kill me?” Sauls asked, forcing a petrified smile.

Janos turned and held him with a midnight stare. “Who said that?”

A long, pregnant pause passed between the two men. Then Sauls started to cough. Slightly at first. Then harder. Within seconds, his throat exploded with a wet, hacking wheeze. It was like a backfire from an old car. Sauls grasped at his neck. It felt like his windpipe had collapsed.

Janos stared at the empty glass of cranberry juice and didn’t say a thing.

Between coughs, Sauls could barely get the words out. “You little motherf—”

Again, Janos just stood there. At this point, a black-box- induced heart attack was too much of a calling card. A temporarily swollen windpipe, however, was just another choking accident in the kitchen.

Clawing at his own throat, then clutching at the counter to stand up, Sauls fell to his knees. The juice glass shattered across the black and white floor. Janos left before the convulsions started.

It was time for a vacation anyway.

Epilogue

S
TARING THROUGH THE
glass partition at D.C.’s Central Detention Facility, I can’t help but listen to the one-way conversations around me.
Rosemary’s doing fine . . . Don’t worry, he’s not gonna use your car . . . Soon, they said soon, sweetie . . .
Unlike the movies, the visitors’ hall here doesn’t have walled-off partitions on my right and left for extra privacy. This is D.C. Jail on a D.C. budget—no perks allowed. The result is a chorus of chattering voices, each one attempting to keep it low, but pitched loud enough so they can hear themselves over all the noise. Add the unnatural hum of the prisoners’ voices as they seep through the glass, and we’ve got all the makings of a giant, enclosed phone booth. The only good news is, the people in the orange jumpsuits are on the other side of the glass.

“Here he comes,” the guard by the door calls out to me.

As he says the words, every visitor in the room, from the black woman with blond hair to the well-dressed man holding the Bible in his lap, imperceptibly turns their head to the left. This is still Washington, D.C. They all want to know if it’s someone worth looking at. To me, it is.

With both his arms and legs in shackles, Barry shuffles forward, his cane replaced by the guard who holds his biceps and guides him toward the orange plastic seat across from me.

“Who?”
Barry asks as I read his lips.

His guard mouths my name.

The moment Barry hears it, he pauses, then quickly covers it up with a perfect grin. It’s a classic lobbying trick—pretend you’re happy to see everyone. Even when you can’t see.

The guard lowers Barry into the seat and hands him the receiver that’s hanging on the glass. Around his wrist, there’s a nametag that looks like a hospital bracelet. There’re no shoelaces in his sneakers. Barry doesn’t seem to be bothered by any of it. Crossing one leg over the other, he tugs on the pant leg of his orange jumpsuit like it’s his regular two-thousand-dollar suit.

“Pick up,” the guard yells through the glass, motioning for me to grab the receiver.

An ocean of acid churns through my stomach as I lift the chipped receiver to my ear. I’ve been waiting two weeks for this call, but it doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.

“Hey,” I whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Man, you sound like crap,” Barry sings back, already trying to act like he’s inside my brain. He tilts his head as if he can see my every expression. “Really, though—like someone kicked you in the face.”

“Someone did,” I say, staring straight at him.

“Is that all you’re here for?” he asks. “One last potshot?”

I continue to stay silent.

“I don’t even know how you can complain,” he adds. “You seen a newspaper recently? The way the press is reading it, you’re coming through just fine.”

“That’ll change when the gambling part gets released.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. Sure, you won’t get another government job—and you’ll probably be a pariah for a few years, but that’ll pass.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” I volley back, trying to keep him engaged. Anything to keep him talking.

“What about Senator Stevens?” Barry asks. “He feeling the regret yet for giving you the boot?”

“He didn’t have a choice.”

“Spoken like a true staffer,” Barry says.

“You telling me I’m wrong?”

“You’re definitely wrong. He knew you’d make a deal with the government—that’s all the cover he needed. Instead, you spend over a decade slaving away for the man, and he drop-kicks you when you need him most? Know how bad that looks for him? Mark it right now—that’s gonna cost him reelection.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“As I said, spoken like a true staffer.”

“Ex-staffer,” I shoot back.

“Don’t bitch to me,” Barry says. “I mean, look at it this way . . . at least you have your shoelaces.” He twirls the ankle that’s up on his knee. He’s trying to play it cool, but back by his waist, he’s picking at his wristband.

“By the way, did you see the piece in today’s
Post
?” he adds. He smiles wider, but he’s scratching even harder at the wristband. There’s only so long he can wear the brave face. “They actually called me a
terrorist.
”

I once again stay quiet. He’s definitely taking the public fall. Even though Lowell’s office was able to find Sauls’s name and trace it back to Wendell, it took weeks to prove what really went on. Today, with Sauls dead and Janos missing, they need a neck for the noose—and right now, Barry’s it.

“I heard you hired Richie Rubin. He’s a good lawyer,” I point out.

He smells the small talk a mile away—he used to be in the business of it. Now he’s annoyed. The smile disappears fast.

“What do you want, Harris?”

There we go . . . a full two minutes to get back to reality. The man’s no dummy. He knows how I feel—I wouldn’t piss down his throat if his lungs were on fire. If I’m sitting here, I need something.

“Let me guess,” Barry says. “You’re dying to know why I did it . . .”

“I know why you did it,” I shoot back. “When you have no loyalty, and you’re so damn paranoid, you think the world’s against you—”

“The world
is
against me!” he shouts, leaning toward the glass. “Look where I’m sitting! You’re telling me I’m wrong?!”

I shake my head, refusing to get into it. Whatever perceived slights he thinks he’s the victim of, they’ve clearly whittled away at his reality.

“Don’t judge me, Harris. Not all of us are lucky enough to lead your charmed life.”

“So now it’s my fault?”

“I asked you for help over the years. You never gave it. Not once.”

“So
I
made you do all this?”

“Just tell me why you’re here. If it’s not me, and it’s not to catch up—”

“Pasternak,” I blurt.

A wide smile creeps up his cheeks. Sitting back in his seat, Barry crosses his arms and tucks the receiver between his chin and shoulder. Like he’s putting the Barry mask back on. He’s no longer fidgeting with his wristband. “It’s gnawing at you, isn’t it?” he asks. “You and I . . . we always had the competitive friendship. But you and Pasternak . . . ? He was supposed to be your mentor. The one person you turned to when you had an emergency and had to break the glass. Is that what’s got you tossing and turning all night—wondering how your personal radar could be so completely wrong?”

“I just want to know why he did it.”

“Of course you do. Sauls bit his bullet . . . I’m on my way to biting mine . . . but Pasternak—that’s the one that’ll frustrate you the rest of your life. You don’t get to punch him, or yell at him, or have the big final confrontation scene with the bittersweet ending. It’s the curse of being an overachiever—you can’t handle a problem that can’t be solved.”

“I don’t need it solved; I just want an answer.”

“Same difference, Harris. The thing is, if you expect me to suddenly scratch your back . . . well . . . you know how the cliché goes . . .”

Forever the lobbyist, Barry makes his point clear without ever saying the actual words. He’s not giving any info unless he gets something in return. God, I hate this town.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Nothing now,” he replies. “Let’s just say you owe me one.”

Even in an orange jumpsuit and behind six inches of glass, Barry still needs to believe he has the upper hand.

“Fine. I owe you one,” I tell him. “Now what about Pasternak?”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he knew who was really driving the train. Sure, he took advantage of you with the game, but that was just to get the mining request in the bill.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? It was an unimportant request for a defunct gold mine in South Dakota. He knew Matthew would never say yes to it—not unless he had a good enough reason,” Barry says. “From there, Pasternak just took the game and put in the fix.”

“So Pasternak was one of the dungeon-masters?”

“The what?”

“The dungeon-masters—the guys who pick the bets and collect the cash. Is that how the mine request got in the game? He was one of the guys who ran it?”

“How else would it get there?” Barry asks.

“I don’t know . . . it just . . . all those months we were playing . . . all the people we were betting against—Pasternak was always trying to figure out who else was in on it. When the taxi receipt would come in, he’d go through each one, hoping to read handwritings. He even made a list of people who were working on particular issues . . . But if he was a dungeon-master . . .” I cut myself off as the consequences sink in.

Barry cocks his head to the side. His cloudy eye’s staring straight at me; his glass eye’s off to the left. Out of nowhere, he starts to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“What? If he were a dungeon-master, wouldn’t he know all the other players?”

Barry stops laughing, realizing I’m not in on the joke. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Be honest, Harris—you haven’t figured it out?”

I try my best to act informed. “Of course—I got most of it . . . Which part are you talking about?”

His foggy eye looks right at me. “There is no game. There never was one.” His eye doesn’t move. “I mean, you know it was all bullshit, right? Smoke and mirrors.”

As his words creep through the receiver and into my ear, my whole body goes numb. The world feels like my personal gravity’s just doubled. Sinking down—almost through—the seat of my orange plastic chair, I weigh a thousand pounds.

“What a punchline, huh?” Barry asks. “I almost fell over when they first told me. Can you imagine—all this time spent looking at coworkers, trying to figure out who else is placing bets, and the only people actually playing the game are you and Matthew?”

“Two minutes,” the guard behind Barry announces.

“It’s brilliant when you think about it,” Barry adds. “Pasternak talks it up; you believe him because you trust him . . . then they send in a few pages, fill out some taxi receipts, and you guys think you’re in on the biggest secret Capitol Hill has to offer. It’s like those flight simulator rides at Disney World, where they show the movie on-screen and shake your car a bit—you think you’re flying up and down a roller coaster, but you really haven’t moved an inch.”

I force a laugh, my body still frozen.

“Man, just the thought of it,” Barry adds, his voice picking up steam. “Dozens of staffers placing bets on unimportant legislation without anyone knowing? Please, what a dream—like anyone here could even keep their mouth shut for longer than ten seconds,” he teases. “Gotta give Pasternak his credit, though. You thought you were playing a great joke on the system, and the entire time, he’s playing the joke on you.”

“Yeah . . . no . . . it’s definitely amazing.”

“It was humming like clockwork, too—until everything with Matthew. Once that happened, Pasternak wanted out. I mean, he may’ve signed up to convince you—that’s part of any lobbyist’s job—but he didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“That’s . . . That’s not what I heard,” I bluff.

“Then you heard wrong. The only reason he put this together was for the exact same reason anyone does anything in this town: Ever have a small country for a client? Small countries bring in small fortunes, which small businesses are in desperate need of—especially when billings are down thirty-six percent this year alone. After the first year of failing to get the gold mine transferred, Pasternak eventually decided to go with the more inventive backdoor. Say hello to the Game—the most harmless way ever to sneak an earmark into a bill. But then Matthew got curious, and Janos came in, and, well . . . that’s when the train jackknifed off the tracks . . .”

The guard looks over at us.

We’re almost out of time, but Barry doesn’t show the slightest sign of slowing down. After all this time in jail, he’s finally having fun.

“You gotta love the name, too—the Zero Game—so melodramatic. But it
is
true: In any equation, when you multiply by zero, you always wind up with nothing, right?”

I nod, dumbfounded.

“So who told you anyway?” he asks. “FBI, or did you figure it out yourself?”

“No . . . myself. I . . . uh . . . I got it myself.”

“Good for you, Harris. Good man.”

Stuck in my seat, I just sit there, looking at him. It’s like finding out a year of your life has been a staged production number. And I’m the only putz still in costume.

“Time,” the guard says.

Barry keeps talking. “I’m so glad you—”

“I said,
Time,
” the guard interrupts. He pulls the receiver from Barry’s ear, but I still hear his final thought.

“I knew you’d appreciate it, Harris! I knew it! Even Pasternak would be happy for that—!”

There’s a loud click in my ear as the guard slaps the phone in its cradle. He pinches the back of Barry’s neck and yanks him from his seat. Stumbling across the room, Barry heads back to the steel door.

But as I sit alone at the glass partition, staring through to the other side, there’s no question Barry has it right. Pasternak said it the first day he hired me. It’s the first rule of politics: The only time you get hurt is when you forget it’s all a game.