Zero Game (12 page)

21

H
I, I’M HERE FOR
a pickup,” Viv announced as she stepped into room 2406 of the Rayburn Building, home office of Matthew’s former boss, Congressman Nelson Cordell from Arizona.

“Excuse me?” the young man behind the front desk asked with a Native American accent. He wore a denim shirt with a bolo tie that had a silver clasp with the Arizona state seal on it. Viv hadn’t seen it in the offices of the other Arizona Members. Good for Cordell, Viv thought. It was nice to see someone remembering where they were from.

“We got a call for a package pickup,” Viv explained. “This is 2406, right?”

“Yeah,” the young receptionist said, searching his desk for outgoing mail. “But I didn’t call for a page.”

“Well, someone did,” Viv said. “There was a package for the Floor.”

The young man stood up straight, and his bolo tie bounced against his chest. Everyone’s terrified of the boss—just like Harris said.

“You have a phone I can use?” Viv asked.

He pointed to the handset on the wrought-iron southwestern-style end table. “I’ll check in back and see if anyone else called it in.”

“Great . . . thanks,” Viv said as the young man disappeared through a door on the right. The instant he was gone, she picked up the phone and dialed the five-digit extension Harris had given her.

“This is Dinah,” a female voice answered. As Matthew’s office mate and head clerk for the House Appropriations Interior subcommittee, Dinah had incredible access and a staggering amount of power. More important, she had caller ID, which was why Harris said the call had to be made from here. Right now, the words
Hon.
Cordell
appeared on Dinah’s digital phone screen.

“Hey, Dinah,” Viv began, careful to keep her voice low and smooth, “this is Sandy over in the personal office. I’m sorry to bother you, but the Congressman wanted to take a look at some of Matthew’s project books, just to make sure he’s up to speed for Conference . . .”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Dinah blurted.

“Pardon?”

“It’s just . . . the information in there . . . It’s not smart to let that wander outside the office.”

Harris had warned her this might happen. That was why he gave her the ultimate comeback.

“The Congressman wants them,” Viv insisted.

There was a short pause on the other line. “I’ll get them ready,” Dinah eventually said.

Over Viv’s shoulder, the door on her right opened, and the young receptionist reentered the room.

“Great,” Viv stuttered. “I-I’ll send someone down to pick ’em up.”

Hanging up the phone, Viv turned back to the main reception desk. “Oops on me—wrong room,” Viv said to the receptionist as she headed for the door.

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “No harm done.”

Refusing to wait for the elevator, Viv ran down the four flights of stairs, eventually jumping down the last two steps and landing with a smack against the polished floor in the basement of the Rayburn Building. On average, a Senate page walked seven miles of hallway each day, picking up and delivering packages. On a typical day, those seven miles could take them from the hearing room where Nixon was impeached during Watergate, past the old Supreme Court chamber, where the Court first decided the
Dred Scott
case, to the west front of the Capitol, where every new President takes the oath of office, to the center of the enormous rotunda—underneath the vaulted majesty of the Capitol dome—where the bodies of both Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy once lay in state. Viv saw it every single day. But she hadn’t been this excited since her first day on the job.

Still unsure if it was thrill or fear, she didn’t let it slow her down. As her heart jabbed against her chest and she whipped around the corner of the ghostly white hallway, Viv Parker was done shuffling mail and finally doing what the page program had originally promised—making an actual difference in someone’s life.

Sliding to a stop in front of room B-308, she felt more than just her momentum come to a halt. This was still Matthew’s office—and if she wasn’t careful, she’d never be able to pull it off. As she reached out to grab the doorknob, she checked the hall, just as Harris had instructed. On her left, the door to a utility closet peeked open, but as far as she could tell, no one was inside. On her right, the hallway was empty.

Holding her breath, she twisted the brass knob, surprised by how cold it was. As she shoved her weight against the door, the first thing she heard was the ringing phone—on her left, past the Sioux quilt. Again, just like Harris said.

Following the ring, beyond the overflowing In and Out boxes on the edge of the desk, Viv turned the corner and was hit with a sudden sense of relief when she realized that the receptionist was black. Without a word, Roxanne glanced up at Viv, studied her ID, and gave her a slight, unmistakable nod. Viv had been on the receiving end of that one at least a dozen times before. From the cafeteria ladies . . . from one of the elevator operators . . . even from Congresswoman Peters.

“Whatcha need, doll?” Roxanne asked with a warm smile.

“Just here to pick up some briefing books.” When Harris first told Viv about this, she was worried that someone would wonder why a Senate page was making a pickup in the House. Roxanne didn’t even take a second glance. Forget what it says on the nametag—even to receptionists, a page is a page.

“Is Dinah . . . ?”

“Right through the door,” Roxanne said, pointing Viv toward the back.

Viv headed for the door, and Roxanne turned back to the current vote on C-SPAN. Viv couldn’t help but grin. On Capitol Hill, even the support staff were political junkies.

Picking up speed, Viv rushed forward and pushed her way inside.

“. . . so where are we now?” a male voice asked.

“I told you, we’re working on it,” Dinah replied. “He’s only been gone for two—”

The door swung into the wall, and Dinah cut herself off, abruptly turning toward Viv.

“Sorry,” Viv offered.

“Can I help you?” Dinah barked.

Before Viv could answer, the man in front of Dinah’s desk turned around, following the sound. Viv looked him straight in the eye, but something was off. He stared too high, like he was . . .

Viv spotted the white cane as the man rubbed his thumb against the handle. That’s why he seemed so familiar . . . She’d seen him tapping in the hallway, outside the Senate Chamber during votes.

“I said, can I help you?” Dinah repeated.

“Yeah,” Viv stuttered, pretending to study the stuffed ferret in the bookcase. “I was just . . . that ferret . . .”

“You here for the briefing books?” Dinah interrupted.

“I’m here for the briefing books.”

“On the chair,” Dinah said, pointing a finger toward the desk across from her own.

As quickly as she could, Viv wove across the carpet and slipped behind the desk, where she saw two enormous three-ring notebooks sitting in the chair. The spine of one was marked
A-L;
the other was
M-Z.
Pulling the chair out to lift the books, Viv noticed a pile of three picture frames stacked faceup on the center of the desk. Like someone was packing up . . . or someone was
being
packed up. The computer on the desk was off, even though it was the middle of the day. The diplomas that were once on the back wall were now leaning against the floor. Time froze as she bent toward the chair and her ID smacked against the edge of the desk.

She took another glance at the top photo, where a man with sandy-blond hair was standing in front of a sapphire blue lake. He was tall, with a thin neck that made him extra gawky. More noticeably, he stood so far to the left, he was almost out of the frame. As his open hand motioned to the lake, Matthew Mercer made it perfectly clear who he thought was the real star of the show. The smile on his face was pure pride. Viv had never met this man, but once she saw his photo, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Behind her, she felt a strong hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” Barry asked. “Need any help?”

Jerking away, Viv yanked the notebooks from the chair and stumbled around the other side of the desk, acting like the weight of the books was keeping her off balance. Within seconds, she steadied herself and took a last look at Matthew’s desk.

“Sorry about your friend,” she said.

“Thanks,” Dinah and Barry said simultaneously.

Forcing an awkward grin, Viv speed-walked to the door. Barry didn’t move, but his cloudy blue eyes followed her movements the entire way.

“Just make sure we get them back,” Dinah called out, readjusting her fanny pack. As Matthew’s office mate, she’d sat next to him for almost two years, but she was still head clerk for the committee. Those books were vital business.

“Will do,” Viv said. “Soon as the Congressman’s done, they’re all yours.”

22

W
HAT ABOUT HIS HOUSE?”
Sauls’s voice squawked through the cell phone.

“He’s got a loft on the outskirts of Adams Morgan,” Janos said, keeping his voice down as he turned the corner of the long, pristine marble hallway in the Russell Senate Office Building. He wasn’t running, but his pace was fast. Determined. Just like everyone around him. That was always the best way to disappear. “He doesn’t own the place, though—or much of anything else. No car, no stocks, nothing left in his bank account. I’m guessing he’s still paying off loans. Otherwise, he’s got nothing permanent.”

“Have you been to his place yet?”

“What do you think?” Janos shot back.

“So I take it he wasn’t there?”

Janos didn’t answer. He hated stupid questions. “Anything else you want to know?” he asked.

“Family and friends?”

“The boy’s smart.”

“That we know.”

“I don’t think you do. He’s been in Congress ten years. Know how ruthless that makes you? The boy’s a razor—he’s thought it through. Even though he’s well connected, the game alone keeps him from reaching out to coworkers . . . and after we tagged his buddy at the U.S. Attorney’s . . . I don’t think Harris gets fooled twice.”

“Bullshit. Everyone gets fooled twice. That’s why they keep reelecting their Presidents.”

Following the room numbers on the wall, Janos was again silent.

“You think I’m wrong?” Sauls asked.

“No,” Janos replied. “No one survives alone. There’s someone out there he trusts.”

“So you can find him?”

Stopping in front of room 427, Janos gripped the doorknob on the twelve-foot mahogany door and gave it a hard twist. “That’s my job,” he said as he clicked the End button on his phone and stuffed it into the pocket of his FBI windbreaker.

Inside, the office was exactly the same as last time he was here. Harris’s desk was untouched behind the glass divider, and Harris’s assistant still sat at the desk out front.

“Agent Graves,” Cheese called out as Janos stepped into Harris’s office. “What can I help you with today?”

23

D
URING MY VERY
first job interview on the Hill, a burned-out staff director with the worst case of Brillo hair I’d ever seen leaned across his desk and told me that at its core, Congress operated like a small town. Some days it was grumpy; others, it was riled up and ready to pick a fistfight with the world. As someone who grew up in a small town, the analogy hit home. Indeed, that’s the very reason I’m pacing back and forth across the storage room, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end of the line. As any small-town resident knows, if you want to get at the real secrets of a town, you have to visit the hall of records.

“Legislative Resource Center,” a woman with a matronly voice answers.

“Hi, I’m hoping you can help me out. I’m searching for some information on a lobbyist.”

“Let me transfer you to Gary.”

In small-town talk, the Legislative Resource Center is like sitting on the porch with the grumpy old lady whose house is across from the only motel. It’s not a sexy place to hang out, but when all is done and said, she knows exactly who’s screwing who.

“Gary Naftalis,” a man answers. His voice is dry, showing almost no emotion. “How can I assist?”

“Hey, Gary—I’m calling from Senator Stevens’s office. We’ve got a company that’s been calling us on this bill, and we’re trying to figure out which lobbyists they’re working with. You guys still do that?”

“Only if we want to keep the lobbyists honest, sir,” he laughs to himself.

It’s a bad joke, but a valid point. Every year, over seventeen thousand lobbyists descend on Capitol Hill, each one armed with a tommy gun of asks and special requests. Combine that with the boatloads of bills that’re submitted and voted on every day, and it’s overwhelming. As anyone on the Hill knows, there’s too much work for a staffer to be an expert on it all. So if you need some research? Call the lobbyists. Want some talking points? Call the lobbyists. Confused by what a specific amendment does? Call the lobbyists. It’s like buying drugs. If what they give you is good, you’ll keep coming back. And that’s how influence is peddled. Quietly, quickly, and without leaving fingerprints.

The thing is, right now I need those fingerprints.

If Pasternak was playing the game, other lobbyists played as well. Fortunately, all lobbyists are required to register with the Legislative Resource Center and list the names of their clients, which gives me the chance to see who’s working for Wendell Mining.

“Is it possible to just put in a particular company?” I ask.

“Sure, sir . . . all you have to do is come in and—”

“Can I ask you a huge favor?” I interrupt. “My Senator’s about to rip my head off and vomit down my windpipe . . . So if I gave you the name right now, would you mind looking it up for us? It’s just one company, Gary . . .”

I say his name for the final sell. He pauses, leaving me in silence.

“It’d really save my ass,” I add.

Again he gives me the pause. That’s what I hate about being on the phone . . .

“What’s the name of the company, sir?”

“Great . . . that’s great. Wendell Mining,” I tell him. “Wendell Mining.”

I hear the clicking of his keyboard, and I stop my pacing. Staring out below the dust-covered vertical blinds, I have a clear view of the narrow pathway and marble railing that run along the west front of the building. The morning sun’s beating down on the copper roof, but it pales to the heat I’m feeling right now. I wipe a puddle of sweat from the back of my neck and unbutton the top of my shirt. The suit and tie were enough to get me back in the building without a second glance, but if I don’t get some answers soon . . .

“Sorry,” Gary says. “They’re not coming up.”

“Whattya mean, they’re not coming up? I thought every lobbyist had to disclose their clients . . .”

“They do. But this time of year . . . we’re barely halfway through the pile.”

“What pile?”

“The disclosure forms—that the lobbyists fill out. We get over seventeen thousand forms each registration period. Know how long that takes to scan in and update our database?”

“Weeks?”

“Months. The deadline was just a few weeks ago in August, so we’ve still got a ton that aren’t in.”

“So it’s possible there’s a lobbyist working on their issue . . .”

“This is Congress, sir. Anything’s possible.”

I roll my tongue inside my cheek. I hate government humor.

“They add about seven hundred names to the database each day,” Gary continues. “Best bet is to just give us a call back later in the week, and we can check if it’s in there.”

I remember that this is the second year Wendell Mining made the request. “What about last year?” I ask.

“Like I said, nothing came up—which means they either didn’t have someone, or that person didn’t register.”

That part actually makes sense. When it comes to getting earmarks, the smaller companies try to do it by themselves. Then, when they fail, they get smart and cough up the beans for a pro. If Wendell had someone pulling for them, the name’ll eventually show up in this database. “Listen, I appreciate th—”

There’s a loud knock on the door. I go silent.

“Sir, are you there?” Gary asks through the receiver.

The person knocks again. This time to the tune of
shave-and-a-haircut.

“It’s me, you shut-in!” Viv calls out. “Open up!”

I leap for the door and undo the lock. The phone cord is pulled so far, it knocks over the stack of keyboards, which go crashing to the floor as the door swings open.

“Mission accomplished, Mr. Bond. What’s next?” Viv sings, cradling the two notebooks as if she were still in high school. That’s when it hits me. She
is
still in high school. Sliding inside, she whips past me with a frenetic new bounce in her step. I’ve seen the same thing on staffers the first day they get on the Senate Floor. Power rush.

Gary’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Sir, are you—?”

“I’m here . . . sorry,” I say, turning back to the phone. “Thanks for the help—I’ll give you a call next week.”

As I hang up, Viv dumps the notebooks across the desk. I was wrong before. I thought she was the girl who sits silently in the back of the class—and while that part’s true, I’m quickly starting to realize that she’s also the girl who, when she gets around people she knows, never shuts up.

“I guess you didn’t have any problems,” I say.

“You should’ve seen it! I was unstoppable—I’m telling you, it was like being in the
Matrix.
They’re all standing there dumbfounded, then I weave around in super-slow-mo . . . dodging their bullets . . . working my voodoo . . . Oh, they didn’t know what hit ’em!”

The jokes are coming too fast. I know a defense mechanism when I see one. She’s afraid. Even if she doesn’t know it.

“Viv . . .”

“You woulda been proud of me, Harris . . .”

“Did Dinah say anything?”

“You kidding? She was blinder than the blind guy . . .”

“The blind guy?”

“All I need now is a code name . . .”

“Barry was there?”

“. . . something cool, too—like Senate Grrl . . .”

“Viv . . .”

“. . . or Black Cat . . .”

“Viv!”

“. . . or . . . or Sweet Mocha. Howbout that? Sweet Mocha. Ooh, yeah, let’s get down to Viv-ness!”

“Dammit, Viv, shut up already!”

She stops midsyllable.

“You sure it was Barry?” I ask.

“I don’t know his name. He’s a blind guy with a cane and cloudy eyes . . .”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing—though he kept following me as I walked. I can’t . . . he was slightly off . . . but it’s like he was trying to prove—not that it matters—but trying to prove he wasn’t that blind, y’know?”

I lunge for the phone and dial his cell. No. I hang up and start again. Go through the operator. Especially now.

Five digits later, the Capitol operator transfers me to Matthew’s old office.

“Interior,” Roxanne answers.

“Hey, Roxanne, it’s Harris.”

“Harris . . . how are you?”

“Fine. Can you—”

“Y’know you’re in my prayers, sweetie. Everything with Matthew . . .”

“No . . . of course. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of an emergency. Is Barry still floating around back there?”

Viv waves for my attention, slowly moving toward the door. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers. “Just one more stop . . .”

“Wait,” I call out.

She doesn’t listen. She’s having too much fun to sit around for a scolding.

“Viv!”

The door slams, and she’s gone.

“Harris?” a voice asks in my ear. I’d know it anywhere. Barry.