Zero Game (31 page)

“Wait, so you’re saying when the neutrino collided with the chlorine atoms, they all changed to argon?” I ask.

“All? We should be so lucky . . . No, no, no—this was one little argon atom. One. Every four days. It’s an amazing moment—and completely random, God bless chaos. The neutrino hits, and right there, seventeen becomes eighteen . . . Jekyll becomes Hyde.”

“And this is happening right now in the air around us?” Viv asks. “I mean, didn’t you say neutrinos are everywhere?”

“You couldn’t possibly see the reactions with all the current interference. But when it’s isolated in an accelerator . . . and the accelerator is shielded deep enough below the ground . . . and you aim a beam of neutrinos just right . . . well, no one’s come close yet, but think about what would happen if you could control it. You pick the element you want to work with; you bump it one box to the right on the periodic table. If you could do that . . .”

My stomach twists. “. . . you could turn lead to gold.”

Minsky shakes his head—and then again starts laughing. “Gold?” he asks. “Why would you ever make gold?”

“I thought Midas . . .”

“Midas is a children’s story. Think of reality. Gold costs what? Three hundred . . . four hundred dollars an ounce? Go buy a necklace and a charm bracelet, I’m sure it’ll be very nice—nice and shortsighted.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Forget the mythology. If you truly had the power to transmute, you’d be a fool to make gold. In today’s world, there are far more valuable elements out there. For instance . . .” Minsky again stabs the periodic table with his paperclip. Atomic symbol
Np.

“That’s not nitrogen, is it?” I ask.

“Neptunium.”

“Neptunium?”

“Named after the planet Neptune,” Minsky explains, forever the teacher.

“What is it?” I ask, cutting him off.

“Ah, but you’re missing the point,” Minsky says. “The concern isn’t
what is it?
The concern is
what it could be . . .”
With one final jab, Minsky moves his paperclip to the nearest element on the right.

“Pu?”

“Plutonium,” Minsky says, his laugh long gone. “In today’s world, it’s arguably the most valuable element on the chart.” He looks up at us to make sure we get it. “Say hello to the new Midas touch.”

67

S
CRUBBING HIS HANDS
in the fourth-floor men’s room, Lowell stared diagonally down at the front page of the
Washington Post
Style section that lay flat across the tile floor and peeked out from the side of the closest stall. It was nothing new—every morning, a still-unidentified coworker started the day with the Style section, then left it behind for everyone else to share.

For Lowell, who usually never read anything but the newspaper clips his staff prepared, it was a ritual that stumbled headfirst across the fine line that separated convenience from bad hygiene. That’s why, even though the paper was right there, he never reached down to pick it up. Not once. He knew what others were doing when they read it. And where their hands had been.
Disgusting,
he’d long ago decided.

Of course, some things took precedence. Like checking the
Post
’s infamous gossip column,
The Reliable Source,
to make sure his name wasn’t in it. He’d meant to look this morning, but time got away from him. It had been barely three days since he last saw Harris. He’d counted at least four reporters in the restaurant that night. So far, everything was quiet, but any one of them could’ve tattled about the meeting between him and Harris. For that alone, it was worth taking a peek.

Using the tip of his shoe to pin down the top corner of the paper, Lowell slid the section out from under the stall. The back page was wet, making it stick slightly as he tried to pull it toward him. Lowell tried not to think about it, focusing instead on using the side of his foot to wedge open the front page. But just as he nudged his foot inside, the door to the bathroom swung open, smashing into the wall. Lowell spun around, pretending to be busy by the hand dryer. Behind him, his assistant darted inside, barely able to catch his breath.

“William, what’s—?”

“You need to read this,” he insisted, shoving the red file folder toward Lowell.

Watching his assistant carefully, Lowell wiped his hands against his slacks, reached for the folder, and flipped it open. It took a moment to scan the official cover sheet. Lowell’s eyes went wide—and within thirty seconds, the gossip column didn’t matter anymore.

68

H
OLD ON,”
I
SAY.
“You’re telling me people could smash some neutrinos against some . . .”

“Neptunium . . .” Minsky says.

“. . . neptunium, and suddenly create a batch of plutonium?”

“I’m not saying they’ve done it—at least not yet—but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was working along those lines . . . at least on paper.”

He’s speaking with the calmness of someone who thinks it’s still theoretical. Viv and I know better. We saw it with our own eyes. The sphere . . . the accelerator . . . even the tetrachloroethylene . . . That’s what Wendell’s building down there—that’s why they wanted to keep it so quiet. If word got out they were trying to create plutonium . . . there’s no way it’d make it through the process.

“But no one can do that yet, right?” Viv asks, trying to convince herself. “It’s not possible . . .”

“Don’t say that in these halls,” Minsky teases. “Theoretically, anything’s possible.”

“Forget whether it’s possible,” I say. “Assuming you could do it, how feasible is it to pull it off? Is neptunium even accessible, or is it just as hard to find?”

“Now that’s the vital question,” Minsky says, knighting me with his paperclip. “For the most part, it’s a rare earth metal, but neptunium-237 is a by-product from nuclear reactors. Here in the U.S., since we don’t reprocess our spent nuclear fuel, it’s hard to get your hands on. But in Europe and Asia, they reprocess massive amounts.”

“And that’s bad?” Viv asks.

“No, what’s bad is that global monitoring of neptunium only began in 1999. That leaves decades of neptunium unaccounted for. Who knows what happened during those years? Anybody could have it by now.”

“So it’s out there?”

“Absolutely,” Minsky says. “If you know where to look, there’s lots of unaccounted-for neptunium that’s there for the taking.”

As the consequences hit, I squirm in my seat, wiping my sweaty hands against the sides of the seat cushion. Minutes ago, I was pretending to be uncomfortable. I’m no longer faking it. Whatever branch of the government Wendell Mining really is, the news isn’t gonna be good.

“Can I just ask one question?” Viv says. “I heard what you said—I know it’s possible, and I realize you can get neptunium—but for one second, can we just talk about the likelihood? I mean, studying neutrinos—that’s a small field, right? There can only be a handful of people who are even capable of putting something like this together . . . So when you add that all up, and you look around the neutrino community, wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t you know if something like this were going on?”

Minsky again scratches at his beard. His social skills are too off to read Viv’s panic, but he understands the question. “Have you ever heard of Dr. James A. Yorke?” he finally asks. We both shake our heads. I can barely sit still. “He’s the father of chaos theory—even coined the term,” Minsky continues. “You’ve heard the metaphor, correct?—that a butterfly flapping its wings in Hong Kong can cause a hurricane in Florida? Well, as Yorke puts it, that means if there’s even one butterfly you don’t know about, it’s impossible to predict the weather on a long-term basis. One tiny butterfly. And, as the man says, there’ll
always
be one butterfly.”

The words collide like a sack of doorknobs. I talked Matthew into flapping his wings . . . and now Viv and I are swirling through the hurricane.

“It’s a big world out there,” Minsky adds, staying with Viv. “I can’t possibly account for everyone in my field. Does that make sense, Miss— I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“We should get going,” I say, hopping to my feet.

“I thought the Congressman was on his way?” Minsky asks as we head for the door.

“We’ve already got what we needed.”

“But the briefing . . .”

It’s amazing, really. We just dropped poorly hid hints about a government project that could create plutonium, and he’s still worried about face time. God, what’s wrong with this town? “I’ll be sure to tell him how helpful you were,” I add, whipping the door open and motioning Viv outside.

“Please send him my best,” Minsky calls out.

He says something else, but we’re already up the hallway, running for the elevators.

“So where’re we going?” Viv asks.

The one place Janos thinks we’ll never go. “The Capitol.”

69

I
DON’T UNDERSTAND,”
William said as he raced down the circular stairwell. “Where’re we going?”

“Where do you think?” Lowell asked, leading them past the sign for the first floor and continuing toward the basement.

“No, I mean
beyond
the parking garage. Where we going after that? Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

“Tell them what? That we know who really owns Wendell? That they’re not who they say they are? Sure, they’re linked to Janos, but until we get the rest, it doesn’t do us any good. There’s nothing to tell.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Not
us,
” Lowell said.
“Me.”
Leaping down the last few steps and shoving open the door to the basement, Lowell plowed into the parking garage. He didn’t have to go far. Deputy Attorney General gets a spot right in front. If he wanted, he could’ve been in his car within four seconds. But he still paused, searching to make sure Janos wasn’t waiting for him.

The silver Audi was empty.

With the push of a button, Lowell unlocked the car and slid inside.

“What’re you doing?” William asked as Lowell tried to shut the driver’s door.

“I’m going to see a friend,” Lowell said, starting the engine.

It wasn’t a lie. He’d known Harris for over ten years—since they both worked in Senator Stevens’s office. That was why Janos came to him in the first place.

He’d already tried Harris at work, at home, and on both his cell phones. If Harris was in hiding, there was only one place he’d be—the one place he knew best. And right now, finding Harris was the only way to get the rest of the story.

“Why don’t you at least bring some backup?” William asked.

“For what? So they can interrogate my friend? Trust me, I know how Harris thinks. We want him to talk, not panic.”

“But, sir . . .”

“Good-bye, William.” With a hard tug, Lowell slammed the door and punched the gas. The car peeled out of the spot. Refusing to overthink it, Lowell reminded himself who he was dealing with. If he showed up with armed agents at the Capitol—even forgetting the scene it would make—there’s no way Harris would ever go for that.

Switching on the radio, Lowell lost himself in the mental massage of talk radio. His grandmother used to love talk radio, and to this day, Lowell still used it to, in his grandmother’s words,
catch his calm
. As the car was filled with the top news stories, Lowell finally took a breath. For one full minute, he forgot about Harris, and Wendell, and the rest of the chaos circling through his head. But as a result, he missed the black sedan that was trailing a few hundred feet behind him as he pulled out of the parking garage and into the daylight.

70

T
RUST ME, I
know how Harris thinks. We want him to talk, not panic.”

“But, sir . . .”

“Good-bye, William.”

Tucked back among the rows of cars and hidden by nothing more than a nearby parking spot, Janos watched the exchange from the front seat of his black sedan. The crinkle in Lowell’s forehead . . . the desperation on his face . . . even the slant on his assistant’s shoulders. Lowell asked William to stay quiet, but he was still protesting. Janos narrowed his eyes, focusing intensely on William’s slouched shoulders. From this distance it was hard to get a read. The creases in his white, wrinkled button-down said he was still wearing his shirts twice to save cash. But his brand-new belt . . . Gucci . . . Mom and Dad bought that. The kid’s from cash—which means he’ll follow his boss’s directions.

“I told you Lowell wouldn’t sit still . . . he won’t focus on anyone but himself,” Barry said through the cell phone.

“Quiet,” Janos warned. He didn’t like talking to Barry—the paranoia was always too much, even if it was a perfect button to push. Still, he had to admit, Barry was right about Lowell.

In the distance, Lowell slammed the car door shut. His tires howled as he pulled out of his parking spot. For a few seconds, William lingered, craning his neck as he watched his boss disappear . . . then finally headed back toward the stairs.

With a twist of his wrist, Janos turned the key in the ignition. The sedan coughed awake, but Janos quickly looked down, putting his open hand on the dashboard. Typical, he thought. Bad idle. The cam needed more lift.

“You should’ve called me in earlier,” Barry said in his ear. “If you came to me before you went to Pasternak—”

“If it weren’t for Pasternak, Harris would’ve never been in the game.”

“That’s not true. He’s more jaded than you think he is. He just wants you to think—”

“Keep believing that,” Janos said, giving Lowell just enough of a lead. As the silver Audi turned the corner, Janos hit the gas and slowly pulled out after him.

“Any idea where he’s headed?” Barry asked.

“Not yet,” Janos said, leaving the parking lot and turning onto the street. Directly in front of him was a classic orange Beetle. Four cars ahead of that, Lowell’s Audi wove in and out of traffic. And a mile or so beyond them all, at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, the dome of the Capitol arched toward the sky.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said to Barry. “He’s not going very far.”