The Zero Game

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

“WHAT’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.”