The Zero Game

Janos stopped midstep and slowly turned back to the guard. This wasn’t the time to make a scene. Better to play it quiet.

“Absolutely,” he replied as he approached the desk. With a flick of his pen, he scribbled the name Matthew Mercer onto the sign-in sheet.

The guard stared up at the letters FBI on Janos’s blue and yellow windbreaker. To seal the deal, Janos quickly flashed a shined-up sheriff’s badge he got in an old Army-Navy store. When Janos made eye contact, the guard looked away.

“Nice day outside, huh?” the guard asked, staring out through the lobby’s enormous plate-glass window.

“Absolutely,” Janos repeated as he headed for the elevators. “Pretty as a peach.”

11

“NICE TO SEE YOU, BARB,” I say, plowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing an air kiss to the security guard.

She grabs the kiss and tosses it aside. Always the same joke. “How’s Stevens?” she asks.

“Old and rich. How’s… how’s your hubby?”

“You forgot his name, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” I stutter. “Just one of those afternoons.”

“Everybody has ’em, sweets.” It doesn’t make me feel any better. “You here to see Barry?”

I nod as the elevator dings. Barry’s on the third floor. Pasternak’s on the fourth. Stepping inside, I hit the button marked 4. The moment the doors close, I slump against the back wall. My smile’s gone; my shoulders sag. In my pocket, I fiddle with the page’s nametag. The elevator rattles upward. All the way to the top.

With a ping, the doors slide open on the fourth floor, and I squeeze outside into the modern hallway with its recessed lighting. There’s a receptionist on my right. I go left. Pasternak’s assistant’ll never buzz me through. There’s no choice but to go around. The hallway ends at a frosted-glass door with a numeric keypad. I’ve seen Barry enter it a hundred times. I punch in the code, the lock clicks, and I shove my way inside. Just another lobbyist making the rounds.

Decorated like a law firm but with a bit more attitude, the halls of Pasternak & Associates are covered with stylish black-and-white photos of the American flag waving over the Capitol, the White House, and every other monument in the city – anything to show patriotism. The message to potential clients is clear: Pasternak lobbyists embrace the system – and work within it. The ultimate inside job.

Wasting no time, I avoid all offices and make a sharp right toward the back, past the kitchenette. If I’m lucky, Pasternak will still be in the conference room, away from his-

“Harris?” a voice calls out behind me.

I spin back and paint on a fake grin. To my surprise, I don’t recognize the face.

“Harris Sandler, right?” he asks again, clearly surprised. His voice creaks like a loose floorboard, and his green hangdog eyes have a silent darkness to them. They lock on to me like a bear trap. Still, the only thing I’m concerned with is the blue and yellow FBI windbreaker he’s wearing.

“Can I talk to you a moment?” the man asks as he points me back toward the conference room. “I promise… it’ll only take a second.”

12

“DO I KNOW YOU?” I ask, searching for info.

The man in the FBI windbreaker puts on his own fake smile and rubs his hand along his buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. I know that move. Stevens does it when he meets constituents. A poor attempt to warm things up. “Harris, maybe we should find a place to talk.”

“I-I’m supposed to see Pasternak.”

“I know. Sounds like he’s been a good friend to you.” His body language switches in the most imperceptible way. He’s smiling, but his chin pitches toward me. I make my living in politics. Most people wouldn’t see it. I do.

“Now, do you want to have this discussion in the conference room, or would you rather discuss it in front of the whole firm?” he asks. Ramming his point home, he nods a quick hello to a middle-aged redhead who steps into the kitchenette for some coffee. Talking without saying. Whoever this guy is, he’d be a great Congressman.

“If this is about Matthew…”

“It’s about more than Matthew,” the man interrupts. “What surprises me is Pasternak trying to keep your name out of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, Harris – even a nongambling man would bet against that.”

The reference is as subtle as lighting my chest on fire. He doesn’t just know about Matthew. He knows about the game. And he wants me to know it.

I stare at him coldly. “Pasternak’s in the conference room?”

“Right this way,” he says, motioning up the hallway like a fine maître d’. “After you…”

I lead the way. He falls in right behind me.

“Sounds like you two have known each other a long time,” he says.

“Me and Pasternak, or me and Matthew?”

“Both,” he says as he straightens a black-and-white photo of the Supreme Court that’s hanging in the hall. He’s asking questions, but he doesn’t care about the answers.

I glance over my shoulder and give him a quick once-over. Windbreaker… gray slacks… and chocolate brown calfskin shoes. The pewter logo says they’re Ferragamo. I turn back toward the hallway. Nice shoes for government pay.