Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

“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.”

“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.

“Right in here,” he says, pointing to the door on my right. Like the one by the elevators, it’s frosted glass, which only shows me the blurry outline of Pasternak as he sits in his favorite black leather chair at the center of the long conference table. It’s one of Pasternak’s first lessons: better to be at the center than the head of the table — if you want something done, you need to be close to all the players.

I grab the doorknob and give it a twist. I’m not surprised Pasternak picked this conference room — it’s the biggest one in the firm — but as the door swings open, I am surprised to find that the lights are off. I didn’t notice it at first. Except for the fading sunlight from the large bay windows, Pasternak’s sitting in the dark.

The door slams behind me, followed by a slight electrical hum. Like a transistor radio being turned on. I spin around just in time to see the man with the hangdog eyes lunging at me. In his hand is a small box that looks like a black brick. I lean back at the last second and raise my arm as a shield. The box slams into my forearm and burns with a sharp bite. Son of a bitch. Did he just stab me?

He expects me to pull away. Instead, I keep the box in my arm and tug him even closer. As he tumbles toward me off balance, I pivot off my back leg and punch him square in his eye. His head snaps back, and he stumbles, crashing into the closed frosted-glass door. The black box flies from his hand and shatters on the floor, scattering batteries along the carpet. The man doesn’t go down as easy. Patting his eye with his fingertips, he looks up at me with an admiring grin, almost like he’s enjoying himself. You don’t get a face like that without taking a few punches, and he’s clearly taken better ones than mine. He licks the corner of his mouth and sends me the message. If I plan on doing any damage, I have to do better than that.

“Who taught you how to punch?” his voice creaks as he scoops up the pieces of the black box and slides them in his pocket. “Your dad or your uncle?”

He’s trying to show off some knowledge… get me emotional. He doesn’t have a chance. I’ve spent over a dozen years on Capitol Hill. When it comes to mental boxing, I’ve taken on a Congressful of Muhammad Alis. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna risk it all in a fistfight.

He climbs to his feet, and I look around for help. “Buddy!” I call out to Pasternak. He doesn’t move. Back by the conference table… he’s leaning back in his chair. One arm dangles over the armrest. His eyes are wide open. The world blurs as the tears swell in my eyes. I race toward him, then quickly stop short, raising my hands in the air. Don’t touch the body.

“Always thinking, aren’t you?” Hangdog calls out.

Behind me, I hear the hiss of his blue and yellow windbreaker as he slowly moves toward me. FBI, my ass. I turn to face him, and he tosses out another cocky grin, convinced he’s blocking my only way out. I spin back toward the bay window and the patio behind it. The patio. And the door that leads to it.

I dart like a jackrabbit for the glass door at the back of the room. Like before, there’s a numeric keypad. Now Hangdog’s moving. My hands are shaking as they tap out Barry’s code. “ C’mon.. .” I beg, waiting for the magnetic click. The man races around the conference table, ten steps behind me. The lock pops. I shove the door open, then spin around, trying to slam it shut. If I lock him in-

He jams his hand into the doorway just as it’s about to close. There’s a sharp crunch. He grits his teeth at the pain but doesn’t let go. I slam the door tighter. He glares at me through the glass, his green eyes darker than ever. He still doesn’t let go. His knuckles turn purple, he’s squeezing the doorframe so tight. He wedges his shoe in the door and starts to push it open. This isn’t a stalemate I can win.

I search over my shoulder at the rest of the patio, which is filled with teak Adirondack chairs and matching footrests. During the spring, the patio’s used mainly for high-end congressional fund-raisers. Why rent out a room when you can keep it in-house? On my right and left, wood lattices overrun with ivy create false walls for the rooftop. Straight ahead is a stunning view of the Capitol dome — and more important, the other four-story building that sits directly next door. The only thing between the buildings is the seven-foot alley that separates them.

The man winds up for a final burst. As his shoulder pounds into the door, I step away and let it swing wide. He falls to the floor, and I run straight for the edge of the roof.

“You’ll never make it!” he calls out.

Again with the mental game. I don’t listen. I don’t think. I just run. Straight for the edge. I tell myself not to look at the gap, but as I barrel toward it, I don’t see anything else. Four stories up. Seven feet wide… maybe six if I’m lucky… Please let it be six.

Staring dead ahead and sprinting across the terra-cotta pavers, I clench my teeth, step up on the concrete parapet, and launch myself into the air. When I first met Matthew in college, he told me he was tall enough to hurdle the hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. Let’s hope the same is true for me.

As I clear the six-foot canyon, I hit the roof of the adjacent building on the heels of my feet and skid forward until I fall back on my ass-bone. A hot lightning bolt of electricity shoots up my spine. Unlike the patio, the roof over here is tar — it burns as I hit. The impact alone kicks a miniwhirlwind of rooftop dust into my lungs, but there’s no time to stop. I look back across to the other building. Hangdog is racing at me, about to match my jump.