Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

“That’s not what I asked. What I asked was: Did. You. Lose. Harris?”

Janos stopped midstep, standing in the middle of the street. A man in a maroon Oldsmobile punched his horn, screaming for him to move. Janos didn’t budge. Turning his back toward the Oldsmobile, he gripped the phone and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said into his cell. “Yes, Mr. Sauls. I lost him.”

Sauls let the silence sink in.

Asshole, Janos thought to himself. He’d seen this last time he worked with Sauls. Big people always felt the need to make big points.

“Are we done?” Janos asked.

“Yes. We’re done for now,” Sauls replied.

“Good — then stop worrying. I had a long talk with your inside man. I know where Harris lives.”

“You really think he’s dumb enough to go home?”

“I’m not talking about his house ,” Janos said into the phone. “I’ve studied him for six months. I know where he lives .”

As Janos finally stepped toward the sidewalk, the man in the Oldsmobile let go of his horn and slammed the gas. The car lurched forward, then skidded to a stop right next to Janos. The man inside lowered the passenger-side window about halfway. “Learn some manners, dickface!” he yelled from inside.

Craning down toward the car, Janos calmly leaned his arm against the half-open window, which gave slightly from the pressure. His jacket slid open just enough for the man to see Janos’s leather shoulder holster and, more important, the nine-millimeter Sig pistol held within it. Janos raised the right corner of his mouth. The man in the Oldsmobile hit the gas as fast as he could. As the wheels spun and the car took off, Janos kept his arm pressed tightly in place, letting his ring scrape against the Oldsmobile as it zipped away.

“Can I get you anything?” the waitress asks.

“Yeah… yeah,” I say, looking up from the menu, which she thinks I’ve been reading for far too long. She’s only partially right. I have been sitting here for fifteen minutes, but the only reason the menu’s up is to hide my face.

“I’ll take a Stan’s Famous,” I tell her.

“Howdaya like it?”

“Rare. No cheese… and some grilled onions…”

The quote on the menu says, “the best damn drink in town,” but the only reason I picked Stan’s Restaurant is because of its clientele. Located down the block from the offices of the Washington Post , Stan’s always has a few reporters and editors lurking around. And since most of the deadlines have already passed, the bar’s practically packed. I learned my lesson. If something goes wrong, I want witnesses with access to lots of ink.

“Can I take that from you?” the waitress asks, reaching for the menu.

“Actually, I’d rather hold on to it… if that’s okay.”

She smiles and cocks her head at me. “God, your eyes are so green.”

“Th-Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, catching herself. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “My wife says the same thing.”

She looks down at my hand but doesn’t spot a ring. Annoyed, she walks away. This trip isn’t about making new friends — it’s about seeing old ones…

I glance at my wrist and study the front door. I asked him to meet me at nine. Knowing his schedule, I figured he’d be here at nine-fifteen. It’s almost nine-thirty. I pick up my phone just to-

The door swings open, and he strolls inside with the limp he got from an old skiing injury. He keeps his head down, hoping to keep a low profile, but at least four people turn and pretend to look away. Now I know who the reporters are.

When I first met Lowell Nash, I was a second-year staffer in charge of the pen-signing machine; he was the chief of staff who wrote my recommendation for Georgetown Law’s night division. Three years later, when he went into private practice, I returned the favor by steering a few big donors his way as clients. Two years back, he returned the favor by having his law firm raise fifty thousand dollars for the Senator’s reelection campaign. Last year, when the President nominated him as Deputy Attorney General, I returned the favor again by making sure the Senator — a longtime member of the Judiciary Committee — made the confirmation process as smooth as possible. That’s how Washington works. Favors returning favors.

Lowell’s now the number two person at Justice — one of the highest law enforcement positions in the country. I’ve known him for over a decade. The favor was last in his court. I need it returned.

“Congressman,” he says with a nod.

“Mr. President,” I nod back. It’s not entirely impossible. At forty-two years old, Lowell’s the youngest black man ever to hold his position. That alone gives him a national profile. Like the headline in Legal Times read: THE NEXT COLIN POWELL? Playing to the article, he keeps his hair cut short and always sits at perfect attention. He’s never been in the military, but he knows the value of looking the part. Like I said, Lowell’s on his way — that is, barring some personal disaster.

“You look like crap,” he says, folding his black overcoat across the back of the chair and tossing his keys next to my matching phones.

I don’t respond.

“Just tell me what happened…”

Again, no response.

“C’mon, Harris — talk to me,” he pleads.

It’s hard to argue. That is what I came for. Eventually, I look up. “Lowell, I need your help.”

“Personal or professional help?”

“Law enforcement help.”

He folds his hands on the table with his pointer fingers extended up, church-steeple-style.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“Pasternak’s dead.”

He nods. News travels fast in this town. Especially when it’s your old boss. “I heard it was a heart attack,” he adds.

“That’s what they’re saying?”

This time, he’s the one to stay quiet. He turns back toward the reporters, taking a quick scan of the restaurant, then twists back to me. “Tell me about Matthew,” he eventually says.

I start to explain but cut myself off. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know Matthew.

Lowell and I lock eyes. He quickly looks away.

“Lowell, what’s going on?”

“Burger — rare,” the waitress interrupts, plopping my plate down in front of me with a clang. “Anything for you?” she asks Lowell.

“I’m great… thanks.”

She gives me one last chance to make good and offer her a smile. When I don’t, she drills me with a silent sneer and heads off to another table.

“Lowell, this isn’t-” I stop and fight myself to bring it to a whisper. “Lowell, enough with the anxious silent-guy act — this is my life…”

He still won’t face me. He’s staring at the tabletop, fidgeting with the keys on his key ring.

“Lowell, if you know something-”

“They marked you.”

“What?”

“You’re marked, Harris. If they find you, you’re dead.”

“What’re you talking about? Who’s they ? How do you know them?”

Lowell looks over his shoulder. I thought he was studying the reporters. He’s not. He’s studying the door.

“You should get out of here,” he says.

“I… I don’t understand. Aren’t you gonna help me?”

“Don’t you get it, Harris? The game is-”

“You know about the game?”

“Listen to me, Harris. These people are animals.”

“But you’re my friend,” I insist.

His eyes drop back to his key ring, which has a small plastic picture frame on it. He rubs his thumb against the frame, and I give it a closer look. The photo inside the frame is of his wife and four-year-old daughter. They’re at the beach with the surf crashing behind them. “We’re not all perfect, Harris,” he eventually says. “Sometimes, our mistakes hurt more than just ourselves.”