Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

“Sir, if there’s anything you need me to-”

“I appreciate it, William. I truly do. But before I get you knee-deep in this, let’s just see what else we can find.”

“But I can-”

“Believe me, you’re invaluable to the case, William — I won’t forget it. Now let’s just keep hunting.”

“Absolutely, sir,” William said with a grin. “That’s what I’m working on right now.”

“Any leads worth talking about?”

“Just one,” William said, pointing down to the folder, where a fax from the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network poked out from the top. “I ran all of Janos’s identities through the guys at FinCEN. They came up with an offshore account that bounces back through Antigua.”

“I thought we couldn’t get to those…”

“Yeah, well, since 9-11, some countries have been a little more cooperative than others — especially when you say you’re calling from the Attorney General’s office.”

Now Lowell was the one who was grinning.

“According to them, the account has four million dollars’ worth of transfers from something called the Wendell Group. So far, all we know is, it’s a shelf company with a fake board of directors.”

“Think you can trace ownership?”

“That’s the goal,” William said. “It’ll take some peeking in the right places, but I’ve seen these guys work before… If I gave them your last name, they’d find the twelve-dollar savings account your mom opened for you when you were six.”

“Then we’re in good hands?”

“Let me put it like this, sir — you can go get coffee and some McDonaldland Cookies. By the time you come back, we’ll have Wendell — or whoever they are — sitting in your lap.”

“I still appreciate what you’re doing,” Lowell said, holding his glance tight on his assistant. “I owe you for this.”

“You don’t owe me a Canadian penny,” William said. “It all goes back to what you taught me on day one: Don’t fuck with the Justice Department.”

“This is it?” Viv asks, craning her neck skyward and stepping out of the cab in downtown Arlington, Virginia. “I was expecting a huge science compound.”

Dead ahead, a twelve-story modern office building towers over us as hundreds of commuters pour out of the nearby Ballston Metro Station and scurry past the surrounding coffee shops and trendy eateries that are about as edgy as suburbia gets. The building is no bigger than the others around it, but the three words carved into the salmon-colored stone facade immediately make it stand out from everything else: National Science Foundation .

Approaching the front entrance, I pull open one of the heavy glass doors and check the street one last time. If Janos were here, he wouldn’t let us get inside — but that doesn’t mean he’s not close.

“Morning, dear — how can I help you today?” a woman wearing a lime green sweater set asks from behind a round reception desk. On our right, there’s a squatty black security guard whose eyes linger on us a few seconds too long.

“Yeah… we’re here to see Doctor Minsky,” I say, trying to stay focused on the receptionist. “We have an appointment. Congressman Cordell…” I add, using the name of Matthew’s boss.

“Good,” the woman says as if she’s actually happy for us. “Photo IDs, please?”

Viv shoots me a look. We’ve been trying to avoid using our real names.

“No worries, Teri, they’re with me,” a peppy female voice interrupts.

Back by the elevators, a tall woman in a designer suit waves at us like we’re old friends.

“Marilyn Freitas — from the director’s office,” she announces, pumping my hand and smiling with a game show grin. The ID badge around her neck tells me why: Director of Legislative and Public Affairs . This isn’t a secretary. They’re already pulling out the big guns — and while I’ve never seen this woman in my life, I know this tap dance. The National Science Foundation gets over five billion dollars annually from the Appropriations Committee. If I’m bringing one of their appropriators here, they’re gonna roll out the brightest red carpet they can find. That’s why I used Matthew’s boss’s name instead of my own.

“So is the Congressman here?” she asks, smile still in place.

I look back through the glass door. She thinks I’m searching for my boss. I’m actually checking for Janos. “He should be joining us shortly — though he said we should start without him,” I explain. “Just in case.”

Her smile sinks a bit, but not by much. Even if she’d rather see the Congressman, she’s smart enough to know the importance of staff. “Whenever he gets here is good by us,” she says as she leads us back to the elevators. “Oh, and by the way,” she adds, “welcome to the NSF.”

As the elevator rises to the tenth floor, my mind bounces back to yesterday’s elevator ride: the cage pounding against the walls as the water rained down on our mud-coated helmets. Leaning back against the polished brass railing, I toss a thin smile at Viv. She ignores it, keeping her eyes on the red digital numbers that mark our ascent. She’s done being friends. She wants out.

“So I understand you’re here to talk to Dr. Minsky about neutrinos,” Marilyn says, hoping to keep the conversation going.

I nod. Viv nibbles. “Everyone said he’s the expert,” she says, trying not to make it sound like a question.

“Oh, he is,” Marilyn replies. “That’s where he got his start — subatomic. Even his early work on leptons… sure, it may seem basic now, but back then, it set the standard.”

We both nod as if she’s talking about the TV Guide crossword puzzle.

“So he does his research right here?” Viv adds.

The woman lets out the kind of laugh that usually comes with a pat on the head. “I’m sure Dr. Minsky would love to get back in the lab,” she explains. “But that’s no longer part of the job description. Up here, we’re primarily concerned with the funding side.”

It’s a fair description but a complete understatement. They’re not just concerned with the funding side; they control it. Last year, the National Science Foundation funded over two thousand studies and research facilities across the globe. As a result, they have a hand in just about every major science experiment in the world — from a radio telescope that can see the evolution of the universe, to a climate theory that’ll help us control the weather. If you can dream it up, the NSF will consider giving it financial support.

“And here we are,” Marilyn announces as the elevator doors glide open.

On our left, silver letters emblazoned on the wall read: Directorate for Mathematical and Physical Sciences . The sign’s so big, there’s barely room for the NSF logo, but that’s what happens when you’re the largest of the NSF’s eleven divisions.

Leading us past another reception desk and around the corner to a sitting area that has all the charm of a hospital waiting room, she doesn’t say another word. On our left and right, the walls are covered with science posters: one with a row of satellite dishes lined up under a rainbow, another with a shot of the Pinwheel Galaxy from the Kitt Peak National Observatory. Both are meant to calm anxious visitors. Neither one does much of a job.

Over my shoulder, the elevator doors open in the distance. I spin around to see who’s there. If we can find the premier neutrino expert in the country, so can Janos. Back by the elevators, a man with thick glasses and a rumpled sweater steps into the hall. From the way he’s dressed, it’s clear he’s just a local.

Reading my relief, Viv turns back toward the waiting area, which is surrounded by half a dozen closed doors. All are numbered 1005 . The one directly in front of us has the additional label .09 . Only the National Science Foundation assigns rooms with a decimal designation.