Jess Walter - The Zero

“You sure you don’t want some, Brian?” Bishir asked.

“No,” Remy said. He was done, unable to make sense of anything anymore. He looked around the room for the bar.

“You want to know the secret to the whole thing?” Markham asked Bishir.

“Mmm,” Bishir said through a mouthful.

“Tell him, Brian,” Markham said.

No matter what he did, it seemed to Remy, this insanity was going to grind along and take him with it. He wandered around the room, looking on every flat surface for a key to the honor bar. “Honey,” he said. “The secret is honey.”

“Bullshit. Honey?” Bishir asked and took another bite. He had a precise, cultured manner that Remy found surprising. He nodded, as if… yes, now that Markham mentioned it… honey. He finished chewing, his fork near his temple. “I wonder…”

“What?” Markham asked.

“Nothing.”

“No,” said Markham. “What?”

“I was just wondering if a person could substitute corn syrup.”

“Fair question.” Markham pointed at Bishir with his spatula. “Bri?”

Remy had gotten the honor bar open and was crouched in front of it, rifling through the small bottles. He looked back over his shoulder. “Too syrupy. The honey cooks off better. Leaves a glaze without gumming it up.”

“Sure,” Bishir said, “I can see that.”

A knock came at the door and they all looked up, except Remy.

“That’s probably our friend,” Markham said, a bit nervously. “Okay. Are we ready for this, Brian?” Markham walked to the door and opened it. “Come in,” he said. “Thanks for coming down.”

In came a tall, regal-looking man with braces and brushed hair, wearing a pressed golf shirt that hardly moved as he walked into the room. Remy wasn’t terribly surprised that it was Dave, the caramel macchiato agent.

“Hello, Bishir,” Dave said.

Bishir nodded.

“Shawn Markham,” said Markham, offering his hand to the agent.

“Dave,” said Dave.

“That’s my partner, Brian Remy,” said Markham.

“Good to meet you, Brian,” said Dave carefully, as if they’d never met. “So, what are we serving this morning?”

“Pecan encrusted sole,” Markham said.

“Of course,” Dave said to Markham. “I’ve heard some good things about this recipe. Heard you used it to justify sticking your noses where they don’t belong. You’re not eating… Brian, was it?”

Remy ignored him. He cracked a tiny bottle of gin and downed it.

“Yeah, Brian Remy,” Markham said. “He’s doing some contract work for us.”

Dave settled in at the table. He unwrapped his cloth napkin with a snap of the wrist. “So how is it going, Bishir? Are these minor league spooks treating you okay?”

“Can’t complain,” Bishir said, his mouth full of sole.

Markham slid a plateful of fish in front of Dave, who took a bite and nodded his approval. “So would you mind telling me what this is all about, Brian?” Dave asked. “Why two rogues from the paper department are holding my CI hostage?”

Remy ignored the question. He felt oddly at ease, nonplussed. He would just drink until this all went away. This seemed like a good strategy, although he noticed that the big flake was in front of his left eye again.

Dave waited, and then became agitated. He shot a glare at Markham, who looked away. “I don’t even get an answer?”

“I just want to be left alone,” Remy said.

“Oh, really. You want us to stay out of your way. Is that it?”

Markham chewed nervously on his thumbnail.

“So you really want to endanger this investigation, the security of the nation, over what… turf?” Dave stared at Remy.

Remy was getting dizzy crouched like this, so he dropped to his knees. Turning back to the drawer of tiny booze bottles, he was momentarily dazed by scale: Gulliver on a bender. He decided on Crown Royal and it went down like an easy compliment.

Bishir broke the icy quiet. “These guys thought I was holed up with an old girlfriend – this chick, March.” He pointed his fork at Markham. “It was a crazy-ass theory, but you know what, if I could’ve warned one person, it might’ve been her. She was a sweet girl. Good lay, too.”

Markham shrugged. “Yeah, we kind of whiffed on that one.”

Dave set his fork down and spun in his chair. “All right,” he said. “Let’s cut to the proverbial chase.”

“You know, I don’t think that’s an actual proverb,” Markham said.

“What?” Dave asked.

“You said proverbial chase. No such proverb.”

Dave stared at Markham with disbelief before turning to Remy. “What is it you guys want… was it, Brian?”

“Yes,” Markham said. “His name is Brian.”

“I told you,” Remy said. “I don’t want anything.”

Dave leaned his head back and his Adam’s apple moved up and down like a freight elevator. “Come on. We both know you didn’t pick up Bishir accidentally. So what do you want?”

“All I want is for this to go away,” Remy said. “All of this. All of you.”

“Oh, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Dave sputtered, his angular face reddening. “Look. We have been piecing together the members of this cell for more than a year. If you think for one second the agency is going to step aside so you can hijack our investigation…” His lips formed a thin scowl. “We need this! You want to screw the bureau, fine. But I don’t think you fully appreciate the pressure we’re under.”

Vodka, Remy thought, and the pattern appealed on some basic level: clear, brown, clear, brown, clear. He cracked the seal, tossed the little cap, and drank it, like rolling a tiny red carpet down his throat. “Leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone?” Dave crossed his arms defiantly and the anger seemed to be percolating in his red ears. “Fuck you, Brian. You want to go over my head, fine. I suppose you think that you’re going find some people on the Hill or some holdover in the media eager to hear that the agency might be operating slightly-” He looked for the words.

“Out of bounds,” Markham contributed.

Dave winced as if those weren’t the words he wanted.

The room was quiet for a moment. When Dave turned back to Remy he was smiling solicitously. “So we’re at an impasse. Okay. But I have to believe we can come to an agreement. Right? That we can work together? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called us. I mean – we have a common enemy, right? The bureau? So, just tell me. What do you want?”

Remy wanted brown. He opened a bottle of Glenlivet.

“We want our piece,” Markham said from the kitchen, looking at Remy for approval. “We want credit. We don’t want our work to go to waste.”

“And that means-” Dave said.

“Joint task force,” Markham said, still looking at Remy, as if for approval. “Operational, tactical, command… we want our half of the pie.”

“Your half ? You’re out of your mind,” Dave said to Markham and then turned back to Remy as if he were the reasonable one. “Come on, Brian. You hassle my informant, stumble across a cell we’ve been investigating for months, endanger a deep intel project, and now you expect to get-”

“Joint. Task force,” Markham repeated. “Or we go to Congress. Maybe even the press.”

“Press?” Dave laughed. “Who you gonna call? Morley Safer? Edward R. Murrow? Come on. There is no press anymore.”

“Joint task force,” Markham said. “Final answer.” He untied his apron.

“Wait. I know what this is.”

“Yeah?” Markham said. “What is this?”

Remy drank.

“This is a shakedown,” Dave said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “That’s all, a half-assed, political stab at creating a permanent seat at the table. You’ve finished your mandate and your funding is going away so you’re pulling paper out of garbage cans while you try to get a foothold… turn yourselves into some kind of an actual investigative operation. You’re like the bureau eighty years ago, under that swish Hoover. Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to write your funding for next decade. No way. Key investigative assistance,” Dave said. “ My final offer.”