Zero Game, page 1
Copyright © 2004 by Forty-four Steps, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books,
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-7595-0857-6
First eBook Edition: January 2004
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Brad Meltzer
The Tenth Justice
Dead Even
The First Counsel
The Millionaires
For Jonas,
my son,
who holds my hand,
tugs me along,
and takes me on the most
cherished adventure of all
Acknowledgments
THERE’S ONE NAME on the cover of this book, but I’ve always maintained it takes far more than that to transform an imagined idea into reality. For that reason, I’d like to thank the following people: always first, my love Cori. To paraphrase someone far smarter than myself: The words aren’t real until Cori reads them. She’s always been my first editor and adviser, but for this book, in her real-world position as a lawyer in Congress, she was also my eyes and ears into the complex world of Capitol Hill. What she doesn’t know is how humbled I was to watch her do her job. Forever the fighter of the good fight, she thought she was teaching me political mechanics. What she really did was remind me what idealism is all about. I love you for that and so much more. There are endless reasons I couldn’t do this without you, C. Jill Kneerim, my agent and friend, whose insights and intuition challenge me to bring honesty to the forefront of my writing. Her guidance is among the first I seek, but it’s her friendship that I treasure (even more than she knows). Elaine Rogers, for the amazing work she’s done from the very start. Ike Williams, Hope Denekamp, Elizabeth Dane, Seana McInerney, and all the other incredibly nice people at the Kneerim & Williams Agency.
Now more than ever, I’d also like to thank my parents, whose unflinching love brought me here today. They keep me grounded, support me, and forever remind me where home really is. Everything I am, everything I have—it started with them. My sister Bari, one of the strongest people I know, for sharing that strength whenever I need it. Thanks, Bari, for everything you do. Dale and Adam Flam helped brainstorm the game, while Bobby Flam and Ami and Matt Kuttler read early drafts. Their love and support helped me throughout. Steve “Scoop” Cohen, fellow dreamer, brother in creativity, and all-around mad genius, for the eureka moment that led to this entire book. The ideas are fun; the friendship is far more valued. Thanks, Cheese! Noah Kuttler, without whose help I’d be insanely lost. Noah’s the first sounding board I go to after my wife. He’s that talented. He knows he’s family—I just hope he realizes how blessed I feel to have him in my life. Ethan and Sarah Kline helped develop the game, and Ethan has fearlessly pushed me as a writer since my very first manuscript. Paul Brennan, Matt Oshinsky, Paulo Pacheco, Joel Rose, Chris Weiss, and Judd Winick, my alter egos, whose reactions and unwaveringfriendship are an endless source of inspiration.
In every novel, the goal is to make a complete fabrication sound like absolute fact. The only way to pull it off is to arm yourself with details. I owe the following people tremendous thank-yous for making those details available: Without question, when it came to explaining how the government actually works, Dave Watkins was my congressional sensei—an incredible teacher who was patient enough to answer all my inane questions. From initial brainstorming to final chapter gut-checking, I trusted him with every detail. He never let me down. Scott Strong was the Indiana Jones of the U.S. Capitol, guiding me through unexplored passageways and abandoned tunnels. His friendship and trust were indispensable to creating this reality. Tom Regan took me eight thousand feet beneath the earth’s surface and reminded me exactly how this country was built. I just hope he knows what an impact his kindness had on me. Sean Dalton, for spending days explaining every tiny detail of the appropriations process, which is no small feat. His mastery of the minutiae was vital to this book. Andrea Cohen, Chris Guttman-McCabe, Elliot Kaye, Ben Lawsky, and Carmel Martin, for making themselves available whenever I needed them. The best part was, since they’re among my closest friends, I could ask them the stupidest questions. Dick Baker is an institution unto himself. His generosity and historical insights brought the institution of the Capitol to life. Julian Epstein, Perry Apelbaum, Ted Kalo, Scott Deutchman, Sampak Garg, and everyone from the House Judiciary Committee are just the greatest. They made introductions, gave explanations, and came to my aid at every turn. Michone Johnson and Stephanie Peters, for being wonderful friends who helped bring Viv to life. Luke Albee, Marsha Berry, Martha Carucci, Jim Dyer, Dan Freeman, Charles Grizzle, Scott Lilly, Amy McKennis, Martin Paone, Pat Schroeder, Mark Schuermann, Will Smith, Debbie Weatherly, and Kathryn Weeden took me into their respective worlds and answered question upon question. Their help cannot be overstated. Congressman John Conyers, Congressman Harold Ford Jr., and Congressman Hal Rogers were generous enough to invite me inside—those were some of the best days of the process. Loretta Beaumont, Bruce Evans, Leif Fonnesbeck, Kathy Johnson, Joel Kaplan, Peter Kiefhaber, Brooke Livingston, and Chris Topik gave me a firsthand look at the incredible work that’s done in Interior Appropriations. Mazen Basrawi, for letting me see through a blind man’s eyes. Lee Alman, David Carle, Bruce Cohen, George Crawford, Jerry Gallegos, Jerry Hartz, Ken Kato, Keith Kennedy, David Safavian, Alex Sternhill, Will Stone, and Reid Stuntz for painting such realistic pictures of life on the Hill. Chris Gallagher, Rob Gustafson, Mark Laisch, William Minor, and Steve Perry were my experts in the art of lobbying. Michael Brown, Karl Burke, Steve Mitchell, and Ron Waterland of Barrick Gold, for all their help in getting me down into the mine. Michael Bowers, Stacie Hunhoff, Paul Ordal, Jason Recher, Elizabeth Roach, and Brooke Russ took me back to my youth and shared the excitement of being a page. Bill Allen, David Angier, Jamie Arbolino, Rich Doerner, and James Horning filled in the Capitol’s physical details. David Beaver, Terry Catlain, Deborah Lanzone, John Leshy, Alan Septoff, and Lexi Shultz, for helping me with mining issues and land exchanges. Dr. Ronald K. Wright, for his always amazing forensic advice. Keith Nelson and Jerry Shaw taught me all the fighting skills. Dr. Ron Flam and Bernie Levin shared their hometown. Edna Farley, Kim from L.A., Jon Faust, Jo Ayn “Joey” Glanzer, Harvey Goldschmid, Bill Harlan, Paul Khoury, Daren Newfield, Susan Oshinsky, Adam Rosman, Mike Rotker, Greg Rucka, and Matthew Weiss, for walking me through the rest of the details. Brian Lipson, Phil Raskind, and Lou Pitt, whose hard work and friendship are immensely appreciated. Kathleen Kennedy, Donna Langley, Mary Parent, and Gary Ross, for their tremendous faith, sight unseen. Rob Weisbach, for being the first to say yes, and the rest of my family and friends, whose names forever inhabit these pages.
Finally, let me say thank you to everyone at Warner Books: Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Tina Andreadis, Emi Battaglia, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, Chris Barba, the nicest and hardest-working sales force in show business, and all the other incredible people who make me feel like part of the family. They’re the ones who do the heavy lifting, and they’re the r
If the American people found out what was going on there,
they would tear it down brick by brick.
Howard R. Ryland
Capitol police officer
On Congress
. . . the real problem is that government is boring.
P. J. O’Rourke
1
I DON’T BELONG HERE. I haven’t for years. When I first came to Capitol Hill to work for Congressman Nelson Cordell, it was different. But even Mario Andretti eventually gets bored driving two hundred miles an hour every single day. Especially when you’re going in a circle. I’ve been going in circles for eight years. Time to finally leave the loop.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I insist as I stand at the urinal.
“What’re you talking about?” Harris asks, unzipping his fly at the urinal next to mine. He has to crane his neck up to see my full lanky frame. At six feet four inches, I’m built like a palm tree and staring straight down at the top of his messy black hair. He knows I’m agitated, but as always, he’s the perfect calm in the storm. “C’mon, Matthew, no one cares about the sign out front.”
He thinks I’m worried about the bathroom. For once, he’s wrong. This may be the rest room right across from the Floor of the House of RepresentaTives, and it may have a sign on the door that says, Members Only—as in Members of Congress . . . as in them . . . as in not us—but after all this time here, I’m well aware that even the most formal Members won’t stop two staffers from taking a whiz.
“Forget the bathroom,” I tell Harris. “I’m talking about the Capitol itself. We don’t belong anymore. I mean, last week I celebrated eight years here, and what do I have to show for it? A shared office and a Congressman who, last week, pressed himself up against the Vice President to make sure he didn’t get cropped out of the photo for the next day’s newspaper. I’m thirty-two years old—it’s just not fun anymore.”
“Fun? You think this is about fun, Matthew? What would the Lorax say if he heard that?” he asks, motioning with his chin to the Dr. Seuss Lorax pin on the lapel of my navy blue suit. As usual, he knows just where the pressure points are. When I started doing environmental work for Congressman Cordell, my five-year-old nephew gave me the pin to let me know how proud he was. I am the Lorax—I speak for the trees, he kept saying, reciting from memory the book I used to read to him. My nephew’s now thirteen. Dr. Seuss is just a writer of kids’ books to him, but for me, even though it’s just a trinket . . . when I look at the tiny orange Lorax with the fluffy blond mustache . . . some things still matter.
“That’s right,” Harris says. “The Lorax always fights the good fight. He speaks for the trees. Even when it’s not fun.”
“You of all people shouldn’t start with that.”
“That’s not a very Lorax response,” he adds in full singsong voice. “Don’t you think, LaRue?” he says, turning to the older black man who’s permanently stationed at the shoeshine chair right behind us.
“Never heard of the Lorax,” LaRue responds, his eyes locked on the small TV that plays C-SPAN above the door. “Always been a Horton Hears a Who guy myself.” He looks off in the distance. “Cute little elephant . . .”
Before Harris can add another mile to the guilt trip, the swinging doors to the rest room bang open, and a man with a gray suit and red bow tie storms inside. I recognize him instantly: Congressman William E. Enemark from Colorado—dean of the House, and Congress’s longest-serving Member. Over the years, he’s seen everything from desegregation and the Red Scare, to Vietnam and Watergate, to Lewinsky and Iraq. But as he hangs his jacket on the hand-carved coat-rack and rushes toward the wooden stall in back, he doesn’t see us. And as we zip up our flies, Harris and I barely make an attempt to see him.
“That’s my point,” I whisper to Harris.
“What? Him?” he whispers back, motioning to Enemark’s stall.
“The guy’s a living legend, Harris. Y’know how jaded we must be to let him walk by without saying hello?”
“He’s going to the can . . .”
“You can still say hello, right?”
Harris makes a face, then motions over to LaRue, who raises the volume on C-SPAN. Whatever Harris is about to say, he doesn’t want it heard. “Matthew, I hate to break it to you, but the only reason you didn’t throw him a Hi, Congressman is because you think his environmental record is crap.”
It’s hard to argue with that. Last year, Enemark was the number one recipient of campaign money from the timber, oil, and nuclear power industries. He’d clear-cut Oregon, hang billboards in the Grand Canyon, and vote to pave over his own garden with baby seal skins if he thought it’d get him some cash. “But even so, if I were a twenty-two-year-old just out of college, I still would’ve stuck my hand out for a quick Hi, Congressman. I’m telling you, Harris, eight years is enough—the fun’s long gone.”
Still standing at the urinal, Harris stops. His green eyes narrow, and he studies me with that same mischievous look that once got me thrown in the back of a police car when we were undergrads at Duke. “C’mon, Matthew, this is Washington, D.C.—fun and games are being played everywhere,” he teases. “You just have to know where to find them.”
Before I can react, his hand springs out and grabs the Lorax pin from my lapel. He glances at LaRue, then over to the Congressman’s jacket on the coat-rack.
“What’re you doing?”
“Cheering you up,” he promises. “Trust me, you’ll love it. No lie.”
There it is. No lie. Harris’s favorite turn of phrase—and the first sign of guaranteed trouble.
I flush my urinal with my elbow. Harris flushes his with a full-on grip. He’s never been afraid to get his hands dirty. “How much will you give me if I put it on his lapel?” he whispers, holding up the Lorax and moving toward Enemark’s coat.
“Harris, don’t . . .” I hiss. “He’ll kill you.”
“Wanna bet?”
There’s a hollow rumble of spinning toilet paper from within the stall. Enemark’s almost finished.
As Harris shoots me a smile, I reach for his arm, but he sidesteps my grip with his usual perfect grace. It’s how he operates in every political fight. Once he’s focused on a goal, the man’s unstoppable.
“I am the Lorax, Matthew. I speak for the trees!” He laughs as he says the words. Watching him slowly tiptoe toward Enemark’s jacket, I can’t help but laugh with him. It’s a dumb stunt, but if he pulls it off . . .
I take that back. Harris doesn’t fail at anything. That’s why, at twenty-nine years old, he was one of the youngest chiefs of staff ever hired by a Senator. And why, at thirty-five, there’s no one—not even the older guys—who can touch him. I swear, he could charge for some of the stuff that comes out of his mouth. Lucky me, old college friends get it for free.
“How’s the weather look, LaRue?” Harris calls to Mr. Shoeshine, who, from his seat near the tiled floor, has a better view of what’s happening under the stall.
If it were anyone else, LaRue would tattle and run. But it isn’t anyone else. It’s Harris. “Bright and sunny,” LaRue says as he ducks his head down toward the stall. “Though a storm’s quickly approaching . . .”
Harris nods a thank-you and straightens his red tie, which I know he bought from the guy who sells them outside the subway. As chief of staff for Senator Paul Stevens, he should be wearing something nicer, but the way Harris works, he doesn’t need to impress. “By the way, LaRue, what happened to your mustache?”
“Wife didn’t like it—said it was too Burt Reynolds.”
“I told you, you can’t have the mustache and the Trans Am—it’s one or the other,” Harris adds.
LaRue laughs, and I shake my head. When the Founding Fathers set up the government, they split the legislative branch into two sides: the House and the Senate. I’m here in the House, which is in the south half of the Capitol. Harris works in the Senate, which is all the way over on the north. It’s a whole different world over there, but somehow, Harris still remembers the latest update on our shoeshine guy’s facial hair. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Unlike the monsters who walk these halls, Harris doesn’t talk to everyone as a political maneuver. He does it because that’s his gift—as the son of a barber, he’s got the gift of gab. And people love him for it. That’s why, when he walks into a room, Senators casually flock around him, and when he walks into the cafeteria, the lunch lady gives him an extra ladle of chicken in his burrito.
