Zero Game by Brad Meltzer

voice answers. Barry’s boss. My mentor.
    “Melinda, it’s me. Is he in?”
    “Sorry, Harris. Conference call.”
    “Can you get him out?”
    “Not this one.”
    “C’mon, Melinda . . .”
    “Don’t even try with the charm, pumpkin. He’s pitching a big client.”
    “How big?”
    “Rhymes with
Bicrosoft.
”
    Behind me, there’s another crunch of gravel. I spin around to follow the sound. Farther up the driveway, behind a scrubby bunch of bushes.
    That’s it. I’m gone.
    “Wanna leave a message?” Melinda asks.
    Not about this. Matthew . . . the FBI . . . It’s like a tidal wave, arched above my head, ready to crash down. “Tell him I’m coming by.”
    “Harris, you’re not interrupting this meeting . . .”
    “Wouldn’t even think it,” I say as I shut the phone. I’m already jogging back toward the overpass. It’s only a few blocks to First Street. Home of Pasternak & Associates.

10
    N ICE TO SEE YOU,” Janos said, blowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing a quick wave to the female security guard.
    “Can I have you sign in for me?” the guard asked, tapping her finger on the three-ring binder that was open on her desk.
    Janos stopped midstep and slowly turned back to the guard. This wasn’t the time to make a scene. Better to play it quiet.
    “Absolutely,” he replied as he approached the desk. With a flick of his pen, he scribbled the name
Matthew Mercer
onto the sign-in sheet.
    The guard stared up at the letters
FBI
on Janos’s blue and yellow windbreaker. To seal the deal, Janos quickly flashed a shined-up sheriff’s badge he got in an old Army-Navy store. When Janos made eye contact, the guard looked away.
    “Nice day outside, huh?” the guard asked, staring out through the lobby’s enormous plate-glass window.
    “Absolutely,” Janos repeated as he headed for the elevators. “Pretty as a peach.”

11
    N ICE TO SEE YOU, BARB,” I say, plowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing an air kiss to the security guard.
    She grabs the kiss and tosses it aside. Always the same joke. “How’s Stevens?” she asks.
    “Old and rich. How’s . . . how’s your hubby?”
    “You forgot his name, didn’t you?”
    “Sorry,” I stutter. “Just one of those afternoons.”
    “Everybody has ’em, sweets.” It doesn’t make me feel any better. “You here to see Barry?”
    I nod as the elevator dings. Barry’s on the third floor. Pasternak’s on the fourth. Stepping inside, I hit the button marked
4.
The moment the doors close, I slump against the back wall. My smile’s gone; my shoulders sag. In my pocket, I fiddle with the page’s nametag. The elevator rattles upward. All the way to the top.
    With a ping, the doors slide open on the fourth floor, and I squeeze outside into the modern hallway with its recessed lighting. There’s a receptionist on my right. I go left. Pasternak’s assistant’ll never buzz me through. There’s no choice but to go around. The hallway ends at a frosted-glass door with a numeric keypad. I’ve seen Barry enter it a hundred times. I punch in the code, the lock clicks, and I shove my way inside. Just another lobbyist making the rounds.
    Decorated like a law firm but with a bit more attitude, the halls of Pasternak & Associates are covered with stylish black-and-white photos of the American flag waving over the Capitol, the White House, and every other monument in the city—anything to show patriotism. The message to potential clients is clear: Pasternak lobbyists embrace the system—and work within it. The ultimate inside job.
    Wasting no time, I avoid all offices and make a sharp right toward the back, past the kitchenette. If I’m lucky, Pasternak will still be in the conference room, away from his—
    “Harris?” a voice calls out behind me.
    I spin back and paint on a fake grin. To my surprise, I don’t recognize the face.
    “Harris Sandler, right?” he asks again, clearly surprised. His voice