Zero Game by Brad Meltzer Page A

creaks like a loose floorboard, and his green hangdog eyes have a silent darkness to them. They lock on to me like a bear trap. Still, the only thing I’m concerned with is the blue and yellow FBI windbreaker he’s wearing.
    “Can I talk to you a moment?” the man asks as he points me back toward the conference room. “I promise . . . it’ll only take a second.”

12
    D O I KNOW YOU?” I ask, searching for info.
    The man in the FBI windbreaker puts on his own fake smile and rubs his hand along his buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. I know that move. Stevens does it when he meets constituents. A poor attempt to warm things up. “Harris, maybe we should find a place to talk.”
    “I-I’m supposed to see Pasternak.”
    “I know. Sounds like he’s been a good friend to you.” His body language switches in the most imperceptible way. He’s smiling, but his chin pitches toward me. I make my living in politics. Most people wouldn’t see it. I do.
    “Now, do you want to have this discussion in the conference room, or would you rather discuss it in front of the whole firm?” he asks. Ramming his point home, he nods a quick hello to a middle-aged redhead who steps into the kitchenette for some coffee. Talking without saying. Whoever this guy is, he’d be a great Congressman.
    “If this is about Matthew . . .”
    “It’s about more than Matthew,” the man interrupts. “What surprises me is Pasternak trying to keep your name out of it.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Please, Harris—even a nongambling man would bet against that.”
    The reference is as subtle as lighting my chest on fire. He doesn’t just know about Matthew. He knows about the game. And he wants me to know it.
    I stare at him coldly. “Pasternak’s in the conference room?”
    “Right this way,” he says, motioning up the hallway like a fine maître d’. “After you . . .”
    I lead the way. He falls in right behind me.
    “Sounds like you two have known each other a long time,” he says.
    “Me and Pasternak, or me and Matthew?”
    “Both,” he says as he straightens a black-and-white photo of the Supreme Court that’s hanging in the hall. He’s asking questions, but he doesn’t care about the answers.
    I glance over my shoulder and give him a quick once-over. Windbreaker . . . gray slacks . . . and chocolate brown calfskin shoes. The pewter logo says they’re Ferragamo. I turn back toward the hallway. Nice shoes for government pay.
    “Right in here,” he says, pointing to the door on my right. Like the one by the elevators, it’s frosted glass, which only shows me the blurry outline of Pasternak as he sits in his favorite black leather chair at the center of the long conference table. It’s one of Pasternak’s first lessons: better to be at the center than the head of the table—if you want something done, you need to be close to all the players.
    I grab the doorknob and give it a twist. I’m not surprised Pasternak picked this conference room—it’s the biggest one in the firm—but as the door swings open, I am surprised to find that the lights are off. I didn’t notice it at first. Except for the fading sunlight from the large bay windows, Pasternak’s sitting in the dark.
    The door slams behind me, followed by a slight electrical hum. Like a transistor radio being turned on. I spin around just in time to see the man with the hangdog eyes lunging at me. In his hand is a small box that looks like a black brick. I lean back at the last second and raise my arm as a shield. The box slams into my forearm and burns with a sharp bite. Son of a bitch. Did he just stab me?
    He expects me to pull away. Instead, I keep the box in my arm and tug him even closer. As he tumbles toward me off balance, I pivot off my back leg and punch him square in his eye. His head snaps back, and he stumbles, crashing into the closed frosted-glass door. The black box flies from his hand and shatters on the floor, scattering