Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [11]
108 blinks onto my pager.
A buzzer rings through the air. One more minute left on the official clock.
“So what’s the count at?” Trish asks, swiveling at the sound, back toward the TV.
“Can we please not change the subject?” Ezra begs.
Trish doesn’t care. She’s still scanning the screen.
“Hundred and eight,” I tell her as the C-SPAN number clicks into place.
“I’m impressed,” she admits. “I didn’t think they’d get this far.”
The grin on my face spreads even wider. Could Trish be playing? Six months ago, Harris invited me in—and one day, I’ll invite someone else. All you know are the two people you’re directly connected to: one above, one below. In truth, it’s purely for safety purposes—in case word gets out, you can’t finger someone if you don’t know who they are. Of course, it also brings new meaning to the term anybody’s game.
I look around the room. All three of my colleagues take subtle glances at C-SPAN. Georgia’s too quiet to be a player. Ezra and Trish are a whole different story.
On TV, Congressman Virgil Witt from Louisiana strolls across the screen. Ezra’s boss. “There’s your guy,” Trish says.
“You’re really serious about this Library thing?” Ezra shoots back. He doesn’t care about seeing his boss on television. Around here, it happens every day.
109, my pager says.
On TV, Ezra’s boss once again rushes across the screen.
Under the desk, I type in one last question: How’d Witt vote?
My eyes are on Ezra as the pager rumbles in my hand. Here comes Harris’s answer.
Nay.
Before I can respond, the pager vibrates one last time: 110.
Game over.
I laugh out loud. Seventy-five bucks in the toilet.
“What?” Georgia asks.
“Nothing,” I say, slapping my pager against the top of the conference table. “Just a stupid E-mail.”
“Actually, that reminds me . . .” Trish begins, pulling out her own pager and checking a quick message.
“Is anyone here not completely distracted?” Ezra asks. “Enough with the friggin’ Blackberries; we’ve got a serious issue—if the White House gets zilched, you know they’ll threaten a veto.”
“No, they won’t,” Trish insists, clicking away on her pager without looking up. “Not this close to the election. They veto now and it’ll look like they’re holding up funding for the entire government just so they can get their driveway repaved.”
Knowing she’s right, Ezra falls unusually silent. I stare him down, searching for the tell. Nothing’s there. If he is playing the game, the guy’s a grandmaster.
“You okay?” he asks, catching my glance.
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Perfect.” And for the past six months, it’s been exactly that. Blood’s pumping, adrenaline’s raging, and I’ve got an in on the best secret in town. After eight years in the grind, I almost forgot what it felt like. Even losing doesn’t matter. The thrill is in the play.
Like I said, the dungeon-masters know what they’re doing. And lucky for me, they’re about to do it again. Any minute now. I check the clock on the wall. Two o’clock. Exactly at two. That’s what Harris said when I first asked him how we know when the next bet is.
“Don’t worry,” he had said calmly. “They’ll send a signal.”
“A signal? What kinda signal?”
“You’ll see—a signal. That way, when instructions go out, you know to be in your office.”
“But what if I don’t see it? What if I’m on the Floor . . . or somewhere else in the Capitol? What if the signal goes out and I’m not here when they send it?”
“Trust me, this is one signal you won’t miss,” Harris insisted. “No matter where you are . . .”
Glancing back over Trish’s shoulder, I eye the TV. Now that the vote’s over, the camera goes back to the Speaker’s rostrum— the multilevel platform the President uses to deliver his State of the Union address. Right now, though, I’m more focused on the small mahogany oval table that’s just in front of it. Every day, the House stenographers sit there, clicking away. Every day, they keep track of everything uttered on the House Floor. And every day, like clockwork, the only objects on that desk are two