Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [12]
There’s our code. That’s the signal. One empty water glass, broadcast all day long for the entire world to see.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and all four of us turn at the sound. A young kid wearing gray slacks, a cheap navy blazer, and a blue-and-red-striped tie enters the room. He can’t be more than sixteen, and if the uniform doesn’t give him away, the rectangular nametag on his lapel does. Set off against a black background, the stark white letters read:
House of Representatives Page
Nathan Lagahit
He’s one of a few dozen—a high school page who delivers mail and fetches water. The only person on the totem pole lower than an intern.
“I-I’m sorry . . .” he begins, realizing he’s interrupting. “I’m looking for Matthew Mercer . . .”
“That’s me,” I say with a wave.
Rushing over, he barely makes eye contact as he hands me the sealed envelope. “Thanks,” I tell him, but he’s already out of the room.
Regular mail can be opened by a secretary. So can interoffice. FedEx requires a return address. And a messenger service would add up to a small fortune if you used it on a regular basis. But the House and Senate pages barely leave a footprint. They’re here every single day, and while all they do is run errands back and forth, they’re the easiest thing to miss. Ghosts in blue blazers. No one sees them come; no one sees them go. And best of all, since the pages get their instructions verbally, there’s no physical record of where a particular package goes.
An empty water glass tells me to be at my desk. A sealed envelope carried by a page tells me what I’m doing next. Welcome to game day.
“Trish, can’t you just meet us in the middle?” Ezra begs as Trish shakes her head.
Refusing to get into it, I angle my chair away from the group and examine the envelope. As always, it’s blank. Not even my name or room number. And if I’d asked the page where he got it from, he’d say someone in the cloakroom asked him to do a favor. After six months, I’m done trying to figure out how the inner workings of the game happen.
Wedging my thumb under the flap of the envelope, I give it a sharp jab and tear it open. Inside, as usual, the notice is the same: a single sheet of paper with the royal blue letterhead of the CAG, the Coalition Against Gambling. The letterhead’s an obvious joke, but it’s the first reminder that this is purely for fun. Underneath, the letter begins, Here are some upcoming issues we’d like to focus on . . . Just below that is a numbered list of fifteen items that range from:
(3) Convince both Kentucky Senators to vote against Hesselbach’s dairy compact bill to:
(12) Within the next seven days, replace Congressman Edward Berganza’s suit jacket with a tuxedo jacket.
As usual, I go straight to the last item on the list. All the rest are bullshit—a way to throw people off in case a stranger gets his hands on it—but the last one on there . . . that’s the one that actually counts.
As I read the words, my mouth tips open. I don’t believe it.
“Everything alright?” Trish asks.
When I don’t answer, all three of them turn my way. “Matthew, you still breathing over there?” she repeats.
“Y-Yeah . . . no . . . of course,” I say with a laugh. “Just another note from Cordell.”
My three colleagues instantly leap back to their verbal fistfight. I look down at the letter. And for the third time, I reread the words and try to contain my grin.
(15) Insert Congressman Richard Grayson’s land sale project into the Interior House Appropriations bill.
An earmark. A single Interior earmark. I can actually feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. This isn’t just any issue. It’s my issue.
For once in my life, I can’t lose.
3
SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?” I ask as I rush into Harris’s office on the fourth floor of the Russell Senate Office