Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [38]
When I first met Lowell Nash, I was a second-year staffer in charge of the pen-signing machine; he was the chief of staff who wrote my recommendation for Georgetown Law’s night division. Three years later, when he went into private practice, I returned the favor by steering a few big donors his way as clients. Two years back, he returned the favor by having his law firm raise fifty thousand dollars for the Senator’s reelection campaign. Last year, when the President nominated him as Deputy Attorney General, I returned the favor again by making sure the Senator—a longtime member of the Judiciary Committee—made the confirmation process as smooth as possible. That’s how Washington works. Favors returning favors.
Lowell’s now the number two person at Justice—one of the highest law enforcement positions in the country. I’ve known him for over a decade. The favor was last in his court. I need it returned.
“Congressman,” he says with a nod.
“Mr. President,” I nod back. It’s not entirely impossible. At forty-two years old, Lowell’s the youngest black man ever to hold his position. That alone gives him a national profile. Like the headline in Legal Times read: THE NEXT COLIN POWELL? Playing to the article, he keeps his hair cut short and always sits at perfect attention. He’s never been in the military, but he knows the value of looking the part. Like I said, Lowell’s on his way—that is, barring some personal disaster.
“You look like crap,” he says, folding his black overcoat across the back of the chair and tossing his keys next to my matching phones.
I don’t respond.
“Just tell me what happened . . .”
Again, no response.
“C’mon, Harris—talk to me,” he pleads.
It’s hard to argue. That is what I came for. Eventually, I look up. “Lowell, I need your help.”
“Personal or professional help?”
“Law enforcement help.”
He folds his hands on the table with his pointer fingers extended up, church-steeple-style.
“How bad is it?” he asks.
“Pasternak’s dead.”
He nods. News travels fast in this town. Especially when it’s your old boss. “I heard it was a heart attack,” he adds.
“That’s what they’re saying?”
This time, he’s the one to stay quiet. He turns back toward the reporters, taking a quick scan of the restaurant, then twists back to me. “Tell me about Matthew,” he eventually says.
I start to explain but cut myself off. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know Matthew.
Lowell and I lock eyes. He quickly looks away.
“Lowell, what’s going on?”
“Burger—rare,” the waitress interrupts, plopping my plate down in front of me with a clang. “Anything for you?” she asks Lowell.
“I’m great . . . thanks.”
She gives me one last chance to make good and offer her a smile. When I don’t, she drills me with a silent sneer and heads off to another table.
“Lowell, this isn’t—” I stop and fight myself to bring it to a whisper. “Lowell, enough with the anxious silent-guy act—this is my life . . .”
He still won’t face me. He’s staring at the tabletop, fidgeting with the keys on his key ring.
“Lowell, if you know something—”
“They marked you.”
“What?”
“You’re marked, Harris. If they find you, you’re dead.”
“What’re you talking about? Who’s they? How do you know them?”
Lowell looks over his shoulder. I thought he was studying the reporters. He’s not. He’s studying the door.
“You should get out of here,” he says.
“I . . . I don’t understand. Aren’t you gonna help me?”
“Don’t you get it, Harris? The game is—”
“You know about the game?”
“Listen to me, Harris. These people are animals.”
“But you’re my friend,” I insist.
His eyes drop back to his key ring, which has a small plastic picture frame on it. He rubs his thumb against the frame, and I give it a closer look. The photo inside the frame is of his wife and four-year-old daughter. They’re at the beach with the surf crashing behind them. “We’re not all perfect, Harris,” he eventually says. “Sometimes, our mistakes hurt more than just ourselves.”
My eyes stay glued to