Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [67]
As we’re about to enter the building, an automatic door slides open, revealing a room that reminds me of a fancy hotel lobby. Upholstered head chairs. Victorian bronze lamps. Burgundy and gray carpet.
“Can I help you find your aircraft?” a woman in a business suit asks as she leans over the reception desk on our right.
Viv smiles but then makes a face when she realizes that the sudden helpfulness is directed toward me.
“Senator Stevens,” I say.
“Here you go,” a deep voice calls out just past the reception desk. I look over as a pilot with brushed-back blond hair nods our way.
“Tom Heidenberger,” he says, introducing himself with a pilot’s grip. From the handshake alone, I know he’s former military. He reaches over and shakes Viv’s hand as well. She stands straight up, enjoying the attention.
“Senator on his way?” the pilot asks.
“Actually, he’s not gonna make it. I’m speaking in his place.”
“Lucky you,” he says with a grin.
“And this is Catherine, our new legislative assistant,” I say, introducing Viv. Thanks to her navy suit and above-average height, she doesn’t even get a second glance. Congressional staffs are full of kids.
“So you ready to go, Senator?” the pilot asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply. “Though I’d love if I could use one of your phones before we take off.”
“No problem at all,” the pilot says. “Is it a regular call, or private?”
“Private,” Viv and I say simultaneously.
The pilot laughs. “Calling the Senator himself, huh?” We laugh along with him as he points us around the corner and down the hallway. “First door on your right.”
Inside, it’s a miniature conference room no bigger than a kitchenette. There’s a desk, a single leather chair, and on the wall, an inspirational poster of a man climbing a mountain. At the center of the desk is a shiny black telephone. Viv picks up the receiver; I hit the button for the speakerphone.
“What’re you doing?” she asks as the dial tone hums through the room.
“Just in case you need help . . .”
“I’ll be okay,” she shoots back, annoyed that I’m checking up on her. As she hits the button marked Speaker, the dial tone disappears.
I can’t say I blame her. Even forgetting that I got her into this (which she doesn’t), this is her show—and these two phone calls are ones only she can make.
Her fingers tap at the Touch-Tones, and I hear the ringing through the receiver. A female voice picks up on the other end.
“Hey, Adrienne, it’s Viv,” she says, pumping excitement into her voice. The show’s already on. “No . . . yeah . . . nuh-uh, really? And she said that?” There’s a short pause as Viv plays along. “That’s why I’m calling,” Viv explains. “No . . . just listen . . .”
The female voice on the other line belongs to Adrienne Kaye, one of Viv’s two roommates in the Senate page dorm. As Viv told me on the ride over, every night, when the pages get back from work, they’re supposed to sign the official check-in sheet to make sure everyone’s accounted for. For the thirty pages, it’s a simple system that works just fine—that is, until last week, when Adrienne decided to ditch curfew and stay out late with a group of interns from Indiana. The only reason Adrienne got away with it was because Viv signed Adrienne’s name at the check-in desk and told the proctors she was in the bathroom. Now, Viv’s trying to get the favor returned.
Within thirty seconds, the job’s done. “Great—yeah, no—just tell them it’s that time of the month; that’ll keep them away,” Viv says, giving me the thumbs-up. Adrienne’s in. “Nuh-uh . . . no one you know,” Viv adds as she glances my way. There’s no smile on her face.
“Jason? Never,” Viv laughs. “Are you a nutbag? I don’t care if he’s cute—he can pick his nose with his tongue . . .”
She keeps the conversation going just long enough to keep it believable. “Cool, thanks again, Adrienne,” she says, finally hanging up.
“Well done,” I tell her as she stands in front of the desk and dials the