Zero Game (16 page)

She doesn’t answer.

Sure, it’s a gamble—but not nearly as risky as a company betting on a gold mine that has no gold in it, then keeping all the locals away so no one sees what they’re really up to. Even a seventeen-year-old knows something here stinks—and the only way to find out
what
is by going directly to the source.

29

T
WO HOURS LATER, WE’RE
in the back of a taxi in Dulles, Virginia. The sign out front is easy to miss, but I’ve been here before. Piedmont-Hawthorne’s Corporate Aviation Terminal.

“Just give me five back,” I say to the cab driver, who’s taken far too many glances at us in his rearview mirror. Maybe it’s our silence . . . maybe it’s the fact Viv won’t even look at me. Or maybe it’s the fact I just gave him a crappy tip.

“Actually, keep the change,” I tell the cabbie as I paint on a warm grin and force a laugh at the
Elliot in the Morning
promo that screams from the radio. The cabbie smiles back and counts his money. People are far less likely to remember you when you haven’t pissed them off. “Have a great day,” I add as Viv and I climb outside. He gives us a wave without looking back.

“You sure this is legal?” Viv asks, forever the good girl as she follows me toward the squatty modern building.

“I didn’t say anything about legal—all I’m looking for is smart.”

“And this is smart?”

“You’d rather fly commercial?”

Viv goes back to her silence. We went through this on the ride over here. This way, they won’t even ask for ID.

There aren’t many places you can get a private plane in less than two hours. Thankfully, Congress is one of them. And all it took was a single phone call. Two years ago, during a key vote on a controversial aviation bill, the head of FedEx’s government relations office called and asked to speak to Senator Stevens. Personally. Knowing they never cried wolf, I took a chance and put the call through. It was a gorgeous chess move by them. With Stevens on board, it set the tone for the rest of the Midwest Senators, who quickly followed with support for the bill.

Exactly two hours ago, I called FedEx’s government relations office and asked them to return the favor. The Senator, I explained, didn’t want to miss a last-minute fundraising opportunity in South Dakota, so he asked me to call. Personally.

That’s what brings us here. According to the ethics rules, a Senator can use a private corporate jet as long as he reimburses the company for the price of a first-class commercial ticket, which we can repay later. It’s a genius loophole—and Viv and I just jumped headfirst right through it.

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 next number.

She nods to herself, showing the tiniest hint of pride. The chase with Janos pulled her down a few pegs. She’s still trying to climb her way back up. Too bad for Viv, the next call will only make it harder.

As the phone rings on the other line, I already see the change in her posture. She lowers her chin, ducking down just slightly. Her toes turn inward, one shoe picking at the tip of the other. As her hand grips the receiver, she again glances at me and turns away. I know a call for help when I see one.

I hit the button for the speakerphone just as a female voice picks up on the other line. Viv looks down at the red light marked
Speaker.
This time, she doesn’t shut it off.

“Doctor’s office,” a female voice answers.

“Hey, Momma, it’s me,” Viv says, forcing the same amount of bubbliness through the phone. Her tone is pitch perfect—even better than the last call.

“What’s wrong?” her mom asks.

“Nothing . . . I’m great,” Viv says as she leans her left hand against the desk. She’s already having trouble standing up. Two minutes ago, she was seventeen, going on twenty-seven. Now she’s barely thirteen.

“Why’m I on speakerphone?” Mom asks.

“You’re not, Momma; it’s a cell phone that’s—”

“Take me off speaker—y’know I hate it.”

Viv looks my way, and I instinctively step back. She hits the button marked
Speaker,
and the call leaves the room. The good news is, thanks to the volume of Mom’s voice, I can still hear her through the receiver.

Earlier, I said we shouldn’t make this call. Now we have to. If Mom pulls the fire alarm, we’re not going anywhere.

“Better,” Mom says. “Now, whatsa matter?”

There’s real concern in her voice. Sure, Mom’s loud . . . but not from anger . . . or bossiness. Senator Stevens has the same tone. That sense of immediacy. The sound of strength.

“Tell me what happened,” Mom insists. “Someone make another comment?”

“No one made a comment.”

“What about that boy from Utah?”

I can’t place Mom’s accent—part southern Ohio drawl, part broad vowels of Chicago—but whatever it is, when I close my eyes . . . the intonations . . . the speed of each syllable . . . it’s like hearing Viv twenty years in the future. Then I open my eyes and see Viv hunched over from the stress. She’s got a long way to go.

“What about the Utah boy?” Mom persists.

“That boy’s an ass—”

“Vivian . . .”

“Momma, please—it isn’t a cuss. They say
ass
on every dumb sitcom on TV.”

“So now you live in a sitcom, huh? Then I guess your
sitcom
mom will be the one paying your bills and taking care of all your problems.”

“I don’t have problems. It was one comment from one boy . . . The proctors took care of it . . . It’s fine.”

“Don’t let them do that to you, Vivian. God says—”

“I said
I’m fine.
”

“Don’t let them—”

“Mom!”

Mom pauses—a triple-length pause only a mother can give. All the love she has for her daughter—you can tell she’s dying to scream it through the phone . . . but she also knows that strength isn’t easily transferred. It has to be found. From within.

“Tell me something about the Senators,” Mom finally says. “They ask you to write any legislation yet?”

“No, Mom, I haven’t written any legislation yet.”

“You
will.
”

It’s hard to explain, but the way she says it, even I believe her.

“Listen, Momma . . . the only reason I’m calling . . . they’re taking us on an overnight to Monticello . . . Thomas Jefferson’s home . . .”

“I know what Monticello is.”

“Yeah, well . . . anyway, I didn’t want you fretting when you called and we weren’t here.” Viv stops, waiting to see if Mom buys it. We both hold our breath.

“I told you they’d take you up there, Viv—I saw pictures in the old brochure,” Mom says, clearly excited. And just like that, it’s done.

“Yeah . . . they do it every year,” Viv adds. There’s a sudden sadness in her voice. Almost as if she wished it weren’t that easy. She glances up at the poster on the wall. We all have our mountains to climb.

“So when you coming back?”

“I think tomorrow night,” Viv says, checking with me. I shrug and nod at the same time. “Yeah . . . tomorrow night,” she adds.

“Don’t forget to ask about Sally Hemings . . .”

“Don’t worry, Momma—I’m sure it’s part of the tour.”

“It better be—what’d they think, we’re just gonna forget about all that?
Please.
It’s bad enough they’re trying to sell it now as some tender love affair . . .” She stops a moment. “You got enough money and all that?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Right answer.”

Viv lets out a soft smile at the joke.

“You okay, Boo?” Mom asks.

“I’m great,” Viv insists. “Just getting excited for the trip.”

“You should be. Treasure every experience, Vivian. They all matter.”

“I know, Momma . . .”

Like before, there’s a maternal pause. “You sure you’re okay?”

Viv shifts her weight, leaning even harder on the desk. The way she’s hunched over, it’s almost as if she needs the desk to hold her up. “I told you, Momma. I’m great.”

“Yes. You are. True greatness.” Mom’s voice practically beams through the phone. “Make us proud, Vivian. God gave you to us for a reason. Love, love, love you.”

“Love you, too, Momma.”

As Viv hangs up the phone, she’s still hunched on the desk. Sure, both phone calls can get her grounded and maybe even expelled—but it’s still far better than being dead.

“Viv, just so you know—”

“Please, Harris . . .”

“But I—”

“Harris . . . please, for once . . . stop talking.”

“Ready to fly?” the pilot asks as we return to the main reception area.

“All set,” I say as he leads us toward the back of the building. Over my shoulder, Viv stays silent, purposely walking a few steps behind. I’m not sure if she doesn’t want to see me or doesn’t want me seeing her. Either way, I’ve already pushed enough.

Up the hallway, there are two locked security doors straight ahead. Behind me, I take one last look at the reception area and notice a thin man in a pinstriped suit sitting in one of the upholstered chairs. He wasn’t there when we walked in. It’s like he appeared out of nowhere. We weren’t gone that long. I try to get a better look at him, but he quickly averts his eyes, flipping open his cell phone.

“Everything okay?” the pilot asks.

“Yeah . . . of course,” I insist as we reach the doors.

The woman at the reception desk hits a button, and there’s a loud magnetic thunk. The doors unlock, and the pilot shoves them open, ushering us outside. No metal detector . . . no wanding . . . no screening . . . no luggage . . . no hassle. Fifty feet in front of us, sitting on the runway, is a brand-new Gulfstream G400. Along the side of the jet, a thin blue and orange stripe shines in the late afternoon sunlight. There’s even a tiny red carpet at the base of the stairs.

“Beats the heck outta flying coach, huh?” the pilot asks. Viv nods. I try to act unimpressed. Our chariot awaits.

As we climb the stairs to the plane, I look back at the plate-glass window of the hangar, trying to get another look at the thin man inside. He’s nowhere in sight.

Ducking down and stepping into the cabin, we find nine leather club chairs, a buttery tan leather sofa, and a flight attendant who’s waiting just for us.

“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” she offers. “Champagne . . . orange juice . . . anything at all.”

A second pilot’s already in the cockpit. When they’re both on board, the flight attendant shuts the door, and we’re on our way. I take the first chair in front. Viv takes the one all the way in back.

The flight attendant doesn’t make us put on our seat belts or read a list of rules. “The seats recline all the way,” she offers. “You can sleep the whole flight if you want.”