Free The Zero by Jess Walter

said.
    The Boss smiled. “That’s all I wanted to say, Brian, to make sure you knew my genuine…and complete…” His voice cracked and he stared at the folder in his lap. Then he assumed his campaign voice again and fell back into his usual patter. “By God, we will gather everyreceipt, every purchase order, every goddamned piece of paper…otherwise…well, I think you know.”
    “Sir?”
    “They win,” The Boss whispered.
    “Win, sir?”
    “They win, Brian. They…” The Boss opened the empty file again. “They win.” He put on a pair of glasses and looked down at the blank page. “As a side note, your reports on Sergeant Guterak have been very informative.”
    “My reports?” Remy rubbed his temple, trying to recall if he’d said something about Guterak. He wondered how you undo what you don’t remember doing. “Paul’s a good man.”
    “Yes, we can’t have that.”
    “No. Paul’s just fine, sir.”
    “It’s taken care of.” The Boss rubbed his mouth. “I know this is also a personal favor to me, Brian. Your commitment and sacrifice—” He rubbed his mouth and launched into a version of his inspiring speech again, but after a while it seemed to devolve into random words. “…courage…liberty…reconstruction…resilience…faith…spending…” He shook his head. “And this thing you’re doing…well…obviously.” The Boss closed the file folder and focused again. “But we’ll need a story. We’ll work it through disability. What do you want? Back? Disability loves backs. Or would you rather do the thing with your eyes?”
    “My eyes?” Reflexively, Remy squeezed his eyes shut to check on the strings and floaters and when he opened them he saw—
     
    THE FACE, young and lineless, the face from the ghost bar, stared at him from atop the same thin neck, perched above the same body of a man in the same deep black suit. Remy looked again at this perfectlittle face, like a blank sheet beneath short brown hair. He’d never seen such a smooth surface. Just as he had in the ghost bar, the man wore a generic federal ID tag over his suit’s breast pocket: “Markham.”
    He was speaking: “…your background, of course, on the street and in the office. This is a unique assignment, removed as it might first appear from the initial…mandate of Liberty and Recovery. There’s an argument that this assignment encroaches somewhat on the activities of the bureau, or the agencies, which is one reason we wanted to go out of shop.” Markham waved this off. “But we’ll figure out jurisdiction issues after we blow up that bridge. This is neither the time nor the time to debate such things. Am I right? Huh?”
    They were in a small conference room, nothing on the walls, in black executive chairs. The room had a high ceiling; Remy could hear mechanized sounds coming from beyond the door.
    Markham was still talking. “Of course, your work must be treated with the utmost discretion. I will be your primary contact. I trust you haven’t told anyone about your negotiations with us to this point.”
    “With—”
    “With us,” Markham said.
    “Yeah.” Remy laughed nervously. “Well, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
    Half of Markham’s young face smiled. “That’s good.”
    “Hell, I don’t even know who you are.”
    Markham seemed momentarily startled, then smiled. “Wow. Yeah. That’s good. You could be in one of our training videos.” Markham sat smiling at Remy a moment longer, then set his thin briefcase on the table and opened it. “Okay, then, why don’t we talk about what we’re here to talk about?”
    Markham pulled an eight-by-ten photograph from the briefcase and slid it across the table. It showed a young woman with round cheeks, dark eyes, and long black hair, a beautiful girl. In the picture shewas sitting in a restaurant patio wearing a spaghetti-strap evening dress and holding a martini up to the camera.
    “Gibson,” said