The Book of Fate (11 page)

“She was yanking your ya-ya,” Vincent said.

“Maybe she was scared.”

“Or maybe she just wanted some attention.”

“Or maybe she’s now married, and therefore terrified her husband will dump her the instant he finds out his lovely wife used to be a bathhouse girl. Think, Vincent. Sources only stay quiet when they have something to lose.”

“Y’mean like their job? Or their career? Or their supposedly well read gossip column?”

Lisbeth stabbed him with a cold, piercing stare. Vincent stabbed her right back.

“Six,” he said as he turned to leave. “Six letters in the stack.”

“I don’t care if it’s one.”

“Yes, you do. You’re a great writer but a terrible liar, sweetie.”

For once, Lisbeth stayed silent.

“By the way,” Vincent added, “if a publicist calls for some art award for the John family . . . don’t be such a snob. Think Page Six. Good bold names are good bold names.”

“But if the story’s crap—”

“I hate to break it to you, pumpkin,” Vincent called out, already halfway down the hallway, “but there’s no Pulitzer for gossip.”

Alone in her cubicle, Lisbeth studied the empty grid on her screen, then looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper in her trash. She bent down below her desk to pull it from the garbage, and the phone rang above her. At the noise, she bolted upward, smashing the back of her head against the corner of her desk.

“Aaahh,” she yelled, rubbing her head fiercely as she reached for the phone. “Below the Fold. This is Lisbeth.”

“Hi, I . . . uh . . . I work over at the Four Seasons,” a male voice began. “Is this the place you call for—?”

“Only if it’s a good one,” Lisbeth said, still rubbing, but all too aware what he was asking. It was the deal she made with all local hotel employees. A hundred bucks for any tip she used in the column.

“Well . . . uh . . . I was serving some of President Manning’s old employees,” he said. “And . . . I don’t know if they count as celebrities, but if you’re interested . . .”

“No, I’m definitely interested.” She hit the
Record
button and scrambled for a pen. Even on her best days, there was no bigger bold name than
Manning.
“Those’re exactly the type of people we love to write about.”

17

M
aybe it’d be better if we stepped outside,” O’Shea suggests, towering over me in the restaurant. He’s got a buckled nose that makes it clear he’s not afraid to take a punch. He tries to hide it with his sunglasses, but some things are hard to miss. The moment he flashed an FBI badge, people turned to stare.

“Yeah . . . that’d be great,” I reply, calmly standing from my seat and following him through the open-air walkway that leads to the pool area outside. If I plan on keeping this quiet, the last thing I need is to be spotted with the FBI in a public place.

Surrounded by palm trees on all sides, the pool is a picture of privacy—this early in the morning, all the lounge chairs are empty— but for some reason, O’Shea doesn’t slow down. It’s not until we pass one of the many oversize potted plants that I see what he’s looking at: two guys in a small wooden cabana folding towels, getting ready for the day. O’Shea keeps walking. Whatever he wants, he wants it in private.

“Listen, can you tell me where we’re—?”

“How was your trip to Malaysia?” As he asks the question, I’m staring at the back of O’Shea’s head. He doesn’t even turn around to see my reaction.

“Um . . . it was fine.”

“And the President had a good time?”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” I reply, annoyed.

“Anything else of note happen?” O’Shea asks, heading down a short path that’s covered with water. A wave crashes in the distance, but it’s not until a cascade of sand fills my loafers that I realize we’re on the private beach behind the pool. Empty lounge chairs, empty lifeguard stands. The vacant beach goes on for miles.

As we pass a tiny hut that’s used for snorkeling gear rentals, a man with finely combed brown hair steps out from behind it and pats me on the back. He’s got a small nick that’s missing from the top of his left ear.

“Say hi to my partner. Micah,” O’Shea explains.

I turn back to the hotel, but thanks to the wall of palm trees, I can only make out a few terraces on the top floors of the building. Not a soul in sight. It’s at that same moment I realize Micah has slowed his pace, so he’s now slightly behind me.

“Maybe you should take a seat,” O’Shea adds, motioning to one of the lounges.

“It’ll only take a second,” Micah adds behind me.

Spinning around, I start back toward the path. “I should really get—”

“We saw the report you filed with the Service, Wes. We know who you saw in Malaysia.”

I stop right there, almost tripping in the sand. As I find my balance and turn to face them, O’Shea and Micah have the ocean at their backs. The waves pound ruthlessly. Subtlety isn’t their strong point.

“What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“The report,” O’Shea says. “Fifty-something guy with Boyle’s height, Boyle’s weight, Boyle’s shaved bald head, though for some reason you left out his eye color—and the fact you thought it was him.”

“Listen, I don’t know
what
I saw that night . . .”

“It’s okay, Wes,” Micah says with a singsong quality to his voice. “Boyle
was
in Malaysia. You’re not crazy.”

Most people would be relieved. But I’ve been around law enforcement long enough to know their tricks and treats. This one’s called
tone matching.
Designed to subconsciously affect a target’s mood, it’s built on the fact that you tend to match the tone that’s aimed at you. When someone yells, you yell back. Whisper, you whisper back. Usually, they use it to strengthen a witness who’s depressed, or bring down a target who’s cocky. Micah just sang to me, hoping I’d sing back. There’s only one problem. FBI agents don’t sing—and I don’t either. If they’re using mind games, there’s something they’re not saying.

“Boyle’s really alive?” I ask, refusing to admit anything.

O’Shea studies me carefully. For the first time, he’s staring at my scars. “I know this is personal for you—”

“That’s
not
what this is about!” I shoot back.

“Wes, we’re not here to attack,” Micah says softly.

“And enough with the damn voice tricks! Just tell me what the hell is going on!”

The wind rockets across the shore, blowing Micah’s tightly combed hair out of place. O’Shea shifts his weight, uncomfortable in the sand and well aware he picked the wrong button to press. It’s not just their suits that make them stand out. The two agents exchange a glance. O’Shea offers a small nod.

“Boyle ever mention a group he called
The Three
?” Micah finally asks.

I shake my head no.

“What about
The Roman
?”

“Is that a group too?”

“It’s a person,” O’Shea says, watching my reaction.

“Am I supposed to know him?” I ask.

For the second time, the two agents share a glance. O’Shea squints against the morning sun as it burns through the clouds. “You have any idea how long we’ve been hunting Boyle?” O’Shea asks. “Y’think this all started with his miraculous ‘death’? We were chasing him back in the White House, just waiting for him to screw up. And then when he did . . . poof . . . world’s greatest get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“So when he was shot . . .”

“. . . we got snookered. Just like the rest of America. Even closed the case and filed the files. Three years later, he made his first mistake and got spotted in Spain by some local ex-pat who was just enough of a political junkie to recognize him. Lucky us, he calls it in, but before we could even do follow-up, the witness’s car mysteriously blows up in front of his house. Pro job too—Semtex-H with a pressure-touch switch. Lucky us again, no one’s hurt, but the message is sent. Witness decides he never saw anything.”

“And you think Boyle knows Semtex-H? I mean . . . he’s an accountant.”

“Which means he knows how to pay people and manipulate and keep his fingerprints off everything no matter what he touches.”

“But he . . .”

“. . . makes his living preying on people. That’s what he does, Wes. It’s what he did in the White House . . . and with our agents . . . and especially with the Service.”

Reading the confusion on my face, he adds, “C’mon, you must’ve figured this one out. The twelve minutes in the ambulance . . . the extra blood . . . Why do you think Manning and the Service helped him? Out of the kindness of their hearts? He’s a termite, Wes—digging into the vulnerable, then exploiting their weaknesses. D’you understand what I’m saying? He thrives on weaknesses. All weaknesses.”

The way he studies me . . . the way his glowing blue eyes lock onto mine . . . “Wait, are you saying
I
—?”

“We checked your file, Wes,” O’Shea adds, pulling a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket. “Seven months with a Dr. Collins White, who it says here is a
critical incident specialist.
Sounds pretty technical.”

“Where’d you get that?” I ask.

“And the analysis: panic disorder and post-traumatic stress comorbidity . . .”

“That was eight years ago!” I tell them.

“. . . triggering compulsive behavior involving light switches, locking and unlocking doors . . .”

“That’s not even—”

“. . . and a full-fledged obsession with the need for repetitive praying,” O’Shea continues, unconcerned. “That true? What, was that your way of dealing with the shooting? Saying the same prayers over and over?” He flips over to the second page. “Not even religious, are you? That’s a real Nico reaction.”

To my own surprise, my eyes well up and my throat tightens. It’s been a long time since anyone—

“I know it was hard for you, Wes,” O’Shea adds. “Even harder than the way you stapled your fingers with Boyle. But if he has something over you, we can help you out of it.”

Help me out of it?
“You think I’d—?”

“Whatever he offered you, you’ll only get burned.”

“He didn’t offer me
anything
,” I insist.

“Is that why you were fighting?”

“Fighting? What’re you—?”

“The broken coffee table? The shattered glass from where you hit it? We saw the report,” Micah interrupts, his singsong voice long gone.

“I didn’t know he was back there!”

“Really?” Micah asks, his voice picking up speed. “In the middle of a speech in a foreign country, you leave the President’s side—where you were supposed to be . . .”

“I swear—”

“. . . and disappear backstage to the one room where Boyle happens to be hiding—”

“I didn’t know!” I yell.

“We have agents who were there!” Micah explodes. “They found the fake name Boyle used in the hotel! When they interviewed the desk clerks on duty that night, one of them picked out
your photo
, saying
you
were the one looking for
him
! Now do you wanna start over, or do you wanna bury yourself even deeper? Just tell us why Manning sent you instead of the Service to meet him.”

It’s the second time they’ve confirmed Manning and the Service being involved—and the first time I realize I’m not the one they’re after. Big hunters want big game. And why take a cub when you can bag the Lion?

“We know Manning’s been good to you—”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“Actually, we do,” O’Shea says. “Just like we know Boyle. Believe me, Wes, when they were in power, you didn’t see half of what they—”

“I was with them every day!”

“You were with them for the last eight months, when all they cared about was reelection. You think that’s reality? Just because you know what they like on their turkey sandwiches doesn’t mean you know what they’re capable of.”

If I were Rogo, I’d rush forward and bury my fist in his jaw. Instead, I dig my foot in the sand. Anything to help me keep standing. From what they’re saying, Manning definitely has some pretty dark dirt on his hands. Maybe they’re just fishing. Maybe it’s the truth. Either way, after everything Manning’s done for me . . . after taking me back in and being by my side all these years . . . I’m not biting that hand until I know the facts myself.

“Ever see a three-car collision?” Micah asks. “Y’know which car suffers the most damage? The one in the middle.” He pauses just long enough to let it all sink in. “Manning, you, Boyle. Which car d’you think
you
are?”

I grind my leg even deeper into the sand. “That’s . . . that’s not—”

“By the way, where’d you get the nice timepiece?” Micah interrupts, motioning to my vintage Franck Muller watch. “That’s a ten-thousand-dollar bauble.”

“What’re you—? It was a gift from the president of Senegal,” I explain. At home, I’ve got at least a half dozen more, including a platinum Vacheron Constantin given by the Saudi crown prince. When we were in office, they became gifts of the White House. Today, there’re no rules on giving to former Presidents and his staff. But before I can tell him—

“Mr. Holloway,” a voice calls out behind me.

I turn just in time to see my waiter from breakfast. He’s up by the pool area, holding my credit card in his hand.

“Sorry . . . didn’t want you to forget this,” he calls out, now scrambling toward us on the beach.

O’Shea turns toward the ocean so the waiter can’t hear. “Focus, Wes—are you really that blindly devoted? You know they lied to you. You keep covering for them and you’re just gonna be someone who needs a lawyer.”

“Here you go, sir,” the waiter says.

“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a half-smile.

O’Shea and Micah aren’t nearly as kind. From the angry glares they drill my way, they still want more. The problem is, I don’t have anything to give them. At least not yet. And until I do, I’ve got nothing to barter for protection.

“Wait up . . . I’ll walk out with you,” I say, pivoting in the sand and falling in line behind the waiter.

Years ago, I used to bite at a small callus on the side of my pointer finger. When I got to the White House, Dreidel made me stop, saying it looked bad in the background of the President’s photos. For the first time in a decade, I start gnawing at it.