The Book of Fate (34 page)

“My—”

“Does Dreidel even know?”

“Will you shut the hell up and let me tell you!?”
Rogo shouts through the phone. I turn to see if Lisbeth hears, but she’s too lost in the 8 x 10s.

Catching his breath in the silence, Rogo starts at a whisper. Wherever he is, he’s definitely not alone. “They started as a myth, Wes. Like some old law enforcement ghost story. You’ve heard it for years: politicians bitching and moaning that all our law enforcement groups don’t work well together—that the FBI won’t share information with the CIA, who won’t share with the Secret Service. The result leaves half the agencies complaining that they’re in the dark. But there are some who argue—not publicly, of course—that the lack of coordination isn’t such a bad thing. The more adversarial they are, the more each agency is a check on the other. If the CIA does something corrupt, the FBI is there to call them on it. But if they all got together and ganged up against us . . . well, y’know what kinda power’s in those numbers?”

“Wait, so now you’re trying to tell me that someone’s convinced
thousands
of our country’s top, most trusted agents to suddenly switch sides?”

“Not thousands,” Rogo says, his voice still a whisper. “Just three.”

Climbing from my knees, I sit back on the couch. Next to me, Lisbeth’s carefully studying one of the photos.

“Hey . . . uh . . . Wes,” she says, pointing to a photo.

I give her the
one minute
sign with my pointer finger and stay focused on the phone.

“Three members,” Rogo adds. “One from the FBI, one from the CIA, one from the Secret Service. Alone, they can only do limited damage. Together, fully aware of all the tricks, including how to sidestep three of our most powerful agencies? They can pull down the whole damn sky.”

“Wes, I think you should look at this,” Lisbeth says.

Once again, I put up the
one minute
sign.

“Apparently, it was the great urban myth of law enforcement—until eight years ago, when the first internal investigation was opened,” Rogo says. “My guy said there’s some sky-level memo from Boyle to the President, warning him to look into it.”

“So Manning and Boyle were chasing The Three?”

“Or The Three were chasing them—for all we know, they were fighting over the same corrupt pie,” Rogo replies.

“And you think three guys could really keep their jobs and stay hidden that long?”

“You kidding? Robert Hanssen spent twenty years selling secrets from within the FBI before anyone took notice. The Three are pros within their agencies. And the way they’re backing each other up, they’re doing triple damage. Oh, and just to crap on your day a little more: The last—and only—known sighting for one of these guys was that beautiful little terrorist hot spot known as Sudan.”

“Sudan? As in, the one country The Roman specializes in?”

“Wes, I’m serious,” Lisbeth says, popping open the rings of the notebook.

“Just one sec,” I tell her. “No jokes, Rogo,” I say into the phone. “You think The Roman gets info from The Three?”

“Or
gives
info
to
The Three. Hell, for all we know, The Roman’s
part of
The Three, though I guess it could be anyone in the Service.”

Next to me, Lisbeth pulls the photo from the notebook, then holds it almost to her nose to check it up close.

“You mean that he’s CIA or FBI?” I ask Rogo.

“No, he’s Secret Service,” Rogo says a bit too confidently. I know that tone.

“Rogo, don’t play games. Say what you’re saying.”

“Wes, just take a second to look at this,” Lisbeth says, now annoyed I’m ignoring her.

“It was actually Dreidel’s brainstorm,” Rogo says. “Once he heard
FBI
, he asked my guy if he could look up your favorite investigators, Agents O’Shea and Micah. According to his records, O’Shea started with the Bureau in July of 1986. Same exact year as Micah.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Wes . . .” Lisbeth pleads.

“The problem,” Rogo says, refusing to slow down, “is that Micah doesn’t work for the Bureau. As near as we can tell, he works as a case officer. For the CIA.”

“Just look!” Lisbeth adds, shoving the photo into my lap.

My lungs crater, like someone’s shot an arrow into my chest. It only gets worse as I look down at the photograph. In my lap is a black-and-white reaction shot taken a few minutes after the shooting. Unlike the others, this one faces the infield of the raceway, where NASCAR drivers, mechanics, and their staff embrace, hug, sob, and retell the story that just unfolded in front of them. Most look shell-shocked. A few look angry. And one—all alone in the far right corner of the photo, glancing over his shoulder as he walks away—looks oddly curious.

At first, he blends right in because of his racing jumpsuit. But there’s no mistaking the finely combed hair and the small nick missing from the top of his ear. Eight years ago, I was shot in the face, Boyle was supposedly killed, and the Manning presidency was decimated. Micah was there to witness it all.

“That’s him, right?” Lisbeth asks. “That’s Micah . . .”

The Secret Service is in charge of presidential protection. The FBI handled the investigation of Nico. “What the hell was the CIA doing there that day?” I blurt.

“CIA?” Lisbeth asks.

“Wes, don’t answer her!” Rogo calls out through the phone.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Think for a second,” he tells me. “You’ve always been alone when O’Shea and Micah corner you, right? So if Lisbeth never met Micah before, how the hell can she pick him out of a photograph?”

I look over at Lisbeth, who’s still next to me on the couch. “What’s wrong?” she asks, reaching for the picture. She pulls it out of my hands before I can react.

“Lemme call you right back,” I say to Rogo as I hang up the phone.

65

S
orry I couldn’t be more help,” an elderly black woman with a beaded bracelet said as she walked O’Shea to the door of her modest conch cottage at 327 William Street. “Though I do hope you find him.”

“I’m sure we will,” O’Shea replied, stepping back outside and tucking his badge back into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for letting us look around, though.”

A few steps behind him, Micah held his phone to his ear, trying hard not to look frustrated. He didn’t say a word until the woman shut the door behind them.

“Told you the kid’s sharp,” The Roman said through Micah’s phone.

“That’s real helpful,” Micah shot back. “Almost as helpful as showing up in Florida and heading into Manning’s office without telling anyone.”

“You know the rules,” The Roman said calmly. “No contact unless—”

“You telling me this isn’t a fucking emergency?” Micah exploded. “We got Wes sniffing everywhere, no bead on Boyle, and you’re waltzing into the one place that has the very best chance of asking what the hell’re you doing here in the first place? When’d you plan on filling us in—before or after they start staring at you and report you back to headquarters?”

Just as he did before, The Roman stayed calm. “I
did
call you, Micah. That’s why we’re talking. And if it makes you feel better, no one’s reporting me anywhere. I’m here because it’s my job, which is more than I can say about you and the half dozen people you’ve held yourself out to as an FBI agent. The Agency teach you to be that dumb, or were you just panicking that O’Shea would turn on you if you didn’t stay close to him?”

“I told headquarters my father was sick. O’Shea said he had his niece’s graduation. You think we didn’t clear ourselves for being back here?”

“And that makes you think you can hold hands in public like that? Using your real names, no less? O’Shea I understand—just in case Wes calls the Bureau to check him out. But
you
!? Have you forgotten how we got this far in the first place?”

“Actually, I haven’t forgotten any of it,” Micah shot back. “Which is why, when I first started smelling the flames from the
Towering Inferno
, I called O’Shea instead of you. So don’t
you
forget, pinhead—in the FBI, O’Shea’s a Legal Attaché, meaning he coordinates resources for foreign investigations. That means he’s authorized—hell, he’s
encouraged
—to pair up with Agency folks like me. That’s his job! So no offense, but as long as it’s my ass on the clothesline, I plan on being front and center for saving it!”

For a moment, The Roman was silent. “No contact,” he finally said. “
Ever.
”

Micah turned to O’Shea, who mouthed the words
Hang up.
After almost ten years together, they both knew it wasn’t worth the argument. When The Roman wanted something, he always went after it himself. It was the same for all of them. Personal drive was what brought them together all those years ago at War College. It was no coincidence that each was invited to attend one of the army’s prestigious leadership conferences, where top military officials and representatives from the State Department, CIA, FBI, DIA, Customs, and Secret Service spend two weeks studying national defense and military interactions. It was there that they were lectured on military tactics. There that they learned strategic leadership. And there that each realized how much they’d given to their government—and how little the government had given back. That’s where The Three was born.

No doubt, personal drive made them successful over time. It helped them maneuver through the system, maintaining their jobs to this day without any of their colleagues being the wiser. Yet personal drive, they also knew, would someday be their undoing. Boyle called them The Three, but even on their best days, they were always looking out for number one.

“Just find Wes—he’s still the only one Boyle’s contacted, which means Boyle’ll reach out again,” The Roman added. “And even with the fake address Wes gave, you should still be able t—”

With a click, Micah hung up the phone. “Guy’s unreal,” he bitched to O’Shea. “First, he snakes in without telling us, now he wants to play quarterback.”

“He’s just nervous,” O’Shea said. “And personally, I don’t blame him.”

“But to let Nico out—”

“By accident . . .”

“You believe him on that?”

“Micah, Roman’s a scumbag, but he’s not a moron. He knows Nico can
Hindenburg
at any moment, which is why he needed to see if Boyle had been in touch. But let me tell you right now, if we don’t find Wes—and Boyle—quickly, I’m done. No joke. It’s enough.”

“Can you please stop with the ultimatums?”

“It’s not an ultimatum,” O’Shea insisted. “Just being here—snooping this close and giving this kid every reason to look us up—you have any idea what we’re risking?”

“We’re being smart.”

“No, being smart is walking away now, and being thankful we made some cash and lasted this long.”

“Not when there’s so much more cash to be made. The Roman said next month in India, there’s a—”

“Of course, it’s India. And eight months ago, it was Argentina, and eight years ago, it was Daytona. It’s enough, Micah. Yes, we added some feathers to the nest egg, but the giant pot of gold? It’s never coming.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m right.”

“You’re
wrong
!” Micah insisted, his finely combed hair flying out of place.

O’Shea stopped at the curb, knowing better than to keep arguing. It didn’t matter anyway—he’d made his decision the moment he got the call yesterday: If they could wrap this up quickly, fantastic. If not, well, that’s why he saved his money and bought that bungalow in Rio. Eyeing Micah, he knew that if it all cratered and it came down to finger-pointing, he had no problem breaking a few fingers.

“Everything okay?” Micah asked.

O’Shea nodded from the curb, both of them studying each house on the lush, narrow street. O’Shea checked windows and doors, searching for shadows and suddenly closed curtains. Micah checked front porches and pathways, searching for footprints in the light layer of sand that regularly blew across the Key West sidewalks. Neither found a thing. Until . . .

“There,” O’Shea said, marching diagonally across the street and heading straight for the peach cottage with the white shutters and gingerbread trim.

“Where?” Micah asked, still searching for himself.

“The car.”

A few steps behind O’Shea, Micah studied the old red Mustang parked in the driveway at 324 William Street. Florida license plate. Registration stickers up to date. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the ratty, weather-worn Washington Redskins bumper sticker on the back left bumper.

“Go Skins,” Micah whispered, barely able to contain his grin. Picking up speed, he followed his partner up the steps to the front door with the hand-painted wooden crab sign hanging on it.

“One sec,” Micah added as he reached into his suit jacket and flicked off the safety on his gun. Signaling to O’Shea with a nod, he took a half-step back, just in case they’d have to knock down the door.

With a jab of his finger, O’Shea rang the doorbell and checked on his own gun. “Coming,” a voice called from inside.

Micah checked the street behind them. No one in sight.

The doorknob twisted with a creak, and the door flew open.

“Hey there,” O’Shea announced, purposely not pulling his FBI badge. “We’re friends of Wes Holloway and just wanted to check in and make sure he’s okay.”

“Oh, he’s great,” Kenny said, purposely blocking the doorway, even though the only thing to see was his empty kitchen and living room. “But I’m sorry to say he’s long gone.”

Craning his neck to look over Kenny’s shoulder, Micah ignored the kitchen and living room and instead focused on the far back wall of the house, where a painted screen door led out to the backyard.

“Yeah, we thought that might be the case,” O’Shea said. “But even so, you mind if we come inside and just ask a few questions?”

66

S
o you’ve been down to the stacks before?” Kara asked as the elevator doors slid open, revealing a concrete hallway with narrow windows on either side and all the charm of a prison.

“Absolutely,” Rogo replied, keeping his voice peppy and his head down as they passed the first of two security cameras attached to the wall. Two steps in front of him, next to Kara, Dreidel fidgeted with his tie and did the same.