The Book of Fate (36 page)
“I&W for what?” Dreidel asked, hunched forward on a wooden chair and reading through one of Boyle’s files.
“Doesn’t say. Just
I&W
with lots of dates next to—wait, here’s one:
I&W for Berlin.
”
“
Indicators and Warnings.
Or as General Bakos used to put it: all the trash talk and warning signs that our intelligence picks up about specific threats,” Dreidel explained. “Why? Is that what—?” He looked over at the attendant and kept his voice to a whisper. “Is that what Boyle was requesting? All the different I&Ws?”
“Is that bad?”
“Not bad—just—indicators and warnings are the kinds of things you usually find in the PDB.”
“President’s Daily Brief. That’s the report you were talking about before, with the CIA guy and the handcuffed briefcase?”
“And the place where The Roman’s payouts were decided,” Dreidel added. “Don’t forget, a year before the shooting, The Roman was denied a major sum of money for some hot tip in Sudan, which also, since they clearly were never stupid enough to be seen in the same place together, tells us which one of them used Sudan as their last—and only—known location.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“The Three—The Roman, Micah, O’Shea—are from the Service, the CIA, and FBI. When they link brains, think of all the information they have access to.”
“I understand how they work . . . but to do all that—to set it all up—no offense, but . . . just for a six-million-dollar payout?”
“What makes you think they were only doing it once? For all we know, if the payment went through, they would’ve come back every few months—and if they upped each payment, six million becomes ten million becomes an easy seventy to eighty million dollars by the time they’re done. Not a bad annual salary for preying on America’s fears.”
“So you think they—?”
“Don’t just focus on the
they
—think of who else had access to that same info. I mean, nothing happens in a vacuum. To even ask for that first six-million-dollar payment, they clearly had to’ve known something big was about to happen. But what if they weren’t the only ones?”
“So you think someone else knew?” Rogo asked.
“All this time, we’ve been assuming that The Three and Boyle were enemies. But what if they were
competitors
? What if that’s why The Three’s multimillion-dollar payday got turned down—because the White House already had a similar tip—a similar indicator and warning—from someone else?”
“I got ya—so while The Three or The Roman or whatever they call themselves kept bringing the White House their best hot tips, Boyle—or someone else in that meeting—was trying to prove he was a bigshot by leaking those very same tips to the press.”
“And in the process, making The Roman’s so-called scoops look like day-old newspapers.”
“Which takes us back to the crossword—if it really was a trust list—if Manning and his chief of staff used the puzzle to try and figure out who was leaking to the press, maybe that’s who Boyle was looking for,” Rogo said. “The only thing I don’t get is, why would Manning and his chief pass notes in secret code when they could just wait a few hours and discuss the matter in private?”
“Private? In a building where they once had secret tapes recording all conversations in the Oval?”
“Is that true? They still do those recordings?”
“Don’t you see? That’s the point, Rogo. In that world, everybody’s listening. So if you plan on saying something bad about one of your top lieutenants, you better be sure not to say it out loud.”
“Even so, how’s that get us any closer to figuring out who Manning was singling out in the puzzle?”
“You tell me. What’s it say in the files?” Dreidel asked. “Any other names mentioned in there?”
Rogo glanced around at the thirty-eight boxes and 21,500 sheets of paper, hundreds of schedules, and thousands of briefings they still had to go through. “You really think we can get through all this before the library closes?”
“Have a little faith,” Dreidel said, fingering through a set of files. His eyes lit up and a sly grin spread across his face. “For all we know, the smoking gun is right in front of us.”
“What? You got something?”
“Only Boyle’s personnel file,” Dreidel said as he plucked the inch-thick file from its box. “Which means we’re about to find out what the President
really
thought of his old buddy Ron Boyle.”
L
isten, I’m kinda busy,” Kenny said as he closed the door on O’Shea and Micah. “Maybe you can come back another—”
O’Shea jammed his foot in the doorway, forcing it open. From his pocket, he pulled his FBI badge and slid it through the opening toward Kenny’s nose. “
Now
is actually a better time for us,” O’Shea insisted. He wasn’t surprised by Kenny’s reaction. After family, old friends were the hardest to crack.
Kenny’s Popeye eye glared at Micah, then back to O’Shea’s badge. “Wes is a good kid,” he insisted.
“No one said he wasn’t,” O’Shea replied as he and Micah stepped inside. O’Shea quickly scanned the kitchen. It didn’t matter that Wes was gone. What mattered was what he saw while he was here.
“So you from Key West?” Micah asked as he made eye contact with his partner. Micah stayed in the kitchen. O’Shea took the living room.
“No one’s from Key West,” Kenny shot back, already riled.
“Then where do you know Wes from?” O’Shea asked as he approached the wall of black-and-white wedding photos.
“D’you mind telling me what this is about?” Kenny asked.
“These are beautiful,” O’Shea replied, stepping toward a shot of a short-haired bride playfully biting the ear of her groom. “You take these?”
“I did, but—”
“Did you work at the White House with Wes?” Micah interrupted, keeping him off balance.
“Kinda,” Kenny replied. “I was there as a—”
“Photographer,” O’Shea blurted as he scooped up the framed photo of President Manning checking his reflection in the White House water pitcher. “I remember this one. You’re a hotshot, aren’t you, Mr.—I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
“I never gave it to you,” Kenny said.
“Well, why don’t we fix that?” O’Shea demanded, laying the silver frame flat down on its back. “I’m Agent O’Shea and you’re . . .”
“Kenny. Kenny Quinn.”
“Wait . . . Kenny Quinn?” Micah asked. “How do I know that name?”
“You don’t,” Kenny said. “Not unless you’re a photo editor or working the White House press pool.”
“Actually, I spent some time in D.C.,” Micah said, leaving the kitchen and heading toward Kenny in the living room.
Just behind Kenny, O’Shea eyed the closed three-ring binder on the cocktail table.
“You’re the guy who won the award, didn’t you?” Micah asked, working hard to hold Kenny’s attention.
“The Pulitzer,” Kenny replied dryly.
“So you were there that day?” Micah asked.
“At the racetrack? There were plenty of us there.”
“But you’re the one who took the photo, right? The Cowardly Lion photo?”
“I’m sorry,” Kenny said, turning back toward O’Shea, “but until you tell me what you’re looking for, I don’t think I shou—”
A hushed hiss carved through the air, and a dark red bullet hole singed Kenny’s skin as it pierced his forehead. As Kenny crumpled lifelessly to the floor, Micah stared at O’Shea, who had his gun in one hand and the open three-ring binder in the other.
“You
nuts
!?” Micah exploded.
“They IDed you, Micah.”
“What’re you talking about? There’s no way!”
“Really? Then what the hell is
this
?” O’Shea shouted, tapping his gun against an empty Mylar protective sleeve in the binder.
“There could’ve been anything in—”
“Not the sleeve—
underneath
!” O’Shea said as he flipped aside the empty sheet to reveal a clear view of the photo on the next page. “You’re telling me that’s not you?” he asked, pointing to the enormous crowd shot where, when you looked closely enough, Micah was tucked away, glancing to the side.
“It’s . . . it’s not possible—we bought every photo out there . . . went through every tape . . .”
“Well obviously, there were a few more Kenny decided to keep in his collection! Don’t you get it, Micah? Wes knows! He’s got the thread of the sweater—and when he starts pulling,
you’re
gonna be the first one they look at!”
“Big deal, so they ask me a few questions. You know I’ll never say anything. But
this
. . . y’know what kinda avalanche you just started?”
“Don’t worry,” O’Shea said calmly. “If I set the bodies right, it’ll just look like a botched robbery.”
“Bodies?”
Micah asked, confused. “What’re you talking about? You’ve got more than one?”
O’Shea raised his gun and pointed it straight at his partner’s chest.
Following years of training, Micah spun to his right, then leaped like a cheetah at O’Shea. The way Micah’s pointer and middle fingers were curled—like claws—it was clear he was aiming for O’Shea’s eyes.
O’Shea was impressed. No doubt, Micah was fast. But no one was that fast.
As O’Shea tugged the trigger, his fair blond hair glowed in the afternoon Key West sun. “Sorry, Micah.”
There was a soft
ssstt.
Then a grunt.
And The Three became The Two.
D
on’t tell me you lost him. Don’t say those words.”
“I didn’t
lose
him,” Lisbeth told her editor, clutching her cell phone as she walked in through the front door of the building. “I let him go.”
“Did I tell you not to tell me that? Do I speak and you not hear?” Vincent asked. “What’s Sacred Rule #1?”
“Always keep ’em talking.”
“Fine, then Sacred Rule #26 1/2: Don’t let Wes out of your damn sight!”
“You weren’t there, Vincent—you didn’t see how upset he was. For fifty minutes—the entire flight back—the only thing he said to me was—” Lisbeth went silent.
“Lisbeth, you there?” Vincent asked. “I can’t hear you.”
“Exactly!”
she replied, waving to security and heading for the elevators. “Fifty minutes of dead silence! The guy wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even curse me out. And believe me, I gave him every opportunity. He just stared out the window, pretending I wasn’t there. And when he dropped me off, he wouldn’t even say good-bye.”
“Okay, so you hurt his feelings.”
“See, but that’s the thing—I didn’t just hurt his feelings. He’s been at this too long to feel burned by a reporter, but the pain on his face . . . I hurt
him.
”
“Spare me the sentimental, Lisbeth—you were doing your job. Oh, wait, you actually weren’t. If you were, the moment he dropped you off, you would’ve turned around and followed him.”
“In what? He has my car.”
“He
stole
your car?”
Lisbeth paused. “No.”
Vincent paused even longer. “Oh, jeez—you
gave
it to him? You gave him your car?” Vincent shouted. “Sacred Rule #27: Don’t go soft! Rule 28: Don’t fall in love with a dreamer. And 29: Don’t let sad disfigured boys pluck your heartstrings and send you sailing on a guilt trip just because they’re sad and disfigured!”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Just because someone’s in a wheelchair doesn’t mean they won’t roll over your toes. You know what this story means, Lisbeth—especially for you.”
“And you.”
“And
you
,” he said as Lisbeth stepped into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the second floor. “You know the job: You have to piss on people to be read. So please make my month and at least tell me you were smart enough to get it on tape.”
As the doors slid shut and the elevator started to rise, Lisbeth leaned against the brass railing, her head tilting back against the Formica wall. Letting the day’s events wash over her, she lifted her head and lightly tapped it back against the wall.
Tap, tap, tap.
Over and over against the wall.
“C’mon, you
did
get it on tape, right?” Vincent asked.
Opening her purse, Lisbeth pulled out the miniature cassette tape that held the last part of their conversations. Sure, she’d handed Wes the recorder, but it didn’t take much for her to palm the cassette while he was ranting. Of course, now—no, not just now. Even as she was doing it—so damn instinctively—another part of her brain was watching in disbelief. Every reporter needs instinct. But not when it overwhelms ideals.
“Last time, Lisbeth—yes tape or no tape?”
The elevator pinged on the second floor, and Lisbeth stared at her open palm, rubbing her thumb against the tiny cassette. “Sorry, Vincent,” she said, tucking it back in her purse. “I tried to stop him, but Wes tossed it overboard.”
“Overboard. Really?”
“Really.”
As she left the elevator and followed the hallway around to the left, there was a long pause on the line. Even longer than the one before.
“Where are you right now?” Vincent asked coldly.
“Right behind you,” Lisbeth said into her phone.
Through an open door up the gray-carpeted hallway, Vincent stopped pacing in his office and spun around to face her. Still holding the phone to his ear, he licked his salt-and-pepper mustache. “It’s four o’clock. I need tomorrow’s column. Now.”
“You’ll have it, but . . . the way things were left with Wes, I still think we should take another day before we push a story that’s—”
“Do what you want, Lisbeth. You always do anyway.”
With a swing of his arm, Vincent slammed his door shut, unleashing a thunderclap that echoed in front of her and through her cell phone. As her fellow employees turned to stare, Lisbeth trudged to her cubicle just across the hall. Collapsing in her seat, she flicked on her computer, where a nearly empty three-column grid filled the screen. On the corner of her desk, a crumpled sheet of paper held all the vital info about young Alexander John’s recent victory in the ultra-competitive world of high school art. This late in the day, there was no escaping the inevitable.
Flattening the crumpled paper with the heel of her hand, she reread the details and instinctively punched in the code for her voice mail.
