The Book of Fate (56 page)
“But to lie to people like that . . .”
“I didn’t choose this life. The Three chose me. And once that happened, once they tossed me aside for the First Lady, this was the only way to keep my wife safe, and my kid—both kids—alive.”
“You still could’ve—”
“Could’ve what? Taken the family into hiding with me? Put everyone at risk and hoped for the best? The only absolutely unassailable hiding spot is the one where no one knows you’re hiding. Besides, The Three have single-handedly compromised our top law enforcement agencies, picked apart our databases for their private use, and collected thousands of dollars in Title 50 money for confidential tips about terror attacks—all without us ever knowing who the hell they were.”
“Until two days ago when they panicked and went after Wes.”
“They didn’t panic,” Boyle said as he slowly pressed the brakes. Two blocks in front of them, the three lanes of Griffin Road narrowed into one. Something was definitely blocking the road. “Is that construction?” Boyle asked, craning his neck and squinting through the dark.
“I think it’s an accident.”
“You sure?”
“Isn’t that an ambulance?
Boyle nodded as the cars came into view—an ambulance, a tow truck, and a silver car turned sideways from the collision. Boyle glanced to his left, already eyeing the side streets.
“Something wrong?” Rogo asked.
“Just being cautious.” Refusing to lose his thought, he added, “Anyhow, The Three didn’t panic. They got greedy and fat—thanks mostly to The Roman.”
“So what the First Lady told Wes was true,” Rogo said. “That they started with all these small tips—VX gas in Syria, training camps in Sudan—and then used that to build credibility until they could find the monster threats and ask for the multimillion-dollar let’s-all-retire paydays.”
“No, no, no. Don’t you see?” Boyle asked, quickly pulling out of the single-file line of traffic and rechecking what was causing the accident. But all was normal. Ambulance. Tow truck. Wrecked silver car. Flipping open the console between them, Boyle checked on a small box the size of a videotape, then closed it just as fast. He tried to hide it with his elbow, but Rogo saw the word
Hornady
in bright red letters on the box’s side. Growing up in Alabama, he knew the logo from his dad’s hunting trips. Hornady bullets. “Once they established The Roman as a solid informant, they didn’t even need the big threat. Why do you think people are so worried about agencies working together? The Roman would bring his info into the Service, then Micah and O’Shea would serve it again from their outposts in the FBI and CIA. Now, each one’s confirmed the other. That’s how informants get verified: You check it with someone else. And once all three agencies agree, well, fiction becomes fact. It’s like that bombing threat on the New York City subways a few years back—not a single grain of truth behind it, but the informant still got paid. Meanwhile, is this the only way to get to I-95?”
Rogo nodded and cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t get it—they made it all up?”
“Not in the beginning. But once they built that reputation for The Roman, they could sprinkle bad tips in with the good and earn a little more cash. And with the big stuff—you think six-million-dollar tips just jump in your lap?”
“But to make something that big up—”
“It’s like making the Statue of Liberty disappear—it’s the kind of magic trick you pull off once, then disappear until the dust settles. So when their first attempt . . .”
“Blackbird.”
“. . . when
Blackbird
was set up, they had it perfect: hold a fake NSA computer hostage and reel in the cash. It was big enough to get serious money, but unlike promising that a building was about to blow up, there was no penalty or suspicion if the White House decided not to pay. Then when
Blackbird
failed and we
didn’t
pay, they were smart enough to realize they needed an inside track at the White House just to make sure the next request went through.”
“That’s when they approached and threatened you.”
“When they approached and threatened me,
and
when they tried the softer sell on someone with even more power than that.”
“But to assume that you or the First Lady would go for it—much less be able to pull six-million-dollar strings over and over . . .”
“Y’ever been fishing, Rogo? Sometimes, you’re better off throwing in a few lines with different bait and seeing who nibbles. That’s the only reason they approached both of us. And though she’ll forever deny it—in fact, she probably doesn’t even think she did anything wrong anymore—but the First Lady’s the one who swam toward the hook,” Boyle explained. “And as for making their
next
six million happen, or the ten million after that, look at any White House in history. The most powerful people in the room aren’t the ones with the big titles. They’re the ones with the President’s ear. I’ve had that ear since I was twenty-three years old. The only one who’s had it longer is the person he’s married to. Whatever they came in next with—if
she
had a hand in it and thought it’d help them on security issues—believe me, it’d have gotten through.”
“I don’t get it, though. Once
Blackbird
got nuked, didn’t they at least need
some
kinda results before they could make another big request like that?”
“Whattya think I was?” Boyle asked.
Rogo turned to his left but didn’t say a word.
“Rogo, for the snake-oil scam to succeed, people only need to see the cure work once. That’s what The Three gave them—courtesy of two bullets in my chest.”
Sitting up in his seat, Rogo continued to study Boyle, who was staring at the open back doors of the ambulance that was less than a car’s length away.
“Twenty minutes before the shooting, the Secret Service Web site was sent a tip about a man named Nico Hadrian who was planning to assassinate President Manning when he stepped out of his limo at Daytona International Speedway. It was signed
The Roman.
From that moment on, anything he would’ve given them—especially when it was corroborated by the FBI and CIA—well, you know the paranoid world we live in. Forget drugs and arms sales. Information is the opiate of the military masses. And terrorist information about attacks on our own soil? That’s how you print your own money,” Boyle said. “Even better, by taking their stealthier approach with the First Lady, they wouldn’t’ve even had to split the cash four ways.”
As they pulled past the ambulance, they both looked to their left and peered into its open back doors. But before they could even see that there wasn’t a victim, a gurney, or a single medical supply inside, there was a metal thud against the back door. Then one from above. On both sides of the van, a half dozen plainclothes U.S. marshals swarmed from the tow truck and silver car, fanning out and pointing their guns against the side windows and front windshield. Outside Boyle’s door, a marshal with bushy caterpillar eyebrows tapped the barrel of his gun against the glass.
“Nice to see you again, Boyle. Now get the fuck out of that van.”
S
he’s hurting, Wes!” The Roman called out to the empty darkness as the rain ticked against his umbrella. “Ask her!”
“H-He’s not stupid,” Lisbeth whispered, down on her rear in the wet grass. With her back against the Celtic headstone for support, she pressed both hands against her eye, where The Roman had rammed his knee into her face. She could already feel it swelling shut.
Back by the tree, the First Lady stared coldly at The Roman. “Why did you bring me here?” she demanded.
“Lenore, this isn’t—”
“You said it was an emergency, but to bring me to Wes!”
“Lenore!”
The First Lady studied The Roman, her expression unchanging. “You were planning to shoot me, weren’t you?” she asked.
Lisbeth looked up at the question.
Turning to his right, The Roman squinted up the crooked stone path and, as his Service training kicked in, visually divided the graveyard into smaller, more manageable sections. A grid search, they called it. “Be smart, Lenore. If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve shot you in the car.”
“Unless he wanted to make it look like—
puhhh
,” Lisbeth said, violently spitting flecks of saliva at the ground as the train whistle screamed of its impending arrival, “. . . like Wes killed you, and he killed Wes. Th-Then he’s the hero and there’s no one left to point fingers.”
Shaking his head, The Roman stayed glued to the meatball shrubs. “
She’s bleeding pretty bad, Wes!
”
The First Lady turned toward Boyle’s grave, then back to The Roman, her pinkie flicking harder than ever at the strap of her umbrella as she said in a poisonous, low voice, “She’s right, isn’t she?”
“She’s just trying to rile you, Lenore.”
“No, she’s—
You swore no one would ever be hurt!
” the First Lady exploded. She spun back toward the front entrance of the cemetery.
There was a metallic click.
“Lenore,” The Roman warned as he raised his gun, “if you take one more step, I think we’re going to have a serious problem.”
She froze.
Turning back toward Lisbeth, The Roman took a deep breath through his nose. It was supposed to be cleaner than this. But if Wes insisted on hiding . . . Carefully aiming his gun, he announced to Lisbeth, “I need you to put your hand up, please.”
“What’re you talking about?” she asked, still sitting on the ground.
“Put your damn hand out,”
The Roman growled. “Palm facing me,” he added, holding up his bandaged right palm to Lisbeth.
Even under the shadows of the umbrella, it was impossible to miss the tight white bandage with the perfectly round, blood-red circle at the center of it. Lisbeth knew what he was planning. Once her body was found with stigmata—like a signature—all the blame would shift to—
Lisbeth stopped seeing the rain. Her whole body started to shake.
“Put your hand up, Lisbeth—or I swear to God I’ll put it in your brain.”
Curling both arms toward her chest, she looked over at the First Lady, who again started to walk away.
“Lenore,”
The Roman warned without turning. The First Lady stopped.
Lisbeth felt the wet ground soaking her rear end. Her hands still hadn’t moved.
“Fine,” The Roman said, aiming at Lisbeth’s head as he cocked the hammer. “Have it in your brai—”
Lisbeth raised her left hand in the air. The Roman squeezed the trigger. And the gun roared with a thunderclap that left a ringing silence in its wake.
A spurt of blood erupted from the back of Lisbeth’s hand, just below her knuckles. Before she even felt the pain and screamed, blood was running down her wrist. Already in shock, she kept staring at the dime-sized burned circle in her palm as if it weren’t her own. When she tried making a fist, the pain set in. Her hand went blurry, like it was fading away. She was about to pass out.
Without a word, The Roman aimed his gun at Lisbeth’s now-bobbing head.
“Don’t!”
a familiar voice yelled from the back of the cemetery.
The Roman and the First Lady turned to the right, tracing the voice up the tree-lined path.
“Don’t touch her!” Wes shouted, his body a thin silhouette as he rushed out from the shrub. “I’m right here.”
Just like The Roman wanted.
A
ided by the glow from the floodlit flagpole in the distance, I study the outline of The Roman from the top of the stone path. He stares right back at me, his gun still pointed at Lisbeth.
“That’s the right choice, Wes,” he calls out from the base of the tree. His voice is warm, like we’re at a dinner party.
“Lisbeth, can you hear me?” I shout.
She’s fifty yards away and still on the ground. Among the shadows and the overhang of the banyan tree, she’s nothing but a small black blob between two graves.
“She’s fine,” The Roman insists. “Though if you don’t come help her, I think she might pass out.”
He’s trying to get me closer, and with Lisbeth bleeding on the ground, I don’t have a choice.
“I need to check she’s okay first,” I say as I head toward the path. He knows I’m trying to stall. “Step back and I’ll come forward.”
“Go fuck yourself, Wes.” Turning back to Lisbeth, he raises his gun.
“No! Wait—I’m coming!” Rushing down the stone path, I put my hands in the air to let him know I’m done.
He lowers his gun slightly, but his finger doesn’t leave the trigger.
If I were smart, I’d continue to watch him, but as I stumble down the path between the rows of headstones, I turn toward the First Lady. Her wide eyes are pleading, her whole body is in a begging position. This time, her tears aren’t fake. But unlike before, she’s looking in the wrong place for help.
“Don’t take it so personally,” The Roman tells me, following my gaze.
Moving toward Lisbeth, watching my footing, I keep looking at the silhouette of Lenore Manning. For eight years, she’s known I blamed myself for putting Boyle in that limo. For eight years, she’s looked into what’s left of my face and pretended I was part of her family. On my birthday three years ago, when they were teasing me that I should go on more dates, she even kissed me on my cheek—
directly on the scars
—just to prove I shouldn’t be so self-conscious. I couldn’t feel her lips because they were touching my dead spot. But I felt it all. Leaving the office, I cried the whole way home, amazed at what a beautiful and thoughtful gesture it was.
Right now, walking past a shadowed stone crypt with red and blue stained-glass doors, I again well up with tears. Not from sadness. Or fear. My eyes squint, squeezing each drop to my cheeks. These tears sting from rage.
Down on my left, Lenore Manning’s lips pucker like she’s starting to whistle. She’s about to say my name.
I glare back, telling her not to bother.
Even in this dim cemetery, she’s fluent in reading her staff. And that’s all I’ve ever been. Not family. Not friend. Not even a wounded puppy that you take in to clear your conscience from the other crap you do in your life. Hard as it is to admit, I’ve never been anything more than staff.
