by Brad Meltzer
“Agent Rabkin, you okay?” Carrie asked onscreen.
He barely heard the question. He pulled out his phone, started dialing. How had he not seen it?
Both victims: Nixon and Kennedy. All this time, they weren’t looking for Benedict Arnold’s bible. They were looking for something far more precious.
75
Sirte, Libya
1983
The door at the end of the dining room opens, flooding the room with bright sunlight, followed by a sudden bustle of people. Three more very tall Ukrainian women walk in holding cameras, like newspaper photographers from the fifties, and then a phalanx of security personnel walking in a reverse triangle pattern, all of them with Kalashnikov rifles.
In the middle of them all is the brother-in-law of the dictator—Tariq—head of Libya’s state security.
Jack, Skip, and Ingrid rise.
You got lucky, Ingrid says with just a look to Yusra.
Tariq is in his forties, slim, and is dressed in full military regalia, white pants and a white jacket, covered in medals and ribbons, a green sash across his chest, also covered in medals. He steps through his guards and walks straight for Jack, hand extended.
“Jack Nash,” Tariq says, “such an honor.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jack says, knowing Tariq expects pleasantries before he’ll name his price and trade for the bible.
Tariq’s handshake is light, almost imperceptible. Flashbulbs go off.
“Have you enjoyed your time in my country?”
Flash.
“Yes, sir, yes,” Jack says.
Flash.
“Have you found the dragon? For your show?”
Flash.
“Not yet,” Jack says.
Flash.
“There is tomorrow.”
Flash.
Tariq takes a knee, so that he’s at eye level with Skip, Jack thinking it was an odd thing for a man like this to do. “And this must be your son.”
76
Hartford, Connecticut
Today
What sort of help do you need?” Ingrid asked from the passenger seat. They were on I-91, heading toward New Haven in Ingrid’s ancient Ford Taurus, the interior a ruin of old newspapers and the smell of cigarettes. “Research? I was always good with research.”
Hazel watched the other cars on the interstate. Kids in backseats, parents on their cell phones. A whole other world, right there beside her. Hazel wondered what this parallel life was like, if anyone cared about anything other than getting to and from work. Maybe that’s all she was doing too.
But Hazel couldn’t shake the feeling. Like someone was behind them, watching.
“I need to know what you and Dad were up to,” Hazel said, “back in the day.”
“Making TV.”
“Beyond that. I need to know about Benedict Arnold’s bible. About the trips you took looking for it.”
“No, you don’t,” Ingrid said. “No one does.”
Hazel checked the rearview mirror, still not getting much of a read from this old woman. “Ingrid, did anyone tell you how my father died?”
“Heart attack, wasn’t it? That’s what I read in the papers.” She turned and looked at Hazel. “I wanted to come to the funeral.”
“The government said my dad was poisoned. That’s why I’m here. They think it’s related to the bible.”
Ingrid was silent for a long time. “The drug they think he was poisoned with, what was it?”
“I know this sounds crazy.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve already been committed.”
Hazel told her about her dad’s body, and about Darren Nixon and Arthur Kennedy, whose warehouse they were now going to in New Haven. According to Kennedy’s tax records, he’d rented in a few places, always moving around the city. But this warehouse was his one constant. To Hazel, that made it the first thing worth checking out.
Ingrid listened intently, her eyes shifting back and forth from the road to her side-view mirror. Like she felt someone watching too. Hazel studied Ingrid’s expression to see if she showed any surprise or recognition, but Ingrid betrayed nothing, not even a hint of skepticism.
“How old are you?” Ingrid asked when Hazel finished.
“Thirty-six.”
“Have you had a happy life?”
“I don’t really know,” Hazel said.
“Do you want one?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Then go back to your hotel. And then don’t ever come back here.”
“Sweetheart,” Hazel said in her best Ingrid impersonation, “it’s too late for that.”
Ingrid laughed. A real laugh. “You’re different from how I remember you. Nicer.”
“I’m just trying to figure out the world these days.”
“Your father,” Ingrid says, “he thought you were pretty special.”
“Like a werewolf?”
“No. They’re only special once a month.” Ingrid inhaled, and Hazel saw that her whole body shuddered. Parkinson’s, maybe.
“Can you tell me something, Hazel?” Ingrid asked. She popped open the glove box. Inside was a tin of tobacco along with some rolling papers. She pulled them out, started hand-rolling a jagged cigarette. “Why does everyone think Benedict Arnold is the only person who ever turned on this country? He just has the benefit of scale and a name that’s easy to remember. Does anyone remember the name of that boy who went and fought with the Taliban? Or all of the Americans who’ve been caught spying for the Russians? Or all the technological fraud that happens now, when our secrets are broken down into tiny numbers, data flying all around us, everything always being stolen and used against us. Everything!
“Every email you send, it’s being stolen and routed elsewhere. Or all the cameras that are watching you every day? All of it is treason. But that will never end up in the history books. That makes it easier to just assume the one bad person, the one traitor of merit, happened in the 1700s and after that, well, it was just Candyland and cupcakes. It’s not true. History is being written right now, but no one is updating the old books. So why is Benedict Arnold so important?”
“He’s not,” Hazel said. “In the scope of the history of the world, he’s a particle of dust.”
“No,” Ingrid said, her voice slowing down, “he is the shorthand for a particle of dust. A signifier. That’s his role. As a code. That’s the final trick.” Ingrid looked in her side-view mirror again.
“You think someone’s following us too?” Hazel asked.
“I’m not going to lie to you.” Ingrid tapped her own forehead. “I’ve been having problems these last few years unseeing things. You know what that’s like?”
“I have the opposite problem.”
“What do you remember about me? You can be honest.”
“Most of it’s gone. But I saw a picture at my dad’s house. Of all of us,” Hazel said. “I don’t think my mother liked you.”
“She didn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“She thought your father and I were too close.”
“Were you?”
“Intellectually,” Ingrid said. “Which was probably worse in your mother’s view.” She lit her cigarette, took a long drag from it. “I still want to know what you remember about me.”
“All I have is what I feel now. I think I’m scared of you,” Hazel said.
“You were always the smart one,” Ingrid said.
“Something bad happened on one of your missions, didn’t it? The one in Libya.”
“If I tell you about Benedict Arnold’s bible, you’re going to be like me. Wanting to forget. Is that what you want?”
“I want what’s true,” Hazel said, “and then I’ll choose who I want to be.”
Ingrid craned up and checked the side mirror, saw a car that most definitely might be following them. “Benedict Arnold’s bible isn’t a book. It’s a person.”
77
Sirte, Libya
1983
Nicholas,” Jack says, using Skip’s given name to be more formal. “Shake his hand, Nicholas.”
There’s another flash from a camera.
Skip does as he’s told, but Jack can tell his son is nervous.
“Very firm grip,” Tariq says, placing both of his hands on Skip’s shoulders. “And this is your wife?” he says of Ingrid.
Flash.
“No,” Ingrid says. “Colleague.”
Tariq nods, a little too appreciatively, though Jack’s larger concern is the way he’s touching Skip. Jack doesn’t like to see this man’s filthy hands anywhere near Skip. When Claire sees the photos, she’ll lose her mind.
“Your wife must be beautiful,” Tariq says, “if this is merely your colleague.” He gives Skip’s shoulders a squeeze. “Is your mother beautiful, Nicholas?”
“Yes, sir,” Skip says.
“Beautiful women,” the dictator’s brother-in-law says, “are a blessing and a curse, yes, Mr. Nash?”
Flash.
Moten had told Jack how important it was to make this deal, to get this “bible,” this person, and bring him back to the United States. They’d moved so many people like this over the years, shuttling them out of so many hot spots around the world, hiding them among Jack’s film crew. Moten told Jack to agree to everything today. To show the utmost respect. To let this preening man…preen.
The problem is, it’s not quite Jack’s nature.
“Personally,” Jack says, “I think beauty is a disguise. Intellect is what matters.”
Tariq raises his eyebrows in surprise.
Jack thinks most people don’t have personal opinions around this man, unless they don’t mind their personal opinions being the blunt instruments of their own demise.
“Come with me, Mr. Nash.” He raises his chin toward Ingrid, and like that, three of his men slowly surround her. Nothing overtly threatening, which in itself is reason for Jack to worry. “Your colleague can stay here. Don’t you want to see who you’re trading for?”
78
Connecticut
Today
Go back. You said the bible was a person. So who was the person? This Libyan Tariq? Or was it someone else?”
“Do you remember the episode?” Ingrid asked, still watching the car’s side mirror. “‘The Dragon of Libya.’”
“I saw it,” Hazel said, tugging the steering wheel toward the highway exit. According to the GPS, Kennedy’s property was just ahead. “I watched it a few days ago. Skip and my dad—they weren’t in a palace. They were running around museums, looking at statues.”
“Then you understand the lies.”
“The lies about what? The location? The people? You said he brought a kid into a war zone. My father would never do that.”
“Sweetheart, I promise you one thing. You have no idea what your father was capable of.”
79
Washington, DC
Butchie, where is she?” Rabbit demanded, holding his phone with one hand, starting his car with the other. “Where’s Hazel?”
The other end of the line was silent.
“Butchie, I know you’re there. This is Agent Trevor Rabkin. I need to reach Hazel. It’s an emergency. Full 911.”
Butchie still didn’t say anything.
“I know she’s in Connecticut. I know she checked Ingrid out of the hospital,” Rabbit said. Outside, a police cruiser rolled down the block that Rabbit was parked on and crept slowly past, the officer staring directly at Rabbit. Then it sped up, turned right, and disappeared. “I’ve been calling her and she’s not picking up. I know she’s contacted you.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“How you know she contacted me? You on my phone?”
“I am,” Rabbit said. He wasn’t.
“Just so I’m clear on this,” Butchie said, “Eliot Ness needs my help with something? Is that where we are with this? Because I want to make sure I got the details right for when I’m sitting in my prison cell at Pelican Bay.”
“Butchie,” Rabkin started, but he didn’t get the rest out.
“Friends call me Butchie. How about you call me Mr. Vasquez,” Butchie said. “I’d like to hear that.”
“Mr. Vasquez,” Rabbit said, “just give her a message for me. Tell her they knew each other.”
“Who?” Butchie asked.
“Darren Nixon and Arthur Kennedy. They spent time together in Connecticut.”
“Probably Kennebunkport too,” Butchie said. “Maybe Camp David.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Check your email,” Butchie said. “She told me to send it to you too.”
Rabbit clicked open his email. Butchie had sent him two documents. “Before I open these,” Rabbit said, “I need to know if I’m breaking the law.”
“You could probably plead down on it.”
Rabbit clicked open the file. The first page was Nixon’s behavior record from the Washington State Department of Corrections, which read like a list of ways to never get out of prison: fighting, hoarding materials for weapons, refusal of commands. Darren Nixon was not a man who was planning on an early release. The next page was a visitors log. Nixon had three visitors during his time inside. His lawyer; his mother, Mona; and, on five different occasions, Arthur Kennedy.
“They really knew each other,” Rabbit said, more to himself than to Butchie.
“These weren’t good guys,” Butchie said. “Every time Kennedy visited, Nixon would pick a fight with an inmate, get himself put in the hole for a week or so.”
“So whatever Kennedy was bringing him, it was pissing Nixon off,” Rabbit said. He clicked to the next file, which were travel records for Kennedy, going back at least three years. “Where’d you get these?” Rabbit asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Vasquez, we’re on the same side here.”
“I don’t want to be on your side. I checked you out, Agent Rabkin. You know you don’t exist? Nobody with your name in the whole world.” It was true. His full name had been changed years ago, when he was still doing military intelligence. “I’m on Hazel’s wing,” Butchie continued. “If she’s riding with you right now, cool, but that don’t mean you and me are anywhere close to the same side, let’s be real clear on that.”
“I’m just trying to figure who’s telling us what, Mr. Vasquez,” Rabbit said. When was the last time he worked with a crew that he trusted like Hazel trusted Butchie? Not since Afghanistan. FBI wasn’t a unit. Not even close. No, if Rabbit wanted a support team, he’d have to build that himself. “You want Hazel safe? I want Hazel safe. Down the line, you need a favor? Maybe I’m a guy who can help you too. Right now, I just need to know where you got these.”
Butchie thought on that for a second. “You’d be surprised what thirty-five thousand dollars buys you these days.”
Rabbit scrolled through the documents. A flight to Spokane a month ago. Then another flight to Spokane a few months before that. “How many times was Kennedy out there?”
“Looks like it started back when Nixon was in prison. Then it picked up a year ago. But take a look at Kennedy’s international travel.”
He already was. Spain. Italy. England.
Then twice to Russia. Johannesburg. Libya.
The same places Jack Nash went. Hazel too.
The police car rolled around again, passing Rabbit this time.
Rabbit scrolled through the airline records again, checked the times, the dates. Then he flipped to the records he got from the Yale Library. That was the key. It was finally making sense. Here was their first meeting at Yale, then this was where the foreign travel ended. Libya. After that, it was just Kennedy and Nixon, flying back and forth between Spokane and Connecticut. “They weren’t even hiding,” Rabbit said. “They were meeting right out in the open. They’re probably on camera at Yale.”
“So why’s a polished guy like Kennedy risking his reputation by even
meeting in a library with an ex-con like Nixon?”
“Don’t you see?” Rabbit said. “They were looking for something. Then they found it. In fact, Kennedy must’ve been looking for Nixon for years, or someone like Nixon.”
“Says who?”
“Look where Kennedy’s international travel stopped.”
“Libya?” Butchie asked. “What’s in Libya—besides dictators, terrorists, and an episode about dragons?”
“Something that should’ve never been found. Jack Nash’s greatest mistake.”
80
Connecticut
The Bear is sure. He’s sure about how this will end, just as he’s sure where Hazel and Ingrid have been heading for the last forty minutes as they drove from Hartford to New Haven.
So The Bear pulls ahead even more and makes a quick exit. He winds through the streets of New Haven for a few minutes, making sure no one is following him, then pulls into the parking lot at The Drawing Room, where he’s learned Hazel is staying.
Goes inside.
Leaves a package for Hazel.
A gift. A very urgent gift.
Ten minutes later, The Bear is back on the highway, headed toward a warehouse on Water Street. Hazel is resourceful. She found the warehouse where Kennedy collected old secrets.
That’s how this all started. Kennedy was hunting for details about his own life, his own hidden past. Then he stumbled onto what happened with Jack Nash in Libya. Kennedy wasn’t a bad man. He could’ve kept it to himself, but when he connected it with Nixon…when he shared the news with Nixon…Lowlifes like Nixon can’t help but take advantage. Now it was coming out. The one thing Jack Nash wanted hidden forever.
The Bear parks diagonally across the street from the warehouse. Far across. From what he can see, there’s a guard in a small security shed. No one else in the parking lot.
Hazel and that woman—the demon called Ingrid—haven’t arrived yet.