The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  “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.

  “See you soon,” O’Shea calls out.

  I don’t bother to answer.

  As we reach the pool area, there’s a young family getting an early start on the day. Dad unpacks a newspaper, Mom unpacks a paperback, and their three-year-old boy with a bowl haircut is on his hands and knees, playing with two Matchbox cars, ramming them head-on, over and over, into each other.

  I look over my shoulder and glance back at the beach. O’Shea and Micah are already gone.

  They’re right about one thing: I definitely need a lawyer. Fortunately, I know exactly where to find one.

  18

  Washington, D.C.

  Y ou 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.”

  “Thanks,” Wes’s voice said, coming through the small speaker on the edge of the short metal file cabinet. “Wait up . . . I’ll walk out with you.”

  Adjusting the volume, The Roman turned the knob slightly, his thick, steely hands almost too big for the job. When he was little, he only fit into his grandfather’s gloves. But after years of tying lures onto fishing string, he’d mastered the art of a soft touch.

  “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Holloway,” a voice squawked through the speaker.

  Getting a small enough microphone was the easy part. So was getting a transmitter that ran on a satellite signal so it would broadcast halfway across the country. Protecting the President was the Secret Service’s specialty, but with jurisdiction over counterfeiting and financial crimes, their Intelligence Division had one of the most formidable surveillance operations in the world. Indeed, the only hard part was figuring out a place to hide it. And someone to put it there.

  The phone rang on the corner of his desk, and The Roman glanced down at caller ID. Dark digital letters read Offices of Leland Manning. The Roman smiled to himself, brushing his black hair from his chalky skin. If only the bass were this predictable.

  “Any problems?” The Roman asked as he picked up the phone.

  “Not a one. I did it first thing this morning. Put it in that lapel pin just like you said.”

  “So I gathered from his last two hours of conversation.”

  Reaching down, The Roman tugged open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, and his fingertips tap-danced to the last file in back. The only unmarked one in there.

  “Wes say anything interesting yet?” his associate asked.

  “He’s getting there,” The Roman replied, flipping open the file on his desk and revealing a small stack of black-and-white photos.

  “What about you? If your investigation’s so vital . . . I thought you were coming down here.”

  “I’ll be there,” The Roman said as he stared down at the pictures. Graying from age, all of them were from the day at the speedway. One of Nico with the Service tackling him to the ground, one of the President being shoved inside his limo, and of course, one of Boyle, in mid-clap moments before he was shot. The smile on Boyle’s face looked unbreakable . . . his cheeks frozen, teeth gleaming. The Roman couldn’t take his eyes off it. “I just have to take care of one thing first.”

  19

  Palm Beach, Florida

  Where is he?” I ask, rushing through the welcome area of the small office with its dozens of potted plants and orchids.

  “Inside,” the receptionist says, “but you can’t—”

  She’s already too late. I cut past her cheap Formica desk that looks suspiciously like the one I threw away a few weeks ago and head for the door covered with old Florida license plates. Beyond the plants, which were the standard thank-you gift from clients, the office had all the design sense of a fifteen-year-old boy. It didn’t matter. Moving over the bridge a year ago, Rogo took this office so he’d have a proper Palm Beach address. When you’re targeting the rich, and 95 percent of your business is done by mail, that’s all you need.

  “Wes, he’s busy in there!” the receptionist calls out.

  I twist the doorknob, shove open the door, and send it slamming into the wall. Standing at his desk, Rogo jumps at the sound. “Wes, that you?” His eyes are closed. As he tries to make his way toward me, he taps his blotter and pencil cup and keyboard like a blind man feeling his way.

  “What happened to your eyes?” I ask.

  “Eye doctor. Dilated,” Rogo says, patting a picture frame of his childhood dog. The frame falls and he fumbles to pick it up. “Being blind sucks,” he says.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Meanwhile, ready for new levels of pathetic? When I was at the doctor, I cheated on my eye exam. Before he got in there, he left the eye chart up—y’know with the giant E and the little N3QFD at the bottom? I memorized it, then spit it right back at him. Suckaaaaaa!”

  “Rogo . . .”

  “I mean, that’s even more sad-sack than—”

  “Boyle’s alive.”

  Rogo stops patting the picture frame and turns straight at me. “Wha wha?”

  “I saw him. Boyle’s alive,” I repeat. I slowly slink toward one of the chairs across from his desk. Rogo turns his head, following me perfectly.

  “You can see, can’t you?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he replies, still in shock.

  “And is that my old desk out there in your reception area?”

  “Yeah. I picked it up when you threw it away.”

  “Rogo, I left that desk for charity.”

  “And I thank you for that. Now would you like to tell me what the hell you’re talking about with your dead former coworker?”

  “I swear to you—I saw him . . . I spoke to him.”

  “Did he look—?”

  “He got plastic surgery.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t?”

  “I’m serious. The shooting . . . that day at the speedway . . . it was . . . it wasn’t how it looked.”

  It takes me almost a half hour to fill him in on the rest of the details, from backstage in Malaysia, to Dreidel’s info about the O-negative blood, to the FBI cornering me on the beach and asking me about The Roman and The Three. Forever a lawyer, he never interrupts. Forever Rogo, his reaction is instantaneous.

  “You told Dreidel
before me?”

  “Oh, please . . .”

  “I was in the car with you this morning. What, you were so enraptured by classic hits from the eighties, nineties, and today that you forget to mention, ‘Oh, by the way, that guy who died and cratered my life? Well, he must be on some all-bran diet, because he’s actually living’?”

  “Rogo . . .”

  “Can I just say one more thing?”

  “Is it about Dreidel?”

  He crosses his arms against his chest. “No.”

  “Okay, then just—”

  “You’re in trouble, Wes.”

  I blink about four times trying to digest the words. Coming from Rogo, they hit even harder than the waves on the beach.

  “I’m serious,” Rogo continues. “They pinned you. Just by seeing Boyle, the FBI now thinks you’re part of this. You don’t help them and they stick you as an accessory to whatever Boyle and Manning were up to. You do help ’em and . . .”

  “. . . I kiss away whatever life I have left. What d’you think I’m doing here? I need help.”

  When I asked Dreidel, he hesitated, weighing the personal and political consequences. Rogo’s always been built a little bit differently. “Just tell me who to punch.”

  For the first time in the last forty-eight hours, I actually half smile.

  “What,” he asks, “you think I’m letting you get beat up all by yourself?”

  “I was thinking of going to Manning,” I tell him.

  “And I was thinking you should start worrying about yourself for once.”

  “Will you stop with that?”

  “Then stop being the buttboy. Didn’t you hear what the FBI said? The President was in on it, whatever the hell it is! I mean, how else do you explain Nico getting that close and sneaking a gun past all those Secret Service agents? Y’smell that? That’s the whiff of an inside job.”

  “Maybe that’s where The Roman and The Three come in.”

  “And those’re the names the FBI mentioned?”

  “That’s why I want to go to Manning first. Maybe he’ll—”

  “Do you even hear yourself when you speak!? You go to Manning and you risk alerting the one person who has the best reason of all to put you in the guillotine. Now I’m sorry if that ruins the tiny safe haven you’ve built for yourself over the past eight years, but it’s time to pay attention. The scars on your face, despite what you think, are not penance. You don’t owe anybody anything.”