by Brad Meltzer
There’s a loud click as she hits the Enter key. I check my door for the third time. All clear.
“We’ve got two different Eric Weisses. One did some research the first year we were open. The other made a request about a year and a half ago, though it looks like it was a book report kid who wanted to know the President’s favorite movie . . .”
“All the President’s Men,” we both say simultaneously.
She again laughs that panting laugh. “I don’t think that’s your researcher,” she adds, finally warming up.
“What about the other Weiss?”
“As I said, he’s from the first year we opened . . . mailing address in Valencia, Spain . . .”
“That’s him!” I blurt, quickly catching myself.
“Certainly looks like it,” Kara says. “He’s got a few similar requests . . . some of Boyle’s files . . . the President’s schedule from the day of the shooting . . . The odd thing is, according to the notes here, he paid for copies—expensive too, almost six hundred dollars’ worth—but when we sent them out, the package bounced back to us. According to the file, no one was listed at that address.”
Like a photo in a darkroom, the edges of the picture slowly harden and flower into view. The FBI said Boyle was spotted in Spain. If that was his first request from the library, and then he ran, maybe he was worried people knew that his name was . . . “Try Carl Stewart,” I say, switching to the codename Boyle used in the Malaysian hotel.
“Carl Stewart,” Kara repeats, clicking away. “Yep—here we go . . .”
“You have him?”
“How could we not? Almost two hundred requests over the past three years. He’s requested over 12,000 pages . . .”
“Yeah, no . . . he’s thorough,” I tell her, careful not to lose focus. “And just to be sure we have the right one, what’s the last address you have for him?”
“In London . . . it’s care of the post office at 92A Balham High Road. And the zip is SW12 9AF.”
“That’s the one,” I say, scribbling it down, even though I know it’s the British equivalent of a P.O. box. And just as untraceable.
Before I can say another word, the door to my office swings open. “He’s in the closet,” Claudia announces, referring to the President. I was afraid of this. Closet is her code for the bathroom—Manning’s last stop before we head out to an event. If he’s true to form—and he always is—that’s my two-minute warning.
“So would you like me to just send you a list of what else he requested?” the librarian asks through the receiver.
“Wes, you hear what I said?” Claudia adds.
I hold a finger up to our chief of staff. “Yeah, if you can send me the list, that’d be perfect,” I tell the librarian. Claudia taps her watch, and I throw her a nod. “And if I can ask you one last favor—that last document he received—when was that sent?”
“Let’s see . . . says here the fifteenth, so about ten days ago,” the librarian replies.
I sit up straight, and the picture in the darkroom starts to take on brand-new details. Since the day the library opened, Boyle’s been pulling documents and hunting through files. Ten days ago, he requested his final one—then suddenly came out of hiding. I don’t know much, but it’s pretty clear that finding that file is the only way out of the darkroom and into the light.
“Service are mobilizing,” Claudia says, glancing up the hallway and watching the agents gather at the front door of the office.
I stand up and stretch the phone cord to the chair that holds my suit jacket. Sliding my arm in, I stay with the librarian. “How long would it take you to send me a copy of the last document he received?”
“Let’s see, it went out last week, so it still might be in Shelly’s . . . Hold on, let me check.” There’s a short pause on the line.
I look over at Claudia. We don’t have many rules, but one of the vital ones is to never keep the President waiting. “Don’t worry—I’m coming.”
She looks over her shoulder and down the hallway. “I’m serious, Wes,” she threatens. “Who you talking to anyway?”
“Library. Just trying to get the final list of the honchos who’ll be there tonight.”
In our office, when the President gets lonely for his old life, we’ll catch him calling his Formers: former British prime minister, former Canadian prime minister, even the former French president. But the help I need is far closer than that.
“Got it right here. It’s just a one-pager,” the librarian interrupts. “What’s your fax number?”
Relaying the number, I fight my other arm into my sleeve. The President’s and First Lady’s metal heads jingle on my lapel pin. “And you’ll send it now?”
“Whenever you want . . . it’s—”
“Now.”
I hang up the phone, grab my bag of tricks, and dart for the door. “Just tell me when Manning’s coming,” I say to Claudia as I squeeze past her and duck into the copy room directly across from my office.
“Wes, this isn’t funny,” she says, clearly annoyed.
“It’s coming through right now,” I lie, standing in front of our secure fax machine. Every day at six a.m., Manning’s NIDs—the National Intelligence Daily—arrive by secure fax in the exact same spot. Sent out by the CIA, the NIDs contain briefs on an array of sensitive intelligence topics and are the last umbilical cord all Formers have with the White House. Manning races for it like catnip. But for me, what’s being transmitted right now is far more potent.
“Wes, go to the door. I’ll take care of the fax.”
“It’ll just—”
“I said go to the door. Now.”
I turn around to face Claudia just as the fax machine hiccups to life. Her smoker’s lips purse, and she looks angry—angrier than anyone should be over a silly little fax.
“It’s okay,” I stutter. “I’ll get it.”
“Dammit, Wes—”
Before she can finish, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out as a simple distraction. “Just gimme one sec,” I say to Claudia as I check caller ID. Undisclosed caller. There aren’t many people who have this number.
“Wes here,” I answer.
“Don’t react. Just smile and act like it’s an old friend,” a grainy voice crackles through the receiver. I recognize him instantly.
Boyle.
25
Nice room,” The Roman said, eyeing the mostly bare, sun-faded walls of Nico’s home for the past eight years. Above the nightstand was a free Washington Redskins calendar from the local grocery store. Above the bed was a small crucifix. On the ceiling, a spiderweb of cracked plaster rounded out the sum total of the decor. “Really nice,” The Roman added, remembering how much Nico thrived on positive reinforcement.
“It is nice,” Nico agreed, his eyes locked on the orderly as he left the room.
“And you’ve been well?” The Roman asked.
Keeping his arms wrapped around his violin and hugging it like a doll, Nico didn’t answer. The way his ear was cocked, it was clear he was listening to the fading squeaks of the orderly’s rubber soles against the linoleum.
“Nico—”
“Wait . . .” Nico interrupted, still listening.
The Roman stayed silent, unable to hear a thing. Of course, that was yet another reason why they’d picked Nico all those years ago. The average adult hears at a level of twenty-five decibels. According to his army reports, Nico was gifted with the ability to hear at ten decibels. His eyesight was even more uncanny, measured officially at 20/6.
Nico’s army supervisors labeled it a gift. His doctors labeled it a burden, suggesting that overwhelming auditory and visual stimuli caused his desensitization with reality. And The Roman . . . The Roman knew it was an opportunity.
“Tell me when we’re clear,” The Roman whispered.
As the sound faded, Nico scratched his bulbous nose and studied The Roman carefully, his close chocolate eyes flicking back and forth, slowly picking apart his guest’s hair, face, overcoa
t, shoes, even his leather briefcase. The Roman had forgotten how methodical he was.
“You forgot an umbrella,” Nico blurted.
The Roman patted down the back of his slightly damp hair. “It’s just a short walk from the parking lo—”
“You brought a gun,” Nico said, staring at The Roman’s ankle holster as it peeked out from his pant leg.
“It’s not loaded,” The Roman said, remembering that short answers were the best way to rein him in.
“That’s not your name,” Nico again interrupted. He pointed at the visitor ID sticker on The Roman’s lapel. “I know that name.”
The Roman didn’t even bother looking down. He used his badge to get past the guards, but for the ID, of course the name was fake. Only a fool would put his real name on a list that regularly got sent to his supervisors at the Service. Still, with all Nico’s years here, with all the drugs the doctors pumped into him, he was sharp. Sniper training didn’t dull easily. “Names are fictions,” The Roman said. “Especially the enemy’s.”
Still holding tight to his fiddle, Nico could barely contain himself. “You’re of The Three.” From the excitement in his voice, it wasn’t a question.
“Let’s not—”
“Are you One or Two? I only spoke to Three. He was my liaison—with me when my father—when he passed. He said the rest of you were too big, and that the President was one of—” Nico bit his lip, straining to restrain himself. “Praise all! Did you see the cross on the brick chapel?”
The Roman nodded, remembering what they told Nico all those years ago. That he should look for the signs. That physical structures have always been sources of inexplicable power. The Druids and Stonehenge . . . the Egyptian pyramids . . . even Solomon’s First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. The Freemasons spent centuries studying them all—each one an architectural marvel that’s served as a doorway to a greater miracle. Centuries later, that knowledge was passed to Freemason James Hoban, who designed the White House, and Freemason Gutzon Borglum, who did Mount Rushmore. But as they also explained to Nico, some doors weren’t meant to be opened.
“Praise all!” Nico repeated. “He said when you came, redemption would—”
“Redemption will come,” The Roman promised. “As the Book promises.”
For the first time, Nico was silent. He lowered the fiddle to the ground and bowed his head.
“That’s it, my son,” The Roman said with a nod. “Of course, before redemption, let’s start with a little . . .” He reached over to the dresser and picked up the red glass rosary beads. “. . . confession.”
Dropping to his knees, Nico clasped his hands together and leaned on the side of his mattress like a child at bedtime.
The Roman wasn’t surprised. He did the same thing when they found him in the shelter. And for almost two full days after he confronted his father. “There’ll be time for prayer later, Nico. Right now I just need you to tell me the truth about something.”
“I’m always truthful, sir.”
“I know you are, Nico.” The Roman sat on the opposite side of the bed and placed the rosary beads between them. The fading sun boomeranged through the prisms of red glass. Still on his knees, Nico studied it, mesmerized. From his briefcase, The Roman pulled out a black-and-white photo and tossed it between them on the bed. “Now, tell me everything you know about Wes Holloway.”
26
Hey, how’s everything?” I sing into my cell phone as Claudia stares me down from the doorway of the copy room.
“You know who this is?” Boyle asks on the other line. His tone is sharp, each syllable chiseling like an ice pick. He’s impatient. And clearly riled.
“Of course. Good to hear your voice, Eric.” I purposely use his old codename instead of Carl Stewart. He doesn’t need to know I’ve figured that one out.
“You alone?” he asks as Claudia’s lips purse even tighter and she lowers her chin with a burning glare.
“Sure, I’ve got Claudia right here—”
“Stay away from this, Wes. This isn’t your fight. Y’hear me? It’s not your fight.”
The line goes dead. Boyle’s gone.
He hung up.
“No, that’s great,” I say to the now-silent line. “See you soon.” I’m not the world’s greatest liar, but I’m still good enough to convince Claudia nothing’s wrong.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“That was . . . it was Manning. He said he’d be another few minutes . . .”
Her eyes narrow as she processes the news. Behind me, the fax machine grumbles to life. I jump at the sound, which hits me like a bullet.
“What?” she asks.
“No, it just . . . it startled me.” For almost a year after the shooting, every car that backfired, every loud door that slammed . . . even action scenes in movies . . . the loud noises echoed from Nico’s attack. The doctors said it would fade over time. And it did. Until now.
Knowing that look on my face, Claudia pauses and softens, but as always, reverts to her one priority. “You should still be out there,” she says.
“I will . . . just let me get this. Y’know how he likes knowing names,” I add, selling it as a benefit for Manning. That alone buys me a few more seconds.
By the time I spin back to the fax, the cover sheet is already through. So is half of the final page.
I grab the left-hand corner of the sheet as it churns out of the machine, then tilt my head, struggling to read it upside down. Top corner says Washington Post. From what I can tell, it’s from the comics section of the paper. Hagar the Horrible . . . then Beetle Bailey. But as Beetle Bailey rolls out, there’s something handwritten in the open space of the comic strip’s second panel: boxy and clunky cursive lettering that looks like it was written on the dashboard of a moving car. It’s almost unreadable to the untrained eye. Fortunately, my eyes’ve been trained for years. I’d know Manning’s handwriting anywhere.
Gov. Roche . . . M. Heatson, I read to myself.
On the next line, it makes even less sense. Host—Mary Angel.
Roche is the former governor of New York, but Heatson or Mary Angel . . . nothing rings a bell.
As the rest of the fax shimmies from the machine, there’s nothing but more comics. Peanuts, Garfield, and Blondie.
This was the final piece of Boyle’s puzzle? I look back at the handwritten note. Gov. Roche . . . M. Heatson . . . Mary Angel. Doesn’t even make sense. Three names with no information? I study it again, reading each letter. This is the last page Boyle found before coming out of hiding. Eight years dead, and this is what lured him back into his life? Gov. Roche . . . M. Heatson . . . Host—Mary Angel. Still means nothing.
“Wes, he’s here,” Claudia calls out, disappearing up the hallway.
“Coming,” I say as the final lines of Beetle Bailey scroll out from the machine. As I spin around to take off, the cover sheet drops to the floor. Pausing to pick it up, I glance at the line that says Number of Pages. To my surprise, it says 3.
The fax machine again hiccups, and a final sheet of paper crawls toward me. The librarian called it a one-pager. And it is one page . . . with two sides. Front and back.
I hunch down to the fax and try to read the document as each line of fresh ink is printed on the page. Like the comics page, it has the light gray tone of photocopied newsprint filled with more of the President’s handwriting. But as I read it to myself, the picture in the darkroom feels overexposed, foggier than ever.
“Wes . . .” the President calls from the front door.
“On my way,” I say, picking up my travel bag, ripping the sheet from the fax, and darting into the hallway. I give it one last glance before shoving it into my jacket pocket. It doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Boyle possibly be doing with this?
27
He’s the one I shot, isn’t he?” Nico whispered, staring down at the recent photo of Wes. “The innocent.”
“In every war, there are innocents,” The Roman said. “But
what I need to know is—”
“He’s older . . .”
“It’s been years, Nico. Of course, he’s older.”
Nico pulled the picture close to him. “I broke him, didn’t I? He’s broken now.”
“Excuse me?”
“In his eyes,” Nico replied, focusing even tighter on the photo. “I’ve seen that look . . . in battle . . . kids in battle have that look.”
“I’m sure they do,” The Roman said, snatching the picture and fighting to keep Nico on track. “But I need you to tell me if—”
“We relieve them from duty when they have that look,” Nico said, almost proudly. “They lose sight of the cause.”
“Exactly. They lose sight of the cause. Let’s focus on that.” Tapping Wes’s picture, The Roman added, “Remember what he said about you? At the hearing a few years back?”
Nico stayed silent.
“What’d he call you again? A savage?”
“A monster,” Nico growled.
The Roman shook his head, well aware of Wes’s description. But like any interrogation, the key was hiding the big questions. “And that’s the last you heard from him?” The Roman asked.
“He blames me. Refuses to see what I saved us from.”
The Roman watched Nico carefully, now convinced that Wes hadn’t been in touch. Of course, that was only part of the reason for his visit. “Speaking of which, do you think about Boyle?”
Nico looked up, his eyes angry for barely a second, then calm. The hatred disappeared almost instantly. Thanks to the doctors, he’d finally learned to bury it. “Never,” Nico said.
“Not at all?”
“Never,” Nico repeated, his voice slow and measured. He’d spent eight years perfecting his answer.
“It’s okay, Nico. You’re safe now, so—”
“I don’t think of him. I don’t,” he insisted, still on his knees and staring straight at the fiery red of the rosaries. “What happened to . . . him . . . he . . .” Swallowing hard, Nico reached for the beads, then stopped himself. “He put me in here. He . . .”
“You can say his name, Nico.”