The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  Rogo scratches again at his head. He’s tempted to argue, but after seeing the shape I was in last night, he knows he can only push so far. Lost in the silence, he taps a knuckle against the passenger window to the tune of “Hail to the Chief.” The only other sound in the car comes from the jingling of the two dangling presidential faces on the lapel pin that’s attached to my navy suit jacket.

  “Here’s hoping you’re right,” Rogo offers as he stares down at Yosemite Sam. “Because, no offense, pal—but the last thing you need right now is another enemy.”

  40

  What’d she write?” Micah asked, gripping the steering wheel and trying to read the newspaper in O’Shea’s lap. Four cars ahead of them, Wes’s Toyota chugged back and forth through traffic.

  “Some fluffy mention about the First Lady’s suit,” O’Shea said from the passenger seat, still scanning Lisbeth’s column. “Though she did manage to work in a Dreidel mention.”

  “You think Wes told her what’s going on?”

  “No idea—though you saw the body language last night. All the hesitations . . . just barely looking her in the eyes. If he hasn’t said anything, he’s thinking about it.” Pointing ahead to the Toyota, O’Shea added, “Not so close—pull back a hair.”

  “But for him to go to the press,” Micah began, hitting the brakes and dropping back a few cars. “He’s safer with us.”

  “Not in his eyes. Don’t forget, the kid’s been wrecked by the best, and he’s somehow still standing. Deep down, he knows how the world works. Until he gets a better bargaining chip, in his mind, he’s not safe with anyone.”

  “See, that’s why we should just offer him straight clemency. Okay, Wes, next time you hear from Boyle, tell him Manning wants to meet with him and give him a time and place. Then call us and we’ll take care of the rest. I know you’ve got big eyes, O’Shea, but unless we finally put hands on Boyle—”

  “I appreciate the concern, Micah—but trust me, we stick with Wes and we’ll get our Boyle.”

  “Not if Wes thinks we’re gonna bite back. I’m telling you, forget the vague promises—put a deal on the table.”

  “No need,” O’Shea said, knowing that Micah always went for the easy way out. “Wes knows what we want. And after everything Boyle’s so-called death put him through, he wants him more than any of us.”

  “Not more than me,” Micah insisted. “After what him and Manning pulled—”

  “Get up there! He’s running the red light!”

  Micah punched the gas, but it was already too late. With a screech, the car in front of them came to an abrupt halt, forcing them to do the same. In the distance, Wes’s Toyota climbed up the bridge and out of sight.

  “I told you to—”

  “Relax,” Micah said. “He’s just going to work. Losing him for two minutes isn’t gonna kill anyone.”

  41

  Woodbine, Georgia

  “. . . but that’s the problem with hiding a treasure,” Nico said as the early morning sun punched through the damp Georgia clouds. “You don’t pick the right spot, some stranger’s gonna come along and dig it up.”

  But to say they hid it in a map . . .

  “Dammit, Edmund, it’s no different than hiding it in a crossword or a—” Cutting himself off, Nico gripped the steering wheel and turned toward his friend in the passenger seat. It was harder than he thought. Trusting people never came easy. But Nico understood the power of the Lord. The power that delivered Edmund to his side. From the rearview mirror, the wooden rosary swayed in a tight circle, like a marble in its last seconds before circling down an open drain. Edmund was sent for a reason. And Nico knew never to ignore the signs. Even if it meant exposing his own weaknesses. “I’m not crazy,” Nico said, his voice soft and tender.

  I never thought you were. By the way, you sure you’re okay driving?

  “I’m fine. But just know, if you wanna help, you need to understand that this battle didn’t start eight years ago. It started in ’91.”

  1991?

  “1791,” Nico said, watching Edmund’s reaction. “The year they drew the battle lines . . . by drawing the city lines,” he explained, jabbing a finger against the map that was spread out across the wide dashboard between them.

  City lines to what? Washington, D.C.?

  “That’s what they were designing—the layout for our nation’s capital. President George Washington himself picked out a U.S. army major for the job: French-born architect Pierre Charles L’Enfant. And when you look at his early plans . . . it laid the groundwork for everything here today,” Nico said, pointing Edmund back toward the map.

  So when this French guy designed the city—

  “No!” Nico insisted. “Unlock yourself from history’s lies. L’Enfant is the one most often credited with the plans, but after being hired by President Washington, a known Freemason, there was one other man who helped sketch the details of the city. That’s the man who marked the entryway. And used the skills of the Masons to build the devil’s door.”

  Is it someone I know, or some other French guy?

  “Unlock yourself, Edmund. Ever hear of Thomas Jefferson?”

  42

  ID, please,” the burly African-American security guard insists as I step through the glass doors and into the gray marble lobby of our building. Most mornings I pass with nothing more than a wave to Norma, the overweight Hispanic woman who’s worked the morning shift for the past three years. Today, Norma’s gone. A quick glance at the new guard’s hand shows me the beige sleeve-microphone concealed in his fist. The patch on his shoulder reads Flamingo Security Corp. But I know Secret Service when I see it.

  With Nico loose, no one’s taking any chances.

  It’s no different when I step out of the elevator on the fourth floor. In addition to the regular suit-and-tie agent who stands guard by the flags in our welcoming area, there’s an agent outside our bulletproof doors, and a third just outside the President’s personal office at the end of the hallway. Still, none of it surprises me half as much as the familiar voice I hear a few doors down as I cut into my own office.

  “You’re sure it’s okay?” the voice asks from our chief of staff’s office.

  “Absolutely,” Claudia promises as they step into the hall. “In fact, if you didn’t call—oh, I would’ve killed you. And so would he,” she says, referring to the President.

  She stops short right in front of my door. “Wes, guess who’s going to be working out of our office for the next week?” she asks, stepping inside and waving like a magician’s assistant toward the door.

  “H-Hey, pal,” Dreidel says as he enters my office, a thick file folder pressed against his hip.

  I clap my hands, pretending to be amused. What’re you doing? I ask with a glance.

  “My firm asked if I could—”

  “They didn’t ask,” Claudia jumps in, already seizing control. “They had a last-minute rescheduling on a deposition, and since he was down here, they told him to stay. But we can’t let him scrounge in some hotel executive center, right? Not when we’ve got all this office space here.”

  “It’s just for a week,” Dreidel says, already reading my reaction.

  “Wes, you okay?” Claudia asks. “I figured with all this Nico mess, it’d be nice to have someone familiar to—” She cuts herself off, realizing what she’s missed. “Nico. Oh, how could I be so stupid? Wes, I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t even think that you and Nico—” She steps back, tapping the tight bun in her hair as if she wants to bury herself under it. From there, the pity comes quickly. “How’re you holding up? If you need to go home—”

  “I’m fine,” I insist.

  “After all these years, it’s just . . . I don’t even think of you as—” She doesn’t say the word, but I still hear it. Disabled. Scarred.

  “A victim,” Dreidel clarifies as Claudia offers a thankful nod.

  “Exactly. A victim,” she repeats, finding her footing. “That’s all I meant. Just that
you . . . you’re not a victim, Wes. Not now, not ever,” she insists as if that makes it so. Like any career politician, she doesn’t let the apology linger. “Meanwhile, Dreidel, let me show you the volunteer room in back—it’s got a computer, a phone—you’ll be set for the week. Wes, just so you know, I talked to the Service this morning, and they said they’re not expecting any incidents, so unless we hear otherwise, schedule stays pretty much the same.”

  “Pretty much?”

  “They’re keeping him home most of the day—y’know, just to be safe,” she says, hoping to soothe. The problem is, the last time Manning altered his schedule was when they thought he had rectal cancer a few years back. Life-or-death. “So forget the PSA taping,” she quickly adds, heading for the door. “Though he’ll still need you for the Madame Tussaud thing at the house tonight.”

  Before I can say a word, my phone rings on my desk.

  “If it’s press . . .” Claudia says.

  I shoot her a look.

  “Sorry,” she offers. “I just, if you saw how many calls I got last night . . .”

  “Believe me, I’ve been saying no all morning,” I tell her as she waves and leaves. I let the phone ring, waiting for Dreidel to trail behind her. He stays put.

  “Claudia, I’ll be there in a sec,” he calls out, standing next to me at my desk.

  I stare at him in disbelief. “What the hell’re you doing here?” I whisper.

  He looks back with the same disbelief. “You kidding? I’m helping you.”

  The phone rings again, and I glance down at caller ID, which is angled so Dreidel can’t read it from his side of the desk. Presidential Library.

  “Could be the archivist,” Dreidel says, leaning forward for a quick glance. “Maybe she got Boyle’s papers ready.”

  The phone rings again.

  “What, now you don’t want the papers?” he adds.

  I roll my eyes but can’t ignore the logic. Grabbing the receiver, I answer, “Wes here.”

  Dreidel makes a beeline for the door, peeking out into the hallway to make sure we’re alone.

  “Heya there, Wes,” a soft voice says through the phone. “Gerald Lang . . . from the curator’s office? Wondering if you had a moment to talk about that presidential aide exhibit?”

  As Dreidel cranes his neck into the hall, a sudden, fake smile lights up his face. Someone’s there.

  “Heeey!” he announces, motioning them into my office.

  “Dreidel, don’t!” I hiss, covering the phone. I don’t need the circus to—

  “Dreidel?” Lang asks on the line, clearly overhearing. “I was just trying to reach him. He was Manning’s aide in the White House, no?”

  In front of me, Bev and Oren embrace Dreidel in a Mary Tyler Moore group hug. Bev squeezes him so tightly, her fake boobs practically crush the personalized Manning letter she’s holding. The prodigal son’s returned. But as I watch them celebrate, a hollow pain crawls through my stomach. Not out of jealousy. Or envy. I don’t need them to ask me about Nico or how I’m holding up. I don’t need more pity. But I do need to know why Dreidel, still in mid-hug, keeps glancing over his shoulder, studying me on the phone. His eyes are tired, the dark moons below them betraying his lack of sleep last night. Whatever kept him up, kept him up late.

  “Wes, you there?” Lang asks on the other line.

  “Yeah, no—I’m here,” I reply, crossing around to the seat side of the desk. “Let me just . . . can I think about it for a bit? With all this Nico mess, we’re just running a little crazy.”

  Hanging up the phone, I look back at my friend. My friend who got me my job. And taught me everything I know. And visited me when . . . when only my parents and Rogo visited. I don’t care what Rogo says. If Dreidel’s here, it’s for a good reason.

  With a back pat for Oren and a cheek kiss for Bev, Dreidel sends them on their way and bounces back into my office. Curling one leg under my tush, I take a seat behind my desk and study the smile on his face. No doubt about it. He’s here to help.

  “So no on the archivist, huh?” he asks. “What about Lisbeth? What time we seeing her?” When I don’t answer immediately, he adds, “Last night . . . I was there, Wes. You said you were meeting this morning.”

  “We are, but—”

  “Then let’s not be stupid.” He heads for the door and slams it shut for privacy. “Instead of rushing in like imbeciles, let’s make sure we’re ready for once.” Reading my reaction, he adds, “What? You do want me to come, right?”

  “No . . . of course,” I stutter, sinking slightly in my seat. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”

  43

  Kingsland, Georgia

  T HE Thomas Jefferson?

  “A trinity—can’t you see it?” Nico asked, both hands on the six o’clock position of the steering wheel. Motioning Edmund to the map on the dashboard between them, he added, “Washington, Jefferson, L’Enfant. The original Three.”

  The original three what?

  “The Three, Edmund. From the earliest days, there have always been The Three. The Three who were born to destroy—and today, The Three who’re here to save.”

  So The Three are chasing The Three—sorta like a circle . . .

  “Exactly! Exactly a circle,” Nico said, already excited as he reached up to the sun visor above his seat and pulled out a pen. “That’s how they picked the symbol!” Holding the steering wheel and leaning over toward the dashboard, Nico sketched furiously on the corner of the map.

  A circle with a star?

  “Five-pointed star, also known as a pentagram—the most widely used religious symbol in history—vital to every culture, from the Mayans to the Egyptians to the Chinese.”

  And Washington and Jefferson somehow unearthed this?

  No, no, no—pay attention—Washington was a Freemason . . . Jefferson was rumored to be one too. D’you really think they didn’t know what they were doing? This wasn’t something they unearthed. This was something they were taught. Five points on the star, right? In ancient Greece, five was the number of man. And the number of elements: fire, water, air, earth, and psyche. Even the church used to embrace the pentagram—just look at it—the five wounds of Jesus,” Nico said, giving a quick glance to the wood rosary on the rearview. “But when the symbol is inverted—turned upside down— it becomes the opposite of that. A sign embraced by witches, by the occult, and by . . .

  . . . the Freemasons.

  “You see it, don’t you? I knew you would, Edmund! They’ve been invoking the symbol for centuries—placing it on their buildings . . . above their archways . . . even here,” Nico said, jabbing down at the map, his pointer finger stabbing the most well known block of Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The White House?

  “They tried it for centuries all over the world. Fortresses in Spain, castles in Ireland, even in the old stone churches in Chicago. But for the doorway to open, they needed more than just the right symbols and incantations . . .

  . . . they needed power.

  “Supreme power. That was the lesson of the pyramids and Solomon’s Temples—centers of power—to this day, the Freemasons still call Solomon their first grand master! That’s why they collected all of history’s leaders! The access to power! I knew you’d see it! Praise be all!” Just watching Edmund’s reaction, Nico could barely contain himself. “I knew you’d see!”

  But . . . how could no one in the White House notice there was a door with a pentagram on it?

  “Door? Doors can be removed and replaced, Edmund. Even the White House has been burned and renovated. No, for this, the Masons marked something far more permanent . . .” Nico again turned to the map. “Follow the landmarks,” he explained, already circling each point on the map. “One—Dupont Circle . . . two—Logan Circle . . . three—Washington Circle . . . four—Mount Vernon Square . . . and five—” He lifted his pen and jabbed down at the final spot: “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “The building is the door. Right in front of us for over
two hundred years,” he added as he connected the dots. Just as The Three had done for him.

  Oh, God.

  “God had nothing to do with it, Edmund. Monsters,” Nico insisted. “That’s who we’re fighting. To mark the territory, Jefferson even branded it with their own emblem.”

  On the edge of the map, Nico again started to draw. To his own surprise, his eyes welled up with each scratch of his pen. It was the one symbol he’d never forget.

  Nico, you okay there?

  Nico nodded, grinding his teeth and refusing to look back down at the symbol—the compass and the square. Remember the lessons. No tears. Just victory. Locked on the road, he gave the coordinates he’d learned all those years ago. “Start at the Capitol and run your finger down Pennsylvania Avenue, all the way to the White House,” Nico explained, feeling the pressure building in his skull. Fight it. Fight the monster back. “Now do the same from the Capitol down Maryland Avenue—follow it all the way to the Jefferson Memorial—his own shrine! Now go to Union Station and draw a line down Louisiana Avenue, then on the south side of the Capitol, draw another down Washington Avenue. The lines will connect in front of the Capitol . . .”

  This time, Edmund was silent.

  “The compass and the square. The most sacred Masonic symbol . . .”

  . . . pointing right to the doorway of the White House . . . all that power in one place. Why would—? What’re they doing, trying to take over the world?

  “No,” Nico said coldly. “They’re trying to destroy it.” Already forgetting the pain in his skull, he added, “Welcome, Edmund—welcome to the truth.”

  I . . . I can’t believe this.