by Brad Meltzer
“Those were my words . . . my thoughts too.”
But to get this done with no one knowing . . .
“They did it in plain view! On October 13, 1792, Maryland’s Masonic Lodge number 9 laid the cornerstone of the White House in a ceremony filled with Freemason rituals. Look it up—it’s true! The inscription on the brass plate of that cornerstone says it was laid on the twelfth, but every reputable history book in existence says it was laid on the thirteenth!”
Thirteen. The number of the Beast.
“Thirteen blocks north from the White House is where they built the House of the Temple, national headquarters of the Freemasons!”
Thirteen again!
“Now you understand their treachery. They’ve been waiting for centuries! Seven hundred years ago, we thought it was the Holy Roman Emperor—the one the church labeled the first enemy. But the Masons knew to wait. Wait for the signs. Wait for the true world power to emerge. Prepare. Then the end-times would come!”
So the door they were trying to open . . .
“. . . the door to Hell.”
Of course! They were trying to free the Creatures . . . begin the motions! Nico, do you have any idea what you’re on to? Scripture predicts it! It begins when the Two Beasts arrive . . .
“. . . they come through hosts! First, a disciple—a man of sin . . .”
That’s Boyle, right? The man of sin!
“Then the Leader—a man of power . . .”
Manning!
“Through him the Dark One—the true Beast—will arise, creating the most powerful kingdom of all!”
So the Beast they were trying to free . . .
“The Antichrist, Edmund. They want the Antichrist! If it weren’t for The Three, he would’ve come! Tell me you see that! Without The Three, Manning’s reelection was imminent! Supreme power in Manning! A man of sin in Boyle! Together, the keys to open the door!”
The original Three dedicated to birthing him—the final Three dedicated to destroying him! Alpha and Omega! Their destiny fulfilled!
“Yes, yes . . . destiny—their fate—just as in scripture! ‘Dear children . . . the antichrist is coming. He is now already in the world!’” Nico screamed as spit flew from his mouth and sprayed the inside windshield.
So the reason you shot Boyle instead of Manning . . .
“In a coliseum of his admirers? Surrounded by his supplicants? Manning’s influence was at its peak! What if that were the catalyst for his awakening? No—like The Three said . . . better to go with Boyle, who was—was—was— Don’t you see?” he yelled, pounding the steering wheel. “Without Boyle, there’d be only one Beast! One key instead of two! With only one, the door couldn’t open!” He kept looking to Edmund, then back to the road. His breathing was galloping, his whole body shaking. Being silent for so long . . . to finally let it out . . . he could barely catch his breath.
“Th-Th-The man of sin—like my father—has always been the sign! Have you not . . . have you not heard of Boyle’s sin?” Nico shouted, gasping between breaths as a sudden flush of tears blurred the road in front of him. He hunched forward, gripping the wheel as a dry heave clenched his stomach. “What he did to his own—? And then to my—?” He jabbed a finger at his eyes, digging away the tears. They rolled down his face, dangling like raindrops from his jaw. Don’t fight it, he told himself. Be thankful to get it out . . . Heed the Book . . . Thank you, Mother . . . Thank you . . .
“D-D’ya understand?” he pleaded with Edmund, his voice cracking with the Wisconsin accent he’d buried years ago. “People know nothing, Edmund. Teacher and student. Master and supplicant. Manning and Boyle,” he repeated, sinking forward on the steering wheel. “Like father and son. That’s why I was chosen. Why my mother was taken. To test me . . . to stop my father . . . to close the devil’s door. To keep the door shut and the Great Darkness from coming.”
In the passenger seat next to him, Edmund didn’t say a word.
“P-Please, Edmund . . . please tell me you understand . . .”
Once again, Edmund was silent. As silent as he’d been for the past five hours when they pulled out of the gas station in South Carolina.
With his seat belt in a diagonal bear hug across his chest, Edmund slumped slightly to the right, his shoulder pressed against the passenger door. His arms dangled at his side, his left wrist bent in his lap.
As the flatbed truck rumbled onto the overpass that ran across St. Marys River, a bump of uneven concrete sent Edmund’s head sagging to the right, his forehead thumping lightly into the glass of the passenger window. With each new seam in the asphalt, the flatbed hiccupped. With each hiccup, Edmund’s head thumped over and over against the glass.
“I knew you would, Edmund,” Nico said excitedly. “Thank you. Thank you for believing . . .”
Thump . . . thump . . . thump. Like a hammer to a stubborn nail, Edmund’s head banged the glass. The baritone drumbeat was ruthlessly unavoidable. Nico didn’t notice. Just like he didn’t notice the slurpy sound of Edmund’s bloody fingers sticking and unsticking from the truck’s vinyl seats. Or the dried waterfall of blood that’d poured down Edmund’s chest from where Nico slit his throat with his car keys.
“I know, but I’m just glad you understand,” Nico said, catching his breath and wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. With one final thump, the truck cleared the St. Marys River overpass and officially crossed the state line of Georgia. On the right, they blew past a faded orange and green highway sign. Welcome to Florida—The Sunshine State.
44
An hour and a half later, I pull up to the curb in front of First of America Bank, which houses Rogo’s offices on the second floor. As my car bucks to a stop, Rogo trudges slowly out the building’s front door, heading for the front passenger door. He’s still pissed I’m meeting with Lisbeth. But not half as pissed as seeing Dreidel sitting in his seat.
“How’s the world of traffic tickets?” Dreidel calls out as he rolls down the window.
“Same as Chicago politics,” Rogo replies, shooting me a look as he opens the door for the backseat. “Completely corrupt.”
It was no better the first time they met, years ago. Both lawyers, both opinionated, both too stubborn to see anything but the other’s flaws.
For the rest of the ride, Rogo sulks in the back as we blow by the past-their-prime mom-and-pop shops that line South Dixie Highway. Every once in a while, he peers out the back to make sure we’re not being followed. I use my side mirror for the same.
“There . . .” Dreidel points as if I haven’t been here a dozen times. Hitting the brakes, I make a sharp right into the front lot of our destination: the wide, off-white office building that takes up most of the block. Just in front of the building is a small plaza with a statue of a turtle dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, comically playing an electric keyboard. It’s supposed to be funny. None of us laugh.
“Park underneath,” Rogo says, pointing to the two-story concrete parking garage that connects to the building. “The fewer people who see us, the better.” He glares at me in the rearview. It doesn’t take a genius to get the point. It’s bad enough I brought us here. It’s even worse that I brought Dreidel.
Still, Dreidel doesn’t seem to notice Rogo’s tantrum. Staring out the window, he’s far too focused on the huge brown sign that’s partially blocked by the building’s faux-cement pillars: Palm Beach Post.
“You sure this is smart?” Dreidel asks as the sun disappears, and we wind our way up to the second level of the already dark garage.
“You got a better place?” I challenge.
And that’s the point. No matter where we go, it’s a cakewalk for anyone to listen in. But here, in the heart of it . . . I don’t care how powerful they are—Manning, the FBI, even the Service—none of them can afford to fistfight with the press.
“What’s the backup plan for when she screws us?” Rogo asks as we head through the front door of the building and across the lobby’s salmon and bla
ck marble floor. It’s his last-ditch effort to turn us around. Dreidel nods to show he agrees, but he still doesn’t slow down. Like me, he’s got a personal stake. And based on what I saw in his hotel room, he doesn’t want to give Lisbeth another excuse to put his name in bold.
“Cell phones and pagers,” a tan guard with silver hair announces as we approach the metal detector and X-ray. I put my shoulder bag on the belt, along with my phone. But as I step through the X-ray, a loud beep echoes through the tall marble canyon.
Feeling myself up, I check for a pen or a—
“Your pin,” the guard blurts, pointing to my lapel.
Rolling my eyes and stepping back through the X-ray, I fight my way out of my suit jacket and lay it across the conveyor.
“You should just throw the pin away,” Dreidel says, following right behind me. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”
“Hey, fellas,” the security guard interrupts, his head cocked sideways as he studies the video monitor for the X-ray. He taps the screen and makes a face. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this . . .”
45
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Palm Beach International Airport,” the flight attendant announced through the plane’s intercom. “Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop and the captain turns off the seat belt sign.”
Flicking the metal clasp, The Roman undid his seat belt, reached under the seat in front of him, and pulled out a thick aluminum photographer’s briefcase with the Secret Service logo on it. He flexed his thumbs, triggering the clasps that opened the case. From inside, tucked into a gray foam protective shell, he pulled out a small receiver that reminded him of the old transistor radios his grandfather used to collect. Unwrapping a black wire from around the receiver, he inserted the earpiece in his right ear and flicked the On switch on the side of the receiver.
“. . . pin away,” Dreidel said, his voice far more muffled than before. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”
Checking the reception on the square electronic screen, The Roman saw four out of five digital bars. It was no different than a cell phone with a souped-up military battery.
“Hey, fellas,” a new voice interrupted. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this . . . ”
The Roman put a finger in his free ear and turned a dial to raise the volume. All he got was silence.
Up above, a loud chime sounded in the plane as a metal symphony of unfastened seat belts filled the cabin. Sitting perfectly still, The Roman turned up the volume even higher. Still nothing. For a moment, there was some mumbling, but nothing audible.
“What floor?” Rogo asked, coming through loud and clear.
“Second,” Wes replied.
“Just do me a favor,” Rogo added. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”
Closing his suitcase and following his fellow passengers into the aisle, The Roman nodded to himself. Them being smart was exactly what he planned.
46
Gotta give the boy credit,” Micah offered, circling through the parking lot as Wes, Rogo, and Dreidel disappeared inside the Palm Beach Post building.
“Who, Wes?” O’Shea asked, watching from the passenger seat of their government-rented Chevy. “Why, because he’s running for help?”
“See, that’s where you’re underestimating. I don’t think he’s running. Once he steps inside that building, he’s zipping himself in a force field he knows we won’t pierce.”
“Either that or he’s running out of options.”
“Maybe,” Micah said, holding the steering wheel and facing his longtime partner. “But when I was trailing him yesterday morning, every single person he ran into was staring at his face. The valet, the doorman, the guests he passed in the lobby . . . if he can handle that on a daily basis, he can take more punches than you think.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I’m just saying, the immovable object is just as deadly as our unstoppable force.”
“Yeah, but the unstoppable force is still the one people’re afraid of. And until we catch Boyle’s ass, that’s the one I’d rather be.”
“. . . because it’s served us so well thus far,” Micah said.
“You’re missing the point. Even if Boyle knows we’re searching . . .”
“. . . which he does. He’s known for years.”
“But what he doesn’t know is that Wes has suddenly become the best carrot on our stick. Turn—in there,” O’Shea added, pointing to the entrance to the two-story parking garage.
Rounding the turn and weaving up to the second level, it didn’t take long for them to pull up to Wes’s rusted black Toyota. As soon as he saw it, Micah hit the brakes.
“Just pull in back there,” O’Shea said, motioning to an open parking spot diagonally across from the Toyota.
Tapping the gas, Micah eased into the spot. Through the back window, the view of Wes’s car was perfect.
“We got the carrot,” O’Shea said. “When you hold tight to that, the horse’ll always follow.”
47
Crowding around the small TV monitor of the X-ray, we all stand frozen as the guard points to the screen. The rectangular outline of my lapel pin glows dark gray. Just below it, the two sculpted heads dangle like matching gray tears. But what’s far more interesting are the tiny metal pieces—they almost look like shards of shattered glass—glowing bright white at the center of the rectangle.
We’re all squinting, struggling to make them out, until the guard hits a button on his keyboard and pulls in on the picture. On-screen, the pieces—a coiled antenna, a miniature microchip, and an even smaller hearing-aid battery—bloom into view.
As always, Rogo’s mouth opens first. “Sonofa—”
I pinch his elbow and shoot him a look.
“That’s just . . . that’s my voice recorder—all digital—y’know, to save good ideas,” I whisper, trying to sound like I have a sore throat. “Cool, huh?”
“They make ’em even tinier than those little cassettes,” Rogo adds, quickly catching on.
“Here, try it,” I bluff to the guard as the conveyor returns my jacket. Folding it over my arm and shoving it toward him, I hold out the lapel to give him a closer look. He waves me off, satisfied by the offer.
Quickly heading for the elevators, we paint on fake smiles as if everything’s perfect. The way Dreidel’s eyes are dancing back and forth, he’s in full panic. I don’t blame him. Whoever’s listening knows about what he was doing in that hotel room. But now’s not the time. I glance back at the guard, who’s still watching us, then down at the metal White House, which is presumably still broadcasting.
Just wait, I say to Dreidel with nothing but an open palm aimed in his direction. His eyes dance even faster. As we step into the waiting elevator, he bites at his manicured thumbnail, unable to contain himself. But just as he’s about to whisper a response, Rogo grabs him by the biceps.
“What floor?” Rogo asks, leaning in and motioning upward with his chin. In the corner of the elevator, a security camera stares down at us.
“Second,” I reply as casually as possible.
“Just do me a favor,” Rogo adds. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”
No one says another word until the door pings open on the second floor. I make two quick lefts, following the gray carpet down the main hallway. Along the left wall are the closed glass doors and private offices of the paper’s top editors. We go straight for the cubicles in back.
“This is stupid,” Dreidel whispers as my hand covers the lapel pin. “We should get out of here. Just dump the jacket and abort.”
For once, Rogo agrees. “Take it as a sign, Wes. For all we know, she’s only gonna make it worse.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper.
“Hey,” Lisbeth calls out, popping her head over the cubicle just as we a
pproach. She reads our reactions instantly. “What’s wr—?”
I put a finger to my lips and cut her off. Holding up my jacket, I point to the lapel pin and mouth the word bug. “Thanks again for having us over,” I add as she pantomimes and points to her own ear.
They can hear us? she asks.
I nod and drape the jacket across the back of her chair.
“Sorry about the air-conditioning,” she adds, already one step ahead of us as she grabs a thick file folder from her desk. “If you want, just leave your jackets here . . .” Before we can react, she’s out of the cubicle and darting up the hallway, her red hair bouncing and her arms swaying at her sides. The way the sleeves of her crisp white shirt are rolled up to her elbows, I can see the pale freckles that dot most of her forearm. Trailing behind her, Rogo sees them too, but he doesn’t say a word. He either hates her or loves her. As always with him, it’s hard to tell which.
“I’m Rogo,” he says, extending a hand and racing to catch up to her.
“In here,” she says, ignoring him and pulling open the door to a sunny conference room with three glass walls, each of them with open vertical blinds. Lisbeth circles the room and, one by one, tugs on the pull cords, snapping the blinds shut. She does the same with the blinds on the plate-glass window that looks out over the front parking lot. Within three seconds, sunlight’s replaced by the quiet drone of fluorescents.
“You sure no one can hear us?”
“Editorial board meets here every morning to decide whose lives they’re ripping apart each day. Rumor is, they sweep it for bugs at least once a week.”
Unlike Dreidel or Rogo, or even myself, Lisbeth’s not the least bit thrown or intimidated. We’ve been out of fighting shape since the day we left the White House. She picks public battles every day. And she’s clearly good at it.
“So who gave you the pin?” Lisbeth asks as we take seats around the large oval conference table.
“Claudia,” I stutter, referring to our chief of staff as I accidentally back my chair into the black Formica credenza that runs against the back wall. “It goes to whoever’s late . . .”