by Brad Meltzer
On the right-hand side of the hall, The Roman breezed past nearly a dozen glass frames filled with ribboned Medals of Honor from every major country. Poland’s Great Cross of the Order, Qatar’s Collar of Independence, even the U.K.’s Order of the Bath. The Roman didn’t even glance at them, already focused on the open door on his left.
Across the hallway, he peeked into the office with the Chief of Staff nameplate attached to it. The lights were off, the desk empty. Claudia was already at lunch. Good. The fewer people around, the better.
Cutting left, he stepped into the well-lit office that smelled like fresh popcorn and stale vanilla mint candle. From his angle looking down at her desk, he had a perfect view of the tight red V-neck sweater that fought against her decade-old breast implants.
Before she could even react, The Roman gripped the spine of the door, slowly closing it behind himself.
“Nice to see you, Bev,” he said as it slapped shut. “Florida looks good on you.”
51
Right here,” Rogo says, pointing to the column of scribbles on the right side of the puzzle. “In the work space . . .”
I recheck the vertical column of doodles and seemingly random letters:
“AMB? JABR? FRF?” Dreidel asks. “Those aren’t any initials I know.”
“Don’t go left to right. Go up and down . . .” With his pen, Rogo makes a circle from top to bottom.
“M, A, R, J, M, K, L, B,” Rogo says, starting me off. “Fill it in: Manning, Albright, Rosenman . . .”
“Jeffer,” I add.
“Who’s Jeffer?” Lisbeth interrupts.
“Me,” Dreidel says.
“Moss, Kutz, Lemonick,” I add, hitting the rest. “And B . . .”
“For Boyle,” Rogo says proudly. “Eight people, all with major Oval Office access.”
Lisbeth nods, still studying the crossword. “But why would the President keep a list with his top staffers’ names on it?”
We all look to Dreidel. “I’ve never seen it in my life,” he says with a laugh. But from the shake in his voice, it’s the one time he’s not thrilled to be included on an exclusive list.
Already impatient, Rogo hops from his seat, walking toward the head of the table. “Manning wrote down eight people’s names, then camouflaged it with doodles so no one would notice they were there. Not to play Nancy Drew, but what do they all have in common?”
Lisbeth slides the crossword back to the middle of the conference table. I look down at the list of names. Lemonick was White House counsel, Rosenman was press secretary, Carl Moss was national security adviser. Combined with Manning, Albright, and Boyle, they were the biggest names we had—the knights of our own round table. “It’s clearly a power list.”
“Except for Dreidel,” Rogo points out. “No offense,” he adds, turning Dreidel’s way.
“Were you all working on something at that time?” Lisbeth asks. “When was it again, February during the first year?”
“We weren’t even there a month,” Dreidel points out. But as he sees the seniority of the people on the list, I can already hear the change in his voice. “Maybe it’s who he wanted at the morning sessions—for the PDB.” Reading the confusion of Lisbeth’s and Rogo’s faces, he explains, “Every morning at six a.m., an armed courier comes from CIA headquarters to the White House with a legal briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Inside is the President’s Daily Brief—the summary report of the most highly classified news that’s happening around the world. Troop movements in North Korea . . . spy networks in Albania . . . whatever the President needs to know, he gets at his first meeting of the day, along with a few select others.”
“Yeah, but everyone knew who was invited to those meetings,” I point out.
“They knew eventually,” Dreidel says. “But during those first weeks, you think Rosenman and Lemonick didn’t try to elbow their way inside?”
“I don’t know,” Lisbeth says, staring at the list with a small crease between her eyebrows. “If you’re just cutting names, why be so secretive?”
“People’re only secretive when there’s a reason,” Dreidel says. “And it seems pretty clear they didn’t want anyone else seeing what they were writing.”
“Okay, fine—so what’re the things you could write about your top dozen or so staffers that you wouldn’t want anyone else to see?” Lisbeth asks. “You don’t like the person . . . you don’t want them there . . . you’re afraid of them . . .”
“There you go—blackmail’s juicy,” Rogo says. “Maybe one of them had a secret . . .”
“Or knew a secret,” Dreidel says.
“You mean about the President?” I ask.
“About anyone,” Lisbeth agrees.
“I don’t know,” I say. “The level of people you’re talking about . . . that’s the group you’re not supposed to worry about keeping their mouths shut.”
“Unless one of them gets you worried that they can’t keep their mouth shut,” Dreidel blurts.
“You mean like a trust list?” Lisbeth asks.
“I guess . . . sure,” Dreidel replies. “That’s what I’d want to know if I had a new staff.” For the first time, he’s stopped biting his manicured hand.
“I’m not sure I follow,” I say.
“Think about what was actually going on those first few weeks we were in the White House. That bus bomb in France and all the internal arguing over whether Manning’s response took it seriously enough. Then we had all those slap-fights about redecorating the Oval . . .”
“Those I remember,” Lisbeth says. “There was that piece in Newsweek about the red-striped carpet . . . what’d they say the First Lady called it again?”
“Fruit-stripe gum,” Dreidel says dryly. “The bombing and the bad carpet—those were nonsense stories about internal arguments. Uh-oh, captain can’t steer his new ship . . . But the only reason those things got out was because some loudmouthed staffer decided to take it out.”
Lisbeth nods, knowing this one all too well. “So what Manning was really worried about back then . . .”
“. . . was finding out who was leaking all our internal baggage,” Dreidel says. “When you have that many new staffers flushed with that much new power, there’s always someone who wants to rush off and brag to their friends. Or the press. Or their friends who happen to be press. And until you can plug the leaks, those stories take away from your entire agenda.”
“Okay,” I say. “Which means when this list was made, Manning was hunting for staffers who were leaking to the press?”
“Not just staffers,” Dreidel adds. “Those stories were from conversations happening at senior staff levels. That’s why Manning was so nuts back then. It’s one thing when some intern leaks that the President’s wearing unmatched socks. It’s another to open up the Washington Post and read a verbatim blow-by-blow on the front page from a meeting with your five most trustworthy lieutenants.”
“If that’s the case, then why include himself on the list?” Rogo asks as we all glance back at the crossword.
“Maybe it’s a list of who was at a particular meeting—Manning, Albright, Boyle, etc.—then they were just trying to narrow who let a particular piece of info out,” I say.
“That would explain why I’m there,” Dreidel adds. “Though maybe it wasn’t just leaking to the press.”
“Who else is there?” Lisbeth asks.
“Think back to what you said about The Roman and the six-million-dollar prize they wouldn’t approve. Those top informant payments are in the PDB too.”
I nod, remembering the old meetings. “It’s not a bad call. Whoever was leaking the info could’ve leaked it to The Roman, telling him who was responsible for denying his payout.”
“And you think that’s why Boyle got shot?” Lisbeth asks. “Because Boyle was the one who said no to The Roman’s payday?”
“I’d believe that,” Rogo says. “Six million bucks is a lot of money.”
“No question,” Dreidel says. �
�But it seems pretty clear that if you want to know who on the list couldn’t be trusted, it’s the guy who, until recently, we thought was dead. Y’know, the one the FBI is chasing . . . rhymes with Doyle . . .”
“That’s why I had the Presidential Library pull Boyle’s files,” I say. “They’ve got everything: his schedules, what issues he was working on, even his official personnel file with his FBI background check. We’ll have every single sheet of paper that was ever in Boyle’s desk, or written about him.”
“That’s fine—so two of us can go to the library,” Lisbeth says. “But it still doesn’t tell us why a secret list Manning made during the first year of the administration has anything to do with Boyle being shot three years later.”
“Maybe Boyle was mad at the President for not trusting him,” Rogo says.
“No,” Dreidel says. “According to Wes’s FBI guys, whatever Boyle and Manning were up to, they were in it together.”
“Which has to be true,” I point out. “The ambulance . . . having the blood type ready . . . how else could Boyle possibly pull that off without help from Manning and the Service?”
“So what’re you saying? That they didn’t trust someone else on the list?” Lisbeth asks, her eyes already on Dreidel.
I shake my head. “All I’m saying is President Manning and Albright spent one of their very first days in office building a hidden list with the names of eight people that shared daily access to some of the best-kept secrets in the entire world. More important, by keeping that list on a crossword puzzle, they figured out a way to create the impossible: a presidential document—potentially containing Manning’s innermost thoughts—that wouldn’t be inspected, cataloged, studied, or seen by anyone else around him.”
“Unless, of course, you absentmindedly jot a few notes to yourself on the back,” Rogo says.
“The point is, the list still needs narrowing,” I say. “And as far as I can tell, besides the President, the only people on here who were at the speedway that day were Boyle and Albright—and Albright’s dead.”
“You sure those were the only two?” Lisbeth asks.
“Whattya mean?”
“Have you ever looked at any of the archival footage from that day? Maybe take a peek to see if everything you think you remember matches up with reality?”
I shake my head. A week after the shooting, when I was still in the hospital, I caught a clip of the footage while flipping through channels. It took three nurses to calm me down that night. “I haven’t seen the footage for a bit,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I figured this isn’t exactly your favorite home movie. But if you really want to know what happened, you have to start at the scene of the crime.” Before I can react, she reaches into her file folder and pulls out a black videocassette. “Lucky for you, I’ve got connections at the local TV stations.”
As she pops out of her seat and heads for the black Formica credenza with the VCR/TV combo, my throat tightens and my hands flood with sweat.
I can already tell this is a bad idea.
52
What about Claudia?” The Roman asked calmly, strolling over to Bev’s window and staring down at the agents, sheriff, and ambulance crew crowded into the rotary at the front of the building.
“You told me not to—that it was an internal investigation,” Bev said as she watched The Roman from her desk and anxiously picked at an open bag of microwave popcorn.
“And Oren?”
“I just told you—”
“Tell me again!” The Roman insisted, turning from the window, his pale skin and black hair practically glowing in the noon sunlight.
Bev stayed silent, her hand frozen in the popcorn.
The Roman knew he’d scared her, but he wasn’t about to apologize. Not until he had what he wanted.
“You said not to tell anyone—I didn’t tell anyone,” Bev finally offered. “Not B.B., not the President . . . no one.” Fidgeting with the tips of her dyed-black hair, she added, “Though I still don’t get how any of this helps Wes.”
The Roman turned back to the window, taking a moment to choose his words. Bev had known Wes since his first days in the White House. Like any protective parent, she wasn’t turning on her kid unless it was for his own good. “What helps Wes is finding out just who he ran into that night in Malaysia,” The Roman explained. “If what he said in the report is right—that it was just some drunk looking for the bathroom—then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But to have me put a microphone in his pin . . . to hide it from everyone on staff . . . Why can’t you just tell me who you think approached him?”
“Bev, I told you from the start, this is part of a long-term inquiry that we believe—and hope—Wes accidentally stumbled onto. Trust me, we want to protect him as much as you do, which is why—”
“Does it have to do with Nico? Is that why he escaped?”
“This has nothing to do with Nico,” The Roman insisted.
“I just thought . . . with your hand . . .” she said, motioning to the white gauze wrapped around his palm.
The Roman knew that was the risk coming to the office. But with the wiretap silent, and Boyle still unaccounted for . . . some things had to be done face-to-face.
Sitting on the edge of Bev’s desk, The Roman cupped her hand between his palms. “Bev, I know you don’t know me. And I know it’s odd to suddenly get a call from an agent about an investigation you know nothing about, but I swear to you, this has nothing to do with Nico. Understand? Nothing. Everything I’ve asked of you . . . it’s only in the interests of national security and for Wes’s benefit,” he added, his pale blue eyes locked on hers. “Now I appreciate how you look out for him . . . we all know the pity you took . . .”
“It’s not pity. He’s a sweet kid . . .”
“. . . who should’ve left this job years ago, but didn’t because he’s terrified of stepping out of the thoughtful but crippling security blanket you’ve all tucked him into. Think about it, Bev. If you really care that much about him, this is the moment he needs you. So, is there anyone else out there we might’ve overlooked? Old White House contacts? Current in-house contacts? Anyone you can think of that he might turn to if he’s in trouble?”
Rolling backward on the wheels of her desk chair, Bev was silent at the onslaught of questions. For a moment, her eyes stayed with The Roman’s pale blues. But the more he pushed, the more she glanced around. At her keyboard. At her leather blotter. Even at the blurry 5 x 9 perched under her computer monitor, from her office birthday party a few years back. In the photo, the entire staff was in mid-laugh as the President blew out the candles on Bev’s birthday cake. It was the kind of photo that never existed in the White House, but decorated nearly every office here: slightly off-center, slightly funny, and slightly out of focus. Not a professional photo taken by a White House photographer. A family photo—taken by one of their own.
“Sorry,” Bev said, pulling her hand away and glancing down at The Roman’s gauze pad. “There’s no one else I can think of.”
53
“—ies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!” the announcer bellows through the P.A. system as the tape begins to roll, and the shiny black Cadillac One lumbers out onto the racetrack.
From the wide angle—showing half the motorcade in profile—I’m guessing it’s from a camera up in the stadium’s press box.
“There’s the ambulance with Boyle’s blood,” Dreidel points out, running around the conference table so he can get closer to the TV. He stops right next to Lisbeth, who’s just to the left of the screen. On my far right, Rogo’s back at the head of the oval table. But instead of moving toward the screen, he circles back. Toward me.
He doesn’t have to say a word. He juts his chin slightly to the left and lowers his eyebrows. You okay?
Tightening my jaw, I nod confidently. Rogo’s been my friend since before I could drive. He knows the truth.
“Lisbeth,” he calls out. “May
be we should . . .”
“Leave it—I’m fine,” I insist.
As the limo leaves the final turn and heads toward the finish line, the camera pulls out to reveal the entire motorcade, which is now headed straight at us. I used to call it a funeral procession. I had no idea.
On-screen, the camera slowly pulls in on Cadillac One. I swear, I can smell the leather seats of the car, the oily whiff of Manning’s daily shoeshine, and the sweet tinge of gasoline from pit road.
“Okay, here we go,” Lisbeth says.
The video jump-cuts to a brand-new camera angle from the infield of the track—we’re now at eye level. On the passenger side, the Secret Service detail leader gets out of the limo and races to open the back door. Two other agents swoop into place, blocking any clear shot from the crowd. My feet ball up as my toes try to dig through the soles of my shoes. I know what’s coming. But just as the door opens, the picture freezes and pauses.
“Slow motion?” Dreidel asks.
“It’s the only way to get a good look at who’s in the background,” Lisbeth explains, gripping the edge of the top left corner of the TV. Dreidel crosses over and does the same on the right corner. Both lean in. They don’t want to miss a thing.
On the other side of the conference table, I twist in my seat. In slow motion, two more Secret Service agents slowly creep into the background near the open door that faces the crowd.
“And these are all guys you know?” Lisbeth asks, making a big circle around the five suit-and-tie agents on-screen.
“Geoff, Judd, Greg, Allan, and . . .” Dreidel pauses on the last one.
“Eddie,” I call out, never taking my eyes off the screen.
“It’ll be done in a sec,” Dreidel promises as if that’s supposed to make me feel better. He turns back toward the TV just in time to see five fingertips peek out like tiny pink worms above the roofline of the limo. My toes dig even deeper, practically burrowing through my shoes. I close my eyes for a second and swear I can smell popcorn and stale beer.