The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  In the reflection of the window, Lisbeth tucks a red curl behind her ear. “You got further than halfway, Wes.”

  “Why, because I fetch the President’s Diet Coke and know which of his friends he hates? Rogo said it for years, but I wouldn’t listen. It was supposed to be a stepping-stone. Somehow it became a destination. Can you possibly fathom how pathetic you have to be to let that happen?”

  “Probably as pathetic as settling for a local gossip job, even though the real dream was to challenge the world with risky, investigative news items.”

  For the first time since we’ve taken off, I turn away from the window and stare at Lisbeth. “That’s different,” I tell her.

  “It’s not,” she shoots back. “You saw my office—all those letters on the walls of my cubicle . . .”

  “The ones to your dad.”

  “Not to him. About him. Those letters are proof, Wes. They’re proof that you can use this job to change someone’s life for the better. They’re proof that there’s a power in reporting. And what do I do with that power? I spend every day trying to find twenty inches’ worth of local divorces, country club backstabbing, and all-around nail-biters, like who got stuck at the crappy table at Morton’s? When I took this job, I promised myself it was for a year or two, until I could properly feed my cats. That was seven years ago, Wes,” she says, more serious than ever. “And y’know what the worst part is?”

  “That you gave up your dream?”

  She shakes her head. “That I can leave at any time.”

  As I study her, she scratches at the freckles on her cheek.

  “It’s still different,” I insist, turning back to the window. “My goal is to walk down the street and not be noticeable. You’re at least the same person you always were.”

  She shifts in her seat as the leather crunches below her. “My dad used to say that God puts cracks in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

  “Yeah, well, your dad stole that from an old Leonard Cohen song.”

  “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Through the window, I stare down at the river of grass, its muted green and brown strands braided across the water like a head of wet hair. About a hundred feet down, a small flock of white birds glides through the sky.

  “Those herons?” Lisbeth asks, staring out her own window.

  “Egrets,” I reply. “Beaks are blacker and pointier.”

  Staring downward, I think of my own bird, Lolo, and how much she’d enjoy the view. Then I remind myself that she can’t fly. Not while her wings are clipped.

  For the second time, I turn away from the window and look over my shoulder at Lisbeth. She’s got caramel freckles along her neck. “You really that miserable with your job?” I ask her.

  “Last month, I didn’t go to my ten-year high school reunion because the little bio of me in the program listed me as ‘gossip queen.’ I know it’s so seventh grade, but I just . . . I couldn’t show my face there.”

  “Imagine that,” I tease, turning my head so she gets a good look at my scars.

  “Oh, jeez, Wes, you know I didn’t—”

  “I know,” I tell her, flashing the best full smile I can offer. As always, the right half of my mouth doesn’t move. But for once, as the left half rises toward the roof of the helicopter, it actually seems like enough.

  58

  What about phone records?” O’Shea asked, sitting in the passenger seat as Micah steered through the lunch-hour traffic that clogged I-95.

  “Goose egg,” Paul Kessiminan replied through O’Shea’s phone in a fat Chicago sausage accent. As a student of applied mathematics and a dropout from the U.S. Naval Academy, Paul wasn’t a scholar. As a senior associate in the FBI’s Investigative Technology Division, he was a genius. And rarely wrong. “Kid hasn’t made a cell call since late last night.”

  “Credit cards?”

  “I ran it all—cards, ATM withdrawals, airline reservations, even his Blockbuster card. Whoever he is, this Wes’s no schmuck. Kid’s quieter than a caterpillar.”

  “Then track the phone itself,” O’Shea said into his cell as their Chevy came to a short stop just shy of a black pickup. Tapping the dashboard with his fist, he pointed to the far left shoulder of the road, pantomiming for Micah to keep moving. “He should be pinging off some nearby cell tower as we speak.”

  “Really? I’d totally forgotten how GPS and, indeed, my entire job worked,” Paul said.

  O’Shea didn’t laugh. “Don’t fuck with me on this, Paul.”

  “Hey, hey . . . easy with the mouth. You didn’t say it was that important.”

  “It’s that important. Now is he pinging or not?”

  “He should be,” Paul began as O’Shea heard the clicking of computer keys through the phone. “But if his phone’s issued by Manning’s office—which according to this it is—they cloak all their GPS so our former Presidents can get some privacy.”

  “So you can’t track it?”

  “Of course, we can track it. You really think we let these guys run around without protection? The annoying part is, I’m not getting anything traceable.”

  “Why? He’s got his phone off?”

  “Even if it’s off, GPS should still be transmitting,” Paul explained as Micah cut back into traffic, finding an opening in the center lane. “Which means he’s in the air, underground, or otherwise out of range.”

  “He’s in the air,” O’Shea said to Micah, pointing to the exit ramp for Palm Beach Airport. “Get off here!”

  Without even hesitating, Micah swerved the blue Chevy across two lanes of traffic, ramming toward the exit. Angry car horns faded behind them. “Maybe Wes is using someone else’s phone,” Micah said, his eyes locked on the road. “Ask him to trace Dreidel’s calls.”

  “Paul, do me a favor and run those other three names—the two guys and the girl,” O’Shea said as they curved along the off-ramp. “Call you back in a minute.”

  “What’re you doing?” Micah asked as O’Shea ended the call. “We need that info now.”

  “Which is why I’m getting it,” O’Shea said, his thumb pounding at a brand-new phone number. “If Wes isn’t using credit cards or his own ID, he’s not getting on a plane without some heavyweight help.”

  “It’s a beautiful day in President Manning’s office,” the receptionist said through the phone. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi there, this is Agent O’Shea calling from the FBI. We’re doing some work on the current Nico investigation. Can I speak to the person in charge of the President’s transportation? We need to make sure he’s aware of all the recent precautions we and the Service have put in place.”

  “Of course,” the receptionist replied. “Let me transfer you to Oren.”

  There was a quick click followed by two sharp chirps.

  “This is Oren.”

  “Oren, Agent O’Shea calling from—”

  “Wow, I’m getting popular—two in one day,” Oren interrupted.

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re calling from the Service, right? Just spoke to your buddy—left here a minute ago.”

  “Absolutely,” O’Shea said without even a stutter. “So you already spoke to Agent . . .”

  “Egen . . . Roland Egen? I say that right?”

  “He’s the one,” O’Shea replied, squeezing his phone in his fist. “Pale skin and black hair, right?”

  Micah turned at the description, his jaw almost hitting the steering wheel. “Wait, is he—?”

  O’Shea put up his hand, cutting Micah off. “So you gave him the quick update on Wes?”

  “Of course. Though all I had was his flight to Key West,” Oren explained. “We really appreciate you looking out for him, though. I mean, he’s always been a little more, y’know, jumpy since the accident, but with Nico suddenly on the loose, I could hear it in his voice—he sounded pretty torn apart.”

  “Who could blame him?” O’Shea asked, anxious to get off. “Oren, you’ve been
a lifesaver. Thanks for all the help.”

  As O’Shea shut his phone, Micah could read the look on his partner’s face.

  “Motherf—”

  “Please tell me The Roman was just standing in his office,” Micah demanded.

  “Enough,” O’Shea said. “Either we just hit the lottery or we jumped face-first on an even bigger land mine.”

  Nodding in agreement, Micah punched the gas and pointed with his eyebrows at a billboard offering daily charter flights to Key West. O’Shea was already dialing.

  “Hi, I’d like to rent one of your seaplanes,” he said into the phone. “Think you can have it ready in the next five minutes?”

  59

  You sure he didn’t call?” Dreidel asked from the passenger seat as the car idled in the stranglehold of traffic that regularly gripped Miami’s US-1. “Do me a favor and just check your phone.”

  Tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel, Rogo didn’t bother checking his phone. “He didn’t call.”

  “But if something happened . . . if he didn’t get to Key West—”

  “Wes is smart—he knows they’ll trace it if we call. If there was a problem, we’d know.”

  “Unless there was a problem and we didn’t know,” Dreidel insisted. “Dammit, why didn’t we get his info: the name of the helicopter guy . . . where they’re flying from . . . we don’t even have the address he’s at in Key—” Before Dreidel could finish, his own phone vibrated in his pocket. Ripping it out, he anxiously flipped the phone open, checking caller ID. Rogo glanced across the seat just in time to see the 202 prefix. Washington, D.C.

  “Hello?” Dreidel answered. His jaw quickly slid off-center. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something. Can we talk about it later? . . . Yeah, I will . . . I will . . . Bye.” Turning to Rogo as he closed the phone, Dreidel added, “My wife.”

  “With a Washington phone number?” Rogo asked, his thumbs no longer tapping. “I thought you lived in Chicago.”

  “My old cell. We kept the number from D.C.,” Dreidel explained.

  Speeding up, then slowing back to a full halt, the car stood motionless in traffic. Rogo didn’t say a word.

  “What, you think I’m lying?” Dreidel blurted.

  “I didn’t say anything. Enough with the witch trials.”

  Shifting in his seat, Dreidel looked over his own shoulder and checked the lane next to them. “You’re clear on the right.”

  Clenching the steering wheel, Rogo didn’t make a move.

  “Rogo, you hear what I—?”

  “Traffic’s bad enough. Don’t tell me how to drive.”

  In the middle lane, the car inched past the cause of the slowdown: a tow truck with yellow sirens loading up a tan Cadillac on the left side of the road.

  “I’m not an imbecile, Rogo. I know what you think of me.”

  “Dreidel . . .”

  “I see it in your face . . . and how, when we split up, how quick you were to keep me from going with Wes. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Instead, let me paint this picture as best I can: I’d never do anything to hurt him. Never.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Rogo said.

  “I’m not saying I’m the best husband, okay? But I’m still a damn good friend. Don’t forget, I’m the one who got Wes the job in the first place.”

  “That fact hasn’t been lost on me.”

  “Oh, so now that’s my fault too?” Dreidel asked. “This was my master plot to somehow put him in my old job so a once-in-a-lifetime ricochet could hit him in the face?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Then be clear for once instead of your lovable facade that treats Wes like some fragile, overprotected china doll. I know why you do it, Rogo—I know plenty of underachievers who love to be needed.”

  “Just like I know plenty of overachievers who love abandoning people the instant they don’t need those people anymore. Enough rewriting history. I was there with him the week they took the bandages off . . . and when that Times reporter used the front page to describe his face as ruined . . . and when Wes finally decided to look at himself only to say he wished he was the dead one instead of Boyle. But that’s the thing, Dreidel—for eight years, Wes has been the dead one. You and the rest of your White House crew may have gone on to your own TV shows and newspaper columns, but Wes was the one who never got to move on to his new life. Now that that chance is here, I’m not letting anyone rip it away from him.”

  “That’s a wonderful speech, Rogo, but do me a favor: If you don’t trust me, have the balls to say it and just let me out right here.”

  “If I didn’t trust you, Dreidel, I would’ve left you in Palm Beach.”

  “That’s not even true,” Dreidel challenged. “You brought me here because you wanted to see Boyle’s files, and you know I’m the only one who can get you in.”

  With a flick of his blinker, Rogo turned into the far right lane. Looking over at the passenger seat, he was silent.

  Dreidel nodded to himself, biting at the skin on the inside of his bottom lip. “Fuck you too, Rogo.”

  Tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, Rogo made a sharp right on Stanford Drive and headed toward a guard gate and lawn that served as the main entrance to the campus. On their right, a forest-green and gold metal sign bolted into a concrete wall read:

  WELCOME TO THE UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI

  HOME OF THE LELAND F. MANNING PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY

  Neither said another word to each other until they were inside.

  60

  Jacksonville, Florida

  N ico, maybe we should stop.

  “There’s no need.”

  But if you don’t rest—

  “I’ve been resting for eight years, Edmund. This is the calling,” Nico said, sitting so far forward in the driver’s seat, his chest nuzzled the steering wheel of the giant flatbed. Just behind him in his seat was the balled-up army jacket he’d stolen from the Irish Pub. With Florida’s noon sun burning overhead, winter seemed long gone. He didn’t need the jacket. Or Edmund’s blood, which soaked the front of it.

  You’re telling me you’re not tired?

  Nico glanced over at Edmund’s lifeless body drooping in the seat next to him. His friend knew him all too well.

  You’ve been driving nearly ten hours, Nico. It’s okay to take a break—in fact, it’s necessary, son. Especially if we plan on staying out of sight.

  Nico knew what he was getting at. “So you still think—?”

  Nico, I don’t care how cautious a driver you are—you take a forty-ton flatbed through the dainty streets of downtown Palm Beach, someone’s gonna bat an eye.

  Staring at the wooden rosary beads swaying from the rearview, Nico knew Edmund was right. They’d been lucky so far, but if a cop pulled them over . . . if they were taken into custody . . . No, after all this, the cause was too great. And when they were this close . . . to Wes . . . to Boyle . . . to completing God’s will and delivering the redemption for his mother . . . No, this was no time for risk.

  “Tell me what you think is best,” he said, looking to Edmund.

  Hard as it is to say, we need to dump the truck and get something that’s a bit less noticeable in traffic.

  “That’s fine, but how do we do that?”

  How do we do anything, Nico? As the truck hit a divot in the road, Edmund’s head jerked up and back, crashing into the headrest and revealing the bubbling black and red gash across his neck. You look outside your window and search for the opportunity.

  Following Edmund’s gaze through the front windshield, Nico searched the blacktop of highway, eventually spotting what his friend was staring at in the distance. The moment he saw it, a broad smile lifted his cheeks.

  “You think we should—?”

  Of course, we should, Nico. Heed the Book. Why else would God put them there?

  Nodding to himself, Nico hit the brakes, and the truck rumbled and shuddered, eventually screeching to a stop right behind a maroon Pont
iac on the shoulder of the highway. On the passenger side of the car, a woman with cropped black hair watched as her tank-topped boyfriend fought to change the flat tire on their car.

  “You guys need some help?” Nico asked as he hopped out of the cab.

  “You from Triple A?” the woman asked.

  “No. It just looked like you needed an assist, so we thought we’d pitch in.”

  “I actually think I’m done,” the boyfriend said, tightening the last lug nut.

  “Wow, a real Good Samaritan,” the woman teased.

  “Funny,” Nico replied, stepping into the woman’s personal space. “Though I much prefer the term guardian angel.”

  The woman stepped back. But not nearly fast enough.

  61

  Key West, Florida

  Here you go,” the cabdriver says as his bright pink Key West cab jerks to a stop. He’s got thick white sunblock caked all over his nose, and a ratty Shrek beach blanket with the words Can I Get a Whoop Whoop draped over the back of his seat. “Three twenty-seven William Street.”

  “You kidding? We barely went three blocks,” Lisbeth barks from our seats in the back. “Why didn’t you just tell us we could walk?”

  “You got in the cab,” the driver says, not the least bit riled as he turns up the dial on the Paul & Young Ron radio show. Standard Key West—everything’s sunny. “That’ll be two bucks,” he adds, poking a button on the meter.

  “I shouldn’t pay you a single—”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I interrupt, tossing three bucks into the front seat. When our helicopter touched down on another private yacht in Key West’s Historic Seaport, we decided that the rest of the trip should be low-key and untraceable. The driver studies my face in his rearview mirror, and I realize we’re already well off course. Fortunately, we’ve still got a few tricks left.