The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  “There,” O’Shea said, marching diagonally across the street and heading straight for the peach cottage with the white shutters and gingerbread trim.

  “Where?” Micah asked, still searching for himself.

  “The car.”

  A few steps behind O’Shea, Micah studied the old red Mustang parked in the driveway at 324 William Street. Florida license plate. Registration stickers up to date. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the ratty, weather-worn Washington Redskins bumper sticker on the back left bumper.

  “Go Skins,” Micah whispered, barely able to contain his grin. Picking up speed, he followed his partner up the steps to the front door with the hand-painted wooden crab sign hanging on it.

  “One sec,” Micah added as he reached into his suit jacket and flicked off the safety on his gun. Signaling to O’Shea with a nod, he took a half-step back, just in case they’d have to knock down the door.

  With a jab of his finger, O’Shea rang the doorbell and checked on his own gun. “Coming,” a voice called from inside.

  Micah checked the street behind them. No one in sight.

  The doorknob twisted with a creak, and the door flew open.

  “Hey there,” O’Shea announced, purposely not pulling his FBI badge. “We’re friends of Wes Holloway and just wanted to check in and make sure he’s okay.”

  “Oh, he’s great,” Kenny said, purposely blocking the doorway, even though the only thing to see was his empty kitchen and living room. “But I’m sorry to say he’s long gone.”

  Craning his neck to look over Kenny’s shoulder, Micah ignored the kitchen and living room and instead focused on the far back wall of the house, where a painted screen door led out to the backyard.

  “Yeah, we thought that might be the case,” O’Shea said. “But even so, you mind if we come inside and just ask a few questions?”

  66

  So you’ve been down to the stacks before?” Kara asked as the elevator doors slid open, revealing a concrete hallway with narrow windows on either side and all the charm of a prison.

  “Absolutely,” Rogo replied, keeping his voice peppy and his head down as they passed the first of two security cameras attached to the wall. Two steps in front of him, next to Kara, Dreidel fidgeted with his tie and did the same.

  When a President builds his library, it’s his chance to rewrite history. In LBJ’s library, there’s an exhaustive exhibit on why the U.S. had to go to Vietnam. In Manning’s, the only mention of the Cowardly Lion was down in the stacks.

  “We really appreciate you pulling everything so fast,” Dreidel said.

  “That’s our job,” Kara replied as they approached a steel-reinforced door that was nearly as thick as a bank vault. “I just hope you guys aren’t claustrophobic . . .”

  “No—in fact, we hate the sunlight,” Rogo said. “Darn vitamin D pisses me off!”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Kara offered another panting laugh. This time, Dreidel didn’t join in. “Just point us to the files and we’ll be gone before you know it,” he said.

  Kara punched in a five-digit code just above the doorknob. “You asked for it,” she said as the thick metal door swung open, and the sweet smell of an old bookstore wafted through the air. In front of them, in a room as big as a basketball court, was row after row of gray metal storage shelves. But instead of being filled with books, they were stacked with thousands of square and rectangular acid-free storage boxes. On their far right, well past the shelves, a metal cage ran from floor to ceiling, separating them from another set of about ten metal shelves: secure storage for national security files. Just in front of the cage, a lanky Hispanic man with reading glasses sat in front of one of two computer terminals.

  “If you have any problems, ask Freddy,” Kara explained, motioning to one of the library’s four research room attendants.

  Freddy waved to Rogo and Dreidel. Rogo and Dreidel waved back. But the way Kara eyed Freddy, and Freddy eyed Dreidel . . . Even Rogo took the hint. Kara may’ve been nice enough to let them in the stacks, but there’s no way she was dumb enough to leave them unsupervised in the heart of the archives.

  “So our stuff . . .” Dreidel asked.

  “. . . is right here,” Kara said, pointing to the end of one of the metal stacks, where a small worktable was buried under at least forty boxes. “These small ones have already been processed through FOIA,” she explained, waving her open palm at the dozen or so narrow, vertical boxes that looked like they each held a phone book. “And these FRCs . . . these’re the ones from closed storage,” she added, pointing to the thirty or so square boxes that were each about the size of a milk crate.

  “And this is everything Boyle had?” Rogo asked.

  “If you went back in time and pulled open his desk drawers in the White House, here’s what you would’ve found—his files, his memos, his printed-out e-mails—plus you asked for his personnel file and those 12,000 pages that were requested by your other researcher . . .”

  “Carl Stewart,” Rogo said, remembering Wes’s instructions as Kara handed him the list of every file Boyle requested under his fake name.

  “You already have the crossword, right?” Kara asked.

  “Right here,” Rogo said, patting the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “Kara, we can’t thank you enough,” Dreidel added, anxious to send her on her way.

  Taking the cue, Kara headed for the door. Never forgetting her role as protector of the archives, though, she called out, “Freddy, thanks for supervising.”

  As Kara turned the corner and disappeared, Dreidel shot a smile at the attendant, then quickly turned back to Rogo. “How ’bout you take Boyle’s desk drawers, and I’ll start hunting through the list of his requests.”

  “I got a better idea,” Rogo challenged. “You take the drawers, and I’ll go through the requests.”

  For a moment, Dreidel was silent. “Fine,” he said, flipping open the nearest box. Behind him, Rogo did the same.

  As Rogo pulled out the first file, he licked his fingers and turned to the first page. “Okay, Boyle, you sneaky son of a bitch—time to see what you were searching for.”

  67

  Melbourne, Florida

  No, not her,” Nico said, glancing out the front windshield of his maroon Pontiac Grand Prix as a petite Peruvian woman sipped her coffee and headed toward her own car.

  Why? What’s wrong with her?

  Nico looked shaken. “She looks like my nurse. Pick someone else.”

  What about him?

  Nico didn’t even turn toward Edmund’s selection. From their corner spot in the Waffle House parking lot, he was still watching the woman who looked so amazingly like his night nurse. It’d been nearly a full day since he thought about the hospital. The doctors were wrong. So were the lawyers. All wrong. Out on his own—even without his meds—he felt just fine. Better even. More clear. Crackling crystal clear.

  Nico, focus. What about him?

  Following Edmund’s glance, Nico studied the bearded man with teeny eyes and obvious hair plugs.

  “I can’t. No. I can’t. He was in my dream last night.”

  Fine, then her—the mom with the two boys . . .

  “The short child has to pee—look how he grabs himself. She won’t stop. I think the older boy wants M&M’s. You can read his lips. M . . . and . . . M’s . . .”

  Nico, don’t get loopy on me.

  Sitting up straight, he pushed Edmund’s imagined hand from his shoulder. “I’m not—I’m good. I just need to—” Cutting himself off, he locked on a plump, middle-aged waitress with beautiful brown eyes coming out of the restaurant for a cigarette break. On the strap of her purse was an Ask Me About Avon button.

  “There. Her. She knows rejection,” Nico announced, diving for the door handle and leaping out of the Pontiac. “Hurry!” he called to Edmund as he crossed the parking lot and approached the waitress.

  “Can I borrow your phone?” Nico asked, slowing down just as he reached
the woman. “It’s an emergency. My—I have to call my mother.”

  Seeing Nico’s handsome squint, the waitress didn’t even hesitate. “Of course,” she replied, her chubby hand lowering like a skill-crane into her fake-leather purse.

  Tell her you won’t be long.

  “I won’t be long,” Nico said.

  “Take as much time as you want, hon—I get a thousand minutes every month, God praise my divorce lawyer.”

  Flipping the phone open, Nico turned his back to the waitress and dialed a simple three-digit number. There was a chime on the other line.

  “Welcome to local 411. What city and state?” a female operator asked.

  “Wes Holloway,” Nico said as he lowered his voice.

  “City and state,” the operator repeated, clearly annoyed.

  “Palm Beach. Florida.”

  There was a short pause. “Sir? I’ve got a Wes Holloway in West Palm Beach. Please hold for the—”

  “Not the number,” Nico said. “The address.”

  Once again, there was a short pause. “Eight three eight five Okeechobee Boulevard, apartment 527. And you sure you don’t want the phone number—y’know, just in case?”

  “No number,” Nico said, giving a quick thumbs-up to Edmund. “No, no. No. This is a surprise.”

  68

  What, now you don’t believe me?” Lisbeth calls out.

  “Just c’mon . . . let’s go,” I say, cutting between two tourists and running past the ice cream store on our way to the docks. She wasn’t happy when I asked her how she knew what Micah looked like, but it’s tough to argue with her answer.

  “Wes, when we were at the newspaper, they drove right past me in the garage,” she insists. “I was hiding right by the entrance—your idea, remember?—waiting for them to leave so I could pick you up. Any of this sounding familiar?”

  If I were Rogo, I’d ask her how she knew which was Micah and which was O’Shea.

  “I believe you,” I tell her as I leap down two short steps and my feet slap against the wood of the docks. Over the past two days, I could’ve easily described Micah and O’Shea. More important, with everything we’ve been through, everything she’s seen . . . After eight years of dealing with political schemers, I’m fluent in bullshit. Far as I can tell, Lisbeth doesn’t speak a word of it.

  “Wes, if I wanted to burn you—”

  “I know—I just had to ask, okay?”

  “But if you—”

  “Lisbeth, I swear—we’re fine,” I call out, weaving through the maze of docks, back toward the yacht that holds our helicopter. “I swear to you. If we weren’t, you wouldn’t be holding the picture.”

  As she runs behind me, the photo we swiped from Kenny flaps in the wind. It’s the only proof we have that Micah was there that day—and the main reason we darted out Kenny’s back door. For the past two days, O’Shea and Micah have played relatively nice in the vain hope that I’d help them get Boyle and Manning. But if they find out we know the truth . . . that one of them is actually CIA . . . that he was there at the racetrack and potentially part of The Three . . . I glance over my shoulder at Lisbeth, who’s glancing over her shoulder at the mostly empty docks. Whoever they were shooting at that day, Micah and O’Shea weren’t afraid to send bullets at the most powerful men in the world. I don’t even want to think how fast they’d make us disappear.

  “You think they’re close?” Lisbeth asks, her voice shaking.

  Right now it’s the only question that matters. To answer it, I slam the brakes, stopping short right in front of a small wooden hut no bigger than a phone booth. “Keep going,” I say to Lisbeth, waving her along. “Tell Tommaso to get our ride ready. We need to leave now!”

  She slows down, already worried I’m ditching her. “Then why’re you—?”

  “Just looking for our friends,” I insist, shooting her a look as a man in a blue button-down and a wide-brimmed straw hat steps out of the hut. As dockmaster, he assigns all the boats to their different slips. Which means he sees every person coming and going. Lisbeth takes the hint and keeps running.

  “Signing in or heading out?” the man asks, angling his hat back to reveal a mess of muddy tobacco chew in his mouth.

  “Actually, was wondering if you happened to see some buddies of mine—probably just came in on a seaplane or helicopter from Palm Beach.”

  “Sorry, we don’t log departure cities,” he says quickly.

  “What about in the last hour? Anybody new fly in?”

  “Naw, we been pretty quiet all morning.”

  “You’re sure?”

  The dockmaster studies me, checking out my shirt, my slacks, even my shoes. He grins slightly and two dimples dot his cheeks.

  “Positive, Dapper Dan. Nobody’s flown in ’cept the billionaires in back,” he says, motioning to our black and cream helicopter at the far end of the docks.

  Nodding a thank-you, I dart back toward the yacht and breathe the smallest sigh of relief. At least for now, no one knows we’re here—and as long as we have that . . . as long as they don’t know what we found . . . we’ve finally got the advantage.

  “Tommaso, you ready?” I call out to the back deck of the yacht.

  “Waiting for you, sir,” he calls back with a thumbs-up sign.

  “Where’s Lisbeth?”

  He points to the glass cabin right next to him. Lisbeth’s inside with her back to the glass. I don’t blame her. Better to be out of sight than be spotted.

  Scrambling up the metal steps two at a time, I leap for the door on the main deck and shove it open. “Good news,” I say. “I think we’re sa—”

  Lisbeth spins around, her hands fighting to stuff what looks like a small cell phone into her purse.

  “This for you or for him?” Kenny’s voice echoes from the device.

  “Me. I swear—” my own voice says. She hits a button and the playback stops with the loud pop of a . . . tape recorder.

  My mouth gapes open, and my chest caves in.

  Lisbeth looks at me, her wide eyes already shoveling up the apology.

  “Wes, before you say anything,” she pleads, stuffing the recorder into her bag.

  “You were recording us?”

  “It’s not how y—”

  “How long were you doing it?”

  “It’s not for attribution—just to keep my notes strai—”

  “That’s not the question.”

  “Listen, Wes—you . . . you knew I’d be writing the story. That was our deal.”

  “How long?”

  “You told me it was our deal.”

  “Dammit, Lisbeth! How fucking long?”

  She watches me carefully, then turns away to avoid the conflict. With her back to me, she stares out at the drumming waves of the Gulf of Mexico. “Since you walked in this morning,” she eventually whispers.

  “Including the helicopter ride here?”

  She freezes, finally realizing what I’m getting at. Every reporter has a line they promise themselves they’ll never cross. From the look on her face as she turns back to me, Lisbeth just skipped, hurdled, and jumped over it. “I never would’ve used that stuff, Wes.”

  My legs buckle, barely able to hold my weight.

  “You know that’s true, right?” she asks, reaching out for my shoulder.

  As I pull away, an adrenaline surge crackles under my skin. I grit my teeth so tightly, I swear I have feeling in my lip again instead of just phantom pain. “Gimme the recorder,” I growl.

  She doesn’t move.

  “Gimme the damn recorder!”

  Fumbling as she pulls it from her purse, she offers a look that says, You don’t have to do this. But I’m done believing. I snatch the recorder from her hand and stride back to the deck.

  “Wes, I know you don’t believe this, but I never meant to hur—”

  “Don’t say it!” I snap, whipping back to face her and jamming a finger at her face. “You knew what you were doing! You knew it!”


  Shoving my way outside and plowing toward the stern of the yacht, I cross over to the far railing, chuck the tape recorder into the water, and pivot back toward the helicopter.

  “Everything okay?” Tommaso asks as he holds the helicopter door open and ushers us inside.

  “Perfect,” I snap. “Just get us the hell out of here.”

  69

  Sitting cross-legged on the linoleum floor and surrounded by piles of stacked-up acid-free archival boxes, Rogo flipped through his fourth file folder in the past fifteen minutes. “What’s I&W?”

  “I&W for what?” Dreidel asked, hunched forward on a wooden chair and reading through one of Boyle’s files.

  “Doesn’t say. Just I&W with lots of dates next to—wait, here’s one: I&W for Berlin.”

  “Indicators and Warnings. Or as General Bakos used to put it: all the trash talk and warning signs that our intelligence picks up about specific threats,” Dreidel explained. “Why? Is that what—?” He looked over at the attendant and kept his voice to a whisper. “Is that what Boyle was requesting? All the different I&Ws?”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Not bad—just—indicators and warnings are the kinds of things you usually find in the PDB.”

  “President’s Daily Brief. That’s the report you were talking about before, with the CIA guy and the handcuffed briefcase?”

  “And the place where The Roman’s payouts were decided,” Dreidel added. “Don’t forget, a year before the shooting, The Roman was denied a major sum of money for some hot tip in Sudan, which also, since they clearly were never stupid enough to be seen in the same place together, tells us which one of them used Sudan as their last—and only—known location.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “The Three—The Roman, Micah, O’Shea—are from the Service, the CIA, and FBI. When they link brains, think of all the information they have access to.”