The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  “I understand how they work . . . but to do all that—to set it all up—no offense, but . . . just for a six-million-dollar payout?”

  “What makes you think they were only doing it once? For all we know, if the payment went through, they would’ve come back every few months—and if they upped each payment, six million becomes ten million becomes an easy seventy to eighty million dollars by the time they’re done. Not a bad annual salary for preying on America’s fears.”

  “So you think they—?”

  “Don’t just focus on the they—think of who else had access to that same info. I mean, nothing happens in a vacuum. To even ask for that first six-million-dollar payment, they clearly had to’ve known something big was about to happen. But what if they weren’t the only ones?”

  “So you think someone else knew?” Rogo asked.

  “All this time, we’ve been assuming that The Three and Boyle were enemies. But what if they were competitors? What if that’s why The Three’s multimillion-dollar payday got turned down—because the White House already had a similar tip—a similar indicator and warning—from someone else?”

  “I got ya—so while The Three or The Roman or whatever they call themselves kept bringing the White House their best hot tips, Boyle—or someone else in that meeting—was trying to prove he was a bigshot by leaking those very same tips to the press.”

  “And in the process, making The Roman’s so-called scoops look like day-old newspapers.”

  “Which takes us back to the crossword—if it really was a trust list—if Manning and his chief of staff used the puzzle to try and figure out who was leaking to the press, maybe that’s who Boyle was looking for,” Rogo said. “The only thing I don’t get is, why would Manning and his chief pass notes in secret code when they could just wait a few hours and discuss the matter in private?”

  “Private? In a building where they once had secret tapes recording all conversations in the Oval?”

  “Is that true? They still do those recordings?”

  “Don’t you see? That’s the point, Rogo. In that world, everybody’s listening. So if you plan on saying something bad about one of your top lieutenants, you better be sure not to say it out loud.”

  “Even so, how’s that get us any closer to figuring out who Manning was singling out in the puzzle?”

  “You tell me. What’s it say in the files?” Dreidel asked. “Any other names mentioned in there?”

  Rogo glanced around at the thirty-eight boxes and 21,500 sheets of paper, hundreds of schedules, and thousands of briefings they still had to go through. “You really think we can get through all this before the library closes?”

  “Have a little faith,” Dreidel said, fingering through a set of files. His eyes lit up and a sly grin spread across his face. “For all we know, the smoking gun is right in front of us.”

  “What? You got something?”

  “Only Boyle’s personnel file,” Dreidel said as he plucked the inch-thick file from its box. “Which means we’re about to find out what the President really thought of his old buddy Ron Boyle.”

  70

  Listen, I’m kinda busy,” Kenny said as he closed the door on O’Shea and Micah. “Maybe you can come back another—”

  O’Shea jammed his foot in the doorway, forcing it open. From his pocket, he pulled his FBI badge and slid it through the opening toward Kenny’s nose. “Now is actually a better time for us,” O’Shea insisted. He wasn’t surprised by Kenny’s reaction. After family, old friends were the hardest to crack.

  Kenny’s Popeye eye glared at Micah, then back to O’Shea’s badge. “Wes is a good kid,” he insisted.

  “No one said he wasn’t,” O’Shea replied as he and Micah stepped inside. O’Shea quickly scanned the kitchen. It didn’t matter that Wes was gone. What mattered was what he saw while he was here.

  “So you from Key West?” Micah asked as he made eye contact with his partner. Micah stayed in the kitchen. O’Shea took the living room.

  “No one’s from Key West,” Kenny shot back, already riled.

  “Then where do you know Wes from?” O’Shea asked as he approached the wall of black-and-white wedding photos.

  “D’you mind telling me what this is about?” Kenny asked.

  “These are beautiful,” O’Shea replied, stepping toward a shot of a short-haired bride playfully biting the ear of her groom. “You take these?”

  “I did, but—”

  “Did you work at the White House with Wes?” Micah interrupted, keeping him off balance.

  “Kinda,” Kenny replied. “I was there as a—”

  “Photographer,” O’Shea blurted as he scooped up the framed photo of President Manning checking his reflection in the White House water pitcher. “I remember this one. You’re a hotshot, aren’t you, Mr.—I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “I never gave it to you,” Kenny said.

  “Well, why don’t we fix that?” O’Shea demanded, laying the silver frame flat down on its back. “I’m Agent O’Shea and you’re . . .”

  “Kenny. Kenny Quinn.”

  “Wait . . . Kenny Quinn?” Micah asked. “How do I know that name?”

  “You don’t,” Kenny said. “Not unless you’re a photo editor or working the White House press pool.”

  “Actually, I spent some time in D.C.,” Micah said, leaving the kitchen and heading toward Kenny in the living room.

  Just behind Kenny, O’Shea eyed the closed three-ring binder on the cocktail table.

  “You’re the guy who won the award, didn’t you?” Micah asked, working hard to hold Kenny’s attention.

  “The Pulitzer,” Kenny replied dryly.

  “So you were there that day?” Micah asked.

  “At the racetrack? There were plenty of us there.”

  “But you’re the one who took the photo, right? The Cowardly Lion photo?”

  “I’m sorry,” Kenny said, turning back toward O’Shea, “but until you tell me what you’re looking for, I don’t think I shou—”

  A hushed hiss carved through the air, and a dark red bullet hole singed Kenny’s skin as it pierced his forehead. As Kenny crumpled lifelessly to the floor, Micah stared at O’Shea, who had his gun in one hand and the open three-ring binder in the other.

  “You nuts!?” Micah exploded.

  “They IDed you, Micah.”

  “What’re you talking about? There’s no way!”

  “Really? Then what the hell is this?” O’Shea shouted, tapping his gun against an empty Mylar protective sleeve in the binder.

  “There could’ve been anything in—”

  “Not the sleeve—underneath!” O’Shea said as he flipped aside the empty sheet to reveal a clear view of the photo on the next page. “You’re telling me that’s not you?” he asked, pointing to the enormous crowd shot where, when you looked closely enough, Micah was tucked away, glancing to the side.

  “It’s . . . it’s not possible—we bought every photo out there . . . went through every tape . . .”

  “Well obviously, there were a few more Kenny decided to keep in his collection! Don’t you get it, Micah? Wes knows! He’s got the thread of the sweater—and when he starts pulling, you’re gonna be the first one they look at!”

  “Big deal, so they ask me a few questions. You know I’ll never say anything. But this . . . y’know what kinda avalanche you just started?”

  “Don’t worry,” O’Shea said calmly. “If I set the bodies right, it’ll just look like a botched robbery.”

  “Bodies?” Micah asked, confused. “What’re you talking about? You’ve got more than one?”

  O’Shea raised his gun and pointed it straight at his partner’s chest.

  Following years of training, Micah spun to his right, then leaped like a cheetah at O’Shea. The way Micah’s pointer and middle fingers were curled—like claws—it was clear he was aiming for O’Shea’s eyes.

  O’Shea was impressed. No doubt, Micah was fast. But no one was t
hat fast.

  As O’Shea tugged the trigger, his fair blond hair glowed in the afternoon Key West sun. “Sorry, Micah.”

  There was a soft ssstt. Then a grunt.

  And The Three became The Two.

  71

  Don’t tell me you lost him. Don’t say those words.”

  “I didn’t lose him,” Lisbeth told her editor, clutching her cell phone as she walked in through the front door of the building. “I let him go.”

  “Did I tell you not to tell me that? Do I speak and you not hear?” Vincent asked. “What’s Sacred Rule #1?”

  “Always keep ’em talking.”

  “Fine, then Sacred Rule #26 1/2: Don’t let Wes out of your damn sight!”

  “You weren’t there, Vincent—you didn’t see how upset he was. For fifty minutes—the entire flight back—the only thing he said to me was—” Lisbeth went silent.

  “Lisbeth, you there?” Vincent asked. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Exactly!” she replied, waving to security and heading for the elevators. “Fifty minutes of dead silence! The guy wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even curse me out. And believe me, I gave him every opportunity. He just stared out the window, pretending I wasn’t there. And when he dropped me off, he wouldn’t even say good-bye.”

  “Okay, so you hurt his feelings.”

  “See, but that’s the thing—I didn’t just hurt his feelings. He’s been at this too long to feel burned by a reporter, but the pain on his face . . . I hurt him.”

  “Spare me the sentimental, Lisbeth—you were doing your job. Oh, wait, you actually weren’t. If you were, the moment he dropped you off, you would’ve turned around and followed him.”

  “In what? He has my car.”

  “He stole your car?”

  Lisbeth paused. “No.”

  Vincent paused even longer. “Oh, jeez—you gave it to him? You gave him your car?” Vincent shouted. “Sacred Rule #27: Don’t go soft! Rule 28: Don’t fall in love with a dreamer. And 29: Don’t let sad disfigured boys pluck your heartstrings and send you sailing on a guilt trip just because they’re sad and disfigured!”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “Just because someone’s in a wheelchair doesn’t mean they won’t roll over your toes. You know what this story means, Lisbeth—especially for you.”

  “And you.”

  “And you,” he said as Lisbeth stepped into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the second floor. “You know the job: You have to piss on people to be read. So please make my month and at least tell me you were smart enough to get it on tape.”

  As the doors slid shut and the elevator started to rise, Lisbeth leaned against the brass railing, her head tilting back against the Formica wall. Letting the day’s events wash over her, she lifted her head and lightly tapped it back against the wall. Tap, tap, tap. Over and over against the wall.

  “C’mon, you did get it on tape, right?” Vincent asked.

  Opening her purse, Lisbeth pulled out the miniature cassette tape that held the last part of their conversations. Sure, she’d handed Wes the recorder, but it didn’t take much for her to palm the cassette while he was ranting. Of course, now—no, not just now. Even as she was doing it—so damn instinctively—another part of her brain was watching in disbelief. Every reporter needs instinct. But not when it overwhelms ideals.

  “Last time, Lisbeth—yes tape or no tape?”

  The elevator pinged on the second floor, and Lisbeth stared at her open palm, rubbing her thumb against the tiny cassette. “Sorry, Vincent,” she said, tucking it back in her purse. “I tried to stop him, but Wes tossed it overboard.”

  “Overboard. Really?”

  “Really.”

  As she left the elevator and followed the hallway around to the left, there was a long pause on the line. Even longer than the one before.

  “Where are you right now?” Vincent asked coldly.

  “Right behind you,” Lisbeth said into her phone.

  Through an open door up the gray-carpeted hallway, Vincent stopped pacing in his office and spun around to face her. Still holding the phone to his ear, he licked his salt-and-pepper mustache. “It’s four o’clock. I need tomorrow’s column. Now.”

  “You’ll have it, but . . . the way things were left with Wes, I still think we should take another day before we push a story that’s—”

  “Do what you want, Lisbeth. You always do anyway.”

  With a swing of his arm, Vincent slammed his door shut, unleashing a thunderclap that echoed in front of her and through her cell phone. As her fellow employees turned to stare, Lisbeth trudged to her cubicle just across the hall. Collapsing in her seat, she flicked on her computer, where a nearly empty three-column grid filled the screen. On the corner of her desk, a crumpled sheet of paper held all the vital info about young Alexander John’s recent victory in the ultra-competitive world of high school art. This late in the day, there was no escaping the inevitable.

  Flattening the crumpled paper with the heel of her hand, she reread the details and instinctively punched in the code for her voice mail.

  “You have seven new messages,” the robotic female voice announced through her speakerphone. The first five were from local maître d’s hoping to get some free press for their restaurants by ratting out who was eating lunch with whom. The sixth was a follow-up call on Alexander John’s art award. And the last . . .

  “Hi . . . er . . . this message is for Lisbeth,” a soft female voice began. “My name’s . . .”

  The woman paused, causing Lisbeth to sit up straight. The best tips always came from people who didn’t want to identify themselves.

  “My name’s . . . Violet,” she finally said.

  Fake name, Lisbeth decided. Even better.

  “I just . . . I was reading your column today, and when I saw his name, my stomach just . . . it’s not right, okay? I know he’s powerful . . .”

  Lisbeth mentally ran through every mention in today’s column. The First Lady . . . Manning . . . does she mean Manning?

  “. . . it’s just not right, okay? Not after what he did.” She’s careful how she puts the knife in. She knows to punch, but not too hard. “Anyway, if you can give me a call . . .”

  Furiously scribbling the number, Lisbeth flipped open her cell phone and immediately started dialing. Her ears flushed red as it rang.

  C’mon . . . pick up, pick up, pick up, pick—

  “Hello?” a woman answered.

  “Hi, this is Lisbeth Dodson from Below the Fold—I’m looking for Violet.”

  There was a second or two of dead silence. Lisbeth just waited. New sources always needed an extra moment to decide.

  “Hiya, honey—hold on one second,” the woman said. In the background, Lisbeth heard a bell chime and the sudden wisp of wind buzzing the phone. Whatever store Violet was in, she just left for privacy. Which meant she was willing to talk.

  “This isn’t . . . you’re not recording this, right?” Violet finally asked.

  Lisbeth glanced at the digital recorder that always sat on her desk. But she didn’t reach for it. “No recordings.”

  “And you won’t give my name out? Because if my husband . . .”

  “We’re off the record. No one’ll ever know who you are. I promise you that.”

  Once again, the line was drowned in silence. Lisbeth knew better than to push.

  “I just want you to know, I’m no snitch,” Violet said, her voice cracking. Based on Violet’s inflection and speed, Lisbeth wrote mid-30s? in her notepad. “Understand, okay? I don’t want this. He just . . . seeing his name in print again . . . and so happy . . . people don’t realize—there’s a whole ’nother side of him . . . and what he did that night . . .”

  “What night?” Lisbeth asked. “What was the date?”

  “I don’t think he’s a bad person—I really don’t—but when he gets angry . . . he just . . . he gets angry with the best of ’em. And when he
’s real angry . . . You know how men get, right?”

  “Of course,” Lisbeth agreed. “Now, why don’t you just tell me what happened that night.”

  72

  I don’t wanna talk about it,” I insist.

  “She was recording the whole time?” Rogo asks, still in shock as his voice crackles through the cell phone.

  “Rogo, can we please not—?”

  “Maybe it’s not how it looked. I mean, she gave you her car and her phone, right? Maybe you misread it.”

  “I heard my voice on the tape! How else could that possibly be read!?” I shout, squeezing my fist around the steering wheel and jamming even harder on the gas. As I blow past the thick twisting banyan trees that shield both sides of County Road from the sun, I hear the shift in Rogo’s voice. At first, he was surprised. Now he’s just hurt, with a dab of confused. When it comes to judging someone’s character, he’s usually a master.

  “I told you she’d burn us—didn’t I call it?” Dreidel hisses in the background. His voice is barely a whisper, which means someone’s there with them.

  “Did she say why?” Rogo adds. “I mean, I know Lisbeth’s a reporter, but—”

  “Enough already, okay? How many times do I need to say it? I don’t wanna talk about it!”

  “Where are you now anyway?” Rogo asks.

  “No offense, but I shouldn’t say. Y’know, just in case someone’s listening.”

  “Wes, you’re full of manure—where the hell are you?” Rogo insists.

  “On US-1.”

  “You’re lying—that was too fast.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Too fast again. C’mon, Pinocchio—I know the little stutter and stammer when you’re fibbing. Just tell me where you are.”

  “You have to understand, Rogo, he—”

  “He? He? The royal He,” he moaned, more angry than ever. “Son of Betsy Ross, Wes! You’re going to see Manning?”

  “He’s expecting me. Schedule says I have to be there at four.”

  “Schedule? The man’s been lying to you for eight years about the single greatest tragedy in your life. Doesn’t that—?” He lowers his voice, forcing himself to calm down. “Doesn’t that let you say F-you to the schedule for once?”