by Brad Meltzer
“So those symbols,” Kassal said, looking down at the
“those were . . .” “. . . Lewis and Jefferson’s coded rating system to make sure none of the officers would ever find out what Jefferson’s opinion of them actually was: whether they were trustworthy, apathetic, or a political enemy. So when the War Department supplied Jefferson with the list of all the brigadier generals and lieutenants, Lewis took his secret symbols and put . . .”
“. . . a handwritten mark next to each name,” Kassal said, studying the exact same symbols two hundred years later on the crossword. “To everyone else, it looked like the random blots of a fountain pen . . .”
“. . . right again . . . but to Jefferson, it was a guide to which of his officers were honest Abes. In fact, if you ever do come h— We actually have the original list on display, plus the key that Jefferson used to decipher the codes. It’s beautiful to see up close—all the flourishes in the old script.”
“Certainly sounds tempting,” Kassal said, making the kind of face that usually goes with biting a lemon. “But . . . Mary Beth, is it?”
“Mary Beth,” she said proudly.
“If I could ask you one last favor, Mary Beth: Now that I have the signs—the four dots and the cross with the slash through it—can you just read me the cipher so I know what each of these stands for?”
103
You’re telling me you didn’t send him a note?” Rogo asked Boyle as he readjusted his shirt from where the guard had pulled it.
“Note? Why would I send him a note?” Boyle asked, sounding annoyed as his eyes flicked between Rogo and the guard.
“I said don’t move!” the guard shouted, his gun pointed at Boyle.
“You yell at me again, you’re gonna be picking that gun outta your teeth,” Boyle growled back. “Now I want my contact man, or at the very least, a supervisor, and I mean now.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Dreidel asked, his hands raised in the air, even though the gun wasn’t anywhere near him. “You said we were meeting at my hotel. Since when is Wes meeting at a graveyard?”
“Dreidel, this isn’t about you,” Rogo insisted. Turning to the guard, he added, “Listen, I know you don’t know me, but my friend’s life is in—”
“So is yours,” the guard said as he pointed his gun back at Rogo. Turning his attention to his walkie-talkie, he pushed a button and added, “Rags, we got a problem—I need you to find Loeb.”
“So wait . . . when Wes called . . . you both lied to me?” Dreidel asked, still putting the pieces together. “Now you have Wes not trusting me too?”
“Don’t you dare play victim,” Rogo warned. “Lisbeth spoke to your old girlfriend—the one with the crossword puzzle—”
Boyle turned at the words. “You found the puzzle?”
“Boyle, keep your mouth shut!” the guard warned.
“How’d she find Violet?” Dreidel asked, his face paste white as he slowly lowered his hands.
Rogo shook his head at Dreidel but knew enough to stay with the guard, who knew enough to stay with Boyle. Rogo shifted his weight anxiously, barely able to stand still. Every second they wasted here meant that Wes— He cut himself off. Don’t think about it.
“When’d you find the puzzle?” Boyle added, still trying to get Rogo’s attention.
Rogo glanced his way, smelling the opening. Until he could get to Wes, he might as well get some answers. “Does that mean you’re gonna tell me what’s in it?” Rogo asked.
Boyle ignored the question like he didn’t even hear it.
“No—don’t do that,” Rogo warned. “Don’t just— If you can help Wes—if you know what’s in the puzzle—”
“I don’t know anything.”
“That’s not true. You went to Malaysia for a reason.”
“Loeb, you there?” the guard said into his radio.
“C’mon, Boyle—I heard Wes talk about you. We know you tried to do the right thing.”
Boyle watched the guard, who shook his head.
“Please,” Rogo pleaded. “Wes is out there thinking he’s meeting you.”
Boyle still didn’t react.
“Someone lured him out there,” Rogo added. “If you know something and you keep it to yourself, you’re just letting him take your place.”
Still nothing.
“Forget it,” Dreidel said. “He’s not—”
“Where’d he find it?” Boyle blurted.
“Find what?” Rogo asked.
“The note. You said Wes found a note. For the graveyard.”
“Boyle . . .” the guard warned.
“On his car,” Rogo sputtered. “Outside Manning’s house.”
“Since when?” Dreidel asked. “You never said that. They never said that,” he added to Boyle.
Boyle shook his head. “And Wes just assumed it was—? I thought you said you unlocked the crossword.”
“We unlocked the names—all the initials,” Rogo said. “Manning, Albright, Rosenman, Dreidel . . .”
“These . . . with Jefferson’s old cryptogram,” Boyle said as he pulled a worn, folded-up sheet from his pocket. Furiously unfolding it, he revealed the crossword and its hidden code, plus his own handwritten notes drawn in.
“That’s the one,” Rogo said. “But aside from telling us that the President trusted Dreidel, we couldn’t—”
“Whoa, whoa, time out,” Boyle interrupted. “What’re you talking about?”
“Boyle, you know the rules on clearance!” the guard shouted.
“Will you stop worrying about clearance?” Boyle barked back. “Tell Loeb he can blame it on me.” Turning back to Rogo, he added, “And what made you think Dreidel was trustworthy?”
“You’re saying I’m not?” Dreidel challenged.
“The four dots,” Rogo explained as he pointed at the four dots. “Since the President and Dreidel are both ranked with four dots, we figured that was the inner circle of who he trusted.”
Boyle went quiet again.
“That’s not the inner circle?” Rogo asked.
“This is the inner circle,” Boyle said, pointing to the 0 next to Manning’s chief of staff, the man he used to do the puzzles with.
“So what’re the four dots?” Rogo asked, still lost.
“Boyle, that’s enough,” the guard warned.
“This has nothing to do with clearance!” Boyle challenged.
“Those four dots are good,” Dreidel insisted. “Manning trusted me with everything!”
“Just tell me what the four dots were,” Rogo demanded in a low voice.
Boyle glared at Dreidel, then back to Rogo. “The four dots were Jefferson’s shorthand for soldiers without any political creed—the opportunists who would give up anything for their own advancement. For us, it was meant to describe who Manning and Albright thought were leaking to the press. But when The Three found a copy and deciphered it, that’s how they knew who to pick for their fourth.”
“I’m not The Fourth!” Dreidel insisted.
“I never said you were,” Boyle agreed.
Rogo glanced down at Manning’s old crossword, studying the two names with the four dots.
None of it made sense. Wes swore that the handwriting—that all the rankings—were Manning’s. But if that’s true . . . “Why would the President give himself such a low ranking?”
“That’s the point. He wouldn’t,” Boyle said.
“But on the crossword . . . you said the four dots—”
Boyle raked his bottom teeth across his top lip. “Rogo, forget your biases. The Three wanted someone close to every major decision, and most important, someone who could affect those decisions—that’s why they first picked me instead of Dreidel.”
“Boyle, that’s enough! I’m serious!” the guard shouted. But Boyle didn’t care. After eight years, there was nothing more they could take from him.
“You see it now, don’t you?” Boyle asked as Rogo stared down at the page. “You’ve got the right name
. Even the right reasoning—never underestimate what they’d do for four more years. But you got the wrong Manning.”
Confused, Rogo shook his head, still locked on the puzzle. “What other Manning is th—?”
A burst of bitter cold seized Rogo’s body, as if he’d been encased in ice.
Oh, shit.
104
I know her shadow anywhere. I know it better than my own. I’ve watched it nearly every day for almost a decade. That’s my job: trailing three feet behind her, close enough to be there the moment she realizes she needs something, but far enough that I’m never in the photo. Back during White House days, even when she was swarmed by entourages of dignitaries and foreign press and our press and staff and crowds and Secret Service, I could still stand at the back of the horde, peer through the sea of legs, and find her silhouette at the center—and not just because she was the only one in high heels.
It’s no different tonight. Indeed, as I squat down in the shadowy graveyard and hide behind one of the meatball shrubs, as I clamp my eyes into paper-thin slits and try to squint through the braided crisscrossing branches and the nearly fifty yards of headstone-lined darkness, I stare down the crooked stone path and instantly recognize the thick calves, sharp shoulders, and pointed silhouette of Dr. Lenore Manning.
An aching pain swells like a balloon inside my rib cage. No . . . she—she’d never— I shake my head, and my ribs feel like they’re about to splinter. How can—? Why would she do that?
At the end of the path, stopping at the tree, she tips her umbrella slightly, and in the light from the distant flagpole, I see anger and annoyance—and even fear—in her face. I can still picture her leaving the White House—the President squeezing her fingertips as they walked to Marine One. She said it herself: When it came to staying in power, they would’ve done almost anything.
She barks something at the man next to her, but I’m too far away to hear it. She’s not happy to be here. Whatever she did, she’s clearly regretting it. I pull back, blinking violently. But Boyle . . . If the First Lady’s here, and the man next to her, with the bandages on his right hand (is that a gun?), if that’s The Roman . . . A rush of blood throbs up from my chest, all the way to my face. I hold my cheek, which burns against my hand, just like when I was shot.
Closing my eyes, I see it all, another black-and-white newsreel. Back at the Mannings’ house, she knew I was watching—when she was crying, showing me the letter from Boyle—and then the note on my car. That’s why the handwriting matched. She . . . and The Roman . . . oh, God.
I stare back down the path at Lisbeth, who’s in just as much shock as I am. It was her idea that we switch places before Boyle showed up: I’d be the lure to bring him in; she’d be the friendly reporter who’d give him more incentive to stay. But Boyle’s not coming. He never was.
The Roman steps toward Lisbeth, who straightens up, trying to look strong. But the way she watches his gun . . . and backs up, colliding with the tall clay-colored headstone . . . she knows she’s in trouble. We all are. Unless I can get some—
Spinning back toward the fence just behind me in the graveyard, I pull my phone from my pocket and sprint as fast as I can. But before I press a single digit, I slam face-first into the chest of a tall, slim man facing the distant light. He has thin expressionless lips, buzzed black hair, and tiny chocolate eyes that seem almost too close togeth— My cheek burns like it’s on fire. I know him immediately. From every one of my nightmares.
Nico snatches my phone from my hand, chucks it to the ground, and buries it in the mud with his heel. Reaching out and seizing me by the ear, he puts the barrel of his gun against my cheek, right against the scars he created all those years ago.
“You’ve been corrupted by the Beast, Wesley,” he says calmly, almost kindly. “Now tell me where Ron Boyle is, or you will again face God’s wrath.”
105
You didn’t know she was The Fourth?” Boyle asked.
“I said that’s enough!” the guard shouted, gripping his gun with two hands. He had a build—and a face—like a rhino, but as he stepped closer, Rogo saw the guard’s feet shuffle with hesitation. Eight years ago, Ron Boyle was an accountant. Today, he was clearly something more.
“Who’d you think it was? The President?” Boyle added.
“He really ranked me that low?” Dreidel asked.
“Why’d you think you were fired?” Boyle asked.
“I wasn’t fired. I got promoted.”
“Sure you were.”
“I’m counting to three!” the guard warned Boyle.
“Listen, please,” Rogo begged, turning to the guard. “You need to call the police . . . my friend’s about to be killed!”
“You hear me, Boyle?” the guard said.
“Didn’t you realize who you were up against?” Boyle shouted at Rogo. “You should’ve called the cops days ago.”
“We did! We thought we did!” Rogo replied. “Micah and O’Shea said they were—”
One . . . !” the guard shouted.
“Or at least called in some favors,” Boyle added, turning to Dreidel.
Turning away, Dreidel was silent.
Rogo raised an eyebrow.
“Two . . . !” the guard continued.
Boyle watched them both carefully, then rolled his tongue, more annoyed than ever. He’d worked in the White House for nearly four years. He’d seen that look before.
“You did, didn’t you?” Boyle challenged.
“And you did anything different?” Dreidel shot back. “Spare me the judgment.”
“Wait . . . what?” Rogo asked. “You went for help without telling us?”
Before Dreidel could answer, the guard pulled back the hammer on his gun.
Still locked on Dreidel, Boyle ignored the threat. “Who’d you run to first? NSA? FBI? Or’d you go to Bendis at—?”
“The Marshals,” Dreidel blurted. “I went to the Marshals Service.”
Hearing the words, the guard turned toward Dreidel. And took his eyes off Boyle.
That was the end.
Leaping forward, Boyle slammed the guard from behind, wrapping his left arm around the guard’s neck and gripping his stringy brown hair with his right.
“Are you—? Get the hell off!” the guard screamed. He reached back to grab Boyle—which was exactly what Boyle was hoping for.
Seizing the momentum, Boyle threw himself backward, taking the guard with him as they plunged toward the floor. It wasn’t until they were in mid-fall that the guard realized what he was in for.
“Boyle, don’t—!”
Pivoting at the last second, Boyle spun to the left, twisting around so that instead of falling backward, the guard was falling forward. Straight toward the salmon-colored marble floor. At the last second, with a sharp tug of brown hair to steer the ship, Boyle turned the guard’s head to the side, so his right ear was facing down.
“Get off me, you lunati—!”
Like a cupped hand slapping water, the guard’s ear smacked the ground with a loud hollow pop, followed half a second later by a louder pop as his gun backfired from the impact. Boyle, Rogo, and Dreidel all jumped back as the bullet zinged from his gun, piercing the base of the welcome desk and lodging in the marble wall. Before they’d even realized what happened, the guard’s head slumped unconscious against the floor, blood trickling out from his burst eardrum.
“What’re you, on drugs!?” Dreidel demanded as Boyle climbed to his feet.
Without answering, Boyle motioned to the door. “We should go. He’s got backup coming.”
Still in shock, Rogo just stood there, his eyes hopping from Boyle and Dreidel to the limp figures of O’Shea and the guard. “I don’t . . . I’m not—”
“Dreidel, you don’t live down here, do you?” Boyle asked.
“No, but I can—”
“I need you to show me the fastest route to the cemetery,” Boyle said as he turned to Rogo.
Rogo nodded, first slowly, the
n faster, his eyes eventually settling on Dreidel, who quickly approached to make peace.
“Rogo, before you say anything . . .”
“You made a deal, didn’t you?” Rogo challenged.
“Just listen—”
“What’d the Marshals offer you?”
“Rogo . . .”
“What’d they offer you, you cancerous little parasite!?” Rogo shouted.
Dreidel shook his head as his jaw shifted off-center. “Full immunity.”
“I knew it!” Rogo said.
“But it’s not—”
“And what was the trade? That you’d spy on us—help them catch The Three—as a way to prove your own innocence?”
“I am innocent!” Dreidel snapped.
“So is Wes! So am I! But you don’t see us running to the authorities, making private deals, and then tattling on our friends without telling them!”
“Rogo—both of you—we need to go,” Boyle insisted.
Enraged but well aware of Wes’s current situation, Rogo spun back to the main entrance, followed Boyle through the sliding doors, and burst into the parking lot with Dreidel right behind him.
As flicks of rain bombarded from above, Dreidel quickly caught up so they were running side by side, heading for Boyle’s van. “I didn’t tattle on you,” Dreidel said.
“So you never told them what we were up to?” Rogo shot back.
“I didn’t have a choice, Rogo. Once Wes came to my hotel room that first day . . . I needed the help. They said if I kept my eyes on you and Wes—kept them informed on where you were—they’d do their best to keep us protected as well as keeping our names out of the papers.”
“And that’s not spying on your friends?”
“Listen, don’t be mad at me for being the only one smart enough to realize that in an emergency, you’re supposed to break the glass and call for help. C’mon, Rogo, think for a second. I can’t afford—” As they approached the white van, he explained, “I’m running for State Senate.”
Rushing around to the passenger side of the van, Rogo felt his fingers tighten into a fist. He almost bit through his own lip as he fought to contain his rage. “Let’s go—open the door,” he called out to Boyle.