The Book Of Fate Part 18

38.

Reagan National Airport Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. D.C.

And you're all set, Mr. Benoit," the airline attendant said at the boarding gate.

"Great," The Roman replied, careful to keep his head tilted down to the left. He didn't have to hide. Or use the fake name. Indeed, the one benefit of Nico's escape was that it gave The Roman the perfect excuse to justify his trip down South. As deputy a.s.sistant director, that was his job. Still, he kept his head down. He knew where the cameras were hidden. No need to tell anyone he was coming.

After heading toward the plate-gla.s.s window behind the check-in desk and sitting at the far end of a long row of seats, The Roman dialed a number on his phone, ignored the chitchatting of his fellow pa.s.sengers, and focused on the black, predawn sky.

"D-Do you have any idea what time it is?" a groggy voice begged, picking up the other line.

"Almost six," The Roman replied, staring outside. It was still too early to see slivers of orange cracking through the horizon as prologue to the sun's arrival. But that didn't mean he had to sit in the dark.

"Did you get the new schedule yet?" The Roman asked.

"I told you last night, with Nico running around, Manning's entire day is in flux . . . you of all people should know that."

Staring at his own reflection in the gla.s.s, The Roman nodded. Behind him, an armed agent in a Security Security windbreaker weaved through the food court, scanning the crowd. Back by the metal detectors when he first came in, he'd counted three more agents doing the same-and that didn't include the dozen or so who operated in plainclothes to stay out of sight. The FBI wanted Nico back-and in their minds, the best way to get him was to cover every airport, train station, and travel hub. It was a good plan, following years of typical FBI procedure. But Nico was far from typical. And at this point, in all likelihood, far from here. windbreaker weaved through the food court, scanning the crowd. Back by the metal detectors when he first came in, he'd counted three more agents doing the same-and that didn't include the dozen or so who operated in plainclothes to stay out of sight. The FBI wanted Nico back-and in their minds, the best way to get him was to cover every airport, train station, and travel hub. It was a good plan, following years of typical FBI procedure. But Nico was far from typical. And at this point, in all likelihood, far from here.

"What about Wes? When does he get his copy of the schedule?" The Roman asked.

"It's not like the White House anymore. No matter how close he is to Manning, he gets it same as the rest of us-first thing in the morning."

"Well, when he does get it-"

"You'll have it," his a.s.sociate said. "Though I still don't understand why. You already have the microphone f-"

"Send it!" The Roman roared. On his right, a few pa.s.sengers turned to stare. Refusing to lose it, he shut the phone and calmly slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. It wasn't until he unclenched his fist that he saw a tiny dot of blood seeping through the gauze. The Roman roared. On his right, a few pa.s.sengers turned to stare. Refusing to lose it, he shut the phone and calmly slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. It wasn't until he unclenched his fist that he saw a tiny dot of blood seeping through the gauze.

39.

A reporter?" Rogo asks in full Southern tw.a.n.g as we weave through morning traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard. "You're sitting on the biggest political scandal since Boss Tweed started Teapot Dome, and you threw it in the lap of a reporter?" reporter?" Rogo asks in full Southern tw.a.n.g as we weave through morning traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard. "You're sitting on the biggest political scandal since Boss Tweed started Teapot Dome, and you threw it in the lap of a reporter?"

"First, Boss Tweed had nothing to do with Teapot Dome. They were fifty years apart," I tell him. "Second, what happened to all that Purple Rain Purple Rain calmness from last night?" calmness from last night?"

"I was trying to make you feel better! But this . . . You threw it in the lap of a reporter?"

"We didn't have a choice, Rogo. She heard us talking." Just below the glove compartment, his feet barely touch the Yosemite Sam floor mat with the words Back Off! Back Off! in giant white letters. He bought the mat for me for my birthday a few years back as some sort of personal lesson. From the look on his face, he still thinks I need to learn it. "If she wanted, she could've run the story today," I add. in giant white letters. He bought the mat for me for my birthday a few years back as some sort of personal lesson. From the look on his face, he still thinks I need to learn it. "If she wanted, she could've run the story today," I add.

"And this is she? Below the Fold?" he asks, flipping open the newspaper and turning to Lisbeth's column in the Accent section. The headline reads Still the One-Dr. First Lady Outs.h.i.+nes All. Still the One-Dr. First Lady Outs.h.i.+nes All. It opens with a fawning item about Mrs. Manning's chartreuse Narciso Rodriguez suit as well as her gold eagle pin, which Lisbeth calls "Americana elegance." To her credit, she doesn't even go for the snarky mention of Nico's escape. It opens with a fawning item about Mrs. Manning's chartreuse Narciso Rodriguez suit as well as her gold eagle pin, which Lisbeth calls "Americana elegance." To her credit, she doesn't even go for the snarky mention of Nico's escape.

"See, she's making nice," I point out.

"That's just so you don't notice that she's maneuvering you in front of the bull's-eye. Think for a sec."

"Believe me, I know what Lisbeth wants."

"Yet you're ignoring the fact she'll eventually stop writing about the First Lady's suit and instead be using your your name to cut to the head of the cla.s.s. Screw the gossip column, Wes-she'll have the whole front page to herself." name to cut to the head of the cla.s.s. Screw the gossip column, Wes-she'll have the whole front page to herself."

"She can have it right now! Don't you understand? She heard it all last night: Boyle being alive, us not trusting Manning . . . but like me, she knows that if she goes public now, it'll bring a tidal wave of feces cras.h.i.+ng down on all of us."

"Actually, it'll just be cras.h.i.+ng down on Manning and Boyle. Y'know, the people who, well, actually caused this actually caused this!"

"Are you even listening, Rogo? Whatever happened that day, it was pulled off by some of the most powerful people around, including-according to these FBI guys-the former President of the United States, who's also been like a father to me for nearly a decade . . ."

"Here we go-always afraid to hurt Daddy."

"I'm not afraid to hurt anyone-especially whoever the h.e.l.l did this to me," I say, pointing to my cheek. "But your solution? You want me-before I even know what's going on-to shout everything from the rooftops and go stick a fistful of dynamite into the dam."

"That's not what I said."

"It is is what you said. But if I unleash this, Rogo-if I go public-I can't take it back. And you know that the moment I open my mouth, these people-people who were powerful and connected enough to convince millions that their illusion was real-are going to aim all their resources and energy at making me look like the crackpot who swears he saw a dead man. So if the water's gonna be raging, and I'm wrecking every professional relations.h.i.+p in my entire life, I want to be absolutely sure before I blow it all up." what you said. But if I unleash this, Rogo-if I go public-I can't take it back. And you know that the moment I open my mouth, these people-people who were powerful and connected enough to convince millions that their illusion was real-are going to aim all their resources and energy at making me look like the crackpot who swears he saw a dead man. So if the water's gonna be raging, and I'm wrecking every professional relations.h.i.+p in my entire life, I want to be absolutely sure before I blow it all up."

"No doubt," Rogo says calmly. "Which is why if you go with the FBI-"

"I what? Save myself? I have nothing to offer the FBI. They already know Boyle's alive. They only want me so they can get Manning and light the dynamite themselves. At least my way, I'm the one holding the fuse, and we'll get some information, which is more than we got from your so-called law enforcement buddies."

"They're trying their best. They're just . . ."

". . . traffic cops. I understand. And I appreciate you trying. But between The Roman and The Three, we need some actual answers."

"That doesn't mean you have to sacrifice yourself. Lisbeth's still gonna burn you in the end."

Holding tight to the wheel, I pump the gas and speed through a yellow light. The car dips and bounces as we climb up Royal Park Bridge.

"Sixty-nine bucks for the ticket and three points on your license," Rogo warns as the yellow light turns red just above us. "Though I guess that's nothing compared to wrecking your life with an overanxious reporter."

"Rogo, y'know why no one knew who Deep Throat was all those years? Because he controlled the story."

"And that's your grand plan? Be Deep Throat?"

"No, the grand plan is to get all the facts, put my hands around Boyle's throat, and find out why the h.e.l.l all this actually happened!" I don't motion to my face, but Rogo knows what I'm talking about. It's the one thing he won't argue.

Rogo goes back to reading Lisbeth's column, which ends with a quick mention of Dreidel stopping by. Old Friends Still Visit Old Friends Still Visit, according to the subhead. It's Lisbeth's way of reminding us that she could've easily gone with the mention of Dreidel's and my breakfast.

"Dreidel was there last night?" Rogo asks. "I thought he had a fundraiser."

"He did. Then he came over to see Manning."

Rogo scratches at his bald head, first on the side, then back behind his ear. I know that scratch. He's silent as the car reaches the peak of the bridge. Three, two, one . . .

"You don't think that's odd?" he asks.

"What, that Dreidel likes to suck up to Manning?"

"No, that on the day after you spot Boyle, Dreidel happens to be in Palm Beach, and happens to get you in trouble with the press, and just happens happens to be raising money in Florida for a congressional race that only matters to people in to be raising money in Florida for a congressional race that only matters to people in Illinois. Illinois. That doesn't smell a little stinky feet to you?" That doesn't smell a little stinky feet to you?"

I shake my head as we leave the metal droning of the bridge and glide onto the perfectly paved Royal Palm Way. On both sides of the street, tucked between the towering, immaculate palm trees, are the private banks and investment firms that juggle some of the biggest accounts in the city. "You know how fundraising works," I tell Rogo. "Palm Beach was, is, and will always be the capital of Manningland. If Dreidel wants to cash in on his old connections, here's where he has to come to kiss the rings."

Rogo scratches again at his head. He's tempted to argue, but after seeing the shape I was in last night, he knows he can only push so far. Lost in the silence, he taps a knuckle against the pa.s.senger window to the tune of "Hail to the Chief." The only other sound in the car comes from the jingling of the two dangling presidential faces on the lapel pin that's attached to my navy suit jacket.

"Here's hoping you're right," Rogo offers as he stares down at Yosemite Sam. "Because, no offense, pal-but the last thing you need right now is another enemy."

40.

What'd she write?" Micah asked, gripping the steering wheel and trying to read the newspaper in O'Shea's lap. Four cars ahead of them, Wes's Toyota chugged back and forth through traffic.

"Some fluffy mention about the First Lady's suit," O'Shea said from the pa.s.senger seat, still scanning Lisbeth's column. "Though she did manage to work in a Dreidel mention."

"You think Wes told her what's going on?"

"No idea-though you saw the body language last night. All the hesitations . . . just barely looking her in the eyes. If he hasn't said anything, he's thinking about it." Pointing ahead to the Toyota, O'Shea added, "Not so close-pull back a hair."

"But for him to go to the press," Micah began, hitting the brakes and dropping back a few cars. "He's safer with us."

"Not in his eyes. Don't forget, the kid's been wrecked by the best, and he's somehow still standing. Deep down, he knows how the world works. Until he gets a better bargaining chip, in his mind, he's not safe with anyone."

"See, that's why we should just offer him straight clemency. Okay, Wes, next time you hear from Boyle, tell him Manning wants to meet with him and give him a time and place. Then call us and we'll take care of the rest. Okay, Wes, next time you hear from Boyle, tell him Manning wants to meet with him and give him a time and place. Then call us and we'll take care of the rest. I know you've got big eyes, O'Shea, but unless we finally put hands on Boyle-" I know you've got big eyes, O'Shea, but unless we finally put hands on Boyle-"

"I appreciate the concern, Micah-but trust me, we stick with Wes and we'll get our Boyle."

"Not if Wes thinks we're gonna bite back. I'm telling you, forget the vague promises-put a deal on the table."

"No need," O'Shea said, knowing that Micah always went for the easy way out. "Wes knows what we want. And after everything Boyle's so-called death put him through, he wants him more than any of us."

"Not more than me," Micah insisted. "After what him and Manning pulled-"

"Get up there! He's running the red light!"

Micah punched the gas, but it was already too late. With a screech, the car in front of them came to an abrupt halt, forcing them to do the same. In the distance, Wes's Toyota climbed up the bridge and out of sight.

"I told you to-"

"Relax," Micah said. "He's just going to work. Losing him for two minutes isn't gonna kill anyone."

41.

Woodbine, Georgia ". . . but that's the problem with hiding a treasure," Nico said as the early morning sun punched through the damp Georgia clouds. "You don't pick the right spot, some stranger's gonna come along and dig it up."

But to say they hid it in a map . . .

"Dammit, Edmund, it's no different than hiding it in a crossword or a-" Cutting himself off, Nico gripped the steering wheel and turned toward his friend in the pa.s.senger seat. It was harder than he thought. Trusting people never came easy. But Nico understood the power of the Lord. The power that delivered Edmund to his side. From the rearview mirror, the wooden rosary swayed in a tight circle, like a marble in its last seconds before circling down an open drain. Edmund was sent for a reason. And Nico knew never to ignore the signs. Even if it meant exposing his own weaknesses. "I'm not crazy," Nico said, his voice soft and tender.

I never thought you were. By the way, you sure you're okay driving?

"I'm fine. But just know, if you wanna help, you need to understand that this battle didn't start eight years ago. It started in '91."

1991?.

"1791," Nico said, watching Edmund's reaction. "The year they drew the battle lines . . . by drawing the city lines," he explained, jabbing a finger against the map that was spread out across the wide dashboard between them.

City lines to what? Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.?

"That's what they were designing-the layout for our nation's capital. President George Was.h.i.+ngton himself picked out a U.S. army major for the job: French-born architect Pierre Charles L'Enfant. And when you look at his early plans . . . it laid the groundwork for everything here today," Nico said, pointing Edmund back toward the map.

So when this French guy designed the city- "No!" Nico insisted. "Unlock yourself from history's lies. L'Enfant is the one most often credited with the plans, but after being hired by President Was.h.i.+ngton, a known Freemason, there was one other man who helped sketch the details of the city. That's That's the man who marked the entryway. And used the skills of the Masons to build the devil's door." the man who marked the entryway. And used the skills of the Masons to build the devil's door."

Is it someone I know, or some other French guy?

"Unlock yourself, Edmund. Ever hear of Thomas Jefferson?"

42.

ID, please," the burly African-American security guard insists as I step through the gla.s.s doors and into the gray marble lobby of our building. Most mornings I pa.s.s with nothing more than a wave to Norma, the overweight Hispanic woman who's worked the morning s.h.i.+ft for the past three years. Today, Norma's gone. A quick glance at the new guard's hand shows me the beige sleeve-microphone concealed in his fist. The patch on his shoulder reads Flamingo Security Corp. Flamingo Security Corp. But I know Secret Service when I see it. But I know Secret Service when I see it.

With Nico loose, no one's taking any chances.

It's no different when I step out of the elevator on the fourth floor. In addition to the regular suit-and-tie agent who stands guard by the flags in our welcoming area, there's an agent outside our bulletproof doors, and a third just outside the President's personal office at the end of the hallway. Still, none of it surprises me half as much as the familiar voice I hear a few doors down as I cut into my own office.