The Book Of Fate Part 3

The clerk forces an uneasy smile. She looks over her shoulder. There's no one around but us. Reading from the screen, she says, "Mr. Stewart lives at . . . 3965 Via Las Brisas-Palm Beach, Florida."

My legs go numb. I grip the marble counter to keep from falling over. That's no codeword. That's President Manning's private home address. Only family has that. Or old friends.

"Sir, are you okay?" the desk clerk asks, reading my complexion.

"Yeah . . . just perfect," I say, forcing some peppy into my voice. It doesn't make me feel any better. My head's spinning so fast, I can barely stand up. Boyle . . . or whoever he was . . . he wasn't just in that dressing room . . . he was here here last night. Waiting for us. For all I know, he would've been waiting for the President if I hadn't seen him first. last night. Waiting for us. For all I know, he would've been waiting for the President if I hadn't seen him first.

I replay the moments backstage at the speech. The metal clang as he banged into the coffee table. The panicked look on his face. Up till now, I a.s.sumed that when I saw him, he was in the process of breaking in. But now . . . him being here last night . . . and using that decade-old codename . . . Boyle's no idiot. With all the fake names to choose from, you don't use that name to hide. You use it so someone can find you. I twist the kaleidoscope and a new picture clicks into place. Sure, Boyle could've been breaking in. But he could've just as easily been invited. The problem is, considering that the only people on this trip are me and three Secret Service agents who never even worked in the White House, there's only one person left who would've recognized that old codename. One person who could've known Boyle was coming-and invited him inside.

I glance back at the President just as he finishes his final autograph. There's a wide smile across his face.

A knot of pain tugs the back of my neck. My hands start shaking at my sides. Why would . . . how could he do that? Ten feet away, he puts his arm around an Asian woman and poses for a photo, grinning even wider. As the flash explodes, the knot in my neck tightens like a noose. I clamp my eyes, straining to find the lake from summer camp . . . grasping for my focal point. But all I see is Boyle. His shaved head. The fake accent to throw me off. Even the sobs of his daughter, who I apologize to every time I see her grieving during the anniversaries of the event.

For eight years, his death has been the one wound that would never mend, festering over time with my own isolation. The guilt . . . everything I caused . . . Oh, Lord, if he's actually back . . .

I open my eyes and realize they're filled with tears. Quickly wiping them away, I can't even look at Manning.

Whatever Boyle was doing there, I need to figure out what the h.e.l.l is going on. In the White House, we had access to the entire military. We don't have the military anymore. But that doesn't mean I don't have my own personal reserves.

I pull out my satellite phone and dial the number from memory. The sun should just be coming up in Was.h.i.+ngton.

Accustomed to emergencies, he picks up on the first ring. Caller ID tells him who it is.

"Let me guess, you're in trouble," Dreidel answers.

"This one's serious," I tell him.

"It involve your boss?"

"Doesn't everything?" Dreidel's my closest friend from the White House, and more important, knows Manning better than anyone. By his silence, it's clear he understands. "Now you got a second? I need some help."

"For you, my friend, anything . . ."

5.

Paris, France With mayonnaise?" the thin woman with the red bifocals asked in a heavy French accent.

"Oui," Terrence O'Shea replied, nodding respectfully, but disappointed that she even asked. He thought his French was flawless-or as flawless as FBI training could make it-but the fact she asked the question in English and referred to the garlicky aioli aioli as "mayonnaise" . . . "Excusez-moi, madame," O'Shea added, "pourquoi m'avez vous demande cela en anglais?" as "mayonnaise" . . . "Excusez-moi, madame," O'Shea added, "pourquoi m'avez vous demande cela en anglais?" Why did you ask me in English? Why did you ask me in English?

The woman pursed her lips and smiled at his largely Swiss features. His thin blond hair, pink skin, and hazel eyes came from his mother's family in Denmark, but his fat, buckled nose was straight from his father's Scottish side-made only worse by a botched hostage rescue back from his days doing fieldwork. As the woman handed O'Shea the small container of french fries drenched with mayo, she explained, "Je parle tres mal le danois." My Danish is terrible. My Danish is terrible. Reading O'Shea's thin grin, she added, "Vous Reading O'Shea's thin grin, she added, "Vous venez venez de Danemark, n'est-ce pas?" de Danemark, n'est-ce pas?" You You are are from Denmark, yes? from Denmark, yes?

"Oui," O'Shea lied, taking a strange joy in the fact she didn't spot him as American. Then again, blending in was part of the job.

"J'ai l'oeiul pour les choses," the woman added.

"J'ai l'oeiul pour les choses," O'Shea repeated, dropping a few coins into the gla.s.s tip jar on the edge of the woman's sausage-and-french-fry pushcart. Sometimes you just know. Sometimes you just know.

Heading further up Rue Vavin, O'Shea felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket for the third time. He'd already convinced the pushcart woman that he wasn't American, and even though it didn't matter, he wasn't going to reveal himself by interrupting their conversation and picking up on the first ring.

"This is O'Shea," he finally answered.

"What're you doing in France?" the voice on the other line asked.

"Interpol conference. Some nonsense on trends in intelligence. Four whole days away from the pit."

"Plus all the mayo you can eat."

Just as he was about to bite his first mayo-dipped fry, O'Shea paused. Without another word, he pitched the basket of fries into a nearby trash can and crossed the street. As a Legat-a Legal Attache-for the FBI, O'Shea had spent almost a decade working with law enforcement officials in seven foreign countries to help deter crime and terrorism that could harm the United States. In his line of work, the surest way to get yourself killed was being obvious and predictable. Priding himself on being neither, he b.u.t.toned his long black coat, which waved out behind him like a magician's cape.

"Tell me what's going on," O'Shea said.

"Guess who's back?"

"I have no idea."

"Guess . . ."

"I don't know . . . that girl from Cairo?"

"Let me give you a hint: He was killed at the Daytona Speedway eight years ago."

O'Shea stopped midstep in the middle of the street. Not in panic. Or surprise. He'd been at this too long to be fazed by bad intel. Better to confirm. "Where'd you get it?"

"Good source."

"How good?"

"Good enough."

"That's not-"

"As good as we're gonna get, okay?"

O'Shea knew that tone. "Where'd they spot him?"

"Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur."

"We have an office there . . ."

"He's already gone."

No surprise, O'Shea thought. Boyle was too smart to linger. "Any idea why he's out?"

"You tell me: It was the same night President Manning was there for a speech."

A red Fiat honked its horn, trying to blast O'Shea out of the way. Offering an apologetic wave, O'Shea continued toward the curb. "You think Manning knew he was coming?"

"I don't even wanna think about it. Y'know how many lives he's risking?"

"I told you when we first tried to bring him in-the guy's poison. We should've never tried to flip him all those years ago." Watching the rush of Paris traffic, O'Shea let the silence sink in. Across the street, he watched the thin woman with the red bifocals dole out another basket of fries with aioli. aioli. "Anyone else see him?" O'Shea finally asked. "Anyone else see him?" O'Shea finally asked.

"President's aide apparently got a look-y'know . . . that kid with the face . . ."

"He have any idea who he was looking at?"

"That's the question, isn't it?"

O'Shea stopped to think about it. "What about the thing in India next week?"

"India can wait."

"So you want me on a plane?"

"Say good-bye to Paris, sweetheart. Time to come home."

6.

St. Elizabeths Mental Hospital Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. D.C.

Make it quick, Nico-no futzing around," said the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath. He didn't shove Nico inside or stay with him while he undid his pants. That was only for the first few months after Nico's a.s.sa.s.sination attempt on the President-back when they were worried he'd kill himself. These days, Nico had earned the right to go to the bathroom alone. Just like he'd earned the right to use the telephone and to have the hospital stop censoring his mail. Each was its own victory, but as The Three had promised him, every victory brought its own cost.

For the telephone, the doctors asked him if he still had anger toward President Manning. For the mail, they asked him if he was still fixated on the crosses-the crucifix around his nurse's neck, the one the overweight lady wore in the law firm commercial on TV, and most important, the hidden ones only he knew were there: the ones created by windowpanes and telephone poles . . . in intersecting sidewalk cracks, and the T-shaped slats of park benches, and in perpendicular blades of gra.s.s, and-when they stopped letting him go outside because the images were too overwhelming-in crisscrossing shoelaces and phone cords and wires and discarded socks . . . in the seams of the s.h.i.+ny tile floor and the closed doors of the refrigerator . . . in horizontal shades and their vertical pull cords, in banisters and their railings . . . and of course, in the white s.p.a.ces between the columns of the newspaper, in the blank s.p.a.ces between the push b.u.t.tons of the telephone, and even in cubes, especially when the cube is unfolded to its two-dimensional version which then allowed him to include dice, luggage, short egg cartons, and of course, the Rubik's Cube that sat on the edge of Dr. Wilensky's desk, right beside his perfectly square Lucite pencil cup. Nico knew the truth-symbols were always signs.

No more drawing crosses, no more carving crosses, no more doodling crosses on the rubber trim of his sneakers when he thought no one was looking, his doctors had told him. If he wanted full mail privileges, they needed to see progress.

It still took him six years. But today, he had what he wanted. Just like The Three promised. That was one of the few truths besides G.o.d. The Three kept their promises . . . even back when they first welcomed him in. He had nothing then. Not even his medals, which were lost-stolen!-in the shelter. The Three couldn't bring them back, but they brought him so much more. Showed him the door. Showed him what no one else saw. Where G.o.d was. And where the devil was hiding. And waiting. Almost two hundred years, he'd been there, tucked away in the one place the M Men hoped people would never look-right in front of their own faces. But The Three looked. They searched. And they found the devil's door. Just as the Book had said. That's when Nico played his part. Like a son serving his mother. Like a soldier serving country. Like an angel serving G.o.d's will.

In return, Nico just had to wait. The Three had told him so on the day he pulled the trigger. Redemption was coming. Just wait. It'd been eight years. Nothing compared to eternal salvation.

Alone in the restroom, Nico closed the toilet seat and kneeled down to say a prayer. His lips mouthed the words. His head bobbed up and down slightly . . . sixteen times . . . always sixteen. And then he closed his left eye on the word Amen. Amen. With a tight squeeze of his fingertips, he plucked an eyelash from his closed eye. Then he plucked another. Still down on his knees, he took the two lashes and placed them on the cold white slab of the closed toilet seat. The surface had to be white-otherwise, he wouldn't see it. With a tight squeeze of his fingertips, he plucked an eyelash from his closed eye. Then he plucked another. Still down on his knees, he took the two lashes and placed them on the cold white slab of the closed toilet seat. The surface had to be white-otherwise, he wouldn't see it.

Rubbing the nail of his right pointer finger against the grout in the floor, he filed his nail to a fierce, fine point. As he leaned in close like a child studying an ant, he used the sharpened edge of his nail to push the two eyelashes into place. What the doctors took away, he could always put back. As The Three said, it's all within him. And then, as Nico did every morning, he slowly, tenderly gave a millimeter's push and proved it. There. One eyelash perfectly intersecting with the other. A tiny cross.

A thin grin took Nico's lips. And he began to pray.

7.

Palm Beach, Florida See that redheaded mummy in the Mercedes?" Rogo asks, motioning out the window at the s.h.i.+ny new car next to us. I glance over just in time to see the fifty-something redhead with the frozen face-lift and an equally stiff (and far more fas.h.i.+onable) straw hat that probably costs as much as my c.r.a.ppy little ten-year-old Toyota. "She'd rather die than call," he adds.

I don't respond. It doesn't slow him down. "But that guy driving that midlife crisis?" he adds, pointing at the balding man in the cherry-red Porsche that pulls out around us. "He'll call me right after he gets the ticket."

It's Rogo's favorite game: driving around, trying to figure out who'll be a potential client. As Palm Beach's least-known but most aggressive speeding ticket lawyer, Rogo is the man to call for any moving violation. As my roommate and closest friend since eighth grade, when he and his mom moved from Alabama to Miami, he's also the only person I know who loves his job even more than the President does.

"Oooh, and that girl right there?" he asks as he motions across two lanes of traffic to the sixteen-year-old with braces driving a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. "Pa.s.s the bread, 'cause that's my b.u.t.ter b.u.t.ter!" Rogo insists in a wet lick of a Southern accent. "New car and braces? Choo, choo-here comes the gravy train gravy train!"

He slaps me on the shoulder like we're watching a rodeo.

"Yee-hah," I whisper as the car climbs up the slight incline of Royal Park Bridge and across the Intracoastal Waterway. On both sides of us, the morning sun ricochets off glossy waves. The bridge connects the communities of working-cla.s.s West Palm Beach with the millionaire haven known as Palm Beach. And as the car's tires rumble and we cross to the other side, the well-populated, fast-food-lined Okeechobee Boulevard gives way to the perfectly manicured, palm-tree-lined Royal Palm Way. It's like leaving a highway rest stop and entering Oz.

"Do you feel rich? 'Cause I feel silver dollar silver dollar!" Rogo adds, soaking up the surroundings.

"Again, yee-hah."

"Don't get all sarcastic," Rogo warns. "If you're not nice, I'm not gonna let you drive me to work for the next week while my car's in the shop."

"You said it'd only be in the shop for a day."

"Ah, the negotiation continues!" Before I can argue, he does a double take on the braces girl, who's now right next to us. "Wait, I think she was was a client!" he shouts, rolling down his window. "Wendy!" he yells, leaning over and honking my horn. a client!" he shouts, rolling down his window. "Wendy!" he yells, leaning over and honking my horn.

"Don't do that," I tell him, trying to push his hand away. When we were fourteen, Rogo was short. These days, at twenty-nine, he's added bald and fat to his repertoire. And strong. I can't move him.

"Braces Girl!" he shouts, honking again. "Hey, Wendy, is that you!?"

She finally turns and rolls down her own window, struggling to keep her eyes on the road.

"Your name Wendy?" he yells.

"No," she calls back. "Maggie!"

Rogo seems almost hurt by his own misinformation. It never lasts long. He's got a smile like a butcher's dog. "Well, if you get a speeding ticket, go to downwithtickets.com!"

Rolling up his window, he scratches at his elbow, then readjusts his crotch, proud of himself. It's vintage Rogo-by the time he's done, I can't even remember what the argument's about. It's the same way he bulldozed into the legal profession. After two bad sets of LSAT scores, Rogo flew to Israel for his third attempt. Not even close to being Jewish, he'd heard that in Israel, they took a more relaxed approach to the concept of a timed timed exam. "What, an extra twenty minutes? Who's it gonna kill?" he asked for a full month, imitating his proctor in full Israeli accent. And with those twenty minutes, Rogo finally got a score that would get him into law school. exam. "What, an extra twenty minutes? Who's it gonna kill?" he asked for a full month, imitating his proctor in full Israeli accent. And with those twenty minutes, Rogo finally got a score that would get him into law school.

So as he found a home in speeding tickets and for the first time had some money in his pocket, the last thing he needed was a boring roommate who'd have trouble making the rent. Back then, my only job prospect was staying with the President, who'd moved to P.B. after the White House. P.B. P.B. being what the locals call Palm Beach, as in, "We'll be in P.B. all winter." I was living with my parents in Boca Raton; because of the low salary, I couldn't afford the tony neighborhood near the President's Palm Beach compound. With a roommate, though, I'd at least be able to live closer. It was right after the shooting. The scars were still purple on my face. Eighth grade goes a long way. Rogo didn't even hesitate. being what the locals call Palm Beach, as in, "We'll be in P.B. all winter." I was living with my parents in Boca Raton; because of the low salary, I couldn't afford the tony neighborhood near the President's Palm Beach compound. With a roommate, though, I'd at least be able to live closer. It was right after the shooting. The scars were still purple on my face. Eighth grade goes a long way. Rogo didn't even hesitate.

"I still don't understand why you have to be in so early," Rogo adds in mid-yawn. "It's barely seven. You just got back from Malaysia last night."

"The President's-"

"-an early riser . . . the world's greatest guy . . . can heal the sick while cooking a six-course meal. Jesus and Emeril all in one body. I know how the cult works, Wes." He points out the window at a hidden cop car about two blocks up. "Careful, speed trap." Right back into it, he adds, "I'm just saying he should let you sleep in."