The Book Of Fate Part 37

I stay silent, still amazed the words came from my lips.

"What'd you just say?" she challenges. you just say?" she challenges.

"It's-that's not true," I repeat, searching her face. "I was at the speedway too-it is is my business." my business."

Her eyes narrow. I stare out the window over her shoulder. Like all the windows in this house, it's bulletproof and doesn't open. But right now she looks like she's ready to toss me through one. Waving the Boyle letter, she asks, "Who put you up to this?"

"What?"

"Was it a reporter? Did they pay you to write this?"

"Ma'am, you really think I'd-?"

"Or is it just some sick practical joke to test my reaction? I've got a great idea," she says in mock impersonation. "Let's revisit the worst moment in Dr. Manning's life, then see if we can rip apart her reality until she finally snaps."

"Ma'am, this isn't a joke-"

"Or better yet, let's have her husband's aide sneak into her bedroom . . ."

"Ma'am . . ."

". . . take it from her desk . . ."

"Dr. Manning, I saw him."

". . . and that way, she'll start panicking, wondering if it was even real to begin with."

"I saw Boyle. In Malaysia. He's alive."

She freezes, the tips of her fingers touching her lips. Her head shakes slowly. Then faster. No-no. Oh, no, no. No-no. Oh, no, no.

"It was him, ma'am. I saw him."

Her head continues to shake as her fingers move from her lips, to her chin, to her own shoulder. Curling forward and gripping her shoulder, she practically shrinks into a ball. "How could he-? How could they both-? Oh, G.o.d . . ." She looks back up at me, and her eyes well with tears so fast, there's no time to blink them away. Earlier, I thought they were tears of guilt-that she might be hiding something. But to see her now-the frightened anguish that contorts her face, the shock that keeps her head shaking in denial-these tears are born in pain.

"Dr. Manning, I'm sure this . . . I know it seems impossible-"

"That's not-G.o.d!-it's not like I'm naive," she insists. "I'm not not naive. I mean, I-I-I knew he'd keep things from me-not to deceive-that's just what he has to do. That's the job of being President." naive. I mean, I-I-I knew he'd keep things from me-not to deceive-that's just what he has to do. That's the job of being President."

As she stumbles through the words, I realize she's no longer talking about Boyle. She's talking about her husband.

"There are secrets he has has to keep, Wes. Troop positions . . . surveillance capabilities . . . those are the secrets we to keep, Wes. Troop positions . . . surveillance capabilities . . . those are the secrets we need need," she says. "But something like this . . . good Lord, I was at Ron's funeral. I read a psalm!"

"Ma'am, what're you-?"

"I went to his house and cried with his wife and daughter! I was on my knees praying for his peaceful rest!" she shouts, her sadness s.h.i.+fting to rage. "And now to find out it was all a sham . . . some weak-minded escape for his own cowardice . . ." The tears again flood forward and she sways off balance. "Oh, Lord, if what Ron says . . . if it's true . . ." Stumbling toward me, she grabs the corner of the low Empire dresser on my left, barely able to stay on her feet.

"Ma'am!"

She holds up a hand to keep me back. Her eyes flit around the room. At first, I a.s.sume she's mid-panic-attack. But the way she keeps looking . . . from the side table on the left of the bed, to Manning's side table on the right, to the writer's desk, back to the Empire dresser . . . each is covered with picture frames-all shapes and sizes-all with photos of Manning. "H-How could he . . . how could they do that?" she asks, looking at me for the answer.

All I can offer is a sh.e.l.l-shocked stare. I can't feel my arms. Everything's numb. Is she saying that Manning knew abou-?

"Did Boyle say anything when you saw him? Did he offer any explanation?"

"I just . . . I walked in on him," I explain, barely hearing my own words. "He took off before I even realized what was happening."

The First Lady's hand starts shaking again. She's like me in Malaysia. Thanks to the letter, she's finally hearing that her dead friend is actually alive. And from what Boyle wrote, for some reason he blames himself, saying he did it to protect his family. Overwhelmed by the moment, Dr. Manning takes a seat on the hand-painted American flag chest at the foot of the bed and stares down at Boyle's handwritten letter. "I just can't-"

"He called me yesterday and told me to stay away," I add for no good reason. "That it wasn't my fight." I feel a flush of rage. "But it is is my fight." my fight."

She looks at me absently as if she'd forgotten I was there. Her jaw tightens, and she presses her hand against her lap until it stops shaking. It's bad enough she's so emotionally distraught. It's even worse that it's happening in front of me. Within an eyeblink, her chin and posture stiffen, and her political instincts, honed by years of keeping private matters private, kick in. "He's right," she blurts.

"What're you talking about?"

"Listen to Boyle," she says. Then, as an afterthought, "Please."

"But, ma'am-"

"Forget you ever saw him, forget he ever called you." As her voice cracks, I realize I was wrong. This isn't about her being emotionally exposed. It's about her being protective. And not just of her husband. Of me too. "Wes, if you walk away now, at least they won't know that you-"

"They already know. They know I saw him . . ."

"They? Who's Who's they they?" she asks, c.o.c.king an anxious eyebrow.

"The Three," I insist.

She looks up as I say the words, and I spot the recognition in her eyes. They were messing with her friend too-of course, she knows the details. But that doesn't mean she wants to drag me into the rest of it.

"I know who they are," I tell her.

"I don't think you do, Wes."

"How can you-?" I cut myself off as adrenaline buries the nauseous undertow I'm feeling. I've let her protect me for eight years. It's enough. "I know The Three were fighting with the President and Boyle. I know Blackbird Blackbird, whatever it was, was worth a quick six-million-dollar payout for The Roman, who apparently was one of the government's top informants. I know that the payout was rejected by the President in one of the national security briefings. And I know that losing that kind of cash-and whatever else they would've made after it-had to've enraged them. The only thing I can't figure out is, where'd Boyle fit in, and what'd he do that had The Three angry enough to pull the trigger?"

I expect her to be relieved to have someone with her, but she looks more frightened than ever, which quickly reminds me that this letter is as much of a shock to her as spotting Boyle was to me. And even with me digging up her worst family secrets, regardless of what Boyle or her husband did, she doesn't want to see me hurt by it.

"How did you learn about The Three?" she asks.

I hesitate at first. "Friend of a friend who works for DOD."

"And who told you they were fighting with the President?"

"That part I guessed on."

Panicking, she studies me, weighing the permutations. She knows I'm not her enemy. But that doesn't mean she's letting me be her friend. Still, I'm definitely close. Too close to just send me on my way.

"I can help you," I tell her.

She shakes her head, unconvinced.

"Ma'am, they know I saw Boyle. If you're trying to keep me safe, it's already too late. Just tell me what Boyle did and-"

"It's not what Boyle did did," she whispers. "It's what he didn't didn't do." She catches herself, already regretting it. do." She catches herself, already regretting it.

"Didn't do to who who? To the President?"

"No!" But that's all she tosses my way. Looking down, she curls back into a ball.

"Then to who? To you? To Albright? Just tell me who it was."

She's dead silent.

"Dr. Manning, please, you've known me eight years. Have I ever done anything that would hurt you?"

She continues to stare down, and I can't say I blame her. She's the former First Lady of the United States. She's not sharing her fears with some young aide. I don't care. I need to know.

"So that's it? I'm supposed to just walk away?"

Still no answer. No doubt, she's hoping I'll be my usual self and shrink from the conflict. Two days ago, I would've. Not today.

"That's fine," I tell her as I head for the door. "You have every right to keep it to yourself, but you need to understand this: When I leave here, I'm not giving up. That bullet hit my my face. And until I find out what really happened that day, I'm going to keep searching, keep digging, keep asking questions of every single person that was-" face. And until I find out what really happened that day, I'm going to keep searching, keep digging, keep asking questions of every single person that was-"

"Don't you see? It was an offer."

I turn, but I'm not surprised. Whatever Boyle did, if she tells me the truth, at least she has a chance of containing it. And for someone who already has third-degree burns from the glare of the public spotlight, containment is all.

"An offer for what?" I ask, well aware of the box she lives in. If there's something she needs to keep hidden, she can't risk letting me walk out of here armed with embarra.s.sing questions.

But she's still hesitating.

"I'm sorry you don't trust me," I say, heading for the door.

"You said it yourself, Wes. As an informant, The Roman started bringing in tips."

"But The Roman was actually a Secret Service agent, right?"

"That's what they think now. now. But no one knew that back then. In those days, the agencies were just happy to get The Roman's tips. Especially after Iraq, a correct, well-corroborated tip about a hidden training camp in Sudan? You saw how the war on terror works-indicators and warnings are all we have. Amazingly for The Roman, if he brought an a.s.sa.s.sination tip to the Secret Service, when the Service would go verify it with other agencies, the FBI would confirm it, as would the CIA. If he brought a tip to the FBI, it'd get authenticated by the CIA and the Service-and that verification is exactly what he needed for them to pay him as a source." But no one knew that back then. In those days, the agencies were just happy to get The Roman's tips. Especially after Iraq, a correct, well-corroborated tip about a hidden training camp in Sudan? You saw how the war on terror works-indicators and warnings are all we have. Amazingly for The Roman, if he brought an a.s.sa.s.sination tip to the Secret Service, when the Service would go verify it with other agencies, the FBI would confirm it, as would the CIA. If he brought a tip to the FBI, it'd get authenticated by the CIA and the Service-and that verification is exactly what he needed for them to pay him as a source."

"So under the guise of The Roman, The Three would bring the tips into their separate agencies, then just corroborate them amongst themselves . . ."

". . . making it look like everyone-FBI, CIA, and the Service-were all in agreement. Sad to say, it happens all the time-last year in the State Department, someone made up a tip. The difference is, in most cases, they get caught because it doesn't match what the other agencies are saying. But here . . . well, if they hadn't gotten so greedy, it might've been a simple way to supplement their midlevel government salaries."

"But they got greedy?"

"Everyone's greedy," the First Lady says as years of buried anger rise again to the surface. "They knew the system. They knew that small tips about some hidden training camp would only net them fifty thousand or so. And they also knew that the only way to get the big money they were after was to lie low and save their energy for those onetime shock-and-awe tips: The Golden Gate Bridge is being targeted . . . that shoe warehouse in Pakistan is really a chemical factory. Once everyone's convinced that The Roman's last nine tips were right, they'll pay anything for the jumbo-sized tenth-even if it never happens. And when the FBI and CIA and Service all corroborate it and agree the threat is real? That's how the informant who brought it in gets his multimillion-dollar payday."

"So what was their problem?" I ask, trying to sound strong. Adrenaline only lasts so long. With each new detail of our old lives, the nauseous undertow floods back.

"The problem was, FBI and CIA case officers can only approve payouts of $200,000. To get into the multimillion range that would put The Three in retirement, the payday had to be approved by the White House."

"And that's what Blackbird Blackbird was, right? They were starting to cash out with their first big tip, but it got shot down by the President." was, right? They were starting to cash out with their first big tip, but it got shot down by the President."

She nods, and eyes me, impressed. "That's when they realized they needed someone on the inside. Boyle was warned about it back then-that they might try approaching him, especially because of his background . . ."

"Wait, whoa, whoa-so The Three-"

"Stop calling them that. Don't you see? None of this happened because of The Three. It happened because they got smart and reached out for a new member. The Three was done. This is about The Four."

83.

You sure that's right?" Rogo asked, reading from the original May 27 entry in Boyle's datebook. He held it up to the redacted photocopy just to make sure it was a perfect fit. Underneath the x.x.xx.x.xx.x.xx.x.xx.x.xx.x.xx.x.x.

were the handwritten words Dr. Eng 2678 Griffin Rd. Ft. L.

"That's the big secret they were hiding from the ma.s.ses?" Rogo added. "That Boyle had a doctor's appointment?"

"It is is personal information," Freddy pointed out, slowly approaching them as Rogo tucked the original into a nearby file. personal information," Freddy pointed out, slowly approaching them as Rogo tucked the original into a nearby file.

"Makes complete sense," Dreidel agreed. "In every White House, half the staff lines up to see a shrink."

Standing at the edge of one of the long research stacks, Rogo turned to his friend, who was sitting on the corner of a nearby desk. "Who says he's a shrink?" Rogo challenged.

"Wha?"

"Dr. Eng. What makes you think he's a shrink?"

"I don't know, I just a.s.sumed he-"

"Listen, guys, I'd love to spend the rest of the night debating the merits of Eng's particular practice," Freddy interrupted, "but this is still a government building, and like any government building, when the little hand reaches the five-"

"Can you just run one more quick search?" Rogo asked, pointing to the library computers.

"I'm trying to be helpful. Really. But c'mon-the library's closed."

"Just one more search."

"It's already-"

"Just put in the words Dr. Eng Dr. Eng," Rogo pleaded. "Please-it'll take less than thirty seconds. It's just typing two words-Dr. and and Eng Eng-into the bat-computer. You do that and we'll be gone so fast, you'll be home in time for the early early news."

Freddy stared at Rogo. "One last search and that's it."