The Book Of Fate Part 38

A few keystrokes later, as Freddy hunched over the keyboard, the answer popped on-screen.

No other records found.

"And you-?"

"I checked everything: the WHORM file, staff and office collections, e-mail, even the few odd bits of microfiche from the old national security stuff," Freddy said, well past annoyed. "The library's now officially closed," he added, standing from his seat and pointing to the door. "So unless you'd like to be introduced to our well-trained security staff, I suggest you have a nice day."

Walking swiftly through the brick and concrete courtyard in front of the library, Rogo was a full five feet in front of Dreidel as they headed toward the car. "A business. Yes, in Fort Lauderdale," Rogo said into his cell phone. "I'm looking for the number of a Dr. Eng. E-N-G."

"I have a Dr. Brian Brian Eng on Griffin Road," the operator said. Eng on Griffin Road," the operator said.

"Two six seven eight, exactly," Rogo said, reading the address off the sheet of paper they had copied it to. "And does it say what kind of doctor he is?"

"I'm sorry, sir-we don't list occupations. Please hold for that number."

Within seconds, a mechanized female voice announced, "At the customer's request, the number is nonpublished and is not listed in our records."

"Are you friggin'- What kinda doctor keeps an unlisted phone number?" As he turned back to Dreidel, he added, "Anything on the Web?"

Staring down at the tiny screen on his phone, Dreidel fidgeted with the b.u.t.tons like a grandparent with a remote control. "I know I'm set up for Internet access-I just can't figure out how to-"

"Then whattya been doing for the past five minutes? Give it here," Rogo snapped, s.n.a.t.c.hing the phone from his hand. With a few clicks and s.h.i.+fts, Rogo entered the name Dr. Brian Eng Dr. Brian Eng and hit and hit Enter. Enter. For almost a full two minutes, he scrolled and clicked but didn't say a word. For almost a full two minutes, he scrolled and clicked but didn't say a word.

"Anything?" Dreidel asked as they weaved around cars in the parking lot.

"Unreal," Rogo moaned, still clicking b.u.t.tons on the phone. "Not only is his number unlisted-the guy's somehow managed to stay out of every major search engine. Google . . . Yahoo! . . . you name it-put in Dr. Brian Eng Dr. Brian Eng and nothing comes up-it's ridiculous! If I put in the words and nothing comes up-it's ridiculous! If I put in the words Jewish Smurfs Jewish Smurfs, I get a page full of hits, but Dr. Brian Eng Dr. Brian Eng gives me goose egg?" Approaching the driver's side of the Toyota, Rogo slapped the phone shut and tossed it across the roof of the car to Dreidel. "Which leads us right back to, what kinda doctor keeps himself so hidden, he's almost impossible to find?" gives me goose egg?" Approaching the driver's side of the Toyota, Rogo slapped the phone shut and tossed it across the roof of the car to Dreidel. "Which leads us right back to, what kinda doctor keeps himself so hidden, he's almost impossible to find?"

"I don't know . . . a mob doctor?" Dreidel guessed.

"Or an abortion doctor," Rogo countered.

"What about a plastic surgeon-y'know, for the really rich who don't want people to know?"

"Actually, that's not a bad call. Wes said it looked like Boyle changed some of his features. Maybe the May 27th appointment was his first office consult."

Sliding into the pa.s.senger seat, Dreidel glanced down at his watch. Outside, it was already starting to get dark. "We can swing by when they open tomorrow morning."

"You kidding?" Rogo said as he started the car. "We should go right now."

"He's probably closed."

"Still, if the building's open, I bet the directory in the lobby'll at least tell us what kind of practice he has."

"But to trek all the way to Fort Lauderdale . . ."

Halfway out of the parking spot, Rogo jammed the brakes and s.h.i.+fted the car back into park. park. Turning to his right, he glared at Dreidel, who was still staring out the front winds.h.i.+eld. Turning to his right, he glared at Dreidel, who was still staring out the front winds.h.i.+eld.

"What?" Dreidel asked.

"Why don't you want me driving to this doctor right now?"

"What're you talking about? I'm just trying to save us time."

Rogo lowered his chin. "Good," he said, jerking the car back into gear. "Next stop, Dr. Brian Eng."

84.

Wait, you're telling me Boyle-"

"They invited him in," the First Lady explains, her voice shaking with each word. "Why be three hors.e.m.e.n when you can be more effective as four?"

"And Boyle said yes?"

"We didn't know . . ." She pauses, wondering whether to tell me the rest. But she knows I'll run out and ask the questions myself if she doesn't. "We didn't think so," she says.

"I don't understand," I say, my chest in knots.

"You think they gave Ron a choice? The Three had access to the same FBI files we did. They knew his weakness-the child he thought none of us knew about . . ."

"Child? He had a-?"

"I told Lee that would come back to rip us. I told told him," she insists, more angry than ever. "I said it on the campaign-you could tell even back then. When you have a scab like that, someone's bound to come pick at it." him," she insists, more angry than ever. "I said it on the campaign-you could tell even back then. When you have a scab like that, someone's bound to come pick at it."

I nod, knowing better than to slow her down. "But for Boyle to actually join them-"

"That's not what I said. I said they approached approached him. But The Three didn't understand-with Ron . . . even with his child . . . with all the self-destructive messes he'd made . . . he'd never turn on us. Never. No matter the cost," she says, looking up. I get the point. She expects the same from me. him. But The Three didn't understand-with Ron . . . even with his child . . . with all the self-destructive messes he'd made . . . he'd never turn on us. Never. No matter the cost," she says, looking up. I get the point. She expects the same from me.

"Dr. Manning, I'm sorry-but the way you said it . . . You knew all this back then?"

"Wes, you were there with us. You know what was at stake. With someone like Ron . . . that kind of pressure point to exploit . . . you really think the FBI doesn't keep an extra eye on him?"

She stabs me with a look that almost knocks me to the ground. "Hold on . . . you're saying the FBI was watching Boyle? While we were in office?"

"They were trying to keep him safe, Wes. And even then, Lee fought them watching on every front-called Barry and Carl personally," she says, referring to our old FBI director and national security adviser. "Two days later, they found the deposit. Eleven thousand dollars in a bank account with Ron's daughter's name on it. Can you imagine? Using his daughter's daughter's name! They said that was probably The Three's opening offer. Take the money they slipped into his account, or they'd wreck his life and tell his wife about the child he was hiding on the side." name! They said that was probably The Three's opening offer. Take the money they slipped into his account, or they'd wreck his life and tell his wife about the child he was hiding on the side."

As she says the words, I'm the one who needs to lean on the dresser to stand. "But in . . . in the briefing book . . . I never saw anything about that."

"Every file wasn't for you, Wes."

"Still, if The Three were that close, couldn't you call-?"

"You think we weren't pulling up the floorboards? At that point, we didn't even have a name for who we were chasing. We knew they had someone from FBI because they'd clearly accessed Ron's files. Then when they transferred the money into Ron's bank account-Secret Service does financial crime-they said the way the money was sent, they were using techniques from inside. And blackmail? That's CIA bread and b.u.t.ter. We alerted every agency with an acronym and started telling them to look within!"

"I know . . . I just-" I catch myself, always careful to know my place. "Maybe I'm missing something, ma'am, but if you knew Boyle was being pressured into joining The Three, why didn't you just warn him him-or at least tell him that you knew he was being blackmailed?"

Looking down at the handwritten letter, Lenore Manning doesn't say a word.

"What?" I ask. "He was was being blackmailed, right?" being blackmailed, right?"

She sits on the hand-painted chest, still silent.

"Is there something I'm not-?"

"We needed to see what he would do," she finally says, her voice softer than ever.

A sharp chill seizes my spine. "You were testing him."

"You have to understand, when The Roman got that close-to penetrate our circle like that-it wasn't about Boyle anymore-we were trying to catch The Three." Her voice trembles-she's been holding this in for so long-she's practically pleading for forgiveness. "It was the FBI's request. If the myth was real, if a group of dirty agents were truly in contact, this was their chance to catch them all."

I nod like it makes sense. Ron Boyle was their oldest and dearest friend, but when The Three forced his head toward the mousetrap, the Mannings-the President and First Lady of the United States-still waited to see if he'd take the cheese.

"I know what you're thinking, Wes, but I swear to you, I was trying to protect Ron. I told them that: Give him time to resign. Make sure to look out for-" She swallows hard, shaking her head over and over and over. I've seen the First Lady angry, upset, sad, offended, enraged, distressed, anxious, worried, and even-when she came out of hip replacement surgery a few years back-in pain. But I've never seen her like this. Not even when we left the White House. Catching herself, she presses her chin against her chest to stop her head from shaking. The way she turns away from me, she hopes I don't notice. But as always, in this job, I see it all. "They were supposed to look out for him," she whispers, lost in her own broken promise. "They . . . they swore he'd be safe."

"And Boyle never told you The Three approached him?"

"I was waiting for it . . . praying for him to take us aside. Every day, we'd get a report on whether he'd accepted their offer. No response No response, they kept saying. I knew Ron was fighting it. I knew it," she insists as she hugs her own shoulder, curling even tighter. "But they told us to keep waiting . . . just to be sure. And then when he was shot . . ." She stares down at the floor as a surprise sob and a decade of guilt seize her throat. "I thought we'd buried him."

As I stare across at the handwritten letter in her lap, the mental puzzle pieces slide into place. "So all this time, the real reason Boyle was shot wasn't because he crossed The Three, it was because he refused to join join them?" them?"

She looks back, c.o.c.king her head. Her voice is still barely a whisper. "You don't even know who you're fighting, do you?"

"What're you-?"

"Have you even read this?" she asks, slapping the letter against my chest. "On the day he was shot, Ron hadn't given The Three a decision yet!" There's a s.h.i.+ft in her tone. Her eyes widen. Her mouth hangs open. At first, I think she's angry, but she's not. She's afraid.

"Dr. Manning, are you okay?"

"Wes, you should go. This isn't . . . I can't-"

"You can't what? I don't underst-"

"Please, Wes, just go!" she pleads, but I'm already staring back at the letter. My brain's racing so fast, I can't read it. But what she said-on the day of the shooting, if Boyle hadn't given The Three a decision yet . . . for all they knew, he still could've gone to join them.

My forehead crinkles, struggling to process. But if that was the case . . . "Then why kill him?" I ask.

"Wes, before you jump to conclusions-"

"Unless they knew Ron was having second thoughts . . ."

"Did you hear what I said? You can't-"

". . . or maybe they thought they'd revealed too much . . . or . . . or they realized he was under surveillance . . ."

"Wes, why aren't you listening to me!?" she shouts, trying to pull the letter from my hands. she shouts, trying to pull the letter from my hands.

"Or maybe they found someone better to fill the fourth spot," I blurt, tugging the letter back.

The First Lady lets go, and the page hits my chest with a thunderclap. My whole body feels a thousand pounds heavier, weighed down by the kind of numbing, all-consuming dread that comes with bad news at a doctor's office. "Is that what happened?" I demand.

Her answer comes far too slowly. "No."

My mouth goes dry. My tongue feels like a wad of damp newspaper.

"That's not . . . Ron didn't . . ." the First Lady says. "Maybe Ron's wrong . . ."

"Boyle was deputy chief of staff. There aren't that many people who're better at getting the-"

"You don't understand. He's a good man . . . he must've been tricked," she continues, practically rambling.

"Ma'am . . ."

"He never would've done it on purpose . . ."

"Ma'am, please-"

". . . even if they promised four more years-"

"Can you please calm down!" I insist. "Who could they possibly get that's bigger than Boyle?"

Still hunched forward on the trunk at the foot of her bed, the First Lady lifts her chin, staring straight at me. Like the President, like everyone in our office, she doesn't look at my scars. She hasn't for years. Until right now.

The question echoes over and over through my brain. They were looking for a fourth. Who would be the biggest fourth of all?

I glance down at the letter that's still in my hands. On the bottom of the page, the meticulous handwritten note reads: But I never thought they'd be able to get him.

Blood drains from my face. That's what she realized. That's why she asked me to leave. She'd never turn on- "Him?" I ask. "You can't mean-?"

"Wes, everything okay up there?" President Lee Manning shouts from the base of the stairs. "We're still waiting for that sport coat!"

I turn to the First Lady. The President's footsteps hammer up the stairway.

85.

The First Lady starts to say something, but it's like she's talking underwater. Teetering backward, I crash into the desk with all the Manning photos, which wobble and shake. Like me. To do that to me- The room whirls, and my life swirls into the kaleidoscope. All these years . . . to lie to my- G.o.d, how could he-? There's no time for an answer. From the footsteps outside the bedroom, it's clear the President is almost at the top of the stairs. If he sees me with her- "Wes?" he calls out.

"Coming, sir!" I yell as I rush to his closet, tug a navy sport coat off its hanger, and shoot one last look at the First Lady, who's still frozen on the hand-painted trunk. Her eyebrows lift, her cheeks seem almost hollow. She doesn't say a word, but the cry for help is deafening.