The Book Of Fate Part 4

"I don't need to sleep in. I'm good. And FYI, it's not a cult."

"First of all, it is is a cult. Second, don't say a cult. Second, don't say FYI. FYI. My mother says My mother says FYI. FYI. So does yours." So does yours."

"That doesn't mean it's a cult," I push back.

"Really? So it's healthy that almost eight years after you left the White House, you're still running errands like some overhyped intern? What happened to grad school, or that event coordinator job, or even that threat of being a chef you made a few years back? Do you even enjoy work anymore, or d'you just stay there because it's safe and they protect you?"

"We do more good for the community than you'd ever know."

"Yeah, if you're chief of staff. You, on the other hand, spend half your day wondering whether he wants iceberg or romaine lettuce in his salad!"

I grip the steering wheel and stare straight ahead. He doesn't understand.

"Don't do that!" Rogo threatens. "Don't save your confidence for Manning. I just attacked you-you're supposed to fight back!"

There's a curdle in his voice that he usually saves just for traffic cops. He's getting riled, which isn't saying much for Rogo. In high school, he was the kid who threw his cards when he lost at Monopoly . . . and threw his tennis racket when he missed a shot. Back then, that temper got him in way too many fights, which was only made worse by the fact that he didn't have the physical size to back it up. He says he's 5'7". He's 5'6" if he's lucky.

"You know I'm right, Wes. Something internally bad happens when you give your entire existence to a single person. You feel me?"

He may be the smartest dumbest friend I have, but for once, he's reading me all wrong. My silence isn't from acquiescence. It's from my mental picture of Boyle, still staring at me with those brown and blue eyes. Maybe if I tell Rogo- My phone vibrates in my pocket. This early in the morning, it's only bad news. I flip open the phone and check caller ID. I'm wrong. Here comes the cavalry.

"Wes here," I say as I answer.

"Got time to chat?" Dreidel asks on the other end.

I glance over at Rogo, who's back to hunting for potential clients. "Let me call you right back."

"Don't bother. How about meeting for breakfast?"

"You're in town?" I ask, confused.

"Just for a quick business meeting. I tried to tell you when you called from Malaysia. You were too busy panicking," he points out in his usual perfect calm. "So breakfast?"

"Gimme an hour. I got one thing to do at work."

"Perfect. I'm at the Four Seasons. Call me from the lobby. Room 415."

I shut the phone and for the first time enjoy the pa.s.sing palm trees. Today's suddenly looking up.

8.

Miami, Florida O'Shea carried two pa.s.sports. Both of them legal. Both with the same name and address. One was blue, like any other U.S. citizen's. The other was red . . . and far more powerful. For diplomats only. Fingering the embossed letters of the pa.s.sports in his breast pocket, he could tell the red was on top. With a flick of his wrist, he could easily pull it out. And once the airport agents saw it, he'd no longer be stuck in the customs line that swerved through the back corridors of Miami International Airport. After the nine-and-a-half-hour flight from Paris to Florida, he'd walk right to the front. With a flick of his wrist, he'd be gone.

Of course, he'd also leave a trail of paperwork that tracked red pa.s.sports everywhere. And as his FBI training taught him, all trails were eventually followed. Still, in most cases, that trail would be manageable. But in this one-between Boyle and The Three . . . and all they'd done-nothing was worth the risk. Not with so much at stake.

"Next!" a Latino customs clerk called out, waving O'Shea up to the small bulletproof booth.

O'Shea readjusted the U.S. Open baseball cap that he wore to blend in. His sandy-blond hair still peeked out, curling up under the edges. "How's everything going?" he asked, knowing the small talk would keep the clerk from making eye contact.

"Fine," the clerk responded, his head down.

Pulling out his blue pa.s.sport, O'Shea handed it to the clerk.

For no reason, the clerk looked up. O'Shea had a smile waiting for him, just to keep things calm. As usual, the clerk immediately grinned back. "Coming back from work?" he asked.

"Lucky me, no. Vacation."

Nodding to himself, the clerk studied O'Shea's pa.s.sport. Even tilted it slightly to inspect the new holograms that they recently added to crack down on forgeries.

O'Shea readjusted his U.S. Open cap. If he'd pulled the red pa.s.sport, he wouldn't be waiting here.

"Have a great one," the clerk said, stamping O'Shea's pa.s.sport and handing it back. "And welcome home."

"Thanks," O'Shea replied, tucking the pa.s.sport back into his breast pocket. Right next to his FBI badge and ID.

Within a minute, O'Shea cut past the baggage carousels and headed for the signs marked Nothing to Declare/Exit. Nothing to Declare/Exit. As his foot hit the sensor mat, two frosted-gla.s.s doors slid open, revealing a mob of family and friends pressed against short metal barriers, waiting for their loved ones despite the early hour. Two little girls jumped, then sagged, when they realized O'Shea wasn't their dad. He didn't notice. He was too busy dialing a number on his cell phone. It rang three times before his partner answered. As his foot hit the sensor mat, two frosted-gla.s.s doors slid open, revealing a mob of family and friends pressed against short metal barriers, waiting for their loved ones despite the early hour. Two little girls jumped, then sagged, when they realized O'Shea wasn't their dad. He didn't notice. He was too busy dialing a number on his cell phone. It rang three times before his partner answered.

"Welcome, welcome," Micah said, finally picking up. From the soft humming in the background, it sounded like he was in a car.

"Tell me you're in Palm Beach," O'Shea replied.

"Got here last night. It's nice down here. Fancy. Y'know they got tiny water fountains on the sidewalks just for spoiled little dogs?"

"What about Wes?"

"Three cars in front of me," Micah said as the humming continued. "Him and his roommate just crossed the bridge a minute ago."

"I a.s.sume he hasn't seen you yet?"

"You said to wait."

"Exactly," O'Shea replied, stepping outside the airport and spotting his name on a handwritten sign. The private driver nodded h.e.l.lo and tried to grab O'Shea's small black piece of luggage. O'Shea waved him off and headed for the car, never taking the phone from his ear.

"He's dropping the roommate off right now," Micah added. "Looks like Wes is headed into work."

"Just stay with him," O'Shea replied. "I'll be there as quick as I can."

9.

Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

The phone shrieked through the small office, but he didn't pick it up. Same on the second ring. He knew who it was-on this line, there was only one person it could be-but he still didn't move. Not until he knew for sure. Leaning both elbows on his desk, Roland Egen studied his phone's digital screen, waiting for caller ID to kick in. Black electronic letters popped into place: Offices of Leland Manning. Offices of Leland Manning.

"You're early," The Roman said as he pressed the receiver to his ear. He had pale, rosy skin, bright blue eyes, and a shock of black hair. Black Irish Black Irish, his fis.h.i.+ng buddies called it. But never to his face.

"You said to make sure no one was here."

The Roman nodded to himself. Finally, someone who followed directions. "So the President's not in yet?"

"On his way. He sleeps late after overnight trips."

"And the First Lady?"

"I'm telling you, it's just me. Now can we hurry up? People'll be here any second."

Sitting at his desk and squinting out the window, The Roman watched as the light snow tumbled from the early morning sky. It may've been eighty degrees in Florida, but in D.C., winter was just unpacking its first punch. He didn't mind. When he was little, his grandmother had taught him to enjoy the quiet that came with the cold. Just as his grandfather had taught him to appreciate the calm that came to the waters of the Potomac. As any fisherman knew, winter chased away the jet skiers and pleasure boaters. And that was always the best time to put your line in the water. Especially when you had the right bait.

"What about Wes?" The Roman asked. "You get everything I sent?"

"Yeah . . . right here . . ."

He could hear the hesitation in his a.s.sociate's voice. No one liked being the bad guy-especially in politics. "And you found something to put it in?" The Roman asked.

"We have a- That's why I came in early. We have this lapel pin-"

"You can get him to wear it . . ."

"I-I think so."

"It wasn't a question. Get him to wear it," The Roman shot back.

"You sure Wes'll even come in?" his a.s.sociate asked. "Agents here said he was sick as a hound the entire flight back. Puked his lungs all over his pants."

Outside, a crack of blue light slit through the tired, gray sky. "I'm not surprised," The Roman said as the snow continued to fall. "If I were him right now, I'd be wrecking my pants too. Now about that pin . . ."

"Don't worry," his a.s.sociate said. "Wes won't even look twice at it . . . especially when it's served by a friendly face."

10.

Palm Beach, Florida Hold it!" I yell, darting around the corner of the lobby and heading for the elevator's closing doors. Inside the elevator, a blond woman looks away, pretending she didn't hear me. That's why I hate Palm Beach. As the doors are about to pucker in a tight kiss, I leap forward and squeeze through. Now stuck with me, the blonde turns to the floor selection panel and pretends she's searching for Door Open. Door Open. I should call her on it and tell her off. I should call her on it and tell her off.

"Thanks," I say, bent over as I catch my breath.

"What floor?"

"Four."

"Oh, you're with-"

"Yeah," I say, finally looking up to see her.

She stares at my face, then quickly glances up at the electronic floor indicator. If she could run and scream "Monster!" she would. But like the best Palm Beach hostesses, she'll overlook anything if it means a good social climb. "Must be wild to work for him," she adds, my new best friend, even though she refuses to make eye contact. I'm used to it by now. I haven't had a date in two years. But every pretty girl wants to talk to the President.

"Wilder than you know," I say as the doors open on the fourth floor. Heading left toward a set of closed double doors, I sprint out as fast as I can. Not because of the blonde, but because I'm already- "Late!" a scratchy voice scolds behind me. I spin back toward the open double doors of the Secret Service's suite, where a man with a neck as thick as my thigh sits behind a gla.s.s part.i.tion that looks like a bank teller's window.

"How late?" I call out, turning back toward the closed doors on the opposite side of the beige-carpeted hallway. Along with the Service's, they're the only doors on the whole floor-and unlike the law firm or the mortgage company just below, these doors aren't oak and stately. They're black and steel-lined. Bulletproof. Just like our windows.

"Late enough," he says as I pull my ID badge from my pocket. But just as I'm about to swipe it through the card reader, I hear a quiet thunk, and the closed doors unlock.

"Thanks, A.J.!" I call out, pulling the door open.

Inside, I check the left-hand wall for the Secret Service agent who usually stands guard. He's not there, which means the President's not in yet. Good. I check the reception desk. The receptionist is gone too. Bad.

c.r.a.p. That means they already . . .

Sprinting across the enormous presidential seal that's woven into the bright blue carpet, I cut to my left, where the hallway is lined with bad paintings and poor sculptures of the President. They've arrived every single day since we left office-all from strangers, fans, supporters. They draw, paint, pencil, sketch, bronze, and sculpt him in every possible permutation. The newest ones are a set of Florida toothpicks with his profile carved into each one, and a bright yellow ceramic sculpture of the sun, with his face in the middle. And that's not even including what the corporations send: every CD, every book, every DVD that's released, they all want the former President to have it, though all we do is s.h.i.+p it to his Presidential Library. Knocking over a beechwood walking cane with his childhood photos glued to it, I trip down the hall and head for the second-to-last office that's- "Nice of you to join us," a raspy female voice announces as the entire room turns at my arrival. I do a quick head count just to see if I'm last-two, three, four, five . . .

"You're last," Claudia Pacheco, our chief of staff, confirms as she leans back in her seat behind her messy mahogany desk. Claudia's got brown, graying hair that's pulled back in an almost military-tight bun and smoker's lips that reveal exactly where the raspy voice comes from. "President with you?" she adds.

I shake my head, forgoing my one excuse for being late.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Bev and Oren smirking to themselves. Annoying and annoyinger. They both eye the small gold lapel pin that sits on the corner of Claudia's desk. Sculpted in the shape of the White House, the gold pin was no bigger than a hotel piece from Monopoly, but what made it memorable were the two gold poorly sculpted heads of the President and First Lady, pressed together and joined by one connecting ear, that dangled like charms just below it. The President bought it for Claudia years ago as a gag gift from a street vendor in China. Today, it's part of her leftover White House tradition: whoever's the last to arrive at the Monday morning staff meeting wears the pin for the next week. If you miss the meeting, you wear it for a month. But to my surprise, Claudia doesn't reach for it.

"What happened with the break-in backstage?" she asks in her barreling Ma.s.sachusetts accent.

"Break-in?"

"In Malaysia . . . the guy in the President's holding room . . . the shattered gla.s.s table. My speaking Spanish here?"

In high school, Claudia was the girl who organized all the extracurricular events but never had any fun at them. It was the same when she ran Oval Office Operations, easily one of the most thankless jobs in the White House. She's not in it for the credit or the glory. She's here because she's dedicated. And she wants to make sure we are too.

"No . . . of course . . ." I stutter. "But it wasn't- That wasn't a break-in."

"That's not what the report said."

"They sent you a report?"

"They send us everything," Bev says from the two-person love seat perpendicular to Claudia's desk. She should know. As head of correspondence, she answers all the President's personal mail and even knows what inside jokes to put at the bottom of his friends' birthday cards. For a man with a good ten thousand "friends," it's tougher than it sounds, and the only reason Bev pulls it off is because she's been with the President since his first run for Congress almost twenty-five years ago.

"And they called it a break-in break-in?" I ask.