The Book of Fate

108

You don’t believe me, do you?” Boyle asked Rogo as the white van skidded out of the parking lot and swerved onto Griffin Road.

“Does it matter what I think?” Rogo replied, gripping the console between their bucket seats and staring out the front window. “C’mon, make this light.”

The van blew through the 25th Avenue intersection as Rogo checked his side mirror to see if anyone was following. So far, all clear.

“You still need to hear it, Rogo. If something happens t— Someone needs to know what they did.”

“And you couldn’t just write a letter to the editor like everyone else?” When Boyle didn’t respond, Rogo shook his head and again glanced in the side mirror. The Marshals’ white building was barely a dot in the horizon. “So all this time, you were in Witness Protection?”

“I told you, version 2.0. Witness Fortification,” Boyle clarified. “Not that they’d ever acknowledge its existence. But once I told Manning what was happening — usually, it takes the President one phone call to make something happen. It took Manning three separate calls to get me inside.”

“And they do this a lot? I mean, c’mon, making families think their loved ones are dead?”

“How do you think the government prosecutes their terrorism cases against these suicidal maniacs? You think some of those witnesses would’ve talked if the Justice Department couldn’t absolutely guarantee their safety? There are animals in the world, Rogo. If The Three, The Four, whatever they call themselves — if they thought I was alive and hiding, they’d slit my wife and kids’ throats, then go out for a beer.”

“But to lie to people like that…”

“I didn’t choose this life. The Three chose me. And once that happened, once they tossed me aside for the First Lady, this was the only way to keep my wife safe, and my kid — both kids — alive.”

“You still could’ve—”

“Could’ve what? Taken the family into hiding with me? Put everyone at risk and hoped for the best? The only absolutely unassailable hiding spot is the one where no one knows you’re hiding. Besides, The Three have single-handedly compromised our top law enforcement agencies, picked apart our databases for their private use, and collected thousands of dollars in Title 50 money for confidential tips about terror attacks — all without us ever knowing who the hell they were.”

“Until two days ago when they panicked and went after Wes.”

“They didn’t panic,” Boyle said as he slowly pressed the brakes. Two blocks in front of them, the three lanes of Griffin Road narrowed into one. Something was definitely blocking the road. “Is that construction?” Boyle asked, craning his neck and squinting through the dark.

“I think it’s an accident.”

“You sure?”

“Isn’t that an ambulance?

Boyle nodded as the cars came into view — an ambulance, a tow truck, and a silver car turned sideways from the collision. Boyle glanced to his left, already eyeing the side streets.

“Something wrong?” Rogo asked.

“Just being cautious.” Refusing to lose his thought, he added, “Anyhow, The Three didn’t panic. They got greedy and fat — thanks mostly to The Roman.”

“So what the First Lady told Wes was true,” Rogo said. “That they started with all these small tips — VX gas in Syria, training camps in Sudan — and then used that to build credibility until they could find the monster threats and ask for the multimillion-dollar let’s-all-retire paydays.”

“No, no, no. Don’t you see?” Boyle asked, quickly pulling out of the single-file line of traffic and rechecking what was causing the accident. But all was normal. Ambulance. Tow truck. Wrecked silver car. Flipping open the console between them, Boyle checked on a small box the size of a videotape, then closed it just as fast. He tried to hide it with his elbow, but Rogo saw the word Hornady in bright red letters on the box’s side. Growing up in Alabama, he knew the logo from his dad’s hunting trips. Hornady bullets. “Once they established The Roman as a solid informant, they didn’t even need the big threat. Why do you think people are so worried about agencies working together? The Roman would bring his info into the Service, then Micah and O’Shea would serve it again from their outposts in the FBI and CIA. Now, each one’s confirmed the other. That’s how informants get verified: You check it with someone else. And once all three agencies agree, well, fiction becomes fact. It’s like that bombing threat on the New York City subways a few years back — not a single grain of truth behind it, but the informant still got paid. Meanwhile, is this the only way to get to I-95?”

Rogo nodded and cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t get it — they made it all up?”

“Not in the beginning. But once they built that reputation for The Roman, they could sprinkle bad tips in with the good and earn a little more cash. And with the big stuff — you think six-million-dollar tips just jump in your lap?”

“But to make something that big up—”

“It’s like making the Statue of Liberty disappear — it’s the kind of magic trick you pull off once, then disappear until the dust settles. So when their first attempt…”

“Blackbird.”

“… when Blackbird was set up, they had it perfect: hold a fake NSA computer hostage and reel in the cash. It was big enough to get serious money, but unlike promising that a building was about to blow up, there was no penalty or suspicion if the White House decided not to pay. Then when Blackbird failed and we didn’t pay, they were smart enough to realize they needed an inside track at the White House just to make sure the next request went through.”

“That’s when they approached and threatened you.”

“When they approached and threatened me, and when they tried the softer sell on someone with even more power than that.”

“But to assume that you or the First Lady would go for it — much less be able to pull six-million-dollar strings over and over…”

“Y’ever been fishing, Rogo? Sometimes, you’re better off throwing in a few lines with different bait and seeing who nibbles. That’s the only reason they approached both of us. And though she’ll forever deny it — in fact, she probably doesn’t even think she did anything wrong anymore — but the First Lady’s the one who swam toward the hook,” Boyle explained. “And as for making their next six million happen, or the ten million after that, look at any White House in history. The most powerful people in the room aren’t the ones with the big titles. They’re the ones with the President’s ear. I’ve had that ear since I was twenty-three years old. The only one who’s had it longer is the person he’s married to. Whatever they came in next with — if she had a hand in it and thought it’d help them on security issues — believe me, it’d have gotten through.”

“I don’t get it, though. Once Blackbird got nuked, didn’t they at least need some kinda results before they could make another big request like that?”

“Whattya think I was?” Boyle asked.

Rogo turned to his left but didn’t say a word.

“Rogo, for the snake-oil scam to succeed, people only need to see the cure work once. That’s what The Three gave them — courtesy of two bullets in my chest.”

Sitting up in his seat, Rogo continued to study Boyle, who was staring at the open back doors of the ambulance that was less than a car’s length away.

“Twenty minutes before the shooting, the Secret Service Web site was sent a tip about a man named Nico Hadrian who was planning to assassinate President Manning when he stepped out of his limo at Daytona International Speedway. It was signed The Roman. From that moment on, anything he would’ve given them — especially when it was corroborated by the FBI and CIA — well, you know the paranoid world we live in. Forget drugs and arms sales. Information is the opiate of the military masses. And terrorist information about attacks on our own soil? That’s how you print your own money,” Boyle said. “Even better, by taking their stealthier approach with the First Lady, they wouldn’t’ve even had to split the cash four ways.”

As they pulled past the ambulance, they both looked to their left and peered into its open back doors. But before they could even see that there wasn’t a victim, a gurney, or a single medical supply inside, there was a metal thud against the back door. Then one from above. On both sides of the van, a half dozen plainclothes U.S. marshals swarmed from the tow truck and silver car, fanning out and pointing their guns against the side windows and front windshield. Outside Boyle’s door, a marshal with bushy caterpillar eyebrows tapped the barrel of his gun against the glass.

“Nice to see you again, Boyle. Now get the fuck out of that van.”