The Book of Fate

24

Manning Presidential Library. How can I assist you?” the receptionist answers.

“I have some questions on presidential records,” I say, checking for the second time that the door to my office is closed. Rogo said I could use his office to make the call, but between lunch and all our chatting, I’ve already been gone too long.

“Let me transfer you to the archivist of the day,” the receptionist adds.

With a click, I’m on my way. And while I could just call the head of the entire library, like Rogo said, better to keep it low-key.

“Kara speaking. What can I help you with today?” a soft female voice asks.

“Hi, Kara. This is Wes over in the personal office. We’re trying to get some of Ron Boyle’s old files for a tribute book we’re working on, so I was just wondering if you could help us pull some of those together?”

“I’m sorry, and your name again?”

“Wes Holloway. Don’t worry… I’m on the staff list,” I say with a laugh. She doesn’t laugh back.

“I’m sorry, Wes, but before we release any documents, we need you to fill out a FOIA request stating who it’s for—”

“President Manning. He requested them personally,” I interrupt.

Every law has exceptions. Cops can run red lights. Doctors can illegally park during emergencies. And when your name is Leland Manning, you get any sheet of paper you want from the Leland Manning Presidential Library.

“J-Just tell us what you need. I’ll start pulling it together,” she offers.

“Fantastic,” I say, flipping open the thick loose-leaf binder on my desk. The first page is labeled Presidential Records and Historical Materials. We call it the guide to the world’s biggest diary.

For four years in the White House, every file, every e-mail, every Christmas card that was sent out was logged, copied, and saved. By the time we left Washington, it took five battle-sized military cargo planes to haul the forty million documents, 1.1 million photographs, twenty million printed e-mail messages, and forty thousand “artifacts,” including four different Cowardly Lion telephones, two of which were handmade with the President’s face on them. Still, the only way to find the needle is to jump into the haystack. And the only way to figure out what Boyle was up to is to pull open his desk drawers and see what’s inside.

“Under White House Staff, let’s start with all of Boyle’s records as deputy chief,” I say, flipping to the first few pages of the records guide, “and naturally, all of his own files, including correspondence to and from him.” I flip to the next tab in the notebook. “And I’d also like to get his personnel records. Those would include any work complaints filed against him, correct?”

“It should,” the archivist says, now suspicious.

“Don’t worry,” I laugh, hearing the change in her voice, “that’s just to vet him so we know for sure where all the skeletons are.”

“Yeah… of course… it’s just — what do you need these for again?”

“A book the President’s working on — about Boyle’s years of service, from the White House to the shooting at the speedway—”

“If you want, we have the actual clip — y’know, with Boyle… and that young man who got hit in the face…”

When John Hinckley tried to kill Ronald Reagan, he hit the President, James Brady, Secret Service Agent Tim McCarthy, and police officer Thomas Delahanty. We all know James Brady. McCarthy and Delahanty became Trivial Pursuit answers. Just like me.

“So how fast do you think you can pull that together?” I ask.

She pants slightly into the phone. It’s the closest thing she’s got to a laugh. “Let me just… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen… you’re probably looking at something like eighteen linear feet — or about… let’s see… 36,000 pages.”

“Thirty-six thousand pages,” I repeat, my own voice sinking. The haystack just got eighteen feet taller.

“If you tell me a little bit more what you’re looking for, I probably can help you narrow your search a little better…”

“Actually, there’re a couple of things we were trying to get as soon as possible. The President said there were some other researchers on the book who were working with the library. Is there a way to tell us what files they pulled so we don’t overlap?”

“Sure, but… when it comes to other people’s requests, we’re not supposed to—”

“Kara… it is Kara, right?” I ask, stealing one straight from Manning. “Kara, it’s for the President…”

“I realize that, but the rules—”

“I appreciate the rules. I really do. But these are people working with the President. We’re all on the same side, Kara,” I add, trying not to beg. “And if I don’t find this, then I’m the person who didn’t get the President his list. Please tell me you know what that’s like. I need this job, Kara — more than you’ll ever realize.”

There’s a long pause on the other line, but like any librarian, Kara’s a pragmatist. I hear her typing in the background. “What’re their names?” she asks.

“Last name Weiss, first name Eric,” I say, once again starting with Boyle’s old Houdini codename.

There’s a loud click as she hits the Enter key. I check my door for the third time. All clear.

“We’ve got two different Eric Weisses. One did some research the first year we were open. The other made a request about a year and a half ago, though it looks like it was a book report kid who wanted to know the President’s favorite movie…”

“All the President’s Men,” we both say simultaneously.

She again laughs that panting laugh. “I don’t think that’s your researcher,” she adds, finally warming up.

“What about the other Weiss?”

“As I said, he’s from the first year we opened… mailing address in Valencia, Spain…”

“That’s him!” I blurt, quickly catching myself.

“Certainly looks like it,” Kara says. “He’s got a few similar requests… some of Boyle’s files… the President’s schedule from the day of the shooting… The odd thing is, according to the notes here, he paid for copies — expensive too, almost six hundred dollars’ worth — but when we sent them out, the package bounced back to us. According to the file, no one was listed at that address.”

Like a photo in a darkroom, the edges of the picture slowly harden and flower into view. The FBI said Boyle was spotted in Spain. If that was his first request from the library, and then he ran, maybe he was worried people knew that his name was… “Try Carl Stewart,” I say, switching to the codename Boyle used in the Malaysian hotel.

“Carl Stewart,” Kara repeats, clicking away. “Yep — here we go…”

“You have him?”

“How could we not? Almost two hundred requests over the past three years. He’s requested over 12,000 pages…”

“Yeah, no… he’s thorough,” I tell her, careful not to lose focus. “And just to be sure we have the right one, what’s the last address you have for him?”

“In London… it’s care of the post office at 92A Balham High Road. And the zip is SW12 9AF.”

“That’s the one,” I say, scribbling it down, even though I know it’s the British equivalent of a P.O. box. And just as untraceable.

Before I can say another word, the door to my office swings open. “He’s in the closet,” Claudia announces, referring to the President. I was afraid of this. Closet is her code for the bathroom — Manning’s last stop before we head out to an event. If he’s true to form — and he always is — that’s my two-minute warning.

“So would you like me to just send you a list of what else he requested?” the librarian asks through the receiver.

“Wes, you hear what I said?” Claudia adds.

I hold a finger up to our chief of staff. “Yeah, if you can send me the list, that’d be perfect,” I tell the librarian. Claudia taps her watch, and I throw her a nod. “And if I can ask you one last favor — that last document he received — when was that sent?”

“Let’s see… says here the fifteenth, so about ten days ago,” the librarian replies.

I sit up straight, and the picture in the darkroom starts to take on brand-new details. Since the day the library opened, Boyle’s been pulling documents and hunting through files. Ten days ago, he requested his final one — then suddenly came out of hiding. I don’t know much, but it’s pretty clear that finding that file is the only way out of the darkroom and into the light.

“Service are mobilizing,” Claudia says, glancing up the hallway and watching the agents gather at the front door of the office.

I stand up and stretch the phone cord to the chair that holds my suit jacket. Sliding my arm in, I stay with the librarian. “How long would it take you to send me a copy of the last document he received?”

“Let’s see, it went out last week, so it still might be in Shelly’s… Hold on, let me check.” There’s a short pause on the line.

I look over at Claudia. We don’t have many rules, but one of the vital ones is to never keep the President waiting. “Don’t worry — I’m coming.”

She looks over her shoulder and down the hallway. “I’m serious, Wes,” she threatens. “Who you talking to anyway?”

“Library. Just trying to get the final list of the honchos who’ll be there tonight.”

In our office, when the President gets lonely for his old life, we’ll catch him calling his Formers: former British prime minister, former Canadian prime minister, even the former French president. But the help I need is far closer than that.

“Got it right here. It’s just a one-pager,” the librarian interrupts. “What’s your fax number?”

Relaying the number, I fight my other arm into my sleeve. The President’s and First Lady’s metal heads jingle on my lapel pin. “And you’ll send it now?”

“Whenever you want… it’s—”

“Now.”

I hang up the phone, grab my bag of tricks, and dart for the door. “Just tell me when Manning’s coming,” I say to Claudia as I squeeze past her and duck into the copy room directly across from my office.

“Wes, this isn’t funny,” she says, clearly annoyed.

“It’s coming through right now,” I lie, standing in front of our secure fax machine. Every day at six a.m., Manning’s NIDs — the National Intelligence Daily — arrive by secure fax in the exact same spot. Sent out by the CIA, the NIDs contain briefs on an array of sensitive intelligence topics and are the last umbilical cord all Formers have with the White House. Manning races for it like catnip. But for me, what’s being transmitted right now is far more potent.

“Wes, go to the door. I’ll take care of the fax.”

“It’ll just—”

“I said go to the door. Now.”

I turn around to face Claudia just as the fax machine hiccups to life. Her smoker’s lips purse, and she looks angry — angrier than anyone should be over a silly little fax.

“It’s okay,” I stutter. “I’ll get it.”

“Dammit, Wes—”

Before she can finish, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out as a simple distraction. “Just gimme one sec,” I say to Claudia as I check caller ID. Undisclosed caller. There aren’t many people who have this number.

“Wes here,” I answer.

“Don’t react. Just smile and act like it’s an old friend,” a grainy voice crackles through the receiver. I recognize him instantly.

Boyle.