The Book of Fate

32

This?” Dreidel asks as he stares down at the unfolded fax. “This’s the last thing Boyle got from the library?”

“According to the archivist.”

“It doesn’t even make sense,” Dreidel moans. “I mean, a personnel file, I could understand… even an old targeting memo for some attack that went wrong… but a crossword puzzle?”

“That’s what she sent: one sheet with some names on a stupid Beetle Bailey cartoon — and on the opposite side, a faded, mostly finished…”

“… crossword puzzle,” Dreidel repeats. He studies the crossword’s handwritten answers. “It’s definitely Manning’s writing.”

“And Albright’s,” I say, referring to our former chief of staff. “Remember? Albright started the puzzles…”

“… and Manning finished them.” Turning back to the crossword, he points to a jumble of doodles and random letters on the right side of the puzzle. AMB… JABR… FRF… JAR… “What’re these?”

“No idea. I checked the initials, but they’re no one he knows. To be honest, it looks like gibberish.”

Dreidel nods, checking for himself. “My mother does the same thing when she’s working a puzzle. I think it’s just work space — testing letters… trying different permutations.” Focusing back on the puzzle itself, he reads each answer one by one. “What about the actual boxes? Anything interesting?”

“Just obscure words with lots of vowels. Damp… aral… peewee,” I read across the top, leaning over his shoulder.

“So the answers are right?”

“I’ve had a total of twelve seconds to look at it, much less solve it.”

“Definitely looks right,” Dreidel says, studying the finished puzzle. “Though maybe this’s what the FBI guy meant by The Three,” he adds. “Maybe it’s a number in the crossword.”

I shake my head. “He said it was a group.”

“It could still be in the crossword.”

Eyeing the only “three” in the puzzle, I point to the four-letter answer for 3 down. “Merc,” I say, reading from the puzzle.

“Short for mercenary,” Dreidel says, now excited. “A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive.”

“Now you’re reaching.”

“How can you say that? Maybe that’s exactly what we’re missing…”

“What, some hidden code that says, At the end of the first term, fake Boyle’s death and let him come back years later in Malaysia? C’mon, be real. There’s no secret message hidden in a Washington Post crossword puzzle.”

“So where does that leave us?” Dreidel asks.

“Stuck,” a female voice announces from the corner.

Spinning around, I almost swallow my tongue. Lisbeth enters quieter than a cat, her eyes searching the room to make sure we’re alone. The girl’s not dumb. She knows what happens if this gets out.

“This is a private conversation,” Dreidel insists.

“I can help you,” she offers. In her hand is a cell phone. I glance down at her purse and spot another. Son of a—

“Did you record us!? Is that why you left?” Dreidel explodes, already in lawyer mode as he hops out of his seat. “It’s illegal in Florida without consent!”

“I didn’t record you…”

“Then you can’t prove anything — without a record, it’s all just—”

“It could still be in the crossword… Merc… short for mercenary…” she begins, staring down at her left palm. Her voice never speeds up, always a perfect, unsettling calm. “A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive…” She turns her palm counterclockwise as she reads. “Now you’re reaching. I can keep going if you want. I haven’t even gotten to my wrist yet.”

“You tricked us,” I say, frozen at the table.

She stops at the accusation. “No, that’s not— I was just trying to see why you were lying to me.”

“So you do that by lying to us?”

“That wasn’t what I—” She cuts herself off and looks down, weighing the moment. This is harder than she thought. “Listen, I’m… I’m sorry, okay? But I’m serious… I can work with you on this.”

“Work with us? No, no no!” Dreidel shouts.

“You don’t understand…”

“Actually, I’m pretty damn fluent at this stuff — and the last thing I need right now is more time with you, listening to your bullshit! I have a no comment on all this, and anything you print, I’ll not only deny, but I’ll sue your ass back to whatever crappy high school newspaper taught you that damn phone trick in the first place!”

“Yeah, I’m sure a public lawsuit will really help your state election campaign,” Lisbeth says calmly.

“Don’t you dare bring that into— Dammit!” Dreidel screams, spinning around and slamming both fists against the welcoming table.

Still standing in the doorway, Lisbeth should be wearing a smile so wide, there’d be canary feathers dangling from her lips. Instead, she rubs the back of her neck as her front teeth click anxiously. I wore that same look when I walked in on one of the many fights between the President and First Lady. It’s like walking in on someone having sex. An initial thrill, followed instantly by the hollow dread that in a world of infinite possibilities, physical and temporal happenstance have conspired to place you at the regrettable, unreturnable moment that currently passes for your life.

Lisbeth takes a step back, bumping into the door. Then she takes a step forward. “I really can help you,” she says.

“Whattya mean?” I ask, standing up.

“Wes, don’t,” Dreidel moans. “This is stupid. We already—”

“I can get you information,” Lisbeth continues. “The newspaper… our contacts—”

“Contacts?” Dreidel asks. “We have the President’s Rolodex.”

“But you can’t call them,” Lisbeth shoots back. “And neither can Wes — not without tipping someone off.”

“That’s not true,” Dreidel argues.

“Really? So no one’ll raise an eyebrow when Manning’s two former aides start dissecting his old assassination attempt? No one’ll tattle to the President when you start sniffing around Boyle’s old life?”

We’re both speechless. Dreidel stops pacing. I brush some imaginary dirt from the table. If the President found out…

Lisbeth watches us carefully. Her freckles shift as her eyes narrow. She reads social cues for a living. “You don’t even trust Manning, do you?” she asks.

“You can’t print that,” Dreidel threatens.

Lisbeth’s mouth falls open, shocked by the answer. “You’re serious…”

It takes me a second to process what just happened. I look to Lisbeth, then back to Dreidel. I don’t believe it. She was bluffing.

“Don’t you dare print it,” Dreidel adds. “We didn’t say that.”

“I know… I’m not printing it… I just — you guys really punched the hornet’s nest on this, didn’t you?”

Dreidel’s done answering questions. He storms at her, jabbing a finger at her face. “You have no proof of anything! And the fact that—”

“Can you really help us?” I call out from the table.

Turning to me, she doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

“Wes, don’t be stupid…”

“How?” I ask her.

Dreidel turns my way. “Wait… you’re actually listening to her?”

“By being the one person no one can ever trace back to you,” Lisbeth explains, stepping around Dreidel and heading toward me. “You make a phone call, people’ll know something’s up. Same with Dreidel. But if I make it, I’m just a crackpot reporter sniffing for story and hoping to be the next Woodward and Bernstein.”

“So why help us?” I ask.

“To be the next Woodward and Bernstein.” Through her designer eyeglasses, she studies me with dark green eyes — and never once glances down at my cheek. “I want the story,” she adds. “When it’s all over… when all the secrets are out, and the book deals are falling into place, I just want to be the one to write it up.”

“And if we tell you to go screw yourself?”

“I break it now, and the news vans start lining up outside your apartment, feeding your lives to the cable news grinder. Lying to all of America… a giant cover-up… They’ll eat you like Cheerios. And even if you get the truth out there, your lives’ll be like picked-over bones.”

“So that’s it?” Dreidel asks, rushing back and tapping his knuckle on the table. “You threaten us, and we’re supposed to just comply? How do we know you won’t break it tomorrow morning just to get the quick kill?”

“Because only a moron goes for the quick kill,” Lisbeth says as she sits on the edge of the table. “You know how it works: I run this tomorrow and I’ll get a nice pat on the head that’ll last a total of twenty-four hours, at which point the Times and the Washington Post will grab my football, fly a dozen reporters down here, and dance it all the way to the end zone. At least my way, you’re in control. You get your answers; I get my story. If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to fear.”

I look up from my seat. At the edge of the table, Lisbeth’s right leg swings slightly. She knows she’s got a point.

“And we can trust you on that?” I ask. “You’ll stay quiet until it’s over?”

Her leg stops swinging. “Wes, the only reason you know Woodward and Bernstein is because they had the ending… not just the first hit. Only a fool wouldn’t stick with you till we get all the answers.”

I’ve been burned by reporters. I don’t like reporters. And I certainly don’t like Lisbeth. But as I glance over at Dreidel, who’s finally fallen silent, it’s clear we’re out of options. If we don’t work with her, she’ll take this whole shitstorm public and unleash it in a way that we’ll never be able to take back. If we do work with her, at least we buy some time to figure out what’s really going on. I give another look to Dreidel. From the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, we’ve already stepped on the land mine. The only question now is, how long until we hear the big—?

“Nobody move!” a deep voice yells as the door whips into the wall and half a dozen suit-and-tie Secret Service agents flood the room, guns drawn.

“Let’s go!” a beefy agent with a thin yellow tie says as he grabs Dreidel by the shoulder and shoves him toward the door. “Out. Now!”

“Get off me!”

“You too!” another says to Lisbeth as she follows right behind. “Go!”

The rest of the agents swarm inside, but to my surprise, run right past me, fanning out in onion-peel formation as they circle through the room. This isn’t an attack; it’s a sweep.

The only thing that’s odd is none of these guys look familiar. I know everyone on our detail. Maybe we got a bomb threat and they called in local—

“Both of you, move!” the yellow-tie agent barks at Dreidel and Lisbeth. I assume he doesn’t see me — Lisbeth’s still in front of me near the table, but as I shoot out of my seat and follow them toward the door, I feel a sharp tug on the back of my jacket.

“Hey, what’re you—?”

“You’re with me,” Yellow Tie insists, yanking me backward as my tie digs into my neck. With a hard shove to the left, he sends me stumbling toward the far corner of the room. We’re moving so fast, I can barely keep my balance.

“Wes!” Lisbeth calls out.

“He’s fine,” an agent with bad acne insists, grabbing her elbow and tugging her to the door. He says something else to her, but I can’t hear it.

Looking back to me over her shoulder, Lisbeth is still off balance as she staggers toward the doorway’s white rectangle of light. With one last wrench, she disappears. When the first agent grabbed her, she was pissed. But now… the last look I see before the door slams behind her… the way her eyes go wide… whatever the agent said to her, she’s terrified.

“Let go — I’m a friendly!” I insist, fighting to get to my ID.

Yellow Tie doesn’t care. “Keep moving!” he tells me, practically holding me up by my collar. The last time the Service moved this fast was when Boyle was— No. I stop myself, refusing to replay it. Don’t panic. Get the facts.

“Is Manning okay?” I ask.

“Just move!” he insists as we rush toward the corner of the room, where I spot a carpeted, almost hidden door.

“C’mon!” Yellow Tie says, undoing a latch and ramming me into the door to shove it open. Unlike the door that Lisbeth and Dreidel went through, this one doesn’t dump us in the lobby. The ceiling rises up, and the concrete hallway is gray and narrow. Loose wires, grimy fire extinguishers, and some random white pipes are the only things on the walls. Maintenance corridor from the ammonia smell of it.

I try to break free, but we’re moving too fast. “If you don’t tell me where the hell we’re going, I’ll personally make sure you’re—”

“Here,” Yellow Tie says, stopping at the first door on my right. A red and white sign reads Storage Only. He reaches the door with his free hand, revealing a room that’s bigger than my office. With one final shove, he lets go of my collar and flings me inside like the evening’s trash.

My shoes slide against the floor as I fight for balance, but it’s not until I spot two other sets of black shiny shoes that I realize I’m not alone.

“All yours,” Yellow Tie calls out as I hear the door slam behind me.

My skidding stops as my funny bone bangs into a metal utility rack. A hiccup of sawdust belches into the air.

“Busy day, huh?” the man in the U.S. Open hat says, arms folded across his chest. His partner scratches at the nick of skin missing from his ear. O’Shea and Micah. The FBI agents from this morning.

“What the hell’s going on?” I demand.

“Nico Hadrian escaped from St. Elizabeths about an hour and a half ago. What we wanna know is, why was your name in the hospital’s log as his last visitor?”