The Book of Fate

47

Crowding around the small TV monitor of the X-ray, we all stand frozen as the guard points to the screen. The rectangular outline of my lapel pin glows dark gray. Just below it, the two sculpted heads dangle like matching gray tears. But what’s far more interesting are the tiny metal pieces — they almost look like shards of shattered glass — glowing bright white at the center of the rectangle.

We’re all squinting, struggling to make them out, until the guard hits a button on his keyboard and pulls in on the picture. On-screen, the pieces — a coiled antenna, a miniature microchip, and an even smaller hearing-aid battery — bloom into view.

As always, Rogo’s mouth opens first. “Sonofa—”

I pinch his elbow and shoot him a look.

“That’s just… that’s my voice recorder — all digital — y’know, to save good ideas,” I whisper, trying to sound like I have a sore throat. “Cool, huh?”

“They make ’em even tinier than those little cassettes,” Rogo adds, quickly catching on.

“Here, try it,” I bluff to the guard as the conveyor returns my jacket. Folding it over my arm and shoving it toward him, I hold out the lapel to give him a closer look. He waves me off, satisfied by the offer.

Quickly heading for the elevators, we paint on fake smiles as if everything’s perfect. The way Dreidel’s eyes are dancing back and forth, he’s in full panic. I don’t blame him. Whoever’s listening knows about what he was doing in that hotel room. But now’s not the time. I glance back at the guard, who’s still watching us, then down at the metal White House, which is presumably still broadcasting.

Just wait, I say to Dreidel with nothing but an open palm aimed in his direction. His eyes dance even faster. As we step into the waiting elevator, he bites at his manicured thumbnail, unable to contain himself. But just as he’s about to whisper a response, Rogo grabs him by the biceps.

“What floor?” Rogo asks, leaning in and motioning upward with his chin. In the corner of the elevator, a security camera stares down at us.

“Second,” I reply as casually as possible.

“Just do me a favor,” Rogo adds. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”

No one says another word until the door pings open on the second floor. I make two quick lefts, following the gray carpet down the main hallway. Along the left wall are the closed glass doors and private offices of the paper’s top editors. We go straight for the cubicles in back.

“This is stupid,” Dreidel whispers as my hand covers the lapel pin. “We should get out of here. Just dump the jacket and abort.”

For once, Rogo agrees. “Take it as a sign, Wes. For all we know, she’s only gonna make it worse.”

“You don’t know that,” I whisper.

“Hey,” Lisbeth calls out, popping her head over the cubicle just as we approach. She reads our reactions instantly. “What’s wr—?”

I put a finger to my lips and cut her off. Holding up my jacket, I point to the lapel pin and mouth the word bug. “Thanks again for having us over,” I add as she pantomimes and points to her own ear.

They can hear us? she asks.

I nod and drape the jacket across the back of her chair.

“Sorry about the air-conditioning,” she adds, already one step ahead of us as she grabs a thick file folder from her desk. “If you want, just leave your jackets here…” Before we can react, she’s out of the cubicle and darting up the hallway, her red hair bouncing and her arms swaying at her sides. The way the sleeves of her crisp white shirt are rolled up to her elbows, I can see the pale freckles that dot most of her forearm. Trailing behind her, Rogo sees them too, but he doesn’t say a word. He either hates her or loves her. As always with him, it’s hard to tell which.

“I’m Rogo,” he says, extending a hand and racing to catch up to her.

“In here,” she says, ignoring him and pulling open the door to a sunny conference room with three glass walls, each of them with open vertical blinds. Lisbeth circles the room and, one by one, tugs on the pull cords, snapping the blinds shut. She does the same with the blinds on the plate-glass window that looks out over the front parking lot. Within three seconds, sunlight’s replaced by the quiet drone of fluorescents.

“You sure no one can hear us?”

“Editorial board meets here every morning to decide whose lives they’re ripping apart each day. Rumor is, they sweep it for bugs at least once a week.”

Unlike Dreidel or Rogo, or even myself, Lisbeth’s not the least bit thrown or intimidated. We’ve been out of fighting shape since the day we left the White House. She picks public battles every day. And she’s clearly good at it.

“So who gave you the pin?” Lisbeth asks as we take seats around the large oval conference table.

“Claudia,” I stutter, referring to our chief of staff as I accidentally back my chair into the black Formica credenza that runs against the back wall. “It goes to whoever’s late…”

“You think she’s the one that put the mike in there?” Dreidel asks.

“I–I have no idea,” I say, replaying yesterday’s meeting in my head. Oren… Bev… even B.B. “It could’ve been anyone. All they needed was access to it.”

“Who was wearing it last?” Lisbeth asks.

“I don’t know… Bev maybe? Oren never wears it. Maybe B.B.? But by the end of the week, people sometimes just leave it on their desk. I mean, I wouldn’t have noticed if someone went into my office and pulled it off my jacket…”

“But to squeeze a wireless mike into something so small,” Dreidel says. “Doesn’t that seem a little high-tech for — no offense, Wes — but for the scrubs on the White House B-team?”

“What’s your point?” I ask, ignoring the snobbery.

“Maybe they had help,” Dreidel says.

“From who? The Service?”

“Or the FBI,” Rogo suggests.

“Or from someone who’s good at collecting secrets,” Lisbeth adds, a bit too enthusiastically. The way her fingertips flick at the edge of her file folder, she’s clearly got something to say.

“You got someone who fits the bill?” Dreidel asks skeptically.

“You tell me,” she says, flipping open her file folder. “Who wants to hear the real story behind The Roman?”