The Book of Fate

52

What about Claudia?” The Roman asked calmly, strolling over to Bev’s window and staring down at the agents, sheriff, and ambulance crew crowded into the rotary at the front of the building.

“You told me not to — that it was an internal investigation,” Bev said as she watched The Roman from her desk and anxiously picked at an open bag of microwave popcorn.

“And Oren?”

“I just told you—”

“Tell me again!” The Roman insisted, turning from the window, his pale skin and black hair practically glowing in the noon sunlight.

Bev stayed silent, her hand frozen in the popcorn.

The Roman knew he’d scared her, but he wasn’t about to apologize. Not until he had what he wanted.

“You said not to tell anyone — I didn’t tell anyone,” Bev finally offered. “Not B.B., not the President… no one.” Fidgeting with the tips of her dyed-black hair, she added, “Though I still don’t get how any of this helps Wes.”

The Roman turned back to the window, taking a moment to choose his words. Bev had known Wes since his first days in the White House. Like any protective parent, she wasn’t turning on her kid unless it was for his own good. “What helps Wes is finding out just who he ran into that night in Malaysia,” The Roman explained. “If what he said in the report is right — that it was just some drunk looking for the bathroom — then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“But to have me put a microphone in his pin… to hide it from everyone on staff… Why can’t you just tell me who you think approached him?”

“Bev, I told you from the start, this is part of a long-term inquiry that we believe — and hope — Wes accidentally stumbled onto. Trust me, we want to protect him as much as you do, which is why—”

“Does it have to do with Nico? Is that why he escaped?”

“This has nothing to do with Nico,” The Roman insisted.

“I just thought… with your hand…” she said, motioning to the white gauze wrapped around his palm.

The Roman knew that was the risk coming to the office. But with the wiretap silent, and Boyle still unaccounted for… some things had to be done face-to-face.

Sitting on the edge of Bev’s desk, The Roman cupped her hand between his palms. “Bev, I know you don’t know me. And I know it’s odd to suddenly get a call from an agent about an investigation you know nothing about, but I swear to you, this has nothing to do with Nico. Understand? Nothing. Everything I’ve asked of you… it’s only in the interests of national security and for Wes’s benefit,” he added, his pale blue eyes locked on hers. “Now I appreciate how you look out for him… we all know the pity you took…”

“It’s not pity. He’s a sweet kid…”

“… who should’ve left this job years ago, but didn’t because he’s terrified of stepping out of the thoughtful but crippling security blanket you’ve all tucked him into. Think about it, Bev. If you really care that much about him, this is the moment he needs you. So, is there anyone else out there we might’ve overlooked? Old White House contacts? Current in-house contacts? Anyone you can think of that he might turn to if he’s in trouble?”

Rolling backward on the wheels of her desk chair, Bev was silent at the onslaught of questions. For a moment, her eyes stayed with The Roman’s pale blues. But the more he pushed, the more she glanced around. At her keyboard. At her leather blotter. Even at the blurry 5 x 9 perched under her computer monitor, from her office birthday party a few years back. In the photo, the entire staff was in mid-laugh as the President blew out the candles on Bev’s birthday cake. It was the kind of photo that never existed in the White House, but decorated nearly every office here: slightly off-center, slightly funny, and slightly out of focus. Not a professional photo taken by a White House photographer. A family photo — taken by one of their own.

“Sorry,” Bev said, pulling her hand away and glancing down at The Roman’s gauze pad. “There’s no one else I can think of.”