The Book of Fate

9

The phone shrieked through the small office, but he didn’t pick it up. Same on the second ring. He knew who it was — on this line, there was only one person it could be — but he still didn’t move. Not until he knew for sure. Leaning both elbows on his desk, Roland Egen studied his phone’s digital screen, waiting for caller ID to kick in. Black electronic letters popped into place: Offices of Leland Manning.

“You’re early,” The Roman said as he pressed the receiver to his ear. He had pale, rosy skin, bright blue eyes, and a shock of black hair. Black Irish, his fishing buddies called it. But never to his face.

“You said to make sure no one was here.”

The Roman nodded to himself. Finally, someone who followed directions. “So the President’s not in yet?”

“On his way. He sleeps late after overnight trips.”

“And the First Lady?”

“I’m telling you, it’s just me. Now can we hurry up? People’ll be here any second.”

Sitting at his desk and squinting out the window, The Roman watched as the light snow tumbled from the early morning sky. It may’ve been eighty degrees in Florida, but in D.C., winter was just unpacking its first punch. He didn’t mind. When he was little, his grandmother had taught him to enjoy the quiet that came with the cold. Just as his grandfather had taught him to appreciate the calm that came to the waters of the Potomac. As any fisherman knew, winter chased away the jet skiers and pleasure boaters. And that was always the best time to put your line in the water. Especially when you had the right bait.

“What about Wes?” The Roman asked. “You get everything I sent?”

“Yeah… right here…”

He could hear the hesitation in his associate’s voice. No one liked being the bad guy — especially in politics. “And you found something to put it in?” The Roman asked.

“We have a— That’s why I came in early. We have this lapel pin—”

“You can get him to wear it…”

“I–I think so.”

“It wasn’t a question. Get him to wear it,” The Roman shot back.

“You sure Wes’ll even come in?” his associate asked. “Agents here said he was sick as a hound the entire flight back. Puked his lungs all over his pants.”

Outside, a crack of blue light slit through the tired, gray sky. “I’m not surprised,” The Roman said as the snow continued to fall. “If I were him right now, I’d be wrecking my pants too. Now about that pin…”

“Don’t worry,” his associate said. “Wes won’t even look twice at it… especially when it’s served by a friendly face.”