The Book of Fate

38

And you’re all set, Mr. Benoit,” the airline attendant said at the boarding gate.

“Great,” The Roman replied, careful to keep his head tilted down to the left. He didn’t have to hide. Or use the fake name. Indeed, the one benefit of Nico’s escape was that it gave The Roman the perfect excuse to justify his trip down South. As deputy assistant director, that was his job. Still, he kept his head down. He knew where the cameras were hidden. No need to tell anyone he was coming.

After heading toward the plate-glass window behind the check-in desk and sitting at the far end of a long row of seats, The Roman dialed a number on his phone, ignored the chitchatting of his fellow passengers, and focused on the black, predawn sky.

“D-Do you have any idea what time it is?” a groggy voice begged, picking up the other line.

“Almost six,” The Roman replied, staring outside. It was still too early to see slivers of orange cracking through the horizon as prologue to the sun’s arrival. But that didn’t mean he had to sit in the dark.

“Did you get the new schedule yet?” The Roman asked.

“I told you last night, with Nico running around, Manning’s entire day is in flux… you of all people should know that.”

Staring at his own reflection in the glass, The Roman nodded. Behind him, an armed agent in a Security windbreaker weaved through the food court, scanning the crowd. Back by the metal detectors when he first came in, he’d counted three more agents doing the same — and that didn’t include the dozen or so who operated in plainclothes to stay out of sight. The FBI wanted Nico back — and in their minds, the best way to get him was to cover every airport, train station, and travel hub. It was a good plan, following years of typical FBI procedure. But Nico was far from typical. And at this point, in all likelihood, far from here.

“What about Wes? When does he get his copy of the schedule?” The Roman asked.

“It’s not like the White House anymore. No matter how close he is to Manning, he gets it same as the rest of us — first thing in the morning.”

“Well, when he does get it—”

“You’ll have it,” his associate said. “Though I still don’t understand why. You already have the microphone f—”

“Send it!” The Roman roared. On his right, a few passengers turned to stare. Refusing to lose it, he shut the phone and calmly slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. It wasn’t until he unclenched his fist that he saw a tiny dot of blood seeping through the gauze.