The Book of Fate

50

In the lobby, The Roman didn’t hesitate to sign in. Even made small talk about crummy assignments with the agent behind the desk. At the elevators, he rang the call button without worrying about his fingerprints. Same when the elevator doors opened and he hit the button for the fourth floor.

It was exactly why they got organized. The key to any war was information. And as they learned with the crossword puzzle all those years ago, the best information always came from having someone on the inside.

A loud ping flicked the air as the elevator doors slid open.

“ID, please,” a suit-and-tie agent announced before The Roman could even step out into the beige-carpeted hallway.

“Egen,” The Roman replied, once again flashing his ID and badge.

“Yes… of course… sorry, sir,” the agent said, stepping back as he read the title on The Roman’s ID.

With a wave, The Roman motioned for him to calm down.

“So if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the mood at headquarters?” the agent asked.

“Take a guess.”

“Director’s pretty pissed, huh?”

“He’s just mad he’ll be spending the next six months on the damage control circuit. Ain’t nothing worse than a daily diet of cable talk shows and congressional hearings explaining why Nico Hadrian wandered out of his hospital room.”

“Those congressmen sure like having their faces on TV, don’t they?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” The Roman asked, eyeing the surveillance camera and heading toward the black bulletproof doors of the President’s office.

“Pop the locks, Paulie,” the suit-and-tie agent called out to another agent sitting just inside the Secret Service offices on the right-hand side of the hallway.

On the left, there was a muted thunk as the magnetic lock unlatched. “Thank you, son,” The Roman said. He tugged the door open without ever looking back.

“Hell-o,” a Hispanic receptionist with a high-pitched voice sang as the heavy door slammed behind The Roman. “How can I help you today?”

Crossing the presidential seal in the carpet, The Roman scanned the left-hand wall for the agent who usually stood guard by the American flag. The agent wasn’t there, which meant neither was the President. The only other good news was the yellow Post-it note on the side of the receptionist’s computer monitor. In swirling, cursive writing were the words Dreidel — Ext. 6/Back office.

“Dreidel’s not in, is he?” The Roman asked.

“No, he’s out with Wes,” the receptionist replied. “And you are…?”

The Roman again flashed his ID and badge. “Actually, I’m here to see Ms. Lapin…”

“Sure… of course,” the receptionist said, pointing to The Roman’s left. “You want me to call her or—”

“No need,” The Roman insisted, calmly marching down the hallway. “She’s already expecting me.”

On the right-hand side of the hall, The Roman breezed past nearly a dozen glass frames filled with ribboned Medals of Honor from every major country. Poland’s Great Cross of the Order, Qatar’s Collar of Independence, even the U.K.’s Order of the Bath. The Roman didn’t even glance at them, already focused on the open door on his left.

Across the hallway, he peeked into the office with the Chief of Staff nameplate attached to it. The lights were off, the desk empty. Claudia was already at lunch. Good. The fewer people around, the better.

Cutting left, he stepped into the well-lit office that smelled like fresh popcorn and stale vanilla mint candle. From his angle looking down at her desk, he had a perfect view of the tight red V-neck sweater that fought against her decade-old breast implants.

Before she could even react, The Roman gripped the spine of the door, slowly closing it behind himself.

“Nice to see you, Bev,” he said as it slapped shut. “Florida looks good on you.”