The Book of Fate

96

Can I help you?” a deep voice crackled from the intercom as the man pulled his car up to the closed wooden security gate.

Refusing to answer, the driver pulled his ID from his jacket pocket and shoved it toward the hidden camera stuffed into the tall shrubs.

The intercom went silent. Moments later, a metallic click released the magnetic lock, and the security gate swung open.

Slowly easing his foot against the gas, the man inched the car up the private brick driveway, where three suit-and-tie Secret Service agents turned and stared. When they didn’t approach his car, he knew they were getting the news of his arrival in their earpieces. And by the looks on their faces, they were unnerved by it. No one likes when the boss comes to check on things. But with Nico on the loose, they weren’t the least bit surprised.

With a tug to the left, he steered his car between the matching black Chevy Suburbans, then readjusted his leather shoulder holster and made sure the strap that held his gun in place was unsnapped. This wasn’t like his trip to the office. With the principals here, he needed to be ready. And if the reports were true — that a neighbor had already found Kenny’s and Micah’s bodies and that fingerprints were already making the rounds — well, this was now about much more than seventy million dollars in payouts and four more years in office.

It was so much easier back when they started. After War College, they spent the first six months doing nothing but running simulations and war-gaming. No need to rush. Better to make it a science. Take no chances, make no contact, and make sure nothing’s traced back. Of course, the key to that was creating The Roman, right down to the stolen thumb they snatched from a Tanzania morgue to use with the fingerprint cards required for every informant payout. From there, people would just be chasing a ghost. Once The Roman was “real,” the true work began.

It was Micah who struck gold first. As a CIA case officer stationed in Khartoum, he received a tip about someone in the Sudanese security agency trying to sell eleven pristine U.S. visas — all of them sterile and untraceable — to al-Zaydi, a known terrorist organization. According to Micah’s source, al-Zaydi was paying with its usual mode of untraceable African diamonds—$500,000 worth, which would be delivered in Taormina, Sicily, on October 15.

That morning, to communicate with his fellow members, Micah left piecemeal coded messages in the agreed-upon online chat rooms. Then he wrote up his full official report, which detailed only one of the facts — that the Sudanese security agency was rumored to be selling eleven visas. He intentionally left out the rest. That afternoon, O’Shea — in his position as an FBI Legat in Brussels assigned to working with foreign law enforcement officials — took full advantage of the info Micah had sent about the diamonds. Now knowing what to look for, and reaching out to overseas security agencies, he combed through foreign customs reports, eventually finding a suspected al-Zaydi member traveling through Italy — legally — with nearly $500,000 of diamond jewelry. That night, Secret Service Agent Roland Egen — as the resident agent in charge of the Service’s office in Pretoria, South Africa — put the cherry on top. Calling up his supervisor in the Rome office, he said, “I’ve got a source bragging about black market U.S. visas for sale — and that he’ll give us the time and place for the drop.”

“What kinda payoff does he want?” the supervisor had asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

There was a short pause. “Who’s the source?”

“He calls himself The Roman,” Egen said with a grin.

Within minutes, the Service started vetting the tip. Throughout the community, they called it backstopping — checking with other agencies to corroborate the source. After Iraq, it was a necessity. And after the information-sharing from 9/11, the info came quick. Thanks to O’Shea, the FBI showed a similar report. Thanks to Micah, so did the CIA. All three pieces corroborating the same picture.

“Pay it,” Egen’s supervisor said.

Twenty-four hours later, Micah, O’Shea, and The Roman — by simply corroborating one another — split their first $50,000 payout. Not a bad day’s work.

Years ago, it was easier. But that was before they invited others to join in the game.

“Welcome, sir,” a brown-haired agent called out as the man left the car and marched toward the pale blue Colonial with the American flag above the door.

Halfway there, a fourth suit-and-tie agent approached from the front steps.

Well aware of the protocol, the man again handed over his ID, waiting for it to be looked at.

“Sorry, sir… I didn’t… You’re here to see the President?” the agent asked, anxiously handing the ID back.

“Yeah,” The Roman replied as he stepped inside the President’s home. “Something like that.”