The Book of Fate (15 page)

“Under White House Staff, let’s start with all of Boyle’s records as deputy chief,” I say, flipping to the first few pages of the records guide, “and naturally, all of his own files, including correspondence to and from him.” I flip to the next tab in the notebook. “And I’d also like to get his personnel records. Those would include any work complaints filed against him, correct?”

“It should,” the archivist says, now suspicious.

“Don’t worry,” I laugh, hearing the change in her voice, “that’s just to vet him so we know for sure where all the skeletons are.”

“Yeah . . . of course . . . it’s just—what do you need these for again?”

“A book the President’s working on—about Boyle’s years of service, from the White House to the shooting at the speedway—”

“If you want, we have the actual clip—y’know, with Boyle . . . and that young man who got hit in the face . . .”

When John Hinckley tried to kill Ronald Reagan, he hit the President, James Brady, Secret Service Agent Tim McCarthy, and police officer Thomas Delahanty. We all know James Brady. McCarthy and Delahanty became Trivial Pursuit answers. Just like me.

“So how fast do you think you can pull that together?” I ask.

She pants slightly into the phone. It’s the closest thing she’s got to a laugh. “Let me just . . . fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . . you’re probably looking at something like eighteen linear feet—or about . . . let’s see . . . 36,000 pages.”

“Thirty-six thousand pages,” I repeat, my own voice sinking. The haystack just got eighteen feet taller.

“If you tell me a little bit more what you’re looking for, I probably can help you narrow your search a little better . . .”

“Actually, there’re a couple of things we were trying to get as soon as possible. The President said there were some other researchers on the book who were working with the library. Is there a way to tell us what files they pulled so we don’t overlap?”

“Sure, but . . . when it comes to other people’s requests, we’re not supposed to—”

“Kara . . . it is Kara, right?” I ask, stealing one straight from Manning. “Kara, it’s for the President . . .”

“I realize that, but the rules—”

“I appreciate the rules. I really do. But these are people working with the President. We’re all on the same side, Kara,” I add, trying not to beg. “And if I don’t find this, then
I’m
the person who didn’t get the President his list. Please tell me you know what that’s like. I need this job, Kara—more than you’ll ever realize.”

There’s a long pause on the other line, but like any librarian, Kara’s a pragmatist. I hear her typing in the background. “What’re their names?” she asks.

“Last name
Weiss
, first name
Eric
,” I say, once again starting with Boyle’s old Houdini codename.

There’s a loud click as she hits the
Enter
key. I check my door for the third time. All clear.

“We’ve got two different Eric Weisses. One did some research the first year we were open. The other made a request about a year and a half ago, though it looks like it was a book report kid who wanted to know the President’s favorite movie . . .”

“
All the President’s Men
,” we both say simultaneously.

She again laughs that panting laugh. “I don’t think that’s your researcher,” she adds, finally warming up.

“What about the other Weiss?”

“As I said, he’s from the first year we opened . . . mailing address in Valencia, Spain . . .”

“That’s him!” I blurt, quickly catching myself.

“Certainly looks like it,” Kara says. “He’s got a few similar requests . . . some of Boyle’s files . . . the President’s schedule from the day of the shooting . . . The odd thing is, according to the notes here, he paid for copies—expensive too, almost six hundred dollars’ worth—but when we sent them out, the package bounced back to us. According to the file, no one was listed at that address.”

Like a photo in a darkroom, the edges of the picture slowly harden and flower into view. The FBI said Boyle was spotted in Spain. If that was his first request from the library, and then he ran, maybe he was worried people knew that his name was . . . “Try
Carl Stewart
,” I say, switching to the codename Boyle used in the Malaysian hotel.

“Carl Stewart,” Kara repeats, clicking away. “Yep—here we go . . .”

“You have him?”

“How could we not? Almost two hundred requests over the past three years. He’s requested over 12,000 pages . . .”

“Yeah, no . . . he’s thorough,” I tell her, careful not to lose focus. “And just to be sure we have the right one, what’s the last address you have for him?”

“In London . . . it’s care of the post office at 92A Balham High Road. And the zip is SW12 9AF.”

“That’s the one,” I say, scribbling it down, even though I know it’s the British equivalent of a P.O. box. And just as untraceable.

Before I can say another word, the door to my office swings open. “He’s in the closet,” Claudia announces, referring to the President. I was afraid of this.
Closet
is her code for the bathroom—Manning’s last stop before we head out to an event. If he’s true to form—and he always is—that’s my two-minute warning.

“So would you like me to just send you a list of what else he requested?” the librarian asks through the receiver.

“Wes, you hear what I said?” Claudia adds.

I hold a finger up to our chief of staff. “Yeah, if you can send me the list, that’d be perfect,” I tell the librarian. Claudia taps her watch, and I throw her a nod. “And if I can ask you one last favor—that last document he received—when was that sent?”

“Let’s see . . . says here the fifteenth, so about ten days ago,” the librarian replies.

I sit up straight, and the picture in the darkroom starts to take on brand-new details. Since the day the library opened, Boyle’s been pulling documents and hunting through files. Ten days ago, he requested his final one—then suddenly came out of hiding. I don’t know much, but it’s pretty clear that finding that file is the only way out of the darkroom and into the light.

“Service are mobilizing,” Claudia says, glancing up the hallway and watching the agents gather at the front door of the office.

I stand up and stretch the phone cord to the chair that holds my suit jacket. Sliding my arm in, I stay with the librarian. “How long would it take you to send me a copy of the last document he received?”

“Let’s see, it went out last week, so it still might be in Shelly’s . . . Hold on, let me check.” There’s a short pause on the line.

I look over at Claudia. We don’t have many rules, but one of the vital ones is to never keep the President waiting. “Don’t worry—I’m coming.”

She looks over her shoulder and down the hallway. “I’m serious, Wes,” she threatens. “Who you talking to anyway?”

“Library. Just trying to get the final list of the honchos who’ll be there tonight.”

In our office, when the President gets lonely for his old life, we’ll catch him calling his Formers: former British prime minister, former Canadian prime minister, even the former French president. But the help I need is far closer than that.

“Got it right here. It’s just a one-pager,” the librarian interrupts. “What’s your fax number?”

Relaying the number, I fight my other arm into my sleeve. The President’s and First Lady’s metal heads jingle on my lapel pin. “And you’ll send it now?”

“Whenever you want . . . it’s—”

“Now.”

I hang up the phone, grab my bag of tricks, and dart for the door. “Just tell me when Manning’s coming,” I say to Claudia as I squeeze past her and duck into the copy room directly across from my office.

“Wes, this isn’t funny,” she says, clearly annoyed.

“It’s coming through right now,” I lie, standing in front of our secure fax machine. Every day at six a.m., Manning’s NIDs—the National Intelligence Daily—arrive by secure fax in the exact same spot. Sent out by the CIA, the NIDs contain briefs on an array of sensitive intelligence topics and are the last umbilical cord all Formers have with the White House. Manning races for it like catnip. But for me, what’s being transmitted right now is far more potent.

“Wes, go to the door. I’ll take care of the fax.”

“It’ll just—”

“I said go to the door. Now.”

I turn around to face Claudia just as the fax machine hiccups to life. Her smoker’s lips purse, and she looks angry—angrier than anyone should be over a silly little fax.

“It’s okay,” I stutter. “I’ll get it.”

“Dammit, Wes—”

Before she can finish, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out as a simple distraction. “Just gimme one sec,” I say to Claudia as I check caller ID.
Undisclosed caller.
There aren’t many people who have this number.

“Wes here,” I answer.

“Don’t react. Just smile and act like it’s an old friend,” a grainy voice crackles through the receiver. I recognize him instantly.

Boyle.

25

N
ice room,” The Roman said, eyeing the mostly bare, sun-faded walls of Nico’s home for the past eight years. Above the nightstand was a free Washington Redskins calendar from the local grocery store. Above the bed was a small crucifix. On the ceiling, a spiderweb of cracked plaster rounded out the sum total of the decor. “Really nice,” The Roman added, remembering how much Nico thrived on positive reinforcement.

“It is nice,” Nico agreed, his eyes locked on the orderly as he left the room.

“And you’ve been well?” The Roman asked.

Keeping his arms wrapped around his violin and hugging it like a doll, Nico didn’t answer. The way his ear was cocked, it was clear he was listening to the fading squeaks of the orderly’s rubber soles against the linoleum.

“Nico—”

“Wait . . .” Nico interrupted, still listening.

The Roman stayed silent, unable to hear a thing. Of course, that was yet another reason why they’d picked Nico all those years ago. The average adult hears at a level of twenty-five decibels. According to his army reports, Nico was gifted with the ability to hear at ten decibels. His eyesight was even more uncanny, measured officially at 20/6.

Nico’s army supervisors labeled it a gift. His doctors labeled it a burden, suggesting that overwhelming auditory and visual stimuli caused his desensitization with reality. And The Roman . . . The Roman
knew
it was an opportunity.

“Tell me when we’re clear,” The Roman whispered.

As the sound faded, Nico scratched his bulbous nose and studied The Roman carefully, his close chocolate eyes flicking back and forth, slowly picking apart his guest’s hair, face, overcoat, shoes, even his leather briefcase. The Roman had forgotten how methodical he was.

“You forgot an umbrella,” Nico blurted.

The Roman patted down the back of his slightly damp hair. “It’s just a short walk from the parking lo—”

“You brought a gun,” Nico said, staring at The Roman’s ankle holster as it peeked out from his pant leg.

“It’s not loaded,” The Roman said, remembering that short answers were the best way to rein him in.

“That’s not your name,” Nico again interrupted. He pointed at the visitor ID sticker on The Roman’s lapel. “I know that name.”

The Roman didn’t even bother looking down. He used his badge to get past the guards, but for the ID, of course the name was fake. Only a fool would put his real name on a list that regularly got sent to his supervisors at the Service. Still, with all Nico’s years here, with all the drugs the doctors pumped into him, he was sharp. Sniper training didn’t dull easily. “Names are fictions,” The Roman said. “Especially the enemy’s.”

Still holding tight to his fiddle, Nico could barely contain himself. “You’re of The Three.” From the excitement in his voice, it wasn’t a question.

“Let’s not—”

“Are you One or Two? I only spoke to Three. He was my liaison—with me when my father—when he passed. He said the rest of you were too big, and that the President was one of—” Nico bit his lip, straining to restrain himself. “Praise all! Did you see the cross on the brick chapel?”

The Roman nodded, remembering what they told Nico all those years ago. That he should look for the signs. That physical structures have always been sources of inexplicable power. The Druids and Stonehenge . . . the Egyptian pyramids . . . even Solomon’s First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. The Freemasons spent centuries studying them all—each one an architectural marvel that’s served as a doorway to a greater miracle. Centuries later, that knowledge was passed to Freemason James Hoban, who designed the White House, and Freemason Gutzon Borglum, who did Mount Rushmore. But as they also explained to Nico, some doors weren’t meant to be opened.

“Praise all!” Nico repeated. “He said when you came, redemption would—”

“Redemption will come,” The Roman promised. “As the Book promises.”

For the first time, Nico was silent. He lowered the fiddle to the ground and bowed his head.

“That’s it, my son,” The Roman said with a nod. “Of course, before redemption, let’s start with a little . . .” He reached over to the dresser and picked up the red glass rosary beads. “. . . confession.”

Dropping to his knees, Nico clasped his hands together and leaned on the side of his mattress like a child at bedtime.

The Roman wasn’t surprised. He did the same thing when they found him in the shelter. And for almost two full days after he confronted his father. “There’ll be time for prayer later, Nico. Right now I just need you to tell me the truth about something.”

“I’m always truthful, sir.”

“I know you are, Nico.” The Roman sat on the opposite side of the bed and placed the rosary beads between them. The fading sun boomeranged through the prisms of red glass. Still on his knees, Nico studied it, mesmerized. From his briefcase, The Roman pulled out a black-and-white photo and tossed it between them on the bed. “Now, tell me everything you know about Wes Holloway.”

26

H
ey, how’s everything?” I sing into my cell phone as Claudia stares me down from the doorway of the copy room.

“You know who this is?” Boyle asks on the other line. His tone is sharp, each syllable chiseling like an ice pick. He’s impatient. And clearly riled.