The Book of Fate (42 page)

He? Who’s
he
?
I wonder, still skimming.
And Blackbird? Is that what they called the six-million-dollar—?

“Hey!” a female voice calls out behind me.

My lungs collapse and my body freezes. I’m already off balance as I spin back to face her.

The First Lady stands in the doorway, her leaf-green eyes on fire. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

81

Y
ou gotta be kidding me.”

“It’s bad?” Rogo asked, leaning in and reading over Dreidel’s shoulder.

On the worktable in front of them, Boyle’s datebook was opened to the week of May 22. In the square labeled
Monday, May 23
was the handwritten note
Manning in NY.
On Wednesday the twenty-fifth was the note
Elliot in the Morning interview.
And on Thursday the twenty-sixth was the note
Senator Okum fundraiser
—
Wash. Hilton
—
7 p.m.
But what caught Rogo’s eye was the box for May 27, which was blacked out with a thick marker:

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“They crossed it out?” Rogo asked.

“That’s the library’s job—read through all the files and figure out what can be released to the public.”

“I understand
how.
I just mean . . . Hold on—” he said, cutting himself off and reaching down to touch the right-hand page of the calendar. Even before he rubbed it with his fingers, Rogo could see it was made from a thinner and brighter paper stock than the off-white sheets that filled the rest of the datebook. “This isn’t even the original, is it?”

“Photocopy—that’s how redactions are done,” Dreidel explained. “They can’t ruin the original, so they make a second copy, black that out, and staple it back in the original’s place.”

“Okay, fine—so how do we get the original?”

“Actually, they usually— Here, lemme see,” Dreidel said, reaching for the datebook and flipping back to the front inside cover. Sure enough, folded up and stapled to the first page was another photocopied sheet of paper. As Dreidel unfolded it, Rogo read the words
Withdrawal Sheet
across the top.

“Anytime they redact something, they have to document it,” Dreidel said as they both read from the sheet.

“What’s B6?” Rogo asked.

Squinting to read the tiny font, Dreidel skimmed through the list of restrictions at the bottom of the withdrawal sheet.

“B1 is when it’s classified . . . B2 is when an agency forbids it . . .”

“And B6?”

“Release would constitute a clearly unwarranted invasion of personal privacy,” Dreidel read from the sheet.

“So this is some secret from Manning’s personal life?”

“Or his own,” Dreidel clarified. “The meetings and the schedules may be work product of the White House, but if Boyle writes something . . . I don’t know, like his ATM PIN code or his Social Security number . . . that clearly has nothing to do with the presidency and therefore gets the black pen as well.”

Rogo flipped the book back to the May 27 redaction.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Looks like a few more letters than a PIN code.”

“Or a Social Security number,” Dreidel agreed.

“Maybe we can go back to the archivist, and you can pull rank on her again until she shows us the original.”

“You kidding? After everything we’ve said, she’s already suspicious enough.”

“Can we find it ourselves? Is it in there?” Rogo asked, pointing to the metal cage in the far corner of the room where at least another ten sets of shelves were piled to the ceiling with archival boxes.

“Right—we’ll just randomly search through an additional five million documents—right after we sidestep the guy who’s watching us, and figure out how to break open the bombproof lock that guards all the other national security files. Look at that thing—it’s like the
Die Hard
vault.”

Rogo turned around to check the cage. Even from across the room, the thickness of the battered steel lock was unmistakable. “So that’s it? We just give up?”

Lowering his chin and shooting Rogo a look, Dreidel grabbed the datebook and stuffed it underneath the worktable. “Do I look like Wes to you?” he asked as he stared over Rogo’s shoulder.

Following Dreidel’s gaze, Rogo again turned around as he traced it to Freddy the attendant, who was still clicking away at the bank of computers.

“Guys, you ready to wrap up?” Freddy asked. “It’s almost five o’clock.”

“Ten more minutes—tops,” Dreidel promised. Outside, through the tall plate-glass windows that overlooked the shiny bronze statue of Manning, the December sun sank early in the sky. No doubt, it was getting late. Hunching down in his seat and blocking himself from Freddy’s view, he whispered to Rogo, “Move an inch to your left.”

“What’re you—?”

“Nothing,” Dreidel said calmly, his hands still out of sight as he held the datebook under the worktable. “And I’m certainly not defacing government property by tearing out a sheet of paper from this historically treasured calendar.” As a small smirk spread up Dreidel’s cheeks, Rogo heard a quiet
kk, kk, kk
below the table—like the last few pimples of bubble-wrap popping . . . or a page being tugged from the teeth of a half dozen staples.

With a final tear, Dreidel freed the last piece, then folded up the May 27 calendar page and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “I’m telling you, it’s not here!” he called out, raising his voice as he brought the datebook back up to the worktable. “Hey, Freddy, can you take a look at this? I think there’s a page missing from one of the files.”

Hopping out of his seat, Dreidel held the datebook out to Freddy and pointed to the withdrawal sheet. “See, it says here that there’s a redaction on the entry for May 27th, but when you flip here,” he explained, turning back to the May calendar pages, “it just picks up with the beginning of June.”

Freddy flipped back to the withdrawal page, then back to June. “Yeah . . . no . . . the page is definitely missing. Can this hold till tomorrow? We’re about to close and—”

“Trust me, we’re on deadline too,” Dreidel said, glancing at his watch. “Listen, can you do us a favor and just pull the original? If we don’t bring this to Manning tonight, he’ll have our testicles. Really. He’ll reach down and take them away.”

“Listen, I’d love to help you guys, but if it’s redacted—”

“Freddy, when I left Palm Beach this morning, the President said he wanted a full copy of this datebook for the memorial piece he’s doing for Boyle’s family,” Dreidel pleaded. “Now we’re talking about a nearly ten-year-old file for a man who’s been dead for that entire time. If there’s something embarrassing in that entry—if it says,
I hate the President
or
I’m a terrorist spy
or anything that truly affects national security—don’t show it to us. But if it’s just some dumb little detail nobody cares about like his sister’s birthday, you’d really be saving us.”

Scratching his finger in the dimple of his chin, Freddy glanced down at the datebook, then up at Dreidel and Rogo.

“Just take a peek,” Rogo begged. “If it’s anything embarrassing, put it back on the shelf.”

Standing there, Freddy pointed them back to their file-covered worktable. “Just give me the folder numbers on the box. I’ll see what I can do . . .”

“Freddy,” Rogo began, his voice racing down the runway, “when I get married, brother, you’re my bridesmaid!”

“Folder OA16209,” Dreidel called out from the front of the archival box.

Fifteen minutes later, in the far corner of the room, the metal door to the cage opened, and Freddy walked out with a single sheet of paper in his hand.

“Here you go,” Freddy said as he handed it to Dreidel. “Though I think you would’ve been better off getting his sister’s birthday.”

82

I
-I-I was just—”

“Rummaging through my desk!” the First Lady explodes. “That I can see for myself! You—you—after all our time together—to violate that trust!”

“Ma’am, please don’t—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Wes! I know what I saw. I see it right now! But this isn’t your
business
!” she growls, ripping Boyle’s letter from my hand.

I step back, my body shaking. Forget firing me; for a moment, I’m actually terrified she might hit me. But as she blurts the last part—
This isn’t your business!
—something swells and erupts in my stomach. Blood flushes my cheeks, and I can’t help but shake my head. “That’s not true,” I whisper, my eyes locked on her.

Right there, she pounces. “Ex
cuse
me?”

I stay silent, still amazed the words came from my lips.

“
What’d
you just say?” she challenges.

“It’s—that’s not true,” I repeat, searching her face. “I was at the speedway too—it
is
my business.”

Her eyes narrow. I stare out the window over her shoulder. Like all the windows in this house, it’s bulletproof and doesn’t open. But right now she looks like she’s ready to toss me through one. Waving the Boyle letter, she asks, “Who put you up to this?”

“What?”

“Was it a reporter? Did they pay you to write this?”

“Ma’am, you really think I’d—?”

“Or is it just some sick practical joke to test my reaction? I’ve got a great idea,” she says in mock impersonation. “Let’s revisit the worst moment in Dr. Manning’s life, then see if we can rip apart her reality until she finally snaps.”

“Ma’am, this isn’t a joke—”

“Or better yet, let’s have her husband’s aide sneak into her bedroom . . .”

“Ma’am . . .”

“. . . take it from her desk . . .”

“Dr. Manning, I saw him.”

“. . . and that way, she’ll start panicking, wondering if it was even real to begin with.”

“I saw Boyle. In Malaysia. He’s alive.”

She freezes, the tips of her fingers touching her lips. Her head shakes slowly. Then faster.
No—no. Oh, no, no.

“It was him, ma’am. I saw him.”

Her head continues to shake as her fingers move from her lips, to her chin, to her own shoulder. Curling forward and gripping her shoulder, she practically shrinks into a ball. “How could he—? How could they both—? Oh, God . . .” She looks back up at me, and her eyes well with tears so fast, there’s no time to blink them away. Earlier, I thought they were tears of guilt—that she might be hiding something. But to see her now—the frightened anguish that contorts her face, the shock that keeps her head shaking in denial—these tears are born in pain.

“Dr. Manning, I’m sure this . . . I know it seems impossible—”

“That’s not—God!—it’s not like I’m naive,” she insists. “I’m
not
naive. I mean, I-I-I knew he’d keep things from me—not to deceive—that’s just what he has to do. That’s the job of being President.”

As she stumbles through the words, I realize she’s no longer talking about Boyle. She’s talking about her husband.

“There are secrets he
has
to keep, Wes. Troop positions . . . surveillance capabilities . . . those are the secrets we
need
,” she says. “But something like this . . . good Lord, I was at Ron’s funeral. I read a psalm!”

“Ma’am, what’re you—?”

“I went to his house and cried with his wife and daughter! I was on my knees praying for his peaceful rest!” she shouts, her sadness shifting to rage. “And now to find out it was all a sham . . . some weak-minded escape for his own cowardice . . .” The tears again flood forward and she sways off balance. “Oh, Lord, if what Ron says . . . if it’s true . . .” Stumbling toward me, she grabs the corner of the low Empire dresser on my left, barely able to stay on her feet.

“Ma’am!”

She holds up a hand to keep me back. Her eyes flit around the room. At first, I assume she’s mid-panic-attack. But the way she keeps looking . . . from the side table on the left of the bed, to Manning’s side table on the right, to the writer’s desk, back to the Empire dresser . . . each is covered with picture frames—all shapes and sizes—all with photos of Manning. “H-How could he . . . how could they do that?” she asks, looking at me for the answer.

All I can offer is a shell-shocked stare. I can’t feel my arms. Everything’s numb. Is she saying that Manning knew abou—?

“Did Boyle say anything when you saw him? Did he offer any explanation?”

“I just . . . I walked in on him,” I explain, barely hearing my own words. “He took off before I even realized what was happening.”

The First Lady’s hand starts shaking again. She’s like me in Malaysia. Thanks to the letter, she’s finally hearing that her dead friend is actually alive. And from what Boyle wrote, for some reason he blames himself, saying he did it to protect his family. Overwhelmed by the moment, Dr. Manning takes a seat on the hand-painted American flag chest at the foot of the bed and stares down at Boyle’s handwritten letter. “I just can’t—”

“He called me yesterday and told me to stay away,” I add for no good reason. “That it wasn’t my fight.” I feel a flush of rage. “But it
is
my fight.”

She looks at me absently as if she’d forgotten I was there. Her jaw tightens, and she presses her hand against her lap until it stops shaking. It’s bad enough she’s so emotionally distraught. It’s even worse that it’s happening in front of me. Within an eyeblink, her chin and posture stiffen, and her political instincts, honed by years of keeping private matters private, kick in. “He’s right,” she blurts.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Listen to Boyle,” she says. Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

“But, ma’am—”

“Forget you ever saw him, forget he ever called you.” As her voice cracks, I realize I was wrong. This isn’t about her being emotionally exposed. It’s about her being protective. And not just of her husband. Of me too. “Wes, if you walk away now, at least they won’t know that you—”