The Book of Fate (44 page)

“Dr. Manning, I’m sorry—but the way you said it . . . You knew all this back then?”

“Wes, you were there with us. You know what was at stake. With someone like Ron . . . that kind of pressure point to exploit . . . you really think the FBI doesn’t keep an extra eye on him?”

She stabs me with a look that almost knocks me to the ground. “Hold on . . . you’re saying the FBI was watching Boyle? While we were in office?”

“They were trying to keep him safe, Wes. And even then, Lee fought them watching on every front—called Barry and Carl personally,” she says, referring to our old FBI director and national security adviser. “Two days later, they found the deposit. Eleven thousand dollars in a bank account with Ron’s daughter’s name on it. Can you imagine? Using his
daughter’s
name! They said that was probably The Three’s opening offer. Take the money they slipped into his account, or they’d wreck his life and tell his wife about the child he was hiding on the side.”

As she says the words, I’m the one who needs to lean on the dresser to stand. “But in . . . in the briefing book . . . I never saw anything about that.”

“Every file wasn’t for you, Wes.”

“Still, if The Three were that close, couldn’t you call—?”

“You think we weren’t pulling up the floorboards? At that point, we didn’t even have a name for who we were chasing. We knew they had someone from FBI because they’d clearly accessed Ron’s files. Then when they transferred the money into Ron’s bank account—Secret Service does financial crime—they said the way the money was sent, they were using techniques from inside. And blackmail? That’s CIA bread and butter. We alerted every agency with an acronym and started telling them to look within!”

“I know . . . I just—” I catch myself, always careful to know my place. “Maybe I’m missing something, ma’am, but if you knew Boyle was being pressured into joining The Three, why didn’t you just warn
him
—or at least tell him that you knew he was being blackmailed?”

Looking down at the handwritten letter, Lenore Manning doesn’t say a word.

“What?” I ask. “He
was
being blackmailed, right?”

She sits on the hand-painted chest, still silent.

“Is there something I’m not—?”

“We needed to see what he would do,” she finally says, her voice softer than ever.

A sharp chill seizes my spine. “You were testing him.”

“You have to understand, when The Roman got that close—to penetrate our circle like that—it wasn’t about Boyle anymore—we were trying to catch The Three.” Her voice trembles—she’s been holding this in for so long—she’s practically pleading for forgiveness. “It was the FBI’s request. If the myth was real, if a group of dirty agents were truly in contact, this was their chance to catch them all.”

I nod like it makes sense. Ron Boyle was their oldest and dearest friend, but when The Three forced his head toward the mousetrap, the Mannings—the President and First Lady of the United States—still waited to see if he’d take the cheese.

“I know what you’re thinking, Wes, but I swear to you, I was trying to protect Ron. I told them that: Give him time to resign. Make sure to look out for—” She swallows hard, shaking her head over and over and over. I’ve seen the First Lady angry, upset, sad, offended, enraged, distressed, anxious, worried, and even—when she came out of hip replacement surgery a few years back—in pain. But I’ve never seen her like this. Not even when we left the White House. Catching herself, she presses her chin against her chest to stop her head from shaking. The way she turns away from me, she hopes I don’t notice. But as always, in this job, I see it all. “They were supposed to look out for him,” she whispers, lost in her own broken promise. “They . . . they swore he’d be safe.”

“And Boyle never told you The Three approached him?”

“I was waiting for it . . . praying for him to take us aside. Every day, we’d get a report on whether he’d accepted their offer.
No response
, they kept saying. I knew Ron was fighting it. I knew it,” she insists as she hugs her own shoulder, curling even tighter. “But they told us to keep waiting . . . just to be sure. And then when he was shot . . .” She stares down at the floor as a surprise sob and a decade of guilt seize her throat. “I thought we’d buried him.”

As I stare across at the handwritten letter in her lap, the mental puzzle pieces slide into place. “So all this time, the real reason Boyle was shot wasn’t because he crossed The Three, it was because he refused to
join
them?”

She looks back, cocking her head. Her voice is still barely a whisper. “You don’t even know who you’re fighting, do you?”

“What’re you—?”

“Have you even read this?” she asks, slapping the letter against my chest. “On the day he was shot, Ron hadn’t given The Three a decision yet!” There’s a shift in her tone. Her eyes widen. Her mouth hangs open. At first, I think she’s angry, but she’s not. She’s afraid.

“Dr. Manning, are you okay?”

“Wes, you should go. This isn’t . . . I can’t—”

“You can’t what? I don’t underst—”

“Please, Wes, just go!” she pleads, but I’m already staring back at the letter. My brain’s racing so fast, I can’t read it. But what she said—on the day of the shooting, if Boyle hadn’t given The Three a decision yet . . . for all they knew, he still could’ve gone to join them.

My forehead crinkles, struggling to process. But if that was the case . . . “Then why kill him?” I ask.

“Wes, before you jump to conclusions—”

“Unless they knew Ron was having second thoughts . . .”

“Did you hear what I said? You can’t—”

“. . . or maybe they thought they’d revealed too much . . . or . . . or they realized he was under surveillance . . .”

“Wes, why aren’t you listening to me!?”
she shouts, trying to pull the letter from my hands.

“Or maybe they found someone better to fill the fourth spot,” I blurt, tugging the letter back.

The First Lady lets go, and the page hits my chest with a thunderclap. My whole body feels a thousand pounds heavier, weighed down by the kind of numbing, all-consuming dread that comes with bad news at a doctor’s office. “Is that what happened?” I demand.

Her answer comes far too slowly. “No.”

My mouth goes dry. My tongue feels like a wad of damp newspaper.

“That’s not . . . Ron didn’t . . .” the First Lady says. “Maybe Ron’s wrong . . .”

“Boyle was deputy chief of staff. There aren’t that many people who’re better at getting the—”

“You don’t understand. He’s a good man . . . he must’ve been tricked,” she continues, practically rambling.

“Ma’am . . .”

“He never would’ve done it on purpose . . .”

“Ma’am, please—”

“. . . even if they promised four more years—”

“Can you please calm down!” I insist. “Who could they possibly get that’s bigger than Boyle?”

Still hunched forward on the trunk at the foot of her bed, the First Lady lifts her chin, staring straight at me. Like the President, like everyone in our office, she doesn’t look at my scars. She hasn’t for years. Until right now.

The question echoes over and over through my brain. They were looking for a fourth. Who would be the biggest fourth of all?

I glance down at the letter that’s still in my hands. On the bottom of the page, the meticulous handwritten note reads:

But I never thought they’d be able to get him.

Blood drains from my face. That’s what she realized. That’s why she asked me to leave. She’d never turn on— “
Him?
” I ask. “You can’t mean—?”

“Wes, everything okay up there?” President Lee Manning shouts from the base of the stairs. “We’re still waiting for that sport coat!”

I turn to the First Lady. The President’s footsteps hammer up the stairway.

85

T
he First Lady starts to say something, but it’s like she’s talking underwater. Teetering backward, I crash into the desk with all the Manning photos, which wobble and shake. Like me. To do that to me— The room whirls, and my life swirls into the kaleidoscope. All these years . . . to lie to my— God, how could he—? There’s no time for an answer. From the footsteps outside the bedroom, it’s clear the President is almost at the top of the stairs. If he sees me with her—

“Wes?” he calls out.

“Coming, sir!” I yell as I rush to his closet, tug a navy sport coat off its hanger, and shoot one last look at the First Lady, who’s still frozen on the hand-painted trunk. Her eyebrows lift, her cheeks seem almost hollow. She doesn’t say a word, but the cry for help is deafening.

“He’d never—he wouldn’t do that—not on purpose,” she whispers as I drop Boyle’s note back in her lap. Nodding repeatedly, she’s already convincing herself. “In fact, maybe . . . maybe he was tricked. Maybe he got approached by The Roman and he didn’t realize who he was talking to. He would look like a real agent, right? So—so—so maybe they got worried that Ron was taking so long, and they tried a more manipulative route that went straight to the top branch of the tree. And then . . . he could’ve thought he was actually
helping
the Service. Maybe—maybe he didn’t even realize what he’d done.”

I nod. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it wasn’t intentional. Maybe it was Manning’s greatest, most horrible mistake that he prayed would somehow go away. The problem is, I can still picture the President on his last walk across the South Lawn, clutching the First Lady’s hand and refusing to look back as they headed for Marine One. Back then, the leaks from our own staff said she was more devastated than he was. But I was there. I saw how tightly he was squeezing her fingers.

The President’s footsteps are nearly at the top of the stairs.

I wobble toward the door, burst into the hallway, and make a sharp right, almost ramming into the President’s chest.

“H-Here you go, sir,” I say as I skid to a halt, my arm outstretched with his navy blazer.

He takes another step toward me. I stand my ground, making sure he doesn’t go any farther.

For a moment, Manning’s eyes narrow, his famous grays flattening into matching icy slivers. But just as quickly, a broad, warm smile lifts his cheeks and reveals a hint of yellow on his teeth. “By the way, have you seen the wigs yet?” he asks, referring to the Madame Tussauds folks downstairs. “They brought the one from when we left office. I’m telling you, Wes, it’s grayer than I am now. I think I’m getting younger.”

I force a laugh and head for the stairs before he gets a good look at me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, barely a step behind.

“No . . . nothing,” I say, motioning with the navy sport coat and feeling a flush of hot blood rushing through my neck. “I just wanted to be sure I didn’t give away one of your good jackets.”

“I appreciate your looking out for the wax me,” he teases, putting a hand on my shoulder. That’s the move. Hand on shoulder for instant intimacy and guaranteed trust. I’ve seen him use it on prime ministers, senators, congressmen, even on his own son. Now he’s using it on me.

Halfway down the stairs, I pick up my pace. He stays right with me. Even if working with The Roman was his mistake, to lie to my face every single— Is that why he kept me here? Penance for his own guilt?

In my pocket, my phone starts vibrating. I pull it out and check the phone’s tiny screen. Text message:

wes, it’s lisbeth. pick up.

i solved puzzle.

A second later, the phone vibrates in my hand. “Excuse me one second, sir,” I say to the President. “It’s Claudia, who— Hello?” I say, answering the phone.

“You need to get out of there,” Lisbeth says.

“Hey, Claudia. I did? Okay, hold on one sec.” Nearing the bottom step, I keep Lisbeth on hold and turn back to Manning, feeling like my body’s on fire. “She says I left my house keys in her office. I’m sorry, sir, but if it’s okay, I may just run back there and—”

“Relax, Wes, I’m a big boy,” he says with a laugh, his shoulder grasp turning into a quick, forceful back pat that almost knocks me off the bottom step. “Go do what you have to. I’ve handled one or two problems bigger than this.”

Handing him his sport coat, I laugh right back and head for the front door. I can feel the President’s eyes burning into the back of my head.

“By the way, Wes, do me a favor and let the Service know where you’re going too,” he says loud enough so the agents outside can hear. “Just in case they need to get in touch.”

“Of course, sir,” I say as I jog down the front steps.

“You alone yet?” Lisbeth asks through the phone.

The moment the door slams behind me, the two suit-and-tie agents who’re standing outside the garage look up.

“Everything okay?” the shorter agent, Stevie, asks.

“Don’t look suspicious,” Lisbeth says through the phone. “Tell him you forgot your keys.”

“Yeah, no . . . I forgot my keys,” I say, speed-walking to the tall wooden privacy gate at the end of the driveway and pretending that everything I’ve built my life on isn’t now coming apart. My breathing starts to gallop. I’ve known Stevie for almost three years. He doesn’t care whether I check in or not. But as I reach the gate and wait for it to slide open, to my surprise, it doesn’t move.

“So where you headed to, Wes?” Stevie calls out.

“Wes, listen to me,” Lisbeth pleads. “Thanks to your low-life friend Dreidel, I found another puzzle. Are you listening?”

I turn back to the two men, who’re still standing in front of the closed garage and the matching Chevy Suburbans parked a few feet away. Stevie’s hand disappears into his pants pocket. It’s not until that moment that I realize that on the night I first saw Boyle, Stevie was driving the lead car in Malaysia. “Wes,” he says coldly. “I asked you a—”

“Just back to the office,” I blurt. Spinning clumsily to the gate, I stare at the double-plank wooden slats that keep people from looking in. I grip the phone to stop my hand from shaking. The sun’s about to set in the purple-orange sky. Behind me, there’s a metallic click. My heart leaps.

“See you soon,” Stevie calls out. There’s a loud
rrrrrr
as the wooden gate rolls to the right, sliding open just enough for me to squeeze through.