The Book of Fate (25 page)
“Park underneath,” Rogo says, pointing to the two-story concrete parking garage that connects to the building. “The fewer people who see us, the better.” He glares at me in the rearview. It doesn’t take a genius to get the point. It’s bad enough I brought us here. It’s even worse that I brought Dreidel.
Still, Dreidel doesn’t seem to notice Rogo’s tantrum. Staring out the window, he’s far too focused on the huge brown sign that’s partially blocked by the building’s faux-cement pillars:
Palm Beach Post.
“You sure this is smart?” Dreidel asks as the sun disappears, and we wind our way up to the second level of the already dark garage.
“You got a better place?” I challenge.
And that’s the point. No matter where we go, it’s a cakewalk for anyone to listen in. But here, in the heart of it . . . I don’t care how powerful they are—Manning, the FBI, even the Service—none of them can afford to fistfight with the press.
“What’s the backup plan for when she screws us?” Rogo asks as we head through the front door of the building and across the lobby’s salmon and black marble floor. It’s his last-ditch effort to turn us around. Dreidel nods to show he agrees, but he still doesn’t slow down. Like me, he’s got a personal stake. And based on what I saw in his hotel room, he doesn’t want to give Lisbeth another excuse to put his name in bold.
“Cell phones and pagers,” a tan guard with silver hair announces as we approach the metal detector and X-ray. I put my shoulder bag on the belt, along with my phone. But as I step through the X-ray, a loud beep echoes through the tall marble canyon.
Feeling myself up, I check for a pen or a—
“Your pin,” the guard blurts, pointing to my lapel.
Rolling my eyes and stepping back through the X-ray, I fight my way out of my suit jacket and lay it across the conveyor.
“You should just throw the pin away,” Dreidel says, following right behind me. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”
“Hey, fellas,” the security guard interrupts, his head cocked sideways as he studies the video monitor for the X-ray. He taps the screen and makes a face. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this . . .”
L
adies and gentlemen, welcome to Palm Beach International Airport,” the flight attendant announced through the plane’s intercom. “Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop and the captain turns off the seat belt sign.”
Flicking the metal clasp, The Roman undid his seat belt, reached under the seat in front of him, and pulled out a thick aluminum photographer’s briefcase with the Secret Service logo on it. He flexed his thumbs, triggering the clasps that opened the case. From inside, tucked into a gray foam protective shell, he pulled out a small receiver that reminded him of the old transistor radios his grandfather used to collect. Unwrapping a black wire from around the receiver, he inserted the earpiece in his right ear and flicked the
On
switch on the side of the receiver.
“. . . pin away,”
Dreidel said, his voice far more muffled than before. “
Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—
”
Checking the reception on the square electronic screen, The Roman saw four out of five digital bars. It was no different than a cell phone with a souped-up military battery.
“Hey, fellas,”
a new voice interrupted. “
Think you might wanna take a glance at this . . .
”
The Roman put a finger in his free ear and turned a dial to raise the volume. All he got was silence.
Up above, a loud chime sounded in the plane as a metal symphony of unfastened seat belts filled the cabin. Sitting perfectly still, The Roman turned up the volume even higher. Still nothing. For a moment, there was some mumbling, but nothing audible.
“What floor?”
Rogo asked, coming through loud and clear.
“Second,”
Wes replied.
“Just do me a favor,”
Rogo added.
“When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”
Closing his suitcase and following his fellow passengers into the aisle, The Roman nodded to himself. Them being smart was exactly what he planned.
G
otta give the boy credit,” Micah offered, circling through the parking lot as Wes, Rogo, and Dreidel disappeared inside the
Palm Beach Post
building.
“Who, Wes?” O’Shea asked, watching from the passenger seat of their government-rented Chevy. “Why, because he’s running for help?”
“See, that’s where you’re underestimating. I don’t think he’s running. Once he steps inside that building, he’s zipping himself in a force field he knows we won’t pierce.”
“Either that or he’s running out of options.”
“Maybe,” Micah said, holding the steering wheel and facing his longtime partner. “But when I was trailing him yesterday morning, every single person he ran into was staring at his face. The valet, the doorman, the guests he passed in the lobby . . . if he can handle that on a daily basis, he can take more punches than you think.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I’m just saying, the immovable object is just as deadly as our unstoppable force.”
“Yeah, but the unstoppable force is still the one people’re afraid of. And until we catch Boyle’s ass, that’s the one I’d rather be.”
“. . . because it’s served us so well thus far,” Micah said.
“You’re missing the point. Even if Boyle knows we’re searching . . .”
“. . . which he does. He’s known for years.”
“But what he
doesn’t
know is that Wes has suddenly become the best carrot on our stick. Turn—in there,” O’Shea added, pointing to the entrance to the two-story parking garage.
Rounding the turn and weaving up to the second level, it didn’t take long for them to pull up to Wes’s rusted black Toyota. As soon as he saw it, Micah hit the brakes.
“Just pull in back there,” O’Shea said, motioning to an open parking spot diagonally across from the Toyota.
Tapping the gas, Micah eased into the spot. Through the back window, the view of Wes’s car was perfect.
“We got the carrot,” O’Shea said. “When you hold tight to that, the horse’ll always follow.”
C
rowding around the small TV monitor of the X-ray, we all stand frozen as the guard points to the screen. The rectangular outline of my lapel pin glows dark gray. Just below it, the two sculpted heads dangle like matching gray tears. But what’s far more interesting are the tiny metal pieces—they almost look like shards of shattered glass—glowing bright white at the center of the rectangle.
We’re all squinting, struggling to make them out, until the guard hits a button on his keyboard and pulls in on the picture. On-screen, the pieces—a coiled antenna, a miniature microchip, and an even smaller hearing-aid battery—bloom into view.
As always, Rogo’s mouth opens first. “Sonofa—”
I pinch his elbow and shoot him a look.
“That’s just . . . that’s my voice recorder—all digital—y’know, to save good ideas,” I whisper, trying to sound like I have a sore throat. “Cool, huh?”
“They make ’em even tinier than those little cassettes,” Rogo adds, quickly catching on.
“Here, try it,” I bluff to the guard as the conveyor returns my jacket. Folding it over my arm and shoving it toward him, I hold out the lapel to give him a closer look. He waves me off, satisfied by the offer.
Quickly heading for the elevators, we paint on fake smiles as if everything’s perfect. The way Dreidel’s eyes are dancing back and forth, he’s in full panic. I don’t blame him. Whoever’s listening knows about what he was doing in that hotel room. But now’s not the time. I glance back at the guard, who’s still watching us, then down at the metal White House, which is presumably still broadcasting.
Just wait,
I say to Dreidel with nothing but an open palm aimed in his direction. His eyes dance even faster. As we step into the waiting elevator, he bites at his manicured thumbnail, unable to contain himself. But just as he’s about to whisper a response, Rogo grabs him by the biceps.
“What floor?” Rogo asks, leaning in and motioning upward with his chin. In the corner of the elevator, a security camera stares down at us.
“Second,” I reply as casually as possible.
“Just do me a favor,” Rogo adds. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”
No one says another word until the door pings open on the second floor. I make two quick lefts, following the gray carpet down the main hallway. Along the left wall are the closed glass doors and private offices of the paper’s top editors. We go straight for the cubicles in back.
“This is stupid,” Dreidel whispers as my hand covers the lapel pin. “We should get out of here. Just dump the jacket and abort.”
For once, Rogo agrees. “Take it as a sign, Wes. For all we know, she’s only gonna make it worse.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper.
“Hey,” Lisbeth calls out, popping her head over the cubicle just as we approach. She reads our reactions instantly. “What’s wr—?”
I put a finger to my lips and cut her off. Holding up my jacket, I point to the lapel pin and mouth the word
bug.
“Thanks again for having us over,” I add as she pantomimes and points to her own ear.
They can hear us?
she asks.
I nod and drape the jacket across the back of her chair.
“Sorry about the air-conditioning,” she adds, already one step ahead of us as she grabs a thick file folder from her desk. “If you want, just leave your jackets here . . .” Before we can react, she’s out of the cubicle and darting up the hallway, her red hair bouncing and her arms swaying at her sides. The way the sleeves of her crisp white shirt are rolled up to her elbows, I can see the pale freckles that dot most of her forearm. Trailing behind her, Rogo sees them too, but he doesn’t say a word. He either hates her or loves her. As always with him, it’s hard to tell which.
“I’m Rogo,” he says, extending a hand and racing to catch up to her.
“In here,” she says, ignoring him and pulling open the door to a sunny conference room with three glass walls, each of them with open vertical blinds. Lisbeth circles the room and, one by one, tugs on the pull cords, snapping the blinds shut. She does the same with the blinds on the plate-glass window that looks out over the front parking lot. Within three seconds, sunlight’s replaced by the quiet drone of fluorescents.
“You sure no one can hear us?”
“Editorial board meets here every morning to decide whose lives they’re ripping apart each day. Rumor is, they sweep it for bugs at least once a week.”
Unlike Dreidel or Rogo, or even myself, Lisbeth’s not the least bit thrown or intimidated. We’ve been out of fighting shape since the day we left the White House. She picks public battles every day. And she’s clearly good at it.
“So who gave you the pin?” Lisbeth asks as we take seats around the large oval conference table.
“Claudia,” I stutter, referring to our chief of staff as I accidentally back my chair into the black Formica credenza that runs against the back wall. “It goes to whoever’s late . . .”
“You think she’s the one that put the mike in there?” Dreidel asks.
“I-I have no idea,” I say, replaying yesterday’s meeting in my head. Oren . . . Bev . . . even B.B. “It could’ve been anyone. All they needed was access to it.”
“Who was wearing it last?” Lisbeth asks.
“I don’t know . . . Bev maybe? Oren never wears it. Maybe B.B.? But by the end of the week, people sometimes just leave it on their desk. I mean, I wouldn’t have noticed if someone went into my office and pulled it off my jacket . . .”
“But to squeeze a wireless mike into something so small,” Dreidel says. “Doesn’t that seem a little high-tech for—no offense, Wes—but for the scrubs on the White House B-team?”
“What’s your point?” I ask, ignoring the snobbery.
“Maybe they had help,” Dreidel says.
“From who? The Service?”
“Or the FBI,” Rogo suggests.
“Or from someone who’s good at collecting secrets,” Lisbeth adds, a bit too enthusiastically. The way her fingertips flick at the edge of her file folder, she’s clearly got something to say.
“You got someone who fits the bill?” Dreidel asks skeptically.
“You tell me,” she says, flipping open her file folder. “Who wants to hear the real story behind The Roman?”
M
ostly, it was like the hum of an escalator or the churn of an airport conveyor belt. Soothing at first, then maddening in repetition.
For The Roman, it’d been almost half an hour since he’d heard Wes’s scratchy voice echo through the wiretap. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t be much longer. But as he picked up his rental car, fought through the airport traffic, and eventually made his way down Southern Boulevard, the wiretap hummed with nothing but emptiness. Every once in a while, as two people passed by Lisbeth’s cubicle, he’d pick up the distant buzz of a conversation. Then back to the hum.
Gripping the steering wheel as his white rental car scaled up the Southern Boulevard Bridge, he tried to calm himself with the aquamarine views of the Intracoastal Waterway. As usual, it did the trick, reminding him of the last time he was here: during Manning’s final year, casting in Lake Okeechobee, and reeling in nothing smaller than nine-pounders. No question, the bass were bigger in Florida—back in D.C., a six-pounder was considered huge—but that didn’t make them any easier to catch. Not unless you were willing to have some patience.
With a glance at his silver briefcase that sat wide-open on the passenger seat, The Roman double-checked the wiretap’s signal strength and readjusted his earpiece. After a sharp left on Ocean Boulevard, it wasn’t long before he saw the top of the squat, glass office building peeking above the green leaves of the banyan trees that were relocated there to shield it from public view. As he turned left into the main driveway, he knew they’d have security. What he didn’t know was that they’d also have two police cars, two unmarked Chevys, and an ambulance right outside the building’s entrance. They were definitely starting to panic.
