The Book of Fate (38 page)

Lisbeth shook her head to herself, trying hard to stay focused. “Violet, I know this is hard for you—I know what it takes to tell the story—but I just need— Before we do anything, I need to ask: Do you have any way of proving this . . . anything at all . . . videotapes, physical proof . . . ?”

“You don’t believe me,” she insisted.

“No, no, no . . . it’s just, look who you’re fighting with here. Without a way of verifying—”

“I have proof,” Violet said, clearly annoyed as she caught her breath. “I’ve got it right here. If you don’t believe me, come get it.”

“I will, I’ll come right now. Lemme just . . . hold on one second . . .” Pressing her cell phone to her chest and hopping out of her seat, Lisbeth grabbed the uncrumpled art award notes, darted out of her cubicle, and ducked into a blond reporter’s cubicle directly across the hall. “Eve, can I borrow your car?” Lisbeth asked.

“First my phone—which I still haven’t gotten back—now my car—”

“Eve!”

Eve studied her friend, reading her expression. “This’s the one, isn’t it?”

“Column’s on my computer. Here’s the last item,” Lisbeth said, tossing her the art award notes. “Can you—?”

“On it,” Eve said as Lisbeth said thank you, took off up the hallway, and pressed her cell to her ear. “Violet, I’m on my way,” she said, doing her best to keep her talking. Sacred Rule #9: Never let go of the big fish. “So . . . how long were you two actually together?”

“A year and two months,” Violet replied, still sounding angry. “Right before the shooting.”

Lisbeth stopped running. “Wait, this was when he was still in the White House?”

“Of course. Every President goes home for vacation. Besides, he couldn’t pull this off in Washington. But down here . . . I’d get the phone call and he could—”

“Violet, no bullshitting anymore—you’re trying to tell me that despite all the security—despite dozens of Secret Service agents—you were sleeping with and got beat up by the President of the United States
while he was still in office
?”

“President?” Violet asked. “You think I was sleeping with Manning? No, no, no . . . the other mention—about running for Senate . . .”

“You mean—”

“The little animal who mauled me. I was talking about Dreidel.”

74

T
hink he’ll go through with it?” Dreidel asked, readjusting his wire-rim glasses as he read from Boyle’s personnel file.

“Who, Wes? Hard to say,” Rogo replied, still sitting on the floor and flipping through the documents in Boyle’s requests. “He was talking a tough game, but you know how he gets with Manning.”

“You’ve obviously never been on the receiving end of Manning.” Looking down at the file, Dreidel added, “Y’know Boyle spoke Hebrew and Arabic?”

“Says who?”

“Says here: Hebrew, Arabic, and American Sign Language. Apparently, his sister was deaf. That’s why they moved to Jersey—had one of the early schools for the hearing impaired. God, I remember filling this out,” he added, reading from Boyle’s National Security Questionnaire. “According to this, he won a Westinghouse prize when he was in high school—plus a Marshall Scholarship at Oxford. Guy was scary smart, especially when it came t— Hold on,” Dreidel said. “
Have you been over 180 days delinquent on any debts? Yes. If yes, explain below . . .
” Flipping to the next page, Dreidel read the single-spaced page that was stapled to the application. “
. . . to a total debt of $230,000 . . .
”

“Two hundred and thirty
thousand
? What’d he buy? Italy?”

“I don’t think he bought anything,” Dreidel said. “From what it says here, it was his
father’s
debt. Apparently, Boyle volunteered to take it over so his dad wouldn’t have to declare bankruptcy.”

“Boy loves his daddy.”

“Actually, hates his daddy. But loves his mom,” Dreidel said, reading even further. “If Dad declared bankruptcy and the creditors swooped in, Mom would’ve been kicked out of the family restaurant that she’d worked in and run since Boyle was a kid.”

“Nice work by Dad—put the family business at risk, boot your wife out on the street, and stick your kid with all the leftover debt.”

“Wait, that’s the good part,” Dreidel said, turning to the last few pages of the application. Here:
Is there anything in your personal life that could be used by someone to embarrass the President or the White House? Please provide full details.
” Flipping the page and revealing another single-spaced typed document, Dreidel shook his head, remembering the stories that Boyle had disclosed early in the campaign. Even at the beginning, Manning stood by his friend. “Most of this we know: Dad was first arrested before Boyle was born. Then arrested again when Boyle was six, then again when he was thirteen—the last time for assault and battery on the owner of a Chinese laundry in Staten Island. Then he actually wound up staying out of trouble until just after Boyle left for college. That’s when the FBI picked him up for selling fake insurance policies in a New Brunswick nursing home. The list keeps going . . . importing stolen scooters, check kiting for a few thousand bucks, but somehow, barely serving any time.”

“It’s a Freudian field day, isn’t it? Dad breaking all the rules with the con man shtick, while Boyle throws himself into the preciseness of accounting. What was that
Time
story when Dad got arrested for shoplifting? Black eye . . .”

“. . . on the
White
House. Yeah, clever. That’s almost as good as that political cartoon where they had him robbing Toys for Tots.”

“I still can’t—” Rogo cut himself off, shaking his head. “All this time, we’re hunting for Boyle like he’s the great white evil, but when you hear all the details: miserable childhood, deaf sister, working-class Italian mom . . . and yet he still manages to claw his way out and make his way to the White House . . .”

“Oh, please, Rogo—don’t tell me you’re feeling bad for him.”

“. . . and then his dad lies, cheats, steals, and on top of it all, leaves Boyle holding the bill. I mean, just think about it—how does a father do that to his own son?”

“Same way Boyle did it to his own wife and daughter when he disappeared from their lives and turned them into mourners. People are scumbags, Rogo—especially when they’re desperate.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing. If Boyle were really that bad, why’d they even let him work in the White House? Isn’t that the purpose of all these forms—to screen people like him out?”

“In theory, that’s the goal, but it’s not like it was some uncovered secret. Everyone knew his dad was trash. He used to talk about it—use it for sympathy in the press. It only became a problem when we won. But when your best friend is President of the United States, oh, what a surprise, the FBI can be convinced to make exceptions. In fact, let me show you how they . . . here . . .” Dreidel said, once again thumbing through the folder. “Okay,
here
,” he added, unclipping a sheet of stationery-sized paper as Rogo took a seat on the edge of the desk and started flipping through the rest of the file.

“Boyle had codeword clearance. Before they dole that out, they need to know what side you’re on. FBI . . . Secret Service . . . they all take a look. Then Manning gets to see the results . . .” On the small sheet of paper was a list of typed letters lined up in a single column, each one with a check mark next to it:

BKD √

MH √

WEX √

ED √

REF √

AC

PRL √

FB √

PUB √

“Is that the same as
this
?” Rogo asked as he turned a page in the file and revealed a near-identical sheet.

“Exactly—that’s the same report.”

“So why’s Boyle have two?”

“One’s from when he started, the other’s probably from when they renewed his clearance. It’s the same.
BKD
is background—your general background check.
MH
is your military history.
WEX
is work experience . . .”

“So this is all the dirt on Boyle?” Rogo asked, staring down at the sparsely covered page.

“No,
this
is the dirt—everything below
here
,” Dreidel said, pointing to the underlined letters
AC
halfway down the page.

“AC?”

“Areas of concern.”

“And all these letters below it:
PRL . . . FB . . . PUB . . .
”

“
PRL
is Boyle’s personal history, which I’ll wager refers to all the crap with his father.
FB
is his financial background; thanks again, Dad. And
PUB
. . .” Dreidel paused a moment, reading from his sheet as Rogo followed on his own copy. “
PUB
is the public perception issues if Boyle’s background gets out, which in this case, it already was.”

“What about
PI
?” Rogo asked.

“Whattya mean?”

“PI
,
”
Rogo repeated, turning his sheet toward Dreidel. “Isn’t your last one
PI
?”

Dreidel looked at his own sheet, which ended with
PUB
, then turned toward Rogo’s, squinting to read the letters with the handwritten message next to them:

PI—
note May 27

Dreidel’s face went white.

“What?” Rogo asked. “What’s it mean?”

“What’s the date on yours say?”

Reading from the top corner of the sheet, Rogo could barely get the words out. “June 16th,” he said. “Right before the shooting.”

“Mine’s January 6th—days before we moved into the White House.”

“I don’t understand, though. What’s
PI
?”

“Paternity issues,” Dreidel said. “According to this, just before he was shot, Boyle had a kid no one knew about.”

75

W
hat’d you do?” The Roman asked, his voice squawking through the scrambled satellite phone.

“It’s fine. Problem solved,” O’Shea replied, keeping the phone close and staring out the small oval window of the chartered seaplane.

“What does that mean? Let me speak to Micah!”

“Yeah, well . . . that’s a little harder than it used to be,” O’Shea said as the plane dropped down, approaching the aquamarine waves of Lake Worth. From the current height—barely a few hundred feet above the water—the backyards of the Palm Beach mansions whizzed by in a blur.

“O’Shea, don’t tell me— What’d you do to him?”

“Don’t lecture me, okay? I didn’t have a choice.”

“You
killed
him?”

O’Shea stared out the window as the plane sank down to just a few feet above the waves. “Be smart. He’s covert in Directorate of Operations. He shouldn’t be working on U.S. soil. And for some reason, he’s caught standing on the track at the speedway? Once Wes IDed him, they would’ve brought him right in.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d talk!”

“You think so? You think if they offered him a deal and said they’d go easy on him, every one of Micah’s fingers wouldn’t’ve pointed our way?”

“He’s still CIA!” The Roman shouted through the phone. “You have any idea what kinda fire that starts? You just lit the damn volcano!”

“You think I enjoyed it? I’ve known Micah since War College. He was at my niece’s communion.”

“Well, I guess there goes his invite for her sweet sixteen!”

With a final jolt, the plane dropped down for its landing. The instant the floats hit the water, the plane bounced and wobbled, slowing down until it was cruising with the current.

“Enough
,
”
O’Shea warned as the floating plane chugged toward the floating dock of the Rybovich Spencer boatyard. “It was hard enough as it is.”

“Really? Then maybe you should’ve thought twice before you decided to put a bullet in him! You know how hard it’s gonna be to find another person inside the Agency?”

“
You’re
lecturing
me
about forethought? Have you forgotten why we’re even stamping around in all this manure? It’s the same jackass thing you did with our so-called six-million-dollar payment for
Blackbird.
You rush in, stick your finger in all the electrical sockets, then get mad at me when I have to deal with the cleanup.”

“Don’t even—
Blackbird
was a mutual decision!” The Roman exploded. “We voted on that!”

“No,
you
voted. You’re the one who put the number that high. Then when they decided they weren’t paying it, you came crying that we needed an assist from the inside.”

“Okay, so now you didn’t want that six mil?”

“What I didn’t want was to have to ask for that kinda cash
twice.
We spent nearly a decade building up your damn Roman identity—all those tips we snatched and passed your way so it looked like you had some big, great informant out there—hell, they still think The Roman’s a real person who feeds the government info—all for the goal of going in for that one huge multimillion-dollar hit. One time! One ask! That’s all it was supposed to be—until you got the dollar signs in your eyes and thought we could do it on a regular basis.”

“We
could’ve
done it on a regular basis—fifty, sixty, seventy million, easy. You
know
you agreed.”

“Then you should’ve listened to us and never approached Boyle first,” O’Shea said, his voice calmer than ever. “And unlike last time, I’m done letting a loose end come back to bite us in the ass. As long as Wes is out there with that photo, we’ve both got targets on our chests.”

“What, so now you’re putting Wes on your hit list as well? I thought you agreed he was just bait.”

Without a word, O’Shea watched as the seaplane angled past half a dozen pristine yachts and nosed up to the floating dock.

“Check out that sailboat in front of us,” the pilot announced as he pulled off his headphones and entered the back of the plane. “That’s Jimmy Buffett’s day sailer. You see the name of it?
Chill.
”

O’Shea nodded as the pilot opened the hatch, stepped outside, and tossed the grab line to the dock.

“O’Shea, before you get stupid, think about next month,” The Roman said through the phone. “If this thing comes through in India . . .”