The Book Of Fate Part 15

"Good-that's a sign of no nerve damage," Benjamin said dryly in the small bas.e.m.e.nt office his ex-wife used to use for her electrolysis practice. The Roman sat on a modern leather sofa; Benjamin swiveled slightly on a stainless-steel rolling chair. "Hold still," he added. Pressing his thumb in The Roman's palm and his fingers on the back of The Roman's hand, Benjamin squeezed tightly on the wound. This time, The Roman was ready. He didn't scream at all.

"No bony tenderness or instability . . . though I still think you should have it X-rayed to be sure."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, I could tell that by the way you pa.s.sed out in the doorway. Just a picture of health." Unbending a paperclip, Benjamin twisted the metal until the two tips of the clip were almost touching, barely half a centimeter apart. "Do me a favor and close your eyes." As the Roman obliged, Benjamin lightly pressed the tips of the paperclip against the side of The Roman's thumb. "How many points do you feel?"

"Two," The Roman said.

"Good." Finger by finger, Benjamin repeated the question, then wrapped The Roman's hand in fresh gauze. Eventually working down to The Roman's bloodied foot, he tweezed pieces of sock and shards of shoelace from the wound and applied the same paperclip test to each toe. "How many now?"

"One."

"Good. Y'know, it's a miracle you didn't fracture any tarsal bones."

"Yeah, G.o.d's on my side," The Roman said, wiggling his fingers and tapping the gauze bandage on his palm. The blood was gone, but the pain was still there. Nico would pay for that one.

"Just keep it clean and elevated," Benjamin said as he eventually wrapped The Roman's foot.

"So I'm okay to fly?"

"Fly? No . . . forget it. This is rest time. Understand? Take it easy for a few days."

The Roman stayed silent, leaning down and carefully sliding his foot into the shoes Benjamin had brought from upstairs.

"Did you hear what I said?" Benjamin asked. "This isn't the time to run around."

"Just do me a favor and call in those prescriptions," The Roman said, fighting the urge to limp as he headed for the door. "I'll call you later." Without looking back, he stepped outside and pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

Ten digits later, a female voice answered, "Travel Office, how can I a.s.sist you?"

"I'm trying to make a reservation," The Roman said, walking out into the darkness as a gust of Virginia chill tried to blow him sideways. "I need the next flight you have for Palm Beach."

32.

This?" Dreidel asks as he stares down at the unfolded fax. "This's the last thing Boyle got from the library?"

"According to the archivist."

"It doesn't even make sense," Dreidel moans. "I mean, a personnel file, I could understand . . . even an old targeting memo for some attack that went wrong . . . but a crossword puzzle crossword puzzle?"

"That's what she sent: one sheet with some names on a stupid Beetle Bailey Beetle Bailey cartoon-and on the opposite side, a faded, mostly finished . . ." cartoon-and on the opposite side, a faded, mostly finished . . ."

". . . crossword puzzle," Dreidel repeats. He studies the crossword's handwritten answers. "It's definitely Manning's writing."

"And Albright's," I say, referring to our former chief of staff. "Remember? Albright started the puzzles . . ."

". . . and Manning finished them." Turning back to the crossword, he points to a jumble of doodles and random letters on the right side of the puzzle. AMB . . . JABR . . . FRF . . . JAR . . . AMB . . . JABR . . . FRF . . . JAR . . . "What're these?" "What're these?"

"No idea. I checked the initials, but they're no one he knows. To be honest, it looks like gibberish."

Dreidel nods, checking for himself. "My mother does the same thing when she's working a puzzle. I think it's just work s.p.a.ce-testing letters . . . trying different permutations." Focusing back on the puzzle itself, he reads each answer one by one. "What about the actual boxes? Anything interesting?"

"Just obscure words with lots of vowels. Damp . . . aral . . . peewee Damp . . . aral . . . peewee," I read across the top, leaning over his shoulder.

"So the answers are right?"

"I've had a total of twelve seconds to look at it, much less solve it."

"Definitely looks right," Dreidel says, studying the finished puzzle. "Though maybe this's what the FBI guy meant by The Three The Three," he adds. "Maybe it's a number in the crossword."

I shake my head. "He said it was a group."

"It could still be in the crossword."

Eyeing the only "three" in the puzzle, I point to the four-letter answer for 3 down. "Merc "Merc," I say, reading from the puzzle. I say, reading from the puzzle.

"Short for mercenary mercenary," Dreidel says, now excited. "A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive."

"Now you're reaching."

"How can you say that? Maybe that's exactly what we're missing . . ."

"What, some hidden code that says, At the end of the first term, fake Boyle's death and let him come back years later in Malaysia At the end of the first term, fake Boyle's death and let him come back years later in Malaysia? C'mon, be real. There's no secret message hidden in a Washington Post Washington Post crossword puzzle." crossword puzzle."

"So where does that leave us?" Dreidel asks.

"Stuck," a female voice announces from the corner.

Spinning around, I almost swallow my tongue. Lisbeth enters quieter than a cat, her eyes searching the room to make sure we're alone. The girl's not dumb. She knows what happens if this gets out.

"This is a private conversation," Dreidel insists.

"I can help you," she offers. In her hand is a cell phone. I glance down at her purse and spot another. Son of a- "Did you record us!? Is that why you left?" Dreidel explodes, already in lawyer mode as he hops out of his seat. "It's illegal in Florida without consent!"

"I didn't record you . . ."

"Then you can't prove anything-without a record, it's all just-"

"It could still be in the crossword . . . Merc . . . short for mercenary . . ." she begins, staring down at her left palm. Her voice never speeds up, always a perfect, unsettling calm. "A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive . . ." "A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive . . ." She turns her palm counterclockwise as she reads. " She turns her palm counterclockwise as she reads. "Now you're reaching. I can keep going if you want. I haven't even gotten to my wrist yet." I can keep going if you want. I haven't even gotten to my wrist yet."

"You tricked us," I say, frozen at the table.

She stops at the accusation. "No, that's not- I was just trying to see why you were lying to me."

"So you do that by lying to us us?"

"That wasn't what I-" She cuts herself off and looks down, weighing the moment. This is harder than she thought. "Listen, I'm . . . I'm sorry, okay? But I'm serious . . . I can work with you on this."

"Work with us? No, no no!" Dreidel shouts.

"You don't understand . . ."

"Actually, I'm pretty d.a.m.n fluent at this stuff-and the last thing I need right now is more time with you, listening to your bulls.h.i.t! I have a no comment no comment on all this, and anything you print, I'll not only deny, but I'll sue your a.s.s back to whatever c.r.a.ppy high school newspaper taught you that d.a.m.n phone trick in the first place!" on all this, and anything you print, I'll not only deny, but I'll sue your a.s.s back to whatever c.r.a.ppy high school newspaper taught you that d.a.m.n phone trick in the first place!"

"Yeah, I'm sure a public lawsuit will really help your state election campaign," Lisbeth says calmly.

"Don't you dare bring that into- Dammit! Dammit!" Dreidel screams, spinning around and slamming both fists against the welcoming table.

Still standing in the doorway, Lisbeth should be wearing a smile so wide, there'd be canary feathers dangling from her lips. Instead, she rubs the back of her neck as her front teeth click anxiously. I wore that same look when I walked in on one of the many fights between the President and First Lady. It's like walking in on someone having s.e.x. An initial thrill, followed instantly by the hollow dread that in a world of infinite possibilities, physical and temporal happenstance have conspired to place you at the regrettable, unreturnable moment that currently pa.s.ses for your life.

Lisbeth takes a step back, b.u.mping into the door. Then she takes a step forward. "I really can help you," she says.

"Whattya mean?" I ask, standing up.

"Wes, don't," Dreidel moans. "This is stupid. We already-"

"I can get you information," Lisbeth continues. "The newspaper . . . our contacts-"

"Contacts?" Dreidel asks. "We have the President's Rolodex."

"But you can't call them," Lisbeth shoots back. "And neither can Wes-not without tipping someone off."

"That's not true," Dreidel argues.

"Really? So no one'll raise an eyebrow when Manning's two former aides start dissecting his old a.s.sa.s.sination attempt? No one'll tattle to the President when you start sniffing around Boyle's old life?"

We're both speechless. Dreidel stops pacing. I brush some imaginary dirt from the table. If the President found out . . .

Lisbeth watches us carefully. Her freckles shift as her eyes narrow. She reads social cues for a living. "You don't even trust Manning, do you?" she asks.

"You can't print that," Dreidel threatens.

Lisbeth's mouth falls open, shocked by the answer. "You're serious . . ."

It takes me a second to process what just happened. I look to Lisbeth, then back to Dreidel. I don't believe it. She was bluffing.

"Don't you dare print it," Dreidel adds. "We didn't say that."

"I know . . . I'm not printing it . . . I just-you guys really punched the hornet's nest on this, didn't you?"

Dreidel's done answering questions. He storms at her, jabbing a finger at her face. "You have no proof of anything! And the fact that-"

"Can you really help us?" I call out from the table.

Turning to me, she doesn't hesitate. "Absolutely."

"Wes, don't be stupid . . ."

"How?" I ask her.

Dreidel turns my way. "Wait . . . you're actually listening listening to her?" to her?"

"By being the one person no one can ever trace back to you," Lisbeth explains, stepping around Dreidel and heading toward me. "You make a phone call, people'll know something's up. Same with Dreidel. But if I make it, I'm just a crackpot reporter sniffing for story and hoping to be the next Woodward and Bernstein."

"So why help us?" I ask.

"To be the next Woodward and Bernstein." Through her designer eyegla.s.ses, she studies me with dark green eyes-and never once glances down at my cheek. "I want the story," she adds. "When it's all over . . . when all the secrets are out, and the book deals are falling into place, I just want to be the one to write it up."

"And if we tell you to go screw yourself?"

"I break it now, and the news vans start lining up outside your apartment, feeding your lives to the cable news grinder. Lying to all of America . . . a giant cover-up . . . They'll eat you like Cheerios. And even if you get the truth out there, your lives'll be like picked-over bones."

"So that's it?" Dreidel asks, rushing back and tapping his knuckle on the table. "You threaten us, and we're supposed to just comply? How do we know you won't break it tomorrow morning just to get the quick kill?"

"Because only a moron goes for the quick kill," Lisbeth says as she sits on the edge of the table. "You know how it works: I run this tomorrow and I'll get a nice pat on the head that'll last a total of twenty-four hours, at which point the Times Times and the and the Washington Post Washington Post will grab my football, fly a dozen reporters down here, and dance it all the way to the end zone. At least my way, you're in control. You get your answers; I get my story. If you're innocent, you've got nothing to fear." will grab my football, fly a dozen reporters down here, and dance it all the way to the end zone. At least my way, you're in control. You get your answers; I get my story. If you're innocent, you've got nothing to fear."

I look up from my seat. At the edge of the table, Lisbeth's right leg swings slightly. She knows she's got a point.

"And we can trust you on that?" I ask. "You'll stay quiet until it's over?"

Her leg stops swinging. "Wes, the only reason you know Woodward and Bernstein is because they had the ending . . . not just the first hit. Only a fool wouldn't stick with you till we get all the answers."

I've been burned by reporters. I don't like reporters. And I certainly don't like Lisbeth. But as I glance over at Dreidel, who's finally fallen silent, it's clear we're out of options. If we don't work with her, she'll take this whole s.h.i.tstorm public and unleash it in a way that we'll never be able to take back. If we do do work with her, at least we buy some time to figure out what's really going on. I give another look to Dreidel. From the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, we've already stepped on the land mine. The only question now is, how long until we hear the big-? work with her, at least we buy some time to figure out what's really going on. I give another look to Dreidel. From the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, we've already stepped on the land mine. The only question now is, how long until we hear the big-?

"n.o.body move!" a deep voice yells as the door whips into the wall and half a dozen suit-and-tie Secret Service agents flood the room, guns drawn.

"Let's go!" a beefy agent with a thin yellow tie says as he grabs Dreidel by the shoulder and shoves him toward the door. "Out. Now!"

"Get off me!"

"You too!" another says to Lisbeth as she follows right behind. "Go!"

The rest of the agents swarm inside, but to my surprise, run right past me, fanning out in onion-peel formation as they circle through the room. This isn't an attack; it's a sweep.

The only thing that's odd is none of these guys look familiar. I know everyone on our detail. Maybe we got a bomb threat and they called in local- "Both of you, move move!" the yellow-tie agent barks at Dreidel and Lisbeth. I a.s.sume he doesn't see me-Lisbeth's still in front of me near the table, but as I shoot out of my seat and follow them toward the door, I feel a sharp tug on the back of my jacket.

"Hey, what're you-?"

"You're with me," Yellow Tie insists, yanking me backward as my tie digs into my neck. With a hard shove to the left, he sends me stumbling toward the far corner of the room. We're moving so fast, I can barely keep my balance.

"Wes!" Lisbeth calls out.