The Book Of Fate Part 28

Kara laughed. So did Dreidel, just for effect.

"You have no idea how much you're saving my life right now," Rogo added. "Thanks to you, I'll actually live to my twenty-third birthday. Okay . . . twenty-fifth. Twenty-ninth, tops."

"Don't go turning me into a saint just yet," Kara said, pulling out a thin manila folder. "Faxing you a crossword was one thing-but if you want access to Boyle's full file, I need an official FOIA request, plus authorization that-"

"See, that's the tickle," Dreidel interrupted, putting a hand on Rogo's shoulder and trying to get him to step aside. Rogo didn't budge. "If the President makes an official request, people take notice. They start thinking something's happened. That there must be news with Boyle's case. Next thing we know, Boyle's family wants to know what the government's hiding. We say nothing nothing, they say everything everything, and that's how conspiracies are born. So how about saving all of us the migraines and instead treating this as an unofficial unofficial request? As for authorization, I'm happy to sign for it." request? As for authorization, I'm happy to sign for it."

"I'm sorry . . . do I know-?"

"Gavin Jeffer," Dreidel replied before she could even finish the question. "Y'know . . . from here here . . ." . . ."

Pointing a finger down toward her desk, Dreidel stabbed a piece of library letterhead just next to where his name appeared along the left margin.

To this day, it was Dreidel's greatest get. In order to build the Manning Library, a separate foundation was set up with a board of directors that included the President's closest friends, biggest donors, and most loyal staff. The select group included Manning's daughters, his former secretary of state, the former CEO of General Motors, and-to almost everyone's surprise-Dreidel. It took surgically precise phone calls and begging in all the right places, but those were always Dreidel's specialties.

"So the files?" he said to the archivist.

Kara looked to Rogo, then back to Dreidel. The way she flicked her thumb against the edge of the manila folder, she was clearly still on the bubble.

"Kara, if you want, call the President's office," Dreidel added. "You know Claudia's number."

"That's not what I-"

"It's not like we're talking about NSC staff," Dreidel said, continuing to pound away as he referred to the National Security Council. "Boyle's domestic."

"And dead," Rogo said, bouncing on his feet to keep the mood upbeat. "C'mon, what's the worst that happens? He suddenly comes back to life?"

For the second time, Kara laughed. For the second time, Dreidel pretended to.

"And you'll sign off on it?" she asked Dreidel.

"Gimme the form and I'm your man. And if it makes you feel better, I'll have President Manning write you a thank-you note personally."

Shaking her head, she stood from her desk. "This better not get me fi-"

Rogo's phone rang in his pocket. "Sorry," he said, fishing it from his pants and flipping it open. Caller ID said PB Sher. Off. PB Sher. Off. Palm Beach Sheriff's Office. Palm Beach Sheriff's Office.

"I'll catch up in a second," he said to Dreidel and Kara as they headed for the door. Turning to the phone, he answered, "This is Rogo."

"Hey, fatty, we missed you in court today," a man teased with a high voice and unforgivable New York accent. Rogo knew it instantly. Deputy Terry Mechaber. Palm Beach County's number one writer of illegal U-turn tickets . . . and Rogo's oldest friend in law enforcement.

"Yeah, receptionist was sick, so I had to stay back and kiss my own b.u.t.t this morning," Rogo replied.

"That's funny, because I just spoke to your receptionist. Sounded like her lips were just fine-especially when she said you'd been gone since this morning."

For a moment, Rogo was quiet. "Listen, Terry-"

"I don't wanna know, I don't wanna hear, I don't wanna read about it in tomorrow's paper," Terry said. "And based on this fight you're picking, I don't even wanna see the bad TV movie with the scene of me pa.s.sing this along to you."

"Wh-What're you-?"

"The Three . . . y'know, the guys you asked me to run through the databases here . . ."

"Wait, you found something?"

"Yeah, here in the Florida DMV, we have records of all the international bad guys. No, I pa.s.sed it to my partner's sister's brother-in-law, who's been spending the last few years doing some high-tech computer job I still don't understand for DOD."

"Dee-oh-dee?"

"Department of Defense," Terry replied, his voice slow and serious. "And when he ran The Three The Three through there, well, remember the time when that eighteen-wheeler hauling all that rebar triple-flipped on I-95, sending metal javelins through the air and impaling nearly everyone in the ten nearest cars behind it?" through there, well, remember the time when that eighteen-wheeler hauling all that rebar triple-flipped on I-95, sending metal javelins through the air and impaling nearly everyone in the ten nearest cars behind it?"

"Yeah . . ."

"It's worse than that."

63.

Welcome to Key West," the pilot called out, brushing his wispy blond hair back on his head.

Following him out of the seaplane door and down the scaffolding to the white pontoon floats that gave the orange and red plane its buoyancy, O'Shea and Micah barely waited for the plane to be tied to the dock.

"How long you gonna be?" the pilot asked.

"Not long," O'Shea said, careful to time his jump just right. Waiting for the seaport's light waves to sink, then swell, he hopped from the edge of the pontoon float and landed square on the dock. "Just make sure-"

"Don't stress so much," the pilot called back. "I know every dockmaster working this place. Soon as I tie us up, I'll take care of it-no one'll ever know we were here."

"We should call Wes's office again," Micah said, only a few steps behind. "Maybe he checked in."

"He didn't check in."

Tracing the maze of wooden planks past dozens of sailboats and charter boats that swayed against the docks, O'Shea didn't stop until he reached the end of William Street. As Micah skidded to a stop next to him, the sound of acoustic folk rock drifted in from the bar on their far right. O'Shea narrowed his eyes, searching through the crowds of tourists clogging the shops along the docks. From the side streets, a steady stream of cars and cabs circled the block, replenishing the tourist supply.

"What're you-?"

"All the cabs are pink," O'Shea blurted. "Taxi!" "Taxi!"

On their right, a bright pink cab shrieked and stopped. Opening the back door, O'Shea slid inside. "You have radios in these cars?"

The skinny African-American cabbie glanced over his shoulder at O'Shea's dark blue suit, then over at Micah, whose tie dangled downward as he leaned in through the open door. "Let me guess-lost your wallet in a pink cab."

"Actually, I lost my friend." O'Shea laughed, playing nice. "He's pretty unforgettable, though-huge mess of scars on the side of his face. Plus the redhead he's running around with. So whattya say," he added, lowering a twenty-dollar bill onto the armrest of the front seat. "Think you can help me track him down?"

The cabbie grinned. "d.a.m.n, man, why didn't you just say so in the first place?"

One quick description later, a slow, easy voice squawked through the radio's receiver. "Yeah, I seen 'em, Rogers. Kid with the scars . . . Dropped 'em twenty minutes ago. Three twenty-seven William Street."

"That far from here?" O'Shea asked as the cabbie looked at him in the rearview.

"You can walk if you want."

Micah hopped inside, tugging the door shut.

"We'll drive," O'Shea said as he tossed another twenty onto the armrest. "Fast as you can."

"Like your life depended on it," Micah added.

64.

With my knees digging into the carpet, my chest pinned against the coffee table, and the weight of my face pressed against the photographer's loupe, I study a black-and-white profile shot of the President and First Lady as they leave Cadillac One, their chins up toward the astonished crowd. Like the best White House photos, the moment is flush with the pomp of the presidency mixed with the humanity of the players involved.

Manning has his hand on the small of his wife's back, gently edging her out of the limo and into his world. As she leaves the car, one foot already on the pavement of the racetrack, she's in mid-blink, frozen awkwardly between the private quiet of the limo and the public roar of the crowd. For support, the First Lady holds the hand that the President's extended to her. But even in that moment-her holding him, his fingertips on the curve of her back- whatever tenderness exists between husband and wife is swallowed by the fact that instead of looking at each other, both smile up to the fans in the stands.

"These are unreal," Lisbeth says, flipping through the notebook of 8 x 10s in her lap.

I glance over to see what she's looking at. She's about ten seconds ahead of my sequence, moments after the last shot was fired and Manning was pulled down by the swarm of drivers, guests, and Secret Service agents. In her photo, people in the stands scream and scurry in every direction, their hair spiked as they run.

In mine, they're enraptured and calm, completely immobile on the edge of their seats. In Lisbeth's, I hear the screams. In mine, I hear the thrill of their first true look at the President and his wife. There he is . . . There he is . . . There they are . . . There he is . . . There he is . . . There they are . . .

Ten seconds apart. Ten seconds to change everyth- No. It didn't change everything. It changed me.

An electronic ring interrupts the thought as I quickly trace the noise to the cell phone we borrowed from Lisbeth's coworker at the paper. Pulling it from my inside jacket pocket, I see Pres. Manning Library Pres. Manning Library on caller ID. At least he's smart enough not to call from his- on caller ID. At least he's smart enough not to call from his- "They're all in it together," he insists before I can even say h.e.l.lo. "That's how they pulled it off."

"What're you-?"

"It's just like we said, Wes-you can't do this without help."

"Slow down . . . who're you talking about?"

"The Three-that's what Boyle called them. But they're not what you-"

"Who'd you get this from? Dreidel or someone else?"

"My-"

"Does Dreidel even know?"

"Will you shut the h.e.l.l up and let me tell you!?" Rogo shouts through the phone. I turn to see if Lisbeth hears, but she's too lost in the 8 x 10s. Rogo shouts through the phone. I turn to see if Lisbeth hears, but she's too lost in the 8 x 10s.

Catching his breath in the silence, Rogo starts at a whisper. Wherever he is, he's definitely not alone. "They started as a myth, Wes. Like some old law enforcement ghost story. You've heard it for years: politicians b.i.t.c.hing and moaning that all our law enforcement groups don't work well together-that the FBI won't share information with the CIA, who won't share with the Secret Service. The result leaves half the agencies complaining that they're in the dark. But there are some who argue-not publicly, of course-that the lack of coordination isn't such a bad thing. The more adversarial they are, the more each agency is a check on the other. If the CIA does something corrupt, the FBI is there to call them on it. But if they all got together and ganged up against us . . . well, y'know what kinda power's in those numbers?"

"Wait, so now you're trying to tell me that someone's convinced thousands thousands of our country's top, most trusted agents to suddenly switch sides?" of our country's top, most trusted agents to suddenly switch sides?"

"Not thousands," Rogo says, his voice still a whisper. "Just three."

Climbing from my knees, I sit back on the couch. Next to me, Lisbeth's carefully studying one of the photos.

"Hey . . . uh . . . Wes," she says, pointing to a photo.

I give her the one minute one minute sign with my pointer finger and stay focused on the phone. sign with my pointer finger and stay focused on the phone.

"Three members," Rogo adds. "One from the FBI, one from the CIA, one from the Secret Service. Alone, they can only do limited damage. Together, fully aware of all the tricks, including how to sidestep three of our most powerful agencies? They can pull down the whole d.a.m.n sky."

"Wes, I think you should look at this," Lisbeth says.

Once again, I put up the one minute one minute sign. sign.

"Apparently, it was the great urban myth of law enforcement-until eight years ago, when the first internal investigation was opened," Rogo says. "My guy said there's some sky-level memo from Boyle to the President, warning him to look into it."

"So Manning and Boyle were chasing The Three?"

"Or The Three were chasing them-for all we know, they were fighting over the same corrupt pie," Rogo replies.

"And you think three guys could really keep their jobs and stay hidden that long?"

"You kidding? Robert Hanssen spent twenty years selling secrets from within the FBI before anyone took notice. The Three are pros within their agencies. And the way they're backing each other up, they're doing triple damage. Oh, and just to c.r.a.p on your day a little more: The last-and only-known sighting for one of these guys was that beautiful little terrorist hot spot known as Sudan."

"Sudan? As in, the one country The Roman specializes in?"

"Wes, I'm serious," Lisbeth says, popping open the rings of the notebook.

"Just one sec," I tell her. "No jokes, Rogo," I say into the phone. "You think The Roman gets info from The Three?"

"Or gives gives info info to to The Three. h.e.l.l, for all we know, The Roman's The Three. h.e.l.l, for all we know, The Roman's part of part of The Three, though I guess it could be anyone in the Service." The Three, though I guess it could be anyone in the Service."

Next to me, Lisbeth pulls the photo from the notebook, then holds it almost to her nose to check it up close.

"You mean that he's CIA or FBI?" I ask Rogo.

"No, he's Secret Service," Rogo says a bit too confidently. I know that tone.

"Rogo, don't play games. Say what you're saying."

"Wes, just take a second to look at this," Lisbeth says, now annoyed I'm ignoring her.

"It was actually Dreidel's brainstorm," Rogo says. "Once he heard FBI FBI, he asked my guy if he could look up your favorite investigators, Agents O'Shea and Micah. According to his records, O'Shea started with the Bureau in July of 1986. Same exact year as Micah."