The Book Of Fate Part 29

"So what's the problem?"

"Wes . . ." Lisbeth pleads.

"The problem," Rogo says, refusing to slow down, "is that Micah doesn't work for the Bureau. As near as we can tell, he works as a case officer. For the CIA."

"Just look!" Lisbeth adds, shoving the photo into my lap.

My lungs crater, like someone's shot an arrow into my chest. It only gets worse as I look down at the photograph. In my lap is a black-and-white reaction shot taken a few minutes after the shooting. Unlike the others, this one faces the infield of the raceway, where NASCAR drivers, mechanics, and their staff embrace, hug, sob, and retell the story that just unfolded in front of them. Most look sh.e.l.l-shocked. A few look angry. And one-all alone in the far right corner of the photo, glancing over his shoulder as he walks away-looks oddly curious.

At first, he blends right in because of his racing jumpsuit. But there's no mistaking the finely combed hair and the small nick missing from the top of his ear. Eight years ago, I was shot in the face, Boyle was supposedly killed, and the Manning presidency was decimated. Micah was there to witness it all.

"That's him, right?" Lisbeth asks. "That's Micah . . ."

The Secret Service is in charge of presidential protection. The FBI handled the investigation of Nico. "What the h.e.l.l was the CIA doing there that day?" I blurt.

"CIA?" Lisbeth asks.

"Wes, don't answer her!" Rogo calls out through the phone.

"What're you talking about?"

"Think for a second," he tells me. "You've always been alone when O'Shea and Micah corner you, right? So if Lisbeth never met Micah before, how the h.e.l.l can she pick him out of a photograph?"

I look over at Lisbeth, who's still next to me on the couch. "What's wrong?" she asks, reaching for the picture. She pulls it out of my hands before I can react.

"Lemme call you right back," I say to Rogo as I hang up the phone.

65.

Sorry I couldn't be more help," an elderly black woman with a beaded bracelet said as she walked O'Shea to the door of her modest conch cottage at 327 William Street. "Though I do hope you find him."

"I'm sure we will," O'Shea replied, stepping back outside and tucking his badge back into his jacket pocket. "Thanks for letting us look around, though."

A few steps behind him, Micah held his phone to his ear, trying hard not to look frustrated. He didn't say a word until the woman shut the door behind them.

"Told you the kid's sharp," The Roman said through Micah's phone.

"That's real helpful," Micah shot back. "Almost as helpful as showing up in Florida and heading into Manning's office without telling anyone."

"You know the rules," The Roman said calmly. "No contact unless-"

"You telling me this isn't a f.u.c.king emergency?" Micah exploded. "We got Wes sniffing everywhere, no bead on Boyle, and you're waltzing into the one place that has the very best chance of asking what the h.e.l.l're you doing here in the first place? When'd you plan on filling us in-before or after they start staring at you and report you back to headquarters?"

Just as he did before, The Roman stayed calm. "I did did call you, Micah. That's why we're talking. And if it makes you feel better, no one's reporting me anywhere. I'm here because it's my job, which is more than I can say about you and the half dozen people you've held yourself out to as an FBI agent. The Agency teach you to be that dumb, or were you just panicking that O'Shea would turn on you if you didn't stay close to him?" call you, Micah. That's why we're talking. And if it makes you feel better, no one's reporting me anywhere. I'm here because it's my job, which is more than I can say about you and the half dozen people you've held yourself out to as an FBI agent. The Agency teach you to be that dumb, or were you just panicking that O'Shea would turn on you if you didn't stay close to him?"

"I told headquarters my father was sick. O'Shea said he had his niece's graduation. You think we didn't clear ourselves for being back here?"

"And that makes you think you can hold hands in public like that? Using your real names, no less? O'Shea I understand-just in case Wes calls the Bureau to check him out. But you you!? Have you forgotten how we got this far in the first place?"

"Actually, I haven't forgotten any of it," Micah shot back. "Which is why, when I first started smelling the flames from the Towering Inferno Towering Inferno, I called O'Shea instead of you. So don't you you forget, pinhead-in the FBI, O'Shea's a Legal Attache, meaning he coordinates resources for foreign investigations. That means he's authorized-h.e.l.l, he's forget, pinhead-in the FBI, O'Shea's a Legal Attache, meaning he coordinates resources for foreign investigations. That means he's authorized-h.e.l.l, he's encouraged encouraged-to pair up with Agency folks like me. That's his job! So no offense, but as long as it's my a.s.s on the clothesline, I plan on being front and center for saving it!"

For a moment, The Roman was silent. "No contact," he finally said. "Ever."

Micah turned to O'Shea, who mouthed the words Hang up. Hang up. After almost ten years together, they both knew it wasn't worth the argument. When The Roman wanted something, he always went after it himself. It was the same for all of them. Personal drive was what brought them together all those years ago at War College. It was no coincidence that each was invited to attend one of the army's prestigious leadership conferences, where top military officials and representatives from the State Department, CIA, FBI, DIA, Customs, and Secret Service spend two weeks studying national defense and military interactions. It was there that they were lectured on military tactics. There that they learned strategic leadership. And there that each realized how much they'd given to their government-and how little the government had given back. That's where The Three was born. After almost ten years together, they both knew it wasn't worth the argument. When The Roman wanted something, he always went after it himself. It was the same for all of them. Personal drive was what brought them together all those years ago at War College. It was no coincidence that each was invited to attend one of the army's prestigious leadership conferences, where top military officials and representatives from the State Department, CIA, FBI, DIA, Customs, and Secret Service spend two weeks studying national defense and military interactions. It was there that they were lectured on military tactics. There that they learned strategic leadership. And there that each realized how much they'd given to their government-and how little the government had given back. That's where The Three was born.

No doubt, personal drive made them successful over time. It helped them maneuver through the system, maintaining their jobs to this day without any of their colleagues being the wiser. Yet personal drive, they also knew, would someday be their undoing. Boyle called them The Three, but even on their best days, they were always looking out for number one.

"Just find Wes-he's still the only one Boyle's contacted, which means Boyle'll reach out again," The Roman added. "And even with the fake address Wes gave, you should still be able t-"

With a click, Micah hung up the phone. "Guy's unreal," he b.i.t.c.hed to O'Shea. "First, he snakes in without telling us, now he wants to play quarterback."

"He's just nervous," O'Shea said. "And personally, I don't blame him."

"But to let Nico out-"

"By accident . . ."

"You believe him on that?"

"Micah, Roman's a sc.u.mbag, but he's not a moron. He knows Nico can Hindenburg Hindenburg at any moment, which is why he needed to see if Boyle had been in touch. But let me tell you right now, if we don't find Wes-and Boyle-quickly, I'm done. No joke. It's enough." at any moment, which is why he needed to see if Boyle had been in touch. But let me tell you right now, if we don't find Wes-and Boyle-quickly, I'm done. No joke. It's enough."

"Can you please stop with the ultimatums?"

"It's not an ultimatum," O'Shea insisted. "Just being here-snooping this close and giving this kid every reason to look us up-you have any idea what we're risking?"

"We're being smart."

"No, being smart is walking away now, and being thankful we made some cash and lasted this long."

"Not when there's so much more cash to be made. The Roman said next month in India, there's a-"

"Of course, it's India. And eight months ago, it was Argentina, and eight years ago, it was Daytona. It's enough, Micah. Yes, we added some feathers to the nest egg, but the giant pot of gold? It's never coming."

"You're wrong."

"I'm right."

"You're wrong wrong!" Micah insisted, his finely combed hair flying out of place.

O'Shea stopped at the curb, knowing better than to keep arguing. It didn't matter anyway-he'd made his decision the moment he got the call yesterday: If they could wrap this up quickly, fantastic. If not, well, that's why he saved his money and bought that bungalow in Rio. Eyeing Micah, he knew that if it all cratered and it came down to finger-pointing, he had no problem breaking a few fingers.

"Everything okay?" Micah asked.

O'Shea nodded from the curb, both of them studying each house on the lush, narrow street. O'Shea checked windows and doors, searching for shadows and suddenly closed curtains. Micah checked front porches and pathways, searching for footprints in the light layer of sand that regularly blew across the Key West sidewalks. Neither found a thing. Until . . .

"There," O'Shea said, marching diagonally across the street and heading straight for the peach cottage with the white shutters and gingerbread trim.

"Where?" Micah asked, still searching for himself.

"The car."

A few steps behind O'Shea, Micah studied the old red Mustang parked in the driveway at 324 William Street. Florida license plate. Registration stickers up to date. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the ratty, weather-worn Washington Redskins b.u.mper sticker on the back left b.u.mper.

"Go Skins," Micah whispered, barely able to contain his grin. Picking up speed, he followed his partner up the steps to the front door with the hand-painted wooden crab sign hanging on it.

"One sec," Micah added as he reached into his suit jacket and flicked off the safety on his gun. Signaling to O'Shea with a nod, he took a half-step back, just in case they'd have to knock down the door.

With a jab of his finger, O'Shea rang the doorbell and checked on his own gun. "Coming," a voice called from inside.

Micah checked the street behind them. No one in sight.

The doork.n.o.b twisted with a creak, and the door flew open.

"Hey there," O'Shea announced, purposely not pulling his FBI badge. "We're friends of Wes Holloway and just wanted to check in and make sure he's okay."

"Oh, he's great," Kenny said, purposely blocking the doorway, even though the only thing to see was his empty kitchen and living room. "But I'm sorry to say he's long gone."

Craning his neck to look over Kenny's shoulder, Micah ignored the kitchen and living room and instead focused on the far back wall of the house, where a painted screen door led out to the backyard.

"Yeah, we thought that might be the case," O'Shea said. "But even so, you mind if we come inside and just ask a few questions?"

66.

So you've been down to the stacks before?" Kara asked as the elevator doors slid open, revealing a concrete hallway with narrow windows on either side and all the charm of a prison.

"Absolutely," Rogo replied, keeping his voice peppy and his head down as they pa.s.sed the first of two security cameras attached to the wall. Two steps in front of him, next to Kara, Dreidel fidgeted with his tie and did the same.

When a President builds his library, it's his chance to rewrite history. In LBJ's library, there's an exhaustive exhibit on why the U.S. had had to go to Vietnam. In Manning's, the only mention of the Cowardly Lion was down in the stacks. to go to Vietnam. In Manning's, the only mention of the Cowardly Lion was down in the stacks.

"We really appreciate you pulling everything so fast," Dreidel said.

"That's our job," Kara replied as they approached a steel-reinforced door that was nearly as thick as a bank vault. "I just hope you guys aren't claustrophobic . . ."

"No-in fact, we hate the sunlight," Rogo said. "Darn vitamin D p.i.s.ses p.i.s.ses me off!" me off!"

Glancing over her shoulder, Kara offered another panting laugh. This time, Dreidel didn't join in. "Just point us to the files and we'll be gone before you know it," he said.

Kara punched in a five-digit code just above the doork.n.o.b. "You asked for it," she said as the thick metal door swung open, and the sweet smell of an old bookstore wafted through the air. In front of them, in a room as big as a basketball court, was row after row of gray metal storage shelves. But instead of being filled with books, they were stacked with thousands of square and rectangular acid-free storage boxes. On their far right, well past the shelves, a metal cage ran from floor to ceiling, separating them from another set of about ten metal shelves: secure storage for national security files. Just in front of the cage, a lanky Hispanic man with reading gla.s.ses sat in front of one of two computer terminals.

"If you have any problems, ask Freddy," Kara explained, motioning to one of the library's four research room attendants.

Freddy waved to Rogo and Dreidel. Rogo and Dreidel waved back. But the way Kara eyed Freddy, and Freddy eyed Dreidel . . . Even Rogo took the hint. Kara may've been nice enough to let them in the stacks, but there's no way she was dumb enough to leave them unsupervised in the heart of the archives.

"So our stuff . . ." Dreidel asked.

". . . is right here," Kara said, pointing to the end of one of the metal stacks, where a small worktable was buried under at least forty boxes. "These small ones have already been processed through FOIA," she explained, waving her open palm at the dozen or so narrow, vertical boxes that looked like they each held a phone book. "And these FRCs . . . these're the ones from closed storage," she added, pointing to the thirty or so square boxes that were each about the size of a milk crate.

"And this is everything Boyle had?" Rogo asked.

"If you went back in time and pulled open his desk drawers in the White House, here's what you would've found-his files, his memos, his printed-out e-mails-plus you asked for his personnel file and those 12,000 pages that were requested by your other researcher . . ."

"Carl Stewart," Rogo said, remembering Wes's instructions as Kara handed him the list of every file Boyle requested under his fake name.

"You already have the crossword, right?" Kara asked.

"Right here," Rogo said, patting the breast pocket of his shirt.

"Kara, we can't thank you enough," Dreidel added, anxious to send her on her way.

Taking the cue, Kara headed for the door. Never forgetting her role as protector of the archives, though, she called out, "Freddy, thanks for supervising."

As Kara turned the corner and disappeared, Dreidel shot a smile at the attendant, then quickly turned back to Rogo. "How 'bout you take Boyle's desk drawers, and I'll start hunting through the list of his requests."

"I got a better idea," Rogo challenged. "You take the drawers, and I'll I'll go through the requests." go through the requests."

For a moment, Dreidel was silent. "Fine," he said, flipping open the nearest box. Behind him, Rogo did the same.

As Rogo pulled out the first file, he licked his fingers and turned to the first page. "Okay, Boyle, you sneaky son of a b.i.t.c.h-time to see what you were searching for."

67.

Melbourne, Florida No, not her," Nico said, glancing out the front windshield of his maroon Pontiac Grand Prix as a pet.i.te Peruvian woman sipped her coffee and headed toward her own car.

Why? What's wrong with her?

Nico looked shaken. "She looks like my nurse. Pick someone else."

What about him?

Nico didn't even turn toward Edmund's selection. From their corner spot in the Waffle House parking lot, he was still watching the woman who looked so amazingly like his night nurse. It'd been nearly a full day since he thought about the hospital. The doctors were wrong. So were the lawyers. All wrong. Out on his own-even without his meds-he felt just fine. Better even. More clear. Crackling crystal clear.