The Book Of Fate Part 30

Nico, focus. What about him?

Following Edmund's glance, Nico studied the bearded man with teeny eyes and obvious hair plugs.

"I can't. No. I can't. He was in my dream last night."

Fine, then her-the mom with the two boys . . .

"The short child has to pee-look how he grabs himself. She won't stop. I think the older boy wants M&M's. You can read his lips. M . . . and . . . M's . . . M . . . and . . . M's . . ."

Nico, don't get loopy on me.

Sitting up straight, he pushed Edmund's imagined hand from his shoulder. "I'm not-I'm good. I just need to-" Cutting himself off, he locked on a plump, middle-aged waitress with beautiful brown eyes coming out of the restaurant for a cigarette break. On the strap of her purse was an Ask Me About Avon Ask Me About Avon b.u.t.ton. b.u.t.ton.

"There. Her. She knows rejection," Nico announced, diving for the door handle and leaping out of the Pontiac. "Hurry!" he called to Edmund as he crossed the parking lot and approached the waitress.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Nico asked, slowing down just as he reached the woman. "It's an emergency. My-I have to call my mother."

Seeing Nico's handsome squint, the waitress didn't even hesitate. "Of course," she replied, her chubby hand lowering like a skill-crane into her fake-leather purse.

Tell her you won't be long.

"I won't be long," Nico said.

"Take as much time as you want, hon-I get a thousand minutes every month, G.o.d praise my divorce lawyer."

Flipping the phone open, Nico turned his back to the waitress and dialed a simple three-digit number. There was a chime on the other line.

"Welcome to local 411. What city and state?" a female operator asked.

"Wes Holloway," Nico said as he lowered his voice.

"City and and state state," the operator repeated, clearly annoyed.

"Palm Beach. Florida."

There was a short pause. "Sir? I've got a Wes Holloway in West West Palm Beach. Please hold for the-" Palm Beach. Please hold for the-"

"Not the number," Nico said. "The address."

Once again, there was a short pause. "Eight three eight five Okeechobee Boulevard, apartment 527. And you sure you don't want the phone number-y'know, just in case?"

"No number," Nico said, giving a quick thumbs-up to Edmund. "No, no. No. This is a surprise."

68.

What, now you don't believe me?" Lisbeth calls out.

"Just c'mon . . . let's go," I say, cutting between two tourists and running past the ice cream store on our way to the docks. She wasn't happy when I asked her how she knew what Micah looked like, but it's tough to argue with her answer.

"Wes, when we were at the newspaper, they drove right past me in the garage," she insists. "I was hiding right by the entrance-your idea, remember?-waiting for them to leave so I could pick you up. Any of this sounding familiar?"

If I were Rogo, I'd ask her how she knew which was Micah and which was O'Shea.

"I believe you," I tell her as I leap down two short steps and my feet slap against the wood of the docks. Over the past two days, I could've easily described Micah and O'Shea. More important, with everything we've been through, everything she's seen . . . After eight years of dealing with political schemers, I'm fluent in bulls.h.i.t. Far as I can tell, Lisbeth doesn't speak a word of it.

"Wes, if I wanted to burn you-"

"I know-I just had to ask, okay?"

"But if you-"

"Lisbeth, I swear-we're fine," I call out, weaving through the maze of docks, back toward the yacht that holds our helicopter. "I swear to you. If we weren't, you wouldn't be holding the picture."

As she runs behind me, the photo we swiped from Kenny flaps in the wind. It's the only proof we have that Micah was there that day-and the main reason we darted out Kenny's back door. For the past two days, O'Shea and Micah have played relatively nice in the vain hope that I'd help them get Boyle and Manning. But if they find out we know the truth . . . that one of them is actually CIA . . . that he was there at the racetrack and potentially part of The Three . . . I glance over my shoulder at Lisbeth, who's glancing over her shoulder at the mostly empty docks. Whoever they were shooting at that day, Micah and O'Shea weren't afraid to send bullets at the most powerful men in the world. I don't even want to think how fast they'd make us disappear.

"You think they're close?" Lisbeth asks, her voice shaking.

Right now it's the only question that matters. To answer it, I slam the brakes, stopping short right in front of a small wooden hut no bigger than a phone booth. "Keep going," I say to Lisbeth, waving her along. "Tell Tommaso to get our ride ready. We need to leave now!"

She slows down, already worried I'm ditching her. "Then why're you-?"

"Just looking for our friends friends," I insist, shooting her a look as a man in a blue b.u.t.ton-down and a wide-brimmed straw hat steps out of the hut. As dockmaster, he a.s.signs all the boats to their different slips. Which means he sees every person coming and going. Lisbeth takes the hint and keeps running.

"Signing in or heading out?" the man asks, angling his hat back to reveal a mess of muddy tobacco chew in his mouth.

"Actually, was wondering if you happened to see some buddies of mine-probably just came in on a seaplane or helicopter from Palm Beach."

"Sorry, we don't log departure cities," he says quickly.

"What about in the last hour? Anybody new fly in?"

"Naw, we been pretty quiet all morning."

"You're sure?"

The dockmaster studies me, checking out my shirt, my slacks, even my shoes. He grins slightly and two dimples dot his cheeks.

"Positive, Dapper Dan. n.o.body's flown in 'cept the billionaires in back," he says, motioning to our black and cream helicopter at the far end of the docks.

Nodding a thank-you, I dart back toward the yacht and breathe the smallest sigh of relief. At least for now, no one knows we're here-and as long as we have that . . . as long as they don't know what we found . . . we've finally got the advantage.

"Tommaso, you ready?" I call out to the back deck of the yacht.

"Waiting for you, sir," he calls back with a thumbs-up sign.

"Where's Lisbeth?"

He points to the gla.s.s cabin right next to him. Lisbeth's inside with her back to the gla.s.s. I don't blame her. Better to be out of sight than be spotted.

Scrambling up the metal steps two at a time, I leap for the door on the main deck and shove it open. "Good news," I say. "I think we're sa-"

Lisbeth spins around, her hands fighting to stuff what looks like a small cell phone into her purse.

"This for you or for him?" Kenny's voice echoes from the device. Kenny's voice echoes from the device.

"Me. I swear-" my own voice says. She hits a b.u.t.ton and the playback stops with the loud pop of a . . . tape recorder. tape recorder.

My mouth gapes open, and my chest caves in.

Lisbeth looks at me, her wide eyes already shoveling up the apology.

"Wes, before you say anything," she pleads, stuffing the recorder into her bag.

"You were recording us?"

"It's not how y-"

"How long were you doing it?"

"It's not for attribution-just to keep my notes strai-"

"That's not the question."

"Listen, Wes-you . . . you knew I'd be writing the story. That was our deal."

"How long? long?"

"You told me it was our deal."

"Dammit, Lisbeth! How f.u.c.king long? How f.u.c.king long?"

She watches me carefully, then turns away to avoid the conflict. With her back to me, she stares out at the drumming waves of the Gulf of Mexico. "Since you walked in this morning," she eventually whispers.

"Including the helicopter ride here?"

She freezes, finally realizing what I'm getting at. Every reporter has a line they promise themselves they'll never cross. From the look on her face as she turns back to me, Lisbeth just skipped, hurdled, and jumped over it. "I never would've used that stuff, Wes."

My legs buckle, barely able to hold my weight.

"You know that's true, right?" she asks, reaching out for my shoulder.

As I pull away, an adrenaline surge crackles under my skin. I grit my teeth so tightly, I swear I have feeling in my lip again instead of just phantom pain. "Gimme the recorder," I growl.

She doesn't move.

"Gimme the d.a.m.n recorder!"

Fumbling as she pulls it from her purse, she offers a look that says, You don't have to do this. You don't have to do this. But I'm done believing. I s.n.a.t.c.h the recorder from her hand and stride back to the deck. But I'm done believing. I s.n.a.t.c.h the recorder from her hand and stride back to the deck.

"Wes, I know you don't believe this, but I never meant to hur-"

"Don't say it!" I snap, whipping back to face her and jamming a finger at her face. "You knew what you were doing! You knew knew it!" it!"

Shoving my way outside and plowing toward the stern of the yacht, I cross over to the far railing, chuck the tape recorder into the water, and pivot back toward the helicopter.

"Everything okay?" Tommaso asks as he holds the helicopter door open and ushers us inside.

"Perfect," I snap. "Just get us the h.e.l.l out of here."

69.

Sitting cross-legged on the linoleum floor and surrounded by piles of stacked-up acid-free archival boxes, Rogo flipped through his fourth file folder in the past fifteen minutes. "What's I&W I&W?"

"I&W for what?" Dreidel asked, hunched forward on a wooden chair and reading through one of Boyle's files.

"Doesn't say. Just I&W I&W with lots of dates next to-wait, here's one: with lots of dates next to-wait, here's one: I&W for Berlin. I&W for Berlin."

"Indicators and Warnings. Or as General Bakos used to put it: all the trash talk and warning signs that our intelligence picks up about specific threats," Dreidel explained. "Why? Is that what-?" He looked over at the attendant and kept his voice to a whisper. "Is that what Boyle was requesting? All the different I&Ws?" Or as General Bakos used to put it: all the trash talk and warning signs that our intelligence picks up about specific threats," Dreidel explained. "Why? Is that what-?" He looked over at the attendant and kept his voice to a whisper. "Is that what Boyle was requesting? All the different I&Ws?"

"Is that bad?"

"Not bad-just-indicators and warnings are the kinds of things you usually find in the PDB."

"President's Daily Brief. That's the report you were talking about before, with the CIA guy and the handcuffed briefcase?"

"And the place where The Roman's payouts were decided," Dreidel added. "Don't forget, a year before the shooting, The Roman was denied a major sum of money for some hot tip in Sudan, which also, since they clearly were never stupid enough to be seen in the same place together, tells us which one of them used Sudan as their last-and only-known location."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"The Three-The Roman, Micah, O'Shea-are from the Service, the CIA, and FBI. When they link brains, think of all the information they have access to."

"I understand how they work . . . but to do all that-to set it all up-no offense, but . . . just for a six-million-dollar payout?"

"What makes you think they were only doing it once? For all we know, if the payment went through, they would've come back every few months-and if they upped each payment, six million becomes ten million becomes an easy seventy to eighty million dollars by the time they're done. Not a bad annual salary for preying on America's fears."

"So you think they-?"