The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  In return, Nico just had to wait. The Three had told him so on the day he pulled the trigger. Redemption was coming. Just wait. It’d been eight years. Nothing compared to eternal salvation.

  Alone in the restroom, Nico closed the toilet seat and kneeled down to say a prayer. His lips mouthed the words. His head bobbed up and down slightly . . . sixteen times . . . always sixteen. And then he closed his left eye on the word Amen. With a tight squeeze of his fingertips, he plucked an eyelash from his closed eye. Then he plucked another. Still down on his knees, he took the two lashes and placed them on the cold white slab of the closed toilet seat. The surface had to be white—otherwise, he wouldn’t see it.

  Rubbing the nail of his right pointer finger against the grout in the floor, he filed his nail to a fierce, fine point. As he leaned in close like a child studying an ant, he used the sharpened edge of his nail to push the two eyelashes into place. What the doctors took away, he could always put back. As The Three said, it’s all within him. And then, as Nico did every morning, he slowly, tenderly gave a millimeter’s push and proved it. There. One eyelash perfectly intersecting with the other. A tiny cross.

  A thin grin took Nico’s lips. And he began to pray.

  7

  Palm Beach, Florida

  See that redheaded mummy in the Mercedes?” Rogo asks, motioning out the window at the shiny new car next to us. I glance over just in time to see the fifty-something redhead with the frozen face-lift and an equally stiff (and far more fashionable) straw hat that probably costs as much as my crappy little ten-year-old Toyota. “She’d rather die than call,” he adds.

  I don’t respond. It doesn’t slow him down. “But that guy driving that midlife crisis?” he adds, pointing at the balding man in the cherry-red Porsche that pulls out around us. “He’ll call me right after he gets the ticket.”

  It’s Rogo’s favorite game: driving around, trying to figure out who’ll be a potential client. As Palm Beach’s least-known but most aggressive speeding ticket lawyer, Rogo is the man to call for any moving violation. As my roommate and closest friend since eighth grade, when he and his mom moved from Alabama to Miami, he’s also the only person I know who loves his job even more than the President does.

  “Oooh, and that girl right there?” he asks as he motions across two lanes of traffic to the sixteen-year-old with braces driving a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. “Pass the bread, ’cause that’s my butter!” Rogo insists in a wet lick of a Southern accent. “New car and braces? Choo, choo—here comes the gravy train!”

  He slaps me on the shoulder like we’re watching a rodeo.

  “Yee-hah,” I whisper as the car climbs up the slight incline of Royal Park Bridge and across the Intracoastal Waterway. On both sides of us, the morning sun ricochets off glossy waves. The bridge connects the communities of working-class West Palm Beach with the millionaire haven known as Palm Beach. And as the car’s tires rumble and we cross to the other side, the well-populated, fast-food-lined Okeechobee Boulevard gives way to the perfectly manicured, palm-tree-lined Royal Palm Way. It’s like leaving a highway rest stop and entering Oz.

  “Do you feel rich? ’Cause I feel silver dollar!” Rogo adds, soaking up the surroundings.

  “Again, yee-hah.”

  “Don’t get all sarcastic,” Rogo warns. “If you’re not nice, I’m not gonna let you drive me to work for the next week while my car’s in the shop.”

  “You said it’d only be in the shop for a day.”

  “Ah, the negotiation continues!” Before I can argue, he does a double take on the braces girl, who’s now right next to us. “Wait, I think she was a client!” he shouts, rolling down his window. “Wendy!” he yells, leaning over and honking my horn.

  “Don’t do that,” I tell him, trying to push his hand away. When we were fourteen, Rogo was short. These days, at twenty-nine, he’s added bald and fat to his repertoire. And strong. I can’t move him.

  “Braces Girl!” he shouts, honking again. “Hey, Wendy, is that you!?”

  She finally turns and rolls down her own window, struggling to keep her eyes on the road.

  “Your name Wendy?” he yells.

  “No,” she calls back. “Maggie!”

  Rogo seems almost hurt by his own misinformation. It never lasts long. He’s got a smile like a butcher’s dog. “Well, if you get a speeding ticket, go to downwithtickets.com!”

  Rolling up his window, he scratches at his elbow, then readjusts his crotch, proud of himself. It’s vintage Rogo—by the time he’s done, I can’t even remember what the argument’s about. It’s the same way he bulldozed into the legal profession. After two bad sets of LSAT scores, Rogo flew to Israel for his third attempt. Not even close to being Jewish, he’d heard that in Israel, they took a more relaxed approach to the concept of a timed exam. “What, an extra twenty minutes? Who’s it gonna kill?” he asked for a full month, imitating his proctor in full Israeli accent. And with those twenty minutes, Rogo finally got a score that would get him into law school.

  So as he found a home in speeding tickets and for the first time had some money in his pocket, the last thing he needed was a boring roommate who’d have trouble making the rent. Back then, my only job prospect was staying with the President, who’d moved to P.B. after the White House. P.B. being what the locals call Palm Beach, as in, “We’ll be in P.B. all winter.” I was living with my parents in Boca Raton; because of the low salary, I couldn’t afford the tony neighborhood near the President’s Palm Beach compound. With a roommate, though, I’d at least be able to live closer. It was right after the shooting. The scars were still purple on my face. Eighth grade goes a long way. Rogo didn’t even hesitate.

  “I still don’t understand why you have to be in so early,” Rogo adds in mid-yawn. “It’s barely seven. You just got back from Malaysia last night.”

  “The President’s—”

  “—an early riser . . . the world’s greatest guy . . . can heal the sick while cooking a six-course meal. Jesus and Emeril all in one body. I know how the cult works, Wes.” He points out the window at a hidden cop car about two blocks up. “Careful, speed trap.” Right back into it, he adds, “I’m just saying he should let you sleep in.”

  “I don’t need to sleep in. I’m good. And FYI, it’s not a cult.”

  “First of all, it is a cult. Second, don’t say FYI. My mother says FYI. So does yours.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s a cult,” I push back.

  “Really? So it’s healthy that almost eight years after you left the White House, you’re still running errands like some overhyped intern? What happened to grad school, or that event coordinator job, or even that threat of being a chef you made a few years back? Do you even enjoy work anymore, or d’you just stay there because it’s safe and they protect you?”

  “We do more good for the community than you’d ever know.”

  “Yeah, if you’re chief of staff. You, on the other hand, spend half your day wondering whether he wants iceberg or romaine lettuce in his salad!”

  I grip the steering wheel and stare straight ahead. He doesn’t understand.

  “Don’t do that!” Rogo threatens. “Don’t save your confidence for Manning. I just attacked you—you’re supposed to fight back!”

  There’s a curdle in his voice that he usually saves just for traffic cops. He’s getting riled, which isn’t saying much for Rogo. In high school, he was the kid who threw his cards when he lost at Monopoly . . . and threw his tennis racket when he missed a shot. Back then, that temper got him in way too many fights, which was only made worse by the fact that he didn’t have the physical size to back it up. He says he’s 5'7". He’s 5'6" if he’s lucky.

  “You know I’m right, Wes. Something internally bad happens when you give your entire existence to a single person. You feel me?”

  He may be the smartest dumbest friend I have, but for once, he’s reading me all wrong. My silence isn’t from acquiescence. It’s from my mental picture of Boyle, stil
l staring at me with those brown and blue eyes. Maybe if I tell Rogo—

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. This early in the morning, it’s only bad news. I flip open the phone and check caller ID. I’m wrong. Here comes the cavalry.

  “Wes here,” I say as I answer.

  “Got time to chat?” Dreidel asks on the other end.

  I glance over at Rogo, who’s back to hunting for potential clients. “Let me call you right back.”

  “Don’t bother. How about meeting for breakfast?”

  “You’re in town?” I ask, confused.

  “Just for a quick business meeting. I tried to tell you when you called from Malaysia. You were too busy panicking,” he points out in his usual perfect calm. “So breakfast?”

  “Gimme an hour. I got one thing to do at work.”

  “Perfect. I’m at the Four Seasons. Call me from the lobby. Room 415.”

  I shut the phone and for the first time enjoy the passing palm trees. Today’s suddenly looking up.

  8

  Miami, Florida

  O’Shea carried two passports. Both of them legal. Both with the same name and address. One was blue, like any other U.S. citizen’s. The other was red . . . and far more powerful. For diplomats only. Fingering the embossed letters of the passports in his breast pocket, he could tell the red was on top. With a flick of his wrist, he could easily pull it out. And once the airport agents saw it, he’d no longer be stuck in the customs line that swerved through the back corridors of Miami International Airport. After the nine-and-a-half-hour flight from Paris to Florida, he’d walk right to the front. With a flick of his wrist, he’d be gone.

  Of course, he’d also leave a trail of paperwork that tracked red passports everywhere. And as his FBI training taught him, all trails were eventually followed. Still, in most cases, that trail would be manageable. But in this one—between Boyle and The Three . . . and all they’d done—nothing was worth the risk. Not with so much at stake.

  “Next!” a Latino customs clerk called out, waving O’Shea up to the small bulletproof booth.

  O’Shea readjusted the U.S. Open baseball cap that he wore to blend in. His sandy-blond hair still peeked out, curling up under the edges. “How’s everything going?” he asked, knowing the small talk would keep the clerk from making eye contact.

  “Fine,” the clerk responded, his head down.

  Pulling out his blue passport, O’Shea handed it to the clerk.

  For no reason, the clerk looked up. O’Shea had a smile waiting for him, just to keep things calm. As usual, the clerk immediately grinned back. “Coming back from work?” he asked.

  “Lucky me, no. Vacation.”

  Nodding to himself, the clerk studied O’Shea’s passport. Even tilted it slightly to inspect the new holograms that they recently added to crack down on forgeries.

  O’Shea readjusted his U.S. Open cap. If he’d pulled the red passport, he wouldn’t be waiting here.

  “Have a great one,” the clerk said, stamping O’Shea’s passport and handing it back. “And welcome home.”

  “Thanks,” O’Shea replied, tucking the passport back into his breast pocket. Right next to his FBI badge and ID.

  Within a minute, O’Shea cut past the baggage carousels and headed for the signs marked Nothing to Declare/Exit. As his foot hit the sensor mat, two frosted-glass doors slid open, revealing a mob of family and friends pressed against short metal barriers, waiting for their loved ones despite the early hour. Two little girls jumped, then sagged, when they realized O’Shea wasn’t their dad. He didn’t notice. He was too busy dialing a number on his cell phone. It rang three times before his partner answered.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Micah said, finally picking up. From the soft humming in the background, it sounded like he was in a car.

  “Tell me you’re in Palm Beach,” O’Shea replied.

  “Got here last night. It’s nice down here. Fancy. Y’know they got tiny water fountains on the sidewalks just for spoiled little dogs?”

  “What about Wes?”

  “Three cars in front of me,” Micah said as the humming continued. “Him and his roommate just crossed the bridge a minute ago.”

  “I assume he hasn’t seen you yet?”

  “You said to wait.”

  “Exactly,” O’Shea replied, stepping outside the airport and spotting his name on a handwritten sign. The private driver nodded hello and tried to grab O’Shea’s small black piece of luggage. O’Shea waved him off and headed for the car, never taking the phone from his ear.

  “He’s dropping the roommate off right now,” Micah added. “Looks like Wes is headed into work.”

  “Just stay with him,” O’Shea replied. “I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

  9

  Washington, D.C.

  The phone shrieked through the small office, but he didn’t pick it up. Same on the second ring. He knew who it was—on this line, there was only one person it could be—but he still didn’t move. Not until he knew for sure. Leaning both elbows on his desk, Roland Egen studied his phone’s digital screen, waiting for caller ID to kick in. Black electronic letters popped into place: Offices of Leland Manning.

  “You’re early,” The Roman said as he pressed the receiver to his ear. He had pale, rosy skin, bright blue eyes, and a shock of black hair. Black Irish, his fishing buddies called it. But never to his face.

  “You said to make sure no one was here.”

  The Roman nodded to himself. Finally, someone who followed directions. “So the President’s not in yet?”

  “On his way. He sleeps late after overnight trips.”

  “And the First Lady?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s just me. Now can we hurry up? People’ll be here any second.”

  Sitting at his desk and squinting out the window, The Roman watched as the light snow tumbled from the early morning sky. It may’ve been eighty degrees in Florida, but in D.C., winter was just unpacking its first punch. He didn’t mind. When he was little, his grandmother had taught him to enjoy the quiet that came with the cold. Just as his grandfather had taught him to appreciate the calm that came to the waters of the Potomac. As any fisherman knew, winter chased away the jet skiers and pleasure boaters. And that was always the best time to put your line in the water. Especially when you had the right bait.

  “What about Wes?” The Roman asked. “You get everything I sent?”

  “Yeah . . . right here . . .”

  He could hear the hesitation in his associate’s voice. No one liked being the bad guy—especially in politics. “And you found something to put it in?” The Roman asked.

  “We have a— That’s why I came in early. We have this lapel pin—”

  “You can get him to wear it . . .”

  “I-I think so.”

  “It wasn’t a question. Get him to wear it,” The Roman shot back.

  “You sure Wes’ll even come in?” his associate asked. “Agents here said he was sick as a hound the entire flight back. Puked his lungs all over his pants.”

  Outside, a crack of blue light slit through the tired, gray sky. “I’m not surprised,” The Roman said as the snow continued to fall. “If I were him right now, I’d be wrecking my pants too. Now about that pin . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” his associate said. “Wes won’t even look twice at it . . . especially when it’s served by a friendly face.”

  10

  Palm Beach, Florida

  Hold it!” I yell, darting around the corner of the lobby and heading for the elevator’s closing doors. Inside the elevator, a blond woman looks away, pretending she didn’t hear me. That’s why I hate Palm Beach. As the doors are about to pucker in a tight kiss, I leap forward and squeeze through. Now stuck with me, the blonde turns to the floor selection panel and pretends she’s searching for Door Open. I should call her on it and tell her off.

  “Thanks,” I say, bent over as I catch my breath.

  “What floor?”

 
“Four.”

  “Oh, you’re with—”

  “Yeah,” I say, finally looking up to see her.

  She stares at my face, then quickly glances up at the electronic floor indicator. If she could run and scream “Monster!” she would. But like the best Palm Beach hostesses, she’ll overlook anything if it means a good social climb. “Must be wild to work for him,” she adds, my new best friend, even though she refuses to make eye contact. I’m used to it by now. I haven’t had a date in two years. But every pretty girl wants to talk to the President.

  “Wilder than you know,” I say as the doors open on the fourth floor. Heading left toward a set of closed double doors, I sprint out as fast as I can. Not because of the blonde, but because I’m already—

  “Late!” a scratchy voice scolds behind me. I spin back toward the open double doors of the Secret Service’s suite, where a man with a neck as thick as my thigh sits behind a glass partition that looks like a bank teller’s window.

  “How late?” I call out, turning back toward the closed doors on the opposite side of the beige-carpeted hallway. Along with the Service’s, they’re the only doors on the whole floor—and unlike the law firm or the mortgage company just below, these doors aren’t oak and stately. They’re black and steel-lined. Bulletproof. Just like our windows.

  “Late enough,” he says as I pull my ID badge from my pocket. But just as I’m about to swipe it through the card reader, I hear a quiet thunk, and the closed doors unlock.

  “Thanks, A.J.!” I call out, pulling the door open.

  Inside, I check the left-hand wall for the Secret Service agent who usually stands guard. He’s not there, which means the President’s not in yet. Good. I check the reception desk. The receptionist is gone too. Bad.

  Crap. That means they already . . .