The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

“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 passed 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 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!”

  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. “Damn, 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 . . .

  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 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 hello. “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 hell 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.

  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 bitching 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 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 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 damn sky.”

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

  Once again, I put up the one minute 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 crap 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 info to The Three. Hell, for all we know, The Roman’s part of 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, 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.”

  “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 shell-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 hell 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 hell 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 fucking 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 hell’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 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!? 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, I called O’Shea instead of you. So don’t you forget, pinhead—in the FBI, O’Shea’s a Legal Attaché, meaning he coordinates resources for foreign investigations. That means he’s authorized—hell, he’s encouraged—to pair up with Agency folks like me. That’s his job! So no offense, but as long as it’s my ass 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. 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 bitched 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 scumbag, but he’s not a moron. He knows Nico can 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.”

  “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!” 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 . . .