by Brad Meltzer
I’m fine, I reply with nothing more than a nod. He knows it’s a lie, but he also knows why. If I’m having this discussion, it’s not going to be in front of an audience. Determined to get things moving, I head for Forehead, who seems to be the one in charge.
“Declan Reese—from Madame Tussauds. Thanks for having us back,” Forehead says, saluting me with the calipers and extending a handshake. “We try to never call on our portraits twice, but the popularity of President Manning’s figure—”
“They just think I’m getting old and want to make sure they get my wattle right,” Manning says, playfully swatting his own jowls.
All the Tussauds people laugh. Especially because it’s true.
“No problem,” I say, never forgetting the job. “Just remember—”
“Thirty minutes,” Declan promises as another flashbulb explodes. “Don’t worry—I did Rudy Giuliani in twenty-seven minutes, and we still got his cracked lips and the bright redness of his knuckles.”
As the eyeball woman readies a bite plate for a tooth impression, Declan pulls me aside and cups my elbow. “We were also wondering if we could possibly get a new piece of clothing. Something to reflect the more casual post-presidency,” he whispers just loud enough so Manning can hear. “Bush’s and Clinton’s offices sent us some golf shirts.”
“Sorry . . . we don’t really do that kind of—”
“What’d Bush and Clinton send? Golf shirts?” Manning calls out, never wanting to be left out. Every day, we turn down dozens of endorsements, from Got Milk? ads, to presidential chess sets, to autograph deals, to a ten-million-dollar role for a two-day cameo in a movie. But when his fellow Formers are involved, Manning can’t help himself. “Wes, do me a favor and go grab them one of my blue blazers. We give ’em a golf shirt, they’ll dress us like the Three Stooges.”
As the room again laughs, I sneak a look at Declan, who knows exactly what he’s doing. He got Woody Allen’s prescription glasses—he can swindle the clothes off a former President.
“Thank you, good sir,” Declan adds in his spit-shined accent as I head back through the hallway and toward the stairs. Usually, I’d fight—but the sooner they’re out of here, the sooner I can find out what’s going on with Boyle.
Focusing on just that, I clutch the banister, already role-playing the moment in my head. When it comes to giving Manning bad news, the best way is to just put it out there. Sir, I think I saw Boyle the other night in Malaysia. I know Manning’s tells—how he grins when he’s mad or raises his chin when he’s feigning surprise. Just seeing his reaction’ll give me all I need to know.
At the top of the stairs, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Caller ID says it’s Lisbeth. I shut the phone, refusing to answer. My bullshit quota for the day is filled. The last thing I need is another fake apology.
More annoyed than ever, I quickly plow down the second-floor hallway that’s lined with two American flags: one that flew over the White House on Manning’s first day in office, the other that flew the day he left. By the time I approach the bedroom on my left, I’m already rethinking my Manning strategy. Maybe I shouldn’t just blurt it. He’s always better with a soft touch. Sir, I know this’ll sound odd . . . Sir, I’m not sure how to say this . . . Sir, am I really as big a puss as I think I am? Knowing the answer, I shove open the bedroom door and—
“Daaah . . . !” the First Lady yelps, jumping back in her seat at the antique writing desk in the corner of the room. She spins to face me so fast, her reading glasses fly from her face, and even though she’s fully dressed in a light blue blouse and white slacks, I cover my eyes, immediately backtracking.
“Forgive me, ma’am. Didn’t realize you were—”
“I-It’s okay,” she says, her right hand patting the air to reassure me. I’m waiting for her to rip me apart. Instead, she’s caught so off guard, it doesn’t come. Her face is flushed as her eyes blink over and over, searching for calm. “Just . . . you just surprised me is all.”
Still mid-apology, I reach down for her glasses and stumble forward to hand them back. It’s not until I’m right in front of her that I see her left hand tucking something under the cushion of her seat.
“Thank you, Wes,” she says, reaching for the glasses without looking up.
Spinning back on my heel, I make a beeline for the door—but not before taking one last glance over my shoulder. Dr. Lenore Manning has been through two presidential elections, three battles for governor, two natural childbirths, and four years of never-ending attacks against her, her husband, her children, her family, and nearly every close friend, including a Vanity Fair cover story with the homeliest picture ever taken of her, over the headline The Doctor First Lady Is In: Why Pretty Is Out—and Brains Are All the Rage. At this point, even the worst attacks roll off her. So when I see her glance back at me—when our eyes lock and I spot the bloodshot redness that she quickly tries to hide with a smile and another thank-you . . . Right there, my legs lock. She can blink all she wants. I know tears when I see them.
As I stumble back to the door, the awkwardness is overwhelming. Go . . . move . . . disappear. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. Without even thinking, I rush into the hallway and head back toward the stairs. Anything to get out of there. My brain’s racing full speed, still struggling to process. It’s not even . . . In all my years with them . . . What’s so god-awful, it could possibly make her cry? Searching for the answer, I stop at the top of the stairs and glance back over my shoulder. On my right is the flag from the day we left the White Hou— No. We didn’t leave the White House. We were thrown out. Thrown out for Manning’s reaction that day at the speedway. Thrown out after Boyle was shot. Thrown out after Boyle died in that ambulance.
I watched the funeral on TV from my hospital bed. Naturally, they kept cutting away to the President’s and First Lady’s reactions. Hidden by her wide-brimmed black hat, she kept her head steady, trying to hold it in—but as Boyle’s daughter started to speak . . . The camera caught it for half a second, never even realizing what was happening. The First Lady wiped her nose, then sat up straighter than ever. With that, it was done. It was still the only time I’d seen the First Lady cry.
Until just now.
Still looking over my shoulder, I stare up the hallway at the open door of the bedroom. No doubt, I should go downstairs. This isn’t my business. There are infinite reasons she could be crying. But right now, two days after seeing Boyle’s brown and light blue eyes . . . a day after Nico escaping from St. Elizabeths . . . plus whatever the First Lady was hiding under her seat . . . I hate myself for even thinking it. They should fire me for even thinking it. But with everything that’s swirling, to just walk away now—to give up, to pretend it’s not there, to walk downstairs without finding out why one of the most powerful women in the world is suddenly devastated . . . No. I can’t. I need to know.
Pivoting back toward the bedroom, I take a silent step across the handwoven gold carpet that runs up the hall. I hear a soft sniffle from her direction. Not crying. A strong, final sniff that buries everything back down. Clenching my fists and holding my breath, I take two more tiptoed steps. For eight years, I’ve fought to protect their privacy. Now I’m the one invading it. But if there’s something she knows . . . something about what happened . . . I keep my pace, almost at the door. But instead of heading to the bedroom on my left, I crane my neck, check to make sure the First Lady can’t see me, and duck into the open door of the bathroom that’s diagonally across the hall on my right.
With the sun fading outside, the bathroom’s dark. As I duck behind the door, my heart’s pounding so fast, I feel it in the sides of my temples. To be safe, I shut the door halfway and peek out from the thin vertical gap between the door spine and the frame. Across the hall, in her bedroom, the First Lady’s back is to me as she sits at her writer’s desk. From the angle I’m at, I only see the right half of her body—like she’s split vertically in two—but it’s the only half I need, especially as she reac
hes under her seat cushion and pulls out whatever it was she hid.
Pressing my nose into the opening, I squint hard trying to see what it is. A photograph? A memo? I don’t have a chance. Her back blocks everything. But as she holds the item, lowering her head to examine it, there’s no mistaking the sudden droop in her posture. Her shoulders sag. Her right arm begins to tremble. She reaches up, as if she’s pinching the bridge of her nose—but as another sniffle cuts through the air, followed by an almost inaudible whimper—I realize she’s not pinching her nose. She’s wiping her eyes. And once again cryi—
Just as quickly, her posture stiffens and shoulders rise. Like before, she buries the moment, a final sniffle patting the last bits of dirt on the grave of whatever previous emotion she momentarily let through. Even in solitude, even as her arm continues to tremble, the President’s wife refuses to suffer weakness.
Moving like she’s in a rush, she promptly folds up the memo or photo or whatever it is, and stuffs it between the back pages of what looks like a paperback on her desk. I almost forgot. Manning isn’t the only one the Madame Tussauds folks are here to see. With a final deep breath, the First Lady smooths out her skirt, dabs her eyes, and lifts her chin. Public mask back in place.
As she turns to leave the bedroom, she stares across the hallway, at the dark space where I am, pausing for half a second. I shrink back from the sliver of doorway, and she keeps moving, looking away just as quickly. No, no way. She didn’t see a thing. Hidden by the darkness, I watch as she plows toward me, cutting to my left as she reaches the hallway. Within seconds, her footsteps sound against the wooden stairs, fading with each step. I don’t even take a breath until I hear her footsteps disappear into the carpet at the bottom. Even then, I still count to ten, just to be safe. A swell of nausea already has me reeling. What the hell am I doing?
Trying to shake it, I flush the toilet, run the faucet, and step out of the bathroom as if everything’s normal. A quick scan of the hallway tells me no one’s there. “Dr. Manning?” I say softly. No answer. I’m all alone.
Through the open door of the Mannings’ bedroom, the antique writer’s desk is less than ten feet away. In all our years together, I’ve never once betrayed their trust. I tell myself that again as I stare at the book on her desk. It’s just sitting there. With the answer inside.
If I were Rogo, I’d do it. If I were Dreidel, I’d do it. If I were Lisbeth, I’d have done it two minutes ago. But I’m me. And therein lies the real problem. I know myself. I know my limitations. And I know if I go in there, it’s an action I can never take back. The old me would’ve never even considered it. But I don’t think I’m that man anymore.
Tightening my fists, I take four steps into the bedroom and up to the desk. The black book is thick with gold embossing on the cover. Holy Bible. I don’t know why I’m surprised.
As I pick up the Bible and thumb through it from back to front, the folded-up sheet practically leaps out. I unfold it so fast, it almost rips. I thought it was a photograph or some kind of official memo. It’s not. It’s a letter. Handwritten on plain, unmarked stationery. The handwriting is unfamiliar but precise—perfect tiny block letters undistinguished by any style or idiosyncrasy. Like it was written by someone who’s spent years perfecting ways to go unnoticed.
To be sure, I flip the sheet over to the signature on the back. Like the rest, the letters are simple, almost commonplace. The tip of the R drags longer than the rest. Ron. Ron Boyle.
Dear Lenore, I read as I flip it back, my brain hurtling so fast, all I can do is skim. Please forgive me . . . never meant to mislead you . . . I just thought, for everyone’s good . . . for all my sins . . . to finally protect those I hurt . . . My punishment, Lenore. My atonement. Please understand, they said it could be anyone—that it could’ve been you . . . And after there was no payment for Blackbird, when I found what he . . .
He? Who’s he? I wonder, still skimming. And Blackbird? Is that what they called the six-million-dollar—?
“Hey!” a female voice calls out behind me.
My lungs collapse and my body freezes. I’m already off balance as I spin back to face her.
The First Lady stands in the doorway, her leaf-green eyes on fire. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
81
You gotta be kidding me.”
“It’s bad?” Rogo asked, leaning in and reading over Dreidel’s shoulder.
On the worktable in front of them, Boyle’s datebook was opened to the week of May 22. In the square labeled Monday, May 23 was the handwritten note Manning in NY. On Wednesday the twenty-fifth was the note Elliot in the Morning interview. And on Thursday the twenty-sixth was the note Senator Okum fundraiser—Wash. Hilton—7 p.m. But what caught Rogo’s eye was the box for May 27, which was blacked out with a thick marker:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“They crossed it out?” Rogo asked.
“That’s the library’s job—read through all the files and figure out what can be released to the public.”
“I understand how. I just mean . . . Hold on—” he said, cutting himself off and reaching down to touch the right-hand page of the calendar. Even before he rubbed it with his fingers, Rogo could see it was made from a thinner and brighter paper stock than the off-white sheets that filled the rest of the datebook. “This isn’t even the original, is it?”
“Photocopy—that’s how redactions are done,” Dreidel explained. “They can’t ruin the original, so they make a second copy, black that out, and staple it back in the original’s place.”
“Okay, fine—so how do we get the original?”
“Actually, they usually— Here, lemme see,” Dreidel said, reaching for the datebook and flipping back to the front inside cover. Sure enough, folded up and stapled to the first page was another photocopied sheet of paper. As Dreidel unfolded it, Rogo read the words Withdrawal Sheet across the top.
“Anytime they redact something, they have to document it,” Dreidel said as they both read from the sheet.
DOCUMENT TYPE SUBJECT/TITLEDATERESTRICTION
1. calendar Boyle schedule 1p., partial 5/27 B6
1. calendar Boyle schedule 1p., partial 6/3 B6
“What’s B6?” Rogo asked.
Squinting to read the tiny font, Dreidel skimmed through the list of restrictions at the bottom of the withdrawal sheet.
“B1 is when it’s classified . . . B2 is when an agency forbids it . . .”
“And B6?”
“Release would constitute a clearly unwarranted invasion of personal privacy,” Dreidel read from the sheet.
“So this is some secret from Manning’s personal life?”
“Or his own,” Dreidel clarified. “The meetings and the schedules may be work product of the White House, but if Boyle writes something . . . I don’t know, like his ATM PIN code or his Social Security number . . . that clearly has nothing to do with the presidency and therefore gets the black pen as well.”
Rogo flipped the book back to the May 27 redaction.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“Looks like a few more letters than a PIN code.”
“Or a Social Security number,” Dreidel agreed.
“Maybe we can go back to the archivist, and you can pull rank on her again until she shows us the original.”
“You kidding? After everything we’ve said, she’s already suspicious enough.”
“Can we find it ourselves? Is it in there?” Rogo asked, pointing to the metal cage in the far corner of the room where at least another ten sets of shelves were piled to the ceiling with archival boxes.
“Right—we’ll just randomly search through an additional five million documents—right after we sidestep the guy who’s watching us, and figure out how to break open the bombproof lock that guards all the other national security files. Look at that thing—it’s like the Die Hard vault.”
Rogo turned around to check the cage. Even from across the room, the thickness of the battered steel lock w
as unmistakable. “So that’s it? We just give up?”
Lowering his chin and shooting Rogo a look, Dreidel grabbed the datebook and stuffed it underneath the worktable. “Do I look like Wes to you?” he asked as he stared over Rogo’s shoulder.
Following Dreidel’s gaze, Rogo again turned around as he traced it to Freddy the attendant, who was still clicking away at the bank of computers.
“Guys, you ready to wrap up?” Freddy asked. “It’s almost five o’clock.”
“Ten more minutes—tops,” Dreidel promised. Outside, through the tall plate-glass windows that overlooked the shiny bronze statue of Manning, the December sun sank early in the sky. No doubt, it was getting late. Hunching down in his seat and blocking himself from Freddy’s view, he whispered to Rogo, “Move an inch to your left.”
“What’re you—?”
“Nothing,” Dreidel said calmly, his hands still out of sight as he held the datebook under the worktable. “And I’m certainly not defacing government property by tearing out a sheet of paper from this historically treasured calendar.” As a small smirk spread up Dreidel’s cheeks, Rogo heard a quiet kk, kk, kk below the table—like the last few pimples of bubble-wrap popping . . . or a page being tugged from the teeth of a half dozen staples.
With a final tear, Dreidel freed the last piece, then folded up the May 27 calendar page and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “I’m telling you, it’s not here!” he called out, raising his voice as he brought the datebook back up to the worktable. “Hey, Freddy, can you take a look at this? I think there’s a page missing from one of the files.”
Hopping out of his seat, Dreidel held the datebook out to Freddy and pointed to the withdrawal sheet. “See, it says here that there’s a redaction on the entry for May 27th, but when you flip here,” he explained, turning back to the May calendar pages, “it just picks up with the beginning of June.”
