The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [110]
“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