The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [111]
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