The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [132]
“Maybe that’s when Manning found out about the kid.”
For the second time, Dreidel was silent.
Rogo didn’t say a word. Unloading the second picture from his own box, he propped open the back leg of the black matte picture frame and stood it up on the worktable. Inside was a close-up photo of Boyle and his wife, the apples of their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera. From the bushiness of his mustache and the thickness of his hairline, the photo was an old one. Two people in love.
“What else you got in there besides photos?” Dreidel asked, turning the box slightly and reading the word Misc. on the main label.
“Mostly desk stuff,” Rogo said as he emptied the box, pulling out a hardcover book about the history of genocide, a softcover about the legacy of the Irish, and a rubber-banded preview copy of a highly critical book called The Manning Myth.
“I remember when that came out,” Dreidel said. “Pompous ass never even called us to fact-check.”
“I just can’t believe they keep all this crap,” Rogo said as he pulled out a decade-old parking pass for the Kennedy Center.
“To you, it’s crap—to the library, it’s history.”
“Let me tell you something—even to the library, this crap is crap,” Rogo said, unloading a small stack of taxi receipts, a scrap of paper with handwritten directions to the Arena Stage, a blank RSVP card to someone’s wedding, a finger-paint drawing with the words Uncle Ron neatly printed on top, and a small spiral notebook with the Washington Redskins football logo on the front.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—what’re you doing?” Dreidel interrupted.
“What, this?” Rogo asked, pointing to the finger-paint drawing.
“That,” Dreidel insisted as he grabbed the spiral notebook with the football logo.
“I don’t get it—whattya need a football schedule for?”
“This isn’t a schedule.” Opening the book, Dreidel turned it toward Rogo, revealing a daily calendar for the first week of January. “It’s Boyle’s datebook.”
Rogo’s eyebrows rose as he palmed the top of his buzzed head. “So we can see all his meetings . . .”
“Exactly,” Dreidel said, already skimming through it. “Meetings, dinners, everything—and most particularly what he was up to on the night of May 27th.”
80
Mr. President?” I call out as I open the front door.
No one answers.
“Sir, it’s Wes—are you there?” I ask again, even though I know the answer. If he weren’t here, the Secret Service wouldn’t be outside. But after all our years together, I’m always careful to know my place. It’s one thing to walk into his office. It’s quite another to step into his home.
“Back here,” a man’s voice calls out, ricocheting down the long center hallway that leads to the living room. I pause a moment, unable to place the voice—polished, with a hint of British accent—but quickly step inside and shut the door. It was hard enough making the decision to come here. Even if he’s got guests, I’m not turning back now.
Still trying to identify the voice, I head for the hallway and steal a glance at the poster-sized, framed black-and-white photograph that sits above the antique credenza and the vase of fresh flowers on my right. The photo is Manning’s favorite: a panoramic view of his desk in the Oval Office, taken by a photographer who literally put the camera in the President’s chair and hit the shutter.
The result is an exact re-creation of Manning’s old view from behind the most powerful desk in the world: the family photos of his wife, the pen left for him by the previous President, a personal note written by his son, a small gold plaque with the John Lennon quote “A working class hero is something to be,” and a shot of Manning sitting with his mom on the day he arrived at the White House—his first official meeting in the Oval. On the left of the desk, Manning’s phone looms as large as a shoebox, the camera so close you can read the five typed names on his speed dial: Lenore (his wife), Arlen (the V.P.), Carl (national security adviser), Warren (chief of staff), and Wes. Me.
With the push of a button, we’d all come running. Eight years later, I