The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [140]
“I don’t think you do, Wes.”
“How can you—?” I cut myself off as adrenaline buries the nauseous undertow I’m feeling. I’ve let her protect me for eight years. It’s enough. “I know The Three were fighting with the President and Boyle. I know Blackbird, whatever it was, was worth a quick six-million-dollar payout for The Roman, who apparently was one of the government’s top informants. I know that the payout was rejected by the President in one of the national security briefings. And I know that losing that kind of cash—and whatever else they would’ve made after it—had to’ve enraged them. The only thing I can’t figure out is, where’d Boyle fit in, and what’d he do that had The Three angry enough to pull the trigger?”
I expect her to be relieved to have someone with her, but she looks more frightened than ever, which quickly reminds me that this letter is as much of a shock to her as spotting Boyle was to me. And even with me digging up her worst family secrets, regardless of what Boyle or her husband did, she doesn’t want to see me hurt by it.
“How did you learn about The Three?” she asks.
I hesitate at first. “Friend of a friend who works for DOD.”
“And who told you they were fighting with the President?”
“That part I guessed on.”
Panicking, she studies me, weighing the permutations. She knows I’m not her enemy. But that doesn’t mean she’s letting me be her friend. Still, I’m definitely close. Too close to just send me on my way.
“I can help you,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, unconvinced.
“Ma’am, they know I saw Boyle. If you’re trying to keep me safe, it’s already too late. Just tell me what Boyle did and—”
“It’s not what Boyle did,” she whispers. “It’s what he didn’t do.” She catches herself, already regretting it.
“Didn’t do to who? To the President?”
“No!” But that’s all she tosses my way. Looking down, she curls back into a ball.
“Then to who? To you? To Albright? Just tell me who it was.”
She’s dead silent.
“Dr. Manning, please, you’ve known me eight years. Have I ever done anything that would hurt you?”
She continues to stare down, and I can’t say I blame her. She’s the former First Lady of the United States. She’s not sharing her fears with some young aide. I don’t care. I need to know.
“So that’s it? I’m supposed to just walk away?”
Still no answer. No doubt, she’s hoping I’ll be my usual self and shrink from the conflict. Two days ago, I would’ve. Not today.
“That’s fine,” I tell her as I head for the door. “You have every right to keep it to yourself, but you need to understand this: When I leave here, I’m not giving up. That bullet hit my face. And until I find out what really happened that day, I’m going to keep searching, keep digging, keep asking questions of every single person that was—”
“Don’t you see? It was an offer.”
I turn, but I’m not surprised. Whatever Boyle did, if she tells me the truth, at least she has a chance of containing it. And for someone who already has third-degree burns from the glare of the public spotlight, containment is all.
“An offer for what?” I ask, well aware of the box she lives in. If there’s something she needs to keep hidden, she can’t risk letting me walk out of here armed with embarrassing questions.
But she’s still hesitating.
“I’m sorry you don’t trust me,” I say, heading for the door.
“You said it yourself, Wes. As an informant, The Roman started bringing in tips.”
“But The Roman was actually a Secret Service agent, right?”
“That’s what they think now. But no one knew that back then. In those days, the agencies were just happy to get The Roman’s tips. Especially after Iraq, a correct, well-corroborated tip about a hidden training camp in Sudan? You saw how the war on terror works—indicators and warnings are all we have. Amazingly for The Roman, if he brought an assassination tip to the Secret Service, when the Service would go verify it with other agencies, the FBI would confirm it, as would the CIA. If he brought a tip to the FBI, it’d get authenticated by the CIA and the Service—and that verification is exactly