The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [160]
But as the research for the New Yorker article pointed out, during the Manning administration, one Blackbird computer from Sudan didn’t forward its hard drive to the NSA. And when the others did, the remaining Blackbird was removed from the country, eventually making its way to the black market. The informant who held it wanted a six-million-dollar ransom from the United States for its return. But Manning’s staff, worried it was a scam, refused to pay. Two weeks before the New Yorker story was to be handed in, Patrick Gould, the author of the article, died from a sudden ruptured brain aneurysm. The autopsy ruled out foul play.
By year four, Boyle was well hidden in a small town outside London, in a flat tucked just above a local wedding cake bakery. And while the smell of fresh hazelnut and vanilla greeted him every morning, frustration and regret slowly buried Boyle’s fear. It was only compounded when the Manning Presidential Library was two months behind its scheduled opening, making his search for papers, documents, and proof that much harder to come by. Still, that didn’t mean there was nothing for him to dig through. Books, magazines, and newspaper profiles had been written about Nico, and the end of Manning’s presidency, and the attack. With each one, as Boyle relived the sixty-three seconds of the speedway shooting, the fear returned, churning through his chest and the scarred palm of his hand. Not just because of the ferocity of the attack, or even the almost military efficiency of it, but because of the gall: at the speedway, on live television, in front of millions of people. If The Three wanted Boyle dead, they could’ve waited outside his Virginia home and slit his throat or forced a “brain aneurysm.” To take him down at the speedway, to do it in front of all those witnesses . . . risks that big were only worth taking if there was some kind of added benefit.
Year four was also when Boyle started writing his letters. To his daughter. His friends. Even to his old enemies, including the few who missed his funeral. Asking questions, telling stories, anything to feel that connection to his real life, his former life. He got the idea from a biography of President Harry Truman, who used to write scathing letters to his detractors. Like Truman, Boyle wrote hundreds of them. Like Truman, he didn’t mail them.
In year five, Boyle’s wife remarried. His daughter started college at Columbia on a scholarship named after her dead father. Neither broke Boyle’s heart. But they certainly jabbed a spike in his spirit. Soon after, as he’d been doing since year one, Boyle found himself in an Internet café, checking airfares back to the States. A few times, he’d even made a reservation. He’d long ago worked out how he’d get in touch, how he’d contact his daughter, how he’d sneak away—even from those he knew were always watching. That’s when the consequences would slap him awake. The Three . . . The Four . . . whatever they called themselves, had already—Boyle couldn’t even think about it. He wasn’t risking it again. Instead, as the Manning Presidential Library threw its doors open, Boyle threw himself into the paperwork of his own past, mailing off his requests and searching and scavenging for anything to prove what his gut had been telling him for years.
By year six, he was ankle-deep in photocopies and old White House files. Dr. Eng’s people offered to help, but Boyle was six years past naive. In the world of Eng, the only priority was Eng, which was why, when Manning had him introduced to Dr. Eng’s group all those years ago, Boyle told them about The Three, and their offer to make him The Fourth, and the threats that went along with it. But what he never mentioned—not to anyone—was what The Three had already stolen. And what Boyle was determined to get back.
He’d finally gotten his chance eleven days ago, on a muddy, rainy afternoon in the final month of year seven. Huddled under the awning as he stepped out of the post office