The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [182]
Rogo nodded and cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t get it—they made it all up?”
“Not in the beginning. But once they built that reputation for The Roman, they could sprinkle bad tips in with the good and earn a little more cash. And with the big stuff—you think six-million-dollar tips just jump in your lap?”
“But to make something that big up—”
“It’s like making the Statue of Liberty disappear—it’s the kind of magic trick you pull off once, then disappear until the dust settles. So when their first attempt . . .”
“Blackbird.”
“. . . when Blackbird was set up, they had it perfect: hold a fake NSA computer hostage and reel in the cash. It was big enough to get serious money, but unlike promising that a building was about to blow up, there was no penalty or suspicion if the White House decided not to pay. Then when Blackbird failed and we didn’t pay, they were smart enough to realize they needed an inside track at the White House just to make sure the next request went through.”
“That’s when they approached and threatened you.”
“When they approached and threatened me, and when they tried the softer sell on someone with even more power than that.”
“But to assume that you or the First Lady would go for it—much less be able to pull six-million-dollar strings over and over . . .”
“Y’ever been fishing, Rogo? Sometimes, you’re better off throwing in a few lines with different bait and seeing who nibbles. That’s the only reason they approached both of us. And though she’ll forever deny it—in fact, she probably doesn’t even think she did anything wrong anymore—but the First Lady’s the one who swam toward the hook,” Boyle explained. “And as for making their next six million happen, or the ten million after that, look at any White House in history. The most powerful people in the room aren’t the ones with the big titles. They’re the ones with the President’s ear. I’ve had that ear since I was twenty-three years old. The only one who’s had it longer is the person he’s married to. Whatever they came in next with—if she had a hand in it and thought it’d help them on security issues—believe me, it’d have gotten through.”
“I don’t get it, though. Once Blackbird got nuked, didn’t they at least need some kinda results before they could make another big request like that?”
“Whattya think I was?” Boyle asked.
Rogo turned to his left but didn’t say a word.
“Rogo, for the snake-oil scam to succeed, people only need to see the cure work once. That’s what The Three gave them—courtesy of two bullets in my chest.”
Sitting up in his seat, Rogo continued to study Boyle, who was staring at the open back doors of the ambulance that was less than a car’s length away.
“Twenty minutes before the shooting, the Secret Service Web site was sent a tip about a man named Nico Hadrian who was planning to assassinate President Manning when he stepped out of his limo at Daytona International Speedway. It was signed The Roman. From that moment on, anything he would’ve given them—especially when it was corroborated by the FBI and CIA—well, you know the paranoid world we live in. Forget drugs and arms sales. Information is the opiate of the military masses. And terrorist information about attacks on our own soil? That’s how you print your own money,” Boyle said. “Even better, by taking their stealthier approach with the First Lady, they wouldn’t’ve even had to split the cash four ways.”
As they pulled past the ambulance, they both looked to their left and peered into its open back doors. But before they could even see that there wasn’t a victim, a gurney, or a single medical supply inside, there was a metal thud against the back door. Then one from above. On both sides of the van, a half dozen plainclothes U.S. marshals swarmed from the tow truck and silver car, fanning out and pointing their guns against the side windows and front windshield. Outside Boyle’s door, a