The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [35]
“Um . . . it was fine.”
“And the President had a good time?”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” I reply, annoyed.
“Anything else of note happen?” O’Shea asks, heading down a short path that’s covered with water. A wave crashes in the distance, but it’s not until a cascade of sand fills my loafers that I realize we’re on the private beach behind the pool. Empty lounge chairs, empty lifeguard stands. The vacant beach goes on for miles.
As we pass a tiny hut that’s used for snorkeling gear rentals, a man with finely combed brown hair steps out from behind it and pats me on the back. He’s got a small nick that’s missing from the top of his left ear.
“Say hi to my partner. Micah,” O’Shea explains.
I turn back to the hotel, but thanks to the wall of palm trees, I can only make out a few terraces on the top floors of the building. Not a soul in sight. It’s at that same moment I realize Micah has slowed his pace, so he’s now slightly behind me.
“Maybe you should take a seat,” O’Shea adds, motioning to one of the lounges.
“It’ll only take a second,” Micah adds behind me.
Spinning around, I start back toward the path. “I should really get—”
“We saw the report you filed with the Service, Wes. We know who you saw in Malaysia.”
I stop right there, almost tripping in the sand. As I find my balance and turn to face them, O’Shea and Micah have the ocean at their backs. The waves pound ruthlessly. Subtlety isn’t their strong point.
“What’re you talking about?” I ask.
“The report,” O’Shea says. “Fifty-something guy with Boyle’s height, Boyle’s weight, Boyle’s shaved bald head, though for some reason you left out his eye color—and the fact you thought it was him.”
“Listen, I don’t know what I saw that night . . .”
“It’s okay, Wes,” Micah says with a singsong quality to his voice. “Boyle was in Malaysia. You’re not crazy.”
Most people would be relieved. But I’ve been around law enforcement long enough to know their tricks and treats. This one’s called tone matching. Designed to subconsciously affect a target’s mood, it’s built on the fact that you tend to match the tone that’s aimed at you. When someone yells, you yell back. Whisper, you whisper back. Usually, they use it to strengthen a witness who’s depressed, or bring down a target who’s cocky. Micah just sang to me, hoping I’d sing back. There’s only one problem. FBI agents don’t sing—and I don’t either. If they’re using mind games, there’s something they’re not saying.
“Boyle’s really alive?” I ask, refusing to admit anything.
O’Shea studies me carefully. For the first time, he’s staring at my scars. “I know this is personal for you—”
“That’s not what this is about!” I shoot back.
“Wes, we’re not here to attack,” Micah says softly.
“And enough with the damn voice tricks! Just tell me what the hell is going on!”
The wind rockets across the shore, blowing Micah’s tightly combed hair out of place. O’Shea shifts his weight, uncomfortable in the sand and well aware he picked the wrong button to press. It’s not just their suits that make them stand out. The two agents exchange a glance. O’Shea offers a small nod.
“Boyle ever mention a group he called The Three?” Micah finally asks.
I shake my head no.
“What about The Roman?”
“Is that a group too?”
“It’s a person,” O’Shea says, watching my reaction.
“Am I supposed to know him?” I ask.
For the second time, the two agents share a glance. O’Shea squints against the morning sun as it burns through the clouds. “You have any idea how long we’ve been hunting Boyle?” O’Shea asks. “Y’think this all started with his miraculous ‘death’? We were chasing him back in the White House, just waiting for him to screw up. And then when he did . . . poof . . . world’s greatest get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“So when he was shot . . .”
“. . . we got snookered. Just like the rest of America. Even closed the case and filed the files. Three years later, he made his first mistake and got spotted in Spain by some local ex-pat who was just enough of a political