The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [37]
“Ever see a three-car collision?” Micah asks. “Y’know which car suffers the most damage? The one in the middle.” He pauses just long enough to let it all sink in. “Manning, you, Boyle. Which car d’you think you are?”
I grind my leg even deeper into the sand. “That’s . . . that’s not—”
“By the way, where’d you get the nice timepiece?” Micah interrupts, motioning to my vintage Franck Muller watch. “That’s a ten-thousand-dollar bauble.”
“What’re you—? It was a gift from the president of Senegal,” I explain. At home, I’ve got at least a half dozen more, including a platinum Vacheron Constantin given by the Saudi crown prince. When we were in office, they became gifts of the White House. Today, there’re no rules on giving to former Presidents and his staff. But before I can tell him—
“Mr. Holloway,” a voice calls out behind me.
I turn just in time to see my waiter from breakfast. He’s up by the pool area, holding my credit card in his hand.
“Sorry . . . didn’t want you to forget this,” he calls out, now scrambling toward us on the beach.
O’Shea turns toward the ocean so the waiter can’t hear. “Focus, Wes—are you really that blindly devoted? You know they lied to you. You keep covering for them and you’re just gonna be someone who needs a lawyer.”
“Here you go, sir,” the waiter says.
“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a half-smile.
O’Shea and Micah aren’t nearly as kind. From the angry glares they drill my way, they still want more. The problem is, I don’t have anything to give them. At least not yet. And until I do, I’ve got nothing to barter for protection.
“Wait up . . . I’ll walk out with you,” I say, pivoting in the sand and falling in line behind the waiter.
Years ago, I used to bite at a small callus on the side of my pointer finger. When I got to the White House, Dreidel made me stop, saying it looked bad in the background of the President’s photos. For the first time in a decade, I start gnawing at it.
“See you soon,” O’Shea calls out.
I don’t bother to answer.
As we reach the pool area, there’s a young family getting an early start on the day. Dad unpacks a newspaper, Mom unpacks a paperback, and their three-year-old boy with a bowl haircut is on his hands and knees, playing with two Matchbox cars, ramming them head-on, over and over, into each other.
I look over my shoulder and glance back at the beach. O’Shea and Micah are already gone.
They’re right about one thing: I definitely need a lawyer. Fortunately, I know exactly where to find one.
18
Washington, D.C.
You know they lied to you. You keep covering for them and you’re just gonna be someone who needs a lawyer.”
“Here you go, sir.”
“Thanks,” Wes’s voice said, coming through the small speaker on the edge of the short metal file cabinet. “Wait up . . . I’ll walk out with you.”
Adjusting the volume, The Roman turned the knob slightly, his thick, steely hands almost too big for the job. When he was little, he only fit into his grandfather’s gloves. But after years of tying lures onto fishing string, he’d mastered the art of a soft touch.
“Have a wonderful day, Mr. Holloway,” a voice squawked through the speaker.
Getting a small enough microphone was the easy part. So was getting a transmitter that ran on a satellite signal so it would broadcast halfway across the country. Protecting the President was the Secret Service’s specialty, but with jurisdiction over counterfeiting and financial crimes, their Intelligence Division had one of the most formidable surveillance operations in the world. Indeed, the only hard part was figuring out a place to hide it. And someone to put it there.
The phone rang on the corner of his desk, and The Roman glanced down at caller ID. Dark digital letters read Offices of Leland Manning.