The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [48]
“I realize that, but the rules—”
“I appreciate the rules. I really do. But these are people working with the President. We’re all on the same side, Kara,” I add, trying not to beg. “And if I don’t find this, then I’m the person who didn’t get the President his list. Please tell me you know what that’s like. I need this job, Kara—more than you’ll ever realize.”
There’s a long pause on the other line, but like any librarian, Kara’s a pragmatist. I hear her typing in the background. “What’re their names?” she asks.
“Last name Weiss, first name Eric,” I say, once again starting with Boyle’s old Houdini codename.
There’s a loud click as she hits the Enter key. I check my door for the third time. All clear.
“We’ve got two different Eric Weisses. One did some research the first year we were open. The other made a request about a year and a half ago, though it looks like it was a book report kid who wanted to know the President’s favorite movie . . .”
“All the President’s Men,” we both say simultaneously.
She again laughs that panting laugh. “I don’t think that’s your researcher,” she adds, finally warming up.
“What about the other Weiss?”
“As I said, he’s from the first year we opened . . . mailing address in Valencia, Spain . . .”
“That’s him!” I blurt, quickly catching myself.
“Certainly looks like it,” Kara says. “He’s got a few similar requests . . . some of Boyle’s files . . . the President’s schedule from the day of the shooting . . . The odd thing is, according to the notes here, he paid for copies—expensive too, almost six hundred dollars’ worth—but when we sent them out, the package bounced back to us. According to the file, no one was listed at that address.”
Like a photo in a darkroom, the edges of the picture slowly harden and flower into view. The FBI said Boyle was spotted in Spain. If that was his first request from the library, and then he ran, maybe he was worried people knew that his name was . . . “Try Carl Stewart,” I say, switching to the codename Boyle used in the Malaysian hotel.
“Carl Stewart,” Kara repeats, clicking away. “Yep—here we go . . .”
“You have him?”
“How could we not? Almost two hundred requests over the past three years. He’s requested over 12,000 pages . . .”
“Yeah, no . . . he’s thorough,” I tell her, careful not to lose focus. “And just to be sure we have the right one, what’s the last address you have for him?”
“In London . . . it’s care of the post office at 92A Balham High Road. And the zip is SW12 9AF.”
“That’s the one,” I say, scribbling it down, even though I know it’s the British equivalent of a P.O. box. And just as untraceable.
Before I can say another word, the door to my office swings open. “He’s in the closet,” Claudia announces, referring to the President. I was afraid of this. Closet is her code for the bathroom—Manning’s last stop before we head out to an event. If he’s true to form—and he always is—that’s my two-minute warning.
“So would you like me to just send you a list of what else he requested?” the librarian asks through the receiver.
“Wes, you hear what I said?” Claudia adds.
I hold a finger up to our chief of staff. “Yeah, if you can send me the list, that’d be perfect,” I tell the librarian. Claudia taps her watch, and I throw her a nod. “And if I can ask you one last favor—that last document he received—when was that sent?”
“Let’s see . . . says here the fifteenth, so about ten days ago,” the librarian replies.
I sit up straight, and the picture in the darkroom starts to take on brand-new details. Since the day the library opened, Boyle’s been pulling documents and hunting through files. Ten days ago, he requested his final one—then suddenly came out of hiding. I don’t know much, but it’s pretty clear that finding that file is the only way out of the darkroom and into the light.
“Service are mobilizing,” Claudia says, glancing up the hallway and watching the agents gather at the front door of the office.
I stand up and stretch the phone cord to the chair that holds my suit jacket. Sliding