The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [49]
“Let’s see, it went out last week, so it still might be in Shelly’s . . . Hold on, let me check.” There’s a short pause on the line.
I look over at Claudia. We don’t have many rules, but one of the vital ones is to never keep the President waiting. “Don’t worry—I’m coming.”
She looks over her shoulder and down the hallway. “I’m serious, Wes,” she threatens. “Who you talking to anyway?”
“Library. Just trying to get the final list of the honchos who’ll be there tonight.”
In our office, when the President gets lonely for his old life, we’ll catch him calling his Formers: former British prime minister, former Canadian prime minister, even the former French president. But the help I need is far closer than that.
“Got it right here. It’s just a one-pager,” the librarian interrupts. “What’s your fax number?”
Relaying the number, I fight my other arm into my sleeve. The President’s and First Lady’s metal heads jingle on my lapel pin. “And you’ll send it now?”
“Whenever you want . . . it’s—”
“Now.”
I hang up the phone, grab my bag of tricks, and dart for the door. “Just tell me when Manning’s coming,” I say to Claudia as I squeeze past her and duck into the copy room directly across from my office.
“Wes, this isn’t funny,” she says, clearly annoyed.
“It’s coming through right now,” I lie, standing in front of our secure fax machine. Every day at six a.m., Manning’s NIDs—the National Intelligence Daily—arrive by secure fax in the exact same spot. Sent out by the CIA, the NIDs contain briefs on an array of sensitive intelligence topics and are the last umbilical cord all Formers have with the White House. Manning races for it like catnip. But for me, what’s being transmitted right now is far more potent.
“Wes, go to the door. I’ll take care of the fax.”
“It’ll just—”
“I said go to the door. Now.”
I turn around to face Claudia just as the fax machine hiccups to life. Her smoker’s lips purse, and she looks angry—angrier than anyone should be over a silly little fax.
“It’s okay,” I stutter. “I’ll get it.”
“Dammit, Wes—”
Before she can finish, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out as a simple distraction. “Just gimme one sec,” I say to Claudia as I check caller ID. Undisclosed caller. There aren’t many people who have this number.
“Wes here,” I answer.
“Don’t react. Just smile and act like it’s an old friend,” a grainy voice crackles through the receiver. I recognize him instantly.
Boyle.
25
Nice room,” The Roman said, eyeing the mostly bare, sun-faded walls of Nico’s home for the past eight years. Above the nightstand was a free Washington Redskins calendar from the local grocery store. Above the bed was a small crucifix. On the ceiling, a spiderweb of cracked plaster rounded out the sum total of the decor. “Really nice,” The Roman added, remembering how much Nico thrived on positive reinforcement.
“It is nice,” Nico agreed, his eyes locked on the orderly as he left the room.
“And you’ve been well?” The Roman asked.
Keeping his arms wrapped around his violin and hugging it like a doll, Nico didn’t answer. The way his ear was cocked, it was clear he was listening to the fading squeaks of the orderly’s rubber soles against the linoleum.
“Nico—”
“Wait . . .” Nico interrupted, still listening.
The Roman stayed silent, unable to hear a thing. Of course, that was yet another reason why they’d picked Nico all those years ago. The average adult hears at a level of twenty-five decibels. According to his army reports, Nico was gifted with the ability to hear at ten decibels. His eyesight was even more uncanny, measured officially at 20/6.
Nico’s army supervisors labeled it a gift. His doctors labeled it a burden, suggesting that overwhelming auditory and visual stimuli caused his desensitization with reality. And The Roman . . . The Roman knew it was an opportunity.
“Tell me when we’re clear,” The Roman whispered.
As the sound faded, Nico scratched his bulbous nose and studied The