The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [60]
“It doesn’t even make sense,” Dreidel moans. “I mean, a personnel file, I could understand . . . even an old targeting memo for some attack that went wrong . . . but a crossword puzzle?”
“That’s what she sent: one sheet with some names on a stupid Beetle Bailey cartoon—and on the opposite side, a faded, mostly finished . . .”
“. . . crossword puzzle,” Dreidel repeats. He studies the crossword’s handwritten answers. “It’s definitely Manning’s writing.”
“And Albright’s,” I say, referring to our former chief of staff. “Remember? Albright started the puzzles . . .”
“. . . and Manning finished them.” Turning back to the crossword, he points to a jumble of doodles and random letters on the right side of the puzzle. AMB . . . JABR . . . FRF . . . JAR . . . “What’re these?”
“No idea. I checked the initials, but they’re no one he knows. To be honest, it looks like gibberish.”
Dreidel nods, checking for himself. “My mother does the same thing when she’s working a puzzle. I think it’s just work space—testing letters . . . trying different permutations.” Focusing back on the puzzle itself, he reads each answer one by one. “What about the actual boxes? Anything interesting?”
“Just obscure words with lots of vowels. Damp . . . aral . . . peewee,” I read across the top, leaning over his shoulder.
“So the answers are right?”
“I’ve had a total of twelve seconds to look at it, much less solve it.”
“Definitely looks right,” Dreidel says, studying the finished puzzle. “Though maybe this’s what the FBI guy meant by The Three,” he adds. “Maybe it’s a number in the crossword.”
I shake my head. “He said it was a group.”
“It could still be in the crossword.”
Eyeing the only “three” in the puzzle, I point to the four-letter answer for 3 down. “Merc,” I say, reading from the puzzle.
“Short for mercenary,” Dreidel says, now excited. “A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive.”
“Now you’re reaching.”
“How can you say that? Maybe that’s exactly what we’re missing . . .”
“What, some hidden code that says, At the end of the first term, fake Boyle’s death and let him come back years later in Malaysia? C’mon, be real. There’s no secret message hidden in a Washington Post crossword puzzle.”
“So where does that leave us?” Dreidel asks.
“Stuck,” a female voice announces from the corner.
Spinning around, I almost swallow my tongue. Lisbeth enters quieter than a cat, her eyes searching the room to make sure we’re alone. The girl’s not dumb. She knows what happens if this gets out.
“This is a private conversation,” Dreidel insists.
“I can help you,” she offers. In her hand is a cell phone. I glance down at her purse and spot another. Son of a—
“Did you record us!? Is that why you left?” Dreidel explodes, already in lawyer mode as he hops out of his seat. “It’s illegal in Florida without consent!”
“I didn’t record you . . .”
“Then you can’t prove anything—without a record, it’s all just—”
“It could still be in the crossword . . . Merc . . . short for mercenary . . .” she begins, staring down at her left palm. Her voice never speeds up, always a perfect, unsettling calm. “A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive . . .” She turns her palm counterclockwise as she reads. “Now you’re reaching. I can keep going if you want. I haven’t even gotten to my wrist yet.”
“You tricked us,” I say, frozen at the table.
She stops at the accusation. “No, that’s not— I was just trying to see why you were lying to me.”
“So you do that by lying to us?”
“That wasn’t what I—” She cuts herself off and looks down, weighing the moment. This is harder than she thought. “Listen, I’m . . . I’m sorry, okay? But I’m serious . . . I can work with you on this.”
“Work with us? No, no no!” Dreidel shouts.
“You don’t understand . . .”
“Actually, I’m pretty damn fluent at this stuff—and the last thing I need right now is more time with you, listening to your bullshit! I have a no comment on all this, and anything you print, I’ll not only deny, but I’ll sue your ass back to whatever crappy high school newspaper taught you that damn phone trick in the first