The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [61]
“Yeah, I’m sure a public lawsuit will really help your state election campaign,” Lisbeth says calmly.
“Don’t you dare bring that into— Dammit!” Dreidel screams, spinning around and slamming both fists against the welcoming table.
Still standing in the doorway, Lisbeth should be wearing a smile so wide, there’d be canary feathers dangling from her lips. Instead, she rubs the back of her neck as her front teeth click anxiously. I wore that same look when I walked in on one of the many fights between the President and First Lady. It’s like walking in on someone having sex. An initial thrill, followed instantly by the hollow dread that in a world of infinite possibilities, physical and temporal happenstance have conspired to place you at the regrettable, unreturnable moment that currently passes for your life.
Lisbeth takes a step back, bumping into the door. Then she takes a step forward. “I really can help you,” she says.
“Whattya mean?” I ask, standing up.
“Wes, don’t,” Dreidel moans. “This is stupid. We already—”
“I can get you information,” Lisbeth continues. “The newspaper . . . our contacts—”
“Contacts?” Dreidel asks. “We have the President’s Rolodex.”
“But you can’t call them,” Lisbeth shoots back. “And neither can Wes—not without tipping someone off.”
“That’s not true,” Dreidel argues.
“Really? So no one’ll raise an eyebrow when Manning’s two former aides start dissecting his old assassination attempt? No one’ll tattle to the President when you start sniffing around Boyle’s old life?”
We’re both speechless. Dreidel stops pacing. I brush some imaginary dirt from the table. If the President found out . . .
Lisbeth watches us carefully. Her freckles shift as her eyes narrow. She reads social cues for a living. “You don’t even trust Manning, do you?” she asks.
“You can’t print that,” Dreidel threatens.
Lisbeth’s mouth falls open, shocked by the answer. “You’re serious . . .”
It takes me a second to process what just happened. I look to Lisbeth, then back to Dreidel. I don’t believe it. She was bluffing.
“Don’t you dare print it,” Dreidel adds. “We didn’t say that.”
“I know . . . I’m not printing it . . . I just—you guys really punched the hornet’s nest on this, didn’t you?”
Dreidel’s done answering questions. He storms at her, jabbing a finger at her face. “You have no proof of anything! And the fact that—”
“Can you really help us?” I call out from the table.
Turning to me, she doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“Wes, don’t be stupid . . .”
“How?” I ask her.
Dreidel turns my way. “Wait . . . you’re actually listening to her?”
“By being the one person no one can ever trace back to you,” Lisbeth explains, stepping around Dreidel and heading toward me. “You make a phone call, people’ll know something’s up. Same with Dreidel. But if I make it, I’m just a crackpot reporter sniffing for story and hoping to be the next Woodward and Bernstein.”
“So why help us?” I ask.
“To be the next Woodward and Bernstein.” Through her designer eyeglasses, she studies me with dark green eyes—and never once glances down at my cheek. “I want the story,” she adds. “When it’s all over . . . when all the secrets are out, and the book deals are falling into place, I just want to be the one to write it up.”
“And if we tell you to go screw yourself?”
“I break it now, and the news vans start lining up outside your apartment, feeding your lives to the cable news grinder. Lying to all of America . . . a giant cover-up . . . They’ll eat you like Cheerios. And even if you get the truth out there, your lives’ll be like picked-over bones.”
“So that’s it?” Dreidel asks, rushing back and tapping his knuckle on the table. “You threaten us, and we’re supposed to just comply? How do we know you won’t break it tomorrow morning just to get the quick kill?”
“Because only a moron goes for the quick kill,” Lisbeth says as she sits on the edge of the table. “You know how it works: I run this tomorrow and I’ll get a nice pat on the head that’ll last a total of twenty-four hours, at which point the Times and the Washington Post will grab