The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [75]
I never thought you were. By the way, you sure you’re okay driving?
“I’m fine. But just know, if you wanna help, you need to understand that this battle didn’t start eight years ago. It started in ’91.”
1991?
“1791,” Nico said, watching Edmund’s reaction. “The year they drew the battle lines . . . by drawing the city lines,” he explained, jabbing a finger against the map that was spread out across the wide dashboard between them.
City lines to what? Washington, D.C.?
“That’s what they were designing—the layout for our nation’s capital. President George Washington himself picked out a U.S. army major for the job: French-born architect Pierre Charles L’Enfant. And when you look at his early plans . . . it laid the groundwork for everything here today,” Nico said, pointing Edmund back toward the map.
So when this French guy designed the city—
“No!” Nico insisted. “Unlock yourself from history’s lies. L’Enfant is the one most often credited with the plans, but after being hired by President Washington, a known Freemason, there was one other man who helped sketch the details of the city. That’s the man who marked the entryway. And used the skills of the Masons to build the devil’s door.”
Is it someone I know, or some other French guy?
“Unlock yourself, Edmund. Ever hear of Thomas Jefferson?”
42
ID, please,” the burly African-American security guard insists as I step through the glass doors and into the gray marble lobby of our building. Most mornings I pass with nothing more than a wave to Norma, the overweight Hispanic woman who’s worked the morning shift for the past three years. Today, Norma’s gone. A quick glance at the new guard’s hand shows me the beige sleeve-microphone concealed in his fist. The patch on his shoulder reads Flamingo Security Corp. But I know Secret Service when I see it.
With Nico loose, no one’s taking any chances.
It’s no different when I step out of the elevator on the fourth floor. In addition to the regular suit-and-tie agent who stands guard by the flags in our welcoming area, there’s an agent outside our bulletproof doors, and a third just outside the President’s personal office at the end of the hallway. Still, none of it surprises me half as much as the familiar voice I hear a few doors down as I cut into my own office.
“You’re sure it’s okay?” the voice asks from our chief of staff’s office.
“Absolutely,” Claudia promises as they step into the hall. “In fact, if you didn’t call—oh, I would’ve killed you. And so would he,” she says, referring to the President.
She stops short right in front of my door. “Wes, guess who’s going to be working out of our office for the next week?” she asks, stepping inside and waving like a magician’s assistant toward the door.
“H-Hey, pal,” Dreidel says as he enters my office, a thick file folder pressed against his hip.
I clap my hands, pretending to be amused. What’re you doing? I ask with a glance.
“My firm asked if I could—”
“They didn’t ask,” Claudia jumps in, already seizing control. “They had a last-minute rescheduling on a deposition, and since he was down here, they told him to stay. But we can’t let him scrounge in some hotel executive center, right? Not when we’ve got all this office space here.”
“It’s just for a week,” Dreidel says, already reading my reaction.
“Wes, you okay?” Claudia asks. “I figured with all this Nico mess, it’d be nice to have someone familiar to—” She cuts herself off, realizing what she’s missed. “Nico. Oh, how could I be so stupid? Wes, I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t even think that you and Nico—” She steps back, tapping the tight bun in her hair as if she wants to bury herself under it. From there, the pity comes quickly. “How’re you holding up? If you need to go home—”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“After all these years, it’s just . . . I don’t even think of you as—” She doesn’t say the word, but I still hear it. Disabled. Scarred.