The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [80]
Still, Dreidel doesn’t seem to notice Rogo’s tantrum. Staring out the window, he’s far too focused on the huge brown sign that’s partially blocked by the building’s faux-cement pillars: Palm Beach Post.
“You sure this is smart?” Dreidel asks as the sun disappears, and we wind our way up to the second level of the already dark garage.
“You got a better place?” I challenge.
And that’s the point. No matter where we go, it’s a cakewalk for anyone to listen in. But here, in the heart of it . . . I don’t care how powerful they are—Manning, the FBI, even the Service—none of them can afford to fistfight with the press.
“What’s the backup plan for when she screws us?” Rogo asks as we head through the front door of the building and across the lobby’s salmon and black marble floor. It’s his last-ditch effort to turn us around. Dreidel nods to show he agrees, but he still doesn’t slow down. Like me, he’s got a personal stake. And based on what I saw in his hotel room, he doesn’t want to give Lisbeth another excuse to put his name in bold.
“Cell phones and pagers,” a tan guard with silver hair announces as we approach the metal detector and X-ray. I put my shoulder bag on the belt, along with my phone. But as I step through the X-ray, a loud beep echoes through the tall marble canyon.
Feeling myself up, I check for a pen or a—
“Your pin,” the guard blurts, pointing to my lapel.
Rolling my eyes and stepping back through the X-ray, I fight my way out of my suit jacket and lay it across the conveyor.
“You should just throw the pin away,” Dreidel says, following right behind me. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”
“Hey, fellas,” the security guard interrupts, his head cocked sideways as he studies the video monitor for the X-ray. He taps the screen and makes a face. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this . . .”
45
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Palm Beach International Airport,” the flight attendant announced through the plane’s intercom. “Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop and the captain turns off the seat belt sign.”
Flicking the metal clasp, The Roman undid his seat belt, reached under the seat in front of him, and pulled out a thick aluminum photographer’s briefcase with the Secret Service logo on it. He flexed his thumbs, triggering the clasps that opened the case. From inside, tucked into a gray foam protective shell, he pulled out a small receiver that reminded him of the old transistor radios his grandfather used to collect. Unwrapping a black wire from around the receiver, he inserted the earpiece in his right ear and flicked the On switch on the side of the receiver.
“. . . pin away,” Dreidel said, his voice far more muffled than before. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”
Checking the reception on the square electronic screen, The Roman saw four out of five digital bars. It was no different than a cell phone with a souped-up military battery.
“Hey, fellas,” a new voice interrupted. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this . . . ”
The Roman put a finger in his free ear and turned a dial to raise the volume. All he got was silence.
Up above, a loud chime sounded in the plane as a metal symphony of unfastened seat belts filled the cabin. Sitting perfectly still, The Roman turned up the volume even higher. Still nothing. For a moment, there was some mumbling, but nothing audible.
“What floor?” Rogo asked, coming through loud and clear.
“Second,” Wes replied.
“Just do me a favor,” Rogo added. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”
Closing his suitcase and following his fellow passengers into the aisle, The Roman nodded to himself. Them being smart was exactly what he planned.
46