The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [85]
“Either way, The Roman’s supposedly dug in so deep, his handlers had to design this whole ridiculous communication system just to get in touch with him. Y’know, like reading every fifth letter in some classified ad . . .”
“Or mixing up the letters in a crossword,” Dreidel mutters, suddenly sitting up straight. Turning to me, he adds, “Let me see the puzzle . . .”
From my pants pocket, I pull out the fax of the crossword and flatten it with my palm on the conference table. Dreidel and I lean in from one side. Rogo and Lisbeth lean in from the other. Although they both heard the story last night, this is the first time Rogo and Lisbeth have seen it.
Studying the puzzle, they focus on the filled-in boxes, but don’t see anything beyond a bunch of crossword answers and some random doodling in the margins.
“What about those names on the other sheet?” Lisbeth asks, pulling out the page below the crossword and revealing the first page of the fax, with the Beetle Bailey and Blondie comic strips. Just above Beetle Bailey’s head, in the President’s handwriting, are the words Gov. Roche . . . M. Heatson . . . Host—Mary Angel.
“I looked those up last night,” I say. “The puzzle’s dated February 25, right at the beginning of the administration. That night, Governor Tom Roche introduced the President at a literacy event in New York. In his opening remarks, Manning thanked the main organizer, Michael Heatson, and his host for the event, a woman named Mary Angel.”
“So those names were just a crib sheet?” Lisbeth asks.
“He does it all the time,” Dreidel says.
“All the time,” I agree. “I’ll hand him a speech, and as he’s up on the dais, he’ll jot some quick notes to himself adding a few more people to thank—some big donor he sees in the front row . . . an old friend whose name he just remembered . . . This one just happens to be on the back of a crossword.”
“I’m just amazed they save his old puzzles,” Lisbeth says.
“That’s the thing. They don’t,” I tell her. “And believe me, we used to save everything: scribbled notes on a Post-it . . . an added line for a speech that he jotted on a cocktail napkin. All of that’s work product. Crosswords aren’t, which is why they’re one of the few things we were allowed to throw away.”
“So why’d this one get saved?” Lisbeth asks.
“Because this is part of a speech,” Dreidel replies, slapping his hand against Beetle Bailey’s face. Gov. Roche . . . M. Heatson . . . Host—Mary Angel. “Once he wrote those, it was like locking the whole damn document in amber. We had to save it.”
“So for eight years, Boyle’s out there, requesting thousands of documents, looking for whatever he’s looking for,” Lisbeth says. “And one week ago, he got these pages and suddenly comes out of hiding.” She sits up straight, sliding her leg under her rear end. I can hear the speed in her voice. She knows it’s in here.
“Lemme see the puzzle again,” she says.
Like before, all four of us crowd around it, picking it apart.
“Who’s the other handwriting besides Manning’s?” Lisbeth asks, pointing to the meticulous, squat scribbles.
“Albright’s, our old chief of staff,” Dreidel answers.
“He died a few years ago, right?”
“Yeah—though so did Boyle,” I say, leaning forward so hard, the conference table digs into my stomach.
Lisbeth’s still scanning the puzzle. “From what I can tell, all the answers seem right.”
“What about this stuff over here?” Rogo asks, tapping at the doodles and random lettering on the right side of the puzzle.
“The first word’s amble . . . see 7 across?” I ask. “The spaces are for the L and the E. Dreidel said his mom does the same thing when she does puzzles.”
“Sorta scribbles out different permutations to see what fits,” Dreidel explains.
“My dad used to do the same,” Lisbeth agrees.
Rogo nods to himself but won’t take his eyes off it.
“Maybe the answer’s in the crossword clues,” Lisbeth suggests.
“What, like The Roman