The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [89]
I shake my head. “All I’m saying is President Manning and Albright spent one of their very first days in office building a hidden list with the names of eight people that shared daily access to some of the best-kept secrets in the entire world. More important, by keeping that list on a crossword puzzle, they figured out a way to create the impossible: a presidential document—potentially containing Manning’s innermost thoughts—that wouldn’t be inspected, cataloged, studied, or seen by anyone else around him.”
“Unless, of course, you absentmindedly jot a few notes to yourself on the back,” Rogo says.
“The point is, the list still needs narrowing,” I say. “And as far as I can tell, besides the President, the only people on here who were at the speedway that day were Boyle and Albright—and Albright’s dead.”
“You sure those were the only two?” Lisbeth asks.
“Whattya mean?”
“Have you ever looked at any of the archival footage from that day? Maybe take a peek to see if everything you think you remember matches up with reality?”
I shake my head. A week after the shooting, when I was still in the hospital, I caught a clip of the footage while flipping through channels. It took three nurses to calm me down that night. “I haven’t seen the footage for a bit,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I figured this isn’t exactly your favorite home movie. But if you really want to know what happened, you have to start at the scene of the crime.” Before I can react, she reaches into her file folder and pulls out a black videocassette. “Lucky for you, I’ve got connections at the local TV stations.”
As she pops out of her seat and heads for the black Formica credenza with the VCR/TV combo, my throat tightens and my hands flood with sweat.
I can already tell this is a bad idea.
52
What about Claudia?” The Roman asked calmly, strolling over to Bev’s window and staring down at the agents, sheriff, and ambulance crew crowded into the rotary at the front of the building.
“You told me not to—that it was an internal investigation,” Bev said as she watched The Roman from her desk and anxiously picked at an open bag of microwave popcorn.
“And Oren?”
“I just told you—”
“Tell me again!” The Roman insisted, turning from the window, his pale skin and black hair practically glowing in the noon sunlight.
Bev stayed silent, her hand frozen in the popcorn.
The Roman knew he’d scared her, but he wasn’t about to apologize. Not until he had what he wanted.
“You said not to tell anyone—I didn’t tell anyone,” Bev finally offered. “Not B.B., not the President . . . no one.” Fidgeting with the tips of her dyed-black hair, she added, “Though I still don’t get how any of this helps Wes.”
The Roman turned back to the window, taking a moment to choose his words. Bev had known Wes since his first days in the White House. Like any protective parent, she wasn’t turning on her kid unless it was for his own good. “What helps Wes is finding out just who he ran into that night in Malaysia,” The Roman explained. “If what he said in the report is right—that it was just some drunk looking for the bathroom—then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But to have me put a microphone in his pin . . . to hide it from everyone on staff . . . Why can’t you just tell me who you think approached him?”
“Bev, I told you from the start, this is part of a long-term inquiry that we believe—and hope—Wes accidentally stumbled onto. Trust me, we want to protect him as much as you do, which is why—”
“Does it have to do with Nico? Is that why he escaped?”
“This has nothing to do with Nico,” The Roman insisted.
“I just thought . . . with your hand . . .” she said, motioning to the white gauze wrapped around his palm.
The Roman knew that was the risk coming to the office. But with the wiretap silent, and Boyle still unaccounted for . . . some things had to be done face-to-face.
Sitting on the edge of Bev’s desk, The Roman cupped her hand between his palms. “Bev, I know you don’t know me.