“They already know. They know I saw him . . .”
“
They?
Who’s
they
?” she asks, cocking an anxious eyebrow.
“The Three,” I insist.
She looks up as I say the words, and I spot the recognition in her eyes. They were messing with her friend too—of course, she knows the details. But that doesn’t mean she wants to drag me into the rest of it.
“I know who they are,” I tell her.
“I don’t think you do, Wes.”
“How can you—?” I cut myself off as adrenaline buries the nauseous undertow I’m feeling. I’ve let her protect me for eight years. It’s enough. “I know The Three were fighting with the President and Boyle. I know
Blackbird
, whatever it was, was worth a quick six-million-dollar payout for The Roman, who apparently was one of the government’s top informants. I know that the payout was rejected by the President in one of the national security briefings. And I know that losing that kind of cash—and whatever else they would’ve made after it—had to’ve enraged them. The only thing I can’t figure out is, where’d Boyle fit in, and what’d he do that had The Three angry enough to pull the trigger?”
I expect her to be relieved to have someone with her, but she looks more frightened than ever, which quickly reminds me that this letter is as much of a shock to her as spotting Boyle was to me. And even with me digging up her worst family secrets, regardless of what Boyle or her husband did, she doesn’t want to see me hurt by it.
“How did you learn about The Three?” she asks.
I hesitate at first. “Friend of a friend who works for DOD.”
“And who told you they were fighting with the President?”
“That part I guessed on.”
Panicking, she studies me, weighing the permutations. She knows I’m not her enemy. But that doesn’t mean she’s letting me be her friend. Still, I’m definitely close. Too close to just send me on my way.
“I can help you,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, unconvinced.
“Ma’am, they know I saw Boyle. If you’re trying to keep me safe, it’s already too late. Just tell me what Boyle did and—”
“It’s not what Boyle
did
,” she whispers. “It’s what he
didn’t
do.” She catches herself, already regretting it.
“Didn’t do to
who
? To the President?”
“
No!
” But that’s all she tosses my way. Looking down, she curls back into a ball.
“Then to who? To you? To Albright? Just tell me who it was.”
She’s dead silent.
“Dr. Manning, please, you’ve known me eight years. Have I ever done anything that would hurt you?”
She continues to stare down, and I can’t say I blame her. She’s the former First Lady of the United States. She’s not sharing her fears with some young aide. I don’t care. I need to know.
“So that’s it? I’m supposed to just walk away?”
Still no answer. No doubt, she’s hoping I’ll be my usual self and shrink from the conflict. Two days ago, I would’ve. Not today.
“That’s fine,” I tell her as I head for the door. “You have every right to keep it to yourself, but you need to understand this: When I leave here, I’m not giving up. That bullet hit
my
face. And until I find out what really happened that day, I’m going to keep searching, keep digging, keep asking questions of every single person that was—”
“Don’t you see? It was an offer.”
I turn, but I’m not surprised. Whatever Boyle did, if she tells me the truth, at least she has a chance of containing it. And for someone who already has third-degree burns from the glare of the public spotlight, containment is all.
“An offer for what?” I ask, well aware of the box she lives in. If there’s something she needs to keep hidden, she can’t risk letting me walk out of here armed with embarrassing questions.
But she’s still hesitating.
“I’m sorry you don’t trust me,” I say, heading for the door.
“You said it yourself, Wes. As an informant, The Roman started bringing in tips.”
“But The Roman was actually a Secret Service agent, right?”
“That’s what they think
now.
But no one knew that back then. In those days, the agencies were just happy to get The Roman’s tips. Especially after Iraq, a correct, well-corroborated tip about a hidden training camp in Sudan? You saw how the war on terror works—indicators and warnings are all we have. Amazingly for The Roman, if he brought an assassination tip to the Secret Service, when the Service would go verify it with other agencies, the FBI would confirm it, as would the CIA. If he brought a tip to the FBI, it’d get authenticated by the CIA and the Service—and that verification is exactly what he needed for them to pay him as a source.”
“So under the guise of The Roman, The Three would bring the tips into their separate agencies, then just corroborate them amongst themselves . . .”
“. . . making it look like everyone—FBI, CIA, and the Service—were all in agreement. Sad to say, it happens all the time—last year in the State Department, someone made up a tip. The difference is, in most cases, they get caught because it doesn’t match what the other agencies are saying. But here . . . well, if they hadn’t gotten so greedy, it might’ve been a simple way to supplement their midlevel government salaries.”
“But they got greedy?”
“Everyone’s greedy,” the First Lady says as years of buried anger rise again to the surface. “They knew the system. They knew that small tips about some hidden training camp would only net them fifty thousand or so. And they also knew that the only way to get the big money they were after was to lie low and save their energy for those onetime shock-and-awe tips: The Golden Gate Bridge is being targeted . . . that shoe warehouse in Pakistan is really a chemical factory. Once everyone’s convinced that The Roman’s last nine tips were right, they’ll pay anything for the jumbo-sized tenth—even if it never happens. And when the FBI and CIA and Service all corroborate it and agree the threat is real? That’s how the informant who brought it in gets his multimillion-dollar payday.”
“So what was their problem?” I ask, trying to sound strong. Adrenaline only lasts so long. With each new detail of our old lives, the nauseous undertow floods back.
“The problem was, FBI and CIA case officers can only approve payouts of $200,000. To get into the multimillion range that would put The Three in retirement, the payday had to be approved by the White House.”
“And that’s what
Blackbird
was, right? They were starting to cash out with their first big tip, but it got shot down by the President.”
She nods, and eyes me, impressed. “That’s when they realized they needed someone on the inside. Boyle was warned about it back then—that they might try approaching him, especially because of his background . . .”
“Wait, whoa, whoa—so The Three—”
“Stop calling them that. Don’t you see? None of this happened because of The Three. It happened because they got smart and reached out for a new member. The Three was done. This is about The Four.”
Y
ou sure that’s right?” Rogo asked, reading from the original May 27 entry in Boyle’s datebook. He held it up to the redacted photocopy just to make sure it was a perfect fit. Underneath the
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
were the handwritten words
Dr. Eng 2678 Griffin Rd. Ft. L.
“That’s the big secret they were hiding from the masses?” Rogo added. “That Boyle had a doctor’s appointment?”
“It
is
personal information,” Freddy pointed out, slowly approaching them as Rogo tucked the original into a nearby file.
“Makes complete sense,” Dreidel agreed. “In every White House, half the staff lines up to see a shrink.”
Standing at the edge of one of the long research stacks, Rogo turned to his friend, who was sitting on the corner of a nearby desk. “Who says he’s a shrink?” Rogo challenged.
“Wha?”
“Dr. Eng. What makes you think he’s a shrink?”
“I don’t know, I just assumed he—”
“Listen, guys, I’d love to spend the rest of the night debating the merits of Eng’s particular practice,” Freddy interrupted, “but this is still a government building, and like any government building, when the little hand reaches the five—”
“Can you just run one more quick search?” Rogo asked, pointing to the library computers.
“I’m trying to be helpful. Really. But c’mon—the library’s closed.”
“Just one more search.”
“It’s already—”
“Just put in the words
Dr. Eng
,” Rogo pleaded. “Please—it’ll take less than thirty seconds. It’s just typing two words—
Dr.
and
Eng
—into the bat-computer. You do that and we’ll be gone so fast, you’ll be home in time for the early early news.”
Freddy stared at Rogo. “One last search and that’s it.”
A few keystrokes later, as Freddy hunched over the keyboard, the answer popped on-screen.
No other records found.
“And you—?”
“I checked everything: the WHORM file, staff and office collections, e-mail, even the few odd bits of microfiche from the old national security stuff,” Freddy said, well past annoyed. “The library’s now officially closed,” he added, standing from his seat and pointing to the door. “So unless you’d like to be introduced to our well-trained security staff, I suggest you have a nice day.”
Walking swiftly through the brick and concrete courtyard in front of the library, Rogo was a full five feet in front of Dreidel as they headed toward the car. “A business. Yes, in Fort Lauderdale,” Rogo said into his cell phone. “I’m looking for the number of a Dr. Eng. E-N-G.”
“I have a Dr.
Brian
Eng on Griffin Road,” the operator said.
“Two six seven eight, exactly,” Rogo said, reading the address off the sheet of paper they had copied it to. “And does it say what kind of doctor he is?”
“I’m sorry, sir—we don’t list occupations. Please hold for that number.”
Within seconds, a mechanized female voice announced, “At the customer’s request, the number is nonpublished and is not listed in our records.”
“Are you friggin’— What kinda doctor keeps an unlisted phone number?” As he turned back to Dreidel, he added, “Anything on the Web?”
Staring down at the tiny screen on his phone, Dreidel fidgeted with the buttons like a grandparent with a remote control. “I know I’m set up for Internet access—I just can’t figure out how to—”
“Then whattya been doing for the past five minutes? Give it here,” Rogo snapped, snatching the phone from his hand. With a few clicks and shifts, Rogo entered the name
Dr. Brian Eng
and hit
Enter.
For almost a full two minutes, he scrolled and clicked but didn’t say a word.
“Anything?” Dreidel asked as they weaved around cars in the parking lot.
“Unreal,” Rogo moaned, still clicking buttons on the phone. “Not only is his number unlisted—the guy’s somehow managed to stay out of every major search engine. Google . . . Yahoo! . . . you name it—put in
Dr. Brian Eng
and nothing comes up—it’s ridiculous! If I put in the words
Jewish Smurfs
, I get a page full of hits, but
Dr. Brian Eng
gives me goose egg?” Approaching the driver’s side of the Toyota, Rogo slapped the phone shut and tossed it across the roof of the car to Dreidel. “Which leads us right back to, what kinda doctor keeps himself so hidden, he’s almost impossible to find?”
“I don’t know . . . a mob doctor?” Dreidel guessed.
“Or an abortion doctor,” Rogo countered.
“What about a plastic surgeon—y’know, for the really rich who don’t want people to know?”
“Actually, that’s not a bad call. Wes said it looked like Boyle changed some of his features. Maybe the May 27th appointment was his first office consult.”
Sliding into the passenger seat, Dreidel glanced down at his watch. Outside, it was already starting to get dark. “We can swing by when they open tomorrow morning.”
“You kidding?” Rogo said as he started the car. “We should go right now.”
“He’s probably closed.”
“Still, if the building’s open, I bet the directory in the lobby’ll at least tell us what kind of practice he has.”
“But to trek all the way to Fort Lauderdale . . .”
Halfway out of the parking spot, Rogo jammed the brakes and shifted the car back into
park.
Turning to his right, he glared at Dreidel, who was still staring out the front windshield.
“What?” Dreidel asked.
“Why don’t you want me driving to this doctor right now?”
“What’re you talking about? I’m just trying to save us time.”
Rogo lowered his chin. “Good,” he said, jerking the car back into gear. “Next stop, Dr. Brian Eng.”
W
ait, you’re telling me Boyle—”
“They invited him in,” the First Lady explains, her voice shaking with each word. “Why be three horsemen when you can be more effective as four?”
“And Boyle said yes?”
“We didn’t know . . .” She pauses, wondering whether to tell me the rest. But she knows I’ll run out and ask the questions myself if she doesn’t. “We didn’t think so,” she says.
“I don’t understand,” I say, my chest in knots.
“You think they gave Ron a choice? The Three had access to the same FBI files we did. They knew his weakness—the child he thought none of us knew about . . .”
“Child? He had a—?”
“I told Lee that would come back to rip us. I
told
him,” she insists, more angry than ever. “I said it on the campaign—you could tell even back then. When you have a scab like that, someone’s bound to come pick at it.”
I nod, knowing better than to slow her down. “But for Boyle to actually join them—”
“That’s not what I said. I said they
approached
him. But The Three didn’t understand—with Ron . . . even with his child . . . with all the self-destructive messes he’d made . . . he’d never turn on us. Never. No matter the cost,” she says, looking up. I get the point. She expects the same from me.