During sniper training, Nico was taught to shoot between heartbeats to reduce barrel motion. Standing over his father, who was sobbing for mercy on the peeling linoleum floor, Nico pulled the trigger without hesitation.
And The Three realized they had their man.
All thanks to nothing more than a single sheet of paper with a fake hospital meal log.
As the traffic light blinked green, The Roman turned left and slammed the gas, sending his back wheels spinning and bits of slush spraying through the air. The car fishtailed on the never-plowed road, then quickly settled under The Roman’s tight grip. He’d put in far too much time to lose control now.
In the distance, the old storefronts and buildings gave way to rusted black metal gates that fenced in the wide-open grounds and were supposed to make the neighborhood feel safer. But with twenty-two patients escaping in the last year, most neighbors understood that the gates weren’t exactly living up to their expectations.
Ignoring the chapel and another towering brick building just beyond the gates, The Roman made a sharp right and stayed focused on the small guardhouse right inside the main entrance. It’d been almost eight years since the last time he was here. And as he rolled down his window and saw the peeling paint on the black and yellow gate arm, he realized nothing had changed, including the security procedures.
“Welcome to St. Elizabeths,” a guard with winter-grizzled lips said. “Visitor or delivery?”
“Visitor,” The Roman replied, flashing a Secret Service badge and never breaking eye contact. Like every agent before him, when Roland Egen first joined the Service, he didn’t start in Protective Operations. With the Service’s authority over financial crimes, he first spent five years investigating counterfeit rings and computer crime in the Houston field office. From there, he got his first protective assignment, assessing threats for the Intelligence Division, and from there — thanks to his flair for criminal investigations — he rose through the ranks in the Pretoria and Rome offices. It was raw determination that helped him claw his way up through the Secret Service hierarchy to his current position as deputy assistant director of Protective Operations. But it was in his after-hours work as The Roman where he reaped his best rewards. “I’m here for Nicholas Hadrian.”
“Nico’s in trouble, huh?” the guard asked. “Funny, he always says someone’s coming. For once, he’s actually right.”
“Yeah,” The Roman said, glancing up at the tiny cross on the roof of the old brick chapel in the distance. “Pretty damn hysterical.”
21
Anyway, it’s just a cute little squib with you and Dreidel eating at the Four Seasons,” Lisbeth says as Rogo squeezes in next to me and puts his ear to the phone. “Sorta making the restaurant like a White House reunion in the sunny South. The President’s boys and all that.”
“Sounds fun,” I tell her, hoping to keep her upbeat. “Though I’m not sure that’s actually news.”
“Amazing,” she says sarcastically. “That’s exactly what Dreidel said. You guys separated at birth, or does it just come naturally with the job?”
I’ve known Lisbeth since the day she took over the Post’s gossip column. We have a clear understanding. She calls and politely asks for a quote from the President. I politely tell her we’re sorry, but we don’t do those things anymore. It’s a simple waltz. The problem is, if I don’t play this carefully, I’ll be giving her something to jitterbug to.
“C’mon, Lisbeth, no one even knows who me and Dreidel are.”
“Yep, Dreidel tried that one too. Right before he asked if he could call me back, which I also know is a guaranteed sign I’ll never hear from him again. I mean, considering he’s got that little fundraiser tonight, you’d think he’d want his name in the local paper. Now do you just wanna give me a throwaway quote on how great it was for you and your friend to reminisce about your old White House days, or do you want me to start worrying that there’s something wrong in Manningville?” She laughs as she says the words, but I’ve been around enough reporters to know that when it comes to filling their columns, nothing’s funny.
Careful, Rogo writes on a scrap of paper. Girl ain’t stupid.
I nod and turn back to the phone. “Listen, I’m happy to give you whatever quote you want, but honestly, we were only in the restaurant for a few minutes—”
“And that’s officially the third time you’ve tried to downplay this otherwise yawn of a story. Know what they teach you in journalism school when someone tries to downplay, Wes?”
On the scrap of paper, Rogo adds an exclamation point next to Girl ain’t stupid.
“Okay, fine. Wanna know the real story?” I ask.
“No, I’d much prefer the fake runaround.”
“But this is off the record,” I warn. She stays silent, hoping I’ll keep talking. It’s an old reporter’s trick so she can say she never agreed. I fell for it my first week in the White House. That was the last time. “Lisbeth…”
“Fine… yes… off the record. Now what’s the big hubbub?”
“Manning’s birthday,” I blurt. “His surprise sixty-fifth, to be exact. Dreidel and I were in charge of the surprise part until you called this morning. I told Manning I had some errands to run. Dreidel was in town and told him the same. If Manning reads in tomorrow’s paper that we were together…” I pause for effect. It’s a crap lie, but her silence tells me it’s doing the trick. “You know we never ask for anything, Lisbeth, but if you could keep us out just this once…” I pause again for the big finale. “We’d owe you one.”
I can practically hear her smile on the other line. In a city of social chits, it’s the best one to bargain with: a favor owed by the former President of the United States.
“Gimme ten minutes face-to-face with Manning on the night of the surprise party,” Lisbeth says.
“Five minutes is the most he’ll sit for.”
Rogo shakes his head. Not enough, he mouths silently.
“Deal,” she says.
Rogo makes a double okay sign with his fingers. Perfect, he mouths.
“So my breakfast with Dreidel…?” I ask.
“Breakfast? Come now, Wes — why would anyone care what two former staffers had on their morning toast? Consider it officially dead.”
22
You know we never ask for anything, Lisbeth, but if you could keep us out just this once…”
As she listened to Wes’s words, Lisbeth sat up in her seat and began to spin the phone cord, jump-rope-style. From the forced pause on the other line, Wes sounded like he was ready to trade. “We’d owe you one,” he offered, right on cue. Lisbeth stopped the phone cord’s spinning. Sacred Rule #4: Only the guilty trade. Sacred Rule #5: And the opportunists.
“Gimme ten minutes face-to-face with Manning on the night of the surprise party,” she said, knowing that like any good publicist, he’d knock the time in half.
“Five minutes is the most he’ll sit for.”
“Deal,” she said as she started rifling through the thick stack of invites on the far corner of her desk. Opening concert at the opera. The annual craft bazaar at the Sailfish Club. Baby naming at the Whedons. It had to be here somewhere…
“So my breakfast with Dreidel…?” Wes asked.
Still flipping through the stack, Lisbeth was barely paying attention. “Breakfast? Come now, Wes — why would anyone care what two former staffers had on their morning toast? Consider it officially dead.”