The Three called it fatum. Latin for fate. Nico’s destiny.
Nico looked up as he heard the word. Fate. “Yes… that’s what she— Like the Book.”
Right there, Nico knew his mission — and why his mom was taken.
“Please… I need to— Let me help you slay the monsters,” Nico volunteered.
Number Three watched him carefully. He could’ve dumped Nico right there. Could’ve left him… abandoned him… chosen to continue the fight by himself. Instead, he said the one thing only a true man of God could.
“Son, let us pray.”
Number Three opened his arms, and Nico collapsed inside. He heard Number Three’s sobs. Saw his tears. No longer just a stranger. Family. Like a father.
Fatum, Nico decided that day. His fate.
Over the next month, The Three revealed the full mission. Told him of the enemy and the strength on their side. From Voltaire to Napoleon to Winston Churchill, the Freemasons spent centuries cultivating the most powerful members of society. In the arts, they had Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach. In literature, Arthur Conan Doyle, Rudyard Kipling, and Oscar Wilde. In business, they grew with funding by Henry Ford, Frederick Maytag, and J. C. Penney.
In the United States, they built their power to new heights: From Benjamin Franklin to John Hancock, eight signers of the Declaration of Independence were Masons. Nine signers of the U.S. Constitution. Thirty-one generals in Washington’s army. Five Supreme Court chief justices, from John Marshall to Earl Warren. Year by year, century by century, the Masons collected those with the greatest influence on society: Paul Revere, Benedict Arnold, Mark Twain, John Wayne, Roy Rogers, Cecil B. DeMille, Douglas Fairbanks, Clark Gable, even Harry Houdini. Was it any coincidence that Douglas MacArthur became General of the Army? Or that Joseph Smith founded an entire religion? Or that J. Edgar Hoover was given the FBI? Or even that Buzz Aldrin was on that first rocket to the moon? All of those landmarks. All of them by Masons. And that didn’t even consider the sixteen times they took the White House: Presidents George Washington, James Monroe, Teddy Roosevelt, FDR, Truman, LBJ, Gerald Ford… and most important, The Three explained, President Leland F. Manning and the monster known as Ron Boyle.
One month after the day they met, The Three revealed Boyle’s sin. Just like they did with Nico’s father.
Still rocking to himself and strumming on the A-string, Nico heard the throat-clearing grunt of tires scraping uphill against the ice. A black SUV rumbled into view, its windshield wipers swatting snow aside like a bothersome fly. Nico continued to strum, well aware that black SUVs usually meant the Service. But as the car cut in front of the dogwood, Nico saw that the passenger seat was empty. Service never came alone.
Three and a half minutes, Nico told himself as he studied the second hand on his watch. By now, he had it timed perfectly. Three and a half was the average. For his doctors, for his nurses, even for his sister before she stopped coming to visit. She’d always need an extra thirty seconds to steel herself, but even on the worst days — on that dark Sunday when he tried to hurt himself — three and a half minutes was more than enough.
Nico glanced down again at the second hand on his watch. One minute… two… three… He closed his eyes, bobbed his head, and prayed. Three and a half. Nico opened his eyes and turned to the door of his ten-by-fifteen room.
The doorknob twisted slightly, and the orderly with the bloodshot eyes appeared in the doorway.
“Nico, you decent? You got a visitor,” the orderly called out.
Eight years watching. Eight years waiting. Eight years believing that the Book of Fate could never be denied. Nico could feel the tears flood his eyes as a man with pale Irish features and midnight-black hair entered the room.
“Nice to see you, Nico,” The Roman said as he stepped inside. “Been far too long.”
24
Manning Presidential Library. How can I assist you?” the receptionist answers.
“I have some questions on presidential records,” I say, checking for the second time that the door to my office is closed. Rogo said I could use his office to make the call, but between lunch and all our chatting, I’ve already been gone too long.
“Let me transfer you to the archivist of the day,” the receptionist adds.
With a click, I’m on my way. And while I could just call the head of the entire library, like Rogo said, better to keep it low-key.
“Kara speaking. What can I help you with today?” a soft female voice asks.
“Hi, Kara. This is Wes over in the personal office. We’re trying to get some of Ron Boyle’s old files for a tribute book we’re working on, so I was just wondering if you could help us pull some of those together?”
“I’m sorry, and your name again?”
“Wes Holloway. Don’t worry… I’m on the staff list,” I say with a laugh. She doesn’t laugh back.
“I’m sorry, Wes, but before we release any documents, we need you to fill out a FOIA request stating who it’s for—”
“President Manning. He requested them personally,” I interrupt.
Every law has exceptions. Cops can run red lights. Doctors can illegally park during emergencies. And when your name is Leland Manning, you get any sheet of paper you want from the Leland Manning Presidential Library.
“J-Just tell us what you need. I’ll start pulling it together,” she offers.
“Fantastic,” I say, flipping open the thick loose-leaf binder on my desk. The first page is labeled Presidential Records and Historical Materials. We call it the guide to the world’s biggest diary.
For four years in the White House, every file, every e-mail, every Christmas card that was sent out was logged, copied, and saved. By the time we left Washington, it took five battle-sized military cargo planes to haul the forty million documents, 1.1 million photographs, twenty million printed e-mail messages, and forty thousand “artifacts,” including four different Cowardly Lion telephones, two of which were handmade with the President’s face on them. Still, the only way to find the needle is to jump into the haystack. And the only way to figure out what Boyle was up to is to pull open his desk drawers and see what’s inside.
“Under White House Staff, let’s start with all of Boyle’s records as deputy chief,” I say, flipping to the first few pages of the records guide, “and naturally, all of his own files, including correspondence to and from him.” I flip to the next tab in the notebook. “And I’d also like to get his personnel records. Those would include any work complaints filed against him, correct?”
“It should,” the archivist says, now suspicious.
“Don’t worry,” I laugh, hearing the change in her voice, “that’s just to vet him so we know for sure where all the skeletons are.”
“Yeah… of course… it’s just — what do you need these for again?”
“A book the President’s working on — about Boyle’s years of service, from the White House to the shooting at the speedway—”
“If you want, we have the actual clip — y’know, with Boyle… and that young man who got hit in the face…”
When John Hinckley tried to kill Ronald Reagan, he hit the President, James Brady, Secret Service Agent Tim McCarthy, and police officer Thomas Delahanty. We all know James Brady. McCarthy and Delahanty became Trivial Pursuit answers. Just like me.
“So how fast do you think you can pull that together?” I ask.
She pants slightly into the phone. It’s the closest thing she’s got to a laugh. “Let me just… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen… you’re probably looking at something like eighteen linear feet — or about… let’s see… 36,000 pages.”