Open it! he insisted, nodding to himself.
Like a child sneaking a cookie from the jar, Nico kept his shoulders pitched as he studied the front page of the map. Closing his eyes, he took one last scan of the area: the metal clicking of the truck’s idle engines… the garden hose hiss from the pumps… even the chalky scratch of claws against concrete as a raccoon prowled toward the dumpster around back.
“Thank you, Father,” Nico whispered, keeping his eyes shut as he tugged the map open and let it unfold in front of him. His head bobbed up and down sixteen times as he mouthed his final prayer. Amen.
His eyes sprang open, staring straight at the familiar blue and black grid of the D.C. streets. Orienting himself on the wide-open patches of the Tidal Basin and National Mall, he quickly found the marker for the Washington Monument. From there, he traced a path up to Dupont Circle, where—
“D.C?” Edmund asked, resting a hand on Nico’s shoulder and peeking over at the map. “I thought you wanted Washington State?”
Refusing to turn around, Nico stood up straight as his legs, arms, and whole body stiffened. If it weren’t for his sniper training, his hands would’ve been shaking. Still, he felt the bad vein between his eyebrows. The vein that swelled, pregnant and full, when they took away his violin… when his father told him his mother was gone… when The Three told him the truth.
Just to keep himself steady, he clenched his toes into tiny fists that gripped the earth right through his shoes. The vein still throbbed. Pulsating even faster. Picking up speed. Father, please don’t let it burst… And then… as Nico clamped his lips shut and held his breath and focused everything he had on the web of veins swelling against his sinuses, it all went away.
Turning just his head, Nico slowly peered over his own shoulder at Edmund.
“Whoa… y’okay?” Edmund asked, stepping back slightly and pointing at Nico’s face. “Your nose… it’s bleedin’ like a bitch, bro.”
“I know,” Nico said, dropping the map as he reached out and palmed Edmund’s shoulder. “Blood of our savior.”
38
And you’re all set, Mr. Benoit,” the airline attendant said at the boarding gate.
“Great,” The Roman replied, careful to keep his head tilted down to the left. He didn’t have to hide. Or use the fake name. Indeed, the one benefit of Nico’s escape was that it gave The Roman the perfect excuse to justify his trip down South. As deputy assistant director, that was his job. Still, he kept his head down. He knew where the cameras were hidden. No need to tell anyone he was coming.
After heading toward the plate-glass window behind the check-in desk and sitting at the far end of a long row of seats, The Roman dialed a number on his phone, ignored the chitchatting of his fellow passengers, and focused on the black, predawn sky.
“D-Do you have any idea what time it is?” a groggy voice begged, picking up the other line.
“Almost six,” The Roman replied, staring outside. It was still too early to see slivers of orange cracking through the horizon as prologue to the sun’s arrival. But that didn’t mean he had to sit in the dark.
“Did you get the new schedule yet?” The Roman asked.
“I told you last night, with Nico running around, Manning’s entire day is in flux… you of all people should know that.”
Staring at his own reflection in the glass, The Roman nodded. Behind him, an armed agent in a Security windbreaker weaved through the food court, scanning the crowd. Back by the metal detectors when he first came in, he’d counted three more agents doing the same — and that didn’t include the dozen or so who operated in plainclothes to stay out of sight. The FBI wanted Nico back — and in their minds, the best way to get him was to cover every airport, train station, and travel hub. It was a good plan, following years of typical FBI procedure. But Nico was far from typical. And at this point, in all likelihood, far from here.
“What about Wes? When does he get his copy of the schedule?” The Roman asked.
“It’s not like the White House anymore. No matter how close he is to Manning, he gets it same as the rest of us — first thing in the morning.”
“Well, when he does get it—”
“You’ll have it,” his associate said. “Though I still don’t understand why. You already have the microphone f—”
“Send it!” The Roman roared. On his right, a few passengers turned to stare. Refusing to lose it, he shut the phone and calmly slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. It wasn’t until he unclenched his fist that he saw a tiny dot of blood seeping through the gauze.
39
A reporter?” Rogo asks in full Southern twang as we weave through morning traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard. “You’re sitting on the biggest political scandal since Boss Tweed started Teapot Dome, and you threw it in the lap of a reporter?”
“First, Boss Tweed had nothing to do with Teapot Dome. They were fifty years apart,” I tell him. “Second, what happened to all that Purple Rain calmness from last night?”
“I was trying to make you feel better! But this… You threw it in the lap of a reporter?”
“We didn’t have a choice, Rogo. She heard us talking.” Just below the glove compartment, his feet barely touch the Yosemite Sam floor mat with the words Back Off! in giant white letters. He bought the mat for me for my birthday a few years back as some sort of personal lesson. From the look on his face, he still thinks I need to learn it. “If she wanted, she could’ve run the story today,” I add.
“And this is she? Below the Fold?” he asks, flipping open the newspaper and turning to Lisbeth’s column in the Accent section. The headline reads Still the One — Dr. First Lady Outshines All. It opens with a fawning item about Mrs. Manning’s chartreuse Narciso Rodriguez suit as well as her gold eagle pin, which Lisbeth calls “Americana elegance.” To her credit, she doesn’t even go for the snarky mention of Nico’s escape.
“See, she’s making nice,” I point out.
“That’s just so you don’t notice that she’s maneuvering you in front of the bull’s-eye. Think for a sec.”
“Believe me, I know what Lisbeth wants.”
“Yet you’re ignoring the fact she’ll eventually stop writing about the First Lady’s suit and instead be using your name to cut to the head of the class. Screw the gossip column, Wes — she’ll have the whole front page to herself.”
“She can have it right now! Don’t you understand? She heard it all last night: Boyle being alive, us not trusting Manning… but like me, she knows that if she goes public now, it’ll bring a tidal wave of feces crashing down on all of us.”
“Actually, it’ll just be crashing down on Manning and Boyle. Y’know, the people who, well, actually caused this!”
“Are you even listening, Rogo? Whatever happened that day, it was pulled off by some of the most powerful people around, including — according to these FBI guys — the former President of the United States, who’s also been like a father to me for nearly a decade…”
“Here we go — always afraid to hurt Daddy.”
“I’m not afraid to hurt anyone — especially whoever the hell did this to me,” I say, pointing to my cheek. “But your solution? You want me — before I even know what’s going on — to shout everything from the rooftops and go stick a fistful of dynamite into the dam.”