Feeling myself up, I check for a pen or a—
“Your pin,” the guard blurts, pointing to my lapel.
Rolling my eyes and stepping back through the X-ray, I fight my way out of my suit jacket and lay it across the conveyor.
“You should just throw the pin away,” Dreidel says, following right behind me. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”
“Hey, fellas,” the security guard interrupts, his head cocked sideways as he studies the video monitor for the X-ray. He taps the screen and makes a face. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this…”
45
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Palm Beach International Airport,” the flight attendant announced through the plane’s intercom. “Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop and the captain turns off the seat belt sign.”
Flicking the metal clasp, The Roman undid his seat belt, reached under the seat in front of him, and pulled out a thick aluminum photographer’s briefcase with the Secret Service logo on it. He flexed his thumbs, triggering the clasps that opened the case. From inside, tucked into a gray foam protective shell, he pulled out a small receiver that reminded him of the old transistor radios his grandfather used to collect. Unwrapping a black wire from around the receiver, he inserted the earpiece in his right ear and flicked the On switch on the side of the receiver.
“… pin away,” Dreidel said, his voice far more muffled than before. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”
Checking the reception on the square electronic screen, The Roman saw four out of five digital bars. It was no different than a cell phone with a souped-up military battery.
“Hey, fellas,” a new voice interrupted. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this… ”
The Roman put a finger in his free ear and turned a dial to raise the volume. All he got was silence.
Up above, a loud chime sounded in the plane as a metal symphony of unfastened seat belts filled the cabin. Sitting perfectly still, The Roman turned up the volume even higher. Still nothing. For a moment, there was some mumbling, but nothing audible.
“What floor?” Rogo asked, coming through loud and clear.
“Second,” Wes replied.
“Just do me a favor,” Rogo added. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”
Closing his suitcase and following his fellow passengers into the aisle, The Roman nodded to himself. Them being smart was exactly what he planned.
46
Gotta give the boy credit,” Micah offered, circling through the parking lot as Wes, Rogo, and Dreidel disappeared inside the Palm Beach Post building.
“Who, Wes?” O’Shea asked, watching from the passenger seat of their government-rented Chevy. “Why, because he’s running for help?”
“See, that’s where you’re underestimating. I don’t think he’s running. Once he steps inside that building, he’s zipping himself in a force field he knows we won’t pierce.”
“Either that or he’s running out of options.”
“Maybe,” Micah said, holding the steering wheel and facing his longtime partner. “But when I was trailing him yesterday morning, every single person he ran into was staring at his face. The valet, the doorman, the guests he passed in the lobby… if he can handle that on a daily basis, he can take more punches than you think.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I’m just saying, the immovable object is just as deadly as our unstoppable force.”
“Yeah, but the unstoppable force is still the one people’re afraid of. And until we catch Boyle’s ass, that’s the one I’d rather be.”
“… because it’s served us so well thus far,” Micah said.
“You’re missing the point. Even if Boyle knows we’re searching…”
“… which he does. He’s known for years.”
“But what he doesn’t know is that Wes has suddenly become the best carrot on our stick. Turn — in there,” O’Shea added, pointing to the entrance to the two-story parking garage.
Rounding the turn and weaving up to the second level, it didn’t take long for them to pull up to Wes’s rusted black Toyota. As soon as he saw it, Micah hit the brakes.
“Just pull in back there,” O’Shea said, motioning to an open parking spot diagonally across from the Toyota.
Tapping the gas, Micah eased into the spot. Through the back window, the view of Wes’s car was perfect.
“We got the carrot,” O’Shea said. “When you hold tight to that, the horse’ll always follow.”
47
Crowding around the small TV monitor of the X-ray, we all stand frozen as the guard points to the screen. The rectangular outline of my lapel pin glows dark gray. Just below it, the two sculpted heads dangle like matching gray tears. But what’s far more interesting are the tiny metal pieces — they almost look like shards of shattered glass — glowing bright white at the center of the rectangle.
We’re all squinting, struggling to make them out, until the guard hits a button on his keyboard and pulls in on the picture. On-screen, the pieces — a coiled antenna, a miniature microchip, and an even smaller hearing-aid battery — bloom into view.
As always, Rogo’s mouth opens first. “Sonofa—”
I pinch his elbow and shoot him a look.
“That’s just… that’s my voice recorder — all digital — y’know, to save good ideas,” I whisper, trying to sound like I have a sore throat. “Cool, huh?”
“They make ’em even tinier than those little cassettes,” Rogo adds, quickly catching on.
“Here, try it,” I bluff to the guard as the conveyor returns my jacket. Folding it over my arm and shoving it toward him, I hold out the lapel to give him a closer look. He waves me off, satisfied by the offer.
Quickly heading for the elevators, we paint on fake smiles as if everything’s perfect. The way Dreidel’s eyes are dancing back and forth, he’s in full panic. I don’t blame him. Whoever’s listening knows about what he was doing in that hotel room. But now’s not the time. I glance back at the guard, who’s still watching us, then down at the metal White House, which is presumably still broadcasting.
Just wait, I say to Dreidel with nothing but an open palm aimed in his direction. His eyes dance even faster. As we step into the waiting elevator, he bites at his manicured thumbnail, unable to contain himself. But just as he’s about to whisper a response, Rogo grabs him by the biceps.
“What floor?” Rogo asks, leaning in and motioning upward with his chin. In the corner of the elevator, a security camera stares down at us.
“Second,” I reply as casually as possible.
“Just do me a favor,” Rogo adds. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?”
No one says another word until the door pings open on the second floor. I make two quick lefts, following the gray carpet down the main hallway. Along the left wall are the closed glass doors and private offices of the paper’s top editors. We go straight for the cubicles in back.
“This is stupid,” Dreidel whispers as my hand covers the lapel pin. “We should get out of here. Just dump the jacket and abort.”