“I’m not sure I follow,” Rogo says.
“Money, soldiers, weapons… all the old measuring sticks for winning a war are gone,” Lisbeth adds. “In today’s world, the most important thing the military needs — and rarely has — is good, solid, reliable intel. Information is king. And it’s the one thing The Roman somehow always had the inside track on.”
“Says who?” Dreidel asks skeptically. After all his time in the Oval, he knows that a story’s only as good as the research behind it.
“One of our old reporters who used to cover the CIA for the L.A. Times,” Lisbeth shoots back. “Or is that not a prestigious enough paper for you?”
“Wait, so The Roman’s on our side?” I ask.
Lisbeth shakes her head. “Informants don’t take sides — they just dance for the highest bidder.”
“So he’s a good informant?” I ask.
“Good would be the guy who ratted out those Asian terrorists who were targeting Philadelphia a few years back. The Roman’s great.”
“How great?” Rogo asks.
Lisbeth flips to a new sheet of her notepad. “Great enough to ask for a six-million-dollar payout for a single tip. Though apparently, he didn’t get it. CIA eventually said no.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Rogo says, leaning in and reading off her notepad.
“And that’s the point,” Lisbeth agrees. “The average payout for an informant is smalclass="underline" $10,000 or so. Maybe they’ll give you $25,000 to $50,000 if you’re really helpful… then up to $500,000 if you’re giving them specific info about an actual terrorist cell. But six million? Let’s put it this way: You better be close enough to know bin Laden’s taste in toothpaste. So for The Roman to even demand that kind of cash…”
“He must’ve been sitting on an elephant-sized secret,” I say, completing the thought.
“Maybe he tipped them about Boyle being shot,” Rogo adds.
“Or whatever it was that led up to it,” Lisbeth says. “Apparently, the request was about a year before the shooting.”
“But you said the CIA didn’t pay it,” Dreidel counters.
“They wanted to. But they apparently couldn’t clear it with the higher-ups,” Lisbeth explains.
“Higher-ups?” I ask. “How higher up?”
Dreidel knows where I’m going. “What, you think Manning denied The Roman’s pot of gold?”
“I have no idea,” I tell him.
“But it makes sense,” Rogo interrupts. “’Cause if someone got in the way of me getting a six-million-dollar payday, I’d be grabbing my daddy’s shotgun to take a few potshots.”
Lisbeth stares him down. “You go to those action movies on opening night, don’t you?”
“Can we please stay on track?” I beg, then ask her, “Did your reporter friend say anything else about what the six-million-dollar tip was about?”
“No one knows. He was actually more fascinated with how The Roman kept pulling rabbits out of his hat year after year. Apparently, he’d just appear out of nowhere, drop a bombshell about a terrorist cell in Sudan or a group of captured hostages, then disappear until the next emergency.”
“Like Superman,” Rogo says.
“Yeah, except Superman doesn’t charge you a few hundred grand before he saves your life. Make no mistake, The Roman’s heartless. If the CIA didn’t meet his price, he was just as happy to walk away and let a hostage get his head sawed off. That’s why he got the big cash. He didn’t care. And apparently still doesn’t.”
“Is he still based in Sudan?” I ask.
“No one knows. Some say he might be in the States. Others wonder if he’s getting fed directly from inside.”
“Y’mean like he’s got someone in the CIA?” Rogo asks.
“Or FBI. Or NSA. Or even the Service. They all gather intelligence.”
“It happens all the time,” Dreidel agrees. “Some midlevel agent gets tired of his midlevel salary and one day decides that instead of typing up a report about Criminal X, he’ll pass it along to a so-called informant, who then sells it right back and splits the reward with him.”
“Or he makes up a fake identity — maybe calls himself something ridiculous like The Roman—and then just sells it back to himself. Now he’s getting a huge payday for what he’d otherwise do in the course of his job,” I say.
“Either way, The Roman’s supposedly dug in so deep, his handlers had to design this whole ridiculous communication system just to get in touch with him. Y’know, like reading every fifth letter in some classified ad…”
“Or mixing up the letters in a crossword,” Dreidel mutters, suddenly sitting up straight. Turning to me, he adds, “Let me see the puzzle…”
From my pants pocket, I pull out the fax of the crossword and flatten it with my palm on the conference table. Dreidel and I lean in from one side. Rogo and Lisbeth lean in from the other. Although they both heard the story last night, this is the first time Rogo and Lisbeth have seen it.
Studying the puzzle, they focus on the filled-in boxes, but don’t see anything beyond a bunch of crossword answers and some random doodling in the margins.
“What about those names on the other sheet?” Lisbeth asks, pulling out the page below the crossword and revealing the first page of the fax, with the Beetle Bailey and Blondie comic strips. Just above Beetle Bailey’s head, in the President’s handwriting, are the words Gov. Roche… M. Heatson… Host — Mary Angel.
“I looked those up last night,” I say. “The puzzle’s dated February 25, right at the beginning of the administration. That night, Governor Tom Roche introduced the President at a literacy event in New York. In his opening remarks, Manning thanked the main organizer, Michael Heatson, and his host for the event, a woman named Mary Angel.”
“So those names were just a crib sheet?” Lisbeth asks.
“He does it all the time,” Dreidel says.
“All the time,” I agree. “I’ll hand him a speech, and as he’s up on the dais, he’ll jot some quick notes to himself adding a few more people to thank — some big donor he sees in the front row… an old friend whose name he just remembered… This one just happens to be on the back of a crossword.”
“I’m just amazed they save his old puzzles,” Lisbeth says.
“That’s the thing. They don’t,” I tell her. “And believe me, we used to save everything: scribbled notes on a Post-it… an added line for a speech that he jotted on a cocktail napkin. All of that’s work product. Crosswords aren’t, which is why they’re one of the few things we were allowed to throw away.”
“So why’d this one get saved?” Lisbeth asks.
“Because this is part of a speech,” Dreidel replies, slapping his hand against Beetle Bailey’s face. Gov. Roche… M. Heatson… Host — Mary Angel. “Once he wrote those, it was like locking the whole damn document in amber. We had to save it.”
“So for eight years, Boyle’s out there, requesting thousands of documents, looking for whatever he’s looking for,” Lisbeth says. “And one week ago, he got these pages and suddenly comes out of hiding.” She sits up straight, sliding her leg under her rear end. I can hear the speed in her voice. She knows it’s in here.