“Lemme see the puzzle again,” she says.
Like before, all four of us crowd around it, picking it apart.
“Who’s the other handwriting besides Manning’s?” Lisbeth asks, pointing to the meticulous, squat scribbles.
“Albright’s, our old chief of staff,” Dreidel answers.
“He died a few years ago, right?”
“Yeah — though so did Boyle,” I say, leaning forward so hard, the conference table digs into my stomach.
Lisbeth’s still scanning the puzzle. “From what I can tell, all the answers seem right.”
“What about this stuff over here?” Rogo asks, tapping at the doodles and random lettering on the right side of the puzzle.
“The first word’s amble… see 7 across?” I ask. “The spaces are for the L and the E. Dreidel said his mom does the same thing when she does puzzles.”
“Sorta scribbles out different permutations to see what fits,” Dreidel explains.
“My dad used to do the same,” Lisbeth agrees.
Rogo nods to himself but won’t take his eyes off it.
“Maybe the answer’s in the crossword clues,” Lisbeth suggests.
“What, like The Roman had an in with the puzzlemaker?” Dreidel asks, shaking his head.
“And that’s more insane than it being hidden in the answers?”
“What was the name of that guy from the White House with the chipmunk cheeks?” Rogo interrupts, his eyes still on the puzzle.
“Rosenman,” Dreidel and I say simultaneously.
“And your old national security guy?” Rogo asks.
“Carl Moss,” Dreidel and I say again in perfect sync.
I stay with Rogo. Whenever he’s this quiet, the pot’s about to boil. “You see something?” I ask.
Looking up slightly, Rogo smiles his wide butcher’s dog smile.
“What? Say it already,” Dreidel demands.
Rogo grips the edge of the crossword and flicks it like a Frisbee across the table. “From the looks of it, the names of all your staffers are hidden right there.”
50
In the lobby, The Roman didn’t hesitate to sign in. Even made small talk about crummy assignments with the agent behind the desk. At the elevators, he rang the call button without worrying about his fingerprints. Same when the elevator doors opened and he hit the button for the fourth floor.
It was exactly why they got organized. The key to any war was information. And as they learned with the crossword puzzle all those years ago, the best information always came from having someone on the inside.
A loud ping flicked the air as the elevator doors slid open.
“ID, please,” a suit-and-tie agent announced before The Roman could even step out into the beige-carpeted hallway.
“Egen,” The Roman replied, once again flashing his ID and badge.
“Yes… of course… sorry, sir,” the agent said, stepping back as he read the title on The Roman’s ID.
With a wave, The Roman motioned for him to calm down.
“So if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the mood at headquarters?” the agent asked.
“Take a guess.”
“Director’s pretty pissed, huh?”
“He’s just mad he’ll be spending the next six months on the damage control circuit. Ain’t nothing worse than a daily diet of cable talk shows and congressional hearings explaining why Nico Hadrian wandered out of his hospital room.”
“Those congressmen sure like having their faces on TV, don’t they?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” The Roman asked, eyeing the surveillance camera and heading toward the black bulletproof doors of the President’s office.
“Pop the locks, Paulie,” the suit-and-tie agent called out to another agent sitting just inside the Secret Service offices on the right-hand side of the hallway.
On the left, there was a muted thunk as the magnetic lock unlatched. “Thank you, son,” The Roman said. He tugged the door open without ever looking back.
“Hell-o,” a Hispanic receptionist with a high-pitched voice sang as the heavy door slammed behind The Roman. “How can I help you today?”
Crossing the presidential seal in the carpet, The Roman scanned the left-hand wall for the agent who usually stood guard by the American flag. The agent wasn’t there, which meant neither was the President. The only other good news was the yellow Post-it note on the side of the receptionist’s computer monitor. In swirling, cursive writing were the words Dreidel — Ext. 6/Back office.
“Dreidel’s not in, is he?” The Roman asked.
“No, he’s out with Wes,” the receptionist replied. “And you are…?”
The Roman again flashed his ID and badge. “Actually, I’m here to see Ms. Lapin…”
“Sure… of course,” the receptionist said, pointing to The Roman’s left. “You want me to call her or—”
“No need,” The Roman insisted, calmly marching down the hallway. “She’s already expecting me.”
On the right-hand side of the hall, The Roman breezed past nearly a dozen glass frames filled with ribboned Medals of Honor from every major country. Poland’s Great Cross of the Order, Qatar’s Collar of Independence, even the U.K.’s Order of the Bath. The Roman didn’t even glance at them, already focused on the open door on his left.
Across the hallway, he peeked into the office with the Chief of Staff nameplate attached to it. The lights were off, the desk empty. Claudia was already at lunch. Good. The fewer people around, the better.
Cutting left, he stepped into the well-lit office that smelled like fresh popcorn and stale vanilla mint candle. From his angle looking down at her desk, he had a perfect view of the tight red V-neck sweater that fought against her decade-old breast implants.
Before she could even react, The Roman gripped the spine of the door, slowly closing it behind himself.
“Nice to see you, Bev,” he said as it slapped shut. “Florida looks good on you.”
51
Right here,” Rogo says, pointing to the column of scribbles on the right side of the puzzle. “In the work space…”
I recheck the vertical column of doodles and seemingly random letters:
“AMB? JABR? FRF?” Dreidel asks. “Those aren’t any initials I know.”
“Don’t go left to right. Go up and down…” With his pen, Rogo makes a circle from top to bottom.
“M, A, R, J, M, K, L, B,” Rogo says, starting me off. “Fill it in: Manning, Albright, Rosenman…”
“Jeffer,” I add.
“Who’s Jeffer?” Lisbeth interrupts.
“Me,” Dreidel says.
“Moss, Kutz, Lemonick,” I add, hitting the rest. “And B…”
“For Boyle,” Rogo says proudly. “Eight people, all with major Oval Office access.”
Lisbeth nods, still studying the crossword. “But why would the President keep a list with his top staffers’ names on it?”
We all look to Dreidel. “I’ve never seen it in my life,” he says with a laugh. But from the shake in his voice, it’s the one time he’s not thrilled to be included on an exclusive list.
Already impatient, Rogo hops from his seat, walking toward the head of the table. “Manning wrote down eight people’s names, then camouflaged it with doodles so no one would notice they were there. Not to play Nancy Drew, but what do they all have in common?”
Lisbeth slides the crossword back to the middle of the conference table. I look down at the list of names. Lemonick was White House counsel, Rosenman was press secretary, Carl Moss was national security adviser. Combined with Manning, Albright, and Boyle, they were the biggest names we had — the knights of our own round table. “It’s clearly a power list.”