64
With my knees digging into the carpet, my chest pinned against the coffee table, and the weight of my face pressed against the photographer’s loupe, I study a black-and-white profile shot of the President and First Lady as they leave Cadillac One, their chins up toward the astonished crowd. Like the best White House photos, the moment is flush with the pomp of the presidency mixed with the humanity of the players involved.
Manning has his hand on the small of his wife’s back, gently edging her out of the limo and into his world. As she leaves the car, one foot already on the pavement of the racetrack, she’s in mid-blink, frozen awkwardly between the private quiet of the limo and the public roar of the crowd. For support, the First Lady holds the hand that the President’s extended to her. But even in that moment — her holding him, his fingertips on the curve of her back— whatever tenderness exists between husband and wife is swallowed by the fact that instead of looking at each other, both smile up to the fans in the stands.
“These are unreal,” Lisbeth says, flipping through the notebook of 8 x 10s in her lap.
I glance over to see what she’s looking at. She’s about ten seconds ahead of my sequence, moments after the last shot was fired and Manning was pulled down by the swarm of drivers, guests, and Secret Service agents. In her photo, people in the stands scream and scurry in every direction, their hair spiked as they run.
In mine, they’re enraptured and calm, completely immobile on the edge of their seats. In Lisbeth’s, I hear the screams. In mine, I hear the thrill of their first true look at the President and his wife. There he is… There he is… There they are…
Ten seconds apart. Ten seconds to change everyth— No. It didn’t change everything. It changed me.
An electronic ring interrupts the thought as I quickly trace the noise to the cell phone we borrowed from Lisbeth’s coworker at the paper. Pulling it from my inside jacket pocket, I see Pres. Manning Library on caller ID. At least he’s smart enough not to call from his—
“They’re all in it together,” he insists before I can even say hello. “That’s how they pulled it off.”
“What’re you—?”
“It’s just like we said, Wes — you can’t do this without help.”
“Slow down… who’re you talking about?”
“The Three — that’s what Boyle called them. But they’re not what you—”
“Who’d you get this from? Dreidel or someone else?”
“My—”
“Does Dreidel even know?”
“Will you shut the hell up and let me tell you!?” Rogo shouts through the phone. I turn to see if Lisbeth hears, but she’s too lost in the 8 x 10s.
Catching his breath in the silence, Rogo starts at a whisper. Wherever he is, he’s definitely not alone. “They started as a myth, Wes. Like some old law enforcement ghost story. You’ve heard it for years: politicians bitching and moaning that all our law enforcement groups don’t work well together — that the FBI won’t share information with the CIA, who won’t share with the Secret Service. The result leaves half the agencies complaining that they’re in the dark. But there are some who argue — not publicly, of course — that the lack of coordination isn’t such a bad thing. The more adversarial they are, the more each agency is a check on the other. If the CIA does something corrupt, the FBI is there to call them on it. But if they all got together and ganged up against us… well, y’know what kinda power’s in those numbers?”
“Wait, so now you’re trying to tell me that someone’s convinced thousands of our country’s top, most trusted agents to suddenly switch sides?”
“Not thousands,” Rogo says, his voice still a whisper. “Just three.”
Climbing from my knees, I sit back on the couch. Next to me, Lisbeth’s carefully studying one of the photos.
“Hey… uh… Wes,” she says, pointing to a photo.
I give her the one minute sign with my pointer finger and stay focused on the phone.
“Three members,” Rogo adds. “One from the FBI, one from the CIA, one from the Secret Service. Alone, they can only do limited damage. Together, fully aware of all the tricks, including how to sidestep three of our most powerful agencies? They can pull down the whole damn sky.”
“Wes, I think you should look at this,” Lisbeth says.
Once again, I put up the one minute sign.
“Apparently, it was the great urban myth of law enforcement — until eight years ago, when the first internal investigation was opened,” Rogo says. “My guy said there’s some sky-level memo from Boyle to the President, warning him to look into it.”
“So Manning and Boyle were chasing The Three?”
“Or The Three were chasing them — for all we know, they were fighting over the same corrupt pie,” Rogo replies.
“And you think three guys could really keep their jobs and stay hidden that long?”
“You kidding? Robert Hanssen spent twenty years selling secrets from within the FBI before anyone took notice. The Three are pros within their agencies. And the way they’re backing each other up, they’re doing triple damage. Oh, and just to crap on your day a little more: The last — and only — known sighting for one of these guys was that beautiful little terrorist hot spot known as Sudan.”
“Sudan? As in, the one country The Roman specializes in?”
“Wes, I’m serious,” Lisbeth says, popping open the rings of the notebook.
“Just one sec,” I tell her. “No jokes, Rogo,” I say into the phone. “You think The Roman gets info from The Three?”
“Or gives info to The Three. Hell, for all we know, The Roman’s part of The Three, though I guess it could be anyone in the Service.”
Next to me, Lisbeth pulls the photo from the notebook, then holds it almost to her nose to check it up close.
“You mean that he’s CIA or FBI?” I ask Rogo.
“No, he’s Secret Service,” Rogo says a bit too confidently. I know that tone.
“Rogo, don’t play games. Say what you’re saying.”
“Wes, just take a second to look at this,” Lisbeth says, now annoyed I’m ignoring her.
“It was actually Dreidel’s brainstorm,” Rogo says. “Once he heard FBI, he asked my guy if he could look up your favorite investigators, Agents O’Shea and Micah. According to his records, O’Shea started with the Bureau in July of 1986. Same exact year as Micah.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Wes…” Lisbeth pleads.
“The problem,” Rogo says, refusing to slow down, “is that Micah doesn’t work for the Bureau. As near as we can tell, he works as a case officer. For the CIA.”
“Just look!” Lisbeth adds, shoving the photo into my lap.
My lungs crater, like someone’s shot an arrow into my chest. It only gets worse as I look down at the photograph. In my lap is a black-and-white reaction shot taken a few minutes after the shooting. Unlike the others, this one faces the infield of the raceway, where NASCAR drivers, mechanics, and their staff embrace, hug, sob, and retell the story that just unfolded in front of them. Most look shell-shocked. A few look angry. And one — all alone in the far right corner of the photo, glancing over his shoulder as he walks away — looks oddly curious.
At first, he blends right in because of his racing jumpsuit. But there’s no mistaking the finely combed hair and the small nick missing from the top of his ear. Eight years ago, I was shot in the face, Boyle was supposedly killed, and the Manning presidency was decimated. Micah was there to witness it all.
“That’s him, right?” Lisbeth asks. “That’s Micah…”