The Book of Fate by Brad Meltzer Read Free Book Online Page A

l’oeiul pour les choses,” the woman added.
    “J’ai l’oeiul pour les choses,” O’Shea repeated, dropping a few coins into the glass tip jar on the edge of the woman’s sausage-and-french-fry pushcart.
Sometimes you just know.
    Heading further up Rue Vavin, O’Shea felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket for the third time. He’d already convinced the pushcart woman that he wasn’t American, and even though it didn’t matter, he wasn’t going to reveal himself by interrupting their conversation and picking up on the first ring.
    “This is O’Shea,” he finally answered.
    “What’re you doing in France?” the voice on the other line asked.
    “Interpol conference. Some nonsense on trends in intelligence. Four whole days away from the pit.”
    “Plus all the mayo you can eat.”
    Just as he was about to bite his first mayo-dipped fry, O’Shea paused. Without another word, he pitched the basket of fries into a nearby trash can and crossed the street. As a Legat—a Legal Attaché—for the FBI, O’Shea had spent almost a decade working with law enforcement officials in seven foreign countries to help deter crime and terrorism that could harm the United States. In his line of work, the surest way to get yourself killed was being obvious and predictable. Priding himself on being neither, he buttoned his long black coat, which waved out behind him like a magician’s cape.
    “Tell me what’s going on,” O’Shea said.
    “Guess who’s back?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Guess . . .”
    “I don’t know . . . that girl from Cairo?”
    “Let me give you a hint: He was killed at the Daytona Speedway eight years ago.”
    O’Shea stopped midstep in the middle of the street. Not in panic. Or surprise. He’d been at this too long to be fazed by bad intel. Better to confirm. “Where’d you get it?”
    “Good source.”
    “How good?”
    “Good enough.”
    “That’s not—”
    “As good as we’re gonna get, okay?”
    O’Shea knew that tone. “Where’d they spot him?”
    “Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur.”
    “We have an office there . . .”
    “He’s already gone.”
    No surprise, O’Shea thought. Boyle was too smart to linger. “Any idea why he’s out?”
    “You tell me: It was the same night President Manning was there for a speech.”
    A red Fiat honked its horn, trying to blast O’Shea out of the way. Offering an apologetic wave, O’Shea continued toward the curb. “You think Manning knew he was coming?”
    “I don’t even wanna think about it. Y’know how many lives he’s risking?”
    “I told you when we first tried to bring him in—the guy’s poison. We should’ve never tried to flip him all those years ago.” Watching the rush of Paris traffic, O’Shea let the silence sink in. Across the street, he watched the thin woman with the red bifocals dole out another basket of fries with
aïoli.
“Anyone else see him?” O’Shea finally asked.
    “President’s aide apparently got a look—y’know . . . that kid with the face . . .”
    “He have any idea who he was looking at?”
    “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
    O’Shea stopped to think about it. “What about the thing in India next week?”
    “India can wait.”
    “So you want me on a plane?”
    “Say good-bye to Paris, sweetheart. Time to come home.”

 
    6
    St. Elizabeths Mental Hospital

Washington,
D.C.
    M ake it quick, Nico—no futzing around,” said the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath. He didn’t shove Nico inside or stay with him while he undid his pants. That was only for the first few months after Nico’s assassination attempt on the President—back when they were worried he’d kill himself. These days, Nico had earned the right to go to the bathroom alone. Just like he’d earned the right to use the telephone and to have the hospital stop censoring his mail. Each was its own victory, but as The Three had promised him, every victory brought its own cost.
    For the telephone, the doctors