The Oracle Year(27)

Leuchten’s eyes widened, not understanding.

The Coach dropped the book onto the table, where it landed with a dull whap.

“Your autobiography, Tony,” she said. “Read it on the flight up. I liked it. Funny thing, though . . .”

She reached out a finger and rotated the book slowly on the table, bringing its cover around to face him. She looked up at Leuchten and smiled thinly.

“. . . you left out Annie Bridger.”

All the blood seemed to drop out of Leuchten’s head. The room receded, and a hollow ringing noise echoed in his ears. He fell backward, hitting the seat of his chair—a five-thousand-dollar handmade piece of Baker furniture—hard enough to strain the wood. Somewhere, deep in the distance, he heard it crack.

“How do you know . . . that name . . . ?” he managed, bile in the back of his throat.

The Coach didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Just as suddenly, the woman reverted back to genial grandmother mode. She lifted her glass and tipped it in Leuchten’s direction.

“No better way to understand a man than to see how he talks about himself, in his own words. How he tells his own story. What he puts in, and what he leaves out. Now, from this . . .”

She skated the manicured index finger of her free hand—nails painted bright blue, he noticed—across the cover of Leuchten’s autobiography.

“. . . it’s pretty clear to see that you feel you’ve been tapped to use the skills God’s seen fit to give you to guide the world into a better future. You can see things other people can’t—consequences, opportunities. Would you say that’s true?”

Leuchten didn’t answer. He hadn’t put any of that in the book—but that didn’t mean the woman was wrong.

“I’d even go so far as to say that the way you handled that situation with Ms. Bridger was the point where you realized that you didn’t have to let events carry you along. You could make the world into what you wanted it to be. You could take control.”

The Coach set her glass down on the paperback, right over the smiling portrait of Leuchten that graced its cover.

“You know, my original sales pitch was going to be to President Green, but I’ve learned to roll with the punches in my career. Honestly, it might even be better that it’s you, Tony.”

She settled back in her chair, eyes sparkling.

“You believe you’re a man of destiny, Mr. Leuchten. Literally. You think you’re the one steering the world, keeping it safe from disorder. The lone torchbearer bringing the American dream into the twenty-first century. The puppet master. And so, you must hate that things are getting so out of control. Those poor people killed in the Oracle riots, the Site, all those billionaires buying predictions they won’t share with you and yours.”

Leuchten shot a glance at Franklin, mentally adding treason to the list of reasons he was planning to have a new FBI director come Monday morning.

Franklin just shrugged and looked back at the Coach, who was still talking.

“In fact, all this Oracle business . . . it’s such a stick in your eye that it’s almost hard to think that wily old prophet isn’t doing it to you on purpose, like a big fuck-you aimed right at your face.”

The Coach looked down at her hand. She languidly extended a single middle finger, examined it, then retracted it back down into her fist, just as slowly.

“After all, Tony, you’re the one who’s supposed to be able to predict the future, right? That’s how you win elections for people. You see what’s coming down the pipe and pivot in whatever direction you need to.”

Leuchten searched his mind for any way he could regain control of the conversation. The woman was just some nobody. If she were somebody, he’d have heard of her. He thought of all the people he’d beaten over the years—Supreme Court justices, senators, journalists, canny rat bastards of all description—and pulled himself together.

“The Oracle?” Leuchten asked. “Why did you bring him up?”

The Coach folded her hands around her glass. Her lips thinned into a smile.

“Oh, please. The Oracle’s the biggest game in town. Who he is, what he is, why he’s doing what he’s doing. Everyone wants to know, and everyone has an opinion. Except”—she pointed at Leuchten—“for your guy. Almost nothing at all from the president of the United States. That tells me that either the Oracle is one of yours, or you have no idea who he is and you don’t want to risk alienating him by taking a position one way or another.”

Ouch, Leuchten thought, keeping his face neutral.

“But I don’t think he’s yours,” the Coach continued, “because if he was, you’d have some story out there, something you’d prepared ahead of time. The silence says that you don’t know who this guy is any more than anyone else. And Jim here”—she nodded at Franklin—“wouldn’t have gotten in touch with me, considering what that would mean for him, unless you guys had a problem, a big problem. One the U. S. of A. couldn’t solve.

“Put it all together, and it’s clear as day—you can’t find this guy, and you want me to take a crack at it.”

Leuchten took a long sip of his drink, buying time. The good scotch was doing its work. He was beginning to feel a bit like himself again.

He looked at the Coach, meeting the woman’s eyes. She stared back, unfazed.