The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [14]
“Relax,” the agent calls out. “I got the key right here.”
He jogs up the stairs and flips through his key ring. “Manning still on time?” he asks.
“Yeah . . . he’s perfect . . . right on time . . .”
The agent studies me carefully, fishing through his keys. “Sure you’re okay, Wes?” he asks, pulling the door open as I run back inside. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
4
He’s long gone.
A half hour later, after the final question in the President’s Q&A (“Do you miss the White House?”), I’m sitting in the back of the prom limo, trying to read the President’s mood.
“The crowd was good,” Manning offers.
That means they were flat.
“I agree,” I tell him.
That means I understand. Foreign speeches are always tough—the audience misses half the jokes, and Manning feels sorry for himself because the whole country no longer stops at his arrival.
In the front of the car, two of our Secret Service guys are dead silent, not even whispering into their radios. That means they’re nervous. Back at the Arts Center, I reported the fact that I saw someone by the dressing rooms. When they asked for a description, I gave them everything I saw, though I left out his eye color and the fact it looked like Boyle. Uh, yeah, it was our dead deputy chief of staff we buried eight years ago. There’s a fine line between being careful and looking like a whackjob.
As our car lurches to a stop in front of the Palace of the Golden Horses—Asia’s most luxurious and overdecorated horse-themed hotel—three different valets open the limo’s door. “Welcome back, Mr. President.”
Well accustomed to dealing with VIPs, the Palace has eighteen elevators and seventeen different staircases to sneak inside. Last time we were here, we used at least half of them. Today, I asked the Service to take us straight through the front door.
“There he is . . . There he is . . . ” simultaneous voices call out as we hit the lobby. A pack of American tourists are already pointing, searching for pens in their fanny packs. We’ve been spotted, which was the goal. Secret Service looks to me. I look to Manning. It’s his call, though I already know the answer.
The President nods slightly, pretending he’s doing a favor. But no matter how fast he buries it, I see the grin underneath. Anytime former Presidents travel abroad, the CIA arranges a quick briefing, which once again lets the Former feel like he’s back in the thick of it. That’s why all Formers love foreign trips. But when you’re in a far-off land missing the adrenaline of attention, there’s no better sugar rush than a quick fix of adoring fans.
Like the Red Sea before Moses, the agents step aside, leaving a clear path across the marble floor to the President. I pull a dozen glossy photos and a Sharpie marker from the bag of tricks and hand them to Manning. He needed this one. Welcome home, boss.
“Can you make it out to Bobby-boy? Just like that—Bobby-boy?” a man with oversize glasses asks.
“So where’re you from?” Manning says, doing what he does best.
If I wanted to, I could stay at the President’s side and help the Service keep the line orderly. Instead, I step back, slip away from the crowd, and head for the front desk, just beneath the enormous golden dome with its hand-painted running horses.
It’s been gnawing at me since the moment Boyle disappeared down that corridor. I’m not sure how he got backstage, but if he’s trying to get near the President, there’s only one other place to make the attempt.
“How can I help you today, sir?” a beautiful Asian woman asks in flawless English. To her credit, she glances at my scars but doesn’t linger.
“I’m with President Manning,” I tell her, hoping to grease the wheels.
“Of course, you are, Mr. Holloway.”
I know we leave a hell of a calling card, but I’m still impressed.
“How can we help you?” she asks.
“Actually, I’m trying to track down one of the President’s friends. He’s supposed to be meeting us tonight, and I just wanted to see if he checked in yet . . . last name Boyle.”
Clicking at her keyboard, she doesn’t even