The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [15]
“I’m sorry, sir, but we have no one under name Boyle.”
I’m not surprised. “How about Eric Weiss?” I ask. It was Boyle’s fake name from our White House days when he didn’t want reporters tracking us in hotels.
“Eric Weiss?” she repeats.
I nod. It’s Houdini’s real name—a dumb joke by Boyle, who collected old magician posters. But coming back from the dead? Even Eric Weiss couldn’t pull off that trick.
“Sorry, no Eric Weiss,” she says.
I glance over at the President. He’s still got at least three more tourist autographs to get through.
“Actually, can you try one more: last name Stewart, first name Carl.”
“Carl Stewart,” she repeats, tapping at her keyboard. It’s a long shot, no doubt—the first and middle names of the President’s father, and the hotel codename we used to use for the President when I first started in the White House . . . right before Boyle was—
“Carl Stewart,” the front desk clerk says proudly. “I have him right here.”
I feel the blood seep from my face. That codename was assigned to the President during our old trips as a way to hide what room he was in. No one knew that codename. Not even the First Lady. “You do?”
She squints at the screen. “But according to this, he checked out about an hour ago. I apologize, sir—looks like you just missed him.”
“D’you have his address? Did he pay by credit card?” My questions tumble out before I can even catch myself. “I mean . . . we . . . were hoping to pay his bill for him,” I add, finally slowing down. “Y’know . . . the . . . President’s treat.”
She stares straight at me. Now she thinks I’m nuts. Still, she checks her screen. “I apologize again, sir. It appears he paid by cash.”
“What about his home address? I just want to make sure we have the right Carl Stewart.” I add a laugh to put her at ease. That’s when I realize Malaysians don’t enjoy being laughed at.
“Sir, our guests’ personal information . . .”
“It’s not for me, it’s for him.” I point back at the former President of the United States and his three armed bodyguards. It’s a hell of a trump card.
The clerk forces an uneasy smile. She looks over her shoulder. There’s no one around but us. Reading from the screen, she says, “Mr. Stewart lives at . . . 3965 Via Las Brisas—Palm Beach, Florida.”
My legs go numb. I grip the marble counter to keep from falling over. That’s no codeword. That’s President Manning’s private home address. Only family has that. Or old friends.
“Sir, are you okay?” the desk clerk asks, reading my complexion.
“Yeah . . . just perfect,” I say, forcing some peppy into my voice. It doesn’t make me feel any better. My head’s spinning so fast, I can barely stand up. Boyle . . . or whoever he was . . . he wasn’t just in that dressing room . . . he was here last night. Waiting for us. For all I know, he would’ve been waiting for the President if I hadn’t seen him first.
I replay the moments backstage at the speech. The metal clang as he banged into the coffee table. The panicked look on his face. Up till now, I assumed that when I saw him, he was in the process of breaking in. But now . . . him being here last night . . . and using that decade-old codename . . . Boyle’s no idiot. With all the fake names to choose from, you don’t use that name to hide. You use it so someone can find you. I twist the kaleidoscope and a new picture clicks into place. Sure, Boyle could’ve been breaking in. But he could’ve just as easily been invited. The problem is, considering that the only people on this trip are me and three Secret Service agents who never even worked in the White House, there’s only one person left who would’ve recognized that old codename. One person who could’ve known Boyle was coming—and invited him inside.
I glance back at the President just as he finishes his final autograph. There’s a wide smile across his face.
A knot of pain tugs the back of my neck. My hands start shaking at my sides. Why would . . . how could he do that? Ten feet away, he puts his arm around an Asian woman and poses for