The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [195]
“So when Boyle was shot . . .”
He stares at me as I say the words. He doesn’t have to tell me a thing. But he knows what I’ve given him all these years. And that this is the only thing I’ve ever asked in return.
“We knew it might happen, but had no idea when,” he says without even hesitating. “Boyle approached me a few weeks earlier and told me about his offer from The Three. From there . . . well, you know how fast the Service moves. I did everything I could to protect my friend. They gave him a vest, stocked his blood in the ambulance, and did their very best to keep him safe.”
“Until I put him in the limo.”
“Until Nico put a bullet in his hand and chest,” he says, turning back to face me. “From there, they rushed him to the Marshals Office, who patched him up, shuttled him from city to city, and put him straight into the highest levels of WITSEC. Naturally, he didn’t want to go, but he knew the alternatives. Even if it wrecks families, it saves more lives than you think.”
I nod as the President stands from his oversize seat. The way he leans on the armrest to slowly boost himself up, he’s more tired than he’s letting on. But he doesn’t ask me to leave.
“If it makes you feel better, Wes, I think she regretted it. Especially what happened with you.”
“I appreciate that,” I tell him, trying to be enthusiastic.
He studies me closely. I’m good at reading him. He’s even better at reading me. “I’m not just saying that, Wes.”
“Mr. President, I never thought otherwi—”
“We prayed together before bed. Did you know that? That was our ritual—ever since we first got married,” he explains. “And during that first year? She prayed for you every night.”
The number one mistake most people make when they meet the President is they always try to extend the conversation. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime moment, so they’ll say the dumbest things to make it last forever.
I stand from my seat and motion to the door. “I should really get going, sir.”
“Understood. Go do what you have to,” he says as he crosses around from his desk. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he adds as he follows me to the door. “I’m glad she made you a pallbearer.” He stops and catches his breath. “She should only be carried by family.”
Halfway through the doorway, I turn around. I’ll carry those words with me for the rest of my life.
But that doesn’t mean I believe them.
He reaches out to shake my hand, and I get the full double-hand clasp that he usually saves for heads of state and presidential-level donors. He even lingers a moment, engulfing part of my wrist.
Maybe it was unspoken. Maybe he figured it out. For all I know, she could’ve even told him outright. But one thing is clear—and it’s the only thing he said that can’t be argued: Leland Manning is not a moron. He knew Boyle was planning to say no to The Three. So when Boyle went down, he had to’ve suspected they could’ve gotten someone bigger.
As I head out through the living room and toward the front door, I spot the huge black-and-white photo of the view from behind his desk in the Oval. Sure, those four years were great. But for him, it would’ve been even better to have four more.
“Let me know if you need anything,” the President calls out from the living room.
I wave good-bye and say a final thanks.
The Cowardly Lion may not have courage. But he’s certainly got a brain.
He knows I was running around with a reporter. He knows she’s waiting for my call. And most important, he knows that when it comes to political touch, the best touch is when you don’t feel it at all.
For eight years, I haven’t felt anything. Right now I feel it all.
“Got everything you need?” the bald agent asks as he opens the front door.
“I think so.”
Stepping outside, I pull my phone from my pocket, punch in