The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [2]
Ignoring me, Ron Boyle darted up the tarmac, passing Air Force One on our right and the eighteen cars of the motorcade that idled in a single-file line on our left. As deputy chief of staff, he was always in a rush. That’s what happens when you work for the most powerful man in the world. I don’t say that lightly. Our boss was the Commander in Chief. The President of the United States. And when he wanted something, it was my job to get it. Right now President Leland “The Lion” Manning wanted Boyle to stay calm. Some tasks were beyond even me.
Picking up speed as he weaved through the crowd of staffers and press making their way to their assigned cars, Boyle blew past a shiny black Chevy Suburban packed with Secret Service agents and the ambulance that carried extra pints of the President’s blood. Earlier today, Boyle was supposed to have a fifteen-minute sit-down with the President on Air Force One. Because of my scheduling error, he was now down to a three-minute drive-by briefing sometime this afternoon. To say he was annoyed would be like calling the Great Depression a bad day at the office.
“Ron!” I said again, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying to apologize. “Just wait. I wanted to—”
He spun around wildly, slapping my hand out of the way. Thin and pointy-nosed with a thick mustache designed to offset both, Boyle had graying hair, olive skin, and striking brown eyes with a splash of light blue in each iris. As he leaned forward, his cat’s eyes glared down at me. “Don’t touch me again unless you’re shaking my hand,” he threatened as a flick of spit hit me in the cheek.
Gritting my teeth, I wiped it away with the back of my hand. Sure, the scheduling hiccup was my fault, but that’s still no reason t—
“Now, what the hell’s so damn important, Wes, or is this another vital reminder that when we’re eating with the President, we need to give you our lunch orders at least an hour in advance?” he added, loud enough so a few Secret Service agents turned.
Any other twenty-three-year-old would’ve taken a verbal swing. I kept my cool. That’s the job of the President’s aide . . . a.k.a. the body person . . . a.k.a. the buttboy. Get the President what he wants; keep the machine humming.
“Lemme make it up to you,” I said, mentally canceling my apology. If I wanted Boyle quiet—if we didn’t want a scene for the press—I needed to up the ante. “What if I . . . what if I squeezed you into the President’s limo right now?”
Boyle’s posture lifted slightly as he started buttoning his suit jacket. “I thought you— No, that’s good. Great. Excellent.” He even painted on a tiny smile. Crisis averted.
He thought all was forgiven. My memory’s way longer than that. As Boyle triumphantly turned toward the limo, I jotted down another mental note. Cocky bastard. On the way home, he’d be riding in the back of the press van.
Politically, I wasn’t just good. I was great. That’s not ego; it’s the truth. You don’t apply for this job, you’re invited to interview. Every young political gunner in the White House would’ve killed to clutch this close to the leader of the free world. From here, my predecessor had gone on to become the number two guy in the White House Press Office. His predecessor in the last White House took a job managing four thousand people at IBM. Seven months ago, despite my lack of connections, the President picked me. I beat out a senator’s son and a pair of Rhodes scholars. I could certainly handle a tantrum-throwing senior staffer.
“Wes, let’s go!” the Secret Service detail leader called out, waving us into the car as he slid into the front passenger seat, where he could see everything coming.
Trailing Boyle and holding my leather shoulder bag out in front of me, I jumped into the back of the armored limo, where the President was dressed casually in a black windbreaker and jeans. I assumed Boyle would immediately start talking his ear off, but as he passed in front of the President,