The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [58]
The instant the President took his first step toward the stage door, Wes fell in line right beside him. “Wes, I’m fine.”
“I know, but it’s . . .”
“. . . less than ten feet to the door. I’ll make it. And Dreidel—I hope you’re at my table later.”
He says the words while looking at Wes. In the White House, they used to follow etiquette and make sure the President was always sitting next to whomever he needed to be near. For four years, he didn’t pick his tablemates. These days, he no longer bothered with political favors. It was the only perk of losing the White House. The President could finally sit next to the people he liked.
“Just make sure you get these nice cystic fibrosis folks in tomorrow’s column,” the First Lady added, motioning to Lisbeth.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lisbeth blurted, never taking her eyes off Wes. He’d been around the world’s best politicians for almost a decade, but he still was a novice when it came to hiding his own emotions. Nose flaring . . . fists tight . . . whatever he was burying, it was eating him alive.
“This way, sir,” one of two Secret Service agents said, motioning the President and First Lady toward the stage door. Like mice behind the piper, the cystic fibrosis chairperson, and PR person, and fund-raising person, and photographer, and remaining honchos all fell in line behind them, an instant entourage that sucked every straggler from the room.
As the door slammed behind them, the quiet was overwhelming. To Lisbeth’s surprise, Wes wasn’t the only one to stay put. Dreidel was right next to him, a warm grin on his face.
“Come . . . sit,” he offered, pointing to three empty seats at the cloth-covered round table that was used as a sign-in desk. Lisbeth obliged but wasn’t fooled. Fear always brought out kindness. And if the hotshot state-senator-to-be was anxious, her B+ story just became an A-.
“So how’d the birthday party planning go?” she asked, pulling a seat up to the table.
“The what?” Dreidel asked.
“For Manning’s birthday,” Wes insisted. “Our meeting this morning . . .”
“Oh, it was great,” Dreidel insisted, repatting the part in his hair and readjusting his wire-rim glasses. “I thought you meant my fundraiser.”
“Figure out where you’re gonna have it?” she added.
“Still deciding,” Wes and Dreidel said simultaneously.
Lisbeth nodded. These guys were White House trained. They weren’t falling for minor-league tricks. Better to go in soft. “C’mon, didn’t you hear what the First Lady said?” she asked. “Adores the column. I’m not here to drink your blood.”
“Then why’d you bring your cup?” Dreidel asked, pointing with his chin at her notepad.
“That’s what’s scaring you? What if I put it back in its holster?” she said, reaching under her seat and tucking the pad and pen back in her purse. Still bent over, she looked up, struggling to keep eye contact. “That better?” she asked.
“I was joking,” Dreidel said, clearly playing nice. Without a doubt, it was his secret they were smuggling.
“Listen, fellas,” Lisbeth begged. “Before you get all— Damn, sorry about this . . .” Reaching into the jacket pocket of her black suit, Lisbeth took out her cell phone and hit the Receive button. “Hey, Vincent . . . Yeah, I just . . . Oh, you’re kidding. Hold on, gimme a sec,” she said into the phone. Turning to Wes and Dreidel, she added, “Sorry, I gotta take this . . . it’ll just be a minute.” Before either of them could react, Lisbeth was out of her seat, speed-walking toward the main door. “Just watch my purse!” she called back to Dreidel and Wes, shoving her shoulder into the door and crossing into the ornate chandeliered lobby of the Kravis Center. With a tight grip on her phone, she pressed it to her ear. But the only things she heard were the voices of the two young men she’d just left inside.
“You told her we were party planning?” Dreidel hissed.
“What’d you want me to say?” Wes shot back. “That