The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [98]
A car would take over four hours. A seaplane would take an hour and forty minutes. But a French-built, twin-engine helicopter with no boarding, taxi, or wait time since it’s parked on a yacht? We’ll be there in an hour, easy. Plenty of time to get what we need and be back at Manning’s house tonight.
“She’s gorgeous, no?” a man calls out in a heavy Spanish accent. Sticking his head over the railing, Tommaso stares down at us from the edge of the deck. “The President is joining us, yes?”
“No,” I say, still craning my neck up. “He’s meeting us there.”
Tommaso shrugs it off without a care. In a pilot’s navy blazer and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, he’s dressed as staff, which means he’s used to spoiled honchos changing their minds at the last minute. “Come, let us go,” he adds, motioning palms-up to a metal staircase that leads up to the main deck. Within seconds, we’re aboard.
That’s why I called Oren in the first place. When we went to Saudi Arabia, Oren found a sheik who was happy to loan the President his jet. When we flew to North Carolina for vacation, he found an heir of the Kentucky Fried Chicken family to do the same. It’s not snobbery. It’s Oren’s job. As director of travel, he’s there to collect the name of every person who says the phrase that’s uttered most often to every former U.S. President: Let me know if you ever need anything.
On most trips, the President just needs privacy. Today, I need the same.
Naturally, Oren was hesitant. But when I told him that I was having trouble breathing . . . that Nico’s escape . . . just seeing his face on the news . . . and the pains in my chest . . . Please, Oren, you know I never ask. I just need to get away . . . as fast as possible . . .
Forget the presidency—the most powerful cards to play are pity and guilt. One phone call later, recent donors and NBFs Victor and Cammie Sant were honored, just honored, to offer up their personal helicopter for the President and his staff. No questions asked, no flight plan to file, no possible way to be traced.
“Welcome to the Pequod,” Tommaso says as we reach the top of the metal stairs and climb on board the yacht. Across the sundeck-turned-landing-pad, he twists a latch and opens the door to the matching black and cream helicopter. “Ready to ride the white whale?”
“Palm Beach Tower, thees copter two-seven-niner-five-Juliett lifting off,” Tommaso says into his radio.
“Seven-niner-five,” a radio voice calmly crackles back. “Depart at your own risk.”
Lisbeth looks to me as she hears the words through the intercom, then raps her knuckles against the Plexiglas divider that separates our cabin—with its four leather club chairs—from the two seats up by the pilot. “At our own risk?” she calls to Tommaso, flipping a switch on the intercom.
“Is fine, miss. Regulation,” he explains as he pushes a button to start the first engine.
Behind us, just above our heads on the back of the helicopter, an exhaust pipe clears its throat, hacking itself awake. I jump at the sound, which rings louder than a gunshot.
A few seconds later, Tommaso hits another button, starting engine two. A second exhaust pipe explodes with a sputter. I jump again, searching over my shoulder, even though I know no one’s there. My eyes blink over and over and over.
“Take a breath,” Lisbeth says, reaching over from her seat and grabbing my wrist. The whole helicopter starts vibrating as the blades begin to spin. Vrrrrrrrr . . . rrr . . . rrr . . . like a race car whipping around the track.
“Just pretend it’s Marine One,” she adds, referring to the helicopter I used to ride at the White House.
I turn to the wide window on my right and hold my breath. It doesn’t help. A tidal wave of nausea pirouettes through my stomach.
Vrrrrrr . . . rrr . . . rrr . . . the blades pick up speed. Leaning closer to the window, I press my forehead against the glass. The blades whip so fast, they disappear above us.
“Wes, I swear to you, there’s no one out there. We’re in good shape.”
She thinks I’m staring at the lush grounds that lead back to the Sants’ Mediterranean mansion.