The Book of Fate

4

He’s long gone.

A half hour later, after the final question in the President’s Q&A (“Do you miss the White House?”), I’m sitting in the back of the prom limo, trying to read the President’s mood.

“The crowd was good,” Manning offers.

That means they were flat.

“I agree,” I tell him.

That means I understand. Foreign speeches are always tough — the audience misses half the jokes, and Manning feels sorry for himself because the whole country no longer stops at his arrival.

In the front of the car, two of our Secret Service guys are dead silent, not even whispering into their radios. That means they’re nervous. Back at the Arts Center, I reported the fact that I saw someone by the dressing rooms. When they asked for a description, I gave them everything I saw, though I left out his eye color and the fact it looked like Boyle. Uh, yeah, it was our dead deputy chief of staff we buried eight years ago. There’s a fine line between being careful and looking like a whackjob.

As our car lurches to a stop in front of the Palace of the Golden Horses — Asia’s most luxurious and overdecorated horse-themed hotel — three different valets open the limo’s door. “Welcome back, Mr. President.”

Well accustomed to dealing with VIPs, the Palace has eighteen elevators and seventeen different staircases to sneak inside. Last time we were here, we used at least half of them. Today, I asked the Service to take us straight through the front door.

“There he is… There he is… ” simultaneous voices call out as we hit the lobby. A pack of American tourists are already pointing, searching for pens in their fanny packs. We’ve been spotted, which was the goal. Secret Service looks to me. I look to Manning. It’s his call, though I already know the answer.

The President nods slightly, pretending he’s doing a favor. But no matter how fast he buries it, I see the grin underneath. Anytime former Presidents travel abroad, the CIA arranges a quick briefing, which once again lets the Former feel like he’s back in the thick of it. That’s why all Formers love foreign trips. But when you’re in a far-off land missing the adrenaline of attention, there’s no better sugar rush than a quick fix of adoring fans.

Like the Red Sea before Moses, the agents step aside, leaving a clear path across the marble floor to the President. I pull a dozen glossy photos and a Sharpie marker from the bag of tricks and hand them to Manning. He needed this one. Welcome home, boss.

“Can you make it out to Bobby-boy? Just like that—Bobby-boy?” a man with oversize glasses asks.

“So where’re you from?” Manning says, doing what he does best.

If I wanted to, I could stay at the President’s side and help the Service keep the line orderly. Instead, I step back, slip away from the crowd, and head for the front desk, just beneath the enormous golden dome with its hand-painted running horses.

It’s been gnawing at me since the moment Boyle disappeared down that corridor. I’m not sure how he got backstage, but if he’s trying to get near the President, there’s only one other place to make the attempt.

“How can I help you today, sir?” a beautiful Asian woman asks in flawless English. To her credit, she glances at my scars but doesn’t linger.

“I’m with President Manning,” I tell her, hoping to grease the wheels.

“Of course, you are, Mr. Holloway.”

I know we leave a hell of a calling card, but I’m still impressed.

“How can we help you?” she asks.

“Actually, I’m trying to track down one of the President’s friends. He’s supposed to be meeting us tonight, and I just wanted to see if he checked in yet… last name Boyle.”

Clicking at her keyboard, she doesn’t even pause at his name. Fancy Malaysian hotels are good, but they’re not that good.

“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 a photo, grinning even wider. As the flash explodes, the knot in my neck tightens like a noose. I clamp my eyes, straining to find the lake from summer camp… grasping for my focal point. But all I see is Boyle. His shaved head. The fake accent to throw me off. Even the sobs of his daughter, who I apologize to every time I see her grieving during the anniversaries of the event.

For eight years, his death has been the one wound that would never mend, festering over time with my own isolation. The guilt… everything I caused… Oh, Lord, if he’s actually back…

I open my eyes and realize they’re filled with tears. Quickly wiping them away, I can’t even look at Manning.

Whatever Boyle was doing there, I need to figure out what the hell is going on. In the White House, we had access to the entire military. We don’t have the military anymore. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my own personal reserves.

I pull out my satellite phone and dial the number from memory. The sun should just be coming up in Washington.

Accustomed to emergencies, he picks up on the first ring. Caller ID tells him who it is.

“Let me guess, you’re in trouble,” Dreidel answers.

“This one’s serious,” I tell him.

“It involve your boss?”

“Doesn’t everything?” Dreidel’s my closest friend from the White House, and more important, knows Manning better than anyone. By his silence, it’s clear he understands. “Now you got a second? I need some help.”

“For you, my friend, anything…”