The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  “Everything okay?” an agent with cropped brown hair calls out as he steps around to the front of the Suburban.

  “Yeah . . . of course,” I say, swallowing hard and knowing better than to put him in panic. Jumping down the last three steps, my heart’s racing so fast, I feel like it’s about to kick through my chest. I continue to scan the alleyway. Nothing but empty dumpsters, a few police motorcycles, and the mini-motorcade.

  The stairs . . .

  I spin back to the doorway, but it’s already too late. The door slams shut with a sonic boom, locking from the inside.

  “Relax,” the agent calls out. “I got the key right here.”

  He jogs up the stairs and flips through his key ring. “Manning still on time?” he asks.

  “Yeah . . . he’s perfect . . . right on time . . .”

  The agent studies me carefully, fishing through his keys. “Sure you’re okay, Wes?” he asks, pulling the door open as I run back inside. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  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 . . .”

  5

  Paris, France

  With mayonnaise?” the thin woman with the red bifocals asked in a heavy French accent.

  “Oui,” Terrence O’Shea replied, nodding respectfully, but disappointed that she even asked. He thought his French was flawless—or as flawless as FBI training could make it—but the fact she asked the question in English and referred to the garlicky aïoli as “mayonnaise” . . . “Excusez-moi, madame,” O’Shea added, “pourquoi m’avez vous demandé cela en anglais?” Why did you ask me in English?

  The woman pursed her lips and smiled at his largely Swiss features. His thin blond hair, pink skin, and hazel eyes came from his mother’s family in Denmark, but his fat, buckled nose was straight from his father’s Scottish side—made only worse by a botched hostage rescue back from his days doing fieldwork. As the woman handed O’Shea the small container of french fries drenched with mayo, she explained, “Je parle très mal le danois.” My Danish is terrible. Reading O’Shea’s thin grin, she added, “Vous venez de Danemark, n’est-ce pas?” You are from Denmark, yes?

  “Oui,” O’Shea lied, taking a strange joy in the fact she didn’t spot him as American. Then again, blending in was part of the job.

  “J’ai l’oeiul pour les choses,” the woman added.

  “J’ai l’oeiul pour les choses,” O’Shea repeated, dropping a few coins into the glass tip jar on the edge of the woman’s sausage-and-french-fry pushcart. Sometimes you just know.

  Heading further up Rue Vavin, O’Shea felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket for the third time. He’d already convinced the pushcart woman that he wasn’t American, and even though it didn’t matter, he wasn’t going to reveal himself by interrupting their conversation and picking up on the first ring.

  “This is O’Shea,” he finally answered.

  “What’re you doing in France?” the voice on the other line asked.

  “Interpol conference. Some nonsense on trends in intelligence. Four whole days away from the pit.”

  “Plus all the mayo you can eat.”

  Just as he was about to bite his first mayo-dipped fry, O’Shea paused. Without another word, he pitched the basket of fries into a nearby trash can and crossed the street. As a Legat—a Legal Attaché—for the FBI, O’Shea had spent almost a decade working with law enforcement officials in seven foreign countries to help deter crime and terrorism that could harm the United States. In his line of work, the surest way to get yourself killed was being obvious and predictable. Priding himself on being neither, he buttoned his long black coat, which waved out behind him like a magician’s cape.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” O’Shea said.

  “Guess who’s back?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Guess . . .”

  “I don’t know . . . that girl from Cairo?”

  “Let me give you a hint: He was killed at the Daytona Speedway eight years ago.”

  O’Shea stopped midstep in the middle of the street. Not in panic. Or surprise. He’d been at this too long to be fazed by bad intel. Better to confirm. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Good source.”

  “How good?”

  “Good enough.”

  “That’s not—”

  “As good as we’re gonna get, okay?”

  O’Shea knew that tone. “Where’d they spot him?”

  “Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur.”

  “We have an office there . . .”

  “He’s already gone.”

  No surprise, O’Shea thought. Boyle was too smart to linger. “Any idea why he’s out?”

  “You tell me: It was the same night President Manning was there for a speech.”

  A red Fiat honked its horn, trying to blast O’Shea out of the way. Offering an apologetic wave, O’Shea continued toward the curb. “You think Manning knew he was coming?”

  “I don’t even wanna think about it. Y’know how many lives he’s risking?”

  “I told you when we first tried to bring him in—the guy’s poison. We should’ve never tried to flip him all those years ago.” Watching the rush of Paris traffic, O’Shea let the silence sink in. Across the street, he watched the thin woman with the red bifocals dole out another basket of fries with aïoli. “Anyone else see him?” O’Shea finally asked.

  “President’s aide apparently got a look—y’know . . . that kid with the face . . .”

  “He have any idea who he was looking at?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  O’Shea stopped to think about it. “What about the thing in India next week?”

  “India can wait.”

  “So you want me on a plane?”

  “Say good-bye to Paris, sweetheart. Time to come home.”

  6

  St. Elizabeths Mental Hospital

  Washington, D.C.

  Make it quick, Nico—no futzing around,” said the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath. He didn’t shove Nico inside or stay with him while he undid his pants. That was only for the first few months after Nico’s assassination attempt on the President—back when they were worried he’d kill himself. These days, Nico had earned the right to go to the bathroom alone. Just like he’d earned the right to use the telephone and to have the hospital stop censoring his mail. Each was its own victory, but as The Three had promised him, every victory brought its own cost.

  For the telephone, the doctors asked him if he still had anger toward President Manning. For the mail, they asked him if he was still fixated on the crosses—the crucifix arou
nd his nurse’s neck, the one the overweight lady wore in the law firm commercial on TV, and most important, the hidden ones only he knew were there: the ones created by windowpanes and telephone poles . . . in intersecting sidewalk cracks, and the T-shaped slats of park benches, and in perpendicular blades of grass, and—when they stopped letting him go outside because the images were too overwhelming—in crisscrossing shoelaces and phone cords and wires and discarded socks . . . in the seams of the shiny tile floor and the closed doors of the refrigerator . . . in horizontal shades and their vertical pull cords, in banisters and their railings . . . and of course, in the white spaces between the columns of the newspaper, in the blank spaces between the push buttons of the telephone, and even in cubes, especially when the cube is unfolded to its two-dimensional version

  which then allowed him to include dice, luggage, short egg cartons, and of course, the Rubik’s Cube that sat on the edge of Dr. Wilensky’s desk, right beside his perfectly square Lucite pencil cup. Nico knew the truth—symbols were always signs.

  No more drawing crosses, no more carving crosses, no more doodling crosses on the rubber trim of his sneakers when he thought no one was looking, his doctors had told him. If he wanted full mail privileges, they needed to see progress.

  It still took him six years. But today, he had what he wanted. Just like The Three promised. That was one of the few truths besides God. The Three kept their promises . . . even back when they first welcomed him in. He had nothing then. Not even his medals, which were lost—stolen!—in the shelter. The Three couldn’t bring them back, but they brought him so much more. Showed him the door. Showed him what no one else saw. Where God was. And where the devil was hiding. And waiting. Almost two hundred years, he’d been there, tucked away in the one place the M Men hoped people would never look—right in front of their own faces. But The Three looked. They searched. And they found the devil’s door. Just as the Book had said. That’s when Nico played his part. Like a son serving his mother. Like a soldier serving country. Like an angel serving God’s will.