The Book Of Fate Part 2

It's the staring that tears me apart.

"Melatonin, huh?" I ask, turning my head so he loses his view. It doesn't help. A face is what we hold in our memories. It's our ident.i.ty. It shows us who we are. Worst of all, two-thirds of face-to-face communication comes from facial expressions. Lose those-which I have-and in the researchers' words, it's socially devastating. "I tried it years ago . . . maybe I'll give it another shot."

"I think you like it," the deputy prime minister says. "Help you feel good." He turns back to the lit silhouette of the President, but I already hear the s.h.i.+ft in his voice. It's subtle but unmistakable. You don't need a translator to understand pity.

"I should . . . I'm gonna go check on that honey and tea," I say, stepping back from the deputy prime minister. He doesn't bother turning around.

Making my way through the backstage darkness of the Performing Arts Center, I sidestep between a papier-mache palm tree and an enormous jagged rock made of plastic and foam-both pieces from the Lion King Lion King set which sits further behind the curtain. set which sits further behind the curtain.

". . . and countries look to the United States in ways that we still cannot underestimate . . ." Manning says as he finally segues into the more serious part of his speech.

". . . even now, when we're hated in so many corners of the world," I whisper to myself.

". . . even now, when we're hated in so many corners of the world . . ." the President goes on.

The line tells me he's got forty-one minutes to go in the fifty-seven-minute speech, including the moment thirty seconds from now when he'll clear his throat and take a three-beat pause to show he's extra-serious. Plenty of time for a quick break.

There's another Secret Service agent near the door at the back of the stage. Jay. He's got a pug nose, squatty build, and the most feminine hands I've ever seen.

Nodding h.e.l.lo, he reads the sheen of sweat on my face. "You okay there?" Like everyone, he gives my scars a quick glance.

"Just tired. These Asia flights take it outta me."

"We've all been up, Wes."

Typical Service. No sympathy. "Listen, Jay, I'm gonna go check on the President's honey, okay?"

Behind me, onstage, the President clears his throat. One . . . two . . . three . . .

The moment he starts speaking, I shove open the metal soundproof door and head down a long, fluorescent-lit, cement-block hallway that runs back past the dressing rooms. Jay's job is to fight every perceived and unperceived threat. With forty minutes left to go, the only thing I need to fight is my own exhaustion. Lucky me, I'm in the perfect place for a rumble.

On my right in the empty hallway, there's a room marked Dressing Room 6. Dressing Room 6. I saw it when we came in. There's gotta be a couch, or at least a chair in there. I saw it when we came in. There's gotta be a couch, or at least a chair in there.

I grip the doork.n.o.b, but it doesn't turn. Same with dressing room 5 right across from it. c.r.a.pola. c.r.a.pola. With so few agents, they must've locked them for security. With so few agents, they must've locked them for security.

Zigzagging up the hallway, I bounce to dressing rooms 4 . . . 3 . . . 2. Locked, locked, and locked. The only thing left is the big number 1. The bad news is the sign taped to the door: EMERGENCY USE ONLY.

Emergency Use Only is our code for the President's private holding room. Most people think it's a place to relax. We use it to keep him away from the handshaking and photographing crowds, including the hosts, who're always worst of all. is our code for the President's private holding room. Most people think it's a place to relax. We use it to keep him away from the handshaking and photographing crowds, including the hosts, who're always worst of all. Please, just one more picture, Mr. President. Please, just one more picture, Mr. President. Plus the room's got a phone, fax, fruit, snacks, half a dozen bouquets of flowers (which we never ask for but they still send), seltzer water, Bailao tea, and . . . as they showed us during the walk-through . . . a connecting anteroom with a sofa and two ultra-cushy pillows. Plus the room's got a phone, fax, fruit, snacks, half a dozen bouquets of flowers (which we never ask for but they still send), seltzer water, Bailao tea, and . . . as they showed us during the walk-through . . . a connecting anteroom with a sofa and two ultra-cushy pillows.

I look at the other dressing rooms, then back to the closed metal door that leads to the stage. Jay's on the other side. Even if I ask, there's no way he'll unlock the other dressing rooms. I turn back to the Emergency Emergency sign on dressing room 1. My head's burning; my body's drenched. No one'll ever notice (thank you, soundproofing). Plus I've got over a half hour until the President's speech is- No. No, no, no. Forget it. This's the President's private s.p.a.ce. I don't care if he won't notice. Or hear. It's just . . . going into his room like that . . . It's not right. sign on dressing room 1. My head's burning; my body's drenched. No one'll ever notice (thank you, soundproofing). Plus I've got over a half hour until the President's speech is- No. No, no, no. Forget it. This's the President's private s.p.a.ce. I don't care if he won't notice. Or hear. It's just . . . going into his room like that . . . It's not right.

But as I turn to leave, I catch a flutter of light under the door. It goes dark, then white. Like a pa.s.sing shadow. The problem is, the room's supposed to be empty. So who the h.e.l.l would-?

Going straight for the doork.n.o.b, I give it a sharp twist. If this is that autograph nut from the parking lot . . . With a click, the door pops open.

As it swings wide, I'm hit with the smell of freshly cut flowers. Then I hear the cackling clang of metal against gla.s.s. Chasing the sound, I turn toward the small gla.s.s-top coffee table on the left side of the room. An older bald man in a suit but no tie rubs his s.h.i.+n from where he banged it. He's in mid-hop, but he doesn't stop moving. He's rus.h.i.+ng right at me.

"Sorry . . . wrong room," he says with a slight hint of an accent I can't quite place. Not British, but somehow European. His head is down, and from the tilt of his shoulder, he's hoping to squeeze past me in the doorway. I step in front of him, cutting him off.

"Can I help y-?"

He slams into me at full speed, ramming my shoulder with his own. He's gotta be fifty years old. Stronger than he looks. Stumbling slightly back, I grab the doorjamb and try to stay in front of him. "You nuts?" I ask.

"Sorry . . . this was . . . I-I'm in the wrong place," he insists, keeping his head down and stepping back for another pa.s.s. The way he stutters and keeps shuffling in place, I start thinking he's got more problems than just being in the wrong room.

"This is a private room," I tell him. "Where'd you-?"

"The bathroom," he insists. "Looking for the bathroom."

It's a quick excuse, but not a good one. He was in here way too long. "Listen, I need to call the Secret Ser-"

Springing forward, he barrels at me without a word. I lean forward to brace myself. That's exactly what he's counting on.

I expect him to ram into me. Instead, he turns his foot sideways, pounds his heel down on the tips of my left toes, and grabs me by my wrist. I'm already falling forward. He tugs my wrist even harder, ducking down and letting momentum take care of the rest. Like a freshly spun top, I whip backward into the room, completely off balance. Behind me . . . the table . . .

The backs of my calves. .h.i.t the metal edge, and gravity sends me plunging back toward the wide gla.s.s top. I paddle my arms forward to stop the fall. It doesn't help.

As my back hits the gla.s.s, I grit my teeth and brace for the worst. The gla.s.s crackles like the first few kernels of popcorn . . . then shatters like a thunderstorm of raining gla.s.s. The coffee table's smaller than a bathtub, and as I tumble in backward, my head hits the outer metal edge. A jolt of pain runs down my spine, but my eyes are still on the door. I crane my neck up for a better look. The stranger's already gone . . . and then . . . as I stare at the empty doorway . . . he sticks his head back in. Almost as if he's checking on me.

That's when our eyes lock. Contact.

Oh, G.o.d. My stomach sinks down to my kneecaps. Th-That's . . . My stomach sinks down to my kneecaps. Th-That's . . .

His face is different . . . his nose rounded . . . his cheeks more chiseled. I grew up in Miami. I know plastic surgery when I see it. But there's no mistaking those eyes-brown with a splash of light blue . . . He . . . he died eight years ago . . .

That was Boyle.

3.

Wait!"

He takes off in an eyeblink, darting to the left down the hallway-away from the doorway where Jay is. Boyl-whoever he is, he's smart.

I grab the edges of the coffee table and try to boost myself out. My hip and knees grind against the shards of gla.s.s as I twist into place. Stumbling to my feet, I rush forward, completely hunched over. I'm so off balance, I practically fall through the doorway, back into the hall, which is completely empty.

He barely had a five-second head start. It's more than enough.

Up ahead, the far end of the hallway bends around to the left. In the distance, a metal door slams shut. d.a.m.n. I run as fast as I can, gritting my teeth just to keep myself from hyperventilating. But I already know what's coming. Turning the corner, the hallway dead-ends at two more soundproof metal doors. The one on the right leads to an emergency set of stairs. The one straight ahead leads outside. If we were in the White House, we'd have two Secret Service guys standing guard. As a Former, we've barely got enough to cover the entrances that lead to the stage.

I shove open the door on my right. As it crashes into the wall, a low thud echoes up the concrete stairwell. I hold my breath and listen for footsteps . . . movement . . . anything. All I get is silence.

Spinning back, I slam into the metal bar of the remaining door, which whips open and flings me out into the sweet, steamy Malaysian air. The only light in the alley comes from the headlights of a black Chevy Suburban, a metal Ches.h.i.+re cat with a glowing white stare. Behind the Suburban is a gaudy, white twelfth-grade-prom stretch limousine. Our ride back to the hotel.

"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, fis.h.i.+ng 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. they were flat.

"I agree," I tell him.

That means I understand. 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. 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. 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. 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 f.a.n.n.y 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. " simultaneous voices call out as we hit the lobby. A pack of American tourists are already pointing, searching for pens in their f.a.n.n.y 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 Bobby-boy? Just like that-Bobby-boy?" a man with oversize gla.s.ses 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 h.e.l.l 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. 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. Boyle."

I'm not surprised. "How about Eric Weiss 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 Stewart, first name Carl. 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 a.s.signed 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. him." I point back at the former President of the United States and his three armed bodyguards. It's a h.e.l.l of a trump card.