“He’s quite funny,” says the Malaysian deputy prime minister, a man in his fifties with a slight acne problem. He sounds almost surprised as he joins me and Mitchel, one of our Secret Service agents, backstage. He eyes Mitchel, then cuts in front of me, turning back to study the profile of the President at the podium. After all this time as an aide, I don’t take it personally.
“You’ve worked with him long?” the deputy prime minister asks, still blocking my view.
“Almost nine years,” I whisper. It sounds like a long time to be just an assistant, but people don’t understand. After what happened… after what I did… and what I caused… I don’t care what my counselors said. If it weren’t for me, Boyle would’ve never been in the limo that day. And if he hadn’t been there… I clamp my eyes shut and refocus by visualizing the oval lake at my old summer camp. Just like my therapist taught me. It helps for a second, but as I learned in the hospital, it doesn’t change the truth.
Eight years ago, when Boyle was yelling in my face, I knew the President would never be able to meet with him during a four-minute limo ride. But instead of taking the verbal lashing and simply rescheduling him, I avoided the whole headache and threw him the one bone I knew he’d go running for. I was so damn smug about it too. Dangling the President in front of him just to make my job easier. That decision took Boyle’s life. And destroyed my own.
The only good news, as always, came from Manning. When most aides leave the job, they have half a dozen job offers. I had none. Until Manning was kind enough to invite me back on board. Like I said, people don’t understand. Even out of the White House, this is still a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“By the way, Wes,” Mitchel interrupts, “you ever find out if they got the honey for the President’s tea? You know he needs it for his throat.”
“Already on it,” I reply, wiping my forehead with the palm of my hand. Between the heat from the lights and my fever, I’m ready to pass out. Doesn’t matter. The President needs me. “It should be waiting in the car when we’re done.” Double-checking, I pull my satellite phone from my pocket and dial the number for our Secret Service driver outside. “Stevie, it’s Wes,” I say as he picks up. “That honey get there yet?”
There’s a short pause on the other line. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Is it there or not?” I say, deadly serious.
“Yes, Wes — the all-important honey has arrived. I’m guarding it right now — I hear there’s a gang of bumblebees in the neighborhood.” He pauses, hoping I’ll join him in the joke.
I stay silent.
“Anything else, Wes?” he asks dryly.
“No… that’s all for now.”
I can practically hear his eyes rolling as I hang up the phone. I’m not an imbecile. I know what they say about me. But they’re not the ones who still see the puddle of blood under Boyle every time I hear an ambulance pass. Manning lost the presidency and his best friend. I lost something far more personal. It’s no different than a trapeze artist who takes a bad fall during a triple backflip. Even when the bones are healed and everything’s back in place… even when they put you back in the big top… you can swing as hard as you want, but it takes time before you’ll ever fly as high again.
“… though I still make ’em call me Mr. President,” Manning jokes from onstage.
A swell of laughter gushes up from the audience, which is comprised of seven hundred of the top employees of the Tengkolok Insurance Corporation, the forty-third largest company in Malaysia. The good news is, they’re paying $400,000 and private jet travel for the fifty-seven-minute speech… plus a short Q&A, of course. As a Newsweek reporter once told me, the post-presidency is like a prime-time hit in syndication: less visible, but far more profitable.
“They like him,” the deputy prime minister tells me.
“He’s had some practice in front of crowds,” I reply.
He keeps his eyes locked on the President’s silhouetted profile, refusing to acknowledge the joke. From this angle, the way Manning jabs a determined finger out toward the audience, he looks like he’s back in fighting shape. The spotlight gives him an angelic glow… thinning out his extra fifteen pounds and softening every feature, from his sharp chin to his leathered skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was back in the White House, watching him through the tiny peephole in the side door of the Oval. Just like he watched over me in my hospital room.
I was there almost six months. For the first few, someone from the White House called every day. But when we lost the election, the staff disappeared, as did the phone calls. By then, Manning had every reason to do the same and forget about me. He knew what I’d done. He knew why Boyle was in the limo. Instead, he invited me back. As he taught me that day, loyalty mattered. It still does. Even after the White House. Even in Malaysia. Even at an insurance conference.
A yawn leaps upward in my throat. I grit my teeth and fight, trying to swallow it whole.
“Is boring for you?” the deputy prime minister asks, clearly annoyed.
“N-No… not at all,” I apologize, knowing the first rule of diplomacy. “It’s just… the time zone… we just flew in, so still adjusting…” Before I can finish, he turns my way.
“You should—”
Seeing my face, he cuts himself off. Not for long. Just enough to stare.
Instinctively, I try to smile. Some things you can’t unlearn. The left half of my lip goes up, the right half stays flat, dead on my face.
Boyle went down that day at the racetrack. But he wasn’t the only one hit.
“—should take melatonin,” the deputy prime minister stammers, still staring at the faded slash marks on my cheek. The scars crisscross like interconnecting railroad tracks. When it first happened, they were dark purple. Now they’re a shade redder than my pale chalky skin. You still can’t miss them. “Melatonin,” he repeats, now locking on my eyes. He feels stupid for gawking. But he can’t help himself. He peeks again, then takes a second to glance down at my mouth, which sags slightly on my right side. Most people think I had a mini-stroke. Then they see the scars. “Very best for jet lag,” he adds, again locking eyes.
The bullet that tore through my cheek was a Devastator — specially designed to fracture on impact and tumble into the skin instead of going straight through it. And that’s exactly what happened when it ricocheted off the armored hood of the limo, shattering into pieces and plowing into my face. If it had been a direct hit, it might’ve been cleaner, the doctors agreed, but instead, it was like a dozen tiny missiles burrowing into my cheek. To maximize the pain, Nico even stole a trick from Mideast suicide bombers, who dip their bullets and bombs in rat poison, since it acts as a blood thinner and keeps you bleeding as long as possible. It worked. By the time the Service got to me, I was so bloody, they covered me, thinking I was dead.
The wound played punching bag with my facial nerve, which I quickly found out has three branches: the first gives nerve function to your forehead… the second controls your cheeks… and the third, where I got hit, takes care of your mouth and lower lip. That’s why my mouth sags… and why my lips purse slightly off-center when I talk… and why my smile is as flat as the smile of a dental patient on Novocain. On top of that, I can’t sip through straws, whistle, kiss (not that I have any takers), or bite my top lip, which requires more manipulation than I ever thought. All that, I can live with.
It’s the staring that tears me apart.