I grab the edges of the coffee table and try to boost myself out. My hip and knees grind against the shards of glass 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. Damn. 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 Cheshire 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, 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?”