The Book of Fate Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 hello, 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.
I saw it when we came in. There’s gotta be a couch, or at least a chair in there.
    I grip the doorknob, but it doesn’t turn. Same with dressing room 5 right across from it.
Crapola.
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.
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.
    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
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 space. 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 passing shadow. The problem is, the room’s supposed to be empty. So who the hell would—?
    Going straight for the doorknob, 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 glass. Chasing the sound, I turn toward the small glass-top coffee table on the left side of the room. An older bald man in a suit but no tie rubs his shin from where he banged it. He’s in mid-hop, but he doesn’t stop moving. He’s rushing 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