Read Online The Book of Fate by Brad Meltzer - Free Book Online

a shock of black hair.
Black Irish
, his fishing buddies called it. But never to his face.
    “You said to make sure no one was here.”
    The Roman nodded to himself. Finally, someone who followed directions. “So the President’s not in yet?”
    “On his way. He sleeps late after overnight trips.”
    “And the First Lady?”
    “I’m telling you, it’s just me. Now can we hurry up? People’ll be here any second.”
    Sitting at his desk and squinting out the window, The Roman watched as the light snow tumbled from the early morning sky. It may’ve been eighty degrees in Florida, but in D.C., winter was just unpacking its first punch. He didn’t mind. When he was little, his grandmother had taught him to enjoy the quiet that came with the cold. Just as his grandfather had taught him to appreciate the calm that came to the waters of the Potomac. As any fisherman knew, winter chased away the jet skiers and pleasure boaters. And that was always the best time to put your line in the water. Especially when you had the right bait.
    “What about Wes?” The Roman asked. “You get everything I sent?”
    “Yeah . . . right here . . .”
    He could hear the hesitation in his associate’s voice. No one liked being the bad guy—especially in politics. “And you found something to put it in?” The Roman asked.
    “We have a— That’s why I came in early. We have this lapel pin—”
    “You can get him to wear it . . .”
    “I-I think so.”
    “It wasn’t a question. Get him to wear it,” The Roman shot back.
    “You sure Wes’ll even come in?” his associate asked. “Agents here said he was sick as a hound the entire flight back. Puked his lungs all over his pants.”
    Outside, a crack of blue light slit through the tired, gray sky. “I’m not surprised,” The Roman said as the snow continued to fall. “If I were him right now, I’d be wrecking my pants too. Now about that pin . . .”
    “Don’t worry,” his associate said. “Wes won’t even look twice at it . . . especially when it’s served by a friendly face.”

 
    10
    Palm Beach, Florida
    H old it!” I yell, darting around the corner of the lobby and heading for the elevator’s closing doors. Inside the elevator, a blond woman looks away, pretending she didn’t hear me. That’s why I hate Palm Beach. As the doors are about to pucker in a tight kiss, I leap forward and squeeze through. Now stuck with me, the blonde turns to the floor selection panel and pretends she’s searching for
Door Open.
I should call her on it and tell her off.
    “Thanks,” I say, bent over as I catch my breath.
    “What floor?”
    “Four.”
    “Oh, you’re with—”
    “Yeah,” I say, finally looking up to see her.
    She stares at my face, then quickly glances up at the electronic floor indicator. If she could run and scream “Monster!” she would. But like the best Palm Beach hostesses, she’ll overlook anything if it means a good social climb. “Must be wild to work for him,” she adds, my new best friend, even though she refuses to make eye contact. I’m used to it by now. I haven’t had a date in two years. But every pretty girl wants to talk to the President.
    “Wilder than you know,” I say as the doors open on the fourth floor. Heading left toward a set of closed double doors, I sprint out as fast as I can. Not because of the blonde, but because I’m already—
    “Late!” a scratchy voice scolds behind me. I spin back toward the open double doors of the Secret Service’s suite, where a man with a neck as thick as my thigh sits behind a glass partition that looks like a bank teller’s window.
    “How late?” I call out, turning back toward the closed doors on the opposite side of the beige-carpeted hallway. Along with the Service’s, they’re the only doors on the whole floor—and unlike the law firm or the mortgage company just below, these doors aren’t oak and stately. They’re black and steel-lined. Bulletproof. Just like our