The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer Narrated by Scott Brick

Overview

"Six minutes from now, one of us would be dead. None of us knew it was coming." So says Wes Holloway, a young presidential aide, about the day he put Ron Boyle, the chief executive's oldest friend, into the president's limousine. By the trip's end, a crazed assassin would permanently disfigure Wes and kill Boyle. Now, eight years later, Boyle has been spotted alive. Trying to figure out what really happened takes Wes back into disturbing secrets buried in Freemason history, a decade-old presidential crossword puzzle, and a two-hundred-year-old code invented by Thomas Jefferson that conceals secrets worth dying for.

Editorial Reviews

Eight years ago, presidential aide Wes Holloway survived the attack of a crazed assassin that killed the chief executive's oldest friend, Ron Boyle. Now permanently disfigured, Holloway receives a report that sounds impossible: Half a world away, Boyle has been spotted alive and well. Not surprisingly, Wes becomes almost unnaturally obsessed with the truth behind the sighting. Before his quest ends, it will lead him deep into Washington cover-ups, Masonic secrets, and an intricate code invented by Thomas Jefferson. Deciphering mysteries at a high-adrenaline pace.

Maureen Corrigan

Readers don't turn to Brad Meltzer's suspense stories for psychological insight or brooding atmosphere. Insider knowledge of everyday life in politics, rock-'em sock-'em action and conspiracy tales that begin tamely enough and vault into the realm of breathless improbability are Meltzer's signature strengths. Squarely in this tradition, his latest outing, The Book of Fate, is sure to please those readers who like to store up stockpiles of cynicism about the private lives of their elected officials.
— The Washington Post

Publishers Weekly

Set against a backdrop of Oval Office corruption, bestseller Meltzer's overblown thriller opens with a frantic assassination attempt on President Leland Manning, who manages to elude the gunfire. Manning's deputy chief of staff, Ron Boyle, is killed, and his top aide, the cocky, ambitious Wes Holloway, is left facially disfigured. Eight years later, his motivation and confidence drained by his handicap, Holloway still toils away for the out-of-office Manning, fetching refreshments and handling the daily social calendar. On a goodwill junket to Malaysia, however, Holloway spots Boyle, surgically altered, but unmistakably the same man who was supposed to be dead and gone. From this turning point, Meltzer (The Zero Game) follows Holloway step by excruciatingly slow step as he tries to find out what really happened eight years earlier. Authentic details about Washington politics and historical mysteries enliven the predictable path. While readers looking for efficient plotting may be disappointed, Meltzer's many fans will enjoy this substantial meal of a book. 15-city author tour. (Sept.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Forbes Magazine

The hero, Wes Holloway, is a haunted former presidential aide scarred by an assassination attempt on his boss years before that left the President's deputy chief of staff and valued friend dead and Holloway's face horribly disfigured. Holloway is guilt-ridden because a mistake of his is what ultimately put his colleague in the line of fire. The attempt took place in the midst of a tough election campaign and, as fate would have it, a photo taken that day made the President appear cowardly instead of heroic. That image cost him the election. (8 Jan 2007)
—Steve Forbes

Library Journal

Presidential aide Wes Holloway has what he considers the perfect life until the fateful day that an assassin strikes. His friend Ron Boyle dies, and a ricocheting bullet hits Wes in the face. Eight years later, with a bullet scar on his cheek and limited use of his facial muscles, he continues to relive the painful memories of that day. Still aide to the now former president, Wes stumbles into a terrifying conspiracy when he discovers that Ron is still alive. Somehow, the fate of Wes and everyone he knows ties in to the secret history of the Freemasons. With rich characters, a puzzling mystery, and a compelling narrative, Meltzer (The Zero Game) has written his best thriller yet. Though the jacket flap is somewhat misleading in describing how much freemasonry history is uncovered, that is a minor quibble in the grand scheme. Don't let this book of fate pass you by. [See Q&A with Meltzer, p. 74.-Ed.]-Jeff Ayers, Seattle P.L. Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Trying his hand at a star-spangled version of The Da Vinci Code, Meltzer produces his biggest, dumbest book. Former presidential aide Wes Holloway still rues the day eight years ago when he allowed deputy chief of staff Ron Boyle to ride in President Leland Manning's limo to a NASCAR race. On their arrival at the track, crazy Nico Hadrian, presumably shooting at Manning, killed Boyle and left the right side of Wes's face paralyzed. Now Wes, still attached to ex-President Manning's much-diminished entourage, spots a man who's unmistakably Boyle and unmistakably alive at a conference in Malaysia. Stung by the likelihood that's he's been castigating himself in vain all these years, Wes determines to dig up the story behind Boyle's resurrection. The trail of revelations will pit him, his roommate Rogo, his predecessor Gavin "Dreidel" Jeffer and bulldog Palm Beach Post gossip columnist Lisbeth Dodson against a Masonic conspiracy stretching from the founding of the Republic to a nefarious contemporary plot involving a venal anti-terrorist tipster dubbed The Roman, a power-mad cabal calling themselves The Three and a possible Number Four of even more dastardly hue. Assiduously following the Dan Brown playbook, Meltzer (The Zero Game, 2004, etc.) salts his potboiler with secret codes, research in underground archives, cliffhanger endings, paranoid historical fantasies, cackling megalomaniacs and gunmen willing to shoot anything that moves, as several of them demonstrate in a kitchen-sink finale. Every ingredient is perfect except for clear plotting, credible threats and characters (and a conspiracy) worth caring about. How successful will Meltzer's fumbling knockoff be? If the Masons sell half aswell as Mary Magdalene and Opus Dei, expect follow-ups starring the ACLU, the Rotarians and the Mickey Mouse Club.

From the Publisher

"Meltzer has earned the right to belly up to the bar with John Grisham, Scott Turow, and David Baldacci."—PEOPLE

"Meltzer is so good."—ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

"Meet the next John Grisham."—MIAMI HERALD

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

"Meltzer is so good."

MIAMI HERALD

"Meet the next John Grisham."

PEOPLE

"Meltzer has earned the right to belly up to the bar with John Grisham, Scott Turow, and David Baldacci."

Entertainment Weekly

Meltzer is so good.

Miami Herald

Meet the next John Grisham.

People Magazine

Meltzer has earned the right to belly up to the bar with John Grisham, Scott Turow, and David Baldacci.

DEC 06/JAN 07 - AudioFile

Brad Meltzer’s latest entry to the NYT Bestsellers list sounds as good as it looks, thanks in large part to Scott Brick, who brings a sense of urgency to the characters. Wes Holloway is scarred in body and soul after the failed assassination of his boss, the President of the United States. Brick brings out the humanity of Meltzer’s hero, who isn’t a superman who laughs in the face of death, but a regular guy. You can hear his confusion when he sees a friend he thought was dead and his fear when he learns that the man who scarred him is back for a second try. And no one does icy villains like Brick. Better allow some extra drive time--you won’t want to turn this off. M.S. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2006, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170000746
Publisher:	Hachette Audio
Publication date:	09/05/2006
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

The Book of Fate

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By Brad Meltzer

WARNER BOOKS

Copyright © 2006 Forty-four Steps, Inc.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-446-53099-9

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Chapter One

Six minutes from now, one of us would be dead. That was our fate. None of us knew it was coming.

"Ron, hold up!" I called out, chasing after the middle-aged man in the navy-blue suit. As I ran, the smothering Florida heat glued my shirt to my chest.

Ignoring me, Ron Boyle darted up the tarmac, passing Air Force One on our right and the eighteen cars of the motorcade that idled in a single-file line on our left. As deputy chief of staff, he was always in a rush. That's what happens when you work for the most powerful man in the world. I don't say that lightly. Our boss was the Commander in Chief. The President of the United States. And when he wanted something, it was my job to get it. Right now President Leland "The Lion" Manning wanted Boyle to stay calm. Some tasks were beyond even me.

Picking up speed as he weaved through the crowd of staffers and press making their way to their assigned cars, Boyle blew past a shiny black Chevy Suburban packed with Secret Service agents and the ambulance that carried extra pints of the President's blood. Earlier today, Boyle was supposed to have a fifteen-minute sit-down with the President on Air Force One. Because of my scheduling error, he was now down to a three-minute drive-by briefing sometime this afternoon. To say he wasannoyed would be like calling the Great Depression a bad day at the office.

"Ron!" I said again, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying to apologize. "Just wait. I wanted to-"

He spun around wildly, slapping my hand out of the way. Thin and pointy-nosed with a thick mustache designed to offset both, Boyle had graying hair, olive skin, and striking brown eyes with a splash of light blue in each iris. As he leaned forward, his cat's eyes glared down at me. "Don't touch me again unless you're shaking my hand," he threatened as a flick of spit hit me in the cheek.

Gritting my teeth, I wiped it away with the back of my hand. Sure, the scheduling hiccup was my fault, but that's still no reason t-

"Now, what the hell's so damn important, Wes, or is this another vital reminder that when we're eating with the President, we need to give you our lunch orders at least an hour in advance?" he added, loud enough so a few Secret Service agents turned.

Any other twenty-three-year-old would've taken a verbal swing. I kept my cool. That's the job of the President's aide ... a.k.a. the body person ... a.k.a. the buttboy. Get the President what he wants; keep the machine humming.

"Lemme make it up to you," I said, mentally canceling my apology. If I wanted Boyle quiet-if we didn't want a scene for the press-I needed to up the ante. "What if I ... what if I squeezed you into the President's limo right now?"

Boyle's posture lifted slightly as he started buttoning his suit jacket. "I thought you-No, that's good. Great. Excellent." He even painted on a tiny smile. Crisis averted.

He thought all was forgiven. My memory's way longer than that. As Boyle triumphantly turned toward the limo, I jotted down another mental note. Cocky bastard. On the way home, he'd be riding in the back of the press van.

Politically, I wasn't just good. I was great. That's not ego; it's the truth. You don't apply for this job, you're invited to interview. Every young political gunner in the White House would've killed to clutch this close to the leader of the free world. From here, my predecessor had gone on to become the number two guy in the White House Press Office. His predecessor in the last White House took a job managing four thousand people at IBM. Seven months ago, despite my lack of connections, the President picked me. I beat out a senator's son and a pair of Rhodes scholars. I could certainly handle a tantrum-throwing senior staffer.

"Wes, let's go!" the Secret Service detail leader called out, waving us into the car as he slid into the front passenger seat, where he could see everything coming.

Trailing Boyle and holding my leather shoulder bag out in front of me, I jumped into the back of the armored limo, where the President was dressed casually in a black windbreaker and jeans. I assumed Boyle would immediately start talking his ear off, but as he passed in front of the President, he was strangely silent. Hunched over as he headed for the back left seat, Boyle's suit jacket sagged open, but he quickly pressed his hand over his own heart to keep it shut. I didn't realize until later what he was hiding. Or what I'd just done by inviting him inside.

Following behind him, I crouched toward one of the three fold-down seats that face the rear of the car. Mine was back-to-back with the driver and across from Boyle. For security reasons, the President always sat in the back right seat, with the First Lady sitting between him and Boyle.

The jump seat directly across from the President-the hot seat-was already taken by Mike Calinoff, retired professional race car driver, four-time Winston Cup winner, and special guest for today's event. No surprise. With only four months until the election, we were barely three points ahead in the polls. When the crowd was that fickle, only a fool entered the gladiator's ring without a hidden weapon.

"So she's fast, even with the bulletproofing?" the racing champ asked, admiring the midnight-blue interior of Cadillac One.

"Greased lightning," Manning answered as the First Lady rolled her eyes.

Finally joining in, Boyle scootched forward in his seat and flipped open a manila folder. "Mr. President, if we could-?"

"Sorry-that's all I can do, sir," Chief of Staff Warren Albright interrupted as he hopped inside. Handing a folded-up newspaper to the President, he took the middle seat directly across from the First Lady, and more important, diagonally across from Manning. Even in a six-person backseat, proximity mattered. Especially to Boyle, who was still turned toward the President, refusing to give up his opening.

The President seized the newspaper and scrutinized the crossword puzzle he and Albright shared every day. It had been their tradition since the first days of the campaign-and the reason why Albright was always in that coveted seat diagonally across from the President. Albright started each puzzle, got as far as he could, then passed it to the President to cross the finishline.

"Fifteen down's wrong," the President pointed out as I rested my bag on my lap. "Stifle."

Albright usually hated when Manning found a mistake. Today, as he noticed Boyle in the corner seat, he had something brand-new to be annoyed by.

Everything okay? I asked with a glance.

Before Albright could answer, the driver rammed the gas, and my body jerked forward.

Three and a half minutes from now, the first gunshot would be fired. Two of us would crumble to the floor, convulsing. One wouldn't get up.

"Sir, if I could bend your ear for a second?" Boyle interrupted, more insistently than before.

"Ron, can't you just enjoy the ride?" the First Lady teased, her short brown hair bobbing as we hit a divot in the road. Despite the sweet tone, I saw the glare in her leaf-green eyes. It was the same glare she used to give her students at Princeton. A former professor with a PhD in chemistry, Dr. First Lady was trained to be tough. And what Dr. First Lady wanted, Dr. FirstLady fought for. And got.

"But, ma'am, it'll just take-"

Her brow furrowed so hard, her eyebrows kissed. "Ron. Enjoy the ride."

That's where most people would've stopped. Boyle pushed even harder, trying to hand the file directly to Manning. He'd known the President since they were in their twenties, studying at Oxford. A professional banker, as well as a collector of antique magic tricks, he later managed all of the Mannings' money, a magic trick in itself. To this day, he was the only person on staff who was there when Manning married the First Lady. That alone gave him a free pass when the press discovered that Boyle's father was a petty con man who'd been convicted (twice) for insurance fraud. It was the same free pass he was using in the limo to test the First Lady's authority. But even the best free passes eventually expire.

Manning shook his head so subtly, only a trained eye could see it. First Lady, one; Boyle, nothing.

Closing the file folder, Boyle sank back and shot me the kind of look that would leave a bruise. Now it was my fault.

As we neared our destination, Manning stared silently through the light green tint of his bulletproof window. "Y'ever hear what Kennedy said three hours before he was shot?" he asked, putting on his best Massachusetts accent. "You know, last night would've been a hell of a night to kill a President."

"Lee!" the First Lady scolded. "See what I deal with?" she added, fake laughing at Calinoff.

The President took her hand and squeezed it, glancing my way. "Wes, did you bring the present I got for Mr. Calinoff?" he asked.

I dug through my leather briefcase-the bag of tricks-never taking my eyes off Manning's face. He tossed a slight nod and scratched at his own wrist. Don't give him the tie clip ... go for the big stuff.

I'd been his aide for over seven months. If I was doing my job right, we didn't have to talk to communicate. We were in a groove. I couldn't help but smile.

That was my last big, broad grin. In three minutes, the gunman's third bullet would rip through my cheek, destroying so many nerves, I'd never have full use of my mouth again.

That's the one, the President nodded at me.

From my overpacked bag, which held everything a President would ever need, I pulled out a set of official presidential cuff links, which I handed to Mr. Calinoff, who was loving every split second in his folded-down, completely uncomfortable hotseat.

"Those are real, y'know," the President told him. "Don't put 'em on eBay."

It was the same joke he used every time he gave a set away. We all still laughed. Even Boyle, who started scratching at his chest. There's no better place to be than in on an inside joke with the President of the United States. And on July 4th in Daytona, Florida, when you'd flown in to yell, "Gentlemen, start your engines!" at the legendary Pepsi 400 NASCAR race, there was no better backseat in the world.

Before Calinoff could offer a thank-you, the limo came to a stop. A red lightning bolt flashed by us on the left-two police motorcycles with their sirens blaring. They were leapfrogging from the back of the motorcade to the front. Just like a funeral procession.

"Don't tell me they closed down the road," the First Lady said. She hated it when they shut traffic for the motorcade. Those were the votes we'd never get back.

The car slowly chugged a few feet forward. "Sir, we're about to enter the track," the detail leader announced from the passenger seat. Outside, the concrete openness of the airport runway quickly gave way to rows and rows of high-end motor coaches.

"Wait ... we're going out on the track?" Calinoff asked, suddenly excited. He shifted in his seat, trying to get a look outside.

The President grinned. "Did you think we'd just get a couple seats in front?"

The wheels bounced over a clanging metal plate that sounded like a loose manhole cover. Boyle scratched even more at his chest. A baritone rumble filled the air.

"That thunder?" Boyle asked, glancing up at the clear blue sky.

"No, not thunder," the President replied, putting his own fingertips against the bulletproof window as the stadium crowd of 200,000 surged to its feet with banners, flags, and arms waving. "Applause."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!" the announcer bellowed through the P.A. system.

A sharp right-hand turn tugged us all sideways as the limo turned onto the racetrack, the biggest, most perfectly paved highway I'd ever seen in my life.

"Nice roads you got here," the President said to Calinoff, leaning back in the plush leather seat that was tailor-made to his body.

All that was left was the big entrance. If we didn't nail that, the 200,000 ticket holders in the stadium, plus the ten million viewers watching from home, plus the seventy-five million fans who're committed to NASCAR, would all go tell their friends and neighbors and cousins and strangers in the supermarket that we went up for our baptism and sneezed in the holy water.

But that's why we brought the motorcade. We didn't need eighteen cars. The runway in the Daytona Airport was actually adjacent to the racetrack. There were no red lights to run. No traffic to hold back. But to everyone watching ... Have you ever seen the President's motorcade on a racetrack? Instant American frenzy.

I didn't care how close we were in the polls. One lap around and we'd be picking out our seats for the inauguration.

Across from me, Boyle wasn't nearly as thrilled. With his arms crossed against his chest, he never stopped studying the President.

"Got the stars out too, eh?" Calinoff asked as we entered the final turn and he saw our welcoming committee, a small mob of NASCAR drivers all decked out in their multicolor, advertising-emblazoned jumpsuits. What his untrained eye didn't notice were the dozen or so "crew members" who were standing a bit more erect than the rest. Some had backpacks. Some carried leather satchels. All had sunglasses. And one was speaking into his own wrist. Secret Service.

Like any other first-timer in the limo, Calinoff was practically licking the glass. "Mr. Calinoff, you'll be getting out first," I told him as we pulled into the pit stalls. Outside, the drivers were already angling for presidential position. In sixty seconds, they'd be running for their lives.

Calinoff leaned toward my door on the driver's side, where all the NASCAR drivers were huddled.

I leaned forward to block him, motioning to the President's door on the other side. "That way," I said. The door right next to him.

"But the drivers are over there," Calinoff objected.

"Listen to the boy," the President chimed in, gesturing toward the door by Calinoff.

Years ago, when President Clinton came for a NASCAR race, members of the crowd booed. In 2004, when President Bush arrived with legendary driver Bill Elliott in his motorcade, Elliott stepped out first and the crowd erupted. Even Presidents canuse an opening act.

With a click and a thunk, the detail leader pushed a small security button under the door handle which allowed him to open the armor-lined door from the outside. Within seconds, the door cracked open, twin switchblades of light and Florida heat sliced through the car, and Calinoff lowered one of his handmade cowboy boots onto the pavement.

"And please welcome four-time Winston Cup winner ... Mike Caaaalinoff!" the announcer shouted through the stadium.

Cue crowd going wild.

"Never forget," the President whispered to his guest as Calinoff stepped outside to the 200,000 screaming fans. "That's who we're here to see."

"And now," the announcer continued, "our grand marshal for today's race-Florida's own ... President Leeeee Maaaaanning!"

Just behind Calinoff, the President hopped out of the car, his right hand up in a wave, his left hand proudly patting the NASCAR logo on the chest of his windbreaker. He paused for a moment to wait for the First Lady. As always, you could read the lips on every fan in the grandstands. There he is ... There he is ... There they are ... Then, as soon as the crowd had digested it, the flashbulbs hit. Mr. President, over here! Mr. President ...! He'd barely moved three steps by the time Albright was behind him, followed by Boyle.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Book of Fate by Brad Meltzer Copyright © 2006 by Forty-four Steps, Inc.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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