Meltzer's Detailed Research Yields 'Book of Fate'

Former President George H.W. Bush gave Brad Meltzer ideas for his latest novel,'The Book of Fate.'

Former President George H.W. Bush gave Brad Meltzer ideas for his latest novel, The Book of Fate. Scroll down to read an excerpt. Jackie Merri Meyer hide caption

itoggle caption Jackie Merri Meyer

Best-selling author Brad Meltzer says every one of his novels is "a lie that tries to sound like the truth."

To make sure it does, Meltzer does meticulous research.

His latest, The Book of Fate, explores the life of a former president.

The idea began with a fan letter from former President George H.W. Bush. Meltzer called back to first find out whether it was real — then to say thanks and make a request.

Could he shadow former President Bush for a while?

The answer was "yes," and the result is a page-turning thriller about a trusted, young aide named Wes Holloway; the death (and mysterious return) of his friend, the victim of a crazed assassin; secrets embedded in Freemason history; and a 200-year-old code invented by Thomas Jefferson.

Excerpt: 'The Book of Fate'

Cover of Brad Meltzer's 'Book of Fate'

From Chapter 1

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. First Lady 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 hot seat.

"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 can use 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.

I stepped out last. The sunlight forced me to squint, but I still craned my neck to look up, mesmerized by the 200,000 fans who were now on their feet, pointing and waving at us from the grandstands. Two years out of college, and this was my life. Even rock stars don't have it this good.

Putting his arm out for a handshake, Calinoff was quickly enveloped by the waiting crowd of drivers, who smothered him with hugs and backslaps. At the front of the crowd was the NASCAR CEO and his surprisingly tall wife, here to welcome the First Lady.

Approaching the drivers, the President grinned. He was next. In three seconds, he'd be surrounded — the one black windbreaker in a Technicolor sea of Pepsi, M&M's, DeWalt, and Lone Star Steakhouse jumpsuits. As if he'd won the World Series, the Super Bowl, and the —

Pop, pop, pop.

That's all I heard. Three tiny pops. A firecracker. Or a car backfiring.

"Shots fired! Shots fired!" the detail leader yelled.

"Get down! Get back!"

I was still smiling as the first scream tore through the air. The crowd of drivers scattered — running, dropping, panicking in an instant blur of colors.

"God gave power to the prophets ..." a man with black buzzed hair and a deep voice shouted from the center of the swirl. His tiny chocolate eyes seemed almost too close together, while his bulbous nose and arched thin eyebrows gave him a strange warmth that for some reason reminded me of Danny Kaye. Kneeling down on one knee and holding a gun with both hands, he was dressed as a driver in a black and bright yellow racing jumpsuit.

Like a bumblebee, I thought.

"... but also to the horrors ..."

I just kept staring at him, frozen. Sound disappeared. Time slowed. And the world turned black-and-white, my own personal newsreel. It was like the first day I met the President. The handshake alone felt like an hour. Living between seconds, someone called it. Time standing still.

Still locked on the bumblebee, I couldn't tell if he was moving forward or if everyone around him was rushing back.

"Man down!" the detail leader shouted.

I followed the sound and the hand motions to a man in a navy suit, lying facedown on the ground. Oh, no. Boyle. His forehead was pressed against the pavement, his face screwed up in agony. He was holding his chest, and I could see blood starting to puddle out from below him.

"Man down!" the detail leader shouted again.

My eyes slid sideways, searching for the President. I found him just as a half dozen jumpsuited agents rushed at the small crowd that was already around him. The frantic agents were moving so fast, the people closest to Manning were pinned against him.

"Move him! Now!" an agent yelled.

Pressed backward against the President, the wife of the NASCAR CEO was screaming.

"You're crushing her!" Manning shouted, gripping her shoulder and trying to keep her on her feet. "Let her go!"

The Service didn't care. Swarming around the President, they rammed the crowd from the front and right side. That's when momentum got the best of them. Like a just-cut tree, the crush of people tumbled to the side, toward the ground. The President was still fighting to get the CEO's wife out. A bright light exploded. I remember the flashbulb going off.

"... so people could test their faith ..." the gunman roared as a separate group of agents in jumpsuits got a grip on his neck ... his arm ... the back of his hair. In slow motion, the bumblebee's head snapped back, then his body, as two more pops ripped the air.

I felt a bee sting in my right cheek.

"... and examine good from evil!" the man screamed, arms spread out like Jesus as agents dragged him to the ground. All around them, other agents formed a tight circle, brandishing semiautomatic Uzis they had torn from their leather satchels and backpacks.

I slapped my own face, trying to kill whatever just bit me. A few feet ahead, the crowd surrounding the President collided with the asphalt. Two agents on the far side grabbed the First Lady, pulling her away. The rest never stopped shoving, ramming, stepping over people as they tried to get to Manning and shield him.

I looked as the puddle below Boyle grew even larger. His head was now resting in a milky white liquid. He'd thrown up.

From the back of the President's pile, our detail leader and another suit-and-tie agent gripped Manning's elbows, lifted him from the pile, and shoved him sideways, straight at me. The President's face was in pain. I looked for blood on his suit but didn't see any.

Picking up speed, his agents were going for the limo. Two more agents were right behind them, gripping the First Lady under her armpits. I was the only thing in their way. I tried to sidestep but wasn't fast enough. At full speed, the detail leader's shoulder plowed into my own.

Falling backward, I crashed into the limo, my rear end hitting just above the right front tire. I still see it all in some out-of-body slow motion: me trying to keep my balance ... slapping my hand against the car's hood ... and the splat from my impact. Sound was so warped, I could hear the liquid squish. The world was still black-and-white. Everything except for my own red handprint.

Confused, I put my hand back to my cheek. It slid across my skin, which was slick and wet and raw with pain.

"Go, go, go!" someone screamed.

Tires spun. The car lurched. And the limo sped out from under me. Like a soda can forgotten on the roof, I tumbled backward, crashing on my ass. A crunch of rocks bit into my rear. But all I could really feel was the tick-tock tick-tock pumping in my cheek.

I looked down at my palm, seeing that my chest and right shoulder were soaked. Not by water. Thicker ... and darker ... dark red. Oh, God, is that my — ?

Another flashbulb went off. It wasn't just the red of my blood I was seeing. Now there was blue ... on my tie ... and yellow ... yellow stripes on the road. Another flashbulb exploded as knives of color stabbed my eyes. Silver and brown and bright green race cars. Red, white, and blue flags abandoned in the grandstands. A screaming blond boy in the third row with an aqua and orange Miami Dolphins T-shirt. And red . . . the dark, thick red all over my hand, my arm, my chest.

I again touched my cheek. My fingertips scraped against something sharp. Like metal — or ... is that bone? My stomach nose-dived, swirling with nausea. I touched my face again with a slight push. That thing wouldn't budge ... What's wrong with my fa — ?

Two more flashbulbs blinded me with white, and the world flew at me in fast-forward. Time caught up in a fingersnap, blurring at lightspeed.

"I'm not feeling a pulse!" a deep voice yelled in the distance. Directly ahead, two suit-and-tie Secret Service agents lifted Boyle onto a stretcher and into the ambulance from the motorcade. His right hand dangled downward, bleeding from his palm. I replayed the moments before the limo ride. He would've never been in there if I hadn't —

"He's cuffed! Get the hell off!" A few feet to the left, more agents screamed at the dogpile, peeling layers away to get at the gunman. I was on the ground with the rest of the grease stains, struggling to stand up, wondering why everything was so blurry.

Help ... ! I called out, though nothing left my lips.

The grandstands tilted like a kaleidoscope. I fell backward, crashing into the pavement, lying there, my palm still pressed against the slippery metal in my cheek.

"Is anyone — ?"

Sirens sounded, but they weren't getting louder. Softer. They quickly began to fade. Boyle's ambulance ... Leaving ... they're leaving me ...

"Please ... why isn't ... ?"

One woman screamed in a perfect C minor. Her howl pierced through the crowd as I stared up at the clear Florida sky. Fireworks ... we were supposed to have fireworks. Albright's gonna be pissed ...

The sirens withered to a faint whistle. I tried to lift my head, but it didn't move. A final flashbulb hit, and the world went completely white.

"Wh-Why isn't anyone helping me?"

That day, because of me, Ron Boyle died.

Eight years later, he came back to life.

From The Book of Fate by Brad Meltzer. Copyright (c) 2006 by Forty-four Steps, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Warner Books, Inc, New York, NY. All rights reserved.

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