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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?”
    She squints at the screen. “But according to this, he checked out about an hour ago. I apologize, sir—looks like you just missed him.”
    “D’you have his address? Did he pay by credit card?” My questions tumble out before I can even catch myself. “I mean . . . we . . . were hoping to pay his bill for him,” I add, finally slowing down. “Y’know . . . the . . . President’s treat.”
    She stares straight at me. Now she thinks I’m nuts. Still, she checks her screen. “I apologize again, sir. It appears he paid by cash.”
    “What about his home address? I just want to make sure we have the right Carl Stewart.” I add a laugh to put her at ease. That’s when I realize Malaysians don’t enjoy being laughed at.
    “Sir, our guests’ personal information . . .”
    “It’s not for me, it’s for
him.
” I point back at the former President of the United States and his three armed bodyguards. It’s a hell of a trump card.
    The clerk forces an uneasy smile. She looks over her shoulder. There’s no one around but us. Reading from the screen, she says, “Mr. Stewart lives at . . . 3965 Via Las Brisas—Palm Beach, Florida.”
    My legs go numb. I grip the marble counter to keep from falling over. That’s no codeword. That’s President Manning’s private home address. Only family has that. Or old friends.
    “Sir, are you okay?” the desk clerk asks, reading my complexion.
    “Yeah . . . just perfect,” I say, forcing some peppy into my voice. It doesn’t make me feel any better. My head’s spinning so fast, I can barely stand up. Boyle . . . or whoever he was . . . he wasn’t just in that dressing room . . . he was
here
last night. Waiting for us. For all I know, he would’ve been waiting for the President if I hadn’t seen him