The Book of Fate
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Brad Meltzer's #1 New York Times bestseller featuring a two-hundred-year-old code devised by Thomas Jefferson and a present-day conspiracy at the highest level of power .
"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.
stairwell. I hold my breath and listen for footsteps . . . movement . . . anything. All I get is silence. Spinning back, I slam into the metal bar of the remaining door, which whips open and flings me out into the sweet, steamy Malaysian air. The only light in the alley comes from the headlights of a black Chevy Suburban, a metal Cheshire cat with a glowing white stare. Behind the Suburban is a gaudy, white twelfth-grade-prom stretch limousine. Our ride back to the hotel. “Everything okay?” an
the unmowed, shin-high grass that wraps like tiny bullwhips around our ankles. As we approach the chain-link fence behind the back of the cemetery, I try to hold the umbrella over both of us, but she’s already two steps ahead, not even noticing the light rain. I don’t blame her for being excited. Even if she’s not writing the story, the reporter in her can’t wait to get the truth. “Y’hear what I said, Wes?” When I don’t answer, she stops and spins back to face me. She’s about to say something;
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
phone in a fat Chicago sausage accent. As a student of applied mathematics and a dropout from the U.S. Naval Academy, Paul wasn’t a scholar. As a senior associate in the FBI’s Investigative Technology Division, he was a genius. And rarely wrong. “Kid hasn’t made a cell call since late last night.” “Credit cards?” “I ran it all—cards, ATM withdrawals, airline reservations, even his Blockbuster card. Whoever he is, this Wes’s no schmuck. Kid’s quieter than a caterpillar.” “Then track the phone
the book and stares down at the double-page spread of contact sheets filled with sixty or so tiny black-and-white shots, each one barely bigger than a postage stamp. “If you keep flipping, there should be six more—eight rolls total, including reaction shots,” Kenny says. “I’ve got most of them blown to 8 x 10, but you said the library was looking for some new angles, so . . .” From his pocket, he pulls out a photographer’s loupe—a small, round magnifier to see the details of the photos—and hands