State of the Onion (8 page)

“WHAT?” I SPUN, THEN RAN TO THE MASSIVE black gate. “How did you find me?” I looked out across Pennsylvania, trying to catch a glimpse of Tom in the park. Or of Naveen. For some reason I thought he might be watching me. After all, I was in almost the exact same spot I'd been when he ran past. “Where are you?”

“Before I answer your question, I must know why you attempted to locate me.”

“I wasn't. That is, I mean…”

“Did you not try to reach me yesterday by telephoning the jail?”

Holy geez. How could he know that? I considered lying, but all of a sudden I was afraid to. Craig and Tom knew I'd made the call. And Naveen was one of ours—so it followed that he knew, too. “Yes,” I said, my voice coming out as sheepish as I felt. “I did. But…”

But…what? I had no explanation beyond my own foolish inquisitiveness. Not for the first time, I thanked God I wasn't born a cat. My curiosity would've killed me years ago.

“You are the young woman whom I encountered near the northeast gate, yes?”

That was a polite way of putting it. I relaxed a little and stopped searching the passing pedestrians. Freddie stepped out of his security booth, looking concerned.

“Hang on,” I said into the phone.

Freddie checked me in, still looking puzzled. I faked a smile, and mouthed, “I'm okay,” before hurrying toward the East Appointment Gate. To Naveen, I said, “I'm sorry for hitting you with the frying pan.”

“Is that what it was? It felt like a sledgehammer.”

“It was a gift,” I said and realized how silly that must sound. I'd been about to ramble on further about Henry, but I stopped myself. “I hit you too hard. You were bleeding,” I said. “I'm very sorry.”

“Your apology is unnecessary,” he said. “Your actions were precisely right. Your goal was to protect the president—and for that I commend you.”

“That's very gracious of you. I know that…that…” For the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to politely say “…that you're a bit of a fanatic.” So, I stumbled. “That your intentions were good.”

“Ah, so the Service has spoken with you.”

All of a sudden it dawned on me that I'd promised Tom not to involve myself further in this affair. Now, here I was, on the phone with the very subject of our most recent conversation. Tom would kill me if he knew I was talking with Naveen.

But I hadn't initiated the phone call. Not that that little fact would make a difference with Tom.

“I can't talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“I…they…I shouldn't have tried to contact you. I'm going to hang up now.”

“Wait.” He made a thoughtful-sounding noise. “Have they told you about the communiqué I intercepted?”

“No,” I said. “Really. I have to go.”

“Then why did you attempt to contact me?”

I made it to the East Gate, but I couldn't very well continue this conversation as I cleared security, so I paced in circles outside, talking fast, as though that made my conversation less of a transgression. “I was afraid I had hurt you and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He seemed to consider this. “That is what I thought.”

“Well, it's been nice talking with you,” I said. Lame, very lame. “I'm glad you're all right…”

“Wait, do not hang up. I must speak with you.”

“I have to get back to work. I'm late as it is.”

“Then meet me.”

“No!” Tom's angry face loomed in my mind's eye, and my answer came out fast and loud. But then my curiosity reared its quizzical head. “Why?”

“I have information about an—”

He stopped himself. I was sure he was about to say “assassin.”

“About?”

“The communiqué I intercepted has vital information that must be conveyed to the president.”

“You should tell the Secret Service.”

“I believe they have been compromised.”

“No way.”

“It is true.”

I shook my head.

“May I call you Olivia?”

I answered automatically, “Sure,” then frowned.

“Olivia, think about it. What if I am right? What if there has been a breach in the Service? Do you really wish to take the risk of not listening to what I have to say?”

This was getting weird. And I needed to get back to the kitchen.

“Listen,” I said, beginning to understand Tom's insistence that this guy was a conspiracy freak, “I'm just an assistant chef. I don't have anything to do with this. You should talk with one of the agents you trust.”

“I cannot.”

“I really have to get going.”

“Please,” he said.

I heard the word and it was déjà vu. When I'd whacked him he'd said “Please.” And then I whacked him again. But Tom said Naveen was one of the good guys. I hadn't listened to him then, but I had the opportunity to listen now. Didn't I owe him that much?

“Okay, what's so important?”

“Not over the phone. We must meet in person.”

This was beginning to sound like a bad Internet chat hookup. “No.”

“You must. Your actions proved to me that you are trustworthy. After you risked your life to stop me, I knew then that you value the president's life very much. I need to convey a message to someone who is not part of the security contingent. It is imperative that I do so. And right now you are the only person I trust who has the ability to deliver this message.”

I opened my mouth, but he interrupted.

“I promise I will not hit
you
with a frying pan.”

That made me smile. “I don't know,” I said. I knew my resolve was wavering. And I think he knew it, too.

“Tomorrow. Somewhere very public, so you need not be afraid of me.”

I was surprised to realize that I wasn't afraid of him. Naiveté or stupidity—I wasn't sure which it was. “Where?” I waved to the guard at the East Gate. “Hurry. I really have to get back.”

“At the bench next to the merry-go-round.”

I knew where that was. Everyone in D.C. knew the merry-go-round on the Mall just outside the Smithsonian Castle. “What time?”

“Twelve o'clock.”

“Midnight?”

I thought I heard him laugh. “Certainly not, Olivia. Noon. Will this work for you?”

“I don't think—”

“Please.”

He just had to say that again, didn't he?

I sighed. “I'll be there.”

I THOUGHT IF I COOKED UP SOMETHING FAMILIAR I'd be able to get my mind off my troubles. I planned to start a batch of Crisp Triple Chocolate Chip cookies. My comfort food. But there were more surprises in store for me when I got back.

Peter Everett Sargeant—his back to the door as he addressed our group—prevented my surreptitious return to the sanctuary of the kitchen.

I tapped his shoulder to ease past him. “Excuse me,” I said.

He drew back as though slapped. “It's about time you showed up. Where were you?”

I didn't think it would behoove me to tell him I'd been on the telephone with the White House fence-hopper from the other morning, so I said, “Lunch.”

Sargeant made a dramatic show of looking at his watch. He still hadn't moved enough out of the way to let me pass and join the rest of the kitchen team. “And how much time is allotted for ‘lunch'?”

The way he said it made my skin crawl. As though he somehow knew where I'd been.

Henry answered before I could retort. “If Ollie would have known about this impromptu meeting, I'm sure she would have been here earlier.” He waved me forward and Sargeant was obliged to allow me by. “Ollie, Peter here has just informed us about an upcoming state dinner.”

Peter. I loved the fact that Henry called this guy by his first name.

“If you'd been here,” Sargeant began, as I took a position between Marcel and Cyan, “you would know how important it is for us to make this dinner a success.”

I couldn't stop myself. “I think we all realize how important it is to make
every
dinner a success.”

Sargeant looked taken aback. He sniffed, settled himself, and continued. “Which brings me to the next item on my agenda: Laurel Anne Braun's audition.”

My stomach squeezed, and I felt blood rush up from my chest to flush across my face. As though Sargeant knew exactly how Laurel Anne's name affected me, he took that moment to laser his gaze my direction. My face grew hotter.

“It is my understanding,” the little man said, “that up until now, this kitchen has been unable to schedule Ms. Braun's audition. I know that everyone here is very busy. And that there may be some misguided loyalty afoot”—he made another point of looking at me—“but perhaps, instead of taking extended lunch breaks, we should consider putting the White House's needs first.”

Behind me, Henry made a sound that could have been muted anger or a warning for me to keep my cool.

I sucked my lips in and bit down to keep from saying something I might regret later. We'd been in touch with Laurel Anne's people almost every day for the past several weeks. Since she was a television star, with appearance commitments and filming deadlines, we worked through her representatives rather than with Laurel Anne directly.

Twice she'd been scheduled for her audition and twice she'd cancelled out on us at the last minute.

“So,” Sargeant continued, “I have taken it upon myself to see that Ms. Braun is provided the opportunity she deserves. She will be here two weeks from tomorrow and I trust that you will all work with her to ensure that her audition goes smoothly.”

I was about to protest that, as her primary competitor, it would be a conflict of interest for me to assist her, but apparently Sargeant wasn't finished with his announcement.

“I am particularly pleased to tell you that not only will Ms. Braun bring her
Cooking for the Best
talents to share with us”—Sargeant beamed—“but she will bring a cameraman along as well. Her producers have agreed to film her audition for broadcast purposes.”

Henry and I exchanged worried glances. “No one is allowed to film at the White House,” he said. “It's not done.”

Sargeant shook his head as though he'd expected Henry's protest. “We will make an exception for this. I'll take care of it.”

“Have you cleared this with Paul Vasquez?” I asked.

His lips barely moved as he repeated, “I'll take care of it.” Without missing a beat, he turned. “If there are no other questions, I'm off to my next meeting.” As he left, he tossed us a dismissive wave. “Carry on.”

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just when you think you've seen it all.”

Cyan and Marcel made supportive noises as they moved back to the tasks Sargeant had interrupted. Bucky wasn't in today, and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. I patted Henry's back. “So when is this state dinner and who is it for?”

He raised his big head, as though grateful to me for bringing up a topic he could relate to. “It's next Wednesday,” he said. “We will host the heads of state from two countries.”

“Next Wednesday?” I was aghast. We usually had months to prepare for state dinners. And then the rest of the message made it through to my brain. “And we're hosting two countries? How? Which ones?”

Henry rolled his eyes. His bushy eyebrows arched upward melodramatically. “Peter Everett Sargeant III hasn't deemed it appropriate to provide those specifics just yet.”

“What? We have a state dinner to prepare for in just over a week and he won't tell us who the guests are?”

“That's what he says.” Henry lowered himself onto the stool near the computer. The way he sat made me believe he carried the weight of the world across those broad shoulders.

“How can we plan a menu that way?”

“A week,” he said. “I have prepared state dinners in less than that. But I've always known who the guests are.” He shook his big head. “And I also haven't ever had to deal with a prima donna television star and her entourage before.”

This was a double bomb. We would be scrambling to get as much prep work done as possible over the next few days. We usually had at least two months' notice before anything this big. I could only imagine the anxiety in the social secretary's office today. This was madness. It ordinarily took weeks to compile a guest list, and even with three calligraphers on staff, they'd be working 'round the clock to get invitations out. I'd heard of these last-minute official events, a rarity around here. The staff still talked about Prime Minister Ehud Barak of Israel's visit in 1999 when a working lunch for eighteen people was transformed into a dinner for five hundred over a matter of five days. Successfully.

If that team could do it, so could we.

But with two heads of state and a “secret” guest list, deciding on a menu would be close to impossible. There was almost no time to schedule a taste-test. “Have you talked with Paul?” I asked. “About the reporting structure, I mean?”

“We're stuck with Sargeant. He's apparently golden. I have no idea why.”

That was the worst news yet. “What are we going to do?”

For the first time since I came back from lunch, the sparkle returned to Henry's eyes. “Yes, Ollie. What are we going to do? You want the executive chef position, don't you?”

I bit my lip. Nodded.

“Then this is your project as much as it is mine. The executive chef position is a job like any other. There are ups and downs. You may get this appointment and not like it at all.”

“With the way they're rolling out the red carpet for Laurel Anne, there's no danger of that.”

“Don't be so sure.” He clapped his hands together and stood. “No time like the present. Let's see what menu items we can come up with to submit to the First Lady for taste-testing.” He pursed his mouth. “And to our good friend Peter as well.”

I STOLE OUT OF THE KITCHEN TO FIND PAUL Vasquez. Fortunately, he was in his office and not overseeing the million other duties that were carried out by White House staffers on a daily basis.

“Paul, do you have a minute?”

He gestured me in as his desk phone rang.

Thirty seconds later he'd responded in the affirmative twice, the negative once, and he thanked whoever was on the other end before he clamped the receiver back in place and turned his full attention to me.

“How are things in the kitchen?” he asked. The tone was amiable, but the eyes were questioning. We both knew I would never come visit this office unless I had something important to talk about, so I spared him the extraneous chitchat and dove right in.

“I'd rather not be here when Laurel Anne Braun auditions.”

His expression tightened. Creases appeared between his dark eyebrows as he consulted some papers on his desk. “She's not due here for two weeks.”

“I know, but what with this surprise state dinner, I didn't want to lose sight of the audition issues.”

He nodded, as though he'd expected me to say that. “I understand your frustration,” he said, “but as soon as we get a menu settled the kitchen should be in good shape.” Shaking his head he squinted, as though a thought just caused him pain. “But I have to tell you, our director of logistics is pulling her hair out tonight to get everything arranged in this short time frame.”

“Why so little forewarning?”

Paul gave me a cryptic smile. “Circumstances presented themselves. And our president is taking advantage of a unique situation. It's a good move.” His index finger traced information on the page as he spoke. “But, back to your request. Why don't you want to be here with Laurel Anne?”

I shifted. “From what I understand, she and I are the final two contenders for the executive chef position.”

Paul's silence kept me talking.

“Don't you think it would be a conflict of interest for me to be here during her audition?”

He smiled, a bright flash of white. “You mean like you may be tempted to sabotage her efforts?” The smile widened. “Come on, Ollie, we know you better than that.”

“I know,” I said, my face blushing to acknowledge his comment. “But for appearances' sake, I thought it might be best—and besides, the kitchen isn't that big,” I said. It was stating the obvious, but I desperately wanted out of the place when Laurel Anne and friends showed up. “Especially if she's bringing her television crew.”

Paul laughed. “Why on earth would you think she'd do that?”

“Sargeant…er…Peter Everett Sargeant said so.”

Paul sat back, blinking as he digested my statement. No question, that little bomb had come as a surprise. “I will look into that.”

It was a crack—an opening. I decided to push my luck. “Chief Sargeant won't tell us who the guests are for the state dinner.”

Got him again. This time Paul sat up. “You must be mistaken.”

I shook my head. “Henry and I have no idea what to plan for, what to stock. I mean, if we had an idea of even the region they come from—”

“They're from the Middle East,” he said sharply. “The prime minister of Salomia and the prince of Alkumstan. I will see to it that the kitchen gets the complete dietary dossier on all our guests by this afternoon.”

“Thanks.”

Paul looked as though he wanted to grab the phone and get things in motion, so I stood. “One last thing,” I said.

He glanced up and I knew I had to take my best shot, one more time.

“I'd be happy to work ahead, as much as possible, for all our commitments. I'll put in as many hours as needed. You know I will.” Paul nodded and I could see him waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But I'd really appreciate it if I could be excused when Laurel Anne arrives for her audition.”

I could tell I'd won this one. He gave a brief nod. “I'll mention it to the First Lady. She has the final say on these decisions.”

“Thanks, Paul.”

As I exited his office, I heard him punching numbers into his phone.

I suppressed a smile. Something was finally going my way.