Oak and Dagger (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

A woman is like a tea bag—you can't tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.

—ELEANOR ROOSEVELT, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1933–1945)

T
HE
next morning, I arrived at the White House before sunrise. Save for the distant clank of pots and pans in the kitchen, the hallways were silent. The quiet seemed to amplify my jangling nerves as I flipped on the lights in the grounds office. The fluorescent lights flickered on, bathing the room in a light that felt too bright for the predawn hour. Soon the White House would be bursting with life, but now it felt as if I were in the belly of a sleeping dragon. Waiting.

I finished up my most pressing projects, such as sending Seth the plans for the rescheduled tree planting, and started searching again for plants to grow in the founding fathers' kitchen garden. A depressing task. Much of the rich diversity available to our forefathers to grow in their gardens was forever lost to us.

According to the large industrial clock hanging over the office door, Jack should have arrived for duty by now. I pushed back my desk chair and went searching for him.

I found him in the Palm Room. He was entering the room from the West Colonnade, and I was entering from the main residence.

Thatch was with him. Both men were dressed in solid black battle dress uniform complete with assault rifles.

“Um, Jack, I was wondering if you had a moment,” I said. They looked as if they were getting ready to go on patrol. “I, um, wanted to discuss that project the grounds office is working on.”

Of course, Jack, a member of the CAT, would never be the agent to consult with on gardening projects, but I didn't know what else to say.

“You don't have to pretend around me,” Thatch said. “I know what you're up to.”

“You do?” I cringed, fully expecting him to explode with raging fury.

“I briefed him on our plan this morning,” Jack said in the awkward silence that followed. “I had to.”

My shoulders dropped. “I understand.” I turned around and started back toward the grounds office.

“Where are you going?” Thatch demanded.

“Back to my office.”

“Why?” Thatch snapped. “We need to get this started.”

“Really?” I whirled back around. “Now?”

“In a minute,” Jack said. “Marcel has arrived. He's in the florist shop, but . . .” Both Jack and Thatch listened to their earpieces while I bounced anxiously on the balls of my feet.

“Okay, now we can go. Nadeem has just gone into his office,” Thatch said.

“Nadeem?” I said.

“We're simply covering all our bases,” Jack said with an easy smile. “Now don't frown like that. You won't be in any danger out there.”

“I know.” And I also knew there wasn't any way on God's green earth that Nadeem was a killer. But I kept that part to myself.

In advance of when the President or the First Lady visits the South Lawn, the Counter Assault Team moves into position in the bushes with their assault rifles ready for any contingency. That's what Thatch and Jack were doing now.

I waited ten minutes and then headed out to the grounds shed to fetch a shovel. The sky was a dark predawn gray. A light scent of dried leaves hung in the cool air.

A car honked in the distance as I crossed the lawn with the same red-handled shovel the President had used for last Monday's tree planting. I scanned the shadowy bushes, searching for Jack or Thatch. I couldn't find either of them.

I passed the kitchen garden with its empty rows of bare earth. Gordon's friends from the USDA were scheduled to arrive in a few hours to install the hoop houses. I passed the South Fountain, its water making a soothing shushing sound in the still air.

I then pulled out the schematic and paced out where the third tree in the original allée would have been planted.

“This must be the spot,” I said aloud, sure that Jack and Thatch were listening.

I thrust my shovel into the ground. As I dug, the leaves on the nearby trees trembled as if someone was moving through them. I glanced up, but saw only long predawn shadows. My heart thudded heavily in my chest as I waited for Marcel to make his presence known.

I took comfort knowing Jack and Thatch were hidden somewhere out there, ready to spring to action at the first sign of danger.

The digging was slow going. I had to break through several thick roots. But then, when I thrust the shovel in the ground again, there was a thud.

Not the thunk of a water line. But a wooden thud.

I put the shovel down and, kneeling, reached into the hole. I used a trowel to dig around the dirt-encased wooden box in order to break it free from the two hundred years of packed earth and roots. I had to lie flat on my stomach to get a good grip on the box in the hole. It wasn't small. About two feet across and about a foot wide. And firmly wedged under a fat root.

I felt rather than saw the shadowy figure emerge from the underbrush to stand behind me. I pretended not to notice him and continued to pull and tug at the stubborn box. The shadow knelt beside me, reached into the hole, and helped me lift the wooden casket from the earth. “It's heavy,” he said. “And larger than I'd expected.”

I pushed up from the ground to crouch next to the box and the man holding it. “Nadeem! What are you doing out here?” I demanded, but his eyes were glued to the treasure chest.

“It's not so heavy that it could be packed with gold, though,” he said as he caressed the dirt-encrusted box's rough surface. “Do you think we'll find diamonds?”

“I don't know,” I said. “What are you doing out here?”

He fingered the corroded latch. “Frida would have killed to be here right now, to take the glory.” He paused. “It's ironic and a little sad that she was killed because of this, don't you agree?” He finally lifted his gaze to meet mine.

“What are you doing here?” I asked for a third time.

“You didn't think you could keep me away, Casey? Not after everything I did for you, everything I went through.” He struggled with the corroded latch again. “Now let's crack this box open and see what's inside.”

“You need to leave,” I said quietly. Marcel wouldn't make an appearance with Nadeem practically sitting on top of the treasure chest. “You need to leave now. I'm—”

That had been the wrong thing to say to the assistant curator.

He dropped the wooden casket and swung toward me. “
I have to leave?
” He grabbed my shoulders. His voice tightened. “I put up with that damn woman as she belittled my work, and then as soon as I'd turned my back, she stole my notes.
My
notes. Sure, she was brilliant. She was a
brilliant
thief. I was the one who started to wonder about those letters Dolley Madison had written. They'd been in the archives for centuries. And no one cared to look at them. Not until I arrived. And the moment I find something interesting, Frida locks up the filing cabinet and tells me to mind my own business.” In his frustration, he shook me. “And now you're telling me that I have no business being here?”

Jack burst from the bushes with his gun drawn. “Let go of Casey. Now!”

Instead of doing as he was told, Nadeem's fingers tightened on my arms.

Mike Thatch burst out of the bushes from the other side, his finger on the trigger of his gun. “Put your hands in the air.”

Nadeem glared at me. “You set me up?” His fingers dug painfully into my arms.

“You're bruising me,” I said just as Jack swung the butt of his assault rifle and knocked Nadeem unconscious.

I jumped to my feet. “Why'd you hit him?”

“Because you'd never forgive me if I shot him,” Jack said as he secured Nadeem's wrists with plastic zip ties.

“But he didn't confess.” The treasure forgotten, I started to pace. “He didn't even give us any clues to what happened on Monday. You should have waited.”

“He was about to hurt you,” Jack said.

“He was a threat,” Thatch agreed as he helped haul Nadeem, who was already semi-awake, to his feet.

“I'm not a threat. Casey, tell them.” Nadeem slurred his words. “I'm not a threat.”

“Tell that to Manny,” Jack said as he unceremoniously marched Nadeem up the hill toward the White House. “You have a lot to answer for, including Frida's murder. You have one hell of a motive there, buddy.”

The sun was just starting to lighten the sky as Thatch and I stood side by side staring at the wooden casket I'd unearthed.

“Because of a box, Nadeem killed Frida?” Thatch nudged the wooden box with his toe. “Do you even know what's inside it?”

I shook my head. None of this made any sense.

Where was Marcel?

“Come on, I have work to do.” Thatch bent down and picked up the box. “Not too heavy. Can't be gold,” he said, echoing Nadeem's earlier comment.

Thatch carried the casket to the grounds office and dropped the filthy piece of history on my desk. He then put a hand on my shoulder. “Don't worry so much. I'm sure Manny will be able to get this sorted out. What we saw this morning should, if nothing else, delay the DA's action against Gordon. And it should convince the envoy from Turbekistan that it's safe to meet with the President. Heck, we can show Aziz that we have not one, but two suspects in custody. Gordon and Nadeem. Not only that, your dad has been wining and dining Aziz for several days now. Apparently, the two men worked together years ago on bringing down the Berlin Wall. He's an amazing man, your father. And the only guy Aziz would talk with. So don't worry, everything is working out.”

So that was the Calhoun whom Aziz had wanted to talk with? I was starting to wonder if I was the only one in D.C. who didn't know about my dad or that he was in town.

And none of that mattered. Not really. I paced the length of my office. What mattered was Gordon. Whoever killed Frida—
Nadeem?
—had made sure all the evidence pointed to Gordon. And nothing we'd done this morning counteracted that.

We needed a confession. I dropped into my desk chair. My stomach clenched as I stared at the box. Because of this hunk of dirt and wood, Gordon may go to jail for a crime he didn't commit.

Everything about this morning just felt . . . wrong.

I dug around in the desk's top drawer until I found a digital camera. The curator's office should be in charge of opening the box, but since Frida was dead and Nadeem was in custody, I supposed it wouldn't hurt if I pried the lid open. But before I did that, I thought I should take some pictures to document the outside of the box. And the opening process.

Once I'd finished taking pictures from every angle, I rattled the old brass lock. It was encrusted with two hundred years of dirt and corrosion. Even if I had a key, I doubted it would work. I dug around in my desk drawer again, searching for something I could use to pry the lock open.

“Do you need a knife?”

I whirled my desk chair around just as Marcel—or should I say Mac, since he no longer feigned a French accent—stepped into the room. The large messenger bag slung over his shoulder bounced off his hip.

“You!” I lunged for the phone. I managed to get my hand on the receiver and off the hook, but Marcel moved with amazing speed for the amount of weight he carried on his body. He used that weight to slam me back into my desk chair. His leather-gloved hand slapped across my mouth before I could scream.

From his jacket pocket he produced that dirty handkerchief I had seen several days earlier and stuffed it into my mouth and slapped a pre-cut piece of tape on it. Before I had a chance to react, he had pulled out a roll of duct tape and had taped my wrists to the desk chair's armrests and my ankles to the rolling chair's center support, wrapping the duct tape layer upon layer to keep me from being able to pull free. I twisted and turned, kicked and wiggled to no avail while he locked the office door.

“Now, let's see what we have here.” Marcel stuck his knife in the casket's corroded latch. “Don't look so surprised, Casey. I know you and your lover planned this morning's outing to trap me. But everyone underestimates poor, bumbling Marcel,
n'est-ce pas?
” He played up his false French accent for only a moment. “Who do you think tipped off Nadeem about the treasure? I did! I sent the lovesick fool running to your side. Pretty clever of me, don't you think?”

Marcel twisted the knife's blade against the lock. With a
crack
, the old brass latch broke. He set his messenger bag on the desk next to the box and opened it. Clearly, he meant to walk out of the White House with the treasure in that bag. His mouth twisted into an odd grin as he pried loose the wood lid, swollen from the rains, and opened the box.

“I have your treasure, Dad,” he said, beaming up at the ceiling with a look of triumph. “I didn't let anyone get it. Mom was wrong. She should have never let you leave us. Because here it is. It's yours. It's all—”

He froze as he stared into the box.

I leaned forward, straining against the tape holding my arms in place, trying to look inside the box.

“What's this?” he picked up the box and tossed its muddy contents at me. What landed on my lap and spilled over onto the floor wasn't gold or diamonds or pearls . . . but parchment sleeves.

“What have you done?” He moved with lightning speed as he swung out his thick arm and slapped me across my face. “Is this a joke?”

I blinked furiously, trying to tell him that it was no joke. Knowing how much Thomas Jefferson loved his gardens, I should have known envelopes of seeds would be his treasure. And oh, what a treasure it was! Not that the seeds were viable anymore. But the packets holding them were elegantly illustrated with color renderings of each plant along with written descriptions and their Latin names. And all of this had been done by Thomas Jefferson's own hand? It was a treasure more wonderful than anything I could ever have imagined, truly priceless.