All the President’s Menus (27 page)

When had I ever been so glib?

“So you see,” I concluded, “it’s now or never, and it really is very important that I get the chance to visit the table.”

The butlers desperately wanted to serve dessert. “We’re keeping our guests waiting,” one of them whispered.

This room was the Lincoln Room. I knew from history that this was the room where Montgomery Blair had entertained Abraham Lincoln whenever the president visited for their informal chats. This was the room in which Francis Blair, at the request of President Lincoln, had asked Robert E. Lee to lead the Union Army. It was also, presumably, this room, where Lee had turned that position down.

And it was from this room that I was about to risk a ridiculous gambit that would either save Ms. Freiberg’s life, or ruin both dinner
and
my career.

The one I assumed was the special agent in charge scratched his head. “Fine,” he said with clear exasperation. “But I’m going in there with you. Make it quick.”

“Yes, yes,” I said. Nerves made me jumpy.

He cast a glance back at the rest of the group in the Lincoln Room, then stepped through the dining room doorway. All polite chatter ceased at the sight of the large Secret Service agent. He eclipsed me, and it wasn’t until President Hyden broke the surprised silence with the guarded, “Yes?” that the big man stepped to one side, rendering me visible to the entire table.

In a split second, I noted that President Hyden was at the center of the table on the left, Kerry Freiberg center on the right. Cleto had been placed at the far end, the same side as President Hyden. I could feel the Saardiscan’s blazing eyes on me. That gave me less anxiety than the fact that Ms. Freiberg had Frosty on her lap, where she nuzzled the dog’s head. It was all I could do not to leap across the table to grab the pup.

“Ollie?” the president said. His expression had morphed from surprised to perplexed in the space of time it had taken me to take another step into the room.

It had been no more than four seconds since we’d made our entrance, but it was already painfully obvious that I’d been lying about being invited in.

“President Hyden.” I directed my gaze, my focus, and all my energy toward him. I’d depended on Gav being here, but he wasn’t. It was up to me to effectively make my case to our commander in chief. “May I . . . speak with you a moment?” My voice trembled, high and thin. My knees went soft. I shook.

The agent loomed behind me, close enough that I could feel his body heat radiating against my back.

“Ollie,” the president said, addressing me once again, “my guests and I have thoroughly enjoyed this wonderful meal you prepared. Please communicate our appreciation to your staff.” The gathered group offered murmurs of assent but the president watched me closely.

I flicked a glance toward Cleto, then toward Kerry Freiberg, wishing desperately for the president to know, telepathically, instinctively, what I wanted to convey. What I actually said came out tight and stilted. “Thank you very much. I will be happy to let them know how much you liked it.”

When I didn’t depart immediately, the other guests began trading uneasy glances. This unexpected interruption clearly made them uncomfortable. President Hyden continued to maintain eye contact with me. I got the feeling he was trying to figure out what was really going on here.

“Mr. President,” I began again, “before Marcel’s fabulous dessert is served, may I have a moment of your time? Privately?”

Giggles—poorly muffled ones—skittered around the table. I continued to lock eyes with President Hyden.

As the president folded his napkin and began to rise, Cleto spoke up. “What is this?” he asked. “In Saardisca, the hired help is never permitted to address our leaders in such a casual manner. How is it in America that you allow such behavior?”

The president, surprised by the outburst, turned to face the other man, who had now pushed away from the table and risen to his feet as well.

Cleto bunched his napkin and threw it onto the table. “I thank you for this dinner, but I must now depart.” With a hand on his stomach, he shook his head morosely. “This deficiency of propriety upsets me greatly.”

“Please, Mr. Damar,” President Hyden said in the diplomatic voice I’d heard him use on many occasions, “I’m sure this disruption is quite important. Chef Paras would not have stepped in here otherwise.”

Cleto dismissed President Hyden’s assertion with an impudent wave. He started around the far end of the table, making good on his pronouncement to leave, refusing to look at anyone in the room, including me. If I’d had even the slightest doubt about finagling my way in here, Cleto’s reaction put those fears to rest.

“Mr. Damar,” President Hyden said again.

Cleto kept his chin high, punctuating his obvious indignation with every furious step.

I turned to the guest of honor. “Ms. Freiberg,” I said, my voice quivering with effort, “put Frosty on the floor. Get her away from you.”

The Saardiscan candidate jerked with surprise at being addressed personally. She pulled Frosty closer to her chest, as though to protect the little dog.

“No, please, you must understand—”

Three Secret Service agents had gathered around me, huddling close, probably eager to eject me from the premises.

Cleto had originally begun making his way toward me, as though intending to exit through the front door. The moment I addressed Ms. Freiberg, however, he stopped in his tracks and doubled back. His goal was clear: the swinging door that led to the long hallway. He could disappear and be out of the house through the back exit in no time flat. While there were agents protecting the perimeter and preventing intruders from getting
in
, there was no guarantee they would apprehend a person exiting the home—especially when that person had been one of the esteemed guests.

Ignoring the agents’ menacing presence, I pointed toward Cleto. “Stop him,” I said. “Please.” In that same instant, the Saardiscan man made it to the swinging door and pushed through.

The agents spoke into their microphones, but not one of them moved.

“You have to trust me,” I said.

The room had gone completely still, like at the end of a stage play when the action freezes—that breathless second before the applause.

I stared at the president and he at me. No one spoke.

The stillness was broken by the barest of movements. President Hyden glanced up at the agents and gave a sharp nod. “Do it,” he said.

With that, one sped off, speaking into his microphone as he raced after Cleto. The other two remained in the room.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” I said. “Cleto has spread something into Frosty’s coat. A poison, or toxin, I think. It’s meant to harm Ms. Freiberg, I’m sure of it. Frosty, too.”

It took a moment for my words to sink in, but when they did, the assistant who’d been responsible for taking the dog outside jumped out of her chair. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she said something in Saardiscan, which I had to believe was confirmation that Cleto had come in contact with the dog.

Ms. Freiberg ran a hand along Frosty’s coat, bringing it up for everyone around the table to see. Flecks, like silt, dribbled from her fingertips. She turned to me, alarmed. “What is this?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it isn’t safe.”

She pulled Frosty ever closer, protectively, making the little dog wriggle in protest.

“Please,” I said, “we need to get Frosty to a vet. And you to a medical facility. Maybe everyone to a medical facility.”

To characterize the flurry of activity that followed as an exercise in terror would be to minimize its impact on everyone affected. After one of the remaining Secret Service agents consulted his superiors for instructions, all dinner guests, all Blair House staff members, and all of the chefs, including me, were immediately hustled into one room.

It had been decided to house everyone in the Jackson Place conference room, where we were to be quarantined for an unspecified period of time. Joining us were all the Secret Service agents who’d been on duty in the home as well.

The president and secretary of state conferred with a handful of Secret Service agents in one corner, while Mrs. Hyden, Kerry Freiberg, and her assistants sat around one end of the room’s large conference table, talking quietly. Frosty had been taken away immediately, but I didn’t know to where. Other guests formed a half-circle around them, everyone asking questions that no one had answers to.

For once, I was glad Gav wasn’t here. I’d discovered that he’d been called away during dinner, before Cleto had pulled out the threatening dust that had spurred my actions. I hoped that meant Gav was safe.

Cyan was seated, looking pale. Staring at the floor, she had her hands clasped around one knee while the other bounced a nervous rhythm. Bucky and I remained standing, taking up positions on either side of her chair. Marcel and his assistant sat about ten feet away. Blair House staff members gathered in groups, from which they shot apprehensive looks toward one another.

“You really did it this time,” Bucky said, under his breath.

“I had to.” There was nothing else I could say.

Hazmat professionals arrived. They were covered head to toe in protective gear, and did their best to ease our panic. Their mechanically distorted voices, however, served to ratchet up the paranoia rather than to soothe.

I wanted to be wrong. I wanted all this high-tech testing to turn out to have been unnecessary. Even though I knew that being wrong would cost me everything in terms of career and reputation, not to mention subject me to stinging ridicule, I wished with all my might that whatever substance Cleto had shuffled into Frosty’s fur would turn out to be harmless to humans as well as to pets.

*   *   *

From our vantage point in the Jackson Place conference room, we watched as dozens of individuals in protective gear carried in screens and equipment, along with microscopes and metal trees like the ones used to hold IV bags.

Hazmat specialists explained the next steps, letting us know that everyone would be tested for toxins. We were assured that it was extremely unlikely that any of us had been exposed to a lethal substance, and that this was all simply precaution.

Someone asked what toxin they suspected, but the hazmat guy in charge wouldn’t elaborate.

Kerry Freiberg, President Hyden, and the First Lady were the first to be escorted out for examination. They were followed by the secretary of state and then on down the line until no more dinner guests remained.

Cyan’s voice was so quiet that I had to ask her to repeat herself.

“Are we going to die?”

“We’re all going to die,” Bucky said. “Let’s just hope it isn’t tonight.”

I glared at him across the top of Cyan’s head. He shrugged but his eyes were tight with worry.

“I don’t know, Cyan,” I said. “I’m only guessing here, but if Cleto was comfortable enough to handle whatever the toxin was, it has to be something that’s safe in small doses, or after short exposure. We were nowhere near him, except for that brief moment when I spoke with him in the hallway. You and Bucky should be fine.”

“What if it’s airborne?” she asked. “What if we’ve all breathed it in?” She flung a hand out. “These people didn’t show up in protective gear because they think it’s fun to dress up, you know.”

“The only argument I can offer is that Cleto was here the whole time. I don’t think he’d release a pathogen into air that he was breathing.”

“Unless he was on a suicide mission,” Bucky said.

“Bucky!”

This time Cyan glared up at him, too.

Just then, four hazardous materials specialists tramped into the Jackson Place conference room, carrying what looked like sensors, which they waved in the air above our heads. When they finished, the four conferred near the doorway, clustering close together, making them look like something from out of a sci-fi thriller film. After a few minutes they left, without having spoken a word.

Cyan looked up at me. Her eyes were red. She pointed to where the hazmat professionals had just exited. “If the air is so safe to breathe, then how do you explain that?” Standing up, she began to pace, arms folded tight against her middle.

Kerry Freiberg and Frosty hadn’t returned. Neither had the president. No one who had been called away had been brought back to this room. Time had been moving so slowly I’d stopped consulting my watch. Through it all, hazmat-clad officers continued to call people, sometimes two, three, or four at a time, escorting them out to who-knows-where.

As Cyan paced, Bucky stared out the window. Marcel and his assistant looked dejected and forlorn.

Everyone else in the room: butlers, maids, miscellaneous staff members and Secret Service agents, did his or her best to maintain decorum and remain calm. I took a seat, resting my elbows on the shiny table. Dropping my head into my hands, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something I could have done sooner to spare us this terror, this misery.

“Olivia Paras.”

I looked up. A team member at the doorway reading from a clipboard had summoned me for examination—whatever that entailed. I stood, making my way over to the Tyvek-clad official.

I asked the agent—a woman whose bright hazel eyes seemed to convey sympathy through the helmet’s plastic guard—to take Cyan in my place, then Bucky, and the other chefs, before taking me. She agreed.

Little by little, the room’s numbers dwindled. I worried for Gav. I worried for the president and Kerry Freiberg. I worried for my team. And ultimately, I worried for myself.

*   *   *

When there were four of us left, we were motioned to follow by the same agent who had originally called my name. “This way,” she said.

As we traversed through the historic home, we passed machines I couldn’t begin to recognize, dozens of hazmat experts poring over reports, and white Tyvek stretched over furniture and plastered against walls. All so high-tech. All so futuristic. I felt much like Elliott did when he and E.T. were confined in the makeshift hospital in the family’s home.

One by one, the woman handed us off to other agents, who led their charges into Blair House lavatories that had been transformed into examining rooms. When it was just the female agent and me, she led me down a long hall into a large, ornate bathroom that reeked of disinfectant.

Closing the door, she hit me with a battery of questions regarding my health history. I answered as quickly and thoroughly as I could. She continued with questions about how close I’d gotten to Cleto this evening, how much time I’d spent in the dining room, and if I’d come in contact at all with Frosty.

“How is everyone else?” I asked. “The president? Ms. Freiberg? Frosty?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have that information.”

I provided a urine sample and a vial of blood. She disappeared with them both, returning a short while later.

She handed me a bright blue capsule and a paper cup of water. “Take this,” she said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Prussian Blue.”

That was an accurate description of its color, but didn’t really answer my question. I hesitated.

The woman pointed at the pill in my open palm. “The name of that drug is Prussian Blue. It’s our best defense against thallium poisoning, which is what we’re dealing with here. I’ll give you information about what to expect in terms of side effects before you’re released. You may develop an upset stomach. That’s normal.”

“Thallium?”

“Because its presence was detected early enough”—she raised her eyebrows and smiled in a way that told me she knew the part I’d played in tonight’s drama—“there’s little to no chance of long-term adverse effects. I’m sorry we don’t have any more information at this time. But I do promise you’ll receive additional information later.”

Two important things rang in my mind: I’d been right about a toxin, and she’d used the word
released
.

I swallowed the pill.

She turned on the shower, instructing me to strip and scrub with the cleansers provided while she waited outside. She handed me a pair of blue cotton pants and a matching shirt, much like those I was used to seeing on dental hygienists and lab techs. “Put these on when you’re finished. Your clothing will be laundered and returned to you later. Open the door when you’re ready.”

Although the fresh, hot water sluicing over freshly scrubbed skin felt wonderful, I couldn’t help but be worried for everyone else. Especially Gav. Where was he?