Buffalo West Wing (21 page)

Startled out of my reverie, I shook my head. “I don’t.”

“Come on, Ollie,” she said. “You always have some weird instinct that gets you into the middle of everything.”

“I don’t,” I said again. With a pointed look at Nourie, I added, “I’m sure you’ve heard about my run-ins.”

He nodded. “Part of our briefing.”

“Except for our initial involvement,” I said, “and what Tom has been sharing with me, I’m keeping out of this one completely.”

Cyan gave me a skeptical look.

“The last thing I need is to cause any trouble with the new family,” I said. “Believe me, I’m keeping my nose as clean as possible this time. I have no capital with them and recent fiascos are causing me enough grief already. My hands are tied.”

Cyan smiled and jostled Nourie’s shoulder. “That’s what she says now. Just wait. She’ll get into the middle of this.”

“Our team has everything covered,” he said, smiling at me. “I think you’re safe this time.”

Although I maintained a cheery attitude and upbeat demeanor throughout dinner, I couldn’t wait to get away from them. All I wanted was to be by myself.

I rode the Metro home, alone, staring at the world outside rushing by. Dinner with Cyan and Nourie made me think of Gav. I’d missed my chance to see him this weekend, and for some reason that made me very sad.

 

“Did you see this?” Cyan asked when I got in Wednesday morning.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked her.

She didn’t answer my question. Not that I couldn’t have figured it out. Agent Nourie was at his post, overseeing Virgil’s breakfast preparations. With Virgil in the kitchen these days taking care of the regular meals, there was no reason for the rest of us to get in every day at 5 A.M. I still held the overall responsibility for the kitchen so I made it my business to be here, but Cyan didn’t need to. Of course, where new love was concerned, what did a few hours of sleep matter? I glanced around the kitchen. Where
was
Virgil?

“Come see this,” she said. “Congresswoman Sechrest is making a statement.”

“Right now?” I asked, “What did I miss?”

Cyan shook her head as she raised the volume.

Recorded in the Brady Press Briefing Room, Sandy Sechrest held on to the sides of the lectern with both hands. Concern tightened her forehead, and she spoke haltingly. “The president has asked me to update you. He will make a personal statement later, but he is currently in talks with a representative from Armustan and cannot be pulled away.”

This was odd.

“As you all know, Lyman Hall Hospital was taken by force a week ago. The terrorists responsible were arrested, and the hostages were freed without further casualties. What we have learned from our contact from Armustan, however, is that this faction will not be deterred. Although the faction claims to be working on behalf of Armustan, they are not supported by the country’s government. Their goal is to have the known terrorist, Farbod, freed from the prison in my jurisdiction in Wisconsin. The rebel faction struck here in Washington, D.C., but we have intercepted intelligence that suggests other strikes across the nation are being planned. We need the American people to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity.”

Questions from the reporters—the room was surprisingly full for this early in the morning—were all over the place. One member of the press stood up and said, “If this is just one faction, aren’t you and the president overreacting?”

Her answer chilled me to the bone.

“No,” she said very quietly, then added, “The people we are talking about are ruthless. They will stop at nothing to achieve their objective—the freedom of their leader, Farbod. We cannot relax our efforts. Not for one moment. Not until every single one of them is incarcerated.”

“And you believe this small group can wreak havoc on the entire country?”

She nodded. “Not all at once. But we have intercepted enough to know that they are capable of striking at our very heart. They are ruthless and they are smart. We cannot let our guard down. We must get the word out. Every American needs to be our eyes and ears. We need to report every suspicious activity, no matter how small ...”

As Congresswoman Sechrest continued, the press conference muted and a reporter broke in to sum up. “There you have the latest, recorded at the White House earlier this morning. As requested by the president, we will rebroadcast Congresswoman Sechrest’s comments throughout the day.” She turned to face a different camera. “Reactions from around the country are mixed. Many individuals are confused by Sechrest’s warnings—people claim they don’t understand exactly what to look out for. Authorities are concerned about widespread panic, and police departments are already reporting an influx of calls, most of which have turned out to be unfounded.”

The shot cut to a police sergeant in front of a row of palm trees. He removed his hat to wipe his forehead. “This is nuts,” he said. “We’re running around here trying to follow up. It’s a field day for the small-time players because our department is stretched too thin. You ask me, this is all a hoax. They just want to make American cops look like idiots, chasing shadows.” He turned to answer the crackling of his radio. “Sorry,” he told the reporter. “Gotta go.”

Cyan turned the sound down. “Congresswoman Sechrest was in negotiations with the president and leaders from Armustan till early this morning.”

“Nobody told us.” I panicked. “Did somebody make sure they got fed?”

“I guess they didn’t need to tell us. Virgil was here and took care of everything.”

That was good, although the belated update set me off-kilter. I should have been here, ensuring things went smoothly. There was always plenty of food in our kitchen and the one upstairs for butlers to arrange meals, but I hated to have the president in any type of negotiations without the best possible fare to provide calm comfort when it might be needed. “Where is Virgil now?”

She pointed up. “Sleeping.”

“What?” I took a look around the kitchen. “What about breakfast?”

“He started, but handed it off to me when I got in. Said he was up all night.”

I was glad the kitchen had been covered, but upset that I hadn’t been consulted. Still, I couldn’t complain as long as the president was happy. “How did everything go? Did Virgil tell you?”

“Said it went very smoothly. No problems.”

“Good,” I said, and meant it.

Cyan and I finished the breakfast Virgil had begun. Although I had to give the guy credit for creativity, I thought it was too much. I would not have paired prunes with pumpkin yogurt and then topped it with walnuts and cut-up figs. Fiber was important, but I thought he’d overdone it. From what I had gathered, the president preferred light breakfasts of toast or croissant and coffee. He was more of a lunch man. But the yogurt went up along with an unusual fish quiche. I was very interested in how these items would be received. Virgil had cooked for this family before. He obviously knew something I didn’t.

Maybe it was good he was on staff after all. I was always open to learning new things, and I suspected Virgil had a great deal to teach—if he was willing to do so. Time would tell.

As soon as a bleary-eyed Virgil returned to the kitchen, Bucky, Cyan, and I dove into preparations for the tasting on Friday and the subsequent dinner the following week. There were some basics the First Lady would not need to taste, and Marcel in the pastry kitchen would prepare the dessert options to offer along with our fare on Friday night.

“You’re actually making all this food just to taste-test?” Virgil asked midafternoon. “How many people will be testing?”

“Usually just a few, but we’re adding the kids this time around,” I said. “And Mrs. Hyden has also invited Valerie and a couple of other staff members to offer their opinions.”

He nodded, but didn’t seem terribly impressed.

“How did breakfast go?” I asked. “We sent up everything just as you arranged, but I haven’t heard back from the butlers. I was particularly interested in that yogurt.”

“That’s one of my new creations.”

“I tried it,” I said, “before it went up.”

“What?” His face reddened. “Didn’t you trust me?”

Surprised by his reaction, I got a little defensive myself. “We always taste-test.” I pointed to the containers of spoons we kept everywhere in the kitchen. “It’s part of the job.”

“Not when it’s food I prepare,” he said.

“Not to split hairs, Virgil, but we did the preparing.”

“You were second-guessing me.”

“I was doing nothing of the sort. And anyway, if you haven’t already figured it out, everything that leaves this kitchen for the Hyden family table gets taste-tested.” I pointed to Nourie and then to Gardez. “By them.”

“What is wrong with you people?” He held up both hands and backed away. “Wait, don’t tell me. This isn’t my kitchen. I don’t make the rules.” Pursing his lips he made a face. “I’ll just head back to my corner now, thank you very much.”

This was a twist I hadn’t anticipated. “Virgil—” I began.

“No, no. You go ahead. Work on your precious state dinner while I take care of the
president of the United States
and his family.” With his hands still up he said, “I’m just a nobody here.” Under his breath he added, “As though feeding the leader of the free world was of no consequence.”

“Virgil,” I said, this time sharply. “May I see you a moment?” I pointed. “Out there.”

He followed me into the hallway, which was surprisingly deserted. He looked as though he wanted to speak first, but I cut him off.

“I do not tolerate that sort of outburst in my kitchen.”

At the words
my kitchen,
he raised his eyebrows. Let him.

“If we are to work together, then we have to respect each other.”

Again, he looked as though he was ready to jump in. Again, I cut him off.

“I don’t care what you may really believe, but in this kitchen, just like in this residence, you check your politics and your personal opinions at the door.”

He didn’t seem to comprehend, so I spelled it out for him. “I don’t care what you think of me, but in this kitchen, in this house, you better learn to fake it.”

He took a step back, as though surprised by my reaction.

Just then, the elevator next to us landed, and the doors opened. Mrs. Hyden emerged. I pasted on a pleasant expression and hoped Virgil would do the same. “Good morning,” the First Lady said. “Just the two people I wanted to see. How is everything in the kitchen?”

“Wonderful,” I said.

She nodded, as though she’d expected me to say just that. “I know that we’re all going to work best together if we maintain an atmosphere of openness.”

My heart sank. What now?

She smiled, but I could tell it was more to set us at ease than as a precursor of happy news. “I would like to talk about breakfast this morning.” Her eyebrows came together as though she was trying to put a puzzle together. “You didn’t prepare it, Virgil, did you?”

“No,” he said, gesturing to me. “Ollie and Cyan ...”

“That’s what I suspected.” Again the bad-news smile. “Ollie,” she said kindly, “I know you’re trying very hard to impress us and discover our tastes through experimentation, but this morning’s menu was ”—her nose wrinkled—“a bit too unusual.” She turned to Virgil. “I know you were up all night with my husband, and that’s why Ollie and ... and her assistants ... took over this morning. Maybe it would be best if you coached them going forward.” When she smiled at Virgil, it was with real warmth. “After all, you have a much better handle on our preferences.”

I looked to Virgil, expecting him to volunteer that it had been
his
menu we’d prepared, but he remained maddeningly silent. Of course. Why should he admit that he’d been the one to come up with superprunes and fish quiche? His expression was unreadable and for the first time, I wondered if he’d set us up.

As though to smooth out her reproach, Mrs. Hyden turned to me again. “But from what I hear, you are the master when it comes to preparing lavish state dinners. I’m very much looking forward to our tasting on Friday.”

“So am I.” At that moment, I vowed to create the most impressive state dinner ever produced. If I could accomplish that without Virgil’s assistance, all the better. Maybe he should go to Camp David with Abigail after all.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said. Giving a three-fingered wave, she strode toward the Palm Room, en route to the West Wing.

“You threw me under the bus,” I said the moment she was gone. “I won’t forget it.”

I pivoted and returned to the kitchen without giving him a chance to reply.

CHAPTER 18

THURSDAY AFTERNOON, JOSH ARRIVED IN THE kitchen after school, practically skipping. “I’m here,” he said. “I want to help.”

“Hey, Josh,” Nourie said, tousling the boy’s head. Despite the fact that no further direct threats to the White House had materialized, both Secret Service taste-tester agents remained at their posts. According to Tom, if all went well, they would be released from the kitchen and returned to regular duty right after the state dinner. The two men hadn’t been any real problem, but I would be happy to have them gone. Big boys took up valuable work space.