Fonduing Fathers (34 page)

It was then I noticed Yablonski. He stood in front of one of the two sofas that faced each other at the room’s center.

My mouth was completely dry. I didn’t know what to say, to do. Fortunately for both of us, Gav had had a lot more experience with the president in such situations than I had. “Are we to assume this meeting has something to do with our recent extracurricular activities?” he asked.

Yablonski almost smiled. “You may assume that.”

I finally found my voice. To the president, I said, “I want to thank you for all you did…” He started to wave away my gratitude, but I needed to finish. “Especially for listening to Josh. Your son saved my life. He’s an amazing young man.”

President Hyden beamed. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I have come to realize that he’s learning more from you during your sessions in the kitchen than I had anticipated. I hope you’ll continue to look out for him, as long as we’re here in the White House.”

“It would be my great honor,” I said.

President Hyden gestured toward the sofa closest to the door as he and Yablonski took seats on the one opposite. As we sat, the president said, “I’ve called you here for a specific reason.” Making eye contact with us both, he went on, “But first I need to get assurances—from both of you—that whatever you hear in this room today stays here.”

I glanced at Gav. We answered, “Of course,” simultaneously.

Yablonski cleared his throat, pointing to the file on the low table between us. “The documents in front of you are classified. Only certain very high-ranking members of federal authorities are allowed access.”

The president picked up the story. “It has come to my attention that your recent altercation came about because you, Olivia, were searching for answers about your father.” He pointed to the folder. “Until you brought your concerns to Mr. Yablonski’s attention, he had no knowledge of the dangers your father faced protecting this country. Nor had I.”

My breaths were coming in quick, anxious gasps. What was going on here? I tried my best to focus on what the president was saying.

He hefted the thick folder. “I have a meeting I’m already late for, but I’ve offered the office to you and Mr. Yablonski for as long as you need.” He smiled. “Well, until my meeting is over—at least an hour. The folder cannot leave this room with you, but you are welcome to read through any or all of it as long as I have your solemn word that you never share its contents with anyone.”

“I won’t,” I said.

Gav nodded.

“That means,” Yablonski warned, “that you can’t tell your mother, either. Not a word of what you learn here.”

“I understand.”

The president placed the file on my lap. He stood and we did, too, me grasping tightly to the bundle as though afraid he might suddenly change his mind. He shook our hands, wished us the best, and within seconds was out the door opposite the one we’d come in.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, unable to help myself as we resumed our seats. “We’re actually in the Oval Office? Reading a classified file? What could be in here?”

I placed the folder on the table and opened it. The first sheet inside didn’t offer much, simply a giant red-stamped
warning not to proceed without appropriate authorization. Pages were bound and impossible to remove.

Yablonski pulled in a deep breath. “There’s a lot to get through, certainly more than you would be able to digest in an hour. May I offer assistance?”

I turned the file to face him. He flipped a number of pages before finding what he was looking for. “First, I want you to see this.” Twisting the folder to face me once again, he pointed a fat finger. “Your father’s authentic military record.”

I pulled the entire book to my lap and took a look at the Department of Defense form he indicated. “Joint Message Form?” I read, puzzled. My fingers traced the computer printout, running down the numbered list like a three-year-old learning to read. “This is dated right after he was killed. Why would this be in here? He wasn’t still in the service when…” Pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. “Wait…”

Yablonski wiggled his fingers in a “give it to me” gesture. I complied. He paged through further. “Take a look,” he said.

He turned the book to face me and I read another Department of Defense form: “Report of Casualty.” It listed my dad’s name, rank, and pay grade among other pertinent information. My breath caught when I reached the box where the circumstances of my father’s death—two forty-five caliber shots to the head—were recorded there in black-and-white. “My dad…” I began, “he never left the service?”

“Your father was working as a military operative at Pluto. He was brought in when—”

I couldn’t stop myself from blurting, “They’ve been selling tainted products all these years? No one’s stopped them?”

Gav placed a restraining hand on my knee but it was too late. Yablonski graced me with one of those “quit
interrupting” grimaces he was so fond of. “Perhaps you’d care to hear the entire explanation before you jump to conclusions?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, inching forward. “I really am. Please go on.”

“You can read the notes, all the orders, the background, and the reports, but what it comes down to is this: Pluto never sold tainted products. That was an allegation Fitch made and there is no truth to it whatsoever.”

I wanted to express my surprise aloud, but held my tongue.

Yablonski continued. “Years ago, Craig Benson discovered that Harold Linka was using his company, Pluto, as a front to smuggle contraband—drugs, weapons, you name it—to enemies of the United States. He discovered this quite by accident. Instead of firing him on the spot, however, he made a shrewd move. He called a friend at the Pentagon.”

He tapped the pages where preliminary reports explained Pluto’s initial contact and the authorities’ enthusiastic response. I then read Eugene Vaughn’s glowing recommendation of my father for the undercover job. He praised him as “tenacious, resourceful, and utterly trustworthy.”

“Because your father was active military and had prior success in other undercover operations,” Yablonski went on, “the decision was made to have it appear as though he’d been dishonorably discharged. The idea being that Linka would be more likely to trust a man who held a grudge against the United States. Your father agreed to everything. He went into Pluto with the mission of taking Linka down. And in a way, he did.”

I paged further, not really knowing what I was looking for. The folder was thick, mostly with reports and forms. I could spend all day reading and not get through it all.

Apparently, however, Yablonski had memorized the book. “Linka believed your father was about to tell Pluto what was going on under their noses. He had no idea your dad was an undercover agent working for the government.
Linka had him killed just as he was to deliver key evidence that would have closed up the illegal operations.”

“But if the authorities knew about Linka,” I said, risking Yablonski’s wrath yet again, “how was he allowed to continue? I mean, it’s been more than twenty-five years. Couldn’t they have sent in another operative?”

“That’s where the story takes an unusual twist,” he said, “and why your father’s records could never be released.”

Gav was way ahead of me on this one. “They
did
send in another operative, didn’t they?” He tapped a finger against his lips and stared as though seeing the story unfold before him. “There has always been an undercover agent at Pluto since then, hasn’t there?”

Yablonski beamed at his star pupil. “Absolutely correct.” To me, he said, “Your father gave us a great gift. He managed to keep his undercover mission secret from Linka, even after his death. This left the door open for authorities to send in more agents.”

“But Linka was injured on the job,” I said.

“An accident.” Yablonski nodded. “The powers that be worried that he’d disappear so deep they wouldn’t be able to find him and keep tabs on him the way they had, but they scrambled and came up with another idea. Pluto offered Linka continued employment working from home. This kept the lines of communication open and allowed the FBI and CIA to monitor his dealings all these years.”

“Why didn’t they just stop him?”

“Sometimes,” Yablonski said, “you have more control when your subject doesn’t realize you’re the one pulling the strings. Linka was a small fish in the realm of war supplies, but he had connections to some of the deepest, biggest cells across the globe. By using Linka’s network without his knowledge, we were able to shut down terrorist pods all over the world. And we’ve been doing so for years.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Indeed. Your father was a hero.”

I turned to Gav. “I knew it.”

He put an arm around me. “I know you did.”

Facing Yablonski again, I said, “I’m just sorry my mother will never know the truth.”

The man looked alarmed. “You gave your word.”

“I know I did,” I said with a little asperity. “I’m certainly not going to go back on it.” I had a thought, though. “Can I tell her that we—Gav and I—know the truth, without actually telling her what it is? I know that will be enough for her. I’ll tell her to trust me that everything is okay now.”

“No specifics?”

“No specifics. I promise.”

“Very well. Do you have any other questions right now, before you read through?” He glanced at his watch. “I have to stay with you until you’re done. I’ve been entrusted with the responsibility of returning this file to its proper home.”

“Just one,” I said. “What role did Michael Fitch play in this saga? Linka was convinced he’d told me something, but all Fitch claimed was that Pluto was selling tainted products. Linka thought I knew much more than I did and he believed I’d learned it from Fitch.”

Yablonski sighed. “Fitch,” he said.

We waited.

“Fitch was a terrified, suspicious man who got in over his head. Back when your father worked there, Fitch began nosing around. Your dad warned him off. Apparently he was only partially successful because after your dad was killed, Linka began feeding Fitch the tainted supply story—warning him not to go to the police because then Pluto would have them killed, like they’d killed your dad.”

“So Fitch died for nothing?”

Yablonski hesitated. “Fitch wasn’t killed. We were careful never to announce his death to the media. He and his wife are in protective custody until we figure out the best way to debrief them without telling them the entire story.”

“He’s alive?” I put my hands over my face in relief. “I’m so glad. Such a poor, sad man.”

“He broke down after you visited him,” Yablonski said. “He saw your inquiries as his wake-up call—his chance to make things right for once in his life. He thought that by confronting Craig Benson, he’d be able to make his years of living in fear worth the sacrifice.”

“I feel responsible.”

“We all make choices,” he said, “and we must be willing to take responsibility for them. Fitch learned that late in life. The paradox here is that if he’d come forward with his allegations sooner, we may not have had control over Linka for as long as we had.”

Gav, Yablonski, and I spent the rest of our allotted time going through the folder. “You did this for us,” I said to the older man as we wrapped up. “You spent time learning what was in this file because you knew we wouldn’t have the opportunity to digest it all. Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do.”

When the president’s aide came in and announced it was time for us to leave, we did so with me feeling better about my dad than I ever had. “He was a true hero,” Yablonski repeated as he saw us out. “You can tell your mother that, too.”

Gav gripped my hand as we were escorted out of the West Wing. “You know,” he said, “Yablonski is right.”

“About what?” I asked.

“About making our own choices.”

I looked up at him, trying to understand where he was going with that, but he didn’t say anything more. We followed the page into the residence where the young man left us to make our own way through the Family Dining Room into the Butler’s Pantry. From there we took the elevator down to the ground floor in deference to Gav. With that cane, he wasn’t ready for stairs yet.

When we reentered the kitchen, my team turned to us expectantly.

“Let me guess,” Bucky said with an indignant head wiggle. “You can’t tell us anything.”

I held out my hands and tried to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

Cyan studied Gav for a long moment, surveying us with an odd expression. I could tell she’d noticed how close together we stood. “I think you owe us at least a little explanation.”

I felt warmth in my cheeks. “Maybe I do,” I began.

“Wait,” Gav interrupted. “Ollie?” Something in his voice was different. A little shy, a little bold. Was he trying to tell me he preferred we hold off spilling the beans about our relationship?

When I turned to him, he reached for me, clasping my hand. His gaze was warm, not at all White House appropriate. “Remember when you were hanging the shower curtain?”

My face flushed. Of course I remembered. “I do.”

He started to get down on one knee.

“No, don’t,” I said, grabbing both his arms, pulling him back up.

He straightened. “No?”

I swallowed, giddy now. “Not no. Definitely not no. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He wrapped his free arm around me and tugged close. “Always thinking about others, aren’t you?”

“What in the world is going on?” asked Virgil.

Cyan and Bucky knew; I could see it in their eyes. I eased out of Gav’s embrace, ran my fingers down the inside of his arm and gripped his free hand in mine. Together we faced my team. “You all remember Special Agent Leonard Gavin?”

I waited for them to nod.

“It seems that Gav and I have a little paperwork to take care of this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll be back in a bit. And, oh
one more thing.” I grinned. “I’ll be taking a personal day off.”

“Another one?” Virgil grumbled. “When?”

My fingers laced through Gav’s. His eyes twinkled as I gazed up at him. I would love this man until the day I died.

“Three days from now?” I whispered.