State of the Onion (21 page)

I WAS LUCKY, IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. BOTH groundskeepers—the man with the lawn mower and the one with the pickup truck—were bona fide cemetery workers. And both had seen the killer chasing me. Not well enough to offer a description, but well enough to support my claim of hijacking the pickup in order to save my life. The shot that took out the pickup's rear window helped, too.

Once the police officers who surrounded me understood that I wasn't a threat—the cell phone practically had to be pried from my petrified fingers—they were more than willing to allow me to call the White House to let Henry know, again, that I'd be late, although again, I couldn't tell him why.

I was beginning to believe that Laurel Anne might be the best choice for executive chef after all. It seemed that everywhere I turned, I was involved in trouble that prevented me from doing my job.

I sat in a small cemetery office with a paper cup of water in my hand, waiting for my ride. The police had generously offered to escort me back to the White House and I'd accepted. No way was I getting on the Metro again. Not a chance.

My cell phone wasn't receiving service, so I got up and walked the short hallway, until near the windows, I got a signal.

Tom answered on the second ring. “Hey,” he said, without his customary joviality, “what's up?”

Words failed me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It was too much. The weight of it all crushed my throat closed.

“Ollie,” he said, tersely. “I got a busy day here. Can I call you later?”

Like a geyser, I burst forth all at once. “He tried to kill me. He's here in Arlington. He shot at me. I stole a truck.”

“Say that again,” he said. “Slow.”

“The guy who killed Naveen. He's here.”

“How do you know?”

“He tried again, Tom.” I hated the desperation in my voice, hated the water shaking in the cup from my unsteady hand, but I couldn't help myself. “He tried to kill me. Today. Here. Just now.”

“Where are you?”

“Arlington Cemetery.” I enunciated carefully. Hadn't I just said that?

“Where?”

I looked around. I had no idea. When they'd bundled me into a car and driven me here, I'd blanked out. “In an office.” I looked out the window and realized where I was. “In the administration building.”

“I'll be there in fifteen.”

“Wait,” I said. “I've already given my statement. They're going to drive me back to the White House.”

“No,” he said, and there was something different in his voice this time. It scared me. “I will come get you. Do not leave there.”

“But,” I said, glad of his concern, but worried about him now, “you said you have a busy day. They're finding someone to drive me, right now. I'm not hurt.”

“Ollie.” The frightening tone was back. “Do not go anywhere with anyone. I will come get you now. Do you understand?”

I nodded and realized he couldn't see me. My voice was croaky. “Yeah.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

TOM WAS SILENT FOR THE FIRST FULL MINUTE of our ride to the White House. Like a chastised child I sat near the passenger door staring out the window, unsure of his mood, unsure of mine, and utterly unable to explain what had happened out there by my dad's grave.

“We need to talk,” he finally said.

“I need to get back to the kitchen.”

“This is more important.”

I couldn't believe that anything was more important than working on tomorrow night's state dinner, but I didn't argue.

We whipped past cars, well over the posted speed limit. I thought he'd drop me off at Pennsylvania, but he didn't. He continued to E Street, signaling to the guard who protected the closed avenue. In all, the trip had taken us half the time it should have.

“I never come in this way,” I said.

Tom waited till we were within the White House grounds to stop the car. He pulled to the side and turned to me. “Ollie,” he said. “There's been a development.”

My stomach made a flip-flop and I knew what he was going to say. “What?” I asked.

“The Chameleon isn't dead.”

Now my stomach twisted. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

We were both silent a long moment.

I fought to keep calm, but my heart raced and I felt suddenly lightheaded. “It was him at Arlington,” I said.

“I'm sure it was.”

“He got away.”

Tom stared at me. “We'll get him Ollie. I promise.”

“Why is he after me?” I asked. “I saw him, sure, but I thought he was here for some big assassination plot. Isn't that what Naveen was trying to tell me?” I told Tom about the attempted break-in at my apartment and I reminded him that it was the same night the fellow at the range followed me. I thought they were all related and I said so, even though I didn't think it made any sense at all. “The Chameleon didn't come all this way to target an assistant chef.”

Tom shrugged, draped an arm over the steering wheel and stared out at the grounds. “You're a loose end. You're a liability. This guy hasn't had his successes—if you want to call them that—by leaving loose ends.” He studied his hand. “Don't leave here tonight without me, okay? I'll make sure you get home safe.”

I started to say, “I'll be fine,” but thought better of it after what had just happened. “Thanks.”

He put the car in gear. “I'll sleep on your couch.”

HENRY AND I WALKED FIVE SOUS-CHEFS through their individual responsibilities for tomorrow night's dinner. We'd worked with all of them—three men, two women—before, and they understood what we wanted, and took to their tasks with such confidence, it allowed Henry and me to take a breather to visit Marcel's corner of the kitchen.

Before we did, Henry pulled me aside. Over the sounds of pans clattering on stove burners, whisks against stainless-steel pans, and cabinets opening and closing, we didn't worry about being overheard. “There's something else going on, isn't there?”

I wanted to say, “Yes, yes!” but instead, I asked, “Going on with what?”

He pulled a paper from his pocket. “This.”

It was the picture of the man who'd killed Naveen. The picture the sketch artist had come up with based on my description. When I saw it, I assumed Henry had kept his copy folded in his pocket, just like I kept mine, until he said, “They say this Chameleon is dead, but yet this morning, we were handed these pictures a second time. We were instructed to be watchful. Extra careful with everyone we encounter.”

He looked back toward where our sous-chefs were hard at work and where the additional temporary staff members kept busy under Bucky's and Cyan's sharp eyes. “I find myself scrutinizing every one of those young people. And yet, I know most of them. I don't know what is going on here. But I think you do.”

I hesitated, but it was enough to let Henry know he'd hit the mark. “I can't talk about it,” I began. “But—”

“I understand. Of course I do. But—”

“I'm sure I can tell you this much,” I said, touching a corner of the drawing. “This man is very dangerous. Whether or not he's the Chameleon.”

“Ollie, I'm afraid for you.” Henry seemed suddenly old. “Every time there's been some altercation recently, on the White House lawn, at the National Mall, and even this morning, at Arlington…”

“You know about that?”

“I know that there was a shooting. Again. And coincidentally—again—you called to tell me you'd be late coming to work.”

“I'm sorry.”

He held up a hand. “I'm not looking for an apology, nor an explanation. I'm simply…” Henry ran his fingers through his sparse hair, closing his eyes for a couple of beats. “I'm simply asking you to be careful. Both for your safety”—he gazed out over the banging, clattering, bustling kitchen—“and for your chances at taking over my job.” He stared at me, and it hurt to see the emotion there. “I don't want Laurel Anne to take over my home.” He sighed. “Promise me you'll watch your step. In everything.”

Just like when Tom had made me promise to call him when I needed to leave, I said, “I promise.”

“Come on, then,” he said. “We have much yet to do.”

Marcel's desserts were always breathtaking in their beauty, but this time the master claimed to have bested himself. He held up his hand as Henry and I drew near. “One moment,” he said. Then, to an unseen assistant around the corner, he called, “You are ready?”

A muffled, affirmative reply.

Marcel's bright smile gestured us forward and we followed him. Just inside the next room, a small table butted up against the countertop. The item in the middle was covered with wide white butcher paper, making it look like a sharply angular ghost. I knew from prior experience that Marcel preferred to keep his creations dust-free this way. Cloth had a tendency to catch on his desserts' delicate edges and break them off.

Now he asked us, “You are ready?”

Henry and I nodded.

Marcel and his assistant lifted the paper.

The beauty caught my breath.

Tomorrow night's dessert centerpiece—about twelve inches high—was, indeed, his most magnificent creation yet. Like a giant flame, three distinct tongues of fire twisted upward around a crystalline sphere.

Henry whistled.

I walked around it. “Sugar?”

“Mais évidemment.”

If I hadn't been familiar with Marcel's methods, I would've assumed the centerpieces were created from glass. Each twist, representing the three countries in negotiations, was colored with each nation's national hues. I bent close to the American one, amazed at how Marcel had been able to spin sugar to such a vibrant red at the base, only to have the color melt away to white and then finish at the very tip with a curve of blue. The crystalline globe suspended in the center of these three twists was painted—if that was the right description—to represent the world. It was held, protected, embraced, by the three nations' “arms.”

“Wow,” I said. There was nothing else I could say. “Wow.”

“Marcel,” Henry said, smiling widely, “I bow to your brilliance.”

Marcel nodded acknowledgment, beaming.

The sculpture's base was clear, almost colorless. Etched into it—how he'd accomplished such a feat, I'll never know—was the word
peace
in all three languages. On my best day, my handwriting didn't look this good. It was almost as though he'd taken his creations to an engraver to complete.

The thought—engraver!—made me realize that I still hadn't received Henry's commemorative skillet back from the Secret Service. I needed to do that. Even if it was the last thing I did here, I'd get that gift to Henry. I decided to ask Tom about it tonight when I called him for my escort home. I made a mental note.

With another admiring glance at Marcel's creation, I asked him, “How many do you have left to make?”

“I have completed all of them, of course.”

Of course. Since the day I'd met him, Marcel had been the picture of professionalism—always working ahead. With dinner planned for 140 guests tomorrow night—at ten guests per table—Marcel would have made fourteen of these. He amazed me, constantly raising the bar. His pursuit of perfection encouraged me to push myself to be better, always. “They're wonderful,” I said.

“They are, are they not?”

And I loved the way our pastry chef took compliments.

“My only concern,” Marcel said, with a mournful expression, “is ensuring that each of these makes it safely to the State Dining Room. We cannot allow any breakage. I trust Miguel here,” he nodded to the small man who'd helped him lift the cover, “but I do not know these new assistants well enough to trust them with my work.”

We briefly discussed the matter, and then left Marcel to finish whatever he could on the rest of the dessert project—the smaller, individual items that would be placed around each sculpture and served to our guests for consumption. Not that they couldn't consume the globes or flames. But who would want to destroy such beauty?

Peter Everett Sargeant was standing in the center of the kitchen when we returned. “I've been waiting for you two.”

He pulled out a list, and began reciting, starting with tasks to be done. He kept going despite Henry's assurances that we'd already accomplished all that, and more. Next, he launched into his version of what we needed to do, beginning tomorrow morning. I wanted to jam a dishrag into his mouth, to put an end to his babble. We'd been through the rigors of state dinners over and over again before he'd ever stepped foot in the White House. We didn't need this intervention.

“Although most of your support personnel have worked in the White House before,” he continued, “I do not have all their resumes. I need a copy of each curriculum vitae so that we have that information on hand when we need to fill permanent positions here.”

Henry said, “I make the hiring decisions for the kitchen.”

Sargeant gave him a funny look. “Ms. Braun has made it clear that when she takes over the kitchen, she will require my assistance in these matters. Assistance I am most happy to provide, might I add.”

“Ms. Braun is not the executive chef!” Henry's voice boomed. “And she won't ever be, if I have anything to say about it.” Face red, he moved in close to Sargeant, towering over the little guy, pointing his finger. “I will thank you to remember that you are not responsible for making that decision. And, Mr. Sensitivity Director, I will also thank you to remember that Olivia Paras is in contention for the position. Your constant innuendo that Ms. Braun has the position wrapped up—over my trusted and capable assistant—shows a tremendous
lack
of sensitivity.”

The room went suddenly silent except for Henry's heavy breathing and the slight backward shuffle of Sargeant's shoes against the floor.

Leaning back now, Henry worked a passive expression onto his face. In a most civilized voice, he asked, “Is there anything else before you leave?”

Sargeant hesitated, then said, “Yes. Yes, there is. Princess Hessa is due here shortly.”

“Here?” I said. “Tonight?”

Sargeant said, “Yes, tonight,” so matter-of-factly that we might have been discussing a network sitcom schedule. Henry and I exchanged looks.

“Why?” I asked. “It's late. Heads of state never come for visits this late at night. And, even if they did, there'd be ceremony, a big hoopla.” Incredulity made my words race. “The president and Mrs. Campbell are still at Camp David until tomorrow afternoon. There's no one here to receive her.”

“
I'm
here,” he said with a sniff.

“But…”

Henry asked, “What's the purpose of the visit?”

“The princess is concerned about meal preparation for her husband. He has very specific likes and dislikes—”

In that instant, plans for the dinner crumbled like falling rocks. I blurted, “Our menus were approved days ago. It's too late to make changes.”

Sargeant cast a withering glance at me, then glared at Henry. “This is your choice for successor?”

“Ollie is right,” Henry said. “Everything has been approved.”

Sargeant shook his head. “I'll be back shortly with Princess Hessa and Kasim, who will translate. I trust you'll have your issues under control by then.”

Once he was safely out of earshot, I looked at Henry. “That man infuriates me.”

He patted my shoulder and said, “You deserve the position of executive chef, Ollie.” With a sad look, he added, “But if for some reason you aren't appointed,” he sighed, “maybe it is for the best.”

I braved a smile. “Maybe it is.”

“THIS,” PETER SARGEANT SAID AS HE STRODE into our work area, nearly bumping into four assistants in the process, “is the main White House kitchen.”