State of the Onion (23 page)

“I'm sorry, what?” I asked.

“Please close the door?” His accent was thick, Middle Eastern. Not the same as Ambassador bin-Saleh's or Kasim's, but I guessed it came from the same region.

“Sure,” I said, and pulled it shut.

I sat back and watched out the window as the quiet city flew by and we made our way into Virginia. The chances of the Chameleon suddenly showing up as a taxi driver—
my
taxi driver—were about a zillion to one, but I knew the assassin had it in for me, and I knew he had resources. What had Naveen said? That higher-ups in our system had been compromised? Was that it? Tom hadn't seemed overly troubled by that information, but I was. It explained a lot.

The worst of it was that with Naveen's death, we still were no closer to knowing what the Chameleon had in store. I was pleased to know that, due to the importance of the trade negotiations going on at Camp David, and the upcoming state dinner, the Secret Service had increased security measures not only around the White House, but in the surrounding areas as well. At least the president would be safe.

Now I just had to hope I was.

Again I stared at the cab driver. This guy wasn't the Chameleon. Of that I was certain. But could he be an accomplice?

The driver must have felt the weight of my gaze because his eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror to stare back at me. I looked away. He looked away. When I checked again he was watching me. And I watched him.

“Something is a problem?”

“No,” I said, lying again. I'd been doing a lot of that recently. “Have you lived here long?”

He shot me a look of utter contempt.

Great. Now I was the suspicious person.

“I have been in this country fifteen years,” he said with no small degree of pride. “I have come here legally and I have made the United States of America my home. I passed all the tests,” he said. “I am not a terrorist.”

Oh, Lord, now I'd done it.

“I didn't think that you—”

“I see your look in your eyes.” He pointed at his own eyes in emphasis. “You have suspicion. What, do you think every Muslim man is going to blow you up?” With that he threw his hands off the steering wheel and the car jerked hard to the left, crossing the yellow lines.

I screamed, but fortunately the absence of oncoming traffic prevented our instant death, and he righted the vehicle quickly.

“Sorry,” I said.

He gave me a look that said, “You should be.”

I wanted to correct him. Tell him that I wasn't feeling bad for partaking in my own brand of profiling, I was just sorry I'd screamed. I
didn't
assume every Muslim man I encountered was ready to blow me up, but I had an assassin after me. An assassin who made his living by committing murder and slinking away, disguised as…as anyone.

If I wanted to look at this guy suspiciously, then it was my prerogative to do so.

“Last time I checked, there were no limits on freedom of personal thoughts,” I mumbled.

“What?” he asked. “What do you say?”

The moment of tension now past, I realized that if he'd been in cahoots with the Chameleon, I would've been dead ten minutes ago. “Nothing.”

After an extended, awkward silence, I gave him a fair but unapologetic tip, slammed the car door, and thanked the stars above that I was finally home.

FIRST THING THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE THE sky was still dark, chief usher Paul Vasquez popped into the kitchen. “Henry, Ollie. Follow me.”

The corridor was cool and quiet. Dark. In just a few short hours, the very same area would be filled with fervent reporters, eager politicians, and polite dignitaries. All hungry.

Paul held open the door of the China Room. I remembered the last time he'd called me in here, and I watched his face for some indication that I'd inadvertently stepped out of line again. The fact that Henry was with me ruled that out, thank goodness.

“There's been a change,” Paul said as he closed the door.

“In the menu?” Henry asked.

“No.” He stood close, the three of us making a tight triangle, tighter than would normally be considered comfortable for a casual discussion. His voice dropped and we edged closer still. “The information I'm about to share with you is being released on a strict ‘need to know' basis.” He looked at me for a long moment, then at Henry.

We both nodded.

“You understand that you are not to share a word of this with anyone, unless you clear it with me first.”

We both said, “Yes.”

The tension in his face relaxed, just a bit, and he looked about to smile. “I am extraordinarily pleased to report that negotiations at Camp David have resulted, not in a simple trade agreement, but in a peace treaty.” Paul's careful expression gave way to a full-blown beam. “President Campbell has been successful in facilitating a peace agreement between the two warring countries. When this treaty is signed, it will be as big, or possibly bigger than the accords between Egypt and Israel.”

Henry and I kept our exclamations of cheer in check, so as not to bring a batch of Secret Service agents bursting in on us. “That's wonderful,” I said.

Paul looked as pleased as if he'd facilitated the treaty himself. “It is,” he said. “And the reason I wanted you both to know ahead of time is because we're changing plans for tonight's dinner.”

Uh-oh. Last-minute changes were never a good thing.

I held my breath.

“We're taking the celebration outdoors,” he began.

Henry and I cut him off right there, both of us protesting. Henry was louder. “We can't serve the dinner outside,” he said, “we've got everything set up for the State Dining Room. The places are set, the room is decorated, and…and…there are bugs outside.” Vehement head shake. “It would be a disaster.”

Paul waited for Henry to finish, holding up a placating hand. “Let me explain and perhaps we can find some common ground here. Because of the success of the accords and the ideal weather conditions, President Campbell prefers to make the announcement of the peace treaty outside the South Portico.”

I pictured it. The South Lawn offered plenty of room for the dignitaries, their staffs, invited guests, and the press to spread out. The South Portico and the Truman balcony provided a beautiful backdrop for photos that would, no doubt, find a place in history books for all the ages. I waited for the rest of what Paul had to say.

“What we intend to do, is have the welcoming ceremony, introductory speeches, and official reception outdoors as usual. At that point, the honored guests and their entourages will be invited to partake in refreshments.”

“Dear God!” Henry said, “We don't have enough food for the entire crowd.”

Paul quickly interjected. “I know. We realize the difficulty. And we've come up with what we think is a workable option given the circumstances. We will have the cocktail hour outdoors at four o'clock in the Rose Garden,” he held up both index fingers, “which will include appetizers and beverages. You are authorized to order prepared items from our approved contacts to augment the food you've prepared here. Once everyone is satiated, at precisely five o'clock, the president will announce the agreements. More speeches. Tables will have already been set up for the official signing. The signing will take place immediately, in front of the South Portico. More speeches, again. We anticipate a half-hour's worth of questions and photographs. Shortly thereafter, at precisely seven, dinner will be served in the State Dining Room.”

Henry covered his eyes with his hands. This was no expression of frustration, I knew, nor of surrender. He was thinking, planning, figuring ways to make this work.

He dropped his hands. “Okay.”

Paul, who expected nothing less, said, “Good. Let me know if there's anything you need.”

I WALKED TO THE ROSE GARDEN TO SEE FOR myself that everything was in place the way Henry and I expected it to be. While I walked, I checked my cell phone. Tom had called and left me a message. I listened.

“Thanks for texting me that you got home safe. I was worried about you. I have to run—there's a lot going on. Call me when you get in. And, don't head home by yourself tonight. Give me a call when you guys are cleaning up. Talk to you later.”

I berated myself for not checking messages sooner, but when I dialed his cell, it went immediately to voice mail. I told him I'd made it to the White House safely and I agreed to call him later. I purposely didn't add that I'd taken the Metro this morning. He would not have been amused. As I shut my phone I realized that this crisscross communication, while far from romantic, was promising. He was worried about me.

And I was worried for him. I knew that today's ceremonies and dinner—even if an agreement hadn't materialized—made for a tempting target. The Chameleon would be wise to stay away today, though. Despite the fact that all the guards knew me and I knew them, this morning I'd been subjected to the most thorough search I'd ever encountered. Freddie and Gloria were both on duty, and Gloria had patted me down. When I'd asked why the extra precaution, Freddie had mentioned Chameleon concerns.

Outside the front gates, in Lafayette Park, demonstrators from the prince's country chanted. Bearded men shouted. All wore traditional turbans and long flowing robes as they gesticulated and yelled. Their vituperative verbal assaults, some in English, others in what I assumed was their native tongue, made it clear that not everyone supported the newly crowned prince.

I turned to Gloria. “I thought camping out overnight in Lafayette Park was prohibited.”

She stared through the gates at the angry crowd. “They didn't camp. They started arriving just a little while ago. Heard this is just the first wave, and we've got lots more coming our way. They're protesting in shifts, I guess.”

The men screamed, occasionally in unison. Those without upraised fists carried signs. Hand-lettered, they were written in a language I couldn't read. They could have crossed the lines of vulgarity for all I knew. I watched the sweating, angry men and realized that they probably had.

I'd headed quickly to the entrance. Could the Chameleon be in that crowd? I doubted it. From everything I'd learned about the assassin, he had no political ties. No policy he supported. He was a mercenary who went in, got the job done, and raced out again without leaving a trace.

With security heightened to greater tension than I'd ever seen before, the assassin would have a tough time getting close enough to President Campbell today. That, however, didn't mean that Tom was safe.

Now at the Rose Garden, I blew out a breath as I inspected the tables. A centerpiece of yellow and white blooms on each of the seven tables stood taller than the four complementary arrangements accompanying it. Although the smaller bouquets were by no means tiny, they were dwarfed by the taller arrangements. The White House floral designer, Kendra, had pulled the original designs from their places in the State Dining Room and created these centerpieces last minute. Even now, I knew she was hard at work making replacements for the smaller items. Their exposure to the outdoors could make the blooms droop. Like the rest of us at the White House, she strove for perfection.

From across the expanse of the South Lawn I heard the Marine Band practicing. Everyone practiced until there was no chance of error. Even the aides who were assigned to move dignitaries to their proper positions practiced. I heard someone ask, “We've got Princess Hessa standing next to Mrs. Campbell at this point. Is that right?” and someone else answer in the affirmative.

Camera technicians and other media folk had gotten here early and were already setting up. Outside the South Portico, on the North Lawn, and in other strategic spots, high-beam lamps on tall black poles, augmented by light-reflecting umbrellas, waited for important people to arrive.

Two cameramen ran extension cords to their equipment. I wandered nearer to them on the pretext of examining another table. One was short, with a vague resemblance to Laurel Anne's buddy Carmen, and the other one lanky and blond. They ignored me, but I sidled closer, checking them out. Could I recognize the Chameleon if I saw him again? If he were disguised? I had my doubts, but I planned to study every single new face today. If my life was in jeopardy because I could recognize the guy, then I might as well do my best to use that information to pick him out.

“Could you believe security today?” the blond guy said.

Carmen's lookalike shook his head. “It's always bad, but geez. Did they make you take your camera apart, too?”

“Hell, yeah. I tried to tell them that this equipment is sensitive, but it was either take the thing apart in front of them or—”

“—you don't get in,” the dark guy finished.

“What the hell do they think I could have in here anyway?” The blond guy held up his press pass, dangling from a lanyard around his neck. “And who the hell would try to look like me, anyway? The uniforms here know me. I've been doing this for months.”

They muttered back and forth as I started past them. Nope, I decided. Neither one looked like the face burned into my memory from the merry-go-round. Or from the range. Or from Arlington.

Their talk of tight security made me glad. Maybe we'd be safe today after all.

“OVER HERE, OVER HERE,” CYAN CALLED TO ONE of the temps. “Yeah, that's it,” she said as the girl brought the tray of appetizers to the kitchen's far side, narrowly avoiding collision with two other tray-bearing assistants. “Yikes,” Cyan exclaimed at the near-miss. Then, waving her hand at the girl who'd deposited the food before her, she added, “Not you. It's just—”

The girl waited.

“Never mind. Thanks,” Cyan said, “I think Bucky needs help over there.”

“Stressed out yet?” I asked as I worked.

“Most of these kids have been trained in bigger facilities,” she said. “They don't get the fact that we have to think about our activity. They can't just jump up and do something. They need to think first. Otherwise…disaster.”

I smiled at her use of the word
kids.
Cyan was the youngest member of our team and more than half of the chefs she'd hired had mastered technique while Cyan was still learning the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon. The fact that she was a White House sous-chef at her tender age was testament to her talent. But we still needed to work on her ability to remain calm during tense situations.

“What color are the eyes today?” I asked, to change the subject.

She leaned toward me and blinked.

“Brown? I don't think I've ever seen you in that color.”

“They're new,” she said, smiling. “With all the brown-eyed folks traipsing through here these past few days, I thought I'd join the party.”

I gave her a quizzical look. “You mean like Laurel Anne?” I asked, “Or Ambassador bin-Saleh? Or Kasim?” As I ran through the names of the brown-eyed people we'd encountered recently, I realized how many there were. “Or…Peter Everett Sargeant III?”

She stuck out her tongue. “No thanks.”

“I bet the princess has brown eyes, too,” I said. “Of course, we'll never see them.”

“How is she supposed to eat in front of all the guests if she can't remove her veil?”

I shook my head. “No idea. Maybe I'll ask Kasim.”

Just as she giggled, Henry returned from his inspection of the serving tables outside. “Troops,” he said, his voice booming loud enough for everyone to hear. The kitchen silenced immediately. “I need my team to follow me,” he said.

Cyan gave out some last-minute instructions to those nearby, and I handed cinnamon and powdered sugar to another assistant to mix. We made our way through the obstacle course of temporary help and headed for the door.

“This way,” Henry said. Marcel and Bucky got there just as we did, and the five of us tramped to the nearest storage room, where it was blessedly quiet.

“As you know, since plans have been changed, we will be running tonight's dinner by the seats of our pants.”

Okay, that was an exaggeration. We had everything planned—micromanaged to the very minute—and even though the outdoor cocktail reception threw our best-laid plans into chaos, we were managing the chaos. Pretty well, too.

Henry read from his list. “Cyan, you will coordinate the staff to ensure the hors d'oeuvres are placed outside at the proper time. The head waiter is assigning a team to you, and we will have less than ten minutes from the close of the welcoming ceremonies until the food needs to be out there. We have to stay on top of this.”