All the President’s Menus (22 page)

“Yeah,” I said, agreeing weakly. “With any luck.”

*   *   *

Sargeant, unfortunately, was unable to arrange for our visit to Blair House that day. Part of me was sorely disappointed, part of me was relieved. After the incident with the recorder, I nearly shook with craving to get away from our Saardiscan guests.

When they finally left for the day, I watched them depart, making sure they were through the far doors and out of earshot before I turned to Bucky, exploding with the only thought that had occupied my mind for hours.

“Do you think they knew I was taping them?”

My assistant was drying a stainless steel bowl, using a cotton dish towel to wipe, dry, and wipe the utensil again and again. The fact that he clearly didn’t want to answer made my stomach squish. “Hard to say, really.” He pressed the towel into the bowl’s rim and ran his fingers along the edge.

“Hard to say?” I repeated. “Nate practically called me out on it in front of everyone.” I pointed to where the recorder had taken its tumble. “He had to know.” I began pacing the small area.

Bucky stopped his busy drying. “For all they know, you could be recording conversation so that you remember all the steps we took to prepare for this dinner.”

“That’s a good excuse,” I said. “I wish I’d thought of it at the time.”

He
clanged
the bowl onto the counter. “Seems to me that they have more to worry about than you do. Why would an innocent person care if he was being recorded?”

I gave him a look. “Really, Bucky? Did you seriously just say that?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Fine. Recording private conversations feels wrong. Perhaps they have reason to be upset. But even if that’s the case, what can you do about it now? Erase it all?”

“I guess I’m not willing to go that far.”

“So you hurt some feelings,” Bucky went on. “They’ll get over it.”

I pulled out the recorder and tapped it against my palm. “The part that’s bugging me most of all—if you’ll pardon the pun—isn’t that we’re taping them without their knowledge. It’s that I’m the one who’s doing it. Like I’m stooping to a new low.”

“Didn’t you ask them to keep to English while they were working here?”

“Yes.”

“And did they?” Bucky asked.

“No.”

“And don’t you believe that they were testing Stephanie to see if she was listening?”

“I do.”

“I’ve known you for a few years now, Ollie,” he said. “If anyone chooses to take the high road, it’s you. You drive me up a wall sometimes with your insistence on doing what’s right, versus what’s easy.”

“So then—”

He didn’t let me interrupt. Pointing to the recorder, he said, “If that’s your greatest transgression, then you’re way ahead of most of the world. Your goal is to keep everyone here safe, right?”

“Right.”

“And, let’s say that when you listen to the recording, you find out that Hector and Nate have an illegal gambling operation they run back in Saardisca.”

“They can’t. They’re from different provinces.”

Bucky rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I’m using that as an example. What I’m asking is this: If you discovered that the men were discussing a sensitive matter that didn’t threaten anyone’s life, would you alert the authorities?”

“Probably not.”

“And even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. These recordings wouldn’t hold up in court.”

I took in a deep breath. “I may not even have recordings to listen to. Nate sure did a number on this little thing.”

“Another reason to go with your gut.” Bucky tapped the recorder. “Your instincts tell you that something is amiss. And your instincts haven’t failed you yet, have they?”

Instincts were on my mind later that evening, as I made my way to Stephanie’s house with the little machine tucked tightly in the front pocket of my slacks. When Nate had handed it back to me, I was afraid it had been irreparably broken. To my surprise, however, a few minutes of attention were all the device needed to get it up and running—or whirring—again. Its technology might be woefully behind the times, but this little gem was sturdy, having been manufactured before planned obsolescence became industry standard. I was delighted that it had survived both the fall and Nate’s attempt to crush it.

At this time of the day I could have taken either the Blue or Orange lines toward Largo Town Center, because extra trains ran for a few hours. On the return trip, however, I’d have only the Blue line option from Stephanie’s Maryland location. That was okay with me. Hopping on the Blue line meant no transfers to Crystal City. I was very much looking forward to being home tonight. I’d left Gav a message about my errand, in case he tried to call, but I knew he’d be in meetings until late.

Stephanie’s home was in a residential area, about six blocks from her Metro stop. Dusk was settling on the D.C. area earlier these days as the seasons shifted and crisp fall winds twisted crunchy leaves. It was unexpectedly chilly and I’d been caught in one of those between-season moments where outerwear chosen in the morning proved unsuitable by the end of the day.

Today’s jacket was a navy windbreaker, and although it fell to mid-thigh, it was far too light against the brisk wind. The air smelled of wet ground, molding leaves, and car exhaust.

I walked along the avenue that, according to online maps, would lead me directly to Stephanie’s street. As I pushed forward, head down, I had the notion that I should have waited to make the trip until someone could have come along. More for companionship than for protection, though the fact that I was on an investigative mission made me a little more skittish than usual.

Stephanie lived in a neighborhood that was neither upscale nor downtrodden. Homes here were older and lived-in—a few of them practically begged for upgrades. As I strode past, I questioned my motivation for making this trip. It wasn’t as though I suspected any of the men of intending to do President Hyden any harm. Our commander in chief had been in and out of the kitchen on occasion—granted, always with a Secret Service escort—and I’d detected no negative vibe, no undercurrent of anger.

Even though there was nothing that implicated the Saardiscans in Marcel’s injuries or Kilian’s death, I couldn’t shake the feeling that these men were hiding something from me. That was what I couldn’t tolerate. I was determined to find out what they didn’t want me to know.

As I trudged forward, blinking in the wind, it occurred to me that the Saardiscan men could very well have been discussing my leadership in less-than-glowing terms. Pulling my cross-body purse tight, I tucked my hands in my pockets and chuckled softly. Wouldn’t the joke then be on me?

I zigzagged along the uneven sidewalk, watching my footing without slowing down. I wasn’t fearful, exactly. Uneasy, perhaps.

Three roads converged at a quiet intersection. No cars, but plenty of scraggly leaves dancing along the curb. Stephanie’s house was down the small side street to my right. From my pre-planning on MapQuest I knew she was about four houses down from her closest corner—the intersection after this one. The area was clear—desolate, even. No pedestrians, no noise, save the wind. Even though I couldn’t hear vehicles approaching on the wide avenue, I stopped at the corner and checked before I crossed, looking right, then left.

That’s when I noticed him.

The man hadn’t been there moments ago. I knew that for certain. He had either recently exited the Metro and happened to be going in my direction, or he’d just emerged from a house. I’d had so many run-ins with those intending me harm that I’d become hyper-vigilant about keeping mindful of my surroundings. People who didn’t know me could view my attentiveness as nothing short of paranoia, but I subscribed to the old axiom about being safe rather than sorry. Politeness flew out the window where my well-being was concerned.

The guy was about a hundred yards behind me and moving at a quick pace. He wore a dark jacket, dark pants, and a hat that reminded me of Indiana Jones’s, pulled low, covering his eyes. In the dusky evening I couldn’t get a good look at his face. The best I could manage was a sense of how he carried himself. His bearing struck a chord of familiarity, but I couldn’t determine why.

When he noticed me notice him, he stepped up his pace. Not a good sign. I hurried across the street—running now—at the same time trying to gauge how far down Stephanie’s house was, and calculating the odds of making it there before the guy caught up.

Maybe he wouldn’t follow me across the street. Maybe he was out for a jog, or rushing for some other legitimate reason. I wasn’t about to count on that, though. Pushing myself to move faster, I stole a glance behind me.

He’d broken into a full-out sprint.

I didn’t hesitate. Adrenaline and fear kicked in, giving me the boost I needed to speed faster than I ever had in my life. My chances of making it to Stephanie’s front door before he made it to me, however, were slim.

As I ran, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts, the calmer, logical portion of my brain sorted through my options: keep running, turn and fight, or start screaming for help.

Though the thought process had consumed all of two seconds, I couldn’t believe it had taken me that long to remember to scream. “Help!” I shouted as loudly as I could, given my breathlessness. “Rape! Fire! Help!”

In the terror of the moment, I couldn’t recall which of those words was supposed to be the most effective at garnering assistance. I kept running, kept shouting.

The street remained dead as my shrieking pleas for help were lost to the wind.

Seconds passed like hours. I tried to make out the homes’ addresses as I raced by them.

There. Two houses away now. Short, white, rickety front fence. Address on the open gate. Maybe I could—

I caught the sound of his breathing a hard second before he pushed me to the ground. I skidded against the sidewalk, my left leg and elbow taking the brunt of my weight, as breath rushed out of me with a
whoosh
.

Instinctively, I curled up, protecting myself with my arms tight. Rolling to my back, I kicked at my assailant with my feet, knowing I was in a wholly vulnerable position. I had the presence of mind to keep screaming, “Fire! Rape! Help!” desperate to be heard.

The man leaned over me. Up close I saw that he wore a nylon stocking over his face, the way thieves in the movies often do. Smashed against the silky fabric, his features were unrecognizable.

When I screamed again, he grunted, but didn’t speak, smashing his hand against my mouth in an effort to keep me quiet. With his free hand, he grappled for my purse and tried to tug it away. If I hadn’t been wearing a cross-body version, he’d have easily been able to grab it and go.

I was still on my back, doing my utmost to scramble by using only leg power. I knew I should probably let him have the bag, but a white-hot anger flared in my chest and I stubbornly held tight.

He was so intent on getting my purse strap over my head that he resorted to using both hands, thus freeing my mouth. I bellowed again, doing my best to inch away, my hands scraping against the sandpaper surface of the pavement as I rolled to keep the purse out of his clutches.

When I landed a punch directly to his nose, he yelped. I had no leverage, so I was sure the blow did little more than sting, but it was enough to startle him. He tensed up, giving me the tiniest of openings. I grabbed it.

Ignoring the bite of the pavement against my knees, I scrambled away, stutter-stepping into a crouch. He lunged for me, but I jumped out of his reach. His momentum carried him flying past me, giving me a precious chance to run. Fully on my feet now, run I did, still screaming for help, plowing my way through panic toward Stephanie’s house.

I banged on her front door, spinning to see how close the mugger was, hoping she’d answer before he could tackle me again.

He was gone.

One hand against my drenched forehead, I leaned out, looking up and down the quiet street, breathing with such effort that I couldn’t believe no one could hear me. There had been no response to my pleas for assistance, and the man who’d come at me had disappeared into the gray night as quickly as he’d appeared. For all I knew he was hiding behind one of the massive trees that lined the road, but I wasn’t about to check to find out for sure. I decided that I’d call a cab for my return trip, no question about that. First things first, however. I needed to call the police.

Stephanie answered the door with an alarmed look on her face. “Ollie, are you all right?”

I was still hanging tight to my purse, like a toddler might cling to a blankie. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, and I willed my heart to slow down. It had no intention of obliging me. When I nodded to Stephanie to assure her I was fine, I wasn’t surprised to find that she didn’t believe me.

“What happened?” she asked, stepping back to allow me to enter. She leaned forward and checked up and down the street, the same way I had. “Did someone bother you?”

I nodded again, allowing myself a little longer to decompress. With one hand on my chest, I used the other to wipe the sweat from my face. “You didn’t hear me screaming?” Hip-hop music coming from Stephanie’s living room speakers provided my answer before she had a chance to reply.

“No; oh my gosh, no. What happened?”

My words came out fast and breathless. “A guy. Tried to take my purse.” Looking down, I relaxed my death grip on the bag, and pulled in a shuddering breath in an effort to calm myself. “I don’t carry a lot of money, so he wouldn’t have gotten much.”

“Let’s get you settled,” Stephanie said, shutting the door behind me. “You’re shaking.”

I didn’t want to tell her that shaking after an attack was normal for me, or that, based on past experience, this altercation had been fairly mild. The poor girl wouldn’t have understood.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. But I do want to report this to the police.”

She shut off her music as she led me through a tidy living room that looked like a transplanted IKEA display. Her furniture featured lean lines, sharp colors, and a television storage system built into the wall.

I used her landline to report the attempted mugging. The dispatcher efficiently took down my information and told me that she would send an officer as soon as one was available.

“You’re not hurt?” the woman asked, for the second time.

“No, just shaken up.”

“And nothing was stolen?” she asked, also for the second time.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“We’re experiencing a high volume of calls tonight, some of which are more urgent circumstances. An officer will be out tonight, but I can’t promise that it will be soon.”

I sighed, even though I understood. “That’s all right,” I said. “I plan to be here for a little while anyway.”

Stephanie had her arms folded across her chest. “By the time they get here, the creep will have escaped.”

“I’m sure he’s long gone.”

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to a chair at her kitchen table. The room was small, but updated in a spare, very modern style. Green glass door cabinets, stainless steel appliances, shiny black countertops. Except for a block of knives in one corner, there was nothing out. No coffeemaker, no utensils, not even dish towels. The place was Spartan and spotless. She either didn’t cook very often, or she was a master at hiding her tools. Based on her performance in the kitchen, I’d guess she ate out a lot.

“I’d never be able to identify him, other than by his clothing,” I said as I sat. The table, too, was shiny and black. The chairs, pristine white, were molded plastic on metal legs. Not particularly comfortable. “I almost wish I hadn’t bothered the police. This will probably be a waste of their time.”

“It’s worth it to have it on record. Do you want something to drink?”

I realized I was thirsty. “Water, if you don’t mind.” I dug the recorder out of my pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.

“I’m really sorry that happened,” she said as she filled a glass and brought it to me. “If you want, we can go over this recording another day. Or you can leave it here and I’ll let you know what’s on it.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” I said. “I’m here now; I’d like to get this done. Plus, it would be wrong to leave before the police get here.”

She brought out paper and pen, and took the seat opposite mine. “In case you want to take notes,” she said, pushing the instruments across the table. “Once I get a feel for their word choices and tendencies I can give you phrases to listen for, if you like.”

“That would be great,” I said sincerely.

“All right, let’s get started.”

I picked up the tiny device and rewound it to the beginning of today’s recording. “There are quite a few conversations on here,” I said, “but only a few of them seemed important enough to translate.”