Home of the Braised (23 page)

We worked quietly and efficiently until the next group of SBA chefs began to arrive. “Over there,” I said to two of them, pointing to the corner where Bucky was directing his team. To Bucky, I said, “Bring them up to speed on Josh.”

Three other temporary team members waited to be told what to do—two men, one woman, all in their twenties, eager and excited to be cooking in the White House. I recognized all of them as having worked with us before, but as I led them through to the pantry, I went over a few general rules, in case any of them needed a reminder.

As we moved from one area to the next, I caught sight of Margaret coming into the kitchen from the other side.

“Over here,” I said to the chefs in my charge, indicating the wide workspace we’d opened up for these three, “is where we’re going to have you stuff the pheasant breasts.”

Wearing a bright-blue skirt suit and an expression of unease, Margaret held a book against her chest, both hands wrapped around the back of it, looking like a schoolgirl who was late and trying to sneak into class. If she hadn’t been wearing such a vivid color she may have managed to get in and out without my seeing her. There were more bodies in the kitchen this afternoon than usual, and as the new people got settled, the place clattered, and chattered, and hummed.

She made her way across the kitchen, dodging chefs who were moving back and forth laden with trays and doing their best to avoid the woman. I kept talking to my group, delivering all the updates these young chefs needed, including my warnings about not sharing information about Josh’s presence in the kitchen, but my curiosity about Margaret’s presence was piqued.

I answered a few questions the young chefs had for me about how I wanted specific steps completed. Once I was able to leave the three alone to settle themselves at their stations, I set out to find what Margaret was up to.

THE KITCHEN WAS A SEA OF STAINLESS STEEL
and white. The decibel level of discussion here had grown over the past hour or so, and the din of clanking pots and pans was almost deafening.

I peered around the many bodies bustling about my kitchen, but couldn’t catch a flash of the blue that Margaret had been wearing. Where was she?

“Cyan.” I tapped her on the arm. “What’s up with Margaret?”

My assistant half turned, halting tomato slicing as she looked around the kitchen. “Margaret?” she asked. “Is that one of our SBA chefs?”

“Sargeant’s assistant,” I said. “What was she doing down here?”

“Beats me,” Cyan said, returning to her task. “I didn’t even see her.”

Bucky had no more light to shed, either. “I caught a glimpse of her and before I could say ‘Boo,’ she was gone again.”

“That’s odd,” I said to myself. The noise level in the kitchen was too high for me to make a phone call from my regular workstation. As I made my way around to find a quieter spot, I checked on Josh. “How is it going?”

“I’m almost done,” he said. “Take a look.”

He wasn’t kidding. “That’s wonderful,” I said sincerely. I’d expected the task to take him another twenty minutes, at least. “As soon as I get back, I’ll get you started on the next part, how does that sound?”

“I’m ready,” he said.

The two Secret Service agents flanking him didn’t react, and didn’t say a word.

I addressed them anyway. “Be back in a flash.”

Having made a full circuit of the kitchen, I returned to the pantry, where I’d left the three young chefs who’d most recently arrived. They seemed surprised to see me back so soon. I waved a hand, dispelling their obvious concern, and picked up the nearest telephone.

“Margaret,” I said when she answered, “this is Ollie—Olivia Paras—from the kitchen.”

“Mr. Sargeant is not in his office at the moment,” she said before I could get another word out. “He’s quite tied up today, as you might imagine.”

“It’s you I wanted to talk with,” I said. “Were you down here in the kitchen a few moments ago?”

“I’ll say I was,” she answered. “I barely made it out with my life. All those sharp knives and angry people.” Even over the phone line I could practically hear her shudder. “How do you stand it?”

“What were you doing down here?” I asked. “I saw you hurry in, but when I looked for you, you were gone.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide what I was doing, I was simply returning a cookbook,” she said.

I didn’t understand. “As a general rule we don’t lend out the kitchen’s cookbooks. You borrowed one?”

“Of course not. I was returning the cookbook that Virgil took home by mistake. Apparently you were wrong. He did take one that didn’t belong to him. He thought you needed it for today’s dinner, so he sent it back.”

Virgil deluding himself that we needed something of his for this dinner when, in actuality, we had everything under control was believable. Him being thoughtful enough to provide what we needed, was not. “Slow down,” I said. “Explain. You talked with him? He actually said that?”

“I didn’t speak with him directly, no. He sent the book back with one of our agents. She brought it to me a little while ago and stressed that Virgil insisted that it be returned to you today. I knew you’d be busy and I remembered where he’d taken it from, so I slipped in and put it back on the shelf.”

Speechless, I covered my eyes with one hand and tried to understand why Virgil would do such a thing. “Thank you, Margaret.”

“Anytime,” she said, and hung up.

“Ollie,” Cyan called when I replaced the handset. “Got a minute?”

• • •

A HALF HOUR LATER, I’D FINISHED WORKING
with Cyan only to find that Josh was ready for his next task. “You are a delight,” I said to him.

“You mean I’m not getting underfoot like my mom thought I would?”

“You’re a valuable member of today’s team,” I said. “Now, let’s get you started with shallots. Are you going to be able to handle these?” I provided him with a face mask to help shield against tears that inevitably arose when chopping these bulbs. Although they were kinder, gentler cousins of the mighty onion, they still held the power to make us cry if we weren’t careful.

Once he was settled again, I took another walk around the kitchen. Dinner was at 7, and we were closing in on 5. I needed to ensure that we were staying on schedule first. Then, I’d have a look at the cookbook Margaret had brought back to the kitchen.

I finally made it to the shelf about fifteen minutes later. My gaze skipped over the colorful spines, hurrying past the familiar titles to find Virgil’s cookbook. Two seconds later, I had it in my hands and began paging through.

“What’s up, Ollie?” Bucky asked me quietly. “Is there a problem?”

I smiled up at him, in a hurry to reassure. He had to be shocked to find me poring through a cookbook so close to showtime. At this point there should be no second-guessing, no referencing of recipes. We had every step for every dish printed out and posted across the kitchen, affixed to our appliances and stainless steel cabinets with powerful magnets. All at eye height.

I couldn’t blame Bucky for worrying. The last thing one of us should be doing was double-checking that we’d gotten everything right. That moment had come and gone. “Not at all,” I said. I held up Virgil’s book so that Bucky could see the dust jacket. “Margaret brought this back to the kitchen a little while ago. She said that Virgil thought we’d need it today.”

The look on Bucky’s face mirrored my own disbelief. “That’s crazy.”

“You think?” I asked. “Not only is that not Virgil’s personality, he’d have to know we wouldn’t be bothering with this book today. Why did he send it back? Why did he insist Margaret get it to us immediately?”

“You’ve got me suspicious now.” Bucky took a step back. “You think there’s a bomb in it?”

“That’s not funny,” I said.

“Wasn’t meant to be.” Bucky shrugged. “But I can’t see Virgil doing anything for us out of the kindness of his heart. That means something is up.”

“I agree.” I slapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. “Do you think he believes that if he keeps his property here it will ensure his eventual return to duty?”

“Who knows what goes on in that head of his?” Bucky asked rhetorically. One of his chef assistants called to him just then. “Gotta run. Don’t worry too much about it,” he said. “It’s just a cookbook.”

When he left I started back into the activity around me, thinking about Bucky’s “bomb” comment. A prickle of unease worked its way up the back of my neck, and I reached for the cookbook again. “Why are you here?” I asked it.

Again, I paged through the thick volume, turning the book on its side and shaking it, in case some handy-dandy clue might fall out.

Nothing.

The noise level behind me was growing and I knew I’d be pulled away any moment, but I couldn’t put the book down; not yet. Not until I figured out what possible reason Virgil had for returning it.

I paged through again, more slowly this time. I wasn’t seeing the words nor looking at the pictures, I was waiting for the answer to jump out at me. Paging faster, I realized what a ridiculous exercise this was, what a waste of time. I kept paging, however, through the thirties, the forties, and fifties—

Page fifty-three, I stopped. And stared.

“Cyan,” I called over the busy din. “Do you have a minute?”

She was at my side a second later. “What’s up?”

“Remember when you spilled on Virgil’s book? This one?” I held it up for her to see the front dust cover.

“How could I forget? I don’t think I’ll ever get over my hatred of the number fifty-three.”

“It was page fifty-three then, wasn’t it?”

“Boy, was it ever. What’s this about, Ollie?”

I held the book open and pointed. “Look.”

She scanned the recipe, the entire page, up and down, her violet eyes straining to see what she knew had to be there. “What happened to the stain?”

“This isn’t the same book,” I said.

Creases formed between her brows. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I think you’re right.” After a quick glance over her shoulder, she said, “Not that I don’t think this is weird and all, but right now my time is better spent elsewhere.” She pointed to the clock. “Look how close we are.”

“Five thirty,” I said and my pulse quickened as the words came out. “You’re right.” I put the book back. Cyan returned to her team and I went to check on the young chefs in the pantry.

I couldn’t get the cookbook out of my mind. Why would Virgil have sent a replacement? It made no sense. Again, I reminded myself that Virgil wasn’t that thoughtful of a guy. Why would he do that? Unless . . .

Unless he
didn’t
.

I froze in place.

“Chef?” One of the male assistants looked ready to grab me. Maybe he thought I was about to faint. “Is something wrong?”

I stopped my inspection of the stuffed pheasants. “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing. Carry on.”

I turned my heel on them and grabbed the book again. I hurried out, and made my way to the refrigeration area where I could find a quiet moment alone. I had to have faith that my team would be fine without me for five minutes.

This book had shown up on the day of the state dinner. Too much had been happening around today’s event for me to consider it a coincidence. This book might mean nothing, but my gut told me differently. I stared at it a long moment. This time I didn’t page through.

“Come on,” I whispered to the book. “I know you’ve got something to tell me. Give it up.”

I HELD THE BOOK IN BOTH HANDS AND CONCENTRATED
. What could this mean? Who had brought this book to the White House? Why?

“Ollie?” Cyan called to me from outside the refrigeration area. “Josh needs another job.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

I turned the book over. The dust jacket featured an array of colorful vegetables and prepared entrées looking as though they were being served al fresco at a Tuscan villa. I had no idea why this particular title might be of any importance. I opened the front cover to see if any notes had been written inside.

That’s when I noticed that the dust jacket had been fortified with clear tape. Someone had taken the time to ensure that the glossy cover wouldn’t fall off.

My heart pounding, I eased the clear tape from the bottom flap, then from the top, releasing the dust jacket, which now hung from its hold on the back cover, swinging below the opened book. The weight of the loosened cover was not right. It was significantly heavier than it should have been.

Breath coming in quick gasps, I sat on the floor and turned the book over in my lap, flipping it to examine the dust jacket.

“Oh!” My hand flew to my mouth as I exclaimed my surprise. Attached to the inside of the dust jacket were several lightweight, folded sheets of paper.

I opened the first one and began to read.

In a hurry, I scanned it, then moved to the next. I couldn’t do more than skim—I had a dinner to serve, after all—but in the forty-five seconds I allowed myself to study the documents, I understood what an explosive set of allegations I held in my hand.

“No,” I said aloud.

The first document was a letter addressed to President Hyden, printed on Secretary of Defense Cobault’s office stationery. Dated two days before Cobault’s murder, the document warned the president not to remove mercenary forces from Durasi. Secretary Cobault’s letter went on to express disappointment in the president’s decision to withdraw, and further, advised him that if these changes were implemented, “Consequences will be dire.” Secretary Cobault also warned that if the president didn’t reverse his plans immediately, he, Cobault, would bring “a certain unpleasant truth” to the American people. In very clear language that even I couldn’t misinterpret, the secretary threatened that if this truth were to get out, President Hyden would likely face impeachment.

Perspiration shot out of my every pore. I held a hand against my face, feeling my whole body tremble. Hadn’t Gav told me himself that Secretary Cobault had been wholly
against
the use of mercenary forces? This correspondence made it sound as though he’d taken the exact opposite position. What did this letter mean, and why was it here?

The second document read like a newspaper article. Without names, except for the byline: Daniel Davies. The article was a rough blueprint of an exposé claiming that President Hyden had ordered the murders of the five men at the Ainsley Street Ministry, that he’d ordered the murder of Secretary Cobault, and that he’d done all this to protect himself from allowing the truth to come out that Kalto had been the driving force behind peace in Durasi, and that pulling them from the area now was only being done to achieve the president’s ambitious goal of securing a prominent place in history.

What? That makes no sense.

Kalto was characterized as the underdog, the highly respected, well-run organization that had done everything right, had played by the rules, and yet was now getting shafted by the president’s directive. The president came across as a power-hungry dictator who would stop at nothing to have his way.

Scrawled across the top of the article, in script that had a woman’s flourish, a quick note: “He’s sitting on this until we give him the okay. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

My hands were still shaking. This couldn’t be right. None of this could be true, could it? The president I knew was an honorable man. He would never stoop to such activities. And yet, this letter from the secretary of defense . . .

Instinctively, I reached for my phone. I dialed Gav first, but the call went straight to voice mail. Fine. I’d find Tom. He had to be around here somewhere.

I stuffed the documents into my pocket, tucked the book under my arm, and raced back to the kitchen, where I was immediately besieged with questions. “Does this presentation look right?” “How often should we stir the potatoes?” “Josh is finished with the shallots, what should he do next?”

I faced each one in turn, giving staccato answers, assuring one of the assistants that I’d be over to help Josh soon and to ask the boy to sit tight and wait for me.

Bucky sidled up, keeping his voice low. “What’s wrong, Ace? I’ve never seen you this stressed.”

Still holding the book, I grabbed one of Bucky’s hands. “You are in charge. You got that?”

“What happened?”

“Listen to me,” I said, lowering my voice. “I don’t have time to explain. You’re in charge. Don’t let me down.”

The look on his face shifted from puzzlement to determination. “You got it, Chief. Go. Do whatever you need to do.”

I took off with the book pulled close to my chest, much the way Margaret had held it when she’d carried it in. I hurried past my dumbfounded chefs to the spiral staircase, my feet thudding as I raced up the metallic steps. From above, I caught a whiff of the evening’s dessert, Lemon Steamed Pudding, but didn’t stop, even when the chefs on this level greeted me with surprised hellos.

I hurried across to cut through the Family Dining Room, where more of our SBA chefs were working at the final staging area before food was handed off to be served.

When I showed up in front of Margaret’s desk, I thought she’d fall over from shock. “You told me you never allowed yourself to be seen when guests were present. We’ve got hundreds of people in the East Room at a black-tie affair.”

“No one saw me,” I snapped. “That’s not important right now.” I held out the book. “Who brought this to you? I need to know.”

Though primly annoyed, she didn’t hesitate to answer. “The agent who helped escort Virgil out, I told you.” I could tell my abrupt manner and unexpected appearance was alarming her. “I don’t know who she is, though. How would I know?”

“Where’s Sargeant?” I asked.

Collecting herself, she gave me a “duh” look and said, “
Mr.
Sargeant is in the East Room, enjoying dinner. Which, I believe you”—she spiraled her index finger at me—“are supposed to be preparing.” Cocking her head sideways, she said, “Or am I mistaken?”

“Is she here?” I asked. “The agent. Is the agent who gave you this book here tonight?”

Another wide-eyed look that told me she believed I’d gone off my nut. “Of course she’s here. How do you think she could have handed it to me otherwise?”

I dropped the book on her desk. “Come with me,” I said. “Point her out.”

“I will do no such thing,” she said. “Mr. Sargeant expects me to stay right here, all night.”

I placed my palms on her desk and leaned across. “Do you like your job?” I asked.

“What kind of question is—”

“You heard Sargeant the other day. I don’t come to see him unless it’s important. If you don’t want him to fire you for refusing to help in an emergency . . . and he
will
fire you”—that was probably a stretch, but I desperately needed her cooperation right now—“you will show me who it was who brought this book to you.”

Her manner shifted as she smelled gossip. “Has she done something wrong?”

“Yes,” I said. “Now, you said this was an agent. Did she belong to the Secret Service or to Kalto?”

“How should I know? They’re all agents to me.”

“You’re sure she’s still here?” I asked.

“No, but I’d recognize her right away.”

I grabbed her arm, intending to lead her out into the Entrance Hall. “Don’t be obvious,” I said.

“You’re the one in the chef’s outfit,” she countered. “Which one of us is obvious?”

She had a point. “Tell you what. Go see if you can find her. If you do, come back and then we’ll take it from there.”

Margaret scurried across to peer into the East Room then made a quick circuit of the Entrance Hall. She was back in less than thirty seconds. “She’s right outside the Blue Room, talking with another agent. I pretended I was looking for someone else and she didn’t even give me a passing look. Is that un-obvious enough for you?”

Outside the Blue Room. That meant that if I circled around and peered out through the State Dining Room’s doors, I’d get a good view of her. Problem was, the doors remained open between that room and the Family Dining Room where my stealth surveillance could raise eyebrows among the busy staff. “Come on,” I said to Margaret. “This will be quick.”

At each step, I expected one of the Secret Service agents on duty to stop me and question my presence here. Whether the Secret Service had gotten used to my eccentricities, or whether Tom had told them all to give me carte blanche, I didn’t know. We made our way into the bustling Family Dining and into the semi-dark State Dining Room.

We crossed that large area to another doorway that led us into the Red Room and from there it wouldn’t take long to get to the Blue Room. Thank goodness all these rooms were connected.

“Are you going to walk right up to her?” Margaret asked.

I shook my head. “It’s dark in there and the agents are posted to keep people from getting into the State Rooms, not from coming out. We can sneak up to the doorway and take a look. With any luck, you’ll be able to get a good view of her and point her out to me.”

We tiptoed into the darkened, oval-shaped Blue Room. When we made our way across to the bright doorway that led to the Entrance Hall, I felt slow and clumsy, as though my feet were encased in twenty-pound boots.

“Right there,” Margaret said before I even had a chance to ask. Pointing to a woman positioned a few feet outside the doorway, she said, “The one wearing the navy pants and jacket.”

I studied the woman, thinking that I’d never seen her before. Who was she and why had she hidden information in my kitchen? What role did she play that made her privy to such damaging information? She paced back and forth outside the room, as did several of the other agents, but almost as if she sensed me watching, she kept her back to me.

Taller than I was, she was slim with short hair. I didn’t recognize her as a member of the Secret Service and I knew most of the female agents at the White House. She must belong to Kalto.

“Who is she?” Margaret asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her befo—”

I stopped myself as the woman glanced up toward the grand staircase, giving me a full view of her profile. My stomach lurched as recognition hit. The skeletal cheeks, the slightly bulbous nose.

It was her. This was the woman who’d pushed me from the train platform.