State of the Onion

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

A PRESIDENTIAL MENU

What wouldn't I give to be invited to dinner at the White House! Better yet, to spend just one day in the White House kitchen. I'd love to work alongside the women and men there who personify excellence. Just one day. It would be a dream come true.

While no one actually said they'd have to kill me if they told me the truth, researching this novel has presented some interesting challenges. I'd like to thank all the Secret Service personnel and staff at the White House who answered my peculiar questions about how Ollie might “do this or that” as best they could. And I'd like to thank the Department of Homeland Security for not breaking down my door after my many Internet searches of “Camp David,” “terrorist,” “assassin,” “White House floor plan,” and the like.

So many wonderful people have helped me to the extent they could without compromising security. Any and all errors with regard to the White House and its protocols are mine.

A sincere thank you to those who helped me with firsthand information: Karna Small Bodman, Tony Burton, and Chris Grabenstein. Thanks also to Paul Garbarczyk, Mitch Bramstaedt, and Marla Garbarczyk, who provided me with a plethora of valuable resources. And to Congresswoman Judy Biggert, whose office arranged for my White House tour.

Enormous thanks to Marty Greenberg of Tekno Books for allowing me to create Olivia and her pals—a true thrill. Thanks also to John Helfers from Tekno for his editing expertise and unflagging good cheer. Also from Tekno, many thanks to Denise Little, who put me on the right path to learn White House lore and whose innovative recipes keep Ollie cooking.

I also wish to express my gratitude to my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, at Berkley Prime Crime, for having faith in me, and for taking time out at Bouchercon to meet and talk. I truly appreciated the welcome.

If it weren't for the Second Amendment Foundation and the Tartaro family, Ollie wouldn't have a clue about firearms. Of course, she's still learning…and she needs lots more practice.

My dear friend Ken Rand inspires me every day. And he'd be the first to remind me that Max Ehrmann does, too.

From the moment this project began, my writing partner, Michael A. Black, offered support, advice, and unfailing encouragement. I wouldn't be here without him.

I am exceptionally blessed with a wonderful family and great friends who encourage me to follow my dreams. Thank you to Curt, Robyn, Sara, and Biz. You guys are my life.

Finally, special thanks to the Southland Scribes, Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and to the entire writing community. What a privilege it is to belong to such an interesting and generous group.

I SLID MY EMPLOYEE PASS INTO THE CARD reader at the Northeast gate of the White House, and waited for verification—a long, shrill chirp that always made me wince. The pedestrian gate unlocked with a
click
and one of the guards, Freddie, emerged from the checkpoint to meet me. Like all of the staff here, he was fit, smart, and imposing. But he had a soft spot for those of us in the kitchen. We gave the guys cookies when we had time to make an extra batch.

“Hey, Ollie,” he said, looking at the bulky parcel in my hand, “What's that?”

I pulled the commemorative silver frying pan out from its bag and smiled as I ran my fingers over the words engraved on its base. “Henry's retirement gift,” I said. “Think he'll like it?” Henry Cooley, the White House executive chef, was formally retiring after many years of dedicated service. All of us who worked in the White House kitchen had chipped in to give him something to remember us by.

“It's cool,” Freddie said. “He'll love it.”

“I hope so.” I eased the pan back into its bag just as the sky rumbled and a crack of lightning zinged from the direction of the Washington Memorial. I grimaced. “I practically ran from the Metro to beat the storm. Looks like I just made it.”

“Like the Prez says, ‘You're helping conserve energy and battle traffic congestion,'” he said, jotting notes on his clipboard. “Be proud of it, Ollie. Or should I start calling you Executive Chef Paras?”

“I am proud. I'm also getting wet,” I said. My stomach did its customary flip-flop when Freddie mentioned the executive chef position, and I struggled to quell the excitement that rose every time I thought about being appointed to succeed Henry. “Besides, I don't have the job yet. Nobody knows who'll end up running the kitchen.”

A grin split Freddie's dark face. “Well…I know who I'm rooting for. Just don't forget us uniformed guys when you get that promotion. We get hungry, too.”

“I'll bake a batch of celebration goodies just for you.”

Freddie stepped back out of the morning rain and into the well-lit guard post. Shouldering my purse, I gripped the bag to my chest and headed up the walk to the East Appointment Gate, hunching my shoulders against the growing storm. Like many White House employees, I commuted to work via the Metro, but it only took me so far. And in the rain, a three-block walk from the station to the check-in seemed to take forever. Thank goodness I was almost there.

The sky was overcast and the weather wet and cold for mid-May—a perfect day to spend cooking. But I'd snuck out to pick up Henry's gift, and I needed to get back before tonight's dinner preparations began.

Just as I passed the first tri-flagged lamppost, a commotion up on the North Lawn caught my attention. There were no White House tours scheduled today—no one should have been in that area. I turned and watched in disbelief as a man raced between trees from the direction of the north fountain toward the East Wing of the White House, two Secret Service men in furious pursuit.

My breath caught as the intruder pounded across the high-ground lawn. Although my view was skewed—the North Lawn was elevated a good four feet from the east walkway where I stood—I could see that this guy was long-legged and moving fast. He was clearly in excellent physical shape, but I knew he'd never make it. Our Secret Service personnel are the most dedicated and best trained in the world. If he didn't surrender soon, they'd quit yelling at him to stop and would start shooting. But right now the runner, one arm pumping, the other wrapped around a black portfolio, was outpacing the agents by at least two strides.

The guy had to be nuts. Ever since 9/11, anyone with common sense knew better than to try to circumvent the enhanced White House security. A threat to our president's safety meant getting shot almost on sight.

I crouched, scanning upward to see the ever present snipers posted atop the White House roof, their dark silhouettes menacing against the gray sky. They jockeyed for position, taking aim. But the profusion of trees on the North Lawn, in full bloom, apparently provided too much cover.

The man didn't look back, not even when the Secret Service guys bellowed at him to stop. He sprinted faster than I've ever seen a person run before. He zigzagged, staying beneath the cover of the trees, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

My heart pounded and my limbs tingled as I stared. It was like watching a terrifying movie. But this was real. It was happening right in front of me.

Then the requisite emergency training kicked in.

Don't panic. Think.

I stepped off the pavement and ducked behind one of the tall trees lining the walkway. Digging out my cell phone, I dialed the White House security number, even as I kept an eye on what was going on. Remembering to breathe, I also reminded myself that the best thing to do was to stay out of the professionals' way. They'd have this guy caught in no time. If he didn't slow down, he was in for a nasty tumble down the east embankment. And that would get him nowhere except jammed between the ground's gentle slope and the iron fence that surrounded it.

I could see that he had Middle Eastern features: a dark complexion, full mustache and beard, and shoulder-length black hair, which trailed after him like a short cape. His expression—white teeth gritted in a tight grimace—made him look like a snarling Doberman.

A flat-voiced woman answered the phone. “State the nature of the emergency.”

“A man,” I said. I told myself to stay calm, but my body rebelled, making my voice tremble. “On the North Lawn. There are two Secret Service agents chasing him.”

“Yes,” she said. “We are aware.” I heard clicking in the background. “Your name?”

“Olivia Paras, I'm one of the assistant chefs.”

Another click. “Where are you, Ms. Paras?”

I was about to tell her when the man threw the thick folder to his left. Both agents' eyes followed the item's movement. The man stopped, spun, and launched himself at them. He used his split-second advantage to grab one agent's right arm, twisting it around in some kind of martial arts move—and effectively using the man's body as a shield from the other agent. Cracking his elbow into the captured agent's temple, he knocked the man out cold and snatched his pistol from a suddenly limp hand.

Now he had a gun.

I was frozen in place.

“Ms. Paras?”

I almost couldn't speak.

“He…”

The second agent dropped into a shooting stance, his firearm extended. The intruder gripped the first agent and whirled, releasing the unconscious figure like an Olympian throwing a hammer. The second agent fired, but missed. His colleague's body slammed into him before he could get another shot off, knocking them both to the ground.

“The agents are down—he's got a gun!” I said.

The intruder didn't wait to see if either agent would get up. He retrieved his package and sprinted away.

As he ran, he lifted the firearm, pointed it at the sky, and thumbed its side. The magazine fell out of the pistol, tumbling behind him. A second later, the gun followed.

“He just tossed the gun,” I said, my words sounding slow and stupid. Not surprising, since my mind was shouting that this couldn't be happening. “He's running again. But…”

“Where are you, Ms. Paras?”

I wondered how the woman on the other end of the phone could stay so calm at a time like this. I was having a hard time sorting through the flood of stimuli to give her crucial information. I swallowed hard.

“He's headed toward the East Wing,” I finally managed. Then, remembering to answer her question, I added, “I'm on the walkway, just north of the East Appointment Gate. Behind a tree.”

“Stay there.” I heard her address someone else before she returned to me. “Stay out of the way.”

I didn't say anything; I was in perfect agreement with that command.

I peeked around the other side of the tree, going up on my toes to see better, just as more Secret Service agents appeared: Five sentries snapping into action, positioning themselves like the pillars of the North Portico. They stood along the East Wing, firearms drawn. They aimed for the man, who was now close enough for me to hear the wet
splat
of his footfalls in the grass.

The intruder spotted the guards and altered his trajectory, veering in my direction.

Then shots sounded.

And I was in the line of fire.

I dropped to the ground, staying low even as I watched. I told myself that being behind a tree could save me from getting nailed as an innocent bystander.

I hoped to God that was true.

Transfixed by terror, I was powerless to move. The sounds of shouting agents and popping gunfire washed over me like some video game sound track.

But this was real.

The man did a skip-step.

He must have gotten hit.

Then, unbelievably, he doubled his speed, heading right for the sudden embankment decline. He was sure in for a surprise when the ground dropped out from under him.

“Stay where you are, Ms. Paras,” the woman said into my ear. “And don't hang up.”

The intruder was bent in half and weaving from side to side as he ran, trying to avoid the bullets of the sentries and the snipers. Secret Service agents were racing this way now. But they were so far behind that I worried the guy might get away after all.

A sudden sprint. And then, as if he knew precisely where the embankment declined, he leaped into the air, clearing the ground-drop and the iron fence that surrounded it. It looked like slow motion, though it was anything but. Pedaling madly as he soared above the fence, he landed in a thumping skid, rolling onto the pavement less than fifty feet from my position. He boosted himself upright, and in a couple of hops, cleared two small decorative fences that kept people from walking on the grass. He was headed right for me. As if he knew I was there.

I should have shouted into the phone. I should have screamed.

But I didn't. I realized that I was here, at this moment, with an opportunity. I was the one person in the perfect place to do something just right. I knew he couldn't have seen me. He was too focused on getting away.

I dropped the phone. I looked around. But Henry's retirement gift was all I had.

The man closed the distance between us in a heartbeat.

I grabbed the skillet with both hands and jumped to my feet. As he ran past I slammed him with it, right in the stomach. I heard his grunt of pain, and an exclamation in a language I didn't understand. He sank to the ground.

“Ms. Paras?” a tinny voice called from my discarded phone.

I shouted to the agents, “Here! Over here!” I jumped, hoping they could see it was me—hoping they wouldn't open fire again. “Don't shoot!”

The man's expression, though suffused with pain, softened when he looked up at me. Dark brown eyes met mine. “Please,” he said.

As he spoke, he scuttled to his feet faster than I would have thought possible. Not dazed or weak at all.

I didn't think. There wasn't time to think.

I whacked him upside the head with the frying pan—the impact reverberated up my arm and sounded like a melon being dropped into a stainless steel sink. He fell to his knees, grunted an expletive.

After a hit like that, I figured he'd be out cold for sure.

But he turned to face me. Still conscious.

I took a step forward, ready to smack him again.

“Over here,” I screamed, panic making my voice shake.

The intruder tumbled sideways, cradling his head in one hand, blood dripping from the top of his scalp. His legs worked like he was trying to ride a bicycle, and this time his words were labored. “Please,” he said, “must warn…president. Danger.”

I stood openmouthed, heart pounding, wielding the pan like a tennis racket, when the man's foot gained purchase and he started to pull himself up again.

“Please,” he said. “I…must…warn…”

I cracked him again, this time slamming his shoulder.

From behind me, I heard the welcome sound of running feet.

“Ollie, get back,” Agent Craig Sanderson said as they surrounded us in a half circle. “Quick. We've got him covered.”

They didn't have to tell me twice.

I had a good view of the man from the side, but he kept his face down. His eyes were clenched shut, and he looked awful. Blood dripped from the gash in his head, pooling in the grass below him. He held his hands out, open and empty, shouting to the agents, “I am unarmed.”

I noticed now that he wore shabby clothing, but brand-new, high-end athletic shoes and what looked like body armor. No wonder the shots hadn't stopped him. This intruder had come prepared.

The portfolio he carried was tucked under his leg.

I backed up farther as fast as I could, praying I wouldn't trip.

As I cleared their established perimeter, the Secret Service closed in on the intruder, bending his arms behind his back. With a circle of .357 semiautomatics trained on the guy, two agents stepped in to put some kind of plastic zip-tie thing on his wrists. Lots more operatives gathered, and Agent Thomas MacKenzie broke away from the group to gently remove the skillet from my white-knuckled fist. “You okay?”