State of the Onion (17 page)

I DEBATED CALLING TOM. DECIDED AGAINST IT.

Our last conversation had left me feeling foolish. As though I'd manufactured the incident at the range as an excuse to see him. He had promised to report my sighting, but I'd gotten the distinct impression that he didn't really believe it was the Chameleon who'd approached me. Now, after last night's unpleasant happening, I wondered if my cover was totally blown. Did the Chameleon know who I was and where I lived?

It scared me. More than I cared to admit.

What would Tom say? Warn me to be more careful? Tell me to sleep with my gun under my pillow?

Would he come racing to my rescue to protect me from the Chameleon?

No.

I slid my Metro pass through the gate's reader on my way out at McPherson Square, shuffling with the crowd toward the exit—keeping alert for anything, anyone—out of place.

I needed to get used to the fact that Tom wasn't there for me anymore.

The thought depressed me. But I couldn't let the weight of disappointment slow me down. Reminding myself that a fast-moving target is a whole lot harder to hit than a static one, I practically shot from the station's maw to the White House's Northeast gate. I should tell someone here about the attempted break-in. But who? Tom told me that my involvement—from the very start when I whacked the pan against Naveen's head—to the incident at the merry-go-round, was considered confidential. I didn't know who, beyond Tom, Craig Sanderson, and unknown higher-ups were in on it.

By the time the White House front lawn came into view, I'd worked up a sweat, and my breaths came fast and shallow as I slid my ID through the card reader.

Freddie wasn't in the booth this morning to answer the shrill beep. “Hi, Gloria,” I said as the woman came out of her building to double-check it was me.

“You okay?” she asked.

Now that I was inside the gate, I felt enormously better. With Secret Service at every turn, and snipers atop the roof, I knew I was safe from the Chameleon here, at least.

“I'm fine,” I said, as I tucked my pass away and wiped my dotted brow. “Warm today, huh?”

“Supposed to be midseventies this afternoon.”

She gave me a funny look as I walked, more sedately now, to the East entrance.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I ASKED HENRY when I got into the kitchen. “You're supposed to be off today.”

He turned from his hunched position at the computer. “Change of plan,” he said, his face making the transformation from furrowed-brow to bright. “You and I are going on a field trip. I thought about calling you last night, but I knew you'd be in early anyway…” He glanced up at the clock, “but this is really early, even for you.”

I donned my tunic. “Couldn't sleep.”

The kitchen was quiet for a long moment as Henry returned to his document. He hadn't turned on many lights, and I took a deep breath—the scent of disinfectant over the lingering smells of yeast and garlic—and was comforted by the closeness of it all. This was my haven. I could happily live here. I pictured the adjacent storage area, and wondered how easily I could convert it to a sleeping space until I felt safe in my apartment again.

I smiled at the absurdity of the plan. Not a chance I'd escape the Secret Service's notice. For one thing, my pass would alert them that I hadn't left for days. And showering each morning might prove problematic.

Still, a girl could dream.

“What's so funny?” Henry asked.

I wanted to tell him about my early morning visitor, about the range, but I couldn't start down that path without betraying confidential information. Or compromising the plan to keep me safe. Oh, yeah, that plan was working.

“Nothing, really,” I said. “What kind of field trip?”

He hoisted himself off the stool, and clapped his hands. “We are going to Camp David.”

“Today?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, brushing past me to pull out his stash of favorite recipes. “On a helicopter.”

Henry looked and sounded like a little kid who'd just been promised a pony ride. I couldn't help grinning—his excitement was contagious.

“What time?”

“They'll call for us after nine. We're in charge of dinner there tonight. The Camp David kitchen staff is already preparing some basics, and getting ready for our arrival. But! The president specifically requested our presence.” He graced me with a look that said “Impressive, huh?” and then went back to rummaging through his file. “This trade agreement summit must be pretty important to insist that you and I oversee the meals. This time there is a real possibility for cooperation. The president realizes that, and he is doing all he can to make it a reality.”

“I'd say. These two countries have been at war with one another for…” I blew out a breath. “…for as long as I can remember. If President Campbell is able to facilitate a trade agreement, it'll be an important first step toward achieving peace in the Middle East.”

“Here.” Henry handed me three recipes, having tuned me out in favor of planning meals. “Let's figure out what we need to make these.”

WE WERE SHEPHERDED TO THE HELICOPTER just after nine, leaving Marcel in charge of the kitchen during our absence.

The presidential helicopter,
Marine One
, had already shuttled President Campbell and his guests to Camp David. The rest of the delegations attending the summit would arrive either by separate air arrangements or chauffeured motorcade.

The helicopter taking the two of us to Camp David was one of the ordinary, run-of-the mill designs. The Secret Service fellow who led us toward it seemed to view it as no big deal.

I found it incredibly exciting.

An earphone-wearing man in a flight jacket held up a gloved hand, motioning us to wait outside the marked perimeter while the enormous blades whirled overhead, their movement making loud
whup-whup
noises in the otherwise quiet morning. I held my arm up to shield my face from dust zipping into my eyes.

“Henry! Ollie!”

We turned. Craig Sanderson trotted toward us, papers in hand, his short hair flipping up from the copter's air current. “Did we forget something?” I asked Henry, shouting to be heard.

“No. I have everything here.” He patted his laptop case.

Craig wasn't out of breath, but he had to raise his voice over the sound of the rotating blades. “This has just been released,” he said, handing a flapping paper to Henry, and another to me. The look he gave me was anything but friendly, and as soon as I saw the face on the picture, I knew why.

Henry leaned in, firmly holding the paper by both ends. “Who is this?”

Craig explained that the White House, and indeed all of Washington, D.C., was on high alert for the assassin known as the Chameleon. He pointed to the face I'd described to Darren Sorrell, the face that stared up at us now. “This is the most recent composite we could come up with. We're notifying everyone at Camp David. This guy's slippery, and we want him caught.”

“I've heard of this Chameleon,” Henry said, nodding. “Someone has actually seen him?”

I felt myself blush.

Craig nodded, without looking at me. “We think so. Just keep a close eye out, all right? We believe he's targeted President Campbell. That's why these trade negotiations were moved. It will be more difficult for the Chameleon to attempt an attack in the new location; Camp David is much less problematic to secure than the White House—but until we tell you otherwise, anyone who looks like this, or who behaves in a suspicious manner, should be reported immediately.”

I thought about my decision to not tell Tom about the attempted break-in.

Dumb move. I should've swallowed my pride and called him last night. I opened my mouth to tell Craig, but the pilot shouted for us to board and Craig jogged away.

Next chance I had to talk to either one of them, I decided, I would.

The seventy-mile trip from one landing strip to the next was the most exciting I'd ever experienced. I was part of something big. Henry had been to Camp David before, but this would be my first time. There was a separate cooking staff at the retreat, so we were rarely called in to participate. This business summit could become a turning point in world history, and I was proud and elated to be part of it.

We circled the camp once before landing. The 125-acre retreat in Maryland's Catoctin Mountains was just as breathtaking as Tom had proclaimed. He'd been here before, too, several times, and he couldn't get enough of it. I could see why. Below us, cottages, paths, and gorgeous mature trees covered the top and one side of a small mountain. Lots of rocky terrain. Lots of greenery. I caught sight of a small portion of the security fence, and the agents who guarded it.

I sighed deeply. I'd be safe here.

The place was bustling with arrivals when we set down. We were directed up a path to the camp commander's office. On the way, we watched limousines navigate the roads to the various cabins to drop off riders before setting off again to the staff parking and guest barracks farther north.

Neither Henry nor I would be staying the night, and as we walked the path I regretted that. An idyllic spot, there were tennis courts, a staff pool, and that deep green smell only a forest of cool trees can provide. I breathed in the springy newness. For the first time in days, I felt alive with comfort. I vowed to put aside my worries about Tom, my worries about being a target for the Chameleon, and concentrate on doing the best job I could while soaking up the sense of well-being that pervaded this place.

Henry must have sensed my contentment; he smiled and winked.

I could understand why Franklin Delano Roosevelt had originally named this Shangri-La. It was, indeed, a haven. It had been called Camp David since before I was born, when Dwight Eisenhower renamed the retreat in honor of his grandson.

As I followed Henry and our guide, a kitchen staffer named Rosa Brelczyk, I found myself wishing the original name had endured. Jimmy Carter had chosen well when he staged his peace talks here.

Rosa kept us to the right on the long path. Round and short, she had the smile of a saint, and she maintained gentle chatter, welcoming us as we walked. All the cottages on the premises were named for trees: Chestnut, Hickory, Dogwood.

A limousine cleared the gatehouse and passed us on our left. The car stopped just outside the Birch guesthouse. As we approached I saw Ambassador bin-Saleh and his assistant, Kasim, alight. Accompanying them was a woman, dressed in a full
burqa
, her face and body completely obscured by her flowing blue garment.

Henry whispered. “That's the princess.”

“How do you know?”

“Watch,” he said.

As though he'd timed his comment, two women emerged from Birch, both also fully covered, but in fabrics far less opulent than the silk of the princess's. They flanked their mistress and all three kept their heads together as they disappeared back into the cabin.

“I see.”

“Labeeb told me there were three women in their party: the princess and two handmaidens.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Handmaiden? What is this, the Middle Ages?”

“Labeeb's word.” He shrugged. “Seems to fit.”

Rosa veered right at a large, beautiful building. “Aspen Lodge,” she said brightly.

“We're working in the president's cabin?” I asked.

She nodded, still walking, passing the front entrance. “The north wing houses the kitchen. We've been anticipating your arrival, Henry. Yours, too,” she said to me, but I could tell she didn't remember my name. “I hope you're used to working in tight quarters. We have a lot of…help…here today.”

She wasn't kidding.

“There are so many people,” I said to Rosa after being introduced to the entire Camp David kitchen staff and a couple of others—chefs from the two visiting dignitaries' countries.

She gave me a rueful smile. “The kitchen isn't the only place that's crowded. Not only do we have the summit leaders here, but each of them brought along several ambassadors, foreign ministers, legal advisors, defense ministers, public relations advisors…” She gave an extended sigh. “From what I understand, they've all had to cut back on the size of their entourage. As it is, we're stretching ourselves to make do.”

The word
entourage
gave me a little start. It reminded me of Laurel Anne's audition, of the day we'd endured with her in control. If you could call it that. I swallowed hard as I thought about this glorious refuge and all it represented. And the fact that I might never come back.

Bringing myself back to the present, I nodded. “We met only a couple of the ambassadors at the White House when they stopped by for a visit. And I haven't even seen the prime minister yet. Mostly, the guests and their people stay offsite. This,” I said, looking around, “is a whole lot more cozy.”

She laughed. “That it is. And you'll interact with people you've only seen on TV up till now. Come on, let's get you set up.”