State of the Onion (19 page)

Kasim thanked her. The two women left to escort the princess to her cabin. Kasim watched after them, looking confused. “I shall return to my cabin as well,” he said. “Good night.”

Mrs. Campbell said, “Good night,” to Kasim and then looked at me.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked as my assistants swept in to clear away the princess's place settings.

“No,” the First Lady said, her forehead wrinkled. “I don't understand what just happened.” She sat.

I placed the bowl of soup in front of her.

“Is there anything we can do for you?”

“No,” she said again, drawing out the word. “I made certain to familiarize myself with their customs, and yet…I couldn't get her to talk with me. At all.” Her expression relaxed, turned almost despondent. “I hope I haven't inadvertently done something to impede my husband's efforts.”

“I'm sure you haven't,” I said.

She smiled up at me with a mixture of gratitude and regret. “Thank you, Ollie.” With a glance at her soup, she finished the sentiment she'd begun before the princess's peculiar departure. “This
does
look delicious. Thank you.”

When I returned to the kitchen, enough of the waitstaff was back from Hickory, and I was spared further serving duties. I never minded pitching in. No one did. But the scene with the princess unnerved me. I didn't want Mrs. Campbell to associate my presence with such a negative moment. Not when she still had her executive chef decision to make.

We cleaned up as the waitstaff hustled, and before long Henry and I were ready to go. Right on schedule. I smiled. If there was one thing White House and First Family staff members were good at, it was punctuality. Avram and Gaspar were scheduled to remain at Camp David for the duration of the trade talks, a prospect that delighted them both. Henry and I thanked them for all we learned, and we wished them well over the coming days and in the future.

The path back to the helicopter pad was much darker now that dusk had settled. I breathed in the damp greenery, again, and wished I could stay just another day. “It's gorgeous here,” I said, throwing my arms out to encompass the expansiveness. “It's so peaceful, so…calming. It almost makes me forget…”

“Forget what?” Henry asked.

I dropped my hands to my sides, remembering all that had transpired before my trip to this Shangri-la. Although the Chameleon was dead, and my fear of him now gone, I still had the stalking-weirdo issue to deal with. Not to mention my concerns about my future with Tom. If I had a future with Tom. Too much to burden Henry with, so I shot him a rueful smile and said, “Boy troubles.”

He laughed.

We were passing Birch, our footsteps making soft shuffling noises, when we heard it. Strange noises—coughing, crying, and gasped directives in a foreign tongue. The cabin's front door stood open, and one of the handmaidens who had been approaching from the opposite direction rushed in, accompanied by a man I hadn't seen before. The door slammed shut behind them.

We stood in the shadows, watching.

“What do you suppose that's all about?” I whispered to Henry.

His lips drew into a line. “I have no idea.”

BACK AT MY APARTMENT THAT NIGHT, I couldn't wait to turn on the news, but I had one very important stop to make first.

Mrs. Wentworth answered almost before I finished knocking.

“There you are,” she said. “I've been worried.”

“Why, did anything happen while I was gone?”

She shook her snowy head. “Nope. All quiet. But you're late.”

“I am,” I said. “Busy day. But I wanted to stop by and thank you again for what you did last night. I don't know who the guy was, but I'm glad you were awake. I hate to think what would have happened if you weren't.”

She wrinkled her nose and gave a sidewise glance, snorting. But I could tell she was pleased with herself. “Turns out there's been a rash of break-ins.”

“There has? In our building?”

She shook her head. “Not just here. Nearby, too. Three in the complex across the street. All three in one night. Five more about half-mile away. They figure the fella who tried to break in here was expanding his territory.” She licked her dry lips. “Police called me today. Wanted me to look at some pictures. But I didn't recognize the guy who was here.”

“Wow,” I said. I hadn't been specifically targeted after all. Relief washed over me like an unexpected sun shower.

“Your boyfriend coming to stay tonight?”

“No.”

Feathery eyebrows tugged upward. “Why not? He should be here. To protect you.”

“I'll do okay,” I said, then thanked her again and said good night.

“Oh, I get it,” she said as I made the short trek to my apartment door.

I turned.

She waved her cane at me. “You two better make up pretty quick. You never know if that creep will try again.”

“Good night, Mrs. Wentworth.”

“POLICE IN PARIS TONIGHT CONFIRM THAT the elusive assassin known as the Chameleon is dead.” The handsome anchorman averted his gaze slightly off camera—as though to direct viewers' attention. On cue, the scene shifted and my television screen became the street just outside the Louvre. In the background, over the shoulder of the onsite female reporter, I could make out the familiar, I. M. Pei–designed glass pyramid, which served as the museum's entrance.

My tape was in, my VCR was set on “Record,” and I sat forward, watching intently.

The American reporter fought to speak over the rain and winds that buffeted the Parisian avenue. She pushed damp hair off her face, and spoke with somber inflections. “It is here, at the world-famous Louvre, the largest museum in the world, that the Chameleon intended to wreak havoc on not only his target, French President Pierre La Place…”—the network cut to a stock photo of the smiling world leader, hand raised in greeting—“…but on priceless history, art, and innocent bystanders as well.

“Other than the Chameleon, whose true identity is being withheld until further notice, no one was injured in yesterday's gunfire. Authorities from Interpol are not commenting on how they learned of the Chameleon's plans in time to protect the president, but there is much celebration tonight as a mysterious killer's long reign of terror comes to a bloody, and final, close.”

The anchorman provided a few more details about the shooting, and explained why Interpol had delayed announcement of the Chameleon's death. Apparently he'd been such a master of disguise that they hadn't been immediately certain that the man shot at the scene was truly the Chameleon. According to reports, and “respected sources,” there was no doubt at all that the French
gendarmes
had rid the world of this terrible assassin, once and for all.

The scene shifted again, and there, big as my twenty-seven-inch screen would allow, was an artist's rendering of the Chameleon's face. Had they drawn this picture after he'd been killed? I didn't know. What I did know was that he didn't look at all like the man I'd seen at the merry-go-round. He was darker skinned, with dark hair and dark eyes. I waited till the segment came to a complete end, before stopping the tape, rewinding, and freezing the man's face to study it.

I pulled out the artist's rendering.

Not the same man. But then again, this was an individual who made his living occupying other identities. The broadcast hadn't said a word about his height or build. From the drawing onscreen, the face was slim enough to be right. The cheeks slightly concave, the shape of the face narrow, though not long.

I stared at the screen, then at the drawing in my hands. Then back at the screen.

Maybe. But it was a stretch.

I already knew that the prospective suitor at the range and the potential intruder at my door couldn't have been the Chameleon. Not possible for the assassin to have been here and in Paris at the same time. But the merry-go-round guy…that was another story. That man had
murdered
Naveen. I'd seen it happen—it was a scenario that would play before my eyes again and again for the rest of my life.

Tom and the rest of the Secret Service had assumed the killer was the Chameleon. I'd assumed so, too. Comparing these pictures made me second-guess that assumption.

With a sigh, I folded the paper and put it away again. I didn't know who killed Naveen. Maybe I never would.

IN THE WHITE HOUSE KITCHEN ALL THE NEXT day, we were at full staff and would remain so for the duration. Tomorrow a slew of temporary help would descend upon us to prepare for the dinner, just over forty-eight hours away.

The most important consideration in preparing a meal of this magnitude was the preparation. And not just food preparation: The timing of pre-work, the organization of manpower, the boiling point of both water and tempers, all had to be taken into account when preparing for such an event. Which meant that until this dinner was over, I needed to put my personal issues aside. Tom hadn't left any messages. Hadn't stopped by to visit, either.

I'd expected him to call last night, when word of the Chameleon's demise hit the news. But, nothing.

It was time for me to face facts. To put things into perspective. Right now, nothing was more important than our upcoming state dinner and the trade agreements in the Middle East it might represent. This state dinner, perhaps the most important one we would ever experience, was Henry's swan song, his crowning glory—the meal that would be talked about for years after his retirement.

I sighed. This might be my swan song, too. But for a whole different reason.

Jamal, the maître d', would be in charge of Wednesday night's event. He and I stood over the large gray bins that held different varieties of china that the White House possessed. We anticipated a full house, 140 guests, seated at tables of ten in the State Dining Room.

“I suggest the Reagan china and the Wilson china,” Jamal said, as he scrutinized his records. The Campbells hadn't yet decided on their own style of dinnerware for their White House legacy and we were often required to combine settings when entertaining a large group of guests. “Both are elegant, yet understated. Or—”

“No, unfortunately,” I said, interrupting him. “Both of those,” I pointed, “have gold in the design. Since many of our guests are male Muslims, we have to take into account that they are not allowed to consume food served on silver or gold.”

Jamal nodded. “Serving trays, too, then?”

“Yep.”

We had several options open to us, but I knew we needed to make a decision quickly if we were to move forward. “Surely we aren't the first administration to welcome Muslim guests to our table,” I said, “so let's take a look at what serving pieces were used the last time the kitchen faced this situation.”

Jamal said he would take care of it, and left.

Peter Sargeant took that moment to drop in. His eyes scanned the whole of the storage area, then focused on the china before me and announced that I needed to be aware of our Muslim guests' requirements before making snap—and uninformed—decisions that could easily ruin the negotiations that President Campbell was so tirelessly working to facilitate. He then began a lecture, attempting to inform me of the Muslim rules.

“We know the protocols,” I said crisply. “That's why Jamal and I were here. We've already dismissed these.” I pointed to the bins. As I continued, my voice rose. “We were already coming up with alternatives before you arrived.”

He blinked, evidently surprised by my “Back off, bucko,” attitude. It took mere seconds for him to recover. “You're wasting your time, here,” he said. “I've already seen to that.”

“You have?” I was curious. “Which china did you choose?”

“Since when do I answer to you?”

Like I'd been slapped, I froze—speechless. Grasping for composure, I decided to face this bully once and for all. “Mr. Sargeant,” I began, “we apparently got off on the wrong foot, somehow.” I didn't add that our “wrong foot” was a direct result of him targeting me for harassment. “I'd like to rectify that.”

If he'd been taller, he would have looked down his nose at me. “I see no need.”

“You see no need?” I repeated his words, disbelievingly. “And why is that?”

“Ms. Paras, you may not want to hear this, but since the truth is always the best approach, I will tell you, for your own good, that I believe your days here are numbered. Specifically, I see your tenure at the White House coming to a close immediately after Laurel Anne is named executive chef. I see no need to cultivate a ‘relationship' with you if you won't be here next week.”

When he said Laurel Anne's name, he smiled. Like a teenager with a bad crush.

“Well then,” I said, fighting the sting of his words. “I will leave you to your china choice.” I brushed past him.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he said.

I turned.