State of the Onion (25 page)

I must have startled him because he shot me a strange look, his brown eyes squinting even as he shook his head. “No,” he said, “that is, yes. She has what she needs. Her assistant is taking charge.”

Within minutes the crowd made its way to the appetizer tables. The important and the beautiful: senators, ambassadors, celebrities, media giants, and star-gazing assistants milled around the grassy area, all smiling. The crowd would thin down considerably before dinner began.

I knew I should head in, but then I saw Tom. He stood, looking smart and strong and brave, wearing a gray blazer, navy slacks, and sunglasses. A curly clear cord wound from his earpiece to inside his jacket. “Hey,” I said as I passed.

“Hey, yourself,” he whispered, eyes forward. His expression was all business. “You see anybody who looks familiar?”

“Nobody. I think you guys scared him off.”

“Don't count on it,” he said, never breaking his attention from the hundreds of people in the garden. “Keep your eyes open.”

I started back inside, then stopped. “Say, Tom, do dignitaries go through security?”

His face twitched. Enough to know that I was taking too much of his attention.

“Sorry. Stupid question. Never mind,” I said. I thought I knew the answer to that anyway. I mean, when the queen of England comes to visit, they don't ask her to put her tiara in a bin and step through a magnetometer. Dignitaries and heads of state were always who they said they were, and security was gently applied. “You going to be here all day?”

He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “I'll be inside.”

“It's cooler inside,” I said.

He grimaced.

I took another look at the princess, who again, was keeping to herself. One of the two handmaidens stayed close—I assumed to translate. But every time anyone came near the princess to talk, or with a microphone, she turned her veiled head away.

I made my way around the business end of the food, and I noticed that one of the fruit trays was nearly empty. Already. The food was moving faster than we expected and I looked around for Jamal. He was nowhere to be found, so I took the tray and lifted it onto my shoulder, hoping to avoid running into Sargeant. He'd have something disparaging to say about me if he caught me doing the waitstaff's work. But that's how we did things at the White House. We didn't spend time worrying if picking up a scrap of paper or moving a table was someone else's job. If it needed to be done and one of us was there, we did it.

I carried the picked-over tray, making my way to the family dining room on the first floor. We used that room as a staging area for big dinners, and even though it was a considerable walk from the Rose Garden outside, it was still the best place to keep everything we planned to serve.

Henry was on his way out when we crossed paths. “How is it out there? Do we need another tray of fruit?”

“We do,” I said. “I figured I'd bring this one in and—”

One of the waiters lifted the tray from my hands and started for the kitchen downstairs. “I'll grab a new one,” I said.

Another waiter turned the corner. “Let Brandon do it,” Henry said, calling him over.

Brandon looked apologetic. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Mr. Sargeant sent me on an errand,” he said. “The princess has requested a female serve her, so he sent me to get Tanya or Bethany.”

“I'll do it then,” I said. “We can't let the table sit empty for this long.”

“Go,” Henry said.

I went.

But first: “Let me take this off,” I said removing my toque. If Sargeant saw that tall white chef's hat amid the bustling waitstaff, I'd hear it for sure. Without it, no one would pay me any attention.

Henry winked. “Good idea.”

Timing-wise, we had only about another five minutes before the announcement. I wanted to be out there, have the tray in place, and make myself unobtrusive before President Campbell let the guests know the real reason for today's gathering.

Cyan was in the family dining room, orchestrating staff. It would be another two hours before dinner was served, but this was the bewitching time, the time when everything had to be handled exactly right or our careful plans would fall apart. Henry had insisted that, once the food was completely prepared, I stay out of the kitchen. He knew me well enough to know that I'd be in there, doing all the last-minute jobs myself instead of delegating them. He used to say that when I took over as executive chef I'd need to learn the skill set that allowed me to let go, but today he said it differently, “When you're running your own kitchen…”

That hurt. He hadn't meant it to, but we both needed to face facts. This was it. By the time Henry retired next week, we were both pretty sure I'd be looking for a new position.

I worked hard to take on more of a management role. Of course, sometimes that meant grabbing a tray of fruit.

The round, crystal tray was piled high with strawberries, kiwi, cantaloupe, grapes, and some of the more unusual choices, such as starfruit. Our temporary staff had spent hours making each piece perfect, and the tray was arranged as though ready for a
Bon Appétit
photo shoot.

I lifted the heavy platter and made my way outside, enjoying the cool air-conditioning as long as I could.

The best way to avoid the hordes of people gathered outdoors was to take the corridor that led through the West Wing before I went outside.

As I passed several of the Secret Service agents along the corridor, I looked for Tom. Not there. I narrowly avoided bumping into a man coming out of the washroom outside the Oval Office. Since he and I were about the same height, I couldn't see his face over the tray, but I could see his slacks. Uh-oh. Sargeant's blue pinstripes. He went east, I went west, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't take me to task about being out among the populace again.

As I traversed the corridor, I watched the activity outside. The White House chief of staff was at the microphone under the lights the two techs had set up earlier. He called for everyone's attention and, for about the fourth time this afternoon, introduced the president of the United States, Harrison R. Campbell.

The Marine Band began “Hail to the Chief,” and President Campbell smilingly stepped up onto the raised platform to take the microphone.

The heat rolled over me when the page opened the door. I made my way to the table with the open spot and laid the tray down, making sure to uncover it. A waiter nearby took the cover from me and asked if there was anything he could do.

There wasn't, so I quickly rearranged the table to accommodate the new tray.

The princess, who I thought should have been up near the prince, made her way toward the table farthest from the dais. I didn't want to turn and give her my full attention—somehow I sensed that would make her recoil—but I noticed her slip her hand out and pull a slice of kiwi under her veil.

So the princess does eat after all, I thought.

She took another piece of fruit and then another. With everyone's attention on the president, no one paid her the slightest heed. From the quickness of her movements I had to figure the poor woman was starving. She picked at each of the hors d'oeuvres trays, devouring the small tidbits as quickly as she could get them under her veil. When her hand reached again, she picked up two pieces of Baklava Stuffed with Almonds, Pecans, and Pine Nuts.

Good thing she didn't have that nut allergy after all.

I smiled, and worked at cleaning up the garnishes that had fallen off trays and stained the pristine tablecloths. From the tiny sounds to my left, I knew she was busy eating, though I detected her inching farther away.

Just then, a young man in navy blue, pinstriped slacks stepped backward out of the crowd. The tables were set up in roughly a U shape and he was at the very end of the U's top, which put him directly to the left of the speakers at the dais. The prince and prime minister had joined President Campbell at his invitation, and the three of them stood together, looking chummy—freezing their movements and smiles for pictures.

With his back to the table the young man didn't seem to know I was there. He wore a white, long-sleeve shirt that looked crisp, but enormous sweat stains created dark moon shapes under his arms. It was hot, but not that hot.

I fussed with the table, making everything look good, and I gave the guy another glance. The side of his face, the shape of his head.

I jerked at the charge of familiarity.

No, I told myself. This guy was not the same guy from the merry-go-round. Not the guy from the range.

Was he?

Pale, yes, but this guy had brown hair.

He was the right height.

I scanned the area, looking for Tom.

Not there.

I froze, my hand poised over the fruit tray. What should I do? I couldn't say for sure that this man was the Chameleon. I couldn't see his face. Not yet.

What could I do?

What was he going to do?

The nearest Secret Service agent was thirty yards to my left. If I called out, I'd alert this guy, cause a disturbance, and he'd get away. He was inching forward, closer to the action. If I ran over to the agent, I could lose sight of him.

And I wasn't even sure this was the Chameleon. He could be a reporter. A cameraman on break. He wore a press ID on a lanyard around his neck and he shifted his weight, his back now completely toward me.

All I knew was that standing here frozen was not the way to go.

Freezing nearly got me killed at Arlington.

I had to move.

I grabbed the next tray of fruit. Almost empty.

Wanting to get a better look at him, I started to ask the guy if he wanted any fruit—when he jammed his right hand into his pocket and pulled out…

A cell phone.

Panic, then relief. I nearly laughed in spite of myself.

I looked at him again.

Inched closer.

He pulled another item out, this from his left pocket. It looked like an antenna. A sizeable one. Without dragging his gaze from the speeches in front of us, he connected the antenna to the top of the cell phone and twisted it into place. That was odd. Usually antennae stayed attached to phones. And then I remember Kasim telling me about the specialized models he was required to carry. This one looked a lot like the one he'd shown me that day. Maybe international phones had unique construction.

“Today,” President Campbell said, beaming as cameras flashed and shutters snapped, “we are changing the face of the world as we know it. For we are not here today just to celebrate a trade agreement.” He paused, waiting for the silence to ripple through the crowd. It didn't take long. “We are here today to celebrate peace. A true peace in the Middle East. Today we sign a treaty ending war between two great countries in that region.”

A roar of applause. The president kept a hand on the shoulder of the prime minister to his right and the prince to his left. “Today's treaty promises our children a safer world.”

More applause.

The crowd, breathless, waited for the president's next words.

And that's when she screamed.

The princess fell to the ground, gasping for air. Her veil fell askew and I saw a portion of her face for the first time. Her mouth hung open and she made noises humans don't usually make. I knew we needed Kasim, or one of the woman's handmaidens. Or even Peter Sargeant. Where were they? I was about to rush to her side when one of her handmaidens appeared at her side.

“She's having an allergic reaction!” someone yelled. I wasn't sure who.

The crowd rushed to the princess's side. Everyone in the immediate area reacted. Everyone, but the young man in the blue pinstripe pants. He didn't turn.

He didn't turn?

He pointed the elongated antenna of his cell phone at the prime minister.

My mind skip-stepped. He's going to make a call now? From that position?

And then I understood.

“Gun!” I screamed just as his finger grazed the dial buttons.

I threw the plate of food at his head, while rushing at him, prepared to tackle. The plate of food knocked him sideways, throwing off his aim.

Still I was too late.

I heard a
pop
. And another.

The prince jerked back, fell to the ground. The side of his head flowered red.

The young man in the navy slacks turned.

Pale blue eyes met mine.

In that instant, I knew.

The Chameleon.

His gaze flickered. I sensed a split-second of indecision. Kill me first? Or run?

Agents covered the president, the prime minister, the prince. The man with the cell phone gun shoved me to the ground and took off, running not away from the White House grounds, but into the building itself. In the mêlée that erupted, no one saw him go.