All the President’s Menus (11 page)

“I’ll look into it, Marcel.”

“My dearest Olivia, I knew I could count on you.”

“I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry another minute.” Gav regarded me with an odd expression. I shrugged. “You concentrate on getting better so that we have you back in the White House as soon as we can.”

When I hung up, Gav asked, “How, exactly, do you plan to look into this?”

I didn’t know, and admitted as much. “I couldn’t refuse him. Not when he was so distraught.”

“I understand.”

“Do you think he’s imagining all this?”

“The man suffered a concussion. It’s possible. The bigger question is, what do you think?”

“Marcel is fond of drama, but he doesn’t make things up.” I was reasoning aloud, which often helped. “I understand the concussion could be causing him to imagine such a scenario, but—like I asked him—what would the Saardiscans stand to gain by taking him out?”

“Nothing comes to mind?”

“The only thing,” I said, “and this is a stretch, is that after the first incident, when we didn’t know how long Marcel would be out, Sargeant asked Kilian to take over as pastry chef. When Marcel returned to the kitchen, those plans were scrapped.”

“That’s a fairly extreme action to take.”

“It is,” I said, “and Kilian doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would do anyone harm on purpose.”

“What about the other men? Would they take Marcel out to help elevate their leader’s position?”

“No,” I said. “They don’t seem like they’re all that close. I’m at a loss here. I told Marcel I’d look into it, but I don’t have the first idea of how to do that.”

“Keep your eyes open,” he said. “There’s really not much else you can do.”

Bucky and I had about an hour alone together the next morning before our Saardiscan guests arrived. In that short amount of time we not only prepared the First Family’s breakfast, we also set up another schedule for the remainder of the Saardiscans’ visit. Again.

“This schedule has changed every single day since they’ve been here,” Bucky said as we plodded through the process. “I’ve lost count of the iterations.”

“Can you imagine how scatterbrained we must look to them? They came here to learn about our methods and we haven’t had a single normal day since they arrived.”

“Whose bright idea was it for them to stay for two weeks?” Bucky asked. “Three days would have been plenty.”

“What do you think about Marcel’s suspicions?” I kept my voice low. Even though we usually had a bit of advance notice before the team showed up, I didn’t want anyone to overhear.

Bucky stared out the doorway as though he expected the Saardiscans to tromp through at any minute. “We’ve seen stranger things happen around here,” he said. “I can’t rule it out.”

“Neither can I.”

“What do you plan to do about it?”

“There’s not much that can be done. However,
we
,” I said, emphasizing the word and wiggling a finger to link us both, “can find out more about the men. Who they are. If they’re capable of this kind of attack. Look around here.” I perched my fists at my waist and did a slow circle around the room, seeing it all as though for the first time. “A kitchen is a dangerous place. Chefs have knives and chemicals at their disposal. Most powerful of all, they have knowledge. If one of our visitors is a bad egg, we might be in serious trouble.”

I took a closer look at the schedule we’d set up. “How about we take turns working with them one on one?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what you’re going for.”

“Here.” I pointed to the first task of the day. “We divvied the men up so that two work with you while two work with me. What if you take one, I take three?” I penciled in lines to show what I meant. “That way you can get to know that one person better. Maybe if we’re able to establish rapport with them, one on one, they’ll start dishing on one another.”

“You really think so?”

“Unless you have a better idea?” I asked, not meaning to speak so sharply. “I think our best chance to find out if there’s a hidden agenda is to get them to drop their guard.”

“And if they don’t?”

I held up my hands. “I don’t know.”

“The idea of an attack on Marcel is preposterous,” he said. “I mean, why? What possible good could come from drugging the guy who’s supposed to be showing you around the place?”

“I’ve been asking myself that question all night. The only explanation I came up with is that with our pastry chef out of commission, that puts Kilian as the front-runner for desserts.”

“Lame,” he said.

“You think? I mean, there was no way they could have predicted that Kilian’s expertise would be tapped in Marcel’s absence. And think about this: If Marcel is right and they used GHB, that causes only temporary unconsciousness. There was no way to engineer it so that he’d hit his head. Even if Marcel collapsed, he could be back within hours. What good could that possibly do any of them?”

“Unless,” Bucky said, “whatever they needed to do is done now?”

“What do you mean?”

“While Marcel was unconscious, they had the run of the chocolate shop, right? Could they have stolen something? Purloined a recipe, or done something like that?”

“Maybe,” I allowed, “but that seems extreme.”

“I don’t have the answers. That’s your job.”

“How about I take a run at the chocolate shop, just to make sure nothing seems amiss?”

“Have at it, boss,” he said. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

I headed out through the refrigeration room and crossed the basement hall, saying hello to a couple of staffers along the way before walking into the chocolate shop. The room was quiet and dark. I turned on the lights. Fitted with stainless steel appliances and countertops, the room was efficiently laid out. Good thing, because it was even smaller than the mezzanine-level pastry kitchen. Again, I marveled at how Marcel could produce delicious artistry in such limited space.

As I looked around, I realized that I so seldom visited this area, I’d have no clue if something was out of place. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to spend a couple of minutes checking. Focusing, I blew out a breath of frustration as I made a slow circuit around the room.

The cleaning crew had been in here since Marcel’s collapse, and the place sparkled. On a whim, I opened up the refrigerator and peeked inside. As was his habit, Marcel had everything precisely labeled and neatly stacked in containers and jars.

I closed that unit and opened the next one. Same thing. Shelves filled with ingredients, every single canister sealed and marked for easy identification.

About to close the refrigerator door, I noticed a demitasse cup on the bottom shelf. The top of it had been hastily covered with clear plastic wrap, and the cup shoved in front of two jars of blackberry jam. I picked up the small vessel and examined it. The cleaning people had probably put this away. Peeling off the plastic wrap, I sniffed the contents.

Marcel’s famous chocolate drink. About halfway full.

Holding the demitasse cup at eye level, I turned it to one side, then the other, noticing small, chocolate dribble marks down the otherwise pristine white porcelain. Someone had been drinking from this, no question about it. Whether it had been Marcel, I didn’t know.

I replaced the plastic film over the top and, taking it with me, made my way back across the basement hall into our kitchen’s refrigeration room, where I pulled open the right-hand unit. Tucking the cup behind a bin of Brussels sprouts on the top shelf, I thought about how best to broach the idea of getting the contents tested. I knew my request wouldn’t go over well, but I didn’t see that I had any choice.

I returned to the kitchen just as the Saardiscans arrived. “Good morning,” I said. “How was your evening?”

Nate grinned. “We went to a bar last night where they were playing disco.”

All of Washington, D.C., to sightsee, and visiting a disco was what made him happy? “That’s great,” I said. “I hope you’ll be able to explore some of the monuments and the Smithsonian while you’re here.”

Hector waved his hand. “Plenty of time. Nate and I met two American women at the disco.”

I didn’t really want to hear more. “What about you?” I asked Kilian.

He shrugged. “I spent time at the bookstore. So much to see, to read.”

Tibor was the only one of the group who hadn’t chimed in. Not that I wanted to pry—all right, I admit it, I did want to pry—but I asked him, “What about you? Did you do anything fun last night?”

“We are not here for fun.” He turned from me and made his way over to the cabinets where we kept our smocks and aprons. “It is time for us to work. Not to stand around and chatter.”

So much for the niceties. I faced the group. “With all the changes we’ve had to work around, we need to make certain we haven’t overlooked any details. Kilian, as you and I discussed, you’re probably taking over the pastry kitchen in Marcel’s absence. I want to ensure that both the chief usher and Secret Service are still in agreement with that decision.”

“I am not happy about the circumstances,” he said, “but I am delighted to be able to share with you some of my expertise. Is Marcel expected to return at some point?”

“Yes,” I said. “This is a precautionary move.”

“Then I will do my best to stand in for him.”

“Great. Let’s get started.”

Bucky’s expression grew increasingly more grim throughout this discussion. If I thought I was distrustful, Bucky was ten times more so. He also had a harder time hiding it. To the point that Tibor frowned, and pointed directly at my assistant. “You do not approve? What is the reason you are angry? You do not think that Kilian can do as good a job as your Marcel?”

Caught in the spotlight and still wearing his expression of distaste, Bucky simply shook his head. “Don’t read anything into it.” He patted himself on the stomach and shot me a conspiratorial look. “Onions in my omelet this morning,” he said. “Not setting so well.”

I took control again. “Bucky and I have come up with a new schedule that we hope appeals to all of you.” I pulled out the sheets we’d been working on before the team arrived. “Even though you will be guests at our dinner for Kerry Freiberg, we want to learn more about Saardiscan dishes so we can add a bit of your country’s traditional flavor to our menu.”

Tibor made what sounded like a snort.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like Ms. Freiberg?”

Tying his apron around his back, he didn’t answer.

“Tibor,” I said, waiting until he made eye contact. “Why don’t you care for Ms. Freiberg?”

His gaze skimmed over his comrades, one at a time, as though seeking support. From what I could tell, he found none. Hector and Nate stared back without expression. Kilian looked confused.

“We are not here to discuss politics,” Kilian said, with a pointed look at Tibor. “We are here for learning.”

I recognized a lead-in when I saw it. “But don’t you think that discussing politics is a way for us to learn more about each other?”

Kilian paled.

“I understand if you don’t care to discuss such matters in front of one another,” I said. “Forget I asked.”

“There is only one answer,” Tibor said. “Our current president is the only candidate qualified to rule Saardisca.” He raised both hands in a movement that spoke of frustration. “How this Kerry Freiberg has become so popular so fast is suspect.”

Kilian placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “She is not expected to win, remember.”

But Tibor was on a roll. He shook Kilian’s hand off. “If she wins, Saardisca will be in ruin.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

By this time, Tibor’s side-of-beef face had gone redder than usual. His bottom teeth nearly chomped his words. “She is a woman,” he said. “In our country, women do not achieve such levels. To have her running for office is a joke. She will not win.”

“But what if she does?”

Tibor glared at me. He was so close to me that his eyes, a deep green with pale flecks of brown, seemed to shoot sparks as he spoke. “Then I pity her. No one will stand for such a travesty.”

“Pity her?” I was pushing this man’s buttons, but I couldn’t help myself. “Are you saying that there are people in your country who would do her harm?”

He shrugged. “What do I know? I am only a chef. Important decisions are made by those who rule our country.”

“You mean by those who are threatened by her,” I said.

He scoffed. “No one of merit is threatened by her. She is being given room to fail so that her followers see how useless she really is.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Why do we talk about such things when there is work to be done?”

Kilian came between us. “It will be best if we do not continue down this path,” he said.

I took a step back. “You’re right, Kilian. I allowed my temper to get the best of me. My apologies.” Taking a deep breath, I recollected myself. “Back to work, shall we? Bucky, how about you take everyone upstairs to the pastry kitchen, to get started up there?”

“Where will you be?” Kilian asked me.

“I have a meeting with our chief usher.”

“And you expect me to act on this?” Tom asked, his voice strained as he leaned forward on his desk. “With no proof?”

We were in Tom’s office in the West Wing. “I don’t
expect
anything,” I said. I turned to Sargeant, who was seated in the chair next to me, both of us across from Tom. “I do, however, believe that this is enough of an unusual situation to warrant attention.”

Tom blew out a breath. I knew I wasn’t the sole source of his frustration; the stress of this sequester was wearing on us all. The last thing anyone in the White House needed was another task to deal with. Yet here I sat, requesting special assistance.

Taking another breath, Tom composed himself. “What exactly are you asking for?”

“Simple, really. I’d like to have the chocolate Marcel made tested for GHB.”

“You don’t even know if that’s the cup Marcel drank from, do you?”

“No, but if it was Marcel’s and if we find out the drink was drugged—”

“That’s a lot of ifs.”

I drew a breath. “Wouldn’t it be better to be safe than sorry?”

Tom’s neck pulsed, and his lips were pale from the pressure of keeping them tightly clamped. Sargeant kept his fingers steepled in front of his lips. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t say a word.

“Yes, it is,” Tom said finally. “Where is the chocolate now?”

“I have it refrigerated.”

“You know as well as I do that Marcel hit his head,” Tom said very slowly. “He suffered a concussion. This could all be wild speculation on his part.”

“I understand why this seems an outlandish allegation, but Marcel and I have finely honed palates. We’re trained to discern tastes. That’s not bragging; I’m stating a fact.”

Tom shot a glance at Sargeant, who nodded.

Emboldened by their wordless agreement, I went on. “Our careers depend on our expertise in these matters. That chocolate is one of Marcel’s signature creations. If he claims the chocolate tasted salty, you can bet that it was.”

“That doesn’t prove it was laced with GHB,” Tom said. “Marcel doesn’t know what caused the change in flavor.”

“Which is why I’m asking for it to be tested.”

Tom leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never paid much attention to the long vein that ran from his hairline down to the inner edge of one brow. Now that vein throbbed white.

“I take threats to the residents and staff of this house very seriously.” His voice was low, too low. “And even though I suspect Marcel’s imagination has gotten the best of him, I can’t risk being wrong.” Almost as though he was afraid of being overheard by staff outside his office, he added, “We don’t want this leaked to the press. Give me a little time to arrange it. I’ll send someone to pick it up.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I will be in touch.”

Sargeant watched us, his eyes alert and interested. He’d been glancing between us as we’d traded barbs.

“You’ve been quiet. Do you have anything to add?” I asked him.

One eyebrow cocked up. He lowered his steepled fingers. His nose twitched. Patting his breast pocket, where a yellow handkerchief square peeked out to match his precisely knotted tie, he took his time answering.

“I may have an element of interest to contribute to the discussion.”

I waited. Tom did, too.

Sargeant pinched the creases of his dress slacks, running his fingers down the length of his legs to his knees. He didn’t make eye contact with us as he gathered his thoughts.

When he did look up, he turned to Tom first, then me. “What I am about to tell you is not classified information.” He gave a deferential nod toward Tom. “You would be better prepared to handle that protected information, of course. What I have is, for lack of a better term, a suggestion that was offered to me. My counterpart in Saardisca—though heaven knows they don’t have a counterpart who actually shoulders the same responsibilities I do—asked me to keep a close eye on our guests while they were here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tom asked, sitting up straight. “What is he worried about?”

“Tut, tut, young man.” Sargeant was the only person in the world I knew who could get away with saying, “Tut, tut.”

“If there is a security concern, I ought to have been informed.”

“This is not a security concern. Not precisely.” Sargeant cleared his throat. “It seems that the leader of the group, Kilian?” Sargeant looked to me for confirmation of the man’s name. I nodded. “Kilian is not as strong a defender of their nation as they might expect someone in his exalted position to be.”

“Go on,” Tom said.

“I know you are fully aware of Saardisca’s military strength. I also know that you are up to date on such things as treaties, embargoes, agreements, what have you.” Sargeant twisted a hand in the air as though none of this was of any importance. “What I bring to the table is an awareness of the mood of the country. An awareness of its citizens’ mores, traditions, and belief systems.”

“I am not unaware of such things.” Tom’s words were clipped.

“True enough. However.” Sargeant leaned forward, propping one elbow on Tom’s desk. “There are times when everything isn’t black and white. When one needs to be sensitive to the needs of others. I hope you haven’t forgotten that before I was chief usher, I was the White House sensitivity director.”

I bit my lip. Contradiction in terms if there ever was one.

Sargeant was gaining momentum. “Agent MacKenzie, you are charged with the safety of those in the White House.”

Tom nodded.

“As such, you see things as a threat or a non-threat. Hence, my black-and-white comment.” Sargeant scratched the side of his nose with a fingertip. “My Saardiscan counterpart knows the heart of his people. That’s why he relied on me to be his eyes and ears while the contingent is in the United States.”

“Where is this going?” I asked.

Sargeant favored me with a withering glance. “There is some concern that, when their visit is complete, Kilian might not wish to return to Saardisca with his colleagues.”

I thought about how much Kilian seemed to be enjoying his visit, and how much he valued the freedom he was experiencing here. How he’d panicked when I’d used the term
asylum
. And how he believed the government knew nothing about the doubts he harbored.

“You think he’s going to want to stay?” Turning to Tom, I asked, “Would he be required to find permanent employment in order to be allowed to remain here? I don’t know what the rules are.”

Tom waved my question away. “Rules are different for Saardiscans,” he said. “Their idea, not ours. They don’t allow their citizens to travel as freely as most countries do. There are lots more hoops to jump through. That’s another reason why Kerry Freiberg’s visit is making headlines. We’re hoping it portends favorable changes for its citizens and better relationships between our two countries.”

“Would it be easier for someone like Kilian to defect now that he’s here?” I asked.

Neither man answered me.

Tom went on, this time addressing Sargeant. “The timing is curious, in light of Ms. Freiberg’s visit,” he said. “Do they really believe Kilian might request asylum?”

Sargeant’s eyes glinted, and he gave a fractional nod. “I see you grasp the enormity of the situation.” Turning to me, he continued to explain. “My Saardiscan counterpart said that he had no idea that Ms. Freiberg’s visit would coincide with that of the chefs. The fact that they will be here together gives Kilian an opportunity he might not have otherwise had.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Tom held his hand out toward Sargeant, inviting him to continue. I got the impression that I was the only one in the room who didn’t understand the ins and outs of Saardiscan law. Not that I should. I was a chef, for goodness’ sake, not an ambassador.

“Kilian will connect with Ms. Freiberg at some point during her visit here,” Sargeant said. “She stands for the relaxing of military rule and for the easing of restrictions on her countrymen. She could use Kilian as a pawn to further her agenda. If she encourages him, and he requests asylum, Saardisca will be forced to allow it. Otherwise, they risk Ms. Freiberg using Kilian as a political weapon.”

“Then why,” I asked, “did they decide to allow her to visit while the chefs were here? You and I both know that their visit was set up more than a year ago. If they have the power, and it sounds as though they do, why not delay her leaving Saardisca for a couple of weeks? They could have had their dessert and eaten it, too.”

Sargeant sniffed deeply. “You evidently have no idea how difficult it is to schedule events.”

I had a very clear idea of how difficult it was to make arrangements around government officials’ lives. “Seems to me that if the situation was so dire, they would make every effort.”

Sargeant’s eyes widened. “This was the only time her schedule allowed a visit to the United States. It seems that diplomats in charge of the government and those in charge of the chefs did not communicate.”

“One part of the government not knowing what another is doing?” I asked, with a little bit of a smirk. “I suppose that happens in all countries.”

Visibly annoyed by my light-hearted comment, Sargeant glared. “What’s important here is that we take the information we have and use it wisely.” He turned to face Tom. “Agreeing to have the chocolate tested is a wise move.”

Tom worked his jaw. “Let me play devil’s advocate for just a moment: Why would any of them poison Marcel? If Kilian does intend to defect, Marcel’s collapse blew his first chance to meet with Kerry Freiberg, didn’t it?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. “Desserts are Kilian’s specialty,” I said. “Maybe he thought that with Marcel out of the way, he’d have a chance at taking over as pastry chef—permanently.”

“That,” Tom said, “would be one heck of a leap.”

“
We
understand that such a scheme wouldn’t work. But does he understand that?” I asked. An idea popped into my head. “Or maybe the chocolate was meant for one of their own, and Marcel consumed it by mistake?”

“Another leap.” Tom looked at his watch. Our time was up. “One of my team will be in touch to retrieve the chocolate.”

I thanked him again.

Thus dismissed, Sargeant and I made our way back to the residence. “I appreciate the update about Kilian,” I said. “He may be dissatisfied with life in Saardisca, but he doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would poison another for personal gain.”

“It’s a long shot, I agree,” he said.

“Yet something isn’t quite right.”

Sargeant nodded. “Are Agent MacKenzie’s doubts valid? Could this be nothing more than unfortunate coincidence? Or have you and I become eager to find conspiracies where none exist?”

I thought about it, but didn’t have an answer.