Buffalo West Wing (10 page)

The on-scene reporter nodded. “I am hearing that if it weren’t for her efforts, lives may have been lost. As it stands, the Armustan terrorists are now being taken into custody. Congresswoman Sechrest negotiated this stand-down and we hope to hear soon that—” He stopped talking, pressed a finger to his ear, and then continued, “The hostages are safe.” He stopped long enough to listen more, then added, “Everyone is reported in stable or good condition. Still no word on what hospitalized the White House staff in the first place, or if these events are at all connected.”

“Have you been able to speak with any of the hostages yet?”

“No.” The reporter’s eyebrows came together as he listened to whoever was feeding him information. “The hostages will remain here, under care, until they are able to be released. The White House will issue a statement later this evening, but the president has expressed his gratitude to Congresswoman Sechrest for her intervention.” He was jostled from behind by a police officer. “We are being asked to leave, so I’ll give it back to you in the station, Meredith. This has been Allen Pernott with the latest in the news from Lyman Hall Hospital.”

As the scene switched, I turned to Cyan, grabbing her into a bear hug. “They’re okay,” I said. “They’re okay.”

For the third time that night, Cyan broke into tears.

 

Mrs. Wentworth peered out her apartment door when I got off the elevator. My elderly neighbor waved hello.

“How are you?” I asked.

“We’re doing great, Ollie,” she said, referring to herself and longtime boyfriend Stan. “Pretty late night for you, isn’t it?”

Always aware of my comings and goings, Mrs. Wentworth was a good watchdog as well as a friend. “Yep,” I said.

“I’m real happy for those hostages,” she said. “Glad they’re safe. You tell them that when they come back to work, will you?”

“I promise,” I said.

“Good night, Ollie.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I let myself in and threw my keys on the nearby table. As soon as I got myself settled, I decided to call Tom. Although it was extremely unlikely that other Metro riders had any interest in my conversation, I hadn’t wanted to discuss sensitive issues during my commute. I was always careful to keep White House issues private.

He answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”

“You still on duty?”

“Always,” he said. “You’ve seen the news?”

“I did. Anything else I need to know that they didn’t show on TV?”

“I’ll bring everyone up to speed tomorrow,” he said. There was an awkward pause before he asked, “Something on your mind?”

“This may be nothing ...”

He groaned. “Why, Ollie?”

That got my back up. “Why what?”

“You want to report some unusual observation to me. Or share a suspicion. Or give me advice on how to manage the Secret Service. Am I right?”

Tom had never appreciated my efforts, despite the fact that most times my intervention helped. I don’t know why I expected anything different tonight. “You know what? It’s late. Forget I called.”

About to hang up, I heard him say, “Hang on, hang on.”

If I harbored any unhappiness about breaking off our relationship, this brief interchange banished that regret forever. Tom had never fully trusted my instincts, nor did he appreciate my attempts to help. He saw me as meddling and uncooperative. Although I understood his position as head of the PPD, I also knew that there were agents in the White House who “got” me. Again I thought about Gav: He and I had gotten under each other’s skin when we first met, but after working together we’d developed a mutual respect. And that was what had been sorely lacking in my relationship with Tom.

I didn’t say anything. I just waited.

He blew out a breath before asking, “What’s on your mind?”

I bit my lip, wishing I could come back with some sharp retort. I’d called him for a reason and whether he appreciated it or not, I believed this was something he needed to know.

“It’s about Zeller and Bost.”

“Okay,” he said warily.

“Are they both fully up to date on all that has transpired?”

“We’re not on a secure line,” he said. “We can’t talk about all that has transpired.”

“I know that,” I said with more than a little snap. “That’s why I’m not being specific, okay? I’m just asking if they’re fully in the loop or not.”

“Why?”

“They corralled me today. Two of them and me in a small room. They barred the door and then suggested that your orders were not in the ... Family’s ... best interests. I couldn’t tell if they were trying to do an end-run around you, or if they were testing to see if I was a security leak.”

“They did what?”

Oh, now he was interested. “I just wanted you to be aware.”

Tom swore under his breath. “Are you sure, Ollie? Is it possible you just misunderstood their intentions?”

I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from arguing back. “I called simply to forewarn you just in case you might have trouble with Zeller and Bost.” That wasn’t exactly true, I’d also planned to tell him about the man in the bar this evening. But right now all I wanted was to get off the phone. “And I’ve accomplished that. Good night, Tom.” With that, I hung up.

CHAPTER 9

AS PROMISED, TOM CALLED ANOTHER MEETING first thing the next morning. This time, in addition to Paul, Sargeant, and Gardez—who had left Nourie in the kitchen to supervise Bucky and Cyan—Tom had also included Bost and Zeller. Neither made eye contact with me.

“We are here to bring everyone up to date on the condition of our people at Lyman Hall Hospital as well as discuss the situation with the tainted chicken wings. I have asked agents Bost and Zeller to join us today because they are the agents primarily in charge of the president’s children. Both have been fully briefed on our plans to keep the arsenic information quiet at this time.” He looked at me and then at his watch. “And since both of them will be leaving shortly to escort the children to school, let me begin. Please hold all questions until the end.”

I glanced over again at Bost and Zeller, attempting to read them. Had Tom told them I’d ratted them out for trying to waylay me yesterday? But both watched their boss with impassive looks on their faces. Now there was a skill I needed to master. Right now I’m sure my concerns were broadcast all over my features. I tamped down my curiosity and turned my attention back to Tom.

He explained—without going into elaborate detail—how the hostages had been freed and the part Sandy Sechrest had played in their release. “We’ve received intelligence that the group that took control of Lyman Hall was, to use a sports term, their second-string.” He held up both hands. “Don’t ask how we found this out. We are tracking down several issues that have recently come up that we cannot comment on at the moment. I can tell you this: We believe that if the Hyden children had been stricken and taken to the hospital, the faction in charge would not have surrendered so easily.”

I wanted to ask so many questions, but held my tongue.

“From what we gather,” Tom continued, “the group holding the hostages had to change their game plan mid-play. This siege turned out to be only a trial run. We believe that when the leaders of this group discovered that the ploy to poison the children failed, they decided to go ahead anyway, substituting their first-stringers with those who are in custody right now.” He shook his head. “We haven’t yet determined how they found out that the wings were not served to the kids. Someone obviously talked. We need to find that leak. And we need to plug it.”

I shuddered.

He went on. “As you know, this hostage situation was controlled by the leaders of a radical faction of Armustan. They demanded the release of the faction’s ultimate ruler and convicted terrorist, Farbod. We are fortunate that they gave up when President Hyden refused to negotiate.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t say what might have happened had the kids been involved.” He stopped to look intently at each of us. “Both for the kids’ protection and for the security of our country, we must never let down our guard. Which is why I need every single person to be on alert at every moment. Even when you’re off duty you must be careful to watch what you say, and where you say it.” At this he glared at me. I stared back, feeling a flush burn up my neck and cheeks. Did he not know me well enough to understand I would never compromise security?

Tom looked at his watch again. “One final thing before I release you. One of our butlers claimed he might have seen someone carrying the chicken wing box to the kitchen. I’m not sharing the butler’s name, and I warn you that he can’t remember who it was—except that it was a male and a new person—but said he remembers it only because he thought it odd that the White House would order chicken wings on Inauguration Day. We will be following up.” Tom looked at Gardez. “Please brief Nourie.” To Paul and Sargeant, he said, “If you need to share any of this information with staff members, you will clear it through me first.” To me, he said, “You need to keep Bucky and Cyan up to date on the importance of keeping the kids secure, but do not let anyone know about the arsenic yet. Is that understood?”

Why hadn’t he asked anyone else if their orders were understood? “Yes,” I said, “of course.”

 

For the first time since the Hydens had come to the White House, breakfast went off without a hitch. Oatmeal, waffles, and eggs were completed perfectly and on time. We sent them up to the residence along with a supply of juices, fruit, and two nutritious yet fun school lunches in plenty of time for the kids to enjoy and pack before the family got pulled in ten different directions. “You never know, though,” I said to Bucky and Cyan as soon as the butlers wheeled the trays away, “things can still go wrong.”

“It’s not like you to be such a pessimist,” Bucky said. “What’s up?”

“I’m not pessimistic, just realistic. Ever since the Hydens came to live here, not one single thing has gone according to plan. Yes, I expect things will turn around. But I’m not counting on it yet.”

Gardez and Nourie didn’t comment, but both looked as though they agreed with me.

Bucky raised his eyebrows and turned to consult the computer about preparations for lunch. “Well, I think we’re in good shape,” he said over his shoulder. “From here on it should be smooth sailing.”

Cyan looked hopeful. “I think we’ve turned a corner, too. It’s just the newness that makes everybody jittery. As soon as the butlers come back down and tell us breakfast went well, we’ll all feel a lot better.”

“I hope you’re right.” I couldn’t shake my uneasiness. Sargeant’s prediction based on word from his “good authority” had me rattled more than I cared to admit. I started cleaning up the center countertop, mentally working out the timing for today’s lunch. The First Lady had scheduled a meeting with her staff; we would provide salads and soup and Marcel was preparing a light dessert. The president had already informed us that he would take lunch in the White House Mess in the West Wing, so we were off the hook where he was concerned.

A half hour later, just as Bucky and Cyan had predicted, the butlers returned, having dropped off the morning’s accumulation of plates and trays with our dishwashers. “Perfect,” Jackson said as he walked in. “The kids are getting into their routines and everything went like clockwork.”

Relief washed over me. Even more than I would have expected. “That’s great,” I said. Cyan and Bucky looked the same way I felt. Even our two taste-testing guards seemed more cheerful than usual. “It’s about time we enjoyed a little success again.”

Just then, Paul walked in with a serious expression on his face. “Ollie, can I talk with you for a moment?”

As I followed him out into the hallway, I heard Bucky say, “Well that didn’t last very long.”

I almost whispered “Please, not the China Room,” aloud, but it was clear that Paul had another destination in mind. He made a sharp left turn into the North Hall and continued past the next hallway, taking me by utter surprise when he opened the door directly across.

“Here?” I asked as Paul flipped on the lights and pulled the door closed behind us. Situated under the North Portico, this one-lane bowling alley wouldn’t be my first choice for conversation, but I had to admit, it was private. With three giant pins painted along one wall, the place looked like it had been lifted straight out of the 1960s. The utilitarian shoe and ball racks did nothing to dispel that impression. The bowling-pin motif was repeated on the back wall, right where we stood. “I don’t understand.”

“With so many people in the White House today because of the hostage situation and its aftermath, I needed to find somewhere to talk with you where no one would overhear. This is about as private as it gets.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Ollie,” Paul said with such pain in his expression that I knew he was lying. “I just want to give you fair warning.”