Buffalo West Wing (6 page)

His warning brought back this morning’s fiasco. I couldn’t afford a misstep right now. “Gotcha,” I said.

On that happy note, I slipped next to Bucky, whose interrogators were just leaving. I leaned close and whispered. “Paul is calling a meeting soon. You’ve got lunch on your own.”

To his credit, Bucky didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “Figured. What about Cyan? She’s in it deep, isn’t she?”

I nodded. “I managed to talk Paul into letting her stay, but she’s got to be on scut duty. She can wash dishes, clean cabinets, but no contact with food.”

Bucky sighed deeply—for all his flintiness, I knew he liked working with Cyan. “Better than being canned.”

“For now,” I said.

Nourie and Gardez escorted Cyan out of the kitchen, with no explanation as to where they were going. I wished there was something I could do to fix this. Bucky must have read the expression on my face, because he patted my shoulder. “Nobody else might have the guts to say this, Ollie, but you did good yesterday. You probably saved those kids.”

I appreciated him very much at that moment. “We can’t breathe a word about this to anyone.”

With a shrug, he moved toward the center island and grabbed a shallow pan from overhead. “So what else is new?”

 

When I left the kitchen for Paul’s meeting, Cyan still wasn’t back. Despite the fact that I had been in the right in this situation and no one was disputing that didn’t make me worry any less. Cyan had been wrong to give the wings away, but I hated to think what might happen if I were to lose her in the kitchen. Being fired for such an infraction would be a significant mark on her otherwise stellar record. Finding another position with that stigma attached to her name would be nearly impossible. I trudged up the stairs to the Ushers’ Office, wondering how this would all shake out.

Paul greeted me when I arrived, as did agents Gardez, Nourie, and Bost. Sargeant was there as well. He’d snagged the chair closest to Paul’s desk. I saw how quickly this little room could get cramped.

As if in answer to my unspoken question, Paul said, “Excuse the close quarters, but I didn’t want to take over one of the main rooms. I prefer to keep this as quiet as possible. Too many questions.”

I wondered why was there such a need for secrecy. It seemed to me that the faster we disseminated the information we had, the sooner we might be able to determine who had purchased the wings and how the box had been smuggled in.

“Have a seat, Ollie,” Paul said, gesturing to the other empty chair. The three Secret Service agents remained standing, hands clasped behind their backs, staring off into a middle distance as though waiting to be spoken to.

I sat down, and Tom came in. “I just got off the phone,” he said, shutting the door. “Remnants of the wings we found in the garbage are being analyzed, but we’re pretty sure we’re looking at a massive arsenic poisoning here.” He held up his hand. “Let me brief you on what we know so far, and what we require from all of you.”

Paul was seated at his desk, and Tom moved to stand behind him, his back to the window. “As you all know, a box of chicken wings appeared in the kitchen yesterday. We have no indication of how it got there, or who delivered it. We’ve checked all surveillance tapes from all deliveries. No leads. The only thing we can deduce now is that the box was secreted with the Hydens’ personal belongings. Whoever placed it there either removed it, or had an accomplice remove it from the storage units when they were unloaded. This person then brought it to the kitchen.”

Tom took a breath and glanced around the room. “We are currently investigating everyone who had access to the Hydens’ property before, during, and after its arrival here. We are also questioning every Rene’s Wings franchise in both the Hydens’ home city and here in D.C. This is a monumental task and will take a great deal of time. Unfortunately, we do not have that luxury. We must operate under the assumption that the chicken wings were intended to harm the president’s children. That, in itself, is bad enough. We also believe that, had the children been stricken, they would have been immediately transported to Lyman Hall Hospital.”

He stopped long enough to let his words sink in. Our staff members had been taken to Lyman Hall. That’s where the siege was going on.

“You believe whoever did this planned to take the kids hostage?” I asked.

Tom took a deep breath. “This is one of the reasons you’ve been included in this meeting, Ollie,” he said. “We view this as the most serious of threats. An attack like the one going on at Lyman Hospital cannot be pulled off by one individual. This is a well-orchestrated assault. A surgical strike.” He pointed to me. “You and your staff must be on guard against further attempts on any members of the First Family.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Of course.”

“What we know,” he continued to the entire gathering, “is that at this point, the group taking responsibility for this attack is unknown. They’ve yet to name themselves or to profess allegiance to any of our enemies.”

“Do we have plans in place to get our people—and the other hospital hostages—out safely?” Paul asked.

“In the works, but we are not at liberty to share any information at the moment. Suffice it to say that we believe that the strategy these terrorists employed was planned for weeks, if not longer. It is our belief that these individuals expected to use the president’s kids as hostages, but had to settle for members of the White House staff when their plan was thwarted by Ollie here.”

Sargeant sniffed. “Lucky.”

“Not luck,” Tom said. “Ollie did what we are all charged to do—protect the First Family. I’m just sorry her assistant, Cyan, wasn’t as careful.”

“Do we have any idea what they want?” Paul asked turning the subject back to the terrorists.

Tom shook his head. “Not yet. We’ve got several contacts inside the hospital who are trying to keep us apprised of the hostages’ condition. If we are dealing with arsenic, as we suspect, the victims will require treatment.”

One of the agents cleared his throat. Tom shot him a look that expressed thanks for being reminded, but held a touch of annoyance just the same. “We’re short on time, so I’ll cut to the chase. You are all being briefed because we need to enlist your cooperation. No one is to be told about the possibility that the wings were tainted. We are not releasing that information to the public and we need to keep it from everyone, including the First Lady.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “You’re not going to tell her that her kids were threatened?”

Tom stepped toward me and lowered his voice. “We can’t risk it. At this point, we don’t know that the wings actually
were
tainted, nor that the kids were the original target. That’s just the theory we’re working with right now, and we don’t have any solid evidence to back it up at this point. There is no reason to get Mrs. Hyden unduly worked up at this point.”

I disagreed. The kids’ mother should most certainly be told, and I said so.

“You have to trust us at this point, Ollie.” Tom’s voice strained with patience. “We know what we’re doing.”

“What about Valerie’s assistant, Carol?” I asked. “She was right there when I refused to give the wings to Josh. Don’t you think she told Valerie? She would definitely tell Mrs. Hyden.”

Tom nodded as though he’d expected the question. “This is why we are not mentioning the wings at all. Not to the First Family, not to the media, not to any other members of the staff. Bucky and Cyan have been ordered to keep what they know to themselves. No one is to know about the connection between the chicken wings and our staff at the hospital. Not until we believe the time is right.”

I didn’t say anything.

Tom pointed to two of the agents. “From here on out, agents Gardez and Nourie are assigned to the kitchen. They will be working in close proximity with you, and both will sample all the foods you plan to serve to the First Family.”

“Taste-testers? Like in a king’s court?” I asked, highly annoyed by the fact that this development indicated a lack of faith in my kitchen. “To make sure His Majesty doesn’t get poisoned?”

Tom’s jaw was tight. “Something like that.” He pointed again. “Agent Bost will assign extra people to the kids. We’re lucky they start school tomorrow. The added coverage won’t be noticed. We will make it appear as though this is all just standard procedure.” He looked around the room. “Any questions?”

I had one. “Has President Hyden been fully briefed?”

Tom held up a hand. “You don’t need to know.”

CHAPTER 6

CYAN’S EYES, STILL BRIGHT RED, WERE SWOLLEN. She kept her head down, looking up only briefly when I walked in. “Hey,” I said.

She swallowed and looked up again. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you.” Her voice cracked and the tears flowed. “Did you see the news? They won’t give us updates on the hostages. What if they die? It’s all my fault. I wish ...” She snuffled. “... I wish I would have eaten the wings. Then I would be there, too. It would at least be fair.”

Bucky worked at the computer across the room. His back was to us, but I could see his head tilt to hear better. “Cyan,” I said, “this is serious. Very serious. You broke the rules because you thought you knew better. We’ve all been guilty of that at one time or another.” I knew I had. “Let’s hope for the best for all of us.” I patted her shoulder, both grateful and sorry for the look she fixed on me. So full of hope and so miserable all at once.

I raised my voice. “Bucky, have you said anything to anyone about the chicken wings?”

He turned to answer. “Other than the Secret Service guys this morning, no.”

“You didn’t mention the box’s mysterious appearance and Cyan sharing the wings with the staff?”

“No. And before you ask me a third time, no, I didn’t even mention it to Brandy. She got in late last night and I was already asleep.”

“Thanks.”

He turned his back again, but I heard him mutter. “Give me a little credit.”

“It’s my job to double-check,” I said.

He nodded, but didn’t answer.

“What about you, Cyan?”

“I told my mom, but she’s not going to say anything.”

I groaned and started for the telephone. “I’ll have to tell Tom and Paul.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Cyan said, stopping me. “My mom isn’t ... She isn’t well. She’s got a lot of problems and doesn’t talk much anymore.” I watched my assistant’s eyes well up yet again. “At home sometimes I talk with her for company. But she doesn’t understand. Last night was one of her bad nights and I just, you know, yakked to have someone to talk to. She stared at the TV the whole time. There’s no way she’s a security risk. Even when she talks, she doesn’t make sense. Nobody listens. Not anymore.”

I placed a hand on her arm. “I didn’t know that about your mom,” I said. “How come you never said anything?”

“It’s really ... hard,” she said. Cyan was clearly losing the battle to maintain composure. “You don’t know how hard it is.”

She was right. I didn’t. “I’m sorry,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

 

Dinner that evening went better than breakfast, thank goodness. Although Bucky and I worked short-staffed with Cyan relegated to reorganizing the storage room, and our every move was scrutinized by Secret Service agents, we served a wonderfully fresh dinner of salmon Oscar, new potatoes, and grilled asparagus, right on time.

Official kitchen observer, Agent Nourie, did the taste-testing honors. He lifted a forkful of salmon and sniffed at it. When he took his first bite, his face broke into a huge smile. The effect was transforming. I’d considered Nourie handsome from the start. When he loosened up enough to smile, he was downright gorgeous. Cyan blinked up at him from her spot on the floor where she was digging out old pans from a bottom cabinet. For the first time all day, I saw brightness in her eyes. I think Nourie saw it, too, because he looked down at her and winked.

Cyan returned to her task. Her shoulders lifted just a little.

Dinner was plated and handed off to the butlers to serve. We started in on our cleanup and preparations for the morning. When word came down from two floors above that the First Family had enjoyed dinner very much and sent their regards to the kitchen, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. Finally a success with the new family.

We called it a night around 7:00, after ensuring there were plenty of snackable items in the ground-floor kitchen and the one upstairs. It would take a little while before we became entirely comfortable with the new family’s rhythms, but until we did, we made sure to keep all their professed favorites available to them around the clock.

Gardez and Nourie waited with us until I shut off the lights. “What’s next for you?” I asked them. “Do you get to go home now?”

Gardez spoke softly. “Yes,” he said in that soft Spanish accent. I could listen to this man recite the phone book and enjoy it. “What time will you return in the morning?”