Buffalo West Wing (7 page)

I laughed. “I’m usually here before five. Sometimes earlier.”

“I will be here before you,” he said with a grin. “I guarantee it.”

Now I understood why Secret Service agents rarely smiled. It ruined their image of tough, no-nonsense brutes. Gardez’s grin nearly took my breath away.

I smiled back. “We’ll see.”

 

At home, I curled up on the sofa to watch updates on the standoff at Lyman Hall Hospital. Reports came in that one of the hostages was about to be freed with a message for the government. Camera crews stood by, eager to record the captive’s release. I worried about the laundry ladies, some of whom I considered good friends. Had they recovered from whatever had sent them there? They had to be terribly frightened. I pulled my butterfly afghan tighter around me. What were the hostages thinking right this minute while I sat here, safe and warm?

I flipped channels, gathering different bits of information from each news source. The first channel claimed that one of the captors had been identified as a disgruntled hospital employee—a former security guard who had lost his job six weeks earlier. They posted his face on screen.

In a too-close shot that made his nose look superwide, the gray-haired, sixty-year-old Ernie Spokes seemed more like a grandfather than a terrorist. Rumors were swirling that he’d been recruited to assist in the siege by two other as yet-unnamed employees who had also been recently fired.

I wondered, not for the first time, if the hospital drama and the mystery at the White House might be unrelated. They kept the photo of Ernie Spokes on screen, high over the anchorwoman’s shoulder, for a full minute. This man didn’t look capable of infiltrating the White House. I knew better than most that looks could be deceiving, but still ...

The next channel had continuing coverage as well. They referred to Ernie Spokes as well, but claimed that rumors connecting the siege to him were now being disputed. They didn’t offer other explanations, but suggested everyone stay tuned.

The final channel I watched was the most interesting. One of their correspondents spoke into a microphone, but not in front of the hospital. This fellow stood in front of the White House, wearing a black wool coat with an upturned collar. “Sources inside remain tight-lipped,” the reporter said as the brisk January wind lifted his hair and caused him to blink. “No one at the White House will comment on what sent so many employees to the hospital at the same time. President Hyden has been in office for less than twenty-four hours and is already facing a possible crisis at home.”

“Oh, no,” I said.

The reporter didn’t mention chicken wings. Instead, he said, “Because the affected individuals came from two different departments in the president’s residence, experts are speculating that whatever illness brought them here most likely is airborne.”

The anchorman at the desk interrupted. “Are you saying that we can expect more White House staff members to become affected? What about the First Family? Are they in danger as well?”

Nodding solemnly, the shivering reporter answered, “As I said, Rick, we do not know exactly what we’re dealing with. But experts I’ve talked to hypothesize that there may be more casualties of this virus—or possible airborne pathogen—soon. Keep in mind, Rick, White House staff members are citizens of the Washington, D.C., area at large. They work, live, shop, and commute among us. We must all be on our guard against contamination. Later in this broadcast we will offer suggestions for preventive care.” With an even more serious look, he added, “Needless to say, anyone experiencing symptoms will not be taken to Lyman Hall Hospital. All streets surrounding the area have been closed to traffic.”

I turned the television off. Over the past several years, I’d had enough dealings with the media to know that stations got their jollies—and high ratings—from terrorizing the public. I’d heard the old adage that if it bleeds, it leads, but wondered if their motto should be “Never let the facts stand in the way of a good story.” The threat of a potentially deadly airborne virus would be enough to wreak havoc on the city for weeks.

I set my alarm for 3:30 and hoped tomorrow would be a better day.

 

The kids got off to their first day at their new schools after lots of last-minute crises. I wasn’t upstairs in the residence for most of it, thank goodness, but the butlers carried stories down, warning us that the breakfast we’d prepared had gone largely untouched.

Not yet used to their new environment, the kids took much longer than anticipated to get ready for school. The family believed they were prepared for the cascade of photographers descending upon them to chronicle this first-day milestone, but every “just one more photo” and each reporter’s burning question, stole precious minutes. The kids would be late.

The schools the Hydens had chosen for their kids would, no doubt, tolerate tardiness from their high-profile pupils on this first day. According to the butlers’ reports, however, Mrs. Hyden was doing her utmost to explain to her children why it was important to plan ahead and stick to a schedule. I wished her luck.

Tom called another meeting, again in the Ushers’ Office. Sargeant and Paul were already there, but this time agents Nourie and Gardez stayed back at their kitchen-sentry posts. Bost was also missing, probably herding the kids to their classrooms. I was the last to arrive.

Sargeant looked at his watch. “Can we get started now?”

I shut the door behind me

“We’ve gotten an update,” Tom began without preamble. “Demands have been presented. The president is consulting with members of Congress and hostage negotiators.” He held up his hands as though expecting us to interrupt. “Before I go on, let me reiterate that nothing leaves this room. The following information has not been distributed to any media sources.”

We all nodded. He continued.

“Tests on the remnants of chicken wings have confirmed arsenic poisoning.”

I gasped. “How bad is it?”

Tom’s face was unreadable. “That may depend on how much each individual ingested. The hostage-takers are most likely responsible for the poisoning, but just in case the incidents are unrelated, we have taken the precaution of communicating with the offenders the need for treatment for our people. It is our hope that they will allow doctors to administer to our stricken staff members. If any of them die of poisoning, the situation will escalate quickly. It is in everyone’s best interest to ensure that does not happen.”

I said a silent prayer for my friends being held. “What kind of demands are they making?” I asked.

Tom graced me with a weary look, but said, “A convicted terrorist from Armustan by the name of Farbod An-sari is being held at the federal penitentiary in Wisconsin where terrorists are held. Cenga Prison is just outside the town of La Crosse.”

“I didn’t realize there was a prison there,” Paul said.

“Very few people do.” Tom took a deep breath. “The hostage-takers at the hospital are demanding Farbod’s immediate release and safe passage out of the country.”

“To where?” I asked.

“Armustan, of course, although they refuse to provide a precise destination until after the plane is in the air. What I can tell you is that Congresswoman Sandy Sechrest will be handling negotiations.”

Sargeant blurted, “She’s a hostage negotiator?”

“She is, as a matter of fact. Thirty years’ experience. We’re very fortunate in that regard.” Tom frowned. “Cenga Prison is in her jurisdiction. The kidnappers at the Lyman Hall Hospital have demanded we involve Wisconsin’s senators. We are choosing to involve Congresswoman Sechrest as well.”

This was a twist I hadn’t expected. “Is she here in D.C.?”

Paul answered that one. “She’s meeting with President Hyden as we speak. Went home to Wisconsin after the inauguration and flew back early this morning. She’ll be making a statement later today.”

“Have you told Mrs. Hyden about all this yet?” I asked. “About the fact that these were the chicken wings intended for the kids?”

Tom and Paul exchanged a glance. “Not yet.”

“It’s going to come out sooner or later.”

“Preferably later,” Tom said with finality. “We need to be able to control what is released to the media. The longer we can prevent the public—and the First Lady—from knowing that the kids were targeted, the safer they will be.”

I didn’t follow his logic, and opened my mouth to argue, but Tom held up a hand. “Don’t.”

Irked, both because he knew me well enough to anticipate me, and because I was powerless to fight an edict from the head of the PPD, I changed my approach. “Any update on the condition of our staff members?”

“To the best of our knowledge, they are all still alive. At least that’s what we’ve been told.”

I turned to Paul. “What about Cyan?”

The look on Paul’s face turned my stomach to stone. “We are not emotionless bureaucrats in this house, Ollie, but what Cyan did was irresponsible. She demonstrated an incredible lack of attentiveness to her duty. She should be fired.”

Should be?
I held my breath, then asked. “Do I sense a ‘however’?”

Paul gave me a piercing look. “Cyan has been a valued member of staff for several years and she’s never once caused the sort of trouble we’ve experienced with others—others who remain on staff.”

No one in the room missed his meaning, but it was Sargeant who piped up, of course. “Because you haven’t fired this ‘other individual’ for
her
misconduct, I assume you intend to give yet another kitchen staff member a second chance. Is that it?”

Paul ignored him. “Ollie, perhaps it would be better if you and I discussed this privately.”

Tom cleared his throat. “As much as I like Cyan personally, I am recommending she be fired. I am extremely uncomfortable with the fact that she hasn’t been relieved of duty already.”

Sargeant adopted a smug expression as he shifted in his chair. He didn’t say anything, but his wordless chuckle was as clear as “I told you so.”

Tom added, “I think it is appropriate to discuss this right now.” Holding both hands up against any objections, he said, “I advocate taking this action immediately.”

Panicked, I looked to Paul, who said, “Tom, I understand your position and I will note Cyan’s record to reflect your concerns. But firing her now would require we divulge the reason for her dismissal. If I understand you correctly, we are to tell no one about the tainted chicken wings at this time. Any report about Cyan would naturally expose our reasons, and I believe there’s a good argument—in the interests of security—that we keep her on. For now.”

I could have kissed Paul right then.

Tom flexed his jaw.

I wanted to chime in, but I knew what was coming next, and I also knew Tom would take it better from the chief usher than he would from me. “Everyone in this room knows that Cyan is no threat to the First Family,” Paul continued. “Keeping her on staff is not posing a risk to anyone. She made a mistake. One that I’m certain she will never make again. In fact, I would like to direct Ollie to allow Cyan full kitchen access again.”

Clearly unhappy, Tom gave him a brisk nod. “I see your point.” Turning to me, he said, “Going forward, I will hold you personally responsible for Cyan. Is that understood?”

Anyone seeing us now would never believe that Tom and I used to sprawl across my couch together, laughing as we watched old black-and-white movies into the wee hours of the night. Those days were long gone. Nope, anyone present now would think we were two people who barely tolerated one another.

I stood. “Yes, sir. And I am only too happy to express confidence in my employee by taking full responsibility for her.” I glanced at the others in the room. “Is there anything else?”

Tom shook his head.

“Thank you for the update,” I said. “If you need anything further, you know where to find me.”

CHAPTER 7

I LET MY STAFF AND THE SECRET SERVICE agents assigned to us know that Cyan’s job was safe for now. I didn’t give them a word-for-word accounting of the meeting, but I didn’t need to. Cyan and Bucky were sharp enough to read between the lines. “I know you both understand how important this is, but it’s my job to remind you that we are not to breathe one word about the chicken wing situation to anyone.”

Cyan wore an expression of fearful anticipation. “So they know for sure that the chicken wings were poisoned?”

“I can’t discuss it,” I said.

Cyan’s head dropped and tears started again, full force. “Oh, why didn’t I listen to you in the first place, Ollie? I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

I put my arm around her. “The kids are okay, and that’s important. Let’s focus on what we can do to move forward, okay?”

She nodded, but I knew it was more her attempt to end the conversation than it was genuine agreement.

Standing in the doorway, Gardez shifted and looked away. Nourie wore a thoughtful expression. As soon as I moved away from Cyan, he approached her. “Listen,” he said softly, “if I get any updates I can share with you, I will.”