Buffalo West Wing (8 page)

Cyan looked torn between a polite response and wanting to hide her freshly blotched face from him. “Thanks,” she said between ragged breaths. “I feel so stupid.”

Nourie looked ready to pat her on the shoulder, but he restrained himself. Instead, he said, “Everybody makes mistakes. Let’s just hope things get better from here.”

Cyan didn’t smile, but I could tell his words had helped. Good. We had a lot to do today and the sooner we got busy, the easier it would be to start focusing on the positive. Bucky had taken care of lunch preparations and with three of us working on dinner, we were in good shape.

I had offered to bring chairs in for agents Gardez and Nourie, but both men declined. “Don’t you get tired standing all day?” Cyan asked.

Nourie shrugged. “We alternate taking breaks, so that helps. But think about it: If anything were to happen, isn’t it better if we’re standing? Ready to move? Sitting invites complacence. That’s not how we were trained.”

Looking up from slicing carrots, I smiled. “Be honest with us: What do you really expect to happen in the kitchen? If anything were to show up suspiciously like the chicken wings did, you know we would alert you.”

“Better to be safe,” Gardez said with a stern look. “And remember, we will still be taste-testing.”

“Lucky us,” Nourie said.

Cyan smiled up at him.

Sensing I’d ruffled Gardez’s feathers, I sought to clarify. “What I mean is, aren’t you bored in here?”

I must have hit a nerve because Gardez frowned and didn’t answer.

“I’ve seen a couple of those cooking shows on TV,” Nourie said. “I like them. I think it’s fun. Watching other people in the kitchen helps me relax.”

Gardez cleared his throat. “Agent Nourie does not intend to suggest that he is relaxed in his duty here.”

Nourie’s lips tightened. “No, of course not.”

Any lightness that had momentarily graced our group vaporized with Gardez’s remonstrance. “I understood what you meant,” I said to Nourie. Returning to slicing my carrots, I wondered how long it would be before we had our kitchen to ourselves again.

“Understood what who meant?” Sargeant appeared from behind Gardez and scooted past the tall agent. For the first time since I’d met him, Sargeant’s face was creased into a smile. “Not that it matters,” he said, still grinning. “Ms. Paras, may I see you a moment?”

Next to me, Bucky gave a low groan. “What now?”

“I’m about to find out.” I washed and dried my hands. When I realized Sargeant was ushering me out into the hall, I untied my soiled apron and tossed it into the bin by the door. Seeing the pileup of dirty aprons made me think again about our laundry ladies being held hostage at the hospital. What I wouldn’t give to replay the events of Inauguration Day. The minute those chicken wings appeared in the kitchen, I should have immediately sent them to the Secret Service. But I hadn’t wanted to hurt the gift giver’s feelings, if indeed the benefactor had turned out to be a friend. Because of my concerns, I’d hesitated. Although I’d never intended for anyone to touch the food, I felt as guilty as Cyan for not taking a more proactive approach.

I followed Sargeant’s mincing gait across the hall to the China Room. I used to love the China Room, but over the past few years I’d been pulled in here too often for Secret Service interrogations. These days, it was difficult for me to feel anything but trepidation when I walked through its door. Not for the first time, I focused on the china patterns to quell my antsy nerves. My gaze came to rest on a large platter.

Sargeant noticed. “Is that from the Coolidge era?”

I shook my head. “Hayes.” The meat platter was rectangular with curled-up corners. But its most notable attribute was its depiction of a wild turkey. With its head held high and chest thrust forward, the bird stood tall on spindly legs. This turkey reminded me—very much—of the self-satisfied egotist in front of me.

“A handsome bird, isn’t he?” Sargeant asked.

I smiled. “I’d like him better skewered and roasted over an open flame.”

Sargeant gave me a peculiar look. “Yes, well.” He pulled himself up to his maximum height and said, “I did not call you in here to discuss the china.”

“Of course not.” I had my back to the magnificent painting of Grace Coolidge in her bright red dress, and I hoped to convey some of the serenity she exhibited in her colorful portrait. It wasn’t easy. Whatever Sargeant had on his mind was making him very happy. That couldn’t bode well for me.

“Because you and I have worked together for these past few years,” he began, “I feel it is my duty to give you fair warning.”

Rocks rattled around my stomach, bouncing like sharp-edged Ping-Pong balls, but I was unwilling to reveal my disquiet. Tilting my head quizzically, as he so often did, I asked, “What’s on your mind, Peter?”

I watched him struggle to tamp down his enthusiasm. He lost. “I have it on good authority that you are on your way out.”

Speechless, I waited.

“Out of the White House,” he said, as though the statement needed clarification.

I fought to affect a look of indifference. “And who is this ‘good authority’?”

He wagged a finger in front of me. “Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast. You will be notified in good time.”

“You’re telling me that I’m about to be fired?”

For the first time, his smile faded. “Not quite. You occupy a unique position here. Up until now, that has worked in your favor. My intention today is to inform you that I’ve become aware of certain privileged information. There’s a change in store for you. Be prepared. When it happens, I guarantee your days will be numbered.”

His happy smirk returned and he minced back out of the China Room without another word.

I stared at the empty doorway for a long moment. “Gee, thanks, Peter.”

 

Agents Bost and Zeller were waiting for me in the kitchen when I returned and they gestured me back out into the hall. What now? Zeller was as tall as many of the male agents and just as athletic. Her mouth turned upward as though she was trying to smile, but her eyes were cold. “Ms. Paras,” she said. “A minute of your time?”

I made sure Bucky and Cyan had everything under control then followed the agents out. I was fully prepared to return to the China Room, but they surprised me by leading me to the small Secret Service office just a few steps east of the kitchen. I didn’t usually have any reason to come in here, nor did I often visit the larger Secret Service office in the West Wing, but once in a while we brought treats to the agents. These two, however, were too new to know that.

The office was small, not much bigger than our refrigeration room. Several of the agents nodded a greeting and Zeller led me to an even smaller office in back, where she offered me a chair. “Would you like some water?” she asked as I sat.

Bost pulled the door closed behind him, closing off all sound and life from the rest of the area. Now it was just the three of us. Two tough agents, a tight office, and me. I began to feel a little claustrophobic. “That depends. How long am I going to be here?” I asked.

Expressionless, Bost said, “As long as it takes.”

Before I could ask “As long as
what
takes?” Zeller moved to stand next to Bost. The two of them effectively blocked the door. Both of these agents were brand-new to the PPD, and although they carried a lot of weight, I wasn’t frightened. Clearly, however, intimidation was their intent.

“Ms. Paras—” Zeller began.

“Call me Ollie. We’ll get along much better that way.”

“I’ll get right to it, Ms. Paras.” She pursed his lips. “If you suspected there was something wrong with the chicken wings, why did you not alert us?”

I sat back. “Are you kidding?”

With his blond buzz and linebacker shoulders, Bost looked like a giant square. “We never kid.”

That I believed.

Zeller’s turn. “Ms. Paras,” she said, “we only want to ask you a few questions about the sudden appearance of the box of wings, and your decision not to bring it to our attention.”

Our
attention? Did they mean the attention of the Secret Service—because if they did, they were sadly misinformed. That had been one of my first orders of business. If they meant that I should have notified the two of them—and I couldn’t imagine why they would—we had a problem.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Why, do you have something to hide?” Bost asked.

“Of course not. But I find this questioning peculiar.”

“Peculiar?” Zeller repeated. “And why is that?”

“Does Agent MacKenzie know I’m down here?”

“That’s not important right now,” Bost said.

“It most certainly is important,” I said, standing. “I’m willing to help this investigation in any way I can, but it seems to me that you ought to clear it with him before you start personally interrogating staff members.”

“Sit down.”

“Agent Bost,” I said, refusing to sit, “You were in that first meeting in Paul’s office. You know as well as I do that we are not to discuss this matter with anyone who was not included in that meeting.” I shot a pointed look at Zeller. “If Tom ... er ... Agent MacKenzie wants to bring others up to date, then he should be the one to do it.”

“Are you willing to risk the children’s safety?”

“Of course not.” I looked from one to the other. Both towered over me, but I was too angry to be nervous. “It sounds to me as though you are questioning Agent MacKenzie’s orders. You’re both new here, and maybe you think you can make a name for yourselves by working behind his back. You go right ahead and do that. See where it gets you. But don’t involve me.”

They didn’t budge.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do in the kitchen.”

Zeller looked to Bost, who still stared down at me. “No one is questioning Agent MacKenzie,” he said quietly. “I want to be very clear on that point.”

The look in Bost’s eyes was downright murderous. If I were the First Lady, I might be thrilled to have such a scary guy protecting my kids, but I would certainly limit their interaction with him. He would give me nightmares.

“Got it. Very clear. Can I go now?”

He hesitated just one moment more before stepping aside. Zeller moved away too, granting me access to the door. “Have a lovely afternoon,” I said. “It’s been nice talking with you.”

It wasn’t until I got back into the hall that my heart started to speed-beat, its staccato palpitations quickening my pace. What had that been about?

I’d gotten about twenty feet into the hallway when I heard my name called. I turned. Bost stood in the doorway of the Secret Service office with a finger raised. “I expect you to keep information about this meeting quiet.”

Uh-huh. Right.

 

“What’s wrong?” Cyan asked when I got back.

I waved her off. “Nothing really.”

“What were they asking about? Are you in trouble because of me? I’m so sorry.”

“Cyan,” I said, shaking my head, “really, it was nothing. I think they’re just a couple of goons who think that if they do an end-run around Tom, they’ll be on the fast track for promotion.”

“Don’t they know this is just about as high as you can get in the Secret Service?”

“I’m sure they do, but they also know that they report to Tom. I can’t understand what they’re up to.”

Cyan tilted her head. “What did they ask you?”

I didn’t want to get into it. There was no way to express my thoughts on the subject without divulging things Tom and Paul had expressly asked us not to share. “I think the two of them are headed for trouble, that’s all.”

Cyan bit her lip. “Speaking of headed for trouble ...”

“What happened?”

Her hands came up. “No, nothing here. I just was wondering if you might have some time tonight?”

“You mean after work?”

Hesitant at first, her words came out in a rush. “I’ve got a lot going on right now and you’re always so sure of yourself. I need some advice, I guess. Or maybe just someone willing to listen. I thought maybe you and I could go for coffee, or a drink, or something.”

Startled by her comment about me always being so sure of myself, I took a couple seconds to answer. “Sure, I’d love to.”

“Thanks, Ollie,” she said with such a look of relief that I got the impression an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. I felt almost guilty for having obviously missed signals and not suggesting the idea myself.

Changing the subject, I asked, “Any updates on the hostage situation?”

Cyan had her back to the computer monitor and now turned and clicked the mouse to bring up a news website we used to keep tabs on what was happening at Lyman Hall Hospital. “I checked a few minutes ago and Congresswoman Sechrest had just arrived on the scene.” She spoke over her shoulder. “I’m so worried, I want to sit here and watch this all day, but that won’t help anybody.”

I came to stand next to her. “We’ve got a few minutes now.”

She relinquished the mouse and I used it to turn up the volume. The most recent news upload was of Sandy Sechrest, flanked by SWAT team escorts, being led into a trailer that had been positioned just across the street from the hospital’s main entrance. The legislator was a petite woman, no taller than five foot three. Surrounded as she was by tall, muscular men, she looked even tinier by comparison. The camera following her showed us only her back. Sechrest wore a dark coat and gloves but no hat, even though the weather was frigid. Her short, white hair fluttered in the January wind.

News crews chased the congresswoman as she and her bodyguards navigated the police-established perimeter. One of the reporters shouted, “Congresswoman! Congresswoman! What do you hope to accomplish here?”

She turned to face the pack of paparazzi and microphones. I couldn’t see them, but I could picture them falling over one another in an effort to get to her first.