Foreign Éclairs (11 page)

Agent Lynch and I took the elevator up to the Butler’s Pantry. He opened the door that led into the Family Dining Room, and gestured me in. “They’re waiting for you.”

All conversation ceased when I stepped into the room.

Exactly as he had the night before, Yablonski sat at the center of the room’s table. This time, however, he wasn’t alone. Six others sat around him, most of whom looked to be in their late thirties. One man and one woman, however, seemed closer to Yablonski’s age.

“Come in, Ollie,” he said again, much the same way he had last night. “Agent Gavin is on his way.”

There were two open seats around the long oval table, one at either end. As I settled myself at the spot at the south end, facing north, I ran my fingers along the shiny tabletop. After so many years in the White House, I should have been able to summon up what kind of wood it was, but my mind blanked
and I couldn’t remember. It was a lovely reddish brown, with a blond-toned inset trim. Mahogany, probably.

What difference did it make? Why was I fixating on the table right now?

Probably because I was anxious about what I was about to hear.

The agents around the table wore stern expressions and were dressed similarly in gray-toned business attire. I greeted them one at a time as Yablonski made introductions and I was happy to note that little name cards had been tented around the table. What a relief not to have to memorize so many at once. The last person to be introduced was a fifty-something woman, Maryann Morris. “Agent Morris,” I said, reaching to shake her hand.

Yablonski cleared his throat. “The team members you’re meeting today, along with others who you will most likely never see, have been culled from the Secret Service, the NSA, and from other organizations. Let us dispense with titles. Individual ranks are not material to this endeavor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No harm done,” he said. “In fact, as we’ll be working so closely together, it will be best if you think of these folks as your new best friends.”

He’d used that “best friend” descriptor yesterday to pull information from Cutthroat. I knew Yablonski meant well, but the wording chilled me nonetheless.

Except for murmured greetings when each had been introduced, none of the six people surrounding Yablonski had spoken a word since I’d walked in. They all seemed to be waiting for him.

He turned to me. “You’ve been informed that the First Family left for Camp David this morning?”

“I was thrilled to hear it, yes. I think that was an excellent decision.”

“So glad you approve.” A corner of his mouth curled up, but no one else reacted. They remained ready, eager, and immobile.

Yablonski’s gaze jerked up as the far door opened and Lynch escorted Gav into the room. “Ah, just in time.” Yablonski signaled to Lynch. “No interruptions.”

The young agent nodded, stepped out, and pulled the door closed. I had no doubt Secret Service agents were stationed outside each of the room’s exits.

Gav headed for the end of the table across from me, nodding hello to everyone as he took his seat. No introductions needed, apparently. He shot a quick glance in my direction, but I couldn’t read the message it held. All I could tell was that he was angry, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t at me.

“Now that we’re all here, we may begin,” Yablonski said.

It was evident that Gav and I had been positioned at opposite ends of the table on purpose. Yablonski’s doing, no doubt, but I wondered why.

The big man glanced at those gathered around the shiny oval tabletop. He nodded, as though pleased.

Gav was anything but. Working his jaw, he glowered at Yablonski. I’d never seen Gav display anything beyond respect and admiration for his mentor. Something had happened. I edged forward on my seat as though doing so would help clear the air faster.

Oblivious to Gav’s malevolent stare, Yablonski continued, “Our team has worked through the night to come up with a scenario designed to lure the Armustanians out of hiding and into a controlled environment.”

He leaned forward on thick arms, speaking quietly. “We
are only too aware of the fact that these people are ruthless. They had no compunction setting that bomb at Suzette’s restaurant.” He made eye contact with every person around the table, one by one. “We got lucky,” he said. “Innocent bystanders could have been killed.” Pointing to the man seated to my left, Yablonski leaned back. “Falduto, where are we on witness statements?”

Falduto, a slim fellow with a wide nose and a rigid demeanor, read from his notes. “The establishment’s owner, Jason, said that although several parties had requested seating at the front table window throughout the day, none of them acted suspiciously. We showed him photos of known Armustanian terrorists. Jason did not recognize any of them. He did admit, however, that he was not up front every minute and could have missed these men coming in.”

“Agent Gavin?” Yablonski said, turning to Gav. “What do we know about the bomb itself?”

Gav continued to pierce Yablonski with his forceful stare. “As you know, due to the fact that my cover has been compromised, I am no longer conducting field investigations.” He indicated the man to his right. “Humphrey will have to debrief us on additional findings. However, I can tell you that, after examining the collected debris, my team back at the lab has been able to make certain determinations.”

With a sweeping glance around the table to capture everyone’s attention, Gav continued, “Preliminary analysis confirms—with a certainty that nears absolute—that the bomb-maker was an Armustanian who apprenticed under Kern. That helps us because we know who we’re dealing with and allows us to anticipate their next move.”

“Which is for them to demand Farbod Ansari’s release,” Yablonski said.

“Right.” Gav didn’t make eye contact with his mentor.
Continuing to address the group, he said, “We can anticipate escalation—”

“Excuse me.” Russo raised her hand. “What was it about the bomb that makes you so certain it was crafted by a member of Kern’s faction?”

Gav blinked at the interruption, but moved smoothly to answer the question. “Without getting into too much detail, I can tell you that the style of this particular IED is consistent with that of Kern’s men—from its components to its design. They tend to use a particular gauge of wire, and exhibit a preference for using timers. That, in itself, is telling. Many IED makers prefer remote controls—say, using a cell phone to detonate the device—but Kern’s team relies on timers. In that sense they’re a bit more old-school. But”—Gav held up a finger—“such choices have advantages as well. Kern and his cohorts are highly skilled in creating these particular bombs. They’ve had great success with them and it’s clear they prefer to stay with what works.”

“Thank you,” Russo said as she scribbled notes on her legal pad.

“What were you saying about escalation?” Yablonski asked.

My husband didn’t acknowledge Yablonski, choosing instead to answer the man’s question by addressing the table. Yablonski couldn’t have missed the subtle slight, but he seemed unperturbed.

“Make no mistake,” Gav said, “we are under attack. Unless Farbod Ansari is released—and President Hyden has vowed never to negotiate with terrorists—or until Kern and his team are neutralized, we cannot let down our guard. Not for one minute.”

“Which is why we are all gathered here today,” Yablonski said. “Everyone at the table, save Ms. Paras, has been advised of the details of our operation going forward.”

Every face turned to me. I sat up straighter. Their expressions held a mixture of curiosity, wariness, and compassion. Only in Gav’s eyes did I read anger. Not at me, but for me. And in that moment, I felt the first flickers of fear.

Combatting my unease the best way I knew how, I worked up a sassy smile. “From all your expressions I deduce that’s about to change.” Clapping my hands together, I faced Yablonski. “My turn, then. What
is
the plan?”

The big man leaned forward, catching me with a gaze so sincere, I felt as though I were the only other person in the room. “What you need to understand, Ms. Paras,” he said, “is that Kern is driven to succeed. He not only seeks to achieve Ansari’s release while discrediting President Hyden’s administration, he has it in for you, personally.”

No one shifted, no one moved. The only sound in the room was the gentle wash of air, bringing what suddenly felt like too much warmth into the room.

I maintained steady eye contact. “So I’ve come to understand.”

“We’ve discussed this at length, Ollie.” I didn’t miss the fact that he’d lapsed into using my first name. “Your actions resulted in Kern’s brother’s regime being overthrown and his subsequent ignominious murder. Kern won’t rest until he avenges his family’s honor.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s been made abundantly clear.” I took my time glancing around the table. “I gather from all your solemn expressions that you would like me to play a part in whatever operation you’ve come up with.” My heart beat so vigorously I thought it might start banging against the table’s mahogany edge. I breathed in deeply then blew out a breath to steady myself. “What do you need me to do?”

Yablonski shot a smug look at Gav, who stared down at his hands and shook his head.

Gav lifted his head to address Yablonski. My husband’s fury hadn’t abated; rather, it had intensified. “Before we go any further, I’d like to go on record here to voice my reservations. Again.”

He glanced across the table at me oh so briefly, then returned his attention to Yablonski as he continued. “While the plan is sound and I agree with it in concept, I have serious misgivings about requiring Ms. Paras’s involvement. As I’ve reminded you several times, Ms. Paras’s safety is paramount. We should have no difficulty enlisting an agent of similar stature and coloring to stand in for her.”

“Your reservations have been noted, Agent Gavin. Again.” Yablonski maintained a mild-mannered air, but his jaw clenched. “May I remind you that Kern’s operatives have shown themselves to be too well-informed about Ms. Paras to be fooled by a stand-in. Additionally, as you and I have discussed, the decision lies with Ms. Paras herself.” He turned
to me. “It’s up to you,” he said. “We will lay out the plan and then you can decide whether or not to participate.”

Choosing between Gav and Yablonski would, in ordinary circumstances, be a no-brainer. But I knew that Gav’s worry for my safety had the potential to cloud his judgment.

I did my best to ignore the sorrow in my husband’s eyes. “Well then, it’s probably best if you give me the details.”

Over the next twenty minutes, Yablonski laid it out, step-by-step. Gav and I were to return to our apartment tonight. Once there, we were to discuss the fact that our lives had been upended lately and that we needed to get away for a romantic night or two.

We would settle on taking a trip to Bill and Erma’s winery and discuss staying with them for a couple of days. Yablonski knew and trusted the couple and emphasized how the vineyard’s isolated location provided a perfect spot to draw our terrorists out into the open. As soon as the Armustanians made their move, they’d be apprehended.

“And what am I to do during this stakeout, or whatever it’s called?” I asked. “Do I have any specific tasks to perform?”

“You will heed direction and follow orders immediately and without question. No matter what they are.”

“I can do that,” I said.

Gav addressed Yablonski, speaking through tight teeth. “But if something were to go wrong—”

“It’s our job to make sure nothing goes wrong,” he said. “We will have operatives in the house, including Morris and Del Priore, who will pose as Erma and Bill.”

I took another look at Morris, then at Del Priore. They were a little younger than Gav’s good friends, but physically not too far off. As long as Kern’s people had never met Erma and Bill, these two could pass for the couple.

Yablonski continued to talk to me. “This is assuming
that Kern’s people are still listening to your conversations, of course,” he said. “Sad to say, we hope that’s the case.”

Across the long, shiny table, Gav stared, communicating with his eyes. I knew he wanted me to beg off, just as I knew he anticipated my resolve.

“How long do we have to decide?” I asked Yablonski.

“Not long. If you choose to remain behind, we need to settle on your replacement ASAP.” He wagged a finger. “The operation is going forward, with or without you. Plans are already in place to evacuate Bill and Erma for the duration. And whether you choose to be part of the strategy or not, you will still need to have that conversation with Agent Gavin in your apartment for the benefit of those listening. Should you decide to remain back, you will be kept under guard, out of sight, until we’re clear.”

“Gav doesn’t have the choice to stay back, does he? He’ll participate in this operation, no matter what. Is that right?”

“Yes.” From the gleam in Yablonski’s eye, I knew he knew what my answer would ultimately be. Still, I couldn’t simply shut Gav out, couldn’t pretend as though his preferences held no sway.

“Gav?” It was tough to ignore the fact that we were surrounded by silent strangers, but I gave it my best.

He met my eyes but remained silent.

“What do you say?” I asked.

“You know how I feel.”

“And you know how I’d feel sending you into danger without me.”

“Civilians should never be placed in harm’s way.”

“I’m not an ordinary civilian,” I said. “I’m the target.”

“All the more reason for you to stay back.”

I really wished the rest of the people in the room would disappear.

“Gav,” I said quietly. “We have to do this together. Let’s flush these terrorists out. Let’s get this done once and for all. Okay?”

Gav and Yablonski exchanged a look I didn’t understand.

“Gav?” I asked again. “What do you say?”

Gav’s eyes were sad. “Your call.”

Yablonski turned to me. “Ollie?”

I nodded.

He rubbed his hands together. “Then let’s get to work.”

*   *   *

I returned to the kitchen later to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by pans of every shape and size. He had a tablet in one hand and a frying pan in his lap. “Can’t think of a better time to do an inventory,” he said when he saw me.

I pushed two oversize baking sheets to the side and sat next to him.

“I can tell by the look on your face that there is a plan and you’re not thrilled with it,” he said. “Can you give any details?”

“Not right now. Maybe in a couple of days.”

He arched a brow. “When it’s all over, you mean?”

“Something like that.” I looked around. “In the meantime, since neither of us is needed here to feed the First Family, why don’t you take some time off?”

“Oh.” He strung the word out and waved his hand over the top of all the strewn kitchenware. “And leave all this fun?”

“We can finish up what you started today. And tomorrow I’ll see how far I can get.”

“You’re coming in tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes, but leaving early,” I said, knowing that Yablonski wanted us on the road to the winery by five at the latest. “I’ll be out all day Saturday. Maybe Sunday. Not sure.”

Bucky leaned against the nearest cabinet and crossed his arms. “I don’t need days off,” he said. “I’ll be here tomorrow to work on our cleanup.”

“And inventory.”

“And inventory,” he said. “And I’ll come in Saturday and Sunday, too. Brandy’s got a commitment with the Egg Board so there’s nothing for me at home. Besides, this is the White House. You never know when plans change. The First Family might return sooner than we expect. We wouldn’t want them to go hungry, would we?”

I didn’t mention that the First Family wouldn’t be back from Camp David until after I’d completed my assignment with Yablonski and his team. Before I left the Family Dining Room, I’d asked the powerful man what would happen if the Armustanians weren’t listening, or if they sensed a trap and didn’t show. What then? He didn’t have an answer for me. He admitted that they’d be back to the drawing board.

*   *   *

Mid-afternoon, Gav came to visit in the kitchen. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you’d be tied up for the rest of the day.”

“Change in plan.” He turned to my assistant. “Sorry to do this to you, Bucky, but Ollie’s on special assignment tonight. She’s leaving early.” He delivered this announcement with a wink designed to make my assistant think my husband was spiriting me away for a date night.

Bucky wasn’t fooled. “Got it,” he said with a flimsy salute. To me he said, “See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t work too hard,” I said.

He shook his head. “I’m not worried about me.” He pointed his finger like a gun. “You be careful, understand?”

Gav led me across the Center Hall to the Vermeil Room,
where a pile of clothing, including a camel-colored wool coat, lay draped across the Duncan Phyfe sofa.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Field trip. You’ll need to put these on.” He crossed the room to the sofa and picked up a pair of black leather boots sitting next to it. “Your height gives you away,” he said as he lifted the boots and pointed to their soles. At least two inches thick.

As I sat down to pull the boots on, I glanced around the room. Adjacent to the China Room, this one—sometimes referred to as the Gold Room—featured six portraits of former First Ladies, all of them long since deceased. I thought about how much the world had changed since they’d lived here.

Gav shuffled through the clothing and pulled out a blond wig and fluffy pink knit hat.

“Why is all this necessary?”

“This”—he waved his hand over the garments—“is bare minimum. The best we could come up with on short notice. We’re confident that Kern and his men are waiting for an optimal moment to strike. We intend to hand that moment to them on a silver platter tomorrow—but until then, we can’t take any chances.”

I opened the door to the adjacent ladies lavatory to check out my reflection in the mirror. Using my hip to prop the door open, I adjusted the long blond waves and tucked in errant tresses of my dark bob. Gav watched from over my shoulder.

“I thought you didn’t care for me as a blonde,” I said, grinning.

He met my eyes in the mirror. “I care that you stay alive.”

I hadn’t expected such an emotional response to my flippant remark. “I know you don’t approve of my participation in the operation tomorrow,” I said. “Sorry for making jokes.”

“It’s who you are,” he said. “You get chatty when you’re
nervous. Nothing wrong with that. I know that deep down you’re taking all this seriously and that’s what matters.”

As I finished playing with my hair and donning the hat, I asked, “Where did you get this stuff?”

“You can thank Neville,” he said. “He wrangled our disguises. The goal is to get you out of the White House without anyone recognizing you. Your height and style choices are probably well-known to the terrorists by now so—if they do have you under surveillance—we’re making you taller, blonder . . .”

“And more fashionable?” I asked as I returned to the sofa, lifted the camel-colored coat, and ran a hand along one sleeve. I marveled at the fabric’s supple, creamy texture before pulling it on. The hem fell past my knees. “Is this cashmere?”

“Could be. Neville didn’t tell me who he borrowed these things from. All we care about, though, is that it’s a departure from what you normally wear.”

“What kind of clothing do you have? And, more important, what’s the point of all this?” I asked. “If they’re watching us, the minute we get to our apartment, they’ll know we’re in disguise.”

“We’re not going home,” he said. “At least, not right away.”

“The field trip you mentioned?”

The door opened and two women walked in. It took me a moment to recognize Agent Romero. She wore a long faux-fur coat, matching hat, and shiny black boots. “Good evening, Ms. Paras, Agent Gavin,” she said. “I’d like you both to meet Annette.”

No title, no last name. Simply: Annette. We exchanged polite greetings. Annette was my height—my height before I’d pulled on the stilt boots, that is—with a build similar to mine. She had on black pants, a White House–emblazoned
fall jacket exactly like the one I owned, and she wore a dark-haired wig styled exactly like my standard bob.

“Annette will leave with another agent to embark on a circuitous route around D.C. before returning to the White House,” Gav said to me. “Agent Romero will get you to our rendezvous location, where you’ll be given further instructions. Remember this code word: Spencer. If at that point we’re convinced you and I haven’t been followed, I will make contact with you and we’ll continue to our destination.”

“Which is where, exactly?” I asked. “Aren’t we required to return to the apartment tonight?” I asked, alluding to our goal of allowing the terrorists to overhear our plans for visiting the winery this weekend.

“Joe Yablonski has agreed to a small detour,” he said cryptically. “I’ll explain more later.”

*   *   *

A black stretch limousine—a livery car, not a Secret Service vehicle—swung around the south entrance of the White House five minutes later. The chauffeur got out to open the back door for me and Agent Romero. Silently, we eased in. The driver—from a trusted firm the White House occasionally hired to shuttle dignitaries—was to take us to the Thomas, a swank hotel a half mile northwest of my usual Metro station.

Romero and I had been instructed to keep our conversation in the car to a minimum. Even though the driver could not know our real identities or be able to hear us from behind the window that separated his cab from the passenger area, we chose not to talk at all.

Romero and I stared out opposite windows for the quick jaunt. My thoughts were in a crazed rush. Nothing about this made sense. Last I’d spoken to Yablonski, the plan had
been to head home like normal and to have our rehearsed-to-sound-spontaneous conversation about the need to get away to the winery. What was going on now?

When we arrived at the Thomas, our limo driver hurried around to open the door for us. Romero hustled me out in front of her, while instructing the driver to return in thirty minutes. The world seemed different from my new height. Not as many people towered over me. Weird.

Inside, Romero wound my arm through hers and broke into a brisk, no-nonsense trot through the bright Beaux Arts lobby, crossing it at such a quick clip that hotel guests couldn’t possibly get a good look at either of us even if they’d been paying close attention.