Foreign Éclairs (16 page)

Gav dozed in the car on the way back and, once home, went straight to bed. I didn’t mind. Content beyond belief, I read a little and puttered in the kitchen, humming as I prepared dinner.

Life had returned to normal and I intended to enjoy every moment I could. Especially cheery was knowing that all listening devices had been removed from the apartment. The minute the Armustanians were in custody, Yablonski had given the go-ahead to a group of agents. They’d swept through the place, restoring our cherished privacy. On top of that, our Secret Service bodyguards had been relieved of duty.

I wondered if Mrs. Wentworth had been around when the surveillance team had let themselves in to clear the apartment. I had no doubt that if she had, she’d hit me up with hard questions about it soon.

Gav emerged from the bedroom around seven in the evening, looking adorably rumpled in his T-shirt and pajama
pants, with half his hair sticking straight up. Scratching at the top of his head, he tried to flatten it down but that only made it worse.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I said.

“Morning?” He gave a low chuckle and pointed to the balcony doors. “It’s dark out.”

I shrugged. “Close enough. You hungry? I’m making those grilled chicken breasts you like.”

“Starved.” For the second time, he pointed toward the balcony. “Do you need me to light the grill?”

“Already done. I heard your alarm go off a few minutes ago, so I knew you’d be up soon. Everything should be ready in less than twenty minutes.”

He sat at the kitchen table, still trying to tame his hair with one hand, holding his cell phone with the other. “Wasn’t my alarm,” he said, holding the device aloft. “It was Joe.”

“I thought he’d still be sleeping, too.” I lowered the flame under one of my simmering saucepans. “You guys had a busy night.”

“Yeah.” Gav grimaced and looked away.

I lifted the pan of marinating chicken from the counter, intent on taking it out to the grill but something in his mood stopped me. “Are you ready to bring me up to date on everything you guys learned from our visitors last night?”

He sat back, plunked the phone on the table, and used a fingertip to spin it. “Yeah,” he said again with just as little enthusiasm.

I put the chicken back down and sat across from him. “What’s wrong? Did Yablonski change his mind about sharing information with me? Did he issue some sort of gag order?”

“Not at all. The big news you already know—we got Kern. That’s better than we were hoping for.”

“You thought he was still in Armustan.”

“So much for recent intelligence reports.” Gav grimaced. “We caught up with Kern about a half mile away from the winery. He was waiting in a cargo van that was meant to whisk the two of us away. In addition to apprehending Kern, you’ll be happy to know that we got Cutthroat to identify two of the men as the ones who killed his friends. They were the same two responsible for Margaret’s murder.”

“They admitted it?”

“Initially, the captives refused to cooperate, but once we got the first one to break—he’s the one who gave up Kern—the rest followed suit. And once they let loose, they let us have it, spewing platitudes and vitriol . . .” He leaned back and rubbed his temples. “Got ugly. Kern and his men are furious to have failed at their objective—killing you and securing Ansari’s release—but they are arrogant and inordinately proud of what they have accomplished. Their sick satisfaction at the amount of damage done . . .” He shook his head. “Tough to listen to but we learned a lot.”

“Wow,” I said, at a loss for words.

He held up a finger. “We won this time. No question about it. Kern is going away for good, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some eager Armustanian warmonger out there waiting to have a go at us next. In fact, I’d count on that.”

“So we can’t relax?”

“The United States government can’t relax,” he said. “As long as we have Farbod Ansari incarcerated, the Armustanians won’t let up. But you, on the other hand . . .” There was a twinkle in his eyes I hadn’t seen in a long time. “You’ve sailed through another life-threatening circumstance unharmed. Kern’s failure is your ticket to freedom.”

“And that’s it?” I said. “There are no other avengers in that family—no cousins or other relatives ready to take up the cause?”

Gav shook his head, not even bothering to tamp down his smile. “We’ve done extensive homework on Kern’s faction. Under the brother, they were a fractured group, but one feared by other factions. Kern offered his followers hope and, from our perspective, presented a real and credible threat. Armustan is not a forgiving culture. Now that Kern has been defeated, they’ll find someone else to follow.”

“And because it won’t be one of Kern’s relatives . . .”

“You are almost certainly safe.”

I found myself grinning. “That’s wonderful news. Absolutely the best.”

He nodded.

“So, what’s bothering you? Isn’t all this finished?”

“Not for me. Not yet, at least. As you know, Joe took me off duty because my cover had been compromised—because Kern and his men knew who I was.” He glanced up and waited for me to acknowledge that I remembered. I did. “Now that the Armustanian attack has been defeated, now that we have these men in custody, now that we’ve been presented a weeklong window of opportunity, he wants me back in.”

“To find the next leader waiting in the wings?” I finished, seeing the big picture come into focus.

Gav gave a slow nod.

“We have a chance to make a difference right now. Until the other factions in Armustan learn of what went down here with Kern, we have the opportunity to get in there and influence changes. And until this window of safety closes, Joe wants me to lead the strategic sessions. I’ve been to Armustan enough to be considered the resident expert.”

“He wants you to go there? Isn’t there a risk that your cover was compromised beyond Kern’s people?”

“I won’t enter Armustan.” Gav drew in a long breath. “You’re right; it’s too big of a risk. I will, however, be
invaluable as a consultant. We have a number of safe houses in nearby countries. Allied countries.”

“Which ally?”

“That hasn’t been determined yet. Even if it were, I couldn’t tell you. Joe believes that between the two of us and the team we’ve assembled, we should be able to mount and implement a mission before anyone takes another swing at us.”

I blew out a breath. “When do you leave?”

He nodded. “Tonight.”

Moments ago, my heart was light. Not anymore. Stiff and solid, it sat like an angry brick in my chest. And yet, I understood. “You want to do this, don’t you?” I asked rhetorically. “You want to determine for yourself that we’re safe from future attacks.”

“I’m going there to ensure the safety of all the citizens of the United States,” he said. “But yes. Even though there is no one in Armustan who would want to target you, I won’t be able to relax until I can ascertain for myself that the threat against you has been eliminated completely.”

He stared as though to press the weight of his words into me.

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists. That’s why there will never be room for discussion where Farbod Ansari’s release is concerned. But right now, before news of Kern’s failure makes it to his remaining followers, we have the rare opportunity to help influence who becomes that country’s next leader. We have to take advantage of this window and put our people in motion before a more aggressive faction assumes control.”

“I understand.”

“I knew you would.”

I stood up to get back to preparing dinner. “Let’s at least get you fed before you take off.”

When I picked up the pan of chicken and turned, I was surprised to see Gav blocking my way. “Ollie,” he said with such gravity I felt my stomach drop. “You need to know that if we weren’t successful this weekend—if we hadn’t managed to capture Kern—you and I would have had a serious talk about our future.”

“I know,” I said. “Yablonski danced around that topic.”

“He was concerned. He
is
concerned.”

“I know he believed I didn’t understand what he was hinting at,” I said. “I understood perfectly, but I preferred not to hear.” I met Gav’s eyes with no apology, no regret. “I chose to ignore the warnings for as long as possible.”

Gav smiled again. “That’s what I told Joe.”

“And this time it paid off, didn’t it?”

“We were talking about your life, Ollie.”

“Yours, too,” I said.

“You know as well as I do that I was always a bonus. You were the target. They get you, they get me, too. If you’re safe, out of the picture where no one can find you, then we both survive.”

“But Yablonski meant he wanted us gone.” I put the chicken pan back on the counter and laid both hands on Gav’s arms. “I know he wasn’t being heartless or cold. He cares about us. About you especially. I realize that. But I also know that he has a job to do and that my very existence made his job harder. I can’t blame him for wanting us out of the picture.”

“He never intended for us to be gone for good.”

“But he did want us to disappear, didn’t he? To leave D.C. and start anew across the country. Maybe even take on new identities. Was that it?”

Gav nodded.

“Like the Witness Protection Program?” I asked.

He nodded again. “It would have only been temporary. Until Kern was apprehended.”

“And now he has been,” I said. “Which means we don’t have to worry about leaving our home, our families, our lives. So let’s be grateful that this drama is at an end.”

“I am grateful. For you.”

I stared up at him. “I’m safe now, but until the entire Armustanian threat is eliminated, other Americans are at risk, aren’t they?”

“We have a chance to make this right, Ollie.”

“Then go,” I said over a lump in my throat. “Go study, infiltrate, influence, whatever you need to do to keep our country safe.”

“Boy, it’s great to be back,” I said to Bucky Sunday morning.

My assistant looked up from a cookbook he’d been reading. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

“How did it go? Or can’t you tell me?”

“Very well. So well that I’m free to tell you that the Armustanians are no longer a threat to me.” I tucked my tote onto my shelf next to my purse and peeled off my coat. “That’s not exactly right. The current regime is no longer a threat, and there’s hope that this détente continues.”

“Wow,” he said, eyes wide. “Details?”

“Let’s just say that we accomplished everything we set out to do. And as our reward? Gav has been spirited out of the country again.”

“You’re joking.”

“If I were joking, would I be here right now?”

“Sorry to hear it. When do you expect him back?”

I gave an exaggerated shrug. “The wife is always the last to know.”

Marshaling a chastising air, he pointed to the clock. “And I got in early today planning on a nice quiet, lazy day on my own.”

I reached to pull out a smock and accidentally grabbed an apron. “You switched these,” I said. Before he had a chance to answer, I kept talking. “Sorry to mess with your plans, but if you’d been paying attention, you’d remember I always hoped to be back today.”

His cheerful expression faded. “That’s right. You wanted to be back in time for Margaret’s wake.”

“I packed a change of clothes,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “I plan to go right after work. Are you going?”

“I’ll stop by this afternoon,” he said. “That is, if you don’t mind me taking off early. I’m taking Brandy dancing tonight.”

“Dancing?” I asked. “You?”

He folded his arms. “What’s wrong with that?”

Grateful for the upbeat turn our conversation had taken, I stepped back as though sizing him up. “Nothing at all. Hmm . . . What kind of dancing? John Travolta? Patrick Swayze? Michael Jackson?”

“More like Fred Astaire,” he said. “We’re taking ballroom dance lessons. It’s my birthday gift to her this year.”

“That’s awesome,” I said. “Whatever made you think of it?”

“I ran around like an idiot shopping in every store I could think of. All the while I knew she didn’t want things. She never wants
things
.” Shrugging, he held up both hands. “All she ever wants is for us to spend time together. And you know how tough that can be for those of us in service to the White House.”

I thought about Gav, probably landed in the unnamed allied country by now. “I do.”

“My gift to her was to choose an experience we could enjoy together. I thought she might want to go hiking or take up tennis.” He gave a wry frown, but I could tell he was far less disappointed than he pretended to be. “She chose dancing.”

“Good for you. Enjoy yourself.”

“I plan on it.” He clapped his hands together. “In the meantime, I want to show you what I got done yesterday.”

Bucky took me on a tour of our newly organized kitchen, and—in between my appreciative comments—explained why he moved our mixing bowls here and measuring utensils there. Why the aprons were stacked to the left and the smocks to the right.

“Efficiency,” he said for the fourth time. “I thought about how often we use these items and tried to come up with a better pattern for those of us working in the kitchen.”

By this point, we’d opened all the cabinets, both above and below our work areas, giving me a panoramic view of the kitchen’s contents. Bucky’s hands flew about as he described all the changes and provided reasoning for his decisions. He spoke quickly as he bounced from one end of the kitchen to the other, gesticulating and babbling.

I stood as far back as I could, leaning against the far counter, taking it all in, saying nothing.

Eventually, when Bucky began repeating himself, I waved him down. “I got it.”

“And?”

“I like it.”

“Do you really?” he asked, “Or are you just saying that?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Bucky, you know that. I like it a lot. I can see you’ve put a great deal of effort into this. What amazes me is how much you got accomplished in so short a period of time.”

“It’s amazing how quiet this place is when the entire First Family is out of town.”

I chuckled at that. “They’re coming back tonight.”

“They are?” Bucky blinked as he took in the news. “I didn’t think about that. Didn’t put it together. I guess if the Armustanians are out of the picture, it’s safe for them to return.”

“That’s about right. At least for now.” Thinking about Josh’s difficulties at school and his reluctance to share any of it with his parents, I added, “I hope things went well for them at Camp David.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” When I hedged, he glared. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Peter Sargeant walked into the kitchen at that moment. “Whatever it is, Mr. Reed, is likely not your concern.” To me, he said, “I’ve been quite pleased by the reports forwarded to me. While they are understandably short on detail, they are exceedingly clear on one point: You have had a very productive weekend.”

“I have,” I said.

“And you’re aware that the First Family intends to return to the White House this afternoon?”

“I didn’t realize they’d be back so early. I thought it would be later tonight. But that’s fine.”

Bucky touched my arm. “If you need me to stay . . .”

“No, I’ll be fine here alone,” I said. “Go ahead and leave when you need to. Celebrate Brandy’s birthday. Enjoy yourself.”

Sargeant rolled his lips but said nothing. Before he could inject his opinion as to whether or not Bucky ought to leave me alone in the kitchen, I turned to him. “Is there something I can do for you, Peter?”

“Two things.” He sniffed. “First of all, the president and
his family will be making a special stop to visit with Margaret’s family before they return to the residence.”

“That’s very nice of them.”

“They believe it’s the least they can do to show support. The Secret Service has arranged for the president to have a private conversation with Margaret’s family before visitation officially begins. He recognizes that wherever he goes the press follows, and he wants to afford the family as much privacy as possible. So we’re keeping everything low-key.”

“A sound plan,” I said. “What’s the second thing?”

Sargeant’s mouth twisted downward. “I was coming to that, thank you. In addition to informing you about the First Family’s imminent return to the residence, I wanted to let you know that the Secret Service has given us the go-ahead to resume interviewing chefs.”

“Good.” Bucky had his arms crossed. “The sooner we fill Cyan’s job, the better.”

Sargeant wrinkled his nose then sniffed again. “I believe we would be better served to cease referring to it as ‘Cyan’s job’ and to begin calling the position by its proper title. We are seeking a
chef de partie
, are we not?”

“Technically, yes. However, I would hope that the person who joins our kitchen is not prone to standing on ceremony.” I didn’t add:
Like you.

“Perhaps, going forward, you should consider taking a page from Neville Walker’s playbook,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

On his best days, Sargeant’s smiles came off as condescending. Today was clearly not a good day. “Agent Walker is in the process of restoring the PPD to its full glory. He has taken what had become a broken, dilapidated version of what is arguably the most important arm of the Secret
Service and made it new again. How did he do that? By instituting order. By bringing in professionals who understand the chain of command and who don’t confuse coworkers with friends.”

“Peter—”

He
tut-tutted
me silent. “I know you prefer to maintain a casual atmosphere in your kitchen because you believe it promotes a sense of camaraderie. I would suggest that you, as executive chef, consider adopting a new order. What better timing to institute structure than right before you bring on new personnel?”

I opened my mouth, but closed it again before I said something I might regret later. In the short while Sargeant had been talking, I realized what was really at stake: He had let his guard down—albeit slightly—with Margaret, and he was paying for that now. Her death had hurt him and he didn’t know how to cope. So he retreated to what he knew best: imposing rules and structure. It helped him feel safe.

Sargeant continued to pontificate, advising us on the best practices we ought to consider establishing in our kitchen. I contemplated ways to cut him off but found I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“It seems to me that your staff should never address you as ‘Ollie,’” he was saying. “When the new person starts, I believe you should insist that he or she address you as ‘Chef Paras’ at all times.” He pointed over his shoulder to indicate Bucky. “And Mr. Reed, as your sous chef, should be addressed with similar respect.”

In a close-quarters kitchen like this one where success depended on our being able to call upon one another at a moment’s notice, having multiple individuals referred to as “Chef” would get confusing fast.

I knew, Bucky knew, and I suspected even Sargeant knew
that I would continue to run my kitchen the way I saw fit. This was not the time or the place, however, to drive that point home.

Doing my best to ignore Bucky’s exaggerated eye rolls, I said, “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“See that you do.”

Behind him, Bucky sucked in his lips and glared. Over the years I’d learned how to manage Sargeant—or, at least, how to manage my reactions to him. Bucky still had a way to go.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Not at the moment,” he said. “Once the Secret Service and I come up with a new list of viable candidates, I will contact you about scheduling interviews.”

“Let’s hope we find a good fit,” I said. “Someone who can both respect authority
and
enjoy the camaraderie.”

Sargeant pursed his lips.

“Hey, I know the perfect candidate,” Bucky said before Sargeant could come back with a retort. “This person has successfully worked with us in the past, understands the requirements of the job, and possesses solid skills and abundance of energy. To top it off, this person would have no trouble being cleared by the Secret Service.” His mischievous grin grew. “And you know how it can be difficult to win over the First Lady.”

I nodded.

“This candidate would be a shoo-in. Guaranteed.”

“I’d like to meet this impressive chef.” Sargeant folded his arms. “Where, pray tell, is this individual currently employed?”

“He’s not.” Bucky’s pink cheeks and bright eyes were nothing compared to the giggle he tried to tamp down. “Employed at the moment, that is.”

With a sense of what was coming, I covered my mouth with one hand, struggling to contain my own mirth. “Bucky . . .” My voice was a warning.

Sargeant flipped glances between the two of us. “What is so funny?”

Bucky’s joke wasn’t really funny at all, but the pressures from the past week had bubbled up, making silliness irresistible.

“Who is it?” Sargeant demanded. “Enough with the games. Who is this ideal candidate you have in mind?”

“Can’t you guess?” Bucky asked, trying his best to sober up. Failing. I swore he would burst if he wasn’t allowed to laugh out loud. Time to get our chief usher out of here.

“Peter, it’s fine.” I took him by the arm with one hand on his shoulder and led him out of the kitchen. “We’re just enjoying a bit of that familiarity you warned us against. Forget it.”

“You want me to forget this perfect candidate?” Indignantly, he turned to look over his shoulder. I twisted to see Bucky bent in half, holding his stomach. Sargeant raised his voice to be heard. “Why on earth won’t you tell me who it is?”

Bucky turned his back to us, waving us away.

Five steps outside the kitchen Sargeant stopped walking. “The familiarity I warned you against?” he asked, pointing back the way we’d come. “
This
is what you want for your kitchen?”

I bit my lower lip trying not to laugh. “It really isn’t all that funny. Bucky just took a goofy idea and ran with it.” I’d been certain Sargeant knew what Bucky had been hinting at, but facing the man’s dour expression now, I couldn’t be sure.

He blinked several times, giving me that alert-squirrel look he was so partial to. “Mr. Reed suggested someone who has worked in the kitchen, yes? Someone you
know
the First Lady will love? A person with energy, vitality, and one who would be instantly cleared by the Secret Service?”

“Yes . . .”

“Ms. Paras, really.” He shook his head, said
“Tsk, tsk,”
a couple of times, then walked past me to the elevator. He pushed the button, then turned to face me. “You might want to inform your sous chef that the White House has no intention of disregarding child labor laws. If Mr. Reed wants us to hire the president’s son, he’ll have to wait until the lad is a few years older.”

I laughed out loud.

Sargeant whispered, “Does he honestly believe I’m that dense?”

“No, of course not,” I said, laughing.

He arched a brow.

“Okay, maybe a teensy bit.” I held up my thumb and forefinger in emphasis.