Home of the Braised (9 page)

Once he had that information, I had no doubt that Yablonski would move heaven and earth to find out what was going on. My only problem was being able to get in touch with him without leaving a trail that led back to me. I didn’t have direct contact information for the man, nor would I, ever. He’d made it clear that any association with me—and my reputation—could be hazardous to his.

I did, however, know Quinn, an agent who worked with Yablonski and who had acted as one of the man’s spies when I was under surveillance a couple of weeks ago. “I’ll be right back,” I said.

“Where are you going?” Cyan asked.

I hurried out the door, pretending not to hear, turning the corner and nearly hurtling into two Secret Service agents escorting the president’s son.

“Josh!” I exclaimed. That’s right. He was due here, right about now. I was so distracted by my mission, I’d temporarily blanked on that detail. Thinking fast, I said, “Go on in, I’ll be back in a few minutes. I forgot something I needed to do.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Unfortunately, the thing I’d forgotten was Josh’s visit to the kitchen. Internally, I cringed.

The little boy grinned, unaware of my lapse. “Sure, Ollie. I’ll wait for you.”

I faced him as I walked backward. “Cyan can get you started,” I said. The two agents accompanying Josh followed him into the kitchen as I made my way to the corridor that opened to the center hall. Guilt made me raise my voice enough to call out, “I won’t be long.”

There was a small Secret Service office on the ground floor, a few steps east. As I made my way to it, I went over my hastily arranged plan, trying to come up with the right words to voice my request. The door to the inner office was closed and the female agent at the desk in front of it gave me a quizzical look when I walked in.

“Chef?” she said. “May I help you?”

It took all my self-control to keep my request conversational, casual. At this point I was beyond worried for Gav. I was fighting a gnawing frustration on his behalf. The man was on medical leave, for heaven’s sake. He needed time to recover. Whatever he was enduring right now couldn’t be doing his injuries any good.

“A few weeks ago,” I began, in an attempt not to appear overly eager, “we had Agent Quinn here. He worked with a few of us in the kitchen.”

She nodded, but her expression was blank. Quinn’s name obviously didn’t ring a bell.

“He’s since been reassigned,” I said. “I don’t know where he is, but I need to get in touch with him. Would you be able to help me do that?”

She was prevented from answering when the door behind her opened and Agent Rosenow, another female agent, emerged. She was talking with a man I didn’t recognize. He was half turned away from me and the two chatted amiably in a way that made it obvious they’d recently come to some agreement. I was delighted to see that Rosenow was on duty today. She knew Quinn and would, most likely, be of more help to me than the woman at the desk could.

The gentleman talking with Rosenow turned. His expression shifted from one of pleasant camaraderie to pure surprise. He blinked twice and turned to Rosenow, who was clearly startled to see me standing there, too.

“Ms. Paras.” She ran a hand through her close-cropped blond hair. “We were just talking about you. Allow me to introduce Alec Baran.”

I studied the man as he offered me his hand. He was taller than Gav by half a head, which put this guy at a muscular six foot five at least. His square-cut jaw and large forehead combined to give him an intimidating appearance, but his eyes softened that impression. Crystal blue, they were framed by lashes so long and dark that it almost looked as though he’d applied mascara. Put together, he was an extraordinarily handsome man.

His large hand engulfed mine as we shook. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Paras.”

I shot an inquisitive look to Rosenow. “Talking about
me
?
”

She hastened to explain. “Alec Baran will be working closely with the Secret Service over the next few weeks.”

I addressed him. “Are you some type of consultant?”

A corner of his mouth curled up. “I suppose you could call me that.”

He held a hand out to Rosenow, allowing her to explain. “You may have heard of Mr. Baran’s company, Kalto?” She phrased it as a question.

“Of course,” I said, feeling idiotic the moment my brain made the connection and the name clicked. Who
hadn’t
heard of Alec Baran? He was a wealthy philanthropist who’d risen through the ranks of the military and had started Kalto because he felt strongly about protecting America. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Although I wasn’t clear on specifics, I had a basic understanding of the nature of his firm. Kalto was, in essence, a civilian security team made up of both former soldiers and new recruits. From what I understood, the pay was better than what the U.S. government offered, and training was top-notch. There were other such businesses out there, but Kalto was considered the elite, the best. Kalto’s team members were credited with saving many American lives in enemy countries and occasionally here on home soil as well.

“Please, call me Alec,” he said. “If we’re to work together, I’d like to maintain an air of informality. May I call you Olivia?”

“Ollie,” I said, using manners to cover for my momentary confusion. “Why will we be working together?”

“I’d intended to come talk with you later,” Rosenow said. “But now is as good a time as any. We know that sudden personnel changes might give you cause for concern.”

“Personnel changes?” I felt very parrot-like, repeating their words. “What sort of changes?” I tried to make sense of these statements, but came up empty. “Is Kalto taking over PPD responsibilities?” That would be unheard of. PPD agents were handpicked to protect the president and his family. I couldn’t believe that any outside company, even one with Kalto’s reputation, would be hired to take over those duties.

“Not exactly,” she said quickly. “The PPD will continue to guard the president and First Family. That will not change. What
will
change is that we will be augmenting the PPD’s other assignments with personnel from Kalto. Their responsibilities will be to protect the White House staff, its visitors, guests, and grounds.”

“Protect the staff?” I caught myself repeating her words, yet again. “You mean we’ll have guards shadowing us?” I’d had to deal with bodyguards in the past and I didn’t care to repeat the experience.

“No,” Rosenow said, and I think she almost laughed. “That’s not quite the idea. Kalto personnel will assist here at the White House. They’ll simply be an additional presence here. They’ll take their direction from the Secret Service and will help fill in any gaps in security.”

I didn’t think our Secret Service allowed any gaps, but I didn’t say that aloud. It sounded to me as though the Kalto team members were to be given busywork while the Secret Service saw to its own duties. But why? “Are we facing some sort of threat?” I asked.

They exchanged a look.

Baran’s face was grim. “We aren’t at liberty to discuss security with you at this point.”

I understood. Too well. Even though he’d as much as told me to butt out, I couldn’t help asking. “This has to do with the Durasi state dinner, doesn’t it?”

Again, the exchanged glance.

“The president will cover more details tonight when he addresses the American people about the upcoming Durasi visit. For now, all you need to know is that Mr. Baran’s team will be available to assist with whatever we need,” Rosenow said. “You can go to them with any problems you may encounter, or any unusual situations that may come up.” She took a hesitant breath, and I knew what was coming even before she spoke again. “We recognize that you have a certain knack for stumbling into trouble.”

I kept my face expressionless, although that description pretty much summed up many of my adventures, most recently the encounter at the Ainsley Street Ministry.

“I can assure you, Ollie, that we’re being proactive with regard to the upcoming dinner,” she continued. “Our hope is that such efforts prove extraneous and unnecessary. Mr. Baran will be installing his team members here over the next few days. We’ll keep you updated.”

I took her tone to mean I was dismissed. “Before I leave, I have a question for you,” I said. “I stopped by to find out if you had contact information for Agent Quinn.” I waited a beat. “You remember him? From our visit to the Food Expo?”

“Of course.” The look on her face told me that she wanted to ask what I needed Quinn for but that she thought better of it with others around. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Thank you. It’s a matter of some urgency, so I’d appreciate whatever help you can offer.”

I took my leave and hurried back to the kitchen, where Josh was waiting for me.

FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE I’D BEGUN MENTORING
Josh, I struggled to stay in the moment. The president’s son’s love for cooking and creating delicious foods was real, and I always looked forward to working with him. The more I’d gotten to know him, the more of myself I saw in this enthusiastic young boy. I recognized his excitement as each new experience opened his eyes to possibility. Watching as he discovered new tastes, new methods, and new combinations was a true joy.

Today, however, my mind was scattered. From Sargeant’s press conference, which felt as though it had occurred last week rather than this morning, to my debriefing with Tyree and Larsen, to the news that the White House would require additional security measures for our upcoming event, I found it hard to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

“Is this how to do it, Ollie?” Josh asked.

I leaned over his shoulder. The carrots in his orange-stained fingers weren’t coming out quite like the matchsticks we’d hoped for. More like angular, impressionistic worms. “I know it’s tough to keep the veggies from slipping,” I said. “Here, try this.”

Picking up an extra knife, I demonstrated, slowly, how to maintain pressure while slicing. “Holding a knife the right way is key. The trick is to achieve balance, yet grip tight, while keeping your fingers out of harm’s way.”

“I tried that,” he said.

I knew he had. I also knew that these sorts of necessary skills—mundane and boring though they were—required hours of practice before they could be mastered. “Do you remember that scene in the movie where Julia Child chopped up a pile of onions this high?” I gestured to a level above his head.

His eyes went wide. “We don’t have that many carrots.” Then, with an uneasy glance in the direction of the refrigeration room, he asked, “Do we?”

I smiled. “We do, but don’t worry. I think you’ve had enough chopping for one afternoon.”

Josh seemed relieved, but less cheery than normal. Could he be picking up on my mood? The last thing I wanted to do was to quash his spirits with the heaviness of my own. Not knowing Gav’s whereabouts gave me insight into what mothers all over the world must feel when they can’t get in touch with their kids. I couldn’t help my constant, furtive glances at the clock.

“Tell you what,” I said to Josh, drawing on every bit of strength to keep from ruining his experience here today, “let’s make a stuffing instead.”

“A real recipe?” he asked. “Instead of just chopping stuff for practice that nobody’s going to use?”

I pointed to the uneven pile of carrots. “We’ll use every one of those. Nothing goes to waste around here.”

Virgil puttered around us, doing his best to pretend that he didn’t notice that the president’s son was working in our midst. Across from him, Bucky and Cyan collaborated on menu items for the upcoming dinner. I could afford spending a little extra time with Josh.

“Here you go,” I said, pulling out a recipe I’d printed for rice stuffing that I’d been hoping to experiment with. I handed it to him.

“Ms. Paras?”

I had my back to the door when I heard my name called. The voice wasn’t familiar, but when I turned, I recognized one of the PPD agents who’d accompanied Josh down to the kitchen. On days when it was the basic cooking staff: me, Bucky, Cyan, and Virgil present, Josh was allowed to join us while the PPD agents remained outside the working area. If we ever had guest chefs, or Service by Agreement (SBA) chefs in the kitchen, the PPD agents stayed close by his side.

“You have a phone call,” the agent said.

I gave him a quizzical look. Phone calls were usually routed straight to the kitchen. I pointed. “Can I take it here?”

He shook his head. “Secret Service office.”

Josh frowned. “Are you in trouble again?”

Sigh. Even
he
was aware of my reputation. “Hope not,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron. “I’ll be right back.”

I returned to the Secret Service office, and the agent at the desk showed me into Agent Rosenow’s immediately. Rosenow stood. “For you.” She lifted the phone’s receiver and handed it to me as she punched a button.

“Hello?” I said.

“This is Quinn.”

A quick glance at Rosenow, who watched with interest. “That was quick,” I said into the phone.

“You needed to speak with me?” His words were clipped.

Not only had I not expected him to call me, I hadn’t planned to conduct my conversation with him in front of an audience. Thinking fast, I stammered, “I did. I needed to find out if you could put me in touch with someone else.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Rosenow remained standing, with no indication she intended to leave me to my conversation. I knew better than to say Yablonski’s name aloud in front of anyone.

“We have a mutual friend. Do you remember?”

A moment’s pause. “Why do you need him?”

I opened my mouth. Unable to speak freely, I hesitated. “It’s important.”

“I’m sure.”

I could tell he was waiting for me to explain further. My pulse echoed in my ears as I stared back at Rosenow, trying to communicate that I would prefer a little privacy, please. Unperturbed, she continued to study me. The Secret Service could be so intrusive sometimes. I was on the phone with another agent, for crying out loud. Didn’t that warrant a little leeway?

“Listen, I just need five minutes with him,” I said. “Not even. Two minutes. Is there a way you can put me in touch?”

“No can do.” I got the impression Quinn was smiling as he said that. “Our ‘friend’ is out of the country. On assignment. I couldn’t get in touch with him even if I wanted to.”

I brought my hand up to massage the bridge of my nose. “Oh.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be of any help,” he said.

For a split second, I considered asking Quinn to do what
he
could to find out Gav’s whereabouts, but Rosenow’s piercing glare and the other agents’ visit this morning, warning me not to speak of yesterday’s encounter with anyone, kept me mum. “I don’t really believe you’re sorry,” I said, regaining a bit of my spirit. “But I thank you for taking the time to get in touch.”

He hung up without saying another word.

“Anything we can help you with?” Rosenow asked.

I trusted this woman; I had from the very start. She was as solid an agent as I’d ever encountered, and she was a nice person to boot. Until I got the all clear from Gav, however, I’d keep it all to myself. The only exception I would have made was with Yablonski. Unfortunately for me, he was out of reach.

“Thanks,” I said. “This time it’s a personal matter.”

“Personal?” Her brows arched as she regarded me. “If you need something, or you encounter trouble, don’t hesitate,” she said. “I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

My disappointment at not being able to reach Yablonski slowed my pace as I crossed the corridor. I’d held out hope that the man would work magic behind the scenes to find out what was up with Gav. Now that the avenue was closed, I felt hopeless and antsy, as though I had an itch beneath my skin—over my entire body—that I couldn’t reach, let alone scratch.

“Hey, Josh.” I injected cheer into my voice as I returned to the kitchen. This kid deserved my best effort and that meant I needed to be fully involved in teaching him. As hard as it was for me to let go of my anxiety, I again willed myself to compartmentalize. I couldn’t help Gav and knew that sitting and staring at the clock until he called or got word to me was out of the question. I had a young, capable boy here, eager to learn all he could about mastering kitchen basics. Waiting was probably my least favorite thing, but in this case, I needed to buck up and embrace whatever patience I could muster.

As though he sensed my newfound resolve, Josh grinned at me. “I think it’s going okay, Ollie. Want to check?”

I tousled his head. “Looks great.”

• • •

I’D CHECKED MY CELL PHONE A HUNDRED
times throughout the day and I checked it again as I made my way down the escalator at the McPherson Square Metro station. It felt apt, somehow, that as I descended into the depths below street level, my mood plummeted, too. I’d worked later than usual, hoping to keep my mind occupied, my worries at bay, but nothing had helped. Not completely.

I boarded the train that would take me to Crystal City, and grabbed a window seat that would permit me to stare out at the darkness, at the nothingness of tunnel for at least part of my journey. As the train whooshed me home, its motion served to lull my brain, coaxing me to blank out. Too often I’d encountered trouble on the Metro and I knew better than to allow myself to lose alertness, but today it couldn’t be helped. I’d been wired for too long.

I alighted at my stop, and as I made my way to street level for the short walk to my apartment, I noticed for the first time that a storm was brewing. Sharp winds blew my hair across my face, and chilled my bare skin. The temperatures had been in the upper eighties all day, but now gunmetal clouds rolled in overhead, like giant, gray waves in the sky. The slate-colored patch behind them didn’t offer much hope. Thunder shook the sidewalk, and an electric zigzag lit the sky, as though some angels had just taken my picture. I rubbed the bumps forming on my upper arms and hurried across the street, ducking against the first fat raindrops that plopped atop my head.

I made it to my building’s front door two seconds too late. A rush of icy water caught me straight in my back as I yanked open the door. Shaking off as much rain as I could, I waved hello to James at the front desk.

“You’re lucky,” he said by way of greeting. “Supposed to pour all night. Looks like you missed the worst of it.”

I shivered. “Looks like.”

“I hope you’re not planning to go back out again. Supposed to be a doozy. Time to batten down the hatches.” He laughed. I didn’t know why.

I turned to stare out the door as rain sluiced across the glass, making the world look both gloomy and blurry-beautiful at once. Returning my attention to James, I reminded him that if Gav came by there was no need to make him wait, or even call upstairs for my authorization. “Let him come straight up, okay?”

“I haven’t seen your young man here for a few days. Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I lied. “He’s working tonight. I don’t know what time he’ll be free.”

James winked.

When I got to my floor, Mrs. Wentworth was waiting for me outside her apartment door, which she’d left slightly ajar. “Did you call your mother?”

“I did. She’s very happy for us.”

Beaming, Mrs. Wentworth spoke loudly into her apartment. “Stan, Ollie did call home. Her mother and grandmother are thrilled.”

Despite myself, I smiled at Mrs. Wentworth’s announcement. She watched out for me, and regarded me fondly, like she might a daughter. Or maybe even granddaughter. I often felt like an only child in this apartment building, among dozens of parents. The average age here was probably near sixty. I liked it quiet, and for the most part, the other tenants were gently friendly, though most kept to themselves. Except for the fact that they all seemed excessively interested in my work at the White House, I had no real complaints.

My elderly neighbor inched closer, lowering her voice. “What’s wrong, Olivia? You should be floating on clouds right now.”

“Everything is fine,” I said. Not my first lie of the day, though I hoped it might be my last. “There’s a lot going on that I can’t talk about.”

She winked. “Classified, you mean?”

“Exactly.” I pointed to my door, hoping she’d take the hint. “I should probably get in. Lots to do tonight and I’m wiped.”

She pulled up a freckled wrist to check her watch, but her bones were so small she had to spin the jeweled band to see the time. “It’s Saturday night and it’s early. Don’t start getting all housewifely already.”

“Not a chance of that,” I said. By this point, tension had me ready to run screaming into my apartment, where I could bolt my door against the rest of the world. I liked my elderly neighbor very much but I needed to put an end to this grueling day. The sooner I made it safely into my personal enclave, the happier I’d be. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Wentworth. Please give Stan my best, too.”

She regarded me suspiciously, as always. Mrs. Wentworth saw conspiracies in everything. As I scooted past her, I realized that over the years I’d given her plenty of reason to be leery. I couldn’t blame her for her nosiness. Just as I couldn’t blame myself for mine.

Once inside my apartment, I peeled off my damp shirt and threw it into the bathtub. I grabbed a fresh top and pulled it over my head when I heard a knock at my door. Tugging the shirt’s hem down, I hurried to answer, knowing that it was Mrs. Wentworth who must have forgotten to mention “one last thing.”

Pasting on my politest smile, I unlatched the bolt and opened the door barely wide enough to peer out. Maybe she’d get the hint.

It wasn’t Mrs. Wentworth.

“Hey.”

With one hand gripping his cane so tightly I thought his bones might break through the skin, Gav stared down at me, trying to smile. His hair was wet from the rain, dripping onto his shoulders. “Can I come in?”