State of the Onion (12 page)

WE PASSED THE FRONT DESK WITHOUT JAMES saying a word beyond, “Good evening.” He raised his eyebrows and gave me a look that asked a thousand questions. All of which I chose to ignore.

Tom and I started into the elevator, but a woman who lived several floors above me called out for us to hold it. The twentysomething blond shot in as though finishing a run and stood in the small area's center, effectively keeping us silent for the entire ride up to my place. Tom looked good. So good. I was sure the blond had to notice him—who wouldn't?—even as she studied the rising floor numbers. Tom was strong and trim and the sight of him, so near—with the way the ends of his hair twisted this damp evening—took my breath away.

He wore a pair of pressed khakis and a dark polo shirt open at the collar. I caught a whiff of aftershave. That was a good sign. At least I hoped it was. He never wore any scent at work—only when we went out. He claimed he only ever wore it to impress me because I liked the smell so much.

Then again, he might have come to break up, officially, with a plan to spend the rest of the evening looking spiffy and gorgeous, and smelling great for some other woman. But he wasn't eyeing the blond's obvious attributes. He was staring at the numbers, too.

The elevator's climb to the thirteenth floor was agonizing.

“Excuse me,” we said in tandem, when we finally arrived. Tom followed me down the carpeted hall, his soft footfalls reassuring and terrifying at the same time. I begged the fates not to let Mrs. Wentworth waylay us tonight as I fumbled to let us in. I couldn't get my hand to work right—couldn't get the key into the lock.

Tom said nothing.

I let him step past me when I finally got the door open. As I shut it behind us, I remembered Henry's admonishment to “sleep fast.” Glanced at the hall clock. Almost nine. I had to be up again by two. But Tom's face made me realize some things were more important than sleep.

“We need to talk,” he said.

We were both still standing in the tiny hallway. “Are you hungry?” I brushed past him and caught wind of the soft spicy aftershave again. My heart beat faster and I swore I could hear it banging inside my breastbone. I cleared my throat. “Want something to drink?”

I ducked into the kitchen, partly to open the fridge and pull out a beer for Tom, and partly because I couldn't look at him right now. I needed to compose myself before I spoke one word of apology. I'd had all day to think about what I'd say to him, but right now my head was in knots, not to mention my tongue. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was that I'd tried to meet Naveen, but the truth was, given the circumstances, I didn't see how I could have handled it differently.

I'd been frightened yesterday. More than ever before in my life. I'd seen death and I knew what he looked like. He was short and white-haired, with pale blue eyes. And his hands had been on me.

I stared at the bright inside of the refrigerator, not seeing anything. When I blew out a breath, it trembled through my chest. I don't know how long I stood there, cool air rushing at me, but Tom reached around and pushed the door shut.

“Ollie.”

I finally looked up at him.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn't.”

He flexed his jaw. “You told me that you were not going to try to contact Naveen again.”

“
He
called
me
.” I splayed my fingers across my chest, my voice betraying my anxiety. “I told you that. I must have said that a hundred times already. I didn't try to contact him.”

“Oh, come on.” Tom's expression hardened. “Give me just a little credit. The only way he could have called you is if you called him first.”

“But I didn't…”

“You told us. You told us right here,” he said, jamming his finger toward the floor, “that you weren't going to pursue this. How long did you wait till Craig and I left before you tried calling Naveen again?”

“I didn't call him.” Shaking my head, I tried to continue, my voice rising in frustration. “After you left, I stopped. I swear I did. Remember, we talked about it the next day?”

“Uh-huh.” He was biting the insides of his cheeks. He only did that when he was really angry. “One problem with your story, Ollie. If you never called him, then how did he get your number?”

I shook my head again. “I don't know. I can't figure it out. I was going to ask him, but…”

Tom's gaze shifted to the room's near corner. “It doesn't add up.”

“But…you and Craig found my number—because I called the D.C. Jail,” I said, trying to make sense of it all. “Maybe he did the same thing.”

He fired me a look of disdain. “Unlikely. And even if he did. Even if I give you that. Even if I believe you—and God, Ollie, I want to—why didn't you tell me you were going to meet him?”

“He asked me not to.”

Tom stared.

My words sounded small, lame. “He said there was a leak. High up. That he couldn't trust anyone.”

“And you believed that? You trusted him more than you trust me?”

“No, of course not.”

He asked me again, his words coming out measured and crisp. “Then why didn't you tell me you were meeting him?”

I had no answer. Everything seemed so clear all of a sudden. He was right, I should have told him. My voice was low as I tried to explain. “I couldn't tell you. I promised you…and if I would've said anything, you wouldn't have let me go.”

“Damn right I wouldn't have let you go,” he shouted. “You could've been killed out there!”

“Shhh.”

“I will not be quiet. Damn it, do you have any idea the danger you're in?”

With a suddenness that took my breath away, I understood. Tom was worried for me. “But I'm okay now,” I said. “I didn't get hurt.”

The look in his eyes told me I didn't comprehend.

“Not yet,” he said, turning away.

“What do you mean?”

He blew out a breath and faced me. “Ollie, you are the only person we know who's still alive who can identify the Chameleon.”

My knees went weak. “That's who killed Naveen?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “You came face to face with the world-class assassin. And he came face to face with you. We've done our best to keep your description and name out of the news media. Just like we did with Naveen.” He closed his eyes. “For all the good that did him.”

“Oh.” I sat hard on one of my kitchen chairs, trying to process it all. Finally, I asked, “But…where were the guys?”

“What guys?”

“Secret Service. I thought you told me that you had him under surveillance.”

“Yeah.” Tom paced the small area. “Naveen lost them. He must have known he was being watched. He shook the tail.”

“I was so afraid of any agents recognizing me that I was hoping he would lose them,” I said. “Now I wish they'd have been there. They might've saved his life. Tom,” I began, to stave off the storm brewing in his expression. “Listen—”

“No, you listen. For once, okay? Just once, you listen to me.”

I tightened my lips.

“Yes, there's more, and you'll be hearing more about precautions we're taking. Yes, Little Miss Nosybody, Naveen gave us information. Good information. But he was supposed to get us more. He didn't. Because he was killed trying to meet you.”

I opened my mouth to ask a question, but thought better of it.

“Could this new information be what Naveen wanted to tell you?” Tom asked rhetorically. “I don't know.”

Of course it was, I thought. But Tom paced again, talking more to himself than he was to me. He rubbed his face with both hands.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“We know the Chameleon is planning something big. We don't know what it is.”

I nodded.

“At this point, all we can do is be alert. Keep watch for anyone who fits his description.” Tom heaved a deep sigh. “We'd like you to talk to a sketch artist.”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

“Good. I'll arrange for you to meet with him tomorrow. Right now you're our key witness. We need that sketch as soon as possible.”

My heart sank again. Was that the only reason he came here tonight? To smooth things between us enough so that I'd cooperate?

“As soon as possible—just in case he gets me, huh?”

Tom flashed a look of such anger, I leaned back. “Do not ever say anything like that again, Ollie. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I answered. There wasn't anything else I could say.

“What's your day look like tomorrow?”

I gave him a quick rundown about the taste-testing and Laurel Anne's audition. He rubbed his face again. I began to realize just how much frustration I had caused.

“What time are you going in?”

“Three thirty.”

Tom looked stricken—then glanced at his watch as he moved toward my front door. “Damn it, Ollie,” he said. “You're not going to get any sleep tonight.”

I gave a helpless shrug.

“Didn't I just tell you we all have to be alert?”

He moved for the door.

I stood up. “But—” I couldn't help myself. “What about us?”

I wished his expression would soften. I wished he would take me in his arms and tell me everything was going to be okay. Instead he shook his head. “I can't do this, Ollie.”

“Can't do…what?” I asked in a small voice.

He took a long breath and flexed his jaw. “I think we should take a step back.”

His words hit me like a gut-punch. I wanted to say something—anything—to make him change his mind, but no words came.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“No,” I said. “It's a good idea.
We're
a good idea. I blew it. It's my fault. I'm sorry.”

A trace of affection flitted through his eyes. He tried to smile. “Maybe, when all this is over,” he said, “we'll talk.”

THERE WAS NO GOOD REASON TO WHISPER, but Henry and I kept our voices low just the same. It was almost as though we had a tacit agreement to tiptoe around the kitchen, lest we disturb the fates and bring Peter Sargeant charging down upon us, to tell us what we were doing wrong.

Cyan and Marcel showed up shortly after we did. Bucky followed and didn't grouse, not even a bit, about the early start. We'd all been through enough state dinners before to know the drill. Having to produce an amazing and flawless dinner for over a hundred people, including two heads of state in addition to our own president, took enormous effort. The fact that we had to create this event in less than a week demanded nothing short of a miracle.

But then again, we worked miracles in this kitchen every day.

“As soon as we receive approval from all parties and a guest count,” Henry said, “Cyan, you organize the stock we'll need—get in touch with some of the vendors today to put them on alert. Does that work for you?”

Without waiting for Cyan's nod, he turned to Marcel. “I'll need samplings of your desserts—taste is paramount today, designs later—by eight. Is that enough time?” We all knew Henry's questions were simple courtesy. Eight was the deadline. No negotiation there. “Once your creations are approved, be sure to coordinate with Cyan for whatever you need to order.”

While Henry continued his orchestrations—with Bucky and with additional directives for Cyan—I watched him. He had a safe, straightforward manner that inspired confidence even while he encouraged us to perform Herculinary tasks. I wanted to cultivate that talent in myself, whether I took over as executive chef or not.

Bucky would contact our temporary help—state dinners required that we bring on additional staff—and we had a queue of folks who waited for “the call.” This time the call would go out to several of our Muslim chefs as well. In order to keep
halaal
, butchered meats must be prepared and transported according to rigid standards. We were prepared for this, and we had many reputable chefs willing to work at the White House on a moment's notice.

Depending on availability, most would be professionals we worked with before—others would be delighted to get their first shot at working in the White House. All of them had undergone rigorous background and health checks, coming to our attention via trusted sources. Temporary pay was nothing special, but working for the White House held great prestige. Every temp hoped that his or her performance would lead to a permanent job offer next time the White House kitchen had an opening.

I made a face. After all that had happened recently, it could be my job they'd be vying for.

“Ollie,” Henry said, winding up, “you're with me. We've got less than three hours before Laurel Anne is due to arrive.”

Bucky huffed. “It's ridiculous, having her audition today,” he said. “She deserves her own day, when everyone's attention isn't pulled elsewhere.”

I opened my mouth to argue that she'd had two prior opportunities for her “own day,” and that she'd been the one to cancel those. But Tom's visit last night had knocked me for a loop. I didn't feel like arguing.

We made a good team, the five of us. Although Marcel, as the pastry chef, tended to work independently, we all worked to pull together everything we needed for the taste-test offerings later this morning. We would still need to cook many of the items on the spot because we wanted to serve them to the First Lady while they were fresh.

Laurel Anne had sent along her ideas for the day's meals, both for the First Family and for official events. She'd created two menus, and had originally wanted to bring her own ingredients, but we shot that idea down in a hurry. We used only approved vendors, and incoming meats, produce, and other fresh items were checked for palatability as well as for safety. In today's world, you never knew.

With that in mind, we'd set aside several locations for Laurel Anne. She had one shelf in both the walk-in refrigerator and the freezer for her requested items. She also had one station in the kitchen itself that we tried not to encroach on, even before her arrival.

“Knock, knock,” came a voice from the hallway.

We turned to see Peter Everett Sargeant enter the kitchen, two men close behind. Sargeant looked like he just rolled out of bed. Although dressed impeccably, as always, his face still had a long sleep-crease down one side and his eyes were tiny. The men behind him, by contrast, appeared wide awake. The first one I recognized as the ambassador Henry and I had met last night, Labeeb bin-Saleh. He was again dressed in a dark suit and again wearing the bright turban. The other man, taller than bin-Saleh by a good four inches, wore flowing robes and walked with a slight limp. He too, had a full beard, but wore his differently than his boss did. Bin-Saleh was natty in an exotic sort of way; this new fellow—who I assumed was the formerly ill assistant—was swarthy. He looked unhappy to be here.

He murmured something to bin-Saleh, who then murmured to Sargeant.

Before beginning introductions, Sargeant excused himself and escorted the assistant down the hallway. We could guess where they were going even before bin-Saleh apologized for the interruption. “My assistant, Kasim, is still recovering from our long journey.”

“Welcome, again, to our kitchen,” Henry said. I could tell he was thrown by this early morning visit. It wasn't yet five thirty. And we had a whole lot to do before Laurel Anne arrived. Still, he made introductions all around.

“I requested of Mr. Sargeant to allow us visiting you early,” bin-Saleh explained. “We are remained on a different time and we find it most difficult to maintain to sleep at unwelcome hour.”

“Of course,” Henry said.

Sargeant and Kasim returned shortly, the taller man looking somewhat more relieved. Again, Henry made introductions and before Sargeant could correct him, he informed bin-Saleh and Kasim that I would be their primary contact with regard to dietary requirements.

The room went quiet. “I've studied the dossiers,” I began. I smiled and enunciated clearly. I knew I had a tendency to talk too fast and I didn't want to confuse them if their command of English was limited. “It is my understanding that the princess is allergic to nuts, is that correct?”

I expected them both to nod. Instead, bin-Saleh turned to Kasim for explanation. Kasim translated—I supposed
allergic
and
nuts
weren't in bin-Saleh's English vocabulary yet. Kasim spoke at length, then turned to us, vehemently shaking his head. “Where did you get that erroneous information?” he asked in accented English. He wasn't angry. He seemed confused. “The requirements we sent ahead of time were quite clear. Our prince and his wife have preferences, and there are several dishes we prefer you avoid, but what you have suggested is incorrect.”

I knew what I'd read in the dossier. There had to be some mistake. I opened my mouth to ask for clarification, but Sargeant's glare kept me silent, even as my face reddened. The three men continued to discuss the upcoming event and I followed along, still stung.

Kasim's syntax was perfect. For the first time I felt a shred of relief. Working with him would be a lot easier than working with Sargeant, or even with the ultrapolite though laconic bin-Saleh.

Henry and I exchanged a glance. It looked like the pine nut appetizer was back on the menu, but it bothered me that I'd gotten bad information. I'd have to look into that.

“We will provide you with menus for approval later today,” I said to Kasim. “In the meantime, is there anything we can prepare for you now?”

He closed his eyes briefly and I realized that offering food to a man who was unwell was probably not the smartest thing I'd done today.

Bin-Saleh chimed. “We have taken much time of you here. Now we must return to the house of Blair. Thank you. We will return this afternoon to discuss the menus.” He bent forward again and turned away.

They were only out the door for a half a minute when Sargeant returned, glaring at me. “What were you talking about?” he asked.

I had no idea what he meant.

“The prince's wife allergic to nuts? Where did you get that?”

“It was in the dossier,” I said.

“You aren't in the habit of confirming information?”

I was. I always confirmed everything. In fact, I wanted to say, my bringing it up in conversation could be considered a confirmation of sorts. An attempt at confirmation, at least. “Yes, I am.”

“Then think before you open your mouth in front of dignitaries again,” he said. A little bubble of spit formed in the corner of his mouth. “Did you ever stop to consider that the prince might have more than one wife?”

I swallowed a retort. I hadn't considered that.

“I didn't think you had,” he said.

My cheeks pulsed hot with racing blood. But Sargeant was gone and I was glad he couldn't see me.

The kitchen phone rang moments later. I picked it up. Just as Paul Vasquez informed me that the Secret Service was escorting Laurel Anne to the kitchen—more than an hour ahead of schedule, I heard her bright voice call out, “We're here!”