State of the Onion (26 page)

No one but me.

I scrambled to my feet and ran after him.

“The Chameleon,” I shouted. No one heard. It was chaos outside. But now the Chameleon and I were inside. “Tom!” I called.

The corridors were empty. All the Secret Service agents had rushed out to protect the president.

I stood outside the Oval Office. I had no idea where the man went or what I could do.

“Tom,” I called again.

I headed through the corridor to the east end where I knew a guard would be stationed. A guard who would not have moved from his post. But he wasn't there.

I heard a noise behind me.

The bathroom door opened and Kasim lunged out, grasping the walls as he tried to walk.

“Kasim,” I said, rushing to his side.

He tried to wave me off, but he didn't look well. His turban was askew again and he headed for the doors.

“Wait,” I said.

“Something has happened,” he said, “I must be with the prince.”

“No, don't go out there. A man—”

The words died on my lips as Kasim stumbled. He caught himself before he fell, but he made his mistake when he turned.

One eye was brown—the other blue. A pale blue.

The Chameleon's eyes.

I kicked at his shin and knocked him completely to the ground. On his feet were strange platform-like shoes, which gave him at least ten inches of height. No wonder the man always walked with an odd gait. And I thought he'd been sick. He'd played us all the whole time.

With surprising agility he threw off the shoes, got up, and came at me.

I ran.

But this time I didn't have a head start.

Kasim, or whoever he was, grabbed me. He smashed his left hand tight over my mouth and nose, cutting off my air. “Your lucky day, Ollie. I'm not going to kill you till I'm safely out of here. You be a good little chef and I'll consider doing it quickly.” His voice was low and devoid of Kasim's usual crisp enunciations.

Running, he dragged me backward with him, but I didn't cooperate, making his passage difficult. I knew he needed to get me out of the corridor now. The place would be crawling with agents in about fifteen seconds.

I pulled my lips back, fighting the painful pressure of his hand till I could bare my teeth. I bit him, hard as I could. He bellowed, and I screamed for help again, raising my hands over my head to rake across his face. He shouted expletives at me.

I tore at his beard, my fingers digging into the matted mess, the gum-like adhesive stretching as the artificial hair came off in one clump.

“Freeze!”

I wriggled around. Tom stood at the far end of the corridor, his gun aimed at us.

“Let her go,” he shouted.

Kasim pointed the barrel end of the cell phone to my head, his finger close to the number seven. Lucky number.

For someone else, maybe.

“Drop the weapon or she's dead,” Kasim shouted back at Tom. He dodged behind me, keeping my head in front of his. It was an impossible shot. Even for Tom.

I didn't think. I reacted. Time to make my own luck. I jammed the heel of my shoe hard against Kasim's instep, scraping downward, using all my weight. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to make him flinch. He winced and stepped to his right as I tried to break from his hold.

He grabbed me by the hair, yanking me backward, pointing the cell phone pistol at Tom. I heard that popping sound again, just like at Arlington, only much louder in these close quarters. As Kasim fired I fell backward, trying to knock the gun from his hands.

He held onto the gun, but not for long.

Tom had gotten him center mass and again in his forehead. Kasim slumped to the ground, pulling me with him. I yanked my hair free from his grip, my eyes tearing from the tender pain. The cell phone slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor as his body seized up, trembled, then relaxed.

Blood poured over the back of my neck.

But it wasn't my blood.

The pale blue eye and the brown one were both fixed in a glassy death stare. Kasim, the Chameleon, had finally been killed. I knew it even without checking for a pulse.

For a very long moment, all I was aware of was my rapid breathing and the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. What a wonderful thing to hear.

Then—where did all the people come from? The room was suddenly filled. Secret Service agents, reporters, White House staff. How long had they been here? Had they seen what happened? I couldn't say.

Little by little, noises, sights, smells came back to me.

A tall agent I didn't know checked the fallen Kasim. Craig Sanderson was there, too. More agents. The tall agent picked up the cell phone pistol. He gave a low whistle and hefted the phone in his hastily gloved hand. “Look at this,” he said to Craig. “I heard about these things coming out of Europe. Never seen one before.”

Craig snapped at him. “Apparently neither did our security team. We will look into this.”

My knees buckled and I sat.

Tom pulled me to my feet, wrapping me in a hug. “Oh, God,” he whispered into my hair, “I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd shot you myself.”

I knew I should be worried about what the other agents were thinking, but I was just too shaken to do anything more than hold Tom tight. “I never doubted you for a second.”

He murmured something I didn't catch.

Panic made me chatter. I couldn't stop talking. If I did, I thought I might collapse. “How did you know? Where did you come from? Did you see him outside? How's the princess? Was she in on it?”

Tom just shook his head. “All in good time.”

I remembered to breathe, and someone shoved a glass of water into my hands. I think I thanked them, but I wasn't sure. All I could see right now was Tom. He'd been there when I needed him most. “You know what they say about saving a person's life, don't you?”

His grin was infectious. “No, I don't. Why don't you tell me?”

“You're responsible for them forever. You saved me. Now you're stuck with me,” I said, giddy with relief. “You couldn't get rid of me even if you wore a Teflon suit.”

“Ollie, I would never want to.”

Now that, I heard.

THE REST OF THE DAY WAS CHAOS. WHITE House–brand chaos. In any other public venue, the afternoon's pandemonium might have continued with hundreds of people running around, screaming. Here, chaos meant ordered disarray. The Secret Service took charge with swift efficiency. They put us under immediate lockdown. Invited guests were placed in the State Dining Room. Reporters, camera people, technicians, and their staff were sent to the East Room.

We all waited, enduring the systematic scrutiny of every person present, and we knew it would be hours—if we were lucky, only hours—before life returned to normal.

Good thing we had lots of food.

The president and First Lady had been whisked to safety. Prince Sameer and Princess Hessa were airlifted to hospitals; she recovering from her allergic reaction, he in surgery after being shot in the head. Prime Minister Jaffe had been hit, too. A bullet had grazed his shoulder, causing only a minor flesh wound, but he was being kept under medical observation as well. I'd gotten this information from the Secret Service detail that was currently guarding me. Basic information, but enough to keep me satisfied. For now.

I'd been sequestered right away. They told me it was for my protection, but I knew better. They wanted me for questioning, and they needed to ensure that no one talked to me before I spoke with them.

Kasim was dead, and for the first time since I'd smacked Naveen with the pan, I knew I was truly safe from the Chameleon. The four agents assigned to me, three men and one woman, kept me company in the China Room. Of all the places to be holed up. This is where it all began, just about ten days ago. This time, however, I faced the door. I wanted to see what I was in for when it came.

Five other chairs had been placed in the room, along with several coatracks—the China Room often doubled as a coat-check during state dinners. Thinking about our comprehensive pre-dinner preparation made me feel sad. Tonight should have been a sparkling celebration. Henry's last official hurrah. Mine, too. Instead, I sat in this room of empty chairs and lonely coatracks, trying to calm myself.

All the agents remained standing, their faces impassive, their hands clasped in front of them. Outside the room I could hear muted crowd sounds: conversation, movement, the opening and closing of doors.

Eddie, the one closest to me, asked, “Do you need anything?”

“No,” I said, “thanks.” My voice quivered.

I wanted to see Tom, but I knew he'd be the last person I'd be allowed talk with right now. It was imperative that our statements be taken separately, without any chance of one person's impressions contaminating the other's. I knew this.

And so I waited.

The White House filled to capacity—and then some, a reporter's dream. Five times in the space of ten minutes, eager journalists tried to sneak to the China Room and tried to talk their way into getting an exclusive interview with me. They were pointedly refused. I'd never felt so well-protected in my life. Seconds after terse orders were murmured into microphones, instant backup arrived to escort these wayward guests back to the East Room.

Eventually, three men in suits came in. No knock, they just barged in—the suddenly open door allowing a three-second blare of corridor noise. I didn't know these men, nor did I know precisely which branch of the government they worked for. Eddie encouraged me to be as thorough and as forthcoming as possible. They took turns. They asked me about the incident, which I answered as fully as I could. Their excruciating politeness made me more uncomfortable than anything else. I was too scared to quip. I licked constantly dry lips, and spoke into a handheld digital recorder that saved every trembling answer I gave, punctuated with many nervous “ums,” and “uhs.” One of the three took my picture—without forewarning—but what was I going to do if they told me it was coming? Smile for the camera?

Finally finished, they thanked me and left.

“Can I go now?”

“Not yet,” Eddie said.

After about a half hour the door opened again. The two agents there stepped aside. Not knowing what to expect, I stood.

Special Agent in Charge Craig Sanderson came in with Paul Vasquez right behind him. Again I felt that flood of familiarity. Last time here, I'd been chastised. What now? Termination?

I swallowed, hard.

Our honored guest, Prince Sameer of Alkumstan, had been shot in the head. I'd knocked the Chameleon's aim off from his target, the prime minister, and the resulting shot might've cost the prince his life. If he died, would I be held responsible? Had I inadvertently saved one man only to cause the death of another? The countries in question had been warring for decades. These were nations with suspicious tendencies, short tempers, and long memories. Termination of employment might be the least of my worries right now.

“Sit,” Craig said to me. He gestured for Paul to take the wing chair opposite mine and he pulled up a seat for himself.

I sat.

Paul spoke first. “You're being released.”

“I am?” I asked, my façade of calm ready to crack. “I'm fired?”

“No, no,” Paul said quickly. “I meant released from this room. You're not being fired.”

“I'm not?” The quiver in my voice shifted from one of panic to delight, “You're not firing me?”

“We're here to talk with you, Ollie,” Craig said in his soft Kentucky drawl. “We need to go over precisely what you can and cannot say to the media.”

He called me Ollie.

All of a sudden, I felt a whole lot better.

Craig's directives came as no real surprise. The story, as provided to the American public, would be the absolute truth. I saw the cell phone gun. I called a warning. I threw a fruit plate that changed the shot's trajectory. What I was
not
to say was that I had an indication of the Chameleon's target.

“After all, you don't know for certain that he was trying to kill the prime minister,” Craig said. “Keep it simple. You saw the gun. You reacted. That's all you need to say.”

“He was targeting the prime minister, wasn't he?”

Craig's eyebrows rose. He repeated, very slowly, “You saw the gun. You reacted. That's all you need to say.” His stern look softened. “Wait a few days, Ollie. We'll have more we can share with you then.”

“Okay. By then no one's going to remember that I had anything to do with this.”

Craig frowned. “Let's hope you're right.”

Suddenly remembering to ask, I said, “How is the prince? Will he survive?”

“Too soon to tell,” Paul said. “I'll let you know when we find out more.”

They went over a few more protocol issues with me, and I practiced answering some of the more difficult questions that might be thrown at me in the coming days. I didn't think anyone actually saw me with the fruit tray. I didn't think anyone saw me being held by Kasim when Tom took his shot. But then again, I'd been focused on survival, not my surroundings. Time would tell.

“I think that about covers everything,” Paul said. He stood.

Craig stood up, too. “Is there anything you need from us, Ollie?”

I started to shake my head, then said, “As a matter of fact, there is. Remember that silver skillet that started it all?”

BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN, Jamal and Henry had seen to the feeding of all our captive guests, and once that had been taken care of, the temporary staff had been efficiently questioned by the Secret Service and allowed to go home.

Dusk settled over the White House. As the last remaining “witnesses” were freed, the tension from the long day began to dissipate.

Cyan, Marcel, Henry, and even Bucky welcomed me back with obvious relief. Seems I wasn't the only one who thought my days here were over. After the heartfelt home-coming, the five of us settled in to work, almost silently, cleaning up the final reminders of the state dinner that wasn't. I thought again how this was supposed to have been Henry's final huzzah. His last big event as executive chef. Instead of a magnificent dinner for 140 dignitaries, we'd served a hasty supper to a queue of media folks.

“I'm sorry,” I said very quietly when Henry came by.

“For what?” He seemed truly perplexed.

“For…everything. Nothing worked out the way it was supposed to—not the dinner, not my efforts to earn the executive chef position, not”—I'd been about to blurt my complaint that I didn't even have his retirement gift in my possession, but I caught myself in time—“not anything. I'm so sorry, Henry. This was supposed to be your big moment.”

“Olivia,” he said, and the fact that he used my real name made me look up. “Don't you realize all you've done?”

I blinked. I wasn't sure where he was going with this.

“You prevented a man from getting killed today. Your actions thwarted the Chameleon, the
foremost assassin
in the world. Do you think this is some small matter? The finest law enforcement departments in our country and in others—the FBI, the CIA, our Secret Service, Interpol—weren't able to do what you did.”

“Well,” I said, feeling more than a little embarrassed by his heaping praise, “we don't know that the prince will be okay…”

“He will.”

“How can you be sure?”

“You don't serve as executive chef for this many years without developing some good contacts. Prince Sameer is out of surgery. The bullet only skimmed his skull and he is expected to make a full recovery. His wife is fine, and the prime minister is back at his hotel.”

I let out an enormous sigh of relief.

“All because of you,” Henry said.

I shook my head. “It was really Tom MacKenzie who—”

“Ollie.” Henry's voice warned me not to argue.

This time, I didn't.

“And as far as the dinner…what can I say? Things happen. When your job is on the world's stage, you must be ready for anything. And so we are. How sad it would be, Ollie,” he continued, “if my entire career at the White House was dependent on the success of one event.” He shook his head, but his eyes sparkled. “I have so many wonderful memories, and so many successes.” Glancing around the kitchen at the rest of the staff, finishing up for the night, he placed his hand on my shoulder. “And today I think I have achieved the best success of all.”

I DIDN'T EXPECT REPORTERS TO BE WAITING for me at the Northeast Gate. In fact, I didn't even see them at first. They must have been lying in wait across the street at Lafayette Park, because Pennsylvania Avenue was quiet when I slipped out the front to make my way to the Metro. It was dark out, and when a voice shouted, “There she is,” I didn't have a clue that they meant me.

I detected a rushing movement from my left and I was suddenly swarmed by at least a dozen microphones, pushed so close that if they'd been ice cream cones, I could've taken twelve bites.

“Ms. Paras, is it true that…”

I didn't hear the rest of the question. The street lit up with sudden brightness as cameras honed in on me, white-hot and too close. I blinked, looked away. But I couldn't move. They had me surrounded.

A push from my left.

“The Chameleon. How did you recognize him?”

Nudges from my right. “Is this related to the terrorist's murder by the merry-go-round?”

“Who else was in on the assassination attempt? Was the Chameleon working alone?”

I tried moving forward. They jostled me back.

“Ms. Paras, over here.”

I held up a hand to block the light. In the distance I saw trucks. With Pennsylvania Avenue closed to traffic, they'd parked in the distance and come to assault me by foot. Vans and trucks with antennae and satellite dishes protruding from their roofs sat at either end of the street. It looked like an alien invasion.

“I have no comment,” I said.

“Come on, Ms. Paras, play fair.”

I shot that reporter an angry look. How dare he?

From behind me, a woman asked, “Are you afraid that today's incident has destroyed your chance to be appointed executive chef?”

That hurt. I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“Ms. Paras,” another voice. Male, female, I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it was testy. “Don't you think the American people deserve to hear the truth?”

I shouted. “The truth is…”

They all went immediately silent.

“The truth is…” Now I spoke quietly, amazed at the fleeting power I held. “That I have no comment.”

They erupted. Yelling, berating, pushing.

“The lady says she has no comment.”

I turned.

Tom and a group of Secret Service agents surrounded the group that was surrounding me. It was an impressive sight. I counted seven agents, all male, all tall, all very imposing. They wore no-nonsense expressions and the look of predators ready to pounce. Tom directed his attention to me, “Have you anything more to say to these reporters?”