All the President’s Menus

by Julie Hyzy

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to be throwing such a heavy question into our lives right now.”

  “This is a good problem to have, don’t you think? What if we both decide we’ve had enough of these crazy careers of ours, and we want to settle down in a quieter environment? They’re handing us an opportunity with no strings attached.”

  His mouth twisted into a smile. “I’ve thought as an ‘I’ for almost my entire life. Thinking as a ‘we’ changes everything. What I want, more than anything, is for us to have the future we envision for ourselves. Not one someone else creates for us.”

  “As long as we keep that as our guiding principle, we’ll be fine,” I said. “No, we’ll be better than fine. We’ll be great.”

  “How did I get so lucky?” He stood and came over to me, pulling me up into a tight embrace. Resting his chin on the top of my head, he said. “And what can I do to make you as happy as you make me, Ollie?”

  Nuzzled against his chest, I twisted my face free enough to say, “You already have.”

  CHAPTER 21

  When I arrived at work the next morning, I wasn’t surprised to find an e-mail marked “high importance” from Sargeant, requesting a meeting. I could only imagine the international chaos that he was facing.

  I responded that I’d be available as soon as breakfast was delivered to the First Family, about seven-thirty.

  His terse reply, “Very well. My office.”

  Bucky strolled in as I clicked off. “Computer screens don’t magically deliver better news, no matter how hard you frown at them,” he said as he peeled off his jacket. “What’s wrong today?”

  “It isn’t right.”

  His joking manner was replaced with concern. “What happened?”

  I waved an airy hand at the computer. “It’s no one’s fault. It’s simply the reality we have to deal with. Kilian’s dead, and there’s political fallout. There will be questions to answer, and forms to fill out. There will be changes and updates and memos and e-mails.”

  He waited.

  I stood before him, arms out. “The thing is, a man is dead. A man we worked with. A man we liked. And even though we knew him for only a few days, he had an impact on us. Imagine the impact he had on his friends, his family.”

  “Ollie.” Bucky’s voice was a warning.

  I knew what he was going to say, but I shook my head. “Sometimes it bothers me that we’re all more concerned about how things are seen and explained, than how things really are.”

  “There will be an investigation, and an autopsy,” Bucky reminded me. “No one is trying to hide anything.”

  “I’m not talking about hiding,” I said, frustrated at myself for not being able to articulate more clearly. “I’m talking about being human. About being affected by Kilian’s death. Because of what happened yesterday, we’re going to be tied up with red tape and paperwork. We don’t have time to feel.”

  Bucky didn’t answer right away. He nodded, lips pressed tight. “I hear you. Being on the world stage changes everything. Every single step, every single action we take, can be scrutinized, analyzed, and criticized.”

  “That’s not wrong, either,” I said. “We should be held accountable for what goes on in this place. It’s just that we’re all so busy making certain that everything is transparent, that we don’t have time—or we’re too distanced from it—to actually feel any emotion.”

  Bucky patted me on the shoulder. “Comes with the job. And if you think we have it tough”—he pointed to the ceiling—“imagine what the fishbowl is like for them.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  The two of us returned to getting the family’s breakfast prepared.

  “Speaking of reacting emotionally,” he said as we finished filling the carafes of orange juice and coffee, “do you expect our chef friends to report back here today or do you think they’ll take time off?”

  The three remaining members of the Saardiscan contingent marched in before the question had a chance to die on Bucky’s lips. Hector, first through the door, answered for all of them. “We are back.”

  Behind him, Nate and Tibor mumbled a greeting.

  “How are you men holding up?” I asked.

  Hector looked as though he hadn’t gotten very much sleep. His eyes were puffy and his nose red. “We have spoken with our liaison. He told us that Kilian had many health issues and that his”—Hector pointed to his own chest as he fought to find the words—“valve needed surgery. He was scheduled for the operation upon our return to Saardisca.”

  “I’m surprised they allowed him to make the trip,” I said.

  Hector shrugged. From behind him, Tibor said, “This was an important opportunity, and Kilian was the best in his province.”

  “Will all of you remain here to finish your visit or will you be returning to Saardisca?”

  Nate answered that one. “We are to stay.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “And are all of you okay with that?”

  Tibor practically glared. “Why would we not be?”

  * * *

  At twenty-eight minutes after seven I stepped into the anteroom outside Sargeant’s office. Margaret sat back as though surprised to see me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sargeant is tied up this morning,” she began.

  I remembered my vow to be less snippy, but was tired of her belligerence. “He set this meeting up,” I said with a glance at my watch. “For two minutes from now.”

  “I know that,” she said, “but he’s in with someone else at the moment. An important visitor.”

  “All right,” I said. “Perhaps he forgot to update me.”

  “Mr. Sargeant never forgets anything.”

  Argumentative little thing, wasn’t she? Trying again to smooth things over, I said, “Then the meeting he’s in now must have come as a surprise.”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but I cut her off. “Whatever the case, I have a kitchen to run and can’t wait around until he’s free again. Would you please let him know that I was here?”

  Sargeant took that moment to open his office door. Seven-thirty on the nose. “I thought I heard your voice, Ms. Paras.” He stepped deeper into his office and held the door wide. “Please join us.”

  A gentleman who had been seated across from Sargeant rose to his feet. He was rather tall, probably in his early fifties, with dark hair and a high forehead. His uneven skin and flat nose gave him a rough-childhood look, but in his crisp suit he cut a dashing figure.

  “You must be Olivia Paras.” His voice was deep, rumbling, and thick with a Saardiscan accent. “Mr. Sargeant has told me a great deal about you.”

  I didn’t quite know how to take that. “Pleased to meet you . . .”

  Sargeant had taken a moment to speak with Margaret. He was less than thirty seconds behind in the conversation, but apologized for delaying introductions. “Yes, please sit down, Ms. Paras. I’d like you to meet Cleto Damar. He has recently arrived from Saardisca to assist us during this trying time.”

  “I’m so sorry about Kilian,” I said. “He was a lovely man. His family must be distraught.”

  He nodded gratefulness for my condolences. “We did not expect that Kilian’s condition would worsen during his visit here.”

  “So, it was his heart then?” Turning to Sargeant, I asked, “The results of the autopsy are in already?”

  Sargeant began to shake his head as Cleto answered for him. “We have made arrangements to return Kilian’s body to Saardisca. If the family wishes to have an autopsy, it will be performed there by Saardiscan doctors.”

  I opened my mouth to ask why it wouldn’t be done here, immediately, but a pointed glare from Sargeant stopped me before I could utter a word.

  “Protocols and practices vary in other countries,” he said. Knowing Sargeant as well as I did, I could tell that he was striving to keep me contained.

  “I see.”

  Cleto turned his body toward me. “I have been dispatched to work with you and y
our staff.”

  Confused, I chanced a quick look toward Sargeant. No help there. Returning my attention to Cleto, I asked, “You’re a chef?”

  He smiled, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Unfortunately not.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Sargeant took up the explanation. “As is to be expected, this recent turn of events is of great concern to the Saardiscan government,” he said. “With Kilian’s untimely death, it has lost one of its own. As team leader, Kilian was entrusted to oversee this diplomatic endeavor. In order to continue the chefs’ visit without interruption, the decision was made to install Mr. Damar as liaison.”

  Cleto scratched the side of his face, near his ear. “Mr. Sargeant is being exceedingly polite. What I have told him, and will now share with you, is that Kilian was a highly regarded individual. I was fortunate to have been able to work with him. And while all the chefs we sent are upstanding and honorable men, none is qualified to serve as leader.” He held out both hands. “This is why I am here. I will be joining them in your kitchen.”

  “Oh,” I said, for lack of a better response. Was Cleto saying that the Saardiscan government didn’t trust Hector, Nate, and Tibor? Pulling thoughts together quickly, I asked, “Why, then, didn’t your government simply pull the men back?” I smiled to soften my words. “I mean, Kilian’s death was a shock to us all. If the Saardiscan authorities have any doubt about the remaining chefs . . .” I let the sentence hang.

  “No doubt about their abilities,” he said. “No doubt about their characters, either. They are simply unschooled on procedures and on how to file reports.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. Sargeant and I could hear him, but I doubted Margaret could, even if she had her ear pressed to the door. “What you may not understand, Ms. Paras, is how very important this diplomatic mission is to our country’s future. We desperately want this to succeed.”

  Sargeant was smiling so tightly, wearing an expression that practically begged me not to blow this, that all I could do was nod.

  Cleto continued, “That is why I’m here, and why I wished to meet with you before talking with the Saardiscan chefs in your kitchen. Kilian made regular reports to me, but I would like to also know your assessment of these men.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I was at such a loss for words. “Um . . . right now?”

  “You’ve worked with them for a week, Ms. Paras,” Sargeant said. “Surely you have formed an opinion.”

  “I suppose,” I said, feeling my back grow stiff from being put on the spot. To Cleto, I said, “I’ve been impressed with their work ethic. All three men like to keep busy.”

  He nodded. “And individually?”

  “Hector is genial and pleasant. That said, he seems to be the least mature of the group. Nate has been very quiet. I get the impression that he hasn’t had a lot of practical experience.”

  “Go on,” Cleto said.

  “From what I understand, Hector and Nate come from two provinces that aren’t as well supplied as Kilian’s and Tibor’s are.”

  “That is correct. And Tibor,” Cleto said. “What do you think of him?”

  I’d been trying to come up with a diplomatic way of describing the unpleasant man. “He’s probably the hardest worker in the bunch,” I said.

  Cleto waited. “Is that all?”

  I debated a moment, but figured that if Cleto had read Kilian’s reports, there was no reason to pretend I was unaware. “Tibor seems angry,” I began, “most of the time, in fact. I haven’t been able to determine if he chafes at my authority because I’m American or because I’m female.”

  Cleto nodded sagely. “I have been cautioned about this man. He is extraordinarily committed to the old-school way of thinking. Saardisca is entering a new era and many are not happy to see the change.” He offered a small smile. “Thank you for your insight.”

  “When you say ‘cautioned,’” I asked, ignoring Sargeant’s flash of panic, “are you suggesting he could be dangerous?”

  Cleto’s hand flew to his brow. “My apologies. A poor choice of wording. When I say that I was cautioned, I meant that others who have worked with him in the past have told me that the man can be temperamental. That is your assessment, too, yes?”

  “It is,” I said.

  Cleto had dark, expressive eyes. “Forgive me for asking, but I hope you do not believe Tibor is dangerous. Do you?”

  My own fault for opening that door. Put on the spot once again, I strove for an answer that was accurate but not likely to send Sargeant into spasms. “I have seen no evidence to lead me to consider him dangerous.”

  “I am glad to hear of it. I will be joining your kitchen, and meeting with my charges, shortly. If, at any time, you have concerns about them, their work habits, or their personalities, please feel free to bring such matters to my attention.”

  “And mine,” Sargeant said.

  Standing to leave, I forced out a fib. “I look forward to working with you.”

  * * *

  I went straight from Sargeant’s office to the West Wing to see Tom. I was fully prepared to hear that he was busy, and to set up an appointment to return another time, but this matter wasn’t something I cared to put into an e-mail, or discuss over the phone, knowing that the Saardiscan chefs were nearly always within eavesdropping distance.

  Tom happened to be returning to the Secret Service office from the West Wing’s ground-floor lobby as I came down the stairs. He stopped and waited for me to descend. “Ollie,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Do you have a minute?” I asked. “It won’t take long.”

  He gestured me in, past his receptionist and into his office, shutting the door behind us. Without preamble, I launched into what was on my mind. “You’re aware that they’ve brought in a liaison to work with the chefs from now until Kerry Freiberg’s visit?”

  He sat behind his desk. “Yes, I was there when Mr. Sargeant was handed that directive yesterday.”

  “Given that one of their team died under suspicious circumstances, given all the fainting going on in the kitchen lately, it seems odd to me that they would dispatch a new leader for the group, rather than pull the remaining men back.”

  Tom nodded. “These visits—both that of the chefs and the candidate’s tour—are very important to the Saardiscan government.”

  “So I keep hearing,” I said. “But I have to tell you, I am not feeling comfortable with them working for me anymore. Especially after that chocolate disappeared.”

  “Have any of them done anything you would consider suspicious?”

  “Individually, no, but—”

  “But the situation feels wrong to you, and you believe it your duty to share those feelings with me.”

  “That about sums it up,” I said, waiting for him to chastise me for wasting his time. “What about Kilian’s body? I know they didn’t do an autopsy, but did they find GHB in his blood?”

  Tom shook his head. “No tests. Their government wouldn’t allow it. Said it would be sacrilege to have it done here rather than at home.”

  “What about Hector? He got tested, right?”

  “He refused. Swears it was a mistake with his medication and wouldn’t let us near him.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Tom said. “Please.” He picked up a pen and tapped it against his desk. “I do agree with you that something isn’t right.”

  I took advantage of the moment, talking quickly. “This new liaison, Cleto, told me that he’d been cautioned about Tibor. When I pressed him, asking if Tibor was dangerous, he backpedaled very quickly.”

  “What would you expect him to say? That yes, they put a devious criminal in our midst?”

  I ignored the jab. “He seemed particularly interested in Tibor’s behavior. Given all that we’ve been through with these men, I find that curious.”

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  That was the precise o
pening I’d been hoping for. “I know I’ve asked you this before, and you’ve refused me, but I believe that we would be best served by having a translator join us in the kitchen.”

  He didn’t shut me down, so I went on. “The cover story could be that we’re bringing on another chef to help prepare for Kerry Freiberg’s dinner. And when the Saardiscans chat among themselves, the translator can listen in and report back to us later.” I took a breath and kept talking. “That way, we find out what they’re really discussing. If we discover that it’s all banter and innocuous conversation—great. We were wrong to suspect them. But wouldn’t it be nice to know there’s nothing sinister going on?”

  “And what makes you suspect there’s anything sinister about them at all?” he asked.

  My hands shot upward—fistfuls of frustration. “I don’t know. There is simply too much going on here and I need to get a handle on it. This is the best solution I can come up with. If you have any other ideas, I’d be happy to hear them.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He chuckled. “Oh, you would, would you?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.

  “I swear, Ollie, if it were anyone else asking this, I’d be sending them for a psychological workup.”

  “Does this mean I can get a linguist?”

  He leaned forward, plopping his elbows onto the desk with a thud. “I’ll see what I can do.” He tilted his head slightly to keep me silent while he continued, “Budget constraints being what they are, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to keep an operative in the kitchen for more than a day or two.”

  I’d expected more of a fight. Delighted that he was willing to help rather than toss me out the door on my backside, I said, “Whatever you can do is better than what we have now. I really appreciate this, Tom.”

  He nodded, wrote a note on a legal pad, and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Thus dismissed, I headed for the door. “Will you let Sargeant know what’s going on so he can back me up on this new chef cover story?”

  “I will.” He waved me off as he picked up the phone.