by Julie Hyzy
“I’ll save you the trouble of reading,” he said, “if you’ll spare me the trouble of arguing.”
I hadn’t gotten very far into the actual text of the message, so I looked up at him and nodded. “I want you to see,” he continued, “that this is a directive coming from above. I need you to realize I have absolutely no influence with respect to this decision.”
“This says,” I began, “that Tibor is still invited to attend the dinner tomorrow night.”
Sargeant peeled his reading glasses from his face and tossed them onto the pile of papers. He rubbed his eyes, leaving them small and pouchy. It looked as though he hadn’t slept all night.
“Correct.” He rolled his hand toward me. “This is where you tell me—based on all the recent drama surrounding our visiting chefs—what a ridiculously terrible decision that is.”
I bit back my automatic reply. That was exactly what I’d been about to say. I pulled in a deep, steadying breath. “And there’s nothing we can do?”
“And there’s nothing we can do.” He sat back, looking shorter than usual, almost like a little boy reclining in a grown-up’s chair. “While the chefs’ visit here did not proceed as we’d planned, Saardisca is hoping to salvage the endeavor and to use this dinner as a photo-op, with Tibor their proof of the chefs’ successful visit.”
“Successful visit?” I repeated. “One of their chefs is dead and two others were plotting to kill Kerry Freiberg.”
He nodded again.
“How can they take such a risk? What if Tibor was in on it?”
Sargeant shrugged, sitting up a little. I’d seen him out of sorts in the past, but never like this. “They assure me they’ve gotten to the bottom of Hector and Nate’s conspiracy.”
“And?” Exasperation strangled my voice.
“Tibor is absolved of all suspicion. He’s completely innocent of any wrongdoing.”
I arched a brow. “As innocent as Hector and Nate?”
Sargeant sat all the way up. He leaned his elbows on the desk and tapped his fingertips together. He sucked in his cheeks and seemed to chew on them for a minute. “My counterpart in Saardisca has told me, in confidence, that Hector and Nate were not strangers to each other before they were sent here. Through bribery and extortion, they arranged to have themselves named as top chefs of their provinces.”
I stifled my grunt of irritation. “That explains why neither of them was particularly talented in the kitchen. Did Kilian discover what was going on? Is that why he was killed? How in the world could the two men have accomplished this? They had to have had help.”
“The Saardiscan government is investigating how such a nefarious plan could have been carried out under the radar. Though they promise to keep me updated, I doubt we’ll ever know the full truth of the matter.” He sighed. “As for Kilian, his death was determined to be from natural causes. Their medical examiner released his findings yesterday.”
“Fine. Even if I believe that, I don’t understand how the government can still insist on allowing Tibor to attend the dinner. He doesn’t particularly want to, you know. He’s made that clear from the very start.”
Sargeant glanced at his watch. “Perhaps that’s an indication of his innocence,” he said. “All I can tell you is that this chef visit was to be a major step in the right direction for Saardisca.”
“What about Cleto?” I asked. “Is he invited, too?”
“I’m waiting for an answer to that question myself.”
“And they don’t think Cleto was aware of the plot, either?”
Hands spread in a helpless gesture, Sargeant said, “Apparently, Cleto was acquainted with only one of the chefs—Kilian—before their visit here. He and Kilian came from the same province and had worked together several times in the past. Cleto says that he will vouch for his deceased friend’s innocence in this whole devious plan.”
“But not for Tibor’s innocence?”
Again, the helpless hands. Again, Sargeant consulted his watch. “One more thing—we may continue to make changes as we move forward today and tomorrow.”
“What kinds of changes?”
He blinked his bloodshot eyes. “If I knew, I would tell you.”
“I’d still like to get over to Blair House to scope out the kitchen ahead of time,” I said.
“I have communicated your request to the staff there. When I get an answer, I’ll let you know.”
I stood to leave. “Thanks for bringing me up to date.”
“I hesitate to admit it, but I will be very happy when we bid these Saardiscans a final adieu, and I daresay you will be as well.”
At the door, I turned. “By the way, thanks very much for bringing Cyan back for the duration. She’s the one silver lining in this whole mess.”
He’d already donned his glasses and returned to studying the pages before him. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “We still have the next few days to get through, and I’m convinced they will be a challenge.” He turned to me, staring out over the tops of his glasses. “Do try to stay out of trouble.”
CHAPTER 30
Marcel and his assistant began working to create three orange poppy dessert centerpieces—one large, and two smaller versions—for the dinner tomorrow night. I wondered, sometimes, if Marcel and his team weren’t secretly magicians. How they managed to create such beauty so consistently, and—this time—under less-than-ideal circumstances, boggled my brain. He and his assistant were also in the process of putting together a variety of coordinating petits fours to arrange on serving plates around the vivid poppies.
Without the Saardiscans to distract us, and with our supplies arriving on schedule, Bucky, Cyan, and I made as much of the meal ahead of time as was feasible. We would be serving fourteen for dinner. In addition to the president, First Lady, the secretary of state, Kerry Freiberg, her campaign manager, her two assistants, and Tibor, six other high-ranking American officials had scored invitations.
We’d done our due diligence on all guests and had memorized everyone’s dietary needs. Fortunately, among these fourteen individuals, we had only one allergy—pineapple—to contend with. Even better, we had no pineapple on the menu.
In the midst of preparations, I picked up the phone and dialed Margaret’s extension. When she answered, I greeted her politely, then asked, “Has Sarg—er, Peter received any response to my request to get into Blair House today?”
“Mr. Sargeant is out of the office at the moment,” she answered, pertly as ever. “I will be sure to ask him when he gets back.”
“Thanks.”
“No luck?” Bucky asked.
“It’s not like we’re feeding three hundred people,” I said. “I mean, we’re serving a mere fourteen guests and preparing most of the food here. And although I’ve never actually worked in the Blair House kitchen, I do know that it’s well equipped. We shouldn’t have any problem.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Us or yourself?” Bucky asked.
That got me to smile.
When Margaret called back an hour later, I expected her to give us the go-ahead. “Mr. Sargeant is back,” she said.
“Excellent. Has he heard from the Blair House staff?”
“Yes. Your request is denied.”
Why did Margaret always sound particularly cheerful when she delivered unpleasant news?
“Did they give a reason?”
For the briefest moment, I thought she might tell me that it was none of my business. Instead, she said, “If you must know, it was the Secret Service’s decision. Ms. Freiberg will be returning to Washington, D.C., tonight and before she arrives, they want to do a thorough sweep to ensure nothing dangerous has been planted there. That the house is secure.”
“Will they be there all day?”
“No, but apparently the staff needs to put the house back in order after their search. You would, unfortunately, be in the way.” Again, the happy little lilt.
I heaved a sigh, not caring that she heard it. “
Okay, thank you.”
“That’s not the only reason for my call.”
I waited.
“The Saardiscan government has asked our photographer to send them photos from the dinner, and they’ve specifically requested that he take pictures of Kerry Freiberg, Tibor, and you together.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked, knowing full well that Margaret didn’t possess the capacity to joke. Tibor posing for a photo with two powerful females? I didn’t know whether to laugh or to feel sorry for the guy.
Bucky and Cyan stopped what they were doing, turning to me with twin looks of “What now?” on their faces.
“Mr. Sargeant told me to inform you to be sure to have a clean smock and apron on hand for the photo-op,” she went on smoothly, not bothering to address my disbelief. “He also said to tell you that the biggest Saardiscan newspaper intends to run the photo as part of their cover story about Ms. Freiberg’s success in extending friendship to the United States.”
“I thought she was a long-shot candidate,” I said.
Margaret didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “All you need to know is that you will be having your picture taken. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Resisting the urge to grouse, I thanked her and hung up. Answering Bucky’s and Cyan’s unspoken question, I said, “No big deal, really. I’m to have my photo taken alongside Kerry Freiberg and our good friend Tibor.”
“I wonder if he knows he’s supposed to smile for the camera.” Bucky turned to Cyan. “You’re lucky you never had to work with that guy. What a sourpuss.”
Cyan, who had been brought up to date on all the drama thus far, seemed confused. “What? Do they want a photo as a souvenir?”
I ran my fingers up through my hair, then immediately walked over to the sink to wash my hands. “No, I guess our happy faces are to be plastered across Saardiscan newspapers.”
“You’re joking,” Bucky said.
I shot them a look over my shoulder, as if to say, “Now you understand my reaction.”
“I don’t get it. Any of it.” I dried my hands. “None of this makes any sense.”
“From what you two have told me, nothing the Saardiscans have done so far has made any sense.”
Bucky pointed to Cyan. “Give that woman a prize.”
* * *
That night, after dinner, Gav and I sat at the kitchen table going over plans for the following day. One of the perks of our relationship, beyond the fact that we were crazy about one another, was the fact that we could share specifics about the White House and its goings-on. Gav occasionally dealt with classified situations that he couldn’t divulge, but most of the time we were able to freely banter and discuss.
In fact, from the time he and I had met, back when we’d respected—though detested—one another, we’d worked well as a team. I’d come to appreciate his perspective and, even when nothing exciting was going on, I looked forward to the end of the day so that we could spend time talking.
“What time are you and the other chefs expected at Blair House?” He pointed to one of the pages I’d brought to the table. “That part of the schedule has been left blank.”
“I’ve been trying to pin Sargeant down. Or, should I say, I’ve been trying to pin Margaret down.”
He furrowed his brow. “I can’t believe Sargeant would let something like that fall through the cracks.”
“He’s been under a lot of pressure,” I said. “He’s doing his best but with all the trouble with the Saardiscans, and the diplomatic problems he’s facing, it’s a tough job. Plus—this sequester is taking its toll—it’s hard to maintain efficiency when we’re so short-staffed.”
“Defending Sargeant?” Gav asked with a sly grin. “Don’t let him hear you. He’ll cut Cyan again and make you put Bucky on furlough, just to make you take your kind words back.”
“He’s not so bad,” I said. “Situations change. People do, too. I wouldn’t go so far as to say Sargeant has done a complete one-eighty, but he’s better. His personality still rankles and there are times I’m tempted to bait him into an argument just for the fun of it, but there’s no denying he’s dependable and good at his job.”
“Not good enough to have provided your arrival time. When will you find out?”
“I plan to head over to Blair House by noon at the latest, no matter who complains,” I said. “I’d prefer to get in earlier.”
“Kerry Freiberg is scheduled to arrive at Dulles Airport around two in the afternoon. That’s where our team will meet her. We have several stops to make along the way, but we expect to be at Blair House no later than five.”
“We plan to serve at seven,” I said. “Which means that the staff at Blair House will see to Ms. Freiberg’s comforts while Bucky, Cyan, and I stay safely out of sight.” I pointed to the residence’s floor plan. “The home is enormous. That should work to our benefit.”
“The kitchen is opposite the dining room, down a long hallway,” he said, “Until everyone arrives for dinner, I imagine you’ll be able to work in relative solitude.”
“That’s precisely what I’m hoping for.”
“I know you would have liked to have gotten in there today,” he said, “but there were too many agents involved. It wouldn’t have been pretty. The specialists in charge of advance reconnaissance don’t view your presence in quite the same light I do.”
“Tomorrow will be a challenge,” I said, memorizing the floor plan before me. “We’ve been through worse. As long as Tibor doesn’t have any surprises in store for his dining partners, I think we’ll be fine.”
“Do you believe he might?” Gav asked. “I know you’re not fond of the man, and I know that the Saardiscans and our Secret Service have done exhaustive investigation on him since the plot to harm Kerry Freiberg came to light. But that has been only a couple of days and I worry that some crucial piece of evidence has been overlooked.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Tibor strikes me as a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. He has made his opinion of Kerry Freiberg clear. He’s also been upfront about his displeasure at being required to attend this dinner.”
“Why doesn’t he beg off?”
I shared what I knew about Tibor’s upbringing, concluding with, “He’s a good soldier. He was indoctrinated from a very early age into a life where one does what one’s told. Where, even if he disagrees, he complies with government commands.”
“With Kerry Freiberg’s platform of freedom and personal responsibility, that ought to make for some fascinating dinner conversation.”
“He’ll probably remain silent the entire time, and speak only when a response is required.”
“You don’t think that the real reason he’s agreed to attend is because he has a hidden agenda? That attending this dinner is part of some underhanded plan?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” I conceded. “But I have to say I don’t see that in him. He’s not a nice man, but he isn’t evil.”
“I’ll keep that in mind tomorrow night,” Gav said. “Once all the guests have arrived at Blair House, two of Tom’s agents will remain with the president. The rest of us will move into adjacent rooms.” He indicated positions on the floor plan. “There are several ways to get from the kitchen to my position, so if you need me . . .”
He let the thought hang.
“You know I always do.” I ran a knuckle along his jawline. “But in this instance, we’d both prefer a quiet evening doing our jobs.”
“Good,” he said, snugging me tightly against him. “Let’s get through tomorrow night and hope life gets back to normal after that.”
I twisted to look up at him, arching a brow. “Since when is life ever normal?”
CHAPTER 31
“Right there,” I said. Arms filled with utensils for tonight’s dinner, I used a free finger to indicate the countdown list I’d forgotten to tuck into my pocket.
One of the assistants who had helped us cart food and
other supplies to the Blair House kitchen leaned over to pluck the indicated sheet from the nearby counter. He folded it in half and placed it into one of the bags I was carrying. I had that information on file and could have called it up from one of Blair House’s computers, but having the printout ready saved me an extra step.
I thanked the assistant, then turned to Bucky and Cyan, who were also toting armloads of supplies. “I think that’s everything. Let’s go.”
Most of the items we needed had been transported across the street earlier this morning, but I’d insisted on these late additions. It wasn’t so much doubting that the Blair House kitchen would be properly outfitted, it was more my desire to work with reliable favorites that caused me to scoop them up.
Holding fast to my burdens, as well as to my vow to get into our workspace before noon, Bucky, Cyan, and I made our way to the resplendent home known as the President’s Guest House.
Though crowded with pedestrians, Pennsylvania Avenue had long been closed to vehicle traffic. That had come at the request of the Secret Service after the bombings in Oklahoma City. Crossing to get to Blair House didn’t require us to navigate traffic, thank goodness, but we were required to enter the home via a service door, far off to one side.
The house manager answered, accompanied by assistants eager to relieve us of our bundles. “They will deliver these to the kitchen,” he said. “I want to take you the long way, to show you around.”
Freed from the weight, I shook my arms to reestablish circulation. “I’d like that,” I said.
“Smells different in here,” Bucky remarked as we followed the butler.
“Every home has its unique scent,” I answered, taking a delicate sniff. “I’m detecting a hint of . . . citrus?”
The house manager was a middle-aged man with thinning, pale hair. He turned and smiled. “You would be correct, Chef Paras. Whenever Blair House expects a four-legged guest, we treat certain areas of the home with special cleansers that are not harmful to dogs and cats.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Frosty is part of the entourage.” I turned to Cyan. “She’s a Westie, a West Highland terrier, and absolutely adorable.”
