by Julie Hyzy
The president and secretary of state conferred with a handful of Secret Service agents in one corner, while Mrs. Hyden, Kerry Freiberg, and her assistants sat around one end of the room’s large conference table, talking quietly. Frosty had been taken away immediately, but I didn’t know to where. Other guests formed a half-circle around them, everyone asking questions that no one had answers to.
For once, I was glad Gav wasn’t here. I’d discovered that he’d been called away during dinner, before Cleto had pulled out the threatening dust that had spurred my actions. I hoped that meant Gav was safe.
Cyan was seated, looking pale. Staring at the floor, she had her hands clasped around one knee while the other bounced a nervous rhythm. Bucky and I remained standing, taking up positions on either side of her chair. Marcel and his assistant sat about ten feet away. Blair House staff members gathered in groups, from which they shot apprehensive looks toward one another.
“You really did it this time,” Bucky said, under his breath.
“I had to.” There was nothing else I could say.
Hazmat professionals arrived. They were covered head to toe in protective gear, and did their best to ease our panic. Their mechanically distorted voices, however, served to ratchet up the paranoia rather than to soothe.
I wanted to be wrong. I wanted all this high-tech testing to turn out to have been unnecessary. Even though I knew that being wrong would cost me everything in terms of career and reputation, not to mention subject me to stinging ridicule, I wished with all my might that whatever substance Cleto had shuffled into Frosty’s fur would turn out to be harmless to humans as well as to pets.
* * *
From our vantage point in the Jackson Place conference room, we watched as dozens of individuals in protective gear carried in screens and equipment, along with microscopes and metal trees like the ones used to hold IV bags.
Hazmat specialists explained the next steps, letting us know that everyone would be tested for toxins. We were assured that it was extremely unlikely that any of us had been exposed to a lethal substance, and that this was all simply precaution.
Someone asked what toxin they suspected, but the hazmat guy in charge wouldn’t elaborate.
Kerry Freiberg, President Hyden, and the First Lady were the first to be escorted out for examination. They were followed by the secretary of state and then on down the line until no more dinner guests remained.
Cyan’s voice was so quiet that I had to ask her to repeat herself.
“Are we going to die?”
“We’re all going to die,” Bucky said. “Let’s just hope it isn’t tonight.”
I glared at him across the top of Cyan’s head. He shrugged but his eyes were tight with worry.
“I don’t know, Cyan,” I said. “I’m only guessing here, but if Cleto was comfortable enough to handle whatever the toxin was, it has to be something that’s safe in small doses, or after short exposure. We were nowhere near him, except for that brief moment when I spoke with him in the hallway. You and Bucky should be fine.”
“What if it’s airborne?” she asked. “What if we’ve all breathed it in?” She flung a hand out. “These people didn’t show up in protective gear because they think it’s fun to dress up, you know.”
“The only argument I can offer is that Cleto was here the whole time. I don’t think he’d release a pathogen into air that he was breathing.”
“Unless he was on a suicide mission,” Bucky said.
“Bucky!”
This time Cyan glared up at him, too.
Just then, four hazardous materials specialists tramped into the Jackson Place conference room, carrying what looked like sensors, which they waved in the air above our heads. When they finished, the four conferred near the doorway, clustering close together, making them look like something from out of a sci-fi thriller film. After a few minutes they left, without having spoken a word.
Cyan looked up at me. Her eyes were red. She pointed to where the hazmat professionals had just exited. “If the air is so safe to breathe, then how do you explain that?” Standing up, she began to pace, arms folded tight against her middle.
Kerry Freiberg and Frosty hadn’t returned. Neither had the president. No one who had been called away had been brought back to this room. Time had been moving so slowly I’d stopped consulting my watch. Through it all, hazmat-clad officers continued to call people, sometimes two, three, or four at a time, escorting them out to who-knows-where.
As Cyan paced, Bucky stared out the window. Marcel and his assistant looked dejected and forlorn.
Everyone else in the room: butlers, maids, miscellaneous staff members and Secret Service agents, did his or her best to maintain decorum and remain calm. I took a seat, resting my elbows on the shiny table. Dropping my head into my hands, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something I could have done sooner to spare us this terror, this misery.
“Olivia Paras.”
I looked up. A team member at the doorway reading from a clipboard had summoned me for examination—whatever that entailed. I stood, making my way over to the Tyvek-clad official.
I asked the agent—a woman whose bright hazel eyes seemed to convey sympathy through the helmet’s plastic guard—to take Cyan in my place, then Bucky, and the other chefs, before taking me. She agreed.
Little by little, the room’s numbers dwindled. I worried for Gav. I worried for the president and Kerry Freiberg. I worried for my team. And ultimately, I worried for myself.
* * *
When there were four of us left, we were motioned to follow by the same agent who had originally called my name. “This way,” she said.
As we traversed through the historic home, we passed machines I couldn’t begin to recognize, dozens of hazmat experts poring over reports, and white Tyvek stretched over furniture and plastered against walls. All so high-tech. All so futuristic. I felt much like Elliott did when he and E.T. were confined in the makeshift hospital in the family’s home.
One by one, the woman handed us off to other agents, who led their charges into Blair House lavatories that had been transformed into examining rooms. When it was just the female agent and me, she led me down a long hall into a large, ornate bathroom that reeked of disinfectant.
Closing the door, she hit me with a battery of questions regarding my health history. I answered as quickly and thoroughly as I could. She continued with questions about how close I’d gotten to Cleto this evening, how much time I’d spent in the dining room, and if I’d come in contact at all with Frosty.
“How is everyone else?” I asked. “The president? Ms. Freiberg? Frosty?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have that information.”
I provided a urine sample and a vial of blood. She disappeared with them both, returning a short while later.
She handed me a bright blue capsule and a paper cup of water. “Take this,” she said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Prussian Blue.”
That was an accurate description of its color, but didn’t really answer my question. I hesitated.
The woman pointed at the pill in my open palm. “The name of that drug is Prussian Blue. It’s our best defense against thallium poisoning, which is what we’re dealing with here. I’ll give you information about what to expect in terms of side effects before you’re released. You may develop an upset stomach. That’s normal.”
“Thallium?”
“Because its presence was detected early enough”—she raised her eyebrows and smiled in a way that told me she knew the part I’d played in tonight’s drama—“there’s little to no chance of long-term adverse effects. I’m sorry we don’t have any more information at this time. But I do promise you’ll receive additional information later.”
Two important things rang in my mind: I’d been right about a toxin, and she’d used the word released.
I swallowed the pill.
She turned on the shower, instructing me to s
trip and scrub with the cleansers provided while she waited outside. She handed me a pair of blue cotton pants and a matching shirt, much like those I was used to seeing on dental hygienists and lab techs. “Put these on when you’re finished. Your clothing will be laundered and returned to you later. Open the door when you’re ready.”
Although the fresh, hot water sluicing over freshly scrubbed skin felt wonderful, I couldn’t help but be worried for everyone else. Especially Gav. Where was he?
CHAPTER 35
A female Secret Service agent met me as I exited Blair House. “Ms. Paras?” she said pleasantly. “Come with me.”
The entire area between 17th and 15th Streets had been cordoned off from pedestrian traffic, with D.C. Metro Police cars—lights flashing—on both sides. The area was as desolate as I’d ever seen it, save for the perimeter of uniformed cops and agents keeping curious onlookers at bay.
My cotton scrubs were no match for the chilly evening. I wrapped my arms around myself. The flat cotton slippers I’d been given slapped against the cold pavement.
Although I’d been allowed to keep my wedding ring on, I’d had to relinquish my watch until it, too, could be examined and decontaminated. “What time is it?” I asked the agent as we made our way toward the gate.
“Four A.M.,” she said.
I took a long look at the sky. “Seems about right.”
“Are you tired?” she asked. “Do you want me to call for a golf cart?”
“I’m fine,” I said. That wasn’t entirely true. Fatigue was setting in, if not in my brain, in my weary body. And the Prussian Blue—as promised—was making me queasy.
Once we’d made it through the gate checkpoint, I expected to be led around the back, into the kitchen. Instead, she kept going to the White House front door.
The front of the White House was lit up brightly for this time of night. When the agent and I stepped in, the Entrance Hall was deserted except for a few guards on duty.
“This way,” she said.
The sound of quiet conversation met us as we approached the Green Room. At the doorway, my escort stepped aside. “Go on in,” she said.
The president and secretary of state sat knee to knee, immersed in what looked like a tense discussion. The two men were both wearing casual clothing, though nothing quite as informal as what I had on. They looked up when I walked in.
“Ollie!” President Hyden said with considerably more cheer than he’d greeted me earlier. He got to his feet, and started toward me.
At the same moment, a figure at the far window turned. I hadn’t noticed him when I’d first walked in. “Gav!”
He made it across the room, grabbing me into his arms faster than the president could close the short distance between us.
It felt so good to be held, felt so right to have the night’s horror behind me that I pressed my face into his chest and stayed there a long, comforting while. When I raised my head, I noticed the president was still waiting patiently to talk to me.
I could barely get any words out. “Is everyone all right?” I asked.
“It seems so,” President Hyden said. He gestured toward the room’s striped couch. “You’ve had a busy evening again. Have a seat.”
Gav released me, and the two of us sat as requested. The president nodded to the secretary of state, who came over, thanked me, and then left the room without another word.
“Where were you?” I asked Gav. “I never meant to barge in on dinner.”
Gav started to answer, but whether it was exhaustion or relief that kept me going, I blathered on. “I had every intention of bringing my suspicions to you and letting you take it from there, but . . .” I shrugged helplessly, bouncing my glances between the two men. “I had to improvise.”
Gav and the president exchanged a look. Again Gav started to answer. Again I interrupted.
“And what about Tibor? I’m worried that Cleto did something to him. Has he ever been found? Is he all right?”
“Tibor is in the hospital,” the president said. “He’s recovering.”
“What happened?”
Gav took up the story. “Cleto drugged him with what we believe was the same compound that was used on Kilian.”
“What? Kilian’s death wasn’t from natural causes?”
Again they exchanged a meaningful look. “We have forensics teams putting pieces together,” the president said.
“We can’t say for certain what killed Kilian because we weren’t allowed to perform an autopsy,” Gav continued. “After last evening’s events, however, we have been able to uncover an e-mail trail between Cleto and Hector and Nate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Kilian began to suspect that Hector and Nate were up to no good. Because he trusted Cleto, he shared his concerns. That was a mistake. Apparently, Cleto assured Kilian he would take care of things. He did. On his orders, Nate slipped a toxin into Kilian’s drink.”
“That’s the same day Hector passed out,” I said. “I don’t get it. Was that just a ruse?”
“Again,” Gav said, “we don’t have all the answers, but from what we’re beginning to understand, Nate was sent here to get rid of Kerry Freiberg. Because he required assistance, Hector was brought on to help him. We think Nate was beginning to doubt Hector’s allegiance, so he slipped him a lesser dosage of the drug to remind him who was boss.”
“Was Nate responsible for drugging Marcel, too?”
“The first time Marcel was hospitalized? No,” Gav said. “We’re confident that Marcel double-dosed his medication. The second time, however, we believe Nate was indeed responsible. In order to test the potency of the drug, he needed to experiment on someone. Nate administered the drug to Marcel via the chocolate drink assuming no one would think it suspicious if the pastry chef collapsed again.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “So you’re telling me that Cleto recruited Nate and the two of them masterminded this attack?”
Gav held his hand out toward the president.
“Ollie,” President Hyden began, “I can’t begin to thank you for always being so alert and for saving me and the members of my family, not to mention an untold number of innocent bystanders, over the years.”
“Do I sense a ‘but’?” I asked.
He smiled. “Not exactly. What I’m trying to say is that your involvement in issues of national security over the years has made you privy to a great deal of information that you would not otherwise possess.”
I waited.
He went on, “You have been consistent in your trustworthiness with regard to the truth behind classified information. You’ve never shared anything you’ve been asked to keep confidential.”
“That’s true. I would never.”
“Based on your constancy, we are prepared to offer you a choice,” he said. “It’s my decision to give you that choice, but you have to decide which way you want to go.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We can explain everything that happened, including who was responsible,” he said. “Or you can walk away not knowing the whole truth.”
“Why would I not want to know the truth?”
“Because,” he said, “truth does not always bring justice. This is a big one, Ollie, and if I’m to tell you what went down, I need you to promise that you’ll keep it to yourself.”
After that warning, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to hear. Yet, if I declined, would I be able to put this matter out of my mind with all the questions that were still burning in my brain? I was tired and wanted to go home. I didn’t want to have to push myself further tonight, or to make a promise that would be painful to keep. And yet, I needed to know.
“Tell me,” I said. “I won’t breathe a word.”
And they did.
* * *
Bucky, Cyan, Marcel, and his assistant were fine. None had been exposed to any thallium whatsoever. They were all granted paid leave for the following two days.
Although the rest o
f my team knew that Cleto had attempted to coat Frosty’s fur with powdered thallium, they’d been sworn to secrecy on the matter. They didn’t know why Cleto had done it, and I had to pretend I didn’t know why, either. The other guests who had been around the dinner table had likewise been fully informed about the thallium threat, and treated according to their exposure. The same held true for my two butler friends.
The remaining staff at Blair House, however, was being fed an entirely different version. One that involved an unfortunate accident, and the subsequent need to go to red-alert on safety. Those whose thallium levels were zero were being told that the emergency measures had ultimately proved to be unnecessary. I didn’t know how many people present that evening would believe the fabrication, but keeping the truth from them wasn’t my decision to make.
Kerry Freiberg and Frosty, the targets of the attack, were fine. Both were healthy and recuperating at Camp David until everything could be cleared up.
What proved to be the most explosive revelation, however, was that Cleto and Nate were not the masterminds behind this attack. For all the trouble they’d caused, and all the risks they’d assumed, they were little more than pawns.
The current president of Saardisca, a man whose name was nearly impossible to pronounce, had become concerned about Kerry Freiberg’s growing popularity. He’d never been seriously challenged in an election before. This time, his lead was diminishing as his challenger’s strength grew.
Cleto had been ordered to take her out. He’d been further instructed to have it done on American soil in the company of President Hyden, so that the United States could be blamed for its lack of control, its inability to keep a precious Saardiscan safe. That way, they reasoned, not only would Kerry Freiberg die, but the beliefs she held—so similar to those of U.S. citizens—would die with her.
The fact that the assassination directive had come from Saardisca’s highest power was what I could never discuss with anyone in my life except Gav.
“But,” I’d said to the president when he’d finished explaining, “won’t the current Saardiscan president have to answer for this? Shouldn’t he be thrown out of office?”
