State of the Onion

by Julie Hyzy

  I thought about my decision to not tell Tom about the attempted break-in.

  Dumb move. I should’ve swallowed my pride and called him last night. I opened my mouth to tell Craig, but the pilot shouted for us to board and Craig jogged away.

  Next chance I had to talk to either one of them, I decided, I would.

  The seventy-mile trip from one landing strip to the next was the most exciting I’d ever experienced. I was part of something big. Henry had been to Camp David before, but this would be my first time. There was a separate cooking staff at the retreat, so we were rarely called in to participate. This business summit could become a turning point in world history, and I was proud and elated to be part of it.

  We circled the camp once before landing. The 125-acre retreat in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains was just as breathtaking as Tom had proclaimed. He’d been here before, too, several times, and he couldn’t get enough of it. I could see why. Below us, cottages, paths, and gorgeous mature trees covered the top and one side of a small mountain. Lots of rocky terrain. Lots of greenery. I caught sight of a small portion of the security fence, and the agents who guarded it.

  I sighed deeply. I’d be safe here.

  The place was bustling with arrivals when we set down. We were directed up a path to the camp commander’s office. On the way, we watched limousines navigate the roads to the various cabins to drop off riders before setting off again to the staff parking and guest barracks farther north.

  Neither Henry nor I would be staying the night, and as we walked the path I regretted that. An idyllic spot, there were tennis courts, a staff pool, and that deep green smell only a forest of cool trees can provide. I breathed in the springy newness. For the first time in days, I felt alive with comfort. I vowed to put aside my worries about Tom, my worries about being a target for the Chameleon, and concentrate on doing the best job I could while soaking up the sense of well-being that pervaded this place.

  Henry must have sensed my contentment; he smiled and winked.

  I could understand why Franklin Delano Roosevelt had originally named this Shangri-La. It was, indeed, a haven. It had been called Camp David since before I was born, when Dwight Eisenhower renamed the retreat in honor of his grandson.

  As I followed Henry and our guide, a kitchen staffer named Rosa Brelczyk, I found myself wishing the original name had endured. Jimmy Carter had chosen well when he staged his peace talks here.

  Rosa kept us to the right on the long path. Round and short, she had the smile of a saint, and she maintained gentle chatter, welcoming us as we walked. All the cottages on the premises were named for trees: Chestnut, Hickory, Dogwood.

  A limousine cleared the gatehouse and passed us on our left. The car stopped just outside the Birch guesthouse. As we approached I saw Ambassador bin-Saleh and his assistant, Kasim, alight. Accompanying them was a woman, dressed in a full burqa, her face and body completely obscured by her flowing blue garment.

  Henry whispered. “That’s the princess.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Watch,” he said.

  As though he’d timed his comment, two women emerged from Birch, both also fully covered, but in fabrics far less opulent than the silk of the princess’s. They flanked their mistress and all three kept their heads together as they disappeared back into the cabin.

  “I see.”

  “Labeeb told me there were three women in their party: the princess and two handmaidens.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Handmaiden? What is this, the Middle Ages?”

  “Labeeb’s word.” He shrugged. “Seems to fit.”

  Rosa veered right at a large, beautiful building. “Aspen Lodge,” she said brightly.

  “We’re working in the president’s cabin?” I asked.

  She nodded, still walking, passing the front entrance. “The north wing houses the kitchen. We’ve been anticipating your arrival, Henry. Yours, too,” she said to me, but I could tell she didn’t remember my name. “I hope you’re used to working in tight quarters. We have a lot of…help…here today.”

  She wasn’t kidding.

  “There are so many people,” I said to Rosa after being introduced to the entire Camp David kitchen staff and a couple of others—chefs from the two visiting dignitaries’ countries.

  She gave me a rueful smile. “The kitchen isn’t the only place that’s crowded. Not only do we have the summit leaders here, but each of them brought along several ambassadors, foreign ministers, legal advisors, defense ministers, public relations advisors…” She gave an extended sigh. “From what I understand, they’ve all had to cut back on the size of their entourage. As it is, we’re stretching ourselves to make do.”

  The word entourage gave me a little start. It reminded me of Laurel Anne’s audition, of the day we’d endured with her in control. If you could call it that. I swallowed hard as I thought about this glorious refuge and all it represented. And the fact that I might never come back.

  Bringing myself back to the present, I nodded. “We met only a couple of the ambassadors at the White House when they stopped by for a visit. And I haven’t even seen the prime minister yet. Mostly, the guests and their people stay offsite. This,” I said, looking around, “is a whole lot more cozy.”

  She laughed. “That it is. And you’ll interact with people you’ve only seen on TV up till now. Come on, let’s get you set up.”

  Ten minutes later, aproned and toqued, I noticed Henry in deep discussion with the two other chefs. I deduced from their expressions that they weren’t comprehending everything Henry was saying.

  I edged closer to their huddle, and Henry waved me in.

  “This is Olivia,” he said, taking extra care to enunciate his words. “She works with me.” He pointed to himself.

  He then introduced the two men. The first, Avram, was an older fellow; he had at least five years on Henry. He was tiny, almost effeminate in his bearing, and because he had his toque in his hands instead of on his head, I could see straight over the top of his shiny pate. The second man, Gaspar, was taller than Henry—wider, too. His dark features and loud voice combined to produce an imposing presence.

  They’d been arguing, in a Tower of Babel sort of way.

  All three men smiled at me, and Henry took the opportunity to tell me that they had met before, several times, at chef summits, held every August, in places all over the world.

  Avram and Gaspar had a decent command of the English language, and since I knew a little bit of French—in which they were both fluent—we were able to get by. Whenever stumped, we lapsed into hand motions and food-charades. By the time we’d settled on the upcoming dinner menu, we were proficient at deciphering each others’ needs.

  Avram held up a finger. He dug into his apron pocket and pulled out a folded paper. It was a copy of the list of foods the First Lady had taste-tested. “Here,” he said, pointing to one of the items, “is good, not spiceful?”

  I ran my finger down to see where he indicated. While everything we planned to serve at the upcoming state dinner had been approved by both camps and was both kosher and halaal, we still understood that our guest chefs might have questions. They didn’t disappoint. “Not spicy,” I said, fanning my mouth and shaking my head. “No.”

  His face broke into a wide grin.

  A separate section of the kitchen had been set aside for Avram’s preparations to allow him to keep kosher. Separate utensils, kept on hand for this express purpose since the Camp David Accords, were pulled out and Avram pronounced the setup satisfactory.

  Gaspar grabbed the note from Avram’s grasp, lifted it up near his eyes, then pulled reading glasses from his pocket. He grunted twice as he followed the list with a fat finger.

  Avram didn’t seem to mind—he apparently didn’t see Gaspar’s snatch as anything but professional interest. In fact, he tilted his face upward to watch the taller man peruse the list and Avram asked a question in a language I didn’t understand.

  I glanced at He
nry, who shrugged.

  Gaspar answered Avram, again in a language unfamiliar to me and it surprised me to realize that these two were more alike than I would have expected. I said as much to Henry.

  “That’s why the chef summit is so special,” he said. “There are no politics. We put aside our countries’ differences to come together, to learn, to grow. Mostly, to cook. I’m glad you’re seeing this Ollie. It’s good experience for you before you go to your first summit.”

  “If I go,” I corrected him. “I’m pretty sure Laurel Anne has already made her travel arrangements.”

  He waved a finger at me.

  Avram, Gaspar, Henry, and I set to work together, surrounded by a bevy of helpers including our own Camp David staff and one assistant each from the two other countries.

  While we worked, we talked. And despite the language difficulties, we got plenty done in a short period of time.

  Until the room went suddenly quiet.

  I looked up.

  At the kitchen’s doorway, a Marine, at attention.

  A charge of fear ricocheted through our friendly atmosphere.

  “What happened?” Henry asked.

  The young man in uniform spoke clearly, but quietly. “Dinner plans have changed. President Campbell, Prince Sameer bin Khalifah, and Prime Minister Jaron Jaffe will take their meal in Hickory. They will be joined by…”

  He rattled off more names of other political bigwigs.

  Avram asked why the change. I didn’t understand his exact words, but I knew what he meant. The Marine understood, too. “You will be contacted soon with regard to further details. In the meantime, the First Lady and Princess Hessa bint Muaath will take their dinner at Aspen cottage.”

  He pivoted and left.

  The moment he was gone, our group began buzzing. What was that all about?

  CHAPTER 24

  ONE OF THE SOUS-CHEFS, JESSICA, CUT HER hand badly enough to warrant medical attention. I volunteered to take her to the dispensary, and together we walked back up the same path Henry and I had taken from the helicopter pad. Jessica and I moved quickly, with me holding her hastily bandaged hand above her heart level to stem the bleeding.

  The staff at the dispensary didn’t waste time. They went to work on Jessica, throwing thanks to me over their shoulders—an effective dismissal.

  As I passed Birch cabin on my return trip, the front door swung open and Kasim emerged. He called to me to wait. Again he wore the traditional full-length robes of his culture. Today they were brown. With a bright red turban atop his head, he towered over me by a foot and a half, at least. Back in D.C., with the temperatures warming up nicely, Kasim must have sweltered. Here, at the higher elevation and beneath the canopy of trees, I’m sure he was much more comfortable. He seemed less tense, although I noticed he moved slower than he had in the past. I asked him how he was feeling.

  “I am much improved,” he said.

  “If I may say so, you look better.”

  He blinked acknowledgment, and I wondered if I’d breached protocol by commenting on his appearance. Henceforth I promised myself to watch my words.

  He changed the subject. “I have several questions with regard to the final dinner and to preparations at this location. Your Mr. Sargeant is not present here?”

  “No, he’s not.” When Rosa had explained how each of the delegates had cut back their staff, she hadn’t mentioned Peter Everett Sargeant III. It wasn’t until later, after we’d begun dinner preparations, that we found out he hadn’t been included on the list of invitees. I was exceptionally happy to realize that when it came down to it, the sensitivity director wasn’t as necessary as he thought he was.

  “Shall I then speak with you about these matters?”

  “Of course you can…” I hedged. I didn’t want to sound like someone who passed the buck…“but Henry is executive chef,” I said. “I’ll be happy to help you any way I can. I’m on my way back to the kitchen now. Would you care to join me?”

  He nodded. “The princess has asked me to see to it that dinner is halaal.”

  “I can assure you, it is.”

  A gentle smile. “And I can assure you that my princess will not be content until I have overseen the preparation facility myself.”

  “I understand.”

  “Are you staying in that cabin?” He pointed to our right, a smaller structure adjacent to the president’s cottage named Witch Hazel.

  “Not me.” I laughed. “I don’t know who’s in that one. Maybe one of the Cabinet members.”

  “I would expect the president’s staff to be housed close by. Your accommodations are elsewhere?”

  “The staff has its own section.” I pointed far north and a little bit west of our position. “There are barracks out that way—I’ve never seen them, but they’re supposed to be nice—and there are even recreational facilities for those off-duty.” I sighed. “I wish we were staying here tonight.”

  “You are not?”

  I shook my head. “No, Henry and I are heading back after the evening meal.”

  Emotion flashed in his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? I couldn’t tell. “This is a most beautiful setting,” he said. “And I am most fortunate to have been chosen for this assignment—I certainly understand your desire to remain here. I find myself very…content…to spend the next several nights on these premises in anticipation of the successful completion of our trade agreements.”

  We were silent for several footsteps. A golf cart whirred behind us and we stepped aside. Two Cabinet members sped by. They were both clad in Camp David windbreakers—and were both looking quite pleased. They acknowledged us with twin nods.

  “Where is Ambassador bin-Saleh?” I asked, when Kasim and I continued walking.

  “He will join the prince in…” He paused before pronouncing it. “Hickory…for dinner.”

  “Oh.”

  “You disagree?”

  Embarrassed to come across as disapproving, which my “Oh,” probably had, I quickly explained, “When we were in the kitchen earlier, they announced the guests who would be dining in Hickory. I noticed that your name and Ambassador bin-Saleh’s were not among them.”

  “Ah,” he said, “I understand your confusion. The ambassador originally was to remain in our cabin”—he pointed behind us toward a small structure near Birch—“with me. But after speaking with the prince, it is agreed that recent events in Europe have demanded the ambassador’s presence at the discussion table.”

  Before I could stop myself, I asked, “We heard something was up, what happened?”

  Another golf cart passed us, its riders so intent in their discussion that they didn’t acknowledge us. They wore cool Camp David windbreakers, too. I wondered if there was a way to get one of those for myself.

  “It is on your network television news, so there is no reason not to share the information with you,” he said gravely. “It is a good day for peace. The French have announced the death of a well-known assassin.”

  “The Chameleon?”

  “You know of this assassin?”

  “Just a little,” I said, suddenly confused. It couldn’t be. He’d been after me. Just yesterday. This morning, in fact. Something didn’t make sense. “Are you sure?”

  “The French authorities, acting on word from an informant, discovered the assassin attempting to detonate a bomb in Paris.” Kasim’s mouth set in a grim line. “This was during very busy hours yesterday and could have easily devastated the entire city. The gendarmes were able to prevent him from setting off the explosion, but he could not escape this time. He was shot.”

  I stopped walking. “Wow.” At the moment, it was all I could say. If the Chameleon had been killed in Paris yesterday, then it couldn’t have been him running after me at the gun range, or trying to break into my apartment.

  Instead of a world-class assassin after me, I was being stalked by your run-of-the-mill criminal. Or maybe I wasn’t being stalked at all.

  “This happened yesterda
y?” I said. With so much on my mind, I hadn’t paid any attention to the news.

  “Yes,” Kasim said as we walked into the loud, busy, heavenly smelling kitchen. “The French authorities waited until they were certain of the assassin’s identity. They made the announcement just hours ago and the wires have picked it up.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “There is much to be grateful for in our world tonight.”

  WAITERS HUSTLED THE COMPLETED MEAL OVER to Hickory, where it would be plated and served to all our delegates and honored guests. We’d originally expected to serve dinner just outside Aspen Lodge, where an enormous table had been set up in view of the putting greens and pool, but plans changed. President Gerald Ford had once entertained an entire delegation outdoors. For myself, I preferred serving and dining indoors. No wind. No gnats.

  Henry and I worked next to each other, putting the finishing touches on the meal we would serve to Mrs. Campbell and the princess. Because he didn’t have a national representative dining with the women, Gaspar took the opportunity to rest; his assistant retreated to the barracks.

  From his corner seat in the kitchen, Gaspar threw out occasional suggestions for arrangement or garnish, all of which Henry and Avram took in stride. I saw it as an opportunity to learn new techniques and was thrilled to be surrounded by three giants in the field.

  Which reminded me of something that I didn’t understand. When Avram set off to get ingredients out of the refrigerator, I moved closer to Henry.

  “Why are we here?” I asked him in a whisper.

  He shot me a quizzical glance as he twisted sprigs of parsley. “Because of the importance of these meetings.” He pointed to the desserts. “More raspberry on that one.”

  “What I mean is…” I added more raspberry. “Camp David is obviously fully staffed, and the prince and the prime minister have their own chefs…”

  He waited.

  “Why fly us—you and me—out here? I think they could have handled everything perfectly with the staff on hand.”