State of the Onion

by Julie Hyzy

  “I do have one,” I said, flustered. I realized my gaffe. Because Kasim and the princess came from a Middle Eastern country, I’d made the erroneous assumption that their access to technology was far behind ours. The phone Kasim tucked away, and the one the princess had used, both looked to be state-of-the-art. “What I mean to say is that I didn’t realize they worked here. That is, mine doesn’t work when I leave the country. Are these the same cell phones you use at home?”

  “I understand your confusion. As diplomats, we are required to avail ourselves of technology that spans international borders.” He lifted one shoulder. “These are special telephones. The princess insisted on acquiring one before we departed. She is concerned about her children’s well-being while she is away. This is one of the reasons she did not prefer to stay at Camp David.” He gave a regretful smile. “There was no signal there. And she is quite the devoted mother. She is often in contact with her family.”

  The devoted mother and Sargeant returned just then. Within minutes I’d walked her through the preparation of the filling for the appetizer without her saying a word. I offered her one to sample, but she waved me away, stepping backward as she did so. Her braceleted wrist jangled bright silver and gold.

  Realizing that she might be uncomfortable consuming food in our presence, I offered to package up some of the appetizers for her to enjoy back at Blair House. Kasim translated.

  She shook her hands at me again.

  There was no pleasing this woman. Nor a chance of getting her to speak aloud.

  “What time will you be here tomorrow morning?” Sargeant asked me. “Not late again, I hope.”

  “Henry and I will be here before the sun comes up,” I said.

  “How long are you staying tonight?”

  Henry joined us. “Is there a reason you need to know?”

  Good old Henry, rushing to my rescue.

  Flustered, Sargeant stammered. “I…I’m concerned about leaving temporary help here unsupervised.”

  Henry’s wide face split into a grin. But it wasn’t a happy one. “That will never happen.”

  “You understand,” Sargeant said, “what with heightened security…we can’t afford to take chances.”

  “As I said, you can put your mind at ease. But Ollie and I don’t plan to stay past ten this evening. We don’t want to be exhausted for the big event tomorrow.”

  Kasim interrupted to ask Sargeant a question. I gathered that the princess was ready to return to Blair House. I’d learned my lesson; I didn’t offer her any food. As they spoke, Henry edged closer to me. “I’m worried about you getting home tonight. How about I take the Metro with you and make sure you get in safe? I can call a cab from there.”

  “Henry, my apartment is ridiculously out of your way,” I said, “that’s not a good idea.”

  “It’s not that bad,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of you traveling alone at night, any night. With recent events, you shouldn’t be left alone at all.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Olivia,” he said.

  With a sidelong glance to Sargeant, who appeared to be oblivious to our conversation as he chatted with Kasim, I spoke in a low voice. “I’ve got someone taking me home tonight,” I said.

  Henry’s eyebrows shot upward. “Who?”

  I bit my lip, rolled my eyes, then whispered, “One of the…guys.”

  Henry said, “Ahh,” and grinned at me. “I understand.” He winked. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  I looked up to see Sargeant, Kasim, and the princess watching us. Oh great. So much for keeping secrets. Thank goodness I hadn’t mentioned Tom by name.

  Sargeant eyed me with distaste. But I was getting used to it. “The princess will be leaving now,” he said. “Kasim and I will accompany her back to Blair House.”

  “Good night,” we said as the trio left.

  Kasim nodded. “And to you.”

  The princess and Sargeant kept walking without a word.

  WHEN THE LAST POSSIBLE TASK THAT COULD be done, was done, and all the temporary help had gone home, I called Tom. Past midnight, our quitting time was far later than Henry had estimated.

  The phone rang twice, then went to voice mail. I left Tom a vague message about being ready to leave.

  Henry shuffled in from the other room, yawning. He had his jacket on. “Problem?” he asked.

  “No, just a delay.”

  He considered this, then started for the kitchen’s stool. “I’ll wait with you.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll call back any minute now. He made me promise not to go home alone, so don’t worry. He’ll be here. Just a little bit tardy.”

  One eye narrowed. “You wouldn’t be telling a fib just to let the old man go home early and grab some shut-eye, would you?”

  “No,” I said, “I swear.”

  “Okay then.” Relief tugged a smile out of him, but weariness pulled harder. He was exhausted and tomorrow promised to be twice as busy as today had been. We both needed to get some sleep, and there was no sense in both of us waiting for me to be picked up. “You’re sure?”

  I’d been in this situation with Tom a hundred times before. If he was on duty he couldn’t always answer his phone. But he remained aware and always called me back at his earliest opportunity. I forced a smile, knowing that it sometimes took him over an hour to get back to me. “I’m sure,” I said.

  Fifteen minutes after Henry left, I was still sitting in the too-quiet kitchen, waiting. Despite the fact that this place for all intents and purposes was my second home, I shivered. The hum of the refrigeration units, the occasional whoosh of machinery nearby, oddball sounds—they were just part of the background during the day. Now each sounded loud as a shout, and every time some device kicked on, or off, I jumped.

  I dialed Tom again.

  “Ollie,” he answered.

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Just now. I was listening to it when you beeped in.”

  There was something weird in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I…” He swore. “It’s a bad time right now.”

  “Oh,” I said not knowing what to do with that information. “Do you want to call me back?”

  He swore a second time. I heard a toilet flush.

  “You’re in the bathroom?” I asked.

  “My only chance to check my phone. Listen, Ollie, I…I can’t get away tonight.”

  “You can’t?” I looked at the clock. Nearly one in the morning. The Metro stopped running at midnight.

  “I’m so sorry. Is there anyone else you can call?”

  I started to answer, but over the rushing water I heard a male voice call, “MacKenzie, let’s go.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I said.

  “Ollie—”

  “Go,” I said. “It’ll be okay.”

  I hung up feeling lonelier than I ever had before.

  Had I known this, I might’ve taken Henry up on his offer to see me home safely. But, no use crying over spilled sauerkraut. This wasn’t the first time I’d worked past Metro hours. I zipped through my cell’s phone book until I found the speed dial for the Red Top Cab company and requested a car be sent right away.

  The dispatcher told me it would be just a few minutes. I set out for Fifteenth Street to wait.

  Before I cleared the gates, I turned back to look at the White House. The heart of the nation, at night.

  Beautiful.

  And, right now, peaceful.

  I thought about the negotiating country’s delegates, still at Camp David tonight. Probably asleep right now. Had they reached an accord? Would the state dinner celebrate new trade agreements that could herald the dawn of peace? I stared up at the sky, wishing I could see more of the stars, but still comforted knowing they were there. Despite the fact that I wore soft-soled shoes, my footsteps brushed against the pavement so loudly. They rang out evidence of my passage, and it made me feel vulnerabl
e.

  The statue of General William Tecumseh Sherman atop his horse provided a place for me to park myself to wait for the taxi’s arrival. All four of the horse’s hooves rested on the ground. An urban legend had begun—I didn’t know when or where—suggesting that the placement of a horse’s hooves on a statue tells how the rider died. All four on the ground indicated that Sherman died a peaceful death, which was true—if dying of pneumonia could be considered peaceful.

  Not all statues were “correct” as far as this legend was concerned, but as I sat on the cement steps I was glad of the thought. Concentrating on peace kept me from panicking.

  Then I thought about Sherman’s “scorched earth” initiatives.

  Not so peaceful.

  I stood.

  A high-pitched squeal to my left made me jump. A homeless man, bearded and shuffling, pulled an overstuffed wheeled cart in his wake.

  He didn’t approach me and for that I was grateful. With the Chameleon known for his ability to alter his appearance and blend into the background, I might’ve decked the guy if he asked me for loose change.

  Thirty seconds later, the cab pulled up. Right on schedule. I scooted in. The dark-skinned driver nodded when I gave him my address. Before I closed the door, I asked him how late Red Top provided service, even though I already knew they ran twenty-four hours a day.

  I just wanted a look at the guy.

  When he answered me, I stared, paying no attention to his words, but close attention to his features. Not the guy at the merry-go-round. Not the guy at Arlington. I was being paranoid, but if it kept me safe, so be it. Contented, I realized I’d been gawking when an extended pause and a peculiar expression on the guy’s face brought me back to the present. He’d asked a question.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked.

  “Please close the door?” His accent was thick, Middle Eastern. Not the same as Ambassador bin-Saleh’s or Kasim’s, but I guessed it came from the same region.

  “Sure,” I said, and pulled it shut.

  I sat back and watched out the window as the quiet city flew by and we made our way into Virginia. The chances of the Chameleon suddenly showing up as a taxi driver—my taxi driver—were about a zillion to one, but I knew the assassin had it in for me, and I knew he had resources. What had Naveen said? That higher-ups in our system had been compromised? Was that it? Tom hadn’t seemed overly troubled by that information, but I was. It explained a lot.

  The worst of it was that with Naveen’s death, we still were no closer to knowing what the Chameleon had in store. I was pleased to know that, due to the importance of the trade negotiations going on at Camp David, and the upcoming state dinner, the Secret Service had increased security measures not only around the White House, but in the surrounding areas as well. At least the president would be safe.

  Now I just had to hope I was.

  Again I stared at the cab driver. This guy wasn’t the Chameleon. Of that I was certain. But could he be an accomplice?

  The driver must have felt the weight of my gaze because his eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror to stare back at me. I looked away. He looked away. When I checked again he was watching me. And I watched him.

  “Something is a problem?”

  “No,” I said, lying again. I’d been doing a lot of that recently. “Have you lived here long?”

  He shot me a look of utter contempt.

  Great. Now I was the suspicious person.

  “I have been in this country fifteen years,” he said with no small degree of pride. “I have come here legally and I have made the United States of America my home. I passed all the tests,” he said. “I am not a terrorist.”

  Oh, Lord, now I’d done it.

  “I didn’t think that you—”

  “I see your look in your eyes.” He pointed at his own eyes in emphasis. “You have suspicion. What, do you think every Muslim man is going to blow you up?” With that he threw his hands off the steering wheel and the car jerked hard to the left, crossing the yellow lines.

  I screamed, but fortunately the absence of oncoming traffic prevented our instant death, and he righted the vehicle quickly.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He gave me a look that said, “You should be.”

  I wanted to correct him. Tell him that I wasn’t feeling bad for partaking in my own brand of profiling, I was just sorry I’d screamed. I didn’t assume every Muslim man I encountered was ready to blow me up, but I had an assassin after me. An assassin who made his living by committing murder and slinking away, disguised as…as anyone.

  If I wanted to look at this guy suspiciously, then it was my prerogative to do so.

  “Last time I checked, there were no limits on freedom of personal thoughts,” I mumbled.

  “What?” he asked. “What do you say?”

  The moment of tension now past, I realized that if he’d been in cahoots with the Chameleon, I would’ve been dead ten minutes ago. “Nothing.”

  After an extended, awkward silence, I gave him a fair but unapologetic tip, slammed the car door, and thanked the stars above that I was finally home.

  CHAPTER 28

  FIRST THING THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE THE sky was still dark, chief usher Paul Vasquez popped into the kitchen. “Henry, Ollie. Follow me.”

  The corridor was cool and quiet. Dark. In just a few short hours, the very same area would be filled with fervent reporters, eager politicians, and polite dignitaries. All hungry.

  Paul held open the door of the China Room. I remembered the last time he’d called me in here, and I watched his face for some indication that I’d inadvertently stepped out of line again. The fact that Henry was with me ruled that out, thank goodness.

  “There’s been a change,” Paul said as he closed the door.

  “In the menu?” Henry asked.

  “No.” He stood close, the three of us making a tight triangle, tighter than would normally be considered comfortable for a casual discussion. His voice dropped and we edged closer still. “The information I’m about to share with you is being released on a strict ‘need to know’ basis.” He looked at me for a long moment, then at Henry.

  We both nodded.

  “You understand that you are not to share a word of this with anyone, unless you clear it with me first.”

  We both said, “Yes.”

  The tension in his face relaxed, just a bit, and he looked about to smile. “I am extraordinarily pleased to report that negotiations at Camp David have resulted, not in a simple trade agreement, but in a peace treaty.” Paul’s careful expression gave way to a full-blown beam. “President Campbell has been successful in facilitating a peace agreement between the two warring countries. When this treaty is signed, it will be as big, or possibly bigger than the accords between Egypt and Israel.”

  Henry and I kept our exclamations of cheer in check, so as not to bring a batch of Secret Service agents bursting in on us. “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  Paul looked as pleased as if he’d facilitated the treaty himself. “It is,” he said. “And the reason I wanted you both to know ahead of time is because we’re changing plans for tonight’s dinner.”

  Uh-oh. Last-minute changes were never a good thing.

  I held my breath.

  “We’re taking the celebration outdoors,” he began.

  Henry and I cut him off right there, both of us protesting. Henry was louder. “We can’t serve the dinner outside,” he said, “we’ve got everything set up for the State Dining Room. The places are set, the room is decorated, and…and…there are bugs outside.” Vehement head shake. “It would be a disaster.”

  Paul waited for Henry to finish, holding up a placating hand. “Let me explain and perhaps we can find some common ground here. Because of the success of the accords and the ideal weather conditions, President Campbell prefers to make the announcement of the peace treaty outside the South Portico.”

  I pictured it. The South Lawn offered plenty of room for the dign
itaries, their staffs, invited guests, and the press to spread out. The South Portico and the Truman balcony provided a beautiful backdrop for photos that would, no doubt, find a place in history books for all the ages. I waited for the rest of what Paul had to say.

  “What we intend to do, is have the welcoming ceremony, introductory speeches, and official reception outdoors as usual. At that point, the honored guests and their entourages will be invited to partake in refreshments.”

  “Dear God!” Henry said, “We don’t have enough food for the entire crowd.”

  Paul quickly interjected. “I know. We realize the difficulty. And we’ve come up with what we think is a workable option given the circumstances. We will have the cocktail hour outdoors at four o’clock in the Rose Garden,” he held up both index fingers, “which will include appetizers and beverages. You are authorized to order prepared items from our approved contacts to augment the food you’ve prepared here. Once everyone is satiated, at precisely five o’clock, the president will announce the agreements. More speeches. Tables will have already been set up for the official signing. The signing will take place immediately, in front of the South Portico. More speeches, again. We anticipate a half-hour’s worth of questions and photographs. Shortly thereafter, at precisely seven, dinner will be served in the State Dining Room.”

  Henry covered his eyes with his hands. This was no expression of frustration, I knew, nor of surrender. He was thinking, planning, figuring ways to make this work.

  He dropped his hands. “Okay.”

  Paul, who expected nothing less, said, “Good. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  I WALKED TO THE ROSE GARDEN TO SEE FOR myself that everything was in place the way Henry and I expected it to be. While I walked, I checked my cell phone. Tom had called and left me a message. I listened.

  “Thanks for texting me that you got home safe. I was worried about you. I have to run—there’s a lot going on. Call me when you get in. And, don’t head home by yourself tonight. Give me a call when you guys are cleaning up. Talk to you later.”

  I berated myself for not checking messages sooner, but when I dialed his cell, it went immediately to voice mail. I told him I’d made it to the White House safely and I agreed to call him later. I purposely didn’t add that I’d taken the Metro this morning. He would not have been amused. As I shut my phone I realized that this crisscross communication, while far from romantic, was promising. He was worried about me.