by Julie Hyzy
And I was worried for him. I knew that today’s ceremonies and dinner—even if an agreement hadn’t materialized—made for a tempting target. The Chameleon would be wise to stay away today, though. Despite the fact that all the guards knew me and I knew them, this morning I’d been subjected to the most thorough search I’d ever encountered. Freddie and Gloria were both on duty, and Gloria had patted me down. When I’d asked why the extra precaution, Freddie had mentioned Chameleon concerns.
Outside the front gates, in Lafayette Park, demonstrators from the prince’s country chanted. Bearded men shouted. All wore traditional turbans and long flowing robes as they gesticulated and yelled. Their vituperative verbal assaults, some in English, others in what I assumed was their native tongue, made it clear that not everyone supported the newly crowned prince.
I turned to Gloria. “I thought camping out overnight in Lafayette Park was prohibited.”
She stared through the gates at the angry crowd. “They didn’t camp. They started arriving just a little while ago. Heard this is just the first wave, and we’ve got lots more coming our way. They’re protesting in shifts, I guess.”
The men screamed, occasionally in unison. Those without upraised fists carried signs. Hand-lettered, they were written in a language I couldn’t read. They could have crossed the lines of vulgarity for all I knew. I watched the sweating, angry men and realized that they probably had.
I’d headed quickly to the entrance. Could the Chameleon be in that crowd? I doubted it. From everything I’d learned about the assassin, he had no political ties. No policy he supported. He was a mercenary who went in, got the job done, and raced out again without leaving a trace.
With security heightened to greater tension than I’d ever seen before, the assassin would have a tough time getting close enough to President Campbell today. That, however, didn’t mean that Tom was safe.
Now at the Rose Garden, I blew out a breath as I inspected the tables. A centerpiece of yellow and white blooms on each of the seven tables stood taller than the four complementary arrangements accompanying it. Although the smaller bouquets were by no means tiny, they were dwarfed by the taller arrangements. The White House floral designer, Kendra, had pulled the original designs from their places in the State Dining Room and created these centerpieces last minute. Even now, I knew she was hard at work making replacements for the smaller items. Their exposure to the outdoors could make the blooms droop. Like the rest of us at the White House, she strove for perfection.
From across the expanse of the South Lawn I heard the Marine Band practicing. Everyone practiced until there was no chance of error. Even the aides who were assigned to move dignitaries to their proper positions practiced. I heard someone ask, “We’ve got Princess Hessa standing next to Mrs. Campbell at this point. Is that right?” and someone else answer in the affirmative.
Camera technicians and other media folk had gotten here early and were already setting up. Outside the South Portico, on the North Lawn, and in other strategic spots, high-beam lamps on tall black poles, augmented by light-reflecting umbrellas, waited for important people to arrive.
Two cameramen ran extension cords to their equipment. I wandered nearer to them on the pretext of examining another table. One was short, with a vague resemblance to Laurel Anne’s buddy Carmen, and the other one lanky and blond. They ignored me, but I sidled closer, checking them out. Could I recognize the Chameleon if I saw him again? If he were disguised? I had my doubts, but I planned to study every single new face today. If my life was in jeopardy because I could recognize the guy, then I might as well do my best to use that information to pick him out.
“Could you believe security today?” the blond guy said.
Carmen’s lookalike shook his head. “It’s always bad, but geez. Did they make you take your camera apart, too?”
“Hell, yeah. I tried to tell them that this equipment is sensitive, but it was either take the thing apart in front of them or—”
“—you don’t get in,” the dark guy finished.
“What the hell do they think I could have in here anyway?” The blond guy held up his press pass, dangling from a lanyard around his neck. “And who the hell would try to look like me, anyway? The uniforms here know me. I’ve been doing this for months.”
They muttered back and forth as I started past them. Nope, I decided. Neither one looked like the face burned into my memory from the merry-go-round. Or from the range. Or from Arlington.
Their talk of tight security made me glad. Maybe we’d be safe today after all.
“OVER HERE, OVER HERE,” CYAN CALLED TO ONE of the temps. “Yeah, that’s it,” she said as the girl brought the tray of appetizers to the kitchen’s far side, narrowly avoiding collision with two other tray-bearing assistants. “Yikes,” Cyan exclaimed at the near-miss. Then, waving her hand at the girl who’d deposited the food before her, she added, “Not you. It’s just—”
The girl waited.
“Never mind. Thanks,” Cyan said, “I think Bucky needs help over there.”
“Stressed out yet?” I asked as I worked.
“Most of these kids have been trained in bigger facilities,” she said. “They don’t get the fact that we have to think about our activity. They can’t just jump up and do something. They need to think first. Otherwise…disaster.”
I smiled at her use of the word kids. Cyan was the youngest member of our team and more than half of the chefs she’d hired had mastered technique while Cyan was still learning the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon. The fact that she was a White House sous-chef at her tender age was testament to her talent. But we still needed to work on her ability to remain calm during tense situations.
“What color are the eyes today?” I asked, to change the subject.
She leaned toward me and blinked.
“Brown? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in that color.”
“They’re new,” she said, smiling. “With all the brown-eyed folks traipsing through here these past few days, I thought I’d join the party.”
I gave her a quizzical look. “You mean like Laurel Anne?” I asked, “Or Ambassador bin-Saleh? Or Kasim?” As I ran through the names of the brown-eyed people we’d encountered recently, I realized how many there were. “Or…Peter Everett Sargeant III?”
She stuck out her tongue. “No thanks.”
“I bet the princess has brown eyes, too,” I said. “Of course, we’ll never see them.”
“How is she supposed to eat in front of all the guests if she can’t remove her veil?”
I shook my head. “No idea. Maybe I’ll ask Kasim.”
Just as she giggled, Henry returned from his inspection of the serving tables outside. “Troops,” he said, his voice booming loud enough for everyone to hear. The kitchen silenced immediately. “I need my team to follow me,” he said.
Cyan gave out some last-minute instructions to those nearby, and I handed cinnamon and powdered sugar to another assistant to mix. We made our way through the obstacle course of temporary help and headed for the door.
“This way,” Henry said. Marcel and Bucky got there just as we did, and the five of us tramped to the nearest storage room, where it was blessedly quiet.
“As you know, since plans have been changed, we will be running tonight’s dinner by the seats of our pants.”
Okay, that was an exaggeration. We had everything planned—micromanaged to the very minute—and even though the outdoor cocktail reception threw our best-laid plans into chaos, we were managing the chaos. Pretty well, too.
Henry read from his list. “Cyan, you will coordinate the staff to ensure the hors d’oeuvres are placed outside at the proper time. The head waiter is assigning a team to you, and we will have less than ten minutes from the close of the welcoming ceremonies until the food needs to be out there. We have to stay on top of this.”
She nodded.
“Bucky, you’re in charge of dinner’s first two courses.”
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br /> His head snapped back like Henry had punched him. “Me?”
“Yes.” Henry pointed. “I need you to oversee the final preparations just before the food is plated. I’ve prepared a list of those who will assist you, and you will work together with the indoor waitstaff to ensure the proper plating and prompt delivery of the first courses to the dining room.” Rolling wide eyes, Henry continued, “Dennis, our sommelier, is beside himself. He’d planned vintages to complement tonight’s menu—he had not arranged for a full assortment of aperitifs. But,” he added with a rueful smile, “that’s not currently our concern. He will be marvelous; he always is.”
“What am I doing?” I asked.
“Before the first guest arrives, we are all gathering our troops to make as many more appetizers as we possibly can in the allotted time. All of us. While Cyan and Bucky direct their people, you and I, Ollie, with the help of some assistants, will be making more appetizers. Thank goodness we made as much as we did, and thank goodness you ordered those extra supplies, Cyan.”
She blushed at the compliment.
“Once we have the situation under control—and I expect to arrive at that state shortly—Ollie and I will take charge of overseeing operations. This event tonight will require orchestration. We will probably all step out of our comfort zones.” He took a moment to make eye contact with each of us. “And assist where we’re needed, whether it’s our job or not.”
Henry was preaching to the choir. Not one of us approached our positions as a prima donna would—my mind lurched as I pictured Laurel Anne faced with this state of affairs—but Henry’s coaching gave me reassurance. He huddled our team before every big event. This was standard. This was reassuring. Suddenly these last-minute changes didn’t seem all that insurmountable.
If I ever ran my own kitchen, I’d do it exactly the same way.
AT THREE THIRTY, WITH HENRY’S BLESSING, I snuck outside to watch the ceremonies, keeping close to the South Portico doors. The prime minister and the prince and princess had arrived in limousines earlier and had been welcomed at the south doors and into the oval-shaped Diplomatic Reception Room with a flurry of pomp and circumstance. After that “official reception,” the president and Mrs. Campbell, with the assistance of the well-practiced aides, guided the dignitaries outdoors, amid snapping camera shutters and microphones thrust forward from behind velvet ropes.
Each of the dignitaries found his or her place on a line of artificial green turf that had been rolled out several hundred yards south, where official ceremonies were usually held. Each dignitary’s name was marked on the ground with white tape. Every movement of this entire day had been scrupulously choreographed; such preparations were necessary so that an event of this magnitude ran smoothly.
I winced at the loud pops of the twenty-one gun salute and watched as the cameras moved in to capture the president’s official inspection of the troops.
The Marine Band, also known as “The President’s Own,” played several national favorites including “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and two songs I didn’t recognize, but I knew must be the national songs of the prime minister’s and prince’s respective countries.
For a breathless instant, the music stilled.
And then, the Marine Band began the “Star Spangled Banner.” When the familiar opening notes of our national anthem sounded, so clear and strong on this exceptional spring afternoon, shivers ran up my back. I blinked once…twice, and then again.
As I stood there watching, I marveled. The photographers stilled their cameras, the reporters lowered their microphones. We all stood at attention to salute the most beautiful flag, the most powerful symbol of freedom on Earth. Next to me, the waiters halted their work to place hands over hearts. Several mouthed the words to the song so many of us learned in grammar school.
As always happened, when the lyrics came to “…gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there…” goose bumps raced across my arms and chest, down my back. I took in a deep breath and thanked heaven that I’d been born here, that my parents’ grandparents had come to this country for a new life so many years before. I had much to be thankful for.
I whispered along with the final line, “…and the home of the brave.”
How true.
I knew I should hustle toward the West Wing, where the appetizers, beverages, and incidentals were being set up for the cocktail reception just moments away.
But I couldn’t resist taking a quick moment to sidle near the dais that had been erected just outside the south doors. Atop a carpet of bright red, three tables were being set up, and I knew that the reason they were there—for a three-way discussion for the cameras on the nature of the Camp David trade agreement—was pretext. These were the tables where the president, prime minister, and prince would sit to sign the peace treaty that would change the fabric of life in this world forever. And our president had facilitated this.
Had the day been overcast and rainy, I would have felt just as ebullient. I was part of this moment. I was part of history. As workers placed chairs, tablecloths, and flags in place on and around the dais, I ran my finger along the edge of the signing table. A lineup of miniature flags, representing a myriad of countries, topped the tables with a festive, though profound touch.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Tom near the West Wing. Even though I’d been on my way back to the kitchen, I couldn’t resist delaying long enough to see him and say hello.
My short legs could only take short strides, and I certainly didn’t want to call attention to myself by running, so I walked purposefully toward the West Wing and was disappointed to see Tom catch up with Craig and disappear inside before I had a chance to talk with him. At least I knew he was here. And that made me feel better. Within the White House gates, I felt so much safer than I did in the rest of the city. I glanced up at the black-clad snipers on the building’s roof, pacing with their rifles, keeping a close eye on all of us below.
While at the Rose Garden, where chafing dishes had just been set up, I corralled Jamal. “As a last-minute addition, we’ve prepared extra fruit trays,” I said, pointing to spots on the tables between the silver servingware, “which I think should go here, here, and,” I stretched out both arms, “there.”
Jamal nodded, asked a couple of questions about timing, and headed back in via the West Wing entrance.
I caught sight of Kasim working his way toward the food tables, dodging workers who carried chairs, tables, and other accoutrements. Kasim was in a robe of navy blue with a brown turban. Poor guy. Today was warming up and even in my white tunic and toque, I was hot. I could only imagine how he felt. He spent his entire life wearing dark clothing in a hot climate. How uncomfortable And he’d been ill recently, too.
I also wondered how he felt, being left out of the ceremony taking place on the South Lawn. As one of the underlings, Kasim wasn’t privy to the big events. Like Henry and I, he was there to make himself available, to facilitate and to assist. When it came to the formal procedures, he was left in the background to make sure things went smoothly for his people.
I was about to ask him if he needed assistance when I noticed Peter Everett Sargeant. He called out to Kasim, who turned. I ducked out of sight, then inched closer to hear.
“This came for you moments ago,” Sargeant said, handing Kasim a large diplomatic pouch.
Kasim nodded his thanks. “I am most grateful. The princess was quite distressed to have left these things behind this morning. I will see to it that she receives this promptly.” He turned his back to Sargeant, but the shorter man trailed behind the foreign assistant, talking animatedly. He, too, was relegated to the background to assure smooth transitions. The problem was that Sargeant didn’t like to be left out.
The last thing I needed was another run-in with Sargeant. I stepped out of their line of vision, behind one of the colonnade’s white pillars, and started to make my way back to the kitchen.
“If she prefers me to hold onto anyt
hing of hers, I can make a page available to assist.”
“Thank you,” Kasim said, “the princess will be most appreciative of your offer. But I believe one of her female assistants will be present later.”
The words were polite but strained, and Kasim’s long-legged, limping strides punctuated his obvious desire to distance himself from Sargeant.
I could relate.
Sargeant scurried double-time to catch up. Decked out in another smartly cut pinstripe suit, this one the same shade of navy blue as Kasim’s robes, the two looked like a multicultural Mutt and Jeff. “I’m sorry you missed the opening ceremonies.”
“It is my duty to serve my prince and his wife at their pleasure. If I am required here, then this is where I remain.” Kasim spoke as he walked. I ducked deeper behind the pillar and hoped to get past them both without being seen. “Just as I am certain that you are more needed here to facilitate than you are out there.” He gestured toward the crowd.
“I wanted to take special care of your delivery,” he said with a degree of annoyance. “I will join the celebration as soon as I am certain that you and your colleagues are well taken care of.”
Kasim wiped his brow and coughed. He stopped, turned, and looked down at our eager sensitivity director. “What I am in need of at the moment, my dear sir, are your lavatory facilities. I am feeling unwell.”
“Of course,” Sargeant said. “Let me show you the way. I’ll take my leave then, and see you at the reception.”
“Thank you,” Kasim said. He wiped his face again and made a noise that underscored his discomfort. “I may be required to return to Blair House if I continue to feel this unwell.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Sargeant said again. Now he started to look as though he’d like to get away from the other man.
