The White House

by Roland Smith

  P.K. was right. A lot of people worked in the White House, and he seemed to know most of them by their first and last names. This would have been helpful to us if any of them acted like moles, but none of them did. From the calligraphers to the florists to the carpenters, they acted like normal people busily getting ready for the last-minute concert they weren’t invited to.

  I asked P.K. about who was going to the concert.

  “My sister’s friends, senators, members of Congress, their families, a few staffers from the East and West wings, the vice president and his family, generals, admirals, cabinet members, lobbyists…”

  “Any White House staff?”

  “Just people working the event. Secret Service Uniformed Division and plainclothes, waitstaff, ushers…”

  “But not the florists, carpenters, cooks, or housekeeping staff?”

  “They’re not in Bethany and Dad’s social circle,” P.K. said. “I’m not saying Dad and Bethany are stuck-up or snotty—Dad would rather hang out with Chef Cheesy than his chief of staff—but the concert and the brunch are really political events, not social events. Besides, the concert’s being held in the East Room. It’s not big enough to hold everyone who works here.”

  “How about fifty of them?” Angela chimed in, knowing exactly what I was getting at.

  Roger and Mom had insisted on keeping their regular concert ticket prices low (much to Buddy T.’s annoyance). Sharing their music was more important to them than money. They would rather sing and play for twice as many people than charge twice as much for tickets. One of Mom’s favorite sayings was, “Do what you love and the money will follow.” I wasn’t sure if this was going to hold true for me and Angela. I wanted to become a professional magician. Angela wanted to become a federal agent.

  “They could probably squeeze in fifty more people,” P.K. said. “But Bethany will probably freak out.” He grinned. “Which might be kind of fun.”

  I pulled out my phone…

  I showed the screen to P.K. and Angela.

  “Right now Bethany has a frozen smile on her face,” P.K. said. “Inside she’s having a coronary.”

  The discussion, or heart attack, lasted about ten minutes.

  I guess everything was a negotiation and compromise in D.C.

  We had been carefully avoiding the dining room where the brunch was being held so we wouldn’t get sucked in for several hours.

  The social secretary hurried down the hall toward us. I guess when the First Daughter spoke you moved—quickly. He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit, starched salmon-colored shirt, pink tie, and matching handkerchief. He was carrying a brown leather briefcase.

  “You must be Will!” he said breathlessly.

  This was the first person we had met who didn’t know P.K.

  “My name is Wayne Arbuckle. I presume you’re Angie and Quest?”

  “Angela,” Angela said.

  “Q,” I said.

  “P.K.,” P.K. said.

  “Of course.”

  “How long have you worked here?” P.K. asked.

  “Seven months.” He looked at Angela and me. “I hear you had some excitement early this morning.”

  We looked at him blankly. I didn’t know what Angela was thinking, but I was wondering how he had heard about Agent Norton tossing Mr. Todd out of the Solarium. I was wrong.

  “Meeting with the president?” Arbuckle said. “Unusual timing, but what an honor for both of you. What was it like?”

  “Brief,” I said.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “He just welcomed us to the White House,” Angela said.

  “Well, as you might imagine, it’s the talk of the house this morning.”

  Interestingly, Arbuckle was the first person we’d met who had mentioned it, although I was sure he was right. The staff had to be talking about it.

  Arbuckle looked at P.K. “Will your father be attending the concert?”

  P.K. shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “The reason I ask,” Arbuckle said, “is we’re all a little perplexed this morning. He’s canceled all of his appointments and hasn’t let us know why or what he plans to do instead. Even the Secret Service doesn’t know his revised schedule.”

  I glanced at Angela. She gave me an imperceptible nod. I pulled my phone out.

  “A friend just texted me,” I said. It was a lie. I texted X-Ray.

  Arbuckle reached into his briefcase and came out with a stack of cards embossed with the presidential seal in gold. He handed them to P.K.

  “These just came from the engraver. The invitations are all printed up except for the names of the invitees. The calligraphy office asked if you could do the honor of filling out the names as you give them to people. They’re really under the gun right now.”

  “Sure, but I don’t have my—”

  Arbuckle produced an ink bottle and calligraphy pen. “They said you might need these.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took the pen and ink and put them into one of my pockets. Angela took the cards and stuffed them into her pack.

  “You’re going to make a lot of people happy today,” Arbuckle said. “And jealous. The First Daughter said no infants or toddlers, and everyone, regardless of age, must have a personalized invitation to gain entrance. All I ask is that you give me a list of the invitees so I can pass the names along to the Secret Service.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. “In fact, Q, if you could give me your cell phone number, I’ll call you later and you can read me the list of names over the phone. That way you won’t forget.”

  I didn’t know my cell number. I started to pull the phone out of my pocket.

  “That’s okay,” Angela said. “We won’t forget. Do you have a card with your phone number and e-mail?”

  Angela was right—again. We weren’t supposed to give out our number or e-mail addresses. And for a split second I saw something in Arbuckle’s face. A look. Like a mask slipping, but he pushed it back up so fast I wasn’t sure I saw what I thought I saw. I’m pretty good at reading people—a skill all good magicians have—but whatever I’d seen was gone. Poof!

  Smiling pleasantly, Arbuckle reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to Angela.

  “We’ll get you the list,” she said, putting the card in her pack.?

  Malak slept late.

  When she woke she found a travel mug of black coffee on the table next to the bed with a note: “Breakfast upstairs.”

  The coffee and the note disturbed her.

  Badly.

  They meant that someone had come into her room and she had not woken.

  Leopards caught sleeping die.

  Malak took her coffee outside onto the patio.

  Blue sky. A chill was in the air. A beautiful day, but no one would remember the weather after the sun set. Amun had told her the night before that today would be a day that no one in the United States would forget, but had given her no specifics about the terrible thing that would happen or where.

  “Hi.”

  Malak turned quickly. It was the little girl. For the second time that morning someone had stepped into her space without her being aware, and this time she was awake. What’s happening to me? she thought.

  “Good morning,” Malak said to the girl, masking her confusion. “The trees are beautiful.”

  The girl nodded. “The leaves are turning golden.”

  “What are you doing today?” Malak asked.

  “We’re going on a trip. Mommy’s packing.” The girl squinted up at her. “You look like my mommy…kind of.”

  “Thank you. Your mommy’s a pretty lady. So, you’re going on a trip? Is it just you and your mommy, or is your daddy going too?”

  “Daddy has to work. My brother’s going.”

  “Of course. How long will you be gone?”

  “A long time, Mommy says.”

  This probably meant they weren’t coming back.

 
; Another mistake, Malak thought. She should have had Ziv or Dirk follow the little girl’s father to wherever he worked. There was more to his assignment than picking her up from the train station. Pulling an established, well-positioned asset from a safe house could mean only one thing: Daddy was going to do something very bad.

  “Are you driving or flying?” Malak asked.

  “Driving,” the girl answered. “The big car.”

  Of course they would be driving. No surveillance cameras. No identification to show. No trail to follow.

  Malak was about to ask some more questions when the girl’s mother appeared, holding her son in her arms. She had a computer case hanging from her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s difficult to keep track of both of them.”

  Malak smiled. “That’s fine. We were just talking about the leaves turning color. Are you going somewhere?”

  “I have some errands to run.”

  The girl was about to say something, but a harsh look from her mother silenced her. The training started young, Malak remembered. Her own parents had treated her the same way when she was growing up. So many secrets, which she never understood until now. Unlike her twin, Anmar, when Malak came of age she chose a different path. She had joined the other side. Her parents, or the man and woman whom she thought of as her parents, disowned her, and then they disappeared.

  How would the girl choose when she came of age?

  How would the boy choose?

  “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” the woman said.

  Malak saw anxiety in the woman’s brown eyes but knew better than to ask any questions.

  Ghosts did not ask questions.

  “Thank you,” Malak said. “As sala’amu alaikum. Peace be upon you.”

  “She says those funny words like Daddy,” the girl said.

  The woman took her daughter’s hand and walked around the side of the house.

  Malak waited twenty seconds, then hurried through the patio door and upstairs. She looked out the window and memorized the license plate number of the late model SUV as it headed down the long driveway.

  Then she began to search the house.

  It was as sterile as a well-cleaned hotel room. She did not find a single scrap of paper—not even an old grocery list or receipt, and certainly nothing with the family’s names on it.

  Malak had seen this many times before.

  The woman had loaded prepacked suitcases into the SUV, thrown the laptop into her bag, grabbed her two children, and driven away as if they had never lived in the beautiful house. Her next house might not be as nice, but it wouldn’t matter to her or her husband—if he joined her. They would enroll their children in school, get jobs, and wait for instructions.

  Malak retrieved her backpack from the bedroom and brought it up to the kitchen. She pulled out her computer and composed a carefully written encrypted e-mail as she ate a bowl of cereal.

  The e-mail was not to her handler, Amun Massri. It was to a man who called himself Ziv. He had been with her from almost the beginning of this deception, and he was the only person in the world she trusted absolutely.

  Before sending the e-mail, Malak went over it several times to make sure her instructions were crystal clear. Ziv would need Tyrone Boone’s help to carry them out.

  Invitations

  By the time P.K., Angela, Norton, and I got to the kitchen, we’d given out most of the invitations to surprised and grateful staff members.

  “Kids!” Chef Conrad hurried over to us.

  P.K. had been right. Conrad was small. In fact, we were all taller than the little chef, but he made up for his stature by his big personality.

  “Why are you not at the brunch?” He pointed to a flat-screen television monitor hanging on the wall above us. It was a live video feed of the brunch. Mom and Roger were sitting at the head of a long table, chatting with the people.

  “Because it would be totally boring,” P.K. said.

  “Or perhaps it is because your friends do not like my food.” Chef Conrad pointed his finger at me. “You did not eat my cheese curds and vanilla milkshake.”

  “I fell asleep,” I said.

  “Who falls asleep in the presence of deep-fried perfection?”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Conrad smiled. “I will make you an order of my fried cheese curds right now.”

  “We just ate breakfast,” I said.

  “Your sister had no problem finishing her cheese curds and hamburger,” Conrad said. “When they retrieved her plates this morning, housekeeping thought they had been washed.”

  I looked at Angela the vegetarian.

  “The cheese curds were unbelievable,” Angela said. “I was hungry after our meeting.”

  “With the great man!” Conrad said. “And so early in the morning too. Nice of the president to find time for you.”

  “It was,” Angela said. “We were wondering if you wanted to go to the Match concert.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be working tonight. The First Daughter has requested that hors d’oeuvres be served before your parents’ performance. We will prepare them here, stage them up in the State Dining Room, and then wheel them down the hall to the East Room.”

  “When do you sleep?” I asked.

  Conrad leaned toward us conspiratorially and whispered, “Sometimes I sleep in the kitchen unless someone orders fried cheese curds, milkshakes, and hamburgers before dawn.”

  We laughed.

  “Seriously,” he continued. “I’ll go home after the brunch, sleep for a few hours, and then come back to help make the hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Do you always use surveillance cameras on your diners?” Angela asked.

  “Not up in the Residence,” Conrad answered. “But for big events like this and the concert tonight it allows us to keep track of how the food is holding up. And of course, I like to see if our guests are enjoying my food. Are you spending another night here?”

  “I don’t know,” Angela said, and looked at me.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t heard anything about spending a second night.

  “When I return,” Conrad said. “I will make all of you a plate of fried cheese curds.”

  We left so he could get back to monitoring the brunch.

  Agent Norton hadn’t said a word to us since we’d started our tour, but that changed when we left the kitchen and walked up to the first floor.

  “Can I talk to you a second?” he said.

  “Sure,” we said in unison.

  “Let’s step into this room,” he said.

  The room was the same place we had waited the night before for POTUS—the same room with the secret passage. Agent Norton closed the door behind us. I looked at P.K. and Angela. They looked like I felt—worried. Had Agent Norton seen something earlier that morning?

  “How many of those invitations do you have left?” he asked.

  Which was a lot better than: Tell me about the secret passages. Or: What are you doing with an encrypted Secret Service radio?

  I thought P.K. might faint in relief.

  “Not many,” Angela said, slipping her pack off her shoulder.

  “I just need one,” Agent Norton said.

  “Won’t you be with us?” I asked.

  Norton nodded. “It’s not for me.”

  “Wife?” Angela asked. “Girlfriend?”

  Agent Norton shook his head. “A friend.”

  “Okay,” P.K. said.

  Angela pulled out an invitation, and I pulled out P.K.’s ink and calligraphy pen.

  P.K. sat down with the invitation. “You know your friend will have to get through security.”

  Agent Norton smiled. “Yes, I knew that. Don’t worry. This guy will make it through. His name is Patrick James Callaghan.”

  It took me a couple of seconds to remember where I’d heard the name. “The guy across the street?”

  “You don’t miss much,” Agent Norton said.

  �
��I try not to. Who is he?”

  “A big fan of your parents.”

  “What’s he doing across the street?” Angela asked.

  “He works there.”

  P.K. finished the invitation and handed it to Norton.

  “Thanks,” Agent Norton said. “He’ll be happy.” He put the invitation inside his suit pocket. “Where to next?”

  “The Rose Garden,” P.K. said. “Then the Press Briefing Room.”

  “Not the briefing room,” Agent Norton said.

  “What’s a tour without the briefing room?” P.K. said.

  Agent Norton shook his head. “Where’s my hazmat suit?”

  P.K and Angela laughed.

  I didn’t get it.

  “Hazardous material suit,” Angela translated.

  It turned out that Angela didn’t get it either. She thought Agent Norton was making a joke about the sometimes “toxic” relationship between the president and the press. What he was referring to was the mess inside and outside the press, or briefing, room.

  The White House is immaculately clean. The Press Briefing Room, and the path leading up to it, is a dump. Cigarette butts, squished gum, candy wrappers, Styrofoam coffee cups (some with floating butts) were strewn all over the place.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A war of wills,” P.K. answered. “Dad doesn’t believe that taxpayers should subsidize picking up after people who refuse to pick up after themselves. Every few months Bethany tries to negotiate a truce by sending in a housekeeping force to clean things up. This is followed by a plea for the press to stop being slobs. They usually honor the accord for about three days, and then it’s back to garbage as usual. Looks like Bethany needs to broker another deal.”

  Agent Norton peeked through the briefing room door, then walked back to us.