Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  I am not perky.

  Friendly? I’ll admit I’m that. It’s a Southern thing. My Southern-fried manners should never be mistaken for sugary perkiness, thank you very much.

  Sure, I might have had a perky ringtone on my cell phone for a while this past summer. It was a mistake I had since remedied.

  Kelly Clarkson’s girl-power anthem, “Stronger,” which celebrated Nietzsche’s maxim “That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” was my current ringtone of choice. Which reminded me . . . I pulled my phone from my pocket to switch the ringer back on. That’s when I noticed that while the President had been digging his hole, a text message from a restricted number had come to my phone. The message was short and to the point.

  Die.

  • • •

  THAT THREATENING TEXT MESSAGE ECHOED IN my mind like a bad special effect in a low-budget horror flick.

  Die.

  Die.

  Die.

  Who could have sent it?

  I hadn’t done anything recently, in several months actually, to merit a death threat. Even so, I rubbed my soggy arms to chase away the goose bumps that prickled my skin as Gordon, Lorenzo, and I sloshed back to the grounds offices.

  Our offices were located underground, directly underneath the North Portico. Or as Lorenzo liked to say, in the bowels of the White House. Water dripped from our hair and the hems of our clothes onto the basement hallway’s concrete floor. Our shoes squished with each step.

  “This is your last chance, Gordon.” Frida’s shrill voice made me jump. She must have been lurking just inside the doorway, waiting for us.

  Gordon passed her without a second glance. Undeterred, she followed. Her body swayed as her short legs struggled to keep up with Gordon’s long stride.

  Gordon picked up his pace.

  Frida had to jog to keep up. “You won’t like what I have to say to Ambrose.”

  “Why would you think Gordon would steal anything from you?” I asked.

  “He wants to use my research to find Jefferson’s treasure,” she said, panting as she tried to catch up. “Isn’t that it? You’re hoping to upstage me. That’s how you plan to get your revenge.”

  Gordon snorted at that.

  “Treasure?” I asked.

  Frida ignored me and instead wagged her finger at Gordon’s back. “Don’t you dare deny it, Gordon Sims. Just ask the First Lady’s sister. She was the one who first noticed my research was missing. I bet you didn’t realize how closely she’s been working with me on the history project.”

  “She is? She’s working with you?” I asked. That surprised me. Lettie Shaw had arrived two weeks ago to help Margaret Bradley take care of the twins, only she’d spent most of that time in the grounds office. She’d rearranged my desk three times in an attempt to be helpful. Her attempts, unfortunately, hadn’t been at all successful. Yesterday, it took me over an hour to find my to-do list. I’d finally found it filed under D for Do.

  If Frida enjoyed working with her, the next time Lettie showed up, I planned to send her over to the curator’s office.

  “Of course Lettie prefers to work with me over Gordon,” Frida crowed. “She’s a university professor and is interested in the White House’s history. We’re kindred spirits, which makes Gordon jealous. He’s always been jealous of the prestige the curator’s office gets when all you get is”—her nose wrinkled as she looked us up and down—“muddy.”

  We’d reached the grounds office. Gordon grabbed my arm and yanked me inside.

  “Go away, Frida,” he snapped and slammed the office door in her face. He then stomped across the large room that served as storage space and office space that Lorenzo and I shared. With a huff, Gordon disappeared into his private office.

  “Do we need to worry about her?” I asked Lorenzo since he’d been working for the White House for nearly nine years and knew the political landscape much better than I did.

  Lorenzo looked at the closed grounds office door and then toward Gordon’s office. “Frida’s not someone you want as an enemy,” Lorenzo said while I took a couple of towels out of my desk’s bottom drawer. I tossed him one. “But Gordon knows what he’s doing . . . I think.”

  “Of course I know what I’m doing,” Gordon said as he emerged from his private office. He was using a small white terrycloth towel to dry his wet hair. “Now, let’s figure out what happened out there with the irrigation line.”

  “What was she saying about a treasure?” I asked, unable to put the thought of digging up a box of glittering gold or jewels out of my mind. “Don’t tell me she thinks Thomas Jefferson hid gold somewhere in the gardens.”

  Gordon stamped his wet shoes on the concrete floor, creating a small puddle underneath him. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. She’s always going on and on about finding so-called priceless artifacts here and there. She rarely makes any sense.”

  “I agree,” Lorenzo said. “She’s nuts.”

  “Exactly.” Gordon draped the towel over his shoulder. “Now back to the matter at hand. Casey, what happened? How did you manage to locate the planting site over an irrigation line?”

  “I don’t know! I had selected the site because, according to my research, it was where Thomas Jefferson had originally planted an allée of little-leaf lindens along a carriage path.” Gordon already knew this. He liked the idea of re-creating the historic planting one commemorative tree at a time. “I swear there wasn’t anything on the schematic to indicate an irrigation line would be there.” Even though I was wet and cold, I went straight to the large flat metal filing cabinet where the schematics and plans for the utilities in the gardens were kept and yanked open the drawer. The plans were right where I’d filed them.

  Gordon took the schematic for the South Lawn and laid it out on Lorenzo’s large wooden drafting table.

  I pointed to the tiny pencil X-marks on the schematic I’d drawn to denote where, according to my research, Jefferson had planted the carriage path’s allée of little-leaf lindens. “See. There are no irrigation lines indicated anywhere within the planting area.”

  “This schematic has to be thirty years old,” Gordon said, studying the paper. “See here? And here? All of this predates the most recent upgrades to the irrigation system.”

  “It’s the only schematic in the drawer,” Lorenzo said after digging through the rest of the plans filed there.

  “Are you sure you didn’t misplace the current utility schematic?” Gordon asked. He glanced in the direction of my desk piled high with paperwork.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t lose anything.” The large-scale and woefully out-of-date schematic seemed to be laughing at me from the drafting table. “That was the only one available.”

  “Are you sure?” Gordon asked again.

  My heart quailed to see him frowning at me like that. My lovable supervisor had supported me time and again. Even when all the facts seemed to indicate I was wrong, he had stood up for me. I considered him more than a friend. He was fast becoming as dear to me as family. I loved him as a daughter should love her father. I didn’t want to let him down. But what could I say?

  I was disappointed in myself.

  Not because I’d misfiled the schematic for the South Lawn, because I hadn’t. It hadn’t been there for my use. Perhaps Frida’s rants weren’t as crazy as we’d all thought.

  What if there was a thief—or saboteur—in the White House?

  Whoever had sent me that ominous “die” text message might have also taken the schematic in an effort to disrupt the President’s commemorative tree planting.

  “Yes, Gordon,” I said, “you’re looking at the only schematic I could find in that drawer.”

  “Ah, it’s a mystery for you to solve.” Gordon rubbed his hands together while an excited gleam brightened his blue eyes. “Perhaps I can join you on this caper.”

  I’d been a bad influence on him. He was starting to enjoy the trouble that seemed to find me. “I like my mysteries in fiction.
Not in real life. I’ve turned over a new leaf, remember?”

  “But we can call it the case of the missing paperwork,” he said with a toothy grin. The grin faded as he observed my messy desk again.

  I crossed the room and scooped up a pile of paperwork from my desk; not that it made a dent in the disorganization. It just made the papers in my arms as soggy as I was.

  “With a little diligent work, I’m sure you’ll figure out what happened.” Gordon patted my arm. “You always do.”

  “I didn’t lose it on my desk. I would have noticed a large-scale plan in these piles when I was looking for my to-do list yesterday.”

  I dropped the soggy files and paced in front of the thirty-year-old schematic still spread out on Lorenzo’s drafting table. What if there was a thief wandering the White House halls, and what if that thief had stolen the schematic for some nefarious purpose? If that was the case, then this was a matter for the professionals to be investigating, not the gardeners.

  I reached for the grounds office’s phone to report the possible theft. But just as I touched the phone’s receiver, it pealed out an impatient ring.

  I swallowed hard before picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Put Gordon Sims on,” the man on the other end of the line barked without identifying himself or his office.

  “It’s for you.” I held the phone out for Gordon.

  After the short phone call ended, Gordon set the phone’s receiver back into its cradle. He put his hand on my arm and gave a tender squeeze before announcing, “I’m wanted over at the West Wing.”

  He stared at the floor for a moment and then pulled off a shoe to wring water from one of his drenched socks into a small trash basket.

  “Are you being blamed for Casey’s mistake?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Let’s not start by placing blame.” Gordon removed his other shoe and peeled off a second wet sock. “We’ll get this straightened out.”

  “Don’t you have time to change into dry clothes?” I asked. We all looked bedraggled and in dire need of a good blow dry.

  “That irrigation line break will have already hit the national news cycle. Film footage of President Bradley getting thrown back by a spray of water must have made a spectacular video. The press would be foolish not to run with it, which means the press secretary will need to start answering questions like: What happened? Why did it happen? Was it a breach in protocol? A security breach? Was the President at risk? They’re important questions that need to be answered.”

  “Would you like me to go with you?” I asked. “It was my project. I should be the one to take the blame.”

  Gordon rubbed his damp hair with the towel again and seemed to consider my offer before he smiled. “Thank you, Casey, but no. Stay here and find that missing schematic.”

  “I didn’t misplace it,” I grumbled. “Someone must have walked off with it, stolen it even.”

  But Gordon didn’t hear me. He’d already left.

  “If Gordon loses his job”—Lorenzo jammed his finger in my face—“I will make sure everyone knows that you and your incompetence are to blame.”

  “Gee, thanks, Lorenzo, but I’m going to fix this.” The back of my neck tightened. “Someone took that schematic. I feel it in my bones.”

  Lorenzo eyed my messy desk as if it were the proverbial smoking gun.

  “I mean it. I only leave the unimportant paperwork in those piles.”

  “The purchase order for five tons of topsoil went missing for three weeks,” he reminded me.

  “Un-im-portant paper-work,” I repeated, emphasizing each syllable. “The topsoil was delivered on time. I’m going to find out who took that schematic. You know I will.”

  “Not if I find it first.” He started rifling through the papers scattered on my desk.

  I didn’t have the energy to stop him. Besides, maybe he’d make a few inroads in getting my desk organized. I picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the Secret Service’s office.

  The agent who’d answered couldn’t understand why I was calling to report a missing schematic and had me repeat what I’d thought had happened several times. “I didn’t misplace the schematic. It was stolen!” I finally shouted in exasperation.

  She put me on hold.

  A few minutes later two Secret Service agents, Steve Sallis and Janie Partners, appeared at the grounds office’s doorway. I knew the two of them well. They often drew the short straw when it came to dealing with the gardeners. We seemed to have a reputation—undeserved—for being troublemakers.

  Clashes between the grounds office and the Secret Service often occurred because the grounds office was required to coordinate all landscaping decisions with the Secret Service. If it were up to the Secret Service, all of the plantings would be mowed down. Bushes and trees provided hiding places and blocked an agent’s line of sight.

  Special Agent Steve Sallis stood at the door with his arms crossed. He was dressed in a black suit and had a black mood that matched, which was unusual for him. Not the suit, but the mood. I’d never known him to be stingy with his smiles.

  Special Agent Janie Partners, who had a slight purple tinge to her chestnut-colored hair and wore a feminine black suit and a scarf with a batik golden oak leaf pattern, was also acting oddly subdued. She wrote fastidiously in a small notebook as I told them about Frida’s claims of her research being stolen from her office. I then showed them where we kept the schematics and how the most recent one for the South Lawn was no longer there. While she seemed to be listening, I got the distinct feeling that neither Janie nor Steve really believed what I was telling them.

  “Will everyone stop staring at my desk?”

  “I understand your frustration,” Janie said. She used the same tone the agents used with unruly tourists who wanted to jog across barricades or hang on the White House’s iron fence to take silly pictures. “Why don’t you look around a bit more and then call us back?” she advised with another nod toward my desk. “I’m sure the schematic will turn up.”

  For the first time in my life, I regretted my lack of interest in filing. And since Lorenzo had given up on digging through the piles of paperwork, after the agents left I changed into dry clothes and started the arduous task of organizing my desk myself.

  I was halfway through the first stack when Gordon returned from the West Wing. Both Lorenzo and I jumped to our feet when we saw him. Our chief gardener looked positively ashen.

  “What happened?” I asked with no small degree of alarm. I should have been the one to be raked across the coals. “What did they say to you? What did they do?”

  Gordon shook his head. “Naturally, everyone on the President’s staff is shouting right now. Images of the water exploding in Bradley’s face are all over the news reports. Those news reports have spooked an envoy from the Republic of Turbekistan who was supposed to meet with the President this afternoon.”

  “Tur—where?” I asked.

  “The Republic of Turbekistan. I know, Casey, I’d never heard of it, either. It’s a small country in Eastern Europe that used to be part of the former Soviet Union.” The lines on his face deepened. “The envoy has not only canceled this afternoon’s meeting, he’s gone into hiding. The West Wing is frantically trying to find and then reassure the envoy so they can reschedule.”

  “He went into hiding over a broken irrigation line? There must be something else going on,” I said.

  “Probably.” Gordon crossed the room to study the out- of-date schematic.

  “How important can talks be with a country no one has heard of?” I asked. “The meeting wasn’t even listed on the President’s schedule.”

  “Apparently, Turbekistan has recently discovered a large oil deposit, but they don’t have the funds to build the infrastructure to extract the oil. And the leaders of Turbekistan don’t trust the big oil corporations. So they’re looking to partner with a country with deep pockets. In exchange for paying for the infrastructure, the U.S. will receive a s
harp discount on the oil we purchase from them. I was told the negotiations with this envoy could make or break Bradley’s presidency. The oil reserve is that large.”

  “The oil could be the boost to the economy this country desperately needs right now.” Lorenzo glared at me again.

  “That’s true. And if the envoy doesn’t feel safe, administration officials are worried he will take Turbekistan’s oil and go negotiate with China,” Gordon said.

  “And if that happens?” I asked.

  Gordon shrugged. When he wouldn’t look in my direction, I suspected there was more to this story than what Gordon was telling us.

  “If the envoy won’t agree to reschedule the talks, what happens?” I asked again. “Will the grounds office be blamed? Will you be blamed?”

  Gordon lifted his shoulders again in a shrug. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

  “Hell no, it won’t,” Lorenzo said as he frowned at me.

  “No, it won’t,” I agreed. “You’re not going to lose your job because of a skittish envoy from some country out in the boondocks. I’m going to march over to the West Wing right now and tell President Bradley this was my fault.” Sure, gardeners couldn’t just waltz over to the Oval Office and chat with President Bradley, but I could try. “Or I could talk with the envoy, explain to him that what happened this morning was a mistake, an accident.”

  “No, Casey. You don’t need to do anything. Let the West Wing handle the damage control. I’m sure, in time, it’ll work out. I’m just tired.” Gordon leaned his timeworn hands against Lorenzo’s drafting table and lowered his head. “There’s some pruning in the Children’s Garden I’ve been putting off for too long already. I should try to get it done before I have to meet with Ambrose and explain to him that Frida’s lost her freaking mind.” He groaned. “I’m getting too old for this. I can only handle one fire at a time.”

  I wrapped my arms around him in a Southern-fried hug. “I’ll make this right,” I promised. “I swear I will.”