Foreign Éclairs

by Julie Hyzy

  Cutthroat seemed almost disappointed that his moment in the spotlight was over.

  I’d been sitting rigidly, trying so hard not to react to what Cutthroat was saying, that the moment he was gone, I nearly collapsed. The room roared around me, blocking out all but the rushing realization: Margaret had been targeted because she had information on me. It was my fault she was dead. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

  “They killed Margaret to get to me,” I whispered.

  Sick to my stomach, I felt Gav’s hand on my back.

  Yablonski heaved a noisy sigh. “I don’t know whether this makes it worse, or better, but if they hadn’t targeted Margaret first, if they hadn’t learned of your relationship with Agent Gavin, you most likely would be dead by now.”

  I looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “They had the means, they had the element of surprise, and—as proven by their attack on you in the park—they had the opportunity, but they held off. Why?” Yablonski spread his hands. “Based on what Cutthroat told us, the plan to bug your apartment came after Margaret spilled about Gav. She bought you some time. She bought us time, too.”

  “With her life.”

  Yablonski closed his eyes for slightly longer than a blink. When he opened them again they were dead, flat, unreadable. Exactly the way Gav’s were when he struggled with emotion. “Then let us ensure her life wasn’t lost in vain.” He turned to Gav. “Your cover is blown, Agent Gavin. There’s no doubt about it.”

  Gav flexed his jaw, but said nothing.

  “These two,” Yablonski said as he tapped his laptop screen, “are clearly aware of who you really are. You can no longer glide in and out of our investigations with fake identification and a plausible cover story. They’re onto you, which makes your current role in the organization a liability rather than an asset.”

  Gav straightened to stare at Yablonski. “That’s why they tried to kill us tonight, isn’t it? That’s why they’ll continue to come after us until we’re dead.” His eyes blazed and his body vibrated with anger. “I want to get out there right now and kill both those men with my bare hands.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Yablonski said. “But until we come up with a plan for how to proceed, you will follow orders. And that means you’re behind a desk until further notice.” He tapped the third photo on his laptop screen. “Have you told Ollie about Kern and his plans to overthrow the current regime in Armustan?”

  “I have.”

  He nodded. To me, he said, “Then you know this is a blood feud we’re facing. Kern is honor-bound to kill you.”

  “So I gather,” I said.

  “Now the hard part.”

  “Hard part?” I repeated. “Haven’t we gone through enough for one night?”

  “I’m afraid the worst is yet to come.” He blinked those flat, dead eyes. “Unless we can come up with a plan to eliminate the threat against you once and for all, you won’t be able to resume your regular life. You can’t. It would be impossible to protect you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I did, but I didn’t want to. “But you have a plan, right?”

  “Not yet. That will take time and considerable effort. And you need to know that, ultimately, we may not be able to do anything except hide you. Permanently. You know what I’m getting at?”

  Though worded differently, it was the same question again.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, deflecting.

  “Until we come up with a suitable plan to capture these men, you will both need to return to your apartment and pretend nothing’s wrong.”

  “You’re joking,” I said.

  “I wish I were. Think about it. We have one shot at bringing them in,” he said.

  I could see the pieces coming together. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t argue the logic as he laid it all out for me.

  “As long as Kern’s soldiers believe their surveillance hasn’t been compromised,” he said, “we retain a measure of control. We feed them what we want them to know. If we lose that tenuous connection—if they become skittish and decide to cut and run—we’re in the dark again. There’s only one thing for certain: They won’t give up. They’ll kill you or die trying. We have this one chance—our only chance—to reel these terrorists in.”

  “What is it, then?” I asked. “The plan, I mean?”

  He glanced at his watch again. “We have details to work out, and you both need sleep. I should have more information for you tomorrow. Trust me,” he said. “We will have you two covered every minute of every day until these men are stopped. You will be safe. But I need your full cooperation. Do I have it?”

  Gav took my hand as we got to our feet. I faced Yablonski. “What other choice is there?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Back at the apartment, Gav and I made light conversation—for the benefit of our listeners—about how happy we were to have made up after our argument and how our late evening out at the bar enjoying a few drinks had smoothed all the roughness between us.

  As we prepared for bed, I reminded myself of Gav’s assurances and tried hard not to think about anyone watching me change clothes. We talked about the devastation left by the gas leak and how walking into that scene had caused us both so much stress.

  We kissed good night and shut off the lights. Tucking into Gav’s warm body, I knew it would be a long time before my heart and mind settled enough to allow me sufficient peace to sleep.

  “We’re together, Ollie,” he whispered into my hair. “That’s all that matters.”

  * * *

  Even though I was exhausted from the wee-hour interrogation, and even though I could have called on Bucky to handle breakfast without me, I set out on time for my shift at the White House. I couldn’t stand being in our apartment a moment longer than necessary.

  Agent Lynch, a young man who had relieved Agent Romero during the night, escorted me in. He didn’t speak much and had a habit of addressing me as “ma’am” whenever he did. A second Secret Service contingent—in a dark sedan—followed us the entire way.

  Gav had taken off in the same car we’d used last night. He had a team following him as well. His first stop was the Secret Service office near the Gallery Place Metro station for a lengthy debriefing on all his contacts and interactions with Armustanian citizens over the past few years. Although he didn’t complain, I knew how angry he was that all his efforts—all the connections he’d made—were now compromised. His frustration level—and mine—were almost more than I could bear.

  An e-mail message from Sargeant was waiting for me when I arrived in the kitchen. Time-stamped very early this morning, it was a request to call him immediately. I did.

  “What’s up, Peter?” I asked.

  “I’m putting hiring on hold for the entire White House,” he said. “That includes the kitchen position.”

  “What’s going on? I haven’t heard anything in the news about a hiring freeze.”

  “Neville Walker and I discussed your predicament last night.”

  “My ‘predicament’?”

  “Ms. Paras,” he said with heavy disappointment, “must you be so obtuse? With all that has transpired with the Armustanian factions responsible for Margaret’s death and who have targeted you, we can’t take any chances, can we?”

  “He called you?”

  “At four o’clock this morning, yes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

  “Please,” he said, stopping my apology. “We have bigger issues at stake here, and we hope to all sleep more soundly once this situation is resolved. In the meantime, however, security concerns rule the day. All interviewing has been halted.”

  “What about Lottie Catalano? She’s not an unknown quantity. I don’t want to lose the opportunity to hire her if her house contract falls through.”

  “Collateral damage,” he said. “We can do no more than hope for the best and trust that we will be able to resume normal operations soon.”

  Disappoint
ed but resigned, I hung up.

  Bucky walked in a few minutes later. “What’s up now?” he asked. “You look as though you’ve been up all night.”

  “I have,” I said, too emotionally exhausted to pretend otherwise.

  He donned an apron and a gentle tone. “Tell me,” he said. “You know I won’t breathe a word.”

  I thought back to the last time we in the White House kitchen had been threatened. That had been nearly a year ago but Cyan’s lament about how this job took everything from us—our time, our lives, our hearts—resonated now louder than ever. I understood her need to walk away from the constant pressure and—what had turned out to be—ever-present danger. Bucky had never expressed a similar desire to break free of the White House’s hold, but that didn’t mean he didn’t harbor similar thoughts.

  “Let’s get started on breakfast,” I said.

  “Ah, you can’t tell me. Is that it?”

  “I have plenty to tell you,” I said. “But it’s easier to talk when I’m doing something.”

  I pulled out a frying pan and placed it atop the stove. After all we’d been through, Bucky deserved to know the truth. Except for details dealing with Gav’s undercover work, and Yablonski’s name, I told him everything.

  * * *

  “Ollie,” Bucky said when the butlers swept breakfast away, “this is too much. You’ve been in rough patches before, but nothing on this scale.”

  “The Secret Service has been relentlessly protective of us,” I said. “Neville Walker has seen to that. Even when Gav’s with me, I’m not considered safe. We have a security detail watching us around the clock.”

  “Don’t you think the Armustanians have noticed your bodyguards? Don’t you think that alerts them that we’re onto their plans?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll give up. They’re waiting for their moment. And when it comes, they’ll strike.”

  “What can you do?”

  “That’s the worst of it,” I said. “Nothing. We can’t do anything until we get word from the higher-ups. They’re working on a plan now.”

  “I wish they’d hurry.”

  “Good morning,” Sargeant said. Bucky and I turned as our chief usher strode into the room. He held a tablet in his hand and wore his typical persnickety sneer. “From the hushed conversation you two were engaged in before I arrived, may I presume that Mr. Reed is fully informed on recent events?”

  If Sargeant planned to ream me out for having shared so much with Bucky, so be it. I didn’t have it in me to lie. “Of course I did,” I said.

  “Good,” Sargeant said, surprising me. “Then I won’t have to dance around these updates. With the bombing at Cenga Prison, what we know thus far about Margaret’s murder, and the recent attempt on your life, Ollie, the White House is effectively on lockdown. The president has agreed to act on the advice of his counselors and will depart for Camp David with his family as soon as breakfast is over. Nonessential staff members will be sent home until further notice. They’re being told that the residence needs to be fumigated but that the procedure is to be kept quiet.”

  “And people are buying that?” Bucky asked.

  “Most of our personnel do as they’re told,” he said with a glaring frown. “A habit I do wish more of you embraced.”

  “I’m very glad that decision’s been made.” I said.

  “This means, of course, that until further notice, both of you are freed from your kitchen duties. With the First Family off premises and no official dinners to organize, you have no meals to prepare.” He wagged a finger at us. “How much time you both spend here at the White House is entirely up to you.”

  “What about the kids?” I asked. “How will Abby’s and Josh’s absences from school be explained?”

  “We have already called both institutions to report that the children are suffering with a bout of the flu.” He offered a fleeting smile. “That should buy us time until Monday. Let’s hope everything is resolved by then.”

  When he left, Bucky took a long look around the kitchen. “What do we do with all this freedom, Chief?” he asked.

  “What say we tackle that massive kitchen project we’ve always talked about but never found time for?”

  Bucky groaned. “That whole top-to-bottom-purge-and-reorganize project that you’ve always talked about?”

  “Yep. We’ve got at least four days ahead of us with nothing to do. Staying busy will help keep my mind off of what’s really going on out there.”

  With a resigned sigh, Bucky pushed up both of his sleeves. “Let’s get started.”

  * * *

  We started in on the overhead cabinets along the west wall and, working counterclockwise, had managed to sort through the contents of three of them. Standing on a stepladder, Bucky handed me items one at a time. When I took hold of an uncovered plastic bin and stared at its contents, I asked, “How many funnels does one kitchen need?”

  He came down from his perch. “I’m guessing there are at least forty in here.” Lifting one of the conical utensils from the stash, he blew a hard breath at it.

  Dust shot out at me, making me cough. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Sorry,” he said, taking the bin from me and placing it onto the central countertop. “But to answer your implied question, not this many.” He and I began pulling all size funnels from the bin, sorting them into sections of large, medium, small, plastic, and metallic. “Can we get rid of them?”

  “I suppose.” I picked up one of the white plastic versions. It had a huge crack running its length. “This one gets tossed for sure.” As we continued to sort, I added, “None of these look as though they have any sort of historical significance. They’re all twentieth century or later, I’d guess. Let’s start a donate pile. I’m sure there are worthy charities that will be able to use our kitchen castoffs.”

  Bucky took another look around the kitchen. It wasn’t a large room, but right now, at our slow pace, it seemed to represent a project that might stretch forever. “Can’t wait to see how much we come up with,” he said with deadpan humor.

  “But just think about how much better it will be to have the extra room. And you know how frustrating it gets sometimes when we can’t immediately find what we’re looking for.”

  “That doesn’t happen often.”

  “True, but in a perfect world, it wouldn’t happen ever.”

  “Since when is this a perfect world?”

  “Ms. Paras?”

  Agent Lynch stood in the west doorway. “Yes?” I asked.

  “Your presence is requested upstairs, ma’am.”

  I rubbed my hands together, decided they were too grimy from the cleaning project to ignore and said, “I’ll be with you in a second.” Stripping off my apron, I went to the sink.

  Bucky leaned against the counter next to me and spoke quietly. “You think this is it?” he asked. “You think they’ve come up with a workable plan?”

  “I hope so.” I shut off the water, dried my hands, and gave the kitchen a quick once-over. “Listen, this is too big of a job for one person. Wait until I get back to do any more.”

  “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Keeping busy will help keep me from worrying what’s going on with you upstairs.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Go get ’em, Ace.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Agent Lynch and I took the elevator up to the Butler’s Pantry. He opened the door that led into the Family Dining Room, and gestured me in. “They’re waiting for you.”

  All conversation ceased when I stepped into the room.

  Exactly as he had the night before, Yablonski sat at the center of the room’s table. This time, however, he wasn’t alone. Six others sat around him, most of whom looked to be in their late thirties. One man and one woman, however, seemed closer to Yablonski’s age.

  “Come in, Ollie,” he said again, much the same way he had last night. “Agent Gavin is on his way.”

  There were two open seats around the lon
g oval table, one at either end. As I settled myself at the spot at the south end, facing north, I ran my fingers along the shiny tabletop. After so many years in the White House, I should have been able to summon up what kind of wood it was, but my mind blanked and I couldn’t remember. It was a lovely reddish brown, with a blond-toned inset trim. Mahogany, probably.

  What difference did it make? Why was I fixating on the table right now?

  Probably because I was anxious about what I was about to hear.

  The agents around the table wore stern expressions and were dressed similarly in gray-toned business attire. I greeted them one at a time as Yablonski made introductions and I was happy to note that little name cards had been tented around the table. What a relief not to have to memorize so many at once. The last person to be introduced was a fifty-something woman, Maryann Morris. “Agent Morris,” I said, reaching to shake her hand.

  Yablonski cleared his throat. “The team members you’re meeting today, along with others who you will most likely never see, have been culled from the Secret Service, the NSA, and from other organizations. Let us dispense with titles. Individual ranks are not material to this endeavor.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No harm done,” he said. “In fact, as we’ll be working so closely together, it will be best if you think of these folks as your new best friends.”

  He’d used that “best friend” descriptor yesterday to pull information from Cutthroat. I knew Yablonski meant well, but the wording chilled me nonetheless.

  Except for murmured greetings when each had been introduced, none of the six people surrounding Yablonski had spoken a word since I’d walked in. They all seemed to be waiting for him.

  He turned to me. “You’ve been informed that the First Family left for Camp David this morning?”

  “I was thrilled to hear it, yes. I think that was an excellent decision.”

  “So glad you approve.” A corner of his mouth curled up, but no one else reacted. They remained ready, eager, and immobile.

  Yablonski’s gaze jerked up as the far door opened and Lynch escorted Gav into the room. “Ah, just in time.” Yablonski signaled to Lynch. “No interruptions.”