Foreign Éclairs Page 14

  I hadn’t forgotten anything; I’d been expressing astonishment. But I held my tongue. The three of them had been more than patient as they educated me on the inner and outer workings of IEDs.

  Small steps at lightning speed.

  John was still holding the fourth IED. “This one is designed to be detonated remotely.”

  “Here.” Gav pointed to a small rectangular box that sat on the device’s exterior. Sizewise, it looked like a one-cup-size plastic container we used to store leftovers. He lifted it.

  I reached to touch the cell phone hidden beneath. An older model, the handset had a physical keypad and a tiny display. “I take it they call the number on this phone when they want the bomb to go off?”

  “Exactly,” John said. “But this method of pulling the trigger has its drawbacks.”

  “Like a lack of dependable cell reception in some areas?”

  John looked taken aback that I’d been able to make that logical leap. “Yes. Yes, exactly,” he said. “Very good. Also, equipment failure. I always say that the more intricacies you include, the more trouble you ask for.”

  Jane tapped the side of the phone. “We’ve developed methods for jamming such signals. In fact, our colleagues are busy setting up a signal-dampening system for tomorrow night’s event.”

  “You’re saying that if they set a bomb at the winery, you’ll be able to prevent it from detonating?” I asked.

  “Only if it’s one of these remote designs,” John said, hefting the metal cylinder. “If it’s on a timer, you’re out of luck.”

  CHAPTER 18

  When we got back to our apartment, Gav hesitated before unlocking the door. “You ready?” he whispered.

  I took a deep breath, let it out, and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  Once inside, Gav tossed his keys in the bowl and shrugged off his coat. I followed and when he shut the door behind us, signaling the beginning of our charade, I wondered if I would ever again feel comfortable and safe here.

  “Don’t you think we eat out a lot?” Gav asked. “I mean, considering the fact that you’re a chef.”

  “You know what they say about the shoemaker’s children,” I said.

  He laughed. “True enough. The place we went tonight was amazing. I wonder if they recognized you and that’s why all the courses were served with such panache.”

  As Gav waxed poetic about an imaginary restaurant, I recalled the less-than-elegant feast John and Joan had arranged for. Jane had insisted that we eat there so we wouldn’t have to make another stop on the way home. Both of them continued their instruction as Gav and I made short work of the food.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten dinner out of a paper bag, but I didn’t complain. The selections had done what was necessary: provide fuel for energy. What more did I need?

  Just in case our eavesdroppers were familiar with my work schedule, however, we needed a cover to explain our tardiness arriving home tonight. Gav’s goal was to make it sound as though we’d enjoyed a leisurely dinner.

  “I doubt they did,” I said, “recognize me, that is. They’re known for their attention to detail. That’s why I chose it for us tonight.”

  We were both careful to avoid using a real restaurant’s name. It would be too easy for someone to double-check our story. Would the terrorists go to such extreme measures? We couldn’t be certain they wouldn’t.

  “Well, then kudos to you for making an awesome choice.”

  “After our argument the other day, I wanted to do something special for you,” I said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  Gav continued our script as he finished hanging up our coats. “I did. Very much so.”

  “Good,” I said.

  He crossed to join me in the living room, where he kissed me on the forehead with an impossible-to-miss smack.

  I withdrew a bottle of wine from our apartment-size wine rack. “Care to continue the celebration?” I asked.

  He took the bottle from me and pretended to peruse the label. “You know I love a good cabernet,” he said, “but I’m more in the mood for a merlot. We have one from Spencer’s Vineyards, don’t we?”

  I feigned surprise. “Are you sure? We’re down to our last two bottles from them, and I don’t know how soon we’ll be able to visit there again.”

  He exchanged the bottles, pulling up the merlot he’d mentioned. “Funny you should say that,” he said as he made his way into the kitchen and dug the corkscrew out of the drawer. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to head out to the winery tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow?” I repeated, hoping to inject a precise combination of wonderment and delight into my voice. “What for?”

  “What would you say to a long weekend?” he asked. “And before you ask, I was planning to broach the subject before you planned dinner out tonight, so don’t imagine that I’m playing copycat here.”

  I brought two wineglasses to the table. “A whole weekend? Alone? Are you kidding me? Of course. The First Family is away, so I’m clear until Monday. But how can you get away for that long?”

  “Well,” he said. “There’s a little more to the story I haven’t told you.”

  “Uh-oh. Am I going to like this?”

  He took his time pouring us each a hefty measure of wine although neither of us planned to drink it. When he finished, we picked up our glasses, clinked them together, and kissed, as was our habit.

  After we both sipped, he led me back into the living room. We sat next to each other on the couch. “I’ve been given new orders that will take me away from home for at least a week. Probably longer.”

  “No.” I elongated the word, this time working to inject disappointment into my tone. “When do you leave?”

  “Tuesday morning.”

  “It’s the Armustanians again, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.” I took a small sip of the deep ruby liquid. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  I blew out an exasperated breath. “Can you at least tell me if you’re staying in the United States or going out of the country?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  I heaved a sigh. “It’s not like there’s anyone I can tell,” I said. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “I know that.” Holding his wine in his right hand, he wrapped his left arm around me and drew me close. “But you know I’ve given my word.” He pressed his cheek against my head, but his words stayed clear. “What do you say? Are you willing to go away with me for a couple of days?”

  I laid a hand on his leg and squeezed. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better. But will it be all right with Bill and Erma? We can’t just show up and surprise them.”

  “I cleared it with them this afternoon. Erma said that you and I are always welcome at Spencer’s Vineyards.”

  “We’re staying with them?” I asked, knowing the answer. “Won’t that get a little awkward?”

  Chuckling, he took another sip. “They have a guest cottage a little bit up the hill from the main house,” he said. “It’ll be just the two of us all weekend, though. Bill and Erma have plans of their own. They’ll stay long enough to hand over the keys but then they’re taking off for some sort of winegrower’s meeting.”

  “It sounds wonderful, Gav,” I said breathily.

  “One of the finest vineyards in Loudoun County will be all ours for the entire weekend. If the weather’s nice, we can hike. If it’s not . . .” He let the thought hang.

  Normally I would have picked up on Gav’s mild innuendo and replied with a little suggestive comment of my own. But knowing strangers were listening in on our conversation made me too uncomfortable to enjoy the banter.

  “This is a really great idea, Gav,” I said. “I can’t wait to get away. The last few days have been pretty stressful, what with Margaret’s murder and those two men st
ealing my purse. Not to mention the explosion at Suzette’s.”

  “You and I don’t have the opportunity to take vacations too often,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it, too.”

  I sat up. “Should we start packing?”

  Gav groaned. “What’s there to pack? I can throw a few things in my duffel bag and be good to go.”

  “I need to prepare a little more than that,” I said. “Are we coming back here to the apartment after work tomorrow night before we leave?”

  “No, we’ll leave straight from work.” He made a so-so motion with his head. “But I can’t predict what time I’ll get out. I’m hopeful it won’t be too late.”

  “What about our Secret Service chaperones?” I asked. “Are they joining us on our romantic retreat?” If we were being followed and recorded, there was no way the terrorists didn’t know we had protection. That protection was probably the only reason Gav and I hadn’t been sliced to ribbons in our sleep.

  Gav laughed. “I struck a deal with the higher-ups on this one. A team will shadow us on the drive out, but once we’re tucked in safely at Spencer’s, they promise to leave us alone for the weekend.”

  “I’m surprised,” I said. “The Secret Service has been tenacious about guarding us.”

  “As long as we aren’t followed, we’ll be fine. You’ve seen what a remote location it is and no one outside the department knows about my connection to Spencer’s. Plus, Loudoun County isn’t exactly the first place a terrorist would think to search for us.”

  “This will be so great.” My entire body trembled, but my voice remained steady and clear. “I think heading out to the country and forgetting about all the terrible things that have happened is going to do us a lot of good.”

  Gav stood and offered me his hand. “Let’s start packing then. Our adventure awaits.”

  I grabbed his fingers and let him pull me to my feet. “It does indeed.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Deep into our reorganization, Bucky and I were again sitting cross-legged on the White House kitchen floor the following morning, surrounded by stacks of bowls, piles of utensils, and an assortment of heavy cookware, when Sargeant dropped by.

  “I trust this lack of decorum isn’t indicative of new protocols,” he said with his customary moue of distaste. He leaned over to pick up one of the smallest metal bowls, using his fingers as a pincer to do so. “And I certainly hope you intend to thoroughly scrub all these items before using them.”

  “All part of the plan, Peter,” I said. “We’re using our free time to clean and restructure. Better to get this accomplished now before our new chef is hired. Changing the layout after she starts would cause undue aggravation.”

  “That’s one of the matters I’d like to discuss with you,” he said.

  “Good, I was hoping that’s why you were here.” I got to my feet, rubbing my hands together to clear them of any floor grit I may have picked up. “We haven’t lifted the moratorium on hiring, have we?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  Bucky got up to stand next to me. “What’s the holdup? I understand the need for security, but the First Family is out of town until further notice and all the applicants were vetted before this recent crisis began. The longer we wait, the more likely our best candidates will find positions elsewhere.”

  “Duly noted, Mr. Reed.” Sargeant sniffed. “The decision to pursue this matter, however, is out of my hands. In his eagerness to polish the PPD’s tarnished reputation, Neville Walker is continuing the suspension on all hiring until the current threat is eliminated, or at least diminished to a great degree.”

  “No better than being back under a sequester,” Bucky said.

  “Does grumbling improve the situation?” Sargeant didn’t wait for Bucky to reply. “No, it does not.” Turning to me, he continued, “The reason I’m here is to inform you that Ms. Catalano’s cross-country home purchase has received a green light. She has withdrawn herself from consideration.”

  I grimaced at the ceiling before returning my attention to Sargeant. “Thanks for letting me know. It’s a disappointment, but at least we didn’t lose her because we were dragging our feet on a decision.”

  He nodded. “I understand you’re leaving for the weekend?”

  “You got my e-mail, I take it,” I said.

  “Yours and Neville’s.”

  Bucky arched an eyebrow. “Oh, so everyone is in on this covert weekend plan but me,” he said. “Is that it?”

  Sargeant glared. “The less you know, the better. Trust me.”

  Bucky held up both hands. “Whoa, didn’t mean to touch a nerve. I was just teasing.”

  Though almost a full head shorter than Bucky, Sargeant took a menacing step forward. “Margaret is dead because of how much she knew about the White House and its staff. The people who killed her think nothing of using and discarding us to further their goals. When I said the less you know the better, I wasn’t being funny.”

  “Of course not,” Bucky said, clearly intimidated. “There’s been a lot of tension here lately. I was just trying to inject a little levity.”

  “Didn’t you read the memo urging personnel to exercise extra caution in their day-to-day lives outside the White House?” Again, before Bucky could answer, Sargeant went on, “I don’t see any room for levity in what we’re dealing with here.”

  Chastised, Bucky’s cheeks flamed. “Fair enough.”

  Sargeant tugged at his collar and straightened his tie. “Speaking of Margaret, I have an update to share.”

  Bucky pursed his lips but said nothing.

  “The reason I asked about your schedule this weekend is because, now that Margaret’s remains have been released to the family, funeral arrangements have been made. Margaret will be waked from three to nine on Sunday. Her family is Roman Catholic, so the funeral Monday morning will begin with a mass. I plan to send out an e-mail to everyone on staff, but I wanted to tell you personally because I know it’s important to you to attend these things.”

  It had been a very long time since the day Sargeant and I stood side by side, alone, at a memorial for one of his relatives. Although he’d almost seemed to resent my presence at the time, I knew that deep down he’d appreciated my being there.

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll definitely attend the funeral, and I hope to be back in time Sunday to make it to the wake. I know how much it means to grieving families to be able to meet and talk with people their loved ones knew.”

  “Yes,” Sargeant said. With a curt nod, he turned and left.

  Bucky stopped me from reclaiming my spot on the floor. “Okay, I know you can’t share details but—Ollie.” He rubbed his hand up his forehead and along his bald head, staring out the direction Sargeant had gone. “That guy is always high-strung, but I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “There’s a lot of pressure on him right now.”

  “No, it’s more than that.” Bucky turned to face me. “You’re walking into something big this weekend, aren’t you?”

  “Bucky . . .” I held my hands out. “I can’t.”

  “I know, I know.” His jaw was tight, his eyes blazed. “Just tell me you know what you’re doing.”

  I pulled in a breath. “Other people know what they’re doing.”

  “Do you trust them?”

  I thought about Yablonski and the team of people prepared to protect me tonight. “I do.”

  “That’s something, at least,” he said. “I don’t like this, Ollie. Don’t like it one bit.”

  I fist-bumped his shoulder. “Where’s that levity you were talking about? Come on, think about it. I’ve been in tough situations before. What’s one more?”

  He didn’t smile. “Got a bad feeling this time.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. The words were a knee-jerk response to allay his fears, but saying them aloud made me feel better, too. “Really.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  * * *

  Gav and I set out for
Spencer’s Vineyards right on time. The government-issue vehicle he drove wore a thin film of grime and carried an overpowering stench of stale smoke.

  “Who used this car last?” I waved a hand in front of my face, for all the good it did me. The smell wasn’t going anywhere but up my nose. “Whoever it is I worry for their health.”

  “This is the car Joe usually takes when he’s in the field.”

  “Joe Yablonski?” I asked, even though there weren’t any other Joes we both knew. “You can’t be serious.”

  “He apologized in advance for the car’s condition.” Gav flicked a glance up at the rearview mirror. “But he insisted we take a secure car and didn’t want to pull rank on other agents. He’s riding with one of the team members behind us right now, in fact.”

  “How could I not have known he was a smoker? That’s a pretty tough habit to hide.”

  “Believe it or not, Joe hates everything about cigarettes. Can’t stand the things.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” I asked, wiggling my fingers in the smelly air.

  Gav squinted at the windshield. “It’s been twenty years, maybe twenty-five since he kicked the habit.” He turned to me and smiled at my skeptical look. “No really, he did kick the habit. Ninety-nine percent of the time he won’t touch tobacco. But whenever he does, he smokes alone in his car so that no one has to breathe his secondhand smoke.” He waved a hand in the air. “Like I said, he apologized profusely for subjecting you to all this.”

  “Why the one percent, then? I would think that if he hates tobacco so much he’d never risk getting drawn back in.”

  “Nerves.” Gav lifted one hand from the steering wheel as though there could be no other answer. “It’s situations like this one—when he puts people’s lives in danger—that he turns into a maniac and pulls out a pack. Can’t help himself.”

  “I had no idea. He always comes across so calm and in control.”