State of the Onion Page 4

  “Yes,” I answered, suddenly ill at ease.

  “And you are employed here as an assistant chef?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared a long moment. Nodded. “We may have more questions for you later.”

  I scooted away before he decided to question me right then and there.

  AT HOME THAT NIGHT, I TURNED ON CNN, snuggled into my comfortable red pajamas, brushed my teeth, and spent a few important moments at the mirror fixing my hair. I poured a glass of wine for myself, and made sure I had a chilled mug in my freezer and a supply of Samuel Adams in the fridge.

  The official dinner for India’s prime minister had gone so well that the White House social secretary, Marguerite Schumacher, had made a special effort to visit the kitchen and let us know what a success tonight’s event had turned out to be.

  I sighed, contented.

  It still amazed me that I was here, in Washington, D.C., working in the most important kitchen in the world. A far cry from life back in the Chicago two-flat with my mom and Nana.

  The sun had gone down two hours ago, and I couldn’t believe it’d been just this morning that the Secret Service had carted away the man…Naveen…the guy I’d knocked to the ground. It felt more like a year ago.

  I caught a glimpse of the clear, starry night above my balcony, and I wondered if Mom and Nana stared up at the stars and thought of me, as I thought of them. I would love to have them both relocate here, but Nana was set in her ways, and my mom would never abandon her. Not even to live near me.

  I’d made noises today about leaving the White House if Laurel Anne got the executive chef position, but I wasn’t kidding anyone, least of all myself. This was my dream job, and I’d fight with everything I had before I’d give it up to the likes of Laurel Anne.

  On a whim, I popped a blank tape into my VCR and started recording the news. As I expected, they were still running the story. I wanted to know more about this Naveen. And what danger he had talked about. And how he knew Craig Sanderson.

  Mostly, though, I just hoped to catch myself on screen. Vanity maybe, but someday I’d be able to pull out the tape and brag about my participation to my grandkids.

  I settled into my leather sofa and took a long sip of Gewürztraminer. The German wine fluttered down my throat, filling me with quick warmth.

  Tonight’s handsome anchorman kept a studious look on his face as he reported the headline news: A change of regime in the Middle East. Prince Mohammed of Alkumstan had been overthrown by his brother Sameer, who immediately assumed total control of the country. Sameer claimed to stand for peace.

  I sighed. Yet another tale of Middle East unrest and more empty promises. I waited for the juicy stuff. Finally, the anchor introduced the clip. “From Washington, D.C., dramatic footage shows an intruder apparently attempting to gain access to the White House.”

  The recording showed the man running toward the building. This was a completely different perspective—a view from behind. It looked like it’d been shot from along the front fence. Somewhere in D.C., a lucky tourist was probably counting his windfall tonight. In the tape, the intruder ran away from the camera, dodging the two men in pursuit. Ahead of him, I saw the five agents waiting, guns at the ready.

  But something looked off in the picture. Something not quite right.

  I brushed the thought away. It had all happened so fast, and I’d been much closer to the action than the camera was. Frightened, too. The scene was bound to look a lot different from that viewpoint.

  The running man’s figure was small and grainy in the wide-angle shot, and I watched as he threw his package off to his left and turned to face the two agents chasing him. They cut the playback there, and resumed the clip with the man being led away in handcuffs. They shoved him into an unmarked vehicle, his face turned from the camera’s prying lens.

  The anchorman continued to narrate. “The man, who officials refused to identify, is thought to be Farzad Al-Ja’fari. He threw an object the Secret Service initially believed might have contained a bomb.”

  Blood rushed from my face. My limbs went weak. A bomb? And he’d picked it back up. He’d had it when I whacked him. What if I’d whacked the bomb instead?

  I felt the room grow small as I focused on the television.

  “Al-Ja’fari, who is wanted for questioning in connection with several recent bombings in Europe, was apprehended without incident. There is no word yet on whether he actually carried a bomb, or what he intended to do if he had reached the White House.”

  Nothing about my involvement. I wasn’t entirely surprised. How would it look if the intruder evaded our Secret Service only to be smacked on the skull by the mighty chef and her silver skillet? In a way, I was relieved. It looked like I still maintained possession of my anonymity.

  I took another sip of wine and half-listened to the remaining commentary. When it finished I stopped the VCR, then changed channels. It was just about time for me to tune in Laurel Anne Braun, master chef and host of Cooking for the Best.

  Maybe it was masochism on my part, but curiosity compelled me to watch my competition. Just before Henry had publicly announced his impending retirement, he’d told me in private that he’d recommended me to succeed him. I was flattered, honored, and just a little bit starstruck. If named executive chef for the White House, I would be the first female in history to hold the position.

  I paid close attention as Laurel Anne canted her head at the camera. It responded by zooming in on her expressive face.

  “Welcome again to Cooking for the Best, where I always cook for the best. Because I cook for you!” She pointed to the camera and gave a winsome smile.

  While the woman was no raving beauty, she certainly had presence. Like an over-the-hill Julia Roberts, she wore a constant little smirk—as if sharing a private joke with her beloved audience—yet always radiating confidence.

  By comparison, I was tiny. Short, with dark hair and brown eyes. She had me by half a foot, at least. And even I could see how her height helped maintain an air of power. Still, having worked with the woman, I knew that in real life her mask of self-assurance often dropped, and she became manic at the very times she should’ve maintained her cool. Mishaps were common in any kitchen. Keeping a level head made all the difference in the success or utter failure of an important meal. Laurel Anne was a control freak who shattered when things skidded out of control.

  Watching her depressed me, so I switched it off. Instead of turning CNN on again, I rewound and replayed my tape of the news. My disappointment that I hadn’t made it to the small screen had faded. Now I wanted to figure out what was bugging me about that clip. A little voice in the back of my head insisted it was important.

  There he was. Again, the long-distance view. But again, something struck me as being not right.

  Three replays later I started to catch subtle details. Although the recording was grainy and I couldn’t see the man’s features on the screen because he faced away from the camera, he had the same flowing dark hair I’d noticed this morning. He seemed shorter, but that could’ve been due to the camera’s angle. He rapidly outdistanced the two agents.

  I stopped the playback just as he lofted his package to the left. The purported bomb. As I stared at the screen I tried replaying the real scene in my mind, and all I could recall was that he was getting away from the agents. That he’d chosen to turn and confront them. Why?

  The scene on the screen, frozen before me, mocked my memory: the man’s arm held high; the black portfolio spinning, airborne; the two agents running behind him.

  The intruder’s head had twisted toward the camera as the package flew into the air. On my prior viewings, I’d watched the package. This time I took a look at the man.

  I inched closer to the TV screen.

  Too close. At this foreshortened distance everything turned into wiggly patches of light.

  Backing up, I squinted.

  “It’s the nose!” I said aloud.

  I mov
ed forward and backed up a few more times to get the best angle I could. The tape was fairly clear, but the runner’s profile took up only a very small portion of the screen. It was hard to be sure, but the man’s nose and chin were all wrong.

  I stood two feet from my screen and shook my head. This wasn’t the man I whacked.

  Despite my panic as he tried stumbling to his feet, I knew I remembered his profile perfectly. I always remembered faces.

  And this face was not his face.

  I perched on the edge of my couch and stared at the frozen screen, my hands running through my hair, as though my fingers might unearth answers there. This didn’t make sense. How could a tourist have the wrong man in the film? It made no sense at all.

  Wait a minute.

  I rewound the tape and replayed.

  The anchorman said that the recording came from an “undisclosed source.”

  An undisclosed source?

  Something was rotten as week-old stew meat.

  I wanted to shout, to tell someone. To report it. But there was no one I could talk to.

  That is, not until the doorbell rang.

  CHAPTER 4

  I FLUNG OPEN THE DOOR, EXPECTING TO usher Tom straight to the sofa where I could replay the tape for him. But before I could utter a word, he surprised me by thrusting forth a tissue-wrapped bouquet of flowers. This wasn’t a generic pick-’em-up-at-the-grocery-store arrangement, either. This weighty bundle had all sorts of exotic blooms mixed in with the requisite profusion of roses, daisies, and greenery.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, touching a delicate snapdragon and taking a deep sniff of the fresh-cut scent as he came in and shut the door. Puzzled by the unexpected gift, I opened my mouth to ask what the occasion was, but he interrupted.

  “Happy anniversary.”

  “Anniversary?” We’d been dating for more than a year, and we’d gone out for a special dinner to celebrate that momentous occasion in April. I knew he hadn’t forgotten that, which made me feel like a very bad girlfriend for asking, “But, it’s been—”

  “Thirteen months.”

  This was not at all like the Tom I knew. While he was always a gentleman, his thoughtfulness generally revealed itself in unusual ways, like the time I mentioned some of my favorite old-time movie stars. That same day, he went out and bought me Captains Courageous, Roman Holiday, and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. We snuggled in for the first of many black-and-white movie nights. He could be incredibly sweet. He was always thoughtful. But Tom was not a flowery kind of guy.

  “Well, technically,” I said, still perplexed, and hoping for a little more clarification, because I sensed that something was up, “it’ll be thirteen months tomorrow.”

  He grinned, stepping forward to snake an arm around my waist. I looked up into those blue eyes twinkling down at me. “True,” he said, “but I didn’t think it would be very romantic for me to run out on you after midnight to go pick these up.”

  “Oh,” I said, stringing the word out, “so you expect to be staying overnight?”

  His arm snugged me in tighter. “That’s the basic idea.”

  I loved being close to Tom. I loved pressing myself against him, feeling those taut muscles, the power in his arms. As one of the Secret Service, and a member of the elite PPD, he was charged with protecting the president of the United States—often referred to as POTUS—the White House, and everyone associated with it. He was a formidable guy and I had to admit, I felt protected when I was with him. Still, I inched away. “We’re crushing the flowers,” I said.

  He let loose, a little. “Got anything to eat?”

  I smirked. “What do you think?”

  As he rummaged through my refrigerator, I put the flowers in water, thinking about the evening that lay ahead. “There’s a mug in the freezer,” I said.

  “Don’t need it.”

  “Hey!” I snapped my fingers, and spun to face him. “There’s something you have to see.”

  He’d opened a can of Pepsi. Taking a long drink, he gave me a once-over from head to toe and back up again. “Something I haven’t already seen?”

  I slapped his arm in a playful gesture. “No, really. I taped the news and there’s something wrong with what happened this morning.” I canted my head. “What’s with the Pepsi?”

  “I’m on call.”

  That took me by surprise. “How come?”

  Tom shrugged, not looking my direction. “Did you know that Inherit the Wind is on tonight? The Spencer Tracy version.” He grabbed the clicker and changed channels. Fredric March’s face took up the small screen as Tom lowered himself into the sofa’s center cushion and placed his Pepsi on the coffee table. He patted the area next to him. “Hurry up. It’s one of your favorites.”

  “Actually, I have to show you this tape of the news,” I said. The president had explicitly asked me not to discuss this morning with anyone but the Secret Service. How convenient it was for me to have a Secret Service boyfriend. I couldn’t wait to show him the news program I’d taped. More than that, I wanted him to be as intrigued and excited about the inconsistency as I was.

  I reached to take the clicker, but Tom didn’t let go.

  “Come on,” I said, laughing. “We usually fight because neither of us wants to hold the clicker. This time I’m willing to take it from you.” I tugged again.

  Tom tugged back, grabbing me with both hands as he reclined on the couch. He pulled me on top of him and nuzzled my neck. “God, you smell good,” he said.

  I was a sucker for neck-nuzzling, and I felt my body tingle itself into readiness for what it hoped was to come.

  But the discrepancy in the news tape nagged at my brain even as Tom’s lips sought mine. Try as I might, I couldn’t put the morning’s events out of my head until we talked.

  I pulled away. “Tom,” I said, just a little bit out of breath, “Can I just show you something I taped on TV first?”

  “You want to stop now?” he asked, snuffing a laugh against my face so that his warm breath tickled my ear. “You sure?” He pulled me tighter against him and I fought the urge to ravish him right there.

  “It’s really bothering me.”

  He took me by the shoulders and pushed us apart, staring up at me. I watched disappointment cloud his eyes. “What’s so important?”

  The tone of his voice made me hesitate, but I knew this couldn’t wait. I slid off him and headed to the VCR. “I taped the news.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Yeah, but you have to see this. I think somebody faked the released tape.”

  I turned to catch his reaction to my pronouncement, but he’d already boosted himself off the couch and was heading back to the kitchen. “I’m hungry,” he said.

  The tape was all set to play. “Give me five minutes and I’ll fix you something.”

  I heard the sound of the fridge opening. His voice was muffled. “You watch it,” he said.

  “I’ve seen it.” I raised my voice so he could hear me, but I knew I sounded strained. To keep from shouting to him, I made my way to the kitchen. “What is with you?” I asked.

  He stood, shutting the fridge, holding a plate of bacon-wrapped olives speared with little wooden skewers that prevented them from unrolling. Shrugging, he turned to the countertop, his back to me, while he removed the Saran Wrap cover and downed two of the appetizers.

  “Those are better warmed up,” I said.

  He shrugged again. “Guess I better get used to things being cold.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He still didn’t turn, so I got next to him, real close. He popped two more in his mouth and chewed, not making eye contact.

  I touched his arm, keeping my voice low. “Tom, what’s wrong?”

  He took one of the small wooden skewers and stabbed at a wayward olive. “I brought you flowers. It’s our anniversary. And all you want to do is watch some news program? I might get called in any time tonight for a big debrief.”


  My eyebrows raised and he graced me with a glance.

  “No, nothing I can talk about,” he said, then continued. “But instead of relaxing, you want me to watch some news program that you think is faked.”

  This took me aback. Tom was never a whiner. In fact, he was one of the most even-tempered souls I’d ever encountered. That’s what drew me to him in the first place. The fact that he was complaining like this made my antennae go up. I wondered about this debrief that he mentioned. It must be something big to be working on his emotions like this. “Okay,” I said, squeezing his arm. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment. I guess I didn’t realize that you really might get called in tonight. But, this isn’t a fake news program.”

  “Oh yeah?” He turned to me now, pointing another little skewer. “What is it then, a scene from one of those silly ‘reality’ shows you like to watch?”

  The jibe against my guilty pleasures bothered me. But what bothered me more was the fact that it seemed he hadn’t been listening at all.

  “Tom,” I said, and this time I waited till he actually looked at me. “Something is wrong, okay? Can you give me that much? I want to get your opinion on something.”

  “I brought you flowers,” he said again.

  “And they’re beautiful.” I was getting angry. What was this? Bribe time? Give the girl flowers and have your way with her? This wasn’t the relationship I’d signed on for. “But if you care for me at all, you’ll sit on the couch for five minutes and watch something. All I want is your opinion. Okay?”

  I couldn’t believe it. He actually had to think about it. I watched him slowly come to a decision, even as his eyes slid toward my front door. He was truly considering leaving.

  I planted my feet. “Tom?”

  His expression shifted. To me it looked like he winced before saying, “Okay. Five minutes.”

  I sat next to him on the sofa, and pointed the clicker to start the tape. There was Naveen, running. As he prepared to throw his portfolio, I paused. “See? Right there.”

  Tom ate a couple more appetizers.

  Getting up, I stood next to the television, indicating the key spot on the screen, like a teacher with a PowerPoint presentation. “Look,” I said with a triumphant smile. “That’s not him.”