State of the Onion Page 7

  “Good night, Mrs. Wentworth,” I said. Then, shutting the door, I rested my butt against it. “She looks out for me.”

  The angry frowns hadn’t disappeared. If anything, they’d gotten more intense. Tom paced my small living room as Craig stood before me, hands at his sides, eyes glued to mine.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Have a seat, Ms. Paras,” Craig began, gesturing toward my kitchen. Behind him, Tom’s hands worked themselves into fists.

  Despite the fact that I’m short and relatively petite—and I’ll stay that way as long as I keep from ingesting large doses of carbs—I don’t back down easily. But I knew these two—one of them intimately—and until I knew what was up, it probably wasn’t a good idea to provoke a confrontation.

  I sat at my kitchen table.

  Craig took the chair opposite mine. Tom continued to pace, staring down at my linoleum as though he were trying to memorize it.

  “Are either of you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “Jesus Christ, Ollie,” Tom said. He stopped moving long enough to flash a look of fire my way.

  “What?” I asked, flaying my hands out. But I fought a sinking feeling in my gut. I had a feeling I knew exactly “what.”

  “Where is your cell phone?” Craig asked.

  They had me.

  “Shoot,” I said. Then, attempting an extremely feeble joke, I added, “I don’t mean that literally, of course.”

  Craig’s words were precise, his drawl more intense than ever. “Do I take your reaction to indicate that you comprehend the reason for our visit here at this godless hour?”

  Craig talking to me in Secret Service–speak was more frightening than Naveen’s performance had been.

  Tom kept pacing.

  I decided that the old adage about the best defense wasn’t applicable only to football. “Have you been tapping my calls? That isn’t right. That isn’t even legal.” A moment’s doubt as I turned to Tom. “Is it?”

  He stopped pacing. “You ever hear of caller ID?”

  “Well, yeah,” I began to say, the way some people say “duh,” “but how the heck could you guys have done it?” As I spoke, I tried putting the pieces together in my head, but the picture wasn’t coming clear. “You have some sort of alert put on all White House employee phone numbers? So no matter where I call, you can tag me?”

  Craig’s lips moved. But not much else did. “You overestimate your importance, Ms. Paras.”

  That was a slam. It got my back up. “Apparently,” I said, “I’m more important than I thought if you’ve got nothing better to do than pay me a visit because I happened to dial the D.C. Jail tonight.”

  “Happened to dial?” Craig repeated. “Are you claiming that you reached the D.C. Jail’s number in error?”

  My brain finally defuzzed enough to grab hold of the facts and make sense of them. Tom and Craig weren’t here because my phone number raised an alert—they were here because they’d been instructed to follow up with anyone who tried to contact Naveen at the jail. Because they were watching the guy for suspicious activity.

  When my cell phone number popped up on the jail’s caller ID, Craig probably assumed it belonged to another conspirator. Finding out that it was one of the assistant chefs calling on a whim probably made the two men in my kitchen want to throttle me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Sorry?” Tom asked. “Didn’t I tell you that we were handling this?”

  Craig’s head perked up. “Agent MacKenzie? Have you been in conversation with Ms. Paras about this subject prior to this visit?”

  The last thing I wanted was for Tom to get into more trouble than I’d already put him in. “Craig,” I said, pulling his attention to me again. “I’m Ollie, remember? We’re friends. Or we were before that Naveen guy ran at me.”

  To my surprise, he didn’t interrupt. So I continued. “Of course Tom talked with me about this.” Tom squeezed his eyes shut, but I ignored it. “He walked me up to the gate after it happened and he took the pan I had engraved for Henry, too. He said it was evidence.” I raised my voice as though addressing Tom, who resumed his pacing. “I haven’t gotten that back yet either, you know.”

  “Why did you call the D.C. Jail?” Craig asked.

  Tough question. I worked hard not to look over to Tom as I spoke. “I hit the guy pretty hard,” I said. “And then, when he called you by name…”

  Craig’s expression didn’t change but for a tiny flinch that deepened the tiny lines bracketing his eyes.

  “…I thought that I might’ve been wrong to have hit him. And he seemed so sincere when he told me the president was in danger.” My words came out in a rush now. “I knew that if he was a bad guy he probably got taken to the D.C. Jail, so that’s why I tried to call there. But the woman said he wasn’t locked up there, that there wasn’t even a record of him being arrested. And so I’m wondering now—did I hurt him? Is he okay?”

  Tom and Craig exchanged a look that, to me, appeared to be Tom saying, “Isn’t that what we figured she was doing?”

  Craig worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth. When he finally spoke, his Kentucky drawl was soft. “Ollie,” he began. I felt my shoulders relax at the nickname. “We understand that you have a soft heart. We understand that you found yourself in a situation that you were not trained to handle. But I must take this opportunity to remind you that you cannot involve yourself any further in this matter.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  He held up a hand. “Tom and I have taken it upon ourselves to talk with you. We are not bound to report your actions, nor take this matter any higher than our conversation here tonight. But I caution you that the jail is under orders to let us know when anyone tries to contact yesterday’s uninvited guest. I suggest that you do not try to contact him again.”

  “So he is at the jail, but they just couldn’t tell me?” I asked.

  Exasperation crossed Craig’s face. “I am not at liberty to disclose that information.”

  My apartment faced east, and I caught a glimpse of the sunrise, just at that point where the sky is pink and full of promise. Its hopeful brightness helped convince me that tonight’s crisis was over.

  “I’m sorry to have caused you any problems,” I said.

  Craig stood, nodded to Tom.

  As they prepared to leave, I realized I’d have to hustle to get myself to the White House by my regular time. At the door, Craig turned to me. “No more secret investigations. Are we clear on that?”

  “Cross my heart,” I said, gesturing across my chest. But I didn’t add, “Hope to die.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “DON’T YOU SLEEP ANYMORE?” I ASKED TOM.

  He shrugged.

  We’d agreed to meet at one of the many hot dog stands interspersed between souvenir vendors along 17th Street NW. Tom ordered a Polish with sauerkraut and I got my usual hot dog with mustard and tomato. If I’d been by myself, I’d have taken onions, too.

  As I ducked under a tree to get out of the unseasonably hot sun, Tom gave our snacks a frown. “With all the amazing food you create, how come we eat this junk?”

  “A taste of home. For me, at least.” I thought about Chicago-style hot dogs, the stuff of which legends are made. “But you’re avoiding my question.”

  He shrugged again.

  “You’ve got some nasty dark circles there,” I said. “And you look like you’re ready to drop.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Come on.” I touched his arm. “You know I’m just worried about you.”

  There was a long moment of silence. I took a bite of my hot dog, and Tom stared out to some middle distance. I tried to figure out what he was looking at, but there was nothing unusual out there. I waited. I knew what was coming.

  “Just what the hell did you think you were doing?”

  A bench opened up and I motioned toward it, buying time. “Le
t’s sit.”

  Tom grumbled, but complied.

  Once settled, he started in again, keeping his voice low enough to prevent strangers from eavesdropping, but yelling at me all the same. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused me last night? When the number turned out to be yours, I thought Craig would explode. What would’ve happened if he decided to then look at all your calls? Huh? Then he would’ve found my number on your recent call list—and we would’ve had a lot more questions to answer.”

  “I thought you said that there’s nothing wrong with us going out together. I thought you said that it isn’t against any regulation.”

  He frowned again, looking away, his Polish tight in his hands, still wrapped, apparently forgotten. I glanced down at my hot dog. I was starving, and I could’ve wolfed it down in three bites, but it felt somehow impolite to eat while I was being chastised.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point?”

  He turned to me, staring with such intensity that I leaned back. “I told you we were handling this. I know you were involved. It’s unfortunate that you were there. But now your only job is to get uninvolved. Do you understand that?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.”

  Tom unwrapped his Polish and started in.

  I took a big bite of my hot dog. Chewed, swallowed, and then said, “There’s just one thing—”

  His expression dropped. “What?”

  “I just wanted to find out if I’d screwed up or not. And—okay—I was worried about the president. Naveen said—”

  “Quit calling him Naveen.”

  “That’s his name, isn’t it?”

  “Just quit it, okay? It makes it sound like you know the guy. You don’t. And you won’t.”

  I decided to take a different approach. “You know how nosy I can be sometimes.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  I ignored the dig, and took another bite before continuing. “I caught the guy,” I said, allowing just a bit of wheedling to creep into my voice. “I think I’m owed a little explanation.”

  Tom ate more of his food.

  I waited. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

  “You know I can’t tell you anything that’s classified.”

  “And you know I would never want you to.”

  He nodded. “Craig and I discussed this before we went to see you. We disagreed. I wanted to lay out the information for you, because I know how you can be. How you pick, pick, pick at things till you figure them out.” From the look on Tom’s face, I gathered that this wasn’t one of my more endearing traits. “Craig didn’t appreciate that idea at all. He decided to take the hard-ass approach. Figured it would be more effective with a timid assistant chef.” For the first time that afternoon, Tom smiled. “Little does he know.”

  I felt the ice begin to crack. I smiled, too.

  Tom continued. “I couldn’t very well tell him that I knew how to handle you, so we did it his way.”

  I tried to disguise my eagerness, but the hopeful lilt to my tone gave me away. “You’re saying that the matter has been declassified?”

  He glared, but I could tell that his anger was long gone. “Some of it. Only some.”

  “And are you willing to share that ‘some’ with me?”

  With a twist, he shifted his body to face me. “I’ll tell you what I can—it’s the same information we would give any White House staffer who asked. But.” He held up a finger. “I first need you to agree that you’ll drop this little investigation of yours.”

  I finished off my hot dog. It was better than biting my tongue. If I’d have spoken, I’d have blown it by protesting his exaggeration. I was about to get answers. Arguing now could only hurt me.

  “I have no intention of calling the jail again. I swear.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and waited.

  “And I promise not to try to find Navee—I mean, the guy who you guys caught yesterday.”

  I meant it. I really did.

  Tom’s fears apparently assuaged, he continued. “I can’t tell you where he is right now, but I can tell you that his name is Naveen.” He held up his hand. “No last name, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Naveen is one of ours. Different agency.”

  I was about to ask if he was CIA, but Tom’s look stopped me.

  He continued. “And yes, he does know Craig. That’s not classified. Neither is the fact that he’s uncovered some information that suggests President Campbell may be in danger.”

  “You mean he thinks someone’s planning an assassination?”

  “Ollie,” Tom said in a voice just shy of warning, “there are always threats against the president. If I knew about a planned assassination attempt, I couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that the matter is sufficiently grave that we’re following up on every possible front.”

  “If this Naveen fellow is one of the good guys,” I said, trying to reason it out, “why was he running across the White House lawn?”

  Tom sighed. “He’s a talented agent—one of the best—and he’s uncovered a lot that other guys might’ve missed, but he’s fanatical. Naveen is always seeing conspiracies. Everywhere.” Tom rolled his eyes. “He claims that there are higher-ups in the Secret Service who have been compromised.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Right now, we have to believe him. We can’t afford not to.”

  I considered this.

  Tom stared off into some middle distance again, then seemed to come to a decision. “There’s more,” he said, “and this is off the record.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “We’re eventually sharing this information with everyone on staff, but I figured it won’t hurt to bring you up to speed early.”

  I wadded the hot dog’s wrapper into a ball, itching to egg Tom on, wanting him to hurry up and tell me whatever this big thing was. But he was not a man to be rushed. I gripped the little paper ball tighter.

  “Information will be disseminated. Soon.” He licked his lips, the last bite of his Polish still in his hand. He took a deep breath. Blew it out. “Naveen told us that the Chameleon has targeted someone at the White House.”

  Targeted. The way Tom looked at me when he said it gave me shivers.

  “The Chameleon?”

  Almost whispering now, Tom continued. “You know there are paid assassins out there who’ll go after anyone if the price is right?”

  I nodded.

  “The Chameleon is as ruthless, as mercenary as they come. I don’t know of a single one of our allies who wouldn’t celebrate if the bastard was caught.”

  “Why is he called the Chameleon? Because of his slimy activities?”

  “No.” Tom stood up. “Let’s walk.”

  We tossed our trash and headed north up 17th Street. Tom kept watch as we strolled past the Eisenhower Old Executive Office Building, fondly known as the OEOB. We crossed to the west side of the street because of construction. Whenever anyone came too close, or someone passed us, he stopped talking entirely.

  “The guy is called the Chameleon because he blends in, no matter what the circumstance. No one has been able to spot him yet. We don’t know his name, what he really looks like, or even where his allegiance lies. If he has any.” Tom snorted. As we waited for the light to cross back east at Pennsylvania Avenue, he looked down at me. The smile in his eyes was back. I’d been forgiven for my phone call fiasco. “That’s it, okay? Right now you don’t need to know anything else.”

  “I understand.”

  “And until we bring the rest of the staff up to speed, keep this to yourself, okay?”

  “I will.”

  We started walking again. “But,” he said, “I wanted you to know because it’ll help us to have another set of eyes. You see anything unusual…you get a new delivery boy…or anything seems amiss, you let us know.”

  One thing was bothering me. “If the guy—Naveen—wasn’t arrested, and he
isn’t at the jail, then where is he?”

  “We’ve got him somewhere safe.”

  I pointed north. “Blair House?”

  “No way,” Tom said. “Too high-profile. We want to keep this all very quiet. If the Chameleon knows Naveen’s been talking with us, then we’ve got a whole ’nother set of problems to worry about. Right now we’ve got Naveen covered. We were afraid that his little stunt the other day might’ve alerted the Chameleon that he’s here.”

  “So that’s why you guys faked the news coverage!”

  “Shhh.”

  “I wasn’t that loud,” I said, but I lowered my voice. “Sorry.”

  Tom glanced around. Nobody. “It’s okay. Just trust me, all right? We agents are trained for this stuff, just like you’re trained. We’re both working to be the best in the world.” He stopped. “We better split up.”

  “Yeah,” I said. Although a few coworkers probably suspected there was more to our relationship than agent and chef, we both felt more comfortable keeping things under wraps for now.

  “I guess I better see if there’s any trouble brewing across the street.” He turned toward Lafayette Park, then stopped. “Hey. When are you going to find out about the executive chef position?”

  My stomach flipped at the question. I wished I knew. “The other woman—Laurel Anne Braun—hasn’t had her audition yet.”

  “That the woman with the TV show?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom grimaced.

  Great. Everyone thought that Laurel Anne was the shooin. Even my boyfriend. “You’ll knock ’em dead,” he said, but I wondered if he meant it. “Speaking of knocking ’em dead—you think you’ll have any time this weekend to head out to the range? I need to get some practice in.” I knew that. Secret Service agents needed to qualify at the range two weeks out of every eight. Before his turn came up for qualification, he always spent time practicing on his own.

  “I’d love to.”

  He gave a quick wave and was gone.

  Just as I cleared the northeast gate and passed its accommodating chirp, my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my purse, smiling because I knew it had to be Tom, calling from across the street. But when I glanced at the number, I didn’t recognize it.