“You’re right,” I said. “But maybe we can find out what Kap is doing here.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “Is that what this is all about? You’re playing detective because of him cozying up to your mom?”
“No,” I said. And I meant it. “I don’t know what the guy’s story is, but I can’t help feeling that we need to be there. Liss swears that Kap and Cooper were responsible for Minkus’s death. If he’s right, then our president will be dining this afternoon with two assassins.”
I didn’t understand Cyan’s sudden sympathetic expression. “Ollie,” she said. “I know you’re taking this Minkus death personally. I understand that. I feel it, too. But there’s really not a thing either of us can do. It’s completely out of our hands.”
She had a point. The heightened tension I’d felt from making elaborate plans fell suddenly away. I picked up the greens I’d been working with. “You’re right.”
“Plus we have so much work to do…”
“What’s this?” came a booming voice from the doorway. “Are we standing around chatting or are we working?”
“Henry!” I dropped the greens and wiped my hands on my apron to give him a big hug. “You came!”
“I left home the minute I received Paul’s call.” He reached out to hug Cyan, too. “How could I resist? He said you needed me.”
A lump lodged in my throat. It was so good to see Henry-so good to have him here. His face was ruddier and more wrinkled than I remembered, but he had slimmed down, and-did I imagine this?-had developed significant muscularity. “You look great,” I said. “What have you been doing?”
“I added a secret ingredient to my diet,” he said with a wink. “Powerful stuff.”
Cyan teased: “You should consider sharing your secret ingredient with the world. You’d make millions.”
“No sharing,” he said, wagging a finger, his smile bigger than I’d seen it in all the time we worked together. “Nope, nope, nope.”
“Secret ingredient, huh?” I put my hands on my hips. “Okay, Henry, ’fess up. What’s her name?”
“Now what makes you think that a woman is responsible for my… renaissance?” His eyes twinkled.
We waited.
“Her name is Mercedes. And now, you two astute detectives, tell me what needs to be done.”
We brought him up to speed on all menu decisions and discovered that Paul had already briefed him on the Bucky situation. “We are most certainly under the gun,” he said. “But this kitchen has been in dire straits before. We shall prevail, as we always have.” Finished with his proclamation, he turned to me. “Ms. Executive Chef, I am at your command.”
With Henry on our team, we flew through tasks, the three of us so comfortable and confident with one another that we required minimal discussion to get things done. Even better than having two extra hands and an extra brain in the kitchen, Henry boosted our morale by his very presence.
Lunch was due to be plated in about thirty minutes and I still hadn’t completely given up the idea of finagling a way into the West Wing to ensure President Campbell’s food made it to him safely.
Swinging past the computer, I noticed I had a new e-mail. “Excellent!” I said aloud as I read it.
“What’s up?” Cyan asked.
I turned. “Brandy says she’ll be able to help us with…”
I stopped.
At the opposite end of the counter, carving cherry tomatoes into tiny flower-shaped garnishes, Henry looked up. Cyan tried to prompt me. “With what? The eggs?”
“I’ve got it!” I said.
They shared another quick glance. “Great. Got what?”
“Brandy managed to get all the eggs transported back to a staging warehouse,” I said, talking quickly. “This is perfect.”
Cyan nodded, clearly dubious.
“I need to arrange to have the Secret Service pick up all the eggs. Which means I have to coordinate with Craig Sanderson. How about if I head over to the West Wing when the butlers come for the president’s lunch? I’ll be able to make sure that the meal gets there safely and while I’m there, I’ll try to snag a few minutes of Craig’s time.”
“Lame,” Cyan said.
“Maybe, but I don’t trust Cooper or Kap. I have to do this.”
“I know you do.”
Henry had been watching us, his eyebrows raised. As I started to explain, he held up a hand. “Maybe it’s best if I don’t know.”
More often than not, President Campbell held casual luncheon meetings in the White House Mess, which was the navy-run kitchen and dining room in the basement of the West Wing. The fact that he had requested today’s lunch brought in from the residence kitchen, and the fact that he was choosing to dine in the President’s Dining Room, told me that whatever this meeting was about, it was important enough to warrant privacy.
Jackson kept his eyes forward, not saying much for most of our passage across the residence. The lack of conversation was okay by me. I was salivating. But that was more from curiosity than from the delicious aromas drifting upward from the cart the butler pushed.
He and I took a roundabout path to the basement of the West Wing and when we finally arrived at the elevator that would take us to the main floor, Jackson gestured with his chin. “Secret Service office is that way.”
“I know.”
He waited a beat. “You aren’t here just to talk with Sanderson, are you?” He flicked a glance down toward the covered plates and accompaniments. “You’re making sure this food stays safe.”
I nodded.
“If I didn’t know you as well as I do, Ollie, I’d take offense.”
“ Jackson, I don’t think for a minute…”
He held up a hand, but was interrupted when the elevator opened. We got in, Jackson backing the cart in so he could exit gracefully at the first floor. When the door closed again, he said, “I know you’re not thinking about me doing something bad to the food.” He pointed. “Brand-new salt, brand-new pepper. Freshly sterilized flatware. Everything here is clean.”
Each diner was always provided his own set of everything, including condiments-to prevent the inexcusable “boarding-house reach.” I nodded. “I’m sure it is.”
His nostrils flared. “You’re wondering about Cooper.”
Astonished by his astuteness, I nodded again.
The elevator opened and we made our way out, the cart’s contents clanking softly as we traversed the carpeted floor. “I guarantee you I am not going to turn my back on this cart for one moment.” He nodded solemnly as we walked.
“Thanks, Jackson. You’re the best.”
We’d both lowered our voices. In this wing of the White House, I was always awestruck. This was the epicenter, the heart of the free world-at least, in my unabashedly patriotic way, that’s the way I saw it. I knew from firsthand experience how much time and effort went into every decision here. While I certainly wasn’t privy to classified information, I knew the people who were. I saw the toll the weight of responsibility took on each and every member of the administration. These were good people, making the best decisions they could, every single day.
We stopped our trek just outside the President’s Dining Room. To my left was the Roosevelt Room, and straight ahead, through a small angled corridor, the Oval Office. Even after working here for so long, being in this part of the White House made my skin tingle.
With so many people navigating the hallway, Jackson wheeled the cart into the empty Roosevelt Room. Across the hall from the President’s Dining Room, and with access to the Oval Office, the windowless space housed a long table that comfortably sat sixteen. President Nixon had named the room to honor both Theodore and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Sitting Republicans traditionally displayed Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Rider painting over the mantle, and sitting Democrats traditionally displayed Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s portrait.