Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  “It is my business to know about everything involving the security of the White House.”

  I figured as much.

  Gavin fixed me with a piercing look. “I understand you fought off your attacker.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, I was still shaken by the experience, and I didn’t appreciate the fact that Gav here wore an expression that told me he expected a blow-by-blow rehashing.

  “ ‘Fought off’ is a bit of an exaggeration,” I said. “I screamed like an idiot. If that jogger hadn’t come along…” I shivered, remembering. “The two guys who got me really knew what they were doing. They set me up perfectly. I’m embarrassed to have fallen for their scheme.” Though it was hard for me to say so, I admitted my gullibility. “I trusted the little guy who pretended to help me.”

  “I was told he used martial arts moves against you.”

  My hand came up of its own volition, and I touched the tender place under my ribs where he’d struck me. “Whatever it was, it hurt.”

  Gavin seemed about to say something else, but remained silent, staring at me. He finally said, “You aren’t able to work?”

  Bucky made eye contact from across the room. He arched an eyebrow and shook his head fractionally.

  Message received. “I’m getting a lot done here, actually,” I said, sounding more upbeat than I felt. “My predecessor, Henry, always told me I needed to learn to delegate more. Today I’m getting a perfect opportunity.”

  “I was hoping to continue your training.”

  Did this guy think I was planning to enlist in the military? How much more training did I need? My hands came up in response. I said, “I’m sorry,” even though I wasn’t.

  I was, however, very glad when he left us again. “Tell you what,” I said to the group. “Let me go get some of our holiday décor. While you guys work on the food, I’ll start bringing a bunch of the fun stuff here.”

  They all looked up at me as though I was nuts. Rafe spoke. “With two damaged hands?”

  I frowned. “I’ll be careful. This really isn’t that big of a deal.”

  Cyan shook her head. “You always get in such trouble, Ollie.”

  “How much trouble can I get into in the storage room?”

  I MADE MY WAY THROUGH CONNECTING hallways, past the carpenter’s, electrical, and flower shops. I fiddled with my replacement keys to unlock one of the storage rooms the kitchen controlled. My White House ID and other important items had been replaced much more quickly than I’d expected. Thank goodness.

  The storage room was large, about ten feet by fifteen, and it was packed. There was limited floor space and the shelves overflowed with stuff I knew I should inventory. For about the hundredth time, I promised I’d get to it just as soon as things calmed down.

  Large gray storage containers lined one wall. About four foot square and just over two feet tall, each wheeled container held presidential china. We kept the most popular patterns closer to the kitchen, and since this particular room was the farthest from our work center, it held the china patterns we used least. I pushed at the closest of the gray monsters-this one held Lyndon Johnson’s pattern-to access the boxes I intended to scavenge.

  Every year, grinning with holiday spirit, Henry made the trek down here to pull out fun things for the kitchen staff to use during the holiday season. He loved decorating the kitchen himself. Kendra and her staff didn’t mind because none of what we used was ever seen by the public. Henry usually waited until the entire White House was completely finished before exercising his decorating muscle. He called the final kitchen embellishment his pièce de résistance.

  I liked Henry’s tradition, and I intended to continue it. With all that we’d gone through recently, however, I believed our festive mood needed a boost sooner rather than later.

  I pushed another of the big bins out of the way, but realized, in doing so, I’d blocked my path out. There was only one solution: I pushed the two out into the hallway, and pulled out the boxes of tchotchkes I planned to make use of.

  There was not, unfortunately, any type of cart I could use to transport my treasures to the kitchen. With my tender arm and splinted finger, I wasn’t in the best position to carry the boxes myself.

  Heading out again, I started for the electrical shop with two purposes in mind: getting a cart, and talking with Manny again, if I could pin him down. Based on our prior conversation, there was little reason to believe he would have checked out my floating neutral question. But I’m nothing if not tenacious.

  Manny was nowhere to be found, but Vince sat on a stool at a small workbench, eating. “Do you have a minute?” I asked.

  Startled, he just about fell off the seat. “You scared me,” he said around one stuffed cheek. His gaze took in my bandaged arm and splinted finger.

  “Sorry.” I wandered in. “What do you have there?”

  He held up half a sandwich. “Chicken.”

  Unsurprised, I nodded. Tradesmen generally didn’t eat in the lower-level cafeteria. They went out, or brought their own food in. This was a throwback tradition from the White House’s early days, when the household staff was mostly black, and the tradesmen white. Because nineteenth-century black employees couldn’t find establishments to serve them in the nearby D.C. area, the White House provided meals. White tradesmen, having no such difficulty, went out for lunch or dinner each day. Over time the White House staff became infinitely more diverse. Of course, now blacks and whites occupied all staff levels, but the tradesman tradition-if you could call it that-continued. To this day, regardless of their race or ethnicity, tradesmen rarely ate in the White House cafeteria.

  He stared at me as I moved closer. I got the distinct impression he didn’t like the idea of the chef entering the electrician’s lair. His constant jumpy glances toward the doorway behind me led me to believe he was expecting someone. Probably Curly. I’d have to make this quick. “Did Manny say anything to you about floating neutrals?”

  Vince moved the wad of food from his cheek and chewed it before answering. I’d expected him to nod or shake his head, but he waited till he swallowed to say. “Uh… yeah.”

  “And?”

  Vince glanced past me toward the doorway again. “And what?”

  “Did you guys check? Was there something wrong with the ground when Gene got electrocuted?”

  A voice boomed behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I turned and there he was. Surly Curly, in the flesh. Knowing I could no longer press my question, I changed direction and offered him the friendliest smile I could. “I have to carry a few boxes to the kitchen, but…” I held up my injured hands. “No way to get them over there. I was wondering if you had a wheeled cart I could borrow?”

  His mouth worked, as though pushing his angry grimace to one side. “Yeah, I got one.” Shuffling to a nook just out of view, he came back with a gray dolly. “Boxes, you say?”

  When I nodded, he switched the handle of the dolly, converting it from vertical to horizontal. “Here,” he said, “easier to manage. You bring this back, you understand? I don’t want to go hunting for it when I need it next.”

  “I’ll bring it right back.”

  Vince hunched his shoulders as though to render himself invisible. I thanked Curly and headed back to the storage area, wondering if I’d ever get anyone to give me a straight answer to the floating neutral question.

  FOUR HOURS LATER, AFTER HAVING DECORATED the kitchen to best of my holiday abilities given the collection of cute pot holders, trivets, and dish towels I’d pulled out, I headed back to the storage area to put the empty boxes away and to return Curly’s precious dolly.

  I wheeled it into the storeroom and had intended to replace the first box in its nook, when I realized that the china storage containers were not the way I’d left them. The Johnson china was pushed far to the right, completely out of place. That was odd. No one usually used this storage room except kitchen staff, and I couldn’t recall anyone else mentioning a
visit here in the past few hours.

  Curious, I tugged the big gray bin, wondering what else might have been rearranged. Most of the time it wouldn’t matter, but on the rare occasion we needed supplies from this area, I liked to be confident they were here. The idea that items had been shifted peeved me just a bit. Storage space was at a premium at the White House, and this area was designated for kitchen items only. Another department must have tried to encroach on our space, hoping no one would notice a stray item or two.

  I pushed the wheeled bin of Johnson china out of the way and found an unfamiliar square brown box, crudely marked STORAGE on one side and along the sealed top. This did not belong to the kitchen. Worse, it hadn’t been here this morning. Someone had snuck it in here, very recently.

  I did a quick, cursory examination of the room to locate any other stray boxes, but within a few minutes I realized this was the only unexpected addition to our stash.

  There were no other markings on the box, and no way to tell which department had tucked it in here. I sighed with exasperation. I could just leave it here-it didn’t take up an enormous amount of space-but doing so invited further incursions. Although this seemed like a trivial matter, and unworthy of the analysis I was affording it, I still suffered from the newness of my executive chef position. Sure, I’d earned the title, but I also needed to command respect. Were Henry here, I imagined he would nip this little nuisance in the bud.

  I lifted the box onto the gray bin. I didn’t have a knife to slice open the seal, but the dolly had metal clasps that Curly had used to readjust the handle. I pulled one of the silver clips from its anchoring hole, and pushed the metal end against the paper, ripping it. Within seconds I’d scored both ends and the center seam. I dropped the clip into my pocket and repositioned the box on the floor for leverage before attempting to open the flaps.

  Whoever had sealed this thing had done a masterful job. I yanked three times before the first flap ripped free. The second flap snapped up with a quick pull and I pulled away excelsior to find out what was so important that had to be stored in my department’s area.

  More excelsior.

  Finally, my fingers hit something hard. Metal or glass, I couldn’t tell. I was on my knees, wrapping my fingers around the item’s cylindrical shape, tugging upward. Stuck. Stray stuffing obscured my view of the article, but my fingers traced along its sides. Bottle-shaped, it seemed light enough, but as I pulled more shredded paper from around it with my left hand, my right discovered that both ends of the bottle were connected by wire to a flat board at the box’s bottom.

  I yanked my hand away. Heart racing, I felt my jaw go limp. I removed the remaining packaging material and stifled a scream of surprise when I saw the explosives.

  This was an IED.

  “Help,” I said too softly, too weakly. I stood, calling out again, knowing no one would hear me. I ran out the door, intent on getting in touch with the Secret Service. But… I couldn’t just run away. There were others in this area-in the carpenter’s area, the florist’s office, the laundry. I couldn’t let innocent people there wait until something exploded.

  I ran to the laundry room. “Get out,” I screamed. “Hurry! A bomb. A bomb!”

  I heard movement, and one of the laundry ladies came around the corner, looking confused.

  “Get everybody out,” I said, already running toward the florist’s area. “Get out now, and get help!”

  After warning as many people as I could, I ran into the nearest work area-the electrical shop. No one there.

  Their phone was near the workbench. I picked it up and connected with the emergency operator. She told me to leave immediately and that help was on the way. I ran.

  More than a dozen people were making their way quickly to the Center Hall, heading into the Diplomatic Reception Room, where they could evacuate via the south doors.

  I skidded around the corner and rushed to the kitchen. My team stared up at me with wide eyes. “Everybody out,” I said.

  Bucky started to say something.

  I waved them forward, toward me and the door. “Now.”

  They took one look at my face and filed out. Mentally, I tallied them, making sure that everyone was accounted for.

  Secret Service agents moved in fast. Before I could even think about what to do next, they’d covered every inch of the White House, urging people out the doors, barking orders, and taking firm control.

  By the time I made it outside myself, I estimated we’d evacuated the residence in under three minutes. Not bad for a staff of more than ninety. I stared at the building, waiting. Wondering what would happen next.

  I made my way over to my group. Bucky was talking with Rafe and Agda, and Cyan was listening in. They shifted their small circle to let me in.

  “It’s freezing out here,” Cyan said, hugging herself. “I hope we don’t get stuck outside for very long. What happened?”

  I rubbed my own arms but as I tried to explain, the wind whipped my words away. I had to raise my voice as I repeated myself.

  “You found a bomb?” Cyan said, with incredulity in her voice. “Are you sure?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, realizing I wasn’t sure at all. Maybe I’d overreacted. “It was…” My words faltered. I turned, taking a look at my colleagues-the rest of the White House staff-all of us huddled in small groups against the bitter chill. We were all out here, freezing, rather than inside doing our work. Just because I’d sounded an alarm.

  “I think it was a bomb,” I said finally.

  “You think?” Bucky said. “You don’t know?”

  My stomach dropped. With the benefit of hindsight, I realized I didn’t really know what a bomb looked like. Just because this one had some of the same features as the one Gavin had shown us didn’t mean that it posed any real threat.

  Bucky wasn’t happy. Breath-clouds poured out of his mouth as he asked, “Was it ticking?”

  “No.”

  He exhaled sharply and walked over to join another group.

  Maybe I should have simply called the Secret Service and let them handle it. Maybe if I’d done that, we’d all still be safely inside, and warm. The small groups of staffers snuck glances in my direction. I was sure they were discussing my “sky is falling” cries. The group around me chatted, keeping an eye on the activity just outside the south doors where a team of helmeted, black-cad individuals ran in.

  “Bomb team,” Rafe said.

  We all nodded, silent now. Far enough away to feel safe, we could see the action but there was no way to make out faces from this distance. Secret Service personnel were maintaining a perimeter a distance away from the south doors, but I couldn’t see who was on duty. I didn’t expect any of them to be Tom, though; As part of the elite Presidential Protection Detail, he would be with President Campbell, wherever that may be.

  Bucky wandered back with a swagger. “It’s a fake.”

  “What?” we all asked at once.

  Clearly pleased to be the source of insider information, Bucky took his time answering. “I was talking to Angela,” he said. “She got a call from her brother, who has a friend on the bomb squad.”

  He continued. My stomach dropped.

  “Nothing there. The thing Ollie found was probably just some junk. Not a bomb.”

  He kept talking about what a mess this was, and what a hassle we were all dealing with because of my too-quick-on-the-trigger response.

  Feeling my face grow hot, I was about to argue that it’s better to be safe than sorry, when Gavin stepped into our little group. Despite the bracing wind, he looked unruffled, though not pleased.

  “Ms. Paras,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Cyan gave me a pitying look.

  “Is there some way we can get the staff inside?” I asked.

  Gavin kept looking straight ahead. “It is being taken care of.”

  “What will they-”

  “Ms. Paras, the comfort of your colleagues is not my immediate concern, but if it
eases your mind, buses have been dispatched to pick everyone up and to keep them together.”

  I remembered how much time that took when I was sequestered with Mrs. Campbell and Sean in the bunker. I remembered Bucky’s complaints. Had that been only a couple of days ago? So much had happened since then.

  As we walked, I relived my adventure in the bunker and thought about Sean. My heart gave a little wobble. What had happened there? And how could I be missing someone I hadn’t really known all that well?

  A moment later it dawned on me that we weren’t walking back to the White House. Gavin was leading me away, toward an idling black car. A Secret Service agent I didn’t recognize opened the back door for me.

  This was like something out of a spy movie.

  “What-?”

  “Just get in,” Gavin said.

  The car’s warmth and smell of new leather helped lessen the goose bumps I bore from the cold. The ones from fear were still popping, mightily. “What’s going on?” I asked when he sidled in beside me.

  There was a driver and another man in the front seat. They both turned.

  Gavin spoke, his enunciation so crisp, new goose bumps zoomed up the back of my arms and traipsed across my shoulders. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  I did. They recorded my description of finding the box and opening it.

  “Why didn’t you call security the moment you saw the box?” Gavin asked.

  I looked at him as though he was nuts. “It was a brown box in a storage room,” I said with a little sharpness to my tone. “And it was marked for storage. Why would I ever be suspicious of something like that?”

  The three men exchanged looks. I felt like the new kid at school, missing all the inside jokes because I wasn’t considered “cool” yet.

  “I already heard that I blew it,” I said. “So why am I being questioned?”

  Gavin gave me a puzzled look, but he answered. “In due course, Ms. Paras. Right now we need to go over your story again.”

  I sighed. “Okay.” Again I recited the chain of events as best I could.

  Gavin worked his lips as I spoke, his gaze never wavering from mine. I occasionally shifted my attention to the other two men, as though to include them in my narration, but Gavin grew more agitated by the moment. When noise outside the car drew the men’s attention away from me, I had a moment of relief.