Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 1

I STOPPED SHORT AT THE DOORWAY TO THE White House solarium. I knew better than to interrupt the First Lady when she was in such deep discussion with her social secretary and the assistant usher. Particularly today. But when Mrs. Campbell saw me, she beckoned me into the top-floor room.

“Ollie, thank goodness,” she said, silencing her two staff members. “Talk to Sean, would you? Persuade him to come to Thanksgiving dinner.”

Seated apart from Mrs. Campbell’s conference, across the expansive room-I’d missed him at first glance-Sean Baxter sprang to his feet. With his sandy blonde hair and boy-next-door good looks, he could have passed for Matt Damon’s younger brother. “Hey,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

The two staffers had stopped talking long enough to acknowledge my presence with polite smiles. As soon as Sean stood, however, they resumed peppering the First Lady with their requests.

“Mrs. Campbell,” the social secretary said, her voice strained, “if we don’t confirm these last-minute updates today, the final batch of Christmas cards won’t be sent until next week.”

The assistant usher added, “The press will skewer us for slighting these folks.”

Mrs. Campbell nodded. “Then let’s not wait a moment longer. How many-”

Sudden, hard footfalls above us halted all conversation. One breathless instant later, a flash-like black lightning-streaked past the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Though distorted by the sheer curtains, the silhouette was clear. A man. Carrying a high-powered rifle.

Sprinting along the adjacent promenade, the shadow moved at hyper-speed. I barely had time to process his appearance when the gunman burst through the solarium’s outside door, ordering us all into the central hall.

“Move!” he shouted, darting around us to take the point position at the doorway. “Come on!”

His all-black garb and bulletproof vest didn’t scare me. Neither did the gun.

But the look on his face sent prickles of panic tingling down the back of my neck. This was Dennis, one of our rooftop snipers. His words were terse. “Follow me.”

The First Lady stared at him. “But-”

“No time,” he said. “Secret Service agents are on their way up. We have to get you out of here. Now.”

We had been through drills before, so we knew what to do-but the peculiar energy wrapped around this situation made everything seem louder, brighter, scarier. Dennis tensed. He’d slung the rifle onto his back and now gripped a semiautomatic pistol in one hand, and another weaponlike object I didn’t recognize in the other. His head twisted side to side as he walked, the picture of stealth. “Stay close,” he whispered as he stopped to peer around the corner. “Stay low.”

Two suited Secret Service agents joined us in the central hall, using hand signals to shepherd us toward the stairway nearest the music room. Secret Service agents didn’t generally accompany the First Family into the residence. That must be why Dennis had been tagged for getting us out. As one of the many snipers on the rooftop, he was closer to the First Lady’s position than an agent would be.

The moment we entered the stairway, Dennis ran back the way we’d come. The five of us from the solarium tried to be quiet, but our shoes clattered down the steps, just loud enough to mask the thunderous pounding of my heart. I watched our escorts, knowing better than to question, knowing better than to say a word. The two suited men spoke into their hands in low, brusque tones as we made our way to the bottom level of the East Wing. The First Lady, Sean, and I were herded by Agent Kevin Martin. The other two were taken by Agent Klein.

I knew where we were headed. The bunker.

This was no drill.

I started back toward the kitchen. “My staff,” I said. As the White House executive chef, the safety of my people was of paramount importance to me.

Agent Martin shook his head. “We’ve got your people covered, Ollie,” he said, tension making his blue eyes darken.

He hustled us down, deeper into the fortresslike bunker. The enormous tubelike structure, built back when Franklin Delano Roosevelt was president, was purportedly designed to withstand a nuclear blast. Officially known as the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, it had several meeting rooms and conference areas outfitted with televisions, telephones, and communications systems. Sleeping rooms, too. Agent Martin stopped us in front of the first one on the right.

“Get in there. We’ll come back when it’s clear.”

I couldn’t let it go. “Where’s my staff now?”

Before he could answer, Mrs. Campbell interrupted. “Where’s my husband? Is he safe?”

“He’s been evacuated.”

“Is he all right?”

Martin nodded. “Please remain here until you’re given the all-clear.”

“But what-”

“I’m not at liberty to-”

“Agent Martin,” Mrs. Campbell said with more than a little snap. “You will tell me exactly where my husband is. And exactly what’s going on.”

He pursed his lips, shooting a derisive look at Sean. “Only staff members…”

“You can talk in front of Sean,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He’s family. Now, where’s my husband?”

Agent Martin’s jaw flexed. One of our more handsome Secret Service agents, the man was blessed with Irish good looks and rigid determination. With obvious reluctance, he said, “Marine One evacuated the president to Camp David.” He started to move away, but Mrs. Campbell stepped forward, laying her hand on his arm.

“Tell me why.”

“The president is safe for now,” he said. “But we have reason to suspect an explosive device may be present in the White House.”

I couldn’t decide whether the loudest gasp came from me or Mrs. Campbell. She recovered immediately, however, and nodded, surprisingly cool. “Thank you.”

I had to know. “Who went to Camp David with him?”

Martin fixed me with a meaningful look. “Everyone you would expect.”

I sighed with relief. That meant Tom had been evacuated, too. At least he was safe. “What happens next?” I asked.

He ignored my question. “I’ll be back when I can.”

The armored door closed behind him with a thunk of frightening finality as the three of us turned inward, forming an uncertain triangle. “Where do you think they found a bomb?” I asked.

Mrs. Campbell paced. The room we occupied was small, with a curtained, fake window on its far wall. Lights behind the plastic panes strove for a sunny-day touch, but their cold, blue fluorescence fooled no one. Designed for safety rather than lavish entertaining, the room was nonetheless comfortable with a kitchenette, a set of bunk beds, chairs, recent magazines on the dining table, and cabinets that I assumed were stocked with shelf-stable foods and water. I took a quick peek behind the far door and found a full bathroom. Good. Just in case we were stuck here for a while.

“This may be just a precaution,” the First Lady finally said. “I’m sure there’s no bomb. Perhaps the Secret Service is running an unusual drill.”

Sean asked, “This is an awful lot for just a precaution, isn’t it?”

Neither Mrs. Campbell nor I answered. He was right. The White House and its inhabitants received threats on an almost daily basis. Precautions were taken as a matter of course, but rarely to this extent.

Something occurred to me. “Wasn’t the president conducting meetings in the West Wing today?”

Mrs. Campbell nodded, the lines between her brows deep with worry. “I was originally scheduled to meet Sean in the dining room outside the Oval Office,” she said. “We planned to lunch with Harrison. He hasn’t seen Sean in such a long time.”

“Did you say lunch?” I asked.

Mrs. Campbell waved away my concerns. “I didn’t put it on the schedule, Ollie, because we planned to grab a bite from the White House Mess. But then the president needed to meet with his advisers about this new terrorist threat, and everything shifted. In fact, that’s why I called you up to the solarium-to inquire about getting lunch.” She smiled, but I could tell it was less for my benefit than for her own. “And here we are.”

So they hadn’t eaten yet. In an effort to inject normalcy into our bizarre circumstances, I started opening cabinets, assessing what ingredients I had at hand to play with. “If they evacuated the president to Camp David,” I said, musing, “then the bomb must be located between the Oval Office and here. Otherwise he’d be in the bunker, too.”

Sean pulled a box of cookies from the cabinet’s very top shelf. “Thank God they found it. And that they got him out. You’re right, Ollie. They wouldn’t want to transfer him across the residence. Can you imagine the risk…?” He let the thought linger. I wished he hadn’t.

“I’m certain this is just a precaution,” Mrs. Campbell said again with unnatural brightness. “Any minute now they’ll give us the-”

A high-pitched siren cut off the rest of her words. Loud even through the bunker’s thick walls, the danger signal rang clear. Jolts of fear speared my gut. Above the door, a Mars light undulated-its beacons of red shooting across the room, like an ON AIR signal gone haywire.

When the siren silenced, the intercom crackled. “Do not leave your assigned room… I repeat… do not leave your room. Do not open your door. Wait for further instructions. This is not a drill.”

Sean dropped the box of cookies. The shock in his face was no doubt a mirror of my own. Mrs. Campbell collapsed into one of the chairs, her head in prayerful hands. “Dear God,” she said, “protect us all.”