Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 4

THE SBA CHEF, AGDA, WAS HARD AT WORK when I returned to the kitchen. Even though I felt I knew her on paper, this was the first time we’d met in person. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t a six-foot-tall bombshell who chopped carrots faster than a food processor on high speed. Wielding a knife so long she could have used it in battle, she halted her chunk-chunk-chunk carrot-hacking and smiled hello.

From Agda’s curriculum vitae I was able to determine how old she was-late twenties-right between Cyan’s age and mine. But heightwise, she had us both by about a foot.

I was in for another surprise. Her command of English was limited. Severely.

“It’s nice to meet you, Agda,” I said, reaching up to shake hands with her.

With a supermodel’s smile, she nodded down to me. “Hallo,” she said, then hesitated. I could practically see her searching her brain before her next words came out, enunciated with care. “You are born France?”

“I was born in the United States,” I said, thinking that was a mighty peculiar question to ask the first moment on the job. From the sound of her last name and the natural blond of her chignon, I’d already deduced her to be of Swedish descent.

When she spoke again, haltingly, I smiled at the lilt in her words, even as I worried about communication in an already stressed kitchen. “They tell me you are… Paris.”

“Oh.” Realization dawned. “I get you,” I said, knowing she was clearly not getting me. Slowing down, I pointed to myself. “Olivia… Ollie… Paras.” I nodded encouragingly. “My name is Ollie Paras.”

Her mouth turned downward. “I am to work for French chef.”

“Marcel has an assistant,” I said. “He’s the pastry chef.”

“No, no. No pastry,” she said, shaking her head in emphasis. “I can be sous-chef. I work here for French chef.”

“You speak French?” At least we could have Marcel translate when necessary.

She shook her head apologetically. “Ah…” she said as she put her fingers up to indicate, “un peu.”

“Well, now that that’s cleared up,” Bucky said from the far end of the kitchen. “Isn’t this great? Even if she’s capable, the best we can do is give her tasks we can pantomime.” Using exaggerated hand motions, he pretended to stir an imaginary handheld bowl. “Like this. And you wonder why Henry always insisted on an interview first.”

Agda’s forehead crinkled. She may not have understood him completely, but his manner was distressing her.

“What a laugh,” he continued. “We’re working shorthanded, and instead of sending us someone we’ve used before, the service expects us to be the United Nations.”

“Bucky, that’s enough,” I said.

He fixed me with a glare, but at least he shut up.

“Come here,” I said to Agda, leading her to the side of the room farthest from Bucky. The White House kitchen is surprisingly small. For all the meals that come out of this place, everyone expects a larger area and state-of-the-art equipment. To be fair, some of our stuff is cutting-edge, but because all purchases must come out of a budget supported by the public, we learn to make do with what we have. “When you finish the carrots”-I pointed-“why don’t you begin making the soup?” I pulled up the recipe from our online files.

Agda’s eyes lit up. “I read,” she said with some pride. “I know how”-she searched for the right phrase-“follow recipe.”

“Great,” I said. As I headed to the computer to update my notes from the staff meeting, she called out to me.

“Ollie,” she said, making my name sound like oily. “You are kitchen assistant, yes?”

Bucky barked a laugh.

“No,” I said, slowly, moving back toward her. “I’m the executive chef.” Even now, months after my appointment, I still felt a little thrill anytime I said it. Pointing to myself yet again, I smiled. “I’m the boss.”

“You? Boss?” She laughed, not mean-spiritedly. Her voice went up an octave as she hovered her hand, flat, just inches above my head. “You are little for boss, no?”

From the corner, Bucky guffawed. “I like this girl already.”

NOT TEN MINUTES LATER, ONE OF THE SECRET Service guys appeared in the kitchen. “Time for the meeting, Ollie,” he said.

My hands and attention deep in the floured batter that would become soft biscuits, I looked up. “What meeting?”

“The Emergency Response Team. The ERT guys. They have that department-head meeting going in the East Room.”

Bucky and Cyan grumbled. Marcel was out of the room at the moment, and Agda clearly didn’t understand.

“Now?” I asked.

He tapped his watch. “Hurry up. The sooner we get in there, the sooner you’ll get back.”

“But-”

“I know, I know. I’ve heard it from everybody so far. Too much to do. No time. Today’s bomb scare threw everyone off and believe me, we’re hearing about it.” Pointing upstairs he added, “It’s mandatory.”

I washed my hands and dried them hastily on my apron as he talked. For the second time that day, I grabbed my notebook and pen and put Bucky in charge of the kitchen. “Get as much done as you can,” I said. “I’m sure I won’t be long.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said.

Cyan rolled her eyes. Agda smiled and waved her knife.

Measuring about eighty by thirty-seven feet, the East Room is the largest room in the White House, and is generally used for social events, such as when singer Karina Pasian performed here, in celebration of Black Music Month during the George W. Bush administration, or in the 1980s for President Ronald Reagan’s seventieth birthday bash. Although the room is also used for more down-to-business purposes, such as bill-signing ceremonies and award presentations, I liked to think of it as the party room. The White House’s first architect, James Hoban, probably had a similar idea in mind, because he had dubbed it the “Public Audience Chamber.”

Today, in addition to the stunning eagle-leg grand piano that sat beneath a protective dust cloth in the southern corner and the collection of chairs brought in for the staff, the room was lined on two walls by folding tables. Whatever they held was also covered by white cloth, but I didn’t imagine their role was to keep away dust. The lumpiness beneath the white fabric led me to believe that whatever was under there was to be kept from the staff’s prying eyes.

I took a folding chair toward the back, finding myself seated near Gene again. “How’s it going?” I asked, not really expecting much of a reply.

“I can’t find Manny or Vince,” he said.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Manny and Vince were journeymen electricians who did a lot of the maintenance work around the grounds. “They’re… missing?”

“Damned if I know,” he said, leaning close enough for me to smell his stale coffee breath. “Curly told them to get the Map Room hot again, but now he’s gone for the day and I can’t find either of the two young guys.”

Vince might be considered youthful. Manny, not so much. Of course, from Gene’s point of view, twenty- and thirtysomethings probably did seem like youngsters.

“Curly’s gone? With everything we have to do?”

Gene shook his big head. “His wife’s in the hospital. They called him out there. What could I do?” he asked rhetorically. “I need to make sure they take care of things. With the Map Room out of juice, I start worrying about the Blue Room and the Red Room. Even though they’re on the floor above, they’re close, you know.”

I knew where the Blue and Red rooms were, but I also knew Gene was just working off stress by explaining it to me. The Christmas tree, due here in just a few days, would be set up in the Blue Room for White House guests to see and admire. The Red Room would host the gingerbread house. Lack of electricity in either location was not an option.

Just then, three men dressed in black marched into the room. All had enormous rifles, solemn expressions, and baseball caps pulled low. Behind them four other men followed. These guys were dressed in camouflage gear. When the procession came to halt before our gathering of department heads, the men pivoted and came to attention. I didn’t know whether I should stand, salute, or what.

“Welcome to the first round of educational seminars scheduled for White House personnel.” I leaned to see around the people in front of me. A tall, fortyish man stood in front of us on a raised dais. Watching us, he ran both hands through his sandy hair before he leaned forward to grip the sides of a lectern. With a voice like his, he didn’t really need the microphone, but that didn’t stop him from using it. “I am Special Agent-in-Charge Leonard Gavin. I am in command of this endeavor.” He worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and tugged his head sideways the way men do when their collars are too tight. “In the course of White House business, you will refer to me as Special Agent Gavin.”

Now I really felt like saluting.

Still booming, he continued. “You will be given name tags and asked to sign in so we know you were here. I will attempt to learn all your names. We have a lot to accomplish, so we will begin by passing out a study guide. Nickerson?”

One of the camouflage men stepped forward to begin distributing booklets.

Gene muttered under his breath, “We’re never going to get out of here.”

“Don’t say that.” I took one of the handouts and passed the rest to Gene, whispering, “I’ve got two big events-”

Special Agent Gavin pointed to me, his voice loud and irritated. “Is there a question?”

Startled, I shook my head. “No.”

As though I wouldn’t be able to hear him, he came around the lectern, his voice still about fifty decibels higher than it needed to be. “What is your name?”

“Ollie,” I said. “Ollie Paras.”

“What is your position?”

I stood. “I am the White House executive chef.” Wow, I got to say that twice in an hour. But would he view me as “too tiny” like Amazon Agda had?

“Come up here,” he said.

I started to protest, then thought better of it and decided to comply. Wasn’t this great? I’d inadvertently become today’s troublemaker for talking in class. Just like in school. Years of not knowing when to keep my mouth shut taught me it was better to go along with the teacher’s orders and take my lumps right away, than to suffer built-up wrath later. I scooted sideways from my chair and made my way forward. Going with the flow might help things move along faster here, too.

I skipped up the steps to the dais, presenting myself as willing and cooperative. Or at least I hoped that’s how I came across.

“Now, Ms. Chef, look out there,” Gavin said, pointing to the audience. Department heads and assistants stared back at me from the safety of their folding chairs.

I followed Gavin’s direction. “Okay.”

Way back, next to where I’d been sitting, Gene squirmed. A half beat later he sat up and twisted, as though someone had called his name. Apparently someone had. Manny stood in the room’s doorway, beckoning to Gene, who needed no further encouragement. Hefting his bulk, he was up and out the door within seconds. I was glad for Gene that Manny had found him. At least one of us was getting something accomplished.

I chanced a look at Special Agent Gavin, who stood next to me-imposingly-looking as unperturbed as I was discomfited by the heavy silence in the room. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he silenced me with a look and pointed out to the audience again.

Was there something I was supposed to notice? Something amiss? I shifted from one foot to the other, thinking about my crew downstairs. About Bucky running things. About Agda’s professed ability to follow recipe directions in English. That made me squirm.

The camouflage guys and the black-clad snipers were busy organizing the displays on two of the long tables at the far side of the room. They’d peeled away the white coverings to reveal an odd assortment of gadgets. No doubt Gav here was supposed to be the warm-up act, and I the unfortunate audience volunteer.

I wanted to be back in my kitchen. Now.

When I bit my lip in impatience, I noticed Peter Everett Sargeant III grinning viciously up at me from the front row. Sargeant, the head of cultural and faith-based etiquette affairs, and I had never been able to see eye-to-eye about anything. I smiled back at him, as evenly as I could manage.

Finally, Gavin asked, “What do you see?”

I had an answer ready. “My colleagues.”

“No.” He shook his head somberly, as though I’d given a bad answer to a very easy question.

“No?”

“You see safety.”

I could feel this little demonstration stretching out ahead of us. If he’d chosen someone else-anyone else-I might have been able to sneak out of this meeting after signing the attendance sheet. Here, out in front of everyone, I had no choice but to go along.

“You operate in a state of bliss,” he continued. “You have no worries, no cares.”

I wanted to ask him how often he’d plated a dinner for more than a hundred guests. From the looks of his downturned mouth and icy-sharp gaze, I’d wager he didn’t have enough friends to entertain often. Still, I didn’t argue.

“One of these people here”-he pointed outward again-“could be a killer.” He twisted to face me. “You could be a killer.”

Was he joking? “I’m… not.”

“We don’t know that. None of us know that. Today you’re a cook…”

A cook? I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from reacting.

“Tomorrow, who knows? You could… snap!” He flicked his fingers in emphasis. Right in front of my rapidly heating face. “I will ask you again: What do you see?”

Obediently, I offered, “Safety?”

“Yes!” he said, smiling and raising two fists in the air like a TV evangelist wannabe. Even louder, he asked, “And who here could be a killer?”

I knew I should give him the answer he wanted. I knew I should resist temptation. But I couldn’t stop myself. With a smile as wide as Gavin’s, I pointed directly at his chest. “You!” I shouted.

The audience exploded with laughter. But old Gav was not amused. “The cook has a sense of humor,” he said without smiling.

Cook, again.

“How funny would it be if half the White House exploded on your watch?” he asked, pummeling the room’s mood into the floor. “Then who would be laughing?”

I started moving toward the steps. “Are we done here?”

“We’re only just beginning.” His drill-sergeant demeanor grew stronger with every snarl. He tugged my elbow, forcing me back to center stage. “And when we’re done with you-with all of you,” he said, facing the crowd, “you will all know better than to just trust one another blindly. Do you understand?”

I held my breath, almost expecting everyone to yell, “Sir. Yes, sir!”

Instead, they fidgeted.

A camouflage guy smiled up at me sympathetically as he handed Gavin a weighty item. It looked like a dirty bottle one might find at the seashore, with a desperate message tucked inside its opaque shell. Gavin held it in both hands as he stared down at it, almost prayerfully, for half a minute.

Come on, I wanted to say. Let’s get this show moving.

Keeping his head bent, Gavin’s eyes flicked up, encompassing the shifting, murmuring crowd. “Do you all know what this is?” He waited. “Does anyone know?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think you did.” His grip tightened, as did his lips. I wondered how many times he’d practiced that meaningful stare in the mirror. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is an Improvised Explosive Device-an IED. A bomb.”

With a collective gasp, and amid scraping chairs, staff members got to their feet. I jumped back.

“Sit down,” Gavin ordered. “I wouldn’t bring a hot IED into the White House.”

When everyone resettled themselves, he continued, holding the bottlelike item high over his head. “This is the device we found in the West Wing this morning.”

The West Wing. I’d been right.

“Although the exact location of the IED’s placement is not being broadcast at this time, I can tell you that this is not now, nor has it ever been, a danger to the First Family-nor to any personnel. So, yes, you may all breathe a sigh of relief. Anyone can see that this was designed to mimic the workings of an IED.” He hefted the bottle in front of himself now, frowning almost as though he were disappointed. “But it was never loaded with explosives. What that means, people, is that we have received a warning. Whoever placed it in the White House did so to test our diligence.”

I started to back away, eyeing my seat at the far end of the room.

Sensing movement, Gavin half turned and directed his next question to me. “And what do you think this warning means?”

What else could it mean? “That we have to be more conscientious going forward.”

The surprise in his eyes told me he hadn’t expected my answer. He recovered quickly. “You are correct,” he said, turning once again to face the audience and raising his voice. “What if this had been armed?”

No one answered.

“We don’t even want to think about the devastation a weapon like this could cause, do we? But before today, how many of you had ever seen an IED before?”

No one raised a hand. Gavin cocked an eyebrow. “What would you have done had you encountered this? We are fortunate that one of our military-trained experts came across it. If any of you had found this where it had been secreted, you may have simply tossed it aside, thrown it away.”

Watching him gesticulate as he paced the dais in front of me, I frowned. This guy didn’t know our staff. We didn’t take anything for granted. Perhaps none of us had ever seen something like this, but working in the White House taught us all not to take anything lightly. Finding a strange device in an unusual location would be enough to call for Secret Service support.

Gavin pointed to the camouflage-and-sniper contingent-the men were now standing at their tables, hands behind their backs, eyes staring straight ahead. Before them, they’d uncovered a display that resembled a collection of grammar school science projects.

“Today is the beginning of your training,” Gavin said. “Over there, my men are waiting to demonstrate a variety of disarmed IEDs for you. We want you to acquaint yourselves with some of the known designs. But remember that terrorists are always improvising, dreaming up new models every single day. You must be on your guard, always. Take your time and learn all you can. We will keep the display available to you here for the remainder of the day. We will then move this exhibit across the building to the Family Dining Room, to continue your training tomorrow and throughout the week.”

The crowd took their cue, getting up from their chairs. Some headed for the training tables. Others headed for the door.

I tapped Gavin’s shoulder. “Thursday is Thanksgiving,” I said.

Gavin twisted to stare at me. “So? Terrorists don’t take days off.”

“I realize that,” I said equably. “But we’re serving Thanksgiving dinner in the Family Dining Room this year.” I pointed west. “You won’t be able to set up there.”

“This is the White House,” Gavin said. “Don’t tell me you have nowhere else to serve dinner.”

“Mrs. Campbell requested-”

Before I could finish, Bradley stepped up to do what assistant ushers do best: He took control. “Let me handle this, Ollie,” he said. When he faced Gavin, he shook his head. “Can’t allow you to set up in the Family Dining Room. Sorry.”

Grateful for the reprieve, I excused myself, hearing Gavin argue that safety was paramount, more important than a roast turkey’s placement in a particular room. Although I knew old Gav would disapprove, I made only a cursory study of the bomb exhibit before heading back to the kitchen.

I’d just made my way to the ground floor, crossing the Center Hall, when I ran into Gene, muttering to himself. Wearing his tool belt and carrying a massive black drill, he looked like he’d just come in from a jog around the Ellipse. Streaming rivulets of sweat dripped down the sides of his face. His dark shirt was so wet that it could’ve used a good wringing out.

“You okay?” I asked.

He pointed to the Map Room. “Still no power. Manny says Vince bungled something up when he tried to fix it. Vince says it was Manny’s fault. Damn idiots. Where did those two get their journeyman cards anyway? A cereal box?”

Since it was asked rhetorically, I let him vent.

Using the drill as a pointer, he indicated the rooms to my left. “Curly’s out and the two screw-ups are nowhere to be found. So this repair, which should’ve been done already, is still waiting to be taken care of.”

“So now you’re stuck with the job?”

“You see anybody else stepping up to volunteer?” Shaking his head, he offered a wry smile. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “This time of year is always a little stressful.”

“Yeah, and I shouldn’t be standing here talking when there’s work to be done.” He pointed the drill skyward. “Wish me luck. I’ve got ten jobs that should’ve been done yesterday, and I’m working with this lousy equipment.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

He started toward the power closet behind the elevator, directly across the hall from the Map and Diplomatic Reception rooms. “This baby works just fine. But it’s ancient. I keep these things around for emergencies”-his voice rose, almost as though he were hoping for the guilty parties to hear and respond-“like when people take my good equipment who knows where and don’t bring it back when there’s a job to be done. You know?”

“Same thing in the kitchen,” I said. “My favorite mixer’s a monster from way back. Maybe even Eisenhower’s time.” Laughing, I added, “It’s huge and super noisy, but it handles heavy batter like nothing else. And I hate it when someone’s using it when I need it.”

Gene checked his watch. “I better get this done before Bradley calls me again.”

“Stop by when you’re finished. I have a couple of interesting dishes we’re trying out. I think you deserve a treat after all this.”

Gene swiped an arm across his sweaty brow. “Sounds great, Ollie. Count me in.”

Back in the kitchen, Bucky and Cyan brought me up to speed. As she’d promised, Agda had indeed completed the soup without trouble. She was currently busy with the spiced pecans.

Cyan seemed impressed. “That girl is quick,” she said. “Had everything put together in enough time to get started on the pecans for the appetizer tray. So I just handed her the next set of instructions and she was off.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Things are finally going our way.”

“How was the meeting?”

Before I could answer, the lights flashed off and on. A heartbeat later, like too-close lightning, a violent buzz seared the room.

Through it all, a scream so primal it froze all movement.

Except for the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor.

“What was that?” Cyan asked.

I was already running toward the sound. “Stay here,” I ordered the wide-eyed staff. I had no idea what I would find, but if it were bomb-related, I didn’t want all of us to be in danger.

With our kitchen so close to the Center Hall, I was the first on the scene. All the lights were out here; the passage was dim, but there was enough illumination to see the figure sprawled on his back, arms extended wide to his sides.

“Gene!” I cried, running to him.

Gene lay just outside the elevator power-closet door. His hands were empty, but one was blackened. A sudden stench of scorched flesh rose up, nearly causing me to retch. A metal stepstool had tumbled next to him, lying atop his right leg, while one of the stool’s legs remained lodged against something inside the closet. I started looking around for a tool to free Gene’s leg from beneath the metal trap. “Cyan! Bucky!” I called, enunciating to make my panicked shouts understood. “Bring me the wooden rack. Now!”

The rack kept our most-often-used spices handy. About eighteen inches wide and just a few inches tall, it was the only thing I could think of at the moment that was safe to use in the presence of high voltage.

When neither of them answered, I cried out again. Finally, I heard Cyan yell back that she was coming.

One of the laundry ladies, Beatta, came running, as I had. “My God!” she said.

She reached down to touch Gene’s face.

“Don’t!” I shouted. “He might have been electrocuted.”

Just then, Bucky arrived with the rack, Cyan running behind, carrying all the spices in a bowl. “Did you want these, too?” she asked.

I grabbed the empty rack, ignoring the question.

Cyan stepped out of my way as I pushed the rack beneath one of the stepladder’s footholds. I tried levering the contraption away from its contact with Gene, but the rack twisted, slipping out of my fingers. “Damn,” I said aloud.

“Be careful,” Bucky said.

I took precious seconds to wipe perspiration from my hands and I inched forward to try again. A buzz emanating from within the room underscored the danger. Whatever electrical charge had hit Gene was still live. I scooted closer, my left foot less than four inches from his prone form, but I had to get close enough to get the leverage I needed.

“Get me a flashlight,” I said. “And get the doctor.”

Someone said they would, and hurried away.

More people came. Secret Service agents swarmed, then worked hard to manage the gathering crowd. One of the agents stepped in to take over for me, but I was so close I couldn’t stop now. Although Gene was a big guy, it was only his foot that maintained contact with the metal ladder. I could do this. The agent must have sensed my concentration because he stepped back when I shook my head.

Amid shouts and questions and frantic babbling, I hooked the corner of the rack-the little lip at one end-under the rim of the stepladder’s top foothold. Crouching, and using two hands, I forced the ladder upward, knocking it farther into the room.

All of this took less than a minute, but I felt as though hours had passed. “I think I’m clear. But I can’t see. There’s not enough light.”

One of the agents came up with a flashlight. He shined it into the dark space.

“All clear,” he said.

I dropped to my knees beside Gene, pushing my ear close to his mouth and nose. “Quiet, everyone!”

The hall rippled to silence.

The pounding I heard was my own heart beating-frenzied with fear for Gene. My CPR training rules rushed through my brain even as I pushed my head closer, hoping, waiting, trying to-

Warm air crossed my cheek. A baby-soft hiss followed.

“He’s alive!”

I pulled my kitchen jacket off and covered Gene, hoping to stave off shock. A voice from behind the first circle of onlookers called out for everyone to make room.

The group parted. An emergency medical team raced in, the White House doctor heading the charge. Our on-staff nurse-practitioner followed two assistants, who carried a stretcher.

I was already scurrying out of their way when the team fell in around Gene, starting immediate care. The nurse-practitioner turned to me. “We’ve got him now.”

Slowly we all backed away, giving the team a wide berth. The sickening scent of cooked flesh hung in the air around us; I wondered if I’d ever be able to forget that smell. The Secret Service agents worked their crowd-dispersal magic, and I sent Cyan and Bucky back to the kitchen.

As the corridor cleared, I caught sight of Manny. His wide, lined face was pale gray, like the underbelly of a dead fish. “What happened?” he asked. Nobody answered him, so I made my way over.

“Where were you?”

He swallowed. “Me and Vince were outside.” He pointed south. “We had to get some wiring set up.”

“It’s raining.”

“Not anymore. Stopped about an hour ago. That’s why we got out there. We were waiting all morning for the big storm to clear up.” Behind us the medical personnel spoke in low tones as they ministered to Gene, preparing him for transport. Manny asked again, “What happened?”

“Gene had an accident.”

Manny shoved a hand through his thick hair, holding it there for an extended period of time. The medical team raised the stretcher, taking a moment to be sure they had everything they needed. I thought Manny might be going into shock.

“Where’s Vince?” I asked, just to snap him out of it.

Staring at Gene’s unmoving form, Manny could only shake his head.

As though summoned, Vince came around the corner, moving at his customary loping pace. About twenty-eight years old, he had a chiseled look, from his solid muscularity to his narrow face, so perfectly structured it looked to be carved of pure ebony. His smile dropped the moment he caught sight of the corridor’s activity.

“Make way, folks,” one of the technicians said. We moved out of the way, allowing them a clear path out the White House’s south entrance.

“Was that Gene?” Vince asked.

I nodded. Manny remained speechless.

In his haste to get out of the stretcher’s way, Vince nearly tripped. “Is he going to be okay?”

That was the one question I was wondering myself.