Eggsecutive Orders

Cyan and I worked in almost total silence. In between lunch preparations, she and I also did our best to work ahead for tomorrow’s Easter di

“What did Paul say about Henry?” I asked.

She stopped long enough to look at me. “That’s the fourth time you’ve asked me.” She glanced at the clock. “In the past two hours.”

I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand. “I just can’t seem to concentrate.”

“You’re going to have to, especially if Henry can’t make it. Paul said he would call him personally. He’ll let us know when he gets an answer.”

“Of course,” I said, realizing I had heard this information already. “But I can’t stop thinking about how this luncheon meeting could go bad.” I swept my hand out, encompassing the room. “We have to make certain that nothing happens to the president’s food between the time we prepare it and the time it’s served.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know. “Where are they serving?”

Cyan gave me a look that made it clear I’d asked that question before, too.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering. “The President’s Dining Room.” I stared down at the greens before me, looked up at the door, then studied the clock. “That will make it difficult.”

“Make what difficult?”

“What if we accompanied our creations?” I was thinking out loud here, but the more I talked, the better the idea began to sound. “We can tell the wait staff that we need to prepare this tableside-”

She looked shocked. “But we don’t.”

“Who’s going to argue with us?”

“The President’s Dining Room is in the West Wing!” she said, although she clearly knew I was aware of that fact. “Are you nuts?”

“No, listen.” I held up both hands, excited now. “The butlers will serve-just like normal. But we would be right outside the dining room, plating the courses just before they go in.”

“That’s crazy,” Cyan said. “What do you think you can possibly accomplish?”

“We’ll be able to ensure that the president’s food is safe. That’s paramount. There will be no chance for anyone else to have access to the food before it’s served.”

“You don’t trust our wait staff?”

“I do,” I said. “But call me paranoid. Something went wrong on Sunday, and we still don’t know what it was. All I know is that I’ll feel better if the chain of custody isn’t compromised. The only way I can be certain of that is to be there myself.”

“ ‘Chain of custody’? You’re starting to sound like a TV cop show.” She shook her head, but I noticed the glimmer of possibility in her eyes. “We’ll have to clear this with Jackson.”

“Not only that,” I said, my mind in hyper-drive, “we can maybe even get a sense of what’s going on in there. I mean, why are they meeting with the president anyway?”

“Ollie!” Cyan’s expression was one of utter disbelief. “You know that’s none of our business. Besides,” she added, her tone softening, “they’d never let us close enough to actually overhear anything. Not in the West Wing.”

“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.