Eggsecutive Orders

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.

President Campbell, who expressed great admiration for both men, opted to feature both paintings in the room and instructed the staff to alternate the artworks’ positions so that they equally shared the position of prestige.

“Good thing you’re here,” Jackson said. “I can use the help.” There were butlers he could have called, but we had an unspoken agreement: The fewer people involved, the better we could keep our suspicions under wraps. Although I knew this was probably overkill, neither one of us wanted to leave anything to chance. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

While he disappeared into the dining room across the hall, I waited near the Roosevelt Room’s doorway, the serving cart directly behind me. I knew Jackson was preparing the dining table for the meal. Seconds later, he emerged, dodging several staffers in the hall as they walked past. “We may serve.”

Usually, at di

I maintained my presence near the doorway, the cart safely stowed behind me. Now that I was in the heart of the West Wing, I tuned in to passing conversations. I caught a few vague references to headline topics, but nothing about Minkus. Until Jackson returned.

“I will check back with them in a moment. They will be ready for the entrée shortly,” he said. “Right now, it’s quiet. I don’t think they plan to do any serious talking with their mouths full of your famous salad.”

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

“What were you hoping to overhear?”

“Me?” I asked. “Nothing at all.”

“Yeah, like I believe that,” he said with a smirk, then lapsed into the folksy speech that he probably reserved for times when he was relaxing with friends. “Don’t you be trying to pull one over on old Jack.”

“Okay,” I said. “The other guy… not Cooper… goes by the name Kap.” Jackson must have detected the disdain in my voice because his eyebrows raised. I frowned. “He took my mother out on a date.”

The look on Jackson ’s face would have been enough to make me laugh if the situation hadn’t been so serious. “Well, that’s about the last thing I expected to hear.”

“Not only that, he’s a good friend of the Minkus family. I have to believe there’s a co

Jackson glanced at the dining room door. “You wait here,” he said.

As he continued to serve, he provided me with a play-by-play of the conversation going on in the dining room. “Just discussing that assassinations in China,” he said. But then he shook his head. “Cooper, I understand why he’s here. But not that other gentleman. I wonder what his story is.”

I thought about Liss’s allegations. I wondered if Kap could have poisoned Minkus before di

Jackson came in, his eyes bright. “You want the scoop?” he asked. He sca

I swallowed. Waited.

He whispered, “And he shared this information with the other two men.”

“Well?” My throat was so dry I could barely ask, “What did he say?”

Jackson ’s brow furrowed. “You aren’t going to like it.”

Visions of heads rolling-mine, Bucky’s, Cyan’s-made my legs weak. “Just tell me.”

“They figured out what killed Minkus.”

I held my breath.

“It was a toxin.”

Oh my God, I thought. It couldn’t be. “Like… botulism?” I asked.

Jackson shook his head. “Don’t know. President Campbell wrote it down while he was on the phone, but I couldn’t get a look. Soon as he got off the phone, he showed the note to the other two. They didn’t say it when I was in the room, but they did say ‘toxin’ a couple of times.”

I prayed it wasn’t botulism. It couldn’t be. I took great care in my kitchen to keep food safe. That was part of my responsibility. It just couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

“I have to find out,” I said.

Jackson looked as upset as I was. “Don’t know how you can.”

“They aren’t going to a

“No, ma’am. All three agreed to share this on a ‘need to know’ basis until… something-don’t know what-can be verified. They’re keeping mum. Heck, the president won’t even say it in front of me and you know we’re usually invisible.” Jackson ’s face was creased with worry. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that much.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t go anywhere.” I closed my eyes for a long moment. “That means the kitchen is under suspicion again, doesn’t it?”