Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

I thought about the two guys who’d accosted me. “Who are they?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t know their names. Just knew that Blanchard handled parts of the plan himself. He, or one of his operatives, may have fed the information to Kirsten. In fact, we believe they killed her, too.”

My heart broke for the poor kid. She’d been trying so hard to make a name for herself and had instead been used and discarded by a powerful senator who was bent on a run at the White House. “How did Blanchard get to Manny, or to Yi-im?”

“His girl Bindy. She had all the connections from her days working here. In Manny’s case, it was pure greed. Yi-im and Blanchard go way back to the senator’s days as an army intelligence officer in Seoul.” He gave me a look. “Yi-im was in the Korean CIA, although under a different name, of course.”

“How did he pass the background check here?”

“Blanchard sponsored Yi-im into the United States. If he’s who we think he is, your friend Yi-im and his brother were Korean operatives who may have been involved in the assassination of Park Chung-hee back in 1979.”

My mind was having a hard time assimilating all this. “Then he’s a dangerous guy.”

“You think?”

“Have you arrested him yet?”

“We’re working on it, but he’s slippery.”

This was too much for me. “And all this was so that Blanchard could sell Zendy Industries?”

“That’s only part of it. The senator is an ambitious man. For a successful run at the presidency he needed the money from Zendy and spies inside the White House. And he wanted all that enough to kill. He might have had a hand in killing Mr. Sinclair; we’re looking into that now.”

I gasped.

“There are bad people in this world, Ollie,” he said.

“I know. I just can’t imagine…”

“There’s something else,” he said.

By the look on his face, I knew it wasn’t good news. “Go ahead,” I said.

“When your chief electrician was killed…”

“Gene.”

“Yes, Gene. When he was killed, he was felled by that phenomena you talked about-the floating neutral. But it looks as though it occurred naturally.”

My stomach clenched. I knew what Gav was about to say, so I beat him to it. Maybe it would hurt less that way. “And I brought the idea to their attention?”

“You did,” he said. “Blanchard’s team had placed a bomb in the White House, in an effort to target the First Lady, but their attempts were crude and unsuccessful. Bindy kept in regular contact with Manny. He tossed out the idea of rigging a floating neutral after you kept badgering him about it. He said he thought he could make the blast look like a natural occurrence.”

My head was spinning. “So I played a part in almost getting the White House destroyed.”

“No almost about it. The White House is gone.” Gav smiled. “The gingerbread White House, that is. Completely decimated, thanks to you.” His eyebrows rose and the gray eyes sparkled. “But also thanks to you, the real White House is still standing.”

MARCEL’S GINGERBREAD MASTERPIECE WOULD be the first one to go down in history as a casualty of political warfare. But some good had come of it. In the First Lady’s press conference later that night, she’d chosen not to dwell on what was lost, but on what remained. She’d reminded everyone in the televised event that all the gingerbread men sent in by the nation’s children had survived intact.

She said: “That our children’s contributions are still with us-that each one is still just as beautiful as it was when we received it-is really what’s important. Thanks to our fine staff and American gutsiness, our White House is still standing, and we are still together to enjoy it. Our holiday theme has special meaning for us tonight because… together we do celebrate. Welcome home.” At that she’d opened her arms, inviting the cameras into the residence for their much-belated Decorator Tour.

As I watched her, I realized that for the first time since she’d received the news of Sean’s death, Mrs. Campbell was at peace.

A WEEK LATER THERE WERE STILL A HUNDRED questions I hadn’t gotten answers to, but knowing the tight-lipped nature of the White House security personnel, I counted my blessings for having gotten as much as I had out of Gav.

I thought about this as I sat in the kitchen, today’s Washington Post on the countertop in front of me. It was quiet and I appreciated the solitude. I’d sent everyone home early tonight. Dinner was done, and with no big events scheduled till next week, I decided we all needed some time off. Agda smiled and promised to be in early the next day. Bucky actually thanked me again, and I was surprised to notice Rafe helping Cyan into her coat as the two of them made plans for spending the evening together.

The front page of the Post caught me up on the latest in the Blanchard Blowup, as they were calling it. There was yet another picture of Bindy, who, in every shot, seemed to be running past cameras, face covered, hopping into a waiting car or being hustled into the police station. Charges against her were still pending. Next to her photo was one of a smiling Senator Blanchard, who’d been indicted along with Manny and Yi-im.

Blanchard held his head high and gripped a microphone with both hands. The caption below the picture quoted: “I am innocent of these ridiculous allegations.” His wife stood behind him, looking stricken and gaunt. The kids were nowhere to be seen.

I scanned for updates, but it was mostly just rehash. I turned to page five to finish the article.

The Blowup was hot stuff-real news-and I was thankful for the shift in attention away from me. Even though all the articles still made mention of my leap under the table to prevent the explosion-after all, that’s where the Blanchard Blowup story started-my name was being mentioned less often. For that, I was grateful.

Secret Service personnel had been my constant companions. Two agents shuttled me back and forth to work since the big holiday commotion to keep me out of reach of the mob of reporters. Hordes of them camped outside the White House gates, every one of them eager to get an exclusive interview with the chef who had literally brought down the house-the gingerbread house. I didn’t complain about my escort service-instead of taking the Metro, I’d been riding in the back of a luxury sedan, with door-to-door attention. Tom had at first offered to take over body-guarding duties, but his schedule kept him busy until late in the evening almost every night. After all, his first duty was to the president. At least in the daytime. But he was always happy to do some extra undercover work with me.

Tonight, exactly one week after the fracas, I was on my own again. My personal Secret Service detail had informed me they deemed it safe for me to resume my normal commute. Thank goodness. As much as I’d miss the cushy comfort of the chauffeured car, I was happy to be free of constant surveillance. I wondered how the president and his family tolerated the never-ending attention.

I was about to close the newspaper when a related sidebar headline caught my eye: “Zendy Industries Sold.” The sidebar directed me to the business section-E, which I turned to as quickly as I could.

It can’t be true, I thought, as I pulled out the section to search for the article. Mrs. Campbell was adamant. What could have caused her to change her mind?

I didn’t have to search far. On the first page of the section, the Zendy headline was repeated and a lengthy update appeared below. I scanned, then realized I wasn’t comprehending. Starting from the top, I began again, trying to absorb this late-breaking news update.