Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

Mrs. Campbell had, indeed, announced an agreement to sell Zendy Industries. But she’d done so in a spectacularly intriguing way. She was quoted: “With the recent developments of which we’re all aware, I have decided not to continue my association with my former colleagues. While Treyton Blanchard and Nick Volkov are occupied with their own personal issues, I have come to understand that they have neither the time nor the inclination to see to the best interests of Zendy. With that in mind, I have taken Nick Volkov’s offhand advice. He may have been joking, but I am quite serious.

“Although I am unable to finance an entire buyout, I do have sufficient resources to allow me a 51 percent share. The remaining 49 percent will be acquired by other investors.”

When pressed to name these other investors, Mrs. Campbell was further quoted as saying, “I don’t care to divulge that to the press, at this time. But I can tell you that it is refreshing to work with investors I can trust.”

Good for her. I smiled as I pulled the newspaper back together, and dropped it into the recycle bin. After taking a moment to disinfect the countertop, I headed home.

NO REPORTERS WAITED FOR ME AT THE GATE. No camera crews stalked me on my short walk to the Mac-Pherson Square station. And yet…

That prickling feeling was back.

The evening was dark, as it usually is after eight at night in early December, but the cold, snappy air held a hint of electricity I couldn’t put my finger on. I turned to see if anyone followed, but the street was mostly quiet. A male-female couple walked a prancing Pekinese, which wore little leather boots on each paw.

Across the street a few other pedestrians ambled, scurried, and strode, but no one paid me any attention.

Once at the station, I slid my new Metro pass into the machine, and picked it up when it popped out of the slot on the top of the turnstile. Over the past week I’d been able to replace almost everything that had been stolen, including credit cards. Replacement cards showed up in my apartment’s mailbox with blazing speed. I guess they didn’t want me to miss even one day of holiday shopping. I always kept my cell phone in my back pocket, so that was one headache I didn’t have to deal with. My personal stuff, like the few pictures I carried, a little cash, and some recent receipts, were gone for good.

As I returned the Metro pass to my purse, my fingers sought and found the pepper spray. Just wrapping my hand around the little canister made me feel more secure. Still, the uncomfortable feeling of being watched stayed with me until the train arrived. I paid careful attention to those who boarded the same time I did, but saw no one suspicious.

Once settled in my seat, the feeling disappeared, and I attributed my paranoia to having gotten used to being followed by Secret Service agents every day for the past week. I’d get over it.

At my stop, I took care to take note of the folks who got off with me. A woman with a baby, an elderly gentleman, and two young men with Mohawks. So far, so good.

When I made it outside, however, the oppressive sense of being watched was back. I twisted, making a complete 360, but I saw no one of interest.

Keeping my head down to fight off the wind, I hurried to make the quick trek from the station to my apartment building. I’d just gotten past the very spot I’d been accosted when I heard it.

Double-tap footsteps behind me.

I spun. My hand dug straight for my pepper spray.

Nobody there.

The footsteps stopped.

I stole a quick glance in the direction of my building, gauging how fast I could get there, and how best to outpace the big guy, for I had no doubt he was back. In that instant I knew with certainty that the little Asian guy and his bulky cohort had been in league with Yi-im, and, it followed, with Blanchard.

I scanned the area, knowing they would be bent on revenge.

A rustle to my left.

Shan-Yu, my would-be abductor, stepped from the shadows.

I jumped backward as my heart thudded-crazed, like a gong in my chest.

“You not smart woman,” he said. Behind him, Mr. Tap Shoes emerged, arms at his sides, his stance telling me he was ready to tackle me if I tried to move. I inched backward, my cold-sweaty hands fighting for a better grip on my pepper spray.

“I’m not?” I asked, buying myself precious seconds. My hand still tucked inside my purse, I needed to get my index finger and thumb into position. There. I released the safety catch.

Shan-Yu’s eyes caught the streetlight’s beam, glittering as he stepped closer.

“You think you so smart,” he said, again. “But you not.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, knowing I needed a distraction. “Then how come you didn’t notice the Secret Service agents following me?”

Instinctively, they both looked up. I leaped forward, dragging out the spray, holding my breath as I shot them both in the face. I held down the plunger as long as I could before backing up fast and averting my eyes.

The two yelped, coughing and waving their hands as I bolted away from them, squinting to keep the chemical from burning my own eyes.

I’d gone only two steps when I slammed into something hard. My first thought was that I’d hit a wall, or a tree, but when the limbs reached out to grab me, I knew better. I screamed, scratched, and tried to bite.

“Ollie!”

At the familiarity I stopped fighting. I looked up. “Gav?”

He pushed me behind him and moved toward Shan-Yu and Mr. Tap Shoes, who were already being cuffed by two other agents. Seconds later, an unmarked car eased around the corner and the agents hustled the coughing creeps inside.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “How did you know?”

Gav conferred with the men before turning to answer me. “We didn’t.”

Realization was beginning to dawn. “You suspected these guys were part of Blanchard’s army.”

He made a so-so motion. “We assumed.”

“But you couldn’t find them.”

“No.”

“So you hung me out as bait?”

Gav winced. “Something like that.”

The two agents who’d corralled my attackers were finished loading them into the car. A second later they pulled away from the curb, and the agent in the passenger seat waved. I watched them for a long moment before I could speak again. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

“When you shouted about being protected by the Secret Service, I actually thought our cover had been blown,” he said. His mouth twitched-an almost smile. “Did you know we were tailing you?”

“No.”

“Well, you seemed to be doing just fine on your own. I don’t think you even needed us.”

I tried to smile, but I was shaking too much. Gav noticed.

He walked me to my door, one hand on my elbow. “We’re packing it in, you know. We completed the staff training. Time to take the explosive show on the road.”

“You’re not coming back?”

“Not until we’re needed again.”

I was surprised to realize I was sorry to see him go. I said as much, then added, “But for the president’s sake, I hope your team isn’t called back for a long time.”

He held open the building’s front door. “Until then, Ollie,” he said, “I’m counting on you being our eyes and ears.”

I scooted inside, then turned back. But I didn’t know what to say.

Gav gave a quick two-fingered salute, and was gone.

FORGIVE THE TITLE-I CAN’T RESIST A GOOD alliteration. But it’s true that there’s nothing better to have in your cooking repertoire than a bunch of appetizer recipes. Most appetizers are fabulously tasty, and many are good for you, too (though not all; the cheese straws, brownies, and cookies below are pure sin). When you want to throw a fancy reception or a party and you don’t want to drag in waiters and bartenders to lend a hand, whipping together a big bunch of appetizers is a surefire way to feed a crowd and keep them happy without having to go through the trauma of a big sit-down dinner. Even at the White House, the number of affairs where we field a wide assortment of appetizers for guests to nibble on far exceeds the number of big State dinners we host each year. One real advantage of this kind of spread is that it makes it so much easier for people to mingle and talk. Washington really is a fairly small town, so the guests at most White House receptions are likely to have met one another before. But even when they haven’t, conversations always start at the appetizer tables. Usually it’s just advice not to miss a particularly succulent item in the array; but from such simple beginnings, real conversations grow.