All the President’s Menus (23 page)

“Important, how?” she asked. “I thought you didn’t understand the language at all.”

“I understand body language, and tone.”

“Got it.”

I hit Play and the Saardiscan men’s voices immediately came through. I recognized Cleto speaking to Tibor. This was when I’d returned from visiting the refrigeration area.

Stephanie listened for a bit, then stopped the device. Looking up, she translated Cleto’s words: “I think the waitress in the hotel is attracted to you.”

She then went on to translate Tibor’s reply: “She is attracted to the fact that we are working in the White House. Nothing more.”

“I don’t know,” Cleto said. His voice held the playful, singsong lilt I remembered hearing this morning. “She seemed to pay you special attention last night.”

Tibor made a noise of dismissal.

Stephanie continued to translate Tibor’s words: “Why are these citizens so wild about this building, this residence?” he asked. “They find the president’s house exciting and exotic, but I cannot understand why. It has the right name. This is nothing more than a white house. Compared to the palaces our leaders live in, this is no better than a shack.”

Cleto chastised him, reminding Tibor that American officials weren’t revered the same way as leaders in Saardisca.

Tibor said: “The chefs in this kitchen are very loyal to their president.”

Cleto: “As we are to ours, yes?”

Tibor, sounding affronted, said: “You doubt me?”

Cleto: “No, my friend. But how will you feel if this new candidate wins the election?”

“She will not.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

Tibor didn’t answer.

Cleto: “What do you know about her?”

“She travels with her dog.”

“You have nothing more to add?”

“Should I?”

Cleto: “Do you keep dogs? I cannot abide them. They are dirty and smell bad.”

Tibor remained silent.

Cleto went on: “I have always hated dogs. Cats as well. Does the candidate’s affection for her mongrel make you believe she is more worthy? Have you, too, bought into the Western belief that filthy pets are to live indoors and be treated like people?”

Tibor surprised me by continuing to remain silent. Cleto’s opinions about the Americanization of Saardisca were similar to those Tibor held dear.

Cleto: “Have you nothing to add?”

Tibor: “You talk about dogs and cats and your hatred for them. What is there for me to say?”

Stephanie stopped the recording. “This is a whole lot of nothing.”

“Keep going, please,” I said. “A little bit more.”

The two men went on to discuss what I would call a lot more nothing for a brief period of time, before Cleto finally brought up Kilian’s name.

Stephanie’s eyebrows arched as she translated Cleto: “Poor Kilian,” he said. “What did you think about his plans to defect?” Even though I couldn’t understand the words until Stephanie spelled them out, I could tell that Cleto’s tone, while conversational, was almost too nonchalant.

I leaned forward. “What does he say?”

Stephanie was already listening to the next part. This time it was Tibor talking. “Kilian would never seek asylum here,” he said. “That is nonsense.”

Cleto asked: “Are you sure?”

“He was a proud Saardiscan. He would never relinquish his ties to his country.”

“And you?”

Tibor made a noise that led me to believe he was appalled by the question. Spluttering, he spoke fast, and Stephanie had to replay that section twice to get it right. I remembered this moment in the kitchen. I’d seen the anger on Tibor’s face, and I’d wondered what had put it there.

“How dare you?” he asked Cleto. “I have never given our leaders any reason to doubt my loyalty. How can you make such an accusation?”

Cleto’s voice became more soothing. “I make no accusation, my friend,” he said. “I simply ask the question. I know too well how tempting life in this country can be. Not all men are so strong to resist.”

Tibor: “And you? Are you tempted?”

We replayed Cleto’s answer several times but couldn’t make out what he’d said. He’d moved out of the range of my recorder.

More voices joined the chatter, along with the accompanying sounds of people moving about, utensils clanking into the sink, and generalized greetings.

“That will be Hector, Nate, and Bucky returning from the pastry kitchen,” I said, by way of explanation.

When she began translating again we listened as the Saardiscans conversed among themselves a bit in their native tongue. Nothing they said veered beyond polite chatter and good-natured ribbing.

We listened to a few more uninteresting exchanges.

“Here,” I said. “This is where I thought there might be something worth listening to.”

I recalled the scene in the kitchen that we were listening to now. I remembered how they’d been too quiet, too long.

I heard myself address Bucky: “I’m wondering if you and I should go over to Blair House today rather than wait. I’m really itching to get a closer look at the kitchen.”

We fast-forwarded through the discussion in English.

Silence again until Hector spoke to Nate in Saardiscan: “She talks about last-minute changes and how efficiently they work around them. What happens if one of these last-minute changes she speaks of prevents our goal?”

Nate answered: “Nothing will stop us. We will be successful.”

I sat up. Even Stephanie seemed startled. She stopped the playback and listened to it again. “Yes, that’s what they said.”

“Keep going,” I said.

Hector talking: “It is getting more difficult to plan with Tibor always around.”

Nate: “You are correct. And we can no longer freely converse because of Cleto.”

Hector: “It would be best if we were allowed unrestricted access to the ingredients, but one of them is always watching.”

My skin prickled. They’d had unrestricted access from the very start. Although there were never long stretches where they were on their own, we didn’t police them when they ran to the refrigeration room for an ingredient, or visited storage. We hadn’t started restricting access until after Kilian’s death.

That had been my call. Bucky and I hadn’t made a big deal out of it, but together we’d ensured that the men weren’t unsupervised when they were working with food. They’d noticed, which I supposed was to be expected. But I wondered why they cared.

Stephanie translated the next part. Even though they spoke in Saardiscan, I noticed that the men’s voices lowered as though to keep from being overheard.

Hector: “They promise my brother will be treated well.” Heavy sigh. “I can only hope that they keep their word and release him once this is over.”

“Complete your job and you will have nothing to worry about.”

“I do not understand why we are to be served as guests at this dinner. How are we to ensure the candidate’s dish contains the ingredient if we are not allowed in the kitchen?”

Nate chuckled: “We will have to create one of our own last-minute changes.”

Stephanie clicked off, staring at me. “What does that mean?” she asked.

“Nothing good,” I said.

We listened to a few more of their exchanges, but nothing more sinister came to light. Although I would have preferred to go over the entire day’s worth of Saardiscan conversations, Stephanie was getting antsy. Didn’t matter. I had enough to take to the Secret Service at this point.

“I’m sure Tom will call you in to go over all this, officially,” I said.

She nodded. “I imagine so. Is any of this admissible in court?”

“That doesn’t matter. These chefs are here as our guests. If keeping them away from Kerry Freiberg is what we need to do to ensure her safety, that’s what we need to do. Prosecuting them would be a nightmare. But if our people talk to their people, I’m sure justice will be served.”

“Let’s hope.”

I was about to call Gav when Stephanie’s doorbell rang. “Speaking of justice being served,” she said, “it looks like the police finally showed up.”

I followed her into the living room and waited for her to unlock the door. The moment she did, two officers stormed in, nearly knocking the young woman to the floor.

“Hey,” I shouted. “There’s no emergency here.”

One skipped heartbeat later, I realized how wrong I was.

These were no policemen.

They both wore panty hose over their faces the way my would-be purse-snatcher had, but this time recognition dawned. Their builds, their movements, and the sounds of their guttural exclamations—precisely the same as those I’d heard on tape moments ago—told me all I needed.

Alarmed, I backed up, preparing to run.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

Behind them, Stephanie stood, her hand against the wall for support. She stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

One of the intruders tried to grab me, but I ducked away. “Run,” I screamed to Stephanie. “Out the door. Get help.”

Either she reacted too slowly, or I’d shouted too late. The first attacker, who I recognized as the purse-snatcher, was Nate. He lunged at me as Hector turned for Stephanie. Her warbling scream shot chills up my back. I tried to sidestep Nate—to leap out of his grasp the way I had earlier, but he anticipated my maneuver. Seizing hold of my wrist, he spun me backward.

Stephanie’s home was not large, and as I wheeled my free arm to maintain balance, I crashed against a nearby table, knocking over a lamp and a handful of framed pictures.

My backside hit the corner of Stephanie’s television storage system, sending a hot zing of pain up my back and down my leg. But the anchored wall unit was just what I needed. Using it as a brace, I regained my balance. My right arm was still pinned in Nate’s grasp, so I swung my left fist at his head, putting as much weight into it as I could.

I connected hard. So hard that my hand hurt. I stunned him, but not for long enough.

I could hear Stephanie begging to be released, but with Nate blocking my view I couldn’t see her. I pounded another blow to my attacker’s face. This time it barely glanced his chin.

He growled at me, throwing me onto the floor. I landed hard on my seat, crab crawling backward away from him. There was nowhere to go. Nate blocked my way into the kitchen. I could see Hector had Stephanie pinned against the wall, but his large form prevented her from escaping through the open front door.

It was then I realized that neither man had spoken a word. Could it be that they didn’t know I’d recognized them? If that was the case, then we might have a better chance of getting out of this alive. As long as they believed we hadn’t listened to the tape yet.

Hector pulled Stephanie over and sat her down next to me. She covered her face and sobbed into her hands. “Let me go. Let me go. Please.”

“What do you want?” I asked, upping the panic in my voice for effect. It wasn’t difficult.

Nate pointed to my purse, and gestured for me to hand it over. Both the recorder and my cell phone were in there.

I feigned ignorance. “You’re looking for money? I’ll give you money.”

Nate growled at me, pointing to my purse with obvious rage. I continued to pretend to misunderstand.

“Give him the stupid purse,” Stephanie shouted at me.

Nate reached for it, pulling me to my feet to negotiate the strap over my head. I started bellowing for help again, beating at Nate with both hands. I couldn’t give up without a fight.

“Help! Rape! Fire!” It hadn’t worked before, but maybe this time luck would be on my side.

I held tight to my purse, doing my best to wrangle both it, and myself, out of Nate’s grasp. “Let go!” I shouted. “Help!”

He backhanded me across the face, sending me to the floor so hard I bounced. I yelped in pain and in disappointment. He pulled the straps over my head.

Triumphant, Nate handed the purse to Hector, while keeping watch over me, practically daring me to come at him again. Hector upended my bag, dropping my possessions onto the seat of an upholstered chair. He pawed through it quickly, finding the recorder in no time at all.

Nate pointed to my wallet and cell phone, which I knew they’d have to take, too, if they wanted this to truly look like a robbery rather than an ambush.

I wiped at my mouth, my fingers coming away bloody. That slap must have caused a cut inside my mouth. My cheek was stinging hot from where Nate’s hand had connected with it.

He continued to watch me closely while Hector finished his inventory.

I knew I’d probably get only one more shout out before he silenced me completely, but I had to try. “Somebody help us! Help! Thieves!”

Nate spun away. I didn’t know why.

Not until I heard the most wonderful command in the world: “Freeze. Police.”

The two Saardiscans rushed the surprised officer, knocking the gun from his hand as they wrestled him to the floor.

I jumped to my feet, bent on assisting the fallen cop, but at that moment, another officer—the first guy’s backup, I assumed—ran through the open front door. He took a beat to get a read on the scene and, from the expression on his face, I could tell that his first priority was to assist his fallen comrade.

Instinctively, I stepped back, hands up, nearly tripping over Stephanie, who hadn’t moved. She sat there, tears streaking her face, eyes wide, as though she couldn’t believe all this was going on in her little house.

The two officers struggled with Nate and Hector. In what seemed an extended jumble of arms and legs, grunts and anger, they managed to get both Saardiscan men to the floor, and their hands cuffed behind their backs.

The cops had ignored us during the scuffle. Now they both lasered their attention at me. “On the floor,” the second one ordered.

I did what I was told.

The policeman who’d arrived first—his name badge read Lucha—appeared irked to have been saved by his brother in blue. Retrieving his weapon, he made a show of dusting off his uniform.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

I still had my hands up. “Those two men broke in here and attacked us,” I said. “If you’ll let me show you my ID, I think I can help clear this up.”

Perhaps smarting from being caught off guard, he shook his head. “Hang on.”

The other officer had pulled the panty hose from Nate’s and Hector’s faces. When their sweating visages were uncovered, I showed no surprise. I could tell that they hadn’t expected that.

“What were you planning to do?” I asked them. “Why do you want to harm Kerry Freiberg?”

They turned away, mumbling to each other in Saardiscan.

“You know these men?” Lucha adopted a skeptical air, probably imagining that these were our boyfriends and this was some sort of perverted domestic quarrel. “What are they saying? What language are they speaking?”

Stephanie wasn’t about to answer, so I did.

“My name is Olivia Paras. I’m the executive chef at the White House.”

Officer Lucha’s jaw dropped, as I expected it would.

“These men are diplomatic visitors to the United States,” I continued. “As I said, if you let me show you my ID, I’m sure we’ll be able to clear this up quickly. To start, however, it might be a good idea to call the Secret Service.”