Today, in addition to the stunning eagle-leg grand piano that sat beneath a protective dust cloth in the southern corner and the collection of chairs brought in for the staff, the room was lined on two walls by folding tables. Whatever they held was also covered by white cloth, but I didn’t imagine their role was to keep away dust. The lumpiness beneath the white fabric led me to believe that whatever was under there was to be kept from the staff’s prying eyes.

I took a folding chair toward the back, finding myself seated near Gene again. “How’s it going?” I asked, not really expecting much of a reply.

“I can’t find Manny or Vince,” he said.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Manny and Vince were journeymen electricians who did a lot of the maintenance work around the grounds. “They’re… missing?”

“Damned if I know,” he said, leaning close enough for me to smell his stale coffee breath. “Curly told them to get the Map Room hot again, but now he’s gone for the day and I can’t find either of the two young guys.”

Vince might be considered youthful. Manny, not so much. Of course, from Gene’s point of view, twenty- and thirtysomethings probably did seem like youngsters.

“Curly’s gone? With everything we have to do?”

Gene shook his big head. “His wife’s in the hospital. They called him out there. What could I do?” he asked rhetorically. “I need to make sure they take care of things. With the Map Room out of juice, I start worrying about the Blue Room and the Red Room. Even though they’re on the floor above, they’re close, you know.”

I knew where the Blue and Red rooms were, but I also knew Gene was just working off stress by explaining it to me. The Christmas tree, due here in just a few days, would be set up in the Blue Room for White House guests to see and admire. The Red Room would host the gingerbread house. Lack of electricity in either location was not an option.

Just then, three men dressed in black marched into the room. All had enormous rifles, solemn expressions, and baseball caps pulled low. Behind them four other men followed. These guys were dressed in camouflage gear. When the procession came to halt before our gathering of department heads, the men pivoted and came to attention. I didn’t know whether I should stand, salute, or what.

“Welcome to the first round of educational seminars scheduled for White House personnel.” I leaned to see around the people in front of me. A tall, fortyish man stood in front of us on a raised dais. Watching us, he ran both hands through his sandy hair before he leaned forward to grip the sides of a lectern. With a voice like his, he didn’t really need the microphone, but that didn’t stop him from using it. “I am Special Agent-in-Charge Leonard Gavin. I am in command of this endeavor.” He worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and tugged his head sideways the way men do when their collars are too tight. “In the course of White House business, you will refer to me as Special Agent Gavin.”

Now I really felt like saluting.

Still booming, he continued. “You will be given name tags and asked to sign in so we know you were here. I will attempt to learn all your names. We have a lot to accomplish, so we will begin by passing out a study guide. Nickerson?”

One of the camouflage men stepped forward to begin distributing booklets.

Gene muttered under his breath, “We’re never going to get out of here.”

“Don’t say that.” I took one of the handouts and passed the rest to Gene, whispering, “I’ve got two big events-”

Special Agent Gavin pointed to me, his voice loud and irritated. “Is there a question?”

Startled, I shook my head. “No.”

As though I wouldn’t be able to hear him, he came around the lectern, his voice still about fifty decibels higher than it needed to be. “What is your name?”

“Ollie,” I said. “Ollie Paras.”

“What is your position?”

I stood. “I am the White House executive chef.” Wow, I got to say that twice in an hour. But would he view me as “too tiny” like Amazon Agda had?

“Come up here,” he said.

I started to protest, then thought better of it and decided to comply. Wasn’t this great? I’d inadvertently become today’s troublemaker for talking in class. Just like in school. Years of not knowing when to keep my mouth shut taught me it was better to go along with the teacher’s orders and take my lumps right away, than to suffer built-up wrath later. I scooted sideways from my chair and made my way forward. Going with the flow might help things move along faster here, too.

I skipped up the steps to the dais, presenting myself as willing and cooperative. Or at least I hoped that’s how I came across.

“Now, Ms. Chef, look out there,” Gavin said, pointing to the audience. Department heads and assistants stared back at me from the safety of their folding chairs.

I followed Gavin’s direction. “Okay.”

Way back, next to where I’d been sitting, Gene squirmed. A half beat later he sat up and twisted, as though someone had called his name. Apparently someone had. Manny stood in the room’s doorway, beckoning to Gene, who needed no further encouragement. Hefting his bulk, he was up and out the door within seconds. I was glad for Gene that Manny had found him. At least one of us was getting something accomplished.

I chanced a look at Special Agent Gavin, who stood next to me-imposingly-looking as unperturbed as I was discomfited by the heavy silence in the room. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he silenced me with a look and pointed out to the audience again.

Was there something I was supposed to notice? Something amiss? I shifted from one foot to the other, thinking about my crew downstairs. About Bucky running things. About Agda’s professed ability to follow recipe directions in English. That made me squirm.

The camouflage guys and the black-clad snipers were busy organizing the displays on two of the long tables at the far side of the room. They’d peeled away the white coverings to reveal an odd assortment of gadgets. No doubt Gav here was supposed to be the warm-up act, and I the unfortunate audience volunteer.

I wanted to be back in my kitchen. Now.

When I bit my lip in impatience, I noticed Peter Everett Sargeant III grinning viciously up at me from the front row. Sargeant, the head of cultural and faith-based etiquette affairs, and I had never been able to see eye-to-eye about anything. I smiled back at him, as evenly as I could manage.

Finally, Gavin asked, “What do you see?”

I had an answer ready. “My colleagues.”

“No.” He shook his head somberly, as though I’d given a bad answer to a very easy question.

“No?”

“You see safety.”

I could feel this little demonstration stretching out ahead of us. If he’d chosen someone else-anyone else-I might have been able to sneak out of this meeting after signing the attendance sheet. Here, out in front of everyone, I had no choice but to go along.

“You operate in a state of bliss,” he continued. “You have no worries, no cares.”

I wanted to ask him how often he’d plated a dinner for more than a hundred guests. From the looks of his downturned mouth and icy-sharp gaze, I’d wager he didn’t have enough friends to entertain often. Still, I didn’t argue.

“One of these people here”-he pointed outward again-“could be a killer.” He twisted to face me. “You could be a killer.”

Was he joking? “I’m… not.”

“We don’t know that. None of us know that. Today you’re a cook…”

A cook? I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from reacting.

“Tomorrow, who knows? You could… snap!” He flicked his fingers in emphasis. Right in front of my rapidly heating face. “I will ask you again: What do you see?”

Obediently, I offered, “Safety?”

“Yes!” he said, smiling and raising two fists in the air like a TV evangelist wannabe. Even louder, he asked, “And who here could be a killer?”