The Secret Service agent posted in the West Sitting Hall outside of the President’s Dining Room announced the Foleys’ arrival at eight p.m. Cathy had insisted on making dinner herself—roast leg of lamb with rosemary, Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas. Extremely British for a gal named Mueller—and deliciously decadent for a wife who constantly fretted about Jack’s intake of fat and cholesterol—but it was a meal she’d grown to love during their time in England.
Cathy hadn’t felt much like entertaining since her abduction and rescue. An evening with close friends was a welcome respite from the daily grind of politics and problems. Even so, the prospect of Ryan’s trip to Panama the next morning hung like the sword of Damocles over the little group. Cathy was friendly, even talkative, but they’d been married long enough for Jack to know Cathy would bring it up with his director of national intelligence when she felt the time was right.
That time arrived after the main course was cleared and she served a homemade trifle from a clear glass dish designed specifically for this dessert. Layers of sherry-infused angel food cake, vanilla pudding, fruit, shaved almonds, and whipped cream, it was a work of art. Another skill she’d learned in England. Jack couldn’t help but notice that she gave him the smallest portion—whether because he’d eaten so many Yorkshire puddings and so much gravy or she was upset about the trip, he wasn’t sure. Probably both.
She spooned a generous dollop to Ed Foley, former Moscow chief of station, previous director of the CIA, and Mary Pat’s husband. He was retired now, as much as any old intelligence dog could bring himself to retire, still teaching at the Farm and writing the occasional book.
“I understand Mary Pat’s going south as well,” Cathy said, using a second, smaller spoon to scrape the serving spoon into Ed’s bowl. “Are you going with her?”
“Not a chance,” Ed said. “I have to stay home and light a fire under the folks at the CIA to clear and approve my latest book before my publisher sends guys in suits to break my kneecaps. Damned thing’s already late as it is.”
Ed surely knew Cathy was worried, but after four decades in the intelligence community, he knew a trap when he saw it.
Cathy served Mary Pat, then herself—a much larger portion of trifle than Jack’s. Yep. She was upset. The men waited for her to take a bite before they dug in.
She picked up her spoon, but instead of starting, she asked, “Is no one at this table besides me at all worried about this little misadventure to Panama? I read the papers, listen to the news. Russian ships. Labor unrests . . . I mean, come on.” The rant was to everyone, but her eyes fell directly on Jack.
Ed glanced at his wife and then down at his bowl. “I know Panama has no army, but they have something like six different law enforcement agencies. We helped train many of them.”
Mary Pat looked to the President for direction.
Cathy didn’t wait.
“Look,” she said. “I know every day is a risk. Honestly, after so many years, I’m usually numb to it. But . . .”
Mary Pat smiled. “This one is important,” she said.
“Aren’t they all?” Cathy said. “I’m only saying . . .” She put both hands flat on the table, rattling the silverware. “To be honest, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Just so you know,” Ryan said. “Gary Montgomery and I have worked out a secret plan for an added layer of security.”
“It is a pretty slick plan,” Ed Foley said.
Cathy took a deep breath, having said her piece. Her eyes narrowed. “Ed gets to know your secret plan?”
Ryan smiled. “And I’ll let you in on it, too, on one condition.”
Cathy raised a wary brow. “What’s that?”
“That you dig into your trifle,” Ryan said. “It looks delicious, but I’m afraid the ghost of my dead father will swoop down and thump my ear if I don’t wait for the hostess to take the first bite of her dessert.”