P.K. on the Case: The White House Solarium

Willingham Culpepper, otherwise known as P.K., the Secret Service code name that stood for President’s Kid, fidgeted in his chair. His father, President J. R. Culpepper, was seated to his right, reading through a stack of folders marked “Top Secret” and some files from MI6 marked “Eyes Only.” P.K. knew that MI6 stood for Military Intelligence, the British equivalent of the CIA. PK had always gotten a kick out of the Brits and their “Eyes Only” files. How else were you supposed to read a top-secret file? With your butt? He chuckled at the thought of a file labeled “Butt Only.” There were also some files from Mossad, Israel’s secret service, and a couple of other countries in the stack. He sighed heavily.

“Dad, I just don’t want to go to another press conference. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I’m glad Bethany is okay. Really glad. Even though she is a food cop and a homework cop and really bossy about—”

“P.K….” His father had the warning tone in his voice. His dad had been reading the file marked “Top Secret—SOS.” Like, really reading it, as in totally absorbed. Some old roadie named Boone ran the SOS team and his dad had put Boone in charge of saving P.K.’s sister, Bethany. P.K. also knew his dad was smart about these things, having been director of the CIA before his presidency. And this Boone guy and his team had rescued Bethany safely.

But P.K. was curious. He knew he’d only been saved from being kidnapped himself by the quick thinking of his new friends, Angela and Quest, and a mysterious woman, Malak Tucker. P.K. wasn’t quite sure yet how she was involved, but according to his dad she was a former Secret Service agent who had infiltrated the ghost cell, a super-secret group of terrorists currently at large in the United States.

Chef Cheesy, the White House chef and a member of the ghost cell, had drugged him and tried sneaking him out of the White House. Some of the details were still fuzzy. Angela and Quest and Malak saved him somehow. His dad let Boone go after and rescue Bethany. And he had gotten Bethany back safe and sound. But why would his dad send this old guy after his sister instead of sending an FBI tactical team or, well, anybody else. It didn’t add up. P.K. hated it when things didn’t add up.

In the time it took P.K. to think about all this, his dad had launched into a lecture about how he should respect his sister more. Luckily he was rescued by the arrival of Roger and Blaze Tucker. Two Secret Service agents, Charlie Norton and Pat Callaghan, were trailing along behind them. P.K. knew that his father trusted both men probably more than he trusted the director of the Secret Service himself.

“Roger, Blaze, good morning!” President Culpepper said. “I hope you slept well.”

“Absolutely,” Blaze said. “The Lincoln Bedroom is quite nice!”

“I can’t thank you enough for your extra efforts on behalf of the bombing victims. I know this has inconvenienced you. But your help means more than you know,” the president said. “The kitchen has prepared a buffet, and please help yourself. Bethany will be joining us shortly. She had some last-minute duties to attend to.”

In truth, the president had his personal physician up in the White House residence still examining Bethany. They told the doctor she had had a mysterious fainting spell. But she had survived a very close call. President Culpepper was taking no chances. He was having her thoroughly checked out before the press conference.

“Sounds great. We’re famished,” Roger said, but he didn’t sound awfully excited.

“I need to speak to my agents a moment. Please help yourselves to some food and then join us at the table,” the president said.

As Blaze and Roger turned their attention to the buffet and the president left the table to speak to Norton and Callaghan, he put the SOS file down on the table. While they were huddled together, P.K. saw his opportunity and took it.

Opening the SOS file, the first thing he saw was a memo, signed by his father when he was director of the CIA. It asked a CIA analyst to investigate the current location of someone named Antonio Beroni. Underneath that page was another old yellowed and wrinkled sheet of paper. Across the top were printed the letters OSS. Because P.K. had been around this stuff his whole life, he knew that OSS stood for Office of Strategic Services—the World War II version of the CIA.

P.K. scanned both memos quickly. His father was still murmuring with the agents across the room. Blaze and Roger were loading up their plates. The older memo said that an OSS operative had successfully been sent through Switzerland into Nazi Germany using an Italian passport. He was now attached to Field Marshal Rommel’s staff. His name, according to the file, was Generalissimo Antonio Beroni.

P.K. wanted to read more, but knew better than to press his luck. He had to come up with a reason to get out of the press conference. Roger and Blaze were returning to the table so he quickly shut the file folder.

His mind was zooming a thousand miles a minute. What was a memo from OSS days doing in a file about Boone and his SOS team? And why was his dad, when he was CIA director, asking someone who worked for him to locate an Antonio Beroni? It didn’t make sense and things that didn’t make sense made P.K. squirm. As Roger and Blaze sat down at the table, it took every ounce of self-control for him to sit still.

Across the room, Agent Norton was keeping P.K. in his peripheral vision as the boy fidgeted in his chair.

“Sir, please tell me you know your ten-year-old son is reading a classified security file?” Norton asked the president.

“I do. But don’t worry. It’s not Top Secret. P.K. is wound up tight. He doesn’t know exactly what’s happened here in the last twenty-four hours. So he needs a project. He’ll spend some time spinning his wheels on this and then be on to something else. Did you speak to Masters?” the president asked.

“Only when he handed Bethany off to us. He’s a good one. Said to tell you, ‘We’re even,’” Callaghan said.

“I’ll never be able to repay him. Did Cheesy or Arbuckle give up anything?” the president asked.

“Not yet. We handed them off to Everett and a couple of other guys Boone called in. They’ll hold on to them until this is over. They’re close by in case we need them and Cheesy and Arbuckle are also—how should I put this—catching up on their sleep. Figured we’d let them experience what Bethany and P.K. went through. I’m sure they don’t know much. It’s how these groups operate. I promise you, Cheesy will tell me everything he knows in excruciating detail before I’m done with him,” Norton said while grinding his fist in his other hand, the knuckles turning white.

The president shook his head. “Keep Boone’s people on them until this is over. No one else but you two are to know where they are. I’ll fix it so everyone thinks they came down with the flu or something and they’re taking sick days. When this is over they can go to Gitmo for the rest of their lives, for all I care. We need containment on this. But I don’t want you leaving the detail here unless I order it specifically. Pat, Charlie, you have to protect my kids,” he said. His voice cracked a bit. J. R. Culpepper was not a man who broke easily. But the last few hours had taken their toll.

A look of disappointment flashed across Norton’s face. He had looked forward to interrogating Chef Cheesy. Norton was fond of the president’s family, especially P.K. The fact that the chef had a role in the attempted kidnapping filled him with rage. But he understood the president’s reasons.

“Of course, Mr. President,” Norton said.

“Good. Pat, you’re here for now. But I’m going to want you to be a floater. Have a grab-and-go bag ready and include your tactical gear. You don’t mind taking orders from Boone, do you?” the president asked.

“Sir, Boone is the best agent I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been around. If you tell me he’s in charge, that’s good enough for me,” Callaghan answered.

“Good. Now I’m going to go sit down at the table before P.K. uncovers the nuclear launch codes.” The president spun on his heel and walked back to the table.

Norton looked at Pat. “You don’t think P.K. actually …”

Callaghan shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

J.R. reached the table to find Blaze and Roger trying to engage the squirming, toe-tapping, knuckle-cracking P.K. in meaningful conversation. They had plates piled with fruit, yogurt, and nuts and now Roger looked happy. Blaze was picking at her food, looking as if she hoped to uncover a strawberry wrapped in a piece of bacon.

“I don’t mean to rush anyone,” the president said, “but we have to get to the Rose Garden to get ready for the press conference. Bethany will be joining us there. P.K., you need to change….”

“Dad,” P.K. said. “I really don’t want to go to this press conference. I’ve got a lot of homework. In fact, I really need to go to the National Archives for a history—”

“P.K., we’ve been through this,” the president said.

Callaghan coughed from the corner where he had taken up the usual discreet “Secret Service agent position.” “Mr. President, if I may,” he said quietly. The two men stepped out of earshot.

“Sir, it might not be a bad idea for P.K. to stay away from the press conference. Purely from a safety standpoint,” Callaghan said.

“But if the ghost cell doesn’t see him …” the president countered.

“They already know they failed getting P.K. out of the White House. They succeeded with Bethany, but we got her back. That had to make them burning mad. The fact is, we still don’t know who we can trust. Tell him he needs to go for the start of the press conference and wave at the camera. Then we’ll take him out of the room. That will be enough to rattle their cages. Until we know more from an operational security standpoint, it’s better to keep P.K. and Bethany separated. And if you do suddenly need me elsewhere, keeping him on the move with Charlie watching him is the best plan.”

The president stroked his chin for a moment, then said, “I like it. Good work.”

He returned to the table. “All right, P.K., here’s the deal. You come to the press conference, but only stay through the opening remarks. After that agents Norton and Callaghan will take you to the National Archives,” he said.

P.K. frowned and crossed his arms, knowing he wasn’t entirely getting his way. At least it was one small victory. He hated press conferences. Especially when there was more important work to be done.