He battled a smile the entire walk back to his office.
After that day, Caroline began submitting official visitor lists to Nathaniel’s office. The lists were an extra burden on her overfilled day, but it wasn’t a completely unreasonable request.
Whatwasunreasonable was the way Nathaniel began haunting the East Room each day during visitors’ hours. The grandiose room looked like something straight out of Versailles. It featured lavish artwork and huge chandeliers that twinkled with thousands of crystals. It was a favorite among the tourists, who gaped at the coffered ceilings, velvet drapes, and gilded mirrors.
Nathaniel Trask perched on a chair in the corner, scrutinizing the visitors like a cat waiting to pounce. He did it for an hour every day. The only time he tore his gaze off the visitors was to scribble in a little notebook. Caroline itched to know what he wrote, for his concentration was fascinating. Something about a man completely absorbed in his professional duties was inexplicably attractive.
One morning she simply couldn’t stand it another moment. He watched an elderly woman waddle past with a cane, huffing and out of breath as she admired a pair of marble lions flanking the fireplace. Nathaniel was almost holding his breath as he watched her, his stare disconcerting.
She slid up beside his chair and leaned down to whisper, “What do you think, arsonist or assassin?”
A smile fought to emerge, but he killed it quickly. “Sorry to disappoint. I think she’s an ordinary tourist. One who hails from the Midwest, if her accent is any indication.” He closed his notebook and slipped it inside his suit jacket. “I’ve got what I need for today. Let’s go outside.”
She followed him out to the southern portico, the semi-circular balcony framed by the iconic white columns. She snapped open her fan, for the August heat was sweltering. “No one will think poorly of you if you shed that suit jacket.”
His lips curved into one of those slow, closed-mouth smiles.“Somehow it doesn’t seem right to be on White House grounds without a suit jacket.”
He always wore a somber three-piece suit that looked oppressively hot. The only hint of decoration he wore was a silver tie clip with a little bird clinging to a slim branch. It was so heavily stylized that she must have seen it half a dozen times before she spotted the bird in the intricate silverwork.
“Tell me about the tie clip,” she said. “It’s surprisingly whimsical for such a serious, sober man.”
He touched the tie clip, flushing a little. “It’s a memento of my greatest professional failure.”
“Oh?”
“The Kestrel Gang. A dangerously clever group of counterfeiters. I’ve been hunting them for a decade. Once I spent almost a year in St. Louis on their trail, but it came to nothing.”
“Why are they called the Kestrel Gang?”
“Kestrels are the smallest breed of falcon. They are smart, tricky, and migrate all over the nation, which is how this gang of counterfeiters operates. Somehow they figured out that the Secret Service code name for them waskestrel, and they sent me this tie clip after I gave up in St. Louis.”
She smothered an appalled laugh. “And you choose to wear it?”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “It’s a daily reminder for me. I’ll catch them someday.”
Oddly, learning of his professional failing and his sense of humor about the tie clip made him even more attractive. She liked his old-school formality, especially now that they were outdoors and he had dropped the stalking cat demeanor.
“Why do you scrutinize the tourists so intently? There are plenty of ushers keeping watch.”
“I’m educating myself.” At her quirked brow, he continued. “When looking for counterfeit bills, you don’t study fake currency, you study the real thing. Thousands and thousands ofauthentic bills of different denominations, age, and wear. Only by being intimately familiar with what the real thing looks like can I spot the fakes.”
“And the tourists?”
“Same principle. None of them look alike, but I’m studying how they behave. Some are excited to be here, others look hot and tired. Some are distracted by fussy children. Some gawk at the ostentation while others are moved by patriotic emotion. All these things are normal. I need to observe thousands of examples to get it engraved in my mind so that when someone who isn’t really a tourist shows up, I’ll spot him.”
He went on to explain that the notes he compiled would be provided to the rest of the security guards. Most of the guards had worked here for decades but probably had no formal training other than some fighting and shooting experience. Nathaniel was going about things much more methodically.
“Who is the guest you’ve asked to visit the White House next Monday?” he asked.
As requested, Caroline had submitted a short list of personal guests along with the lengthy list of official visitors. This was the first time he’d asked about her personal guests.
“Petra Stepanovic is a close friend,” she said carefully. Petra had always been the most daring of her friends, a turban-wearing fifty-year-old widow of a Serbian diplomat who’d traveled the world, had affairs with Russian aristocrats, and perfected the art of holding a slender cigarette holder as she smoked. “Petra and I will be appealing to the first lady for her help supporting a school for immigrant women and girls.”
“She’s from Serbia,” he said. “Why didn’t she return home after her husband died?”
Because Petra’s free-thinking ways were not a good fit for Serbia, but that probably wasn’t what Nathaniel was driving at. Serbia was known as a hotbed for anarchists, and it might be enough to set off his alarm bells.
“She likes the cafés in Washington,” Caroline replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “If you’d like to know if she associates with anarchists, why don’t you just ask?”
