Authors: Connie Suttle
Dalton provided your number, at the behest of General
Cutter
, came the reply.
Then fuck off, unless it's important
, I returned.
You got it
.
* * *
Corinne
Rafe and Auggie were having a textual tussle. I wanted to roll
my eyes. I didn't—I was too busy trying to ward off a panic attack. Dr. Shaw
was on one of the first two helicopters and long gone before ours exploded on
the lawn.
I wasn't looking forward to this trip, not least because the
French Ambassador would be there. No doubt, an incident that happened six years
earlier would be brought up, as it was a sore spot between him and the
President.
Priceless paintings from the Louvre had been burned after a
section of it was taken over by terrorists. Tourists—visitors to the Louvre on
that fateful day—died while nations watched artwork that had survived for
centuries turn to ashes in a matter of minutes.
One of the terrorists, who'd reportedly committed suicide with
the rest of the attackers, was American. That was enough fuel for the French
President and the French Ambassador to condemn the involvement of a U.S.
citizen.
It didn't matter that twenty-six of the thirty-nine tourists' deaths
were also American. French nationals, Swiss, German and British citizens died,
too. Thirty-nine deaths attributed to eight terrorists, who'd committed suicide
after killing the last of their hostages.
French forces stormed in shortly after.
Nothing has been the same, since.
I drew a shaky breath.
No need to bring up that debacle now—I'd likely hear enough
about it after I arrived at Camp David.
Corinne, if you need help when we arrive, ask for it
,
August texted me. I didn't have the phone I'd been given in my hand, so I
pulled it from the small purse I carried when I felt it vibrate.
If I get the help you're suggesting, I'll be out for the
rest of the day
, I texted back.
I'll deal with this the best I can
.
I'll have Shaw on standby.
Right
.
What's wrong?
That came from Rafe.
You know, I'd like to say mind your own business, but that
will only intrigue you
, I texted back.
Have you tried meditation?
With hopeless regularity
.
I'm sure most of our conversation could have taken place
verbally, if we didn't have the sounds of the helicopter vibrating our bones as
well as our eardrums, and if our ears weren't covered in protective gear.
Therefore, texting worked as the next best thing. I just had no desire to
continue our conversation.
I was grateful when the chopper set down and we were allowed
off it.
* * *
An hour later, after a quick lunch, we were ushered into the
meeting room. In addition to the French Ambassador, the British Prime Minister
was there with his interpreter, the German Chancellor had come with his
interpreter, and the acting Russian Ambassador had also come.
All of them were frowning.
I wanted to hold up my hand and say "all my fault,"
after which I would be escorted from the building and allowed to write in quiet
confinement.
That didn't happen.
Several things concerned me about that meeting—it was an
extension of what had been discussed at a recent G-8 conference. Terrorist
threat levels were on the rise for some reason, and everyone wanted everybody
else's information.
All of them discussed potential targets—public transportation,
water supplies, government facilities and so on. The French Ambassador brought
up the attack in Paris six years earlier, but the others considered that an
anomaly.
Why would terrorists attack another museum?
During that meeting, which lasted four hours and would continue
into the next day, I watched several people. I noticed Rafe watching the same
people. I had four hours of rehashed conversations to mentally consider
what—and how much—to tell August.
* * *
We met over dinner—all of us. I didn't want to tell everybody
there what I knew. Rafe was holding back for the same reason. "I didn't
get much," Maye offered. "Pretty much what they were thinking is what
they were saying. They're all afraid they'll be targeted next."
"The French Ambassador is pissed; I could smell it all
over him," Nick said.
"He's mad because of that stupid museum debacle. Who
cares if a couple of paintings got burned?" Becker huffed.
"Thirty-nine people died there," Ken reminded
Becker. "Most of them Americans."
"One of the terrorists was American. The French
Ambassador tries to make it look as if he were in charge," Maye said.
"I doubt that's the case. His profile points to his being a follower, not
a leader."
"I believe he wanted to commit suicide and appear a hero
to his adopted religion," Rafe said quietly. "Colonel Hunter, I'd
like a private word with you when we're done, here."
"What about?" Dalton began.
"A private word," Rafe insisted.
"Can I be there?" I asked. "I think Rafe and I
may have something similar to say."
"You think so?" Rafe lifted an eyebrow and gave me a
skeptical frown.
"I think so," I said, toying with my fork. We had
prime rib sitting in front of us; I'd barely touched mine, although it was
quite good.
"Then we'll talk after dinner," August agreed.
"The three of us. Privately." He challenged Dalton to disagree.
Captain Dalton Parrish didn't argue with Colonel August Hunter. Sometimes, rank
really did have its privileges.
* * *
"The British Ambassador's interpreter isn't who she says
she is."
"She's a spy-for-hire."
Rafe and I attempted to speak at the same time the moment the
door closed behind August. He'd chosen a small meeting room in our shared
bungalow for the private conference. August didn't display shock often, but he
wore a concerned expression now.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he sputtered.
"She's—well—she's wormed her way into that position for a
reason," I said. Rafe stared at me as I offered that information.
"I was about to say the same thing, only I can say that
I've seen her before, and disaster always follows close behind. Somebody wants
information, and she's getting it for them," Rafe sighed.
"Let me talk to some of the others. You'll both be on
call, tonight, in case I can get a meeting." August stalked from the room,
slamming the door behind him.
"That went well," I muttered.
"You know we'll have to talk to the President
tonight," Rafe said.
"Yeah."
* * *
"I don't know what her real name is," Rafe answered
the President's question later. It was nearly midnight; Rafe's and my
exposition of the interpreter in question had raised some eyebrows and caused a
flurry of investigations. "I've never seen her use the same name
twice."
"I'd doubt your information, if Corinne hadn't pointed
her out as well," Madam President shook her head.
"I understand your reluctance to believe anything I
say," Rafe acknowledged. "That doesn't alter the fact that this
woman, who currently uses the name Mary Evans, is quite adept at changing
identities and nationalities—as the situation requires."
"How do you know so much about her?" the President
asked.
"Because she was hired by the Soviet government on at
least two occasions. I have nothing but contempt for her."
"This changes things," the President flung up a
hand. "Look, I've got several agencies investigating her background—photographs,
information, you name it. What I have so far shows she's really good—otherwise,
she'd never have been hired by the British government."
"As you see, other governments have hired her," Rafe
said. He was suggesting that the British government hired her for their own
purposes.
"I don't believe for a minute the Prime Minister knows
about her," I snapped, causing Rafe to turn swiftly in my direction.
"You said she was gathering information for somebody. It's not the British
government."
"If we grab her now, we'll never know what she's up to,
or who hired her," August pointed out. "Besides, what would we charge
her with? All we have is information that we can't substantiate." He
jerked a thumb in Rafe's and my direction.
"Look, I'm having her phone tapped, and we'll have
someone checking phone calls, in and out. We'll set up somebody to follow her
and report on every movement from now on. I don't want to alarm the Prime
Minister if we can help it," the President said before turning to me.
"Corinne," she said, "Is there anything you can
give me to get the French Ambassador and his President off my back?"
I froze. Rafe now stared at me. August shook his head and
looked away. "No, Ma'am," I lied. The panic attack came immediately
afterward.
* * *
I don't know how Rafe found his way into my bedroom the
following morning, but he was there with a cup of coffee in his hands.
Surprisingly enough, he offered the cup to me.
"You were there," he stated baldly as I worked my
way into a sitting position and accepted the cup.
"Go away. Thanks for the coffee."
"I figure there are people out there who'd pay seven
figures or more to know you survived that attack."
"Are you one of them? Plan on selling that information to
the highest bidder?" I asked, handing the cup of coffee back to him.
"Go away. I have enough worries without you adding more."
"I understand that. Perhaps better than you know,"
he said, handing the coffee cup back to me and sitting on the bed. He ended up
leaning against the headboard beside me and staring at the wall in front of us.
"How much do you think someone might pay to have information on my
continued existence?"
"Touché."
* * *
"Madam President, those panic attacks happen every time
the subject comes up. I keep waiting for her to tell me—to get that burden off
her shoulders. It's locked up so tightly within her, she may never let it
go." Dr. Shaw shifted in his chair as the President studied the doctor
across her temporary desk.
"Look, I know all about the forensics. About how the
bodies showed signs of torture before they were killed—Corinne's included. I
may know why they waited until the last to shoot her, but that's information I
don't feel comfortable giving out." President Sanders raked fingers
through dark hair turning gray at a rapid rate. The presidency tended to do
that—make someone gray long before their time. Madam President refused to mask
the signs of age or stress with hair color.
"You know that would be considered privileged,"
Doctor Shaw began.
"I and two others know. That's it, unless Corinne chooses
to tell you herself."
"Of course, Madam President."
"Will you do me a favor, Shaw?"
"Of course, Madam President."
"I want information on Derik Thompson's parents. His
upbringing. Anything you can find that might point to his reasons for becoming
a terrorist and involving himself in that mess. I'm tired of being vilified in
French."
"I'll get right on it."
* * *
Corinne
Becker made an effort to sneer at me as we walked toward the
meeting room. I figured there'd be more of the same from all
involved—posturing, withholding information, excuses, blame, all in several
languages.
I wasn't disappointed. Rafe and I, though, made a point to
watch everyone in the room and not just Mary Evans, AKA the spy to be named
later.
Chapter 6
"Something's going on." Nick dropped his bag on the floor
of his suite. Becker had followed Nick after the choppers left them at the
Mansion. "Why are they talking to Corinne, all of a sudden?"
"I think Maye knows something, she's just not
talking."
"Or just not talking to us."
"Too bad they stuck Corinne in the bungalow with Colonel
Hunter, Captain Parrish and the Russian. I figure we could pound a reason out
of her."
"You know you'll be in trouble if you touch her,"
Nick warned.
"Huh. What's a little punch, now and then?"
"Becker, you know your brain isn't your best asset. Let
me think about this, all right?"
"Don't take too long. I really want to know what's going
on."
"So do I. Patience is a virtue, remember?"
* * *
Notes—Colonel Hunter
"What was Captain Parrish's reaction when he wasn't
included in the meeting with the President?" James asked. James hadn't
been invited to the meetings either; he'd gone as my assistant and stayed in
the bungalow, doing routine tasks and keeping me in the loop on the chopper
explosion.
So far, the pilot hadn't cracked. That worried me, as he was
military. Someone had gotten to him, and we were still attempting to determine
the cause and what, if anything, he might know about the Program.
The explosive was on a timer—I'd figured that out early on. It
made it easier for Corinne to delay all of us without getting herself involved.
Too bad her hand was forced later on, with Mary Evans' appearance beside the
British Ambassador.
We'd followed her trail—there really was a Mary Evans with all
the appropriate documentation—from Northern Ireland. Dead, of course. That came
as no surprise. If you dig far enough, eventually you'll see daylight.
The President still hadn't notified the Prime Minister of the
doppelganger at his side. She wasn't scheduled to translate for him again until
he made a visit to China in six weeks. That could give us enough time to watch
her and determine her purpose.
"Dalton wasn't happy. I can't help that," I said,
brushing past James and heading toward my office. Instead of sitting behind my
desk, I stood at the window beyond it, studying the blackened patches of grass
on the lawn and considering the bottle of bourbon in a bottom desk drawer.
James brought me out of my musings by tapping on my open door.
"Colonel Hunter?"
"What is it, James?" I turned in his direction.
"Corinne is here to see you."
"Send her in."
* * *
Corinne
"That's an unusual request, but I'll see what I can
do," he said.
I'd asked to see images of all the people Mary Evans had
contact with. I had my reasons; August might guess at some of them. I didn't
care about that. I wanted to see whomever she saw—it was important.
"Please, Auggie. I think this is important," I said.
"I could show them to Rafe, too," he mused.
"Then show them to Rafe, too. He might know something."
"He turned out to be useful at Camp David," August
said.
"I think he's pissed enough at the Russians to be even
more helpful. He's from Ukraine, you know."
"Back when Ukraine was still part of Soviet Russia, I
know," August agreed.
"Then you know it was never a comfortable union. We're
talking genocide, Auggie."
"I know that, too. Your Krav Maga lessons resume
tomorrow. Be ready to run with the others at six."
"Yeah."
* * *
"Chamomile." Rafe plunked the box of tea onto the
counter two minutes after I got back to the kitchen. My visit with August
hadn't gone as well as I'd like, but at least he was considering my request.
Rafe wanted me to sleep instead of staying up half the night, going over what I
knew and what might be done about it.
"Really?" I shook my head at him.
"Try it. It won't keep you awake—I know that much."
"You know, I want to bang my head against a wall. Then
maybe bang yours against a wall."
"You won't be any good at all tomorrow if you don't
sleep. I overheard your argument with Doctor Shaw at Camp David."
We'd had an argument, all right. I couldn't sleep most of the
time I was there. He wanted to give me prescription sleep aids. I stopped just
short of telling him where to put them.
"You need sleep. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror,
lately? Those dark circles under your eyes tell me you're exhausted."
"If I drink this, will you get off my case?"
"If you drink this and attempt to meditate."
"Fine. Want to join me in a cup?"
"I will, if you'll drink it."
"Fine."
I didn't point out that he appeared amused—a slight curl at
the corner of his mouth gave him away. Honestly, I wasn't sure why he worried
about my sleeping habits. He'd just knock me to the floor during our lesson in
the morning, after I wore myself out with a three-mile run.
* * *
Our grocery order was delivered while we were having breakfast
the following morning. It was after our run and before Krav Maga. Rafe was
delighted that his order was there and set about putting soup ingredients into
my slow cooker.
"Real chicken noodle soup, instead of that tinned
shit," he said, placing the lid on the cooker.
"Really? Tell me again who stole a bowl of that tinned
shit the last time I ate it," I said.
"I've had worse during my lifetime."
"I'm sure you have. If you'll give me fifteen minutes,
I'll get ingredients for fresh bread into the bread machine."
"You're kidding."
"No, I like fresh bread. Don't you?"
"I wondered if you actually used that thing, or if it
would just sit on the counter collecting dust."
"I use it; I just can't eat an entire loaf by myself
before it goes stale."
"You have fifteen minutes."
* * *
My hopes were dashed that the Five would lose interest in my
Krav Maga beatings. All five were back and watching as Rafe did the
usual—showing me a move and then moving faster than I could in my attempt to
employ the countermove.
"I suppose my strategy of wearing you out isn't
working," I said, blinking up at him as he stood over my prone body. He
threw back his head and laughed.
"How about a round or two with me?" Becker came off
the bench and stretched while I peeled myself off the floor.
"Which one of us?" Rafe asked.
"You."
"Good. Corinne, go sit down."
I did, choosing a spot well away from the others. I had no
desire to rub elbows with any of them.
In the next ten minutes, I learned that Rafe had been taking
it easy on me. He beat the hell out of Becker, who barely had time to rise
before Rafe put him down again. I wanted to cheer, but that might be considered
bad taste. I did smile, though, once or twice.
* * *
"Good bread." Rafe had another thick slice.
"Thanks. I like it, too. Chicken and noodles are
outstanding." I lifted a spoonful of noodles and ate them with a smile.
It's funny how politics make strange bedfellows, and mutual
enemies forge friendships. It didn't matter how many times Becker might shove
me in the mud—it was all worth it just to see Rafe put him in his place.
I loaded the dishwasher while Rafe put leftovers away. I
almost felt like hugging him. I didn't. If we even touched, it would be all
over the Mansion in five minutes. That's why we didn't discuss Becker's
beating, either.
That stayed in the gym, where it belonged.
* * *
Notes—Colonel Hunter
"I thought you'd be interested in this." Shaw set
his laptop in front of me. I listened and watched while a recording of Becker
talking with Nick was displayed. He spoke about hitting Corinne to get
information. At that moment, I wanted to teach him a lesson, but the Blacksmith
had already done a good enough job.
"I hear Becker can barely move this morning," I
said, attempting to hide the cheerfulness in my voice. "After Rafe handed
his ass to him yesterday."
"Are you concerned at all that Rafe and Corinne seem to
be getting along, now?"
"Why? I figure she sees the sense in it," I said.
"He's growing on me, too."
"I think he and Corinne have things in common," Shaw
said. "That may or may not be a good thing."
"Why do you say that?"
"I saw Safer this morning at breakfast. He thinks Rafe
may have been the target in the explosion."
"Why? Has the pilot talked?"
"Not yet. If Rafe goes down, who knows what that could do
to Corinne? Especially if she's beginning to see him as a friend."
"This is ridiculous. What evidence do we have that he was
the target? Why not Corinne or me? James, perhaps?"
"Dalton Parrish?" Shaw quirked an eyebrow.
"That sounds more likely than the rest of us," I
said. "You know Cutter has enemies everywhere."
"Then why not go directly after him?" Shaw asked.
"To make him sweat?"
"Colonel?" James appeared beside our coffee shop
table.
"James?" He wouldn't have come if it weren't
important.
"The pilot was found dead ten minutes ago. Hanged
himself."
* * *
"There was no evidence he might be suicidal," Cutter
stormed through the cafeteria where we'd called a quick meeting with Shaw and
the handlers. I didn't say it and kept my expression neutral, but to me, it
looked as if Cutter was blustering.
Shaw studied our new Director with interest. This was the
first time the General had seen fit to come to the Mansion after taking the
position, and it was after the pilot hanged himself with the belt they'd
allowed him to keep.
I'd toyed with the idea of asking if Corinne might be allowed
to visit the pilot, but discarded it. Now, I wish I'd gone ahead and asked. She
might have been able to tell us something. That opportunity was now lost.
The worst part, perhaps, was that the pilot had a family who
hadn't been notified that he was being held for questioning. The FBI was
investigating them, too, and they didn't have a clue.
Cutter continued to bluster about the ongoing investigation,
and that it would continue and he wouldn't rest until we got to the bottom of
this. All the usual platitudes. The truth, however, was that I wouldn't be
where I was if Corinne hadn't held all of us up.
Turning my head in Dalton Parrish's direction, I watched him
instead of Cutter. He wore a frown as Cutter made promises he likely couldn't
keep. Corinne had saved Parrish, too, and I think he knew that.
* * *
Corinne
"Here's his photograph. It's the best James could
do." August handed the photograph of the dead pilot to me. I made a face
as I studied his military picture. Rafe, who sat nearby with his handler,
watched as I blew out a breath.
"He didn't want to. He was ordered to," I said,
handing the photograph back to August.
"Corinne, you can't say that with any certainty."
"I can say it with certainty. You just can't believe it
with certainty."
"Who paid him?" Rafe asked.
"I don't know. I'd have to see the one who paid
him," I said.
"Is that how this works?" August asked.
"As nearly as I can explain it," I shrugged.
"Corinne, how long have you been able to do this?"
August asked. I hugged myself.
"For a while," I said. "But who'd believe
me?"
"I'm starting to believe you now," August muttered.
Dalton Parrish called Dr. Shaw when the panic attack came.
* * *
Notes—Colonel Hunter
"I think we should call a meeting with the President. I
want the others to know what we know, and I need her permission to do that. I
don't want to see another episode of Becker threatening to hit Corinne,"
Shaw fumed.
"There's still no guarantee he won't make an
attempt," I said.
"At the moment, Corinne is of more use to us than Becker
ever was."
"That's true, and I never thought it could happen.
Becker's only gift is muscle, and the President is reluctant to let that out
often."
"Because Becker is stupid enough to get captured,"
Shaw said. "If his captors do any medical workup on him, we're
screwed."
"And that's why he's only sent out with Nick or some of
the others," I agreed. "When they know muscle is needed. After that
little showdown with Rafe, though, he may not be the first choice for muscle
from now on."
"He may realize that, even if Nick hasn't pointed it out,
yet," Shaw shook his head. "Before, it was the Five against one. That
dynamic may have changed. Becker won't like being replaced; you know
that."
"Is he stupid enough to take it out on the weakest one—like
always?" I toyed with a file on my desk—James had collected my notes from
the Camp David meetings and sent an electronic copy to the President. Corinne
was featured prominently in those notes. This was my copy—for my private files.
"I think we should pay special attention to Becker from
now on. If he's about to retaliate for any reason, I want to know about
it."
"Then give the order. You have the authority."
"I want backup. You're the logical choice."
"Then you have it."
* * *
Corinne
Our bedrooms were bugged, except on sex nights. I think it had
something to do with the list, but I sure didn't want to ask. Sex between
partners was off-limits for the Mansion's collective entertainment. Our
bathrooms were the only rooms not bugged, and let's face it, bathrooms should
just be private, period.
Rafe had done the usual in Krav Maga. He sent an e-mail to me
afterward; I found it when I made my way to the computer, cup of coffee in
hand, to sit down and write.
You're getting stronger
, he said.
You might consider
lifting weights with me
.