Cloud Dust: RD-1 (17 page)

With students asking both teachers questions, I began to doubt
Corinne's information. Still, I watched this final group as the docents began
the tour.

Until one of the docents approached the wheelchair-bound
female teacher. "Miss Vernon," she gushed, "Do you remember
me?"

I caught the mental gear-switching as the woman attempted to invent
a viable answer. That answer wouldn't be driven by mere forgetfulness. Instead,
it was calculating and cold as she replied, "Of course I remember you; I
just can't recall the name."

She was my target. Tapping the radio strapped to my belt, I
sent a message to agents waiting nearby before lifting the camera I'd hung
around my neck. "Excuse me," I called out, "Would you mind if I
took a photograph for the new brochure?"

The docent couldn't be more pleased as I walked toward her.
"This is my third-grade teacher, Miss Vernon," the docent giggled.
"She's the reason I'm working here, now. She made me so curious about
everything."

"Miss Vernon" wasn't happy. I realized she wore a
mask and wondered for a moment where the real Miss Vernon was. That would have
to wait. I knew my backup was closing in as the docent posed beside Mary Evans'
stolen wheelchair. The children were pulled away by two teachers as I made
ready to snap the pictures.

I only had time to take one before two FBI agents approached
Mary Evans. "Ma'am," one of them said, "Please come with
us."

She was out of the wheelchair fast—I'll give her that, but her
attempt at taking the poor docent hostage was thwarted—I'd already punched Mary
in the face before she could pull the poor girl against her.

Children snapped cell phone photographs as the prosthetic mask
was pulled away from an unconscious Mary Evans, and she was handcuffed before
she regained consciousness. I watched in satisfaction as she was led away, her
steps unsteady. I'd hit her quite hard, as it turned out.

Colonel Hunter wouldn't even bother to ask if I'd used too
much force on this one.

* * *

Notes—Colonel Hunter

Madam President wasn't pleased when she received news of
Corinne's disappearance—until she learned that Corinne was instrumental in
capturing Mary Evans.

Corinne's last mental communication was with Maye, and Maye
had looked at everyone who arrived at the Smithsonian in a wheelchair the day
after Corinne's disappearance.

We had Mary Evans in custody now, although she'd attempted to
take a hostage. She learned she was no match for Maye. We needed Corinne, now,
to take a look at our prisoner, but Corinne was gone.

I'd been forced to order Rafe and James back to the
villa—they'd gone hunting for Corinne on their own. Word was they had
information that could prove useful, but that remained to be seen. We'd tabled
it for a bit while Mary Evans was settled into a makeshift cell at the villa.

Rafe wanted to choke information out of Mary Evans about
Baikov, but Shaw held both of us back. Mary Evans, or whatever her true name
was, wasn't talking. We left her alone for a while, determined to vet anyone
who came near her during her confinement.

I sat in my office while James worked on assignments, and he
wasn't talking much, either. It wasn't difficult to tell he wanted to go out
again to search for Cori.

That's when Richard knocked on my door.

"Dr. Farrell?" I said as he walked in and took a
seat.

"I found this," he slid an envelope across my desk.
I recognized Corinne's handwriting immediately.

"What the hell?" I said, lifting the flap and
pulling a single sheet of paper out.

Richard
, the letter began,
if you want any
information from the male prisoner, have Rafe say the following words in
Russian to him, in the exact order given.

Green.

Yellow.

Seven.

Red.

Nine.

Eight.

White.

Sincerely,

Corinne
.

"What is this supposed to do?" I shook my head at
Dr. Farrell.

"No idea, but I'm willing to give it a try. Nothing else
has worked."

"James, get Rafe in here," I called.

In ten minutes, the four of us stood outside the prisoner's
cell. Rafe held the letter in his hand. I nodded to him.

"
Zee-lyo-niy
," Rafe said in a heavy accent.

"Zhol-ty
."

"Syem."

Dr. Farrell and I stared as the prisoner's eyes went from
cloudy to clear and he began to sit up straighter on his bunk. By the time Rafe
said the last word—
bye-liy
, the prisoner was completely focused—on Rafe.

He spoke for the first time, too, in Russian. I didn't
understand it.

"He asks what I wish to know," Rafe turned to me.

Holy, fucking hell
.

Chapter 15
 

Notes—Colonel Hunter

The prisoner didn't know much. He only had the name of a
handler, and that turned out to be an alias.
Kill the dark-haired man and take
the woman
were his instructions. He didn't recall exactly how he'd gotten
into the U.S. He only said
plane
.

Rafe had to translate for us; I didn't understand Russian and
Dr. Farrell only knew a smattering.

"Ask if he has any brothers or sisters," Farrell
suggested.

Rafe asked the question and received a reply. He went still
for a moment. "He says he is Five. He has four brothers. One and Two are
dead. They are all the same. Look the same, same fingers," Rafe held up a
hand.

"So they're clones?" I asked. This would explain the
conundrum we'd run into before, with identical faces and fingerprints.

"I believe that's true," Rafe responded.
"Whatever it is, you can bet Baikov is in it up to his nose."

"This takes Russian nesting dolls to another level,"
James muttered. "A copy of a copy of a copy."

"Ask why the dark-haired man was targeted," Dr.
Farrell suggested. "And why the woman was targeted, too."

Rafe asked and waited for the answer.

"He does not question," Rafe translated. "He
also asks why I resemble the dark-haired man."

"We'll skirt that issue. Ask him about General Baikov,
instead," I suggested.

Rafe asked. The prisoner cringed and offered no answer. Rafe
cursed.

"He's merely a tool—a weapon," Dr. Farrell shook his
head. "I'll draw blood and see what we come up with. Tell him to cooperate
with me," he instructed Rafe.

Rafe relayed the instructions.

* * *

Corinne

Brushing away the occasional tear, I opened boxes, washed new
dishes (after I found the box with dishwasher tabs in it), washed new clothing,
put things away and hung artwork on the walls.

Furniture was unwrapped and the bed was made up. I had a
spectacular view of the water, but that didn't matter at the moment. How
foolish and needy was I, that I longed for Ilya's embrace? For him to murmur soft
words so I'd feel wanted and safe?

For years, I'd done without those things, I reminded myself. A
few weeks of having those things made me shake and weep like a schoolgirl. I
broke down boxes and piled them in a corner before searching out the instructions
for disposing of oversized garbage at the condo.

I had to arrange for the delivery of groceries, too.

Corinne
, Maye's voice entered my mind.
Tell us where
you are
.

No deal
, I replied.
Tell Colonel Hunter to fuck off
.

The President says to come back. All is forgiven
.

On her side, maybe
, I said.
I haven't forgiven.
Sorry
.

We can protect you
.

I can take care of myself
.

Dr. Shaw says you only have three weeks of medication left
.

You think I don't know that?
I wiped fresh tears away.

Rafe wants to talk to you.

Tell him he had his chance. He fucked it up
.

We know you're upset. They only want to talk to you,
Corinne.

It's too late for that. I have things to do. Bye
.

* * *

Ilya

"She's stopped talking," Maye reported.

As disagreements went, this was going horribly wrong. After
talking with the clone in the basement, our fears for Corinne's safety had
increased. "James," I turned to him. He frowned at me. "Show me
the card we found—the one from Cori's lawyer. Do you think he might know
something?"

"He knows her as Sarah Fox. All her correspondence with him
is through e-mail," he answered reluctantly.

"I want the name," Colonel Hunter snapped.
"I'll contact him."

"You'll just mess everything up between him and
her," James grumbled. "Or between him and Sarah Fox, anyway."

"I don't give a fuck. We need her back. If this one
doesn't know anything, we'll go to the second and then to her editor. I'll find
military attorneys and editors and hire them into the Program. She won't have
to go outside for anything."

"You'll just be locking her up again," Shaw pointed
out. "You locked her up to begin with, then stuck her in a smaller cell
and took away her writing. What did you expect?"

"Stop beating me over the head with this," Colonel
Hunter complained. "I have enough worries with the divorce right
now."

"Then perhaps we should go downstairs and talk about
that," Dr. Shaw said.

"I'll be down in half an hour."

"Good." Shaw left Colonel Hunter's office.

"Maye, you can go, too," he waved her away.
"Thank you for trying."

"She's important," Maye replied. "I wish I'd
known that at the beginning. We were so full of ourselves." She walked out
without saying anything else.

After Maye was gone, Colonel Hunter turned to me. "It's
hard to send flowers and a card if you don't know where to send them," he
muttered.

"Tell me about the bodies collected—the ones who shot at
us and at Maye and Nick," I said.

"Farrell can explain this better than I can. We only got
superficial information—all the organs, tissue and everything had turned to
ugly goo by the time the forensics specialists got to work on them. They
couldn't get anything from any of it; all they had was skin, hair and
fingerprints. We didn't want to tell the rest of you—didn't want you to
worry."

"What the hell can cause that?" I asked. Hunter was
right not to tell the rest of us; that was frightening.

"Farrell worries that it may be an overdose of the drug—like
a suicide pill for anyone else. It might explain how easy it was to kill
them—they were already dying."

"How the hell did Baikov get his hands on the drug?"
I exploded. "I was told the Program was airtight."

"That's obviously not true," Colonel Hunter replied
dryly. "Cutter saw to that, and who knows who may have leaked information
before that. Farrell says the clones are at least in their mid-twenties."

"How long has the Program existed?" I hissed.

"Longer than I've been alive," Colonel Hunter
sighed. "Perhaps not longer than you've been alive, but who actually
knows?"

"Farrell," I said. "He knows; I'll bet money on
it."

"It's likely classified. Without the President's
permission, I can't allow you to ask."

"We need Corinne. Fucking hell.
I
need
Corinne," I growled.

"If I were in the President's good graces at the moment,
I'd talk to her about this. As it is," Colonel Hunter shrugged
uncomfortably.

"She's responsible for this mess, too, don't forget
that," I said.

"But you know how that works. It's never the boss's
fault."

"I know that better than anyone."

* * *

Corinne

How convenient was it that he'd traveled outside the country?
I stared at a photograph of the previous President. Gary Bridges had given the
photographer a slight smile for the image used on his library website.

"You know something, don't you?" I muttered. I'd
spent time attempting to track those who'd funded his campaign. Somehow, they
and Cutter were mixed up in all of this. It wouldn't surprise me at all if
former President Bridges didn't hold vital cards.

How do you accuse a former President?

He still had Secret Service agents surrounding him, wherever
he was. With the current laws, too, it wasn't necessary to reveal or even claim
knowledge of those who'd ran ads and alternate campaigns on his behalf. As long
as the money didn't go directly into anybody's war chest, then government was
for sale to the highest bidders.

Sure, the IRS was attempting to crack down on those nonprofits
who pushed their chosen candidates toward election. They had varying degrees of
success. I figured with enough money, you could hide anything from anybody.

Whoever backed Mary Evans, General Baikov and a certain Asian
dictator would know how to accomplish all those things. If he, she or they
could steal crowns and priceless works of art, then kill anybody they wanted no
matter whom, where or when, they could hide whatever they wanted.

Forcing my mind away from that puzzle, I went in search of
possibilities. The Russians had the drug. Somehow, they'd gotten their hands on
it. They'd gone after a different result than we had, however. They'd found
people who survived the drug, then set about cloning them. Who knows how long
that had taken?

I'd seen something in Richard Farrell's face, though. Saw his
suspicions, although he hadn't been present at the time. The ones who had been
present during the drug's discovery were all dead.

That sucked. It made me wonder if any of the others (now dead)
had tried the drug and didn't survive. Dr. Farrell didn't know of it, but it
could have happened.

I wanted to discuss these things with Auggie and Rafe, then
remembered I was pissed at both and far away from them on top of that. Taking a
seat at the kitchen island, I opened my laptop and focused on two reported
incidents occurring in Russia; one in 1969 and the other in 1986.

* * *

"What's the population?" Death asked.

"Around twenty-five hundred," War replied.

"This one will be easy, but anything after that will pose
problems," Famine pointed out.

"Are we sure this will work?" Conquest wondered.

"I'm sure," Death answered. "Very sure. The
experiments prove it."

"That was only five people," War pointed out. He sneezed,
then took time to adjust his mask and red robes.

"Are we sure," Conquest began again.

"We have been appointed. Stop whining," Death
hissed. He was dressed in silvery-gray and a hood covered his face.

"We will not question he who appointed us," War said.
"We have agreed. It is done. I merely question the efficacy of the
derivative—to make sure it is ready."

"I still say we should have someone else deliver
it," Conquest suggested.

"No. We only need someone to get us into the closed
system first. This task is appointed to us. We will make the first kill. All
will know that we are bringing the apocalypse with us."

"Except we get to ride in style, instead of on
horses," Famine, dressed in black robes and hood, laughed.

"Remember when the book was written," Death chided.
"Vehicles were unheard of. Instead, we have horsepower to take us where we
wish to go."

"Then let's go. People are waiting to die in Montana.
After that, we will bring war."

* * *

Corinne

Richard
, I thought at Dr. Farrell,
I hope you've
found the locating chip on Mary Evans by now. If you haven't, you may get
surprise visitors
.

* * *

Notes—Colonel Hunter

"It was embedded in the back of her neck and almost too
tiny to find," Dr. Farrell said. "I sent it away from here to be
destroyed."

"Corinne told you to look for it?"

"With that mental ability she seems to have, yes."

"What was Ms. Evans' reaction to the unplanned
surgery?" I asked.

"She threatened to kill me before I had her
sedated," Dr. Farrell smiled.

"Do you have anything planned this afternoon?" I
asked.

"Nothing at the moment."

"Would you like to visit Silver Spring with me?"

"Of course."

"James," I called out. "Get Rafe. You can go if
you want. Get Nick, too, he can drive."

* * *

Armed with a photograph of Corinne, we left the vehicle parked
in front of Bryan Kellogg's office, leaving Nick behind to guard it. Once
inside the building, the receptionist informed us that we didn't have an
appointment.

"We do, now," I flashed an official ID I carried for
emergency purposes. I hadn't been named Secretary of Defense, yet, but I had
all the perks of the office already.

Following her down a long hallway, we walked into the lawyer's
office. "We need information on Sarah Fox," I said.

"I haven't heard from her in months," the lawyer
sputtered. "I've never actually seen her; all our transactions are carried
out through mail or e-mail."

* * *

Ilya

I wasn't satisfied with his answer. Pulling the photograph
away from James, I shoved it under the lawyer's nose.

"That's not Sarah Fox," he insisted. "That's
Carol Dane."

* * *

"That little hellion," Colonel Hunter complained the
moment we were inside the vehicle. "All this time she's been publishing
under two pen names."

"I like Carol Dane's books," James muttered.
"Almost as much as I like, well, fuck. Corinne writes both."

"James, I want information on any property transactions,
rentals, you name it, that you can find for Carol Dane," Colonel Hunter
demanded. James began the search on a small tablet immediately.

Ten minutes later, we were on our way to the nearest air base.
We were flying to Myrtle Beach, and I hoped Corinne would be there when we
arrived.

"Last book she published as Carol Dane was six months
ago," James reported as we swung onto a highway. Nick knew his way around;
that was easy to see.

Colonel Hunter was on his phone quickly, ordering a military
jet for our flight. It would take roughly an hour to get there. Once again, I
hoped Corinne would still be there. She'd bought herself the beach house she
wanted under a second pen name. It was exactly what I would have done.

* * *

Corinne

I hadn't slept the night before, so I decided to attempt a
nap. I woke minutes after I'd fallen asleep. I knew two things. One had to come
first, though.

Maye, get everybody out of the villa
, I shouted
mentally.
Do it now. Don't wait!