According to the physicians and the media, anyway.
Corinne let me know that Richard was now safe in Anchorage, in disguise like the rest of them.
If this were real, I'd think that common decency would keep the media off his back, now that he was supposedly dead.
Nothing was farther from the truth. The background the Program had carefully built for Dr. Farrell was being tested-to its limits. I was grateful we'd built a background for someone who should have been dead years ago from natural causes.
Whatever Corinne had done to provide a replacement body for Dr. Farrell had worked flawlessly-extensive tests were run to make sure of his identity. Dr. Richard Farrell was now officially dead.
It made me wish I could do the same-I couldn't walk outside my office or drive up to my house without the media crowding around and asking questions while shoving microphones in my face.
Madam President-naturally-had to distance herself. It was planned, too, that my resignation as Secretary of Defense would come the following week. In the interim, I would be hounded to death by people asking questions about something I hadn't been involved in.
Did Askins expect me to point fingers in his direction? I figured he had a defense carefully planned that excluded him and the Joint Chiefs from any blame in the matter. After all, there were no photographs made available showing him leaving the Nevada facility.
Laci now spoke with Shaw several times a day. I'd thought our marriage was finally back to what it should be-this threatened it all over again. This time, I wouldn't get Laci back if she decided to leave me.
Under the circumstances, it was understandable.
* * *
Merle Askins' Office
"That's one down for sure," Merle studied the newly-acquired autopsy report, photographs included. "His outer body looked younger than the internal organs. I always wondered about that."
"What about the rest?" His assistant asked.
"Oh, we still have something planned. If that doesn't draw them out, nothing will."
"So we can be assured they're dead, if they fail to respond?"
"One in particular, and without a doubt."
* * *
Ilya
"Where are they-Maye and Dr. Farrell?" I asked. Dinner was long over, the kitchen cleaned and everything put away. I'd built a fire in the fireplace inside our suite while Corinne dressed in warm fleece.
"They're out spooning," she said.
"Spooning?"
"They haven't gotten to the forking part, yet. They're still discussing spooning."
"How old are you again?" I grinned at her.
"Younger than you," she swatted my arm before dropping onto the thick rug before the fireplace.
"Is this an invitation?" I asked, reaching for her outstretched hand.
"What else would it be?"
"Excellent." I dropped to the rug beside her.
"Want some wine?" she asked.
"I don't need it," I leaned in to kiss her neck. "I have what I need."
"Me, too." She pulled my face up for a kiss.
Perhaps if we had gone to bed instead of making love, or perhaps if our timing had been different, something might have been done. As it was, when the deed was accomplished in a city far from where we were, Corinne went into shock. Dr. Farrell, thankfully, was available, or she might have left all of us behind.
Chapter 10
Notes-Colonel Hunter
I'd gotten a coded message from James while I watched the news the following morning. Every crawler on every station said the same thing-Darin Majors, Jr., shot by unknown assailant at his apartment in Cambridge, MA.
Every newscaster was having a field day with the fact that Darin Majors, the only child of noted author, Harriett Majors, and Darin Majors, Sr., a prominent Atlanta attorney, was now dead.
You'd think that Harriett Majors was dead all over again. I remembered news of her death, more than six years earlier. I'd believed the information disseminated then-that she and her husband were killed in a car accident in Wales.
I wanted to laugh bitterly. Richard Farrell, noted scientist, had been in Wales, Alaska, when he'd supposedly suffered his heart attack. Both he and Harriett were still alive.
Darin-Sr. and Jr.-were the ones dead.
James' cryptic message informed me that Corinne was suffering in some way; he just couldn't elaborate. He'd called her Tippy, she was a stray cat he'd found, and was now receiving veterinary care.
At least Richard Farrell was there to take care of her. I had no idea what this would do to her in the long term-both her husband and son, now dead, likely due to the same source.
This was their last ditch effort to prove the lie we'd told.
Instead, they'd killed an innocent man. After reflecting on thousands of deaths in Ketchikan, one more would mean nothing to them.
What was their end game? Phillips had control of the U.S. before. Wasn't that enough?
Let Tippy know you love her, my text read. Sometimes that helps as much as medicine.
I will. The vet has her on an IV right now. I hope she makes it.
* * *
Ilya
She wouldn't wake. At times, I thought it a blessing, as the fucking media wouldn't drop the news about her son. Harriett Majors' last dust jacket photograph was shown continuously, next to a yearbook photo of her son.
Police had no suspects and few leads on the shooter-the best they had was someone out walking his dog who reported a shadowy figure slipping between buildings not long after the body was discovered.
There was no description-it was too dark to get useful information.
Those of us in Alaska knew who was behind this killing, however. They'd attempted to draw Corinne out one last time.
They'd sacrificed her son to continue playing their game.
Would they reveal their agenda openly, now? Would Corinne come back to us to help wage that battle?
I felt lost again. I did convince Farrell to set sunlamps about our bed, however. They were now on constantly while we waited-and hoped-for her recovery.
* * *
Private Journal
Dr. Richard Farrell
Although Corinne's vitals were marginally normal, it's as if we were back to the point after she'd been shot in D.C. She was so deeply entrenched in her unconscious that nobody could pull her out.
Was she mourning or dying? I couldn't tell. An IV was the best I could do for her-we didn't have the necessary equipment to do more than that. Rafe admitted they were asleep after sex when the murder took place-she was likely worn out after a long day of rescuing me.
It was no surprise that the enemy would target someone she cared about. They'd caught her unaware, this time. I had no idea what she'd have done if she'd been aware.
Maye's arm slipped around my waist as I stood at the bedside and studied Corinne. Maye's affection had come as a surprise-yes, I felt something for her, but imagined that she'd refuse any advances.
I was wrong-and gratefully so.
"We won't make it without her," Maye said. "Six years ago, I never thought I'd be saying those words."
"What if we're forced to go on without her?" I asked, kissing Maye's temple gently.
"I guess we'll go down fighting," she said simply.
* * *
Notes-Colonel Hunter
"For now, you're still my Secretary of Defense," Madam President snapped. I'd attempted to submit my resignation, but she'd refused it. "Look, I know Farrell's death hit you hard so close to the others, but we have a new problem."
"What's that?"
"This." She pushed a tablet across her desk. "I got this from Matt Michaels this morning. Want to speculate on why it came from him instead of Askins? Our people in Cuba are still trying to wrap their heads around this."
"This has to be a joke," I said, flipping through the report and the photographs included.
"It's not. They're filling up an airfield in a remote area."
Ru
ssian fighter planes and bombers were lined up on cracked tarmac, with grass growing between those cracks. "This one hasn't been used in a while," I said.
"No, it's used-they just don't have the money to repair or replace it. Until now, unless Matt and I miss our guess. We really haven't seen anything like this, though, since Grenada in 1983. We may have to close the embassy there if this escalates."
"I knew they were landing at Latin American bases, but this? This is preposterous. Any word from the Cuban or Russian Ambassadors?" I understood the Grenada reference-that had been named Operation Urgent Fury. It lasted less than two months. I worried that this wouldn't be so easily contained.
"Neither are returning my calls at the moment," the President answered my question. "If we ever needed Corinne's help," she rose and paced behind her desk. I rose with her-and watched her agitated journey as it turned toward the window behind her.
"That's not possible. I wish it were otherwise," I said. With Corinne's current condition, it might always be that way, too. Madam President still thought them dead-all of them. For now, she could be close to correct regarding Corinne.
"Get with Matt and the Secretary of State. Find out as much as you can. Is this just posturing, or is there a real threat in this?"
"I'll do everything in my power, Madam President," I said and strode from the Oval Office.
* * *
Ilya
Darin Majors, Jr. was buried two weeks after his murder, following an autopsy. Relatives on his father's side made the arrangements, and buried him near his parents' graves in Atlanta. There were no known relatives on his mother's side-she'd been adopted as an infant after someone left her at a hospital. Her adoptive parents were also dead, for at least twenty years.
Corinne still hadn't wakened, although Farrell was surprised that her body wasn't wasting away. The sunlamps were still on and standing about her bed; I refused to allow the others to turn them off.
Farrell was surprised, too, that her skin failed to burn. At least he'd learned to listen to me when I said she never suffered any effects from spending hours beneath the lamps. In fact-she didn't even show a tan.
"It's over, my love. He rests near his father's grave," I touched Corinne's hand, folding it into mine.
"I know." She opened her eyes, then.
I didn't ask her where she'd been. "I'm glad to hear your voice," I said instead.
* * *
Corinne
Everybody gave me space, except for Ilya and Richard. Ilya wanted to hold me; Richard wanted to examine every inch of me.
Both of those things happened.
It kept my mind off the obvious. I had to stay away from that, just to keep my sanity and the world safe.
"Flowers, cabbage. I found them at the grocery store." Ilya brought in a vase filled with a mixed bouquet.
"Those are nice. You went out to find some, didn't you?"
"Yes. This is better than having a florist deliver. We don't want to draw attention."
"Thank you, honey." I kissed him, took the flowers and set them on the kitchen island. He'd found me there when he got back, having coffee and staring into space.
The others had gone out for lunch at a local pizza restaurant. "I heard from Katya," he said, taking the chair beside mine. "She says that the underground is reporting sightings of Baikov in Russia. This coincides with the idiotic show they're making of crowding South American air bases with planes and recklessly flying missions just outside U.S. air space."
"Bastards."
"I have better terms," he shrugged.
"The underground, huh?" I said, bumping his shoulder with mine.
"It has to be hidden. Many of them are on Russian hit lists."
"So Katya and her husband are doing what they can to undermine Baikov and the President? Do you think that was the reason the Baikov and Mary clones were in Ireland?"
"I think that, yes, and the underground is doing everything it can to stop them," Ilya huffed. "I told Katya to be careful. We know what the enemy is capable of, and somehow, he has his hands on any incarnations of Baikov that may appear."
"True. Do you think this is so he can come riding in on a white horse and save the country from the big, bad Russians?"
"That is one possibility, yes."
"Idiots."
"He seems to be quite persuasive," Ilya observed. "The enemy. You recall those-idiots-who thought they would bring about the apocalypse?"
"The ones responsible for Wyoming and Georgia?"
"Yes."
"You don't have far to go to persuade idiots of what they want to hear to start with," I snorted. "The four horsemen? Seriously? A prime example of having more money than sense."
"And a devious way to get supporters for any opposition out of the way."
"You know, I never thought of it in those terms, but you're right-their empires broke apart overnight and everybody is still arguing over who gets what. I'm sure any politician who received money before is crying in his breakfast cereal over the current lack of funding."
"Too many politicians and elections are purchased, nowadays," Ilya said. "No matter where they are. Too many are willing to make fools of themselves, just to align their views with those of their sponsors."
"And let's face it; none of them are going to win the smartest person on the planet award, anyway."
"Is there such a thing?" He wrapped his arms about me before leaning his chin on my shoulder.
"Nah. Besides, if there were, somebody with a ton of money would just buy it, anyway. Everything's for sale, you know."
"Not love. Not real love," he murmured before kissing my temple. "That is a gift. An unexpected and wondrous gift."
"Well, there's one thing not for sale, then," I sighed. "Thank you-for being here for me."
"You are welcome." His mouth claimed mine.
* * *
Notes-Colonel Hunter
I brushed my teeth while watching the morning news on the small television screen in the bathroom. So far, nothing untoward had occurred. I had a meeting with Matt Michaels and the Secretary of State at nine, so I'd forced myself out of bed early to get some research done before going into the meeting armed with information.
My cell phone rang as I rinsed my mouth.
"Hunter here," I barked. I recognized the phone number-someone from the White House was calling. Had Madam President changed her mind about accepting my resignation?
"Sir, there's been an incident in Colombia." I recognized Secretary of State Marshall's chief of staff-Gerard usually made calls on the SOS's behalf.
"Tell me," I lifted a towel and wiped my face.
"A British airliner has been shot down over the jungles," Gerard said. "The Colombian government is blaming it on rebels, but we have other suspicions."
"You think the Russians are involved." It wasn't a question.
"We are concerned, yes. The Brits are requesting assistance-they want a specialized crew to investigate and recover bodies. They're also calling for the Colombians to hunt down these rebels and bring them to justice."
"No survivors, I take it?"
"No, sir. All two hundred eighty-one dead, including the crew."
"Tell the British Ambassador I'll call him within an hour."
"Yes, sir. The Secretary is on the phone with him, now."
"Good. We'll do everything we can."
"Thank you, sir."
* * *
"I thought there was a vast reduction in Colombian rebel activity," I said.
"This may be a smokescreen for what's really going on," Matt suggested.
Secretary of State Marshall sat listening to both of us as we shared our thoughts on the plane crash.
"I'd like to say you're both right, but we don't know for sure," Chuck Marshall leaned back in his chair with a shrug. "I want a team put together to work with the Colombians and the Brits," he added. "So we can have the truth on this."
"Agreed," Matt said. "I think we can put something together. D
on't you?" He turned toward me.
"Yeah. Give me a few hours. We'll have somebody to send."
* * *
Corinne
"I'm supposed to go back to D.C. and do my job," James informed us. "The rest of you-Colonel Hunter wants you to go to Colombia as disguised civilian contract employees. He wants you to make that happen, Cori."
"I can do that," I said.
"Then, you'll join the team he and Matt Michaels are sending down there to investigate the crash."
"What is he planning to tell them about us?"
"That you're very talented ex-military, hired through a private contractor. Matt already has information on all of you. You'll have to fly out of Chicago-they don't want any red flags to pop up. You understand the importance of staying incognito."
"Honey, I think we all understand that," I sighed.
"Good. Cori, he says if you find anything, then all of you have to figure out a way to prove it by logical means. People will be watching, so we have to do it this way."
"I think I can do that," I agreed. The others, their eyes turning in my direction, nodded.
"Good. You'll get dossiers on who you're supposed to be. You know the drill. Follow protocol unless Cori thinks you're in danger."
"How are you getting home?" Maye asked.
"I'm on a private jet to Seattle, and then on a commercial flight from there, just like it's supposed to be. Matt arranged for the private jet, so that won't be traced. He also said to tell Opal to be careful."
"Huh," she snorted. I wanted to laugh. It was a joke between them-I could see that easily enough.
"Here's the address in Chicago," he handed a slip of paper to Rafe. "Go there first; you'll find your dossiers and everything else you'll need, including appropriate clothing and plane tickets. There's a van there, too, for you to drive to the airport. Don't worry about picking it up later-somebody else will do that."
"So, we have IDs waiting, and I'm just making us look like those IDs?" I asked.
"That's the plan."
"Sounds fine, then."
"Good. I'll get a cab to the airport, I need to be there in an hour," James said. "Don't contact us until after you get to Chicago, and use your new covers when you do."
* * *
The location in Chicago was a business address-one used in the past by Director Michaels for his agents. Inside a meeting room we found bags, file folders, plane tickets and anything else we'd need for the trip to Colombia.
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