Cloud Dust: RD-1

by Connie Suttle

  "Someday, we'll go to Scotland and get all we want," Rafe grinned as he pulled two glasses from the cabinet. "Plain or rocks?"

  "I want ginger ale with mine, and a couple of ice cubes."

  "Wimp."

  "I keep telling you that. You never listen." I hopped off the stool and went in search of a bottle of ginger ale in the fridge.

  He poured Scotch; I added ginger ale and ice to my glass. "Here's to private conversations," he held his up in a toast. I clinked my glass against his. He leaned in to kiss me.

  I forgot to breathe.

  I'll never forget our night. He didn't push me, or even attempt to convince me to get naked with him. He was content to wait for that. Instead, he herded me toward my sitting room, settled me onto the sofa and wrapped an arm about me, pulling me close.

  "Tell me," he whispered against my ear, his breath warm and flavored with expensive Scotch. His accent had gone straight from American to Ukrainian, and I was sorry I couldn't understand his native language at that point—I figured his words would be delicious and something to savor.

  "Rafe," I began. If he wanted my story, he had to understand how uncomfortable that was.

  "When we're together like this and nobody watches or listens, call me Ilya. That is the name I want to hear you cry out when we make love."

  "Ilya, I love that name, first off. Second, I want to tell you, but I have to prepare myself for it. Does that make sense? Something else you ought to know—I haven't had sex in a very, very, long time."

  "First off, thank you. Second, I understand. Third, that will only make it sweeter."

  "What simple question can I answer that will keep you for now?" I asked.

  "How old?"

  "Seventy-three."

  "Perfect." He kissed me again.

  * * *

  While we worked on our second glasses of Scotch, we turned to business. "What trouble do you think might come from Cutter being relieved of his duties?" Ilya asked.

  "He's connected to several organizations, some of whom find no difficulty in pumping money into campaigns," I said. "If he'd been named Vice President, that would have made things simpler for him to get the nomination."

  "But that would mean the President," he began.

  "I think that's tied up in all this," I said. "I have absolutely no proof that the President is a target, but it makes sense to me. Plus, if Cutter thinks I'm a witch, well, you can imagine what the people who back him think. As backward as he is, they're a hundred times worse. They'd like to unleash an inquisition here and now, to bring the country in line with their political and religious views."

  "How do you know this?"

  "I did some research in the past five years. I've been looking for the ones responsible for that attack in France. Sometimes the trails led in different directions. Somehow, there's a network out there, and I can't explain who's behind it or how it's connected, even."

  "How did you do this research without Colonel Hunter or the others knowing?"

  "Library computer system," I said. "I paid several people cash at the library to do research for me. My name isn't attached to any of it, and the people I hired thought I was doing research for a book. Printed photographs can be helpful, if the printer is good enough."

  "Where is all the research?"

  "I had to trash it, so nobody would know what I was doing. I really need those photographs of Mary Evans, or whatever her name is," I said, sipping my Scotch and ginger ale. "I think she may be connected somehow with the puppet masters who are stringing all of us along."

  "This is more frightening than I thought," Ilya murmured.

  "This government does business with those who can provide security services in Afghanistan and other Middle Eastern countries. They employ a lot of ex-military personnel. It's like the U.S. military is college, and the security services are the pro leagues."

  "This I already knew," he nodded. "These are connected to those who want Cutter in office?"

  "Yes. They have tons of money, and they can dump any amount they want into a campaign and barely feel it. Other business concerns are out there, willing to do the same thing."

  "You think they want to control legislation and elected officials?"

  "Yeah. They just don't want to get their hands dirty doing it, so they have to hire somebody else to do it for them. Somebody very, very good. Somebody able to steal the crown jewels from the Tower of London good."

  "And Mary Evans is connected to this?"

  "I think so."

  "I think so, too."

  * * *

  Rafe didn't allow me to slack off in running, Krav Maga or weight lifting. He did kiss me while we made breakfast, though. Then he proceeded to give me a solid trouncing in Krav Maga.

  James spotted him in weight training, as he usually did, but gave me a wicked grin while I lifted ten and twenty-pound weights nearby. I wanted to tell him to save the grin—I hadn't done anything to warrant it.

  Yet.

  "Colonel Hunter wants a meeting with you two, Maye and Nick tonight. Dinner at seven in the restaurant downstairs," James said when we were done.

  Auggie wanted to talk about the funeral scheduled for the following day.

  "We'll be there," Rafe said. "Come on, you. You need a bath." Hooking an arm around my neck, he propelled me out of the weight room.

  * * *

  Lunch came after a nice shower. No, it wasn't together. Rafe went to his suite; I went to mine. We met in the kitchen, clean, hair damp and hungry for lunch.

  "What are your plans this afternoon?" he asked. "Want an omelette?"

  "Omelette sounds good," I agreed. "I need to work on the book."

  "You need to stop worrying about tomorrow."

  "I can do that by writing."

  "I have a better idea."

  "Checkers?"

  "Fucking."

  "Gets right to the point. I like that," I said. "Want me to chop onions and tomatoes?"

  "Yes."

  "Cool."

  * * *

  "Cabbage, time to wake up."

  "Hmmm?"

  "Dinner in an hour. We have time to shower and dress."

  "Do I have to move? I like it here."

  Here was cuddled against Ilya's chest.

  "Come along. You can't wallow in bed all day."

  "I'll bet I can."

  "You want Colonel Hunter to turn the bugs on again?"

  "I'm up."

  "You are so very fine," his fingers trailed down my ribs as I sat up in bed.

  "I thought we were getting up."

  "We are. I merely wanted to remind you that this is for me."

  "Who else would it be for?"

  "You make me laugh."

  "Right. Are you getting out of bed first, or do I have to crawl over you?"

  "You may do whatever you like. I will enjoy the sight of it, either way."

  Forty-five minutes later, we were on our way to the restaurant downstairs and the meeting with Auggie, Maye and Nick.

  * * *

  "You will be driven to the White House at oh-five-hundred tomorrow morning, where you'll be briefed by the Secret Service agents riding with you and the President. The First Gentleman isn't going," Auggie said when we took our seats at the round table he'd chosen inside the restaurant.

  "Thank goodness," I slumped in my chair. Graye Sanders, the First Gentleman, was just another target and his absence would make things easier for Rafe and me.

  "The same goes for you," August nodded to Maye and Nick, "only you'll meet with the VP's guards."

  Nick didn't seem happy that he'd been assigned to the VP, but Rafe and I'd had nothing to do with the assignments.

  "Why the time change?" Rafe asked. "I thought we'd be leaving at seven."

  "I had a conversation with the President, that's why," August replied. "Only she and I are currently in the loop on this, so keep it to yourselves and be ready by the designated time. Corinne, did you get a message from Dr. Shaw?"

&nb
sp; My appointment with Dr. Shaw had been rescheduled so I could do this assignment. He didn't seem to mind—I'd gotten an e-mail from him earlier, giving me the time for the rescheduled session. "Yeah. We're good," I said. I wasn't looking forward to rising at four in the morning for our drive to the White House, but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

  "Dalton has left the Mansion," August went on. "He'll be reassigned next week."

  "Will he keep the Program secret?" Maye asked. I suppose Jeff had given her the particulars on Dalton's exit.

  "He'd better," August muttered. "His communications will be monitored anyway. He probably knows that."

  "This is a snarled mess," I said, rubbing my forehead. Our food arrived, so the conversation slowed as we began to eat.

  * * *

  "I don't feel good about this," I mumbled as I joined Rafe in the kitchen early the following morning. We'd slept in our own suites, if you can call tossing and turning sleep.

  "What's not right?" he asked.

  "Everything. It just feels—weird."

  "We have to be downstairs in ten," he pointed out. "Are you ready?"

  "I'm dressed. I guess that's ready."

  "Come, then." He took my hand and led me to the door. "What do you think is the problem?" he asked as we walked toward the center of the floor and the stairs leading downward.

  "It's as if everything is in flux," I said. "Like somebody who can't make up their mind whether they want strawberry or vanilla ice cream."

  "Is it that unimportant?" We took the steps together at a quick pace.

  "I don't think so—well, that's not exactly true. It's like deciding on strawberry, when you know it's safer, or vanilla, because it holds danger."

  "An unusual analogy." We reached the second floor landing and proceeded down the steps to the first floor.

  "It's the best I have after little sleep and an early morning," I said.

  "Perhaps they'll stop at Starbucks, then," Rafe grinned at me.

  "I'd kill for a vanilla latte right now," I mumbled.

  "Even though vanilla might be more dangerous?" he teased.

  "Please stop. You're way too cheerful. Don't you know that cheerfulness at this hour is unconstitutional?"

  "I will curtail that activity immediately."

  "Please do. And don't start it up again until I've had more coffee."

  "I will keep that under advisement."

  "Ready?" August waited at the bottom of the steps for us. Maye had also arrived, but Nick hadn't shown up yet.

  "He's on the way," Maye said when August turned to her. Thirty seconds later, Nick came trotting down the stairs.

  "Let's go," August said. Until then, I had no idea he was coming with us. I didn't question, however. August was finally getting the authority he deserved, and that was a good thing.

  We didn't get to stop at Starbucks. Instead, we drove directly to the White House. Halfway there, I shrieked as the images hit me, and I must have shouted at Auggie while mentally screaming at everyone left inside the Mansion to get out. August hit an alarm on his cell phone, but that early in the morning, few people were already up and time was short.

  The Mansion exploded with more than a third of its inhabitants still inside.

  Chapter 10

  "Corinne, hold your head up. We're here with you," Rafe soothed as we walked toward the limousine carrying the President. "We'll know something soon."

  I wanted to drop to my knees and weep. Yes, most of those inside the Mansion still held me in contempt, but that didn't mean I wanted them to die.

  "We need you near the President," August said on my other side. "For the same reason. Cori, you saved a lot of people who would have died. We'll talk about that later. Dr. Shaw has already called in—he's on the scene and helping those who need it."

  "James?" My voice quavered.

  "He's fine, but got banged up saving some files. He's all right, Cori."

  I'd been too afraid to use what I had to check on him. I almost wept in relief.

  * * *

  "Corinne, I realize this is difficult for you, but we need you. I need you," the President said as we loaded into her limousine. She was flanked by two Secret Service agents, who wore communication devices and looked tougher than chainsaws.

  Rafe could take both of them easily.

  "Will you do something for me, then?" I asked, blinking at the President and working to keep the quiver from my voice.

  "Anything—within reason."

  "I know this is disrespectful, but will you have someone—preferably a bomb squad—go over every inch of the Vice President's casket? I have a terrible feeling they're not done with us, yet."

  "Oh, dear God," August muttered.

  "See to it," the President nodded at one of her agents. We listened as he gave the order and the vehicle began to move. Twenty minutes later, we received a message that the bomb had been located and disarmed.

  "How in the name of Hades did it get there?" The President's anger erupted.

  She was in her sixties and looked every bit of it, her once-dark hair showing much gray. Her eyes were still a clear blue, indicating the intelligence behind them, however. I could read the level of her anger easily.

  "We don't have that information yet, Madam President, but we're working on it," her agent replied before barking orders into his communicator.

  "You can be assured the ones responsible are long gone," Rafe sighed.

  * * *

  The funeral was uneventful.

  The ride back to the White House was anything but.

  Rafe heard the missile approaching the limo the moment the images hit my brain. Both of us shouted at the driver to stop, but he ignored us and hit the gas.

  Sure, the limo was bulletproof. It might have been rocket-proof, too, for all I know. What I remember is this—the vehicle sailing through the air as the blast lifted it and flung it forward. Both Secret Service agents were shielding Madam President as we tumbled end over end along the street.

  Rafe kept me safe, somehow, inside the shield he created. My head snapped twice as we bounced along, but his arms kept me from being jolted too much.

  The problems came when we came to a metal-scraping halt after what seemed forever. Six men surrounded the vehicle, their weapons drawn.

  A firefight with more Secret Service ensued, while we cringed inside the vehicle. Bullets pinged and whizzed against every part of the car as assassins attempted to shoot their way inside. I shuddered when one of our attackers slid down the side, the bloody wound in his head creating a sickening squeak against glass and metal as he dropped.

  Capitol Police were on their way; Madam President's agents in the car called for backup the moment we'd settled on the road in one piece, but we'd already lost six Secret Service agents outside the car.

  One of our attackers hit the windshield with the butt of his gun, pounding in a hard, regular rhythm while attempting to break reinforced glass to get to us. He died, dropping where he stood as Capitol Police arrived and began shooting.

  Once the immediate threat was eliminated, Rafe loosened his grip on me. It wasn't until then I realized I'd been holding my breath during most of the ordeal. "We're all right," he whispered against my ear when things looked to return to normal. I offered a silent nod of agreement.

  It took an hour of checking the streets and nearby neighborhoods before we were allowed outside the car and escorted back to the White House in a second vehicle by more Secret Service. I was a wreck by that time, but we still had a meeting with the President about the destruction of the Mansion, the bomb in the casket and the attack on her vehicle.

  I sat on a sofa in a room near the Oval Office, listening while August and the President were updated on the Mansion's casualties.

  The luxury of our surroundings felt like decorative punctuation marks at the end of a poorly worded and awkward sentence. It didn't fit. Shouldn't have been. I wanted to deny it when August read names off a list he'd received on his cell pho
ne.

  Kevin and Ken, plus their handlers—dead.

  "You won't find Becker or Gene," I said flatly, my lips numbed and unfeeling as I spoke. "Tell the crew to stop looking for them."

  "Why?" August turned to me.

  "Because they brought the bomb inside the Mansion to begin with. I saw it, right there at the last. They didn't know Rafe, Maye, Nick and I were already gone. They dumped it in Dalton's empty suite."

  "Why didn't you see this earlier?" The President asked.

  "Because they couldn't make up their minds to do it until then," I said. Yes, I was giving the people present better insight into my talent, but it wasn't anything they couldn't already determine for themselves.

  "She did say something this morning as we were walking downstairs at the Mansion," Rafe acknowledged. "That things seemed to be in flux."

  "Madam President?" An aide knocked softly on the outside door.

  "Come in," the President said.

  "We just received word," the young man reported. "Captain Dalton was found dead inside his quarters and General Cutter has disappeared."

  "Thanks, Greg," the President said.

  * * *

  "This is the best we can do at the moment," August said as we arrived at a building in Arlington. "It's scheduled for renovation, but for now, it's ours until they can find something else for us."

  Sometime in the past, the four-story, square brick building had been used as upscale apartments. That was in the eighties, judging by the décor.

  Every suite held a kitchenette—dated, of course, but still functional.

  Rafe lifted an eyebrow at me. I shrugged. It didn't matter. We'd lost so many. The latest death toll was twenty-two, plus the six Secret Service agents. We only had the clothes we wore. Those things no longer mattered. So many families would receive bad news, and there was no comfort we could give them.

  "This location isn't on anybody's radar," August said, taking a seat on a floral-patterned chair in the common area downstairs. "Those responsible for the bombing don't know about it, and the information won't be given to anyone else for a while. Cori, did you get anything on Preston? Did he leave with Becker and Gene?"