"It's done, cabbage. This is what they want-Opal says that most of them can't wait to fling their accusations at Zoran."
"You probably wouldn't mind taking a swing at him," I said.
"I wouldn't swing. I'd crush," Ilya muttered. "His minions killed my son."
"Phillips' minions killed mine," I said.
"Why did Phillips give you the drug?" Ilya asked. "I fail to understand that."
I wanted to laugh at Ilya's question. I didn't.
"Because he was a fan of Harriett Majors," I grated. "He had no idea that I'd live, and likely, when he thought I wasn't a danger to him, he continued to let me live. He knows differently, now."
"You knew of this, although you disliked him as a politician?"
"Yes. I even sent signed books to the White House, per his secretary's request. That was before my trip to France, you understand? Darin decided to stay and visit the Louvre that day, instead of traveling to Wales, like we should have. We had reservations and everything. All that went right out the window."
"No punishment is harsh enough for that bastard," Ilya hissed.
"We have to catch him, first."
"After this meeting, we will hunt him down."
"Sounds good to me. All you have to do is convince Auggie. Where are we going for our honeymoon?" I asked.
"What?"
"Oh, Auggie said that we could have a honeymoon before the meeting."
"There are so many places I'd like to take you," Ilya's arms encircled me and squeezed.
"Too bad your friend who taught you how to make spaghetti sauce is dead. I wouldn't mind meeting him."
"His son is alive and still cooking for his restaurant," Ilya grinned mischievously.
"Want to?"
"Of course I do. There is a nice hotel not far away."
"Let me tell Auggie."
"Please do."
Chapter 17
Corinne
We didn't stay at a hotel. We rented a small villa for two weeks. Just seeing Ilya walking through the house naked was worth every penny. He did put on pajama bottoms to cook breakfast, however.
"We will buy something like this when this ordeal is over," he promised, kissing me between bites of fruit and pancakes.
"I like having you all to myself, without somebody walking into the kitchen looking hungry," I said.
"Or sending us somewhere to do something," he grinned. "Promise me that we won't talk business while we're here," he added. "It was something I used to do when I took time away. I learned to cook Italian that way. I never discussed my work with anyone, and it was nice to walk away from it at times."
"I didn't discuss my work with anybody either," I straddled his lap. "Because that would have released spoilers."
"I remember." His hands went to my face and held it gently while he kissed me. "I recall wanting to meet you once, because I liked your books."
"That's nice, honey," I said between kisses. "Is it okay to say I want to fuck you now?" My fingers feathered through his dark hair while I watched a smile curl his mouth.
"All day, cabbage. All day," he replied.
* * *
Notes-Colonel Hunter
"This is the most recent photograph we could get of President Zoran," James handed a tablet to me.
"I hate to send this to Corinne," I sighed. "It can wait." I set the tablet aside. "She'll be back a week before the meeting anyway."
"We don't have a list of people Zoran is bringing with him," James said.
"That's what I'm most interested in," I said, tapping my finger on the tablet, which brought Zoran's features into a larger view. "If we see a Baikov clone," I shook my head.
"I say bring him on," James growled. "Rafe won't mind killing another one, I don't think."
"What's the report on Iraq?" I asked.
"Quiet. That worries me," James said. "You can bet they're plotting something, but I don't know what that could be."
My cell phone rang then-Matt Michaels was calling. "I'll guard the door," James said and left the office.
"I have intel from Russia," Matt said.
"What did you hear?"
"That three insurgent leaders were locked up after the attack on the Kremlin, while two others left the country aboard a Russian military plane."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I asked. "I can't believe they don't have all five chained to a wall somewhere."
"It surprises me, too. None of mine know what to make of it, either."
"Any information on where the plane was headed?"
"Not at the moment, although I have people watching satellite feeds."
"Will you keep me informed on this?"
"I intend to. No word has come to the White House on the capture of those responsible for the bombing, so they're keeping everybody out of the loop."
"In case insurgents disappear without a trace?" I asked.
"Probably. I still can't figure out why they sent two out of there, though."
"You think they still have a hand in all that?"
"That would be frightening."
"Sure as hell would."
"Look, we'll talk later. I have a meeting with the President this afternoon."
"Sure thing."
* * *
We did talk later-when Matt informed me that we'd lost contact with the Russian military plane an hour earlier.
"There are reports of an explosion," Matt said over our secure cell phones. "No confirmation, yet, but that's the word on the ground."
"Where?"
"Somewhere over Iraq. It makes no sense, really, unless it's an accident of some sort. No word on debris or anything else."
"Survivors?" I asked.
"Not from the information I've gotten so far."
"This just gets stranger as time goes on," I said.
"That's for damn sure."
* * *
Corinne
The restaurant was small, with a dark-green awning over the front door next to a brick-lined street. Trattoria Carano was spelled out in green neon in the plate glass window. If Ilya hadn't made reservations, we wouldn't have gotten in.
I'd never seen Ilya so happy as when he sat across from me and ordered a bottle of wine in flawless Italian.
"Honey, they have cheese ravioli in a mushroom sauce," I whispered, tapping a finger on the menu.
"Have the spaghetti, too-you'll love it," he smiled. It didn't matter that nearly every woman in the place glanced his way from time to time-I was having my moment with my new husband, who was more relaxed now than I'd ever seen him.
Dressed in a black polo and jeans, he was attired appropriately for the restaurant, where everybody appeared casually untroubled. I'd worn a blue dress-at Ilya's urging. He claimed I looked wonderful, I accepted the compliment and we'd taken a cab to the restaurant.
A fruit and cheese plate, lightly drizzled with honey, was served first, with our wine. "European cheeses are always so good," I sighed, biting into a small wedge of Crotonese.
"Try the Pecorini Toscana," Ilya said.
"I won't have room for dinner," I said.
"Just a bite," he coaxed, lifting a thin wedge of the cheese and teasing me with it before feeding it to me.
"Good," I mumbled around the cheese.
The waiter offered half portions of spaghetti and ravioli, so I gratefully ordered that while Ilya ordered half spaghetti and half lasagna. He also asked whether the restaurant owner was there.
"My father knew his father," Ilya lied with a smile. "He taught my father how to make sauce, but my father's was never as good."
"He's here-I'll ask," the waiter said. The conversation took place in Italian-I was grateful to understand it.
Before long, Giovanni Carano arrived at our table with a huge smile. "Your father knew mine?" he beamed.
"He did. He said Gino taught him everything he knew about making sauce and meatballs."
"Tall?" Giovanni asked. "Blond hair? Russian, maybe?"
"Yes t
o all those things," Ilya laughed. "My father emigrated. I live in the U.S. This is my wife Cori; we're here on our honeymoon."
"Then the food and wine are my treat," Giovanni said. "Because I remember your father. He brought toys to me from many places."
"I think he was more than grateful for your father's friendship-and for his willingness to share cooking secrets."
"Hah," Giovanni laughed. "I still make salmon pie from a recipe given to my father."
"I'm glad to hear it-I use the same recipe," Ilya chuckled.
Dinner was extraordinary; Giovanni sat at our table to share a glass of wine after we finished eating. We learned his wife was babysitting his second grandchild at home, when she usually worked beside him at the restaurant.
Ilya still attempted to pay for our meal, but his offer was waved away. We were asked to come back, too, before we left Italy.
"That was nice-I felt normal for the first time in a long time," I said as we waited for our cab to arrive.
"Normal is in short supply, cabbage," he said. The cab pulled up, we climbed in and rode back to the villa, Ilya's arm around my shoulders while I leaned contentedly against him.
* * *
Notes-Colonel Hunter
"We have this." Matt set his cell phone in front of me-the one Corinne had provided.
"What is it?" I asked, tapping the image to make it larger.
"Just before the plane exploded, that dropped out of the cargo hold." Matt jerked his head toward the image on the phone.
"This looks like those aid packages they drop for needy areas," I said, watching the grainy satellite image of a rather large object falling slowly after a parachute opened above it.
"I might think that, too, if it hadn't dropped out of a Russian cargo plane two minutes before it blew up."
"So this was done deliberately. Any evidence of a distress call?"
"None that I know of."
"What do you think is in that package?"
"It's too big to hold only the bodies of two insurgent leaders. It's also too well packed and secured inside that rope mesh. If they wanted to dispose of bodies, they'd just toss 'em."
"Yeah. I get that. Looks like crates beneath those tarps," I said.
"That's my opinion, too. Here's the big question-what's in those crates?"
"Do you have someone working on approximate sizes and weights?"
"I do, and the numbers worry me. What would it take, do you suppose, to mollify the insurgents, after they found out the whole shipment of miniature rockets was useless? Remember, they wanted to bomb the hell out of something or somebody."
"Or several somethings and somebodies."
"Exactly. How many nuclear warheads might those crates contain?" Matt lifted an eyebrow.
Dropping my eyes back to the images, I blinked. "Six, maybe?" I lifted my eyes to Matt's again, begging him to say I was wrong.
He didn't. "Six to eight is what my experts say. Remember, they saw floppy disks in that underground section where the small rockets were manufactured. We know they've cleared out of there-Ukraine said all the equipment was gone when they went to look."
"So that could be in those crates too-the weapons and the system to launch."
"Possibly."
"You're saying the Russians gave them nuclear weapons to make up for the rocket fiasco? Holy fucking hell."
"My thoughts exactly."
* * *
"Colonel Hunter?" Maye stepped into my office, flanked by Nick and Opal.
"I need a message sent to Rafe and Corinne," I sighed.
"I'll do my best," she said.
"Have a seat," I gestured toward the chairs in front of my desk. "I have to explain things to you, first."
* * *
Corinne
Ilya and I were a tangle of nudity beneath a sheet that only half-covered us. Both of us were asleep when Maye's message came. Without explaining everything, the urgency in her sending forced both of us up in bed, while Ilya's arms wrapped around me in alarm.
Something was terribly wrong and Auggie was calling us back to D.C.
* * *
"Cori, can you tell me anything about this?" I had to squint in the sudden, bright light of Auggie's office as a tablet was shoved in my face.
My brain froze for several seconds as I stared at the video images. Yes, I knew something about that, and it terrified me. The insurgents now had warheads-plural-and the archaic computer system to launch those weapons. I almost couldn't get intelligible words out to say those things to Auggie.
"Matt says it may take a few weeks for them to build the launch site to send those things very far, and that we may or may not be able to destroy any of them in flight. All it will take is one getting through to its target and millions could die. They'll target us, but what if they target someone closer to home, too?" Auggie asked. I'd just confirmed his worst fears by telling him what I knew.
"Like Israel, perhaps?" Ilya gruffed. He took the tablet away and studied the video, replaying it twice to examine every detail.
"We're concerned about that, yes, but they could also target any number of their neighbors-Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Kuwait-you name it."
"What if they target us and the European Union?" Nick asked. "Won't there be some sort of fallout, even if we shoot those fuckers down?"
"Auggie, has anybody had eyes on these things when they landed?" I asked.
"Matt and I are meeting in half an hour to discuss that," he said, his dark gaze filled with worry. "The President wants to be informed of possible countermeasures soon, and we have to take a viable plan to her."
"Are we included in the meeting with Director Michaels?" Ilya asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
"Cori, we're hoping you can do something about this," Auggie pleaded.
"Auggie, I can't detect those things with my radar. To me, that says the enemy had something to do with that."
"It's almost like he can be in several places at once," Nick growled.
"Nick, that's the scariest thing I've heard today, and that includes nuclear war with the insurgents," I said.
"What about photographs? We have some of Zoran and his aides," Auggie suggested. "Think you can tell anything from those?"
"I sure as hell hope so," I said. "If not, we're working at this problem blindfolded."
* * *
Matt was there when the photographs were handed to me. I stared at President Zoran for a long time.
"Cori, you'd better tell me something soon," Auggie begged.
"Auggie-this is fucked up-just like he's fucked up," I handed the photograph back to him, as if he could see what I did in Zoran's eyes. "There's a cloud on his brain, like some of the others I've seen, but there's also some confusion in him, too, that I've never detected in any others. He knows he should be more powerful and in better control, but it's as if something stronger came along and is preventing that, somehow."
"You're right-that's fucked up," Matt agreed. "I don't suppose you can see who the stronger one is?"
"Nope-that's part of the fog on his brain," I confirmed. "Like what he truly is has been completely blocked by that fog. I can't see through it."
"Does he have knowledge of the warheads?" Matt asked.
"If he does, it's hiding behind the fog, too. I get the idea he didn't issue those orders; somebody else did."
"Baikov, or his clone," Auggie sat back in his chair with a shake of his head.
"More than possible," I said. "But it could also be our enemy making his presence known."
"How the hell is he going to take a country back, if important parts of said country have been blown to bits by nuclear warheads?" Auggie's voice was a near-shout.
"A play for time, perhaps?" Ilya suggested. "To mollify the insurgents after the failure of the rockets? After all, those warheads are useless without the proper launch codes."
"True," Matt nodded thoughtfully. "Still, they must want something from the insurgents, other than to keep them
from bombing the Kremlin whenever they get their undies in a twist."
"It's a cinch the insurgents didn't pay for those rockets, so it can't be because they paid good money for nothing," Opal said. "We've determined that the mastermind behind all this is funding their operation, anyway."
"With stolen crowns, et cetera and so forth," Nick agreed.
"From the sale of stolen crowns, et cetera," I clarified. Sadly, an Asian dictator to be named later was in possession of most of it.
"True," Nick acknowledged my clarification. "Do you think it's all a ploy to discredit Madam President?" He directed the question to Auggie.
"Possibly," Auggie replied. "We've thought that all along, though."
"Six warheads," Opal mused. "Who would be the biggest targets, if they wanted to piss everybody off?" She tapped her chin with a finger as she turned her gaze on Matt.
"I thought they already pissed everybody off with the plane bombings," Nick offered.
"But that's been tied to Russia," Maye began. "Oh. You think?"
"They'll point fingers at the insurgents, and my money's on the fact that they'll make that theory stick, somehow," Matt rose from his chair in a rush. "After all, we never saw the ones on the mountain in Colombia, firing those rockets. The one in Argentina was a known enemy of the Russian government, who could have sided with the insurgents. We only know the Russians were supplying the rockets. Don't we?"
"Coupled with the fact that they're setting their planes down in South America and Cuba-and flying on the edge of U.S. airspace," Ilya added.
"It'll only take a photograph or two-conveniently provided by them or a South American government-to point a finger at the insurgents, who'd just love to put those notches on their belts anyway, regardless of whether they were responsible or not," Auggie nodded.
"This is more than confusing," Richard said.
"Twisted mind, twisted plot," Matt said.
"I'm beginning to agree with that assessment," I said. Ilya's arms draped around me as he pulled me back against his chest. He understood, just as I did, that somewhere, somehow, a madman was in charge and killing as many as possible to further his sick agenda.
* * *
"I'm sorry about your honeymoon," Auggie took a seat at the kitchen island, looking droopier than a bloodhound.
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