"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 thr
ew 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.
Got any five-pound weights? I shot back.
Yes, but those are for sissies.
Really? What do you think I am?
You can lift more than five pounds. I saw you manhandle that bag of flour.
Right. Lifting that weight, however, had a purpose. All-purpose, if I remember correctly.
Lifting weights has a purpose, too. You can do weights with me after Krav Maga lessons, three days a week.
Joy.
&
nbsp; James spots me.
Really?
He does. He likes to look at my crotch.
TMI. Besides, there's nothing wrong with wishful thinking.
Understood. I told him from the beginning I was straight, but there's nothing wrong with window shopping.
I'm glad you have a good attitude about that. James is pretty awesome.
He's probably reading this right now.
That wasn't why I said it.
I know.
Fifteen seconds later, I got an e-mail from James.
Thank you! When are you baking cookies again?
How about the weekend?
We may be busy on the weekend.
Joy.
Fifteen minutes later, Auggie was on my doorstep, with James, Dalton and Rafe. We had a meeting in my kitchen. It involved a two-week trip to London and Paris with the Secretary of State, Maye, Kevin, Ken and our respective handlers. I wanted to have a panic attack. I didn't.
* * *
"You've been outfitted and packed. All you need is pajamas and underwear," James informed me when August and Dalton left. Rafe and James had stayed behind with me in the kitchen.
"Somebody bought for me again?" I squeaked.
"One of the President's assistants. Bought for Rafe and the others, too, so don't hyperventilate."
"James, this is two trips in less than two weeks."
"Think how the Secretary of State feels."
"He wanted that job, remember? Please tell me I won't be squeezed into something too small and require oxygen."
"Too small?" Rafe huffed.
"Shut up, you. You're annoying."
"I thought I was conveying incredulity. My mistake."
"James, can I pay you to drop weights on his head?"
"How much?" James grinned.
"No one will be dropping weights. I'd send you out the door, except that would do me no good at all," Rafe grumbled.
"I'm teasing. James knows that," I said. "Besides, it's my door."
"As I said, it would do me no good at all. You'd only come right back."
"I don't have anywhere else to go, since I'm an orphan and all."
"Cori, were you? Really?" James asked.
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