Cloud Dust: RD-1 (2 page)

"Who?" Jeff asked.

"Recognize the name Ilya Kuznetsov?"

"The Blacksmith?" I almost couldn't breathe. That's
what Kuznetsov meant, and it was easier to use Blacksmith as his code name.
"He has to be nearly eighty," I sputtered. In his day, he'd been the
best spy Russia had. Nobody had heard of him for twenty years. Most of us
suspected he was already dead.

"Eighty-one," Safer acknowledged. "He came to
us a week ago, dying of cancer. Offered us sensitive information in exchange
for medical treatment. He's been in a Russian prison for the past six years.
Had to call in a favor from an old friend to get out—they wanted him
dead."

"Why?" Becker asked. Becker was talented, just not
the sharpest tool in the shed. After all, he'd chosen his new first name from a
tennis player's last. All Five had aliases. Corinne, too, but I'd never been
given her old name. That was a buried secret.

"Because he knows too much," Maye snapped at Becker.

"So they're considering him," Jeff shook his head.
"How's that supposed to work?"

"If he survives, he'll be watched. If he doesn't
cooperate, he's gone."

"Sounds dangerous," Kevin observed.

"Think you can't take down an old Russian?" Ken teased.

Those two—Kevin and Ken, used to be identical twins. They look
nothing alike, now. It was a test—to see if twins could survive. Kevin was
given the drug, first. When he survived it, Ken was brought in.

Three other sets of twins didn't make it—all in the name of
science.

"Stop worrying about the Russian. I hear he's angry
enough with his country to do whatever it takes to make them pay. Regardless,
we'll watch him carefully. This, of course, is assuming he makes it in the
first place. You know the odds. We want information. Never forget that,"
Safer said.

"When?" I asked. The drug took two weeks to work—if
it were going to work. If the Blacksmith survived, we'd get a new resident—and
a new handler—in a few weeks. I had things to do in between. One of those
things involved a trip to the Oval Office.

"Tonight," Safer replied. "His health is
failing, even with the best treatment."

"Have they chosen a handler?" Jeff asked. His was a
good question, and one that would prove important to all of us.

"Three are under consideration. I'll let you know how
things proceed. Dismissed," Safer gruffed.

* * *

"Did you see how quick he left? He didn't want any of us
to know who's under consideration," Jeff growled. This time, we'd met in
the cafeteria with the other three handlers.

"I think we're jumping the gun," Vance pointed out.
"He'll die. Face it—six out of one-hundred-and-one? Not good odds. Stop
worrying. Our little kingdom is safe."

"If he makes it, he'd better not step out of line,"
Gene muttered. Gene was Becker's handler, and as close to being a thug as any
of us might get. I figured Becker was one of Dr. Shaw's schoolyard bullies, and
Gene did nothing to discourage him.

"All conjecture at this point," Preston leaned back
in his chair with a sigh. "If the drug is given tonight, we'll know in two
days whether we have something to worry about."

Preston, Nick's handler, was something of a fatalist. Probably
for the best, since Nick was called
the Hound
for a reason. He was
right, though. If the body started showing signs of change, we'd have to open a
new suite of rooms.

* * *

Corinne

Yes, they read everything, including the Sarah Fox books as I
write them. Nothing I do is private. It's the price I pay for living outside
the Mansion. Sometimes I get messages from James, August's assistant. He's a
big fan and usually acts as a beta reader of sorts. It makes me laugh at the
irony of it all.

Hey, Cori
, his message began.
I'm a little upset
with you. Why did you kill off Hector? I know he was a bad guy, but he had a
great sense of humor
.

Bigger, funnier bad guy coming
, I typed.
Nastier,
too. Hector was a minor baddie—admit it, lol.

You mean Hector's boss is gonna go, too?

No. Hector's boss is getting a boss. Does that make sense?

I guess. When are you writing that?

Near the end. A lot of things have to happen between now
and then
, I replied.
Keep your shirt on; I still don't have all my stuff
unpacked.

Shirt still on but getting itchy
, James informed me.

Right. TMI. Don't they make a cream for that?

There's only one thing that'll cure this itch, and it's the
rest of this book
, he said.

Uh-huh. Maybe I'll take a year off from writing.

Nooooo! At least give me a name.

Okay. West (short for Weston) Alvarez.

That's gonna keep me up tonight. Is he related to?

Yep. Back to work. It's not five, yet.

Are you still writing?

If I can stop answering nosy messages, lmao
.

All right, already. Bye, Cori.

Bye, James
.

I didn't fool myself—James might be considered a friend, but I
had no doubt where his loyalties lay. If asked, he'd shoot me without a second
thought and cry over my novels later.

* * *

Notes, Colonel Hunter

"The President will see you, now, Colonel."

It had taken exactly four hours to get an appointment with the
President when I called a second time. She was taking an interest in every part
of the Program, looked like. Since General Edwards' death, it had likely been
on her mind often. Hugh Lawrence likely wanted Edwards' job, so the Program was
responsible for jealousy and murder.

"Madam President," I nodded respectfully to her. She
extended her hand and we shook. "Colonel, have a seat," she gestured
toward a guest chair in the Oval Office. I waited for her to sit behind the
desk, first.

"I understand you have some concerns?" she asked
immediately. I noticed she was toying with a gold pen on her desk instead of
looking at me. Not a good sign.

"Not concerns exactly," I said. "Just
curiosity, mostly, and I wanted to bring my findings to you, first." I
wasn't about to point out that I didn't trust the Joint Chiefs at all, and they
wouldn't listen, anyway.

"What do you have?" She looked at me then, her
curiosity getting the better of her.

"I have this file," I laid it on her desk.

"That's a file on Hugh Lawrence." She'd lowered her
eyes just long enough to catch the name on the folder before coming back to me.

"That's true, ma'am. His death coincides with this."
I pulled the flash drive from my pocket and laid it on the President's desk.

* * *

"I don't want to alarm her or raise suspicion," the
President said as she walked me toward the door. "Just tell her that I
want all of them together, in case there's an emergency. It's my decision,
after all, and nobody else's. Make sure she knows nothing of this," she
handed the file back to me. "If this theory has any merit, I want to know
about it."

"Yes, Madam President. How quickly do you want her at the
Mansion?"

"Tonight."

"I'll make arrangements immediately."

* * *

Corinne

"Is this because I wrote
lmao
in a message?"
I asked when August Hunter and the movers stalked into my new house. "What
will the neighbors think?"

"Corinne, the President asked me to bring you in. She's
still spooked about Edwards' death, and she guards this secret better than they
guard Fort Knox."

"Great," I hunched my shoulders.

"Don't worry—just pack your laptop. These guys will take
care of everything else."

"That's what worries me," I pointed out. "I
just had my desktop hooked up," I added petulantly.

"Cori, we already have everything on it. Your book is
safe."

"That's what worries me," I repeated. "What
about the Five? Won't they take umbrage?"

"I only use my umbrage when it rains."

"Very funny. It's too late for that, Colonel. I don't
know where you got that joke, but you really ought to give it back."

"Corinne, see reason," he turned dark eyes on me.
"The President ordered this, and I can't refuse that order. I'll do my
best to see that the Five leave you alone. I have a suite waiting on the third
floor—they're on the fourth. You have a kitchen—they don't. I'll have somebody
run errands for you, and I'll even request an assistant. I can't guarantee that
the expense will be approved, but I promise I'll ask."

"But I'll still be just as trapped."

"I'll ask James to make himself available if you really
need to go out. You'll have another guard with you, but that ought to be
enough. Don't have a panic attack," he held up a hand. Yes, my breathing
had gone rough and labored.

"Too late," I wheezed.

* * *

Notes—Colonel Hunter

"What did you think would happen?" Dr. Shaw snapped.
I'd called him first thing after the medics arrived. Corinne ended up riding to
the Mansion in the back of a military ambulance.

"She was held hostage by terrorists. Couldn't escape.
Remember, I suggested that she be allowed outside the walls in the first
place," Shaw continued. "This isn't good for her; you know that. At
least keep the bullies away from her."

"I'll do what I can." If Shaw meant to hand me a
verbal beating, he was doing a good job of it. The bullies, as he put it, could
find a way to get to her, no matter how closely she was watched.

"How goes it with the new one?" Shaw had heard about
the Blacksmith.

"No change, yet," I reported. "But it's only
been twenty-four hours. After forty-eight, we'll have a better idea."

"Not sure how I feel about it," he said.

"I know."

* * *

Corinne

Everybody at the Mansion knew of my arrival.

They also knew of my method of arrival.

It was the wimpiest way anybody could get there—by ambulance.

I imagined the Five staring through fourth-floor windows as I
was unloaded on a stretcher, protesting the whole time that I could walk.

I would have—if they'd let me.

They didn't. I was wheeled straight to the elevator on the
first floor, and then driven into my suite on the third floor. The only thing I
was thankful for was that the cafeteria lay on the opposite end of the Mansion,
next to the gym and workout facility.

Two suites near mine were unoccupied, and I was grateful. I
needed quiet to write, not the sounds of constant foot traffic outside my door.
As it was, I figured I'd have enough people knocking on my door for official
reasons, and that made me nervous.

The first knock came ten minutes after I was deposited in my
new suite—one of the nurses from the Mansion's med-unit stood outside my door,
a syringe in her hand and orders to give me a sedative.

"I don't want that," I said, backing away as she
strode purposely into my room.

"I have orders from Dr. Shaw to give it to you."

"Then I owe Dr. Shaw a kick in the ass."

"You can give me a hip voluntarily, or I can call someone
to hold you down."

"You enjoy this, don't you?" I wanted to take
another step back but didn't. A second panic attack threatened, and that would
be disastrous.

"It's my job. Turn around." She waved a packet
containing an alcohol wipe in her free hand—the one not holding the
syringe—indicating that I ought to turn and drop trou. I turned and dropped
trou.

"Now, the bedroom's this way," she took my elbow
after jabbing me with the needle. "You'll have your furniture and personal
things tomorrow. Tonight, you get military bedding."

It didn't matter what kind of bedding I got; she shoved me
onto the bed and in five minutes, I was asleep. I barely had time to kick off
my shoes before passing out. The Nasty Nurse of the North didn't even bother to
cover me up.

Chapter 3
 

Dear Dr. Shaw, I question your choice of sedative, the
strength of same and those instructed to deliver it.

Sincerely, Corinne.

Corinne, what happened?

Shaw.

Dear Dr. Shaw, I slept for sixteen hours, nobody checked on
me (that I know of) during that time and I almost peed my pants trying to make
it to the bathroom when I woke up. The state of my dress, the frigidity of my
skin and the dandelion-look to my hair attest to the unprofessional manner I
was left on the military bedding* supplied in my suite.

*Their term, not mine.

Sincerely, Corinne.

I'll have a word with the nurse.

Shaw.

Dear Dr. Shaw, I don't think one word will suffice.

Sincerely, Corinne.

"Are we incensed?" August stood outside my door,
copies of my e-mail correspondence with Dr. Shaw held ominously aloft in his
left hand.

"Incensed is insufficient. I refer you to any thesaurus.
I pray the military has seen fit to purchase at least one for the use of its
several divisions?"

Yeah, I was pissed. I'd just gotten out of the shower, there
were no towels in the bathroom, I'd been forced to use kitchen towels to dry
off and then I had to dress in the same clothes I'd worn the night before
because my things still hadn't arrived.

I figured they'd gotten lost in New Jersey, somewhere. My hair
was wet, it was sixty-nine degrees inside my suite and I couldn't find a
thermostat anywhere to make it warmer.

"My skin is blue," I held out an arm for Colonel
Hunter to see. It was covered in goose pimples, too, but he could see that for
himself. "My hair practically has icicles on it," I complained.

"You're on the same centrally-controlled thermostat as
the gym," August frowned. "They keep it cooler in there."

"Well, it's sure as hell cooler in here," I
sputtered. "Are you coming in or getting out?" I flung up a hand.
"We wouldn't want all the frigid, polar temperatures to slip away, now
would we?"

"Cori, I get that you're upset. Shaw already called and
chewed me a new one." He stepped inside my suite and studied the stark
emptiness I'd been assigned with a less than critical eye. "I'd appreciate
it if you'd come to me first, from now on. Dragging Shaw into this just
complicates matters."

"You weren't the one who ordered the sedative—he
did."

"Then demand to see me the next time somebody shows up
from the med-unit. I'm in charge of your wellbeing, remember?"

"Sure. I'll let you wrestle the nurse next time. I was as
respectful as I could be; she was waving a syringe and making threats."

"What kind of threats?"

"She said if I didn't drop my pants, she'd call somebody
to hold me down."

"That's not," August sounded angry for a moment.
"I'll go, now." He left without explaining where he was going or what
he intended to do when he got there. I hoped he was prepared to tell somebody
off for threatening to hold me down. I ought to have a choice whether I
accepted a sedative or not; the one I'd gotten was extremely unwelcome.

* * *

Notes—Colonel Hunter

"Dr. Shaw prescribed a sedative," he snapped.

I stared down the doctor on duty in the med-unit. "Shaw
says he prescribed half what you gave her," I snarled back. "The
patient was threatened, also something Shaw would have discouraged, and the
treatment was completely unprofessional."

"Look, she's on duty at night for a reason—we're not
usually needed then," he raked fingers through his hair. "I saw the
report. I'm just grateful she didn't bother to lie about it. Her report matches
what is on the security video. She isn't a psychiatric nurse, by any
stretch."

"I'm not sure she should be a nurse at all," I
fumed. "Don't let her near Corinne again. If you can't find somebody better
than that, call me. I'll get Shaw over here to handle it."

"Yes, sir."

He'd better damn well call me sir. I outranked him and had
access to the security videos, just as he did. I'd already seen them—with
James. James was pissed about the way Corinne was shoved onto the bed and left
there for sixteen fucking hours. "Unless it's an emergency, I expect to be
notified of any medical treatment for Corinne in the future. You got
that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." I stalked away from the med-unit, still
fuming.

* * *

"Colonel, we've had word," James placed a folder on
my desk. "The Blacksmith is changing. He didn't die."

"I have mixed feelings about this," I said, shaking
my head before opening the folder. I'd gotten a dossier on the Blacksmith, just
as the other handlers would receive the information. All of us had intelligence
on the Five, plus Corinne, to make sure safeguards were in place. The Program
was too important to allow a single death to debilitate it. If information on
the Program was leaked, the Five, the handlers and Corinne were in jeopardy.

"What do you think the odds are that he'll fit in?"

"Almost as poor as Corinne's odds. I put him ahead of
Corinne because this guy, young and strong, could probably handle two or three
of the Five at once. He has a reputation for a reason."

"I read his stuff last night. Scary," James agreed.
"He may draw a handler just as tough."

"What you read probably wasn't the half of it."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Corinne

My stuff showed up after five. Nobody came up to help. I
wasn't surprised. I'd walked downstairs to the restaurant at three to get a
late lunch. I was watched the whole time. Somebody, somewhere, was watching
while I unpacked my stuff for the second time in a week.

I pretended that wasn't true as I filled drawers in my small
kitchen with kitchen gadgets. If I thought about it too much, I'd lose the beef
stew I'd had for lunch. With crackers.

"What are you doing in there?" I pulled my mp-3
player out of a box of ladles and spatulas. Sticking earphones in my ears, I
listened to music the rest of the evening while I put things away.

* * *

James showed up with two lattes the following morning.
"I'm here to hook up your desktop," he grinned.

"Hi, James. How long will this take?" I asked.

"Maybe an hour, why?"

James has blue eyes, brown, curly hair and probably got into
everything when he was a child. He has an air of curiosity about him that
hasn't been taken away as yet.

"I have time to bake cookies for you," I nodded and
let him in. I took my vanilla latte, too—I wasn't about to turn that down.

"Oatmeal cookies?"

"Yep."

"Nobody bakes cookies around here," he sighed and
followed me to the kitchen. I didn't point out that the hour he took watching
me bake cookies was under surveillance; he had warm cookies to eat in
forty-five minutes and ate almost a dozen. I packed another dozen for him to
take with him after he hooked up my computer.

"I wish I could tell my family that I just hooked up
Sarah Fox's computer," he said as he walked out my door. "Thanks for
the cookies."

"Oh, you could tell them," I shrugged. "I just
can't say what might happen to you afterward."

"True." He grinned and waved before heading toward
the elevator.

"Look, it's Corinne. Itty, bitty, helpless Corinne,"
he mimed a fainting fit. Becker, my least favorite of the Five walked up,
tossing an insult in my direction. He'd been to the gym to work out and just
happened to walk all the way to the other end of the Mansion's third floor to
ride down the west end elevators.

Nosy bastard
.

"Look, it's Becker," I said, waving an arm.
"I'm surprised you can say my name without pointing. Or drooling." I
didn't wait for him to think up a comeback—that could take a while. I shut the
door and locked it instead. He didn't walk away for several minutes. Yeah, I
listened shamelessly for his footsteps.

* * *

"Corinne, you shouldn't bait him like that," August
speared chunks of salad with a fork. He'd forced me to have dinner with him in
the cafeteria later, before he went home to his wife.

"So, you want me to just listen to the insults and say
nothing?"

"What did he say to you?"

"Come on, you know what he said." I figured
everybody in the Mansion knew what he said.

"Yeah." August shook his head and kept eating.

"When the President waved her hand and ordered me here,
didn't you step up and argue with her? Why didn't you tell her what happens
when the Five and I get together?"

"I think she's seen the reports."

"Everybody sees the reports," I muttered, hugging
myself. I had chicken and noodles in front of me and hadn't touched them. My
stomach would rebel, and the cafeteria floor was mostly clean. The staff would
probably prefer that it stay that way. "Nobody does anything about
them," I added.

"The Five are special," August said, refusing to
look at me.

"Yeah."

"Maye and Becker are with the President, tonight,"
August said.

"Of course they are. I understand things are a bit
strained with the Russian Ambassador. Is the Prez trying to soothe ruffled
ushankas?"

"Cori, most people don't even know what those things are
called."

"Yeah."

"Corinne, I wish, well, fuck." He dropped his fork
and pinched the bridge of his nose.

I blinked at August—he seldom used profanity around me. I
didn't mind when he did—I knew what all those words meant. I'd used them, too,
in my seventy-plus years.

"Auggie, I have a long list of I wishes, and none of them
are on anybody's list to be granted. I'm stuck here. You're stuck with me.
We're both miserable. Admit it."

"I guess that's what makes you such a good writer,"
he finally looked me in the eye. "You read situations better than anybody
I ever met, and you were never trained to do it. I don't know how you knew
about the Russians, but there it is. Again."

"Something's going on, isn't it?" I lifted an
eyebrow. "Somebody's gotten the drug, haven't they? That's why Russian
panties are in a knot."

"That's why Russian panties are in a knot," he
agreed with a grim smile. "We have an old spy with a ton of information he
wants to hand over. They suspect we have him. What they think is that he's
dying and we won't get much. If he survives, we could get everything."

"A double-edged sword," I said, allowing my
shoulders to droop. "You don't know if he can be trusted. You don't know
what he might be able to do when he wakes. You don't even know what he'll look
like when he does," I ticked things off on fingers.

"You don't know that he'll live," August began.

"Count on it," I grumbled.

"How do you know this shit?" he frowned.

"August, stop asking questions if you don't really want
answers."

"What do you see when you look at me?"

That question surprised me and definitely took an unusual
turn. I blinked at him for a moment before answering. "I see a confused
man," I said.

"Fuck," he said again. "Eat your dinner,
Corinne." He rose and stalked out of the cafeteria.

* * *

"Two hours after having dinner with the President, the
Russian Ambassador was murdered outside a bar in Arlington," the reporter
announced.

I'd been rousted out of bed at two-thirty in the morning and
herded toward the cafeteria by a decidedly grumpy Colonel Hunter. The Five were
already there, with handlers in tow. I had no idea why I was included in this
meet and greet, but I didn't want to have an argument with August about it; I
just wanted to go back to bed.

Nevertheless, I sat at a table with August, watching the large
television in a corner of the dimly-lit dining section as the news was
announced.

"They think the President had something to do with
this?" Maye turned to her handler, Jeff Chambers.

"You'd know better than I would," Jeff muttered.

"I didn't pick anything up from her," Maye huffed
before turning back to the news program.

"What about the Ambassador's guards? Where were
they?" Kevin asked.

"They were asleep at the Russian Embassy. Where the
Ambassador was supposed to be," Preston Childers said. Preston was Nick's handler,
who decided to answer Kevin's question before Carol, Kevin's handler, had a
chance to do so.

Carol White was the only female handler in the bunch, and I
could see she didn't like Preston's interruption. The corner of her mouth
tightened and she turned her back on him.

"Do we have proof they were there and asleep?" Vance
Johnson asked.

"None yet—all we have is their word," Brigadier
General George Safer said as he strode into the cafeteria. "There's no
evidence at the crime scene that says otherwise, though." He held up a
flash drive and nodded to Ken Harvey, Kevin's brother.

Ken rose, took the drive from Safer and plugged it into the
computer system connected to the television.

The crime scene was bloody and the images had been recorded
before the body was covered. I closed my eyes against the violence of the scene
and fought down nausea. Once the initial ill feeling passed, I opened my eyes
and watched the scene while Safer described it in detail.

"No prints at the scene. Killed with a nine millimeter,"
Safer said. "No records of any meetings set up on his calendar, and nobody
knew he was outside the Embassy."

"Somebody had to know. You just don't sneak out of
there—all the doors are guarded," Nick huffed.

Becker was my least favorite of the Five. Nick was my second
least favorite. Nick was smarter than Becker, though. By a lot.

"The Russian President is demanding answers, of course,
and we have nothing to give him. Nick, we'd like you to come with us while the
crime scene is still fresh, to see if there's anything you might tell us."