Cloud Dust: RD-1 (R-D #1)(25)

"I don't have anywhere else to go, since I'm an orphan and all."

"Cori, were you? Really?" James asked.

"I can't answer that."

*

At least we weren't on a commercial flight when we left two days later—on a Friday. The Secretary of State had a function to attend with the Prime Minister on Saturday, so we were going. The President didn't trust the woman posing as Mary Evans, and worried that she'd be there with the Prime Minister and a few non-English-speaking dignitaries.

Rafe said she was fluent in too many languages to count, and he was right. August was on the list of intended recipients if any new information was gathered on her, and promised to share photographs with me. I hoped I'd see the one I wanted to see.

Meanwhile, I was asked to advise August, who would then advise the Secretary of State, at the President's behest. We didn't need an incident. I couldn't agree more, but I couldn't say at the moment who was in the most danger.

"August, what's the Vice President's schedule while we're gone?" I asked. The flight had been smooth for the most part, but chose that moment to buck us around. I hate turbulence, but there isn't anything I can do about it.

"No idea—I don't usually get that information," he said, turning a curious glance in my direction. He sat beside me, while James sat on the other side with Rafe. Dalton sat behind Rafe, with Maye's handler, Jeff, beside him. Maye and Kevin took up another row, while Ken and his handler sat across the aisle. Kevin's handler was stretched out, taking an entire row for himself while he napped. The Secretary of State and his entourage took up the office and better seating toward the rear of the plane.

"Can you pass a message along that the VP needs to be careful?" I said.

"I can try."

"Thanks." I turned my attention toward the front of the plane—the pilots were locked inside their cubicle while two flight attendants filled drink cups for some of the others.

"Cori?"

"What?"

"You scare me."

"Auggie, I scare myself, sometimes."

*

The Connaught Hotel was our destination after we landed Saturday morning. I was ready to do a faceplant on a bed; that wasn't to be. We showered, changed and loaded into three limousines for a visit with the Prime Minister.

"This is why I never ran for office," I joked as our vehicles were allowed inside a gated entrance by armed guards on our way to 10 Downing Street.

"You're not locked in, now?" Dalton asked.

"You know, we haven't had a discussion yet, have we?" I made a face at him.

"Whatever you do, don't have a discussion with her," Rafe said. "You'll lose, I promise."

"Be nice, Corinne," August warned.

"I am nice. All the time. You just don't see it that way."

"We're here," he announced, curtailing our conversation. I sighed and slid out of the car when my door was opened.

The door to 10 Downing Street is rather modest, considering it houses much of the British government behind its unassuming frame. Designed by Christopher Wren in the late 1600s, the huge building is connected to 11 and 12 Downing Street, which house the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Prime Minister's Press Office, among other things.

I felt it when I walked across the threshold, where a guard greeted us.

Trouble was on the way.

*

The meeting only lasted an hour; the rest of us kicked our heels in an antechamber while the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State had their private meeting. The state dinner would be held later—in the evening and in another part of the building, after we had some rest.

Too many things were in motion, however, so our rest might be short, if we got any at all.

*

Notes—Colonel Hunter

I didn't pass along Corinne's message. How do you tell the Vice President to be careful, anyway?

He'd gone to a suburb of Detroit, where cars were still made—an island in a former sea of continental industry, now dead. The Mayor invited him to a local ice-cream shop afterward.

A sniper killed both of them, plus two of their bodyguards.





Chapter 7

Corinne

News of the assassination was on every British television station. My hopes that the state dinner would be canceled were dashed—August walked into my hotel room while I huddled against the headboard, watching the latest reports.

"The Secretary wants to attend the dinner tonight, then fly back to the U.S. tomorrow," August said. He sounded guilty. "Normally, the VP wouldn't take a side trip like that, but the Mayor talked him into it," he added.

I didn't say anything.

Rafe and Dalton walked through my door, just as August had. Without a word, Rafe sat on the side of the bed, took one of my hands and held it tightly while watching the news with me. He knew I was shaking.

This could have been prevented.

Things were so much worse, now.

"General Cutter said the Detroit Mayor had the ice-cream place checked out beforehand, and plenty of police around. It shouldn't have been a big deal," Dalton said, taking a seat on the end of my bed and watching the news with us.

The journalist on television repeated what Dalton said, adding that nobody had seen the sniper—before or afterward, and there were currently no leads. News crews were held back from the small dessert shop, so they'd set up as close as they could, like hungry vultures waiting for their turn at the corpse.