Cloud Dust: RD-1 (R-D #1)(37)

"What about the G-8?" I asked. "Are all those countries potential targets?"

"We're looking into that, and other agencies are busy with all the information that's been supplied so far. That's not our concern. Our concern is keeping the Program safe, and then keeping the President, Vice President and other highly-placed officials safe."

"What will you do if the Program is exposed?" Nick asked.

"Likely move it; send it underground and let it sit dormant for a while, to throw off conspiracy theorists," Safer said. "We don't need that. Now, we may have a leak already; that's what concerns the President and me. If you see any unusual activity, or if anyone asks questions better left unanswered, let August know. He'll contact me, and we'll make sure the President gets the information."

"Since when did Hunter get to take point?" Gene Little, Becker's handler, demanded.

"Since he's been more useful than you ever were," Safer snapped. "He does investigative research and stays in contact with me and the White House continually, while you twiddle your thumbs and watch Becker play basketball. It's your job to listen and take orders, just as Colonel Hunter is expected to do."

The division in the ranks is widening, I heard Corinne's voice plainly in my mind.

She was right, and likely knew it wasn't a good thing. Since I had no knowledge of Safer's previous interactions with the Five, I didn't know if Becker's handler had gotten dressed down before. I'd have to investigate that, in addition to the other things on my list.

Corinne sat next to Colonel Hunter, while I'd taken a position against the wall near the door. I wanted to watch all of them. Study them. I was in danger, just as they were, but I wondered if we were being targeted as a whole or individually, from different directions. Corinne and I needed a private place to talk; I just wasn't sure where that might be.

*

Corinne

I wanted that talk Rafe suggested once—in a safe, non-bugged place. I'd have to go looking for it. He might know things I didn't, and vice-versa. August, too, was on my list of private conversations, and that might be another problem.

Safer had painted a target on Auggie's back, by snapping at Gene. Gene let Becker do whatever he wanted—consequently, Becker would be on Gene's side if Gene wanted somebody pounded or embarrassed.

Auggie, we have to talk, I sent in his direction. He dropped his chin in a half-nod, indicating he'd heard me. Do we have those photographs of Mary Evans? I really want to look at them, I added.

We hadn't gotten anything yet—the agencies who'd taken the photographs were busy tying them up with bureaucratic red tape, to keep them out of anyone else's hands. Maybe the President ought to get in on that. I needed those photographs and soon.

"If there are no other questions?" General Safer asked. He was done and ready to leave.

Nobody raised their hands, so Safer left with three handlers—Vance, Preston and Carol—hot on his heels. They wanted a private word I could tell, and didn't want to talk in front of the rest of us. Gene, a sour expression on his face, pulled Becker out of the room shortly after.

"Cori, I want you and Rafe in my office. Now," August said and headed toward the door. Rafe waited while the others, Dalton included, shuffled out of the kitchen before he shut the door and hauled me toward Auggie's office.

*

"We're having trouble getting the photographs you wanted," August said immediately when Rafe and I took seats inside his office. James was outside at his station, making sure we weren't interrupted. "The President may have to cut through this bureaucratic bullshit," he went on. "Nothing I've done has moved those *s any faster."

August was cursing—that meant he was really pissed. He wanted answers just as I did, and neither of us were having any luck. He couldn't come out and tell them why he wanted the information, so his requests were going through channels. It also told me that Cutter hadn't asked for the information on Auggie's behalf—his requests wouldn't have met with brick walls.

"You may be wondering why I haven't involved the Program Director in these requests," August said, echoing my thoughts. "I have an answer. Corinne, I feel you need this information, although it may upset you."

"What information?" Rafe asked.

"It's on this flash drive," he pulled a small drive from a locked drawer and slipped it into his computer. "This is a recorded phone conversation from a few days ago."

Rafe and I listened—it wasn't difficult to determine that the conversation was between Dalton and General Cutter. I thought Rafe might explode when Cutter called me a witch. He wasn't talking in generalities, either. He meant a bona-fide, spell-weaving broom-rider. In his few, ultra-conservative brain cells, that meant one thing.

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. When he actually said those words to Dalton during their conversation, I drew a shaky breath.

It mattered not that the King James Version of the Bible was written after the Inquisition was in full swing, or that the term witch was misinterpreted and may have meant a poisoner of either sex. For those like Cutter, the Bible was God's word, spoken directly into King James' printed verses.

"I've already discussed this with the President," August said.

It didn't matter; I was shaking anyway. Cutter wanted me dead. Was that why he hadn't shown his face to me—afraid I might be able to tell?