Cloud Invasion: R-D 2 (R-D #2)(78)

"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 to 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."