Inaya stood over the table slide in the communications room, sending data to her eight cell leaders. It had taken her three years to switch from a regular com console to a slide. She still preferred the more refined manipulation of the com console, but Michel had insisted that though a slide was less secure, more of their operatives were familiar with the slide technology. Receiving and storing data sent by the bacteria on her slide to their portable ones also took longer, and it gave a permanent record of communications that made her nervous. It was why she kept a regular com console in the next room, for more sensitive information.

Michel stood now in the doorway to the communications room. It was early, far too early for him to be up. Only the cook was awake at this hour. Inaya could smell grilled meat.

“I am uncertain,” Michel said. “They have become skittish since the death of the last priest, and I fear they no longer trust me. I am hopeful that a few words in your hand will calm them.”

“Perhaps I should call them,” Inaya said. She had been the first to get the Savoie family’s financial backing for the Fourré, despite Michel’s many attempts. To be fair, it was only when she made the trip with Isabet at her side that she finally won them over. It was not a good time to lose them.

“Their former pattern has been purchased by a protein farm in Clairie. I fear I do not have their new pattern,” Michel said.

“I will need some time. I have other things to attend to, but I will have a letter for you tonight. Are you delivering it personally?”

“Of course.”

“Fine, then.” She turned away, dismissing him, but he lingered a moment longer in the door. Just as his gaze began to discomfit her, he retreated into the hall. His behavior was becoming increasingly disturbing of late, but she was uncertain what to do about it. To cut him loose risked making a grave enemy. The best she had been able to manage was to give him less critical duties, and cut him out of key decisions. But Michel was a prideful man, and not a stupid one. It would not be long before he confronted her more forcefully about his place in the Fourré. She needed to be ready.

Inaya spent the remainder of the morning debriefing with the primary contact for the six cells in Ras Tieg’s capital, Montmare. She saw him only four times a year, and even those visits were risky. Just eight individuals were ultimately responsible for the organization’s work. Any of the eight could identify her if she did not wear a glamour. She trusted these men and women as if they were family, but like family, there were rifts—disagreements.