by Cate Dermody
Alisha felt her eyebrows shoot up again, surprise surging through her with unexpected strength. “Director Boyer, sir?” Only surprise or anger brought out the formality of calling Greg sir; even as she did it she felt a wave of amusement wash through her. The same amusement let Greg crook a smile as he nodded, tension clear in the motion.
“The operation is Boyer’s, and given my proximity to the situation, I recommended that I not be the first or only person you were to report to on this topic.”
“You recommended, sir?” She’d done it again. Alisha ducked her head, smiling at her knees in embarrassed amusement. She looked up again an instant later, still smiling. The quiet laughter she felt helped take some of the urgency away from the conversation, helped remove a little of the difficulty from the topic. “That was—”
“It was covering my own ass, Agent MacAleer,” Greg said bluntly. “I don’t trust myself in this, and I’d rather make it clear to my superiors that the situation is better handled by someone else.”
“Of course, having done that, you prove yourself all the more trustworthy,” Alisha pointed out. Greg turned his palms up with a shrug of smiling acknowledgement.
“I didn’t say it didn’t have its benefits.”
Alisha nodded with another smile, then turned her attention back to the folder. It was heavy; there was not only a great deal to learn about Brandon Parker, but she had her own cover story to become familiar with. It would take the rest of the flight to Switzerland, and probably more time beyond that.
“Alisha.”
She lifted her eyes, eyebrows crinkled. “Yes?”
“There’s one other thing.” Gregory took a deep breath. “If, in your assessment, Brandon is a danger, and the situation warrants it…”
A chill that had nothing to do with her swim in the Atlantic spread over Alisha’s body, lifting goose bumps beneath the sweater sleeves and making the tiny fine hairs on her cheeks stand up. “Yes?” Her voice remained steady and cool, the result of years of training, although the coldness she felt admitted she knew the next words Gregory Parker would say.
“If necessary, you have the authority to terminate Brandon Parker with extreme prejudice.”
Yes. Those were the words. Alisha turned her face away, fully aware that her expression changed not at all. Compartmentalization, she mocked herself silently. A very good show, Leesh. Fool them all.
She’d only been given such authority twice before in her career, and the first had come to nothing. The second—
“You have the authority to terminate the subject with extreme prejudice.” The words echoed in Alisha’s mind, heartless and intense. The subject. The subject was a thing, not a person, not a living, breathing woman.
Not Cristina.
Alisha rejected all her training, forcefully, when it came to Cristina. She would not allow herself to think of the woman who’d once been her partner as merely the subject. Lovely, fair-haired Cristina Lamken, who killed herself rather than face a life of imprisonment.
Or maybe, Alisha thought for the thousandth time, maybe Cristina had killed herself to save Alisha from having to do it.
They had been friends once, best friends, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Before Cristina, brave, intelligent Cristina, had proven herself a double agent. Her loyalties lay not with the CIA, but with the Russian FSB, the intelligence agency that had come into play after the KGB shattered with the rest of the Soviet Union.
Alisha could not forget, would not let herself forget, the fragile smile Cristina had given her, in the moment before she plunged off the Peruvian mountainside. There were a thousand things in that smile: determination, fear, regret, desperation. Maybe, Alisha thought, maybe even apology. For what she was about to do, or just possibly, for what she had done.
The worst of it, though, had been the understanding in Cristina’s eyes. There was no other way for it to end. They’d been partners and best friends, and they were, at the core of it, enemies. The last sight Alisha had of her closest confidante was down the barrel of a loaded .45, and Cristina’s blue eyes were understanding. Cristina knew, as vividly as Alisha did, that it would have taken very little for the situation to be reversed. It could easily have been Alisha standing on the precarious lip of earth, three thousand feet of empty air only a stumble away. It could have been Cristina looking down the barrel of the gun, knowing she had to choose between her country and her friend.
Alisha had pulled the trigger an instant too late. Cristina was already falling, backward with her arms spread, a glorious fatal dive into the cold air. And the look in her eyes had been one of understanding. It’s all right, it had said, I know. You have to do this. This is how it ends, for people like us.
Every day since then, Alisha had wondered if she’d seen forgiveness in Cristina’s eyes as well.
If, had she been at the other end of the gun, there would have been understanding in her own eyes.
If there would have been forgiveness.
“Alisha?”
Alisha drew in a sharp breath, pulling herself from the reverie of memory to look back at Greg. Hard sunlight glinted off water below, sending bright blinding streaks through the helicopter’s bay door. It was enough for an excuse to brush away tears, but Alisha couldn’t find them in herself to shed. There was still ragged pain and betrayal in thoughts of Cristina, but it had never come to tears. Too much anger, Alisha thought, or not enough willingness to let go. “I’m fine,” she said aloud. “The mission’s clear.”
“Are you all right?” Greg’s voice was gentle; he knew as well as Alisha did that permission to terminate would bring to mind one person only.
“Fine,” Alisha repeated, and smiled briefly. “It’s all right, Greg. Sometimes that’s how it ends, for people like us.”
“Sometimes,” he agreed, then nodded at the briefing he’d handed her. “Get to work, Cardinal. You’re going in as soon as we can arrange it.”
Chapter 3
“Thank you! It was a wonderful flight!” Bellowed over the roar of helicopter engines and whipping blades, the thick liquid sounds of the Russian language felt alien inside Alisha’s mouth, as if she shouted garbled nonsense into the wind that swept down off the Ural mountains. The pilot she spoke to, however, offered a broad smile of understanding and cut her a little bow of thanks in return. Then he gestured, not bothering to try outshouting the engines. Alisha followed the line of his pantomime to a group of men standing at the edge of the chopper pad.
Several were guards, hanging back a few steps from the man who led them. Alisha took them in briefly—five, all armed, none of them looking soft or approachable in fatigues and berets—and turned her focus to the sixth man.
Brandon Parker was different yet again from the most recent photos she’d seen: blond hair was cropped in a near-military cut, the shadow of beard gone from his jaw. He wore khakis and a white T-shirt beneath a tan trench coat that snapped around his legs with all the energy of the helicopter blades chopping the air. He leaned into the wind a little, hands in his pockets, though as Alisha watched, he lifted a hand in greeting and came forward.
“Elisa Moon?”
As if she might be anyone else. Alisha nodded, taking a few steps away from the helicopter. “Brandon Parker?” she yelled back, no more needing a verification of his identity than he’d needed for her.
“At your service! Come on,” he shouted. “This is no place for a conversation!” He lifted one hand and snapped his fingers twice, an imperious order to the guards. Two nodded in response, ducking forward toward the helicopter to unload the two small bags she’d brought with her. Alisha smiled her thanks at the closer guard. There was no harm in trying to make a few friends among the ranks, although the strong-jawed young man gave her no response other than a curt nod. Alisha performed a mental shrug and followed the man who’d greeted her.
“Welcome to Kazakhstan,” he said the moment they were far enough from the chopper to be heard reasonably. “Sorry for all the military presence.
” He waved his hand at the guards, who fell in place around them as if it were natural.
“I have ID—” Alisha reached for her purse, stopped by Parker’s explosive, dismissive, “Pah!”
“You wouldn’t be here at all if you weren’t who you said you were.”
“Of course not.” Alisha pulled her wallet out anyway, offering it. Brandon flipped it open, gave it a cursory glance, then handed it back.
“I’m convinced.” He put on a look of mock injury, offering his hand a second time. “Now will you shake my hand? Or shall I provide my own identification first?”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Parker.” Alisha took his hand, smiling back at him. The handshake: always a test, she couldn’t help thinking. She never met a new asset without remembering why Greg Parker had recruited her for the CIA.
“You’re smart,” Greg had explained once, but shook off that answer even as he said it. “You’re strong.”
Deceptively strong, Alisha might have corrected. She’d always had good upper body strength, able to out arm-wrestle her older sister since they were children. She’d discovered yoga as a teenager, and through that art had developed considerably more physical strength than women were expected to have. It gave her an advantage she loved to exploit.
So, for an instant, when Brandon Parker closed his fingers around hers, she was tempted to play the testosterone-laden game of hand-crushing. It was always a temptation, but she never gave into it. There was no point in giving away one of her greatest advantages at the beginning of the game.
And Brandon’s handshake gave her no reason to play anyway. It was firm and solid, expecting reasonable strength in response: not the fragile thing some men used, as if by her very femininity she might shatter from his touch. Alisha smiled again, never missing a beat. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Parker.”
“The pleasure is mine, Ms. Moon. Although I must say, given your employers, you’re not what we might have expected.”
“You mean I’m young, an American and a woman.”
Brandon’s gaze flickered over her, appraising her both as a woman and a threat. The former was easy to gain approval as: she wore a professionally tailored skirt and low heels that set off the curve of her calf without being dangerous to run in. Her blouse was soft and melded against her skin as wind snapped and billowed around her. She’d deliberately foregone her suit jacket, to enhance a deceptive look of delicacy. Her hair was swept back in a chignon from which a few pincurls escaped, framing her temples. With her slender frame, she knew she looked breakable, as if the gusting wind could sweep her up and dash her against the mountainside. The only flaw in the projection was the bandage that wrapped her right ankle, providing support for the strained tendons there.
But Brandon Parker’s assessment seemed to follow the lines it was supposed to, though his eyes lingered on the wrapped ankle. “A lovely woman. This way, please.” He gestured toward a small convoy of older military vehicles, waiting at the far edge of the helicopter pad. “You don’t look like someone who would be working for an Arabic consortium, Ms. Moon.”
“That’s very much the idea. If my employers wish to distance themselves from me, my very appearance and heritage provides them with plausible deniability.” She climbed into the middle vehicle, an English-style jeep with the drive mechanism on the right. Brandon held the door for her and she leaned forward, watching him walk around the vehicle before she spoke again. “If I may—I didn’t expect them to send their resident genius out to meet me. I spoke with a General Hashikov to make these arrangements, a Russian man—” She arched her eyebrows, genuine curiosity behind the question.
“Ah, yeah.” Brandon pulled the jeep door closed behind him and thumped the driver’s seat as indication they were ready to go. “Ukrainian, actually. His head spins if you say he’s Russian. He runs the military side of the base. The cover for our development work, essentially.”
“Ukrainian,” Alisha murmured, nodding as if making note of the information. Hashikov had been one of dozens of disaffected military officers whose careers and convictions had fallen apart with the Soviet Union. His last official assignment had been Afghanistan; like many other Soviet Army veterans, he bore still-smarting scars from that failed conquering. He, like most born under Soviet rule, held his true nationality dear to his heart. Alisha would not have called him Russian to his face, but offering an opportunity for Brandon to establish himself as a confidant and man of superior knowledge was a good way to begin earning his trust. “I’ll remember,” Alisha said. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I doubt you’ll meet him, at least if he can avoid it. He doesn’t like lay people.”
“In that case, I’ll be sure not to get laid.”
Brandon shot her a startled look that dissolved into laughter. Alisha held up her hands, grinning. “Forgive me. That was entirely unprofessional, and I’m here representing some men with a great deal of power and money. I will,” she said, schooling her features into solemnity, “behave myself. But if it’s necessary I will speak with General Hashikov regarding your work and its military applications. With no offense meant, sir, you’re a developer, and the general is a military man. As an interested buyer, it’s imperative for me to have as broad and comprehensive an understanding of your work as is possible.”
Cool steel crept into her voice by the end of her speech, all the laughter gone from her eyes. She could see it in Brandon’s expression as clearly as she could hear the tone modulations as she spoke. From sweet flirty thing to combatant inside a sentence, she congratulated herself. Way to scare ’em, Leesh.
Leesh. There was the nickname only one person had ever called her by. Ali, that was what everyone at the company called her; that was what everyone had called her since she could remember. Only Reichart had ferreted out the nickname she had for herself. Leesh, the tough girl. Combat pilot, biker babe, the cool head in the face of danger. Ali was more fragile, the flirty woman who could convince men to lay a jacket over a puddle for her, a princess in a tower to protect. It was as far as Alisha liked to push compartmentalizing her emotions, and sometimes she thought it was too far. Compartmentalization was one thing. Multiple personalities were another.
But they were both part of her, and she knew it. It simply helped to switch from one to another when the situation called for it. Almost everyone—even Greg, who should have known better—responded to Ali, and Alisha wasn’t above taking advantage of it. It made hard-core Leesh that much more effective, as proven by Brandon’s brief flicker of a smile.
“I see now why you’re the woman for the job, Ms. Moon. I imagine you’re underestimated a lot.”
“Hazard of the profession, Mr. Parker.” Ali, Alisha thought. Leesh. It didn’t matter which name she thought of herself as. Put them together and she got herself: Alisha MacAleer. And she was the one who woke up with nightmares when things went wrong.
The drive was horrifyingly dramatic. The road was one lane, a semiflat surface cut against the mountain. Alisha couldn’t see the road beneath the jeep’s body, only the thousand-foot drop down to the glacier-cut valley below. The mountain was close enough to touch on the left-hand side of the convoy as well, rough stone brambled with stubborn bushes determined to eke life out of a barren surface.
One good shove and there’d be nothing between her and the valley floor.
The memory of Cristina’s eyes in the last moment of her life flashed through Alisha’s mind. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, wishing it was cold enough to claim that as her excuse.
Perhaps it was. Brandon made a sympathetic sound and shrugged his suit jacket off, offering it to her. Alisha smiled uncomfortably as she touched it, but shook her head. “It’s not the cold.” She took a deep breath, glancing out the window, and lied, “I’m afraid of heights.”
Brandon clucked his tongue. “I’d have put you on the left if I’d known that.”
Alisha looked back at him to smile and offer thanks, and her smile became a little warm
er. Brandon’s cheeks had paled, the pulse in his throat suddenly higher. He honestly didn’t like heights, and the offer was noble but alarming to him. “Thank you for the thought,” Alisha murmured. “I’ll be all right. In the meantime, are we free to speak about your project here?” She cut a glance toward the driver, then back to Brandon, her eyebrows lifted in question.
“We are. Please, feel free. I’ve got a demonstration set up once we arrive, but any questions you have now, of course.” He spread his hands in invitation. Long fingers, Alisha noted; well-shaped nails, strength in the quick way he used his hands. His CIA training would have taught him to make those hands a weapon. Alisha looked down at her own hands, all tapered fingernails and evident softness, and crooked a smile. She, like Brandon, was built to deceive. The question was, who would see beneath the surface fastest and best.
“In order for your so-called artificial intelligences to be most useful, they’ll need to be both rapidly programmed and yet resistant to hacking.” She chose her words carefully, focus tuned to the scientist beside her instead of a study of hands. Brandon let out a low laugh that said he knew she was challenging him by casting doubt on the AI aspect of his work.
“The process I’ve developed depends on a coding written in ordinary English, a series of if-then statements which allow a droid to assess terrain, likelihood of risk and the best way to proceed with that information.” He shot Alisha a sideways look to see if she was following him, as much a test as the one she’d laid out.
“Programmers have been trying to successfully create plain English code for some time.”
“I succeeded.” For the first time, his demeanor slid toward the egotistical, blunt tone blurring the line between utter confidence and arrogance. “More important, the program learns from its mistakes, and propagates what it’s learned.”