by Cate Dermody
Gunfire. One violent shot from above. The cardinal fell, the crimson of life blood hidden by the crimson of his robes. All of it stained gold by the setting sun.
Made! The word screamed inside Alisha’s mind even as she shrieked with the passersby, falling back a step. Against every impulse to run forward, to see if the cardinal had somehow survived. Four years: she had been his contact for four years, almost her whole CIA career. They’d exchanged no words in that time, nothing more than the brief touch of hands at sunset. There was almost a romance to it, illicit, secret: but then, that was part of the fun. The sensuality of clandestine work was one thing that kept her coming back for more.
Three people. Three people had known where she’d be at sunset. Greg, who’d set up the meeting. Impossible for him to have betrayed her; Alisha rejected the thought out of hand.
Cristina. Her partner for more than three years. Alisha’s cover, in the plaza, watching, keeping her safe. Even as she scanned the rooftops for the shooter, Alisha sought Cristina’s bright blond hair in the plaza itself, unable to believe that three years of trust could be destroyed with a single bullet.
No: there was Cristina, her own weapon pulled—an action Alisha didn’t dare take herself, for fear that if she was unknown to the shooter, she’d betray herself to him by being armed in a forum where civilians didn’t carry guns—as she searched the roofs herself.
Relief and horror cascaded together, making sick chills in Alisha’s stomach, forcing tears to her eyes. A casual statement, an invitation to dinner: “I’ll be at the Vatican plaza at sunset.” Spoken to her fiancé, who’d waved a hand agreeably and gone back to sleep.
No one else. No one else knew. Reichart was the third.
Another desperate scan of the skyline, sunlight shafts piercing around the buildings. Highlighting a man with a gun and no expression on his face.
“Frank,” Alisha whispered.
She was never certain if she heard the shot or merely felt it, explosive pain beneath her collarbone. It shocked her breath away, her very heart seeming to shatter, and knocked her askew a few inches, bringing the sunlit cross atop the basilica into view. Numb fingers touched the hurting place, then lifted, blocking her view of the dome. Blood crept into the thin lifeline in her palm, trickling down, filling it. When it was full, Alisha wondered, would she be dead? But she couldn’t see it anymore, the strength to hold her hand up lost. There was only the Vatican’s dome, glowing with the beauty of sunset, and then encroaching darkness that forbade all other thought.
Sunset faded from behind the Vatican, leaving twilight less potent than the blackness of memory. Alisha took one deliberate step back from the place she’d fallen—funny that she remembered it so clearly, one square foot among thousands—and slowly turned to look across the square.
Look behind you.
Brandon Parker leaned in a doorway hundreds of feet away, an arm above his head and his weight cocked on one hip. A mocking smile, just visible in the blue light of early evening, flickered across his face. He inclined his head, an unreadable mixture of emotion brightening his eyes. Then he turned and walked inside, leaving the doorway empty and open, a dark rectangle of challenge infused in the pale stone walls.
“Son of a bitch.” Alisha heard herself infuse the words with the same mildness Brandon had used a few nights earlier. Too many thoughts crowded against each other: how had he known, why was he doing this, what was he doing? One thing was certain, at least: there was no longer any point in protesting her own innocence. Elisa Moon had run her gamut of usefulness. Alisha would face Brandon as herself. She swore again, softly, and pushed against traffic, ducking through the throngs of people.
The doorway was empty, no wires or notes or traps hidden within the darkness, only a narrow stairway leading up to a second door. Alisha tattooed a beat against the downstairs door frame, waiting for a sense of danger to forbid her to go. Instead, the scent of baking bread wafted down, more startling than a trap. She clicked her tongue, muttered an oath and took the steps two at a time. Curiosity had killed the cat. Evidently fresh bread would be her undoing. She put a hand on the second door, leaning in to listen warily.
“It’s open. I don’t suppose you brought wine.”
Alisha nudged the door open, still wary. “I didn’t know I was meeting a date.”
Brandon stood in a room filled with candlelight, the wooden table beside him bearing a broken loaf of bread that steamed in the air despite the evening’s heat. A small kitchen with a pot bubbling on its stove lay at the back of the room beside a door that led into darkness. Directly above the table, a skylight was propped open with a stick. Alisha took it all in with a glance, her fingers curled against the door frame.
“Didn’t you?” Brandon looked skeptical. “It’s all right. I have some. I just thought you might bring something better.” He stepped around the table to take a bottle and two glasses from the kitchen counter, making a musical clink as they knocked together.
Alisha looked back over her shoulder, down the staircase she’d taken, as if the answer was there. Look behind you. Had she expected him?
Yes. From the moment Reichart’d recognized the cardinal on the cross, Alisha’d known. She’d expected Parker with more confidence than she’d put in Reichart’s arrival in Paris. Alisha cast a faint smile at the floor. “Son of a bitch,” she repeated, still mildly. “How did you know about the cardinal?” Her code name for over two years. An homage to the man who had died to pass information along to the right people. She would have to talk to Greg about changing it.
“I told you. I pay attention to my father’s protégé. Come in, eat.” Brandon gestured her in, waving at the bread with the wine bottle. A bottle of olive oil and a tin of butter sat on the table beside it. “We can talk here,” he added. “The room has been swept for bugs. Come on in. I’ll put the pasta on.”
Alisha closed the door behind her, amusement warring with irritation. “Is this your usual method of seduction? Leave a cryptic note, blow a girl up, and if she survives prepare an Italian dinner? How’s that working for you?”
“I’ll let you know.” Brandon shot her a smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“You look confident.” She gestured at the bread and cooking pasta. “How did you even know I’d find the drawing?”
“I didn’t. I took a chance. What happened to the drone? Rafe,” he added, “may have post-traumatic stress syndrome. I don’t think grad school prepared him for being a hostage.”
“I’m sorry about Rafe. Why’d you let me go?”
“Because whether the rock strikes the pitcher or the pitcher strikes the rock, it’s going to be bad for the pitcher. I genuinely didn’t want anyone to get shot, and letting you go was the only way to make sure that didn’t happen. Besides, they had me over a barrel.”
“Thank you,” Alisha said dryly. “Who are they? Who are you working for?”
“I spend two days waiting in a dramatically lit doorway and cooking extravagant meals, and you want to cut to the chase just like that?”
“Well,” Alisha said, putting as much thoughtful consideration into the single word as she could, “…yes.” Then, after a moment of actual thoughtful consideration, she admitted, “It was very dramatic.” Watch it, she warned herself. She didn’t need to play up to him to get what she wanted.
No, she thought beneath the warning, but it was a lot more fun that way. Brandon Parker was charming in a boy-next-door way, much safer than the dangerous edge that had drawn her to Frank Reichart. She’d known going in that dating Reichart was playing with fire. Brandon had none of that threat to him, and letting herself relax and banter was incredibly appealing.
And comparing one intelligence agent’s charms to another would inevitably end in tears. She had a job to do, and Parker might have the answers she was looking for.
Brandon laughed aloud and sketched an elaborate bow, complete with hand flourishes. “Thank you. I’m glad you came. I couldn’t have waited more than one more day.”
“I almost didn’t come.” She wouldn’t have, if Reichart hadn’t recognized the dome. A detail Brandon certainly didn’t need to know. “All things considered, I’d say my timing is excellent. Why the deadline?”
“Because I’m in the midst of a complex mess, and my loyalties are being tested. Which,” Brandon said, lifting his eyebrows, “is why your ex-fiancé was present at Project ACUTE three days ago. I’m sorry, Alisha, but Frank Reichart is working for the Sicarii, and has for years.”
Cold formed at the back of Alisha’s throat, spilling down to spread through her stomach. The chill extended itself to her expression: she felt her cheeks pale and her eyes widen in disbelief.
Who was lying? The question sounded itself frantically inside her mind. If the Sicarii was real, if Reichart was working for it—them?—he had every reason to debunk it. And the very word had been enough to make Brandon kowtow to his handler. Anger replaced disbelief, heat filling the cold spaces inside her. For now, it didn’t matter who was lying. For now, any information she could get was priceless, and for information, Alisha would play Parker’s game. All the impulse to flirt drained away, leaving her tight-jawed and staring at Brandon.
His eyes crinkled with apology and sympathy. He crooked his fingers, beckoning. “Come on, sit down. There’s a lot to tell you. Things you can’t tell my father, Alisha. This goes beyond him.”
“Then why include me?” Alisha swallowed against sudden roughness in her voice.
“Because you’re extraordinarily loyal, Alisha.” Brandon poured her a glass of wine, elevated his eyebrows and offered the glass as an invitation.
“Loyal. An admiral quality in dogs,” Alisha said dryly. She took the glass without sipping. Brandon noticed and laughed, pouring himself a splash.
“Salute.” He lifted the glass and drank, then arched his eyebrows again, challenging. Alisha nodded and took a small sip, satisfied the wine wasn’t drugged. “And in spies,” Brandon argued. “Everybody’s got a price, but no one seems to have found yours yet.”
“Are you looking for it?” Alisha kept her gaze steady on Brandon’s, feeling that even one small hesitation, the slightest faltering, and she might reveal what her price was. Not, she admitted to herself, that even she was sure. Her sister’s family, certainly; she would do anything to protect them. But so long as she remained good at her job, there should be no connection to them. If she had a price, it was something else.
Frank Reichart, the back of her mind whispered. Alisha took another sip of wine, watching Brandon and hoping her gaze was shuttered.
Brandon shrugged. “Only clinically. In the way that anybody in espionage is interested in someone’s price. It’s information, and that’s power, but I’m not trying to buy you, Alisha. I know you’ve got a personal stake in this mission. You’ve worked with Dad too long to be neutral, no matter what you might tell them. You’re tenacious when it’s personal, and I’d rather have that tenacity working for me.”
“I already have a job,” Alisha said icily. Brandon winced.
“That wasn’t what I meant. Look, I’m making a mess of this. Can we start again, please?”
Alisha sang, “I think you’ve made your point now,” in a clear soprano, startling both herself and Brandon, whose eyebrows rose once more, questioning. “Nothing. Never mind. Confident, aren’t you? What if I don’t give a damn whether you’re Greg’s son or not?”
Brandon pulled a faint grin. “You’d have arrested me already if that was the case.”
Alisha pursed her lips, examining the man across from her. “All right. You have the space of a meal to convince me, Parker. If I’m not dead certain you’re one of the good guys at the end of it, I’m going to clobber you over the head with that wine bottle and drag you back to Langley in cuffs.”
Brandon cast her an uncertain glance, the beginnings of a smile fading as he determined she wasn’t making a joke. “Fair enough. Where do I start?”
Alisha pulled a wooden chair out from the table and sat down, arms folded across her chest. “With the Sicarii.”
Chapter 13
Brandon turned back to the stove with a heavy exhalation. “How much do you know?”
“Assume,” Alisha said tightly, “that I’m a novice.”
He gave her a startled look that turned into a faint chuckle. “Was that deliberate? No, I can see it wasn’t. The Sicarii call their initiates novices. A coincidence.”
“Initiates. They’re a cult?” Alisha shook her head. “I thought I was aware of most of the major religious cults with any sort of decent intelligence network.”
“Not religious. Not exactly, anyway.” Brandon focused on whisking together a white sauce, cream and butter and flour, as he spoke. “More along the lines of the Masons. The Illuminati. Domination based on divine right rather than wealth or world order.”
“Divine right?” Alisha snorted dismissively. “Didn’t that go out with the Magna Carta?”
Brandon gave her a half smile over his shoulder. “And so you see the problem. Deposed and displaced royalty have always sought a way back into power, but in general they’ve been sufficiently isolated from others of their ilk as to be ineffective on a large scale.”
“You’re lecturing,” Alisha said. “Nobody says ‘ilk’ in real life.”
“You wanted the history,” Brandon said, offended. Alisha lifted her hands in semi-serious apology and he continued. “The Sicarii were born of an attempt to unite those deposed leaders. The literal translation is dagger people. I personally think the word was chosen for a bit of the ‘Et tu, Brute?’ implication, although I can’t find any proof of that. At any rate, they’ve had their periodic successes—James of Scotland inherited the English throne from Elizabeth despite it all, for example.”
“That was four hundred years ago, Parker.” Alisha picked up her wineglass, swirling the dark liquid without tasting it again. “Any recent history, or are you going to tell me they all disappeared mysteriously after that?”
“On the contrary. They began coming into their own with the Bolshevik revolution.”
“I didn’t think any royalty survived that.”
“Except Anastasia.”
“Right, exc—you’ve got to be kidding.”
Brandon shook his head, turning back to the roué. “No. Her descendants are part of the Sicarii now, maybe even ruling it. She was one of the purer recent royal bloodlines, after all. Maybe the purest, given the questions about the Hanover family in the Victorian age.”
“You lost me.” Alisha frowned, watching him stir the sauce. “But that’s starting to smell good.”
“Thanks. You know they say the best way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach.”
“Rib cage,” Alisha corrected absently. Brandon gave her a look that she shrugged off. “Hanovers?”
“Victoria carried hemophilia and passed it on to several of her children. There’s some question as to how she ended up a carrier. There’s a theory that she was a bastard child.” Brandon shook his head, clearly distracted. “The point is, with communication becoming easier and easier, the Sicarii have gathered more and more of themselves together. Tracing bloodlines and histories back centuries, building a base of supporters and candidates who believe God actually intended for them to rule the world.”
“And this has what to do with Reichart?”
“He’s a Tudor.”
Alisha dropped her forehead down to the table in exasperation. “You know,” she said to the table, “I agreed to listen because I thought there might actually be a possibility that you weren’t chock-full of shit.” She set her wineglass aside and stood, picking up the bottle to examine the label. “I should have known better. Who’re you waiting for, Parker? Somebody to come pick me up while you distract me with tall tales?” Her heartbeat was steady, breathing deep and even: this was how combat should be entered. The powerful rush of endorphins and adrenaline were useful for battle itself, but it was far better to begin without fear or panic clo
uding the mind. Alisha flipped the wine bottle into the air, catching the neck.
“For one thing, there weren’t anymore Tudors, that’s why the Stuarts got the throne. For another, Frank? It was a nice try. How about you don’t make me hit you with this?”
“Whoa! Whoa, whoa whoa! Wait! Hang on here!” Brandon backed up, away from the stove, hands held high. “Alisha, listen to me. I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Well, at least you got that right.” She shoved the table aside, making a show of strength that was meant less to impress than to distract. Olive oil and candles tumbled over, the oil’s glass bottle top bouncing loose. Pale liquid spilled across the tabletop with a faintly flat, metallic scent, gleaming as it rolled near a guttering candle.
“Listen! Listen!” Brandon backed up against the wall, hands still lifted as she advanced on him, bottle raised. Alisha had almost no intention of using it as a weapon, but like the table, it was an excellent tool for distraction.
“There aren’t any legitimate Tudors, you’re right, the family name died out, but Henry the Eighth wasn’t known for keeping it in his pants,” Brandon blurted. “More than one country girl had his bastard, Alisha, long before he got syphilis and—” The last words were delivered as he abruptly reversed himself, ducking forward to launch himself at Alisha’s midriff. “—poisoned the royal seed!”
Alisha sidestepped, clobbering Brandon’s outstretched arm with the wine bottle. A satisfying, bone-deep thunk sounded, knocking him a few centimeters off balance. Alisha planted her hand on his shoulder, shoving him farther off center and sending him into a roll that ended beneath the table. For one instant he looked genuinely startled, blue eyes wide with boyish surprise, before scrambling backward and scooting out from under the table.
“Henry the Eighth married anything that moved, Parker. Why would he let a pregnant country girl go, even if she wasn’t royalty herself?” Calmness was settled in her bones, a deep-set sense of inevitability that guided her actions without the fog of emotion. It was better to be remote; she knew that. It made it easier to accept the fact that she had to arrest Greg Parker’s son.