The Cardinal Rule

by Cate Dermody

  “Whaddoyou need my help for?” She was getting more control over her tongue; not slurring the words took less effort now.

  “What,” Brandon said, disappointment clear in his voice, “you’re going to roll over just like that?”

  Alisha snorted, painful little sound that sent a spike of pain through her bruising cheekbone. “Curious.” She took a slow, deliberate breath, relaxing as much in the ropes as she could. Her weight slid forward a little, putting more strain on her wrists and ankles, but the breath helped center her. The heavy ringing in her ears faded away, not gone, but less important. She heard her own exhalation, and Brandon’s inhalation a few inches away.

  The rest of the room was silent. No hint of another person, no warning that the woman she’d glimpsed was still there. Alisha drew in another slow breath, letting Brandon’s answer wash over her as she slid further into a state of relaxation. Breathing was the center of yoga. All else stemmed from breath. It was only a matter of time before she reached the preternaturally enhanced state of awareness. A third slow breath; another. Brandon was waiting for her response. Alisha lifted her head very slowly, separating only as much of her mind as she needed to answer from her searching examination of the room.

  “Assassinate?”

  Brief pleasure darkened Brandon’s eyes. “Don’t look so surprised, Alisha. Or do you really believe the CIA never stoops to a little politically motivated murder from time to time?”

  Surprise, Alisha thought, has nothing to do with it. There. Two more people, their breathing just barely out of synchronization. Standing far enough away that their body warmth couldn’t be felt; standing close enough together that there was no chance Alisha could see them, no matter how far she was able to turn her head. Almost directly behind her. One woman, if the glimpse she’d had was accurate. The other could be a man or a woman. It hardly mattered. Three was too many to defeat when she was beginning the fight hog-tied to a chair.

  “You’ve been sent out to do a nasty job or two yourself, in fact, haven’t you? Tell me, Alisha. Which is worse, seducing the enemy or shooting a friend?”

  Alisha brought her focus back to Brandon, still listening for any actions the guards might take, but focused on the man in front of her. He might be the weak point, especially if his harsh question was based in hurt rather than a deliberate attempt to rile her.

  “Shooting a friend,” she answered in a low voice. Her throat still felt thick and dry, though the fog had largely cleared. “I wasn’t exactly under orders to seduce you, Brandon. More like making the mistake of trying to mix business with pleasure.” She managed a faint smile. “I really was looking for a way to save you.” Treat him as if he’s telling God’s own truth, she thought wearily. More fool she. “Just who is it you think I’m going to kill for you?”

  Brandon smiled. “Director Boyer.”

  Despite herself, Alisha’s shoulders tensed and she pulled at the ropes, more an action of surprise than an attempt to escape. “Are you serious?” Brandon only cocked an eyebrow, and Alisha let her head fall again, trying to stretch a little of the strain out of her shoulders. “Guess that means he really is one of the good guys, then,” she muttered. “That’s nice to know. What’s he done to you?”

  “Aside from head up this inconvenient investigation you’re on?” Brandon asked. “Ask Frank Reichart sometime.”

  Cramps knotted Alisha’s stomach, sending tension wrapping around to her spine and down through the tops of her thighs. “What’s he got to do with this?” Everything, she couldn’t help thinking, and nothing.

  “He got you involved in this business, Alisha. You really should think more carefully about where you put your trust.”

  The stomach-knotting discomfort faded as amusement, badly out of place, washed through her. Alisha lifted her head to give Brandon a wry look. “No kidding. What’s Greg’s involvement in all of this?”

  Disappointment flashed through Brandon’s expression. “Do you really think I’m going to answer that?”

  “You’ve answered a bunch of other things.” Alisha tried to shrug and cramped the already-wrenched muscles between her shoulder-blades. “It was worth a shot.” Actually, Brandon had answered very little, and she knew it. He was not a Bond villain to spill his grandiose plans in the moments while the convenient femme fatale found a way to throw Bond the bone that would allow him to escape.

  Besides, Alisha thought, weariness making her sag again. She was the femme fatale and Bond all wrapped up in one, which meant any rescue had to come from within. “You know I’d rather die than assassinate Boyer.”

  Brandon reached forward, brushing her hair off her neck, and pressed his fingers against the top of her spine. Alisha felt a knot of pain there, a shape that didn’t belong, perfectly square, digging into the muscle. “I know,” Brandon murmured, “and that’s exactly what will happen if you don’t. Feel that?” He applied pressure again, a sharp flare of agony spiking through the base of her skull and down her spine. Alisha grunted, the only sound she could make that had more dignity than a whimper.

  “You’ve been out a while, Alisha,” Brandon went on, voice as low and sweet as a lover’s. “While you were sleeping, you had a little surgery to make you more compliant. I know it doesn’t feel like much, but it produces a remarkable boom. Rafe?” He stepped back from Alisha, who swallowed thickly, staring at the floor.

  It’s a bluff, she whispered to herself, without believing it. Whatever was lodged at the base of her skull didn’t belong there, and Brandon had told her once already that she was expendable. She craned her head up, forced motion against the awkward position and the shard of pain that seemed more evident now. Rafe Denison stood looking down at her, lip curled in a sneer.

  “I liked you,” he said, the graceful accent gone flat with anger. “I even liked you after Brandon told me you were CIA.”

  “I take it we’ve had a parting of ways since then,” Alisha said, voice hoarse but a faint grin creasing her face. There was only one person behind her now, the woman. Too bad she hadn’t known it was Rafe behind her, she thought. She might’ve tried taking on the three of them after all. “Something about a gun to your head, maybe?”

  Rafe’s sneer flashed to a snarl, the expression wiped away almost as soon as it came. He held up a tiny chip, barely a centimeter square. “One of my best pieces,” he said. “Bit of a riff on the storage capacity gig, I like to think. A very small device with a great deal of explosive power. You won’t believe idle threats.”

  “Occupational hazard,” Alisha agreed. Her throat was dry, tasting of old copper, and her voice kept coming out snide. Not, she thought, the best survival technique, under the circumstances.

  “Bring him in.” There was an unexpected note of command in Rafe’s voice, more confidence than she’d expected from the slender Englishman. A door behind her opened and two men entered, dragging a third between them. Alisha heard quick, light footsteps: the woman leaving, she thought. Twisting her whole body around granted her nothing more than a glimpse of pale hair before Brandon grabbed her chin and brought her gaze forward again. Pain lanced through Alisha’s face, the new bruise on the cheekbone protesting the rough handling as much as the muscles of her spine did.

  The man they’d brought in was drugged, she thought, looking as hazy as she’d felt a few minutes earlier. He was a stranger, pale-cheeked and confused, gaze dilated as he looked from face to face. Rafe held up the chip again, and bile flooded Alisha’s stomach.

  “Jesus, no, what’re you doing? Rafe! Rafe, Jesus—!” Alisha slammed her shoulder down, using all the force and concentration she could muster. A sick pop sounded, the bile that’d soured her stomach rising into her throat as her right shoulder dislocated. Her vision tightened to pinpricks, blackness and the frightened prisoner’s face all she could see. Her feet slipped free of the chair legs, the extra inches provided by the dislocation enough to begin working her way free.

  Brandon cracked both fists, knotted together into a sledge
hammer, across her face again. Alisha toppled to the side, hitting the floor hard enough that her shoulder popped back into joint. She screamed, short aborted sound, and lurched forward, flinging her body weight as she tried to move the chair. Rafe put the chip into the drugged man’s mouth, then stepped back, smiling down at Alisha as she struggled.

  “Don’t! You don’t have to—I’ll do what you want!”

  “One man’s life for the cost of another’s? A stranger’s life over a friend’s? What a good person you are. Should we believe her, Brandon?”

  Alisha could hear the shrug in Brandon’s voice. “CIA doesn’t like unnecessary casualties.”

  “If you kill him,” Alisha grated, “you might as well kill me, too.”

  Silence reigned a few seconds, before Brandon stepped forward and smacked the prisoner on the back of the head. He spat out the chip, coughing, and Rafe kicked it away. Alisha heard a faint click, and the corner of the room shattered into concrete dust and shards, more than enough explosive power to kill a man.

  “You’re a very brave woman,” Rafe murmured. “Stupid, but brave. Get him out of here. Now, Alisha.” He crouched in front of her, reaching down to tilt her chin toward him. The muscles in her neck cried out with protest at the movement, but she set her teeth together and stared up at him. “That chip is embedded against your spine,” he said. “It will go off in seventy-two hours, unless one of us activates the fail-safe code that will prevent detonation and make it safe to remove. Do you understand?”

  Alisha jerked her chin out of his grip and turned her head to stare at the fragments of concrete scattered over the floor. “I understand.” She could hear the rage and helplessness in her voice. “What do you want me to do?”

  Chapter 25

  “Erika. Tell me you’re as cool as I think you are. Tell me you’re cooler than that.” Alisha sat on the hood of a rented car, both hands bunched in her hair as she held the phone to her ear. The chip at the back of her neck felt larger than it was, itching like it was trying to escape her skin. Alisha tugged her hair rather than let herself poke at it; doing so did no good. There was no reason to disbelieve the timer it was set to, or that trying to remove it would detonate it.

  So she needed, desperately needed, to pull a new trick out of her hat. Rafe, Brandon—the Sicarii, she thought bitterly—had let her go with simple orders. Continue as you would have continued. Act as though nothing has changed. Draw Boyer out. His life or yours.

  Alisha preferred it be neither, though when it came down to the wire she had no intention of being the weapon used to kill Director Boyer. Suicide was the preferable option.

  “I’m at least three times cooler than you think I am,” Erika said. “What do you need?”

  Alisha pressed her eyes shut, fingers tight in her hair. “You know my makeup case?”

  “I still think those golden-browns are good colors for you, Ali,” Erika protested. “They really warm up your skin. I don’t want to trade them out.”

  Alisha choked a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re right. They’re great colors. I shouldn’t have argued with you in the first place.”

  One of Erika’s silences filled the line. When her voice came across again, it was quiet with worry. “Something bad’s going down, isn’t it? Can you talk about it?”

  “Not really.” Despite her best efforts, Alisha’s fingers drifted to the chip beneath her skin. They’d only called it an explosive device. She had no idea if it had more properties than that: capabilities to track her movements, or listen in on her conversations. Better to be cautious.

  “Shit,” Erika said. “All right. Makeup case, that’s the GPS locator, right?” Alisha nodded, forgetting for a moment that the other woman wouldn’t be able to see her, then curled a lip.

  “Yeah. You’d talked about making some changes to it.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Oh!” Erika’s chair creaked in the background, a sharp noise that told Alisha the tech had sat up very straight. “You mean the route retracing option. Yeah, I totally enabled that months ago, it’s a satellite linkup. Basically once the tracker’s turned on it’ll record the trackee’s path for forty-eight hours. Then it starts rewriting over the old data. Depends on how well erased the old data is, whether I could backtrack it further than that. Why, you need more time?”

  Relief sagged Alisha’s shoulders, making her want to curl up on the warm hood of the car and give in to a few exhausted sobs. “No.” She could hear the roughness in her own voice as she moved her hand from the chip to press it against her eyes. “No, forty-eight hours is enough.” She’d turned her tracker on in D.C., when Brandon was in Zurich. Not more than thirty-six hours earlier. “Can you send all the data to this phone’s e-mail address? Moonchild at onetone dot net.”

  “Yeah, if you’ve got the storage capacity for it.”

  “I’ll find a way,” Alisha promised.

  “All right. Is there anything I can do to help, Ali?”

  Alisha shook her head. “This is it.”

  Do exactly as she would have done had she not been captured. A very nice idea, Alisha thought. Unfortunately, the Sicarii were in no danger of handing her the materials she needed to do that—the drone software. Nothing had changed, a thought that made her cough a bitter laugh. Nothing, except her intention of politely copying Brandon’s hard drive for clues to where backup copies of the software might be had been shot to hell, and she still desperately needed the files.

  It had been a high-stakes but decent idea before; now, with an explosive counting down at the base of her brain, it was critical. The satellite images didn’t show Brandon’s play-by-play move, only the places he’d stopped for more than thirty seconds. Stoplights and train stations, airports and the little room in Rome that Alisha had met him in. She discarded everything after that, focusing on his traveling before he’d drugged her.

  Brandon’s trail brought him from Zurich to Milan in one smooth jump, the airplane’s travel itself not recorded by Erika’s tracking device. Alisha made the drive from Rome in a state of thoughtless focus, unable to allow herself the luxury of rage or fear. There’d been nothing in Brandon’s demeanor that suggested he was playing a role in the Sicarii stronghold. All the hope and trusting she’d held dear had betrayed her, and she wasn’t fool enough to think it was Brandon who’d done the betraying. It had been her own folly, and unless she was damned clever, she’d pay for it with her life.

  Brandon hadn’t lingered in Milan. The data entries were time stamped, only one area outside the airport visited for more than a few seconds. Alisha drove through the city without seeing it, watching the numbers on her GPS locator slide and narrow down until they matched the ones that Brandon had stopped at.

  A bank. She sat outside the old building longer than she meant to, processing the idea of it more slowly than she thought she should. There was something wrong with the idea of someone else using a bank to hide something in—

  Someone else. Alisha put her face in her hands and allowed herself a shaky laugh. Banks were her purview, her own sneaky way of avoiding being caught. Somehow the idea had settled in her mind that no one else would use a bank’s security features the same way she would, at least not within the espionage world. Banks were her game, not anyone else’s.

  “Blinders,” she whispered out loud to herself. “God, what a set of blinders you’ve got on, Leesh.” For the moment she was perversely grateful for the blinders, knowing that they kept the vestiges of panic off her back. Even the minutes spent sitting in front of the bank threatened to undo her, too much time allowed for thought. Shivers spilled down her spine and curved over her ribs, making her cold and sick to her stomach all at once.

  Brandon, with the same training she’d received, would very likely have one key for the safety deposit box he must have rented on him. The idea of finding him and asking to borrow it shot through Alisha’s mind, earning another shaky laugh as she got out of the car. That would be priceless, she thought. Excuse me, honey, could I borrow that key?
Thanks, sweetie.

  No. They shared training; they would likely share the same tendencies. Secondary keys left somewhere near the original site, able to be picked up in a moment of desperation. Not in trash bags, but often in the receptacles themselves, a magnet ensuring the key would stay in one of the hidden crevasses of the bin’s lid or underside.

  But not here; the building had no outside trash cans, only streetlights with ornate casings older than Alisha herself. She trotted up to the bank’s front doors and turned, glancing over the street. Third streetlight to her left; that was her first choice, if she’d been storing one of her journals in the Milan bank. Three was a lucky number and she was left-handed. Her impulse, then, was to do precisely the opposite: choose the right-hand side and the second or fourth streetlight.

  But Brandon was right-handed and would most likely choose his own opposite. Contrariness in action, Alisha thought; that was the job of a spy.

  And there. Across the street on the left, five lights down, there was a trash bin. Alisha jogged down the bank steps and ran across the street, snapping her hand into the inner rim of the cone-shaped can top.

  Gum. She came away with a key coated in gum, the slimy semidryness sticking to her fingers. “Eeigh! Ew! Gross! Yuck!” It felt absurdly good to shake her hand and roll the sticky stuff off her fingers and the key as she made faces and a fuss. It took going back to her car for nail polish remover to clean the key satisfactorily, but even that lightened her heart a little. It was emotion, and even disgust was better than fear or anger.

  The bank manager was young, male and had been on duty when Brandon made his deposit a day earlier. Alisha sparkled a smile at him, shrugging outrageously and leaning forward to confide, “Is a game we play, no? It is hide and seek. He give me the key, I find the bank. Someday,” she whispered, “I hope there is ring in box, no? Maybe today.” Another delightful shrug and a hopeful smile. The manager, bright-eyed with the idea of helping romance along, escorted her to the marble-floored room where she was to wait for the box, and hovered in clear anticipation when it was brought to her. Alisha flapped her fingers at him, tsking.