by C. E. Murphy
"You did well, Ali."
"I made up for a colossal error," she conceded, but Greg shook his head.
"Sending you in to Kazakhstan after my own son was my mistake, not yours. None of us knew Reichart would be there, and despite his presence you got out of that base with no casualties and the information we needed, and went back for the hardware. Don't belittle that."
"Yes, sir. What's next?"
Greg pressed his lips together as they watched the tech team bundle the Attengee drone off to their lab. "I need you to find Brandon."
"You need me to, or the Company needs me to?"
He gave her a sideways look. "I'm surprised you're splitting that hair."
Alisha's eyebrows rose. "Are you really."
A breath of laughter escaped him. "Maybe not. In either case, the answer is both. I've spoken with the director, who claims no knowledge of Brandon having deep cover status, so the Company wants answers as much as I do on a personal level. I already tried to take you off this once and that didn't take, so I'm going to use the assets I've got. Find Brandon, whatever it takes, and find out what the hell is going on."
"It'll be my pleasure, sir." Alisha strode away, leaving the techs to do their job, then stopped suddenly, turning back to catch Greg's attention. "Do you ever sing 'fuckity fuck fuck' to the tune of 'Here Comes Santa Claus' when things have gone wrong?"
Gregory Parker's eyes widened as an incredulous smile spread across his face. "Do I what?"
"Yeah, okay. I didn't think so." Alisha waved and left him behind, laughter and hope blooming in her chest. She had a task and no specific orders as to how to accomplish it, which meant she could take as direct or as circuitous a route to finding Brandon Parker as she needed to.
And she had a date waiting for her in Paris. One she didn't want her handler, or anybody else, to know about.
#
Meet me in Paris. Four words, spoken with intimacy, urgency, and a certain degree of confidence. Paris was a big city, and a man expecting a woman to meet him there might well have been wise to be a little more specific.
Not Frank Reichart, though. Not when he was talking to Alisha MacAleer, anyway. The flight from England lasted just over an hour, not even enough time to get uncomfortable in the cheap, last-minute-airline seats. Alisha entertained the little kid beside her with shadow puppets cast with her phone's flashlight, smiled at the grateful mother as they disembarked, and took the Metro from the airport in to city center to find a once-familiar café that had changed just enough, over the years, to be slightly jarring. It spilled out its own doors and over to the riverbank as it always had, though, burbling with cheerful noise, umbrellas catching voices and echoing them down again. Students forgot their haute couture cool in favor of too much rich French coffee and passionate political arguments. A word or two spoken in English caught Alisha's attention now and again, but largely the free flow of French spun by her as a comforting babble she could choose not to understand.
Reichart wasn't there. Hadn't been, any of the dozens of times she'd glanced up, searching for him. Wouldn't be the next time, either. Alisha smoothed the wrinkles out of the cardinal drawing for the hundredth time, staring not at it, but through it. The heavy lines of the dome it perched on swam through her line of vision, bringing with them a sense of nagging familiarity, but she pushed it away. She probably shouldn't have come to Paris. Reichart wasn't the most reliable man she'd ever met, and the reality was he'd probably set her up just to see if she'd jump. She smoothed the drawing again, gaze unfocused. She knew better, dammit. She knew he wouldn't be here. That disappointment was inevitable.
Although that was bullshit, really. Alisha pushed the drawing aside, picking up her coffee cup in both hands to blow on the hot liquid. Reichart never disappointed. He betrayed, he lied and he endangered, but mere disappointment was too blasé for him. Alisha huffed a breath into the coffee and sipped before putting the cup down again, her eyes closed. All that, and she'd still be disappointed if he didn't show up. She muttered, "Bastard," and Frank Reichart—blasély—shifted the table as he sat down, saying, "I think that's my cue."
Alisha shook her head minutely, eyes still closed, mouth twisted with amused irritation.. After five years, his nonchalant arrival, always with the perfect line, could still make her heart jump. In spite of everything. Bastard. She opened her eyes to find him sprawled in the chair across from her, long denim-clad legs crossed at the ankle and hands folded behind his head. "It's good to see you, Alisha."
"You've seen a lot of me lately."
"Glimpses stolen in the midst of flight don't count." Reichart leaned forward, snaking a hand out toward Alisha's coffee as familiarly as if they were still engaged. She smacked his knuckles, and he withdrew, looking injured. "It's been a long time."
"The Russians, Frank?" God, she fell right into the old patterns. Trying to understand the motivations of a man whose base desires were diametrically different from her own. Asking questions she already knew the answers to, in hopes of hearing something other than the answers she knew were coming. Asking questions she knew the answers to, because he wouldn't answer the other ones anyway.
Reichart shrugged, a lazy action that shifted his whole torso. He wore a white T-shirt under a thigh-length soft leather jacket, more fashion model than Fonzie. "They pay in euros."
Alisha let go a breath of humorless laughter and looked up at the café umbrella that blocked the gray Parisian sky. She'd warned herself, more than once. He never disappointed, and he never changed. "You're a greedy son of a bitch."
"Some things don't change."
"Too much." Once upon a time the fact that his thoughts paralleled hers so closely would have pleased her. Now it annoyed her, in an old, worn-out way. "You said we had a lot to talk about."
"We do." Reichart's voice dropped. "We never talked about it, Leesh."
Ice formed in Alisha's lungs, chilling her voice. "There was nothing to talk about." Hairs lifted on her arms, and she fought back a shiver, her expression cool as she met Reichart's eyes.
"Did it ever occur to you that it might've been Cristina?"
Rage spilled down Alisha's spine, wiping out the cold. Just like always, she thought. If there'd been any room left in her for laughter, she might have let it come, but there was only the shadow of past mistakes. "Yes. Obviously. Years later. Was it?"
Something dark flickered in Reichart's eyes before he deliberately looked away. Alisha tightened her hands around her coffee cup, wishing the mug was smaller, less sturdy, so she might shatter it with her hands. So that hot coffee might spill over her, shards embedded in her hands: any excuse to walk away from the man sitting across from her. She shouldn't have come. Five years wasn't enough to wipe out old emotion. Maybe a lifetime wouldn't be enough. And Reichart's failure to answer—well, she'd known better than to ask.
"That's what I thought," she said, working to keep her voice steady. "This is how talking goes with you, Frank. This is why there was nothing to say." Once upon a time his reticence had been enticing. Once upon a time it had been mysterious, exciting, a challenge.
Once upon a time.
"Then why did you come?"
Pain jolted through Alisha's heart, like a contraction around a knife. It zinged upward, lingering just below her collarbone before it faded again. She pressed her eyelids closed, clutching the mug hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "Because you asked me to."
"Is that all it ever would have taken?"
Cords stood out in Alisha's neck as she lifted her gaze to him. "Don't. Don't do this, all right, Reichart? It's over." She could hear tension making her voice tremble, the frustrated amusement of his arrival dissipated. "You've played your get out of jail free card. This isn't a date or a reconciliation. I'm here because you said we needed to talk and I thought you might have something to say that I needed to hear."
Reichart's expression, never easily read, shuttered further. "Fine. Where'd you hear about the Sicarii?"
"Oh, fo
r God's sake, Frank." Alisha put her cup down again. "Interrogating me isn't talking, either. We can go on like this for hours. Flat statements and answering questions with questions. I don't have time for it, and if that's what you're going to play, this conversation is over. I don't want to see you again." She shoved her chair back from the café table. His hand flashed out and caught her wrist, then let go so quickly it barely left the impression of warmth against her skin.
"Ever?" The question came and went as rapidly as his grasp. "I'm not playing a game, Alisha. The Sicarii's outside your realm of expertise. You're too straight."
"Straight." Alisha snorted with disbelief. "Nobody with my day job is straight, Frank."
A smile flickered through Reichart's dark eyes, warming them. "Some are straighter than others." Alisha spread her fingers, granting him the point, and he glanced around. "This isn't the best place to talk."
"You said Paris. Where else but here?" Alisha shrugged at the café in general, carefully not looking toward the riverbank tables. Reichart did look, and for a moment Alisha could see memory play across his features. Memory of the man getting down on one knee at the end of a muggy Parisian evening, fog starting to roll in off the river and giving the light the misty blueness that seemed to haunt old paintings and romantic movies. Reichart, always so circumspect, deliberately raising his voice and speaking fluid French, the better to gain attention from the lingering crowd at the café. Alisha, laughing, her hands cupped over her mouth, knowing what was going on but not quite able to believe it.
The ring was a round-cut diamond set directly into gold, so that there was nothing to snag or catch on. Yellow topaz, Alisha's favorite stone, hugged the clear center jewel. Subtle, discreet, beautiful: the perfect engagement ring for a spy. Alisha hadn't needed to ask to know Reichart had designed it just for her.
The café patrons had erupted into applause and cheers when Alisha, embarrassingly tearful, had flung herself into his arms, whispering, "Yes, of course. Of course!" Someone bought them a bottle of wine older than the two of them put together, and everyone had a splash, just enough to taste the rich old flavor in celebration.
Reichart pulled his gaze back to Alisha, looking almost guilty. "Yeah, where else. Look, Leesh…" He reached for her hand again, more cautiously. Alisha curled her fingers around her coffee cup, holding it tightly enough to turn her knuckles white. Reichart pressed his lips together and pulled his hand back, drumming his fingers against the table. "Yeah," he said again. "I don't think I ever told you I'm sorry."
Old anger burst inside her chest, becoming weariness. Alisha slumped back in her chair, shaking her head. "For which part, Frank? For choosing cash over country? For selling me out? For shooting me?" She stilled her hand, refusing to rub the scar between her collarbone and her heart. It was faded now, careful surgery blurring the edges away, but she could still feel it. Especially now, another sharp pang that felt like it cut through her heart. "There are a million things to be sorry for. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It does."
"No." Alisha straightened, shaking her head. "No, Frank, it doesn't. I don't understand you, I don't like you and I don't trust you."
"I didn't sell you out."
"Which time?"
"This time."
Alisha's cheeks burned hot, anger flooding through her. "I don't believe you. The timing's too pat." There was no doubt in her tone, though a modicum remained in her mind: Brandon might have known all along. But why bother with the charade, then? Unless he was working for the Americans and Reichart's presence had forced his hand, somehow. Alisha curled a lip, pulling her thoughts back into order. "Do you have anything useful to say, or am I wasting my time here?"
Reichart raked a hand through his hair, disheveling it into slicked-back curls. "Sicarii's a conspiracy theory, Leesh, that's all. Secret organizations, trying to take over the world. I didn't think you were into that kind of thing."
An exasperated smile broke through Alisha's rancor. "I thought that was the Illuminati. Come on, Reichart. Conspiracy theories?"
"I've just heard the word bandied around, Leesh. It's crap."
"And I haven't heard it because…?"
Reichart performed another loose shrug. "Because people on the legitimate side of this business don't waste their time with conspiracy theories. There's enough scary shit to follow up on in the real world without adding layers of monsters in the dark to it all."
"Do you ever miss it?" Alisha regretted the question as soon as it was asked. Reichart's gaze came up, meeting hers, then flickered away again. Back to the table at the riverside.
"Not it," he said. Alisha folded her thumb across her left palm, rubbing it against her ring finger, then closed her hand into a fist, all as betraying as Reichart's glance. He saw it, and offered a faint smile.
"It wasn't all bad, was it?"
"Not at all." Alisha looked down at her hand, feeling the missing shape of an engagement ring she hadn't worn for years. She would never admit to Reichart—or anyone else—that the ring lay in a strongbox in a Parisian bank, along with a journal so full of pain the scrawled words were almost illegible. The ring was gone, but not irretrievable.
Like, apparently, the feelings she had for Frank Reichart. "I've got to go." She stood, digging in her pocket for a coin or two to throw down on the table as she scooped up the wrinkled drawing.
"Is that Rome?"
"What?" Alisha looked down, catching Reichart's nod at the piece of paper.
"The dome. It's the Basilica dome, isn't it? St. Peter's Basilica's dome on the Vatican. It would've been the last thing you saw after—"
Alisha pressed her eyes shut, the black lines on the parchment finally leaping into sunset-stained color in her mind's eye. The memory of astonishing pain exploding in her left shoulder hit her, crushing the breath out of her. Body memory, physical memory: her right hand, working of its own will, touching the spot of agony and lifting into her line of vision. Hot blood trickling down her fingers. Her hand falling away, leaving her gaping in disbelief at the Vatican's dome, blazing golden and red in the sunset, like God's own holy light.
Then blackness, fading in around the crowning globe atop the dome, and nothing at all until the bright white light of a hospital room.
"After you shot me." Not the words Reichart would have chosen, Alisha was sure. "Yeah." She crumpled the drawing again, pressing the rumpled paper against her shoulder as if it would stop the wound from five years earlier. Look behind you. The Latin phrase and the drawing itself suddenly seemed layered, filled with far more portent than the simple warning she'd taken it for in the bunker. It was that, certainly, but a sense of confidence settled into Alisha's bones. It was a warning, but it was also an invitation. Sent, she was sure, by Brandon.
Reichart's low voice drew her back to the moment: "I have nightmares about it."
Alisha studied him briefly, then folded the cardinal into her pocket and walked away. "I don't."
Chapter 12
A few hours later, Alisha stood in the midst of Roman foot traffic, shifting her shoulders enough to allow passersby to sweep past without jostling her from her place. There was no bloodstain on the stones, no dark spot to say she'd fallen there, almost dead, five years earlier.
Five years, and she'd never come back to this place. To Rome, yes: it was like getting back on the horse, and she knew it. But she'd avoided the Piazza San Pietro without consciously realizing it.
Now sunset flared around the Vatican's dome, the long shadow of its crown bending and stretching down toward the plaza, just as it had then. Shadows that matched the cardinal sketch Alisha held tightly in her hand. Look behind you. She fought the impulse for another moment or two, still watching the colors gleam and fade off the dome.
The scar under her collarbone throbbed, insistent bump of discomfort. Reminding her that she was still alive. Reminding her how close she'd come to death.
It was easy to replay, standing there under the same light. Like a dream unwindi
ng in her waking vision, the faces around her changed, becoming the ghosts of other strangers burned into her memory. An older woman with the enviable Mediterranean graying at the temples, chin held high and regal. A handsome man twenty years the woman's junior, turning to watch her with admiration. A bevy of nuns, flocked together like black-headed birds, at odds with breathless teens wearing jeans cut low and shirts cut high. Five years after the fact, if any of them walked by Alisha on a city street, she would know them all with a pang of recognition that cut just above her heart.
There had been a disturbance in the crowd: a thin man in the red robes of a cardinal, making his way against the flow of traffic. Ripples spread out, an opening and closing of the waters as people created space for the holy man, adjusting to his presence, then resuming their normal course as if nothing had bothered them. In moments he was at Alisha's side, brushing against her: papers neatly folded into his palm slipped into hers instead, and then he was past. One step. Two steps.
Gunfire. One violent shot from above. The cardinal fell, the crimson of his life's 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 as she shrieked with the passersby, falling back a step against every impulse to run forward, to see if the cardinal had somehow survived. 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, stimulating: 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.