The Cardinal Rule

by C. E. Murphy

  Reichart sighed, backing away from the bed to sprawl heavily in a chair, towel loosening. Alisha wrinkled her face and glanced away. "Not that I don't appreciate the view, Reichart, but…"

  "Shit." Reichart kicked his feet forward instead of out, crossing them, comparatively demurely, at the ankle, and adjusting his towel. "He works for the Sicarii, Leesh. He has for years."

  "That's not possible. Greg got into his files, his op is CIA. It's not possible." Cold trickled over Alisha's shoulders, making her pull the towel tighter around herself. It wasn't possible.

  Unless Greg was lying to her, too.

  Cascading images fell through Alisha's line of vision, memories of words spoken resounding inside her mind. Greg and Brandon, cavalierly leaving Reichart behind in the building Alisha was under orders to destroy. The strain in Greg's voice could have been because she'd broken through to a level of operations that he knew about, but she wasn't supposed to. It didn't seem impossible, just then, that she'd been set up from the beginning.

  "Where'd you get the intel on the observatory? Why were you there?" Alisha asked, voice hoarse. Reichart's silence stretched taut before snapping.

  "Because I knew you would be."

  Alisha's gaze jerked to him, a whole new wave of shock spilling through her and making her body colder than before. Only her handler and a few people above him had known where she was going that night. Alisha's hand went to her waist as if looking for the pouch she'd carried that night. The data she'd retrieved from the observatory had led her to Brandon. Had led her to the Sicarii.

  What if it had been a ploy?

  To what end?

  "I've got to go." Alisha shoved to her feet, clenching her teeth against the wave of sickness that swept through her as cuts and scrapes hurt more than their size seemed worth. Foot injuries usually seemed to heal quickly, but the pain that went with them made up for it.

  Reichart was on his feet again too, strong hands warm against her bare shoulders. "Leesh, you might as well get some rest, unless you've got clean clothes hidden in that backpack of yours. I didn't think so," he said as her face fell. "Lie down, sleep. It'll help you heal and it'll clear your head. I'll wash the clothes. Besides," he said more gently, "what're you going to do? Waltz in and demand to know who Greg Parker's loyalties really lie with What do you think he'll say, Leesh?"

  "I don't know. Why should I trust any of what you're telling me?" She did, though. His arguments felt like a searing cold line of truth that burned through her middle, but there was no reason to trust him beyond her gut instinct. She didn't know whether to trust even herself anymore. "Did Cristina really shoot me?"

  Reichart sighed and put his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. "Leesh, this Sicarii thing goes back to then. To before then. The pickup you were making that night, do you know what it was about?"

  Alisha pulled away, folding her arms around herself and hobbling to the end of the bed, out of Reichart's reach. Shards of agony shot up her shinbones and took up residence in her knees, making them ache like she was getting her period. "It was, um." She swallowed, then sat, putting her face in her hands tiredly. "A terrorist threat, I think. Against Rome proper, not Vatican City. It didn't pan out, though."

  "No." Reichart crouched in front of her, hands dangling over his knees. His towel loosened again precariously, and Alisha lifted her gaze to his face rather than call him on it. "The Sicarii made a power play inside the Church. They needed Cardinal Nyland out of the way in order to move one of their own into a stronger position for an eventual attempt at the papal seat."

  Alisha breathed laughter. "The Pope had been ailing for years, Reichart. Why then? Why Nyland?"

  He shrugged a shoulder. "Nyland was popular, and maybe too smart for his own good. He thought there was more to the maneuverings than simple politics and started investigating. He came up against the Sicarii, Leesh. The intel he was passing you was regarding them."

  Alisha shook her head. "But I had the papers he gave me."

  "You had the papers the Sicarii replaced the originals with. I watched Cristina switch them, Leesh."

  "Cristina!"

  "I don't know," Reichart said harshly. "I don't know if she knew what she was doing, if she was working for the FSB or the Sicarii, Alisha. All I know is I watched the papers get changed and then I lifted them off her in the chaos while they were preparing to move you to the hospital."

  "How could she have shot me? She was in the plaza. I saw her." Alisha's voice dropped. "What were you doing there, Frank?"

  "The first I saw of her, she was coming from the stairs in front of you. She was high enough to have shot you. And I was supposed to protect the Cardinal." Reichart ghosted his hand over her cheek. Alisha closed her eyes, tempted to lean into that bare touch. "I wanted to protect you. Neither worked out so well."

  "If you didn't shoot me, why'd you disappear?"

  Reichart huffed a laugh of frustration. "I got another assignment."

  "Another assignment worth leaving your fiancée bleeding to death in a Roman piazza. I hope it was a nice fat paycheck, Reichart." The venom Alisha might have spat had been watered down by time and her own growing weariness.

  "Alisha…"

  Alisha shook her head. "It's history, Frank. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. And right now I don't know what to believe, so I'm just going to get some sleep. If you're still here in the morning, we'll talk then."

  Chapter 20

  A cheap cotton T-shirt lay neatly folded on the bed next to her when Alisha opened her eyes. Its presence spoke volumes that her ears would have heard anyway: there was no sound of another sleeper in the hotel room, no noise in the bathroom to indicate someone might be in there. Alisha curled her fingers into the thin fabric and sat up, pulling the shirt on at the same time.

  It didn't matter: there was no need for modesty. Her ears hadn't betrayed her. Reichart was gone, the T-shirt an apology for the man not being there. Alisha said, "Bastard," without heat to the empty room and folded her feet up to examine the soles beneath their loose-wrapped bandages.

  The cuts and punctures were clean, no signs of infection, but walking was going to hurt. She pressed her lips together and reached for new bandages, left by the bedside along with the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Very thoughtful of Reichart to sneak out only after getting all the materials she'd need for a discreet exit from the hotel.

  It was just barely possible that he might have still been there, had she not ended the evening on the weary snipe. Possible, but not likely. Reichart wasn't a man to be counted on.

  But at least the shirt he'd brought her fell to her hips, covering the sleek fibrous material of the black stealth suit she'd worn the evening before, and he'd left her the rubber-pebbled shoes. Tugging them over the fresh bandages on her feet made her dizzy, but once on they constricted in a friendly fashion, as if the snug fit supported and cushioned her soles more efficiently than normal shoes would. She left the hotel with her expression held carefully neutral, not that anyone in the dingy lobby even looked up. She caught a glimpse of herself in front door's glass, her usual golden skin tones sallowed to yellow from the shards of pain that every step brought. The thin rubber shoes were still better than being barefoot, and after the first minutes, the pain mutated into a thick constant ache that made her joints hurt halfway up her body, but was manageable. It was wonderful, she thought with a mix of honesty and sarcasm, what the human body could adapt to.

  She collected a small suitcase of belongings from a luggage locker at one of the supermarkets near the Dongzhimen train station, then hobbled to one of the station's bathrooms to change clothes.

  Elisa Moon wore high heels. Alisha stared at her own clothing choices—really fabulous three-inch red heels, long black silken trousers that brushed the toes of those shoes, a wrap top to match the shoes, and a light bolero—and hated her past self for not anticipating cut-up feet needing to go into those shoes. At least she could keep the rubber shoes and the bandages on beneath them, but
putting the heels on sent a new wave of dizziness through her, roiling her belly and making her light-headed. She left the bathroom trying to focus on anything beyond her feet: the hot air sticking against her skin, the scent of dust and fuel and bodies thick in the air as she minced across the platform to board the airport train. Humanity pressed around her, sweaty, in a hurry, careless of toes, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out when her feet were stepped on. There were no empty seats on the train and she held a ceiling strap with a white-knuckled grip, eyes closed as she swayed with the train's motion and tried to keep her weight off her feet. After a few minutes a young man tapped her shoulder and gestured to his seat, his expression concerned. Alisha whimpered thanks in a bad accent and sat, shivering with pain. Her feet were throbbing less by the time the train reached Beijing Capital International Airport fifteen minutes later, but standing started the whole cycle over again.

  At least she had fast track clearance, and could breeze through security to wait in the first class lounge before priority boarding. It was all a performance: walking lightly, like her feet weren't on fire, smiling at the security agents, greeting the flight attendants pleasantly. She took her seat in first class with a swallowed sob of relief and pushed her shoes off before the flight attendant could even offer her a drink. "Orange juice with vodka, please. It's after five o'clock somewhere."

  The attendant laughed and went to get the drink while Alisha turned her gaze out the tiny window. She could suddenly breathe more easily, tension unraveling in her shoulders and releasing the feeling of being watched, as if she'd escaped Frank Reichart's intent gaze only when she'd boarded the airplane.

  Alisha closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, tasting the air's manufactured quality. Even with the doors still open, it was recycled and too dry. She felt for the bottle of water provided by the airlines, cracking its top and draining most of it without opening her eyes. Its coolness hit her belly and spread through her body, as if fighting the good fight against the dryness of the air, and bringing some relief to her aching feet. Her thoughts cleared, like fine threads of watery blue were spilling through the crooks and crannies of her mind. Alisha smiled faintly at the idea, pressing her head back into the headrest.

  It cradled her skull, a promise that she could drift into sleep and wake without a crick in her neck. Alisha held on to that idea, sailing out of conscious thought and into the semi-aware state that preceded sleep. The sound of the jet's engines filled her ears, white noise that disrupted any need to focus on listening to the people around her, although she heard the flight attendant say, "Your drink, ma'am," and reached for the screwdriver to drink several large sips gratefully The alcohol almost instantly numbed her thighs and worked its way down to her feet, and she said, "Yes, please," to the flight attendant's query about another drink.

  She'd drunk that, too, before she felt the chair beside her shift. The faint warmth of someone else's body heat brushed her as another passenger—a woman, from the delicate scent of perfume—sat. To Alisha's relief, the woman didn't immediately speak, and she hoped they could pass the entire flight in companionable silence. She wanted time to think, not to exclaim politely over someone's grandchildren or dogs, and the combination of vodka and weariness was just enough to let her thoughts drift in useful patterns.

  She needed proof. Unless Brandon and Reichart were working together, a thought which Alisha refused to contemplate, the Sicarii must have some grounding in truth. The Vatican records were too old and delicate to be forged, but even they weren't concrete evidence of a centuries-old conspiracy to lever divine right over democracy. Alisha's stomach muscles tightened with a laugh that went no further than that. Maybe it was human nature to believe in conspiracies, just as it was to believe in predestination and a reason behind everything that happened. She felt she ought to know better, but a part of her wanted to believe, anyway. Me and Mulder.

  She pushed the wry thought away, trying to focus on the scant handful of things she felt certain of. Brandon and Greg Parker, regardless of what other affiliations they might share, had been together in Beijing at the Attengee production facility. Brandon claimed to be working undercover for the CIA as a mole within the Sicarii, an organization that Greg claimed to know nothing about.

  But the assignment to investigate Brandon had come from above Greg. From higher in the CIA. From Director Boyer. Alisha reached for and drank the rest of her screwdriver, then finished her water without opening her eyes, feeling removed from her own physical actions. Assume, she thought, that Boyer was straight. Assume that his investigation was endangering a Sicarii protocol within the CIA.

  Then everything she thought she'd known for the last ten years could be a lie.

  And every action she took now could be a test. She was Greg Parker's protégé, a young woman he'd groomed for nearly a decade. She was quick and smart and sometimes sentimental. If someone was unsure of where her handler's loyalties lay, Alisha's would also undoubtedly be in question.

  That was the problem with spy movies, of course. They were always sending people with emotional investment into situations that required objectivity. That was dangerous, likely to result in mistakes made from clouded judgment.

  Mistakes like looking for ways to keep Brandon Parker out of harm's way, which could very easily be misinterpreted as her loyalties lying elsewhere. Alisha tilted her head until the crown pressed against the chair's headrest, nostrils flaring as she drew in a deep breath. Maybe she hadn't been drawn into the tangled web she was uncovering. Maybe she'd been placed in it deliberately, to see whether she was a spider or a fly.

  She exhaled noisily, pressing her fingers into the seat arms. The possibility she was being played hadn't occurred to her before now.

  "It's all right," the woman beside her said in lightly accented English. "Flying is safe." The words rose and fell with gentle reassurance. Alisha gave a startled half-laugh and opened her eyes.

  "Thank you. I'm all right."

  The woman beside her was older than she, Chinese, and as lovely as the light floral perfume she wore,, with amber in her brown eyes. She smiled and nodded, breaking eye contact with Alisha almost immediately, clearly not wishing to seem rude. Alisha returned the smile briefly and relaxed back into her seat, eyes closed again.

  If it was a setup, the Sicarii could be a false lead. Brandon's midnight conversation in the bunker could have been for her benefit, introducing a third player simply to confuse the issue. But—amusement lanced through Alisha, her awareness of the irony too great to ignore—Reichart had corroborated the Sicarii story, even if the ancient records in the Vatican library hadn't lent credence to at least certain aspects of it.

  Of course, he could be a double agent, too.

  Alisha groaned and sank down as far as her seat belt would let her. The woman beside her shifted, concern evident in her voice as she asked, "Miss?"

  "Where do we go from here?" Alisha said the words very softly, thin strains of song breaking through them, as if waiting for the fuller music of the next lines. She bit them off in her mind, unwilling to pretend even the Pyrrhic victory they promised.

  "Miss?" the woman beside her asked again.

  Alisha shook her head. "I'm all right," she said again. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm mostly talking to myself right now. Tired. Sorry."

  The woman ducked her head in apology, pulling her elbows in toward herself, shrinking in the seat. Alisha put her teeth together, warding off her own impulse to apologize in turn until it passed and she could concentrate on her conundrum again She had to apply Occam's razor: the simplest possibility was the most likely. Reichart had his own loyalties; the odds that he was part of a scheme to set her up were remote. Not impossible, but remote. For that matter, the idea that she was even important enough to set up seemed unlikely.

  She had to choose somewhere to begin trusting. Her history with Reichart made him both the first and last choice; she wanted to trust him, and didn't dare. But Greg and Brandon being together
at the destroyed production facility made her stomach curdle with foreboding. Bad choices all around. Alisha tilted forward in her seat, elbows on her thighs and fingers pressed against her face in a steeple. The plane pulled back from the jetway, flight attendants beginning their safety lectures as Alisha swayed with the jet's motion.

  "Assume," she whispered out loud, the words directed at her lap. Assume you're being played, Leesh. Assume you're a pawn. And then figure out a way to get queened. She sat back, elbow on the seat's arm as she curled her fingers against her mouth, working through possibilities until she fell asleep.

  #

  She woke a little while before landing, the combination of relentless travel, her injuries, and the alcohol making it easy to sleep through the bulk of a thirteen hour flight. She'd deplaned, grateful to find that her feet didn't hurt nearly as much, a full day after she'd injured them, and entered the airline's first class lounge to make a critical phone call. A young family were playing an energetic game of tic-tac-toe in one corner of the lounge and earning filthy looks from the other handful of people there, which suited Alisha just fine, as it drew attention away from her. She went over to the windows, leaning against them to watch the haze on the horizon as she waited for Greg Parker to pick up the phone.

  He sounded relieved when he did, voice crackling as delays broke his words up. "I've been waiting for you to check in. Are you all right?"

  "Fine. Long night. Long flight."

  "You're back in DC? I've got a new assignment. We've cracked the files you downloaded. Turns out they're hardware schematics."

  "Hardware. Shit. Um, hang on a second, it's loud in here." The kids were getting noisier. Alisha didn't remember tic-tac-toe being so loud, but she'd never played a board game version of it, either. She dug around in her purse, one-handed, to find a headset that she connected to the phone before fitting the buds into her ears. The set's mouthpiece fell just below her chin, and she lifted it closer to her lips. "Okay, I can hear you better now. Hardware. Well, crap. I mean, it's useful, but if I only got the hardware specs, the software must be just about impossible to download. It must be massive."