But there was a pattern to be found in the articles and stories. A pattern that very few people would be able to see, Alisha thought, without knowing Reichart’s movements over an extended period of time. Even she had to go back years in order to establish it, back to their engagement, when she’d often known where he’d be going. With a glance at the rearview mirror to make certain the cabbie paid her little mind, Alisha opened up her briefcase and bent a folder wide enough to scan its contents.
One article had been the anchor for the pattern she’d found. Alisha remembered the mission specifically: a trip through war-torn West Africa into malaria-ridden Ghana. Reichart had grumbled bitterly about the variety and intensity of shots he’d been given in order to stave the disease off. Alisha recalled the instinct to ask him not to go, and even now, years later, it made her smile briefly at the pages she read. She’d quashed the impulse, of course: she would no more have asked Reichart to give up a mission than he’d have asked her to. Not that it mattered, because they both answered to higher powers, and their duty lay beyond the borders of safety. It had added an intensity to their lovemaking, not just that night, but many nights, knowing each time it might easily be the last.
Alisha lifted her eyebrows, glancing out the cab window with another brief smile. Erika had rightly called her an adrenaline junkie. Her relationship with Reichart had been built under pressure. It was a wonder it had lasted as long as it had.
It was a CIA job that he’d gone in on that time, illegally delivering weapons. Had the media not been firmly in the government’s pocket, that might have been a story in itself. Instead, the story came weeks later, the World Health Organization reporting a drastic drop in the malaria outbreak. Inoculations that had been impossible to finance had arrived, barely in time to prevent an outbreak from becoming a plague. Barely, but just. It was the kind of massive gesture that governments promised but rarely came through with, and the WHO had no one to thank but anonymous benefactors.
Alisha glanced into the folder again, not really seeing words that she’d already read half a dozen times on the airplane. A similar story had emerged in Colombia after an earthquake, villages and cities in ruins. Reichart hadn’t been in the CIA’s employ that time, his smile wicked and cheerful as he stole a kiss before loping to his helicopter. “The money’s good,” he’d said. That was early enough in the relationship that Alisha hadn’t realized how regular an answer that would be to why he did the things he did. She believed—without basis, perhaps—that he wasn’t running drugs or illegal weapons on those ventures, at least not unsanctioned illegal weapons. That mission had been a drug bust, in fact, bringing down an Argentine drug lord. Reichart had been hired for his familiarity with the countryside. American-born to an Argentine mother, he’d spent long stretches of his youth in the South American country. He’d never said so directly, but Alisha thought it was where he’d learned fighting and had decided on his mercenary career.
“I don’t answer to ideals, Leesh.” She remembered his statement clearly, partly because she’d never been able to determine what it was that his voice held. Not contempt or mockery; those were too cruel, and regret too soft. Alisha had wondered a time or two if it was envy she heard in the words, that she could put her faith in something that Reichart could not. “I answer to the money. That’s all.”
But there was a series of serums available after the Colombian earthquake, vaccines against typhoid and malaria, pills for purifying water, that the Red Cross couldn’t account for. They were tested, proved safe and used gratefully.
In disaster after disaster, desperately needed goods, from food to medicine to rough tents for housing, arrived without warning or explanation. Erika had searched CIA files and the Internet alike, pulling up cross-references to unexpected, unaccounted-for goods and materials showing up when and where they were most needed. Very rarely were those stories newsworthy on a global or even national scale. Most of the time the recipients were grateful without wanting to ask questions.
The missions Alisha knew about more often than not didn’t bring Reichart anywhere near the affected areas, but there were enough close calls to raise a flag. And none of those miraculous deliveries were claimed by any governmental body. Like terrorism in reverse, Alisha thought, not for the first time, and still without any answers. It took organization to provide that kind of support. Once or twice could be coincidence, but this was repeated all over the world.
No fate, Alisha mouthed again, and closed her briefcase, turning her gaze to watch the city slide by. The files brought a pattern to light, but that pattern only made more questions. She thanked the cabbie in French and tipped him, then made her way through the gardens, enjoying the admiring glances thrown her way. It felt absurdly free, tossing copper curls over her shoulders and putting a little extra swing in her step. She was playing a part again, of course, but it was a part wholly of her own choosing this time. There would be a price to pay for it, she thought, but not yet. Not yet.
Les Deux Magots. The café was another tourist point in Paris, an establishment peopled by Hemingway and Sartre, in their day. Not, Alisha thought, the sort of place she imagined Reichart to hang around at—which made it an excellent meeting place. Besides, like the Luxembourg gardens, tourists and students filled the area year-round, making anyone unobtrusive. The outdoor tables under the green-trimmed awnings were the most popular, allowing anyone to watch the city scurry by while enjoying a cup of coffee.
Two seven ten three. Twenty-seven October, 3:00 p.m. Alisha trusted the p.m. part of the message to be implicit—the Magots was open late, as was almost every Parisian café, but three in the morning struck her as unlikely. Her arrival at the Magots’ rival across the street was just long enough before three that Alisha had time to settle in and order coffee. Fingers curled around an oversize mug, it occurred to her that Reichart and his contact might opt for the clean, well-lighted place within the Magots’ walls, and put her troubles to no good end.
Did he stand out in a crowd, Alisha wondered a moment later, or was it just long familiarity with the man that made her eyes go to him when dozens of others thronged about him? The brief hitch in his step from the knife she’d put in his thigh was the only thing extraordinary about him. Certainly nothing in his clothing was unusual, especially in Paris: the soft black leather jacket, the jeans still black enough to be new. It was his usual costuming, an avant-garde James Dean, but as always, it drew her eye. Alisha was as familiar to Reichart as he was to her, and he would be sensitive to anyone’s gaze resting on him too intently.
A sandy-haired man sitting by one of the Magots’ windows raised a hand briefly, and Reichart worked his way through the tables with a nodded greeting, dropping into one of the cream-colored chairs.
Facing Alisha.
She lowered her head slowly over her coffee cup, hiding a smile in the mug, and glanced up again over the tops of her sunglasses, watching the men. They sat next to each another, though the adjoining chairs had a man’s shoulder-width between them. It allowed them to both sit with their backs to the building, excusing the seating arrangement that was more feminine in nature than masculine. Alisha pushed her sunglasses up and watched from the corner of her eye, taking in their body language as she studied the quick phrases formed by their lips. Distance ate the sounds, but she’d expected that, preferring to risk errors in lipreading than coming close enough to Reichart’s sphere of influence to be noticed.
I’m meeting her at the cathedral at six. Reichart, expression sly, as if he was planning a seduction. The other man—Tyler—lifted an eyebrow.
Is that wise? The gig’s gone sideways.
I can pull it out, Reichart answered, easy confidence obvious even with the words unheard. And if I can’t, it’s my own neck, no one else’s.
A faint, unamused smile graced Tyler’s expression. Don’t forget there are other people counting on you. You’re supposed to be in Korea in three days.
Have I ever let you down?
The look Tyler shot at Rei
chart was sharp, making the dark-haired man’s mouth thin in irritation. Leave her out of it.
As soon as you do.
Korea. Reichart spat the word with enough venom in it that Alisha imagined she could hear it. Can you give me details?
Tyler shook his head. They’re still murky. The cover is the usual. Weapons. He tilted his chin down as he said the word, clearly lowering his voice. Reichart allowed himself a sigh.
Just what that part of the world needs. More guns.
Just what any part of the world needs, Tyler said. You’ll be there?
I always am. Reichart got to his feet, tossing a few euros on the table despite not having ordered.
All right. Fas infitialis, Tyler replied. Reichart nodded once, short action, and left the table.
Fas infitialis. Alisha squinted at the words, repeating the shape of them behind the rim of her cup before she sipped. If she’d read the words correctly, they had to be Latin, but she didn’t know their meaning.
I’m meeting her at the cathedral at six. There was only one cathedral in Paris. An interception after Reichart’s meeting would afford the opportunity to have any number of questions answered. Alisha cocked an eyebrow at her drink, pleased with the reconnaissance, and settled back to watch traffic. Tyler left the Magots after another twenty minutes, and Alisha ordered a second cup of coffee before finally standing to leave the rendezvous point in search of a pay phone. They were becoming ever more scarce with the popularity of cell phones soaring, but she preferred that the call she placed to the Roman café she’d waited at two mornings earlier be unattached to any phone she might potentially be associated with.
“Tell Jon the little bird has left her cage,” she murmured in Italian to the man who answered, and gave the pay phone’s number before hanging up. Two days since Rome. It seemed longer.
It took less time than she’d expected for the enormous man to call back, his jovial voice filled with curiosity. “This is most unusual, little bird.”
“I know.” Alisha’s words were an apology. “I need help, Jon. I need gear and I need it from someone with no inconvenient loyalties.”
“When?”
“By tonight.”
Jon’s laughter was rich and surprised. “You ask for a great deal, little bird.”
“I know,” Alisha said again. “I’ll owe you one, Jon.”
“You already do,” he reminded her. “You will owe me a great deal. Be ready for me to call it in, little bird. Go to this address,” he added smoothly, giving her a street name and number. “Tell them you are a friend of Marco’s. If you are asked how he is, tell them he says the wine is sweet, the women warm and that the old man sleeps as yet.”
Alisha repeated the phrase back, then took a deep breath. “I owe you, Jon.”
“Yes,” he said too mildly. “You do. Goodbye, little bird.”
Chapter 16
The healing cut across her belly left no room for acrobatics unless her life depended on it. It was a shame, too: Notre Dame’s vaulted ceilings loomed high and dark. The temptation to hide in the lofty rafters and scale one of the enormous stone pillars that supported the building’s great weight was high, and not just for the concealment, Alisha freely admitted. There was an inordinate amount of sheer drama attached to the idea of slipping down one of the columns, spiderlike as she crept around the width of the pillars, using shadow to hide herself from prying eyes.
Realistically, it was a bad idea anyway. She, like most people, had cast her gaze upward upon entering the massive cathedral, looking into those shadows simply because they were there. There was no sense hiding in such plain sight.
And so she hid in even plainer sight, knelt at a pew near the back of the church. Even in the cathedral lighting she wore her oversize sunglasses, and she’d tied an expensive silk kerchief over her head, drawn forward enough to blur the line of her cheek and jaw. A fold of fabric dipped over her forehead, and a riot of copper curls spilled out the back of the kerchief. Even to Reichart’s knowing gaze, she ought not be recognizable, and the tourist groups would likely keep her unnoticed regardless.
His off-gait pace caught her eye among the throngs, and faker popped into her head clearly enough she was afraid she’d said it aloud. Reichart’s movements were stiff and slow, the limp in his left leg far more pronounced than it had been that afternoon. She could see it in the deliberation of his steps, as if he counted an extra breath while moving the lame leg. Most people wouldn’t see it. Why the act, she wondered. Who would be impressed—or distressed—by his injury?
Another woman. Of course. Alisha’s smile faded as she watched him settle stiffly into a pew halfway down the cathedral from her. A woman with precisely held shoulders and pale blond hair beneath a drinking-and-praying hat sat one row back and a good ten feet away from Reichart as he adjusted his hurt leg against the hard wood. The cathedral, meant for carrying sound, picked up nothing of what Reichart said, nor the woman’s murmured answers, though Alisha could see the subtle movements of Reichart’s lips as he spoke quietly to her.
The woman turned her head slightly, making Alisha catch her breath in hope, then let it out again in a soundless laugh of frustration. The hat—which was magnificent, brown felt and decorated by a long feather spotted with red at the quill end—was also veiled, more than one layer of mesh cupping the woman’s face all the way past her chin, so her features were thoroughly obscured. As effective as Alisha’s own sunglasses and scarf, but much more elegant, Alisha thought. She felt a brief flash of amused jealousy at the other woman’s fashion sense, then turned her attention back to Reichart, watching to see if any emotion might flicker across his profile and betray him.
Instead he slipped something from the inside pocket of his soft leather jacket and set it on the pew beside him, slight and subtle movements meant to go unnoticed. Then he got to his feet, more awkwardly than Alisha had ever seen him move, and limped forward to the front of the cathedral, where he knelt and lowered his head in evident prayer.
The woman was on her feet a moment later, pausing very briefly to pick up the package Reichart had left and to slip it into her purse. The rest of her outfit was as smashing as the hat: a brown tweed fitted jacket and pencil skirt, with laced-up leather granny boots on her feet. She looked like a forties movie star, Veronica Lake or Ingrid Bergman, her face carefully obscured so that adoring fans wouldn’t accost her in a holy place. As dramatic in its own way, Alisha thought ruefully, as playing spider from the ceilings would be.
She stood up from her own pew, walking toward the front of the church in hopes of passing the blonde and getting a better glimpse of her face through the veils, but the woman turned toward the altar, as well. There were small doors to other rectories on either side of the main hall, and the blonde stepped through one of those before Alisha, unwilling to hurry and draw attention to herself, came anywhere near catching up.
Reichart, though, didn’t move, and Alisha grinned as she came to the front of the cathedral and knelt a few feet away from him. “Exchanging lovers’ notes?” she asked, voice pitched to carry no farther than the man beside her.
There was no gratifying flinch this time, but Alisha saw a ripple of tension flow through his shoulders before he glanced her way. His gaze darkened, candlelight from dozens of vigil candles suddenly narrowed away from his eyes. She could almost see him choosing what volley to open with, and when it was a neutral “The red suits you,” she fought back laughter.
“How much did that cost?” she wondered aloud, and let herself smile at him. “Why don’t we take a walk, darling? We’ve got a great deal to talk about.”
The pronounced limp didn’t fade from Reichart’s steps as they exited the cathedral. Alisha took it as a warning that they were likely being watched, and stayed several feet behind the man, disassociating herself from him. He wouldn’t run, she trusted that for two reasons. First, exaggerated limp or not, the stab wound in his thigh would guarantee she could outpace him. Second, and perhaps more important
ly, she’d tilted her purse to show him the gun she’d obtained from Jon’s friends. Reichart had smiled tightly and agreed to a walk.
His stride lengthened as he went around a corner two blocks farther on. Alisha chuckled beneath her breath and caught up with him in a few running steps, offering a bright sunny smile that made his jaw tighten. “My place or yours, Frank?”
He shot her another look that made Alisha’s smile broaden. “Yours it is. Shall I hail a cab?”
“What the hell are you doing here, Alisha? I thought you got recalled to D.C.” Even angry at her, he was cautious with his words, leaving Langley hanging in the air unspoken. Alisha shrugged easily and lifted a hand to flag down a taxi.
“I was, but I decided to take a walk.” She turned back to find Reichart staring down at her in open surprise. The naked emotion looked good on him, lightening the brown of his eyes and taking some of the lines from his face until he looked younger than his years. “I’ll tell you about it at the hotel,” Alisha said more quietly. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“I thought that was my line,” Reichart said after a moment. Alisha twisted a quick smile.
“Maybe if I’m delivering it I’ll be more willing to listen.” A cab drew up and Alisha opened the door for her dark-haired companion, gesturing him in and climbing in after him. She’d be more willing to listen, she vowed, because this time she had enough information to get real answers out of the man.
Best intentions aside, they were silent in the cab beyond Reichart’s gruff instructions as to where to drive. Alisha watched the cabbie slide curious glances at them in the rearview mirror, a spark of mischief in his eyes suggesting he believed them to be quarrelling lovers. Close enough, she decided, and gave the man a thin smile in the mirror. He brought his gaze back to the road, looking ever more secure in his knowledge about them.
The hotel was of a better quality than she’d expected, Alisha giving it a startled look as she climbed out of the cab. “Paying in euros, are they?” she murmured, and Reichart shot her a dark look.
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