by Cate Dermody
“What will you do, Ali,” Greg wondered softly, “if it turns out you’re wrong about my allegiances after all?”
“I’ll be very contrite,” Alisha muttered. “I’m serious. There may even be tears. I’ll apologize,” she said more clearly. “But you haven’t done anything to buoy my confidence. Where are we going?” she asked abruptly, glancing around. Greg had led her down unfamiliar hallways as they talked, through a door she’d never passed through before.
“I’m taking you to someone who may help you prove more willing to work with the Agency again, Alisha. I don’t like to put you in a hard place, but you leave me with very little choice. I need Brandon and I need the whereabouts of those missing drones.”
“I’ll give them both to you,” Alisha said without hesitation. “Just let me out of here.”
Greg gave her an amused look. “Don’t teach your grandma to suck eggs, Ali. I know when you’re lying. I taught you how.”
“Yeah?” Alisha demanded. “What’s my tell?”
“You don’t have one,” Greg admitted. “It’s just long experience. You were telling the truth when you said you didn’t know where Brandon had gone, and you’re lying when you promise to turn the drones back over. What do you plan to do with them, sell them for your own profit? I knew I shouldn’t have introduced you to Frank Reichart.”
“You’re overestimating his influence on me, Greg. Reichart and I stopped playing in the same field a long time ago. We owe each other nothing.”
“Really.” Greg pushed open a bleak gray door, ushering Alisha in ahead of him. She stepped in, squinting against a single burning bulb dangling above a cuffed woman in a solitary metal chair.
Emma Dickens lifted her head, harsh aging shadows ruining the lines of her face, cruel light bringing out previously unseen silver threads in her hair. She was actress enough to allow no change of expression, not even so much as the dilation of her pupils to say she recognized and knew Alisha MacAleer, but Alisha’s heart lurched and left a sickness in her stomach that made her cold.
“Tell me again,” Greg murmured, “that you owe Frank Reichart nothing.”
Chapter 16
“You’re a complete bastard, Greg,” Alisha said, just as softly. There was no heat in it, as she was afraid allowing anger into her voice would drive her to irredeemably foolish actions. “What’s one of Reichart’s old girlfriends got to do with anything going on now?” If Emma was there, denying she recognized her would be useless. Alisha had seen her once, years before, an encounter she’d thought had gone unnoticed by the CIA until first Boyer, then an Agency shrink had commented on it. Better to assume Greg knew, too, and play that the one viewing had been the only time Alisha’d ever laid eyes on the woman. “It’s Emma something, right? Jesus, Greg.” Now she let some anger come into her voice, taking a few quick steps toward Emma. “You think I fucked up going into Britain on false papers. Holding a British national in a place like this? Are you crazy?”
Emma was cuffed, arms twisted uncomfortably behind her back. Alisha knelt, making a noise of frustration at the metal chains. “What the hell are you doing? She was a cover, for God’s sake, years ago. An accountant or something.” She was, Alisha told herself fiercely, not to convince Greg of the lie, but herself of its truth. “Get these cuffs off her, and tell me how you’re going to keep this out of the papers.”
“Let’s not make this any more absurd than it has to be, Alisha. She’s a computers expert for MI-5, and her involvement with Frank Reichart goes considerably beyond a cover.”
Cold trickled down Alisha’s spine, sending goose bumps over her arms as she looked back at her former handler.
Thin surprise slid into his expression and he smiled, more unkind amusement than real humor. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know. Oh, Alisha.” Laughter came into his voice, still mocking. “I believe you didn’t. I thought you were an intelligence agent, Alisha. Whatever went wrong?”
“He was happy.” Alisha closed her eyes as she heard herself speak, then shook her head, earrings swinging forward to brush her cheeks as she lowered her gaze to the floor. She reached for one, curling her fingers around it and rubbing the ticklish spot it made along her jaw as she faced what Greg was saying. The moments she’d glimpsed of Emma and Reichart together, Frank had been happy. For that reason alone, Alisha had refused to pursue the truth behind their relationship.
Jon was right, she finally admitted to herself, without any caveats. It really was a love story.
“Whatever she is, whoever she works for, she’s not relevant to the here and now, Greg. Let her go.”
“I don’t think so. She’s my collateral, Ali. I want Brandon and I want the drones returned. I hate resorting to blackmail to accomplish it, but my job is to protect the security of the United States at whatever cost necessary. If that requires coercing someone who should’ve been willing to work with me in the first place, that’s what I’ll do. Besides,” he added. “She’s a wholly legitimate target outside of being useful in getting you to cooperate. We caught her tailing Nichole Oldenburg.”
Dammit! Alisha’s hand curled in a fist, gaze still fixed on the floor. Her knees were beginning to ache from kneeling on the concrete, and she thought Emma’s feet must be cold, though she was still shod. Reichart had promised Emma had the skill to follow Cristina without being noticed. Had his own emotions blinded him to Emma’s faults? The idea took the chill that slipped down Alisha’s spine and spread it through her body, making her feel lonely all over again. He’d been happy with Emma, she reminded herself. Happy enough, perhaps, to see things that weren’t there. It wasn’t a mistake she remembered him making about her.
And that might be reason enough to save the British woman. Alisha let her fist relax, slow action that would tell Greg of defeat, not defiance. “What are my orders?” The question came out dull and low, the words of a woman defeated. “Hunt Brandon down? Terminate him? I had those orders once and failed to carry them out. Do you think I can do it this time?”
“I think you know my orders aren’t to terminate. Brandon and his new intelligence program are critical to security. I want them back and in one piece.”
“What happens to her?” Alisha finally looked up, locking eyes with Greg rather than letting herself glance at Emma.
“That depends on you,” Greg said. “Succeed in this and she’ll be released.”
“And if I fail?”
“She’ll be exposed as a British spy believed to be on a mission to assassinate Nichole Oldenburg. We may even let the attempt play out. It would be wonderfully effective PR.”
“Alisha’s right.” Emma spoke for the first time, British accent painfully cool and cultured in the dank little room.
“You’re a right bastard, Parker. What does my government benefit from trying to kill one of your political hopefuls?”
“I imagine you’ll be branded the tool of some misogynistic right-wing political faction,” Greg said easily. “Some group who fears the ascent of women in politics. They’d use a woman as their tool, of course, because men wouldn’t stoop to assassinating women. Your passion for the job—your entire career, in fact—will be written out as a story of a woman so dedicated to the place of woman by home and hearth you were willing to sacrifice your own family life to make certain others would have it. Your daughter will be played up as a most unfortunate orphan, at the end of it.”
Alisha shot a look at Emma then, catching sheer rage contorting the other woman’s face.
“I think the whole thing could work out beautifully for Nichole’s presidential campaign in a few years,” Greg finished.
“We’re not pretending anymore, then?” Alisha asked. “No more insisting you’re one of the good guys and I just need to see the light? You’re flat-out admitting the intention is to get Cristina Lamken into the White House?”
“What makes you think Cristina Lamken ever existed, Alisha? She’s been a double agent as long as you’ve known her. Longer. Maybe Nichole Oldenburg is
who she’s really been all along.”
“Oldenburg,” Emma murmured. “Romanov.”
Breath knotted in Alisha’s stomach, stopping there as her heartbeat hung loud and heavy in her ears. “Romanov? The Russian tsars?”
Emma was watching Greg. “The Romanov family actually died out centuries ago, at least the male heirs. The dynasty was ruled by the House of Oldenburg for nearly two hundred years, under the Romanov name.” She exhaled, a quiet sound of near-laughter as she repeated, “The Romanovs.”
“The last great fallen royal house,” Gregory agreed. “Taken in by Rasputin and destroyed by the uprising, with a fairy-tale ending about the princess who escaped the slaughter and went into hiding. Anastasia. Little girl lost.”
“Rescued by the Sicarii.” Alisha barely heard herself speak, words echoing and interrupted in her own hearing by the shattering crash of her heart. “Cristina?”
“Found by the Sicarii,” Greg corrected. “Years later, a regal peasant in communist Russia, under Stalin’s rule. She was half mad, or maybe more, but she swore she was Anastasia and her daughter was heir to the Russian throne. That girl was Cristina’s grandmother.”
“The Sicarii believed her?” Alisha stared at Greg. Her ears were hot, blood coloring her skin too harshly, though her hands, in bone-shivering contrast, were cold. “Why?”
“Just in case. They weren’t certain until the early nineties, when they were able to run genetic tests on Nicholas Romanov’s exhumed body. She really is the great-grand-daughter of Anastasia Romanov.”
Alisha’s ears burned. “Excuse me, Mr. Bond, but you’re about to die. Why are you telling us this?”
For the first time, frustration contorted Gregory Parker’s face. “Dammit, Alisha, what do I have to do to get you to believe me? I’ve been caught in an untenable position within the Sicarii and the CIA for fifteen years, and the only way I see to prove my innocence is to admit to my guilt! I’m telling you these things because it’s the only way I can arm you against the Sicarii!” Passion fled, leaving only weariness that Alisha was unaccustomed to seeing in her former handler’s countenance. “Serving two masters is an ugly position to find yourself in, Alisha. I think you’re treading too close to the edge of that yourself. Don’t let it happen.”
“I’ve been trying not to,” Alisha said through her teeth.
“But events are conspiring against me. Try having the strength of your convictions, Greg.”
“This is all the strength I have left. It’s been too long and too hard a run, Alisha. I’m sorry.”
“At least let Emma go!” Alisha shot to her feet, suddenly facing off with the small dapper man. “Prove to me you’re one of the good guys, Greg. Let Emma go. Give me the Firebird black box so I can see if there’s anything to lace Cristina in with the Sicarii, real physical proof that can’t be refuted. Let me take down their golden girl, if you’re one of the heroes.”
“I can’t.” The whisper was filled with desperation. “There’s no legitimate reason the Sicarii would understand for releasing such a valuable prisoner. I’m sorry, but I’m more interested in keeping myself alive than in letting your friend go. You’re going to have to do it on your own.”
Alisha hauled off and hit him as hard as she could.
Two years of pent-up anger and disillusionment went into the blow, all the betrayal and dismay she’d struggled with since the trip to China had gone bad. All the training she prided herself on was behind it, half a lifetime’s worth of yoga practice that gave her superior upper body strength, turned for one glorious moment to sheer kinetic energy that ended with a crunch of bone and cartilage.
For an instant she wasn’t sure who was more surprised it worked, herself or Greg. Greg: he was the one who staggered, clutching his nose, and the one who didn’t recover as Alisha gave frustration a voice and jumped on him, bearing him to the ground with her weight. He got his hands up to protect his face from another hit and she curled her hands in his lapels, lifting him bodily to slam him back into the concrete floor. His head lolled and she lifted and slammed him again, crouched over his torso, then made a fist and clobbered him in the jaw.
His eyes rolled back and his head fell to the side, bloody drool dribbling from his mouth. Only then did Alisha become aware of other things: her own harsh breathing, and an incongruous sound of cheering from behind her. Alisha looked over her shoulder, panting, to find Emma straining at the chair she was cuffed to, a grin so wide it looked agonizing stretched across her face. A little battle rage faded from Alisha’s mind and she went for Greg’s pockets, searching for the keys to Emma’s cuffs.
Thirty seconds later, Greg sat propped in the chair, cuffed to keep him from sliding out. Emma and Alisha, armed with Greg’s security badge, bolted for the door.
Lying on the National Mall, panting for breath and grinning at the blue sky was not, Alisha thought, exactly the most subtle place or way to relax.
Emma, stretched out on the grass beside her, said, “We can’t stay here,” with the same good cheer Alisha felt. “Whose car do you suppose that was?” the British woman added.
Alisha laughed, flopping her arm over her eyes. “No idea.” They’d abandoned the borrowed vehicle a mile from the mall and took themselves off at a run down DC sidewalks. “I can’t believe we made it out of there.”
“Frank’s said you’ve got balls of solid brass,” Emma said. “He told me about the Godiva trick in Prague. I swear that was all I could think about when that red-headed bloke stopped you. You know you’ve probably put yourself on your own country’s most wanted list.” She moved as she spoke and Alisha peeled her arm back from her eyes to see the Englishwoman propped up on an elbow in the grass beside her.
“You think I have now,” she said. “Just wait.”
“What’re you going to do?” Interest piqued in Emma’s voice and Alisha grinned at the sun again.
“First I’m getting you on a plane back to England and Mazie. When did they pick you up, Emma? It’s Monday afternoon now. Reichart was expecting a call from you at the forty-eight hour mark. Did he get it?”
“Oh, bugger,” Emma whispered. “I’ve got to call him. He’ll give me more time than he’s supposed to,” she said with quiet confidence, “but I can’t leave him hanging. Every minute I’m late he’ll be trying to decide how to tell Mazie I might never be coming back.”
“Emma…” Alisha bit the inside of her lip, curiosity suddenly at war with discretion.
The British woman glanced at her, then let go a soft breath. “You want to know what happened with Frank and me. Why he’s the one looking out for my daughter, and whether that means there’s something to our relationship you can’t tread on.”
“You all looked so happy together,” Alisha said quietly. “So ordinary, and that’s not meant as an insult. I wonder what happened to that, yeah.”
“It started out as a cover. For MI-5, not the Infitialis. I suppose if you throw any two people like us together in a sham marriage you discover whether it works or not. It worked for us. It was quite wonderful.” Emma’s eyebrows flicked upward and she smiled at the distance, but then spread one hand. “And in time the assignment was over and we had different jobs to pursue. We tried to stay together for a while, but we discovered we only worked in close proximity to one another. Absence,” she said with another brief smile, “made the heart go wander. Frank is Mazie’s legal guardian if anything happens to me, but our affair ended years ago. I have no excuse at all for sniping at you when we met.”
“Neither do I,” Alisha said. “Frank and I ended even longer ago than you and he did.” She tilted her head, then offered a hand. “I’m not sure friendship can be built by offering the word, but—comrades in arms, at least?”
Emma clasped Alisha’s hand momentarily, inclining her head. “Comrades in arms, indeed. I need to find a phone, Alisha.”
“I’d bring you to my apartment, but.” Alisha shrugged, leaving the obvious unsaid as she sat up. “This is Washington DC. The
re must still be pay phones around somewhere. What kind of papers do you have access to?”
“I need papers to make a phone call?”
Alisha crooked a smile. “You need papers to get on the plane. Nothing personal, but I’ll feel better with you out of Greg’s line of sight.” She hesitated. “How’d they nab you?”
“They came out of nowhere.” Emma sounded bewildered and angry. “I must have slipped somewhere, but I’ve been going over it in my mind for the last ten hours. I can’t figure out where I made the mistake. But it was so clean and fast they had to have known I was there. I didn’t see anybody tailing me, and thought I had spots on all of Nichole’s security.” She took a breath and amended, “Cristina’s. I don’t know what name to call her by.”
“A few choice ones come to mind.” Alisha got to her feet, offering Emma a hand up. “You believe the Romanov story?”
“Do you?” Emma grunted and came to her feet, looking down a few inches at Alisha, who huffed faint amusement as she turned away to head for the mall’s edge and hail a cab.
“I wish I didn’t. Cris used to say she was royalty in a previous life.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone whose former incarnations included sheep farmers,” Emma said dryly. “It’s always Cleopatra and Charlemagne.”
“I had a boyfriend in college who’d been told he was a cattle thief in a previous life,” Alisha said absently. She lifted a hand, failing to stop a taxi, and stepped off the curb to better get someone’s attention. “I wish I could trust him as far as I could throw him,” she added in a mutter.
