Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"Is there a direct line of contact?" Scott asked.

"I'm not certain I understand your question."

He adjusted his glasses, trying to find a way to rephrase. "Say someone at the CIA decided to bring Oxford in, to use him for this job, to kill you and Atticus and Havel. Is that person the same one who actually made contact with Oxford, negotiated the deal, things like that?"

She started shaking her head. "No, no, that would not happen. In a private contract, yes, A hires me to kill C, and either A hires me directly, or A uses a contact, B, and B hires me. But that can be traced back. With a government job one thing is universal – there is always insulation. The person or persons who gave Oxford the job, who have set up the accounts with which to pay him, they will not be the same people who decided to hire Oxford in the first place."

"So how do you find the source, where it started?"

"You don't. You can't."

Scott looked over to me, then to Natalie, then back to Alena. "I can't accept that."

"Agent Fowler, that has nothing to do with anything," Alena said. "We are not talking about a hiring that started with an individual. We are talking about a decision of policy. Oxford will be funded until he completes the job. Or until he becomes more of a liability than an asset to the people who wish to use him."

"And he becomes a liability when?"

She smiled. "When he allows a book to be written about him."

It got laughs from both Scott and Natalie, and it made her smile a little brighter.

"Is that the only way?" Scott asked.

"There are others. If Oxford were to begin blowing up buildings in Manhattan, if he began killing people without due caution, if his behavior became erratic, the contracting party would have to sever the relationship. Anything that would cause them embarrassment, that would do it, if used properly. The information I have given you will have the same effect."

Scott scribbled quickly on his pad, then looked at me. "How embarrassing would it be if you paid a visit to Gracey and Bowles?"

"Depends how we did it," I said. "If I contact them and ask for a meeting, they're likely to say sure, how about someplace dark and deserted at four in the morning, and why don't you bring that lovely lady friend of yours. And then they'd tell Oxford where to expect me."

"But if I contact them, ask to meet, and you arrive with me?"

"That'll give them pause."

"And then we tell them that we know about, say, the prime minister of Moldova, or a certain military officer in Africa."

Alena coughed softly. "That is precisely what you should do."

"The result being they'd leave you two alone?" Scott asked.

"Ideally."

"Is that likely?"

"They will stop. Whether or not Oxford will, too, that is another matter entirely. Either way, it would force an action."

"What kind of action?" Natalie asked.

"They might cancel the contract, call him off altogether. They might put the operation on hold, although that seems less likely. They might attempt to buy Atticus off, bring him into the fold, encourage him to sell me out. There are any number of choices."

"I won't sell," I said.

She looked at her crutches propped against the table. "I know."

When Scott's cup had been emptied for the seventh time, I refilled it from the pot and then set another to brew. The smell of the coffee was strong, just a little burnt, and I was surprised that I didn't want any. Alena and Scott were still talking, and I was feeling stiff after all the sitting, so I headed down the hall to the foot of the stairs, where I used the banister as a makeshift barre and did some stretching. Natalie came and shut the door from the kitchen, leaned against the wall, watching me. She tried to stifle a yawn.

"You can go to sleep," I told her.

"Not quite yet." She rubbed her eyes. "What is that, ballet?"

"Yeah."

"She taught you ballet?"

"No, that would have taken eight or nine years."

"Russian school," she noted.

"Well, obviously."

"I took lessons when I was a kid." Natalie moved from the wall around to the stairs, sat down on the third step, still watching me. I went through a couple more motions, trying to get loose. The ballet wasn't as effective as yoga, but it helped. "Bridgett said you'd gone diesel. I didn't believe it until I saw you."

"Is diesel a bad thing?"

"Hell, no." She tapped my hand where it rested on the banister, getting me to look at her. "So, are you going to tell me what's going on between you two?"

"Me and Bridgett?"

"I've got the you-and-Bridgett part figured pretty well. The defining moment was when she blew into my office and called you a brainwashed fool and a fuckin' son of a bitch, to boot."

"She'll divorce you, too, she finds out you're helping me."

"Maybe so, but she's probably more inclined to cut me slack."

"Meaning she'd call you a fool and omit the brainwashed part."

"That's my thinking. So talk to me about you and Alena."

I stopped stretching. "It's kind of like working with you, actually."

"I think I'm flattered." She cocked her head. "Is that all?"

I sighed. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm sleeping with her?"

"I'm not sure everyone does. I don't. I didn't. But if I had, it would be because you're a heterosexual male who has never showed an aversion to sex, and who spent a large amount of time with a not-unattractive woman who conceivably held a position of great power over you. And because it's not beyond the realm of possibility. And because I have a dirty mind."

I leaned both hands on the banister, looking at Natalie past the supports. "You put it like that, I'm wondering why I didn't."

"Because you were involved with someone when you left. And because it would have been icky."

"Both true. Bridgett didn't seem willing to get that far, though."

"It's probably easier for her to believe that you've fallen for Alena than for her to accept that you changed of your own free will. And the fact is, you cheated on her once."

"That was your fault, you tempted me with your feminine wiles," I said.

"Well, you know, when I'm drunk off my ass I'm extremely seductive."

"Bridgett said that I'd fallen for her?"

"Not in so many words. But the brainwashing comment and the repeated references to Patty Hearst made it clear to me that she wanted to believe you were a victim rather than a participant, that you'd been manipulated emotionally."

"And what do you think?"

"I actually don't think you've changed that much," Natalie said. "I'm in the minority, but I think I know you pretty well. You've always tilted at windmills. You know what's funny?"

"What's funny?" I asked.

"I like her, too," Natalie said. "I know who she is and what she's done, I spent three hours this morning with her discussing wind shear and ballistic drop, the relative merits of bolt versus semiautomatic rifles, and I had a thoroughly enjoyable time. It's not just that I like her, it's that she's likable. Why is that?"

"She wants to be liked."

"Yeah, but why?"

"I don't know. It could be psychological. From what she's said, I expect a large portion of her childhood was spent seeking approval from adults who rarely gave it. Oxford was almost the same way, though he didn't seem to want me to like him, so much as to understand where he was coming from. He wouldn't shut up once he got rolling. These are people who don't have many honest interactions, who every time they speak to someone, they're always calculating a result or an angle. I'd think it's pretty liberating to just be able to say what's on your mind."

She chewed her lower lip for a couple of seconds, and then the door from the kitchen opened and Alena came through on her crutches.