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One: Angelica

I am Angelica. Now and always.

************

Two: The Bridge

In the dream, I am walking through a thick, damp fog that seems to wrap the streetlights in wet gauze, dimming their glow to pale, fuzzy haloes that dot the narrow street and bridge ahead. Eerily, the fog doesn’t muffle sound the way it does light; instead, it seems to capture it and somehow enhance it before throwing it back to me. My boot heels clock out a steady, ringing pace. I can also hear a second set of steps, softer than mine, but just as clear. There is a man, some twenty paces behind me, who believes he is following me. He wears sensible rubber-soled shoes and a dark trench coat. He is unaware that he is being led into a trap.

Ahead of me, the mist swirls and parts for a stray finger of breeze coming off the river. Beneath one of the hazy streetlights on the narrow bridge, I see the pale gleam of light on metal. There is an unmarked van parked there, a silver-gray vehicle that seems almost to be made of the fog itself. At the sight of it, my heart begins to thump heavily in my chest. The bitter and metallic taste of fear fills my mouth. Inside the van crouches violence and death, patiently waiting for me to bring forth the victim. When the man behind me reaches a certain place on the bridge, the rear doors will be thrown open and the three assassins inside will spill out, swift and lethal. My instructions are to keep walking and not look back. On the other side of the bridge, my life will be waiting for me. I need only keep walking while the inevitable events behind me unfold. If I do as I’m told, I will emerge from this night unscathed.

No, not unscathed. Not entirely. I realize now that even if I don’t look back to see the man in the trench coat take the bullet, I will still hear his footsteps falter, or stumble. I will hear the gasp of air leaving his lungs for the last time. I will hear the sound he makes as he crumples to the street, the crack of his skull against the paving stones. It will be over in three seconds, perhaps two. Then I will hear the sound of the van doors latching shut, the motor purring to life, the van gliding away into the fog. And then there will be only the sound of my own footsteps, continuing on, undisturbed.

Nine paces to go. The sound of my heartbeat seems loud in my ears; I can feel the pulse beating heavily in my throat. Eight more steps and my part will be done, my future secure, my brother free.

The man behind me is closing the distance between us. Ahead and to my left, I can see the van clearly now.

Six more steps, and I will be on my way to Heathrow, back to the United States, with Sophia in my arms, Dylan at my side. I’ll explain things to Brian. All will be as it was.

Three more steps and I will never answer to the name “Angelica” again.

Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, but my brain suddenly begins to collect minute visual data: the oily-looking sheen of the street in the lamplight, the shadows cast by the bridge’s railings, the rising of the mist from the river below.

Two more steps, then this nightmare will be over.

And I will be an accomplice to murder.

The back doors of the van begin to swing open in silent slow motion. For some reason, I am no longer hearing the sounds around me; it is as if all of my brain is completely focused on making sure my eyes record every detail of what is happening. Yet some part of me—rebellious, independent of the event—causes me to spin, a shout of warning on my lips before I am even aware of what I am doing.

The man in the trench coat hesitates, surprised. He is caught off-guard and freezes in alarm. Our eyes meet, his narrowed with suspicion and confusion, mine wide, dilated in fear. I see his mouth form words I cannot hear. It is too late. The van doors finish their wide arc, spilling forth dark-clad assassins armed with automatic weapons. The night erupts in violence around us.

The guns have silencers; I hear nothing, but I see the muzzle flashes, feel the velocity of bullets parting the air around me. Instinctively, I drop to a crouch. The man in the trench coat dives to one side with unexpected grace. Two of the gunmen from the van race by me as their victim hits the ground rolling. Amazingly, he springs to his feet. I know there is a third killer somewhere; I turn my head to place him. Everything is moving with the slow distortion of an underwater ballet. Before I can spot the third man, there is a sudden heavy blow to my right shoulder, knocking my legs out from under me. I sprawl face-first on the pavement, which is moisture-slick and cold. Before I can comprehend what has happened, there is a second blow to my thigh, this one burning sharp and hot, like a hornet’s sting. The sensation blossoms quickly into a red haze of pure pain. There is warm liquid spreading beneath me; my leg is consumed with fiery agony. Frightened, I lift my head off the pavement; my vision swims then clears. The man in the trench coat lies about fifteen feet away. For a moment, he seems to be looking straight at me. His eyes are open, but he is unmoving. Then I realize that he is dead. Tendrils of fog drift between us, and he disappears from my sight.

I lay stunned, conscious only of the terrible pain in my thigh and shoulder. Then I hear footsteps approaching. My head is suddenly wrenched upward by my hair. A hard black boot comes out of nowhere and slams into my belly, driving the breath from me in an explosive rush of agony. My body curls protectively around the pain; I retch helplessly. My safe conduct is forfeit, but that particular pain has yet to register.

“Killer,” says a disembodied voice from above, only the words are really “Kill her”, the ‘h’ disappearing within the lilt of a slight Irish accent. I’m not afraid; I am hurting so much that the order seems like a good idea.

“No, get ‘er up an’ take ‘er to ‘Ennigan,” comes the reply, and now the fear floods in, eclipsing any pain.

I’m terrified enough to struggle briefly and earn a punch in the face. My nose spurts blood, and I can’t help it, I begin to cry. Not so much from pain as from fear. The first realizations are stirring. The enormity of what I’ve done is a crushing weight on my chest.

“Aye, yea’ve somethin’ to cry about, y’ stupid bitch,” comes a third voice, almost conversationally. This gunman crouches before me, his hand tangled tightly in my hair. “Yea’ve just killed the ‘ole family, ‘aven’t yea?”

My left eye is swelling shut, and I try to focus the right one on the man leering at me. Acid hate burns the back of my throat. Summoning energy I don’t possess for such a futile gesture, I spit at him, a wad of blood and phlegm that, miraculously, hits him directly in the face. With a vicious curse, he draws back his fist; I wince against the coming blow…

I usually wake up just before the part where he breaks my cheekbone. Sitting bolt upright and gasping, cold sweat trickles down my back and between my breasts. Shivering, I reach up and touch the now-reconstructed bones of my face. I search my thigh for the small puckered scar left by the bullet that broke my femur. The physical scars remind me that I was once someone else: someone with a soul, a life, a family. I rarely think of that other life anymore, but it comes to me in dreams, vivid fragments of a former existence. In the beginning, I would wake thinking I could actually smell the scent of baby powder and milk. My arms remembered the feel of holding a child against my breast. My heart was still tender in those early days, and it ached.

But it’s been a long time since I felt that way.

*************

Three: Assignment

I handed the gun to Walter. “You were right,” I told him, “it was perfect.”

He scowled at me, reminding me once again of the folly in arguing with the master about the right weapon for the job. But I smiled at him, amazed as always when his expression softened slightly and he winked surreptitiously at me. Even after six years, I have not yet gotten used to the power of the new face Section One has given me. Before, when I was known as Devon McBride, I suppose I was attractive in my own girl-next-door kind of way. But the operative Angelica is much more than pretty; she is stunningly beautiful. I can say that without conceit, because as Angelica, I am simply a creation of modern medical technology. Devon had clear, fair skin; it now stretches smoothly over exquisitely sculpted cheekbones. Her nose was slightly upturned; Angelica’s is delicate and perfectly aquiline. The rounded chin has been refined; the once-oval face is now heart-shaped. The cap of silky black curls that Devon wore has grown into a long mantle of shining waves that I usually wear pulled back into a tight French twist or braid. While Section’s medlab couldn’t do much to alter my height or slender build, a regimen of intense training and conditioning has given me the lithe figure and compact strength of a professional dancer or aerobics instructor. Only Devon’s eyes—large, clear, gray—still look back at me when I see Angelica’s stunning face in the mirror. I never ceased to be astonished by my own reflection or people’s reaction to what I consider a manufactured beauty. But, like Walter’s skill with weaponry, it serves its purpose for Section One.

“Madeline wants to see you,” Walter reminded me as he unhooked the com set I’d had hidden beneath my kevlar vest and helped me shrug out of the bulletproof garment. I nodded and left him examining the equipment I had just turned in.

On my way to Madeline’s office, I passed Birkoff, who glanced at me and then swiftly away when I cast him an alluring smile. I saw the tips of his elfin ears redden and I ducked my head to hide my amusement. For a prodigy, he is refreshingly ingenuous, and I never can resist teasing him. He, like many of the operatives, is uncomfortable around me, but I don’t mind. I learned long ago not to seek companionship among my peers. Since my induction into Section One, I have disassociated myself from those personality traits of Devon McBride’s which I discovered to be counterproductive to my efficiency as an operative. Specifically, her emotional availability—and therefore vulnerability—proved to be especially troublesome. Fortunately, I was given all the tools necessary to successfully complete my detachment from that former existence. Not that there was ever really any alternative.

When I entered Madeline’s office, I was surprised to find Michael Samuell there. Michael was my mentor for the first six months I was in training. We worked well together; in fact, Michael had been instrumental in my making a successful transition from a shattered existence to one with some sense of purpose and order. The months I spent in the medlab being physically overhauled were just a preliminary to the reconditioning of my mind and intellect. During the time I spent as Michael’s material, I absorbed a great deal of his philosophy and learned to conduct myself by his example. Then suddenly, I was reassigned to another senior operative, with whom I completed the remainder of recruit training. The reason I was given—as if I needed one—was that our personalities were not “analogous.” Later Madeline admitted to me that we are actually two of a kind, too much alike. In any event, I’d had very little contact with him since.

He acknowledged my presence by rising from his seat as I entered Madeline’s office, waiting for me to sit down before he followed suit. I smiled politely at him and turned my attention to Section One’s most powerful woman.

“We have an assignment for you,” Madeline announced without preamble. “You’ll work as a team on this one.”

Although I continued to regard her without surprise or comment, I was immediately alert. Most of my assignments come directly from Operations. I am something of a “covert” covert, if you will, usually deployed separately into an existing mission in order to execute an independent directive that may be primary or secondary to the overt mission. On occasion, it involves cancellation of an operative who is in abeyance, and it is made to appear that the operative met his or her end in pursuit of mission objectives. What I do is especially dangerous, even by Section One standards. For obvious reasons, no other operative is aware of my utilization in this capacity. None, that is, except Michael.

Some time ago, I discovered that Michael has also performed similar functions for Section. Consequently, Operations and Madeline have kept our contact limited, I assume to prevent us from forming any sort of affinity for each other. At some point, it is conceivable that one of us will be placed in abeyance. An attachment between us could then prove to be…disconcerting. Since my initial training with him, I had never been assigned to one of Michael’s teams. This was definitely an unusual assignment. But the peculiarities didn’t end there.

“Naturally, you’ll be briefed per usual procedure.” Madeline tilted her head slightly and gave me a warm, confiding smile. I braced myself mentally, familiar with her habit of imparting shocking or unpleasant news with an air of well-intentioned intimacy. “You’ll be interested to know, Angelica, that this particular mission will take you back to New York.”

There have been many occasions since becoming an operative when being in complete control of my reactions has served me well. This was one of those times. Projecting a relaxed confidence I was far from feeling, I simply nodded as pleasantly as if she had informed I might enjoy the opportunity to get in some shopping. In truth I was more shaken than I would have believed possible. I had never been deployed on a New York mission, and there was a reason: it was the last known address of one Finn Hennigan. It was also the city where Devon McBride had lived…and died.

But while I am skilled at deception, Madeline is a master in the art of observation. She wasn’t fooled by my nonchalance.

“Would you like to discuss your feelings about going back?” Not ‘Do you have feelings’, I noticed. The implication was that she knew this would be an issue for me. Michael’s presence indicated that he had asked her this very question. Now they were both studying me for a response.

My operative status is Level Five, and I hid a sudden flare of resentment at being so obviously tested.

“I would be happy to discuss my feelings on the subject, except for the fact that I have none,” I replied in a placid tone. I added, “Although I do appreciate your concern.”

Madeline exchanged a glance with Michael and her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, an indication of what passed, for her, as amusement. She saw past the polite neutrality to the underlying sarcasm, but accepted the fact that I was determined to maintain my composure. It was enough to assure her that I would be able to overcome any misgivings or temptations involved with going home again.

“Very well. You’re to leave tonight, I believe. Perhaps we can talk again when you’ve returned.”

Michael was apparently satisfied as well. “I’ll see you at the briefing,” he said, getting to his feet and exiting the office with his usual silent, gliding stride.

I rose to leave as well, but Madeline’s voice stopped me in the doorway.

“You don’t seem curious about the fact that you’ve been paired with Michael.” She was watching me carefully, but then, that was her job.

I turned to face her. “Should I be?” I asked, as if the idea had just occurred to me.

“It’s unusual.”

“Yes.”

She seemed about to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. The attractive, confidential smile appeared again. She inclined her head slightly. “Good luck with the mission, Angelica.”

I met her omniscient gaze squarely. “Thank you.”

My mind was racing as I proceeded directly to the briefing room. Something was going on and it wasn’t the usual twisted protocol. Why the hell was I being sent to New York with Michael? I wondered frantically if I had been placed in abeyance. For what, I couldn’t imagine, but, of course, cancelled operatives never can. Yet no one ever retires from Section, either. Still, it didn’t make sense. I was at the height of my performance level, only thirty-one, in the physical condition of a woman ten years younger. I had never made a major error and hadn’t missed a mission objective by so much as a single point in longer than I could recall. I had been accorded all the privileges of a Level Five operative, but not once had I taken advantage of the fact. Unlike some I could name, who—

The thought stopped me literally in my tracks, as an unpleasant possibility occurred to me. Michael? I wondered, stunned.

In spite of Operations’ vision of Section as an inanimate, well-oiled machine constructed to maintain order in the free world, he couldn’t change the fact that the inner workings of the mechanism were comprised of many frail and individual parts: human beings. As such, Section was rife with innumerable factors particular to the human condition. Not the least of these included personal involvement between operatives and the inevitable fallout of these liaisons: gossip.

I had, of course, heard the rumors of Michael and the operative Nikita. I had even on occasion witnessed a number of brief vignettes which when considered separately were meaningless, but viewed as a whole and combined with locker-room intel, seemed to indicate evidence of a relationship that might not be viewed as being in the best interest of Section One. More recently, there were rumors of a rift between the two of them, something about Michael’s having a wife and child as part of a mission. I also knew that Nikita had been involved in something that had earned her the very real animosity of Operations, which put her in an extremely vulnerable position. But like anything not directly related to my mission objectives, I did not consider these issues as matters for my concern. Until now. What if Michael’s involvement with Nikita was about to lead to his cancellation, at my very own hands?

I had never eliminated an operative that I did not feel had brought about their own destruction. But in this instance, I felt real distaste for the possibility of such an assignment. Michael was a superb operative and a valuable member of Section’s staff. While I had not personally developed any sort of feelings for him, I knew that a majority of his material had. I won’t say that I admired the man, either; how, after all, can you admire a trained killer, even if you yourself are one? I did, however, acknowledge a great deal of respect for the traits that made him an asset to Section: his discipline, his competence, his unparalleled focus. I aspired to these things myself, and used his level of commitment as a tool by which I measured my own achievements. And yet, he was just a man, prey to the minor foibles and small failures that made him mortal. In spite of the hearsay about his association with Nikita, Michael remained an icon among Section’s operatives, a shining example of what could be pulled from the wreckage of a collapsed existence. It isn’t the sort of life one strives for if given alternatives, but it remains the lesser of two evils: survive within Section’s parameters or die.

Now it seemed I was being given another sort of Hobson’s choice: cancel Section’s messiah or die. By the time I resumed my route to the briefing room, I was filled with trepidation. I had yet to shrink from any order I'd been given as a Section operative, and I wasn’t about to start now. But for the first time in my career, I hoped my instincts on this one were wrong.

*************

Four: Briefing

I encountered Birkoff just outside the entrance to the briefing room. Distracted, I forgot to torment him with my usual seductive teasing. Relieved—or perhaps emboldened—by this deficiency on my part, the precocious young analyst actually spoke to me.

“They’re waiting inside for you,” he remarked--rather inanely, I thought, for one with his IQ.

I halted and looked at him with some puzzlement. “Aren’t you presenting the graphics and intel for the briefing?”

He shook his head. “I’ve just set up the devices for Operations; he’ll present via remote.”

“Why?”

Birkoff shrugged. “Classified material.”

I frowned. “Everything’s classified, Birkoff, and you’re the one who feeds it to us.”

“Not at this level,” he replied, “I don’t have that kind of clearance.”

What kind of clearance? I wondered, my anxiety clicking up a notch. I saw Birkoff watching me, a mixture of wariness and anticipation evident in his guileless expression. Belatedly recalling the unspoken covenant between us, I tilted my head forward and slanted him a smoldering look from beneath my lashes.

“Birkoff,” I purred, “have you been working out?”

He colored with embarrassment, but instead of turning and fleeing as I had expected, he answered me with self-consciousness chagrin. “Um…well…I don’t really have the time...”

“Then it can be only one thing,” I confided in a silky voice, “you must be a natural hunk!”

And to emphasize my point, I moved closer and squeezed one wiry bicep. Behind the tinted spectacles, I saw his eyes widen with incredulous alarm, and he back-pedaled away from me awkwardly, arms practically wind-milling as he retreated. I feinted a step in his direction before he whirled and proceeded with undue haste back toward the sanctuary of Systems.

I watched him make his escape, suddenly aware that instead of enjoying the usual cruel amusement at his expense, I felt a sort of wistful tenderness toward the painfully shy young man who would in all likelihood never experience the kind of first love known by normal people his age. Whatever he might find in Section would be nothing more than a substitute for the real thing.

I allow myself to interact only briefly and casually with a few of the staff, mostly Birkoff and Walter, but it never goes outside of Section, and it never interferes with my objectivity about them or my ability to manipulate them to my ends, if need be. The only reason I permit this lapse in an otherwise solitary existence is that I believe, deep down, that Birkoff and Walter are what they seem: genuinely friendly, artless, and for the most part, honest. But the angst of Birkoff’s pilgrimage into manhood was no match that day against my carefully honed aptitude for indifference, and I banished him immediately from my mind.

I entered the briefing room to find Michael and an obviously impatient Operations awaiting my arrival. No one else was present.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Ops spoke in a clipped, icy manner that conveyed disapproval. It was his normal tone, actually. I didn’t bother to reply, but seated myself next to Michael once again. With an irritated movement, Operations lifted his remote and snapped a holographic image into existence. A man’s face appeared out of thin air, accompanied by a familiar-looking personnel jacket. I realized at once that it was a Section One operative file.

“Thomas Leisher,” Operations barked by way of introduction. “He’s one of ours, a Level Five operative with twenty years in. He’s been stationed with one of our North American cells for the past five years and intel indicates he is on the verge of defection.”

A click of the remote and the file resolved itself into a photograph of an attractive-looking woman in her late forties. “Barbara Leisher,” Operations announced, “the wife. Leisher has reestablished contact. Naturally, he was presumed dead upon his recruitment with us, but it appears Mrs. Leisher never remarried, and chose to raise their children on her own.”

The director clicked through a series of snapshots showing Mrs. Leisher and her children in chronological order, up to a college graduation photo that showed Barbara beaming proudly from a position between her son and daughter. The last frame was a grainy black-and-white surveillance shot of Mrs. Leisher, wearing a scarf and dark glasses, embracing Thomas as they stood near the entrance of an automotive garage.

“This photo was taken less than a week ago in New Jersey. In the past couple of weeks, Leisher has been lobbying his superiors for a mission assignment in the New York area.” Operations pinned his wintry blue eyes on mine. “I don’t have to remind you that New York City has been a prime destination for defecting operatives over the years. The reasons are obvious: unlimited egress options, an abundance of resources, contacts, and safe houses. It has the single-most diverse ethnic, religious, economic, and criminal element on the North American continent, the perfect place to hide in plain sight. And if it can’t be bought in New York City, it can’t be bought, period.”

“Source of funds?” Michael asked, zeroing in on the primary factor in determining how far and how fast our guy could proceed. I nodded. Cutting off Leisher’s financing would cut off his retreat, and we could possibly flush him into the open by setting up a false cover and offering a large cash settlement in exchange for Section intel.

“There’s an offshore account in the Caymans, fifty thousand dollars in diverted street bills.”

“Sounds like a ruse,” I advised. “Fifty grand is hardly adequate for this type of move. He wouldn’t have reestablished contact with home until he could afford to finance his own escape as well as his family’s safe conduct.”

Michael concurred. “He’s Section; he’ll know to have a ready cash supply.”

“We’re tracing any recent large diversions or transactions now, but it doesn’t look promising. Leisher has had twenty years to plan and cover his tracks. So we’re giving him what he wants: an assignment in New York, involving an arms deal being conducted by a small import company out of Brooklyn. We’re not sure who the buyer is, but we are certain that he plans to resell to the IRA.”

At the mention of the Irish dissident group, Operations flicked another piercing glance in my direction, which I calmly returned, in spite of my growing concern. My original suspicions that this mission was to include a hit on Michael were beginning to waver somewhat. There were an alarming number of coincidences piling up in the room, or I was becoming extremely paranoid. Maybe both. But it wasn’t my imagination that I was being faced with a mission located on what was for me sacred ground, and that it involved both an operative trying to reunite with his family and the possibility of IRA connections. Anyone who had read my personnel file would immediately see that I had no business on this mission. And yet here I was. How did Michael fit in?

“We’re going to deploy the overt team on short notice,” Ops went on to explain. “We want Leisher as unprepared as possible. During the prevention of the arms deal, you’ll take him out. Then the wife.”

I accepted this stoically, expecting Michael to do the same. Canceling innocents was distasteful in the extreme, but in some instances, such as this, it was unavoidable. There was no way of knowing how much intel Leisher had shared with his wife. He knew the risk and chose to involve his family anyway. It was requisite procedure; Section couldn’t take the chance.

I was surprised, then, when Michael spoke up. “I don’t believe it’s necessary. We can arrange an…interview instead, to determine if Leisher has compromised us.”

Operations gave him a withering look, and his reply was like a lash. “And if he has, the result will be the same. We can save ourselves some time and risk by taking aggressive counter measures with the woman. It will also send a rather succinct message to other operatives to think twice before attempting a similar stunt. I’ll expect to see the appropriate plans in your mission profile, Michael.”

Michael stared at the director for a long moment before averting his eyes straight ahead. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed. Probably neither.

“Of course,” was all he said.

“Dismissed!” Operations spat, flicking off the remote and stalking from the room.

I risked a glance at Michael, who stood and buttoned his jacket with one hand, looking unperturbed. He started toward the door.

“Michael?”

He paused, his face a polite mask as he turned toward me.

“You’ve read my file,” I reminded him.

“Yes.”

I hesitated, wondering if he remembered. If not, I felt he should know.

“You know about…Hennigan. He’s in New York.”

“I know.” His expression didn’t change one iota.

“You know about the IRA? And me, I mean.” It was harder than I had anticipated, and of course Michael had no intention of helping me out on this. In fact, he made no reply, but merely waited for me to finish what I had to say.

I got right to the point. “If you’re uncomfortable with my assignment on this mission, now is the time to say so. I think any reservations you might have would be…understandable.”

“Are you going to defect?” he asked me bluntly.

For the first time in many years, I was caught off guard. My jaw dropped slightly, but I snapped it shut before replying, “Of course not!”

“Then I have no reservations,” he replied with quiet assurance, and walked away, leaving me to stare after him in frozen disbelief.

Four hours later, I was on my way to New York City.

************

Five: Ingress

The flight seemed interminable. During preparation, I kept expecting a summons from Operations or Madeline. I couldn’t believe the mission was as straightforward as they were making it sound. It was a simple operation, and there was no reason whatsoever to involve Michael, much less me. I finally decided it must be some type of test Section was conducting on me. Perhaps I was being considered for a Level Six position and it was necessary to evaluate my emotional commitment to Section One. In spite of feeling jumpy and at odds with the mission, I vowed my performance would be flawless. I would do so well that I’d make even Michael look like a trainee. And if word came to cancel him, I’d do it in a heartbeat. No mistakes. There was something going on here and I had no intention of getting caught in the middle.

A well-developed instinct for survival is one of the things Section looks for when choosing recruits.

Michael and I arrived in New York City through customs as Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Eissenwein of Austria. We had traveled in near silence, which suited us both. But after we caught a cab to take us into the city from JFK, Michael turned to me and spoke.

“You’re home.”

I looked sharply at him. His expression was unfathomable, his eyes cool and clear as an undisturbed pool of rainwater. A flare of resentment leapt hotly within me, but I tamped it down with grim determination. He was testing me. After all, I had initially been his material. It was natural for him to wonder if I deserved the reputation of being made in his image.

I looked out the window at the familiar view. New York had not changed appreciably in the last six years, it seemed. I, however, had.

“No, I’m not,” I replied after a long pause. I smiled at him, using that weapon I had privately dubbed The Angelica Smile: slow, enigmatic, sexy. Mona Lisa had nothing on this one. “My home is with Section now.” I said it with a straight face and firm conviction.

He simply looked at me. I owed him one.

“A lot of the operatives are from here originally,” I remarked innocently. “I heard Nikita was also from New York.” It was a lie; I had no idea where she was from.

Not a muscle in his face twitched, but a ripple disturbed the surface of the glacial pools in his eyes. I felt a brief stab of triumph. Disapproval radiated from Michael in icy, invisible waves. I met his glare with a challenging one of my own. After all, he’d drawn first blood with that comment about being home. If he was going to toy with me about my past, then I could certainly taunt him with the fact that his clandestine alliance with Nikita wasn’t such a secret after all. The challenge shimmered between us, unspoken and unmistakable. After a moment, Michael glanced away, acknowledging a truce, but not before I caught the tiniest crooking of his mouth. Was it black humor, I wondered, or bitterness? Either way, it bothered me. I wasn’t prepared to play mind games with Michael on this mission. There was too much irregularity about it already.

We didn’t speak again until we arrived at the hotel. It was modest, not the kind of hotel to attract much attention. Mostly tourists stayed there, which suited our cover perfectly. Since we were posing as a couple, I was not surprised to find that our room held only a kingsize bed in the way of sleeping accomodations.

Once in the room, Michael swept it for bugs and surveillance before he made contact with Birkoff. Expecting to receive immediate orders, I was surprised when Birkoff informed us that we had been placed on official standby. I experienced a twinge of alarm.

“Standby?” I asked suspiciously after Michael had signed off. “I thought the profile indicated we were to begin surveillance on Barbara Leisher right away.”

“A change in plans,” Michael replied with studied indifference.

I stared hard at him, but he seemed oblivious. “So what are we supposed to do instead?”

He shrugged out of his black coat and went to hang it neatly in the wardrobe. “Relax.”

“Relax,” I repeated flatly. None of this was making sense. What the hell was going on? Was I going to be cancelled? But there was no point in questioning Michael. You can’t get blood—or intel—from a stone.

Michael opened a drawer in one of the bedside tables, pulled out a laminated room service menu and tossed it to me. “Order some dinner,” he instructed.

I tossed it back. “I’m not your maid; order it yourself.”

He caught it almost without looking. “Fine,” he replied, unperturbed. “What would you like?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“We’re on standby for the next six hours. You need to eat and you need to sleep. There may not be time for either later.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” I threw myself onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. I did not want to remain in New York for an additional six hours. I had prepared myself to come in, complete the mission, and get out. This delay was going to give me too much time to think, and the idea of what thoughts might come worried me just a little.

“Sophia,” Michael said, and I whipped my head around to stare at him.

“What did you say?” I demanded, the blood beginning to roar in my ears.

He gave me a strange look. “I said, ‘so be it’. If you don’t want to eat, suit yourself.” He picked up the phone to dial room service. “Just don’t turn on the television,” he warned, “I dislike watching television.”

“So do I,” I replied vaguely, confused by the incident that had just occurred. The unease I felt about the mission was increasing, and I forced myself to try and relax.

As it turned out, Michael ordered dinner for me anyway: herbed roast chicken and a salad, at which I picked listlessly. By the time the remains of our meal were cleared away, it was nearly midnight. We sat in silence, Michael checking and cleaning his weapon while I flipped restlessly through a magazine I’d purchased in the lobby. I flicked through the pages mechanically, not seeing the pictures or reading the text. When I tossed it aside with an impatient gesture, Michael tucked his perfectly oiled gun in the shoulder holster he was wearing and went to lie on the kingsize bed that dominated the room. With a sigh, I joined him and we lay side by side, fully clothed and armed. Michael set his watch alarm to wake him in four hours for a check-in with Birkoff, and turned off the bedside light. Then he seemed to fall asleep instantly.

I lay next to him, listening to the deep, even rhythm of his breathing. Outside the windows, the sounds of the city continued as if it were midday and not midnight. Traffic, mostly, and the occasional shout of someone hailing a cab. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the elevated trains as they rushed people from one part of the restless city to the next. New York requires thousands of nighttime workers to keep its lifeblood pumping through to the dawn, and the subways never stop. I felt the ghost of Devon stirring, aroused by the proximity of her past. I threw an arm over my eyes, trying to block out the memories. There was a strange pressure in my chest and behind my eyes.

“I am Angelica,” I whispered into the darkened room. “Now and always

***********

Six: Devon

This dream was different. ‘One more step and I will be an accomplice to murder’, I thought, and I spun around, screaming a warning. Too late, I saw the man in the trench coat was my brother Dylan. He dove to one side, graceful as a dancer, rolled, leapt to his feet. But as he regained his balance, his chest bloomed in a spray of blood and he crumpled to the street. I tried to run to him, but the bullet to my shoulder blade knocked me down. I winced against the expected pain of the next bullet, which would hit my thigh and break the bone. But the shot never came. Confused, I glanced over my shoulder, wondering why the assassin did not fire. But there was no assassin behind me, only a little girl of five or six, and she had a gun in her hand.

“You killed Dylan,” she said in a soft, anguished voice. Her face was lovely and sad. “You killed my Daddy, too.” She walked toward me, and I could see she had her father’s dark, expressive eyes.

“Sophie!” I called to her, extending my uninjured arm. For some reason, I couldn’t move my legs to go to her. “Bring me the gun, sweetheart! I need the gun!”

But the child dropped the Luger with a clatter and turned away from me, head hanging in sorrow. To my horror, I saw one of the assassins moving in on her with swift and deadly intent.

“Sophie!” I screamed, “Run! Baby, run!”

Instead, she turned to face me with great, tear-filled eyes, oblivious to the gunman bearing down on her, his weapon raised to fire. “You killed everyone, Mommy,” she said in a reproaching tone...

I shrieked in helpless terror as the assassin’s night scope illuminated a tiny red dot of light on the child’s temple. A scream ripped from my throat with the force of a gunshot, “NOOOO!!!!”

“Angelica!”

Rough hands, shaking me awake, pulling me out of the nightmare with merciful swiftness. I reacted instinctively to being touched by jerking away and rolling off the bed. I landed in a crouch, my gun already in my hand, only to find it aimed blindly at Michael’s face. His hands were raised, palms out, to show me he was unarmed, but his expression was tense and alert. I realized I was holding my breath, and I sucked in a lungful of air with an explosive gasp. Icy sweat trickled down my face and back.

“A dream,” Michael said cautiously, lowering his hands very slowly. “Just a dream.”

My head was clearing quickly but the remnants of the dream seemed stuck in my throat, causing it to close, tight and aching. Unable to speak, I simply nodded my head and rose slowly to my feet, holstering my weapon. Michael lowered his hands.

“Are you alright?” He eyed me warily and, I thought, with some degree of actual concern.

I nodded again. I ran shaking fingers through my hair, which had come loose from its braid and was sticking damply to my neck. I sank onto the bed, surprised by the sudden rubbery feeling in my legs. Michael went to the vanity sink and ran tap water into a glass, then brought it over to me. I took the glass, looking up sharply to see if he noticed the slight trembling of my hand. He did.

To cover my discomfort, I drained the glass quickly and asked, “Have you contacted Section?"

“In another hour,” he replied, watching me carefully. “It’s not time yet.” He stood directly in front of me. I raised my face to him, managing to look perfectly composed.

“Don’t hover, Michael,” I said in a sardonic voice. “The role of nursemaid hardly suits you.”

“Who is Sophie?” he asked abruptly.

I shot him a deadly look. “As if you don’t know.”

“I don’t.”

I stood, pushing past him to slam the empty glass onto the bureau. “Cut the crap, Michael, you’re a Level Five operative, and Operations’ golden boy. You know everything about everybody, so don’t play that game with me!”

“I don’t know anything about you that they don’t want me to know.”

“You said you read my file!”

“I have. There was no mention of a Sophie.”

Facing the dresser, I caught sight of him in the mirror. Our eyes met, and for a brief moment, he seemed to be telling the truth. I turned around to face him.

“You’re lying,” I accused him in a flat voice, although I suspected he wasn’t.

He shrugged. “Believe what you will.”

I turned around and watched him through narrowed eyes. “What did my file say?”

He shrugged again. “The usual. Although I found a portion of it that is classified to all but Operations and Madeline.”

This was truly alarming news. “God,” I breathed, trying to absorb the significance.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

I gave a short, sharp laugh. “Why should I?”

“Because I think it has something to do with why we’re here.”

A desperate anxiety seized me. For the first time I wondered if perhaps Michael were as paranoid about this whole scenario as I seemed to be. “You know why we’re here, Michael.”

He moved closer to me, and I fought the urge to step back. “I know the reason we were told,” he said softly. Then he turned away and moved quickly over to the sink, turning the water on full spray. He glanced over his shoulder at me, and gestured at the bathroom with his chin. Puzzled, I stared at him. He repeated the gesture more forcefully and, reluctantly, I obeyed him and went into the bathroom. He turned the shower on as well, then backed me up against the tile wall.

“Hey!” I protested in alarm, but he placed a hand over my mouth—gently. We were only inches apart, and as he moved his face closer to mine, for one wild moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he placed his mouth bare centimeters from my ear and whispered “You’re here to cancel me.”

Stunned, I twisted around to stare at him in shock. My mouth opened to protest, but once again, his hand descended to cover it. So I shook my head in vehement denial. The last thing I wanted was for Michael to kill me because he thought I’d been ordered to cancel him! I pulled his hand away.

“I thought you were here to cancel me!” I whispered back urgently. “I thought they sent me to New York so I’d attempt to escape and you could do the job!”

He looked at me intently, trying to gage my sincerity. “Who’s Sophie?” he persisted. The words were barely audible, even that close to my ear. His breath was warm against my skin, and I felt a sudden, unexplained shiver go through me. His eyes bored into mine, clear and color-flecked as sea glass, willing me to tell the truth. I closed my eyes, afraid that if I spoke the child’s name aloud, Devon’s ghost would be resurrected. I didn’t think I had the strength to bury her again.

“She has nothing to do with any of this, I swear!” It was a futile promise, and I knew it. Michael didn’t even speak, just continued to interrogate me with his pitiless gaze. Bitterness welled in me then, tinged with longing and regret. For the first time in six years, the threat of tears burned my eyes.

“Don’t,” I tried to command, but it came out instead as a plea.

Regardless, Michael was relentless. An old and all too familiar pain closed around my heart, giving it a spiteful squeeze. I shoved myself away from the wall and darted from the bathroom. I made it out of the hotel room and into the elevator before Michael was able to stop me.

I burst out of the hotel lobby onto the darkened street, past a startled bellhop, who tipped his hat belatedly. I breathed in deep draughts of the cold night air. It was November, I realized, perhaps a week before Thanksgiving. I turned left and started walking uptown. It was three in the morning, but the streets were far from deserted. Behind me, I heard Michael’s voice call my name out once, then the sound of his footsteps hurrying to catch up with me. I didn’t run, but I didn’t stop for him, either. I kept walking at a brisk, determined pace, as if I actually had somewhere to go.

Michael’s hand closed over my shoulder. “Angelica!”

I turned on him then, unable to check the sudden hatred that surged through me. His step faltered as he registered the expression on my face.

“Stay away from me, Michael!” I warned him. “If this is a test, I have no intention of failing! If they tell me to cancel you, so help me God, I’ll do it without hesitation! I mean to stay alive!”

He stood his ground, studying me with those eyes, glittering and cold as frosted emeralds. My resolve was nothing to his. I knew even as I glared back at him that in the end, Michael would have what he wanted from me. I suppose that’s what made me so angry.

“I need the information,” he said.

“I don’t have any information you can use!” I retorted, “And if I did, what makes you think I’d share it with you?”

“You said it yourself, Angelica. You want to live.”

He was scaring me with his talk of living and dying. This was just supposed to be a routine mission, wasn’t it? Surely if we did the job according to the profile, all would be well. We’d get out of New York and go back to Section, where life was methodical and systematic, sterile but safe. No memories, no mysteries, just the comforting routine of following orders. I felt a sudden longing to hold my gun in my hand, to feel its heft and weight, the cool steel against my palm. It gave me power. It gave me a reason for being. It didn’t hate me or love me; it simply did my bidding. It represented my control over every situation. What Michael was asking was tantamount to surrender. Under what circumstances would I relinquish my weapon? I recalled the hundreds of hours I’d spent in simulation training; I could recall no instance whereby Section sanctioned the operative’s choice to disarm. We were expendable, after all.

Michael obviously read the conflict within me. “You can’t formulate a successful strategy until you have all the facts,” he reminded me.

“I have all the facts I need!” I shot back, alarmed at how easily he followed my train of thought.

“Are you certain of that?”

I wavered. Of course I wasn’t. Otherwise, I’d have shot him dead five minutes ago. He knew it, too. I felt something inside me crack. It was tiny, a hairline crack, but it threatened to fracture me like a piece of damaged safety glass. Within a few seconds I was going to shatter into a million fragments right before Michael’s eyes. He must have sensed it, because he stepped forward and grabbed me roughly, pulling me off the street into a darkened alleyway. He pressed me up against a wall of sooty brick and forced me to look him in the eyes, his hands gripping my arms tightly, almost painfully.

“Don’t,” he said in a voice that sounded harsh and strangely compassionate at the same time. “You’ve got to stay in control.” He glanced up, alerted by a man in an overcoat who ambled by the alley entrance. The man passed by without noticing us, and Michael turned his attention back to me. “Something’s not right.” His frown deepened, and he shook his head slightly as if some piece of the puzzle refused to fall into place. “But you have to tell me everything, Angelica.”

I tried to break free from him. I probably could have, but some part of me knew he was my best chance for surviving Section’s latest experiment, so my struggle was half-hearted at best. In fact, the firmness of his grip gave me a curious sense of comfort. I met his determined gaze. For some strange reason, I suddenly thought of Nikita. I didn’t know her very well, except by reputation. According to rumor, she claimed to be an innocent. It was said that she had never completely overcome her conscience and sense of compassion. They said that in spite of her skills, she managed to hang on to part of her old self. I wondered if that was what attracted Michael to her…if so, perhaps I could trust him. Or at least manipulate him into helping me stay alive.

I yielded to him, and his grip relaxed immediately. I pushed away from him and glanced around. “Let’s get some coffee. I’ll tell you what I can.”

He caught my wrist and I found myself staring into his implacable face.

“Everything,” he murmured with emphasis. His gaze was compelling and not a little ruthless.

I hesitated, then looked away with a sigh. “Everything I know,” I amended.

He gave a curt nod and released me.

We found an all-night diner and ordered coffee, strong and black. Michael waited patiently as I sipped mine. He seemed to know that I wasn’t stalling, just putting my thoughts together.

Finally, I said “Since you claim to know nothing about me, I might as well start from the beginning. I’m the daughter of third-generation Irish immigrants who made it big in America. I was raised in relative luxury here in New York, along with my brother Dylan, who is only 14 months older.” I gave a slight smile. “We were extremely close all our lives, and when I got married, it was to his best friend, Brian. Our best friend, I guess. We were inseparable in those days. When I found out after a few months of marriage that I was pregnant, Brian and I didn’t even have to discuss it: Dylan would be the godfather, and if it was a boy, we’d name him after my brother. As it turned out, I had a girl, but by then, Dylan was gone.”

I paused in my story, remembering how I’d cried for my brother even as I held my newborn daughter and wept for the joy of her.

“Gone?” Michael prompted.

I nodded. “My grandfather was wealthy and his ties to Ireland were strong; I didn’t realize how strong until I discovered that Dylan was involved with him in raising funds in America for the IRA. I had no idea, of course, that it was more than fund-raising. But when Dylan started disappearing for weeks at a time and bringing strangers around the house, I was frightened. And angry. I tried to talk to him about it, but I was still unaware of the level of his commitment at that point. He gave me the ‘don’t worry lil’ sis’ routine, and things were different for a while…he was being more careful around me, was all. Then Brian and my father came home in the middle of the afternoon one day and told me Dylan had been kidnapped by a political faction with strong anti-rebel leanings. They wanted a trade for one of their own prisoners being held by the IRA, along with control in the New York area of Irish arms sales. Because, naturally, that was what my family had been doing for many years. I never knew. Anyway, my grandfather refused to deal and my father refused to override the old man’s decision. My mother simply went to church and prayed, but she wouldn’t hear a word against either of them. It was like they had simply written my brother off. Even Brian told me that I had to let him go, that there was no way Dylan could be saved. He even tried to convince me that Dylan wouldn’t want to be saved, not with so much at risk. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t imagine how my own family could put a cause ahead of my brother’s life.” I glanced up at Michael. “Isn’t that ironic? I was so different then…so naïve.”

He met my gaze with a level one of his own. He didn’t say the words, but I knew what he was thinking. That we were all different at one time. I shook the thought away and continued my story.

“Anyway, I made contact with some of Dylan’s new friends and through them, I eventually discovered the man who’d had Dylan snatched. His name was Finn Hennigan. You know about Hennigan…and how I eventually came to work for him.”

“Tell me anyway,” Michael’s face remained expressionless and I wondered how much of this he would believe. It was the truth, but we all know the saying that truth is stranger than fiction. It might be easier to believe I was lying.

I took a deep breath and continued. “I bullied everyone I knew into helping me arrange a meeting. When Hennigan finally agreed, I told him I’d do anything to have my brother released. He laughed at me at first, thought it was funny that some little Irish girl had tracked him down and was demanding Dylan’s release. He suggested that my grandfather had sent me, but I told him the old man would see him in hell before he’d deal. Which was true. So Hennigan tried to blow me off. I persisted. Finally, he told me there was something I could do. When I asked him for details, he made it sound so simple. I would serve as bait to lure another man into his grasp, a man he needed to find and…talk to. I had no idea what I was getting into. It seemed so harmless. Hennigan told me the man was a traitor to both sides, and I thought—I thought that a man like that was different from Dylan. He wasn’t just a pawn, like my brother…he wasn’t innocent. He had made his own choices, and what did I care what happened to him, as long as my brother came back to us alive? So I agreed. I agreed to basically go undercover and perform a mission. Talk about predestiny.”

I halted, feeling suddenly exhausted. In retrospect, it all seemed so futile. Had I—had Devon ever really believed she could succeed? Michael glanced at his watch, but said nothing. In a flat voice, I finished the tale.

“Inevitably, of course, I had second thoughts. They wanted me to go to England, but I refused to leave my daughter…Sophie. She was only six months old, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being parted from her. Hennigan solved that by taking her from me.” I closed my eyes briefly. “Right on the street, in broad daylight. A car pulled up…two men jumped out, one knocked me down, and the other grabbed her right out of the stroller. They were gone, and when the police arrived, no one had seen anything. I couldn’t tell the truth, of course, or I’d lose my daughter and my brother. So I agreed to Hennigan’s plan. I didn’t tell Brian anything about it. I just let him believe that someone we didn’t know had kidnapped the baby for ransom. The police didn’t seem to suspect a thing, but of course, they knew nothing about Dylan or my family’s involvement in the whole IRA thing. Anyway, a few nights later, a call came for me. I pretended it was a friend. Later that night, I sneaked out of the house and there was a car waiting for me.”

A waitress appeared, poured us more coffee. I could sense Michael’s impatience now. I gave him a tired smile. “I’ll skip to the chase. Hennigan’s people flew me to London, gave me a code name, and briefed me on the plan. I followed through until the very last moment, when I had a crisis of conscience about leading a man to his death. Because I knew it wasn’t going to be just a meeting or a kidnapping, it was going to be a slaughter. By that time, I had learned that their intended target was a man with a family, a man who’d been trying to promote peace in Ireland, who was gaining a following on both sides. But of course, it was too late. He was killed anyway, and I was…beaten and…anyway, I was eventually turned over to the authorities and arrested for conspiracy to commit murder. I couldn’t give Hennigan away, because he had my daughter. And as an extra incentive, he killed my brother and the rest of my family, including my husband. Supposedly my parents and my husband died in a house fire, but I think they were dead before the fire was set…at least I hope so. There would have been no reason Brian would have been spending the night at my parents’ house. He would have been at home, waiting for me to contact him. I’m sure he thought I’d been kidnapped, too. So I think they took him over there, killed him and my parents, and set the house on fire to cover the murders. Anyway, you know the rest.”

Michael cocked an eyebrow. “The rest?”

“The obvious,” I replied. “That Section recruited me out of jail and faked my death.”

“Whatever happened to Hennigan?”

I shrugged, looking away. “What difference does it make?”

Michael leaned across the table. His eyes glittered with something: distrust, perhaps. “I would think a great deal. He’s here in New York. He has your daughter. Why would Section allow you on this mission under those circumstances?”

I stared straight into his crystalline gaze. “My daughter is dead. There’s no way Hennigan would have held onto a six-month old infant once he thought I was dead. You think he would’ve had a moment’s hesitation before drowning her or snapping her neck like a newborn kitten?”

“If you believed that, you’d have figured out a way to kill Hennigan long ago,” Michael replied with deadly calm.

I refused to be rattled by him. “I’m alive today because unlike other operatives I could name, I have let go of the past. I function within the parameters that Section has created for me. I don’t engage myself in personal or vendetta-related missions.” I paused and gave him a significant look. “ I thought you had learned the same discipline, Michael.”

He actually smiled at me. It wasn’t a thousand-watter or anything, but a cool, controlled lifting of one corner of his mouth. “Of course.”

I read a dozen meanings in those two words, and tried to pin him down. “Obviously, Section is testing me.”

“Or me,” he shot back.

I couldn’t hide my surprise this time. “You? How would sending me back to Hennigan’s old stomping grounds be a test to you?” My eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to me. “Unless…”

All trace of humor gone now, Michael snapped, “Unless what?”

“Unless Section is worried that you have a weakness for damsels in distress.” Referring, of course, to his rumored attachment to Nikita. Michael’s face remained indifferent, but I could tell he didn’t like the implication one bit.

“Look,” I told him, “ I don’t know the whole story on you, either. And frankly, I don’t care to. But I can assure you of one thing, and that is that I won’t be gunning for Hennigan while we are here.”

“What about Sophie?”

“Sophie died a long time ago!” I hissed, unable to stop the flash of anguished rage that coursed through me like a bolt of lightening. “So just let it go!”

Michael seemed about to say something else, but then apparently changed his mind. “I’ve got to get back and make contact,” he said instead, getting to his feet.

“I’m coming with you.” I got up. Michael threw some money on the table, tipping just the right amount to prevent the waitress from recalling anything unusual about us. We walked silently back to the hotel. Michael seemed slightly preoccupied, and I was just as glad. I felt drained from my confession, and vaguely worried. I couldn’t be sure why Section had sent me back here, but I knew instinctively that it wasn’t for the reason I had initially been given.

But then, with Section, how often did it turn out that way?

As we rode back up the elevator to our room, Michael turned to me with a sudden question. “What was the code name Hennigan’s people gave you?”

I stared at the ascending numbers above the elevator door.

“Angelica,” I replied.

************

Seven: Nikita

Michael connected with Birkoff, and there was no change in our standby status. In spite of the coffee, I actually managed another few hours of sleep. I woke at six a.m. feeling a little more refreshed. Although neither of us was hungry, Michael ordered breakfast for two, to keep up appearances. I ate the fruit and toast, then showered and changed into fresh clothes: tight black ski pants tucked into chunky-heeled boots and a wrap-front cashmere sweater in cobalt blue. As I was finger-combing my still-damp hair in the vanity mirror, I caught Michael’s eyes on me. I looked back at my reflection, realizing he was watching me the way a man watches a woman. As Angelica, I had come to accept this as a common occurrence. From Michael, however, it was disconcerting. I turned to him with a strange urge to dispel any ideas he might have about thinking I was attractive.

“It’s not real.” I couldn’t help sounding slightly apologetic.

His eyebrows dipped a notched, as if he didn’t understand what I was saying. I walked over to him, where he was sitting at the table, meticulously breaking down his gun and wiping the parts with a soft, oily cloth. I pulled my hair to one side and showed him the fine, pale scar that ran along my temple, just at the hairline.

“See? Plastic surgery. Hennigan’s goons broke a bunch of bones in my face; they didn’t heal too well. Section had it all fixed.”

He was looking at me with a strange, unfathomable expression on his face. He touched his thumb to my chin and gently tilted my face one way, then the other, examining it closely in the light from the windows.

“You were pretty before.” He sounded completely sure about it.

I stepped away from him and shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. I never thought about it.” I went back to the mirror and looked at myself. “But not like this. People treat me differently with this face.”

“You are different.”

“Yes.” I turned away from my reflection and watched him for moment as he concentrated on his gun. “And you? Are you different?”

“I suppose.” He didn’t look up.

“But Nikita is not.”

He glanced sharply at me then, suddenly wary. His eyes shuttered almost instantly, but not before I saw the protectiveness in them. For her? Or for himself? In any case, I had the feeling of having accidentally stumbled upon something intimate.

Uncharacteristically, I apologized. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” I joined him at the table. “I hate this sitting around; it seems unnatural, doesn’t it?”

He shrugged, still on guard. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what we’re actually doing here.”

I sensed an accusation behind his bland tone. “Michael, I know there’s no reason on earth for you to believe another operative, but I swear I’m not here to cancel you. At least, no one has told me that’s what I’m here for.”

He stared at me, obviously unconvinced and it struck me suddenly that his own safety might be his last concern.

“You think it’s something to do with Nikita?” I asked him, surprised. “She’s not even on this mission!” I hesitated. “Is she?”

“She’s not on the primary team,” he replied. “She could have been deployed later. You’ve asked about her more than once.”

I noticed he didn’t bother to deny the fact that he was concerned about her. “I know,” I acknowledged, “but not for the reasons you’re thinking. It’s just…“

“What?” He was watching me intently, and I shrugged.

“She…disturbs me.”

“How so?”

“She’s different. More independent of Section, somehow.” I leaned back in my chair, staring thoughtfully past Michael’s shoulder. “I don’t know…you trained her…how would you describe her?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Someone who won’t conform, even when it’s necessary for survival.”

I tilted a look at him. “Perhaps she can’t conform.”

Something like despair flitted across the depths of his seawater eyes, and I stared in amazement. From Michael, such a look amounted to an unseemly display of emotion. But his voice was icy with control as he replied, “Then she’ll die.”

“Nikita is one of Section’s best operatives!” I protested, stunned by his cruel assessment of someone he supposedly felt some affinity for.

“Yes,” he countered. “But that doesn’t make her invulnerable. The mission objective comes first, before guilt or compassion or love or hate…if you don’t practice that, then mistakes are made, people die.”

“People die anyway.” It was the closest thing to blasphemy I’d ever uttered, but I suddenly didn’t care. I felt ridiculously upset. I knew the discipline, but I found it hard to reconcile what I’d seen in Michael’s eyes with the words coming out of his mouth.

“Yes, people die,” he admitted. “But the risks have been calculated, acceptable losses are determined.”

I got up from the table, his Section-styled rhetoric making it impossible for me to sit there with him. Unbidden, the image of Sophie rose before me. “Some losses are not acceptable,” I muttered.

“You sound like Nikita.”

There was something in his voice that made me turn and look at him with dawning comprehension.

“You love her,” I observed, my voice soft with wonder. He looked away, neither confirming nor denying. His face was as immobile as stone.

“Madeline told me you and I are two of a kind, Michael. I thought she meant it as a compliment at the time. That we’re successful at what we do.” I gave a low laugh, tinged with bitterness. “Now I think she meant so much more.”

Drifting to the window, I stared sightlessly out of it. “Neither of us can bear to remember who we once were, much less cling to the hope that we can be that person again. In order to survive, we had to surrender the old self completely; embrace the Section animal we’ve become and never look back. We can’t tolerate the pain, otherwise.” I looked out over the vast jungle of concrete above and below us. The sun was high over the skyline. “But Nikita…ah, Nikita. How does she do it? What gives her the strength to survive in Section without sacrificing her soul? How does she manage to sustain her hope, her belief in a better day? What keeps her being torn apart by the conflict?”

I glanced over at him. He sat perfectly still, staring straight ahead, the pieces of the weapon in his hands forgotten. Had he ever asked himself these questions? Perhaps, I thought. But never aloud.

“You’re drawn to her for the very reasons I’m frightened by her. That inner flame, that burning hope that lights her from within, it is alluring. But it’s very, very dangerous, Michael.”

I looked back out the window, at the evidence of a world to which I no longer belonged: pedestrians, cabs, cars, policemen. It might as well have been another universe. Far below me, on the street, a couple walked hand in hand.

“We’re still human…almost. Like any human being, I want to love, to be loved…but I want to survive more.” I looked over my shoulder at him. “Deep down, so do you.”

Silence. It stretched out between us, not empty, but filled with unspoken truths and regrets. I turned away. The sight of his head bowed over the pieces of his gun filled me with sadness and foreboding.

“It’s time to contact Section again,” he said after a long while.

“Yes,” I agreed, my back still to him. But I knew that our standby status would remain unchanged. I was beginning to suspect that Section was intent on driving us mad with boredom.

************

Eight: The Park

The third contact left Michael uneasy; I could tell by the way he paced the room and seemed unable to sit still for longer than a few minutes. At one point, he even turned on the television. I had the feeling he was avoiding further conversation with me. Unintentionally, I had discovered what might be Michael’s one weakness. And I had said things that were completely out of character for me. For Angelica, that is. It was the mission. The strangeness was spooking us both

Watching Michael turn off the television and get up to pace for the third time gave me a sudden inspiration.

“When is our next contact?” I asked.

Michael glanced at his watch. “Two and a half hours.”

“Did they order us to Close Quarters?”

He looked at me. “Birkoff didn’t mention it.”

I grabbed my jacket off a chair. “Then I guess we’re not.”

He got to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” I replied, stopping at the vanity and swiftly pinning up my hair.

“I’m coming with you.” He picked up his own long coat and shrugged into it as I opened the door.

“Suit yourself.” I breezed into the hallway.

Out on the street again, he asked again, “Where are we going?”

I gave him the Angelica Smile. “I’ll bet you’ve never had a hot dog.”

He looked sideways at me. “Of course I have.”

“From Pete’s Grill Wagon?”

“Who’s Pete?”

“Obviously, you’ve never had a hot dog.”

Twenty minutes later, after a quick ride on the subway and a few blocks’ walk in the cold November sunshine, we were sitting on a bench in Central Park, juggling two dogs apiece and canned sodas. Fragrant steam rose from the hot dogs, which were slathered generously with mustard and grilled onions. I bit into one and gave an orgasmic moan. Michael, about to bite into his, checked himself and threw me a look. I grinned, but didn’t waste words before taking another huge bite.

“Didn’t Madeline train you in the social graces?” he asked, watching me chew enthusiastically.

“Madeline never had a dog from Pete’s,” I replied, my mouth full.

Looking skeptical, he took a rather dainty bite. I rolled my eyes at his fastidiousness. He chewed carefully, a thoughtful expression on his face. He took another bite, bigger this time. He chewed some more and glanced at me.

“Mmmph” he said, nodding his head in approval.

“Mmlphlmm?” I replied, meaning ‘Didn’t I tell you?”

We each wolfed down the rest of our first hot dog, then sat back and savored the second one more slowly, watching people in the park go by. It was cold, but the sky was clear and sunny, and the park was filled with joggers, bikers, roller-bladers, nannies with perambulators, young mothers with bundled-up toddlers. Michael and I sat in companionable silence. When I finished eating, I gathered up our napkins and soda cans and walked over to toss them in a nearby trash can. As I strolled back to the bench, Michael motioned me closer.

“What?”

He reached for my face, and I reared back instinctively.

“Mustard. On your chin,” he explained with a bare hint of exasperation.

“Oh.” I felt suddenly awkward and swiped at my chin. I tilted my head at him. “Did I get it?”

“No. Come here.”

I leaned toward him with the wariness of an untrusting alley cat. He stroked a thumb across my chin.

“There,” he said, showing me the mustard-stained proof. I pulled an extra napkin out of my pocket and handed it to him. He wiped his thumb and got up from the bench. I sat down and watched him walk over to the trash bin and back.

He’s really good-looking, I thought to myself in sudden surprise. His long black coat emphasized his height and the width of his shoulders, while his black trousers drew attention to the leanness of his hips and the length of his legs. He had those penetrating eyes, which until today, I had viewed only as cold and calculating. In truth, they were gorgeous eyes, the color of a Caribbean lagoon reflecting sunlight. His dark hair, recently cut into a rather boyish mop, and his generously shaped lips lent him a kind of poet’s beauty, hinting at a nature both sensitive and sensual. Yet there was strength and a certain ruthlessness in the planes of his face, especially around the jawline. Enigmatic, charismatic…I had to remind myself that his attractiveness was like that of a sleek, black panther’s: beautiful but deadly.

He must have caught some expression on my face because he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I got to my feet and stretched, tilting my face up to the sun. “Have you ever spent time someplace where the sun shines every day?”

He looked across the park, watched a jogger go by. “Greece. I spent a summer there, by the sea.”

We began to walk. “Did you enjoy it?” I asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Did Nikita go with you?”

He stopped and I watched his features grow hard and shuttered.

I squinted up at him in exasperation. “Michael, it’s not like people don’t know. What’s the big secret? Operatives form attachments all the time. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“Nikita is my material, nothing more.”

“She’s not your material, Michael. She’s a full-fledged operative.”

“Why are you so interested in her?” He made no effort to disguise his suspicion.

“I told you…she’s an enigma to me. And I suppose, so are you. At least with respect to your involvement with her.” I gave him a searching look. “I’m not trying to expose you, Michael. It’s…a fascination, I think. I had no idea you were capable of…this kind of feeling.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was growing impatient with this line of conversation, and his eyes began to scan the scenery around us.

Irrationally, I became angry with him. “Oh, for God’s sake, Michael. Can’t we just this once act like normal civilized people? Can’t we drop the cloak and dagger act and talk about real life for just this one afternoon?”

“What’s happening to you?”

The question, accompanied by those assessing eyes, was like a slap in the face. I turned sharply away from him and began walking again. “Forget it.”

He caught up with me in two strides and put his hand on my arm. I shook it off.

“Angelica—“

“What?” I rounded on him, suddenly angry. He didn’t flinch.

“We’re not normal people,” he reminded me gravely. “An operative at your level ought to have accepted that, internalized it, long ago.”

“Don’t preach Section standards to me, Michael!” I spat. “For God’s sake, I’ve lived them for six years, with never a mistake, never a lapse! Can you say the same?”

That last was meant to be spiteful and it worked. His eyes went cold; his expression, if possible, became even more frozen. Perversely, this did not make me feel any better. I passed a hand over my face and turned away from him, taking a few steps to put distance between us. I didn’t know why I was acting like this. More like Devon than Angelica. Devon, who pushed for something more. Devon, who wasn’t satisfied with leaving things alone. What was happening to me? Six years of intense training and conditioning, suddenly undermined by a day in the park and mustard-and-onion hot dogs. Such simple pleasures had been stolen from me by Hennigan. Section had put me together again and given me a purpose. Their own purpose, to be sure, but it was better than rotting away in prison. Why did I suddenly feel a sense of vague dissatisfaction?

He was right to question me. I needed something to clear away these pointless thoughts and help me to focus. I walked back to where he stood waiting, observing my inner struggle.

“I’m…” I hesitated, cleared my throat. Apologies didn’t come easily to me. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I need to correct my behavior. I will correct it.”

Michael didn’t look at me, but seemed to focus on some point over my shoulder. He acknowledged the apology with a brief nod, but I had the strange feeling that he was slightly disappointed. That made me wonder if his aim had been to get me to renounce my loyalty to Section in some way. Distrust coursed through me again; I had to keep in mind that all was not as it seemed to be. I was not going to be manipulated into making a mistake that would warrant cancellation. Some of the brightness went out of the day for me; my idea about hot dogs in the park suddenly seemed infantile and pointless.

“We’d better go,” I said sharply and started walking back toward the subway.

“Angelica.”

I stopped and turned. Michael took a few steps toward me.

“Thank you. For the hot dogs,” he said.

I stared at him as if he were deranged. Behind that controlled facade lurked the mind of either a madman or a genius. Michael possessed the unholy skill of constantly making me feel as if I were just slightly off-balance; dealing with him was like standing on shifting sand. And yet he was so subtle about it that you had to wonder if it was your imagination. I simply shook my head and started back down the path. There seemed no point in further conversation.

***********

Nine: Surveillance

When we checked in this time, Birkoff gave us the intel on Leisher’s wife and advised we were to begin our investigation of her. A surveillance team picked us up a few blocks from the hotel in a white van with the name of a carpet cleaning company stenciled on the side in blue. The driver was a stoic-faced man in his early thirties dressed in a uniform with the name ‘Jeffrey’ embroidered over the pocket. Jeffrey seemed oblivious to our presence once we got in the van and headed across the river into the suburbs. Technical support was being provided by the Agency, and along with the state-of-the-art equipment in the van, they had tossed a rather interesting version of the computer nerd into the mix.

He was a young black man named Levi Hazeley, and he would have looked more at home on a street corner in Harlem with a boombox growing out of his ear while he peddled dream dust to the local junkies. He wore his hair in a batch of tightly spiraled tufts that resembled nothing so much as a bowl of curly pasta. Both ears were pierced and sported gold hoops. His jeans were baggy and impossibly wide-legged, draping over hundred dollar tennis shoes endorsed by the NBA’s latest crown prince. The hooded jersey he wore was stamped with a sports designer logo. But his dark eyes sparkled with intelligence and humor, and the wide grin he gave us had so much All-American confidence that I couldn’t help returning it with one of my own.

“All right,” he crowed as we got in, “got us a pretty lady for a change, Jeffrey!” He gave Michael an incorrigible wink. “No offense, my man, but it gets kinda dull working with you stiff-necked dudes in black all the time.”

Michael’s only response was a cool stare. I had to tuck my chin into the collar of my coat to hide a smile. I decided I was going to like working with Levi.

Levi kept up a running conversation as we made the forty-minute trip to Barbara Leisher’s modest home in the New Jersey suburbs. I could see that the young tech’s loquacity irked Michael, so whenever Levi’s extensive supply of commentary seemed in danger of running low, I urged a new topic onto the table. I ignored the frigid look I received from Michael and continued to grin and nod at Levi. I was feeling positively frisky about being back to work again.

But I discovered that the kid’s cockiness was justified when Jeffrey parked us in front of an unoccupied house a discreet distance from the Leisher home. The moment the van went into Park, Levi was up and moving with an economic agility that spoke of many hours logged inside a small, cramped space. He pushed buttons, toggled switches, flipped levers. Rummaging in a cardboard box, he came up with two pairs of high-end headphones that he tossed to Michael and me. With the tactile skills of a lover bringing his partner to completion, Levi coaxed responses from his board that challenged even Michael’s technical prowess. Heads together, he and Levi studied every aspect of the Leisher household, from divining the floorplan to monitoring telephone calls to capturing the conversations taking place within. Jeffrey, taciturn as ever, kept an eye out for any unusual curiosity directed our way, while I listened with half an ear to the life of a woman who had believed her husband dead for twenty years.

It was surprising, really, that there was no reference to the upcoming reunion between Barbara and her recently discovered husband. It was dinnertime at the Leisher home, and Barbara had prepared beef tips and noodles accompanied by a salad and homemade bread. There was a custard pie for dessert, made with that special vanilla that Aunt Cathy sends from Virginia every year. Brandon, the recent college graduate, remarked how much he was going to miss his mother’s custard when he left for his new job in Chicago after the holidays. Julie, on the other hand, wished they didn’t have custard pie around the house so often; it was too tempting, and she still needed to lose five pounds to fit into the dress she’d chosen for an upcoming school dance. She was going to the dance with a college freshman named Steve, and it was evident that Brandon didn’t think much of Steve. It was also evident that Julie’s estimation of Steve rose in direct correlation to her brother’s level of expressed disapproval. I supposed this almost paternal interaction between siblings was the inevitable result of their having grown up without a father.

Eventually, I began to suspect that the son and daughter knew nothing. If Thomas Leisher was smart, which he undoubtedly was, he had cautioned Barbara to keep her silence. It was always possible that he had warned the family to converse as if they were under surveillance, but there was a natural quality to their interaction that told me otherwise. Mrs. Leisher, on the other hand, seemed a bit reticent. True, I didn’t know her, and perhaps she was simply a quiet woman even in normal circumstances. The fact remained, however, that she did know about her husband and his plans, and I read into her long silences an aura of waiting. She seemed to be listening, as if for the ringing of a phone, or the voice of someone calling to her. Very soon, that call would come, and the waiting would be over.

We listened as the family finished their meal and cleared the table. Julie helped her mother in the kitchen while Brandon made a phone call to a friend and arranged to meet him in the city and catch a movie. Levi glanced up at Michael.

“You want a tail on him?”

Michael looked at me and I shook my head. “He doesn’t know anything. Trace the number of the friend, confirm identity; verify the theatre location and the showing schedule. If it matches, I say let him go.”

Michael nodded. Not in agreement, but in approval. He’d made the same decision before Levi even asked the question.

The daughter made a call a few moments later, also to a friend. Levi ran the trace even as the conversation took place. Julie made her plans, then cajoled her brother into dropping her off at the local shopping mall on his way into the city. Twenty minutes later, we took a series of photographs showing the two of them backing out of the garage in a silver late model Honda. Without being asked, Levi ran the plates, which came back clean and registered to one Brandon Leisher.

The tap grew quiet as Barbara moved about the house, closing it up for the night. She drew drapes, locked doors, left the front porch light on for the kids. We could see by the infrared imaging that she went into the living room and sat down in a chair. The TV came on, the tinny canned laughter of a sit-com buzzing through our earphones. I yawned, but Michael listened as intently as he had from the first moment he’d been jacked into Levi’s board. Around us, the neighborhood settled in for another cozy night. A cold, starry sky draped itself over the houses. The sharp scent of burning firewood rose from the occasional chimney. A dog barked somewhere down the street; blue light from half-a-dozen television sets flickered in as many windows. Nightfall in suburbia.

It was eleven p.m. when the phone rang in the Leisher house. Barbara, dozing in front of the TV, came awake with a start and hurried to answer it in the kitchen. Levi started his trace, and immediately came across a scrambler signal. Even before Barbara finished saying “Hello?”, we knew who it was. As Levi’s fingers danced over the console in an attempt to descramble the signal and continue the trace, I leaned over Michael’s shoulder to peer at the infrared screen. Adjusting my earphones, I heard a man’s voice say “Barbara, it’s me.”

“Thomas,” she replied, her tone one of gratitude and relief. “I was afraid the kids would get home before you called.”

“I’m sorry, darling. Listen, I don’t have much time. We’re being deployed tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Barbara had obviously been waiting for this day; now that the time had come, she sounded nervous and excited.

“Yes. You know the plan. Be there at 4:00 p.m. Make sure the kids are with you. You haven’t told them anything?”

“No, but it’s been so hard, Thomas—“

“I know, Barbara, but it’s almost over. I just hope they…understand. Their lives will be disrupted—“

It was Barbara’s turn to interrupt. “They’ll understand,” she said with firm conviction, “and if given a choice, it’s what they would decide. We’ve stayed a family, Thomas, and now it’s time for you to join us.”

“Be careful, sweetheart. If anything looks wrong, seems strange…you know what to do.”

“It will be alright, Tom. I love you. ” Again, that utter conviction: all would be well. She believed it with her whole heart. I felt a sudden qualm and glanced up to find Michael watching me, expressionless. I stared back, equally wooden.

“I love you, too, Barb,” Leisher replied and disconnected.

“Trace complete,” Levi announced. “He’s calling her from a public telephone three blocks from his team’s safehouse. He put a good scrambler device on the receiver, but nothing I can’t handle with this baby,” he added, patting his board lovingly. “So now what?”

Michael pulled off his headphones. “Encode the surveillance data on disc for me, then take us back to the city. I’ll coordinate with your bureau in the morning.”

“You got it, Chief,” Levi responded, going to work. “Okay, Jeff my man, get us outta Nowheresville and back into the bright lights of the Big Apple! I still got time to hit the dance floor and find me some sweet, fat thing.”

“Fat?” I asked, amused by more than his jargon.

“Yeah,” he drawled as Jeffery started the van and we glided down the street. “P-H-A-T…phat…like fine, you know? All that!” He leered at me. “Unless you’d like a brotha to take you out on the town, Miss Angelique…I gotta feeling you could busta move or two on the dance floor.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Whaddya say, sistah? Ever get a craving for rich, dark chocolate?” As he uttered this last, he ran his hands over his chest and down his body in a suggestive manner. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

“Um, thanks, Levi, but, ah…”

“Angelica is not off duty yet,” came Michael’s clipped reply. “There will be a…lengthy debriefing.”

I looked at Michael, somewhat taken aback. He met my glance with an ominous one of his own. I turned to Levi with an apologetic expression.

“Looks like I’m working tonight,” I shrugged regretfully.

Levi spread his hands in a gesture of rueful acceptance. “I guess the bossman has spoken. Too bad. The Levi Express is a ride to Ebony Heaven! Maybe next time, my lovely Angelique…”

“Maybe, “ I agreed, not daring to look at Michael. Instead, I faced forward and ended up catching Jeffrey’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He flicked a look at Michael, then back at me, and very slowly and deliberately, he winked at me. I choked back a laugh, which caused me to snort instead. Michael and Levi stared at me in consternation.

“Excuse me,” I mumbled, clearing my throat.

It was a long ride back into the city.