****Spoiler Warning**** This is my take on a possible opening and direction for Season Five. It follows on from the last few episodes of Season Four (at least I hope it does).

Dead Men Don't Tell Lies

Part 1

"Your update please, Mr Jones."

"Ah... yes. Have you received my report?"

"Yes, hence our request for this meeting. There are a few irregularities that need clarification."

"Irregularities? Well yes, I suppose that you might interpret them as such. Your prerogative, naturally. Which ... erghh.. *irregularities* you would like to start with, then?"

"Section One, please, Mr Jones."

"Ummm... sorry, couldn't help the chuckle."

"I'm glad you seem to be receiving so much pleasure from your assignment, Mr Jones."

"I'm not sure I'd go that far, Mam, but I do appreciate that you see the irony in the situation."

"Indeed I do, Mr Jones. Please, continue."

"I've directed implementation of the new operational guideline as directed. As you anticipated Paul is showing resistance, but with the adjustments Cogger provided I consider the necessary safeguards are in place."

"Even so, should we develop a contingency to regulate his capacity to deliver?"

"Yes, I think that would be prudent."

"We'll consider the options. Continue."

"With the substantive amalgamations that have been sanctioned, mission status protocols have been re-established. Liabilities have been eliminated and the necessary recruitment procedures are in place to backfill key postings in the command structure."

"Hold there for a minute Mr Jones."

"Of course, Sir. Do I assume we have reached one of the ... erghhh... *irregularities*?"

"Never assume anything, Mr Jones."

"Ahh... no, ... Sir, I always try not to."

"Did you sanction the decision to cancel Michael?"

"Not exactly, Sir."

"Clarification?"

"I considered it important for Nikita's status within Section to give her the leverage to follow through on the primary directive, as per your protocol for phase two. The logical conclusion of that was that Michael should be cancelled to facilitate implementation of the new guidelines."

"Yet you allowed her to intervene in the decision concerning Paul."

"Yes, Mam."

"Why the inconsistency?"

"I saw it as an opportunity for her to consolidate her standing with Paul. Anything less would have compromised her ability to maintain core functions in the new order."

"Yet you were aware of the impact this would have on existing loyalties within Section One, and the corresponding low probability of her carrying through to completion the cancellation order."

"Yes Mam."

"You were directed to keep Nikita's profile *sterile* in the second phase, Mr Jones. She will be no use to us a counterpoint in the final phase if she's perceived as colluding in petty power games associated with the old regime."

"I was as surprised as you that she went through with it, Sir. You've approved my adjustments to phase three to accommodate this ... erghh... *irregularity*. Anyway, as you'll note in my report, I ensured it was Paul's subsequent profile that resulted in public initiation of the cancellation procedure."

"Paul's decision displayed poor judgement. Irrespective of the endgame we had in place, you should have pushed him to consider *all* the ramifications of his actions, rather than allowing him to pursue the obvious. We had viable options in place that would have resulted in less damage."

"It was Michael's preference, Mam. It seemed a small concession."

"Hardly a consideration, is it Mr Jones?"

"Perhaps not, Sir. But in terms of perceptions it had a solid basis."

"Nonetheless, it was not an encouraging start."

"Yet the final outcome met with your directive, Mam. It was a minimal risk strategy with multiple benefits."

"It was a risk, none-the-less, Mr Jones. Following protocol would have saved us time."

"Only in the short-term, Sir."

"In the short term, Mr Jones, your breach of protocol has resulted in valuable resources being redirected in a costly exercise to rectify the situation."

"Do I infer your target is proving to be somewhat elusive. Perhaps you're just using the wrong bait in your traps. I might have something that could assist you."

"I don't appreciate your tone, Mr Jones, or your inference. All problems are resolvable, by one means or another. You would do well to remember that."

"You can be assured it's foremost in my mind at the present time."

"Gentleman, please. This line of discussion is no longer productive."

"Agreed. Can I assume, Mr Jones, that you have, at least, followed procedure with regards to Madeline."

"Yes, it's safe for *you* to assume that, Sir."

"Very good Mr Jones, when can we expect the third phase to be complete."

"Nikita has been assisting me at the Centre for the last four weeks to finalise the operative recruitment and mission manifesto. We'll be returning to Section tomorrow. I'm awaiting your approval to activate the third phase protocol with my recommended adjustments. If things go to plan I anticipate completion within four days. Final phase may take some months, depending on your current activities."

"You have your approval, Mr Jones. I don't want any deviations this time. Now... shall we turn our attention to the other items on the agenda."

"With pleasure, Mam."

Part Two

The light above his workstation flickered with an annoyingly erratic pulse. Annoyingly erratic perhaps, but irritatingly consistent in its pattern of dimming just as he was about to solder another piece of microcircuitry to the base panel.

"Goddammit" Walter howled in frustration, looking around suspiciously for someone to blame. With no likely suspects in his immediate vicinity he climbed up on the stool and gave the wall above the light fixture a viscous thump. The light dimmed dangerously low and Walter responded with a torrent of swear words and another enthusiastic thump. With a slight hum it surged to life again, momentarily blinding him as it reached its full power.

"Having problems?" an amused voice enquired from below.

Walter shielded his eyes and looked down, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted. "O'Brien?" he asked slowly, climbing down to the ground.

"Yeah, I'm surprised you remembered me. How ya doin Walter, long time no see, huh?"

"It's been a while" Walter agreed, shaking his head in amazement. "You just passing through?" he asked guardedly, glancing around to see if there were any others with him.

O'Brien's amused grin followed Walters gaze. He scratched idly at his chin, looking around with a certain air of superciliousness that made Walter want to thump him, as well.

"Nah, looks like they want me here for a while." O'Brien nodded towards Operations loft then turned back to Walter with a big grin. "Made me an offer I couldn't refuse, if you know what I mean." He winked at Walter and leaned down to inspect the thermal scanner the older man had been working on.

Walter glanced up at Operations loft, noticing Nikita and Mr Jones had joined him at the window. He caught Nikita's eye in unspoken query for a brief moment before she turned away and resumed her conversation with Operations. That simple act of dismissal brought home to him just how different things were now. After what seemed a lifetime of constancy, his world had been turned upside down in just a few short weeks. And despite the surreal world in which they had all lived, that constancy had kept him alive. A routine he could depend on, people he could depend on, if not for their support then at least for their predicability. So many of those constants were gone now, Birkoff, Michael, Madeline, even Nikita in a way.

"Earth to Walter" O'Brien's singsong voice intruded on his musings.

"What?!" Walter grumbled sliding back onto his stool.

"I was just asking you for the low down on what's been happening here."

"Are you telling me you don't know?" Walter asked, staring pointedly at Operations loft.

O'Brien shrugged and leaned up against the Walters bench. "I've heard the official *sanitised* version, now I want to hear the real version."

"And you think I know it" Walter asked incredulously, "you're even more stupid than you look, O'Brien."

"Come on Walter, you're down here in the bull-pen, you hear things..."

Walter frowned at him thoughtfully, about to respond when Quinn came breezing in.

"What's the ETA on that scanner, Walter, I need the adjusted frequencies for running the T200 sim."

"If the damn light cooperates and I can get a minute to myself I should have it done in an hour."

Quinn glanced dismissively at O'Brien, "yeah well, you have thirty minutes. Ops has just moved the Tijovalich recovery mission to go. They're gearing up now."

O'Brien turned to face her, smiling and holding out his hand in introduction. "You must be Quinn" he smiled, "I'm O'Brien, I'll be taking over as Mission Leader."

Quinn gave him a searching look before taking his hand in a perfunctory shake. "Yeah, Operations just told me" she stated blandly, glancing at Walter.

"You.... You're taking over Michael's position" Walter repeated slowly, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"Yeah, like I said, I'm the new mission leader" O'Brien replied defensively. "Is there a problem?"

"No, I just assumed Ni..." Walter stumbled on his words as Nikita entered the equipment store, a visage of pure rage.

"O'Brien, you're wanted in briefing" Nikita barked.

"Sure Nikita" he nodded uncertainly, "I was just saying hello to a few people."

"This isn't a social club and that wasn't an invitation. Go... now!" she hissed, pointing to the briefing table as O'Brien made a hasty exit in that direction.

"Thirty minutes, Walter" Quinn whispered to Walter as she made her own departure.

Walter returned to his work, head bowed low over the panel he was working in intense concentration, or at least the best facsimile of it he could muster with Nikita pacing menacingly in front of him. He waited for her to let off some steam before cocking his head slightly to watch her as he continued to work.

"Trouble in paradise, Sugar" he prodded, gently.

"I don't want to talk about it" she mumbled, her despondent tone at odds with her words as she continued to pace.

"Okay, I'll be here when you're ready" he whispered softly. *I hope* he added mentally.

With a miserable sigh she leaned against Walter's workbench, close enough that her arm rested lightly against his shoulder, as though seeking out some comfort in his proximity. Walter let out his own sigh, content that he could at least offer that much as he finished re-assembling the scanner. Nikita was motionless beside him, her face covered by fingers that rubbed methodically against her hidden eyes.

A movement in Comms distracted him and he saw Mr Jones and Operations talking to two burly operatives from the Centre. All four glanced over towards them and then resumed their discussion. Walter nudged Nikita gently with his elbow and she turned, slowly, resting her elbows on the desk beside him, scanning the discussion taking place in Comms. Nikita rubbed at her red rimmed eyes, her face a palpable study of desolation. Walter reached out and layed his hand over hers, squeezing it gently.

"You did what you had to, Sugar, everyone understands that" he urged softly.

"I wish you did understand what I did" she murmured, lacing her fingers through his. "I thought... shit... I don't know what I thought." She looked towards Walter with glassy eyes. "It was the only way he was ever going to be free" she whispered.

Walter gave her hand a squeeze, not really following but not willing to press her for more information at the moment.

"I thought it would be worth it, that letting go was the only way. But now... now I'm caught in this aching limbo and I can't see any way forward ... without ..." Her breath caught in a hitching sob and she rested her forehead against Walters hand.

"I know, Sugar, things are never simple. But you're the strongest person I know, you'll find a way through this" he smiled warmly.

Nikita looked at him blankly for a moment then let out a soft snort of laughter, head shaking in denial.

"Yeah, right" Folded his hand in hers, resting it against her cheek, then let out a long sigh as the two operatives finished their discussion with Mr Jones and Operations and made their way towards her.

"They promised me things would start to change here" she sighed, shaking her head sadly. "How did I ever get to this point, Walter. When am I ever going to learn?"

Walter sat up straight, took a deep breath. "I'm sure Michael would say it more elegantly, Sugar, but you know how it goes. Different horse, same pile of shit."

Nikita chuckled softly, laying Walters hand gently on the bench. "Well stay low Walter, I think it's about to hit the fan" she whispered in his ear before stepping between the two escorts that had been sent for her.

"Be careful what you wish for, Sugar" Walter sighed as he watched them disappear through the corridors of Section.

Part Three

The pain is there, always. A dull ache that seems to saturate my every thought with a lethargy and indifference impossible to shake off. At times it seems to so overwhelm me, that at best I stay curled in the temporary asylum of darkness and twisted sheets, too disinterested to venture out into the light. At worst it strikes when I have finally summoned the energy to emerge anonymous into the teeming life of whatever city I have wandered into. Its hard to know what simple act will bring it on, a too familiar gesture, the casual flick of long hair over a shoulder, sunglasses perched just so on a nose.

Like a panic attack, these episodes leave me breathless and savagely alone. I try desperately to internalise my distress and consolidate my seclusion so I won't be exposed. Once or twice I have been confronted by my failure with the benevolent, inquiring words of a stranger. A stranger who is kinder to me than I am to myself. "Are you alright?" the voice asks in an attempt to penetrate the luxuriant haze of apathy I shroud myself in. I don't answer them because the answer would take too much courage to verbalise. The voice is often accompanied by the touch of a warm hand that settles gently on my arm. I have to control myself from leaning into the benign touch. Sometimes my resolve crumbles with a craving for more intimate contact, to confirm I am alive and, for just a moment, not alone. Escape. Another lover to bruise and leave behind.

Despite my indifference, or perhaps in spite of it, I move incessantly. So much so that I often lay on a strange bed in a strange room, wondering where I am and how I got here. Instinct moves me, it's all I can rely on at the moment. Eleven years as a slave to dissimulation has left its indelible mark.

I know I'm hiding from them, from her, from myself, from anything that might amplify the hurt. Curled up like a wounded animal, caged, licking my wounds. It is only stubbornness that stops me seeking final oblivion, but this, in itself, gives me hope.

After all I have been through, it seems ironic that I have become something so sad and pathetic. I taunt myself with these thoughts, as though acknowledging it as a truth will help me break out of this desperate weariness. Force me to find the energy and strength that allowed to me to continue in the past. Perhaps it will give me the resolve to ignore the gaping wound her reckless words have left. Perhaps one day I'll convince myself that this is better. I am appalled by what I have become. I thought I was stronger than this. But here I am, nonetheless, a solipsist that doubts the existence of his own soul. It's like some sort of self-indulgent madness and like a madman I want to laugh hysterically at my own folly.

"Mr Betrand?"

The voice sounds strangely familiar, pulling me back from wherever I have been. For a fleeting moment I feel my pulse quicken as I glimpse golden hair and blue eyes through the crack of reluctant eyelids.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but we're coming in to land."

She leans across me and deftly manipulates the chair until I am sitting upright again. Flung back into reality to soon, I feel the disappointment wash over me as she flashes a brilliant smile. I manage a polite nod as thanks, lean back into the seat. She moves on to the next row, her routine a little more subdued as she glances back towards me for a brief moment.

I rub my hands over my face in weary resignation, finally tired of being a passenger. Here at the crossroads of decision I am certain I am making my first mistake. Yet I'm oddly comforted by committing to this course of action. I'm tired of hiding, bone-weary tired. In the back of my mind is some random thought that perhaps they don't even care enough any more to try and find me. Just in case, I'm making it easy for them this time, testing their resolve and forcing the confrontation. I wonder how it will end? Just the thought makes me feel more alive than I have in weeks. Because one thing I am sure of, this isn't living. I can't stop the ironic grin that breaks out as I remember these words being uttered by lips that haunt my dreams.

My sudden smile has drawn her back.

"Can I get you anything, Mr Betrand?" she asks, the voice happily accommodating, disposed for anything.

I watch her for a moment, making up my mind suddenly as the words slip out.

"Yes... yes you can" I answer softly. Resigned to the knowledge that I am making yet another mistake, but needing... something. Before it's all over.

Part Four

"Did you receive the location data, Mr Jones?"

"Yes, are sure you don't want Section One involved?"

"Quite sure, we need their modified network array for real time processing of the remotely sensed data. The technicians I assigned from the Centre can handle the processing. I don't want any Section One personnel involved, besides the obvious."

"Of course, I already have them set up."

"Good, see that they are not disturbed. It seems your decision to proceed with the cancellation scenario will work to our advantage after all. Congratulations Mr Jones. Council has asked me to make an appropriate notation on your file."

"I'm beside myself with joy, Mam, and please, pass on my congratulations to Council on finding him."

"Very droll Mr Jones. The sequence will be activated within seven hours. I understand you have the situation contained within Section."

"Yes, I have a suitably futile emergency for Operations organised, and Nikita is twiddling her thumbs in the White Room. Comms has been cleared, under the guise of doing some routine maintenance on the network hardware."

"Excellent. I'll contact you again when we have verification."

"Ever your servant, I wait with baited breath, Mam."

"Save your charm for Nikita, Mr Jones. I suspect you'll need it."

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

I get up the minute I hear the door close behind her. In the faint illumination of dawn I quickly pull on my clothes where I have left them, close to the bed. It's remarkably quiet and my senses are on full alert. I know they are near, now comes the decision. To my surprise, instead of the apathy that has kept me in a fog for weeks, I feel a resentment and anger that speeds through me like an electrical charge. I've brought myself to this point, but I don't have to go down without a fight. I open the bag at my feet and smile grimly at the weapons it contains. Revenge, for her, for my son, for Simone, all the ghosts of my past, and perhaps redemption for myself.

I see a shadow under the door as I climb out onto the ledge of the window. I'm sure they will be covering the balcony door on the other side of the room. The modest explosion as the door opens gives me the edge I need and the irony I crave. So it ends, just as it began, in a flash of red and the settling of old scores.

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

Walter watched from the circuit board he was supposed to be checking, routine maintenance, yeah right. There was nothing routine about what was happening. Ever since they took Nikita away late last night, he felt it as a subtle undercurrent to regular machinations of Section. Operations and Quinn had been called away to the Centre on some urgent business. Mr Jones was hovering, supervising two operatives he didn't recognise in a far corner of Comms. A call came in and Mr Jones disappeared towards the White Room. Walter saw his opportunity, made his way casually to Birkoff's old station, logged in, reached into his pocket and the small device over the left side of the disc drive. The screen flickered for a moment before going back to it's self test program as a dialogue box apperead on the bottom left corner, scrolling rapidly through network activity. God bless you and your toys, Birkoff, he muttered to himself. He found what he was looking for, flicked through a few channels, until he came to a visual of a mission he wasn't familiar with. Glancing around he slipped the headset on and keyed in some enhancements to the frame, slipped a disc into the drive, keyed in the download sequence.

The static dissolved and he saw operatives moving swiftly up a stairwell and then waiting in the dark corridor of large, airy house or maybe an apartment building. A woman appeared from the doorway of a room towards the end of the corridor, passed through an archway then made her way slowly down the sprawling spiral staircase. As soon as she disappeared, the operatives make their way down the corridor, surrounding the doorway the woman had emerged from. He split the frame and scanned the other channels broadcasting on the same frequency - one a view from an alleyway of a first floor window, another showing the deserted street-front of the motel, the fourth depicting a thermal image of the building.

Walter's eyes focused on the thermal image, watching the lone figure in the room moving rapidly around in the doorway before moving quickly towards the far wall. A flash of brilliant red erupted on the screen as he flicked to the image from the alleyway.

His eyes widened in amazement as he recognised the too familiar body jumping down into the alley from the first floor window. A dead man, very much alive, at least for the moment. He shook his head slowly, wondering how many lives Michael had left. A smile came to his face as Nikita's cryptic comments suddenly started to make sense. He knew his Sugar would never betray him.

Michael landed in a hail of bullets, rolling to his feet and returning the fire from guns in each hand. He ran and took cover behind some dumpsters on the other side of the alley. Walter thought he saw him take a couple of hits before he managed to take cover. A number of operatives moved down the alleyway, surrounding Michael's position. As they took positions, he saw of few of them drop, lifeless, to the ground.

Powerless to do anything, Walter could only watch as the action intensified. That's my boy, Walter thought grimly to himself, go out with a bang... and not a whimper.

Part Five

"How long are you going to keep me waiting" Nikita wailed into the empty, vigilant room. Irritation growing, she pulled futilely on the restraints binding her wrists and ankles to the chair. "Bastards" she hissed, wiggling within the tight bindings in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Nine or ten hours, she guessed, though it was always hard to gauge with only white walls to stare at.

With a deep sigh she closed her eyes, but despite her exhaustion sleep was elusive. Instead the same scenes, a seemingly endless loop of on the inside of her eyelids. She knew them by heart, and that's where they hurt her the most. Squeezing her eyes tightly closed she moaned in frustration. Not knowing was the worst part of it. Why was she here, where was he? She suspected one question answered the other, but anything was possible.

With an audible crack the door swung open.

"Sorry for the delay, Niki darling. Just had a few details to clear up before our little chat" Mr Jones announced smoothly as he came and stood before her.

"Cut the crap, Mick, just tell me why the hell I'm here!" Nikita demanded, tired of playing games.

Mr Jones pulled up a chair, turned it backwards, sat down, resting his elbows against the high back. He cheerfully sat, watching Nikita, an irritatingly smug grin on his face.

"What!" she asked in response to his grin.

"Oh... nothing. Just thinking about a few things. You know... guy stuff."

"Give me a break. I've been sitting here for hours, waiting patiently, only to have you come in here to share a special moment with your dick?"

"From what I've been told, lamb-chop, you haven't quite been the paragon of patience and virtue you'd lead me to believe. I understand you've been quite rude to the poor chappie that's been watching over you, not to mention all the deeply hurtful things you've been saying about me. I'm shocked, Niki, that you'd think so badly of my dear mother and the nature of our relationship. Quite shocking."

Nikita groaned, rolled her eyes, pulled viscously on the restraints holding her arms. A sharp pain speed up her arms, giving her something to focus on.

"I had an interesting little tete-a-tete with one of my superiors today, popsicle. Most interesting. Seems you've been playing tricks on poor old trusting Mick, making me look quite the fool."

"Since when have you needed help."

Mick smiled, resting his chin on his hands. "I can understand you're a little upset, pumpkin, so I'll let that slide, for the moment. You're probably bored, aren't you, just sitting around here, it's a little dull. Let's watch a little tele, shall we" he grinned, flicking a button on a remote that suddenly appeared in his hand. A large panel rolled away on the wall opposite them, revealing a dull, grey screen.

The screen flickered to life, blue static giving way to a dark alleyway, figures criss-crossing as gunshots were heard ricocheting of the walls. The Operatives were moving slowly towards a dumpster in the centre of the screen, a constant stream of location reports sounding over the speaker. As they surrounded the dumpster, a figure appeared behind them, firing rapidly. The operatives broke, spreading and rolling to the ground and returning fire. In sudden silence, the lone figure dropped slowly to the ground, one arm flailing out as the gun it held fell and skidded noisily across the cobblestone road. The camera zoomed in on the figure lying on the ground. Michael's face was ghostly white against the dark roadway, eyes staring peacefully at nothing, blood pooling slowly in one eye from a deep gouge in his temple. Blinking slowly, a vivid line of blood made its slow journey from the corner of his mouth to his cheek. One pale, bloodied hand lay across his body, stirring faintly with the clumsy, irregular movement of his chest.

Mr Jones glanced across at Nikita, one eyebrow raised in query.

"Do you want to see the rest?" he asked mildly.

Nikita refused to look at him, her eyes fixed to the screen.

"I'll take that as a yes" he mumbled, watching Nikita now, rather than the screen.

A single gunshot rang out, a dull thwap as it travelled through the silencer to its destination, followed by a deceptively mild voice announcing "target neutralised".

Mr Jones sighed, flicked a switch, closing down the screen.

"So" he declared, pulling his chair closer to Nikita. "What do you make of that, Nik? For a while there, our venerable spyboy was looking pretty good for a bloke who only five weeks ago had 1,200grams of C4 detonate in his face. Bounced back from that little bother pretty well, didn't he?"

Nikita's eyes stared vacantly at the far wall, knuckles white where she gripped the hand rest of the chair. Thwap... neutralised.

"Love makes us do the most dangerous things, doesn't it?" he whispered . "Here you were, thinking it was going to be a 'happily ever after' ending, and it turns into Romeo and Juliet. Ahhh... the great tragedies. Come on Nik, don't go all broody and silent on me now. You're fighting for your life here, don't disappoint me."

Nikita turned slowly, eyes downcast. Thwap... neutralised. No use pretending it hadn't happened. Another one of their tricks.

"Go to hell" she hissed, face finally raising to meet his.

"Go directly to hell? Do not pass go? Seems we're already there, luv. I'm curious, popsicle, why did you defy the cancellation order and help him escape, when it was you that issued it in the first place?"

"As if you care. Can we just get this over with, quickly. You owe me at least that much."

Mr Jones sighed, shaking his head.

"If I didn't care we wouldn't be having this conservation at all, my dear Nikita. You'd be lying on a concrete slab wrapped in PVC, just like poor, *dead*, Michael." He leaned towards her until their faces were millimetres apart. Spoke slowly, softly, drawing each word like the caress of a sharp blade across her throat. "Just tell me why you chose to betray me, Nikita. Why you made me look so bad for placing so much trust in you. You owe me at least that much" he added with an ironic grin.

Nikita stared at him for a long while, a face so familiar yet still unknown because of all the faceless people he answered to. Thwap... neutralised. Who issued the order?

"You did it because you loved him, didn't you?" he urged, gently.

"Why does it matter, now?" she answered impassively, "you got want you wanted." She took a deep, hitching breath, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "He's dead" she whispered, as though testing the words for their conclusiveness, unwilling to believe.

"I need to know" he continued patiently, as though explaining the obvious to a five year old, "because if you could look *him* in the face and deceive him so thoroughly, you can do the same to me."

Nikita's eyes widened in bewilderment for an instant before she could get her turbulent emotions under control, assess the implications of what he had just disclosed.

"You knew, all this time and you knew" she murmured, shaking her head in denial. Thwap... neutralised.

"Here's the thing, Nikita, and it's to your detriment that you keep having to have this lesson so painfully rammed home into that pretty, more often than not intelligent, head of yours- *I * know * everything*. There are no secrets, there are no surprises. There is nothing anyone can do that isn't monitored, analysed and neutralised. Accept this, and perhaps we can find a way forward."

Nikita watched him carefully, swallowing down the emptiness that had consumed her when that gunshot rang out. Thwap... neutralised. She had nothing to loose now, no reason to go forward.

"If you knew what I did, and why I did it, why has it taken you five weeks to find Michael?" she enquired mildly. "Guess you don't know *everything* Mick, huh!?"

With a weary sigh, Mr Jones stood, wandered aimlessly around the room, seeming to take great interest in the slightest detail of the various fixtures on the walls.

"What other lessons do you have for me Mick" she taunted. "This is your big chance, I'm a captive audience, after all."

Mr Jones ambled towards her, leaned a hip casually on the arm of her chair. "I had such big plans for you, lambchop, but I can see I'm going to need to give you time to... umm... readjust to this little setback."

He flicked a piece of lint from his coat sleeve, then casually leaned back and flipped a switch at the rear of the chair. The restraints around Nikita's ankles retracted with a soft hiss and she stretched her legs out, wincing as strained muscles made themselves known.

"You're too kind" she mumbled sarcastically, rotating her feet in slow circles and bending her knees.

"I know" he sighed, "it's a terrible failure." He stood, wandered around to stand directly in front of her, observing her mobile legs with a challenging grin.

"Feeling nervous?" Nikita smiled coldly. Thwap... neutralised.

"Not really, luv" he answered, looking towards her legs with disinterest. "What is making me nervous is that they told me this might be your reaction. It must be a disappointment for you, living up to their expectations."

"Living up to their expectations" Nikita laughed, a genuine though slightly hysterical sound. "God Mick, even you must see the humour in that!"

"Why didn't you go with him?" he asked suddenly.

"What... and give up all this?" she sighed, reality coming crashing down again. "Been there done that, Mick." Her voice faltered for a moment, taking a deep breath. "He had an opening... a chance. If I went with him... well, you know what would have happened."

Thwap... neutralised.

He gave her a sympathetic nod, sat in his chair again. "I saw what happened, Nik" he answered gently. "As far as the rest of Section One is concerned, Michael was already dead. The only damage control I have to do on this morning's activity in that alleyway in Rhodes concerns you, Nikita. Any suggestions?"

Nikita's eyes filled with tears, spilling down her face like glossy pearls. She mouthed the word "Rhodes" before closing her eyes. When they opened again the pain was masked by a bleak acquiescence.

"Cancel me... do it!" she entreated.

Mr Jones raised an eyebrow, looked at her curiously. A hand went to his chin, a finger stroking slowly, up, down, worrying his cheek.

"Sorry Nik, but that's not an option I choose to exercise at this point in time." He took out his phone, made a call, hushed words Nikita couldn't decipher. The phone was folded, replaced in his top pocket as he straddled the chair, face grim. "I want you here, Nikita, and I want you functional. I don't trust Operations and O'Brien is barely up to the task." He stood, returned the chair to a position by the wall. "My new assistant is going to spend some time with you, see if we can't work something out."

He walked to the door, turned to face her when he reached it. His lips stretched in a grimace, eyes sad as they focused on her.

"I'm sorry" he whispered gently.

Nikita lifted her head from where it had been resting against her chest.

"Sure, Mick" she mumbled with complete indifference. "Doesn't change anything though, does it?"

He shrugged in weary agreement, turned, opened the door. With a resigned sweep of his arm he ushered the others in and closed the door firmly behind himself.

She looked up, face vacant, staring at the apparatus they wheeled in. She recognised the chamber immediately. A memory parasite designed to create an army of automatons. She closed her eyes, too exhausted to contemplate their plans, wanting nothing more than to be alone with her grief.

"Hello Nikita" a familiar voice greeted her. "Mr Jones has asked me to oversee your transition back to operational status."

Nikita's head rolled slowly, perched at an angle as her eyes swept over the equally familiar face.

"I thought you were dead" she responded wearily. "No... that's not quite right... I *hoped* you were dead." Her head dropped backwards as the needle slid home. "Seems everything good is being undone today" she mumbled, feeling consciousness float blearily away.

Thwap... neutralised.

Part Six

Operations entered his office, a brief flicker of irritation to find Mr Jones and Monique, sprawled casually at his desk, as though drinking coffee and reading the morning papers.

"Can I help you" Operations growled.

"That remains to be seen" Mr Jones chuckled quietly. He glanced at the severe scowl contorting Operations face, waved him over with a dismissive gesture. "Only joking, Paul. Come, take a seat, there's a few things we need to discuss."

Operations took a deep breath, sat in the only vacant seat, strategically placed between the two others.

"Did you manage to sort out our little problem?" Mr Jones asked, flicking through some papers in front of him.

"It was a bogus transmission, just as I predicted. Quinn will be monitoring the network for any further activity." Operations shifted in his seat, leant an elbow against the desk, visibly incensed. "It was a complete waste of my time" he hissed.

"Better safe than sorry" Mr Jones replied cheerily, unperturbed by Operations hostile demeanour.

"The Tijovalich retrieval went badly, there were casualties" Monique stated briskly, eyes scanning the laptop in front of her.

Operations looked puzzled for a moment. "Casualties?"

"Yes, casualties" she replied, "Tijovalich was one of them. Your profile was bad."

"No it wasn't" Operations snapped, immediately regretting the outburst as Mr Jones and Monique stared at him with indifference.

Mr Jones turned slightly, crossed his legs, fingers pinching the pleat in the leg of his trousers. "The profile was bad, O'Brien lacks experience, you have no Level 5 field coordinator, Comms needs better synchronisation, ... do I need to go on?" He sighed, bored, unfurled his legs. "You're resisting, Paul, and while I admire your tenacity, in this instance I have to agree with my favourite aliens - resistance is futile." He smiled, leant across the desk, tapped a finger on the polished wood. "You need help, Paul" he whispered.

Operations stood slowly, moved to sit on the sill of the window looking down over Section. He ran a hand carefully through his hair before he stood, plunging his hands into his pockets.

"Who?" he demanded tersely.

"Monique, for now, then Nikita."

"I thought Monique and Nikita were working for you."

"They were, now they're working *with* you. I've made other arrangements."

"I see."

"That's a refreshing change."

Operations leant against the railing, hands on the rail in a bruising grip. "What's the chain of command now?" he challenged. "I need to know."

Mr Jones grinned, raising his legs and dropping them on the desk with a resounding thump. Operations turned and faced him, incensed.

"I'm tired of these games" Operations fumed, "who am I answering to here!" Unwilling to go any further and admit just how much he didn't know, he glared challengingly at Mr Jones. "You seem to be suffering from the delusion that you don't need me, as if someone else can step in and run Section One and maintain the productivity that you and whoever you answer to demand. No-one else can do this job, that's why I'm here, now, that's why you need me."

Mr Jones laughed, a boisterous, enthusiastic laugh that brought tears to his eyes.

"Oh Paul, it's true, your egoism is priceless" he chuckled, standing to join Operations at the window. His expression turned deadly serious. "You're here because it suits our purposes, for the moment. *No one* is indispensable, I would have thought that events over the last few weeks would have convinced you of that. But perhaps you need a little aide memoire, because I can assure you, I'm not the delusional one." He sighed benevolently, rested a hand on Operations shoulder and felt the muscles beneath his fingers tense instantly. "You're answering to the same people you've always answered to and, as always, we will decide how much you need to know. Nothing has changed in that respect. You will do the job that has been requested, or you will be dead. It's hardly rocket science."

Mr Jones gave Operations a slap on the back, returned to his chair. "Any other questions?" he asked amiably.

Operations let out a deep breath, hands returning to his pockets. "No, I think that covers it" he smiled.

Part Seven

Pain. I've been drifting for so long, it's strange to finally feel something tangible. Pain, so pure and absolute it's difficult to isolate just where it's coming from. It's inside me, everywhere, so I keep still. It seems to help. Focus on my surroundings, trying to ignore the burning thirst that makes me restless, the need to vomit up whatever is constricting my throat, making it hard to breath. Focus on the soft blip of machines, hushed footsteps and whispers. A cool hand grips my chin, while fingers invade my mouth, tugging gently on what feels like a steel pipe that's lodged in my throat. I resist the urge to bite down and damage them, instead I drift away again, back to that grey place, where pain and time have no meaning. Nothing.

"Hey, you in there?"

The grey fades, dissolving slowly like frost on the ground, transforming into something else. Something like pain, but not as sharp. Pain and words, everywhere, pounding in my head.

"Is he awake?"

"Yeah, I think so. Just playing dead."

That's right, playing, hide and go seek. Who are you?

"Can't say as I blame him. They've made me cut right back on his pain meds, must hurt something fierce. Did you check that catheter?"

"Yeah, it's okay. Here you go..."

Something icy cold is slipped into my mouth, it feels like heaven. I swallow, painfully slow, as the crushed ice melts and trickles down my throat like honey. I can't remember anything ever tasting so good.

More. I'm not sure if I said that or just thought it. But another spoonful of ice is placed carefully in my mouth. I chew carefully, delighting in every drop, like a treasure.

"That's enough for now, we don't want you vomiting from the drugs you've been on. We just removed the breathing tube from your throat, so it will be a little sore for a while."

I swallow the last of the ice, feeling a surge of energy from just a few drops of water. I try to get up, immediately regretting my haste as the pain swells through my body. I can't move my head, my wrists are restrained, probably my ankles too, but I can't feel anything above the pain.

"Settle down, you're not going anywhere. Janie, check that line, I think he pulled it out. Just relax, okay, no-ones going to hurt you."

I can't seem to stop the urge to fight my restraints, let them know I have still have some control, do something to let them know I am alive. Let myself know. I am alive. But why? Where am I? I open my eyes, but I see only blackness and my panic increases.

"Hey, stop, you're only going to hurt yourself. Where the hell did he get the energy for this. Janie get me a sedative, screw their orders."

"I don't advise that course, Andrew. Remove his restraints."

"Are you crazy, he's having a panic attack, he'll rip out the stiches."

"Do as I say, Andrew, remove the restraints. That's why he's fighting, aren't you Michael? You're among friends here, we're trying to help you."

This voice is calm, vaguely familiar, oddly comforting. I feel them fumble with the leather restraints on my wrists and ankles, the dull pressure on my forehead relieved. The blindfold remains, but I think I'm glad as I slump back into the bed, focusing on nothing more challenging that taking air into and out of my lungs. Trying to ignore the pain that roars in my ears. I flinch as something is pressed over my nose and mouth, but relax immediately as it becomes easier to breathe. In, out, the oxygen burns my throat but it feels good. Hands are moving cautiously over my body, checking, adjusting. I don't care. I'm alive, breathing, in, out.

"Andrew?"

"Shit, where the hell did that come from?"

"He's just testing, Andrew, us, and himself. I take it as a good sign. Can I have your report, please."

"Well, all things considered he's doing remarkably well. The drain from his chest injury is clear, lungs are finally clear, blood pressures stable, at last. The inter-peritoneal haemorrhaging is under control and it looks like we caught the staph infection in time. His temperatures stable at 102, a bit higher than I'd like, but within acceptable limits considering the infection we're dealing with. We'll remove the parenteral tube tonight, start introducing solids as soon as possible, that always speeds things up."

My brain is sluggish but I try to absorb this information. I'm surprised they are willing to talk so freely in front of me. Information is power, after all. In, out, I use the rhythm to try and focus my attention. Something is there, in the words, in the voices. Something...

"Progress, at last."

"It all takes time. Hell, he's lucky to be alive. I have to say, I'm not comfortable with your suggestion though. He'll heal better if his pains levels aren't debilitating."

"Fine, I trust your judgement. I just want him aware, there's too little time and so much we have to cover."

"Can I trust him, without the restraints I mean? I can't have my staff in danger, just going about their job."

"We'd best ask him that. Michael, can Andrew trust you?"

I hear the words, the answer obvious. Dead men don't tell lies.

"No." A soft laugh makes me think that maybe I managed to say the words aloud this time.

"Andrew, remove the bandage from his eyes."

"Okay, I can do that. Michael, a bullet grazed your temple, right side, pretty deep. I sutured it, they'll come out in a day or two. There was some trauma to the optic nerve, so things might be a bit blurry for a while, the headaches should decrease over the next couple of weeks. I'm just going to take off the bandage now, okay, Michael."

I move my head in agreement, as best I can, feeling his fingers gently lift me and unwind the bandage. The bright lights hurt, I close my eyes immediately, the pain ricocheting through my head, unbearable. A hand quickly covers my eyes, fingers resting softly against my eyebrows.

"Shit, sorry. Janie, will you dim the lights please."

I blink, breathing slowly, trying to control the pain. The room is almost dark when I try again. A face looming over me, full of concern. I must be dreaming.

"Birkoff?" the words spill out, I hear them.

"No, no, I'm Andrew. It's okay, I can understand why you're confused."

I blink again, but the image in front of me doesn't change. The face, the eyes, I can't process this fact. Where am I?

"Michael worked with Birkoff for many years, Andrew, he's likely to be a little disorientated at first."

A smile, shy, so familiar.

"Wow, that's... great. I'd love to know more about him, you know, when you're feeling better. Is the light okay, I'm sorry about that. We'll keep them dimmed for a while, until you're ready."

Trying to coordinate my hand, I brush uselessly at the oxygen mask, trying to move it out of the way. The effort leaves me exhausted.

"Who are you?" Each word has to wait for another breath.

"There's time enough for explanations, Michael. But now, I think you need to rest for a while. Andrew, Michael seems to be in some pain, can you organise something to help him relax."

Memories merge, voice and face, as she comes into the periphery of my vision. Too much. Where the hell am I. Maybe I am dead, after all.

"Hello Adrian" I manage, my throat burning again, each breath agony. It's so hot, I feel so hot, burning.

"Hello Michael."

As though sensing my distress, she reaches for the glass of ice and offers it to me, smiling benevolently. I open my mouth, obediently. Realising I'm accepting more than just the ice but too exhausted to resist. I watch Birkoff... Andrew... whoever, depress a syringe into the IV feeding the catheter in my arm.

"Why?" I manage to mumble before he replaces the oxygen mask over my mouth. I feel the tug of whatever he has plunged into my veins, pulling me under, back to that grey place where I am safe.

Adrian picks up a washcloth from the ice bucket, sweeping it gently across my face. It feels cool, soft... so tired.

"You're here because it's time for you take on the job that you've been groomed for, to take over from me. I should have realised you'd put up the fight of your life. Nothing is ever easy for you, is it Michael? You had enough sedative in you to kill a horse when you backtracked and ambushed them. They were using blanks, but it turned out that real bullets were the only way we were going bring you in. It was touch and go for a while there, but you've had the very best of care. Andrew has seen to that. Rest now, and when you're ready I'll answer *all* your questions."

Part Eight

"Cycle through again, Quinn, it's here" Nikita urged, eyes scanning the compound through high powered binoculars. "O'Brien, hold you position until you have confirmation."

"I'm just trying to get the Nyquist frequency so I can fine tune the image" Quinn's harried voice announced. "I have it, Nikita, sixth quadrant at position 69FS. High-pass filter is activated, spatial frequency stabilised, clear to go".

"That's it, Red Team proceed to 69FS for retrieval, Blue Team set charges and move to egress point two to provide cover. Sequence initiated with eight minutes to egress" Nikita directed. From her vantage point she observed the rapid movement of bodies below her, dark shadows weaving through the maze of containers stored in the compound. Three bodies stopped beside one container, slight wisp of smoke as they blew an entrance hole and disappeared.

"Charges in place" a voice, Johnson or Jones, something like that.

"Acknowledged."

Tick, tick, tock, her fingers drummed against the stainless steel case of the binoculars.

"Package retrieved" O'Brien whispered.

"Count?" Nikita asked.

"Twenty."

"Can you secure?"

"Yeah, Walter packed extra casings."

Bless you cautious Walter, she thought. Whistled softly. Intel had indicated only seven nuclear warheads. A movement to the left distracted her.

"Security guard moving south east at 195 degrees from you position, fall back to the northern perimeter and egress through position three. Blue Team, disable western gate and fall back to cover egress perimeter. I'll cover until they reach the gate." Nikita hefted the rifle onto her shoulder, watched the security guard move slowly through the compound through the infrared scope.

"At three, we're clear" O'Brien confirmed.

"Confirm clear, vans in position, go." Nikita watched as they entered the van, waited until they were moving away before she shouldered the rifle and walked slowly to the van parked on the other side of the ridge. The door slid back, two steps and she was in, the van lurched forward and they were moving.

"Twelve set, all armed, on your mark" Quinn announced, looking up expectantly.

Nikita glanced at the screen, removed the detonator from her inside pocket, pressed the green button as she swung into the seat beside Quinn. The van lurched suddenly from the force of the explosion, righted, then moved forward again.

"Sequence complete" she announced into the headset held in her hand.

Quinn turned to her, smiled. "Neat. Just like the old days."

Nikita stared at her for a moment, face blank, then turned to the laptop in front of her to review the tapes.

"Yeah, just like the old days" she sighed, fingers seeking the familiarity of routine.

Operations was waiting when they unloaded back at Section, smiling magnanimously as O'Brien supervised the passage of the warheads.

"Well done" he smiled, stepping in front of Nikita and Quinn.

"Yeah, we were lucky" Nikita responded wearily, stepping to the side, irritated by having Operations in her face.

Quinn beamed under his praise, so close, their arms almost touching. Nikita stifled a grin, hearing Mick tell her you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks. Seems Operations just chose a trick Mick wasn't willing to provide personal instruction in. Pity, they could have been good for each other.

"O'Brien, take those down to containment" she ordered, "I'll let Walter know." She moved down the corridor, shaking her head, plus ca changer. Rounding the corner to the equipment store, she was outrageously relieved to see Walter there. Eyes bent over the latest project.

"Hey Walter, we brought back some toys for you to play with."

Walter raised his eyebrow lasciviously. "Finally, Sugar, you're getting with the program. Want me to clear this countertop, it's rated to 3000 pascals, one of those warheads would hardly make a dent."

"Dream on, Walter" Nikita smiled, vaguely disconcerted with the direction of the conversation.

"Good advice" Walter grinned. "I hear you struck the jackpot, smooth as silk."

"Yeah, it went okay. Things are starting to come together in the field. And I finally got approval to start making my changes to the recruitment and mission procedures" she grinned, suddenly, deliriously, happy. The mood swings were happening more often, leaving her edgy and disorientated. She checked her watch, two hours until she was due at Centre for another session with Madeline. Her good mood disappeared instantly. She looked up, noticed Walters confused frown, suddenly remembered they had been talking.

"I said, I thought Operations had said no way" Walter repeated.

"Ummm... yeah, he did, but now that we've been requested to send in separate reports it managed to get through to... whoever. Operations went ballistic about that. The approvals came in yesterday, hand delivered by Mr Jones, read Operations the riot act when he told him where he could stick the approval. It was... interesting. A few other things have got through, little things, but still." Shrugged her shoulders, not sure how much she should tell him. "Anyway, it's... something."

"About time, I had my request to start work on the kevlar body suits approved, nothing will get through those suckers once I'm done" he beamed proudly. "Like you said, Sugar, it's the little things. I could get used to this brave new world, where Operations isn't the last word on everything."

Nikita sat brooding on that comment, trying to make sense of things.

"How are *you* doing?" Walter asked softly. Sincere concern in his voice this time, made her feel warm in the ubiquitous chill of Section.

She shrugged, diffidently, started unloading the arsenal she had taken with her as the others came through, handed gear over the counter as Walter ticked it off. When the room was clear again, she glanced about, nervous, seeing ears and eyes everywhere.

"I'm doing okay" she sighed softly. "I think they're messing around with my head again. Not the same as last time, maybe they're... ummm... getting better at it." She tried to smile encouragingly, failed miserably.

Walter looked pained, scratched his chin distractedly.

"I don't know." She reached down, rubbed aggressively at the mud on her boots. "If this is all that's left then..." Shrugged, leant an elbow on the counter. "I don't know if I care anymore."

"The last six months have been hard on everyone, Sugar. You've got more rights than most to feel a little dislocated."

"Shit Walter, you act like I'm the casualty in all this. Far from it. I did the job for them, played their games. I deceived all of you. Eyes wide open, Walter, I knew exactly what was I doing and didn't hesitate doing it" she whispered angrily. "Stop feeling sorry for me, I don't want your pity."

"I didn't think that's what I was offering" he answered coolly, unable to keep the resentment from his voice.

She sighed, fingers rubbing wearily against her face. "I know, I know. I just... shit. I'm sorry, I don't what's wrong with me. I shouldn't be dumping all of this on you."

Walter paced restlessly before seeming to make a decision, disappeared suddenly into the maze of storage shelves. When he reappeared he held a disc in his hand, looked around nervously before sliding it across the counter, under some papers.

"What is it?" Nikita asked, not touching the papers or the disk.

"Hope" he whispered.

Nikita considered that for a moment, testing the word out suspiciously.

"Hope?"

"Yeah. That's the best I can do. It's what I saw, the day they took him. The day they took you."

Nikita seemed to struggle with this for a moment, trying to remember. Frustration almost boiling over to make her wild. She gripped her temples, forcing her mind to concentrate.

"The day he was killed, is that what you mean?" she mumbled, feeling the nausea twist at her stomach.

"Take it, Sugar. I've watched it a million times and I don't think he was..." Walter fumbled, too disturbed by the look of anguish on her face. "Just... see for yourself."

Nikita glanced around, slid the papers towards the edge of the counter and slipped the disc inside her jacket. She stood, stretched wearily and zipped her jacket, walking towards the doorway. A hand on the doorway and she turned, a fragile smile as she studied him.

"They know everything" she whispered gloomily.

"Almost" Walter managed to smile.

"Hope" Nikita grinned, vanishing through the doorway.

Part Nine

Kick, thrust, side-sweep, block. My legs and arms go through the motions. It feels so good to be back in control. Though I'd prefer to have a live body to spar with instead of the simulator. I crave the unpredictability and raw aggression. It's hardly a challenge any more, but it's better than nothing. The sweat drips into my eye's, trying to distract me. Another two 'dead' and the program ends, telling me my score. Better than yesterday. Each day is better, and worse.

I pick up my towel and water bottle, drinking greedily. I'm at the top level now and the computer makes me work hard. The gym is vacant, as usual, so there is no one in the shower as I strip off my sweaty clothes and plunge under the hot water. As always, I start with it almost too hot, gradually increasing the cold until at the end I am left shivering under the frigid, stinging barbs. I measure my mental state by the length of time I can tolerate the icy cold water. Today it's only a short while, things must be better than usual.

One of the Birkoffs is waiting for me when I return to my office. It's Vincent, I think. I'm gradually getting used to them, the Agencies one and only success in cloning. My research has revealed that only two of them have ever left headquarters, Seymour and Jason. The others have all remained here, at HQ, seven of them, as far as I can tell. Adrian has assigned one of them to me as an assistant.

"Yes Vincent" I test as I settle into my seat.

"A has scheduled a Council meeting for 1030" he informs me, rechecking his pad.

"Fine" I answer, booting up my computer. Vincent is Adrian's assistant. He has been most helpful to me during my 'transition', as they euphemistically refer to it. The other two members of Council, who I know only as Mr J and Zed, have female assistants, both elderly but ruthlessly efficient. I am referred to as 'M'. Everything here is reduced to the lowest common denominator. I spent the first couple of months struggling to get up to speed with the acronyms and jargon.

"Alex will have your briefing papers" he confirms. Alex is my 'assistant'. "Let me know if you need any additional background material."

"I will, thank you Vincent."

He smiles and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

I turn to my computer, the world at my fingertips. I note that it's a little after seven, plenty of time before the meeting. Time to indulge myself, after all the cold water didn't last too long today. The operations of the Council are more far-reaching than just the Sections, however, at this stage they have limited my activities to monitoring and guiding the work of the Sections. It's a heady reality, suddenly having access to so much information, so much to digest and assemble. I'm finally getting on top of it. There are no secrets here and as far as I have been able to detect, nobody watching me.

It was hard at first, reading it all, too personal. As though I had been left exposed, naked on their dissecting table. The anger was almost my downfall. I punished my body because I could not punish them. Battled those demons in the sweat and burn of the gym. Woke several times back in the clinic to Andrew's concerned face as he shook his head, astounded by my foolishness. I've stopped punishing myself now, the futility of such a course has finally been exposed. They own me. And now they owe me.

Like a child unwrapping a gift at Christmas, I log into the Section One activity records. Reach out and touch. There she is, not flesh and bone, but close enough. I read through the reports, Operations, Nikita, Walter, Quinn, Jason, O'Brien, other names that are just names. Mr Jones' confidential summary report. I make my recommendations, annotating each report. Alex will take these and relay them through to the Centre, where they will be cast in stone and sent on to Operations. I smile as I picture his face when he receives them.

I check Nikita's schedule and her latest efficiency reports, making some minor adjustments. It's then that I notice the anomaly. I recheck Mr Jones report, then backtrack through some of her previous reports. It becomes obvious what they are doing. I peruse the files from prior to my arrival, to see who authorised it, appalled that it has taken me this long to detect. I find the authority, and suddenly more curious search back through the records to answer a question I've always pondered. Why was Nikita recruited? My search takes me through a labyrinth of files, and I backtrack carefully, covering my tracks as I go. Trust does not come easily to me.

I'm barely distracted by a knock at the door. Alex enters without waiting to be invited, as is his way, sits quietly in the chair on the other side of my desk, a locked briefcase by his feet, waiting patiently. I ignore him while I finalise my search, amazed at the web of connections I have found. Although I can't confirm it at this stage, I am almost certain that Nikita's father is on the Council. After composing myself for a few minutes I look across at him.

"Good morning Alex."

"Good morning Sir" he smiles seriously, passing me a disc and a red, sealed folder. "Here are the background papers for this mornings meeting. I think you'll already be familiar with most of the material."

I nod, accepting the information from him.