"For a number of years," Operations began without preamble, "one of the agencies with which we cooperate has been engaged in collecting other people's dirty laundry. Their activities in this regard are illegal. They've also proven...effective...as a means of exerting control over certain problematic individuals and organizations. Some time back, this agency began consolidating the data it had collected. It elected to put a great many of its most valuable eggs in a single basket, you might say. Unfortunately--" contempt merged with the frigid fury in his voice "--someone stole the basket. Section was not apprised of the situation until significantly after the fact."

He picked up the remote control for the holographic briefing display and clicked it on. Video of a pale, pudgy man in his mid-fifties materialized along with a brief biographical text. Nikita and several other operatives leaned forward.

"The information found its way into this man's hands," Operations went on, practically spitting out the words. "Kyler Braun. International fixer and facilitator. An individual who's done business with just about everybody in the course of his extremely checkered career, including us. It was because of him--not our erstwhile Agency compatriots--that Section learned about the data theft in the first place. Although our initial inquiries were summarily rebuffed, there was a subsequent request for our assistance when it became known that Mr. Braun intended to start brokering the material he'd obtained, piecemeal, to the highest bidders."

He paused. A number of operatives shifted in their chairs. Looks were exchanged. Likewise, a number of sotto voce comments.

"In answer to the obvious question," Operations picked up. "A direct take back--or a hit on Braun--were deemed unacceptable. Not by us, I might add. But by the people from whom we take our orders. A scenario was devised in which the recovery would be camouflaged by the substitution of seemingly comparable but disinformationally corrupted databases. As an added fillip, these substitutes were infected with a time-delay computer virus."

"First the buyers would get the wrong information," Birkoff mused with a tinge of admiration. "Then they'd get their systems wrecked. Nasty."

"Exactly," Operation affirmed. "Michael was sent in, detached, deep cover. What he--what WE-- didn't know, was that at least one other governmental agency intended to use him as a stalking horse."

Nikita frowned. Stalking horse--?

"He'd take the risks, make the recovery, and the bastards would grab the goodies for themselves," Sinjin summed up. "Jesus."

Operation nodded.

"They thought they'd get away with running a scam like that against Michael?" Teller asked incredulously.

"Apparently so." Operations' lips twisted. Nikita remembered Walter's comment about having the sense that there was some very ugly inter-agency s--- going down. On how many different fronts was Section fighting? she wondered uneasily. "Although evidence strongly suggests that they've seen the error of their ways. Which brings us to the next twist in this rat's nest."

Another click of the control. A new face--younger, thinner, far crueler than the one it replaced--appeared on the holographic display.

"Wyatt Coleridge," Operations announced, his distaste stark. "A second tier player with the previously mentioned laundry collection agency. Possibly involved in the data theft. Definitely gone rogue. Now, in addition to the retrieval mission, Michael was tasked with some particularly...delicate...intel gathering. He succeed on both counts. But as he was moving out, Coleridge moved in against Braun. The results were messy, to say the least. As we've pieced things together, Michael was captured by Coleridge who was aware of the second part of his assignment and wanted to capitalize on it. Michael sustained considerable damage under questioning, but managed to escape. He ended up--" a third click of the remote produced the image of a twenty-something redhead with fair skin, fine features, and crystalline gray eyes "--with this woman."

"Deirdre Alessi," Madeline supplied quietly. "She's the widow of a U.S. marshal named Vincent Alessi. He and their two-year-old daughter were murdered about three years ago. The killer fixated on Mrs. Alessi. She persuaded authorities to use her as bait to lure him out. Although the man attacked and injured her quite badly, she shot him to death." Madeline paused, her dark eyes roving from face to face, gauging reactions. After a moment she concluded, "Insofar as we've been able to determine, her connection with Michael in this situation is a matter of...unfortunate happenstance."

Nikita stared at the holographic display. It was difficult to imagine that anyone as ethereally lovely as Deirdre Alessi appeared to be could have endured the horror that Madeline had just outlined. And yet, as fragile as her features were, there was nothing weak about them. Indeed, the longer Nikita studied the face gazing out at her, the more strength she saw.

"She's an innocent," she said.

"She's involved," Operations corrected in a steely tone. "Our latest intel is that Mrs. Alessi and Michael have been taken by Coleridge. Tactical details are still being developed and the situation is very much in flux, but we're moving on it...NOW. Preliminary sequencing has been formulated, we'll finalize in the field."

He paused, seeming to weigh his next words very carefully. When he resumed speaking, his diction was very precise. "I want something clearly understood. Retrieving Michael alive is of paramount importance. Any other scenario is unacceptable. Section needs what he has--" he tapped a finger against his temple "--up here." He paused again, then clicked off the display. "Dismissed."

"What about Michael's supposed memory loss?" someone asked, a bit belatedly.

"We're prepared to deal with that," Madeline replied.

Nikita got to her feet, trying not to contemplate the chilling possibilities this enigmatic answer raised. The flippant phrase Sinjin had used--something about a "brain drain"--scurried around the edges of her consciousness like a poisonous spider.

"And what about the woman?" she questioned.

Operations nailed her with a look. It took her a second to realize that the anger she saw in his eyes was directed inward, at himself, not outward, at her. Apparently Deirdre Alessi had gotten to him, too.

"You've been given the mission profile, Nikita," he said flatly. "But if there's a way to recover her intact without compromising the objective...I expect you to find it."

**********

They'd become strangely entangled in his mind. The tall, blue-eyed blonde and the more delicately made redhead with the sometimes dreamy, sometimes disconcertingly direct, gray eyes.

Nikita.

Deirdre.

Niki--

A sudden dousing of icy water brought him back to consciousness. For one devastating moment of disorientation, he thought he was back in the ocean. Then he realized that the water dripping down his face was fresh, not salty. He also realized that he was sitting in a straight-backed chair, his arms shackled behind him with what felt like handcuffs.

There was a throbbing ache in his right shoulder that some portion of his brain calmly identified as a bullet wound. It further suggested that the pain he felt each time he inhaled probably was due to a cracked or broken rib. Possibly two.

Another dousing. He coughed and sputtered, testing the strength of his restraints as he shifted around. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registred that the "cheesy" little bell Deirdre had given him was still hanging around his neck, tucked inside Vince Alessi's old sweatshirt.

Finally, he opened his eyes. He saw double. Triple. Quadruple. Then his vision settled and he focused on the face of a man he knew, at a very primal level, he'd confronted before. Unfortunately, he had no idea who this foe was or what he wanted.

"So, Michael." The man smiled unpleasantly, baring nicotine-stained teeth. "We meet again."

"Really?" Michael glanced around, taking stock of his surroundings They were in a small, cinderblock room which was illuminated by a single light bulb. There was one door, directly in front of him. It was guarded by a muscular, camouflage-clad man with an automatic weapon. "You'll have to remind me of the previous occasion."

The man who'd uttered the greeting backhanded him across the face with casual viciousness. Michael heard a soft cry of protest from somewhere behind him. The sound affected him more than the blow.

Deirdre.

Alive.

And about to be subjected to hell on Earth because of her kindness to him.

Better that he'd never seen the light from her cabin, he thought savagely. Better that he'd died at sea, lost...and alone.

A moment later, Deirdre was shoved into view by an individual who looked like a clone of the gun-toting goon by the door. Her face was bruised; her copper-gilt hair, dishevelled. Her cream-colored dress was rumpled and dirty. The sight of her made Michael want to curse and kill, but he hammered down the impulses, disciplining himself into an attitude of absolute impassivity.

"Tsk tsk," the interrogator reproved, pulling Deirdre close to him. "Your rudeness has upset your charming companion, Michael." He cupped Deirdre's chin, examining her with clinical interest. She shuddered a little at his touch, but sustained his gaze. "My name is Wyatt Coleridge, my dear. And you are--?"

"Not impressed by bullies."

Coleridge pulled back his free hand as though to strike her, but apparently changed his mind. He ripped her dress open to the waist instead. The violence of his movement was such that it tore off most of the small mother-of-pearl buttons that ran up the bodice of the garment and broke the clasp on the front of the lace-trimmed bra beneath. Michael caught a glimpse of ivory skin, petal-pink nipples and a long, puckered scar. The implications of the obviously man-made wound in the otherwise flawless flesh rocked him for a split second, then he shoved them aside. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

"Alessi," he said, speaking very clearly. "Her name is Deirdre Alessi."

"Deirdre...Alessi..." the man who'd identified himself as Wyatt Coleridge repeated. He traced the scar with obscene slowness. Deirdre closed her eyes and endured the fondling in silence. "You'll have to tell me how you came by this," he murmured, then glanced back at Michael. "She's not Section issue, is she. What, then? An outside interest? Or some innocent you seduced into helping you? I've heard stories about your knack with the ladies, of course. But this--"

"She doesn't know anything, Coleridge."

"Probably not," came the unnervingly amiable response. It was punctuated by another baring of badly yellowed teeth. "But you very definitely do."

Coleridge released Deirdre. She stumbled back a step or two, then regained her balance. After a moment, she brought her arms up and crossed them in front of herself. She was milk white. Her gray eyes were glassy.

"I'm not going to insult you by making threats, Michael," Wyatt Coleridge declared silkenly. "We're both...professionals. You know what I want. You also know what I'm willing to do to get it. I, in turn, have learned that torturing you is non-productive. Entertaining, up to a point, but essentially a waste of time. So. What I now propose to discover is how much pain you'll allow the lovely Ms. Alessi to suffer before you break."

****

"How long 'til the staging point?" Teller asked, peering over Birkoff's shoulder.

"Six minutes," Birkoff answered, typing swiftly on his keyboard. "The body count on the exterior is up to ten. Random pattern."

"Meaning--?"

"I don't know. They could be devious. They could be disorganized."

"S**t," Sinjin muttered. "Great intel analysis, Birkoff."

"Shut up, Sinjin," Nikita advised, although she understood his frustration.

"Best guess, Birkoff," Teller requested calmly.

"Extrapolating from the data I've seen about Michael and the Alessi woman--" the young computer expert glanced up at the lanky team leader "--I'd say they're pretty well trained individually, but not as a unit."

"So we can divide and scramble."

"Yeah."

"Okay, then. We stick with the original sequence series. Alpha, north. Bravo, east. Tango, south. Delta, west. Go in diffuse and quiet. Nikita, you'll be on point once we pull the plug on the perimeter security and get inside."

Nikita nodded, disciplining her breathing and letting herself settle into mission mode.

Teller looked around the van, his lean face serious to the point of grimness. "Okay, people," he said. "We all know the objective on this. We bring him back. Alive. No f**king excuses. Do no--repeat, do NOT--assume that because you know Michael, he knows you. If he is suffering from memory loss, he'll look at you and see an enemy. That means he'll do his best to take you down. And take this as gospel: Michael's best is better than yours."

****

Coleridge had exited after his speech, taking his two thugs with him. It had been the "professional" thing to do, Michael reflected with a curious kind of detachment. Give the prospective victims some time to reflect on the ordeal to come. Let their fears form. Consolidate. Then spread like a cancer...

He closed his eyes for a moment, assailed again by an almost surreal series of images.

An elegant brunette with a Mona Lisa smile and merciless brown eyes.

A bright white room, with an ominous black throne.

An oddly repellent twosome carrying matching yellow--

"Michael?"

He opened his eyes. Deirdre had crossed to stand in front of him. She was fumbling with the buttons that remained on her dress, trying to redo them.

"Yes?" He began twisting his wrists, attempting to find some weakness in the metal bands that encircled them.

"Do you know what Coleridge wants?"

"Information."

"Do you...h-have it?"

"If I do--" he strained against the cuffs, dispassionately considering whether dislocating his thumb might allow him to slip his hand free "--I don't remember it."

"I see." Deirdre studied him silently for several moments. Then her lips started to tremble. Her eyes sheened over. She swayed, like a sapling in a strong wind. "M-Michael...I...I'm n-not..."

"Go behind me," he ordered, employing his voice the way he would have applied his palm to her cheek had he had the option.

"Wh-what?"

"Go behind me and look at the restraints on my wrists. There may be a way to release the locking mechnism without a key." There might be a way for him to sprout wings and fly them both to safety, too. And if raising that possibility would distract Deirdre from a head-long tumble into terror, he'd do it. Whether keeping her calm was a kindness at this point, he wasn't sure. But if they were to have *any* chance of surviving...

Deirdre blinked, clearly confused, but did as she'd been bidden. "Oh, God," she gasped after a second or two, the fuzziness of incipient hysteria gone from her tone. He felt the gentle brush of her fingers against his wrists and knuckles. "Oh, God, Michael. You're bleeding."

"It's nothing." The dismissal was automatic. "Focus on the handcuffs."

"I don't think--" a tentative tug "--Vince once said something--" another, slightly more determined testing of the bands "--oh, damn. Maybe--maybe if I had a hairpin or a p-paper clip--"

"Or a piece of wire," Michael finished, berating himself for taking so long to realize the resource he had at his command. "The bell you gave me is still around my neck, Deirdre. Take it off, pull the wire inside out...and use it on the cuffs."

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

Nikita pressed herself against the north wall of the building in which Michael and an innocent women were being held prisoner. She glanced at Sinjin, who was poised in the darkness to her right. The black operative nodded, pointed straight ahead, then clenched his fist. Nikita nodded back, thoroughly approving his intention.

"Alpha, on mark," she whispered, her voice colder than an Arctic wind. Her blue eyes, visible through the holes in the knit ski mask that covered her face, were colder still. "Targets acquired."

"All teams, on mark," Teller's voice responded through her com link. "Start sequencing...now."

Nikita moved forward, a matte metal blade in her right hand. Her stride was fluid; her senses, acutely focused. She was at one with the night and the deed she was about to do. Given the choice, she would not have had her life come to this. But since it had...

The man who died five seconds later didn't see or hear or feel her coming.

It was as though he'd been killed by a ghost.

***

"I think we'll start with something basic," Wyatt Coleridge announced. "Leo, let's have Ms. Alessi...here. Jann, you make certain our other guest doesn't try to avoid watching. This little experiment in inter-personal persuasion is for his benefit, after all."

Leo grabbed Deirdre from behind and dragged her over to the spot indicated by his leader. At the same time, Jann moved forward from his position by the door and levelled his automatic at Michael's head.

Michael continued manipulating the twist of wire Deirdre had managed to insert in the locking mechanism of the handcuffs just moments before Coleridge and his companions had returned. Ignoring both the cramping of his left wrist and the increasing numbness in the fingers of his right hand, he kept his movement small and precise. Viewed from the front, he seemed to be keeping perfectly still.

"You're going to kill me if I close my eyes?" he asked the guard, infusing the query with icy disdain. He recognized that the chances of his opening the manacles were very, very slim, of course. But if he did manage to free his hands, he wanted Jann's weapon within optimum grabbing distance. He was only going to get one chance at it. "It rather defeats the purpose of hurting the woman, n'est ce-pas?"

"Lower the gun a little, Jann," Coleridge snapped, plainly nettled at the rebuke to his associate. "Put a bullet through his elbow if he so much as blinks." He directed a feral smile at Michael. "His eagerness to spatter your brains against the wall is understandable, mon ami. You killed three of his comrades a week ago."

"But not him?" Michael tensed, feeling the wire catch on something. He tried not to think about what he was doing. Thinking only got in the way. The skills he knew he possessed--and certainly needed--did not seem accessible to him at a conscious level. His only hope was to tap into them in a more visceral fashion. It was imperative that he...accept..what he was, without reservation. "He must have been hiding."

Jann's pug-ugly features darkened. His hand wavered for a moment. Michael noted both responses with clinical satisfaction. The phrase "externalization of emotions" floated through his brain like a toxic fume. So, too, the notion of discovering an opponent's weakness and using it against him.

"You know," Deirdre said suddenly, her voice several notes higher than normal but remarkably steady. "I think I read somewhere that the worst thing about torture is waiting for it to start."

Coleridge turned, clearly taken aback--and somewhat titillated--by this unexpected show of defiance.

"So eager to begin?" he asked rhetorically. After a tiny pause, he hooked two fingers in the neckline of her dress and jerked. The front of the garment parted once again. He reached out and touched the long, curving scar that ran from the cleft between Deirdre's small, beautifully shaped breasts down and over her left hip. "Perhaps you're the kind who screams with pleasure when it comes to pain?"

The woman who'd vanquished the knife-wielding monster who'd murdered her husband and child stared at her tormenter as though assessing something that had just crawled out from under a rock.

"Perhaps I'm not the kind who screams at all," she returned, then spat in his face.

***

"Alpha in," Nikita reported, crouching next to Sinjin and scanning their surroundings. The match-up between what she was seeing and schematics she'd studied in the van was more than a little problematic. "No resistance."

"Alpha, hold," Teller ordered flatly. "Bravo?"

"On mark." It was Leyla. Her voice was tight. "But Smith is down."

"If he's functional, have him withdraw. If not, drag his ass back at egress. Tango?"

"On mark."

"Delta?"

"On mark."

"Intel, Birkoff?" Nikita requested.

"Straight ahead," Birkoff responded through a crackle of static. "First corridor to your left."

"This level?"

"No. Down two. I'll talk you to the access stairs."

"Damn near got toasted on a flight of stairs last month in Sidi be Abbes," Sinjin groused.

"Damn near only counts with horseshoes, hand grenades and tactical nuclear weapons," Nikita returned, readying herself to move.

"Alpha, you're up," Teller said. "Head out. Nikita on point."

**********

Deirdre didn't scream when Coleridge fractured the little finger of her left hand. In point of fact, she made no sound at all beyond a sudden, shattered gasp.

The "snap" of her bone breaking was sickeningly audible. More than loud enough to mask the "snick" of the locking mechanism on Michael's left handcuff opening up.

He didn't register the miraculous release immediately. A wave of impotent fury had rushed through him when he'd realized what Coleridge intended to do, momentarily sweeping him beyond the possibility of rational thought. But when that raging tide began to recede--

What little color Deirdre had had left in her face drained away. A greasy sheen of perspiration broke out on the surface of her translucent skin. Her nostrils flared with the rapid in-out of her breathing pattern.

"I went...through natural...child...birth, y-you know," she finally managed to say, glaring at Coleridge.

A preternatural calm descended over Michael. It was as though someone--or something--had thrown a switch inside him. Whether the purpose of this switch was to turn "on" or "off", didn't really matter.

He began to shift his weight in the chair. In the same instant, Deirdre's eyes rolled up in her head and she sagged bonelessly against her captor. Leo staggered slightly. Coleridge swore, catching hold of the front of her dress. Jann made the fatal mistake of glancing away from the predator he was supposed to be guarding.

Michael fisted his newly freed left hand and drove it into Jann's groin. The man doubled over, retching, his fingers spasming open. The gun dropped into Michael's right palm like an overripe piece of fruit. He swept upward with it, slamming the butt into the bridge of Jann's thick nose, shattering cartilege and spewing blood. A shard of bone pierced the guard's brain with lethal force.

Even before the dead man started to crumple, Michael had changed targets. He was functioning on automatic pilot, hyper-aware, but bizarrely uninvolved.

Splat.

The back of Coleridge's skull exploded.

Splat. Splat.

A hole blossomed between Leo's eyes. A second opened in the center of his throat with a geysering gush of scarlet.

****

The two mean who stood between Nikita and Sinjin and the entrance to the access stairs died as efficiently as their colleagues. But when Nikita tried the door--

"It's locked!"

Gunfire erupted behind her. It seemed the "quiet" component of the mission profile had just been aborted.

"Do what you need to do, Alpha," Teller ordered.

****

Michael had no recollection of standing up. He simply found himself on his feet, crossing toward Deirdre. His head swam as he crouched down beside her, strongly hinting that the blood loss he'd shrugged off might not be so insignificant after all. He pushed the dizziness aside by sheer force of will and gave thanks that his stomach was empty.

"Deirdre--"

The door to the room burst open. He turned. Fired twice. Two more corpses toppled to the floor. He dismissed them from his mind before they landed.

"Uh..." Deirdre stirred, her eyelids fluttering like the wings of a captive butterfly. "Uh..."

"Time to go," he said firmly. He took a second to retrieve the gun Coleridge had been wearing, then hooked a hand under her arm.

She looked at him, her expression dazed. "Wha--"

"Up," he ordered.

"I--" She glanced down at herself, gagging as she realized she was spackled with blood and tiny fragments of flesh. "Oh--oh, God--"

"It's not yours," he informed her brusqely, manhandling her to her knees then onto her feet. She stood there, swaying like a sapling. He caught her chin with his free hand and jerked it up, forcing her to meet his gaze. Under other circumstances, he would have knocked her cold and slung her over his shoulder, but he could feel his strength dwindling. There was no way he could carry her.

Deirdre blinked several times, her eyes finally focusing. She inhaled on a long, shaky breath. "M-Michael--"

"Yes." He released her, then smacked the gun he'd taken from Coleridge into her palm. Her fingers curled around it in an apparently reflexive response. "Same action as your husband's," he told her. "But a little more kick."

"I--I'm not sure--"

"I am," he interrupted. "Come on."

****

"Alpha, I've got movement one level down," Birkoff's voice announced. "Two people, in a hurry."

"Which way?" Nikita demanded.

"Heading west."

"Stairs?"

"You're closer. Another thirty yards. To your right."

"Bravo, Delta, converge on Alpha's mark," Teller ordered. "Tango, move into back-up mode. Reserve team one, up and sequencing."

***

He was running blind in a maze from which he could find no exit. Every choice he made--right, left, in, out--was essentially a coin toss. He had as much chance of being wrong as right. The only thing he knew for certain was that he and the woman fleeing with him needed to go up to get out. The problem was finding a way--an elevator, a staircase, a goddamned ladder--to do it.

The fighting he'd heard going on a floor or two above them was likely to prove a bit difficult, too, but it could wait.

He'd killed two more men. Deirdre had shot one of them first, but he'd known by the jerk of the victim's body that it hadn't been a fatal wound. The bullet he'd fired had gone straight through the victim's heart.

"This way!" she suddenly exclaimed, catching him by the arm. He gritted his teeth as a searing pain sliced through him. "It's a stairwell--"

****

"Oh, s--t!" Nikita gasped, making a desperate grab for the metal railing as the ankle she'd injured barely a week ago twisted beneath her. She managed to break her forward momentum long enough for Sinjin to catch her shoulder in a bruising grip and yank her back on balance.

"Nikita?" Birkoff demanded.

"Alpha?" Teller said simultanously.

"Hurt," Nikita managed, sucking in her breath. "Sinjin--"

"Taking point," the operative responded immediately, brushing by her. He took the remaining stairs at a quick pace and pushed open the--

It was too dark in the stairwell for Nikita to see much of what happened next. But the sounds she heard gave her a pretty good idea. "Bravo, Delta, hold," she hissed. "Sinjin's exposed."

"Are you sufficiently intact to perform?" Teller asked levelly.

She tested the ankle. It hurt like hell but she told herself she could walk on it. "I--"

"I have your comrade," a cold, carrying voice suddenly announced from the bottom of the stairs. "You have five seconds to disarm yourself and come out."

"What the--" Birkoff gasped.

"Michael," Nikita whispered.

"Alpha--" Teller hissed warningly.

"Mission profile." She yanked off her ski mask and cast it aside. "I'm going down."

****

"One."

"Michael," the man whose windpipe he'd come within a hair's-breath of crushing said hoarsely. "It's Sinjin. I'm Section."

"Two."

"Please. You don't--"

He tightened his hold. "Three."

"I'm putting down my weapon and sliding it out," a feminine voice declared. Michael stiffened at the sound, but kept his gun pressed firmly against his prisoner's temple. He wasn't sure why he hadn't killed the man outright. He wasn't sure of anything.

A split second later, a pistol came skittering out the stairwell door and across the concrete floor. A moment after it skidded to stop the same female voice said:

"I'm coming out."

He knew the voice. Somehow. Some way. He knew the voice. The sound of it seemed imprinted on the cells of his brain. And yet--

He jerked his head at Deirdre, warning her to move back, out of what might become a line of fire. She obeyed his silent command, but didn't lower the gun he'd given her.

"Hands up," he called to the unknown woman in the stairwell. "And step out backward."

****

Nikita pivoted around, lacing her fingers together and planting her palms on top of her skull. She stepped backward, out of the stairwell and into the corridor. Then, slowly, she turned her head.

What she saw brought her to the verge of tears. Suffering was written starkly on every feature of Michael's face. Suffering, and a confusion so gut-wrenchingly profound it made her ache just to witness it. She'd picked up a hint of what he was going through during their brief on-line exchange, but never in her worst nightmares--

She cleared her throat. "Michael," she said slowly. "It's all right. It's me. Nikita."

****

The name seemed to reach him across a great distance. He felt himself go hot, then cold, then hot again.

"Ni...ki...ta?" he repeated.

Two great black blobs entered his field of vision from opposite directions, sliding toward the center.

They collided.

Converged.

Blotted out the light.

He plunged forward into the darkness.

**********

He'd been found.

He awoke in a room that smelled of antiseptics knowing exactly who and where and why he was. The question of whether he would be able to make peace with this restored knowledge remained open.

"He's coming out of it," he heard someone say. The speaker was male. His voice held a mix of carefully disguised relief and low-key excitement. "The pattern's stabilized. Baseline variation is within acceptable limits."

He shifted against clean, crisp sheets, wondering woozily how bad the pain in his skull would be if the baseline variation was *outside* acceptable limits. As he tried to manufacture enough saliva to swallow, he also wondered who'd coated his throat and mouth with sand. Finally, with a sense of surrendering to the inevitable, he opened his eyes.

Everything was a blur at first. But he didn't try to fight it or force himself to focus. Gradually, his vision cleared. The blurring resolved into a regally attractive brunette flanked by several white-jacketed functionaries. The brunette he knew very well. The medical men he was better acquainted with than he wished to be.

"Madeline," he said.

"Michael." Section One's chief strategist gazed down at him with penetrating brown eyes. He endured her scrutiny as he'd endured so much else. "Welcome back."

She brought a cup with a straw to his lips and allowed him to drink. The liquid he sipped was lukewarm and oddly flavored, but it soothed his throat like a benediction.

"The dehydration is a result of the drugs you were given," she explained quietly. "And your headache is an unfortunate side effect of the neural stimulation required during debriefing." She took the cup away and handed it to one of the MedLab staffers. A glance had the men in the white coats moving back. "It would be a lot less severe if you hadn't resisted quite so much."

Since resistance was one of the many things he'd learned at Madeline's hands, Michael thought this implied criticism was a bit unfair, but he refrained from saying so. "I...understand."

"I know you do." She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, her expression turning reflective. After a moment or two, she sighed. "Sometimes, Michael, I think we've trained you a little too thoroughly."

It was not a topic he wanted to pursue, which undoubtedly was why Madeline had brought it up. He scraped together sufficient strength to change the subject and asked, "The intel?"

A brief smile. "We have closure."

"And...Deirdre?"

The smile faded. "Recovering."

"In Section?"

Madeline seemed to hesitate, something very unusual for her. A curious expression flickered across her elegant face. Finally she said, "Yes."

Michael's breath hitched in his chest. He closed his eyes.

Deirdre Alessi. In Section.

God.

She'd saved his life. And in repayment for her kindness, he'd stolen what was left of hers.

It would have been better--much, much better--if he'd died before he'd reached her front porch.

****

He slept. That the slumber was artificially induced, he didn't care. Oblivion from any source was welcome.

He returned to awareness by reluctant degrees. His first coherent thought centered around the realization that he was not alone. His second thought took the form of a name and was succeeded by a rush of emotion so powerful that he nearly took the coward's way out and released his regained grip on consciousness.

But he didn't.

"Nikita," he murmured, opening his eyes. He didn't really need to look to be certain it was she. He...felt...her presence. Call it sexual attraction. Call it emotional attunement. Call it extrasensory perception. His brain hummed in response to her proximity. And his body--despite the abuse it had taken--reacted, too.

She gave him the gift of her sweetest smile. It was the smile he'd seen her bestow on others from time to time; but he'd never allowed himself to hope that one day she might offer it to him. He'd known he didn't deserve it.

"Michael." Her voice made music of his name. Her sky-colored eyes were brilliant with repressed tears. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's...all right." The notion of her weeping on his behalf was confounding. Almost incomprehensible. He wanted to tell her not to do it but he couldn't find his voice.

She lifted her right hand and feathered her fingers lightly down the side of his face. His pulse snarled at the contact. Madeline's touch he'd tolerated because attempting to evade it would have told her things he preferred not to reveal. But Nikita's...

Lord. His skin drank in the feel of it the way a parched piece of land might absorb in a gentle rain.

The recollection of another caress--months old and layered with many complicated and confusing emotions--surfaced. His chin tingled with the memory of a slow, sensual stroking.

*You went to a lot of trouble to bring me back,* Nikita had murmured as she'd stared deep into his eyes, her fingers moving against his jaw in an intimately possessive rhythm. *What I want to know is...why.*

He'd understood the answer she'd been seeking, of course. He'd also understood that he couldn't give it to her. The closest he could have come was repeating the confession he'd made the morning after the first and only time they'd made love. When he'd told her that he hadn't known how much he'd needed her.

The need shamed him in ways he couldn't begin to count or articulate. Because it was his need--his fundamental failure of strength, his unmitigated selfishness of soul--that had reshackled her to Section. And more than almost anything else, he dreaded the day when he'd look into her beautiful eyes and see that she'd finally realized it.

"Nikita--" he managed to say again. He was addicted to the sound of those three syllables. One of the unexpectedly difficult things about the six months following her supposed cancellations had been that almost no one had uttered her name within his hearing. Almost no one...except Walter. And Walter's purpose in doing so, as he knew all too well, had been to wound.

"Sh-h-h-h." She brushed her fingertips over his lips and shook her head. Her spun-sunshine hair rippled seductively about her face and shoulders. "Rest. Don't try to talk now."

He subsided into silence, his eyelids growing heavy again. She was right. Talk was pointless. It couldn't be trusted, at least not when it came from him.

He'd debased every conceivable form of human communication in his dealings with Nikita, he reflected wearily. He'd told her lies and made them sound like truths. Told her truths and made them sound like lies. He'd withheld just enough to make her believe, then rubbed her face in his deception by revealing too much. Again and again and again, he'd sought out her best qualities--her honesty, her compassion, her innocence--and used them against her in the worst possible ways.

And yet...

She'd taken him into her arms and welcomed into her body. For a single, ecstatic night, he'd been readmitted to the ranks of the living. Thanks to her, he'd been healed and made human again.

The rightness of what he'd felt that night still astounded him. But he wished with all his heart that he'd had the fortitude to forego it. Because he'd known--even at the gasping peak of the most incredible pleasure he'd ever experienced--that no good would come of surrendering to passion.

That so much had gone so bad so quickly had genuinely knocked him off balance. Looking back, he realized that it shouldn't have. If he'd been a better man...

If.

Such a damnable word in a world where free will did not exist.

Oblivion beckoned to him once more. He let it embrace him.

He felt tender fingers stir his hair, then a warm puff of breath mist his ear.

"I thought I'd lost you, Michael," he heard the woman he loved but could never truly have whisper. "I don't know what I would have done if I had."

**********

Operations was just finishing up a conference call when Madeline glided into his office carrying a small computer disk. The few words she caught before he disconnected--to say nothing of the look on his lean, compelling face--were extremely revealing.

"You seemed pleased," she commented mildly. Gleeful was closer to the mark, but she didn't think he'd appreciate her saying so.

Operations smiled. There was something faintly lupine about the curving of his lips. "George is so deeply in our debt he's going to need a special budgetary authorization for shovels to dig himself out."

"Then the information Michael brought back was satisfactory."

"Far better than anyone could have expected."

"Anyone except you."

He shrugged. "I don't deal in expectations."

She let this pass. Whether he recognized it or not, his "expectations" were what kept Section on course.

Operations picked up a remote control device from his desk and used it to click on one of his office's many monitors. A surveillance camera image appeared on the screen. It was MedLab. The picture showed Michael, apparently asleep, on a gurney. Nikita hovered next to him like a guardian angel.

Or an avenging fury, Madeline amended after a moment of reflection. Nikita was both more and less than she had been when she'd first entered Section. It was a transformation she still denied on many levels, but that didn't alter the facts. She would come to accept what she'd become...eventually.

And once she did, she might be able to help Michael accept it as well.

"How is he?" The question was gruff.

"As anticipated."

"He'll be back to one-hundred percent?"

"Oh, yes."

Operations grimaced. "The debriefing was more difficult than it had to be."

"Probably," she conceded. "But then again..."

"You were dealing with Michael, who seldom makes anything easy on anyone, especially himself."

"Well, he's certainly paying the price for his stubbornness on this occasion."

Operations picked up a cigarette and lit it. He took a deep drag, then expelled a plume of smoke. Madeline realized he was stalling, but decided not to let him off the hook.

"And the woman?" he finally asked, his eyes returning to the monitor.

"Deirdre Alessi." She knew the name game as well--perhaps better--than he did. She was not inclined to play it in this case.

"Yes." Operations sighed heavily, suddenly looking very tired. "It's an extremely unfortunate situation. But there's been an unacceptable degree of exposure in connection with an incredibly sensitive matter. She poses a significant risk."

"That's one way of looking at it."

His eyes arrowed back to hers. "You have an alternative view?"

"Properly handled, I think Mrs Alessi could become an asset to us."

He didn't hide his surprise. "You want to recruit her?"

"Unless you have some insurmountable objection."

"I know she handled herself extraordinarily well in the field. But are you seriously suggesting--"

"No." She cut him off before he could put the possibility on the table. "Deirdre Alessi is a remarkably courageous and resourceful woman, but she's not cold op material."

"Then what are you proposing? That we create the position of Section portrait artist?"

Madeline glanced at the stack of sketchbooks sitting on top of the console behind Operations. Housekeeping had recovered them from Deirdre Alessi's cabin. She'd studied them at length before passing them on.

"You don't like her work?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He pulled a face. "There's something unnerving about dissections performed with a Number Two pencil."

"Ah." So the portraits of Michael had shaken him, too. Interesting.

Operations tapped his fingers on his desk, eyeing her closely. "You think she has potential."

"Yes. Particularly in terms of target profiling and interrogation. If truth be told, we've become a bit...heavy-handed...in our approach lately."

"We've in a heavy-handed business, Madeline."

"Granted. But you and I both know there are moments when a little delicacy can go a long way. I don't want Section to lose the capacity for subtlety."

"As long as you're here..."

She acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod, then held out the computer disk she'd brought with her. "I had a preliminary evaluation done."

"Why am I not surprised?" Operations took the disk and slid it into his computer. He studied the data that appeared on the screen for nearly a minute. Madeline knew to the instant when the significance of what he was reading sank in.

"Well?" she asked expectantly.

He stared at her. "The last time I saw scores this high, they had your name attached."

The comment rocked her, but only for a moment.

"That was a long time ago," she said carefully.

There was a pause. Pale eyes warred with dark ones. Pale disengaged first.

"What about the connection with Michael?"

"It's being severed." Madeline felt more relieved than she liked to be back on professional territory.

"There must be some loose threads. Family. Friends."

"Her parents died in a car accident shortly after she was married. She has no siblings. No aunts, uncles, or close relations. Vince Alessi was abandoned at birth and raised in a succession of foster homes. Deirdre Alessi is, for all practical purposes, alone in the world. And frankly, the suicide scenario is extremely plausible in her case. Or it would have been...until very recently."

"I see."

"If she accepts recruitment, she can be sent to a substation. I realize that's not standard procedure, but we've bent the rules before. Geneva would be my first choice. Holtz is there."

"Holtz? He's never trained material before."

"Neither had Michael before we assigned him Nikita."

"You."

"Excuse me?"

"'We' didn't assign him Nikita, Madeline. You did."

"With your consent." She paused, giving him an opportunity to argue the point further. When he elected not to, she went on. "Holtz needs the kind of challenge Mrs. Alessi presents and of all the personnel available, he's the best potential match for her. At the end of her two years--assuming all goes well--we can reevaluate the situation."

"With an eye to bringing her back here."

"Eventually."

Operations looked at the surveillance monitor again. Nikita was leaning over Michael. The camera angle was such that it was impossible to tell exactly what she was doing.

"I don't want another problem," he said flatly.

She heard acquiescence in the statement. She wasn't surprised. She'd known he'd recognize what Deirdre Alessi represented as soon as he saw her test scores.

"Neither do I," she assured him. It was the truth. Although she strongly suspected that her definition of the 'problem' under discussion was rather different than his own.

He took a final draw on his cigarette, then stubbed it out. "All right."

"Thank you."

"How quickly can she be transferred?"

She waited a beat, knowing things were about to get touchy. "By the end of the week."

"That long?"

"Holtz is coming in from assignment tomorrow. He'll need to be briefed. There are arrangements to be made in Geneva."

The explanation netted her a look that said he knew he was being manipulated but had decided to go along with it. "Very well. Keep her quarantined until she goes."

"Actually, I'd recommend just the opposite."

"What? Let her roam around Section at will?"

"It could be..." she searched for an appropriate adjective "...instructive."

"For whom?"

"Everyone involved."

He considered the matter for several moments, then gave in. With a caveat. "Fine. But anything she draws here, stays here."

"I'll see to it personally," she promised, then turned to go.

"Madeline."

She pivoted back, eyebrows delicately raised. "Yes?"

"I realize it's a bit late for Mrs. Alessi to receive the standard 'welcome' to Section One speech, but I think we should observe the form."

"Of course."

His eyes returned to the MedLab surveillance image one more time. "Have Nikita do it."

**********

Although it would have been inaccurate to suggest that Section One's chief strategist was in any way oblivious to the setting in which she worked, she was very much at ease with it. True, she'd experienced a subtle sense of dislocation during the first few days after she'd moved in, but she'd quickly put it behind her. As for the impact her office had on others...well, she'd designed the place to induce certain emotions and it almost always did.

Deirdre Alessi, she was intrigued to note, appeared immune to the usual responses. Although the slender redhead displayed an open interest in what she saw as she stepped into the room Madeline knew more than a few members of Section called "Maddy's Lair," she seemed neither intimidated by nor anxious about it.

"Please come in and sit down," Madeline invited.

Deirdre did as requested, crossing from the door to the chair placed in front of Madeline's desk. She was dressed in a white T-shirt and pants--both Section issue. Her hair was pulled back in a glossy braid. She looked younger than her years and rather fragile.

There was some stark physical evidence of the ordeal she'd undergone. The most obvious: the bruises on her fair-skinned face and the pristine bandaging on her left hand.

She moved beautifully, Madeline observed, making a mental note to check the surveillance tape from this encounter. There was an excellent chance she could use it as a visual aid in the deportment lessons she was sometimes required to administer to new female recruits.

"Do you ever miss sunshine?" Deirdre asked as she seated herself.

Madeline--the mistress of the multiple-meaning inquiry--was slightly taken aback. Even if the question was as innocent as it sounded, it was a very effective opening gambit.

"Occasionally," she admitted.

Deirdre glanced to her left. "Your bonsai are beautiful."

"A hobby." And, Madeline privately conceded, something of a metaphor for her professional responsibilities. "Do you know much about them?"

"They require a great deal of patience."

"Among other things. Have you ever considered growing one?"

Deirdre's mouth curled. "Patience isn't one of my virtues. And to tell the truth--"

"Please, do."

"I prefer my nature a little more--" gray eyes met brown ones "--natural."

Touche, Madeline thought. "Ah," she said aloud.

"I'm not trying to be rude."

Madeline kept her face straight, not at all offended. "Of course not."

"Which isn't to say I don't...every now and then." Deirdre gestured with her uninjured hand. The shape of it was exquisite. The MedLab specialist who'd set her broken finger had informed Madeline that there probably would be some crookedness once the digit healed. Madeline had informed him that this was not acceptable. Said specialist had subsequently revised his prognosis. "Try to be rude, that is."

Madeline smiled. She had to. "I'm sure you succeed when you do."

"Well..."

There was an odd pause. Madeline let the mood settle then said, "So, Deirdre. I understand you've accepted our offer."

"It seemed preferable to the alternative." There was a hint--just a hint--of acid in the response.

"Mmm." She turned to her computer, tapped the keyboard, and brought up Deirdre's file. It was already very long. She looked forward to having it grow longer still. "There was a time when you might have elected that alternative."

"Chosen to have you kill me, you mean."

Ouch! She'd counted on Deirdre being direct. She hadn't anticipated that she'd be bludgeoningly so. "That's one way of putting it."

"Would you rather I'd said 'cancel' me?"

"Only if you'd feel comfortable doing so." It was significant that she'd already started picking up Section terminology, Madeline reflected. And even more significant that she'd made a conscious decision not to use it in this conversation. She found that language usage was a very good indicator of a person's mindset. With someone like Nikita, for example...

Well, no, she backpedalled. Nikita was--finally!--learning not to betray her feelings every other time she opened her mouth. Although her delivery of the Section 'welcome' speech the previous evening had reeked with rebellion. Ops had been less than pleased. She'd been tempted to demand what else he'd expected, but had restrained herself.

"I wouldn't." There was no defiance in the answer. Deirdre was simply stating a fact.

"Good." Madeline nodded. "But back to my previous comment--"

"About there having been a time when I would have picked death over--what's the word? Recruitment? You're right. Although..." Deirdre frowned "...I don't really like the idea of making other people do my dirty work. Do you?"

The question genuinely jolted Madeline. It was not something that happened very often. Michael was capable of coming in under her psychological radar, of course, but seldom did. He'd learned the hard way that she could turn her vulnerability to her advantage without missing a beat. Nikita had blindsided her once or twice, too, but not as the result of any calculated effort.

"We do what we have to do," she said after a surprisingly awkward moment.

"No, we don't" Deirdre disagreed. "Not always. But I wasn't asking for the Section line, Madeline. I was asking about you."

"About me." She wasn't accustomed to people asking about her. Not anymore. Except for Operations. And there were times, especially recently, when his inquiries--

"Yes, you."

"Do I like making other people do my dirty work." She was stalling. The realization infuriated her.

"Exactly."

Madeline retreated, unhappily, into the classic meet-a-question-with-a-question mode. It was an effective tactic, but a bit unworthy of her.

"What if I answered by telling you that it's not 'my' dirty work?"

Deirdre tilted her head, considering. "I'd say that's probably the truth. I'd also say...you're avoiding the issue."

Madeline took a deep breath, assessing her options. She could lose her temper. She could laugh. She could attack. She could--could--

Stop evading and confront the issue head-on.

"All right," she began flatly. "No. I don't particularly 'like' ordering other people to do dirty work. Mine...or anyone else's. But it's part of my job, so I do it. Without hesitation. And I do it extremely well."

"Do...or die."

"Sometimes it's both." Madeline leaned forward, knowing she didn't have a fix on the tone of Deirdre's previous remark. "The work we're called upon to perform IS dirty. And dangerous. It's also vitally important. We make a difference in the world, Deirdre, although many in the world probably would be appalled if they discovered what we've done--what we're doing--on their behalf." She paused for a moment to let this sink in, then decided it was time to broach the topic she really wanted to discuss. "It's crucial to your survival with us that you not have any...romantic...misconceptions about Section."

Deirdre regarded her levelly for several seconds. Then she said, "You're talking about Michael."

"Yes." Madeline awarded the younger woman points for taking the conversational initiative.

"After a week with him, amnesia or no, I don't think I have any misconceptions about what Section is or how it goes about its business. *Particularly* not romantic ones."

"I see." Madeline summoned up the images of several of the 'dissections' with a Number Two pencil she'd studied. "Did you and he make love?"

Deirdre flushed but didn't falter. "What does he say?"

"Nothing."

Crystalline gray eyes narrowed. "Because you haven't asked him."

"Not yet."

"Will how I answer affect whether you *do* ask him? Or is this a case of interrogate both suspects and compare their stories for inconsistencies?"

Madeline remained silent. If truth be told, she was afraid she might reveal a bit too much approval of Deirdre Alessi's tactics if she did. She simply arched her eyebrows, wordlessly signalling that she was waiting for a response.

Deirdre lifted her chin a notch, clearly tempted to balk. But in the end, she didn't. "No," she said simply. "Michael and I didn't make love."

"Was that his choice or yours?"

The younger woman stiffened. Not a lot, but more than enough to tell Madeline she'd hit a nerve. "It was mutual."

"That, I doubt."

"Why? You don't think men and women make decisions about sex...together?"

"Decisions about sex--like decisions about most other things--center around power. Who has it. Who doesn't."

Deirdre stared at her, visibly shocked. And there was something else in her expressive face, too. It took Madeline a few seconds to figure out what it was, and she was slightly stunned once she did. Because what 'it' was...was pity.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Yes," Madeline said very evenly. "I do."

Section's newest recruit looked down. "All right, then," she said, her voice dropping a few notes. "By your standards, the choice was Michael's."

Madeline realized she was surprised by this, but she wasn't certain why. "How so?"

"I gave him every reason to think I'd be...willing. Then I told him to stop. He did."

"In other words, he could have forced you."

Deirdre's head came up with a jerk. Her cheeks were flaming. "Michael?" She sounded utterly incredulous. "Do you honestly think he'd have needed to resort to rape if he'd really wanted me?"

Madeline expelled an angry huff of breath, berating herself for having misread things so badly. It wasn't like her. It wasn't like her at all. And no. For the record, she did not believe Michael would have needed to resort to rape.

Which wasn't to say she didn't believe he couldn't be provoked to the point where a simple 'no' would not be sufficient to make him put on the sexual brakes. She'd seen his psych profile. She was aware of how strong his libido was.

She knew there were many who thought his phenomenal self-control indicated a fundamental lack of feeling. Nothing could be further from the truth. Michael kept a chokehold on his emotions because he genuinely feared that if he slackened up on the leash, they'd run away with him. And it wasn't really the potential damage to himself that worried him. It was what he might do to someone else.

"You're saying he had the power to change your mind."

"Probably." Deirdre swallowed hard. "No. Not probably. Definitely. Michael could have...persuaded me...if he'd tried."

"But he didn't."

"No."

"Why do you suppose that was?"

"You know him better than I do, Madeline!"

"I know how he is here, Deirdre. In Section. I don't know how he was with you."

"You saw the drawings I did of him. I can't explain how he was any better than that. And what does it matter? His memory's come back. He remembers who he is, what he does--" Deirdre broke off, her eyes widening with apprehension. "He d-does remember, doesn't he? You told me the first time we talked--"

"Michael remembers."

Relief flooded Deirdre's face. "Well, then..."

Madeline considered pressing the matter, but decided against it. She moved on to a question that had been nagging at her since she'd seen a print-out of the on-line exchange involving Nikita, Birkoff and their amnesiac colleague.

"Why Michael?" she asked.

Deirdre looked totally confused. And more than a little wary. "Why Michael...what?"

"You said in your initial debriefing that when you asked Michael what you should call him, he told you to pick a name. Why Michael?"

Another blush. This one blossomed far more delicately than those that had preceded it. "Oh." Deirdre nibbled on her lower lip. "If I tell you, will you tell...him?"

"You *will* tell me," Madeline responded mildly, judging that a small dose of Section discipline would not be amiss at this point. "But unless I think there's some crucial reason to do otherwise, I won't share the information with Michael."

"Have you ever been to the Galleria dell' Accademia in Florence?"

Madeline furrowed her brow. Of course, she'd been to the Galleria. She also knew that Deirdre and Vince Alessi had honeymooned in Florence. And given Deirdre's artistic bent, she supposed it was possible that the newlyweds had visited a few museums when they weren't...whatever. But how on Earth--

And then the image of a world-famous statue consolidated in her mind's eye. A nude male. Carved from marble.

This image triggered recollections of conversations picked up on audio surveillance tapes from the shower room used by Section's female operatives.

Oh.

Yes.

She cleared her throat. "I take it you thought announcing that you were going to call him 'David' might have provoked some potentially embarrassing questions."

"Something like that." Deirdre's cheeks were still rosy pink.

Madeline drummed her fingers on top of her desk for several seconds, then came to an abrupt decision. "I have some material I want you to read," she said crisply. "And once you've done that, we can talk about your training in Geneva...and what Section expects of you."

**********

"You've made a mistake, Mr. Nunez," Madeline murmured five days later as she studied the latest itel from a hostage situation in South America. "For a man who prides himself on being such a good judge of character, you've been--" she paused, looking up from her computer screen as the door to her office slid open. Michael walked in, silent as the cliched cat. He was dressed in his customary black. His expression was even more detached than usual.

"Michael," she greeted him, letting her mouth relax into a smile.

He crossed to her desk. While his face still bore the ugly marks of what he'd endured, his movements were as smoothly assured as ever. Although the medical data she'd received a short time ago indicated he was already well on the way to a full recovery from his injuries, she knew this poised physical presentation was largely a matter of mind over matter.

He'd spent the first forty-eight hours following his return to Section in MedLab. The perfect patient demeanor he'd displayed during this period had, frankly, unnerved those attending him to an alarming degree. She, herself, had become rather concerned about his uncharacteristic cooperation. Fortunately, he'd reverted to type on the third morning of his convalescence--quietly informing all concerned that he intended to get up and go home.

Judging by the panicked note she'd heard in the voice of the doctor who'd informed her of this development, she'd deduced that the subtext of Michael's calm announcement had been that anyone unwise enough to attempt to thwart him would have cause for serious--possibly permanent--regret.

She'd come to MedLab to assess the situation for herself, then assented to Michael's release with one proviso: That he'd submit to twenty-four hour surveillance of his home. She'd made it crystal clear that any effort to evade Section's watchful eye during the course of his private recuperation would result in his being readmitted to MedLab, in restraints.

He'd acquiesced immediately--telling her a great deal about how desperately he wanted to be alone --and behaved himself impeccably. Just the afternoon before, she'd overheard two Section watchers grousing that there was no "fun" in surveilling Michael if he wasn't going to mess with them...or the system.

"You asked to see me?" Michael inquired.

Madeline felt her smile contract at the coolness of his tone. She shifted from the personal to the professional.

"Yes," she answered crisply. "I did." She paused a moment, wordlessly communicating the fact that she was aware he would have preferred to avoid this encounter. Or, at the very least, deferred it until he was stronger. Although she recognized it wasn't really necessary to remind him that she could jerk his leash--so to speak--and bring him to heel anytime she chose, it didn't hurt to reinforce her position every now and again. "Sit down, please."

Michael did as he'd been bidden. Part of her marvelled at his ability to make instantaneous obedience seem insolent. As for the rest...

She leaned back, regarding him steadily. He matched her stare for stare.

Madeline wondered, not for the first time, whether the man sitting in front of her was as indifferent to his own existence as he frequently seemed to be. Michael wasn't suicidal in the way she knew Deirdre Alessi had been. Indeed, his survival instincts were honed to an almost super-human degree. But it was plain that he experienced no qualms when he contemplated the possibility of his death.

She was acutely aware that Operations viewed this attitude as increasing Michael's already keen value to Section. Her own assessment was more...complex.

"I have the results of your new medical evaluation," she stated, breaking the silence that had gone on for more than a minute. She clicked the Nunez file closed and brought up Michael's data. "You should be cleared for return to active status within...mmm...two weeks."

"'Should be'?" It was obvious he heard a caveat coming.

"The injuries you sustained were more than cuts and bruises, Michael. You don't go back into the field until you're one-hundred percent." She frowned, seeing a very familiar notation. "You've refused medication...again."

"There are worse things than physical pain, Madeline." His tone implied that he had an intimate familiarity with most--if not all--of them. But he was not making a pitch for her pity. Heaven forbid!

"Accepting relief isn't a sign of weakness," she returned.

He shrugged, acknowledging the point without accepting that it had any relevence to his own situation. "I prefer to keep my head clear."

"I see." She checked the computer screen again, scrolling down to the middle of the text. "Your psychological tests are within acceptable parameters. The residual effects from the debriefing seem to be completely gone. Any memory problems?"

"None that I'm aware of." One corner of his mouth suddenly kicked up. It was the equivalent of a grin from another man. "Then again, I might not know if I'd forgotten something."

There was another long silence. Madeline clicked off the computer, mulling her next move. She knew that he knew the real reason she'd summoned him. She also knew that he knew that she knew that he knew...etc., etc., and so on ad nauseum.

It was the quirky flash of humor he'd permitted himself that made her decide to be direct.

"You haven't asked me about Mrs. Alessi."

"No."

Section One's chief strategist squelched a spurt of temper as she contemplated the implications of this one syllable answer and the stony expression that accompanied it. What did Michael's "no" really mean? she asked herself.

No, indeed, he hadn't asked?

No, he wasn't going to?

Or no...she'd be ill-advised to pursue the issue any further?

"She's accepted her offer of recruitment," Madeline finally said. "She leaves for Geneva in about an hour."

"I've heard."

"So you *have* asked about her."

Something--was it anger?--flashed in the depths of his gray-green eyes. It was ruthlessly extinguished a second later. "Yes. Which is why I have no reason to ask you."

A very definite line had just been drawn. Interesting, Madeline thought. It wasn't like Michael to be so overt. Not that being overtwas necessarily bad. She firmly believed that there were several key areas in which the less Michael was *like* himself--or, rather, the self he thought himself to be--the better.

"You're undoubtedly aware she's going to be Holtz' material."

A nod. No objection to the deliberately dehumanizing Section terminology.

"You've worked with him on several occasions."

"He's very good at what he does."

Madeline smiled slightly. "As are you."

There was absolutely no response to this. She hadn't really expected there to be. Some operatives responded well to positive reinforcement. Michael had never indicated the slightest desire for praise. He judged his performance by his own standards. Perfection was passable as far as he was concerned. Anything less...

"Mrs. Alessi says you and she didn't become intimate during your time together."

Michael blinked. Once. "We never made love."

Madeline weighed the signifiance of the distinction he seemed to be making, then filed it away for future cogitation. "Your decision, I gather."

"She said no."

"After indicating just the opposite."

"She changed her mind."

"You could have changed it back."

The barriers were up. It was Michael at his most obdurant. But Madeline understood what lay beneath the seeming absence of feeling.

"Yes." There was no arrogance in the affirmation. No apparent shame, either. It was a simple acknowledgement of fact. An...acceptance...of a personal reality.

"But you didn't"

"No."

"Why not?"

For a second, it seemed as though he was going to refuse to answer. Then, very quietly, "It would have been wrong."

Madeline kept her expression blank and let the unmodified adjective resonate for several seconds. Eventually she said, "We have no objections to you visiting with Deirdre before she's transferred. She's in Holding at the moment. You have time."

Michael rose with the seamless grace of a remorsely trained athlete, clearly signalling that as far as he was concerned, this interview was over. Whether he interpreted the permission she'd just given as a matter of kindness or cruelty or some perverse combination of both, she couldn't tell.

"Are you ordering me to see her?" he asked.

The temptation to tell him "yes" was strong. So strong, it surprised her. But she was stronger. She recognized that there were some things--not many, granted, but some--which shouldn't be pushed. Michael, at this particular moment, was definitely one of them.

"I'm recommending you do," she temporized. "But the decision is yours."

**********

She wasn't afraid.

That, strangely, was the first thought that popped into Nikita's head as she entered the small, sparsely furnished room where the woman who'd saved Michael's life was being held until her departure for Section's Geneva substation.

There was nothing false about Deirdre's calm demeanor, she decided. Nikita had learned enough about disguising fear over the years to be certain of that. Search though she might for a hint of anxiety or anger, the only thing she saw in the other woman's crystalline gray eyes was a serene acceptance of her fate.

A humorless laugh tickled at the back of Nikita's throat. She swallowed it down. Interesting that she should recognize the expression, she reflected. Serene acceptance was something she'd never experienced. It was something of which she sincerely doubted she was capable.

"I thought you might like someone to visit with," she said awkwardly, swatting at her pale blond bangs. "Until you go."

Deirde smiled a little and inclined her head. "Thank you, Nikita."

Nikita stiffened at the use of her name. After obeying Operation's instructions to "welcome" Deirdre to Section Once, she'd deliberately avoided the other woman. She'd kept an eye on her, of course--watching as she'd quietly beguiled just about everyone with whom she'd come in contact--but she'd steered clear of a second face-to-face meeting until now.

She'd tried to tell herself she'd adopted this course because she didn't want to get to know another innocent who seemed destined to be sacrificed to Section's ruthless method of functioning, but she'd known this was a lie.

*Had Michael made love with her?*

The question tormented her. She allowed herself a moment to contemplate the pain, hating the fact that the possibility hurt so much.

The twisted thing was, there was a part of her that hoped Michael *had* been intimate Deirdre. Because every instinct she had told her that being with Deirdre would have given Michael more than passion or pleasure. It would have given him a small measure of desperately needed peace.

God knew, peace wasn't something *she'd* ever offered him!

"Are you under orders to be here?" the redhead asked calmly. She was sitting on the room's narrow cot, legs tucked up under her. She'd been drawing something when Nikita had come in, but she'd set it aside.

"Orders?" Nikita was startled by the question. Then she shook her head. "No. I, uh, I just thought..." She grimaced. She didn't know what she'd thought. And even if she had, she wasn't sure she'd say it aloud. "Look, uh, Deirdre, if you want me to leave--"

"No!" The response was swift and apparently sincere. "But I don't want you to feel...compelled...to be here, either. I mean, I don't mind being left alone."

There was a pause. Nikita didn't know what to say. The pause stretched on. And on. Just as it was about to reach the snapping point, Deirdre held out what sounded as though it were intended as a verbal olive branch.

"I don't imagine it was your idea to deliver that 'welcome to the first day in the rest of what's likely to be a really horrible life' spiel, you know," she commented offhandedly.

Nikita gawked, stunned beyond speech by this heretical observation. Then, incredibly, she started to laugh. Somewhere in the back of her mind she genuinely hoped that Operations was eavesdropping on this conversation. "It was that obvious, hm?" she managed.