[Author's note: "Marcus" is the first name given to Ops by Zzoomama in one of her stories, and subsequently used by several other author's on the story board. Thanks, Zzoo.]

The late afternoon heat had given way to an early evening thunder storm; the dry hills rising from the Adriatic sea took in the sudden rain as fast as it fell. Nikita fought off a powerful drowsiness resulting from three long, uncomfortable airplane rides and the damp heat, and tried to pay attention to her surroundings. Rubble from buildings destroyed during the war between Croats and Serbs was still everywhere, despite the passage of seven years. But tucked into crevices and occasional valleys were intriguing stone structures, untouched by mortars or bombs and alive with history. Rocky crags dropped to a gray sea on their right. She tried to remember how Michael had described his memories of the area from childhood travels with his parents -it had "a certain romantic medievalness," he'd said. She smiled to herself; she'd never heard Michael use the word 'romantic' before.

Nikita and Michael had arrived in Dubrovnik not 30 minutes before, rented a car at the airport under their assumed identities, and were on their way south to meet a mysterious contact. There had been no usual debriefing from Ops, no weapons check-outs with Walter, no sim data from Birkoff. In fact, all Section personnel had been conspicuously absent when Madeline called them in at 3 a.m. and sent them immediately out on their mission - on a commercial flight. Never once in Nikita's four years in the Section had she heard of operatives using public transportation for international travel.

Madeline had looked shaken as she delivered her brief instructions: be at an old converted winery on the Dalmatian coast by 9 p.m. the next day. Their contacts would identify themselves to Michael and finish the briefing there. Nikita couldn't decipher whether Madeline was angry or scared, but she was definitely not her usual composed self. Michael asked if any special preparations would be advisable; he received only a curt, "None are possible." When Nikita asked how long they could expect to be gone, Madeline simply turned on her heel and disappeared into her office.

Michael and Nikita slowly looked at each other, then at the airplane tickets, passports, and suitcases Madeline had thrust into their hands.

"Michael, what's this all about?" Nikita asked.

After a few moments of silence, Michael frowned. "I haven't the slightest idea," he said, and opened the outer door for her.

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

Michael and Nikita talked little during the transatlantic flight.

Michael seemed unnerved by Madeline's edginess; in pre-mission hours he often distracted himself with contingency planning, and he felt blind and vulnerable. Nikita tried to interpret the messages conveyed by Madeline's body language, by what Madeline didn't verbalize during their brief exchange. Something about this mission felt especially dangerous.

What complicated matters was the still unsettled relationship between them. If Section knew about the lies they had told a year ago when Michael brought Nikita back in from her six months of freedom, there had been no consequences. But Michael seemed unable to shake his fear of discovery and retribution by Ops and had, as Nikita predicted, found one excuse after another for keeping a distance between them. Nikita had grown exasperated, then angry, then exhausted, and finally resigned.

As they tried to overcompensate for their lack of interpersonal comfort, their work together as operatives became more effective than ever. While conversation between them was minimal and merely civil, neither would ever be able to deny the chemistry, the visceral communication that operated between them. Because of it, they had saved each others' lives more than once. They were partners, a team. They belonged together, even if their "togetherness" had razor sharp edges to it.

With the aid of a hand-drawn map Madeline had provided, they found their way inland from the coast, and finally onto a gravel road winding up a narrow ridge. They arrived suddenly at the edge of a precipitous drop-off with a large rock building clinging to the edge. There were no signs or other indications that this was a public establishment, but there were several cars and trucks parked in the flat area nearby and a light over a door in the center of the building.

They entered through that front door slowly, alert to their surroundings. They stood in a two story foyer, with a long stairway winding upwards to their right. Behind the staircase a hall disappeared into the darkness. The foyer held stacks of wooden casks and the underlying scent in the air was of sweet yeast. Straight ahead the foyer opened into an eating area, filled with small wooden tables lit by candles. There were what looked to be local mountain people - olive skinned men in rough woven shirts and women in peasant dresses -- scattered throughout the room. A waiter with a white towel wrapped around his waist, oblivious to Michael and Nikita's arrival, moved swiftly towards swinging doors in the back wall.

Immediately to their left was a thick archway into a softly lit space; music from two guitars drifted towards them. Moving through the archway they found themselves in a large open area. The right wall contained a series of large glass doors opening out onto a patio overlooking the setting sun. An indoor balcony surrounded the other three walls of the room, wide enough to accommodate small tables and still provide a clear walkway to the many doors along the outside edges. Underneath the overhang of the balcony across the back wall was a beautiful old hand polished wooden bar. The small tables on the ground floor formed a ring around the outside edges, leaving a large empty area in the center. The two young guitar players sat at a corner table.

Michael and Nikita settled in at two stools at the bar, and Michael ordered for them in a language Nikita didn't recognize. Moments later, two cups of thick steaming coffee, a loaf of warm homemade bread, butter, and a bowl of ripe olives arrived.

"What are you thinking?" Nikita asked. She didn't expect a very revealing answer, but she had a need to interact with him.

Michael's restless eyes scanned the room, carefully observing the handful of occupants, looking for cues and memorizing details. "We're about half an hour early," he answered. "We wait."

"Michael - we've been traveling for almost 18 hours, and don't know where we're staying tonight. We don't know why we're here; we don't know who our contact is. And all you're thinking is 'we wait'?" she asked tauntingly.

He paused. His eyes finally settled on her face and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not even the French make bread this wonderful," he said softly, and went back to scanning the room.

***********

About 20 minutes later, she arrived alone through the side door to the bar, and paused as she surveyed the room. Her eyes moved briefly across Nikita and Michael and wandered up to the occupants of the balcony. Her gaze stopped at a man wearing a leather jacket, sitting alone near the windows. He felt her eyes upon him and turned his head to find her. They exchanged easy smiles that spoke volumes about familiarity and fondness.

Her dress was deep red, tight through the bodice and full through the skirt that fell to just a few inches above her ankle. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a chignon and caught the candle light. From across the room Nikita couldn't tell how old the woman was, but she radiated an aliveness that was intriguing. She moved gracefully from glass door to glass door, opening them wide and letting in the slowly cooling evening air, and then sat down at the table with the two guitarists. Every eye in the room watched her. The rain falling onto the stone patio provided a soothing percussion to the guitars; the occupants of the room settled back into a quiet indifference to their surroundings.

Forty five minutes later Nikita was getting impatient. The tables both on the floor and in the balcony had slowly filled with more mountain folk. The bartender kept refilling their coffee; the guitar music roved between gypsy tunes, flamenco music, and north African rhythms; people talked quietly and seemed to be waiting for something. It seemed unnatural to Nikita that no one paid any particular attention to the two western strangers in their midst.

"Michael, this is driving me crazy. What are we doing here? What are we waiting for?" Nikita's voice was low but urgent.

"Nikita, you heard everything I did. Madeline said our contact would recognize us. All we can do is wait." He was edgy from a lack of sleep and too much caffeine, but fully in control of his behavior.

As Michael spoke, the man in the leather coat slowly rose, wandered to the edge of the balcony, and leaned on the rail. He studied the woman in red. He said something Nikita couldn't understand, just loud enough to carry across the murmur of voices and music. Quiet encouragement rippled from tables around the room. The woman smiled without turning to make eye contact. She spoke quietly to the guitar players and moved to the center of the room.

"Michael, what's happening?"

"He asked her if she would dance," Michael translated.

As the guitars started to play, she began a slow flamenco, the taps on her heeled shoes staccato on the worn stone floor. The music gradually became faster and more complex and her movements more intricate. Yet there was nothing intense or fevered about this dance, as Nikita thought flamenco always was. Instead, the woman's movements were easy and unusually graceful; she conveyed a sense of acceptance of the sensuality of her own body without being overtly seductive. The rhythm of her feet, the whisper of her skirt, the easy rocking of her hips, the fluid movement of her arms, and the tilt of her head all combined to speak about passion, but conveyed no urgency. This wasn't a woman on the hunt; this was a woman already satisfied. Nikita was entranced.

Gradually others in the room got up to join her, performing with less finesse than the woman in red but with surprising grace. The guitars segued without break into melody after melody. People danced alone and in couples, smiling and openly appreciating each others' footwork. The mood in the room grew increasingly gregarious across the next 15 minutes. It wasn't until Nikita saw the flash of auburn hair behind Michael that she realized the woman in red was no longer dancing.

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

Michael was standing sideways to the bar, facing the wall of open glass doors and the greater expanse of the room; Nikita stood before him, back to the bar and leaning on both elbows. A woman's hand snaked in onto the top of Michael's left wrist, pinning it to the bar with surprising strength as he flinched. Both Nikita and Michael were instantly alert and tense, but remained unmoving. Slowly, the face of the woman in red appeared around Michael's left shoulder, smiling disarmingly. Nikita was confused.

At this proximity, Nikita could see the touch of gray at the woman's temples. The laugh lines around her light brown eyes somehow added to her beauty. Her skin was flawless and her hands impeccably cared for. She appeared relaxed. Nikita could sense nothing pretentious or contrived in the way she carried herself - nor could Nikita sense any malicious intent. This woman was ... was ... could it be? Inviting Nikita to play?

She winked at Nikita and said, in perfect English, "Will I make you angry if I ask him to dance?"

Nikita relaxed only slightly, but replied gently, "No."

The woman's right hand wandered lightly across Michael's shoulders, down his side and returned back across his waist. Her eyes followed and admired. Michael's head was turned to the left, watching her, but his expression was inscrutable. Her eyes left Michael and looked at Nikita again. This time they held quiet laughter.

"Will he make you angry if he accepts?"

Instinctively, Nikita liked this woman. "No, of course not." Michael looked startled, and Nikita nearly laughed.

Michael turned toward the woman, who slipped between him and the bar, only barely not touching him. She was several inches shorter than Michael and had to tilt her head up to look him in the eye. "My name is Elena. Will you dance with me?" she invited. Nikita observed not seductiveness, but a careful friendliness.

Michael hesitated. His mind was elsewhere, on the imminent meeting with an overdue contact and obtaining some answers about their mysterious mission. He wasn't in the mood to draw attention to himself out on a dance floor with a woman who was obviously well known to everyone in the room.

"Please?"

Uncertain, he nevertheless started to back up.

Elena's hands gently grasped Michael's lapels and stopped him. She slowly opened his jacket.

"Would you mind terribly? I'm not very fond of dancing with guns." Elena smiled.

Michael was stunned. Elena's caress had revealed his gun holster. He hesitated, but carefully slipped his gun into Nikita's bag on the bar. He started towards the dance floor and again she stopped him. Elena looked at Nikita with just the merest hint of wickedness in her smile. Elena turned back to Michael, and opened his right lapel just a little further.

"And perhaps, if I promise to behave myself, would you be willing to put away the other gun too?" Her swift search had been thorough. Michael looked at Nikita and was irritated by her enjoyment of his discomfort.

Elena continued, "I promise we'll stay within sight of your friend here. I'm not dangerous." Michael doubted it. Reluctantly, he reached around to remove the small caliber pistol from out of his belt and also slipped it into Nikita's bag. He gently took Elena by both wrists before she could disarm him any further and moved to the edge of the dancers.

By now the guitars were playing a slow rumba. Michael held her not too close; they danced in silence for a few minutes. She was light on her feet and followed all his subtle leads. He enjoyed watching her move, but sensed she was waiting for the right moment to tell him something. It finally came.

Her eyes dropped, closed, and she sighed. When her eyes opened again Michael had the distinct impression she was looking more inward than at him. "Michael, I'm sorry. If I'd known Madeline would send you, I wouldn't have asked her for help."

Elena was their contact?!

"Why?"

She slowly raised her eyes to his. For the first time, he saw fear in them.

"Because you're the only cold operative left in Section who can recognize me."

Michael now realized that something indistinct had been tugging at the back of his brain ever since Elena had walked into the room. As he struggled to make sense of what he had just heard, his uncertainty moved from his brain to a knot in chest.

"What do you mean?"

She almost, but not quite, missed a step, and looked at him searchingly. "Are you going to insult me by telling me I've aged that much in six years?" she asked with a hint of a smile.

They danced a minute more in silence. Something troubling was bubbling up beyond the edges of Michael's willingness to remember. He turned her around to the brighter light from over the bar and looked harder. And then something unwelcome came crashing through the grayness. He finally recognized her - but it couldn't be!

He stopped. He stopped her. He pulled her closer and searched her face intently to make sure the light wasn't playing tricks on him. From the corner of his consciousness he knew that Nikita was moving away from the bar, swiftly towards him and this woman, bag in hand and gun half drawn.

"Section thinks ... I know ... I saw.... you died that day!"

Elena slowly shook her head.

And then all hell broke loose.

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

Machine gun fire started out on the patio, and glass doors exploded inward. A half dozen dark figures poured in and began spraying the crowd of dancers with bullets. Michael instinctively grabbed for Elena but she was ahead of him, rolling to the floor and back towards the foyer. Nikita threw Michael his own gun as she drew hers; they both dropped to their knees and began firing. The roar and lights of a helicopter rose up over the cliff and more gunfire erupted. Nikita fell. People were screaming and diving for the meager cover offered by overturned tables. From inside one of the upstairs doors came the flash of a mortar gun; the helicopter exploded and dropped from sight. The man in the leather coat appeared from out of nowhere at Michael's side, lifting Nikita effortlessly off the floor and over his shoulder.

"Come with me now!" he ordered, and ran towards the foyer.

Looking around hurriedly Michael saw Elena standing just inside the archway, beckoning to him. The man in leather with Nikita ran past her. With no other obvious options to chose from, Michael followed. He could hear continued gunfire coming from every discernible direction.

Elena lead them down the dark hall at a dead run, shoes abandoned and skirt lifted to her knees. Michael could just barely make out Nikita's dangling blond hair before him; without it, he'd have been blind. Suddenly, her hair disappeared to the left, and Michael barely negotiated the corner behind her. Adrift in blackness, he stopped. He heard a match strike stone, and saw Elena light a kerosene lamp. They were in a small stone room, devoid of furniture and windows. Elena closed and locked the door behind Michael.

"Michael - you need to help me with this," Elena directed, as she grabbed a large wrought iron ring imbedded in the stone floor. Michael grabbed ahold and hoisted. Not without effort, but far more easily than he would have expected of stone, a portion of the floor swung upwards. He recognized the engineering of a trap door built with false stone. Elena swiftly unscrewed the wrought iron ring and reattached it to the underside of the door. She picked up a small stone plug from nearby on the floor and dropped it into the hole left on the outer surface by the removed handle.

The man in leather shifted Nikita off his shoulder and supported her as he gently lowered her to the floor. She was conscious but bleeding from her shoulder and obviously in pain. "Can you stand?" he asked. Nikita buckled and started to sink to the floor, but he caught her.

"Michael, you go first," he said. "We'll help her down together." Elena had already disappeared down the ladder beneath the floor, illuminating the tunnel below with the lamp. Michael moved quickly about halfway down the ladder, and turned to guide Nikita's feet as she struggled to negotiate. When Michael and Nikita were both at the bottom, he pulled her arm over his shoulder and put his arm around her waist and moved off after Elena. The man in leather pulled the trap door closed behind them.

After ten minutes of moving swiftly down dark tunnels and steep staircases in silence, they arrived at another door. Elena put her shoulder into it and shoved. They stepped out into a barn attached directly to the cliff face, with a small open truck parked inside. They all listened intently and searched for any indications that they weren't safe.

The man in leather turned to Michael and said, "My name is Nicholas. Elena has told me about you. I'm sorry we are meeting under these circumstances."

Michael nodded, and turned to Elena. "Kirsten?" he asked uncertainly.

A knowing and sad look passed between Nicholas and Elena. "Michael," she said gently, " I haven't been Kirsten for six years. Please call me Elena."

When he just stared at her, she continued. "Michael, I know you must have a hundred questions. And I promise you I'll answer them all. Later. But for now we have to get someplace safe and take care of your friend."

Nicholas opened the barn doors, climbed into the cab, and started the engine while Elena and Michael lifted Nikita into the bed of the truck. "Her name is Nikita," he offered. Nikita lay in his lap, and he looked down at her with concern. She had passed out before they had reached the end of the tunnel. Nicholas had taken her from Michael and carried her again.

Elena's hand touched Michael's shoulder briefly, and she then moved to Nikita and began tending her wound.

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

As Nikita struggled up through the layers of gray, she could have sworn she heard children laughing. She hurt everywhere and was bothered by sunlight on her face. She tried to turn over, but groaned in pain and lay back again. She recognized the burn of a bullet wound. What in the hell had happened?

A few moments later a cool wet rag was mercifully laid across her eyes.

"Good morning. I'm glad to see you're awake."

The voice of the woman in red.

"Are you in pain?"

Nikita tried to speak, but only managed to nod.

The woman left, returned, and gave Nikita an injection. Nikita slowly sank back into the darkness.

When Nikita next awoke, her head was remarkably clear. Her shoulder ached fiercely, but as she cautiously explored her extremities she was pleased to discover that she was otherwise pain free. Opening her eyes, she found she was in yet another stone room. The windows were open, as were the french doors out to a garden. Nikita cautiously swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. After waiting a moment to regain her equilibrium, she tried standing; she knew she couldn't move too swiftly. Only after standing did she realize she was naked but for her bandaged shoulder and her panties.

She moved slowly into the bathroom and was happy to find a terrycloth robe. With her one good hand she splashed water on her face and then struggled into the robe.

She moved gingerly out into the garden, and sat down on a nearby bench. Over a low stone wall, she could see out to water - the sea. The walls were covered with jasmine and climbing roses. Plantings of rosemary and lavender and flowers she didn't recognize were interspersed with grape vines and citrus trees. The air was redolent with the smell of garlic from a kitchen somewhere. Not wanting to think, Nikita simply sat and absorbed her surroundings.

Suddenly, four boys came charging around the corner of the house and stumbled to a halt just before they tripped over her outstretched legs. The two oldest appeared to be of a similar age. They were about twelve, one dark haired and dark eyed, the other blond and blue eyed, and both good naturedly chasing the two younger children. The third boy appeared to be several years younger, with curly brown hair and hazel eyes. The youngest was a chubby auburn haired toddler, wearing only diapers, and who wasn't quite able to contain his giggling from the chase.

Eight large round eyes observed her wordlessly for a moment. Just as suddenly as they had arrived, the four children turned and ran back from where they had come. Nikita could hear them shrieking, "Mama! Mama!" and a tumble of other words she couldn't comprehend. A few minutes later, the woman in red - now dressed in jeans and a white peasant blouse - appeared around the same corner. Her hair was loose and shoulder length. Her smile was as disarming and friendly as the night before. She sat down beside Nikita on the bench.

Elena observed her quietly.

"You're lucky. The bullet went all the way through without hitting anything critical. You'll hurt like hell for a week, but you should heal completely without any lasting effects."

Nikita stared, and finally asked, "Who are you?"

Elena sighed, and decided to start from the beginning.

"My grandfather was Hungarian and my grandmother Romanian. Their son, my father, married a Yugoslavian woman and then moved to Austria to find his fortune. The turmoil of Balkan politics were a constant presence in my upbringing.

In the fever of my youth I moved back to Yugoslavia to be a part of the resistance to ethnic segregation. As can happen, I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. My actions were intended to protect multi-ethnic families like my own from assaults by hate-mongering separatists, but the government interpreted them differently. I was sentenced to life in prison for the deaths of two body guards after a group of my colleagues burned down the home of one of the most brutal leaders of separatism."

She paused.

"I was brought into Section almost twenty years ago."

Nikita was surprised at Elena's candor, but said nothing.

"After about eight years as an operative, I was promoted into what is now Madeline's position. Marcus was still with the NSA in Asia then. When I started providing mission strategy, Nikita, my role and that of Ops were different than they are now; times were different. Life in Section was disciplined and demanding, but not nearly so ruthless. When Marcus succeeded Jason, life in Section changed. To be blunt, Marcus and I didn't like each other much, and I grew weary of the constant power struggles. At about that time the Serbo-Croatian war broke out and I was a natural for deep cover. I made it possible for Madeline to take over my job, and came here to work with Nicholas."

Elena could tell that Nikita would wait until there was closure to the story, so she jumped to the endpoint.

"I contacted Madeline last week because I needed skills I couldn't find locally. She sent you and Michael. It would seem that my activities and my whereabouts are more known than I would like, but with any luck you'll be on your way by tomorrow night."

Nikita's head swum. This open and graceful woman had been in Section for twenty years! She knew the history of Ops and Madeline. Did she know Michael's? She had children and - the man in leather? Nicholas? - a partner. She lived amongst jasmine and roses in a house by the sea. Nikita opened her mouth to start asking a string of questions, but Elena stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"I have supper on the stove, and Michael and Nicholas should be back any minute. Let me check your bandages and help you get dressed." Elena smiled and rose, and walked into the bedroom.

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

The large kitchen held a heavy wooden trestle table longer than any Nikita had ever seen. Herbs and dried flowers hung from the rafters along with heavy pots and woven braids of garlic and peppers. The room was alive with activity.

The older children were crowded around Nicholas, the toddler trying to pull down a knife left within reach on the tile counter. Michael and three other men were spreading maps out on the table, but Michael dodged towards the toddler just in time to retrieve the knife before it fell. The toddler was startled and started to cry, but Michael scooped him up and headed back to the table.

Michael sat down, grabbed an orange from a bowl in the middle of the table and peeled it. He gave it to the toddler, who contentedly slid off Michael's lap and scurried away to join the other children. Michael watched him for a minute with sad eyes and then turned back to the table.

Michael and the three strangers started discussing locations on the maps in earnest - none of which Nikita understood. Nicholas disappeared with the children and returned moments later without them. He sat down and joined the men at the table. Elena was busily tending a collection of pots on a gas-fired stove.

Weary from the blast of activity and the ache in her shoulder but irritated at not being a part of things, Nikita cleared her throat and asked loudly, "Would somebody please tell me what's going on?"

Everyone stopped and looked at her. Elena recovered first. "Nikita, I'm sorry. Come help me cook, and I'll fill you in." Nikita crossed the room to the stove and was given several pots to watch while Elena began making a salad.

"Nikita, how familiar are you with the geography of this region?" Elena asked.

Nikita had a general sense of where she was. "Well, the Balkans lie south-east of Europe, south-west of Russia, and a stone's throw across Turkey from the middle East. The western regions are mountainous and arid, the northern and eastern regions have a lot of arable agricultural land."

"I can see that Section training is still up to snuff," Elena smiled. "And the politics?"

Nikita grinned. "Complicated and turbulent. Something perhaps only a native can truly understand."

Elena laughed. "I'll let you get away with that only because supper is so close to being ready. What's relevant here is that the Balkans are conveniently located to be the crossroads of several competing and aggressive world powers. Because of its geography and political instability, it has become a perfect hiding place for terrorist, intelligence, and counter-intelligence groups of all flavors. There is no place in the world where it's so complicated to figure out who the players are and who they're playing for."

Nodding towards her partner, Elena continued. "Nicholas has lived here all his life. His family roots can be traced nearly back to the Byzantine Empire. Throughout the ages, through upheavals and shifts in allegiances and rulers, his family has always provided protection for the local people here. Some of the loyalties he has with contacts across the Balkans date back to favors exchanged between ancestors hundreds of years ago. They've never been warriors, just landholders and fisherman -- but they've always had the means and the desire to protect the people of Dubrovnik from the vicissitudes of political upheaval."

After a few seconds of contemplative silence, Elena continued. "Nicholas' position here has made it possible for me to be incredibly effective for the Section, but at the moment I am complicating his life dangerously. Someone knows that there is an intelligence channel operating out of Dubrovnik. They are harassing our contacts across the entire Balkan region, making it too dangerous for them to stay where they are. There are about a dozen contacts being effectively herded this direction, looking for a way out. Both ancient and contemporary codes of honor require that we help, but if we aren't incredibly careful - and lucky - when they all converge here I'll be discovered and we'll all be killed. Or worse."

Nikita could feel Elena's fear, but couldn't see it on her face, and recognized the demeanor of a well trained operative in mission mode.

"Nicholas and Michael are finalizing a plan to get us all out - our contacts, Nicholas, the children, and me. It's an open question whether or not we're already too late."

At that point the four children returned, having apparently cleaned up for supper. The toddler was dripping wet from a bath and naked, and on the move. The curly haired boy pursued him with a towel and clothes, but the toddler was quicker. Nicholas apprehended him, took the towel and clothes and started to dress him.

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

Later that evening, after the children had been put to bed, the men returned to their maps and their planning. Reluctantly, Nikita admitted to Elena that the pain in her shoulder had become inescapable. Elena went back to Nikita's room with her to help her get ready for bed.

"Elena, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Nikita ventured.

Elena smiled as she checked Nikita's wound. "Of course not."

"The children - they all look so different. And their ages would indicate that most were born while you were still back at section headquarters." The request for an explanation hung in the air unverbalized.

"The three oldest are all foster children, Nikita - an important social convention during times of war and turmoil. The toddler is the only child I've borne."

Nikita had guessed that Elena was in her mid-forties. She decided not to ask about Elena's motivation for childbearing at that age. "Foster children?" she queried.

"Their parents are either casualties of war or currently active in fighting. They needed someplace safe to grow up. Nicholas and I offered it to them," Elena replied.

"And you and Nicholas? How long have you been together?"

Elena stopped what she was doing and studied Nikita. She seemed to be trying to make a decision.

"For a long time, Nikita," she finally said and went back to replacing bandages.

That answer contradicted the painful reality of Nikita's own experience in Section. "And Section allowed it?" she asked.

"Nikita, I told you things were different when I had Madeline's job. Jason and I agreed that operatives who were starved for love and intimate touch were less reliable than operatives who had that part of their lives filled. We preferred romantic pairings within the Section, because it kept the risk of accidental exposure to a minimum. We also required that romantic partners not be paired as field operatives, because the distraction on a mission could be lethal. But we thought trying to prevent bright, fit, young people who were constantly living their lives on the edge from exercising their emotions made them vulnerable to taking undesirable risks."

"I developed Nicholas as a contact soon after I moved into strategy. We fell in love. We weren't able to spend a lot of time together, but since meeting Nicholas I've never had even a little interest in anyone else."

"Then Jason left and Marcus came and he had decidedly different ideas. The issue of romantic pairings was only the beginning of things that he and I disagreed on."

A small lightbulb lit in Nikita's brain. "So you and Jason were still there when Michael and Simone married?"

"Yes," Elena said simply. "And now, young lady, you need to sleep. Take this painkiller. It's mild, but it will allow you to fall asleep. Tomorrow will be busy, and you need a good night's rest."

"Elena, one more question ...," Nikita began.

"Later Nikita. Go to sleep." Elena turned off the light and slipped out the french doors before Nikita could ask about Michael and Simone's son.

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

Just before Nikita drifted off she was startled by the sound of the french door opening.

"Nikita?" came Michael's soft voice. "Are you still awake?"

"Yes, Michael."

"May I come in?"

Given the state of their relationship this past year, she knew he only wanted to check on her. "Of course."

He didn't bother to turn on a light. He came and sat on the edge of her bed. "How are you?"

"I hurt. But Elena says I'll be fine."

He sighed. "Tomorrow night is going to be difficult. You'll need to be able to move on your own, maybe even run short distances. Do you think you'll be able to do that?"

"I think so. I guess I'll have to."

He nodded, and then sat quietly for a moment, gazing out the window.

"I'm glad you've had a chance to meet Kirsten. I miss her."

"Kirsten?" Nikita asked.

"When she was still in Section, her name was Kirsten. You'll have to help me, Nikita. I'm going to have to be careful to refer to her as Elena when we return," Michael said.

Nikita thought the painkiller might be more than just mild. Suddenly things weren't making sense.

"What do you mean, 'when she was still in Section?' And why shouldn't you call her by the name she's known by there?"

"Nikita, Ops thinks Kirsten is dead. And it's possible that he's the one who arranged it. If I slip up and use her name ...."

Nikita exhaled sharply. "Michael, I'm lost. Elena said she was in deep cover for the Section here."

Michael laughed. "Her circumstances give new meaning to the phrase."

He stared at his hands for a while and then continued, but Nikita could tell what he was about to say was difficult for him to share. "Until last night, I thought Kir -- Elena was dead too. She and I had been talking on a street corner, we parted, and seconds later I heard the screech of brakes and the impact of a car hitting a body. I turned in time to see her flying through the air and hit the ground."

He swallowed and took a deep breath. "There was blood everywhere. I was dragged away by fellow operatives, and Madeline told me later that .... Elena had died."

He stopped to compose himself. Nikita waited quietly.

"The tension between Ops and Elena was evident to everyone in Section. He was demanding changes, she refused to give in. It was to the point that they couldn't be in the same room any more. Within only an hour or two the rumors started that Ops had arranged the hit, and everyone in Section who was siding with Elena to resist his new mandate quickly came into line. Madeline took over Elena's job and was able to work well with Ops."

"What Elena told me last night was that she and Madeline had already been making plans for a transition. Madeline stepped in and personally supervised the housekeeping team that responded to the accident. She protected Elena by telling Ops she was dead."

"Madeline arranged to have her spirited out of the country and into the mountains of Montenegro, which is incredibly isolated. Nicholas was able to care for her there during the two years it took for Elena to get her strength back, without anyone in Section being the wiser. Madeline kept Nicholas as a personal contact but has always isolated him from Ops and Section personnel. And in return for that deception, Elena has continued to feed Section with important information over the years."

They sat together quietly while Nikita processed everything Michael had told her.

"That certainly explains some of Madeline's behavior when she sent us here, doesn't it?" It was more of a statement than a question. "But why did she send us on commercial flights to get here? Certainly the Section would approve of travel to rescue a group of valuable contacts?"

Michael laughed. "You'll understand when you see how we're getting out of here. Apparently some up-and-coming Mexican drug lord thought he could muscle the local bandits into trading weapons for drugs instead of cash. He made them mad - and, much to his regret, won't be returning to Mexico. He left behind a Dassault Falcon 900, one of the most highly advanced three engine, 16 passenger jets available. It's specifically designed for trans-oceanic flight, and should prove to be quite useful to Section. Nobody here knows how to fly that kind of plane -- Madeline knew I could, and is betting that the plane will appease Ops for the inconvenience of us being gone for a few days."

The subliminal communication between them told Nikita that they were both enjoying the idea of deceiving Ops. But the idea that Ops would go so far as to have someone in Elena's position killed scared the hell out of her.

Nikita dropped her head back onto the pillow. She was envious of Elena's life. When Nikita had escaped from Section, she hadn't had anywhere to run to, no one to take care of her or to share her life with. Elena's life wasn't danger free, but it was richer than anything Nikita could imagine for herself. As the pain killer took over and Nikita finally slipped into sleep, her mind was jumbled with new information. There was something valuable to be learned from everything she'd heard in the last few hours. But she couldn't quite figure out what it was.

She never felt the kiss Michael tenderly placed on her forehead before he left.

***********

When Nikita awoke, Michael and Nicholas were already gone. They faced a day of elaborately sequenced events to move contacts quietly out of sight and to the airstrip where the plane waited. Nikita spent most of the day entertaining the toddler, named after his father and affectionately called Niko. The older boys, Petar, Gabro, and Ian, were busy helping Elena with the steady stream of locals who came through the house. How could their escape possibly succeed when everyone in the community knew what was going on?

Elena reassured Nikita that the mountain people had always protected her and Nicholas, just as Nicholas and his family had always protected them. The people came to help board up windows, to take away the small herd of goats Elena kept, to promise to tend the grapevines and citrus trees, and to cry.

Towards dusk, when Elena had packed the few things that would go with them and the boys had disappeared down to the water for one last swim, the two women sat together in the garden and had a chance to talk.

"Elena," Nikita began, "Michael told me why you can't come back to the Section. Where will you go?"

Elena stretched her shoulders before she answered. The tension of the last few weeks was beginning to take its toll. "We're going to Italy. Nicholas has a cousin who's the abbot of a small monastery in the hills outside of Bolzano. We'll be able to literally disappear from sight for a year or two."

"And then what?"

"That depends. I'm not sure our blood will allow us to live away from the Balkans for too long. It's clear that things will never be the same, but I think Nicholas and I will always be able to find a way to be happy."

The comment caused Nikita to lose track of her next question.

"What do you mean?"

Elena paced the length of the garden wall, studying the view of the sea like she was trying to memorize it. "Nikita, the measure of a person isn't what happens to them; it's what they do with it. Nicholas and I will adapt. Within the constraints of whatever situation we find ourselves in, we'll get out of bed every morning and watch the sun rise, and take the time every day to laugh, and sleep outside every August and watch the meteor showers. And we will be happy."

"Were you able to do that inside Section? Adapt?"

Elena stopped her pacing and turned to look at Nikita.

"The Section certainly owns the external circumstances of my life. Everything about the last twenty years has been framed by the dictates of my being irrevocably attached to a covert organization. But Nikita - the section never owned my internal life. I have always held apart the place inside where I developed my relationship with myself."

"Between missions, I pursued the things in life that interested me. I figured out what the Section required of me and delivered it in spades in order to gain their trust and be rid of their intense scrutiny. I built a cover outside Section that accounted for my erratic schedule, which allowed me to have friends without risking their safety. I worked my tail off and became the best damn strategist there was among the operatives because I realized how much flexibility there is in issuing instructions instead of receiving them. I adapted. And yes, I was happy."

Nikita regretted that she had so little time to spend with this woman. For the first time it struck her that she'd never had a female role model for being happy ... and that she really wanted one.

"Nikita, now it's my turn to ask you a personal question."

Nikita simply acknowledged her with a nod.

"Do you love Michael?"

It took Nikita a long moment to respond.

"I want to. But he won't allow it."

"Have you looked at it from his perspective?"

Nikita hadn't a clue what Elena meant. "What?" she asked, almost sharply.

"Nikita, everyone Michael has ever loved is dead. And he thinks he's responsible for all of it. From his perspective, the most precious gift he can give you is to not allow you to love him."

It tool almost a full minute for Nikita to absorb what Elena had said - and then Nikita wanted to cry.

Elena asked gently, "Have you given much thought to what you might be able to give Michael that would change his perspective?"

"What I can give him? I don't understand!" A single tear slid down her cheek.

Elena wanted to hug Nikita, to talk to her as older women will to younger women about the ways of men and the world. It was clear to her that Nikita had never had a nurturing relationship with another woman.

"Nikita, did Michael tell you why he and I met the day the car struck me?"

Nikita could only shake her head.

Elena sat down close to her. "Simone and Michael hid their pregnancy until it was too late for us to do anything about it. It went against our better judgment, but Jason and I gave them conditions and Simone and Michael agreed to meet them. We allowed them to remain active operatives. When Marcus arrived, he went ballistic to discover Simone carrying a young child through Section one day. He wanted the child gone, and Michael and Simone seperated. I refused."

"That day, their child was sick and they both had missions. Every one of their backup strategies fell through. It's just one of the realities of parenting, but one that doesn't work too well in a place like Section. I agreed to care for the child for a few days while Michael was gone, and met him to pick up the child."

She paused. "I was on the way back to my apartment when the car struck."

The hair on Nikita's neck started to rise.

"He doesn't see it yet, Nikita; he can't allow himself to see it. But given enough time, he eventually would. It's damn dangerous for him to know this now, but I give you this gift to give to Michael later. After Nicholas and the children and I are safely in Italy, tell Michael that not everyone he loves is dead."

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

The escape was messy and dangerous. Two of the dozen contacts had been killed before Nicholas and Michael got to them, and it was obvious from the start that all the others were being closely watched. By the time they'd gathered everyone, they were being actively pursued. Elena, Nikita, and the children were already on board the plane when the others started to arrive, and had to provide heavy cover. Two more contacts were killed. Mortar fire damaged the landing gear as they took of and nearly caused Michael to loose control of the plane.

Knowing the plane was unsafe to land, Michael had to fly directly to Switzerland where the Section had standing agreements with a private airfield. Landing was tense, and they knew the plane would have to be repaired before they could fly it the rest of the way back to Section headquarters. It was imperative to get all the contacts dispersed and on their way before anyone was able to trace their landing site.

Michael and Nikita had said all their good byes and headed towards the BMW they'd rented for the drive to Lucerne and the flight home. As they climbed in and closed the doors, Michael paused to watch Elena, Nicholas and the children loading into their van; it would take most of the day to reach northern Italy.

He studied the toddler one last time. There was so much he wanted to tell Nikita but he didn't know where to begin.

Nikita decided to not wait.

She said simply, "Michael, you're focusing on the wrong child."

He looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"Michael, my guess is that you keep gazing at Niko because he reminds you of your son - of how he looked when you last saw him."

Michael said nothing.

"How old would your son be today if he were alive?"

Michael did the quick calculation. "Almost eight."

"Michael, look again. Look carefully. Not at Niko - at Ian. Don't you recognize him?"

Michael held her gaze for a beat, like he couldn't understand what Nikita was saying. And then he slowly turned back towards the van.

Elena had finished putting Niko into the back seat and was turning towards Ian to help him in as well. Ian looked up at her, put his hand in hers, and smiled.

And Michael saw it. And started to tremble. * Simone's smile. * The armor around Michael's heart cracked.

Nikita took his hand in hers and raised it to her lips, as the tears in his eyes welled up and spilled over.

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