Jurgen's talk with Suzanne had the opposite effect than what he had hoped. Instead of concentrating more on her work, she wasn't concentrating on anything. Operations was pushing for her cancellation, and Jurgen was running out of ways to stall him.

"We're going out to dinner tonight," he told her after their last profile meeting. "A refusal is not an option. We're going someplace nice--dress appropriately," he added before he turned away and left her staring slack-jawed in his office.

Suzanne knew this was a test tonight, a test her very life depended on. She thought about Jurgen's potential as a lover, trying to disregard the rumor mill. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, had a mane of thick, blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. He was definitely doable material, all things considered. He also seemed to like her, as he had asked her out more than once.

She also knew about the accident that had almost killed him: a bomb that had not gone off, that he had hand-detonated to save Michael and Nikita's lives and that blew up, well, practically in his crotch. Suzanne wasn't squeamish. If the essential parts were there, as he implied they were, she would be the one to set them in motion.

* * *

Wednesday afternoon found Birkoff and Michelle in French class, surreptitiously trading Psych notes about sleep cycles and variations in consciousness for their upcoming exam; Michael grading papers and wondering if he truly sucked as a teacher or if his class was truly made up of morons; and Nikita putting together a pan of lasagna and chilling copious amounts of wine (as well as sparkling grape juice for herself and Michael).

Nikita had debated about asking Bobbi for dinner as well but, knowing how beloved the McCoys seemed to be, decided to defer her invitation for another evening. She was listening to one of Michael's CDs, "immobile" by autour de lucie, and it bothered her not to be able to dance along to the more upbeat tunes. She had scheduled her third appointment for Thursday, knowing that tonight would probably take a lot out of her, both mentally and physically.

She tasted the sauce, now simmering on the stove. Hmm. Maybe a hint more garlic. She knew Michael loved garlic--she didn't really care if the McCoys did or not. The noodles were also ready. She got out the ricotta cheese and started the layering process. Noodles, cheese, sauce. Noodles, cheese, sauce. She covered the top layer of meat sauce with grated parmesan cheese and set the pan in the refrigerator until later. She had already made the Caesar salad, which was chilling alongside the lasagna for now. She only planned to serve cheese and crackers for hors d'oeuvres; she wanted Dr. McCoy to fill up on wine as quickly as possible, but leave plenty of room for dinner. A sleepy, happy drunk was the best mark for a pickpocket.

Birkoff was to meander into the house around 7:00, shyly be introduced, then disappear to his room. Michael would stop in to give him "parting instructions," as well as Larry’s office keys when they left, and Birkoff would have one hour to search McCoy's office and download all his files. He would leave the keys in the kitchen in the fruit bowl, where Nikita or Michael would then make the switch upon their return.

* * *

Madeline was eating Coq au Vin in the Tower with Operations, and she was furious. Not at Christopher or his Coq au Vin, which was excellent, but at the fact that she had been summoned like the most menial of lackeys. She wore her dark auburn hair pulled tightly back in a French roll, instead of loose around her shoulders like Operations preferred.

Operations didn't care. He waited until Christopher had poured the wine before making his move. He brought out Michelle McCauley’s file and handed it to Madeline. "Just when were you going to tell me about this?" he said, his voice tightly controlled.

"I did tell you," she answered with equal timbre, "last week."

"Not that she was my wife's daughter!"

"No. That intel only recently became available."

Now that she knew what had prompted this command performance, Madeline relaxed a bit. "What do you think we should do about it?" she asked conversationally.

"She'll have to be brought in immediately."

"Brought in? For what purpose?"

"For evaluation. Look at her file. She obviously has incredible potential." Operations rose from his seat and began to pace. "She'd make an excellent profiler, or she would fit in well in Comm, or we--"

"Paul."

Madeline's use of his first name stopped him in his tracks.

"She's not your daughter."

"I know that," Operations snapped, beginning to pace again.

Madeline tried again. "She's just a street-smart young girl who happens to think well on her feet and knows her way around a computer. Her biggest sin is to have tapped into the bank accounts of Senator Markali, a man you couldn't stand even if he hadn't married your wife."

Operations muttered something under his breath.

Madeline continued.

"We have no indication that she would be a good operative. We can't justify bringing her in simply because of who she is." Madeline surprised even herself with this appeal, but for some reason, she was determined to win this one.

"Then dig deeper," Operations ground out, and returned to his meal, the rest of which passed in an uneasy silence.

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

Birkoff was nervous, and it showed. He hoped Michelle was chalking it up to pre-exam jitters.

"Let's go over Chapter One again," she coaxed. "That's all memorization, you know, who thinks what and why. Then we can cover the parts of the brain. You were a little shaky on that before. God, Birkoff, you're still shaky! Look at your hands."

Birkoff looked down and was mortified to find that his hands were, indeed, shaking "Too much caffeine, I guess. Do you want a Sprite or something? I'm really thirsty."

"No, I'm good."

While he was up, she looked his notebook. He had scrawled the word "KEY" throughout their study notes. Must be some weird mnemonic device. She hoped that the key would unlock his brain and put it in gear. His mind seemed to be anywhere but here at the Commons and concentrating on his Psych exam.

* * *

Suzanne was suffering from her own case of the jitters, and Jurgen wasn't helping any by being silent to the point of rude during dinner. Attempts at levity, comments on the food, the weather, the current political regime, celebrity gossip; nothing stirred him to do more than grunt. She tugged on the nonexistent hem of her crimson dress and finally asked him pointblank, "Look, are we on a date here or what? You're obviously not enjoying yourself, and neither am I, so what is the point of this little exercise?"

At this, Jurgen did smile. "Actually, I just wanted to see if you'd really show up. If you would really go out with me."

Suzanne stared. "Didn't you order me to?"

"Asked politely."

"Weren't the words 'refusal is not an option' brought up?"

"I'm such a kidder," Jurgen grinned, then laughed at the expression of total shock on her face.

He quickly grasped both wrists as she quickly sought something, anything, to throw in his smug face. Her face was turning the same color as her dress and, though it was a becoming color, it obviously signaled danger.

"Listen," he said, his expression growing serious, "I wasn't kidding about your being cancelled. Operations thinks you would rather sleep with me than learn from me, and he believes that you can do only one or the other. It's important that we prove him wrong, and quickly."

He released his grip, and she rubbed her sore wrists gingerly. "What happens now?" she asked, subdued.

"That depends. Do you like me?"

"Do I like you? What is this, seventh grade? Yeah, I like you. I even like like you. Why?"

He smiled. "I like like you too." A pause. "Do you want to come over to my house? My folks aren't home."

She pretended to think about it, getting into the game. "Yeah, well I gotta ask my mom, but if she says I can, I can probably sleep over, too."

"Kewl."

* * *

Shaking hands poured two pills from the vial, then tossed them back to be swallowed dry. The pain was constant now—only relieved by these god damned pills. How did I ever let myself get into this mess? I’m going to quit. Tomorrow. I swear. An empty promise that had been made before. There was no way out. Was there?

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

The McCoys showed up promptly at 6:45, carrying a chilled bottle of moderately expensive white wine. Jerri was wearing a stylish linen pantsuit which suited her short dark hair, while Larry had chosen a retro theme of turtleneck paired with a plaid jacket. Michael was wearing Versace--black shirt, tie, trousers and jacket, while Nikita's floor-length black dress had a slit that revealed most of her thigh and a scooped back that nearly revealed her buttocks. Her golden hair was tied up loosely in a knot—a style she knew that Michael particularly liked.

Nikita thanked the McCoys for the wine, and opened it to serve with the appetizers. Nikita made sure Larry had access to plenty of the sharp cheddar cheese, and Michael topped off McCoy’s wine glass several times before dinner.

At 6:55, Birkoff made his appearance, said his hellos, and disappeared into his room. At 7:00, dinner was served. Though it hardly seemed possible, the more he had to drink, the louder and more verbose Larry's speech became. Nikita tried to make sure Jerri was getting a warm, fuzzy feeling as well. She didn't want her to notice the moment that Michael made the key exchange.

At 7:45, there was some jostling in the hallway when Larry insisted on driving while Michael suggested the McCoys ride with Nikita and him in the limo they had hired for the evening. Nikita pulled Jerri aside, more to distract her than for any other reason, and suggested that since there would be wine at the exhibit, maybe it would be better if neither husband drove this evening. Larry finally acquiesced, and Michael stepped into Birkoff's room to give him instructions on washing up the dinner plates (and Larry's keys). The Samuelles and McCoys departed for the Museum.

* * *

Nikita's paintings were three of thirty being shown at the exhibit. Two had received positive notices and one (Madeline's favorite) had received mixed reviews. Since Nikita hadn't actually painted any of them, her feelings weren't affected in the least by the reviews or the comments made by the onlookers at the exhibition. She did study them carefully, as well as others in her "category," as she would be expected to paint at least one of the next grouping for the exhibit in October.

Michael kept a close eye on McCoy, bringing him wine to drink and making sure his right hand didn't leave his jingling right pocket holding the fake set of keys. Jerri, who was obviously not an art lover, sat near the entrance and tried to stay awake after too much wine and too much lasagna. Nikita tried to spend time with her, but kept getting called away by one art aficionado or another.

At shortly before 9:30, Nikita suggested they call it a night, and the McCoys willingly agreed. Both Larry and Jerri fell asleep in the limo on the way home--whether from the wine or from boredom it would be difficult to say. Michael led Nikita inside first, then insisted Larry give him his keys so the limo driver could take him home. Jerri, by now awake and sober, argued that she was capable of driving. Keys passed back and forth several times, but Jerri ended up with Larry's keys and agreed to take him home and put him to bed.

"Call us when you get home so we know you arrived safely," Nikita said in her best Mother Hen fashion.

"I will," promised Jerri, who pulled out of the driveway and promptly forgot.

Michael put his arm around Nikita's shoulder and walked her into the house. They went straight to Birkoff's room.

"What did you get?" Michael asked immediately.

"Nothing," Birkoff shrugged. "If he's feeding intel from Red Cell to Afghanistan, he's not doing it from his office. I made a copy of the key to his house--I'll try there next."

"That doesn't make a lot of sense, Michael," said Nikita. "The system at University would be much easier to access and more difficult to trace than a PC. Pompous bastard he may be, but he's not stupid."

"No," Michael agreed. "We're missing something."

* * *

Jurgen, to his immense relief and satisfaction, seemed to have made a complete recovery from his accident. On the sofa. In the shower. In the bed. Twice.

Suzanne was sympathetic to, but not at all put off by Jurgen's abdominal scars. If anything, they got her even more enthusiastic. On the sofa. In the shower. In the bed. Twice.

Exhausted now, they slept wrapped in each others arms, bliss and contentment on both faces until the jarring of Jurgen's cell phone snapped them into reality. He answered.

"Etienne," came the voice at the other end of the line.

He listened for a moment, then snapped the cellular shut. "We have to go in."

"Do we have time for a shower?" asked Suzanne, stretching lazily on his bed.

"Not the kind you have in mind," returned Jurgen. "Get dressed. We have a mission, and you're profiling this one."

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

Nikita kept her chiropractic appointment with Bobbi at noon the following day. After she was dressed, she casually mentioned the pain pills given to her by Section.

"I've no idea what they're called," she said vaguely. "They're kind of longish more than roundish, with sawed-off off corners, and pink on one side and white on the other."

"That doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard of," said Bobbi, bemused. "Wait here just a minute while I look it up in the Physician's Desk Reference. There's one down the hallway--I won't be a minute."

Nikita listened until Bobbi's footsteps faded away, then dashed into her office. She swept the hard drive of her computer and had just finished and returned the disk to her purse when Bobbi returned.

"I didn't see anything that resembled what you described." No kidding, thought Nikita. "Why don't you bring in the bottle next time and I'll check the label?"

"Oh, I kind of put my pills in with Michael's allergy medicine, you know, to save space. But I'll let you know when I have to call in and get a refill."

Bobbi admonished her on the evils of mixing two drugs in one bottle, then set up three appointments for the following week.

* * *

Larry McCoy stopped by Michael's office to thank him for dinner again and to comment on Nikita's legs. Again.

"You're wife is some looker, Mike. I told Jerri she needs to get a dress like Nikita's even though she wouldn't look half as good in it."

I bet she was thrilled to hear that, thought Michael, not saying a word that would encourage McCoy to stay or to continue his monologue.

"Yep," McCoy went on, unabated, "I told Jerri we needed to have you two over to our house, just so I could get another look at those legs."

Gritting his teeth, but seeing the opening he needed, Michael agreed. "Nikita would like that very much, I'm sure."

"Great!" boomed McCoy. "Hey, Mike. Do you play poker?"

"No."

"Too bad. You've got the perfect face for it."

At this, Michael looked up at McCoy, who gave him a huge wink as he departed.

Michael mused, rubbing his jaw. He wondered how much of the buffoon act was just that, an act.

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

Birkoff was pretty sure he aced his Psych test. He hadn't really studied, but he had read the material once and a photographic memory did come in handy. Michelle was feeling confident as well, so they went to the Commons to celebrate with soft pretzels and Pepsis.

Birkoff carried the tray while watching Michelle walk ahead of him in her teensy denim shorts paired with a baby-doll pink t-shirt that barely covered her abdomen.

"I know you don't do families," he began cautiously, "but do you ever do movies?"

"Sure," said Michelle, a little surprised. She licked some cheese sauce off her thumb. "When? Tonight?"

"If you want to."

"I work at the bookstore till 8:30, but we could catch something at the cheap theatre. What did you want to see?"

"You decide."

Michelle mulled for a moment, then her eyes lit up.

"Spy Kids."

Birkoff groaned.

* * *

When Nikita came home from the market, Michael was already at Birkoff's computer, scanning the disk she had left for him earlier.

"Find anything?" she asked, half hoping he wouldn't.

"No. It's clean." He swiveled in his chair to face her. "You'll have to get invited to her house."

"That could be tough. She's already turned down two invitations to ours. I don't think she socializes much."

"Then you'll have to break in."

"What happened to 'we'? There is no 'I' in 'team,' Michael."

"I have to go back to Section." He turned back to the computer and started putting things away, somehow making sense of Birkoff's filing system.

"When?" she asked. "For how long?"

"I leave for Louisville in an hour. I'll be back late Sunday night."

"So much for our romantic weekend," Nikita pouted.

Michael smiled and pulled her onto his lap. "We'll make up for it next weekend," he said, nuzzling her neck.

It was this scene that Birkoff chose to walk in on.

"Okay, okay! If you're gonna do this, would you at least rent a room?" he sputtered. "And not mine! Geez!"

"It's all right, Birkoff," Nikita said as she and Michael stood to walk to the kitchen. "We were just saying good-bye. Michael's going to Section for the weekend."

"Why? Did we find anything worth reporting?"

"No," Michael answered softly. "I'm leading a mission."

"Oh, yeah?" Birkoff answered, feeling a bit nostalgic. "Who profiled it?"

"Jurgen’s material—Suzanne."

* * *

The mission went well. Jurgen was pleased. Suzanne was ecstatic. Operations was disgruntled. Madeline was unreadable. Michael was injured. Not on the mission, but he had slipped on an oil slick in van access and wrenched his ankle, and was in a foul mood when he returned to Evansville.

Nikita's hope of picking up where they had left off were dashed when she heard him limping up the stairs late Sunday evening.

"Do you want anything to eat?" she said, pointedly ignoring his injury. He would talk when he was ready.

"I ate on the plane," was the terse reply.

"But that was over three hours ago."

"I just want to sleep."

Nikita listened to him fumble around in the bathroom, performing his necessary nighttime chores, and he came to bed wearing navy sweat pants and a white tank top. He lay on his side, not facing her.

"Do you need to relax?" she asked innocently.

Bad choice of words. She could see every visible muscle stiffen.

She backpedaled quickly. "Not like that. I meant, do you want me to rub your back so you can sleep? Even Section wouldn’t find that strange, considering that you’ve been injured."

He remained still for another minute or so, then slowly turned to lie stomach down on the bed, his face still turned away from her.

She ran her fingernails lightly up and down his back, then her fingers, then began a full-out massage, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and back release at her touch. After ten minutes, she heard Michael's light snore, and smiled. He had forgotten to take his allergy medicine. She shifted back to her side of the bed and fell quickly asleep.

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

In the early morning hours, Michael awoke to find Nikita pressed against him for warmth, all the covers having made their way to his side of the bed as usual and the air conditioning blowing in high gear. He eased himself from her side and covered her with the comforter, needing his robe in the early morning chill.

He was sitting in the kitchen, leg elevated and ankle wearing a bag of frozen peas when Birkoff stumbled into the kitchen, ready as he could be to face his 8 a.m. Math class.

"Hey, how did the mission go--or should I ask?" he said, nodding at Michael's ankle.

"The mission went fine. This," he said, indicating his ankle, "was just my own stupidity."

Birkoff had no idea how to reply to such a statement, especially without coffee. He poured a cup and stalled for time.

Nikita solved his dilemma by making an appearance at that moment. She was already dressed in jeans and one of Michael's sweatshirts tied loosely over a skimpy tank top, and looked incredibly sexy with just-washed hair pulled back in a ponytail and a shiny face free of make-up.

She poured herself a glass of juice and sat down at the table. "I'd ask you what happened, but I already got it out of Walter. Oil slick, hm?"

Michael looked straight ahead, jaw locked.

"How long have you been on cold, and when do you start heat again?" she persisted.

"Twenty minutes, then I have to leave for class," came Michael's clipped reply.

"Okay, then I'll go plug in the heating pad, take a quick walk around the block, and be back in fifteen. Birkoff, will you be home for lunch?"

"I don't know yet. Why?"

"Don't be if you don't have to. I'm going to try to lure Dr. Browne over for lunch today so she'll invite me to her house for lunch one day this week."

"Yeah, okay. Whatever." Birkoff finished his coffee and rinsed his cup before putting it in the dishwasher. He put two Pop Tarts in his backpack and headed out the door for class. "See ya," he called over his shoulder.

* * *

Luring Dr. Browne was easier said than done, even with the promise of lasagna and no kids with sore necks or aching backs. She finally agreed, and Nikita breathed a sigh of relief, more from Bobbi's agreement than from the adjustment she had just had.

Nikita had driven the jeep, and stepped inside with one fluid motion. Bobbi eyed the jeep dubiously before pulling her much shorter, sturdier frame into the passenger’s side. Nikita noted her difficulty and apologized. “Michael and I are both so tall. I didn’t think about how high up the door would be for anyone else. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bobbi retorted, “as long as you have a crane waiting at home to get me out of this thing.” They both laughed.

Bobbi was surprised when they pulled into the driveway of the small condo. Noting the expression on her face, Nikita asked her what was wrong.

"Nothing. Your house is lovely. I just pictured you living in some palatial estate like Dr. McCoy and his wife."

"Hardly," said Nikita, choking back a laugh. "Michael and I both have to work, and I have my brother to support. This rental is nice, but it was all we could afford."

"I didn't know you worked. What do you do?"

"I paint," said Nikita, leading her into the sunroom, where two half-finished canvases stood stretched on their easels. "I've been commissioned by the museum to paint three more by October, and I'm not feeling extremely artistic at the moment, so I'm stalling by inviting a friend to lunch."

"Glad I could help."

Bobbi looked closely at two of the canvases, which looked very similar at this stage. "What do you call your style?"

Nikita thought a moment. "Conflicted."

Bobbi smiled.

"Come on into the kitchen while I heat up the lasagna, and we'll talk about anything except work and the McCoys."

Nikita learned that Bobbi was divorced with no children, was originally from St. Louis, and had moved to Evansville because of an online romance that had fizzled once the two parties had actually met.

"I can't believe you would just up and move without even meeting the guy," said Nikita, incredulous.

"It was the first and only time I've ever been spontaneous. Believe me, it won't happen again." She took a swallow of her iced tea before speaking again. "I don't regret moving here, though. Evansville is a lot like St. Louis in miniature. It has a museum, a zoo, even a pro baseball team, but everything is smaller and slower paced. I like that."

"But what about your practice? It must have been hard to give up a private practice in exchange for what you do now."

"Not really," Bobbi answered wryly. "Oh, sure, I miss the money, but I like kids. I'd rather treat them than the idle rich any day."

Nikita looked at her watch. "I'd better get you back to campus."

Bobbi agreed, but stated "You'll have to roll me to the jeep. That lasagna was delicious."

"I'll email you the recipe. Give me your address at home--wait; let me get a pencil."

Bobbi waited, then innocently spelled out "Bbrowne105@aol.com."

"Got it," smiled Nikita. "Let's go.

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

Birkoff was able to access Bobbi's home computer through her email address. Nothing showed up on the hard drive to indicate any kind of relationship with Red Cell. Nikita was relieved, yet this meant one less viable option. The pathways were narrowed to Larry's home PC, and possibly Sharon Sartre.

Michael spoke to Birkoff when Nikita brought him home that evening. His instructions were clear. "You must fail your next French quiz."

"But why?" exclaimed Birkoff. "I'm already faking a C average, and it's killing me."

"As your guardian, I will need to visit your French teacher to talk with her about your failing grade," Michael explained patiently.

Well, crap. So much for my efforts to impress Michelle, thought Birkoff.

"You also need to fail your Psychology midterm."

"No way," protested Birkoff. "I have a 98 average in that class. There's no way I can fake a failing grade now unless I just don't show up."

"Okay. You don't take the midterm. Go and talk to the head of the department, Dr. Sartre. Explain that you will be out of town the day of the exam, and see what other options he can offer you. Check out the layout of his office, and get what we need to sweep his hard drive."

"No problem," muttered Birkoff, as if he had just been asked to take out the garbage.

* * *

Birkoff was puzzled. When he met Michelle a month ago, he swore he could look straight down and see the top of her head. Now, even though she was wearing flat shoes, she seemed, somehow, taller. Not only taller but, well, bustier. He reluctantly broached to subject with Nikita, and cringed at the expected answer.

"Most girls reach their physical maturity when they start their period, around 12 or 13." God, he knew she was going to use that word. "Some girls, just like some guys, are late bloomers. I can't believe an 18-year old girl would grow an inch, though I guess it's possible. As for her chest, there's always Victoria's Secret. How close are you two, anyway?"

"Not that close." Birkoff promised quickly.

Nikita thought for a moment. "What about her teeth?"

Birkoff thought Nikita had lost it. "Her teeth?"

"Even if she's really a late bloomer, she should still have her second set of molars by now. You have kissed her, haven't you?"

Birkoff hung his head. "We're just friends."

"Okay, you've got two possibilities," proposed Nikita. "If she's got her second set of molars she's a late bloomer; if she hasn't, she's only 14 or 15 and, therefore, off-limits."

"Great," moaned Birkoff. "I finally find the perfect girlfriend, and she's jailbait."

"Not necessarily." Nikita smiled and gave his buzz-cut a rub for old time's sake. "Check out the molars before you do anything rash."

"Piece of cake," shrugged Birkoff. "Flunk French, skip Psych, and count molars. Typical day in the life of your average college freshman."

* * *

Michael's advice, Jurgen hated to admit, had worked. Suzanne had settled down and was concentrating fully on her work now that they were sleeping together. Not because she thought he was slime, but because she didn't need to flirt with anyone else any more. Her profiling was outstanding. Even Madeline was pleased, if one could use that word to describe her.

Walter was the only one she still flirted with, but everyone flirted with Walter. It was just that no one (at least Walter wasn't talking) ever followed through.

Operations had stopped in Madeline's office to check Suzanne's latest numbers.

"Over 86%," replied Madeline.

"Tactical?"

"94%"

"Armed combat?"

"Only 76%, but she has a workout scheduled with Jurgen this afternoon. Overall, her scores are exceptionally good for a recruit. I was particularly pleased with the mission she profiled."

Operations was displeased. He didn't like Suzanne. He didn't like her pierced tongue, the tattoos of butterflies on her wrist and ankle, or the tattoo of a tiger on her upper arm. She didn't fit his ideal of “professionalism” when it came to operatives.

Madeline understood his concern. "She won't be doing any field work, so her personal appearance is really not a factor."

"That's what we always said about Birkoff. What if he had gotten an ear pierced or something?"

"Then he would have blended in perfectly at the Evansville campus. Why don't you worry about Suzanne's scores, and I'll talk to her about her appearance?"

It seemed like a fair tradeoff, and Operations left her office muttering about white trash and hippie chicks.

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

Nikita was already in bed when she heard Michael coming up the stairs. He was walking without a hint of a limp now, but he hadn't seemed to have improved in temperament at all in the last week. It was Tuesday, and she was determined to fix that.

He removed his robe and sat down on his side of the bed and, almost before he had lain down, Nikita had moved over to his side and slid her hand up along his chest inside the stretchy material of the white tank shirt he wore to bed.

"What are you doing?" he asked patiently.

"Well, either I’m doing it wrong," she began, "or it's been way too long and you've forgotten how. I'm voting on the latter."

Michael sat without moving, then abruptly left the bed and walked over to the door. So much for that, thought Nikita. She was surprised when he locked it and turned back to her with a smile on his face. "I made a deal with Birkoff."

He tore off the shirt and left his sweat pants crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed. The fact that he hadn't folded either of them neatly first spoke more of his need for her than anything else could.

They came together almost at once--foreplay could wait for another day, another time. Michael questioned her with his eyes, dark green with passion. She knew what they both wanted. What they both needed. The only word Nikita could think, let alone say, was yes. Yes, whatever he wanted. Yes, whatever she could give him. Yes to anything and everything. Michael managed to speak-- three syllables--"Ni-ki-ta"--before he, too, felt the release that they both had been yearning for.

Still joined, Nikita rolled Michael over onto his back and traced the contours of his face with her index finger, then rubbed her cheek against his, smooth against rough. She tasted his kiss-bruised lips with her own, then nibbled on his earlobe, his jawline, his shoulder. Groaning, Michael felt himself growing within her, and rolled her on her back, pinning her hands above her. He began to move within her, her naked breasts teasing his chest just as the light in her eyes teased him now. He could see her desire, her passion casting an aura around her. Their bodies trembled, meeting each other with a rhythmic motion as old as time.

Afterwards, Nikita fell asleep almost immediately, her body cradled in his arms. Michael cursed himself for his lack of control. In their haste, they had forgotten the surveillance camera. He cursed himself again as he extracted himself from Nikita’s grasp and rolled to his side of the bed. He also cursed the universe, for he loved her. With every fiber of his being. But he was not free to love. His soul was not free to give. It belonged to Section, and Section did not share.

He knew there would come a time when Section would make him choose. He thought he knew which path he would take, but he still wasn’t sure, and that scared him. He looked over at the silken blonde head sleeping peacefully next to him. He knew what her choice would be. He knew that her choice would get her cancelled. He also knew that she didn't care. Did he?

Not now. Not at this moment. One day at a time, that was all he could live for.

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

Birkoff had copped a D+ on his last French quiz, and was stumbling in his class work as well. Madame Sartre and Michelle were worried, but not as worried as Birkoff. He was wondering how quickly he could start pulling failing grades without arousing too much suspicion. Michelle had offered to help tutor him, but was a bit put off by the way he kept concentrating on her chest and her teeth. He had to kiss her, and soon.

He also had to schedule an appointment with Dr. Sartre in the Psych department about the midterm he was going to miss. He was still waiting for Michael to give him a plausible excuse for that one. The Student Handbook listed Bereavement as the only acceptable reason for missing an exam, and one could hardly plan one’s grandmother's death a week in advance.

He sat in the Commons doing his Chemistry homework, having already read and outlined his entire Sociology book, when Michelle stopped by on a break from work.

"I'd be working on French if I were you," she lectured. "You've got the Maths and Sciences down cold."

"I told you, I suck at languages. I'm probably going to drop French if I fail the midterm."

Stunned, Michelle slid into the booth opposite him. "Birkoff, you have to have a language to graduate, regardless of your major."

"Yeah, well, I'm thinking about Latin," he returned. "There's no oral comprehension in Latin. It's like one big logic problem."

"But then we'll only have one class together," she pouted.

"You're right. We should probably see more of each other through the week. Like Thursday night. Wanna catch another movie?"

"Can't," she responded. "I work until 8:30, and I have Criminal Justice at 8:00 Friday morning. I'll never make it if I stay out late."

"How about a movie at my place?" said Birkoff, inspired. "I can have you home before 11."

Michelle reconsidered. "Okay. Pick me up at work, and you can drop me back at the dorm. What are we going to watch?"

"I don't know. Some chick flick my sister has. You can decide when we get there."

"Okay. I gotta go." Brushing her lips to Birkoff's cheek, she half walked, half ran back to the bookstore.

Match point, Birkoff.

* * *

Nikita looked at the two canvases in front of her. To the untrained eye, which included Nikita's, they were nearly identical. Both were shades of smoky gray, with undertones of lavender and white. Remembering her conversation with Bobbi, Nikita had an idea. She dipped one brush in black, the other in white, and painted mirror-image designs on each canvas. She would show them together as a set and title them "Conflicted." Pleased that she had finally emerged from her painting slump, she dashed primary colors on the third canvas in a haphazard fashion, titled this one "Clarity," and signed her name with a flourish to all three.

She was still cleaning brushes when Birkoff strolled in, or rather floated in, from his afternoon Sociology class.

"What's up, B?" she asked.

"Uh, can you and Michael be gone tomorrow night?"

"Hot date?" she asked, just joking.

"I hope so. I finally got Michelle to come over, and she doesn't do families."

"We can't be gone. Michael's expecting an email from Section. We can be unobtrusive, though. What were you planning to do? Or is that a loaded question?"

"We're just going to watch a movie. Do you have anything good on tape or DVD?"

"Sorry. I don't really watch movies that often. Why don't you rent something?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know," said Nikita, becoming a little exasperated. "I've never met the girl." She thought a moment. "What's her major?"

"Criminology. She wants to be a crime scene profiler."

"Okay. Rent 'The Horse Whisperer' in case she's into chick flicks, and 'Silence of the Lambs' in case she wants to go the other way. Oh, and 'The Sixth Sense' is pretty good, too--chilling but without the gore."

"Got it," said Birkoff as he headed back to his car to drive down to Blockbuster.

Nikita watched him go, shaking her head. The boy had it bad. She hoped for his sake that Michelle was really 18, and that he would be able to let her go when the mission was over. She had thought about reminding him about Gail, but decided against it. Birkoff would probably never feel this free again in his lifetime; she was not going to be the one to spoil it for him.

* * *

Michael was sitting in the dining room grading papers Thursday morning when a cup of coffee sailed past his head and broke against the far wall, leaving a caramel colored stain dripping down the pale blue painted wall. Michael turned to look at it, then at Nikita, one eyebrow raised.

“And that was for--”

“For forgetting the cameras Tuesday night!” she yelled. “We need to have a fight, and it might as well be now!”

He had barely registered the croissants in her hand before first one, then the other buttery missile flew through the space where his head had been nanoseconds before.

He sat upright again, and said, “Do I need to throw something back now?”

“No!” she yelled, gesturing wildly. “Just stand up and yell something!”

Michael leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “Damn it, Nikita, I love you! I want to make mad, passionate love to you on this table—right here and right now!”

“Fine, mister!” she retorted. “Just try it!”

She flounced into the kitchen, with Michael following right behind. The kitchen table worked just as well.

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

Bobbi probed and kneaded the muscles of Nikita's back mercilessly. "If I were to guess, I would say you and Michael are definitely on more than speaking terms," she offered.

Nikita had the courtesy to blush. "How do you do that?"

Bobbi laughed. "Ancient Chinese secret," she intoned. "Hey, keep up the good work. I can always fix any fallout. A happy patient is a good patient."

"Speaking of--oof--happy," Nikita said as Bobbi rolled her to her side, "how much do you know about the Sartres? Doctor and Madame?"

"Not much. Why?"

"My little brother is failing French, and he needs to reschedule his Psych midterm. One of us is going to have to face “Madame,” and Michael is going to have to get Birkoff out of his exam. Family business. I figure forewarned is forearmed."

Bobbi pondered for a moment. "She's okay, I guess. I can’t say that I really trust her. She puts on a different face in the classroom than she does in the teachers’ lounge, but maybe that's just my opinion." She rolled Nikita to her other side. "I don't believe that I’ve ever even talked to her husband.”

"Well, I appreciate your input," stated Nikita as Bobbi helped her up from the table. "Maybe we'll invite the Sartre's to dinner and ply them with enough wine to pass my brother in both classes."

Bobbie smiled. "I'm sure it's been tried before. It might even work."

"Well, right now it’s time for me to go home and disappear." At Bobbi's quizzical expression, she whispered conspiratorially, "Birkoff's bringing home a d-a-t-e, and Michael and I aren't allowed to meet her."

"Ah, young love. Well, tell them not to do anything we wouldn't do," said Bobbi.

"Yeah, right," Nikita shot back.

* * *

Michael announced to his classes that he would not be giving his midterm exam until the week of October 4, a week after the regular midterms. This announcement was met with both cheers and groans, as this week coincided with the annual Fall Festival street fair.

"The exam will be Tuesday afternoon, so I will not be interrupting your festivities by more than one day. I will be out of town the previous week. A Teaching Assistant will be monitoring the class and handing out materials to help you prepare for the test. I suggest you attend classes on these days."

"Will the test be open book?" a voice rang out from the back of the room. A chuckle ran through the room, and Michael ignored the query. He knew who had asked the question, and he didn't think an open book and a preprinted copy of the test would net this individual more that a D at best. Her previous questions had been along the lines of ‘Are you married?’ and ‘Is your hair naturally curly?’ A real knowledge seeker, that one.

"Please get out your assignment from Tuesday. I will place the correct solution on the overhead projector. Please take a moment to check your work, then you may ask questions to see if and where you might have gone wrong." He flipped on the light of the overhead, and could already tell by the looks on their faces that, of those who had actually done the assignment, many had failed to come up with the correct answer.

He had seriously considered going back to the beginning of the text and starting over again for the majority of the class, except that about five students were keeping up and doing well, and it would be unfair to penalize them. Normally, he would discuss this dilemma with Dr. McCoy, but he didn't think he could stomach the man today, not after the morning he had had with Nikita.

He willed himself not to think of her, and the effect she had on his body. He refused to embarrass himself in front of his class. He did, however, make a mental note to send flowers to Dr. Browne.

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

Michael wasn't home yet, and Nikita was in the sunroom crating her canvases when Birkoff brought Michelle to the condo. They went to the kitchen to arm themselves with cold pizza and Pepsis, then barricaded themselves in Birkoff's room.

Nikita knew that Michelle "didn't do families," but curiosity got the better of her. Besides, it would be rude not to just say ‘hello,’ wouldn't it?

She knocked politely at Birkoff's door, then popped her head through. Birkoff was loading "The Sixth Sense" into the VCR, but Michelle's head turned at the sound. "Hi, I'm Nikita," she introduced herself. "Birkoff's told us absolutely nothing about you."

Michelle smiled, nodded, and turned her attention back to the TV screen. Well. Okay then. The kid could definitely use a few lessons in manners, shy or not. Nikita returned to the sunroom and pounded nails with a vengeance.

Michael arrived home about 20 minutes later and, after checking his email, approached Nikita, now in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup simmering on the stove.

"What's the matter?" he said, tuning instantly to her mood.

"That little snot in there with Birkoff," she said in measured tones. "She was just too far on the wrong side of rude for my liking."

"What did she say?" asked Michael, curious.

"Not a damned thing," came the reply. "I introduced myself, she nodded to dismiss me, and that was that."

"Maybe she's just shy."

"No, she's just a rude little snot."

"Okay, she's a rude little snot. May I have my dinner now?"

They ate in companionable silence, Nikita's temper cooling as her stomach warmed.

When Michael began to clear the table, Nikita stopped him. "No, let me. Why don't you go in and meet the princess?"

"Nikita--"

"No, just try it. We need to find out for Birkoff how old she is.

"How old she is? Eighteen, right?"

"Birkoff hopes, but he's having some doubts."

Now that he had a mission, Michael was more willing to meet Princess Rude, or PR, as he was already calling her. He knocked on Birkoff's door, and entered quietly. Birkoff looked up, annoyed. PR didn't take her eyes from the screen.

"Hallo, Michelle. It's nice to meet you," said Michael, his French accent stronger than usual.

Birkoff paused the action on the screen, but Michelle didn't look away. "Nice to meet you, too," she said, and waited for Birkoff to restart the movie. Birkoff shrugged, and Michael took the hint, leaving and closing the door behind him.

"Brrr," he said, pretending to shiver as he stepped back into the kitchen. "I see what you mean. However, she did talk to me."

"You're kidding," said Nikita, impressed.

"I don't think she's eighteen, though. Her voice isn't mature enough. I would say fourteen, fifteen at the outside."

"That's what I was thinking when Birkoff told me she is still growing taller. Let's tap into her academic records and see what we can pull up."

"I'll do it tomorrow from campus. I need to wait for instructions from Section, then we're free for the evening. Any ideas of what we could do?"

"Ah, watch a movie?" Nikita guessed. Michael shook his head.

"Go for a walk?"

"Maybe first."

"Take a shower?"

"Maybe after," he grinned.

"Then let's go start that walk." Nikita grabbed her sweater and sprinted for the door, nearly knocking down Michelle, who had come out of Birkoff's room to use the bathroom.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Nikita apologized. "I wasn't expecting to see you in the hallway."

"It's okay," said Michelle, who continued her trek to the bathroom.

Nikita stuck her head in Birkoff's bedroom door. "In case you haven't found out yet, the boobs are real," she whispered.

* * *

Ironically, the intel from Section concerned Michelle McCauley, implying that she was as important to the mission as Sharon Sartre and the original two suspects. Michael accessed her files from his office on campus and found, as Madeline had, that her transcripts and supporting documentation were bogus.

He pressed Birkoff to find out more about Michelle's background, and to bring her home more often when he and Nikita were here so that they could assess her. Birkoff was not happy about it but, of course, he would comply with the directive from Section.

For the first time, he was glad that their relationship had not become physical. The thought of being intimate with a 15-year old girl, was, well, a little hinky. Now, how to get her to talk to him about something other than school.

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

Suzanne's two years in training were over. Operations wanted her cancelled. However, he remembered his history with Nikita and, although the two of them were still at odds more often than not, he wasn’t as hasty now to cancel new material simply because he didn't like them. He reluctantly gave his approval to promote her to Level One status.

Jurgen wanted to celebrate by taking her out to dinner.

"No way," said Suzanne, almost repulsed.

Jurgen was flummoxed. "Why not?"

"I heard what happened when Michael took Nikita out to “celebrate” her promotion. I do *not* want to go diving through any garbage chute with a missile launcher aimed at my butt, thank you very much."

Jurgen laughed. "I swear. Just dinner."

"Just...dinner?" she said coyly, running her fingers up and down the front of his sweater.

"And dessert," he promised.

* * *

Birkoff was having no success at all with gathering intel on Michelle. Any time he broached the subject, she managed to deflect it until they were chatting animatedly about something else and he had forgotten his question.

She sidestepped any questions about home and family, simply stating that they "weren't close" and didn't stay in touch. She didn't like to dwell on the past, and finally asked him pointedly to just stop asking.

He quickly learned to keep the subjects to French, which he was officially failing, and Psych, which he thoroughly enjoyed. They were studying the variations in consciousness, including sleep rhythms and dreams, and Birkoff found the material fascinating. He also took copious amounts of notes on altering consciousness with drugs and the effects on the body, just for future reference.

He wondered how Michael was coming with his excuse for getting him out of class during the midterm. This was one class he did not intend to fail.

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

Michael had decided that it was best for Nikita to speak with Sharon Sartre about Birkoff, and he would tackle her husband, David, later. Nikita had made the appointment for Monday morning, and was waiting nervously outside of Sharon's office, having déjà-vu flashbacks to her own days in various primary schools when she had been involved in some altercation or another.

"Mrs. Samuelle?" Nikita looked up at the attractive blonde framed in the doorway. "Come inside, please." She pointed to a chair for Nikita, which wasn't difficult to miss since it was the only surface not covered with carpet samples and wallpaper swatch books. "Please excuse the mess," said Sharon apologetically. "My husband and I are redecorating, and I'm supposed to be making some decisions by this afternoon."

"I won't keep you long," promised Nikita. "I came to talk to you about my brother, Seymour Birkoff."

"Ah, yes," said Sharon, pulling the correct grade book from the pile on her desk. "He definitely seems to be having difficulty with his classwork, particularly with his oral comprehension." Nikita started to speak, but Sharon continued on. "His grades have slipped dramatically in the last two weeks. Is there a problem at home?" She asked this last question in a rather accusatory tone, staring directly at Nikita.

Nikita was taken aback. "No," she replied, a little shocked by the tone of the other woman's voice. "Birkoff's never done well with languages. In fact, that's why I came today, to see if you thought it would be in his best interest to drop French and take an Incomplete before he got a failing grade."

"I see. So you want him to just give up when the going gets tough?"

"No," said Nikita slowly after taking a deep breath. "I want him to do well in a class that will challenge him. I don't want him to beat a dead horse. My husband and I thought Latin would be a better fit for his language requirement."

"Well, you can do want you want, of course," said Sharon dismissively. "I hate to see someone with so much potential just bail when the waters get rough, but you do what you think is best."

Nikita stood, barely controlling her temper. "Is there a form or something that needs to be signed to make this a done deal?"

"You need to get a Drop/Add slip from the Registrar's Office. Have your brother bring it to me to sign and, once he returns it, he'll receive an Incomplete for the course. Now if you'll excuse me...?"

"Of course," said Nikita, baring her teeth and leaving the room without slamming the door, much to her credit.

* * *

Nikita was still angry that night when she was getting ready for bed. She didn't want to bore Michael by droning on and on, but she needed to take out her frustration somehow. Fortunately, Michael had the solution. He walked over to the bedroom door and locked it.

He looked at her eyes and watched the fire turn to smoldering desire. It wasn’t Tuesday or Thursday, so they made their nightly trip to the bathroom to have some privacy. Michael thought back to the statement Madeline had made to Nikita during the Armel mission about a couple being together less than five years having "intimate relations" an average of twice a week. Oh, well. He and Nikita had always been overachievers.

Later, as she lay drowsing in Michael's arms, she remembered that she had not seen a computer in Sharon’s office. "I don't know if it was buried under all the redecorating crap, or if she uses a laptop. We'll probably have to break in or--"

Michael cut off her next words with a kiss. "Nikita, let it go. At least for tonight."

"But the mission. We're running out of time, and Operations is already pissed that we haven't found one shred of--"

Another kiss. This one long and lingering. When they came up for air, Michael pronounced, "I can keep this up as long as you can."

"Promise?" grinned Nikita.

"Try me," was the solemn response.

"So where was I? Oh, yeah. Laptops.”

The gauntlet had been thrown down, and Michael was up to the challenge.

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

Operations was reviewing two missions, the debriefing of the Balkans mission, and the file on Michelle Markali that was not growing at the speed he wanted it to. Naturally, he blamed Nikita.

Madeline reminded him that no one, even himself, knew of Michelle's existence before the mission, and that acquiring intel could be time-consuming when it was so well and completely hidden. "Rather than having Birkoff keep tabs on Michael's and Nikita's sex life, which you and I both know is now non-existent outside of mission parameters, I propose that you make it part of his profile to report to you his finding's on Michelle. Her comings and goings, her likes and dislikes, etc."

"Sure. It's not like Nikita has anything else to do--why should she be asked to keep tabs on Michelle and actually earn her keep?"

"Nikita must arrange a dinner out with the Sartre's,” she reminded him, “a difficult task after her discussion with Madame Sartre over Mr. Birkoff."

"Yes. Nikita lost her temper. That was inexcusable."

"We'll see how well she recovers," returned Madeline smoothly.

Operations turned and walked away in disgust.

* * *

Providence smiled on Nikita and Michael. The reciprocal dinner party being thrown by the McCoys included the Sartres, as well as three other couples, which would leave the Sartre home unguarded. Unfortunately, their security system was fairly sophisticated, and Birkoff would be on his own in trying to breach it.

Finding a “Protected by ADT” sign in the front yard, Michael had Suzanne run sims on all possible security systems Birkoff might encounter and the best ways to work around them. Gail would be on Comm, and the party was set for Wednesday evening.

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

A colleague of Michael’s, Jon Lacer, and his wife, Megan, would also be at the McCoy's party. This brought some comfort to Nikita, as she remembered Megan from the Dean’s party and had liked her on sight. Nikita and Jerri had never really bonded, despite Nikita’s attempts. Party chitchat with Sharon was out of the question.

Nikita dressed conservatively this evening, wearing a linen pantsuit by Givenchy, ecru in color and trimmed in gold. Michael's Gaultier suit was black, as usual, but lightweight in deference to the still warm October evening.

They arrived at the McCoy's home promptly at seven, and Nikita was amused when she thought back to Bobbi's pronouncement of the home as a "palatial estate." It was simply a very nice house in a very nice neighborhood--about 3500 square feet with four bedrooms, a two-car garage and a pool in the back yard.

Jerri had hired caterers for the evening, and so was mingling among her guests. She approached Nikita, wine glass in hand.

"When is your next exhibit at the museum?" the brunette asked, trying to be chummy. "I'd really like to see it."

"Next week,” replied Nikita. "I'm showing three more paintings. I'll make sure you and Larry get tickets to the opening if you’d like."

"That would be great. Thanks."

Jerri stood quietly for a few seconds then, all out of small talk, wandered away again.

Nikita wondered how the McCoys and the Sartres could still be friends after Larry’s and Sharon’s alleged affair. Maybe Michelle had been mistaken. Or maybe Jerri and David didn’t have a clue. Nikita was willing to bet on the latter being true.

While guests strolled freely around the first floor, Michael made his way into Larry's study and did his own sweep of Larry's computer. Like Birkoff before him, he found nothing. He looked around for as long as he could before his absence might be noticed, but found nothing at all worth sending back to Section.

He tread softly back downstairs and found Jon and Scott Sherman engaged in a conversation about a new ice skating rink that was to be built near the campus. Jon and Scott had children who played hockey and Michael, being an avid Canadiens fan, stayed to follow the conversation. He also discovered that he and Scott shared an interest in motorcycles. Scott currently rode a Buell, while Michael favored his Ducati for its speed When the timing was right, he excused himself and zeroed in on the target.

Michael put forth his best effort to warm up to David Sartre, knowing that he would be paying a visit to him at his office tomorrow to talk about Birkoff's midterm. Though few people in Section knew it, or would have believed it, Michael could actually do "warm up to" quite well. But warming up to David Sartre was like warming up to a mackerel. The slight, balding man had one expression, solemn, and he spoke even less than Michael. His "happy to meet you" smile looked pained and forced, and his handshake was weak.

Dinner was finally served, eaten, and cleared away, and the Samuelles thanked their hosts before heading quickly for the sanctuary of their condo.

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

Nikita headed directly upstairs while Michael knocked on Birkoff's door to see what he had found out. Sheepishly, Birkoff told him that the warning sign did not mention that the Sartre house was also “Protected by two Rotweillers,” and he hadn’t gotten past the entry hall. Michael sighed and stood for a moment, listening to the music. He recognized "Modern Crusaders" by Enigma coming from the stereo, a band he actually liked this time. Nonetheless, he motioned for Birkoff to turn down the volume before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

"Michael," said Nikita as he entered the bedroom, "did you take any of my pills out of my prescription bottle today?"

"Of course not."

"There are five missing," she said, sounding perplexed.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I don't know why, but for some reason, I counted them this morning before putting them in my purse, and now five are missing. All of your allergy pills are here, though."

"You can get those over the counter. Either someone wanted to analyze your pain pills, or someone we know is a junkie. Did you have them in your purse at your therapy appointment today?"

"Yes, but Bobbi never went near the changing room. At least, I'm pretty sure she didn't."

"This opens a whole new angle," Michael said thoughtfully. "Someone you saw today needed pain pills badly enough to steal them."

"When do you see David Sartre about Birkoff?" asked Nikita, a plan forming in her mind.

"Tomorrow morning."

"I know he’s an MD. See if he is still practicing psychiatry on the side, and try to access a list of patients over the past few years. Maybe one of the guests tonight is on prescription pain-killers"

"My thoughts exactly," replied Michael.

* * *

Nikita tried to imagine a conversation between Michael and Dr. Sartre, two men who spoke about 25 words a month. In the end, Michael did prevail, and he got permission for Birkoff to take his midterm the following day in Dr. Sartre's office at 2:30. He phoned Birkoff from his office with the information.

"That doesn't give me much time to study," protested Birkoff, who was further displeased when he was told the make-up exam was to consist of essay questions only.

"You've read the material," Michael answered. "You should be prepared. You also need to make sure he leaves his office long enough for you to sweep his computer."

"Sure. No pressure," said Birkoff sarcastically.

"I mean it, Birkoff," Michael said. "If we don't find anything here, we will have to resort to housebreaking, which has a much lower POS. Remember the Rottweillers."

"I get it, okay?" Birkoff said, subdued. "I gotta go now--I'm late for Soc."

Michael shut his cellular and looked with some interest at the memo on his desk. He had been invited to hear a guest lecturer, Dr. Jurgen, speak on "The Physiology of Full Moons and their Psychological Ramifications." He noticed Dr. McCoy had also been invited, and the date corresponded with Nikita's next museum exhibit. This was the back-up he had been looking for.

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

Jurgen was studying like mad--astronomy was a hobby, not a passion, and Suzanne was feeling a bit left out.

"Look, I have to know what I'm talking about in front of these mucky-mucks," he said, trying to pacify her. "You know I'd rather be studying you any day."

"It's just that I have 48 hours down, and I don't want to spend it watching you play ‘What's Your Sign?'" pouted Suzanne.

"That's astrology, not astronomy. And I'm serious. I have to memorize these books tonight," he said, pointing to a formidable stack of volumes piled near the bed, "then these on psychology," gesturing to another pile, "over the weekend. I just don't have time for fun right now."

Suzanne wasn't happy, but she understood. She decided to go to the gym to work out her physical frustration and left Jurgen in relative peace.

* * *

Operations was complaining, and Madeline was letting him vent. "I don't like having to waste another Level 5 Operative on what was to be a simple in-and-out operation. Michael and Nikita were to find the leak, neutralize, and destroy. What was difficult about that?"

"Apparently the 'find' element is still eluding them. Michael is the one who asked for back-up on this mission. I think if he says he needs it, we should give it to him."

"He's distracted by Nikita. I knew we shouldn't have sent them out together."

"I disagree," replied Madeline. "They work well together as a team, and are very convincing as a young married couple. They're able to befriend couples this way, which should prove to our advantage."

Operations, who was still miffed about not being able to keep tabs on their sex life, changed the subject. "Have we learned anything more about the Markali girl?"

"No, only that she refuses to give any details of her personal life to anyone, and that her relationship with Mr. Birkoff has not progressed beyond the hand-holding stage."

"Tell him to try harder. On the fact finding, that is," he added.

* * *

Birkoff did well on his Psych exam, at least, as well as he could expect to do with a vulture sitting, staring over his shoulder the entire time. Despite his best efforts, including an Oscar-worthy coughing spell, Dr. Sartre refused to leave the office for any reason, even to bring him a glass of water.

He did try to look around as much as possible, memorizing the layout of the office and the placement of relevant files and disk holders. Eventually, this earned a frown (he thought--it was difficult to tell) from Dr. Sartre, so he concentrated on his test and handed it in at the assigned time.

Birkoff waited outside the office in case Dr. Sartre left for a few minutes now that he was alone, but to no avail. After 20 minutes, he gave up and headed to the Chem lab to work on a project, now that he had been officially relieved of French. He stopped by Michael's office first to give him the details he had gleaned from his observations.

"He only had the one computer, but about 100 diskettes. Some of them could have been patient files, but nothing was labeled. If what we're looking for isn't on his hard drive, we're in for a long night," he cautioned Michael.

"We'll take care of it," said Michael. "Go play student. Just don't blow anything up."

Birkoff smiled as he left.

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

Nikita returned from her Monday morning therapy session with Dr. Browne and immediately counted her pain pills. None missing. Good. She liked Bobbi, and hated to think of her as a thief or, worse, a junkie. That left one of the McCoys, or the Sartres. The rest of the guests she dismissed mentally; they were not part of the original profile and she had only met them briefly. Jerri and possibly Sharon knew she was on pain medication for her back. The others did not.

Michael walked in the door a few minutes later. "It's a good thing Birkoff got over that nasty flu bug in time to take his midterm last Friday."

"What are you talking about?" Nikita said, brow arched.

"Poor Dr. Sartre. His office is just filled with Birkoff's flu virus germs, incubating as we speak."

"Oh, really?"

"Well, it will be tonight. By the way, I'll be late for dinner."

"Got you," responded Nikita with a wink.

* * *

Michael was very thorough. He sprayed the virus on the both sides of the doorknob, the phone (handle and mouthpiece), keyboard, mouse, and on every handle of the file cabinet. He also doused each pen in the pen holder on Dr. Sartre's desk and in his drawer. No way was this man not going to be sick.

He did take a few minutes to look at the diskettes and disk holders Birkoff had told him about and, as he had been warned, nothing was labeled. There did seem to be a color coding system, however, and Michael decided to start with the green disks when he had more time.

As is was, he barely escaped detection by climbing out of the first story window onto the parking lot outside before Dr. Sartre returned to do some last minute computer work.

Ah-choo, mon ami, thought Michael, as he strode to his car and, stripping off his gloves and mask and depositing them in the receptacle he had brought for that purpose, drove home to Nikita.

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

Michael suggested to Larry that they go together to hear the guest lecturer, Dr. Jurgen, speak at the auditorium on Wednesday night. Meanwhile, Nikita invited Jerri to the opening of her next exhibit at the museum that same evening.

Wednesday afternoon, Michael "remembered" Nikita's exhibit, and called David Sartre at home to offer him his ticket. Dr. Sartre was battling the effects of a nasty cold, but was eager to hear Dr. Jurgen speak and so accepted the ticket.

Michael and Birkoff had been to David's office twice during his absence. A sweep of the computer had revealed some encrypted files that Birkoff had downloaded and was working on at home. Michael had scanned random green disks (stock market files), blue disks (budget plans for 2004) and was going to work on yellow disks that evening.

Michael escorted Nikita and Jerri to the exhibit. Nikita was wearing Givenchy again, and looked stunning, as usual. Michael was in his uniform black, Gucci this time, with a silver tie and handkerchief for a dash of color. Jerri looked a bit sallow in her lime-green cocktail dress, and Nikita meant to ask her if she was feeling all right.

As soon as they got to the museum, Birkoff paged Michael, who made his excuses and quickly caught a cab back to campus.

Hanging blackout curtains over the windows and doorway of Dr. Sartre's office, Michael and Birkoff went to work. Michael was rewarded to find out that yellow colored disks were patient files. Unfortunately, there were two full boxes of them. He gave them to Birkoff to download while he continued to check the other color-coded boxes. Finding nothing else out of the ordinary, they packed up and were ready to leave within the hour.

As Birkoff was driving Michael back to the museum, he observed that Michael hadn't been wearing gloves this time. "How long does that flu virus thing last, anyway?"

"It's dissipated by now."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course.”

* * *

Not only was Michael wrong, he was a lousy patient. Of all the times Nikita had wished to have Michael trapped in her bed for a week, she was hoping this was not the answer to her prayers. His inability to breath through his nose kept him awake most of the night and, when he did sleep, his snoring kept Nikita awake. Lack of sleep made them both short-tempered, and Michael was always a little on the surly side when he wasn't feeling well.

Birkoff had more bad news: none of the patient files he had downloaded had names on them, only numbers, so he couldn't tell if either of the McCoys had been a patient of Dr. Sartre or not. Also, he was still having trouble decoding the encrypted file he had swept from the hard drive.

"He's definitely hiding something. He's got a firewall matrix on here like I've never seen before, and I still can't find the code key."

"Well, do something," snapped Michael. "And find out what the numbers mean on the patient files so we can put names to them."

"Sure," said Birkoff, whatever you want, Captain Bligh. "Since I'm officially in France now, I’m skipping classes this week. I’ll work on it until I come up with the answer."

"Just do it quickly," said Michael before heading into the kitchen for more juice.

Nikita patted Birkoff on the shoulder, then rubbed his head for old time's sake. "He'll be back to normal in a few days. You know he's not a complete jerk."

"I know," replied Birkoff, his eyes already glazing over as he went into 'search and destroy' mode at the firewall matrix.

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

Jurgen had returned to Section and was ready to celebrate with Suzanne when he learned that she was out for the evening with Simon. In fact, she had been out every evening with Simon while he had been gone, and her quarters had not been slept in.

"What did you think you were doing?" he snapped when he found her at the gym the following morning.

"Doing about what?" she said, truly confused.

"Simon. What's the deal with you and Simon?"

"Oh, that. I like Simon. We went out. What's the big deal?"

Jurgen stepped toe-to-toe with her and removed the weights she was holding from her hands. "I don't appreciate your sleeping with someone else behind my back," he ground out.

"Well your back was in Indiana, and Simon's was here. Besides, I didn't realize that we were exclusive."

"Well, we were," he said, emphasizing the last word.

"Look," said Suzanne, eyes narrowing, "just because you’re the one with the dick doesn't mean you get to make the rules. No one tells me who I can and can't see or sleep with, so get over it."

"It's over all right," he said walking away, dropping the weights with a thud onto the mat.

"That's not your decision to make, either," Suzanne called after him. "It's not over till I say it's over."

Rather than risk hurling a weight through the mirrored glass in front of her, Suzanne left them on the floor and went to go shower. What a prick, she thought. What did I ever see in him?

* * *

Birkoff was wondering if Michelle was thinking the same thing about him. They hadn't seen each other in a week, and Michelle acted like it was no big deal. Apparently, she hadn't missed him a bit. In addition to putting him in a crappy mood with her nonchalant manner, her cheerfulness over her 98% Psych midterm grade (as opposed to his 93%) was starting to get on his nerves.

"Look, my exam was all essay, not guesstimate and fill in the little bubbles," he explained loftily.

"I'm sure you did the best you could on such short notice," Michelle said consolingly. "Where did you have to go, anyway?"

"I told you, we had a family emergency."

"But whose family? Yours, your sister's, or her husband's?"

This was a valid question, as Birkoff had explained his family tree in this manner: Birkoff was the son of Nikita's ex-stepfather and a woman who had died in childbirth. He had been raised by nannies and in boarding schools until at age 12, when he ran away to Nikita who, at 18, was living with her boyfriend, Michael. Michael and Nikita got married so Michael could be appointed as his legal guardian until Birkoff turned 21. Until then, his father had completely written him off as Michael and Nikita's problem.

"Michael's. We actually had to go to Paris. I couldn't read a single freaking road sign," he added, hoping to change the subject.

"What about 'Arrêterz'?" said Michelle. The gambit had worked.

"Considering it was written on an eight-sided red sign, I figured that one out," admitted Birkoff.

"That's cause you're smarter than you look," teased Michelle, who punctuated her statement by sticking out her tongue.

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

Between them, Birkoff and Michael had managed to crack David’s system, but that didn’t help much. There were at least thirty encoded files with the only identifying data listed including sex, month of birth, and random digits of the social security number. Nikita was to get Jerri's and Larry’s date of birth, and Birkoff would plug them in the files to see if any match showed up.

* * *

Jerri was surprised when Nikita called Tuesday morning to invite her out to lunch. "It's LobsterFest at the Red Lobster, and Michael can never take me. He has a terrible allergy to shellfish," she improvised. "Please say you'll go--I hate to pig out all alone."

Jerri answered in the affirmative before remembering to ask Larry, then told Nikita she'd call her back. She did in twenty minutes, positively beaming through the phone. "Larry said I can go, and he doesn't want to come with us."

Nikita didn't bother reminding her that he hadn't been invited. "Super. A girls’ day out is just what the doctor ordered."

"What doctor?" asked Jerri, sounding a bit concerned.

"It's just an expression," Nikita explained patiently. "I'll pick you up at 12:30."

* * *

Jurgen and Suzanne’s feud had become physical, and they were literally duking it out in the main gymnasium at Section. Their antics had drawn quite a crowd, and side bets were being made on who would come out with his or her dignity the least in tatters.

That Jurgen had the upper hand physically was a given. He was stronger, quicker, and simply better than Suzanne. She, however, had a razor-like wit and a fast-moving tongue to match. For every fall she took, she cast aspersions on members of his family tree. For every hold he broke, she whittled away at his masculinity.

Madeline was watching from the monitor in her office, and she did not like what she saw. Jurgen and Suzanne were not Michael and Nikita. They did not have that cosmic bond that sealed them together when external and internal forces would seem to force them apart. Jurgen and Suzanne were sparring like two disgruntled children over a favorite toy--something Madeline could relate to--and she was going to put an end to it.

"Jurgen," she paged. "Please come to my office immediately."

Jurgen released his hold on Suzanne at once, causing the redhead to lose her balance and fall to the mat with a bone-jarring thud. She cursed his ancestry gleefully, and her proponents high-fived each other while Jurgen's faction argued that he had won the fight.

* * *

Four of the pills are gone. Only one left. These were much better then the prescribed ones, and they lasted longer—nearly eight hours. I can go eight hours with the other pills. I can kick this thing. I know I can. I can get my life back. I can do it. I just need a little more time.

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

Nikita was enjoying every minute of her lobster "pogging," despite Jerri's lack of charm as a luncheon companion, and had managed to clean her plate with only one discreet burp into her napkin. Jerri had ordered the popcorn shrimp, and had made some inroads, but didn't come close to Nikita's record for most seafood snarfed in a single session.

"Thanks again for coming with me," Nikita said to Jerri. "The only time I get to eat here is on my birthday, and that's not till February. I don't think they have LobsterFest then."

"I don't know," said Jerri, as if she were expected to. "I never noticed."

"When's your birthday?" said Nikita, as if suddenly inspired.

"August."

"So's Birkoff’s. What day?"

"The first."

"Oh, so you're a Leo."

"I guess so," Jerri shrugged. "I never really pay much attention to that horoscope nonsense."

"Oh, I dunno," countered Nikita. "I think it's kind of fun. When is Larry's birthday?"

"March 17."

"A St. Patrick’s Day baby?"

"Right. He's a Pieces, if that means anything to you."

"It means that you and he should be very happy together," Nikita pronounced solemnly. She was speaking half in jest, and was surprised at the pain she saw in the other woman's eyes.

"Yeah, well, like I said. I don't put a whole lot of faith in horoscopes or astrology."

"You're probably right," said Nikita, who quickly changed the subject.

* * *

"No way. I can't. You're on your own," Nikita protested. "I had to eat my weight in seafood to get her birthday--there's no way I can casually get her social security number without looking like a total idiot." Larry had been eliminated as a patient of Dr. Sartre’s--his birthday was not on file.

"You'll think of something," said Michael, not bothering to turn away from his laptop. "Tell her you're into numerology, and we can eliminate the last of these files."

"Oh, yeah, like the astrology thing went over real well. Honestly, Michael, there's got to be a better way. Can't Birkoff tap into the mainframe at the Admin Office?"

"I did," Birkoff piped up for the first time. "Jerri's not listed. Apparently she's too insignificant to be registered anywhere, and she's never joined any booster clubs or anything.

“How many files does that leave?” asked Nikita.

“At least six.”

“We are getting closer,” Nikita said optimistically.

Michael just stared at her and frowned.

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

Jurgen was not surprised by his dressing down. In fact, he was relieved he had only been reprimanded, and in private. The fight in the gym had been way over the line, and he and Madeline both knew it.

Unfortunately, Suzanne was still his material, and it was his duty to make her understand why a public display like the one they had just had would not and could not happen again.

He left a message for her to come to his office immediately. He was not surprised when it was ignored. He was irritated when the second message was ignored. He was both angry and concerned with the third message was ignored. Insubordination was instant grounds for Abeyance.

He paged Simon, asking if he knew where she was. As it turned out, she was in Weapons, flirting shamelessly with Walter, who was flattered but a little put off by the extra attention. He was more than concerned when he got Jurgen's page.

"You need to go to Jurgen's office," he told Suzanne, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

"I'll go when I'm damned good and ready," Suzanne said, bored with the whole idea.

"Get ready now," said Walter, his gravelly voice sending out a warning. Something in his tone made her turn to look at him. "You didn't tell me you had been ignoring his pages. That's grounds for abeyance."

"Whatever," said Suzanne, but with a little less bravado. Jurgen wouldn't turn her in, would he?

"I mean it, Suzanne. Go."

"All right. All right."

Suzanne sashayed out of Weapons and over to Jurgen's office, taking her sweet time. Her footsteps got a little faster the closer she got to his door. Abeyance. Geez.

* * *

Birkoff dutifully searched Bobbi Browne’s files for intel on Michelle McCauley. She had been treated for a stiff neck earlier in the semester, he observed. He also found an interesting notation from Dr. Browne, disputing the validity of Michelle's given age, 18, and estimating her age to be closer to 15 based on what growth plates showed in her x-rays.

He also noted her file had been hacked into and this notation had been buried behind a firewall. It appeared that Michelle knew that Bobbi was on to her, and didn't want anything put in writing that might give her away.

Birkoff gave Michelle high marks for her attempts. A less interested party would probably have been fooled.

He found nothing on Jerri McCoy for the last 12 months, and Michael and Nikita were not pleased. This meant reading through each of Dr. Sartre's six remaining files, all 30+ pages in length, to determine if any of them belonged to Jerri. What this information would reveal, they didn't know, but they needed to find a link to Red Cell and they needed to find it quickly.