PRELUDE

General Stuart Kemp lounged comfortably in an overstuffed recliner of the finest, butter-soft leather. At his elbow a generous tumbler of Laphroaig promised warmth and relaxation, its amber fragrance a perfect counterpart to the golden autumn afternoon. He sighed, pondering the delicious dilemma of whether to nap, take the dogs out for a run in the woods, or put on a tape of his son’s latest gridiron triumph.

A wave of paternal pride and satisfaction swept over Kemp and his eyes sought the large, framed photo of his son where it stood on the far shelves, surrounded by gold and silver trophies. With his arm cocked for a Hail Mary, the young man in the photo was the epitome of splendid youth. And a natural leader, Kemp thought smugly to himself. He reached for the remote control, deciding then he would spend the afternoon reliving a favorite well-played game.

The phone rang.

Kemp sat still in some surprise, looking for a moment at the phone. It was the cordless phone from his basement office, left absent-mindedly on the end table. Even his wife didn’t use that number whenever she felt compelled to share her latest fashion crisis or social engineering results. The instrument trilled twice more as he frowned at it, thinking.

She had gone shopping. She would be engaged for hours in a haze of narcissistic spending. She wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency. Finally he put down the remote and reached for the phone. Most likely a wrong number, he told himself.

“Yes?”

A pause, then: "Oh - 5 - 3 - 5 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 7."

General Kemp stiffened in shock, his mind reacting instantly to the familiar number even before he’d had time to process the hearing of it. Reacting even though he hadn’t heard this number in more years than he cared to add up. Again the recitation came.

"Oh - 5 - 3 - 5 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 7."

Jesus. His serial number.

In his mind’s eye Kemp could picture the scarred metal dog tags as he’d last seen them. A small, pitiful heap in a safe deposit box, hardly representative of the agonies endured during those years in Vietnam. He began to breathe again. To think. To get pissed off.

"Who the hell is this?"

The abrasive voice asked him a question in return.

"Do I have your attention?"

He couldn’t place the voice, it sounded…strange. Somehow altered, or filtered. Kemp got up without answering and quickly crossed the room to an elaborate setup of computer and electronic gadgetry.

"How did you get this phone number?" he asked.

Working rapidly and silently, he pulled a small box out from a tangle of cables, flipped the switch. The computer was already on. He found and opened a new program, blessing the silent touchpad on his keyboard. The click of a mouse might have been audible to the mysterious caller. His quick, efficient motions froze abruptly with the caller’s next words.

"Saddam Hussein…Paul Wolfe."

Kemp drew in his breath sharply.

A metallic chuckle. "Ah. Now I have your attention."

Kemp glanced at the running program. "Look, whoever you are, I don’t know how you got my serial number or this phone number, but I don’t think we have anything to talk about."

"Indeed we do, General Kemp." The voice paused, then chuckled tinnily again. "First of all, let me assure you that no matter what generation of tracking program you are attempting to run, you will not identify me."

Kemp felt a shiver up his spine and cast a quick, involuntary glance over his shoulder. He didn’t need this kind of shit.

"I am going to hang up," he said coldly, stalling. "There is nothing you have to say that could possibly interest me."

At once the voice lost its humor.

"Very well General Kemp. Let us not play games. For the next three minutes I will talk and you will listen. At the end of that time, we will reassess your level of interest."

Kemp checked the program; nothing. Paul Wolfe. The name pulled at his vitals and he had to know.

"All right."

General Kemp sat in stunned silence as the caller rapidly provided intimate details on the inner workings of Saddam Hussein’s dictatorship in Iraq. Three minutes quickly lengthened into fifteen. Suddenly all thoughts of time and tracking programs were forgotten as the caller went on to identify a major covert supporter and facilitator of the regime.

Paul Wolfe.

"I will call you again tomorrow," the voice concluded abruptly.

"But…"

"I will have information on how you can pick up Paul Wolfe."

The phone call ended with an audible click. Disconcerted, Kemp slowly pulled the phone away from his ear and sat staring into space. A few moments later the monotonous beeping of an open line brought him out of his reverie. Thumbing the phone off, he made his way back to the leather recliner and sagged into it, his mind still reeling.

Paul Wolfe. Alive. Memories swarmed into his brain, their tide impossible to stem. He saw himself again in the stinking POW camp. Hated himself yet again as he relived that internal battle between wanting to be a leader to his men and being scared shitless of the reprisals visited upon leaders by their Vietnamese captors. It hadn’t taken long for the men to find a leader. They needed one, after all. The man they turned to, the man who wasn’t afraid of reprisals, the man who had the strength to keep them together body and soul through the torments of hell had been…Paul Wolfe.

After all these years the shame still burned like phosphorous in his guts. But he’d gone on, hadn’t he? Wolfe was dead…he’d thought…while he himself had made General. Respected, decorated, now retired, living in the lap of luxury on his wife’s family money. Who had been successful in the end?

He reached for the Laphroaig, the scotch tracing a fiery path down his throat as he took an abusive gulp. Outside, golden sunshine poured from the sky, lighting the fall trees like fiery beacons. The afternoon was ruined.

Kemp could feel himself hugely tempted to believe. If all this was true, he could be positioned to take a major leg out from under Saddam, cover himself with glory and -- perhaps most gratifying of all -- prove to himself that he was a better man than Paul Wolfe. He could feel it.

He couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

* * * * * * * * *

Operations twirled his overcoat in a wide circle as he thrust first one arm, then the other, into satin lined sleeves and scattered the darkly masculine scent of cigars and cologne. Not unpleasant, the aroma still unsettled Nikita, filling her with the unease she always felt in his presence. She did not fear him anymore, for she no longer feared death, but the inevitable clashes they suffered roiled her blood and upset her normally genial nature.

Nikita slid her hand down the front her own coat, checking the buttons, feeling the sleek line of immaculate chic through second-skin leather gloves. Moscow was cold this time of year, a fitting setting for her mood of late. She looked forward to the bite of frosty air through her lungs and the cut of cold clarity through her head.

Michael surged effortlessly into the short hall of egress. The other members of the team parted for him, water around a shark. Nikita glanced at him a moment, then turned to the task of adjusting the holster under her arm, putting his fading familiarity from her mind with a dexterity that grew with practice. Each day that passed colored her world with another coat of indifference until she could look at his face and not blanche with empty fear.

“Sir,” Michael said. He ignored Nikita, echoing her apathy. “You should send me.”

“These are select leaders of the Russian government. I’m the only one they are willing to talk to, therefore I’m going.”

“That’s not true. I’ve contacts there as strong as yours.”

“The decision has been made. Don’t press my tolerance for insubordination, Michael.” His voice was bored, flat with token threat.

“I can do this,” Michael insisted, quietly arrogant.

Operations’ chin lowered a fraction, giving his eyes more depth. He smiled thinly, perversely amused. “No, Michael. I don’t think you can.”

Without another word, Operations turned his back on Michael. Parallel with Nikita, he watched the counter hit zero. The door swung open wide and the team funneled out.

Michael watched the door close. The passage seemed to ring with finality but it was just the sound of metal vibrating against metal. He turned on one foot and walked back down the hall. At the corner Madeline waited. She stood still and upright, one hand resting on the wall, a graceful dark silhouette watching the mouth of egress.

Michael paused, looking past her into the shadows down the corridor. Without preamble or meeting her eyes, he softly declared, “You don’t agree with this, do you.”

Her head tilted, casting light across her fine features. She waited silently until he looked at her. Her eyes glinted. “You presume much, Michael. I had to agree. You left me no choice. Nor him. Nor even Nikita.”

Anger pulsed across his face with just the twitch of his eyebrows, too quick for most people to perceive but Madeline saw it like a flicker of lightening on the horizon. She also saw the same potential for destruction. He still hangs on, she thought. Who will break first?

“It’s a foolish risk,” he said.

“Not so foolish as you think. If you perform your job well, there will be even less of a risk in the field for Operations…and his team.”

Michael stilled his restless gaze and focused on Madeline briefly, this time leeching every last vestige of expression from his face and eyes. He allowed nothing through, a mask so complete that even Madeline, supreme reader of people, would find…nothing.

Of course, even the presentation of nothing was telling.

He walked away, knowing she guessed anger seethed behind his iron mask. Better she think that than see hope, he thought as he left her authority behind and proceeded deeper into Section to find the comrade of his rebellion.

“Michael.” Walter met with him at the bottom of the stairwell as if conjured from the need to see him.

“Walter.” His tone conveyed polite, non-committal acknowledgement.

“I need your opinion on a detonator modification.”

“Oh?”

“Well, if you have a minute…” Walter’s subterranean voice rumbled diffidently and he shrugged.

Michael nodded. “A minute, then.”

They walked together to the recesses of the armory in tacit accord.

“I’ve snooped as much as I can -- here’s what I found.” Walter pressed a data chip into Michael’s palm. “I could get to the info that’s already out there, but it weren’t much. Everything about it here is locked up tight…” He hesitated. “Birkoff could get to it --.”

“No.”

“He wants to help,” Walter assured him.

“No.” Michael drew in his careful breath. “He’s not reliable for this.”

Walter nodded, looked down. “It’s hard for you to delegate any of this, ain’t it?”

Michael looked at him, agreement voluntarily leaking. “Could you distract him when I ask you?”

“Birkoff?” Walter mused. “Maybe. Depends on when. If it’s during a mission, it’ll be hard.”

“Not during a mission, no. I just need a chance to access the main system from another port.”

“Ah!” Walter clasped his hands and rubbed them together. “I think I could manage something. Just say the word.”

“Good.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Nikita sat next to Operations surrounded by isolated luxury. The creak of leather, the continued presence of his smell, the curiously distanced sounds of busy city streets sharpened her awareness of him. Her senses felt heightened by the novelty of this mission. She could count on the fingers of one hand how many times she had seen sunlight upon his face.

Two fellow operatives sat across from them, dressed as they were in high business fashion. Lani concentrated intently as she reviewed evidence of embezzlement in the original Russian report on her laptop. Height was the only thing ordinary about her, decorated as she was with slick curves, lush hair, and the firm glow of Polynesian flesh. Next to her, Massilya gazed out the windows with polished obsidian eyes, first to the left, then to the right, then past Nikita’s head through the back window. As he turned his head from one side to the other, pliant shadows accentuated the model perfect contours of his ebony face.

Like Nikita, they were chosen to accompany Operations in the guise of personal assistants because of their extreme competence and physical beauty. Operations never left the domain of Section without heavy guard; the rest rode ahead or behind in nondescript automobiles, but the best and brightest would accompany him everywhere as living accoutrements of his power. Lani’s humid sexuality and well-nourished beauty invited admiration from the pelvic floor of every heterosexual man who saw her. Massilya’s thickly lashed eyes and generous mouth, his tall muscular frame and exotic grace drew in the eye like a world-renown super-model. Both paragons of splendor hid deadly abilities of combat, strategy, and languages. They were representative of Section One’s very best.

Like me, Nikita thought. She glanced out the window, picking out one of the Section escorts, a black Renault positioned forward and to the right of the limousine. Three men rode in that car; three other cars held at least as many operatives. They were muscle, for the most part -- steady, excellent soldiers able and willing to protect their leader at any price. But not the elite. Not like me, or Lani or Massilya or…

Nikita’s thoughts dissolved before they converged further. She adjusted the collar of her overcoat, smoothing it over the line of her breast, flicking away a tiny white thread from the black.

Perfect.

“Sir?” Massilya murmured. His opulent baritone voice was overlaid with a refined French accent and his delivery was polite to the point of sterility. “I cannot find the third escort.”

“Check with the driver.” Operations never looked up from his data pad.

Massilya picked up the phone. “Status report requested on the peripheral escort.” He paused, listening, then looked to Operations once more. “They cannot find the left flank.”

“Tell them to look harder,” he retorted, annoyed.

Massilya put his ear to the phone once more and listened briefly. “Gridlock? Ah… Confirm with counter code.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece. “He has found the missing escort. There is a traffic jam ahead. The driver is requesting an alternate route.”

Operations waved his hand impatiently in a gesture of affirmation. Massilya relayed the order to proceed. Nikita met his gaze with an amused flick of one eyebrow and the attitude of a smile on her upper lip. His mouth stretched and thinned in a rich display of amusement for Operations’ well-known animated edginess.

The limousine turned, following a thin stream of traffic as it slowly tried to circumnavigate the stricture ahead. Nikita could see the back of a Section escort car directly in front of them, slowed to a crawl and reddened by the brake light. She glanced through one side window, the other, then looked up when the red glow abruptly died and all was dark ahead.

Maybe it’s breaking up, she thought, the lightest tint of disappointment washing her observation. Although she found the circumstances bordering on bizarre, Nikita felt a fiendish pleasure cocooned here in the company of gods. The lead car turned once more, the limousine obediently following, but the pace slowed further. She heard a sound as of marbles rattling in a muffled metal box.

“What is that?” Lani looked up from the pale blue glow of her computer, a frown on her flawless brow.

Nikita knew. She felt the prickle of sudden alarm perforate her stomach and command the small hairs at her nape to snap to attention. Massilya sat straighter, alert; obviously he knew that sound as well.

The sound repeated. The limousine stopped.

A dark shape loomed next to Nikita’s window and her mind flashed on protocol. Barring a direct hit with a rocket launcher, this limousine with bulletproof glass and a hidden armory was the most secure location in unknown territory. Processed in a fraction of a second, Nikita’s insights did little good as something metallic connected to the glass of her window tik! and suddenly pushed through with the earbone-shaking whine of a drill. There was a hiss, and her eyes immediately lost focus.

Before she succumbed to unconsciousness, she thought it ironic that the gas pumped through the hole smelled so sweet.

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

The intercom chirruped. Walter’s flattened voice crackled through. "Hey, Birkoff."

"What’s up, Walter?" he replied through the com. He looked across the hub of Section to the armory. Walter idly leaned against his workbench, fiddling with some small bit of machinery in his hands.

"Not a helluva lot. I’m almost done here, thought I might go out for a beer…want to join me?"

"What, no hot date tonight?" The faintest ring of sarcasm skittered through his tone.

Walter stared back across the distance, grimacing. "No, I don’t have a hot date tonight," he echoed, mocking. "I was just asking a friend out for a beer is all"

"Oh."

"Well, d’ya want to go or not?"

Birkoff glanced at his station and tallied up his remaining tasks. Nothing was hot on the boards tonight, but Section had been busy lately, and the administrative paperwork was stacking up. Quiet times like these were good as gold in the never-ending catch-up race. They were also good for those golden moments of real human contact scattered so few and far between. Of late, Walter’s overtures of friendship had been scarce. Birkoff decisively closed the program he had been working on and leaned back in his chair.

"Sure. Give me ten minutes and I’ll meet you at egress."

Walter chose the bar. Birkoff almost protested as the smoky atmosphere absorbed them but he decided against it. Although they passed several likely candidates on this chilly autumn night, this was the bar Walter wanted -- and it was snug. Inside hazy warmth they shed coats and settled at the bar. The bartender hesitated a moment before he fetched Birkoff’s order, then with a matter-of-fact shrug slid a pint of beer in front of him before Birkoff could reach for his ID. Walter looked on; amusement dug deep in his wrinkles.

"Maybe when you’re thirty they won’t card you anymore."

"Doubt it, unless I go bald or something," he snorted. One of the great joys of his work in Section revolved around how he was judged for his abilities, not his youth. Anywhere else, it seemed only appearances counted. He’d suffered that as a kid growing up genius, and he suffered it when doing anything outside of work even now.

"You’ll love it when you’re old like me and still look young enough to attract the ladies -- not that it’s all about looks, now," Walter said before he drained a third of his draft in one draught.

"Yeah, and I’ve heard that a million times too. From you, even," Birkoff said. He quelled a flicker of annoyance when Walter laughed at him. Instead of shooting back some wisecrack, he turned and took a drink.

Walter sobered and looked around, suddenly self-conscious, then peered intently at Birkoff. He spoke softly, penetratingly, his shoulders rounded protectively. "When was the last time Nikita dropped by the com to talk to you -- just talk?"

“I dunno. What does that got to do with anything?”

"C’mon, think! I’m serious. When was the last time Nikita came by to see you for anything but business?"

"Just the other day. She seemed normal to me."

"Well? What did she say?"

Birkoff looked down and away, bothered by some vague doubt that he hadn't acknowledged even to himself. Nikita was far too busy to sit often and just chat. For that matter, so was he, but every so often she would take advantage of a quiet moment and talk to him long enough to raid his sweet supply. His stash had been holding out better than usual…

"Okay, she dropped off a table of data analysis," he conceded. "We chatted. For a minute or two… So?"

"So Nikita confirmed it herself. Something was done to her, something that messed with her mind." Walter waggled his fingers next to his temple, a universal sign for crazy.

"Remember a couple of years ago when the Chinese Premier nearly got whacked by our own security team because of that phasing shell and the psychological effects it had…?" Birkoff didn’t say ‘on Nikita’. He drew designs in the condensation on his glass. "They wouldn’t mess with that again…would they?"

Walter skewered him with a sharp stare. "What won’t they do, Birkoff? Is there anything Section won’t do?"

Two days later, Birkoff continued to ruminate on that question as he quickly typed up an update on the Moscow mission per Madeline’s orders. It was the same report as yesterday and the day before that: Russian council delayed. Team awaiting contact in Moscow.

What was Walter getting at? Birkoff wondered. He returned his terse mission update to Madeline’s office electronically with the final tap of the enter key and began the next in a never-ending glut of tasks. Walter could get ‘out there’, but he wasn’t vague. He usually took the world at face value and let tomorrow take care of itself. At the bar, however, he never drew his questioning to any sort of logical conclusion. Finally, Birkoff pleaded more work and left, but that one question -- "Is there anything Section won’t do?" -- stuck.

As he processed the order for a long-term mole to be sacrificed, the question resounded louder through a growing sense of unease. He scrolled to the heading of the written order to the name at the top.

The better question would be is there anything Operations won’t do? he thought after reading the name.

Then Birkoff frowned. Operations…or Madeline. Operations may have ordered some strange treatment for Nikita, but if her mind were affected, Madeline had to have pushed the button.

D’leep! "Birkoff, give me an update on Moscow." Madeline’s voice invaded loudly. Birkoff started then glanced around to see if anyone had seen him jump as he turned down the gain on his com.

"I just sent it to your office. Status unchanged," he replied steadily. Although chance had pulled such a nasty trick on him, he found it unsettling how the mere thought of Madeline seemed to produce her presence.

"Inform me immediately if you hear anything."

"Of course."

The channel closed. His heart hammered slower. Not so long ago he had an amicable working relationship with Madeline. Of all the people in Section, she was the easiest to work with -- brilliant, professional, and matter-of-fact. Once upon a time, it seemed she had returned the sentiment but things were different now.

Did she really do something to Nikita’s mind? He shook it out, denied it.

He looked around, assessing his security. Two low-level techs hunched over their stations, working on video editing and data discrepancy tasks. Good, Birkoff thought. Neither have enough experience or brains to figure out what I’m doing. Then Maria-Christina approached and settled comfortably at another terminal, and he mentally groaned. She showed promise far beyond the others. If she saw what he was about to do, she would figure it out before long. Damn…

He reluctantly gave up the chase, turning instead to sanctioned activities until Maria-Christina finished her chores and left, three hours later. Satisfied then that he could work unobserved, Birkoff loaded up the finished reports of the Genefex mission and once more tried to entice any embedded information into the open where he could access it. Personnel assignments…equipment distribution…transport…

He mined deeper for more, but hit an impenetrable wall of computer security. He beat himself up against it again and again until he blanked his screen, frustrated and headachy.

"Birkoff."

His fingers spastically stabbed the key-combo to blank his screen, moving fast on blind instinct alone at the sound of Madeline’s voice. She sounded annoyed.

"Your mission updates are lacking."

"Excuse me?"

"The same wording, three days in a row… You’re more creative than that," she said crisply as she circled his station. "Has there been any incoming intel at all?"

"Um…no." He watched her circumnavigate his area again, completely puzzled by her uncharacteristic restlessness. "I can’t contact them until they contact me since they couldn’t use the standard com equipment. I’m giving you what Receiving gives to me…"

"Yes. Still, I expect more out of you," she interrupted sharply. "Find out what’s delaying the Russian council. Operations is not the kind of man they can keep waiting."

"Uh, now?"

"Yes. Now." She stopped her controlled pacing and stood next to his chair, arms folded.

Birkoff said nothing but began doing as he was commanded, repressing the urge to stare at her, incredulous.

Illicit research would have to wait.

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

Operations jerked awake, instantly aware that nothing was right.

He fought the gas-induced nausea and disorientation, willing himself to begin processing at top speed. He sat propped up in the enclosed load area of a truck. His breath smoked in the cold, still air. Lani was nearby, slumped and unmoving. The space was otherwise empty.

The doors were thrown open, admitting wan daylight. He reached instinctively for his gun and heard the clank of metal-on-metal as he moved. Handcuffs. His eyes immediately sought Lani as he considered the possibility of somehow getting to her weapon.

Suddenly he heard the scuffle of feet. Grunts of effort and the sounds of solidly landed blows reached his ears just before several grappling figures blocked the light. He watched as Nikita twisted within the grasp of two burly men. Their bruising fingers pressed her abused flesh to the bone. She brought her knee up, sharply jabbing one man in the crotch, then stamping down hard on his foot with the slender heel of her shoe. She pivoted away as he staggered back a step, using her momentum to swing a kick that knocked the other man out cold.

Simultaneously, Massilya careened into view behind Nikita, dragging with him another brawny assailant. He performed as well as she, using his overwhelming upper body strength to forcibly bend back the thick biceps throttling him. He snapped his head back sharply and smashed the nose of his attacker to a shapeless mass of blood and mucus. Then before another could close with him, Massilya jabbed straight out with a stiff arm to finish him off, striking his assailant’s throat with devastating force. The man reeled, gagging and grasping his neck, unable to draw breath through his mutilated windpipe.

Then, just as it seemed a swift victory was certain, they were outflanked.

Checkmate came in the form of a small, sinister click -- the tiny sound of a pistol cock. All eyes swiveled to the source.

Operations sat immobile. At his temple rested the barrel of a small caliber gun wielded by the driver of the truck. The driver’s position, leaning through the access between cab and cargo area, prevented any effective retaliation. Nikita and Massilya froze, and when their earlier attackers came and laid rough hands on them, there was no choice but to allow the application of restraints. Clearly, the only other option was to watch their commander's brains go flying out the back of the truck.

A slight man walked into the frame of open truck doors. He gestured, and three men rushed to carry off Massilya’s choking victim. Then he turned and oversaw the loading of Nikita and Massilya into the truck, standing ramrod straight, hands behind his back. Lani began to stir and he directed that she be placed upright next to Nikita, where she sat breathing harshly, eyes closed and blood running from one ear. Then he addressed Operations.

"I hope, sir, that we can avoid any more unpleasantness."

From the cadence of his voice and the erect precision of his stance, Operations pegged him as U.S. military even before he finished speaking the short sentence. His mind accelerated through a long list of possibilities raised by this identification.

The man seemed to accept his silence as affirmation. He nodded and walked away purposefully. Operations allowed his gaze to follow the telltale march, confirming his initial supposition.

Opposite him, Nikita and Massilya seemed to take turns observing first him and then their captors, who stood or paced restlessly. They did nothing, as if they were…waiting.

Operations felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He glanced over, making eye contact with Massilya, then Nikita, and he knew that his operatives were experiencing the same premonition of danger.

A car door slammed and steps approached. Then he was there, looking in at them. A large, fit man with silver wings at the temples of his brown brush cut. Smiling.

Nikita shot a dubious glance at Operations, and was not reassured to see his face set rigidly in an expression of recognition and contempt. A swift look at Massilya confirmed his similar reaction. They listened incredulously to the exchange that followed.

"Wolfe."

"Kemp."

"It’s been a long time."

"Not long enough."

Kemp raised his eyebrows a little at this. "Well, considering that I thought you were dead all these years, I suppose you can excuse me for not keeping in touch."

“I knew you were alive. And what you were doing.” In one disdainful phrase Operations had summed up and dismissed Kemp’s military career. It did not sit well.

"I understand you’ve been busy," Kemp spit back. "I don’t know what Saddam Hussein would do without you."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." Cool. Self-possessed.

"Always so in control, aren’t you, Paul? Just like in ‘Nam. Remember what happened there, Paul? About once a week or so?"

Kemp stared at him malevolently for several seconds before allowing his eyes to wander to the three trussed operatives.

Suddenly he reached into the truck, wrapped his big hand around Lani’s upper arm and gave a mighty heave. In one smooth motion she was out of the truck and sprawled on the ground at his feet, still dazed. He pulled a handgun from the back of his khaki’s and pressed it to the side of her head.

"Are you feeling in control now, Paul?" Kemp questioned icily. "Like you always were then when they’d pull out one of our boys to set an example?"

Abruptly he pulled the trigger.

Everyone jumped at the unexpected report. Lani’s body dropped heavily to the ground, half her skull gone in a massive exit wound. Nikita closed her eyes and turned away, an overt gesture of repulsion. Operations felt an abstract empathy with her disgust, but he slammed any reaction behind an expected mask of shocked anger. The casually senseless elimination enraged rather than saddened him. Sudden death was the best most operatives could hope for in Section One. He was grateful for her sake that at least Lani hadn’t been fully conscious.

Kemp prodded Lani’s corpse with the toe of his polished boot, then looked up and smiled. "We’ll talk some more when we get there." None of the Section agents expected him to provide any more information about "there".

Operations sat looking at him, making no attempt to adopt a more amicable expression, but biting his tongue. This would not be a good time to goad Kemp further. A wise man now would live to fight another day. He remained silent.

"We’ll talk a lot, Paul."

Kemp shoved his gun back into his waistband, then jerked his head at the man standing nearest the truck. Chains rattled as he released the doors for closure. Kemp reached out his fist in a taunting thumbs-up sign as the first door closed.

Operations said nothing, but bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the circumstances. Massilya and Nikita relaxed into wary readiness on the other side of the truck.

The second door shut, sealing them in the stale, icy darkness.

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

Birkoff had worked hard to make Com his and his alone in the past few months. The annoyingly dangerous promotion of Greg Hillinger had precipitated more turmoil in one spring for Birkoff’s professional career than he had faced in nearly a decade of service to Section One.

He found it embarrassing that Greg had hacked his password and cast doubt on his new assistant, Tatiana. He had seethed with unaccustomed rage at Greg’s slippery manipulations and side-winding stunts that made him look bad and seemingly precipitated his first undercover field mission. And he had felt his blood sing with vicious delight when he reverse-engineered Greg’s attempt to murder him. Directly after his brush with death, Birkoff had cast Greg with self-righteous satisfaction onto the spires of Operations’ tender mercy.

Time and knowledge tempered the intensity of emotions he felt into valuable lessons learned. Because of the doubts Greg raised, he had taken time early on to verify that Tatiana was solely responsible for the unauthorized sub-channel Greg accused her of building. After Greg was gone, Birkoff walked up and down the electronic path of murderous intent Greg took that exposed Birkoff outside the van on that fateful night, as well as the sequence that led to Greg’s abeyance-mission death.

He had investigated under the wire when he could snatch the time, avoiding any scrutiny that might come to Madeline’s notice. It had taken time. Occasionally, he could almost hear Greg’s snidely insulting remarks as he plugged away; an easy exercise since Greg had indulged in so many when alive. Some of them stung; the younger man had been the most able person in the world at encryption protocols Birkoff ever encountered.

Greg might have been better in some things, but the day I specialize is the day I’m toast.

His sense of comfort wasn’t totally assuaged, even now. Greg’s body had not been accounted for. Birkoff held steady against the creeping fear of Greg’s sudden re-emergence from the dead, but he couldn’t be sure it couldn’t happen, either.

Tumultuous life-lessons and hard work behind him, he now had a grasp on the interlocking systems of computers running Section One superior to anyone. That knowledge gave him a feeling of indispensable security since his nearest competitor was gone. It also gave him a wide-reaching command of considerable resources that he could access at will with none the wiser. He did so now, once more delving deep for more information about Nikita’s ‘adjustment’ while he simultaneously monitored his com channel with a mobile unit plugged firmly in his ear.

Someone else had been looking. Birkoff anticipated the name before he discovered the culprit’s identity.

Walter.

Fuming, he covered his own electronic tracks as well as Walter’s and quick-stepped to the armory, angrily slapping a panel with the incriminating evidence against his thigh.

“Walter!”

“Hold on.” Walter’s distinctive growl wafted down from the upper levels of weapons storage. Birkoff whacked the panel with increasing force against his leg.

“What’s that?” Walter asked as he emerged from the back.

Birkoff banged the panel down with an angry jerk of his hands.

“Jeeze, Walter, warn a guy before you go doing something stupid, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” Walter insisted.

“You’re doing it again! I can’t believe you!”

“Doing what?”

Birkoff crowded in close, belligerent. He lowered his voice, but spoke intensely, focusing all his upset on the cause. “You’re going under the wire, looking for ways to get Nikita and Michael into more trouble.”

“It’s nothing…and how would you know unless you were doing the same thing?” Walter looked smug.

“It don’t matter what I do -- I won’t get caught. You’re sloppy; you will.” He pointed an accusing finger.

Walter laughed in Birkoff’s face. “So, that mean you’re gonna help me?”

Birkoff turned his head, disgusted, and backed down from his threatening stance. “Why do I put up with this kind of crap from you?”

“You told me yourself, once,” Walter said gently. Birkoff looked up from his attitude of resignation. “You said you didn’t have many friends, and you didn’t like it when we weren’t.”

Birkoff looked down as he nodded.

“You’re one of the best guys in here, Birkoff. But you know what? I’ve got other friends, too…and one of them is in dire straights right now. I’m just doing all I can to help her out.”

Birkoff looked up again, serious and worried. “Yeah, well, who’s gonna help you out when you get caught and Operations does something worse than retire you?”

Walter said nothing but spread his hands wide, ducking his head.

Birkoff heaved a weighty sigh of unwilling responsibility. “You want anything I can find about whatever procedure was performed on Nikita, don’t you?” He didn’t let Walter answer. He picked up the panel and shoved into the older man’s hands. “If you don’t want Spec Ops to come calling, destroy everything on this panel…and…and don’t mess around my system anymore. I’ll get you what you want. Just…don’t do anything stupid to get caught, huh?”

The com unit in his ear chirped. Birkoff shook his head once more at Walter’s grin as he turned and walked back to his station.

Why can’t he just…? Birkoff wasn’t sure what he wanted from Walter. A return to the equitable friendship they used to share, peers despite age?

An urgent message derailed his thoughts. Receiving whined and buzzed in his ear, hysterical.

“Slow down, what is it?” He hurried the last few steps to his computer and glanced at the status scrolls.

“Moscow is on the line…they’re demanding to know where Operations is!”

“What do you mean? He’s in Moscow, waiting for them…”

The girl in Receiving contradicted him violently, pouring out a story of irritated government leaders, quickening tempers, crumbling diplomacy -- and a missing Section One leader.

“Hold on,” he commanded, then began contacting Madeline. His hands stopped moving as the import of what he’d just been told sank in.

No. Can’t be…

This news required a personal delivery.

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

Birkoff had come and gone, leaving behind him the sum total of what sparse information he had about the possible loss of Operations and his team. Birkoff had seemed shaken by Operations’ disappearance. Not distraught, but clearly troubled, as though somehow -- even given the hazardous nature of their existence -- something like this couldn’t actually happen to Operations himself.

Madeline understood this reaction. In a world with so few constants, it was important that there be something that seemed invariable, immutable, omnipotent. For Birkoff, as for many of them, Operations was that constant. This was only one of the reasons she had argued against his participation on this mission. When he was in harm’s way, much more than just his personal safety was at risk.

Madeline sat before the communications link, her face composed and her mind working at maximum efficiency. In moments the image of the Russian council secretary would be before her, demanding answers, probably accusing Section One of numerous protocol and courtesy violations. She needed a story and she needed it now.

The truth, perhaps? That we have no idea where Operations is?

She abandoned that thought instantly. The Russians were quick to perceive any deviation from plan or lack of answers as a weakness; it would be better to come up with a plausible lie, something they could not check any further. Her quick mind finished constructing the scenario even as she reached to press the button that would connect them.

The secretary’s face was flushed, spoiled-looking and burdened with bulldog jowls. His tiny eyes were absurdly magnified behind heavy, unfashionable spectacles. Madeline’s lip barely curled in disgust; she despised these dissolute, self-indulgent types. Then she reshaped her lips into her trademark smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Secretary."

He did not echo her courtesy, instead snapping instantly at her in heavily accented English.

"Where is your delegation, Madame?"

"They should be there shortly, Mr. Secretary. There has been some difficulty en route to your meeting."

"Difficulty?" Clearly he was expecting some explanation. His piggy eyes were narrowed and mistrustful.

Madeline fixed her smile in place more firmly. "Yes, Mr. Secretary. Our delegation was tasked by the government with an additional assignment to be carried out just before meeting with you."

Her tone became slightly arch and she shifted her expression to imply a certain level of confidentiality between them. "The assignment was of some…delicacy… You must understand that I cannot divulge the details of the matter…"

She paused, knowing full well that as a member of the Russian government the council secretary was intimately acquainted with secrets. His type was routinely given responsibility for matters in which he was less than fully-informed. He nodded impatiently, waving her to continue.

Madeline looked down and shrugged in apparent regret. "It distresses me that we were unable to notify you of their late arrival. Unfortunately I myself only learned of the delay a short while ago. For reasons I cannot discuss, we had arranged for there to be minimal communication channels kept open with our delegation until they reached your meeting…" Her voice trailed off again and she looked into his fleshy face, carefully avoiding any appearance of entreaty in her features.

The secretary stared at her. From behind him a man stepped in briefly and whispered something in his ear. The secretary replied, then returned his myopic gaze to Madeline. His tone was cold and distracted, as though some other matter more pressing had come to occupy his limited faculties.

"I shall expect an update on their arrival before the end of the day."

"Certainly, Mr. Secretary."

"There are many important people waiting," he added, as if he had decided she would benefit from further motivation.

"Of course, Mr. Secretary."

Blank screen.

Only then did Madeline take a deep breath, permitting herself approximately ten seconds to indulge the desperate concern for Operations that she would never be free to reveal to anyone. Just ten seconds, which she recognized as wasted time. In their business, ten seconds could mean something serious.

Life. Or death.

She reached out and tapped a button. "Mr. Birkoff," she said crisply. "Come to my office immediately. Bring Michael."

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

Kemp sat poised on the edge of his recliner, leaning forward, elbows on knees. He avidly watched the grainy, black and white pictures on his computer monitor. Divided into four equal sections, each quarter of the screen represented a camera and small room beneath his feet in the basement.

One showed an empty room.

Three other cameras aimed at similar rooms, each occupied by a single occupant.

On the bottom left of the screen, a lithe black man paced with panther steps; six strides one way, turn; six strides back. He’d nearly killed Eddie Kiel by crushing his throat. According to Kemp’s trusted aid, Drew, Eddie had suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen. Drew said the doctor held hope that Eddie could re-learn how to walk, talk, and care for himself…but…

Bastard. The epithet was as much directed at incompetent, unlucky Eddie Kiel as the man who nearly killed him. Drew never hesitated to do what Kemp wanted him to do. Never. But he had a wide streak of sentimentalism for the grunts, a weakness Kemp tolerated, for it reflected well on him. Because that idiot got in the way of straight-arm jab, now Drew would be recalcitrant. Oh, he’d continue doing his job, but everything coming out of his mouth from now on would be prefaced with, “But, Sir…”

Kemp reached for a water glass full of Jack Daniels, swallowed, grimaced. The Laphroaig was long gone, swilled without appreciation in the days following that fateful phone call and the revelations that followed.

Explaining to Washington what happened to Kiel is going to be murder, he thought. Willing and able to take on messy jobs no one else would touch, Kemp was often given leeway in his methods -- but there were limits. Especially when it came to how he handled his human resources. Drew would shoulder the brunt of the explanations but when men died -- or were turned into vegetables -- Kemp got called on the carpet, too. He began anticipating how best to alleviate some of that frustration on the black man’s hide. What was his name? Something foreign sounding… Massilya.

Kemp’s eyes flicked up to the picture of a blonde woman sitting in her cell. She had said his name, Massilya, during the truck ride here. She’d provided the name of the dead girl, Lani, as well.

He had enjoyed killing Lani. From Vietnam to Desert Storm he had spent the better part of his life killing non-Caucasians. He hadn’t killed an Asian in years and it felt right. Poetic justice in a way, considering the dozens of young American men he watched die under the brutal hands of her brothers…

Kemp wasn’t delusional; he knew Lani wasn’t the enemy, knew he wasn’t fighting the Vietnam War. The mysterious voice on the phone had hinted that Paul Wolfe employed the services of mercenaries. Assassins. Criminals. She probably deserved it anyhow.

The blonde woman sprawled on her bed untidily, her arms pillowing her head, staring at the ceiling. One leg swung back and forth off the side. Her snowy shirt spilled out from her open suit coat, startling white against the dark. She looked comfortable.

Kemp wondered who she and the black man were. Underlings of Paul Wolfe, to be sure, but were they anything else? Wolfe had showed little reaction when Kemp liberated poor Lani’s brains…perhaps they were just foot soldiers. Damned good soldiers if Eddie Kiel’s broken throat meant anything. His was just the worst casualty; others suffered broken noses, bruised ribs, mild concussions. Rumor had it Hartcrow wouldn’t father any more children.

I don’t care. The reports Washington would demand, the casualties among the men, the hours he’d spent planning the raid…none of it mattered.

He drained the last of the Jack Daniels and stared at Paul Wolfe on the computer screen. The empty glass thumped to the floor while he watched as Wolfe sat, then stood, then paced…only to repeat the sequence with pent-up energy. Kemp remembered the same arrogant stride from decades ago, the self-assurance, the pride.

He remembered the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of that man.

Reports…accountability…time spent…all paled next to the visceral satisfaction he planned to reap in the next few days.

I don’t care at all.

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

In silence, Madeline faced Michael across her desk. An entire day passed since Operations and his team were discovered missing…over three days since an unknown agent took them.

They could be anywhere by now. They could be long dead by now.

"What is your theory?" she asked calmly.

"It’s difficult to say with so little information. The perimeter guards and the drivers were taken out. They gassed the limousine. Obviously they wanted Operations alive. Otherwise it would have been easier just to destroy the car. The others in the vehicle may have been taken for some kind of leverage or for interrogation."

His face revealed none of whatever feelings may have been generated by his verbal rendering of the scene. Madeline knew he had investigated it personally. She watched him carefully.

"I expect that Nikita was in the limousine." She waited for his reaction.

"Yes. That was the profile."

He remained silent after this. Madeline studied him closely, weighing several possibilities and approaches, finally deciding to be very direct.

"This situation has potential for you, doesn’t it?"

"In what way?" he inquired blandly.

Madeline smiled slightly. "If Operations is killed there is a strong possibility that you would be named the next head of Section One."

"Yes."

Madeline folded her hands. She spoke slowly, as if thinking out loud.

"It could even be supposed that you may have had something to do with his disappearance. The right word in the wrong ear would make that possible."

"Yes. That would be possible."

"Of course," Madeline mused, "that would mean that either you had Nikita safely removed from the scene, or that you were willing to sacrifice her, in order to accomplish this."

He looked at her without expression and remained silent, offering no defense to these hypothetical accusations. Madeline stared back, equally expressionless. Each could only guess what the other was thinking.

Mentally, Madeline was rapidly processing every variable she could remember about Michael’s history, motivations and behavior patterns. While her probing about his possible involvement in this situation was mainly just that -- exploration -- there did exist a slight but real possibility that Michael was involved.

Given the nature of the disappearance, the most logical conclusion was that someone on the inside had delivered mission information. Given the possible payoff, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that Michael was that someone. Certainly they wouldn’t have to look far to find many reasons he would harbor resentment against Operations.

And herself.

She felt a tiny, fleeting frisson of fear. And suppressed it instantaneously.

What if Michael were not responsible? Then it was someone else, perhaps higher up. She tucked that conclusion away for further consideration, and disciplined herself to remove all paranoia from her chain of logic.

If she chose to trust Michael, he would have every opportunity to cover his tracks and finish the job, assuming Paul was even still alive. If she made the decision not to trust Michael, and it turned out someone else was responsible, then she would find herself without an ally in an explosive situation. Without Michael’s participation, she doubted that Section had the resources it would take to find Paul. It was a precarious situation; this decision would be critical. She chose her next words with care.

"We would make a good team. Section would do well under our leadership."

Michael blinked.

In that instant Madeline knew that he was not guilty of setting up the mission. Even though he barely revealed his reaction, she saw that she had surprised him with her conclusion and its implied line of reasoning. Michael had not set out to murder his way up the ladder.

The way was clear now.

"Someone inside had to have exposed this mission." She did not have to enumerate the reasons why; he understood. "I want you to help me track this down quietly, and bring Operations back safely."

He looked at her but did not reply immediately.

Madeline’s left eyebrow rose slightly, both in amusement and in warning. "Are you going to bargain with me, Michael?"

His gaze left her face then, focusing somewhere over her left shoulder. She couldn’t tell if he was reconsidering the wisdom of his actions or simply trying to wait her out. The silence lengthened between them. She knew what he wanted. Both knew that whoever spoke first -- would lose. Operations already may be dead, but if he were alive… Madeline was acutely conscious of time slipping away.

This will be a pact with the devil, she thought as internal conflict resolved. She raised her chin and spoke.

"I don’t know if she can be returned to her former self.”

"You will try."

"I handled the psychological modification. That was only one part of her…conditioning."

"You will try."

Madeline placed her hands flat on the desk and drew a long breath.

"Yes. I will try."

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

Various elements of this crime refused to form a cohesive pattern.

Ensconced at his desk for the past eight hours, Michael had assembled the disparate components in his head, had assembled them on the computer, had assembled them on paper.

Nothing jelled.

He had personally explored the scene. Two days old, picked over and cleaned up by local law enforcement, there was little to find. Posing as a representative of Interpol, he had acquired the police report and had spoken with the investigating officers. The general consensus was that it was a multiple homicide motivated either by the drug trade or by discord within the Black Market.

"Look, they were killed with American ammunition. That's Black Market trade. And such a blood-bath in the middle of the day?” The senior investigator had shaken his head. "It's organized crime, I tell you."

Michael had smiled charmingly and agreed. He complimented the man on his deductive reasoning and shook hands heartily. Silently, he thanked the man for his stupidity. Section would send undercover Housekeeping operatives to dispense with the bullet-riddled corpses stacked up in the morgue. An honest-faced official from Section would deliver some plausible story, and the police chief would happily close the case.

Hopefully, no one would ask many questions about the empty limousine, the drilled glass, the flecks of blood on the seat.

Four bodies had not been among the dead. Michael had visited the morgue and peeled back every last sheet, looking. Each time he readied his hand to touch another shroud, he did so with a ruthless system of internal containment; professional necessity seething around heightened personal interest. He found no passenger from the limousine. No Nikita. Under those seventeen palls he found seventeen slack faces, all men he knew, some he knew well.

Had known. The blue hand of death had touched them.

At his desk, Michael slid that memory aside, perforated with guilty relief as it was. Such emotionalism would not bring back the dead. Nor would it rescue Nikita. He continued to review the evidence.

The motorcade had deviated from its planned route while still within city limits, apparently voluntarily, suggesting the communications had been compromised.

Uniform weapons were used. It was the work of one agency.

Everyone surrounding the limousine was dead; the passengers were nowhere to be found. Someone wanted at least one of them alive.

The trackers embedded under the skin of all four people were either no longer transmitting or were jammed. Perhaps… Michael hesitated only a moment, then began working quickly. Within the hour he was hacked into an outside tracking protocol, which, strictly speaking, was not accessible to Section One. He read back through the impartial data. Two discrepancies leaped out at him.

One offered hope.

He summoned Birkoff to his office with a terse command over the com. Moments later, a familiar knock opened his cracked door.

"Y'…" Birkoff's voice caught on fatigue. He cleared his throat, began again. "You wanted to see me?"

"I've got some new data on the team's trackers." He held out a disk. Birkoff obediently came forward and took it. "The last hard signal showed them going east. See if you can find more."

"What? Our tracking data didn’t show anything…” The unexpected help was welcome, but drew a flicker of a confused smile. "How did you manage to track them?”

“I did not assume they were being held locally. Our direct signal tracking program has distance limitations.”

Birkoff stared at him a moment, then his brows drew down in a puzzled frown. “The only thing that would find those trackers long-distance would be military OTH…we can’t access those...” He referred to the military’s sophisticated, satellite-based over-the-horizon radar.

Michael said nothing. He returned Birkoff's baffled look with a mild gaze as smooth as polished granite.

"Oh, yeah. Right. Never mind. Forget I asked." Birkoff said sharply and retreated.

Stress and weariness didn't improve Birkoff's social graces. No matter. Michael had faith that the young man could very well use this signal information to take them another step closer to the missing team.

Michael spent another hour on his investigations. His body protested the continued inactivity when his desire to launch out of Section and find Nikita was ready to explode. The prolonged suppression of all his feelings about her wore thin as the hours mounted without surcease…the worry, the love, the fear…the anger. He began to fidget with the PDA, knocking it back one inch, flicking it forth another. He sighed, briefly amused. Birkoff wasn't the only one to suffer degenerating control when weary.

His com chimed. Animated with discovery, Birkoff's voice invaded. "Michael, I've got a faint signal-trace all the way to the North Atlantic…looks like they were flown to North America. I've got some triangulation programs on it now…"

"Good. Inform me when you get something."

A feminine shadow darkened his window an instant before a discreet knock touched his door. Michael looked up inquiringly. Madeline stepped in.

She glided to his desk and laid a small disk down on top of his work. "Here is the man most likely holding Operations and his team. It's likely he has personal reasons for taking this action, although why he chose now is still anyone's guess."

"Who is he?"

"He's Stuart Kemp, a semi-retired army general. He has led several successful military campaigns for the United States; the latest and greatest was during Desert Storm. He also takes on smaller, private, and…distasteful…tasks for the U.S. government. It's said the office in his basement has quite a reputation."

Madeline crossed her arms. "The disk has my preliminary profile on him, a brief history of his career, and the plans to his custom house built ten years ago."

Madeline did not require grandstanding gestures to close briefings. She nodded once and left, flowing so smoothly out the door that it did not seem an abrupt departure.

Of course, her timing left Michael no chance to ask where this intel came from. He little cared. Much as he had to restrain his raging compulsion for Nikita…no matter how well he could force it to lie quiescent, still it existed. He calmly loaded the disk into his computer with a sure hand and then paused for a moment, finger poised over the enter key. For several heartbeats he allowed himself to reach out with his imagination, hoping that she was unharmed…hoping she would survive…hoping she could hold on.

He pressed the key and began constructing the mission profile.

* * * * * * * * **

He became aware gradually, at first only knowing he was in a dimly lit place. When enough perception had coalesced he drew a deep breath and began to carefully push himself backward and upright against the cold gray wall. Hand over hand. Each passing second brought greater clarity and sensibility, and when at last he was capable of the grateful realization that no one was here to see his disgrace, he decided that he would probably live. For now…

Operations let his head rest against the wall and surveyed the small room through slitted eyes. It didn’t take very long.

White, not gray after all. Bed bolted to the floor. Plumbing. A damp, basement type of smell.

Satisfied for the moment, he turned his attention next to himself, making an objective catalog of the host of body parts screaming out for medical attention. Jesus. As he knew so intimately, the art of torture had become considerably more technical since Vietnam, but in the end pain was pain. On its own his body began to remember familiar defenses to mental and physical agony, unforgotten all these years later. Like riding a bicycle. Or falling off a bicycle… Something like that.

He grimaced and closed his eyes, concentrating on gathering his faculties and controlling the pain. He may have remembered how, but it wasn’t easy. Minutes ticked by and an arrow of self-doubt struck him and hung quivering. Was he too old for this? Should he have sent Michael? Exposing himself on this mission had been stupid, and possibly motivated by nothing more than a schoolboy urge to prove himself. He had rationalized the need for his personal presence…but Madeline had known. Like she always knew. Irritated by this mental lapse into hindsight and self-pity, he drew a deep, cleansing breath and forced himself to relax on the hard floor, drawing a mental curtain. This kind of thinking would not get him -- and whoever else he could take with him -- out of this house of horrors.

Several minutes later his eyes opened calmly. The unseen watchers he knew to be studying him saw no change in his physical demeanor or facial expression. Madeline, had she been there, would have seen something else entirely. And she would have smiled in approval.

Small sounds began to penetrate the room, increasing in volume until he could recognize two sets of approaching footsteps…murmured conversation…the sound of something being slid along the floor. His mind’s eye constructed the scenario, leaving a blank face on the body being dragged. It could be only one of two people.

He had expected this tactic. He imagined that Kemp hoped to either glean some useful information from them as they spoke together after suffering torture, or use one against the other. Other than space considerations, there was no other logical reason to house prisoners together.

The door opened, interrupting his thought, and he watched two guards fling Nikita unceremoniously into the room, her wilted body tumbling forward in the path of light admitted with her. Mentally he winced as her head bounced on the floor, and he stared coldly at the two men still standing in the doorway. They sneered, but said nothing. Then the door was slammed and locked. They were alone.

Still on the floor, Operations slid over to Nikita and began to check her systematically. Her eyes opened almost immediately and she lay still under his probing fingers, flinching occasionally but keeping her gaze on his face.

“I’m all right,” she finally said, sounding dry and hoarse.

Operations did not ask what had been done to her. There was no point. Neither did he ask whether she had any knowledge of Massilya. Unless Kemp had been miraculously enlightened since their Vietnam days, he knew that the black operative had little hope of surviving. Kemp would torture him to death simply to satisfy his well-concealed bigotry, likely not even conducting an interrogation. A highly valuable asset would be wasted senselessly, as Lani had been. The criminal stupidity of it fed the dull rage in his belly.

He leaned back again the wall and watched as Nikita crawled gamely to a position near him. She closed her eyes and breathed shallowly, gathering and conserving physical resources. He nodded to himself, feeling a certain paternal pride. She was in acceptable condition; she was young, strong, and Section trained, after all. Without doubt she could take more punishment. It was likely she would have to. His mind returned to the plan that had begun to form before Nikita was hurled through the doorway.

Profiling in his head, Operations reviewed the Stuart Kemp he had known well thirty years earlier, weighing his strengths and weaknesses, remembering his hot buttons, factoring in what little he had been able to observe of their present surroundings. He was forced to consider a much younger Paul Wolfe as well as the younger Kemp, but brutal necessity was a fact of life for Operations. He quelled remembered pain with a casual competence and considered dispassionately the noisome hell-hole that both men survived.

The P.O.W. prison Linh Sai had been a brutal crucible that burned away the outer dross of every man there. For some, it was a tempering process. For others, the experience wreaked damage beyond hope of total recovery. Young, strong-willed Paul Wolfe found his inner spirit painfully strengthened. Young, charismatic officer Stuart Kemp suffered the exposure of his worst flaws.

Men had died because of those flaws.

Young Wolfe forcibly took up the mantle of leadership when Kemp bungled relations with their captors yet again and eleven young men were tortured and killed because of it. Kemp raged, but Wolfe took and held all the remaining prisoners within his transfigured will -- including the resentful Kemp. Wolfe’s tragic stoicism when their captors killed his compatriots, his ability to withstand torture without crying out, his strong hands that could grip a shoulder in understanding or mete out a direct punishment for stealing food were some of the hallmarks of his leadership. The men trusted their lives and gave their loyalty to him for years, until the day they were released. In the end, one hundred and nine men returned home, but not Paul Wolfe. The tempering process had been too complete. He could not revert to the person he was before, and remained to answer another call to duty.

After Vietnam, Operations imagined Kemp had easily returned to his shallow life interrupted by the war. During interment, Paul Wolfe had learned some of the salient details and his knowledge of military organization and North American culture provided the rest: A wife he did not love but came from old money. A career predicated on another man’s valor. Opportunistic jockeying for the best projects. A cunning aptness for sucking up to the right people…at the right time. Pure, unadulterated luck.

No wonder he thrived after ‘Nam, Operations thought bitterly. Paul Wolfe had willingly subjected himself to a path that allowed no chance of sinking back into suburban self-delusion. He wasn’t surprised that Kemp had chosen another.

Kemp obviously retained a peculiar magnetism and the ability to hide an ugly lack of character under a smooth façade. His minions seemed genuinely loyal. As Operations rose out of past memories and contemplated the dank room around him, he realized those followers would have to be neutralized or avoided to escape.

Operations considered his own available assets limited: himself, Nikita and Massilya. At the moment…only himself and Nikita, battered and weaponless. His mind raced as though through a maze, scrutinizing the options, trying on and discarding theories, backing up and re-thinking all the angles.

Getting out alone was unlikely; clearly the more help he had, the better the odds. Kemp had already demonstrated his willingness to kill what he perceived to be the expendable rank and file. Operations gave a dismissive mental shrug. He could think of nothing at this moment that would help Massilya; it was possible that he was already dead. That left Nikita, provided he could save her from the same useless death.

Two main objectives quickly crystallized. Kemp needed to see Nikita as something more than a foot soldier or he would kill her casually, without hesitation. And they had to find some way to stir the pot here, to upset the status quo. At least for the moment, mind games were the only weapons at their disposal. He gave his thoughts free rein as the idea continued to gather form. If Nikita were important…if she could be seen as useful to Kemp as a lever against me personally…

It burst upon him then, fully formed. This was personal with Kemp. Making it even more personal could have the desired multiple effects of keeping Nikita alive, goading Kemp into unplanned action and providing the atmosphere of heightened tension and activity that could create the opening they needed.

Or it could get them all killed even sooner. The usual stakes.

Casually he glanced around the room to review the positions of surveillance cameras, then he looked at Nikita. Time to begin the game.

“Nikita.”

Her eyes opened and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, appearing unwilling to turn her head. He knew how she felt.

“Nikita,” he repeated softly.

This time she turned and looked.

“Come here.”

His eyes held hers, willing her not to ask questions. Not to reveal any surprise at the tender and gentle tone in his voice.

She licked her dry lips briefly and began slowly scooting along the wall to his side. He held out his hand as she closed the distance between them, then tucked her solicitously under his arm. He could feel her tension as he bent his head toward hers.

“Was it bad?” he asked out loud.

“I…”

He dipped his head close and nuzzled the side of her face as he breathed into her ear, “Think. Follow.”

She blinked rapidly, a flutter of processing. After a breath she let herself lean into him, then lifted one hand and rubbed her eyes. “Pretty bad,” she replied.

“I’m sorry you’re involved in this,” he said aloud, his voice charged with regret and concern. His free hand pulled her head to his shoulder and began to smooth her tangled hair. Soft, he noted, and silky under the dust.

His lips were close to her ear and his voice was all but inaudible even at that close range. “We have to convince Kemp you are important to me or he will kill you.”

Nikita was no fool -- the path was clear. She recognized she had no choice but to submit if she wanted to live. Still, she hesitated.

“Nikita…”

Under the warmth he pretended for their observers he layered his voice with a chiding order. He pulled her closer yet she resisted, confusion muddling her expression momentarily before professional training slackened her features into bland fatigue once more.

“This feels…wrong?” she breathed softly, expressionless. He could hear the puzzlement dug deep in her tone. She shook her head and closed her eyes. When they opened, blue apology looked back at him, regret for what she had just said, and confusion as to why she said it.

Carefully she put her arm across his chest and curled herself closer. Operations felt the tentative trembling of her strained muscles as they refused to lay quiescent. He knew his powers of observation were not as keen as Madeline’s and with a flash of personal insight saw his reliance on her as a crutch that weakened his own considerable skills. Still, he could see how Nikita found it…disconcerting…to be this close to him. He could see she understood what was to come. Understood it was a means to survive. But her body was wooden next to his.

“I know Kemp. This will work,” he murmured. Was she hesitating because she doubted the strategy? The irritation she always ignited in him with her rebellion flared and he tightened his clasp about her shoulders. Was it some consequence of that…machine? Or -- he was struck by a sudden unpalatable thought -- because she was too repelled by him to follow through? Grim delight splintered murky and sweet at the base of his brain as she shifted then to mold her long body fluidly against his; first with satisfaction at her compliance, then with a uniquely male thrill of conquest.

Michael has been here.

The tenderness of her cheek was a forbidden texture against his own light stubble. Her form beneath his hands was at once lean and womanly. Somehow, a trace of her perfume had lingered. Somehow her breath was still sweet.

He barely heard her words.

“I understand.”

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

Birkoff fell asleep with triangulation equations flitting through his mind. They had followed him into his dreams, climbing up on the whiteboard of his university differential equations class. He was twelve years old, scribbling furiously, frightened he’d miss some mangled utterance from his teacher’s thick accent and score less than a perfect hundred percent on the test. Professor Fuentes suddenly turned into Walter, replete with tie-die shirt and rainbow bandana.

“This is the way to get the girls. Remember, it isn’t all about looks,” he lectured. “Are you paying attention? Birkoff? Birkoff!”

“Birkoff, wake up,” Madeline stood over him, shaking his shoulder.

He gasped, bridging sleep and total waking with one stuttering intake of breath, disoriented and startled. He involuntarily sidled to the far side of the bed, squinting. The bright light hurt his eyes.

“You are needed in Comm,” Madeline said. “Now.”

“Mm, yeah.” He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, still confused. He looked at his watch. 7:42 AM. Almost three hours of sleep in the last twenty-four… He mentally groaned.

Madeline remained standing by the utilitarian bunk. Birkoff scooted to the edge and hung his legs over the side, fishing half-heartedly with his toes for his shoes and wondering why Madeline was watching him.

“We need a mission sequence,” she said.

“Uh-huh.” He slowly wondered why she was there at all.

“The team will be comprised of abeyance operatives and you. Michael will lead.”

The adrenaline of his abrupt wake-up call finished cycling through his bloodstream. He felt suddenly clear-headed…and scared. “You want me? Is this to get Operations back?”

“Yes. It is. And it needs to be beneath the scrutiny of Oversight.”

“Beneath the…” Birkoff abandoned his search for shoes and gaped at her. “That’s not possible.”

“Anything is possible, Mr. Birkoff, if we put our minds to it.”

“Why?” he asked unthinkingly.

Madeline tilted her head slightly. “Do you truly want an answer to that question?”

“Uh…” He blinked rapidly.

Rare mercy came from her, a welcome break in the tension she delivered along with information. “Oversight would take a dim view of Operations’ current predicament. Only we can help him. And Nikita.”

Birkoff cast around for his glasses and plucked them from a little shelf built into the wall next to the bed. He unfolded the arms and slid them on thoughtfully. “Do we have a location, then?”

“Yes. Simon continued your line of investigation and found them. Now it’s time to retrieve them.”

Birkoff nodded, and Madeline left him, apparently satisfied with his state of awareness and prompt attendance in Comm. He watched her leave and spent several seconds staring at the doorway she left open behind her.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this, he thought. Weird. Then again, Operations had never gone missing before, either. Birkoff felt strange about Operations’ absence himself.

An important mission prep lay before him. He entered Comm with single-minded purpose and began his work, delegating what he could to the people around him; heedless of whatever projects they might be busy with. His station already held the location information. He paused, surprised, when he read the name and address of a private citizen living in New England in the United States.

That was quick. He’d only expected a general geographical area considering how faint the tracker-signals in Operations and his team were before they winked out. Earlier, as sleep took him, he suspected the triangulation programs he unleashed would prove unproductive anyhow. This level of success astonished him.

Simon did this? He glanced around, frowning. Simon was nowhere to be found.

“Birkoff?” Maria-Christina broke his thought. “I’ve found something unusual -- “

“Unless it has something to do with prepping this mission, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Not directly, no, but…” The thirty-six year old Puerto Rican woman captured one of her arms with the other, defensive. She had come to Section One directly after Greg died on his abeyance mission and quickly established herself as an intelligence to be reckoned with. After his experience with Greg Hillinger, Birkoff made sure to keep her busy with peripheral, unrelated jobs, denying her the chance to better learn his job. She sensed the run-around and now even Birkoff could perceive her growing resentment.

“What d’you mean, ‘not directly’?”

“I mean, I’ve just found an anomalous file with some of the same information you’re looking at right now.”

“Where?” he demanded. She showed him, and he began rapping his fingers on the edge of the table until it hurt. He felt torn between his duty to Operations and Nikita and the puzzle before him.

“Maria, run the sims for this mission. I’ll take care of this.”

“It’s Maria-Christina,” she replied coldly.

Birkoff glared. “Just do it now.” She left. Damn. That could come back to bite me in the butt… He forgot about her within seconds as he investigated the strange file. He quickly found the entire contents; the file was a newsreel and facsimile newspaper clipping of a General Stuart Kemp, retired, during a recent ceremony at the Vietnam War Memorial. Birkoff traced its journey into Section.

I recognize this configuration.

Horrible suspicion crept up his back. He twitched his shoulder blades, feeling exposed and cold despite sitting sweater-clad in the heart of Section One. He chased the file’s trail, finding where it came from and where it led to with less resistance than he knew he should.

Revelation hit him hard and fast. He involuntarily pushed away from his terminal, nearly panicked. God!

It came from Oversight. No doubt. Its destination was Madeline’s office. The file’s unauthorized transmission came in a sly twisting of protocols Birkoff recognized as a trick Greg had used.

No. Can’t be…can it?

There had been no body confirmed.

But…Oversight?

Thoroughly confused, he sucked down a lungful of air then blew it out forcefully. I’m stuck with what I’m given…or find. Another ugly thought occurred. Is this why Madeline wants Oversight out of the loop?

God, this mission is really gonna suck.

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

They sat side by side, almost but not quite touching.

In the steady, low light of the white room they had no concept of the passage of time, whether it was full day or darkest night. He could feel her breathing, smell her skin. Christ, he could almost hear her heart beat.

He was aware of the unblinking eyes of the video surveillance cameras that had been their indifferent audience. He knew he should pick up her hand or say…something. But, strangely, it did not come to him what to say or do. Beside him, Nikita stirred and pulled on the last of her clothing, sliding tailored trousers over her long legs.

In silence then she turned to him and lay her head on his shoulder. They waited.

It didn’t take long. No more than fifteen minutes had gone by when they heard the sound of a single set of approaching footsteps. He felt Nikita stiffen as the doorknob turned.

Kemp stepped into the room.

"Good morning," he said. "Or is it evening?" His face took on a mischievous look as he indulged himself by not even allowing them to know the time of day. The expression was unlikely on a man of his size and bearing.

"Have you come to mistreat us yourself this time, Kemp?" Nikita asked snidely. "I didn’t think that was your style."

Kemp approached her slowly, his eyes sliding over her hair, her body, the rumpled bed, missing nothing. He’d been an avid viewer of the recent events in this room.

"I have no intention of mistreating you, my dear."

She turned her head away as he reached out to gather up a handful of her hair. "Don’t touch me."

Surprisingly, Kemp dropped the hair and backed away to lean comfortably against the door. His eyes continued to attend her closely.

Operations spoke quietly. "What is this all about, Kemp?"

Kemp’s eyes shifted slowly from Nikita. "It’s about Iraq, Paul. And a butcher named Saddam Hussein. Ring any bells?" He lifted his chin and glared self-righteously at Operations.

"I know a great deal about Iraq. And about Saddam Hussein. What are you accusing me of?"

"Collusion with the enemy, Paul." Kemp’s voice grew tighter, his lips compressed in disapproval. "I have it on good authority that you are a major facilitator and provider for his regime. In direct contradiction of U.S. policy."

"Who told you that? And how did you know where to find me?"

"That’s none of your concern," Kemp sneered in reply.

"Do you even know?" Operations pressed.

"I know everything I need to know. You’ve betrayed your country."

Operations laughed scornfully. "That’s a pack of lies, Kemp." He picked up Nikita’s hand and idly ran his thumb across her palm. "But even if it was true -- that’s not what this is all about." He looked up sharply and demanded, "Is it?"

"You’re a traitor," Kemp snapped back, color slowly rising in his face.

Operations went on in an accusing tone. "Desert Storm is over, Kemp…but how about Vietnam? It still lives in you, doesn’t it? Just like it does for all of us."

A small muscle in Kemp’s jaw began to twitch.

"Except for you, it’s not about what you saw or what you were forced to do." He paused, then injected heavy scorn into his voice. "For you it’s about what you closed your eyes to. About what you couldn’t bring yourself to do."

"What are you getting from Hussein?" Kemp shouted, advancing on them. "Money? Influence?"

Operations stood, pulling Nikita up with him. He raised his voice above Kemp’s.

"How has it been these past 25 years, General, knowing that you let your men down when it really counted? Knowing that I was the officer they respected?"

The two men were nose to nose, Kemp verging on being out of control, Operations standing stiff and unbending. Nikita moved then, placing her hand on Operations’ shoulder.

"Paul," she said.

Inwardly, he applauded her timing and delivery. Just the right touch of pleading and familiarity. He let himself be pulled back a step.

As expected, Kemp’s attention was immediately diverted to Nikita. He took a long breath, visibly reinstating his self-control.

"Well, Paul, I haven’t been properly introduced to your lovely companion. Unfortunately I delegated her…welcome…to someone else while I was with you."

Nikita refused to look at him, keeping her face turned to Operations. Her hand at his shoulder slid down and crept in under his arm. He pressed her hand possessively to his side.

Kemp took a step closer to Nikita and reached out once more for a handful of her hair where it hung loosely over her shoulders. Suddenly he pulled. The same smooth motion that had propelled Lani from the bed of the truck separated Nikita from Operations. In an instant she was pressed against Kemp’s side, one of his hands wound tightly in her hair. Hurting.

Nikita sagged, cringing in apparent fear and pain. She whimpered once for good measure.

"She’s quite beautiful," Kemp commented, "although I usually prefer brunettes." He turned her face to his, inspecting her closely. "A bit bruised, but still quite beautiful."

"Get your hands off her," Operations ground out. He found it was not difficult to pretend offense at Kemp’s casual handling of Nikita. "Leave her alone. She’s got nothing to do with this." The words were predictable, but Operations knew they would serve as a further goad.

"That doesn’t matter, Paul," Kemp returned. He stroked the side of Nikita’s face with his free hand. "It simply pleases me to take her from you." He paused to wink salaciously at Operations. "From what I saw, it’ll be well worth my while."

Kemp began to back away toward the door, pulling Nikita with him. "Paul," she moaned, wringing her hands.

Kemp turned slightly and reached for the doorknob. Nikita spun instantly and delivered a powerful blow to Kemp’s abdomen that doubled him over onto her upraised knee. Before he could react, she brought both fists down with vicious force on the back of his neck, connecting with an audible crack. Kemp went down with a heavy sound. Stayed down. She delivered a quick, spiteful kick to his ribs.

Silently, Operations crossed the small room and joined Nikita at the door. They looked at each other, wordlessly synchronizing their actions. Nikita flung the door open and they acted in concert, each attacking one of the two posted guards, who had already begun to approach the door suspiciously. Nikita was able to drop her man with a single kick to the head as he struggled to free his weapon. Operations wrestled with his opponent, a small wiry man with the quicksilver moves of a ferret.

"Go," hissed Operations as he groped for a tighter hold.

Knowing not to argue, Nikita whirled and ran. Lightly she sprinted down the corridor, the sounds of combat receding quickly behind her. Up the stairs, check the corner, choose a direction. She ran blindly, operating only on instinct.

Voices. Nikita stopped and pressed herself back around a corner, forcing control on her labored breathing. The murmuring voices passed on at the far end of the hall, where the area was illuminated by a strong light source. She waited, hearing nothing but unable to spare more time to be sure. Carefully she crept forward.

The hall opened out onto a large room. It was exceptionally beautiful, decorated in a casual, rustic style. A quick glance revealed one long wall of windows that presented a magnificent view of a sprawling lake, the myriad faces of cabins peeking out from thick woods, a proud boat bobbing gently next to a dock. Indirect sunlight gilded the water gold and Nikita spared a longer glance out the window. Glowing below the horizon, the sun could be setting…or rising. She did not know where East was. No matter. She turned her back to the view. Tucked into an alcove off to one side of the room was an impressive array of electronic apparatus. This drew Nikita like a magnet.

She assessed the collection of equipment, some of which she could not identify. In the background she could already hear and feel the footsteps of an indeterminate number of men, undoubtedly in pursuit of her and Operations -- if he had managed to get away. Quickly she reached out, powering up what was recognizable, praying for time. The monitor brightened.

Enter Password:

Shit. Voices were becoming audible. She pounded her fist on the computer monitor, cursing silently. She was out of time. In desperation she picked up the telephone, nimbly dialing a number all operatives had committed to memory. No one would answer, she knew.

The line did not ring. To the voiceless, faceless open line Nikita spoke two words clearly.

"Trace this."

Then they were in the room. She turned to face the three men, keeping the phone behind her and placing it quietly on the desk without hanging up. Not knowing how protected the line was, even Section’s sophisticated tracing equipment would need all the time she could give it. That open line was their only hope of getting out.

All three of the men were armed. There was nothing to do but allow them to take her. She approached them with hands outspread and innocent, hoping to divert their attention from the still-open phone line. Roughly they hustled her back to the basement room, retracing her earlier route. She was unable to tell whether anyone had hung up the phone.

As Nikita was cast through the door of their makeshift prison she was aware of Operations once more slumped against the wall in pain. No sooner had she gathered herself up than the door was flung open yet again. They both looked on in astonishment as Massilya was propelled into the room, landing heavily and rolling nearly to the far wall. The door slammed shut, reverberating in the silent room.

"We thought you were dead." Nikita reached out to Massilya where he lay near her. With a deep groan he pulled himself closer to a sitting position and barely nodded. "I think I am," he whispered.

He sank back against the wall, holding his ribs tightly. Though his dark color hid much of the bruising, it did nothing to disguise the blisters and painful, shiny swellings evident in many places on his silky skin. He shook his head slightly as Nikita reached out to him, and seemed relieved when she turned her attention to Operations.

"Where’s Kemp?" she whispered.

He shrugged. "They took him out. He was still unconscious. If we are lucky he will be too hurt to come back right away and shoot us." He seemed uncharacteristically pessimistic.

She scooted a little closer and murmured, "I may have been able to send something to Birkoff."

"Why didn’t you just get out?" Operations asked tiredly.

Nikita looked at him for a moment. Then, as he subsided painfully to a more prone position next to her she reached out gently and touched his hair.

"We’ll all get out."

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

Few missions could compete with the gravity of this one.

The atmosphere lay silently dour inside the van, stifling with the weight of tension over Operations’ plight. Michael’s usual reticence transmuted to iron control, maintained by a well-oiled autopilot. His worry for Operations was an uncomfortable slick on top of the seething resentment he felt for the man.

His worry over Nikita would bear no scrutiny at all lest he fail to rescue her.

Michael wanted the transport to end. During most transit times he spent the hours refining mission parameters, writing reports about mission closure, or resting. He couldn’t concentrate or sleep during the flight across the Atlantic. He had watched the other members of his team as they reclined in somnolent repose; some pretending to review details on panels, some resting, some directing an inward stare to the flapping raiment of their fears as they confronted their possible death again. Birkoff had stretched out unabashedly, asleep before the plane left the runway and motionless until after the plane landed in New England when Michael shoved him with a foot. Now they all sat wide-awake in the back as the van scurried up an interstate highway, penetrating an increasingly rural countryside they couldn’t see.

Michael passed his eyes and judgment over his team, scanning each one with decisive perception and wide-ranging knowledge of their files. He had chosen them all carefully from the abeyance pool as ordered by Madeline. Most of these operatives were discipline problems; they didn’t follow orders well, had a tendency towards impulse-control problems, or somehow didn’t tow the line. None of them was incompetent. Two faces, however, were unexpected. Their work was exemplary. Yet both had been placed in abeyance -- their status conveniently altered that very night.

Why place good operatives in abeyance? The answer was horribly obvious.

It was a common enough scenario for Section One. By utilizing abeyance teams, after-mission accountability to Oversight was lessened when casualties mounted.

He closed his eyes briefly, already anticipating ugly orders at the end of this mission.

They all felt a change as the van segued from the highway to a surface road. The driver had been properly motivated with a healthy respect for the urgency of the mission; his speed barely slowed. The van listed to one side, then the other as it traversed the crowned roadway. No one complained.

“We’re two minutes out from Kemp’s estate and counting,” Birkoff broke the turgid silence, his voice sharper than usual.

The driver positioned their mobile base off the road, screened by the slim, gold-crowned trees of a previously harvested wood lot. Michael led seven men out of the van. Birkoff never lifted his eyes from his computer, carefully tracking all signals flying through the air, seeking any surprises. The door slid shut, leaving him alone with a lingering autumn smell.

Noiselessly, the team moved through the tame jungle of groomed North American woods, filtering closer to the house with a scarce rustle here, a bent twig here. Soon, they saturated the vegetation that surrounded three-quarters of the house as it sailed upon the crest of a hill under a fitful moon. The one quarter left open was the lovely Better Home and Gardens façade, fronted by a long, sloping lawn -- an approach as exposed and difficult as any on the open battlefield considering the dire consequences of discovery.

“What do you see, Birkoff?” Michael asked tersely.

“I’ve got movement. One upstairs and one down.”

Brusque arm gestures and whispered commands brought the men closer. Michael ordered the cordon to tighten, and approach the house from back and sides until close enough to scramble behind manicured foliage of bushes in the front. All exits covered, the sequence began.

“I’ve got the point,” Michael said. He unlocked the back French door with a U-key and slowly pushed it open. A dark room lay behind it. Michael could sense lazy humps of furniture and potted plants in the shadows with the corners of his eyes, illuminated by a dim light rippling in from the room beyond. He uttered the quiet command for others to follow.

“I want the layout, Birkoff.”

”The plans show six bedrooms upstairs, six baths, laundry room. Thermal shows one person up there. Above that, the attic. It’s cold, there’s nothing there. You’re in the back, the kitchen is in front of you. Access to the cellar is on the west wall of the kitchen.”

“And the second warm body?”

“There’s someone in the library to the east of the kitchen.”

Michael walked onto the polished tile of the kitchen floor. The refrigerator hummed snugly.

”Hold it!” Birkoff warned suddenly. “One’s coming your way from the library.”

Michael silently faded back as efficiently clicking footfalls entered the kitchen from the east. He tracked the person’s progress by sound from behind the door, waiting. A light flicked on. The footsteps stopped, scuffed, and resumed their march across the floor. A door opened. Michael sensed a faint whiff of damp. The person retreated down the stairs.

”He’s going down to the cellar,” Birkoff said unnecessarily.

Michael moved forward once more, employing all his powers of stealth. He signaled the two men behind him to follow with a flick of his exposed handgun. Dust was less silent than the Section operatives. They moved, slowly graceful, gradually descending the steps.

”Michael…” Birkoff’s voice tensed. ”I’ve got a hot-spot of electrical activity. Thermal, too.”

He could hear movement below. Heels on concrete. Something dropped. A rhythmic, echoing thung! of metal, repeating, and then a pain-cry and muttered curse.

”Michael. It’s spiking. The thermal…it’s…what is that?”

Michael discarded all pretense of stealth and pounded down the rest of the stairs. He burst through the door at the bottom, the two ops on his heels.

A woman was bent over an open wash-machine, her sleeve rolled up, her forearm dripping suds and water. Next to the wash machine, a dryer stood, the front door open, exhaling hot, fresh breath and clean clothes. The woman turned her head to look at the noise behind her, then straightened abruptly and shrieked.

With one feline pounce, Michael restrained the woman, grasping her from behind with his gun arm. He clapped his other hand over her mouth. Her eyes bugged, straining to stare at the gun nestled at her temple. He could feel the denied screams behind his palm.

“Be quiet,” he ordered. “I’m not going to hurt you.” The two operatives behind him seethed through the rest of the cellar, guns extended, looking in vain for Kemp’s basement office. They returned, empty-handed and perplexed.

Michael paused a moment, shifting his arm for a better grip around the woman’s well-endowed bosom. He brought his mouth close to her ear and balefully demanded, “Where is Stuart Kemp?”

The woman could not look away from Michael’s gun. He slowly lowered it, glancing to the other men for back up.

“Kemp. Where is he. Now.”

Michael withdrew his hand. The woman gawked at him, whites showing all around dark irises of her eyes. “He…he…he is not here! No one is here! Just me!”

“You’re lying; someone is upstairs.” Michael raised his gun once more. The woman visibly melted with another surge of fear and began blubbering. “Upstairs…is it Kemp?”

“Oh, god, have mercy, please… Take what you want, but oh, have mercy!”

Michael slapped her lightly. She dropped to her knees, bawling. Her salt-and-pepper hair fell from the tidy bun in the back. “No-o…no! He’s never here! The general is at the c-camp. It’s Mrs. Kemp upstairs! She’s watching TV! Oh, god! Don’t kill me!”

Michael looked down on her fear-prostrated figure as it jiggled and heaved with sobs. He sheathed his gun, hoping to end the onslaught of noise.

“There’s nothing here at all,” said one of the operatives when prompted by a look from Michael. “Negative.”

Michael spoke into the com. “Birkoff…are there any other indicators?”

”The only thing strange was that electrical/thermal spike. What is it?”

“It’s a dryer.”

”A dryer? Like what, an incubator? The profile doesn’t mention anything about chemical or biological activities or…”

Michael tamped down his impatience. “Laundry, Birkoff.”

Silence.

The maid wailed again.

Michael closed his eyes briefly, the only outward sign of annoyance he allowed. He drew in a slow breath, then opened them once more. He nodded to his team.

“Go steal the silver. We’re leaving.”

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

The tiny icon winked uninterruptedly on the furthest monitor. Off. On. Off. On. Unnoticed.

Three techs sat eagle-eyed at their monitors, not daring to miss a single piece of the proceedings. Anything could be important. Madeline’s presence in Comm was a constant warning that zero errors would be tolerated, that concentration must be maintained at the highest level. Restlessly she paced the small area, clearly not liking the report she was hearing over the com link from Michael.

"Hayes," Maria Christina whispered to the tech seated next to her. "What’s that?"

"What’s what?" he stage-whispered in reply, not turning his head to look at her.

"That little red phone icon that’s blinking -- far monitor."

He darted a quick glance. "A land line nobody ever uses. For Christ’s sake shut up before Madeline decides to take something out on you."

Behind them Madeline continued to grill Michael. Each sentence was permeated with barely contained wrath and frustration.

Maria Christina stared at the icon, feeling the small hairs begin to raise themselves on the back of her neck. In the years she spent in Section, she had learned that everything was important -- especially the little things. She was surprised how casually the other tech brushed it off. With a wary glance at Madeline she quietly slid her chair over and clicked on the icon. Two urgently whispered words sprang into her earpiece.

"Trace this."

That was all.

Without allowing another moment of thought, she instantly brought her hands to the keyboard and began to initiate a trace on the call. Once that was running, she fed the two words through Section’s voice matching application, hoping against hope that there was enough to work with. Nervously she glanced over her shoulder.

Madeline was watching her.

Committing herself, Maria Christina turned her back on Madeline’s stare and watched as the voice match program combed the database. Ominous silence reigned behind her. Unconsciously she twined a lock of black hair around her forefinger.

Bingo!

Madeline’s highly developed sixth sense had told her something was happening, and she had not taken her eyes off Maria Christina. When the woman whirled excitedly in her chair she felt a sudden leap of hope.

"Stand by, Michael," she said quietly into her com set, staring intently at Maria Christina.

"What do you have?"

"A message -- confirmed that it’s from Nikita -- with an open line to trace," Maria Christina replied triumphantly. "I’ve got them."

Madeline acknowledged with a curt nod. "Feed it to Birkoff." Impatiently she waited as the transmission went through.

"Michael?" she demanded.

"We’ve got it. Approximately eight kilometers away."

"Go."

She turned to Maria Christina, a degree of respect in her direct gaze. "Good work."

Within minutes, Madeline was with Michael again, teamed vicariously through the magic of Section’s telecommunications capability.

“We’ve got a problem,” Birkoff’s voice broke in. “The bridge won’t support the van.”

“Bridge? I want details,” Madeline demanded, a whip-crack.

A strange, lapping sound reached her ears.

"It’s a lake," came Michael’s terse description. “There’s a house on an island. The bridge is small…wooden.”

“And there’s no way the van can get over it,” Birkoff repeated.

“It’s close enough for signal transfer through the van. We’re proceeding on foot. Stand by for video.”

From inside the van, Birkoff warned, “I can’t give you thermal from this far. The trees are too thick.”

Suddenly Comm’s overhead video screens leaped to life, presenting them with an image primarily of darkness punctuated by the contrast of distant house lights and reflections from across the water.

"Have you got video feed?" Michael asked.

"Yes," Madeline confirmed.

The image jumped and shifted a little, unavoidable when using body-mounted cameras. Maria Christina adjusted filters on their end, compensating for the darkness of the overcast night. Gradually the picture coalesced into discernible images.

“It’s a big house. No data available on security.”

Beside her, Hayes continued to search furiously for any kind of plans or data on the location they were approaching. Limited by location, the van’s sophisticated scanning and monitoring equipment were rendered ineffective. Birkoff now had no way to assess threat levels or prepare the way on his own.

"Birkoff?" Hayes said, fingers still flying over the keyboard. "I’m sending you aerials of the lake. Looks like the bridge is the only connection to the island. There ain’t any other way on." He grunted in frustration. "I’m still trying to find some kind of construction plan."

Beside him Maria Christina sucked in her breath sharply. "I think I might have something… She scrolled through the data, puzzled. "It’s delivery records from a local trucker that came up on a search of the address. Some of it’s run-of-the-mill home construction materials and some of it…” She stopped.

“Read it,” Madeline commanded.

Quickly she rattled off the first ten or so items on the list of materials and equipment. As a relative newcomer to Comm, and not completely trained for field analysis, the list made little sense. For someone who knew how to assemble soundproofing and electrical components into a place of horror, a different picture was painted.

Madeline closed her eyes.

"Hurry, Michael."

"Going in now," came his unhesitating reply.

Then all sounds ceased on both ends. Madeline watched intently as the video feed revealed the silent, furtive approach of the rescue team, first as they made their way across the narrow bridge to the island, aged wood creaking softly, then as they separated, edging their way around to positions at both the front and the back of the house.

Madeline’s eyes narrowed skeptically as she listened to the team’s whispered exchanges.

From Michael…Karsten, report. At the back of the house Karsten replied…No electronic security apparent. Michael again…Close perimeter.

In disbelief Madeline watched the team’s unobstructed approach to the house. How could someone capture the head of Section One and have security like this? Operations couldn’t possibly be here. Or the only other alternative: there was certainly no need to guard a dead man. Hope began to bleed away.

"Going in," Michael whispered.

"Ready," came Karsten’s reply from the back.

Suddenly the night erupted. In Comm everyone jumped in unison as gunfire began almost simultaneously with the team’s entrance into the house. They watched raptly for the following two minutes as the team battled from one corner to the next within the house. Dodging behind furniture. Sprinting down open halls. Muffled grunts and piercing screams of pain came clearly over the audio feed. The images relayed by Michael’s camera jumped wildly on the screen as he ducked, sidestepped and rolled to avoid flying bullets.

Then all at once the picture steadied and they watched Michael’s silent, cat-like approach to a kneeling shooter. Swiftly Michael put the man down and pressed his gun barrel into the soft under-jaw tissue.

"Where are they," Michael hissed into the man’s face.

No reply. With a quick movement Michael shifted his gun and shot once through the left kneecap, then sealed his hand over the man’s mouth to muffle the howl of agony.

"You can either walk with a limp or ride in a wheelchair. Where are they?"

Video showed the man’s eyes huge with pain and terror. He nodded feebly and Michael pulled his hand away.

"Downstairs. With Kemp."

Michael shot him through the temple. With a gasp, Maria Christina turned her face away from the monitor.

Madeline merely nodded.

Only brief minutes had elapsed since Section’s team had entered the home. Now, they reassembled and prepared to press on, less three abeyance operatives who had been killed in the initial exchange. There was no need for silence. Everyone in the house would assuredly be alerted to their presence now, as would every nosy neighbor on the lake. Undoubtedly the local police had already begun receiving calls; there was no time to waste.

Moving swiftly and cautiously, the team fanned out through the house, passing by the computer setup where Nikita had made the phone call, then converging again instantly on Karsten’s signal when he found the stairway down. They burst down the stairs, a bristle of guns prepared to force their way through any opposition. At the bottom they dispersed in pairs.

"Michael," Madeline said quietly.

"Yes."

"Send someone back to the outside perimeter."

Michael responded instantly, knowing not to question whatever she had in mind.

"Karsten and Duran are on their way."

The team pressed on quickly, checking and abandoning a series of small rooms, some containing vaguely medical-looking equipment, some completely empty. All had drains in the middle of their floors. Then a shout went up. The video feed jumped as Michael swung around in response.

As he pushed through the door Madeline braced herself for the worst. Then she saw him.

Alive.

In the corner of the room, Operations had risen and stood protectively over a bleeding and battered Nikita. A few feet away Massilya’s dark form sat slumped wearily against the wall. There was no sign of Lani. Madeline’s eyes snapped back to Operations, noting again his defensive stance.

On the video she could see clearly that he’d suffered some abuse at Kemp’s hands. In spite of the damage he straightened and nodded to Michael.

"Glad you finally made it," he commented dryly. Then he bent back to Nikita, touching her cheek and murmuring something too low to be picked up by audio. Video captured his expression, however, and Madeline’s careful scrutiny missed nothing. She kept her own face carefully blank in response to curious glances from the three techs.

Then Operations stood and his face was hard and unreadable. "Give me a gun."

The nearest operative complied instantly. Operations checked the load.

"Kemp is mine," he said unequivocally, sending a threatening glare around the group.

With a final glance at Nikita, he left the room.

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

Kemp staggered through the underbrush that flourished alongside the road to his house. One hand was clamped tightly to a bleeding but shallow bullet crease on his left upper arm. He cursed the darkness as he stumbled yet again, the noise hideously loud in his ears.

What in the hell was going on?

Panting, he slowed to catch his breath and listen. He pulled his hand away and could see in the faint light that his arm was still bleeding, though not as freely. He looked around, getting his bearings; grateful for all the hours he’d spent in these woods with his dogs.

He had to get out. Retreat was the only option left. Slowly, quietly he made his way toward the bridge.

Whoever had attacked his house tonight had gone through this hand-picked men like they were toddlers in a sandbox. Obviously they must have been after Wolfe and the other two. But why? He cursed yet again, this time directing it at himself. If only I hadn’t been so intent on a personal agenda…I should have found out more from Wolfe.

Suddenly he stopped. On the narrow track that led from his house to the bridge were two men. Wearing black, they crouched soundlessly on either side of the road, barely discernible in the feeble light. Obviously he couldn’t just walk out between them. Judging from what he’d seen earlier tonight, he doubted he could just sneak by. Unarmed, that risk was unacceptable. Damn.

He doubled back silently, racking his brains to think of any other way off this island. In the freezing water, with his laughable swimming ability, he doubted he’d last long enough to get to shore. Not exactly Mark Spitz are you, Stu?

The boat…! He groaned. The motor’s battery was dead. He had meant to replace it but instead waited in his office, waiting on a mysterious phone call. The engine noise would give me away before I got enough distance anyhow. The he remembered the canoe.

He tried to recall when he’d seen it last tied up at the dock. He never used it, preferring to enjoy the water surging ahead of a 300 horsepower engine. Most often it was his son who would take it out to fish or simply paddle around the lake. Thank god he’s away at school! The thought vanished quickly as fear for his own safety rose again, stifling. Setting the canoe as his goal, Kemp maneuvered back through the woods toward his dock.

At the edge of the woods he stopped to listen, straining his ears for any unexpected sound. The night was quiet, all insect life long since frosted into oblivion. Nothing. Not for long, he reminded himself. The Keystone Cops will be arriving any time. You can’t be here, Stuart.

He could see the canoe bobbing on a short rope about halfway down the dock. Cautiously, his senses hyper-extended, he stepped out onto the small patch of open lawn between woods and water. A furtive step, then another, listening. He braced himself to dash the remaining distance.

"Going somewhere, Stuart?"

The spoken words totally unnerved Kemp, nearly sending him sprawling over his own feet. Awkwardly he spun around to face the voice.

"Paul."

Wolfe was staring at him, as if those pale, eerie eyes might bore a hole right through his forehead. Then a stray beam of light reflected dully off the gun in Wolfe’s hand and Kemp backpedaled a step involuntarily.

"What the hell’s going on here?" he demanded in a high, desperate voice. "Who are all these people? Who are you?"

Wolfe smiled, a sinister expression that was a perfect, ghoulish match for his eyes.

"You don’t know, do you Stuart?" He shook his head disgust. "Somebody had to have told you how to pick me up -- and I have an idea who that was. Didn’t you ask any questions at all?" He paused, waiting for an answer.

Kemp had no idea what to say that wouldn’t exacerbate his situation. He felt keenly the irony of being once again bested by Wolfe and those loyal to him. The old hatred rose in his throat, burning bile that threatened to choke him with its bitter, malign memories.

"Who are you?" he shrieked, his lips trembling.

"I could tell you," Wolfe said coldly. "But then I’d have to kill you."

Kemp watched transfixed as Wolfe began to approach him at a deliberate, measured pace. Fear that he hadn’t felt in thirty long years gripped his bowels fiercely and turned traitorous limbs to jelly. He hated himself for it.

"I’m a four star general," he whispered wildly. "You can’t just kill me."

"I can," Wolfe stated calmly. "To me, your little military organization is like…toy soldiers." He shrugged dismissively.

"What…” Kemp began, then stopped, deciding he didn’t want to know after all.

Wolfe approached to within two steps and stopped. Kemp twitched with fear, his eyes locked cobra-like on the smooth fascination of the gun barrel. Wolfe’s voice flowed into his ears.

"You never were the better man, Stuart, but I didn’t hate you for it the way you hated me. What I’ve seen and done in the last thirty years can’t be compared with your insignificant military career -- or with what I myself would have done had I remained…among the living."

"Who are you," Kemp breathed one last time as Wolfe stepped even closer.

"Section One, Stuart."

Kemp thought he might faint. "That’s…real?"

"It’s real. And it’s mine."

Around the darkened lake, unstrung neighbors flinched and clutched each other at the sound of yet another gunshot.

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

"First things first, Michael.”

Madeline waited for the incoming team’s arrival and stopped Michael with a touch on his arm when he would follow the stretchers to MedLab.

Madeline glanced significantly at the four remaining abeyance operatives as they began shifting restlessly. A knot of brawny young men approached, grim executioners ready to take them away.

“It seems you’ve already taken care of it.”

“No, not really. I want you to do the honors.”

“Michael?” The plea came from one of the operatives in custody. Karsten; the youngest field operative there, 26 years old and possessed of no small amount of potential. Michael’s earlier suspicions bloomed into reality. “Where are they taking us?”

“It isn’t necessary that I…”

“And that one comment shows why it is, Michael.”

Birkoff pushed between them laden with two, soft-sided cases full of computing power. Madeline halted him as well, again with a gentle touch at the elbow.

“I’ll take these, Birkoff.” She nodded to one of her men and he quickly stripped the equipment from a bewildered Birkoff.

“But…I’ve got to --.”

“You have only to follow orders, Mr. Birkoff. They need you in Comm,” said Madeline coldly. Birkoff began to sense the tension in the hall as his eyes hit on the nervous abeyance operatives and the burly men who wore body-types and dour expressions like a uniform that stood ready to take them to their deaths. Even Michael stood stiffly, his gaze seemingly a green laser-beam of absolute zero…aimed at Madeline.

Karsten looked to Michael again. “What’s gonna happen? Where are they taking us?”

“Now, Michael. The longer you wait, the better chance for Oversight to catch wind of this.” Madeline left them, two assistants in her wake.

Revelation came to Birkoff like a landslide. She…she just ordered their deaths…to keep the mission covert. Frozen for what seemed far longer but was only one inhaled breath, he sidled away from the condemned, putting as much distance and association between himself and them as possible.

As he backed away his gaze fixed on Michael’s face, seeing only the still, unreadable mask he always wore. Birkoff hoped that somehow Michael would find a way to commute those death sentences…at least for the two whose status had been changed expressly for this mission. Then a sudden thought clenched his guts into a tight fist of panic, banishing all sympathetic thoughts for anyone else.

She can’t kill me …just to hide Operations’ rescue from Oversight… Can she? he thought. He quickly lengthened his stride. Running would only attract attention, but by the time he issued from the hallway into the heart of Section, his speed was considerable.

“Woah! Birkoff, what’s the rush?” Walter pulled up short before the younger man marched right over him.

"Walter!” Relieved to see his familiar face, Birkoff gripped Walter’s arm, seeking reassurance in the contact.

“What is going on around here?” Walter demanded. “Madeline is tearing around like a dragon on Midol, I hear there’s someone going down to…” He rolled his eyes meaningfully. Birkoff knew exactly what he meant. Cancellation. “And I hear you don’t know what a dryer looks like?”

“You have no idea, Walter.” Birkoff shook his head. He gestured for Walter to follow him as he finished his journey to Comm. Irritation punched through his fear momentarily. “Hey, I’ll have you know that I had the correct screening software was in place! Whoever built that house put the laundry in the basement, not upstairs. They didn’t put the change on the stupid blueprint.”

“People do change their minds, Birkoff,” Walter said wryly.

“Yeah, well, the guy’s dead anyhow.” Birkoff dropped into his chair. He looked up, stricken. “And you’re right about the rumors. Madeline’s having the rest of the team cancelled.”

“The entire team? Cancelled?”

“Yeah.” Birkoff stared at the blank monitor contemplating his dull reflection, arms limp at his sides. “Three fatalities in the field as it was, now… It looks like just me and Michael are walking away from this one.” He fervently hoped he wouldn’t see meaty drones enter Comm, ready to take him down to…

“Well.” Walter stared into space for a second. He looked back, suddenly smiling. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but…” He glanced around and then moved closer. “It looks like we’ll be getting our old Nikita back.”

“Huh?” Birkoff stared incredulously at him. “What are you talking about?”

Walter spoke with low conspiracy. “Michael says he can go forward with finding a way to get Nikita fixed to how she used to be. He can’t be too obvious about it, but…” A sunny grin broke out once more.

Birkoff stared, his mouth open. He hauled his lower jaw up and turned on his computer. “I’ve got a ton of mop-up work here, Walter. Madeline is riding us all hard on this one. The ones she hasn’t cancelled, at least.”

“Uh, okay. I’ve got stuff to try for Nikita anyhow.” He wandered off.

Sure, rush off and get Nikita back, Birkoff thought bitterly, hording the aching need to share his fears with a friend. When are you going to hang around when I need a friend?

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

A maelstrom of separate thoughts twined together like choking vines in Madeline’s head, joining to form a Gordian knot. She flicked off her computer and sat in thoughtful silence, wondering how best to unravel the mess…and wondering when she might have to simply slice through it.

Greg Hillinger’s careful message giving her General Stuart Kemp fit her assessment of his warped sense of payback and Machiavellian desires. He seeks to curry favor from everyone he can…not a double agent, but an independent agent, one with debts owed him from everyone. She would make good use of those desires, although Hillinger might be surprised later when attempting to collect any of that debt.

The slippery manner in which Greg gave her the information told Madeline that George must have had a role in the entire misadventure…else, why send it so secretly? Before he died, Kemp’s excited utterances confirmed he had some mysterious benefactor, a secret source of forbidden knowledge. As she reversed her way through slick thinking, her respect for George rose. Without sullying his hands, without fatally compromising Section One itself, he had nearly rid himself of Operations. And if Kemp had had any idea of who Paul really was, George might well have succeeded.

Life in Section One…without Paul Wolfe as Operations. It had almost come to pass this day. She began imagining how best to garner a suitable revenge from George. It would have to be subtle…and it would be more effective than his near-miss.

Life…without Paul Wolfe…

What gave Madeline such power was how she used the truth. Lies were powerful tools, but not so powerful as the truth. When she told Michael they would have made a good team at the helm of Section One, it rang with authority, for it was true. She and Michael could shape a formidable leadership. And so she had drawn forth his minimal reaction.

That same truth often cut the wielder. She and Operations made a better team. She maintained a brutal self-honesty, and honestly…there were brutal truths inside the slithering tendrils of their relationship. Truths that were about to be tested. Memory demanded her attention and played without surcease the contents of Kemp’s computer hard drive in her mind’s eye.

Grainy black and white security camera feed taken at less than 24 frames per second provided lurid, jerky motion to the figures on the bed. Pale hair and dark clothing gave enough contrast for positive identification. The sounds of pained effort when passion, real or feigned, intersected at cross-purposes with fresh wounds projected loud enough to overcome a sub-standard audio recording system.

There is no jealousy.

Madeline refused payment on jealousy long ago. She could not afford it then, she had no need of it now. Jealousy aside, there would be repercussions from this…encounter. There was an almost pleasant feeling of anticipation as she planned how best to manipulate this…opportunity to her advantage.

It will be a challenge.

Madeline considered how best to face this latest challenge as she left her office and began the long walk to MedLab.

And sooner than I’d hoped, she thought, spying a familiar figure approaching from the opposite direction.

At the end of the corridor Michael and Madeline intersected paths. After they nodded a silent greeting and fell in together Madeline was the first to speak.

"You’ve seen the debrief?"

"Yes."

"What did you think of their…technique?"

There was no such thing as an unfortunate or ill-considered word choice with Madeline. Michael suppressed his annoyed reaction. "They did what they had to do under the circumstances," he said stiffly.

Madeline nodded and allowed a short, smug pause. "I’m sure Nikita will not be affected by it."

He looked at her as they stopped at the entrance to Medlab. "I’m sure Operations won’t be either."

Madeline paused a moment, her eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“I assume you’re on your way to check on Nikita?”

“Operations and Massilya as well, yes.”

“Before you do, there is a matter of some pressing urgency…”

“Moscow.”

“Of course. I diverted Dolph there two days ago, but he can only delay them. You will have to go.”

“Of course,” he echoed.

“There is more to this mission than just missing national treasures --.“

“I’ll be expected to participate in negotiations for more satellite access.”

He knew! Madeline killed the reaction before it reached her skin. She shrugged elegantly. “Comm is good, but they can’t hack all our resources…”

“I know who to talk to.”

“You might want to prepare. You leave in four hours.”

Michael regarded her somberly and said gentlemanly, “Thank you. I will. In the meantime,” he drew in a satisfying breath. “Since I delivered Operations to you, if you would begin preparations to deliver Nikita to me…”

“Of course,” she replied, her voice stilted.

He glanced briefly through the windows of the MedLab doors, but turned and walked away without going through them, leaving Madeline with the bill for his earlier cooperation.

She never shirked the difficult jobs before. Madeline turned her back on MedLab and retraced her path to her office. The files on Nikita’s adjustment waited there.

* * * *

Operations shrugged carefully into his jacket, shifting and adjusting until everything felt normal. God, it was good to have real clothing on again. Like most of them, he disliked being in Medlab. Unlike most of them, he had the authority to check himself out when he became heartily sick of it. He slowed as he approached Nikita’s door. He would just look in. She’s probably asleep, anyway. He felt an unaccustomed twinge of guilt when he remembered how Nikita had looked by the time Michael and his team arrived. Kemp had taken out much of his humiliated rage on Nikita, and she had continued to provoke him, relentlessly and deliberately...right up until the moment she’d lost consciousness. The effect had been to spare Operations and Massilya the brunt of Kemp’s wrath.

He looked in. On the heels of guilt came admiration. He went in and sat down.

Nikita opened her eyes and focused on Operations. Improbably, they smiled at one another.

"How are you feeling?" Operations asked quietly.

She shook her head slightly. "I’ve been better." Then her brows knitted together in concern. "How is Massilya?"

"I don’t know yet."

"Kemp?"

"A sad thing," he replied in feigned regret. "He was found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot. Perhaps he felt he had no purpose in life after retiring from active service. It happens sometimes with these career types."

"I see." Complete understanding in her eyes. But no pity.

Operations nodded. He glanced about the room. Blank walls. Medical equipment. Subliminal hum. He smiled grimly to himself, recognizing how difficult he found doling out praise. He looked back at Nikita. “Your performance in the field was exemplary, Nikita.”

Nikita looked back at him, amused wonder resting in the curve of one eyebrow. “I just do my job.”

“You did your job well…and we’re all alive because of that.” He smiled and patted her hand. "Get some more sleep. I’ll let you know about Massilya."

Nikita watched him rise painfully to his feet.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Nothing some lunch wouldn’t cure. The food in here is for sick people.” He smiled tightly. At the door he paused. “Thank you, Nikita.”

Nikita’s eyes followed him as he passed through the door.

Was that…approval she heard in his voice?

Huh! Her surprise followed her down into dreams as she dozed off.

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

Epilogue

Nikita dozed restlessly in her own bed. Her dreams were broken and chaotic, more a series of images and impressions, really, than any actual sequence.

Like kaleidoscope images they flickered in and out … green eyes that held hers, full of unspoken words; a different body, tall and lean, arched over hers, and feelings -- yes -- of guilty lust, but not desire; a voice, softly accented, that reached into her viscera and turned her inside out. She struggled upward to consciousness hearing another voice, and seeing pale blue eyes that now seemed familiar…

Michael stood by her nightstand, watching the flutter of dreams tremble against her eyelids. He had entered her apartment as soon as he returned from Moscow; before debrief, before consulting with Madeline. He knew Madeline had not had time to unwork the arcane effects of Nikita’s ‘adjustment’, yet…

She woke, a gentle transition in dim evening light.

“Michael!” She seemed surprised and slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I -- I thought you were in Moscow.”

“I just got back.”

He was surprised when she smiled at him. "You had left before I got a chance to thank you. It looks like I owe you my life one more time.” She gestured to the chair. “Sit. Or are you…? Michael, why are you here?”

He shook his head slightly. Crowding all other thoughts out of his mind were the primal questions he desperately wanted to have answered.

How was it? Did you like it at all? Or was it just…necessary acting?

But of course, those questions could never see the light of day.

“I wanted to see how you were doing. You were roughed up pretty bad.”

“Oh,” she nodded. “Well, I’m getting stronger every day.”

"I’m glad you’re safe." It sounded lame even to his own ears. Inside he felt the searingly familiar acid of self-restraint and denial. It was time to leave.

Then she reached out and touched his hand. When he looked at her she was smiling, like… like…before. Wild hope surged; he chained it cruelly. He knew Madeline had not yet begun the reversal…

"Thank you, Michael," she whispered.

"Nikita…” A long pause. It would be a mistake to ask her anything.

"What, Michael?"

He had to know something. Any little piece of it. "With Operations…was it…difficult?"

Her lips curved into a small, secret smile and her eyes changed. He knew that for just a moment she no longer saw him. "It was difficult…at first. Now, I think…” She paused and looked thoughtfully at Michael.

“I think we’ve achieved a kind of…mutual respect.”

She reached out and stroked one finger the length of his hand, then allowed her fingers to curl around his. Reflexively, gently, he closed his hand, linking them together. Inside, he loosened the stranglehold on his hope.

I can be patient.

Madeline had promised; he would hold her to it.

I can be very patient.

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