Nikita fiddled absently with a pair of sunglasses on the table before her, opening and closing them repetitively. She and Michael sat at one end of the large conference table, listening to Operations sum up the sketchy information they'd have to work with.

"Our successes with informants up the chain have led us to a high-level buyer representative who works for most of the middle-east governments. A meet has been set up for tonight between this buyer representative and a potential seller."

Next to Nikita, Michael sat quiet and attentive, as usual. "Is the seller anyone we know?"

Operations hesitated. "Probably not. They're local. We expect they're small-time peddlers who have access to some unusual item the buyer wants."

He fixed them with a flinty look. "We don't have a visual on the buyer rep. You'll have to bring out everyone you find at the meet. Do not risk accidental killing of the buyer." He paused. "I know we don't have much to go on, but we can't miss this opportunity tonight. Questions?"

Nikita mulled over the briefing, something undefined niggling at the back of her thoughts. She kept an unfocused gaze on Operations as her mind worked this over, and was startled to see him look directly at her when he spoke.

"Remember, everyone at the meet comes back for questioning. See Birkhoff for tactical information." He walked away.

Nikita sat another moment then shrugged off her unease. There was no point mentioning anything; nobody here put much stock in intuition. Michael looked over at her then as the second and third team operatives filed in. "I'm going to get started here, would you see if Birkoff has copies of tactical ready yet?" Without waiting for an answer he turned back and began calling off names, teaming operatives in preparation for receiving their instructions.

Enthroned behind his computers, Birkoff nodded distractedly as Nikita leaned on the back of his chair. "Michael's ready for tactical." She reached over his shoulder and helped herself to a cookie.

"Watch the crumbs…" Birkoff mumbled with no particular vehemence, although he was normally maniacally protective of his electronics. Leaning over, he popped out a small diskette and added it to a stack, which he then handed to Nikita. "There, a copy for everybody." Finally he spared a glance up at her and continued, "Hang on a second I'll download the visual on the sellers."

"No." Operations spoke sharply and unexpectedly from behind Nikita, his approach unheard by either of them. "We don't have confirmation yet that it's accurate."

Birkoff looked at him strangely. "But…"

Operations broke in again immediately. "We don't want a fatal mistake to be made based on unconfirmed data." He raised his eyebrows at Birkoff. "Do we." It was not a question.

Nikita looked warily at Operations for a moment, then squeezed Birkoff's shoulder. "It's OK, Birkoff. I'll just run these over to Michael. He's already started briefing the teams." With a last curious glance, Nikita headed back to the conference room, her mental antennae humming.

Operations watched her go, then shot a fierce look back at Birkoff, who swiveled around instantly and busied himself at the keyboard before him. Whatever was going on today, he didn't want to be in the crossfire.

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

Thick cloud cover rendered the freezing night utterly black. The unlit warehouse was in crumbling disrepair and its littered yard would be an obstacle course in this poor visibility.

Michael's voice whispered in her ear. "Nikita?"

"I'm here," she whispered back, nudging her earpiece into a more comfortable position. They had been dropped with their respective teams behind a concealing scrap pile on the side of the warehouse.

His soft accent continued. "Your team will circle around and come in the back. I'll be approaching through the front. Wait for my signal."

"Right. We're moving."

"Nikita." Once more she heard Michael's soft voice. "Remember, no kill shots."

Nikita acknowledged the reminder then gestured silently to her team of three. They began picking their way carefully through the debris that lay scattered across the frosty yard, making their way around the edge of the building to the rear entrance. Inexplicably, the door of the ruined warehouse bore a heavy, rusted padlock. Hissing through her teeth in annoyance, Nikita carefully worked a small vial out of its hard-shelled container at her waist. Handling it cautiously she worked the cap loose and poured the contents over the shackle of the padlock. A tiny hissing sound ensued as the acid reacted with the rusty metal. A minute or two later Nikita gave a gentle tug and the lock came away quietly in her hand.

Looking around themselves in all directions, the team eased their way slowly through the door. A vague leak of light came from the center of the building, sparing them from complete darkness. They stopped inside and held their breath, listening. A vague murmur of voices came to them from a distance, the words unintelligible. Nikita tapped each man's arm, gesturing to indicate their directions and then sent them off with her finger pressed to her lips. Silence was essential. They fanned out and approached the low voices within.

Nikita peered between two large crates at the four men who stood grouped in the constricted pool of light. Another upended crate served them as a makeshift table, on which papers were spread out, apparently the topic of their low conversation and gestures. She stood silently, waiting for Michael's signal.

Then it came. Two sharp taps. In unison the eight Section operatives stepped forward, surrounding the small group of men with a circle of firearms. Michael spoke quietly and politely. "Please put all guns on the floor. We would like you to come with us."

The men exchanged glances but did not speak. Finally, one sighed in resignation and dropped his handgun to the floor. The others reluctantly followed suit. Michael nodded to the team with him and the operatives moved forward to pat down and secure the four men, fastening their hands behind them. "Who the hell are you people?" one of them finally asked in an aggrieved tone. Michael's eyes flicked coldly over the man. "You don't need to know that."

He looked over at Nikita then, opening his mouth to speak, when suddenly his teeth clenched and he brought his pistol around to aim it directly at her. Even as Michael cried her name in warning, Nikita felt cold gunmetal pressing hurtfully into the side of her neck, and a hand winding itself tightly into her braid to grasp and pull her head back. She froze.

In the next moment the hand shifted its grip to pull her face slightly to the side. He looked at her closely, as if not able to believe what he saw. Nikita sucked in her breath in surprise. "Stephen," she whispered. Then, just as suddenly, her captor looked over at Michael and began to backpedal, keeping his gun at Nikita's neck and pulling her along by the hair. "Nikita!" Michael took a step toward them then stopped, steadying his pistol in both hands.

"No, Michael!" Nikita cried. "Don't shoot!" They looked at each other as she was pulled away, stumbling, desperation in both their faces. Then she was gone into the black expanse of the warehouse. *************

Michael looked down through the glass, deliberately facing away from Operations. His voice was low and forced when he spoke. "Why aren't we going after her?"

"I thought you knew better than to ask 'why' around here." Operations stood with his arms folded, his face harsh in the bright overhead light.

Michael closed his eyes momentarily, breathing evenly to keep focused. "We have the buyer's representative. Whoever grabbed Nikita was with the local sellers. What's stopping us?"

Stepping to Michael's side at the glass Operations responded in a conciliatory tone. "Look, Michael. I know you're concerned about Nikita. I am too. But for now we have to give this a little time. There isn't anything more I can add to that right now. I hope you understand."

Mentally, Michael dismissed Operations' veiled implication that something was at stake. In his habitual location between a rock and a hard place, Michael understood that somehow, again, he would have to compromise the need to aid Nikita with his obligation to obey orders. All he said was, "How long?"

"Probably within the next twelve hours." Operations turned and studied Michael's face. "You look tired. Why don't you go get some rest."

Michael looked back at him for a moment, his gaze cool and assessing. Then he nodded briefly and walked away. Operations watched from above with narrowed eyes as Michael crossed the floor below.

In his office Michael stood looking out the window, rubbing his chin and reviewing every aspect of the evening's events. They had gone in not knowing exactly how many to look for at the meet, and mentally he chastised himself that they hadn't prepared against the possibility of being approached from behind. He replayed again and again the pistol at Nikita's throat, her face as she was dragged from his sight. It made no sense, but it had seemed to him that she was not truly afraid. Surely he'd seen her terrified enough times to recognize it.

Pressing fingers into his forehead, he concentrated on an image of her assailant's face. He had looked familiar somehow. Mentally, Michael flipped through a vast catalogue of faces, keeping the image before his mind's eye and hoping something would trigger a match in his mind.

Then, suddenly, sweet realization flooded him, followed as quickly by disbelief and confusion. The man he had seen tonight was dead. Nikita herself had killed him.

He sat down at his desk then, calling up files from their mission to intercept Brosos and his attempted purchase of the CM-12 guidance chip. Scanning photos as quickly as they could load, he finally located the face he had seen that evening. Stephen Wolfe. He remembered the scene…taking cover behind a car as gunfire was exchanged all around him…his gun in one hand and a new clip in the other…Stephen Wolfe standing over him ready to shoot….and Nikita firing to cover him, killing the man. Except, obviously, he was not dead.

After a moment's consideration, he snapped the computer off and stared unseeing at the blank screen, questions crowding his mind. Unbidden, the unlikely thought came to him that she had arranged the whole thing as a means to cover an escape from the Section. Suddenly he rose and left the room, walking rapidly and continuing to formulate a plan.

Birkoff looked up inquiringly as Michael leaned over his chair. "How far can you track the signal from a comm set?"

Missing only a beat before he understood Michael's intentions, Birkoff looked around them and answered in a low voice. "Usually not far…it's a pretty weak signal. I might be able to rig something from a regular tracker and some new circuit test equipment of Walter's." He paused, mentally processing and picturing the possibilities, then began nodding. "I'm pretty sure I could do something. Give me about an hour."

"Do it." Michael squeezed his shoulder briefly and walked away.

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

"You can put that thing away, you know." Nikita slouched in a wing chair pulled up to the flickering grate. "I didn't kill you before and I don't intend to now."

Stephen looked at her a moment, then shook his head and tossed the gun onto a small, ornate table beside him. His brow wrinkled with confusion and he raised both hands in a gesture of frustration. "Who *are* you. And why are you here again?"

Nikita took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "You didn't take my advice, did you? I told you to get a life." She shot him a bitter glance. "Now look at this mess."

She sat up in the chair then, leaning her elbows on her knees and raking her fingers through her hair. The situation looked bad from any angle. Operations had to have known - or suspected - that Stephen was involved in this sale. The briefing made perfect sense to her now. Soon Operations would know that she and Stephen were together. She looked at Stephen without speaking as he slowly moved to the chair opposite her and sat down. He stared into the fire for some minutes before speaking.

"I need to raise a lot of money. Doing this is the only way I know how." He looked up at her and continued in a defiant tone. "What did you think I'd do - get a job?"

"This is still about your father, isn't it?" Nikita asked gently. He glanced over, his expression confirming her guess. "You know you could be risking your life for a wild goose chase."

"What do you care?" he immediately shot back. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at her suspiciously. "You know something, don't you? Something about my father. This is just too much for it to be coincidence."

Nikita shook her head and leaned back in her chair. After a moment she rose restlessly and went to the mantel, fiddling with the small decorative items scattered across it. She changed the subject abruptly, keeping her back to Stephen she spoke. "The buyer you met tonight - who's he representing?"

Stephen gave a snort of incredulous laughter. "You think I'd tell you that? I'd be finished forever in this business if I went around giving out names."

Nikita turned then and regarded him sadly, knowing he had no understanding of what was coming. Her voice was filled with pity as she told him quietly, "Stephen, the moment you grabbed me….you were finished forever anyway."

He looked at her face, surprised to see compassion there. Cold dread began to prickle along the length of his spine. Although he knew nothing of this woman - except that she had saved his life - he could feel the truth of her words. "What's going on here?" he whispered.

Nikita leaned her head on the edge of the mantel as she organized her thoughts. At last she went to his chair and leaned over him, her hands on the chair arms. "Look, Stephen, you are in the middle of something you *don't* want to be in." He said nothing, waiting for her to go on. Nikita looked him directly in the eyes as she spoke, gauging his level of belief. "I work for a government agency you have never heard of, and never will hear of. The people you were with tonight were taken by that agency, and believe me, they are going to spill everything they know. Your customers will assume you talked, too. The buyers who set up tonight's deal will be dead soon. And so will you, as soon as any of your business associates find you." And so will I, she thought, if I can't give Operations a way out of this.

Stephen looked away from her then, staring back into the fire. After a few moments he smiled at her and spoke in a jeering tone. "You really expect me to believe that, don't you?"

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

Dressed completely in his customary black Michael slipped from window to window like a dark wraith. Birkoff's jerry-rigged tracking device had led him to this quiet neighborhood of restored Victorian homes, then further to this particular house. He wished again that he'd been able to bring eavesdropping equipment. Its sensitivity would have allowed him to monitor individual conversations within the house, narrowing the search significantly. Suspicion would have been aroused, however, so he'd had to leave Section One quickly and under-equipped. Now, with the old house sub-divided into numerous apartments, Michael was forced to check each room visually.

Flattened against the wall, he peered finally into a small window at the back of the house. The fire within had warmed the room, creating beads of condensation on the inside of the cold glass. No matter how bad the visibility, there was no mistaking the long blond braid hanging down the back of the woman inside. No mistaking her motions or the sound of her voice, even if he couldn't make out the words. He had found her and she was unharmed. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes momentarily in relief.

Straightening then and dropping down to pass beneath the window level, Michael followed the side of the house along and around a corner until he came to the back door. A moment's work with the lock and he was inside. The atmosphere within was warm and stuffy, redolent of dinner and old woodwork. Michael crept silently through the darkened kitchen and along a short hall, coming to a door where he paused to listen intently.

Very little could be heard through the thick wood of the old fashioned six-panel door, but it was enough to assure him he was in the right place. He tried the knob gently, silently, finding it unlocked. Drawing his gun then, Michael turned the knob and threw the door back, bursting into the room suddenly. His gun was trained directly on Stephen, who had leaped up in shock. No one spoke.

The fire crackled and hissed in the silence as they all looked at each other. Finally Nikita drew a deep breath and walked over to stand beside Michael, placing her hand on his arm and gently pushing the gun down. Michael allowed this, his eyes not leaving Stephen. Then he looked at Nikita for an explanation.

"Michael…" she began, then stopped. She looked from him to Stephen and back again, trying to find words that would make sense of the situation without revealing too much to either of them. No words came to her. "I need to talk to you alone," she said to Michael at last. Glancing behind her at Stephen she took Michael's arm and pulled him across the room to the end of the shadowy recess where the door lay. She turned her back on the room and put her face very close to Michael's, whispering quietly. "This is a very difficult situation."

Michael said nothing. He listened attentively, letting his eyes flick up occasionally to survey Stephen in the room beyond.

Nikita went on, groping for anything. "He…can lead us to the buyer."

"So can the others we already have under interrogation," Michael responded logically, his voice a soft murmur. "Let's cancel him and get out of here before somebody starts to think you've become a risk." Then he look at her oddly and added, "This time make sure he's canceled."

Nikita's stomach clutched with dread. Of course Michael recognized Stephen. She should have expected that he would. Now there was no other way.

She closed her hand on a fistful of his jacket. "No. We can't cancel him, Michael." She looked intently into his face, forcing the words to her lips. "He is Operations' son."

She let him absorb this fact in stunned silence for a moment before going on to answer his unspoken questions as succinctly as possible. "Operations told me himself before the CM-12 mission. He asked me to keep Stephen alive. When you saw me shoot him it was with a drugged dart, not a bullet." She snorted bitterly. "He promised me my freedom in exchange for his son's life." The lie of this was self-evident.

Michael gazed at her with some sympathy, then raised his hand slowly to push back the loose strands of hair around her face. "How much does Stephen know?"

Strangely relieved not to bear the knowledge alone any longer, Nikita whispered back. "Just that I work for a government agency, and that he's in a lot of trouble." She paused. "He also thinks I may know something about who his father is."

Stephen's raised voice came to them from within the room. "Hey. Is the conference about over?"

They looked at each other. Nikita shook her head, beginning to see what she would have to do. "I have to take him in, Michael. It's the only way." She glanced around at Stephen once then turned back to Michael, the seriousness of the situation evident in her features. "You must *never* let Operations know I told you."

Without waiting for a response Nikita arranged a detached look on her face then turned her back on Michael, returning to stand in front of Stephen. "Does anyone know you're here?" she asked him.

He considered a moment before answering. "Just the people who were with me at the warehouse tonight."

Nikita looked questioningly at Michael. "We have them all," he confirmed.

She nodded her head, thinking for a moment longer before speaking. "Stephen, we need to leave for a while and you need to stay right here until you hear from me. Will you do that?"

He hesitated. "This will mean your life, Stephen," Nikita went on seriously and softly. "If you want to live you must do what I ask."

He looked down and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, nodding, he sat down in a chair facing away from them and Nikita could scarcely hear his mutter. "I'll wait….a while."

Outside in the frigid night Nikita stopped Michael with a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she said.

He looked down at her, his breath curling in the frosty air. "Why?"

"For bringing you into this. You know what could happen if Operations finds out I told you." She looked down. "And I'm sorry because…for a long time I thought you had done something…taken something…now I know that you didn't." In her mind's eye she saw Operations brandishing the videotape in her face.

Michael took her hand and pulled it through his arm. He asked for no explanation. "Don't be sorry," he said quietly as they walked away from the house. "I will never need an apology from you."

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

Nikita glanced up as she crossed the darkened central floor area, knowing he would be looking down at her. He was, as expected. His pale eyes pierced her like a steel spike, and she mentally shook herself to prepare for the upcoming confrontation.

A skeleton crew below kept watch over communications and the upper deck was only dimly lit in this late hour. He kept his back to her as she approached. Smoke curled upward from a small cigar between his fingers. "Well?" was all he said.

"You knew he would be there, "she said, her tone accusatory. Nikita stayed where she was, saying nothing more until he finally turned and looked at her. Knowing it would be his first - but unvoiced - concern, she said, "Stephen is in a safe place waiting to hear from me."

Operations seemed to relax slightly then, holding his cigar up and rolling it to and fro, regarding it closely. "Tell me what happened."

"He grabbed me at the warehouse, and recognized me almost immediately. He took me to a place; we talked." Nikita braced herself. "I told him that I work for a government agency and warned him that he won't be safe anywhere after his partners talk and buyers start to disappear."

The look Operations gave her was black and foreboding. "What did you want me to do?" Nikita said defensively, angrily. "Let him go out and become a target for revenge killing?" She waited a moment then continued contemptuously. "Or maybe he should just be canceled. You know that's what would happen if he were anyone else."

Operations took a slow drag from the cigar and stared down at the floor for a long time. When he looked up at her again his face was composed and his voice icy. He jabbed the cigar at her for emphasis. "Yet again you have created a situation in which there are almost no options, Nikita." He turned his back to her then, looking down through the glass into the darkness below. He did not go on.

With a start of surprise Nikita realized that she was witnessing Operations in a state of turmoil. The situation was emotionally charged, personal, and he was indecisive about how to handle it. Despite herself, Nikita felt a twinge of pity for him. She moved closer and spoke from just behind his shoulder.

"You could tell him the truth."

His response was immediate. "No. I've told you this before. He'd be a target for the rest of his life. I can't protect him and I won't risk that."

"What if you could….protect him, I mean?" Nikita asked slowly.

He faced her then, his expression closed and wary. "What do you mean?"

"What if there was a way you could help to protect him and give him the skills to help protect himself? Even tell him the truth someday?" She was thinking rapidly now, assessing the possibilities and weighing the odds. She looked at Operations, in the grip of her own inspiration.

He looked at her narrowly, something starting to loosen in his face. "How?"

Nikita's soft words were almost swallowed up in the silence. "Recruit him."

In the low light the planes of his face were soft and indistinct, and Nikita sensed rather than saw the small leaping moment of hope while he actually considered her words. It was fleeting. "That's out of the question," he said, his voice sounding harsh and disappointed.

"Why?"

He faced the window again, his reflection vague and distorted. "I shouldn't have to tell you the reasons. "

Nikita responded instantly. "Tell me anyway." He said nothing. "Is it because we're in harm's way every time we go out?" She gave a snort of ironic laughter. "It isn't like he's safe now, you know. At least here he'd be properly trained. You could have some control over the situations he went into."

Operations remained silent and Nikita went to stand beside him at the glass, putting the words together in her mind before speaking. "Is it because I would know who he is? Do you think I would tell people…or use it against you?" She turned to face his unrevealing profile and spoke softly. "I understand that it's your business to expect the worst of people. And you don't like me, much, I know. I'm a good person, basically, and I think that's a big part of what you don't like. But that's exactly why you chose me when Stephen needed protection before, wasn't it?" She spoke more emphatically. "When you needed someone you could actually trust, you didn't ask Michael. You asked *me*."

She reached out and touched his sleeve, reflecting as she did so that it was the first time she had ever touched him. His face was expressionless as Nikita reminded him in a gentle voice, "I kept Stephen safe, and I never said anything to him about you.…even after you reneged on our agreement." Mentally she apologized for this lie of omission, wishing there had been some other way to keep Michael from killing Stephen.

Nikita dropped her hand then and faced the window once more. "I don't see any other way you can make sure he stays alive." Glancing back, she was surprised to see Operations watching her, wearing a mild, unguarded expression.

"Why would you do this?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

There was no reason she could give him that he would be likely to understand. Shaking her head, Nikita said only, "Because I can." She looked at him a moment more, then smiled slightly and turned away, speaking over her shoulder. "I don't know how long he'll wait. Let me know what I should do."

His cigar burned down unheeded as Operations looked out into the dark room for a long time.

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

Nikita breathed deeply of the icy night wind before shivering and reluctantly closing the balcony window. Her conversation with Operations had left her feeling charged and expectant. No matter what action he chose to take in this matter, it would have some significant consequences.

Puttering in her tiny kitchen, Nikita fed the persistent cat and made a mug of tea. Although she hardly had anything that could be called a domestic routine, the mindless activities were oddly soothing after the events of this day. She turned on quiet music, then pushed aside part of the clutter and slid down into a chair, letting the steaming tea mug warm her hands as she rested it on her stomach. Her eyes closed in blissful relaxation.

The music had finished when a quiet knock woke her some time later. She jumped, grimacing in disgust when the cold tea sloshed over, soaking quickly through her sweater.

The peephole confirmed the expected identity of her visitor. Nikita pulled open the door and stood aside to allow him entry, dabbing ineffectively with a towel at the clammy spot on her midriff. Operations glanced at these ministrations and closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head.

Nikita ignored this. She returned to the living room and sat back down in the chair she had just left, leaving Operations to sit or stand as he chose. He went to the windows and looked out into the night silently for a few moments before speaking. "Have you ever heard of William Shakespeare, Nikita?"

Puzzled, Nikita replied patiently, "Of course."

"This is the night that either makes me or fordoes me quite," Operations declaimed in a soft tone, finally turning to look at her with folded arms. "From 'Othello'," he added.

Nikita raised her eyebrows slightly and waited.

"I want you to bring Stephen in," he said abruptly.

Nikita nodded. "All right. What can I tell him?"

Operations pocketed his hands and began a slow circuit of the room as he spoke. "You've already told him you work for a government agency." She nodded again, confirming this. "Convince him that he needs to come in if he wants to live." He glanced at her. "That much will be true, anyway."

He paused at her line of hanging sunglasses, looking from them to her as if disbelieving that she would actually spend time and energy on such a display.

Nikita ignored this too. "What if he doesn't want to come?" She hesitated a moment. "Can I tell him his father is there?"

The answer came reluctantly, his voice heavy with regret. "No….I…don't know if the time will come to tell him."

Despite everything he done to her personally, and more to others, Nikita was suddenly overcome with sadness for this man and the life he lived. Like them, he was without family or friends and was in the Section for life, making decisions of staggering moral magnitude and living alone inside his own conscience. The little she knew of his history, if it were true, included endless years of unimaginable duress as a prisoner of war. And now, with a reunion within his grasp and requiring that he speak only one word, he would deny his own son.

She spoke in a whisper past the lump in her throat. "He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune….." Her voice trailed off as Operations stopped prowling and stood looking down at her, clearly surprised. She swallowed. "Francis Bacon essays…..Michael…after Simone," she mumbled by way of explanation, feeling slightly embarrassed, like a child trying and failing to be too smart before its elders.

"I'm glad you understand," was all he said.

Drawing a deep breath and straightening up, Nikita spoke then in a brisk tone. "So, you want me to bring him in. Shall I go alone?"

"No, take Michael with you." He watched her, waiting.

"Shall I tell him about Stephen, then?" Nikita asked carefully, wondering how much Operations knew. It would come as no surprise if he already knew she'd told Michael. She held her breath.

Operations tented his fingers in front of his face, blowing a little through them as he regarded her. "I want you and Michael to handle Stephen's training. Tailor it. Keep me intimately informed of his progress." He pulled a little at his turtleneck then, before pocketing his hands again and speaking matter-of-factly. "Michael and Madeline will both need to know. I'll talk with them myself once Stephen is brought in."

He stood looking at her a moment longer, then went to the door, where he paused. Nikita got up from her chair and followed him as far as the kitchen. "You know," he said, not looking at her, "You are now in an unusual position." He turned a piercing glare on her then. "See that you never try to take advantage of it."

Nikita met his look fearlessly. Slowly she smiled. "You're welcome."

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

"And for God's sake, don't forget to act surprised when he tells you," Nikita reiterated in a strident whisper. They were back at the house where they had left Stephen. Michael paused with his hand on the doorknob, turning a deadpan face to her. "Don't worry about it," he said evenly.

Nikita stifled a smile as she realized what he meant. Michael's long habit of expressionless demeanor would stand him in good stead for his upcoming conversation with Operations. She gestured for him to proceed with the door.

Stephen leaped to his feet upon hearing them return. "Well?" he demanded. "It's about time I found out what's going on." He looked from Nikita to Michael and back. "I want to know now."

Nikita nodded. "All right." She pursed her lips a little as she considered her words. "I already told you we work for a government agency. You can come with us. You'll train, and learn - and be safe from all the people who will soon be out there looking for you. Your life on the outside…will end." She stopped, waiting for his initial reaction He surprised her greatly then by seeing to the heart of the matter.

"Why? You protected me before," at this he shot a glance at Michael. "Now here you are again. And offering to take me into some kind of…enclave…where I'll be *safe*?." He shook his head. "This doesn't make sense. Who is behind this? Who would care if I lived or died?"

Nikita looked at him steadily, not able to say the words, but willing him to read something of the answer in her eyes. Gradually the expression on Stephen's face evolved: confusion, suspicion, disbelief and, finally, an inwardly thoughtful look as he went through the process of answering his own question. "Really," he said under his breath.

He picked up his coat and stood looking at them, giving a resigned shrug. "Let's go." ***********

With mixed feelings as she recalled her own beginnings here, Nikita escorted Stephen through the busy halls of the Section. He looked with great interest at the training activities they passed, as well as at Walter's toy shop and Birkoff's impressive technical station. She answered none of his questions.

Reaching the center of the main floor Stephen suddenly stopped short. His eyes, like those of so many others before him, were drawn upward to the observation deck. Operations stood looking down at them enigmatically. He gave them no sign of greeting or recognition.

"Who's that," Stephen asked, glancing at Nikita.

"Oh, him," she replied, looking up briefly. "Well, that's Operations. He runs the place." She put her hand on Stephen's arm to get him moving again. She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Don't get on his bad side."

Stephen had locked gazes with Operations and refused to be moved by Nikita. The two men stood transfixed for some moments before Stephen whispered under his breath, "Is that him?" He looked at Nikita then, desperate for confirmation of his strong premonition. "It is, isn't it?"

Nikita glanced up to see Operations still standing watch. "Let's go Stephen," she said, thumping him lightly on the back. "You've got a lot to learn. Time to get started."

Stephen resisted for a moment, then nodded and moved off beside her. Nikita looked over her shoulder once more, meeting the inscrutable gaze from above. Operations inclined his head toward her once, then turned deliberately and walked from her sight. Nikita's whispered response was inaudible to all but her own ears. "You're welcome."

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