Nikita closed her eyes, feeling his body tense against her from shoulders to knees. They were both damp with perspiration, their breathing deep and even. His hands gripped her upper arms firmly.

"Stay with me now," Michael said in her ear, his voice a rough whisper.

"Feel. Anticipate". His chest muscles flexed against her back as he locked both arms around her tightly.

At his sudden lunge, Nikita shifted her weight and levered him across her hip, breaking his hold. An instant later he was picking himself up from the floor and addressing the semi-circle of trainees who were watching their hand-to-hand demonstration.. "Even a skilled, prepared opponent with the advantage can be taken down. Pay attention to timing and use their own body weight against them."

Abruptly Nikita dropped to the ground and swept Michael's legs from under him. Twisting in mid-air, he destroyed her advantage by landing squarely on top of her, quickly pinning her with his greater reach and weight. "And the last lesson for today…" he said, "…never let yourself be surprised." His amused gaze rested for a moment on Nikita's breathless and reddened face before he looked up to make his point.

"You…can get up…now," she panted, her wind not yet recovered from his hard landing on her diaphragm. The trainees stifled smiles as they turned away and began filing out the door. Slowly Michael backed off and stood up, watching as she rolled to her side and drew in several deep breaths. Finally he held out his hand to help her up. "You're getting better every time." She staggered up gracelessly and glared back at him, still unable to spare breath enough to speak.

A gruff throat-clearing sounded behind them. "When you two are finished holding hands…" Guiltily they snatched their hands apart and looked around for the speaker. Walter's disembodied face grinned at them from around the doorframe. "Operations wants us for a briefing - 20 minutes." With a wink, he disappeared.

Nikita folded her arms and looked at Michael from under one arched brow. "Next time," she said in an aggrieved tone, "*I* get to be on top."

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

The woman's face was youthful in appearance, but her expression was weary and haunted. Within the thin blue frame she was held frozen for their study, gazing out beseechingly as if she were asking each of them for their help and protection.

"This is Luka Pachesny." Operations stood looking at the image as he spoke. "Her father, Zintas Pachesny died a week ago in Ireland, supposedly of natural causes. She is now a target."

Walter looked interested. "I've heard of him. A couple years back he was trying to get permission to set off undersea explosions in the Irish Sea."

Operations nodded, then addressed the puzzled looks around the table. "The explosions were a means of sonar mapping the sea floor. Pachesny was convinced that the area was a prime spot for tapping into geothermal energy." He pressed a button on the remote control and Luka Pachesny's image blinked out, to be replaced by a map of the British Isles.

"Pachesny carried out his tests very quietly in the Irish waters south and west of the Isle of Man." He pointed to indicate the area on the map. "With these tests it became apparent that his research was viable. Despite efforts to keep it under wraps, fringe groups, labor groups and religious groups began to find out. They've put their own spin on the idea, and are stirring the pot to achieve their various ends."

He flipped off the map image. "Abundant geothermal energy would be an economic boon and would contribute to stabilization of the area. Intelligence so far supports the theory that Pachesny was killed by either Sinn Fein or the IRA - or an alliance of both - to delay the development of his geothermal project. They would both see their base of support evaporate if political tensions were reduced."

Michael spoke from his seat next to Nikita. "Why is his daughter a target?"

"For what she knows." Once more he brought up the image of Pachesny's daughter. "Luka Pachesny is not an educated geologist, but she did work closely with her father. His laboratory notes are in a type of code which they invented between themselves. She is now the only person who can transcribe his notations. If she is killed it would be years before anyone could reproduce the research and get as close to tapping geothermal energy in that region. Our job is to get her out of Ireland and into the safekeeping of a neutral government."

Nikita looked with some sympathy at the young woman. Her expression of sadness and loss was a testimony to man's continuing inhumanity to man. Nikita wondered briefly what it would be like to have a father to love and mourn. Would it indeed be better to have loved and lost? She shook herself from these musings as Operations continued speaking.

"We don't want to attract attention. Michael and Nikita will go in discreetly and pull her out, then join a local escort group away from the pickup site. See Birkoff for intel and Walter for equipment, as usual, and be ready to go over the details of your plan within eight hours."

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

The wheels of the small plane skipped and barked on the runway, then settled down to a dull whine as they decelerated toward the terminal building. Nikita peered out the tiny oval, her first glimpse of Ireland distorted by smears and scratches on the window.

They landed outside the old town of Galway. Luka Pachesny was staying in a small hotel in the countryside about 30 miles distant, an hour's drive on the narrow, twisting roads. The town was teeming with people, many of them shopping in the charming Eyre Square area. They crept through the jam of vehicles and pedestrians. "Don't they put horns on the cars over here?" Nikita inquired, surprised by the general peacefulness of the busy square.

Michael negotiated around a clump of matrons gossiping and laughing uproariously at the curb. "Of course. But the drivers don't use them to vent frustration." He glanced sideways at her. "Things are different here," he said simply.

Silently, Nikita agreed that this was so. Even Michael seemed different since their arrival, a thing she would never have thought possible. Although experience warned her to be suspicious, it was impossible not to warm to the more relaxed and conversational Michael she was now seeing.

Unexpectedly, Michael turned the car into a side street, stopping after a short distance and parking in a small lot. He got out, then bent down to look in at Nikita. "I want to show you something."

Nikita shrugged and got out of the small car, stretching luxuriously. Michael reached out for her hand and tugged her along with him down a small slope. "Look."

Nikita stopped in wonder. Before her, flowing quietly in its channel of mossy stones, a wide river sparkled in the afternoon sun. Upon it bobbed a snowy flotilla made up of dozens of swans, all facing upstream and paddling languidly to hold themselves in place. The beautiful birds were silent and unmoving, as if they wished not to spoil the effect they created for the humans who observed them.

Nikita looked at Michael, unable to summon words that would capture her enchantment with this extraordinary scene. He moved to stand behind her then, resting his hands on her shoulders and gazing again at the swans. "In spite of what we do, there is beauty in the world, Nikita," he whispered, looking over her shoulder. "We must allow ourselves moments like these…places like these." Quiet minutes later, he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze then turned them back toward the car.

The roads outside of Galway were perilously narrow, and closed in tightly on both sides by stone walls overgrown with leafy hedges. Nikita closed her eyes more than once as they met oncoming traffic, both vehicles squeezing over to allow each other passage. In the driver's seat to her right, Michael appeared to have no difficulty adjusting to the left-hand gearshift.

As they traveled rapidly along the left side of the road, Nikita found herself enraptured with the pastoral beauty of the passing landscape. The "Emerald Isle" was green as far as her eye could see, and criss-crossed with low stone walls hundreds of years old. The thatched-roof cottages they passed were alike as peas in a pod - each small and whitewashed, with a fence, lace curtains and potted flowers in the window.

Along the roadside, weathered men wearing battered suitcoats and caps, walked, biked or rode in small horse carts. All of them waved their canes in a friendly fashion, their little bright-eyed black and white sheep dogs panting alongside.

Michael patiently answered the many questions she asked as they continued on their way. He seemed to have answers for everything, from why the sheep were painted, to what a "victualer" might be. Finally she asked one last question, not really expecting an answer. "You've been here before?"

He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the twisting roadway. "Yes, I've been here before." His tone, though not unkind, closed the discussion.

Slowing then, he turned the car in at a long curving drive bearing the sign "Gregan's Castle". While the hotel was nowhere near to earning the title 'castle', it was a beautiful former residence, extremely well-kept and managing to appear at once both comfortable and elegant.

"Good evening and welcome. I am your hostess, Moira Haden," said the pleasant-faced woman at the desk. She signed them in efficiently, then looked up smiling. "If you'll come along with me I'll show you your room. My husband Peter will bring your bags directly." She led them briskly along a corridor with windows opening out onto a courtyard garden. Stopping before their door, she ushered them in and quickly went through the room's amenities. "If you need anything, just ring," she said in parting.

"There is one thing," Michael replied, smiling charmingly at Mrs. Haden. "We have a friend already here who has been waiting for us to arrive. Can she be notified that we'll meet her in the pub?" He gave her the false name Luka Pachesny was using.

"Of course, " Mrs. Haden replied hospitably. "I'll send a message to her room straight away." She left them, closing the door behind herself.

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

The low-beamed pub was small and cozy. A peat fire on the hearth lent its smoky fragrance to the inviting atmosphere. In the corner, two men were engaged in a hotly competitive game of darts before several onlookers.

"A pint for you both this evening?" The dark-haired bartender smiled cheerily at them, his lilting Irish accent gentle in their ears. Michael nodded and then glanced at Nikita. She looked back at him warily.

"A pint of what?" she said.

Michael nodded again to the bartender, a smile just turning up the corners of his mouth. "Two, please." He took Nikita's elbow and steered her toward a table and benches near the fire. "You'll like it," he said, the tiny smile reappearing briefly. "Trust me." They sat side by side and stretched their legs toward the warmth of the fire.

The stout arrived moments later, each tankard topped with the creamy foam head characteristic of tapped Guiness. Nikita tried it gingerly, rolling the rich nutty taste around her mouth and feeling it settle warm and smooth into her stomach. Michael watched in amusement and appreciation as she licked her lips and immediately lifted the tankard again for another sip.

"Thank you for the guided tour today," she said, finally putting the stout down onto the table. "I can tell you like it here."

He gazed into the snapping fire for some time before responding. "Ireland is a special place." He shifted his gaze to her then, smiling slightly as he reached to wipe a dollop of foam from her upper lip. "I enjoyed showing some of it to you." His eyes were warm on her, and her lip burned where he had touched her.

She spoke lightly to cover her nervousness. "See? Being nice wasn't so hard, was it?." She smiled at him. "We can be friends in spite of the job we have to do."

He did not smile in return, but gazed at her meditatively, lifting his hand to stroke her face once, lightly, as he quoted. "May God be praised for woman, That gives up all her mind. A man may find in no man, A friendship of her kind…"

She puzzled over this silently as he looked back into the fire before giving an explanation. "William Butler Yeats was one of Ireland's greatest poets. His home is not far from here." He glanced over at her. "I wish there were time to take you there." His voice had a wistful quality that Nikita could never remember hearing. She quelled an overpowering urge to pull his dark head to her breast and hold him closely.

"It's a beautiful poem," she said, speaking carefully around the lump in her throat. Michael lifted his hand to her face again and gently passed his thumb across her lower lip.

The same heartbreaking wistfulness was still in his tone. "Yeats must have known a woman like you." The firelight flickered over his face, and Nikita's heart ached with pity for his solitude. She closed her eyes as he gently pulled her closer, softly kissing her lips.

Regretfully, Nikita opened her eyes to see Luka Pachesny standing at the door of the pub. Michael instantly felt her attention shift, and he drew away slowly, then rose from the bench to greet Luka.

The young woman wore the same sad expression they had seen in the briefing photos. She spoke in low, measured tones as she joined them at the table, looking around nervously as she sat down. "Thank you for coming. I think it would not be much longer before they found me…and killed me, too." Her face was crossed by a spasm of sorrow at this reference to her father's recent death. Moved, Nikita reached out to touch Luka's icy hand, giving a small squeeze of comfort.

"Time now boys!" The bartender sang out his traditional phrase, letting everyone know that closing time was approaching and final orders would be taken.

He stopped at their table. "Will you be having anything more, then?" he inquired pleasantly.

Everyone shook their heads in response, then Michael spoke before the man could turn away. "Have you many guests in the hotel this weekend?"

"Oh, no," the bartender replied garrulously. "Things are very quiet this time of year. These fellows here," he indicated the dart game with a jerk of his head, "they must be locals." He picked up their empty tankards. "It's a bit unusual. This far out we generally have only our overnight guests in here at closing time." Swiping the table with his towel he finished, "Perhaps business is picking up a bit, eh? Have a good night, then." He moved off toward the group playing darts.

Michael and Nikita exchanged a look. Anything unusual had to be viewed with suspicion. "When we get out the door, head straight for the car. Move quickly." Michael's voice was too quiet to be heard beyond the table. "We won't risk going back to the rooms for anything."

Luka looked as if she would have something to say, but then shut her mouth resolutely and rose from the table. They walked calmly to the door and exited.

Outside, they increased their pace to a jog, reaching the car in moments and piling in. Michael started the engine. The door of the pub flew open as they began to move and the dart-players emerged, looking in all directions. The moving car caught their attention and they immediately gave chase, pulling hand guns from under their clothing.

Michael accelerated down the drive, the cattle grate thumping loudly under their wheels as they made the turn onto the main road. "Keep your head down," he advised Luka, who cowered in the back seat. "And fasten your seat belt."

Bullets whined and plinked around them for a few seconds more until they drove out of range. Nikita looked back. "They're heading for the cars. We don't have much of a head start." She faced the front again and leaned over to grasp the end of Michael's seat belt and pull it to the latch, doing the same next with her own. The hedges were a blur outside her window as their speed increased even more. Michael drew a small electronic device from inside his coat and tossed it to Nikita, returning both hands quickly to the wheel. "When I tell you, activate this. The chopper should catch up to us in about ten minutes."

Headlights became visible behind them. Dusk was giving way to true dark and Michael needed every ounce of concentration to continue the pace on the narrow, serpentine road. They raced southward, managing to just maintain the margin ahead of their pursuers. After some minutes Michael spoke sharply without removing his eyes from the road. "Activate the tracker signal now. And hold on." He cranked the wheel over and spun the tiny car onto a rutted dirt road, barely slackening their speed as they slid and bounced over the rough surface. Luka cried out in the back seat but Nikita could do nothing to calm her. They passed a line of tall shrubs and Michael turned sharply again, braking to an abrupt, neck-snapping halt. "Get out. Hurry." He went to the trunk to retrieve a small pack.

Nikita leapt from the car and tore open the rear door, wrestling Luka from her seat belt and dragging her along by the arm as she hurried after Michael. As they approached a tall stone tower Michael tossed her a gun, motioning for them to follow as he disappeared into the shadows.

They made their way quickly along the base of the old tower, eventually reaching a back wall which was shielded by the growth of wild, untrimmed bushes. "What is this place?" Nikita whispered.

Michael's answering whisper came from the darkness ahead. "Thor Ballylee. Home of the poet Yeats." He stopped and put out a steadying hand as Nikita bumped into him, then was bumped in turn by the silent Luka behind her. "This isn't what I had in mind when I said I wanted to show it to you."

Their ears picked up the approaching engine noises of both the helicopter and the cars of their pursuers. "This is going to be close," Michael said quietly. "As soon as they hit the lights we're going."

Then suddenly the helicopter was beating the air above them and the ground below it was lit by a powerful spotlight beam. The chopper began to descend rapidly toward the ground. "Go!" Michael shouted above the deafening roar of the rotors.

Hands beckoned from the open doorway of the helicopter. They ran, bent low, buffeted by the powerfully moving air around them . Shouts could be heard from behind as their pursuers caught up, and suddenly gunfire erupted as the helicopter crew began laying down covering fire. Michael paused to shoot. The women reached the doorway and Nikita began shoving Luka upward into the arms of those on board. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Michael had stopped firing and was running toward them, dark figures in close pursuit. Nikita hoisted herself into the helicopter and held out her hand, screaming over for rotor noise for him to hurry, hurry.

One dark, pursuing figure halted suddenly and began twirling something over his head, whipping it faster and faster. He released the object then and Nikita watched in horror as the ends of the bola entangled Michael's legs, dropping him to the ground like a stone. His gun flew from his hand. She braced herself to leap from the helicopter but a strong grasp held her in place. "You can't get to him," the operative shouted in her ear. The remaining pursuers clustered around Michael and in an instant had him trussed on his back, helpless. He lifted his head and their eyes locked. The din of the chopper was deafening. Furiously, Nikita struggled with the crew member who held her fast as they began rising into the air. "No! We can't leave him - go back!"

The chopper rose into the dark sky. The last thing Nikita saw before the spotlight extinguished and the night closed in, was Michael's pale face looking up at them, ringed by his captors.

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

The Dublin sub-station was small compared to what they were accustomed to, but was well equipped nevertheless. Nikita sat staring at a communications terminal waiting for a video-link with Operations. Her mind was numbed, replaying over and over the scene at Thor Ballylee as they flew away, leaving Michael behind.

The screen flickered to life. She drew a deep breath and sat up, mentally bracing herself. "What happened?" Operations snapped without prologue.

Her reply was brief and to the point. "They knew Luka was at the hotel. We barely got out ahead of them and Michael was taken as we were boarding the helicopter." She paused. "I don't know why they didn't kill him." She struggled to keep the anguish from showing on her face.

"We do." Madeline's calm features appeared in the picture, the link rendering her lips and her words just a fraction out of synch. "We received this telephone message about thirty minutes ago. It was called in on a number Michael was carrying as part of your cover there."

A vague hissing and crackling ensued, then an electronically disguised voice began speaking. "We have the bodyguard. Tell Luka Pachesny that we will trade him for her. If she turns us down she'll see him next in very tiny pieces. We will call back in two hours." The recording ended. Operations spoke to her again. "We need to know who they think Michael is. I'm sure Luka will have the answer." His face loomed closer in the picture as he leaned toward the camera. "Don't waste any time." Abruptly, the screen went blank.

Nikita dropped her face into her hands and rubbed her forehead for a moment, then went to find Luka.

The young woman was sleeping, dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes and light brown hair snarled about her head. She lay curled in a fetal position on the narrow bed, the muscles of her face spasming in reaction to her dreams. Clearly, sleep was not being kind.

Nikita sat down on the edge of the bed and gently touched her hair, "Luka, I need you to wake up now and talk to me." She kept her voice low and calm. Despite this the girl woke with a jerk, starting up wild-eyed and looking at Nikita with no recognition. Then, gradually, awareness came over her face and she slumped down, drawing and releasing a deep cleansing breath.

"I'm sorry. I must have been dreaming." Her low voice trailed off as she rubbed her eyes.

Nikita began again. "We need to talk. There has been a communication from the people who took Michael. They seem to think he's a bodyguard?" Her voice rose in inquiry.

Luka's face reddened. "Oh." She glanced at Nikita then lowered her eyes. "They must believe he is Daniel."

"Who is Daniel," Nikita urged. "Please, Luka, we may not have much time."

Her blush deepened as she replied reluctantly. "Daniel Choisin is my bodyguard. Father hired him about six months ago when he began receiving threats." She looked down and spoke in a whisper. "We are lovers. I thought no one knew."

Nikita asked the obvious question. "Where is Daniel?"

"I left him in our room, asleep, when I went to meet you in the hotel pub. I didn't want to wake him." Her tone was bitterly ironic. Their hasty departure from the pub had certainly left no time to go back for Daniel.

"I'm sure he's very worried about you," Nikita said, her voice soft and kind.

Luka looked back mutely, tears forming in her eyes. Then she wiped them away resolutely and looked at Nikita. "I will help you any way I can to retrieve your Michael."

Slowly, Nikita nodded, her face grim as she mentally reviewed the limited options. "There is only one way," she said quietly. Abruptly she rose and left the small room, needing to be alone and think carefully.

A short time later, her mind clear and calm, Nikita re-initiated the video link with Section One headquarters. Operations and Madeline appeared immediately on the screen.

"Do you have information about the bodyguard?" Madeline inquired.

"Yes," Nikita replied. "He is Daniel Choisin, Luka's bodyguard and secret lover. Apparently they believe that she will trade her father's notes for Daniel's life."

Operations shook his head. His tone was frustrated. "Then we have no leverage."

"What does that mean?" Nikita asked sharply. "You're going to just leave Michael? They'll kill him!"

Madeline's reply was spoken gently. "He's probably already dead, Nikita."

"No." Nikita's tone was low and determined. "He's smart. He would know enough to keep quiet until he figured out how to play along." She paused. "There is…one way. We can give them what they want."

"We can't risk Luka," Operations broke in. "You know that and Michael knows that. Her information is too valuable."

"I wasn't talking about using Luka," Nikita said quietly. "Use me."

Madeline and Operations exchanged a silent glance, then Madeline spoke calmly. "Nikita, you know that as soon as you put yourself in their hands, even if we manage to retrieve Michael, they will kill you. There is no chance that you could fool them for long."

"I know," Nikita replied. "Believe me, I've thought about that."

Madeline went on, wishing to be clear. "You would be sacrificing yourself."

There was a long moment of silence before Nikita responded. "Yes," she whispered, then nodded, realizing they would not have heard her soft reply.

Operations spoke up gruffly. "This is not a good idea.

"Why?" Nikita shot back instantly. "You can't tell me you value me more highly than Michael."

He snorted in reply. "Of course not." Then his tone softened a little. "But you are valuable in your own right. This should be a job for someone from the abeyance pool."

Nikita shook her head. "We don't have time. It has to be me." She rushed on in a pleading tone. "I think this can work if you'll let me use some local people. It's worth a chance for Michael, isn't it? You'll lose him for sure if I don't try." She looked away for a moment to compose herself, then gazed back firmly. "Please. I have to try."

On the other end the two again exchanged glances, then Madeline nodded firmly. Reluctantly, Operations turned his unsmiling face back to the camera. "All right. Work out your plan. I'll authorize backup from the sub-station there."

They remained unmoving as Nikita's image disappeared from the monitor. Operations addressed Madeline thoughtfully. "I'll go along with your opinion on this, but I'd like to know why you want to let her do it."

Madeline rose and went to stand behind him, placing her hands lightly on his shoulders. In the reflection from the darkened screen, he could see that she was smiling. "Sometimes, " she said slowly, "the whole is greater than the sum of the parts." She leaned down and kissed his cheek, whispering the rest quietly into his ear. "As well you know." Her smile remained as he reached up to cover one hand where it still lay on his shoulder.

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

Nikita checked her wig and makeup nervously before stepping out of the car, hoping her minimal disguise would fool them long enough. "Ready?" she inquired, not looking at the driver of the car.

"Ready," he answered quietly.

"Confirmed," another voice said in her ear. She flicked her eyes to the sharpshooters stationed above the shops on the far side of the river. Another, unseen, was ready on the building behind her. She hoped these unknown people could do their jobs. Her life and Michael's would depend upon it.

Pre-dawn mist wafted from the River Liffey as it flowed under the O'Connell Street bridge, bound for the Irish Sea. The city had not yet risen for the day and was virtually silent. A large black car waited on the far side of the bridge, its occupants as yet unseen. Nikita blew on her hands to ward off the chill of the morning.

Slowly then a door opened on the other vehicle and the driver stepped out. Nikita moved away from her car another stride. Saying a mental prayer that they still believed Michael was Luka's bodyguard, she called loudly across the bridge. "Show me Daniel."

The driver reached back and pulled open the rear passenger door, then reached in and jerked Michael out onto his knees next to the car. His hands were bound before him but he appeared unharmed. The man shouted to her. "You come alone. Stop in the middle of the bridge. Then we'll send him over." His speech was Irish-accented. Sinn Fein? Nikita wondered. IRA? She pushed the thought aside.

Without answering the man she began walking slowly and steadily toward the center of the bridge. The sun had not yet appeared, and she could feel the cold, damp breath of the river below her. When she judged that she had reached the center she stopped and waited.

The remaining doors of the black car opened then and three armed men emerged, taking up stations across the width of the bridge. Nikita watched tensely as the driver grasped Michael by the upper arm and began walking toward her. When they were close enough, she could clearly see recognition in Michael's eyes, although he said nothing. They were thirty feet away, then twenty, then a mere six feet separated them. Now.

"Daniel!" Nikita cried, throwing herself forward and wrapping her arms tightly around Michael. She flung them both to the ground as the rooftop sharpshooters opened fire. The first shot killed the driver of the other car. He pitched headfirst into the silent river. As the other three Irishmen began shooting, Nikita rolled Michael flat onto his back and curled herself over him protectively. The operative driving her car quickly put the vehicle in motion and drove toward them. With only a few more shots exchanged, the three men on the bridge were disabled. Silence fell. The car rolled to a stop a few feet from Nikita, and the driver jumped out, opening the rear door then turning to look for them.

Nikita lay slumped on top of Michael. The river's cold mist curled around their unmoving forms.

***********

Michael lay on the cold pavement, paralyzed with anguish and self-loathing. Nikita was utterly still above him. He had felt the slugs strike her as she sheltered him with her own body from the gunfire. That she would sacrifice herself for him was an unspeakable wrong. He could not summon the will to move.

An anxious face appeared above him. He felt Nikita's limp form being lifted and his hands freed from their bindings. He said nothing, only shaking his head when the man asked about injuries.

Others arrived and bent anxiously over Nikita. Michael closed his eyes again and willed himself not to listen to their conversation. Somehow, hearing the words that she was dead would make it real. He preferred to draw out denial as long as he could.

A painful groan came to his ears then, followed by the voice of their driver. "There now, just lie back and let's see."

At this, Michael was on his feet instantly, pushing onlookers aside roughly in his desperate haste to reach her. Nikita lay still, her head pillowed on a rolled-up jacket someone had thoughtfully provided. Her face was contorted with pain and she plucked futilely at the buttons of the heavy coat she wore. Kneeling beside her, he gently pushed her hands aside and opened the bulky garment, steeling himself for the worst. Her eyes focused on him and she became still, saying nothing.

The coat parted, revealing to his anxious eyes the thick padding of a bullet proof vest, riddled with holes. He held his breath as he undid the straps of the vest, then let it out and sagged in relief. There was no blood. "No blood," he whispered to Nikita. "No blood," he repeated to himself as he sat down on the damp pavement and carefully lifted her, tucking her under his chin and rocking a little as he heard her finally say his name and begin to cry.

The Dublin sub-station moved swiftly to accommodate them when they came in. Luka was sent off to safety with an escort. Nikita was seen to by the capable medical staff, who determined that, while she would bear the bruises for some time to come, the vest had saved her from serious damage. Michael had sustained no physical injuries and spent part of his time compiling their report. The remainder of the time he spent watching Nikita sleep, his thoughts turned inward.

Late afternoon found him sitting before the video-conferencing equipment, waiting for a link to establish. At last the screen blinked to life and he saw Operations looking out at him with a mild expression. "I'm pleased you're not dead, Michael," was his opening remark. "Has Miss Pachesny been taken care of?"

"Yes, " Michael replied. "She and her bodyguard arrived an hour ago at a facility outside Alexandria, Virginia."

"And the identity of your kidnappers?"

"Interrogators are working on that now. I'm sure they'll have an answer shortly."

Operations asked his next question in a casual tone. "What is Nikita's condition?"

Michael was overcome suddenly by an unaccustomed surge of insubordination. His hesitation before answering was undetectable. "She was hit numerous times. The vest held, but the doctor feels there is a possibility of internal injuries. He wants to observe her for a day or two." Behind his back he crumpled the travel approval just issued by the sub-station physician. It felt good.

Operations accepted this without reaction. "Fine. If it's more than two days let me know. I'll expect you both back here the soonest she can travel."

Michael nodded in reply, then terminated the link.

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

The late afternoon sun was warm. The woman put down her scythe and pulled the kerchief from her head, using it to mop her neck and face. After a moment of rest, she re-tied the kerchief firmly, picked up her scythe and bent once more to her work.

"It's like we're back in time 100 years," Nikita murmured, watching the old couple swing their scythes rhythmically. She stood next to an open, ivy-draped window on the upper level of Thor Ballylee. The ancient stone tower provided her a bird's-eye view of endless green fields fenced in stone and dotted with haystacks and grazing sheep. A chuckling brook tumbled past the base of the tower.

From the opposite side of the window Michael gazed out at the same scene. "There are places here where the old ways have never changed." His eyes moved across the pleasing landscape. "The view from this window would have been very much like this when Yeats was alive."

He looked over at her then with some concern. "They serve tea downstairs. Would you like to stop and rest?"

Nikita smiled back, shaking her head. "Never. I want to see everything we possibly have time to squeeze in." She became more serious then. "Thank you for bringing me here."

Michael sat down on the wide windowsill, his back to the pastoral view. He took Nikita's hand and toyed with her fingers a moment before looking up at her and abruptly changing the subject. "What you did was very risky. You shouldn't have done it."

Nikita kept her voice light. "You're right," she said, nodding in agreement. "But, you know, I did learn one important lesson from it."

Michael raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "What?"

Her face twitched. "Next time…I get to be on the bottom." She watched him seriously for a moment, then was unable to control her face and dissolved into laughter, holding one hand tightly to her painful midsection.

Despite himself, Michael smiled also at her reference to their hand-to-hand technique demonstration. It seemed a very long time ago.

Finally Nikita regained control. "Sorry," she wheezed, wiping her eyes. "I had to either laugh or cry."

Michael picked up her hand again and drew her toward him until he could encircle her waist. He leaned his head against her and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her fingers in his hair.

"You never said," Nikita commented curiously, "how did you ever get permission to stay for a couple of extra days?"

"I told them the doctor had recommended observation." His reply was slightly muffled.

Nikita clutched him by the hair and turned his face up so she could look into his eyes. "You lied?" she gasped incredulously. "To Operations?"

"I lied," he said simply.

Nikita pulled him back against her and nestled her cheek against the top of his head. "Good," she murmured into his hair, smiling. "You're learning."

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

FINI (the more comments I receive the more inspired I am to write!)

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William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
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ON WOMAN

MAY God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind

That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.

Though pedantry denies,
It's plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.

Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,

When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire

That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep

God grant me -- no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,

But when, if the tale's true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again --

To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,

Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;

And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.

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