"Don't throw him overboard while you're out there."

Madeline smiled charmingly at Operations as she uttered this, then handed over the jacket and hat she was carrying. They stood at the end of a long dock, looking out at the waking ocean and waiting for the others to arrive. It was a quiet, peaceful morning; the only sounds the high, thin cries of cruising seabirds and the occasional awkward splash of pelicans who fished from the mangroves growing just down the shore.

Operations looked back at her, a wry half-smile twisting his lips. He understood her subliminal message. "Don't worry. I am slowly adjusting to not being in charge." He flung the jacket over his shoulder and suddenly his smile became genuine. "I expect there is some unpleasant reason he wants to go fishing, but I believe I'll enjoy the day anyway."

Madeline nodded, a small gleam of pleasure in her eyes. She breathed deeply and raised her face to be touched by the warmth of the early morning sun. How had they ever lived for weeks on end under the ground? At the time, Section One had seemed like a womb; looking back, her hindsight viewed it as a prison. These weeks since they had fled Section One, becoming fugitives from their own government, had been a time of surprising evolution for their small band. Freed from the dogmatic control of the organization, they had begun to reveal to one another the true nature of the individuals who dwelt beneath their protective facades. But only in tiny increments; it was a heady experience.

Beside them, Poole's launch rocked gently at her moorings, a fresh morning breeze snapping her flags and lines. Improbably name Big Bamboo after that Caribbean folk song's thinly veiled phallic reference, she was fifty feet long and impeccably appointed, rigged today for deep sea fishing.

Tiny shudderings of the dock marked approaching footsteps before they could be heard. Operations and Madeline turned to watch as Poole and the boat crew drew near, all of them clothed immaculately in white. The two crewmen stopped at the stern and leapt nimbly across the water onto the boat, their pidgin conversation punctuated frequently with laughter.

"Good morning." Poole gave them a fleeting smile, then stood and looked out to sea with them. "I never tire of this view," he said thoughtfully. "All that water; all that life. And none of it is the least bit concerned about the affairs of men." He paused to look at them. "The ocean is very humbling, is it not?"

They remained respectfully silent for a moment, then Poole drew a deep breath and turned purposefully. "Well. Shall we go?"

Within a few busy minutes the boat was gurgling throatily at the dock and the crew cast off her lines. Madeline watched as they waved then pulled smoothly away, shading her eyes with one hand and feeling curiously at loose ends. After a few moments she moved to the shaded bench and sat down, waiting for the inexplicable emptiness within her to resolve into a more concrete feeling. It would come. She was well acquainted with emotional limbo.

Through her seat she felt once more the tiny vibrations of the dock. She looked over her shoulder and watched as Walter made his way toward her, clad in a T-shirt but still sporting the ubiquitous bandanna around his brow.

Madeline smiled as he nodded a greeting and joined her on the bench, stretching his legs out into the sunshine. They gazed at the sparkling water for a few quiet minutes before Madeline spoke. "Do you know the fable of the sun and the wind?" she asked him.

He looked at her good-humoredly. "Sure. That's what made my face look like this."

She went on with a tolerant smile. "The sun and the wind had a contest. A traveler was passing below and each bragged that they could be the first to make him take off his coat. The wind tried first. It blew from the north as cold and as fiercely as it could. But all it did was make the traveler pull his coat tighter and tighter." Madeline paused and glanced at Walter's faded T-shirt. "The sun went next. It shone down on the traveler, warmer and warmer. Eventually, of course, the traveler took off his coat."

"Huh," Walter commented. "Is that the long way of saying you noticed I don't have on my leather jacket?"

Madeline returned a small, amused smile. "That parable has always been one of my favorite illustrations of the different ways and means there are to accomplish an end." Walter supposed she was thinking about the difference in methods between Poole and Section One. He waited, but she did not elaborate on this theme. Eventually, he simply gave a noncommittal grunt and they sat in companionable silence for several minutes.

"You know," Walter said presently. "This is nice here and everything, but..." He hesitated and scratched his head, not sure whether their newly amicable relationship might entitle him to air a pointless gripe.

"You're bored." Madeline looked straight out to sea as she finished his thought and suddenly voiced her own previously unidentified feelings. She turned her head to glance at him. "So am I." Looking ahead once more she smiled, watching the tiny speck of the launch as it sped toward the horizon. "But I don't think we will be for very much longer."

***********

The bow of the boat effortlessly cleaved the shining swells that rose up before them. Gradually, as the land retreated, the color and smell of the water changed, and the very character of the air about them seemed different. Even Operations, no experienced seaman, could sense the transformation. The cares of land and life seemed infinitely far away and infinitely unimportant. Perhaps this was the lure of the sea that drew sailors back again and again from the safety of dry land.

Finally, the roar of the engines declined and the boat began to roll lightly with the waves as her forward motion slowed. The mate appeared in the stern and began helping Poole in assembling the heavy poles, fitting them with tackle and affixing them to the downriggers. Operations watched with interest as the bait fish were finally attached and the lines set. "What now?" he inquired as Poole and the mate stepped back.

"Now?" Poole responded. "Why, we wait, of course." He settled himself in a stern chair and proceeded to do just that, seeming not to notice Operations' restless fidgeting in the other chair. Above them, the baited lines spun down into the dark waters, awaiting an unsuspecting victim. The boat trolled on, barely making headway.

After some time the mate appeared again, fixed a large umbrella into an outlet in the deck, then placed a large hamper between them. "Ah," said Poole, breaking his silence at last. "Brunch." He glanced over at Operations. "Shall we?"

Operations nodded stiffly, fighting his growing impatience. He had come on this outing in the belief that Poole wanted an opportunity to talk. Now, it was beginning to appear that it really was nothing but a fishing trip. Privately, he had already decided that fishing was a very boring experience that he would not rush to repeat. Poole fastidiously passed over selected contents of the basket and they made their meal in continued silence.

At last, Poole folded his napkin daintily, sipped at his coffee, and asked a question. "In your opinion, what is the best method for the prevention of nuclear proliferation?"

Operations blinked once, then instantly settled his features into a thoughtful expression, striving not to let Poole see how the question had surprised him. He wondered briefly if there was a real issue behind the question, or if they were simply passing the time by discussing theories. Well, he would soon know.

Operations too leaned back and sipped at his coffee. "Control of fissile materials, of course. You can't control the technology - brain drain is a fact of life. Once people know how to build a bomb the only way to stop them from actually constructing one is to make sure they lack the materials."

Poole nodded briefly, then continued in a pedantic tone. "Indeed. It is one of history's more unhappy ironies, you know. The same people who fear putting spent fuels at risk of hijacking, or the environment at risk of contamination, have in fact helped create convenient stockpiles of potentially recoverable weapon fuels at sites all around the world."

"Convenient?" Operations felt his mental antennae twitching violently.

"Oh, yes," Poole replied. "Simple nuclear weapons are rather easy to design, make, and deliver, you know. Assuming an adequate supply of fissile material. The main defense protecting the international community from a major surge in nuclear proliferation is the difficulty in obtaining fissile material." He paused for a beat. "If someone were to make that material widely available, then the supply of nuclear weapons in the world would soon equal demand. Any organized entity with funding would find them obtainable."

Operations leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he listened, perhaps appearing too eager. Mentally he chastised himself for this as Poole gave him a knowing sidelong glance. "You are quite interested, are you not? Wondering perhaps if I am speaking in generalities, or if there is a genuine task at hand."

Operations sat back and gave Poole a narrow look, saying nothing. Poole smiled slightly and nodded, then went on in a serious tone. "Well, my new friend, I'm afraid we do have a task before us. And you are ideally suited to be involved."

Poole stopped then to refresh his cooling coffee and to retrieve a folder from its place tucked down the side of the food hamper. The folder remained unopened on his lap as he resumed speaking. "As you know, the breakup of the Soviet Union left the newly independent republics without any centralized control of either waste-producing nuclear reactors or existing nuclear weaponry. Glasnost has mutated into an unbridled high-tech sell-off as the individuals in control are unable to resist the temptations of profit."

He paused then to pull a photograph from the still-closed folder and hand it to Operations. "In addition, the stockpiles of nuclear waste are inadequately controlled from either a safety or a security standpoint. As you might expect, certain individuals regard this set of circumstances as tantamount to an engraved invitation reading 'Steal Me.'"

In the adjacent chair, Operations sat looking in stunned silence at the photograph in his hand, barely registering the words Poole had spoken. At last he looked over at Poole, his face a rigid mask. "Where did you get this," he whispered.

Poole ignored the question. "I believe we should take it upon ourselves to stop these individuals from providing the unstable elements of the world, if you'll pardon the pun, with the means to produce their own private nuclear arsenals." He looked at Operations, his expression bordering on amusement. "Would you like to know who we will be pursuing? I believe it would help to answer some of your questions."

Then he opened the folder and began handing over additional photographs, reciting names as he did so. "James Preston. Teofilo Crespo. Daniel Tucker."

Hands trembling, Operations viewed the photographs through a red mist of rage so enormous he did not know how his body would contain it. He could not speak.

Poole stood and laid a gentle hand on Operations' shoulder. "Marcus," he said softly. "Now you see why I thought you were well suited for this task." He stood quietly for a moment. "I believe we'll go in now." For a moment his gaze rested on the back of Operations' bent head. "I never have enjoyed fishing."

Poole left Operations alone in the stern of the boat. Gradually his clutching hands loosened their grip and the photographs fluttered to his feet. On top was the likeness of a raggedly uniformed young man bound in chains to a tall stake; a manifestation of filth, suffering and despair. His eyes were very old.

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

The evening of the next day, a silent and wary group straggled into the main room of the house. Operations had called this meeting. No one but Madeline had seen him or spoken to him since the fishing trip the previous morning, but everyone was aware that something was afoot. They could feel it.

They dispersed within the room, finding seats on the comfortably cushioned rattan furnishings. Apart from them, Stephen perched on a high counter stool at the wet bar. The small talk that was becoming habitual among them was non-existent now. Poole arrived last and went to stand behind the bar; they could hear the tiny clink of bottle and glass as he poured himself some wine. They waited uneasily.

Then, Operations came into the room. He glanced only at Madeline as he passed through the seating area and took up a post at the large window. He could feel their eyes upon him like burning brands, and he wished there was another way.

Madeline studied him closely, noting all the tiny differences in expression and bearing that only she would perceive. He seemed different, somehow diminished. The enormous force of will that normally characterized his physical presence was notably absent. She felt saddened by this, in the same way she mourned the bridling of a wild horse, or the fading colors of a great fish pulled from the sea. They had spent most of the night reliving together what he was about to impart to the others. She knew it would be difficult for him, and braced herself to appear dispassionate. He would not be strengthened by an emotional display.

Operations drew a deep, resigned breath and began to speak slowly. "An upcoming mission requires that you be informed about certain events in my past. Because of our…former circumstances…most of you know nothing about me personally." He glanced again briefly at Madeline, marking her as the exception to this statement, then continued in a flat, resolute tone. A cool recitation of facts would best get him through this. "I served in Vietnam. During that time I was assigned to a special group whose function was to terrorize and demoralize the enemy. The six of us worked independently and were above all rules of conduct. We were…highly effective."

Unseen to all but Poole, Stephen had turned pale and listened with increasing anxiety to each succeeding word from Operations.

"Eventually," Operations continued, "this group…we…turned to the black market and began stealing materiél. We put millions of dollars into Swiss accounts."

As the sun slowly set he could begin to see in the window a reflection of the room behind him. He noted their rapt attention, and could feel cold sweat gathering on his brow as he formed the next words. "Then…I was wounded one night in an engagement with the VC. The others...left me behind." He forced the words out past stiff lips. "I was taken to a POW camp, where I remained for the next six years." He stopped, unable to continue as the surge of memories engulfed him. Feeling himself no longer with them in the quiet room, he now looked out on rotting jungle, smelled and tasted the pestilence and starvation of his captivity, felt afresh the agony of the hideous tortures inflicted upon him.

Gradually, he sensed a hand on his arm. A voice: "Marcus." He realizing his surroundings then, and felt a flash of absurd gratitude that he was whole and healthy. He blinked into the face next to him, recognized it to be Walter, and was momentarily confused again. Where am I? When am I? Then he looked again and saw that Walter's eyes were faded, and surrounded with wrinkles, placing the time well past their youth in Vietnam. A cold wave of relief swept through him. "Here. Sit." Walter's tone was calm and understanding. He pushed Operations down onto the love seat next to Madeline, then returned to his own place on the sofa, garnering intensely curious looks from the others.

Composed enough now to feel great embarrassment, Operations sent a quick, assessing look around the room. Nikita watched with her heart on her sleeve, as he'd expected. Birkoff simply looked stunned. Controlled as always, Michael listened with great interest and very little expression. In the background near Poole, Stephen's blanched face hovered above them; Operations dared not meet his eyes. And Madeline, at his side as always, calmly helping to still the panic of self-revelation. She smiled gently as he looked at her.

Steeling himself, he resumed the story. "During the fifth year, Walter was brought into the camp. Eventually, we escaped together." His voice took on a savage tone. "And eventually, I learned that my unit had deliberately left me for dead and then divided my bank account. After joining Section One I never saw them again. Until Mr. Poole put their pictures in front of me yesterday morning."

The silence in the room was deafening. Everyone sat numbly, processing what had just been revealed to them. Though gaping holes existed in the story, it was enough to shed a different light on the man they had only begun to know as anything but Operations.

Poole stepped into the circle then and began distributing packets to each individual. "Please go over the information in these folders. It describes the problem which exists, and the people who created it. I believe we should reconvene tomorrow afternoon to begin working on our plan." He paused. "Mr. Birkoff. Perhaps you'd join me for a few moments to address some nagging inconsistencies in the data?" Birkoff got up quickly, clearly glad for a chance to leave this emotional maelstrom. Poole passed a look around the group. " Sleep well." With a polite inclination of his head, he turned and preceded Birkoff from the room, leaving the silence of a vacuum behind him.

Operations and Madeline exchanged a glance, then rose in tandem and exited onto the terrace. They were lost from view within a few feet of the house, hidden by the warm darkness of the tropical night. Among those left in the room, the strained silence intensified.

Nikita stared at Walter, her lips parted to speak but unable to decide which question to ask first. He looked down resignedly, preparing himself to dredge up old and painful memories in order to offer explanations. But it was Stephen who broke the silence.

"You knew!" His voice cracked with pain and disbelief. Launching himself from the barstool he came at Nikita with both hands clenched. Michael rose in a single fluid motion and placed himself in front of her.

"What are you talking about?" Walter demanded, grabbing Stephen's shoulders from behind.

Sandwiched between the two men, Stephen was forced to let go his aggressive stance. He stood down and took a deep breath, looking accusingly now at both Michael and Nikita. "You knew all along, didn't you?"

Nikita stood then and placed a hand on Michael's upper arm, drawing him back slightly. She looked Stephen squarely in the eye and spoke calmly. "Yes. I knew. I couldn't tell you because he asked me not to." She raised her voice for emphasis. "You were safer not knowing. He did it for you."

Stephen spun away from Walter's grip and flung himself down into the chair Michael had vacated. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, then looked up with red-rimmed eyes. His voice was quiet now. "The first time you brought me into Section, the first time I saw him…I knew." He shook his head. "Then when he started talking tonight I had no doubts left." He lapsed into hurt silence.

Walter spoke up in an aggrieved tone. "Will somebody please tell me what everybody else here already seems to know?"

Michael glanced briefly at Nikita, then turned to Walter. "Operations is Stephen's father."

Walter's mouth made an "O" of surprise and understanding, and he looked at Stephen for a long moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, he squatted on his heels before Stephen's chair and gazed at the young man compassionately. He waited to speak until Stephen looked up.

"Your father and I went through a lot together. He talked about you every chance he had. It's what got him through those years." Walter's gravelly voice was even rougher with emotion. "They were hard years." He paused. "When you want to know more about this, you come and see me." He patted Stephen's knee. "Maybe you oughta do that before you go see him." He nodded to confirm his own advice, patted the knee once more then rose stiffly.

"This has been a hell of a night," he said, shaking his head at Nikita and Michael. "A hell of a night." He clumped off toward the door, still muttering to himself.

Nikita went to Stephen and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Will you be all right?" she asked softly.

He drew a deep breath and straightened up. "Yeah." He stood. "Yeah, I'll be OK." He turned away without a parting word and walked slowly toward the back of the house.

Alone now in the dim room, Nikita and Michael drew together. Wrapped tightly within his arms, Nikita felt the fear and sadness begin to recede a little. "Poor Stephen," she whispered. "Poor Walter." Then, with feeling, "Poor Operations". She was surprised by the depth of her compassion for the man.

She felt Michael's nod of agreement on the top of her head. "Nothing is ever as it seems."

Drained, Nikita felt no desire to talk further about the events of the evening. She pulled back a little and eyed him curiously. "Are you ever going to tell me your story?"

He returned the look seriously, then took her hand, pulling her along gently as he backed away. His voice was a whisper enfolding her. "I'll tell you a story…" Their two figures merged into one in the darkness.

"...a bedtime story…"

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

They awoke the next day to a persistent high wind. In the islands, where much of life is lived in the outdoors, this had its effect in a range of ways. For Nikita, it meant simply some disappointment that the sandblasting would prevent her morning run on the beach. For Birkoff, long accustomed to a controlled and sheltered environment, it was a constant irritant that ate around the edges of his concentration and caused him to feel nervous and jumpy. The morning was restless, spent individually poring over the materials Poole had provided.

In the early afternoon they reassembled in the main room. As much as they had enjoyed the "down time" in recent weeks - almost a vacation - they all felt some degree of relief that they were applying themselves to a purpose again. A different Operations paced before them, visibly strong, hard and directed. He wasted no time on small talk.

"You've all read the information Poole provided yesterday on my…former associates. Two of them died after the war. The three who survive have maintained their relationship, and we should assume a continuing history of fairly insignificant illegal activities, some of which we will address momentarily. More recently, however, they have escalated. Beginning with the larceny and sale of high-tech armaments, they have now branched out into the theft of potentially recoverable, weaponizable waste from reactor sites around the world - mainly neptunium and plutonium. An enterprising concept. Although the processing of these wastes into usable weapons material is high-cost and risky, if they can do it, they'll be the only major source worldwide for this material. The financial gain would be…substantial."

At this understatement Operations paused, and Poole stepped into the silence.

"Due to his stature as the head of his own nuclear engineering consultancy, James Preston has legitimate access to nearly any reactor site worldwide. Given this, plus what we know of his psychological profile, our assumption is that he is the organizer and leader of the operation. Once Preston scouts the waste materials and arranges for their collection, then the other two step in. Teofilo Crespo, who was a communications specialist in Vietnam, now runs an international import/export firm. With his worldwide transportation resources, he likely controls the actual handling of the materials once they are acquired. The third member, Daniel Tucker, a former demolitions expert, probably uses his undersea salvage company to supplement Crespo's transport arrangements. As yet we do not know their arrangements for processing the material into a saleable substance."

"What we do know," Operations added pointedly, "is that their customers will include every nuclear-wannabe country and well-funded terrorist group on the planet."

Michael addressed Operations quietly, returning the conversation to an earlier point. "You mentioned some other activities?"

Operations responded with a shark-like smile. "Yes. Their other activities." His voice dripped satisfaction. "Mr. Poole, in his inimitable fashion, has uncovered some very interesting facts."

He tossed a photograph onto the coffee table in front of Michael and Nikita. They all knew it from their briefing materials. "James Preston. Made a fortune through his international nuclear engineering firm. Highly respected. Has the best minds working for him, which is a good thing since he himself never finished college." Operations produced another chilly smile and glanced down at the tall, thin man in the picture. "A self-taught prodigy who never had the patience for school, Mr. Preston has built his reputation on false credentials, and if it ever got out, he'd be ruined. That impact would pale in comparison, however, if his role as a technician in the 1979 Three Mile Island nuclear accident were made public."

Operations flipped another photo onto the table. The man was Hispanic and blindingly handsome. "Teofilo Crespo. Owns a large international import/export firm. He married into great wealth and enjoys the high life. He spends prodigiously, cheats relentlessly on a very jealous wife who controls the purse strings…" the shark's smile reappeared, "…and he runs drugs. Between the wife and the DEA, we should have no trouble establishing some leverage with Mr. Crespo." At this he shot a glance at Nikita, who read his meaning instantly. She looked back through narrowed eyes, her lips set in a straight line of annoyance. Did every scumbag in the world have a weakness for tall blondes?

A third picture landed atop the first two. A big man, with long blonde hair. "Daniel Tucker. A man of the mind who works with his hands. Considers himself some sort of an erudite longshoreman. His undersea salvage company works all over the world retrieving everything from sunken car ferries to Spanish galleons. While he's far out at sea on his way to a properly licensed job site, he will sometimes earn a little extra money by disposing of hazardous waste for selected, discreet customers. He'll dump anything for a fee. The downside of this, of course, is that if his customers ever thought he had become…unreliable, they would not hesitate to kill him to keep him quiet."

"So." Operations said in summary, "under normal circumstances my strategy would be simple elimination of the principles - after interrogation, of course. But since we are forced to remain hidden from government machinery, and are now operating under Mr. Poole's rules of engagement, we shall take a different approach." His face took on an expression of great malice. "Actually, in this particular situation I find myself in agreement Mr. Poole's suggested plan of action."

Poole stepped to Operations' side then, his hands folded demurely before him. "Perhaps you have all read an excellent novel authored by Alexandre Dumas entitled The Count of Monte Cristo?" His tone was polite and conversational, as if they were having a Thursday morning book club meeting.

Most of them blinked at this apparent non-sequitur. A glance of understanding flashed briefly between Operations and Madeline. No one spoke.

"All right. I'll bite," groused Walter, finally. "What about this Count?"

Poole's trademark transient smile skittered across his face. It was unpleasant for all its brevity. "The unfortunate protagonist in the novel, one Edmund Dantes, is betrayed by several acquaintances and finds himself imprisoned under the most wretched and dire of circumstances. While in this foul prison he befriends an old man who tells him of an island where a vast treasure is hidden. After many years of imprisonment, Dantes manages to escape, but the old man dies. Dantes finds the wondrous treasure and re-enters society as the wealthy and mysterious Count of Monte Cristo."

Poole glanced obliquely at Operations, then resumed the narrative for his fascinated audience. "Dantes acquaints himself with the current situations of those who had betrayed him many years before. He finds that one of them has even married the woman Dantes himself was betrothed to at the time of his imprisonment. One by one, Dantes ruins each one of the men responsible for betraying him." He paused significantly. "His great revenge is to reveal himself to them only after their ruination is complete and death is at hand."

All eyes swiveled to Operations, whose face radiated a fierce, feral light.

They understood the plan.

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

"Mr. Crespo."

Mariana's voice from the speaker phone was more than a little on the nasal side. But, Crespo mused, that flaw could be overlooked when considering the entire package. He smiled a little, then leaned forward and pressed the intercom key.

"Yes, my dove?"

"Your 9:00 appointment is here. Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe."

"Thank you Mariana, please send them in." He pressed the key once more with an afterthought. "And bring us some coffee, if you would."

As Mariana gave her acknowledgment, the door opened and Crespo did not hear her. His full attention was riveted on the heavenly creature who had just crossed the threshold into his office, holding her hand out before her and looking boldly into his eyes.

"Good morning, Mr. Crespo. Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice." A low, sexy voice, accented in a way he guessed to be Australian.

"Please," he said immediately, still holding her hand in his, "call me Teo." He smiled ingratiatingly into her eyes. "I much prefer to be informal."

"Of course. I am Nikita." She turned her head to glance at Stephen, slight disdain altering her tone almost imperceptibly. Crespo noticed. "And this is my husband, Stephen."

Reluctantly, Crespo released Nikita's hand and finally glanced at the husband. He liked what he saw. Slender. Not too attractive. And not too assertive, either, judging by the way Nikita had led them into the office. Surely she deserved a better man than this. A man like himself, perhaps.

Unwillingly, he extended his hand to Stephen and received a docile handshake in return. He resisted the urge to wipe off his hand afterward. "I hope the San Juan heat isn't bothering you," he said politely, "it requires some adjustment when you aren't acclimated." It occured to him suddenly that Mariana had never come in with coffee. Useless.

"It hasn't been a problem; thank you," Nikita replied sweetly. Behind her businesslike facade, she surreptitiously studied the superb-looking man who sat on the other side of the desk. Olive-skinned, doe-eyed and blessed with a flawless physique, Teofilo Crespo certainly had to be one of the most breathtaking men Nikita had ever encountered. She could well understand his long record of conquests outside his marriage. She smiled to herself. Happiness was knowing in advance that she would be the one that got away.

Stephen pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. "Um…Mr. Crespo….Teo."

Reluctantly, Crespo dragged his gaze from Nikita's curious little smile. God, she had the allure of a Mona Lisa. He would have loved to know what she was thinking at that moment.

Stephen cleared his throat nervously and went on. "We, um, came to talk with you about an exporting idea we had." He nodded, as though encouraging himself. "You see, there are people all over Europe that can't get what they want." He stopped uncomfortably. "I mean, people from here.. who are over there…and-"

Nikita stepped in smoothly, capturing Crespo's attention. "Americans who are living in Europe often find themselves missing familiar products from home. We would like to find a way to connect with the small importer who can become more specialized, catering to the tastes of the foreign resident who is generally willing to pay more for a quality product from home. For our part, we can identify the products and the manufacturers, handle the purchases, then turn the goods over to you for export."

Crespo smiled in appreciation of her smooth, convincing delivery. His dark gaze touched her everywhere, admiringly. He liked this woman.

In the seat next to her, Stephen bobbed his head as Nikita spoke. She paid him no notice, focusing completely on the man opposite her.

Crespo tented his fingers and nodded sagaciously. "Yes. I do have some contacts overseas who import select, hard-to-find goods. Their market is the country's foreign population and its upper class citizens, who are always on the lookout for articles from abroad."

Nikita smiled and sat back in her chair. "Good. We can do business, then?"

He pursed his lips in pretended contemplation. He'd already decided he would do whatever he had to in order to continue his contact with this woman. That she had a reasonable business proposition would make it all the easier. That she was married, or might not be interested in him in return, never entered his thinking.

He smiled then, an angelic display of perfect teeth. Nikita and Stephen smiled automatically in return.

"Perhaps we may," Crespo responded encouragingly. "Certainly we should talk about this in greater detail." He spread his hands in mock dismay. "Unfortunately, I am leaving town in a few days and have a very busy schedule until then. Possibly we could continue our conversation over dinner?"

Nikita met his gaze meaningfully. "When?"

"Tonight." His mind jumped ahead, reviewing his schedule. No. Damn. His daughter's birthday party; his wife had withheld gambling funds for a month after he missed the last one.

"I'm sorry," he amended quickly. "I'm afraid I already have a commitment for this evening. I apologize for speaking hastily. Would tomorrow evening suit you?"

On cue Stephen began fidgeting and whining again. "Well…Nikita…I have that presentation to attend tomorrow you know. I can't just miss out on that…"

"Tomorrow would be fine," Nikita said to Crespo. Her glance flicked to Stephen and she addressed him in cool tones. "I can handle this. You go ahead to your presentation. We don't want to lose our chance to explore the possibilities with Mr. Crespo's firm. Right?"

Stephen wrung his hands nervously. "Well…if you think you can handle it without me." His glance flickered back and forth between them. "I really don't want to miss my presentation…"

"Fine," Nikita interrupted. She turned to Crespo. "I'll see you tomorrow for dinner. 7:00, my hotel?"

Crespo smiled in delight, his black eyes glowing. This was too easy. He stood and extended his hand. "I shall be delighted, Nikita." He liked the way her name felt on his tongue. "I believe you will find the meeting both interesting and profitable." He resisted the urge to kiss her hand; her husband was there, after all. And it wouldn't be long now.

Nikita exchanged a brief, amused glance with Stephen as they departed the office; one corner of her mouth twitched a little in satisfaction.

It wouldn't be long now.

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

Birkoff looked into the bowl in front of him, feeling more than a little self-pity. Conch salad... a lot like eating chopped up rubber bands, in his opinion. Weird soups. Unfamiliar vegetables. Fish, fish and more fish. Apparently Poole's chef had never mastered the fine art of the cheeseburger.

He longed for a cheeseburger. And french fries…greasy ones.

"Please pass the conch salad." Nikita elbowed him gently, then repeated her request when Birkoff remained inattentive, still salivating over his mental cheeseburger..

She piled a generous helping of the salad onto her plate, speaking as she did so. "Stephen, you were perfect today." She beamed an innocent grin across the table at him. "If I didn't know better I'd think you really were a whining nerd at some time in your life."

Stephen smiled sourly, caught between pride that she had complimented him in front of Operations, and irritation that she chose to follow it up with such an unflattering remark. Those kinds of unfortunate images tended to stick in peoples' minds. He risked a quick glance in the direction of his father. As yet he'd been unable to muster up the courage to confront him, and Operations seemed satisfied to leave things as they were.

Located paternally at one end of the table, Operations sat back in his chair with a preoccupied air. His eyes followed the motions and conversational exchanges surrounding him, but his vision was plainly focused inward. He gave no indication that he'd heard Nikita's comment.

Further down the table, Walter stabbed his fork in Nikita's direction. "Sugar, have you and Madeline finished working out your wardrobe for tomorrow night yet? I need time to build in communications, you know." He parked his elbows on the edge of the table and continued to chew as he look at her, waiting for an answer.

Nikita glanced a little uncomfortably at Madeline, a look which was not lost on Walter. He tossed his fork down and sat back. "Aaah, don't tell me. You're gonna wear one of those dresses again!" He shook his head in disgust. "You know how hard it is when I have to put that stuff into the jewelry? Why don't you just pick a dress that has enough material to hide a microphone?"

Madeline simply produced one of her little smiles, offering no excuses whatsoever for her wardrobe decision.

Across the table, Nikita squirmed uncomfortably at Walter's reference to her upcoming seduction scene with Teofilo Crespo. Michael sat all but motionless in the chair next to her, saying nothing. She could feel the vibes, and deliberately avoided looking at him.

Ignoring this entire exchange, Birkoff gave up at last and pushed away his nearly untouched food. His fingers crept forward to snare a selection from the centrally located dessert plate. Too bad most of what they considered dessert here contained more fruit than chocolate. But at least they didn't put conch in it.

Polishing off a small tart, he peered down the table at Poole, who sat at the far end from Operations. Birkoff liked Poole; he got things done without any nonsense, and managed to be quite a bit less bloodthirsty than Section One. Privately Birkoff had always thought there was way too much cancellation going on around Section One. Fear wasn't always the best motivator; and it certainly didn't encourage clear thinking. He shuddered mentally as he recalled the first time he'd been really, truly afraid for his life. Nikita had pulled him through that episode by the skin of his teeth, and it had given him a whole new appreciation for the circumstances under which the cold ops functioned. In addition, it had given him a whole new perspective on relationships within Section One. Personal loyalty and friendships did have a role, no matter how hard they tried to root it out. Poole seemed to understand this; or at least didn't try to fight it.

Birkoff's brow knitted briefly as a sudden question crossed his mind. He chased the tart with a swallow of icy Coke and waited until Poole's gaze crossed his.

"Do we have a name?" he asked abruptly. Conversation ceased and eyebrows around the table raised in interest.

Poole inclined his head slightly in the affirmative. "Indeed, yes." He dabbed with his napkin at the corner of his mouth. "There are so few people who know of the existence of my little organization that I rarely ever have a need to identify myself. There is a name; but it is known to only a handful of people outside these premises." He paused.

"Argus."

Operations looked down the table at Poole, his eyes registering a connection for the first time since he'd sat down. His smile was ironic, and his amused gaze traveled from Poole to Madeline, then back again.

After a moment of uncertain silence, Walter sighed tiredly. "OK…I'll be the nitwit one more time here. What's an Argus?"

Poole smiled indulgently, and assumed once more what Nikita thought of as his "teacher voice". She pictured him briefly in a former life; perhaps he had been a teacher, fondly lecturing his students, safe within some hermetically sealed university environment.

"Not what, Walter…who. Argus is a figure from Greek mythology. According to legend, the great god Zeus had a mistress, whom he transformed into a cow in order to conceal her from his jealous wife, Hera. Then, to allay Hera's jealousy, he gave her the cow. Hera assigned guardianship of the cow to Argus, a 100-eyed giant and sentinel without peer. Zeus sent Hermes to rescue his mistress from Argus. Hermes overcame Argus by soothing him with beautiful music, lulling him to sleep with a story, then decapitating him."

Poole paused and a modest smile skated across his features. "Actually, I chose the name more for the paradox it represents than for its literal image of a 100-eyed sentinel." He paused to sip his iced tea. "You see, Argus, for me, is a constant reminder of the problematic relation of seeing and understanding. We can see all, know all. But we cannot fail to combine that knowledge with insight and foresight. Otherwise we become, like Argus, an example of perceptual failure and intellectual shortsightedness."

The room was quiet as the former members of Section One, now the newest members of Argus, considered this rare glimpse into the mind of the unusual man who had given them refuge. Not only had he preserved their lives (for the second time, in Madeline's case), he had provided them the means to make their existence meaningful once more…and perhaps more principled.

Poole pushed his chair back from the table as he prepared to rise. Next to him, Madeline reached out and placed a cool hand on his arm. Her eyes were dark and expressive as she looked into his face.

"Thank you, Mr. Poole," she said simply.

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

He could feel it wash over him in a physical sensation not unlike good sex. From his position at the podium, James Preston bowed his head again in acknowledgment of the applause as it rolled from one wall to the other of the beautifully appointed banquet room. Finally, sensing the right time had arrived, he raised his hands humbly and backed away from the lectern, allowing the audience to gracefully de-escalate their ovation.

Within moments buzzing conversation had taken over the room full of media types, and Preston found himself the center of an appreciative circle that moved along with him as he departed the hotel. He laughed at jokes, provided sound-bite answers to questions and indulged in the type of friendly verbal sparring that made his victims feel honored and included. By the time he entered the waiting limousine, he knew that his words had been right and his timing had been perfect. He had performed flawlessly for the plebeians once more.

A burp of too-rich luncheon came back to haunt him and he frowned slightly, then leaned forward to pour a splash of Scotch. Nothing like a little medicinal single-malt to cure whatever ails. He sipped appreciatively, then touched the intercom button.

"Let's go home past Copley Squayuh, Lawrence." He'd stretched his vowels in a Boston accent for so long it was second nature to him now. "Miss Ferguson is doing some shopping and should be ready to leave within the houah. We'll meet her by the fountain."

Having accomplished routing instructions, Preston leaned back idly in his seat and watched the scenery slide soundlessly past the window. Briefly he wondered if Lawrence was the man's first or last name. Really, he ought to know these things about his underlings.

Although the term 'Brahmin' was outdated, at least as it referred to the WASP overclass that formerly ruled in the area, there were those who absolutely still considered themselves Brahmins. They adhered to an unwritten code of behavior, ethics, and fiscal and social responsibility that had never gone out of style among the truly elite. Being a part of this invisible aristocracy was the cornerstone of his life. He gazed out the car window at passers-by, feeling an almost paternal affection for them as they went about their tiny lives.

Letting his thoughts wander on, he mused pleasantly over the speaking engagement he had just completed. As an expert in the field of nuclear engineering - and one of the few experts willing to speak publicly - he was in great demand for these affairs. Most people understood little, feared much, and were pitifully willing to accept anything he told them. Even the so-called watchdogs of the public good, the ever vigilant media.

Lawrence slid the massive car smoothly into a no-parking area near Copley Square. He peered back through the separating window. "I don't see Miss Ferguson, sir. Would you like me to have a look around, or shall we wait?"

Preston glanced at his watch. They were within a half hour of the time Cynthia had said she'd be through shopping. Knowing her, she'd make use of every second indulging in her favorite activity - spending his money. He smiled indulgently as he pictured her, every salesperson on the run, her dark head mussed from trying on clothes, her perky smile undimmed after a day-long shopping spree. He could swear she was energized by it all, and he looked forward to reaping the benefits of that energy later on. First, though, was a dinner engagement with fellow Brahmins John and Lucinda Abbott, occupants of one of the loftiest perches in Boston society.

"Let's give her a few minutes, Lawrence," he responded.

The cell phone in Preston's briefcase gave a tiny, muffled ring. Upon answering he was greeted by the cool tones of John Abbott's administrative assistant. "Mr. Preston," she greeted him politely. "I'm calling to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Abbott will be unable to meet you for dinner this evening as planned."

"I see," Preston replied, feeling some disappointment. He always enjoyed John Abbott, even if his wife went a little overboard on the do-gooder thing. "Do I need to call him?"

"No, sir. He'll be in touch."

Assuming the secretary had no further information about the cancellation, Preston thanked her politely and hung up.

Well, he thought, the up side is that the evening's entertainment could commence earlier than planned. Perhaps Cynthia would even have a 'fashion show' for him of the day's purchases; always an enjoyable experience. Lately he'd even begun to entertain some thought of maybe…possibly… marrying the young lady. As his thoughts followed this pleasant vein he pulled out his laptop and automatically tapped out the connection sequence and email logon. 'Receiving 1 of 1' flashed across the bottom of his screen. He waited expectantly, his mind still occupied with images of Cynthia. He hoped she'd purchased some new lingerie this afternoon.

Presently he frowned, watching the download indicator as it crept slowly toward the middle of the bar. He shook his head. Must be some logjam at the server, he thought; or maybe his laptop needed a new battery. He snorted in irritation; no wonder they called it the World Wide Wait.

Then, at last, the message was completed and popped into view on his screen. After a moment of horrified confusion, Preston's bulging eyes began to race down the page, and he reached quickly to scroll through the message as fast as the machine would allow. Page upon page. No wonder the download had taken so long; it had not occurred to him that the holdup was volume-related. He read on in rising panic.

The email message contained his life. Or rather, his former life. Birth certificate, transcripts, teacher reports, military service record. He felt his gut freeze up in dismay as he read copies of his own personal correspondence indicting him as a fraud and a liar. Documentation of his scholastic misrepresentation, his fabricated genealogy, his role as a virtual terrorist in Vietnam. Even the account number at the Swiss bank sheltering his black market funds. He closed his eyes and tried to force his paralyzed brain to function.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he paged up furiously until he reached the top of the message. Then, appalled, he began to understand the true extent of the damage done. Copied on the distribution of the message was a long list of both his biggest customers and his covert Brahmin brethren. The list was topped by the name John Abbott; certainly that explained the dinner cancellation.

Preston covered his face with his two hands, and for several seconds gave in to utter despair. In the front seat Lawrence paged through the newspaper, aware only that his employer was working on the computer. He was quite content to mind his own business until called on again.

Gradually, Preston got himself under control. Re-checking the message he confirmed that the address of the sender was unfamiliar. Then he placed a phone call.

"Lawrence." He tapped on the partition. "We need to go to my office. Now."

Lawrence quickly folded up his newspaper, then turned to look over the seat. "And Miss Ferguson, sir?"

"She'll get a cab, I suppose," Lawrence responded distractedly, already dialing his phone again. "Hurry."

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

Nikita hiked at the strap one more time, then gave an approving nod at her reflection. Dress. Perfect; seductive without being lewd. Hair. Perfect; sensual without being suggestive. Makeup. Perfect; alluring without being bawdy. She smiled at herself. Too good for mortal man tonight.

She snapped off the light as she left the room, exiting into the dim hallway and straight into his waiting arms. He held her a few inches away and looked her over carefully, not missing a single aspect of her appearance. In the faint light she could make out the gleam of his green eyes, but could not read their expression. She waited, knowing he had some reason for this ambush.

He reached up to cup her face with his two hands, and with his thumb tenderly wiped away the lipstick she had just finished applying. Then he kissed her. Softly. Lingeringly. Not a caress of passion, but of emotion. She understood the message clearly.

"I'll be right next door if there's any trouble," he whispered against her lips. "When you hear room service knock you'll know we have all the pictures we need. Get out."

"Yes," she confirmed briefly. He continued to look at her, the internal conflict visible to her knowing eyes. She smiled gently at him and reached up to touch his hands where they still held her face. "It's all right, Michael. You know how we do these things. It won't be me." She squeezed his hands and whispered intensely, willing him to believe her. "It's only me when I'm with you."

She could see the mingled relief and sadness in his eyes as he pulled their lips together briefly once more. Then he was gone.

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

6:45 that evening found Nikita lounging gracefully on a barstool in the lobby of her hotel. The copiously ferned area was also home to two good-sized fountains which she supposed were meant to relax guests with their musical tinkling. Instead, their Niagra-like roar dominated the acoustics of the lobby, and she worried it would interfere with communications.

"Birkoff?" she inquired under her breath. No reply.

A little louder: "Birkoff?"

A second later she heard his voice come back, and let go the breath she'd been holding. She lifted her glass to help hide any movement of her lips. "I can hardly hear you. Am I coming through on that end?"

"OK now," Birkoff replied. "I had to adjust for the waterfalls. I can't believe they put something so loud in the lobby, and the random volume levels generated by…."

"Fine," Nikita interrupted shortly. "Call the decorating police later. Any sign of Crespo yet?"

"Not yet…wait…his limo just pulled up out front."

Nikita twisted around on the stool to confirm. "I see him. Is everything set upstairs?"

"Ready and waiting. And I promise not to put any of the pictures on the Internet." Birkoff made no effort to disguise the snicker in his voice.

"You little twirp…" Nikita hissed. Then, he was there, a light hand on her shoulder. She pasted a neutral expression on her face and turned to greet him.

A second later she felt the neutral expression widen spontaneously into a genuine smile of admiration. No matter what his morals or business practices, Teofilo Crespo was an astonishingly handsome man. There was nothing wrong with a little harmless appreciation. She held out her hand.

Now that they were unchaperoned, Crespo did not hesitate to bring that hand to his lips and press a lingering kiss to her knuckles. "How delightful to see you again," he murmured, gazing into her eyes.

"And you," Nikita replied, allowing her hand to remain in his and looking back from under lowered lashes. She could see the heat in his black eyes as he weighed her reactions. She suppressed an urge to laugh out loud. Really, this would be too easy.

Dinner was surprisingly good, and they chatted easily throughout the meal. Crespo kept their glasses liberally filled, and his fascination with Nikita became ever more apparent as the evening progressed.

At last Nikita put down her barely-touched cognac and assumed a businesslike expression. "Well, Teo, this has been most enjoyable, but I suppose we should get to work." She looked into his eyes and smiled sweetly. "Since you're leaving town so shortly, I don't want to miss my opportunity."

Crespo felt his groin tighten at these words, and wondered if the double entendre had been deliberate on her part. There was only one way to find out.

He reached out and took her hand gently. "I, too, would not want to miss that opportunity. But I see that you have no working papers with you. Are you prepared to talk without them? Or are they, perhaps, in your room?"

He held his breath at this last. He'd given her the opening. His dark eyes locked onto hers, as if he could mentally will her to take him upstairs.

Nikita made a tiny moue. "Of course. I am so forgetful. Everything I need is just up in my room." She smiled into his eyes. "If you don't mind waiting for me, I can bring everything down to a quiet table in the lounge, or…" She allowed her gaze to drop momentarily in seeming embarrassment. "…or we could work in my room, if you think…"

"Yes, of course," he said instantly. He rose from the table before she could change her mind. "The lounge can be so noisy in the evening." They exchanged smiles of mutual understanding.

Nikita's suite was silent and tidy; room service had already been in to turn down the bed. Somehow, that bed seemed to loom larger than life once Crespo was actually in the room with her. Her insides began to tighten with anticipation.

She turned to the minibar and perused the selection there. "Would you like anything?" she inquired, not looking around.

"I would," he responded from directly behind her. His hands came up to slide over her upper arms and shoulders, turning her gently. "I would like you," he whispered.

Nikita looked into the black eyes so near to her face, and let her head fall back submissively. Crespo's lips descended upon her neck; she couldn't suppress a tiny shiver as his mustache tickled softly. He smelled wonderfully of some unknown cologne and his hands began to touch her everywhere. The man was a consummate lover, and by the time his lips finally touched hers, she knew it was not going to be a stretch to pretend she was enjoying herself.

The kiss was a mind-blower. Nikita dimly realized that Crespo's hands were moving over her possessively, his touch firm and gentle. No fumbling here; no irritating little tweaks or pinches. Just pure, blissful sensation, capped by that breathtaking ongoing kiss.

Gradually, he moved her back toward the edge of the bed, pausing to undo his shirt buttons and allow her to skim it from his shoulders. His skin, contoured closely over toned and prominent muscles, was hairless and smooth and warm. Like living carmel. Telling herself that she was only making it look good, Nikita touched him everywhere with her hands and lips.

Some time later, when their clothing was in a heap and they were on the bed, Nikita realized that he felt as good as he looked. Things were heating up fast; too fast, she realized. She took a deep breath. Pulling back a little, she smiled. "Take your time, Teo," she said lightly. "We have all night."

He smiled at her mockingly, continuing to caress one breast. Nikita looked into the blackness of his eyes and was abruptly overcome by a fierce aching for Michael. Although the man making love to her was handsome in the extreme, and was obviously skilled and sensitive, he had one insurmountable problem: he was not Michael. In that single instant her attraction to him had become complete revulsion. Her body recognized the betrayal and shrank from contact with Crespo's smooth skin. She exerted iron discipline over her reactions, returning a lazy smile and running the tip of one finger over his full lips. "Anyway, anticipation is 90% of the fun, you know."

The caressing hand engulfed her breast and he turned suddenly, gathering her beneath him. "Not with me it isn't," he whispered fervently. "You'll see." His lips descended once more and she could feel him efficiently arranging her body and working his way between her thighs. 'Room service', she prayed, trying not to contemplate what was about to happen. 'Any time now, please.'

Then, with relief so intense she feared she might have imagined hearing it, a loud knock came at the door.

"Room service," announced a loud, bored-sounding male voice.

Crespo raised his head. "Wrong room. I have ordered nothing."

There was a second of silence. "Yes sir. This is champagne, sir. Compliments of the lady."

Crespo looked down at Nikita with a look of pleasant surprise on his handsome features. "You?"

Taking her cue, Nikita shrugged and smiled coyly. "Well…yes. I thought we would enjoy it. Can you forgive the bad timing?"

He laughed out loud. "Certainly, my love. You have surprised me, and that is a rare treat."

He made as if to rise but Nikita pushed him back, nuzzling his ear and whispering throatily. "No…I'll get it. You stay here and keep this thought." She reached down and stroked him gently, generating an instantaneous reaction. His eyes glazed with desire.

"Hurry back," he said softly as she slipped from the rustling sheets and picked up her clothes.

Once out of his sight, she dressed with desperate speed. "I'll be right there," she called out to the 'waiter', knowing Crespo was listening. Seconds later she opened the door and fell into Michael's arms, needing his touch to make her feel clean again. "Do we have what we need?" she asked, fearing a negative answer. She didn't know how she could go back to that bed again.

"Yes," he replied briefly, pulling her down the hall at an increasing pace, never releasing her hand. "You did well."

As they rounded the corner into a stairwell that would take them up to waiting rooftop transportation, they heard the snick of a door opening back down the hall.

"Nikita?" Crespo's voice floated out to them questioningly, touched with some concern. Suspicion and anger would not be far behind. Nikita suppressed a giggle born of ecstatic relief.

If he only knew.

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

Preston paced in aggravation. The path he was wearing in the floor roughly circled an impressive multi-screened workstation. The lanky young man at the keyboard dropped his hands at last and looked up in defeat.

"I can't trace it."

"What do you mean you can't trace it? What does that mean?" Preston was almost hissing in frustration. "You have the finest equipment available. I've never seen anything you couldn't figure out."

The young man shrugged calmly, then pushed his long hair back and folded his arms. His voice held an admiring tone. "I also have never seen anything I couldn't figure out," he stated flatly. "But whoever sent you this message has covered their trail in a way I've never encountered." Warily he looked at Preston's face, contorted with fear and anger, then spoke his next words slowly and carefully. "We've been at this for hours. There's simply nothing to track."

He glanced over at another monitor. "Your client report is up if you want the latest revision."

Preston stopped his pacing and threw himself into the adjacent chair, leaning forward to scroll through the report, feeling again the sensation of numb disbelief he'd felt in the car when this all began.

"After all I've done for these people," he muttered under his breath.

"Rats have a way of deserting…." the computer operator began.

"This ship is not sinking," Preston snapped immediately.

"Well," the young man pointed out, "we've already had cancellation of all four of our new reactor projects. More than half of our ongoing consulting contracts have abrogated claiming we falsely represented ourselves." He shrugged resignedly, tipping back and rocking a little on his back chair legs. "I'd say that just about sinks the ship."

Preston stood, and in a quick motion gave the teetering chair a hard shove. The computer operator landed painfully on the floor in an ignominious heap. Preston blinked down at him with a cold, lizardlike stare.

"You're fired. Get out."

Gathering the shreds of his dignity, the young man untangled his long limbs from the chair and rose. In silence he collected a battered jean jacket and some books. Then at the door he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

"Does this mean you won't be paying third quarter bonuses?" he asked in a contemptuous tone.

"Get out!" Preston thundered. Wisely withholding further comment, the computer operator disappeared around the corner.

Suddenly drained of his rage, Preston glanced again at the damning client report. He couldn't bear to look at it any more. Without righting the fallen chair, he left the room to seek the sanctuary of his office.

The room was dim and silent when he unlocked the door. Gratefully he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind himself and sinking tiredly into a comfortable chair near the liquor cabinet. In the faint light he reached over and poured two fingers of his favorite bourbon, then breathed deeply of its warm aroma as he swallowed a large mouthful.

"Hello, Jimmy."

Preston sat up violently, spilling half his drink down the lapel of his suit.

The sudden, harsh scrape of a match was loud in the silence, and Preston's eyes searched frantically in the glow of the tiny light, seeking the owner of that voice. In a moment, the odor of cigarette smoke began to curl through the room.

"Who are you?" Preston demanded, hating the fear he heard in his voice.

Operations snapped on the banker's lamp that sat on the desk. He lounged in Preston's chair, smoking comfortably.

"You've done well for yourself, Jimmy," he commented softly. "Especially for someone with your background."

Preston felt a quiver begin deep in his bowels, spreading like poison throughout his body. He leaped from the chair and leaned over the desk, staring at the man who sat there.

"Marcus?" he said in strained, disbelieving tone. "Marcus?

Operations blew out a thin stream of smoke then looked Preston squarely in the eyes.

"Yes." The word was a verbal icicle, stabbing him to the heart. Preston began to sweat profusely, despite feeling bloodlessly cold.

"I thought….we all thought….when…" His breath came in little jerks. "How did you get away from the camp?"

Operations smiled tightly. "You knew I was in a camp, didn't you Jimmy?" He spit out a tiny speck of tobacco. "You knew I was there and you left me there. And helped yourself to my Swiss account, too."

"But…but…you were dead. Why would we let all that money go to waste? We divided it…equally, you know…it was Teo's idea…I…"

Operations slammed his hand down violently on the desk. "Shut up!"

Preston instantly ceased his babbling and looked fearfully at the man across the desk. He noticed for the first time that a silenced gun lay casually in the center of the desk. His stomach renewed its twisting and he wished desperately that he were anywhere else but here.

Operations spoke with complete calm once more. "Our little problem in Vietnam thirty years ago is not what brings me here today, Jimmy. I'm afraid it's something you're up to in the present." He drew leisurely on the cigarette.

"You see, Jimmy, we know what you plan to do with the nuclear waste you've been stealing."

His eyes widening with dread, Preston began to speak, but Operations' pointed finger silenced him immediately.

"All I want to know is where you've stockpiled the materials you've already collected. Then," he paused and looked directly at Preston again with an enigmatic expression, "you won't collect any more."

Finally Preston could no longer keep silent. His words came in a rush. "Look, Marcus…why don't you come in with us on this. There'll be plenty of money to go around. And, hey, these countries are going to get nukes from somewhere eventually, so why shouldn't we cash in, right?" His voice began to spiral upward in panic. "If you're still sore about Vietnam, well, we could work out a deal where you get a little larger percentage, you know?" He looked anxiously at the stone face before him. "Or a lot larger percentage. If that's what you want."

Then the only sound in the room was Preston's stertorous respiration. Operations continued to smoke and appeared to be idly considering the gun where it lay in front of him.

"So? Well? What do you say?"

Finally, Operations rose from the chair and pulled it away from the desk, gesturing invitingly. "All right, Jimmy. You just come over here and write this all down for me. I don't want your partners to misunderstand our deal later on."

Almost crying in relief, Preston jumped up and hurried around the desk, taking care to approach the chair from the opposite side where Operations was standing. With shaking hands he opened the center drawer and removed his reading glasses, pen and paper. He arranged himself to write, then sat waiting, expecting some dictation.

As the silence spun out an icy sensation began creeping up his spine once more, obliterating the warm relief he'd begun to feel. Too late he noticed that the gun was no longer in the center of the desk. He closed his eyes, afraid to look around.

"Are you going to shoot me now?" he quavered.

No reply.

"Look, I'm sorry about leaving you behind in Vietnam. Is that what you want to hear?"

Still, no reply.

He began to feel angry. "You've ruined me, you know. My customers are dropping me like a bad habit. I've lost my place in society. Cynthia will leave me." Self-pity bloomed and grew. "You have no idea what you've done. You've taken my whole life away from me. There's no need to kill me too."

Finally a soulless whisper came from behind the chair. "There is nothing you can tell me about having a life taken away."

The last thought James Preston had was how remarkably warm the gunmetal felt at his temple.

He had imagined it would be cold.

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

Daniel Tucker stood on an upper level of the broad pier, eyeing the gathering clouds and keeping watch as preparations were made for his vessel to put out to sea. His thoughts were sharply divided. As a longtime seafarer, one part of his mind was fully engaged in surveillance of his boat and of the scurrying crew, missing nothing in his observation of their activities and the equipment being loaded. The rest of his mind was occupied with restless speculation about James Preston's shocking suicide.

Although he himself had not been on the distribution list, he had seen a copy of the message that was circulated widely among Preston's customers and the Boston elite he ran with. Tucker snorted derisively. As if someone could actually kill themselves over becoming a social pariah. Self-important asses. He himself was utterly unimpressed by any threat of societal snubs and didn't understand anyone who was influenced by it. What he really couldn't understand, however, was how Preston could have thrown away his chance at the truly phenomenal money they were about to come into. But why attribute any logic to someone who would take their own life? "A still small voice spake unto me," he murmured to himself, "Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?"

He couldn't help wondering uneasily if Preston's death actually was a suicide. Unsettled by this thought, he indulged a nervous habit of long standing and scratched at his blonde beard. It was time for a serious conversation with Teo about where they would go from here. Maybe this could be his opportunity to get out.

Suddenly the other half of his brain registered the presence of an unknown individual near his boat. The man was dressed completely in black, and walked with an unswaggering, confident stride. As Tucker watched, he approached a crew member and spoke to him. The crewman pointed to where Tucker stood at his observation post, waving as he did so.

Tucker acknowledged the crewman with a brief wave of his own, then folded his arms and waited while the stranger approached him. The man carried himself with an air of quiet self-assurance. He approached directly and spoke without courtesies, his English strongly French-accented.

"My name is Michael Levesque. I am referred to you by one of your clients. I need you to do a job for me."

He crossed his hands before him and stood waiting for Tucker's answer.

Tucker raised one eyebrow. The man's face was a mask; rarely had Tucker ever seen such composure and equanimity. He knew instantly that the proposed job was not going to be undersea salvage - his main line of work. It would be the other; he could feel it.

"Well," he said, cautiously. "I suppose that would depend on who referred you and what type of job you want done." He watched Levesque closely. "Do you have something you need raised?"

Still no expression. "No. I have something I need sunk."

Tucker reflexively glanced around, slightly taken aback by Levesque's overt reference to his sideline of overboarding toxic materials at sea. They were alone; but the possibility always existed that the man was a plant. Perhaps he was even wearing a wire. Best to play it safe.

"Well, I'm not sure what you mean," he stalled. "Perhaps we could begin with the name of the client who referred you to me?"

"Of course. He is Thomas Novak. I have his private number with me as I'm sure you'll wish to confirm his reference." Levesque held out a piece of paper, keeping his unflinching gaze fixed on Tucker's face.

Tucker accepted the paper with a nod, pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number. It seemed familiar enough, although he was unable to recall the exact number. About six months ago they had done several medium-sized jobs for Novak's plastics company, disposing of experimental resins that had not performed to expectations and were annoyingly expensive to recycle. The phone rang.

Michael turned his back and looked down at the activity below. Although he displayed a deceptively casual attitude, he focused intently on the conversation behind him, and was braced to react with lethal speed if it became necessary.

"Novak. This is Daniel Tucker."

A long, worrisome pause ensued and Michael felt his stomach tighten in anticipation of trouble.

Then, Tucker laughed. "No," he replied to Novak's apparently friendly gibe, "the sharks haven't gotten me yet. Not on land or sea." Another little chuckle in appreciation of his own wit. "Listen, Tom, I have somebody here looking to hire me. Says you sent him."

Another pause, much shorter.

"Yes. Good. That's what I needed to know."

Tucker looked at Michael as he wound up the conversation, approval now evident in his gaze. "Fine," he said into the phone. "Let me know when you're ready and we'll schedule it." He snapped the tiny instrument shut and slid it back into his pocket, then addressed Michael.

"Thank you for bearing with me. 'If you trust before you try, you may repent before you die.'" He smiled widely. "Well, Mr. Levesque. You come highly recommended. If you'll accompany me to the boat we can discuss our business further." He assumed a cautionary tone. "The cost of this kind of work can be somewhat dismaying…" His voice trailed off, leaving the statement unfinalized, begging comment.

Michael smiled too. "Not to worry, Mr. Tucker. I can assure you that money is no object."

Mentally Tucker rubbed his hands together pleasurably as he heard these welcome words. All thoughts of James Preston's untimely demise were now happily banished from his mind. Then the wind began to rise and gust sharply, snapping flags and tugging at their clothing. It was time to get underway.

As they descended to the main pier he indulged himself smugly with one last quotation - regrettably prophetic. "Money can't buy friends, but you can get a better class of enemy."

_ _ _ _ _ _

Back at their island sanctuary, Madeline and Operations exchanged a long look over Birkoff's head.

"You see?" Poole inquired rhetorically. "It worked perfectly."

Madeline shook her head. "We were lucky. Working with recordings is very limiting. If he'd asked something I hadn't anticipated it would have put Michael at risk. An unnecessary risk. We should have had Novak here, prepared to talk."

Poole inclined his head slightly in his way, acknowledging Madeline's opinion. "Yes, you are quite right. However, in this case, a simple phone tap and some editing work has saved us from having to interrupt Mr. Novak's miserable existence, having to gain his cooperation, and then having to dispose of the body." He gave his fleeting little smile. "And, of course, I had great faith in your ability to anticipate how the conversation would go."

Madeline looked at him calmly for a moment. "We are operating under your rules of engagement. But I do favor being prepared over having simple faith in anyone's abilities. Even my own." With that comment left hanging in the air, she turned and walked away. The two men returned their attention to monitoring the conversation still going on between Tucker and Michael as they ironed out the details of their agreement.

Birkoff reached into an open drawer and pulled out a fistful of Oreos. What about my ability? he thought. Who do they think edited such a perfect recording, and in such a short time? Who set up the invisible reroute of the call? Personally, he was pleased to see something get done without anybody losing their life over it.

He twisted open the next cookie, grateful that the sweetness helped to eradicate the irksome memory of conch on his tongue. He made a mental note to have some extra cookies in his pocket tonight when he went to dinner.

***********

Teofilo Crespo tugged his bowtie into place once more, still not satisfied with its appearance.

"Lidia!" he called plaintively, summoning his wife.

She appeared in the doorway, fully dressed and putting the back on her earring. The simplicity of the black sheath she wore emphasized the perfection of her slender figure. No ruffles or bows distracted from the dark beauty of her flawless complexion and lush hair. Teo smiled in appreciation.

"Help me with this, will you?"

She nodded and came forward, finishing with her earring and reaching up to undo the offending bowtie.

"You look incredible, Lidia," Crespo said, looking down at the top of her head as she tugged at the tie.

She glanced up at him from under her thick lashes. "I know. You don't deserve me."

His smile faded instantly. "You are a bitch, you know?"

She finished the tie and reached up to pat his cheek. "Yes. I know that too. But I'm rich enough that you put up with it, don't you?" Then she smiled, taunting him. He reached out and encompassed her tiny waist in his two hands but she turned her face away.

"Don't Teo. I just finished my makeup and our guests will be here in a few minutes."

He released her abruptly and without comment, then turned his back to shrug into his jacket. While he was smoothing the lapels into place she walked away. He tracked her reflection in the mirror as she stopped in the doorway for her parting shot.

"Don't let me find you in any cozy corners tonight, Teo." Her voice was icy; the warning unmistakable. Mentally Crespo cursed his carelessness at being caught in the library at their last party. It had been an awkward situation, and Lidia wasn't one to forgive and forget. Neither was her father.

"Do not worry, my dear," he said lightly, making eye contact with her in the mirror. Lidia never simply got mad; she got even. Having his funds cut off was too inconvenient, and he resolved to be on his best behavior this evening.

She swept imperiously from the room. Shaking his head, Crespo returned to the mirror for one last critical inspection before descending to the party.

Downstairs, he joined Lidia for some time in the foyer, greeting their arriving guests with polite small talk then steering them off to appropriate conversations within the large ballroom. After a suitable amount of time had passed, they left the butler to deal with late arrivals and began the ritual of party circulation.

The large room sparkled and glittered with beautifully dressed people. Not all of them were friends, but they were all important in one way or another to the business and social connections of Lidia's family. Crespo moved among them gracefully, bonding with the men, charming the matrons and dazzling the young women with his stunning good looks. He could feel Lidia's eyes on him periodically, coolly monitoring his activities.

Suddenly, his gaze was drawn like a magnet to a white-blonde head on the far side of the room. She was tall, and stood out like an ice princess in a room of predominantly Hispanic coloring. Nikita; there could be no mistake. He felt his throat close up and looked around nervously for Lidia. To his relief, she was in a far corner, engrossed in gossip with two women he knew to be her close friends. Good. They would keep her occupied and give him time to find out what in the hell was going on.

Gradually, he worked his way across the room until he was standing behind Nikita. He tapped her bare shoulder gently. Then she turned and looked at him, her blue eyes wide and guileless.

"Teo!" she said happily. "How nice to see you again." She wore a pleased smile, looking as if the puzzling events in the hotel had never taken place. Uncharacteristically, he found himself at a loss for words. What was she doing here?

Nikita took his arm and leaned close, speaking in a confidential whisper. "You know, after our meeting the other day I realized that my husband just isn't going to be able to handle the finer points of business negotiation." Crespo looked around nervously again for Lidia. She would have a fit if she saw this blonde with his arm in a clinch.

Nikita pressed a little closer, still smiling. "I have found a new business partner. Someone about your age who has a lot of experience overseas." At this she dropped his arm and reached out to a gray-haired man who was standing next to her with his back facing them. The man turned around.

Teo felt his stomach drop to his shoes and knew that he had stopped breathing. The room seemed to revolve slowly and silently around them as his awareness narrowed to focus solely on the face before him.

"Hello Teo." Even if he hadn't recognized the face, he would surely know that voice. He had heard it in his nightmares for thirty years.

"Hello. Marcus." Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. He concentrated on this mantra. What did his face look like? That was too much to think about. Just breathe.

Nikita had slipped her hand through the older man's arm. "Marcus knows sooo much about just everything," she cooed. "I just know you two will have interesting things to talk about."

Crespo looked at her wonderingly. Did the woman have any idea what she was saying?

Operations reached inside his dinner jacket and casually handed Nikita a plain white envelope. "We do have a lot to discuss, my dear. Why don't you just find Lidia with this while Teo and I talk."

She took the envelope and smiled in agreement. "I'll see you in a few minutes." Crespo could only watch helplessly as she walked away and the crowd closed in behind her. He prayed for something to rescue him from this conversation.

Operations reached out to a circulating waiter and picked up two flutes of champagne. With exaggerated politeness he held one out to Crespo.

"You've done well for yourself, Teo." He tapped the rims of their glasses lightly together, then took an appreciative sip.

Crespo gathered himself mentally and glanced around. "Why don't you come to the library where we can talk privately?" he whispered.

"No, thank you," Operations replied affably. "I don't think there's anything you have to say that I want to hear." He leaned closer. "I just wanted to let you know that I survived your betrayal. And that I know what you are up to." He smiled genially, speaking now at a more normal volume. "In fact, Jimmy and I ran into each other just the other day. We discussed some of his current business ventures." He lowered his voice confidentially. "I could be wrong, but he seemed to be having some trouble with his conscience."

This last was uttered in a tone of mock regret. Crespo looked at him in horror, trying to appear normal while every self-preservation instinct he possessed was screaming at him to get away, get away.

Then Nikita was back, re-attaching herself to Operations' arm. He looked down at her kindly. "Are you ready to go?"

"I am," she replied. Then she frowned a little at Crespo. "I'm afraid I'm not much for large parties. They can get so out of hand sometimes."

As if on cue, an earsplitting shriek of animal outrage ripped the air. Lidia.

Teo jerked around and saw her plowing a path toward him through the crowd, brandishing the envelope he had seen in Nikita's hand. Her face was aflame with passionate rage. With a sinking heart he understood then that the envelope almost certainly contained photographs. He also understood that Lidia's father and brothers would kill him this time.

Glancing frantically over his shoulder, he saw that Marcus and Nikita had reached the front door and were being shown out by the butler. He walked with desperate speed in the direction of the library. If he was very, very lucky he might get out with the clothes on his back.

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

He stood quietly on the patio, looking out at the stars and listening to the myriad peeping, croaking and chirping produced in the darkness by an abundance of Caribbean nightlife. The man who even thought of himself as Operations. What had happened to Marcus? Did he die all those years ago in Vietnam? Or did he die gradually, as a result of many years' involvement with Section One? He sipped at the latest scotch in his hand and half-smiled at another question that materialized unexpectedly in his brain. When was the last time he was drunk? Perhaps it was overdue.

The house door opened and closed behind him, accompanied by a thin slice of light that appeared and disappeared. From the gruff throat clearing he knew immediately who had sought him out.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, Walter?"

"Heh," Walter snorted. "Wish I had a sweet young reason to go to bed early."

They stood quietly for a moment looking at the spangled sky.

"The wife's father took care of Crespo."

"Yes," said Operations. "I thought he might."

Walter remained silent, but shifted restlessly where he stood. Finally Operations glanced over at him. "Don't fidget, Walter. Just say what you came to say. I won't bite."

Walter glanced at him doubtfully, but went ahead anyway with his question. "Well. It's none of my business, but I was kinda wondering…about Preston, then Crespo …" He paused.

"Does it give me any satisfaction that they're dead?" Operations finished for him. "Does it help to mitigate the years I spent in that camp, and everything I gave up afterward?"

Walter's reply was succinct. "Yeah".

The door opened and closed again then, and Madeline crossed the terrace quietly to join them.

"Madeline," said Walter, nodding.

Operations looked at her but gave no greeting, continuing on without interruption. "Yes. It feels good. And I can't wait to see Tucker, too, even though we used to be close friends. Did you expect me to say that after all this, revenge is not sweet? That I somehow don't have the stomach for it?"

"No," Walter responded thoughtfully. "No." He sighed heavily. "I wish I had somebody to blame for what happened to our lives." At that he turned and went back to the house, leaving Operations and Madeline alone in the scented darkness.

Operations lit a small cigar, then scratched another match and lit two tiki torches nearby. The flickering light pushed back the velvet darkness and revealed Madeline's calm face as she looked at him. He took another deep pull at his scotch, savoring the warm path it traced on the way down.

After a moment he asked gruffly, "What about you? Do you think it's unworthy of me to take satisfaction from revenge?"

Her eyes lit savagely in the torchlight and her words were vehement. "No. Those men wronged you unforgivably. There is nothing unworthy about avenging a stolen life."

He was taken aback by her hostility on his behalf, and oddly pleased. Suddenly his own anger and indignation faded away, and he reached out to stroke her cheek with a feather light touch.

"There has been some recompense, you know," he said softly. Her eyes were black, liquid pools gazing back at him. "I wouldn't know you otherwise."

She smiled softly for a moment, then her expression became melancholy. "Hardly a worthy trade-off for a normal life with your family."

This he could not deny without sounding false and hollow. "Perhaps," he replied. "I'll never know." His hand remained cupping her face and she waited for him to say more, but there was nothing.

Eventually she moved closer and laid her head quietly against his shoulder.

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

Sunsets at sea were rapid and spectacular; Tucker never tired of seeing it. "We are as near to heaven by sea as by land," he said to the night watch. The crewman grunted a wordless acknowledgment; they were all accustomed to the literary eruptions of their captain. As the last rays of the setting sun faded away, Tucker checked out with the watch and headed for his cabin, looking forward to a glass of good wine and his habitual reading time before retiring. Tonight, however, there would be no sleep. They were scheduled to arrive at port within an hour.

As ducked through the doorway, his cabin was softly aglow with a night light thoughtfully provided by the steward. The room was large and comfortable by seagoing standards, a necessity for a man his size. He poured a generous glass of wine and eased himself down into a well-worn chair. A selection of books was piled on the side table. He gazed for a long moment at the nearby photograph of a willowy blonde woman holding a child, then sipped at the wine and let his head lay back in the chair. He closed his eyes, relishing this time by himself. It was his favorite part of the day.

After a moment, he picked up the remote control which sat on top of the book pile and clicked the 'start' button for his tape player. He enjoyed having quiet music in the background while he read, changing the selection to complement his reading material. Currently he was wading through some new-age drivel everyone was talking about called The Celestine Prophecy. The music he'd chosen was a set of atmospheric compositions by Chip Davis called Interludes. A few seconds of tape hiss ensued and he reached for his book.

Then, instead of the restful tones of the piano, came a man's voice. Tucker looked up instantly, puzzled. Even before he registered what was being said, he realized that the voice was somehow familiar.

"…and copies of this tape will be delivered to heads of the following businesses: Novak Injection Molding, Land and Sea Environmental Services, Lamb Industrial Supplies, U.S. Filter …"

The voice continued on, listing over a dozen businesses which he recognized as illegal dumping customers from the past two years. Then, after a pause: "…in addition, a copy of this tape will be delivered to the Federal Bureau of Investigation." More tape hiss. Then different voices began. His. Michael Levesque. Tucker's blood began to run cold as he realized this was a recording of the recent conversation with Levesque detailing his agreement to dump toxic waste illegally in the ocean on an upcoming run to the North Atlantic.

In a panic he reached out again for the remote control and shut off the tape, then sat for some moments with his head in his hands. "That voice," he whispered aloud. "I know that voice…"

"Of course you do."

Tucker jumped up in shock and spun around to face the far, darkened corner of his cabin. The speaker stepped forward.

"Hello Danny."

Tucker stood dumbfounded for long seconds. Then, incredibly, his hairy face was split by a wide grin. "Marcus!" he cried.

Operations looked back with narrowed eyes, nonplused by this unexpected reaction.

Tucker took a step forward and reached out to encompass Operations in a huge bear hug. He was stopped abruptly by the sight of a gun in front of him, lamplight glinting sharply off its polished barrel. His eyes traveled back and forth several times from the face to the gun, and finally back to the face.

"You don't need that," he said.

Operations did not reply.

Tucker gestured at his tape player. "That from you?" he inquired casually.

A nod.

Tucker thought for a moment, putting things together. "Jimmy didn't commit suicide, did he?"

Operations smiled tightly and shook his head.

"Yeah. I didn't think suicide made any sense." He held his hands up before him innocently, then slowly sat back down in his chair. "I need to sit down. Hope you don't mind."

He spoke again without turning around. "And have you seen Teo lately too?"

Operations was forced to speak then, since Tucker's change of position had put them out of eye contact. He lowered the gun and moved around to the front of the chair. "I'm afraid Teo has mortally antagonized his wife and her family."

"So - you're back to get us all, are you?"

Goaded into conversation at last, and a little intrigued by Tucker's lack of fear, Operations decided to answer the question.

"Actually, Danny, you all would have lived out your lives thinking I was dead if only you hadn't gotten involved in nuclear waste theft. Now, your toxic dumping customers will believe they are about to be turned in to the FBI, and they will probably fall over each other in their haste to eliminate you as a witness. That will end your dumping, as well as your nuclear waste sideline. Only incidentally will it avenge what you did to me."

Tucker nodded, scratching at his beard again. "So…what you are you - The Spy Who Came in from the Cold?"

"Something like that."

"You know, for whatever it's worth, I'm glad to know you're alive. I was never a part of the plan to leave you behind. You were my best friend over there."

Operations considered him skeptically for a moment, then laid down his gun and fished a cigarette out of his pocket.

"What happened to you anyway?"

Operations pulled on the cigarette, looking speculatively at Tucker through the spiraling smoke. "I was in the POW camp for six years. I escaped with the help of someone who came in toward the end of that time."

"And after?"

"After that my life was over. My wife died. My son disappeared. And I have spent my life doing things so terrible that I dread going to sleep at night."

Tucker was quiet for a moment, his face drawn and sad. When he spoke again his voice was low and grievous. "Those who offend us are generally punished for the offense they give; but we so frequently miss the satisfaction of knowing that we are avenged!" As he quoted his eyes strayed to the photograph on the nearby table.

"What do you mean?" Operations asked, not missing the look.

Tucker gave a deep sigh and gestured at the photograph. His words came irregularly, in a jerking sequence. "My wife. Janet. We got married after Nam. Had a little girl soon after. I tried to push for your retrieval. Even go back myself. Preston disagreed. I kept pushing." Here he paused for a long moment; small muscles in his clenched jaw jumped spasmodically. "Then Janet died in a suspicious traffic accident. Preston said it would be good for my little girl if I shut up and went along."

The boat rolled ever so gently beneath their feet and small, irregular creaks filled up the silence. At last Tucker looked up. "So, you see…you had your revenge on me many years ago." He laughed unhappily. "You've done me a great favor, actually, in killing Jimmy. Now my daughter can live her life without him looking over her shoulder."

He picked up his wine glass and drank. "I know it's too little, too late. But I'm sorry for what happened to you. For what's still happening to you…whatever it is." He smiled ruefully. "I know - you could tell me but then you'd have to kill me. Right?"

He became serious once more. "Those Swiss bank accounts?"

Operations nodded, still smoking thoughtfully as Tucker talked.

"We split up yours. At least, Preston gave me and Teo a share and said it was one third. Well, I put that third back into another Swiss account. I figured that someday maybe I'd find your son. Stephen? Anyway, I thought I might find a way to give that to him somehow." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It seemed like all I could think of to do for you at the time."

A sudden beep from the intercom startled them both.

"Yes?" Tucker responded quietly.

A tinny voice issued from the speaker. "Captain we're about to tie up, sir. Are we unloading cargo yet tonight?" The hopeful tone clearly implied that tomorrow would be the speaker's preference.

"We'll unload tomorrow. I'll be up…" he glanced at Operations. "…after I finish something I'm in the middle of."

"Thank you sir. I'll let you know when we're secure."

Operations stubbed out his cigarette. His gaze rested on the photograph of the woman and child for several moments before traveling to Tucker, who still slumped resignedly in the chair with his long legs stretched out before him. He reached into a pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed, then spoke only four words. "Don't send the tapes."

As Tucker looked on in some confusion, Operations pocketed his gun.

"Give the money in the Swiss account to your daughter. My son is…he doesn't need the money."

He opened the door but stopped to look back one more time. "Goodbye, Danny."

Tucker knew he would never see Marcus Wolfe again.

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

Stephen stood outside the open doorway mustering his courage, feeling it ebb, then gathering it up all over again. He began to feel some disgust with himself; he'd been standing here for at least ten minutes but couldn't seem to make himself walk through the door.

Within, the tapping of the keyboard stopped and did not resume. A chair scraped. Stephen took a step forward, determined this time to go straight to the doorway and speak.

Then Operations came out the door unexpectedly and Stephen backpedaled awkwardly to avoid a collision.

"Stephen?" Operations looked at him strangely. "Did you need to speak to me?"

"Uh. Yes. I do." He cleared his throat. "If you have time."

They re-entered the office and sat down on opposite sides of the rattan desk. Bright sunshine pouring in through the windows lent an aspect of false cheer to the tense atmosphere in the room. Operations waited, privately enjoying this rare chance to look at his son without anyone else around. He wished there were a way to tell him…

"I was wondering," Stephen began, "if I could ask you something about Daniel Tucker."

Operations raised one eyebrow skeptically. "You can ask."

But I might not get an answer, Stephen finished mentally. He felt his courage ebbing again and rushed ahead to commit himself.

"Why did you let him go?"

Operations frowned. "Because I learned some things that convinced me he did not deserve to die."

Stephen stared at him for several seconds. "What things?" he blurted.

"Why do you want to know?"

Because I want to understand what kind of man you are, Stephen thought.

"Because I want to understand how these decisions are made in mission situations," he replied aloud.

"You'll see a copy of the report when it's completed." Seeing Daniel Tucker had stirred up emotions he had not yet had time to process. He needed to talk to Madeline. Get a handle on this burgeoning desire to tell Stephen everything.

Choking frustration rose into Stephen's throat. He was doing it again; pushing him away. To protect him? How could that matter any longer? He rose abruptly from his chair, stumbling a little.

"Fine," he muttered, shoving at the chair.

Operations stood also, feeling some trepidation at Stephen's angry reaction. Perhaps the young man was feeling out of the informational loop…or under-utilized on this mission. Or perhaps it was something more. Something he wasn't sure they were ready for.

"At times I keep information back when there is no constructive purpose for sharing it. Or when it could be dangerous. *I* make that decision." He struggled to keep his face from revealing the churning going on inside. "Is that all?" His tone was dismissive.

"Yeah." Stephen looked at him resentfully. "That's all." He turned away, but then stopped. He stood with his back turned and the silence stretched between them. Moments passed and still he stood indecisively; unwilling to stay, unable to leave.

"Stephen?"

His reply was a whisper, forced up past the fear in his gut and the frustrated lump in his throat.

"I know."

Two simple words that spoke volumes. Operations closed his eyes and tried to discipline his leaping heart as it ricocheted around his chest. God, he wished Madeline were here. He didn't know how to do this.

To his surprise, Stephen turned around and did it for him. He wore an expression of vast relief and his voice was steady.

"This is where you ask how I found out and how long I've known. And then I ask you why you didn't tell me and where you've been all my life. Except now, of course, I know the answer to that last part."

He sat down with folded his arms and repeated his earlier question. "I want to know why you let Daniel Tucker go."

Operations simply looked at him.

"Why?" Stephen repeated patiently. He would sit here all afternoon if he had to.

"Because," Operations replied slowly, "he was my friend. Many years ago he was my friend."

Stephen tipped his head back and released a long breath. He had heard what he wanted - needed - to hear. There would be time now to sort out their complicated relationship, and where they would take it from here.

With a flash of insight, he recognized that this process would be largely up to him. He was beginning to understand what Madeline had tried to explain to him so obliquely; how fear and bravery come in many forms. Maybe he would spend more time with Walter before coming back to push his father a little further along. A slight smile lifted his lips.

Opposite him, Operations watched these thoughts play out on his son's face. So transparent - whatever it was. He cursed himself for not being able to understand.

"Stephen…" he said uncertainly.

Stephen stood up. "That's ok," he said with quiet assurance. "We can talk some more another time."

Operations nodded faintly, feeling again that unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation of being wholly disconcerted. He was more than willing to let this conversation go for the time being.

Outside the door, Madeline passed by, turning her head to smile at him but saying nothing. Stephen left the room and turned the same direction down the hall.

For as long as he could hear them, he looked at the empty doorway and listened to their retreating footsteps. Deep inside, a small spark of warmth kindled.

He smiled.

**********

FINI

**********

Quotation credits:

A still small voice spake unto me
Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?
…Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-92)…Poet. From "The Two Voices".

If you trust before you try, you may repent before you die
…Proverb

Money can't buy friends, but you can get a better class of enemy.
…Spike Mulligan (1918-)…British comic actor and author

We are as near to heaven by sea as by land
…Humphrey Gilbert (1539-83) English navigator. Remark made
shortly before he went down with his ship, Squirrel.

Those who offend us are generally punished for the offense they give; but we so frequently miss the satisfaction of knowing that we are avenged!
…Anthony Trollope (1815-82) Novelist. From "The Small House at Allington"

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