Author's Preface:

This story builds on my two previous stories. Here's the basic gist of things so if you haven't read these you don't HAVE to go back - but I hope you'll want to!

For the Dark: Section One is disbanded by the government. Our Gang escapes the general purge and has to decide whether to stay together. They are given sanctuary by Poole, a different kind of terrorist fighter, who had earlier saved Madeline's life (see The Virus).

Argus: Operations' past comes back to haunt him when their first mission with Poole's organization, Argus, requires him to confront three demons from his former life.

My thanks once again to Zzoo for her invention of the name Marcus for Operations and for her supposition that Walter was with him in Vietnam. I hope my elaboration here isn't too far off the mark.

And, this is my public admission to purloining part of the title of Lt. General Harold G. Moore's book "We Were Soldier's Once…and Young". I think it's from a poem, but I was completely unable to locate any reference for it - so he gets the credit.

SOLDIERS ONCE, AND YOUNG

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

The smell was breathtaking.

Enormous, pervasive and stinking it filled the lab in a choking billow. "Christ!" exclaimed the white-coated technician on the far side of the room. "What are you doing?!" He held a towel to his face in a futile attempt at defense.

The creator of the acrid stench lifted his nose appreciatively. At his elbow a beaker sat boiling merrily atop a lit Bunsen burner. "Jest a little somethin'," he murmured coyly. "Want a taste?"

The tech was already chucking off his lab coat and searching hastily for car keys. He paused only briefly in his flight from the room. "Tackett, you're nuts, do you realize that?" he announced rhetorically. "You're certifiable." His face was white and pinched from a heroic effort not to breathe.

Tackett beamed in pleasure. "Thankya, Harris. You know I always like to be the best at what I do. Noooo half measures." He reached out for the beaker with a gloved hand and poured some off into a glass, then raised it in a mock toast. "Join me? It'll put some iron in your poker."

The tech sprinted blue-faced from the room.

"Halfwit," Tackett muttered to himself. He dumped out the contents of the beaker and turned the lab ventilation system on high. For shit's sake. The lengths he had to go to anymore to get time alone in the lab. As the reek subsided, Tackett turned back to the PC and began to concentrate once more on the finalization of his report. In a week's time he would be presenting the biggest paper of his career at the most important environmental science assembly he'd ever been to. It was going to be phenomenal. Never again would any high-and-mighty ivy-league moron look down their patrician nose at Ridley Tackett. Never again would he be stuck working in some jerkwater lab with mentally deficient technicians like the one recently departed. Just because Ridley Tackett drawled like a redneck didn't mean he had a corresponding IQ.

He'd learned. If you don't run with the big dogs, you end up stuck on the porch.

Oh, but he planned on shaking up all those big dogs. Hell, he planned on shaking up the whole world. He smiled to himself. He couldn't wait.

Unnoticed at the back of his PC, a small transmission device steadily winked its red eye. And in blissful solitude, Ridley Tackett continued detailing and annotating the entire story of his ticket to fame, fortune and his own private lab - no halfwits allowed.

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

Closing the folder at his elbow, Operations pushed aside the remains of his coconut bread and fresh mango breakfast. He toyed for a moment with his coffee, thinking, then looked across the table.

"I'm not sure this is worth our attention." He gazed speculatively at Poole, who was still finishing a similar breakfast to his own. "We don't even know if this process he's come up with is workable."

Poole pushed his plate aside as well. "That much is true," he conceded politely as he refilled his cup from the coffee carafe. "However, we do know that OPEC has hired Abu Nidal Organization to kill this man. They've been monitoring his computer for at least the last two weeks, and whatever ANO has learned of Tackett's research has been sufficient to convince *them* that he has come up with something genuine.

A tiny bird with a breast of blinding yellow landed on the terrace wall near their table. Smiling softly, Poole reached out for the sugar bowl and poured a heaping teaspoon onto the edge of his plate. The bird cocked its head, its bright regard flashing continuously between the sugar and the humans, assessing the risk and weighing the reward.

Poole went on. "Although counter-terrorism is more high profile, there are times when I feel that the global impact of other¼situations¼can be a better investment of our time. In this case we have a young scientist working on his own. He flouts convention, distrusts authority and is so paranoid that he's allowed no one complete access to his research. Presently, he is on the verge of introducing a process for synthesizing clean-burning artificial petroleum. The impact of this process would be immeasurable."

The tiny banana quit finally left the relative security of the terrace wall and flitted to their table. It perched on the edge of Poole's plate and began concentrated, high-speed consumption of the sugar pile.

Poole watched the bird benevolently as he explained further. "Provided this process actually works, it would mean the end of OPEC's incredibly lucrative oil market. Their economies would collapse overnight. Unfortunately for the Mr. Tackett, his modus operandi has made it all too easy for ANO. All they have to do is eliminate the man to eliminate the threat. They may have that opportunity next week when he presents his findings at an environmental science convention in Coral Gables. Once he is silenced, other scientists would be years reproducing his work. Provided they were brave enough to try."

"And you have no qualms about supporting something that will negatively impact the economies of these countries?" Operations deliberately understated the situation, probing for Poole's motivation. He reached for the sugar bowl, momentarily frightening away the banana quit, and spooned a little hill of sugar onto the edge of his own plate. In seconds the bird returned, joined by another who busied itself with the additional sugar bonanza.

"I have no such qualms," Poole responded. "There is a limit to the fossil fuels available on this planet, and there is a limit to the amount of pollution our ecosystem can absorb. With typical shortsightedness, alternative energies are being suppressed by the existing energy industry and their purchased supporters in government. Fossil fuel consumption continues to rise unabated. In this circumstance I take the long view; someone has to."

He paused to remove and polish his spectacles, his movement sweeping the birds from the table once again. Re-situating his glasses a moment later, he fixed Operations with a look that was at once wise, sad and searching. "Perhaps, Marcus, you consider my assessment of this matter to be judgmental, presumptuous, or even somewhat like playing god." He watched Operations attentively.

"How did Tackett come to your attention?" Operations inquired, abruptly shifting the conversation a little to the side.

"My background and interests predispose me to watch these types of situations." Poole revealing nothing with his circumspect reply.

Operations stared at the enigmatic little man across the table. How did he come by the obscure bits of intelligence he always seemed privy to? A network? It would have to be huge. Government connections? ESP? Why did he do this work?

It occurred to him suddenly that he was very glad Poole was on their side. If indeed he was. Poole seemed to choose his own sides, with no regard to politics or national boundaries. The long view.

"Well," Operations responded at last. "I understand something about playing god. Someone has to, I suppose." He smiled faintly. "Will you save us from ourselves, then?"

Poole did not smile in return, although his expression was benign. "Someone has to, I suppose."

On the table the banana quits had finished their respective sugar piles and sat about hopefully, twitching and cocking their heads at the two unmoving humans. They warbled demandingly in their raspy little voices, but no more sugar appeared. Their attention span was fleeting and within moments they darted from the table, their gleaming yellow breasts a blur of color against the immaculate azure of the morning sky.

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

Michael took a swig from his water bottle and laconically flipped to the next page of the University of Miami campus rag. He shifted his legs a little. The park bench was getting hard, even by his stoic standards of discomfort. At the other end of the bench Nikita popped her gum loudly and squirmed around in her own vain attempt to find a comfortable position. She glanced at her watch. What a waste of time; thankfully they wouldn't be much longer out here.

"Are you done with that page?" Stephen lounged on the grass nearby, a backward Tiger's cap and a silent Walkman perched on his head.

Michael nodded and tossed him a section of the paper. They settled down to watch for a few more minutes.

Behind them, the curved facade of Gusman Concert Hall was burnished white by brilliant afternoon sunlight. Within was a 600 seat auditorium where a procession of speakers, some nervous and tentative, others articulate and zealous, were presenting and defending scientific papers on various environmental topics.

Peripherally, they noted the well-dressed man who walked past them toward the building. Glances met and passed without lingering; none of their faces registered even a glimmer of recognition as Operations went by.

"Mr. Poole?" Operations' inquiry came to all ears through the com links they wore.

Poole responded immediately. "Entering the auditorium; will be in position momentarily.

"Michael?"

"Nothing out here."

"Everybody in."

At this curt command, Michael and Nikita got up gratefully from the hard bench and strolled into the building behind Operations. They were followed shortly by Stephen. Outside, a nondescript-looking van sat at the curb. Walter stayed with the vehicle, tapping his fingers nervously on the wheel and keeping a weather eye out for the campus rent-a-cops who would try to move him along. He was their getaway driver.

Despite the crowd, the hall was blessedly cool. The air was filled with the indistinct murmur of a hundred ongoing conversations. Slowly the five Argus members circulated among knots of people thronging the lobby and open auditorium doorway.

Michael saw him first.

"Tackett is coming in. Right side door nearest the stage."

The scientist was smiling and gesturing expansively to those around him, not apparently nervous about his upcoming presentation. His booming laugh turned heads from all directions.

"Eyes open," Operations reminded them curtly. "If they're coming, ANO must be here."

A moment later Poole called it. "Two. One approaching Tackett from behind, the other from left of stage."

Quickly they focused on the individuals Poole had identified. The appearance of the two men blended perfectly with the crowd. They were revealed only by their direct line of motion; a clear contrast with the aimlessly milling throng they plowed through. Quickly they closed in on Tackett.

Operations pushed through the crowd as rapidly as he dared, continuing to scan the room as he moved. Suddenly a single face seized his attention, and for a heart stopping instant he doubted the evidence of his own eyes. He allowed himself one additional, precious moment of time to look again, hoping he was wrong. Then he saw the others moving purposefully toward the stage and realized that they, too, were here for Tackett. But no one else would understand. No one else here had ever seen this man's face.

Of the hundred or so questions flooding his mind one screamed loudest for an answer. Complete the mission - or save themselves? For that was surely the choice before him. His eyes rested briefly on Stephen, working his way over from the far side of the room. He made the choice.

"Abort," he snarled under his breath, coming to a standstill and trying to estimate the strength of the others.

"Is there a problem?" Poole inquired calmly.

"We have to get out. Now."

In other parts of the room Stephen, Nikita and Michael had stopped in their tracks, waiting tensely for information.

"Section One is here."

After only a beat of surprise, Michael spoke quickly. "We can still get Tackett."

"No. Let them." He hoped he would not regret that decision. "Everyone out now."

Then it began to happen. Time compressed itself into a jumble of events and impressions.

The two ANO agents drew their guns and charged toward Tackett's position at the stage. The stone of panic had been thrown and the rippling reaction spread outward in an ever-widening circle throughout the crowd. Tackett stood where he was, watching the confusion, as yet unaware that he was the focus of it all.

Section One personnel abandoned stealth and began shoving their way through the terrified throng. Although no shots had been fired, the sight alone of a half-dozen drawn guns had sent the crowd into a frenzy of fear.

Amidst the press of bodies Operations rotated slowly, trying desperately get another look at the face. He had to be sure. The crowd buffeted them, the tumult carrying them along in its flood. He saw Nikita's pale head as she was swept through the main door. Of Poole there was no sign. Nor of Michael and Stephen.

The conference attendees exited the auditorium in desperate haste and the noise level within began to drop slowly. Now Tackett's hoarse protests rose above the din, and Operations realized that ANO had reached their target. Incredulous, he watched as the Section One operatives fell over themselves and each other, failing to even get close as ANO efficiently bundled the scientist between them and out a side door. Then they were gone.

Braced against the panicked surge for yet a moment longer, Operations finally found the face again. The man's dark eyes were locked on his own, as if he'd been purposely waiting for contact to take place. And then he smiled. Cold, vile and loathsome. The way a snake would smile before engulfing the terrified mouse.

Operations felt a cold sweat break and suddenly knew in his gut that too much time was passing. Swiftly he made his way through the thinning crowd to the curb. Walter was at his post, engine running and chafing to know what was happening. The others were piling in.

Stephen was not among them.

"Where's Stephen?" Walter's gaze roamed the fleeing crowd ceaselessly as he spoke.

A heartbeat of denial. Then the true import of that loathsome smile hit him like a hammer blow. Operations closed his eyes. "Ah, God¼" he whispered to himself in agony.

"Where's Stephen?" Nikita repeated urgently. All eyes were now on Operations.

It was a moment before he could speak. Before his brain could form the words, put them together into coherent thought and force them past numb lips.

"Section One failed. Abu Nidal has Tackett."

"Section One? Are you sure it was them?" Walter twisted around in the driver's seat, his weathered face filled with dread.

"I'm sure," Operations confirmed wearily. "George is here. He has Stephen."

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

Formerly, Operations would have pounded the table and demanded answers, making everyone accountable. Formerly, the retrieval of a captured operative would have been considered dispassionately, their value to the organization weighed against the risk involved in their recovery.

But now, he knew that only he himself was accountable. And the nightmare he had sacrificed so much to avoid was now playing itself out. He passed his hand over a face lined and pale with fatigue.

They were gathered in the living room. At the bar Poole poured himself an unaccustomed mid-day glass of wine, then opened the discussion with a gently-spoken statement.

"We shall retrieve your son, of course, Marcus."

Taken aback by Poole's compassion, Operations braced himself mentally. He forced a cool, logical tone. "It's more important now that we concentrate our resources on Tackett." Nikita looked at him with unconcealed distaste and amazement. He pressed on resolutely, hoping to convince himself as well as all of them. "George won't kill him. He'll use him to get to me. We have some time." Please, he thought. "A little time."

"What was Section One doing there?" Walter asked.

Operations raised his hands and gave a slight shrug. "Possibly they intended to use Tackett for some sort of bargaining chip…I'd be guessing."

"But why would George be in the field?" Walter continued, his brow wrinkled in bafflement. "And how could they have screwed up so bad?"

"The new Section One operatives are very green," Michael answered. "There hasn't been enough time for them to train adequately or gain experience."

"I agree," Operations confirmed. "It was a mistake for me to assume they would be able to get Tackett before ANO." After this moment of self-recrimination he added, "I suspect George is being held responsible for all of us escaping the general purge of the old Section One. It is likely that until my replacement is found, he himself is heading formation of the new Section." He smiled balefully. "Possibly he's even been assigned my job as a punishment." It was a satisfying irony.

Nikita looked curiously at Madeline, seizing the opportunity to ask a question she could never have asked before. "Have you ever seen George's file?"

"No," Madeline replied thoughtfully. "And I have never met him. But I agree that he is probably being held responsible for the fact that we are all alive. I would expect that he feels some¼personal retribution¼is in order." She exchanged a long look with Operations.

"I saw him once, years ago," Walter muttered. His unfocused gaze was directed into thin air, as if he was simply thinking out loud. "He looked¼crazy...nuts. Eyes like piss-holes in snow."

A moment later the troubled silence was broken by the sound of a door opening and closing in the back hall. Footsteps tapped briskly along the corridor. Poole smiled warmly and turned to greet the diminutive woman who entered the room. He presented her with his characteristic courtly style, and with some pride.

"This is Judith," he said simply. "She helps me from time to time. She will aid us with our now dual priority of retrieving both your son and our paranoid young scientist."

Judith greeted them collectively with a restrained smile and small inclination of her head. Beyond this, introductions were not exchanged. She seemed not to be unnerved by their frank appraisal.

The woman was elegant and reserved in both appearance and demeanor. She was petite, scarcely over five feet, with smooth dark hair drawn into a graceful French twist. The clothing she wore was simple, exquisitely tailored and fitted her perfectly. When she spoke her voice was low and cultured, the blend of accents impossible to identify.

"I have some experience with Arab culture. I will provide assistance to you in retrieving the young man from Abu Nidal."

Madeline's cool gaze assessed first Judith, then Poole. "You already have a plan?"

"We have some thoughts," Poole replied, including Judith with a flick of his eyes. "There is a missing piece, however. We must know Stephen's location." He looked from Operations to Madeline speculatively. "Possibly you have some useful information about his captor? We will lose all advantage if we simply wait for George to contact you."

Operations shook his head, hot frustration flowing acid-like through his veins. "I know almost nothing about George. "

Walter watched Operations intently, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak.

"I have sources outside Section One," Michael volunteered, cutting Walter off unknowingly. "We may get something from them." They all recognized that whatever was learned through this channel would be too little, too late.

"I can tell you how to locate Stephen."

The words, simple words, slipped into his ear and mushroomed wildly within his brain. Operations felt a delirious surge of hope. "How?" he whispered, staring at Madeline.

She looked steadily into his eyes as she spoke. "When Stephen was first recruited, I had Medical implant a miniature chip without your knowledge. I felt there was a high probability that, sooner or later, someone would learn his true identity and he would become a target. Mr. Birkoff set a transmission frequency for the chip that would be unlikely to be discovered during routine monitoring."

Over the years, they come to understand much of each other's thoughts without spoken words, and she continued now to look into his face. In that moment she knew she was utterly forgiven for the presumption of having the chip implanted. He knew she had done it for him; for this very reason. Mere words would be a miserly, inadequate way to convey his gratitude for this chance to save his son. A slight nod acknowledged their understanding; then the moment passed.

Operations pounced on Birkoff. "Can you monitor that frequency to find him now?"

Birkoff nodded cautiously. "Well, I'd have to break in and steal some time on different satellites since we don't know what part of the world¼."

"Can you find him now?" Operations barked. He accompanied the repetition with a resounding blow of his fist on the tabletop. It felt so good.

Birkoff swallowed. "Yes."

"Well then," Poole said, stepping in smoothly. "Here is where I would propose we begin. We must divide into two teams. One to pursue Abu Nidal and recover Mr. Tackett. The other to locate and retrieve Stephen. The composition of the teams will depend to some extent on what we are able to determine about Stephen's location." He glanced at Birkoff, who jumped up as if he'd been goosed.

"I'll get right on it." He bolted from the room.

Poole turned to Madeline and Nikita. "I would recommend that you both spend some time now with Judith in preparation for the retrieval of Mr. Tackett from the Arabs. If all goes as I expect it to, it would be helpful for us to have our homework finished as early as possible."

"And just what are we supposed to do?" Operations inquired, his raised hands encompassing the trio comprised of Poole, Walter and himself. Walter was leaning back in his chair, a look of relief on his face. Uncharacteristically, Operations failed to note it.

"We wait for information." Poole's matter-of-fact demeanor eased a little then, and he stepped forward to place his hand on Operations' shoulder.

"I know the waiting is hard. We will find Stephen." He dropped his hand and stepped away.

Oddly comforted by the touch, Operations nodded. Then he lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.

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

"You've *got* to be kidding me." Nikita was beyond outrage and disgust. "She sits home, she speaks when spoken to and the only man allowed to see her is her husband?" She paused. "And he can discipline her for not obeying??" Her voice rose nearly to a squeak; she was utterly aghast.

Judith nodded at her tolerantly. "Yes. With the exception of male relatives, of course. An Arab woman is expected to confine her interests and activities to home and family. No other men except her husband and male relatives are allowed to see her face. That is the purpose of the djellabah." She was referring to the long black garment worn by traditional Muslim women which concealed all but the eyes of the wearer.

Watching her, Madeline was unsurprised by Nikita's rejection of these Arab social customs. It was nothing less than she'd expected of her, and was actually a close mirror of her own reaction. They could all be grateful not to have been born into that society. Sometimes, it was hard enough to fit in here.

Their informal education on the Arab world had gone on most of the afternoon. The room was littered with photographs, various household objects and items of clothing. Except for a brief conference outside the room with Poole, Judith had spent the entire time with them. Patiently, she explained the social hierarchy, behavioral standards, and a wide range of customs. It was obvious that she was tremendously knowledgeable about the subject.

Nikita had to ask. "How do you know about all this?"

Judith did not meet their eyes as she replied. "I...lived in Iraq for some time."

"How? You just finished telling us how closed the society is to Westerners."

Madeline could see Judith's discomfort with the questioning, but decided to let Nikita continue to press her. She herself was curious about Judith's expertise in this area.

The silence lengthened. Madeline found herself becoming even more intrigued, and watched Judith with undisguised interest. The woman's fine features were quiet and composed, a skilled facade which left them astonished by the words she uttered next.

"I belonged to a rich Iraqi businessman."

Her eyes moved calmly then from Madeline to Nikita, seeing some surprise but, thankfully, no pity in their faces. "He purchase me from a white slave ring. I had been taken by them while I was on spring break with my college roommates." A tiny, bitter smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "I learned from him more than I ever wanted to know about a woman's place in their world."

The door opened behind her as she spoke and Poole stepped into the room. He rested a warm, kind gaze upon Judith. "I had something to do with the breakup of that slaver organization," he said, taking up the explanation. "Judith has been with me ever since. Her knowledge of Arab customs is extraordinary because of her total immersion in the culture."

He held open the door and gestured before him. "If you'll join us, we have some additional information to share with you."

A few minutes later they were seated in a conference room which adjoined the basement-level computer area. Operations stood with his back to them, a dark marker in his hand, making notes on a wall map of Vietnam. Michael and Walter were already seated.

Operations finished his notations, then turned and spoke brusquely. "We have traced Stephen's transmitter to a location in central Vietnam. Birkoff is finishing a sweep of all Section One channels he can decode; hopefully we will be able to come up with some corroborating communications." He nodded in Poole's direction. "Mr. Poole has information on a possible location for Tackett."

"Yes," Poole confirmed, speaking from his chair. "Certain of our sources assure us that Mr. Tackett is still being held in the U.S. Apparently ANO is reluctant to run the high risk of taking him out of the country until they are certain that he has left behind neither confidantes nor any significant documentation of his research. I would like to suggest that Judith and Madeline handle the retrieval of Mr. Tackett."

"Alone?" Operation snapped instantly.

Poole looked slightly surprised. "Yes, of course. Nikita and I will be in position to assist if it becomes necessary." His tone clearly conveyed that he thought any need for intervention would be highly unlikely. "You, Walter and Michael will be busy retrieving Stephen."

"Wait a minute," Nikita said forcefully, looking from Judith to Poole. She didn't like the direction this was heading. "I'm going in with you after Tackett."

"I'm sorry Nikita," Judith replied. "We will be penetrating a private residence to retrieve Mr. Tackett. Our objective will be to blend in with the Arab household. With your height and coloring you would be impossible to conceal, even beneath a djellabah." She smiled consolingly. "But do not worry that we will be in any significant danger." Her smile changed conspicuously and was now dark and pitiless. "Women are invisible to them. They'll never even know we are there."

Nikita opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by a piercing look from Operations.

He shook his head vehemently. "I disagree," he bristled at Poole. " If Tackett is still local we should take care of that first, then go after Stephen. I don't like the idea of having Madeline and Judith exposed like that." Truth be told, he could care less about Judith, but was sickened by the possibility of risk to Madeline. After Stephen it would be too much...

Suddenly a chair crashed in the adjacent computer room, and Birkoff rushed over to the table. A half-sheet of paper was clenched in his fist. "I think you should see this," he said urgently, thrusting the paper toward Operations. "I found it on one of our old channels. It had to have been put there on purpose for us to find."

Operations accepted the paper gingerly, some premonition making him reluctant to read the message printed there. Releasing a deep breath, he forced his eyes to focus on the words.

Afterward, he let the paper fall slowly to the tabletop. Then he nodded grimly at Poole. "Mr. Poole, I think your two-team plan will have to work. It appears that we have a new time constraint."

Poole picked up the sheet of paper. It contained seven words.

"YOU FOR HIM. 48 HOURS. CHU PONG."

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

To someone who has never died there, the Central Highlands of South Vietnam is a spectacularly beautiful place.

It has long been the homeland of the Montagnards, or mountain people, who live the same life they have lived since the Bronze Age, when they were driven out of southern China to settle in these highlands. Living communally, they practice slash-and-burn agriculture, somehow hacking a bare existence out of small clearings in the jungle. South of Route 19, the main route across the Highlands, the terrain consists mainly of scrub jungle with stunted hardwood trees. It is crossed only by streams, animal trails and Montagnard paths.

Dominating the Highlands is the Chu Pong massif, a tangle of mountains, valleys, ravines and ridges that runs westward into Cambodia. Its limestone elevations are full of springs, streams and caves, and along its north side runs the Ia Drang river, a raging torrent during the monsoon season.

The region had been a North Vietnamese secret base and staging area over a period of many years and many wars. It was an ideal sanctuary, with a water supply, plenty of cover for men and structures and a convenient jungle canopy to conceal training and troop movements. But it was hell getting there.

It had been decided that they would delay any response to George for another 12 hours. This would, they hoped, allow them time to evaluate the situation and find some way to seize the initiative. With no land transportation feasible in the region, they had arranged an air drop from ultra-lights at a large clearing near the base of the Chu Pong massif.

Now, Operations, Michael and Walter battled their way foot by foot through the unforgiving terrain. Cloying heat sapped their energy and every step was dogged by clutching wait-a-minute vines. Persistent insects conspired with the sodden vegetation to slow their passage.

After some time, they stopped for water. Michael checked their bearing on the tracker, confirming that they were still heading in the right general direction.

"We're getting close, about a mile to the west now."

Operations spread a map across a large stump and they leaned over it together. He pointed. "George must be holed up in the old Viet Cong staging area at the base of the massif." Shifting his finger slightly he indicated an unmarked spot on the map about 500 yards to the south. "We need to be here by nightfall. It's the site of an American landing during the Ia Drang offensive early in the war. Possibly we'll find some shelter. Water won't be a problem."

He stood up and shook his head dispiritedly. "It's like Nam all over again," he muttered. Turning, he walked off some distance and lit a cigarette, then stood staring off into the impenetrable jungle.

Hunkering down beside Michael, Walter wrung out his bandanna and then retied it around his brow. He squinted at Operations. "Bad memories here for him," he said quietly. "George brought him here on purpose."

Michael looked at Walter, clearly open to more information but not asking.

Walter reached out a swept a hand across the map. "Back in '65 when things were heating up, Chu Pong valley was crawling with VC; they used it as their main infiltration route to South Vietnam. Only Green Beret's and Special Forces operated in here."

He glanced again at Operations' back and lowered his voice even further. "It's also the location of the POW camp we were in. A little north of here." He looked away for a moment, his face haunted by the recollections. When he spoke again his voice was tight with emotion. "He was in there for a long time. We were both in there too long." He paused, and Michael waited for him to go on, but there was nothing more.

Michael looked around at the unyielding back that was turned to them. It was a curious thing; the more he learned about this man, the more he felt a reluctant stirring of...something. Admiration? Loyalty? Since Nikita came along he had questioned Section One policies on romantic relationships with ever-increasing frequency. And looking now at Operations, he thought that possibly most of Section's anti-relationship policies had been a mistake. Certainly this tenuous personal allegiance strengthened his motivation to find Stephen. It went beyond simply accomplishing the mission.

He glanced at Walter and found him looking back with a knowing expression on his face. "Makes him seem like a human being, doesn't it?" His faded blue eyes met Michael's with disturbing perception.

A light mist began to drift down upon them, hardly noticeable now, but ripe with the promise of a thorough drenching sometime soon. Operations stubbed out his cigarette and headed across the clearing to rejoin them. Michael folded the map. "We have to get going if we want to make that landing site before dark." He looked around at the riotous undergrowth, mysterious, green and somehow furtive. "This isn't a place to be out in at night."

The mist was already developing into a light rain. Shouldering their heavy packs, they pushed on once more into the swelling darkness of the jungle.

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

"Remember. No eye contact with the men."

Judith's whispered words were muffled even further by the layer of black cloth drawn across her face. She exchanged a last look with Madeline, then shifted the basket hanging on her arm and knocked lightly at the door.

They stood at the back kitchen door of a sumptuous home on Miami's east side. Even from outside, they could tell that the residence was provided with the finest accouterments that this Arab princeling's oil money could buy. The design of both the structure and surrounding landscaping was tasteful and conservative in the extreme. Incongruously, the side lawn sported a satellite dish antenna that looked like it could receive signals from another solar system.

They waited. Then a dark shadow appeared on the other side of the door, indistinct through the sheer curtains.

Slowly the door opened a few inches, a black-shrouded face emerged, and two questioning brown eyes peered at them from above a djellabah and veil. Judith spoke quietly in Arabic to the woman. Promptly the door opened wide and the woman retreated to the table, where she stood watching them surreptitiously from the corner of her eye. Madeline followed Judith closely as they entered the kitchen.

Seated at the large central table were two other women with their black wraps lowered from their faces. One was young and attractive; doing nothing. The other was very old, and sat hunched in her chair, slicing eggplant with a long, thin-bladed knife.

Judith walked forward and closely inspected the two younger women, then she ignored them altogether and addressed the old woman in a businesslike tone. Madeline could understand nothing of what she said.

The woman frowned at Judith for a moment, then shook her head and muttered under her breath. She returned her attention to the lustrous, purple-black eggplant before her. Judith stepped to the old woman's side and snatched the knife roughly from her grasp. She rapped out another line of Arabic that seemed, finally, to get the crone's attention. She stared up at Judith, who stood over her menacingly. Their gazes clashed; Judith's tiny frame seemed to vibrate with energy beneath the voluminous garment she wore.

At last the old woman dropped her gaze and sighed. She looked at the two younger women and spoke to them in a dismissive tone. With a jerk of her head she indicated the door. Her meaning was plain.

With a nervous, uncertain glance at each other, the two covered their faces and went out into the balmy evening.

The crone held out her palm imperiously. With a nod, Judith replaced the knife in the woman's hand. She went back to slicing eggplant, banishing them utterly from her attention. She began to hum a strange, low tune as she worked.

Madeline drew Judith across the room. "What is going on?"

The corners of Judith's eyes wrinkled humorously. "The old whores have been sent home. We are the new whores."

Madeline blinked. "And this is good?"

"Assuredly so. If women in general are invisible, whores are utterly beneath notice." The laugh-lines had disappeared. "We will find Mr. Tackett and be...."

A bellow from the next room drowned out her words. Judith's eyes narrowed dangerously. "They are calling for coffee. Serve them just as I taught you. Say nothing. Look at no one. After coffee they will retire for smoking and drinks. Then will be our opportunity to search for Mr. Tackett."

Madeline suppressed an unaccustomed tingle of nerves. The old woman rose with difficulty and shuffled across the expansive kitchen. Together they loaded a tray with coffee service, then Madeline and Judith adjusted their face coverings and entered the dining room.

Three robed men were lounging around a table burdened with the remains of a lavish meal. They continued conversing and paid the women not the slightest heed as they cleared a space and served coffee. Carefully Madeline performed the service exactly as Judith had taught her, bracing herself all the while for a harsh grab or gruff voice to bring an abrupt end to their charade.

But the men were oblivious, reaching for their coffee as it was poured but otherwise seeming unaware the women were even in the room. They talked constantly, animatedly, their hands rising and falling in cadence with their voices.

Suddenly one man rapped his cup sharply on the table and spoke sharply and imperiously. He looked directly at Madeline.

Madeline was well aware the man was addressing her, there was no mistaking it, and her heart pounded loudly in her ears. Was the coffee bad? Did he want her to take off her clothes? She hadn't the slightest notion what he was saying. In desperation she flicked a tiny hopeless glance at Judith.

Then, Judith was beside her. With a soft murmured word, she filled the man's cup. He grunted grudgingly. Then, in silence and with eyes downcast, they retreated to the kitchen.

At the sink, Judith whispered under her breath. "He wanted more coffee. I told him your pot was empty. We are all right."

A moment later a loud scraping of chairs could be heard through the door. Heavy footsteps and boisterous conversation departed from the room, fading as the men moved further away. Judith and Madeline exchanged a glance and a nod. Without a word of explanation to the old woman, who still hummed and sliced at the table, they retrieved Judith's basket and slipped quietly into the now-empty dining room.

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

He hung awkwardly from the post, the young man in the uniform of an American Army lieutenant.

Dense sheets of rain poured down upon his unresisting head. He moved feebly from time to time, perhaps in a vain attempt to avoid the rain, perhaps in an equally vain effort to restore some circulation to his numbed extremities. He didn't know a savior was looking down at him from above.

Fifty yards away and perched thirty feet off the ground, Michael lay astride the limb of a huge, dripping banyan tree that bordered the clearing. The wide horizontal limb was an ideal roost, steady and comfortable. He braced on his elbows and watched the activity of the camp through compact binoculars, making periodic notes on a small pad sheltered under his chest. His gaze lingered on the tormented face of the prisoner, satisfying himself of the young man's condition. Presently he slithered soundlessly down the tree and made his way back to the limestone cave where Operations and Walter waited.

Michael tossed down the small pad he'd been writing on. "I didn't see anything that would require a change in the approach we have laid out. Here's the schedule. They change guards every four hours. Looks like a total of six different men, 2 on each shift."

"Plus George," Walter said gloomily. "That makes unlucky seven. Perfect."

"Did you see Stephen?" Operations asked, his casual tone sounding too forced. He picked up the notepad and studied it carefully.

Michael hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. He's alive. He doesn't appear to be badly injured." Something was left hanging, unspoken.

Operations pinned him with a suspicious glare. "What? What else?"

Hesitating again, Michael looked away, reluctant to describe the scene. Slowly he drew and released a long breath before answering. Outside, the rain continued unabated, driving down like nails.

"He's wearing an American army uniform. They have chained him to a wooden post in the central area of the camp."

"Good Christ," Walter muttered, knowing what this would mean to Operations. "Marcus…" he began.

Operations held up his hands and shook his head. "No." Another head shake. "No. I know what George is doing. He's deliberately put Stephen into the same circumstances I was in at the POW camp, trying to make me drop my guard." He paused, then went on firmly. "I still believe that he won't hurt Stephen badly before he has me."

The dim rainy jungle chirped and hooted around them as they sat in awkward silence. Encouragement and hand-holding was not in their natures. They all knew that no matter what Operations guessed about George's motivations and intentions, anything at all could happen. At any time.

Michael reached out and picked up the page of notes which Operations had let fall to the ground. He studied them quietly for a moment then looked up.

"It will be dark soon."

Purpose and motion came as a relief, and they moved about quickly, putting out their small lantern and stowing unused gear out of sight in the cave. Moments later, they were on the move, creeping rapidly through the undergrowth and maintaining a supernatural alertness. The pouring rain was slackening by the moment; bright breaks began to appear in the heavy overcast above. They pressed on without speaking.

Then: "Michael - stop!" Walter hissed urgently.

Michael froze, searching the undergrowth before him and around him with intense concentration. He saw nothing. On either side about two yards away Operations and Walter had both stopped and were staring at him. Eyes aching from strain in the faint light, Michael finally shook his head. "What?"

Operations materialized beside him. His comfort level in their surroundings seemed to be rising with each passing minute, and Michael had a sudden eerie flash of what Operations might have been like in this environment during his prime.

Retrieving a stout dead limb from the surrounding drenched underbrush, Operations reached forward to the length of his arm and prodded the ground in front of Michael. It gave. With startling suddenness the surface caved in, revealing a large pit. Fixed in the bottom were sharpened stakes pointing hungrily upward. They looked in, skins crawling.

"Usually these traps have hinged lids," Operations said grimly. "They would spring back shut after somebody fell in, waiting for the next victim." He glanced over at Walter. "Patrol formation. I'll lead. Look for all the old V.C. devices. George has done his homework." He looked at Michael and grimaced. "I should have expected this."

Walter hesitated, opening his mouth to speak. Then, he nodded and stepped to within two paces of a sober-faced Michael, who was pondering his earlier surveillance trip to the camp. Undoubtedly there were more of these and other traps in the area, and he was lucky to have avoided them. He felt a profound discomfort in attributing anything to luck; he didn't believe in it.

"Step in my tracks," Walter said. "I'll be in his. That way only one of us at a time is at risk."

Their caution was well-founded. Twice more their progress was halted - once by an arrow trap detected by Operations, meant to launch an arrow from underground up through the body of its victim - and again by Walter's keen sighting of a whip trap, a spring-loaded device intended to drive stakes through the chest of the unwary.

"Like a shish-kebob…." Walter grumbled under his breath. Quickly he disabled the trap. No sense leaving it to stumble into on the way out.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived, intact, at the edge of the clearing. The last fat and widely separated drops of rain spattered around them, then ceased. The moon sailed clear of its veil of clouds, bathing the clearing with a haunting luminescence.

Operations stopped breathing as his gaze riveted on the pathetic figure chained in the center of the camp. Though sickened at the sight, he could not look away. Surely his heart must stop beating, lungs must stop breathing, blood must stop flowing. No parent should have to bear this pain. He remained paralyzed with guilt and wretchedness until he felt Walter's hand on his shoulder.

"Michael and I are going in now," Walter said quietly, drawing him back. "Get ready."

Operations nodded. Painfully and with deliberate will, he pulled himself together. As was always the case, emotions would have to wait until later.

Soundlessly, Walter and Michael ghosted across the clearing. Without difficulty, they dispatched one of the two guards who was lounging in over-confident carelessness at his post. Several moments later the second man fell with only a muffled grunt to mark his passing. Operations waited for the signal.

There. Two red flashes from Walter's light. Low and quick, Operations left the protection of the undergrowth. Walter met him part way.

"What took so long?" Operations whispered.

"Second guy was off takin' a piss," Walter murmured in reply. "We'll take care of the other guards, then be back to help with Stephen." He increased his pace and angled off to meet Michael, who was concealing the fallen bodies. They disappeared in the darkness surrounding a small building across the clearing.

Then he was there, gently lifting Stephen's lolling head and inspecting him anxiously. Battered, the young man labored to open his puffed and slitted eyes.

"Stephen?"

Stephen turned his head to the voice.

"Stephen, it's me. We've come to get you out."

The poor bruised face lifted and he looked around uncomprehendingly, seeking, like a young child. Then from his cracked lips issued one hopeful, disbelieving word: "Father."

Operations heard it clearly: a sudden, clean snap. After all the years of grief and disappointment, despite all the horrors he'd seen and inflicted, it took only this single word to finally break his heart. The lump in his throat was enormous and aching. He forced a hoarse whisper past it anyway, the words wrung from his breast by raw, ungovernable emotion.

"Yes, Stephen. I'm here."

The young man slumped against his bonds, muttering something unintelligible.

Operations dropped his pack and rifled through it for the bolt cutters. Darting wary glances around, he began to clip through the links of chain binding Stephen to the post. The sound seemed deafeningly loud.

Then he was through the chains, and without support Stephen fell to the ground in a boneless heap. Operations stowed the bolt cutters, then leaned down and placed one of Stephen's limp arms around his neck. Rapid footsteps from behind whipped him around in sudden alarm, and with relief he saw Michael and Walter sprinting across the clearing. Walter went to Stephen's other side, and between the two of them they lifted him to his feet.

"All six guards are neutralized," Michael whispered, shouldering Operations' discarded pack. "No sign of George."

Half-dragging, half-carrying Stephen between them, they moved as rapidly as they could, seeking the haven of the jungle.

Operations felt the skin prickle on the back of his neck; he could not ignore it. In his bones he knew that George was here.

"This was too easy," he whispered tautly as they limped along.

Walter was quick to reply. "Easy is good," he whispered breathlessly. "I like easy. Maybe we just got a break this time."

Then from the darkness at the edge of the jungle, an even darker shape detached itself. A few steps forward and the shape resolved into a man. "You always had good instincts, Marcus." The voice was oily and unpleasant. "You were right, you know; I made this easy for a reason."

They stopped short; Stephen swayed, barely retaining consciousness. Hatred filled Operations' throat with the bitterest gall. "I'm glad you're here, George," he said. "It will give me a chance to kill you for this."

George laughed, a forced and repugnant sound. He stepped closer yet and his face cleared the shadow of an overhanging branch. Pale, moonlit skin. Dark, fathomless eyes.

Then in a smooth motion, Walter pulled Stephen's weight away and Operations drew his gun. He held steady aim at George, who looked on with a scornful smile and no visible fear.

"Go."

Instantly Michael stepped forward and picked up Stephen's far side.

George chuckled. "Yes, go ahead, Walter," he said gleefully. "I'll talk with you later."

Walter frowned uncomfortably. Operations sent him a sharp glance, then immediately returned his attention to George.

Without further delay the trio began moving away into the jungle, leaving Operations and George to their macabre face-off.

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

The jungle breathed out its green, rotting breath and light rain began again to fall. The two men blinked away the drops and stared at each other.

"Well?" George inquired, confident and mocking. "Are you going to shoot me now?"

Operations was expressionless. "Yes. I probably will do that. But first I want some answers."

A contemptuous laugh. "Oh come now…didn't we teach you better interrogation technique than that?" George gestured vividly as he spoke, his eyes shining black. "You must motivate me! Make me earn something; fear something; protect something!"

Still no expression. "You're absolutely right." He fired.

George's left elbow joint disintegrated. Stifling a scream, he collapsed to the ground. Rich scarlet bloomed and swiftly engulfed his shirtsleeve. For a moment, utter surprise was revealed on his pale face.

"Well…that's…more like it," he gasped. Fumbling one-handed, he pulled at his belt and managed a makeshift tourniquet around his upper arm. The rain washed a bright stream from his fingertips. He struggled back to his feet and focused his lightless gaze on Operations. "Now…what was it…you wanted to discuss?"

Operations said nothing, only looked.

George smiled disdainfully. "Dirty looks won't hurt my feelings, Marcus."

Suddenly the pistol barked again, and a neat hole appeared in George's left shoulder. He fell heavily to the ground once more, and a red stain traveled rapidly down his shirtfront to blend with the existing blotch. His arm dangled uselessly.

"I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings, George. I was just trying to decide where to shoot you next."

George looked down at the ground, breathing heavily through his mouth. Operations squatted in front of him and pulled his head up by the hair so their faces were inches apart.

"Why?" he hissed.

George laughed painfully. "Why what? Why were you recruited? Why was Section One purged? Why is the sky blue?"

Operations placed the muzzle of his gun against George's left kneecap. "All of it."

George looked at the gun for a long moment. Finally he sighed. "All right."

Suddenly he brought his right fist up in a sharp, driving blow to Operations' face. Only an instinctive backward reaction saved him from having his brain skewered by his own nose. The pain was immense and blinding. Disoriented, he picked himself up to see that George was on his feet, stumbling as quickly as he could toward the edge of the jungle. A few shambling steps and he disappeared from sight.

Operations pursued. Lent wings by desperation, he covered the distance to the undergrowth in only a heartbeat of time. Another heartbeat while he listened for the direction of George's awkward, crashing flight through the foliage. Then the beating was loud and constant in his brain as he ducked and wove his way toward the sound. His broken nose swelled and throbbed in time with his racing heart. He tasted blood.

A sharp twang. A scream.

Operations stopped abruptly, then continued forward at a creeping pace, following the loud groans. Agonized thrashing could be heard over the constant patter of the rain, but he maintained his deliberate speed. He would not expose himself foolishly.

But there was no threat. Before him, on a deathbed of crushed jungle vegetation, lay George. From his abdomen protruded the shaft of an arrow, angled upward as a result of its trajectory from the underground trap.

Operations knelt, inspecting the wound. "Did you poison the tip?" he asked, referring to the Viet Cong practice of smearing the point with feces to assure infection.

George nodded. "Of course." Then he grimaced and added in a groan, "…my own trap."

Operations sat down beside the dying man, resting his elbows loosely on his knees. He looked off into the dripping trees and was silent for several moments. Then, "There isn't anything I can do to help you." Almost as an afterthought he added, "Except shoot you."

George lay very still. Presently he licked the rain from his lips and glanced carefully at Operations without turning his head.

"I knew from the start that you would be good in this job." He drew a halting, painful breath. "We watched you in the POW camp…saw what you were made of. Then we sent Walter in to be sure."

"Walter was…?" Stunned, Operations stopped and forced himself to silence as George drew another bubbling breath.

"Then we got you out. And you were good." His lips twitched. "A little soft sometimes, to my way of thinking…." His eyes closed.

Operations watched him in growing alarm, afraid the man would die before finishing his grotesque confession. He reached out to shake him. But the snakelike eyes slid open again and he stopped his hand.

"You had a few weaknesses, so we found Madeline. You were…a good team. You built my dream…" He coughed agonizingly, and a thin rivulet of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Operations watched in morbid fascination as the tiny stream spilled down George's chin and neck, finally disappearing under his blood-soaked shirt collar.

George drew in a difficult breath. "Then I lost control. The politicians destroyed it…like they do everything they touch. I looked like…a fool when you and the others escaped. The longer you stayed alive…the worse it got." Another rasping breath. "They took everything away from me…because of you."

He stopped. The rain drummed down, punctuated by occasional loud hoots from jungle wildlife. "My men?" George grunted.

Operations shook his head.

The black eyes closed again as George went on in a whisper. "You came early. I underestimated you…should have known…" His eyes opened suddenly. "Tell Walter…he's in Phoenix." Staring fixedly into the distance, his voice trailed off then and did not resume.

Above them the sky darkened and the rain drove with increasing momentum. It came straight down, like a curtain, obscuring the surrounding jungle and secluding them in a private hell. It drowned all sounds of life. It cascaded over Operations' bent head as he remained sitting, unmoving, next to George's body. It washed away tears.

It could not cleanse the pain of knowing.

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

"What do you see, Birkoff?"

Madeline's barely whispered question was clearly audible over the com link. From his position down the street from the house, Birkoff quickly double checked his read-outs.

"Three in a room on the far side of the first floor from you."

"Yes. That's the Arabs," Madeline noted. "What else?"

"Hmmm. Looks like a few isolated individuals…probably house staff." A pause. "Wait, here you go. Basement level. Four in the southwest corner. Close proximity; some motion."

Madeline glanced at Judith and nodded. "That's Tackett," she murmured to Birkoff. "Get us there."

Quickly Birkoff guided them through the first level of the huge home, avoiding rooms and corridors with any human traffic. Within a few minutes they stood in front of the door Birkoff identified as an entrance to the lower level.

It was locked.

Judith smiled a little. "Never fear," she whispered.

Looking around quickly, she reached up under her veil and pulled out two hairpins. She jammed them securely into the lock. "Cover your eyes."

Behind clenched lids they could sense the incandescent light produced by the hairpins' reaction. In a moment it was over.

Judith put her hand on the knob and glanced back over her shoulder. "Walter helped me do my hair before they left," she said with a perfectly straight face and one meaningful flick of an eyebrow.

Madeline shook her head in some amusement. This book certainly didn't read like its cover.

Judith turned the knob then and they began to make their way down. The stairway was narrow and poorly lit, a surprising contrast with the rich wallpaper on the walls and luxurious carpet under their feet. They passed a landing, the stairway made a ninety degree angle, and then they were at the bottom.

Silently, they crept forward. The dim lighting continued on at the foot of the stairs. Its reddish cast gave the impression an emergency lighting system was in use, although the illumination seemed to come from normal fixtures.

Madeline paused and cocked her head, zeroing in on faint voices coming from the door just ahead of them. Slowly, slowly she reached out and tried the knob. Locked. She drew her gun and took aim at the latch.

Instantly Judith reached out and put her hand on the gun, pushing it down and shaking her head. "We are invisible, remember? I'll tell them I want to know their dinner orders and they'll let us right in. Cover up." She glanced back down at the gun. "You'll need that after we're in; watch me."

They rearranged their veils. Judith rapped gently at the door and then spoke, pitching her voice loudly enough to be heard within. Immediately a pleased-sounding babble broke out from inside the room; evidently the guards were hungry. As footsteps approached the door Judith backed up and reached for a silenced pistol identical to Madeline's.

The lock clicked and the door was thrown wide. The man who had opened it turned away and was already half way back to his chair. Even in the house of a terrorist, even when guarding a prisoner whose escape would cost them their lives - they simply could not perceive the two women as a threat. Privately Madeline marveled at this. She would have enjoyed opening their eyes to the abilities of the opposite sex; too bad they didn't have the time just now.

The guards were seated at a small table near the center of the room. Laid out before them was a beautifully carved, multi-chambered waari board and its accompanying dish of marble-sized balls. Evidently the three guards had been passing the time by playing this ancient counting game.

In the far corner of the otherwise bare room was a large cage. Its occupant was parked in the exact center of the cell, sitting atop a simple wooden stool with his arms crossed defiantly. He watched the women closely as they entered the room and positioned themselves on opposite sides of the table behind the seated men.

Eyes properly downcast, Judith murmured in Arabic, her soft subservient tones barely audible. The menu, Madeline surmised. She watched Judith unwaveringly.

The three men leaned forward slightly to each other, apparently discussing the menu with some relish and pondering their choices. Beneath her veil, Madeline's lips twitched in a small, satisfied smile. And they thought dinner would be the biggest excitement in their day.

Then the moment came. From her sleeve Judith calmly withdrew her pistol and shot the man in front of her. Shifting her aim slightly, she took out the man to his right. As she did this Madeline fired into the head of the stunned guard seated in front of her. All three slumped soundlessly to the tabletop. Waari balls bounced clatteringly across the floor before rolling to a stop. The cordite smell of their weapons filled the silent room.

"That was subtle."

The two women turned to look at Tackett. He uttered this sarcasm calmly, having never moved from his position on the stool during the killing of his guards.

Judith ignored him and bent to the dead guards, checking efficiently through their pockets for a key to Tackett's prison.

Madeline stepped to the cage and, without lowering her veil, looked carefully at the prisoner. Superficial bruising about the face, small tears in his shirt. Some rough handling, she supposed, but nothing that indicated any interrogation had been done.

"Ya know," Tackett drawled. "I really do like a woman that can make up her mind." He paused and glanced at the guards. "You two are certainly among the most decisive ladies I have ever encountered."

Judith came to the cage door then, the key in her hand. They lowered their veils. Tackett's eyes narrowed slightly in surprise as he took in their non-Arab countenances.

"We've come to get you out, Mr. Tackett," Judith said. She clicked open the lock and swung the door open.

Tackett remained where he was. "A lot of people been tellin' me what to do for the past few days," he said stubbornly. "I have no earthly idea who you are or what is goin' on. Why should I go anywhere with you?"

Madeline pushed back her hood and stepped up to gaze directly into Tackett's eyes. "Do you want to live?" she asked him.

"Most days, I do."

"Then come with us." She spoke in a cool, matter-of-fact tone that echoed mockingly in her ears. Bizarrely, her mind flashed back. How many times had she used that voice in the white room? The sense of deja vu was suddenly overwhelming, and for just a split second - a blood curdling second - she was sure it was all a dream; they'd never really left Section One, hadn't begun to take back their lives by gradual degrees. Or perhaps it was all just a test…gauging their reactions…perhaps someone was watching and assessing even now…

She forced her thoughts away from this paranoid track. Tackett was looking at her strangely, hesitating. Without his cooperation they would have some difficulty getting him out quietly. She decided to give time to a brief explanation.

"OPEC has hired a terrorist organization to kill you for the synthetic oil process you are working on. As soon as they find out whether you have left any notes or other resources behind, you will be killed. Your body will never be found."

Far from looking chastened, as she had expected, he leaned back on the stool and crossed his arms belligerently again. "Really?" he inquired mockingly. "That's pretty dramatic. How do I know you aren't just as bad as they are? And anyway, maybe I'm a closet Muslim and am sympathetic to their views." One eyebrow rose mutinously.

She looked at him coolly. "You are an atheist, Mr. Tackett."

He grinned. Those dimples again. "Well. For someone I've never slept with you certainly seem to know a lot about me."

Madeline smiled involuntarily, then controlled her face and exchanged an amused glance with Judith.

"Mr. Tackett," Madeline began again. "We work for no government or business. Our motives go far beyond simple economics. We want you to live. We want you to complete your research. If you agree, then we must go…and quickly. You decide."

Tackett looked down at the floor a moment, nodding his head slightly as he thought things over. Then he looked back at her and a boyish smile creased his face. "All right, ladies. Lead on." He stood up, towering over Madeline.

Behind them, Judith had stripped off the outer robes off the largest of the three dead guards. Quickly they wrapped Tackett. It would serve to deflect only the most passing glance, but it would have to do.

"Birkoff," Madeline said curtly. "We're on our way out with Tackett. Be ready to pick us up."

His affirmative registered quietly in her ear.

"Let's go." She glanced at Tackett. "Do only what I tell you to do, and do it instantly. Do you understand?"

"I do."

She would have liked it if he looked a little more afraid; fear was such a good motivator. She shook her head and led the way out the door, retracing their route.

The voices became audible as they reached the top of the stairs. Angry. Arguing. Madeline stopped and looked back at Judith. "Can you make out what they're saying?"

Judith shook her head, then took several steps down the hall in the direction of the voices. They held their breath as she listened intently. Then she returned, swift and silent. Her face was hard.

"They're disagreeing over Mr. Tackett." Both women glanced at him. "Two of them want to interrogate you now and cover themselves with glory. The other wants to wait for someone who is on his way here to do that job."

The voices rose again. Suddenly a door was flung open around the corner. Galvanized into action, they ran, heading in the direction of the kitchen. Tackett was not light on his feet, and Madeline prayed that the three Arabs would be too busy arguing to notice their thumping retreat.

Then the shouting changed pitch and began to increase in volume.

"They know!" Judith gasped as they bolted into the dining room.

"Birkoff we could use some help now," Madeline said tensely. "Any time." His reply was inaudible.

The three pursuers entered the dining room behind them before they could exit into the kitchen. The men's shouts became ululating hysterics. A shot was fired and embedded itself in the door frame as Madeline hurled herself into the kitchen. Tackett and Judith were literally on her heels, and the Arabs were upon them.

As they entered the kitchen, simultaneously the opposite door, leading to the outside, was opened by thunderous gunfire. The door slammed inward, its lock blackened and smoking. Tackett shouted in surprise.

Then from behind him came another shout, of triumph. Judith's dark hair was wound firmly in the fist of one of the Arabs. He held his pistol to her head and babbled excitedly. She twisted in his grasp, neck craned, involuntary tears of pain standing in her eyes.

Poole stepped through the door. He raised his gun and aimed it directly at the man holding Judith. The man began to gesticulate and speak in threatening, agitated tones. Judith relaxed and stood utterly still, her eyes on Poole.

And Poole shot him. With meticulous timing, he fired at the instant the man's gun was pointed slightly away from Judith. Already dead, the Arab's convulsing trigger finger sent a round harmlessly into the ceiling. He collapsed to the floor with a breathy sigh.

Behind Poole, Nikita had appeared in the doorway like an avenging angel. As the two remaining Arabs cried out and drew their weapons, she shot them. They crumpled together, twitching silently as they died.

At the table, the old woman had ceased her slicing and craned her neck around, surveying the carnage. Briefly, her tired eyes touched on each of them, finding Poole last and resting there a long moment. Then she shook her head and picked up the knife once more. As they filed out of the bloody kitchen they could hear her, humming and humming her strange, low tune.

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

In the dark, low-ceilinged cave at the base of the Chu Pong Massif, Michael sat apart, watching. Outside their shelter the sodden jungle trembled under the weight of a new downpour. The rain was a steady roar that discouraged conversation.

On the other side of the small portable lamp, Stephen lay on the dusty floor. He was silent except for occasional groans as Walter tended his wounds with the minimal supplies they'd carried in. Michael studied the young man's face, seeking but not finding some vestige of Operations in the pale features. It struck him suddenly that perhaps Stephen resembled his mother. He found himself picturing a young, patriotic Marcus Wolfe, bravely bidding his wife and son goodbye as he went off to Vietnam, never dreaming the turn his life would take there. He tried unsuccessfully to put himself in that picture, living with a loved one, being a parent, making that sacrifice.

From that young father to the merciless and complex man they knew as Operations seemed an unimaginable metamorphosis. But in a rare and reluctant look into his own heart, Michael understood just how such a chilling transformation could take place. He understood all too well.

He stared at Stephen's battered face, unaware that his own features had forsaken their usual discipline and now betrayed his wandering thoughts. For Operations, Stephen was both a son and a manifestation of their mutual past - a time of life, joy and simple humanity. Was Stephen's presence a source of strength? Or a constant reminder of bitter loss?

Images from Michael's own youth leapt unbidden into his mind's eye, and the sudden nostalgic pang surprised and dismayed him. From long habit he quickly subdued these thoughts. Only recently had he dared to wonder how, after so many years of disciplining his emotions, he would manage to contend with the new freedoms available to them outside Section One. It had been easier, hadn't it, to avoid all emotional exercises because Section demanded it? Easier to bury everything deeply and exist within the framework provided by Section? Harder now to acknowledge a conscience, and be accountable for his feelings - and those of others, he thought, as an image of Nikita's sunburst smile overwhelmed his reflections. As with every other kind of liberty, emotional freedom brought a corresponding responsibility.

With this realization his thoughts traveled full circle. Operations lived with the same contradictions as he himself. An apparent weakness could engender great strength. Connection to the past could illuminate a path into the future. He'd perceived this, but never allowed himself to contemplate it; too dangerous to think outside the framework. But perhaps he understood something more now. Gradually, although his eyes had never left that still form, Stephen's face came back into focus.

Then a sudden noise at the cave entrance brought Michael abruptly out of his reverie. In an instant, both he and Walter had guns their guns drawn; the older man positioned himself protectively in front of Stephen. From the slackening rain a form materialized and stopped just inside the entrance, dripping copiously. Operations stood for a moment, looking from one to the other, then moved to Stephen's side. He palmed the water from his forehead as he looked down.

"How is he?"

Walter dropped his gun and nodded. "He's OK. Nothing permanent." He paused and looked at Operations warily. "What happened?"

Operations flung himself down next to Stephen and closed his eyes in exhaustion. For a moment he was silent. Then he forced his eyes open and gazed up at the ceiling.

"George is dead," he said shortly. He stared at Walter, his expression darkening by slow degrees. The moments lengthened and Walter began to shift uncomfortably. Something was happening.

Then Operations began, his tone flat and accusing. "They left me there. You knew. You were somehow involved all those years ago." The words were simple and direct; raw with condemnation.

Walter's face was stricken. He hung his head, scrubbing his hand over his face as he sought for words. When he spoke his gravelly voice rebounded in the small space, and he did not look up. His words came haltingly.

"You're right…they left you there, in that camp. To see how you would handle…things. They'd been watching you since you were in officer's training…you never knew." He paused for a long moment, then sighed defeatedly.

"When they'd seen enough, when the time was right, they sent me in to make a final evaluation. Then, eventually, they got us out."

Operations looked at the bent gray head incredulously. "You came into that POW camp and stayed there for a year to evaluate me? You went there for them? You decided to take my life away?" The horror and outrage were so great he dared not unleash them. He glanced involuntarily at Michael's gun.

Walter sighed again and finally looked up. His eyes were ancient and weary. "Yeah…and no. Choosing you was a big decision; they waited a long time." His shoulders sagged. "I did what I was told. I had to."

"And all these years…"

"Yeah," he interrupted. "All these years I watched you knowing what they had done, knowing what they were going to turn you into. I was at the top of the game then…" he sent a brief look at Michael. "…I could do anything. But after the POW camp, I lost the stomach for it. The bastards wouldn't just cancel me. They took me out of the field, demoted me. Made me stay there and live with what they'd done." He paused, then sadly repeated his earlier words. "I did what I was told. I had to."

"And George?" Operations prompted, his jaw clenched tightly in anger.

"George was soon after. He was young. Hard. Cold. The committee that chose you was aging…getting out. George came along with all the answers at a time when a lot of questions were being asked. The Section One we know was his vision. You suited his purpose perfectly."

Operations stared down at the ground, grappling with the idea that what had become of his life was the result of one man's manipulation. These were more answers than he had ever thought to have. And certainly he'd never expected the information to come from Walter.

Unexpectedly, Michael spoke, voicing a question that seemed glaringly obvious to him.

"Why, Walter?"

The older man shook his head and looked at Michael with infinite sadness in his eyes. "It doesn't matter now, I suppose." He shifted his gaze to Operations. "I had a son. They took him. Said they'd kill him if I ever disobeyed." His faded eyes were glazed with moisture. "I know what it was like for you," he said simply. "And every day I imagine what it's like now, having Stephen with you again." Unspoken were his imaginings of someday knowing his own son.

"We'll look for him," Michael said, injecting confidence into his voice that he did not feel.

Walter's jaw muscles worked. "No. Now that George is dead I'll never see my son again. He could be anywhere in the world."

Operations looked at the old man he had known for so long; looked at him with new eyes that viewed the years in a different way. Eyes that recognized a familiar pain. Despite what must have been an unbearable burden of sorrow and resentment, Walter had done his best over the years and remained somehow more honorable than he himself had ever managed to be. He felt a disconcerting combination of respect and shame wash over him as he looked at his old friend.

"Phoenix."

Walter's head snapped up, his face suffused with grief and painful longing. Operations looked down at Stephen, and then nodded gently to Walter.

"George said to tell you he's in Phoenix."

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

Madeline sat at the small dressing table, applying her usual muted shade of lipstick. For a moment she sat still, looking into the mirror and registering small details of the room's reflection. A neatly made bed. A gun and a mosquito coil on the low table. Colorful dresses that peeked from the partly closed closet, and next to them, the more subdued colors of a man's wardrobe. The partly visible bathroom counter revealed a hair drier and safety razor left out from earlier service. Her eyes returned to the mirror and she studied her own reflection dispassionately, noting the longer hair, the light tan.

Before her on the table a book lay open and she turned to the marker. Softly she read aloud a passage that she had recently discovered. "You can live a lifetime and, at the end of it, know more about other people than you know about yourself. You learn to watch other people, but you never learn to watch yourself."

Since reading "West With the Night", Beryl Markham had become one of her favored authors. An adventuress raised in South Africa, Markham's writing was poetic in its love for her native Kenya and the people she encountered. As a horse trainer and a pilot, she was truly a pioneer among women of the time, and her unusual sense of self had struck a resonant chord within Madeline. She recognized her own struggle to redefine herself outside the structure of Section One; but knowing did not make the process any easier. She had been unusually disconcerted by the trip Marcus had made to Vietnam. The long period out of contact, knowing nothing, had caused even her well-disciplined imagination to tread the darkest of paths.

Finally, satisfied now with her appearance, Madeline left the room and walked down a short path to the main house. Tackett's boisterous jocularity floated out the open windows, mingling with other tones she recognized: Walter, Birkoff, Nikita…and Judith's silvery laughter. She was oddly pleased that her entrance into the room did nothing to diminish the ebullient mood.

Michael was there also, sitting a little aside and observing the hilarity with his usual reserve. His eyes met Nikita's often; their connection was tangible. It was time for some evaluation, Madeline reflected. The entire issue of personal relationships had never been formally aired since their separation from Section One. Despite lack of discussion it was apparent how feelings ran on the subject. Nikita and Michael. Birkoff continuing to ask about Gail. Now Walter and his mysterious son. Even Operations, she thought, striving to ignore the warmth that rose within her.

With a choking feeling of regret she realized what would have to be done…and who would have to do it. As before, personal relationships would have to be considered a vulnerability. They could not be allowed. Clearly Poole, with his celebrated practicality and restraint, would be in agreement with this.

Slowly, Madeline went to the bar and poured herself a glass of white wine. She smiled as she listened to the chatter behind her. Birkoff and Nikita trading hits off each other. Walter now irrepressible at the possibility of finding his son. And over it all Tackett's dry humor convulsing them with his observations on the circumstance of their short acquaintance. Presently, he was regaling them with an exaggerated version of his rescue by Madeline and Judith. She stood quietly at the bar, sipping her wine and nodding slightly in acknowledgment of the heroic tale.

As the laughter faded and other conversation sprung up, Tackett came to the bar and stood grinning down in amusement at Madeline.

"Didn't know you were such an ace, did you?" he teased.

She smiled in return. "You tell a good story, Mr. Tackett. I'll remember never to rely on you for the unvarnished truth."

He parked one elbow on the bar and leaned a little toward her, a suggestion of intimacy that was not lost on Madeline.

"Hey, I was wondering about something." He paused, obviously waiting for encouragement. Madeline only raised one eyebrow and said nothing. He pressed on. "You have a husband or anything of that nature?"

"Yes," came an unexpected voice from behind Madeline. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the glowing smile from spreading across her face. "She has something of that nature." Operations did not look amused as he took up a proprietary position at Madeline's elbow.

Tackett smiled and shook his head, raising his hands disarmingly. "Just askin' - just askin'. Can't blame a guy for that, can you?"

"Around here - I'd be careful if I were you." Nikita spoke up in a voice filled with devilment, and Madeline realized in dismay that the attention of the entire room was upon them. Well then, this would be the bully pulpit. Willing away the sadness she recognized in her own heart, Madeline straightened and encompassed the group with a cool glance.

"I appreciate the fact that everyone is in good humor today following the successful conclusion of our missions. However, I think that we would do well to remember the lessons we learned in Section One." Faces fell as she spoke. Masks she had not seen in weeks slipped into place, covering disappointment, indignation and, perhaps, anger.

"Personal relationships are a liability and have no place in our business. It was our unanimous decision to continue as best we can in this profession. We cannot do our jobs efficiently if we are handicapped emotionally."

Her statement was met with deafening silence. The general disagreement of the group could hardly have been expressed more eloquently.

Into this reverberating silence a moment later, stepped Poole. He entered the room wearing a pleasant smile. Although he raised his eyebrows at the strained atmosphere, his smile remained determinedly in place.

"Good evening." He nodded to the group at large. "Judith are you ready?"

Nodding, Judith rose gracefully and joined him near the door. To everyone's surprise, Poole placed one hand possessively at her waist. "We have a dinner engagement with some potential clients," he announced, to their further astonishment.

Then, a moment later he looked back at the group. "By the way," he said, "I may have forgotten to mention that Judith is my wife." He smiled warmly at her, and ignored their shocked expressions.

"While emotional ties can sometimes be distracting, we have found that strong connections are generally an advantage. I have several husband/wife teams working for me in the field. I encourage it. There's a bit of a trade off, but on the whole I feel we have the best of the arrangement."

They both smiled politely, then turned and left the room, leaving their audience dazed with irony.

In the hall, their smiles became genuine. They stopped and listened to a minute or more of utter stillness before they heard it.

Then, with Walter's loud guffaw ringing agreeably in their ears, they set out for the evening.

**********

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