Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same. - French writer Alphonse Karr

"Comment est-ce que tu te sens?" How do you feel?

No answer.

"You are ready, Alain?"

"J'ai peur." I'm afraid. The gray, featureless room seemed to amplify the anguish of his whispered reply.

The young man stood shaking, his eyes closed and his head bowed in shame. His upper body was curiously bulky in appearance, at odds with his thin, drawn face.

A hand came to Alain's shoulder and rested there reassuringly. "Do not be ashamed of fear, my son. It is a part of us all." The hand squeezed; the voice was slow and hypnotic. "The true measure of a man is how he deals with his fear. Do you understand?"

The young man straightened his gaunt shoulders and slowly raised his head. He turned around slowly, groping for and grasping the hand on his shoulder, then bringing it to his forehead.

"You have given my life purpose, Teacher," he whispered, tears standing in his eyes. "I wish only to bring honor to our cause and to those who have gone before me. I desecrate their memory with my fear."

The older man spread his fingers and laid his hand gently on Alain's head, as if in benediction. "I believe in you," he said simply.

They stood silently for a few moments, and gradually Alain's shaking subsided. They had taught him ways to overcome fear; it was time now to apply them. They had shown him the true way of things, and how he could play a meaningful part; it was time now to act. He felt his courage rise in a great wave of thankfulness and purpose. Suffused with gratitude, he raised his head and stepped away, opening his glistening eyes.

"I am ready, Teacher."

The other man nodded, hearing the firmness in Alain's voice. "Yes," he said slowly. "You are ready."

Without haste the two men crossed the room and stopped before an unmarked doorway. They exchanged no further words and Alain entered the room, clicking the lock firmly behind himself. Briefly, he laid his palm against the closed door in wordless farewell to the man on the other side, picturing him as he walked calmly away from this chamber of death.

In the center of the room a desperate, mute struggle was going on. An obese black man was restrained in a plain wooden armchair, all four limbs tied securely to the arms and legs of the chair. His head was covered with a loose black hood. He strove frantically against his bonds, but the chair could only thump and scrape a little, held fast by the man's own great weight.

Calmly, Alain stepped to the videocamera that sat perched on a tripod opposite the struggling man. He clicked a switch and a tiny red light began to wink on and off. After a last verifying glance through the viewfinder, Alain took up a position directly behind the fat man in the chair. Smoothly he removed the man's hood, his eyes never leaving the camera. Now exposed, the man's mouth could be seen covered from ear to ear with dull silver duct tape. He raged wordlessly behind his gag.

Alain spoke. His English was heavily accented, but his words were clear and his voice rang with conviction as he delivered the familiar litany.

"This man has committed unspeakable crimes against humanity. The system is unable or unwilling to deal with him. We are able. We are willing."

The man in the chair was perspiring heavily, great beads of sweat squirting out from his dark forehead. His eyes bulged in panic. He stank of terror.

"Both in punishment for his own crimes, and to set an example for those who would follow in his footsteps, we now sentence this man to death."

With this, Alain stepped to the side and mercilessly ripped the duct tape from the man's face. At once he began to howl and gibber, flinging wet ropes of sweat and saliva in his frenzy to save himself.

Resolutely, Alain returned to his post behind the chair. Without haste he unzipped his black jacket and set it neatly aside. Strapped to his wiry torso was a pocketed vest laden with plastic explosive. Alain fished in his pocket and held up a detonator in clear view of the camera, his thumb poised over the go button. The man in the chair was hysterical with fear. His eyes had rolled far back into his head and their bluish-white sclera glowed against his dark face.

Alain drew a deep breath. "In the name of humanity."

He pressed the button.

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

With a powerful burst of light and sound, the tape ended abruptly.

Poole clicked the lights back on and turned to face the others seated around the table. "Analysis has yet to reveal any information about the origin of this videotape. Obviously, they fed the recording remotely to another location until the camera's destruction in the explosion."

"What do we know?" Michael asked.

"This man, Leecox Omollo, is the eighth assassination of an international figure," Madeline replied, briefly consulting her notes. "The first was twenty one months ago. They have not been spaced regularly, nor is there any pattern in the nationality of the victims."

Nikita shrugged. "So why do we care about this? Every one of these videotape vigilante jobs has been a favor to the human race."

Poole smiled briefly and passed a meditative gaze around the table. "Yes, indeed. A good question. Each of the individuals assassinated thus far has been someone we would consider the world to be well rid of."

Poole picked up a photograph from the small pile at his left and pushed it toward the center of the table. It depicted a man bound to a chair, similar in setting to the videotape they had just watched. "Who would miss a dictator?" Another picture. "Or a guerrilla chieftain responsible for years of warfare and millions of deaths?" A third photo joined the others as he inventoried the last three assassinations. "Or a notorious terrorist?"

Poole curled his lip in genteel disdain as he pushed the pictures aside. "Indeed, the sympathy this group has garnered world-wide has grown until it could very nearly be described as a base of support. Even law enforcement officials investigating these cases no longer make a serious attempt at gathering evidence. Even though this took place only two days ago authorities have already released a statement acknowledging that they found nothing."

Michael looked keenly at Poole. "Why wouldn't we let normal intelligence channels deal with this?"

Poole nodded in acknowledgment of Michael's question. "This recent assassination, Michael, may not be what it appears to be on the surface. Leecox Omollo was not merely the African dictator the world thought he was." He paused significantly. "He was a Section One operative."

"What?"

The information provoked a startled response from Operations, who had sat apparently unmoved throughout the videotape. Again, Poole had managed to surprise them all. And somehow no one doubted the accuracy of the information.

Poole nodded. "Yes. Omollo was put in place approximately 20 years ago and moved up through the ranks of government. The role of dictator was the most expedient for accomplishing their goals as it required the minimum amount of cooperation from others within the government. A democracy, of course, would be much more difficult to control."

"Why?" Nikita challenged. "Why would Section One maintain an African dictator in power?"

"Long range planning," Operations inserted bitterly. "Very long range planning."

"Yes, indeed, Marcus" Poole confirmed. "Africa has unlimited potential, but they must first overcome the many-headed monster of internal strife, economic hardship, class and race discord and the divisiveness of tribal thinking. The only way to overcome this within any reasonable time frame was for one leader to rise to the top. Omollo was on his way. He was too valuable a resource to be pulled out following the purging of your Section One. In fact, I would guess that he never realized any alteration took place, beyond a change of contact."

Nikita was not to be placated. "Even that end cannot justify his means," she asserted hotly.

Poole merely looked at her. "Surely you do not believe everything you hear on CNN." It was not a question.

Deflated, Nikita sat back in her chair, wearing a slightly wounded expression.

Poole summarized. "On the surface it would appear that your "videotape vigilantes" - here he aimed an appeasing glance at Nikita - "targeted Omollo simply because of his dictatorship. But we must discover whether there was a deeper motive. Whether Omollo was targeted because of his connection to Section One. If that is the case, it could mean that they have information which could threaten the world's existing anti-terrorist measures. We may be sure that Section One will investigate, but in my opinion they are simply not yet ready to handle this on their own. There are too many long-term assets at risk. I believe we need to step in."

He pressed a button on the control in his hand. In the background the videotape of Omollo's assassination began to play again, silently. Michael watched intently for several moments, then abruptly asked a question.

"Was anything recovered from the scene this time?"

Poole shook his head resignedly. "No. As with all the others, the detonation completely vaporized the bodies of both the victim and the killer."

"Who was the first man assassinated in this way?"

Madeline consulted her notes again briefly. "A death in Ireland was the first attributed to this group. An IRA leader called Noel O'Shea. It was assumed he was targeted because of his inflexible opposition to the peace process."

Michael's face blanked at this information, and he simply nodded without reply. Uncharacteristically, he failed to notice Poole's close observation of his reaction.

Opposite Michael, Operations had retreated into silence once more.

********

In the early evening Nikita watched from the door of the house, silent and unseen.

Michael stood motionless near the edge of the terrace. A gentle sea breeze stirred and lifted his hair, and Nikita could imagine its gentle caress on his face, but his primary awareness was clearly directed within. She marveled, as she always did, at his preternatural stillness. She wondered, as she always had, what was in his mind.

Then suddenly his shoulders drooped and he shook his head slightly. From her vantage point, Nikita saw his dejected stance and small head shake. She felt a stab of pity, supposing he was once again battling some inner demon. Stepping from the house, she deliberately let the door slam behind her to announce her presence. She approached from behind and wrapped her arms around his middle.

"Penny for your thoughts," she whispered into his ear.

Michael glanced around briefly then reached down to cover her hands where they were clasped together at his belt buckle.

"I was thinking about RŠne," he replied after a moment.

Nikita waited for him to say something more.

"Oh?" she finally prompted, feeling a little awkward.

He was silent.

"Come on, Michael," she prodded. "There's something. I can feel it."

He reached back then and eased her around in front of him. With his hands holding her upper arms, he stood looking somberly into her face, hesitating.

Nikita's brows drew together in surprise at his unmistakable hesitation. Indecision, if indeed he ever felt it, was never part of his expression. A small, cancerous mass of anxiety took up lodging just under her breastbone.

"Michael?"

The silence continued as they stared at one another. His stillness was not peaceful or composed, as it had appeared from a distance. Instead, it was the calm of waters concealing a deadly undertow. And over it all she could sense him forcing a gradual reinstatement of his usual bland facade.

Painful exasperation begin to build slowly as she waited for him to speak. This drill was all too familiar. Conceal all; reveal nothing.

Impatiently she pulled her arms from his grasp.

"Come on Michael," she snapped. "After everything " here she raised her hands in a frustrated gesture that encompassed their history "do we still have to do this?" Her eyes narrowed in irritation, but she tried to soften her tone. "I know there's something on your mind. Talk to me." She touched his arm briefly. "It might help."

He turned away, pocketing his hands and looking back out at the darkening sea. Nikita ground her teeth in frustration, then turned to walk back to the house. Michael's soft words stopped her.

"I have kept my own counsel for a long time, Nikita." He paused. "Thinking out loud has never been a luxury I could afford."

As they stood with their backs to one another, Nikita looked down at the paving stones beneath her feet. Breathing. And giving herself a stern admonition. Don't push. Slowly she turned around to look at him.

"Things are different now," she simply. "You don't have to be alone any more."

Carefully, as though she might startle him into retreat, Nikita moved the few steps to the terrace wall and settled herself where she could see his face. His gaze flickered to her briefly, then resumed its restless roaming of the horizon. Nikita could only imagine what memories had risen up like the heads of the Hydra, hissing and whispering in the background until even Michael's disciplined intellect was troubled and distracted.

Beyond them, the sun was beginning to settle low in the sky, imparting a gentle, late-day warmth. Evening insects were coming to life, and the noises surrounding the terrace were a disconcerting combination of both the day and night shifts.

Michael released a long breath. Nikita's gaze never wavered from his face, and finally he met her eyes. The hesitation she had seen there previously had been supplanted by a reluctant resignation. Once more she forced down the urge to touch him. He looked away from her again as he began speaking.

"Before RŠne, I was friendly with another student. Mathieu Bezier. He was alone in the world. We became close friends. Got very involved together in student activism demonstrations, marches..." His shrug encompassed and dismissed these activities.

"After a while this didn't seem radical enough. When we met Noel O'Shea, we were ready to fall under his influence. Particularly Mathieu. Within weeks we went to him in Ireland. To the place where his fighters were trained."

Here Michael's halting narrative stopped. Nikita waited patiently for long minutes as he sorted through his memories. At last she reached out and touched his hand, unable to withold contact any longer. He turned his eyes upon her, and she was shocked by the grief and sorrow she saw reflected there. But then his expression cleared and the moment was gone. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it once, then released it before continuing.

"We fit in. I loved Ireland. Mathieu, as was always his way, became completely obsessed. He lived and breathed training. Except for one thing."

He stopped again.

"What was her name?" Nikita guessed gently, not wanting him to lose momentum. She hoped that he would not change his mind now about confiding in her.

"Her name was Maureen an innocent. They met secretly. Noel had made it clear that outside relationships were completely taboo. He trusted no one."

The irony of this statement was clear to them both. Michael glanced down at Nikita. "And he was right, in the end."

"She turned him in?"

"No. The police got to her; wired her. The information they were able to obtain resulted in a great financial loss to Noel's organization, as well as the death of his closest compatriot."

Michael turned back to the darkening horizon. "Noel had the girl killed."

"And Mathieu?"

"Noel sent us both back to Paris. Within a week of our return a small explosive planted in the doorknob of Mathieu's apartment blew off his right hand. It was about this time that I met RŠne. Mathieu disliked him, considered him too soft and flexible too prepared to sacrifice ideals for reality. After that, we drifted apart. Mathieu joined the ultra-radical fringe. And I "

His voice trailed off and stopped. There was no need to finish the story from that point on.

"How can you be sure Noel was responsible? You weren't hanging around with the best people, you know."

"We knew," Michael stated flatly. "There was no doubt about the message or who it was from."

Nikita was silent for a moment, contemplating O'Shea's dreadful revenge. Michael stood motionless, as was his way, betraying nothing. Then a sudden realization ballooned within her mind, crowding out all other thoughts. Her gut contracted icily and she prayed that she was wrong.

Summoning her courage, she asked gently, "Who did Noel send to kill the girl?"

Michael's almost-unintelligible one word reply was filled with self-loathing. "Me."

Nikita turned her eyes away so he would not see there the pity he despised. For this mistake, and others, as well as the events they had set in motion, Michael continued to punish himself today.

Unable to stay away, she rose from the wall and embraced him once again. His body was hard and resistant, as though he couldn't allow himself the privilege of being held.

"It wasn't your fault," Nikita whispered fiercely.

"I'd never had a friend before Mathieu," he murmured pensively, as though to himself.

She reached up and pulled his face around, forcing eye contact. "You were young. You could never have known how this would affect Mathieu, or what things would happen with RŠne. It wasn't your fault," she repeated deliberately. "And you've more than made amends."

Still, he did not respond, unable to view himself as anything but the linchpin around whom all these events had turned, heaping upon himself immeasurable blame. After a moment she moved her hands to his shoulders and changed her tone, hoping to divert his thoughts constructively.

"What makes you believe Mathieu would be involved with these assassinations?"

Finally he looked at her. She watched in fascination as his eyes refocused, the pupils actually changing diameter as he centered his attention on her question.

"Mathieu was fascinated by the concept of self-sacrifice. He studied the charismatic leaders for whom men had died willingly - everything from Japanese kamikaze to Jim Jones. He had decided that willing suicide was the ultimate terrorist weapon both for its indefensibility and for its emotional impact on the public."

Nikita nodded. It was nearly impossible to defend against an assassin willing to sacrifice their own life. She sat back down on the terrace wall and considered him.

"And because Noel O'Shea was the first death attributed to this killer, you think Mathieu Bezier is responsible?"

"I do."

She nodded again and followed his gaze out the shimmering ocean, now tinged with early evening color.

"You should talk to " she hesitated, " Poole about this, you know."

"I know."

His short reply conveyed deep reluctance. Nikita thought carefully before speaking again; she had a good idea where the reluctance was coming from.

"You are not to blame for RŠne's death, you know. He chose the wrong path." He said nothing and she pressed on again. "You have to think of how many innocent people he would have killed."

Michael looked down at his hands, then closed his eyes. Nikita could feel his internal strife as though she could see right through his skin. She knew how dearly it had cost him when Section forced him to betray his old friend RŠne. She would never forget the pure despair she had seen on his face that day, and the lifelessness she of his voice. It would echo painfully in her heart for years to come. You should have let him do it.

"You think that if you bring this up you will be responsible for Mathieu's death too," she said quietly, hoping that verbalizing his thoughts would keep him talking.

Unexpectedly, he raised his arms and pulled her close to his body, resting his face against her hair. His voice was slightly muffled, but she could clearly hear the self-condemnation there.

"One day I may be the cause of your death as well."

She understood the weight of these many deaths on his conscience. No one, it seemed, had ever survived being close to him. And now, if he was right, not even the passage of years would provide a buffer of safety.

Holding him tightly in return, Nikita could find no words of reassurance for Michael.

**********

"We should do it. Why are you hesitating?"

Madeline's voice was crisp and matter-of-fact. Annoyingly so.

Across the table, Operations looked at her without expression and did not answer.

Silence expanded within the room, and finally Poole drew a decisive breath. "In my opinion, this is an opportunity that should be pursued. Michael has come forward with the perfect circumstances under which to penetrate this organization."

Madeline spoke again. "I agree. Even if Mathieu Bezier isn't responsible for these assassinations, it would be worthwhile to learn something about his organization and contacts." She looked again at Operations, allowing her irritation to become visible.

Nikita glanced at Michael, seated next to her. She could feel his reluctance to embrace this idea of penetrating Bezier's organization.

"Well, Michael?" Madeline again. She studied him, then allowed her lips to curve slightly in a knowing smile as she went on.

"It's more difficult, isn't it to make your own decisions." She cocked her head a little, considering him. "It was easier when all you had to do was obey orders."

Nikita clenched her jaw and looked down at the table, willing Michael not to be taken in by Madeline's transparent goading. Leave it to her to use even their freedom against them now.

"I'm not sure if he is still accessible to me. We did not part on good terms. He is likely to be suspicious if I suddenly turn up after all these years." As usual, Michael's voice showed no trace of the conflict he felt. Even Madeline would not have read his comment as an attempt to back out of the situation.

"We can create a plausible enough history to account for the elapsed time." Madeline glanced obliquely at Birkoff, who sat at the end of the table, silently absorbing the conversation. He nodded slightly in affirmation.

After a moment, when Michael said nothing more, Poole laid his hands before him on the table. "We are agreed then, to go forward?"

"Of course," Madeline replied. Beside her, Michael nodded once.

"Marcus?" Poole inquired.

Operations appeared tired and drawn. "I think we need more intel on Bezier's activities before we send Michael in."

Madeline came back instantly, her smooth voice cutting like a velvet-sheathed scalpel. "You haven't been able to make a decision since you returned from Vietnam." Reverberating silence followed her words. Nikita shifted uncomfortably in her chair and exchanged a tiny glance with Birkoff. He looked as ill at ease as she felt.

Then Operations leaned forward slightly and locked eyes with Madeline. "We can discuss your personal perceptions of my behavior at another time. As for this, I am simply taking a position of prudence. We no longer have access to the manpower we did in Section One. I see no reason to fritter it away incautiously.

Poole nodded his head judiciously. "Perfectly correct, Marcus. I would propose that we assume involvement in the situation, but that we allow Mr. Birkoff another 48 hours to collect information about Bezier's activities. At that point we should be better equipped to formulate a plan."

Terse nods signaled agreement with this approach. Within moments everyone had cleared the room except Birkoff and Nikita. She looked at him with an expression of disbelief.

"What exactly was that all about?"

Birkoff looked disgusted. "Don't ask me. I only work here."

"Come on, Birkoff. Don't give me that. You see everything that happens around here."

He shook his head in exasperation, then added a small shrug. "Who knows. You've seen Operations - he hasn't been like himself since they came back from Vietnam."

"Is that why Stephen left?"

Birkoff looked at her. "Stephen went to Phoenix to look for Walter's son."

"So they said."

He shook his head again. "Madeline seems to get more pissed every day. It's better not to ask. I just try to be invisible, you know?"

He gathered up his materials. "I've got work to do."

Nikita sat alone after Birkoff's departure, mulling over what little she knew. Operations had indeed not been himself since he, Michael and Walter had returned from Vietnam with Stephen. At first she'd thought maybe the field work was just more than he was used to. But as time went by it became apparent that something was working on him from within. Then, after a lengthy recovery, Stephen had left for Arizona, presumably - on the strength of George's final words - to begin searching for the son Walter had not seen for many years.

And Madeline? Did she have some plan unfolding, revealing her irritation that way? Or was she, too, simply puzzled and frustrated by the behavior of someone she cared for whatever that might mean for Madeline?

Nikita grimaced to herself at these circular thoughts. Things never seemed to change very much. She would put it from her mind, she decided.

One enigma at a time was adequate frustration, thank you very much.

**********

Nikita blinked against the hypnotic strobing of sunlight through the trees. Outside the window of their rapidly moving car, mile after green mile of lush Irish countryside rolled by. Their route positioned them between the incomparably beautiful Maumturk Mountains and the distant, white strands of the Atlantic Ocean. Such a wild and magnificent place, populated by people of unparalleled pride, ferocity and generosity no wonder, she thought, that Michael had been beguiled by this country.

She glanced over at him. "Almost there?"

"About 15 minutes." He looked at her briefly before returning his attention to the road.

Nikita continued to gaze idly out the window, having mixed feelings about being back in Ireland. Her last visit here had been an overwhelming experience: a difficult mission in which Michael had nearly been killed, followed by unprecedented insubordination on Michael's part which had allowed them two glorious days of freedom for him to show her the Ireland he'd come to love. She had seen an altogether different side of him then.

Now, here they were again, approaching the tiny village of Clifden in western Ireland. Birkoff had managed to come up with a fairly well fleshed-out history of Bezier's known activities. Included in the information was the fact that Bezier never missed a particular arms market that was held yearly in August, it's location changing annually and not widely advertised.

Euphemistically referred to as a 'gun show' by its participants, it was actually a terrorist's wet dream; a highly illegal source of supply for every kind of weapon that could be carried, as well as some that could be delivered, provided the proper amount of trust were to be established between buyer and seller. Bezier, it seemed, had an uncontrolled craving for toys and gadgets. He was known to pay top dollar at this show for weapons which utilized the latest technology, which killed more people for the dollar, or which simply did interesting things. This year, the sellers were congregating at this isolated little town in Connemara.

At the outskirts of town Michael pulled off the roadside and stopped the car.

"I'm ready to activate the tracker. Call Birkoff and make sure he's receiving."

A gust of cool, damp air entered the car as Michael closed the door. He raised the trunk lid, obscuring Nikita's view of him. In the trunk was their bait for Bezier. Walter's genius had yielded an irresistible hand-held weapon which had, as a bonus, a tiny, hidden tracker. As instructed, she dialed Birkoff.

"Have you got us?"

After a second Birkoff replied, "Yeah, not perfect, but I'll work on it .and Nikita ."

"What is it?"

"There's been another one. We just got the tape about 20 minutes ago. It hasn't hit the news yet."

Nikita closed her eyes and shook her head. Would her skin ever get thick enough? Casual, violent death - even of the most deserving individual - still seemed wrong. That's all. Just wrong.

She sighed. "Anybody we know?"

"Maybe not by name. A French senator member of their Parliamentary Office for Evaluation of Scientific and Technological Options." Birkoff rattled off the long name in the monotone of someone reading from notes.

"Why would they kill a French politician?"

"Well, it's pretty clear," Birkoff replied. "He was a big supporter of the French nuclear testing program."

Nikita nodded to herself. Although she hadn't known the Senator by name, they were all familiar with France's program of nuclear testing in the South Pacific. The decision to conduct these tests had been a slap in the face of over 100 countries attempting at the time to negotiate a nuclear test ban treaty. Dozens of nations had expressed regret, concern or unqualified outrage, chief among them, of course, the nations of the South Pacific.

"Tell Michael, OK? All the data is there when you're ready to download."

Nikita closed her phone as Michael re-entered the car. "Birkoff's getting the signal but it needs work. He says your friend just blew up a French senator." As soon as the words left her lips she cringed mentally. "Your friend." Oh, good one, Nikita.

Michael put the keys in the ignition then paused with both hands on the wheel, staring out through the windscreen.

"Sorry," Nikita mumbled. "I didn't mean friend " She glanced sideways at him and finished lamely, "Birkoff has the data ready for download."

Michael turned his head to look back at her, his face expressionless. "There's no need to apologize."

"Well I didn't really mean 'friend' I just was thinking about the story you told me, you know, and " Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes in disgust. She didn't see the corner of Michael's lips twitch ever so slightly.

"If you're going to apologize, Nikita, never ruin it with an excuse."

As he pulled the car smoothly back onto the road Nikita turned again to the window, hoping he hadn't seen her relieved smile. Really, he made her feel like a child sometimes.

********

A short while later they pulled up outside a low, flat-roofed and somewhat decrepit looking building. Men loitered around the entrance, roughly dressed but clearly not the farmers or peatcutters who inhabited the area. Nikita waited as Michael got out of the car and spoke briefly with one of the men. Then, at his beckoning gesture she got out and joined him at the door of the building.

Inside, it was about what she had expected. Although the room was low-ceilinged and poorly appointed, it appeared at least to be acceptably clean. A good-sized group of men milled around the room, singly or in small clusters, but conversation was muted. Wooden crates, their contents concealed by drab tarpaulins, dotted the circumference of the room. In all, it appeared that everything was set up for temporary occupation and a quick departure, if necessary.

Michael and Nikita began to make a slow circuit of the chilly room, surreptitiously examining faces and analyzing what few arms could be seen as transactions were accomplished. Furtive glances were cast their way, but no one looked long enough to establish eye contact. Nikita noted that there were a few women present, some attractive and well groomed, some looking like refugees from a Terminator movie. She knew enough not to make any assumptions about which might be terrorists and which were simply arm decorations.

"How do they do any business here?" Nikita murmured. "With no arms out in view, I mean."

Michael's eyes never paused in their ceaseless scrutiny of faces. "They know who has product available. Everyone here knows each other, or knows someone who does."

It seemed like a perversion of the concept that these terrorists could have some kind of brotherhood or camaraderie. Nikita gave a mental shudder.

"Then how did we get in?"

He finally looked at her, his expression suggesting that the answer was obvious.

"I know someone."

Nikita blinked back at him, out of questions for the moment.

Their circulation through the building was fruitless, and an hour later they found themselves sipping coffee outside the building and discussing their options.

Michael cupped his hands around the styrofoam container, blowing a little on the steaming brew. "We can't stay much longer or we'll arouse suspicion."

Nikita nodded. No arrangements had been made for them to actually make a purchase. Their hastily arranged cover story might not have borne the scrutiny of a well-connected and paranoid terrorist arms supplier.

On the road fronting the building a peatcutter passed slowly by, perched on the edge of his flat donkey cart. It was impossible to guess his age, so weathered were his countenance and the rough, red hands that protruded from his sleeves. His suitcoat was frayed with time and hard use. His boots were muddy and cracked. The donkey that labored forward under the load of peat was a poor-looking beast, scruffy and thin, but his ears were pricked and he pulled with a will. The man tipped his flat cap and gave a small salute with his whip as he passed by, smiling.

Little does he know about this nest of vipers by the roadside, Nikita mused. Do I do this for him? For people like him? Where would these people be without Argus or Section One, for that matter? For a brief instant she felt something startlingly akin to pride ripple through her. She glanced at Michael and saw that his eyes, too, were on the peatcutter. His face was impassive when he turned to her.

"Let's go. One more look around and we'll have to give up."

Nodding, Nikita sloshed the cold dregs of her coffee out into the bushes then preceded him toward the doorway. Behind her she was aware of the crunch of gravel as a car turned in at the building. The car stopped, idling as another vehicle made its departure, then slid into the open parking place.

As they reached the entrance Michael stepped close to Nikita and reached for the door.

"Michael?" A questioning voice, slightly raised to attract their attention.

"Here we go," Michael murmured into her ear.

"Michael!" The voice changed timbre as it grew closer.

"They turned to face a pair of men who had exited the just-parked car.

"Is that you?"

The speaker was a man of medium height with a peculiar, narrow-shouldered build. His rich baritone voice suggested a much bigger man. His features were regular and handsome enough. At the ends of his jacket sleeves were black gloves - one for each hand, as far as Nikita could tell. With him was a man of utter unremarkability, possessing the kind of face that no one would ever remember seeing. The two men stopped a few paces from the door and waited for a response.

Finally Michael nodded in greeting. "Hello, Mathieu."

At this Mathieu smiled broadly, then stepped forward and enveloped Michael in a warm embrace. "It has been a very long time. C'est un plaisir de te voir." From his tone it could never be guessed that he had anything but fond memories of their friendship.

Michael smiled in return. "I'm pleased to see you too, Mathieu."

He tipped his head briefly toward Nikita. "This is my colleague Nikita." He left just enough hesitation, pronounced her name with just enough of a caress to leave plenty of doubt in Mathieu's mind as to what Nikita's true usefulness might be.

Mathieu turned a bright, avian regard on her. His smile was appreciative as he unabashedly reviewed her from head to toe. Moving closer, he swept up her hand and raised it to his lips for a genteel buss of the knuckles.

"You must explain to me, Michael, how such a treasure can have agreed to spend time with a mec like you. I, personally, cannot fathom it." Nikita smiled vacuously at this declaration. She had opposed being cast as a girlfriend in this scenario, but in the end Michael's opinion had held sway.

Mathieu released her hand and returned his attention to Michael. "It appears that you have much improved the company that you keep." His smile lost some of its gentility and took on a reptilian cast.

"I always learn from my mistakes," Michael replied impassively, managing to imply some kind of non-servile apology for his association with RŠne.

"Hmm yes, I heard that RŠne had left you to prison. Not the act of a true friend, wouldn't you say?" Bezier shrugged. "But, I have also heard that he is dead now, so it is of no importance any longer."

Nikita could discern no trace of reaction from Michael as he replied.

"Yes. I took care of RŠne myself."

Bezier seemed to relish the implication that Michael had exacted revenge on a former friend. The two men looked at each other for several moments. Then Mathieu smiled happily and nodded as he reached for the door handle, shrugging away the topic of RŠne.

"Today is my jour de sortie, my friend a day off! I always enjoy this yearly gathering, you know, seeing everything that's new, perhaps picking up one or two interesting items. And being that they are right here in Ireland well..c'est pas loin, you know? I wouldn't dream of missing it when it's so close."

He turned to his silent companion. "Jean-Luc, I'm going to be with my friends for a few minutes."

Recognizing a dismissal, the taciturn Jean-Luc slid one long look over Michael and Nikita, nodded then walked away.

Mathieu shook his head. "The man is un vrai sauvage, I'm afraid, but I have to keep him around. In my position it is important to have another set of eyes on the lookout. One little slip and - chut! - there you are with a bullet in the head or police handcuffs on your wrists." He raised his hands, palms out, as if eliciting their understanding for his grave security problem.

Michael nodded. Nobody looked at Nikita for her opinion.

"Well, my friend let us not dwell on unpleasantries! You are looking en forme these days. What is it you do with yourself now?" They passed through the door and immediately began traversing the room in Bezier's wake. He interrupted their conversation frequently to shake a hand, squeeze a shoulder or exchange a brief word. He was obviously a familiar figure at this assembly.

"Freelance work, mainly," Michael replied offhandedly. "Today I'm acting as a broker for an experimental weapon. My client is looking for more field tests before going into production."

Nikita could almost see antennae rise up from the back of Mathieu's head.

"I see. You have many clients like this do you?"

"Only this one, for now," Michael replied indifferently. "We have been dissatisfied with the inconsistency of freelance work. The people are unpredictable. Lately we have been considering attaching ourselves to a well-run organization."

They watched as Mathieu processed this information in the context of his own operation. "Ah yes. Dealing with unknown quantities is sometimes risky, n'est-ce pas?" He nodded sagely, a calculating light in his eyes. "Someone with your abilities would be a useful addition to any cause, mon ami."

Then his eager smile returned and he changed the subject. "Now you have something new, have you? It is interesting, non?"

Michael shrugged a little and placed his arm casually around Nikita's shoulder, toying with the ends of her hair.

"Possibly. Depending upon your needs. It could be a useful and amusing device."

Mathieu nodded , his curiosity barely contained.

"Eh oui. Depending upon one's needs indeed. I think I should like to examine your little device." He was all but rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm as he went on.

"You know, I believe we would do well to become reacquainted, Michael. Do you not think so?" He spread his hands wide and smiled forcefully at them. "You and Nikita, of course must join me at my home this weekend. We will make a little time for old friends, c'est convenu?"

Michael exchanged a look with Nikita, as if checking for her reaction to the invitation. It was, of course, what they had hoped Bezier would do.

"J'aimerais bien, ca," Michael answered with a smile. "We would love to," he added with another glance at Nikita.

"C'est bon!" Mathieu cried, reaching to embrace Michael once more. He then reached inside his coat and brought forth a small white card and a pen. He pinned the card up against the wall with his gloved right hand and scribbled with his left, then presented the card to Michael.

"Here are directions to my home. I will expect you this evening say about 7:00? And bring your interesting new device. Now, I must spend a little time making some purchases."

He bent his head to Nikita. "Delighted to meet you, Nikita. I'll look forward to talking more with you this weekend."

Before she could respond with more than a smile, Bezier was turning away, the reticent Jean-Luc appearing magically at this side. She turned to Michael.

"Well that was easy."

He glanced back at Bezier, who was already on the far side of the room. His voice held a tinge of skepticism.

"Yes it was wasn't it?"

*********

The vast, tranquil waters of Lough Corrib glistened and sparkled under the setting sun. In the distance, the Blue Ridge mountains of Connemara, locally known as the Twelve Bens, dominated the skyline with their blue-gray majesty.

Bezier's home faced this panorama from its position atop a medium rise. High enough to appreciate the vista; not so lofty as to seem disengaged from the pastoral surroundings. The home was very comfortable by rural Irish standards. Lacking any feeling of ostentation, the residence was really two homes joined by a long, windowed sun room. It was here that Nikita stood, sipping a glass of wine, listening to the low buzz of conversation in the next room and spending a few more moments enjoying the ethereal scenery before her.

At dinner the previous evening Bezier had been without gloves, of course, and she noted that he made no effort at wearing any kind of prosthetic device for his missing hand. He simply pinned the ends of his coat sleeve. After a vintage Irish meal - solid, filling and unpretentious - Bezier had entertained them with local anecdotes and promised to take them on a driving tour the next day. Then, to her displeasure, Michael had simply sent her to bed. She still seethed at his verbal equivalent of being patted on the head and told to run along. The men had talked until late in the night, and when Nikita awoke in the morning, Michael's pillow was already cold. As yet they'd had no opportunity to discuss his previous night's conversation with Bezier.

True to his word, after a hearty breakfast Bezier had taken them on a drive through the local countryside, and it had been a truly agreeable day. Stopping first at the beautifully preserved 16th century Aughnanure Castle on the west shore of the lake, they then continued on to Galway. The lovely old walled city was just as Nikita remembered it, an extraordinary illustration of history's progression. Shop Street businesses occupying 13th century structures; the Allied Irish bank operating out of a 12th century family mansion, and a memorial to John F. Kennedy occupying a place of honor on the cobbled surface of the ancient city center. The sense of history in the place was awesome and comforting. As if, no matter the calamity, tenacious civilization would endure and flourish.

They enjoyed late lunch in a charming Clifden pub, then began the return trip to Bezier's home. He had been a captivating host, and Nikita saw clearly the personal affinity between the two men. After that, it was not such a stretch to imagine a younger Michael feeling strong friendship for Mathieu Bezier.

"I grieve," Bezier had said regretfully, "that I do not have time today to take you to Kylemore Abbey. One of my favorite places. It is truly" - he paused to kiss his fingertips - "an exquisite and inspiring place. Like an old castle." He winked. "I'll bet they even have a dungeon. You must not leave without a visit. Tomorrow, peut ˆtre?"

They had agreed, of course, making no sign that their intended association with Bezier was temporary.

"This evening," Bezier had continued, "I have invited a few of my colleagues to have dinner with us. I would like them to meet you."

Michael and Nikita had exchanged a surreptitious look. This was good news. This inspection by Bezier's co-terrorists would give them the dual opportunity of learning more about what he did, as well as who he did it with.

"Nikita, you may wish perhaps to return to Galway this evening and do some shopping?" Bezier had inquired delicately. "I can put a car and driver and your disposal."

His offer, they recognized, was an oblique inquiry as to Nikita's status. If her function was purely social, then she had no place at dinner this evening. Michael had answered the implicit question.

"I'd like Nikita to be present tonight."

Bezier had sent her a undecipherable glance, then nodded. Whatever he thought about Michael wanting his girlfriend present at a business function, it went unsaid.

"Mais oui, Michael. As you wish."

So now she stood, wine in hand, watching the sun go down behind the distant purple mountains.

She sensed rather than heard Michael as he approached her side, watching silently with her for a few moments. His hand rested warmly at her hip.

"Bezier is waiting for one more arrival. He wants to introduce us now."

Nikita drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh, mentally squaring her shoulders for the evening to come. Michael put his other hand at her waist and turned her to face him, letting his eyes stray over her features. Finally he looked into her eyes and Nikita was pleased that he allowed her to see the concern there.

Placing her palm gently against his cheek, she smiled a little.

"It will be all right, Michael. Maybe Mathieu won't be involved after all."

Michael turned his lips into her palm and placed a brief kiss there. Then he stepped back and transferred one hand to the small of her back, steering her toward the door.

At the entrance to the living room they paused. The four men within shifted their attention immediately from their conversation, and Bezier stepped forward.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I would like to introduce you to Michael and Nikita. Michael is a very old friend of mine who has been in various aspects of our business for many years."

He stepped forward and clapped Michael on the shoulder. "Tonight, I want you to talk and get to know him. I would like him to join us in our cause."

The three men gave their own introductions as Bezier moved to the bar to refresh his drink. A moment later he again commanded their attention with a raised glass.

"Mes amis, together we have become the revolutionaries of all revolutionaries. For our cause is the cause of humanity - nothing so insignificant as national or religious interests for us. And we have found the ideal method for achieving our goals. A method which serves the two-fold purpose of ridding the world of undesirables while delivering an unmistakable message to the rest of humanity's leaders."

As he paused, glasses were raised and wine was sipped. Nikita's heart sank rapidly toward her stomach at this confirmation of Bezier's involvement in the assassinations. Michael, of course, revealed none of the disappointment she knew he must be feeling.

"And now," Bezier went on, "I simply cannot wait any longer for our latecomer. I must share with you the new plan I have under development."

He paused to put down his glass. Nikita's blood froze solid at his next words.

"As you know, there is a difficult situation at present in America with their President, Jefferson Williams. The stability of the United States is absolutely vital to world security, yet they dither and divide themselves over a domestic issue which holds them up to global ridicule. It is only a matter of time before some enterprising third world power attempts to take advantage of these circumstances." His raised palms conveyed great distress over this foregone conclusion.

"We, however, can resolve this situation. And we can use it to further our goal."

He paused abruptly and smiled, gazing beyond them out the window. "Ah he is here at last. You'll excuse me, gentlemen? Please refresh your drinks and we'll continue this discussion over dinner."

He left the room to greet his tardy guest, leaving an impressed silence in his wake. Nikita hoped her expression was something acceptable for the occasion. She wasn't quite sure how to look when expected to be a willing party to the assassination of the President of the United States.

Then voices could be heard outside the door and Bezier re-entered the room, his guest preceeding him slightly.

Then, to everyone's astonishment the man stopped in his tracks, pulled a gun and aimed it straight at Nikita's head. All sound and motion ceased within the room. Nikita looked into the man's face and said a silent prayer. There was nothing they could do.

Then Bezier stepped forward indignantly.

"Come, come now, Mr. Suba. What is all this?"

*******

"Any word yet, Birkoff?"

Operations paced restlessly as he spoke, pausing to glare occasionally at Walter. He went on without waiting for an answer from Birkoff.

"I thought you put a tracker in that equipment for Bezier? Why aren't we getting anything?"

"We are," Birkoff said quickly, trying to divert blame from Walter. "But it's intermittent. The next military satellite will be over the area in about an hour. It has a stronger booster and we should get a better signal then. And we know where they were at last transmission."

Poole stood before a wall map of Ireland, cross referencing something with a book on the table.

"How long overdue are they?" he asked. "And could their lack of communication also be attributable to a satellite shortcoming?"

"Six hours," Birkoff replied morosely. Beside him Walter gave a dolorous shake of his head.

"The phones are satellite-dependent," Birkoff continued in answer to Poole's second question, "but there've been passes by at least four different instruments in the last six hours. We could have gotten something if they were able to try."

"Then it appears we have a problem," Madeline summarized quietly. "At Michael's last check-in he indicated that it was his opinion Mathieu was involved in the assassinations. If something has compromised their cover well, it could be a difficult situation by now."

Madeline traded a long, thoughtful look with Poole, then nodded slightly. Behind her, Operations ceased his pacing long enough to ask a question.

"Mr. Poole, what do we have on the individuals who work with Bezier?"

Poole shook his head. "Very little. The people we see with him now were hand-picked by him at a young age and brought up in his own organization. Most do not have records. His assassins, of course, do not survive for questioning."

"He's completely home-grown?" Operations said, clearly disbelieving. "There must be someone from the outside. Money sources. Training agents."

Poole nodded. "Yes. But, unfortunately this is a not an organization I've dealt with extensively. Generally British intelligence has had IRA activities well enough in hand."

Operations looked at Poole for another moment, as if having some trouble assimilating the idea that Poole lacked information in any area. Then he turned to Birkoff.

"Section One had extensive files on the IRA. We need that information."

Birkoff looked hesitant. "You want me to break into Section One?"

"Of course," Operations replied impatiently. "Did you think I meant for you to write a polite note and ask them to copy the files at their convenience?"

Birkoff lowered his eyes and nodded.

"Well?" Operations pressed. "Can you do it?"

Reluctantly, Birkoff gave what he knew was not the right answer.

"Well maybe. They've changed all the codes, and probably put in sniffer programs that would attach themselves to intruders and reveal that we were there, and they "

Operations interrupted with a sharp exhalation. "I don't need to know the details, Birkoff. Can you do it?"

"I think so," Birkoff replied, then finished miserably. "But it would take a couple of days."

Walter looked like he might be holding back tears. "What about the back door you used when you and Michael got in last time?"

Birkoff shook his head. "Closed and locked. And bricked up."

Walter turned then to Poole. "If when we acquire the signal from my tracker why couldn't we do it the old-fashioned way and just go in after them?"

Poole raised one eyebrow. "Assuming they and your tracker are in the same locale."

"Right right," Walter continued, brushing off the complication. "Do you have any resources in Ireland?"

"Section One does," Birkoff said darkly. "Or did. The Dublin substation was one of our strongest."

"No," Poole replied curtly in answer to Walter's question. "I have no particular resources in Ireland. The closest means of assistance would be in France. Presently they are occupied." He and Madeline exchanged yet another glance.

"Well, how can they be too occupied to get Michael and Nikita out of trouble!" Walter exploded. He half rose from his chair, looking happy to have a channel for his frustration.

Madeline's cool tones seized their attention with a simple statement.

"Birkoff can use Section One files if he has permission."

They looked at her, not able to make any correlation between her words and their situation.

"What?" Walter finally blurted.

Beside Walter, Operations stood silent. Madeline looked directly at him as she spoke.

"I can contact the head of Section One and obtain permission to use both these data files and, possibly, resources from the Dublin substation."

Operations looked from her to Poole, who seemed somehow to have physically withdrawn from the conversation. His eyes, almost glowing in his ashen face, snapped back to Madeline.

"What?" he whispered.

For just a moment Madeline lowered her gaze, as if regretting what she was about to say. And when she answered him her voice was gentle.

"Since you killed George, Adrian has been reinstated as head of Section One."

Operations shook his head faintly, then stood waiting for her to go on. Birkoff and Walter sat in shocked silence.

Madeline was at her most cool and logical as she explained. "I had early indications that political difficulties were forthcoming. In running my own simulations of possible outcomes, it became apparent that there was some threat you and I might both be removed from control of Section One. In my opinion Adrian was the person best suited to see that Section One remained functional in a meaningful way."

"In your opinion ?" Operations said incredulously.

"I discussed this at length with her and she agreed. Obviously, then, I did not have her canceled. She was ready to phase in after you killed George."

Poole took one step forward and in his uncanny way rejoined them physically. "Mr. Birkoff," he said quietly. "I think we could begin putting together some useful information."

He exited the room. Behind him, Birkoff and Walter both leaped to their feet and followed along.

Left alone, Operations looked at Madeline in wonder.

"I cannot believe what I am hearing."

Madeline selected a chair and sat down, looking at him composedly. "Would you like to sit down or do you need to pace?"

He felt the hairs on his neck rise, so great was his irritation that she would choose this time to invoke her familiarity with his habits.

"Explain." This was all he could get out without choking.

"I was assigned my job because of my strategic abilities and proficiency at analyzing people and situations. Our complementary skills were seen as the most effective means of success for Section One."

Although part of him felt that she was merely throwing him a bone, Operations found himself calmed slightly by her rational words. Still, he couldn't prevent a small skeptical sneer in his expression. Madeline was not amused, and her voice took on a sharp edge.

"Surely you had to suspect that someday a political shitstorm would blow through?" Her sarcasm, coupled with unheard-of vulgarity, served to refocus him abruptly. She rose from her chair and turned away, clasping her hands together behind her back.

"What I did not anticipate was that they would clean house from top to bottom the way they did, crippling themselves in the process. It was a mistake, assuming that they would operate rationally. As I would." For Madeline, this was harsh self-recrimination. He listened with interest now.

"We maintained contact after I provided her safe transit from Section One. We both felt that it was the best for Section One that she remain alive." Madeline did not add that time had borne her out. She did not need to.

Operations couldn't resist one more sarcastic dig.

"So. You two are best friends now? Section One and Argus can have a merger and save on expenses?"

She turned to face him, disappointment in her eyes. At once he was embarrassed for his loss of control. "Didn't you have any hint?" she asked. "That day when Adrian called you 'Paul' didn't you wonder why she would address you by a code name you hadn't used in years?"

She was right again. He had been so consumed by emotion that he hadn't been thinking clearly.

"Madeline " he began, then stopped. She didn't need an apology and wouldn't appreciate him wasting the time.

"Are you reasonably sure that Adrian would be willing to cooperate?"

Madeline smiled slightly and he knew that he'd made the right decision. "I believe so. Besides the obvious fact that she owes me a rather large debt, she will certainly be in agreement with our end goal - the removal of Mathieu Bezier." She smiled again, the small Mona Lisa smile that he both loved and hated.

"This is not the birth of a working relationship. Mainly, she will do it for Nikita."

Operations could not return her smile; the irony was too great. After endless efforts to stamp out that part of Nikita that encouraged people to feel that very character flaw was now what they would rely on to complete a mission and bring both she and Michael out safely. If it wasn't already too late.

He nodded in acquiescence. "Call her."

Madeline did so, and within moments Adrian's serene features appeared on the video screen. Her greeting was composed and unsurprised.

"Hello, Madeline. Marcus."

Madeline smiled. "Adrian." Operations could only nod.

"I must say, I'm impressed that you were able to survive the unfortunate purge of Section One. You have my admiration, Madeline, for your extraordinary foresight."

"It was there to see, Adrian. I had a teacher who taught me how to look."

Adrian laughed, unmoved by the flattery. "Tell me something. Did you manage also to save Nikita? Or were you foolish and envious enough to allow her to fall?"

Madeline ignored this. "Nikita got out."

Adrian nodded in satisfaction, her eyes bright. "You people don't deserve her loyalty, you know. If I could entice her back into Section One I would make her my right hand." She paused. "And her Michael?"

Madeline glanced wryly at Operations, who replied, "Yes, Adrian. Her Michael also left Section One safely."

"Good." Clearly Adrian was gratified by the news. "If I get the chance I'll have him back in Section One also." She seemed to be amused by a sudden thought. "In fact I doubt I could have one without the other do you?" She smiled, diverted by the notion.

Madeline was not distracted. "It may be that neither of us will have them. That is why I am calling."

"Indeed?" Adrian inquired casually. "Please explain."

Operations stepped into the conversation, supplying the details in an encapsulated form. "We could use intel," he concluded, "and we could use certain resources from the Dublin sub-station, if it is still functioning."

They waited for her response.

Adrian's image seemed frozen on the screen, as if the transmission had locked up. Then her face wrinkled into a gentle smile.

"I'll do it for Nikita. Have Birkoff contact us." The screen cleared to black.

Operations turned and looked into Madeline's eyes.

"Whatever would I do without you?"

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

Something crawling.

Nikita regained consciousness with a heart-pounding jerk, yelling and swatting hysterically at her tiny, unseen assailant.

Then in the stale dark she came to her senses and gradually forced herself to stillness, concentrating on processing whatever information her dulled perception could provide.

Sight. Nothing. The darkness was complete, and she could only hope that given a few minutes her eyes would adjust enough to tell her something anything.

Smell. Dampness dirt age and disuse. And something else faintly rotted. She had never gardened, but somehow she imagined that it was the smell of rotting vegetables.

Touch. No she wasn't ready to explore that one just yet. Not after the crawling thing.

Sound. She concentrated on calming her ragged breathing. Listening. There was something, but it was muted, as though either far away or muffled by some thick material. Voices? No more like birds.

Birds?

Finally she forced herself to move, remaining on her knees and exploring her surroundings in tiny increments. Her vision was beginning to report some blurred outlines which suggested the boundaries of her prison and some objects nearby. Slowly she crept around in ever-widening circles, feeling gingerly ahead of herself.

Then suddenly her hand came in contact with identifiable objects. One she grabbed up instantly with a happy cry, groping for the switch with reckless gratitude.

A beam from the flashlight brightly illuminated the small area, inflicting lancing pain on her unprepared eyes. Immediately she switched the light off, then pressed it against her other palm before switching it back on again. Gradually gradually she allowed light to escape from between her fingers. She looked around.

The dim illumination revealed that she was surrounded by she looked again and reached out for confirmation. Dirt. Apparently she was underground. Playing the flashlight around she estimated that the space was approximately 10 feet by 10 feet and about 6 feet high. At one end was a set of rickety stairs that led to what appeared to be a wooden door, set overhead like an attic trap-door.

Painfully Nikita stood and walked to the stairs, examining them carefully before slowly climbing high enough to push at the door. It was fastened shut. Of course.

Pushing as hard as she could, Nikita was rewarded with a tiny sliver of daylight at one side of the door. A small thing - nevertheless, she felt a thrill of excitement. At least she knew that she was not buried. At least there was a way out.

But, not for the moment. Returning to the objects she had found, she spread out the blanket and sat down on it, then tore open some type of granola bar. Honey-oat or something. Not her favorite - but who would be a picky eater at a time like this?

Reluctantly, after one last look around for anything on more than two legs, she shut off the flashlight off. She had to assume that when the batteries went that would be it. Somehow she doubted that whoever put her here really cared whether she was afraid of the dark or not.

And that someone it all came back to her with a rush and she threw down the granola bar, unable to swallow.

Suba.

God. Who could have ever guessed that a one-time uranium smuggler would have evolved - if that was the proper term - into terrorist scum? Then she snorted to herself. What was she thinking? Scum was scum. Although she'd been outraged that Section had considered Suba useful enough to leave alive, she had never suspected that they would cross paths in this way.

She hardly dared think of Michael, seeing again in her mind's eye how he had been clubbed on the head and dragged from her sight. Was he alive? What would Mathieu's revenge be once Suba revealed that they had both been Section One agents? That they weren't any longer would be a mere technicality as far as Bezier was concerned.

Suba had taken a clear and perverse pleasure in the situation once she and Michael were subdued.

"Let's see " he had mocked. "The last time I saw you," here he delivered a painful kick to Michael's ribs, "you were a wronged husband."

"And you, bitch," he'd said, turning his attention to Nikita and taking a painfully tight grip on one breast, "I believe you were shooting at me!" Nikita wanted to spit in his face, but controlled the urge. Certainly, it wouldn't have improved their situation.

Then Bezier had ordered them separated and drugged and she knew no more. She lay down on the blanket and pulled the edges around herself, curling into a defensive fetal position. She didn't know that she had ever felt such despondency. Maybe that first night in prison

Well, if Michael had been trying to protect her by taking her in only as a supposed girlfriend - it hadn't worked. She pulled the blanket over her head and turned on the flashlight. She needed the comfort.

Batteries be damned.

*******

In the chilly black of the night the silent men crept forward, inches at a time. No noise. No reflection from carelessly handled weapons. At last they were within range and all forward motion ceased.

"What do you have, Walter?" Operations murmured into his comm set.

"Loud and clear is what I have," Walter mumbled back from a few feet away. He glanced down at the small readout in his hand. "The tracker is in there."

Operations turned his head to look and his voice came into Walter's ear as if they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. "Let's hope that Nikita and Michael are there as well."

Quietly he gave orders and the perimeter of borrowed, efficient death began to close in on the quiet house. Each man maneuvered silently until reaching his assigned point of entry. Then it began.

To an observer it would have seemed anticlimactic, this beginning. A few wordless exhalations from opened throats. The tiny pfft of a silencer. And dark, ghost-like entries into the residence.

In the main interior hall, Operations slid noiselessly toward faint light and voices coming from the far end of the house. Behind him, Adrian's operatives-on-loan fanned out into the rooms at his signal. He reached the door and paused, listening.

Within, quiet conversation and laughter reassured him that the occupants of the room had no suspicion that their enclave had been breached. Nodding to the muscular young operative next to him, Operations took a deep breath and kicked in the door, followed closely by the Section One agent. Fleetingly it crossed his mind that over the years he'd lost touch with this feeling of teamwork in the field, but there was no time to examine the thought. They were in.

Instantly the five men in the room leapt to their feet, startled too late from their complacency. One by one they abandoned the idea of reaching for weapons, instead adopting various non-threatening postures and waiting to see what would come from the unknown intruders.

The intruders were not unknown, however, to one of their number.

"Shit," Suba spat. "Since when do you go around rescuing your operatives?"

Operations indulged a small smile. "Since we aren't Section One any more, Suba."

The expression of confusion on Suba's face was worth the time it took for the exchange. But now there was no longer any time. The smile disappeared from Operations' face and he turned his attention to Bezier.

"Where is Michael?" he inquired conversationally.

Bezier looked at him contemptuously and said nothing. Operations took two steps forward to the man on Bezier's right and drilled one bullet directly through his forehead. The man's body crumpled heavily to the floor.

"Where is Michael?" he repeated in the same amicable tone.

The other two men looked nervously from Bezier to Operations. Bezier continued to stare insolently at Operations.

With no change of expression Operations shifted his aim slightly to the left and shot one of the men through the right eye. Blood spouted over the remaining man and he backpedaled with a caw of disgust.

"Where is Michael?" Operations asked cheerily for the third time.

Suba stood in silent defiance, but the remaining man behind Bezier had had enough.

"For Christ's sake, Mathieu!" he squealed, breathless with fear. "Tell him!"

Operations waited a few seconds, but Bezier said nothing. He turned the gun on the third man.

The man fell awkwardly to his knees. "No!" he screamed. "No! I can tell you he's here!" He began to sob. "He's here "

Bezier looked down scornfully. "Weak," he spat at the man. "Weak and useless." He averted his head and refused to look further at the weeping man.

Operations moved to stand in front of Suba, inspecting him with a dispassionate and pitiless expression, as though he were examining a new species of cockroach that had crept out from under the kitchen sink.

"No deals this time," he said genially.

Suba seemed to expect more than this, and looked faintly alarmed when Operations simply turned away to address Bezier once more.

"Where is Nikita?"

Bezier smiled, then looked deliberately at Suba, whose expression of faint alarm had escalated into dread.

"Mathieu," he began, glancing at Operations. "Mathieu, just tell him where she's at and let's be done here."

Bezier said nothing. Giving the charade no further time, Operations nodded grimly at Bezier and then spoke to the Section One operative who had accompanied him into the room. The others were gradually completing searches of their assigned areas and filtering into the room one by one.

"Shoot this one," he said quietly, gesturing to Suba. "And hold on to the other one. I think we'll let Michael ask him where Nikita is. Provided he's able," he added under his breath.

With this he turned back to the broken man on the floor and pulled him roughly to his feet, prodding him with the gun. "Let's go." The man scrambled up and led them toward a door on the far side of the room, looking back fearfully over his shoulder at every step. As they left the room a single silenced pop and loud thud signified the end of Suba. Operations did not glance back.

The weeping, cringing terrorist led them through the kitchen and out a back entrance of the house. There, set into the ground like Auntie Em's storm cellar was a pair of stout wooden doors, closed and secured with a simple crossbar.

Gesturing to the operative to hold their informant, Operations pushed back the crossbar and cautiously raised one side of the doors. At the base of a trio of cement steps he could make out a broken, bleeding huddle, shuddering in the icy damp of the cellar.

With a curse Operations threw back the door and jumped down the stairs in a single motion. Working carefully, he turned Michael over and checked his condition, wincing at the signs of the terrific beating that had been inflicted on the young man.

"Good Christ," he whispered to himself. "Michael?" Gently he lifted Michael to a more upright position, eliciting a grunt of pain. "Michael?" he repeated.

Slowly Michael opened his eyes as much as the swelling would permit. He took a deep, painful breath, and Operations realized in amazement that he was literally using the pain, pulling himself back into consciousness and trying to stand. With an effort Operations drew Michael to his feet and half-pushed him up the stairs. Once above-ground Michael leaned heavily on his arm and looked uncomprehendingly at the Section One operative who waited there.

"Who are you?" he asked without much curiosity.

Operations hefted Michael a little more upright. "It's a long story," he muttered, knowing Michael wasn't processing at the moment. "Let's go see Bezier." He paused a moment longer to nod significantly to the Section One operative, and as they entered the house there came again the tiny crack of a silenced weapon. Now only one more terrorist remained on the premises.

Slowly, slowly they made their way back through the kitchen and along the extended hall. As they went along Operations spoke quietly, relating to Michael what was happening. Telling him that Nikita was missing. And with each step Michael seemed to gather more and more strength and awareness, until by the time they reached the small study where Bezier waited, he was - if not upright - at least no longer leaning. And his mind was focused on one thing. Getting Nikita's location out of Bezier before killing him.

The scene in the room was unchanged. Handing Michael a gun, Operations gestured to the clustered operatives. Quietly they filed out, leaving behind the gruesome bodies of Bezier's dead companions. With a final glance to make sure Michael was functional, Operations followed them out and closed the door.

The silence of the room was violated by the harsh rasp of Michael's painful breathing and, more gently, by the crackling of the fire. Bezier flopped confidently down into a chair.

"I regret that we've come to this, Michael," he said indifferently. "You could have joined us, you know. We are not mere terrorists; and my method has proved effective."

Michael merely looked at him, holding himself upright by sheer force of will.

"Is Nikita alive?" he asked.

Bezier nodded and shrugged. "Probably." He glanced at his watch. "Yes, I would say she's still alive."

"Where is she?"

"Ahh that I cannot tell you." Bezier waggled his finger mockingly.

Carefully Michael lowered himself into a chair opposite Bezier, and seemed immediately stronger for having been removed of the burden of standing. He let the silence become uncomfortable before speaking.

"You have never married, have you?" he inquired casually. Bezier looked at him curiously.

"No," he replied.

Michael nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps because of Maureen?"

Bezier flinched visibly, then looked at Michael through narrowed eyes. "What are you saying?"

Michael leaned forward in his chair, an expression of grief on his bruised face. "Then you still think of her?" His voice was filled with sadness. "You loved her very much."

Bezier's expression was wary, and he did not reply.

Michael fixed him with a sorrowful gaze. "I feel that way for Nikita, Mathieu," he whispered. "Please don't take her away from me."

Understanding lit Bezier's face, followed quickly by contempt. "Merde. She has emasculated you, Michael. I would have never guessed it of you."

Having explored and failed in this approach, Michael instantly abandoned his sorrowful demeanor. He sat up and smiled icily.

"Do you think so, Mathieu?" he asked in an offhand voice. He laughed easily. "She means nothing to me beyond her excellent capabilities as an operative. I hate to lose the time I've invested in her training."

Off balance, Bezier simply sat smirking and did not reply. Michael continued in the same nonchalant tone.

"By the way, Mathieu " he chuckled a little, " did you ever wonder who Noel sent to kill Maureen?" He released another quiet laugh, as if amused beyond his ability to contain it.

Bezier's face tightened perceptibly. "No," he ground out at last. "But I imagine that you are about to tell me."

Michael rose from his chair and advanced on Bezier, pinning him into his chair and putting his battered countenance nose to nose with the other man.

"I did," he hissed between clenched teeth. "It was me, Mathieu."

Bezier struggled not to accept the words, but the conviction that radiated from Michael's eyes could not be disbelieved. His throat worked as uncontrollable anger bubbled up in him, finally venting in a howl of fury.

"Then we have come full circle," he raged. "You took mine - so will I take yours!"

Fiercely he launched himself from the chair toward the virtually defenseless Michael, and they staggered around the room, locked together in a macabre and awkward dance. Bezier began to laugh hysterically as they tripped over Suba's corpse, nearly falling.

"Plus ca change," he gasped into Michael's ear as they grappled together, "plus c'est la meme chose!"

His maniacal laughter continued unabated until the gun went off.

******

In the hallway Operations and Walter stood outside the door, catching a few words, but never hearing quite enough to piece together the conversation. The Section One personnel were either watching the perimeter or preparing to leave so they could leave immediately when Michael learned Nikita's location.

Then came Bezier's unmistakable roar of rage and the alarming sounds of their combat within the room. Walter had his hand on the doorknob when Operations stopped him with a look.

"No. Give him a minute."

"But "

"We'll be here if he needs us."

At that moment they heard the gunshot, followed by a heavy, resounding thud. Operations had given Michael a silenced weapon, but this report was sharp, loud and completely unmuffled.

Walter shot a look of burning accusation at Operations, then drew his own weapon, preparing to enter the room. Behind them, the operatives in the house had quickly regrouped at the door upon hearing the shot.

Then the knob turned from within and the door began to open slowly. The cluster of men moved back slightly and assumed their shooting stances.

Walter was the first to drop his gun and rush forward, reaching to support Michael as he lost his grip on the doorframe. In fevered haste Walter checked for gunshot wounds. There were none.

Only then did Operations swing the door fully open, allowing everyone to see into the room. Not far from the door, gore-splashed and contorted, lay the body of Mathieu Bezier. The stink of blood and cordite flooded forth into the hallway, but no one shrank back. They'd seen and smelled worse.

Walter slid Michael to a seated position on the floor, propping him as comfortably as possible against the wall. "Michael," he said quietly. "Michael, where is Nikita?"

Michael looked back at Walter with dull eyes.

"I don't know."

His head slumped forward onto his chest and his eyes closed. It was impossible to tell whether he was conscious or not.

Operations scrubbed one hand over his face, trying to force his thoughts to better focus. They had to find Nikita. God knows what Adrian would do if the girl ended this dead. And, from their own perspective, it was an undeniable fact that Nikita was a useful asset to the team. Certainly Michael wanted her around. In fact everyone just plain liked and trusted her. Maybe she wasn't even as annoying as she used to be Madeline would think he was getting soft in his old age?

He shook his head, attempting to clear this maudlin and unproductive train of thought. He definitely was getting lax in his own mental discipline of late.

He sat down next to Michael, leaning back against the wall and thinking. Perhaps Birkoff could obtain some satellite recon photos that were close enough to reveal ground traffic? Old-fashioned tracking with dogs? Clues from the vehicles that were on the premises? Deep debrief of Michael? His mind clicked into a groove and he went on with a list of possible ways to approach the problem, rapidly examining, discarding or refiling ideas for more thought or discussion.

Then Michael stirred a little.

"Castle dungeon " he mumbled. His head lifted and his eyes began to focus. "They even have a dungeon "

He began to push himself up the wall to a standing position and Walter and Operations, on either side, moved to support him. He pushed them away impatiently, ignoring their questions.

"Get me a map. I have an idea."

**********

Nikita climbed wearily up the stairs and strained at the door of her prison. Through the crack that opened in the doors she could detect faint light. Daylight again. How many days? Her befuddled mind worked at the concept of time for a moment, then gave up dispiritedly. She half fell back down the stairs and returned, shivering, to wrap up in the blanket. She had given up wishing for food or water.

Slowly her thoughts turned inward in a dark spiral of memories and she lost track of how long she lay in the blackness. The collage of images in her mind seemed to wander backwards, beginning with the faces of the people now in her life and moving ever further away into times and places she hadn't wanted to think of in many years. She lay unmoving, lost in the dark turnings of her mind.

At last one face coalesced and remained, becoming a focal point for her scattered consciousness.

"Michael," she whispered.

Was he alive? Locked in his own tomb, as she was? Or perhaps still alive screaming his life away as a victim of Mathieu's revenge.

Too numbed for despair, too dehydrated for tears, she curled back into a fetal position and pulled the damp blanket up over her head. Maybe it would have been better to run when she'd had the chance. Had it been any more of a life in Argus than it had in Section One? What had her sacrifice meant time with Michael? making some kind of difference for the better in the world? Or was it all a heartbreaking waste - to die alone in this dank hole?

The questions were too tiring. Of course she couldn't have run what job skills did she have that were useful in civilian life? And if wastes were to be compared, the life she'd had was unquestioningly less of a waste than dying in prison.

Then a new notion worked its way slowly to the forefront of her confused thoughts. What if Michael got away? The idea suddenly took hold and began to feed itself, spreading through her brain like wildfire. Of course. Mathieu would have kept him, probably at the house, to toy with. But Michael was tough. And when they didn't check in on schedule someone would come looking.

Who?

She still wasn't sure about Poole's resources. He remained generally closed-mouthed, simply producing what was needed when it was needed. Still, the hope that had sprouted refused to wither. She pictured a shoot-out at the house, relished a mental image of Bezier with a bullet in his head, then imagined Michael leaving the house and hurrying off to look for her?

She pictured him looking never finding her. Or worse yet finding her rotting corpse in this filthy pit. Even though he was rarely expressive in words, she knew how he felt about her. The thought of what her death would mean to Michael

Well then, she wouldn't die. She simply would not do that to him.

Suddenly she sat up and tossed away the smelly blanket, filled with anger, energy, purpose. There had to be a way. She would make a way.

Switching on the last, feeble rays of the flashlight she searched her prison thoroughly one more time. Nothing. OK. She refused to let herself become discouraged.

She climbed the stairs and made a close examination of the doors overhead. Hinged and secured on the outside, there was no apparent way to get out. The flashlight beam blinked and wavered. Furious, Nikita threw it down and began shoving fiercely at the doors. Perhaps an individual board or a hinge pin could be worked loose perhaps.

A short while later, exhausted by starvation and dehydration, Nikita slumped down on the step. At her feet the flashlight finally winked out. Insidious despair began to creep back.

Voices.

Nikita's head shot up. She stopped breathing, straining her ears until she actually felt pain. Yes it was voices young voices. Laughing.

Gradually, she heard another sound which she could not identify; rhythmic, like footsteps. And those marvelous, musical voices. Desperately she groped on the floor for the dead flashlight, then climbed back up the stairs to the doors. She pounded with the light, hearing the case crack open. No matter.

Screaming, Nikita continued to pound on the doors. Dirt and other unimaginable things sifted down onto her upturned face and into her mouth. She battered the door until her shoulders were on fire.

Then an answering thump. She ceased immediately.

"Is there someone there?" A youthful voice. Irish accent.

"Yes, please," Nikita sobbed. "Please let me out."

Exclamations and scuffling followed at once over her head. She heard the bar being drawn back, then light - painful, glorious daylight - came flooding in as the doors creaked upon.

Nikita cried out and covered her eyes, barely able to wait for her pupils to adjust before opening her eyes to take in the brilliant and beloved light of day. Strong hands reached down to help her as she clambered up the steps into fresh air.

Nikita looked at her two young rescuers. Appearing in their late teens, the two were ruddy-faced and strapping young men. Their voices flowed around her in the sweet, lilting accent of the countryside.

"What's happened here, miss?"

"Are ye all right? Why don't ye sit down "

She wanted to. Oh, how badly she wanted to. But not yet.

"Where are we?"

The two lads looked at each other in amazement. The taller of the two, a young man with the blackest hair Nikita had ever seen, replied to her question.

"Why, we're about a half kilometer from Kylemore Abbey, miss."

"Do they have a phone?"

The boys looked at each other again.

"A telephone?" Nikita clarified. Please, she thought, don't let this place be so provincial that they don't have phones.

The shorter, curly-haired boy answered. "Well, I would suppose, miss."

Nikita looked around. "Good. Which way is it?"

"Miss," replied the curly-haired boy again, "the shape you're in, it might be a bit of a strain for ye, don't ye think?" Both the boys could not remove their eyes from her, staring as if she'd just stepped from a Martian spaceship.

Suddenly a sharp snort down the back of her neck nearly stopped her breathing. Shocked, she spun around awkwardly to confront her assailant. Equally startled, a chestnut horse the size of a Sherman tank blew out another blasting snort and tossed its head up. A smaller dappled gray horse stood a few feet away. Clearly, the boys had been out riding.

"There, now" the taller boy soothed, probably talking to both Nikita and the horse. "Ye've given each other a bit of a fright, that's all. The horse won't hurt ye, miss. He's gentle as a lamb."

Only slightly reassured, Nikita stood still as the enormous creature stepped back up to her and looked at her with large, liquid eyes. It blew one gentle, grain-scented breath into Nikita's face, then lowered its head to investigate the rest of her for possible edibles.

The taller boy jumped forward and grabbed at the bridle. "S-Sorry," he stammered. "It's my fault for carrying sugar and such in my pockets all the time. They learn to look for it, ye see."

Nikita nodded and took a precautionary step backward. "Please, I need to get to the abbey right away. It's terribly important."

The boy nodded. "Surely, miss. We'll take you. Can you ride?"

Lowering her head, Nikita stared grimly at the enormous horse. "I'll figure it out."

"All right, then," the boy said. "Stanley can carry us double, I expect, he's a sturdy fellow. Here I'll get up first then pull you up behind."

Nikita hoped that Stanley would feel equally positive about the weight of two riders on his broad back. The black-haired boy vaulted easily on to the horse, then kicked one foot out of the stirrup and stretched down a hand. "Up you come, then."

With a pull from above and a push from below, courtesy of the curly haired youth, Nikita was soon installed on top of the horse. Thankfully, Stanley seemed to have no objection. Feeling utterly out of her element, she clung fiercely to the young man in the saddle.

"Our family does pony-trekking, ye see," he explained as they moved off at a brisk walk. "We were out mapping out a new route for our guests. Normally, we'd never be in that part of the abbey's woods."

The warm, padded rump of the horse moved rhythmically beneath her, and as she gradually relaxed Nikita had to admit she was grateful not to be on foot. But time was wasting and this was not a pony trek.

"Does this thing go any faster?" she asked

***********

Timeless and placid, the magnificent castellated facade of Kylemore Abbey stunned him as it came into view. As if in a fairy tale, the glorious mansion rose above the waters of adjacent Kylemore Lake, reflecting in the calm waters like another dimension of life.

The abbey was home to a convent and school of Irish Benedictine nuns. As they approached along the winding drive, Operations found himself experiencing a rare and unwelcome sensation of awe. Even with his vast experience of the world, he had to admit that he'd never been in this situation. It was sure to be awkward, asking a group of nuns if they'd run across any female spies around the premises lately.

As they neared the abbey they could see a few people walking the grounds. Some in the traditional black robe and white wimple of the abbey, and others who appeared to be visitors. They slowed and came to a stop behind a group of trees a few hundred yards from the building. Michael remained slumped quietly in the back seat.

"Well?" Walter grunted. "Who's going to go talk to the nuns?"

Apparently he'd been having the same misgivings about this conversation. Operation sighed. Obviously Michael couldn't go in his frightening condition. And the thought of Walter quizzing the nuns about a misplaced woman

No. He'd have to go himself.

Looking regretfully at his black clothing, he did his best to make himself presentable in the limited time and space at hand. After a last scowl in the mirror, he turned to Walter, who was behind the wheel.

"All right, let's go. Drop me at the front door. And park someplace where people won't see you."

Moments later, as he ascended the broad steps and entered the hushed, wood-paneled foyer, the feeling of disquiet grew. For a brief, unguarded moment his mind flashed back to the days of his childhood, of going into the cathedral with his grandmother. It even smelled the same.

Shaking off the thought, he surveyed the area beyond the foyer. Tea rooms. Chapel. Souvenir shop. That would be it, then. He stepped into the souvenir shop and pretended to browse until the shop was clear of customers, then approached the young nun working at the counter.

She looked up with a pleasant smile. "Excuse me," he said quietly. "I would like to see someone in charge, please."

Her smile faded a little as she took in his appearance. Doubtless she was unaccustomed to seeing black field issue in her little gift shop.

"The Mother Superior, sir?" she suggested in a small voice.

"Er yes, the Mother Superior." That sounded like somewhere to start, at any rate.

The girl looked at him in some concern, her brow wrinkling under the tight-looking wimple. "Is there a problem, sir?"

He smiled then, hoping that it looked reassuring. "No, no. I'd just like a moment of her time. Please tell her it's very important," he added, hoping to move the young nun along to fetch her superior.

Nodding, the girl picked up a telephone from under the counter and whispered something into it, glancing at him from time to time from under her lashes. Then she put the instrument down and came around the counter.

"Please follow me, sir."

As they exited the gift shop a familiar countenance caught his eye and he watched uneasily as Walter approached at a rapid walk.

"I'm very sorry, excuse me for just a moment," he said to the confused girl next to him. Quickly he intercepted Walter.

"What?"

"We just got a call from Birkoff. Nikita's here. Some kids found her and brought her in on horseback. She called in."

Only Nikita, Operations thought, closing his eyes. Only Nikita could manage to get rescued on horseback and have all these witnesses. His head began to pound.

Suddenly a calm greeting broke into their huddled conversation and both men turned to see a woman dressed in billowing traditional robes floating toward them from the interior of the abbey.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she announced in a kindly but authoritative voice. "I am the Mother Superior of this abbey. One of you wished to see me?"

The two men stood before her like errant schoolboys. Operations cleared his throat and spoke.

"Yes ma'am," he replied. "We have an awkward situation, I'm afraid, which you may already know something about."

The woman smiled serenely. "Ah yes. That would be Nikita, wouldn't it?" She nodded then turned away, missing the wary look the men exchanged.

"Come along with me," she called back over her shoulder.

Trailing her down the quiet hallways they eventually turned into a bright, sunny dispensary. The first thing they saw was Nikita, tucked sitting into a hospital bed and sucking at something through a straw. She appeared pale, thin and shaky.

She looked at them with both relief and trepidation as they came to the bedside. Walter leaned over to kiss her cheek, then picked up her hand to hold

"Boy am I glad to see you, Sugar."

"Where's Michael?" she couldn't exchange small talk until she knew.

"We have him, Sugar. He's alive," Walter replied.

Nikita closed her eyes, overwhelmed with relief. "What ." She began.

Operations broke in. "We'll explain everything later. Right now we need to get you out of here without attracting any more attention." He glanced over his shoulder at a nurse who hovered on the far side of the room, speaking in low tones with the Mother Superior. "Have they called any authorities?"

"I don't think so," Nikita replied. "I asked them not to, and they don't seem like the type to meddle in other people's business."

The Mother Superior approached discreetly. "Gentlemen," she said. They turned to look at her.

"If you are so inclined, please join us for evening chapel." She smiled sweetly. "You look like people who could do with a measure of peace for an hour or so."

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

Nikita sat hunched over her computer keyboard at the small bedroom table, putting down everything she could remember about the events that had taken place in Ireland. She worked rapidly, trying to forget some things as fast as she typed them, as if she could somehow transfer them out of her head completely and leave them on the disk.

A brief knock interrupted her train of thought and she looked up to see Michael standing in the doorway. His face was blooming colorfully in the aftermath of his treatment at Bezier's hands, and his left arm was in a sling to give support to a badly strained shoulder. Thankfully, however, no lasting physical damage had been done to him.

She smiled both in welcome and in amused pity for his poor ravaged face. She herself had suffered no more than a few bruises and a few days of want. Nothing that time and a healthy appetite wouldn't cure.

She sat back from the keyboard. "Well. Good morning."

He nodded, then walked over to stare out the window, a familiar sign of unease. Nikita gazed at his back, little frown lines creasing her brow. Since their return from Ireland two days earlier he had kept strictly to himself. She'd not seen him either at meals or in their bed. She crossed her arms and decided to wait him out.

Eventually, Michael began with the words she most despised in the world.

"I'm sorry, Nikita."

Biting her tongue, she waited.

"I shouldn't have taken you in there with me, there really was no need."

This could be debated, but she decided not to. She waited.

"I should have given you a more secure cover than that of a female companion; I thought it would protect you from being a target if anything went wrong. It was a mistake to take you there on that pretense and then tell Mathieu I wanted you to be present at the dinner." He sighed. "I should have sent you back to Galway shopping that evening. Better yet, I should have left you here and gone alone. You could easily have been killed."

Self-flagellation was not normally a facet of Michael's personality. She had to assume he was still reeling emotionally from having killed Mathieu. Despite his having strayed far to the dark side, Bezier was nevertheless a piece of Michael's past, and one of the last vestiges Michael had of a normal relationship before Section One. Previously, he would have spoken like this to no one. That he came to her now with this chronicle of self-reproach indicated to her that he was well on his way to coping. All he needed from her was to know that she understood.

He turned from the window finally, facing her impassively.

"Are you done now?" she asked.

He looked thoughtful for a brief moment before replying.

"Yes."

Nikita got up then and came around the table to stand in front of him in the bright flood of sunlight that poured in through the window. She stood so close they were nearly touching but not quite. Her height allowed her to gaze almost directly into his eyes, and to notice three or four gray hairs at his temple, illuminated by the radiant sun. She found the sight of them oddly touching.

"Wherever you go I will always want to be there," she said simply. "The rest I will not address because there's nothing I can say that you haven't already thought of yourself."

He looked faintly surprised. Nikita cradled his tormented face between her hands then slowly leaned forward and kissed him thoroughly.

Stepping back, she glanced at her watch, and with a small exclamation whirled away to pick up a sweatshirt from the back of her chair and head for the door.

"I have to go," she apologized to a mystified Michael.

"Where?"

Halfway out the door she leaned back in and smiled brilliant.

"Riding," she laughed. "I have a riding lesson."

With a flick of a blond ponytail, she was gone. Michael turned back to the window, a smile touching his lips as he watched her go.

***********

Operations watched Nikita go, too, from a living room window in the main house. He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette, then turned and stubbed it out in the ash tray at his side.

"Where did she find to take a riding lesson?" he asked idly, addressing Madeline. She sat at the bar, sipping appreciately on a glass of cool white wine.

"A resort on one of the other islands," she answered. "Poole sends her over on the launch." Leave it to Madeline to have apprised herself of all the details.

"Well," he commented. "Maybe she'll break her neck."

Madeline smiled, then reached to refill her wine glass. "Have you heard from Stephen?" she asked in a mild tone.

Operations looked at her suspiciously. Her expression, of course, gave away nothing.

"No," he answered. "But I didn't expect to. He's working directly with Walter."

Madeline nodded, then pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I think that you and I need to discuss a few things, don't we?"

There was a pause, like an indrawn breath, then the golden afternoon began to flow forward once again.

"What would you like to discuss?" he asked defensively.

She smiled that smile again. He decided then that he hated it more than loved it.

"Let's discuss a man who has lost direction. A man who needs to reconcile in the present with some issues from the past." She paused. "Let's discuss a man who is very angry but who chooses to internalize, to the detriment of all those around him."

"You aren't the company-sponsored analyst any more, Madeline," he said angrily, rounding on her.

"No," she agreed at once. "All of our roles have changed, haven't they?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

"It means that you are not adapting successfully to our present scenario. Worse than that, you are not taking steps to help yourself."

"Help myself?" he mimicked. "By talking to you? This from Our Lady of Exploited Weaknesses."

Madeline remained calm. "That was fair," she admitted. "In the past, it was part of my job to do whatever I had to to get what we needed from people. I can understand why you would be reluctant now to ask for my help on a problem of this nature."

She stood and went to the bar to pour a second glass of wine. Crossing the room silently, she offered him the glass then remained at his side.

"You're very angry at me over Adrian, I know. I understand the blow it was to your pride to learn of it along with everyone else. I'm sorry that I hadn't created an opportunity to tell you about privately."

Reluctantly, he felt himself begin to cool off. Her uncommon apology, coupled with the symbolic offering of wine acted to completely take the edge off his anger. He'd never known anyone who could take him up and down the way she did. He raised the glass and took a sip of the wine, noting her approving smile. Somehow, now, he couldn't even muster irritation that she was reading him so perfectly.

"You took a huge risk, you know," he said to her.

"Yes. I know. If anyone had ever found out about Adrian I've have been cancelled." She looked at him strangely. "In fact, you would have had to give the order."

A thought struck him then, and he mentally replayed the events of the day Madeline had told him Adrian still lived.

"Poole knew," he accused.

"Yes," Madeline replied. "He arranged for her safekeeping. Anonymously, of course."

Operations shook his head, feeling like a schoolboy who isn't let in on the secrets of his schoolmates. Fine. If she wanted the truth he would give it to her.

"I'm tired, Madeline. I want my organization back. I don't know how to deal with these people with you under these circumstances. Is that enough self-analysis for you?" He felt humiliated and self-conscious, and thought that now he sounded like a schoolboy. A whiny one.

"If you are tired then you must rest. You can't have your organization back, so you must find something else to give you purpose and fulfill your needs. If you want to deal with these people then you must practice. If you do not, then you must make a different life for yourself."

She smiled a little but not that smile. "Is that enough lecture for you?"

He shook his head and sipped at the wine again.

Madeline slipped her hand through his arm. "You know, Adrian and I have talked about some things recently that you might find interesting." She looked up at him, waiting for a sign of curiosity.

Despite himself he looked back at her. "Well?" he said gruffly.

She pulled at his arm. "Come for a walk on the beach. I'll tell you all about it."

"All of it?" he questioned as they walked out of the room.

"Well " the breeze carried her voice away, " most of it."

**********

FIN

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