WAITING...by Enjoue`

Author's Preface>: This story takes place in my "alternate universe" which began with For the Dark and continues now through this sixth story. Here's the very quick and dirty catch-you-up so you don't have to read five other stories:

For the Dark: Section One is disbanded by the government. Our Gang, including Stephen, escapes the general purge (of course they can't be left alive) and has to decide whether to stay together. They are given sanctuary by Poole, a different kind of terrorist fighter, who had earlier saved Madeline's life (see The Virus). They decide to join his Caribbean-based organization, try to stay alive and continue their work.

Argus: Operations' past comes back to haunt him when a mission with Poole's organization, Argus, requires him to confront three demons from his POW past in a Count-of-Monte-Christo tale of revenge. One of them is Daniel Tucker, who we see in again in Waiting because Ops doesn't kill him.

Soldiers Once...and Young: Dual story line requiring Madeline and Poole's people to rescue from Arab terrorists a young chemist who has invented a synthetic substitution for petroleum. At the same time, Operations has his son Stephen virtually snatched from under his nose by his old nemesis George. They meet again in the jungles of Vietnam. George is killed. Walter admits his part in bringing Ops into Section.

Plus Ça Change: Michael and Nikita return to Ireland (ref. The Sacrifice - no continuity of the story line) to try and trap a terrorist from Michael's misspent youth. Madeline admits that Adrian, who she had sent to safety with Poole instead of allowing her to be canceled by Operations, is once again heading Section in their absence.

Retrograde: Adrian is dying - of natural causes ironically enough. She plots to bring Michael and Nikita back into Section One to take over. Nikita (big surprise) turns out not to be quite ready in the ruthlessness department, so Madeline is finally brought back as well. Ops is left out in the cold until Adrian is safely dead and Madeline convinces him to come back. But only on her terms.

Now to the story...

* * *

All human power is a compound of time and patience. --Honore de Balzac (1799 - 1850) French author

ONE

Italian Banker Dies in Tragic Accident

The headline squatted blackly at the bottom of the silent, flickering television screen. Poole glanced up from his computer, then reached abruptly for the remote control, frowning. The voice of CNN's reporterette sprang brightly into the room in mid-sentence:

"...Governor of the Banca d'Italia and a member of the European Central Bank's Governing Council, was killed yesterday in a tragic climbing accident in the Italian Alps. Fazio was an experienced mountaineer and was in the company of other long-time climbing partners. The incident is under investigation."

The perky newscaster turned cheerily to another subject and Poole silenced her with a touch on the mute button. Outside the window, low, late-day sunlight probed fiercely at the partly closed shades. Its hot fingers slid imperceptibly across his desk while he sat for several minutes, still and thoughtful. Then, turning to his computer, he tapped his way efficiently through security measures until the file he sought flashed onto the screen. He pondered the short list of names and dates.

The small snick of a turning doorknob suddenly interrupted his silent contemplation. He smiled affectionately as Judith's slim figure slid sideways through the door, cautiously balancing two cups of tea and a handful of computer discs. She deposited these on the corner of the desk then leaned over his neatly tailored shoulder, squeezing gently as she did so. After a moment's examination of the displayed file, she made a small sound of concern.

"Another?"

"Yes," he replied, then added, "Antonio Fazio from Italy. He is the fourth."

"How did you learn of it this time?"

He picked up his teacup and gestured with it in the direction of the television. "CNN," he said wryly. "The source of some of the planet's best intel. Even if they are unforgiveably biased in their political reporting."

He sipped at the tea then put down the cup and selected a web browser. Within moments they were looking at the latest FOX reports and UPI breaking news. The few details being allowed to the public were readily available here and the two absorbed everything quickly as they scanned the articles.

Judith stepped aside to lean against the desk corner. She crossed her arms and studied his subdued expression with a practiced eye.

"Do you think it is time?" she asked. Her voice was low, colored by a melange of accents that made it impossible to guess her native tongue.

He tapped at the touchpad and once again the list of names and dates appeared on the screen. Lifting his cup for another sip of tea, he did not reply immediately. Behind his composed features she was well aware that his exceptional intellect was turning all possible options over and over at lightening speed. She also could see uncharacteristic hesitancy.

Judith knew her husband well.

The creeping fingers of sunlight fell off the edge of the desk, leaving Poole's face in dimness. His refined accent did not quite cover the undertone of concern in his response.

"I don't believe we have any other responsible option." He looked up at her. "This has the potential to become very... disagreeable."

She recognized the understatement. "Can you trust them?"

He reached up to pull off his glasses, rubbing tiredly at his forehead for a moment.

"Some of them. Yes. It will have to be handled discreetly." He slowly laid his glasses on the desk then looked back at her again.

"This will put them in a difficult situation. After what they've been through I am not at all sure they have either the will or the resources to handle this situation."

"But we can't deal with this alone."

"Absolutely we cannot," he replied decisively. "And should they unable or unwilling...."

He did not complete the sentence, but reached out to put one hand on her neat waist and draw her nearer. Judith laid her hands on his shoulders and smiled down into his eyes, noting as always the unusual and complex shades of gray in their depths. Now, she saw foreboding there as well, and sought to bolster his confidence.

"Between you and Paul's people, I have complete faith that an answer will be found."

*****

TWO

"I am not convinced that this is a good idea."

Nikita heard his voice through the crackle of static in her headset. Above, the helicopter rotors beat with a thunderous roar which had become as white noise, its unceasing presence relegated to the background of their awareness.

She leaned forward. "This is the only meeting Poole has asked for in over a year. We have to assume it's important."

Operations glanced irritably at her. "What makes you so convinced that his idea of what's important will coincide with mine?"

Nikita looked into his pale eyes a moment longer, then turned her gaze out the window. They'd covered this ground already. Patience. Some things never change. He was here. That was enough.

Poole had uncovered something urgent enough that it had compelled him to request this personal meeting. She herself had no specifics about it, but she was perfectly willing to trust his judgement. It had taken a heroic effort, however, to convince Operations. In the end it had been Madeline who pushed hard enough to sway him. That and Operations' own grudging respect for Poole.

Out the window beside him, the blue Caribbean horizon sped by, the break between sea and sky barely discernible. His eyes narrowed unpleasantly as he looked at her.

"Madeline may have cooked up this lunatic cooperation scheme between Section and Poole, but I've never been very happy about it." He leaned closer. "And I've never been very happy about you as some kind of liaison. It was a great deal of trouble" - he emphasized the words - "to cover my absence today. If it isn't worth it I will hold you personally responsible."

His problem with the cooperation scheme, Nikita suspected, wasn't so much that they collaborated with Poole, as it was that Operations wasn't in complete control of it. All of Section was aware of an undeclared shift in the balance of power between Madeline and Operations since their return from virtual exile with Poole. Even the least perceptive among them sensed a new level of tension which exceeded even the normally charged atmosphere within Section. Overall, results had benefited procedurally and strategically from the change, but at a cost exacted in terms of the private working relationship between Section's two leaders.

Operations never hesitated to take out his frustration on those around him. Mentally, Nikita suppressed her irritation and shrugged this off as a known facet of his character. And, she had to admit, he did have to deal with another layer of upper management that was outside her scope of responsibility. Their continuing relationship with Poole was strictly and perilously outside their sphere of sanctioned operations. If Oversight ever got wise, even in its present, relatively toothless, configuration - the consequences for them all could be deadly.

Well, we've been there, before,Nikita thought. Bitter laughter threatened at the absurdity of being anxious about Oversight, whose threat paled in comparison to the harrowing government-backed purge they'd all managed to survive. She did not try to supress the small ironic smile that came to her lips.

Operations scowled at this, as she'd known he would, but before he could say anything further, the pilot broke into their communications to announce that they had arrived. Within moments, a new pitch to the howl of the engine confirmed his words, and they settled lightly into a clearing surrounded by tall, waving palms.

Poole was there to meet them, dapper and impeccable as always, despite the heat of the tropical mid-day. He waited at the edge of the clearing, beyond the worst of the gale created by still-moving rotors. Nikita and Operations climbed down from the helicopter and quickly scrambled clear. Behind them, the pilot lifted off as soon as they were out of the way.

"Welcome." Poole's greeting was short but his eyes twinkled with warmth. "Thank you for coming."

Operations ignored the amicable tone and commented curtly, "This would have been easier over the phone."

Poole gestured with one hand and they turned to walk the short distance to his compound. Nikita placed herself between the two men as they followed the winding, sandy path.

"How is Madeline?" Poole inquired as they walked.

Next to her, Operations let out an irritated breath and did not answer.

"She's well," Nikita replied. "She sends her regards and a book she thinks you would like."

"Indeed?" Poole responded in an interested tone.

"Something by some writer from Guadeloupe, I think." Next to her, Operations increased his pace and Nikita stretched her long legs to keep up. "It's in French."

"Ah, yes" said Poole with satisfaction. "The native writer she was telling me about. She knows how I love these islands. Thank you for bringing it. I hope soon that I'll have the time to read it." This last was said in a darker tone, and with it they arrived at the terrace. Operations dumped his bag exasperatedly into the nearest chair.

"What's going on?"

Poole looked at him keenly and stepped closer until they were facing each other. Nikita stood quietly to the side. Madeline had warned her that a face-off between the two men was likely, and she could only wait while it played out.

Somehow, even from his shorter height, Poole managed to physically dominate the exchange. His tone was very cool as he addressed Operations.

"I am aware, sir, of the risks and difficulties you experience not only in continuing an unsanctioned association between our organizations, but specifically in coming here today. I would not have requested this meeting if it were not a matter I considered to be of grave importance." Poole pulled back imperceptibly before continuing.

"I trust that our past affiliation will persuade you of my sincerity."

At this subtle reminder of all that Poole had done for them in the recent past, Operations had the grace to look slightly shamefaced. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Of course, Mr. Poole. You know I have a high opinion of your judgement and abilities."

This was as far as he would go toward an apology. In a more civil tone he again directed the conversation back to business.

"Why have you requested this meeting?"

Poole looked searchingly at Operations a moment longer. Then he nodded in apparent satisfaction and stepped back.

"Come with me," he said quietly. "I'll show you."

Leaving behind the warm, breezy afternoon, Poole led the way through the house to the familiar work rooms at the back. It was cool and dim, smelling of the air conditioning that controlled the atmosphere in this part of the building. As they took seats Poole brought up on the computer screen the same file of names he and Judith had been looking at two days earlier. Added to the bottom of the list now was the name Antonio Fazio, and the date of his death.

"Do you recognize these names?" he asked them.

"Only the last," said Nikita. She looked to Operations for his reaction.

"I recall the last death being reported recently," Operations echoed, gesturing to Fazio. "The other names are only vaguely familiar."

Poole nodded. "Then I will start at the beginning." He pulled up another file of the same names which included short bios and photographs for each man.

"These people, over the last five years, have all died in ways that were ruled accidental. All were bank governors and representatives of their countries on the General Council of the European Central Bank. As you know, beginning in 1993 fifteen nations banded together to form the European Union. Their goal is political, economic and social cooperation. In 1999 they introduced a new single currency, the euro. Because the euro area accounts for nearly 20% of the world's Gross Domestic Product, the effects will not be confined only to Europe. In fact, the euro is a credible currency with stable economic underpinnings and the potential to evolve into a major currency alongside the dollar."

Poole paused here and pulled up a new list of names. "These are the current members of the General Council. They are tasked with controlling the monetary policy of the euro area, conducting foreign exchange operations, managing official foreign reserves and controlling overall operation of the payments systems. In addition, they contribute to policy-making in a host of other areas. The influence of this Council, " Poole said emphatically, "cannot be overstated."

"And who controls the Council?" Operations asked interestedly.

"Yes, you are beginning to see my direction," Poole replied. "As of January 1, the Federal Republic of Germany is the President of the European Union. Coincidentally, Germany will also be holding the presidency of the Schengen, the Western European Union and the G8 economic alliance. In addition they will be overseeing general election to the European Parliament, as well as the election of the next President of the European Commission. These are huge international responsibilities."

"Or opportunities," Nikita noted quietly.

Poole looked at her. "Exactly."

Movement at the door drew their attention as Judith entered the room, nodding a brief greeting to Operations and Nikita. "There has been another ," she said quietly to Poole, handing him a sheet of paper. "Nout Wellink from the Netherlands." She took a seat next to Nikita as Poole read through the short page of text.

"Well," he said, looking up soberly. "It is fortunate that we have not taken more time to come together. It appears that matters are escalating."

"Exactly what is escalating?" Operations asked, impatience touching his voice.

Poole looked at him somberly. "German domination of the civilized world."

* * *

THREE

2:00 a.m. Section was quiet and virtually deserted, except for normal skeleton crews in Comm and medical.

And the small group in the Tower.

Without a long table to accommodate them in a normal briefing setup, they had resorted to perching haphazardly on dining chairs and barstools, roughly facing each other. It was not unlike the informal assemblies during their time at Poole's compound.

Nikita rolled her head around, trying to relieve some of the tension knotting her shoulders. After a long afternoon with Poole, she and Operations had returned to Section, where they had parted immediately, going respectively to Michael and Madeline. The next morning, Operations had set about arranging this meeting, tonight, safely away from prying eyes and ears.

She wondered in passing how Madeline felt about having the location for her romantic trysts turned into a black-ops briefing room.

"So," Walter said skeptically, leaning on the polished wood of the bar, "Poole thinks there's some group out there that's bumping people off so they can take over the European Central Bank then take over the world?"

Operations raised one eyebrow cynically. "Well, that's paring it down to the bare bones, Walter, but...yes. Basically that is his theory. He has identified a suspicious pattern of deaths of individuals highly placed in European national banks. Put together with additional intel from..." He paused. "...wherever it is Mr. Poole obtains his intel, it supports the theory that there is a group operating with the long term goal of controlling the European Central Bank, a major step in the economic domination of all of Europe."

He began to pace restlessly, his words coming more quickly, as if he were thinking aloud.

"We don't know yet whether this group is affiliated with the German government, or to what degree they have infiltrated any other governments. However, the confluence of escalating deaths and German official power in the European Union at this time, makes it highly probable that the end game benefits the Germans. The world has not forgotten the Aryan Nation. It is highly possible that they have decided the path to power is through economic domination, rather than military. The German government itself has to be suspect, although it could just as likely be a separate group."

"Oversight?" Michael inquired.

Madeline looked up from studying her quietly folded hands. "This morning, bundled in with several other low-priority feasibility studies, I submitted our proposal that the two most recent deaths be examined as part of a possible larger conspiracy. Within the hour I received prioritizing instructions for all the other proposals I submitted - except these deaths." She glanced at Operations as she finished the thought. "We have been instructed to discontinue all ongoing observations concerning these deaths and to purge our files of any reference to them as a matter of possible inquiry."

"So Oversight might be dirty, and now they're watching us," Walter noted critically. "Anything we do will have to be covered up."

Operations responded testily. "Poole warned us that if this matter was as he feared, there was the possibility of infiltration at many levels. He was correct to request a personal meeting with us, not trusting Section communications. It was a risk to let Oversight know we had noticed a pattern in these deaths, but in my opinion, submitting the information to Oversight was in keeping with our normal procedures. Letting it slide unexamined would have been far more suspect. At least now we have an idea of what we may be dealing with."

"We do?" said Birkoff. He was uneasy about this entire business, his tension betrayed by a constant jiggling of his leg, which he appeared not to notice.

Operations speared him with an unblinking, lizardlike stare, ignored the bouncing knee, then began to turn in a slow circle to lock eyes hypnotically with each of them in turn. He focused first on Nikita.

"This could be a conspiracy on the scale of nothing we have ever experienced. Poole knows his resources are not adequate to the scope of what he suspects, and frankly I don't know that ours are." His eyes moved to Michael.

"Without unhindered use of Section assets we would have to approach this through every back-channel we know, and every opportunistic manipulation of circumstance we can invent." His gaze traveled next to Walter.

"We could involve no one within Section, trust no one but each other and our oldest and most proven outside contacts. " Pause. A raised eyebrow. "And I know you all have them." He looked at Birkoff.

"Communications, research and data management will have to be accomplished in a way that invites not even a whiff of suspicion." Lastly, he turned his attention to Madeline.

"We would have to maintain the outward appearance of complete normality, keeping our efficiencies where they need to be, making no apparent changes to personnel utilization."

He stopped speaking then. The room was silent and still, without even the exchange of glances. Operations kept his eyes on Madeline as he gave them all several moments to process. Then he resumed more in a more subdued tone.

"I know that we have as much free reign now as we have ever had within Section. The new members of Oversight have a long learning curve before they will be able to read small signs in the way that made George so formidable. And," he added, "before they'll develop personal enmities that will make them more dangerous. But the likelihood of infiltration within our own government makes the game deadly from both sides."

He crossed his arms and let out a deep breath, looking around the group again and wearing an ill-tempered expression. "I suppose this puts us once again outside the structure of Section One." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "In keeping with that, after you have had time to study the details I suppose I will hear whatever input you have as we proceed."

Walter reached up and scratched under his bandana, a half smirk on his lips. "Well, anything that makes sense to you and Poole works for me. Besides, you know I kinda like it outside the normal structure." He winked in Nikita's direction, clearly pleased with this unexpected return to the arrangement they'd developed while operating within Argus.

Humor died with that small sortie, however. It was apparent to everyone that once again, the stakes were very high. An exchange of glances and nods sufficed to confirm that all were on board with the general scheme.

Madeline noted this, and with her next words moved events along briskly.

"Our best starting point is with the last two dead bank officials. We need to interrogate their killers to establish further points of contact within their organization." She directed her attention to Nikita.

"The Amsterdam substation is due for its annual review and will serve as your cover with Oversight. You will bring back a man named Geert Vorst. Poole's intel indicates that he is the killer of the Dutch bank governor."

"Michael," she said. His green eyes rested on her, waiting.

"Enzio Nicolosi, likely killer of the Italian bank governor, is presently at the climbing location where the governor died. He is assisting the Italian police in their investigation and they do not suspect him. The Turin substation is also due for its annual evaluation. Walter will send ice climbing equipment with you when you leave tonight."

* * *

FOUR

Georg Schultheiss finished clearing his desk then paused to survey his office with satisfaction. He had never tired of this privileged, top-floor space in the big white Deutsche Bundesbank building. Out the large windows he could see much of the prosperous downtown area, and just below, ponds with twinkling fountains graced the entrance of the building. Frankfurt was his favorite city in Germany, and he took time on a daily basis to appreciate the opportunity he had to make his living here.

Among the other things he did here.

As he reached to collect his overcoat, a hidden telephone warbled. Schultheiss unlocked his desk and reached far into the top drawer, pulling out a small cell phone. He pressed a button to still its ongoing summons, then answered.

"Ja?"

"Nicolosi and Vorst have disappeared," said the caller.

Schultheiss slowly pulled out his chair and levered his considerable bulk back into it. The well-worn contours received him comfortably.

"Explain what you mean." he said coldly.

"Just that," replied the caller, speaking with anxious rapidity. "They took care of...those matters...for us last week. They reported afterward as planned. Nicolosi was then required to travel to the climbing area with the Italian authorities during their investigation. He never returned. And Vorst...has simply disappeared."

Schultheiss thought silently for several moments, listening to the nervous breathing on the other end of the line.

"Did you," the man began, then hesitated. "I mean...would the Committee have perhaps...eliminated them?"

"Of course not," Schultheiss replied curtly. "I would know of any decision made regarding them."

"Yes, yes," the caller said promptly. "Of course you would, I did not mean to imply...." He stopped and drew a deep breath to regroup before going on.

"Shall I make an inquiry with the Italian or Dutch authorities? Should we perhaps consider postponing the Paris meeting?"

"Klaus," said Schultheiss.

"Yes, Georg?"

"That makes three very stupid questions you have asked me in the space of only a few moments. You are making me late for my dinner."

Instantly the man began to babble apologies and explanations. Schultheiss tuned him out and pursed his lips in thought for several moments before interrupting the flow.

"Klaus," said Schultheiss again.

"Yes, Georg?"

"I want you to hang up now. Say nothing to anyone. I will speak with the other Committee members about this matter. If we require you to do anything further I will call you on this line." He paused to let this sink in. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," Klaus replied promptly. "I will wait to hear from you and speak to no one."

"Good."

With no further parting niceties, Schultheiss disconnected the call. Immediately, he reacquired a dial tone and punched in from memory a long string of digits. After a series of clicks, the call was answered by a machine. He spoke slowly and clearly.

"We need to meet. Hotel Intercontinental. 9:00 Thursday evening."

Again he disconnected the call, then sat for a time, looking out as languid dusk began to envelop Frankfurt. Like tiny fireflies, lights twinkled into life here and there as he watched. He smiled.

It really was a most beautiful city.

* * *

FIVE

In the perch a small notification beep preceeded Birkoff's announcement.

"Michael's returning, sir." He paused, then added quietly, "One unlogged passenger on board."

"Have Michael take him directly to the white room." Operations ignored the brief affirmative reply and turned to Madeline.

"Your other subject has arrived."

Already moving, she nodded in satisfaction, then paused with one hand on the doorframe. "Will you be observing?"

"Of course. I'll be along shortly."

Madeline disappeared and he forced himself to spend some time clearing reports that were on deadline to Oversight. No slack, no suspicion.

At length he finished, then sent a peremptory summons to Nikita to meet him at the white room. By the time she arrived, reluctantly, Madeline had already softened up her subject and begun questioning him. She strolled around his chair as she spoke, the inflection in her voice slightly flattened by the observation intercom.

"You were with Antonio Fazio in the Argentera Valley of the Italian Alps. You were climbing the north face."

The man's head lolled forward onto his chest. "Yes," he whispered. "The Pelmo Fall."

"How did you get there?"

He sagged in the chair, unresponsive, supported mainly by the chest restraint. Madeline reached out and grabbed a fistful of his curling, dark hair. Brutally she pulled his face up toward hers. He was a handsome man in his late forties, and the dark eyes he turned on her were glazed with terror. He was nearly at his limit.

"How did you get there," she repeated, in the same level tone. Gradually the man focused on her.

"We skied in," he sighed at last. "Camped for two days."

Madeline released his head, and it promptly flopped back down to his collar. "Pelmo is not a difficult climb," Madeline said reasonably. She resumed walking, moving around the back of the chair. "And you'd been climbing with Mr. Fazio for - what - about a dozen years?"

"Yes." He drew a difficult breath. "It is a climb of medium difficulty. I'd been there many times with Antonio since we started climbing together 11 years ago."

"What happened, Mr. Nicolosi? How did Mr. Fazio die?" Madeline had moved again to a position directly in front of the chair and now stood looking down at him, an unpleasant, predatory expression on her features.

"Like I told the police," Nicolosi began, sounding a little stronger as he returned to his script. "We got separated from the other two climbers we were with. Antonio must've slipped. The rope came out of the caribiner...maybe he had it loaded front to back...I don't know." His head sagged again in apparent defeat. "I was too far away to reach him."

Madeline smiled regretfully. "I think you can give me a more honest answer, Mr. Nicolosi, if you try." She stepped in front of him and leaned in, blocking the view from the observation room.

Behind the glass, Nikita turned away from a view of subsequent activities in the room. The sounds of those activities were inescapable, however, and as they filled the small space she couldn't conceal a sound of disgust.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think she was actually enjoying this."

Operations glanced down at her, his satisfaction obvious. "Then you don't know better."

He looked back into the white room and continued conversationally. "For some time we have had well qualified personnel to manage the...hands-on...work of interrogation. I believe Madeline finds it interesting to get closer to the process again. From a psychological perspective."

Nikita supressed a shiver of abhorrence that these people actually could find and enjoy different perspectives of torture. After witnessing Madeline's interrogation of the Dutch man, Vorst, the day before, Nikita found her tolerance level for the whole business to be lower than usual. Sternly, she reminded herself of what was at stake.

Then the sounds stopped. Nicolosi sat bolt upright, his breathing rapid and shallow. Again Madeline resumed her slow revolutions around the chair.

"Now, Mr. Nicolosi. Do you think you can be a little more complete in your answers?"

"Of course," he choked out. His eyes alternatively sought her, then squeezed tightly shut. As if he absolutely had to know where she was, but then could not bear to look at her.

"How did Mr. Fazio die?"

Nicolosi was utterly defeated now. "I killed him."

"Mr. Fazio was your friend. Why did you kill him?"

"For the Committee. For the future." His head lolled forward once more. "Aufwartung," he finished in a whisper.

"Who is the Committee?"

Nicolosi shook his head feebly. "I don't know."

Nikita watched Madeline as she continued her probing, feeling a mixture of fascination and aversion. Questioning appeared to have reached an impasse, and things were beginning to get ugly again. When the coded internal communication link beeped on the back wall Nikita was relieved to have its distraction.

A few moments later she closed the link. "Birkoff thinks he's found something," she reported to Operations.

At the same time Madeline turned and faced the window. She looked up at Operations with a nod and a small, self-satisfied smile.

"Good," he murmured, and smiled back even though he knew Madeline could not see him.

He glanced at Nikita. "Now we're getting somewhere." Leaning down, he pressed the intercom connecting him with the white room. "Madeline, Birkoff has something. Thirty minutes. In the Tower."

* * *

SIX

"Are you absolutely sure this communication cannot be traced, Birkoff?" Operations hovered over him menacingly, like a tall, gray predatory bird. "Compromise would be unacceptable at this point."

But Birkoff was on his personal turf now, and despite the implicit threat, he nodded confidently.

"Rock solid, sir. I've got this routed through so many channels we're going to have a delay like he's on the dark side of the moon. There's no way Oversight can trace this."

Operations narrowed his eyes skeptically, then finally reached out to the Tower's makeshift comm setup and pressed the connection. Pixel by pixel Poole's face appeared on the screen.

"Good evening."

"Poole."

"You are certain this communication is secure?"

Operations cast a threatening glance at Birkoff as he answered. "Yes. We are secure."

"Good. I'll be brief. If Mr. Birkoff will give me a protected channel I have an encrypted file that I will send. It contains data I've assembled during the years I have been observing this situation. Not all the information can be verified; however, it will provide a starting point, and as additional data is collected, we can begin to narrow it down to a more meaningful list of names."

Operations glanced over at Birkoff, who had begun working immediately. "We'll have a channel set up within..." he paused until Birkoff held up one hand with the fingers spread. "...five minutes," he relayed to Poole.

There was a tiny delay as the communication wound through its roundabout paths.

"Very good. You have something further?"

"Yes," Operations replied brusquely. "We picked up the two people you suggested were responsible for the deaths of the Italian and Dutch bank governors. Under questioning, they have both admitted to responsibility for the killings on behalf of an organization they call the Committee. They knew nothing above their level except the name of their contact, which was not surprising. When pressed, the only other thing they have to say is Aufwartung.

"Interesting," Poole observed. "The German word for 'waiting'. And the contact?"

"The same for both men. His name is Klaus Renke. We haven't come up with anything on him yet, but we're still looking."

Another short lag. "I believe I can save you a little time," Poole said, his attention partially on his keyboard as he typed and spoke at the same time. "Yes. Here. I have a file on him from a year ago when I was collecting information on individuals who seemed likely to be involved with this matter. While he has no official record, Mr. Renke has numerous ties to neo-Nazi organizations in Europe and the United States." He glanced up into the camera. "I shall send his file along with the other as soon as Mr. Birkoff gives me a channel."

Operations nodded. "We'll cross reference your list of suspects with our neo-Nazi database. This may give us a smaller group to look at. In the meantime, we will talk with Klaus Renke and see if he can move us one more rung up the ladder."

Madeline stepped forward into the camera's range. "Mr. Poole."

For a disconcerting second he did not react. Then as the communication lag caught up, Poole smiled warmly at her. "Madeline. Thank you for the book you sent. Gisele Pineau is a marvelous author."

"You're quite welcome," she replied briefly. She reached forward and pressed a key. The photo of a large-framed man with iron gray hair filled one quadrant of the screen. "Do you know this man?"

"Of course," Poole responded. "He is Georg Schultheiss, governor of the German Bundesbank."

"Analysis indicates a high likelihood that he is involved," Madeline said. "We'll have him under surveillance by this evening. If he's involved, the disappearance of his two assassins may prompt some action on his part. As yet, we don't know of any direct connections to the neo-Nazi community, but I believe we have a way to begin researching that."

"Indeed?"

"Mr. Birkoff has discovered the existence of something called the Thule Network. It appears to be a type of clandestine computer or electronic mailbox network, but is not itself linked to the Internet. Its use is restricted and highly secure, entrusted to only the most committed members of the neo-Nazi movement."

"That makes sense," Poole commented. "German sentiment toward Naziism would have driven them far underground. Is there a way to infiltrate it?"

"We're working on that," Operations replied, "Very carefully. There won't be any second chances if we make them suspicious."

"How can I be of assistance?"

Operations already knew what he wanted.

"Your eyes and ears, Mr. Poole. You have never shared with us the exact nature of your intelligence-gathering mechanism. What would be useful to us now would be surveillance of the people you most suspect of being involved with this Committee. Everything we can learn about their activities and contacts will be useful."

Poole inclined his head. "Certainly. I understand that the need for...discretion...within your organization limits the resources you can apply."

"Thank you, Mr. Poole," said Madeline in a conclusive tone. "We will keep you informed."

Poole nodded. "Until the next time, then. Please tell Mr. Birkoff I will send the files immediately."

The transmission terminated to black.

Madeline tented her fingers as she mentally reviewed the conversation. "Picking up Renke could create suspicion within this Committee," she noted. "We may already have done that by taking the first two. We'll need to move more cautiously on this contact in order to avoid driving them underground."

"Agreed," said Operations, then repeated his earlier words, "There won't be second chances."

* * *

SEVEN

The four, three men and one woman, met in a tastefully appointed private meeting room of Frankfurt's Hotel Intercontinental. They were friendly with one another, engaging in easy conversation born of their longstanding acquaintance. At length Georg Schultheiss cleared his throat and looked around the table, cueing the others that the time to socialize was over. Down to business.

"We may have a small difficulty," he began, then stated the problem bluntly. "The men we had in place to handle the Italian and Dutch bank governors have disappeared."

"Disappeared?" asked the rotund man to his left. Konrad Steinweg was an excitable man. Schultheiss had always been annoyed by this quality and wondered how someone with this temperament could spend his working life as a physician. Steinweg's tone was petulant. "What do you mean, disappeared?"

"Just that. Nicolosi was in the Alps, cooperating with Italian authorities in their investigation. He vanished from there and has not resurfaced either at his home or his workplace in Turin."

"And Vorst?" prompted the man seated directly across the table from Schultheiss. He was very tall and cadaverously pale, in appearance much more like the cliché of an undertaker than the oil magnate he really was.

"Curious, as well, Bernard," Schultheiss replied, nodding. "Vorst left his car dealership in Stuttgart for lunch. His wife reported him missing sometime between 11:00 and midnight that evening. I have instructed Klaus Renke, his handler, to provide evidence to the police that Vorst had a mistress and a fat bank account. They will treat it like any other case of embezzlement and infidelity."

"But we must know the truth." Seated at his right, Anna-Lena Albrecht, a ruthlessly successful publisher, went as usual straight to the heart of the matter. Her already deeply seamed face was further drawn by the furrows of concentration creasing her forehead. "We must assume that these men have been detained. But by who? And what can they reveal?"

"They can reveal nothing." Schultheiss shrugged dismissively. "The only information they have is the name of their contact.""

"Then we must make sure that their contact is not in a position to reveal anything further," Anna-Lena noted dispassionately. "It is always safest to break the chain above the weakest link, is it not?"

Schultheiss reached over and picked up her hand, bringing it to his lips for a brief buss of its blue-veined back. "Anna-Lena, as always, we are of a single mind." He smiled at the older woman, delighting in a moment's baiting of her vanity.

She neither pulled her hand away nor showed any pleasure, only said mildly, "Don't be a fool Georg."

"I am never that, my dear, I can promise you," Schultheiss replied sardonically, releasing her hand.

Steinweg had fidgeted nervously throughout the exchange and clearly had something more to say. "Perhaps we should postpone the Paris meeting," he blurted. "We do not know who is behind the disappearance of our people. This could put at risk everything we have worked for." He sat back in his chair in an effort to appear relaxed. His belly strained unattractively at the waistband of his trousers.

"There is no question of changing the meeting," said Bernard Huber. "You know very well what it has taken to set it up." His voice was deep, slow and very soft, perfectly in keeping with his funereal aspect. "Members from around the world who have grown too accustomed to independence...people who have waited all their lives and will not now be put off...younger people who are second generation to the cause and have not our loyalty. Too many threads are in the weave. If we appear at this juncture to be hesitant, afraid or - worse yet - if we reveal any hint that we may have been compromised, all could be lost, Konrad. All."

"He is right," Anna-Lena interjected forcefully. "This is our moment in time. The moment we have worked for all our lives!" She sat forward and her voice rose dramatically. "There will never again be such a convergence of German political power with the preparedness of our network world-wide. You must stiffen your resolve, Konrad."

"Enough," said Schultheiss quietly. "At this late date we cannot waste time convincing ourselves of the validity of our own plan." He looked piercingly at Steinweg. "What is it Konrad? Are you faltering? Or are you simply playing devil's advocate."

Steinweg was no fool, and he clearly saw the way out Schultheiss was offering him. Gratefully he took it. "I...merely wished to present a more cautious approach for consideration, Georg. In order to...facilitate a view of the situation from all angles." He felt the beads of sweat on the back of his neck slide together and begin to trickle down his collar. His relief was profound when tension levels in the room subsided somewhat.

"Of course you did, Konrad," said Schultheiss smoothly. "It always pays to be thorough." The big banker turned to Anna-Lena, who was still glaring at Steinweg. "Anna, I would like you to send a message through your electronic network that the Paris meeting preparations are on schedule and that we must have a confirmation by next Wednesday of all who will attend." He paused. "Or a very, very good excuse from any who are not planning to attend."

She smiled in perfect understanding and inclined her head. "The message will go out tonight, Georg."

At this moment there came a discreet knock on the door, which opened enough to admit the inquiring face of the hotel waitress. Schultheiss gestured her in. "We are finished. You may clear, then bring coffee."

The young woman nodded and slipped wordlessly into the room. In stiff silence the small group watched as she efficiently cleared their dinner debris onto a rolling cart.

A perfect Aryan, Schultheiss thought in satisfaction as he watched her work. Tall, blonde and blue-eyed.

A short while later, as they left the hotel by different routes, Schultheiss took a moment to slip a small wad of cash to the maitre d' who hovered restlessly at the entrance of the dining area.

"Give this to the waitress who attended our meeting room," Schultheiss instructed him. "She did a fine job."

Bowing slightly, the man accepted the cash. "Of course, sir," he replied politely, but Schultheiss was already departing. The maitre d' watched the broad retreating back for a moment, quickly pocketed half the cash, then hailed the waitress who had been assigned to the meeting rooms for the evening.

"This is for you," he informed the girl haughtily, holding the cash between his fingers as if it were beneath his dignity to actually deal with money.

The girl took the cash and tucked it away in her considerable bosom, keeping her dark eyes downcast. So she hadn't actually served the meeting. It wasn't every day she got something for nothing. She was smart enough not to ask any questions.

* * *

EIGHT

"Yesss!"

Birkoff hissed the word triumphantly under his breath, gently striking one clenched fist against the tabletop. His eyes devoured the text as quickly as he could scroll.

"Holy shit."

Quickly he switched to the secured internal channel they now used for these communications. "Sir?"

In the perch Operations swung around immediately, not missing the tone in Birkoff's voice. "What."

"I've found a way into this Thule network, sir. You'd better come and look at this."

As if he'd grown wings, Operations was only moments in arriving at Comm, and trailing him by seconds was Madeline. Other Comm personnel had departed for errands invented on the spot by Birkoff. Wordlessly he displayed for them the text that he had been reading.

"Poole was right," Operations muttered as he swiftly digested what was on the screen. "They have a network that's virtually worldwide. The Germans are in this up to their swastikas."

He and Madeline looked at each other. "If Poole had waited six more months, there would have been no reversing this," she observed quietly.

Birkoff rolled away suddenly in his chair, reaching for a computer far to his right. "Nikita's report from Germany, sir," he announced. Impatiently he waited while the loading bar completed its unhurried traverse. As soon as the download was completed he popped the disc and rolled back to Operations and Madeline. Sweeping a quick, surreptitious glance around the area, he inserted the disc and pulled up Nikita's report.

"Good," said Operations in a gratified tone, again reading over Birkoff's shoulder. "Good. We're on the right track."

"You were correct to target Schultheiss," Madeline commented, looking over Birkoff's other shoulder as she too read Nikita's report. "These people he met with obviously are the Committee Vorst and Nicolosi talked about. Or only a portion of the Committee."

"At any rate," Operations continued the thought, "we need to be at this Paris meeting. It's referenced everywhere." He paused a moment, thinking. "Birkoff, comb that Nazi network. We need every scrap of information you can find on that meeting. There isn't much time."

"I'll notify Poole," Madeline added. "We'll pull his resources off everybody but these five."

Operations looked at her grimly. "Then tell Michael and Nikita they're leaving for Paris."

* * *

NINE

On calm waters, the sailboat steered a haphazard course, finally bumping gently into a feeding duck. Upset, the mallard squawked angrily, then delivered a fierce glancing blow to the little boat with her broad yellow bill. The tiny craft promptly lay over onto its side and bobbed helplessly.

A few feet away from Nikita, a child's sharp wail of protest rent the air, followed by a stream of rapid French from neighboring adults. That's life in the duck pond, she supposed was the rough translation.

She was standing near the low concrete wall of an octagonal pool at the Jardin du Luxembourg. In the background, the beautiful Italian-style Palais de Luxembourg shone white in the slanting, late afternoon sunlight. Throughout the park, throngs of people were engaged in the various activities of a typical afternoon in the park. Reading, walking, courting, playing with children, or simply sitting in the comfortless straight-backed chairs sprinkled throughout the area. A 60-acre green oasis in the heart of the famous Left Bank, the Jardin du Luxembourg was the most popular park in Paris. Apartment-dwelling Parisiens flocked there with families in tow.

It was also a mere two blocks distant from a large apartment building on the Rue Vavin. Throughout the afternoon Michael and Nikita had tracked a steady stream of arrivals being dropped off by taxis or other non-descript vehicles. Rotating through the hours with surveillance personnel on loan from Poole, they had catalogued the arrival of more than 50 people.

Michael appeared then and took her elbow. Together they strolled slowly around the pond, still clustered thickly with pint-sized sailors and their homemade craft, then turned down one of the broad, flowered avenues that stretched away into the shady park.

"Are they getting many ID's?" Nikita asked, referring to Section's efforts to put names to the arrivals they had been observing.

"Some," Michael answered briefly. "More than half are unknowns so far."

He removed his hand from Nikita's elbow, moving instead to drape his arm around her shoulders. Maintaining a small, intimate smile, he sent careful glances in all directions, ending by placing his lips near to Nikita's ear and checking over her shoulder behind them.

"Birkoff has been monitoring their network. He's found nothing to change our initial profile."

Nikita nodded. She had heard everything through her com link, though she hadn't replied from her position in the middle of the crowd,. "The Committee?"

"Only one has arrived. The woman. Just before I switched off with Poole's surveillance."

The path ended at the Rue D'Assas, which bordered the southwest corner of the park. They turned right onto the cobbled street and continued their relaxed stroll toward the Rue Vavin, half a block away.

Michael glanced at Nikita again, and she noted with slight surprise that his glance actually met hers, rather than sliding off to check the surrounding area.

"A large part of our intel comes from Poole," he remarked.

Nikita looked down at the rough cobbles, her mind following his thoughts, as so often happened. "And you wondering what side he's really on."

His constantly moving gaze came back to her again. "You know that this Committee has infiltrated to the highest levels. Even if Poole himself isn't compromised, we have to consider how much we know about his intel sources."

"Not much," she admitted.

"Exactly." He delivered a meaningful squeeze where his hand rested at the nape of her neck. "Be careful." Nikita nodded.

Reaching the corner, they turned left, crossing deftly through the fast-moving stream of miniscule French autos and onto the Rue Vavin. Birkoff's voice came through their com links.

"Poole reports Schultheiss and Steinweg have arrived."

"We are within 100 yards of the building," Michael replied. Then, to the support teams: "Team One hold position until Huber arrives. Team Two move up to cover exit positions."

As they linked hands and slowed their stroll even further, a gray BMW taxi coasted to the curb just ahead of them. They watched closely as, with some effort, a tall man unfolded himself from the back seat. He paused to pay the driver and straighten his suit, then strode quickly into the building.

"Huber. That's it," Michael murmured. "Move in."

* * *

TEN

Georg Schultheiss stood in front of the hallway mirror and with his palms smoothed down a few stray hairs on either side of his head. Briefly he closed his eyes, trying to quell the rising excitement that prickled continuously up and down his spine.

"Are you nervous, Georg?"

Schultheiss glanced around self-consciously. "Oh. Bernard. Well, yes, a little, I'll admit." He smiled, a small, tight grimace, then looked back into the mirror and adjusted his tie. "Just anticipation. Everyone is here. Are you ready to go in?"

Huber nodded, his gaunt frame reflecting a full head higher in the mirror than Schultheiss. "Yes. I just want to do a final check around the premises before I join you. I may miss your opening remarks."

"I understand." Schultheiss nodded soberly. "We must never relax our vigilance." He looked back into the mirror once more, lifting his chin and squaring his heavy shoulders. "Aufwartung," he said to Huber.

"Aufwartung," the tall man said in a confirming tone.

Schultheiss walked to the double doors at the end of the room and pulled them open. Beyond, several dozen chairs stood facing a dais at the far end of the large chamber. All were filled, and the heads of every occupant swiveled and the hum of conversation died as Schultheiss entered the room and strode purposefully down the aisleway. There was no applause.

Behind him Huber watched expressionlessly. As Schultheiss reached the lectern and began to speak, he gently closed and secured the doors.

Outside the building, Michael and Nikita had separated. Michael disappeared to the south around the back of the building, advancing to a position one floor below the meeting room. The small backup unit verbally confirmed their positions around the perimeter. Nikita followed Michael around the side of the building, then paused at the second door she came to. Deeply recessed, the doorway was not visible from the Rue Vavin, and was effectively screened from other observation by mature, tangled vegetation. Quickly she disengaged the lock and slipped into the building. It was clear that the group inside had placed their reliance on anonymity, rather than on a show of force, for security purposes.

Inside, the corridor was hushed. Dimly lit and smelling vaguely of old wallboards and the ghosts of many meal preparations, it was typical of most old apartment buildings in Paris. Silently, warily, she worked her way closer to the meeting site, Birkoff's detached voice guiding her as best he could through the old structure. As always, Nikita marveled that he had managed to come up with some kind of floor plan for the place. Finally, she reached the last door opening onto a foyer outside the meeting room. On-site thermal imaging had easily confirmed the location of the large gathering. Cautiously she pushed the door open, prepared to defend herself.

Then suddenly a low, heavy roar assaulted her ears, vibrating in her chest. Instantly she flung the door wide and scurried through in a nimble crouch, her weapon lifted and ready. The roar intensified and oscillated through her flesh to her very bones. It was accompanied by shouts and screams coming from the opposite side of the closed double doors. A smell seeped into the air, hot and bitter. Frantic screams escalated and frenzied pounding began within the room.

The doors were barred from the outside.

Holstering her weapon, Nikita dashed across the foyer and examined the heavy bar. It was held in place by two unobtrusive but massively strong cleats which were located on either side of the doors. With the doors swung open, they would never have received notice from people entering the room. She struggled gamely with the heavy bar.

"Nikita, what's going on?" Birkoff. She ignored him, still wrenching at the bar. It was immoveable, as though welded into place.

"Nikita," Birkoff repeated. "Can you explain the thermal signature I'm seeing?"