"Yeah," she rasped. "The place is on fire."

On the other side of the door, a thunderous roar arose, like a jet engine. The door rattled visibly on its hinges. Within, the piercing shrieks no longer bore any resemblance to human sound. Nikita began to back away, and as she turned toward the door to the street Michael materialized like a black shadow next to her.

"Let's go."

Operations broke in on the comm link.

"I want someone alive."

The door jumped against its hinges as if the inferno had spawned something unimaginable that was now trying to break out of the room. They looked at each other.

"Negative," Michael responded tersely. They continued to back away.

"Unacceptable," Operations hissed. "Find a way."

The doors began to smolder, held closed only by the inflexible bar. Then the smoldering took on a glow and burst into flames. Quickly then the doors began to disintegrate, and the monstrous roar of the conflagration escaped the room like a living thing. It was time to leave.

Whirling to make their exit out onto the street, they saw him.

Waiting.

His tall, gaunt frame blocked the doors and he looked at them without apparent surprise. Drawing their weapons, they braced and faced him warily. From behind them, the glow of the fire cast a ruddy luminescence over the man's spare, bleached features.

His eyes moved from one weapon to the other, then back to their faces. "You won't need those."

Slowly Michael lowered his gun and straightened up.

Operations broke in again insistently. "Michael. Report."

After a moment, he did.

"We have a subject for questioning."

* * *

ELEVEN

He sat in the chair, in the room, without fear.

His head was still covered with the black hood he had worn from the moment Michael and Nikita had loaded him into the van. They had roared away from the burning building only just ahead of a mammoth explosion which hurled chunks of masonry to both ends of the block.

While the others watched from the observation room, Madeline entered, crossed to the chair and pulled off the hood. Huber blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. They looked at each other. She, measuring. He, only curious.

"Welcome to Section One, Mr. Huber."

"Ah," he said, nodding slightly. "Yes, you have made me feel...welcome." He made a gesture with his bound hands, ironically illustrating the point.

Madeline assumed her standard cool, no-nonsense approach. "We would like some information from you, Mr. Huber. I will expect complete answers without any attempt at evasion." She opened an instrument case on the stand next to his chair, then fixed him with an icy gaze that normally evoked reactions ranging from mild shaking to loss of bladder control. Huber looked into the case then back at Madeline.

He laughed.

"What is your name?" he inquired mildly.

She considered him for a moment, then replied simply, "Madeline."

"Well, then, Madeline. You can put away your toys because I shall only too happily tell you everything you wish to know - and a great deal more you would never think to ask."

His voice was soft and marked by a distinct German accent. His faded blue eyes were calm, as if he had completed something very important and was now drained and serene. With the removal of the hood, his close-cropped white hair stuck up here and there, boyishly.

Madeline stared back at him for several moments and he made no effort to evade her gaze. She spoke one word: "Michael." Then she reached down and began releasing Bernhard Huber from the arm and leg restraints. As she did so, the door to the room swung silently open and Michael entered. He took up a position just inside the door, saying nothing.

"Let us begin, Mr. Huber," Madeline said, "with what happened on the Rue Vavin."

"Yes." He paused and rubbed his wrist. "Well, I burned them, you see." He looked into her eyes. "I burned them just as was done to the millions of Jews in the camps." He smiled a little. "A fitting end. Do you not agree?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Start at the beginning, Mr. Huber." She braced her feet a little apart and crossed her arms, assuming a position that clearly said and don't leave anything out.

Huber sighed. "Do you mind if I get up? I feel more comfortable if I can walk a little." He paused, his expression disarming. "I hope to convince you that I am here willingly. If you are what I believe you to be, we will have much to say to one another. Much to say." He asked again, "May I get up?"

With an imperceptible glance at Michael, Madeline nodded.

Huber rose stiffly and, after a quick perusal of the small space, folded his fingers together and began simultaneously to pace and talk.

"I became part of the ugliness early on, as a youth. Oh, at first I didn't know it was ugly. We were young, it was a grand cause and we were blind with patriotism and love for our Fuhrer. We didn't think. We didn't know how. But as I got older I began to understand things. To ask questions. I wanted to go to the camps, to see for myself if what I'd heard was true. They told me, No - don't go."

He stopped and looked at her. "I went anyway."

The pacing resumed and he shook his head at the memories. "I cannot tell you even now what I saw there. Words...fail to describe. Emotions...fail to comprehend." As he walked they could see tears form and hang, unshed. "I was sick to my soul at the reality of what had been brought about. I had never known that human beings were capable of this type of thinking."

He faced her again, his expression livened and loathing. "And I...I was a part of the mechanism that wrought this profanity! Even as Germany lost the war, we, some of us, were already plotting a way to continue our machinations. We called ourselves 'Aufwartung'," he added bitterly. "Waiting. Like some kind of child's secret code. But I had seen. Mein Gott...I had seen the deaths and the deaths and the deaths. Not only in the camps, but on the battlefields and in the cities and the villages...."

He leaned his hands on the back of the chair and hung his head. "And I was a part of it. If I had turned against them at that time, they would have killed me. If I had tried to find asylum in England or the United States, no one would have believed me. The only way was to remain a key member of the group. The only way was to make myself above suspicion. I dedicated my life to maintaining a position in this organization that would someday allow me to destroy it utterly."

Finally he raised his head and looked at them, wrung out. His voice was now a near whisper. "I had to do it for myself. And for the millions upon millions who were murdered. And for all of Germany, which will live forever with the detestable stain of Naziism upon its history."

At last he fell silent. Slowly, he shuffled around the chair and let himself sink slowly to the seat. His hands covered his face. The only sound in the room was the uneven rasp of his breathing.

For a long time Madeline stood looking down at the bent white head, stilled by a visceral understanding of his purpose and sacrifice. At least in Section, having dedicated her own life to serving what she perceived as the greater good, she had been surrounded by others of like mind. Huber had been absolutely, terrifyingly alone.

Finally she turned to Michael. "Please take Mr. Huber to whatever quarters are available. If he needs medication to rest see that he's taken care of. We'll need to talk more. Later."

Michael nodded, and with a quiet word, lent his strong arm to the tired old man in the chair. Together they made their way slowly from the room.

* * *

TWELVE

Under the relative cover of deepest night, their small group met in Madeline's office, loosely organized in a circle centered by the tall, white haired man. Huber was well rested now, and his expression was firm with renewed purpose as he studied their faces and looked around Madeline's office.

"This is a gift from Heaven," he breathed. "A reward for my years of sacrifice." He focused on Operations with the intensity of a religious zealot. "I knew I would have only one single chance, that I could probably destroy the core of the group at the Paris meeting. But never, never did I think that I would find the means to root out the seeds that had been planted worldwide."

Operations was less enthusiastic. "Mr. Huber, just how do you propose that we 'root out these seeds', as you put it?"

"Our records, of course," Huber replied, as if speaking to a child. "We kept membership records."

Birkoff leaned forward. "Computerized?"

"Yes, certainly. It was the only way to keep that amount of information. We have files on everyone from Joerg Haider in Austria to Christof Blocher in Switzerland to Gerhard Louck in Nebraska, as well as most of the more than 5,000 neo-Nazis still in Germany. Our membership includes nearly all the Nazis who fled to South American countries after the war. Many of them continue to be active supporters of the cause."

"Where is this information, Mr. Huber?"

Huber cleared his throat and his gaze slid from Operations down to his own shoes. "That is a slight difficulty. You see, Anna-Maria Albrecht was in charge of the maintenance and security of our database. She is the only one who can disable the protective software." He paused. "Was the only one," he corrected himself.

"We have very sophisticated information technology, Mr. Huber," Operations assured him. "Just tell us where the information is kept."

Huber sent a skeptical look at Birkoff's youthful visage, then shrugged. "It is in a stand-alone computer. It can be accessed via satellite connection during a limited orbit window. If the wrong password is sent, the satellite will self-destruct. The only way to retrieve the data at that point would be to actually go to the location and get the disc."

"And the location?" Operations prompted impatiently.

"The floor of the Atlantic Ocean."

"What?" Walter yelped.

"Let me explain," Huber began. He drew and released a deep breath, organizing his thoughts. "As you probably already know, my profession was oil exploration. Many times during my career I oversaw the installation of undersea drilling platforms. As our database grew and the need for secrecy became ever greater in this technological age, it was necessary to find a physically secure location for the data, as well as a secure access method. We decided that an undersea platform would be a reasonable location. They are made to endure for decades, and they are hidden from all but the most determined scrutiny. It was simple enough to invent a damage report, classify a platform as unusable, then take it over for our use. I was placed in charge of physical location. Anna-Maria was placed in charge of access. We never, ever exchanged the information. That way no one person ever knew both the location of the data and how to access it."

"I see," Operations commented cynically, tenting his fingers in front of his nose. "You know where it is. At the bottom of the ocean. But the only person who knows how to access it is dead."

"That would describe the situation," Huber confirmed, nodding his snowy head.

Operations sighed and rose to pace restlessly in the small area. "Birkoff, what are the chances of getting into that satellite without the password?"

Birkoff shook his head. "Slim," he hedged. "With only one shot I wouldn't want to go at it without a contingency plan in place."

"What part of the Atlantic are we talking about? It is a big place," Operations noted dryly.

"Off the west coast of Africa," Huber replied. "Approximately 16 degrees South Latitude. Closest to Senegal," he clarified. "I worked out of Dakar to set things up."

"At least it's not under ice. Walter, how in the hell do we get something off the bottom of the ocean?"

"Good question," Walter snorted disgustedly. "I don't keep equipment for dives beyond scuba range. And without government support we couldn't even get anybody down there. Don't have the ship or the underwater capability."

"Well, we don't have the government on this one," Operations snapped irritably. He looked around. "Poole?"

No answer to this.

"Who else can do it?" He looked back at Huber. "How did you do it?"

"My company had salvage rigs and equipment for deep water work." He shrugged. "I have been retired for 8 years. I no longer have legitimate access to this equipment." Then, anticipating Operations' thoughts, he added, "It would be utterly impossible to hijack or borrow the equipment. Too many hands and too much expertise are required for its handling."

At this Operations stopped pacing, physically struck by a sudden thought. A moment later he turned his eyes to Madeline. She was already focused on him, one eyebrow raised, one corner of her mouth barely turned up.

"I believe we know someone." Her gaze rested on him appraisingly.

"We do, Madeline. We do."

* * *

THIRTEEN

Daniel Tucker stretched luxuriously, enjoying a breath of fresh air after the long process of unloading cargo from his latest salvage job. It always felt good to get back to port and relax, knowing the work was done and the money was about to hit the bank.

Dinner, he thought. Then a glass of wine, a good book and the oblivion of sleep for at least twelve hours.

"All set Lukos?" he said to his divemaster.

The wild, dark head looked up from his never-ending routine of equipment maintenance. "I am," he grinned. "This was a good job."

"Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work," Tucker said.

"Oh yeah?" Lukos bent his head back over the regulator in his lap. "Who said that then, one of your writers?"

Tucker shook his head, a smile splitting his hairy face. "Aristotle. I'll civilize you yet, my friend."

"Do your best," Lukos challenged, not looking up. Making his way down the gangplank, Tucker strode quickly toward the harbormaster's office to complete the required paperwork. He liked the African ports. Not only was their record keeping less burdensome than at U.S. or European ports, but something in their barely-civilized ambience appealed to that part of him which hated to be restrained. He whistled the jubilant horn theme from Respighi's "Pines of Rome" as he threw open the dilapidated door.

The tune died on his lips as he looked at the man who waited inside the small office.

There was a beat or two of silence, then the gray-haired man smiled thinly and said. "Well, Daniel. We meet again."

Tucker stared for a long moment, then raised his palms in bewilderment. He couldn't decide which of his conflicting thoughts to voice first.

"What, no friendly greeting this time?"

Finally Tucker moved, shoving the warped and protesting door shut behind him. "I didn't expect ever to see you again, Paul. And I'm not coming up with any palatable reasons why you would be here."

Operations shrugged. "Don't worry. I know you've given up your toxic dumping sideline." He took a step or two over to the smeary window and looked out at Tucker's ship. "Did you have a good trip?" he inquired casually.

With an effort Tucker reined in his confusion and curiosity. "Yeah. We did. Salvage for some transatlantic telephone outfit."

Operations turned and smiled at him. "Good. And your daughter? How is she?"

Feeling like he had somehow entered the Twilight Zone, Tucker heard himself answer. "Fine. She's a senior at MIT this year. I don't see her enough."

It occurred to him that he could ask about Paul's son, but given the strange circumstances of their last meeting, he decided he would simply wait and see where this conversation went.

"You know, Danny, I was thinking about you not long ago. I was wondering about your work."

"My work."

"Yes. I was wondering what kind of deep sea capability you have."

"Deep sea capability."

"Yes. I was wondering about what it takes to get someone onto the ocean floor off the west coast of Africa. I thought of you, naturally. And to my great surprise...here you are in Dakar."

"Dakar." Tucker was still struggling to find a direction, any direction, to this out-of-body conversation.

Suddenly impatient, Operations slapped an open palm down on the harbormaster's cluttered desk.

"Why do you think you are here in Dakar?" he asked sharply.

Bewildered, Tucker replied, "To deliver the salvaged cable we just brought in."

"And who ordered this work?"

Tucker shrugged, an ominous suspicion taking shape in his gut. "Some new outfit setting up to research improved undersea linkages."

"No."

Tucker closed his eyes briefly and relived the scene in his cabin two years ago, where he'd seen Paul for the first time in 30 years.

"So...what you are you - The Spy Who Came in from the Cold?"

"Something like that."

He felt that ominous suspicion begin a slow, cold creep up his spine.

"What's going on?"

Operations' casual façade dropped away then and he turned his eyes again to the ship tied up below.

"I need some help, Danny. It's important." He looked back at Tucker and simply waited.

Perplexed, Tucker studied the other man's tall, lean figure and carefully controlled face. Trying to identify some standard by which to weigh this unexpected request, he could only think again of their last, remarkable meeting.

"What happened to you anyway?"

"I was in the POW camp for six years. I escaped with the help of someone who came in toward the end of that time."

"And after?"

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

Tucker had been moved to his soul by that unembellished story. Their shared experiences had shaped each day as his own life had gone forward from that time. It was the only possible context in which he could view this situation; it dictated his only possible response.

"All right, Paul. What can I do?"

* * *

FOURTEEN

The wet, heaving sea rolled hugely beneath Tucker's salvage ship, it's dull gray surface was a mirror reflection of the sullen sky overhead. On the deck, amidst racks of orderly equipment, Lukos and Tucker were assembling apparatus for the dive. Michael watched silently.

Lukos glanced over his shoulder at Michael, judging his efforts to counteract the roll of the ship. With his unruly head of dark hair and the near-nudity of his brown, wiry body, the Greek looked more than anything like a grossly misplaced Tarzan. "You dive much, mate?" he inquired.

"A little."

Lukos pulled out a bulky canvas and rubber suit and heaved it in Michael's direction. "Here you go, mate." He followed it with a pair of heavy rubber bands, gloves and various cables. Michael looked at the pile, then back at Lukos.

Observing this, Tucker sucked his breath in between clenched teeth. "Tell me," he said to Michael, "how many deep dives you've done."

"None."

"Not one."

"No." Michael was unperturbed. He looked at Tucker and waited.

"Christ," Tucker hissed to himself. Then, "Strip off. I'm going to check on my navigator, then you're going to get the crash course before we get to the site. Pay attention," he enunciated, adding a poking finger for emphasis. "If you don't, you will die."

Michael surveyed the growing pile of gear that Lukos was rooting out of his storage lockers, then turned his expressionless gaze back to Tucker.

"I think I can do that."

- - -

Birkoff sat enthroned at Comm, his senses hyperalert to the several sources of input arrayed before him. Madeline, Operations and Huber flanked him, watching silently as the young expert worked his way through the steps necessary to acquire and control the satellite. If he noticed their presence, it seemed not to concern him.

At length he leaned back and blew out a breath. "Got it. I can't test further or we'll risk showing up on German government monitoring, but I think we're there."

"How long until they are on site?" Madeline asked.

Birkoff consulted a counter that ran continuously in one window. "Nikita hooked up with Poole's guy in Dakar about an hour ago. Michael will be on site in another thirty minutes. We have a scheduled communication in 10 minutes, or I can contact them now."

Operations shook his head. "Stay on plan." He turned to Huber and eyed him speculatively. "Tell me again what happens when Birkoff transmits your best guess at a password."

"If I have guessed correctly," Huber replied, "the database access screen will appear. If I have not, then the satellite will self-destruct and physical retrieval of the data will be necessary."

His tone lacked something in finality, and Operations watched suspiciously as Huber's gaze roved uncomfortably around the area.

"What else?"

The older man hesitated. Operations stepped closer, violating Huber's personal space, then belligerently repeated the question.

It had little impact. Huber had seen his share of professional intimidation and was not impressed. He raised his head slightly, creating the effect of literally looking down his nose at Operations. "You will need to have your man onsite as soon as we transmit the password."

"Why?"

"Because if the satellite destructs, the platform will begin its own self-destruct sequence five minutes later."

Operation and Madeline exchanged a look. Five minutes would seriously compromise withdrawal.

"Tell Michael to go ahead now with the retrieval," he said to Birkoff, whose head had been swiveling unabashedly between them during the exchange. "We'll simply eliminate the satellite communication attempt."

"You cannot," Huber said quietly. "If the platform hatch is breached while the satellite is still functioning the system will assume unauthorized entry and self-destruct immediately."

"What is the destruct mechanism?" Madeline snapped.

"Introduction of a corrosive to melt down the disc. Then a five minute countdown to explosive destruction of the platform."

Operations' pale eyes glowed with fury. "That means that if you're wrong on the password, they will have only five minutes to get into the platform and retrieve the data. And then only another five to exit the concussion area." He paused. "They'll be over 200 feet down, Huber. They can't get back from that depth in five minutes."

The long silence was electric.

"I'm sorry," Huber offered stiffly.

* * *

FIFTEEN

Tucker slammed down the Iridium phone with a loud and vulgar profanity.

Lukos looked up. "Not up to your usual creative standards," he commented. "What's wrong?"

"We've got a big problem and only a little time."

Michael, now outfitted similarly to Lukos in the bulky deep-dive suit, moved closer as Tucker continued. "It seems your German buddy neglected to mention that there's a fail-safe destruct mechanism in this thing. If they can't open it via the satellite, you'll have five minutes to get in before the disc melts down. But here's the big rub: Even if you do get in and get the disc, you'll only have five minutes to get clear before the platform detonates. If you don't ascend faster the concussion wave will kill you. If you do ascend faster, DCS can kill you."

"DCS?" Michael probed for clarification.

"Decompression sickness," said Tucker. "During deep dives the body absorbs nitrogen. During ascent, excess nitrogen leaves the tissues. If you come up slowly, the nitrogen dissolves, enters your bloodstream and you eventually exhale it. If you come up too fast the nitrogen forms bubbles...and that's very bad," he finished.

"How bad?"

"Well, besides more pain than you'll see outside of childbirth, the bubbles block circulation, compress nerves and cause harmful chemical reactions in the blood. You'd be likely to end up permanently paralyzed."

"Treatment?"

"Hyperbaric chamber," said Tucker. "It recompresses, breaks down the bubbles, lets everything pass safely. We have one on board. Only one of you can go and come back safely."

Lukos spoke then. "I'll go down, you can talk me through what needs to be done. I'll get in the chamber as soon as I come up."

"No," Michael said immediately. "You can't remove the disc in the time available. I have to go."

"No way," Tucker said curtly. "You could no sooner do this on your own than you could go fly the space shuttle."

Michael appeared unmoved by this argument.

"Look, I can guarantee your death if you go alone," Tucker said, then shrugged slightly, as if it were all the same to him. "And then you won't get what you came for."

Tucker waited while Michael studied him impassively. The powerful diesels rumbled below deck, sending thrumming vibrations which resonated familiarly in his bones. Overhead, a brisk sea breeze keened through the winch cabling. Good Lord, Tucker realized suddenly. He's actually weighing the consequences.

Michael reached for the 40-pound ankle weights they would wear to pull them down. "We will both go. Lukos will get in the chamber when we return."

- - -

Poole's contact in Dakar was a small, swarthy Senegalese. He made an almost comical contrast with the blonde Amazon who paced the office, shrinking its already meager space by her larger-than-life presence. She spoke rapidly into the small telephone in her hand and he strained to follow her accented English.

Finally she swung toward him. "Cédric. We need a hyperbaric chamber and a helicopter."

To his credit, he only nodded, turning promptly to his computer. Nikita towered over him, radiating barely supressed impatience.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting the phone number for the Divers Alert Network." His fingers skittered over the keyboard at blinding speed. "They maintain a database of every functioning hyperbaric chamber."

He scrolled even as the website was loading. Nikita wondered if his eyes could actually focus that fast or if he used some sort of peripheral vision absorption technique. She made a mental note to ask Birkoff.

"Here," he grunted, indicating a number. "Start dialing."

- - -

It was getting old having everyone look over his shoulder. Birkoff squelched his irritation, waiting for Madeline and Huber to rehash their decision one last time.

"Our chances of success will be slim if this password is incorrect," Madeline was saying. "If you have any other information to add to our analysis of Ms. Albrecht, now would be the time."

Huber shook his head tiredly, looking his age as the tension wore on him. "I knew her for many years, but we were not...close. I have told you everything that I can think of. I have made my best guess and all we can do is try. Whatever happens then... will happen."

Madeline's eyes were flat as she stared at the old man. While she was accustomed to making her own best guesses, she was not comfortable with having so little hard data, nor so much fatalism from its source. There was, however, nothing to be done.

She glanced at Operations and nodded slightly.

"Send the password, Mr. Birkoff," he ordered quietly.

Birkoff began to type.

A - U - F - W - A - R - T - U - N - G

- - -

They had been sinking downward forever. It was dark. A deep, threatening, endless black unlike anything Michael had ever encountered.

He looked over at Lukos, who drifted down beside him, cocooned in the insignificant sphere of illumination cast by their suit lights. Behind the heavy glass plate of the helmet, he could just make out the flash of the Greek diver's black eyes. Above them both, air and communication cables sprouted from their helmets and trailed off into the emptiness to where the ship hung, so far above them.

"Michael? You OK?"

He replied with the universal circle of thumb and forefinger, adding, "OK," aloud so that Lukos would know their communications were operational.

Lukos pointed. "There." He switched on a powerful beam and played it below them and to their right. They were coming to the bottom only a few dozen feet from the platform. "Tucker put us down right on top of it. Don't tell him we were this close or he'll get a big head."

Michael reached down for his own light, disliking the unaccustomed feeling of unease and unfamiliarity in these circumstances. In all his experiences with Section, nothing as yet had ever taken him to the bottom of the ocean.

The platform was not large. It sat on four thick legs which were anchored into the seabed. The heavy columns were nearly obscured by an artificial seaweed installed as special protection again erosion by the current. Walking clumsily, they made their way across the dusty-looking ocean bottom to the platform and located the entry hatch.

Around them, those creatures which belonged here lurked silently beyond their lights. The two men, aliens from the surface world, instinctively took up a back-to-back position.

They waited.

- - -

"It's not working."

Birkoff reported this quietly and unecessarily as they all watched the response sent by the satellite. It flashed on the screen in virulent red.

Access Denied. Self destruct in five minutes.

Huber turned away and lowered himself heavily into an empty chair. His face was blank with defeat.

Sparing him only one disdainful glance, Operations swiftly gave orders. "Call Tucker. Send them in."

Birkoff's fingers were already flying, setting the five minute timer and initiating contact with Tucker even before Operations had completed the sentence.

- - -

"That's an unacceptable answer," Nikita said coldly. Again she was pacing the confines of the modest office, kicking aside a trash basket to clear a wider path.

"I'm sorry," Cédric replied. "There are five chambers listed in Dakar. One is in use for a commercial diving accident that occurred this morning. Another is apart for repairs. Two others are on vessels presently at sea far beyond range of your needs."

"And the fifth?" she prompted irritably.

"On Tucker's ship." Poole's man looked at her with some feeling, but could offer no alternatives.

She knew what was at stake. She knew with certainty that Michael would go after the disc. With equal certainty she knew that he would put Tucker's diver into the on-board chamber instead of himself. All these resources between us, she thought in despair, and I can't save the one life that matters.

- - -

Together they wrenched at the hatch of the drill platform, hampered by the cumbersome suits and the dead weight of the water pressing relentlessly on every inch of their bodies. Ever so slowly, as the precious seconds ticked away, the dogs began to loosen and the hatch at last came free. Quickly they maneuvered into the small lock and went through the entry process.

Inside the cramped cabin space Michael went immediately to the computer setup, stripping his heavy gloves and rapidly inspecting the equipment. He would have to work with the helmet still in place. There simply was not time to get more comfortable, and the wide glass plates allowed a generous enough field of vision.

"Watch the time," he reminded Lukos.

The Greek waited close by the exit. "I am watching my friend. Trust me, I am watching."

Deftly Michael maneuvered through the standard components before him. Within seconds the disc drive was free, and he packed it securely in the waterproof container brought for the purpose.

Then, the routine in reverse.

Gloves.

Exit the inner hatch.

The excruciating wait for equalization. Then out.

Lukos triggered the signal and far above, Tucker began reeling them in.

The lifelines tightened and they began to rise.

- --

"He's got the disc." Birkoff reported this then listened further on the Iridium phone, the most effective communication they had been able to arrange on such short notice.

He turned his eyes back to Operations. "They'll be up in approximately 6 minutes. He thinks they'll make it far enough out of the concussion area before the platform detonates.

"Did Nikita find a chamber in Dakar?"

Birkoff's eyes dropped. "Nothing within range."

"Give me that," Operations snapped, reaching for the phone.

"Danny?"

After a beat the answer came back. "I'm here Paul. Your man is coming up. Fast."

"Danny I need you to put him in your chamber."

A longer silence, having nothing to do with communication delays. Then, "I'm sorry Paul. I can't do that."

"Daniel..."

"Tucker...goddammit, answer me."

There was no reply but the hiss of an unconnected line.

* * *

SIXTEEN

The wet life line skimmed endlessly up and out of the water to coil tautly onto the powerful winch. Tucker watched it come, saying his version of a prayer. He hoped the Lord would overlook his habitual absence in church, and not view it as a sacrilege that he waited until this dire moment to ask for divine intervention.

At approximately three-quarters rewound, he felt more than heard the far-below detonation of the drill platform. He waited for the concussion, knowing it could make the difference between living and dying for the men on the far end of the cable. Seconds later, a heavy swell rose through the water, quickly falling back and dissipating gently into the surrounding sea.

"That wasn't too bad." On Tucker's right, a sturdy blonde man stood with his legs spread in the habitual stance of a seaman. His gaze probed the water acutely for the earliest appearance of the divers.

"Is the chamber ready, Bengt?" Tucker asked unecessarily. He knew he could rely on this man, just as he could any of his crew members.

Bengt glanced over. "Yeah, boss. And I'll go in with him. Claude is bringing oxygen for the other." He glanced at the heavy wetsuit he had watched Tucker put on moments earlier. "I assume you're going to recompress this guy underwater?"

"Going to try, Bengt. There aren't any other options." A cable marker appeared suddenly over the transom. "Here they come."

The two helmeted heads broke water near the ship. Joined by Claude, who arrived bearing oxygen tanks, the crew worked efficiently to bring Michael and Lukos onto the boat. Relieved of their helmets, the two men were pale and clumsily unable to help themselves.

"How are you doing?" Tucker asked quietly, releasing suit closures on Lukos' trembling form.

"Been better," he gasped. "Joint pain...can't breathe...numb extremities."

Tucker pushed the wild black hair back from his friend's face. "Claude is taking you to the chamber," he said, squeezing gently on his shoulder. "You're going to be fine."

Lukos nodded once, painfully. Then Claude was there, bundling him into blankets, steering him to the tubular chamber for several hours of recompression that would save his life and keep him whole.

Tucker turned to Michael. Bengt had removed the helmet and bulky deep-sea suit and was struggling to reinsert him into a heavy neoprene wetsuit. Michael's eyes were open but he seemed to be able to do little to assist the operation.

"Michael," Tucker said, kneeling beside him and tugging helpfully on a zipper. "Can you hear me?"

Michael nodded.

"Are you in pain?"

"Abdomen," he replied between gritted teeth. "Legs feel...nothing."

He winced again as Bengt lifted his head to slip on a hood and face mask.

"Michael, I need you to listen carefully." Tucker looked into the green eyes, satisfied that there was sufficient focus. "I am going to take you back down. By putting you back under pressure and giving you pure oxygen we can duplicate the effects of the hyperbaric chamber. We're going to use the Navy's Table Six decompression schedule so we'll be there a while, coming up gradually."

He peered closely again into Michael's face. "Do you understand me?"

A nod. He reached down and squeezed Michael's hand.

"I'll be with you the entire time."

A return squeeze.

As Tucker wrestled tanks onto his back, Bengt went to the side and dropped a weighted depth indicator line to guide them. "60 minutes each at 30, 20 and 10 feet," he recited, glancing over for a nod of agreement.

Then Tucker lifted Michael bodily in his brawny arms and simply stepped over the transom.

* * *

SEVENTEEN

"Don't let me forget to thank Christopher personally for this," he said. In an expansive gesture he raised his wine glass in a toast to the excellent meal, then gallantly redirected the compliment to his companion. "He is not responsible, however, for the excellent company."

In the background quiet jazz flowed through the Tower, effectively warming and slowing the passage of the evening. Madeline's dark eyes, lit with points of reflected candlelight, rested on him contemplatively. "What have you decided about Daniel Tucker?"

"I haven't," he sighed, twirling his wineglass reflectively. "Strictly by the book, he and his crew should be either eliminated or recruited for basic exposure control." He glanced at her. "Bypassing the book, however, I am inclined to live and let live. They don't know anything that could serve our enemies. Oversight is not involved." He shrugged.

"And he did save Michael," she pointed out.

"Yes," Operations snorted critically. "He'll be weeks returning to capacity and I can't put him on a high altitude plane for a month. But he isn't dead," he allowed grudgingly.

"You may not be doing Tucker a favor by leaving him out there," Madeline suggested.

"There is always that possibility." He seemed inclined to say nothing more on the subject, reaching instead to refill their glasses. Briefly they were silent, then Madeline asked in a different tone, "Was it so bad?"

She watched him over the rim of her wine glass. Her brown eyes sparkled with what, on another woman, could be described as mischief. This was not another woman, however, and he knew the taunt had roots and purpose.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied evasively.

"All right," she conceded, generously allowing the equivocation. "Was it so bad collaborating with Poole?" She went on immediately to answer her own question. "I think it went extremely well."

"I think we could have done it without him," Operations said curtly.

"And I think we would never have seen the pattern in time," she returned promptly. "In addition, his surveillance and background intel were very helpful."

He took a mouthful of the fine red in his glass and looked at her for a moment, then smiled reluctantly. "All right. I will give you that point. What are your recommendations for cleanup on this?"

"Now that we have the membership records it will simply be a matter of time. Naturally we will need to be discreet. It would be best to avoid drawing Oversight's attention. I propose that after a first pass to weed out those individuals who are unacceptably dedicated to their cause - and Huber can assist with that assessment - we then keep the remainder of the list under observation. Waiting for opportunities."

"Within the context of legitimate missions."

"Exactly. And within a time frame that will not arouse suspicion. Over time, it will be a fairly straightforward task to eliminate most of these people."

"You have someone in mind to be the watchdog?" He suspected already.

"Mr. Poole has agreed to the task. Birkoff can add a hidden subroutine to analysis that will look for any opportunity we can turn to our advantage on future missions. Nikita will be responsible for factoring in extended mission parameters to act on these opportunities."

Operations nodded in mock appreciation. "It seems that you have it all laid out. I hardly need bother myself about it at all." Peevishly he pushed his plate away, not missing the eyebrow that rose in irritated response to his childish gesture.

"With each day that passes," she said, "I see more clearly the wisdom of those who selected me as a partner for you."

He looked away, annoyed with himself for his lack of control, knowing she was right. "Indeed," he acknowledged tightly, swallowing his pride. "I couldn't manage without you. And to illustrate that fact I'm sure you are about to point out some new deficiency in my thinking."

"Not a deficiency. Merely some new data and a change of focus."

He waited, frowning.

"Certain of the files Michael retrieved contain information compiled for purposes of coercion...blackmail, if you prefer. I believe this was the Committee's safeguard against any casual misplacement of loyalty by their higher ranking members around the world."

He leaned forward, intrigued. "You mean we have the means to control these people. Highly placed people." He stared at her unseeing as he processed the endless and tantalizing possibilities. "And Oversight has no idea."

"It gets better," Madeline purred. "One of them is a member of Oversight." She looked completely satisfied. The cat that ate the canary...and knew the rest of the flock remained in the cage for later.

Life had just become considerably more interesting. Operations raised his glass once more, this time in willing acknowledgement.

"Madeline. I couldn't manage without you."

"No, you couldn't."

She tipped her glass in return, and smiled.

**** FIN ****

If the day should ever come when we [the Nazis] must go, if some day we are compelled to leave the scene of history, we will slam the door so hard that the universe will shake and mankind will stand back in stupefaction.. --Joseph Goebbels (1897 - 1945) German political leader

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