Picking up following Hand to Hand, wherein Ops has issued Madeline a non-refusable ‘invitation’ to the Tower… references to Last Night, Under the Influence, Psychic Pilgrim…

In the tower, he’d said. Tonight, ten o'clock.

At precisely 10:00 p.m. Madeline approached the heavy doors of the Tower, her footsteps muffled by a newly installed layer of heavy carpet. Neutral… institutional… like everything else about the décor of Section One. Its caustic odor hung in the air of the hallway, assaulting her sinuses and making her feel vaguely nauseated. She made a mental note to have Tower ventilation adjusted.

For tonight, however, no amount of aesthetic improvement would make her less reluctant to approach this room.

Unexpectedly, the entrance was not secured. A narrow stab of light escaped through the barely-opened doors, creating a tapered path that seemed to draw her into the room. She came to an intentional halt, then smiled faintly at her own display of token resistance. If she could not convince herself she was here willingly, the chances were against her being able to convince him. She closed her eyes, invoking a tranquil mind and serene expression before reaching for the doorknob.

Then… the unmistakable pop of a champagne cork. A tiny clink. Her mind’s eye pictured his steady hand pouring the pale liquid into tall crystal flutes. He knew she would come.

Stinging resentment sprang up within her. Sharply she banished it, then reached at once for the doorknob, not allowing herself any further emotional recoil. He sensed her presence but discourteously remained turned away, keeping his eyes on the champagne flute he was filling. "Good evening. I’m glad to see you could make it."

She refused to be baited by his faintly mocking tone. Instead she advanced quietly to his side and picked up the full glass.

"I had nothing else pressing this evening," she replied evenly.

He turned and looked speculatively at her for a long moment, then tipped his glass toward hers. Lightly they touched rims. In the background, the opening notes of a quiet jazz selection eased into the silence and they listened to the familiar music, each sipping appreciatively at the golden wine. We are lost and alone….

He stepped closer, then began stroking her face with the back of one hand. Softly. Slowly. She looked down to deny him the expression in her eyes.

"I’d like you to tell me the truth about something…" he said. For once… She looked at him, waiting, conscious that his hand had left her cheek and now rested lightly on her shoulder, his thumb stroking the underside of her jaw. Softly. Slowly.

"I’d like to know whether you weren’t a little jealous of Renee."

In an instant her composure evaporated before a white-hot flash of hostility. She kept her expression neutral only with great effort.

"Paul, I am concerned that your inability to accept my change in feelings is affecting your judgement. I believe you may have deliberately manufactured the scenario with Renee. I would be very concerned if I thought that you were inviting Oversight involvement here for such a frivolous reason." Her voice sharpened a little. "I would consider that imprudent."

His eyes narrowed and he dropped his hand away. Reluctantly, it seemed, he stepped back and moved to top up his champagne.

"As it happens, I had valid a reason for inviting her here." He turned and gestured questioningly with the bottle. Madeline shook her head.

"You will recall recent comments George has made concerning the possibility of scaling back some of the Sections."

"Of course." How could she forget.

"In the past Renee has discreetly expressed some…interest…in me on a personal level. I felt that this would be a judicious time to encourage a relationship with someone who could exercise positive influence on our behalf within Oversight. In fact, we’re having dinner together again next week."

Madeline sipped her champagne, digesting the possible meanings of this statement. "I see."

He glanced sharply at her. "Do you?" he questioned. "Do you also know that Oversight is planning a series of reviews beginning next week? And do you know who will be held responsible if Oversight decides that our efficiency percentage is too low? Or that we lack focus?" He leaned closer and hissed into her face. "Do you know what will happen to those held responsible?"

She gazed back at him unflinchingly until he drew away.

"We can handle an operational review," she said icily. "But I don’t believe you have thought through the ramifications of a personal relationship with Renee. You could end up with a negative influence within Oversight. And I dislike your manipulation of my feelings."

"Feelings?" He put on an expression of exaggerated disbelief, but his tone was undeniably hopeful. Out of character for the cold, methodical decision-maker who controlled all the lives within Section.

She turned her back on him without reply and took another sip of champagne. His smile faded slowly, and in that unobserved moment his pale features wore the weary sadness of any other man.

"You can’t stand not being in control," he accused.

"We’ve had this discussion before."

Lovers quarrels in Section One; Madeline loathed the absurdity of the situation. Over recent months, and particularly since Stephen’s murder, this had escalated beyond the bounds of private space and was beginning to encroach into the operational domain. Priorities needed readjustment – in a way that would make a lasting impression. He was too important to Section One to allow indulgence in this type of weakness.

It was part of her job, after all, to weed out weakness. And if it also served her own purpose… so much the better.

She turned back to him with a slow smile. After one last swallow she gently set her champagne on the polished table beside them, then stood looking at him with an expectant expression.

Slowly he placed his own glass beside hers. With the air of one anticipating any moment to be rebuffed, he reached once more for her, this time meeting no resistance. Gradually they began moving to the slow pulse of the background jazz.

"Perhaps," he whispered some minutes later, "Christopher could delay dinner for a short while…"

Laying her head on his shoulder, Madeline nodded wordlessly. Her eyes remained fixed on a distant point as she relaxed against his body. The sparring was over for the time being; now she could take some pleasure in the remainder of the evening.

Within, from scattered fragments of resentment, self-preservation, logic, and passion – strategy began to coalesce.

**********

Nikita hummed her way through the sparsely populated early-morning halls of Section One. She felt good, and her loose, easy stride was a little slower than usual. Living for the moment had long been a habit, given the way she’d grown up. There was no point rushing into any situation that might ruin her good mood.

Michael had called her in. Summoned her, really. Curt and unexplained, as was his usual style.

As she approached his office she could see him through the opened blinds, sitting alone, working at his computer. Recessed lighting from above cast a glow on his bent head. Even from here she could see that his face was perfectly expressionless. She wondered, as she had many times before, how any human being could be so perpetually on guard. You know a lot about me, Nikita… but not everything…

He looked up then, as she’d expected.

"Pretty early in the morning for this, isn’t it?" She lounged in through the doorway and draped herself over the chair opposite his desk, a warm, lazy smile spreading over her face.

Michael finished a few more entries then glanced at her once more, ignoring her question. Her smile faltered, then failed, as she watched him slide open the keypad at his elbow and disable office surveillance. So much for feeling pretty good. She sat up a little and crossed her arms defensively.

"What’s up?"

"I’m going to recommend some changes in your duty rotation."

Nikita shrugged. Since when did anyone around here consult her about duty changes?

"Whatever."

He looked back down at his computer screen with an uncharacteristic air of unease. Sensing words unspoken, Nikita frowned suspiciously, suddenly wanting to know more. She uncrossed her arms and settled back comfortably in the chair. This might take some grilling.

"So, what are you changing?" she asked in a nonchalant tone. Idly she twirled a lock of hair around one finger.

"I’m going to request that you be assigned to Com and Analysis." He glanced at her again, briefly, before looking down once more at his inactive computer screen.

"Hm." She nodded a little and let her eyes wander over Michael’s face as she mentally worked through her schedule.

"And what are you going to take me off?" Between language studies, mandatory workouts, Madeline’s current training module and time budgeted for an ongoing slow-moving undercover situation, her non-field schedule was completely full.

"Nothing."

Finally he looked directly at her, and as always Nikita felt that gaze impact her on a gut level. Like the unshuttering of a bright lamp, Michael’s eyes seemed to dominate her attention, driving away all other thoughts as though they were banished shadows. Sometimes she wondered if he knew the effect he had on her. Sometimes she knew he did.

With an effort she returned her thoughts to the subject of duty rotation changes.

"I don’t understand. This would take me out of the field."

"Yes." Still… that gaze.

"Has my performance been unsatisfactory?" A horrifying thought leapt into her mind. Though she knew it was an illogical conclusion, her pulse skyrocketed anyway in response. She could scarcely get the words out.

"Am I… being put in abeyance?"

At this Michael looked down and allowed an expression of mild amusement to settle over his features.

"No, Nikita. You are not in abeyance."

Another moment of silence hung and stretched between them. In her mind Nikita turned over and discarded various scenarios, knowing she would be allowed only so much probing in the coming minutes - the questions had to be good ones. Almost instantly she realized there was really only one question she wanted the answer to.

"Why?"

Michael rose fluidly from his chair then and moved to the window. He looked out between the slanted blinds with hands loosely clasped behind his back. His answer surprised her, but did nothing to clarify the issue.

"I want you out of the field."

"Out of the field?" she parroted in bewilderment. "Why?"

He didn’t speak. After a few moments Nikita got up out of her chair and went to stand beside him at the window. She rested one hand on his shoulder; somehow feeling that the physical contact might help her get through to him mentally.

"Why?"

Michael turned into her hand, almost eliminating the distance between their bodies, and looked into her eyes.

"It’s dangerous," he said simply.

Incredulous, Nikita almost laughed aloud. Raising her free hand she strove to cover the cynical smile that spread over her face.

Michael was not smiling. With care, he reached out and smoothed her hair back at the temple, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Our life isn’t what I want it to be. I have to do what I can to make it livable."

"Oh please," Nikita snorted. "Making lemonade, Michael? That hardly seems like you."

Sill Michael remained somber.

I want…" he began. She found herself holding her breath.

A sharp rap at the door destroyed the moment.

Birkoff knocked briefly again, clearing his throat loudly for good measure. He averted his eyes uncomfortably as Michael stepped back from a hypnotized-looking Nikita. Not for the first time Birkoff thought he’d liked to take whatever training Section provided in having that kind of effect on women. He knew he’d die of embarrassment before asking anyone about it.

"Sorry… Michael," he said. "I need to talk to you for a minute."

Although he had stepped back physically, Michael’s eyes had not left Nikita.

"Can it wait?" he said briefly.

Birkoff glanced from Michael to Nikita, then back, assessing his need and the time frame he was locked into.

"Um… no. There are some file anomalies that I’m going to have to report to Operations in about an hour. He isn’t going to like it if I can’t suggest an explanation."

Michael’s attention suddenly snapped to Birkoff and bored in on the young man. "What anomalies?"

"Well… mainly file access and data integrity." Birkoff rushed on to provide further explanation, feeling a need to shore up his defense for interrupting them. Nikita watched with ever-increasing interest.

"I usually run this type of maintenance program every 48 hours, but I’ve been working on a new version and wanted to beta test it before putting it into the normal cycle. And Operations wouldn’t…"

"Yes," Michael interrupted. "I understand."

Birkoff stepped forward and silently laid a data pad on Michael’s desk.

Michael turned to Nikita. "We can continue this conversation later."

Knowing she was being dismissed, Nikita nodded and moved reluctantly to the door. The eyes of both men were upon her as she paused there, suspended momentarily by her curiosity.

"I’ll see you later this morning," Michael said, verbally pushing her out the door. Unwillingly, Nikita left the office. Birkoff’s voice followed her tantalizingly as she departed.

"I’m seeing unauthorized access to historical files…"

*********

The room was small and unfriendly.

On one side of a table meant to seat eight persons Operations and Madeline sat quietly, waiting for the return of the four-man team that had been questioning them for the majority of the afternoon. Outwardly, both disciplined themselves to appear calm and unconcerned for the benefit of the omnipresent surveillance cameras. Inwardly, neither felt the calmness they pretended to. The stakes were too high.

When the door swung open silently a few moments later, only George came into the room. He lowered himself to a chair at the end of the table nearest them and hitched a bit at the waistband of his trousers. Operations and Madeline exchanged one brief glance while they waited for George to finish getting settled.

"Well," he began, folding his hands on the table before him. "You’ve done fairly well today." His small eyes narrowed. "I do, however, have one or two things I’d like to clear up."

He left this subtle intimidation suspended before them for several seconds, then focused his attention on Operations and snapped out a question.

"How many people did you lose in the Panama operation last month?"

"Four," Operations replied immediately. "There was an unanticipated explosive device left behind."

"What type of device?"

Operations opened his lips to answer, only to close them a moment later. "I don’t have that information."

George’s eyes grew smaller, more hostile.

"What was the resolution of the embassy operation in Istanbul in March?"

Again Operations had a ready answer. "Two mercenary terrorists were killed and an assassination attempt foiled. A third terrorist was taken for interrogation."

George leaned forward. "What was the name of the subgroup discovered to have supplied arms to these mercenaries?"

A fine sheen of sweat appeared on Operations’ forehead, although his expression remained impassive. "I don’t have that information," he said again.

"During the raid on the meeting between Russian mafia and unofficial middle east government representatives two months ago, who provided the bogus passports used by the Libyans?"

George began to drum his fingers in an annoying way on the tabletop. Operations stared at him stonily.

"I don’t have that information," he said once more.

"I see," George said slowly. "I’d like you to take a seat outside the door." His glance flickered to Madeline. "And I’d like to speak with Madeline privately."

"George," Operations began as he rose to leave, "you know these questions can easily be answered by accessing mission files."

"Paul," George mimicked harshly, "you know that someone who isn’t in control of the details isn’t in control of the big picture."

Sensing that the hole would only get deeper, Operations traded a look with Madeline and quietly left the room.

The door whispered shut behind him and the small chamber was silent. Madeline looked at George, waiting for him to speak first.

"Well?" was all he said.

"I am concerned," Madeline said, treading carefully. "I believe that Paul has been under some stress lately. He’s long overdue for down time. He learned recently of the death of a family member; perhaps this has temporarily lowered his concentration level." She paused to assess George’s reaction.

"Hm," he grunted, studying the tabletop. "His percentage for detail competence is off by 20 points. All the information is there in the files. I can’t have someone in charge of any Section that doesn’t have a full mental catalog of the details." He squinted at her strangely. "You know as well as I that the devil is frequently in those details. Sometimes that’s the only way we catch him."

Madeline nodded, waiting.

"What is your opinion and recommendation?"

Anticipating this question, Madeline had weighed her answer carefully. Her words in this moment could mean life or death for Paul Wolfe. On some unexamined level it satisfied her to know that out there in the hallway, alone, he surely recognized that he was in her hands.

"I believe Paul’s lack of concentration is temporary, and is the product primarily of high stress. I expect that with therapy and enforced down time he will return to full function."

"Hm," came another non-committal grunt. Then George looked at her shrewdly.

"And would you recommend yourself to take over Section One in Paul’s absence?"

His stare challenged her. They both knew that an affirmative answer to this question would destroy all her credibility.

Then, time suspended for an instant of perfect clarity. Madeline realized that she did not, indeed had not ever, truly visualized herself at the helm of Section One. It was a penetrating personal insight, the kind she rarely experienced but valued highly. Briefly she wondered at this, wanting to follow the spiral path of the realization until she could corner it… dissect it.

Reluctantly, though, she filed it away for later consideration. Intriguing as this insight was, she could not afford to lose focus at this time.

Truthfully she replied, "No."

George nodded and looked at her with more interest and less animosity as she went on in a neutral tone.

"I believe this would be a good training opportunity for Michael. I’ll be there to sanction any significant activity. And I don’t think Paul will be away for long." She smiled her small, meaningless smile.

George lifted himself slowly from the chair then stood momentarily, head bent. His colorless eyes finally rose to her. "Very well. I’ll accept your recommendation for the time being. See to it."

Without further conversation George pulled open the door and exited the room. He neither looked at nor spoke to Operations, who sat tensely in an uncomfortable chair outside the entrance.

Operations walked slowly back into the small room and stood looking down at Madeline, who had not stirred from her seat.

"Well?" he said, unconsciously mirroring George’s earlier one-word challenge.

"What in hell was that all about? Why wasn’t that information in the files?"

Madeline gazed up at him tranquilly, her previous tension now dissipated.

Deliberately she rose from her chair and tucked her arm through his, drawing him along with her toward the door.

"Paul… you look like you could use a vacation…"

**********

Acid reflux.

The indelicate-sounding term echoed maddeningly in Birkoff’s brain. He’d found it on an internet medical site while researching the recent disturbing state of his stomach. It was, of course, out of the question to consult MedLab.

He opened his desk drawer for another antacid mint and grimaced at the sight of the data disk tucked into the corner of the drawer. God, what was he supposed to do with this? Talk to someone? Who? Keep it to himself? Or was it all just one more mind-wrenching, gut-twisting test?

He closed his eyes in misery as another lick of fire found its way up from his innards. He didn’t think he could take much more of this. Maybe no more.

Suddenly overwhelmed by a need for action, Birkoff jumped up from his chair, paused to tap a couple of keys, then walked straight to Walter’s area. Feeling a little more proactive seemed to lower the stress level immediately; he prayed he wasn’t making a huge mistake.

The older man sat tinkering at his workbench. When he looked up to greet Birkoff, his eyes were huge and goggled behind the magnifying shield he wore.

"Hey, Birkoff." He looked again. "You look like you just ate a frog. What’s up?"

Birkoff glanced around in paranoia, realizing as he did so that if he really were under surveillance he would never know it. He didn’t see any choice; he needed help and Walter was one of the few people he could trust.

"Walter," he whispered, still looking around. "I need to talk to you."

The comically enlarged eyes glanced up at Birkoff again. "I gotta have this gear ready for a departure in two hours."

"Walter," Birkoff whispered desperately, his voice an octave above his original request.

At this Walter shoved his eye wear up onto his forehead and peered concernedly at Birkoff. Nodding, he got up and began to walk back in among the racks of equipment, gesturing for Birkoff to follow. Soon they were beyond the sight of anyone who might walk casually into the area.

"OK - what?"

"I don’t know what to do with this," said Birkoff despairingly. "I can’t tell if it’s real or if I’m being set up for another one of their stupid tests. If I assume it’s real I don’t know who to tell…"

"What?" Walter interrupted. "What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Start at the front, will you?"

Birkoff drew and released a deep, stabilizing breath. "OK." He looked nervously over Walter’s shoulder.

"Four days ago, outside of my normal security cycle, I was beta testing a new monitoring program I wrote. The program found a list of anomalies that looked genuine to me. I took them to Michael." He shook his head in bewilderment.

"Michael told me that my program must have bad parameters – that it wasn’t possible for anyone to access that data without permission from Madeline or Operations."

"So?" Walter prompted.

"So… I went back and did some more digging." He looked around and leaned in conspiratorially. "I don’t think even they know how deep I can dig." His left eyebrow rose a fraction and he appeared pleased with himself. Then he recovered his train of thought and looked sick again.

"Michael accessed those files, Walter. Something was changed. I haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly what yet… but I will. And he accessed them using a private code of Madeline’s. If I hadn’t been beta testing that new program in between normal cycle times, I would never have known those files had been touched."

"What files are we talking about?" Walter asked.

"Mission records going back about four months. And it gets worse…" he trailed off miserably.

Walter stared intently at Birkoff.

"They’re the same files Operations pulled to prepare for the Oversight meetings today."

The two men stared at each other for a minute.

"Jesus. You haven’t said anything to anybody else yet?"

"No! Who could I tell? What would I say?"

Walter nodded to himself. "Yeah… I see what you mean." He looked at Birkoff pityingly. "And it could all be a plant just to see what you do with it."

"You think I don’t know that?" Birkoff cried in exasperation. "What would you do?"

Walter thought a moment and shook his head tiredly. "Not many choices, kid. You can either report it according to procedure and hope they aren’t looking for you to do something outside the box. Or, you can talk to somebody you trust and try to find out what’s really going on."

Birkoff nodded encouragingly. "Right. I’m talking to you." His eyes were round with fear and he rubbed at his sternum as if in pain.

Shaking his head, Walter laid a comforting hand on Birkoff’s shoulder and patted soothingly. "Not what I had in mind, Birkoff. There’s somebody else." As if on cue, brisk footsteps rang in the outer area and a visitor called out loudly. "Walter?"

Walter patted Birkoff’s shoulder again, smiling. "I’ll be right back."

Birkoff closed his eyes and sagged against the racks behind him. Before he could think of anything more than his painful gut, returning footsteps approached.

Without surprise, he opened his eyes to see Nikita’s concerned face hovering over him. He smiled nervously and pulled himself upright.

"Birkoff’s got a little problem, Sugar…" Walter started to say.

"No," Birkoff cut in. "If what I’m thinking is right, we’ve ALL got a problem."

"What are you talking about?" Nikita asked, looking skeptically from one to the other.

A few minutes later, briefed on everything Birkoff knew and some he surmised, Nikita sat slumped silently on the floor. Her initial shock and dismay were quickly morphing into a pure flame of anger. She pulled herself up with a jerk and began to stride purposefully out of the storage area.

Birkoff flew after her and grabbed her arm. "Where are you going?" he hissed in panic. He was afraid he knew just where she was going.

"I’m going to talk to Michael, of course," Nikita replied irately.

"What! You can’t!"

By this time Walter had hold of Nikita’s other arm and the three of them came to a halt.

"He’s right, Nikita. Think about it." Walter’s gravelly voice calmed her somewhat as he went on.

"We don’t know what’s going on here, but we know it looks pretty hinky. Madeline and Michael might be in on something together. If that’s true, are you sure you have a strong enough relationship with Michael to walk into the middle of it? Haven’t you learned anything about what happens around here when you trust people?" He gave her upper arm a slight shake at this last before adding with a little grin, "Except for me, of course."

"What?" Nikita asked incredulously. Her mind denied and assimilated simultaneously. "You think that Michael is in on…" she took a breath and spoke more slowly. "…on some kind of power grab with Madeline?"

They looked back at her wordlessly.

Reluctantly, Nikita nodded. "All right. We’ll find out what we can first. But I’ll tell you now: I don’t believe it. I don’t believe he would do it – at least not without a good reason. But mainly - I don’t believe Madeline would share."

She looked at them resolutely.

"There’s got to be a better explanation."

***********

Clip. Snip. A spray of mist. Clip. Snip.

Madeline’s mind worked quietly in rhythm with the movement of her hands. In the way that all gardeners know, somehow the simple task of caring for the plants seemed to free her mind and help it to work through various tasks.

Right now she was thinking of… herself.

In this quiet moment Madeline was reliving and probing her own interesting reaction to George’s question. Did she want to run Section One? No… that much was clear to her. But why did she not aspire to it? And even more interesting… why had it never occurred to her to wonder why not?

Clip. Snip. Mist.

Perhaps she was viewing herself in a self-limiting context…always the bridesmaid but never the bride. Or it could be a fear of failure that she had never acknowledged, even to herself. Of course – and this was not beyond the realm of possibility - it was entirely plausible that she had been conditioned by Section itself to be in her present role and to look no further?

An interesting question. One that needed an answer.

Clip. Snip.

Behind her she heard the door slide open quietly but she did not turn to look.

Only one person had the code to enter her domain unannounced and uninvited. And she already knew what the subject of their conversation would be.

"Good morning," she said.

When there was no answering greeting she turned to find Operations looking at her with his hands in his pockets and an indecipherable expression on his face.

"Renee was killed last night," he said abruptly.

Madeline turned back to her plants.

"I know."

Snip.

"Really. George just called me with this information. How is it that you already know?"

Madeline lowered the scissors and glanced over her shoulder at him. Her voice only just revealed the slightest mockery.

"Good news travels quickly."

Operations stared in her direction, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. His eyes were unfocused, as though he’d given up trying to read her visually and was now concentrating on some inner thought process.

Clip. Mist.

Madeline cleaned and dried her pruning shears meticulously then replaced them in their case. Only then did she go to Operations and seat herself in one of the two chairs near her desk. After a moment he too sat down, still watching her.

"Renee and I had dinner together last night," Operations said pensively. "She was found dead in her bed sometime later. Death occurred as the result of a very powerful poison. It appears to be a suicide." His tone implied that he disagreed with this assumption.

"Oh," Madeline said demurely, glancing down for a moment. "Did you decide that a relationship with her was no longer in our best interest?"

Their eyes locked.

"Where were you last night?" he asked bluntly.

"Here."

"Indeed?"

Madeline looked back at him calmly. "Yes. I was doing some specialized valentine training with a very… talented… new recruit." She paused and raised her eyebrows a fraction. "Would you like to review the tapes?"

Operations’ gaze narrowed and his lips became a thin line.

"I may do that later," he replied stiffly. He got up and began to pace, hands once more in his pockets. Madeline allowed herself an instant of gratification, knowing how badly he would like to light a cigarette at this moment. She never permitted him to smoke around her plants.

"Have they finished an autopsy yet?" Madeline inquired.

"It’s being completed as we speak."

Madeline nodded and pursed her lips a little. "And what else will they find besides poison, Paul?"

He paused in his pacing and stared at her as she followed immediately with another question.

"Does George know that you were sleeping with her?"

When he did not reply Madeline folded her hands quietly and waited a moment before going on.

"You do know that when they find out about your relationship with Renee it will make you a suspect."

"What would I possibly have to gain from killing her?" he snapped, beginning to stride rigidly around the room once again.

Madeline inclined her head a little. "After your performance at the review yesterday I’m not sure George will think you need a logical motive."

"He would never believe that I was stupid enough to kill anyone from Oversight."

"Then perhaps you should go to him first… admit your relationship with her. Put it in the proper perspective before he has a chance to formulate any theories of his own."

"I can’t do that!" Operations exploded, rounding on her. "That would put me in the middle of the investigation and…" He paused.

"…and you’ll be suspended from command," Madeline finished.

They were silent for a long minute, then Madeline repeated an earlier question. "What else will the autopsy reveal besides poison, Paul?"

The look on his face was that of a cornered animal.

She pressed him. "Will they know you were with her last night?"

"Yes." His reply was almost inaudible. Madeline remained silent, allowing him to accept the reality of the situation.

At last he looked at her, his expression betraying a combination of loathing and admiration. When he spoke his voice was taught with control.

"All right. I’ll talk to George. Take myself out of the loop for the duration of the investigation."

He turned abruptly and started for the door. Just before leaving he stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder.

"I suppose you’ve already arranged with George to take over."

Madeline smiled. "No. Michael will be in command."

Operations returned her smile with one of his own, a malign, bitter grimace.

"You’ve managed to surprise me, Madeline. I was sure you’d have taken over for yourself."

He turned and left the room.

Behind him, Madeline watched the door he had gone through, still smiling. She understood now why she didn’t want to be the acknowledged leader of Section One.

It was too easy, too uninteresting to simply give an order and have it obeyed unquestioningly.

How much more entertaining and rewarding to make things happen without any direct authority.

A little pruning… a little encouragement…

Madeline nodded to herself.

Manipulation.

**********

At the long briefing table they sat in their usual places, wearing their usual faces. One chair was empty, its usual occupant standing before them holding the holograph control.

Nikita, Walter and Birkoff eyeballed each other discreetly, similar thoughts running through their minds. Given what little they knew was happening behind the scenes, it was too coincidental for Operations to be absent from a briefing of this magnitude. Something had happened. The other operatives attending the meeting seemed similarly uncomfortable, although they had even less idea what was going on.

Michael flipped to the next holographic image as the briefing proceeded. The face of the young kidnap victim they’d been discussing was replaced by the sneering features of a Pakistani terrorist with whom they were all painfully familiar.

"Why haven’t we ever just killed this guy?" Walter whispered under his breath. Next to him, Nikita shook her head in puzzled agreement.

"You all know Panh Phommachak," Michael said, not addressing the issue of why the man was still alive. "In his continued effort to elevate himself on the international scene, he has engineered the kidnapping of the son of one of India’s top cabinet members. Indian politicians are placing blame on a militant member of Pakistan’s Majlis-e-Shooram, their Parliament."

He flipped back to the dark, youthful countenance previously before them.

"Political tensions between these countries were already at critical levels. This kidnapping, and the fact that they both now have nuclear capability, creates an insupportable situation."

"Has he made any type of ransom demand?" Nikita inquired.

From her place near the end of the table, Madeline replied. "No. We suspect that his purpose is solely to raise the tension level between India and Pakistan. Using this line of reasoning, it is possible that he could be in the employ of the Pakistani senator already under suspicion. But there are other possibilities. The only way to avoid a nuclear confrontation is to learn the identity of Phommachak’s employer and to return the Indian cabinet member’s son… unharmed."

"How do we get to him?" This question came from a petite woman at the far end of the table, her face framed by short, thick ash blonde hair.

"The old-fashioned way," Birkoff smirked in answer. "He likes blonde, Western women. He has a supplier who usually carries off tourists or students. We have his supplier."

Nikita closed her eyes and shook her head. Some things never changed.

"Jenny will go in with the supplier," Michael said, nodding down the table in the direction of the short-haired woman. He glanced briefly at Nikita, his look effectively silencing her question. "It’s likely that he didn’t make the grab himself, but he should have a record of the boy’s location. The information must be obtained without alerting Phommachak. We can’t take the risk that he might have made a contingency plan that would eliminate his captive. Birkoff will download to your pads within the hour."

His tone dismissed the group and their departure was swift. Nikita lingered.

"You aren’t sending me?" she demanded.

Michael looked at her. "Do you want to go?"

"No – of course not," she whispered between clenched teeth. "But you know I’m the best qualified. This is too important for you to start playing favorites with me now."

He nodded slightly. "Yes. It’s important. And you’ve been involved previously with a Phommachak mission. There is a possibility he might recognize you."

Nikita moved closer, scrutinizing his face carefully. "This is what you were talking about, isn’t it? You’re taking me out of the field."

He glanced briefly into her eyes then repeated himself. "We can’t take the risk that Phommachak might recognize you."

This was going nowhere. Nikita backed away a step and leaned one hip against the table, considering whether or not to confront him about the altered mission files. After a moment’s thought she discarded the idea as premature and instead asked, "Where is Operations?"

"Busy."

"Busy?" Disbelief was evident in her tone. Michael looked at her impassively.

"Busy."

Nikita’s voice softened, her tone slightly conspiratorial. "What’s going on, Michael?" Though his features were expressionless, she could see something in his eyes.

"I don’t know what you mean."

She stood several moments, looking at him. Waiting. At last she straightened up and smiled a little. "Well, I guess you’ll tell me when you’re good and ready..."

She walked toward him to leave the room, then paused at his shoulder and looked into his face. She tapped his chest lightly with one finger.

"…unless I’m ready first."

His eyes narrowed slightly at the small, knowing smile on her lips.

She walked away.

***********

The woman writhed in feigned sexual ecstasy. Above her, an overweight, dark-haired man panted and heaved his way to a noisy climax. At the height of his convulsion, she pressed a tiny needle into the back of his neck.

Breathing hard, he dropped heavily onto the woman. She grimaced and rolled her eyes, snatching her hands away in disgust from his heavily furred back and wiping them on the sheets.

From her vantage point looking over Birkoff’s shoulder, Nikita could almost smile at the situation. Almost - if it were not for that fact that it could have been she in that bed, now trying to draw a breath under the weight of a comatose lover. Standing next to her, Michael gave no reaction to the scene.

"Come on, Jenny…" Birkoff coaxed under his breath.

As heavy, wet snores filled their ears Jenny began struggling to free herself from the inert mass pinning her to the bed. Gradually she worked her small form toward the edge, finally freeing herself and sliding over the side to freedom.

She reached back and gave the unconscious man a contemptuous slap up side the head before stepping toward his computer.

This time Nikita did smile.

Without warning a loud knock sounded at the door. Muffling a curse, Jenny fled in panic to the bed and insinuated herself under the covers next to Phommachak. He continued to snore thunderously. Moments later a key rattled in the lock and two men peered cautiously into the room.

"Panh?" one of them stage-whispered.

Nikita held her breath. They were coming to check on Phommachak’s well being, a common enough occurrence in this type of situation.

Slowly Jenny lifted her head, yawning and stretching in pretended languor. Next to her the stertorous respiration continued unabated.

"Panh?" More volume and urgency.

Under the covers Jenny rearranged Phommachak’s arm, making it appear as though he were moving in his sleep. He snorted raspily in the back of his throat.

Still the inquiry continued. "Panh?"

Gritting her teeth, Jenny slid from the bed and walked toward them. In the light that streamed in from the hall the two men could see clearly that she was completely nude. They watched, enthralled.

Jenny walked slowly, giving them a good look and making sure their attention was fully engaged. Arriving at the door, she pressed her naked breasts against the arm of the man furthest through the doorway, reaching at the same time for the door handle and key at his side.

"Can I help you?" she inquired in honeyed tones. Their eyes traveled rapidly back and forth from her bosom to her face. Behind them, the bed erupted once more with gurgles and wheezing. The men at the door spared a single glance of horrified fascination before returning their rapt attention to Jenny.

Jenny slipped the key from the door then removed her breasts from the arm of the man next to her. "Men always sleep well around me," she murmured seductively, glancing up at them from under her lashes.

On cue Phommachak released an elongated, resonant snuffle.

The two men looked at each other and nodded. Apparently without noticing the missing key, they withdrew from the room. Jenny sagged against the door. Another rasping inhalation pervaded the chamber.

Feeling a little safer, Jenny positioned a tiny receiver in her ear and whispered hopefully to her far away lifeline. "Birkoff?"

"I’m receiving, Jenny," Birkoff responded instantly. "You have plenty of time, he’ll be out for at least two hours…"

As Michael and Nikita watched, Birkoff calmly walked Jenny through the steps required to access Phommachak’s computer. The man’s excessive paranoia had worked to their advantage on this occasion. Unwilling to have the computer out of his control at any time, Phommachak kept it in his own suite of rooms. With the guards outside a locked door and Phommachak deep in a drugged sleep, Jenny had nearly ideal circumstances for her unfamiliar work.

Within minutes she had the link established. Screen after screen of the data dump scrolled by on Birkoff’s monitor.

"Do you recognize the encryption?" Michael asked, his eyes still on the data.

"Hmm..." Birkoff vamped a moment, also watching. "Yeah," he finally said slowly.

Then, with more confidence, "Yeah, I know the format. Should only take me a few hours to break it down, depending on how much is coming."

A few minutes later Birkoff stepped Jenny through the disconnect procedure. A visit to the bathroom took care of incriminating hardware.

The whole while, in all their ears, the plangent snoring went on undiminished.

"Jesus wept," Jenny muttered. "He sounds like hogs being driven to market. Get me out of here."

**********

As Birkoff directed Jenny’s safe extraction, Nikita turned to walk with Michael.

"Well, Jenny did fine. I guess you didn’t need me after all."

Her verbal probe produced nothing. Michael simply nodded and replied, "She’ll be a good operative."

They crossed the central area without speaking. Muffled sounds from the nighttime skeleton crew barely intruded on the stillness. Frustrated, Nikita peered up at the darkened panel above them and tried again.

"So… where’s Operations lately?"

Finally Michael glanced sideways at her, then took her elbow and guided her toward his office. In a moment he had disabled surveillance and closed the door.

He left the lights low and silence enveloped them as they stood looking at each other.

Michael spoke first.

"What do you think you know?"

Nikita shrugged, his question making her feel a little unsure about the conversation. Inwardly she steeled herself.

"I know that you altered the files Operations used to prepare for Oversight review meetings. You accessed them using a code of Madeline’s." He did not react so she added, "And then you accessed them again and replaced the original data."

This was purely a fishing expedition. Birkoff had determined that the files had been accessed twice; they had only surmised the purpose.

Michael's glance flickered then, a little. His face gave away nothing. Nikita forged ahead, not knowing clearly where she was headed – and a little afraid of what she might learn.

"I see that Operations is curiously absent since those meetings, and you seem to be running things."

She put her hands on the desktop and leaned intently toward him.

"What’s going on, Michael? Did you and Madeline sabotage Operations deliberately?"

He countered with a question of his own.

"How did you get this information?"

Nikita considered simply letting him wonder. Did she trust him, or his motives, enough to reveal her hand now? Could she risk Birkoff’s confidence? Eventually, of course, Michael would work it all out for himself. Her intuition and her intellect staged a brief internal struggle.

"Birkoff," she answered at last. "He knows everything except why. What’s going on?"

"Have you two talked to anyone else?"

"Walter," she snapped in reply. "What’s going on?"

He did not answer and she stepped pugnaciously into his personal space. Her words were clipped and harsh as she glared into his eyes.

"I want to know what you’re doing."

Their gazes locked in the dimness and the air quivered between them. Nikita clenched her teeth and set her jaw, the action not escaping Michael’s unwavering gaze.

Suddenly he dropped his eyes and reached up to massage the back of his neck.

"Nikita," he said softly, "it would be better if you did not involve yourself in this."

A thrill of nervous anticipation ran circles in her stomach as she sensed victory. She shrugged casually in agreement. "Yes. Probably. " Her voice sharpened and she reiterated, "I want to know anyway."

He looked at her for a long moment as if mentally weighing his options, then waved in the direction of a chair.

"All right."

Sitting obediently, Nikita watched him, striving to contain her impatience.

"There is a condition."

"What?" she asked warily.

"I want your word that you will take no action or involve yourself in any way without clearing your every movement in advance with me. If you do not agree to this condition, or if I think you are violating this condition, then I will see that you are transferred to an American substation for the duration of the events that will take place."

She sat in rebellious silence until he spoke again, very softly.

"This is important to me, Nikita."

Bowing her head to escape the intensity of his eyes, Nikita agreed in a low voice. "All right. I give you my word."

At this Michael came around the desk and sat in the chair at her side, an action which took her completely by surprise. She had supposed he would stand at the window, placing between them the customary distance he seemed to prefer during a serious conversation.

Then, to her utter amazement, he reached out and picked up her hand, toying with her fingers as he began to speak.

"I’ve made a deal with the devil…"

*********

Ten minutes later Michael sat in silence watching Nikita stare out the window of his office. She had listened without a word to his brief summation. She had asked no questions. Beyond an initial gasp of… anger?… disbelief?… she had shown no reaction.

Then, she had risen and gone to the window to stand with hands linked behind her back, looking out into the empty halls beyond. He watched her with a peculiar sense of detachment, as if he were observing a part of himself from some outer vantage point.

He waited for her judgement.

After long minutes Nikita turned back to him, her features composed and unreadable. Again he felt a shiver of recognition. She began to ask questions.

"Why would Madeline involve you in this?"

"She has her reasons. Testing me, perhaps. And you, indirectly. She probably knew that it would look bad for her to take command of Section when her own word removed Operations."

"How long will you be in charge?"

"I don’t know."

"Did you kill Renee?"

"No."

"Did Madeline?"

A pause. "I… don’t know."

"Do you think she has told you everything about her motives?"

"I’m sure she hasn’t."

"But you went along regardless." A statement, this time. He answered it as a question anyway.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He had dreaded this simple question. Nikita would almost certainly resent his manipulation of her circumstances, especially in this manner. But she would not appreciate any attempt to tread lightly in answering the question. Only honesty would suffice.

"I saw an opportunity. To keep you safe; to give us some kind of existence together."

She closed her eyes briefly, and for once he could not name the emotion she locked away behind her lids. She began to speak slowly and deliberately. In the stillness of his office her voice was soft but clearly audible.

"You made a deal with Madeline behind Operations’ back in circumstances she loosely describes as a crisis of priorities. As a result, Operations is in some kind of abeyance for Section heads, an internal murder investigation is going on and you are in charge of Section One. You accepted this situation without full knowledge of what Madeline’s motives and endgame might be. In exchange she sanctions our relationship and my transfer out of the field." Her gaze drilled into his eyes. "Does that about cover it?"

"Yes."

She stared at him in simple disbelief for several moments.

"I thought I’d gotten over being amazed by anything you did, Michael." She shook her head faintly. "What will you do if this all falls apart?"

"It won’t."

"How do you know you can trust Madeline?"

"I don’t."

She came around the desk then and leaned against it with arms folded. The thoughtful look on her face had a hard, calculating edge unfamiliar to him, revealing that she had already passed through incredulity, denial, indignation and anger. But he could not guess how she would ultimately decide to view the situation.

She surprised him.

"All right. Now that I know what’s going on, I have a few conditions of my own."

In the fraction of a second before he could hide his reaction, she saw it, and she pounced on it mercilessly. "What, Michael…do you think you and Madeline are the only ones who can play games? Did you think I would stay the innocent forever in here? Maybe you thought I would never dream of taking advantage of information like this?" She paused to gather her thoughts, looking at him determinedly.

"You yourself said we need to make our lives livable. Well now I see an opportunity. And I’m going to use it to make my life more livable… and the lives of everyone else I can."

"What do you want?" he asked quietly.

She hadn’t moved from her leaning position against the desk. The low light in the room etched her features in sharp relief, a disturbing contrast with her normal kind and agreeable countenance. A stubborn tone crept into her voice.

"I know that they would never consider giving me any autonomy around here, so to begin with I want you and I designated as a special projects sub-team within Section. I answer to you, not to them. I want to be involved with who we recruit and what they’re assigned to do here so they have the best possible chance to survive. And if you really want me out of the field, then I want to be involved in mission planning, to do the best I can by the people who still have to go out there."

Her chin rose defiantly as she finished. "You’ve decided that we’re going to have a life in here; I’ve decided to make it worthwhile."

He studied her intently, considering her choice of words. "Do you still want out?"

Her gaze softened, and after a short hesitation she asked in a whisper, "Would you go with me?"

He knew where her thoughts had gone; his mind had followed the same path straight to an old stone farmhouse. Precious stolen moments spent in a dream of life. The temptation to believe it possible was enormous, and he answered with reluctance.

"No. We have to find a way inside. It’s who we are now."

Nikita nodded slowly and reached out one hand, palm up. Without hesitation he took it, laced their fingers together and squeezed gently.

"Maybe this will be the way."

**********

Walter’s work area was teeming with operatives, all waiting impatiently to be outfitted. Though orderly, the group had about it an undercurrent of tension. Small talk was low and muffled, resulting only in a vague hum that vibrated the air.

"Here, Sugar," Walter called, tossing her another weapon and extra clips. Quickly she double checked them, then handed the firearm over to a waiting operative.

Walter winked as she glanced back at him. "How’d you like to be my regular assistant?" he asked, grinning. "It would sure improve the scenery around here."

Birkoff’s decryption of Phommachak’s computer files had resulted in only a single strong lead. One file had contained a lengthy list of addresses, all of which were abandoned premises. There was no alternative but to check each of them without delay. As a result, all available operatives from Section One and any useful substation were being scrambled in small teams for this massive reconnaissance effort.

"You ready, Nikita?" A burly operative stood before the workstation. "We leave in five. Madeline just gave me our assigned locations."

"I’ll be there, Spence," Nikita confirmed. "I’m just getting my gear."

Walter seated a small pack over Nikita’s shoulders and pulled her hair out of the straps. Impatiently she gathered it up herself and jerked it into an untidy knot. He was holding her sidearm out when she turned.

"You be careful, Sugar," he whispered as she tucked the gun into its holster. "We don’t know what’s really going on around here yet. When elephants fight it’s the grass that suffers," he added darkly.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. Just… watch yourself."

Impulsively, Nikita leaned forward and soundly kissed Walter’s leathery cheek.

She had not shared with Walter and Birkoff what she had learned from Michael, fearing that the knowledge would be dangerous for them. And there was still some thinking to be done… some planning.

"You’re such a worrier, Walter." She smiled fondly at him. "I’ll be fine."

Turning, she thumped the chest of the beefy operative behind her. "What could possibly get through Spence?"

Obligingly, Spence struck a muscular pose and grimaced horribly to prove his virility.

"Let’s go, Kong," Nikita laughed. With a final reassuring glance at Walter she left the room with Spence, who was all but dragging his knuckles on the floor to milk the final humor from their exchange.

Michael stood before them at the corner.

Straightening up like a jerked puppet, Spence cast a single appalled glance at Michael, mumbled "…van access" to Nikita then departed at a near run.

Nikita stopped and exchanged a long look with Michael.

"Is the devil going to get me while I’m out there?" she inquired calmly.

His reply was immediate and unequivocal.

"No."

Nodding briefly, Nikita brushed by him.

At van access Spence skulked miserably near the doorway, a ludicrous pose for a man of his size. He followed Nikita into the van and found his perch.

"Michael thinks I’m a complete asshole, right?" he said dismally.

"Nope," Nikita replied distractedly, scarcely listening as the van lurched to a start. "He thinks you have poor posture."

**********

Birkoff sat at the beating heart of com. His attention wandered outward like the many arms of an octopus, each performing a different task, the central brain registering and processing all actions as they related to each other. He had 17 teams out from Section One alone. More reporting in from substations.

Heaven. Even his stomach didn’t hurt now.

"Birkoff." Nikita’s voice summoned him from their London area location.

"Right here."

"Negative at the apartment building we just left. What are you hearing from the other teams?"

"Nothing yet," he replied. "Are you coming in now?"

"Almost. One more to check," she said in his ear. "The south side warehouse is our last location."

Birkoff frowned. South side? It didn’t sound familiar… but there was so much going on…

He was unprepared when a hand suddenly dropped onto his shoulder, driving Nikita’s words from his mind and triggering an adrenaline shock that lifted him several inches off his chair.

"Birkoff."

"Uh, hello sir."

"It’s busy around here," Operations commented conversationally. The hand squeezed.

Birkoff swallowed and looked around nervously for help. "Yes sir," he replied. "We’re busy. Very busy."

"I’d like an update."

"Now?" God, how he hated it when his voice squeaked like that.

"Why… yes. Now." Sarcasm dripped and the hand squeezed again. "Unless it’s an inconvenient time for you."

Birkoff looked up at Operations and saw the piercing eyes and lean features of a raptor waiting for the mouse to make one wrong move. His gut twisted sharply and he glanced around once more, hopelessly, for some form of rescue. Taking a deep breath he began to speak rapidly.

"We got somebody in to download data from Phommachak’s computer. We found a file of addresses. We’re checking them out right now as possible stash sites for the hostage."

"Did we pick up Phommachak as well?"

"No sir, not yet. Uh, Michael wanted to check out these locations first and try to get the hostage. He didn’t want to trigger any sort of contingency plan Phommachak might have for killing the hostage. We do have a team in place ready to pick him up after checking the addresses, whether we find anything or not."

"And where is Michael?"

"In the field, with the pickup team for Phommachak. We were so short-handed for the number of locations… but he’s monitoring all the teams… he’s up to date…"

Birkoff trailed off, feeling foolishly like he was making excuses for Michael.

But Operations just nodded. "Good. Very good." In spite of this murmured approval the hand maintained its uncomfortable grip.

"What else do we know about whoever is behind this?"

"Well… nothing."

"Nothing?" The hand was snatched away. Birkoff held his breath; he didn’t dare look up.

Then, suddenly his attention was riveted by a communication from the field.

"Put it on," Operations barked, realizing instantly what was happening.

Nikita’s voice crackled through the com link. "…have him. He’s unharmed. We’re on our way in…"

When Birkoff looked up a few minutes later, Operations was gone. Shaking his head, Birkoff returned to checking in the teams.

Unseen behind the darkened glass above, Madeline smiled.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On the other end of communications with Birkoff, Nikita wound her way cautiously out of the dank warehouse where they’d located the kidnapper’s prey. Water dripped continuously, as though somewhere there was still a pipe supplying the place, and the air was stale with disuse. Nobody but the rats and bugs had been here for a very long time. Something about the location niggled at the back of her mind…with her thoughts focused on the mission she hadn’t yet been able to identify the feeling.

Behind her Spence trod quietly, the boy bundled easily in his capable arms.

They’d found him tied securely into a straight chair in the center of a barren chamber. A thorough, silent search revealed no other indication of any human presence. The boy had been pathetically glad to see them, almost as if he’d been so completely alone that he didn’t care if they were the good guys or the bad guys. Things were adding up strangely and Nikita found her "Section sense" stepping up to alert status.

Despite her feeling that they were alone here, they maintained a quiet, careful, by-the-book exit of the warehouse. At the van Nikita took over from Spence, sending him to retrieve blankets and a medical kit in case it was needed. The boy clung to her, and she cradled his shaking, malodorous form in her arms to comfort him as best she could. So far he had not said a word.

Apart from fatigue, cold and hunger, the boy seemed to be in acceptable physical condition. Nikita wrapped him securely in the blanket and eased him down on the bench. Lulled by a sense of safety and the motion of the van, his eyes began to drift closed almost at once. Nikita stroked his forehead gently, overcome with pity, as always, for the innocent victims of the situations that made up her life now.

Although it was strictly against standard procedure, she couldn’t help asking a question before the young man was overtaken by slumber.

"Do you know who did this to you?" she asked softly, still stroking his hair. "Can you tell me what he looked like?"

His eyes opened again at once, but his awareness was not completely there as he lost his battle with sleep.

"Don’t know," he murmured in heavily accented English. "Brown hair… mask…" His voice faded with each word.

Nikita tucked the blankets in securely. She hadn’t really expected to learn anything, just wanted to feel some connection with the kid. Actually she was surprised he spoke English. Gently she patted his arm, then laid her head on the edge of the bench, still trying to identify the lurking thought in the back of her mind.

Then she knew. The address. She recognized it from a project she’d helped Birkoff with some weeks earlier. A list of possible staging sites was always kept updated for strategic metropolitan areas; she’d helped to review the locations and assign viability factors to each. She hadn’t been here in person; but she was positive the address had been on Section’s list.

When she rose from her crouching position next to the boy he roused slightly, and she had to bend over to hear the murmured words. An instant later she was sitting flat on the floor, confusion and black suspicion growing malignantly in her mind. What had Spence said – and she had paid no attention? "Madeline gave me our assigned locations."

"…small like me… almost like…" the boy’s eyes fell shut as he breathed out the last two words.

"…a lady."

***********

He seethed with anger, striving to contain and hide it from her as he stood over her desk. "And why hasn’t this been cleared yet?" he asked with exaggerated patience.

"Something came up in the autopsy that was questionable. They’re working on finding an explanation."

His control weakened and he snapped at her. "What – they can’t perform a simple autopsy at Oversight any more?"

Madeline looked at him reprovingly and delayed a moment before answering.

"The poison was piggybacked on a designer drug. Apparently Renee was a recreational user." She glanced at him obliquely. "Were you aware of that?"

He shook his head. "No. We never spent time… getting to know each other." She pursed her lips thoughtfully and looked back at him until he turned his eyes away.

"Don’t try to make me feel like guilty schoolboy, Madeline. It won’t work."

"Of course not," she replied smoothly. "However, until Oversight is satisfied as to how this poison got into Renee’s possession you will not be in the clear."

"Have they brought in her source?"

"Not yet. Naturally she kept that aspect of her life carefully guarded from Oversight."

He changed the subject abruptly. "How is Michael doing?"

Madeline smiled tolerantly. "Very well. He’s made a few changes… nothing I disagree with. He did a brilliant job recovering Phommachak and the kidnap victim. I believe he handled it as well as anyone could have."

She rose from her chair and moved to pluck a miniscule bit of something from one of the silent bonsai. "You know, Paul," she went on. "You really should not have spoken to Birkoff about that mission." She paused and looked at him pointedly. "Oversight may find it necessary to remove you from the premises altogether."

She watched his jaw muscles flex as he clenched his teeth. At his temple a tiny vein began to pulse fiercely.

With great effort he forced himself to relax and finally sat down in one of the chairs opposite her desk. Madeline picked up a small spray bottle and began to mist selectively.

"Has the young man been returned to his father?" he inquired casually.

"He has," Madeline replied.

"Who did Phommachak name as his employer for the job?"

Madeline stopped with her bottle and turned to look at him. "No one. Unfortunately Mr. Phommachak died under questioning before revealing the name of his employer."

"Died?" Operations repeated incredulously. That sort of carelessness was unknown in Section. "Who interrogated him?"

"I did," she replied, still looking at him. She waited, her silence almost challenging him to accuse her of incompetence.

He gazed back at her through narrowed eyes. "What happened, exactly?"

Madeline paused as if considering. "Technically, of course, I should not be discussing an ongoing situation with you..."

"Spare me the sermon, Madeline."

"...but I understand your level of frustration with the – circumstances." She gave him a small, saccharine smile before going on.

"It seems that Mr. Phommachak had some sort of dental implant. A technique we seldom see any more…but effective nevertheless. He simply activated the poison in the implant and killed himself before he could be thoroughly interrogated."

She gave a tiny shrug. "We learned nothing."

"So we can’t deliver the true kidnapper. How has that impacted the political situation?"

"It is resolving itself. Slowly. Now that the young man is back in the bosom of his family much of the pressure has been reduced."

He sat quietly for a moment, looking at her but seeing nothing. "That situation had the potential to kill millions," he said finally.

"Yes," she replied indifferently. "It looks very good for Michael that such a predicament was resolved on his watch." She paused significantly. "And not very good for you."

"Are you trying to say that I’m dispensable, Madeline?" he asked quietly. "You don’t need to state the obvious."

As they looked at each other silently, a tone from Madeline’s computer indicated the approach of a visitor. She glanced at her monitor for their identity.

"Why don’t we continue this discussion later?" It wasn’t really a question.

When the door slid open, Operations stared for a brief moment into Nikita’s surprised face. Then with a curt nod, he stepped past her and walked away.

Nikita stood waiting, an impassive Michael behind her.

"Come in."

With Operations gone, there was certainly no need for the formality of excusing an interruption. They entered the office and Nikita sat down in the chair just vacated by Operations. It was still warm… an uncomfortable sensation.

"Yes?" Madeline could sense nervousness in Nikita, but nothing from Michael A sudden twinge of intuition warned her of… something.

"I’d like to make a deal with you, Madeline," Nikita said calmly.

Madeline sat down and folded her hands. "A deal?"

"I know what you’re doing." The statement was delivered in a low, matter-of-fact voice. Nikita’s eyes did not waver from Madeline. Beside her, Michael sat as if carved from stone.

Madeline glanced briefly from Nikita to Michael. Inwardly her mind was racing through every possible contingency and reaction. If Michael had indeed revealed their conversation to Nikita, then she had a made a grave error in her assumptions.

"If that’s true, why are you talking to me instead of Oversight?"

"I nearly did go to Oversight," Nikita admitted. "I still have trouble believing that even you could be so cold-blooded as to do what you’ve done."

"What you think I’ve done," Madeline corrected. "And just what is it you think has happened?"

"I know you had Michael change the data files to trip up Operations at the Oversight review meetings, then change them back so even he couldn’t be sure what had happened. I know Renee is dead and that you are probably responsible for it. I don’t know all the details, but I do know that in exchange for Michael’s cooperation and silence you offered him… something he wanted."

"Your life, Nikita. He wanted you out of the field... and in his bed," she added with deliberate crudeness.

Nikita gazed at her unblinkingly.

"But there’s more, isn’t there, Madeline."

Michael turned his head and looked at Nikita. Clearly this was news to him as well.

"The boy we pulled out of the warehouse, the kidnap "victim"," her voice lowered sarcastically on the last word. "He said some interesting things to me in the van. Something about his kidnapper being small, like him." Her eyes narrowed and she hissed the final words. "Like a lady, he said."

Nikita rose and leaned over the desk. Rage and indignation emanated from her in palpable waves.

"We found him in a Section staging location," she said. "But you didn’t know that I knew that. And you sent me there yourself, didn’t you? To make sure that the boy would be found safely." She relished Madeline’s expression of veiled surprise. And… admiration?

"How could you risk an incident like that, Madeline?" she asked in a half-whispered tone of disbelief. "What could possibly be important enough to terrorize that child and risk open nuclear conflict?" Her eyes searched Madeline’s face in genuine puzzlement. "Tell me… I’d really like to hear what you thought was so important that you’d risk all that."

"Are you so sure I did?"

Nikita waited. Madeline said nothing more.

"That’s it? You expect me to be satisfied with that?"

"Yes," Madeline replied composedly.

Nikita straightened up and looked disdainfully at Madeline. "I don’t think so," she said quietly. "Here’s the deal." She pause and crossed her arms.

"I will decide whether or not to go to Oversight with what I know, or to simply hold it over your head for my possible future use." She threw a narrow glance at Michael as if considering including him in this threat. "As for the changes in my duties, if Michael wants me out of the field – fine. But I’m going to add some of my own conditions. "

Madeline smiled coldly. "Very good Nikita. Actually I think this little arrangement could serve to strengthen the working relationship between the two of you." Her smile became thin and malevolent. "All trust and no control makes for a shallow alliance."

"Michael and I don’t need leverage over each other to work together."

Madeline raised her eyebrows delicately. "That’s touching. Do you mean to tell me that you trust everything he has told you about the extent of his involvement with recent events? With the kidnapping you accuse me of?"

"Yes." The word, though delivered promptly, lacked complete conviction. She didn’t dare look at Michael, who sat beside her in unreadable silence. The ugly suspicion crept over her that, once more, she was negotiating a test maze under Madeline’s critical eye.

Madeline’s expression revealed none of the self-satisfaction she felt. She’d planted a seed of doubt. It was enough.

"I’m impressed, Nikita. Although I suspect Michael had no intention at first of ever telling you anything, you have accepted it and found a way to use it for yourself. Congratulations."

"Not for myself," Nikita corrected coldly.

"However you choose to view it," Madeline said, dismissing this with a dainty shrug. "Let’s discuss your conditions."

**********

It was late and they lay quietly in bed.

On the floor were half-empty wine glasses and an untouched plate of finger food they’d assembled earlier in the night. Neither could sleep.

Nikita lay on her side of the bed, silently staring at the ceiling and feeling Michael’s gaze upon her. Finally she turned her head and looked into his eyes.

"What?" he asked.

She took her time answering. "Did Madeline kidnap that boy?"

"I don’t know... it’s possible."

"Did you help her?"

"No." He wanted to touch her, but restrained himself firmly. "Is that what you believe?"

A long silence spun out between them, broken only by the sound of their breathing and occasional vague traffic noise from the streets below.

"I don’t know what to believe," she replied honestly. "Even when I think we’re working together you have your own agenda… it’s impossible to know the truth."

She turned her eyes back to the ceiling. "Making a deal with Madeline was a huge risk, Michael. If Operations found out – and he still could – you’d be canceled."

Gently then, with one finger, he traced the line of her cheek. "I know."

This simple admission, unadorned with any declaration of love or self-sacrifice struck Nikita to the core. She felt her anger dissolving and looked over at him once more.

"I wish…" she began sadly. She stopped. There was no point in voicing that wish.

Deep inside she felt a tiny, visceral tug as an abandoned dream broke loose and drifted away. She was afraid she might weep if Michael said anything.

He seemed to understand, and did not pursue her suspended thought, simply continuing to softly stroke the curve of her face. After a few moments she asked a question that had been bothering her since the beginning.

"Did Madeline tell you why she did this to Operations?"

"No."

"You must have wondered," Nikita persisted. She turned on her side to face him. "What do you think it was about? Power?" His fingers followed her cheek to her jaw, then down her neck, lingering deliciously at the base of her throat.

"Revenge?" He leaned in slowly, his green gaze hypnotic as a cobra’s.

"Jealousy?" Slowly he pushed the sheet down past her shoulders, then down past her hips, following its path relentlessly with his hand. "Influence?"

As she gave up awareness of everything but his touch, his mouth and his heat, one final whisper made its way into her consciousness. She was unsure whether it was her own thoughts or his voice.

"Control…"

**********

The door slid back and Operations strode briskly into the office. His step, his demeanor, the very air about him seemed to convey a sense of gratification. He was pleased to be on the job once more.

"Good morning," Madeline greeted him. "It’s good to see you back." Her smile was genuine, she truly did enjoy his presence.

"Coffee?"

He nodded, then sat in his accustomed place across from her. She poured the coffee solicitously, in perfect accordance with his tastes.

"Have you seen the report George sent this morning?"

"No," he replied interestedly, taking a sip of the coffee. "I haven’t had a chance yet."

"I think you’ll find it absorbing reading."

He waited. "Oh?" he finally prompted.

Madeline finished her tea and returned the delicate cup precisely into its saucer. "Yes. The designer drug found in Renee’s autopsy was so specialized that George was able to trace it back to an individual. This individual, as it happens, has confessed both to being her lover and to her murder. I handled his interrogation myself."

Operations’ face was a study in suppressed reactions. The embarrassment any man feels when learning he is not the only lover; his relief that someone else had now confessed to the crime. Although George had more or less allowed him to remain free, it had galled him immeasurably to be relieved of command. The dark pall of suspicion could now be lifted.

"Why did he kill her?" he asked, reaching out to spread butter over a flaky, golden croissant.

"Ah… that is where it becomes even more interesting. The dealer is involved in some other sidelines - assassination, extortion…" she paused significantly, "…kidnapping."

His eyes narrowed in thought as he quickly made the connections. "The Indian politician’s son?"

Madeline nodded slightly in acknowledgement. "It’s likely. The boy had described his kidnapper as being of slight build, feminine. It’s possible that through the influence of drugs or emotions this dealer convinced her to become involved with the job, then killed her to break the link to himself. George’s people are still working on that aspect of his interrogation. Offering this theory to the boy’s father has eased tensions considerably between India and Pakistan."

Briefly Operations considered the situation, then shrugged dismissively as he chewed. "Well, it’s a waste. Renee had a lot of talent and a bright future."

Madeline’s smiled a small, secret smile. "Yes," she commented, in a tone that meant exactly the opposite.

"Are you clear with George now?" she inquired, guilelessly changing the subject.

"Not for a while," he replied in disgust. "He’ll be watching my every move and trying to micro-manage at any opportunity." He sipped at his coffee. "He’d have done that anyway even without Renee’s death – after that last review meeting. I intend to pursue that with Birkoff."

Madeline sighed in anticipation. Time for the unpleasantries.

"Yes," she said smoothly. "It’s almost as if someone changed those files."

He looked at her. The words hung between them, hovering over the desk like a cloud of some noxious vapor. She could almost hear the thoughts careening through his mind.

"And Renee’s circumstances are also unusual," she went on in a thoughtful tone.

"I’ve known her for years and have never suspected her of being a recreational drug user. She must have been incredibly resourceful to pull that off under the very eyes of Oversight."

In the reverberating silence that ensued Operations’ face drained of all emotion. Sitting absolutely still, he could have been a wax figure instead of a man.

Madeline poured herself a fresh cup of tea, taking time to stir and dissolve the sugar thoroughly. She glanced up at him.

"Oh, by the way. George has approved special projects sub-team status for Michael and Nikita. You know, they’ve worked together admirably under these circumstances. It gives me great hope for the future." She leaned back comfortably in her chair. "They actually remind me of you and I when we began."

His face reflected none of the fond reminiscence in her tone, only irritation.

"George approved what?"

Madeline went on as if he had not spoken. "This experience has been very good for them, in my opinion. They’ve learned something about working together. And they’ve begun to strike a balance of power between themselves."

He did not fail to miss the choice of emphasis in her words. His eyes shot up to her face and his expression was suddenly galvanized by suspicion and fury.

"Is that what all this was about?" he whispered.

"You know," she went on, "Michael and Nikita have the potential to be a brilliant team if they maintain their balance of power. It would be a shame if they couldn’t trust each other." Her tone was regretful. "Why, one would never know when the other might be doing something to sabotage them. It could happen at any time."

She looked at him pointedly. "And no one can be prepared all the time, can they, Paul?" She smiled. "But as long as they preserve the equilibrium they’ll have nothing to worry about." She tilted her head. "Do you see what I mean, Paul?"

Wordlessly, he nodded. She had removed him from power. She had set him up for serious consequences. Then she had restored the status quo. Her point was clearly made.

Recovering a little, he leaned back into the chair and shook his head ruefully.

"I’m flattered that you’d go to so much bother on my account."

"You should be."

"And I’m very impressed," he went on, "that you saw an opportunity to also utilize this as a training exercise for Michael and Nikita. That took courage and foresight."

"Thank you," Madeline acknowledged graciously.

He put the last of the croissant in his mouth and chewed appreciatively. They eyed one another without expression, each considering the possible next step.

At last Operations dropped his napkin onto the table and pushed his chair back.

"It was nice having breakfast with you again, Madeline." He was taking the business-as-usual approach.

She nodded, allowing him to reach the door before calling out. "Paul?"

He paused and looked back.

"Christopher is making a new lamb dish tonight that you simply must try." He heard the inflexible tone in her voice, saw the veiled satisfaction on her face and understood that this was not a simple cuisine comment. Realization began to dawn on him that it was not going to be business as usual.

"Madeline…" he began.

She wished for just an instant that she was standing next to him so she could reach up and stroke his face for a perfect duplication of the moment that festered in her mind. But then, she would have missed this perfect view of his expression.

"It was never that I didn’t want to be with you, Paul."

"This isn’t…"

"In the tower, Paul. Tonight, ten o’clock."

She smiled.

The End

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