Nikita sat, lost in thought, as images from the latest mission flashed across her computer screen. Bullet-riddled bodies in an alley. A burning car. A blood-soaked room.

So much death, she thought. Why doesn’t this get any easier?

It had been over two years since she took control of Section One. Two years of carefully implemented changes, designed to steer the organization back to some semblance of humanity. No more forced recruitment. No more abeyance pools. No more mind control or twisted medical experiments. And yet the average life expectancy of Section operatives hadn’t increased. Instead, mission death tolls had risen, while the bureaucrats Nikita answered to demanded results.

Results, percentages, she thought bitterly, that’s all they care about. We’re not people to them, just numbers in their database.

A noise from her doorway interrupted her thoughts.

"Operations?"

"Yes, Quinn?"

Quinn walked briskly into the office. "There’s been another incident."

Nikita stood, stiff after so long at the computer, and walked across the room to stand next to her subordinate. "What now?"

"The August 12 Group’s North African headquarters. It’s been totally destroyed, with no apparent survivors."

Nikita frowned. For almost a year and a half, terrorist organizations monitored by Section One had been the victims of sudden, mysterious attacks, often preempting Section missions by mere days. The pace of these unexplained attacks had increased sharply in recent months, but had failed to fit any discernable pattern.

"We’ve got to get a handle on this," Nikita said, shaking her head. "I want a complete analysis of each of these attacks. Look for anything they might have in common, from potential motivation to the tactics employed. We need to know if this is friend or foe."

"I’ll get right on it," said Quinn, who then turned and left.

Nikita studied Quinn as she departed. Quinn was efficient and reliable, but something in her manner always conveyed a mocking challenge to Nikita’s authority. At times, Nikita wondered if she read too much into this -- after all, Quinn was curt and dismissive toward everyone as a rule. However, Quinn was also one of the few people remaining in Section who knew the circumstances of Nikita’s rise to power. In fact, she was the only one who knew the entire story.

As agents for Center, Nikita and Quinn had worked together from the day Quinn arrived in Section, helping each other to carry out Center’s mandate for change. Their cooperation had been secret, even after both were revealed as Center agents, and had required a pretense of hostility. A pretense that Quinn had always seemed quite enthusiastic about, Nikita recalled wryly. In her own way, Quinn had taken on risks equal to Nikita’s, but unlike Nikita, she had not been rewarded. Nikita moved to the Perch; Quinn remained in Comm. Nikita couldn’t help but wonder if the other woman harbored some resentment.

Nikita sighed. There was no time to engage in this kind of worrying. So long as Quinn did her job, Nikita would have to be satisfied. It wasn’t Quinn’s fault that she couldn’t be the partner Nikita needed.

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

A dark-haired man in a business suit sipped coffee from a disposable cup as he clicked through his morning email. The sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his modern office, gleaming off the glass and metal furniture.

The telephone intercom on his desk beeped. "Mr. Wright?"

"Yes?"

"The Executive Director is on the line for you."

"Thank you. Put her through, please."

He turned away from his email and quickly straightened his tie. Funny, he thought, smiling to himself, she can’t even see me and I’m still compelled to do that.

The telephone beeped again, and he picked up the receiver. "Good morning," he said cheerfully.

"Good morning, David. How are you?"

"Busy," he chuckled. "And you?"

"Very pleased," his employer answered. "I understand our business in North Africa went well."

Recognizing that the pleasantries were over, David became alert. "Everything took place exactly as planned. We brought back computer files as well as," he paused for a moment to find the right term, "selected personnel."

"Have they been helpful?" His employer’s voice was disarmingly casual, yet laser-focused.

"They were somewhat reluctant at first, but after experiencing our hospitality they’ve been quite enthusiastic about providing information," he replied, as blandly as possible.

"We confirmed their plans?" The voice was cool, steady.

"Yes. We intervened just in time. Had we waited another week it would have been a disaster."

Pleased with his response, she lightened her tone. "Will you have a problem delivering a full report by the end of the day?"

"Not at all."

"Excellent. I’ll be in touch soon to let you know if we need to assign anyone to do follow up. Thank you again, David."

"You’re welcome, Madeline."

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

The whine of a guitar solo pierced the air in the tiny kitchenette. Sitting at a chipped formica table, a thin middle-aged man grimaced and reached over to a CD player to lower the volume. The man, unshaven and dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, then returned his attention to his pepperoni pizza slice. Detaching a string of cheese dangling from his mouth, he looked up expectantly as a man in his twenties entered from the hallway. The young man slammed a manila folder onto the table.

"The whole building was leveled," the younger man said angrily. "I don’t know if we’ll ever identify which bodies are which."

The older man wiped his fingers on a paper towel, opened the folder, and began leafing through the photographs contained inside. "Damn it, Karl, this is going to set back our activities in the Middle East for at least a year." He continued looking at the photographs, scowling as he did so. Then he threw the folder across the room, spraying the photos in every direction. "Who the hell did this?"

Karl scratched his beard. "Judging by the methods, I’d say Section One."

"The bastards. They think they’re untouchable."

Karl looked down at his colleague for a moment, and then straddled a chair to join him at the table.

"You know, Barry, there may be a way to get to them after all."

The older man cocked his head. "What?"

"I’ve got sources who tell me that they’ve started letting agents go."

"What do you mean?"

"Setting people free. When someone gets old, or doesn’t work out, they’ve been letting them back out into the world. And I think I have a line on where some of them are."

Barry chewed on a fingernail, thinking over this information. He made a face and shook his head. "That doesn’t make any sense. Section One kills their operatives for getting the flu, for God’s sake. If they’re leaving people vulnerable, it’s got to be a trap."

"I don’t think so." Karl leaned forward and spoke intently. "Look, they had a bloodbath over there a couple of years ago. They don’t have any experienced leadership left. I think we can take advantage of that."

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

Walter sat back in his deck chair, eyeing the clouds on the horizon as he sipped his beer. Damn, he thought. It’s going to rain tonight and I haven’t finished painting this old rustbucket. Why the hell did I decide to retire on a houseboat, anyway?

He looked at his watch. At least I get dinner with a lovely lady in an hour, he thought, smiling to himself. He stood up and took the steps down below to find a fresh shirt.

Across the marina, a man lowered his binoculars and dialed his cell phone. "The target’s ready."

Karl’s voice responded. "Proceed."

The man ended the telephone conversation, made a hand signal, and watched as a white delivery truck moved into place at the entrance to the marina.

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

Jason and Quinn sat waiting at the briefing table. Jason fidgeted, tapping his palms on the table lightly and swiveling his chair, while Quinn looked at him with distaste.

Noticing this interaction, Nikita approached the table and sat down across from them. "I hope you have something," she said, her expression expectant.

"Well," began Jason, straightening in his chair, "our analysis hasn’t shown a whole lot."

"What do we know?" Nikita tried to suppress her growing impatience.

Jason and Quinn looked at each other as if neither wanted to answer.

Quinn cleared her throat. "Each attack has been against a group actively planning an assault on a civilian target," she answered. "The attacks are thorough and ruthless. They don’t leave survivors, and they usually destroy the physical location as well. Because of that, they don’t leave many traces for us to go by."

"Witnesses?" Nikita asked.

Jason looked uncomfortable. "Some of the deaths seem to be innocent bystanders. I guess that’s what they do to witnesses."

Nikita grimaced. This was worse than she thought. "What about motivation? Whose interests are the attacks serving?"

"That’s the hard part," Jason replied. "The attacks have been all over the map. They can’t be narrowed down to any one country’s national interests. That’s why we don’t think it’s the CIA or any other friendly agency. In addition to the fact that they all deny being involved, of course."

"What about another terrorist organization? Getting rid of rivals?"

Quinn shook her head. "It’s possible, but not very likely. The timing of the attacks suggests that the motivation has more to do with preventing terrorist incidents than with eliminating the organizations per se. It would have to be a pretty altruistic terrorist group." Quinn paused, and looked Nikita in the eye. "So far as we can tell, whoever is behind this has the same motivation as Section One. Stopping terrorism."

Nikita stood up, angry. "I can’t accept that." She looked back and forth from Quinn to Jason. "Maybe that’s just what they want it to look like. They could be staging things deliberately to make it look like us so that their identity isn’t revealed." She began to pace. "What if they had access to our system? They could find out who we were targeting and could use that to create this pattern you’re describing."

"For what purpose?" Quinn asked, not even bothering to disguise the skepticism in her voice.

"To throw suspicion on us, and avoid retaliation against them," Nikita answered, staring at Quinn. She then stopped pacing, and turned to Jason. "Jason, I want you to do a complete search of all communications to the outside over the past year. See if you turn up any leaks or other anomalies."

"Will do." Jason smiled.

"And Jason," she added, "next time, don’t wait for me to tell you what to search. If you were doing your job, you would have reviewed those communications when I first asked for this analysis."

Jason’s smile vanished.

Nikita gave Quinn one last cold look, and then departed. The meeting had infuriated her. Were Quinn and Jason that inept, or were they just lazy? Here a serious potential threat to Section One was developing, and they were content to believe that it was some mystery benefactor helping them out. Well, what they believed was irrelevant. Didn’t they realize that it was her job to do the thinking, and their job to follow orders?

That last thought stopped her in her tracks. Good God, she reflected in horror, I’m starting to sound just like Paul Wolfe.

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

Madeline finished tying the wire on the bonsai and stepped back to examine it. Satisfied, she put away her tools and sat on a stool she had brought out onto the patio. She glanced down at the row of potted trees, admiring their diversity. Fifteen bonsai were perhaps a bit too much to train at once, she thought, yet she was pleased with their progress. Of course, she had only had a short time with them so far, and each would be a life’s work. They were developing slowly, but that was as it should be.

Her organization, on the other hand, had progressed more quickly than her wildest hopes. To her delight, it was already larger than Section One had ever been. She had deliberately rejected Section’s bureaucratic administration, and instead had opted for something more intricate, less military. She operated through layers of front organizations -- businesses, charities, research institutes -- all comingling ‘legitimate’ activities with the covert ones. Many of her operatives had no idea who they really worked for, and those who did had been thoroughly indoctrinated. Even their enemies didn’t know that they existed -- not yet, at least. Soon, they would, but by then it wouldn't matter.

It was all thanks to George and Nikita, she reflected with amusement. If George hadn’t been so difficult to kill, or if Nikita had been better at hiding her relationship to Center, things might have been very different. She smiled, remembering the event that triggered it all -- an assassination attempt on George that had failed miserably.

***

Paul and Madeline stood in the Perch, drinking their champagne silently. She avoided looking at him, intent on trying to calm the churning nausea in her stomach. George was still alive, and they might as well have signed their own cancellation orders. It didn’t matter that George would never be able to prove that the assassination attempt had come from them. He would know, and his retaliation would be swift.

Staring out the window over Section, Paul mused aloud, "How did things come to this?"

Madeline frowned slightly, puzzled by the question. The path to their current predicament seemed all too obvious to her.

Paul sighed. "All I ever wanted was to be allowed to do my job. No," he corrected, "for us to do our jobs. Instead, we’re forced to spend our time fighting off one attack after another. Adrian trying to destroy Section. George trying to exact revenge. And then Center’s little spy trying to orchestrate a takeover by Michael."

He looked down at his glass for a moment, and then looked at Madeline. His pale blue eyes were full of something she had never seen before, and had trouble identifying. Hurt? Disappointment? Defeat?

His voice shook with barely controlled anger. "We’ve given our lives to this place. We deserve better than this."

Madeline looked at him sadly. "I know."

They fell silent again, while Paul refilled their empty glasses.

Madeline looked out the window, observing operatives walking across the floor below. "The problem is that neither Adrian nor George could ever accept the possibility that someone else might do a better job running their creation," she said, and then took a sip from her glass.

"They couldn’t get used to the idea that Section no longer belonged to them," Paul said, nodding in agreement.

She frowned slightly. "But then it’s never truly belonged to us either."

He looked at her, his expression perplexed.

"We’ve had to work with what we inherited," she explained. "Their structure. Their rules. Their hierarchy. It’s held us back." She paused, and allowed a trace of wistfulness to enter her voice. "I’ve often wondered what we would have created had we had the luxury of starting our own organization."

A sudden look of enlightenment rippled across his face, and he set his glass down. "It’s not too late to find out."

Madeline blinked in surprise, but said nothing.

Animated, Paul started pacing. "There’s nothing for us here. Even if we eventually deal with George, we’ll still be under the control of Center. And Nikita’s behavior toward us over the past few years makes it clear that Center doesn’t recognize our value. We’ll never be allowed to implement our plans for the Agency."

Madeline knew the answer before she even spoke, but her shock at what he was suggesting compelled her to put it in words. "What are you saying?"

He stopped pacing, stepped toward her, and gripped her shoulders with his hands. His eyes pierced hers. "We could leave, Madeline, and start over. We could create something even better than Section One."

Madeline’s hand tightened around her glass as she slowly, almost imperceptibly, drew a deep breath. Paul released his grip and stepped back, studying her face for a hint of her reaction. But her expression remained blank.

After a long pause, she spoke softly. "We would have to set it up very carefully."

Paul grinned. He picked up his glass and took a long drink. "Of course," he said. "In fact, we’d have to convince everyone that we were --"

"Dead," she finished for him. They looked at each other knowingly.

"How hard would that be?" he asked.

"That depends. We’ll have cooperation from Housekeeping. I’ve ensured that they’re quite loyal -- to me personally."

Paul smiled and raised his eyebrows at this remark.

Ignoring his reaction, she continued. "And I can create some additional incentives to guarantee their silence afterwards. The challenge is in choosing a time and method that would be convincing."

"Any ideas?"

"We’ll have to go one at a time. It would look too suspicious otherwise."

"Agreed. And you’ll be the first."

Madeline frowned. "Why?"

"Without you, I still have control over Section. But without me, you’re vulnerable. Besides, someone needs to start laying the groundwork for our new organization. You know I’m not good at that sort of thing."

Conceding his point, she continued. "Well, then, for me there are several alternatives. It’s best if it takes place within Section, so that we can maintain complete control over all the variables. But it could be almost anything -- an illness, an accident, cancellation --"

"Cancellation?"

"On your orders, of course." She smiled softly. "And after an appropriate argument. There’s also suicide or murder. But it’s too early to decide on anything specific at this point. For you, in contrast, it’s better if it takes place outside Section. That way I’ll be able to provide assistance if anything goes wrong."

She pondered the scenario further. "Once we’re both safely outside, however --"

"We’ll need funds." This time he anticipated her thoughts.

"Exactly." She nodded. "We certainly won’t be able to tap into Section’s sources." Her lips twisted slightly upwards in amusement.

"Developing our own network of sponsors will be time-consuming."

"We’ll need to develop relationships with like-minded people. Cultivate them, and win them over. But to build up to a viable level could take years."

He took another drink of champagne, as she examined his expression. She could almost see his mind working. "There is a short-term solution," he said, with a mischievous smile.

"Turn to our enemies?"

Paul laughed. "We seem to be reading each other’s minds tonight." The doubt and disappointment that she had seen in his face earlier had vanished. In its place, she saw clarity, purpose, a spark of life. She hadn’t seen him look like that in years -- not since before he was Operations, not since the days when, with a look like that from him, she would follow him anywhere without question.

Madeline smiled, this time warmly.

"Yes," Paul continued. "Turn to our enemies, convince them we've switched sides, and then destroy them when we no longer need them."

"Whom do you suggest?"

"Red Cell. They’re extremely well-funded," he said confidently.

"But Section monitors their financial transactions very carefully," she countered. "Moreover, if we approach Red Cell it could very easily leak back to Section. As you know, Red Cell is riddled with double-agents."

"We could bypass them and go directly to their sponsors. As much as Section knows about Red Cell, I’m certain they have some financial sources that Section hasn’t uncovered yet. And Red Cell doesn’t have to know what we’re doing. In fact, it might be better that way. After all, Red Cell might get a little jealous if we start talking to their backers," he smiled slyly.

"We’ll have to identify those sources without alerting Section to their existence, and without Red Cell learning what we’re doing." She was still dubious.

Paul sighed. "Yes, it’s tricky." Bold ideas were his strong point, not details. Of course, she recognized, that was her job.

She studied the bubbles in her glass, her mind busily turning over one option after another. She rejected each almost immediately. Then, as one idea floated into focus, she grew calm. "There might be a way."

"Go on." He looked intrigued.

"If we could find a way to get me to a Red Cell location -- for a legitimate Section mission -- I could search Red Cell’s system for information. Information that I would not share with Section when I returned."

"That’s easier said than done. What kind of excuse could we use for sending you instead of a regular field operative?"

"We could make sure that the nature of the mission was important or unusual enough to require my presence. And as for convincing Red Cell to allow me there, I could pretend to defect. Or we could contrive a reason for a temporary truce and negotiating session. Anything that would get me on site long enough to find something."

"And as long as Section believed that you were on a legitimate mission, no one would suspect that you had a secondary purpose for being there."

"Precisely." She glanced at him, with some humor in her eyes, before her expression grew grave. "I’ll need some time to develop an appropriate profile. It has to work perfectly." She refused to let her mind dwell on the consequences of failure. Such a mission, with the risk of discovery of her real activities by either Red Cell or Section, could be the most dangerous she would ever undertake.

Paul regarded her thoughtfully. Although she had tried to hide her apprehension, her face must somehow have betrayed her. "It sounds too dangerous, Madeline."

She looked at him calmly. "This whole idea is dangerous, Paul. For that matter, staying here and waiting for George to retaliate or Center to remove us is dangerous."

"True." Despite his verbal agreement, he looked stricken, as if he had only just comprehended the full enormity of what he had asked her to do.

He turned away to pick up the champagne bottle, noticed it was empty, and set it down.

"We seem to have finished the bottle." He smiled faintly, trying to look casual. But then he caught her eye, and concern flooded his face. He stepped forward, took her chin in his hand, and looked deeply into her eyes. "Are you certain that you want to do this?"

"Very."

His hand moved to stroke her cheek, as she became acutely aware of her rising pulse. Then, as if in slow motion, he leaned in and kissed her softly. And for the first time in a long time, she found herself kissing him back.

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

Nikita paced back and forth in the Perch, berating herself for losing her temper with Jason and Quinn. You have to remember why you're here, she thought. You’re supposed to give Section back its humanity, bring about your father’s dream. If she lost sight of that, her father’s death would be in vain, as would the sacrifices of so many others. Including her own sacrifice: Michael.

How she missed him. Her feelings went beyond anything she could put into words, almost beyond conscious thought. Rather, they coalesced into a dull ache that she carried with her every waking moment.

She was so alone. It wasn’t just Michael she missed. She missed having anyone to share her feelings and worries with, anyone to confide in. Years ago, when she couldn’t talk to Michael, she had Birkoff and Walter to turn to. But no longer. Birkoff’s death she had never fully recovered from. As for Walter, she had given him the only gift she had to offer -- his freedom. No matter how much she wished for his cheerful presence, she couldn’t deny him that.

There was no one else in Section who even came close to replacing these friends. Now, it was too late to make new ones. As Operations, she was feared by the operatives. Not in the way that Paul Wolfe had been feared -- as a tyrant arbitrarily wielding the power of life and death -- but rather as authority figures are always viewed: as someone with the power to render judgments, even fair ones.

She didn’t even have the support of a second-in-command. Although Oversight urged her to appoint one, and even suggested Quinn, Nikita felt that no one was truly qualified. Instead, in her absence, command rotated through all the Level 5 operatives. She realized that this made her isolated, perhaps dangerously so, but couldn’t think of an alternative.

Her intercom beeped. "Operations?" Quinn called.

"Yes?"

"There’s an incoming message." Quinn’s voice registered uncharacteristic concern. "It’s from the August 12 Group."

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

Paul settled back in the limousine as it pulled away from the airport and onto the rain-soaked highway toward his home. He smiled to himself, reflecting on how well his trip had gone. A few rounds of golf, some Cuban cigars, a bit of drinking and backslapping, and voila -- enough money to open a new substation. He was still a bit shocked at how good he was at this.

These private benefactors never knew exactly what their money was going toward, and wanted to keep it that way. But there were always strings attached -- personal favors to be granted, business deals to be influenced. And Paul made sure to deliver what they wanted, within reason. If they ever became too demanding, or got too greedy, well, they could be dealt with.

He suspected this latest financial backer might eventually grow too demanding. Paul had disliked him from the instant he met him. No, even before that -- from the moment he first heard the man’s name: Leon Alberti. Leon -- a name Paul held a special distaste for. Like his namesake, this Leon was stupidly arrogant. Perhaps, Paul thought with a certain amount of grim satisfaction, Leon Alberti would someday meet his namesake’s fate as well. But not before the wire transfer, he laughed to himself.

***

Leon. Paul still remembered how Madeline had proposed that insane idea. She brought it up during lunch -- taken, as had become their habit at the time, outside of Section. Once they discovered that George had reinstalled his bugs, the outside was the only place where they could still speak freely. But even there, they had to be cautious. That day, they chose to eat in a park, sitting on the edge of a fountain. The cascading water was noisy enough, they hoped, to interfere with any surveillance. But it was an uncomfortable choice. The breeze kept blowing the spray into Paul’s face, which irritated him tremendously. Unfortunately, the conversation did little to improve his mood.

"I think I’ve found a way to get to Red Cell," Madeline said, fixing him with her dark gaze. Her expression betrayed nothing, but he knew from her voice that she was not talking about a mission for Section.

"Really?" He took a bite of his sandwich, studying her carefully.

"I’ve narrowed down the location of Red Cell’s chief strategist. I think we’re within days of capturing him."

"Leon?"

She nodded, looking triumphant. But Paul failed to see the significance of this information.

"Eliminating him would cripple Red Cell, but how does it help us?"

"I noticed something in his psychological profile. I think it opens up an interesting opportunity." She arched an eyebrow to emphasize the adjective.

"How so?"

"According to all of our sources, Leon is obsessed with me," she said, as she picked at her fruit salad fastidiously.

Paul frowned. He didn’t like where this was going.

"I’ve worked up a profile. Have a look." She handed him a PDA.

He put down his sandwich and read the profile, growing increasingly upset. When he finished, he looked up at her in astonishment. "I can’t allow this."

"You see a flaw in the profile?" Her face was a mask, but her eyes sparked in anger.

"Several." He stared back at her, refusing to back down. "First, the post-thalmic inversion idea is totally unworkable."

"I won’t actually be undergoing the procedure. That’s just the cover story for Section’s consumption." Her tone was slightly patronizing, as if she were explaining herself to a small child. "It’s important that everyone be convinced I am totally irrational. That way no one will suspect that the purpose of my visit to Red Cell is to collect off-profile information. It won’t occur to anyone that I am even capable of such a thing."

"I understand that," he said, exasperated. "The problem is that no one will believe that I would allow you to undergo a surgical procedure with a 95% fatality rate."

She blinked and looked away. After a moment, she took a deep breath and turned toward him again. The anger had vanished from her eyes, and she spoke more softly. "Perhaps they need to start believing such things."

"What do you mean?" He was no longer exasperated, merely baffled.

"We’ve got to kill the Siamese twin perception, Paul," she said intently. "Especially now, given what we’re planning, it’s essential that we appear to have grown more distant." She lowered her voice in emphasis. "Besides, I’ve come to the conclusion that cancellation or suicide would be the only workable means for my escape. Neither of those scenarios will be believable unless things start going terribly wrong between us. We need to start laying the foundation now for that kind of rift."

He saw her point, so he moved on. "Alright. Flaw number two. Even if you escape to Red Cell with Leon, there’s no guarantee that he will give you enough freedom there to search for anything. Or that he’ll even let you live. His ‘obsession’ might be more about defeating you than about possessing you."

She smiled faintly in acknowledgement. "I recognize that possibility. This is a long shot, I know. And I’m still proceeding with the development of my original plan. But this opportunity has fallen into our laps, and it would be a waste not to try it." She took a bite of melon, chewed it thoughtfully, and then continued. "At the very worst, even if I don’t get the information we need, I will have had the chance to see a Red Cell substation first hand. Knowing some of the layout, security, and procedures will be useful to me later if I need to visit another one."

Paul squinted as spray from the fountain drifted into his eyes again. Drying his face with his handkerchief, he sighed, knowing that he would regret agreeing to this. "Alright, Madeline, we’ll proceed. But only with some modifications to your profile."

She said nothing, waiting for him to explain.

"First, I will personally participate in your extraction from Red Cell."

"That’s absurd." She locked eyes with him.

"It may be, but that’s my condition for approval." He stared back at her until she looked away. "Second, once you arrive at the Red Cell location, you will have an extremely limited window to make this a success. The extraction team will be dispatched within hours after your escape, maybe less."

"I’ll need more time than that. It will take me days -- at best -- to gain enough trust to be allowed access to their systems."

"You’ll just have to be persuasive. Letting you stay there any longer is an unacceptable risk."

She set down her salad, and crossed her arms. "Well. You’re going to make it challenging." Her voice was icy. But she offered no more arguments.

Sensing victory, he decided to lighten the atmosphere again. He smiled wickedly and asked, "By the way, are you certain that the profile is really enhanced by you shooting me?"

Her glacial expression melted. A little. "I’ll be careful." She stifled a smile.

***

And so, with Paul’s restrictions, Madeline had proceeded with her scenario. Both Leon and the Section operatives responded exactly as she had predicted. And she did a masterful job of portraying herself as veering out of control. But in reality, she wasn’t the one losing control. Paul was. And he knew it.

Paul watched on his monitor as Madeline interrogated Leon. The man’s conceit first disgusted and then enraged him. And the way that Leon looked at her, well, it made Paul want to wring the Red Cell agent’s scrawny neck.

I’m going to blow your brains out when this is through, Paul thought as he stared balefully at the monitor, and then switched it off. He couldn’t stand to watch anymore. Instead, he began to smoke, one cigarette after another, thinking back to the times that he had inflicted violence on other men who had the presumption to desire Madeline.

Thanks to Adrian, there had been many such times. Adrian’s irrational dislike of Madeline had led to Madeline suffering more than her fair share of valentine assignments, generally with the most despicable and repulsive men Adrian could dig up. Fat Russian diplomats. Sadistic arms dealers. Cocaine-snorting dilettante revolutionaries. Third world petty despots. All of them, like Leon, arrogantly believing that Madeline was a piece of property to be claimed. Paul had been powerless to stop Adrian, but he had taken his vengeance on the men when the missions were over.

He never killed anyone that he wasn’t supposed to -- they were all valid targets or at least acceptable collateral -- but he made sure to dispose of them in the most brutal fashion he could. Bullets were too kind. He preferred knives, garrotes, or even his bare hands, so he could watch the terror and pain in their eyes. But it had been the beginning of the end of Adrian’s mentoring relationship toward Paul. Paul’s unrepentant bloodthirstiness shocked Adrian into rethinking Paul’s suitability as her successor; Adrian’s almost willful inability to recognize Madeline’s potential to be anything more than Section’s chief whore led Paul to question whether Adrian had lost her touch as a leader. The respect that they had built for each other began to ebb, never to return.

***

In the end, Leon, like the others, met the end he deserved. But Madeline had been right -- she had needed more time at Red Cell to win Leon’s trust and gain access to their systems. By extracting her too quickly, they lost their chance. Paul knew that it was his own discomfort with the nature of the scenario that had caused the opportunity to be wasted. Paul’s protectiveness, ironically, thus forced Madeline to proceed with her alternate -- and much more dangerous -- profile.

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

Walter’s arms ached. They had been in the same position for so long, tied behind him to the metal chair he sat on, that he could no longer feel his fingertips. He breathed in sharply, shifting position as much as he could. The damp, musty air irritated his nose and throat.

He stole a look at the guard, who paced back and forth several feet away, smoking a cigarette. Finished, the man flicked the butt on the cement floor and ground out the ember. He looked over at Walter, spit, and walked across the room to lean against a wall.

Both men looked up, hearing a noise coming from the other side of the door at the top of the stairs. The door opened suddenly, and three men clambered down the stairs. Walter remembered one of them from the van that had brought him to this place: the young, short one with the beard and the thin face. Karl, someone had called him. The other two he hadn’t seen before. One was Karl’s age, but taller and heavyset; the other was perhaps in his 50s, black hair, balding. Walter scanned all of them carefully, looking to see any sign of weapons.

The older one walked over to Walter and stopped to examine him. "We’ll have to use a pretty bright light to show those bruises," he said to his colleagues. "You should have done a better job roughing him up." He turned and looked at the guard. "What’s with you anyway? I pay you good money to beat the crap out of people."

The guard shrugged. "He’s an old guy. You told me you wanted him conscious, and I didn’t think he could take too much."

The older man looked back down at Walter. Without warning, his fist slammed into Walter’s face.

"Shit, Barry, what are you doing?" Karl asked.

"Drawing a little blood. I want to put on a good show for our friends at Section One."

Walter felt the blood coursing down from his nose. The pain made him slightly dizzy.

The heavyset man dragged several photographer’s lamps from a corner of the room. He switched them on, aiming their light directly at Walter. Walter closed his eyes. He heard footsteps, thuds, and what sounded like suitcases being opened.

Then Barry’s voice came again, right next to Walter. "Okay, are we ready?"

Walter opened his eyes, blinking in the bright light. The heavyset man stood several feet away from him, aiming a portable camera. Karl and the guard stood behind the cameraman; Barry stood next to Walter.

Barry cleared his throat. When the cameraman gave a hand signal, he spoke. "Good morning, Operations, I hope you’re doing well."

"Let’s cut the small talk," said Nikita’s disembodied voice from a speaker somewhere in the room. "What do you want?"

"Well, well, you don’t have to be so touchy. As you can see, we have one of your people. We’ve treated him to a visit here as a thank you present for what Section One did to our Cairo headquarters. I’m not sure he’s enjoying it though, the ungrateful son of a bitch," Barry laughed. "Anyway, he’s just the beginning. We plan to keep taking your people until we reach the number of our comrades that you killed in Cairo. An eye for an eye, you know?"

"And you’re telling me this just to boast?"

"Oh, no, I’m a modest guy. Boasting’s not my style. No, I’m talking to you because I’m so forgiving, so decent, that I’m going to offer you a deal. We release your friend here, and refrain from taking any others, so long as you agree to pay us compensation for the loss of property and life that we suffered in Cairo. I think you’ll agree that’s only fair."

Walter groaned inside. He knew that Section could never agree to such a thing. Not that it mattered. His only regret was that his stupidity in allowing himself to be caught off guard and captured would cause Nikita pain. He looked steadily at the camera. "Tell him to go to hell, sugar," he said, his voice cracking.

"How much compensation would you require?" Nikita queried.

"Oh, about five million US dollars," Barry said blithely.

"I’ll need 24 hours to consult with my superiors."

"You’ve got 12." Barry grinned. "Bye now!"

The cameraman switched off the equipment. The men burst out laughing.

"Shit, she’s going to agree to it!" Karl said, beaming.

The hell she is! Walter thought.

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

At Comm, all eyes turned toward Nikita. The crowd gathered around her was silent, anxious.

Looking around the room, she announced, "From this point on, our top priority is to find Walter’s location and make a rescue. We only have twelve hours, so I’m postponing all other missions during that time in order to free up resources."

Quinn turned in her seat to face Nikita. "Operations? May I speak with you in the Perch?"

"Can it wait?"

"No."

"Then you can talk to me here. I want to stay down here to supervise the search personally."

Quinn took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "You’re making a mistake."

The room hushed. Nikita looked at Quinn calmly. "Really?"

"You’re using resources needed for missions to rescue a single individual. I don’t think we can justify that to Oversight."

"That’s for me to worry about."

"It could also be a trap. How do we know they’re not providing a diversion to distract us while they launch an attack somewhere else, or that they haven’t set this up as a lure to kill our rescue team?" Quinn looked at Nikita pointedly. "Not only that, it sets a bad precedent. Once our enemies learn that we’ll halt missions to recover hostages, we’ll be overwhelmed with kidnappings."

"These are all interesting points," Nikita conceded. "But what do you recommend?"

"We have to give up on Walter. As sad as it may be, there’s nothing we can do for him. The only action we can take is to improve our security so that other people aren’t kidnapped in the future."

Nikita stared at Quinn in disgust. "That’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard. My decision stands. We’ll begin a rescue attempt."

"Then I would like my objection noted in the record."

"By all means," Nikita hissed.

Quinn stood, turned sharply on her heel, and walked away.

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

The limousine slowed to a halt in front of the door of an imposing, three-story brick home. The driver climbed out and opened the door, allowing Paul to exit. Two bodyguards also stepped out of the car; the first opened the door for him to enter the house, the second followed behind him.

Paul handed his overcoat and umbrella to a waiting employee and nodded at several others as he made his way along a hallway. His footsteps were silent on the plush carpet. After several turns down several corridors, he approached a door and entered a room.

The room, which resembled a combination sitting room and study, was lavishly furnished in a classical French style, modernized only by the addition of several computer terminals scattered in various locations. Normally, the room would be brightly lit by natural light flooding in from the large windows overlooking the lush garden. This time, however, the light was diffused, filtered through the rain outside.

Madeline sat near the windows, typing on a computer that rested atop a delicate antique desk. The soft light from the windows bathed her features, accentuating her look of concentration as she engaged in her work. Noticing him enter, she smiled warmly, stood, and walked over to him.

"Welcome back." She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Grinning, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. "That’s all I get? A peck on the cheek after two weeks away?"

To his dismay, she pulled away from him. He frowned, but then saw her expression. There was something wrong.

"Sit down," she said, walking over to a pair of chairs.

Worried, he obeyed.

She took the seat next to him and turned to him with a look of sympathetic concern. "The August 12 Group has kidnapped Walter. It’s retaliation for what they believe was Section One’s attack on them."

His heart sank. He had always had a weak spot for Walter. Perhaps it was because Walter was the only person left whose recruitment to Section One had predated his, or because, after all of those years, Walter’s essential character had never changed.

"We have to get him back," Paul declared.

"I’m about to use an intermediary to leak his location to Section One. They can mount a rescue. There’s no need for us to get involved directly."

"That’s not good enough," he said, shaking his head. "I don’t trust Section One to do anything competently these days. They might get him killed."

"If we launch a rescue mission, it could reveal our existence. Nikita is already trying to figure out what our organization is. Intervening on behalf of Walter might be enough of a hint for her to put everything together."

"I don’t care. Walter’s been kidnapped in retaliation for one of our missions. We’ve got an obligation to help him."

Madeline looked at him quietly, and then looked away. He knew her well enough to recognize that she would accede to his demand -- even against her better judgment.

Without a word to Paul, she picked up her telephone and pressed a speed-dial button. "David? I have a job for you."

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

Quinn closed the door of the empty office behind her as quickly as possible, hoping that no one had seen her enter. As the head of Comm, without an office of her own, she found it difficult to locate a reliable place from which she could place a private phone call. She had resorted to sneaking into the offices of other Level 5 operatives when they were off duty. As it turned out, this had an important advantage -- as a recent cost-cutting measure, surveillance in those offices was automatically shut off when their occupants were not on the premises.

Before placing the call, she paused a moment to take a deep breath to calm herself. Her prior contacts with Oversight had been regarding minor matters -- in truth, they had simply been attempts to ingratiate herself with the head of Oversight and let him know she was a cooperative source of information. Her ploy had worked: she had been rewarded with the number for his direct line along with an invitation to call him if anything important came up. Now, finally, something had.

She knew that Operations had not yet contacted Oversight to explain the 12-hour suspension of missions. By beating Operations to it, she could further establish herself with Oversight as a valuable resource. But more than that was at stake. She hoped that Oversight would share her disagreement with Operations’ decision. If so, this could be the first step toward her ultimate goal: Operations’ removal from office and Quinn’s promotion to take her place.

Quinn dialed. And waited.

"Yes?"

"This is Quinn at Section One. I have some information that you might be interested in."

"What is it?"

"Operations has placed all pending missions on hold for the next 12 hours."

"I saw that. What’s the reason?"

"The August 12 Group has kidnapped one of Section’s retirees. The former munitions specialist, Walter. Operations wants to put all of our resources into a rescue attempt."

"That’s very wasteful."

"Yes, I thought so, too. I raised a formal objection, but she ignored me."

"Do you know when the rescue mission will begin?"

"No. We haven’t even located him yet."

"I see. Contact me again as soon as you learn anything more substantial."

"You’re not going to intervene?"

"No. But if this rescue mission causes problems, Operations will be disciplined. Severely."

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

Nikita paced back and forth in the Perch nervously. Initially, she had stayed in Comm, wanting to be as close to the search process as possible. But after several hours, the repeated backwards glances from Jason, Quinn, and the other operatives working feverishly at their computers made it clear to her that her presence was a distraction. So she had retreated upstairs to watch them through her plate-glass window.

She was too consumed with worry to get any other work done. If Walter were killed, it would be entirely her fault: her fault for instituting the new retirement policy in the first place, for failing to provide adequate security for the retirees, and for apparently allowing the location of the retirees to leak to their enemies. By trying to do the right thing for Walter, she had actually hurt him.

I just can’t win, she thought. Everything I do to try to humanize this place just blows up in my face.

What made things worse was the sheer irony of the situation. The August 12 Group had kidnapped Walter in retaliation for something Section One hadn’t even done. Not that Nikita could have explained that to the Group’s leader. She could just imagine how it would have sounded: We’re the most covert anti-terrorist organization on the planet, but, ah, someone else got to you instead. Um, no, we don’t know who. And no, we don’t know why. Have they been responsible for taking out almost all of our targets during the past five months? Why, yes. But we still haven’t figured out the first thing about them. The Group’s leader would have laughed in her face, and she wouldn’t have blamed him. It sounded too ludicrous to be true.

A flurry of activity down below caught her eye. Operatives stopped what they were doing and rushed to gather around Jason’s terminal.

"Operations?" Quinn’s voice queried.

"Do you have something?"

"Jason has identified the location of the broadcast."

"Whose team is closest?"

"Jasmine’s."

"Anyone else nearby?"

"Byron."

"Tell Jasmine to go, and Byron to stand by as backup."

"Yes, ma’am. However, it’s been nine hours since the broadcast. It’s quite possible they’ve moved him by now."

"I understand that. But we don’t have any other options. We’re going ahead."