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

Quinn stopped typing for a moment and casually looked over her shoulder. There he was. Her watcher stood across the room, trying to look busy, but she knew he was observing her.

Ever since her most recent confrontation with Nikita, she had been followed everywhere. No longer trusted, she would be given no opportunities to make mischief. She hoped the surveillance was merely due to her near-insubordination at their last meeting, but she feared the worst. Perhaps Nikita realized that she had been reporting Section One’s activities to Oversight. Or, more ominous, perhaps Nikita was beginning to suspect Quinn’s role in the leak of Walter and Michael’s whereabouts to the August 12 Group.

Quinn hadn’t intended that anyone come to harm, and she certainly hadn’t expected a kidnapping. She simply thought that when enemy operatives started following Section One retirees, Nikita’s release program would be discredited in the eyes of Oversight -- creating one more black mark against Operations’ record.

Quinn swallowed nervously and tried to return to her work. The urge to call Oversight overwhelmed her, but she knew she could not do so without being discovered. It was maddening. Nikita had finally gone off the deep end, and Quinn couldn’t get word out about it.

Quinn was certain that Nikita was wrong about Paul and Madeline, despite what Jason’s evidence suggested. Madeline, without a doubt, was dead. It was out of the question that she would have staged her suicide without Paul’s knowledge. Recognizing this, Mr. Jones had instructed Quinn to test Paul’s reactions thoroughly, and he had passed with flying colors. And Quinn had even better reason to know that Paul was dead. No, despite Nikita’s paranoia, it was impossible for the two former leaders of Section One to be alive, much less behind the death of Mr. Jones. And yet Nikita was now allowing this delusion to dictate the course of their missions. Something had to be done.

Quinn checked the system to ascertain Nikita’s location. She was still in the White Room with the captives from Colombia. Nikita had been trying to interrogate them -- the only two taken alive -- for hours. Quinn pulled up the video feed from the White Room and watched attentively.

Nikita had chosen to interrogate both captives together. The two -- a man and a woman -- were chained to the wall, battered and bleeding. They both bore the telltale slits under their eyes, but neither seemed to be breaking.

"I’ll give you one more chance," Nikita said menacingly to the man. "Who do you work for?"

The man stared straight ahead, refusing even to make eye contact with her.

Nikita nodded to the technician, who shocked the prisoner with a taser. The spark crackled through his body, jerking him violently. The technician pulled away the taser, and the man hung limply, sweat dripping from his face onto the floor.

Quinn tapped her finger on her keyboard lightly, realizing that the interrogation was failing. If these two don’t break, Operations is going to make us keep capturing more teams. We’re going to provoke a war with -- well, whoever it is.

This had to stop. If Quinn couldn’t get to a phone, then she would send a message over the computer system to Oversight. She knew it was possible that Jason -- sitting only a few feet away -- might spot the outgoing transmission, but she had to take that risk. She might be exposed, but surely Oversight would protect her.

Quinn looked around slowly to make sure no one was watching her closely. She then began typing: "Urgent situation at One requires immediate intervention. Am being watched and can’t call you directly. Call Operations ASAP and ask her what is going on." She then sent the message and waited, continuing to monitor the activity in the White Room.

Nikita sighed. "This is going nowhere. Cancel them."

The technician nodded, and Nikita exited the room. Quinn quickly called up the camera in the corridor to follow Nikita’s progress. As two gunshots sounded from inside the White Room, Quinn heard Nikita’s phone ring. Nikita stopped, withdrew her phone, and answered.

"What is it?" Nikita asked impatiently.

Quinn smiled. That was certainly a polite greeting.

"The delay in missions was to deal with a hostage situation. One of our retirees was captured."

Quinn’s smile broadened. It was Oversight on the line. This would be very interesting.

"He was returned to us, but no, the situation hasn’t been resolved yet. I just finished interrogating some suspects."

Nikita began pacing back and forth in the hallway, clearly irritated by the questions.

"No, they didn’t break. They’ve been cancelled."

Quinn leaned forward to watch her screen more closely, trying to judge the other side of the conversation by the expression on Nikita’s face.

"Well, the initial hostage-taking was done by the August 12 Group. But I no longer believe that they were the only ones involved. I think that someone else had him."

Quinn’s heart began racing. The fireworks should be just about to begin.

"My predecessor as Operations of Section One, and his Executive Strategist."

Nikita took a deep breath. Her expression grew defiant.

"Yes, them."

He doesn’t believe her, Quinn thought. But then again who would?

"No, I’m not joking. I have evidence that both of them are still alive. I believe that they’ve set up their own organization, and that they intend to attack Section One in revenge for their having been ousted by my father."

Quinn stifled a laugh. This was going exactly as she hoped.

"Of course I’ll send you the evidence. And no, I’m not going to do anything rash. I’m simply trying to track them down at this point. But when I find them, I’m going to take them down before they can do any further harm."

Nikita’s stopped pacing, her expression alarmed.

"I understand you want time to assess the situation, but we can’t wait that long. Do you have any idea who we’re dealing with?"

Quinn watched Nikita stiffen as her face registered disgust.

"I see. You don’t believe me. Fine. Yes, I understand your orders perfectly."

Quinn quickly switched off the video feed and pulled up an innocuous file. But she couldn’t hide the grin on her face. Oversight no longer trusted Nikita to handle the situation. It was only a matter of time before Quinn collected her reward.

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

The news made Paul furious. An entire team set up and wiped out by Section One -- it was intolerable. If only he had succeeded in killing Nikita or getting her to run off with Michael, they wouldn’t be facing this problem. He thought back to his final weeks in Section One, when he had attempted to accomplish exactly that.

When he had finished sending Madeline all of her files, he had been ready for his suffering to end. All he had to do was make one spectacular mistake, and he would be cancelled and put out of his misery. But then it happened. The real Mr. Jones -- Philip -- dared to show up in Section, announcing to one and all that Nikita was his daughter. Suddenly, Paul had one last thing he needed to do before he died: deprive Philip of his cherished dream of seeing Nikita take over Section One. The thought that his and Madeline’s downfall was due to the nepotistic urges of a lunatic like Philip offended Paul’s honor. It was an insult that simply couldn’t -- and wouldn’t -- go unanswered.

He had received some unexpected assistance from Quinn. Although he knew that her sexual overtures to him were strictly a valentine assignment, he had acquiesced -- in part to see if he could outmanipulate her, in part because he simply needed the physical release. But then he had seen something in her eyes: a thirst for power. He knew, then, that he could count on her to attempt to play both sides. He decided to use that to his advantage.

Quinn’s role in Philip’s attempt to blast him out of the sky, however, crossed a line. He had intended to frame her as the Collective’s mole and have her cancelled -- only Philip’s intervention had stopped him. And yet her idea to try to encourage Nikita to run away with Michael had been brilliant. If only he had succeeded in rescuing Adam, it just might have worked.

***

Paul’s first sensation was a heaviness around the wrists. It puzzled him. Next, the tightness of starched sheets wrapped around him -- some sort of burial shroud? A body bag? But no, his body was covered only from the chest down. He felt himself take a breath. That was odd -- a dead man wouldn’t be doing that.

I’m not dead, he thought. How is that possible?

He opened his eyes. Even the dim light of the room hurt, and he blinked in pain for several moments. Then he was able to look at his surroundings. He lay on a cot in a small, otherwise empty room, dressed in a medical gown. His wrists were chained to the sides of the cot, and an IV tube dangled from his arm. His face itched from the growth of his beard, but he couldn’t move his hands to scratch.

He tensed when he heard the door open, and then watched in trepidation as a man dressed in hospital scrubs -- but wearing a holster and gun -- entered the room.

"Ah, so you are awake," the man said. "I’ll be right back."

The man exited just as quickly as he had entered, but then returned a few minutes later bearing a tray of food. He fastened the tray in front of Paul, released him from the wrist restraints, and helped him sit up.

"Go ahead. You haven’t had real food in weeks, so I bet you’re starved."

Paul looked at the tray. It contained a bowl of soup and some crackers. When the aroma reached his nostrils he realized that the man was right -- he was famished. But when he tried to dip his spoon into the soup his arm got tangled in the IV tube.

"Hold still," the man said, removing the tube. "You don’t need that anymore anyway."

Paul took a few sips of soup. He looked over at the man suspiciously. "So when is the interrogation going to start?"

The man laughed. "We’d normally give a celebrity like you VIP treatment -- electroshock, chemicals, the works. But this time we’re not going to be the ones giving you the third degree. Someone else paid us a tidy sum of money to hand you over to them. We just had to let you recover from the bullet wounds before we could transfer you safely. I’m afraid our men got a little carried away in making your death look realistic."

A noise sounded at the door.

"Oh, here they are now," the man said, turning toward the door as it swung open.

Three figures strode into the room: a woman flanked by two large men. Seeing the woman, Paul was ecstatic. It was, of course, Madeline.

She looked at him impersonally and walked back and forth as if to inspect him. She looked years younger than he remembered her, perhaps because her hair was down, or perhaps because of her clothes: jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a short leather jacket.

The heels of her boots clicked on the floor as she walked. Some things never change, he thought, smiling inwardly. But what was she up to? She was regarding him with a cold stare usually reserved for the most uncooperative guests in the White Room.

"As you requested, we’re delivering him healthy enough for interrogation," the man in the hospital scrubs said.

"Good. After what I paid, he’d better be in one piece."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Let’s just say I have a score to settle with him. A personal score." She flashed Paul the cruelest smile he had ever seen her bestow on anyone, and he felt his stomach contract involuntarily in fear.

You’re a damned good actress, he thought. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were going to kill me.

She turned to her two companions, whom he recognized as recently ‘deceased’ Housekeeping personnel. "Take him," she commanded.

Deciding to play along with her game, whatever it was, he smiled coyly. "I’d like to finish my meal first."

She arched an eyebrow, stepped toward him, picked up his tray of food, and then violently flung it across the room. "You’re finished," she said sweetly.

The two men seized him by the arms, yanked him up, and began dragging him roughly out of the room.

He struggled to place his feet on the ground so that he could at least walk with some measure of dignity, but the men hauled him along suspended in midair between them. After manhandling him through the building, they passed through a doorway and into an alley, where a black Rolls Royce was idling.

"Put him in the trunk," Madeline ordered.

One of the men popped the trunk open. They dumped him inside and slammed the trunk closed.

He heard doors open and shut, and the car pulled off with a jerk. He curled up in the darkness, shaking with cold in the medical gown, as he bounced painfully against the metal floor of the trunk with every bump in the road.

After what seemed like hours, the car finally stopped. His hands and feet were numb and his body felt bruised everywhere. As the trunk opened, he looked out warily. Madeline stood there, arms crossed, her expression aloof. One of the men pulled him out of the trunk and helped him stand unsteadily. The other man handed him a long coat, which Paul donned hastily. The two men then walked away and climbed into the front of the car.

"We’re no longer being followed," Madeline announced, still standing stiffly. "It’s safe for you to ride in the car now. You’d probably find it more comfortable."

Paul stared at her in confusion. This wasn’t exactly the reunion he would have expected. But he slowly moved toward the car door and got into the back seat. She followed and closed the door, and the car pulled off again.

A partition in between the front and rear of the car provided them with privacy, but they rode in silence. Madeline stared straight ahead, stone-faced and motionless. Paul looked at her beseechingly, but she was utterly unmoved. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

"What’s wrong?" Paul asked, his voice nearly breaking.

She turned her head to look at him. Her features were tight, as if every muscle in her face was clenched. "Do you have any idea what trouble you caused?" Her voice was clipped with fury. "What were you thinking?"

"What do you mean?"

"I had an extraction plan in place, ready to go as soon as I could get word to you. But then, out of some petty desire for revenge, you decided to try to kill Nikita. You virtually begged Jones to retaliate against you. I was powerless to help you when your plane was shot down."

She looked away again. Staring out the window beside her so he couldn’t see her face, she spoke bitterly. "I almost didn’t get to you in time. I concluded my deal with the Collective only hours before you went on that fool’s errand after Adam."

"But, I --" he started.

"You know, you may not place any value on your life, but I do," she interrupted. "And I resent the fact that you were willing to make a unilateral decision to leave me to do this by myself." Her voice was bitingly cold, and she still refused to look at him.

He couldn’t possibly tell her that, in order to protect her, he had made exactly such a decision. She would never forgive him. But he did have an alternate explanation he could give her. An explanation that had the advantage of also being true, even if it hadn’t been his primary motivation.

"Madeline, I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t help myself."

He reached for her face and turned it back, forcing her to look at him. It was clear that she was engaged in a colossal struggle to maintain control of herself.

"When I found out who Jones really was, and that Nikita was his daughter, I realized that his plan had been to replace us all along. It didn’t matter what we did -- we could have run Section exactly the way he wanted, we could have capitulated to Nikita’s every whim, and that still wouldn’t have been enough. To him, we were expendable. We had always been expendable. We had never been anything more than placeholders until he could put her in charge. That thought made me so angry, I had to strike back. To do whatever it took to make sure that Jones didn’t get his wish -- whether it meant killing Nikita or encouraging her to run away with Michael and Adam. And I didn’t care what happened to me as a consequence. It was a matter of honor.

"It was the same as when Steven died. I had to have justice, and I was willing to die to get it."

At the mention of Steven’s name, a look of shock crossed her face. The shock turned to guilt, and then sadness. She took a deep breath. "I’m sorry."

He withdrew his hand from her face and scrutinized her expression. She seemed calm. "So how did you manage to rescue me?"

"After the incident when your plane was shot down, I contacted the Collective through a mutual acquaintance. I offered to pay them a generous finder’s fee if, the next time they came across you, they would pretend to kill you and bring you back alive. Of course, they don’t know who I really am. They think they’ve handed you over to one of their allies."

They looked at each other quietly for a moment. He then spoke softly. "I should have thought about how my actions would affect you. But you’ve always seemed so strong that I guess I took it for granted that you could go on just fine without me."

"If you die for a reason, I will go on." Her eyes locked onto his, her voice low and solemn. "But I assure you, if you throw your life away needlessly, I’ll kill myself."

He blinked in shock. "Because you wouldn’t be able to live without --"

"No." She glared at him. "Because I would want to join you in Hell to be personally in charge of your eternal torment."

After a few seconds of speechlessness, he began to laugh. "I’m sure you would."

She finally smiled.

His expression turned serious again. "I missed you. Terribly."

She said nothing, but looked at him tenderly. She took his hand in hers and, as their fingers intertwined, leaned over to kiss his cheek and his forehead, and then embraced him tightly.

***

Paul sighed. Remembering the past wouldn’t help him solve the current problem. To make matters worse, he realized that it was his own fault -- his insistence on helping Walter had been the catalyst that caused Nikita to discover them. Now -- before they were truly ready -- they would have to take extreme measures.

He stepped out onto the patio and breathed in the crisp morning air. Madeline’s back was to him as she trimmed a small branch on one of her bonsai. He saw from the way that she stiffened that she had heard him approach, but she did nothing to acknowledge his presence.

"You warned me. I should have listened to you." His voice was apologetic.

"No. You did what you thought was right." She continued to snip at the plant with her scissors.

He stood, silent, watching her. She would not be hurried. Slowly, carefully, she made her way down the row of pots, inspecting each tree in turn. Finally, she turned and looked at him. Her dark eyes met his.

"This was going to happen sooner or later," she said matter-of-factly. "It just turned out to be sooner."

He nodded slowly. "Well, then, perhaps it’s time. We can eliminate the Sections and solve this problem once and for all."

Madeline set down the scissors and walked slowly toward him. She stopped to stand by his side, crossed her arms, and looked back out across the patio. He watched her face, trying to look beneath her placid expression for hints of the analysis he knew was going on.

"The Sections are still too useful," she said, finally. "We need a less drastic solution."

"We could remove Nikita," he suggested.

"With Michael there? No. That would make things worse." She thought for a few moments longer and then turned to look at him. "Let me speak with her."

"Speak with her? How could that possibly help?"

Madeline gave him a small smile. "I might be able to convince her that we pose no danger. She might drop her pursuit."

Paul laughed. "That would require her to listen to reason. Remember, this is Nikita we’re talking about."

Madeline’s smile widened. "I know. But at least let me try."

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

Michael stood in the doorway of the Perch, watching with increasing concern as Nikita paced back and forth distractedly. She hadn’t noticed him, so he continued to observe. It pained him to see her like this, hurt and vengeful. This was not his Nikita. No, this was Operations: the person he was afraid she would become -- bitter, angry, capable of brutal violence. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t allow this to happen to her.

"Nikita."

She glanced over at him in surprise. "Michael, I’m very busy."

"I won’t leave until we speak."

"Fine," she sighed. "What, then?"

He walked into the room and stood next to her. "We need to discuss my status here."

"What status? You’re a guest until we can find a safe place to send you."

"You know that won’t work."

"Why not?"

"Adam has been exposed. He won’t be safe anywhere -- but here. He should be trained, and I can be reinstated."

Nikita’s face registered dismay at the suggestion. "I won’t allow that. I will not have Adam become a part of this place."

"There is no other choice." Michael reached for her hand. "Nikita, if he has to stay here, at least we can be together again."

She shook her head, horrified. "Not at that price." She stared into his eyes, the pain tormenting her obvious, but then suppressed her emotion to become Operations once again. "Besides, it won’t be safe here. We’re about to engage in a war with Paul and Madeline. Section will be the worst place to be."

"Don’t destroy the Section over this," Michael warned. But it wasn't Section One he was afraid for. It was the destruction of her spirit that he feared. If she fought a war with those two, she might become them in the process -- and that was a fate he would do anything to prevent.

"Don’t tell me," she laughed bitterly. "Tell them. They’re the ones trying to destroy us."

"I disagree. The fact that they rescued Walter was a show of good faith."

"No, it was a show of arrogance." Nikita abruptly pulled her hand away from his grasp, and walked away to stand by the window overlooking the main floor of Section.

Michael followed her. "Nikita, their organization must be powerful. But they have not attacked you. Don’t make them an enemy."

"They became an enemy a long time ago, Michael. And I can’t believe that you, of all people, can’t see that."

"I see that they’re dangerous. Dangerous people should be avoided, not provoked."

"It’s too late to worry about that." Her voice was tired but determined. "I’m going to stop them, Michael. I’ll do whatever it takes."

"But Oversight forbid you from taking any action."

"There are ways around that." She stared at him coldly. The look, so unlike his Nikita, chilled him.

Nikita’s phone rang. She answered hastily. "Yes? Now? I see. I’ll be right there."

She turned to Michael. "Speaking of the devil, I’ve been called to a meeting at Oversight. We’ll discuss this again when I get back."

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

Nikita stared blankly at the back of her driver’s head as he guided the Mercedes through the traffic.

The conversation with Michael had wounded her more than she could ever let him know. Despite her protests, she knew he was right. Adam would have to stay in Section. She could have him trained in computers -- at least that would provide him with a limited amount of protection. But it wasn’t really Adam’s role in Section that upset her. Rather, what disturbed her was the prospect of Michael’s return to duty.

Things can never be the same between us, she thought. Not now that I’ve become who I am.

How could she possibly interact with him without it breaking her heart?

She pushed this thought aside. First, she had Oversight to deal with. The last thing she wanted to spend her time doing at the moment was explaining her recent actions. It would be an unpleasant meeting, to say the least.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she noticed that the car had stopped. Several other cars -- in back, in front, and on the sides -- had pinned them in place.

"What’s going on?" she asked the driver.

As the driver reached for his gun, a red beam started to shine against the bulletproof glass of the window beside her. She stared in amazement as the beam melted a prick-sized hole in the window and switched off. Before she could react, a small tube inserted through the hole and hissed as gas began pumping inside. It smelled faintly sweet. She grew dizzy, disoriented, and then very drowsy.

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

Madeline stood on the wooden bridge, watching her reflection in the pond as the koi fish swam serenely underneath. Crossing the bridge, she moved on, her shoes crunching on the path beneath her. She approached a bench near a waterfall and took a seat to begin her mental preparation for her meeting with Nikita.

The last time she had seen Nikita, Madeline had been in a dire situation, about to flee and start life as a fugitive. Yet her very powerlessness had given her the freedom to speak her mind -- to tell Nikita what she really thought of her, and to announce proudly that she was seizing control of her own future. Little did the two who had been sitting in judgment of her know how frank she was being. In fact, it had given her a certain thrill to speak the truth and yet still deceive them.

Now, having amassed power beyond what she could ever have predicted, she again had the upper hand. And yet that fact once again restricted what she could say. She would have to revert to her old way of managing Nikita -- a judicious mixture of truth and omission.

She was not looking forward to this meeting. It would bring back too many unpleasant memories -- memories of her betrayal by the organization that she had devoted her life to, memories of years of being on the defensive, with her life literally hanging on the whim of a petulant child.

For three years, Nikita had judged Madeline and found her wanting. Nikita had made little effort to hide this fact or to disguise her contempt. It showed in the verbal slaps in the face that Nikita had delivered with alarming regularity. The first time it had really registered with Madeline was in the aftermath of the assassination attempt against Paul. "I found out what it was like to be you," Nikita had said, as if being Madeline were something despicable. And again, when they were forced to recruit Greg Hillinger: "I think you go to bed each night hoping someone will screw up so you can make your hard decisions."

Such comments, coming from an idealistic young operative, would have been easy to shrug off. But coming from someone whom Madeline suspected to be an internal affairs agent for Center, they had been immensely disturbing. What kind of reports and recommendations, Madeline had started to wonder, was Nikita sending back to Center? Did those reports reflect that much hostility toward Madeline? Toward Paul? Did Nikita truly have no understanding of how hard Paul and Madeline worked, how they struggled to do an extremely difficult job? If so, and if Nikita’s reports were to be a significant criterion on which they would be judged, they were in grave danger.

It had taken Madeline a surprisingly long time to come to grips with this. She, in her loyalty to the organization whose principles she had adopted as her own moral code, had clung to a naïve belief -- that, regardless of George’s personal animosity toward Paul and Madeline, Center would judge them fairly and objectively. After all, it had accepted their takeover from Adrian and had allowed them to run Section One unmolested for years.

But with Nikita’s presence, the foundation for that trust had started to crumble. A good soldier, Madeline resisted seeing the signs for as long as possible. But it had finally become too obvious for her to ignore. Her years of devoted service and self-sacrifice meant nothing. Her loyalty meant nothing. Her unhesitating willingness to lay down her own life -- to give up anything if it would serve Section One -- meant nothing. All that mattered to Center was whether Nikita -- self-righteous and moralistic Nikita -- liked her or not. This was not only unjust -- it was unbearable.

It had taken Paul even longer to accept this reality. Long after Madeline had sunk into the depths of a profound pessimism, fatalistically certain that her lifespan was near its end, he had remained convinced that there was a way to salvage the situation. She disagreed, but, as ever, was willing to help him try. And so they tried. And tried again. At first, Paul believed that they could create a 'win-win' situation -- by setting up George for removal, Paul and Madeline could move up and out of Section One, allowing Center to install Nikita’s favorite, Michael, as the new Operations. When George managed to resist being dislodged, it became even more critical to neutralize the threat that Michael posed. That, too, had proven to be more difficult than expected.

Subjecting Nikita to the Gelman process was an act of sheer desperation. Paul had hoped that by controlling Nikita’s mind they could not only cure her of her obsession with Michael as the potential savior of Section, but perhaps even favorably influence the reports that she sent back to Center. That had been worse than a failure -- it had emboldened Michael into challenging them directly. Although Madeline couldn't deny that working with a logical, refreshingly unemotional Nikita had been a distinct pleasure -- while it lasted. Nikita had truly had the potential to be a remarkable operative, if only she had been able to shut off her weaknesses.

It was their aborted attempt to assassinate George that, finally, had brought home to Paul the pointlessness of trying to continue. Every effort they made to save themselves had just brought them that much closer to cancellation. And yet, Madeline reflected with amazement, Paul’s natural optimism had turned that string of defeats into ultimate victory. On her own, she never would have considered leaving Section One. She identified with Section to such a degree that such a thing would have been unimaginable. It took Paul to remind her that it was not the entity that she served, but the cause. And the cause could be -- and now was being -- served by other means.

She looked at her surroundings and took a deep breath. Who would have thought, in their darkest hour, that she would now be here -- of all places? Life was certainly full of surprises. Of course, another surprise had come after she made her escape -- a revelation that made a mockery out of all of her attempts to understand Nikita. She learned, to her chagrin, that despite all of her careful observation and analysis, she had been completely in the dark all along. It was a humbling realization. Humbling and infuriating.

When she received word that the real Mr. Jones was the man she and Paul had once known as Philip, and that Nikita was Philip’s daughter, Madeline had been appalled. Incredibly, Philip had thought that he had a right to pass on the Agency to his daughter as if it were a feudal fiefdom. This notion offended Madeline so greatly that she was unsure whether she would be able to hide her disgust upon seeing Nikita again. But hide it she must. If Nikita continued to attack their teams -- or, worse yet, if she exposed them to their enemies before their preparations were complete -- she could pose a serious danger. Madeline would need to be her most convincing with Nikita, regardless of her feelings -- and regardless of the past.

She looked up as one of her employees approached.

"She’s arrived," the woman announced.

"Thank you," Madeline responded. "I’ll be in momentarily."

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

As the hood slid off Nikita’s head, she shook her hair free and opened her eyes. A tall man in a black, mission-style outfit stood in front of her, holding the hood and watching her carefully.

"Please wait here. It won’t be long," he said politely and walked away, closing a door behind him.

She found herself in a study in what seemed to be a private home. Light shone softly through partially opened curtains on the far side of the room, while bookshelves lined the opposite wall. The study was decorated in a spare, precise style, but each carefully-chosen piece of antique furniture clearly cost a fortune.

At one end of the room was a long table bearing several different flowers. All of them orchids, of course, Nikita noted. She tensed her muscles involuntarily. There was no doubt whose room this was. But the décor was nothing like either one of Madeline’s previous offices. It was neither inviting, like the ‘dungeon’, nor cold, like her later office -- rather, its tasteful formality conveyed the impression of wealth -- and power.

Nikita wandered over to the table and inspected the orchids. All of them displayed vivid colors -- oranges, bright yellows, deep crimsons. They seemed rather dramatic for someone whose persona was otherwise so restrained. Unseemly, almost.

Without warning, the door opened and Madeline entered noiselessly. Dressed in an elegant, dark tailored suit, she appeared exactly as she had at Section One. She looked as if she had been plucked from the past and placed in a time machine -- or as if she were a ghost from one of Nikita’s nightmares. She smiled mildly at Nikita and closed the door behind her with a quiet click.

Nikita couldn’t bring herself to speak or respond. She simply stared. She had expected Madeline to look different -- to have aged, or chosen a new style of dress. That she hadn’t was somehow disconcerting.

Noticing Nikita by the long table, Madeline finally spoke. "Do you know anything about orchids, Nikita?"

"No, not really," Nikita answered, not quite sure what to make of this attempt at small talk. "Aren’t they carnivorous, or poisonous, or something?"

"Certainly not," Madeline said, looking offended.

Madeline strolled toward Nikita and stopped next to the table.

"There are thousands of varieties of orchids, found all over the world. It’s one of the most adaptable flowers in existence." She looked at the plants fondly, and then turned her head to look at Nikita. "They have to be inventive to survive and propagate. Primarily, they rely on deception and manipulation."

Nikita stared at the orchids for a moment, faintly disturbed by Madeline’s description. "You sound like you think they’re intelligent."

Madeline gave Nikita a half-smile and continued. "They have symbiotic relationships with their pollinators. Each orchid becomes whatever its pollinator is most driven to find -- food, a mate, an adversary --"

"An adversary?"

"The flower tricks the insect into attacking it and getting covered in pollen." Madeline’s gaze focused sharply on Nikita, and Nikita took an involuntary step backwards. "You see," Madeline continued, her voice pleasant but her eyes cold, "hatred or fear can be used to control just as much as love or desire."

Nikita tore her eyes away from Madeline’s stare, and looked back at the orchids. They no longer looked beautiful. Instead, they seemed somehow menacing. Much like their owner. Nikita wondered if she, like some hapless insect, had been similarly manipulated. The thought was unnerving.

Madeline watched Nikita carefully and smiled, seemingly satisfied that her words had had the desired effect. Her voice then turned softer, almost soothing. "Each orchid is perfectly adapted to capture its target. They represent the standard that I strive for when developing a profile. Having them here helps me concentrate on my work."

How classic of Madeline to have a utilitarian reason for growing flowers, Nikita thought. She doesn’t admire their beauty -- she admires their ... efficiency!

Shaking her head to dispel this thought, Nikita decided to get down to business. "Why did you save Walter?"

"He’s an old friend who was in trouble. It was the decent thing to do."

"You’ve never done anything because it was the decent thing to do, Madeline."

Madeline’s composed expression revealed no discernable reaction to the insult. She responded quietly. "The team that you captured and tortured to death was the same team that rescued Walter. Was that the decent thing to do, Nikita?"

The comment stung. Nikita lashed back. "I had to find you. I’m not going to let you destroy Section."

Madeline smiled indulgently. "That’s not our purpose."

"Then what is?"

"To do the work that Section is failing to do."

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

"Quinn?" Jason asked, his voice worried.

"What is it?" Quinn answered with a slight groan. She was tired of being interrupted with the questions of incompetents.

"There’s a call coming in for Operations from Oversight. What should I do with it?"

Quinn frowned. "I thought Operations was at Oversight. Why would they be calling for her here?"

"Well, that’s why I’m asking what I should do."

Quinn paused. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael approach.

"Put the call on the intercom," Quinn instructed Jason. "I’ll answer."

Jason tapped his keyboard and nodded at Quinn.

"Hello, this is Kate Quinn, the head of Comm. I’m in charge in Operations’ absence, and I have you on the intercom here with my colleagues. Is there something we can do for you?"

"Where is Operations? She isn’t answering her cell phone."

Quinn, Jason and Michael exchanged looks of concern.

"Operations told us that she had been summoned to a meeting with you."

"That’s incorrect. There was no such meeting."

"I heard her on the telephone," Michael interjected. "She did receive a summons from Oversight this morning, or so she believed."

"And who is this?"

"Michael Samuelle."

"Michael Samuelle. Very interesting. Well, welcome back to Section One, Michael Samuelle. But please, can someone check Operations’ tracking device to see where your leader has disappeared to?"

"The signal’s being blocked," Jason answered.

"Then she's been lured into a trap," Michael said grimly. "She's in serious danger."

"Then trace the phone calls to Operations," said the voice over the intercom. "I want to see where this call originated from."

Quinn pulled up the telephone records and looked through the listing of calls. There had only been one call to Operations that morning. At first, it looked legitimate, but after a few minutes’ analysis she recognized that it wasn’t from Oversight. It was from the outside.

Someone faked a call from Oversight? Quinn stared at the screen nervously. How could they do that?

She became even more nervous when she realized how. It had to be someone with extensive knowledge of their systems and protocols. Someone who had once been inside.

Oh, my God! Nikita was right. It is them. It has to be.

Quinn kept typing, not quite ready to break the news to Oversight. What could she possibly say?

Then a thought occurred to her. If Nikita had been lured away, it was no doubt in retaliation for her capture and cancellation of the team in Colombia. If she knew Paul Wolfe, he would tear Nikita limb from limb for a stunt like that. Which meant that Nikita, conveniently, wouldn’t be coming back -- and that someone would have to replace her. That person could be Quinn. Or, she thought dourly, it could be Michael Samuelle.

If Nikita had been captured by Section One’s former-leaders-gone-rogue, Oversight very well might want an experienced cold operative like Michael to deal with the bloody war that would inevitably follow. But what if Oversight could be convinced that it was Nikita who had gone rogue? That she had voluntarily gone out -- in violation of Oversight’s orders -- and launched a delusional quest for individuals who were dead? In such a case, Oversight would be more likely to turn to Quinn -- Quinn, who had always been reliable and, more importantly, who wasn’t burdened by an emotional attachment to Nikita.

And who knows? If Paul Wolfe was out there, he might appreciate a favor.

Quinn smiled. Her decision was made. She deleted the record of the phone call from the system. She didn’t have time to do it thoroughly, but she could go back later and take care of that.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Yes? Have you traced the call?"

"Yes, I have. Or rather, I verified that there was no call."

Michael looked at her sharply.

Quinn continued. "I believe that she programmed her phone to ring, and that she was merely pretending that there was someone on the other line. That is, if Michael is even telling the truth about what he witnessed. He seems very anxious to make us believe that she's been kidnapped, when there isn't evidence of any such thing."

She smiled triumphantly at Michael, ignoring the threat in his eyes.

"And what would be the purpose of this?"

"It's an excuse for her to go on an unauthorized mission in search of her deceased predecessor. To avenge her father's death, or some such thing. She's been obsessed with it lately."

There was silence on the line for several moments. "That sounds very serious. I’d like to be quite sure of this before I decide what course of action to take. Jason, would you please recheck those results?"

Quinn stared at Jason, trying to hide her terror. She hadn’t deleted the record carefully enough to hide it from a thorough search. She watched Jason type for several minutes. Suddenly, he stopped. He looked cautiously over at Quinn, and then back at his screen.

He cleared his throat. "Um, sir?"

"Yes?"

"There was a call to Operations this morning. It was made to look like it was coming from your secretary’s office in order to get past our security screen, but it appears it was actually from the outside. It looks like Operations was lured into a trap."

"Interesting. Quinn, how is it that you missed this?"

Quinn sat in a silent panic, trying to concoct a plausible excuse. Perhaps she could just plead incompetence.

"Uh, sir?" Jason spoke again. "Quinn didn’t miss the call. She tried to delete the record."

"Michael?"

"Yes, sir?" Michael answered, his eyes drilling through Quinn.

"I understand that you may not be formally affiliated with us anymore, but would you be able to escort Quinn to the White Room? I think she has some explaining to do."

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

"To do the work that Section is failing to do," Nikita repeated Madeline’s words, her anger rising. "We’re not failing to do anything," she snapped. "Except mistreat our operatives."

"Let’s talk about that, Nikita. Your new, enlightened management style." The flash in Madeline’s eyes was the only sign of her sarcasm.

Refusing to be cowed, Nikita glared back at her.

"Of course, I’m not there in person anymore, but from what I hear," Madeline lingered over the word, letting Nikita know that she still had sources in Section, "your ‘humane’ administration still practices cancellation, still kills innocent collateral, and still employs its operatives by threat of force."

"You’re wrong. We don’t recruit by force anymore."

"Really? Where do you get your recruits, then?"

"They’re mostly transferred from the other Sections."

Madeline laughed out loud. "Oh, Nikita, please. Where do you think they get their recruits?"

Nikita stepped closer to Madeline, feeling her face flush with rage. She took a deep, trembling breath before she spoke. "You and Paul created the policy of forcibly recruiting criminals. That never applied to the other Sections. That’s why my father wanted to get rid of the two of you -- because you had turned Section One into something evil. But when he succeeded in ousting you, you killed him in revenge." She stared at Madeline, eyes burning, bracing for the final confrontation.

But no confrontation was forthcoming. Madeline looked at Nikita for a long time, her expression unreadable. She then looked away, exhaled with a long sigh, and turned back toward Nikita. "I brought you here," she said very slowly, "to try to avoid a senseless war between our two organizations. But you’re laboring under so much misinformation that I’m beginning to suspect that it’s hopeless."

Something in Madeline’s voice surprised Nikita. The older woman seemed tired and resigned.

Nikita’s anger subsided. "Why don’t you try me."

Madeline regarded Nikita for a moment. "Alright," she said, gesturing to a chair. "Please, sit down."

Nikita sank into the red and gold cushion of a nearby chair as Madeline sat in the matching chair across from her.

"Would you like some refreshments?" Almost magically, Madeline's expression had shifted into that of the gracious hostess. As many times as she had seen it, Nikita never failed to find Madeline’s ability to transform herself that way fascinating.

"No, thank you."

Madeline crossed her legs and placed her hands on her lap. She regarded Nikita thoughtfully before she began to speak again.

"Since you seem to blame Paul and me for everything that you dislike about Section, perhaps you need to know what we were and were not responsible for. Otherwise, your misimpressions will stand in the way of any productive communication."

"Go on." Nikita could think of plenty of ugly things that they were unquestionably responsible for, but she kept that thought to herself.

"Think, Nikita," Madeline urged. "You’re familiar by now with what the other Sections do. What about Section Four? Those children didn’t volunteer to join. Do you think a humanitarian set that up?"

"No. Section Four is monstrous."

"And yet Paul and I had nothing to do with creating it."

Nikita nodded in acknowledgement. "That’s true. That was George, not you."

"George? Do you think George had the authority to establish a new Section without prior approval from Center?"

"You’re saying that my father...." Nikita’s voice trailed off in horror.

Her point made, Madeline quickly moved on. "Tell me Nikita, under your command, can operatives resign from Section One?"

"No. Oversight would never allow that."

"Then how is their service at Section One not forced?"

Nikita had no answer.

"So in reality, forced recruitment continues even now that Paul and I are gone."

Nikita nodded. "In that sense, anyway."

"If that’s the case, why do you assume that we were responsible for creating the policy?"

"Perhaps I shouldn’t," Nikita admitted reluctantly. She was beginning to find this exchange rather tiring.

"And Adrian, since I know you’re so enamored of her -- what was it that she told you that she objected to at Section One?"

"Your support for tyrants like Saddam Hussein. Your pursuit for control over the world. Your disregard for innocents in your so-called 'quest for the greater good.'"

"In other words, our external actions. Our policy decisions. But did she ever criticize the way we ran Section internally? The fact that we cancelled operatives, or used abeyance teams?"

"No."

"Well? Why do you think that might be?" Madeline’s expression was deceptively benign, but her gaze was piercing.

Nikita answered slowly, sadly. "Because she set up those policies when she created the Sections."

"Very good, Nikita." Madeline leaned back in her chair with a smile.

They regarded each other quietly for a few moments.

"So next you’re going to tell me that you didn’t kill my father."

"Of course we didn’t."