1999

Madeline’s eyes followed the graceful sweep of the branch as it bent - just so. To gaze at the delicacy of the bonsai was soothing, but, even more important, to contemplate the paradoxes they incarnated was profound - beauty expressed through deformity; the essence of nature captured through artificial means; a tiny, confined space representing the universe’s infinite vastness.

It was when events were at their most chaotic that she turned to the bonsai for comfort. Their balance was a reminder that a resolution of even seemingly irreconcilable conflicts was, in fact, possible; their harmony was proof that perfection existed and could be achieved.

She wasn’t entirely certain how long she had been standing still, staring at the row of pots and plants. It was taking longer than usual for them to help her conquer her anxiety about the present situation. She tried to think of it as simply another mission - and in a way, that’s all it was. But it was a mission that dredged up long-buried ghosts, bringing back feelings that she thought she had permanently vanquished. Those feelings were a discomfiting mixture of many things - fear, love, disgust and anger among them - but above all, seizing her in a painful grip, guilt. The longer she tried to focus on the tranquility of the plants behind the glass, the sharper and more relentless the guilt became.

Admitting defeat, she closed her eyes and sighed. She then started as she heard her telephone ring. Fumbling with uncharacteristic nervousness, she picked it up and answered.

"We have a problem." George dispensed with his usual greeting.

"Yes, we do." With great effort, she kept her voice calm, acknowledging the situation without revealing her apprehension.

"How did this happen?"

"Markali’s name was on a list of Badenheim associates. As soon as he saw it, he became obsessed. There was no persuading him otherwise. Believe me, I’ve tried."

"As have I. Short of giving him a direct order to drop it."

"Don’t do that," Madeline cautioned. "That will only make it worse."

"What alternative is there? He’s about to destroy years of work."

"There are other ways of getting at Badenheim’s inner circle. But if you deny him this, he’ll spend every waking moment studying Markali, trying to build evidence against him. Do you really want him engaged in that kind of scrutiny?"

"Perhaps not. If he ever found out the truth...."

"It could be very ugly. For all of us."

There was a tense silence on the line for several moments before George spoke again.

"So you think we should allow him to proceed."

"Give him what he wants, as quickly as possible, before he spends too much time looking into this."

"You’ll be handling it yourself?" It was an order as much as it was a question.

"Of course."

"I’ll do what I can on my end. Forward me the mission profile and I’ll make sure everything is prepared."

"You’ll have it within the hour."

"Good." George paused again. "You know, Madeline, it’s been quite some time since we worked directly together on anything. It almost makes one nostalgic."

"It has been a long time, hasn’t it?"

"A lapse that perhaps we need to rectify."

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

1971

The long oak desk, normally polished to a glossy sheen, overflowed with haphazard piles of papers and file folders. Adrian had cleared a small work area and sat reviewing the latest reports from Uganda, stopping occasionally to absentmindedly sip her - now lukewarm - tea. She frowned, studying the photograph of the tall general. According to her sources, Idi Amin was an unstable illiterate - and yet the Western powers were unreservedly supporting his coup. She made a slight 'tsk' of disgust. Politicians and bureaucrats could be so short-sighted - and short-sightedness, as she had seen so many times, led to compromises with evil.

A light knock at her door interrupted her concentration. The door swung open, and a man peered inside.

"Hello, George," Adrian said warmly. "Do come in."

George entered the office, looked with a curious expression at the uncharacteristic mess on the desk, and took a seat. "You look rather busy," he said hesitantly. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. In fact, I needed to speak to you." Adrian removed a file folder from one of the piles on the corner of her desk. "I’ve approved most of your proposals for the other Sections. However, I did hold one for further discussion."

George raised his eyebrows in a silent query.

"It’s the new recruit for Section Two," she answered.

"Ah yes, the young lady." George smiled as if he anticipated her objection.

"We rarely recruit civilians, George, and certainly not teenagers. Especially mentally unstable teenagers, I might add." She kept her tone polite, but disapproving.

"She’s not mentally unstable," George countered. "She’s been tested thoroughly."

Adrian shook her head and withdrew a document from the folder. "She has a criminal record. Shoplifting, vandalism, auto theft, arson . . . ."

George shrugged. "She’s a rebellious teenager. That’s part of why she was selected."

"She burned down an entire juvenile detention center. That hardly seems like mere rebellion." Adrian was scornful. "She’s probably a sociopath."

"Quite the contrary. A sociopath would have let everyone burn to death. She made sure to pull the fire alarm first, and no one was hurt. The doctors say that she’s withdrawn, defensive, yes - but not a sociopath."

"And then there’s what didn’t make it into her criminal record."

"The incident with the sister."

"Yes. How do you explain that?"

"She was a young child. She couldn’t have known the consequences of what she was doing. I don’t think that should be an issue. She hasn’t hurt anyone since - only property damage."

Adrian frowned, tapping a finger on her desk in thought. George might, technically, be correct. But Adrian trusted her instincts, and they told her that this recruit would be unpredictable, perhaps even dangerous.

George leaned forward in his chair, his expression sincere. "I understand your reservations, Adrian, but she’s ideal for this mission. She’s young, has a high IQ, is estranged from her family, and is capable of committing violent acts. And have you looked at the photos?"

"Not carefully."

George took the file folder from Adrian, opened it, and pulled out a photo. He placed it on Adrian’s desk. "This is Madeline." He then removed a second photo and set it alongside the first. "And this is Dr. Ohanian’s late daughter."

"My God," Adrian exclaimed, eyes widening.

"The resemblance is striking, isn’t it? Not too perfect, or he’d become suspicious. But strong enough that he’ll be affected by it."

Adrian sighed. This girl was perfectly suited to the mission, and the mission, unfortunately, would be highly valuable. Swallowing her distaste, she spoke. "Well, George, I’ll trust your judgment on this one. But I do hope that you appreciate the risk involved. She’s going to be exposed to some very dangerous things by this doctor. If she’s unstable, we could be creating a monster."

"If so, all we have to do is cancel her."

"I wish it were that simple," Adrian replied.

George stood up, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the door to take his leave. As he turned the doorknob, Adrian called out to him.

"Working here is hard on one’s moral code as it is. But I would prefer that our operatives at least start out with one."

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

It was the nausea that woke her. Its pulsing waves kept demanding her attention, despite her deep desire to sink back into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness. It prodded and stabbed at her insistently, leaving her trembling and coated in sweat.

As Madeline instinctively curled up in the fetal position, clutching her stomach, she noticed the softness of the mattress beneath her: the softness, that is, compared to the discomfort of the bench she last remembered lying down on. In truth, the mattress was thin and lumpy, in that well-worn way that institutional beds always had.

The mattress made no sense. Nor did the silence. The holding cell of the city jail had been full of noisy, complaining women. She had fallen asleep only because of her incredible exhaustion, the chattering voices fading into a muffled roar in the back of her mind. But now she heard nothing.

Where was she, and how did she get there? As she shifted on the bed once again, she pondered the possibilities. There weren’t many. She had either been processed into her own cell at the jail, or she had been transferred to a mental hospital. She was intimately familiar with both types of institutions - and much preferred the jail. It was odd, though, that she didn’t remember being moved. She tried to reach into the recesses of her memory, but her brain seemed encased in a thick, disorienting fog. A mental fog. Of course. She had been sedated - she should have recognized the signs immediately. She now had the answer to her question: the jail wouldn’t have sedated her, but a hospital would.

She slowly raised her eyelids and took in her surroundings: a drab, windowless room, empty but for her bed, lit by harsh fluorescent light. She was a bit surprised to find herself alone; she had never warranted her own room before. But then again, she had never burned down an entire building before, for that matter. Special privileges for a special patient, she thought with a twinge of grim amusement.

She sat up weakly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Despite the lingering nausea and dizziness, she forced herself to stand and then walked back and forth along the room, inspecting every inch of the walls and floors. She was pleased to spot several cracks large enough to discard unwanted medication into. Keeping a clear head would be her top priority until she could figure out a way to escape.

But escape would first require getting out of this room. It would probably be too much to expect for the door to have been left unlocked, but then again, the employees of such institutions weren't always the brightest people. She had slipped out of unsecured doors too many times in the past not to give it a try. Crossing her fingers for luck, she walked to the door, reached for the doorknob - and jumped back, startled, as the doorknob turned of its own accord.

She stepped back out of the way as the door pushed inwards and a figure appeared. She expected a nurse, but instead saw a tall woman in street clothes. The woman inspected her clinically, but then smiled and walked into the room, closing the door soundly behind her.

"I see you’re finally awake."

Madeline looked at the woman without responding. Volunteering anything would give her no advantage.

"Don’t you want to know where you are?"

"Does it matter?"

The woman laughed. "Oh, it matters a lot. Your life’s at stake."

Madeline kept silent. Whatever game this person was playing - cop, shrink, or whatever she was - Madeline had no intention of joining.

The woman sighed in frustration. "Okay, sweetheart, I see you’re not the chatty type. So I’ll do the talking. You’re in a place called Section Two."

The wing where they keep the 'difficult patients', no doubt, Madeline thought.

"We’re a covert government agency engaged in fighting terrorism. Because of your special skills, you’ve been recruited to join us."

My God, this isn’t a shrink - I’m locked in with one of the patients. Her eyes widening, Madeline looked the woman up and down in disbelief. She wasn’t wearing hospital garb, and she looked more like a social worker than a lunatic. But the woman was clearly insane, so Madeline surreptitiously tensed her body for a potential attack.

"My name is Tina, and I’ll be your trainer."

"Okay, Tina," Madeline said slowly, hoping to placate her long enough to spot an intercom or a buzzer to summon a nurse for help.

With a sudden movement that caused Madeline to flinch involuntarily, Tina turned back toward the door. "Come with me. I’m going to take you on a tour."

Tina pulled the door open vigorously and stepped outside, watching Madeline with an expectant expression. Madeline hesitated.

"Come on," Tina ordered impatiently.

Lunatic or not, the woman was offering an exit from the room. That, at least, was progress. Madeline decided to follow for the moment - she could ditch the woman when her back was turned.

Madeline walked through the door and emerged into a hallway, making sure to keep a safe distance away from the other woman. The hallway was brightly lit but completely empty. There was no sign of a nurses’ station or a guard, only a row of identical closed doors, their green paint a sickening contrast to the sterile white walls.

Tina began to stride down the hallway purposefully. Madeline stood still, wondering if she should run the other direction, until Tina turned back to look at her.

"There’s no place to run, you know."

Reluctantly, Madeline followed Tina through a maze of lookalike hallways. She tried to keep track of how many turns they had made, but eventually resigned herself to the fact that she was completely lost. Then, as they turned a corner, she stopped in her tracks, stupefied. Before her was an enormous room, full of desks and office workers. What kind of a hospital - or prison - was this?

"This is the central administration room. We track all of the missions here."

As they walked farther into the room, Madeline listened to the din of typewriters and voices. Telephones rang; file cabinets slammed. Men and women walked past them hurriedly, none of them giving Madeline even the slightest glance. She looked up to see gigantic maps embedded into the walls, red and blue lights flashing at various spots around the globe. At the far end of the room, behind a thick wall of glass, stood a phalanx of monstrous computers - more than she imagined even NASA would have.

"This way," Tina called to her, crossing the room and turning down another corridor.

Moving slowly, like a sleepwalker, Madeline followed Tina down the hallway and toward a door. Tina opened it and ushered Madeline inside a small room.

"This is my office," Tina announced. "Have a seat."

Madeline sank weakly into a chair near the door, as Tina picked up a file folder from her desk and handed it to Madeline without explanation.

Madeline looked down and opened the folder. Several loose news clippings spiraled out onto the floor; hands shaking, she gathered them and then, not quite sure what she was looking for, began to read. As she did so, the waves of nausea returned, magnified by the surreal nature of what she was seeing: her own obituary, as well as several articles describing her presumed death in the fire that consumed the juvenile facility.

"But I wasn’t --"

"Killed in the fire? We know that, but that’s not what the outside world thinks. To everyone on the outside, you’re dead."

"But there are witnesses," she protested. "I went to the jail afterwards."

"There aren’t any witnesses who are willing to remember you," Tina responded with an odd, almost sympathetic expression.

Madeline looked down at the articles again, fingering them to convince herself that they were real. She hoped that she was dreaming, that she would wake up in the holding cell and have her life - unpleasant, but familiar - returned to her. But her heart began racing in fear; she had never experienced any sense of touch in her dreams, and the news clippings were frighteningly tactile.

"Normally, we would have photos from your funeral service as well. But for some reason you didn’t have one."

Madeline blinked rapidly and swallowed a choking lump. Of course there was no funeral. Mother told me years ago that I was already dead to her.

Taking a deep breath to maintain control over herself, Madeline looked up at Tina. It was better to focus on details - the enormity of what was happening was simply too much to digest. "You said I was recruited because of my 'special skills'. Just what might those be?"

"I’m not in charge of selecting recruits," Tina replied with a shrug. "I just train them."

"Train them for what?"

"Undercover intelligence gathering. Our operatives are given false identities and live in the outside world. Some collect information and pass it back to us; others are just put in place somewhere in case we ever need to activate them."

"And that’s what I’ll be doing?"

"Eventually."

Madeline pondered this information for a moment. She tried to filter it through her prior experience - false identities and information gathering? Perhaps this was the police, after all - it sounded like they were asking her to become a snitch or a narc. In her experience, people like that didn’t live long.

Sitting up straight, she looked Tina in the eye. "What if I choose not to?"

Tina broke eye contact briefly, as if uncomfortable with the topic. She shuffled some papers on her desk for a moment, but then looked back at Madeline. "There isn’t really a choice. You either cooperate, or you’ll be killed."

Madeline stared at Tina, slowly realizing that the other woman was entirely serious. "How can you get away with this? Police can’t just kill people. There's ... there's the Constitution, the Bill of Rights."

"We’re not police, and we don’t worry much about legalities. We’re not even under the jurisdiction of any one particular government."

Madeline sat in silence, trying to make sense out of the unreal situation she found herself in. Kidnapped by some out-of-control secret society and forced to work…as a spy? It was almost beyond belief. Yet it sounded more pleasant than jail, maybe even more pleasant than the life on the streets that she had been trying to escape to when she set that ill-fated fire. And there was something else. If she could believe this woman, she had been selected for some sort of skill that someone recognized in her. In her entire life, no one else - not teachers, counselors, doctors, truant officers, or police, and certainly not her parents - had ever thought she could accomplish anything of use. But these people, whoever they were, saw some value, some potentiality. This gave her a sudden thrill of pride.

"Do you have any other questions before I take you to your new quarters?"

Madeline considered the question for a moment. She might as well try to find out as much as possible about her situation. "You said that the name of this place is Section Two."

"Yes."

"Is there a Section One? Three? Ten?"

Tina laughed. "Aha, you’re a sharp one! There are three Sections that are a part of the overall organization. And they’re developing more. Each one has a kind of specialty."

"What kind of specialty?"

"Section One is the biggest. It does the complex, covert missions - the big, life-saving stuff. Section Two, like I told you, covers long-term intelligence gathering - we get the background intelligence that Section One needs to carry out its missions. And Section Three handles run-of-the-mill assassinations and bombings - the kind of things it would be a waste of resources to have Section One deal with. To be honest, I’m a little surprised they didn’t assign you there. With your background, it would seem to be a fit."

Madeline blinked in surprise and then grew angry. The reference to her 'background' could only mean one thing - Sarah. Even in this place - even 'dead' - she would never escape her past. Was that the skill she had been selected for?

She stood up abruptly. "I have no more questions," she said, her voice cold.

Tina looked slightly taken aback. Almost frightened. "Alright, then, let me show you to your quarters," she said, eyeing Madeline warily.

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

The whine cut through the darkness of the room, looping closer and closer until it swooped past Paul’s ear. He wrenched his head back and forth violently despite the pain it caused him to move. He wasn’t sure which was worse - the heavy ropes twisting and contorting his body or the mosquitoes’ bloodthirsty attacks.

The whine ceased as Paul felt a sensation on his forehead. He tried to blow the mosquito off; his sharply forced breath felt slightly cool on his sweat-covered skin. But the effort failed. With a slight tickle, he felt himself being punctured and clenched his jaw in helpless agony. It was this subtle torture that was driving him mad, that caused him to curse and rave. The searing pain of the ropes that bound him was so all-enveloping that he could become one with it, embrace it. But the itch of each new welt, the sting as the sweat dripped into his eyes - each fleeting sensation drove him closer to the edge of insanity.

He began to count, in multiples of seven, in an effort to focus his mind on something, anything else. He faltered, over and over, and had to start again. He had reached 294 when the door swung open. The light of a flashlight playing on his face momentarily blinded him; he turned his head away, flinching from the pain.

The familiar voice of his chief torturer, Phan Van Nahn, reached Paul from the doorway. But instead of the standard taunts to Paul in English, or the barked orders to subordinates in Vietnamese, Paul heard soft words in French. The interrogator was speaking to someone else, a tall, dark shadow hidden behind the glare of the flashlight. The figure then responded, equally softly, his gruff voice barely audible.

Paul frowned as he tried to make out the conversation. His high school French was simply not up to the task. He had never liked the language, had never felt comfortable with its effete image and sissy nasal qualities. And he had had little use for it even in this former French colony. The ARVN liaison officers he dealt with all spoke English, as did the bargirls who provided R&R. But he did recognize one thing - the tall man’s accent wasn’t French. It wasn’t Vietnamese, either - and besides, Paul had never seen a Vietnamese that tall.

Who the hell is this? Paul wondered. Maybe a Russian - there had been many rumors of Russian advisors and support for the North Vietnamese. The thought that he was a piece of meat being displayed for some Red Army functionary on a tour incited an almost homicidal fury. Did the Russian want a show? Paul could give him one, alright.

Paul looked directly at the dark figure and sneered. "You’re not going to beat us, you fucking commie bastards!" he shouted. "You and Brezhnev both can eat merde and suck my --"

The man laughed loudly, interrupting Paul’s tirade. He spoke in elegant, British-accented English. "Well, I’ve never met Mr. Brezhnev, but if I do, I’ll send him your regards." The man then spoke again in French. "Il est trop obstiné. Laissez-moi voir quelqu'un d'autre."

"Bien sûr."

The two men departed and closed the door, returning Paul to the darkness.

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

1999

George set down his telephone and grunted with displeasure. Opening a drawer, he reached for his bottle of antacids and hissed in annoyance when he felt nothing rattle inside. Empty again. Ah, well, there were other forms of medication available. Distilled medication, that is.

He crossed the room and reached for his decanter of Scotch, admiring the golden tone of the liquid as he poured his glass, sniffing the rich aroma. He took a sip - and winced as it sent searing bolts of pain through his abdomen.

I’m not going to have a stomach left at this rate, he thought, grimacing.

Days like this made him wonder why he had ever wanted this job, why he had fought and schemed so hard to achieve it. After all of that struggle, his reward was to spend his time mediating between two utterly impossible men: his ivory tower superior at Center, forever pushing elegant but thoroughly impractical strategies; and his loose-cannon, power hungry subordinate, constantly undermining his authority and plotting coups. But as the pain in his stomach subsided and his body began to warm, he smiled. Yes, it was worth enduring both of them. Let Philip spin his grand theories up in Center, let Paul do the dirty work down in Section One - he, George, would sit back in his power center and pull the real strings.

George sipped his Scotch again as he made his way back to his desk. This time it didn’t burn his stomach quite so badly. He typed at his keyboard, bringing up the file on Nikolai Markali. He shook his head, resigned but disappointed. It had taken years of careful work to push the reluctant Markali into Badenheim’s embrace, and now - just as Markali was about to join their inner circle and thus expose the entire leadership - Paul’s personal agenda intervened. Except that it wasn’t just a matter of Paul’s agenda, of course. If Paul discovered the truth, he might well go on a rampage - and things were unsettled enough at the Sections without that kind of disaster. No, as much as George would enjoy seeing Paul pushed over the edge, now was not the time.

His computer beeped to indicate an incoming message. It was Section One’s profile for the Markali mission, only fifteen minutes after Madeline had promised to deliver it. Prompt, as always. It was indeed a pleasant change to have Madeline as an ally. Well, 'ally' might be too strong a word - one never knew quite where one stood with that woman. Yet he had only himself to blame - Madeline was his misbegotten creation, just as Paul was Adrian’s - both of them reflecting their mentors’ worst qualities.

There had once been a time when Madeline showed so much promise - had indeed seemed to be a worthy successor - but then time had passed, loyalties had subtly shifted. Their cooperation now, however, made him wonder whether all was not lost. Perhaps it was worth reaching out to her again - testing the waters, so to speak. But he would have to think about that later. With a tired sigh, he clicked on the file and began to read the profile. It was time to see what hideous plan Paul had come up with - and devise a way to work around it.

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

1972

Madeline tossed the book on her desk with a resounding thump. Another tedious Russian novel translated, full of dreary descriptions of tractors and heroic laborers. Tina insisted that reading them would teach Madeline about the mind-set of their enemy, but Madeline refused to believe her. Not even the most fanatically committed revolutionary would voluntarily read such things.

She fell back on her bed and stared wearily up at the ceiling, wondering when her undercover work would finally begin. Her 'secret agent' training had been, in many ways, a disappointment. Mundane, even. It was nothing more than an intensive prep-school education, seasoned with occasional exotic language study. The subjects hadn’t challenged her, nor had her tutors. Indeed, she frequently found herself correcting them. She did this out of boredom, rather than arrogance, and yet it seemed to intimidate them - a reaction which she noticed with curiosity. In the past, adults had been frightened of her because of the shocking nature of her acts. The idea that she could intimidate by something as simple as the mere display of knowledge intrigued her.

Beyond her studies, very little was asked of her. And with no one her age to socialize with, she spent her time alone. Observing. This, too, seemed to make those around her nervous. But she learned a great deal that way.

Above all, she studied the organization and the people working in it. Among other things, she noticed that the administrative staff - that army of women typists, file clerks and transcribers - was shrinking. In its place grew a corps of young computer technicians, tending to the sensitivities of their electronic masters. The computer room was clearly the safe place to work in Section Two, although its denizens were underappreciated.

Ostensibly, the glamorous jobs belonged to the undercover operatives. She saw how all eyes would turn to them when they visited the facility, striding through the halls like gunslingers or gladiators. Mostly men, and mostly ex-military, they behaved as if they were an elite group of heroes, saving the world out of a sense of chivalry and noblesse oblige.

Madeline viewed them very differently. In her mind, elites were not expendable, and heroes were not to be lightly cast aside. And yet Section threw these men’s lives away without hesitation. In reality, she recognized, these operatives were pawns - available for sacrifice at a moment’s notice. And the life of a pawn was far from glamorous. Or safe.

The fact that the undercover operatives failed to understand their true insignificance demonstrated their foolishness. Madeline, in contrast, was no fool. She not only accepted that her life, as an individual, meant nothing here, she welcomed it. It made things simpler. In many ways, it was no different from her old life, with one great exception - now, she served a larger cause. By recruiting Madeline, Section had thus given her something precious, irreplaceable. It had given her something to believe in. It had turned all of her faults into virtues. It had lifted her out of an aimless spiral of self-destruction and offered her redemption. The price Section demanded in return - her life - was one she was willing to pay. It wasn’t really very much to ask. After all, wasn’t she already dead?

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

"Welcome back," Bobby Lane, the dry-witted helicopter gunner, said, watching the guards usher Paul back into the cell and slam the door shut. "How was the spa?"

Paul smirked. The 'spa' was Lane’s nickname for the swamp at the edge of the camp where uncooperative prisoners were often forced to stand, tied to posts, as punishment.

"Rejuvenating," Paul replied sarcastically. "Why, my skin has never been softer," he laughed, pulling up his damp pantleg to show his cellmates the yellow-green open sores. This time, he had only been subjected to the punishment for forty-eight hours, so his wounds had escaped the worst of the insect egg-laying. Other times he had not been so lucky.

"God damn," Franklin Fredericks, the medic, exclaimed. "Let me clean you up."

Paul joined Fredericks on the grimy rattan mat and pulled up his pantlegs to his knees. He leaned back on his hands and spread out his legs stiffly, wincing as Fredericks poked at the sores.

"That doesn’t look very clean," Paul said worriedly, eyeing the small shred of cloth Fredericks had ripped from his shirt.

"It’s cleaner than that muck you’re covered in," Fredericks replied, dabbing the cloth on Paul’s wounds. "It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten gangrene yet, as many times as they’ve sent you out there."

The pressure applied on Paul’s wounds burned savagely; he drew sharp breaths through gritted teeth until Fredericks was done. Then, looking around the room, he noticed something odd. Two days before, he had left five men in this cell. Now, there were only four.

"Where’s Gallo?" Paul asked.

The four men looked at each other nervously.

"They took him last night," Lane whispered. "Phan and some white dude. I think it’s the one we keep hearing about."

Paul tensed his body angrily. Ever since his first encounter with the tall, French-speaking stranger, rumors had been circulating throughout the camp - stories of a mysterious Westerner, appearing in the dead of night and picking out men to be led away. No one knew the fate of the missing prisoners; however, speculation was rampant and increasingly lurid - mass executions, medical experiments, brainwashing.

Paul had dismissed all the stories as nonsense at first, assuming that the missing men had been transferred to other camps. But then he had started to notice a pattern - the men who disappeared were invariably the weakest among them, the ones who had their spirits broken. Concerned, Paul had started attempting to protect those whom he saw as likely targets - whenever a guard began to pick on someone vulnerable, Paul would create a distraction, drawing the wrath of their captors onto himself. But he couldn’t protect everyone, not all the time - and this time, it was his frightened young cellmate who was missing - a kid only three months out of high school, who barely even needed to shave yet. A kid who cried for his mother every night.

You fucking Russian bastard, Paul thought, God help you if I ever get my hands on you.

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

The soft knock at the door didn’t register at first, so engrossed was George in the efficiency ratings for Section Three. The results of his new recruiting program were beyond his most optimistic expectations; the quality of the assassins his source had procured was extraordinary. If only he could convince Adrian to maintain a similar hands-off attitude toward Section Two, George could work the same miracle there.

He had spent the morning performing the annual reviews of Section Two’s first-year recruits - most of them Adrian’s choices, the typical assortment of cowboys and adventurers, well adapted for Section One but completely unsuitable for Section Two’s undercover work. Adrian always insisted on selecting operatives with tendencies toward holding strong principles - individuals who could be converted into true believers for the Agency’s cause. But in Section Two, Adrian’s true believers were always the first to have their covers blown - they seemed incapable of the moral ambiguity necessary to lead false lives for years at a time.

The tapping at his door grew slightly more insistent, and he realized that another recruit must have arrived. Glancing at the list on his desk to see who was next, he sighed in relief. It was Madeline, the troubled teenager he had personally selected the prior year. Finally - a chance to assess someone who might actually have an aptitude for undercover work.

He looked toward the door eagerly. "Come in," he called, pushing away from his desk to lean back in his chair.

The door opened and Madeline entered. Dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she stood stiffly at attention, her hands clasped in front of her like a soldier. Her stance looked slightly odd, given her youth and gender, but it matched the disciplined intensity of her expression. Nodding, George gestured for her to sit down; she took a seat in front of his desk, but remained rigid and formal.

"Do you know who I am, Madeline?" George asked. He adopted a relaxed, almost indifferent attitude, the better to disguise his careful analysis of her demeanor. Putting recruits at ease was the best way to test them; when they let their guard down, they often revealed latent flaws.

"I’m told you have some position of authority here, sir." Her tone seemed calculatedly deferential, but she was otherwise unreadable.

"Please," he said, smiling, "call me George."

"Alright, George," she agreed, matching his smile with one of her own. It was a faint smile - polite, but not too warm.

"I do indeed have a position of authority here," George explained. "The commander of all of the Sections is a lady by the name of Adrian. I am her second-in-command."

"I see."

"While Adrian and I are jointly in control of all of the Sections, we have worked out an informal division of labor. Section One - the busiest Section - occupies Adrian almost full-time. As a result, she leaves day-to-day operations at Two and Three to me. That makes me, de facto, your boss."

Madeline nodded but said nothing.

"I always wait until new recruits have completed their initial training before I see them. No sense wasting my time with someone who isn’t going to work out."

Madeline remained silent and utterly impassive looking. George smiled in approval - he appreciated a good poker face.

"Now, however," he announced, "it’s time we got to know each other."

He looked down at her file and flipped through the pages, pausing to read some of the comments made by her trainers. 'Superficially friendly, but evasive,' wrote one. 'A strange mixture of intensity and coldness,' wrote another. The trainers had deemed these negative qualities; George, however, strongly disagreed.

He scanned the file further, refreshing his memory regarding her background. He had forgotten the details of the numerous foster families, the repeated institutionalizations, the habitual running away to live on the streets, and the increasingly serious crimes. But one thing stood out clearly in his memory, as powerful as the first day he had read it. It was the report of the child psychologist who had interviewed her on the day of her sister’s death. The psychologist had found the young girl quite cognizant of the significance of what she had done - fully aware of the meaning and finality of death - but casually unremorseful. When asked why she had pushed her sister to her death, she had shrugged, and answered plainly: 'I wanted the doll.'

George had seen many evil things in his life - deaths, betrayals, atrocities - and yet that simple sentence had chilled him on a level he had never before experienced. It chilled him still, even though he knew that the other doctors who had examined the girl over the years were unanimous in the opinion that she was not a psychopath - that her remark during the interview was a product of shock, not of her real attitude. He wasn’t certain whether to believe them - or even if he wanted to. The possibilities of a truly amoral operative were quite intriguing.

Setting the file aside, he looked back up at her. "You’ve had quite a career for someone so young," he observed dryly. "It makes me curious, actually. Why would a bright young lady such as yourself do such very foolish things?"

"It’s what people expected of me," she answered bluntly.

"Do you always do what people expect?"

George smiled at her, wondering if she would fall into the trap that he had set. An affirmative answer would suggest that she was easily manipulated; a negative answer might indicate that she was unreliable. She seemed to recognize the dilemma, because it took her some time to answer.

"I try to exceed people’s expectations."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, quite pleased with the response. A direct answer, yet still evasive. Very, very neat. He studied her for a few moments, trying - and failing - to read any expression in her eyes, and then withdrew a checklist from her file.

"Your records indicate that you’ve engaged in quite a number of petty - and not so petty - crimes. But I’d like to know if you’ve done other things - things you weren’t caught at, that didn’t make it into the official records."

"Alright."

He looked at the first item on his checklist. "Burglary, or break-ins?"

"Yes."

"Robbery?"

"You mean holding up a store, mugging someone, or something like that? No."

"Have you ever handled a weapon at all?"

"No."

"Hmm," he grunted, placing a checkmark on his list.

"Drug use?"

"No."

"Really? It seems to be the thing to do among people your age these days."

"I’ve had enough drugs forced on me in hospitals. I like to keep my mind clear, thank you."

"So you’re at least familiar with the effects of drugs?"

"Very."

"Good." He looked back at his list. "Prostitution?"

She looked away, for the first time appearing disconcerted.

"I take it that’s a yes."

She looked back at him with just a hint of belligerence. "Why do you need to know this?"

"So that we can determine what you need training in, and what you are already experienced with."

"You would train me in those things?" Her eyes widened in genuine shock.

"The skill sets for crime and espionage overlap to a large degree."

He watched her face as she took in this statement. Perhaps now she would know what was in store for her as an operative. It was better if she did - the sooner operatives became reconciled to the more distasteful parts of their work, the easier things were.

"Up until now, your training has been designed to help you catch up academically - to overcome some of the limitations of your background. Now, however, your real training will begin."

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

With a flourish, Adrian initialed the bottom of the memo and handed it to her waiting secretary. "Please take this to George," she instructed.

The young woman looked down at the document, paled as she saw the contents, and nodded. "Yes, ma’am." She walked out of the office hastily.

Adrian stood and stretched, fatigued from the morning’s efforts. She had reviewed the latest intelligence reports from China, analyzed and approved a massive upgrade of Section One’s computer systems, and assigned twenty-seven operatives to abeyance status - the last being the subject of the memo that had so frightened her mistake-prone secretary.

She sighed, reaching out to adjust the roses in the vase at the corner of her desk. The younger operatives were such a disappointment these days, entirely lacking in both discipline and dedication. In her memo, Adrian had outlined a plan of action that she hoped would streamline the training process and weed out the weak operatives before too much time and resources were wasted on them. But she knew that would not be enough. It wasn’t simply a matter of poor training - it was the inability to find the right sort of recruits.

In the old days, operatives had believed in Section One’s cause even before being recruited, had believed in the values of democracy and Western civilization, and had known the difference between good and evil. But times had changed. Young people no longer believed in anything, or if they did, they turned moral values upside down - idealizing violence and revolution and rejecting the cultural values of their own society. It was becoming almost impossible to rehabilitate them, to instill loyalty in them. Instead, she found it necessary to rely more and more on threats and punishments. That worked, to a degree, among lower-level operatives. But it was quite inappropriate for motivating potential leaders. And that posed a serious problem.

The Sections were only the first in a series of Adrian’s dreams. The Sections existed to save the world from the grip of barbarism, but she also hoped to form institutions that were in the business of creating civilization instead of merely defending it. That, of course, would require a very different kind of organization from the Sections; in turn, that would necessitate passing on the stewardship of the Sections to a new generation. But without a protégé, someone she could train and mentor, it would all be impossible. And, sadly, there was no one in her organization that she trusted to protect her creation, no one who could be relied upon to preserve her vision and ensure that it outlived her. This haunted her, causing her to screen potential recruits obsessively, hoping to find that ideal candidate. But she was always disappointed.

The newest recruit brought into Section One was a perfect illustration of the dilemma. On paper, Charles Sand was ideal: a Captain in the SAS, with distinguished service in Oman, from a long-time military family. But when she met him, she knew instantly that he would not do. Oh, he would make an excellent - even outstanding - operative. But there was something missing, a vague absence that evaded description. A lack of charisma, perhaps. To lead Section One, one would need to inspire immediate and unquestioning obedience. Sand simply did not. Indeed, so far, she had only known one person who had that quality - herself.

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

Madeline stood near the back of the room, hiding behind the other operatives in order to avoid showing her disappointment. When she had been told that she would begin martial arts training with a group of female recruits, she had expected the teacher to be some severe-looking Japanese man in a starched white uniform. Instead, she found herself staring at a fragile middle-aged woman in a pretty but conservative dress.

The woman had introduced herself and announced with a pleasant smile that she would begin teaching them knife skills. Madeline had stifled a laugh - she couldn’t imagine this demure lady with the soft voice knowing anything about knives, except perhaps which one went with which fork. So she had quietly moved to the rear of the class, bored and disdainful.

Reaching into a pocket hidden in her dress, the woman pulled out a small, wood-handled knife. She held it out for the class to inspect. It was delicate, like its owner, with elaborate carvings on the handle.

"A blade is a very handy weapon," she explained. "You can’t always carry a gun, especially when you are wearing revealing clothing - as some of you will be doing. But it is easy to conceal something sharp - in a shoe, inside your sleeve, even in your hair. You’d be surprised what you can do with something as simple as a hairpin. Especially a Section-issued hairpin," she added with a smile.

Several of the women in the class laughed at the last remark.

"With such a weapon, the best method of attack is to deceive. You don’t have to fight fair - that’s for men in fistfights or duels."

The woman palmed the knife, hiding the edge flat against her arm so that, to those standing in front of her, she looked weaponless. She walked slowly toward them, her eyes cast down, her manner seemingly fearful and cringing.

"Act weak and helpless. Or be friendly," she said, straightening her posture and smiling warmly. "Then, when you are close - too close for them to even see your weapon - then you attack." In an instant, she had the knife drawn against a terrified operative’s neck. She had moved so quickly that Madeline - from her vantage point in the rear - had no idea how she had moved from one position to the other. Startled, Madeline stepped forward to get a better view.

"When you strike, you mustn’t hesitate or hold back. You must be vicious, bloodthirsty, and willing to maim and kill. But above all, you must never let them see it coming."

Madeline watched, entranced, as the woman demonstrated her attacks, again and again. They were beautiful in their sheer cunning, so much more elegant than the shooting techniques they had practiced the day before. And her words, too, resonated with wisdom. Enemies were best defeated by deception as opposed to brute force; an attack - of any kind - should never be signaled, should never even be visible until it was too late. Feigned weakness was the best strength; false kindness was the best cruelty.

These were lessons that could apply to much, much more than fighting. They were a guide to life.

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

Paul grasped the tiny shard of bamboo in his hand, hiding it from view of the guard who watched over him as he crawled out of the cage where he had been imprisoned for the past week. It was beginning to be a joke among his fellow prisoners - hardly a day went by when his attitude didn’t annoy the guards and provoke a new punishment. But this time the punishment had offered a reward - the rotting bamboo cage where he had crouched in solitary confinement had yielded bits of itself to his prying fingers. He wasn’t certain what he would use the bamboo for yet, but it could be a useful tool. It was strong enough to dig through the dirt, as long as he was patient, and sharp enough to poke or saw through restraints. It was a treasure, and he would guard it carefully.

He shuffled slowly back toward the building holding his cell, his legs not quite stable after the long days curled up in the tiny cage. The guard prodded at him impatiently with the barrel of his rifle - apparently, he wasn’t going fast enough. He cursed inwardly, and then moved aside on the path to allow a group of Vietnamese soldiers to pass the other direction. He looked down so as to avoid eye contact and a potential confrontation.

Four men passed by, but then the fifth caused Paul to look up in surprise. The man was wearing boots several sizes larger than anyone else. When Paul raised his head, he found himself staring into a pair of piercing blue eyes.

A tall, blond man in fatigues looked at him coldly and then began to step past him. Paul stared in horror, realizing instinctively that this was the mystery man - the nighttime visitor who was thinning the prisoners’ ranks, bit by bit, man by man. At first, Paul was paralyzed, standing helplessly as the man walked purposefully away. But then, with an explosion of adrenaline, Paul leapt after him. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spun him around, and plunged the bamboo piece into his throat.

The blood spurted thickly into Paul’s face and soaked his chest as the man fell against him, gurgling and choking. Paul stepped backwards and watched the man fall to the ground, writhe briefly, and grow still. He looked up again to see at least ten guns turned on him, and he braced himself for the sting of the bullets that no doubt would cut him down.

He jumped as he heard Phan’s shrill voice call out orders. The guns lowered, and Phan pushed his way through several of his men to stand, red-faced with fists clenched, in front of Paul.

"You’ve just caused me a lot of trouble, lieutenant." Phan leaned close to Paul as he spoke, and faint flecks of spit landed on Paul’s face. "The only reason I’m going to keep you alive is because the other men look up to you. If I killed you now, it would cause discipline problems in the entire camp. But believe me, you’re going to pay for this, one way or another."

"Do whatever you want," Paul answered, half-dazed but defiant. "I wasn’t going to just stand there and let that Russian take my friends away."

Phan laughed. "That was no Russian."

"Who was he, then?"

"Someone who wasn’t supposed to be here." Phan smiled mockingly. "Someone who doesn’t exist."

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

1999

George had read the Markali profile three times. The first time, he was confused; the second, disbelieving; and the third, furious. The elaborate plan was completely unnecessary if the goal were merely to take out Markali: any number of contrived scandals could have done that. This plan - dependent on so many different pieces coming together perfectly - could only be justified if the goal were something more. Something he strenuously disapproved of.

He snatched up his telephone with a frown and dialed Madeline’s number.

"Hello, George," she said smoothly. She had obviously been expecting his call.

"This is completely out of hand. It was bad enough when I thought he was going after Markali out of jealousy for marrying his ex-wife. But I see the goal is to make her pay, too. That’s completely unacceptable, and you know that."

"I wouldn’t be so quick to judge his motivations," Madeline countered. "There is a logic to the approach."

"Logic?" he asked mockingly. "You know, over the years you’ve raised defending him to an art form, but I think this one surpasses even your talents."

"Markali is extremely popular in a country where dirty politics is the norm," Madeline explained, ignoring George’s comment. "The only way to get rid of him without arousing public suspicion of a set-up is to have it be a family matter. Unfortunately, that means that she has to be sacrificed. I don't see any alternatives. I truly wish I did."

George grunted. As much as it galled him, she was probably right. But then she always managed to find such persuasive, utterly convincing reasons to justify even Paul’s most self-serving behavior. Sometimes George wondered if she didn’t sit up at night trying to come up with them.

"Well," he said, changing the subject, "was Nikita your idea?"

"No."

"She’s completely wrong for this, you know. I’ve read her psych evaluation - she won’t be able to do it."

"We’ll see."

Madeline was completely noncommittal, as usual. He found it an admirable trait - except when it was aimed at him. If George could have reached out through the telephone and slapped her, he would have. Instead, he opted for a verbal blow.

"It’s almost as if he’s lashing out at women on this mission - driving his ex-wife insane, forcing Nikita to do valentine work." He paused, timing his next statement for maximum effect. "I’d be careful if I were you, my dear. You never know when he might start blaming you for his problems."

The line was silent for several moments. George smiled - he knew her well enough to recognize when he had succeeded in rattling her composure.

"As you can see, I’ll need some help from you to set things up." Madeline steered the subject back to the mission, but her voice had chilled slightly.

"Of course. Everything will be prepared." He smiled again. "I’m always here to help, Madeline. With any problem you might have."

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

1973

"Now, make sure you don’t touch anything unless I tell you to," Perry, the computer technician, warned. It was obvious from the sharpness of his tone that he considered Madeline and the other recruit following him around the room to be technological morons, capable of causing disaster with a single brush against a keyboard.

Madeline looked over at Christine, the other recruit, and rolled her eyes. Christine winked in return. George had recently instituted a policy requiring all operatives to be given at least rudimentary computer instruction, but the policy had encountered resistance from the technical staff.

"Well, let me ask you, then," Madeline asked, her tone innocent, "is it a problem that I was playing around on that terminal over there while we were waiting for you to show up?"

"Playing around?" A look of horror swept across Perry’s thin face.

"I just wanted to see what it would do," Madeline said with a shrug.

"Which terminal?" Perry’s voice cracked in panic.

"That one," she answered, pointing across the room with a frown of mock concern.

As Perry rushed over to inspect the terminal’s display, knocking over a chair in his haste, Christine covered her mouth with her hand and snorted with laughter. Madeline hadn’t touched the terminal, as Christine well knew. Madeline kept a straight face, but turned to Christine and arched an eyebrow in amusement.

Now that Madeline had ended her solitary academic studies and joined the group training sessions, she had developed more of a rapport with the other operatives. There were still barriers - her young age foremost among them - but she had developed a cordial relationship with most of the recruits, as well as a reputation for a dry sense of humor. It was a relief to her to be less isolated, even if none of them were truly friends. It was also a relief that none of them seemed to know anything about her history - to them, she was simply a rather precocious recruit, not a criminal or a monster. Indeed, by burying herself in her training, she had almost begun to forget her past herself.

"Well," Perry said, straightening up with a relieved look, "you didn’t do any harm. But don’t ever, ever do that again!"

"Oh, absolutely not. I’m so sorry."

Perry took a deep breath. "Okay. Now, most of the stuff you’ll need to see is downstairs, so follow me."

As Perry began to head toward a flight of stairs in the corner of the room, the main doors opened. He suddenly stood stiff at attention, yanking up the belt of his slightly sagging jeans. Madeline followed his gaze and saw that George had entered the room, accompanied by a well-dressed, red-haired woman with an air of authority.

"Hello, Perry," George said. "I wanted to show Adrian our new purchases. Are you busy?"

"I was about to give these two a tour of the facilities, but that can wait."

"No, no, there’s no reason you can’t do both," George insisted. "You wouldn’t mind having two of our recruits tagging along, would you, Adrian?"

"Not at all," Adrian answered graciously. "I’m always delighted to meet our operatives."

George stepped forward and gestured toward Christine. "This is Christine. Christine, this is Adrian."

Christine offered her hand, and Adrian shook it warmly. "So glad to meet you, my dear. I’ve heard such good things about you."

George then turned to Madeline. "And this is Madeline."

Madeline began to extend her hand, but stopped short when she saw the withering expression on Adrian’s face.

"Oh, yes, the....arsonist. Among other things." Adrian gave Madeline a look that could only be described as revulsion.

There was a long silence, and then, clearing his throat uncomfortably, Perry began to lead them toward the stairs. George followed, and then Christine. But before Christine could step down, Adrian gently caught her by the arm and gave her a small smile.

"If I were you, dear, I’d let Madeline go down the stairs first."

Madeline froze in place. Adrian’s calculated cruelty - executed with a beneficent smile and a sweetly patrician tone - was somehow terrifying. She felt herself go white as the woman’s hawk-like eyes examined her, coldly assessing the impact of the remark. It wasn’t until George walked back up the stairs and touched her arm that she realized that she had been holding her breath.

"I completely forgot, Madeline - Wilson had asked if you could join him for an extra session on the shooting range. He seems to think you’re ready for some rifle practice. He’s probably waiting for you now."

Madeline blinked several times to recover her composure and then looked at George. He had lied, a fact which was no doubt obvious to everyone. But she was grateful nonetheless.

"Thank you," she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice. "I’ll go straight there."

She glanced in Adrian’s direction again, flinching inwardly when she saw the look of knowing triumph in the other woman’s eyes, and exited the room.

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

Adrian returned to her office, fighting a powerful urge to wash her hands after meeting Section Two’s youngest recruit. Madeline had been even more disturbing in person than Adrian had expected, with that emotionless expression, that cool, controlled voice, and those eyes - almost black, reflecting nothing. Adrian had been unable to bring herself to touch the young woman’s extended hand, unable to help herself from bringing up her dreadful background. But she had been both surprised and pleased to see that her behavior provoked a reaction. The girl did at least feel fear - and that meant she could still be controlled.

With a slight shudder, Adrian forced the memory of the encounter from her mind and sat at her desk. There was a pile of files to attend to, as always. She glanced at them in an effort to decide where to begin, when one folder caught her eye.

'Potential Recruit - SE Asia,' the label read.

Adrian reached for the file and began reading.

Lieutenant Paul Wolfe, U.S. Army. He had been captive in Vietnam for the past seven years, much of it in solitary confinement or undergoing unspeakable torture. He had never broken, and his example had inspired the same level of resistance from every single one of his fellow captives. Although not the highest-ranking officer held in his camp, he had been regarded as the de facto leader, and his captors had made him suffer for it.

Adrian read every word in Wolfe’s file with rapt amazement. She knew - knew without even having to see the man - that he was the one, the successor that she had been searching for. To have assumed moral leadership of over one hundred men, despite his low rank - and to have survived for seven long years doing so - he had to have a strength of character that was unsurpassed. A man like him - someone who had resisted the enemy without wavering even once - would know, instinctively, how important Section One’s work was. This man knew the enemy and knew what evil was - and he had shown that he would not compromise with either one. He was the perfect antidote to the cynical young people who increasingly made up the organization’s ranks, the natural leader for the next generation.

George would resist, of course. He always argued against recruiting operatives with strong principles - he saw them as headstrong and difficult to work with. As capable as George was, that was his one weakness. Indeed, if she left things up to him, he would fill their organization with people like Madeline - amoral creatures who would turn the Agency into a soulless bureaucracy.

Thank God, Paul Wolfe could save them from that.

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

"I’ve been very pleased with the progress of your training," George said, leaning back in his chair. In fact, he was more than pleased - she had turned out to be everything that he had hoped for.

Madeline looked back at him, wearing the standard polite expression that she used during all their interactions. "Thank you."

"In fact, I believe you’re ready for your first assignment."

George picked up a file folder from the table and handed it to her.

"This is your profile," he announced. "Study it carefully. You'll need to memorize everything in it, as you won’t be able to take it with you."

Madeline opened the folder and began leafing through it.

"We’ve enrolled you under a false name as a university student in Paris. The details of your identity and background are in the file. You’ll be leaving in three days. Esther will give you some clothing and other belongings to pack before you depart."

Madeline looked up at George with a puzzled expression.

"What is my mission?" she asked. The file contained background information on her new identity, but nothing else.

"For now, your mission is to establish your identity. And to meet your handlers when ordered to. Nothing more." George paused, wondering whether to tell her what the nature of her mission really was, how critical - but dangerous - it would be, but then decided it was premature. "That will be all."

She stood and turned to leave. As he watched her, he reconsidered his decision. He might not be able to provide her with specifics, but perhaps some sort of warning was appropriate.

"Don’t get too comfortable with your situation," he called out as she exited the room. "Section may not ask much of you for the time being, but that will change."

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

George set his teacup down with a clatter, scowling at the file spread out on the table before him. He shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead.

"This Wolfe isn’t a good candidate. He’s too obstinate, too headstrong. We won’t be able to work with him."

Adrian smiled and took a sip of her tea. George was so predictable. She had anticipated almost every word of his objection.

"That’s what makes him perfect. I want a leader, not a follower, George."

George’s frown deepened. "And he’ll resist - or try to escape. He hasn’t seen his family in seven years - do you think a man like that would just abandon them?"

"We’ll just have to convince him, then, won’t we?"

George looked away, his expression sour. That look, combined with the faint shadow that darkened his cheeks where he needed to shave, made him look surprisingly old for his age - old and tired. All the more reason why they needed new blood, Adrian decided.

"I want him, George," she said firmly. "Do whatever is necessary to persuade him to join us. If the family is a problem, perhaps we can break that bond somehow. What if he found out that his wife was unfaithful?"

"But she wasn’t."

"Why should that get in the way?" Adrian gave George a pointed look.

George sighed. He was still resisting. As fond as she was of her second-in-command, perhaps he needed to be reminded who was in charge.

"We have means, George. Use them." She used the coldest tone she could summon.

He nodded silently and drank again from his cup. By the sag in his shoulders, she could tell that she had won this battle. However, it wouldn’t hurt to make her point completely clear.

"By the way, George, I don’t want to hear about any convenient accidents or suicides. I know you don’t approve of recruiting him, but it’s my decision."

She smiled at him warmly, recognizing that her assertion of authority had registered when she saw the momentary flash in his eyes.

"I’ve tolerated some of your choices for recruits," she reminded him. "You’ll have to do the same with mine."

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

Home. The thought of returning home filled Paul’s heart with a joy that he hadn’t felt in seven hideous years. He had barely even been able to think about home after the first year or two of captivity - the longing and loneliness had become too hard to take.

But now, he was going home. It made the years of suffering worthwhile - the torture, the loss of friends to starvation and disease, the taunting by his captors as the war turned against the Americans. All of those memories would disappear as soon as he got home, he was sure of it.

He grinned and joked with his buddies as he waited in line to climb into the trucks that would take them out of the camp. The mood was upbeat and jovial, despite the knowledge that they were on the losing side.

"Man, the first thing I’m gonna do is eat a big T-bone steak, french fries, and a chocolate sundae," an emaciated-looking private said, bouncing up and down with excitement.

"I’m going to one of those all-you-can eat places. They’re going to have to drag me out of there," laughed another prisoner.

"Food? Shit, you boys are pathetic," said another. "I’m going to find some hot mama and make love, not war!"

The line of soldiers laughed raucously. Paul couldn’t remember the last time he had heard such laughter - genuine laughter, not the bitter laughter of men trying to forget their misery.

The line moved ahead as the POWs continued to climb into the trucks. Paul stepped forward with them, but turned as he felt a tap on his arm. He looked to see a Vietnamese guard standing next to him.

"You come with me," the guard ordered.

"What?"

"Phan wants to talk to you."

"Well, Phan can go fuck himself. I’m not a prisoner anymore, remember?"

The guard pulled out a pistol and held it to Paul’s face. "You come with me," he repeated.

A silence hushed the line of men as they watched to see what Paul would do. The guard’s hand trembled, and a bead of sweat slowly trickled down his temple; he looked nervous, as if a sudden movement or loud noise might provoke him into shooting. Not wanting to endanger himself - or the other men who were so close to escaping this place of horror - Paul backed down.

"Fine. I guess Phan wants to give me his goodbyes personally. Hold a place for me in the truck, boys."