************ 1999 After listening to George hang up on the other end of the line, Madeline set down her phone wearily and turned back to her computer. She had so much work to catch up on - not just for the Markali mission, but also several others - that she knew it would be yet another late and tiring night. As a change of pace, she pulled up the profile for Sri Lanka - a mission going live three days hence. For a few pleasant moments, she lost herself in the details of strategy and became one with her work - immersed in the sweeping curves of the graphs that flashed colorfully across her screen, absorbed by the pristine clarity of the data that she assessed and balanced. But as she continued to type, George’s words crept out from the back of her mind, jarring her focus. George was entirely right: Nikita was the worst choice possible for the Markali mission. The thought of how many different ways the reckless young operative could cause things to go wrong made Madeline physically ill with dread. But Paul had insisted upon using Nikita, growing angry and defensive when Madeline tried to convince him otherwise. Nikita was such an odd choice for the profile, and yet it wasn’t the first time Paul had involved the young woman in a mission that affected him personally - he had done the same two years before when the life of his son was threatened. Madeline wasn’t supposed to know about that, of course. Paul hadn’t told her. He hadn’t believed that she would be willing to bend the rules for Stephen, hadn’t even trusted her to look the other way while he did so. Normally, he trusted her with everything. The fact that the one exception involved the welfare of his son was the greatest of ironies, although he didn’t know it - indeed, could never be allowed to know it. But she recognized it all too well. It had gnawed at her relentlessly for those two years, opening up an ugly gash in her soul - a gash that this mission was causing to fester. The details of the Sri Lanka mission faded into a blur. She sat staring at her computer screen, numb and motionless, until she finally closed her eyes, placed her hands flat on the cool glass of her desk, and forced her mind to clear. It was for his own good that she kept this knowledge from him. She had to keep believing that. The alternative - that she had betrayed him - was too awful to contemplate. ************ 1975 Paul crossed the main floor slowly, taking in the layout and personnel of his new workplace, absorbing every detail for future reference. Section One intrigued him. While it had some of the feel of a military organization, it exuded a subtler, more complex kind of energy. It wasn’t the complexity of an organization like the Pentagon, where he had worked briefly as a young Army officer before shipping out to Vietnam. No, that had been the ponderous convolution of a vast, inflexible bureaucracy. Section One’s complexity was different, almost organic - it felt like the workings of a single, devious mind. He found himself drawn to it, wanting to understand it. Wanting to match wits with it. He no longer regretted leaving his old life behind. In fact, he had no 'old life' left to return to, as the surveillance photos of Corinne with her series of boyfriends made clear. Once past the initial blind outrage, he had settled into a more tolerable bitterness. Yes, she had betrayed him, not even waiting three months after his tour of duty began before turning to other men for comfort. But that proved her weakness, not his. Her shallowness freed him to pursue what he felt, more and more, was his calling - protecting the vulnerable and the innocent. He had been unable to do it in the Army - in fact, he was never sure who the innocent really were in Vietnam, where everyone seemed to be the enemy. But here, it was possible. Here, many things were possible. His thoughts came to a halt as he noticed the eyes of another man upon him, observing him from a distant corner. A lanky man with long hair and a bandana stared at him with an odd look, almost of recognition. Paul felt a twinge of fear rise slowly up the back of his neck. This man knows me, but I don't know him, he thought. Paul began to sweat with a thin sheen of apprehension. The look the man was giving him reminded him of the nightmares he kept having - terrifying dreams of people and events that seemed bizarrely familiar, that he felt he ought to know - but didn't. The dreams created a sense of disorientation that followed him into his waking hours, despite his efforts to block them out with constant work and activity. This was the first time he had felt that same, nagging familiarity while awake - although perhaps that provided an opportunity. He glanced again at the man and then swallowed. He couldn't confront his dreams, but he could damn well confront this person. He walked slowly but confidently across the room, his footsteps echoing sharply, until he stood before the man. "Do I know you?" Paul asked in a manner intended to be faintly provocative. The other man shuffled his feet slightly, looking startled and uncomfortable. "No - you must be thinking of someone else." "Well, it’s funny - you were sure looking at me like you knew me from somewhere." The two men stood while an awkward silence grew between them. The other man finally broke it. "Nah," he said with a shake of his head. "I was just noticing that you were one of the new ones." Then the man extended his hand with a grin. Paul took it and noticed the man’s firm grip. It was odd - standing in front of the man, Paul no longer felt any sense of apprehension. Perhaps his dreams were starting to distort his perception of reality - this was just an ordinary operative, not someone to be concerned about. "Welcome aboard," the man said pleasantly. "I’m Walter." "Paul." "So you’ve finished your training?" "Yeah. They had me studying languages for a couple of years - Russian, Czech, a lot of those Eastern European languages." "That’s all the training you got?" Walter sounded both incredulous and a little worried. "I didn’t need anything else. I’m a combat vet." Paul straightened his shoulders and looked him in the eye. "You got a problem with that?" Walter frowned. "No. Why?" "You dress like some hippie. I thought you might be some antiwar protester. You know, the kind that goes around spitting on people like me." Paul narrowed his eyes to glare at the other man. If he was going to have to confront someone about his background, it was better to do it sooner rather than later. Walter matched Paul’s stare with one of his own, adding a resentful scowl. "I’ve been here throughout the whole war, son. In charge of weapons, by the way. You know, the weapons that you’re gonna rely on to save your ass out in the field. The ones that you want to be in good working order." Realizing he had misjudged the man, Paul relaxed his expression. Walter looked Paul up and down for a moment, but then chuckled. "Look, man, I dress like this because it makes me look good. Don’t want to disappoint the ladies, you know?" "Ah, say no more," Paul laughed and clapped Walter on the back. "Hey, since you’re an old-timer, got any words of advice?" "Sure. Keep your head down, cover your ass, and be nice to the weapons-master." "Well, anyone who knows me knows that I don’t believe in the first two. But I’ll follow your advice on the last one." ************ The anteroom to the office overflowed with operatives; the handful of chairs were full, so several men sprawled on the floor. They were waiting - and had been waiting all morning - to be summoned to see George. Some read books, others chewed gum, still others nodded off to sleep, looking up only when the next person’s name was called. Section Two normally managed its operatives through lower-level handlers, but once a year George required personal meetings. This was Madeline’s second such debrief. The first, the year before, had lasted all of five minutes, and she had resented having to wait all day just to be dismissed so quickly. This time, however, she was more accepting. The annual visit was the only chance she had to see her fellow operatives and exchange stories about their assignments. If she paid sufficient attention, the conversation in the anteroom could actually be instructive. She looked carefully around the room, observing each person, trying to guess the nature of their missions. A slight movement across the room caught her eye. A muscular operative named Thomas stood up and slowly walked toward her, the leather of his Hells Angels jacket creaking ominously. He stopped in front of her, but looked down at Christine, a frail-looking woman with light brown hair, who sat in the chair next to Madeline. Madeline remembered both of them from her days as a recruit - Christine, Madeline’s partner for many training assignments, she had thought well of; Thomas, she hadn’t. In fact, Madeline’s most vivid memory of him was the tantrum he threw when she outscored him at the shooting range. "So what kind of mission requires such fancy outfits?" he asked with a slight sneer. Christine was indeed unusually well dressed compared to the others, most of whom wore clothes to match their roles as terrorist hangers-on or criminals. "My mission has been to go out on dates. Lots of dates," Christine replied with a coy smile. The operatives gathered in the room burst out laughing. "There’s got to be more to it than that," Thomas said in disbelief. "No, I’m completely serious. I don’t know if this is leading up to something else, but that’s really all they require of me. Otherwise, I just lead a quiet life." Thomas pursed his lips and scratched his beard in thought. "Sounds pretty cushy. You must be one of those sleeper agents who won’t go into action for years." He sighed. "I’m stuck dealing drugs to some pretty heavy-duty bad guys. It’s my job to listen to them when they’re high and see if they give away any intel. That is, when they’re not playing in the kitchen with explosives. One of these days they’re going to blow themselves up, and I just hope to God I’m not there." "Yeah, consider yourself lucky," another operative, Sandra, interjected. "I’m married to a terrorist. And the things he makes me do...." She gave a slight shudder as her voice trailed off. Looking faintly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, Christine turned away from Sandra and Thomas. "So what do you do, Madeline?" "I’m a university student," Madeline answered simply. "That’s it?" Sandra asked. "You’re not spying on student radicals or something?" "No. In fact, I’ve been told to stay away from them." "You’re just going to school - and Section’s paying for it?" Thomas asked, snorting derisively. "That’s about it," Madeline replied with a small smile. Sandra and Thomas stared at her for several moments. "Well, I really got gypped here," Sandra protested. "You and me both, sister," said Thomas. "Man, you and me both." Madeline listened to their complaints with a feeling of sadness. They would think her insane, but she actually envied them. They were on real missions, against real enemies, with real goals. She, in contrast, lived in a sort of suspended animation, waiting for something to happen, not knowing if it ever would. At first, she had enjoyed her student experience immensely - it was the first time she could remember leading anything close to a normal life. Better than normal, actually - to be posted to such a glamorous place as Paris - with her own apartment and a generous allowance - was an almost unimaginable luxury, so far removed from her old life that it almost defied comprehension. She had reveled in her new-found freedom, blowing the entire first month’s allowance on clothes and having to resort to living on bread for weeks afterwards. It would have seemed like a dream come true, except that Madeline had never allowed herself the weakness of indulging in fantasies. There were, of course, requirements, but they had seemed quite minor - for a time. School was the only significant one. Section’s choice for her major - psychology - had unnerved her; in fact, the selection struck her as a twisted joke. Nevertheless, she studied hard - her handlers made it clear that was part of her assignment. To her surprise, she found the coursework interesting. She had never developed much respect for the practitioners of that craft when they tried to apply it to her; in the hospitals, she had often entertained herself by breaking into the doctors’ offices at night and laughing at the absurdities they placed in her files. But now she realized that they had been hacks - in the hands of someone qualified, the knowledge she was gaining could be extraordinarily powerful. Aside from her studies, however, it had initially appeared as if she were allowed to do anything she pleased - that she had a real life, with real choices. Gradually, painfully, she learned otherwise. With each mistake, she received a warning; when she ignored a warning, she received a punishment. Eventually, she no longer needed either. In reality, as she now understood, her life was strictly limited, precisely defined. Genuine human interactions were prohibited; only a superficial imitation was allowed. Within Section Two, there had at least been the camaraderie of a shared secret; outside, she was a shadow of a person, barely existing at all. ************ George observed Madeline carefully as she entered his office for her annual interview. She smiled for a split second and took a seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. He set aside her file and smiled in return. "Madeline, it’s so good to see you again. How is Paris?" "Very nice." Her tone and expression were pleasant - even warm - but he detected an underlying wariness. "You look well. Student life - or is it French food - must be agreeing with you." As was French fashion, he noticed, but he refrained from mentioning that fact. "Thank you." Again, she gave him only the most minimal, unrevealing response. He had hoped that she would respond more conversationally, as the other operatives did - their small talk was often much more informative about the state of their assignments than the actual debriefs. But she refused to yield anything. Although disappointing for his present purposes, it did demonstrate an admirable caution on her part. It was yet another sign that he had selected her wisely. He sighed and reached for her file again. "It’s time to begin the next stage of your mission." She nodded gravely. George opened the folder, pulled out a photo, and handed it to her. He watched as she examined it and waited for her to look up. Interesting. The young woman’s mask had finally slipped - she looked alert, almost eager. "Dr. Ardem Ohanian. A professor of psychology at your university. He’s the leading expert in Europe on the subject of hypnotherapy. Your assignment is to get to know the good doctor. Get close to him, work with him, and learn everything you can about his techniques and activities." "For any particular purpose?" "That is the purpose. Just find out all you can about his work, and report what you learn back to us." He smiled benignly. "You see, we at the Agency are interested in a wide range of academic research - this is just one of the many fields that we follow." For an instant, her face fell. Then she shifted slightly in her seat and the look passed. Had George not spent so many years reading people he would have missed the reaction entirely. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. If he interpreted her expression correctly, she was actually disappointed that her mission wasn’t more substantive. Most operatives would find the news a great relief - a nice, safe research mission tended to have a positive effect on one’s life expectancy. But then again, this was someone who had once lived much more dangerously. Perhaps she was simply growing bored. Well, that would be remedied soon enough. The professor’s research could be called many things, but boring wasn’t one of them. ************ "Paul," Corinne’s voice called, with a strange, echoing sound. His eyes searched frantically, but everywhere he looked he saw a swirling gray fog. It engulfed him, strangling him with its damp, chilling tendrils, until he began beating it off in panic. A gap opened, revealing dark nothingness - but then, out of reach, he saw her face, shimmering and blurred, the features not quite visible. "Paul," she called again, crying, "why didn’t you come home? I miss you. I’ve been waiting for you." He reached out, trying to move toward her, but he was paralyzed, as if his feet were encased in cement. He struggled, and then-- With a start, he woke. He was shivering and cold, having kicked off the covers from his bed. He stood up and gathered the sheets and blankets from the floor, trying to force the dream from his mind. But the image lingered, rebuking him. "Dammit, Corinne, why won’t you leave me the hell alone?" he asked aloud. "You’re the one who stabbed me in the back, remember?" Tossing the covers back on the bed, he crawled back under them. But the bone-chilling coldness refused to abate. Why didn’t she wait for me? he asked himself. He had loved her, and she him - he was so sure of it. He couldn’t possibly have misjudged her so badly. And yet, apparently, he had - while he had suffered paroxysms of guilt merely for buying a drink or two for bar hostesses in Saigon, she had been...had been.... Christ. He couldn’t even bear to think about it. He kicked at the covers in frustration. Enough was enough. He couldn’t live like this - the gnawing uncertainty was slowly killing him. Had she never cared for him at all, had his past been a complete lie? If so, the hell with her. But if not, if there had been some terrible misunderstanding, if she could just admit that she’d been weak, or afraid, or lonely, maybe he could forgive her. And if she really did miss him, really did want him, then not even demons from hell could drag him from her side. He had always believed in confronting problems head on - this one would be no different. He would find out if she had ever really loved him - he would know and then, one way or the other, these dreams would cease. She must be easy to find - after all, Section One had been following her and providing him with an endless series of damning photos. With some discreet review of their files, he would locate her - and ask her himself. ************ Madeline entered the lecture hall and quickly scanned the audience. Most of the students seemed to be clustered in the middle rows, so she carefully made her way down to the front and found a seat slightly off center. The well-worn wooden chair squeaked loudly when it swiveled - she gave an apologetic smile to those near her and pulled out her notebook. Her role was to play the avid, admiring student. To that end, she had spent the last several weeks reading - and memorizing - every article Ardem Ohanian had ever written, as well as everything that had ever been written about him. In the world of psychology, he was cutting-edge to the point of being controversial, and his activities spanned much more than academic pursuits. He was somewhat of a political gadfly, constantly flying around the globe for conferences on disarmament and cross-cultural understanding - but it was his work in prison reform that garnered the most attention. He argued that even hard-core offenders could be rehabilitated with his unique brand of hypnotherapy. So far, only one facility in Belgium had actually allowed him to run a pilot program - and even then only for non-violent inmates - but the zero percent recidivism rate had attracted considerable media coverage. With his emphasis on workable cures, he seemed the antithesis of the institutional therapists Madeline had known, who had always seemed content to keep their patients drugged, warehoused, and out of the way. She looked up as a short, slight man with a shock of curly white hair stepped to the podium. He smiled, almost shyly, pushed up the glasses that had slipped down his nose, and began the class. The shyness disappeared as he spoke, his French colored with an accent from his native Armenia, weaving self-deprecating jokes into his case histories. The students laughed frequently - a rarity at a university where most of the professors considered themselves too important to bother to make their lectures interesting. Taking notes, she shifted unconsciously in her seat - and cringed as the chair let out an ear-piercing squeal. Ohanian halted in mid-sentence, and a sea of heads turned in her direction; she felt herself redden self-consciously and then shrugged in an effort to appear nonchalant. The other students laughed, and their attention returned to the front of the room. Ohanian, however, continued to look at her. He stared in silence, his wide, dark eyes searching her with a look of apparent shock and confusion. After several moments, he shook himself slightly, seemed to recover and moved on. But she noticed that he gave her fleeting looks throughout the rest of the lecture, with an odd, haunted expression. When the lecture concluded, she joined a group of students waiting in a circle around Ohanian to ask questions. Like many well-known intellectuals, he attracted throngs of fawning followers - this lecture was no exception. They droned on endlessly in an effort to prove how much they knew - they had no questions, but instead seemed intent on securing compliments, approval, pats on the head from their hero. One by one, he dismissed them deftly, and eventually turned to Madeline. "Yes, mademoiselle, you’ve been waiting a long time." "I have a question, if you still have the time to answer." "Of course!" He smiled graciously. "Please, what is it?" "I’ve heard that hypnotic regression results in a high number of false recollections. Wouldn’t that interfere with the therapeutic process?" The other students seemed shocked that she would challenge him instead of paying respect; she even noticed one of them roll his eyes. But the doctor chuckled and looked delighted at the question. "On the contrary. False recollections are at worst immaterial to the outcome, and at best extremely useful." "But therapy is supposed to concern itself with uncovering the cause of an ailment. False memories can make that process more complicated." She persisted in her challenge, ignoring the stares of the other students. "But false recollections are as revealing as dreams or inkblot interpretations." "If the therapist knows they’re false." She looked at him steadily. He threw his head back and laughed, seemingly pleased with her insight. "Very good! Yes, that’s the challenge. But that problem can be solved quite easily." "How?" she inquired politely. "By deliberately inducing false memories, and observing how the patient reacts to them." At this, Madeline raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised by his answer. He smiled broadly. "But this is a discussion that really requires more time. Why don’t you come along to my office? I can lend you some books that I think you’ll find very interesting." As the other students looked on, Ohanian took Madeline by the arm and escorted her out of the lecture hall. She had to stop herself from laughing. It was almost too easy. She had expected to have to do considerably more to stand out from the crowd of students vying for his attention. While they walked, he began to ask her about herself. His manner was courteous and gentlemanly, and he spoke in a warm tone of voice that suggested a genuine interest in her answers. She told him her cover story, adding a few embellishments to give it some life, as he nodded intently. When she finished, he was silent. They walked several more steps, and then he stopped and turned to look at her, a questioning look on his face. "I’m curious about something," he said. "Yes?" "Why are you studying in France? There are so many excellent universities in America." She took several moments to reflect. Her profile had not included an explanation for this question, so she decided to draw upon a version of the truth. "I felt like an outsider at home. I thought perhaps it would be different somewhere else." "And is it?" "No." He looked at her, and an expression of deep sadness came into his eyes. "I know what it’s like to be an outsider, to be alone," he said thoughtfully. "I was a refugee, you know, many years ago." He sighed, but then seemed to force a false note of cheer back into his voice. "But you’re too young to think that way. When we get to my office, I’ll make you some tea, and we’ll have a nice chat. Hmmm?" ************ "He’s still having trouble adjusting," Adrian announced as she entered George’s office. "I want it taken care of," she said crisply. George looked up from his work, taken aback to see Adrian arrive unannounced - and concerned that she was so obviously upset. "Adrian, dear, you’ll have to tell me who 'he' is before I can help you." "Paul Wolfe." Her voice was biting and her eyes glittered angrily. "He’s started looking for his wife." "Indeed." George raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. He had known this for several days, but had hoped to keep it from Adrian long enough to solve the problem discreetly and quietly. "How do you know?" "I’ve had him monitored," she answered sharply. Then, with a tired sigh, she sat and allowed a softer look, more of concern than anger, to wash across her face. "He’s even better than I’d hoped, George. He runs his missions like clockwork. We cannot afford to allow him to be distracted by personal issues." George pondered the dilemma. Allowing Paul Wolfe to delve too deeply into his past did pose a serious danger - although not for the reason Adrian thought. Frankly, George preferred that the new operative be distracted - a convenient slip-up might get him killed, and George would be rid of the man - and the problem he posed - without risking Adrian’s wrath. But Adrian was fixated on Wolfe; for now, George would have to keep her happy. After all, keeping Adrian happy was his primary job description. When he failed, she made life very unpleasant - but when he succeeded, she offered delightful rewards. "I think we should let him find her," George suggested. "Throw clues in his direction and then allow him to observe her with other men - perhaps even mocking that foolish husband that she never loved. Once he sees it in person, that should nail down the lid of the coffin." Adrian smiled, and George took a deep breath in relief. She was pleased. Very pleased. "Excellent," she purred. "I knew I could count on you, George. Now, since that’s resolved, I know a lovely spot for lunch." ************ Paul stalked toward the doors of the locker room, his gym bag clutched tightly in his hand. His muscles were knotted with tension, his mind still reeling from the words he had overheard on his surveillance tape. "Oh, I have a nice widow’s pension," Corinne had said, explaining her new car to one of her boyfriends. "Courtesy of my boring soldier husband." "Why’d you marry him, anyway?" the man had asked. Corinne laughed. "I wanted to get away from home. Daddy was always so controlling. With Paul, I got my own house and money, and with him gone all the time, it was like being a single girl anyway." The bitch, he thought, slamming open the locker room doors and heading inside. Maybe a few rounds on the heavy bag - without gloves - would make him feel better. And if that didn’t work, maybe a few rounds of something in a bar. As he neared the corner leading to the dressing room, a high-pitched voice reached him. "I can’t believe I’m not the team leader on this one. I’ve got more seniority than Wolfe does." It was Richard, a sniveling little ferret of a man who had recently been assigned to one of Paul’s missions. Hearing this, Paul raised his eyebrows and stopped, cocking his head to listen carefully. "He had plenty of experience before coming here," another voice replied. Charles. Mr. Follow-the-Rules. A decent guy, actually, Paul had decided, but so damned boring. "And it’s not seniority, it’s skill that counts." "Oh, stop giving me the party line, Charles. You’re such a fucking ass-kisser." Richard paused briefly. "Even so, I can’t believe you’re just letting it happen." "What do you mean?" "Letting Wolfe displace you as the Prince of Wales. I mean, doesn’t it bother you?" "It’s a blessing, actually," Charles laughed. "I prefer a lower profile. Less of a target for rivals that way." "I guess you’ve got a point there. In fact, the Prince better watch his step, especially if he tries to tell me what to do." That was enough. Paul didn’t care if Richard liked him or not, or even if he was jealous of him. But he had to let the man know that he wouldn’t allow team members to step out of line - not even once, and not even behind his back. If a team member didn’t respect him, he might disobey orders; if he disobeyed orders, disaster - and death - could ensue. Paul stepped around the corner and smiled, watching the color drain out of Richard’s face. "Interesting conversation," he observed, keeping his voice even, but allowing a hint of menace to creep in. "But I’m curious. Just what do you mean by the Prince of Wales?" Richard sneered. "Adrian’s golden boy, next in line for the throne, heir apparent - whatever you want to call it. You’re being promoted ahead of people who’ve been here longer, just because you’re her favorite." "I’m being promoted ahead of people who’ve been here longer because my standards are higher." Paul stared at Richard, making sure that he didn’t once blink. "If you’ve got a problem with that, why don’t you just go to Adrian and tell her you can’t keep up. I’m sure she’ll find some nice abeyance assignment for you." Richard looked uneasy for a few moments, but then a smirk crept across his face. "You think you’re such a hotshot, Wolfe. Well, maybe in Vietnam you heard of a little thing called fragging. You know, I’ve heard rumors that sometimes that even happens here." In a single, sweeping movement, Paul snatched Richard by the collar and slammed him forcefully against a wall. "You know, cowardly little shits like you don’t scare me one bit. Go ahead and try to kill me. Since I’m such a nice guy, I won’t even laugh at you when you fail." Paul then lowered his voice. "But if I catch you doing anything that jeopardizes a mission, puts your team members’ lives in danger, or threatens the public, I’ll slice your balls off and make you eat them raw." He released his grip and smiled. "That is, if you have any balls." Richard sputtered but couldn’t seem to form any words in reply. Satisfied, Paul turned to look at Charles. "How are you, Charles?" he asked casually. A corner of Charles’ mouth twitched in amusement. "I’m just enjoying the friendly banter in here. You have a refreshing way of inspiring your team members to do their best." Paul grinned. "I’ll have to give you some pointers sometime." ************ When she heard no response to her knock, Madeline slipped the key in the doorknob and pushed the office door open with a slow creak. After several months of studying with Ohanian, she had been given unlimited access to his office and the extensive private library inside. His kindly, Old World demeanor had disguised a stringent academic taskmaster - the assignments he gave her required that she set almost everything else aside - other classes, her social life, relaxation, and sometimes even sleep. At first, he had seemed surprised that she was willing to work so hard - now, he appeared to want to see how far he could push her. Nevertheless, with each completed assignment, he seemed more and more pleased. This time, he had invited her to select any book she chose from his library and critique it. He had phrased the assignment as if it were something easy - a break from all of her hard work. But she knew it would be anything but - even her choice of books would be part of a test. As she reached for the light switch, she heard a noise - a light gasp, a shuddered intake of breath. Startled, she froze in place. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw Ohanian slumped at his desk - although shadows obscured his face, he seemed to be crying. "Are you all right?" She didn’t quite believe what she was seeing. As he looked up at her, a pained expression twisting his face, she saw that he was holding a framed photo in his hand. "It’s her birthday today," he said wistfully. When she frowned in confusion, he handed her the photo. She looked down and furrowed her brows to try to make out the image in the dim light. But the shadows were clearly playing tricks on her eyes - the photo seemed to be of herself. Impossible. She walked back to the light switch and flipped it on. Looking down again, she stared in disbelief. It was her - or no, not quite. When she looked more carefully, she noticed the difference in hairstyle and clothing, a variation in the shape of the jaw, a slightly shorter face. "Who is this?" "Anna. My daughter." She blinked in surprise, not knowing what to say. "She’s dead," he said softly, his face contorting with the effort to restrain his tears. "I’m so sorry. I had no idea." She flushed, feeling ashamed to have intruded on the man’s private grief so abruptly. "Nine years ago, a car crash." He looked up at her, and a look of uncontrollable despair passed through his eyes. "She was murdered, you know." "How do you know --" Madeline murmured. "Oh, one has a way of knowing these things," he interrupted, his voice wavering. "It was meant to punish me for my work," he added bitterly. "Punish you?" She was baffled. "I don’t understand." He stood up unsteadily and walked around the desk to face her. He looked into her eyes as tears flowed freely down his face. "It’s almost as if she’s come back to life," he whispered, reaching out with his fingertips to stroke her cheek. She flinched involuntarily at his touch. He stared at her for several long, uncomfortable minutes. Then a strange, new light came into his eyes. "But there is a difference," he said softly, the tears starting to slow. "She was a sweet girl, and very bright, but she never cared about my work, never understood it. In fact, I shielded her from it." He took a deep breath and frowned in thought. "But you, I think you might understand. You have a thirst for knowledge, just as I do. And I think you might just be strong enough." "Strong enough?" "I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I’m getting older. I need someone who can carry on when I’m gone, who can complete what I’ve started." He beamed with the expression of someone who had found a long-sought treasure. "I want you to be that person." She cleared her throat. Her assignment left her little choice but to agree, although the odd nature of their conversation was beginning to trouble her. "I will," she replied. A touch of amusement danced in his dark eyes. "Don’t you want to know what kind of work it is?" "Isn’t it your research into hypnotherapy? Rehabilitation of criminals?" "That’s the public side of it. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. No, there’s much more to it than that." He laughed - it was still the same laugh that charmed his students, but somehow it now hinted of something sinister. He walked back to his desk and sat down, gesturing for her to do the same. She sat warily and listened as he began his explanation. "I am on a quest for understanding of the human mind," he said, his voice gentle and somewhat distant. "No - more than understanding of - control over. My research involves the creation and manipulation of mental processes - memories, thoughts, emotions, perceptions." He paused, his eyes flickering from behind his glasses as he examined her. "And hypnosis is just one method of many. I use chemicals, surgery, electrical stimulation, sensory deprivation, and biofeedback techniques, as well as emotional and physical coercion." "Physical coercion?" she asked, with dawning horror. "Some people would call it torture," he replied with a bemused smile. "But those people have a crude outlook." Torture. He looked at her serenely, as if he had merely described the latest therapeutic technique. But then again, in his view, he had. She struggled to find her voice. "How can you get away with --" "I can’t - not here, anyway." He picked up a pen and toyed with it, the silver glinting in the light. "That’s why I’ve developed a relationship with certain Eastern Bloc countries. They provide the research subjects, and in return I help them with certain things they need - the extraction of information from prisoners, cooperation from dissidents, things like that." She fought an almost overwhelming urge to leap up and run from the room, concentrating on keeping her expression blank. She focused on the pen, twirling lightly in his hand, unable to look him in the face. She had wanted a real mission - well, now she had one. Next time, she would be more careful about what she wished for. "Some of the work is distasteful," Ohanian continued, apparently pleased that she showed no signs of disgust at what he was describing. "But if you are as serious as I am about understanding the key to the human psyche, you’ll understand that it’s necessary. Eventually, you see, my research - no, our research," he corrected, flashing his white teeth as he smiled again, "will lead to the development of completely efficient and reliable means of interrogation, and perfect control over unruly elements of the mind. Crimes can be solved, criminal urges eliminated, and criminals rehabilitated instead of punished - and society will be the better for it." She looked at him in amazement, realizing that the man actually thought himself a humanitarian. And Section - George - had known all along that this was what they were sending her to do, but never told her, never prepared her. With a flare of anger, she wondered if she was recruited because of her resemblance to Ohanian’s daughter, the belief that a child-murderer could quickly adjust to torturing people, or both. No wonder Adrian had looked at her with such loathing. They had chosen her to do a loathsome task. "Do you understand what I’m trying to do?" he asked beseechingly. "And are you willing to help me?" She forced her emotions deep beneath the surface of her mind and entombed them in a wall of ice, just as she used to do years before in the jails and hospitals. "Yes," she answered grimly. ************ 1999 Madeline checked her watch and settled back into the chair. To pass the time while waiting, she looked around the room in curiosity. The therapist’s office was quite plain, really. If it had truly been hers, instead of borrowed, Madeline would have chosen a more welcoming, luxurious style of décor - something that would pamper the patients and make them feel the center of her concerned attention, something that would lower their defenses and help them open up - and something that they would enjoy so much that they would keep making costly appointments week after week. She smiled, a bit surprised at the mercenary nature of her thought. Her smile vanished as she heard a tap at the door. It was time for the mission to begin. "Come in," she called, standing up to meet the visitor. A thin, worried-looking woman stepped inside. When she saw Madeline, a broad smile of recognition warmed her face. "Hello, Madeline," the woman said, walking toward her. "Hello, Christine," Madeline replied, equally warmly. The two women lightly kissed each other’s cheeks in greeting. Christine stepped back and looked at Madeline with an expression of surprise. "Goodness, you look so different!" Madeline gave her a wry smile. "Older, you mean?" Christine laughed. "Well, a bit. But that’s not what I meant. I don’t know - you have a sort of air about you. Maybe it’s the short hair, or the glasses - they make you look so distinguished!" "Well, thank you. You look well also." Madeline took a seat and gestured for Christine to join her. Christine looked at Madeline almost shyly. "George tells me you’re quite high-ranking these days. Number two over at Section One, or something like that?" "You didn’t know?" Madeline was taken aback that the other woman would lack such basic information. "I’ve been undercover as Corinne Markali for so long, I don’t really know anything about the Sections anymore. I talk to my handlers regularly, meet with George once a year, and that’s about it. It was years before I even knew Adrian was gone." Christine gave an embarrassed chuckle. "Really." Madeline bristled involuntarily at the mention of Adrian’s name. A short and slightly awkward silence ensued. Christine fidgeted, clasping and unclasping her hands, and then gave Madeline a thoughtful look "You know, back when we were in training, I always looked up to you, even though you were younger." Christine smiled, almost hesitantly. "I just had a feeling that you were going to be in charge someday. I’m glad you finally are." Madeline raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Well, number two isn’t in charge." "That’s not what George says." Madeline felt her smile fade as her mood grew colder. George was making entirely too many remarks like that lately. The implications made her truly uncomfortable - even though she knew, ultimately, that his behavior toward her was a sign that things were falling into place. Her irritation must have showed in her expression, because she noticed Christine begin to stare at her nervously. She cleared her throat. It was time to get on with what they had come for. "Did George give you the script for what we’re supposed to say today?" Christine shifted uncomfortably at Madeline’s sudden businesslike manner. "Yes. You’re posing as my new therapist, and we’re going to talk about Nikolai. I assume the conversation is going to be recorded for someone." "Yes." Madeline reached over to switch on the surveillance equipment. "Are you ready to begin?" ************ 1978 With a smile and exaggerated sweep of his hand, the maitre d’ ushered George and Adrian to the private corner table they always favored. He lit the centerpiece candle expertly, gave a silent bow, and disappeared. "Madame, monsieur," the sommelier murmured as he approached, presenting their usual selection. "Merci, Claude," said Adrian, nodding. George leaned back in his chair and casually watched the ruby liquid fill their glasses. When the man departed, George looked over at Adrian. "It’s been almost a year since Paul Wolfe last showed any interest in seeing what his wife was up to." Adrian sipped her wine delicately. "Yes, I think that’s a good sign." George’s face tightened faintly. "That’s not what I meant." Something in George’s tone surprised her - a barely restrained pique, even resentment. "What do you mean, George?" she asked soothingly. "I have a perfectly good operative who’s being wasted. I think she ought to be released for other missions. I could certainly use her, given the limited resources you allow me over at Two." Adrian studied the man sitting across the table from her. His shoulders hunched tensely; his face clouded with a dark shadow. She smiled indulgently, recognizing what the problem was. George was feeling neglected again. Every so often the restrictions she imposed upon him chafed - but that was easily solved. All he really needed was reassurance that she took his opinion seriously. She folded her hands together on the table and looked at him with what she hoped would come across as sincere attention. "How do you propose to use her?" "Have 'Corinne' suffer a tragic accident and put this matter to rest. We can then give Christine a new identity and a new assignment. Something where she actually collects real intel." "No." She shook her head. "That would be very unwise. The Sections don’t work together very often, but what if somehow he came across her in her new identity? It wouldn’t be something we could explain away very easily, to say the least." George shifted in his seat as he considered this, and a frown wrinkled his forehead. "Yes, I suppose you’re right." Although he looked disappointed, Adrian was relieved to see that his expression was no longer resentful. He sighed. "Well, then, let her keep her identity as Corinne, but let’s try to use her, for God’s sake. In fact, I have something that might be ideal." This time, Adrian leaned forward with true interest. When he accepted and worked within the discipline she imposed, George could be surprisingly creative. "There’s a young lawyer named Nikolai Markali - a typical radical, do-gooder type, always on the fringes of subversive groups, but never a member. But he’s going places in government and politics - I can think of any number of terrorist groups that would salivate to have him in their pocket." "Go on." She smiled at his mixed metaphor, but refrained from commenting. "I propose we have Christine target him. Start a relationship with him, marry him if possible, and manipulate his career in the right direction. She can encourage him to join one of those groups - once he’s in deep enough, we can then use him to track down and eliminate their leadership." "Why not simply recruit him and make him an informant?" "He’s not up to it psychologically. I don’t think he’s capable of deceit. He’d be caught and killed long before he got the kind of access we need." "Interesting." Adrian sat back, running her finger along the rim of her glass in thought. "So you’re suggesting that Christine - as Corinne - target this Markali." "Yes. That way, she could start doing something useful instead of sitting around waiting for Paul to spy on her again, and yet she’d be available for that if needed." "Don’t you think Paul will find it suspicious that his former wife has fallen in with a terrorist sympathizer? It seems a remarkable coincidence that two members of the same family would just happen to wind up on opposite sides of a covert war." A corner of George’s mouth curled up in an ironic smile. "It’s a small world. People’s paths cross in strange ways." ************ With a rhythmic swaying and occasional clatter, the train rolled across the snow-filled countryside. Madeline glanced out the window at the row of dark pines that sped by ceaselessly, allowed her mind to be soothed by their monotony for a few moments, but then returned to her notes. 'Sleep Deprivation Test Group A: median number of days prior to onset of hallucinatory phenomena,' she started to write, when the sound of a throat clearing made her look up. "Your ticket, please," the conductor asked politely. Madeline set her notebook down on the empty seat next to her while she reached down to the floor to pull the ticket from her purse. She handed it to him, watched him punch it, and thanked him as he returned the stub. "You must be a medical student," he said, smiling pleasantly. She frowned mildly in surprise. "No, I’m a psychologist." His smile faded. Puzzled, she followed his downward gaze: it led to her notebook, which had fallen open to a page of sketched cranial incisions. She looked back up at him calmly, saying nothing. When he met her eyes, his face grew a pale white against the darkness of his uniform. "You have a pleasant journey," he said, moving on abruptly. Brushing his reaction aside, she picked up her notebook and resumed writing. She tried to recover her focus, to forget the man’s visible discomfort, but it lingered. She, too, had once felt like that. It hadn’t even been that long ago. She hadn’t expected her first exposure to Ohanian’s work, three years before, to be so disturbing. If anyone had deserved to undergo Ohanian’s brand of physical coercion, it was the suspected serial killer they were called to East Germany to break. The authorities were anxious to hush up the existence of such pathology in their socialist paradise, and were willing to go to any lengths to identify the killer. When Ohanian had explained the spectacularly gruesome nature of the crimes to her, she had almost looked forward to seeing the prisoner suffer. But the reality had been quite different. *** Upon arrival in the grim-looking police station, a watery-eyed policeman greeted them. "We’ve prepared the prisoner according to your instructions," he informed Ohanian. Ohanian nodded in approval. "Where is he?" "This way," the policeman grunted, leading them down a cold, musty corridor. After several turns, he stopped at a doorway, withdrew a jangling ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the door. Pushing the door open, he sniffed and said, "He’s all yours." Ohanian entered the room first, and Madeline cautiously followed. A strange, acrid smell immersed her, causing her stomach to heave uncontrollably. Clenching her jaw to maintain control, she looked around the room. It looked like an ordinary, albeit rundown, office. A plain, metal desk and a folding chair sat in the middle of the room, and a row of beaten-looking file cabinets lined the right wall. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows against the peeling beige paint that covered the bare walls. The floors were dusty and looked scuffed with wear. She saw no one inside. That is, until she looked sharply left. There, a man crouched on the floor. He was naked, facing the middle of the room, with an expression of frenzied despair. Handcuffs bound him by the wrists and ankles to a radiator; he pulled as far away from the radiator as the restraints allowed him, but she could feel the heat even from where she stood. Realizing that the stench was burning flesh, she felt herself growing lightheaded. She staggered, legs giving way, until she felt Ohanian catch her around the waist. "Hold on, it’s alright," he said, guiding her to the chair. She rested her head on the desk, fighting off waves of nausea and dizziness. The surface of the desk felt smooth against her cheek, which she found oddly comforting. As the room continued to spin, she heard Ohanian exit and call for the policeman to return. "Officer! We need this man unchained." She heard the policeman tramp into the room and the cuffs fall to the floor. With a high-pitched, animal whimper, the prisoner flung himself away from the radiator, thudding into the desk where she sat. She looked up weakly, but he was hidden from her view at the foot of the desk. The officer sauntered back out of the room, a bored expression on his face. Ohanian looked down at her. "This is never easy. But you’ll be able to manage after a few times. Now, stand up and observe." She watched as he rounded the desk and squatted next to the prisoner. She stood and walked to stand several feet away from them. She forced herself to look at the man - his matted hair, his desperate eyes, the seared wounds on his flesh. She tried to remind herself that he was a savage, brutal killer - but all she saw was a trembling shell of a person. Ohanian spoke to the prisoner gently. "We’re going to bring you a mattress to lie down on, and some water to drink. We’ll leave you alone to rest tonight. If you cooperate tomorrow morning, we’ll give you some medicine to kill the pain. But if you don’t, we’ll start scraping off the flesh where your wounds are. With a dull knife. And then we’ll chain you back to the radiator facing the other way." The man started sobbing, shaking uncontrollably. Ohanian stood up and looked over at Madeline. "That’s all for now." As they exited the room and the odor abated, Madeline took a deep, gasping breath. She walked only with considerable effort. "You did well," Ohanian said cheerfully. "Most people vomit the first time they see something like that. But I knew you would be strong." She said nothing, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other without losing her balance. The corridor in front of her seemed to elongate to infinity, with a pulsing, tunnel vision effect. "I expect that he’ll confess first thing in the morning," Ohanian continued. "Once we verify that he’s the perpetrator, we can begin a course of aversion therapy. I have several ideas I’d like to try out, although with the severity of his hematomania, he’ll be quite a challenge." That was enough. She stopped, unable to go on. Reaching for the wall to steady herself, she turned to look at him. "Why is this necessary?" she asked, her voice rasping with the effort to speak. "Why is what necessary? The aversion therapy? My dear, with a case like his, nothing else could possibly be strong enough." "No. I mean that, in there," she gestured weakly back toward the room they had just exited. "Aren’t there humane methods of obtaining confessions?" "Ah, yes," he laughed, "the Holy Grail of interrogators. A painless, efficient, and completely reliable technique. The trouble is, it doesn’t exist." "But I’ve heard of such things - truth serum, lie detector tests...." "Yes, you’ve heard them from Hollywood, no doubt," he said sternly. He paused for several moments, his eyes cutting into hers with razor-like sharpness. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. "Let’s start with the drugs, shall we?" His tone grew slightly mocking. "'Truth serum' - sodium pentathol and the like - is a complete misnomer. The drugs that are available merely lower people’s inhibitions, much like alcohol. I’ve seen countless lies told under their influence. Hypnosis - well, you know quite well how unreliable that can be. As for lie detector tests, they can be fooled with proper training. Besides, they only provide a means to analyze answers - they can’t be used to force people to talk against their will." He shook his head. "No, the old-fashioned way is still the best. Use the other techniques as a supplement, but never rely on them." She frowned. "But this isn’t any better. People confess to all sorts of things under torture just to get the pain to stop. It doesn’t make the confessions true." He gave her a fond smile. "That’s only when the interrogator doesn’t know what he or she is doing. There are ways you can tell the difference. And that’s what I’m going to teach you." He stepped toward her and placed his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "I know this is hard. But remember to keep focused on our goal. A society without the need for prisons or executions, where criminal impulses can be completely eliminated - isn’t it worth the suffering of a handful of deviants to achieve that?" *** The sudden lurch of the train jolted Madeline abruptly back to the present. She shook herself to cast away her memory, but Ohanian’s words continued to haunt her. "Remember to keep focused on our goal," he had said. She knew what his goal was - but what was hers? No one from the Section would tell her. At first, she was certain that at some point she would be instructed to stop the professor, or at least undermine his work - but with each uneventful visit to her handlers, her hope slowly faded. Worse still were her visits to George. Each year, when she explained to him the techniques perfected by Ohanian’s research, he grew more and more enthusiastic. Her annual debriefs were no longer five-minute affairs - they had grown into full-day sessions. Now, after three years as Ohanian’s assistant, Madeline had become remarkably proficient at her work. Indeed, she was proficient enough that she often handled the 'cases' - as Ohanian euphemistically called them - on her own. With his health failing, he disliked travel, and he trusted her enough to bring back the research data he required. And in truth, she no longer needed his assistance. He had indeed turned out to be a master instructor, and she the model student. It was the fear and confusion, she had learned, rather than the physical pain itself, that worked most reliably to break their subjects. As time passed, she found herself resorting to the more brutal tactics less and less - becoming a subtle, almost sophisticated purveyor of threats. She had, in a very real sense, become an expert: reliable, efficient, and hardened - at least during waking hours. But in her dreams, she still heard the hiss of that East German radiator - and it still made her shudder. ************ With a violent gasp, Paul wrenched himself out of his nightmare and into the comforting reality of his bedroom. As always, he was shivering - even though he was dripping with sweat and the heat was running full blast. Pulling the blankets around him to try to warm himself, he took long, slow breaths to stop from hyperventilating as his racing heartbeat slowly dropped back to a normal pace. Every night this happened. Every night he was surrounded by faceless entities who grasped and clawed at him. Invariably, one of them was Corinne - the more he tried to put her out of his mind, the more relentlessly she pursued him. In the past, when he had still wondered about her feelings for him, her apparition had been affectionate, although beseeching. But after he had tracked her down, after he had listened in through surveillance equipment to hear her say that Paul had meant nothing to her, the Corinne who appeared in his dreams was angry and violent. He wondered if perhaps the violence of the dream was his own anger reflected back upon himself. That might perhaps explain why Corinne appeared, angrily accusing him of abandoning her. But there were others, also faceless. The worst was a tall, blond man - covered in blood - who clutched at Paul with long, bony fingers and tried to pull him down in a hideous embrace. Whenever the man appeared in a dream - as was happening more and more frequently - Paul woke screaming. The lack of restful sleep had started to affect him physically. On missions, his reactions sometimes slowed. No one - as of yet - seemed to have noticed. But it was only a matter of time - a moment that Paul dreaded. Incapacitation - including mental incapacitation - was grounds for cancellation. He dared not confess any weakness, betray any problem. He had tried to find a way to help himself. In desperation, he had started researching psychological conditions - nightmares, insomnia, even wartime-induced disorders. He painstakingly gathered journals and magazines and piled them throughout his apartment in precarious stacks. Occasionally, armed with a red felt pen for underlining, he would attempt to read them. But he had no patience for their jargon - besides, he always managed to convince himself that he had whatever condition he happened to be reading about. Collecting the journals gave him the illusion that he was doing something. But in the back of his mind, he knew it was a pointless exercise. Identifying the problem would be no help - he needed a solution, and there didn’t seem to be one. He could only hope that time would be a cure - but time was a luxury that life in Section One did not provide. ************ "Hello, Paul," George said smoothly from behind Paul’s back. Paul turned around sharply, caught by surprise by the man’s approach. George continually unnerved him that way - no one else could ever manage to sneak up on him like that. "I didn’t know you were in Section One today, George," Paul said, trying to sound casual. George rarely spent time in the Section - he was too busy elsewhere performing his duties as Adrian’s hatchet-man - and gigolo, if the rumors were to be believed. Although how any woman could be attracted to such a ham-faced prick was beyond Paul’s understanding. "Just a brief visit." George smiled - a dangerous, predatorial smile. He then looked Paul up and down, slowly and methodically. "You look a bit tired. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?" Paul felt a twinge deep within his stomach. George was looking at him with an odd, knowing expression. He felt a sheen of cold sweat begin to cover his skin, as a horrible feeling of foreboding settled over him. What if George suspects I’m having problems? George had never expressed any open animosity toward Paul, nor had the two men had any tangible conflicts. Yet somehow Paul knew, instinctively, that however Adrian might favor him, George would destroy him if he sensed any weakness. So he resolved to show none. "I’m feeling perfect," he answered, jutting out his chin in defiance. George blinked and stared, his expression blank. Then he narrowed his eyes as the corner of his lip curled up triumphantly. "Good, I’m glad to hear it." The tone of his voice made it clear that he knew Paul was lying. "I’ll suggest to Adrian that she increase your mission frequency, since you seem to be able to handle it so well. She’ll be pleased to know that she can use you more." ************ 1999 A half hour had passed since Christine arrived for the second 'therapy' session with Madeline, but they had yet to begin their scripted performance. Instead, Madeline had felt compelled to indulge the other woman in tedious small talk and gossip about the Sections. Such conversation bored her, and she found herself increasingly impatient and distracted. But Christine was a lonely woman, forced to lead a secret life for over twenty years, and she clung desperately to the brief opportunity to speak with someone who understood. It showed in her eyes, which lit up like those of a refugee meeting a long-lost relative. As much as she tried to suppress it, Madeline felt a growing sense of pity. But they were running late, which made Madeline anxious. When the conversation reached an appropriate lull, she smiled apologetically. "I’m afraid we need to get down to business." She reached over to initiate the surveillance, but stopped when Christine held up her hand. "You know, Madeline, before we begin - I’m curious about something." "What is it?" "Why are we moving against Nikolai now?" Christine’s brow wrinkled in a deep frown. "I’ve spent years trying to convince him to join forces with Badenheim. Right now, we're on the brink of success - why are we killing him before we finally get access to their leadership?" It was a perceptive question - but one that couldn’t be answered. Madeline took a deep, slow breath as she paused to consider the best response. "We’ve decided that there’s a better way to undermine their leadership," she said calmly. "So I’ve spent twenty-one years in this marriage, manipulating him and his career - all for nothing? It was a total waste?" Christine’s tone sharpened in exasperation. Looking at Christine's resentful expression, Madeline felt a flare of anger that she quickly struggled to douse. She was not accustomed to being questioned, much less challenged - at Section One, she was simply obeyed. But, clamping down on her irritation, she reminded herself that to Christine, she was still a former colleague, an equal. In this situation it would be better to respond in kind instead of flexing her authority. She leaned forward with an air of friendly concern. "It wasn’t a waste, Christine. It’s just that unforeseen things sometimes happen." She spoke softly and gave Christine a sympathetic smile. "And believe me, your hard work has been appreciated." Christine's anger slowly melted. She sighed and paused for a few moments before she spoke again. "What’s going to happen to me next?" A faint trace of apprehension sounded in her voice. Madeline kept her expression relaxed and warm. "You’re going to go on to another long-term assignment," she answered casually. "Doing what?" Christine’s voice then dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I’m worried, Madeline," she confessed nervously. "I’ve been living this life for so long, I’m not sure I’ll be able to adjust to another assignment." The twinge of pity that Madeline had stifled pushed its way back into her consciousness. She shoved the unwelcome emotion down again as quickly and brutally as she could. "Well, I don’t know the details, but I understand that it will be a very simple assignment. You won’t be asked to do much at all." Madeline reached over and patted Christine’s hand reassuringly. "And we’ll help you adjust to the change." Christine took a deep breath and relaxed. "Good. I look forward to something easy." Then she smiled brightly. "Oh, one last thing." "Yes?" "Maybe this is a silly question, but I don’t understand why the script today calls for me to talk about Paul Wolfe. Why would whoever you’re recording this for care about my cover story?" "Does it matter?" "It’s just odd. I thought this was all about Nikolai. I mean, Paul Wolfe never even existed, did he? He was just invented for my background." Madeline tensed inwardly but forced a chuckle. "Well, I just threw it into the script because it seemed like something a patient and a therapist might talk about. We want to be sure this looks realistic, don’t we?" "I see," Christine said, nodding. "You know, you’re really quite good at this. No wonder you got promoted."