1999

Madeline watched Paul’s back as he stalked from her office, furious. Moments before, she had made one final, desperate attempt to dissuade him from the Markali mission, to persuade him to back away from the crumbling cliff’s edge that they all stood on. But her personal plea - and then her invocation of Section’s best interests, of keeping the machine running, as she had put it - had only made him defensive and more determined. Now, she realized, there was no choice but to proceed - and from this point on, regretfully, there would be no going back.

As she stared blankly at her office door, her mood shifted from anxiety to anger - anger that had no outlet and no means of dissipation. The situation that they found themselves in was, ultimately, Adrian’s fault - a fact that caused Madeline a seething, unrelieved rage. While George, too, bore responsibility, Madeline had never been able to hate him for it. George, she knew, reacted to circumstance - and although she wouldn’t forgive it, she did understand it. This rendered him no less an enemy - and certainly no less dangerous - but it made it pointless to hate him, like hating a cobra for its venom.

Adrian, on the other hand, attracted the full focus of Madeline’s wrath. But now, there was no way to express her anger - she had already taken her vengeance against the woman. Twice, in fact.

The first time, everything had been carefully planned and meticulously executed. It had taken years to achieve - time spent cultivating resentment among the ranks, planting evidence, encouraging betrayals. Undermined, set up, and then ousted from command in disgrace - Adrian had been stripped of everything she cared about, including her reputation. Permitting her to live afterwards was part of the punishment - she was sentenced to a life of humiliating powerlessness as a constant reminder of her sins.

The victory had been total - and yet somehow unsatisfying. For years, Madeline had been unsure why. Perhaps it was because of the almost passive role she had played, setting events in motion and then watching from a distance. Or perhaps it was because she had been merely one of several people in a complex, uneasy alliance. The battle hadn’t been truly personal, the success not truly hers.

The second time, things were different.

Of course, she hadn’t expected that there would be a second time. That had come about quite by accident, thanks to Adrian’s ill-fated attempt to destroy Section One. When, in the aftermath, Paul had instructed Madeline to take care of Adrian personally, she had at first been petrified. The thought of confronting and killing the only person who had ever truly terrified her revived all of her past nightmares, every old fear. But then an idea had seized her, a thought so irresistible that she became obsessed with carrying it out. It was a punishment so fitting, so perfect, that to describe it as cosmic justice was a ludicrous understatement.

Paul hadn’t - and couldn’t have - understood why Madeline had insisted on using Adrian as the test subject for the Gelman process. He had pointed to the risks involved in keeping Adrian on Section premises - risks that Madeline recognized were considerable. Rationally, she knew her actions were beyond reckless - and yet she had been unrelenting until Paul, reluctantly, agreed. The triumph she felt while she watched Adrian’s face contort in pain and then go blank, as the older woman’s mind was tampered with and manipulated, had satisfied a dark, powerful need in her soul. Allowing her decisions to be dictated by her emotions was foolish - and something that Madeline almost never indulged in - but that once, taking revenge for a man who didn’t even know he needed avenging, it brought her a strange, almost bloodthirsty joy.

Now, her only regret was that she couldn’t inflict the same punishment again.

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

1980

When the shock came again, Paul’s jaw clenched so tightly that he nearly bit his tongue off. As the spark crackled and roared in his ears, every muscle spasmed and trembled, every organ sizzled and threatened to explode.

Released from the current, he closed his eyes and slumped weakly, unable even to hold up his head. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down his face and chest, drenching his shirt and causing him to shiver with cold. Then his head wrenched back up as Ohanian grasped his hair, and his eyes flew open in pain.

"What are the coordinates for Section One?" his tormentor demanded, leaning in so close that Paul could feel the other man’s breath on his face.

"Ninety degrees north," Paul gasped, looking up into Ohanian’s dark eyes defiantly.

The eyes narrowed, blinked, and then relaxed as the old man laughed and released Paul’s hair.

"Very, very amusing," Ohanian chuckled. "But you must have misheard me. I asked for the coordinates for Section One, not Santa Claus’ workshop."

Ohanian pressed the button in his hand once more, delivering a shock even more violent than the last. Paul would have screamed in pain, but his muscles were locked in place.

Ohanian started to circle around him, tapping a measured rhythm with his cane. The sound surrounded Paul with its hollow echo - a steady loop of disembodied raps and footsteps that spiraled around him in dizzying slow-motion, until he felt that he was the one spinning out of control.

Then it stopped, and the room fell into hushed silence.

Paul waited, but there was nothing. Nothing but the heavy pumping of his heart, which grew louder. Faster. Deafening.

Finally, a voice - from nowhere, from everywhere - cut through the panicked thumping.

"The coordinates, Mr. Wolfe," it said gently, soothingly. "And all of this will end."

Paul felt the pounding of his pulse start to slow, enticed by the promise the voice held out. How he wanted it to end, even in death. Oblivion would be peaceful, welcoming. It had to be, compared to this.

As his head rolled weakly to one side, he stole a look at the corner of the room. There, Madeline stood attentively, as she had for the past several days, watching calmly as her mentor inflicted ever more brutal punishments on their captive. Her eyes never left Paul’s face - she looked at him steadily, offering him silent support and encouragement. Not wanting to draw Ohanian’s attention to her, Paul limited himself to quick, furtive looks - but each time their eyes met, he felt a burst of inner strength.

Each evening, she visited his cell on the pretense of subjecting him to Ohanian’s experiment. Instead, she gave him detailed instructions for his behavior the following day. Ohanian would test him, she explained, by using trigger words - Paul, in turn, would need to make a gesture or repeat some sort of cryptic phrase. She practiced with him to make sure he responded quickly enough, repeating the process until it became automatic, almost unconscious.

The first evening, she had been all business and departed hurriedly thereafter. But the second evening - after Ohanian had ordered two guards to pummel him so severely that he began to urinate blood - she had lingered, sitting and talking to him for hours, trying to lull him to rest with a quiet, musical voice. Incredibly, it had worked - he had drifted off to a deep sleep, free of his usual nightmares, her presence alone seemingly enough to buffer his pain.

Now, his third day of interrogation, she supported him still. Taking courage from his glance in her direction, he took a deep breath and braced himself as Ohanian pressed the button one more time.

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

With each shock inflicted by Ohanian, Madeline flinched inwardly. She had long since learned how to distance herself from the suffering that took place in interrogation rooms, but here, inexplicably, she seemed to have lost that ability entirely. She watched with horror as Paul Wolfe’s body convulsed and thrashed, and she grew dizzy and disoriented.

To maintain her balance and keep her knees from buckling, she fixed her focus on Paul’s face. Even as he grimaced and shook in pain, he exuded strength and determination - and periodically, with quick, cautious glances, he sent her messages of reassurance, signaling that he was indeed able to withstand anything. By observing his courage, she bolstered hers, enabling her to remain calm and even to look slightly bored whenever Ohanian turned her way.

As she stood, trying to maintain a mask of disinterest, her mind returned to the details of Paul’s captivity, as described in the report that she by now had memorized. The author had noted - with no small amount of admiration - that Paul had repeatedly provoked the guards into punishing him, deliberately drawing attention away from weaker, more vulnerable prisoners. The other prisoners had responded to that sacrifice with an intense loyalty, an acknowledgement of his leadership and bravery. As she watched him, now, she began to understand how they felt.

Many years ago, she had concluded that there were no heroes in the Sections - only pawns. She was starting to reconsider that conclusion.

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

Days. It had been days since Paul had been captured. Days since Madeline was summoned to interrogate him. She should have returned by now, duty fulfilled. But she hadn’t, and there was no word as to what was happening.

George had prolonged his stay at Section One in Paris, putting off urgent work for the other Sections. Of course, he could call the handlers for news just as easily from Two’s headquarters in Brussels, but he felt the need to be present - as if his departure would be an admission that things had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Protocol for an operative in Madeline’s position was clear - until demonstrated otherwise, assume a captured agent was an intelligence risk, and take any step necessary to eliminate that risk. And Madeline was an operative who had proven to be extremely sensitive to protocol. So why was she still in the Ukraine - and Paul, presumably, still alive? Not knowing the answer was maddening. Troubling.

However, there was now a backup plan. As he walked through Section One, approaching that backup plan, George smiled.

"It’s quite interesting how those soldiers showed up so suddenly," George remarked casually, coming up to Richard from behind.

Richard jumped in surprise. "Wh-what?" he stammered, turning to look at George with a startled, apprehensive stare.

"During the mission in the Ukraine. One minute it was clear, the next it was chock full of guards. Funny, don’t you think?"

Richard stared at George blankly, his mouth hanging open in a manner that George thought idiotic. George waited a few moments for the man to respond - to do anything - but then lost patience.

"I’m well aware that you lied about the guards in order to avoid having to put yourself in danger," he said sternly.

As Richard finally shook himself into awareness and opened his mouth to speak, George held up his hand.

"Please, spare me the excuses. I’m not going to report you to Adrian."

Richard gaped for several moments, and then frowned. "Then why --"

"I’d like you to do me a small favor," George interrupted.

"Anything," Richard said, his eyes round with fear.

"Good." George studied the other man, satisfied that he was suitably pliant, before he dropped his little bombshell. "By the way, you’re going to be leading the team going after Paul," he said placidly.

"No, I’m not," Richard said, shaking his head. "That’s Charles’ team."

"It’s Charles’ team, yes," George said, smiling, "but you’ll be leading it."

Once again, the muscles of Richard’s face loosened in a blank stare. "Huh? Why wouldn’t Charles be leading it?"

"He’s indisposed."

The blankness gave way to nervous suspicion. "Indisposed?"

"A sudden case of food poisoning. Nothing to be concerned about. But it means he needs to be replaced. And I’ve convinced Adrian that you’re the best person. After all, you’re one of Paul’s team members - it’ll be helpful to have someone on the rescue team who knows him well."

Richard’s skin turned a sickly shade of grey. "But this mission is going to fail - the odds are almost impossible...."

"Ah, but that’s the point, Richard. You’re going to make sure the mission fails," George said coolly. "Sabotage it, sacrifice the team, get yourself captured, and cancel Paul. When you come back, I’ll see to it that you take over his team."

Richard frowned. "But if I’m captured, how do I get back?"

"Offer your services as a double-agent. They’ll jump at the chance to have someone inside Section One and send you right back."

"I see." Richard nodded, but then paused. "When I get back, what do I tell Adrian? She’s not going to be happy that the mission failed, and she’s not going to trust me if I tell her I escaped."

"You let me worry about Adrian," George snapped. "The only person you need to worry about is me."

"Uh, yes sir." Richard looked down at the floor.

"And one more thing," George added, giving Richard a hard look.

"Sir?"

"There’s a young woman at the prison where Paul is being interrogated. I’ll show you her photo before you leave so you’ll be sure to recognize her."

"And?"

"She’s an undercover operative for Section Two. If for some reason you’re unable to get to Paul, I want you to pass her a message."

"What’s the message?"

"That Paul is to be cancelled at all costs. All costs."

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

Madeline listened as the door to Paul’s cell closed behind her and bolted noisily shut, standing still for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her vision returning, she crossed the room to bend over the bench where he lay outstretched. He was asleep, the exhaustion obvious from the haggard look on his face. For a moment, she hesitated to wake him, watching as he breathed with short, shallow sighs, his eyes rolling under his eyelids as if in a restless dream. But then she touched his shoulder, and his eyes fluttered open.

"I’ve brought you some painkillers," she said gently.

Slowly, laboriously, he sat up. She sat down next to him, handing him two pills and the flask of water that she had removed from her bag. He swallowed the pills without speaking and gulped down the water. He looked at her, smiled wanly, and said, "Thank you."

"I have some bread and cheese as well," she said, removing the food from her bag. "And chocolate. It might taste a little better than what passes for meals in this place."

She watched as he ate ravenously. He tore rough pieces off the bread and chewed with great concentration; an entire chocolate bar disappeared in three successive bites. When he was finished, he took a deep breath and looked at her. Most of the fatigue had fallen away from his face. Incredible. His sheer physical strength amazed her.

"That’s much better," he said, and then grinned.

She smiled in return, and then reached out to brush some breadcrumbs off his chin. But his hand caught hers before she could do so. He gripped her hand tightly as his smile faded into a solemn expression, his eyes full of gratitude and tenderness. With his other hand, he reached out and caressed her cheek. His touch - light, lingering, and completely unexpected - seemed to paralyze her, and sent her heart racing.

With a slow inevitability that she had thought could only exist in dreams, he leaned forward, and his lips met hers softly. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the sensation - lips, and then tongues, delicately touching and exploring. She cupped her free hand around the side of his face, feeling the sharp edge of his jaw move with their kiss, then drew her fingers down his neck to place her hand on his chest. Under her palm, his heartbeat pounded rapidly, its heavy beats keeping time with hers.

As her hand pressed more firmly against him, he pulled back. Breathless, she opened her eyes - and waited, as if in a trance. She was unable to speak, even if there had been words to say, unable to move, even if there had been anywhere to go. She could only look at him, hoping he could read in her silent gaze the invitation that beckoned there.

Without a word, but with a flash of understanding in his eyes, he reached to trace a line with his finger down her neck, along her collarbone, and then back up with excruciating slowness. Up and down, almost too faint to feel, his fingertip brushed and then circled - its contact was barely a touch at all, and yet it conveyed everything. Desire. Delight. Desperation. A desperation so painful it was crippling, full of loneliness, fear, and isolation. A desperation much like her own. From a man who led a life like her own.

How many years had it been since she had met anyone, a single human being, who was neither a target nor a judge, whom she neither had to deceive nor fear? How many years had it been since she had met someone with whom she could be herself, if such a person still existed? It had been so many that now, faced with such a person, her relief was so intense as to be almost crushing, almost impossible to bear.

He lifted his finger from her neck, his expression sharpening with a mixture of appetite and determination, and moved his hands to undo her blouse. Button by button, he pulled it open and then eased it off her shoulders, letting the silk graze her skin as it fell gently backwards. As his hands and lips began to explore her torso and tease her bare skin, she felt an overwhelming desire to clasp him to her, to hold him with all her strength. But with his injuries, she didn’t dare. Instead, she forced herself to remain passive, to let him take what he needed from her. She closed her eyes with the effort, allowing herself only the small privilege of stroking his hair.

With a few tugs and quick motions, he disrobed her - the clothes unfastened, unzipped and pulled away, rustling softly. And then she felt nothing. Opening her eyes in surprise, she looked for him. He stood next to the pile of clothes on the floor, watching her silently. She was on display, and the open appreciation reflected in his face made her catch her breath. Instinctively, only half-aware of her own actions, she leaned back on her hands, threw her head back slightly, ran her tongue along her upper lip, and flexed and turned her body for his enjoyment. And for hers, in turn. She enjoyed his reaction, enjoyed knowing she had caused it, enjoyed the release she felt in surrendering to her own sensuality. Observing her movements, his lips twitched and his eyes narrowed; then, he smiled, like a thief discovering an unguarded diamond, and began to remove his own clothing. As she watched in anticipation, he threw them aside and returned to her, panting.

The air in the room was chilly, but he leaned across her and covered her with the moist heat of his mouth. Guiding her down onto the bench, he took possession of her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and his eyes - she felt his gaze stroke her with a tangible, melting warmth. She began to breathe, deeply and rhythmically, pressing herself upwards against him, wishing he would place his full weight on top of her. Instead, he held himself up, biceps flexed, as he moved his lips from neck, to chest, to stomach, and then below.

Although she tried to remain quiet, a small groan escaped as she felt his tongue slide back and forth and then turn in languid circles. He drew his fingers, light as feathers, up and down her inner thighs until she shuddered, then he stroked and spread her growing wetness. She released a slightly louder groan as she edged closer and closer to the precipice - finally, she stopped him, lifting up his head.

"Please," she whispered, "not yet."

He smiled briefly and then ducked down to kiss her stomach, working his way back up again, plucking at her nerves with the tantalizing touch of his lips, teeth and tongue. She arched her back and sighed as he lavished her with attention; her breathing became irregular, ragged. Finally, he lowered the length of his body against hers, his skin smooth to the touch, and breathed her name faintly in her ear. He was warm, heavy, enveloping - a presence that both controlled her and set her free, that restricted her movements and yet incited her into uncontrollable motion.

When he entered her, she began to feel a desperate, clawing hunger that she couldn’t quite identify. It was more than just a physical need - it burned so deeply that she couldn’t explain, even to herself, what she felt. Gasping for air, she placed her hands on his shoulders and searched the ocean-blue depths of his eyes, hoping to find an answer there. As he rocked back and forth inside her, every defense, every emotional barrier she had constructed to hide behind, fell away, until her very soul was open before him. At that moment, with only a single word or look, he could have completely destroyed her - but didn’t. Instead, he gazed at her with such tenderness that she plunged into a place of infinite, immeasurable bliss.

She wasn’t sure how long he made love to her. When she climaxed, she wasn’t even sure of who or where she was anymore. Afterwards, to her surprise, she found him still watching her, his face full of emotion.

"I love you, Madeline," he said softly.

She returned his gaze and then, to her own profound shock, found herself speaking the words that she had never uttered to any person before. "I love you, Paul."

She trembled as she voiced her feelings, terrified at how emotionally exposed she was. Apparently thinking she was cold, he held her more tightly, and rested his head on her shoulder, kissing her neck.

My God, she thought, I really do love him. What do I do now?

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

Paul took long, slow breaths, enthralled with Madeline’s scent as he pressed his face into her neck and hair. Lying atop her, he pulled the thin blanket up to cover them and held her close to share his warmth.

Never before had he experienced anything quite like the encounter they had just had - after so many years in the Section, he hadn’t thought he could be moved to such emotion. What had started as a simple clasping of hands - meant as a gesture of thanks for her kindness to him - had pulled him swiftly into an irresistible current of passion.

Everything about her had captivated him - her sleek skin, her quiet sighs of pleasure, the subtle sensuousness in the way she moved, her faint, enigmatic smile. And then, toward the end, she had opened those unfathomably dark eyes, searing him with a look of raw desire and absolute devotion like nothing he had ever seen. It shocked him, tore at him, and seized at his heart until he thought he would stop breathing.

And yet he sensed that the woman in his embrace had been holding something back, that there were depths and levels that he hadn’t yet reached. He had ignited a spark, perhaps even a flame, but suspected that it could be stoked into a roaring inferno. Infernos, of course, were dangerous, all-consuming things - they were, after all, supposed to be the central feature of hell. But he no longer cared. He would invite his own destruction, his own immolation at her hands - and he would welcome the consequences.

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

"I’m beginning to worry about you," Ohanian said, studying Madeline from across the breakfast table.

Madeline looked up in mild surprise. "What do you mean?"

"You seem distracted, worried about something."

"Not at all."

He observed her silently for a few more moments as she returned to her meal.

"You’re not falling in love with him, are you?" he asked in a chiding voice.

She froze, her knife and fork in midair, as she attempted to gain control of her thoughts, which had suddenly scattered in all directions.

"That’s the worst thing you could do, you know," he continued.

He took off his glasses, folded the thin, gold frames carefully, and set them down next to his plate. He then leaned forward, and she felt his focus sharpen, pinning her in place as he examined every nuance of her demeanor.

"What makes you think...." she started, her voice faltering.

Ohanian smiled indulgently. "Come now, I may be an old man, but I’m not blind. I know what’s going on between you two. But do you love him?"

She set down her fork and knife and sat back in her chair, staring at him, completely unsure how to answer. How could he know, and why did he seem so...understanding about the situation?

While she sat, speechless, he reached across the table and clasped her hand, and his face filled with concern.

"I’ve seen many men like Egran, my dear. Ambitious. Ruthless. Power-hungry. A man like that could do many things to help you, to take care of you. But he could also hurt you if you were foolish enough to fall in love with him."

She nearly laughed aloud in relief, finally realizing what Ohanian was talking about. Giving him a broad smile, she squeezed his hand in return.

"I’m not that foolish."

"Good," he nodded gravely. "Use him if you like, but you deserve better than a budding despot."

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

Time passed for Paul in sharply divided extremes. Days brought stoic suffering; nights unleashed shared ecstasy. He endured the first by anticipating the second, and the pleasure of the latter seemed to feed off the former.

Each time Madeline visited him, he succeeded in coaxing more and more from her - tonight, he believed he had finally achieved his goal. With a savage gleam in her eyes, she had clutched and clawed at him hungrily, demandingly, nearly overwhelming him with her onslaught until, calling on the same primitive need, he met - and matched - her ferocity.

Now, he knew what the inferno felt like. All rational thought - even his sense of separate self - had been reduced to smoldering cinders in its path. It raged in him still, as he embraced its blistering heat.

Still, he was human, and his body needed rest. Sighing, he nuzzled against the curve of her neck, her skin still damp with sweat, as he ran a hand through the soft curls of her hair. In response, she moved and pressed against him, fingers lightly stroking his back. He was exhausted, satiated, and yet still entranced by her inner mystery.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he examined her. "Tell me about yourself," he said teasingly.

"What do you mean?" The corner of her mouth turned up in bemusement; an eyebrow twitched.

"You said you read my file, so you know my life story. Now I want to hear yours." He chuckled. "Somehow I expect it’s an unusual one."

Even as he leaned closer to kiss her forehead, an intangible distance seemed to appear. She stiffened faintly.

"There’s not much to tell."

"Not much to tell? From the mysterious Madeline? I bet you have lots of secrets. Like how you found yourself in the Sections, for example."

She said nothing and stared into space. As her expression tightened, he felt a vague sense of panic, of impending loss.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, touching her face, hoping the light caress of his fingers would relax her features, restore their life.

"You wouldn’t understand. You’re a war hero. You were recruited because of your positive qualities. Not like me." Her eyes took on a dull cast, as if she were looking inward and trying to blunt an unspoken pain.

He looked at her thoughtfully. "I see a lot of positive qualities. Intelligence, bravery, creativity, dedication --"

"I’m a murderer, Paul," she interrupted, her voice low but bitter. "A murderer and a criminal. They recruited me because they figured I’d be good at torturing people."

There was a hanging silence, an awful stillness, and then she turned to look at him. The expression in her eyes was smooth, cool, like the surface of a lake in a deep, forgotten cavern - where there was no wind to ruffle it into waves, no sun to warm its depths; where a traveler, such as himself, would not even dare to guess what swam within its darkness.

Blinking, she sat up abruptly and started to gather her clothes. He watched in shock, powerless to halt the curtain of ice that suddenly started to descend between them.

"Well, then, they recruited the right person for the wrong reason," he said, blindly reaching for something, anything, that might bring her back.

She ignored him and continued to dress.

"Look, Madeline," he continued, his voice desperate, "if you were as bad a person as you’re suggesting, you wouldn’t be here helping me. You could have just cancelled me, or even let the KGB brainwash me and simply told Section to cancel me when I returned. That would have satisfied your duty without putting yourself at personal risk. But you didn’t do that. Instead, you’re here. And you’d better believe I’ll never forget this."

She turned her head to look back at him, and for a moment, when a shimmering sadness shone in her eyes, he thought she had returned to him. But then her face settled into a cold, blank mask.

"Don’t exaggerate," she said dismissively. "You’re resourceful. Even without my help you would have found a way to survive this and make it out of here. After all, you didn’t get through seven years in that camp without being strong."

"Seven years?" He frowned in confusion. "What seven years?"

Those words, such simple words, somehow accomplished what his pleading had not: her emotional distance seemed to shatter, almost violently, dropping away to reveal a look of complete bewilderment. She stopped dressing and stared at him.

"The seven years you spent in the POW camp in Vietnam." When he didn’t react, she frowned. "You know, being tortured, separated from your wife and son."

Now it was his turn to be bewildered. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was captive for fifteen days, not seven years. And I don’t have a son."

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

1999

Walter’s lips twitched in concentration as he filed down the edge of the jagged piece of metal. The whir of his equipment was loud enough so that it muffled the sound of Madeline’s shoes on the hard floor; standing unobserved, she watched him patiently for several minutes until he looked up.

"Hello Walter," she said pleasantly, smiling as he jumped in surprise upon seeing her. "My physician’s sample, please?"

Walter switched off his machinery and casually reached for the bottle. He then stopped, hesitating before giving it to her.

"The phenadryl chloride - you’re really going to use it on her? It’ll destroy her mind - permanently."

Madeline made no response; instead, she waited quietly, hands clasped in front of her, expressionless.

Walter looked at her sharply. "She hasn’t done anything wrong," he said, lowering his voice. "She’s just been doing her job, the same as the rest of us. This isn’t fair."

"Sometimes things are simply necessary. You know that, Walter," she chided.

He gave her a disgusted look and shook his head. "You don’t even feel guilty about this, do you?"

He waited for a response, but when one was not forthcoming, he laughed sadly.

"I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised," he said. "You stopped having feelings a long time ago. Now, there’s nothing left inside but Section."

She took a deep breath, stunned that he would voice his thoughts so freely. She had long known what he thought of her, but, until now, he had never dared to say it to her face. But she knew. To him, not only was she part of that ninety-five percent, that community of lost souls, she was no doubt a charter member. And chief recruiter. She knew it, had grown to accept it - and, as much as it would mortify him to learn it, had come to welcome it.

Walter, without realizing it, served a useful function. In her mind, he and his five percent club provided a necessary outlet for Section One’s more sensitive operatives. Believing that they stood on a moral high ground made them feel better - and when they felt better, they performed their jobs more effectively. She had no intention of interfering with that. But the idea of a moral high ground was an illusion. How could any of them really know what they would do in her place - whether they would do better, or, as she suspected, far worse?

It was easy for Walter set himself up as an ethical arbiter, to pass judgment from his comfortable hideaway in munitions. He had the luxury of being able to mock the rules even while he obeyed them - she, in contrast, had the sad duty of enforcing them. And yet she had refrained from taking offense - it was natural, she understood, for people to resent authority. If Walter provided a harmless means for them to express that resentment, she was happy to feign ignorance. As long as his condemnation remained unspoken, that is.

Now, however, he had made a direct challenge. Even that she could have endured, had he chosen to confront her about another issue - some harsh rule she had imposed, some offense she had committed against his precious 'Sugar.' She would simply have smiled and walked off, allowing him to have his victory. But to accuse her of being unfeeling in this case was not simply a complaint fired at her as a hard-hearted second-in-command. It was an accusation aimed at her personally - one that wounded, that drew blood. He, more than anyone, knew the bitter choices she had faced - and he was telling her that she had made the wrong one. That she would not tolerate. Let him judge her professionally if he liked - but he would not judge her life.

She straightened her posture and leveled her coldest look at him. He was no more an innocent party here than she was, and she intended to remind him of that.

"I wouldn’t cast stones, if I were you." Her voice was low with an intense, controlled fury.

After an excruciating silence, he handed her the bottle and looked away with an ashamed expression. Whether he was ashamed of himself or ashamed of her, she wasn’t quite sure.

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

1980

Paul watched Madeline’s expression shift from confusion to profound shock.

"Fifteen days?" she asked, staring at him wide-eyed.

"Yes, of course. What? My file said seven years?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What else did it say?"

"It doesn’t matter." A deep frown creased her forehead. "It was translated from Vietnamese to Russian - perhaps the names on two files got mixed up in the process."

She returned to the bench and sat down beside him.

"What really happened to you?" she asked softly.

He shrugged. "Well, it was nothing, really. Not compared to seven years, anyway." He gave a dry laugh. "Whoever that happened to must have been one hell of a tough bastard."

"I want to hear about it anyway."

He glanced away and then slowly began to recount his story. He spoke in a monotone and stared into space, trying to distance himself from the pain that threatened to drown him as he described it - the fifteen days of hell, eased only by the fierce loyalty of his NCO, Willie; the bizarre forced recruitment by Section One upon his rescue; and, finally, the unforgivable betrayal by his wife that destroyed all hope of returning to his old life.

Through it all, Madeline listened silently, taking his hand when his voice choked with emotion. When he finished, he was finally able to look at her - her eyes had filled with a luminous mixture of affection and sadness. He wanted - desperately - to pull her tightly against him, to let her arms surround and comfort him - but to initiate such a gesture would make him look weak.

Instead, he cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. "So, what did my file say? It sounds like it made me out to be some hero, when in reality I was just an unlucky SOB, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"It’s not important," she said, shaking her head.

"Tell me, I want to know," he insisted.

"Why?" She looked sincerely puzzled.

He searched the depths of her eyes, wondering whether he should tell her the truth. Should he confess to the relentless nightmares, the troubling gaps in his memory, the constant fear and depression that plagued him? Disclosing his problem to anyone in the Sections could lead to his cancellation as unfit for duty - for that reason, he had spent years perfecting its concealment. But then she wasn’t just anyone. Far from it.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I want to know because...because sometimes I wonder if I’m losing my mind."

Her look of concern turned sharper, alarmed. "Paul, what do you mean?"

"I keep having nightmares," he explained. "Nightmares where my wife accuses me of abandoning her instead of the other way around; where I’m being tortured in ways that I never experienced during those fifteen days; where I kill a man, and I don’t know why." He frowned. "And then, somehow, the memories are wrong."

"Wrong? How?"

"The fifteen days are vivid enough. But other things - my marriage, the years I spent in the service - don’t seem right. I remember dates and things, but it’s almost as if I had them memorized from a book - I can’t recall any actual experiences - only dry facts." He gave her a bitter smile. "I’m afraid that maybe some sort of battle-induced trauma is affecting my memory, if maybe I’m starting to have delusions."

He squeezed her hand tightly, swallowing a lump in his throat. He looked away before speaking again, not wanting her to see the moisture well up in his eyes.

"I thought that if you told me what was in my file, maybe miraculously it would be true, I’d remember it, and everything would be all right again." He laughed. "I suppose that was foolish."

She took his chin in her hand and turned his head to face her. "How long has this been happening to you?"

"Ever since I was recruited."

She sat quietly for a few moments as he watched a multitude of emotions flicker across her face. Finally, she frowned. "It is possible you could be repressing genuine memories that only come to the surface in your dreams. But then again the nightmares might be completely symbolic. I’m afraid this isn’t an exact science."

"Of course not," he sighed. "But," he said thoughtfully, as an idea slowly crystallized, "you know how to do hypnosis. After all, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing to me in here." He sat up, growing excited. "Can you put me under? Can you find out what’s real and what isn’t?"

She shook her head. "It’s too dangerous. People imagine all sorts of things under hypnosis. It could make your problem even worse."

"But you’ve read my file. I haven’t. If my recollection under hypnosis matches what you read, then it has to be true, doesn’t it?" He allowed a hopeful tone to creep into his voice.

She looked dubious. "Maybe."

"Look, if all I remember is the fifteen days, then at least it's settled." He leaned in closer to her, his eyes pleading with her. "Please, Madeline, it would bring me peace of mind. Nothing else has." His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "The longer this goes on, the more it might affect my ability to work - if anyone found out about it, well, God help me."

She closed her eyes and frowned sharply, rubbing her temples as if she were in pain. Finally, she opened her eyes again. "Alright," she agreed reluctantly. "We’ll try. But I can’t promise you that it’s going to work."

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

Madeline watched Paul’s chest rise and fall, more and more slowly, as he relinquished his hold on consciousness and drifted peacefully into a trance. Ohanian had been right - Paul was indeed extremely suggestible, responding to her murmured commands almost instantaneously.

Once she was certain that he was deeply relaxed, she began to question him. At first, she chose verifiable topics - matters of common knowledge, his memories of the past few days. Next, she tested him by asking him for classified information - Section One’s location, the identities of operatives. To her relief, he refused to answer - again, as Ohanian had predicted, he remained a loyal operative even under hypnosis. Then, finally, with a sense of apprehension that made her pulse quicken, she moved to the matters that troubled him: his marriage, his military service, and his captivity.

The implications of his answers were profoundly disturbing. The recollections brought out by her questions matched the account in his file in every detail, every nuance. As she proceeded, she was forced to a reluctant conclusion: the true version of his history was that described in his file, not that of his conscious memory. The details matched too well for there to be any doubt.

But why was he repressing these memories? Why did he remember his wife, but not his son? Why had he collapsed seven years of torture into fifteen days? The lapses seemed arbitrary, defying her efforts to fit them into a logical pattern. And then, perhaps even more troubling, there was the anomaly - an event found neither in his conscious memory nor in his file, but terrifyingly vivid in his mind now - the memory of how he had killed a strange Westerner who was visiting the POW camp. Was it real? A fantasy? How could she even begin to determine the truth?

It baffled her. It baffled her completely. Frustrated, she ran her hands over her face and exhaled sharply. There was no way to resolve her uncertainty. Perhaps she should move on to another topic and then return to these issues later; after a break, an explanation might emerge. For now, she would turn to a safer, non-controversial subject - his training upon his recruitment to Section One, which he had previously described as a tedious but intensive course in Eastern European languages. Something tedious might do very nicely to buy some time.

She shifted positions on the bench and turned back toward him.

"After your recruitment to Section One, what do you remember next?" She kept her voice low to calm him - the questions about the POW camp had agitated him excessively, threatening to break the trance state.

"Mmmm," he said softly, "they took me to a different camp."

"Camp?" This was not what she was expecting. "What do you mean?"

"Another prison camp. Me and Willie Kane, my old NCO. Phan was there, too."

"No," she corrected him. "You misheard me. I asked what happened after you joined Section One."

"They took me to a camp. Phan started torturing me again," Paul answered, his voice growing more insistent. "But I don’t think it was a real camp - we were the only ones there."

Madeline felt as if the bottom of her stomach had fallen away, as a sickening feeling of fear began to wash over her.

"How long were you there?" she asked, afraid to hear the answer, but yet compelled to ask.

"Fifteen days."

"And what happened after that?"

"They took me to some sort of hospital. They gave me a lot of drugs, and they did what you’re doing - hypnosis, I think. And they showed me a lot of pictures - pictures of a woman, especially."

"Anyone you know?"

"Well, no. Or yes. I don’t know. They kept telling me it was Corinne. It even looked like her a little, but it wasn’t her. They kept telling me that what happened wasn’t real, and that what wasn’t real had happened." He sighed in frustration. "Oh, it hurts my head to think about it. Can we talk about something else?"

"I just have one more question, Paul, and then it’ll be over," she said, fighting to control the growing sense of dread that had set every nerve vibrating sharply. "Did they tell you anything about your son, about Stephen?"

He wrinkled his forehead faintly. "They told me he didn’t exist - that I didn’t have a son." He paused, caught his breath, and then suddenly, savagely, he burst into tears. "Why did they say that? Why did they want me to forget him?"

As his body started to shudder with deep, wrenching sobs, she reached out and gathered him into her arms, rocked him back and forth, and stroked his hair to soothe him.

"They took my family away from me," he gasped, burying his face into her shoulder. "They took my life away. My God, what have they done to me?"

She winced as his fingers dug into her back - he seemed to be contorting in pain, worse than when Ohanian had been shocking him with electric currents. He groaned, deep in his throat, with an otherworldly, inhuman sound that echoed off the bare, concrete walls like the wretched lament of a wandering ghost.

Panting for air, he lifted his head to look her in the face and gripped her tightly by the shoulders. He could barely form words; his eyes searched her face frantically. "Help me find my family, Madeline," he begged, nearly choking on his sobs. "They're out there somewhere. Please, help me find them again. Promise me you’ll help."

As he looked up at her with an expression of utter despair, of agony and desolation of the cruelest degree, she found it impossible to hold back her own tears. "I promise," she whispered. "I promise I’ll find them."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back. His faith in her willingness - in her ability, even - to help him seemed absolute. If only she had that much faith in herself. But she knew better. She had just made a promise she couldn't possibly keep. That she didn't know how to begin to fulfill.

Giving her a look of hope and gratitude that rent her heart into shreds, he then collapsed back in her arms. She held him until he no longer had the energy to cry, devastated to see the man whose strength she had so admired, who had refused to break no matter what, completely shattered and destroyed. Lost. Reduced to childlike helplessness. And not due to any torment inflicted by Ohanian, but because of her own foolish interference.

The sight of him in this state both appalled and terrified her; when he began to whimper, she could bear it no longer. Blinking back her tears, she brought him back to consciousness, instructing him to forget everything that had just taken place.

He looked around slowly with a disoriented expression.

"I feel like hell. What happened?"

Clenching her stomach to control herself, she wiped all traces of emotion from her face. "The session was inconclusive. I'm sorry."

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

Adrian set down the telephone receiver and looked across her desk at George. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to speak.

"We’ve lost the rescue team in the Ukraine," she sighed. "They started receiving hostile fire, and then communications cut off."

He twisted his mouth tightly, looking as if he were trying to stop himself from saying something he might regret. Unfortunately, she knew all too well what he must be thinking. The least she could do was acknowledge it.

She smiled sadly. "You were right. It was foolish to send them."

He returned her sad look, then reached across the desk to take her hand.

"Adrian, he was a good operative. But it’s a dangerous business we’re in. Lives are lost every day."

She shook her head, pulled her hand from his, and stood up from her chair. Pacing back and forth, she sighed distractedly.

"George, I think you misunderstand me. It’s not about Paul Wolfe, the operative, or even Paul Wolfe, the person. It’s about our legacy."

She saw by his faint frown that he didn’t understand. She stopped pacing and turned to look him directly in the eyes.

"We’ve worked so hard to build this place. I want it to mean something, to continue on the way we created it, even after we’re gone."

"And why is Wolfe so important for that?" His voice filled with frustration. "He was just a single operative, when we have thousands."

"We need a strong individual to leave this to. I don’t want it taken over by some faceless bureaucracy. If that happens, the Sections will be no better than the CIA or MI6 or any of those other impotent organizations, and all of our work will have been for nothing. That’s why I went to so much trouble to find the right person - and insisted that we go to whatever lengths were necessary to recruit him. I wanted to make sure that we had someone who shared our vision - and who was bold enough to carry it out."

They held a look, and George stood up to walk to where Adrian was standing. He faced her, his expression grave.

"I understand that, Adrian," he said softly. "Do you think I don’t care about our legacy, too?"

For once, she was uncertain what he would say next. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen in many years, not since the early days, when they had worked hand in hand to build the Sections, when he was truly a partner instead of a subordinate.

He sighed. "You want to hand things over to some sort of superstar - a hero, one of the best and the brightest. But that’s exactly what will destroy this place."

"How so?"

"The best and the brightest tend to have matching egos," he explained. "Paul Wolfe certainly did. Someone like that wouldn’t serve the Sections - he would make the Sections serve him. They would become a tool for his personal ambition. Do you really want that?"

"But --"

"What we need," he continued firmly, "are loyalists. People whose ambition is for the organization, not for themselves. Not cowboys or would-be emperors."

She stared at him for several moments, saddened that he could be so mistaken. But that was why she was in charge instead of him - so skilled at handling the details, he always missed the bigger picture.

"No, George, you’re wrong," she said gently. "You see, an emperor, if he becomes a tyrant, can always be toppled. Why, if that happened here, I’d come back myself and see to it. But when the people here care only about the Sections, this organization will start to serve itself. And the day that happens is the day this place becomes a thing of evil."

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

Entering her room, Madeline locked the door and leaned back against it, exhausted, confused, and terrified. She covered her face with her hands and stood, breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The slow breaths failed to relax her at all, but she was incapable of concentrating on anything else. Her mind didn’t seem to be working - or rather it was working too fast, the thoughts spinning by so rapidly that she couldn’t grasp any of them. But her lungs still seemed to be under her command, so she drew the air in, and pushed it out. She breathed so deeply that she began to grow dizzy - when the room turned an odd shade of purple and began to tilt, she staggered over to the bed and collapsed, closing her eyes.

Eventually, the room stopped spinning, and her thoughts slowed to a pace that was at least coherent, if not controlled. But that's when the panic began.

She didn’t have all of the pieces to the puzzle, but the picture was clear enough - Section One had tampered with Paul’s mind, replacing real memories with false ones. And the real memories were slowly returning. Now only nightmares, it was just a matter of time before they pushed farther into his consciousness. What would happen then, she didn’t want to contemplate. Except that she must. By uncovering the truth, she had placed herself in the middle of whatever was happening. And now she had to decide what to do about it.

If only the memories hadn't started to return, if only they hadn't started seeping back, she wouldn't be in this position. Paul would be free of nightmares, strong and invulnerable, and she would remain in happy ignorance. It wouldn't have made what was done to him any less horrible, any less of a crime, but at least neither of them would have to know. But instead, whoever had performed the memory modification process had done a sloppy job, an inexcusable job - and for that, she silently cursed them.

I would never have let this happen, she thought. If I removed someone's memories, they'd be gone forever.

That thought echoed in her mind slowly, until its reverberation summoned other thoughts, other recollections: memories of her debriefs with George, of the intense curiosity he always showed about the details of Ohanian's research. At the time, she had assumed - or at least hoped - that the information she provided was being used to develop countermeasures to Ohanian's techniques. It hadn't occurred to her that the Sections were doing the same kind of work themselves. That she was helping them do so. That, in fact, she was well on her way toward becoming Section's expert in the field - their very own Ohanian. But now it was all too clear, so terribly obvious: her mission wasn't about intel gathering at all - it was training. Training for what she was to become.

She grew very, very cold. And intensely tired. As she shivered, she noticed the walls and ceiling start to ripple and move. They crept menacingly, inexorably, toward her - first slow, then gaining speed, then so fast they seemed to blur, collapsing violently inwards. She flinched, expecting to be crushed, but they slammed to a stop, hovering inches away. Trapped, she reached out, needing to feel the barriers of her new prison, hoping they would vanish into the nothingness of the dream she knew she must be having.

Just as she was about to touch the wall, she was plunged into blackness. And instead of rough paint, her fingers met smooth coolness, a satiny padding that surrounded her - to the sides, above, and below. It cushioned her luxuriously, but engulfed her completely, like a well-appointed casket. Which is what it was.

Panicked, she pushed upwards, shoving desperately, but moved nothing. Her hands searched the interior, seeking a latch, a handle, a crack, any means of escape. But there was nothing but soft padding, frilly ruffles, and silent suffocation.

Then, she heard it. A thump, and then another, in a steady rhythm - a rhythm of shovels and falling clumps of dirt. She began to beat on the lid above her with her fists; if her lungs could have found any air, she would have cried for help. But the thumps continued, merciless and unrelenting, sealing her in her darkened grave.

Strangely, instead of growing fainter as the dirt piled higher, the sound became louder, harder, faster. Then it grew sharp - like knocks. With a jerk, she opened her eyes, awakening, and found herself still lying on her bed, the walls safely where they should be - and the door shaking with someone's pounding.

She jumped from the bed and leapt for the door. Flinging it open, she saw Petrosian, standing outside with a peculiar, perturbed expression.

"What is it?" she asked, grateful that he had pulled her from her nightmare burial, but apprehensive about what he might want. "I was about to go to sleep."

"I need you right away." His voice was low and urgent.

"Oh, Egran, I’m exhausted, really."

"We have another prisoner from Section One," he said gravely.

Her attention captured, she stepped closer to him, eyes wide. "What?"

"It seems they sent in a team to try to rescue our prisoner. Unfortunately for them, they didn’t get very far. They’re all dead, except for one. But he’s in a cell waiting to be interviewed."

"I see. Have you told the professor?"

"No, he’s asleep. I didn’t want to wake him - after all, I know how concerned you are about his health." Petrosian’s tone seemed oddly sarcastic, as if he were mocking her.

She frowned, faintly puzzled by his attitude, but too concerned about this new complication to dwell on it. What was she going to do with another fellow operative? Was this one more likely to break under interrogation? Thanks to Petrosian’s decision not to wake Ohanian, at least she would get to talk to the prisoner alone first.

Snatching a notebook and pen from her desk, she stepped out into the hallway.

"Alright. I'm ready."

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

Madeline walked into the cell slowly, her expression as cold and threatening as she could make it. The best way to assess the security risk posed by the new prisoner would be to engage in a genuine interrogation - after that, she would have a better idea how to fit this man into her plans. She could only hope that he was as good as Paul at refusing to break. Otherwise...well, she would think about that later. First things first.

The prisoner, a slight, dark-haired man with a black eye and swollen lip from a recent beating, no doubt at the hands of the guards, stood leaning against a wall. To her surprise, he smiled broadly when he saw her and crossed the room to extend his hand in greeting.

"Thank God, it’s you!" he exclaimed. "George showed me your picture so I would be able to recognize you."

Confused, she shook his hand weakly. "You know who I am?"

"Yeah. George told me that Section Two had an undercover op here, and that I should find you if I could. He wanted me to give you a message."

"What message is that?"

The man grinned. "That other prisoner from Section One? Paul Wolfe? Well, he’s a liability. George wants you to cancel him."

"Cancel him?" she asked, barely able to find her voice. "But that’s not necessary. I’ve figured out a way to help him escape."

"No, you don’t get it," the man laughed. "George doesn’t want him to escape. And a good thing, too - he’s a real pain in the ass. It’ll be nice to be rid of him."

"I see," she said, her words coming out slowly, as she grew almost dizzy with shock. Cancel him. Direct orders. Dear God.

"Oh, one minor detail." His expression grew slightly worried. "You didn’t hear this from me."

"What?"

"Uh, this isn’t an official order, you see. It’s a personal request from George. No one else - especially not Adrian - is supposed to know about it. Your story should be that he was starting to give up intel, so you had no choice but to cancel him."

Madeline frowned. "Are you telling me that you and George are the only ones who know about this order?"

"Yeah. But believe me, there'll be hell to pay if we don’t carry it out. He made that real clear."

She blinked several times as the meaning of his words sank in. Hell to pay? George had already sent her to hell. What more could he do? Especially if he never found out that his message had been delivered.

Her decision made, she casually shifted the pen in her hand until her thumb braced the flat end. She looked him in the eyes, her expression completely benign, as she thought back to the words of one of her trainers, uttered so many years before.

"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."

Smiling, she leaned in closer to him and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll make sure George doesn't give you any trouble."

As he smiled in relief, she dropped her notebook, seized the back of his neck with her free hand, and plunged the pen with all her strength into the front of his throat.

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

1999

Clicking her mouse, Madeline replayed the doctored video a fifth time. It was flawless - thanks to Birkoff, Nikita's inability to seduce Markali would have no impact on the mission. But it had been a close call - George's prediction of Nikita's failure had proven to be painfully accurate. Of course, it wasn't simply George's prediction - in the back of her mind, Madeline had expected disaster all along. Nikita had more than lived up to that expectation.

Nikita's continued resistance to valentine scenarios was an immense frustration. The young operative seemed to have learned to kill for the Section, and yet displayed an extreme aversion to an act that, to Madeline, posed far fewer moral dilemmas. Indeed, most operatives even considered such assignments a privilege - they were considerably less dangerous than standard missions, with a much higher survival rate. And yet, to Nikita, they were anathema - it truly defied logic.

This behavior could not be allowed to continue. Friendly advice hadn't worked; warnings had had no impact. Madeline could no longer afford the luxury of waiting for Nikita's performance to improve - the next time Nikita fit a valentine profile, Madeline would simply resort to coercion. Subliminal techniques would probably be sufficient, perhaps something involving displacement of Nikita's affection for Michael. With luck, Nikita would learn something from the experience and such techniques would not need to be repeated.

Madeline pulled up Nikita's file and typed a quick note of the young woman's need for assistance with seduction assignments. As she was about to hit the key to enter the instructions, she paused, surprised by a vague feeling of discomfort. There was a time, far enough in the past that she no longer remembered exactly when, when she would have found such a tactic distasteful. How naïve that had been. After all, what were the alternatives? Operatives who failed to meet minimum standards of performance were required to be cancelled or placed in abeyance - these methods allowed her to find a way around that. In reality, she would be doing Nikita a favor. How could that be wrong? It wasn’t, she told herself firmly, and hit the enter key with extra force.

Closing the file again, she frowned as another thought crossed her mind. It was also possible that Nikita's failure in this instance had less to do with an aversion to valentine profiles per se than with a suspicion that the mission itself was improper. If that were the case, it was likely that other operatives thought the same way. Perhaps some damage control was warranted. It would be easy enough for George to plant evidence of longstanding ties between Markali and Badenheim - when the mission was over, Madeline could make sure those ties were well-publicized throughout the Section.

Damage control. Madeline shook her head wearily. This entire mission was a form of damage control. But soon, thank God, it would be over.

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

1980

For a moment that seemed suspended in time, the skin on the operative's throat stretched back - the metal pen that Madeline wielded wasn't sharp enough to slice through the flesh effectively. But as she drove the point forward, gripping the back of the man's neck with her other hand for leverage, the skin suddenly punctured and collapsed inward with an jagged tear. After that, there was no resistance, and the pen nearly disappeared into the gaping wound, stopping only when the edge of her fist slammed into contact with his blood-spattered skin. Motionless, she held her hand there, transfixed by the vacant look that suddenly filled his eyes and the wet strangling sound that emerged from the opening in his throat.

She didn't blink as the warm blood spurted rhythmically into her face, nor did she flinch as the man's hands clutched her blouse in an unconscious but violent grip. She simply watched until he sank slowly to his knees, when she finally wrenched away with a shudder. He fell forward noiselessly and lay still, and a pool of dark crimson liquid began to encircle his head and stain the stark cement floor.

She was drenched in blood; it enveloped her in a sticky coating that seemed to reach everywhere - her clothes, her face and hands, even her hair. She felt a droplet run down her cheek and enter the corner of her mouth; gagging, she spit it out in disgust.

This was the first life she had taken since that day so many years ago, that day she had tried so hard to drive from her memory. And that killing had been very different - clean, even graceful, as Sarah spun and pirouetted in midair, tumbling into the distance. Her sister's death had looked so beautiful that Madeline had almost leapt off the edge of the landing after her, wanting to imitate the stunning acrobatics. It was only after Sarah landed on the gleaming parquet floor below that it had become ugly - her eyes open, her neck twisted at an impossible angle, her body so very still.

This time, in contrast, the killing was hideous from the start - revolting in its sheer gore, terrifying in its near-intimacy. And yet it was the earlier death that haunted her, that had instilled in her a sense of self-loathing that she could never entirely vanquish. This act - although much more overtly brutal and unquestionably volitional - caused her no guilt at all. Instead, it left her feeling only satisfaction, relief, and a flushed sense of accomplishment.

She admired the crumpled body as if in a trance, breathing slowly as a sense of deep calm began to relax her tensed muscles. She didn't turn immediately when she heard the door to the cell open - at first, she didn't care. But then a semblance of rationality returned, and she spun around abruptly.

Petrosian stood in the doorway, staring with a seething intensity - not at the figure on the floor, but at her. He showed no signs of shock; rather, his face was misshapen and dark with an explosion of rage, with a bloodlust comparable in its potential for violence to that which she had felt moments before. It was a murderous violence - and it was directed toward her.

He stepped slowly and deliberately into the room; instinctively, she began to back away.

"You!" he spat. "I can't believe it."

"He attacked me," she said, continuing to move away. "I had to defend myself."

He scowled in response and marched swiftly to the bench that stretched along one of the walls. Reaching under it, he pulled out a small transmitter and flung it at her. It hit her in the chest and then dropped to the floor, rolling several feet away.

"I heard everything!" he shouted. "You work for the Sections!"

Madeline's movement halted as her back collided with the wall. Positioning himself between her and the door, Petrosian glared at her balefully, fists clenched, breathing heavily.

"That operative started talking the minute we captured him," he said, glancing at the body on the floor. "He told me that he wanted to work for us, to be a double-agent. But it seemed just a little too good to be true. A little too convenient. So I put a gun to his head, and that’s when he started begging. He told me he could prove he was for real, that he could identify a Section agent in our own midst." He smiled, the corner of his mouth twisting up sharply. "He said that agent was you."

He gave a coarse laugh and took a small step closer to her.

"Of course, I didn't believe him," he continued. "After all, the two of us have become so close." He sneered as he emphasized the last two words. "Why, I was so offended that I punched him in the face for insulting you like that. But then he pleaded with me to put a transmitter in his cell and listen. I agreed without hesitation because I was so sure you would prove him a liar. I was even going to let you do the honors of executing him afterwards." He laughed again. "Although I see you took care of that anyway."

Without warning, Petrosian lunged at her, slamming her head against the wall and seizing her neck in both hands.

"You lying bitch," he whispered through gritted teeth as he tightened his grip, "you thought you could use me to spy on the KGB, that I was a fool to be manipulated?"

She tried to gasp, tried to fight back, but her agitated efforts only succeeded in accelerating the loss of oxygen. When her struggle failed, she panicked briefly, realizing she was going to die. But as she weakened, she stopped caring. There was nothing to be done - the blackness would soon swallow her, and nothing more would matter. Then, just as she was poised to surrender, Petrosian unexpectedly released her. She wheezed violently, lungs burning, and slumped limply to the floor.

"You deserve to have your neck snapped in two for this," he said, his face an indistinct blur hovering above her. "But lucky for you, I have a better idea."

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

The session was inconclusive.

Lying on the mattress, Paul repeated Madeline's words in his mind again and again. He shivered under the blanket, curling up tightly, as a horrible realization ate at him: she had lied. He had seen it in her face, in the way that she had trouble looking at him at first, but then stared at him defiantly, daring him to disbelieve her. The session had been anything but inconclusive, of that he was certain.

Her expression had also revealed something else - something even more worrying than the lie - an emotion that he couldn't quite identify, but that had looked distinctly like fear. Whatever he had told her under hypnosis, whatever she was hiding - it had frightened her severely.

He could think of only one reason why she would lie to him, why she might be afraid - the session must have confirmed that he was, indeed, losing his mind. His nightmares had nothing to do with reality; instead, they were delusions produced by mental infirmity. By lying, she was trying to protect him from that awful truth.

He wished that he could have believed her lie. He even wished that he could have pretended to do so, that he could have ignored the significance of what he had learned. But now, with his worst fears confirmed, he knew he had a duty to fulfill. He couldn't allow his mental incapacitation to worsen, potentially endangering missions or his fellow operatives. He would have to come clean about his problem - and, if necessary, to accept an abeyance assignment. There was nothing dishonorable about abeyance. It would at least allow him to die doing something useful.

Without warning, a wave of sadness slammed into him with almost shuddering force. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, his muscles clenching in agony. But it wasn’t the prospect of his own death that pained him so - that, he had come to expect, sooner or later. Instead, it was a sadness born of disappointment, of dashed hopes - of hopes he should never have indulged in.

When Madeline had mentioned an alternate life history for him, he had foolishly allowed himself to believe it might be possible. He had allowed himself to want it. To need it. To need it so much that, despite her warnings, he had insisted on finding out. But he should have listened to her - now, after the hypnosis, knowing it was an illusion, he would rather be dead.

Yes, he should have listened to her. But the temptation had been too much for him to resist. Madeline couldn’t have known that, couldn’t have understood it. She couldn’t have known that she had given him - false, as it turned out - hope that he had achieved his greatest wish: to have a child, a son. She had no way of knowing that, after all the lives he had taken, he had desperately wanted to create another - even just one. To have his own flesh and blood legacy, a personal stake in the world he was protecting and the future he was building. To know that his efforts and sacrifices would benefit his own descendants instead of just those of other people. No, she couldn’t have possibly known how much he wanted that - and how much it hurt to be reminded that it could never be. That he was the end of his line. A dead end.

A dead end, soon to be dead myself, he thought, grimacing.

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

"Here, let me help you up," said Petrosian, reaching down to offer Madeline his hand. His anger had mysteriously vanished; the change in manner was jarring, almost frightening in its suddenness.

She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. She stared at him blankly, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Her neck still throbbed from where he had throttled her; she rubbed her throat softly in an effort to ease the pain.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he said, smiling apologetically. "But you have to understand - if anyone found out that I was having an affair with a Section spy, I'd be dead. Quite literally. So when I found out that's what you were, I became just a bit angry."

She nodded. What he said was indisputable - she had put his life in danger. His reaction had been severe, but understandable. Indeed, standing here, drenched in the blood of her own victim, she could hardly criticize.

"To be honest, my first instinct was to kill both you and the other operative, so that no one would know I had been compromised," he continued. "It wouldn't have been personal, of course," he added with another smile.

"Of course," Madeline murmured. How could it be personal? In their world, things like killing or sex, things that for ordinary people were driven by emotions like hate or love, were merely job duties to be performed when necessary, with neither malice nor attachment. No, it wouldn’t have been personal. Nothing was.

"But then I began to worry - if I killed you, even if I made it look like an accident, there would probably be an inquiry. What if somehow your real identity came up? If it did, I would have a lot of explaining to do. And so I've decided that the best way I can protect myself is to protect you - to make sure that your cover isn't blown." He gave her a friendly wink. "To sign on with your team, in essence. Isn’t that good news?"

"I see," she responded, frowning in an effort to make sense out of his statement. If he had already decided that he was going to keep her alive and protect her identity, why had he choked her nearly to death? She thought back to how he treated his employees, how he switched effortlessly from witty, charming - even solicitous - to brutal and sadistic, and then back again, and she knew the answer: it was because he enjoyed it. She suppressed a shudder. Over the years, not a small number of people had accused her of being a sociopath. At times, she had even wondered whether they might be right. Now - with a real sociopath standing before her - she knew better.

"Here’s how I see it," he announced. "I let you live and give you people first rate intelligence. In return, the Section helps me eliminate my rivals in the KGB and paves my way to the leadership position I so richly deserve." He chuckled. "Why, it's perfect!" He beamed, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Madeline stifled the urge to cringe in disgust and forced herself to smile at the man. Recruiting Petrosian - whose only loyalty was to himself - would probably be a horrible mistake, but with her cover blown, she had very little choice but to agree to his suggestion. Later, she could warn her handlers that he could never be trusted.

For now, however, his assistance might actually be very useful.

"Well then," she said, "I think you've come up with a solution that works for both of us. The Section will be thrilled to have you."

"Yes, I am a great catch," he agreed, puffing out his chest proudly. "I'm sure your superiors will give you a commendation for bringing me in."

"No doubt," she said, pretending to be enthusiastic. She placed a hand on his arm. "But now, since we're partners, I need a favor. A very small favor."

"Oh, anything for my new comrade," he said magnanimously.

"Good." She smiled at him warmly. "It’s quite simple, really. I just need you to use your sources to track down a few people."

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

Ignoring the buffeting wind, George took careful steps down the icy metal stairs propped against the body of the jet, descending toward the limousine that waited, idling, on the tarmac. He nodded at the driver, who stood stoically by the open door in a heavy overcoat and hat, climbed into the rear seat, and settled back against the leather cushions. When the door thumped closed and, moments later, the car pulled off smoothly, he breathed a sigh of relief.

How good it was to be back in Brussels, back in his own territory - and away from Section One.

The relief was, he knew, premature. While Richard had sabotaged the rescue mission to the Ukraine exactly as George had instructed, the lack of news still troubled him. But he simply couldn’t wait in Section One any longer - the other Sections needed him, couldn’t run without him. And in truth, he needed them.

To George, Section One was a nightmare - controlled chaos, kept from exploding only by the extraordinary force of Adrian’s personality. While she always maintained the appearance of regimented efficiency - even decorum - he could always hear the ticking time bomb in the background whenever he visited Paris. There were no rules, no protocols, nothing but Adrian’s - admittedly - brilliant mind to determine the proper course of action. But what if something happened to her - or what if, God forbid, she made an error in judgment? She never seemed to appreciate that danger - but it haunted George. And to think that she wanted to hand off command to someone even more individualistic than she was - and a bombastic, arrogant American, at that - it was dreadful, a disaster in the making.

George could only tolerate the atmosphere in Section One for so long before he had to flee - to escape to the saner environment he had created, where he merely had to pull a string for an entire bureaucratic apparatus to respond. And here he was, home again. Thank God.

If only he could be certain about the situation in the Ukraine, to know that the last of his problems had been solved, things would be perfect. Still, he had covered every contingency - how could anything go wrong?

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

Madeline closed the report given to her by Petrosian and pushed it away, across the desk. She stared at the document blankly, trying to digest what she had learned.

So now what? she asked herself, knowing there would be no answer. Burdened with knowledge, she was powerless to act. Helpless. Trapped.

In only two days, Petrosian's far-flung sources had been able to provide independent confirmation of virtually all of Paul's recollections under hypnosis. What's more, they had enabled Madeline to keep her promise to Paul: she had found his family. Or, rather, she had found one member. Corinne, sadly, was dead - had died years before, shortly after Paul failed to return from Vietnam with the other POWs. But Stephen - placed in foster care afterwards - was still alive, and Madeline now had his location.

As gratifying as it was to locate Stephen, it was the other information that Petrosian's sources had retrieved that was the most revealing - and damning, as far as Section One was concerned. One of the sources had located a second Corinne Wolfe, alive and well, happily remarried, and, oddly, an active terrorist sympathizer, known for pushing her politician husband into questionable alliances. The source had even provided a photo of the woman - or at least a grainy photocopy of one. When she saw it, Madeline gasped aloud. It was Christine, an operative Madeline recognized from her days as a recruit. They had known each other quite well - indeed, had been training partners for most of Madeline's second year in Section Two. Finding a 'fake' Corinne hadn't shocked Madeline - she had already suspected as much. But discovering that it was someone she knew - someone who could even be described as having been close to her - was disconcerting. It made her feel almost complicit, unclean.

Petrosian's Vietnamese sources had also been helpful. Phan, the interrogator whose report Madeline had read, was no longer to be found - in Vietnam, that is. But he had turned up in America - smuggled out at the war's end, the KGB suspected, by the Sections themselves. He had apparently joined a criminal netherworld, carving a small empire for himself - but was still available to provide information or assistance if the Sections needed him to. Willie Kane, too, had been easily traced. According to the Vietnamese, he had been a traitor - it had been his betrayal that had led to the capture of Paul's unit in the first place. While Willie, like Paul, had spent seven years in the camp, he hadn't been an ordinary prisoner; instead, he had lived in relative comfort with the guards, writing English-language propaganda for Vietnamese radio broadcasts. He had been smuggled back to America at the same time as Phan - just in time to recreate Paul's captivity for fifteen days while Section One wiped his memory clean.

The only information Petrosian's sources hadn't been able to uncover was the identity of the man Paul believed he had killed. No record of him existed with the Vietnamese, even though Paul had been certain he was working with Phan. But the report cited Vietnamese soldiers who remembered such a man - he was not a figment of Paul's imagination, whoever he was. The mystery surrounding his identity made Madeline suspicious. No, more than suspicious - certain. He was Section, without any question - what else could he be? Doing what, and why, she didn't know. Perhaps she was better off not knowing. She knew too much as it was.

Abruptly, she stood up and walked away from the harsh circle of illumination cast by the small desk lamp, returning to sit on the bed. As she stared at the dark shadows on her wall, she felt herself growing overwhelmed with a sense of seething, uncontrollable outrage. Until this mission, she had harbored an absurdly romantic view of the Sections - seeing them as a latter-day French Foreign Legion, a refuge for criminals, misfits, and failures, where they could gain a second chance, no questions asked, and an opportunity to redeem themselves. That's what Section Two had been to her; that's what the Sections had been, in one way or another, to everyone Madeline had met throughout her career there. For every one of them - except Paul - recruitment had led to a more meaningful life than would otherwise have been possible. It was a fair deal - even with the Sections' unforgiving rules - and Madeline had never before questioned its morality.

But Paul had had a better life in front of him - he had had a loving family and, with his wartime background, a brilliant potential career in the military, business, or even politics. He hadn't needed the Sections to make a difference in the world - he would have done it on his own. As far as Madeline could tell, Paul's only crime had been to serve his country too bravely - for this, the Sections had stripped his life away.

This knowledge destroyed all of Madeline's illusions about the nobility of the Sections, casting her into a mental state so bleak that she couldn't even make herself feel anymore. She wanted desperately to feel sadness and grief, to shed bitter tears for what had been done to him, but her soul had become a dark, bottomless pit from which nothing could be retrieved. Nothing except anger - a cold, methodical anger that suffused every molecule of her being.

But if rage was all she had left, she would accept it; it offered her a kind of power, and she would tap into it. Succumbing to its intoxicating embrace, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and made two vows - vows that, if necessary, she would spend the rest of her life fulfilling, at any price, at any cost.

First, she would ensure that Paul never again suffered the pain and hurt that she had witnessed when he had sobbed so desperately in her arms. He had been devastated, vulnerable, and weak - a condition that she would not allow to recur. To survive in the Sections, he had to be strong; she would make him so again and make sure that he stayed that way. If he needed help, she would help him - if necessary, she would even be strong for him. No one could be allowed to find or exploit any weakness - by the time she was done with him, he would be invincible, untouchable.

In order to fulfill this vow, however, she had a very ugly task to carry out.

She stood from the bed and switched on the overhead light, blinking at its yellowish glare. She then pulled her suitcase from the closet, opened it determinedly, and began rummaging through its contents. She quickly retrieved what she was searching for: the mind-altering drugs that she was supposed to have been administering to Paul for Ohanian, but instead had been hiding until she could discard them discreetly. It was fortunate that she not yet found an opportunity to destroy them - as it turned out, she would need them after all.

Paul's nightmares were a sign of returning memories - memories that, if recovered, would destroy and weaken him just as they had when he was under hypnosis. To keep him strong, to help him survive, she therefore had to obliterate those memories - to do the job that his original programmers had failed to do. To bring his mind under total control. To allow the Sections to win.

The Sections would have their victory - they would get what they wanted, not just from Paul, but from her as well. For by performing the memory modification process on Paul, she would become the person they wanted her to be. She would accept her preordained destiny as the Sections' very own brainwasher - and she would do so without complaint, without a struggle, and without regret.

Paul would be the lucky one - he would never know the truth, would never remember what had been done to him. But she would never escape it, would never forget. And out of that knowledge came her second vow: they would pay. They would pay for taking away Paul's identity, for taking away who he had been - and they would pay for forcing an identity upon her, for taking away who she could have been. The Sections wanted the two of them to become certain people - well, she would oblige. But only for a price.

First, there would be a personal price, to be paid by the woman ultimately responsible, the woman who ran the Sections and dictated their activities. How she would pay - and when - didn't matter now. But someday, somehow, she would pay dearly.

But it wasn't only Adrian who owed the debt. So did the Sections themselves - as an organization, they had taken Paul's life away and forced him to submit to their will. In return, someday the Sections would submit to his will - he would become their commander and run them as he saw fit. Only that way would his unknowing sacrifice become worthwhile - maybe even justified. As she made this final vow, she smiled - he truly would be a superb leader. Helping him take command wouldn't simply be a matter of obtaining justice for his sake, it would be what was right.

Her anger had coalesced into determination, and the determination gave her an odd sense of calm. As she reflected on the promises she had made to herself, she realized that she was far from helpless. In fact, there was one additional thing she could do. It would be foolhardy beyond comprehension, but she was becoming used to taking risks. She couldn't turn back time, and she couldn't give Paul his old life back, but there was one memory she could allow - one small gift she could bestow. She placed the drugs and a syringe in her bag, a fierce resolve engulfing her, and exited the room. She had spent the past two days feigning illness in her room, wanting to hide the marks on her neck from both Paul and Ohanian. They hadn't healed yet, but she didn't care. She had a visit to pay to Paul - now, before she changed her mind.