Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

He started to pace. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he inhaled deeply, savoring the dry heat that filled his lungs. As he exhaled again, a stream of smoke swirled lazily into the air, clouding the already faint light of the room. Stepping through the smoke, he scowled at her.

"You disobeyed orders, undermined my authority, and placed the mission objectives in jeopardy."

She looked away so quickly that he couldn't be sure of her expression -- but he could have sworn that he saw a flash of guilt.

"I ordered you to guard the door," he continued. "Just where did you think you got the authority to countermand those orders?"

She turned back toward him with a look of almost serene confidence. There wasn't a trace of guilt in her face -- he must have imagined it, misled by shadows and wishful thinking.

"Brad was causing a problem," she answered coolly. "I solved it for you."

Her unruffled manner only aggravated him more. "You don't solve any problems unless I tell you to," he growled. "Is that clear?"

Her expression changed from calm to cold. "Yes, that's clear."

He glanced around the room, searching for someplace to tap the ash that hung precariously from the end of his cigarette. Seeing nothing and losing patience, he flicked it on the floor. She watched him with a look of disgust.

"Why do you think I ordered you to stay behind instead of Brad?"

"You think I'm inexperienced."

"Wrong."

By the way the color drained from her cheeks, he saw that she was caught off guard by his answer. Good. It served her right.

"Believe it or not," he said caustically, "I had a legitimate, mission-related reason for what I did. But I don't suppose you're interested in my telling you what that was, since you already know all the answers."

For the first time during the conversation, she began to look uncertain. "Go ahead."

He stopped pacing and took a stance directly in front of her. "There was a very strong probability that the tunnel was a trap. Someone had to stay behind and make sure that there was at least one viable exit. I chose you because I thought you were more reliable than Brad. I didn't trust him to tie his shoe unsupervised. But I did trust you."

"I see." She looked down at the floor.

"When you decided to start inventing your own orders, I was just about to cancel Brad and go into the tunnel myself." He waited until she met his eye again. "And if you're wondering why me and not you, it's very simple. I'm faster than you and have a hell of a lot more experience dealing with ambushes -- which it easily could have been, you know."

She held his gaze, but her expression was softer -- regretful, perhaps even chastened, although he couldn't quite be sure.

He took a step closer to her, less than a foot away, and gave her his hardest stare. "Frankly, it's sheer luck that you caught up with them in time. Another few seconds and it would have been too late."

She blinked, but didn't back away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to second-guess you. It won't happen again." While her words were apologetic, her voice was steady, and she looked him in the eye as she spoke.

He stared at her, stung with disappointment. He had hoped for real understanding, not mouthed words of regret.

"Back in the Ukraine," he said, "I followed your instructions without question -- even when they seemed completely insane -- because I trusted your judgment. But apparently you don't respect me enough to do the same." He shrugged, trying to hide his bitterness. "If that's how you feel, so be it. But as long as I'm your team leader, you will obey my orders, like it or not."

He tossed his cigarette to the floor. Grinding it out with his shoe, he turned to leave.

"Paul, wait."

He halted at the door, but kept his back toward her.

"I do respect you and admire you," she said. "Don't ever doubt that."

He turned around. "Then why haven't you been acting like it?"

She frowned and opened her mouth to answer, but before she could do so he spoke again.

"Ever since you got here, you've been avoiding me or pushing me away. What am I supposed to think?"

His words hung awkwardly between them; the silence that followed was palpable.

Her expression subtly tightened. "This hasn't been easy for me," she said slowly, reluctantly, as if the words tasted so sour she could barely stand to voice them. "You have no idea what it's like living undercover. Lying about who you are to every single person you meet. Having no one to trust but yourself. Being utterly isolated for years at a time. You don't know how hard that is." She walked over to a chair and sat down, fixing her gaze on a wall. "I spent ten years living like that. It became a habit. It became normal." She looked back up at him, and this time she was the one whose anger permeated the air. "It's not something you can stop, just like that. Even if you want to."

Paul knelt by her chair and grasped her by the shoulder. Now, he could see past the surface anger -- beneath it, no longer hidden, was a deep pool of hurt, loneliness, and fear. The realization sickened him. He had been so caught up in his own desires, in his own disappointment, that he hadn't even considered her situation. She had needed him, all this time -- not for the things he had offered, like training, advice, or protection, but rather for simple companionship and reassurance. Being who she was, she hadn't been able to ask him; being who he was, he hadn't been able to see it. Now, he could only hope that it wasn't too late -- that he could still give her what she needed, and that she could still accept it.

He outlined her jaw with his fingertip; she breathed in deeply, pupils dilating in response to his touch. As he felt her respond, he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. Almost instantly, she began to yield beneath him, her lips delicate along his mouth, the sensations soft and warm. He knew, then, that he had no reason to fear -- it wasn't too late. Not for either of them.

***

As Paul's kiss deepened, Madeline struggled to maintain her equilibrium. She had thought that she had long ago left behind old memories, that her feelings for him were beyond recovery. But now, the sensation of his lips upon hers was just as she remembered it, and everything rushed back to her in vivid clarity. With a single embrace, it was as if time had fallen away -- as if she had been frozen and only now revived.

She placed her hand against the side of his face, her fingers on his temple, her palm cupping his cheekbone and jaw. He ran his hands along her body, first through her robe, then slipping underneath the fabric to stroke her bare shoulders and finger the straps of her nightgown. She couldn't help but gasp, almost overwhelmed by the feeling of his skin on hers, by a desire long suppressed but now awakened. Not simply desire for the touch of a man -- that she had had, when it suited her -- but for his touch, and what it conveyed. She had almost forgotten what it was like to connect with someone for any reason other than lust or boredom, or that such a connection was even possible. Now, she craved it, was poised to give into it completely -- until, unexpectedly, he pulled away, his mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and then rising awkwardly to his feet. "I can't stay like this anymore."

"What?"

He laughed. "On my knees. That hard floor was killing me." He chuckled again. "Why, what did you think I meant?"

"Nothing." She forced a smile.

His smile grew into more of a smirk. "You had an awfully shocked expression for someone who wasn't thinking anything. A little like someone who was afraid I was going to just walk off and leave."

She laughed, trying to hide her embarrassment. Her face must have given away her disappointment, which in turn revealed how much she had wanted him. She could tell by his smug expression that he had seen it, that he recognized how much power he really had over her, and that he relished seeing her reaction.

She took a deep breath and collected herself mentally. She had been about to plunge off the edge of a precipice -- had even wanted to, had yearned for the loss of control that it implied. But she could not allow that to happen. She would reassert control, then, by taking the initiative, by deflection, by shifting the focus of their interactions to her power over him -- a power that was safe, because she understood it. She would be with him because she chose to, not because she needed it; she would be with him on her terms, not his.

She got up from the chair and slowly walked over to him, then she slid her hand up his chest and traced light circles across it.

"I wasn't afraid of anything," she said teasingly, her voice low, almost a whisper. "After all, you wouldn't dare walk away from me."

She studied his expression. The smugness had faded, replaced by a more straightforward amusement. That was better, but not enough.

As she continued stroking him, she felt the rise and fall of his chest through the crispness of his shirt. She took a step backwards and looked him up and down languorously, possessively, admiring the leanness of his form. Then she shrugged the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. When his mouth twitched and his gaze wandered across her body, she knew she had him under her control -- that the need, now, was his, not hers.

She backed out of his reach and laughed, deep in her throat, as she led him around a corner to the small alcove that hid the bed. She sat on the end and waited for him to join her.

"Is this better than kneeling on the floor?"

"Much."

She leaned over and kissed him again, this time aggressively. He responded in kind; he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing and pulling her against him. She reached up to begin unbuttoning his shirt, but, to her frustration, fumbled, the cast hindering her movements.

She laughed. "I don't seem to be able to do this."

"Allow me."

He sat back and pulled off his clothes while she watched. His movements were lithe and quick, like a predator -- they had a certain dangerous quality to them, an almost threatening determination. He tossed the clothes to the floor, then reached over and pulled her nightgown off over her head. Before she could move again, he pushed her backwards, falling on top of her and kissing her hungrily.

He covered her with his warmth and enfolded her in the firmness of his muscles; she breathed in his scent, tasted his skin, yielded to the pressure of his body against hers. His touch was alternately demanding and delicate: he seized her hair, pulling it to bare her neck, then brushed along the pulsing jugular with light kisses; he shoved her shoulders down against the mattress, then gently drew his tongue down her chest. She groaned and shifted beneath him, unable to think clearly, except to realize that she no longer seemed in control.

Subtly, gradually, the power had shifted again in his favor. Once again, she needed and craved him, responded to his initiative, rather than he to hers. Trying to lessen the strength of her reaction, she closed her eyes and concentrated on pure physical sensation, telling herself that what she felt was simple arousal. For a time, it worked -- with her eyes closed, he could be anyone, just a means to a self-gratifying end. But when she felt him sink into her, she forgot herself and opened her eyes. Above her, the first thing she saw was his eyes: sharp, steel-blue, and glittering. They looked into her, pierced straight through her, and, with a look of silent understanding, banished all notions of power altogether. In that look, he told her that he had been struggling with the same need, the same weakness as she -- and he too had lost.

In truth, there was no control for either of them. To her surprise, she no longer cared.

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

Paul shifted sleepily, burrowing against the warm back next to him. Yawning, he drew the covers up and prepared to drift off once again, but then remembered where he was. He opened his eyes, suddenly alert.

Madeline lay sound asleep next to him, the light of the lamp from around the corner outlining her form in its diffused warmth. He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her, and squinted to read the clock on the bedside table. Four-thirty in the morning -- too early for him to have enough rest, but too late to go back to sleep. With a sigh, he pulled up a pillow and leaned back against the headboard. He could allow her a half hour longer before he woke her -- in the meantime, he would wait.

He watched Madeline sleep for several minutes. Her hair was spread haphazardly across her pillow, long dark strands tangling and curling against the pale blue fabric. Her breathing was steady and rhythmic, punctuated with occasional small sighs; her expression was soft, relaxed -- even vulnerable. He fought the urge to gather her in his arms, to hold her close to him while she unknowingly showed that side of herself that she hid so thoroughly while awake.

Years before, he had sometimes stayed up all night just to watch her. He had noticed, then, her frequent nightmares. When they came upon her, she tensed and thrashed to and fro, fighting off whatever enemies confronted her. The first few times, he had made the mistake of waking her, only for her to march off the bathroom and lock herself in, refusing to tell him what was the matter. Later, he simply stroked her face -- almost instantly, she would relax, the nightmares seemingly vanquished. He never told her that he did this; he knew that it would only anger and embarrass her. But it gave him a sad kind of satisfaction: he couldn't protect her from real-world dangers, but at least he could banish the imaginary ones.

This time, however, she slept quietly. So he contented himself with threading his fingers through the ends of her hair, turning them in idle circles, while his mind wandered back to Section.

Adrian had given him a punishing schedule: three more missions that month, at least. The first two would work, theoretically, with a four-person team, but the last, Tripoli, needed five. Which meant that he needed a replacement for Brad. Damn him -- why couldn't he have been competent? And damn Adrian for assigning Brad to him. She could have just left the nitwit on Charles's team, where, according to her, he seemed to be doing just fine.

Then the realization hit him. Brad was such a moron, he couldn't have been doing fine with Charles. Not unless Charles had been covering up for him. He pondered the thought for a moment -- would Charles have done something so foolish? It seemed pointless. Brad wasn't salvageable, and Charles was experienced enough to know that. Paul was ready to dismiss the idea, when he sat up, stung into anger. Of course. Charles wouldn't have been able to hide Brad's problems indefinitely, wouldn't have had any motive to do so. But he could have done it long enough to buy time -- time enough to convince Adrian to make the transfer, so that when Brad finally self-destructed it would be on someone else's team. On someone else's team, marring someone else's record.

Typical underhanded Charles. Paul had seen it time and time again. While Charles loved to play Mr. Nice Guy, underneath he was just as interested in covering his ass as anyone else. But unlike Paul, who wore his self-interest proudly and made no pretense of being anyone's benefactor, Charles cultivated this air of solicitous concern, of kindly interest in the welfare of his operatives -- even as he allowed them to die. Or shunted them off to someone else. God forbid that someone incompetent might blemish Charles's precious perfect record.

Well, this time Charles had picked the wrong tree to piss on. Paul now needed a fifth team member for Tripoli -- and he could just steal someone from Charles to fill that slot. Sergio would do very nicely. He was Charles's best operative, and he even spoke fluent Arabic: a convenient excuse for requesting his transfer. If the Tripoli mission went smoothly, Paul should be able to convince Adrian that Sergio should be a permanent addition.

Tit for tat, Charles -- screw with me and you'll regret it, Paul thought with a satisfied smile. Stick in the minor leagues where you belong.

Craving a cigarette, he glanced back at the clock. The half hour had passed. He reached over and shook Madeline awake.

"Madeline, it's five o'clock."

She opened her eyes, blinked several times in irritation, and rolled over.

"You're supposed to meet with Adrian at six. You'd better get ready."

She sat up abruptly. "Six o'clock? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"That's why I came here last night, actually." He chuckled. "But I got a little distracted."

She glared at him for several seconds, then, relenting, laughed wryly. "I've noticed you're quite easily distracted."

"Yes, but I know just the thing to restore my focus," he answered, leaning over to reach for her.

She pulled away and jumped from the bed, throwing him a scornful look. "I have to get ready, remember?" Then -- safely out of reach -- she smiled teasingly. "We'll work on that focus later."

***

Through the windows of her office, Adrian spotted Madeline approaching across the floor below. The young woman walked briskly but slowed near Comm, glancing at her watch and then taking an empty seat. How droll. Madeline was only five minutes early, but obviously intended to wait until precisely six to make her appearance.

Adrian turned back to the papers spread out on her desk. She had spent the past half hour reviewing Madeline's file, along with transcripts of the radio traffic from the mission. Madeline had shown a surprising amount of initiative -- disobeying orders to further the mission objective. Completely unexpected. George's descriptions of her, glowing as they were, hadn't done her justice.

Adrian heard steps approach, then a light knock against her open door. Looking up, she gestured for Madeline to enter.

"Come in, Madeline. Have a seat."

Madeline sat carefully, her posture rigid, resting her injured arm against her knee. She looked around the room but then stopped, her gaze captured by the vase in the corner of the room.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" asked Adrian.

"Very."

"I cut them this morning. Such lovely colors."

"You grew them yourself?" Madeline looked genuinely interested, not merely polite.

"I have a modest garden," Adrian answered. "I like to bring in something every day -- a bit of nature to remind me what season it is, even down here." She studied the red and violet blooms and felt a twinge of wistfulness. "We all need to stay connected to reality, one way or another."

She allowed Madeline to admire the bouquet for a few more moments before she spoke again.

"You're aware the intel on the Vienna mission was flawed?" She asked it casually, as if it were a trivial matter.

Madeline nodded.

"I knew that, of course, before you went in."

She watched Madeline's face pale as the significance of the words sunk in.

"I was never convinced of the reliability of our source," she said. "The interrogation was sloppy, hastily done." She paused for greater effect, straightening the papers on her desk into a neat stack. "And yet I sent the team anyway. Without warning Paul that there might be problems."

Madeline sat impassively, waiting for Adrian to continue, but her eyes never left Adrian's. Interesting. She wouldn't allow herself to be provoked -- or intimidated. At least not yet.

Adrian leaned back in her chair and folded her hands atop her desk. "Do you have any idea why I might have done that?"

"It was a test." Madeline spoke quietly but with an air of confidence.

"Close, but not quite." Adrian smiled. "It was a lesson, not a test."

The faintest trace of confusion crossed Madeline's face.

"You have highly developed skills in extracting information, my dear, but you've never had the opportunity to see first-hand how that information is put to use. Nor," Adrian added, "more to the point, what happens if it's flawed."

The confusion faded from Madeline's expression as understanding set in.

"I've always believed that there's no teacher like experience," Adrian explained. "This mission was intended as a vivid illustration -- something to bring the importance of your work home to you. To remind you that lives depend upon it."

"I understand that," Madeline said, defensively. "I've always understood that."

"Understood it in theory, perhaps. But from now on, when you do interrogations, you'll have personal experience regarding precisely what's at stake. How something as seemingly insignificant as the blueprint of a building being slightly awry can have disastrous consequences. I hope it will help you focus on your work."

"It will," Madeline answered. She sat utterly still, as if she were struggling to hold her reaction in check.

"But there was another lesson, as well." Adrian cocked her head to examine her subordinate. "Do you know what profiling entails?"

"Understanding the enemy. Planning out the best strategy to defeat them."

"In simplistic terms, yes. I was hoping for something more substantive."

Madeline accepted the rebuke in silence.

"Profiling isn't some dry ritual, diagramming steps on paper to be carried out by someone in the abstract. No. Profiling is a deadly serious game, pitting flesh and blood against flesh and blood. To do it well, you must know the operatives in Section as people, not just the skill sets listed in their personnel files."

"I see."

"Do you? Then you must realize by now that Brad, of course, was completely unsuitable. In fact, Charles, his prior team leader, had recommended him for abeyance." Adrian smiled, noting by Madeline's slightly sickened expression that she knew exactly where Adrian was leading. "I sent him on the mission as a means of demonstrating the importance of selecting the appropriate personnel."

"You knew he would disobey orders."

"I knew he would likely make some sort of critical error." Adrian shrugged. "The particulars didn't really matter."

"And you risked the mission to prove it?" Madeline's voice sharpened almost imperceptibly. She was getting braver: a reaction Adrian found amusing.

"I assigned the mission to Paul. He's usually rather good at adapting to unexpected developments." Adrian frowned. "Although this time, you reacted before he did. To be completely candid, it's more than I expected from you."

Madeline's face reddened.

"I didn't bring you into Section One to send you on missions. That would be a waste of your training and experience. But since you've demonstrated a certain flair for fieldwork, I've decided to modify my plans. You'll continue to participate in missions, at least on a part-time basis. However, your primary tasks, commencing now, will be intelligence gathering, analysis, and profiling -- and, as part of your profiling duties, personnel assessment."

Madeline nodded.

"By the way -- that demotion to Level Two."

Madeline raised her eyebrows -- a look flashed through her eyes so quickly that Adrian couldn't tell if it was curiosity or apprehension.

"Was never really a demotion. You're still Level Five."

"Another lesson?" To anyone else, the question would have seemed polite. Adrian, however, caught the underlying resentment.

Adrian stifled a smile. Despite Madeline's remarkable self-control, it seemed that there were still plenty of buttons to push. "No, a test. To see if you could accept discipline and still perform your job." She paused. "You passed, in case you're curious."

Madeline simply stared at Adrian, her eyes like black ice.

Adrian stood. "Now, let me show you to your workspace."

***

Charles turned the page slowly, absorbing the contents of each paragraph as he sipped his tea. He hated the tea from Section's cafeteria -- they used those vile bags, nothing like the Darjeeling he brewed in his own kitchen most mornings. But he had stayed up all night in the library reading the latest banking privacy regulations, and it simply hadn't made any sense to go home.

He set down his cup and continued reading. Nauru. He hadn't come across any terrorist group funneling funds through that country yet, but it was only a matter of time. The wars in Central America had rendered the Caribbean offshore havens far too dangerous. They were crawling with CIA spooks, Cuban diplomats, Colombian druglords, militia leaders and soldiers of fortune, all running amok -- and that on top of the usual collection of con men, tax frauds and other miscreants. It was only a matter of time before something exploded, before some horrific scandal embarrassed the local authorities into clamping down on the private banking industry. It was a house of cards, really - something that any terrorist group of any sophistication would stay far away from. But Nauru, on the other side of the world, had everything: complete secrecy, minimal set-up costs, and, most important of all, quiet. It was almost perfect. He would have to tell Adrian to place a closer watch on transactions taking place there.

He set aside the volume and picked up a slice of toast, biting down on it thoughtfully. How ironic that he would be spending his time this way. Years ago, he had joined the military to escape the family banking business, to seek a life of adventure -- and now, well, he had both, he supposed. A little too much adventure, in fact, for a man his age, which is why he had started to engross himself in regulatory minutiae. It was time he found a way to fight the enemy that didn't require him to carry a gun.

He looked up to see Paul passing by, clutching a coffee and looking exhausted. Apparently, someone else had pulled an all-night session. As Paul drew near, Charles started to smile in commiseration, but stopped when he saw Paul's expression. It was unsettling -- the other man looked both disgusted and bloodthirsty, as if he had spotted some sort of vermin that needed to be exterminated.

When he reached Charles' table, Paul leaned in close.

"Next time, find someone else's backyard to throw your garbage into." His voice was low, and his pale blue eyes swam with chilling menace. "I don't appreciate it."

Charles frowned, baffled. He would think that Paul was speaking in riddles, except for the fact that he seemed so angry. Beyond angry, really -- indeed, he looked, for all the world, like a cobra about to strike. Tired as Charles was from his lack of sleep, he felt a defensive burst of adrenaline that sent his heart pounding.

"What are you talking about?"

"That bozo you convinced Adrian to take off your team and put onto mine." Paul narrowed his eyes. Charles could feel the potential violence coiled below the surface, seething and broiling. "You know, the one who couldn't wipe his ass without an instruction manual."

Had Paul lost his mind? There was only one operative who had been transferred from Charles's team to Paul's recently, and Charles certainly hadn't recommended it. Quite the contrary: he had been shocked when Adrian put the man on another team instead of in abeyance where he belonged.

"You mean Brad?"

"Oh, so you're not going to play dumb after all. How nice."

"I didn't tell Adrian to transfer him to anyone's team, much less yours." Charles felt his own anger rising. He'd never had any dispute with Paul in the past, despite Paul's infamous temper, and he didn't want one now. But there was only so much of this that he would take.

"Sure you didn't." Paul sneered. "You know, Charles, just because you screw up training new team members doesn't give you the right to dump them on someone else afterwards."

That was quite enough. Whatever delusion Paul was suffering from was beside the point -- Charles wouldn't stand for that sort of insult. He took great pride in the mentoring he did for his team. Unlike Paul, he taught, he didn't bully.

"At least I try to take care of my people. Why, you didn't even notice that your new operative had broken her arm. I had to take her to Medlab myself." He curled his lip in disdain. "Perhaps I should ask Adrian to transfer her to my team. I seem to appreciate her more."

With a loud smash, Paul flung his coffee cup down on the floor and lunged at Charles. Instinctively, Charles jumped from his seat and stepped away; they faced off, glaring at each other, as the entire room hushed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Walter exclaimed, running from a nearby table and stepping in between the two men.

Paul scowled darkly for a moment. "This isn't over," he growled, then turned and stalked away.

Walter shook his head. "A word of advice, amigo. That was the wrong topic to bring up."

"Why?" Charles was having trouble bringing his breathing back to a normal level; his nerves were still on edge.

"I think Paul's a little, um, possessive of Madeline."

"What, because she's on his team?" Charles scoffed. "His team members aren't his property. They belong to the Section."

"No, I mean something a little more than that. You know." Walter raised his eyebrows in emphasis. "Personally possessive."

As he absorbed Walter's meaning, Charles felt himself grow strangely offended. A taste of bile began to rise in the back of his throat.

"Then that's even more reason why he should have been looking after her."

Walter laughed. "Somehow, I don't think she's exactly the type that lets herself be looked after."

Charles drew himself up haughtily. He wasn't going to be lectured about women by some glorified mechanic. "She would, if one didn't try to force it upon her. A woman like that has to be allowed to choose to rely on a man -- too independent-minded for anything else." He made a face in distaste. "But I doubt someone like Paul can understand that. He just tries to overpower everyone."

Walter placed his hand on Charles' shoulder. "Don't do it. Don't even think about doing it. You're just asking for trouble. Trust me."

"I'm not going to do anything." Charles smiled calmly. "That, I'll leave entirely up to her."

***

Adrian led the way into the small observation room; Madeline followed and stood beside her as the door swung shut.

The room was a sterile white, empty but for two chairs facing a glass partition window, a panel of buttons and speakers lining the wall below it. The soft whir of the ventilation system was the only sound; its cool current stirred Adrian's hair as she looked through the glass into an adjoining room.

The other room was larger, but completely devoid of furnishings. In it, one of the captives from Vienna hung limply from manacles embedded in the wall, his naked back open to the air. Two other men, clad in black pants and sweaters, stood next to the prisoner. One held a police baton and wielded it against the captive's kidneys; the other leaned in toward him, his face angry and contorted as he screamed at the bound man. His words were inaudible, but his red-faced lividness burned even through the soundproof glass of the window.

Adrian turned to Madeline. "I'd like you to observe and give me your opinion."

"Of?"

Adrian made a face in surprise. Wasn't it obvious what she wanted an opinion of?

"My opinion of the prisoner?" Madeline elaborated. Her tone was clinical, her enunciation clipped and precise. "Of the information he discloses? Of your facilities and equipment? Of the interrogation process? Of the interrogators themselves?" An eyebrow arched upwards sharply. "Or of something else?"

Adrian was taken aback. While Madeline remained polite, there was a hint of impatience, almost annoyance, in her demeanor, as if she were speaking to a subordinate rather than a superior. In Adrian's office just a few moments ago, Madeline had been deferential, even nervous. Here, she was confident. At home. The recognition made Adrian's blood run cold.

"Of anything you like," Adrian answered, swallowing hard and forcing a smile. "This is your domain now. Everything in it is open for your assessment."

Adrian pushed a button to switch on the sound from the other room, and the two women observed, side-by-side.

The beating wasn't particularly brutal, that Adrian knew. Yet she had trouble forcing herself to watch; her stomach contracted in discomfort. This sort of thing was unavoidable, but so distasteful -- she had always tried to leave that work to others, preferring to know as little about it as possible. George never seemed to have a problem with it. He accepted it, as he did so many unwholesome necessities of their trade. Adrian, however, could never shake the feeling that the practice poisoned them. They, the defenders of civilization and progress, were supposed to be above such things: better, nobler than the monsters they fought.

But were they, really?

It was the sound of the torture that disturbed her the most: the dull thwack of the baton against the prisoner's back, the creak of the manacles as his weight pulled against them, his grunts and expelled breaths at each blow, the shouts and taunts of his captors. Wincing, Adrian stole a look at the woman next to her, and then wished she hadn't. Madeline showed no reaction, no expression, no sense of witnessing anything of significance at all.

One of the interrogators reached up and unclasped the manacles, and the captive collapsed onto the floor. The two men began kicking him savagely; he attempted to curl up in defense, but was too weak to fend off their stomps. When the toe of a boot landed directly against his abdomen, he shuddered, vomited, and lay still. The two men stepped back; slowly, trembling, the prisoner lifted his head.

"Enough," he gasped. "I'll tell you everything."

As the prisoner began answering questions, Adrian felt her muscles relax and her breathing deepen. The worst was over. Soon, they would have all the information they needed.

Madeline glanced at Adrian, then back toward the window. "He's making it up," she said.

That couldn't be possible. The man was completely broken -- one could see it in his eyes. He didn't have the energy to resist anymore.

"Are you certain?"

"Quite."

"Then I'll tell them to resume the beating," Adrian said reluctantly, reaching for the intercom.

"That would be a waste of time," said Madeline. "He doesn't know anything. He's inventing information out of desperation."

"How can you tell?"

"There are cues in his demeanor." Her tone was devoid of any emotion, almost bored-sounding, and yet utterly confident.

Adrian stared into the other room, searching for a sign -- anything -- that would give the prisoner's lies away. There was nothing. The man looked desperate, true enough, but no more so than hundreds of other captives who had given them accurate intel.

She pressed the intercom button. "Return him to Containment and bring in one of the others."

"Yes, ma'am," answered the voice over the speaker.

She released the button and turned to Madeline.

"The next one is yours."

Madeline did nothing to acknowledge Adrian's statement; she simply stared back, her eyes holding Adrian's gaze with their dark intensity. As Adrian watched, not sure whether to be fascinated or horrified, a mask seemed to settle on Madeline's face. The clinical detachment of moments before melted into something subtler -- something soft, yet calculating. It was as if a cloak of outer grace and calm had descended to wrap itself around a crouching predator.

"Thank you," said Madeline. "I'll do my best."

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

With growing annoyance, Adrian read the last of Center's directives for the week, jotting down notes to incorporate into her response. Each year, the level of interference grew steadily worse; from simple monitoring in the early days, it had progressed to active meddling. The power Center held over the Sections' purse-strings had started to go to Phillip's head, convincing him that he was an expert in counter-terrorism despite his lack of experience on the ground.

She grimaced and pushed the documents aside. It was bad enough when all Phillip did was demand that she prepare meaningless bureaucratic reports or engage in esoteric research projects, wasting her already-limited time. But now -- now, he had 'suggestions'. Suggestions that she had to expend her energy responding to, explaining in painful detail why they were impractical or counterproductive. If she followed even half of them, the Sections would implode from mismanagement within a year.

It was getting more and more tiring fending him off. If only it weren't so important, she would delegate the entire mess to George, who excelled at paperwork and evasion. Unfortunately, resisting Phillip's dictates required her personal touch -- playing upon her friendship with key Council members.

Hearing a noise, she looked up in irritation, her head throbbing. When she saw Madeline in her doorway, she frowned and looked at her watch. It had only been a short time since Adrian had left Madeline in the interrogation room. For her to have returned so quickly meant there must be a problem. She sighed, exasperated. She had quite enough to deal with at the moment without yet another complication.

"What is it?"

Madeline entered the room and stood at attention. "The prisoner has provided some interesting intel, ma'am."

"Interesting. Quite an ambiguous word. I've always found that people resort to ambiguity when they're unsure of themselves." She waited for a response, but then, losing patience, snapped, "Well? Do you plan to elaborate, or am I to be left in suspense?"

Madeline blinked and drew a deep breath. "Their group is planning a massive bombing, two days from now. With the aim of maximizing civilian casualties."

"The target?"

"The Gare de Lyon."

Adrian's irritation gave way to shock. "Here? In Paris?"

The very thought of such an attack was horrifying, and not merely for the death and destruction it would cause. A bombing in Section One's own turf -- unanticipated, undetected -- would make Section look utterly incompetent, giving Center even more reason to interfere.

Madeline nodded. "But we now have a location for their Paris headquarters, as well as a list of their local operatives. It shouldn't take long to round them up."

Adrian sank back into her chair in relief. "Are you certain of the accuracy of the information?"

Madeline inclined her head. "Within an acceptable range of probability, yes."

"We'll prep a mission immediately," Adrian said, a surge of energy driving Center from her thoughts for the moment. "Prepare the information in detail and meet in the conference room in an hour to brief the team."

"Yes, ma'am."

Adrian turned away in a silent dismissal and reached for her telephone to call Paul, but looked up again when she heard Madeline clear her throat. The young woman remained standing in place, with her hands clasped and an expectant expression.

"Yes?"

"You asked me to give my opinion on what I observed."

"Ah, yes. Of course I did."

Madeline hesitated as a look of nervousness crossed her face. "May I ask how Section has selected its interrogators?"

Adrian pursed her lips in thought. "They're a mix of former intelligence officers and ex-police interrogators."

"I expected as much." Madeline pulled herself into a straighter posture and looked Adrian in the eye. "I recommend you stop using them."

"But they've spent years questioning people in all sorts of circumstances. Who else can you find with that sort of experience?"

Madeline shook her head. "That's precisely the problem. Before they even come to Section, they've developed ingrained habits that are almost impossible to correct."

"And so what do you propose instead?"

"Ideally, I'd like a staff with medical training. It doesn't have to be doctors. Nurses, medical technicians, even med students would do."

How interesting. Adrian had expected Madeline to recommend fellow psychologists for their insight into the human mind.

"Explain."

"Medical personnel have knowledge of anatomy and pharmacology. They can perform procedures with precision instead of brute force." Madeline arched an eyebrow on the last two words, with a subtle look of disdain that Adrian noted with amusement.

So even torturers have standards, she thought, biting back a smile. Pride of profession, no doubt.

"They know how to administer drugs," Madeline added, "and how to observe and interpret physical reactions and vital signs. They can even revive a prisoner if necessary."

"So you would train them how to question our captives?"

"No. Their function would be to provide support." She paused a moment, frowning in thought. "The interrogator wants answers -- it's easy to get frustrated if the process seems to be going too slowly. The staff members performing the procedures must remain free of such emotional distractions, so that they can focus on the details of their work."

"Then who would conduct the questioning?"

"I would, primarily. But I also think we should integrate the field operatives into that process. Or at least the team leaders." Madeline smiled again. "As your lesson to me made clear, it's those operatives who depend on the information to keep themselves alive who are the most motivated to make sure it's accurate."

Touché. Well done. Adrian chuckled. "This is all very enlightening," she said. "I'd like you to prepare a report so that we can discuss this further. But for now, I believe you have a mission to prep."

"Yes, ma'am." Madeline nodded, turned, and walked out of the room.

As she watched Madeline depart, Adrian drummed her fingers on her desk in reflection. That was a rather interesting performance. She now knew what George had seen in Madeline -- and she also knew that she had found the right place in the Section for her. Properly molded and conditioned, Madeline could reach her true potential, could become a resource of considerable value. But handled the wrong way…the thought made Adrian shudder.

It was an unavoidable paradox: to fight evil, one needed a bit of evil. To fight depravity, one needed to understand it -- and who better than someone who was also sick? Madeline, with her distasteful background and even more disturbing expertise, wasn't only useful, she was necessary. Critical, even. And anyone who became critical had a type of power -- which is what made her so dangerous.

In a sense, Madeline was much like nitroglycerine: useful, powerful, but highly unstable. Needing strict control. Needing, in essence, to be kept under lock and key. Fortunately, Adrian knew exactly how to do that. Ironically, it was the young woman's performance on the mission that had provided the answer, that had given Adrian the key to understanding her. To Adrian's surprise, Madeline had been willing -- even eager -- to risk her own life. Her disobedience of orders in the process made it clear that she wasn't like so many other Section operatives, accepting danger only when forced to. To the contrary, Madeline had sought it out on her own.

That act provided Adrian with a useful insight: Madeline wanted to be heroic, wanted to be self-sacrificing -- wanted, as Adrian now saw, to be someone better than the girl who had killed her sister in a fit of selfishness. Ultimately, Adrian realized, what Madeline wanted was forgiveness. Wanted it desperately. It was her motivation for everything -- and, therefore, her greatest weakness.

The Section could be presented to her as the vehicle for such forgiveness, to convince her that if she worked hard enough, accomplished enough, she would cleanse herself of that crime. Of course, it would never be enough. Adrian would dangle that forgiveness just out of reach, doling out praise in small doses, alternating with rebukes. With each successful mission, with each enemy destroyed, Madeline would inch closer to redemption -- only to see the goal recede before her. Eventually, she would become addicted to the Section, unable to function outside it, and thus under control. A loyal servant, content in her place; her assets fully exploited, but her threat neutralized.

That was the key to the future, really. Groom people for the appropriate station in life, for what they were born to do -- and teach them to not just accept it, but to be grateful. That was the way the world functioned best. Madeline didn't know it yet, but Adrian was acting in her best interests. Someday, perhaps, Madeline would gain the wisdom to thank her.

***

The subdued light of the Section -- usually so depressing -- was a welcome relief from the sunshine outside. Crossing the main floor, Lisa removed her sunglasses and rubbed her temple. Too many vodka shots the night before, followed by too much Scotch, followed by…ugh, she couldn't remember.

The several glasses of water she had downed didn't seem to be helping -- instead, it sloshed uncomfortably in her stomach as she walked, adding a seasick-like quality to her nausea. Food might help, but nothing seemed appetizing. The smell of the leftovers in her refrigerator that morning had sent her stomach into near rebellion; the mere thought of Section's cafeteria fare threatened to do the same.

What she really needed was sleep. In ten more hours, that's exactly what she intended to do. And with a week of downtime starting at the end of the day, she could sleep as long as she wanted -- which, judging by the way she felt now, might be for several days straight.

The hard sound of shoes echoing from above made her glance up; spotting Madeline descending the stairs from Adrian's office, she stopped and waited. At first, the other woman didn't see Lisa -- she looked distant, lost in thought. But when she looked up and caught Lisa's eye, her expression warmed and she smiled in greeting.

"She isn't giving you shit, is she?" asked Lisa when Madeline reached the foot of the stairs.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Adrian. Was she raking you over the coals about something?"

Madeline frowned. "No, not at all. Why?"

"You didn't look very happy just now. I call it the 'Adrian-just-blindsided-me-again' look." A corner of Lisa's mouth twisted up. "It's a common side effect of visiting that office."

"Oh. I'm just tired, I suppose." A faint smile crossed Madeline's face. "Too much celebrating last night."

Lisa laughed. "Tell me about it! Except I see I'm going to have to give you some partying lessons. You didn't even try to keep up with Patrick and me. And then you left early, you spoilsport!" She shook her head in mock disapproval. "Team One has standards you're expected to live up to, you know."

Madeline laughed in return. "I see. I'm sorry I let the team down."

"Next time you'll do better. Or else I'll tell Paul that you're making us look bad." She grinned. "Trust me, you don't want to know what kind of punishments he can dream up."

Madeline gave her an odd look, and a tinge of red crept into her face. "Well," she said, with a laugh that seemed almost uncomfortable, "I certainly wouldn't want that."

She looked away quickly, and when she turned back to Lisa that distant, distracted look had returned. "But I have some work to do. I'm afraid it involves a deadline." She smiled at Lisa apologetically.

"Oh, of course," answered Lisa, a bit taken aback by the abrupt shift in mood. "I didn't mean to hold you up."

Madeline walked off, and Lisa proceeded toward Systems, heading for an empty workstation. Her week of downtime might give her a welcome respite from missions, but she had no intention of spending the entire time at rest. Instead, she would print out the code for the program she had been working on, and use a large part of her week off reviewing and debugging it. When she was done, she would present it to Jules -- along with her formal request for a transfer to a programming assignment. Her third such request, actually, but the first one where she had a code example to submit with it. That, she hoped, would make all the difference.

Reaching the seat, she smiled to herself and typed the commands to bring up her files. Jules had been scornful of her interest in computers, but when he saw what she had come up with, he would be blown away. She was ten times better than anyone else he had working for him, not to mention a hell of a lot more motivated.

She sat back and waited for the program to load, but then frowned. Where was it? The directory was empty. She shook her head in confusion and tried again; the hangover must have really fried her mind if she couldn't keep the commands straight. This time, she typed slowly, concentrating, making sure each keystroke was correct.

When she saw that the directory was still empty, a wave of nausea surged over her -- and this time it had nothing to do with the prior night's drinking. Where the hell was it? Panicking, she checked for the backup file she had set up. It, too, was missing.

She sat for nearly a minute, staring at the screen and frozen in horror, before she could even begin to think clearly. Why hadn't she printed out a hard copy? She hadn't wanted to leave it at her apartment -- had been too paranoid about breaching Section's security if the document somehow fell into the wrong hands. So stupid!

Shit, shit, shit! she thought, wanting to groan aloud in despair.

Calming slightly, she began to think more clearly. The files might simply have been moved, and even if someone had accidentally deleted them, that didn't mean they weren't recoverable. She looked up and saw that Jules was standing nearby, talking to another operative as he worked. She stood up and walked over to him, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Can I do something for you?" He was polite, but his voice held a trace of impatience.

"I'm really sorry to bother you, but I had a file that seems to be missing. I was wondering if you might be able to help me find it. I know that--"

He frowned. "What sort of file?"

She felt herself blush in embarrassment. "Um, well, I was working on some code for a program, and I only backed it up locally. I know you're busy, so maybe you could get someone else to help me?"

"You were working on some code? Code for what? You're a field operative, not a programmer."

His French accent, combined with the disdain in his expression, gave him an air of lofty superiority that made her feel even more foolish. He exchanged an amused glance with the other operative, who turned away to conceal a smirk.

"Whatever you were doing, you probably forgot to save," Jules said. "It's a common mistake with people who don't understand computers."

Lisa stared at him as realization slowly dawned on her.

"You deleted it on purpose, didn't you?" she said, almost as astonished as she was enraged. "You knew I was working on something after hours."

"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "Do you have any proof of that?"

"I've been logged in for hours at a time almost every night for months. I'm sure you can trace--"

"You can trace nothing," he interrupted. "I'm in charge of the network, you know. There's no record of any activity by you, you can be sure."

"Only because you deleted that, too. You don't want Adrian finding out that someone else can program as well as you."

They glared at each other in silence for several seconds. Then, Jules relaxed, a patronizing smile filling his face.

"This hobby of yours. It's charming, but it's a waste of your time. Adrian is not going to transfer you to Comm."

"Not if you have anything to say about it, right?"

He shrugged. "You don't have the aptitude for computer work. It's not your fault, of course. Most women don't."

With that, he turned away from her and resumed his conversation with the other operative.

She stood there for several moments, seething, but too outraged for words. Computers were her way out of fieldwork, her escape from the frontlines, her only real chance to stay alive for any decent length of time. She had placed all of her energy, all of her hopes, toward obtaining that transfer -- had believed that if she proved her ability, even Jules would be impressed enough to accept her. She had convinced herself that her hard work would be rewarded, that Section was, at least on some level, a meritocracy. Now, she saw how wrong she was, and hated herself for her naïveté even more than she hated the man whose back was turned arrogantly toward her.

This wasn't over, she vowed to herself. She had made a mistake, but it wouldn't be repeated. Her programming skills were more than adequate, but they hadn't been enough -- it was Jules' control over Section's systems that had enabled him to do this to her without fear of retaliation. It was time, then, to master that, too. To learn to protect herself. Maybe even to give Jules a taste of his own medicine.

With a grim resolve, she spun around to leave and nearly bowled over Paul, who was approaching behind her.

"Adrian's called a mission briefing," he said. "Meet in the conference room in forty-five minutes."

She shook her head. "I've got downtime starting this afternoon. I'm not supposed to be going out on any missions for the next week."

"It's local. We'll be back before the end of the day." He frowned. "And Adrian has revoked your downtime. Patrick, too. She thinks the body count in Vienna was too high."

Lisa grimaced. Her program destroyed, her downtime cancelled -- and a hangover on top of that.

This is turning out to be just a lovely day, she thought with disgust.

***

The Gare de Lyon was unusually crowded that afternoon, packed with travelers on their way south for the holiday. Tense with anticipatory energy, Madeline wandered through the station, retracing her path again and again. She circled by the ticket booths, stopped at a newsstand, and passed the entrance to the platforms, watching each person, each family, each group.

The noise of footsteps and voices echoed sharply off the hard floors and high ceilings, interspersed with laughter, yelling, a baby's piercing wail. In front of her, a boisterous group of teenage boys roamed, looking for girls to whistle at and tease. Behind her, an elderly couple argued heatedly about whether the wife had packed too much -- the man blustering, the woman shrill.

She looked at her watch. There were only two more minutes until the time that the explosion would have taken place: the explosion that she had played a large part in preventing. Driven by a curiosity that had almost become a compulsion, she had come to the station to see, in the flesh, the people whom she had saved. Now, they surrounded her, jostling her as they passed; she, in turn, studied them, intent on absorbing every detail of their appearance, determined to burn each individual into her memory.

In Section Two, she had known that her work helped fight terrorism, ultimately, but there had never been any direct connection to saved lives, had never been anything specific she could point to as justification for the acts of horror she participated in. It had all been amorphous, theoretical -- and unsatisfying. In Section One, things were different. Each person in the station that day was a living, breathing victory; each one was proof that she had accomplished something to be proud of, and that her existence mattered.

The thought that now she could actually see these people, speak to them -- even touch them -- had finally overwhelmed her. So she had slipped out of the Section and come to the station. Finally, after so many years, she would be able to look a person in the eye and say to herself: I saved that person; that individual wouldn't be here but for me. And not just once, but hundreds of times.

She checked her watch again. Twenty seconds. She stopped in place, counting down. When she reached zero, she inhaled in excitement and looked up, almost expecting time to freeze or things to start moving in slow motion -- hoping, illogically, that the moment would somehow linger in its significance. But it was gone in an instant of nothingness. As hurried travelers pushed their way past her, she felt no triumph, no sense of accomplishment. It was as if the moment held no significance at all.

Her lack of reaction puzzled her for a moment. After the mission, as she stood over her captives, she had felt intoxicated; after the interrogation, when the prisoner broke under her will, she had been elated. But this -- the real victory, supposedly -- gave her only a strange sense of emptiness. She stared at the face of each passerby, hoping to see something that would trigger the emotion she sought. Then it struck her. These people, these innocents she had protected, had no idea what she had done. To them, this moment was completely ordinary. Meaningless. Her lack of feeling mirrored theirs.

Confronting the enemy, in fact, had been far more rewarding. The enemy, after all, knew everything: they knew that she was alive, knew that she had triumphed, and knew that her victory mattered. When they looked at her, fear filling their eyes, they acknowledged her importance, appreciated her skills -- were forced to do so, even in their hatred of her. With them, she had significance. Here, however, she was nothing. No one. A shadow, lost and invisible.

As she continued to stand, motionless, the nothingness gave way to a feeling of anger: anger that at first she tried to suppress, but that proved too much for her. The people milling around her weren't evidence of accomplishment, after all; instead, their indifference, their complete ignorance, was a stinging insult. A reminder of how much they had been given, and at whose expense.

All of the risks and sacrifices were hers; all of the benefits theirs. She knew, logically, that it wasn't their fault; nevertheless, the unfairness of it began to eat at her, burning like a corrosive acid. She stared at several people passing by, a feeling of resentment tightening the muscles in her abdomen. How could she know that these 'innocents' were even truly innocent? She suffered, she imagined, so that that man could live to continue cheating on his wife, that woman continue being an alcoholic, that man continue embezzling from his employer, that woman continue beating her children. How were their lives worth more than hers?

She closed her eyes, struggling to control the surge of rage that threatened to drown her. Eventually, she found her answer. It was a mistake to weigh her life against any of theirs. No given individual was necessarily worth more than another. It was the numbers that mattered, the scorecard of lives saved versus lives lost. If she died to save ten people, that was a fair trade; if she killed ten people to save one hundred, that was a fair trade. If she saved more lives than she destroyed, that was all that mattered. Who specifically lived and died was immaterial -- deserving and innocent, or undeserving and corrupt; it was out of her control, hence irrelevant. The end result, in the abstract, was the only way to justify anything, the only way her sacrifice was even remotely bearable.

She opened her eyes again and turned to leave, but felt one last wave of nausea and dizziness. Her vision blurred and her legs weakened, forcing her to stop and close her eyes once more. With a burst of willpower, she forced the nausea down and took several slow breaths. When she opened her eyes a few moments later, she was suffused with a deadened calm, with a numbed acceptance, and she began to make her way out of the station. As she walked, the people rushing past her blended into the background, transformed into mere shapes and colors, dehumanized flashes of movement.

They had become as invisible to her as she was to them.

***

Exiting the station, Madeline walked away slowly, possessed by a strange feeling of heightened awareness: perception, mixed with detached indifference. Sounds were louder, the late afternoon light brighter -- and yet, she seemed to observe things from afar, rather than sense them directly. Around her, the wind was picking up; it blew her hair haphazardly and rolled stray pieces of litter across the sidewalk in front of her. She stepped around them and moved on, pushing her hair back behind her ears, only to feel the wind whip the strands back into her face again. Mechanically, she repeated the process, then gave up.

She was less than half a block from the station when, in the corner of her eye, she noticed a car slowing as it headed toward the curb. As she turned her head to look, a silver Mercedes pulled alongside her and stopped. So close to the station, it probably meant nothing sinister. Nevertheless, she stepped away cautiously, taking care to place other individuals between her and the car, ready to flee into a nearby shop at the first sign of danger.

Attempting to appear casual, she strolled closer to the shop's front door, watching the car intently even as she pretended not to. She tensed as the rear window rolled down, and then her eyes widened. Inside, staring at her gloomily, was George.

She approached the car. As she reached the door, he pushed it open and moved to the far end of the seat to allow her access. She climbed inside and closed the door behind her with a quiet thump, settling into the soft leather interior as the car pulled off.

They rode in complete silence for blocks. At first, to avoid George's unwavering gaze, she stared at the back of the driver's head; after a few minutes, she turned to the window and watched as they weaved smoothly in and out of traffic.

Hearing George clear his throat, she turned away from the window and looked at him warily.

"How are you settling in at One, Madeline?" He gave her a perfunctory smile, but his gravelly voice and dour expression always made him seem morose, even when he was trying to be pleasant.

"Very well," she answered politely. She matched his smile in both duration and intensity -- on guard, like a fencer taking position.

"I happen to be on my way past there. I'll drop you off nearby."

"Thank you."

As she sat, feeling him inspect her with his watery gaze, a sense of apprehension began to fill her. It started in the pit of her stomach, then seeped through her nervous system, until even her fingertips seemed to buzz with the urge to take flight.

He hadn't passed by the station -- just as she was departing -- by coincidence. That was impossible. He had had her followed. The question was why.

For several excruciating minutes, he engaged in small talk, seeming to take pleasure in drawing things out, in pretending that he had nothing more on his mind than trivialities -- that he was simply an employer kind enough to offer a ride to an employee whom he had chanced across. She forced herself to reciprocate, glancing repeatedly out the window as if she could will the traffic to move faster.

He paused, then smiled again.

"A few years ago, we had a conversation about the future of the Sections. I trust you haven't forgotten that."

His expression darkened; in response, her pulse surged.

"No, I haven't." She would never forget that conversation, even though she had tried. Every detail remained horribly vivid: the bitterness of the coffee as she pretended to enjoy it; the wooden slats of the table that she had stared at to avoid his gaze; the pained expression on his face as he confided his plan to betray Adrian; and, most of all, the fear that gripped her when she realized the danger he had put her in with his confession.

"Good," he said, continuing to stare at her attentively. "At the time, the discussion was purely hypothetical, as I'm sure you were aware."

"Of course," she answered, wondering if he were going to disavow his prior statements. The thought gave her a feeling of tremendous relief. She was prepared to go along, to pretend that she hadn't taken him seriously -- to engage in whatever face-saving game he wanted to play, if it would free her of the burden of complicity that he had placed upon her.

"Now, however, your arrival at Section One changes the situation. Things are no longer merely hypothetical."

His words hung heavily in the air; under their weight, her relief collapsed, replaced by a cold, enveloping dread.

He frowned thoughtfully and continued. "I was originally opposed to the idea of your being transferred to One. I wanted you to work with me running the other Sections, to help me establish a power base away from Adrian's scrutiny. It was Adrian's idea to have you moved."

She nodded blankly.

"But upon further reflection, I've come to realize that your being there provides us with an advantage."

Us. Not him. He was assuming that she had agreed to help him, that he had her support - even though she had never explicitly given it. That he -- obviously not one to indulge in blind trust -- had such confidence in her loyalty was unsettling.

"How so?" she asked, careful to sound interested as opposed to anxious.

"You're going to be my eyes and ears at One -- my informant, as it were."

"What information could I provide that you don't already have access to?" she asked, puzzled. "You have higher clearance than I do."

"We've opened several new Sections in the past few years -- all of them my responsibility," he explained, his voice a low drawl. "I rarely even visit One anymore. No time, frankly. Besides, I have certain reasons for wanting to distance myself from Section One as much as possible."

She shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the implications of his last statement.

"You will report to me in detail about everything that goes on," he said. "In particular, the intangibles -- those things one can't appreciate by reading personnel files and mission reports. The atmosphere, the interactions among people's personalities -- the things that make up the living, breathing Section, not the Section on paper."

She nodded. It made sense.

"You'll also need to cultivate relationships with the other operatives. Get to know them. Learn their strengths, their weaknesses, their ambitions. Identify the dissidents and troublemakers as well as the loyalists. And store that information away for future use."

"I understand." Instinctively, almost unwillingly, her mind began creating the categories of information she would collect -- sorting by type, rating by reliability and significance -- the attraction of the task gradually displacing her reluctance to cooperate.

"Of course you do." He regarded her almost warmly. "I have great faith in your powers of observation."

She smiled in return, accepting the compliment.

"For the time being, that's all I ask. I'll let you know when it comes time to do more." George slid open the glass partition to address the driver. "Drop her off here, please."

The car pulled to a halt. As Madeline reached for the door handle, George placed his hand on her arm.

"You'll be richly rewarded for your assistance, Madeline. Have no doubts on that score."

"I don't."

"Good." He paused, his grip on her arm tightening. "But just in case the thought of going to Adrian with this ever crosses your mind, you should know that there would be consequences."

They stared at each other, then he smiled.

"You were estranged from your parents before we recruited you, I know. But I think I know you well enough to guess that you wouldn't want to be responsible for anything unfortunate happening to them. It would be a bit much, wouldn't it, after the havoc you already wreaked in their lives."

She blinked in shock, as dizzy as if he had struck her in the face.

"I'll be in touch with you again shortly," he said, releasing her arm and nodding his dismissal.

She opened the door and exited, resisting the urge to run, not wanting him to see the extent to which he had unnerved her. She waited until she heard the door close behind her and the car drive off before she began to walk, unsteadily, heading toward the Section.

His threat hung over her darkly for several blocks. But as she walked along, the wind again blowing her hair into her face, that fear slowly faded. There was no real danger, she realized, because he would never have to make good on that threat. She knew, even if he didn't, that she would never go to Adrian with anything; that, as much as she distrusted George, she hated Adrian more.

Years before, after all, she had vowed to take vengeance on Section's leader, to dispense justice to the woman who had ruined Paul's life. While she would have preferred that vengeance to take a form of her own choosing, what George offered was an acceptable substitute. In some ways, it was even better, because -- with his backing -- it was more likely to succeed.

Her mind cleared in a way she hadn't experienced since her transfer; with each block that passed, she became more focused, confident, determined -- and somehow strangely grateful to George. He had given her a gift -- unintentionally, of course -- but no less priceless. Until now, each day at Section One had been torment: she had been confused and disoriented, unsure how she fit in, searching for some purpose, some motivation, some goal beyond mere survival. She had tasted it on the mission, sensed it in the interrogation room, but had been unable to identify it. Her misguided attempt to find it among the people at the train station had failed completely, leaving her more lost than ever.

But George gave her back her bearings. He had pointed out to her what she did best, reminded her who she really was. She wasn't a heroine or a martyr; her purpose wasn't to save or protect. Rather, she was an agent of destruction: a curse, a scourge, a dispenser of punishment -- lacking mercy, compassion, or pity. Her function was to serve as a relentless destroyer of sinners and criminals: the living nightmare of Section's enemies, of Adrian -- and of anyone else who deserved retribution. Maybe, in a sense, even of herself.

She squared her shoulders, ready to enter Section. She had a place there, after all. Maybe even a destiny. Now, it was time to fulfill it.

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