The warehouse echoed with fragmented sound: shattering glass, gunbursts, shouts. As if conjured by the noise, black-clad operatives poured inside through doors, windows, and even the skylight. They appeared everywhere, a swarm of invaders in bulletproof vests.

Automatic weapon in hand, Paul led the assault. He traveled with quick, evasive movements, assessing his surroundings and signaling his team. All clear, so far. Surprisingly so. The exterior of the building had been completely unguarded; the interior, too, seemed undefended. No cameras, no alarm, no guard.

Amateurs, he thought scornfully. Bringing so many operatives had been overkill. How could so-called revolutionaries -- holding a hostage, no less -- be so careless?

He rounded a corner, tightening the grip on his gun in anticipation, and stepped into the main room of the warehouse. Lisa and Sergio followed immediately behind, all of them ready for a firefight -- which didn't come. Paul scanned the room: enclosed by rusted metal walls, it was almost empty, with a long expanse of concrete floor, dusty and colored with the marks of prior use. Only the far end showed any signs of occupation. There, under a harsh fluorescent light, was a long table with benches, a collection of battered filing cabinets, a small refrigerator -- and a haphazard pile of weapons on the floor.

At the table sat a group of eight; lunch was set out before them. They gaped at the invasion taking place, until one man finally shook himself out of his stupor, rose, and snatched up a gun. In an instant, the sound of firing rang out in the emptiness. He spun around and fell backwards, pierced by Lisa's bullets. The others froze and stared at their colleague -- he was sprawled on the floor, eyes vacant, a dark stain spreading across the front of his shirt. The group looked up at the row of guns aimed their way, exchanged nervous glances, and raised their hands in surrender.

As Paul stood watch, Lisa gathered the weapons from the floor. Sergio strode to the table and pulled the captives away from their seats; he shoved them to their knees in the center of the room and forced their hands to their heads. Patrick joined Sergio, while the remaining operatives opened doors and rapped on the walls, searching for hidden rooms and exits.

"Fuck you, Dylan, I told you not to use the phone," hissed a thin, bearded man in wire-rimmed glasses to the youth kneeling next to him. "You brought the fucking Feds."

"I didn't use the fucking phone," Dylan retorted. "They followed Cynthia back from the store and you know it."

The bearded man scowled. "Oh, you always try to blame someone else! Nothing's ever your fault! You--"

Patrick stepped toward the first man and struck him in the head with the butt of his gun. "Shut up," he commanded, then glowered at them.

Paul smiled. If Patrick hadn't done that, he was about to. These terrorists, if one could even call them that, seemed sadly lacking in revolutionary fervor; they sounded more like bickering children. Well, bickering children with heavy weaponry, to be more accurate -- and a hostage who didn't seem to be anywhere in sight.

Paul approached Dylan, reasoning that as the youngest-looking one he might be the most likely to talk. He couldn't be any older than eighteen or nineteen -- so young to have ruined his life already. Young, but no doubt stupid, if he believed those nutty slogans gracing the posters taped to the warehouse walls. Humanity is a disease: Mother Earth needs a vaccination, read one, with a cartoon globe attached to a life support machine. No mercy! said another, emblazoned across an illustration of Uncle Sam swinging from the gallows.

Paul gave Dylan his most venomous glare. The boy gulped, his Adam's-apple bobbing.

"Where is he?" Paul demanded.

"I want a lawyer." Dylan stared up defiantly, even though he was trembling.

Paul backhanded him. "Where is he?"

Dylan glanced at his comrades, as if to seek reassurance. "Police brutality!" he cried. "Just wait 'til this hits the press. They're gonna take your badge and your pension, you stupid pig." With that, he started making oinking noises, which several of the other captives started imitating.

Paul looked around the room in exasperated bewilderment. The other team members stood watching the display, their faces exhibiting a range of reactions from surprise to irritation: Patrick tensed, as if he were poised to strike someone again but couldn't figure out who; Lisa, next to Patrick, tightened her lips, as if barely able to suppress her laughter.

For God's sake, how did these idiots manage to kidnap anyone? Especially someone with security like Ted Pierce? It must have been blind luck.

Paul turned back to Dylan. Without warning, he kicked the young man in the face. Dylan cried out and thrashed in pain on the floor; he spat out several teeth into a pool of blood and drool. His comrades' oinking stopped abruptly.

With a deliberately slow pace, Paul moved to the next person. He bent over, hands on his knees, to stare her in the face. She blinked rapidly.

"Where is he?"

The woman gestured toward the filing cabinets lining the back wall. Sergio and another operative pulled them aside, revealing a door set into the wall. They opened the door. Inside was a storage closet, where a middle-aged man in a rumpled business suit crouched -- blindfolded, gagged, and bound.

Sergio untied the man and helped him out of the closet. He staggered briefly, legs buckling, until Patrick stepped forward to catch him.

"Oh, thank God!" the man gasped, squinting at the light. "I was about to lose hope!"

As Patrick inspected his cuts and bruises, the man looked around at the gathered operatives. His eyes moistened in apparent gratitude.

"I'm going to reward you officers for this -- each and every one of you!"

"Yeah, with the money you get selling plutonium on the black market," one of the female captives muttered.

The man turned and gave her a withering stare.

"He's the one you ought to be arresting!" the woman ranted. "Champion Power Company's selling their spent fuel rods to arms dealers -- and we've got Mr. Bigwig CEO there admitting it on tape. But no, we're the criminals, just because we kidnapped the son-of-a-bitch to expose the truth! You cops make me sick."

The man shook his head. "They're insane. They forced me to say those things at gunpoint. They had a whole list of 'crimes' I was supposed to admit to."

"Of course, Mr. Pierce." Paul surveyed the row of captives with disdain. "They're just a bunch of crazy radicals. You won't have to worry about them anymore."

The two men laughed, and their eyes met. For a moment, Paul felt a strange sense of recognition -- a feeling that made him uneasy, like looking into a funhouse mirror, where the images were both familiar and distorted.

Shaking that feeling away, Paul gestured toward Sergio. "Now, Mr. Pierce, please follow Special Agent Morelli outside. He'll escort you to the hospital for treatment."

Pierce nodded and, helped by Sergio, exited the warehouse.

Paul turned back to the captives.

"Get up. Slowly."

They stumbled to their feet, except Dylan, who remained curled up on the floor. A burly operative lifted him up bodily and swung the young man over his shoulder.

"March, single file, hands on your heads, out the door, and get in the back of the van outside. And don't try anything stupid."

"Aren't you going to read us our rights first?" asked the bearded man with the glasses.

Paul sighed. These people were trying his patience. If only Adrian hadn't insisted on bringing them in.

"You don't have any rights."

"Look, I know how it works," the man insisted, growing bolder. "If you don't read us our rights and let us talk to a lawyer, you aren't going to be able to use anything we say as evidence."

"You aren't under arrest, and we don't want evidence."

The group exchanged looks of confusion.

"Then what is happening to us?" one of the women asked.

"Let's just say you've got a new employer." Paul smirked. "Call it a hostile takeover."

***

Madeline entered the room and breathed in the faint odor of disinfectant that was a permanent presence inside. Behind her, the door squealed and slammed shut with a metallic clang.

As always, the atmosphere of the room awakened her senses. The lights too bright; the temperature chilly; the surfaces hard so as to amplify sound: the interrogation chamber was designed to create discomfort, to subject Section's captives to a subtle but constant physical assault. But what was disorienting to the prisoner, Madeline found stimulating. The stark aggression of the environment heightened her perception, increased her awareness, and sharpened her focus. Its concentrated brutality allowed her to step outside herself, to shift into another plane of being while she performed her duties there, just as its contained sterility allowed her to leave that alternate existence behind when she walked out.

Wiping all traces of expression from her face, she directed her attention toward the center of the room. Restrained in a steel chair, Ted Pierce was the sole splash of color, encircled by curving white walls. His face was purple with contusions and red with gashes, courtesy of his kidnappers. Yet somehow, even in a business suit torn and stained with blood, he had a distinguished air about him. With his silver hair and broad shoulders, he looked like a captain of industry: the sort of man who was used to giving orders, not answering questions.

He sat up straight, his blue eyes flashing with defiance. Thanks to the swelling, it was hard to distinguish his features; even so, the resemblance was there. It disconcerted her momentarily, but she recovered and set it aside.

"Good morning, Mr. Pierce." She walked toward him, her movement leisurely, her tone gracious. "I've been looking forward to speaking with you for quite some time."

The defiance in his expression slowly turned to confusion. She smiled, recognizing the familiar reaction. The prisoners always expected to meet a stereotypical inquisitor hurling threats and abuse. In contrast, she was warm, even solicitous. Taunting and screaming, she had learned, undermined her objective. Such behavior only strengthened the subjects' resistance, provoking feelings of anger and hatred, giving them a burst of adrenaline that helped them endure pain longer. It was almost impossible, however, to remain angry at someone who was scrupulously polite -- the mental dissonance was simply too difficult to maintain.

"We've been observing your activities for the past several years," she announced. "But the time was never quite right for us to meet."

She continued her slow approach, step by deliberate step. His chest began to rise and fall more heavily; although there were no other surface signs, she could feel his heart rate surge, taste the fear in the back of his throat. The air between them was almost electric -- it set her nerves buzzing in readiness, hypersensitive to any sign of weakness, poised to strike the instant it appeared.

"But then Gaia's Army took you hostage," she continued. "That provided an opportunity too good to pass up." She gave him a coy smile, as if they were enjoying a mutual joke.

She stopped several feet in front of him and clasped her hands together. She stood there for several moments without speaking, waiting while his anxiety rose to an excruciating peak. Then she dropped her bombshell.

"Your company hasn't reported your kidnapping to anyone yet, you know. They're afraid that the public attention might lead to, well, all sorts of things coming to light. So I'm afraid no one's looking for you."

He blinked immediately after her last sentence, and she knew she had rattled him. She had just confirmed what he must have already feared -- that he hadn't been rescued by the authorities at all, and that the people holding him had something far more sinister in mind than prosecution.

He stared at her in shock, but then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"You want to purchase some plutonium," he said slowly, as if thinking aloud. "But you don't like our prices. So you've brought me here to try to force me to give you a better deal." He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "Forget it."

She raised her eyebrows, stifling a laugh. She had never been mistaken for a terrorist before, although, in truth, his assumption wasn't entirely unreasonable. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of allowing him to continue believing that, to see if he would speak more freely. But no, she decided, such a game would merely slow the process down. In this case, it was better to be direct. First, however, his sudden show of courage needed to be dealt with. She would thus remind him of his vulnerability. Nothing blatant was necessary -- a subtle show of power would do.

She circled the chair, stopped behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was light, gentle, almost a caress. Then she leaned in to speak to him, her lips only inches away from his ear. She felt his body tense.

"Actually, I have a deal to offer you, Mr. Pierce."

She stepped back, taking care to remain out of sight behind him.

"What?" he asked, squirming in his seat to try to look at her.

Satisfied with his level of discomfort, she walked back into view.

"I want information. About you, your company, your contacts, and your buyers."

"Oh yeah?" he said, frowning. "And what's the deal?"

"That you won't suffer too much."

She smiled. He blanched.

Abruptly, she returned to the door. She opened it and allowed a white-coated lab technician to enter; he rolled in a gleaming silver surgical cart bearing several instruments, syringes and vials. He wheeled the cart next to Pierce, then stood by, waiting attentively.

"What the hell?" Pierce gasped.

Madeline allowed her face to harden and her voice to chill. "Let's start with your wife. Annette."

"What do you want with her? She doesn't have anything to do with my business."

She didn't answer or even change expression. "Where did you meet?"

"Why do you want to know that?" A touch of fear glazed his eyes. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

"I don't like repeating myself, Mr. Pierce. Where did you and your wife meet?"

"On a ski trip in Vail," he answered breathlessly. The fear ballooned into panic. "For God's sake, you're not going to hurt her, are you? She hasn't done anything -- she doesn't know anything!"

"Tell me about the ski trip. When was it?"

He shook his head as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "I'm not answering any more questions unless you tell me what this is about." He gripped the arms of the chair and wheezed, hyperventilating.

She glanced at the technician. "He seems to be getting a bit distressed. A half dose, please."

The technician picked up one of the vials, inserted a syringe and drew up the liquid, then leaned over to inject Pierce in the neck. Pierce flinched and kicked his legs helplessly.

"That's a mild sedative," she said. "It should help you feel a little less anxious. We have quite a few questions to go through, and it doesn't help your memory if you're upset."

She waited until his breathing began to slow.

"Now," she said, softening her voice, "when was the ski trip?"

He shook his head again, and the tears continued to well up. "No. I'm not telling you anything. You're going to do something to her."

She sighed. Such marital devotion was admirable, but it wouldn't last long.

"The deal was that if you gave me information, you wouldn't suffer too much," she reminded him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to withdraw that offer."

She turned toward the technician. "Wait until the sedative clears his system."

"Where should I begin?"

"The soles of his feet, then the toes."

"Should I remove them?"

"One or two. Just to give him a taste of what we can do."

The technician nodded.

As the whimpering began, Madeline left the room.

***

Lisa hated mornings. Especially after staying up all night. The chit-chat of operatives arriving for the day, the clomp-clomp of their feet, the annoying I've-had-eight-full-hours-of-sleep freshness in everyone's faces -- it all made her head throb until she wanted to throttle the next person to walk by.

She needed sugar. In large quantities.

She rose from her chair, her joints stiff from lack of movement, and half-sleepwalked in the direction of the cafeteria. She was contemplating French toast floating in a golden ocean of melted butter and maple syrup when someone barreling down the hallway body-slammed into her shoulder. She bounced against the wall and swore.

"Watch where you're going, dickhead," she snarled. Then she looked up and saw that she'd collided with Walter. "Oh, God, Walter, I'm sorry!"

"No problemo, sweetheart." He winked. "You can talk dirty to me anytime you want."

"You just never quit, do you?" She shook her head in mock exasperation. "So what's the big hurry, anyway? You hit me like a football tackle."

"Oh, man, sorry about that. Three missions on standby today and I'm late getting in. If I don't have everything ready pronto, I'm going to have a little visit from the Queen Bee, and I do not want her buzzing around my stuff, you know?"

"No," agreed Lisa. "Definitely not." Walter had turned Munitions into a cozy little realm, stocked with a number of unauthorized luxuries -- luxuries that he shared with selected friends when he was in a generous mood.

"Say, Lisa," he said, the twinkle in his eyes giving way to a frown, "weren't you wearing that outfit yesterday?"

She laughed loudly in surprise. "Walter! You're a guy! You're not supposed to notice that kind of thing."

"I always notice what you're wearing." He grinned. "But seriously, you weren't here all night, were you?"

"Yeah, I was," she admitted. "I had a few things to do."

"Like what?" He gave her a stern look.

She glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one was approaching, then stepped closer and took hold of his arm.

"You remember a couple of years ago, I was teaching myself computer programming?"

"Sure. And it didn't get you anywhere, thanks to our 'friend' in Comm."

"Well, since then I've been learning our systems." She lowered her voice. "I hacked someone's password so Jules won't know I'm on, and I play around on the network every night."

He looked perplexed. "Okay, so you know the systems. Now what?"

"Now I can screw something up. I'll create a glitch Jules can't solve, and then go to Adrian and offer to fix it myself. I'll look like a miracle worker, and he won't be able to do anything about it."

"Why, you sneaky thing!" He beamed. "That's the way to fight dirty. It's about time one of the good guys struck back."

"You got it." She nodded enthusiastically. Then she leaned in even closer. "But you wouldn't believe what I found last night," she whispered.

"Well," he said, "I guess I won't know 'til you tell me."

She swallowed back a twinge of nervousness. "I was looking around, just seeing what was there, and I stumbled across some really strange directories."

"Huh," he said. "What are they?"

"I couldn't get into them to find out. The password I used doesn't have the right clearance. But they looked like personnel records for everyone in Section." She gave him a teasing poke. "I could find out everyone's deep, dark secrets."

"Shit." His face paled.

"Don't worry, Walter. I'd never blackmail you. Not for too much money, anyway."

He shook his head. "Don't even joke about that, Lisa. And don't go look. There's gonna be stuff in there you're better off not knowing. Stuff you don't even want to know."

"Yeah, I know." At his skeptically raised eyebrow, she insisted, "Really, I know."

He was right. But not looking would like opening a cookie jar and not taking a bite -- too much temptation for any mortal to take. Fortunately for her, she didn't have the right kind of password, so that jar would stay shut.

"Look," she said, "I'd better let you go before Adrian comes calling. I'll catch you later, Walter."

She gave him a friendly punch on the arm and began to walk off.

"Hey, Lisa."

She stopped.

"Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That you'll be extra, extra careful. If they catch you mucking around in the network with someone else's password, well…."

Cheerily, she waved the warning aside. "Don't worry. Careful is my middle name."

***

Adrian took a seat at the head of the table, nodding at the three operatives who awaited her briefing. Three pairs of eyes gazed back at her, each watching patiently, attentively. She studied them in turn, taking her time, struck by what she saw.

All three individuals sat quietly, with equally neutral expressions. On the surface, their temperaments seemed identical. Within their eyes, the distinct elements of their personalities came to light. Facial expression, posture, tone of voice -- all of those things could be controlled, to some degree. But the eyes were the one place where one's true thoughts and emotions almost always revealed themselves -- and thus the one place she always made certain to look.

To her left sat Paul; to the right, Charles, then Madeline. Adrian examined the two men first. Superficially, they mirrored each other: both team leaders and senior-level operatives, they sat with a relaxed air that exuded confidence, competence, and professionalism. Both of them came from military backgrounds; both, because of that, shared a strong sense of duty and honor. Interestingly, the two men even had the same color eyes -- a similarity that Adrian had never consciously noticed before. And yet the expressions contained in those eyes couldn't have been more dissimilar.

Paul's gaze always held a kind of electricity, a crackling current of light blue energy. The moods varied widely -- proud, humorous, cunning, or angry -- but the spark never wavered. Now, as he waited for the briefing, it flashed in curiosity and anticipation. Charles, in contrast, sat patiently, his manner reflective, reserved and thoughtful. Slow to anger, but also slow to make decisions, Charles was the cautious diplomat to Paul's rash warrior -- a philosopher, not a man of action.

They balanced each other well, Adrian thought. She had hoped that they would see this, too -- that someday Charles would serve as Paul's right hand as Paul took over leadership of the Sections. Together, they had just the right balance of qualities to do the extraordinary. Unfortunately, however, the two men seemed to have developed an implacable -- and irrational -- animosity.

Perhaps it had been inevitable. Rivalry between team leaders could so easily develop into personal dislike, especially for men who both, in their own ways, possessed stubborn reserves of pride. Indeed, upon several occasions, Adrian had played upon that natural sense of competitiveness, comparing them to each other unfavorably in an effort to spur greater efforts. In retrospect, that might have been unwise.

But then again, perhaps it was not inevitable at all. There might, in fact, be a more direct catalyst for their enmity: a catalyst sitting at the table now. Adrian looked into that third set of eyes with curiosity -- and even a touch of apprehension -- wondering what they would reveal this time.

Madeline, paradoxically, was both the easiest and the hardest of the three to read. She tried, Adrian knew, to hide her emotions so thoroughly -- but those eyes, those deep pools of darkness, revealed everything to one who knew what to look for. The real problem was that they revealed too much. Where Paul and Charles were essentially consistent and predictable, Madeline was unstable, her expressions veering from deeply felt emotion to detached nothingness -- sometimes in a single instant. It was exhausting keeping up with the myriad changes, taking in the contradictory impulses and multiple levels of thoughts.

The only thing that was consistent -- that lingered no matter what else was showing -- was her hatred and fear of Section's leader. It revealed itself in every look she gave Adrian; deep, intense, and violent, it couldn't be hidden, not even behind the most emotionless of expressions. The hatred was unfortunate, something Adrian wished she could have avoided, but it was an unavoidable byproduct of the fear. As for the fear, Adrian had cultivated that quite deliberately. It was the fear that kept Madeline under control, that had molded her into the invaluable resource she had become. It was the only way, Adrian was convinced, to handle her.

Thanks to that fear, fed by relentless conditioning, by a calculated mixture of rewards and punishments, Madeline had matured considerably over the past two years. She was no less emotionally disturbed than before -- that, alas, was most likely a permanent affliction -- but she had become disciplined, obedient, and loyal to the Section almost to the point of zealotry. She was devoted to her work, throwing herself at it with a focused brilliance that at times amazed Adrian. Led by a strong hand, she could continue to be that way.

Unfortunately, however, the man Adrian envisioned running Section didn't show any signs of being able to impose the kind of discipline that Madeline needed. Two years after Madeline's transfer, Paul continued his affair with her, despite Adrian's expectation that he would have tired of her, the way he had every other woman with whom he'd been involved. It was time, then, to bring things to a head -- to cure him of this unhealthy attachment to a woman who could never be anything but a bad influence. Fortunately, the perfect course of action had now opened up. It was the choicest of ironies that it arose out of a profile written by Madeline herself.

Clearing her throat to command their attention, Adrian turned to Paul and Charles. "Have you both read the transcript of Pierce's interrogation?"

They nodded, neither changing expression.

"Thanks to Mr. Pierce's cooperation," she said, smiling at Madeline as she pronounced the last word, "we now know the full details of Champion Power Company's dealings in the black market for fissile material. We have bank account numbers, contact information for the buyers -- everything we need to target and eliminate the network of arms merchants that Pierce dealt with."

She watched both men, gauging their reactions. Charles looked distant, as if he were already calculating seized monies and inventorying assets. Paul, on the other hand, had grown more attentive -- anticipating, correctly, that there was more to come.

"We could, of course, leave it at that. What we've achieved is a major accomplishment. But, as I'm sure you know, I always believe we should strive for more. Our refusal to rest on our laurels is what makes the Section the best of the best, after all."

Paul cracked a smile, and Charles recovered his focus. Madeline remained impassive -- the author of the profile Adrian was about to distribute, she alone knew what was coming. Or so she thought, Adrian reflected with amusement. She, too, would soon be in for a surprise.

Adrian handed each of them a folder.

"Tassos Demetrios," she said, watching them as they opened the folders to flip through the papers and photographs inside. "The most notorious trafficker in contraband weapons in business today, although I hardly need to tell you that. If it exists, he sells it: germ cultures, toxins, the raw materials for chemical weapons -- and, needless to say, radioactive material."

"We've been after Demetrios for years," Charles remarked. "No one's been able to get near him."

"Precisely," Adrian said, nodding. "We've never managed to get entry into his network. He's suspicious of newcomers. He prefers to do business with well-established -- and well-connected -- players."

"Which is exactly what Pierce is," said Paul, a look of understanding filling his face. "He's been selling plutonium for several years now, and with his connections in Washington he's untouchable."

"Very good." Adrian beamed. "To date, Champion Power and Demetrios haven't done business together. However, that's about to change."

Paul and Charles sat up attentively.

"We recently contacted associates of Demetrios, purportedly on behalf of Pierce, and suggested that Pierce might be interested in initiating a business relationship," Adrian said. "Demetrios took the bait and has invited Pierce to meet with him. We're going to oblige him." She turned to Paul. "Of course, instead of Pierce, he's going to be meeting with you."

Paul's face lit up. He always enjoyed missions where he had the opportunity to play cat-and-mouse with their opponents. It was one of the qualities Adrian appreciated the most in him -- that savoring of impending victory, that enjoyment of the chase.

"With some hair coloring to age you a bit, your resemblance to Pierce will be quite remarkable," she mused. "Uncanny, almost. Once you memorize the details of Pierce's background, you should be able to fool Demetrios thoroughly."

He nodded. "So the plan is for me to infiltrate his organization and take it down."

Adrian smiled indulgently. Another one of Paul's qualities -- an endearing one, albeit sometimes problematic -- was his tendency to jump to conclusions. "Not quite. But I'll let you read the profile Madeline put together. That should explain everything."

She glanced at Madeline before continuing. The other woman continued to sit, hands folded on the table, the model of discipline.

Adrian turned back to Paul. "Demetrios has proposed that Pierce take a holiday in the Greek Islands. That will allow them to meet discreetly without appearing out of the ordinary. To maintain the cover, he has asked that Pierce bring along his wife." She gave Madeline a casual nod. "That's where Madeline comes in."

A sudden look of shock washed over Madeline. She frowned, but said nothing.

Adrian noted Madeline's reaction and pointedly ignored it. "As for you, Charles," she continued, "you'll be traveling along with them. You'll pose as Pierce's financial advisor -- the one who handles all the details of the transactions. We've created a plausible back story for you should Demetrios feel the need to investigate. The details are in the profile -- please familiarize yourself with it as quickly as possible."

Charles nodded, flipping through the file. So dutiful, Charles. Adrian had no doubt he would have his cover story memorized within the hour.

Madeline cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she started. "It seems likely that Demetrios might do some checking up on Annette Pierce as well. Even a cursory investigation will show that I look nothing like her."

Adrian waved her hand dismissively. "That's been taken care of. Annette hasn't been in the public eye as much as her husband. We've already planted false records wherever Demetrios is likely to look."

Despite Adrian's reassurances, skepticism and disquiet still filled Madeline's face. Most interesting. Adrian knew that Madeline wasn't really worried about being exposed; there was no real danger of that, given Section's ability to plant information. No, what must be making her uncomfortable was the prospect of being required to carry out this particular mission personally. Good. It would serve as a lesson for her as well as for Paul.

"My dear," said Adrian in her most gracious manner, "your choice of Connie to impersonate Annette would have made sense if this were an ordinary mission. However, given the rather complex nature of this matter, I thought it best that only our most senior-level operatives be involved. We need someone of your experience and talents to make this a success."

They held a look for several moments. Adrian watched with interest, noting the subtle progression of emotions in Madeline's expression -- first anger, then apprehension, and then, finally, surrender. When she recognized the latter, Adrian leaned back in her chair and smiled.

"I think all of you will find this to be a most interesting assignment. Good luck."

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

The sky was a rich twilight blue, streaked with pink tinged clouds. Standing on the stonework of the villa's patio, Charles watched the distant colors deepen. A red glow traversed along the horizon and spread across the ocean, as a breeze floated up the hill slope through the olive trees. He sipped his drink, the ice rattling in his glass, and allowed the cool evening air to caress his face.

As the sky darkened further, lights began to shine in the village houses down the hillside. They looked cheerful, welcoming, cozy -- but completely out of reach, their occupants oblivious to his watchful presence above. With a sudden touch of melancholy, he began to wonder who lived inside. Their lives, he imagined, were slower, simpler, more complete than his -- attuned to the rhythms of the sea and family life, to traditions older than written history. Or were they restless, dissatisfied, wanting what they didn't have? Excitement, urbanity, material wealth: perhaps they longed for those things the same way he yearned for something permanent, something solid beneath the haze of illusions that surrounded him.

There was no answer to his question. There never would be.

He turned back toward the villa, pretending to listen to the conversation taking place around him. Instead, however, he watched the faces of his companions -- each one wearing a mask, as did he. Each one playing a role, assuming a character -- and yet, despite this, unable to hide themselves completely.

Demetrios, their target, played the jovial playboy -- a carefree man of the world who 'just happened' to be renting the villa next to theirs. In his Italian designer clothing, its spotless white fabric a stark contrast to the darkness of his curling hair, he laughed and joked about trivialities, as if his universe revolved around yachts and gambling excursions. But there were faint lines around his mouth: traces of harshness, of a hidden cruelty that underlay his surface smoothness.

Paul, standing several feet away from the rest of them, leaned absentmindedly against the patio balcony, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a frown creasing his forehead. With his hair streaked silver to simulate middle age, his role was the harried executive, unable to set aside workplace concerns even in such a beautiful setting, reduced to seeking respite in alcoholic oblivion. Charles, however, knew better -- could see the poised alertness even in his slumped posture, a native self-confidence and sense of purpose that no amount of acting could truly hide.

As for Madeline, she stood provocatively close to Demetrios, laughing when he laughed, smiling when he smiled, touching his arm, his shoulder, his hand. Her hair was overstyled, her face overmade, her outfit overpriced -- the uniform of a woman who believed that happiness could be found in the gleam of a credit card. But through the studied superficiality and aggressive flirtatiousness of her adopted persona, something else shone through. Intelligence. Independence. Fearlessness.

No, no one's mask was ever truly complete. No one could hide who he or she was, no matter how great the effort. What, Charles wondered, could they see in him?

Another question with no answer. He was asking himself entirely too many of those. He took another swallow of his drink and tried to banish such thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to focus on the conversation, on setting the bait for their target. That, after all, was why he was there.

Madeline laughed, tossing her head back, and placed her hand on Demetrios's arm. "We're so lucky to have someone so charming staying in the villa next door," she cooed, her voice silken and beguiling. "And someone who knows the island so well! Promise me you'll show us all the secret hideaways that only the locals know about."

Demetrios swirled his drink in his glass and smiled, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. "Consider me at your service. I'd be delighted to show such a beautiful lady the sights." He then looked over at Paul, who seemed only to be half listening. "And her husband, too, of course."

Paul took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled, and stared moodily at the trail of smoke.

Looking uncomfortable, Demetrios turned to Charles. "And you, uh," he faltered, then smiled politely. "What was the name again?"

"Geoffrey."

"Geoffrey. Have you been to Greece before?"

"Several times. I travel a great deal." He paused. "On business."

"I see."

He felt Demetrios examining him. In response, he tensed involuntarily, straightening his shoulders.

"How long have you known the Pierces?" Demetrios's voice was casual, but there was a focused gleam in his eyes.

"Geoffrey's my financial advisor," interjected Paul, slurring his speech a little. "And my attorney. He's completely indispensable."

"Your financial advisor and attorney?" Demetrios laughed. "That's a dangerous combination. I hope you trust him. He could be robbing you blind."

Charles stiffened, this time deliberately, giving Demetrios a hard look. He felt Madeline move closer to him; she wrapped her arm around his waist and hugged him before turning to Demetrios with a broad smile.

"Geoffrey's so clever, you never know!" She looked back at Charles and arched an eyebrow, lowering her voice teasingly. "He could be stealing all sorts of things."

They all laughed; Charles made sure his sounded forced.

Madeline's expression grew more serious. "But Ted and I have both known him for years. In fact, he introduced the two of us. Didn't you, Geoffrey?"

Charles nodded. "Right. That ski trip in Vail." He smiled wanly. "Who would have thought I'd be such a good matchmaker?"

Madeline smiled again and patted his arm, her hand lingering. "You're good at so many things." She chuckled. "Multitalented, in fact."

They shared a long look. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed Demetrios's expression grow intrigued.

Hearing a noise at the doorway to the patio, Charles turned to see that the cook had appeared.

"Dinner is ready."

"Oh, lovely," said Madeline, moving to head inside. "I'm starved."

Charles allowed the corner of his mouth to twist up. "Annette, you always have an appetite."

***

A warm rectangle of light shone through the open door onto the patio; outside it, in the darkness, Madeline had been sitting for a half hour. She could hear the voices of the three men inside -- while the words were inaudible, the tone was steady, almost soothing. She had disappeared after their meal, ostensibly for fresh air, but in reality to allow the business discussions to begin. The fresh air, however, had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant; she breathed in slowly, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

"The view might be better if you had your eyes open."

The deep bass of Demetrios's voice startled her awake. She opened her eyes to see him standing in the doorway, holding two glasses. He strolled toward her as she rose hastily to her feet.

"There was no need to get up. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"No, you didn't," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. She hadn't expected to have time alone with him so soon: the after-dinner conversation was intended as time for the men to cement their new relationship. Her time was later -- or it was supposed to have been.

But then profiles could always be accelerated.

She walked away from the chair and accepted the glass he offered. She took a sip, allowing the liqueur's cloying sweetness to fill her mouth. A fitting drink for the occasion, she thought.

"Aren't you supposed to be inside with the other men, talking about important things?" She lifted an eyebrow in sarcastic emphasis.

He scowled. In the dim light, his thin features appeared sharp and severe. "They started smoking cigars. I hate cigars. So I excused myself." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Besides, it's completely rude to leave you alone like this. I don't want you to think that the men of my country are boors."

"Oh, quite the contrary. Why, if you're any indication, I'm beginning to think quite highly of them."

They stood in silence for a few moments, tasting their drinks in unison. Then he looked her up and down with what seemed to be amused interest.

"He's a bit old for you."

She smiled in mock innocence. "Ted, you mean?"

A wicked expression filled his face. "Either one of them."

She laughed, but said nothing in response.

He shrugged. "You like mature men. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Let me put it this way. There's nothing more attractive than a mature portfolio." Her smile widened.

"How delightfully mercenary." He lifted his drink in a toast. "A woman after my own heart."

She raised her own drink, and they clinked their glasses together.

He took a step closer, brushing his arm against hers. The scent of his aftershave washed over her -- masculine, but soft and exotic.

He leaned in toward her, his mouth near her ear. His breath was warm. "It's a wonderful coincidence that we happened to be renting villas next to each other."

She rolled her eyes. "The pretense isn't necessary, you know."

He stepped back again, making a valiant effort to appear surprised. "Pretense?"

"This isn't a coincidence at all. I know that."

He frowned.

"I know all about my husband's business. And I know why we're really here."

"Do you?" This time, it was genuine surprise that filled his face. "He tells you that?"

"No. Geoffrey does." She smirked. "Geoffrey tells me everything."

"He didn't strike me as the talkative sort."

"Oh, but I can be so very persuasive," she said, reaching over to run a finger lightly along his chest.

She laughed softly, in the back of her throat. He laughed in return, but without any confidence, clearly affected.

"Actually," she continued, "Geoffrey knows more about the business -- or at least the part of the business that concerns you -- than Ted does. Geoffrey takes care of everything -- procurement, payment, delivery. Ted's much too busy playing golf with 'important people', if you know what I mean."

They shared a long look. Demetrios took a quick swallow of his drink.

"It sounds like you appreciate Geoffrey a great deal."

She smiled slyly. "As Ted said, he's completely indispensable."

"And is he really -- how did you phrase it -- multitalented?"

"About many things, yes." She reached for his chest again; she placed her palm against it and felt the warmth through his shirt. "But not everything."

A slow smile lit his face. "Oh, that's too bad."

She withdrew her hand and took another drink, savoring it as she looked into his eyes.

"Do you know anything about my husband's company?" she asked, steering the conversation toward the final setup.

"Some." He frowned, seemingly puzzled by the shift in topic.

"Did you know it's privately held?"

He shrugged. "So?"

"It's a bit old-fashioned. Maybe even foolish financially. But there's a lot less scrutiny that way. It makes it easier to do business with people like you."

"Mm hmm." He nodded, but looked slightly bored.

"But there's another advantage, too."

"Yes?"

"Ted owns a majority of the shares. It really is his company. Which means that if, God forbid, anything ever happened to him, it would be mine."

For a moment, he said nothing, his ability to speak lost in apparent shock. Then, slowly, a look of admiration filled his face, and he began to chuckle softly. "And are you expecting something to happen to him?"

"Oh, goodness, no." Her voice was rich with unspoken meaning. "But you never know, do you?"

He smiled. "No, you don't."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card.

"Here's my private number in Athens," he said, handing her the card. "If anything ever happens to Ted, you give me a call."

***

Paul leaned against the pillows, hands folded under his head, as he waited alone in the bedroom. He shifted positions, rustling his legs against the starched sheets, and then settled back again. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light across the room; he let his gaze roam idly, taking in the stylish furniture, the harmonious colors, the tasteful artwork -- and then abruptly rolled over. None of it could hold his attention. He was never good at waiting -- his mind, restless, always wandered elsewhere.

Madeline had been outside with Demetrios far longer than Paul had expected. This was, he reminded himself, an excellent sign. However, not knowing what was going on was a form of agony. It had taken all of his self-control to refrain from eavesdropping. At first, he had tried to distract himself by conversing with Charles -- until he realized that, unable under the circumstances to discuss their work, he had nothing to say to the man. So he pleaded fatigue and wandered off to bed, where he tossed, and turned, and tossed again.

He would have given anything to have been able to watch Madeline toy with Demetrios. She raised manipulation to the level of art, rendered deceit into something refined. Observing her in action was like witnessing a leopard stalking an unwary gazelle -- she moved with a concentrated energy, poised for just the right moment to spring and tear the throat out of her prey. It was an elegant deadliness, graceful in its single-minded ruthlessness. Thinking of it, Paul smiled to himself. Demetrios didn't stand a chance.

He relaxed in relief when the door finally opened and she walked into the bedroom. Her face was flushed from the night air; her movements, as she closed the door and crossed the room, were quick and decisive. That, Paul knew, was another excellent sign -- her faint aura of excitement a clue that the chase had commenced.

She threw him a look: a look that he knew very well, that signaled that there was much to be said, but no safe way to say it. This room -- like all the others in the villa -- had been bugged by Demetrios -- a fact they had confirmed immediately upon their arrival. Nevertheless, there were subtler means of communication: code words, stock phrases that they relied upon in situations such as this.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asked. He used an accusatory tone for the benefit of their observers, but they both knew what he really meant: did you make progress with him?

"Very," she said curtly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had expected a simple 'yes', or a more ambiguous 'I suppose' -- but her unequivocal answer meant only one thing: they were on an accelerated schedule. It was time, then, to take the next step -- to begin the next act of the play they were performing.

She turned away from him and began to undress, unbuttoning her blouse and removing it, draping it over the back of a chair. As she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, he rose from the bed and approached her from behind. He slid his hands along her shoulders and began to nuzzle her neck, pressing his lips against her skin with a series of moist kisses. She pulled away and whirled around to glare at him in feigned disgust.

"You're drunk," she said coldly.

He gave a scornful laugh. "And you're not?"

They stared at each other for a several moments.

"Could you have been any more blatant in the way you threw yourself at him?" His voice nearly shook in bitter intensity.

"At least he seemed to appreciate me. Unlike a certain man who ignored me all night. Why shouldn't I have spent time with him?"

He seized her by the wrist and flung her onto the bed. "You're my wife, damn it. It's time you remembered that."

As he looked down at her -- half-dressed, long hair strewn haphazardly across the bedspread, framing her face with its dark curls -- he almost forgot the point of their exercise. She gazed up at him, and spark of mischief flashed through her eyes, but then it disappeared into an expression of brittle coldness.

She began to laugh, her tone mocking. "Oh, please. What are you going to do? Ravish me? We both know you're not up to it." She smirked. "Especially after you've been drinking."

Despite knowing that her words were for Demetrios's benefit, he felt a rush of cold fury at the withering disdain in her delivery. For a few seconds, there was nothing he wanted to do more than fall on top of her and wipe that smug look off her face -- all night, preferably. However, that was most definitely not part of the profile. So he took a deep breath and looked down at her contemptuously.

"I don't think the problem is me. After all, you're not twenty years old anymore. In fact, I've been thinking that it's about time to get a new model of trophy wife anyway. Something younger." He smirked back, matching her earlier expression. "Something blonder."

She got up from the bed and walked over to stand next to him, fixing him with a deadly glare. "You wouldn't dare," she hissed. "I'd take you for everything you own."

He folded his arms over his chest. "Need I remind you of that little document you signed? What was that called?" He chuckled. "Oh, yes. A prenup." His smile turned chilly. "One more performance like this evening, my dear, and you're out on the street."

He walked back around the bed and slid back in, settling in comfortably, as she stared at him with an outraged expression.

"You know, this is turning out to be a pleasant evening for me, too." He smiled triumphantly. "Sleep well, Annette. I know I will."

He reached over and switched off the bedside light, leaving her in darkness.

***

The faint sound of the door creaking open woke him. For a moment, forgetting where he was, Charles's first thought was to reach for his gun. He quickly stifled that instinct and lay still, blinking when the light turned on overhead.

Madeline stood in the doorway, dressed in silk pajamas and a matching robe, her hand on the light switch. The sharp look she gave him commanded him into silence; she closed the door carefully, and then crossed the room to sit at the foot of the bed.

The mission profile had wide parameters, and Charles had prepared himself for almost anything. However, her visit to him -- here, now -- was puzzling. No doubt it had something to do with her conversation with Demetrios after dinner, wherever that had led. But there was no point in speculating. All he could do was play his role and let her take things from there.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and smiled warmly. "This is a pleasant surprise. But don't you think we should be more discreet?"

She threw him a glacial look. "Don't get excited. I'm not here to fuck you, if that's what you were thinking."

He winced, taken aback. Role or no role, it was distasteful hearing her speak so crudely -- it was so far divorced from her normal demeanor that he found it extremely disconcerting.

Her expression seethed with anger. "Ted just threatened to divorce me," she announced, her speech hard and clipped. "You have to do something."

Interesting. Things were moving much more rapidly than he had anticipated. But at least he knew now where this conversation was heading.

"Oh, Annette," he groaned, trying to sound exasperated. "He's done that before. He'll never go through with it."

"I don't care." She crossed her arms. "It's time. I'm sick of your always finding reasons to wait. I want it taken care of when we get back home."

"But--" he started.

"No," she interrupted, unfolding her arms again and leaning forward in emphasis. "You promised me, Geoffrey. You told me you knew people who could do it. Are you going back on that now?"

The look on her face -- dark with sheer bloodthirsty rage -- was so convincing that Charles almost shivered with a momentary chill.

"Of course not," he said, his voice soothing, with just a tinge of defensiveness thrown in. "It's just that everything has to be set up first. I have to get control of all of the accounts -- and it hasn't exactly been easy convincing him to give me the contact information for his buyers. It's taken years."

"Yes, years!" she spat. "That's exactly the problem. Six years, to be exact -- six years of my having to live with the son-of-a-bitch while you twiddled your thumbs. Do you know how long it took me to get contact information for a buyer? Hmm?"

"I don't know, Annette," he said slowly, sarcastically, "how long?"

"One fucking night!" she hissed, flinging a business card at him.

He picked up the card and read it in amazement. Genuine amazement. One night. Demetrios was apparently more gullible than they thought. Or perhaps Madeline was a better seductress than he'd realized.

"Sometimes I wonder if you know what the hell you're doing," she said, shaking her head in disgust.

"My God, this is his private number," he exclaimed. "We could bypass Ted altogether."

"No shit."

"And Demetrios is the biggest player there is. We wouldn't even need to deal with any of the other distributors. A contract with him would mean more money than we'd know what to do with."

"More money than you'd know what to do with," she corrected icily.

He took a deep breath. "All right. I can fix his accounts so that it looks like he has a lot of gambling debts. When he turns up dead, the police will blame it on that."

"Good." Her expression hardened. "And tell those people you know to torture him a little first. I want him to suffer."

He raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that a bit vindictive, dear?"

She stood from the bed and looked down at him coldly. "That's for every time he put his hands on me the past six years."

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

One by one, Adrian spread the satellite photos across her desk until the entire surface was covered. She examined them, eyes darting from picture to picture -- a frown starting, then growing, then deepening into a grimace of pure disgust.

The images could have been taken for those of a mining pit or construction site -- a gaping wound in the ground, lined with unidentifiable debris. Only the notes that accompanied the photos told what it really was: the remains of an apartment complex in Teheran. Once occupied by at least fifty families. But now....

So dreadful. In a horrifying escalation of hatred, Iran and Iraq had started attacking each other's capitals, targeting civilians indiscriminately. Adrian found herself obsessed with the carnage, even though she was powerless to stop it. Her sponsors had made it abundantly clear that her purview was limited to the small-scale incidents they defined as 'terrorism'. Such a narrow-minded approach they took. This, they claimed, was war: something she had no right to intervene in. But in reality, what else could the wholesale destruction of a city be called but terroristic? And who were people like Saddam Hussein but the worst terrorists of all, despite all their trappings of state power and international recognition?

At least she was doing her part to keep their hands off nuclear weapons. The operation against Demetrios would be a major victory in that regard.

The telephone rang shrilly. Good. It was probably Raymond with the updates from Egypt.

"Good morning," she answered.

"Adrian," said Phillip, his tone smoothly elegant. "Good morning to you."

A sour taste filled her mouth as she recognized his voice. Phillip's timing was, as always, impeccably poor. He seemed to have a sixth sense about the worst moments to call; invariably, it was when she was her busiest and most distracted.

"Phillip," she replied, forcing a pleasant-sounding demeanor. "What an unexpected pleasure. I hope all is well at Center."

"Oh, quite. And at the Sections?"

"Busy." She chuckled in an attempt to sound lighthearted, although her answer, in actuality, revealed her reluctance to speak with him.

He, too, gave a pseudo-merry laugh, and then he cleared his throat.

"I read an interesting story in the newspaper this morning. It seems an American businessman has turned up dead. A very well-connected American businessman. Ted Pierce. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

She frowned. He wouldn't dare interfere in this mission, she thought. Just let him try.

"Yes, I believe I have," she answered, remaining studiously noncommittal until she could ascertain his intent.

"A rather shocking story, I must say. A gangland style killing -- tortured, shot in the back of the head, and then stuffed into the boot of a car. They say he apparently had large gambling losses."

"So I hear."

There was a lengthy pause. When he spoke again, a touch of anger had crept into his voice.

"There's a disturbing rumor floating around that it wasn't a Mafia killing at all. I wondered if you knew anything about it."

He clearly knew the truth, but he'd rather play games than get to the point. Fine. She could oblige him as long as he liked.

"What is it that you want to know, Phillip?" she asked innocently.

"I want to know if Section One was responsible," he snapped, no longer bothering to conceal his hostility. "Don't be coy. I don't have the patience for it."

"Yes, we were. What of it?"

He sighed audibly. "This man had powerful friends, Adrian. It should have been handled differently."

"This man, as you put it," she said, "was selling radioactive material to killers and madmen. How, pray tell, should we have handled it?"

"You should have cleared it with me first."

So now he wanted veto power over missions. Completely intolerable.

"Why?"

"This isn't a private crusade of good against evil, however much we would like it to be. We have people to answer to. More specifically, I have people to answer to. And I can't give them answers if you don't tell me what you're doing."

Her back stiffened defensively. He had crossed a line -- a line that he had once promised never, ever to cross. It seemed he needed reminding of that.

"When this organization was founded," she said acerbically, "I was promised full autonomy to pursue our goals as I saw fit. Center exists to provide guidance on the nature of those goals, not to micromanage the Sections."

"You're saying that you won't cooperate."

"I'm saying nothing of the sort. I will, from now on -- and strictly as a matter of courtesy -- give you advance notice of any mission that might be construed as sensitive. I will, to the extent possible, comply with reasonable requests. But I will not compromise a legitimate mission every time you feel uncomfortable breaking the news to your colleagues. Quite frankly, your spinelessness is your problem, not mine."

She heard him suck in his breath.

"Well, then," he said, "do you have any missions pending that might be construed as 'sensitive'? Now that you've so generously agreed to inform me -- strictly as a matter of courtesy, of course."

She pondered her answer for a moment. He seemed angry, but he was quite clearly in retreat. She would thus give him something to allow him to save face.

"Yes, we do, in fact. An operation against Tassos Demetrios."

"Demetrios? How ambitious," he said, his tone patronizing. "To what end?"

"To identify his buyers and suppliers. To strike at them before they realize they've been compromised. And when that's done, to destroy him, of course." Adrian smiled at the thought.

He laughed dryly. "If you can accomplish that, I'll be most impressed."

"I'm sure you will be."

He paused.

"Since you made such a gracious offer to comply with 'reasonable' requests, I have one to convey."

"Please do."

"When you bring in Demetrios for interrogation, I have some matters I'd like you to ask him about."

"But we're not bringing him in for interrogation."

"How else are you going to identify his network?"

Adrian grimaced, glad that Phillip couldn't see her reaction. His question demonstrated his utter lack of practical knowledge about how people like Demetrios operated.

"Bringing him in would tip off his associates that something was wrong," she explained, struggling to maintain her patience. "The instant they couldn't reach him, they'd shut down their bank accounts and cut off all contact points. As a result, it's essential that we identify them while he still appears to be operating normally."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"We have operatives planting surveillance and working their way into his network. In several months' time, we expect to have gathered enough information to track down most of his business partners. At that point, we'll strike -- against everyone, simultaneously."

"I see." He sounded perplexed. "Then at that point you can bring him in for questioning."

"That would be pointless," she said, growing increasingly irritated. "His network will be destroyed. There's nothing useful he could tell us."

"Useful in terms of conducting missions, no. But what I want from him is quite different."

What Phillip wanted from him?

"What is it that you want?" she asked cautiously.

"I'm building a database here at Center. I believe that by collecting historical data regarding past patterns of terrorist activity, we can create algorithms to predict the recurrence of those patterns in the future. Demetrios would be a veritable fount of information in that regard."

"I see," she said, her brows furrowing as she assessed the significance of his statement. "So you'd like him taken alive and brought over to Center for questioning."

"No, no," he said testily. "We don't have the facilities for that sort of thing. You know that, Adrian."

"Then what?"

"I'll forward you a list of the data I require from him. You are to interrogate him in the Section."

In other words, he wanted her employees to spend their valuable time collecting information for some pet project of his. No, worse than that. This database sounded like an elaborate excuse to tell her what missions to launch -- and he wanted her to help him build it.

On its face, however, there was nothing unreasonable about the request. Recognizing that she had probably antagonized him enough for one day, she set aside her reluctance.

"Very well. We shouldn't have a problem doing that."

"Good. I'm sure you'll keep me informed as to the status of this mission?”

"Oh, yes."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Adrian."

Without waiting for her to reply, he hung up.

***

Lisa poured herself a glass of mineral water and leaned back in her chair, eyeing the other customers in the restaurant with mild curiosity. Even at such a late hour, the lunchtime crowd was heavy. She had forgotten what a popular place it was -- it had been months since she had been able to persuade anyone from Section to join her there, and the half-hour wait for a table had caught her by surprise.

She was even more surprised by the identity of her lunch companion. She asked Madeline to join her on the spur of the moment -- but hadn't really expected her to accept the invitation. A couple of years before, they had been quite social, even if not exactly close. But as Madeline spent more and more time devoted to her profiling and interrogation duties -- and as Lisa spent every moment of her spare time sitting in front of a computer terminal -- the two women had been reduced almost to the level of nodding acquaintances.

It rendered the conversation rather awkward, in fact. Lisa no longer knew what Madeline was interested in, apart from work, and vice versa. After several abortive attempts to respond to the conversational gambits that Madeline threw out, Lisa gave up.

Fall back on the tried and true, she thought. Maybe that's all I know how to talk about anymore.

"So," she said, "when do you go back to Greece?"

"Tomorrow," Madeline answered, slicing a piece off her chicken.

"How many trips do you think there'll be?"

"To do all the transactions? Probably at least a dozen."

"God, that means you're going to have to spend a lot of time with that creep." Lisa wrinkled her face in distaste. "I don't envy you this one."

Madeline took a bite of her food and shrugged. "I fit the profile," she said, seemingly unconcerned.

"Yeah, well, you always fit the profile when this kind of thing comes up. I don't think it's exactly fair." Lisa laughed scornfully, shaking her head. "Listen to me. Fair? What was I thinking?"

Thinking of her own situation as much as Madeline's, Lisa had allowed a hint of resentment to color her voice. Madeline glanced up, an inquisitive expression on her face. She seemed to be about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it. Instead, she returned to her meal.

Lisa toyed with one of her carrots, idly pushing it around her plate. "You know," she mused, "I'm lucky to be plain looking. I don't have to worry about getting those kinds of assignments."

Madeline gave her a surprised look.

"You're not plain looking. You just don't present yourself in a way that brings out your natural beauty." She looked Lisa up and down. "I could help you with that, if you like."

Lisa searched the other woman's face for some sign that she was joking. But there was nothing -- no teasing smirk, no trace of humor whatsoever -- only a look of utter and almost touching sincerity. She squirmed in her seat, trying to suppress her distaste at what seemed to be a well-intentioned, if unwelcome, suggestion.

"Um, thanks for the offer, but I'm not so sure I want help in that area. I'm pretty happy being skipped over for valentine duty, you know?"

"You're depriving yourself of one of the most powerful weapons in your arsenal. That's foolish."

"Yeah, maybe," admitted Lisa, increasingly uncomfortable at the casual way Madeline spoke about the matter. "But I just can't imagine doing that. Besides, you have to know all those special techniques, and, uh, they didn't give me that sort of training."

Madeline's eyes widened, and then she burst out in an uncharacteristic peal of laughter.

"Special techniques?" She sounded incredulous. "Just what is it that you think you would need to know?"

Lisa felt her face flush a deep, burning red. She cleared her throat, but her voice still cracked when she spoke. "Uhh, you know, fancy moves or something. Or weird, kinky stuff." As Madeline's expression grew more amused, Lisa felt more and more stupid. "That's what everyone says the valentine ops have to learn, anyway," she added defensively.

Madeline set down her knife and fork, covered her face with her hand for a moment, and then looked back at Lisa with a broad smile.

"Lisa, ninety percent of men are extremely unimaginative. Most of the time, all that's necessary is that you show up."

Lisa drained her glass of water, too embarrassed to say anything in response. How had she managed to find herself in the middle of this discussion? Wasn't work supposed to be a safe topic?

Madeline took a bite of bread and chewed it with excessive concentration, making an obvious effort to stifle her laughter. By the time she finished the bread, she seemed to have it under control.

"Actually," she said, her manner suddenly thoughtful, "there is something you have to learn in order to do that type of work successfully. But it has nothing to do with exotic techniques."

"Oh yeah?" asked Lisa, relieved to know Madeline was dropping that topic, although she wasn't sure the new one would be any better.

"You need to be able to attract the target's attention, to flatter him and boost his ego -- to appear to be enthusiastic about an experience that you might actually find tedious or even disgusting. It's about acting, about learning to put on a performance."

That look of sincerity was back, an expression of almost sisterly concern and earnestness that caught Lisa off guard. She wanted to look away, but it pulled her helplessly in.

"If you can learn to act in those circumstances, you can do it in any situation," Madeline explained. "It's a skill that translates into many, many other settings, out in the field and elsewhere. It's a long-term survival skill. That's why I say you'd be foolish not to learn it -- not because I think we need more operatives doing seduction assignments."

"Oh," said Lisa, finally understanding. "I see what you mean. You have a point, I suppose." Madeline did have a point, Lisa knew, although it didn't make her any more willing to sign up for valentine duty. "But, you know," she said, seizing at the opportunity to change the subject to something that made her feel less idiotic, "I'm working on another long-term survival skill. One I hope will get me out of the field completely."

"Really? And what would that be?"

"Computers. I've taught myself to program, and I've spent the last two years studying Section's systems. I know it like the back of my hand," she announced proudly.

"Very impressive. Why haven't you put in for a transfer?"

"I have. Three times. Jules said no each time." Lisa rolled her eyes. "He doesn't think women understand computers."

"Hmmm." Madeline frowned. "There might be a way around that."

"Like what?" Lisa sat forward with interest. She had her own idea about how to get around Jules's opposition -- an idea she had shared only with Walter -- but wondered what Madeline might come up with.

"I could place an entry in your personnel file. About how your last evaluation showed a high level of computer aptitude. It's likely that Adrian would eventually reassign you herself, if for no other reason than to test you out, and Jules wouldn't have any legitimate reason to object to it."

"You have access to the personnel files?"

"For the field operatives. It's necessary for my profiling work."

So Madeline had clearance to access personnel files. The same ones Lisa had stumbled across, no doubt. It made sense when Madeline explained it, but the possibility hadn't occurred to Lisa before.

If someone accessed those files using Madeline's system password, nothing would seem amiss. No alarms, no suspicious logons -- no one would ever know.

The force of that thought made Lisa sit back suddenly in shock. It was a dangerous, stupid idea -- one that was better ignored and forced back into whatever insane recess of her mind it had emerged from. Still, it might just work. But then again, if it didn't….

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, she told herself, gripping her napkin tightly.

But she knew she would.

***

Madeline nodded in thanks as the young man placed a tray of food on the coffee table. Shyly, he dropped his gaze to the floor and departed the room without a word. From out of the shadows in the corner of the room, a gray-haired man, frail and stooped with age, emerged to hand her a milky-looking glass of ouzo. She accepted it with a grateful smile; he inclined his head deferentially and then retreated again.

"You've had a long journey," said Demetrios, who leaned back in an oversized armchair. "I thought you might appreciate some refreshments."

"Yes, thank you," said Charles. He selected a slice of cheese. "Most thoughtful."

Wearing a dark suit and tie that looked uncomfortably formal compared to Demetrios's loose-fitting trousers and open-necked shirt, Charles perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Beside him, Madeline cradled her glass in both hands, sank back into the heavy cushions, and slowly crossed one leg over the other. Demetrios's heavy-lidded eyes shifted back and forth, watching one of them, then the other, his expression unreadable.

His gaze returned to Madeline.

"I read in the papers that you'd gone into seclusion in your grief," he said, not quite repressing a smirk. "You didn't even attend his funeral?"

"No," said Madeline. She shook her head in a parody of regret. "Those dreadful people who killed him have been sending me death threats. The police thought it would be better to keep a low profile."

"Have they?" Demetrios asked, raising his eyebrows. "Truly barbaric." He picked up a drink from the table beside him and sipped it, peering at her over the top of his glass. "Still, while you're the owner now, the company has already hired a new CEO. Isn't he the one I need to deal with?"

"I hired him to go about the business of running a power company," she answered coolly. "That's not something I'm interested in learning how to do. But as for our business," she paused and smiled knowingly, "he's been kept out of the loop."

He set his drink down and shifted forward in his chair, reaching toward the coffee table. He plucked a dolma from the tray and slid it into his mouth; his jaw circled slowly as he savored it.

"All right, then," he said, licking his fingers clean with a smacking sound, "since you two are the ones to reach an agreement with, here are my terms."

Madeline set down her drink and sat forward attentively, joining Charles on the edge of the sofa.

"I'm a high volume customer. I need to be certain that when I need the product, a supply will be available. As a result, I expect exclusive purchase rights. And you'll give me a fifty percent discount from what your other customers have been paying."

Charles sat back, his expression shocked. "That's quite a demand."

"I think it's more than reasonable."

Charles laughed uncomfortably, picked up his drink, and took a long swallow. He shook his head. "We'll need some time to consider it."

"No, we won't," said Madeline.

The two men turned toward her, their faces registering surprise. In Demetrios's case, genuine surprise; in Charles's, an excellent imitation.

"Those terms simply aren't acceptable," she said calmly.

Both men stared at her.

"I understand your concern about guaranteeing access to an adequate supply," she said. "But exclusivity goes a bit too far. Instead, we'd be willing to grant you the right of first refusal. That way, you're protected, but if you don't buy what we have, we'd be free to go elsewhere."

Demetrios's eyelids twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"As for a discount," she continued, meeting his gaze steadily, "that's probably warranted. But a fifty percent flat rate isn't feasible. We have fixed costs to meet -- employees and inspectors to pay off, that sort of thing. However, we could offer you a sliding scale based on volume."

She smiled brightly and picked up her drink. She took a demure taste, and then set the glass down. Demetrios gaped for a moment, and began to laugh in disbelief.

"I don't think you understand who you're dealing with," he said. "I don't negotiate. My suppliers accept the terms I give to them."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, that's too bad." Fixing him with an unwavering stare, she stood up. "I guess we'll be leaving, then."

She glanced down at Charles, still sitting on the sofa. He looked up at her as if she had lost her mind, but slowly, feigning reluctance, rose to stand next to her.

Demetrios snatched out a gun from the drawer of the table next to him. He jumped to his feet and aimed the barrel straight at Madeline's chest.

"I don't think you'll be going anywhere."

Madeline forced herself to keep her gaze directed at his eyes -- to look at the gun would be a sign of fear and weakness, and weakness, in front of this man, would mean immediate death. She suppressed the urge to swallow and concentrated on keeping her breath slow and controlled.

"Go ahead," she said, ignoring the painful thudding in her chest. "Shoot us."

He stared at her, unmoving, the gun still pointed at her heart. The sound of the breath through his nose was heavy with anger.

"Of course," she continued, "if you do, the company will fall into the hands of outsiders, and you'll lose access to the single largest, highest quality, and cheapest source of plutonium on the market."

He blinked but still remained silent.

"Now," she said, with a fleeting but regretful smile, "had you chosen to be reasonable with us, you could have provided the product, upon demand, to any customer, at any time, and in virtually any amount. With your right of first refusal, you could have even kept the supply out of the hands of your competitors. Why, if anyone wanted a bomb that could be relied upon to work, they would have come to you -- and paid a premium for doing so." She shrugged. "But if you want to throw that away, kill us. You'll be back to bribing Russian generals for whatever they can scrounge up at the moment."

As she spoke, she watched the look in his eyes shift gradually -- from lethal, to curious, to impressed. At her last remark, his mouth twisted sharply upwards as if he were trying to suppress a laugh. Finally, he lowered the gun. From beside her, she heard a relieved sigh from Charles.

"You raise some interesting points," Demetrios conceded with a gracious half-bow.

"I thought you'd recognize that. You are an intelligent man, after all."

"I think I might need to give the matter some further thought."

"Of course."

They held a look, not in challenge, but in mutual respect. Eventually, Demetrios broke it, glancing at a nearby clock.

"I'm afraid it's getting quite late," he said apologetically. "I think it would be better if we continued this discussion tomorrow."