With a booted kick that sent the door flying open, Paul forced his way into the bathroom. He stepped across the threshold and aimed his gun directly ahead -- straight at the forehead of the wide-eyed man quivering in the bathtub.

Paul scowled in disappointment. He had hoped to find his target, a Red Cell commander; instead, he confronted a mere flunky, a man he recognized from surveillance photos as a green recruit. Someone who would know nothing. Someone useless. Someone who was a waste of his rapidly ebbing time.

"Where's Norasty?" Paul demanded, fighting the urge to exterminate the man like a cockroach discovered scuttling in a cupboard.

The man gaped at him without response. Soapsuds dripped slowly down his thin chest.

"I said, where's Norasty?" Paul repeated, lowering his voice menacingly. "We know he lives here."

He glared at the man and began a silent count to ten before resorting to more severe means of persuasion. But before he could end his count, the other man's face twitched strangely. His lips trembled, and then he burst out in a sudden guffaw, his bony shoulders shaking in mirth.

A joker. Great. Paul could give him something to laugh about.

Stuffing his gun in the holster against the small of his back, he strode toward the tub and grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck. With an angry grunt, he shoved the man forward, pressing his full weight down as he thrust the man's face under the water.

The man thrashed in panic, clawing at the slick sides of the bathtub, but only succeeded in sloshing heavy waves of water over the edge and onto the floor. Paul held him down for nearly a minute before he yanked him back up by the hair.

"That was just a barrel of laughs, wasn't it? Now, where's Norasty?"

The man shook his head, coughing and spitting out water, and started to laugh giddily. "I don't know," he said, gasping out the words in between his sniggers. "He left for Turkey three days ago. He should have been back by now."

The sight of the man giggling like an idiot triggered a feeling of frustrated loathing. Paul lunged at him, seizing his neck with both hands as he pushed him backwards into the tub. He squeezed his thumbs against the fragile skin of the throat, and his nails drew a tiny cloud of red that spiraled through the water. Submerged, the man's blond hair swirled around his face, his eyes bugging, as a trail of bubbles escaped from his mouth and nose. He kicked, squirmed, and tugged desperately at Paul's hands; his motions splashed water wildly in every direction, drenching Paul in the face and chest. The more the man struggled, the tighter Paul's grip became -- until, slowly, the splashing subsided.

When the movement and air bubbles had almost ceased, Paul wrenched the man back to the surface. The man choked violently and retched. He sputtered and wheezed for air as water spilled thickly out of the corners of his mouth.

"Tell me where Norasty is," Paul said, kneeling by the tub in barely-controlled fury, "or next time you'll drown."

The man coughed for several moments, but then began to laugh again, tittering uncontrollably. "I don't know where he is, I swear."

Paul struck the man across the face. "What the hell is so funny?" he shouted. "You think this is a joke? You think I won't snap your scrawny neck if you don't tell me what I want?"

The man shook his head helplessly. "Nothing's funny. I just can't stop."

He erupted in gales of laughter again as Paul leaned back on his heels, no longer angry, just baffled.

"Are you on drugs?"

"No, I swear. I'm sorry. I can't help myself. Please, don't hurt me anymore."

Abruptly, the laughter ceased. The man began to blink rapidly, moisture filling his eyes -- then just as suddenly as he stopped laughing, he burst into tears.

"Christ," muttered Paul. He rose to his feet and looked down at the man in disgust. He pulled out his gun and waved it impatiently. "Get out of the tub."

Instead of responding, the man curled his knees up and covered his face with his hands, sobbing loudly. Paul stared, at a loss for what to do -- he was just about to reach into the tub to haul the man out when he heard a gruff voice from the doorway.

"The building is secure. Instructions?"

Paul looked over his shoulder to see Patrick standing stone-faced in the hallway.

"No sign of Norasty?" Paul asked.

"No."

"How many hostiles?"

"Three."

"Four, with this one. Get some clothes on him and bring him out with the rest."

As a wailing sound emerged from the bathtub, Patrick's face wrinkled in an odd expression.

Paul shrugged and stepped past Patrick to exit the door, dripping water along the way.

"He's either on something or he's a lunatic. We'll leave it to Madeline to find out which."

***

As she walked along the corridor outside Containment, Adrian was struck by the silence. Her visits to this part of Section were rare; each time, she somehow expected to hear screams of terror, even through the soundproof doors. Instead, there was always a surprising hush, as if the antiseptic sterility of the surroundings swallowed all noise.

Rounding a corner, she slowed her pace, spotting the figure seated at an alcove workstation. The soft clack of a keyboard grew louder as she approached; when she reached the woman's side, she waited several seconds to see if she would look up from her work, then cleared her throat.

"Madeline," she said. "May I have a moment?"

Madeline swung around with a surprised expression and started to stand. Adrian waved her back down, then she pulled over another chair and sat, clasping her hands on her knee.

"I just concluded Paul's debrief," Adrian announced. "Norasty wasn't at the Madrid safe house."

"Yes, so I heard."

"We had firm intel placing him there on Tuesday." She sighed wearily and stared down the long, empty corridor. "It's unfortunate, but he seems to have slipped through our fingers again."

Red Cell's leadership -- Norasty included -- had an ability to melt away that Section's other enemies had never achieved. At first, it hadn't mattered -- Red Cell seemed a minor player, a fringe group whose activities were overshadowed by the Cold War battles of the superpowers and their proxies. Recently, however, she had come to see it as the more significant threat. Unlike the older revolutionary organizations sponsored by the Soviets or China, this group was uncontrollable, irrational -- causing destruction not to serve the geopolitical ends of its masters, but for terror's own sake.

Adrian had always prided herself on her ability to predict -- and outwit -- the behavior of the enemy. But Red Cell, and the growing number of groups like it, posed a new challenge. It required a change in analysis she wasn't certain she was capable of making, a logic completely different from what she was accustomed to -- indeed, a kind of illogic, a willingness to consider actions so dreadful that they crossed the line into barbarism and inhumanity.

It required, in truth, the ability to think like a madman. An ability Adrian did not wish to cultivate. Fortunately, however, there were others in Section she could rely upon for that skill.

She returned her gaze to Madeline. The young woman sat patiently, her hands folded in her lap, awaiting her commander's instructions with an impassive expression -- like an engine on idle, whirring softly until brought to life by a tap on the accelerator.

"Do you have any input as to where he might go next?" Adrian asked.

"There's a sixty-three percent probability that he's heading to one of three locations we have under surveillance," Madeline answered quickly, her tone clipped and precise. "I'll have an updated profile factoring in that contingency within an hour."

"Good."

Adrian examined the other woman with approval. Madeline had made such progress from the old days, when she had to be constantly monitored and disciplined -- now, properly conditioned, she functioned with a smooth efficiency, like a well-oiled gear. She seemed to have accepted her designated place within the Section, had learned to live with the restrictions that Adrian had imposed -- perhaps had even come to respect her superior's reasons for doing so.

She was still deeply flawed, a moral cripple in certain respects, but that no longer posed any real danger. Her loyalty to -- and identification with -- the Section was so deeply internalized that her weaknesses had transformed into strengths. They gave her a unique view into the mind of the enemy. They enabled her to carry out the ugly but necessary tasks that Section depended on. They were the raw material that Adrian had forged into a powerful weapon -- sharp and cruel, cutting down the enemy without mercy, but carefully sheathed at home.

To her surprise, Adrian found herself growing more and more dependent on her.

She blinked, returning her thoughts to the present. "I take it the prisoners weren't useful."

"They told us what they knew about Red Cell's hierarchy, which wasn't much," Madeline replied, her tone apologetic.

"I see." Adrian rose to her feet to depart. "Thank you, Madeline. Let me know if you learn anything new."

"There is one thing," Madeline added, a faint mixture of worry and excitement seeping into her expression. "I was going to send you a report, but since you're here…."

Adrian frowned in surprise. It wasn't like Madeline to allow signs of concern to show so blatantly. "What is it?"

"One of the prisoners is quite curious."

The vague answer -- and the hesitant manner in which it was delivered -- triggered an instinctive sense of apprehension. She returned to her seat, filled with uneasy alertness, waiting for Madeline to elaborate.

"His behavior has been highly aberrant," Madeline explained. "Extreme displays of emotion: crying, laughing, cowering, screaming, all without any apparent relationship to what's going on around him at the time."

"He's in shock," Adrian said dismissively. "Surely you've seen that before."

"I thought that at first," Madeline continued. "But then we found unusual chemical residues in his blood."

"A drug addict?"

"I don't think so. The residues aren't consistent with any known recreational drugs."

As the implication of Madeline's words sank in, Adrian leaned forward, intrigued. "What then?"

Madeline hesitated, looking uncharacteristically nervous, before taking a deep breath. "They suggest the presence of a neurological conditioning process."

"Some sort of mind control?" Adrian asked, almost too astonished to believe what she had heard. Red Cell had never shown that level of sophistication before -- if they were adopting such techniques, it was an ominous turning point.

"To put it in simple terms, yes." Madeline glanced at a folder lying on the desk. "When Medlab gave me the bloodwork, I asked them to examine him further."

"And?"

"I'm awaiting the results."

Adrian stood again, her mood grim. "I'll be conducting briefings for the rest of the day. But I want to be interrupted the instant you know anything further."

Madeline nodded. "Understood."

***

The row of televisions blared out a deafening cacophony. Hyperactive sports play-by-plays competed with melodramatic movie dialogue and sitcom laugh tracks for the attention of wandering shoppers. The noise and flashing images were almost mesmerizing; Lisa stared blankly at the wall of screens for several minutes before moving on, circling toward the audio equipment for what seemed like the hundredth time.

The electronics department was large by department store standards, but after twenty minutes Lisa had retraced her path through the aisles so many times she had the prices memorized. She had pressed buttons, turned dials, read display cards -- fending off the inquiries of salespeople while she snuck anxious glances at the entrance.

Her impatience growing, she checked her watch once more. As she made an angry vow to leave in five minutes, she looked up again and started: a middle-aged woman with sharp features and a blunt, blonde bob had materialized inside the entrance. They avoided each other's gaze, but Lisa watched the other woman's progress out of the corner of her eye. The woman took her time, browsing with deceptive casualness, but gradually made her way into Lisa's aisle. When she was a few feet away, she looked over at Lisa and smiled politely.

"Excuse me, but do you know the difference between these brands? I want a portable tape player, but there are so many to choose from."

"I was looking at this one," Lisa answered, and she gestured toward an enormous combination radio/tape player with shiny, detachable speakers. "It got a good rating in a consumer review."

"Let's see how it sounds," the woman suggested, reaching for the switch and turning it on.

The latest pop hit began pulsing through the speakers: a droning bass, a thumping drum machine, a teenaged singer's studio-enhanced voice. The bubble-gum melody was excruciating to listen to -- but loud enough to shield their conversation from people in nearby aisles.

"What is it, Mireille?" Lisa asked grimly. "I had to make all sorts of excuses to get out this afternoon. I'm supposed to be prepping a mission."

The Director of Section's Level 16 pursed her lips daintily. "I've been thinking. About our arrangement."

Lisa swallowed hard in dismay. Once, their "arrangement" had seemed so simple -- a relationship that Lisa could control. It had started out that way, at least. But somehow along the way, she found herself the one under control -- her own power mysteriously turned against her by Mireille's jiu-jitsu-like maneuvering.

It was her own fault, unfortunately. She had allowed paranoia to rule her thinking, leading her to a decision that she regretted more and more each day. Almost two years before, plagued with the fear that Mireille would eventually contact someone to see if the transfer to Section Four Lisa had promised was imminent, Lisa had broken down and contacted Mireille surreptitiously.

There was no transfer, Lisa confessed. In fact, Mireille had allowed an unforgivable breach in security -- one that was in both of their interests to conceal. As Lisa explained the situation, Mireille was stunned, then horrified, then angry. But eventually, after she calmed down, she came round to Lisa's point of view -- and the arrangement was born. Mireille would keep quiet -- would even use her position to make Seymour's life incrementally better -- and in return, Lisa would use her hacking skills to do Mireille small favors.

So simple. So easy. So stupid.

The favors had stayed small for a time: higher credit card limits, an extra day of authorized downtime, minor changes that would pass unnoticed through Section's vast IT system. But one request led to another, then another; as Mireille's courage grew, so did her appetite for privileges.

"What do you want?" Lisa asked, bracing herself for the latest demand.

Mireille sniffed. "I'm tired of having to take the metro in every morning," she said with a self-pitying look. "Do you know it takes me forty-five minutes just to get to work?"

"You want a car?"

"No," said Mireille, smiling sweetly. "I want a new apartment. Something within walking distance."

Lisa gaped at the other woman in shocked outrage. "That's completely crazy. Just how do you think we'll be able to get away with that?"

"Go into Accommodation's database and upgrade my rating," Mireille explained, speaking in a tone one might use with a slow-witted child.

Lisa shook her head. "No way. That's too big. Someone's going to spot it."

Mireille's expression hardened, and her lips formed into a thin, angry line. "I received a favorable annual review last month. It's not completely unheard of."

Lisa held her breath in an attempt to calm herself, then responded in a low voice. "What next, Mireille? A vacation home on the Riviera?" She grabbed Mireille's arm and dug her fingers in. "When is it going to be enough?"

"It'll be enough when I don't have to risk my life giving your boy special treatment." Mireille gave Lisa an icy glare. "I didn't ask to be dragged into this little conspiracy, you know. Don't blame me for the mess you created."

The women stared at each other as the radio blasted another cheerful song. The repetitive melody drilled into Lisa's head, the insipid lyrics a mocking counterpoint to their strained standoff.

After a few moments, Lisa felt her shoulders sag in defeat. "Fine," she said, releasing her grip on Mireille's arm. "You're probably right. It's soon enough after your review that the housing upgrade won't look too suspicious."

Mireille's glare melted magically.

"Thanks, Lisa," she said. "I knew you'd come through for me. And really, I promise I'll never ask for anything unreasonable. I don't want to be caught any more than you do." She paused, and then a cheerful look flashed across her face. "Oh, I've got something for you," she said, smiling broadly and reaching into her purse.

Mireille withdrew an envelope from her purse and slid it onto the display table next to the radio.

"What's that?" Lisa asked nervously.

"I took some pictures of Seymour on his birthday." Mireille's eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. "We brought him a cake and made him wear one of those silly paper hats. He looked adorable."

"Pictures?" Lisa tried not to stare at the envelope, not wanting to draw anyone's attention to it.

"I thought you might appreciate them," Mireille explained, her gaze softening with a faint look of pity. "It's been two years since you saw him, after all -- he's a lot bigger now."

"That's only natural," Lisa said with forced casualness, unwilling to allow Mireille to see any sadness in her demeanor.

"He wears glasses now, too. Too much time at the computer, I'm afraid."

Lisa nodded. "Thanks, Mireille."

Mireille reached for the radio and switched it off. "That sounded pretty good," she commented loudly. "But the prices here are too high. I'm going to look across town."

With that, Mireille turned and walked away, leaving the envelope behind.

***

Charles rapped on the door, forcing himself to use a light touch despite his bounding energy. He waited, shifting back and forth from one foot to another, and broke out in a grin when he heard the muffled invitation to enter.

He swung open the door and stepped into the small office. Madeline sat at her desk, looking up at the door with an expectant expression. When she spotted Charles, her face warmed with a welcoming smile.

"Hello, Charles. What brings you here?"

Charles could barely repress his ebullient mood. "The Defense Minister cancelled his trip to Manila. That means the Pangalinan mission is postponed indefinitely."

He grinned, waiting for her to react to the good news as he had -- but to his surprise, she merely looked confused.

"Am I supposed to do the follow-up?" she asked, glancing distractedly at the report on her desk, then looking back up at him with a frown. "It wasn't my profile."

"No," he said, laughing and shaking his head. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"

The look of confusion in her eyes grew stronger, as did her frown. "Apparently, I have."

"I cancelled our concert date when the mission came up. But it looks like I'll be free after all." He hesitated. "That is, if you're still interested in going."

Her frown vanished, replaced by an embarrassed blush. She rose from her chair and rounded her desk to stand beside him, placing her hand on his arm.

"Of course I am," she said reassuringly. "I was looking forward to it." She gave him a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I didn't know what you meant. I've been lost in my work today."

He relaxed in relief. "Splendid. I'll go ahead and reserve tickets. Dinner reservations, too?"

"That would be lovely."

She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and then returned to her desk. He turned to exit, but then paused, looking back hopefully.

"Say, would you be interested in dinner tonight? There's a new place on rue Montorgueil I'd like to try."

She looked back up at him, still smiling -- but her face turned suddenly rigid, as if she had coated it with a glaze of politeness. "I'm sorry, Charles," she said evenly. "I have plans this evening."

Plans. Of course.

He knew exactly what those plans must be, although it was a subject they avoided discussing whenever possible. Her reputation for picking out vapid young pretty-boys for her private recreation was notorious -- and yet the two of them behaved as if it weren't an issue, as if he were completely oblivious to that side of her life.

Not that it was any of his business, really. Once he first began to invite her to join him on various outings, a year before, she had made it clear -- without being too blatant -- that their relationship could have been more intimate had he been willing to tolerate other men in her life. He had made it equally clear that he was unwilling to accept those terms. So they reached an unspoken mutual understanding that things would remain strictly platonic. He had accepted that, resigning himself to the role they both seemed comfortable with him playing: an escort to cultural events, a conversational partner, a well-educated companion with whom to indulge mutual intellectual interests. Something akin to an older brother or a favorite uncle.

He had even succeeded in convincing himself -- almost -- that such an arrangement was satisfactory. But moments like this -- reminders that she sought physical satisfaction elsewhere, in the well-chiseled arms of preening gigolos -- exposed the unpleasant truth. He would never be satisfied with things as they were -- could never be happy pretending to be a eunuch, conveniently available whenever she wanted to attend the symphony with someone whose IQ surpassed double-digits.

Then again, he couldn't walk away.

He cleared his throat. "Another time, then."

"Yes. Maybe next week," she added, seemingly in haste to smooth over any awkwardness.

"I'll let you know when I get the tickets."

"Good."

Masking his embarrassment with a quick smile, he retreated from the office.

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

As she turned the corner, Adrian spotted the three operatives waiting at the conference table. She could feel the intensity of their mood even from across the room; it felt as if a humming electricity filled the air, growing stronger as she approached. It clung to her like the heaviness before a thunderstorm, so thick she nearly had to push her way through it.

The energy seemed to swirl everywhere, but it flowed from a precise point: a spot between Paul and Madeline, where they leaned together in conversation so closely their heads nearly touched. Their voices were low, too muted for Adrian to hear, but their faces bore expressions of acute concentration, of a mutual absorption so rapt it seemed almost arrogant in its exclusion of their surroundings.

When Adrian reached the head of the table and took a seat, they pulled apart and turned toward her attentively -- emerging from their communion with a smooth, synchronous movement. Madeline gave her a curt, professional nod; Paul simply sat, watching her with a pallid gaze, punctuated by slow blinks.

Adrian smiled at them politely, and turned to do the same to Walter. He sat across the table from the other two; unusually silent, he wore a grave expression that contrasted starkly with his bright shirt and gaudy turquoise medallion.

"Since you called me out of my meeting," Adrian began, "I take it you've learned something about our captive's condition?"

"Yes, we have," answered Madeline. Although her voice was calm, her dark eyes were filled with a subtle disquiet. She held Adrian's gaze for a moment, then glanced at Walter.

Walter reached into a box next to him. He withdrew a small, rectangular object covered in a black plastic casing; placing it on the table, he looked up nervously at Adrian.

"What is that?" Adrian asked. It looked like a component that had been stripped out of something else, with long, protruding wires that dangled loosely from the sides.

"Medlab removed this fun little doohickey from our guest," said Walter, his words light, but his tone grim.

Removed it from him? Surgically? That's what Walter seemed to be saying, but it didn't make any sense.

"And it is?" she asked.

"The case contains a battery and a radio receiver. They found it implanted under his collarbone." He reached toward the object and ran a finger along the wires. "These here have microelectrodes attached -- they came out from the battery, traveled under his skin along the neck and scalp, and then went into his brain."

"Into his brain?" Adrian sat back in her chair. "In order to…?"

"To zap the poor bastard with an electrical current."

Adrian stifled the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, Walter, I grasped that much," she said. "But to what end?"

He held up his hands as if warding off the question. "I'm here to tell you how it's built. As for what it's used for, that's witch-doctor stuff."

His words hung uncomfortably in the air for several moments. He looked away, staring at an empty seat toward the far end of the table.

Eventually, Madeline cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. "The electrodes were placed so as to stimulate a variety of emotional centers in the brain," she explained. "When switched on, the electrical current would induce mood changes."

"Thus explaining his unusual behavior," said Adrian.

"Precisely."

Adrian stared at the device. How revolting to think that such a barbaric piece of equipment had actually been implanted in a human being. Then she frowned: there was a fact that didn't quite fit into the puzzle.

"What's the purpose of the radio receiver?" she asked, turning back toward Walter.

He gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "Oh, that's the best part. It allows someone else to send signals to it, telling it which electrode to turn on. Kind of like changing TV channels with a remote control."

"Or controlling a robot," Adrian murmured, a feeling of horror sweeping through her veins.

"Not quite," Madeline interjected. "It triggers strong emotions, but doesn't entirely supplant the subject's free will."

"Then what is its purpose?"

Madeline paused for a moment, a thoughtful look on her face. "Performance enhancement, I believe."

"Performance enhancement?" Adrian repeated, not quite certain what Madeline meant -- or, more accurately, not quite certain she wanted to know.

"Imagine how motivated an assassin would be if you could push a button and send him into a homicidal rage," said Madeline. "Or how convincing an undercover agent would be in his role if you could generate genuine emotions." She moved forward in her chair, her expression growing more focused. "You could even give someone on a suicide mission an extra boost of courage."

As Madeline leaned toward her, Adrian found herself drawing back, repulsed by the unperturbed -- almost admiring -- tone that had crept into the other woman's voice.

"That's monstrous," Adrian exclaimed.

Madeline regarded Adrian blankly for several moments, but then a subtle change took place within her eyes. Deep inside, a look of calculating, mechanical coldness grew, as if a long-dormant creature had stirred to life in some pitch-black cavern.

After a long silence, Madeline spoke. "That's the theory behind the device, at least," she said. "But it's apparent from our captive's erratic behavior that it's far from perfected. In fact, I doubt they had any real control over his reactions."

Adrian swallowed, forcing back an acid taste that filled her mouth. No matter how well-conditioned and obedient Madeline had become, she was still thoroughly cold-blooded -- and no matter how many times Adrian reminded herself of that fact, its demonstration never lost its impact.

"It's far from perfected now," Adrian said, recovering her composure by focusing on the immediate problem. "But they'll succeed eventually?"

"Perhaps. Given enough time."

Adrian drummed her fingers on the table. "Could they do this to someone without his knowledge? A sleeper assassin, for example?"

"I'm reluctant to speak in absolutes," Madeline said, "but it's hard to imagine that the procedure could escape the notice of the subject. It requires neurosurgery and recovery time, as well as adjustment and testing of the battery and the radio after implantation. In addition, there would be noticeable side-effects whenever the device was producing a current." She paused, frowning. "However, a knowing participant doesn't have to be a willing participant. Someone could be forced to submit to it."

Forced to submit to it? Somehow, that seemed even worse than being an unwitting victim.

Adrian laughed. "This is how they have to motivate their members? So much for the strength of their ideology." She shook her head in disgust. When none of them reacted to her remark, she turned to Paul. "Have you noticed odd behavior out in the field? Any signs they've tried this out on anyone else?"

"No." He stared at her impassively. Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, he looked bored. But the flicker of awareness in his eyes, the slight tension in his features that brought out faint lines in his face, hinted not of boredom, but of contempt.

It was a contempt she had seen before -- that had been growing increasingly visible over time. A contempt she knew she needed to respond to -- but hadn't quite yet decided how.

In any event, now was not the time to deal with it. Turning away from Paul, she leaned her chin on her hand, her mind sifting through their options. She straightened again when an idea began to emerge, crystallizing slowly.

"Walter?" she asked, a small smile curling her mouth.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Could we jam their signals and interfere with the communication of the commands?"

He nodded. "Sure, probably, if we outfitted our teams with the right equipment."

"Could we send our own signals?"

"Could we what?"

"If we knew the right frequency, could we send our own commands to their operatives? Could we control their reactions -- encourage them to surrender if we attacked, for example?"

"Oh, boy, I don't know." He shook his head. "Trying to make that work could get pretty complicated. I think it's a long shot."

"My, my, Walter," she said with a chuckle, "you don't usually let that discourage you. Or is it only in the pursuit of female company that you're so dogged in the face of overwhelming odds?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again, his face turning crimson.

"Walter," she announced, "I want you to begin testing means to control the signals to this device. Madeline, your assignment is to gather as much information as possible about how it might actually affect the subject. I want both of you to report back to me in a week, and we'll decide how to proceed from there."

Madeline exchanged a quick glance with Walter, then smiled politely. "Actually, I'm already somewhat familiar with the topic."

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? A bit of leisure-time reading?"

Madeline showed no reaction. "The Soviet doctor who pioneered the technology is someone I had occasion to work with during my undercover assignment for Section Two," she said blandly.

"Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten?" Adrian said, unable to keep the distaste out of her voice. That prior work for Section Two was something Adrian had only reluctantly authorized. Still, there was no denying it had given Madeline highly useful skills. "Would you be able to conduct such research here?"

"By myself?" Madeline asked. When Adrian nodded, she shook her head. "No. I'm not a physician. I do know enough to supervise a team working on such a project." She frowned. "However, I'm not certain that it's possible to--"

"The doctor in the Soviet Union," Adrian interrupted. "What's his name?"

"Her name. Dr. Zinaida Ulanova, at the Moscow Neuroscience Institute."

"Could we get access to her research? Do we still have sources close to her?"

Madeline's frown deepened. "I don't believe so. And her data will be guarded quite closely. It will be difficult to break into her offices to retrieve it."

"Why don't we just bring her in?" asked Paul impatiently. "Why waste time trying to duplicate her work?"

Madeline turned to stare at Paul, her expression first startled, then uneasy.

"Bring her in?" asked Adrian. "For interrogation?"

Paul gave a dry laugh. "For recruitment. Let her lead our research team. That way we'd be ahead of Red Cell instead of trying to catch up."

A pioneer in Soviet mind control experimentation -- doing her work for Section? Unthinkable.

"I'm not certain there's a place here for Dr. Frankenstein, Paul," Adrian said scornfully.

"Who better to tell you how to kill the monster?" His steady gaze was a silent challenge.

She held his look for several moments. "What if she can't bring herself to kill it?"

"She won't sabotage us," said Madeline. She looked directly into Adrian's eyes -- her posture rigid, her expression tight, as if she were bracing herself for a blow.

"You're certain of this?" Adrian asked, eyeing Madeline with suspicion. Madeline's body language nearly screamed that she was lying; Adrian wanted to know why.

Paul and Madeline exchanged a look -- they seemed visibly to switch gears, to shift back into that focused connection of before. Transformed, composed, Madeline turned back toward Adrian.

"Dr. Ulanova is a perfectionist," she said. "If there's a way to counteract the device, she would want to find it herself. She's the ideal person to lead our research efforts. In fact, having her work with us would likely cut our development time in half."

Adrian studied the two of them. She had been seeing this type of interaction more and more frequently of late: Madeline deferred to Paul's suggestions; in return, he allowed her to argue his case for him. A few years ago, when Adrian had still seen Paul as the prime candidate for her successor, their behavior would have troubled her. Now, with his status much more ambiguous, it was merely intriguing.

She had grave doubts about the wisdom of Paul's idea -- indeed, she suspected that Madeline did, too, despite her eagerness to support him. Nevertheless, allowing them to proceed would be an interesting experiment: a test of whether Madeline would admit the truth when the doctor inevitably failed, or whether this habit of defending Paul was dangerously ingrained.

"Well, then," Adrian said, smiling brightly, "if you're that confident, then by all means let's use her. I'd like the two of you to put together a profile to bring her in by the end of the week."

They both nodded.

"After she's here," Adrian continued, "you'll take full responsibility for her, Madeline. You'll be her trainer, her mentor, and her supervisor. And you'll report directly to me on the progress of her research. Understood?"

Madeline's face was a mask of calm resolve. "Of course."

"Excellent," said Adrian, standing to leave. "And good luck."

***

Paul pushed open his office door and stepped aside, allowing Madeline to enter first. He caught a fleeting whiff of fragrance as she passed, but it disappeared as she swept through the door and toward her usual chair at the table. She sat, crossed her legs and smoothed out her emerald silk skirt, then looked up at him expectantly.

He took the seat across from her and leaned his elbows on the table, examining her. Her hair fell in carefully styled waves to her shoulders, its dark color contrasting with the rich, cream-colored fabric of her blouse. The blouse was cut provocatively low, yet actually revealed nothing, aside from the necklace that shone against the skin below her neck. The necklace matched her earrings, which in turn matched her watch -- everything meticulously selected, painstakingly put in place. The fastidious attention she lavished on her appearance gave her an elegance that even older operatives lacked: it allowed her to present herself as composed, unruffled, serene -- even at times when he was certain she wasn't.

Times like now.

"You don't think it's going to work, do you?" he asked abruptly.

She cocked her head and looked at him, her eyes soft pools of darkness. "I don't think what's going to work?"

"Recruiting that Soviet doctor. I could tell you thought it was crazy."

She gave a noncommittal shrug. "The probability of success is low, at best. Dr. Ulanova has a difficult personality, shall we say."

He frowned. "Then why did you support me?"

She didn't answer for several moments -- her expression grew distant, as if she were trying to compose an answer. Finally, she took a long breath and spoke. "Your idea is our only hope of achieving Adrian's objective. If we tried to recreate the research using only Dr. Ulanova's files -- even supplemented by my memories from four years ago -- it would take too long. We'd be so far behind Red Cell there would be no point even trying." She smiled faintly. "You hit upon the only solution."

"Then why didn't you just tell her it couldn't be done?" When she looked at him as if he had lost his mind, he laughed and shook his head. "I know, I know."

So Adrian wanted the impossible. That was hardly anything new. What was surprising was how often they actually managed to give it to her.

As he shifted in his chair, the muscles in his lower back tightened with a dull ache; grimacing, he rose to his feet and began to pace. No longer comfortable sitting for any length of time, he had recently replaced his desk with a computer stand that allowed him to work while standing up. The meeting table and chairs he left as a courtesy to others -- mostly to Madeline, who spent more time in his office than anyone else -- but he could never sit there for long. Long ago, back in high school when he thought he was indestructible, he had wrenched his back in a violent football tackle. Recovering after several months, he promptly forgot about it; but now, years later, the injury had come back to haunt him. It was a troubling mark of advancing age: a sign that his days in the field, chasing after men in their twenties, would have to end. To be replaced by what was the question -- albeit one that he tried not to ask himself too often.

"All right," he said, rubbing his chin in thought as he walked back and forth, "you already have a fair amount of intel about this woman -- what's our best extraction scenario? Can we get to her when she's out of the country, at a conference or something?"

Madeline's lips twitched. "She doesn't travel." Her tone suggested a barely suppressed amusement, as if there were a great deal more to her statement than the words themselves revealed.

"Never?"

"Never. Not even out of Moscow." She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, her demeanor relaxing as the conversation shifted away from Adrian and into the comfortable routine of profiling. "In fact, from what I remember about her, she spent all her time either at the Institute or at home."

He sighed. "Fine. So we'll have to do an extraction in-country. What's the security like at the Institute?"

"Tight."

"At her home?"

Her brows furrowed. "I'm not sure. I'll have to find out where she lives. But most likely it's in a block of apartments -- not the easiest place to send a team unnoticed."

"Then we'll have to intercept her on her way from one to the other."

She nodded slowly, but she looked vaguely dissatisfied. She sat still for a moment, then her expression lightened. "There might be a simpler way," she said, her voice filling with pleased realization.

He stopped pacing. When she adopted that self-satisfied air it was usually very good news. "Yes?"

"Egran Petrosian. He knows her, at least casually. He could lure her out to a meeting."

"Hmmm. Wouldn't that put his cover at risk?"

"He's a clever man. I'm sure he can come up with something plausible. I'll contact him through the standard channels tomorrow."

"All right." He nodded. "Actually, I've been hoping to get another assignment with him. He still owes me money from Havana."

"Money? For what?"

"Oh, that's right." He laughed in embarrassment. "You wouldn't know. I forgot you didn't go with us on our, uh, excursion that one night."

She gave him a teasingly disapproving look and rose to her feet. "I'll forward you the profile as soon as I firm up the details with Egran."

"Wait," he said, reaching across the table to touch her arm as she turned to depart.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I've been going over the Matsuda scenario. I have some new data, and I'd appreciate your input before I take it to Adrian."

She flashed a split-second smile and sat down again. "Of course. Let me take a look."

He crossed the room to retrieve a file, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she waited. She looked relaxed, at home, settling into the familiar routine that they'd created over the past couple of years: sharing their work, tossing ideas back and forth, working together to create profiles that surpassed anything else produced in the Section. She spent so many hours working in his office that she had adopted one of the chairs as her own, moving into his space with a cozy sense of intimacy.

A professional intimacy, that is. They no longer shared any other kind. While she had never openly broken off their romance, had never asked him to stop coming to stay with her at night, somehow he had known that he was no longer welcome. That she was closed off to him, except in the narrow arena of work.

There, however, their relationship flourished -- in fact, it intensified, as if all of the energy they previously put into their love affair had been channeled into the smaller universe of the Section, concentrating and magnifying in the process. Over time, they had developed a kind of symbiotic cohesion -- their new relationship became comfortable, natural, inevitable, as if there had never been anything else. She became the only person who understood the workings of his mind, the only person he truly trusted -- and vice versa.

It was a sad irony: had they maintained their romantic relationship, the professional one -- the one he now cherished so much -- might not have deepened as thoroughly. He knew it, accepted it, and realized it was probably for the best. Still, looking at her now, he felt a pang of mourning for what they had -- a wish that somehow, some kind of balance could have been possible.

Gripping the file in his hand, he returned to the table. Dwelling on the past was foolish. He wouldn't succumb to wishful thinking when what they had come to share was so valuable: a joint addiction to the game, an unshakable sense of teamwork, and a growing faith in the rightness of what they were doing. A faith that had nothing to do with Adrian and her rigid Cold War ideology. Indeed, the Cold War had never truly satisfied him. While it was comforting to know that there were distinct teams and clear rules, the fight had often seemed so pointless, pitting one self-interested empire against another. But with the shift in power away from the Soviets and toward organizations like Red Cell, he knew he was facing real evil. Madeline recognized it, too; it showed in the righteous concentration that filled her face when they drew up their battle plans. There were real monsters out there, now, and it was their calling to stop them.

It was a calling far more important than the personal needs of any individual -- the two of them included.

***

Outside Section, the sun hadn't yet risen, and a hard winter rain fell onto the darkened streets. As Madeline made her way along the sidewalk, the wind whipped chilly sheets of water in every direction; it surged under her umbrella in powerful gusts, threatening to wrench it inside out.

After only four blocks, the front of her overcoat was soaked completely through. Fine droplets of water stung as the wind drove them into her face. The morning walk from the metro station to Section had turned into a losing struggle against the elements -- one rendered all the more miserable by the thought that her visitor from the prior evening was still sleeping, snuggled warmly under thick layers of bedcovers.

When she finally arrived at Section, it had rarely seemed so welcoming. With cold hands, she unbuttoned her coat and shook out her umbrella, spraying drops of rainwater across Section's main access area. She folded the umbrella and walked down the hallway. Her wet boots squeaked on the floor as she dripped water in her wake.

Rounding a corner, she saw Adrian striding purposefully down the corridor. There wasn't a drop of rain on the other woman's well-coiffed head; the alert look on her face was that of someone who had already been awake and productive for several hours.

Adrian nodded. "Madeline."

"Good morning," she replied. She hesitated, wondering whether she should wait for a more formal opportunity to meet with Adrian, then decided against it. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Certainly. I'm on my way to Procurement -- why don't you walk along with me?"

Adrian commenced a vigorous stride down the hallway, and Madeline struggled to match the pace without slipping in her wet boots. As they progressed, Adrian smiled at several other operatives, then glanced sideways at Madeline.

"What is it you wished to discuss?"

"It's the research project with Dr. Ulanova."

"Yes?"

"Integrating her into Section may require a considerable amount of my time, at least for the first several weeks."

"Of course. I'd already taken that into consideration." She nodded at another passing operative and turned back toward Madeline. "You'll be exempt from field assignments for the next fortnight at least. You will, however, continue with your full load of profiling and interrogation work." Her gaze sharpened, her expression both expectant and challenging. "I trust that won't be too burdensome?"

"Not at all. Thank you."

"Well, that was simple enough, wasn't it?" They continued in silence for a few moments, and then Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything else?"

Madeline swallowed nervously. "Yes, there is." She had opened the conversation with the simple request -- the one that made no sense to deny. Now, however, it was time to raise a more complicated subject.

Adrian's smile had frozen, rendering her face stiff, mask-like. "Please, go on, dear," she said.

"In order to conduct her research, Dr. Ulanova will need to work on the R&D levels within Section."

"Of course."

"I'm expected to supervise this work, and yet I don't have security clearance to access those departments."

"Ah." There was a long pause, the squeaking of Madeline's boots the only sound. "You raise a valid point. I think it might be necessary to raise your security rating to Class F. That should rectify the problem."

Madeline nodded, relieved that Adrian had agreed so readily to change her status, instead of finding an excuse to find fault with Madeline's qualifications.

"In fact," continued Adrian, "a Class F rating will give you clearance for a great deal more than the R&D levels. You'll be cleared for roughly ninety percent of accessible areas." Adrian gave her a strange look -- part amusement, part something Madeline couldn't quite place. "You'll have the highest clearance of any of the other Level Five operatives, you know. Higher than Paul, even," she said. "I suppose this calls for congratulations, of a sort."

Madeline said nothing, uncertain of how to respond.

"Actually," Adrian said, "I've been considering this reclassification for several months now. It's time for your role here to mature and evolve -- you need to be much more involved in our research and support activities. I think that's where you'll flourish."

"I hope so," Madeline replied warily, surprised at the warm tone of voice her superior had used.

Adrian gave her a slow look up and down, then smiled to herself, as if at a private joke.

"Tell me, Madeline. You've been here at One for four years now -- and part of the organization for how long? Sixteen years?" When Madeline nodded, Adrian continued, "After all this time, you must have developed some ambitions. Where do you see yourself in the long term?"

Madeline hesitated. It was critical that she say the right thing -- that she manage to sound acceptably diligent and loyal, with appropriate goals, but without posing a threat. She glanced at Adrian, trying to judge her mood, and saw an uncharacteristically sincere interest -- Adrian's expression looked almost encouraging. Still, a platitude seemed safer.

"I'd like to help guide the Section into the future in whatever way I can," she finally said, using the most serious tone she could muster.

Adrian's face tightened. As safely vague as Madeline thought her answer had been, she had apparently said something wrong.

"Let's not get too ambitious, dear," said Adrian icily. "You need to leave the guidance to those who are better suited to it."

Madeline's face heated in a flush; to hide it, she looked away.

Adrian placed a hand on Madeline's shoulder. "I think it's time I gave you some very frank advice."

Madeline forced herself to look back at Adrian, wiping all signs of her apprehension off her face.

"Leadership belongs to those who set a good example for others," Adrian said loftily. "And that's not just professionally, but in every aspect of their behavior. I'm afraid you haven't demonstrated that quality yet."

There was nothing to say to this. Madeline stared down the corridor, keeping her expression blank.

Adrian gave Madeline's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You've made remarkable improvements in your work over the past four years. I'm extremely pleased with your performance, as demonstrated by my decision to increase your responsibilities. However…." Adrian withdrew her hand. The movement made Madeline flinch. "What kind of moral tone do you think it sets for the Section when you take a different young man home with you every week?" The gentleness had vanished, replaced by frosty disdain.

Fighting to keep down a surge of resentment, Madeline took a long, careful breath before answering. "I don't know that it's anyone's business," she said coolly, looking Adrian directly in the eye. "I'm not coercing anyone."

Adrian made a "tsk" of disapproval and shook her head. "You see, this is precisely why you aren't meant for a leadership role. If you were, you would instinctively know that in an organization like ours, where we demand that our operatives follow orders even at the risk of death, the leadership must be seen as beyond the weaknesses of mere mortals." Her voice grew stern. "Leaders can't engage in behavior that is even remotely unseemly. The fact that this needs to be pointed out to you demonstrates that you aren't the right sort of person to wield that kind of power."

Madeline stared at a spot on the floor several steps ahead, her anger controlled only by her dazed shock. It was unbelievable. Adrian was opining on morality as if she were a Victorian missionary's wife instead of the woman who routinely sent Madeline out on valentine missions -- and yet somehow she had succeeded in making Madeline feel ashamed.

Adrian's expression softened. "I'm not telling you this to be cruel, Madeline. It's simply an objective observation -- something that you need to know about yourself. If you understand your limitations, then you can be satisfied doing what you can do well."

"And what would that be?"

"You can do the work that no one else has the stomach for. Focus on that. Accept it as who you are." Adrian smiled. "After all, if you try to be someone you're not, you'll only wind up destroying yourself."

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

Chilly Moscow air filled the cab of the parked truck. After sitting in it for forty minutes, Paul's feet were numb, even in his heavy boots and thick socks. Next to him, the driver blew in his cupped hands to keep warm, then he rubbed his hands briskly up and down his arms.

Eventually, the two men exchanged a look.

"Turn on the heater," Paul muttered. "This is ridiculous."

The driver started the engine and reached over to switch on the heater. Immediately, a blast of stale air hit Paul's face. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of scorched dust, he turned toward the passenger window and looked out over the park nearby. The driver coughed and cleared his throat with long, rasping hacks.

The truck engine idled loudly. It sent a bone-shaking vibration up through the threadbare seat cushion. Paul shuffled his feet and adjusted the position of his earphone, wishing there were a volume control. He stared out the window at the two figures he was monitoring, as if by concentrating on them he could somehow make them talk more clearly. Finally, he turned to the driver and scowled.

"Switch off the engine. I can't hear anything."

The driver grunted and turned the ignition key. Abruptly, the vibrations and noise ceased, and Egran Petrosian's voice again became audible over the earphone.

"--your cooperation in meeting with me on such short notice, Dr. Ulanova," Petrosian finished.

"Yes, you should be grateful, given that we both know this is a waste of my time," replied Ulanova peevishly, her voice so high-pitched it caused Paul to wince. "I only agreed to speak with you at all because I always walk here on my lunch hour."

Paul watched them in the distance as they strolled along a path near the edge of the park. They made an odd pair, both matched and mismatched: Egran ambled like an awkward giant next to the petite doctor, but their drab winter coats were nearly identical.

Arriving at a fork in the path, Egran headed left -- toward an isolated area, filled with tall bushes that would allow him to overpower Ulanova without attracting attention from stray passersby. However, it appeared she wasn't very interested in being led.

"No, not that path," she snapped.

"There are too many people on the other path," replied Egran, his voice soothing. "We need to speak in confidence, Doctor."

"But I always take this one."

"Why?" Even through the tiny earphone, Paul could hear Egran's exasperation.

"I don't like that other path. And I don't like people who ask me stupid questions."

Paul burst out laughing. He could just picture Egran's face, crimson with anger at the audacity of anyone calling him stupid. Paul had seen him resort to violence over lesser affronts than that.

"Fine," grumbled Egran. "We'll take your path."

As they headed down the path on the right, there were a few moments of silence. Paul fidgeted impatiently.

"I told you I would talk to you for forty-five minutes. You now have thirty-one left," Ulanova said. "What do you want from me?"

"As I told you on the phone," said Egran, the strain of controlling his temper becoming more and more apparent in his voice, "the KGB suspects that there is classified information being leaked by someone working at your Institute. That's why I wanted to speak with you off premises, away from anyone who might try to eavesdrop."

"Why are you repeating what you told me on the phone? Do you actually have questions for me, or not?" She made a noise of disgust. "You now have thirty more minutes."

"Have any of your colleagues have been putting in unusually long hours, or working at odd times?"

She laughed dismissively. "No. I'm the only one who works late -- but that's because I'm the only one who actually bothers to work."

"Are you certain? We're looking for someone who may be looking for an opportunity to copy classified files, or to sabotage test results."

"I already told you, no one at the Institute is a spy," she said. "Lazy idiots, sycophantic fools, hopeless incompetents, yes, the place is full of those. But no spies. None of them would have the nerve." She came to a sudden halt. "If you need to file a report on my interview for your superiors, why don't you just make up some answers? They'll do just as well. That way I can enjoy my lunch hour by myself."

Paul saw her turn and walk away, but before she could take more than a step Egran seized her by the arm. As he dragged her behind a row of bushes, she let loose a piercing shriek and a stream of curses that Paul feared would cause the entire population of the city to come running. Fortunately, they quickly vanished from sight. For a few seconds afterwards, Paul heard crashing and more cursing, and then a sharp yelp from Egran. Finally, the noise subsided.

"Paul?" Egran called out, breathing heavily.

"Report."

"Bring the truck. I'm thirty meters from the street."

Paul nodded at the driver, who restarted the engine, pulled off, and circled around the park. Within moments, they had arrived at the point closest to where Egran had disappeared. Paul jumped out of the truck, jogged to the rear, and banged with his fist on the side of the vehicle. Rumbling noisily, the rear door rolled up, and another operative clambered out, clutching a heavy canvas duffel bag.

The two men dashed into the park. They found Egran in a tall clump of bushes, one of his hands oozing blood, the other clutching the hypodermic he had used to sedate Ulanova. She lay sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, her face smeared with dirt and her black hair tangled with pine needles.

"She bit me, the little bitch," Egran exclaimed.

Paul stifled a laugh. The fact that Egran had trouble overpowering such a tiny female was vastly amusing -- but it was not the sort of thing it would be wise to gloat about too openly.

The operative with the duffel bag stuffed Ulanova into it. He quickly knotted it closed and hoisted the load over his shoulder. All three men hurried back to the truck, but as the operative prepared to swing the duffel bag into the back, Egran snatched it away from him. Grunting angrily, Egran tossed the bag through the air into the rear of the truck, where it landed with a heavy thud.

Paul and the other operative exchanged bemused looks.

"She's going to have a hell of a bruise from that," remarked Paul.

"I hope so," answered Egran, scowling darkly.

Snickering, the other operative climbed into the truck and pulled down the rear door behind him with a slam.

Egran turned to Paul, the tension in his expression ebbing as Ulanova disappeared from view. "You are going to regret recruiting her, mark my words. She has given the KGB no end of trouble over the years."

"How so?" Paul felt a twinge of worry deep in the pit of his stomach. This sounded even worse than what Madeline had led him to believe.

Egran made a face of disgust. "She is a complete egomaniac. She cannot work with anyone. And she thinks she knows better than her superiors." He snorted with dark-humored laughter. "Adrian is going to hate her."

God, it was going to be a disaster. Wonderful.

Paul smiled grimly. "Then we're in for some fun, aren't we?"