Lisa glanced up at the Perch the instant she crossed the threshold onto the main floor. It was dark and empty, just as she had hoped. She breathed a sigh of relief and scanned in all directions around her -- the standard complement of operatives walked busily back and forth, but with no missions live, everyone was headed somewhere else.

Except Jules, that is. He sat by himself at Comm, twisting his chair back and forth lazily, chewing on a thumbnail as he stared at his monitor. Lisa walked toward him, her boots thumping on the floor as she approached. When she neared, he looked up and his face lit expectantly. He sat up straight and stopped his nailbiting, a hint of anxiety in his eyes.

"Have you got it?" he asked in a low voice.

Lisa nodded wordlessly. After looking around to make sure no one was watching, she removed a floppy disk she had hidden within the pages of a report and offered it to him.

"Ah, merci beaucoup," he said, relaxing and smiling broadly. He took the disk and inserted it into his computer, then began to type on his keyboard as he whistled cheerfully. When his screen showed the contents of the disk, he grinned. "Oh, beautiful! You've saved me days of work." He looked back up at her and winked. "I'll probably have something else for you tomorrow."

Lisa regarded him without expression. "Fine."

He frowned, hesitant, and cleared his throat. "Uh, my shift ends in an hour. You want to--"

"No," she said abruptly. "I'm busy."

Without bothering to wait for his reaction, she turned and headed toward a nearby terminal. She slid into the seat and pulled the keyboard toward her. Typing rapidly, she logged onto the system; as she waited for the computer to respond, she glanced back over at Jules. He stared at her like a stray dog that had just been kicked; in response, she simply hardened her expression. He looked away, his face reddening.

She returned her attention to the monitor and began to scroll through directories: directories she had no authorization to access, no legitimate business viewing. Yet she browsed through them with impunity -- even with the head of Comm sitting mere feet away.

He knew exactly what she was doing, of course. In fact, he was probably monitoring her progress through the system as she typed. But it didn't matter. As long as she did work for him in secret, he looked the other way. The disk she handed him -- like the one she gave him week before, and the other the week before that -- was payment for his silence.

The payment was ongoing, the supply of assignments endless. Writing software programs, finding bugs in someone else's, patching security holes -- she did it all. Most of the jobs were ridiculously easy, although she never let him know that -- it would only encourage him to give her even more. As it was, he was more dependent on her than he was on his own staff. She was, de facto, his chief troubleshooter, and she had saved his sorry butt more times than she could count.

In all the ways that mattered, she ran Comm -- as Jules knew full well. Formally, however, she was still a lowly cold op, laying her life on the line week after week. And now, she knew she'd stay that way forever -- or until she met a bullet with her name on it.

It was amazing, really. She had struggled so hard and yet still failed. She had taught herself to be the best programmer -- and then the best network administrator -- ever to set foot in Section. Thanks to Madeline's assistance, her personnel file was overflowing with references to her computer aptitude. She had even managed to win over Jules, tossing aside her shame to hint she would happily trade sexual favors for his support. That, thankfully, hadn't been necessary -- when it finally dawned on him that she was willing to let him take the credit for her work, he submitted an enthusiastic request to Adrian for her transfer. She rejoiced, thinking she had it made -- out of the field, with its mounting death tolls, and into a cushy position at Comm.

It was the embarrassed expression on Jules's face that told her otherwise, even before he opened his mouth to speak. Adrian had denied the transfer request, even after -- so Jules claimed -- he had argued her case. Actually, she believed him: he had looked so ashamed, so humiliated to admit that he had less influence than he thought, that she knew he wasn't lying.

Incredible. Everything had gone right and had still managed to go wrong.

Fortunately, she no longer gave a shit. Not about Comm, not about Section, not about her own life expectancy. The only thing she cared about was protecting Seymour: making sure that his captivity -- while still enslavement -- at least was a comfortable one. So she did whatever it took to make that happen. Breaking into the network to give Mireille her little perks. Doing work for Jules so he'd look the other way when she accessed the system. Doing whatever the hell else was necessary to make sure her son got to live like a human being -- or as close to that as she could manage.

It was a strange web she was caught in: a collection of people who despised each other, exchanging favors in secret. But that was the way Section worked, it seemed. Maybe that was how the whole world worked, for that matter. It was a sad reality. But when confronted with reality, one really only had two choices: live in denial, or adapt. She had decided to choose the latter.

She sighed and returned her focus to the data on the computer screen. There it was: Level 16 Personnel Database. She opened the file, found the entry for Martin, Mireille L., typed in an upgraded rating, disguised the source of the upgrade, and then closed the file again. Boom! Done. It had taken all of three minutes.

Just as her hands were poised to hit the keys to log off the terminal, she hesitated, and a ripple of fear ran through her nerves. Small favors were one thing, but Mireille was getting too damned greedy. If anyone questioned this, they were all dead.

As her mouth grew dry, her heart began to thud. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply; slowly, the fear coalesced into resentment, then into bitterness, then into angry determination.

Mireille wanted a new apartment? Fine. But why should Lisa let the housing drones pick it for her, when she could do it herself? Yeah, she could give Mireille just what she deserved.

She pulled up the Accommodations database and browsed through the open listings. Walking distance from Section, hmm? There were three matching locations. She read through the descriptions for each one, and then started smiling.

Maintenance Report: Resident has complained about plumbing problems, including repeated toilet backups. Inspection revealed deteriorated pipes which were patched, but due to the age of the building, recurrence is inevitable. Resident has requested transfer to other location.

Oh, that was just too perfect. With a few swift keystrokes, Lisa assigned Mireille her new apartment.

Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart, she thought. I might just give it to you.

***

The car rolled smoothly through the early evening traffic -- slowing, accelerating, merging, and turning -- and headed out of the city toward Adrian's secluded estate. In the rear seat, Adrian allowed the report she had been reading to fall open in her lap, absentmindedly watching the uniformed driver as he reached with a white-gloved hand to start the turn signal. It blinked on and off with a faint clicking sound for several seconds; when the car changed lanes, the signal switched off and a hushed silence fell onto the car's interior.

Through the tinted windows, the streets took on an alien quality. It was as if far more than a few inches of glass and metal separated Adrian from the world outside -- as if that world were a projection, not entirely real. Only her immediate surroundings truly seemed to exist: the leather-padded bubble of the car, the rarified air within the Section, her heavily guarded estate and its carefully tended garden, her private jets with their deferentially attentive crews. Day after day, she moved from one sealed environment to another, uncontaminated by anything else.

Years ago, she used to try and escape to the outside -- to walk the streets, to go into shops, parks and restaurants, to talk to ordinary people. She thought it would help her stay grounded, that it could keep her from succumbing to that disease of superiority that so often afflicted those wielding power. Eventually, however, she realized that it accomplished nothing. Engaging in superficial small talk with random members of the public was about as meaningful as the Queen of England shaking hands with well-wishers outside the gates of Buckingham Palace: no real connection could be made when she lived in a completely different universe. And so she gave up.

Power didn't just corrupt: it isolated, and through isolation distorted reality. It was unfortunate, even dangerous -- but thoroughly inescapable.

She looked back at the document on her lap: the next quarter's budget, received from Center earlier in the day. She flipped through the pages to the end, where a series of colorful tables summarized the allocations. She studied them, her interest growing, then gripped the document tightly when she spotted the anomaly. Section One's allocation had declined -- ever so slightly -- yet again, making an eleven percent reduction over the past eighteen months.

She smiled bitterly. Did Phillip think she wouldn't notice? If so, he was a bigger fool than she'd realized.

There was no doubt that the overall funding available to the Agency was increasing. It had been throughout the decade, thanks to the aggressive, anti-communist stance adopted by the conservative administrations that dominated so many governments in the West. But Phillip, apparently, wanted to keep those funds all for Center -- to pay for his precious studies and think tanks and conferences. This, regardless of how his actions adversely affected the Sections' ability to run real-life missions.

It was so shortsighted. Even Phillip should have known better. Without missions -- without concrete results that they could show their sponsors -- where would they be in the long run?

Or rather, where would she be in the long run?

She closed the report with an angry snap. Phillip wasn't just hoarding funds because he was greedy -- he actually wanted her to fail.

So, he had finally reneged on his longstanding promise to leave the Sections alone. How gratifying to know that he had lived down to her expectations. The only thing that really surprised her was that it had taken him so many years to do so. That, perhaps, was because he was more of a coward than she had anticipated.

It was a nasty little game he was playing. A passive-aggressive ploy by a man who didn't dare challenge her directly -- by a man who had only a hundredth of her intelligence, and even less integrity.

With such a man, it wasn't sufficient to outplay him. She would have to destroy him.

She looked back out the window, her resolve hardening as she stared at the passing streets. She might be insulated -- even isolated -- from the hard world outside. But she hadn't forgotten how to fight.

***

Madeline made her way through Containment, turning a corner and dodging two stocky operatives as they dragged a struggling captive down the hallway. She passed a series of identical closed doors, glancing at small video screens embedded in the wall beside each one, and examined the grainy, black and white images from the interior of each locked room.

Eventually, she found the holding cell she was looking for. Inside, a woman with short, black hair paced relentlessly back and forth: Zinaida Ulanova, who had awakened from her sedation little more than an hour before. Her movements were angry; her steps jerky; her shoulders hunched and tense. She seemed ready to erupt with anxious energy, and her petite, birdlike frame almost shook with barely-contained rage.

When Ulanova happened to look directly at the camera, Madeline started. The other woman's gaze -- even filtered through the lens of the camera -- gave her an odd sense of disorientation. Those sharp features, that flare of arrogance in Ulanova's expression, were so familiar -- but so wrong. To see someone from her old, undercover life here in Section felt like she was caught between two parallel universes verging violently together. Two universes that were never, ever supposed to mix.

Swallowing uncomfortably, she put those thoughts aside. She wiped her face clean of all expression and pushed open the door. She walked in cautiously -- her demeanor non-threatening but alert, poised for a hostile reaction.

Ulanova whipped her head around to look toward the door, her expression angry and defiant. A split second later, the defiance froze into a look of profound shock.

"Julia?" she gasped, calling out Madeline's old mission name.

Madeline closed the door behind her. As it clicked shut, she felt a cold rush of memories swarm around her. She had answered to that name, twenty-four hours a day, for ten full years. Under that name, she had performed the unspeakable. Committed atrocities. Sat by and observed, calmly taking notes, as criminals and innocents alike suffered unimaginable agony and died.

She had survived mentally by segregating that person into a separate portion of her brain, constructing boundaries to keep "Julia" completely separate from Madeline, the Section operative, the person who still had a sense of right and wrong, who watched and reported on Julia's activities with horror and disgust. When her undercover assignment had ended, she thought that person had died forever. Her techniques survived, but only under tight control -- employed only against people who were clearly the enemy, who in some way brought it upon themselves. Never again against innocents, the defenseless, the blameless. Or so she assured herself.

But was that other persona really dead, or just lurking somewhere?

Ulanova gaped at her. "I thought you were dead," she murmured in Russian.

"I am," Madeline answered -- perhaps a little too forcefully, as if she were lashing out at the woman for inadvertently echoing her own thoughts. Forcing herself to relax, she folded her hands in front of her and smiled, switching to English. "But then again, so are you."

Ulanova gulped, but then her expression sharpened. "You're not KGB, are you?" she asked, following Madeline's lead by speaking in English. When Madeline shook her head, she frowned. "What is this place?"

"It's called Section One."

"So it does exist," Ulanova whispered, seemingly more to herself than to Madeline. A look of resigned but dignified sadness filled her face. "Are you going to kill me?"

"That remains to be seen."

Ulanova opened her mouth as if to say something further, but stopped. She dropped her gaze down toward the floor, her face turning a sickly white.

"Zina," said Madeline sternly, using the familiar form of her name. "Look at me."

Ulanova looked up. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her expression was angry and her mouth pinched in a tight line.

"You're here to continue your work," said Madeline. "We'll provide you with a staff and facilities far better than anything you had at home. As long as you comply, you'll be fine." Madeline tried to sound reassuring, but her words seemed hopelessly unconvincing. Ulanova, from what she remembered, was simply too rigid psychologically to adapt to being brought into Section. The only real question was whether her lifespan would be measured in months, or only weeks.

Ulanova exhaled loudly, the tension in her posture slowly easing. She looked around the room with a curious expression. "Is this what happened to you?" When Madeline said nothing, she continued, "That car crash you died in, that was staged so they could bring you here?"

It was true, but not the way Ulanova meant -- she had no idea that "Julia" never really existed in the first place. Deciding it would take too long to explain, Madeline chose to ignore the question.

"I've been assigned to supervise your work and to help you get settled in," she announced. "If you're ready, I can take you to your living quarters."

When Ulanova nodded, Madeline opened the door and led her from the room. They passed through a set of security doors, then approached a row of elevators. Stepping into an open car, they stood, silently, as Madeline pressed a button and the doors closed.

With a jerk and a noisy hum, the elevator began its ascent. Ulanova glanced sideways at Madeline.

"Will I be working with Dr. Ohanian also?" she asked, her tone cautious but friendly.

Hearing the name of her undercover target -- the man who had taught her everything she knew about torture and interrogation -- Madeline felt a literal chill, as if his ghost had placed his hand on her shoulder. She had managed to put him out of her mind for the last four years -- but now, hearing his name spoken aloud, it reminded her that in some disturbing way, she missed him.

"He's dead," she said brusquely, as if her vehemence could shove his memory away. When Ulanova frowned, she added, "Actually dead."

"What happened to him?"

She leveled a steady gaze at Ulanova and held it for several seconds. "I killed him."

Ulanova paled, taking a step backwards so that she bumped against the far wall of the car. Madeline stared at her, pinning her in place until the elevator finally halted. She stepped out and looked over her shoulder at Ulanova, who hung back.

"This way, please," she said, courteous but firm.

She led Ulanova along more hallways, stopping when she reached a nondescript door. She punched in a code to unlock it, swung the door open, and gestured for Ulanova to enter.

The quarters were simple but adequate, much like a generic hotel room. There was a table, chairs, a bed, a small bathroom through a side door, but no phone, no television, no radio -- all links to the outside world conspicuously absent.

"Make yourself comfortable. Someone will come by to bring you dinner in an hour."

Ulanova nodded slowly, looking around the room with a dazed expression.

Madeline placed her hand gently on Ulanova's arm. "I'm afraid that until you're better integrated into the organization, you're going to be restricted to quarters when you aren't under supervision. Is there anything I can bring you?"

Ulanova frowned and shook her head.

"Something to read?"

"No," she said, staring blankly toward the far side of the room. Suddenly, she gave Madeline a pained look. "Does my father think I'm dead?"

"Your father?"

"He's sick. I take care of him. I'm the only person he has…." Ulanova turned away, her voice fading.

For a second, Madeline considered inventing some sort of comforting story. She quickly thought better of it -- if she found out, Ulanova was not the sort to forgive being lied to.

"Yes, he thinks you're dead. I'm sorry."

Ulanova's expression tightened, but she managed to keep herself under control. "I see."

Madeline waited a few moments. When it seemed that Ulanova had nothing more to say, Madeline turned toward the door. "I'll leave you for now. I'll be back first thing in the morning to show you the lab."

"Wait," Ulanova called out.

Madeline stopped and looked back.

"There is something you can bring."

"What's that?"

"A chessboard and set. That is, if…." Ulanova hesitated.

"If?"

"If you'll play a game with me."

Madeline raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised that the notoriously antisocial Ulanova would want company, especially under the circumstances.

"We used to, back when you were visiting the Institute. As I recall, you weren't a bad player. Though not as good as me." Ulanova smiled weakly.

How interesting. Ulanova was reaching out -- to the only link to her old life, the only familiar person in this new environment. It was a surprisingly healthy coping mechanism for someone Madeline had expected to shrink into withdrawn isolation. Perhaps there was some hope for her after all -- and, more importantly, for the project that depended upon her expertise.

"I'd love to," Madeline said, carefully modulating her tone so that it conveyed precisely the right level of comradeship. "I'll be back in a few hours, after you've had a chance to relax and eat."

"Thank you," said Ulanova. "It's good to see you again, Julia."

Madeline repressed a flinch at hearing that name again. "I go by a different name here. From now on, please call me Madeline."

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

His muscles stiffening, Charles shifted in the rigid chair and cast his gaze around Adrian's office. Through the picture window to his right, he could see the main floor below; there, Adrian stood, engrossed in a discussion with Jules. Despite her command that Charles appear in her office at 15:30 sharp, she seemed in no hurry to come upstairs herself.

So he waited, patiently, and tried to ignore the man in the chair beside him.

He and Paul Wolfe hadn't spoken a word for a full twenty minutes. Instead, Charles engaged in a tremendous effort to look away from Paul at all times. It wasn't an easy task when sitting inches apart, but Charles was determined: he stared out the window, at the floor, at the polished surface of Adrian's desk, at the crystal vase full of bright pink flowers, at anything that didn't bring his line of vision in Paul's direction.

The more he tried to look elsewhere, however, the more aware of Paul's presence he became. A pent-up energy emanated from the other man, a strange magnetic force that drew one's gaze toward him even as one felt apprehensive of what one might see. It was something Paul carried with him constantly of late, as if he wore a cloak of seething, sublimated menace.

In the past, Paul had been prone to explosions of temper that flashed violently and then subsided, like sudden summer thunderstorms. Now, years later, he was colder, more controlled, and -- in Charles's opinion -- far more dangerous. His hostility was unremitting, his anger concentrated. Focused. Relentless.

He had even changed his style of dress to match this new persona. Gone were the quasi-military commando-style outfits of trousers, sweater, and boots that he used to favor. These days, when not on a mission, he wore suits or sportscoats. Tailored outfits that nearly shouted their inflated pricetags.

Charles had worn such suits for years. On him, they looked like the uniform of a lawyer or a stockbroker. On Paul, however, they conferred an air of arrogant authority. They made him look like a man who was accustomed to owning things. And to getting his way.

Charles blinked, startled, when Adrian swept past him toward her desk. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even heard her come in.

"Thank you for waiting, gentlemen," she said.

Charles sat forward as Adrian settled behind her desk. Paul, in contrast, folded his arms and leaned back insolently. His demeanor struck Charles as deliberately disrespectful -- enough so to be provocative, but stopping just short of insubordination.

If Adrian noticed Paul's body language, she ignored it. She smiled, her expression oddly distant.

"As my two senior team leaders," she said, "you need to be kept abreast of certain developments." Her gaze shifted from one man to the other, but seemed somehow out of focus, lacking its usual sharp edge.

At this statement, Paul finally sat up straight. Charles frowned, trying -- and failing -- to imagine what sort of announcement was forthcoming.

She paused for long enough that it began to become uncomfortable. "Section One has been facing budgetary cutbacks for more than a year now," she finally continued. "I have every reason to expect those reductions will continue."

Charles raised his eyebrows. In his fifteen years at Section, not once had Adrian ever shared such concerns with subordinates.

"Over the past few months," she said, "I have endeavored to operate as usual, despite these rather trying circumstances. However, I'm afraid the time has come to engage in some belt-tightening."

The two men exchanged concerned glances.

"Effective immediately," she announced, "we will be scaling back the manpower devoted to operations against Class 3 entities. You'll have to make do with reduced teams. I want you to start revising your profiles and training strategies accordingly."

Paul scowled. "Class 3 is the last place we should cut. That's where the threat is."

Adrian's smile was brittle. "Thank you for your input, Paul. However, I've weighed the options very carefully."

Charles watched with interest as Paul and Adrian held a long, frigid look. This wasn't the first time their interactions had grown tense; in recent months, it had been a more common occurrence than not. In fact, it was becoming harder and harder for Charles to remember the time when Adrian had treated Paul as her favorite, her most likely successor. Now, that was no longer an issue, as even she had apparently come to see he was unsuitable.

How things had changed. Only two years before, Charles had felt compelled to turn to George, taking an enormous risk by going behind Adrian's back to complain about her favoritism. All for nothing, as it turned out. If he had kept his mouth shut, the problem would have solved itself.

Unfortunately, he hadn't been patient enough. And his contact with George had brought unexpected -- and rather unwelcome -- consequences. Somehow, what he thought was a one-time appeal for help had turned into something else entirely: George kept contacting him, prodding him for information, demanding that he report surreptitiously on the activities of his colleagues. To what end, Charles wasn't certain. At first, it had seemed George was merely following up on Charles's warnings about Paul. But as Paul's standing with Adrian had fallen, George's interest hadn't waned; instead, his focus merely broadened.

But if George had a larger purpose, Charles wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Blinking, he forced himself to return to the present.

"We'll adjust to the smaller teams, of course," he said. "While I'd like to have better options, I understand that's not always possible."

"Thank you," said Adrian. She looked back toward Paul. "I do hope you can follow Charles's example."

As Paul turned to stare at him, Charles felt as if a bucket of icewater had been dumped on his head.

"Follow Charles's example?" Paul asked, his voice low and contemptuous. "I'll manage with smaller teams, if that's what you mean."

It took all of Charles's self-control not to stand and demand that Paul take his insults outside, man to man. Instead, he satisfied himself with returning the disdainful glare.

Adrian seemed oblivious to the hostility. "That will do," she replied. Once again, her attention wandered. "Now, gentlemen," she said, already looking away, "I have other pressing work. Thank you for your time."

***

Grasping the ice cube with a pair of tongs, George lifted it out of the ice bucket and dropped it into the glass. It fell with a sharp clink. He added another, then he set down the tongs and reached for a nearby bottle of gin. As he poured it, the ice cracked loudly; he filled the remainder of the glass with tonic water and added a twist of lime.

"There you are," he said, smiling as he handed Adrian the glass. "A double, just as you like it."

"Thank you." She took the glass and nodded gratefully.

He mixed his own drink and returned the bottles to the burnished mahogany liquor cabinet. He sat in the leather armchair beside her, leaned back comfortably, and swallowed a sip.

Ah. Crisp. Clean. Slightly bracing. Just the thing for late afternoon. Or, well, maybe not so late. He set down his glass and glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Perhaps a bit early for drinks, but with Adrian in town he wouldn't be getting any more work done anyway. Indeed, when she had called that morning to advise him of her arrival, he'd had to cancel three appointments to accommodate her schedule. God only knew when he would be able to reschedule them again.

One would have thought that the Commander of the Sections would have kept her Second-in-Command better apprised of her travel plans. But to her, such things had always been an afterthought.

The question was: why was she visiting? She rarely paid notice to the other Sections, so long as no problems were brought to her attention. In fact, she expressed her dislike of Brussels at every opportunity. It was so full of bureaucrats and pencil-pushers, she always delighted in claiming, that the streets were paved with red tape.

Nevertheless, here she was. Sloshing the ice around her drink distractedly, with a strangely apprehensive expression on her face. He watched and waited.

Eventually, she spoke. "You'll be happy to know I've given a promotion to one of your protégés," she said, adding a faintly mocking bite to her enunciation of the final word. "Or at least a security upgrade."

"Indeed?" He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a curious expression. He already knew what Adrian meant, thanks to Madeline's latest debrief, but forced himself to play innocent.

"I've given Madeline some additional responsibilities. She'll be handling more of One's research and support activities from now on."

He nodded sagely. "Very good. I've always thought she had the aptitude for a more supervisory role."

"So you keep saying." She looked him up and down, her expression amused. "We'll see how she performs."

He bit down on the urge to smile at that remark. He would be very anxious indeed to see how Madeline would perform, but not in quite the way Adrian meant. Madeline's security upgrade had been an unexpected but marvelous gift; now, between the two of them, Madeline and Charles had access to virtually everything within Section One. Furthermore, because neither of them knew that the other was an informant, they were a perfect check and balance against each other. Why, he probably knew more about what was really going on at One than anyone there, including Adrian herself.

Not that it mattered quite as much as it used to. Once he reached his understanding with Phillip about the future of the organization, his plan to oust Adrian had become unnecessary, and so had all the subterfuge that went with it. Still, he chose to maintain his relationship with her subordinates. Once developed, a good informant was like gold bullion -- something to hoard in case disaster ever struck.

Adrian sipped her drink again. She stared at the tapestry on the wall across the room, and the look in her eyes grew distant and reflective. After a long pause, she sighed and set down her glass.

"I didn't come all the way here to inform you about minor personnel changes, as I'm sure you've guessed."

He sat up, waiting for her to continue.

Her expression darkened. "It's Phillip. He's gone too far."

George's heart rate accelerated. "What's he done this time?" He chuckled sympathetically, struggling not to show his nervousness. "Don't tell me he's foisting another genetics experiment upon you."

"No, not like that. It's not anything specific, actually. Rather, it's his general attitude."

"What do you mean?"

The muscles around her mouth tightened as if she had tasted something foul. "He thinks it's a hierarchy, with him at the top of the pyramid."

"But it is," he said, shrugging.

"No, it's not," she snapped. "We were supposed to be autonomous. Sister organizations, but autonomous."

He tried to resist rolling his eyes. There she went again, off on her pet delusion. Sister organizations, with one controlling the other's budget? Preposterous.

"If that were the case," he countered smoothly, hoping he could calm her down, "we'd get our funding directly from the Council, not funneled through Center. Center has a certain priority. We have to accept that."

She regarded him with a look of appalled outrage, as if he had just denied the divinity of her chosen deity.

"That arrangement was made for the Council's administrative convenience, not as a reflection of each entity's status. I would never have agreed to it had I not been assured of that fact." Her voice was icy, her eyes glittering. "However, I believe you've hit upon the source of the problem. Phillip has started to believe that because he controls the purse strings, that he's in charge." Her jaw twitched slightly. "I believe it's time he was set straight."

"What do you propose to do?"

"I plan to approach the Council and request that our funding be severed from Center's, and that we be treated as the independent organizations we were always intended to be," she answered briskly. "It's the only way."

George hid his reaction by taking another sip of his drink; the cold liquid coated his suddenly dry throat. This was a complication, certainly, but not necessarily a disaster. While the Council wasn't wholly on Phillip's side, it was still unlikely to grant such a request. There was no need to panic just yet.

"Do you think they'll agree?" He kept his voice relaxed.

Adrian sniffed. "Unfortunately, the Council is packed with Phillip's cronies. Nitwits and baboons, the whole lot of them" she said. Then a sly smile crept across her face. "But I have something planned that might persuade them."

He took a moment to find his voice. "What?" he asked hoarsely.

"A graphic demonstration of the problems that Phillip's budget cutbacks are causing Section One. A failed mission, to be exact." She beamed triumphantly and reached for her drink.

Mortified, he froze, unable to do anything but stare at Adrian. What in God's name was she up to?

"First," she explained, "I'll send several detailed memos outlining my fears that this quarter's funding reductions will adversely impact our operations. Being a bureaucracy, the Council will of course ignore them." She chuckled. "However, the memos will provide the paper trail I'll rely upon later. After several such warnings go unheeded, I'll arrange for one of our missions to fail due to inadequate staffing -- which of course I will blame on the budget cutbacks."

"You'll arrange for a mission to fail?"

"Precisely. I want it to be controlled, so as to minimize the actual damage. It will be a disaster, but not so much of one that we can't recover. And because I will have predicted it, I won't be to blame."

"You're going to sacrifice a mission to make a point with the Council?" He knew he was repeating himself -- and probably sounded like an idiot -- but he simply couldn't help himself.

She gave him a patronizing shake of her head. "George, George, my dear, you should know how these things work by now. Bureaucrats never take action to fix anything until after a problem occurs. I'll give them one. But I'll make sure that it's a problem of my choosing, and that it occurs on my schedule."

Frantic, he tried to control his thoughts. He needed to know as much as possible about her plan, but couldn't appear overanxious. He forced himself to wait to speak, crossing one leg over the other, brushing a piece of lint off his trouser-leg. Then he looked up again.

"Have you chosen the mission?" he asked as calmly as he could manage, although he could swear his pounding heart must be audible a mile away.

"Yes," she replied, her smile brightening. "We've been tracking Cyrus Norasty, one of Red Cell's founders, for several months now. I believe we're quite close to pinpointing his location. When we launch the mission to eliminate him, I'm going to make sure it fails. Spectacularly." She looked gleeful, as if she were about to rub her hands together in delight.

"You'll let him escape?" he asked numbly.

"For the time being. We can intercept him later."

Bloody hell. If she succeeded in convincing the Council to sever the ties between the Sections and Center, she would be untouchable -- and he would never escape from underneath her shadow. Yet as infuriating as this development was, at the same time he found himself growing perversely angry that she didn't ask for his help first. She just went ahead and made up her mind: another reminder of what little esteem she held his opinion in.

"In any event," she added, her smile disappearing, "I came to warn you ahead of time. Once Phillip finds out I've contacted the Council, things could get ugly -- and you might get caught in the crossfire. You need to prepare yourself." She looked into his eyes, her expression full of concern.

"I appreciate the warning." He forced a wan smile.

Watching him, her gaze softened. Suddenly, she looked tired, sad, and rather unsure of herself. Not like Adrian at all.

"It's the least I could do, George. You've been a rock all these years. I haven't let you know often enough how much I depend on you."

His stomach filled with a nauseating surge of guilt. If only she had said something like that years before. If only she had backed up that sentiment with real action, with treatment that showed genuine respect, things wouldn't have come to this. He had been so willing to please her, if only she hadn't taken him for granted.

But now, it was too late. Tomorrow, he would call Phillip and betray her confidence. For which he hated himself -- which in turn made him hate her.

Look what you've made me become, he thought with loathing.

"Well," he said with false cheer, "I think it's time I freshened your drink. A dependable fellow like myself can't be a neglectful host, now can I?"

***

Madeline took her time as she proceeded through the corridors; her pace relaxed, she nodded warmly at the lab workers as they walked by. In her burgundy dress and gold jewelry, she was the only splash of color in a stream of white labcoats. But her atypical appearance wasn't the reason people stepped out of her way, falling aside like waves sliced by the prow of a ship. They drew back because of who she was: her clothing was simply a vivid illustration of her status.

By now, that status was well established. It hadn't taken long. When she first began to visit the labs, the staff had treated her cordially, but as someone irrelevant to their work: at most, a nuisance to be tolerated under Adrian's orders. Then, a few had learned the details of her other duties within Section. Almost overnight, their attitude shifted; now, their behavior toward her was a combination of obsequiousness and terror. Their reaction amused her in its excessiveness, but it also struck her as potentially useful. So she encouraged their paranoia by taking pains to appear to be assessing them, even when she wasn't.

As she passed open doorways, she glanced in, noting which rooms were quiet and which revealed flashes of activity. If a lab seemed too quiet, she paused and waited until one of the workers caught her eye. She then smiled and moved on, knowing that her watchful presence had been noticed and would linger intangibly long after she left.

She was, in fact, the closest thing to outside supervision the labs had had in years. As long as they produced what she wanted, Adrian took little notice of them: her interest, as always, was in the glamorous departments, the ones directly connected to missions or intelligence. The other parts of Section, those devoted to mundane activities like research and support, were neglected: receiving little to no scrutiny when things went smoothly; suffering sweeping and arbitrary purges when something went wrong.

It was a shortsighted way to treat the departments that, Madeline was coming to understand, were the real life force of Section. Supplies, accommodations, research, maintenance, surveillance, housekeeping -- without these ordinary or even distasteful things, the organization would cease to function. Yet Adrian took them all for granted, as if the personnel carrying out these functions were insignificant. As if they were somehow lesser beings, an underclass born to serve Section's elite without complaint. Much the way she apparently thought of Madeline herself, as illustrated by her remarks about Madeline's lack of qualification for leadership.

They were therefore the perfect constituents of a power base: an army, invisible yet everywhere, with the power to do almost anything and yet escape notice because of their very ubiquity. At the moment, they feared her. That was as it should be. Soon, she would get them to depend on her. She would cultivate them, win them over, become their advocate, benefactor, and protector. She would keep their secrets, dole out favors, and intervene on their behalf.

In return, she would ask for nothing. Yet.

Rounding a corner into the most isolated area of the labs, she heard the unmistakable sound of Ulanova's high-pitched voice.

"Stop standing around and work, you cretins!" Ulanova shrieked.

As the shriek echoed off the hard surface of the floor and walls, a smash of shattering glass sounded from the room at the end of the hall.

Alarmed, Madeline picked up her pace and hurried through the door. Inside, a lab assistant scrambled toward a shower and frantically yanked the pull-chain, releasing a powerful stream of water on top of his head. As he drenched himself, spitting out water while his soaked clothing clung to his thin frame, the other workers dashed around in a panic. One of them flung powder on the mess of broken glass and clear liquid strewn along the floor, sending a wisp of white gas into the air; another pulled a switch, starting a roar from a row of overhead vents. The other technicians coughed and milled around helplessly; seconds later, Madeline wrinkled her face as an acrid smell made its way across the room.

The air cleared, and the coughing subsided. Several of the lab assistants noticed Madeline, and the fear on their faces turned to relief. Others snuck nervous glances toward the far end of the room, where Ulanova stood glowering, arms folded across her chest.

"Zina," said Madeline, smiling as if nothing unusual were going on, "do you have a moment?"

Ulanova gave the assembled assistants a final glare, then turned her gaze toward Madeline, nodding.

"Your office, I think," Madeline suggested.

Ulanova disappeared into a small side office. Madeline smiled reassuringly as she passed the anxious-looking assistants, then entered Ulanova's office and closed the door behind her. Ulanova had taken a seat behind her desk; Madeline leaned against the door.

"What was that about?" She kept her voice soft and non-threatening.

Ulanova twisted her sharp features into a grimace. "Some of these assistants are so stupid. Where does Section recruit them? I've seen circus animals with better training."

Madeline shrugged. "We have to work with what we have." She held back a sigh. "Now, tell me what happened, please."

Ulanova's facial muscles tightened. "I might have thrown something at them," she answered sourly. When Madeline frowned, she added, "They weren't working hard enough. I have no use for people who are lazy."

"Zina," Madeline reproached.

Ulanova's expression turned defiant. "It worked. I've never seen them move so fast before."

"We can't go maiming people to make them work faster."

"Why not? We cancel people for making mistakes. What is the difference?"

The question stopped Madeline short for several seconds. There had to be a difference, and yet for a dizzying instant she couldn't think of one. A feeling of discomfort -- almost anxiety -- washed over her, as she struggled to find a way to justify the policy. A policy that she hadn't been responsible for creating. A policy that at one point in the hazy past had shocked her, but that she had lived under for so long it had come to seem like a law of nature. Adrian's policy -- but now, somehow, hers to defend.

Finally, to her relief, an answer came to her.

"Cancellation is an extreme measure, carried out with strict procedural safeguards, and only upon approval from Adrian herself," she explained slowly, as if she were tasting her words, testing out their sound. "It's not the same thing as arbitrary, on-the-spot corporal punishment. If we allowed that, everyone in a supervisory position would make his own rules, and Section would collapse into chaos."

When she finished, she took a deep breath. That was it. Control over chaos. Section made harsh -- even cruel -- demands, but so long as the rules were formalized, and applied impartially to everyone, they were fair. However, if that harshness were ever freed from procedural restraints, if its application became subject to an individual's whim or emotion, Section would become something monstrous. That was the difference, and it was a critical one.

Ulanova rolled her eyes. "Fine. I will handhold these imbeciles until the paperwork makes its way up to Adrian. And then I will wait until Her Highness gets around to approving it." She smirked. "After all, we would not want to do anything without the proper forms being filled out."

Ulanova's demeanor was annoyed, but she had clearly given in. As a reward for her compliance, she therefore needed a bit of an ego stroke. Taming Ulanova's temper was a delicate art form, but it was worth the effort if it enhanced Madeline's influence over the labs. Indeed, seeing the magical effect she had on the doctor, several lab operatives had already approached her for assistance with other personality conflicts among the staff. Like a snake charmer, she mesmerized them all into good behavior -- and the more often she intervened, the more skilled she became.

"I do understand your staffing problems," she said. "Section hasn't been giving the care to recruitment of research operatives that perhaps it ought to."

Ulanova tossed her head and snorted. "It might help if you started looking for homo sapiens instead of monkeys."

Madeline chuckled, pointedly demonstrating her appreciation of the joke. Then she lowered her voice, making it richly conspiratorial. "Until now, recruitment isn't an area I've had any responsibility for. However, based on your complaints, I was able to speak with Adrian and make some suggestions."

"Oh?" A look of hopeful interest lit Ulanova's face.

"I convinced her to approve the recruitment of five new researchers. Including the one you wanted so badly."

Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Not...?"

Madeline smiled. "Oh, yes. The one and only Dr. Gelman."

"Finally! Someone who knows what he's doing." Ulanova beamed. "Oh, thank you, Madeline. I'll repay you for this, I promise."

Madeline arched an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm sure you will."

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

Paul strode into Munitions, hands shoved into the pockets of his thick wool jacket. At first, Walter didn't seem to notice Paul's approach; he hunched over a narrow worktable, muttering to himself as he connected a mass of hair-thin wires to each other. But as Paul reached the table, Walter straightened up and grinned.

"Well, if it isn't Section's number one dispatcher of bad guys. I suppose you're here for your weapon, huh?"

"That might help, yes," Paul remarked dryly. "Killing them with my bare hands can be fun, but it's a little time-consuming."

Walter strolled over to a cabinet, withdrew a pistol and belt, and plunked them heavily onto the table.

"Here you go, then. We wouldn't want you to have too much fun out there. It's against the rules, you know."

Grunting in thanks, Paul strapped on the belt and reached to pick up the pistol. He was about to holster it when he stopped and frowned. He lifted the gun and scrutinized it, turning and aiming it in several directions.

It looked all right: a standard P220, normal grip, nothing custom. He'd used that model for years, depended on it, to the point where it functioned like an organic extension of his own body, as if it were made of nerves and flesh instead of metal and screws. This one, however, felt wrong somehow. Unnatural. Like a stranger, instead of his best friend.

"What did you do to this?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The weight's off."

"Oh. That." An embarrassed look passed across Walter's face. "New ammo. It's a little lighter."

"That's going to throw off my aim."

Walter lifted his shoulders in a weak shrug. "You'll get used to it."

Something about Walter's attitude -- a blasé indifference that seemed more forced than genuine -- inflamed Paul's annoyance into full-fledged anger. Walter knew full well what a problem such a change could cause, if not phased in properly. If he thought he could get away with playing dumb, he was insulting Paul's intelligence.

Paul leaned forward across the table, his face so close to Walter's he could feel the other man's breath against his skin. "This isn't the time to be screwing with my gear, Walter," he growled. "We're undermanned as it is. I don't want to have to worry about getting my shots off fast enough, too." He glared until Walter looked away, red-faced. "Now, give me some of the old clips. I know you've still got some around."

Walter tightened his expression and shook his head. "No can do, amigo. Adrian's orders. Budget cuts, or something."

Adrian's orders? Amazing. Was there anything left she wasn't interfering with?

"So Adrian's choosing our ammunition now? When was the last time she even touched a gun?" Unable to suppress a sneer of disdain, he scoffed, "She probably thinks dum-dum bullets are manufactured by high-school dropouts."

Walter wrinkled his face and glanced around nervously. "You might want to lower your voice a little when you start talking like that."

Paul snorted. "I hope she's listening. She needs to know there are some things better left to experts. Why, that old--"

Walter seized Paul by the arm and pulled him forward. Leaning in toward Paul's ear, he whispered, "Look, I can't help you with the ammo. But I slipped a few extra toys into the van for you. Comprende?"

Startled, Paul nodded. He should have known. Walter was no fool, after all, despite the simpleminded appearance created by that idiotic counterculture act he insisted on putting on. The man couldn't have survived longer than anyone else in Section merely by luck. No one's luck was that good.

Anyway, some extra toys? Interesting. He'd have to remember to pay Walter back for the favor. Come to think of it, he owed the man several. Well, he'd get around to taking care of that one of these days.

Walter released his grip on Paul's arm.

Paul straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay," he said, deliberately loudly, "I still don't like it, but I'll deal with it."

Walter winked. "Atta boy."

As Paul finally holstered his pistol and turned to leave, Walter returned to his work. Paul paused, staring at the tangled mess of wires that Walter started untwisting.

"What the hell is that?"

"This?" Walter chuckled. "It's part of that project Madeline's working on. You know, remote controlled brains or some nutty thing like that."

Some nutty thing like that. Walter always had the most eloquent way of expressing his opinion.

"So does it work?"

"Damned if I know. My job is to make sure this component responds to the radio signals properly. The rest of it's not my problem."

Easy for Walter to say. Recruiting the scientist to do the work in-house hadn't been his idea. Nor would it be his failure if things went wrong. That, however, was not a thought Paul wanted to dwell upon.

"Speaking of which," Paul said, "have you seen Madeline lately?"

"Sure. We meet every so often to coordinate the work on this thing."

"How is she?"

Walter frowned, looking confused. "How do you mean?"

Paul felt his face warm in a sudden flush. He ignored it. "She's been so busy with that project lately, I never see her. She's not even doing my profiles anymore. So, I was just wondering whether…uh…how she was doing, that's all."

The confusion in Walter's expression gave way to sympathy. He smiled cheerfully. "She seems fine. Same as ever, anyway. It's hard to tell with her, you know?"

Paul nodded to conceal his disappointment. Walter couldn't tell him what he really wanted to know, even if he could somehow bring himself to ask the real questions: Had she asked about him? Did she miss working together as much as he did? Did she miss him the way he did her?

Unable to voice these thoughts, he channeled his frustration toward another target.

"Adrian has Ottmar doing the profiling for my missions," he complained. "He's useless. His profiles need to be completely rewritten, but I don't have the time to fix them all."

"Ottmar's new. He'll get better."

"I don't have time for him to get better," he snapped. "Madeline knows my strengths and my weaknesses. She knows how to write profiles that work for my teams. But instead, I've got an incompetent profiler, my team's been cut in half, and now I don't even have decent equipment. How the hell am I supposed to do my job?" He stopped, noticing that he had clenched his fists, and tried to calm himself. "Next thing you know, Adrian will start reassigning the handful of team members I have left. If that happens, I might as well just shoot myself in the head and get it over with."

"Look here," said Walter, his tone stern, like a chastising uncle, "I know you had things set up the way you like them. But life goes on, and things change. You've just got to roll with it."

Oh, lovely. Walter's homespun wisdom. Just what he was in the mood to hear.

"I'm all in favor of change, Walter," he said irritably. "My problem is with people who don't know the difference between good change and bad."

Walter laughed. "Well, when someone makes you God, you can arrange the universe any way you want. Until then, you'll just have to deal with the bullshit like us lesser mortals."

Feeling his mood lighten with Walter's jibe, Paul cracked a smirk. "Oh, when I get to be God, I'll do just that. Trust me."

***

With a slow, steady blip, the red dot blinked along the blue grid on Jules's computer screen. The dot marked the progress of a caravan of automobiles through a city halfway across the world; it wove along tangled, nighttime streets, heading steadily closer to a hidden roadblock -- and a Section ambush.

Adrian leaned in, looking over Jules's shoulder. The rhythmic blinking matched the beat of her heart; her mouth grew uncomfortably dry as she contemplated what was about to take place.

Finally. Her opening blow against Phillip. One designed to smash the chains that bound the Sections to Center, that kept her organization in financial thrall to a man who would turn it into his plaything. Independence, autonomy, freedom to fight evildoers as she saw fit, without Phillip's intolerable meddling: all now within her grasp.

Visual intel had confirmed that the third car in the caravan carried none other than Cyrus Norasty, co-founder of Red Cell. It was the perfect opportunity to intercept a key player in the fastest-growing terrorist movement of the day; hence, it was the perfect mission to sacrifice to bring her plight to the attention of the Council. The original profile had called for overwhelming Norasty's escort with superior numbers and firepower; unaltered, that profile almost certainly would have succeeded. But by eliminating aerial support and reducing the size of the team due to "budgetary constraints," Adrian had ensured that Norasty would escape -- and that she could pin the blame on Phillip and his stinginess.

Once upon a time, back when her youthful idealism blinded her to the more distasteful aspects of real life, she would have been appalled to think that she would deliberately sabotage a mission. That she would let a monster go free when she had the power to stop him. Then again, in those days she had also believed that everyone who claimed to be fighting terrorism was on the same side. Phillip's controlling behavior had shattered that foolish illusion.

Sometimes the worst enemy was not the opposition, but one's allies.

As the dot neared the target zone, she placed her hand on Jules's shoulder. He tensed at her touch, and she glanced down at him briefly. She disliked him, and he clearly knew it: he was rude, arrogant, and far too Gallic for her tastes. Nevertheless, his ego demanded that he prove himself whenever given a challenge, and she had always found that useful. So long as he was kept in check.

Alas, they all needed to be kept in check. Power-hungry colleagues, unruly subordinates -- it was all rather tiring.

So very, very tiring.

"Target on final approach," Jules murmured into his headset. "Everybody on their marks."

Blinking to clear her mind, Adrian took a seat beside Jules and donned her own headset. The radio burst into life as the team members confirmed their readiness. Then she watched, concentrating to maintain an outward calm, as the blip reached the blockade.

She winced as the high-pitched sound of squealing tires filled her ears, followed by rapid blasts of gunfire. After several minutes passed without the rate of firing slowing down, she frowned in concern.

The skirmish should have been brief. Norasty, safe in his bulletproof limousine, ought to have escaped almost immediately -- the undermanned team was simply too small to box him in. Why, then, did it sound like a full-fledged firefight had broken out?

A firefight would be a disaster. With Section's team outnumbered, a genuine gun battle would essentially guarantee the loss of all personnel. But this team was not expendable: she had carefully chosen the best available operatives, with nearly perfect records, in order to convince the Council of the sincerity of the retrieval attempt. I used my best people, she planned to tell them. But without adequate resources, even they can't succeed. That's why the Sections must have autonomy.

She listened in silence, stonyfaced, ignoring the anxious glances Jules flicked her way as team members started dying. Sergio. Yong-jun. Ingrid. Patrick. Within fifteen minutes, half the team gone.

"The target is fighting his way out," shouted Paul, barely audible over the deafening noise. "We can't hold him much longer."

"Abort," she commanded. "Save the rest of the team."

After a brief burst of static, Paul's voice sounded again. "If we detonate, we can take him out. There aren't any collaterals in the vicinity."

Adrian sat forward abruptly. "Detonate what?"

"There's C4 and a timer in the van. We'd have just enough of a window to get the team clear."

What in God's name were they doing with explosives? She hadn't authorized any such thing. In fact, she had gone to great lengths to ensure they were inadequately outfitted. Her eyes darted toward the entrance to Munitions. Walter. That longhaired fool.

"Request denied," she said. "Abort the mission. I want Norasty alive, not dead."

"You didn't provide us with enough personnel to retrieve him alive. But we can take him out, and we should. Otherwise this entire mission will have been an exercise in futility."

If she could have reached through the computer monitor and throttled Paul, she would have. His obstinacy would ruin everything. What made it worse was that, strictly speaking, he was right. By any rational analysis, they should take Norasty out while they had the chance. Paul couldn't be expected to know that higher stakes were involved.

"You heard my order," she said grimly. "Abort."

There were several moments of silence, broken only by the steady sound of gunfire. "You know what, Adrian?" he finally replied, the cold disdain in his voice withering even over the noise of the transmitter. "You're an idiot. You must have slept with someone to get your job, because you don't know the first thing about counter-terrorism."

She froze, as if she had been slapped, her mouth dropping open but no words forming. In the periphery of her gaze, she noticed Jules and several other operatives turn and gape; she did her best to ignore them, although she felt her face flush.

She breathed deeply in an effort to maintain her composure, unable to ascertain whether she was outraged or proud. His blatant show of disrespect was intolerable, unacceptable -- and yet, most aggravating of all, admirable. Unlike the other operatives -- a craven, cowardly lot, all of them -- he had the courage to speak his mind and face the consequences. This was the side of his character she had admired so much, the side that had led her to recruit him in the first place. Unfortunately, it wasn't his only side, as she had discovered the hard way: the courage was one face; the other was cruelty.

Finally, she found her voice. "You can critique my command when you return to Section. I gave you an order, and I expect you to comply."

"You heard her," he called to his remaining team members. "Abort. We lost half the team for nothing."

As the sound of gunfire tapered off, Adrian focused her attention back on that blinking red dot on the monitor. Once again, it began to move, pulling past the roadblock, and then disappearing off the edge of the screen.

Norasty had escaped. But would it be enough?

***

Madeline fingered the sheets of paper as she turned the pages of the report, reviewing the tables of data for what felt like the hundredth time. Page after page of meticulously documented figures, graphs and diagrams: she stared at them intensely, as if their contents might miraculously change if she checked just once more. But stubbornly, obstinately -- almost insultingly -- they remained the same.

What the figures told her was precisely what she didn't want to know. The mind-control program -- the one Adrian had charged her with overseeing -- was a failure. The device Section's research team had copied from Red Cell did work, to a degree: it was possible to implant it in a subject and generate emotions with a surprising level of finesse. They had even significantly improved upon the rather crude design, eliminating the erratic mood swings they had observed in the Red Cell captive. However, it was not possible to control enemy agents implanted with the device by their own organizations, which was what Adrian had wanted. The variables were just too numerous, the technology insufficiently advanced.

There was no choice, then, but to shut the project down.

Unwilling to accept that conclusion, she was about to turn back to the first page yet again when she heard a tapping sound. She glanced up to see one of the lab workers at the door; he peered through owl-like glasses into the office, not quite daring to cross the threshold, his manner reminiscent of a nervous supplicant approaching royalty.

"Madeline?"

"What is it?" She bit back on the urge to be curt, instead making an extra effort to sound courteous, even warm. Maintaining an even temper reinforced one's authority with subordinates: it was a practice she had observed Adrian employ to great effect and had decided to adopt herself.

There were a lot of things to be learned from Adrian, as much as she hated to admit it.

"Would you mind if we went home for the evening?" He added, as if in apology, "It's past eight already."

"Not at all." She smiled politely. "Good night."

His round face filled with a look of relief. "Thank you. See you tomorrow."

When he withdrew, she looked back down at the report, but then she pushed it away in exasperation. The strength of her disappointment surprised her. After all, she hadn't wanted to pursue the research in the first place -- had been certain it was utterly futile -- but now, the prospect of giving up filled her with anger and dismay.

Terminating the project would be an absurd and illogical waste. She had built up a stellar team of scientists and collected a wealth of intriguing data. While they couldn't achieve Adrian's specific objective, they had gained substantial, practical knowledge of the workings of the human brain. Knowledge that could be applied to improving the performance of Section's operatives, if only Adrian were less squeamish about using it internally.

As much as she disliked waste, however, that couldn't possibly explain the depth of her anger. There was something else, something she was almost ashamed to admit to herself. Something personal.

Within the R&D facilities, within the neglected and unglamorous support departments, she had created a real place for herself. A place free from Adrian's overbearing presence, where she had influence and power in her own right, where she was treated with respect and even deference. Where, for the first time in her life, she had real control over something and felt the confidence that came with it.

If the project terminated, all that might be lost.

She rose to her feet, a burning feeling of resentment tightening her muscles. She walked to the doorway, where she came to a halt, hands clasped; there, she stood for several moments and surveyed the lab outside. White-coated operatives moved about purposefully: cleaning their work areas, gathering their belongings, preparing to leave. Their movements were quick and orderly, a reflection of the operation of the lab itself.

When she arrived, several months before, the research facilities had been a haphazard collection of independent fiefdoms, their productivity subject to the ever-changing whims of the scientific prima donnas ensconced therein. Now, thanks to a judicious application of charm, threats, rewards and even blackmail, she had transformed them into a functional, efficient -- and obedient -- unit. She had transformed Containment and Interrogation in much the same way when she first came to Section One: streamlining practices, disciplining and weeding out personnel, imposing order and rationality. These were tasks in which Adrian had failed, and she had succeeded. Where she knew what was right, and Adrian didn't.

I'm good at this. Very good.

And wasn't it Adrian herself who said she should find what she did well and pursue it?

She clasped her hands a little more tightly. She couldn't allow herself to continue thinking along those lines. Other, weaker people succumbed to that kind of self-interested temptation. She had to push herself beyond that. She was a soldier, a cadre, a public servant who had proven her devotion to the cause by costly, painful sacrifice. Her reluctance to terminate the project had nothing to do with personal ambition, and everything to do with a desire to complete her assignment successfully if it were at all possible. If she could find a way to save the program, she would be fulfilling her duty; that was all. If she couldn't, then she would face that fact, too.

Perhaps the report had omitted something. If she could review the original test data, instead of the summaries contained in the report, perhaps she could be more creative than the cautious technicians who wrote it. However, with Ulanova having departed for the evening, such a review would have to wait until the following day.

There was one avenue she might not have to wait to pursue, she thought, straightening her shoulders and drawing in a long breath of realization. Walter. He would have notes documenting his tests of the device, and he was rarely gone before late evening. If she could catch him before he left for the night, she could borrow his original notes and study them at home.

Without bothering to switch off the light in her office, she turned and began to make her way toward the elevator.

There had to be a way. And if there were, she would find it.

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

It was only mid-evening, but Madeline found the main floor of Section virtually empty. Without its customary noise and energy, it felt cavernous and abandoned -- the air noticeably chilly, the lights uncomfortably harsh. Within the room's vast expanse only a lone figure sat working: Jules, typing at one of the workstations, his thin face pinched in a frown of concentration.

As Madeline walked along, Jules glanced up and nodded to her in brusque greeting. She smiled at him fleetingly, then she raised her eyes toward Adrian's office. Adrian was there, as always; her back to the windows, she studied a map stretched out in her hands.

Madeline wrenched her gaze back to the floor. Once, years before, Adrian had caught her looking. When their eyes met, Adrian had beamed as if in victory, as if the very act of looking up provided acknowledgement of Adrian's inherent authority and Madeline's subordination. Since then, she had struggled to appear indifferent to her commander's presence; still, the compulsion to glance toward the office was irresistible.

Increasing her pace, she turned the corner into Munitions -- and then stopped short.

Next to the worktable, Walter and Lisa clutched each other in a tight embrace. As Madeline froze in surprise, they hurriedly pulled apart. Walter cleared his throat self-consciously; Lisa straightened her jacket and looked down at the floor.

Walter…and Lisa? How unexpected. But then she examined the two of them more carefully. Walter looked worried, not amorous. As for Lisa, she was dressed in grimy mission gear, her face smeared with dirt and puffy with signs of recent crying.

The embrace had been that of a friend comforting another, not that of lovers.

Interesting.

Madeline took a few slow steps forward, taking in Lisa's demeanor. The other operative wasn't particularly moody as a rule. While she was naïve about many things -- charmingly so, in fact -- Madeline had never known her to be fazed by violence or death on missions. To the contrary, she always exhibited a blustering bravado, as if being tough in the field could provide a counterbalance to her painful social awkwardness. What, then, could have upset her like this?

"Do you need something, Madeline?" Walter stepped in front of Lisa, as if to shield her from Madeline's assessing gaze.

Madeline smiled. Walter's protectiveness was sweet, like that of a devoted guard dog. She could almost see the raised fur and bared teeth.

"Yes, I do," she answered, then added pointedly, "but I don't mean to interrupt anything…."

Half-hidden behind Walter, Lisa shook her head. "No, don't worry about it." Despite the unconcerned words, her voice was slightly tremulous.

"What do you want?" Walter sounded reluctant and somewhat impatient.

Madeline ignored his tone, keeping her own strenuously pleasant. "You took notes when you tested the L-18 device?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to see them."

"Okay. Stop by first thing in the morning and I'll have them for you."

He was already turning away when she spoke again.

"Morning won't be soon enough." When he stopped and looked back at her, she smiled apologetically. "Could you get them for me now, please?"

"Right this minute? It's kind of late."

"It's important."

He sighed loudly. "Fine. Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He threw a quick glance at Lisa and disappeared into a back corridor.

Madeline turned to Lisa, whose tearstained face belied her struggle to appear composed.

"Are you all right?"

Lisa hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, "Patrick's dead."

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Madeline reached out and touched Lisa's arm.

So that explained it. Occasionally, field operatives developed battlefield bonds, especially if they had served together for any length of time. Over the next few weeks, Lisa could be expected to exhibit the typical trajectory of anger and grief. It would require some adjustment to mission profiles. Inconvenient, but unavoidable.

Fresh tears began rolling down Lisa's face. "It was so stupid. He died over nothing."

"What happened?"

"Adrian sent us out to retrieve Cyrus Norasty. A simple vehicle intercept. If we'd had a normal complement on the team, it would have been a quick snatch and run. The sort of thing we can do in our sleep."

"But...?" Madeline prompted.

"But Adrian sent us in with half a team and no air support, that's what." Lisa's voice filled with bitterness and rage. "There weren't enough of us to pin in the Red Cell convoy. They just shot their way straight through our roadblock, and we lost five people." Her expression hardened. "I almost cheered when Paul told Adrian off."

A clammy sensation of apprehension settled across Madeline's skin. "When he what?" she asked numbly.

Lisa gave a short laugh. "He called her an idiot, if I remember the choice of words right. And told her she must have slept her way to the top. Comm went so quiet afterwards I thought they'd all fainted in shock."

The clamminess penetrated Madeline's body and thickened into churning nausea. She stared at Lisa's face as if from a vast distance. The mouth was still moving, but no sound registered; the features shifted, distorting into disembodied abstraction.

Paul had lost his mind. His position with Adrian was already precarious, and she would never tolerate such open disrespect. If he continued to provoke her, sooner or later he'd be punished. Maybe even cancelled.

That is, if he hadn't been already.

At the latter thought, Madeline felt a dizzying rush of fear, but then a sudden, dreadful calm. It wiped all else clean, leaving only an icy resolve, devoid of emotion, almost serene in its certitude.

If Adrian had harmed Paul in any way, Madeline would kill her. She would stroll upstairs to the office, smile and offer a polite greeting, and send a bullet slicing through the woman's aristocratic forehead. And then she would accept whatever fate befell her.

No fear. No hesitation. No regrets.

Slowly, Lisa's voice became audible again. It seemed disconcertingly loud, jarring.

"Honestly, I was amazed he didn't get dragged down to Containment when we got back, the way he talked to her. But she always has cut him more slack than anyone else."

Madeline frowned, consciousness of her surroundings drifting back as her mind grasped the significance of Lisa's words.

"What happened, then? Where is he?" She could hear her voice sharpen, but she couldn't help herself.

Lisa stepped back, as if retreating from Madeline's intensity. "They debriefed, and then I saw him leave. I think he went home."

"I see. Thank you, Lisa." Turning, she began to walk toward the exit.

"What about Walter's notes?" Lisa called out.

Madeline halted, so anxious to depart the room she was afraid she might combust. Clamping down on her reaction, she looked over her shoulder at Lisa.

"Walter's right. It is late. I'll stop by in the morning. Give him my apologies for troubling him this evening." She paused, noting Lisa's bewildered expression. Perhaps more condolences were in order before she rushed out so precipitously. "Patrick was an outstanding operative," she said in grave voice. "We'll all miss him."

Lisa gave her a long look, tinged with what might have been skepticism -- or even hurt. "Yeah. Maybe some of us more than others."

***

Lisa stood motionless, a feeling of disappointment and isolation rolling over her like a cold ocean wave.

She knew her reaction was foolish, even as the emotions swam in chilly circles in the pit of her stomach. She could hardly expect Madeline to be grief-stricken: in Section, people died as a matter of daily routine. Even savvy veterans like Patrick. So why should anyone lament the occurrence of something so mundane?

Still, the man had been on Madeline's very first team when she arrived at Section One. He had helped her learn the ropes as a field operative and had watched her back on countless missions since. He was dependable, considerate, and generous, his taciturn demeanor never fully disguising his fundamental decency. He mattered, and his death ought to matter, too. But all Madeline had to say in his memory was that he was an "outstanding operative."

An outstanding operative?

Pathetic. Even Adrian could have come up with something better than that.

"So where'd Madeline go?"

Startled, Lisa turned. Behind her, Walter stood clutching a notebook, his expression one of irritated mystification.

She blinked, her tension gradually easing. Thank God for Walter. Maybe people like Madeline didn't give a damn whether anyone lived or died, but at least someone did.

She shrugged. "She said it was too late after all, so she'll stop by in the morning."

Rolling his eyes, he tossed the notebook on a shelf. He made an exasperated face, but then his expression lightened.

"Hey, Lisa. Come back inside for a minute. I've got something for you."

Like a leprechaun promising a pot of gold, he beckoned and vanished into the storage area. Perplexed, she followed, peering into the narrow aisles to see where he had headed.

She found him waiting in front of a beaten-looking metal cabinet. The door squeaked as he yanked it open. He rummaged noisily inside for several moments and eventually pulled out a fat bottle of liquor. Grinning, he brandished it in the air; its tawny liquid gleamed as it sloshed to and fro.

"Kentucky's finest, bottled straight from the cask. I was going to save it for my birthday, but whaddya say we give it a little taste test tonight?"

She smiled sadly. What a sweet gesture. Too bad she wasn't in the mood.

"I'm sorry, Walter, but I think I just want to go home."

He grunted disapprovingly. "You and Patrick used to hoist a few after each mission, right?"

She felt herself stiffen. "Yeah. To celebrate making it through alive."

"Well, don't you think he'd want you to tonight?"

Her face twitched with the effort to control her expression. "He didn't make it through alive this time. What's to celebrate?"

"The fact that he's in a better place than us right now." He lowered himself unceremoniously to the floor. He sat back against the wall, bony legs sprawling, and patted the spot next to him invitingly. "Come on. Let's send off that big lug the way he deserves."

Reluctantly, she joined him on the floor. It was hard, cold and dusty, smelling of rancid grease and gunpowder. She stifled a sneeze and settled into a cross-legged position.

He twisted open the bottle and hoisted it into the air. "To Patrick." He took a sip and coughed explosively. "Damn fine stuff," he said.

He passed her the bottle. Taking it with both hands, she lifted it to her lips and took a swig. It tasted of brimstone and old leather, flaming all the way down her throat and into her stomach. Dribbles spilled from the corners of her mouth; gasping, she wiped them clean with her shirtsleeve.