"Good, huh?"

She couldn't yet speak; in response, she merely nodded. Painful might be a more accurate description -- but then again, it had cleared the tearful lump in her throat like an astringent. Maybe that was good, after all.

They passed the bottle back and forth in silence. She stared at the wall in front of her, allowing her body to warm.

Patrick would have liked this. Too bad he's not here to try it.

She frowned, recognizing the illogic of her last thought. If Patrick were alive, Walter wouldn't have opened the bottle in the first place. Unless…unless that bullet had killed her and not him. It could have happened that way just as easily -- the fact that it struck him was completely random.

Going on missions was like playing Russian roulette. Each pull of the trigger brought the loaded chamber closer; each empty click was a countdown toward death. First, his death. Eventually, hers.

"It's going be me one of these days," she announced morosely. "No one lasts forever out there."

"Jeeze, Lisa, you've got to stop saying things like--"

"No!" She threw him a sharp look. "I'm not going to pretend that everything's going to be okay, because it's not. And if you keep pretending, you're just insulting me."

He looked startled, then chastened. He said nothing, but he draped an arm around her shoulders protectively. She leaned in toward him but felt no real comfort.

It's not going to be okay. No miracles or happy endings.

"Can you promise me something?" she asked anxiously, her words spilling out before she could stop them.

Surprised concern filled his face. "Sure," he said gently. "What is it?"

This was going to be hard to explain. She'd better start from the beginning.

"I don't know if you remember, but when I first came here, I was pregnant. With twins, as it turned out."

"I remember that. They took them away afterwards."

"They did worse than that," she said, grimacing. "One of them was placed with an adoptive family. But they kept the other one here, for an experiment."

He shifted positions, looking vaguely uneasy. "Oh, yeah? How do you know?"

"Because I found him. They're raising him up on Level 16."

Abruptly, he removed his arm from her shoulders.

"Oh, man," he muttered.

"He's like a prisoner," she continued, letting the anger flow freely. "He barely ever goes outside, never interacts with anyone but a few teachers -- they're trying to turn him into some computer prodigy." She sat up straight, her anger surging into defiant pride. "But I've been helping him," she confided, her voice low but full of intensity.

His face paled. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated, suddenly uncertain in the face of his apparent nervousness. "I've kind of…uh…made some arrangements with people. The head teacher on Level 16, Jules. I do them favors, and they make sure I can get him some luxuries here and there. It's not much, but…."

She stopped, losing control of her voice. He stared at her with a look of raw horror.

Was it a mistake to tell him? No, surely he would understand. If anyone in Section would, it was Walter. Walter, of the five percent club, who was always there when she needed a joke or a shoulder to lean on. He was the only one she could trust with this. And God, this was so important. She was going to die, she was sure of it, and she needed his help.

After a moment's pause, she gathered her courage. "If anything happens to me, I want you to promise that you'll look out for him. You know, just small things. Make sure his life isn't completely miserable." She looked at him pleadingly. "Can you do that for me?"

He covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Jesus, Lisa," he groaned. Then he looked up, with a strange expression that she couldn't quite interpret. "It's karma, come back to bite me in the ass. Serves me right, I suppose, after what I did."

She looked at him, unsure what to say.

He sat quietly for a moment, then he took a swig from the bottle and made a bitter face.

"I'm the one who picked him, you know."

"What?"

"Seymour. I picked him to stay."

She repeated his words in her mind -- once, twice, three times. It didn't make sense. He couldn't have meant what it sounded like. That wasn't possible. But then how did he know it was Seymour who stayed in Section? She hadn't mentioned any names.

"What do you mean?" she asked warily.

He shook his head. "I don't know why they picked me to choose. I mean, what do I know about that kind of thing? Maybe Adrian was testing me. Who knows?"

That wasn't an answer to her question.

"What did you do, Walter?" She spoke through gritted teeth.

He swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Well, one day one of the doctors took me in to see them, and said, pick one. I asked, how? And he said, just pick one. So, I did." His expression grew defensive. "I didn't have any choice, you know?"

Somehow, he had managed to choose between two helpless infants. He had decided, when she couldn't. She didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.

"How did you pick?"

He looked away. "I flipped a coin."

She stared at him for a moment, horrified. Then she started to laugh -- a bitter, disgusted laugh.

He flipped a coin. How sick. How horrible. And how completely Section.

Her laughter faded. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" Her voice was soft, but the question was an accusation.

"What good would it have done for you to know?"

What good would it have done? It would have showed he cared enough about her to be honest. It would have showed that she wasn't alone.

She rose to her feet unsteadily. "You're right," she said, looking down at him like a stranger. "It wouldn't have done any good at all."

***

As twilight faded, the light from the lamp grew stark. Harsh amidst the strengthening darkness, it cast sharp lines across the living room carpet and threw misshapen shadows against the walls. The contrast hurt Paul's eyes, but he ignored it; staring ahead, he roamed from one end of the room to the other, a restless nomad in a vain search for refuge.

Home should have been that refuge. It should have been a source of comfort and safety. Yet his apartment seemed as confining as a solitary cell, its familiar outlines more claustrophobic than welcoming.

He might as well have stayed in Section. In fact, he had expected to be detained there; with a perverse sense of pride, he had even welcomed the prospect. But when he returned from the mission and presented himself to Adrian, offering to debrief, she looked at him with a blank expression and shook her head. Then she simply turned away, as if he didn't exist.

No humiliating dressing-down before the other operatives. No scathing private rebuke. No punishment or repercussions of any kind. Nothing.

The lack of reaction was disorienting. Over the years, he had seen Adrian lose her temper at operatives many times: her icy viciousness was legendary within Section, but something he had learned to face without fear. In its absence, he found his courage ebbing, replaced by worry.

By the time he arrived home, however, the worry had given way to rage. It wrapped around his chest like a python, tightening relentlessly until he could barely breathe. Paralyzed, he stood motionless in the center of his living room -- hands clenched, muscles tensed, heart racing. The perfect military order of the surroundings was suffocating: he wanted to sweep the books from the shelves, smash the lamp against the wall, hurl the ashtray through the television screen. Destroy everything within reach.

Instead, he paced.

Hours later, he was still pacing, tracing a line back and forth across the floor, as if the sheer repetition might grind down his seething energy into something more controllable. Gradually, the ability to reason began to return to him. But his thoughts circled helplessly around the events of that afternoon, trapped in a sickening orbit around the mission. The mission -- and his failure.

No. Not his failure. Adrian's failure.

They had one of Red Cell's founders within their sights, and Adrian had let him live. Unbelievable. What was she thinking? Killing Norasty might not have stopped any of their operations, but that wasn't the point. It would have been a blow to morale, a symbolic victory against an organization that traded in such gestures.

By allowing him to escape, Adrian ceded the upper hand to Red Cell. Norasty himself would gain cult status: a super-terrorist, untouchable, too good for Section to catch. His enhanced reputation would breed more support, more members, more donations -- and more attacks.

If Adrian couldn't see that, then Section had already lost the war. Every mission they launched would be an exercise in futility; every death in the field an utter waste. He had witnessed that kind of senselessness once before in Vietnam and had ascribed it to civilian incompetence. There, it was easy to lay the blame on weak-willed politicians and ill-informed public opinion. He had thought that Section -- free of such hindrances -- would be different.

But if it wasn't any different, then what was the point?

There was no answer to that question. Or at least no answer he could bring himself to face.

Sharp raps at the door broke into his thoughts. He flinched in surprise, not quite believing what he had heard. The knocks came in a quick but distinct pattern: a code he had memorized, but hadn't heard in years -- in fact, hadn't expected to hear ever again. Cautiously, nearly certain he had imagined it, he approached the door and peered through the peephole.

It wasn't his imagination. Madeline stood in the hallway, hands clasped together, with a knowing expression that made him feel as if she could see right through the door.

Madeline. There, at his home, for the first time in over two years. There was an instant of shock, then a wave of gratitude. She had heard what happened and had come to console him. She would understand his frustration. Would think the way he did. Would know he was right.

He opened the door in relief. For several moments, she did nothing but stare back at him, her gaze cool, assessing.

"You're lucky," she announced. Her voice was mellifluous but laced with sarcasm, like a bite of bittersweet chocolate.

Taken aback, he stiffened. "Lucky I lost half my team? Or lucky we lost the target?"

"Lucky that you're still here to be angry about it," she replied, arching an eyebrow in a subtle motion of rebuke. "Somewhat surprising after your outburst."

He laughed in disappointment and disgust. "You came all the way here to lecture me? Isn't that a treat."

Her expression hardened. "I came here to make you see some sense," she said, her voice dropping in anger.

How dare she judge him? Off in her safe little research domain, showered with privileges by a strangely doting Adrian, she knew nothing of what he had been going through the past few months. She hadn't seen the deaths, or the cutbacks, or the missions that led nowhere. She hadn't felt the sting of having her opinion ignored or dismissed when it was once held so highly. She hadn't lost anything -- in fact, she seemed only to have gained what he once had.

That thought made her presence unbearable.

He grimaced. "Spare me, Madeline. I don't need to hear it. Especially not from you."

He started to close the door, but she grabbed his forearm to stop him, her fingers digging into his skin through his shirt.

"Paul, listen to me. Please."

He searched her eyes. There was an intensity in her gaze that hinted at something unidentifiable: worry, fear, maybe even desperation. It made him hesitate, even when his fingers itched to slam the door in her face.

He glanced back into his apartment. "Not here," he mouthed silently.

She nodded and released her grip on his arm.

He stepped into the hallway, allowing the door to fall closed behind him. Seizing her elbow, he marched her toward the stairs; he squeezed hard enough to hurt her -- probably hard enough to bruise -- but she didn't flinch, and she said nothing.

He kicked open the stairwell door and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut, echoing in the emptiness. He turned to face her and folded his arms across his chest.

"You've got something to say to me? Go ahead."

She took a sharp breath with what looked like fleeting nervousness, but then her expression quickly reverted to its usual calm ambiguity.

"Nothing can be gained from needless provocation of Adrian," she said smoothly, almost patronizingly. "Stop before it goes any farther."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're inviting cancellation," she replied, a trace of exasperation breaking through the smoothness.

Of course. That was the direction he was headed in. To be honest, he had been prodding Adrian toward that end for quite a long time. Until this incident, it had been unconscious. Now, however, he had openly embraced the inevitable: if there was no place in Section for his ideas, then there was no place for him, either.

He sighed, suddenly drained of energy. "What difference does it make?"

Her face whitened, her dark eyes growing unnaturally large against the pallor of her skin. Then her jaw tightened and she gave him a violent shove against his chest. Caught by surprise, he stumbled back against the wall, the air expelling from his lungs in a painful gasp.

"Don't you dare say that," she said in a voice as cold as death. "Don't even think it."

The force of the collision with the wall set his anger exploding back into being.

"Why?" he demanded. "What do you care?"

He took several steps forward, daring her to reach for him again. But this time she remained motionless, doing nothing even as he came provocatively close.

He waited.

"Because Section needs you too much," she finally answered.

Not good enough. He shook his head.

"Section needs me." He gave a curt laugh. "How heartwarming. Somehow, I was hoping you'd give me a better reason."

She stared back at him. Slowly, her eyes filled with emotion: pain, defiance, and resentment, swirling together like a thundercloud.

"I need you," she said.

She needed him. Those were the words he had wanted her to utter, and yet hearing them was strangely unsatisfying. They were too easy, too ambiguous: an evasion, wrapped in a confession.

"Need me, how?"

She said nothing. Her eyes seemed to hold an answer, but he couldn't decipher it.

"Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?"

She remained silent, her gaze unblinking.

For a moment, he wanted to snatch her by the throat and choke an answer out of her. To squeeze until he hurt her, until she cried out, until she said something. Except that even then she wouldn't. She wouldn't give in, and he couldn't make her. He couldn't make her do anything. He had no more control over her than he did over Section. Or over his own life.

Once, he'd had everything. A woman who shared herself with him, and a future with meaning and promise. Then it had all slipped away, vanishing so gradually he hadn't known how to stop it.

But wishing for the past wouldn't bring it back. The question was: was there anything left?

Slowly, he reached out and touched her face. He moved almost automatically, more on instinct than with any conscious intent. He ran his fingers across her cheek, threaded them though her hair, traced them along her lips. Her skin was soft and smoother than he remembered; her cheek and jawbones felt so delicate he was afraid he might crush them. Afraid that maybe he wanted to.

She placed a hand against his cheek; disconcerted, he grasped and removed it. She slid both hands along his chest and shoulders; again, he pulled them away, this time more forcefully.

"Don't," he said sharply.

He couldn't control Section. He couldn't control her feelings. But he would control this -- it would be at his pace, and on his terms.

A look of confusion filled her face, but she stopped.

He shifted his hands from her face to her body. His palms followed the curve of her waist to her hips, absorbing her heat through the thin fabric, then slid down the length of her thighs. He slipped his hands underneath her skirt; there, nails dug into warm flesh, and fingers sought out yielding moistness.

She inhaled audibly, and he remembered that she'd said she needed him. Maybe not the way he wanted, but that didn't matter. Now, the fact that she needed him at all -- and acknowledged that need, at whatever level it existed -- would have to be enough.

He would make it enough.

With a sudden surge of energy, he forced her backwards, pinning her against the door. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, raised her skirt. Then he lifted her up and pressed against her so hard she gasped.

Anger transformed into desire; hopelessness gave way to determination. He moved swiftly, because he wanted to. He was rough, because it suited him. He took possession, because it was his right.

As he drove himself into her, gritting his teeth with the effort, she finally relaxed, utterly passive, and allowed him to do as he wanted. To take the lead, to draw what he needed from her.

Her gaze locked with his, and he knew she understood. Understood -- and accepted.

She accepted. When the realization struck him, his fury vanished.

He slowed his movement, the violence replaced with tenderness, and began to kiss a path along her neck. As he breathed in her scent, her hair fell like a silk curtain around his face, and he felt his mind clear, the haze of anger that had imprisoned him all night gradually lifting. Her acquiescence calmed him, helped him see alternatives.

He wasn't alone after all. He wasn't powerless. And while the past was irretrievable, he could still create a future.

***

With a sharp grunt, Paul dug his fingers into the back of Madeline's thighs, then abruptly ceased his movement. Standing motionless, he clutched her hard, pressing deep into muscle until she clenched her teeth in pain. His chest rose and fell heavily against hers; she could feel his heart pounding as his breath rasped in her ear.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He smelled of the mission: of perspiration, blood, grime and death. Pulling him closer, she breathed him in. The scent soothed her; it was deep and rich with spent violence, like the soreness from where he had bruised her and the inner ache from the roughness of their coupling. She could give herself to it, let it overwhelm her senses. Let it block out everything else. Everything but an unsettling question.

Why had she come to him?

She knew better, and yet she hadn't been able to help herself. She had reacted on instinct, driven by anger, worry -- and need. Most of all, need. Almost beyond reason.

Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?

He had asked, but she hadn't answered. She couldn't answer. His question assumed there was a distinction. She wasn't certain there was.

She felt him pull away and opened her eyes. He avoided her gaze and began to fasten his clothing, tucking in his shirt, zipping his pants, buckling his belt. Suddenly self-conscious, she did the same, continuing to brush and smooth the fabric long after any wrinkles or flecks of dirt had disappeared.

Eventually, the silence grew awkward, and there was nothing to do but look at each other.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she replied.

Equilibrium had returned, reassuring and rational. She drew a slow breath, finally taking in her surroundings. The light in the stairwell flickered with a soft buzz of electricity; the air was stale and smelled of mildewed carpet. Noise from the floors above and below seeped in faintly: disembodied voices, distant music, a clatter of dishes and running water.

She looked back at Paul. He stood a few feet away, hands thrust into his pockets, regarding her pensively.

"What happened today?" she asked.

A look of surprise filled his face. "I thought you knew."

"I heard some people died, and you confronted Adrian. That's all."

For an instant, his jaw tensed, the bone jutting out and then rapidly retreating. "We had him," he said sourly. "And she made us let him go." He shook his head in a gesture of disgust. "She doesn't get it. Not anymore. She's holding us back."

She's holding us back. The remark stung her into awareness, like a sudden pinprick. He sees it, too.

"It's not just the missions," she said, keeping her voice steady even as her heart began to lurch. "It's the same in the labs."

"How so?" He smiled bitterly. "I thought she'd given you the keys to the place."

She gave a short laugh. "If only." The frustrations of earlier in the day flooded back. "We have technology, and we're not using it to its full potential. Because of her scruples."

She stifled a grimace, but she couldn't keep the distaste from her voice. Scruples, from a woman who thought nothing of enslaving thousands of people, or of executing those who failed to meet her arbitrary standards. The hypocrisy of it was sickening.

His gaze sharpened, his eyes transforming into circles of glittering blue ice. Once again, she could feel the anger emanating from him; it was palpable, like a cloud that darkened and chilled the air around him. But unlike before, when his rage seemed directed at everyone and everything, this time it was focused, concentrated on a single subject of odium. Instead of pushing her away, it drew her in; it surrounded her, filled her, and made her its own.

"The problem with Adrian," he said, his voice hoarse with derision, "is that she's a spy, not a soldier. She understands intelligence, but she doesn't know how to fight a war."

"And what Section faces now is a war," she said, nodding in agreement. "Against a new kind of enemy."

"You can't just outwit them. You have to obliterate them. It's not a Cold War; it's scorched earth. And Adrian doesn't have the stomach for it."

"No. But we do."

They held a look. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he weren't quite sure how she would react. Then he straightened his shoulders resolutely. "That's why she needs to be removed from the equation." He looked her steadily in the eye. A challenge, but also a plea.

She blinked. "That would be for the best." She smiled, trying to control her relief. No, more than relief. Joy. "For Section," she amended hastily, disturbed by the force of her emotion.

Not for me. Not for us. For Section.

"For everyone," he said.

*********

Shivering, Lisa tugged her jacket closer around her. The sun had finally risen, but the air was still chilly; as she blew on her hands to warm them, her breath rose in faint white puffs. Everything was suffused in the light of early morning -- bright yet somehow washed out, casting long, sharp shadows along the pavement.

The alley where she waited smelled like spoiled vinegar. Blending with the smell of fresh bread from the bakery a few doors down, the odor made her empty stomach congeal into a heavy mass of nausea. But it wasn't just the smells, or the hunger, or even the lack of sleep that made her feel lightheaded. Nor was it the aftereffects of Walter's liquor from the night before. Rather, it was anger, anxiety, desperation, despair -- all of them convulsing through her like epileptic spasms. They wouldn't stop, wouldn't subside, wouldn't leave her alone.

Eventually, they had driven her here. Where she watched and paced until dawn, struggling to keep her impatience from erupting out of control.

Finally, her wait was rewarded. When she saw the blonde woman pass by along the sidewalk, she sprang out of the alley like a ravenous animal.

"Jesus," gasped Mireille. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk." Lisa pointed toward the alley, her hand trembling with intensity.

A look of fear flashed across Mireille's face, as if she were contemplating running away. After a few moments' hesitation, she walked into the alley. Lisa followed a step behind, heart thudding.

Mireille grimaced. "For God's sake, did you stake me out all night?"

Lisa ignored the question. She took a step forward. "I want to know what this whole thing is about," she demanded.

"What 'thing'?"

"This experiment you're in charge of. I want to know everything. How it started, what the goal is, where it's going. Everything."

Mireille rolled her eyes and sighed. "Look, I don't know as much as you think"

"Don't play stupid!" Lisa smacked her fist against the wall next to Mireille's head. Mireille flinched. "You have access to records. You see those kids every day. Are they all twins? Who are their parents? What are they being trained to do? Why? And what happens if they fail their training?"

"You're better off not knowing. Trust me."

"You know, I'm really sick of people deciding what they think is good for me," Lisa snarled. Mireille, Walter -- what gave them the right? She grasped Mireille's shoulder and dug her fingers in hard. "You're going to tell me everything you know -- and then whatever you don't know, you're going to help me find out."

"That's crazy," Mireille said. "If I start prying into things that are none of my business, I could get cancelled." She looked at Lisa coldly. "And so could you. Because you'd better believe I'm not protecting you if I get caught."

Lisa released her grip on Mireille's shoulder and laughed. It hurt to laugh -- it felt like her lungs were exploding -- but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"You don't get it, do you?" she said when the laughter subsided. "I'm not afraid anymore." She pointed to a stain on her jacket. "See that? That's from where my best friend's brains were blown out yesterday."

Mireille's blue eyes widened.

"It could have been me, just as easily," said Lisa. "And it will be me, sooner or later. That's just the way it is for field ops. It made me realize I've got absolutely nothing to lose."

Realization dawned on Mireille's face. She shook her head. "I can't do this," she whispered.

Lisa pulled out her gun and held it to Mireille's temple. This time, her hand didn't tremble.

"You will do this. Because you're still afraid to die, and I'm willing to kill you."

Mireille started to cry. Once, Lisa would have felt sorry for her. Now, she didn't care.

"Do we understand each other?"

Mireille nodded, tears rolling down her face.

Lisa holstered her gun. "Good. Then we've got some research to get started."

***

Paul took a long drag from his cigarette, followed by a slurp of coffee. The bitter taste filled his mouth; he savored it and allowed the nicotine-caffeine boost to suffuse his body. He set his cup on the saucer, flicked some ash into the ashtray, and settled back contentedly in his chair.

Curious, he cast his gaze at his surroundings. It amazed him how many people appeared to have so much leisure time in the middle of the afternoon: the café tables were full, the sidewalks bustling with pedestrians bearing shopping bags, the streets congested with honking cars. Didn't these people have to earn a living? Why, he couldn't even remember the last time he had simply sat around and done nothing all day. On some level, the idea actually offended him. Frittering time was for the soft, the lazy, and the spoiled: for students, the idle rich, pampered housewives or, God forbid, dilettante artists.

Like the two men at the table next to him, for example. Wiry-thin and wearing the requisite all-black, they sat arguing incessantly about movies -- throwing around phrases like "unifying tropes" and "the death of the auteur." They'd been at it for at least an hour -- bumming cigarettes from Paul in between unintelligible diatribes at each other -- and showed no signs of recognizing the utter triviality of their entire conversation. He'd been tempted, for a few moments, to interrupt and tell them they didn't know shit about the death of anything, that he'd seen people's heads blown off so that they could keep enjoying their intellectual masturbation sessions. But he bit his tongue and contented himself with occasional sneers in their direction when they raised a particularly ridiculous point.

And yet, while he should have felt bored and frustrated wasting a perfectly good workday eavesdropping on such useless people, he found that he was enjoying himself. The idea of genuine time off had become an almost alien concept; he had downtime scheduled after every mission, of course, but he always went back to Section anyway -- to use the gym, do some target practice, catch up on analysis, or a myriad of other tasks. This time, however, he had decided it was wisest to lay low -- to let Adrian cool down before he went back and groveled in apology.

Groveled. The thought made him smile. He wasn't sure if Adrian would buy the contrite act he planned to put on -- it couldn't be too abject, after all, or it would look suspicious. It would have to be subtle, and grudging enough to seem sincere. And then he'd have to play Nice Schoolboy for the foreseeable future. He knew he probably wouldn't win his way back into her favor -- it was far too late for that -- but he was optimistic he could at least avoid any serious wrath.

He'd been so stupid, challenging her with no goal or strategy -- challenging her simply for the sake of being right. He'd let his pride get in the way of his sense: there was nothing wrong with kissing ass now and then, so long as it was a means to an end, and not a way of life.

And now, thanks to his conversation with Madeline, he saw what that end could be.

The two of them had stayed up the entire night before -- first, talking in the stairwell of his apartment building, then, after one too many interruptions by other tenants, walking through the streets until they reached a park. They planned out their vision of the future sitting on a bench under the moonlit trees, sharing a jacket when the night turned cold.

Madeline had told him quite a few interesting things: her clandestine relationship with George the most interesting of all. It hadn't surprised him, once he thought about it, to learn that George was less than loyal to Adrian, or even that George had turned to Madeline for help. It had surprised him, at least a little, that Madeline hadn't told him about it before now. But what surprised him the most was that he wasn't bothered by her secrecy. In fact, he found himself strangely pleased. Having confidences from each other was inevitable, given the lives they led -- but finally, when it really mattered, she had told him everything. For him, that was the true definition of loyalty -- what one did when it counted -- and now he knew he had hers.

Then there was their vision. Their ideas meshed perfectly -- overlapping, filling in each other's gaps, building upon each other until they blended into a perfect whole. By the time the sun rose, hours later, they knew what Section could be: something far better than Adrian ever dreamed of, something remarkable and revolutionary. He could see it, like a shimmering land on the horizon, waiting for him to sail in and claim it as his kingdom.

But first, they needed to take control.

It wouldn't be enough that Adrian fail. It wouldn't be enough that George abandon her, or that Section rise in mutiny. All of those things would have to happen -- but also something more. Paul would have to demonstrate to whoever judged these things -- be it Center, or someone higher than that -- that he, and he alone, could deliver what Adrian couldn't.

That, in turn, meant he would have to develop outside connections. Do deals. Create a sphere of influence. Internal unrest could be left in Madeline's hands -- she would handle that with efficiency and flair -- but the outside connections he would have to forge himself.

The prospect was dangerous but exhilarating. Empowering. Invigorating. As he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled another lungful of smoke, he felt like he was breathing in life itself.

***

Madeline strolled along the dusty museum aisle, peering into glass-enclosed cases. The room was nearly silent, but for her footfalls; few visitors found their way to this obscure collection, and fewer still lingered once they saw its contents. Rows of shelves and cases housed the remains of 19th-century criminals and psychotics: preserved heads gaped, misshapen, from the interior of jars; wrinkled brains soaked in formalin baths; plaster deathmasks slept in stiffened serenity.

At the far end of the aisle, Ulanova stood transfixed as she examined old photos of surgical procedures. Madeline had thought the museum would be an excursion Ulanova might enjoy, and her instinct turned out to be correct. More importantly, however, it was a place where they could speak in private.

Madeline approached Ulanova. Ulanova cocked her head as she inspected a wax model, her eyes bright and intent like a sparrow's. She hadn't spoken since they entered the room. Finally, however, she pronounced her verdict.

"This is merely a collection of the lurid," she said scornfully. "There is nothing of scientific value here." But the longing look she gave the specimens belied her words.

"It was an attempt at cataloguing variations from the norm. Given the primitive state of knowledge at the time, it was a reasonable place to start."

Ulanova grunted. "Primitive is an understatement."

"That may be. But the medical establishment then did have at least one advantage over their modern counterparts."

"What was that?" Ulanova sounded skeptical.

"Freedom from public scrutiny. They could pursue research that would be frowned upon today -- using a steady supply of subjects from prisons and asylums."

Ulanova shrugged. "It was wasted on them. They lacked the technology to take advantage of it."

"True." Madeline paused. "Section could offer the best of both worlds."

Ulanova narrowed her eyes. "It could. But it doesn't."

"Someday that might change. You could be part of it." Madeline held Ulanova's gaze, then reached out and touched her arm. When Ulanova's face grew pink, Madeline gave her a warm smile and removed her hand again. "By the way," she said, changing the subject and yet not really changing the subject at all, "I read the L-18 report last night."

Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

"It lacks balance."

"It is accurate," Ulanova said defensively.

"Only within a narrow range of parameters."

Ulanova didn't respond for several moments. Then she asked bluntly, "You want me to falsify the results, don't you?"

With great effort, Madeline resisted the urge to look away. Even now -- free of any possible surveillance, her courage buoyed by her newly-wrought plans with Paul -- the thought of lying to Adrian sent a sharp stab of fear through her. By hinting at it obliquely, she could pretend it was less than it was; when it was put in flat, stark terms, she couldn't evade it.

She kept her outer demeanor calm. "Adrian has set specific targets. If we fail to achieve them, the entire program will be terminated. Perhaps even personnel." She watched as Ulanova paled. "Adrian isn't willing to consider other directions. I, however, have an open mind. I see the program's larger potential. Your larger potential. I want to preserve those options for the future."

"But if I change the test results," Ulanova said, frowning, "Adrian will learn the truth when the device fails in the field."

Madeline shook her head. "It's an unlikely scenario. Given the state of Red Cell's work, they're not going to deploy the device anytime in the next decade. If ever. Even if they do, we'll come up with an explanation. There are an almost infinite number of variables we can attribute it to."

"So we pretend to make progress? For how long?"

Until Adrian's gone, Madeline thought to herself. To Ulanova, she replied, "Until we have concrete results. She'll change her mind about the project when she sees something she can use."

"I see." Ulanova turned toward one of the cases and ran a finger along the glass. Then she glanced back at Madeline. "Why are you doing this? Surely this is a risk."

"Because I believe in the Section," Madeline replied. "And I won't let anyone stand in the way of what's best for it."

"Not even its creator?"

"No."

Uttering the word, she felt a surge of emotion; the intensity of it both shocked and pleased her. For a moment, she struggled to identify what it was. Then she knew. It was clarity of purpose -- pure, concentrated, and sweet. She let it sweep through her like a narcotic.

She noticed Ulanova staring at her, brow wrinkled in a nervous expression. On some level, she suddenly realized, Ulanova was afraid of her. The recognition intensified the sweetness. She smiled.

"I'll review the report again," said Ulanova hastily. "I think I can make it more balanced."

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

Adrian set down her teacup. Within seconds, the dark-suited young man dashed forward to refill it. She waved him off in irritation; bowing slightly, he withdrew.

Not just one, but three attendants hovered obsequiously around the table. They thrust trays of food under the noses of the Council members like streetwalkers flashing bits of flesh at prospective johns. Only Adrian seemed to find them annoying. The Council, in contrast, snatched at the hors d'oeuvres with the relish of Roman nobles feeding on grapes. The room filled with the sound of their smacking.

So unseemly. The last time Adrian had occasion to visit the Clubroom, as they called it, it was still ruled with an iron fist by Didier. An old-school Swiss from Geneva, he knew the true meaning of the word service -- when to be attentive, and, more importantly, when to fade gracefully into the background. He would not have approved, Adrian decided, as she watched the young men circle and the old men gorge. But Didier, like most of the men he had served, was the past -- his influence fading, soon to be lost.

At least the Clubroom itself hadn't changed. The same heavy drapes blocked out any hint of the sun; the same oil portraits stared dourly from the walls; the stiff-backed furniture sat in the same positions as in 1963. Not even the Americans had dared change that.

It was one of the few things they left untouched.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the Council members set down his fork. Simpson. The younger of the two Americans present, he was a retired mining company executive from Wyoming, or Oklahoma, or one of those anonymous states from the godforsaken North American interior -- she could never remember which. He had a singular lack of interest in the human dimension of Section's work -- in lives saved, suffering prevented -- but mention enhancing Western control over copper, or chromium, or manganese, or cobalt, and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. He called it realpolitik. She called it despicable.

He stared at her for several moments. Then he made a great production of clearing his throat; his cheeks and neck swelled, froglike.

"So, tell me, Adrian," he said. "You actually expect us to believe that you're too broke to catch a single guy in a limo? I could walk into a Dallas shopping mall and round up ten security guards who'd do it for 100 bucks apiece."

Such belligerence was not a good sign. She hadn't expected Simpson to be immediately receptive -- he disliked her too much for that. But he detested Phillip just as much, so she had hoped for a semblance of neutrality.

She forced a smile. "It wasn't the mission itself that was the problem. Relatively speaking, it was a simple one. It suffered because my resources are spread too thin."

"You had a number of other operations taking place that day, correct?" prompted Laplace, the French member. He gazed at her encouragingly, his large brown eyes somber but kind.

He'd asked a deliberately easy question, and she was grateful for it. He, at least, might be considered an active ally, in no small part because of her insistence on locating Section One in Paris. She knew, even if others didn't, the importance of such gestures to a country that often felt outnumbered by the Anglo-American alliance.

"Sixteen, to be exact," she replied.

"But ten of them weren't tied to a specific target date. They could have been rescheduled," countered Strickland, the lone British member. Phillip's sponsor. And a viper of the first order. "Perhaps the problem isn't funding, but poorly thought-out coordination," he added archly.

She looked him in the eye. "When I receive intel on the enemy, I use it before it goes stale. Otherwise I'd be functioning as a mere archivist of historical data."

Like Center, she almost added. But she didn't have to -- the words may have been unspoken, but they were still understood. Strickland tightened his mouth angrily.

"How much funding do you need for optimal performance?" asked Ortiz, the Spaniard.

He was one of the newer members -- she didn't know him, but disliked him by reputation. The question, however, seemed straightforward enough, perhaps even sincere.

"At a minimum, I need a restoration to 1985 levels."

Simpson laughed derisively. "Oh, come on. 1985? You had the TWA hijacking and the Achille Lauro! Not to mention the Soviet succession in chaos after Chernenko. They couldn't stop throwing money at us that year. I don't think it's reasonable to measure by the high-water mark."

"But the threat has only grown since then."

"Yeah, but the mood has changed, especially when it comes to covert activities. The current investigations in America haven't turned into the Church Committee yet, but believe me, this just isn't the time to ask for more funding for black ops."

Adrian stiffened. "The entire purpose of the Sections is to enable the protectors of liberty to avoid the petty vagaries of domestic politics."

Simpson rolled his eyes. "That's a nice speech, Adrian, but if you really believe that, you're living in Fantasy Land."

"Well now, Adrian," drawled Reynolds, the second American, "I don't believe this is about money at all."

The senior member of the Council, Reynolds was a courtly Southerner whose slow speech disguised a keen mind. With his shock of white hair and slight tremble of Parkinson's, he looked like a doddering grandfather; in reality, his sharp grey eyes missed nothing. He said little, but when he spoke it was usually decisive.

He took a bite of his food and chewed thoroughly, crumbs clinging to his lower lip. The others waited in silence, as if holding their collective breaths.

Finally, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

"I've been around long enough to recognize a pi--, spitting contest when I see one." He aimed a broad smile at Adrian -- for a moment, she thought he might even wink.

She started to respond, but something stopped her. The twinkle in his eye was that of someone amused by a naughty but precocious child. He wasn't taking her seriously. None of them were, she suddenly realized, looking around at the table and seeing a variety of patronizing expressions. They'd decided their response ahead of time, no doubt agreeing to the meeting just to humor her. She felt her face flush with anger and injured pride.

"I think the current arrangement works just fine," said Reynolds, and the others nodded in agreement. "Having to work with Phillip keeps you on your toes. A little rivalry never hurt anyone." With a shaky finger, he beckoned one of the attendants forward. "You really should try the canapé," he invited. "It's delicious."

***

Charles shifted his legs under the desk and flexed his lower back. Adrian kept her chair a great deal lower to the floor than he liked, and after all morning working in the Perch, it was beginning to be more than a little uncomfortable.

Somehow, though, the idea of adjusting the height seemed wrong: an overly familiar gesture, a usurpation of privilege by one who was only a guest. This was ridiculous, of course, and he knew it. Adrian had given him command in her absence, and he ought to be able to readjust the chair, move the vase away from where it kept knocking into his elbow, even toss out the rapidly wilting flowers if he wanted to.

And yet, he didn't. Couldn't.

Perhaps it was because he knew, in the back of his mind, that his "command" was a relative thing. Strictly speaking, George was still Adrian's second, and she had given Charles stern orders to call George immediately in the event of anything beyond the strictly routine. It was somewhat like being a dog on a leash -- while he could run all he liked, he couldn't stray far.

For all practical purposes, however, he'd been leader of Section for two full days. It was a strange sensation. He had, upon occasion, taken charge by default of the chain of command during odd hours, when he was the senior operative present. But it had never been an official transfer of authority before, never the formal handing over of the command key, never such an open endorsement of his qualifications. He didn't know whether to be flattered or worried that it was more of a test than an endorsement. Knowing Adrian, it was probably something of both.

Whatever the case, he was determined to do a good job. He'd been putting in 18-hour days since her departure, and was proud to say that each mission so far had been flawless.

He returned his attention to the pile of status reports on the desk and scanned the summaries of each. Most involved routine intel gathering; others set forth policy recommendations; two contained prep for missions scheduled later that afternoon. He flagged the intel for routing to the appropriate analysts and profilers, set aside the recommendations for Adrian's return, and began to review the mission outlines in detail. He'd be running tactical on both of them, and he needed to review the profiles before they went live. He would probably have to fine-tune the parameters of each -- he'd found several profiles seriously wanting the prior day. Too many inexperienced profilers. He would have to speak to Adrian about that when she returned.

A noise at the door made him look up. Konstantin, a chubby DRV analyst with a perpetual sheen of perspiration on his broad face, nodded tersely and approached the desk. He placed several floppy disks on a tray.

"The latest reports from the Central African Sector," Konstantin said, by way of explanation, then exited.

Charles looked at the pile with dismay. The new disks looked like at least two more hours of work. The volume of data coming in was overwhelming, even on a day when nothing in particular was going on. It was hard to imagine how Adrian coped, day after day, with the demands of the job. While she was quite obviously brilliant and capable -- something she had the somewhat tiresome habit of reminding everyone of at frequent intervals -- he wondered if it wasn't really a sort of insanity that kept her going. An obsessive-compulsive disorder or egomaniacal fixation -- whatever it was that drove one to spend every waking moment in a quest to remake the world in her own image.

It reminded him of his missionary uncle, in fact -- the one who'd spent thirty-five years in a malaria-infested jungle, engaged in a fervent but futile effort to convert "pagan idolaters." Charles had been forced to spend several summers there as a teen, reading scripture to listless villagers in the local schoolhouse, struggling to appear pious while sweat poured down his face and trickled under his starched collar. It was utterly fruitless and probably mad. Yet the mission also dug wells, treated the sick, and provided the only education available for miles around. Section was much like that: chasing an unachievable, maybe even imaginary ideal, but along the way accomplishing some things of genuine value. Charles believed in the cause less and less every day -- but he was content being one of the well diggers.

When he heard footsteps again, he sighed. Yet another delivery of data? It was never-ending.

He looked up wearily. To his surprise, Paul Wolfe stood at the doorway, eyeing Charles with a bemused expression.

So Paul had finally decided to show his face again, after making himself noticeably scarce for several days. Charles hadn't been present in Section to witness Paul's insubordination to Adrian, but what he heard of the incident disgusted him. Paul's actions were inexcusable and childish. Even if one disapproved of a commander's decisions -- even if that disapproval was justified, as Charles suspected it might have been -- insulting her openly was unacceptable behavior. Especially coming from a military man. It was a disgrace, really.

Paul strolled into the Perch, his pace and demeanor relaxed and confident. For someone who'd felt compelled to hide out for the past two days, he seemed in a strangely good mood. His pale eyes held a trace of mirth, as if he considered the whole world designed for his personal amusement. There was no shame in those eyes, no guilt or regret -- and looking into them, Charles realized just how much he despised the man. It wasn't just a matter of misunderstandings or even mere personal rivalry, but of completely clashing values.

"I'm looking for Adrian," Paul said.

"She'll be back tomorrow."

"And she left you in charge?" Paul raised his eyebrows; his mouth took a wry twist.

"That's right." Charles straightened his posture and gave Paul a hard look.

Paul walked around the desk, moving slowly, like a dog sniffing around contested territory. His gaze dropped to the mission prep that sat open on the desktop.

Charles stood. "Is there something you need?"

Paul ignored the question and continued to inspect the report. Finally, he said, "You should be using a staggered formation on approach."

The urge to take a swing at Paul seized Charles. That bastard. Waiting until Adrian was gone and then trying to show off in some sort of macho posturing game.

Trying to control his anger, he looked down at the report. As he stared at it, it struck him. Paul was right. A staggered formation would probably shave a few minutes off the estimated completion time -- and as he well knew, every minute counted. He should have seen it himself. But he didn't.

He swore to himself silently, then he swallowed his hurt pride. A gentleman would have the strength of character to admit his mistakes. No matter who pointed them out.

"That's a good suggestion," he said. "Thank you."

"Anytime." Paul looked him up and down. There was a smirk, just barely suppressed, but also a hint of disappointment that he hadn't succeeded in goading Charles. It was as if he'd girded himself for a duel only to find no one interested in accepting the challenge. After a long pause, he said, "I guess I'll speak to Adrian tomorrow. See you later, Charles."

***

The soup steamed in its china bowl, the aroma heavy with pepper and leeks. George stirred the liquid and lifted a spoonful, pursing his lips to blow it cool before he took a sip.

Dining alone, he finished quickly. The spoon clinked and scraped against the side of the bowl; the bread crunched as he broke it apart to spread on butter. When the bowl was empty, he moved it aside and sat back in his chair. He stared at the empty expanse of the table beyond him; its polished surface shone even in the dim light. Across the room, a clock ticked steadily.

The door opened and a gray-haired man entered. Instead of bearing the next course, he was empty-handed and apologetic-looking.

"Telephone, sir. A Mr. Phillip Jones."

Phillip. Finally.

George pushed back his chair and stood.

"I'll take it in the study."

"Very good, sir."

George walked down the carpeted hallway, halfway numb, like a sleepwalker. All day long, he'd been trying not to think about Adrian's meeting with the Council -- trying not to indulge his hopes, for fear they would be dashed; trying not to dwell on his worries, for fear they would be confirmed.

Now, it was time.

He entered the study and closed the door soundly behind him. He sat at the desk and took a breath of anticipation, then picked up the telephone receiver.

"Good evening, Phillip."

"George."

There was a long silence. It seemed to stretch on and on, building the suspense until George thought he might burst.

"Is it good news or bad, then?" he asked, unable to bear waiting any longer.

"Both. Or neither. Depending on one's perspective."

So typical of Phillip to give a cryptic answer.

"How do you mean?" George tried to hide the impatience from his voice.

"The Council declined Adrian's request for autonomy. They were most grateful to us for advising them of her plans in advance -- because of that, they weren't taken in by her manufactured crisis."

"That's a relief." But?, he asked mentally.

"Unfortunately," continued Phillip, answering George's unspoken question, "they didn't see fit to discipline her, either. They seem to think this is a trivial spat between the two of us. They told me we needed to 'work it out.'"

"So it's a stalemate." George felt both his hopes and fears collapse, as if the air had been let out of them.

"Alas, she'll remain the proverbial thorn in my side for the foreseeable future," Phillip said dryly. "And you'll remain her errand boy."

The remark stung, even though George knew Phillip was deliberately trying to provoke him. The problem was that Phillip was right. If things remained the way they were, he'd be living in Adrian's shadow forever. The thought was unbearable. The alternative, however, was something he hadn't wanted to face.

The alternative meant active betrayal, and tremendous risk. It was an enormous gamble -- and even a source of shame. Until now, he'd kept those plans to himself and, to a limited degree, Madeline. He had thought -- hoped -- that Phillip's intervention would render it all unnecessary. How foolish that had been. The question now was whether he should reveal his plans to Phillip and seek his assistance. Phillip's cooperation might make all the difference between failure and success -- but then again, sharing the idea with Phillip rendered him much more vulnerable.

Phillip couldn't be trusted. George knew that. Then again, there were very few options.

He picked up a glass paperweight. Rolling it in his palm, he watched the light reflect within it. Finally, he worked up his nerve.

"There might be another way," he offered cautiously.

"Really?" Phillip sounded skeptical.

"You tried to remove her from above. Perhaps the answer lies below."

There was another pause. "Explain."

"A mutiny of dissatisfied subordinates. A coup d'état, so to speak."

"That's been done," Phillip said dismissively. "Remember 1969? It only made her stronger."

"That's because she stopped it on her own. But what if she actually lost control of Section One for a few days? Had to be rescued? Do you think the Council would continue to support her then?"

Again, a long silence.

"And just how would this happen?"

"There are some operatives I believe can be encouraged in that direction," George said, careful not to reveal too much. Phillip didn't need to know who, or how, or even how long George had been preparing for this.

"It would have to be tightly controlled. We can't have the peasants running amok."

"I can assure you it would be."

Phillip took a long breath. "It might work, but it troubles me. I don't like the precedent."

No. That was indeed a serious drawback. If they allowed one coup to succeed, others might follow. Others that weren't under their direction and control. But George had anticipated that.

"I've considered that issue," he said. "I believe we can deter any would-be imitators."

"How?"

George smiled to himself. "By canceling the coup leader afterwards."

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

Behind Paul, a throat cleared, light but insistent. He turned and saw Adrian at the threshold to his office, resting a hand against the door frame. She watched him steadily but without expression.

"Good morning, Paul."

They hadn't faced each other since their confrontation. Seeing her, he felt a surge of adrenaline -- a rush composed of equal parts excitement and pleasure. He found himself staring quite openly, thrilled and fascinated, as if he had never met her before.

Perhaps, in a sense, he hadn't. From his new vantage point, she'd been transformed. No longer was she a person to be feared; no longer was she a person to be impressed or even admired. Now, she was simply an adversary. He could study her the way one would an opponent across a chessboard, searching her eyes for that one fatal weakness.

He knew it was there. He knew he would find it. He relished that knowledge, rolling its taste in his mouth like the flavor of victory.

She entered the office and took a seat at the table, then she gestured for him to do the same. He sat. And then he waited.

The air hung with awkwardness, as tangible as jungle humidity. To cut through it, he clasped his hands together on the table in a gesture of earnestness and worked up his best "reluctant but contrite" expression.

"What I did was inexcusable," he said. "You're the commander. I had no right to speak to you like that."

"No, you didn't." She seemed strangely devoid of anger -- devoid of any emotion, in fact. "But you did have the right to be upset."

He didn't know what to make of her comment or her demeanor. Her mood was muted, soft, very unlike herself.

"In your shoes," she said, "I would have been outraged. We squandered an opportunity to eliminate a key member of a vicious terrorist organization." Suddenly, her expression changed, sparking into reproachful life. "However, had I been you, I also would have borne in mind that decisions are made for reasons, even if I may not be privy to them."

She stared at him pointedly.

"I apologize." He dropped his gaze in mock repentance. "My team members were dying all around me. I allowed myself to get carried away by the emotion of the moment."

"Paul Wolfe, overwrought at the death of his subordinates?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I believe that's a first."

A tone of amused skepticism had crept into her voice, and he wanted to kick himself for overdoing it.

"While I can appreciate and perhaps even sympathize with your feelings," she continued, mercifully letting the matter pass, "the fact remains that you crossed the line into insubordination. I cannot simply let it go, you understand."

He braced himself. "I understand."

"Good." She eyed him for a moment, hawklike. "Effective immediately, you're demoted to Level One. You'll be reassessed after six months."

He nodded, concentrating on suppressing a sigh of relief. A six-month demotion? He'd expected far worse.

Then again, he wasn't exactly home free, either. He'd be at the mercy of team leaders who hated him -- subject to their orders and their petty harassment. No doubt they'd take full advantage of the chance to make his life miserable. Let them try. He was smarter than they were. Better than they were. They'd either wind up letting him run their missions for them, if they were smart, or suffering the consequences of trying to mess with him, if they were stupid. He didn't really care which they turned out to be.

He expected Adrian to get up and depart, but she didn't. Instead she drummed her fingers on the table distractedly. In the fluorescent light, the veins stood out on her hand, large and blue.

Finally, she stood. She turned toward him, but she seemed to be looking through him.

"Sometimes," she said, her voice thin and tired, "the only option is to start from the beginning again."

***

The elevator hummed as it rose through Section. Adrian watched the floor numbers light her progress; the steady blink was mentally soothing, as was the soft vibration through the soles of her shoes.

What a relief to have put the discussion with Paul behind her. After her disappointment with the Council, she hadn't had the energy for a confrontation. Fortunately, he hadn't sought one. In fact, he'd been surprisingly self-restrained, even after she announced his demotion. Had she been inclined to care, she even might have been proud of him. But it was too late for that: Paul, at this point, was irrelevant. She only wished she hadn't wasted so much effort on him over so many years.

How could she have placed so much hope on a single person?

How, for that matter, could she have placed so much hope on a group of arrogant old men?

So foolish. Her only hope was in herself. When she was young, she'd understood that. At what point had she forgotten?

The elevator slowed to a halt and the doors rumbled open. She straightened her jacket with a brisk tug and stepped out.

Level Twelve was more brightly-lit than most areas of Section. It was also considerably noisier -- and odiferous, in that unpleasant manner of hospitals and morgues. She hated the smells; they seeped into her hair and clothing and accompanied her the rest of the day, an invisible but omnipresent taint of death.

The hallway was busy -- busier than she remembered it ordinarily being. The workers' demeanors seemed more purposeful, as well, in a way she couldn't quite explain. As she made her way down the corridor, some of them clearly recognized her and did a bad job of pretending not to, but others seemed genuinely oblivious to her identity.

When had she last visited here? She searched her memory but couldn't remember.

She turned a corner and entered a small office. Inside, Madeline looked up from the papers spread across her desk. She started to stand, but Adrian waved her back down.

"You have results on the L-18 project?"

"Yes," Madeline answered. "I sent you the full report this morning."

Lovely. Another report, to be added to the stack of others Charles had left. The very thought was fatiguing.

Adrian pulled over an empty chair and sat. "Just give me the highlights, please," she said.

"Phase Three has been completed on schedule. So far, the results exceed expectations."

"Do they? Remarkable." It was all so easy -- one of the few things that actually appeared to be running smoothly. As an afterthought, she asked, "How is Doctor Ulanova doing?"

"She's reasonably integrated into Section, despite some minor socialization issues. I'm working with the laboratory staff to resolve those."

"Have the other technical recruits been productive? The ones she requested?"

"Their numbers are among the highest in Section."

Madeline began to elaborate with names and figures, but Adrian found her thoughts straying. In truth, she hadn't the slightest interest in the performance of entry-level lab researchers. What difference did any of them make, if Adrian couldn't control the organization they worked for? But what could she do? Declare independence? Impossible. Submit? Unthinkable.

With a start, she realized that Madeline had finished and was waiting for a response.

"Very good then," Adrian said hastily. "It sounds like things are proceeding at an acceptable pace."

"We're ready to commence Phase Four, with your authorization."

"You have it, then." She rose to leave. "Keep me fully apprised."

She started for the door, but then an odd whim seized her. She stopped and looked back at Madeline, who sat with her hands primly folded atop her desk, regarding Adrian in that feline manner of hers.

So many people had been failures or disappointments. Madeline had been one of the few she'd never had any significant expectations of. And yet there she was: indispensable. An unaccustomed sense of gratitude arose, mixed with a twinge of guilt.

"Thank you, Madeline," she said. It wasn't enough, she knew, but perhaps it was a start.

A look of surprise momentarily creased Madeline's brow. When she said nothing, Adrian turned away.

***

All the anxiety, all the dread that had built and built toward a crescendo of fear that Adrian would see through the fraud -- it had all been for nothing.

Madeline marveled. She'd put so much effort into it, working with Ulanova to rewrite the research data until the falsehoods were undetectable, and yet she'd still been terrified that Adrian would see the lie in her face. It had happened before, disastrously, and the memory of it made her heart race.

This time, Adrian did nothing. She'd even seemed pleased with Madeline's work, offering thanks instead of her customary dry barbs. Immediately afterwards, Madeline fought a compulsion to flee the premises, certain that at any moment Adrian would reappear with more questions and trip her up. But she hadn't. Madeline finished her workday unmolested and headed home, so giddy with success that she kept smiling to herself involuntarily, attracting odd looks from passersby.

She'd lied -- boldly and shamelessly -- and Adrian hadn't noticed. Adrian wasn't omniscient after all; she couldn't always read Madeline's mind and push her buttons; she was human and weak and therefore vulnerable.

She's finished. Somehow, Madeline knew it with an unshakable certainty.

Arriving at her apartment, she turned the key in the lock and began to open the door. Then she froze. Inside, the light was on, and she knew she hadn't left it that way.

It was against Section regulations to carry a weapon when not on a mission; nevertheless, she habitually did. Glad for her foresight, she slipped the Beretta out of her coat pocket and entered the apartment in a burst of aggression.

"Good evening," said George, smiling at the pistol aimed at his chest.

He sat on the sofa, reclining comfortably against the cushions, a copy of the latest issue of Le Canard enchaîné spread open in his hands. He'd made himself quite at home: he'd even poured himself a drink, apparently having rummaged through the cabinets to find her liquor, several bottles of which sat on the coffee table.

She lowered the gun and drew a deep breath.

In all the years she'd known George, he had never visited her home before. While he'd done many things to remind her of his authority, he had always been scrupulous to preserve the illusion of personal privacy. She'd known it was an illusion, of course, but the pretense was a mark of courtesy, and she appreciated the gesture.

Now, she wasn't sure whether to be angry or fearful.

She placed the gun on a shelf. She said nothing, unwilling to acknowledge to him that she considered his visit unusual or unexpected. She closed the door, tossed her keys into a dish by the door, and took off her coat and draped it over a chair.

"You don't have any gin," he said accusingly.

"I don't care for it."

"Pity."

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He reached for an empty glass, dropped a few ice cubes into it, and poured another drink.

"Here," he said, offering her the glass.

He hadn't asked her what she wanted, or even if she wanted anything at all. The presumption made her resentful. Still, she took the drink and took a seat in one of the chairs.

She took a sip. It was far too strong. She found herself idly wondering whether he might have drugged it, but she drank it anyway.

"See that corner?" He nodded toward the far end of the room.

She followed his gaze.

"That's where the camera is." He paused, as if waiting for her reaction. "But don't worry. I'm familiar with your surveillance rotation, and it's dormant at the moment."

She studied her drink, refusing to look him in the eye. She could feel his stare: a cold burn on her skin, like dry ice.

"Over the past few years," he said, "you've done very well in our little joint venture."

She looked up. Again, he was smiling -- an expression that looked so stiff and unnatural she imagined he must have wrenched his facial muscles in the effort to look pleasant.

"I greatly appreciate the information and insight you've provided," he continued.

"That's very gratifying," she said, deciding to return platitudes with platitudes.

He seemed amused -- perhaps in approval of her cautious response, or perhaps at her expense. "I'm so glad you feel that way." The amusement faded from his expression. "You've known all along I'd eventually ask more of you."

She said nothing. But he waited, patiently, until she finally felt forced to speak. It was a capitulation on her part, but then that was the point, wasn't it?

"What would you like me to do?" she asked in surrender.

"Why, start a rebellion, of course."

A look of triumph lit his face, and she gripped her glass more tightly in apprehension. Did George know about her plans with Paul? They'd been careful to avoid any possible surveillance, but the coincidence in timing was more than disturbing. Perhaps, though, it was something simpler: Adrian was weakening and they all sensed it, like animals drawn by the scent of blood.

"Not today, mind you," he added. "But I'd like you to shift your energies from passive information-gathering to something more proactive. Begin to lay the seeds of disloyalty among those who will be the most receptive, and water them liberally."

"Where should I start?" she asked, hoping he might reveal more of his intentions, or, even better, how much he already knew of hers.

"I recommend that you cultivate a coup leader or two." At her questioning look, he explained, "It won't do for you to take the lead. People will be easier to manipulate if they think you're neutral. Besides, if something happens, you're more protected."

She dreaded asking the next question, but did anyway. "Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Paul strikes me as the rebellious type."

She felt herself flush. "Yes, I suppose he is."

"I'd also recommend Charles."

"Charles?" She forgot her worries in genuine surprise. "I can't imagine him crossing against a light, much less leading a mutiny."

"You underestimate him, then."

His look was sharp. She felt a wave of shame, as if she had been rebuked for an especially foolish error.

He glanced at his watch. "The camera comes on in ten minutes," he said. "I must go."

They rose, and she accompanied him to the door. As he shrugged on his overcoat, she could smell the heavy scent of his cologne.

"We stand on the brink of something remarkable," he said. "Be patient, and you'll be rewarded."

With a parting kiss on her cheeks, he left.

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