Nikita settled her fingers onto the keyboard with confidence. She began composing her thoughts, tapped out a sentence, then two...soon the plastic click click click of steady typing purred along with the sound of industry. She chronicled mundane details of a surveillance mission endured over the last three days from a hotel room in Oslo, Norway, the boredom carefully edited from room service visits and housekeeping duties. Nikita made careful note of specific times and intervals. Accuracy was a valued, albeit dull, quality in these reports. The monotonous content allowed her mind to drift as she typed. She looked down at her fingers and marveled a bit at how quickly they sought out each key. Her speed had improved ten-fold from the first tentative two-finger picking style she used to employ as a recruit.

"How much longer until you're done with that?" Birkoff asked. He stood behind her left shoulder and stared at her monitor. Nikita had tracked his movement across the room as she tracked all the busy people dodging through but until that moment had paid him no mind. She swept a glance over him. Faint stubble marred his chin. He wore a rumpled black tee-shirt and wrinkled olive pants. The camouflage jacket that covered them only added to his slovenly appearance.

"I'll be finished in a few," she retorted archly. "What's the hurry?"

"Operations wants it yesterday. What else?"

"Give me five minutes and I'll be done." Nikita turned once more to her work. Birkoff remained behind her, occasionally shifting his weight from foot to foot. Nikita rolled her eyes and controlled a sigh before it escaped her lungs. She wrote a few hasty sentences about the target's egress and her own withdrawal, then swiveled her chair a quarter turn to glare up at Birkoff.

"There. I'm done." Nikita punched up her voice with resentment. She picked up a disk and waggled it back and forth. "I suppose you want that downloaded on this now."

"No. Move. I'll send it through the network." He loomed closer, forcing Nikita to push back. She shook her head in disgust and launched out of the chair. Birkoff sat down before the chair stopped spinning. The keys began purring t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t bam! t-t-t-t-t-t-t bam! as he typed in bursts too fast to hear the individual stokes. Each salvo was punctuated by a bang when he hit the space bar or enter key with extra force. The too-long sleeves of his jacket did nothing to slow him down. Nikita sighed and crossed her arms, annoyed how easily he quashed her fledgling pride at keyboarding.

"I guess I can go now, huh?"

Birkoff nodded absently, still absorbed in the data-stream. "Yeah. This is fine."

"Have fun, then," she muttered sarcastically.

Birkoff turned to face her. Monitor glare momentarily silvered his round glasses with a blue sheen. "There's a briefing in half an hour."

"What?"

"Yeah, we've been working on a profile all night. Your surveillance was the last piece. As soon as Madeline gets this and factors it in, we're up."

Nikita frowned and her arms slipped loose from the angry knot they were wrapped in. The first thought that ran through her head was how her mission frequency was increasing. She just returned to Section late last night. Before that she counted four days downtime from the moment she walked the simple-minded -- and extremely lucky -- Rudy out from Section's secret underground and when her cell phone bleated to call her to Oslo. Her second thought was a blur of resigned resentment towards the guilt Birkoff pricked in her as she noticed brown shadows under his eyes.

"You could've said something earlier," she said. "I'd've gotten that done sooner."

Birkoff glanced back at her, puzzled. "It'll be completed on time. It's not a problem."

"Never mind, Birkoff," Nikita shook her head and left.

Birkoff punched in more commands, pulling together relevant reports and forwarding them to Madeline's domain. His head slowly turned and watched Nikita walk away. Puzzlement still nagged some back part of his brain. Did she seem almost sorry that he had to wait on her report? Apologies didn't fly much around systems...for him at any rate.

A yawn momentarily split his concentration. His tasks were finished until the briefing. Birkoff leaned back in the chair and scratched his chest absently as he debated the benefits of a catnap verses a caffeine-charged cola. If I lose my momentum now, I'll never get it back, he thought. He heaved out of the chair in search of a Coke.

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

Walter sat down seconds before Operations stalked up to the briefing table. He caught a softly tossed "Hey, Walter" from Birkoff in advance of the tight-lipped announcement of a name from the leader of Section One.

"William Rathjens."

Six pairs of eyes followed Operations' restless pacing. "William Rathjens has been a thorn in our side for years now. He's evaded all our attempts of capture, he's well insulated from the outside world, and now we hear he's willing to do business with Slobodan Milosevic. We cannot allow the situation in Kosovo to escalate beyond UN military auspices."

Operations clicked his remote. The holo-imager produced a grainy black and white picture of a man's face. He appeared to be about forty with a wide forehead that weighed heavily on his eyes, thick black hair and broad sideburns. Next to his name were distressingly small amounts of printed information. "His main base is in Cairo, but he has an extensive web of supporters and manpower all over; North Korea, Nicaragua, and Morocco are three areas we know he's dug in deep. He has business ties networked all over the world...Hong Kong, Miami, Belfast...and we know there are others. If we were to act against him without neutralizing his wide-flung resources, we'd be blindly chasing down dozens of his people for years to come."

"You've got a plan." Michael said when Operations paused.

Madeline turned her head gracefully from Operations to Michael with a sheer veil of approval for his observation on her face. "Yes. We're in a position to cut enough strands of his web to finally neutralize him. Neither he, nor his organization, will survive. We have to synchronize our efforts however, for all the segments of this web must be attacked simultaneously."

Michael nodded once.

"Ultimately there will be a five-pronged attack. Battle teams will hit the three major power bases in Rabat, Wonsan, and Managua; a data-recovery team will raid his headquarters in Cairo, and the set piece of this attack is the sniper who will take out Rathjens in one of his private residences. Because his security is extremely tight, there's only one place where we will have a chance: his castle in Ireland. We'll have to place the shooter in the only window of opportunity that's available: four weeks before the assassination." Operations stopped moving. He dissolved the thin-air image. "Place the shooter tonight. Details are on your pads."

Around the table people rose from their seats as Operations walked away into the shadowy hallway. Walter followed Birkoff several steps towards the dais in com and tugged on his jacket. He stopped and faced Walter.

"Hey," Walter rumbled. "Didja get a chance to play with that crazy circuit yet?"

"Not yet. I was hoping maybe after this mission."

Walter looked up and down the younger man. He saw the same boots and jacket and wrinkled clothes Birkoff wore yesterday. "You never made it to bed last night, did you?"

"No. Been too busy." Birkoff glanced at his station, his mind already in front of the computer screen.

Walter snorted derisively. "Then go to bed now, you dumb-ass!"

"What?" Birkoff's head swiveled back, his mouth wide open.

"Ha, got your attention, didn't I?" Walter smiled to take the sting from his shock tactics, then poured on soothing reason. "You're going on that mission tonight, Birkoff. Go get some sleep so you can do your job."

"But I've got three databases I've got to rake, a transform -- ."

"Delegate, Birkoff." Walter poked him in the chest with a finger. "You're the boss there now. Make someone else do it."

"But..." Birkoff stopped. Walter was right: Madeline had chastised Birkoff for his almost obsessive need to do everything in and around Systems. His expertise was to be saved for the priority tasks -- not the scut work. He ducked his head, sheepish. "Okay. I'll go get some sleep."

"Okay," Walter echoed. "And don't sweat that circuit...that's just a side-line; nothing important."

He nodded his thanks with a half-smile and stepped up onto the dais. He would sleep...but he would assign tasks first.

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

Birkoff shrugged into his jacket and walked quickly to the purposeful hustle of van access. He felt alert and ready after six hours of sleep, a shower, and fresh clothes. Support personnel loaded heavy boxes into the freight elevator and his own people had stacked his requested equipment already. Satisfied that his required tools were taken care of, he left them to their job and trucked to Walter.

"Hey, Walter, I need that other panel," Birkoff called out as he dodged a retreating operative.

"Hold on." Walter disappeared around the corner. He continued talking as he fetched the requested item. "Have you signed out a gun for yourself?"

"What?" Birkoff said with a disbelieving laugh. "Why?"

Walter reemerged. "Because you're going to a dangerous place." He placed the panel on the counter. Birkoff reached for it, but Walter slapped his hand on it, pinning it down.

"Ireland? Since when is Ireland dangerous? I've been to lots more hazardous countries." He tried to get a grip on the edge of the panel, tugging without success.

"You'd be surprised, but I wasn't talking about Ireland. I'm talking about a terrorist's personal vacation compound."

"It's always dangerous, Walter. So what?" He got his fingertips hooked on a plastic lip and pulled the equipment free from Walter's hand.

"'So what'?" Walter echoed. "That kind of attitude could get you killed someday."

Birkoff shot a look over his glasses and said smugly, "I don't do damage with guns."

"A computer ain't gonna help you much when someone shoots at you."

"As if they'd ever get a chance," Birkoff sneered. "You worry too much."

"You don't worry enough!" retorted the older man. "That van ain't invisible, you know."

"It is tonight. I intercepted the security video transmission and got a tape loop ready to play." He took time to brag while he settled the panel in his jacket pocket and snapped the flap over it securely.

Walter shook his head, annoyed at Birkoff's overconfidence. Chances were he would be fine; Michael led the best team in Section One and had one of the highest survival rates in all the Sections. In most cases, the van was the safest seat in the house. Still, there was always the exception...the unexpected anomaly, the surprise attack...Walter had been around long enough to see how bad an 'exception' could be.

"You're giving me that know-it-all look," Birkoff accused.

"That's because I do."

Birkoff shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. I don't have time for this. I'll see you later."

He left Walter and stepped up to the com to check for last-minute profile changes. Everything remained as it had been presented by Operations that morning -- once security around the Rathjens compound was breached, a terminal operative would be placed and the team would pull out. Since there were no updates, he picked up the bag containing his laptop computer and settled its familiar weight on his shoulder before he returned to egress.

Team members converged in the waiting area. Birkoff fell in step behind Nikita as she entered the throat of van access. Mentz and Theo stood quietly by the door, conserving energy like all the good operatives did when they could. Birkoff took note of attendance only as it pertained to the mission, but his eyes lingered on Nikita for a second longer. She wasn't like the other operatives and he still hadn't figured out why.

A majority of new operatives hit the halls of Section One with a buoyed sense of enthusiasm and purpose. Feeling powerful because of the intense training, feeling content because of the caliber of material lifestyle they enjoyed as fully vested agents, they were often eager to please. Birkoff observed that after a year or so of service, most lost the enthusiasm. They became easier to work with. Businesslike. Efficient. Cold. One or two somehow retained an ember of human brotherhood, but since it was usually reserved for their fellow field ops Birkoff never paid much attention to the why or how. The rest died -- or were canceled. Nikita not only remained warmly friendly, but she included everyone in that warmth. Because she showed a friendly interest in Birkoff from time to time -- teasing him, sometimes just dropping by to talk -- he paid more attention to her than the other cold ops. That she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his short life made her all the more fascinating.

She had surprised him more than usual last week. Rudy, a simple deliveryman, had become the innocent lynchpin of a tough mission, and Nikita showed much patience with the retarded man. Birkoff found him to be too much like a 250 pound six-year-old, getting into things he shouldn't and asking interminable questions. He had watched Nikita not only stifle her own impatience with Rudy's shortcomings, but accept him as he was and place real value on his life. Birkoff expected the man to be declared collateral and canceled, but Nikita herself escorted him out of Section One...free and clear.

Nikita had that way about her, a wide-open acceptance of the world and everything in it. Birkoff felt a little guilty he had teased her and lied about how he got into Section when she asked. Maybe she would have understood if he had told her the entire truth. He mused about it as he secured the last of his gadgets in pockets. When he looked up, Michael stood with the group. Birkoff didn't bother to flinch anymore.

"Where's Jack?" Michael asked after a flickering glance over the assembled team.

"He's late again," Mentz frowned. Nikita looked around. Michael looked pointedly at Theo, who shrugged his thin shoulders.

"I haven't seen him since this morning."

Michael let the tension of irritation flow over him as he turned his head and drew in a breath. Used to his minimal expressions, his team all knew Jack was in trouble.

Michael paged Walter with a stiff stab of his finger to the com button on the wall.

"Yeah?"

"Is Jack equipped?"

"Jack? He just left. He should be at access now," Walter's voice tumbled from the wall.

"Hey," Jack ran through the door, out of breath.

Michael closed the com to Walter. To Jack he said, "You're late."

"'M sorry," he muttered, head down as he secured his long hair in a rough ponytail.

"This is the last time you'll be late."

Jack's head came up, drawn by the frosty steel in Michael's voice. They stared at each other a moment, filling the small space with an uncomfortable sense of challenge. Birkoff watched with wide eyes, taking it all in as he took in everything, trying to make logical patterns out of random information. Admittedly, trying to quantify human behavior was a challenge for him. He wondered how Jack had the guts to stare at those frigid green eyes.

"Yeah, I won't be late anymore," Jack retorted. He stared until Michael turned to face the sign over the door, waiting for the signal to depart.

Birkoff met Nikita's gaze and shrugged, as if to ask, "What was that all about?"

She shrugged back, silently answering, "Hell if I know!"

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

The team remained strangely subdued during transport. Birkoff couldn't put his finger on the reason why, and he didn't want to try. No one cracked jokes, or talked about the target destination, or gossiped. Usually Theo was a fount of such information and dirty jokes, but he sat silent and stiff-necked. He was avoiding Jack's efforts to establish eye contact.

Eighteen kilometers outside Belfast, the van stopped along a deserted gravel road. Birkoff compromised the security camera that monitored the country lane and fed it a doctored tape loop he created earlier. Michael led his heavily laden team of Mentz, Nikita, Theo, and Jack into a dark thicket, leaving Birkoff in the van. Birkoff monitored thermal pictures of them as they wormed closer and closer to the perimeter of Rathjens estate. Outside the fence, the five blips grouped and stopped.

"Do it," Michael nodded to Theo and Mentz. By the light of a full moon they unburdened the heavy packs they wore and began assembling arcane equipment while the others kept watch, weapons ready. While they worked, Nikita looked up at the fence. Topped with razor-wire loops, it stood twenty feet tall. At every post a dim blue light signified electric current fed each section of chain link. According to huge, red-lettered warning signs, the charge was lethal. According to Section One intel, the least disturbance in the electrical field would alert security.

Theo checked the last connections. "Okay. We're ready."

Nikita and Jack set aside their guns and helped move four slender rods into place. Two stood on telescoping feet by one fence post; two more rods stood by the next. Along with Jack, Mentz, and Theo, Nikita picked up a heavily insulated metal clamp. Attached to one rod by a thick wire, it weighed heavy in her hands and the spring was stiff as she opened and closed the clamp. She examined the device more closely. The rods were joined in pairs by thick wires and each rod had a corresponding clamp. Indicator lights glittered like dark blood rubies on top of each rod.

"Find your mark," Theo warned. Two lines of live current threaded through the chain-link fence, attached to each fence post by small metal hubs. Theo indicated which person would clamp each hub. "If this isn't within half a second synchronized, we're breached."

Nikita swallowed hard. Her palms felt greasy inside her gloves; she had a hard time trusting the esoteric equipment Section employed.

"Birkoff? Are you monitoring the fence?" Michael asked over his com.

"Yeah, it's covered. Hit it."

"On my mark," Theo said. Nikita re-settled her feet in a wider stance and hoped the thick spongy material on her clamp counted for something.

"One...two...three...clamp!"

With a buzzing spat! the rods came alive with bright red lights as the blue bulbs died on the fence posts. Inside the van, Birkoff watched the readings on the fence fluctuate briefly...then stabilize. Before Nikita could breathe a sigh of relief, Michael waved his gun.

"Under the fence," he ordered. They dug beneath the now-ordinary chain link until they found the bottom, lifted it up, and crawled under. After scrambling over half-a-kilometer of grass tussocks and low shrubs on the other side, Birkoff's voice invaded the silence.

"The dogs are almost there. Get ready. I've got seven coming at you now."

"Tranqs only," Michael warned. "Don't lose any targets."

Without warning, sleek darts of animal muscle and fur streaked out of the darkness, baying. Thock! Thock! Darts full of sleep-drugs whistled hollowly out of gun muzzles as all team members took aim. Territorial growls gave way to panicked yelping as stinging needles delivered their payload. Nikita shot one as it leaped up to grab Mentz's arm. The beast's momentum knocked him to the ground, but Mentz jumped up immediately, unhurt.

Michael sent the last dog into unconsciousness as it stood growling and bristling. He holstered his weapon, then nudged the limp canine with the toe of his boot. "Retrieve all the darts. We've got half an hour."

Nikita pulled darts from an oblivious dog, wishing all Section collateral was similarly dealt with. Jack sidled next to her.

"Hey, I'll carry those for you," he offered. "I've got an extra compartment here." He held out his hand and Nikita lay the spent cartridges in his gloved palm.

"Thanks," she murmured. Together they followed the rest of the team and soon approached the first outbuildings. They skittered from shadow to shadow, hating the unremitting eye of full moon glaring down. Full lunar illumination was not ideal, but tomorrow the entire cleaning and servant staff would arrive at the castle. Tonight, the caretaker was drinking in his favorite pub and a Section beauty would insure he had no reason to return to his cottage. Tonight, the lone security guard slumbered in drugged oblivion, the sandwich he ordered from a near-by restaurant intercepted and laced with soporifics before he ever took a bite. Tonight was the best chance they would get.

Mentz and Theo took look out positions at opposite corners of the hulking structure that drew in the entire team. Once used exclusively as a horse stable, it stretched long and low for many meters. At one end, a lumbering barn swelled; at the other a fanciful tower stood proudly at attention, tall enough to give direct line-of-sight over the high castle walls and into the courtyard.

Where individual stalls used to house horses, now locked garages sheltered expensive antique cars from the elements. Each metal garage door stood blank and featureless, accessible only from within the building via powered openers. The only legitimate way to enter the building was through a side door by the tower. A thick slab of steel door guarded that solitary egress, and a 12-digit code, swipe-card electronic lock guarded the sanctity of the door.

Michael drew a small, thin rectangular metal box from an inner pocket. A standard magnetic-strip swipe-card dangled from a thin wire on one end. He removed his right glove with a tug of his teeth and shoved it in another pocket.

"Birkoff? Are you ready?" he asked softly.

"I'm ready. Go for it."

Michael slowly slid his special card into the appropriate slot and stopped it mid-swipe. Indicator lights flashed on the small box in his hand.

"Here it comes," Birkoff said to no one in particular. Hard data buzzed around his software as sub-routines tried making sense of the gibberish. He mentally danced around the puzzle and called relevant tools into play. A window popped up and the digits to the code began spinning into place.

"Okay, Michael. Here's the code: 006210767562." He spoke each number slowly and clearly. Over the com, he heard the steel bolt slam back.

"We're in."

Nothing happened during withdrawal. Jack was placed in the top of the tower and left with four weeks worth of water and foodstuffs. The team backtracked past wobbly dogs that would return to their keeper and so not betray that intruders had invaded. Michael took Jack's place at the fence as they dismantled the electric by-pass, hardly disturbing the continuous flow of lethal energy. The team had returned quietly successful to the van and now Birkoff leaned back on his stool and stretched as Theo drove them away from the Irish countryside. As far as this leg of the mission was concerned, he was finished. He cast a bored look around the van interior and his eyes caught on nothing he hadn't seen a hundred times before...various bins and equipment, resting operatives dressed in black, Michael typing up his preliminary report. Birkoff picked up a pen and chewed the end.

His computer tweeked. Birkoff sat up and cleared the channel.

"Hey, is this thing working?"

"Jack? What's wrong?"

"Just testing."

Michael looked up. "What's going on?"

Birkoff shrugged. "It's Jack. Says he's testing his com."

"He's probably lonely," Nikita said.

Michael stared at her for a moment, then continued his work. Without looking at Birkoff, he said, "Go ahead and test it. The surveillance cameras too."

"You're channel is fine, Jack, just like it was an hour ago," Birkoff said, faintly sarcastic. He called up unearthly monochromatic images from three cameras planted around the garage. "Video's up and running too."

"Thanks." Jack sounded bitter. "Hey, give Theo my regards, huh?"

"Whatever," Birkoff muttered, and closed the channel.

"Birkoff, you could've been nicer than that," Nikita admonished him.

"Huh?"

"He's gonna be stuck up there for almost a month. Have a little sympathy."

Birkoff frowned. He wasn't sure what she was talking about, so he faked it. "Um, sure."

Michael looked up once more, a warning for Nikita shooting across the small space of the van. She stared back, her expression clear. She said nothing further, however, and Michael bowed his head once more to his task. Birkoff looked from one to the other without moving his head then decided it was something he would never figure out.

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

"What is it, Jack?" Birkoff answered the com-call with severe prejudice. Jack had called four times in the past week, requesting signal tests then hanging on with wisecracks and idle chatter.

"I'm bored."

"You're bored," Birkoff echoed, disbelieving.

"Out of my fucking gourd. Y'know, nothing to do? No one to talk to? No TV? No music? Nada. Zippo."

Birkoff sighed. He's not even pretending to be legitimate this time, he thought, annoyed.

"Don't you ever get bored?" Jack asked.

"Never."

Jack grunted. "No, they keep you hopping pretty much all the time, don't they?"

"So what do you want?"

"Just looking for a little human contact. The pigeons aren't bad, but the rats and cockroaches are getting old. They just can't hold up their end of a conversation."

"Rats? Cockroaches?"

"Yeah, even rich bad people get vermin."

Birkoff chuckled briefly. Even Section had rats once. Housekeeping had made short work of the infestation.

Roberta set a pad on the table next to Birkoff's keyboard. He glanced up and nodded his acknowledgement before she walked away.

"Jack, I've got to go."

"Damn, just when we were talking about bugs and rodents."

"Call me if you've got a real reason."

"This is a real reason, Birkoff." Desperation flattened his voice.

Birkoff picked up the pad. While he glanced over summaries, he imagined, just for a moment, the loneliness of imprisonment. His eyes slid off the data, momentarily unfocused.

"It's lonely up there, isn't it?"

"God, yes!"

"Didn't they give you anything to pass the time with? A pad? A book? Anything?" He resumed scrolling through the intel.

"Nope. I've got water, rations, and a camp toilet. Period. Well and the rats and stuff."

A ruthlessly machine part of his brain extolled the efficient use of resources in this case. Jack was a terminal operative. Section preferred to remain anonymous after the mission, therefore they issued minimal equipment. If things went well, no more operative casualties would join him.

But...Jack was also a man, condemned to die, even if he didn't know it.

Figures crawling on the pad triggered a flashpoint of angry decision. Without shutting off the com, he snapped, "Roberta!"

"Hey, don't yell...shit. That hurt."

Roberta returned. Birkoff shook the pad at her. "Why are you giving me this? You can take care of it! I don't even need to see this!"

Her shoulders twitched spastically. "I'm sorry."

"I don't wanna hear it," Birkoff retorted. He tossed the pad down with a clatter. "I've got enough to do without doing your job too."

"Whoa, feeling a little testy?" Jack teased.

Birkoff blew out a breath as Roberta picked up the pad and left. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt so angry, but letting Jack listen in calmed him down. "No. I'm just surround by morons."

"Who, Roberta? Oh, yeah, Sinead."

"Huh?"

"Y'know, the bald Irish chick. Singer. Roberta looks just like her 'cept skinnier."

"I guess." Birkoff didn't see the resemblance, personally.

"Ah, you've got it good, though. There's way more women in administration than in the field."

"I guess."

"Oh, c'mon! Don't tell me you don't go party with them every night! Hey, you're the boss! You gotta figure half the girls would blow you just to gain favors."

"Jack!" Birkoff flushed hotly.

"What, you've got scruples?"

"Yeah. I do." Birkoff said defensively. He almost closed the channel.

"Hey, I dig it. That's cool. No offense, man."

"Hm."

"Still, them chicks in data retrieval...roooaw!" he purred. "You know Isabelle? She's got that long brown hair and..."

"Yeah, I do."

"Oh, she's a vixen. We had something going last year...pretty hot and heavy..."

"Jack? I've got to close this connection."

Silence. "I suppose you do."

"Hey, one week's almost gone. Not that much longer."

"Yeah. I know."

Birkoff waited another beat, then shut down the link. He sat back, pensive. No, just let it be, he thought, and returned his energies to work.

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

Nikita rubbed her eyes with an annoyed gesture and scuffed her feet several steps across the floor. Past midnight, Big Brother's glass box was pale and empty and the hub of Section beneath echoed with solitude. Nikita felt safe enough to show how she felt right now -- tired and cranky. Since lunchtime she worked out the details of her profile; checking and double checking obscure intel and charts of data...exacting, tedious and necessary work. The rainbow-shot disk in her right hand held it all and was bound for Birkoff's attentions.

On the dais, Birkoff sat rocking in his chair and tapping a pen against the edge of the table. Around the circle, only one other person worked, engrossed not only in the images on her monitor but also the sounds coming into her headphones. Nikita dragged herself up the step and stood behind Birkoff.

"No, never had much time for sports. I mean, when we were kids we'd play baseball in the summers, or hockey in the winter, but I..." Birkoff said.

Nikita looked around, confused.

"Huh. Maybe." He paused. "I don't think so!"

Nikita realized he was speaking to someone on his headset. She set her weight on one hip and waited for him to notice her.

"Really? Over the fence? Ha!" Birkoff bounced his chair to the brink of overbalancing. "Didja have to pay for it? Out of...oh, man!" He laughed.

Nikita grew tired of waiting. She stepped closer, into his field of vision. He glanced up at her and frowned. He sat up suddenly and tapped a quick combination on his keyboard.

"Nikita. What's up?" He tried to sound casual.

"Just needed to drop this off." She set her colored disk on the table. "Who're you talking to?"

"No one. Just a field op on location."

"Jack?" Nikita smiled. He nodded. "Poor guy. Must be boring in that old tower."

Birkoff's shoulders relaxed. "He says so."

"It's good of you to talk to him. He seemed really unhappy about being stuck up there."

"Yeah?"

"Mm," Nikita sighed. "I saw the place. It's small and dirty...there's nothing to do up there. I don't blame him for wanting to talk whenever he can. I bet he can't wait to get out."

Birkoff frowned and looked at the monitor for a moment. He turned back and gestured to the disk in her hand. "Is that for me?"

"Yep. All yours." Nikita held it out and he took it. "G'night."

"'Night." He waited until she ambled out of earshot and re-connected to Jack.

"Hey, were you busted?"

"Yeah. Well, no...it was Nikita."

"Oh, god is she hot or what? Makes me wish I'd climbed the corporate ladder a little higher so I could train chicks like her."

"She's nice."

"Nice?" Jack paused. "I guess so. She's one of the good ones, that's for sure. So, are you one of the good ones?"

"Good ones?" Birkoff looked pained. After almost three weeks of late-night conversations with Jack, a rapport grew out of the intimacy of a secret voice speaking into his ear. In a very real way, Jack was the safest person in the world to talk to; he would soon be beyond the capacity to ever tell another living soul. "What's good, anyhow? I do my job."

"Never mind. I can tell. You're one of the nice ones. Just...don't let the bastards get to you."

Birkoff had no response.

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

Walter loaded a plastic bin with boxes of specialized ammunition. He daydreamed a bit, looking forward to a date that night. She was thirty-five...a redhead...and her legs went all the way...

"Walter, got a minute?"

"Sure," he glanced up at Birkoff. Half his brain was still undressing Deana.

"I just..." Birkoff paused a moment. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."

One eyebrow climbed high in amusement. He folded his arms on the table and leaned on them. "Well, I'm doing just fine. How are you?"

Birkoff waved one hand, non-committal. "I..." He dropped his faltering nonchalance and leaned on the other side of the table. "It's about Jack. There's no way to get him out of Ireland, not the way the profile stands." He looked at Walter, searching for hope. "Or is there?"

Walter blinked. "There's always a way, Birkoff, but...is it what Section wants?"

"No. He's not listed as in abeyance, but he's being written off as terminal. He could be retrieved...It doesn't make sense."

"Did you ask Madeline?"

"No."

"Well, she'd know. If she'll tell you, well, that's another story."

Birkoff tugged on the hair by his temple, then scratched behind his ear. "I just -- ."

Roberta appeared at the opening to Walter's area, her steps dainty little darts forward, tp tp tp. "Birkoff, Simon says he needs you...it's the Rathjens mission."

Birkoff walked quickly to the dais leaving Roberta to catch up. He accosted Simon. "What is it?" He began assessing data on the monitor before his butt hit the chair.

"It's Jack. Says he's got an anomaly," Simon said.

"Jack?" Birkoff screwed the com firmly in his ear.

"Birkoff, someone's in the building." Jack's voice betrayed his tension.

"Hold on. I'm checking visual now." He kicked back, rolled to another computer and quickly called up the relevant data. Two covert cameras covered the main entry points. Nothing moved. "I don't see anything."

"Birkoff, they're in the fucking building, not outside!"

"Let me run the tapes back." Birkoff said, his voice calm. He worked quickly; Jack's panic was contagious. Ghostly black and white shadows of sun through leaves rippled as the tape ran backwards. Larger motion blurred the picture. He stopped the tape and played it forward. Two figures entered the field covered by the cameras and furtively slid a swipe card into the electronic lock. Both huddled over the number pad, heads close together and bodies touching often. "You've got two intruders, Jack. They penetrated fourteen minutes ago."

"Hostiles?"

"Unknown." Birkoff watched the tape carefully. The grainy quality of picture left something to be desired, but he decided the two people were a male and female...and fairly young. They stood back as the door slid open then disappeared into the stable, hand in hand. "They look like innocents. Can you hear anything?"

"I, uh...," Jack paused.

Birkoff waited. He heard a faint sound through the channel and shook his head, unsure. "Jack? Jack?" The sound grew...Jack was laughing.

"Jesus H. Christ! They're screwing!"

"What?"

"Yeah, they are fucking each other's brains out!"

Birkoff's eyebrows shot up. "Um, okay."

Jack stifled his guffaws as best he could until all that could be heard was the occasional snort or wheeze.

"Keep it down in there. They might hear you."

"I sure as hell doubt it! Can't you hear that?"

Birkoff strained his ears. He thought he heard some indistinct vocalizations. "Maybe...can you keep track of them inside?"

"I don't think I have to worry. They are not interested in anything but each other."

Birkoff monitored while Jack remained silent. He toyed with his computer, assigned a few tasks, then just sat back and gnawed on his thumbnail.

"Wake up, Birkoff. I think they're leaving."

Birkoff watched in his monitor as the door opened and discharged the two intruders. The carefully secured the door, then walked away, arm in arm.

"You're clear, Jack."

"Thank god! Do you have any idea how hard it is to listen to that stuff?"

"Um, yeah, actually. Sometimes I have Valentine mission surveillance."

"With video and everything?"

"Live."

"Lucky bastard."

Birkoff grinned. It felt good to joke with Jack...he'd miss talking to him when...

His grin died. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"You, uh, want some music or something?"

"Shit yeah! Anything to get my mind off sex! What d'ya got?"

"Anything you want."

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

Nikita fought a growing sense of unease that began with breakfast and continued to expand as the afternoon aged. She couldn't identify where it came from. Her workload had increased, but it wasn't unbearable. She felt healthy. She was uninjured. She anticipated going out with Carla for a girl's day of shopping two days hence. Why did the smothering ash of despair quietly cover her with gray thoughts?

Her phone rang, intruding on her introspection. "Hello?"

"Josephine."

"Yes."

"Come in now."

Nikita gently lay the phone in its cradle and let her hand slide over the curved plastic handset until the tips of her fingers fell off the end. She tried to firmly deny the foreboding snarl of doubt in her stomach and succeeded in only masking the symptoms rather than rooting out the cause.

Masking would do. It always sufficed in Section.

At the entrance to Section One, the guard quietly informed her that Madeline awaited her presence. Nikita nodded, further dismayed, and walked in, distracted.

"Nikita," Madeline smiled.

Nikita smiled back. "Madeline...what am I here for?"

"Michael will need you this evening for initial mission preparation to Cairo. Before you go to him, however, I thought we might...touch bases. It's been a year, today."

"A...year?"

"Tonight, one year ago, you passed a test. The test." Madeline waited.

A burst of clarifying memory illuminated her confusion. Dinner. A beautiful dress. Michael. A gift. The fairy-tale illusion had been shattered when Pandora's box opened and let out the gun. The rest of the night was an intense race for survival that negated everything else and raped her soul besides.

She had purposely forgot that this was the anniversary. Forgetting helped her sleep at night.

"You know how impressed we are with how much you've grown, Nikita."

"Yes. You've told me," Nikita said. Her shoulders stiffened, but she resisted crossing her arms.

"There is always room for improvement," Madeline added softly.

"Oh? I suppose lying and killing aren't enough?" Nikita wished she could catch the words before they left her mouth.

"Efficiency is enough, Nikita. Improved efficiency. And you've been interfering with Birkoff's."

"Excuse me?" Her expression opened up with surprise.

"This ongoing...conversation with Jack. You encouraged him."

"So?"

Madeline tilted her head. "Jack's terminal. He won't be returning from Ireland."

"All the more reason to comfort a dying man." Nikita gave her arms free rein and they crossed defiantly in front of her chest.

"He doesn't know he's terminal...but Birkoff does. How do you expect Birkoff to retain objectivity on this mission when he's forging a friendship with a dead man?"

She looked down and let a curtain of hair shield her confusion. "Maybe because it's the decent thing to do."

"Is it? Jack's already dead. We introduced a slow-acting poison into his system before he left. If he's not killed during the mission, he'll die hours after mission conclusion and now Birkoff will only get hurt."

"My god, Madeline. Even the guard dogs were tranquilized! Why does Jack have to die?"

"We have our reasons. Suffice to say that when William Rathjens' competitors find Jack's body equipped as it is, our job will be easier in the long run."

"That's harsh, Madeline," Nikita bit off the words. "He's to be killed for appearances' sake?"

"Mercy takes many forms, Nikita. Keep in mind that you do not know all the reasons behind our decision...and we have no obligation to tell you." Madeline clasped her hands on the desktop. "Michael is expecting you. Goodnight."

Nikita leaned on her auto-pilot and let it carry her out Madeline's door, her brain too busy turning the conversation over and over, looking for some part of it to make sense.

Mercy? For who? She walked faster but couldn't escape the confusion in her heart.

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

"Where the hell were you?" Jack said angrily.

"I was out. I do sleep sometimes."

"Where the fuck is my egress?"

"It'll come after you hit Rathjens We'll need, uh, live intel from you." Birkoff winced when he faltered. "Why are you asking this now, anyhow?"

"I was talking to Simon. He says there is no egress!"

Birkoff knew that hesitation was the worst response, so he spoke quickly while silently fuming at Simon. "Simon's an idiot. He don't know what he's talking about!"

"Oh? When I unpacked my gear to take inventory, guess what I found? A standard rifle! What the hell am I doing with a standard rifle? Normal scope...it's not even got a damned silencer on it! They're gonna be all over me as soon as I take one shot!"

"It's all in the profile."

"But why?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Look, I found the scar, too. They took the tracker out of me. That's why you've got cameras out here, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Birkoff said softly. "The cameras are standard, you know that."

"Oh, shit." Jack's voice thickened as he followed his own paranoia. "Different gun...no equipment...Damn Theo! He knows, doesn't he? God, I bet those cameras are real small, aren't they? Harder to detect?"

Birkoff shrugged. He saw no reason to evade the technical questions. "Yeah, they are small. What are you on about?"

"I'm in abeyance, aren't I?"

"Wha - ? No!"

"There's no way to trace me to Section. Even if I'm a body." Jack paused. "Makes me feel pretty goddamned expendable right now."

Birkoff sucked in a breath, and hoped he would have something to say when he exhaled. "Just focus on your job, Jack. You'll be done before you know it."

The open channel hissed silent. Birkoff thought he could hear a wet snuffle.

"Jack?"

Jacked sighed heavily. "You spin a good story, kid. I, uh, I won't hold that against you." His voice was clear and quiet.

"Hold what against me?" he retorted, defensive.

"Never mind. Just...spin me another, huh? How'd you end up in this hole, anyhow?"

Birkoff inhaled...and this time nothing came out. He let it out with a whoosh and started again. "Ah, it's, um, classified."

"Don't give me that shit. We've all got our stories in here..."

"How did you get in, then?" Birkoff countered.

"You don't already know?"

"No."

"Hell, I thought you had all that info on us field grunts."

"Not the details, no. That's Madeline's department."

"Ah, Madeline! She knows it all, doesn't she?"

"I guess. How did you get in?"

"Not much to tell, really. I guess I was too creative." Jack sighed mightily. "I enlisted in the army. Thought it was a good idea at the time. What the hell did I know? I was eighteen and numb as a pounded thumb, as my dad would say."

"So how did the creativity come in?"

"I didn't like being in the army. I got in trouble...creatively. The details don't bear mentioning. Suffice to say that after they confiscated the crazy glue, new security measures were implemented for the base commander's washroom a few weeks after I got there."

Birkoff snickered. "How old where you when...you know."

"I stuck it out in the army for three years before I got nabbed. Never did get a chance to go into a bar and order a legal drink. Not that I would have looked anything like my old I.D. by then. Hey, at least in Section they don't care if you wear your hair long." Jack snorted, half-amused and half-disgusted.

Birkoff thought a moment and recalled how Jack had tied a ponytail in his hair while smoldering at Michael in the challenge-charged air of van access. It suddenly bothered him that he had forgotten that tiny, inconsequential detail since it obviously mattered so much to Jack. Other niggling visual details of what made Jack 'Jack' were not accessible to Birkoff from his own memory.

"My dad used to give me so much shit about my hair..." Jack launched into an anecdotal tale of his father. Birkoff called up his file while he talked. Jack's eyes were dark blue, not brown. "The army took care of that quick enough. Zzzzzzt! All gone, shorter'n yours even. I hated it...and that started all the pranks. I got into fights, too. After being picked up by the MPs one time too many, I ended up in Section with a couple of other troublemakers...Theo was one. I've known him a long time." Jack's voice stiffened. "He can't lie for shit."

"Really?"

"Never mind Theo. It's your turn." He sounded tired.

Birkoff rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully. "It really is classified. But...I got in trouble with Section directly. I ended up getting my little sister killed."

"Your little sister? How?"

He snorted softly. With the education he gained in Section, he could quantify the terrifying jumble of violence that ended his sister's life. He spoke in a clipped tone. "I turned her into...acceptable...collateral."

"Shit, Birkoff. I still don't understand...Did you go to prison?"

"No. Section faked my death," he said quietly. He pulled up his left sleeve and traced a long, thin white scar on the inside of his forearm. The slightly raised tissue described how a razor-sharp knife had parted the skin from elbow to wrist in a diagonal slash and severed a vein. "There was enough blood at the scene...authorities thought the body just sank to the bottom of the lake."

"How old were you?" Jake demanded.

"Fifteen. I'd just turned fifteen."

"Fuck. That's harsh."

"Yeah," replied Birkoff softly. "I know."

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

The countdown had begun. Michael led the primary team into Cairo; three more team leaders sat poised with their men outside the main targets. Every station around Birkoff thrummed with action. People thronged about in a long-anticipated and exquisitely orchestrated design, each well versed in the task before them.

"Simon, how's the signal to Cairo?" Birkoff leaned over Simon's shoulder.

"It's clear now, but the window is a small one. They'll have to do without a live interface before they withdraw."

Birkoff shook his head. "There's got to be another way to patch them in, somewhere."

"I've tried all the government satellites. Nothing."

"What about commercial? They can't all be out of position."

"Commercial satellites?" Simon frowned.

"Yes, commercial satellites! Didn't you check any of them?"

"I -- ."

"Well, then; do it. We use anything we can get our hands on."

Birkoff stalked away, avoiding the many bodies surging around his area, irritated with Simon's lack of imagination. He manages to think up weird crap to do to his hair...Birkoff slowed his pace before he barreled into Operations.

"Status."

"Everything's ready, sir. We're waiting on Jack. Should be any minute."

Operations nodded.

"Birkoff?"

"Jack." He turned away, looking for a semblance of privacy. "What's the word?"

"The limo is pulling into the courtyard."

"Positions. Begin sequence on my mark." He used a different channel to communicate with the other teams.

"How is the scene?" Operations tugged on his arm. Birkoff shrugged off the grasp and relayed the question.

"How's your field, Jack?"

"It's fine. Midday light, clear weather...This is a cakewalk."

Birkoff read more computer-streaming words. "We've got confirmation that William Rathjens is the limousine. Besides him; his mistress, son, and bodyguard are the first targets. The rest are collateral. Get as many as you can."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Jack muttered. The motion and noise in Systems faded away, absorbed by Birkoff's increased focus on the tiny microphone in his ear. He heard a rustle of movement, then sharp metallic sounds. He listened as Jack drew in a deep breath. The sudden explosions of gunfire startled Birkoff.

"Rathjens is dead."

"Begin sequence," Birkoff said.

Across the world, Section One operatives leaped into action. Adrenaline roughened voices and stuttering gunfire issued from various speakers. Returning information indicated the simultaneous hits successfully toppled each location.

Operations stood quiet within the maelstrom, watching with laser eyes everything around him. His gazed caught Birkoff and followed the young man as he darted from computer to computer, checking results personally, giving a suggestion here or a scathing remark there. His elevation in status over a year ago had filled Operations with doubt, but as usual Madeline had chosen well. Birkoff had rough edges, but he showed real promise.

"Birkoff...we've lost our interface," Michael's voice warned through another com channel.

Birkoff stormed over to Simon. "Where's the link? What are you doing over here?"

"It...I can't get the protocols to match," Simon said, his forehead shiny with stress.

"I'll do it," Birkoff muttered. He typed while standing. "See? Here. And here!"

Simon watched, nodding.

"Birkoff?"

"Hold on, Jack..." He worked faster, weaving a complicated chain that would eventually link Section computers with Michael in Cairo once more.

Tumbled noise through Jack's channel distracted Birkoff; shouting, movement, a small sinister sound followed by another explosion of bullets from Jack's gun. He closed his eyes a moment, frowning as he reached with brutal concentration for the focus he needed, then continued the electronic chase.

"Hhnnn," groaned Jack. "I'm hit. It doesn't hurt much. I-I don't think it's too bad."

"Hold on, Jack!" Birkoff repeated. Ignored, Simon watched him virtually sneak through back doors, alter programs, build bridges. He glanced up and met Madeline's disturbing stare. His unease read disapproval there, disapproval he assumed was for him, but her eyes flicked over Birkoff. Simon looked down, secretly pleased that Birkoff had somehow messed up enough to warrant such an expression from her.

"They know where I am, Birkoff. They're coming for me," Jack gasped, his breath saturated. His voice hitched in a sudden sob of fear. "Shit, I'm bleeding! It's too much...oh, god!"

Birkoff stood up straight. He looked across the circle to a different computer, one that showed the Irish castle. In the monitor he could see a scurry of men with guns as they approached the entrance to the garage. He took a step away from Simon, then another.

"Birkoff." Madeline slid into his path as if conjured from his own confusion, preventing him from moving.

"What?"

"Jack is dead. There is nothing you can do to save him -- nothing. Focus on Michael's team. He needs the live interface. And he needs it now."

Birkoff stared at her a moment, then bent to Simon's computer once more.

"Birkoff?" The name quaked with suppressed weeping.

"I'm listening, Jack."

"That's... all you can do, isn't it? Listen?"

Birkoff cleared one more link in the chain for Michael's team.

"Yes...for now. Just a minute more, Jack."

"I guess that's all you ever could do, but...hey, it was better than nothing." Jack sniffed mightily and his voice calmed. "They're in the tower...I can hear them come up the stairs."

"Can you go out the window?"

"Not without a rope...or wings. What's the point? I don't think I can even stand now." His breathing came quicker, sounding harsh over the com-link.

"The point is that you might live!" Another electronic step closer...

"No one can help me with that now." He sniffed again, swallowed. "I suspected from the start, you know."

Muted pounding came through the com. The connection between satellites completed under his fingertips and hard data began loading from Michael's team in Cairo. The mission sequence resolved with complete success. Birkoff never saw it as he ducked past Madeline and dashed to his own station. The tower door was wide open. More men entered.

"Birkoff? Thanks for staying with me this long. I...didn't want to die alone. You...you should just close the channel now."

"Jack? Jack?!"

Harsh shouts and gunfire roared through the channel. Birkoff heard excited, indistinct voices behind Jack's fearful sobs, explosive breaths that weakened within seconds.

"Th-thanks, kid. Don' let them..." Jack whispered.

Birkoff winced when another non-silenced gunshot discharged as if fired right next to the tiny ear com secreted behind Jack's ear. Hissing silence followed the painfully loud sound. He ripped the unit from his ear and threw it on the desk.

Caught up with enthusiasm for the decisive Section victory, technicians, profilers, and team coordinators jumped up to pump hands with each other, slap backs, and grin widely. Operations smiled tightly and clapped a passing shoulder. No one but Madeline noticed Birkoff standing still, his head down, his glasses shoved up by one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He scraped his watery eyes with one swipe of his sleeve, re-settled his glasses, and slowly sank into his chair. He replaced the com unit in his ear with a lethargic hand and spoke into oblivion.

"Jack?"

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