When she woke up, she thought she was dead.

No, that can't be right, Lillian decided. If I were dead, I wouldn't hurt so much.

White. White ceiling, white walls, white floor, white clothes.

That, at least, was different. And she was clean.

Maybe things were looking up.

Lillian sat up slowly, head spinning and body aching. She was alone, possibly for the first time in two months, and surrounded by silence except for the hiss of the ventilation. No beeping machines, no gurgling of her roommate, no restless hospital sounds of crash carts careening down hallways. She perched on the edge of her cot, then shakily stood.

The door opened. A woman entered.

"Hello." An insincere smile.

Lillian licked her lips. "Hullo."

The woman waited, then, when no question issued forth, she began. "Carlotta Venidici, you've been given a second chance."

Lillian raised her eyebrows, but didn't speak.

Madeleine finished her spiel automatically, looking for signs of rebellion or anger in the girl's face. She didn't react when Madeleine told her about the two-year training program, the type of work Section did or even her funeral. She didn't even glance at the picture. Madeleine wound down, then smiled again. "Do you have any questions?"

"What day is it?"

Madeleine blinked and answered automatically, and the girl nodded.

"In half an hour, your trainer will be here." The door opened, and Madeleine left.

Carlotta Venidici. The name sounded familiar. The glaring white of the room was distracting, but from a very young age Lillian learned the art of concentration. She sifted through her memory, running through names, faces, people she knew, people she'd heard of. Venidici. Venidici. Weren't there some Venidici Brothers? No: she was thinking of the Venciri Brothers, and they weren't working anymore, the result of a disturbing incident that ended in the death of Pablo Venciri.

Carlotta Venidici. Slowly, the name clicked into place.

The woman in the bed next to her was named Carlotta Venidici. Lillian noticed her only because she shared a hospital room with her. Carlotta was guarded by a nervous policeman who had trouble telling the two slender, dark-haired, similarity-injured women apart. Both had broken left legs and arms and both sustained concussions.

Lillian muttered a Rom explicative. In the business, she was known as Lucky Lillian because she got hurt infrequently, and when she did, it usually wasn't too serious. Looks like my luck has definitely run out, she thought.

Lillian got out of bed, supporting herself on the frame. Three months ago I was in perfect condition, she thought, disgusted. Now ... her legs were skinny, her arms had no strength. The broken limbs were healed, but weak. From past experience she knew she had months of tedious, painful exercises to go through.

Keeping a firm grip on the bed, Lillian slowly began her stretches, the same kind dancers did to warm up. She usually did 30 minutes warm-up, then simple acrobatics, but clearly, she would not accomplish even a portion of her usual routine. Not to mention she hadn't the proper equipment. Lillian grunted with effort after only five lifts, but she knew her limits, and structured her program accordingly.

Carlotta Venidici. Lillian hissed the name like a curse, and switched sides to exercise her left leg. She examined it carefully before starting, but her ankle seemed nearly healed, and her knee behaved properly. Satisfied, she began.

Lillian's fall in Quebec was a bad one. The only sensible option was to leave her in a hospital while the rest of the group went ahead, and by the time Lillian healed, she could meet them in Chicago. At the time, it seemed like a perfect plan. Too bad she'd been mistaken for a convicted criminal.

The door opened with a boom, and Lillian, relieved to stop her torturous exercises, stood at attention, gently flexing her weak leg.

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

"You can call me Antonio," the man said, and Lillian nodded, not speaking. "I'll train you. I expect absolute obedience. Do you understand?"

Typically, it didn't occur to Lillian to protest. She had a deep-rooted fear of authorities, particularly law enforcement, and correctly assumed no one would believe her anyway. Besides, her father always said life was like a road map: Many different roads leading to a variety of destinations. There was more than one way to achieve what she wanted.

Lillian tilted her head to the side and studied Antonio. Of course, he was Goy; everyone here would be, she thought, feeling a longing to be with her family. She blanked out her homesickness and studied the handsome man in front of her. Actually, he could have passed for Rom, she thought: dark hair, dark eyes, dark cocoa-colored skin. His words were lightly accented, but she had a good ear. Good manners will carry you far, her mother always said, so Lillian replied in Italian. "I understand."

Antonio blinked. "We use English here," he said, his surprise making him reveal more, perhaps, than he would have otherwise. "Your record doesn't show that you know other languages."

"Only Italian," Lillian lied, realizing that secrecy would carry her farther than manners here. "When may I go outside?"

"Later."

"When?"

He turned, expecting her to follow him, so she did.

School was in session. As Antonio explained the makeup of Section, his new charge followed him.

"Under normal circumstances, you'd start your training immediately. But with the injuries you've sustained, you'll have to work up to that." Antonio stood aside and Lillian took in the large gymnasium. Two people were sparring in the corner; the stair-masters were loaded; someone else was engaged with a fight-to-the-death battle with a bag suspended from the ceiling. Lillian's eyes traveled up to the steel girders supporting the ceiling, then down along the walls. "Right now, though, you'll need to take some tests."

Antonio waited for the question that all newbies asked: What kind of test? But Lillian remained silent, staring up at the ceiling. Feeling a little exasperated, Antonio led her out of the gym and into an arsenal.

She blinked and studied her surroundings. Guns were everywhere. She put her hands behind her back: they wouldn't accuse her of taking anything, she thought.

"Carlotta, this is Walter. Walter, Carlotta. She's new." Antonio introduced.

"So I see," Walter grinned. Lillian gave him a long serious look. Older, greying, his face was weathered into pleasant lines that she found instantly appealing. He held out his hand, and, after an initial hesitation, Lillian offered her own, a strong, sure grip.

"So, I guess you want to test her?" Walter asked Antonio, releasing Lillian's hand and turning back to a wall of weapons. He turned back to Lillian, measuring her quickly, then selected a gun. "Come on, then, we'll get you suited up." He tossed her some earphones and led her to a firing range. Antonio followed them discretely.

"Word is, you're real good with a gun," Walter said. "Let's see how your aim is."

What had Carlotta done? Lillian wondered suddenly if she should confess her identity, but one look at Antonio told her it would be instant death. She preferred to take her chances. Marcel taught her to shoot years ago, and although his gun had been different, Lillian took a deep breath, aimed and fired a round.

"And I guess they were right," Walter said, sounding a bit dazed. He pushed the button, and the human image advanced. Walter unclipped it and silently handed it to Antonio, who, after looking at the ragged circle in the center of the figure folded up the paper and tucked it under his arm.

"Again," Antonio suggested, and Walter handed Lillian another clip. She bit her lip and looked at Walter for help, and he showed her how to load the gun. Walter clipped a fresh image to the track, and flipped the switch. The figure retreated. "Push it back another 10 yards," Antonio ordered, and Walter obeyed.

Lillian took careful aim and fired.

As the test continued, with the target retreating further and further, Antonio frowned. Because of her injuries, Carlotta hadn't participated in the full battery of normal recruitment tests. Of course, Section had her police and school records, as well as an initial psych profile, but other than her latest crime, there was nothing about Carlotta Venidici that stood out.

As Lillian finished her sixth target -- for variety, she'd aimed for the left arm, which was now missing, almost as if it had been amputated -- Antonio noticed her fatigue.

"That's enough for today," he decided. "Come on. I'll show you to your quarters."

Unresisting, Lillian gave Walter his gun and followed her trainer.

***********

Over the next few weeks, Antonio put his new recruit to the test. After her success at the shooting range, he'd arranged for her to try the laser gun exercise. He tested her reflexes, her hand/eye coordination, and got strength readings from the lab technicians. She was not at full strength, but she was certainly improving, and her test results were uniformly outstanding.

Reading the most recent scores, Antonio congratulated his charge while walking her to her quarters. "You've done very well this week. Tomorrow is a day off. You can't go out, but we have a good library and recreation area, if you go in for that kind of thing. Pool, picture show, bowling ..." receiving no response, Antonio drifted off as they reached her room. Like she'd done every day since they started, she immediately headed for the bed, and before he could even say "sleep well," she was unconscious. He took off her shoes and covered her with the blanket, then set off in search of answers.

He stopped first at Birkhoff's.

"I need information on Carlotta Venidici."

"You've got it," Birkhoff said, not looking up from his screen. "That's all we know for now. Why? Is there some kind of problem with her?"

"No problem,"Antonio said slowly. "But I think some of our initial intel might be incorrect."

"Yeah? I'd tell you to talk to Madeleine, but she's not here now." Birkhoff punched in a code, and a map popped up. He typed in a series of passwords, and the map focused on Omaha. "Look, I'd love to chat about your new recruit, but I have a briefing in ten minutes, a possible biological threat in Iran, and some idiot trying to hack into Section from Omaha."

"Of course." Antonio melted away, moodily crossing the main floor. Then he stopped, pivoted, and walked down the hall, pausing before a steel door. He knocked. "Michael?"

"Come."

Antonio pushed open the door, and Michael held up a finger. "Wait." He finished his thought, fingers lightly tapping out instructions on his laptop, and Antonio took a seat. "Yes?" Michael looked up, focusing on Antonio.

"I have a new recruit. This is the second time I've trained anyone. The first was Jack Parker."

Jack was a loose cannon from day one, and just bringing up his name made Michael's face harden. Antonio continued, "So I haven't had a lot of experience."

"What do you want?" Michael asked.

"How accurate is intel about recruits?"

Michael's eyes narrowed. "Be more specific."

"Have you ever had a recruit that didn't match up with the profile you were given?"

If possible, Michael looked even more forbidding. "It happens occasionally. Who is the recruit?"

"Carlotta Venidici."

Michael brought up her file and read it quickly. "Pretty sketchy."

"Yes," Antonio agreed. He handed Michael his hand-held computer and punched a button. "Here are her scores."

Michael looked at the results and raised an eyebrow. "I see your concern. Off the charts in some areas; barely up to par on others ..."

Antonio took his computer back and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was already trained."

"What do you mean?"

"The way she learns isn't ... normal. I tell her something one time, and she does it. And it's perfect, Michael. She doesn't ask questions. She doesn't even talk. Hell, you're downright chatty compared to her. She's like one of those special forces people. Our equipment is unfamiliar to her, but she's disciplined beyond belief."

"Do you think she's a mole?"

"I don't know what to think. That's why I'm here. I gave her tomorrow off, mostly to see what she'd do with it. But maybe on Monday you can come observe? I'd really like your opinion."

"If I can, I'll come. And if not, I'll send Nikita. Assuming she isn't with me."

"I'd appreciate it." Antonio stood up, obviously dismissed. He opened the door, then turned back. "It's just very ... odd. You know?"

Michael nodded, and after Antonio left, he stared absently at the door. She could be a mole. Red Cell? Glass Curtain? Iron Fist? The Acclaimed? Those were just the big groups; without even thinking very hard, he could think of a handful of others, equally dangerous and equally devious.

His phone rang. "Yes?" He waited, then nodded. "I'll be right there."

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

A day off. Lillian stretched luxuriously in bed, then automatically began her exercises.

Across Section, Birkhoff noted a warning light and picked up the phone. "Antonio? She's live on Station 14."

"Thanks Birkhoff." Antonio replaced the receiver and set off for another floor, where surveillance was kept. He didn't like watching, but he was curious.

His new recruit did her exercises, most of which he was unfamiliar with. He noted which ones she repeated, and how much time she spent on each different stretch. She went to the bathroom, and 10 minutes later reappeared, freshly washed. She quickly dressed (Antonio modestly concentrated on her ankles during this procedure) and ran a comb through her hair and braided it out of her way. She propped her bad leg up on the dresser, using it for a barre, and, body rigid, stretched her torso to her leg, one arm held out for balance, the other gracefully curved around her head. She watched herself in the mirror: not for vanity, but to see if her form was correct. Several times she adjusted her feet, keeping her body in precise form.

Satisfied with her mobility, she exited her room. Antonio watched her progress through Section. She stopped for breakfast. He wrote down what she ate. She went back to her quarters and brushed her teeth. Then she went out again.

Antonio traced her through the halls. First to Walter's station. He outfitted her and she practiced at the shooting range for an hour. Then on to the pool. She swam a couple of miles, then, eyeing the diving board, spent another half hour executing dive after perfect dive. She did a series of regular dives, then alternated with a variety of fancy dives, twisting and turning, shooting straight into the water with a minimum of splashing each time.

The rest of the day was like that: she did a variety of exercises, and Antonio noticed when she began tiring at the same moment she did. She'd been speed-walking, and she found a wall and braced herself against it, sliding down and putting her head on her knees, one hand absently massaging her hurt leg. Then, exhausted, she rose, went back to her room and slept for 10 straight hours.

___________________

Unable to confirm his suspicions, Antonio continued with the training regimen. He shared his concerns with Michael, but no one else: Michael was discrete and neither man wanted to cancel someone based on nebulous abnormalities.

Six months after her recruitment, though, two things happened: the Cambodia team, consisting of eight operatives, was ambushed, suffering a total loss of life. A week later, two other large teams in Iraq were lost as well. All in all, Section was short 17 operatives and three team leaders.

Looking over the list of possible early promotions, Madeleine paged Antonio. He arrived in her office quickly, and immediately sat down.

"Now, Antonio, about Carlotta Vinicini."

"Yes?"

"Her scores are high. Are you pleased with her performance?"

"She's been a good student."

"Would you recommend operative status?"

"She's only been here six months."

"I'm aware of that." Madeleine closed the file and tapped her fingers on the desk. "What do you think of her?"

"She's a quick study," Antonio said truthfully. "Smart. Always on time."

"Do other people like her?"

Antonio thought. "She hasn't made any close friends, if that's what you mean. But she's adapted successfully."

"Good." Madeleine dismissed him with a smile.

A week later, Antonio wasn't surprised that his recruit had been cleared for a final exam. But he wasn't real happy about it, either.

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

Antonio studied his charge from an observation room in the gym. She was sparring with Nikita, and to Antonio's surprise, they were pretty evenly matched.

"Not bad," Michael commented, coming up behind Antonio.

"Which one?" Antonio joked, then checked his smile.

"I was speaking of Carlotta," Michael said, unoffended. "Are you ready to give her a final exam?"

"I don't think I have a choice. According to Section standards, she's ready."

"There's a mission in the queue for tonight. We need to place trackers on someone and I was intending on taking Nikita. However, it might make a good test for Carlotta, if you approve."

Antonio sighed, watching the two women circle each other. The smaller of the two flashed out unexpectedly and Nikita fell with a thump on the mat. She grinned and extended a hand, and her opponent immediately helped Nikita up. "I guess she's got to do it sometime. And she and Nikita seem to get along."

"Good. Tell her to be ready by seven." Michael turned left as quietly as he entered.

Antonio continued watching the two women fight. He expelled a long nervous breath and wondered exactly how the evening would end. If she worked for another organization, it would be a perfect time to annihilate the team, or try to make contact with the other group.

At least I'll be there, Antonio thought, although it didn't give him much comfort. So will Nikita. Antonio considered Nikita to be one of the best operatives, and they'd worked together several times. This wouldn't be the first virgin operative she'd been with, either: Nikita always tried to put the newbies at ease, perhaps remembering how her first time had been.

Antonio left the observation room and approached the women. "Hey, Nikita."

"'Tonio." Nikita landed a punch on her opponent, who quickly jumped back, then, lightening-quick, sprang forward, catching Nikita off-guard. Once again, Nikita fell to the mat. After she caught her breath, she extended her hand, but this time Antonio helped her up. "Thanks."

"It's time to quit," he said.

"Says who?" Nikita asked with pretended belligerence.

"Says me. You have a job tonight, I understand."

"That's right." Nikita unlaced her gloves and wiped a hot hand across her sweaty forehead. "Place and trace."

"Carlotta will be joining your team."

Nikita exchanged a quick look with the shorter woman and grinned. "Great. First time, right?"

"Yes," Lillian answered.

"Don't worry. You got off easy. My first time was ... an enlightening experience to say the least. I was working alone, though, and you'll have me. It'll be a breeze."

"We leave at seven," Antonio reminded them.

"We'll be ready," Nikita said, grinning. "With our heels from hell and lethal lipstick. Come on, Carlotta, they'll want you early in wardrobe since this is the first time for you."

Antonio watched the two women head toward the showers, one striding long and lanky, blonde hair swinging, the other taking delicate, almost gliding steps, brown hair hanging in sweaty strips down her back. For some reason, she glanced over her shoulder at Antonio before disappearing through the door.

Antonio suppressed an inexplicable shudder.

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

Typically silent, Lillian sat quietly beside Nikita in the van, going over the mission.

She and Nikita would enter the party with Antonio and another male operative named Paul. They'd circulate. Lillian would place the tracker on the prey and immediately take position on the third floor. The others would continue to circulate, and once a reading was established by Birkhoff, they would leave separately.

"When you work with such a loose parameter, you have to have several options," Nikita murmured to Lillian. "Depending on what the victim does, we adjust accordingly. Just listen to Michael and he'll tell you what to do. The most important thing to remember is, don't screw up. Your first mission is the most important. I'll help you if you get stuck, but it's best if you do it yourself. All right?"

Lillian nodded.

The van stopped. The operatives straightened their skirts or coat tails; Nikita absently straightened Antonio's tie, and they debarked. Nikita slid an arm through Antonio's, and Lillian mimicked her with Paul.

A voice sounded softly in her ear. "Everyone receiving?"

Four quiet affirmatives were given. The group set out.

When they were almost to the door, Nikita turned and looked at Lillian, obviously concerned. "Are you scared?"

"No," Lillian said, surprised, and Nikita nodded, reassured.

They stepped through the doorway.

The sequence began.

______________________

Bob Glassard was an older man. Intel showed he truly preferred small, dark women. The woman he was with this evening was tall and dark blonde. Conveniently for Lillian, she was also being monopolized by Antonio.

Lillian made eye contact with Glassard and sent him a dazzling, show-stopping smile. Her date for the evening melted away, ostensibly for punch, and Lillian, feigning boredom, gazed around the room, noting with pleasure that Antonio was leading Glassard's date to the bar.

"May I have this dance?"

Glassard was not a tall man, but Lillian made herself appear smaller and smiled again. "I never dance with strangers."

"Bob Glassard." The band paused, and Glassard looked a little worried. Lillian laughed and held out her hand.

"Monica Westin." The band began again, this time playing String of Pearls, and Lillian smiled. "I love this song. My parents used to dance to it when I was little."

He led her to the floor, and the polite small-talk that happens between interested strangers commenced.

In the middle of the song, Lillian's hand crept shyly to Glassard's neck. A second later, when she told a small joke, he laughed, never feeling the small, cool drop adhere to his neck. In thirty seconds, it would take on the coloration of his skin, becoming virtually undetectable. Lillian gave him another dazzling smile that could be seen clearly from 50 feet away.

"She's doing great," Nikita murmured to Michael, watching from across the room. "Carlotta. Have you placed the tracer?"

Lillian's voice came in, loud and clear, "Oh, yes, that'd be lovely, Bob. If you could just excuse me for a moment ... the ladies' room ..."

Nikita grinned. "She's placed it and looks like we're clear. Shall we come in, Michael?"

"Not yet. I have some unidentified movement near the terrace. Check it out."

Before Nikita could obey, a small black-clad army descended on the room. The band abruptly stopped playing, and a round was fired into the air.

From Michael's position, he could hear -- but not see -- what was going on. "Nikita?"

Her voice sounded muffled, and he had a sudden flashback of another party with another hostage situation. "Ten men, Michael. Masked. All armed with assault rifles. No one hit."

"Where are you?"

"By the south wall under a cocktail table."

"Paul?"

Paul's voice came in, "Near the entrance. Can't get a clear shot, but they've come for Glassard. They've already got him and are leading him out the terrace."

"Antonio?" Michael asked.

"Yeah, I've got a lousy view, but I can take out two of them," Antonio answered, sounding cross.

An unfamiliar voice came through the com link. "I've got them in my sight," Lillian said calmly. "I can hit four before they know where I am, but I can't take them all."

Nikita looked around quickly. "Where are you, Carlotta?"

"Look up," Lillian suggested, and Nikita, trying not to attract attention, craned her neck up.

The ceiling of the ballroom was three floors above them and covered with stained glass; the north side of the room was edged with balconies on the second and third floors. From the third floor one could get a lovely view of circling dancers, or, in this case, a kidnaping. Lillian stood barefoot on the balcony ledge, gun aimed at Glassard's captors. Nikita's breath caught in her throat. "For God's sake, Carlotta, don't move. That's a 40 foot drop."

"I'm fine," Lillian answered steadily. "Actually, it's closer to 60." She shifted from one foot to the other, bare toes gripping the marble ledging, perfectly balanced. Her dress blended in with the surrounding marble, and because the top floor was dark, unless one was looking for her, she was lost in the shadows. "But I need to know what you want me to do, Michael."

"The tracker's placed?"

"Yes," Carlotta confirmed.

"Birkhoff, you receiving?" Michael asked.

"Loud and clear." Birkhoff said.

"Let him go," Michael decided.

"Michael, they'll torture him --" Nikita protested.

"Nikita, not now," Michael said, voice cold. "All of you: come in. Don't bother with your alternate routes, just get here quickly."

________________

The ride back to Section was quiet and tense. Nikita was still fuming, Antonio was still cross with the entire situation, and Paul seemed shaken. Only Michael and Lillian seemed unaffected.

Michael alerted Operations about the current status of the mission, then sat down next to Lillian. "Are you all right?"

Clear eyes looked into his own. "Fine, thank you." She leaned her head back and within five minutes was asleep.

Antonio shot Michael a look, and Michael shrugged, stumped. This recruit was certainly different. The question was, would the difference be a help to Section, as Nikita's differences were, or would it be a hindrance?

Looking at the slumbering operative, Michael realized he honestly couldn't tell.

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

Although Antonio intended to talk to his trainee about her new apartment, it was late, and one more night in Section wouldn't kill her. Or him, for that matter: he turned off to go to his quarters after giving her quiet praise for a job well done.

Alone in her quarters, Lillian undressed slowly and looked at her nearly-naked form in the floor-length mirror with satisfaction. No longer skin and bones, her legs had a fine layer of muscle on them. Her arms were strong, the result of intense workouts. Just for practice, she inverted herself and walked across the room on her hands, legs perfectly straight. Her muscles remembered what to do, obeying her as they always had.

Lillian lowered her legs behind her head and stood up on her feet. She wasn't tired at all. Her little nap rejuvenated her, and remembering the way she'd stood on the railing, adrenaline coursed through her. Her entire body was zinging with anticipation. It was time.

She dressed quickly and slipped out of her room and through the residence halls like a ghost. It was a little before three in the morning. The timing was perfect: it was at the middle of the night shift, so operatives were tired, not many people were in Section, and most importantly, the area she needed would be empty.

As she melted through Section, drifting from shadow to shadow, Lillian didn't see a figure detach itself from the dark and follow her.

___________________

After a few futile tries, the door finally opened and Lillian stepped inside. She took a deep breath: the air smelled of moth balls and dry-cleaning solution, and she gently pressed the light switch.

The ceiling was a good 40 feet above her. Possibly 45; it was lower than the ceiling at the ball. Clothes hung silently in the recesses of the room, and, not wishing to waste any time, Lillian mounted the stairs and took off her shoes and socks. She put both hands on the uneven brick wall, blood pulsing with happiness. It had been so long ... her stunt tonight just teased her appetite for more ...

Unable to hold back any longer, Lillian climbed the wall. Higher and higher she went, and as she looked down, she realized she misjudged her distance. The ceiling was much higher than 45 feet. Rather than making her scared, the knowledge made her even more happy, if that was possible.

She reached one of the exposed beams that ran the width of the room. It was really too wide for her tastes, but then, beggars can't be choosers. Grinning from ear to ear, she mounted, stood, and for one excruciatingly happy moment, she balanced without moving.

She took one step, then another. She walked the entire length of the beam, looking carefully for anomalies that could trip her up: a bolt sticking up, an uneven surface, any places that were too smooth. The only problem she could see was dust. She'd not thought about dust, but of course, why would anyone dust a beam?

Lillian took off her shirt and wiped it along the wooden surface, watching the dust filter down into the room. Then, because it was chilly, she put her shirt back on and began in earnest.

First, flips: she cartwheeled along the beam, then came back walking on her hands. Three back handsprings, landing with satisfying thumps. Every time she left the wooden surface, she felt her heart soar.

She didn't notice the door below creak open an inch. She didn't notice a single eye watching her. She only felt joy of being up where she belonged, in the air, far above the ground.

It's a terrible thing to be grounded when one is used to flying.

***********

Nikita strolled through Section, searching unobtrusively.

She sat down and visited with Birkhoff for a few minutes. She stopped by Walter's lair. But the person she was really seeking wasn't there. Finally, giving up, she went to Michael.

"Hey Michael."

He looked up briefly, then gave a slight nod, an invitation to proceed. Nikita came in, shut the door and sat in her chair, waiting until he was done.

"What is it?" he saved his document, then gave her his full attention.

"I was wondering ... Glassard ..."

"We've located him and intend to extract him within the hour."

She pleated the hem of her shirt absently, not looking at him. Finally, she said, "About Carlotta..."

"What about her?"

Nikita looked at him. "How much can you tell me about her?"

"Ask, and I'll answer if I can." The offer was more than generous, and Nikita smiled.

"Where did she come from?"

"Hospital in Quebec."

"What were her injuries?"

"Several broken bones sustained in an automobile accident. She was being chased by police and didn't want to get caught."

"Why were they chasing her?"

Michael didn't answer, but he held her gaze. She tried again. "Was it her first offense?"

"No," he answered immediately.

This was quite a bit like Twenty Questions, Nikita thought, amused. "Does she have family?"

"A mother and a brother. The brother's in jail. Her father's dead."

Testing more familiar ground, Nikita asked, "How about her scores in training?"

Relief crossed Michael's face. This was common information. "Very high. Good aim, good at thinking on her feet. She'll make a good operative."

"How is she with computers?"

"Not fully proficient. Many of our programs are unfamiliar to her, and according to Birkhoff, she doesn't have what it takes to be a programmer. He says she is overly creative. She's good at cracking the programs, just not inventing them."

"Why is that?"

"She tends to take the back door. Birkhoff says that while she reaches the same conclusion, her method of attaining it is decidedly unconventional."

Nikita was silent: she didn't know any more now than she did when she came in the room. Suddenly, Michael offered some useful information. "I can tell you that her initial recruitment exams didn't begin to measure up to her scores after she began training."

Nikita nodded. "Where is she now?"

"Antonio is helping her move in. She's in your neighborhood." He punched a few buttons on the computer and turned it so the screen faced her. Nikita jotted down the address and gave him a smile.

"Thanks, Michael. I owe you."

Intrigued, he pressed her. "What did you have in mind?"

"Banana bread is good," Nikita said, misunderstanding his question. "Or maybe a batch of cookies. Does she have dietary restrictions?"

A smile quirked Michael's lips. "Allergic to nuts."

"Great. Thanks. See you later."

Nikita breezed out the door, and after a moment, Michael continued his work.

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

Lillian stood on a ladder in her bare living room, firmly bolting together her rigging. With Section's credit cards, she'd bought the best, and she hadn't held back on tools, either. Giving a final twist with her wrench, she descended and looked up.

Perfect. She didn't have a trapeze yet, but then, she had a small living room.

She hadn't really set it up very high. The top of the wire brushed her head, and reaching down, she cranked it lower still. She'd ordered the net, but it didn't pay to be foolhardy, and she had a lot of work to do.

She mounted, holding the dowel rod horizontal. She wasn't up high enough to come to harm; the pole was more for practice than balance. The wire was cold against her bare feet. No longer nicely calloused, they'd hurt tonight, but she concentrated on the other end of the room and made her way across the wire. Back and forth, back and forth, she got used to the feel of the tightrope. The rod became heavier. Sweat trickled down her back.

A rat-a-tat-tat shook her door, and startled, she fell off the rope. She landed safely, but the rod clattered to the ground. "Who's there?"

"It's me. Nikita. Can I come in?"

Lillian cast a worried look at the rigging, but slowly went to the door and opened it an inch. "I'm kind of tired," Lillian said apologetically through the chain.

"I brought lasagne." Nikita held up a casserole dish.

She'd have to open the door to accept the food. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow?"

She almost had the door closed when Nikita said softly, "I saw you last night. Who do you think you are, Mary Lou Retton?"

Lillian froze and the door stopped closing. "What do you mean?"

"C'mon, open the door," Nikita said reasonably, and Lillian slowly unlatched the chain and let Nikita in.

Nikita studied the apartment. It was similar to hers: a renovated warehouse, the apartments in the building were airy and open, with lots of windows. But instead of comfortable furniture or pictures, the living area was full of a large chrome monstrosity. Nikita set the lasagne on the bar and slowly approached it. She circled it, much like a curious animal would circle an unknown entity, then, not seeing a place to sit down, she folded herself up on the floor. "I have two questions."

Lillian considered Nikita. She liked her: Nikita was nice to everyone, she was a good person to have on your side. Besides that, she was comfortable to be with. Most people in Section came from essentially "normal" backgrounds, but Lillian sensed that Nikita, like herself, was easily adaptable in a variety of living situations. We're both gypsies, she thought, even though one of us is Goy.

"Ask," she decided.

"Why weren't you scared the other night?"

Lillian hadn't been expecting that particular question. "There were only two outcomes. Success or failure."

"If they'd discovered the tracker, they could have captured us along with Glassard," Nikita reminded her.

Lillian looked at her, expression confused. "Well, of course," she said, as if Nikita was stating the obvious. "That was one of the outcomes."

A minute passed, and Nikita looked at her knees. "The second question is, who are you, really?"

"What makes you think I won't lie to you?"

"What if I told you how I was recruited?"

Lillian nodded, sure Nikita would lie to her. As Nikita's brief history was displayed, Lillian grinned. "Come on, don't expect me to believe that."

"It's true. Even Section makes a mistake now and then. As you know full well."

Lillian's smile vanished. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're no more Carlotta Venidici than I am," Nikita scoffed.

Lillian rolled her dowel rod across the floor thoughtfully. "Who knows about your past?"

"Michael. Now you."

"Only we two? That means you've given me a bargaining chip."

"I was hoping it would be an even trade."

The burden of holding her secret to her was beginning to get to Lillian; Nikita's forcing the issue was almost a relief. Lillian said slowly, "I fell. That's why I was in the hospital. We were doing one of the simplest routines, but I wasn't concentrating, or maybe Marcel wasn't, I don't know. I didn't catch his hands in time, and the next thing I knew, I was falling. Then I woke up in an ambulance. Carlotta Venidici was my roommate. The rest of the troupe went on. I was going to meet them later, after I was well. Then they'd drop me off in Florida so I could rehab."

"Sounds like this wasn't new to you."

"Getting hurt? I had another bad fall when I was a child." Lillian pushed up the sleeve of her shirt, displaying a long scar beginning on her shoulder and going down her back. "It wasn't serious, but I was out for almost a year."

"So, if your name isn't Carlotta ..."

"Oh. Lillian." Lillian held out her hand, and Nikita shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Lillian. So, what do you want to do?"

"Get out and go back to my family," Lillian answered instantly.

"It's not easy."

Not if you don't have a plan, Lillian thought. She asked curiously, "Is that why you haven't gotten out? You don't belong here."

"I do now. I didn't at first, but I've done ... well, let's just say I'm not a model citizen."

Lillian gave her a shrewd look and held out her hand. "Cross-a-m'hands wit' silver, I tell-a fortune for 'da pretty lady ..."

Nikita laughed, and Lillian dropped her hand. "That's what they say, anyway. But I don't have to be a fortune teller to see why you are still in Section." Lillian rose and picked up her rod.

"What's that mean?" Nikita sounded a little annoyed.

Lillian grinned. "‘For where your treasure is, there will be your heart also.'"

Nikita still looked confused, and Lillian shook her head. "What, you never read the Bible?" Misquoting Damon Runyon now, she smirked, "‘There are two things in every hotel room in America: the Bible, and Lillian Leitzel Loring.'"

"That's your name? Quite a mouthful."

Lillian mounted her rope and took a turn while Nikita watched. "Yep. Named after another flyer. Now, if you don't mind, I have to practice."

"All right. But a word of advice: it isn't as easy to disappear as one would think."

Lillian smiled. "I'll remember that."

The door shut behind Nikita, and as Lillian began crossing the wire, she thought about her Great Uncle Frank. He'd served with the desert troops in World War II and made entire armies appear and disappear, all with mirrors and canvas, much to the consternation of Rommel.

Lillian reached the end of the line, turned, and decided to do a few simple gymnastics.

If Uncle Frank could make a tank disappear, surely I can find a way out of this mess, she thought, slowly inverting herself so her hands gripped the wire and her feet were aloft. All I need are the right tools. Hand is quicker than the eye. It's all smoke and mirrors.

She turned herself right side up and began again.

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

The months passed. Lillian's skills -- both in Section and out -- improved.

Though Nikita hadn't told Michael or Antonio anything of her visit, she did have a little chat with Michael to see exactly how much he knew.

"Do you think there are many of us here?" she asked late one night. Section was nearly empty; Birkhoff was on a coffee run for them, so they were alone with SIMMS that were still unacceptable.

"Who?"

"People like me. Recruited by mistake." She picked up a pencil and rolled it over her knuckles.

"You are an anomaly."

"Sometimes I wonder."

Michael gave her a sharp look, then turned toward her. "Did you have someone specific in mind?"

"Maybe."

He waited, but instead of answering him, she said, "I belong here, now. Maybe I didn't at first, but this is where I am. Maybe if my missions had been different, or if ... situations had been different ... but I've killed so many people, I don't even remember the number. You know?"

Michael nodded, still eyeing her. "It's kind of a shame," Nikita said vaguely. Michael started to say something but was interrupted by Birkhoff bearing coffee.

Nikita wondered if their talk would do any good; apparently, it did. Lillian's missions were few and far between, and the ones she went on were low-priority. Until the Chappel mission.

_______________

Oliver Chappel was a small-time arms dealer with a big-time problem: loyalty. Section used him as a courier and an informant, and when Birkhoff discovered Chappel tipped Red Cell off to Glassard's attendance at the ball, Operations decided cutting him off was not enough. Elimination would be.

Michael and Nikita sat quietly at the briefing, listening to the intel available. "You'll pick him up here," Operations said, pointing to a location on the map. "Chappel will be attending the circus with his daughter and his daughter's friend. Take him away from the action and cancel him."

Nikita frowned. "The children?"

"They are 10 years old, they should be able to think for themselves," Operations snapped. "Don't worry about them, your job is Chappel."

Birkhoff's voice cut through. "Sir? The South African team just reported on the weapons information."

"I'm in the middle of --"

"It's nuclear, it's active, it's scheduled to be moved in 24 hours."

Operations swore, then shot Michael a look. "You know Afrikaans."

"Yes."

"You'll leave in twenty minutes. Take Nikita with you, and someone notify Antonio."

Everything was happening too fast, Nikita thought frantically. Antonio would take Lillian, Lillian would try to escape, Section would find out, and she'd be canceled. Probably by me, Nikita thought sourly as she tried to catch up to Michael. "Michael, wait. We can't go to South Africa."

"Yes, we can."

"But Chappel --"

"Will be handled by someone else. Nikita, let's go."

"But Lil-- um -- Carlotta --"

"Nikita!" He snapped, and Nikita blinked in surprise. He grabbed her arm, not gently, and shook it a little. "Do me the kindness of focusing, please."

She stared at him, eyes narrow, and Michael released her. "Now," he said, voice soft and edged with ice, "Go and get our equipment from Walter and be quick about it. I don't want to hear another word, understand?"

She nodded, mute and furious, and stalked away from him.

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

"I'm sorry I was angry with you." Michael didn't look at Nikita, and she only briefly looked up from her computer screen.

"It's okay." she punched another button, finally logging into Birkhoff's system. I ought to let him know I'm here, she thought, but not wishing to disturb him, she kept quiet and observed, allowing Birkhoff to lead her.

"Nikita --"

"Michael, please, I'm trying to concentrate here," she said, waving him off.

Antonio's mission was going well. He was under the tent, which, according to Birkhoff, could seat 3,000. There were precisely 2,657 in the audience now, and annoyed, Nikita muttered, "Come on, Birkhoff, that's trivia. Take me where I want to go."

Her screen advanced, and she tuned into Antonio, who was working the inside of the tent. She watched the glowing red dot that was him thread his way around other yellow dots, looking for the target. Shouldn't be hard, Nikita scoffed: the seats were reserved. "Come on, Birkhoff ..." she murmured, and finally, her screen clicked onto Lillian's location.

She was outside and apparently around a lot of warm, large bodies grouped in pairs. Evidently, they were confined in some way ... oh, of course, Nikita thought. She's near the animal cages. Nikita watched the dot that was Lillian wander past the animals and closer to the tent, then pause near a large square structure. A building? A trailer, Nikita decided, waiting for Lillian to navigate around it.

Instead, Nikita watched horrified as the area showed a sudden influx of extreme heat. Within seconds, her screen was filled with scurrying pinpoints, people coming to put out the fire before it reached the tent.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard. The heat expanded on the screen; evidently the fire was spreading. The dots stopped coming closer and melted back, and Nikita could just imagine what was happening. The heat would be too intense for anyone to put the fire out.

Memorized, she sat back, feeling sick. Lillian took my advice to heart, Nikita thought dismayed. She's tried to make it look like she died in a freak accident, but no one told her how to set an explosion so she could make it out alive.

Nikita's eyes filled and she logged out of the program. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and glanced around to see if Michael noticed.

He'd fallen asleep. In desperate need of comfort, Nikita gently wedged her hand under Michael's crossed arms, and wriggled her other arm between the small of his back and the seat cushion. Then, trying not to wake him, she put her forehead on his shoulder. She allowed herself a few hot tears for an operative that should never have been recruited, and a few more for an aerial artist that wouldn't fly again.

***********

Still in a blue funk over Lillian's demise, Nikita walked moodily through her parking garage. She needed a hot bath, a long sleep and something to lift her spirits -- a fun movie, perhaps, or a night on the town.

Nikita sighed and collected her mail. Because of extenuating circumstances, the South Africa mission took two entire weeks and her box was overflowing. Nikita stuffed the whole lot into her handbag and wearily went upstairs.

Her apartment was still and stale, and after opening the windows, she stared in her refrigerator.

The lettuce was soggy and smelly, the carrots limp, the milk sour and there was a substance of questionable origin growing a pale green skin. At least the wine's not affected, she thought, and called out for delivery, pouring a glass of white wine to sip. While she waited, she might as well check the mail.

Bill. Bill. Junk. She sorted the post over the trash can, immediately discarding the bulk of her correspondence.

One envelope, pale blue, had her name and address but no return. Nikita held it up to the light, shrugged, and slit the flap.

Two tickets and a circular fell out. Bellini's Best! All New Acts! Three Rings! Come One, Come All!

Nikita's breath caught and she turned the circular over.

In Lillian's fashion, the letter started with no preamble. "Bellini is a good show and even though I'm with another group, I know you'll enjoy it. I almost wish I were with Bellini just so I could see the expression on Michael's face when you introduce him to cotton candy."

Numb, Nikita slumped down on the bar stool. How on earth --? When --?

For the first time, Nikita wondered why Chappel wanted to take his daughter to the circus. Had he received tickets in the mail as well? Surely not. Even if he had, there was no guarantee Lillian would be on the mission. Unless she'd orchestrated the South Africa thing as well, and Nikita doubted that even Lillian had that kind of mind. She remembered a half-forgotten conversation with Michael. What had he said? "She takes the back door. Birkhoff says that while she reaches the same conclusion, her method of attaining it is decidedly unconventional."

Unconventional. Nikita snorted. Maybe Lillian hadn't belonged in Section, but she certainly picked up a lot of sneaky tricks while she was there.

Someone knocked at her door, and Nikita peered out the peek hole. Surprised, she opened the door. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

He was holding two large sacks and a carton of ice cream in the crook of his arm. "I ran into the delivery boy." Seeing the alarmed look on her face, he hastened to add, "Not literally."

She opened the door wider. "Then by all means, enter. I don't remember ordering ice cream, though."

"Oh. That's my contribution."

He sat the food down and Nikita, after a brief hesitation, picked up the tickets. "Since you bought dinner, can I treat you to a show? I've got circus tickets for next weekend."

"If I'm in town, yes."

He turned, and with the familiarity of someone who knows his way around, opened a cabinet and gathered plates and glasses, then opened the correct drawer and retrieved silverware. He opened the take-out cartons and looked over the choices carefully.

Grinning to herself, Nikita wondered how he would look eating cotton candy. I could take a picture, she thought. But then, I don't know where to send it.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she answered, holding out a plate. "May I have some pad thai?"

"Of course." Michael loaded her plate, and she gave him a brief kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks."

Unsure of what he was being thanked for, Michael nodded. Then he followed Nikita to the table and they began their dinner.

-End-