________________

Coda
by Dorothy Parker

There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle --
Would you kindly direct me to hell?

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

"I'll use Davis, Jeremy and Nikita," Michael said calmly. "Davis and Jeremy will clear the way, then fall back; Nikita and I will be primary."

It pleased him, being able to request her -- and for a legitimate reason. The mission involved someone from their past; in fact, they'd met Zoyan during one of Nikita's first times out. Zoyan would remember her, and since the easiest way to infiltrate was to rely on their history with him, it made sense for Michael and Nikita to work together.

Madeleine studied his profile, nodding slowly. "It looks good, Michael. Set it up ... but you'll have to use another woman." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "Nikita was injured a few days ago."

If his heart stopped, if he felt any anguish or fear, it wasn't reflected in his face or his voice. "When will she be back in play?"

"I don't know." Madeleine advanced his profile a little, studying it for weaknesses, making a few minor adjustments. Her attention completely on the task at hand, she answered absently, "Maybe not ever. Her injuries are quite serious."

"I see." She swiveled around suddenly, frowning a bit. "You don't mind, do you? It will mean training someone else, but I'm afraid it's unavoidable."

"Of course. Any suggestions?"

Madeleine returned to the profile. "With these parameters ... under these conditions ... I believe either Solomon or Genevieve would be a good choice. Solomon is male, true, but instead of a wife, you could have an interested business partner. And Genevieve, while young, has an outstanding record."

"I'll take Solomon," Michael decided. He waited, and finally Madeleine closed down the program and handed him the disk.

"Very good work, Michael. We'll see you in a few days, then?"

"Yes." He left her office, his stride firm, face blank, heart pounding out of his chest.

Injured. Seriously. Anger swelled in him: she promised to stay safe for two months! What did she mean by getting injured now? He still had two weeks left ...

She promised. She promised.

The closer he got to his office, the angrier he felt. He shut his office door quietly and pulled the blinds, but as he sat down in his chair, the balance of his fury changed.

It's Section, he thought. They've exhausted her; no wonder she got hurt. More than anything in the world, he wished she'd breeze through his doorway so they could discuss it together.

It was true he had two weeks left of Nikita's two month survival projection. And like she had, he'd gone over and over their situation, looking for a weakness, compiling their strengths, searching for some way ... some how, there had to be a way, there had to be an answer, if only he could find it ... it was like a jigsaw puzzle, or an awkward dance, or an out-of-sync recording ... if only he could find the key ...

One of the reasons Michael excelled in Section was his extraordinary tactical skills. He often compared what he did to war. In his younger days, the idea of going to war excited him and he read extensively about famous battles. The planning interested him, the patterns of men on fields, the success of certain maneuvers, the reasons for failure. The good generals, the really successful ones, usually gave up something small in order to capture a larger area later on. It was another way of looking at the big picture, and Michael adopted the measures of skillful men as his own.

Section advanced: Michael led the battle. A retreat: Michael planned the next move. Sometimes he divided his forces and surrounded the enemy. Other times he hit the main line hard and mercilessly. But he was one step ahead at all times, and winning the war was his primary goal.

His focus shifted when Nikita become his material. No longer was the big picture simply winning the war; now, the war was secondary. Nikita came first. Luckily, these two goals were not mutually exclusive. Keeping Nikita safe often fell into line with whatever battle they happened to be fighting at the time.

She advanced: he retreated. She pulled back: he stealthily crept closer. Always keeping her close enough for safety, but not so close as to endanger her.

But now ... the lines had changed. He wasn't even sure anymore what side he was on, only that he didn't seem to be winning.

For the thousandth time since he'd seen her last, he went over every major battle in history, looking for something he could use. Trojan horse: no good here. Crecy: confusion wouldn't work. He'd studied Cromwell, Nelson, Campbell, Garibaldi, Sherman and Grant, Kitchener, Roosevelt, Baden-Powell, Napoleon ...

Michael slipped the CD into his computer and started up the program, but his mind wasn't on the mission.

They see everything. They know everything.

He couldn't go to Med Lab to see her; Section would know. He couldn't call up her last five missions; Section would watch. He couldn't even access her current medical file; Section would trail him. They were starving him. He was trapped.

He didn't like being trapped. As a strategist, he admired and at the same time scoffed at their approach. Tactically, starving the enemy was as old as time itself, but it was also effective in the right scenarios. He didn't even know when it began, but he'd adjusted to their rations. They demoted him: he gracefully accepted the new position. They promoted him: he excelled at his duties. They kept him in the field, when anyone else with his seniority would have been promoted to his own substation: he never complained. They tempted him with power: he declined. He knew he must be frustrating for them, and now, they were pulling out their last weapon: Nikita.

They must be desperate, he thought. Well, so am I. And somewhere I have the right weapon to fight with, I just have to find it.

Desperate wars. Desperate people. Hitler had been desperate at the end ... what about Custer? No, too arrogant. But that was what he was looking for, a mix of desperation and arrogance. Caesar? King David? Saul?

Slowly, Michael advanced the program. Anyone else on his system -- and he knew someone was monitoring his electronic activity -- would think he was reviewing the file, and fortunately, he was well-known for being thorough.

They see everything. They know everything.

He shut his eyes and began to mentally list his options. Outcomes: Nikita could live. In that case, she'd most likely go through therapy of some type, and eventually be returned to status. Or, if the damage was too severe, she'd be canceled. Then again, she might recover and be transferred to another division -- Birkhoff's, perhaps. She was good with electronic equipment, and Birkhoff had said more than once that she was well-suited to the work, if not the environment.

Or, Nikita could die.

Michael rubbed his hand over his chin, and advanced his file again. In that case ...

You promised, he reminded himself, and he could almost hear her voice. "Promise me you won't pull a Wagner," and he'd nodded, agreeing to not commit suicide. To be perfectly fair, though, she hadn't kept her promise either.

Michael stared unseeing at the computer screen, then made some superficial movement in the program for appearances' sake.

They see everything. They know everything.

Michael's jaw clenched. All right, then, he thought. Let them.

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

Needing to concentrate on Nikita and the battle ahead, Michael altered his profile to complete the Zoyan mission in two days, rather than five. When he returned to Section with his team intact, he debriefed and headed for his office.

He took the long way round, this time. As a spy, he lacked certain qualities. People clammed up whenever he appeared. The best way to find anything out was electronically, but that avenue was closed, so he had to revert to the old-fashioned method of gaining information: eavesdropping.

Michael went into the general computer lab and sat down at a terminal. He waited.

People filtered in and out. First year operatives, seasoned soldiers -- they all used the lab, and though some of them gave him a curious look, since he didn't talk or move and focused entirely on his monitor, they gradually forgot about him and he became, for all intents and purposes, wallpaper.

He listened.

One operative was afraid he was going to be put in abeyance for a mishap in Tehran. A woman fretted about her ex-husband, whom she'd seen on a street corner the day before: Section couldn't know or they'd kill him, and he was the only one available to take care of their child. Someone else was having trouble with his scores. Another woman was fighting depression.

Waves of other people's sorrows washed over Michael; he gritted his teeth and held on.

"Nikita --" he heard someone say, and Michael tuned everyone else out.

"It isn't fair," Sarah continued in a low voice, "You heard what happened, right?"

"Just that she got caught in the crossfire," Natalie said.

"Not exactly --"

"I heard," Judith interrupted them, turning around in her chair and keeping her voice quiet, "That she's still out of it. Has anyone seen her?"

"They won't let anyone in," Sarah said. "Not even ..." her voice dropped to a whisper, "Not even Michael."

Three pairs of eyes swiveled in his direction; Michael continued typing on his keyboard, seemingly ignoring them.

Still whispering, Sarah said, "I heard she took a bullet in the head ..."

Michael's heart stopped.

"If that happened, she'd be dead," Judith scoffed.

"That's what I heard," Sarah insisted.

There was a small silence, then, in a tone that dared them to refuse, Natalie said, "Let's find out, shall we?"

Two voices breathed at once, "Natalie, don't --" "You'll get canceled --"

"So what if I do? I'm feeling a little reckless anyway," Natalie grinned. "Besides ... I like Nikita. I don't think it's fair what they did to her."

"What do you mean?" Sarah asked.

"Sarah, you're such an innocent," Natalie sniffed. "Section killed her, as sure as if Madeleine put a gun to her head ..."

"Keep your voice down, Natalie," Judith warned, glancing around again. Michael kept his eyes forward and his face blank. "That's not true; she was injured in battle."

"Yeah, but why? She's quick; you've not worked with her before, but nothing gets past Nikita. Let's just take a look, shall we?"

The three glanced around again, and apparently satisfied, Natalie proceeded to break into Section's mainframe.

Michael nearly smiled. Natalie was cocky, but with good reason. More than once Birkhoff requested her services, but Madeleine always declined. Natalie was multi-talented, but because of her attitude, she wouldn't have flourished under Birkhoff's management. Actually, Michael wondered if she'd flourish anywhere -- she had a devil-may-care attitude that consistently got operatives killed.

"Viola!" Natalie grinned triumphantly, and the other two peered at the screen.

"Jesus," Sarah breathed. "Look at that ... I didn't think operatives were supposed to have that many missions in a row ... this has to be a mistake, she had to have had time off sometime ..."

"Look here," Judith pointed to an area on the screen, and Natalie obediently clicked on it. "Here we go," Judith said softly.

Sarah's attention was caught by something the screen, and she asked, "Judith ... what's this mean?"

Judith, a former medical intern, leaned forward and translated the medical jargon. "Bullet hit her in the shoulder ... she fell ... hit her head. Recommended sedation until the swelling in her brain goes down ..."

Sarah sighed in relief. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"You ever fall off a 30-foot catwalk?" Natalie said, eyebrows raised. "It ain't healthy."

"Well, it's not life-threatening."

"Yeah, it is," Judith said slowly. "Depending on how long they have to sedate her ... and how much neural damage she sustained ... and how quickly she regains consciousness ... I mean, it's hard to tell because these figures are a week old, but if she were my patient ... I wouldn't give her a very good chance."

"Really?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah," Judith said softly, and Michael saw her rub a hand across her face. "Especially since the medicine they're giving her to induce coma has some strange side effects ... it's too bad. She helped me with those awful SIMs I had so much trouble with ..."

"Remember when Jerrod was left for dead on the Handal mission? Nikita went back for him," Sarah said faintly.

"She was really nice to me when I broke my leg last fall," Natalie said softly. "Remember, you thought I wasn't healing right?"

Judith nodded.

"She came by my quarters every night and helped me exercise it. She said if I could get through the therapy, they'd have to put me on active duty ..." Natalie trailed off, and exited the program before Birkhoff found her.

The three girls sat together, not saying anything for awhile. Judith wiped away another tear, and Sarah gave her a hug.

"It isn't right," Natalie said firmly. "It isn't right what they did to her."

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

Michael waited another half hour until Natalie, Sarah and Judith left. He did unnecessary work and finally, accepting that no more information would come his way, he left.

He passed by Birkhoff's station.

"Look, I don't know, Gail," Birkhoff was saying crossly. "I haven't accessed those files --"

"Well, somebody did --"

"Then find out who did," he snapped. "Put a tracer on it --"

"Boy, you're in a grouchy mood!" She turned away from him, shoulders bristling with anger.

Birkhoff sighed and put an easy hand on her back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Gail, I'm just ... this whole Nikita thing is really getting to me."

Gail didn't look at him, but her back relaxed and she put one hand on his, giving his fingers a squeeze. "I know. I wouldn't have mentioned it, but you know how Madeleine is about anything that even whispers æNikita' anymore. Talk about a one-track mind."

Birkhoff sighed again. "Trace it and let me know who accessed it, will you?"

Typing away, Gail muttered, "It's not fair, what they did to her."

"Section isn't fair."

"I know, but still ..."

Without stopping, Michael gave them a wide berth. It was time to start laying the groundwork for the fight.

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

Michael's mission was over on Friday.

On Saturday, he heard through the grapevine that Nikita's coma lifted. She was responsive to outside stimuli but not fully conscious. She developed pneumonia because of her medication and her chances of recovery were lowered from 30 percent to 10 percent.

On Sunday, Michael went to church.

On Monday, he sold his house. For the first interested couple, he knocked $7,000 off the asking price and threw in the furniture and a new furnace as a bonus.

On Tuesday, he took most of his clothes to Goodwill.

On Wednesday, he put an ad in the paper for his car. He asked exactly half as much as the car was worth and sold it by 9 a.m.

On Thursday, when the market took a sudden dive, he began selling his stocks.

On Friday, he filled out a requisition form for cyanide and turned it into the lab.

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

"Madeleine?" Birkhoff stood nervously at her door, and when she smiled at him, he swallowed, visibly anxious.

"What is it, Birkhoff?" Madeleine closed the file she was working on and nodded at him.

Birkhoff sat down in a chair and cleared his throat. "There's been some disturbing activity in one of our operative's accounts."

"What kind?"

"All kinds..."

"What operative?"

"Michael."

Madeleine templed her hands and regarded Birkhoff thoughtfully. "Has he accessed any of Nikita's files?"

"No, not since ..." Birkhoff checked his figures. "June 14."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. According to your instructions, I put in extra security measures ... the files are super easy to get into, but no matter who you are, it tracks you. Here's a list of the activity," he said, handing her a print out.

"Very interesting," Madeleine said, scanning the list of names. "Now, tell me about Michael."

Attempting to lighten the situation, Birkhoff said, "Walter calls it downsizing..."

Madeleine didn't smile, and Birkhoff cleared his throat again. "He's sold his house, his car, and most of his stocks. His off-shore accounts are empty."

"Where's the money?"

"Well, a lot of it ended up in the Museum of Modern Art."

"Excuse me?"

"He also donated large amounts the Chicago public school district, the Denver public library and the Los Angeles chapter of MADD. The Holocaust survivors got a big chunk too."

"Who?"

"There's a group that's suing old Swiss and Austrian banks who refuse to give up money that was deposited by Holocaust victims during the second world war. Michael gave them a big donation."

"What else?"

"That's all I have so far, but the amount that he's donated doesn't begin to match up with the amount he had deposited."

"Anonymous donations?"

"Probably," Birkhoff answered. "He's also drained his Section accounts."

"Oh?" Call it bribe, blackmail or payment for services rendered, but Section accounts were meant to pay for out-of-pocket expenses.

"According to Gail, Sacred Heart just received a donation of $1.5 million for renovations."

"Sacred Heart?"

"Yeah, you know, the church up the street. Gail goes sometimes."

"Does Michael?"

"I don't know. That's not exactly my field."

After what seemed like an eternity to Birkhoff, Madeleine said, "If that's everything, you may go. I want copies of your reports --"

Birkhoff quickly handed Madeleine a CD and she smiled. "Thank you for your thorough work, Birkhoff."

He nodded and left as quickly as he could.

I didn't do anything wrong, he assured himself. I was just doing my job. Michael knows better than to pull a stunt like that ... he should have known he'd get caught ... what was he thinking?

Feeling more like Judas than ever, Birkhoff leaned against the cold concrete wall and took a deep breath, hoping to settle his stomach.

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

Madeleine gave Michael a genuinely warm smile as he entered her office. He politely nodded and sat down, prepared for the most important battle of his career. He'd given everything up; he'd showed his hand unreservedly; but the next movement was hers.

"I'd like to know what all this means," Madeleine said, not unkindly, as she pushed her screen over so he could see it.

"Someone's financial records," Michael identified, holding his position.

"Not someone's. Yours. What's going on?"

Michael's head tilted. "I decided to simplify."

"I see. The Museum of Modern Art?"

"I like Picasso."

"The Chicago school system?"

"I read in the paper the other day they don't have enough money for notebook paper."

Madeleine pressed on. "The Denver public library?"

"Did you know they don't even have a copy of Thoreau?"

Momentarily distracted, she said, "No, I didn't."

"Someone checked it out and never returned it," Michael answered, a bit of outrage coloring his voice.

"Which made you angrier: that someone would steal Thoreau or that the library wouldn't replace it?" Madeleine asked.

Michael shrugged, still holding position. "I thought they could use the money."

"What about you?"

"I already have a copy of Thoreau."

"No, I meant, what will you do for money?"

"I don't need much," Michael said, preparing to advance his position. "And money should be spent."

Madeleine glanced at the screen. "MADD?"

"They do a lot of good work," Michael said blandly.

"What about the Holocaust victims?"

"My mother was Jewish."

Madeleine's lips twitched. "Sacred Heart?"

"She converted."

This time, Madeleine did smile. "You know, Michael, in most operatives, activity like this would mean abeyance."

"Have I done something wrong?" His voice was innocent, and he allowed her to advance her position this time.

"You act like you're planning on relocating."

"I don't understand," Michael feigned confusion, giving her another foothold. "The money was mine, was it not? For services rendered?"

"That's correct."

"Then why does it matter how I spent it?"

"Because according to this record, you now have no house, no car, no investments, no savings."

"I don't need any of those things," Michael said calmly, preparing to attack.

"What do you need, then?"

Michael held her eyes wordlessly.

She finally broke the contact, and Michael accepted his victory without letting it go to his head. "Are you under the impression that we are somehow responsible for Nikita's condition?" Madeleine asked softly.

He positioned himself for her next attack as she continued, "Because you should know we are doing everything we can for her ..."

"I'm sure you are," he said tonelessly, face completely blank. Madeleine blinked, and Michael won his second victory.

"What happened to her happened in the line of fire."

"So I understand."

Stalemate. He waited. He knew what her next move would be. He just had to be patient.

"Are you trying to prove that you can't take it with you?" Madeleine asked, eyes deep and shadowed.

"I'm not trying to prove anything." His voice was flat and he had to concentrate on slowing his pulse. He'd not expected an easy victory, but he was close ...

Madeleine shifted in her chair, fingers rubbing her lips absently. "What if she dies, Michael?"

"I'm prepared for that scenario."

"So I understand. I was notified you requested some cyanide from the lab this week. Michael, Michael," she said, voice low and caressing, almost sounding like a mother scolding her favorite child. "You're very young. You have such potential ... don't you see how much more you can accomplish in life? In Section?"

Michael finally exposed himself completely. "What would be the point?" He didn't retreat, but he didn't advance, either. He simply held her gaze.

"Will you at least give us two weeks' notice?" Madeleine asked, lips quirking up at the corners.

"That depends." Once again, he held his position, waiting ... waiting ...

"... on whether we have to place you on suicide watch?" Madeleine asked.

No answer. Just his eyes, flat and gray as always, reflecting not his soul, but hers. "Michael," she asked slowly, leaning forward so her arms rested on the desk. "Tell me what you want."

His breath froze in his lungs. To have victory so soon seemed unreal. He didn't say a word, just looked levelly into Madeleine's own eyes, pools of pain and knowledge and ... understanding.

My God, he thought, stunned. I've won. I can't believe it.

"One hour a day, Michael. Until she improves or dies, whichever comes first."

Foolish, he berated himself. Foolish to think it's over ... "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Visiting privileges," Madeleine smiled and Michael bit back his disappointment.

"This isn't about visiting privileges," he said tightly, gathering all his strength for the next stand, and she paused again.

"What do you want?" she mused again, looking past his eyes, past his anguish, past his heart.

"I want it all," Michael said flatly, attacking suddenly and viciously.

"What if she doesn't?"

"That's her decision." He attacked again, mercilessly. "Not yours. Not mine."

"We all belong to Section," Madeleine reminded him, quietly fighting back.

He took a final plunge. "Section is only as good as it's leaders."

"Yes," she admitted. "Yes, it is." Slowly, she leaned forward and closed his financial account. "Very good."

He said nothing, because there was nothing to say. He gave her a polite nod, which she returned, and exited the room.

Once outside, he leaned against the concrete. He was soaked through to his jacket, and felt as if he'd run 10 miles on an empty stomach. She didn't say I won, he reminded himself, but he know the fight was over, and soon, once Nikita got better, things might be a little more bearable for them.

Thank God for Napoleon, he thought, grateful that at last, at last, he'd hit upon a method that would bring him success. You have to throw the battle to win the war. He'd lost everything -- Madeleine now knew exactly what his feelings were, she knew exactly what methods would be most effective in manipulation. But he'd gained Nikita.

He waited for his breathing to slow down and for his hands to stop shaking, and then, finally, he allowed himself to follow his heart.

***********

So pale. She was almost translucent. He knew (from overhearing Gail and Birkhoff) that she'd improved a great deal in the past two days. She would be all right, in time. Michael swallowed, taking in the bandages, the oxygen, the wires connected to her body, the fluids that dripped in and out. To him, she still looked more dead than alive and he wondered if what he'd just been through had been a waste of time. He licked his lips and whispered, "Nikita."

She didn't wake.

He leaned closer, his eyes tracing the weary lines of pain etched on her face. "Nikita?"

A slight frown marred her forehead, and reluctantly, her eyes struggled to open. She focused on him, and remembering the surveillance equipment, he said quietly, "I found a way to keep us safe ... to keep you safe." Ironic, that, he thought, when she was laying in a bed hitched up to all kinds of wires and tubes. "We threw the battle."

Would she understand? Michael watched her, and though her eyes were clouded with medication and she was unable to speak or even reach out for him, she managed to nod slightly. Michael's hand slipped under the covers and found her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze; her fingers tensed briefly around his, then, unable to manage any more, she drifted back to sleep.

His hands dropped to his sides, and he stayed there for a moment, watching her.

He'd been planning on doing something to make things better for them since Nikita returned to Section: financially and politically, he had several secrets up his sleeve, but when she'd been wounded and things came to a head so suddenly, he'd been momentarily taken aback. Looking for precedent, Michael had studied all major battles in world history, finally settling on the French-Russian debacle of 1812.

Certain of winning, Napoleon invaded Russia; but he hadn't counted on the Russians being so opposed to being conquered. The Russians, with very little governmental encouragement, united to fight the enemy. Old men, boys, people from as far away as Siberia came to fight, and when there was no state money to outfit the regiments, the wealthy people of the nation donated funds. The French army advanced and began to win; the Russians retreated and in desperate defiance, burned their own cities out from under the French. They even destroyed their crops. The French had never seen anything like it -- no one had. Starving, freezing and left wondering exactly what kind of people the Russians were, Napoleon retreated to France with 40,000 men. He'd left with 600,000.

Michael knew exactly what kind of people the Russians were: they'd thrown the battle, giving up everything to gain everything. So that's what he did, too: a risky, dangerous, desperate battle plan, but then, his situation -- and Nikita's -- was risky, dangerous and desperate. Many times during the past week he despaired of his plans ever being put to use, and sometimes he wondered if instead of Alexander, he was actually Napoleon, foolishly charging ahead and certain of winning. Now, in one short session with Madeleine, Michael made it clear what his intentions were and she'd capitulated. The battle was over.

Not really over, he reminded himself. After all battles, there was a period of settling in. People had to get used to the new way of things, to count up their defeats and gains. The next few months would be difficult -- he could see long days filled with worry and frustration for all parties involved.

It doesn't matter, he thought fiercely. Nothing matters except winning.

He took another long look at Nikita, then turned and left the room.

_End_