A picture's worth a thousand words, Michael thought, but it sure doesn't replace the real thing.

He looked at the black and white photo in his hands. The frame was plain and at first glance the picture looked like contemporary art -- unexplainable, but something that compelled viewers to murmur "Ahh .." as if they understood. In fact, it was a close-up shot of the backs of Nikita's legs. It amused him to imagine her in the photography studio persuading a photographer to shoot this unusual piece of anatomy. He grinned faintly and traced the familiar shadowy vein that curled up the back of her left knee.

He took it everywhere. Barcelona, Sheffield, Ekaterenburg -- Nikita's legs, if not her person, went with him. By now she'd be at the Hotel Nicco, he supposed, and soon he'd join her. They'd go to the ballet, have a nice evening alone (he hoped) in unmonitored bliss, then tomorrow he'd get kidnaped.

Michael nodded decisively and closed his eyes, hoping to catch a nap before the plane landed in Mexico City. A perfect plan, a perfect set up, a perfect partner. This mission would be a piece of cake.

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

Nikita was not quite where Michael expected her to be. In fact, she was not at the Hotel Nicco. She was at the Motel 6. And she wasn't in Mexico City. She was in Phoenix, where it was 109 degrees -- and it wasn't even noon yet. Dear God, she thought, irritably fishing about in her handbag for a rubber band, how on earth did people even settle this part of the country? Procreation before air conditioning in this kind of heat ...? Who could stand to be that close to another human being?

She found a rubber band, wiped off the fuzz, and, the end of her braid still clinched in her teeth, snapped it on her hair. Mission accomplished, she turned her attention back to the laptop and the blinking curser.

"Come on, Birkhoff, I don't have all day ..." she muttered, and finally words began scrolling down her screen.

There's an old lodge near the outskirts of town. Ask for Dalton. He's not one of ours, but he's a courier we use sometimes. Kind of an independent. Watch your back. Give him the package, get a receipt, then go to the airport. We'll have a ticket waiting for you.

Perfect, Nikita thought. She wiped her forehead -- even though the air conditioning was going full-blast and the air was incredibly dry, she was still sweating. She took a long drink of Coke and typed back, muttering to herself. "Why not use U.S. mail instead?"

Unstable chemicals. Better to go this route. Trust me. You don't want to get on Section's bad side today, Nikita.

All right, then, where am I going? Nikita asked.

Here's a hint: Jimmy Buffett wrote a song about it.

Nikita stared at her screen in disbelief. Jimmy Buffett? She'd never have pegged Birkhoff as a parrothead ... Big deal, she typed back. He writes songs about everything. A dismal thought struck her, and she quickly typed in, Please don't tell me I'm going to Cuba.

Oh, Mexico. Sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low ...

Tell me you're teasing, Birkhoff, Nikita typed back.

Sorry. There's a group down there that kidnaps American businessmen. Operations thinks that they're part of a bigger chain. You and Michael have to find out where they stash the businessmen and who is in charge.

So what's the plan? Nikita questioned.

You're the wife. Michael's the businessman. He gets kidnaped. We trace him. You spring him. Simple in and out. Should be a snap for you. I'm attaching a file in about an hour. Everything should be in order. Don't bother with luggage in Phoenix. Madeleine sent your things ahead. I'll send you more information as I get it.

Birkhoff signed off, and after a growl of frustration, Nikita did the same. She shut the laptop with a little more force than was necessary, and repressed the urge to toss the whole thing across the room.

Get a grip, girl, she told herself firmly. It's hot, you've had too much caffeine, and you're homesick for your own bed.

Maybe, she thought. Or maybe she was just homesick for the man who should be in it. Nikita stood up, stretched, and decided that as long as she was waiting for Birkhoff's file, she might as well take a swim.

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

By the time Nikita got to Mexico City, she was hot, sweaty, dirty and slightly air sick. Too much turbulence made Nikita a crabby traveler, and so the first thing she did when she got out of her cab ride from hell was grab a Coke. I'd better watch it, she thought, grimly taking a swig from the bottle. I'm going to turn into a caffeine junkie if I'm not careful.

The streets were crowded, dirty, noisy and beautiful. Old buildings stretched skyward and a fountain played in the middle of the square. She wasn't sure what she expected in Mexico City, but she was pleasantly surprised. So what if it was crowded? The doorman ignored her wrinkled dress and sweaty neck, focused on her engagement ring, smiled widely and asked if she had any bags.

"They've been sent ahead," Nikita said graciously, hoping it was true.

Not only had they been sent ahead, they'd been unpacked. The room was large and faced a courtyard, so outside noise was muffled to the faint constant sound of horns honking and regular street noise was blurred to a soothing hum. Michael had obviously been here, but he wasn't present now, and Nikita went directly to the bathroom to draw a bath.

She heard Michael come in just as she was drying off, and she grabbed a hotel-provided robe off the back of the door and poked her head out. "Hey!"

"Did you have a good trip?" He came across the room, and Nikita stepped into his arms.

"I thought I might end up a casualty on the streets of Mexico City," she said, giving his ear a nip. "The cab driver seemed possessed by demons. Did you miss me?"

Michael kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, then, finally, her lips. "Haven't slept well in three weeks," he muttered, and Nikita wrapped her arms around him and leaned in. When she was finally able to form words, she breathlessly said, "I don't want to go to the ballet, Michael."

"No? What do you want to do?"

"Well ... this ... or maybe ... this ..."

" ... Nikita ..."

"Please?"

"You know we have to go. They have to notice me tonight. Tomorrow morning we'll be in the society columns, and hopefully by tomorrow night, I'll be kidnaped."

"If someone has to kidnap you, why can't it be me?" She traced the curve of his ear, turned his chin toward her, and kissed him. "After all, I am your wife. In some states, at least."

"I'll make you a deal," Michael murmured, gently pushing the neck of her robe open a little more, and trailing a row of kisses down her shoulder.

"O-o-okay ..." Nikita's eyes slid shut, and her hands curved around his ribcage for support.

"We go to the ballet ... get noticed ..." His mouth trailed a little lower, and Nikita's pulse, already erratic, skipped a few beats. "Then come home early ..."

"Promise?" Nikita forced the word out, and her hands fell to her sides as Michael very slowly began loosening the sash to her robe.

"Absolutely ..."

Nikita's eyes opened wide, blue locking on green, and she held up a finger. "Because if you don't, well, I may have to take things into my own hands."

"How so?"

"I've never made love with you in a box seat ..."

"Our seats are on the floor," Michael said, and somehow they landed on the bed. Nikita reached over and began unfastening his buttons.

"Or in an empty dressing room ..." she continued.

"Seems impractical ..."

"Or a cab ..."

"Uncomfortable..."

"Exactly." The buttons taken care of, Michael shrugged out of his shirt, and lay one flat hand across her midriff, thumb briefly running over her flesh. "So," Nikita said, reaching for his belt buckle. "I'd suggest we be as conventional as possible, and make it an early night."

"Exactly," Michael agreed, then, just as Nikita knew he would, his fingers trailed down her leg, followed shortly by his mouth.

"Oh ... Michael ..."

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

Michael wore his usual tuxedo to the ballet. But it didn't matter that he wore ubiquitous clothing; Nikita's dress would stand out from every woman in the theater.

It was red. It was sequined. It was long. Her heels were bright red satin, and though in his opinion, red was not really the best color on Nikita, she certainly was eye-catching.

"Okay?" she turned away from the mirror, still fastening an earring.

"You look very ... bright."

She tilted her head and decided, "You don't like the dress."

"It's very effective."

"But you don't like it."

"It's very ... red."

Her lips twitched and she said, "And do you think that people will notice us?"

"People always notice you." He came up behind her and circled her waist, looking over her shoulder at her in the mirror. He kissed her ear and she smiled.

"I'd still rather stay here --"

"Not an option," Michael sighed and stepped away, then held her evening wrap for her. "Come on. The sooner we go --"

"-- the sooner we can come back. I know." She slipped on the satin wrap, pulled her gloves up a bit and tucked her arm through his. "Then let's go."

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

As predicted, heads turned when Michael followed Nikita down the aisle. His eyes stayed on his wife's form, rather than tracking the house; once seated, he allowed himself one quick glance around, but didn't notice anyone making special note of him.

"See anyone?" Nikita murmured.

"Not yet."

They waited; the house dimmed; the orchestra began the prelude; the curtain rose. Trying to keep her mind on the performance and not on the hand that was slowly sliding up her leg, Nikita put one firm hand over Michael's, halting his progress. She laced her fingers through his, and his thumb rubbed her little finger. After what seemed like ages, the first two acts ended, the lights came up, and intermission was called.

Nikita didn't say anything; she didn't have to, her glance was eloquent enough. Michael smiled slightly, led her into the lobby, collected their coats, and escorted her outside. Nikita looked down the street for a cab; seeing a decrepit automobile hesitating in the street, she held up her right hand.

"Excuse me -- sir?" Michael turned toward the voice.

"Aren't you -- are you Professor Samuelle?"

"That's right," Michael answered, touching his glasses so Birkhoff would get a view. The man was skinny with glasses and wiry blonde hair. He was a little older than Michael, and instead of a tux, he had on a sports jacket with patch elbows, dark brown pants and school teacher shoes.

"I heard you were coming into town -- I'm Dr. Brisco, with the university here. I was wondering -- would you be willing to extend your stay a day or two and talk to my classes about your theory on black holes and their effect on meteor fields?"

"Well -- I suppose --"

"We'd love it if you could come --"

Seeing an opening, Michael said quickly, "Of course, I'd have to ask my wife --" Michael turned, holding out a hand to Nikita.

She was gone.

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

Though stunned at the turn of events and highly incensed that after all the preparation work he'd done, he wouldn't be getting kidnaped tomorrow after all, Michael did what any concerned husband would do -- he pitched a holy fit on the steps of the theater.

Dr. Brisco called the university and got a lawyer. The police came. The lawyer showed up. The performance inside ended, and streams of curious people flowed by the odd little knot of police, detectives, and Michael and Dr. Brisco. Finally, Michael was allowed to go back to the hotel, and he collapsed with a moan on the bed, the heels of his hands grinding into his eye sockets.

This wasn't supposed to happen. This couldn't happen.

Michael spent weeks preparing for this role. He'd been on a strict diet. He'd worked out incessantly. For the past two days, he'd been hydrating his body -- even now, a half-finished bottle of Evian water stood on the nightstand. He'd been injected with all types of medicine before leaving Section -- drugs to counter-effect any that kidnappers would give him, vaccines for all kinds of diseases, from malaria to tourista. Med Lab implanted three trackers in him. He'd been so physically fit before leaving home, it was certain that he could survive for a month on his own. Of course, no one expected him to be out that long -- at the most, he should have been held for a week. But he'd been prepared for the worst.

Nikita, on the other hand, wasn't prepared at all. She had the standard vaccinations that everyone had, no tracker, and, to top it off, she didn't know Spanish.

Michael groaned again, sat up and pulled the computer towards him. Might as well report now as later.

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

It was only after she leaned into the cab that Nikita realized it wasn't a cab, but when she turned to call out to Michael, someone whacked her smartly on the head and drug her inside.

Now, her head felt like it was on fire. The rest of her body was very cold. She groaned and felt of her forehead; the blood had dried in a coagulated sticky mess.

"Don't get it on the dress," a voice snapped, and Nikita groggily opened her eyes.

A woman stood in front of her -- she was maybe 50, dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones. She held a pair of drawstring pants and a yellow T-shirt in her hands. "Stand up."

Nikita stood shakily; her ankle twisted and she stumbled, then kicked off her heels.

"Put this on. Don't get the dress dirty. We can sell it."

With one hand on the wall to steady herself, Nikita slowly unzipped the evening gown. Her head swimming, she carefully put on the pants and struggled into the shirt. Dazed, she looked down at herself. 'My parents went to Mexico City and all they brought me was this lousy T-shirt,' the shirt read, and Nikita almost felt relieved. Thank goodness, she thought. This is a dream. One of those weird dreams I have ...

"You'll stay here," the woman said flatly, then, before Nikita could ask anything, she was gone. The lock clicked home, and Nikita was left alone.

Moving her pounding head slowly, she surveyed her cell.

It was spacious -- maybe 14 feet square. The floor was dirt. The walls were earth. The ceiling was low and beamed. No windows. One door. A small sink in the corner had a steady drip of rust-colored water. There were several buckets stacked in a corner. There was an Army cot and a blanket with holes in it. Overhead a dim bulb hung on a string.

Nikita lay back down on the cot and pulled the blanket up. It was cold and smelled of damp earth -- it's a basement, she guessed, hearing faint footsteps above her. She shivered and hoped that whatever they were going to do to her, they'd do it quickly. She didn't want to spend any more time here than she had to.

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

Michael reported in to Section, took off his tux and put on more comfortable clothes to wait for the ransom note. Conventional wisdom said it wouldn't arrive until tomorrow -- the kidnappers traditionally waited a full 24 hours before contacting the victim's family -- but he wasn't sleepy and he didn't know what else to do. Finally, too edgy to relax, he put on his coat and went out, walking the dark streets, staying in the shadows, looking for something, anything, that would lead him to Nikita.

A car slowly drove behind him, the dim headlights flickering and occasionally plunging the street into darkness. Michael slipped into an inky black doorway and watched the cab pass. Perhaps because his attention was divided, he didn't hear the doorknob behind him turn. Then pain exploded in his head and he slumped forward.

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

She waited. And waited. They'd taken her wedding ring and her watch, so she had no idea what time it was. It was too cold to sleep, so she went over classic kidnaping procedures. It was too bad they hadn't put her with the other kidnaping victims; she could have gotten some good information out of them.

Nikita sighed and sat up, wrapping the blanket around her. A faint odor of goat clung to the material. She shivered again and curled up to conserve body heat.

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

"Sir?"

"What is it, Birkhoff?"

"We've been contacted."

"I'm coming."

Birkhoff heard Operations click off the communicator and in a moment, he was striding across the floor to the communication center. Birkhoff moved to his right so Operations could get a good look at the computer screen; an image flickered then stabilized.

The man in the foreground was older than Birkhoff anticipated. Maybe in his 50s. He'd expected someone young, a drug-runner type, someone with a low life expectancy. This guy looked like a regular businessman.

Well, except for the gun strapped to him. And except for Michael, who was in the background, strapped to an uncomfortable-looking chair.

"Greetings. I understand this is a relative of yours. Michael Samuelle." The man smiled blandly, and Operations frowned.

"A cousin," Operations agreed, following the profile. "What do you want?"

"A million. In cash. No police ..."

The rest of the demands were made; Operations agreed to them all. A meet was scheduled. Each side signed off, and once he was alone, Michael contacted Section.

"Birkhoff?"

"I'm here, Michael. How many?"

"The core group is five. Four men and a woman. Three guards. Besides me, there are five other victims."

"Names?"

"Nicholas Carson. Larry Smith. John Preston. John Anthony. Mike Taylor. Taylor's been here the longest. He says four weeks."

"Yeah, he was taken about a month ago. His wife says she paid a quarter of a million four days after he was kidnaped and she hasn't had any other communication with the kidnappers. There's supposed to be another one -- Thomas Wayne. Does anyone know what happened to him?"

There was a brief pause while Michael conferred with the other prisoners. Then Michael replied, "Smith says they think Wayne's dead. He got sick a couple of weeks ago and was taken out. They don't know what happened to him, and when they asked the guards, the guards wouldn't answer." Michael paused, then asked, "Have you heard anything from Nikita?"

Birkhoff and Operations exchanged puzzled glances. "What do you mean?"

"Have any demands been made?"

Operations frowned. "She's not with you?"

"No," Michael snapped. "If she were, I would have mentioned it."

"Maybe the women are kept separately from the men --?" Birkhoff wondered out loud.

A little impatiently, Michael said, "The other men here haven't seen any women. She hasn't contacted you at all?"

"No," Birkhoff said, "I haven't heard anything. But it's only been 24 hours, Michael."

"Michael," Operations' voice was crisp and no-nonsense. "Within the next 24 hours we'll have the ring shut down and the kidnappers delivered to the authorities. Once your mission is over, you may search for Nikita. Until then, I suggest you keep your mind on your current job."

Michael signed off. Birkhoff bit his lip and Operations frowned. "Continue to scan the area," Operations said thoughtfully. "There's a chance Nikita's still in the vicinity. Who else do we have near by?"

"Just Martinez's crew. He's got four under him and two of them are out of town right now."

"Go ahead and assemble the assault team," Operations said. "Alert Martinez and let him know our plans. Have him begin to go through his own channels and see if anyone knows anything about Nikita. If she's dead, I need positive confirmation and, if possible, a body."

Birkhoff swallowed. "All right."

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

The assault was over in 20 minutes. One guard died and one of the kidnappers escaped. But the victims, including Michael, were released and the remaining criminals rounded up and sent to Section for questioning, then extermination.

Michael went back to the hotel room. Someone had made the bed and changed the towels; Nikita's clothes were still hanging in the closet, her cosmetics still scattered in her make-up bag. He searched the room for a note, a communication, anything, but could find nothing. Except for the maid, no one else had been in the room.

He sighed and sat down on the bed, absently picking up the photo of her legs. Birkhoff hadn't been contacted by Nikita's kidnappers either, and Michael was beginning to get seriously worried. He'd been concerned when she was taken, but now ... she could be anywhere. She was taken on Saturday. He was taken on Sunday. On Tuesday his kidnappers made their demands. The meet was on Wednesday. The assault on Thursday. She'd been gone five days.

The worst part of it was, he couldn't stop thinking about Simone. How long had she waited for him to come? How long did it take her to give up hope? He shut his eyes, and their faces faded into one another -- first Simone, then Nikita. Both of them waiting for someone to come.

He might have failed Simone. But he'd be damned if he'd do the same to Nikita.

Think. Where would she be? Still in the city? Would they have moved her to the countryside? I will find her, he thought stubbornly, if I have to personally enter every building in Mexico City.

He checked his gun, slipped an extra clip in his coat pocket, and left the room. He'd start looking in the most likely places. Then he'd keep searching until he found her.

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

Always resourceful, Michael stopped by the police station first to see whether they'd made any headway finding Nikita.

They hadn't.

His next stop was Martinez. He obtained a list of helpful people from Martinez and spent the rest of the morning contacting them, putting them under contract and explaining how the expense account worked. Then, satisfied that he'd put a high enough price on Nikita's head to ensure her safe return, Michael began his own searching.

Section had given him two weeks. He hoped that would be enough.

Michael didn't hire a car or a guide. He walked. He searched the area around the theater they'd attended; he searched the area around their hotel. He talked to people. Old women; young men; children; anyone that looked observant.

Nothing.

On the fifth day, Martinez, who had been helping Michael search, was called off on an out of town mission. On the seventh day, one of Michael's contract laborers dropped off the face of the earth; two days later he showed up dead in a ditch and Michael learned that besides the deal he'd had with Michael, he also worked with a local drug dealer.

On the tenth day, Michael was beginning to be desperate.

He'd widened his search. Now in the newer part of the city, Michael passed drug stores, pawn shops, news stands, convenience stores. He bought some food from a street vendor and began at the corner, working his way down the street.

Have you seen her? She's tall. Almost as tall as I am. Her hair is very light, like in the photograph. She doesn't know Spanish. No, she's not American.

Methodically he continued to ask the questions, continued to search the stores. In the pawn shop he had to wait his turn; one customer was trying to sell something and several others were looking. Wearily, Michael slumped into a chair, waiting for the owner to finish.

"Very lovely," the owner was saying in an encouraging voice, and a woman admired her wrist.

"It's a little expensive," she said.

"Expensive? No! It's the highest quality ... we don't often get pieces like this ..."

"I don't know ... the watchband is a little fancier than I wanted ..."

Michael glanced over at the two and blinked.

On the woman's wrist was Nikita's watch. Michael rose, gravitated to her side and with one quick, smooth flick, unlatched the watch and turned it over.

"Hey! What do you think --" the woman started, but Michael ignored her.

"Who sold this?" Michael demanded.

The owner frowned at Michael's rudeness. "Someone down on her luck. Now, if you will be so kind as to wait your turn --"

"This," Michael said firmly, "Is stolen merchandise --"

"It certainly is not! I check the records faithfully every week --"

"This," Michael said, flipping the watch over to show engraved initials, "Belongs to my wife. She's been missing for several weeks. I demand to know who you purchased this from."

Sensing a confrontation, the other customers melted away, leaving Michael and the owner arguing loudly. In the end, Michael paid the owner what he asked and, after leaving him with a copy of Nikita's picture and an apology for losing his temper, he left.

He was getting closer. But he wasn't making good time. Already Section had arranged for his transportation home, but Michael, after the only encouraging sign he'd had in weeks, decided Section would just have to wait a little longer.

He went to the hotel room, packed his suitcases and contacted Birkhoff.

"Hey, Michael. Any luck?"

"Some," Michael admitted. "What's on the schedule for next week?"

"You're going to Brazil, things are heating up in Kenya and there should be a resolution in Pakistan by Tuesday. Why?"

"Because you're going to have to get someone else for Brazil. I'm going into mandatory refusal."

"But --"

"Good-bye, Birkhoff."

|***********************

Quiet. Nikita shifted and curled up on her bed. She was so tired. So tired ...

At first, she'd hollered and yelled, trying to get someone's attention. No one came. Then she began to listen, and after two days of hearing nothing, she decided they'd left her.

She was baffled. Why would they just leave her? Why not kill her? Or take her with them? Or sell her? Everything she knew about kidnaping groups said after ransom was demanded, the perpetrators either killed the victim or let the victim go. But they hadn't done anything. She hadn't seen anyone since the woman came down and took her clothes.

There was no food. There was water, but it made her sick. She turned one of the buckets into a make-shift toilet, but after awhile she didn't even need that; with no nourishment, there was no point.

It wasn't really completely quiet. The walls of the cellar were thick, but faintly she could hear outside noises. At the same time every day, a heavy truck drove by. There wasn't much traffic, though; sometimes she could hear people talking, but no matter how loudly she screamed, no one heard her.

She'd been hungry at first. Now, though she thought about food, her stomach didn't complain anymore. Sometimes she wasn't even sure she was alive. She'd fall into a half-asleep, half-awake trance, dreaming of pancakes with melting butter and maple syrup, or a huge cheese burger. Steak, with a baked potato. A big salad. Coffee. What she wouldn't give for some hot coffee ... hot anything.

She was well aware of what was happening to her and she knew she had to conserve her energy. But she also knew that if no one had come for her yet, chances were slim that she'd be found. Therefore, she'd have to save herself. She wrenched one of the handles from a bucket and, wetting the earthen wall with a bit of water to make digging easier, she stood on her cot and used the metal ends to scrape a hole in the wall. She didn't know how far underground she was, but since she could hear some outside noises, she suspected she was fairly close to the surface.

During the first week she spent all her time digging. But as time wore on and her energy waned, she could only work for a little while before getting too tired to continue. And though she'd made some headway, she had no idea how thick the wall was or if she'd ever be able to dig through it. But she had to try.

Exhausted from digging, Nikita shivered and pulled the blanket closer. She shut her eyes. Michael, where are you? Michael ...

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

Michael had never been a big fan of mandatory refusal. For one thing, he had to get rid of his contract labor. The fewer people who knew how to reach him, the better. For another, he was completely cut off from Section, so if, by some strange miracle, they did hear from Nikita there was no way to contact Michael.

Also, since he was staying in Mexico City, it would have been easy for Section to find him. He wasn't exactly under cover. Every day he was out on the streets, searching for Nikita. He divided the city into quadrants and, a month after Nikita's disappearance, he was confident that he'd met every citizen. And none of them knew Nikita. Every day he called the police detective that was supposed to be working on Nikita's case; since Michael was mobile, he gave people the detective's phone number, but though some contacted the police, none of the leads worked out.

Michael decided to concentrate on the neighborhood he'd found Nikita's watch in. He went up one street and down the next, entering every shop.

Have you seen her? She's tall. Almost as tall as I am. Her hair is very light, like in the photograph. She doesn't know Spanish. No, she's not American.

In the middle of the block, Michael went into what he thought was a bridal store. The front window was filled with fluffy white dresses, intricately woven with silver thread and beaded with pearls and sequins. But as he entered, he saw flashes of color and plainer fabric; it was a consignment store.

He went to the woman behind the counter. "I'm looking for this woman. She's tall. About my height. She's been missing for a couple of weeks --"

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, I've not seen her --"

Michael nodded and turned, and something caught his eye. He paused, then crossed the store in a few quick strides, jerking a brilliant red satin dress off a rack. "This dress," he said, holding it out. "When did it come in?"

"Let's check the tag." The saleswoman smiled at him, consulted the tag, and said, "Four weeks ago. It's pretty, isn't it? Very well made; it's a designer label --"

"Who brought it in?"

"I'm sorry, I can't --"

"It's my wife's dress. Please, if you can just tell me if she brought it in --"

The saleswoman nodded and went behind the counter, pulling out a ledger and flipping through it. "The dress was brought in by a Anna Gomez."

"Address?"

She frowned. "I don't think I should --"

"Please."

She sighed, irritated, then quickly wrote down an address and the woman's name. Michael overpaid her for the dress, then swiftly left.

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

The address was in the older part of the city. Michael found the house, double-checked the number, then, gun drawn, he entered cautiously.

A rat scurried over his foot and he jerked back, listening intently. Slowly, he explored the house. It didn't take long; the rooms had an unoccupied feeling, and though there were dirty dishes in the sink, it was clear they had been there for a long time; the water in the sink was scummed with mold and the food in the refrigerator was going bad. He searched through the living room, the bedrooms, the kitchen ... and finally ended up in an office.

The office, like the rest of the house, was untidy and looked as if someone had left in a hurry. Michael went through the papers on the desk. Business expenses. A calculator. A checkbook. Underneath a tangle of rubber bands and paper clips he found a list of addresses, each with a notation beside them. Rental properties?

Michael went through the receipts and other bits of papers, finally concluding whoever the owner was, she had several houses and at least one apartment building. Since there wasn't anything else to do, Michael put the list in his pocket and, careful to relock the door behind him, began his hunt in earnest.

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

The first house was occupied. The second was between renters. Michael searched them both, then considered returning to the hotel room he was currently occupying. It was beginning to get dark.

One more, he promised himself. This is probably a wild goose chase, but I'll try one more.

He flagged a cab down, gave the next address and sat back, mind blank and eyes unfocused.

If this didn't work, he didn't know what else to do. Maybe she'd been taken out of the city. Maybe she was dead. Maybe whoever it was that took her killed her immediately. Maybe, if they were lucky, her bones would be discovered one day ....

Michael swallowed hard and was jerked back to reality when the cab driver slammed on the brakes. He payed the man and got out, straightened his jacket and, gun ready, entered the house.

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

The walls of Nikita's cell were earth, but the ceiling was low and made of wood. Vaguely, she heard something above her. Footsteps?

Maybe they'd come back for her.

Groggy with sleep and light-headed from starvation, Nikita stood up, one hand on the earthen wall for balance. She opened her mouth to call out, but her voice was so light she knew it wouldn't carry.

Slow footsteps circled above her head, and she grabbed one of the empty buckets, turning it over and slamming it into the ceiling as hard as she could.

The footsteps stopped. A voice raised in a question. Nikita couldn't understand what was said, but she gave the ceiling another thump with the bucket. Someone moved across the floor above her; a pause; a scraping sound; steady but sure footsteps coming down stairs.

Nikita hung on to the wall and waited. She didn't care who it was. The kidnappers, a robber, a stray kid looking for cash, anyone would have been fine with her. Just as long as he or she opened the door.

The lock gave out a shrill protest as it was turned; the door swung inward.

A voice. "Nikita?"

It sounded familiar. Nikita leaned on the wall trying to decide whether he was a friend or not. Then two arms went around her, a touch she could never forget. "Michael?" She frowned, confused. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

She nodded and closed her eyes, leaning on Michael now instead of the wall. "I tried to dig out," she mumbled, waving toward her cot. Thinking he would be proud of her, she forced her eyes open and focused on his face.

"Oh, Nikita." Shaking hands held her gently to him; Michael cleared his throat, tucked his gun in the back of his pants and took a deep breath. "Come on. Can you walk?"

"Umm-humm ..." Nikita took a few steps with his arm around her, then Michael picked her up, not in his usual fireman's hold, but as one carries a child.

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

Michael's hotel was very small, but it was clean and he had his own bathroom. The first thing he did was to ask the owner for some hot soup and hot tea, both of which he poured down Nikita along with a couple of vitamins. Then he stripped her and helped her take a bath, an arduous process because the soup made Nikita feel sick after being so long without food. Finally he popped one of his T-shirts over her head and got her to bed, tucked between several hot water bottles.

He sat beside her. When he'd first seen her, he didn't recognize her. It wasn't just the dirt. She was so skinny. Her elbows stuck out and her eyes looked huge. He could feel the difference when he carried her, but then when he'd taken off her clothes ... when he bathed her he could see every bump on her backbone and her ribs stuck out. His throat tightened and he swallowed hard. Nikita shivered in her sleep, and Michael quietly moved a water bottle and slid down beside her, fitting himself behind her so she could feel his body heat. He kissed her temple and held her close and wondered what he was going to tell Section.

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

At first, she thought she was dreaming. It was so warm. She felt like she was lying in the sun. And I know that's not so, she thought lazily. Unwilling to wake up, she turned over and met resistance. But it wasn't the earthen, cold wall of her cell; it was a warm, pliant mass.

She cracked an eye open, then frowned. "Michael?"

He started in his sleep and his arms tightened around her. "What is it?"

"What time is it?"

Michael stretched sore muscles and glanced at the clock on his side of the bed. "Almost noon." He rolled onto his back and yawned, crossing an arm beneath his head. He reached over to the bedside table and picked up a cracker. "Hungry?"

"Thanks." Nikita munched on the cracker, thoughtfully staring at the pale ceiling above her. "Did you figure out who took me?"

"You didn't give me much to go on."

"I only saw the one woman. And only once."

"It's possible it wasn't work related."

"You mean, they took me because I looked American and rich."

"It's always possible. The fact they left you instead of killing you tells me they weren't serious ..."

"No, they just thought they'd let me starve to death."

"The front door wasn't locked," Michael said thoughtfully, watching her cracker crumbs sprinkle down on the sheets. "They probably thought someone would come in and let you out."

"That doesn't make me feel much better." Nikita reached across Michael for a glass of water, then she sat up, pulling the blanket with her to keep warm. She rested her head on her knees and looked at Michael. "How did they let you look for me?"

Michael sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Does that mean you went into mandatory refusal?"

Silence.

"Michael?" She sighed, irritated. "Well, have you contacted the Section?"

"Yes." Michael sat up in bed, scooted back and leaned back on the headboard. "We're to arrive in Section tonight."

She nodded, feeling a little tired. "What time does the plane leave?"

"A few hours."

Nikita ate another cracker and finished the water, then, with a little groan, she hauled herself up and padded to the bathroom. She flushed the toilet, then turned on the faucet to wash her hands. As she did so, she glanced up at the mirror.

Pale. She looked as white as an albino, almost, with her fair hair and her skin bleached from being indoors for a month. When she was taken, they'd knocked her on the head; the cut healed, but the skin was puckered and red around the old wound, a jagged scar near her hairline. She had gray shadows under her eyes; her lips were chapped. But the worst part was her bones. They stuck out in unnatural planes and angles, the skin stretched tightly over her frame. A little dismayed, she stood back from the mirror to get a more comprehensive view, but it wasn't reassuring. Her knees were knobby, the muscles on her long bones shrunken. Even her wrists looked bad.

Perhaps if she'd been a different kind of woman she would have admired her new physique. But Nikita spent her childhood as the thinnest, boniest child in school. Adults questioned her: How many meals a day did she eat? What did she have for dinner last night? Did her mother give her milk? School nurses weighed and measured her; when speakers came to discuss nutrition, they always seemed to stare at her. Since coming to Section, Nikita had filled out -- she was strong, agile, healthy. She didn't have a great self-esteem, but she didn't avoid her reflection anymore, either.

But now ... her eyes traveled down her body. Michael's shirt hung unevenly on her shoulders, showing the sharp bones of her clavicle. She bit her lips, took a deep breath, and looked down her neckline, then, the ultimate in bravery, lifted her shirt to get a good look.

She could clearly see the outline of her floating ribs. She let the shirt fall back into place and gripped the edge of the sink. Where she had been strong, she was now weak. Where she'd once had muscles, she had only tendons and empty skin. She was not just ugly; she was a liability.

"M-M-Michael?"

"Yes?" he called back, and she heard him rise from the bed. In a minute he was beside her, looking at her in the mirror. "Are you all right?"

"I -- I -- Look at me. What's going to happen when we get back to Section?"

He turned her away from the mirror so that she saw his eyes instead of her flawed body. "There's a mission."

She bit her lower lip.

Michael said slowly, "I know you can handle it. I won't be there," he continued, anticipating her question. "It's come to Section's attention that Emmanuel Frasier, who was thought to be dormant, is now back in business."

"What business?"

"He's selling biological agents to small terrorist groups. He's an old business partner of Perry Bauer's. They parted ways a few years ago." Michael laced his fingers through hers and led her out of the bathroom; gingerly, she sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, giving him all her attention. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her.

"Frasier's girlfriend has had some ... problems in the past. Last week she was admitted to a private hospital in New York state. She'll be there for eight more weeks at least."

"What ... what kind of hospital?"

"It's for people with eating disorders. You're to meet her, befriend her, find out other business contacts Frasier has and report them."

"And you'll collect his business contacts?"

"Yes."

"Without me?"

"Yes."

"Will you ... you'll come and see me?"

"Yes. If I can."

She digested the information, studying her hands. Finally, she said, "Was I chosen to do this mission because I already look like a concentration camp victim?"

"The profile was designed several months ago. This happened to be one of a few options. It became the obvious choice when she was admitted to the hospital."

"I see." Nikita nodded, then slowly her head came up and she looked directly at Michael. It was true that she hadn't been entirely comfortable with the idea of unknown kidnappers snatching her off the street, but the possibility of Section being responsible for her incarceration was far more disturbing. "I wonder ..."

"Yes?" his voice sounded almost strangled, and staring at his changeable eyes, Nikita could read his mind as easily as if he had voiced his suspicions aloud.

"It doesn't matter, Michael. You found me."

She slid from the bed into his lap, looping her skinny arms around his neck and leaning her forehead against his. She felt his right hand feather across her left knee, then he stroked the soft skin in the bend of her leg, fingers lightly tracing the vein that snaked up her leg and was visible only for an inch or two.

"You found me," she said, but Nikita didn't know whether she was reassuring herself of Michael. "You found me," she repeated, and she closed her eyes and tightened her embrace.

---- the end -----