(This is a prequel to New Life.)

**********

Nikita walked into the lobby of the New York Hilton and sighed. As usual, the place was packed. With more than 2,000 rooms, the Hilton was a great place to have conventions, and it showed: she’d never been here when it wasn’t crowded with confused Midwesterners or Europeans, the air clotted with cigarette smoke and loud conversations. The interior was ugly: dark glass, dark carpeting and strategically placed, out-of-control potted plants.

There wasn’t even a central holding area. Just a long, wide hall, with a bank of elevators stuck in an alcove to the right and the hotel desk to the left.

Of course, this is what made the hotel perfect. Doormen couldn’t keep track of who was a guest and who was passing through. If you didn’t look homeless, you were granted access; sometimes Nikita even stood in line, looking bored, while others around her waited to register.

Today, she went straight to the elevators. There was a crush. There always was. With so many floors, there were not enough elevators to service the crowd. She stood back a bit, waited for the first wave of people to crowd into two ready lifts, then boarded the next one that opened.

She pressed a button, smiled benignly at a businesswoman with a nametag on, and got out at her floor.

Nikita shifted her bag slightly and felt for her gun. She wasn’t expecting anything dicey to happen, but one never knew. She stopped in front of a door, pressed her ear lightly against it, and, hearing nothing, slid her key card into the slot. The light flickered green and she opened the door.

“Hi,” she greeted softly, and Michael looked up from his computer.

“Hi.”

Nikita dropped her bag at the door, clicked the deadbolt and walked across the room.

Michael was sitting at the desk, which was really too small to be of much use. His laptop was plugged in and there were a few index cards scattered on the table with cryptic words on them, words even Nikita didn’t understand, because he took a peculiar shorthand in a half-dozen languages. She leaned over, kissed him, and, cat-like, rubbed her jaw against his face, marking her territory. She rested her forehead against his temple. “Working?”

“Yes.” Michael turned his head slightly and kissed her back very slowly. “How are you?” he whispered.

“Fine,” Nikita whispered back, her eyes closed. “You?”

“Okay.”

“I miss you.”

Michael didn’t say anything, and finally, she straightened up, ran a hand through her hair and smiled at him. “Are you almost finished?”

“Almost.” He gazed up at her and she thought she detected a faint smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. “I ordered some food up a few minutes ago.”

She grinned again and playfully shook a finger at him. “Is this a ploy to get me into bed? Feed me, and I’m yours?”

Michael’s lips twitched and he shrugged. “It’ll be here in 20 minutes.”

“Good. I have time for a bath, then.” She turned and headed for the bathroom. “The Vasquez mission was messy and long and I came straight from Section. I think they’re increasing my frequency.”

Michael frowned, but instead of answering, he returned his attention to the computer and sorted through the note cards.

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

Nikita sank down into hot water and wiggled her toes. Heaven. She sighed and wished, not for the first time, they could go somewhere that had bigger bathtubs. Well, beggars can’t be choosers, she reminded herself. And at least it wasn’t Motel Six.

She let her mind empty as the water gradually cooled. Michael was just in the next room; she’d left the door open slightly and she could hear his quick fingers tapping over the keyboard. She closed her eyes and felt safe for perhaps the first time in ... when had they last seen each other? Three weeks? Four?

Michael had his status; he’d been back at Level 5 for the past six months. She was still under his command -- at work, anyway. He requested her for missions, but not as much as he had. It was too dangerous. If Nikita felt like she was living in a fishbowl before, now it was worse. Now she felt like an animal at the zoo, with Madeleine observing her every movement, making notes on her reactions to various missions ... in many ways, Nikita preferred dealing with Operations. He was nasty, but seldom as sneaky as Madeleine.

Or maybe he was, but was better at hiding it than Madeleine.

Nikita sighed again. Publicly, things between she and Michael seemed as before: Nikita was careful to withdraw at crucial moments after particularly trying missions; Michael glowered at her from across the main room of Section much as he always had. They weren’t an item; they weren’t even speaking most of the time.

But they were communicating. Nikita was beginning to master the peculiar brand of silent speech Michael long ago became accustomed to. It was the best way to share thoughts and feelings; it couldn’t be recorded, and unless someone else had the key to crack the code, there wasn’t anything there.

Of course, there was just so much one could communicate silently. Nikita bought a computer, clean and new and untainted by Section and opened a free e-mail account; Michael did the same. They coded their messages and never sent more than one a day, and it required a lot of reading between the lines, but it was better than nothing.

And, when their schedules permitted, when mission frequency lagged, when the time was right, they’d rendezvous in a hotel in a large, anonymous city. Once it was Amsterdam; once it was London. They’d been to the Hilton several times. It didn’t really matter where they were, though. They seldom left the room for fear of being seen.

Nikita heard a sharp knocking on the outside door and the sound of Michael pushing back his chair. “Yes?” he asked, and she stiffened.

A low mumble. Michael unbolted the door and silently let the waiter in. Nikita heard the clank of dishes and silver, some more low mumbling as Michael paid and tipped the attendant, then Michael’s cat-like tread, which stopped short of the bathroom door. “Nikita ... the food’s here.”

“Okay. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Nikita sighed again, and, with a groan, she sat up, washed quickly, and drained the tub. Then, since she hadn’t even brought different clothes, she shrugged into the hotel bathrobe hanging on the door and went out to join Michael.

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

“About the Vasquez mission,” Michael started, and Nikita nodded, her mouth full of bread. “I noticed there were five casualties?”

“That’s right,” Nikita confirmed. She took a long drink of water. “Arlis, Peter, Tasha, Terry and ... Melia,” she ticked them off.

“I thought the profile called for two dead and as many as six wounded.”

“It did, but they had more people than were profiled. Instead of six on the perimeter, there were eight, and instead of eight bodyguards, there were four stationed in the house and three with him. We only had two injured.” “Where were you?”

“Backup.” Nikita took another bite of her pasta. “This is good, Michael. Thanks.”

“Welcome. How was the debrief?”

“It was okay. Madeleine did mine.” Nikita paused, idly spinning more spaghetti on her fork, neatly wiping up tomato sauce. “She’s up to something,” Nikita said thoughtfully. “She wasn’t as thorough as she usually is. She wanted me in and out. Usually she wants to get my reactions. Not this time, though.”

“What about the mission before this one?”

“That was last week.” Nikita chewed up another bite and took a sip of red wine. “She wasn’t as distracted as she was this week.”

“Operations?”

“He’s normal. Whatever that is.”

Before -- it seemed like years, instead of months ago -- they often did this. Discussing missions, rehashing a profile, looking at the variables and how they changed as the mission played out. Michael gradually began asking Nikita about other things, things that weren’t apparent in the briefings he read second-hand. As a result, she’d fine-tuned her radar to pick up bits of information. The way Madeleine looked at her during the debrief ... Operations’ state of mind when he met them at van access ... Michael was good, but he couldn’t be at all places at all times, and he depended on Nikita’s assessments.

“What about the Moore profile?” Nikita said now. “Birkhoff said there were some holes ...”

“He told you this?”

“I overheard it.”

“There are some problems. Unless we can work around them, the mission has a 60 percent chance of failing. I’m working on it and it should be ready in a couple of days. It’s a difficult profile; the subject isn’t ideal.”

“No,” Nikita agreed. “Have you decided on a team?”

“Not yet. It will have to be small.”

Nikita finished her meal and drank the last sip of wine in her glass. Michael raised the carafe, but she shook her head. “I’ve had enough.”

It was still afternoon, just barely 4 p.m. Down below, Nikita could hear the faint beep-beep of car horns and the low murmur of New Yorkers getting off work or out of school, going home, going to class, running errands. She shut her eyes and leaned her forehead against her hand, waiting for Michael to finish his dinner.

Softly, Michael asked, “Did you want dessert? There’s chocolate cake or custard.”

Nikita opened her eyes and smiled. He hadn’t known what she’d wanted, so he’d ordered two things he knew she liked. Whatever she picked, he’d eat the other. “Did your fish have a lot of garlic in it?”

“Garlic?”

“Here.” Nikita carefully wound up some spaghetti from her plate. Then she got up and settled in Michael’s lap. “Open up,” she said softly, and he obediently opened his mouth and ate. “You should have some more,” she said.

“But I don’t --”

Nikita leaned down and kissed him, a long, slow kiss, letting him taste her. She ran her tongue lightly over his lips, then he opened his mouth. Finally, he said, “I see what you mean.”

“Enough to keep away the vampires,” Nikita laughed softly and watched as Michael ate some of her spaghetti sauce as protection, then had another drink of wine. Then he kissed her again.

“Perfect,” he announced.

“Yes.” Nikita shifted on his lap, her bones digging into his legs. Michael winced, then Nikita swung a leg over him and curled up on his chest, working an arm around to the small of his back. With her other hand, she traced the curve of his adams’ apple, then her fingers went higher. Michael kissed her fingers as they passed his mouth, and she felt the scratchy plane of his cheek, then the curve of his eyebrow.

The room was quiet. Michael’s arms were loosely around Nikita, one hand rhythmically running up and down her back. Then Michael’s muscles unexpectedly bunched and he stood, still holding onto Nikita.

“Hey --”

Michael silenced whatever comment she was about to make. She felt something like warm carbonation course through her veins, and when he dropped her on the bed, the only thing she did was hold out her arms. His hands slid under her robe and his mouth followed.

**********

Sometime later, Michael awoke, feeling oddly disjointed. They’d fallen asleep with the lights on; at the foot of the bed was a jumble of clothes -- his -- and the clock read 9.30. Nikita had worked her way under the covers, and Michael sleepily crawled in with her. She made an odd shuddering sound, and Michael turned her over.

She was sound asleep, and crying.

He frowned and carefully wiped her face. She wasn’t sobbing, but tears trickled from her eyes and her breath was uneven. He’d heard of sleep talking and sleep walking, but Nikita was the first woman he’d ever seen that cried in her sleep.

“Nikita,” he said softly. “Wake up. Nikita ...”

With a final gasp, she woke, eyes bloodshot and watery. She linked her arms around his neck and he sat up, wrapping his arms around her, working a leg underneath hers. “What’s wrong?”

Her tears were wet on his chest; he used the edge of the sheet to wipe her face, then reached for his pants and retrieved a handkerchief, which Nikita used. Even when the tears were gone, though, she couldn’t stop her erratic breathing. Michael sat quietly, waiting, and finally, when her breath evened out, he asked her again, “What’s wrong?”

When she didn’t answer, he probed deeper. “Nightmare?”

No answer.

“Did you see something on the last mission?”

She shook her head, and he pulled back a bit so he could look at her face. “Nikita?”

Her hair was tangled and her face was puffy and red. She didn’t look at him. She twisted her hands in the sheets and stared down at the humps their legs made under the material. Finally, she asked him, “How much longer, Michael?”

“For what?”

“For this. How much longer do we have to keep on going this way?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, she finally looked up and put a hand to his face. “You’re so angry, Michael,” she said tenderly. “And you’ve been this way for months, ever since Operations reinstated you. It worries me. You’re so calm and normal on the outside, but I see this ... this thing bubbling away inside of you and I can’t help thinking of postal workers.”

“What?”

“Those postal workers. Or those airline passengers that snap and suddenly there’s dead people all over the place and maybe a suicide and everyone says, ‘Oh, he was always so quiet.’”

“I would never snap.”

“I’ve seen you do it a few times. It always scares me.”

“This is why you were crying?”

“I ...” Nikita looked down at her hands again, and said softly, “It’s been six months ... I ... I’m just tired, Michael. I’m so tired. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“I can’t help being angry,” Michael said softly, “But if it makes you feel better, I don’t want to kill Operations.”

“You don’t?” Nikita looked back at him, uncertain. “Why not?”

“There are other ways of getting what we want that don’t involve his removal.”

“Whatever those other ways are, do you think we could start working on them?” She sounded like a very small, polite child, who is desperately trying to not whine but wants something so badly she can barely stand it. Michael felt his heart squeeze tight, and he made a quick decision.

He turned off the lights and settled down in bed, pulling Nikita with him. In the dark, he asked her softly, “I already have. How much longer can you hold out?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much longer, Nikita?”

He felt her breath against his chest; he slowly combed through her tangled hair with his fingers. “Would we be together in the end?” she asked.

“If it works, yes. If it doesn’t, we will be no worse off than we are now.”

“Sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“I can make it another month,” Nikita said, a note of determination in her voice.

“Can you make it three?”

“That’s a long time ... I might could make it six weeks. But I don’t know beyond that.”

Six weeks. That wasn’t very long. Michael’s hand stilled as he thought through the problem at hand, and Nikita sat partway up.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” she said. “I’m sorry, Michael. I know you’re doing the best you can, but I --”

Michael shushed her and pulled her back down. “No. No. You were right to tell me. Otherwise, I would have planned with the original time frame in mind ... this way, we have tighter parameters.”

“Parameters,” Nikita sighed sleepily. She wedged a leg between his and rested her head on his chest. “Like a mission ...”

“It is a mission.” Michael began to slowly trace a finger up and down her backbone; from experience, he knew this usually put her to sleep, and he felt her relax around him. Just as she was almost asleep, she jerked awake.

“Michael ...”

“Mmmm ...?”

“This doesn’t involve either of us dying or being demoted, does it?”

“No one dies,” Michael agreed sleepily, turning over on her, resting his head near hers and curving an arm around her. “No one gets demoted.”

“Sure?”

“Pretty sure.” He pulled her closer. “Go to sleep, Nikita.”

“Okay.” Her body gradually began to relax again.

“And you don’t have to cry anymore,” Michael said drowsily. “It’s going to be all right.”

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

Nikita woke up first, starving as usual.

At the foot of the bed was their dinner cart. She looked at Michael; he looked exhausted, almost as tired as she felt, and, careful not to wake him, she crept out of bed, located her robe, and sat down at their dinner.

There wasn’t any wine left, but the minibar had some water and juice. Nikita located a clean fork and poured some orange juice in her wineglass, then took a big bite of chocolate cake.

As the sugar hit her bloodstream, she began to perk up a bit. She finished the cake and thought about the custard, but it looked sad and watery and too sweet. What she needed was some bacon. Or a nice boiled egg. She glanced at Michael; he was still asleep, but maybe when he woke up they could go out to breakfast. Usually that wasn’t an option, but surely, this one time ...

Nikita turned the television on low and located CNN. She watched the entire 30-minute cycle, satisfied that nothing was going on that she could do anything about.

“What time is it?” Michael asked scratchily.

“Nearly 8 o’clock,” Nikita answered, turning around. “Did you get enough sleep?”

Michael rubbed his eyes, and Nikita crawled back into bed with him. He liked to wake up slowly when he had the chance, and she liked him to wake up with her. She kissed him and felt him smile. “Chocolate?”

“It was very good.” She kissed him again.

“I bet.”

“I didn’t leave you any.” She felt him lick the corners of her mouth.

“Selfish woman.”

“I am selfish,” Nikita agreed amiably. She smiled at his sleepy eyes, his disheveled hair, his bare skin. “I want what I want, when I want it.”

“That is a good thing to know,” Michael said, moving closer. “All I need to do is find out what you want ...”

“You,” Nikita answered promptly. She kissed him again, his face rough against her skin. She moved lower and placed a kiss on his chin, then his throat. “And me. Like this.” Another kiss. “Together.” She planted a firm kiss on his abdomen and glanced up.

“That’s a coincidence ...”

“It is?” Nikita worked her way back up, ending up at his mouth. “How so?”

“That’s what I want, too.”

“It is?” Nikita asked again.

“Yes.” Michael pulled her close.

“Good.” Nikita gave him another great, smacking kiss, but Michael changed her mind in the middle, and somehow, she found herself on the receiving end of things. “Michael ...” she breathed against him and he murmured back as he moved over her body. Unable to help herself, she gave a little gurgle of pleasure and heard him laugh softly. She smiled back, then, in the space of a heartbeat, she whispered, “I love you so ...”

She heard his breath catch in his chest. “Nikita ... Nikita ...”

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

Two days is not enough time, Nikita thought resentfully. For the first time in 48 hours, she put on her clothes, easing the material over tender skin.

He said six weeks. You can make it for six weeks, she reminded herself.

As if he read her mind, Michael joined her at the vanity, straightening his tie. Nikita frowned and twitched it down into place. “I’m going to try for a month, Nikita. But it may be as long as six weeks.”

“I can make it.”

“It’s not going to be easy.”

Her eyes flew to his. “How difficult is this going to be?”

“Very difficult.”

Nikita swallowed and went to sit on the bed. Michael sat down beside her, took her hand and, tracing the shape of her fingers, he said slowly, “The best course of action is for me to take the lead.”

“I’ll be ... backup?” Nikita tried to juxtapose mission positions on their current project, and Michael smiled faintly.

“Not exactly. You’ll have to be the straight man.”

“The straight man,” Nikita repeated. “Is this like good cop/bad cop?”

“In a way.” Michael got up and began pacing. “We have to cut off communication for a few weeks. Totally. Not even the e-mail accounts.”

“But --”

“Nikita, we have to. Your reactions to me have to be instantaneous. And they have to be genuine.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Nikita asked, beginning to be a little frightened.

“It won’t be like that,” Michael assured her. “You won’t be in danger.” “Is this going to be the same old I push, you pull routine?”

“It will be more than that.”

“What --”

“I can’t tell you what’s going to happen, Nikita. I don’t know.” Michael crouched at her feet. “I think it will work. If you can remember how much I love you, I think it will work.”

“And we’ll be together?”

“Yes.” He waited a second or two, then asked, “Are you in?”

Nikita looked down at their intertwined hands. Together. “Okay.”

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

Nikita was right, Michael thought, as he walked into Section One. His pace was unhurried, his countenance unruffled, but inside he was angry.

No, it was more than that: he was enraged.

Calmly, Michael unlocked his office and entered, setting his laptop on the desk and flicking on the lamp and computer with one efficient movement. He sat down in his chair and frowned at the screen.

Rage was a familiar companion for Michael. In fact, it was a constant companion. From the time he’d joined Rene’s group until now, being angry kept Michael going. First, he was angry at being in Section. Then, he and Simone had difficulties. Elena. Adam. Nikita. There were times when he thought he might almost be happy, or content with his circumstances, but every time, without fail, something happened. Simone died. Nikita left. Elena got sick. And Michael got angry all over again.

Sometimes he snapped: when Simone was unfaithful; when he’d seen Nikita after believing she, like Simone, was dead; when Jurgan began meddling with Nikita; when Elena got sick. He didn’t enjoy losing control, but he had to admit the relief he felt after an outburst was sometimes worth it.

He often wondered what it would feel like to wake up in the morning and not be angry.

Michael typed in a code, then began tunneling through Section One’s systems, a weekly trip he made.

He began this sequence in the days following his reinstatement. Initially, he’d wanted to double check Madeleine’s figures: how much had he been off when he was with Nikita? A percent? Two?

When the figures flickered on the screen, he’d stopped breathing. His eyes froze on the computer.

He’d never been off. Not even a percentage point. His levels stayed consistent throughout their short-lived public affair. He felt a flash of white-hot anger. How dare Madeleine? How dare she meddle in his life -- in Nikita’s life -- this way? Particularly when there was no reason to? Michael paced his office a few minutes, then stopped: maybe it was Nikita’s percentages --?

But no. Hers were consistent as well: actually, they were a little higher than usual.

Enough. That’s enough, Michael decided firmly. Something’s got to give, and it’s not going to be me and it’s certainly not going to be Nikita.

The timing was right. George was still pleased with him; Operations was not. Madeleine ... Michael wasn’t sure what Madeleine thought, but if Nikita was right, she was thinking hard about something, and Michael knew it was probably he.

His first meeting with George shortly after his reinstatement was nerve-wracking, but as the meetings progressed, Michael began to respect George. Not because he was a good man -- Michael very much doubted anyone of his acquaintance was good -- but he was smart. He thought before he spoke. And, rather than looking at one part of a problem, he looked at it from all sides.

It was this that gave Michael hope.

There were other things in George’s favor. He didn’t care for Madeleine or Operations. But he also didn’t seem to have personal opinions about any of the other section operational heads. Michael wasn’t foolish enough to think George objective, but if he had opinions, he hid them well and he seemed to care only for the holistic health of the organization.

“Tell me, Michael,” George asked during one of their early meetings. “You’ve been in Section One for nine years.”

“Yes.”

“And before that, you were at Section Seven for six years.”

“Yes.”

“What did you think of Seven?” George took a drink of coffee and looked at Michael expectantly.

Seven was where Michael met Simone; it was where he’d trained with Jurgan; it was where he learned about Section. He’d done well there -- so well that instead of going up Section’s sequential ladder, he went straight to One. Jurgan had a lot to do with that, but not everything. Michael had always tested well, and after an especially successful mission in Tokyo, he’d been promoted to Level Three. Six months later, he’d been promoted to Level Four. Someone -- George? Operations? -- noticed and, with Jurgan backing him, Michael transferred to One with Simone.

“It was a good place to learn,” Michael said quietly, steering the conversation carefully.

“You’ve been at Level Five for several years now.”

“Yes.”

“It’s really the highest up the corporate ladder you can go without manning a substation,” George said, almost to himself. “Generally, once an operative reaches Level Five status, he moves on.”

“Yes.”

“Yet, you seem ... stuck at Section One.”

“I’ve learned a lot at One.”

“I can tell.” George took a drink of coffee, and Michael prepared to leave. When the coffee was gone, the visit was over; there were only a few sips left in the clear coffee cup. Another drink; the coffee disappeared. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable at One if I were you, Michael.”

“No, sir.” Michael waited for George to rise; when he did, Michael stood, too. The men shook hands and Michael left.

Nothing else was said about a transfer and Michael wasn’t called to George’s office often. Once a fortnight Michael was summoned, or, if George was in town, he’d sometimes stop by Michael’s office. This never failed to unsettle both Operations and Madeleine.

About a month after Michael’s reinstatement, George surprised Michael when he was in the middle of profiling a rare mission with Nikita. It was still awkward working with her in Section, particularly in such close quarters. It took every bit of his concentration to not sweep her off her feet and kiss her, and bent over the small hand-held panel, Michael didn’t see George come in until he was already in the room.

“Michael?”

Michael and Nikita both jumped, and turned in unison. “Hello, George,” Michael said calmly, and Nikita, clearly nervous, rose.

“I’ll -- I’ll come back later, Michael --” she started, but George cut her off.

“No, no, stay. I’ve got a few extra minutes to kill before I meet with Operations. I thought I’d stop by and see how things are going in the trenches.”

Nikita glanced at Michael for permission; he nodded slightly, and she returned to her seat. The men talked quietly for a few minutes, and Nikita returned to her profile. It was a difficult one, or she wouldn’t have come to Michael for help, but it was too important to botch. George talked to Michael of insignificant things, his eyes straying to Nikita.

Nikita was bent over the handheld, her hair obscuring her face. With an impatient motion, she swept her hair back and propped the hand-held on the desk. She rested her chin in her hands, squinted at the screen and was perfectly motionless for a few seconds. Then, she entered a few numbers, adjusted them, bit her bottom lip, and, just as Michael had trained her to do, she ran the numbers three times to ensure she was correct.

There was a lull in the conversation, and Michael said quietly, “What’s the percentage, Nikita?”

“Four-and-a-half,” she said.

“Fatalities?”

“None. But the injuries have risen by 37 percent.” She waited for his permission to proceed, and he nodded.

“I can live with that,” Michael decided, and Nikita smiled faintly. “Give it to Birkhoff and see what he says.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She was nearly out the door before she remembered her manners, and she turned. “It’s nice to see you, sir.”

George’s mouth twitched. “People so seldom say that to me.”

Nikita flushed slightly, and not knowing how to answer, she fled. George turned to Michael and asked, “She’s one of yours?”

“I trained her, yes.”

“Why was she dickering with the profile?”

“It was flawed.”

“Who designed it?”

Michael didn’t answer immediately, and George said, “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. As long as you work well together ...”

“She’s my second.”

George blinked. “Her numbers are that good? What’s her status?”

“She’s only Level Two. She doesn’t test well in some subjects,” Michael admitted. “But I trust her.”

“Is that unusual?” George asked, apparently surprised.

“What do you mean?”

“To trust the people you train. Isn’t that a given?”

“Not always.” Michael struggled for a moment, then said, “Not ever.” He paused again, then said, “She’ll probably advance to Three by next year.”

“She’s not a Wunderkind like you, then?”

“She has different talents. We are a good team.”

“What does Madeleine think about that?”

Michael was quiet, then said finally, “She prefers us to work separately. But that’s not always an option.”

George nodded thoughtfully, then glanced at his watch. “Operations should be finished now. It was good seeing you.”

“You too, sir.”

Another handshake. George looked as if he might say something else; but instead, he turned and left.

Since then, Michael had began accessing his own files weekly to see what George was looking at. It wasn’t difficult, but it required a certain level of intelligence, slyness and perception, as did his conversations with George.

Michael never lied outright. He used silence to his advantage; he steered conversations without seeming to take the initiative. He went through his own files and rewrote some to highlight certain things he knew would interest George.

It was a matter of time before George transferred him. But now, time wasn’t something Michael had in abundance.

Michael finished with his own file, then he pulled up all the missions planned for the next six weeks. He discarded about half of them, and then began going through each one very carefully.

He knew Nikita. He knew just what buttons to push and he knew how hard to push them. Barring unforseen circumstances, she was scheduled to work on three missions in the next month.

This one ... this was good, Michael thought. It involved a terrorist with a small child. Chances of the child surviving were low; Michael immediately put her on the team. Next, he found a mission involving seducing a bioterrorist. That’s good too, he decided. He paired her with someone he knew she didn’t like.

Michael kept going through the files, deliberately and methodically assigning Nikita to missions that would drag her through hell and back, and hopefully, evoke enough of a reaction to cover his own actions. Because if Madeleine found out what he was planning, she’d never let it go through.

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

This meeting is lasting too long, Operations thought. He’d been up late the night before with a mission that nearly didn’t succeed; the adrenalin kept him awake long after he should have been in bed. Now, it was almost midnight and they hadn’t even gotten part way through the agenda.

George looked around the round table, and said, “We’re going to have to table the rest of this until tomorrow.”

A collective sigh of relief went up from around the table, but instead of dismissing them, George said, “There will be some changes over the next few weeks. Please plan accordingly.”

“What kind of changes?” the head of Section Two asked.

“No one’s getting fired or canceled,” George said. “But I’ve been looking over the budgets and the mission reports. We’re going to do some reorganization.”

The members around the table froze. Section Four’s Operations said, “Reorganization? What kind?”

“Did you know that since we started the sections, the world population has increased by ten percent? I didn’t realize that until I began analyzing it. Of course, the population isn’t evenly spread out ... and some sections are struggling to maintain integrity. Others have no problem with integrity ... possibly there are too many operatives stationed in the wrong locales.”

Silence. No one was willing to comment and George said, “In addition, we haven’t been utilizing the chain of command effectively.”

“Does this mean the various sections won’t be autonomous?” asked the head of Section Four.

It was a question they all wondered, and as one, they leaned forward to hear the answer.

“No,” George said thoughtfully. “No, they’ll still be autonomous. But things will change.”

And that’s all he would say.

As the heads of various sections rose and left, Operations felt literally sick to his stomach. He didn’t like change; he didn’t like George poking his nose into Section One. It was bad enough that he had to report to George like the others did. As the head of Section One, the top agency, he should have been elevated to a vice president position. But instead, he sat around the table ... right next to the head of Section Five. North America. Please. They were the runt of the group -- all bluster and no missions to run. They’d turned into the top resource agency, which meant they spent their time running sims, designing missions, doing research.

What kind of section devoted itself to research?

Operations strode out of the room. Now, in addition to a stomach cramp, his head ached. Another sleepless night.

Great.

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

Madeleine rubbed her forehead fitfully; Operations wasn’t the only one with a stress headache. She glanced at her watch. It was a little after one in the morning, and she wondered if she ought to give up on him.

Just when she’d decided to go home, he strode into her office. “How did it go?” Madeleine asked.

“Something is not right.” Operations frowned, and began pacing back and forth. “He’s talking about restructuring.”

“Us? Or all sections?”

“You know George. If it happens to one, it happens to all,” Operations said.

“What kind of restructuring?”

“Something to do with personnel. He wouldn’t explain further. But there’s another meeting tomorrow night.”

Madeleine thought for a few minutes, then said, “This could be a good thing, you know.”

“How?”

“Restructuring would give us an excuse to get rid of the dead wood, so to speak.”

“Operatives?”

“Whoever.” Madeleine shrugged. “We do a pretty good job of doing that on a normal basis, but I can think of at least two people that have been hindering our performance levels for some time.”

“Michael,” Operations said. “And Nikita.”

Madeleine frowned. “His numbers are not where they should be. He’s still off three percent and he has been for six months.”

“He’s not still carrying a torch for her, is he?” Operations groaned.

“Not a torch, no. Maybe a .45.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s deliberately placed her on a number of missions recently that, considering her psychological profile, she’s unsuited for. And he’s deliberately refused to put her on missions that probably would have succeeded had she been on the team.”

“Why haven’t you intervened?”

“I wanted to see it play out.”

“What’s his psychological profile like these days?”

“You know that’s not an accurate indicator anymore. He knows how to beat the system. But in my personal opinion ... he’s not dependable.”

“I’m disappointed in him,” Operations said thoughtfully. “I expected more, somehow, from Michael.”

“I think we all did,” Madeleine agreed. “We’ve kept him longer than we should have. With the reorganization ... and the fact his time is up at Section One ... it’s a good time to bring some new blood into his position.”

“Perhaps I’ll speak to George about it.”

“Well,” Madeleine shrugged. “It will be interesting to see what happens at tomorrow’s meeting. Don’t you agree?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh, yes. It will, indeed.”

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

Sometimes, Michael almost believed in fate, or providence or acts of God. Operatives were generally a superstitious lot, but Michael never bought into lucky socks or Holy Mother prayers. Life, like a mission, played out and there wasn’t anything you could do to bring luck except, maybe, pack an extra clip and carry a knife. But one Tuesday, Michael almost reconsidered his stance on fate.

He was called in unexpectedly to George’s office. A full cup of coffee sat on George’s desk; Michael wondered if this was going to be a long meeting. George nodded to the ever-present Mr Coffee in the corner, and Michael helped himself.

“We’re reorganizing,” George said abruptly, looking over data sheets. “Did Operations tell you?”

“No.” Michael took a careful sip of coffee.

“No, I don’t suppose he would have,” George said to himself. “Well.” He lay down the paper he was looking at and Michael saw a grid of boxes, lines and penciled in names. “This is Section One.” He turned the paper toward Michael, and Michael scanned the boxes, looking for his own name. “You’ll notice you aren’t there.”

Michael looked up, confused.

“This,” George said, putting a different sheet in front of him, “Is Section Five. North America.” George rose and began pacing; Michael studied the paper in front of him. “It’s small, but adequate for the purpose. It is chiefly concerned with the United States and Mexico. The Canadians seem to be a quiet lot. No trouble, but they hate being left out.”

North America. Well. It wasn’t what Michael would have chosen, but ... he could be flexible. About some things, anyway. Five was far from One. Yes. Section Five. It could work.

Michael didn’t say anything. His eyes were fastened on a blank box underneath his own. There were other blank boxes scattered over the paper; some had titles scribbled in them. Others were just place holders.

“Until now, the North American station has been concerned mostly with research. I’d like that to change.”

“How?” Michael asked.

“By becoming more involved with the community.”

A picture of operatives painting local parks and cleaning up community centers rose up in Michael’s head; he blinked and asked, “Community?”

George sighed and sat down at his desk again. “This is not an easy station to man, Michael. For one thing, North America has a bad reputation, mostly because of the United States. The perception is, they want all the political power without expending any energy or resources. I need someone to change that perception. There is plenty of work there; it’s not as if all the terrorists in the world are in Europe and Asia.”

“I see.”

“Each section has it’s own identity. It’s own personality,” George said thoughtfully. “That’s due partly to location and partly to leadership. In the past, each section took care of a certain element: One does the hard-core anti-terrorist activity in Europe; Two does the same thing in Asia; Three is divided between Russia and parts of Northern Africa; Four, Five, Six ... they’re in fairly stable locations and have been focusing on equipment, political relations, things like that. I’d like to see each section change so that, for instance, if there’s a terrorist problem in DeMoine, Section Five takes care of it instead of calling One. Or if Two has a diplomatic problem, they resolve it themselves without involving Five.”

George looked at Michael and said, “Of course, it wouldn’t happen overnight. It might not happen during my career. But I’d like it to happen within yours. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Take Section One. What are it’s strong points?”

“High success rate in volatile missions,” Michael said instantly. “Highly qualified and trained operatives. Quality equipment. If someone is a liability, they’re eliminated, whether they’re an operative, a free-lancer or a possible contractor. But,” Michael realized, “That’s a weakness, too.”

“What are some other weaknesses?”

“Poor morale. Sometimes poor management. Poor political skills. The levels of stress affect health and judgment at all levels.”

“What have you learned in One?”

“How to profile. How to think. How to succeed in the face of difficulty.”

“These are all qualities you possessed before coming to One.”

“Maybe. But I’m better now than I was then.”

“You lack political savvy, Michael,” George said. “And the ability to see how our actions affect the rest of the sections, or even the rest of the world.” Michael blinked.

“You’re focused, true -- but on your own segment of the world. You aren’t thinking big enough. You aren’t thinking of how your actions may affect others years from now. Don’t misunderstand me: this isn’t a condemnation of your work. It’s an assessment.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, confused, but game enough to go along.

“These qualities you lack ... Section Five is a good place to learn them. It will be difficult, but learning always is. And in return, you can teach them some of the things you’ve learned in One.”

Still uncertain about his place in the chain of command, Michael asked, “Will I report to you?”

“Yes. You’ll be granted full Operations status. You’ll attend all operational head meetings with everyone else.”

“What happened --”

“To the old head of Section Five? I’ve moved her in-house with me. She’ll be available on a case-by-case basis if you need her. You won’t, I’m sure. There are already quite a few operatives there that have their fingers on the political situation. You’ll fit in quite nicely. And with your strategy skills, you’ll be a good asset to the team.”

“I --” Michael cast about for something appropriate to say, then said, “I look forward to the challenge.”

“It will be a challenge. But one you’re qualified for. And in a few years, who knows? Perhaps we’ll move you to South America or Afganistan to hone some other skill you lack. Personal property, perhaps, or moving large amounts of superstitious people from one location to another.” When he saw the look on Michael’s face, George smiled, a tight, strange expression on a face normally stern. “It’s a joke, Michael.”

“Of course.”

“Now.” George turned the organization chart toward him, poking at boxes with a pencil. “We’ll need to get someone here ... here ... and here. This department needs someone from a section that’s strong in social skills. Someone who can get along with everyone. I think ... Section Six probably has someone like that. They’re a sociable group. And ... we’ll pull someone from Four for this spot.”

George looked up suddenly. “This is a politically sensitive position, Michael. That means you’ll be doing a lot of networking. Not with other sections; with political parties throughout North America. You’ll be on first-name basis with a lot of high-profile people. Socially, you’re going to have to have someone with you when you go to these functions. I suggest you choose someone you’re comfortable with. Someone you trust. Someone within Section. A strategist, or someone with good intuition. You’ll need a second opinion about some of these political figures. And ... politically ... I’d suggest you go with someone Section One won’t miss.”

Michael’s mouth dried up and he almost felt lightheaded. When he’d started this sequence, he had no idea ... that is, he’d hoped ... but to be handed this on a silver plate ...

“Nikita.”

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

She didn’t know what to expect. Nikita slid her ID card into the slot, put her hand on the panel, and was admitted to Section Five.

A long, gray hall. That, at least, was familiar. She followed it down, turning left into what should have been central communications, and looked up, expecting to see a lit loft.

It was there, but it was dark.

Nikita glanced at communications. The operatives were quiet, eyes glued to the screen, and finally, she turned toward what in Section One was Michael’s office.

She tapped on the door and opened it.

“Yes?” A slight girl with dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses looked up. “Can I help you?”

“Uh ... sorry. I was looking for ...”

“Oh!” She hopped up, arm extended. “I know -- you’re Nikita, right? He said you’d be in either today or tomorrow. He’s in a meeting now. Won’t be over for awhile. Did you have a good trip?”

“Mmmm ... I guess.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m Evelyn.You want something to drink? Water? Soda?”

“Uh ... water would be great.”

“Yeah? Wait here ... I’ll be right back.”

Nikita sat uncomfortably on what, in Section One, was her chair. In a few minutes, Evelyn returned and thrust a bottle of water at her. “Boy, lots of changes, huh?”

“Changes?” Nikita screwed the cap off the water and took a long drink.

“Yeah. I’ll miss the old Operations; she was really nice. But I’m sure the new one will be fine, too. He’s young. But ... well, you know how it is. Is he always so quiet?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been here for a week,” Evelyn smiled. “Just getting his feet wet. We had a big party for the old Operations yesterday. Too bad you couldn’t make it.”

Party? Nikita blinked and took another drink. The sleeve of her sweater exposed her wrist, and Evelyn stared.

“Hey, are you okay? What happened to your wrist?”

Nikita glanced at her wrist and pulled her sleeve down. They were bruised from the handcuffs she’d worn as a hostage a few days ago; her hands were still a little swollen, but not noticeably so. “It’s nothing,” Nikita said slowly, feeling like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. “I’m fine.”

“You look like hell. Why don’t you go home?”

Home?

“Here.” Evelyn handed her a padded envelope and when Nikita opened it, a panel and a house key fell out. She clutched at the familiar equipment and immediately turned it on, searching for a schedule or an itinerary. Evelyn stared at her and said, “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the duty roster ...?”

“It’s Friday, Nikita,” Evelyn said, as if Nikita was not quite bright. “And Operations is off this weekend, so you are too.”

“Oh.” Nikita shut off the panel and stood up. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I ought to go ... go home.”

“The quickest way is Metro,” Evelyn said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the station.”

“You’re ... sure?”

“Sure, I need the break.”

Evelyn walked Nikita to the Metro stop, made sure she knew where to get off, and gave her a Metro card with a couple of dollars on it. Nikita slid it through the turnstile and headed for the train.

Ten minutes later, she was at the Eastern Market stop. Nikita got out, oriented herself and began walking slowly up South Carolina street.

When she’d gotten off the plane this morning, the weather in New York was nearly balmy. Almost 70. She’d done a quick drop off in Greenwich village for Section One, then taken the train to Washington. It was warm here, too, at first; but the temperature had dropped suddenly and it was in the upper 40s. She shivered and hunched in her sweater, wishing she’d brought a jacket. But the sweater was Michael’s; the cashmere retained a faint reminder of him, and, anyway, she was never one to pass up cashmere, no matter what color it was. Besides, it was too big and didn’t irritate her wounds. She’d been wearing it for the past two days. It was the only thing she could stand to put on.

The multi-colored leaves twisted in the stiff wind. A gust of damp air whistled overhead; orange leaves twirled madly in the street. Nikita’s swollen feet, encased in Birkenstocks, were nearly blue.

Another block. She walked faster, counting off house numbers. They all looked alike: heavy Victorians made of dark, blood-red stone, each three stories tall with a basement below. They were fenced in with lacy, turn-of-the-century iron railings, some bowed out where a tree had grown into them. The yards were tiny and different: one had the remains of a summer garden; another had strategically placed pots of marigolds and mums; some had fading grass or evergreen ground cover.

Here. This was it. Nikita stopped, double-checked the number, hitched her purse up and went through the gate.

Another gust of wind hit her, this time laden with drops of rain. She clattered up the steps, slipping on some dead leaves, and fit her key in the lock.

Home.

The entry way was tiled. Someone had left a bent-up umbrella against the wall. There were two boxes for mail, and Nikita squinted at the other name, but couldn’t make it out. Michael’s meticulous handwriting was on the other.

Nikita swallowed hard, took off her shoes, and went through the next door, which led to a tiny hall. She tried her key in the door to her right. It didn’t fit. She tried the door in front of her, and the key slid in. Stairs stretched in front of her, narrow and dark, with indoor/outdoor carpet tacked on the treads. Nikita went upstairs.

The row house was one room wide and two deep. Well, two and a hall. To her right, which faced the street, was a small living room, sparsely furnished with a tall, drafty window looking out on the front yard and a small fireplace tucked in a corner. To her left, a kitchen -- new -- with a red-painted wooden floor and a gleaming black stove against a wall. Another narrow wooden stair ran behind her; wearily, Nikita kept going up.

The bedroom that faced the front of the house was filled with murky greenish light. Outside, trees lashed in the wind. There was only one window, but it was huge and curved at the top. The other bedroom wasn’t as large and Michael had turned it into a study. It was an odd shape, and one of the walls had primer, but no paint on it. Nikita frowned and looked at the next room, which was the bathroom.

On the other side of the new wall was a bathtub. It was huge -- long enough for her to stretch out in and wide enough for two. It was clearly new, and just as clearly, Michael had to enlarge the bathroom to fit it in.

Nikita’s eyes filled. There was no way she could bathe herself. She still had stitches in one shoulder and she had a hard time lifting; she couldn’t get in and out of the tub without help. Besides, she was so tired. In addition to the stress of the past few days, she’d walked a lot today and was exhausted. She sat down on the bathtub ledge to wash her feet. That, at least, she could do. Her vision blurred. As the water gurgled in the drain, she leaned her head against the new white tiled wall and cried, great sobs that bounced off the walls.

She’d cried a lot in the past few weeks. She cried because she was scared, or frustrated, or mad, or in pain. But this time, all she felt was relief.

It’s over. Over.

She’d made so many difficult choices in the past few weeks. Michael assigned her to missions designed to upset her. After the Stanley Shays mission, he’d been careful to avoid anything that would cause her -- or the team -- undue stress. Mostly this was common sense: Nikita was a good operative, but unpredictable when it came to certain situations.

But during the past month, Michael deliberately put her on the toughest assignments. For the most part she wasn’t in terrible physical danger, but mentally, it was another story. He’d sent her to a white slaver, to a drug runner, to someone who manufactured a form of heroin so pure kids died after one hit. She’d infilterated a baby-selling scam. Then, to top it off, she’d been taken, tortured, rescued -- all with Michael’s approval. She’d had to seduce wicked men, befriend wretched women, all in the name of Section.

Michael hadn’t helped her once. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be diverting attention from, but she’d trusted Michael knew what he was doing and had performed her part perfectly. They’d even had a few arguments in public, not entirely fabricated on her part. In the past month, she’d hated him.

She washed her grimy feet, tears dripping into the bathwater. She dried her toes on Michael’s bath towel and washed her face. She popped a couple of pain pills to quiet the throbbing ache that strummed through her sore body. Then, totally exhausted, she fell into bed and pulled the duvet all the way up.

Rain lashed the windows.

It’s over.

With a final shuddering sigh, Nikita fell asleep.

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

The first thing Michael saw when he came in was Nikita’s sandals.

She wore sandals? In weather like this?

Shaking his head, he came into the apartment. He got a glass of water, then went upstairs.

“Nikita?” he called softly.

He glanced in the study, then poked his head in the bedroom. In the middle of his bed was a familiar-looking lump, and Michael smiled. He undressed and climbed in.

Nikita blinked a sleepy eye. “Michael,” she identified. Then she kissed his neck, murmured, “Good,” and fell asleep.

Michael curved an arm around her. “Yes,” he whispered. “It is.”

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

Nikita woke up slowly, aware of one thing: pain.

She didn’t move and she kept her breathing steady, but beside her, a quiet voice said, “Nikita?”

“Mmmm ...”

“Good morning ...” A brief kiss feathered over her cheekbone, and Nikita smiled faintly. “What would you like for breakfast?”

Without opening her eyes, Nikita licked her lips and croaked, “Tylenol.”

“What?”

“Or something stronger.” Nikita opened her eyes without moving anything else. “Can you please get it for me?”

She winced when he got out of bed. Pain zigged through her, up her backbone, then to all the little nerve endings in her body. Experimentally, she moved a leg and groaned as the joints in her knee grated.

Michael came back, a jumble of bottles in one hand and a glass with a straw in the other. He put the water down and asked, “Do you want to sleep?”

“No.”

He discarded some of the medication, then showed her what he had. “I’ll take an aspirin and two Alieves,” Nikita decided, and Michael nodded. Without touching her, he gave her the medicine and held the glass so she could drink. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed.

“How bad was it?” he asked.

“Bad.” Nikita closed her eyes, willing her pain to subside, and, desperate for some kind of distraction, she asked, “Tell me about Section Five. It seems ... different.”

“I had a meeting yesterday. You should have been there.”

“What happened?”

“I thought it’d be a briefing on our responsibilities. It was a meet-and-greet. They introduced me to some of the contractors Section uses and some of the government men. I was the youngest one there.”

In Section One, Michael was considered old. Nikita’s eyebrows raised. “Really? What kind of contractors are these?”

“Contractors who don’t expect a short life-span to be part of the package. Suits. Ties. Lace-up shoes. They were mostly ex-armed forces types.”

“You may have to go shopping,” Nikita teased gently. “Or get a haircut.”

“That’s not the only thing,” Michael said. “We’re off this weekend.”

“Yeah, I heard. What’s that mean?”

“Every other weekend, we get off. On the off weekends, someone else mans Section. We’re on call but aren’t expected to come in. When we work weekends, we get either Thursday and Friday off or Monday and Tuesday.”

“Weird.”

“They work normal hours.”

“What do you mean, normal?”

“Seven-thirty or 8 in the morning till 7:30 or 8 at night.”

“There’s a night shift, though, right?”

“Skeleton.”

Nikita was beginning to relax; she moved an arm and, though it was sore, it didn’t hurt as much.

“Another thing,” Michael said. “Did you look at your panel?”

“Yeah. Where’s my schedule?”

“They don’t do it that way here. They have a weekly briefing. Panels are updated then. And there’s no surveillance in the apartment.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me. I know. I scanned the house then I looked through all the files at Section last week. They don’t keep surveillance on any operatives.”

“Why not?”

“They say it’s a waste of resources.”

Nikita slowly moved her leg again and grimaced. Michael turned back the covers and gently helped her bend it a few times, then moved to the other leg. “When I told Walter where I was going, he laughed,” Nikita said. “I think he thinks this is where all the sorry operatives go. Is this the last stop before cancellation? Is this a demotion?”

“It seems like it is,” Michael agreed thoughtfully. “But, if you look at the bigger picture, it’s actually a stepping stone.”

“How big of a stepping stone?”

“I’ll have to be transferred a few more times before I’m where George wants me to be.”

Nikita sat up slowly and painfully. “Where is that, exactly?”

“Where he is.”

“What?”

“When he retires, he wants me to take his place.” Michael held out his hands and helped Nikita up, then, without asking her, he gently removed his sweater. “I wondered where this sweater was ...”

“Don’t change the subject,” Nikita said sharply. “What do you mean? He said this? You’re moving directly to Oversight?”

“I wouldn’t say directly. Depending on how we do, we’ll stay here a year or so. Then we’ll move on.” Michael studied her torso, gently touching the now grimy bandage that went from the front to the back of her shoulder. He picked at the cloth tape and peeked underneath. “We should clean this. How many stitches?”

“I don’t know ...” Nikita waved the question away as Michael continued to examine her. “You said ‘we.’ Does that mean me, too?”

“Yes, for as long as you want to stay together.” Michael moved to her back, running his hands along the abrasions, feeling for abnormalities and internal swelling.

“Do they know we’re ... ah ... together?”

“They know we’re colleagues. We have the apartment downstairs, too. As far as how much they know about our personal life ... we’ll have to play it by ear,” Michael answered. He took hold of her waistband and tugged her leggings off. Her lower back and legs were fine. He cocked an eyebrow at her and asked, “Have you given up on underwear?”

“The fewer clothes I wear, the less it hurts,” Nikita answered. She reached down to steady herself on Michael’s shoulder, and he frowned. Her knees were swollen and bruised and Michael touched one gently. “Did you dislocate this?”

“Not quite. Am I supposed to be living downstairs?”

“The people in this position always live within a few blocks of one another,” Michael explained. “And since we were both from One, the old Operations said we should be in the same building.”

“Does Section own it?”

“No. We rent. I’m negotiating with the owner to buy it.”

“You’ve done all this in one week? Got a house, got a new job, all of it?”

“Yes.” Michael helped her step out of her pants and stood up. “If you don’t like it, we’ll move. The only rule is, we have to live within 15 minutes walking distance of Section.”

“What other rules are there?” Nikita haltingly made her way to the bathroom, and Michael began to fill the tub.

“You have to document overtime hours.”

Nikita blinked.

“And you have to be in shape. There’s a gym near Section we can use.”

“A ... public one?”

“Five is smaller than One. And they don’t have as much money. We use a lot of public facilities. We use the FBI’s firing range, for instance. I thought ... if we stayed here ... we might turn the basement into a small work room.” Michael took off his underwear and got in, holding out a hand to steady Nikita. He looked at her back, then apparently decided against the washcloth and just used his hands, careful to not get water under her bandage. Nikita started at the other end, slowly soaping up her toes.

“So, what’s our main function?” she asked, puzzled. “They can’t run many missions with a workforce that takes weekends off and doesn’t work lots of overtime. What are we supposed to do?”

“Learn protocol.” He nudged her arm and she obediently lifted it.

Nikita shut her eyes. “Mmmm ... I meant to get one of the nurses at Section to help me clean up yesterday, but the whole experience was so weird, I just left ... you’re much better than they are, anyway.”

“The medical facility is small,” Michael said. “About half the size of One’s. There are two doctors and three nurses.”

“What’s the fatality rate here?”

“Low. Five percent, ten, something like that. Most operatives are researchers or analysts. There are only 20 cold ops now. We may be able to get more during the next fiscal year. They do general recon work before the government steps in. They also work closely with the Secret Service.”

“Really.”

“That’s part of the political stuff I was telling you about.” Michael helped Nikita rinse off and then quickly bathed himself. “It pleases the President to call on his own special brand of body guards. There are times when we’re needed, especially when he goes to unsecured areas. But mostly it’s a vanity thing.”

“This sounds so ... easy,” Nikita frowned.

“It’s not.” Michael finished, stood up and helped Nikita stand, then he gently helped her dry off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and she turned around, her shoulder blade to him. He picked at the bandage tape and uncovered the wound again. She’d scrabbled her hair into a make-shift pony-tail before bathing, but strands were falling down. “Can you keep this out of the way?”

Nikita scraped damp hair aside and lowered her head so he could work better. “So, what’s so hard?”

Michael concentrated on disinfecting the wound and spreading antiseptic gel evenly over her skin. “You know the way Operations thinks?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I have to learn how to do.”

Despite herself, Nikita shuddered.

“But I have to learn it,” Michael said, holding a nice clean square of gauze over her injury, “In such a way that’s beneficial, not detrimental, to the sections.”

Nikita handed him a strip of cloth tape. “How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then ... what am I supposed to do? Be your secretary?”

“No.”

“Then --?”

Michael turned her around, the bandage securely fastened, and said, “I can’t do what George wants me to do by myself. No one can. It takes more than one person. I do a lot of things very well. But there are some things I can’t do. It’s not a matter of trying hard enough or training myself. It’s just ... a deficit.”

Nikita swallowed hard.

“But I’m lucky,” Michael said. “Because the things I can’t do, you can. And the things I don’t see, you see. I hope, with this position, you can learn to realize some of your goals.”

“My ... goals?”

“What you want from life, from Section.” Michael handed her a tube of thick hand lotion and she began rubbing it into the worst bruises so they’d fade faster.

“I’d like us to do what we’re supposed to do,” Nikita said slowly. “I want to make the world better. But I want to do it without killing myself or a bunch of people that happen to be in the way. Is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” Michael went into the bedroom and Nikita followed. He took out a clean sweatsuit and helped her into it, then pulled out jeans and a shirt for himself. “But maybe we can find out.”