When his feet hit solid ground, he departed without a word or a by your leave. The first order of business would be to locate a simple nondescript room, preferably with a clean bed and access to a hot shower. He needed to contact Nikita and let her know he had arrived. Then it was imperative he get some sleep.

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

Eliese finished entering the data from the latest tests. She would go over the results with Emilio tomorrow. It was late and the lab was quiet, everyone having left hours ago to seek his or her rest. It was nice to be alone for a change. Since her return, the flurry of activity had been more than she'd wanted to deal with. Evan had been particularly attentive and his hovering had worn down her last nerve. Not that her nerves had been all that steady since they'd returned from France.

She turned off the computer and switched off the desk light, then grabbing her jacket she buzzed her self through the security door to the lab. Once outside, she turned her face to the black sky, noting the absence of light. No stars, no moon. The calm was almost foreboding. Wrapping the jacket tightly around her self, Eliese hurried down the path that would take her to her cottage. Having been the first to arrive, after the advent of her "death", she had been fortunate to claim the smallest for her own. Everyone else had a roommate, or roommates.

The manor house contained the twenty retired residents making this place the perfect cover for their research. There was a high wall surrounding the entire estate and security was tight. Not in the form of guards, just elaborate electronic sensors, cameras and controlled access. Nothing overt that attracted too much attention. The best part was the ultimate obscurity of a city large enough to allow them some freedom and the fact that this part of Ireland drew no worldly attention.

Eliese entered her cozy abode, threw the locks on the door into place and engaged the alarm. She removed her coat and immediately headed to the tiny kitchen, putting water on for a last cup of tea before she retired. The fire in her small living area had been reduced to embers and she quickly fed it more wood, stirring the banked heat to life. Several of the other cottages provided more modern conveniences and that was fine, but Eliese had only acquiesced to the installation of the security system.

Retrieving her cup of tea, she curled into her rocking chair and pulled the soft wool blanket around her legs. Eliese heard the wind pick up outside and the rain as it started to tick against the windows. She stared into the fire and it reminded her, reminded her that for a brief moment she had touched that fire. For a brief moment two souls lost in a world of nonexistence had melded. Tears trickled down her face. Had she unlocked the gates of hell for herself? He already resided there, every day in every way. She called on whatever unseen power of good there might be out there, begged and pleaded that if the gates slammed shut she would find a way to be on the right side. Her most fervent wish was that Michael could be there with her.

But she knew he could not.

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

Part Twelve

Nikita almost slammed the lid shut on her computer. She'd spent the last day and a half trying, without success, to run down any leads, information, or history on the philanthropic organization that had built and maintained the assisted living facility, known simply as Aidan. There were more blind trusts behind the funding than you could shake a stick at. The organization was purely non-profit by all specified standards, but if there was a board of directors, they were protected in anonymity by enough firewalls to make your head spin.

A knock at the door to her apartment broke through the frustration and she scuffed her way over to check the security cam. It was Birkoff. That had Nikita opening the door in a hurry and ushering the computer whiz inside with a jerk.

"Hey." Birkoff rubbed his arm and grimaced. "Is that how you greet all your guests?"

"I don't have many 'guests' and when I do, I usually know they're coming." She passed by him through the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water in the process. Nikita perused her unexpected visitor as she uncapped the bottle and took a drink. "What do you want?"

Birkoff looked around the apartment, almost as if he hadn't been there before. The place was anything but warm in appearance. Clean and sharp, the furnishings and the décor all smacked you in the face with an air of sterility.

"I don't want anything. I heard from Michael." He switched his attention back to the tall blonde. She looked tired and he could already tell she wasn't in one of her joking moods.

Nikita set her water down on the counter and looked at him in disbelief. "What do you mean you heard from Michael?"

"He tried to get through to you, but apparently the vector he'd been using has been closed. Systems is finally catching up on their work." He shook his head. "Ever since they assigned that job to Randall . . ."

"Get to the point, Birkoff."

"Yeah, right. Anyway, I was cleaning up some files from satellite transmissions that we didn't need to archive and I got a flash point that caught my attention. It was Michael. The incoming was from Geneva."

A look of relief spread across her face. "Good."

"Look. I don't know what's going on, and I don't think I want to know, but . . . I ran across something odd that I thought you should know about."

"What?" Her reply was sharp, and her air of suspicion increased.

"It was a cinq file, being held in Deferral. A mission, I think."

Nikita blew out a breath of annoyance and slapped her hands on the glass counter. "Quit dancing around and explain."

"Well a cinq file is like an outline the profilers use to plan a mission. And Deferral is usually just a holding zone they use until they get more Intel and can complete the design. Only this wasn't assigned to anyone for development, didn't have an estimated time stamp, and the only name tagged to it was 'Retrieval'." Then he added in a rush. " The team has been chosen though . . . Mentz, Snow, Taylor, Reardon, Battaglia, you . . . and Michael, as team leader."

Her eyes narrowed, and the look she gave him would have changed water to ice under normal circumstances. "Maybe it's another test, Birkoff. Like the umbrella files you found? Maybe you were supposed to find it and come running to me or Michael."

She could see immediately he hadn't considered that possibility. Just the mention of his and Walter's faux pas from almost six months ago made him blanch.

"Shit." The expletive was merely a whisper as he considered her words. "I suppose . . . that could be. It was locked."

Nikita dropped her head and closed her eyes in a moment of exasperation. Then she pinned him with another serious look. "Locked? Don't you think that makes this even more suspect?"

"Maybe... I don't know. I just thought this seemed . . . somehow connected. Connected to whatever it is Michael became suspicious of after that microchip pickup." He was staring at his shoes, looking all the while like a whipped puppy and Nikita, despite her unease over what he'd just told her, softened her approach.

"When was the last time you looked at Deferral?"

"Day before yesterday." His soulful eyes found their way back to hers.

"Was there anyway to tell who initiated the file, any code or footprint?" She asked.

He shook his head, "No."

"You said it was locked. Did you unlock it? Can they tell you've been in?"

"Nope."

Nikita moved around the counter and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Then it's probably nothing. At least not anything to do with what Michael is looking for."

"Un-uh, I think you better tell him to find whatever or whoever quick and get back here." Abruptly he started for the door and Nikita followed.

"Why would you say that?"

He paused, with his hand on the doorknob. "Because I saw five incoming reports yesterday morning that he'd been sighted in Geneva. Those went directly to Operations. Then he sent an alert to all cover operatives in Austria to report any sighting they might have of Michael." She couldn't hide her surprise as he continued. "Operations is watching. Not having him followed, but watching. And it won't take another day for them to figure out he isn't in either place."

"Damn, Birkoff, why didn't you tell me this first?" Her anger started to rise again.

"I didn't know any of this wasn't just routine. I'm telling you now because if Operations has me rake the system for anything incoming from Michael, he's going to know exactly where he is. Whoever's running the filter for him from Geneva is doing a lousy job." He patted his pocket and fished out a disk. "Here, load this program out to his contact. This will scramble any path he uses . . . from start to finish. And change your inbound and outbound connects to vector eighteen. I gotta go." He started to open the door.

"So . . . you know where Michael is?" Nikita took the disk he handed her.

"Ireland . . .. Waterford City, and if I know it won't take them long to figure it out, even without me." That said, he slipped out the door.

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

Part Thirteen

Any lingering doubts that Section was somehow involved in this mess with Eliese were erased from his mind after Michael received Nikita's transmission. What a tangled web. The chasm of possibilities yawned in a wide path through his mind. So many twists and turns, he couldn't even arrange them all in his head. There was no time to use the simple process of elimination. He had to get to Eliese and find out some answers and he had to do it quick.

He'd found a room. A shower, sleep and a meal worked wonders. Now he just had to cool his heels till dark. Earlier, he'd done some reconnaissance and found the exact location of Aidan. Although finding out who was directly behind the creation of this facility was proving to be a difficult task, accessing information about the security programs that were in place had been fairly easy.

Any trees around the eight-foot perimeter wall had been removed. There was a gate guard, who had remote viewing of about 20 different cameras placed in and around the property. A similar guard was located just with in the lobby or entrance hall area with access to the same bank of cameras. Two guards changing shifts three times a day patrolled the inside perimeter and a very high tech security laser wrapped around the top of the rock wall. Anything passing through, under or within three feet over the beam would trip the alarm.

If Michael had the time, coming in under the guise of working for one of the supply delivery companies would have been the easy method of entrance, but time was something he didn't have. Methodically he began arranging his gear then sweeping the room to eliminate any evidence of his presence, all the while Captain Geller's advice echoed through his brain.

"Sometimes we try an make those pieces fit to suit us. Be sure ye look at all that is within each piece. Ye may find any one of them goes somewheres else in the puzzle . . . or it doesn't belong at all."

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

Eliese came sweeping into her cottage, shaking the water from her waxed cotton poncho. She loved the rain, but this was a deluge and it was cold, the kind that seeped into your bones. She struggled out of her covering and immediately smelled the wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen. The stew she'd started that morning had been slowly simmering all day and she couldn't wait to have a bowl with some hot tea. As she made her way to the kitchen, the satisfaction of a day well spent seemed to counter the blue funk she'd been in for the last week. One of their present experiments was proving successful and they might soon be able to effect some tests that proved they'd isolated one of the gene mutations responsible for cystic fibrosis.

After she'd stirred the pot of stew, and sampled the flavor, Eliese moved to the bedroom. She hung up her lab coat and stripped out of her chinos and shoes, both wet from the water she'd slogged through between the lab and her front door. After careful debate, instead of choosing a dry pair of jeans, she opted for her heavy cotton robe and slippers. As she began to unbutton her shirt, something caught her eye. A wink of light coming from her pillow had Eliese moving to switch on the lamp beside her bed.

Her locket.

It lay nestled against the dark green pillow sham; rubies and diamonds shimmering like drops of frozen ice and blood. A sharp intake of breath caught in her throat and she spun around, clutching her open shirt together at her breast. The curtains encasing the French doors leading out to her tiny garden fluttered and moved, as a dark shadow emerged and took shape.

"Hello Eliese." His voice reached her ears, muffled by the pounding of her blood. Her heart beat in triple staccato and then she went white, all color suddenly draining from her face. She was speechless.

Michael stood there dressed all in black, clutching his balaclava in his gloved hands. He was understandably soaked, his hair dark, and dripping tiny rivulets of water down his face. And it was his face, the grimness she saw there, the touch of anger that had her taking a step backwards.

"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" He asked ominously as he took another step toward her. "Did you think I wouldn't ask questions, discover you were supposedly dead? Did you think I wouldn't want to know who you whored yourself for?"

The word stung her like a slap, bit into her soul and all the air rushed from her lungs again.

"Answer me." He advanced on her like a dark raptor, swooping in for its prey.

Eliese backed up again, this time bumping into the bed, her knees buckling. Michael was there, jerking her back to her feet, tightly gripping her upper arms and shaking her roughly. "Tell me, Eliese, what's going on? Who's behind this?"

She gulped and closed her eyes, and then she brought her hands up, bracing her self against his chest. When she finally looked at him, opened her eyes, she saw how positively furious he was and suddenly she knew true fear. Not for her self, but for him.

"You can't be here. You have to leave." Her voice trembled.

"No Eliese, I'm not leaving until you tell me what I want to know. And unless you want me to snap your pretty neck, you better start talking."

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

Part Fourteen

Eliese knew at that precise moment he meant every word. Somehow and from somewhere she gathered her flagging courage. She had to tell him something, anything to get him to leave. If anyone found out he was here, that he had broken security, penetrated their cover, it would take months to regroup, recover and get back to the important research they had worked so hard to protect.

"All right." She whispered.

Michael released her almost immediately.

"Please, let me go put on my robe, then we can talk." He nodded his agreement and on unsteady legs she went to the tiny bathroom and retrieved her robe. Quickly she exchanged her shirt for the warm, full-length garment and as an after thought she grabbed a towel for him. When she returned to bedroom, Eliese thrust the towel his direction.

"Here." She couldn't help but notice the feral gleam in his eyes and that only served as a reminder of how formidable Michael really was. It wouldn't be easy to convince him to leave with only a small part of the story.

He took the towel and slung it over his shoulder, then began to remove his gloves. "Do you mind if we go into the den? It's warmer in there before the fire." Again Michael nodded his agreement.

Eliese started for the other room, tightening the belt on her robe as she went. She paused halfway to the fireplace when she realized he had stopped in the doorway. "Do you normally close the curtains?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Do it."

As she set about pulling the blinds and closing the drapes, Eliese started trying to organize her thoughts. She needed to sound convincing, and what she told him had to be things he could verify. When she finished and started back to the fireplace to build up the fire, Michael stopped her.

"I'll do that. Why don't you fix something hot to drink." His suggestion sounded good to her, anything to delay the upcoming conversation.

She made her way to the kitchen, put the kettle on and retrieved two cups. The smell of the stew no longer stirred her appetite, so she turned the burner off. Trying to busy her self until the water was ready, Eliese fiddled with the tea bags, arranging them one way then another. Finally, no longer able to resist, she glanced into the den. What she saw made her pulse leap, and she became instantly ashamed. Ashamed that in the midst of all this danger, her body immediately reacted to his presence.

Michael had brought the fire back to life. The new logs he'd laid on the dying embers popped and crackled then blossomed brightly with new heat. Deftly, he released the straps holding his gun in place and transferred the weapon to a nearby table, keeping it within easy reach. The sodden jacket was removed and laid on the hearth to dry, leaving him clad in a sleeveless black T-shirt, while the pants he wore clung to every muscle and hard line of his body. Eliese was mesmerized and she continued to watch as he picked up the towel and began rubbing the moisture from his hair.

What came first? The slight, graceful turn of his head, and their eyes locking with each other across the room? Or the shrill whistle of the kettle? She would never be quite sure. All she could be sure of was the flash of heat she felt when he caught her staring at him. Quickly she prepared the tea and joined him, now quite unable to meet his steady gaze. She offered him the cup and then settled into her favorite chair, focusing now on the fire as she began. Hoping to tell him just enough so he would leave, maybe forget they ever met.

"Ten years ago, I was still finishing up my medical studies in Paris. I was fortunate enough to travel to several medical conferences that year and in doing so I met some colleagues who shared my interest in genetic studies. We all had a desire to concentrate on finding ways to identify and eventually correct genetic mutations that resulted in debilitating and often terminal disease in children. Our intent was to start with the parents who were carriers of these genetic disorders and then offer to work with them on ways to try and beat nature, so they could have healthy offspring." She paused and sipped her now cooling tea.

Michael watched her intently. He needed to determine if she was telling him the truth. He needed to know everything. Section was interested in this little group of scientists for a reason.

"There were nine of us, from all different corners of the world. We were young, passionate about our common goal and it only took six months of correspondence for us to decide to try and find a sponsor. Someone with the money to fund our studies and who shared our desire to find answers." Eliese braved a look at Michael. His green gaze was trained on her and he studied her with intensity.

"My Intel only places eight of you at this facility."

She wasn't surprised. And she was sure he knew their names, and when each of them had disappeared into obscurity. "That's correct." She responded. "There are only eight of us. The ninth was a wonderfully talented man named Patrick O'Shea. Patrick was a molecular biologist, like me. He was the driving force behind bringing us all together. In April of 1990, Patrick was kidnapped by a terrorist organization and the best we know about their purpose was they wanted him to help their scientists complete cloning experiments. Human cloning."

"What terrorist organization was it? Do you know?" He asked.

Eliese felt her chest tighten. She didn't think, even after all this time, that she could get through this without tears. "A group called Red Cell."

"What happened?" His voice was sharp and she felt he must know about the group she mentioned.

"He apparently didn't agree to cooperate. And he wouldn't have. Patrick had strong beliefs about the use of genetic engineering and it didn't include selective breeding. All any of us wanted to do was try and correct some of the painful mistakes nature makes sometimes." She paused for a steadying breath before she continued. "Patrick was found dead. Shot through the head." Eliese felt the tears well up in her eyes. "They executed him." She swiped at a tear as it rolled hotly down her cheek.

"And this Patrick, he was something more than a colleague and friend wasn't he?" Michael could see it in her eyes. The haunted shadows. He knew. Knew, because he'd seen it in his own eyes not so very long ago.

"Yes." She whispered. "He was."

"You were lovers?"

Eliese nodded as the tears now flowed freely. "We were in love. Almost from the start, we both knew we were meant to be together. He was a wonderful man." She bowed her head and gave way to the sorrow that welled inside her.

"I'm sorry." Michael crouched in front of her. "I'm sorry you lost him."

"Me too." Her voice broke. But it was what swirled through her mind that made her shake.

I'm sorry, Michael, sorry because you'll never know how good he was. Sorry you never knew your half brother.

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

Part Fifteen

Michael steeled himself against reacting to her distress, at least visibly. Raw edges of emotion still danced inside him and threatened to mar his objectivity. But so far he sensed she was telling him the truth.

"This is why you went to work for Interpol?"

She took an unsteady breath. "Yes. But as the year progressed we all became increasingly paranoid. It would be only a matter of time, we felt, until they would come after any one of us . . . or maybe the whole group. I was fairly untouchable at this point, but everyone else felt like a prisoner . . . afraid to go out, afraid to travel . . . just afraid."

Michael stood up, needing to increase the distance between them. He had an uncomfortable attraction to this woman he couldn't really identify. It was like a hot wire of electricity. Not altogether sexual in it's nature, but something deeper, and it disturbed him that he couldn't label the feeling.

"How did you end up here? Who arranged all this . . . your deaths, this facility? Who funds your work?"

If he was intentionally trying to catch her off balance, he was doing a good job of it by firing questions at her like bullets from a gun. He was trained for this. Interrogation was an art. Good guy, bad guy. Sympathy and threats were interwoven.

"We were approached though Interpol by a non profit organization interested in funding our work. They were aware of our dilemma and they offered to help us disappear. Interpol cooperated by arranging for all our accidental deaths, the organization arranged for our retrieval and the set up of this facility." God, she hoped he would buy all this. She'd managed to calm herself and try to be deliberate with her answers.

There was no way she could reveal who was actually involved. Jonathan O'Shea had gone out of his way to keep his name disconnected with this whole operation. Patrick was his son and he had been devastated by his loss, just as she had been. It had been his loss that prompted him to look deeper into Michael's supposed death. It was imperative she keep his secret.

"Then I want to know why you were at the chalet. For what reason would you involve yourself in the exchange of underground information?" The firelight flickered over his body as he now took a seat on the hearth. His face, having gone soft only a moment ago, had hardened again. Brows knitted together over his eyes and served to emphasize the strong angles and planes and the ease in which he switched to his protective mask.

She watched as he settled, rested his forearms on top of his thighs and laced his fingers together. His body now blocked the light from the fire and the warm halo that formed around him served to present a deceptive picture, for the coiled tension was still there. He was certainly a study in contradictions from the first time they had met. Eliese continued to explain, meeting his eyes, as she knew she should.

"Interpol. We have an agreement with Interpol. If they have information they can't act on because of professional boundaries, they are known to pass it on to covert organizations like Section One. We cooperate from time to time when they need a courier." Eliese paused, wondering how far to go with her explanation. "If they choose the chalet for the exchange, I take the meet. I know how to get in and out without being seen."

"Do you sleep with all your contacts? Or was this just a special occasion?" His words hit her like a slap to the face. His voice was hard, dead of any emotion.

She turned her head and closed her eyes, wishing she could be anywhere else but here with him. She knew it would come to this. Knew the question had been there since the moment he woke up and she was gone from the bed they shared. Eliese continued to avoid looking at him as she answered.

"No one forced you." Her voice was unsteady as she spoke. "This is a very lonely existence and you're a very attractive man, Michael."

Nothing prepared her for his next move. Before she could draw another breath, he was up off the hearth, gun in hand. He chambered a round with a quick, fluid movement, then pointed the barrel of the weapon right between her eyes.

His voice was filled with deadly calm. "Wrong answer Eliese."

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

Part Sixteen

Her trembling suddenly subsided and a cold clarity settled over her. Slowly she lifted her eyes, then looking past the barrel of Michael's gun directly into his stormy green orbs, she responded.

"So is this the way you do it? If you don't hear the answer you want, you shoot me? Do it, Michael." She challenged. "Put a bullet in my head. That will solve everything." Eliese sat clutching the arms of the chair thinking that maybe a bullet would be the best thing.

Slowly the gun lowered to his side and she heard the telltale snick as Michael disengaged the round. She could sense the war of emotions raging behind the mask. "You need to leave. If anyone discovers you've been here, we'll have to leave. If you've compromised our location, it won't be just an inconvenience to us, it will mean that a lot of important work will be delayed. Work that could lead to saving literally thousands of lives . . . children's lives."

That seemed to hit a home run with him. Eliese could tell he was weighing her words carefully. Considering the truthfulness of her statement against what he could readily verify. Again she was reminded of his biological father. Jonathan O'Shea never made a decision or a statement that wasn't thoroughly taken into account.

Michael turned back to the fire as he finally spoke. "I think your relocation is imminent. As to if that will be by your choice or someone else's . . . only time will answer that question."

She was stunned. Stunned into disbelief, and then into action. Eliese hurled herself from the chair, grasping his arm, her words ringing loudly with her anger. "What are you telling me? Someone did follow you? They know our location?" Panic enhanced the edge to her voice.

Michael turned to face her, his free hand snapped tightly around her fine boned wrist as he arrested the contact she'd made with his arm. He jerked her so roughly she collided with his solidly muscled body. Eliese's retreat was instantaneous, though she could only take a short step away from him as he still held her prisoner with his snapping eyes and the grasp he maintained on her wrist. She was reminded of the fine line they both walked between passion and indifference.

"No one followed me." He held a tight rein on his anger. "But the people I work for have more than a passing interest in your little group of scientists. And it's what you're not telling me that makes it impossible for me to determine why."

"I've told you every . . . "

Michael stopped her words by pulling her against him once more, this time using his other arm to lock her in place. Eliese could feel the cold flat press of the gun on her back, and a chill of warning sped through her veins like cold running water.

"You haven't told me everything. You haven't told me who set this place up, who's behind this philanthropic organization." He could feel her heartbeat pounding against his, feel her pulse thrumming where he still gripped her wrist. Her eyes were huge and round with shock. "You came to that chalet with more to do than deliver a microchip. You knew I would be there and your intent was to sleep with me, to catch me with my guard down. Why? I didn't use any protection, and I don't think you did either. Is this some sick experiment? Were you trying to get pregnant?" His words rushed at her like a speeding train. "Tell me, Eliese." He demanded.

She tried to speak, tried to move her mouth to say the words that might satisfy him, nothing would come out but a choked "No."

He released her wrist and grabbed the thick braid of her hair by the root, immobilizing her head. Eliese watched as his mouth descended toward hers. Everything was in slow motion, at least until his lips claimed hers. Then the fire and heat spread, claimed her body, claimed her mind and a clear thought couldn't have penetrated her brain if she'd wanted it to. His mouth and then his tongue swept all reason and clarity from the present. Eliese's arms reached up and circled his neck as she gave herself over to the explosion, the assault to her senses that was purely Michael.

Later, she would not recall how, but they ended up her bed. She would only vividly remember the sexual dance. His hands unbelted the robe, lay open the fabric and exposed the flush of her body to the soft lamp light. His body, stripped of the barrier of his clothing flowed over hers, and she wanted him. God help her, but she wanted him.

As his mouth plundered hers, and one hand trailed fingers of heat from her breast to her hip, his other deftly released her hair from it's constraining braid and the blackness of her curls frothed around them like the sea on a moonless night. Vaguely she remembered the crackle of foil and the urgency of his hands as he guided her to assist him in sheathing his hardness. She needed no encouragement from there as he nudged her legs open and planted himself deeply inside her.

He rolled his hips forward, thrusting and retreating slowly, making her beg for more. Michael was in control this time. There was no wild abandon, no frantic haste, except on her part. He gauged each surge, each tantalizing touch, bringing her to the edge and carefully, almost cruelly backing away before she reached completion. His mouth claimed hers over and over again.

She tried to increase the tempo, and his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, his grip bruising her, but effectively controlling the powerful excruciatingly slow plunder of her body.

"Tell me a name, Eliese." He demanded. "Tell me who's behind this."

"Nooo!" She groaned, her mind protested, but her body screamed for release.

"Tell me or I'll stop now."

He was buried to the hilt inside her, his pulsing member was thick with his own desire, but something told her he meant every word.

"No. Please, no!" She begged again, ashamed, but at the same time betrayed by her body.

Michael started to make good on his threat and began to withdraw from her.

"Say it." He threatened again.

Eliese was openly weeping at this point, from both need and shame. "Patrick's father." She sobbed, as she gripped his upper arms and pushed herself back toward the source of her pleasure.

He slammed into her, let go of his tight control as he pumped into her repeatedly. His hands slid up her body then down again, cupping her buttocks and bringing her closer, allowing his penetration to become deeper. Her body began to tighten around him like a glove and he snapped his hips into her brutally as his explosion was imminent. Eliese felt every last nerve come alive as the head of his shaft swelled inside her. Then she tumbled over the edge, contracted around him, screaming his name.

"Michael!"

His guttural cry of completion split the air as he erupted. The orgasm was powerful and he felt wave after wave of his seed spurt from his shaft as he continued to stroke her. Finally he collapsed, breathing hard, still imbedded inside her his manhood throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

Quickly Michael forced himself to recover. He withdrew from her, allowing for no lingering caresses or kisses. He'd gotten what he came for and in a way he'd had to learn to dismiss as part of his job. He dressed with swiftness, urgently needing to distance himself from the ugliness of what he'd done. He retreated to the other room and retrieved his jacket, holster and balaclava, fastidiously zipping and buckling everything into place.

When he returned to the bedroom, Eliese had drawn her robe around her nakedness and she lay weeping silently, curled into a fetal position. He stood over her for just a moment, fighting the disgust he felt for himself.

"This isn't over Eliese." He murmured quietly as he pulled on his gloves. "And you'd better tell no one I was here if you value your life."

He could barely make out her response as she whispered it. "You bastard."

"Yes . . . yes I am." He agreed. "I don't know whose, but now I'm going to find out." And with that he left, slipping silently out the doors from her bedroom to the garden and into the rapidly coming dawn.

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

Part Seventeen

Silently, stealthily, Michael extracted himself from the compound. He made it only as far as the other side of the wall. There, leaning against the cold stone, he fought the pounding in his head . . . but not to any victory. The bright rush of pain exploded behind his eyes and began to throb like a living thing. No use fighting it. He jerked off the balaclava, started sucking in fresh air. Something, maybe his dormant conscience drove him to his knees and he emptied the contents of his stomach in the wet grass.

Patrick's father. What if . . . what if Patrick's father was also his father? Biologically. Michael shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. Merde. That would have made Patrick his half brother. And what would that make Eliese's part in all this?

Michael forced those thoughts from his mind. He had to get back. More importantly he needed to send Nikita a message; have her identify the man and gather information on him. With all the strength he could muster, he rose to his feet. Tilting his head back he allowed the pouring rain to pound against his face and into his open mouth. The sharp cold drops managed to clear his head and cleanse his palate, but nothing could wash away the vileness he felt inside for what he'd just done to Eliese. The sense he still had about her, the feeling he couldn't tap down, screamed that she was innocent. It was there, plain as day, open as a book. It was in her eyes.

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

The wind was sharp, and Nikita pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck and tucked in her chin, partially obscuring her face. She stood at the end of the pier, waiting on Michael and watching the gulls as they swooped in and darted away, looking for a meal. Their sharp cries the only noise surrounding her, except for the lapping of the water against the wooden piles. There was no sound, no real movement that alerted her to his approach, nothing other than that unexplainable tingle that started at the base of her spine and skittered its way up her back. She turned and watched him walking toward her and she took measure of his appearance as usual. Immaculate black suit, long black coat swirling around his legs as he walked, every hair in place, Michael looked like the enigmatic man she'd always known. Lethal power and grace contained in one package.

It wasn't until he closed the distance between them that could she see what not many people would note about him. His color was off, paler, maybe even a bit gray. And while his eyes had that same intensity, there were shadows, shadows that spoke, however subtly, of a lack of sleep. When he drew up along side her she noticed just along his right jaw, what looked like a small nick where he had cut himself shaving.

This was too soon. Too soon after loosing Adam. Michael had barely climbed out of one deeply emotional storm to enter what was starting to look like another.

"What did you find?" His voice was smooth and pitched just enough to be heard clearly over the buffeting wind. Almost as an after thought, but certainly as a last line of defense, Nikita watched as Michael retrieved a pair of black sunglasses from inside his coat and slipped them on. He forgot sometimes that she had seen him almost crumble. She had seen the results of his self-recrimination. Or was it that he remembered? Was he protecting himself or her?

"Patrick O'Shea was an integral part of this small group of scientists. I assume you found them all alive and well?"

"Yes."

"He was kidnapped and later found murdered." She paused. "There were signs of torture on the body. This, of course, was not noted on the official autopsy. Cause of death was a single gunshot to the head. Interpol has two files. Officially his homicide is listed as unsolved and the killer or killers are still being sought. Unofficially the case is closed and listed as a terrorist action."

"Red Cell."

Nikita snapped a look at Michael. "You know this?"

"Eliese told me." She narrowed her eyes and studied him for a minute. He was looking straight ahead, out over the water. The strong breeze had tugged and pulled at his perfectly styled hair and he further destroyed it by running his gloved hand through the curls now spilling over his forehead.

"What else did she tell you?" The question was sharp and she couldn't hide the edge in her voice.

He didn't say anything for a moment, then he spoke. "What about the father?" Typical Michael response. Answer a question with a question.

Nikita pressed her lips together, unhappy with the course of the conversation. "Jonathan O'Shea. Age 55. Wealthy. Retired. Made his money in the late seventies, early eighties as a security consultant for bureaucrats and NATO officials in Brussels. He actually gave up his American citizenship in 1980. Widowed. His wife died from breast cancer in 1979. Patrick was their only child."

"Any earlier information?" He asked.

She sighed. "He was born in the States, Virginia. Graduated third in his class at the Naval Academy. He served as an adjutant to a Captain Harrison Henry, attached to Naval Intelligence, and stationed in Brussels for three months in 1965. "

"He was in Brussels in 1965." The statement was almost a whisper. "What about later?"

"That's when I ran into a brick wall. The remainder of his service record was sealed. And I wasn't about to start bumping around and trying to get it open. Would have left too many footprints."

Nikita watched as he removed one gloved hand from his pocket. His head dropped, and his forefinger trailed across his upper lip, rested there for a second, as he was obviously deep in thought.

"Vietnam."

"What?"

"Vietnam. The United States was involved in a military action at that time with Vietnam."

"So what are you saying?" She asked, almost confused at this point.

"He must have performed his military service in Vietnam. Maybe something covert. You said he was an assistant to a captain involved in Naval Intelligence?"

"Yes, but why are you so interested in him. What's he got to do with this?"

Michael finally looked at her. "Eliese said he was behind Aidan. Interpol arranged for all those scientist's deaths and O'Shea arranged to set up that facility and keep them hidden. After Patrick's death they were afraid they would all become targets." He paused. "Did you find any photographs of O'Shea?"

She shook her head. "None. Not even from the Naval Academy. He's also been quite evasive of the press. Even with all his philanthropic work, he's managed to stay out of the limelight."

"Where is he?"

"Michael . . ."

"Where is he?" His tone was sharp, more insistent.

"Charleroi. Belguim." Nikita knew she needed to tell him about the empty file that even now still resided in Deferral. "Michael, look," She began. "You should know about something Birkoff found while you were gone."

Michael swung another look her direction. "What?"

"There's a file. A mission that hasn't been profiled yet. " She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath. "It's resting in Deferral. The file is classified as a 'Retrieval'. The team has been attached. Mentz, Snow, Taylor, Reardon, Battaglia . . . me," She paused, "and the team leader is listed as . . . you."

"I have to go." He pivoted on one foot and started to leave.

Nikita grabbed his arm. "Wait. Michael, where are you going?"

He looked at her over his shoulder. The firm press to his mouth left her no doubt that whatever he was about; he'd already made up his mind.

"I have to go see Jonathan O'Shea."

"You can't." Her voice carried clearly as she'd raised the timbre. Realizing there was no assurance that Section wasn't monitoring them from a distance, she lowered it. "You can't blow your cover like this."

"I have to. Someone else we know served in Vietnam. Someone who's been too interested in my movements during this down time."

A look of understanding crossed her face and she went pale. "Operations."

"Yes." He took her hand from his arm, squeezed it gently. "And you need to drop out of this now." Then he quietly added. "O'Shea will have some answers. To that question . . . and maybe more."

"What do you mean?" She squeezed his hand back, held on tighter.

"I think Jonathan O'Shea is my biological father." The look on Nikita's face made his stomach clench. He was doing it to her again. Dragging her in where she didn't belong. It was becoming more apparent that this was another manipulation. It didn't matter if this was of Sections' design or strictly Operations'. Nikita's involvement would place her in danger. Her compassion and his very strong compulsion to protect her would always be the weakness they each paid for the most dearly.

"Now I have to go." One last time he gripped her hand, then leather slid away from leather as their gloved hands parted and he walked away.

Nikita watched each step that carried him further down the pier. His hands were jammed in his pockets, his head was up, looking, scanning the area, ever conscious of the possibility they'd been followed. She didn't care if they had at that moment. Her voice carried after him with the wind.

"I'm not dropping out. I'll be here . . . if you need me."

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

Part Eighteen

Light struggled to break through the cloudbank outside and the curtained windows inside of Eliese's bedroom. She remained in the same fetal position Michael had left her in, only at some point after his departure; she had burrowed beneath the covers. The phone beside the bed shrilled loudly and the noise brought her breaking into the conscious world with a vengeance. She struggled with the phone as she simultaneously tried to shake the icy fingers of the nightmare from her mind.

"Hello." She was tense with fear, afraid of who might be on the other line.

"Hey, sleepy head. Are you coming in today?"

"Evan. I . . . I don't feel well. I think I'll stay in today." Her voice felt scratchy and her mouth full of cotton. Her head was pounding like someone was inside swinging a hammer.

"What's wrong? I'll grab my bag and be right over. You're not cramping are you?" His questions almost rushed at her too quickly for comprehension.

"No. No." She responded. "It's nothing like that. Please." She paused, wishing for something to drink, water, tea, anything. "It's just a headache. I'll take something and try to sleep it off."

"Eliese, maybe I should do an exam. If you are . . ."

"No, Evan." She couldn't keep the insistent rudeness from her voice. Bowing her head she supported herself with one hand on her forehead.

"I'll check on you this afternoon. If there's anything else, any bleeding . . . "

"Evan please. I'll be okay. Just let me get some rest. Now goodbye." Eliese hung up the phone, not even waiting on his response. She collapsed back onto the pillow. When she closed her eyes all she could see was Patrick's body in the morgue. His once handsome, healthy visage now cold and gray in death. Then suddenly that vision was replaced by the blur of Michael's face supplanted over Patrick's.

It was like a pack of wild dogs chased her down the twisting path of the last eight years over and over again, the repetition making each time more disgusting, more macabre, and harder to live with.

Would the day come when she couldn't live with the past? She wondered. Living with the present, and considering the future was proving to be just as bad. Blackmail. It was an ugly thing. If she hadn't loved Patrick so much, if she hadn't been tied so inexplicably to Jonathan O'Shea, if she hadn't volunteered to help him find out about Michael, none of this would be happening.

She had taken the job with Interpol, closely on the heels of Patrick's death. There had been a need to do something, to find out something about who had taken him from her. Making use of her psychology background, she had volunteered to help profile the killer, which in the end led them to 'Red Cell'. Along the way, she had been offered a permanent position, which had given her access, however forbidden, to the computer system at Interpol. It was Jonathan who had trained her how to hack into the files they needed to find out about Michael.

Eliese hadn't known, at first, the reason behind Jonathan's interest. All he revealed, in the beginning, was that an old client and friend had approached him to try and find a distant relative.

Michael had indeed been involved with L' Huere Sanguine. Although, at the time, the name she'd been searching for had been listed as Michel Samuelle. He had most definitely participated in several student protests. His presence and connection to the bombing, that had taken innocent lives, was sketchy at best. Witnesses that placed him at the scene suspiciously disappeared, and the initial interview Michael had been subjected to once he was arrested, revealed no predisposition to suicide or suicidal tendencies. In fact, the interview revealed quite the opposite. He had every reason to live. The existence of a younger sister he'd been responsible for since the death of his parents was mentioned frequently in the interview. The reports he had hung himself were simply not believable. The official Medical Examiner had been out sick the day his body was presented for autopsy. Everything surrounding Michael's arrest and subsequent death smelled wrong.

Then Jonathan suddenly accepted everything and dropped it. She thought no more about it, because that was the time he made the move to contact Interpol and arrange to have her and the rest of the group moved to Aidan. The facility was ready and the plan took a full year to effect. Eliese was the first to 'die' and each of the group followed in the subsequent months. A different tragic accidental death. A slow process to be sure, but necessary, so as to not arouse any suspicion that the deaths were related in any way.

Stop it! Her mind screamed. Stop reliving this!

Eliese threw off the covers and finally made her way to the kitchen. She put the kettle on for tea, grimly checked the stew she'd left out and nearly got sick from just looking at it. She wandered the cottage like a lost puppy, seeing Michael everywhere she turned. She especially retreated from the bedroom when she noticed his essence lingered there, his essence and the lingering scent of sex. It made her hate the highly developed sense of smell she had. Some thought it was a gift, she thought it is was a curse.

With a mug of hot tea in hand, she drew open the drapes at the door leading to her small garden. The gray dampness of the day served to sufficiently spin her deeper into the well of despair.

And the wild dogs chased her down the path again . . . .

Three or was it four years ago, Eliese couldn't recall through the still pounding headache, Jonathan had made a quick and very risky visit to Aidan. He had blood samples with him that he privately requested she test. He wanted to know if the samples could be genetically linked. And they had been. As closely as a parent to a child. It was the ensuing conversation she would never, ever forget.

He had waited in her cottage, not wanting his visit to be well known to the others. He'd come in the darkest hour before dawn and left again just after twilight. It had been gray and rainy that day as well, and she had been soaked when she reached the cottage to deliver her results.

"Jonathan." She'd called out to him as she entered. There had been no response, as she had paused to remove her rain slicker and boots. Moving from the entryway to her den, she had found him at her small desk, looking entirely out of place behind the intricately crafted piece of furniture. He was studying some files he'd brought with him. His briefcase lay open on the floor beside him.

"There you are." Eliese had moved into the room using a towel that she'd grabbed from the kitchen to blot some of the moisture from her hair. "The samples are related. I'd say as closely as parent to child. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

She walked to the fire, stood in front of the blazing logs, soaking up the warmth. His response caught her off guard. "Michel Samuelle." She remembered the name, and suddenly the research she'd done all those years before came back to her.

She turned. Stared at him. His face was impassive, he had frozen, was no longer looking at the paperwork before him. "What do you mean? I thought you dropped this years ago. The man is dead." Eliese responded.

"No, no he's not." Then he added in a hushed voice. "But he might as well be."

She walked over to the desk. "What do you mean?"

He pulled a folder from beneath the papers he'd been looking at. From inside, he withdrew two pictures. One was an enhancement. Grainy, but obviously taken during one of the student protests. The man in the picture was young, his hair was long, but the profile was very distinct. The other picture he presented was obviously taken without the subject's knowledge. He was smiling, his hair was still long, and he was captured in motion, throwing a stick for a dog, while a lovely young woman, obviously from Indian parentage, looked on. It was, without a doubt, the same man, the same strong profile.

"This is Michel Samuelle. One of the blood samples was his."

"I still don't understand, Jonathan, won't your friend be thrilled to know this?" She studied his face. Saw the sadness and was confused.

"The other sample was mine, there is no friend, Eliese. Michel is my son."

Her shock was apparent. "I . . . don't . . . understand." She stuttered hesitantly. "How?"

Jonathan stood up, moved Eliese into the chair, as it must have been quite obvious she was shocked into disbelief.

"His mother and I had a brief liaison while I was stationed in Brussels. It only lasted a month. She was engaged to be married, as was I. Her fiancé was still finishing his studies at the University in Paris, and I was on my way back to the States to marry Patrick's mother. When we said goodbye, I had no idea I'd left her with child. Because of our circumstances, we never spoke or were in contact again." He moved across to the sideboard where she kept a crystal decanter of brandy. He poured two drinks and brought one back to her, setting it on the desk in front of her.

"Why didn't you tell me this before? Are you going to contact him?" She raised her eyes to look at him.

"I couldn't be sure before. Not until this test." He swirled the brandy in the glass and took a sip. "He and the young woman in the picture filed for a marriage license recently. I had search programs set up to monitor surrounding European government files in case his name ever appeared. I did allow for the fact that he might have adopted the English version of his name. That's where I got the hit. It didn't take much to find and bribe someone at the lab where they performed the required blood tests to provide me with a sample. In the meantime, I hired someone to place him under surveillance."

"You didn't answer my other question. Are you going to contact him? Why was his death falsified?" Eliese's head was spinning.

"I can't contact him. It would place his life in danger." He finished the brandy in one last gulp. "I don't know why or how, but I suspect he was taken from prison and given a choice. A choice to actually forfeit his life or work for a covert organization. Probably something anti terrorist. And this organization apparently operates outside the confines of the law. They must be the last lines of defense, the ones that do the dirty work. And they do it with expendable personnel."

"I find this all very hard to believe, Jonathan." Eliese finally found her voice again.

"Believe it. With my background in Intelligence, I had heard there was such an organization, but if I probed any further, I'm sure that I would sign his death warrant and possibly mine. For the time being, I'll have to be satisfied with this knowledge from afar. I suspect there's some purpose behind the marriage to this young woman. I can't believe after fifteen years he would suddenly be allowed to have a 'normal' life."

The ensuing silence brought her anxiety over his revelations immediately into focus and he raked her with those cold green eyes of his. "I shouldn't have involved you."

"Can't you get some kind of message to him?" She couldn't believe he'd lost one son, found another and wasn't going to at least try and contact him.

He began to gather his papers. "What would be the point? We can never have a relationship. If I contacted him, he would certainly be required to report it. They would have to make him disappear again or . . . worse, cut their exposure and eliminate him." He finished organizing his briefcase and snapped it shut. "I won't do it. It's better if I leave it alone. It isn't as if I can rescue him now."

He started for the door and Eliese trailed after him. "I'm sorry Jonathan."

Once they reached the entry hall, he pulled on his coat and turned to her, searched her face, saw the tears swimming in her gray eyes. In a brief moment of tenderness he brushed her cheek with his fingers. "Don't be. If I hadn't looked for his mother after I lost Patrick, I would have never known." He was filled with regret. If only he had just put his pain on a shelf and looked at it later when it wasn't quite so hot and bright. But he'd been compelled, in a moment of weakness, to try and locate someone from his past that was living, hopefully happy, and healthy.

"And she's dead, too."

"Yes; yes, she is." The sadness in his voice only served to enhance the look of defeat on his face.

Then he left. She had watched him as he stepped out into the dismal night, already on his cell phone, probably contacting his driver.

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

Coming back to the present, Eliese shook her head. If only it had ended there. But it hadn't. The organization that had kidnapped and murdered Patrick had not given up. They had somehow discovered their disappearances had been a sham. They had known Jonathan was behind it and they knew too much about Michael. For it had been 'Red Cell' who provided the complete file on Michael. They knew Michael was Jonathan's blood. Dangled that information in Jonathan's face; threatened to eliminate his only remaining son.

Jonathan had been forced to cooperate, to provide them with access to the scientists he had tried to protect. And though on the surface, the results of their research would be beneficial to mankind in general, some of their more intricate genetic discoveries could provide someone with a gold mine. Something to be sold to the highest bidder. And to insure his continued cooperation, they had demanded the ultimate sacrifice. A hostage. A blood relation. They threatened to take Adam.

In a desperate attempt to protect Michael and the son he'd had to abandon, Jonathan had proposed an alternative. They'd given him less than six months to show them there was another way. He'd come to her. Asked for her help and she'd agreed. Michael would be spared any further anguish. It was enough that he would never be with his son again. Never be involved in his life, but from a distance. If they managed to be successful, he would be none the wiser to the existence of another child. Jonathan was operating under the belief that what Michael didn't know wouldn't hurt him. But was that true? Weren't they proposing to give 'Red Cell' the ultimate future trump card? All this was so despicable. Was this the only way?

Everyone, but her, had underestimated Michael. She leaned her head against the cold glass door, placed her hand over her womb and prayed.

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

Part Nineteen

The expression on Michael's face told no story, revealed nothing of the litany of questions rolling through his mind. As he watched the countryside speed by from the train's window, his mind was filled with nothing but interrogatory wonder and doubt.

How long have you known about me? Are you my father?

What does Eliese have to do with this?

What's really going on at the lab in Ireland?

Do you know Paul Wolfe? Do you know what he is?

Too many questions, not enough answers, and he knew he really should have more information before attempting contact with Jonathan O'Shea. Years of training be damned. Michael couldn't shake the feeling that what had become of his life, what had transpired over the last 15 or 16 years, the whys and how could be answered by this one man.

The emotion that had bubbled so close to the surface, that had finally spewed forth when he'd been forced to abandon his son, could not rise again. Losing control, no matter what he discovered was not an option. To be sure, whatever occurred, he would need to keep that part of himself tightly in check. No matter how deep the knife, no matter how hot the flame, he was sure none of the other players in this drama would be affected by their feelings . . .

Or would they?

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

"Hey Sugar." Walter greeted her with his usual buoyancy.

"Hey Walter." Her affection for him was clearly evident in her radiant smile.

She watched as he continued soldering something intricate - one of his newest toys, most probably. He was using a magnifying stand to see the item. She smiled again, thinking Walter would never succumb to a pair of glasses; that would be tantamount to admitting his age. And for all of his years he was without a doubt the one person in Section who appeared least affected by the tortuous lives they all led. She had seen him crack, once, over Belinda, but he rebounded quickly and he remained the rock of wisdom she sought in her most turbulent times.

"The briefing's been delayed." He spoke as he continued his work, not looking up.

Nikita didn't hide her surprise as she asked, "Delayed? Why?"

"Everyone isn't here." His answer was matter of fact.

"What do you mean, everyone's not here?" Again her surprise was clearly written on her face. "Did we lose someone?" She meant it in mostly a joking manner, but changed her tune when he ceased his work and looked up at her.

"Michael's not answering his phone."

Quickly she schooled her features to hide her shock. But she knew she hadn't done it fast enough to escape Walter's scrutiny. "He's down. They know that."

"That doesn't give him the freedom to not respond, Nikita." He cocked his head inquisitively. "What's going on?"

She ducked her head, ashamed to ask her next question, but doing it anyway. "Who wants to know, Walter? You? Or Madeline?" She brought her eyes back reluctantly to meet his.

He looked hurt and his voice didn't hide the fact. "You know me better than that."

Tossing an errant strand of blond hair over her shoulder, she shrugged, looked immediately contrite. "I'm sorry Walter. What do they think? That he's gone renegade?"

"I don't know what they think," he said. "But they'll give him twenty four hours and then . . . "

"Then what?" She asked sharply.

"Then . . . " Walter hesitated and shook his head. Anything he said would be pure speculation and would only inflame the situation. "I don't know. No Level 5 operative has ever run."

"Well, he didn't run. And he'll be back within twenty four hours," she said with conviction.

"I hope so, Sugar. I sure hope so." His voice trailed off and he returned his concentration to the object before him.

Biting her bottom lip, Nikita dared to go further. "What's the mission about?"

"I don't know the details, but it's something to do with a Retrieval."

A wave of cold desperation flooded her body and all the color drained from her face. She shifted nervously. "Are we on Close Quarter Standby?"

"Check with Birkoff. He'll know."

"I will. Thanks. See ya." Each word she spoke stuck in her throat as she turned to leave. She was almost afraid to find Birkoff.

"See ya, Sugar." Walter glanced up and watched Nikita's retreating figure. The aura of doubt surrounding her was almost as visible as the decided slump to her elegant shoulders. He sure hoped she knew how serious Michael's failure to respond really was. Something told him she knew, and she also seemed to know more about his whereabouts than she was likely to admit. He just hoped she was right. That Michael would return with in the expected time frame.

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

Jonathan entered his office, stopping as he closed the door to look around. Affluence touched every corner of the large room, from the expensive heavy mahogany desk to the library shelves that held many 17th and 18th century first edition books, to the wide range of electronic equipment, much of which had not even hit the market yet. He breathed in the scents of furniture polish, leather and . . .

Damp wool.

A heavy fog had rolled in an hour ago, cloaking his home in a protective shroud. A convenient cover for his visitor. He smiled; it was a quick smile, and not one of happiness, more touched with pride than anything. But it didn't take long for the overwhelming sadness to again slacken the corners of his mouth.

The one light on his desk cast a golden nimbus around the room, not quite chasing all the shadows away. His heart pumped with excitement . . . and trepidation.

"You did a nice job evading my security." He announced to what appeared to be an empty room. Walking slowly to his desk, Jonathan didn't glance around right away, just surveyed the remote camera surveillance equipment and the computer screen blinking it's warning - INCURSION. "I suspect you tripped that last laser on purpose." His eyes now looked to the wingback chair across from the massive desk.

The light played across the young man's features, revealing a face schooled in the art of impassiveness. The sharpness of the nose, the jaw, the chin, were all his. The eyes, though clearly shielded by the shadowed light, would be his too. He knew this from Eliese. But the mouth . . . the mouth was Claire's. Jonathan took a seat, watched as the reflection from the lamp sparked against the silver gun, held with a direct steadiness and aimed right at the center of his chest.

"There's really no need for that." His voice was calm, his eyes candid in their appraisal. He watched as the young man fluidly brought the gun back, listened as the chambered round was disengaged, watched again as the weapon was slipped silently into it's resting place, holstered underneath the black coat.

"I suspect you have quite a few questions for me. Although I'm sure not as many as I would think." Jonathan rested his arms on the desk, his fingers entwined, giving the man in front of him clear view of his hands. Exposed hands made everyone less nervous.

"You found Eliese?" His question was asked because this was something he was not sure about. Eliese had not contacted him, but Jonathan felt certain if Michael's path had led him here, then he had located Aidan. No doubt Eliese had given him just enough information to make the connection.

"Yes." The one word spoke volumes. Clearly this would not be the most verbal of interviews.

"Why don't you tell me what you know. This will take less of your time. And I'm sure time is not something you have in abundance."

The room was quiet but for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. It acted as a metronome. Measuring the seconds of silence as he watched Michael consider his next statement.

"I know nothing. Only that the man who raised me was not my biological father." The level of his voice was soft, but his words were sharp, almost bitter in their tone.

"I see." Jonathan glanced away and Michael saw in this reaction something of himself. It was an evasive reaction he was certain Nikita had dealt with on more occasions than he cared to admit. "You are quite right about that." Jonathan added.

Again the seconds ticked away, the clock striking the quarter hour, ominously reminding them both of the fleeting time.

Jonathan bowed his head. He sensed Michael's questions; they hung in the air between them, unspoken, like puffs of breath on a cold winter morning. Most of all Jonathan wanted Michael to understand how much he'd loved his mother. He brought his eyes back up to meet Michael's.

"Your mother was a beautiful, intelligent woman. I met her at a diplomatic function in Brussels. I was serving as an adjutant to a Naval Intelligence officer." He paused. "We were both very young. She was already engaged to . . . your father. I was waiting for my orders, at which time I was pledged to marry a young woman back in the States, before being shipped out . . . to Vietnam. We were introduced, we danced, we talked . . . "

Jonathan looked away again, lost in the memory. "I was captivated." He stopped speaking, savored the remembrance like it was yesterday. Then he continued, "It was a foolish thing . . . our affair. It lasted only a month. I had no idea she was pregnant when they sent me stateside. I doubt she knew at the time." He swung his eyes back to meet Michael's. "I loved her very much."

Michael remembered the wistful way he would sometimes catch his mother looking at him. He would always ask her what was wrong, why she looked so sad. She would smile at him and answer that she wasn't sad, that she was the luckiest mother in the world to have him for a son. And he never doubted it. How bittersweet it must have been for her to look at him and be reminded of Jonathan. They must have shared a great love, if only for such a short time.

Jonathan cleared his throat and continued, "For many young men destined for Vietnam those were times of uncertainty. We were both brought up in very traditional families. I know it seems old fashioned, but at that time many marriages were still arranged. Young people from certain influential families were expected to make matches. We knew that, and yet neither of us could ignore the call of our hearts. When we parted, we agreed to never contact one another."

Silence stretched across the room again. Michael watched the older man, saw the deep breath he took, watched as Jonathan employed the same control he had employed countless times. It settled around him like a blanket.

"I married soon after I arrived home, and within six months, I found myself inserted into the unholy hell we know today as Vietnam." He looked down at his hands. "I loved my wife, but in a most different way. She was a gentle woman, very fragile, and I left her carrying the only child we would ever have . . . Patrick. It wasn't really fair to her either, for while she was the woman to whom I penned hundreds of letters, nothing could compare to the thousands of messages I wrote your mother in my mind."

Michael sat paralyzed. There was no denying the absolute conviction with which the older man had spoken. The depth of his feelings might not be evident to someone less accustomed to hiding said feelings, but for him, the impact was profound "When did you find out about me?" It was a question he asked hesitantly. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. If Jonathan had known about him . . . before Section, if he'd known before his 'death', before his own abduction into his present living hell . . . well, he wasn't sure it was knowledge he cared to have.

Jonathan watched the young man, drank in his presence like a starving dog would inhale a handout. And this was most likely the only bestowal of the young man's presence he would receive. He knew instinctively what Michael's question really was.

"Patrick's mother succumbed to cancer in 1979. Patrick was murdered in 1990." He didn't try and hide his anguish now, because if he'd only thought to look sooner . . . "I wanted to know about your mother. Somehow I thought finding her, knowing she was settled - that she had a family of her own - might lift me from my despair." He leaned back in his chair, left his hands pressed flat on the desk as he continued; "My search obviously didn't accomplish that. When I learned of your mother's death and her husband's, I also discovered your existence, and your sister's. Because you were older, maybe because my suspicion was stirred at the time, I looked for you first."

"And you found I had died in prison."

"Yes, yes I did find that. Eliese helped me. She worked for Interpol at the time. She wanted to help find Patrick's killers." He hesitated a moment, "She and Patrick were . . . "

"Yes, I know." That was all Michael interjected. Jonathan knew they'd return to that point later.

"Everything about your arrest and subsequent death was suspicious to me. But I let it drop, because there was no other avenue to take at the time. And I didn't reveal any of my reasons or suspicions to Eliese. It was safer that way." The clock chimed the half-hour at that point and Jonathan rushed on. "I tunneled links into surrounding government computer programs to give me search comparisons for your name, both the French and English version. It worked. When you and Elena applied for your marriage license several years ago, I got my match. Your blood sample wasn't hard to get."

Michael shifted in his seat, almost imperceptibly. It was a subtle sign of discomfort, one that Jonathan picked up on immediately.

"Eliese did the genetic testing for me. Then I knew. Knew that I had left your mother with child, knew you were biologically my son." Jonathan grasped the arms of his chair and started to rise. Instinctually Michael reached for his weapon and Jonathan raised his hands in a gesture of good faith. "I need a drink, Michael. Would you like one?" He watched as the younger man shook his head, denying himself something he would very much like to have.

Jonathan moved to the sideboard, splashed some whisky in a glass and drank. He swallowed the magic fire, hoping it would calm the turmoil inside him. Then as he refreshed his drink, he poured a second glass, bringing both back to the desk. He set one within Michael's reach, and wordlessly resumed his seat.

"I wish I could have found you sooner. "

Michael eyed the man he now knew to be his father. He eyed the drink in front of him. Then with the merest hesitation, he picked up the glass, admired the weight, the craftsmanship of the cut crystal, swirled the amber liquid and smelled the bouquet. And he drank. Felt the slow burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat and exploded into his stomach. He then asked the question foremost on his mind.

"Do you know a man named Paul Wolfe?

Most of his remaining questions were answered swiftly by the look that passed across Jonathan's face. It was a look of shock coupled with blind disbelief.