(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place between the episodes "Under the Influence" and "Walk On By.")

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

They say that no good news arrives at three a.m.

That goes double if one is a spy. Triple if one is an operative for Section One, the most covert anti-terrorist group on the planet. (Or so I'm told. But how would anyone know that? After all, the point of being "covert" is to be SECRET. So for all I knew, Section One was the SECOND most covert anti-terrorist group on the planet.)

Which raised all kinds of interesting questions about who could be pounding on my door at 3:22 a.m.

I debated all the possible answers to these questions as I stumbled through the dark living room, stopping on the way to pick up my ladies' little helper (aka, nine-mill) and to introduce my toe to the coffee table.

Balancing gingerly on one foot, I peeped through the peephole.

What I saw nearly blew a hole in my Mexican-tiled foyer.

It was the Man. The Boss. The Head Honcho. The Steely-Eyed, Silver-Haired Sultan of Section One, the most covert -- or the supposedly most covert anti-terrorist group on the planet. Yes, I'm talking about the man with the department name. OPERATIONS.

You might think I was surprised. And, yeah, OK, I was. But not as much as you might think. For one thing, it took a lot to surprise me -- "me" being Becky Moran, former detective first class, former murderer first degree. Finding out my scumbag husband was a child molester -- THAT was a surprise. Finding myself standing over my scumbag husband's dead body with a smoking gun in my hand -- THAT was a surprise. And finding myself "recruited" (i.e., kidnaped, shanghaied) into working for the most covert yada yada -- now THAT was REALLY a surprise.

But finding Operations at my door at three freakin' a.m. in the morning -- the main surprise was how NOT surprised I was.

What I WAS was worried. This was a tricky situation. A verrrry tricky situation. One that required an airtight mission profile and the tactical finesse of a jeweler. The central objective, of course, was to get him the hell out of my apartment as soon as possible. Equally important, though, was to prevent his entrance into my bedroom.

With a mission this delicate, my first move would have to be of the decisive first-strike kind, the sort of move that would unsettle the interloper and establish my territorial dominance. I quickly ran through my options, made my decision, and executed my move.

I opened the door.

Operations smiled. Or rather, smirked. I imagined the Three Stooges t-shirt I used for pajamas had something to do with it.

"Busy?" he smirked.

Stupid questions deserved smart-ass answers in my book. "Well, I was filling out the guest list for my Tupperware party next week," I told him, "but that can wait."

Still smirking, he asked, "May I come in?"

Oh, sure. Like I'd say "no."

Afraid of what I might actually say if I opened my mouth, I stood aside to let him in. I then kept my ground by the door, my weight on my uninjured foot, and my finger on the trigger while he did a quick recon of the apartment. I tried not to imagine what he thought of the "Notorious" poster over my sofa, or Baseball Weeklies piled in the corner, or the row of dead begonias on the windowsill.

(It's so hard to water plants regularly when one is constantly being sent out on missions.)

After a quick, smirking perusal of the Star Trek trivia game set out on the dining room table, he rejoined me at the front door."I won't stay long," he said.

THANK GODDESS, I thought fervently. "Oh?" I said blandly.

His voice dropped to covert level. "Tomorrow," he intoned ominously, "you'll be sent on a mission to a spa in northern California. In the course of that mission you will come in contact with a certain person. I want you to give that person a message from me. OFF PROFILE."

"Oh?" I said again. I'm usually more verbose, but it WAS three o'clock in the morning.

"Her name is Lee Nguyen. And the message you will give her is very simple. Tell her `Kon Tum.'"

"Kon Tum? Is that some sort of antacid?"

"Hardly," he said, smirking again. "The meaning is irrelevant. All you need to do is deliver the message -- and mention this, uh, request to no one. No one."

His hand reached for the doorknob but my outstretched arm blocked his exit.

"No one as in --" Did I dare say it?" "Madeline?"

"No one as in NO ONE."

I chewed my lip and debated. "And if I do this," I said slowly, "what sort of `off-profile' benefits can I expect?"

"Well, for one," he said softly, "you can keep what's in your bedroom right now."

GOD, I hated the man. OOOOH, how I hated him.

"Good night," he said. And smirked. And left.

I rested my head on the closed door. Slow, deep breaths. In, out, in out. Blasting a hole in your boss's head is NOT a proactive career move.

When my pulse had eased, I called out: "You can come out now."

A man's deep voice answered me. "What the hell did he want?"

I turned to the man standing in my bedroom doorway -- the gorgeous, blue-eyed, bushy-haired, naked-as-a-Michelangelo-statue, armed-as-a-Mafioso hunk standing in my bedroom doorway.

"You can put the gun away," I said. "The one in your hand, I mean."

"Don't change the subject." Marco stayed put as I put away my own weapon. "Since when does Operations visit you in the middle of the night in your pajamas?"

"He wasn't wearing my pajamas."

My love lifted his .45. "Rebecca Anne Moran --"

"OK, OK," I sighed and faced him squarely. "It was business. I can't tell you anymore than that -- and you KNOW why. We work for the same firm, remember?"

He looked down at me, his eyes as blue as the all-seeing sky. "Business, huh?"

I knew why he was reluctant to believe me. Ours was not a world that held honesty in high esteem. Even if it was, Operations' behavior toward me would have engendered suspicion. For the past few months, I'd been called into Herr Commandant's presence at least once a week. Each time, he'd asked me about one of my old cases: the Morris homicide, the Crawford murder, the Dell double-suicide. At first, I'd thought he was testing me -- seeing if the old instincts would kick in and I'd try to haul his ass in on charges of kidnapping, murder, general mayhem, and obnoxious personality.

Then, as the calls upstairs continued, it became clear that his interests were in the investigations themselves: what the clues were, what interrogation tactics were used, how the cases were litigated. I began to think he was using my former career in the same way others read Agatha Christie novels -- as a kind of mental exercise, maybe even as an escape.

It was about this time I told Marco about the "visits." Our relationship had just moved from Level Eight (heavy petting) to Level Nine (heavy breathing under the sheets), so I felt I could trust him. I should've known better. Being a man, he immediately ascribed other motives to Operations' interest in me. I denied it VEHEMENTLY, of course, since just the idea made my skin crawl, and the subsequent argument nearly plummeted our relationship to Level Zero-Minus-One. Marco finally gave in, and I returned my hand to its previous more intimate position, but in the end I think Marco won, because on my next visit upstairs I found my radar open wide for telltale signals.

The good news was that I received no such signals. That was the only good news.

The investigation Operations quizzed me on during this particular visit was one of those tricky "he said/she said" cases, and after I described how I figured out that "she" was telling the truth, the Big Guy smiled and said, "I like the way your mind works, Moran."

It was at that point I had my revelation -- not the kind of revelation that made one's skin crawl, but the kind that sent one in frantic search of Doctor Kevorkian's phone number:

Operations didn't "like" me. He LIKED me.

This particular revelation might not seem like a big deal to YOU, gentle reader, but if you were to ask anyone in Section One you'd find that they'd agree this was a nuclear holocaust of revelation. An end-of-the-world epiphany.

Thus far, I had managed to keep this terrible little tidbit from the naked, armed man in front of me, and I had no intention of letting the secret out now. So I stared back into his beautiful blue eyes and mustered as much conviction as I could and told him: "Yes. Just business."

The beautiful blue eyes narrowed, and then widened as he smiled. "All right," he said. "I'll believe you if you answer just one question."

"What?"

"Why are YOU wearing your pajamas?"

GOD, I loved that man. OOOOH, how I loved him.

And I spent the rest of the evening showing him just how much.

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

"How can you do that?"

Confused, I looked up from my breakfast to the woman standing beside me. "Do what?"

"Eat all that." Nikita slid into the chair across from me. On her tray was a cup of coffee and one lonely danish.

I looked back down at my breakfast: pancakes, bacon, eggs, bagels, and a fruit cup. "What can I say? I'm hungry."

"Let me guess," Nikita said with a tired smile. "A certain former detective got back from Tunisia yesterday."

I corrected her serenely. "Day before yesterday."

"Ahhh." She picked an almond off her danish and ate it without interest. "Must be nice."

"It is."

The danish was pushed aside in favor of the coffee, which she stirred absentmindedly. "You know, I don't think he'll ever forgive me."

"For recruiting him?"

The stirring stopped. "He told you?"

"Oh, sure," I said, delicately arranging a bit of bacon, egg, and pancake on a fork in perfect proportion. "We did the `how'd you get here' routine on our first date. He doesn't blame you. I mean, he's not thrilled at the way things turned out, but he knows you were trying to keep him alive. I'm surprised he hasn't --"

I looked up and stopped chattering on seeing her expression. "What?"

"Nothing." She gave a hardened half-laugh. "It's just that you don't often hear about operatives going on dates. Usually it's `nice to meet you,' then `your place or mine?'"

I let my fork down, unsettled by the bitterness in her voice, surprised by my surprise. Usually, Nikita and I could almost read each other's minds, like twins who could sense the feelings of each other even when miles apart.

Well, we weren't exactly twins (especially given the connotations of "twins" in this place). In fact, we had a lot of differences, aside from our coloring. Sometimes I thought my relatively ordinary childhood gave me an edge, that it grounded me in ways that she could never understand. Other times, I thought her life as a streetkid gave her the edge, made her better suited to this world than I would ever be. On the other hand, she was the one who had arrived in this world unsullied, whereas I had entered it with blood already on my hands.

All in all, our differences made our friendship even richer. Sometimes I played Big Sis; sometimes she did. It really was remarkable that two people so different could be so in tune that they could read each other's moods with just a glance.

Except this time. THIS mood came out of nowhere as far as I was concerned.

Then again, I hadn't seen much of her over the last few weeks. She'd been working undercover, which meant her trips to Section were brief and hurried, with no time for girltalk. And I knew from Walter that it was a long, difficult, distasteful mission, the kind that both of us needed some time to process before rehashing it with each other over a tub of Ben-and-Jerry's.

But it hadn't occurred to me until now that I hadn't seen her because she was avoiding me.

I pushed aside the breakfast plates. "What's wrong?" I asked bluntly.

Her eyes wandered to something, or someone behind me. "Three guesses."

"Re-be-cah," a familiar French voice said. I looked up at the man who had arrived silently beside my chair. "The briefing is in ten minutes."

Goosebumps pimpled my arms as a wave of remembrance washed over me: dishes, food, cafeteria noises, me, Nikita, and a man with cold green eyes and a soft voice named Michael.

Only before I had been sitting where Nikita now sat, and the green eyes had been directed toward her, not me, as the soft voice spoke her name, not mine.

I shook myself back into the present. "I know," I said. "I'll be there."

But he wasn't listening. His eyes had settled on the blond woman across from me.

Nikita sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. "If he hands you any DVDs, Beck," she said. "Make sure you wear gloves."

"That won't be necessary," he responded.

OK, I knew a challenge when I heard one. It wasn't new -- these two had been at each other, for better and for worse, ever since I came into Section. But this time -- holey moley -- this time it shocked me, the near-malevolence of Nikita's voice, the positively arctic stare from Michael.

"Whoa, there," I said, just to say something, anything, but my pathetic attempt to mediate was cut short when Nikita shoved back her chair with a loud scrape.

"Excuse me," she said. "I have to go take a shower."

I watched her leave; Michael did not.

I gaped up at him. "What was THAT all about?"

"It's not your concern," he said. "We should get to the briefing."

I then watched him leave, taking my appetite and my good mood with him.

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

As briefings went, this one was just the way I liked them: SHORT.

Without so much as a glance in my direction, Operations clicked on the viewscreen and barreled the specifics.

"This is Johnny Hong. He's the middleman for an organization called Right Dawn, a garden-variety terrorist group operating out of Indochina. Until recently, Right Dawn has limited their activities to the Far East, but we have reason to believe that they are looking to expand their operation to the West by merging with another group known as Children of the Red Mirage. Separate, these two groups are of little concern, easily managed by our more public colleagues in the CIA, but together, they could prove a more formidable force."

He clicked off the viewscreen and again avoided my eyes. "Our intel is that Hong will be arriving stateside in two days and will be lodging at a spa in northern California. It is uncertain whether his meeting with Red Mirage will take place there or at another location -- and indeed, that is irrelevant. Your objective is to pre-empt the merger talks by bringing Hong back to the Section for reprogramming."

At last, the silver eyes turned to meet mine. "Any questions?"

My mouth twitched. The little voice in my head whispered, "Don't do it -- don't do it -- don't --"

I couldn't resist. "Do they have mudbaths at this spa?"

I could feel, although I couldn't hear, Michael's groan.

"Yessss," Operations said icily. "Any other PERTINENT questions?"

"No," I said mildly. The Big Guy glared at me, chucked the remote on the table, and stalked out.

"Re-be-cah," a soft voice crooned in my ear. "Could I have a word with you in my office?"

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

When I was a kid and I'd done something really bad, my father would "require my presence" with a certain inflection in his voice and a certain cast to his features that would set my heart pounding with dread. I'd then drag myself up from whatever I was doing and follow him dumbly down the hall into our formal dining room, the room reserved for company. I would sit at one end of the table and he would sit at the other, and for the next hour I would be subjected to the kind of painful, protracted interrogation that only a police lieutenant could accomplish. For the rest of my life, the smell of Lemon Pledge was forever associated with guilt and punishment and confession.

As I followed Michael into his office, I could swear I caught a whiff of something lemony.

Old habits are hard to break. With my father, I'd always tried some opening salvo to distract him. And so I did with Michael. "Haven't I told you that I absolutely loathe being called `Rebecca'?" I complained.

"You've told me a great many things," Michael responded smoothly. "But apparently not everything about this mission."

It took every ounce of Section training not to squirm in my seat. "I don't know what you mean."

Eyes like green steel refused to blink. "No one speaks to Operations like that during a briefing. Not without special dispensation."

Dad was never fooled, either. "Oh, all right," I grumbled. "I'm sorry. If you want, I'll go grovel for forgiveness. I'll even volunteer for a refresher course in Section Pertinence."

After a long, considering moment, Michael slid out a drawer in his desk. Quickly, he punched a few keys -- too quickly for me to see which ones, even though I half-rose in my chair to sneak a look.

The drawer closed, he spoke in a very different tone of voice. "Becky, what's going on?"

I relaxed a bit. This was the Michael I was more familiar with, the man who over the past two painful years had gradually eased into a relationship with me that could almost be called a friendship. Oh, I'm not saying we spent any evenings tossing back brewskis and trading dirty jokes, but I did flatter myself that Michael felt at comfortable with me -- that he didn't feel the need to negotiate our exchanges like a minefield, unlike so many other relationships in the Section.

In the simplest terms, he trusted me. And despite who he was and what he did, I trusted him. Pretty much. Most of the time.

I tried to put a sense of that into my response. Holding his gaze steadily, I said, "Nothing you need to be concerned with." And to reassure him even further, I added, "I promise to behave from now on."

His cheeks rippled slightly. "Well, that would be a first," he said drily.

I grinned. "Miracles do happen."

"Not here they don't."

I took a moment to digest the unguarded, automatic feel of his pronouncement. "Jeez, Michael, is it that bad?"

He didn't have to ask what I meant. "She hasn't told you?"

"I've hardly seen her the past few weeks." Crossing my arms, I leaned forward onto his desk. "Tell me," I urged.

"No," he said. "She needs to tell you."

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

Before tracking down Nikita, though, I had to take care of business: reviewing the profile, checking out equipment, collecting my paperwork. Fortunately, this was a clean and simple operation; by lunchtime, I was headed for the door.

I was ten yards from freedom when she caught up with me.

"I hear you've developed an interest in mudbaths," Madeline said with her "It's Just Us Girlfriends" smiles.

Over the past few years, I'd made a hobby out of cataloguing Madeline's smiles, figuring that if (BIG if) I ever retired I could publish a training manual for new recruits. It was difficult and intricate work, made even more so by the myriad levels of meaning each individual facial contraction contained. This one, for example, was especially difficult to decipher. It could mean (1) she was genuinely amused, (2) she wanted to trick me into a personal confession, or (3) any moment now two goons would be hauling me off to Twin Territory.

When uncertain, it is always best to be blunt. "Am I in trouble?" I asked plaintively.

The smile eased, just a fraction. "What do you think?"

Oh, I HATED that approach. Bravely, I guessed, "I'll take `This Is Just A Warning' for $200, Alex."

"Excellent choice," Madeline said, falling into step with me. Whether she recognized my reference wasn't clear. (DID Madeline ever watch TV? Why did I have this sneaky suspicion that she spent at least one hour every afternoon glued to "As the World Turns"?) "Actually," she continued, "I wanted to speak to you about something else. Have you seen Nikita lately?"

"We had breakfast this morning." A safe enough response, I hoped.

"How did she seem?"

This was another thing I hated about life in Section, the frequency with which we were required to snitch on each other. "She seemed --" I cast about for a neutrally truthful adjective. "Tense."

We reached the exit and stopped. Madeline illumined my existence with Gracious Smile #7b. "Yes," she said. "Well, good luck on the mission. I'm sure you'll perform your duties with your usual competence."

Heels clicking, she glided off in the general direction of her office.

"Duties." Plural.

Of course. That's what this little exchange was about. Madeline knew all about Kon Tum.

And, I thought irritably, she probably knew even more about laxatives.

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

I arrived at the park before Nikita. Like any good operative, I picked a location carefully: a long-limbed oak tree at the corner of the park, close enough to watch the goings-on of the kids and their moms but far enough away to allow privacy. Then I dropped the picnic basket, spread out the blanket, and waited for my friend.

It was a beautiful day -- the air as clean and sky as blue as liberty. I wrapped my arms around my knees and drank in the scene gratefully: a little boy furiously running after a ball, a mother braiding her impatient daughter's hair, a pretzel vendor holding court over a circle of enraptured young patrons.

Goodness lived. Happiness breathed. Joy endured.

And then I saw her. She was circling the edge of the park, her hands jammed in her jacket, her shaded eyes on the ground. She didn't even look up when an adorable little pixie rode past her on a tricycle.

I pretended to be engrossed in unpacking the picnic basket when she reached me. "I forgot the pickles," I said, as casually as I could.

Nikita sat cross-legged on the blanket, her back to the scene. The sunglasses came off and she frowned at them. "I'm not really hungry."

I set out sandwiches and chips anyway, and then silently started in on a ham-and-cheese.

Nikita looked up. "I thought you had a mission."

My mouth full, I mumbled, "Leaves tomorrow."

"What about O'Brien?"

I swallowed. "He's running training sims all week. I'll see him tonight."

She nodded and returned her attention to her sunglasses, examining them with far more attention than they deserved.

Sighing, I set aside the tasteless sandwich. "Nik --"

She interrupted me. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"How do you manage to stay so normal?"

At that I had to laugh. "I think that's the first time in my life that anyone has called me `normal.'"

Her eyes were as blue as Marco's, I suddenly realized. But I'd never seen that particular brand of pain in his eyes. "Maybe not normal," she said, searching for the right word. "How do you stay yourself?"

All right. Enough dilly-dallying. I set my jaw and spoke flatly. "Nikita, what did they do to you?"

The answer, I could see, was agony. "They got inside my head."

And then it came out -- the way she'd fallen in love with the target, a real slimeball named Carl Peruze -- the way she'd eventually realized that the Section (no, not Section, I thought grimly -- Madeline) had secretly conditioned her to fall in love with the cretin --

The way Michael had participated in her conditioning, allowing them to use his likeness, passing along the drug-coated discs.

Revolted, I very nearly fertilized the oak tree with partially digested ham-and-cheese right then and there, to the laughter of distant children.

"I know what you're going to say," Nikita said defensively. "He had no choice. It was his job. All the usual Michael excuses."

I put aside my own feelings. "Not excuses," I said hesitantly. "Explanations."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to."

"He didn't try to warn you? Not at all?"

She averted her eyes.

I pressed further. "He did, didn't he?"

"I suppose. With typical Michael obliqueness."

"Well," I said. "There you have it."

"There I have what?"

I reached for her hand, grasping it as firmly as I could. "There you have Michael doing the best he could in a bad situation."

She stared glumly at my fingers. "I know," she admitted finally, with a sigh that was half-relief, half-exasperation. I gave her hand a squeeze and let go.

It was cooler under the tree. In the distance, mothers were beginning to round up their offspring, overriding their resistant yowls with firmness. Car engines started. Soon, the sun would set and the park would empty.

A thought sidled its way past my preoccupation with my friend's romantic life. With difficulty I managed to nail it down. "Why would the Section do this?"

"What? Screw with my feelings?"

I nodded, and she shrugged. "They wanted to make sure that Carl believed I loved him."

"Was he an especially perceptive person?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Not really," she said.

"Then why, after two years of training, three years of service, countless successful undercover missions, did they think you needed extra help to pull this one off?"

I could tell from the blank look on her face that she hadn't considered this. "I have no idea," she said.

"I do."

Nikita helped herself to an egg salad sandwich. "I'm all ears," she said, and took a bite.

"Well, they probably wanted to test it out, see if it would work. But the reason they chose you -- I'm guessing they WANTED to cause a rift between you and Michael. They want the two of you close, but not TOO close. Maybe they were worried at how quickly Michael was able to spot The Faker and decided it was time for a stumbling block."

She chewed and thought. "But Michael wasn't the first to spot The Faker. You were."

I smiled, remembering: The Faker strolling down the hall toward the debrief, smiling on seeing me approach. "Stiff upper lip, girlfriend," I'd said. She'd paused, ever so slightly, and said, "You got it, babe." I'd known right away it wasn't Nikita, and had set a record for the half-mile running to tell Michael.

"No," I told Nikita now. "I wasn't the first. Michael was. I just confirmed it."

The chewing stopped. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. I'm not sure how -- something The Faker said in the van, I think -- but he most definitely knew before I did."

"He never told me." She tossed the sandwich down and grabbed a water bottle from the basket. "That man is so -- so -- so --" Unable to articulate, she gesticulated with the bottle.

"Exasperating? Frustrating? Infuriating? Gorgeous?"

She glowered at me. "All of the above. And more." After a long swig of water, she resumed munching on her sandwich.

A breeze brushed my neck, and I realized with a start that the sun had gone down. It was the time of day that moviemakers call the "magic hour," the brief twenty minutes or so after the sun disappears but the sky is still filled with its afterglow. Marco would be at the apartment soon, waiting for me. The thought of him warmed me all over, but I resisted the urge to bolt for my car. I wasn't finished here yet. "Something bothers me," I said.

"Yeah?" Nikita was into the potato chips now. It was a good sign.

"This conditioning program. Do you think --" The thought was too sickening for me to finish the sentence.

I didn't have to. She read my mind. "Do I think it'll become standard procedure in Section?"

"Yeah."

"I've thought about that, too. I doubt it. It's too risky to use on operatives. That whole time with Carl -- it took all my willpower NOT to try and protect him from the Section. If he'd been a fairly decent human being, I don't know if I could've stood by and watched him being taken out."

Relief tasted as good as potato chips. I dipped into both. "So you think they'll use it on mostly the bad guys?"

"And the bad girls."

"Let's hear it for equal-opportunity mindgames."

We crunched together companionably. This, I thought, is what Operations and Madeline and all those other mindgamers would never really understand. This thing called friendship. Oh, they could recognize it, label it, even use it for their own ends. But they'd never really experience the restorative contentment of just being with someone you cared about and trusted completely.

"So," Nikita said, "do you really think O'Brien has forgiven me?"

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

"Oh, all right," my favorite man grumbled.

"Good," I said, running my fingertips along his slick chest as a reward. "When?"

"I don't know. Sometime soon."

My fingers found their way to the small sprig of hair in the center of his chest. "Sometime soon WHEN?"

"Oww!" Marco grabbed my hand and held it firm. "Sometime day after tomorrow. We're scheduled to run a sim together."

"You and Nikita?" Surprised, I raised myself to one elbow to look at him.

"Yeah. Myers sprained her ankle, so they slotted Nikita to replace her."

His face in the flickering candlelight was smiling. "You rat!" I said, smacking him gently. "You were going to talk to her anyway, even before I mentioned it. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Let's just say I enjoyed your incentive tactics," he murmured, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from my eyes. His fingers slipped down to my lips, running along their curves gently.

My breath quickened, stifling my smart-aleck response, and my lips parted. "I know some other incentives," I said instead.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah." I eased myself over his prone body.

His hands, his wonderful roughened man's hands slid up my sides, around to where my breasts (such as they were) hung over him. With a minor adjustment, I felt the rising proof he was ready for another round of incentives. "Please illustrate, Agent Moran," he whispered, his voice rough and urgent.

I hated to admit it, but I relished these nights before a mission. There was something about imminent danger that aroused both of us to a frenzy -- a fierce, savage sucking of the marrow of a life that could end in the split-second mistiming of a bomb, the minuscule off-calibration of a weapon, the slightest out-of-sync move by a team member.

But I knew it was more than that, as I gripped my lover's thick dark hair and felt him move inside me. It was more than just the physical release. It was the knowledge that this man, this extraordinary man had been sentenced to the same dark world I was but still carried in him the light of his goodness, the warmth of his convictions -- it was the gift of this man and his laughter and his compassion and his love by whatever fates ruled our destinies.

Oh, yes, there were miracles, even in the Section -- and at the peak I cried out his name.

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

The Section did have miracles, and the San Martino Spa DID have mudbaths.

To be honest, I'd never had the pleasure before, unless you counted the time my sister Lizzie and I got our bikes stuck in the red muddy road behind our grandparents' house. But that hadn't been so much a mudbath as a muddisaster, especially after Grandpa's truck got stuck in the mud on the way to retrieve our stranded Schwinns. Fortunately, Grandpa had a sense of humor, so neither Lizzie nor I suffered the ordeal of the dining room. Just a very hot bath from Grandma.

I'd always wanted to try a mudbath, though, so it was with absolute glee that, on the morning after our arrival, I stripped to a skimpy bathing suit and, helped by a very tanned and muscled attendant with the unsurprising name of Brock, eased into one of the private baths.

The mud oozed and burped around my body, thick and warm and completely glorious.

"Would you care for a beverage while you soak, Mrs. Carlisle?" Brock asked as he settled my head against a pillow.

"Oh, yes," I sighed, having decided that heaven must be a spa with angels named Brock. "Something pink. But no umbrellas."

Brock had dimples chiseled into his cheeks. "Yes, ma'am."

From under my eyelashes, I enjoyed the view as he muscled off in search of a pink drink sans umbrella. A moment later, I was serenaded with a piped-in Brandenburg Concerto. And how, I wondered idly, did Brock know I loved Bach?

Luxuriously, I smoothed mud over my cheeks and moved my legs up and down. Oh, I definitely had to get Marco into one of these things. Minus the bathing suit. And the Brock.

Marco. Today was the day he was working with Nikita. I crossed my muddy fingers: if it went well, maybe the three of us could hang out together. I could have them over to my place. We could play Monopoly. Marco could do his card tricks. I could make paella.

Strange how so ordinary an idea sent my pulse thudding, my nerves tingling, my heart aching with hope. An evening with friends -- it didn't get more pedestrian than that, or more wonderful. Maybe that's what Nikita meant when she asked how I managed to stay "normal." Now that I thought about it, I did live a more "normal" life than she: I took classes in women's lit at the local university, I argued baseball stats with my elderly neighbor, I taped the X-Files and mooned over Skinner.

I refused to let the dark waters of Section One close over my head.

Maybe the best thing I could do for Nikita, maybe the only thing, was to share more of my ordinary pursuits. Get her to sign up for a class with me, go to a game with me, watch TV with me. Have dinner with me and my boyfriend.

The mud on my face cracked with my smile.

Trying to remember my mother's paella recipe, I almost didn't hear Brock enter with the drink. "You can leave it," I said without opening my eyes.

"What are you doing?"

That wasn't Brock's voice. It was my ersatz "husband's."

Annoyed, I opened one eye and glared at Michael. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"This is a mission, not a vacation."

I opened the other eye and gave him the once-over. Dressed in flawlessly neat khaki pants and linen shirt, he looked every inch the successful Silicon Valley executive, and I hated it. Give me basic Euro-black over California casual any day.

"The mission," I enunciated carefully, "is to pretend to be an adorable yuppie couple enjoying the good life while we await the arrival of the target who is due TOMORROW."

"Just because the target isn't due to arrive until tomorrow doesn't mean we should ease up on our surveillance."

I sighed heavily. "Michael, I spent half the night surveilling this place. I know every broom closet, maid closet, and air conditioning duct intimately. AND --" I paused and tapped my ear for emphasis, "I know that the perimeter team will alert us to Hong's arrival at the front gate, giving us plenty of time to set the profile."

Satisfied I had made my point, I settled back on the pillow and willed the arrival of my pink drink and the departure of my Type-A team leader. After a long moment, having heard neither take place, I opened my eyes again.

"You're still here," I observed.

His green eyes glinted. "You promised to behave," he reminded me.

In order to fully comprehend the events that followed, dear reader, you must be made aware of two facts. The first is that I have an extremely low tolerance for a certain tone of voice, namely paternal condescension. The second is that mud, on cooling, has the tendency to congeal.

Summoning every inch of sweet penance I could muster, I gazed up at Michael. "You're right, you're right," I said, shaking my head regretfully. "I did promise to behave."

I waited until his stern frown dissolved into something like righteous satisfaction before I added: "LIKE THIS!"

And with the aim of a girl who had fanned half of the little leaguers she'd faced, I launched a glob of mud right at his flawlessly clean linen front.

He stared down at the goo sliding down his shirt. "I don't believe you did that."

I scooted to the far side of the mud bath as he knelt beside it. "You do realize," he said softly, his eyes mossy, "that assaulting a Class Five operative is punishable with --"

I was so focused on his eyes I didn't notice his hands -- not until a huge glob of mud landed on my head.

Laughing, spitting, and scraping mud from my eyes, I said, "Is that the punishment recommended by the twins?"

"No," he said, almost smiling. "This is." And with BOTH hands he dumped a fresh load on me -- oh, but this time I had anticipated, and I got in a few good handfuls before he retreated to the other end of the tub.

His hands dangled in the mud. Mine swirled under the mud.

I shook my head to toss back a muddy lock of hair. He shifted his shoulders under his muddy shirt.

I grinned. "READYSETGO!" I yelled, and we were off -- mud slinging and flying, Bach polyphonizing, me screaming, Michael (MICHAEL!) yelping.

The door opened, and with Section-trained precision we froze.

Brock stood on the threshold with my nonumbrella'd pink drink. "Would Mr. Carlisle also like a beverage?" he asked, with spa-trained imperturbability.

My cohort wiped his face with his shoulder. "Yes, thank you."

"Something pink, like madame?"

"Hardly," Mr. Carlisle scoffed. "Something green."

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

Hours later, cleaned and coiffed, we made our way downstairs to dinner. In the doorway of the dining room, I stopped.

"Wow," I said.

I'd seen the dining room before, of course, during our recon the night before. My attention, then, however, was charting its dimensions, noting potential egresses -- you know, Section stuff. One thing I'd noted grimly was the all-glass far wall, just the sort of thing you don't like as an operative being chased by an armed bad guy. Shattered glass could be a tactical nightmare.

But tonight I wasn't playing operative; I was playing guest. As a guest, I could appreciate the way the glass opened up the room to the stunning panoramic view of the sunset over the ocean, the sky streaked with gold and apricot, vermillion and amethyst, the Pacific anything but pacified as wave after wave joyfully crashed against the rocks for the thrill of sweeping skyward. I shivered, ever so slightly.

"We're early," Michael commented soto voce. The room was almost empty, the only customers a group of midwestern oil execs and their wives who apparently didn't have enough savvy to realize that the evening meal should be partaken at nine o'clock, not six o'clock.

Swallowing my instinctive retort, I said evenly, "This way we'll be sure and get a good table." Mr. Protocol wasn't going to spoil MY mood. And, besides, I had a covert reason for urging an early meal. I'd yet to run into my off-profile target and I was growing concerned.

Michael gave me a baleful look, but switched neatly to a gracious one when the maitre d' approached. I had to admire the way Michael maneuvered the tuxedoed snot into seating our gauche earlybird selves by the window instead of the kitchen. I was so impressed I let HIM impress the waiter with his selection for wine and an appetizer.

I did, however, choose my own entree. A girl can let a guy go only so far in alpha mode.

We sipped and nibbled slowly, stretching the evening out and making note of the spa guests as they trickled in. We knew the names of the guests from the registry; putting the names to faces evolved into a bit of a game.

"The Colemans of Seattle have arrived," Michael observed as he helped himself to the last shrimp.

"No. She's wearing a flowered pastel," I said. "My guess is they're the Wilmonts of Birmingham."

"They're too sunburned to be from the south."

"Wait and see what they order. If he asks what's on tap, I'm sticking with the Wilmonts."

Michael replenished our wine, giving me a curious look. "Are you saying you'd have preferred beer?"

"No," I said, and then admitted, "Well, maybe. Sometimes I do feel more comfortable in a pool hall than a health spa. Working class roots, you know."

"It doesn't show."

I sputtered into my wine. "Well, thank you, Michel," I said. "I think. That WAS a compliment, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

Seeing an opportunity, I resettled my napkin in my lap. "Of course, the credit goes to the Section. Much as I despise giving the Section credit for anything, I have to admit that their training is remarkably thorough." Facing him, I threw out the challenge. "Take Nikita, for example. She never even finished high school, but she can hold her own in any situation."

He fingered the stem of his wine glass, turning it so the deep red wine prismed the light. "Nikita is an extraordinary person."

"I'm glad you realize that."

"You thought I didn't?"

"I think," I said, choosing my words carefully, "that you want above all to protect her. That's not a bad thing. It's even a bit -- ugh -- noble. But the truth is, you can't protect her all of the time, not in Section. And in the end, I'm afraid you'll find the only thing you've protected her from is you."

Somewhere, someone started playing a piano, and meeting his intense, verdant gaze, I couldn't help note the irony. The song was, "Someone to Watch Over Me."

"What do you mean?" he asked in that soft Michael voice that wasn't quite a whisper.

"I mean that tomorrow or the next day or the next, either you or Nikita could take the wrong bullet at the wrong time without ever having shared the joy of a mudbath."

At that he laughed despite himself, a quick and quickly repressed laugh, true, but a laugh nonetheless. I patted his hand. "Stop worrying so much, Michael," I said, feeling for all the world like his high-school guidance counselor. "Just love her."

Our salads arrived, and as if on cue, the lights dimmed. As the waiter set out the plates, the piano player announced, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the San Martino Spa and Resort is proud to present Miss Lee Nguyen."

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

Fortunately, Michael was busy monitoring the amount of fresh ground pepper being screwed onto his salad, so he didn't notice my double take. There she was at last. My off-profile target. And even though I had formed no clear idea of who she was, I was surprised.

She was beautiful. More than beautiful. With stunningly exotic Eurasian features and long, sleek black hair falling down an even sleeker midnight blue gown, she was a work of art. And when she opened her delicately etched red lips and filled the room with her husky, honeyed voice, it seemed even the ocean paused to listen.

"Give me a kiss to build a dream on And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss. Oh, sweetheart, I ask no more than this: A kiss to build a dream on."

Under the cover of food and music, I frantically planned my approach. I couldn't exactly excuse myself from the table, tap her on the shoulder mid-warble and say, "Uh, pardon me, but I have a really dumb message for you." Tracking her down after dinner would be just as difficult: Michael wanted to rendezvous with the perimeter team to check on something or other.

Well, there was nothing else to do. I'd have to resort to one of the oldest female tricks in the book. I scratched my ear. "Mud," I said to Michael, and then under the table I let something fall.

We were finishing dessert when my little songbird target finished her set with, of all things, "Ain't Misbehavin.'" Thinking I'd had about as much irony as I could take for one evening, I deliberately did not watch her as Michael signed the check and led me out.

In the lobby, I grabbed my ear. "Damn. I lost my earring. It must be in the restaurant."

"Don't worry about it," Michael said and started for the door.

"Michael," I said with emphasis. "I lost an EARRING."

He understood. My comm unit was in my earring. Actually, it was in the earring I was still wearing, but he didn't need to know that.

"All right," he said. "Go on. I'll wait here."

I'd have preferred he go on to meet the perimeter team, but suggesting it would have made him suspicious. So I just gathered my wrap around me and headed for the dining room post haste.

My target was gone. As was the piano player. I made up a plausible story and got the maitre d' to tell me that she had returned to her quarters in the employee bungalows. Thanking him, I sprinted for a side exit, practicing an explanation to Michael on the way.

Outside, I was washed with the sounds of the surf, much louder than I expected. The exit I'd chosen opened onto the large pool patio, at the moment empty of swimmers but still lit with fake Chinese lanterns. The pool rippled with the ocean breeze.

I saw her. She and the piano player were weaving through the lounge chairs toward the small stone walkway that led to the employee bungalows. I called her name and she stopped, her hand on the piano player's arm.

Breathless, I ran up to them. "Sorry to bother you," I gulped. (I HAD to get back to Michael SOON.) "But I have a message for you."

"Oh?" she said smoothly. Her dress glimmered.

"Yes." God, this was going to sound soooo stupid. Nevertheless, I smiled and executed my off-profile order. "Kon Tum."

Her beautiful face as still as a doll's, she barely moved her lips as she said, "Thank you."

I stood for a moment, half-expecting a return message, but when she made no move I just shrugged and turned to leave.

The butt of the piano player's gun landed with a crack on my head.

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

My first thought was a feeling: Pain. Lots of pain. All kinds of pain. An aching head, stinging ear, crushing binds around my waist.

My second thought was a question about the location of the ground. There didn't seem to be any. Under my dangling feet was nothing but air.

Air and something else. As the confusion slowly cleared, I saw that under the air was a roiling dark mass.

Water.

I was on a boat. No, I was hanging off a boat -- a deep-sea fishing boat, the kind with poles bolted to the deck. The rope crushing my waist was attached to one of those poles, and it was bent at an alarming angle.

(they couldn't know -- they couldn't know -- they couldn't know --)

"She's awake," someone said. In the half-moonlight, I could just make out the face of the piano player, sitting in the fisherman's seat. A second later I could make out a lot more, as someone switched on a deck light.

That someone was my off-profile target. Lee Nguyen. Lee Bitch Nguyen.

She'd changed for the occasion into classic spy duds, form-fitting black pants and turtleneck, and she'd also accessorized appropriately. In one hand was some electronic thingamajig, and in the other was a harpoon.

OK, so the harpoon was a bit melodramatic. I mean, there is something to be said for having a theme, but a good ol' nine-mill was much more efficient.

(they couldn't know -- they couldn't know --)

Nimbly, my well-dressed opponent climbed up to sit on the side of the boat, just out of kicking range. She rested the harpoon against the side. This close I could also tell that she had changed more than just her attire; she had changed her entire personality. Gone were the sultry singer and impassive message recipient. THIS woman was alive with hatred.

Malice dripping from every syllable, she held up the electronic thingie and said, "I think you should hear how much your colleagues value your contribution."

Stuck in the middle of the electronic whatever was my earring.

Oh God, she had my comm unit. That was why my ear was throbbing. She'd ripped the earring out.

And obviously she knew what it was and how it worked. Attached to the device, the comm unit transmitted the voices of my fellow operatives into a speaker. I assumed Lee Bitch hadn't activated the response mode, so we could hear them but they couldn't hear us.

Which was a real pity, given what they were saying. Over the sound of the waves lapping against the boat, I could hear Birkoff as plainly as if he were hanging right beside me. "We have confirmation that Hong changed his flight," the pipsqueak said. "You are to proceed immediately to intercept."

Michael's voice answered. "Do we have a location on Becky?"

There was a small crackle, and then Birkoff's response. "Negative. Assume operative lost. Proceed to intercept."

It didn't make sense. The Section could easily find me with the tracker in my arm. Unless, of course, they didn't want to find me. Unless Operations --

DAMN HIM!

Laughing, Lee Bitch held the device out of reach of my flailing arms and legs. "No, no, no," she crooned. "This little thing is MUCH too handy."

I grasped the rope that held me to the pole, trying to still the sickening swings and bobs.

(they couldn't know --)

"You're Red Mirage," I said, fighting to keep the panic from my voice. "You won't get away with it -- they'll find you and they'll kill you --"

Lee Bitch laughed again. "Oh, no, they won't," she gloated. "You don't understand. I'm INVULNERABLE. Section One will never sanction my death. Why do you think they sent you to warn me?"

But they didn't send me to warn her, I thought. They --

And then the truth hit me like a wave against a rock.

The piano player had arisen and was murmuring into Lee Bitch's ear. She rolled her eyes. "All right," she agreed impatiently. The piano player left; a moment later, I heard the engines start up.

Lee Bitch was still watching me, her bitchy tongue licking her bitchy lips.

(she couldn't know -- she couldn't know -- she couldn't --)

Deliberately, she picked up the harpoon. "Just to be on the safe side," she said, and then she punctured my gut.

I screamed as blood gushed from the wound into the sea below.

"If I were you," she said, rising to her feet and balancing herself by grasping the pole. "I'd just go ahead and drown. It'll be much more pleasant than letting the sharks rip you to pieces."

From her belt she slid a large knife, and before I could begin to think of begging, she cut the rope and I was falling, falling, falling . . .

And the cold, dark waters closed over my head.

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

Go ahead and drown. Drown. Breathe in the water, sink into the depths.

You can't tread water forever. You can't stay awake forever, not with a concussion and a gaping hole in your side.

So cold and dark . . .

So cold . . .

Just let yourself sleep, let yourself slide into death. No one is coming to save you. Not this time.

Not this time.

Daddy -- Daddy -- I couldn't get out, I couldn't get up -- the undertow was too strong, Daddy, and I was so afraid, so afraid --

Daddy, I felt something -- my foot, something touched my foot -- something cold and slick -- like watermelon, only it moved --

Daddy, please pull me out again, pull me out like you did before --

Daddy, please, I am so afraid -- I don't want to die -- I don't want to die --

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

"Becky."

The soft voice lapped against my consciousness, like water against a boat.

"Becky, wake up."

Not Daddy's voice. And the water against the boat was real.

"Becky, please --"

I opened my eyes. Michael. He'd found me.

His hair was wet. He had stripped off his shirt, and his broad chest gleamed.

Jeez, that Nikita was one lucky chick.

The laugh, half-hysterical, erupted into an agonizing bout of choking and coughing.

"Easy, easy," Michael said, holding my head as I deposited half the Pacific ocean on the deck. He spoke sharply to someone behind me. "She needs oxygen. And more blankets."

Someone strapped a mask around my head while Michael pulled a second blanket around me. "Don't move too much," he said. "You're suffering from hypothermia. You could go into shock."

"Michael --" From behind the mask my voice was muted and raspy. With every word I felt shooting pains in my chest. "My comm unit --"

"We know," he said. "We're using its signal to track her."

Of course. Standard procedure. When an operative is compromised, implement Theta Protocol: assume communications being monitored. The exchange with Birkoff had been a ruse. "But how -- ?"

"A lost earring?" he said with a gentle smile. "Who do you think taught you that trick?"

Eva Marie Saint, I wanted to tell him. But talking was too hard.

"Just relax," he told me. "Transport is waiting on shore. They'll take you back to the Section."

I pointed at him.

"We're going after Hong," he said. "Nguyen will lead us to him."

There was something -- something I needed to tell him -- but I couldn't --

He saved me -- he pulled me from the water -- I couldn't let him --

"Michael," I choked, trying to sit up. "Listen --"

The boat came to a rocking stop. He gently tried to ease me back down. "You shouldn't talk."

"Please --" I held his arm, preventing him from standing up. "Can't kill her -- understand? -- you CAN'T KI --" Another excruciating coughing fit cut me off.

Michael braced me with his arm until it passed. Exhausted, I fell back against him.

I could feel his heart beating, steady and even, the rhythm of a man who negotiated danger with logic and reason, who channeled fear into action, not reaction.

"Let her go," I whispered into his heart.

I was afraid he hadn't heard me. But as he handed me off to the operatives who would carry me to shore, he squeezed my hand.

"I understand," he said.

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

Throughout the trip back to Section, I swam from nightmare to reality and back again. My first truly conscious moment came when I awoke in Medical. I was being talked about by two people standing behind me.

"She lost a lot of blood," a man who sounded like a doctor was saying. "Between that, the hypothermia, and the pneumonia, it'll be a few weeks before she's fully recovered from the physical trauma. I can't speak for the psychological trauma --"

"Thank you, doctor," a woman said dismissively.

Recognizing the voice, I closed my eyes again, deciding to play possum for a wee bit longer.

I heard footsteps, and a door opening and closing.

"Becky," Madeline said.

Nuts. I opened my eyes. "Present," I joked weakly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like a fish. Baited, hooked, and sunk." Groaning, I tried to sit up. It was always best to face Madeline at eye level.

Madeline smiled her Sympathy smile. "You realize that making light of your ordeal will only serve to magnify the post-traumatic stress symptoms."

"Let me guess," I said crossly. "I talk in my sleep."

"A little. But we already knew about your fear of the water. You were how old when the incident occurred? Seven?"

"Seven and a half."

"You were on vacation with your family at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. You went too far out, despite your father's warnings, and you were caught in the undertow and nearly drowned."

There were times when I admired Madeline more than any other woman I had ever met. And there were times when I would have cheerfully pulled every strand of elegant hair out of her elegant head. It wasn't hard to imagine which time this was. "Something like that," I muttered.

"Your father saved you."

"Yes. And this time Michael saved me. Does that mean I'm going to fixate on Michael as a father figure?"

"I hardly think that's likely, especially given --" She hesitated, as if changing gears.

"Given what?"

Considering me with a slight tilt of her head, she prevaricated. "We can discuss it later, when you have more of your strength back."

No, she wasn't getting off that easily. "Hey," I called out, stopping her at the door. "What about the mission?"

Without even turning around, she said, "The mission was successful."

The door closed behind her. I guess she was getting off that easily after all.

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

When I awoke again, the lights were dimmed, Section-night style. Groggy and hurting, I shifted to relieve the pressure on the wound at my side, a move which served only to remind me that my ear was also wounded. Never a nurse with a needle when you need one.

That's when I smelled the smoke. "Operations?" I said.

A chair creaked, and the man himself appeared at my side, cigarette in hand.

"Is smoking permitted in Medical?" I asked.

"No." He took another drag.

"But you do realize that I am recovering from pneumonia."

He smirked, and then ground the cigarette out on the floor. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he asked, "How do you feel?"

The man was a genius with stupid questions. "Like I've been stabbed and drowned," I said grumpily.

"Almost drowned."

"`Almost' counts in hand grenades, so you can be damn sure it counts in drowning." Ignoring my aching ear, I turned to get a better look at him, not quite believing my own eyes. He looked . . . tired. Worried. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his tie was askew, his hair rumpled. "What happened?"

"The mission was a success."

"So Madeline said. She didn't bother with any details."

"We retrieved Hong. He is being programmed now."

"And Lee Bi -- Nguyen?"

Suddenly, he found the IV bag hanging by my bed extremely interesting. "Miss Nguyen escaped capture."

I took a breath, wishing for a Demerol. "Good," I said.

"Why is that good?"

No, I didn't want a Demerol. I wanted to be in a white room, I wanted him strapped to a chair in a white room, dazed and compliant with little scratches under his eyes. But as it was, I had to depend solely on the element of surprise.

"Because she's your daughter," I said.

The silvery eyes swinging back to me confirmed it. "She told you that?"

Madeline wasn't the only one who could prevaricate. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

After a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders drooped and he sat on the edge of my bed. "Yes."

"Do you know she's insane?"

His hands automatically felt for his cigarette case, but then he remembered and satisfied himself with picking at the sheet. "She's not insane. She's her mother's daughter."

"I don't understand."

"I met Lee's mother in Kon Tum. Vietnam. We had an affair, just one of those wartime things, or so I thought. It wasn't until my unit was captured that I realized she was working for the Viet Cong. She'd given them our location and our objective."

"SHE outspied YOU?"

He let himself smile as he shrugged. "I was young and green."

And male, I added to myself.

"We'd been in prison camp for seven months or so when she came to see me. She had an infant in her arms. She held it up and said she wanted me to see the face of my daughter. The face of the daughter who would one day destroy me. Then, for good measure, she spat on me."

"Jesus," I breathed.

"She raised the girl for one purpose only -- to bring me down. I've done what I could to contain her without actually --"

"Killing her." He nodded, reaching for his cigarettes and stopping once again. "So," I said, "the message you sent --"

"Was intended to scare her off. To let her know that I was watching and that she would not succeed."

"It didn't work," I said flatly.

"I noticed." He rose, straightening his shoulders. "But that doesn't concern you. You followed your orders, and the record will reflect that. This ends your involvement."

"You can't be serious. Sir, she's a loose cannon. There's no telling what she'll do --"

He was definitely back in Boss Mode. "I am quite serious," he said. "I recently lost my son. I have no intention of losing another child, no matter who she is or what she has done."

Instinctively, I sat up to stop him from leaving, but a stabbing pain reminded me of my limitations. In a rare moment of compassion, he held my hand, letting me squeeze it until the pain passed. When my breathing returned to normal, he held the hand a bit longer.

"You know," he said, examining my fingers, "when I first joined up, I didn't intend for my military duty to extend beyond the war. I'd always thought that police work would suit me best. I'd have been a hell of a detective."

Grudgingly, I had to agree.

"But that's not how it worked out." He dropped my hand and pulled out his cigarette case. "I am who I am, and anyone who forgets that will be sorry."

He stopped at the door to light the cigarette, and without a glance back, he left.

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

I woke gasping for air.

"Beck -- Beck -- it's all right -- you're safe --"

Nikita. Here. Beside me, her golden hair glowing in the light, her blue eyes warm with concern. Thank God. I was really getting tired of waking up and finding people lurking behind my bed.

"It's all right," she repeated, brushing back my sweat-soaked hair. "You're safe."

I tried to laugh, but it was difficult when all I could do was gulp in air. "That was a bad one," I managed to say.

"I could tell." She frowned at someone standing -- where else? -- behind my bed. A moment later, Michael appeared at her side.

"Oh, great, an audience." I pulled the sheet up, so they couldn't see how shaky I was. "Did Michael tell you he saved my life?"

"Yes," Nikita said.

"How are you feeling?" Michael asked.

"As if I'll throttle the next person who asks me how I'm feeling."

A look passed between them, part relief, part inquiry. With as much willpower as I could muster, I forced the panic still fluttering in my stomach to the lowest possible level. "So have you two kissed and made up?"

A flush stained Nikita's face. "Becky," she murmured, glancing toward the ceiling.

Oh, yes, of course. I really did have an audience for my nightmares. Panic frissoned through me again. This had been the worst one yet. I was back in the water, I was seven years old, and on the boat were Operations and the Bitch -- he was laughing, she was tossing harpoons at me like darts in a carnival -- I ducked under the water and came up choking -- and Operations had changed into my father and he had an arm around the Bitch and he was saying "THIS is my daughter now" and they laughed and something below me sucked me under and the water closed over me --

Desperate to freeze the panic, I said quickly, "Oh, Michael, Michael. Don't you ever learn? Get that girl to a mudbath, and soon."

"A mudbath?" Nikita said.

"Later," Michael said, resting a hand on her shoulder. His gaze moved from her to me, and she followed suit. They watched me, much too closely.

His hand tightened on her shoulder. Something awful crawled up my spine.

"So why aren't you two out saving the world for democracy, huh?" I asked desperately. "Surely Birkoff's got a mission with your names on it."

"We leave for Mexico in a few hours," Michael said.

"Bueno," I replied, relieved. "You can bring me back a poncho. Only, before you go, would you send my boyfriend in? Marco's got some explaining to do about his total lack of a bedside --"

The something awful reached around my neck, squeezing the breath around me.

"Becky," Nikita said, her face contorting and her eyes filling.

There was an accident, she told me. During a sim. A fall. A head injury. He was groggy, but he seemed fine. Then, a few hours later --

And the waters closed over me, dark and cold and unforgiving.

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

"Your new apartment is ready," Madeline told me.

We were in her office, the new one I'd never really liked until now. Now I could appreciate its enclosed, subdued air.

All except the clock. I couldn't figure out where it was, even though I could hear it ticking. Tick . . . tock . . . tick. I didn't necessarily dislike it, but I did want to know where it came from.

Madeline was waiting patiently. "Thank you," I said. "Does that mean you're clearing me for duty?"

"Not yet." She glanced over at her computer. "Physically you have recovered, but I'd like to see more improvement in your response times before I reinstate you to active status."

I blinked. "I don't understand. My response times are identical to those I demonstrated on graduation."

"Precisely," Madeline said. So far, she hadn't smiled once during this entire interview. That was probably significant. "After a year of field experience, there should be considerable improvement, but there isn't. Do you have any ideas about why that is?"

I thought about it, but my mind was a blank. "No, I don't."

Sometimes you could almost see Madeline sifting options, deciding which course to take. I waited patiently, almost curiously, to see which one she chose. "Then perhaps you could tell me why you have decided to move to a new apartment."

"I wanted a place that was more convenient."

"Convenient how?"

I shrugged. "Closer to the Section. More secure."

"You feel the need for more security?"

"No. But it is certainly a bonus."

"And Marco O'Brien's death has nothing to do with it?"

"Of course it does." Breathe, Rebecca. Breathe. "We spent a lot of time together in my old apartment. I'm certain that a change in environment will speed my recovery over the loss."

"Or prevent you from feeling that loss."

Unsure of what I was expected to say, I retreated into silence. Madeline watched me steadily, and then, with a lift of her eyebrows, she said, "You know, Operations thinks very highly of you."

"I'm glad." I wasn't, but it seemed the only thing to say.

"In fact, there have been times when he has defended your unorthodox manner when others would have preferred to take a stricter approach."

"Others? You mean you."

"Why would you assume that?"

For the first time, I felt uncomfortable. It would pass. "Well, I wondered sometimes if you might think --"

"You wondered whether I thought Operations was interested in you personally."

"He's not."

"Of course he is. You're the daughter he wishes Lee Nguyen was."

I knew I was being watched closely for my "response time" to that remarkable pronouncement, but I had no idea what she would constitute as an appropriate response or an adequate time interval. So instead, I said what was on my mind. "So you equate Operations' allowing me to shoot off my mouth every now and then to his allowing Lee Nguyen to continue her terrorist activities uncontested."

"That's neither here nor there. The point is that until now Operations has indulged his interest in you, but it is likely that will not continue in the future."

Good, I thought, without passion. "I understand. Is that all?"

Madeline gave a little sigh. "I'm releasing you from Medical. You're free to go home. But I'm keeping you off the duty roster for at least another week."

A week. That should be just enough time.

Madeline rose and came around the desk. "I will expect you to keep a standing appointment with me every morning at 0930 for evaluation." Leaning against the desk, she looked down on me for confirmation.

"Fine," I said.

At last, I was bestowed a smile. A small one, more regretful than sympathetic. Hesitantly, she picked up my right hand with her left. Her fingers were dry and smooth, a little cold. "You have to let yourself mourn, Becky."

"Of course," I said, returning her gaze steadily.

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

"Let yourself mourn."

I never knew Madeline had a sentimental side.

Well, no matter.

My new apartment was right where it was supposed to be, and when I let myself in with my new key I realized that the movers had, with typical Section efficiency, followed my instructions to the letter. The dishes were stacked in the cabinet, the toiletries lined up on the bathroom shelves, the clothes were hung in the closet.

The computer was set up on the dining room table.

Without bothering to remove my coat, I sat at the computer and logged on.

An hour later, my new doorbell rang. My first instinct was to ignore it. But I did have to keep us some semblance of normalcy, so I sighed, logged off, and answered it.

"You could have told me," Nikita said, her hands on her hips.

After the initial jolt, I realized she was talking about the apartment. "I thought I did," I said.

"Well, you didn't." She let herself in, removing her gloves. "But I'm here now, ready to help unpack."

She stopped in the middle of my new living room. "Or maybe not. I guess they haven't gotten here with your stuff yet."

I was still wearing my coat. "No," I said, shrugging it off. "Everything's here and put away already."

"But -- but where's your STUFF?"

In the corner of my eye, I saw the blinking light on my computer monitor. The email I was expecting had arrived. "I gave most of it away," I told Nikita, too distracted to think of a lie.

"You gave it away? All your pictures? Your tapes?"

I didn't have time for this. "I thought you had a mission on the pad. Kracow, right?"

She didn't go for it. "Don't do this, Becky."

"Do what?" There was something about my voice -- something familiar in its echoing dryness.

Apparently, she recognized it, too. "God, you sound just like --"

I interrupted her. "Would you like some tea?"

A pause. Then, "Sure."

I felt her eyes on me as I set the water to boil and selected cups from the cabinet. The email icon was blinking in time with the clock on the wall. Second to second, minute to minute, day to day. One foot in front of the other. One thought after another. Unwrap the teabags. Set them in the cups. Don't look at the computer.

"Tell me about Poland," I said, watching for the water to boil.

Behind me, I heard the scrape of a stool as she sat at the kitchen counter. Oh God Oh God I should've told them -- no stools, just chairs -- blue-eyes, tousled dark hair, sleepy grin, the scrape of a stool behind me and a teasing complaint about my coffee . . .

"I hear it's a wet run," I said, jerking the kettle off the stove and pouring the steaming water.

"It is." Nikita accepted the cup from me. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about it. There's a -- well, there might be a problem. One of the recruits -- I know him. Or I used to know him."

I couldn't quite grasp what she was saying. It was as if her voice came from very far away, down a long narrow tunnel. "You know him," I repeated dumbly.

"I knew him on the streets. His name's Jamie. He sold dope to a friend of mine. The friend OD'd." She sipped her tea and grimaced lightly. I'd forgotten the sugar, but she didn't point it out. "The thing is, I'm not sure what to do."

Was she for real? "Kill him," I said.

The shock on her face was palpable. "You can't be serious --"

"It shouldn't be hard to arrange. The casualty rate on wet runs is expected to run high." I frowned, giving her problem serious thought. "Recruits usually work the perimeter. If you can make sure this Jamie sits to Michael's left in the van, he'll probably be assigned the hottest egress --"

"BECKY!"

Surprised, I set my cup down. "What?"

"Do you hear what you're saying?"

The computer blinked, relentlessly, insistently. I didn't have time for this . . .

Dumping the acidic tea in the sink, I sighed impatiently. "Christ, are you never going to grow up?"

Her response was warm and instinctive. "Not if growing up means planning a murder in cold blood!"

I rounded on her. "Just what is it you think we do? What do you think the Section is all about? Do you still believe that it's all about good guys and bad guys? About saving the world from the evils of terrorism? That's just bullshit, and if you don't see it you're not just naive, you're stupid."

Now she was as coldly furious as I was. "Then please, by all means educate stupid me on what it's all about."

Breathe, Rebecca Anne. Breathe. In and out, tick and tock. Rein it in, stay in control. Focus on the objective.

Step one, two, three. Turn the doorknob. Open the door. Avoid her eyes, eyes as blue as the all-seeing sky . . .

"Forget it," I said. "Go to Poland. Moon over Michael's poor little lost soul, agonize over your poor little drug dealer pal. Do whatever you have to do to sleep at night and wake up in the morning, and allow me the same courtesy."

Tick. Tock.

She was in front of me -- close enough for me to sense the scent of lemon shampoo --

Her hand was on my face, her wet cheek against my dry one --

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Close the door, Rebecca. Close it.

The message is waiting. Not the one you need, but the one that will lead you to what you need. One step after another.

Breathe. Think. Plan. Do not, do not feel. Anything.

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

It took longer than I expected. Longer than it should have.

It occurred to me that Madeline might be right about my response times. But then again, if I hadn't had to interrupt my search for our 0930 meeting, I'd have received the answer sooner. In fact, I could've been gone long before the Kracow mission returned.

As it was, I had to suffer the eyes of Michael and Nikita on me as I passed them in the hall. They were still in mission gear. Nikita looked tired. Tense. Michael looked . . . like Michael. Unmoved. Unmoveable.

I resisted the urge to walk up to him and apologize. You were right, Michael, I told him in my mind. There are no miracles. Not here. Maybe not anywhere. There are just the games the Fates play with our destinies, giving and taking life and love on a whim . . .

And as if the Fates themselves had decided to confirm it, I found the message waiting for me when I returned. It was insult to injury. A great practical joke.

Hours later, I stepped off a plane into the California sunshine.

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

This time, I did sit near the kitchen, across the way from a different group of midwestern oil executives and their wives. I kept my head averted so she wouldn't recognize me.

The Bitch. What unmitigated gall she had: standing there in the same midnight blue gown, singing her heart out in front of the whole world, daring the world, her father, ME to silence her forever.

I couldn't sit through her set. Not this time. I paid for my untouched meal in cash and slipped out through the kitchen -- out the rear door -- around to the pool, the patio -- down the stone walkway -- along the line of bungalows, to the one at the far end, the one closest to the sea . . .

I stood for a moment staring out at the waves. It was indeed a beautiful view, postcard perfect.

My pulse stayed rock steady.

Inside the darkened bungalow, I waited. Sooner than I expected, she came.

She wasn't alone, but the piano player fell with one shot. Neat and clean, right between the eyes.

I guess you could say it was my trademark shot.

The Bitch tried to run, but I got hold of her long, sleek hair and, using it like a rope, dragged her out of the bungalow -- up the rocks -- the high pile of rocks on which the sea so joyfully exploded itself.

I was surprised she didn't scream. And then not surprised. The Bitch thought she was invulnerable.

She was wrong.

At the highest point, I flung her down, intending for her to sprawl at my feet on the rock. But she slipped -- tried to get away -- and slipped again . . .

Over the edge, toward the sea below.

Stepping carefully to the edge, I looked down. There she was, hanging on just below me, her beautiful doll's face stretched in panic.

Perfect.

I lifted my gun.

"Becky."

My hand clenched. Damn it -- how the hell did he find me? "Go away, Michael."

"No."

I sensed, rather than saw him come up beside me, but he stayed back, as if he just wanted to see my face. "I can't let you do this," he said.

"You can't stop me."

"You know who she is. If you kill her, you kill yourself."

I had to laugh. "You are soooo missing the point, Michael."

There was a slight movement, as if he was surprised. Or maybe just angling to get a better aim. "Is that what you're trying to do?"

The gun was heavy, but I kept it steady. "You're not a Class Five operative without reason."

"Don't do it. You have too much --"

"To live for? You can do better than that, Michael. Why not tell me about all the good I can do? All the innocent people I can protect from terrorists and training sims --" I stopped. Couldn't go there.

"I was going to say you have too much love in you to throw it away."

SONOVA -- I lashed out: "Love?! You're talking to me about LOVE? That's really rich, Michael. Really. What the hell do you know about love? You keep it all locked away, sealed shut, safe and protected. You don't even have the courage to TRY --"

"Unlike your Marco."

No, no, mustn't cry -- must focus, aim, pull the tri -- "Marco's dead."

"Yes, he is. But thanks to you, when he was alive he really lived. He really loved you -- and this is how you repay him? What would he say if he saw you right now? What would your father say? Is this what you plan to do with all the love they gave you? Do you really want to spit on all the love they gave you?"

His hand was on my shoulder. The pain was searing me like fire. I needed water, water to douse the fire, water to close over my heart . . .

Below me, the ocean rolled and rolled . . . if I could just bend a little farther . . .

But he wouldn't let go of me, wouldn't let me fall. "Why did you warn me about her? You warned me because you cared about me and wanted to save me. You loved me enough to save me, even if it meant endangering yourself. Now let me save you --"

Fire. His other hand, easing the gun from mine, was like fire.

"No," I moaned as my knees gave way, "Please, no, Marco --"

Michael put the gun in his pocket. And then, as if in slow motion, he braced himself and leaned over to pull the Bitch up. When she tried to run, he knocked her unconscious.

I stared at her prone body. "Don't let her go --" I whispered. Marco, Marco --

"I won't," Michael said.

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

"How's it going?"

I turned from the white room observation window, surprised only that it had taken him as long as it did to get here.

"All right, I guess," I said as Michael joined me at the window. "But I don't think Miss Lee Nguyen is ever going to be a fan of `Father Knows Best.'"

Together, we watched the encounter in the white room: the malevolent daughter strapped to a chair, the determined father circling her, talking and talking and talking. "She's not going to give up her life's work easily," I added. "But I think I did see a glimpse of something. I guess you could call it love, but it's a sick, strange sort of love."

"I spoke with Madeline," he said. "She agrees that reprogramming Nguyen is the best move, for us and for Operations. There will be no repercussions."

"You mean I won't be cancelled for freelancing?"

"Well, I didn't explain it in exactly those terms."

I knew what he meant, and could even guess what he told Madeline. I knew I should thank him for pulling me back from the abyss, but it was too soon, everything was too raw. Every nerve ending was still aching with pain . . .

Marco . . .

I didn't realize I was crying until Michael touched my face. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah," I whispered, blowing my nose into a Section-issue tissue. "Eventually."

In the white room, Operations knelt at his daughter's feet. She stared down at him.

"Have you seen Nikita?" Michael asked suddenly.

"No, not since --" I stopped, not wanting to go into the details of our last encounter. "Why? Is there something on?"

"No," he said, smiling ever so slightly. "I'm down tomorrow. I thought I might ask her to spend the day with me."

Oh, Michael. You old devil, you. "They have mudbaths at the spa downtown," I suggested.

"I was thinking of something a little cleaner. The park, perhaps."

I patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Go for the gusto, my friend. And be sure to try the pretzels."

At the door he stopped, turned, and, to my complete and utter disbelief, winked at me.

A few days. I'd give it a few days, time to cry, time to mourn, time to try and reclaim the person I was.

Then . . . maybe I'd make a paella. Put on my Three Stooges sweatshirt. Show up unannounced at Nikita's door. Beg forgiveness. Demand the details on her day with Michael.

Ask her help in finding, once again, the hope for love in this our life.

As I left the white room, I found I was humming.

"Give me a kiss to build a dream on, And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss. Sweetheart, I ask no more than this: A kiss to build a dream on."

THE END

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