He knew it was Nikita's softening influence . . . . Here he was, attempting to protect another young female operative. He'd always thought that Section One wasted too many operatives that could have been of value in other positions. Granted, some of the hardened operatives were useless for anything else, but not all.

Michael stepped with care through the dry grass. He could neither hear nor see the rest of his team. A feeling of reassurance swept over him. They'd been well-trained, and it was holding.

His goal was Maubere's tent. He would take out the militia leader with satisfaction. The man's loutish behavior, his foul language, his apparent disrespect for women nagged at Michael. However, it was his known history of executing the unlucky inhabitants of East Timor that had sealed his fate.

After fifteen minutes of careful maneuvering, Michael walked into General Maubere's tent. There was no resistance.

"What the devil?" the older man had exclaimed. Stunned, he hadn't resisted. Michael restrained the general with his own hand-cuffs.

Michael walked into the center of the camp. One by one the team entered the clearing. They had functioned perfectly. Seven operatives had efficiently overcome twenty Indonesian militiamen.

Unable to keep from it, he held his breath and surveyed the visible operatives for Nikita's bright hair. Finally, she entered his field of vision. He began breathing again–unobtrusively, of course. He had no desire to set a bad example, but his heart had resumed a normal rhythm at the sight of her lanky body, strolling into the moonlit night.

Nikita and Lorrie had freed the other team members from the cages. They followed, grumbling a bit, "What took you so long?" and "Thought we were going to have to spend the night in those dog kennels, Michael."

Michael wisely ignored their comments. "Collect their weapons and ammunition. We'll be leaving as soon as I receive a pickup point." He strode off with purposeful strides toward Maubere's communication equipment.

Michael looked over the array of instruments. A digital cell-phone, a generator and a laptop computer–not much, but enough. He began the rudimentary rewiring and quickly accessed Section One's mainframe with his access code.

Operations irascible tones filled the tent. "Where the hell are you, Michael? What's going on there?"

*********

"Bloody hell!" Mina swore. Why she'd ever entered into an agreement with the hooligans running Section One, she didn't understand. She owed them nothing. Still, she'd agreed to keep a trained eye on two innocent women and a small child for them, so she would. Now, she was intent on breaking into a cottage, not dissimilar to her own.

Several years earlier, Mina had retired comfortably to her Oxfordshire cottage and occupied herself with tending to her flowers. Gardens were what British ladies of advanced years did. Indeed, they were known for it. For the first time in her life, she'd felt far removed from the intelligence community, until Madeline had approached her about Mary Raney. Now, it wasn't only Mary Raney, but that tragic little Elena and her darling son.

Madeline, now that one was a piece of work. At one time Mina had become acquainted with Adrian, the originator of Section One. Adrian had confided to her that Madeline was the most complex person she'd ever had the misfortune to meet. The Black Widow was what Adrian had called Madeline, but had declined to elaborate further.

"Tend to the business at hand," she reminded herself softly, while she clipped and re-rerouted the wiring in Elena's security system. She'd assumed the risk of house-breaking herself, refusing to entrust the task to any of her former associates. She was certain that only she could do it without making a complete hash of it. The mother and child had suffered enough. It was bad enough that she was invading their precious sanctuary. In addition to the laptop, she intended to remove a few items in order to assure the authorities that it was a simple burglary.

Mina used her scanner to ascertain the location of Elena and Adam. The red glowing dots were stationary, which indicated they were safely in their bedrooms . . . and asleep, she prayed. She eased the rear door open and stepped inside the kitchen. She waited, listened. No sound, except the rasp of her own breathing. She took another step . . . and another.

The laptop was visible from Mina's vantage point. Only three more steps, and she would have her hands on it. Loosen a few connections, and it would be hers.

"Mommy!"

Mina squatted on her haunches and froze. The sound of Adam's bare feet shuffling against the hardwood floors made her heart nearly stop.

"Mommy, I had a bad dream," he sniffled as he spoke.

Mina heard Elena's soft response, "All right, come to bed with Mommy. Want me to fix you some warm milk?"

**********

"What's going on there?"

"Communications restored," Michael began.

"Why were they interrupted?" Operations asked, his tone growing more churlish with each word.

"Unknown." Michael considered whether or not Operations was feigning his lack of knowledge of their circumstances. Given the state of Section One's technological and network of resources, he thought it unlikely that Operations was unaware of the cause of their communication problems.

"What about General Maubere?" Operations demanded.

"He's no longer a factor," Michael stated with succinct precision.

"What?"

"The General had taken most of the team hostage. Nikita and six others were sent on a mission with some of Maubere's men against unarmed villagers. I modified the mission profile."

"And?" Operations' voice crackled in Michael's ear.

"Nikita and her team have returned. We've freed the rest of our operatives and are ready to be extracted," Michael asserted, daring his superior to deny his request.

"The mission, Michael. You were supposed to negotiate."

"Nothing to negotiate. Maubere is or was intent on crushing the East Timorese people, not in negotiating." Not willing to give Operations time to object, Michael continued, "I've sent our coordinates to Birkoff. I estimate we can hold our position for the next two hours."

Silence reigned. Michael drew in a breath and held it. Was Section One cutting them off entirely? Had that been the plan all along?

"All right." Operations sighed, "Our intel must have been faulty. Birkoff will arrange the pickup point."

Faulty intel? Michael questioned silently. Not likely.

**********

Mina held her breath. Dear Heaven, what would she do if Elena came into the kitchen? She couldn't bear the thought of terrorizing the young widow and her child. The burglary itself would be horror enough without having to brush by her in an attempt to escape. Damn Section One and their machinations! She listened for the child's response.

"Sleep with you, Mommy," Adam sniffed.

Mina could hear his little bare feet as they padded against the oaken floor in the hall. They stopped at the approximate location of his mother's door. Mina exhaled slowly.

"All right, Adam." Mina heard Elena's sleepy voice. She took another slow deep breath and held it, fearing Adam would change his mind at the last minute and agree to the warm milk his mother had offered. She could hear the actual rustle of the linens as the child climbed into his mother's bed. She would have to wait until they settled into a state of sleep once more.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The longcase clock echoed from the hallway. The repetitive sound nearly drove Mina quite mad. She desired nothing more than to abandon her position. Squatting on one's haunches at her age was no mean feat, but she dared not move an inch for fear of discovery. No doubt tomorrow, she wouldn't be able to move at all.

Bong. Bong. The Big Ben chime sounded. Mina listened. Nothing. She rose from her uncomfortable posture, slowly. She imagined that she heard creaking noises from her knees. No, that was not her imagination. Her knees popped and crackled in protest. No matter, once safe at home, she would indulge in some of those high-powered inflammatory pills that she kept for such occasions.

Mina stood a bit unsteadily at first, then took the first of three steps that would take her closer to the laptop. Another, then another. She felt for the tool belt at her waist and removed a tiny screw driver and torch (*flashlight to Americans). She activated the tiny beam that allowed her to see the computer connections. In mere seconds, the laptop was free and in her hands.

She looked about the room. What else should she take to make this look like a simple felony house-breaking?

"Mommy, I have to potty," Adam's drowsy voice startled Mina once more. She froze. Again the little boy's feet padded against the floor, this time in the direction of the loo. Bloody good thing I never had children, Mina thought. I'd have never had a good night's sleep.

Mina decided it was time she eased her way out. It would be a drink of water the child wanted next, or something just as ordinary. Each careful step took her further from discovery. She heard the low flush of the loo. What a well-trained child, she mused. She paused, remaining in the shadows of the cottage kitchen. The devil with it, she thought and reached for the door knob, turned it gently and opened the door. The cool moist night air filled her lungs as she shut the door behind her. A momentary pause . . . not a sound, and off she sped through the back garden to her parked car.

Once inside, she exclaimed aloud, "Damn, I'm too old for this crap."

********

The early morning sun began to peep above the landscape of East Timor, shedding its faint welcoming rays on twenty plus operatives. They'd endured a forced march through the night. Now, huddled in small groups, they waited for their pickup. Michael had given no quarter as he'd led them though the East Timorese terrain. The window for retrieval was a narrow one.

Lorrie watched the level five operative through slitted eyes, while attempting to rest. Even though, he'd pushed them through the night, he appeared to be unfazed by the ordeal. He sat scanning the horizon for the helicopter that was already over due.

If he hadn't been so obviously in love with Nikita, Lorrie would have gone after him herself the first time she'd laid eyes on him, prowling the steel gray halls of Section One. What she wouldn't have given to be his material. Several feet away from Michael, Nikita took her rest, her body curled in a semi-fetal position, yet still alert. They certainly didn't look cozy, but something in their body language told Lorrie that they were very aware of each others presence.

She'd already heard the rumors about that relationship. No one had actually ever seen them do anything more than leave Section One together, but somehow it was common knowledge that Michael was more or less living with Nikita. There were never any overt signs that they were a couple, unless she counted the crackle of sexual tension between the two whenever they were in the same area.

It was also common knowledge that Operations and Madeline didn't approve of Michael and Nikita's relationship. There seemed to be all sorts of theories as to why the couple was under such scrutiny and disapproving glares. Lorrie had observed Operations and Madeline scowling from the upper level office at an apparently innocent exchange between Michael and Nikita on the lower level. Better them than me, she thought. I have enough problems of my own, just staying alive in this hell-hole.

Still, she was curious. Did Michael talk any more when he was alone with Nikita? He didn't seem bound by the same physical laws as other men. His reputed ability to go days without sleep or food had been exaggerated, surely, but his sexual prowess on Valentine missions apparently wasn't. There were too many audio and video tapes that documented that particular aspect of his mystique. She wondered how Nikita felt when Michael made love to someone else on a mission, and vice versa.

Lorrie stirred uncomfortably. Her thoughts were entirely too provocative, especially when the person concerned was less than five feet away.

"It's coming," Michael said, rising to his feet in a motion of fluid grace. Nikita nodded and poked the operative next to her.

Lorrie looked around and was puzzled. She could hear nothing. Was Michael psychic like that Radar character on the old television show "M*A*S*H?" Or was his hearing just better than hers? The other operatives quickly began to stir and prepare for egress. Michael's orders were not to be disobeyed. Then, her ears picked up the whop-whop-whop of a chopper. Guess the man was right after all. Time to go.

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

Madeline watched Operations butter his triangle of toast. He used entirely too much of the high animal fat product, she decided. If Paul weren't careful, he would have a coronary and the Michael/Nikita problem would be moot. There was every indication that George would immediately place Michael into the role of Operations, and Michael would choose Nikita as his second-in-command. That would leave her out in the cold . . . very out in the cold, except for the file key. Luckily, that was still in her possession. It would prove to be a very valuable bargaining chip, as it already had with George.

Operations took a bite of toast, chewed it, swallowed, then took a sip of coffee before speaking. "I understand the pickup went as planned."

"Yes," Madeline responded. "They should return shortly."

"And Mina? Was she successful in retrieving Michael's old laptop?"

"Yes, Cryptoanalysis is working on it now. We should hear something from them by nine," Madeline said, taking a minuscule sip of tea from the gold-rimmed cup.

"Do you think there's any chance that Michael left anything of importance on it?" Operations asked, rearing back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head, an unguarded posture that he assumed with no one but her.

Madeline paused before speaking, "It's doubtful, but the end of the mission escalated very quickly. It's possible that he didn't take time to wipe the hard drive. It's also unlikely that Michael would have had anything relating to Section One on it in the first place. The personal files he left might prove insightful, as to his emotional status and his true feelings about his life."

"He seems to be adjusting to life in Section," Operations mused.

Madeline returned her cup to its saucer. "Pursuing a relationship with Nikita was certainly a step in that adjustment. Undesirable, but not unexpected. I did warn you about it, you know."

Operations returned her remark with his wolfish smile. "Yes, I know." A canny expression crossed his face as he asked, "Do they remind you of anyone?"

"Not at all." Madeline understood what he implied. "That was entirely different. We were entirely different."

"Were we?"

"Yes, we were," she said with an emphatic jut of her chin, daring him to disagree.

"Not so different, Madeline. That's what worries you, isn't it?"

"Worry? I don't worry. I evaluate, consider and formalize plans, but I don't ever worry."

Operations threw his head back and laughed, presenting an unfamiliar vision. "All right, Madeline, have it your way. You will anyway."

Madeline leveled her gaze at him. "I think your levity is uncalled for. This is a serious situation, as you've often indicated." She folded her napkin, left it beside her untouched plate of fruit and rose from the table. Really, the man was impossible when he was in one of his playful moods.

"I'll see you at the debriefing," Operations offered.

"Fine."

**********

Michael sat in repose at his desk, staring at the laptop screen, his hands folded in his lap. Only moments before he'd completed his analysis of the East Timor mission. He'd found justification for the entire scenario problematic. It had never been a real mission. It'd been more of a test. How Operations could endanger the lives of the entire team in such a prodigious waste of time, he couldn't understand.

If the entire reasoning behind the mission had been to test or punish him and Nikita, there were a myriad of other ways in which that could have been accomplished. The debrief had been routine, in spite of Operations acrimonious attitude. Long ago he had adopted the skills necessary to conceal his feelings and emotions. Just the facts... that was all he ever gave. If Madeline was able to detect some minuscule indicator of tension, then so be it. After all, that was her field of expertise--manipulation, control and every flicker of an eyelash to be recorded in the memory bank that dwelt behind her fathomless, dark umber eyes.

He hoped that Nikita had been able to control her anger. She gave Madeline entirely too much, but then that was Nikita's way. It was true that she'd grown during her tenure in Section One, no longer blurting everything she felt or thought. However, he had to admit, her truth was part of her charm. Honesty in a place where only lies dwelt.

He waited for her now. They would go to her place. One of them would cook dinner, or perhaps, indulge in her favorite--Chinese. Sooner or later, her luminous blue eyes would gaze into his, and he would be powerless to resist her invitation. He would touch her and marvel at the silky softness that was his love. Touching Nikita gave him indescribable pleasure. Often he feared he would mar her ivory skin, his passion for her so great. He always took great care and touched her tenderly . . . his porcelain beauty.

Michael felt his mouth curve into a smile at his clearly romantic train of thought. His porcelain beauty was strong and firm, her body nearly equal to his in strength and endurance. The sensually sculptured mounds and valleys of her body enticed him, thrilled him and vanquished him . . . always.

**********

Nikita strode down the hall from the debriefing room. Her thoughts were furious. What a joke! Operations didn't even bother to admit that anything had gone awry with the damn mission. There had been no clear objective from the start, and keeping her tongue under control had been her biggest challenge. After completing the East Timor debrief, she'd wanted a shower and Michael, but not necessarily in that order. However, Michael had been closeted with Madeline and Operations, so the shower had won. Now . . . for Michael.

She ran her fingers through her the slightly damp strands of her hair, feathering the ends and flipped the tresses over her shoulder. At least she was free of the mission dirt that had worried its way into every single body crevice. She and Lorrie had shared the women's shower and both had complained bitterly to each other about the fine grit that took three rinses to banish.

As Nikita marched down the hall to Michael's office, she waggled her fingers in Walter's direction, but she was too intent on seeing Michael. Presumably, they would have some downtime coming, even if only a day or two. Section One still had not made any overt reaction to their relationship. And that was a good thing. Frankly speaking, she was ready for some R and R with Michael. The newness had not worn off their being together. In fact, it still seemed like a miracle every time he looked at her with his passion-darkened, emerald green eyes.

Now, she had no doubts. The passion that had always smouldered beneath the surface had exploded in a whirling firestorm of emotion and sensation. Michael's slightest touch had the power to ignite her deepest and wildest dreams. Nothing she'd ever experienced before could have compared to the sensations caused by the lightest caress of his work-roughened fingers on her neck. He stroked her as if she were a priceless objet d'art. And when he cried her name aloud at the peak of his pleasure, she knew . . . completion . . . she knew . . . comfort . . .she knew . . . love.

She tapped lightly on his door and entered without waiting. Her gaze locked with his. His green eyes darkened with passion. He wanted her. She could feel it. He'd been waiting for her.

"Let's go," he said without preamble, rising in a fluid motion from his chair.

"All right." There was nothing more to say.

**********

"Crytpo report ready, Madeline," sounded over Madeline's intercom. Dylan's whiny nasal tones set her teeth on edge, but he was the best cryptoanalyst in Section. She doubted that Oversight had anyone better.

"All right," Madeline responded. She knew Dylan had spent several hours on Michael's laptop, but it never occurred to her to express her gratification. After all, he was only doing his job. Quickly, she executed the necessary key strokes to bring the report to her monitor.

Nothing. Michael had encoded a virus into his hard drive. He'd left nothing. Crypto had spent several hours trying to retrieve the data, but the virus had been thorough. Madeline drummed her long nails on the plexiglass surface to her left, unable to control her pique. Once again, Michael had thwarted her. She would take action, but Operations would have to be informed of her plan first.

**********

During the drive to Nikita's apartment, the sexual tension had mounted between Michael and her. Accustomed to the ways of Section One and their tendency to mount surveillance, both overt and covert, Michael and Nikita managed to act as if they were any young couple out for the drive home after a hard day at work.

Michael, attired in an immaculate and stylish black suit, and Nikita, in a similarly styled gray one, looked like nothing more than two young executives. They were able to maintain this pose until the door of Nikita's apartment closed behind them, aided by a practiced kick of Michael's foot.

Nikita surrendered to Michael's embrace and wrapped her own arms around his strong neck. Like a fine champagne, desire bubbled in her veins and made her giddy. She'd never wanted him so desperately. All those hours in East Timor, unable to touch him, had tormented her, but will power and years of training had held. What they felt for each other was private . . . not for the stares and knowing nudges of their fellow operatives.

Nikita kicked off her shoes as Michael maneuvered her back against the door. "Mm." His lips found the sensitive spot on her neck, while he unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it off her shoulders. Her body grew feverish under his touch. Not to be outdone, she attempted to remove his jacket, but he was ahead of her, shrugging off the offending garment and giving it a careless toss to the floor. Another impatient tug and his black sweater joined the jacket.

Nikita gasped as Michael's hands ran up her thighs, raising the hem of her skirt till it bunched at her waist. What a time to be wearing pantyhose.

"Kita!" A soft exasperated exclamation escaped Michael's perfect mouth. "Pantyhose? Help me here," he petitioned her, his jade green eyes glittering with passion.

"Sorry," Nikita giggled, as she located the elasticized waist of her hose and peeled them down over her hips.

Michael sank to his knees and removed them the rest of the way, returning to kiss, unimpeded, the insides of her bare knees. His kisses burned like fire as he worked his way upward toward the juncture of her thighs.

Her breathing grew labored as his lips reached their destination. "Ahh," she panted, as waves of pleasure started to center and grow between her trembling legs.

Beep, Beep. The sound of a cell phone chirruping entered her consciousness . . . as it did Michael's.

Michael collapsed and groaned, "No." Together they pawed through the untidy pile of newly shed garments for their cell phones. "It's not mine," Michael murmured, still breathing heavily.

"Damn! It's mine." Nikita flipped open the phone and gave a brusque, "Yeah?"

"Josephine, come in." Birkoff's voice hailed her.

"NOW?" she shouted.

"Now. Madeline is on a tear. She wants you here fifteen minutes ago."

Nikita rolled her eyes back in dismay. "What about Michael?"

"Madeline only wants you. He can stay down."

Nikita looked at Michael, shook her head and snorted. He was down all right, just not where she wanted him. "Are you sure? I mean, uh, Birkoff, couldn't I come in, say, in an hour or so?"

"Sorry, Nikita, Madeline's been pacing like a tiger already."

"Fine!" Nikita muttered and closed the phone with a fierce snap. Turning to Michael she said, "I have to go in."

"So I gathered." Michael rose and began collecting his clothes, shaking the wrinkles from them.

Nikita crossed her arms in front of her chest, gave him a speculative look and asked, "Do you have any idea what this is about?"

"No."

"Well, it's Madeline who wants me." Nikita snatched her jacket and thrust her arms into it, then teetered precariously first on one foot and then the other as she eased her feet into the stiletto heels she'd kicked off just moments before.

Michael frowned, then warned, "Be careful." He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. "I'll go in."

Nikita shook her head, "No need. It's probably something really stupid, some detail I omitted on the debrief. Madeline's just trying to piss me off."

"I doubt it. Something's up. I feel it."

Nikita raised an eyebrow. "Intuition, Michael?"

"No, I know Madeline."

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

Elena yawned and shuffled from the bedroom into the kitchen. It was still quite early. The pale English sun hadn't been up long enough to burn away the early morning fog. The BBC weather reporter had predicted rain for late morning. She turned to the cappuccino machine and went through the routine of preparing her favorite morning drink. She hadn't picked up the British habit of drinking tea, not yet, at least. Soon the hissing sounds of her morning brew soothed her uneasy nerves.

Adam was still asleep in her bed. She wasn't sure which of them needed the comfort of togetherness more–she or her son, but she was determined to protect him at all costs. From her robe pocket, she removed a folded sheet of paper that contained a long list of numbers. She unfolded it on the counter, smoothing the folds and wrinkles from it with her hands. So many numbers, so many accounts—how much money was involved? How had Michael managed to garner and set aside such resources?

Once again, Elena realized she'd known so little about her handsome husband. They had lived comfortably, very comfortably, in a charming three-story house. As Michael's wife and the mother of his child, she'd never wanted for anything during their years of marriage, but she had a feeling that all his years of dedication to his career had been . . . what? A sham, perhaps? There was something missing, a huge gap. What had filled that gap in Michael's life?

What was it his note to her had said? Loved you as much as I was able? She knew those words would continue haunting her until she made peace with them. How would she do that? What difference did it make, anyway? The man she'd loved for six years was dead. She couldn't erase the memories or the heartache. Only time could alter the intensity with which she still experienced them.

The cessation of sound from the cappuccino machine alerted her that the process was complete. She opened the cabinet next to the window where the cups were stored and removed one. It was a large black mug with a generous handle. She'd bought it especially for Michael when he'd complained that the delicate cups she preferred were too small for his hands. Now, she used it and no other. The steaming, frothy concoction poured forth into the mug, but she set it aside. It was still too hot to sip.

Elena turned to survey the rest of the kitchen. Everything was neat, as she'd left it. She'd always been an immaculate housekeeper, never able to tolerate untidiness. At least, not until she'd had Adam. Little boys did have a way of creating their own havoc in a matter of minutes. As much as she doted on her son, she relished these early morning moments alone. Time for her thoughts, time to think and plan.

Elena's gaze stopped at the old oak desk. The laptop . . . it was missing. She rushed to the desk, looked under it, behind it. Where could it be? In spite of her warnings, had Adam somehow managed to disconnect it and take it to his room?

She walked down the hallway to her son's room and looked inside. An unmade bed, deserted the night before, was all that was amiss. Her hands started to shake and her breath grew ragged as she considered the alternative. Had someone been in the house during the night?

She raced to the back door—unlocked! She knew she'd locked it the night before. It was part of her routine, or had she? She only remembered following Michael's instructions about deleting the files and going to bed and crying herself to sleep. Or had she locked the door before that?

Should she call the police? Hurriedly she looked around the rest of the house in an attempt to discover if anything else was missing. Her jewelry was still in its usual place, as were the rest of the cottage's contents.

Why would someone take only Michael's computer? Would the authorities bother to investigate such a paltry crime? Michael would know what to do, she thought unconsciously. But Michael isn't here now. It's up to me.

Elena picked up the cordless phone from the counter and punched in Mary Raney's number. She breathed a sigh of relief as her sleepy friend answered. "Mary, it's Elena. Can you come over? Something's happened."

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

"You've got to be kidding!" Despite years of learning to guard her responses, occasionally Nikita failed. Madeline gave Nikita her most serious I never kid expression. She continued, "Mick Shtoppel will pose as your fiancé. You can't keep visiting Elena without some evidence of a social life. That would make her suspicious. Statistics show that a young woman your age, under normal circumstances, would have a serious relationship."

"Yeah, right," Nikita muttered under her breath. "A serious relationship with Mick."

Madeline kept her gaze level. "Elena needs to be distracted from the theft of Michael's laptop, and we need someone she trusts who will be able to find out what Michael left for her on those files." She waited for Nikita's response.

It was quick and to the point. "Why don't you just ask Michael? Why risk exposure by sending me and Mick? He's a loose cannon, no idea of propriety."

Madeline permitted a feeble smile to touch her lips. "If I thought Michael would be forthcoming about the files, I would have."

Nikita leaned forward, "What makes you think there was anything important on the laptop?"

"Michael used an unusually sophisticated virus to destroy the files once they'd been printed. This action tells me that he had something to hide."

"Well, if the files are destroyed, there's no danger–"

Madeline could bear no more. "That will be all, Nikita. You have the mission profile."

Nikita rose in an apparent huff, unable to hide her disgust, but able to keep her response to a simple, "Fine."

Madeline watched Nikita retreat until she reached the steps, then stopped her. "This is quite a simple mission, Nikita, but an important one. Don't fail, after all, Elena and Adam are innocents that I'm sure you feel it's important to protect." Madeline knew Nikita would understand the implied threat.

Nikita responded with a simple nod of her head. Madeline was pleased. The young operative would never be able to best her in a war of wills, but observing the attempt absolutely made her day.

Nikita muttered to herself all the way to Walter's station. "Blankety-blank Mick Shtoppel. He'll be lucky, if he comes back alive from this mission."

"What's the matter, Sugar? Madeline get your goat again?" he asked.

Nikita took a deep breath and let it out. "If you only knew."

Walter chuckled, his shoulders shaking, as he bent over a piece of delicate work. "I do know. Maybe I should say ‘Congratulations' on your coming nuptials?"

Nikita slammed her fist onto the table. "It's not funny, Walter. Besides, controlling Mick, I've gotta lie to Elena and Adam again. How many times are they gonna make me go back there and see the unhappy mess we've made of their lives?"

Walter straightened up and looked her in the eye. "Sugar, you don't have much choice, the way I see it." He paused, then asked, "Maybe you're feeling a little guilty—about you and Michael?"

Nikita felt the tears start to form. "Of course, I feel guilty. I've always felt guilty. Section One has ruined their lives, and now . . . ." her voice faltered.

"And now that you and Michael are together, you don't want to think about how unhappy they are without him," Walter finished for her, patting her on the shoulder.

"Right," Nikita sniffed.

"Well, Sugar, Elena had six pretty good years with Michael. That's more that some women have. Adam's young, and he'll get over losing his father. As for Michael, he's given up more than anyone here in Section, and he deserves some happiness, too. He's found that happiness with you, Sugar . . . because of you. You have to grab what happiness there is, ‘cause you don't know how long it will last. Believe me, I know."

"Oh God, Walter, I'm sorry, I didn't mean. . . ." Nikita hugged her grizzled father-figure.

Walter returned her hug, his eyes suspiciously shiny, "Get outta here. Go pickup that new fiancé of yours—the bald one!"

Nikita rolled her eyes. Walter was the true treasure of Section One. He had heart and practical wisdom and the wonderful ability to lighten her heart. "Bye, Walter," she said, and planting a kiss on his cheek, strode away.

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

Mary Raney hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans, tugging them over what she thought of as slightly generous hips. She grabbed the loose-fitting taupe silk sweater from the closed and pulled it over her head. Then rushing to the dresser, she snatched a brush and whisked it through her short dark hair. True, Elena's call had awakened her, but it had galvanized her into action. Someone had broken into Elena's the night before and stolen Michael's laptop.

Given her recent experience with Elena's supposedly dead husband, Mary was suspicious of any event relating to Michael. Why had Elena called her? Why hadn't she simply called the police about the break-in? Had something else happened that caused Elena to be wary of the authorities?

Innumerable questions continued to assail her as she rushed from the house and jumped into her car for the short drive to Elena's. Where was Michael now? Had he actually risked breaking into Elena's cottage? Was he low enough to pull such a stunt? Probably not. More than likely, he'd just have someone else in his agency do it.

The green lawns and trees whizzed by, but Mary was in no mood for enjoying the scenery that usually attracted her interest. How would she ever maintain her composure in the face of Elena's certain upset? Just once she would like to get her hands on Michael and give him what for! The one thing she knew was that he didn't deserve the love and grief that Elena had wasted on him for the last year.

Government agent–that was probably a load of rich manure, too! More likely, he was some con man who went around seducing and marrying women for their money. He'd certainly conned her–first into believing he was a poet and scholar, then into believing he was a government agent.

She'd have to do a little investigating on her own. A little judicious questioning to see just how much money Michael had taken from Elena before he faked his death. What a creep! And to think she'd been ready to fall into his arms with hardly a second thought. He was deadly charming, like the snake he was.

As she drove into the drive, she pondered one final question. How much longer could she continue withholding the knowledge of Michael's treachery from Elena?

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

"Now, let me see if I understand this, Cupcake. You're telling me that our Mikey had a little wife and kiddie in the suburbs all the time he was shagging you?"

Nikita gripped the steering wheel harder. It was a miracle she hadn't put permanent dents in the damn thing. "That's not what I said," she said evenly. "Michael, as a part of the deep-cover mission to reach Salla Vacek, had to marry Vacek's daughter. In order to deepen the cover, they had a child."

"In other words, this other bird knew?"

Nikita tried to stay cool, but Mick, well Mick, was simply infuriating. She couldn't believe that Madeline had saddled her with him. It was bad enough that he lived across the hall from her. "No, she didn't. Just shut up and listen, Mick. Elena, his wife, thinks Michael's dead. Section shot him and her father right in front on her."

"Eww, Popsicle, that's cold." Mick shook his head in seeming disgust. "I'm still trying to comprendez-vous all this. So, our spyboy Michael ran back and forth from wifey to you, et cetera. I must say I have nothing but admiration for the boy's stamina."

"That's not how it was!" Nikita exclaimed, then took a deep breath.

Mick started to laugh, "Oh yeah, right and that surveillance tape with you and Mikey on the Armel mission. That was just a mission, right!!! Just doing your duty for Section." Mick nodded his head in delight. "Now, I guess it's my turn to do my duty. Can't say I haven't wanted to check you out, but since it's a mission, we can have some laughs and no danger of Mikey breaking any of my body parts, now is there?"

Nikita turned the wheel sharply to the right and swerved off the road. She turned off the ignition and twisted in the seat and faced Mick, grabbing him by his pale yellow shirt, "You get those ideas right out of your head. You'll be losing some of those body parts if you so much as touch me without my express permission. Do you understand?"

Mick's head nodded. "You know you've totally lost your sense of humor. It's sad, really sad. It is."

Nikita sighed in disgust and released him not too gently. "Look, you can't blow this, Mick. Elena is a very fragile woman. I like her a lot, and I don't want to hurt her any more than she's already been hurt. Think what would happen to her and the child, if she finds out that Michael is alive and what he, or we, do."

"Wouldn't be pretty, would it?"

"No, it wouldn't."

"Nikita?"

"Yes, Mick?" Honestly, he was getting on her last nerve.

"I'm trying to get this straight. So, you like Elena. I would think—I mean any other woman would be jealous, why aren't you?"

"I was. Elena had everything I'd ever wanted—Michael, a child, a home, but it was all based on a lie. A lie that had to end. Besides, she's a very nice person." Why she'd decided to be honest with Mick, she wasn't sure. He wasn't really that bad, if she took into consideration, that he was a cartoon character instead of a person.

"And now the studly Michael is all yours. Neat trick."

"It's not that simple, Mick."

"No, I don't guess it is, Popsicle. Issues, we all have issues."

Nikita nodded and agreed, "Yeah, we have issues."

"Now, just tell me one thing, Luv. Does Michael ever crack a smile when he, you know what I mean?"

Nikita hung her head. Mick was impossible. She grinned and told him, "That's top secret. If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Mick rolled his eyes. "Right! Guess that's one of those things I don't need to know."

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

Elena paced back and forth in the small cottage. Her movements were intense and full of anger.

"Elena, sit down. You'll wear the finish off the floor," Mary said, attempting to lighten Elena's mood.

Elena stopped, her eyes widened. "I can't sit down. Someone was in this house last night, in this very house. That person could have done anything to Adam. How can you expect me to sit down and calmly wait for the police?"

"I–I've never seen you like this, Elena. You have to calm down. You're going to upset Adam." Mary looked over her shoulder toward Adam's room.

Elena took a deep breath and exhaled in exasperation, then said in measured syllables. "Adam is busy with that new Play-Station. He doesn't know I'm around when he's playing with it," she said, dropping her tone. "Of course, you're right. "I've allowed my fear and temper get the better of me, something I seldom do. "It makes me so angry that someone had the nerve to break in here in the middle of the night," she muttered. "I know the security system was engaged. That was something Michael always insisted on at home. It's a habit, one I've cultivated over the years. With Michael being away so much, it was the natural thing to do. I–I mean it made me feel so much safer."

Mary nodded. "What do you think the police will do? All that's missing is the laptop." Will the authorities muck this up? she asked herself, wishing she knew the answers that Elena needed to hear.

"They'll investigate!" Elena said, slamming her her small olive-skinned fist on the kitchen counter. "If it happened once, it could happen again. It's possible that Adam and I interrupted whomever it was last night. Adam woke up in the middle of the night. I shudder to think, what if?"

Mary rushed to comfort Elena. "You're right, you should call the police. You should've already called them." To hell with Michael Samuelle, she thought. If he broke in here last night, he ought to be shot.

Elena's body language relaxed. "The only reason I hesitated is that I thought it might have to do with my father's enemies. It's all so confusing. I hate to move again, but I don't know what else to do."

"Move again, but what about school—yours and Adam's?"

"School will have to wait. You know," Elena paused, "Michael foresaw that something might happen."

"He did?" Of course, he did. He's probably the one that engineered it.

"Yes, the third file. It contained a great deal of information. In case I ever felt in danger, there's money—a lot of it, and passports with new identities."

"What?" Mary was surprised. Michael had left money for Elena and Adam, not taken it. If he could engineer passports with fake identities, then maybe he really was some kind of government agent.

"Now, I have to decide if this is the kind of situation that he meant for me to use them."

Mary drew back, visibly stunned. "I guess your husband thought of everything, didn't he?"

"Almost everything." Elena's brown eyes flashed once again with anger. I'd much rather he still be alive, then I wouldn't have to make all these difficult decisions. He should have been more careful!" Elena collapsed on a chair in the small kitchen. "I'm so selfish. Michael's dead and I'm furious at him for not being more careful!" She covered her face with her hands and wept.

Mary patted Elena on the shoulder. "Of course, he should've been more careful, and you have every right to feel that way, Elena. Anger is part of the grieving process."

"I still blame myself, Mary. If I hadn't been so ill, Michael wouldn't have tried to find my father. It was so selfish of me—needing to see him before I died. I really thought I was dying. I could see it in the physician's face, in Michael's, too. Sometimes, I wish I had died," she sobbed. "Except for Adam, he's kept me going. I don't know what I'd do without him, Mary. He's my life."

Mary swallowed the bile that crept up her throat. She didn't know if it were possible to feel lower than snail slime or not, but she did. "You have to do whatever you think is best for Adam and yourself. That's what you have to do now," she murmured.

Elena raised her head, sniffed and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "First, I'm calling the police, then I'll think about the rest."

The call was quickly made. "The constable said he'll be here soon," Elena said, already appearing calmer.

The doorbell rang. Mary looked sharply at Elena, "That's pretty quick!"

Elena's eyes widened in alarm. "Not that quick, surely. Who can it be?"

**********

Michael sat in his office, unable to concentrate on the final report on East Timor. Only moments before, Madeline had walked by his office, slowed as if she would stop, then passed the door with that fearsome and unreadable smile on her face.

The more Michael observed Madeline's behavior, the more certain he was that she was concealing something. The surreptitious glances, when she thought his attention was elsewhere, as well as the speculative expression on her face as she conversed with Operations. What was she hiding?

From all indications, it concerned Nikita's flash mission. He'd tried to access the profile, but the profile was unavailable–at least to him. One minute Nikita had been in his office, discussing dinner plans, and the next she was called to Madeline's office. He would never give Madeline the satisfaction of appearing curious, much less perturbed, but he was—both.

When all else fails, ask Walter. Walter had taken Nikita to his heart from the first moment he'd seen her. At the time, Michael had been puzzled. Why would someone like Walter offer friendship to a beautiful, but unrepentant, cop-killer? Michael understood the heady power of her physical attraction–all too well. He'd experienced a dizzying surge of pure lust after flipping her to the floor in the initial White Room encounter.

Though he'd fought the feelings she'd aroused, lust had grown into passion. A passion that demanded that he protect her, at all costs. Belief in her innocence had grown, too, from the first time she had killed–she'd shot someone to protect him. She still had the power to make his head swim with desire, as well as the unerring ability to drive him slightly insane at times.

Now that he and Nikita were together and not hiding it, she illuminated the inner darkness that had encapsulated his heart and mind for years. He was no longer the machine that Operations wound up and sent on missions. His percentages were still high, higher than Madeline would ever admit.

Michael rose from his desk. Yes, he would ask Walter. The hippy-guru-father confessor of Section One would know where Nikita had gone.

Quickly, he strode toward Munitions. Passing two female operatives, he heard giggles. As always, he ignored them, but he would have given a years-end bonus, if they would only stop. Nikita had said it was the way he walked. "The way I walk is the way I walk, Nikita. I can't change it," he'd told her. Then get used to it, she'd told him. Get used to it?

Walter looked up as Michael entered. "What's up?"

Michael jerked his head toward the rear of munitions storage. Walter nodded, and together they walked to where they could converse privately.

Michael wasted no time or words. "Where's Nikita?"

Walter gave him a thoughtful stare. "Madeline has sent her to check on something," his voice dropping for dramatic emphasis, "in Oxford."

"Why?"

"Something about files you left."

"Why now?"

"Intel says Elena has accessed some of them."

"I see," Michael nodded. "What else?"

"Word has it that Section has your laptop, and there's nothing left."

Michael couldn't suppress a tiny grin. Excellent virus, he would have to buy Birkoff a present for that.

"So, Madeline has sent Nikita with her new fiancé to find out what was in those files."

Michael swallowed. "Fiancé?"

"Mick Shtoppel. Good match," Walter laughed.

"Ideal, in some ways, but can Nikita control him?"

Walter threw his head back and laughed, "I hear she threatened some of his masculine body parts, if he didn't behave himself. She'd do it, too."

Michael looked into the older man's eyes and said in his typically grave manner, "Thank you." He turned and walked away, in an attempt to contain his anxiety. If Madeline had been watching, she would have noted the giveaway drumming of his fingers against the thigh of his black slacks.

Madeline had unleashed Nikita and Mick Shtoppel on Elena and Adam. Disaster loomed, unless he could prevent it.

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

Nikita and Mick stood at Elena's front door. The glossy forest green paint was a contrast to her previous house's aubergine door. Nikita hadn't liked eggplant since.

"Nice little cottage, very picturesque. Now, I could go for something like this when I retire," Mick babbled. "I mean, when we retire, doll."

Nikita cast him a brief ‘if looks could kill' glance. He'd placed his hand her waist, touching her lightly, as agreed. After all, he was supposed to be her fiancé, she'd have to allow some minor expressions of affection.

The door opened. It was Elena. It looked as if she'd gained another couple of kilos. Nikita was relieved. Elena was still entirely too thin for her height, but apparently, she was making progress in regained the weight she'd lost after Michael's death.

"Nikita?" The expressions on her face quickly changed from one of surprise to dismay. "Why are you here?" She turned to Mick. "Who's this?"

Nikita was startled by Elena's lack of warmth, but she ignored it. "This is Mick, my fiancé. We were spending the weekend in London and just got engaged. I just had to come share it with you. I hope you don't mind." Nikita bowled past Elena, ignoring the difficult moment, looked around the living room, sweeping her arms in a wide gesture of appreciation. "I love this cottage. You've done marvelous things with it, really."

"I'm sorry, Nikita. My manners are terrible," Elena apologized, reaching for Mick's hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you. It's just that this is a bad time."

"Bad time? Oh, I'm so sorry," Nikita continued. "We should've called first. I do have this bad habit of just showing up on people's doorsteps, unannounced," she said offering Elena her widest smile.

Elena returned a feeble smile of her own. "Yes, you do," she murmured softly. "There's been a burglary--just last night. We're expecting the police any moment."

Nikita perked up at the ‘we.' It was then she noted the petite brunette standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. "Hello," she said extending her hand, "I'm Nikita."

"Mary Raney. I'm a friend of Elena's." The newcomer stood, arms folded across her chest, leaning against the door frame.

"You're American?" Oh, Lord, this was Mary Raney. How had Elena managed to become friends with the one person who'd seen Michael since his death. She looked hastily about the room. There was no shrine to Michael, as there had been on her last visit to Elena in France.

"Yes, and you are?" Mary asked with arched eyebrow.

It seemed to Nikita that Elena sensed the awkwardness between her two friends. She explained, "Nikita is related to Michael's step-father, and this is Mick, Nikita's fiancé."

"I see."

Nikita watched Mary closely. She received a very funky vibration from the young woman. She knew she had only visited Michael once while he was in Oxford, and she was positive that she hadn't been seen by his target, Mary, at the time. There had to be some reason Mary had taken an instant dislike to her. Michael had described her as intelligent and sweet, but rather feisty, with a self-deprecating sense of humor. Right now, She could see no evidence of any sense of humor.

"Well, now luvs, it's simply dashing to meet you both. Nikita has told me so much about you, Elena. I feel as if I know your deepest, darkest secrets."

Nikita restrained a gasp. Then he really went into action. She was in awe, as she watched him work the room. He bent over Elena's hand and kissed it, "Enchante, I'm so sorry for your loss." Then he turned to Mary Raney, who was apparently stunned into silence, by his overblown gestures. "Ah, a lovely flower from our Yank cousins in the west. Are you staying long?"

Nikita held back another gasp. Mary Raney blinked, then turned to look at Nikita. Is he for real? her expression seemed to say. It was time she reigned the boy in. "Mick, darling, why don't you be a doll, and bring in my sweater from the car?"

"Sure luv," he said, smiling, then kissed her cheek and patted her on the bum before he left to do her bidding.

Nikita would have to get even later. Now, she had two puzzled women staring at her. "I know. I know. He's a little much sometimes, but he's loads of fun."

Elena spoke first. "Well, fun is fun, Nikita, but you're really going to marry him?"

Nikita shrugged and smiled. "We're engaged, and I believe in long engagements. We'll see what happens. In the meantime, we've barged in at a bad time. I'm sorry. I just didn't stop to think."

Mary spoke, "Elena, would you like for me to prepare some coffee or tea for your guests? That way you won't have to leave them."

Elena looked at Mary with gratitude. "Thank you, that would be very nice." Then she turned to Nikita and asked, "Tea, Nikita?"

"Yes, tea would be fine." Seems like I said that the first time, Nikita thought.

"Why don't we sit here and get reacquainted while Mary prepares the tea." Elena motioned toward the chintz-covered sofa. The two women sat on the sofa, knee-to-knee. "Now, tell me all about your career and your engagement to Mick. Have you known him long?"

Nikita prepared to launch into her cover story, when Mick re-entered the house, accompanied by two constables, one tall, long-faced and serious demeanor, the other shorter, rounder with twinkling blue eyes.

Elena gasped first, then Mary. Only Nikita was able to maintain her composure. What had startled the other two women and nearly knocker her off her feet? One of the constables possessed a remarkable resemblance to Michael. Oh, not an exact likeness, but close enough. His hair was had more of a red cast to it, and his eyes were gray, not green, but the long, ascetic-looking face and thick, dark eyebrows were startling and familiar.

The tall constable, doffed his cap. "Mrs. Samuelle? I'm Detective Constable French, and this is Constable Mahew. We understand that you've had a break-in and theft. Is that correct?" Nikita trembled. Even the timbre of DC French's voice was similar to Michael's. The accents different, of course, butboth voices were soft and low-pitched.

Elena's voice wavered a bit as she answered, "Yes, that's exactly what happened."

*********

Michael read the list of upcoming missions to be profiled. To be exact, there were eight profiles that required his immediate attention and five others listed as having an intermediate priority. Madeline had apologized for the short notice, telling him that two of the profilers were ill, making it necessary for everyone to pitching and do his share. He knew Madeline too well. She never apologized, unless she had ulterior motives. Her intent was to keep him occupied during Nikita's mission in Oxford. Oxford . . . Adam . . . Elena.

He wanted to see for himself how they were doing. Dry reports . . . how he hated them. Six years of his family life reduced to clinical terms like anorexia and night terrors. Hatred flashed and consumed him for a moment, but time and Section One had taught him well. Time and pain. He repressed the hostility, shoved it back into some hidden recess of awareness, where it could not interfere with his efficiency levels, where it could not dominate his life.

His bridges had been effectively burned by a Section one bullet. The number of men he would have allowed to shoot him in the chest—vest or no—he could count on one hand. Snow had been one such man. Quiet, loyal and intensely focused, Snow had entered Elena's hospital room and delivered the kiss of death to her father and to him. His deep-cover mission was over. He was dead to his wife and beloved son, and he intended to stay that way in order to survive. He was a survivor, after all.

No sense putting off the inevitable, he thought. He began with the first profile, assessing the number of operatives needed, planning contingencies, and always the worst part, determining who was expendable for the greater good of the mission.

He worked at a feverish pace, aware that Madeline would only direct more his way, if he should finish them in less time than she had determined necessary. Worse, he would be needed on tactical for several of the missions. He could envision no scenario whereby he would be allowed any downtime in the near future.

Lack of control always aggravated him. Basically, he would be forced to sit back and allow Nikita to accomplish her mission. Never had he felt so powerless. Unless....

*********

After addressing the constable, Mick watched Elena grow pale, her knees giving way, right in front of him. He rushed to her side and caught her before she could faint. "There now, I know it's been a bit of a shock, seeing—-," Mick paused, realizing he'd almost blown his cover, "uh, the break-in and all. Here now, let's just ease you over to this comfy chair." Elena placed her hand on Mick's forearm. Poor bird, he thought.

When Mick had first met Elena, he'd been shocked at how thin the poor girl was, but holding her in his arms, he couldn't believe how light she was in his arms. He could feel her bones through her blouse. She's a fragile flower, he thought. Nikita was right. I've can't be too careful with this one.

An unaccustomed feeling hit Mick right in his mid-section. It'd been so long since he'd felt anything resembling it, he was a bit buzzed by its intensity. Could it be tenderness and a desire to protect the slender woman he held? The very idea! Blimey, it near blew his mind. He looked into her wide brown eyes and knew his heart was lost. . . lost to a woman he'd never win, not if he had a brain in his head or the desire to live beyond tomorrow.

"I--I think I'll be all right," Elena said, settling herself of the sofa. "I feel so silly. I don't know what came over me."

DC French cleared his throat. "Take your time. Perhaps, you could tell me what happened, Ma'am. Was anyone injured?"

Regretfully, Mick stood back and watched as DC French focused his attention on Elena, who shivered, before answering, "No, we, my son Adam and I, slept through it. This morning, I came into the kitchen and found that the laptop computer was missing, and the back door unlatched." Elena frowned, then continued in her slow, deliberate way that Mick found more adorable with each syllable she uttered, "I'm sure that I engaged the alarm. It's a habit my late husband always insisted upon."

DC French glanced around the crowded room, eyeing each one in turn. "Just you and your son live here?"

"Yes, that's right," Elena said, nodding.

"And all these people are?" DC French asked.

"My friends. Mary Raney lives nearby," Elena gestured toward her friend, who stood holding a tray laden with coffee and tea.

"Coffee, tea or, uh, never mind," Mary said, blushing as she set the tray on the tea table to Elena's left.

"Nikita is a distant relative of my late husband, and she's here with her fiancé, Mick. They're from Paris."

"And your son, Ma'am? Where is he?" DC French asked.

Adam picked that moment to rush into the room toward his mother. His shiny dark hair needed a wee trim, in Mick's opinion, but he was a cute little tyke, for all that.

"Mommy, what's happened? Are the bad men after us, again?"

A frown, then a smile flashed across Elena's face. She reassured her son, "No, no, Adam. It's nothing like that. The constable is here to see about what happened to Daddy's computer."

Mick watched as Adam looked closely at the taller constable. The boy's steady gaze started at the officer's knees and rose upward toward his face. "Hmmph," Adam commented. His dark brown eyes narrowed and a frown crossed his face. He wriggled into his mother's lap, looked solemnly at DC French and asked, "Are you going to find my Daddy's computer? I might need it when I grow up." Mick's heart was lost once again, to a youngster who squirmed like a small puppy in his lovely mother's arms.

"I shall certainly try young man."

"I hope you do. Finding bad people is difficult. My Mommy says so, 'cause no one ever found the bad man who killed my Daddy and Grandpa."

That did it. Mick decided his heart would break, if he didn't vacate the premises. He looked in Nikita's direction, who appeared to be struggling with tears of her own. "Look, Luv, let's make our exit. We're a tad in the way, we are." Of course, he didn't feel any too comfy around the authorities, either. Kind of a dicey lot, they were.

Nikita scowled, "I think we should stay and be with Elena."

"But Darling," he tried.

"No, Elena needs us." Nikita turned to Adam and said, "Adam, why don't you show Mick your new Play Station game. I know he'd love it."

"Play Station, really?"

"Yes, I'm very good." The expression on Adam's face brightened, as he struggled down from his mother's lap. "Let's go. I'll beat you, ‘cause I could always beat my Daddy."

"Oh, really?"

Adam nodded solemnly, "Yes. He wasn't very good at computer games. I had to show him everything. I miss him, Mr. Mick." Adam continued down the hall, his voice piping as he went. "Don't you think the Mr. French guy looks just like my Daddy?"

"Uh, well, Adam, I don't think I ever knew your Daddy." Mick grew more uncomfortable. Don't let the little bugger start crying. That's all I ask.

"Mommy has his picture in her room. See." Adam stopped at the door to Elena's bedroom.

Mick was astounded. Pictures of Michael everywhere . . . smiling . . . laughing . . . lots of them. Who knew?

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

In her lifeless, orchids notwithstanding, office, Madeline sat with arms folded across her chest and listened to Michael's succinct assessment of his profiles. He'd made entirely too much progress with the work load she'd given him earlier in the day. She was not pleased.

Michael maintained his usual stance, feet apart, hands folded in front of him. His softly accented voice revealed no emotion. "Tanzania, Taipei, and Gaza missions are ready to be signed off. Islamabad moved to the top of the list and has already departed. George has downgraded the remaining four priority missions to pending status, but the necessary operatives have been placed on close quarters standby. I need Nikita for the Moscow mission. When will she be available?"

So, that's what this is about, Michael, she thought. Nikita. "That's unknown. Use someone else."

"Nikita needs to increase her fluency in Russian. This would be an excellent opportunity."

"Use someone else," Madeline replied evenly, then baited him, "Use Valerie, if you need someone fluent in Russian." She was rewarded by a muscle that contracted slightly in Michael's neck. He revealed no other sign of his displeasure.

"She's a profiler. They're short two already."

Madeline smiled, "I've spoken with Doc, she assures me that Madison and Avery will both be over the flu and back at work in less than a week. Valerie will be available."

"I prefer not to use profilers on missions. They don't take direction well."

"I can understand your feelings regarding this issue Michael, but regardless of your past history with Andrea, Valerie will make an excellent choice for the Moscow mission." Time to put her proverbial foot down, she was tired of the discussion. "Anything else of concern, Michael?"

"No."

"That will be all then."

"Of course." Michael spun on his heel and walked toward the steps. He'd reached the bottom step, when Madeline saw him stop, his shoulders hunched, and he sneezed . . . loudly . . . twice.

"Are you ill, Michael?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"I'm fine," he gave his ubiquitous answer, then sneezed again.

"Report to Medical. We can't afford to have you down."

"Of course."

Michael walked up the steps, and as the door slid closed, Madeline heard one last vociferous sneeze.

**********

Mary looked from Elena to Nikita to Constable Mayhew and finally to DC French and felt as if she were in an episode of "The Twilight Zone." Disconcerted would be an understatement. First, there had been the sudden appearance of the tall, beautiful blonde Nikita and her fiancé Mick. That had been more than a little weird. Michael had relatives? Not bloody likely. So, who was this Nikita broad? And the sleazy fiancé in his light blue suit and lavender shirt, who was he really?

She'd just recovered from meeting them, when who should arrive but the local authorities, one of whom looked enough like Michael to be his brother, if not his twin. She stared into DC French's eyes. They were silver gray and steely. His hair was auburn, but styled in a very business-like cut that was a cross between regulation police-length and GQ. Of course, contact lenses and hair color could change a man's appearance as easily as any woman's, but DC French appeared to be at least two inches taller than Michael, as well as being thinner, too. She knew she'd stared too long. DC French frowned, but said nothing. Mary felt a flush creep up her neck. Nothing like making a conspicuous show in front of the police.

Nikita seemed quite entranced by him, too. The big blonde Amazon couldn't seem to keep her big baby blues off him, although she managed not to be blatant about it. Nikita's glances were casual and surreptitious, but frequent all the same. Mary wasn't fooled. Nikita was not what she seemed, but then who was?

The silence seemed to make everyone uncomfortable. Elena found her voice first, "DC French, I know that we're very fortunate that nothing else was taken, and that no harm was done, but it does make me feel quite shaken."

All it made Mary feel was suspicious. Too many coincidences, too many people in that small two-bedroom cottage.

"Ma'am, was there anything of importance on your husband's laptop?"

"No, a couple of letters, personal ones, that's all." Elena lied, but she wasn't a good liar. Her gaze dropped for a moment. Mary doubted that her friend had deceived DC French, either.

"What type of work was your husband involved in, Ma'am? Could there have been anything related to that on the computer?" DC French asked. He took no notes. Mayhew did, his left hand scribbling furiously in a pocket-sized leather note book.

"Michael's work?" Elena sighed, "He was an architect, away from home a lot on projects, but he used a different type of computer for that."

"Why was that?" DC French asked, frowning.

Elena shrugged, "Well, he once said the laptop wasn't sufficient for his plans. Not enough memory, I think."

"I see." DC French gave a brief smile, his first change of expression. "That should do it then, Ma'am," he said, touching the brim of his cap.

Mary bristled, "Aren't you even going to take finger prints?"

"Not much use, Ma'am," Constable Mayhew interjected. "In this day and time, housebreakers are too sophisticated to go ‘round leaving their dabs all over the place. Just look how they circumvented the alarm system. Not likely to forget the gloves, no Ma'am."

"I see. Do you think we're in danger of another break-in, DC French? I,-I live alone with my son, you see."

Mary watched DC French's face soften, if only for a moment, as he answered, "No, Ma'am, if that's all they took, then it's probably all they wanted. I would recommend you have the locks changed immediately, and notify your alarm representative. Perhaps, an upgrade would help you feel more secure."

"Yes, yes, thank you." Elena murmured, still looking bewildered.

Mary spoke with determination, raising her chin for emphasis. "I'll stay with her until the locks are changed and the security system is altered."

"I'm sure that will be of the greatest comfort to your friend, Ma'am," DC French replied, obviously biting back a smile.

Nikita rose and affirmed, "We'll not leave her alone, none of us will."

DC French nodded and said to Elena, "It seems you have an army of champions. We will run all the routine check of pawn shops and used appliance venues. I'll advise you if we come up with anything."

"Thank you, DC French," Elena said, giving him her slim, graceful hand. He enclosed it firmly in his for a moment before, releasing it.

"My pleasure, Ma'am. Ladies," he said nodding in her direction and toward Nikita. "Thank you for your assistance." DC French turned and left the house, with Constable Mayhew following at his heels like a well-trained beagle.

Elena collapsed on the sofa. "Was it my imagination? I kept looking at him willing him to be Michael, but he wasn't."

Mary watched as Nikita rushed to comfort Elena. "Oh, he wasn't that much like Michael, well, not really," she said patting Elena's shoulder. "Are you all right? I meant what I said about not leaving you alone. Not Mick, I mean I'll send him off to a hotel, but I'll stay here with you. I promise."

Mary drew herself up to her full height of five feet-two inches and looked into Nikita's intense blue eyes, "That won't be necessary. I live close by. I'm sure you have other plans." Being rude was never her strong point, but she didn't like this big blonde. What surprised her most, was that she felt jealous of her, too. Why, she wasn't exactly sure. Nikita had known Elena longer. It was natural for them to be close, but she didn't trust Nikita. That was it! She didn't trust her, and it was obvious that Elena needed friends that could be trusted. It was just that simple.

"Twice as much protection," Nikita suggested in a gentle tone.

"Fine," Mary agreed, sullenly. That way she could at least keep an eye on her.

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

Doctor Marie Girard, known to everyone in Section One as Doc, sat at her office desk. It was her turn to be on call in the medical clinic, and not nearly as exciting as having injured operatives rushed in for her tender mercies. She felt the muscle tension grow between her shoulders and rolled them forward, then backward, relieving it.

Of course, she'd rather treat flu than have dying ops on her hands. It was a catch twenty-two for the former trauma surgeon. Flu season had come early to Section, but she feared the onslaught of a real epidemic as much as she dreaded the loss of lives on missions. She had a bad habit of treating the operatives as if they were her children. Most of them were young enough. Section didn't exactly promote longevity.

Doc heard a light tap on her door. "Come on in," she called. "I'll give you a Bandaid and a sucker, if you behave yourself."

"Thank you," Michael responded softly, entering the clinic.

"Oh, well, Michael. What brings you here? I've seen you walk around with a sucking chest wound, and you don't seem injured at all." Heaven only knew what scrumptious gene pool the young man in front of her had sprung from, but it had been stocked with only the best. Physically fit, muscularity to die for. He was never ill, seemed inexhaustible on missions, and could go days without sleep. And he was handsome as a god. Just because she was fifty-plus and a professional didn't mean she couldn't admire a wonder of nature.

"I have the flu." He sneezed.

Doc laughed, "Sure you do. You're going to have to do better than that, Michael."

"I have a fever, and I ache all over." He gave her a narrowed glance.

"Uh huh, well, I guess I'd better take a closer look at you then," she said with a big smile. Michael was up to something, so she'd play along. Expertly, she whipped out a digital thermometer and placed it into his mouth. A few seconds later, it registered 101.7. "Hmm," she muttered. He didn't feel that hot, and he had no other signs of fever other than the digital reading. His pulse was a well-exercised sixty-four.

She pulled her stethoscope from her pocket, "I need to listen to your chest. With a temp that high you might have pneumonia."

Michael carefully removed his jacket and pulled the black tee shirt over his head. "I'm sure I do. Breathing is painful."

Marie narrowed her eyes and applied the stethoscope first to his back. "Take a deep breath," she instructed, systematically moving the stethoscope about his chest in the prescribed manner. "I'm not sure I–."

"Listen closer, Doctor," Michael suggested.

"Hmm, yes, I do believe a hear some rales in both bases, Michael. Yes, I think I need to administer some IV." Marie was distracted by Michael shaking his head. "Oh, well, given your physical conditioning, I would recommend a two week course of oral antibiotics, but you should be confined to home?"