Michael rewarded her with a minimal nod in the affirmative. "Okay, Michael," she said pulling out a bottle of antibiotics that he would probably never take. "Take one of these twice a day for two weeks. You know the drill, stay in bed, drink plenty of liquids. Actually, I think it's best for you to be away from Section, since this flu is so contagious."

Michael accepted the antibiotics with a small tight smile that played about his lips, as he redressed.

"Oh, any allergies?" Marie asked.

"No."

"That's it then. See you in a couple of weeks. I'll notify Madeline of your status.

"Thank you."

Marie watched him leave the clinic, unable to keep from admiring his confident strut. Obviously, he needed to get out of Section, without Madeline or Operations interfering. There wasn't a thing wrong with him. Not a damn thing.

*********

Driving back to the station house and still mired deep in thought, DC David French turned to his partner, Constable Malcom Mayhew. "We need to check out the circumstances of her husband's death. There may be a connection between his death and his computer. I felt she was holding something back."

"I agree," Mayhew said, nodding. "Pretty little bird though, if you like that type."

"Attractive enough, but—."

"I know, you liked that blonde. She's more your type. Looks like a bleedin' super-model, she does."

"Normally, I would be attracted to her, but they all seemed to be very edgy, especially the little brunette. I think they're all hiding something. I want to get to the bottom of it."

"I know you! You want to go back and take your pick of them. You know, it's not fair being saddled with a swell like you for a partner. All the women fall at your feet." Mayhew ribbed, then assumed a falsetto voice, "Oh, yes, DC French. Would you like some tea, DC French? Some scones?"

David scowled, then shrugged. "Not my fault, old man. Don't see why women act that way. It's annoying."

"Don't go pulling those lord of the manor airs on me. I've known you too long," Mayhew chuckled. "I wouldn't mind being the object of all that admiration, at least once in a while."

"I should think your Rosie would mind," David reminded him with a stern glance.

"She might at that, Frenchy. I know. I know. Don't call you Frenchy." Mayhew giggled, collapsing into a fit of laughter.

David couldn't keep from smiling at his partner. "Mac, you're incorrigible. You haven't changed a bit, since we were kids."

"Right. Who'd have thought we'd end up on the force, instead of being inside? Now you, with all that education, you're headed for the top. I don't mind. You always were a cut above the rest of us," Mayhew acknowledged.

"We're not kids anymore, Mac. This is for real. Not a game." David, the third son of the Earl of Marlow, had never stood on rank as a youth, nor did he now. Very few were aware of his pedigree, or his right to be called Lord David French. Only his superiors and his old friend Mac knew. He never considered that his lineage was worth much–not when he was a third son. He'd always wanted to be a copper, and now he was, in spite of all the stunts he'd pulled as a youngster.

"Right. So, we check out the husband's death."

"And the blonde's boy friend. Their showing up the morning after the break-in is suspicious. He seems quite a sleazy sort, doesn't fit with the blonde at all."

"Intuition?" Mac quipped, with a wide smirk.

"I don't believe in intuition. Just an educated guess, Mac."

"Same difference, old chum. Same difference."

"Not necessarily. They all seemed to be hovering over the woman and her child. There's a story there. I want to know what it is," David asserted. Everyone had a story, some more interesting than others. He'd lay odds that there was more than one story in that little cottage. More than one.

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

Mary grew uncomfortable under Nikita's wide-eyed gaze. She didn't believe Nikita was the innocent would-be dress designer she pretended to be. If she had anything to do with Michael's past, more than likely she was an agent, too. Suddenly, the memory of a dream flashed through Mary's mind. The dark knight and his ensorceled princess in the tower.... Was Nikita more to Michael than a distant relation? Somehow, she had to find out.

Mary took a last sip of her coffee, then rose to her feet, meaning to taking the tray to the kitchen.

Nikita jumped up in an awkward reflexive movement. "Let me help," Nikita offered.

Mary smiled and replied, "Of course." That was exactly what she wanted, a moment alone with the fair Nikita. She handed the tray to Nikita and began collecting the empty cups.

"I can do that, really," Elena protested.

"No, no, you sit here and rest. Nikita and I will take care of this stuff in a jiffy. Won't we?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Nikita nodded with a bright smile.

Together the two women, so dissimilar in appearance and personality, walked into the kitchen, Nikita keeping up a stream of chatter.

"I think it's wonderful that Elena's made a friend so quickly. How did the two of you meet?" Nikita asked, while running water in the sink.

Mary leaned an elbow against the counter. "At the bookstore where I work. She brought Adam in to buy the newest Harry Potter book. We hit it off, right away, both being strangers to Oxford, I guess." Mary paused, looking toward the living room where Elena seemed to be sitting in a daze. "Just who the hell are you, Nikita?" Mary hissed under her breath.

"Wh–what?" Nikita stuttered, nearly allowing a soapy cup to slide from her hands. Her eyes widened in alarm for a brief instant, then Mary saw a mask of studied confusion settle in its place on Nikita's face.

"Who do you work for?" No sense in letting up. She wanted answers, now.

"Uh, Mugler, Thierry Mugler. He's really hot now. Of course, I'm a lowly apprentice in his studio, but it's a great place to start. I'm very fortunate that his assistant liked my designs and showed them to him," Nikita gushed.

Mary took another surreptitious glance over her shoulder, not wanting Elena to overhear. She needn't have worried. Elena was now standing at the window, staring at who knew what.

Mary turned and put her hands on her hips. "Cut the crap, Nikita. You're some kind of agent like Michael, aren't you?"

She watched as Nikita swallowed, then suddenly the blonde was in her face.

"What do you know about Michael?" Nikita whispered.

Mary retreated, feeling a real threat to her personal being. "Only that he's not dead. I don't know what song and dance you've done for Elena, but it's not working on me."

Nikita took a deep breath. "Later. We'll talk later."

"Yeah, you bet we will."

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

Michael sat in Nikita's apartment. It was empty without her, but it was where he felt most comfortable. It mattered not that an occasional dust bunny collected behind a door, or that her forays into the culinary arts were usually a disaster. She loved him, and he knew this without a doubt. It was Nikita and her love for him that had kept him alive, had given him a reason to live . . . . after he'd lost Adam. He wanted to see his son again, if only from a distance.

Michael knew his plan would never have work without Walter's assistance. The man, that some regarded as an old hippy who liked to blow up things, had a lot of tricks–read that as inventions–up his sleeve that no one at Section knew about. Walter had forgotten more about surveillance techniques than most people knew, including Birkoff–especially how to get around them.

It was not in Michael's nature to trust just anyone, but he understood Walter's devotion to Nikita. Walter would never betray him because it would hurt Nikita, and Walter would do anything to prevent that. Walter had offered his assistance, and he was about to accept it. Consequences be dammed.

He sensed that sooner or later Madeline and Operations would forbid his and Nikita's relationship. The reason wouldn't matter. One of them would decide that it was a weakness to be exploited and crack the proverbial whip, demonstrating Section One's complete control over every aspect of their lives.

Faking illness and subverting surveillance over the apartment was a risk, a calculated one, one he was willing to take. All Section One would see was his sleeping, going to the kitchen for juice, and making an occasional trip to the bathroom. The tape, which was eight hours long, would loop the various segments in random order. Walter's expertise had made it possible for a week of activity to be visualized. Not that he thought he would be gone for a week. He estimated he would only need a couple of days. A couple of days to see for himself how his son and Elena were adjusting.

Guilt, as old and familiar as time, swept over him, but automatically he repressed it. Longing for Adam, replaced the guilt, but not as easily repressed. Briefly, he remembered the clean soapy smell of his child after a bath, wrapped in a thick towel. He wondered at the strength of the child's love and trust, so undeserved, as his little arms wrapped around his neck in a big hug.

Carefully, tenderly, Michael allowed more memories to wash over him, luxuriating and punishing himself at the same time. Soon he would see his child. That would be greater punishment, but it would be worth it to breathe the same air, however few seconds he allowed himself the privilege.

Abruptly, he stood. "Walter, are you ready?" he signaled on his 324 communication device. The response came back, "Ready." Michael walked to Nikita's bedroom and removed his clothes and climbed into the bed that still carried the clean, spicy fragrance that was essentially Nikita's own.

He waited ten seconds, time enough for Walter to engage the surveillance loop, then reversed his actions. Once dressed, he looked around the room, knowing that all that Section One surveillance would see only his still form for the next hour or two. Walter had synchronized all the surveillance devices in Nikita's apartment. Now he could leave.

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

DC French strode with purpose to the research division of the Oxford Constabulary. It was housed like most such divisions in a typically cramped and untidy area in what would have been at one time the cellar. Row after row of computer terminals occupied every inch of available space. Printers and facsimile machines were jammed into every nook and cranny, whether there was room or not. He wondered how people could work under such conditions, but apparently the occupants of the area didn't mind. Their worlds were not bound by concrete walls or enlarged by windows. The Internet was their bailiwick, and the five computer experts played in that world, retrieving intelligence from various resources, both legal and illegal.

"Molly, I need some information," he said without preamble, leaning on the counter that separated the computer geniuses from the ordinary officers.

Molly looked up and smiled. She always seemed happy to see him. Her copper-red pigtails always reminded him of that Pippy Longstocking character from the children stories. Thick glasses, that kept sliding down her nose, added to her unusual appearance. Notwithstanding her unique manner of dress, always in black, she was a top notch researcher and never failed to find exactly the intelligence he requested.

"Of course, ye do, Duckie. That's why ye're here. I'm not silly enough to think ye're enamored of me own good looks," she giggled with good humor, showing the small gap between her upper front incisors. She was also twenty years older than he.

"Now, Molly, you're flirting with me again, and me, I'm such a shy lad," he flirted back, assuming an Irish brogue. "I quite don't know how to take it."

"Well, boyo, if ye weren't so damned unattractive, I might be able to keep me mind on me work. As ‘tis, ye've set me heart to fair poundin'." Molly winked broadly at him, then abandoned her playful tone and the brogue as well, "What'll it be this time, DC French?"

"I need a background run on an Elena Samuelle, the current address is on the report, but she's recently here from France."

"That's it? Just a background? Anything else?" Molly asked.

He started to leave, then turned back. "Anything you may find on her late husband will be quite helpful."

Molly shrugged. "No problem. Sounds like a pretty simple request to me. I'll have it to you in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Molly."

Once again, David turned to leave, hoping it would be as easy as Molly had predicted. There was something not right about the case, and he hoped the background check on Elena would prove informative. . . . and bland.

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

Operations' voice bellowed over the intercom in Madeline's office. He sounded a bit irritated. Normally, he used better manners, when addressing her.

"What's this crap about Michael having the flu? Where is he? I need him!"

Madeline counted to ten . . . in Russian, before answering, "Michael has contracted the flu that threatens to become localized epidemic."

"Why didn't he get a flu shot?"

"Doctor Girard maintains that this is a rare virus and not prevented by this year's immunization. Besides, the flu season is early." Not that Madeline believed Doctor Marie Girard, but she had no choice, given the physician's expertise and authority in things medical.

"I don't care. Call him back in."

"I'm afraid, protocol won't allow that. Medical has to clear his return, and you already know that she won't."

"Then I'll just have to remind her who's in charge here."

"When it comes to medical conditions, Doctor Girard is, and you know it. She won't budge," Madeline reminded him, while she tapped in a numeric-alpha code, bringing up the surveillance on Nikita's apartment. Michael appeared dead to the world. For once, it seemed he was taking the good doctor's advice, which wasn't like him at all. He must really be ill, she surmised.

"@#$#$ $#%#$%$ *&^*&%%!"

"What was that again?" she asked.

"Never mind!"

Meanwhile the object of Madeline's and Operations' discussion, was already half-way to England, disguised as an elderly priest, soutane and all. In the seat next to him, an engaging woman in her sixties had smiled at him and asked for his blessing before the flight took off. Willingly, he'd made the motions and said the familiar words, then hoped like hell, lightning wouldn't strike him for his blasphemy.

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

The opportunity for Nikita and Mary's talk came sooner than expected. To Nikita's eyes, Elena seemed exhausted. Nikita pulled her away from the window. "Why don't you lie down, Elena? This has been a frightening experience for you. I think a nap would make you feel better, don't you?"

Elena's eyes appeared troubled. "But you've only just arrived," she protested.

"Mary and I will stay here and talk. Mick will look after Adam," Nikita replied, brushing away Elena's objections. "We'll be fine. You need some rest. It's plain to see that you're still not very strong." Nikita placed her arm around Elena's fragile shoulders and guided her from the living room, down the hall to the bedroom.

Elena acquiesced with a sigh. "You're such a good friend, Nikita. I'm so lucky to have met you before Michael died," she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy.

Elena's words were arrows of guilt that pierced Nikita's heart in one sure shot. "I'm the lucky one, Elena," she said in a soothing voice. "Here lie down, and I'll cover you with the duvet."

Elena sat down on the side of the bed and looked up into Nikita's eyes. "Thank you. You're such a good friend." Wearily, she lay down, and Nikita spread the duvet over her. Elena closed her eyes and was asleep before Nikita could turn around.

Now, for the other one, Nikita thought. How am I going to shut her up without telling her more than she needs to know. Hell, she already knows more than she needs to. Nikita paused in the hall after shutting the door to Elena's bedroom behind her.

"Hey, Pumpkin, what are we doing for lunch?" Mick asked, coming from Adam's room. "I'm feeling a bit famished, you know what I mean?"

"I'm hungry, too, Kita," Adam offered, taking a flying leap and jumping into Nikita's arms.

"Well, Adam, I think you and Mick need to find some lunch," she said, turning to Mick and arching a brow. "Right, Mick?"

"Oh yes, my darling," Mick said in his most smarmy voice. "Where do you suggest the little tyke and I go?"

Nikita smiled. "Anywhere but here, dar-ling."

"Right!"

"Want to take your Uncle Mick to lunch, Adam?" she asked.

"Yes, Kita. Are you going?"

"No. I'm staying here with Mary, and we're going to look after your Mommmy. You and Mick will be the big boys and go out all by yourselves. Then after lunch, maybe Mick will take you to the park, too."

Nikita watched Mick's reaction. Instead of protesting, Mick beamed. "Right-o! We'll make an afternoon of it, just you and me, Adam."

Good, that's settled then, Nikita thought. She favored her fiancé with a wide smile. "Thanks, that'll make everything a lot easier."

"Make what a lot easier?" Mick asked.

"Never you mind."

***********

"Bye-bye, Aunt Kita," Adam called out, twisting around in the car to wave.

"Bye-bye, Adam. Be a good boy, now," Nikita yelled, waving, then added, "you, too, Mick!" Nikita saw Mick's shiny head nodding in agreement. What trouble could they possibly get into in a quiet college town like Oxford?

Nikita turned from the door, shutting it behind her. Mary sat in a Windsor rocker, arms folded. From the looks of her body language, she was still waiting for an explanation . . . and not too patiently.

"Well, are you going to tell me what's really going on here?" Mary challenged, her fingers drumming on the arm of the rocker.

"Ah," Nikita started, "It's not a black or white situation. You have to understand that. You also have to understand that I can't tell you everything. It would only endanger your life . . . and possibly Elena's and Adam's."

"Don't feed me that ‘If I told you, I'd have to kill you,' crap, Nikita. I know Michael was in some kind of agency, and I know he's still alive. It hasn't been that long since he was right here in Oxford pretending to be a poet, for pity's sake!"

"Shh," Nikita warned. "Elena absolutely must not know Michael is still alive." Nikita walked to the hall. Elena's door was still closed. She gave a sigh of relief.

"Why? Why can't she know? She's nearly killed herself with grief over him . . . not to mention that wonderful little boy, who thinks his Daddy's dead. What kind of organization would pull something like this?" Mary's face reddened with the anger she so clearly felt.

"Oh God," Nikita gasped, "I can't tell you anything about the organization, just that it's very covert and it fights terrorists."

"But why not just tell Elena that? Why is Michael supposed to be dead? I don't understand. It's crazy . . . makes no sense," Mary muttered.

Nikita walked over to Mary and crouched before her. "The marriage was a mission. Her father was a terrorist. Michael married her to get to her father."

"What?!" Mary attempted to shout, but Nikita clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Shh, you've got to be quiet. Elena cannot know this. It would kill her," Nikita hissed. "Michael didn't have a choice. None of us do."

Mary struggled, trying to free herself from Nikita's iron grasp. "A choice? Everyone has a choice," she rasped.

"Death is the other choice, Mary, but Michael came to love Elena, I know he did. When the mission was over, losing Adam nearly killed him."

"Well, I'd like to kill him now," Mary muttered.

Nikita took a deep breath and continued, "You have to promise me you won't tell Elena, please. Not for Michael or me . . . but for her sake. I know you don't understand. No rational government agency would do this to their people, but they're not rational. The end always justifies the means . . . no matter who or what's involved."

Mary leveled her gaze at Nikita. "And what's your part in all this? Who are you? Why are you pretending to be Elena's friend, and what's with the fiancé?"

Nikita shook her head. "I'm an agent, too. I was sent to check on the laptop. Mick is a sort of a cover. I–I didn't know about Michael's marriage until I walked into his house that first time. He had to explain me to Elena somehow. If I'd known, I would never have intruded."

A cunning smile spread across Mary's face. "So you and Michael are what to each other?"

"We're operatives. I've tried to be a friend to him." Nikita could feel the heat suffuse her face and wondered if Mary would notice.

"You're not a very good liar, Nikita. I'd say there's more to it than friendship. Well, I guess you have a clear path now. The inconvenient wife and child are out of the way, and you expect me to clam up and protect him. I don't know if I can." She leaned back in the chair and rocked furiously.

"Mary, you have to. If Elena were to find out, I–I don't know what my organization would do, but the very least would mean her freedom . . . and Adam's. Please, for their sake, you have to keep this to yourself . . . and for yours. I've already told you more than is safe . . . ." Nikita's voice faded. Had she convinced the stubborn, angry woman in front of her?

"You are scum, a vile piece of green scum that I'd scrub off my shower tile rather than look at it one more second. Michael is scum, and so is your so-called organization. No wonder this world is in such a mess. The inmates have taken over the asylum!" With this pronouncement, Mary stood and faced Nikita. "I'll keep your damn secret, for Elena and Adam, but you're going to have to make my excuses to Elena. I can't stay in the same room with you for another minute. I have to have some fresh air."

"Thank you," Nikita murmured, reassured that Mary would keep her knowledge to herself. "I don't blame you. You've every right to feel that way. I'm sorry."

"It's a pretty little speech, but you can save it for someone who gives a sh#$ what you think."

Nikita nodded, and watched Mary Raney leave. I think that went pretty well, she thought. Pretty well, indeed.

*********

Mick made sure that Adam was safely buckled in. There was no way he'd want to face Michael, if anything happened to Adam. No indeed, if something happened to Adam, he knew he'd might as well off himself and save Michael the trouble. As taken as he was with Adam, he wasn't quite sure what to do with the little bugger. Not like he'd made a bloody study of child care. Mick's hands tightened around the steering wheel. Now what?

Adam tugged the tail of Mick's light blue jacket. "I'm hungry, Mr. Mick," he said in a plaintive tone.

"Hungry? Well, so am I. What say you and I find some eats, then we'll go to the zoo."

"There's no zoo in Oxford, Mr. Mick, but there's one in London. Can we go there? I loved the tigers. They're so big and scary," Adam chattered.

"Listen up, little chum, I don't think Nikita wanted us to go that far afield, you know. I wouldn't want to make Nikita mad."

"I've never seen Kita mad. Does her face get red, and does she huff and puff like Mommy does?"

"Hmm. Something like that," Mick shuddered. "Just take my word for it, we don't want to make her mad." Mick considered what he knew about Oxford, not much. He'd squired a bird around the place once, when he'd wanted to impress her. She hadn't fallen for his line about being Oxford educated, but she'd been a real trip to the light fantastic, just the same. Briefly he wondered if she were anywhere around.

"All right, mate. I'll tell you what. We're going to stop at the Thameside pub. They do up a nice picnic lunch, then we'll go punting on the River Cherwell. How's that sound?"

Adam beamed, "Yes, Mr. Mick, I haven't been on a picnic since my Daddy went away, but what's punting?"

"It's taking a little boat ride on the river. Loads of fun."

"A boat ride, yes, Mr. Mick."

"Right-o! Food and then I shall teach you my excellent, never forgotten punting skills." Mick was elated. Kids weren't so difficult, after all. This was going to be a GOOAALL.

*********

DC French's telephone rang twice. Two shorts rings indicated an inside call. David grabbed the receiver. "DC French here."

"David, me boyo, you need to see this," Molly rasped in his ear. "Get ye're lovely self down here."

"What is it, Molly? Can't you simply explain what you've found?" he asked, puzzled. Molly wasn't usually an alarmist, but she sounded a touch frantic.

"Rather not," she replied in a hushed voice.

"I'll be down, Molly. Thank you."

"Wait till ye've seen what I have before ye thank me," she replied cryptically, then disconnected.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, jumping up and grabbing his jacket, headed for Molly's domain in the nether regions of the Oxford Constabulary. He stopped at the elevator, jabbing impatiently at the button, then decided the stairs would be quicker. He rushed for the stairwell door, nearly knocking down a clerk. The stack of folders she carried flew in every direction.

"Sorry," he apologized, dismayed at the right mess he'd made.

"What's your blooming hurry, mate?" the petite redhead asked with a coquettish toss of her flaming locks. "The least you could do is help me pick them up."

"No time." David brushed past her, but not before he heard her earthy response.

"Cheeky bastard!"

David took two stairs at a time in his rush. The longer it took, the more apprehensive he became. He burst into the Research Division. Molly was nowhere to be seen, nor was anyone else in the department. "Molly!" he called. He walked around the transaction counter to her area.

Molly lay in the floor, pale, her neck in an improbable position. David crouched by her and felt for a carotid pulse. Nothing. The hair prickled on the back on his neck. He looked around the area cautiously. He seemed to be alone. One thing he knew, not five minutes before, Molly had been very alive, and now she wasn't.

His training told him not to touch anything, not even the computer to see what Molly had found. Poor woman, she was beyond his help. Pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he carefully wrapped her telephone receiver in it. Punching in the number for the dispatcher, "Officer needs assistance," he said, giving the age-old call for help. "DC French here, Research Division, one fatality, assailant whereabouts unknown, block all exits."

"Yes, sir, right away, sir."

David exhaled, raggedly. "Bloody hell, bloody, bloody hell," he murmured as he waited.

An army of footsteps thundered down the stairs. Constable Mayhew entered first, followed by four burley officers of various rank. "Stand away from the body, sir. Keep your hands where we can see them, sir."

David stared in disbelief, but complied with his partner's orders. "Mac, it's me."

"Orders are orders, sir. It's standard procedure. You know that as well as I do. You're the last one to see her alive."

"No, Mac. I found her like this. She called me, upset."

"I must caution you that anything you say may and will be taken down and used in evidence against you. You have the right to an attorney, if you so choose."

"Molly found something on the computer. She wanted me down here right away. It had to do with the Samuelle house-breaking, Mac." David felt the nightmare intensify. There was no sign of understanding in Mayhew's eyes. David felt like a criminal, already. "Please, I must check her computer. She found something of importance, I know it."

"Step away, sir." Mayhew advanced on him.

David started to comply, but quickly stepped toward the keyboard and hit ‘enter.' A red box appeared, then flashed off and on. ACCESS FORBIDDEN! TERMINATION REQUIRED! Then gibberish filled the screen. That was the last thing David saw. Mayhew's billy club bashed the side of his head, and he collapsed.

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

While Elena napped, Nikita performed a thorough search throughout rest of the house. She found nothing. Perhaps, when Elena awakened, she would volunteer intel about the contents of the laptop. Mary Raney's leaving in a huff was a good thing. She counted on Elena's feeling more comfortable with her alone. I'm starting to think like a real Section drone, she thought. She hated the idea of manipulating Elena into revealing anything of a personal and private nature, but she was here on Section's behest.

They held all the cards . . . the Elena and Adam cards. As long as Section had control over Michael's family, they had control over him. She never doubted for a moment that Section would use them to keep Michael in line. Section would use anything and anyone to control their operatives. In most cases, the threat of cancellation was enough, but Michael was different.

There had been times when Michael would have welcomed the final bullet, but Section had managed to keep their top operative alive, under their control . . . and bring down the terrorist broker Sala Vacek, at the same time. How Operations and Madeline managed to sleep at night, she had no idea.

Nikita was relieved to see that Elena had not turned the living room of the cottage into another shrine to Michael. True, one of Elena's bedroom walls was covered in pictures of him, but at least the overpowering presence of Michael was missing. Apparently, Elena confined her grief to the time she was alone at night.

She pulled a PDA from her vest pocket and, for a moment, considered contacting Section One to give them an update, but she heard the door the Elena's room open. Quickly she returned the comm. device to its hiding place.

She rose to meet the fragile beauty, whose large brown eyes were still filled with worry. "Would you like some coffee or tea," Nikita asked.

Elena pulled out a chair and sat at the old oak table. "Tea, I think. My stomach is a little queasy from all this. Tea would be best," she said, nodding a little vaguely. She looked around the kitchen. "Where's Mary?"

"She had to leave, something about work, I believe she said." Nikita busied herself with preparations for a fresh pot of tea.

"That's how we met, you know, at the bookshop. I had taken Adam to purchase a new Harry Potter book, and we hit it off right away. I suppose it was because both of us were new to Oxford."

While Elena talked, Nikita placed the tea kettle on the stove and lit the gas fire underneath it. She turned and came back to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. "Have you seen a lot of her?" she asked, hoping to learn more about Michael's last target.

"Oh yes, we've been shopping together, had lunch, you know that sort of thing. Adam adores her."

Nikita swallowed. "I'm glad you've made a friend so quickly. You've been through so much, and now this break-in. What do you think anyone could have possibly wanted with Michael's old laptop. It's not the one he used for business, is it?"

"Oh, no, the laptop didn't have enough memory. He used the laptop for stock transactions, things like that."

"Hmm. I see." Nikita shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I don't want to alarm you, but if someone had access to his computer, could they access to his stock transactions? Do you need to notify someone, his stockbroker, perhaps?"

A brief frown crossed Elena's face. "No, Michael had deleted almost everything from the computer. There were a couple of files that contained messages to Adam and me, and one file with," Elena paused. "I know this must sound very paranoid, but Michael left instructions that if I should ever feel in danger, I–I," she stuttered, then tried again, "Michael left instructions, money and false identities for Adam and me. Why would he do something like that Nikita? Why? It's driven me crazy."

"So all information was still on the computer when it was taken?" Nikita's feeling of alarm grew. What would Section do when they discovered that Michael had planned for his family's eventual escape?

"No, it wasn't."

"It wasn't?"

Michael left instructions how to delete the files, and when I followed them, screen after screen of gibberish appeared, then suddenly everything disappeared. It wiped everything away. I had printed out Michael's instructions first. Now, I have to memorize everything, then destroy it."

"Hmm." Nikita was extremely glad that Section One was not listening to everything, but what in the world could she tell them instead of the truth? It sounded as if Michael had inserted a virus program into his laptop. She hoped it was foolproof. "It sounds as if Michael's plans were very well thought out."

Tears glistened suddenly in Elena's eyes. "It's as if he expected something to happen." Elena dabbed at them with a cloth napkin.

"I'm sure he was just being careful for the future. You know, just being prudent."

"I know, but even thinking that he was afraid for the future nearly kills me, Nikita. He was so young and beautiful. I loved him so–so much," Elena dissolved into tears, then into great shaking sobs. "I miss him," she wailed.

Nikita rose and put her arms around Elena's thin shoulders, hating herself for being a part of this woman's grief and deception. She wondered if Elena had ever allowed the grief to overwhelm her, as it did now. Perhaps, this would be a cleansing . . . for them both. Nikita felt the tears form and start a slow slide down her cheeks. She grieved for Adam's and Elena's loss . . . and Michael's as well.

***********

Thameside pub was located two miles north of the center of the city of Oxford. It looked familiar. Mick was sure he'd been there at least once before. He opened the door and they entered the historic, creeper-covered structure. It was late for luncheon, but it was still crowded with residents who favored the stew and the brew.

"Is this a real pub, Mr. Mick?"

"Yes, my boy, indeed it is a bonafide pub. Look over there, Adam. There's a corner devoted to Lewis Carroll. He wrote Alice in Wonderland. D'you know that story?"

"Yes, Mommy read it to me. I liked the Cheshire Cat, but I didn't like the Queen who ran round shouting, ‘Off with her head.' I didn't want them to cut off Alice's head. That's not a nice thing to do, is it?"

"Oh, no, it won't do at all, really." Mick continued to wander around the Thameside pub. It was a traditional pub, paneled in oak so ancient, it possessed a deep rich patina impossible to replicate, except by time. There were posh engravings of Oxford by Turner, and a marvy Morse bar with Inspector Morse memorabilia. It was well known that the TV inspector drank there, and rumored that his creator did too. Of course, all this was lost on the little lad standing beside him. "Was that your tum-tum I heard rumbling?" Mick asked.

"Yes. I told you I was hungry, Mr. Mick."

"Well, we're going to do something about that right now." Mick stepped to the bar and thumped on it with his fist. "Here, here, my good man. I've a starving boy here, who needs a picnic lunch pour deux in the worst way."

"Keep a lid on it, mate, can't you see there are others ahead of you," responded the man behind the counter.

Adam's eyes grew large and despondent. "I'm not that hungry. I'll be all right, Mr. Mick."

A short plump waitress with a peaches and cream complexion and twinkling blue eyes, stepped from behind the bar and bent over Adam. "Coo, look at the little lad. Can't you see he's hungry, Jamie? I'll have you a picnic lunch in two shakes. See if I don't!" She jutted her chin at Jamie and flounced back to the kitchen.

"The kid's a charmer. Women love him," Mick said, with a shrug, to those who'd turned in their direction. Behind the bar, Jamie continued to scowl.

"What's a charmer, Mr. Mick?" Several people around them tittered politely.

"Never you mind that right now. We'll discuss that later."

"Are you a charmer, too?" Adam's young voice was high-pitched, and it carried over the general din. More people tittered. One red-faced man in the corner guffawed.

Mick felt his face flush. "Well, I've been called that a time or two. In fact,...."

"Food!" Adam exclaimed, interrupting. The waitress had returned, carrying a large boxed lunch.

"Enough for two, mind you," she said. "Go on with you now. Have a right good picnic."

Mick pulled his wallet from his pocket and quickly paid for the lunch. "All right, let's find our picnic spot," he said to Adam, then turning to the waitress, he made a sweeping theatrical bow and kissed her hand. "Merci, Mademoiselle, you have saved our lives. Au revoir!" He liked making grand entrances and exits. The real world offered so few opportunities, he had to grab them when he could. He placed his hand on Adam's shoulder and together left the Thameside pub in high spirits.

**********

Before leaving Section One, Michael had prepared carefully. The looped tape of him sleeping in Nikita's apartment wasn't the only technology he'd employed. Walter had provided him with a tracker that was attuned to Nikita's car, as well as a PDA with an encrypted channel. He had no need of a weapon, at least not one of Walter's. Michael had his own stash of artillery. Not that he thought he'd need a gun, but because he felt naked without one.

He observed the increased strength and regularity of the signal. Only two miles from the center of the city, and five miles from Elena's cottage, the signal began a constant whine. They had to be very near. He scanned his immediate vicinity, looking for Nikita's small black Porsche. The signal was stationery, which meant the car was parked.

"Where are they?" he muttered aloud. Michael himself, drove a small gray, nondescript MG, rented at the airport. The small interior was uncomfortable, and driving on the wrong side of the road was slightly disorienting, to say the least.

The signal weakened, signifying that he had already passed the vehicle. Michael drove to the end of the block, turned around and retraced his path. The narrow street was parallel to the River Cherwell, and he'd seen glimpses of another street and park. He made a sharp left turn toward the river. The signal whined steadily. He knew he'd made the right decision, when he spied Nikita's Porsche just ahead of him, parked.

It struck him as odd that Nikita would be at a riverside park when she was supposed to be at Elena's. His innate caution kicked in. No longer disguised as a priest, he wouldn't risk compromising Nikita's mission. He would wait, slumped down in the car, his knees hitting the steering shaft and dashboard. Whatever she was doing, he hoped she hurried.

Twenty uncomfortable minutes later, Michael was surprised to see Mick Shtoppel and his son emerge from the park and place a box in the trunk of Nikita's car. He reacted so reflexively that he barked his shin on the dashboard, again. He watched in amazement as Mick and Adam walked toward the boathouse. Adam had grown several inches. His son . . . was twenty yards away, and he couldn't go near him, much less touch him.

From the distance and safety of his car, Michael watched as Mick and Adam completed their negotiations at the boat rental. Obviously, Nikita had stayed with Elena and sent Mick off to occupy Adam. He hoped Mick knew what he was doing with the boat. He was powerless to do anything but watch another man take his son for a boat ride on the meandering River Cherwell. For the first time in his life, he was jealous of Mick Shtoppel.

**********

DC David French knew he would never forget the humiliation of being led in handcuffs to a holding cell in his own station house, bleeding from a cut on the side of his head. He would never forgive Mac Mayhew for his treatment, either. His old friend's attitude had been totally unwarranted, as had the blow. Women who'd once fallen over themselves to bring him a cuppa, now avoided his gaze. He was the proverbial rotten copper in their eyes, caught red-handed, they thought.

In a bloody cell, he languished for at least an hour, pacing and proclaiming his innocence to all who came near, exactly like all the perps he'd ever arrested. Bloody predictable, that's what he was. Pathetic, too.

Frustrated after an hour of being ignored, David shut up. That was fairly typical, too. He'd decided to make use of his single phone call and had rung his father's solicitor, the Honorable Jason Medley, Esq., who had responded as if he received SOS calls from incarcerated sons of earls every day, "Don't make any statements. I'll be there as soon as I can re-arrange my afternoon appointment schedule."

He assumed that the solicitor would inform his father, Lord Marlow. His father would be vindicated in his earlier denouncement, "The police are like servants, Davy, why would you lower yourself that way?" When he'd insisted on joining the force anyway, his father had offered to pull a few strings and have him taken on at a higher rank, but again, his stubborn pride had made him refuse. He was university-educated, and if he merited increases in rank, he'd have them because he earned them, not because of his father's influence. Pride goeth before a fall.

Pride had driven him all his life, or was it his stubbornness? His ex-wife, Lady Gillian Reeves-Howard hadn't understood his career path, either. The haughty society beauty, he'd married in a rush of lust and love when he was twenty-seven had presented him with a bill of divorce for his thirty-first birthday. "Sorry, Darling, simple bad timing," she'd said. She'd wasted no time in returning to the altar for a second go round–this time with a suitably respectable MP. Not that he cared. At least, not anymore.

The door to the holding area opened. Jason Medley, Esq. strode in wearing an elegant Savile Row tailored suit. His silver-white hair added to his distinguished appearance, as did his neatly trimmed mustache. "All right, my Lord, they are releasing you into the custody of your father."

"What?"

"I simply cannot believe that they did not know who you are, Sir. Once, I spoke to your superior, DCI Henley, he agreed that you should be released under the condition that your father would take responsibility for your whereabouts and actions. Obviously, there's been a heinous misunderstanding, and you should not be confined whilst they get their own house in order."

"I don't want–" David attempted to interject.

"Tut-tut, what you want doesn't matter. What does matter is that you leave this place at once. I have pledged to escort you to your father's townhouse here in London. There you will remain until they've found the party guilty of that poor unfortunate's murder."

"Her name was Molly," he muttered under his breath. "She was working on something for me, and someone killed her because of it. I have–"

"To follow my instructions to the letter. That's what you have to do," Medley finished for David.

"I won't be treated like a privileged member of society," David responded stubbornly.

"Would you rather remain here?" Medley asked with a cool sneer.

"Of course, not."

"Then I suggest you come with me before they change their minds."

Medley whirled on his heel and marched out the door. David chose to follow.

***********

The sun shone brightly the summer's day, as Mick poled along the shallow River Cherwell. It brought back memories of his childhood. As much as he loved Paris and all the lovely French birds, he missed England. He'd come to England as a very young boy. His mum was a feisty Italian beauty who had married a rather charming German con man. Of course, mum hadn't known he was a con man, at first. That salutary knowledge had come after Helmut Shtoppel had scarpered with the family savings, leaving them behind, in England. He'd been two and his brother Roddy had been on the way. Mum hadn't had much luck with men since then, either. It was no wonder Nikita thought him a low-life sleaze. For all accounts and purposes, he was.

Certainly, he wasn't the kind of bloke that Elena would eyeball a second time, although her luck in men was almost as bad as his mum's had been . . . her father, a terrorist and husband a Section One agent. But Elena had class, had gone to the right schools and was a bloomin' beauty besides. She was everything he wasn't . . . and would never be.

"Mr. Mick, can I do that, too? Please." Adam asked, smiling broadly.

"Well, Adam, I'll tell you straight out. This is no job for a little fella like you. It requires great balance and dexterity, or we'll end up in the river. Don't want that, now do you?"

"No, Mr. Mick." Adam shook his head and looked as if the world would end.

"Now, cheer up! You know your mum would have my head clean off my shoulders, if anything happened to you."

"She'd be pretty mad," Adam agreed, nodding.

Elena had a topping little son in Adam. He'd never spent much time with little tykes like this one. He'd always been more into preventing their entry into the world. Now, he felt more than a tinge of regret that he'd made some of the choices he had.

Five minutes passed. "Are we there yet?"

"Wh-what do you mean?" Mick asked, a bit confused.

"There, are we there, you know . . . ."

"No, I don't know."

"Where we're going. I always asked Mommy and Daddy when we went on a trip, ‘Are we there yet?' and they would tell me the answer."

"Uh," Mick stopped to think. "No, we're not there yet, because we're not going anywhere–not in particular, that is."

"How can we go nowhere. We were back there, now we're here, but we aren't at the next there, yet."

The expression on Adam's face told Mick that the kid didn't think he was cooking on all his burners. "Well, see. We're just poling down the river and enjoying nature, Adam. Then after a bit, we'll turn around and go back."

"Do you enjoy nature, Mr. Mick?

"Yes, you might say that I do manage to enjoy nature, as often as I get the chance." Mick knew their definitions of nature might be different, but it was true. He certainly did enjoy some of the more au naturel pleasures of life.

"I see some nature, Mr. Mick, look." Adam jumped from his seat and leaned toward the side of the flat-bottomed boat.

"No, Adam!" Mick cried, making a grab at him. Adam reached for the large tortoise swimming beside the boat and over-balanced, falling into the water with a splash.

*********

Madeline picked at her Caesar Salad with the tines of a fork and sighed. Something skirted at the periphery of her subconscious, but she hadn't discovered exactly what it was, yet.

"Salad not to your taste today, Madeline?" Operations asked.

Madeline gave him her most innocuous smile. "I could say that I was disturbed by the amount of food you've just consumed, but that wouldn't be the entire truth." After all, he'd polished off a serious T-bone steak, a baked potato loaded with sour cream and fresh-chopped chives, a large serving of Southern-style green beans and four yeast rolls, which were still warm from Christopher's restaurant-sized oven. It appeared to her as if he were anxious for dessert from the way he kept glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen.

"I don't think I have to defend my food preferences to you, do I?" He leaned back in his chair, then continued, "So, if it isn't my luncheon or that salty salad you're sighing over, what is it?"

She arched a brow and shook her head slightly. "I'm not sure. I've missed something, but I don't know what."

"Surely not. Not you," he replied with a lop-sided smirk.

"It'll come to me. I don't think it's anything major, more like a minor detail that nags at me."

Operations frowned, "You're sure? We have multiple on-going missions. I would hate to think...."

"It's skirting at the edge of consciousness. Perhaps, I need to relax, meditate even."

Operations laughed. "You meditate? Maybe you need some dessert. You're much too thin," he said, reaching over to caress her slender wrist.

Reflexively she pulled away and frowned.

"George isn't watching now. We can relax."

"Your recent demonstrations of affection were for the camera, Paul. That part of our relationship has been over for years, don't forget," she reminded him.

He smiled in return. "I sort of enjoyed the pretense, Madeline. Didn't you?"

"You know the answer to that," she murmured.

"I think I know the answer. Enlighten me," he teased, blue eyes twinkling.

"The answer is immaterial. Furthering our relationship would weaken us both. That's not acceptable . . . to me, and shouldn't be to you," she admonished.

"In that case, I think I'll have dessert. Apple pie à la mode it is," he declared, rubbing his hands together.

Madeline rose from the table, pushed back her chair and made as if to leave. He was entirely too self-satisfied. "You should rethink that choice as well. You appear to have gained at least ten pounds in the last year." She walked to the doorway, then turned for one last parting shot. "Perhaps a little more time in the gym would be advisable, too."

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

It was a simple matter for Michael to keep pace with the boat that contained his son and Mick Shtoppel. He took long strides through the trees along the bank of the River Cherwell. If he'd used his car, he wouldn't have been able to keep them in visual contact. What he'd do when the park-like woodland gave way to open fields, he didn't have a clue. Basically, Mick didn't look like a terribly avid punter. Nikita had probably ordered him to occupy Adam, and he'd complied. He was certain that one of the two would tire soon, and they would reverse for the return trip.

Michael walked through the copse of trees as quietly and easily as he'd stridden along the halls of Section One. The American Indians would have been proud of his silent passage along the river. Adam and Mick had no idea that he followed their progress so closely.

From his vantage point, he could see the sun as it glinted off Adam's shiny dark hair. His hair needs a trim. I'll have to remind Elena, he thought automatically, then remembered with a rush. No, he wouldn't be reminding Elena of anything. For a moment, the memories crushed him, making him stagger against the trunk of an old oak tree. He wanted to weep, but he was over that. He had to be.

His son, his future lay before him, exhilarated by the treat of a boat ride. He heard the excited tones of Adam's high-pitched voice as he sighted something in the water beside the boat. Adam, no! He warned silently, his heart in his throat. Adam was on the leaning over the side of the boat. He was going . . . . He'd tumbled in! Michael kicked of his running shoes and flew toward the edge of the river.

A long flat running dive, and Michael sliced through the water, swimming toward his son with long powerful strokes. Caution had been abandoned. Michael had to save Adam. Idiot Mick hadn't fastened the life preserver properly. He could see it bobbing by the side of the boat. Mick was in the water, as well. Where was Adam?

Michael filled his lungs with air and swam under the boat, his eyes straining in the murky depths to catch a glimpse of his son. The river was shallow, only ten feet or so at that spot, but clogged with many underwater plants. Michael parted them with his hands, searching . . . searching for his son.

It seemed that minutes, no hours, passed. His lungs burned with the need for oxygen. Black spots appeared in the margin of his visual fields. He would pass out unless he kicked for the surface, now.

Up toward the surface he swam, nearly unconscious from lack of oxygen himself. As he burst to the surface, he felt a thump against his foot. One gasp of precious air and down again he dove. Frantically, he felt for and found the waist band of Adam's short pants and pulled him to the surface. Looping his arm around the child's neck, he swam for the bank, pulling him along.

Michael scrambled up the gentle grassy slope, carrying Adam's limp body. He lay the child down. Adam wasn't breathing. Michael felt a pulse at his right carotid artery. Tears began to flow. There was still time, as long as the heart was still beating. Oxygen was still going to Adam's brain.

"Michael, I'm sorry. I tried to warn him." Mick had emerged from the water and knelt on the other side of Adam.

"Shut up!" Michael commanded between checking Adam's airway for obstruction and initiating two breaths. Not too much. He's small. Michael felt again for Adam's pulse. Still strong. It was only a matter of time. Adam would be all right. Michael continued to breathe for his child, the tears streaming down his face. He wanted to kill Mick Shtoppel, but that would have to wait for another time. "Breathe, Adam, breathe!" he cried, checking again for a pulse.

**********

A cough racked the child's small body. Michael waited. Adam coughed again, river water erupted from his mouth. Adam took a breath on his own, then another, still regurgitating more water from his lungs and stomach. Ragged little breaths, then a squalling cry resounded though the still summer air.

Michael shrank back, sanity returned. He couldn't allow Adam to see him. Tears continued to flow down his cheeks as he hoarsely warned Mick, "Get him home, now." Regretfully, Michael retreated into the cover provided by the trees.

Mick nodded, wrapping Adam in his arms. "Quite an adventure, you little bugger. I thought you were done for."

Adam sniffed and with bleary eyes looked around. "My Daddy was here. He saved me. Where did he go?"

Michael's heart nearly stopped.

"No, no, no. I pulled you out of the river. Show some appreciation. You just dreamt it was your Daddy, because if he were here, he would have saved you. That's for sure."

Adam sniffed again, "I know my Daddy's in Heaven, bu–but, he's my guardian angel, so I know he saved me." Adam used the collar of Mick's shirt to wipe his nose.

"Okay, okay, whatever floats your boat–oops!" Mick cringed, glancing in Michael's direction.

Again, Michael felt the urge to kill Shtoppel. He hoped it showed.

Mick sat Adam down. "All right now, I'm going to get the boat, and this time we'll get that life vest on properly."

From his cover, Michael shook his head violently.

"On the other hand, maybe we'll just foot it back to town," Mick said, looking back at Michael, he hefted Adam back up in his arms.

Michael nodded.

"I could do with a bit of exercise. What do you say, Adam?"

Adam sniffed again and nodded.

Thus, the trio returned to Oxford. Two walking together with a silent third, who followed at a discreet distance.

***********

The London townhouse sat in an old, once again very exclusive, residential area on Ashley Crescent. Its heyday had been in King Edward's time, but it had declined starting in the early fifties, until it was fashioned into multiple apartments in the sixties. London hippies had grown marijuana in the rear gardens while they smoked it on the front steps.

Finally in the late eighties, a group of die-hard preservationists had reclaimed area. David's family had owned the house for decades, allowing it to fall into disrepair along with all the others in the area, while they collected the rents. David's father had been one of the preservationists, and he'd decided to rehabilitate and occupy the old family dwelling. Now it was a jewel, amongst other jewels, not ostentatious, but well-cared for and pristine in every aspect.

Well-polished paneling lined the entrance hall, as did the wood floors. A large Turkish rug in tones of red, navy and ivory covered most of the foyer. A round Empire table occupied the center of the area. Three highly burnished ormolu dolphins formed the massive pedestal, and its mahogany surface was waxed to a mirror finish. Preserved for over a century by generations of the Marlow dynasty, the table was an exemplar of Empire lavishness and durability.

Lord David French, on forced, unpaid leave from the Oxford police force, paced back and forth in his father's study. Edward French, seventh Earl of Marlow, had not yet made his appearance, although David had already been summoned to his father's book-lined study, presumably to cool his heels and reflect on the pathetic condition of his life.

David listened. He heard the quiet measured steps of his father, coming down the stairway. His father never hurried. No indeed, he would take his time with this interview. He would spare no adjective in describing his displeasure with his son and his profession and this his latest scrape. As if being accused of murder could in any way be described as a scrape. He dreaded seeing his father, listening to his tirade, and most of all, having to stand there and take it like a gentleman.

His relationship with his father was one based on formality and refinement. It was the way his grandfather had treated his father, and it was continued into his own generation, as well. Raised by a nanny and governess, like the young lords before him, David chafed at the thought of ever treating his own child similarly. No, if he ever had children, he certainly wouldn't banish them to the schoolroom like the Victorians had done at the turn of the century.

"Ahem." David's father cleared his throat and entered the study, walked to the far side of the massive desk, pulled out the leather chair and sat down.

"Father, I---" David started.

"David, you will save my valuable time, if you will listen until I've had my say. At that time, if there is anything you still wish to discuss, you may." Edward French sat erect, shoulders squared, as if he'd been a soldier, but nothing could have been farther from the truth. "You have been remanded to my custody through the good offices of my old friend and solicitor Jason Medley. I always said no good would come of your associating with your inferiors. You've come to think and act like one of them. This murder of which you've been accused is the last straw. I don't know how you expect the family to extricate you from such a predicament."

"Predicament!" David was incensed. He slammed his hands on the desk and leaned into his father's stern face.

"Kindly allow me to continue . . . without interruption," he sniffed. "Of course, I shall hire the most noted barrister to defend you, but I still don't see them finding you innocent. This is a damnable situation. You should've thought of your family before you committed such a reprehensible act. What was this Molly person to you? Your mistress? Was she with child?"

David felt the blood drain from his face and hands. He felt icy cold. His father thought him guilty of murder. How could he?

"Have you nothing to say?"

"You mean it's my turn to speak now? You want an answer. This Molly person was a fifty-plus computer expert, whom I'd asked to do some research. She was murdered for what she found, and certainly not by me. She was a charming soul, who never hurt anyone. I found her body. I didn't murder her . . . and you can go straight to hell!" he finished, shouting. He spun on his heel and strode toward the front door.

"See here, you can't leave. You have to stay here!" his father warned.

"Watch me!" David bellowed, opening then slamming the front door behind him.

David stormed down the street, not caring where he was going or how long it would take to get there. Damn it! He'd show them all. He'd find out who killed poor Molly without the assistance of his father, the family money or influence.

**********

Nikita held and comforted Elena until the fragile beauty had no more tears left. Finally, Elena regained enough composure to blow her nose and wipe her red-swollen eyes. "I have to pull myself together. I can't allow Adam to see me like this."

"I know it's been a terrible time for you, but it'll get easier in time," Nikita consoled her.

Elena nodded, "I know what you're saying is true. When my mother died, I was devastated, left alone in the world with no idea how to find my father. I was fortunate that she left me enough money to stay in school. I was at University then." Elena seemed to relax the longer the spoke. "The money helped, but it wasn't until I met Michael a few months after she died that I really began to recover. He gave me something to look forward to. He was so charming and intelligent, and of course, so handsome that I fell in love with him immediately. I ended up leaving school anyway, to marry him."

Nikita wasn't sure how much more she could take of the Michael and Elena story, but she knew she owed Elena a great deal, more than the other woman would ever know. At the very least, she owed it to Elena to listen until her ears fell off. "You and Michael were happy. He adored you and Adam, but you have to get beyond it Elena. Time is on your side. You're young and beautiful. I know you'll love again."

"I don't know if I will or not," Elena murmured softly.

"What about the constable who was here? He seemed taken with you," Nikita suggested. "You will have to resume your life eventually."

"DC French? Oh, dear no, " Elena shuddered. "He looks entirely too much like Michael. I don't think I could stand to be around him. Looking at him would bring back too many painful memories, Nikita. Besides, I thought he was taken with Mary or maybe you." Elena gave a tremulous smile and continued, "I'm not ready for dating. It's only been a few months."

"Over six months, Elena. I'm not trying to push you, but some women are remarried by then."

Elena shook her dark head. "Then they didn't have what I had with Michael, Nikita."

Nikita was determined not to give up on Elena. "I understand that you're not ready for another relationship now, but the right time and the right man will come along. I don't want you to blind yourself to the possibility, that's all."

Elena gave Nikita a wide smile and reached her arms toward her for a hug, "You're such a wonderful friend. Thank you."

Nikita returned Elena's hug, wondering why she wasn't struck by lightning or some other form of divine retribution. She covered her dismay by asking, "More tea?"

"Yes, please."

Nikita rose and started to pour two more cups. Elena asked, "Do you think Michael could ever have been involved with someone else?"

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

David walked for what seemed like miles, but in reality was only three. The exercise had been beneficial to his heart and lungs, of course, but also to his frame of mind. He'd allowed his father get to him . . . or punch his buttons as Mac was so fond of saying. He'd left the quiet residential area and found himself in a slightly more down-trodden area, in front of a pub. Good show, old man. He was bloody glad he didn't live at home under his father's dour influence. He opened the door to the pub and walked inside. Heads turned in his direction. He was a stranger. He felt the hostility and suspicion radiate from those already sipping their ale.

"Wotcher, mate?" the bluff man behind the bar asked.

"Telephone and a pint of stout, if you please," he replied. His formality caused heads to turn in his direction, once again.

"Over there," the bartender replied, motioning with his head.

"Thank you." David headed toward the telephone while the bartender drew the pint and slid it toward his end of the bar. David grabbed the pint and took a long draught, dialing for a cab at the same time. The number rang and was answered. Where did he require the cab? Good question. "What's the address here?" he asked.

"‘E wants to know the bloomin' address," the bartender announced to the rest of the pub's customers. "Don't you know where you are?" The pub patrons responded and laughed as one.

"Not exactly," David replied sheepishly. He'd been so angry, he hadn't paid much attention to where he'd walked.

"Bloomin' fool, is wot you are."

"That may be, but I still need to know the address for the cab, mate." David drew himself up to his full height.

The bartender took note and shrugged. "You're at the Wolf and Dove, 14 Bristol Lane."

"Thank you," David said, then repeated the address to the cab dispatcher and hung up the old wall-style telephone. He took the nearest empty table, sat down and nursed his pint.

The bartender sidled toward him. "So, wot kinda peeler business brings you to the Wolf and Dove?"

"Noth—, nothing, how did you know?"

"It's written all over you. I can smell a copper a mile away."

David eyed him carefully. "Run afoul of us once or twice in your time, have you?" he asked.

"Wen I was a youngun'. Nothin' like today's little druggies," he said, wiping the bar as he talked. "Joy ridin', that sorta thing. Today it's Uzi's at point-blank range, if you look at one of ‘um cross-eyed. No sir, not like in my day."

"You're right, of course."

"You talk like a proper gent. Name's Ben," Ben said, extending a hand toward David.

"David French. I'm with the Oxford Constabulary," David acknowledged, extending his own hand in greeting. "Good to meet you, Ben."

An impatient horn sounded outside the pub. "That'll be my cab," David said, leaving payment and tip on the counter.

"Come back, anytime. You'll be welcome."

"Thank you, Ben." David nodded and left.

Once inside the cab, he formulated the beginnings of a plan. He'd return to his flat and become a private detective. If the Oxford police wouldn't allow him to investigate Molly's murder officially, he'd do it unofficially!

***********

When Mary Raney had rushed away from Elena's, she'd been furious with Nikita and with herself–with Nikita because she was part of a big deception that had hurt Elena, and with herself because she couldn't control her emotions and temper. She'd accepted that Elena shouldn't be told that Michael was alive, presumably well and playing at being a real life James Bond.

Because she accepted that ground rule, it made her part of the conspiracy of silence. She and Elena had become quite close in the few weeks they'd known each other. Basically, she was a very open person, she didn't like secrets.

She'd walked the two blocks to her own cottage, thinking she would do some therapeutic cleaning, but when she reached her drive, another activity came to mind. Maybe, she would play detective. Adam and Nikita's ridiculous fiancé hadn't been gone all that long. Maybe, just maybe, she could follow him and see what he was doing with Adam. She didn't trust the jerk to know how to amuse a young child for an afternoon.

Mary jumped in her car, backed it out, screeching the tires in her haste to get on the trail. "Follow that Porsche!" she said aloud and giggled. Of course, it was nowhere to be seen. First, she headed toward the bookshop. If that Mick had any brains, he'd take Adam there. Adam loved the bookshop, but no, there was no black Porsche parked anywhere near the store.

For over an hour, she drove up and down the main thoroughfares of Oxford, wondering where in heck they could be. Finally, she decided to take a swing by the river. Bingo! There was Nikita's snazzy sports car, however, there was no sign of Adam or Mick. Perhaps, they were walking in the park area. She parked her not-so-snazzy or sporty car, turned off the key and opened the door.

Mary looked around. Twenty yards from the car park was a boat rental. It was possible that Mick had taken Adam for a outing on the river. She exited from the car, slamming the door behind her and walked the short distance to the rental stand.

"Would you be wanting a boat, Miss?" asked a grizzled, elderly man with snapping brown eyes, who'd placed his tabloid paper on the counter at her approach.

Mary shook her head, "No, I'm looking for a friend of mine. He's about 5 feet-nine, and he has a small dark-haired boy with him. That's their car over there. I wondered if you'd seem them."

"Well, yes, I did. I rented the gentleman and the boy a nice little boat, just about thirty minutes ago. Don't know how long they'll be, Miss."

"Thank you, I'll just wait for them in my car then."

"All right, Miss. I hope you don't have too long a wait," he said, going back to his tabloid newspaper that screamed headlines about Princess Diana being sighted in Sussex.

As luck would have it, Mary quickly became bored with waiting for Adam and Mick to reappear. There was nothing to read in the car, an unforgivable circumstance in her opinion. After twenty minutes, she decided she would walk along the grassy area by the river.

The sun was warm on her skin, and it glinted off the translucent wings of dragonflies as they skimmed lazily close to the water's surface. She could hear the quiet, almost hypnotic, buzz of insects calling. The moss green surface of the River Cherwell reflected the white puffy cumulus clouds that floated overhead. She sat down on a large flat rock, protruding from the sloping river bank, leaned her head back, relishing the warmth of the son on her face, and drank in the peaceful atmosphere.

How long she remained like that, she wasn't sure. She might have fallen asleep, if the rock hadn't been so damn hard and unaccommodating to her behind. She heard footsteps and turned toward the trees that lined the river. She heard Mick's voice, too.

Why were they on foot? she wondered.

Mick, carrying Adam, burst from the trees. "Ah, here we are. Just a few more feet, Adam."

"What happened?" Mary asked excitedly, noting their wet clothes.

"Well, what do you think happened?" Mick responded irritably. "We took a tumble in the river, that's what!"

"I drownded! Daddy helped me breathe!" Adam announced.

"What!" Mary gasped and looked around.

"The little bugger, seems to think his Daddy saved his life. Lack of oxygen, I think it was," Mick explained.

"Hand him to me," Mary insisted.

"No, I'm already wet, no since in your getting soaked, too, not that I wouldn't mind seeing you in a wet tee-shirt, mind," Mick said, leering at her.

"Creep," she said softly, not wanting to argue in front of Adam.

"Can't win'em all, I guess."

"You have no idea how right you are about that!" In one sentence, Mick had managed to ruin her good mood. "Then stop fooling around and take him home, right now," she ordered. Something flickered in the periphery of her vision. She looked, but only the impression that someone had been watching them remained.

Mick rolled his eyes. "I do love forceful women."

"Go!"

"Mary, you're so funny. Mr. Mick, you are too," Adam giggled, still nestled in Mick's arms.

"I know sweetheart. You be a good boy and let Mr. Mick take you home."

Adam nodded. "Can we go home to Mommy, now?"

"That's where we're headed," Mick said walking toward Nikita's car. He called over his shoulder, "Oh, could you explain to the boatman. Take care of it, will you?" Without ever bothering to see if she agreed, Mick opened the door and fastened Adam's seatbelt. "Ta–ta!"

"Right," she muttered, then did as he'd asked, in a rush to investigate what she'd seen.

After five minutes of hurried explanation, Mary had settled matters with the grizzled boatman. She walked to the edge of the trees. "Michael," she called. "I saw you. You might as well come out." She waited, then walked further into the stand of trees. "Michael," she called again. "I'm not leaving until I talk to you."

Like a pale gray ghost, Michael emerged from behind a tree, not three feet away from her. "Damn! How do you do that?" she said, clutching her throat. He'd scared her to death, well nearly.

"What do you want?" Michael asked, his green eyes narrowed, nearly black in the shadows.

"What kind of man are you? How can you let your family think you're dead?"

"How do you know them?"

"Elena and I met recently. We've become friends, and I think you are a total jerk."

Michael leaned back on a tree truck, folding his arms across his chest. "I am, but you knew that."

"Well, if I didn't know before, I certainly do now. I don't know how you live with yourself, Nikita either, for that matter."

"Have you said anything to Elena?" he asked, his voice dropping.

Mary shrugged, no sense in making it too easy for him.

Michael crossed the distance between them in the flicker of an eyelash. The next thing she knew, he'd pressed her against the trunk of an old Scottish pine. The bark dug in her back, while his hands gripped her upper arms.

"Have you told Elena that I'm alive?" he demanded in a voice hoarse with emotion.