PART 1

The steering wheel of the car felt good in her hands. It was solid and real and she liked the distinct growl of the engine. Nikita loved being in control of the Porsche. Sometimes it seemed to be the only thing in her erratic existence she could control. And Michael? Now, there was control personified. Lately, though, tiny fissures had appeared. Since the Joaquin Armel job, she had noticed something was wrong. It wasn't physically evident, Michael had always been in magnificent condition, she could certainly attest to that. However, sometimes when they were on a mission, he would become reckless in his commands, putting his team in more danger than required. No one else had noticed it, she was positive, or if they did, nobody was talking. After all, he was a master of subterfuge and because he was the Section's top operative he was allowed more leeway than any other team leader.

It was in his dealings with Nikita herself that his behaviour had become more unpredictable. God knew how much his blank stare could frustrate the hell out of her but, after some of the sarcastic reactions she had received when asking simple questions, she preferred the imperturbable mask. These bouts only happened in his office and they were becoming more frequent. At first they irritated her, now they were starting to trouble her.

She had tried talking to Walter and Birkoff about Michael, asking them if they noticed any sort of change in him. Each answered in his own inimitable way. Birkoff, of course, hadn't noticed anything at all because his relationship with Michael was strictly business. Which was just the way he preferred it, thank you very much. He was scared of Operations but Michael petrified him. Walter, being Walter, said sure, he noticed a difference. He noticed Michael was being a little rough on his beloved assault weaponry and that Michael should get himself a hobby. "Maybe something like making ceramic tile pictures so he learns that every piece has it's place and that's how I want my equipment returned, not tossed into the carrying case like he's throwing a wet towel into the dryer." Constantly having to realign laser sights did not make Walter a happy man.

Nikita even thought of speaking with Madeline but knew that would probably get her nowhere. What had Madeline said once? Something to the effect that Section was not there to help operatives cope with emotional anxiety? Besides, Nikita did not want Michael put under any scrutiny. As for Operations: yeah, right.

***********

Nikita drove west along Point Grey Road, a broad thoroughfare with a well tended boulevard running down its centre. It was one of those long, delicious summer evenings when the sun took forever to set. The top was down on the Porsche and the drone of lawnmowers drifted past her ears, the scent of fresh cut grass floated on the warm air. The farther west she drove, the larger the houses and their landscaped yards became. Some homes nestled in almost parklike surroundings. The lawns being mowed here were not by fathers doing their after-dinner chores, but by very well paid gardeners. So much arboreal grandeur did not come cheap.

Hmmm, she thought, so if I live long enough to become a class 5 operative this is where I can move to. Not too shabby. But I wonder what the neighbours would think if they knew there was a professional killer in the group. Kinda puts a new spin on the whole community Block Watch thing.

Towering oak trees soared above the road as Nikita continued along looking for 9231 Point Grey Road. It would be to her right which was where the prime real estate was in this posh neighbourhood. Point Grey Road ran adjacent to the bay; all the houses on the north side of the road were water front properties, many separated from each other and hidden from the street by 10 foot high walls. She slowed down as she tried to read address numbers near the various entrances. 9219, 9225, 9231, here it was. As she drove slowly past the wrought iron gates, her brief view of his house gave no inkling of whether Michael was in or not. The only light on was the lamp on the narrow section of wall that separated the double vehicle gate from the pedestrian gate. The upward illumination of the fixture shone on the bronze address numbers but other than that the place looked deserted.

Nikita pulled to a stop well past the gates, put the Porsche in park and turned off the engine. She sat looking at the sunset streaks in the sky, thinking about what to do next. "Okay, Michael. Are you in or aren't you?" she muttered aloud. Some of their past encounters ran fleeting through Nikita's thoughts: the first day she woke up in Section and her puny attack on Michael when he told her just how drastically her life had changed, the times he had saved her, not only in the field, but from cancellation. The gamut of emotions she felt when he was around, and especially those ones when he wasn't. She remembered the mission playing a married couple in love and smiled to herself. Oh, but she didn't have to play act those feelings.

The shadows of the oaks were reaching to the east as the light of the early evening sun poured through the branches. Nikita got out of the car and walked along the sidewalk back toward the gate. Tendrils of ivy hung over the high plaster wall and the peaked roof of what was, she supposed, the garage was just visible. She reached the ornate gate and her Section training automatically kicked in. Checking for cameras she spied one mounted on top of the wall to her left which covered both gates into the property. However, there was no indication that the camera was on just as there still were no visible lights on in the house. "Well, in for a penny, in for a pound," she muttered under her breath as she pressed the buzzer in the wall. The gate swung open silently and she entered the courtyard of Michael's house.

There was no elaborate landscaping here inside the gates. As a matter of fact, there was no grass to be seen at all, the entire area from the wall to the front of the house was paved with worn, old bricks, faded to a dusky pink. Small shrubs grew along the base of the wall and the prolific ivy was everywhere. The house took up almost the entire width of the property. How far back toward the water it reached she couldn't tell. A beautiful weeping willow stood between the wall and the right side of the house, it's full sweeping branches touching the ground. At the left of the courtyard was, indeed, a double garage. Nikita knew that behind one of those garage doors was a very expensive Italian motorcycle and behind the other...what? She chuckled when she realized she had no idea what kind of vehicle Michael drove.

She crossed the courtyard toward the house. It was a plain, unprepossessing two and a half story redwood box. There were no columns, no pergolas, none of the conceits that some of the other homes draped themselves in. Well, Michael, no worries about Architectural Digest wanting to do a feature on your place, thought Nikita. The heavy black lacquered oak door stood just slightly off centre with a huge picture window on its left and to the right, a narrow horizontal window running almost to the willow tree. Under this stretch of glass was the only colour in the whole courtyard: hydrangea bushes, their full blooms drooping sadly, looking for a drink of water. Nikita stood in front of the single step that led up to the front door. She could still hear distant lawnmowers and overhead seagulls calling to the sun as it moved down the sky. The top story of the house was aglow in the burnished rays but here in the enclosed courtyard it was dim and melancholy.

Nikita stepped up to the door, took the heavy gryphon's-head knocker in her hand and let it fall once. Michael opened the door almost immediately. Her voice froze in her throat as raw emotions chased across his face. Shock, surprise, puzzlement and something Nikita thought she would never see on Michael's face or hear in his voice.

"What are you doing here?" He could barely suppress his fury.

PART 2

It was over in less than a minute. How quickly the mask fell back into place.

"Hello, Michael. May I come in?" Nikita's heart was pounding in her ears. She didn't know exactly what sort of reception to expect but it certainly hadn't been this. Luckily her hands were in her jacket pockets or Michael would have seen immediately just how much he had frightened her.

"Of course." He stepped back and held the door open. She entered into Michael's private world. The world she had gotten the address of by getting Birkoff drunk on Japanese beer.

It was an exquisite jewel box of a world. The interior walls were covered in glowing cherrywood and the floor was herringbone parquet. As Michael closed the door behind her, Nikita looked around her in awe. She was standing at the beginning of a corridor that was walled on the right but completely open on the left. At the other end, from what she could see from her angle, was a wall of glass facing the water. Framed in this wall were open French doors letting in the evening breeze, the faintest hint of salt coming from off the water. The whole left half of the house was a huge open area with a ceiling that soared two and a half stories. Bisecting this space, leading up from the open side of the corridor, was a flight of cantilevered steps. On the landing sat an enormous ancient terra cotta jar housing an equally magnificent ficus tree. The stairs continued up to the second story loft directly above her, which ran the length of the house. To Nikita's right was a louvered door which, she assumed, led to the kitchen.

To her immediate left was the dining area furnished with an elegant table surrounded by neo-Gothic chairs upholstered in an eggplant hued moiré silk only slightly darker than the heavy velvet drapes. Behind the chair at the far end of the table was an antique pearwood cabinet, highly polished, with gilt finishes. On top of the cabinet were two celadon ginger jars and, resting in the space between them, a mounted ceremonial samurai sword, it's delicately carved ivory handle ghostly in the unlit room.

But what caught Nikita's attention, more than anything else, was the painting mounted on the wall above the cabinet. She didn't know much about art but she knew what she liked. When she lived on the streets, she'd spent a lot of time in the main library, curled up in a corner, looking at art books. It was nice and quiet there but best of all, it was warm and dry.

For Nikita art was something you loved first with your eyes, then with your gut and then with your heart, the critics be damned, and this painting was by one of her favourites. It was a huge canvas by Fernando Botero of a couple dancing. Although the light coming from the large front window was fading, it was enough for Nikita to make out the voluptuous entwined figures. The colours of their clothing were vivid, but it was the faces, the exposed arms of the woman, the man's hands, which entranced her. She wanted to touch the canvas, to imagine the feeling of warmth and round softness of the delicately tinted flesh of the dancers.

Michael spoke and brought Nikita out of her reverie. "Why are you here, Nikita?"

No polite chitchat, of course, although what else could she expect. Michael never made chitchat, polite or otherwise. She had broken Section protocol, not to mention security and had most likely put Birkoff in danger of, if not abeyance, out and out cancellation. Hell, Michael would probably have her canceled for what she'd done.

"Wow, nice place you've got here, Michael. Well, I guess you wouldn't believe me if I told you I was in the neighbourhood, would you? Do you mind if we sit down? And could I get a glass of water?"

He pulled out the chair at the head of the table and silently motioned for Nikita to sit. Turning from her, he headed towards the door that led to the kitchen. This was not going the way she had planned it. She had asked for the water simply as a diversionary tactic, trying to calm her nerves and get her thoughts in order.

Christ, girl, what plan? You must have had more beer than you thought you did to get some lame idea about showing up on his doorstep. What, do you think you're going to proclaim your love and he's going to fall at your feet, swooning with desire? And that whatever's bothering him is going to instantly disappear? Nikita pushed these thoughts aside. Get a grip or get out. You know why you're here.

Michael returned with the glass of water and placed it on the table in front of her. Hitching out a side chair, he sat down with his hands clasped behind his head, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He watched her, waiting for her to say something. Nikita took a sip and set the tumbler down, her fingers playing with the design etched on the fine crystal.

She had been so startled by his initial reaction to her and then seeing the amazing interior of his home that she hadn't noticed Michael himself. He wasn't wearing black. His hair was messy, the curls spilling over his forehead and around his face. The white open-necked shirt he wore was loosely buttoned over his jeans, with the sleeves casually rolled up. His feet were bare. She had never seen him look sexier. Although he seemed relaxed, Nikita could sense he wanted her gone as soon as possible. She was starting to get flustered from him watching her and so she concentrated on his feet.

Actually, Michael, you look like you just got out of bed. Did I disturb you? Were you sleeping? Is that why the lights are out? Or were you in bed but... otherwise occupied...? Her jaw clenched at the thought. No, you wouldn't have invited me in then. Stop it! Stop it right now. Don't make yourself crazy like this.

"Nikita, I'm expecting someone. Why have you put yourself and Birkoff in jeopardy by coming to my home?" That question snapped her to attention. But how could he know it was Birkoff who told her? Of course. Who else could it have been?

"Please don't say anything to Operations or Madeline about Birkoff. This was entirely my fault. I just... needed some help to find your address and well, I took Seymour to that Japanese place down in Yaletown, and do you know, he's never had Japanese beer or smoked eel sushi, or any sushi for that matter. And I ordered three bottles of Sapporo, the big ones, and poor Seymour, he can't hold his liquor. But he sure is a lot of fun when he's drunk and we drank and laughed and ate too much and..."

"Stop it, you're prattling." Michael swung the chair around to face the table. He sat with his forearms resting on the polished surface, crossed in front of him. "I have no plans to tell Operations or Madeline anything. I'm sure Birkoff knows exactly what he's done. Waking up with a hangover will add to the guilt he feels and it's justly deserved. I'm not going to lecture you either. But you're here for a reason. I'd like to know what it is."

"Yes, you're right. I am here for a reason." Nikita stopped toying with her glass and inhaled deeply. "Michael, we've known each other for almost four years. You've been my teacher, my trainer, my mentor. More times than I'd like to admit you've been my tormentor." He glanced away from her at this comment. "You've protected me from enemies and made me see that sometimes I'm my own worst enemy. And God knows how often I wanted to shoot you for being right. For all the times that I was petulant and whiny you stood up for me. You always believed in me, in my capabilities and that's something no one, not one person, has ever done."

She stopped to take a sip of water, watching him. Michael sat staring at his clasped hands. The light in the courtyard outside the window was so dim Nikita could barely see his face. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to a panel on the wall near the front door. A button was pushed and instantly the interior was filled with soft, low light. Although there were no lamps per se in the dining room, the Botero was lit by a baby spot shining down from the high ceiling. Running the length of the corridor ceiling were recessed lights, illuminating the beautiful parquet below. He also turned on the outside light next to the front door.

Another touch of a button and the velvet drapes closed silently. Michael crossed back behind Nikita's chair but instead of sitting down he stood beside her looking down at her radiant face. She was slightly flushed, whether from nervousness or emotion he couldn't tell.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

Nikita took his left hand and held it with both of hers. To her relief he didn't try to pull away. She looked up into his beautiful green eyes.

"Nikita?"

She stopped, swallowed. She was no longer uncertain. Her feelings for Michael engulfed her whole body, the warmth and rush of emotion coursing through her. The babbling was gone. The nervousness had vanished.

Slowly, steadily, a statement of fact. "Michael, I love you. Something's bothering you and I want to help."

PART 3

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Was he pleased, was he embarrassed? Oh please, don't let him be laughing at me. Still with his hand held within her grasp, Michael crouched directly facing Nikita. He rested his right hand over both of hers, gently kneading them with his long fingers.

"I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that," he said softly,

Nikita's joy was insurmountable. She wanted to do cartwheels, she wanted to laugh with relief, to shout with happiness, to spin around till she fell to the floor. She wanted to buy Birkoff a year's supply of Sapporo.

"But what you think you feel for me is an illusion," he continued quietly, looking down at their entwined hands.

"What?" The bewilderment was plain on her face. "Michael, you're confusing me. I don't understand what you're saying."

"Listen to me. Think of the statements you've just made. Yes, I've encouraged you and pushed you partially because of the potential I could see but also because Section requires it. Even your insubordination was accepted to a point because it was such a vital part of your character. But if you examine your feelings more closely, I think you'll understand that they stem more from a sense of gratitude than love."

Nikita sat up abruptly in her chair, snatching her hands out from his. Blue eyes bore into green as she spoke in a low, level voice.

"How dare you? How dare you try to belittle my feelings for you."

Her words hit him like a slap across the face. He tried to keep his voice as neutral as his face but he couldn't quite suppress the remorse.

"I'm sorry Nikita. I didn't mean to sound patronizing. But if it's truly love that you feel," he looked up at her, "then you must realize it's something I can't return. Can you accept that?"

"No, Michael, I can't accept that. Because frankly I don't believe it. But that's the point for you, isn't it? You're so convinced you really are emotionally bankrupt that you try to push everyone away. Trying to fulfill your self-imposed role as the perfect Section operative, devoid of all feeling. Well, it's starting to take it's toll on you and it's scaring me."

Nikita paused, her frustration was growing.

"After Simone's death do you think I didn't know how devastated you were? How hard you tried to rationalize the René Dion mission? My god, Michael!" Nikita said heatedly, "I was in that room. I knew you couldn't pull the trigger. I saw the look on your face and heard what you said and it sure as hell wasn't the face of an emotionless monster!"

Michael gazed at her with narrowed eyes. He spoke so quietly, she could barely hear him.

"Christ, Nikita, is that how you see me, as a monster?" But he was... wasn't he?

"Oh Jesus," the exasperation had vanished from her voice, "Michael, no, no. I'm sorry." Nikita stopped talking and cupped her hands over her face. She took a ragged breath and shakily exhaled, moving her hands down, pressing the fingertips against her mouth. Her brows knitted together as she looked at Michael, the sorrow she had caused visible on his face. She felt miserable.

"I love you so much. I don't know what kind of proof I can give you, what you need to see before you believe me. But, regardless of what you do or what you've done, my feelings for you won't change. I need you to help me understand," she pleaded with him. "Why can't you accept what I'm saying?"

Michael stood up. "Come with me."

Nikita hesitated but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet. He walked down the corridor, his arm stretched out behind him, dragging her along. She tried to stand her ground but he was too strong.

"Michael, stop it, you're hurting me." but he kept walking, past the stairs towards the great glass wall and the open French doors. She was aware of passing more artwork as she gave up the struggle to free her wrist from his iron grasp. An exquisite Japanese screen stretched along the corridor wall, two flying herons, the sun, and a few slender stalks of bamboo, painted in silhouette against a delicate sunset background. There was also a Magritte.

The corridor wall ended about five feet past the stairs. Beyond it was the living room which stretched across the back of the house, facing the magnificent view. Michael stopped when they reached the open doors. There was much more light here even though the sun had fallen further toward the horizon.

"Let me show you something. Let me show you exactly who you're in love with." He extended his forearms, wrists together, palms facing up. There, visible in the light, the slashmarks echoing over and over, was evidence of the life he had tried to end.

PART 4

Nikita eyes moved from Michael's wrists to his face. She angrily slapped his hands away with her fist.

"Jesus Christ! I am so tired of your self-pity!" she shouted, tears of fear and anger in her eyes. "So you've tried to kill yourself? So what? What is this supposed to prove, Michael? That because you hate yourself everyone else should hate you? God, how bloody narcissistic can you be? Look, I understand that you feel responsible for people who've died but it's not your fault. Look at the profession we're in!" The tears were running uncontrolled down her face now. "Or are you trying to protect me from throwing myself on the grave of Michael, martyr to his loving dead? Is that what your headstone will say? We loved him without question, but he loved his misery more?"

Michael sucked in a sharp breath at this deliberate cruelty. Nikita's voice cracked as she tried to wipe away the tears with the back of a hand. "Then tell me, Michael, tell me what keeps you from taking that last step. The one that you can't come back from? Is it that only part of you that's still alive?"

He backed away from her, shaking his head in denial, as he heard his own words repeated. Though the light coming through the window had changed to gold, it couldn't mask the pallor of his face. He spoke slowly, trying to steady his voice.

"Nikita, please don't do this. There are things about me that you don't know. I can't tell you what you want to hear."

"Can't or won't?" Nikita gave him a small, sad smile, her blue eyes still brilliant with tears. Her neck and face were splotchy from crying. "Then shall I say it for you? You love me as deeply as I do you." He had to get Nikita out of his house. The vise of a headache was beginning and he knew he could not take much more of her onslaught. "You may not be able to say it but I dare you to deny it."

Michael turned around and walked blindly toward the open-doored armoire that stood adjacent to the stairs. It had been converted into a liquor cabinet, the interior lined in mirror, reflecting back the ornate crystal glasses, the heavy carafes filled with fine ports, brandies and cognacs. But he saw none of this. The labels of the various liquor bottles blurred in front of him. How could he deny what she said when it was true?

He couldn't trust himself to face her. Over his shoulder he spoke, barely audible. "I'm going to tell you something which I think will answer some of your questions and after I do I must ask you to please leave."

He turned then. The pain on his face made her gasp aloud. Her heart was ripping to pieces.

"I'm responsible for the murder of my parents and my sister.

"It happened when I was in university. I was an architecture student. My father was pleased because that was his profession. He was quite famous in Paris and throughout Europe with many well-connected clients. His firm was becoming well known around the globe. He used to joke that after I got my degree, side by side we would conquer the architectural world for France. As a result of his talent, our family became very wealthy.

"René Dion was a fellow architecture student. I thought he had one of the most unique minds in our class. His concepts were brilliant and innovative and totally unworkable, as our professor used to point out to him. René became more and more frustrated and eventually quit his studies. That's when he got involved in radical student politics."

Nikita interjected, "Michael, I can see how much this is hurting you. You don't have to tell me, I've seen the file."

He continued, only his eyes revealing the turmoil he felt. "The file is correct only to a point, Nikita. I was a dilettante when I joined Rene's group. I still attended classes but the more I was in his company the more convinced I became that he had the answer to everything. I couldn't quit university or my father would cut off my allowance which in turn would cut off the advancement of Rene's ideas. This used to make René laugh, that while the bourgeoisie controlled the government and the government was the great oppressor of the masses, he had his own personal bourgeoisie banker. But I didn't care. To me he was a visionary.

"Our slogan painting and protests escalated to more criminal activities but we were always careful to bomb only unoccupied buildings and never private homes. I insisted on this. The newspaper was writing us up as cowardly, petty criminals more interested in causing property damage. This infuriated René. He decided to show them how serious he was. He was going to blow up the offices of Le Monde. I thought he was joking.

"We argued for days, the two of us almost coming to blows. Le Monde was published in a building that was in use 24 hours a day. When it was clear he wouldn't change his mind I capitulated and said yes, I was in. I insisted he let me plant the bomb. When I got to the building that evening I went to the men's room, as agreed in our plan. I took the bomb out of the backpack with the full intention of dismantling it. But Rene was smarter than I. He had put together something I'd never seen before and had rigged the timer to start the minute I got in the front door. There was less than 10 seconds to get out of the building.

"I managed to make it across the street. When the bomb went off, I was running past a cafe. The windows exploded and I was knocked unconscious. When I came to I was in a police cell and informed I was under arrest for suspicion in causing the explosion of the Le Monde building and mass murder."

"But, why did the police arrest you? What evidence did they have?"

"Witnesses in the cafe and on the street had seen me running from the building seconds before the explosion. In my haste to get out all I could think of was don't leave anything behind for anyone to find. Even after Rene's deception his training stayed with me. The police found the knapsack with my fingerprints on it and, of course, residue from the plastique."

Nikita searched his face. Although his voice was steady, she could see how agonizing this was for him. Added to the earlier emotional upheaval he was close to the point of exhaustion. His head throbbed.

"Michael, where was your father in all this? You said your family was wealthy. Why wasn't he there with the best lawyers in France?"

"He was dead, Nikita. He, my mother and my ten-year old sister had died in another explosion that same night." He stopped speaking and looked away. When he continued he had given up trying to control his tears. "My family had gone to dine that evening at the home of the Minister of Culture. M. Gagne had started as a client of my father but they soon became close friends. His youngest daughter and my sister, Clothilde, were school mates. M. Gagne had also invited another dinner guest who was looking for an architect and wanted to meet my father. The gentleman's name was Louis de Cavailler, the publisher of Le Monde."

Nikita put her hand to her mouth, shaking her head no. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

"René had decided to take his lesson one step farther. He would destroy the author as well as the instrument of his ridicule. He was so clever at making the explosion look like a faulty gas leak that the police never connected the two.

"I didn't find out about my family until the following day. In my cell afterward was the first time I tried to kill myself. The police caught me in time. If I was going to hang it would be the state's decision not my own. I was put on suicide watch until my trial. The trial was a formality. I was convicted of willful and malicious property damage and murdering 52 people."

Nikita sobbed through her fingers, "I'm so, so sorry."

PART 5

Michael was physically and mentally exhausted. He needed to sit down. There were two wing chairs nearby facing each other across a high, round table. He slowly walked over and collapsed into one of them. Usually he wrote in his journal sitting at this table but now all he wanted to do was lay his head on his arms and close his eyes. The pounding in his head was excruciating.

He sat very still, his head leaning back against the finely woven wool material. Resting his arms along the chair-arms, the long fingers of his hands dangling over the carved lion heads, Michael closed his eyes, a furrow of pain between the brows.

After what she had just heard, Nikita couldn't think. She stood looking out the French doors.

The sun had set by now leaving a thin line of vermilion just above the horizon. Overhead the sky was changing to a rich cobalt blue with here and there the pinprick light of early stars. It was still light enough so see the mountains far across the bay. Lights were on in some of the apartments and houses which nestled against their base. The snow on the higher peaks was still tinged with the last pink and gold rays of the vanished sun. This was usually Nikita's favourite part of the day.

Twilight. Neither day or night. Just like the limbo called Section One.

Nikita turned around looking for a light switch, it was too dark inside. There was one on the wall around the corner from the end of the corridor. She walked over and pressed the switch. More recessed lighting came on, this time to her left. She turned back round, facing the living room, and was surprised again by the sumptuous interior of Michael's home.

As with the two different ceiling heights of the house, so too was the living room divided into two areas. Where Nikita stood, the overhead loft swept out to the window wall giving the living room a semblance of normal height but the actual sitting area was below floor level. The huge built-in sofa was covered in dark forest green suede. An inverted L-shape, it stretched along facing the window, the parquet flooring level with it's high back. The short side of the sofa reached toward the window, stopping at shallow steps built down from the floor. Like an optical illusion, the steps continued outside the window, curving to the left, but they were the steps leading down from the small deck outside the French doors. There was nothing to obstruct the view regardless of where you stood in the living room.

At the far right end of the sofa was another flight of steps. Broader than the stairs across the sunken living room, these separated the sofa from the round free-standing, copper clad fireplace next to the window, it's polished flue rising up to the ceiling. Against the wall at the top of the steps was a custom built bookshelf filled floor to ceiling with cds. Nestled in the middle of all this music was the sound system. Although Nikita didn't know it at the time, the entire house was wired for sound, each room furnished with hidden speakers.

As Nikita looked at her surroundings, something Michael had once said to her finally made sense. He did live his life split in two. She knew the Section Michael but if the house was the reflection of the private Michael then he was all the more remarkable. She glanced toward him. He still hadn't moved his position but now his eyes were open.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Nikita, will you please go now?" He had regained control of himself but he was very, very tired.

She walked over to the table and sat in the chair across from him. How she wanted to comfort him, to hold him in her arms until he fell asleep but she knew he wouldn't allow it. Not until his last defense was gone.

PART 6

There was an array of objects on the antique tapestry cloth that covered the round table: an ostrich egg mounted on a carved gilt stand, two malachite obelisks, a Japanese netsuke, a strand of carved cinnabar beads, an ornate silver letter opener. All personal mementos of the man she loved and knew almost nothing about.

Nikita ran her fingertips down the smooth side of one of the obelisks.

"I'll go Michael but first I need to know something."

"Can't this wait until tomorrow?" but he could tell by the set of her mouth she wasn't finished. He'd had enough of being put through the emotional wringer, perhaps if he just answered her questions she would leave.

"How come the big deception with René? He killed your family, why didn't you just shoot him when you tracked him down to the warehouse? I know Section turned it into a mission but how could you let him live for as long as you did?"

Michael hesitated, choosing his words. "I could never blame René for the death of my family. He specifically set the explosion to destroy Louis de Cavailler, he didn't know who else was at the dinner party."

"But that hardly makes him innocent. He double crossed you by rigging the bomb at the newspaper to blow up with you in the building and you ended up being sentenced to death for murdering all those people. How can you ask me to believe you didn't blame him?"

He looked past Nikita remembering that horrid night in his past. His headache had abated, but not by much. "It was another life, I was very different then." Michael rubbed his forehead and right temple. "I suppose you would consider it misplaced loyalty but back then René was a hero to me. In my cell that night I felt abandoned by my friend, but no, I didn't blame him. The next day when I learned about my family, the guilt was crushing. Because of my friendship with René they had lost their lives. That's what fuels my life, Nikita: loyalty, abandonment and guilt."

Nikita toyed with the letter opener, the reflected light from across the room playing along its carved handle and flat blade. The breeze coming through the open doors was cooler but not uncomfortable. The distant echo of an ambulance siren could be heard in the still evening air.

"What about love, Michael? Or after losing Simone do you categorize it with abandonment and guilt? You know, it's funny how they go together, those three," she continued. "Even after someone we love has left us for whatever reason, initially it's always ourselves we blame. For some people the guilt eventually disappears, for others it never does.

"When I was four years old, my mother and I lived in a cheap motel with her boyfriend, Eddie. One time her youngest sister was in the hospital and she wanted to visit her. Mom asked Eddie if he would stay in and look after me but he wouldn't because he had bowling that night. I remember falling asleep hearing them screaming at each other in the living room. I awoke a few hours later to go to the bathroom and I was totally alone. They had waited until I fell asleep and then both left, thinking, I guess, that I wouldn't wake up.

"I burst into tears, I was so scared. I couldn't understand why they would leave me alone. What had I done that would make them run away, especially my mother. I left the motel to search for her. There I was, a four year old child in pajamas, wandering the streets at night, looking for the woman who had left her. Eventually, I wandered into a grocery store, asking anyone if they had seen my mom. The proprietor called the police and they came and picked me up. They drove around, stopping at different houses, asking me if I lived in any of them. I remember sitting between the two of them in the front seat, so scared, because I knew even then, from all my mother's run-ins with the police, that if they picked you up it was because you'd done something very bad.

"The rest of the night is a blank. I suppose the police kept me until my mom got back to the motel and found me gone but I do remember when I woke up back home the next morning and my mom was there I was so happy. She had come back to me. As I grew older, leaving me on my own for days or left with baby-sitters, sometimes for weeks, while she was off somewhere drunk or stoned, or both, became pretty common. When she threw me out on the street when I was 16 I knew that was it, she really didn't want me. As far as she was concerned any man who could supply her with a drink and a couple of joints was much more important than any daughter."

Michael pulled the opener out from between her fingers and lay it flat on the table, his finger tracing over where Nikita's had just been, the metal still retaining the warmth of her hand.

"Fear of abandonment is a tenuous foundation for any relationship to be based on, Nikita, especially for lovers. One partner eventually ends up hating the other."

Nikita sat back in the chair, crossing her arms in front of her. "So that's it then is it? Well, Michael, I am a fool aren't I? Here I thought I loved you but it was only fear of abandonment. Thank you so much for your insight but I got over that fear a long time ago."

She stood up to leave. Michael stood also, blocking her way. He could see the hurt and anger on her face. She tried to turn away but he held her by her upper arms. When she tried to pull away his grasp tightened.

"What I said was not aimed at you," he said. "In fact, it's just the opposite." Nikita looked at him, her eyes narrowed. "How much of my need for you could you endure and for how long? God, sometimes I wish Lyons had never happened," he hissed between his teeth, "for both our sakes."

Understanding infused her face. "It's starting to make sense now. The pissy moods at work, the recklessness on the missions. It's not something I've done, is it? It's your need for me that's starting to overwhelm you, that's starting to corrode that iron control. Well, you know my feelings for you. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Michael searched Nikita's exquisite face, her insight momentarily catching him off guard although it shouldn't have. She was the most intuitive person he had ever known. He spoke to her calmly and quietly, "What I want to do is totally irrelevant to what I have to do. I apologize if I've been harsh toward you. I have let personal feelings cloud my judgment. I assure you it won't continue."

"Michael, knock it off!" Nikita was becoming infuriated. "I'm not Operations you're talking to and this isn't Section One. What won't continue? And don't say your feelings for me because I'll knock you on your bloody ass, you liar!"

There was a deathly silence after Nikita's outburst.

"You are a guest in my house, an uninvited one I might add." Michael's voice was even more quiet, if that were possible. "I've admitted some things to you which I never intended to, hoping perhaps you'd understand my situation. I've apologized to you. But, however much you may think I deserve it, I will not allow you to talk to me that way."

"Why, what will you do to me Michael? Cancel me? Here, let me save you the bullet."

Nikita lunged towards the table and, before Michael could stop her, grabbed the silver letter opener. She backed up a few paces and with her left hand undid her blouse, pulling back a handful of silk, revealing the slope of her breast. With her other hand, Nikita held the dagger-like tip of the opener against her heart.

So easy. It would be so easy for Michael to overwhelm her, he knew all the tricks of disarming an opponent. He was bigger and faster than she was. But he was paralyzed to move. Nikita's face kept changing: his mother, his father, Clothilde, René, Simone, the countless, nameless people he had killed.

"What are you doing?" He fought to keep from panicking.

"What does it look like I'm doing Michael? I'm trying to help you out of a bad situation." Nikita spoke, her hand steady on the carved handle. "Think how much easier it'll be, no more reminders of those nasty personal feelings. You can get on with your job and your life, such as it is, with nothing to hinder you."

Michael made a sudden move towards Nikita but she had been expecting it. She slowly skewered the tip of the blade into her flesh, a trickle of crimson blood running down inside her blouse. He stopped, unwilling to provoke her further.

"Oh God, we're a pathetic pair, you and I," she continued, her voice filled with sadness. "You know, when I came here this evening I actually thought that if I told you I loved you everything would be different. But you'll never accept my feelings for you will you? And me, Christ, I'm even worse." Nikita laughed to herself. "Suicide, the ultimate abandonment. So much for my speech about self-pity. At least you won't have to worry about needing me anymore."

Michael watched in disbelief as Nikita's grip tightened on the handle of the letter opener. She withdrew the reddened tip with a tug, the pain making her wince, and readied her hand for the final stab. Her clear, blue, determined eyes never leaving Michael's, she drove the blade home.

PART 7

As fast as she was, he was faster. Michael threw himself at Nikita, knocking the opener out of her fist. It fell clattering on the wooden floor after hitting the wall. He stood holding her in his arms, his heart pounding while the blood from her wound seeped into his white shirt. Nikita leaned against Michael, her arms hanging limply at her sides. She closed her eyes and cradled her head on his shoulder. She could feel his tears soaking into her hair.

"My need for you will never end," he whispered, "and I love you too much to ever let you leave me."

Nikita lifted her head and looked at Michael. His defenses were gone because he had no need for them now. She wiped away his tears with her thumbs and held his face in her hands. Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. She could taste the salt on his lips.

"I love you, Michael. I'm not going anywhere."

The End

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