Paul Wolfe was staring up at a painting of a vase of overblown opium poppies when Mr Jones entered his office in the Center. The painting contained numerous symbols indicating the passage of time and the inevitability of decay which Paul thought very appropriate.

"Reports from sector six indicate that the ul-Qadir group and the Moshtar syndicate are busily trying to tear each other apart," Mr Jones started without preamble. "Section's doing?"

Paul turned to face his superior, his stance open, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "No."

"No?" Mr Jones' tone was cynical.

Paul shrugged, his manner faintly puzzled. "It's just a fortuitous circumstance. We'll look to take advantage of it, of course. The difficulty will be to keep it contained so it doesn't spill out into the civilian arena."

"Our analysis suggests Section initiated this conflict." Mr Jones' tone suggested Paul cut the bull.

Paul's response was frosty and adamant. "We'd be glad to take the credit, but the fact is, Section had nothing to do with it."

In Paul's opinion, the subsequent staring match was a draw.

"Let's move on to the situation in Kyrgystan then," Mr Jones eventually invited.

"Of course, though I do have a question." Mr Jones raised his eyebrows. "Why is the Center taking an interest in the daily operations of Section One? That's Oversight's job."

"True, but we're restructuring Oversight at present. Until we have all the personnel movements finalised the Center will take on direct oversight of One's activities." Mr Jones' voice was bland.

"I see." Paul was thoughtful. After a few moments he switched to briefing mode. "We've positioned a team in Uzbekistan, near the border..." He continued on as if nothing was amiss.

==

After Paul had left, Mr Jones called Nikita into his office. She had watched the early part of the meeting remotely.

"What do you think is going on?" he asked her. Nikita's knowledge of Section One was extensive. If anyone could work out what Paul Wolfe was up to, it would be her.

"It's possible he's telling the truth," was the surprising assessment.

Mr Jones studied her. Nikita was sitting with a classically correct posture, but her head was slightly turned, staring out the window. She was wearing what was now her usual severely tailored black. The disinterested flatness of her voice made him swallow a sigh. Nearly three months of medication and intensive psychotherapy and she was no more than functional. Much as he valued her past service, Mr Jones was starting to wonder if she was salvageable. This situation would be her test.

"Possible, but unlikely," he retorted dryly.

Nikita turned towards him, but still failed to make eye contact, her eyes focussed behind his shoulder. Her voice remained monotonal. "I went through the personnel and mission rosters. There were no anomalies."

"That means little," he sighed. "Long experience with George has made him adept at covering his tracks."

Nikita remained silent.

"Let's proceed on the assumption it was an operation. Find out what would have been needed, both equipment and personnel. Draw up a profile that would cover the observed outcomes."

Nikita nodded and left the office. Mr Jones remained at his desk, contemplatively running his fingers across his lips as his head turned. His instincts told him that Paul Wolfe was up to something. What?

==

Nikita returned to her office but sat staring blankly at the monitor. Seeing Operations, even through a monitor, stirred painful memories. Knowing she could not hold them back, she let them wash over her, scalding her yet again.

Nikita had returned to the Center fearing the worst. All her efforts, first to teach Michael how to survive outside Section, then to free him, seemed to have been to no avail. She had known that the revelation of her betrayal would hurt him, that it would destroy their relationship, but she wanted him - needed him - to be free. To live. She could survive anything, knowing that.

That he would choose otherwise shocked her to the core. She had held the field router he'd returned, numb, uncomprehending. No! She wanted to scream, to beg, to say whatever it took to change his mind, but instead she stood as if paralysed, as he walked away from her. All of her justifications, all of her rationalisations, and every excuse she had used to herself were exposed in that moment for what they were.

Eventually she had returned to the Center and waited for the mission report to be filed, clinging onto a fragile, desperate, hope. Section had not reinstated Michael's files so she had to wait on the casualty list. When it came up, she had closed her eyes, tears spilling over.

Mr Jones had silently come up behind her. "I know you were fond of him, Nikita." His voice was quiet. "I'm sorry it came to this."

"He was the best of us," she whispered.

"I disagree." Mr Jones' tone was regretful. "He put personal considerations before duty. That can never be condoned."

Nikita had given a short, bitter laugh. "I induced him to betray Section. Why aren't I condemned too?"

"Michael made his own choices, Nikita. He knew the consequences. I admire the courage he showed in his acceptance of them." His voice was gentle but implacable.

She had shut her eyes, not replying, the tears still running down her cheeks.

Mr Jones had sighed. "Take the rest of the day off, Nikita."

Obediently she had returned to her quarters, laying on the bed without undressing, staring at the wall, tears still spilling, unheeded, down her face. She yielded first to guilt and then to grief and then to despair. She had remained there for a day, not moving, not sleeping, until it was noticed that she had not reported for duty. At that point the medical staff had been called in.

Nikita's head dropped forward as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands moved uncertainly toward her keyboard. Her nightmares would besiege her tonight. The most common one always ended with her coming awake, screaming "No!". For hours afterwards she would be haunted by the image of Michael, laying on the ground in the woods, his sightless eyes, staring skyward, leaking tears of blood.

With a slight shudder she forced the thought away. Night terrors were for the darkness. For now she needed to find her focus. She had a job to do.

==

Paul Wolfe stood in his office, looking down at the activity in Comm while he sifted the implications of the earlier meeting at the Center.

A sudden shift in the body language in Comm caught his attention and he opened the intercom to listen in. Quinn was running communications for the Sierra Leone mission, with Simmons running tactical. Paul was aware that Simmons was too green for the job, but he was the best of what was currently available. He shook his head in frustration.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

Quinn replied, her calm voice at odds with the alert tension in her body as she swept the board. "We have an anomaly," she reported. "Additional hostiles in sector two that were dark until the first team went in."

Simmons was ordering Team One to fall back to their second mark. Paul visualised the site layout and team positions as profiled.

"Belay that," he snapped. "Have Team One hold and bring Team Three into the inflection point. Invoke contingency four." Simmons glanced up at the Perch uncertainly, then followed orders.

Paul did not relax when it was reported that the objective had been achieved, but waited tensely until egress was confirmed and the teams had cleared the perimeter. He knew he should be pleased at the outcome, though it was less than optimal. Wins of any kind were hard to come by at present. It was a bitter thought.

His mind returned to Mr Jones' opening comments. While the conflict between ul-Qadir and Moshtar was internecine, the players were reasonably small. Too small to garner the sort of interest at the Center they appeared to have, even if the Center had taken over the oversight role.

All he could conclude was that his suspicions were correct. It was a depressing thought to take into the night.

==

The apartment door opened, causing the woman intently studying the screen of a laptop computer to glance up. She sat back and watched the man who entered shed his coat.

"How did it go?" she asked.

He removed the contact lenses that made his eyes an unremarkable brown-green hazel. Whilst she knew he did so because they irritated his eyes, she was glad of it. Over the months she had become accustomed to the changes in his appearance, but she privately admitted that she felt most comfortable when she could see his true eyes.

"Fine," he eventually answered, heading for the kitchen. "They agreed to our price."

The woman nodded. That was expected. The price had been high, but fair, given the difficulty and danger of the task. Her attention returned to the schematics on her screen.

"The lab's vault will be harder than we thought," she informed him. "They've updated their security protocols."

"Do we fake it?" he asked as he returned with a plate of food. She glanced at it, automatically noting that his appetite was holding.

"No. I estimate a high probability they have an insider. It has to be real. Besides, they'll want to test the material. We don't have the resources to manufacture a believable substitute." He nodded an acknowledgement.

As the man disinterestedly consumed a light supper, they discussed the pros and cons of a variety of approach plans. Finally they had a profile they both felt was workable. All that remained was to procure the inventory that they had drawn up.

Satisfied, the woman looked at her companion. "You should get some rest," she told him. She was well aware that he faced the prospect of sleep reluctantly. As she expected, however, he simply nodded and rose without argument.

As he left the room his soft, indifferent, voice drifted back to her. "Good night, Madeline."

Her response was sincere. "Good night, Michael."

==

"What's the status of the Bilbao mission?" Paul was video-conferencing with Mr Jones at the Center, a situation he found preferable to having to make the trip out there. His response to the question he had been asked was formal.

"Suspended pending resources." Mr Jones frowned, clearly unhappy.

"And where are your resources now?"

"Algiers, Kashmir and Columbia are active, Turkey and Uzbekistan are queued, Afghanistan and Burma are on standby." Find fault with that he thought, irritated.

Apparently Mr Jones could not, because he changed tack. "The mission in Aceh failed, I see."

"There was an indigenous intelligence failure. It cascaded. We had to abort. The profile is being reworked now." Too few people and too little time, Paul mentally sighed.

"Section One's success rate is barely holding at 71%." This was the true reason for the call: Section's monthly report must have just hit his desk. Paul shrugged.

"Yes. That's in line with expectations."

Mr Jones was clearly flabbergasted, but Paul kept his enjoyment off his face. He was in a poor enough position already. "Whose expectations?"

His answer was crisp. "Leadership Contingency Delta Two. Given the seniority of the staff removed, and the lack of experienced replacements, sims predicted a success rate sag to between 69 and 72%." After a moment he continued, with a slightly encouraging tone, "Over the next six months that should recover to 76%."

Mr Jones stared at him for several moments before growling, "That's unacceptable." Feeling the heat? Paul wondered. Or have I misjudged your role in this?

His voice was cool. "Then supply me with experienced replacements for the staff you removed." The pronoun was only slightly stressed, but Paul's message was clear.

"Matthew is an experienced strategist, on par with Madeline." Paul ignored the weak attempt to unsettle him.

"Matthew has little knowledge of field tactics, and tactical oversight is one of his functions. With Michael also gone we have a vertical void in that area which has seriously undercut mission efficiency."

"What are you doing about field gaps?" Paul was expecting this line of questioning.

"We've suffered heavy attrition in senior field personnel over the past eight months, making Michael's replacement impossible at this time. Our accession rate has been increased, but that only fills the gaps at the bottom end. It's an area where experience can only be gained with time."

"And in other areas?"

"Walter's replacement is in place, but while the man is competent at Munitions, he lacks the innovative ability Walter had. Depending on the mission configuration, Walter's `gadgets' could increase the POS by up to 4%."

"So to summarise, you weren't prepared to absorb losses of this magnitude." Paul swallowed a snort. You made this bed, you get to lay on it with the rest of us. His voice became chillier.

"I was prepared, as evidenced by the invocation of a long-established contingency. It would appear the Center had not fully analysed the outcomes of its decisions."

Paul knew he should have left his last remark unsaid, but his frustration at Section's weaknesses was too high.

==

Nikita was sitting to the side of the terminal Mr Jones was using, staring out of the window as she listened to his conversation with Operations.

In the past month three bombings and a hostage taking had left nearly 60 people dead and another 15 endangered. She had wondered whether Operations had deliberately allowed the events to happen, but it seemed the Center had been unhelpful in resolving Section One's problems. She frowned.

Mr Jones was clearly irritated when he flicked the connection off. He stared at the blank screen, his lips pursed in thought.

"Any progress on the ul-Qadir/Moshtar analysis?" he abruptly asked.

"No. I generated plausible profiles but none were compatible with current Section capacity." She had fleetingly thought about the type of brilliant psychological gambit that Madeline could produce, flawlessly executed by Michael, but it had been too painful to contemplate, let alone pursue.

"An indirect action?"

"No. I checked the auxilliary sources. There's been no unsanctioned activity."

Mr Jones made an impatient gesture. "Alright then. Keep an eye on things. If anything new surfaces, let me know."

He thrust himself to his feet and left. A few moments later his assistant, Monique, entered. She checked slightly when she saw Nikita, but then walked to the terminal and started using it.

Nikita ignored the slightly wary look Monique gave her. There had been a tension between the women from the day Monique had made a snide remark about her choice of attire. Her eyebrow raised, she had asked "Who are you mourning?" Nikita had given the woman her emptiest stare and replied, "My soul." Monique had never pursued the issue.

Nikita's thoughts returned to the situation at Section One. She had tried to get the people she cared about out. There had been whispers about something bad coming down the line. So far nothing had materialised, and all her unintended sacrifices had achieved was a crippling of Section. Nikita had combed the mission files during her investigation. Operations had covered the gaps the best he could. She even admitted he had done it better than she could have. The fact remained that Section was faring poorly.

Nikita shook her head, disturbed. Things were not making sense. The movement caught Monique's eye and she glanced over, questioningly.

"Have you been at the Center long?" Nikita asked randomly. Monique's eyebrows rose in surprise. Her answer was measured.

"I've been with Mr Jones for a year, but before that I was Mr Smith's assistant."

Nikita nodded absently. She recalled seeing Monique talking to Mr Smith on occasion. She stood and wandered restlessly out of the room. There was a strange feeling in her head, an awakening of sorts. If her brain had been a limb it would have been prickling with pins and needles as circulation returned. With that awakening came a resurgence of instinct. Something was definitely wrong.

==

It was close to mid-morning when Michael began to infiltrate the laboratory housing his goal, a vial of RV136. Produced for research purposes into human auto-immune responses, it could also be used as a biological weapon. Security at the facility was tight, but it was close to impenetrable at night. They had decided that the bolder daylight approach gave the best prospects, particularly as Michael would have to work solo. As the building was Tempest shielded, Madeline could not communicate with him.

He felt faintly naked without a communications link and a CCD camera watching his every move. It had become second nature to think of his performance as the debriefer would see it. Although many operatives hated that feeling, Michael saw it as a chance to evaluate himself, thereby laying a foundation for improved performance in the future. He stopped the thought before it could turn to his current circumstances.

Dressed as a clerical worker, with a briefcase on the chunky side of trendy, Michael approached the entry checkpoint with a bored air. The outer layer security was fairly lax, requiring only a magnetic stripe swipe card. Michael watched the machine give him a green light, and the doors open, with professional disdain.

There was something of an art to moving through a strange building as if you belonged there. Michael had long since learned its finer points. Memorisation of the blueprints was an essential foundation, but it was what was not shown, the non-structural elements, that could throw an operative and cause exposure. Michael had arrived at the end of the morning rush, so there was a flow of people to drift with.

Checking the phone and personnel directories against the building plans had revealed two small offices currently unoccupied in the outer area. Michael confidently walked through a maze of cubicles and entered one, doing a quick inventory as he closed the door. He removed several items from the briefcase, then sat and waited for an hour, briefly, and idly, wishing for a window to look out of.

Michael glanced at his watch. A respectable time for morning tea. Donning a lab coat, with slightly bulging pockets, he then picked up a lab notebook and headed for the cafeteria. This was one of the riskier moments of the profile. Lab workers were not common in this part of the building, but of the two offices, the one he used was the closest to the inner area. Once in the cafeteria he merged with a mixed crowd and disappeared from notice again. Two cups of coffee later, both slowly slipped while he pored over his notes studiously, Michael was ready for the next phase.

He headed for the data center, frowning at his notes as entered a room with several disk arrays. To any interested viewer he appeared annoyed at the figures he had - possibly the result of a bad analysis run. As he passed close by the main disk array, a powerful magnet in his pocket started playing havoc with the magnetic disks. Michael paused, shaking his head as he read, disapprovingly. If, as he expected, these disks were striped, no unrecoverable errors would be showing up. On the other hand, disk performance would be dropping as the error correction routines kicked in to recover the lost information. After counting a minute off in his head, Michael walked briskly toward a heavy duty printer.

On cue, a computer tech came past him, aiming for the faulty disk drive. Michael slipped into her office and calmly, but quickly, went to her terminal and brought up the routine for altering personnel details. Inserting a CD, he downloaded new parameters for a lab worker whose identity he had borrowed. A worker who was currently at home, feeling quite unwell.

Leaving the area, after picking up a random printout, he walked past the tech who was arguing with her supervisor about whether they should take the drives down or continue on reduced performance. They did not give him a second glance.

Walking toward the entry point to the inner area, which contained the vault he was aiming for, Michael glanced at his watch. It was close to lunchtime. Perfect. Traffic at the vault, which was left open through the day, would be thinning. Testing his newly entered record, he moved through the fingerprint and retinal scans without a hitch. He had breached the inner area.

From his vantage point Michael could see that there were three people in the vault. Dipping his left hand into his pocket, he activated a surveillance disrupter, then unhurriedly started to put on the containment clothing required before entering the vault's airlock. Less than two minutes after activation, several guards entered the area, their weapons drawn.

Michael watched them with the same puzzlement as the handful of others around him as the guards searched through the area. One of them checked his identity badge, but gestured for him to proceed. As two other lab technicians left the vault, Michael entered it, rapidly looking for his target. He put his notebook on a small bench and lifted several vials successively, checking off the labels against entries in his notebook. When the other occupant of the vault started to leave, momentarily blocking him from the guard's view, Michael rapidly substituted a fake vial for the target one. He placed the target material in the small case that had carried the fake and slipped it back into the fake back of the notebook. Picking up a vial of an unrelated substance, he exited through the airlock.

He presented the diversionary vial to the guards, who checked it against a list, then waved him on. As he removed his biosuit, the timer ran out on the surveillance disruption. One of the guards near Michael took the call on his radio. After one more sweep of the area, they left, one grumbling about technical hitches.

Michael could not exit the building immediately: everyone and everything leaving the building was scanned, so he had to wait until dark. The inner area would be impossible to get out of then, but the outer area would not be particularly difficult. Evidently the security designers only considered thieves would want to enter at night. After disposing of the useless vial he had acquired, Michael returned to his `office' to wait.

==

Nikita arrived at her desk in the morning, unrefreshed, and full of nebulous doubts that she could not articulate. After checking her input queue she checked the overnight report dump. An informant in a small, but ambitious, terrorist group called Bright Path had reported that his organisation was looking to obtain a biological weapon, and had possibly already made arrangements to that effect.

Nikita considered the type of material the informant described. Given that Bright Path's operations were concentrated in and near Turkey, looking in Europe first was logical. Only three sites in Europe made such a substance. If nothing else, following this report up gave her something to do to keep her usefully occupied. Nikita started keying in her searches.

An hour later Nikita sat back pensively. There was unusual security activity in a lab near Munich. Their internal communications channels could not be directly tapped, but outgoing phone calls at senior levels suggested they were trying to cover up a theft that had occurred sometime during the previous 36 hours. The lab produced RV136, a compound that met the parameters the informant had given.

It took quite a while to ferret out enough details of the theft to start creating a ghost profile. The lab's security people were only slowly piecing things together. It became clear that it was the work of a single person, or, perhaps, a small team. Nikita fed the ghost profile into a synthesis program. The program was designed to generate an operative profile: the usual use was to match operatives to mission profiles. Nikita's aim was to determine the likely characteristics of the thief in the hope of narrowing a search.

A soft beep alerted her to the program's completion, but the results were disappointing: the profile was too loose. Nikita sighed and rubbed her hand on her forehead. Later she wondered what had motivated her next action, but could only conclude her subconscious had intervened. Whatever the reason, Nikita decided to add another ghost profile to the mix, one she had been reluctant to develop. It was for a single operative action in the ul-Qadir/Moshtar incident.

It was possible that Section had done a shadow recruitment. It was an attractive possibility: a single person, brought in from the outside, would be easier to slip through cracks in the system than a team of documented operatives. There was even a tentative link between the two incidents: the groups involved shared several suppliers. Nikita was aware that it was a long shot, and held no particular hope of a sensible result from the analysis. She left her desk to get a cup of tea.

When her cup of tea was ready, Nikita returned to her desk and settled into her chair to consider the new output. She never raised the cup, did not sip the tea. For long moments she sat immobile before she turned away from the screen. The putative operative profile that had been generated was one she knew intimately.

Nikita didn't realise she had hunched over, hugging herself, as if to cradle a knife thrust in the gut.

I never saw a body.

Operations hated him, feared him. I thought he'd grabbed the chance to kill him.

I never saw his body.

The thoughts were tumbling, whirling, dizzying. She clung to the one that closed her throat with sudden hope.

Michael is alive.

The why was so simple. What if Operations had decided to keep - and run - his best field operative and keep the details hidden from the Center? It made so much sense.

A moment of clarity came, and Nikita objectively realised she had no evidence, no reason to draw the conclusion she had. It didn't matter. She would search out the truth.

She had to know.

==

Madeline surveyed the empty warehouse that was the rendezvous point designated by the Bright Path representative. She sometimes wondered why terrorists never chose something... higher class. An up-scale hotel room, for instance. A lack of imagination, perhaps.

As she strolled in, she evaluated her surroundings, from roof to floor, considering what would be the most advantageous position. The most important factor was that it had to conceal the fact that she was alone. Any hint of weakness and the group she was meeting with would kill her without hesitation.

Her lips quirked slightly as she recollected Michael's silent, disapproving stare when she had given him the profile. His face had been immobile, but his eyes eloquent.

"I'll be fine," she had reassured him. "Is the second vial ready?"

He had silently handed over the doctored vial. This one looked the same as the one he had stolen, but it contained a very fine inner tube. The outer tube would hold a liquid that looked the same as the RV136, but was harmless, while the inner one would hold a small, testable quantity of the real thing. The buyer's chemist would need to be precise in extracting it for them to get away with the scam, but it was, to her mind, an acceptable risk.

Michael's continued stare indicated that he thought she had gone beyond acceptable risk in not accepting his support in, for instance, a sniper position.

"Either of us could handle the meet, but you're better equipped than me to dispose of this material appropriately," she said bluntly, holding up the RV136. He looked at the vial, evaluating her statement, then nodded his acceptance of it.

==

Guillard of Bright Path entered the empty warehouse, his men spreading out warily. Walking forward he looked around for Jean-Pierre. A movement in the shadows caused his bodyguard to raise his weapon. Guillard motioned for him to stand down as he recognised Jean-Pierre's business manager, Madeline, from their initial meeting.

"Greetings Madame," he greeted her genially.

"Hello Guillard," she replied. He walked toward her, looking around casually. He did not miss the flick of her eyes to the shadowed rafters, no doubt where one of her men was located. He had to admit that they were well hidden. Good discipline, no doubt. That was hard to come by.

Madeline extracted a case from her jacket pocket and held it loosely.

"That's it?" he breathed.

"Yes," she asserted.

He took in her confident stance, then nodded to an aide to set up the money transfer. Madeline nodded her approval, then gave the case to a technician.

Guillard's eyes raked greedily over the vial when the case was opened. This small vial would ensure Bright Path's struggle was on the front page, and on every news broadcast, all over the planet.

His technician carefully lifted it out and very slowly inserted a syringe into the extraction point in the lid. After drawing off a small quantity he carefully resealed the vial and returned it to its case. As he inserted the syringe into a second container, containing a reagent, Guillard glanced at Madeline. Her eyes were fixed on the money transfer.

Guillard looked back as the reagent, which had started clear, turned pink. The technician nodded to him. Guillard turned to the accountant and nodded. The man hit the key to commit the transaction.

"Would Jean-Pierre be interested in acquiring a similar material for us in about six weeks time?" Guillard asked Madeline as she waited for the transfer to be confirmed.

"I'm sorry, but he's committed to a number of ventures in the electronics industry for the next few months," she replied.

"A pity. He's very talented." Guillard was disappointed. He would try approaching them again later, however. Perhaps more money would induce the Swiss-French thief to change his mind.

Madeline looked up at him. "Indeed he is." She glanced back down at the computer, and nodded in satisfaction. "We thank you for your business," she concluded politely.

Guillard did not miss the subtle sweep of her eyes as Madeline turned to leave, a signal to her well-hidden entourage. He held position, tense. This was the moment when setups were revealed in a hail of bullets, but Madeline left without incident.

Giving her a few minutes to clear the area, Guillard then followed, still cautious until he reached his vehicle. He then let the sense of victory flow through him. Bright Path now had the means to force the world to listen to it, and they intended to use that means.

It was a good day.

==

Nikita was tired. She had been furtively, but thoroughly, mining databases for nearly 14 hours, covering the activity with other duties. It would be noticed if she spent more time on this now. She set another search going, then reluctantly headed to her quarters to sleep.

==

For the first time in months, Nikita slept the night through and she headed for her office eagerly. She didn't dare contemplate what would happen if she found that she was wrong, but her hands were shaking as she logged into the computer system. There on her input queue, masquerading as collateral intelligence from an on-going operation in Germany, was a name: Jean-Pierre. She found the address tag and memorised it before deleting the data.

That was the easy part. Now she, who had rarely left the Center's compound since her arrival, had to find a suitable excuse to leave.

==

Madeline brought a cup of tea and a cup of coffee to the dining table in their apartment. "Thank you," said Michael absently as he worked on the laptop. After a few more commands he sat back. Madeline raised an enquiring eyebrow as she sipped her tea. "It's done," he told her. She nodded, giving him a faint smile. They were waiting. The case containing the vial of fake RV136 had a small transmitter set to send a pulse on a pre-determined frequency. There were two hours still to go.

Michael started gathering, and checking, the equipment he would require. The difficulty lay in the fact he would be effectively going in blind: they did not know where the package was being taken or what else he would find there.

"The situation will be fluid," Madeline noted as she watched him. "There is a chance that these will help." She gave him a small black roll of material. Unrolling it, he found a set of syringes. She explained the effect of each of the drugs she had acquired. "I don't expect that you'll be in close contact with the opposition, but it's best to be prepared in case that situation arises," she concluded.

"Do you have the drop tags?" Michael asked. An attack on Bright Star so soon after the package transfer would cast suspicion on his Jean-Pierre persona unless he left clues that suggested otherwise. Madeline handed him another small package that he secreted into a pocket.

As the clock counted down to zero, Madeline came to stand behind Michael, who was sitting at the table again. A pulse registered. Less than a minute later returns had come in from other receivers and co-ordinates were calculated by triangulation. There was a chance the package was still on the move: there would be a second pulse in three hours. In the meantime, Michael would move on the co-ordinates they had.

"Good luck," Madeline said as he left.

==

Nikita hesitated as she approached the building. She watched a man exiting. For a brief, wild moment she thought it was Michael, but as he turned up the street toward her she saw that the hair, the face were wrong. It was the similarity of build that had deceived her. Nikita shook her head, disappointed. This man didn't even move the same way. Not wanting to be seen, she melted deeper into the shadows, turning her attention back to the building.

As he left the apartment building Michael sensed he was being observed. A casual glance around didn't reveal anyone paying attention to him, but Michael had already fallen into character. Shifting the way he moved, even the way he thought and reacted, to that of Jean-Pierre, he continued up the street as if unaware of any scrutiny. After a few moments the feeling of being watched faded.

==

Nikita slipped into the apartment, her heart beating rapidly. She had no plan: she was moving on instinct, driven by a need to verify Michael's well-being. Glancing around the living area she saw signs of occupation, but no personal items. Slowly she wandered forward.

A faint sound from a doorway behind her caused Nikita to turn quickly. She froze when she saw who was standing there. "Madeline!" Nikita gaped, utterly shocked. "But you're..." Her voiced trailed into silence.

If Madeline was surprised to find her here, she hid it well. "I'm disappointed, Nikita. You know me better than that."

After several moments Nikita's thoughts lost their fixation on Madeline's unexpected existence. A fragment of memory surfaced. "You induced heart failure?" she guessed, in amazement tinged with awe. She thought back to Operations kissing Madeline's body as it went past him. Perhaps he had given her some kind of antidote. "Does Operations know?" she asked, though she thought he must. Madeline stood watching her, her face expressionless, and gave no answer.

The silence was taut. "Why are you here, Nikita?" Madeline finally demanded.

Nikita flushed visibly, suddenly aware of her recklessness. Suddenly aware of danger. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, as she re-thought her answer.

"Why do you think I'm here?" she returned, aggressively.

"You thought Michael would be here." Madeline's calm was unruffled.

Nikita drew a deep breath, fighting to leach the emotion from her voice. "I want to see him," she said.

"Why would he want to see you Nikita? You betrayed him. You destroyed his career. Now he will never have the power to effect positive change that he sought. In taking power for yourself you denied him the very thing he strove for for so long." Madeline's voice was cold.

Nikita reacted to the accusation. "He deserved to be free. To be... happy."

"Would you be happy if you were free, Nikita? Free, and powerless?" Nikita's discomfort was increasing.

"I can understand you're angry..." she started but Madeline interrupted, her voice icy.

"No. You can't," she contradicted. "You condemned Paul for opting to destroy the one to save the many, but you chose to destroy the one and condemn the many as well."

"Section had to change." Nikita's voice was hard, her chin tilted back.

"At the expense of the innocents that are dying?"

"Section has destroyed its share of innocents," she spat back.

"True," admitted Madeline calmly. "But I thought you were trying for something better?"

Nikita shuddered slightly as this knife slid home. "It will be better in time," she ground out.

"When?" Madeline was unrelenting. "And at the cost of how many lives? Talent is rare, Nikita. Few can survive this life, let alone do well at it. Fewer still reach the higher ranks uncorrupted." She moved closer to the younger woman to driver her point home. "Section is suffering because of your actions, Nikita. And the world suffers with it."

"Where is Michael?" Nikita tried to gain the initiative. She did not want to hear this. It was too close to what she had been thinking about lately.

"Elsewhere," Madeline replied, readily enough. "But where are you?"

Nikita's confusion showed. Madeline clarified her question. "Where is the Nikita that told me that she had no taste for power? That she could never be me, because that meant lying to her friends?" Nikita flushed, vividly remembering Petrosian.

"I helped my friends," she said, distressed.

"They might not agree," Madeline stated. "Not everyone sees betrayal as you appear to." Nikita sucked in her breath sharply as Madeline watched dispassionately.

"You won't find Michael here, Nikita. You'd best leave." It was a command sheathed in invitation.

Nikita, struggling for composure, nodded and left. She would not find the answers she sought here.

==

Madeline watched Nikita leave. She had succeeded in temporarily driving the younger woman away. She wondered whether she should have killed Nikita, but decided to let things play out. The fact that she had unbalanced Nikita so completely, unsettled her so easily, suggested that Nikita was unaware of the larger game. Knowing Michael was alive would buy sufficient silence for now. Madeline contemplated the changes that might be needed to their profile to cover this contingency.

==

Bright Path's headquarters command centre was a maze of desks and a confusion of computer cables in the basement of a nondescript building in a rundown part of town. Okram, the leader of Bright Path, hated it. Why should we have to hide like rats? he fumed. It made his hatred of the government run hotter.

Okram stood in an open area to one side of the desks, where his technical people were at work. Disinterested guards stood by, both his and those of his guest, as well as his aide, Guillard. Okram had just described his plans to release RV136 into the population of Ankara to Seng, a high level representative of the PRA. The two terrorist groups had an alliance of convenience based around several "fund-raising" activities they had in common.

"Has this action been sanctioned?" asked Seng calmly.

"We need no sanction," Okram stated, but his voice held a thread of defiance. He knew who Seng was referring to. Both groups shared the same wealthy backer. Okram's voice was tight as he continued. "This action will gain us the attention our cause deserves. They have not given us that."

"They are dangerous people to cross. It is whispered by some that Red Cell displeased them - and Red Cell is no more."

"Red Cell was taken out by some government agency. That is well known!" Okram disputed.

"So well known, yet you have no name," Seng countered.

"It doesn't matter," Okram said impatiently. "One is much the same as another." Seng did not pursue the issue, but his expression indicated he thought Okram's attitude foolish.

"You estimate one million dead within a week if the quarantine is porous," he commented.

"As it is likely to be," Okram said derisively. "The authorities there are not known for efficiency."

"Casualties at that level will generate sympathy: the public backlash against you could be severe," Seng pointed out.

"Who cares what the sheep think?" Okram asked incredulously.

"The shepherds do, and they often have the means to enforce their will," Seng replied, referring to the major governments who would condemn, and likely hunt, Bright Path for this action.

Okram's eyes narrowed as he studied Seng. "I take it that you oppose our plans," he said in a soft, deadly voice.

"My organisation considers it... inadvisable," came the careful answer.

"And what will you do if I proceed?" The tension in the immediate area had sharply risen.

Seng was unmoved. "I will continue to present my organisation's views to you, of course," he replied without expression.

Okram looked disdainful. "Feel free to leave in the morning," he invited. Seng gave a half bow and left, a brief look of annoyance visible as he exited.

In a small communications riser deep in the complex Michael watched the exchange on a palm display which was tapped into the internal surveillance camera feeds. He raised his head, staring blankly at the wall as he considered the implications, and opportunities, of the disagreement. He rapidly reconfigured his profile.

Michael had already hacked into the site's computer network and obtained a list of substances being held in a safe-room on one side of the basement. Bright Path had a more extensive inventory than they had thought. After careful consideration, Michael decided that only saturation by very high temperature incendiaries could guarantee the complete, safe, destruction of all the substances in the room. To do that, he needed to steal appropriate devices from Bright Path's own armoury.

Several hours later, Michael was ready to move. Bright Path had gone to a late night shift pattern. After one final check of the video cuts he had assembled, and the timing they imposed on him, Michael slipped out of his hiding spot, heading for the armoury.

A bored guard glanced over his bank of video displays. Only key corridors were covered internally, though external coverage was much more extensive. Internally things were quiet due to the late hour. The guard's eye was caught by Seng and his guards walking down a corridor toward the junction that led to either the command area or armoury. He was familiar with Seng, and watched with little interest as the group went around the corner.

Michael paused, waiting for the next video cue to cut in, before going around the corner near Seng's quarters. The guard outside the door barely had time to react before Michael killed him with a silenced pistol. He opened the door, killed the second guard, then injected the startled, but only half-awake, Seng with one of the drugs Madeline had given him. He dragged the first guard's body into the room, and put both bodies into the bathroom, where they would not be noticed for some time. He left the gun on the bed, then put his arm around the now woozy Seng and half-carried him to the safe-room.

Propping Seng, who was becoming more relaxed, and cheerful, as the drug saturated his system, against the wall about 20 meters from the doorway, Michael entered the safe-room. He rapidly set the charges, placing them carefully. Returning to Seng, he placed a remote detonation device in the other man's hand. Seng looked at it with happy unconcern.

A short disruption to the camera feed from the safe-room corridor had guards heading towards it, and Michael retreated into hiding before they could arrive. As the guards saw Seng, Michael used the real detonator to trigger the charges. The door to the safe-room blew out, and searing flames foiled any attempt to get near the room. Sabotaged sprinklers prevented even a limited effort to extinguish the flames.

The guards milled around, unsure what to do, as Okram ran onto the scene, with Guillard at his shoulder. He stopped, appalled at the sight. Looking past the room he saw Seng.

Seng was laughing, the detonator dropped at his feet.

Okram stared at Seng, fury rendering him immobile for half a minute. He then drew his gun and shot Seng, killing him instantly. Guillard nodded approvingly, but commented, "The PRA will not be pleased with his death. He was their best tactician."

Okram's fury had not abated. "We show them his perfidy, fool. They cannot argue with that." His voice was low, hoarse. He stared back at the flames, then, as if he found the sight too painful, he turned away and strode towards the command area, determined to exact payment from Seng's organisation.

Watching events unfold from the shadows was Michael. Satisfied with the outcome, he left.

==

Nikita sat in her car in the parking area of the Center with her eyes shut. Now that the anger and pain had ebbed, she recognised Madeline's tactics: the older woman had very effectively driven her away. She was in no hurry to return, either. In Section, even seeing the body doesn't mean someone is dead. Nikita gave a wan smile of reluctant admiration, but it rapidly faded.

Madeline had also confirmed that Michael was still alive.

Nikita clung to that fact. What state he might be in after being with Madeline for several months was unknown. Nikita shivered at the thought, remembering her own treatment at Madeline's hands. What might Madeline have done to him?

He's strong, she reminded herself forcefully. If anyone can defend themself against Madeline, it's him.

Her thoughts turned to their activities. What on earth is going on? Michael had stolen a biological weapon for a terrorist group. Given that such an action would betray every ideal she thought he still held, there was clearly more going on.

If they were acting on behalf of Section, then it was something Section didn't want the Center to know about.

Too bad, she thought grimly. I'm going to find out.

Mr Jones was standing near the entrance, looking at a report, when she entered the building. He glanced up at her, then the doorway she had come through, a slight frown coming to his face when he realised she had come from the carpark.

"You've been out?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes. There was a theft of a potential bioweapon from a lab near Munich. An informant gave me a lead as to who did it."

Mr Jones continued to look puzzled. "So why not pass the information on to Dissemination?"

Nikita shrugged, and looked uncomfortable. "I haven't been on top of my game lately," she admitted. "I thought getting out would help get me back in sync."

The frown dissolved to a gently pleased expression. "Did you find anything?" he asked.

Nikita grimaced with disgust. "No. The informant was a day out of date. When I got there the location was clean."

"Don't worry about it. Get what you have to Analysis and let them handle it." Nikita nodded. Mr Jones continued, "You can also drop the ul-Qadir/Moshtar investigation."

Nikita was surprised. "Drop it?"

Mr Jones' mouth thinned slightly, indicating he wasn't entirely happy with the decision. "There was a Board meeting this morning. It came up, but the consensus was that there's nothing to find." He shrugged. "It was probably just my paranoia anyway," he said with a touch of self-deprecating humour.

"What would you like me to do?" Nikita asked.

"There's a situation in Section Four that needs looking into. You've dealt with one of their operatives before, so you know what you'll find there. The details are on your queue."

They walked down the corridor together, but Nikita was only half-listening as he summarised the situation for her.

Why did the Board discuss something as trivial as the ul-Qadir/Moshtar situation at all? she wondered.

==

"Bright Path has launched assassination teams against the PRA leadership. Their success has been mixed though, and the PRA are launching a counter-offensive," Madeline summarised as Michael changed clothes.

"You did extremely well," she told him as he re-entered the central area of the apartment. "This will certainly make the Prague alliance look weak. They're supposed to control this quarter of the world."

"Will it be enough to draw the Council out?" Michael asked as he sat across from her at the table.

"Unfortunately, I don't think so," she said with a sigh. "We can increase the pressure though, by bringing the criminal networks into the mix. Sufficient instability in enough different areas will force the Council to act before their alliances, and allies, disintegrate."

Michael nodded. "The Brusilov cartel?" he suggested.

Madeline considered it. "Would they be easier to breach than the Saddya group?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied. "They also have the advantage of an ambitious competitor in the Kolnograd collective."

Madeline sat back and mulled it over, thinking out loud. "Their biggest adversary is the group Petsov leads, but the fall of Brusilov would give Petsov far too much power. If Kolnograd could act first, the shift in the balance of power would not be so great as to cause widespread conflict. The Council would lose a valuable conduit, though."

"The news of Brusilov's problems could be leaked to Kolnograd in such a way that it appeared to come from Rossi," Michael pointed out. "It's well known that they only just tolerate Brusilov."

Madeline smiled. "That would certainly cause problems within the Council," she agreed. "Work up your approach tonight. We'll start tomorrow."

Michael studied her. "Are we on an accelerated clock?" he asked.

Madeline drew a deep breath through her nose. "Yes," she admitted. "We have a potential breach." Michael patiently waited for details. Madeline laced her fingers together on top of the table.

Madeline briefly reflected on the fact that their most productive conversations had taken place at this table. While it was overstating things to say that they had been relaxed with one another, a respect had been fostered here. Madeline had made a point of being totally honest, and pro-active with information where appropriate. The result was a fragile trust.

Perhaps their elaborate courtesy came from an acute awareness of how dangerous the other could be. Politeness was only prudent among killers. Madeline put the thought aside. Some subjects had never been broached by either of them, and she was about to break their unspoken pact. She would need her wits about her.

Madeline kept her face and tone expressionless as she continued, watching Michael carefully, "Nikita was here earlier."

Michael blinked, and dropped his eyes to the table for a few moments, before raising them again, his own face now completely blank. His eyes held a distance, however, and there was a slight, but discernible, tension in his arms where they rested on the table.

"How did she find us?" he finally asked. His voice was toneless.

"She didn't say. My guess is Bright Path had a leak and she traced Jean-Pierre here."

Michael nodded. "Do we move?" he asked.

"I don't think we need to at this point," Madeline said carefully. "She won't be back, and I don't believe she'll betray your existence to the Center. Nevertheless, we need to act more quickly than we had originally planned."

Michael simply nodded.

Madeline rose and headed for her room to give Michael privacy to come to terms with this disclosure. She had research to do, for the likely end-game play.

It was more than half an hour before Madeline heard the soft click of the laptop keyboard out in the living area.

==

Nikita rubbed her eyes tiredly. The morning's intel dump had shown Bright Path was locked into a vicious war with the PRA. She had quickly given up trying to determine whether that had been Michael's aim, and went back to trying to determine his and Madeline's ultimate goal.

It didn't help that she had spent several hours at Section Four that morning. She shuddered at the memory of the were they children in any meaningful sense? people she had met there. Their somber faces and careful movements had called up memories of Adam's ready laughter and lively nature. She had been depressed all afternoon.

Doggedly she turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. She had turned the ul-Qadir/Moshtar events inside-out and had dug through Bright Path's activities with similar thoroughness. If there was a pattern, she was too close to the tapestry to see it.

OK. What if this operation started before I... Her thoughts skittered away from the phrase that came to mind. Before I revealed my affiliation, she finished grimly. Perhaps current events were rooted deeper in the past than she had realised.

She thought back to Red Cell. It had supported smaller groups, giving it substantial control over large segments of the terrorist community. In fact, its influence had been disproportionate to its size. Nikita frowned and contemplated that fact.

Nikita had watched a tape of the Cardinal's interrogation. The man had been nothing like she had imagined. Two strokes had robbed him of clear speech and control over some physical functions. That was not the problem. Somehow she had expected a certain intellectual flair that seemed to be lacking.

Might there have been someone behind Red Cell? Some of the Cardinal's answers could be interpreted as hints in that direction. Might such a backer also extend their influence into the non-terrorist criminal realm? She turned the thought over a few times. It intrigued her.

Nikita considered a range of umbrella groups, starting with organisations whose wielded power did not match their ostensible profile. She paid particular attention to those that Section One had not spent much effort on, as she was less familiar with them.

Hours later she left her office to ponder what she had, or had not, found. There were hints, shadows. Nothing substantial, but possibilities of a person or group that held immense power, had immense reach in the alternate world of violence and crime.

Nikita thought about those hints as she ate a late meal. If what she was speculating was actually fact, where did Section One fit in? Was Operations colluding with this group? If so, what was his goal with the current disruptions? A power play?

Restlessly she got up and paced around her quarters. Were Madeline and Michael acting against Section? Or were Operations, Madeline and Michael acting together against this unseen body? Too many questions, she thought, rubbing her forehead.

Her thoughts circled back to Red Cell. At the time she had thought Operations' "evidence" that George was in league with them was completely false. What if she had been wrong? That suggested there might be links into Oversight - maybe even into the Center itself.

Nikita collapsed into a chair, her head tilted back so she was looking at the ceiling. Was it coincidence that she had been called upon to give her evaluation of Section One shortly after George was contained? And that key positions had been left unfilled, causing a drastic drop in Section One's efficiency?

Nikita suddenly felt very cold.

==

Madeline watched as Michael delicately extracted himself from a banking computer network. Three days of work and he had systematically undermined Brusilov's supply and financial systems. Given that one of Brusilov's more lucrative sidelines was money laundering, there was an appealing irony in the situation.

The cartel had started out in smuggling, everything from people to drugs, to ordinance, to electronics. If there was someone who wanted something moved across a border illicitly, they could arrange it. They had diversified from there though, with the help of powerful backers known only as the Council.

Michael was attempting to sabotage Brusilov's financial systems, making it look like their own suppliers and sub-contractors were acting against it. The next step was to leak the news to one of Brusilov's up-and-coming competitors, who would take full advantage of Brusilov's problems. The leak would appear to come directly from a suspected Council member, Rossi. As Brusilov was the major ally and conduit of another Council member, Lerovsky, there would be dissent within the Council itself.

Michael was becoming a formidable hacker, Madeline noted as he deftly started breaching another system. He'd always had the ability to learn, and Section had trained him in the basics, but it had been judged that his more valuable talents lay elsewhere. Of course, he learned his way around Section's system well enough. The thought was wry. Their circumstances had required him to extend his skills and he was learning fast. Madeline had no problem with that. It was best to keep both his mind and his body busy.

As she watched Michael navigate through another firewall, her thoughts inevitably circled to Birkoff. He had been 5 years old when Madeline joined Section, 17 years earlier. Of course she had not been aware of his existence then. In fact it wasn't until Paul had wrested power from Adrian that the number, breadth and type of experiments Adrian's people had been performing had become clear.

Paul had been busy consolidating power both within Section and with Oversight, so the task of evaluating those experiments had fallen to her. Evaluating, and deciding which to terminate, and which to continue in one form or another. She had been far from innocent at that point of her life, but that distasteful task had entrenched a ruthless pragmatism.

Birkoff had done well in Section, and she was unsure what had prompted Paul's rising animosity towards the young man. She had opposed sending Birkoff into the field against Soldat de la Liberte but he had proven himself to be more ruthless than she had thought. It had pleased her that he'd survived. Relations between the two men had never recovered though.

His death had been regrettable, and entirely honourable.

Madeline's thoughts turned to Jason and she smiled, despite herself, in admiration. He had shown both cleverness and an astute understanding of power in extracting himself from Section One. She had under-estimated him, a rare mistake. He was not only aware of how power was wielded, but was used to doing so himself. His grasp of political realities was superb.

Jason was not a young man to overlook.

Michael's soft voice broke into her reverie. "I'm in," he told her. It was time to set the next stage of the profile in motion.

===

Nikita watched Operations carefully. They were about two meters apart, standing in a small parking area in the intersection of two alleys. The light was just starting to fade in the city beyond, but here the tall buildings made it a deep twilight. His car was beside him, while Nikita had approached on foot. Although there were no signs of other people in the area, Nikita knew that was no guarantee that there weren't.

Still, she had initiated this meeting. She was willing to bear its consequences.

"Who sent you?" he asked, scanning his surroundings with deceptive casualness.

"Directly, no-one. Indirectly... Madeline." Operations' head snapped around, and he pinned her with blank eyes. He was always dangerous, but Nikita thought he was never more so than when his eyes took on that dead expression. It made him seem... reptilian. Utterly cold-blooded.

"What's this about?" he asked icily.

"I've looked at the tapes of the last dozen Board meetings," she replied. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"They're sealed," he noted.

"Yes," came the flat reply. Operations' silence invited her to elaborate, but her silence declined.

"What did you find?" he eventually asked. He was went back to constantly glancing around the area.

"Mr Brown and Mr Jones are the most vocal members regarding Section policies and directives, but Mr Smith gets his way in that area. In many areas, actually." Operations nodded thoughtfully at this news, but Nikita couldn't tell if she had confirmed his suspicions or not.

"Have you looked into his activities?" he asked.

"Not much. It'd attract attention. Superficially, at least, he looks clean." Operations was now studying her face.

"Too clean, perhaps?" he prodded.

"Maybe," she said noncommittally. She had insufficient evidence to judge.

"How do I know this is the truth?" he suddenly asked.

"What reason would I have to lie?" Nikita challenged.

His answering stare was deeply cynical. "I can think of a number of reasons," he replied dryly. Nikita's jaw clenched briefly.

"You don't trust me," she stated flatly.

"I never did," he admitted frankly. Nikita glanced away, drawing a deep breath.

"Is that why you tried to separate Michael and me?" she asked. Operations' expression hardened.

"Yes. Michael was the best material Section One had ever seen. Its brightest hope. You were going to destroy him. A perfect revenge on Section for what had been done to you."

"You misjudge my motives," she managed to reply around the tightness in her throat caused by a toxic mixture of incredulity at his gall, anger and pain.

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But the results speak for themselves."

Nikita bit back her retort. She hadn't expected popularity when she'd agreed to do this job, and their contempt was mutual. There was no use arguing this point with this man.

"I have to go, before I'm missed," she said when she had calmed.

As she turned to leave Operations asked, "If you received a location and time, would you be able to get Mr Jones there?"

She turned back, wary. "Alone?" she asked cautiously.

"Guards would be fine."

At Nikita's doubtful expression he elaborated. "He would be a witness. We could draw him out by other means, but this approach would be preferable."

Nikita considered the idea carefully. "Alright," she agreed. Her tone was not enthusiastic.

If this was Operations' end-game scenario then she certainly wanted to be there to find out what all this was about. If his purpose turned out to be one she disagreed with, well she would also be there to fight against him. There was also Michael to consider. Always Michael.

As Nikita walked away, she heard Operations' voice behind her. "Nikita," he called. She dropped her head forward, then turned back, lifting her head to an aggressive angle. It was an old ploy and it angered her.

"Be careful," he said unexpectedly. Nikita straightened in surprise, blinking. She waited, but he said nothing more, and his face was as unreadable as his tone had been. Frowning with puzzlement, and with a backward glance at his immobile figure, Nikita turned and left.

==

A small window opened on the display of a laptop sitting on a table, triggered by the receipt of a transmission. A single letter, broadcast in the clear 3 times on a particular frequency at a fixed time of day.

F

F

F

Their target was Mr Smith.

==

Michael stared at his face in the mirror. He had removed the prosthetics, and was not wearing the contact lenses. He was sure Madeline didn't know that he had been putting the contacts in while shaving. The face he had seen in the mirror for the past three months had borne only superficial resemblance to his own.

Now his face was back. He studied it. The face was the same as it had been, but was that true of the man behind it?

Memories rose, memories he had tried hard to suppress. They took him back to that day three months earlier when he had chosen this path.

He had walked away from Nikita, a teardrop of blood still trickling down his face.

Michael had felt... empty. There had been too many highs and too many lows since he had been recaptured by Section. An entire lifetime of intense emotion lived in so short a time. The inducement-blunted sharpness of pain seeped away with every step to be replaced by numbness.

He had walked back toward the area where the Section van might be lingering. She had taken everything else from him, but he could still choose an honourable death. No-one could take that choice from him.

Before reaching it, however, he had spotted a familiar figure standing by a tree. Madeline had not been looking in his direction as she waited, and he had the strange sense that if he chose to turn and go, she would not stop him.

Go where? He had nowhere to go, and nothing to do when he got there.

As Michael walked up to her, Madeline turned her head to watch him, and gave him a slight, tired smile. She was pale, and he suspected she was leaning against the tree because she was having trouble standing.

"We need to leave. I can only mask the satellite for a few minutes," she said as she ran a hand-held scanner over his body. It gave a soft chirp at the back of his shoulder, and he turned so she could extract the tracker. It was shallow, indicating it had been placed in haste.

"Section?" he asked as he looked at it.

"No," she said. Nikita's name hovered, unspoken, between them. "I wasn't ready to see you die." In a dizzying spurt of bitterness he wondered if Nikita had tagged him so that she could find him when she was ready. The emotion faded rapidly. He did not have the energy to sustain it.

"This has everything I've pieced together," Madeline continued, handing him a PDA. They walked toward the truck, Madeline stumbling slightly, but not asking for assistance. Michael didn't offer it. "We'll get out of the area while you read it. If, when we're clear, you want to leave, you're free to do so."

He still wondered if that offer had been genuine. His immediate thought was that it was not, but there was a doubt. Madeline lacked the means to force him, and an unwilling accomplice would be useless, even dangerous, to her. After all, if there was a later, she could tidy the `loose end' of his freedom then.

They had driven for over three hours. He read the information on the PDA. The facts were thin, he noted, but the conclusion was alarming - if all the suppositions were true. The only break in the silence had come when Madeline asked Michael to take over the driving when he finished reading.

When they had reached a blind spot, he stopped the car and Madeline waited for his answer. Her condition was not good, but nothing in her demeanour asked him to take that into consideration. Staring ahead out of the windscreen, he gave his answer. "I'll stay."

"Thank you," came her soft reply.

Michael brought himself back to the present by drawing a deep breath, closing his eyes and dropping his head. He had spent months trying to live in the present, burying himself behind another man's face, but Madeline's mention of Nikita's visit had opened the gates within. Seeing his own face again was bringing it all surging back.

Nikita.

She had stolen his dreams, shredded his heart, even compromised his honour, but she had resurrected his soul when he had thought it long lost. He still debated whether it had been an even trade.

If he let pain twist his thoughts, he could believe he had been cultivated and used for protection and camouflage. His cancellation ordered as a tangible sign to her handlers that she had not been tainted by her assignment. Trying to save him might have only been motivated by guilt. A remnant of conscience.

Was it just male pride that made him prefer to believe that she really had loved him? That her last ever words to him were a lie to drive him away so that he wouldn't linger, trying to save her in turn? They haunted him, nonetheless. tainting his memories of their time together.

Why had she come here?

Why did he still care?

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

The old saying wound its way through his thoughts. Was he a fool? Michael shook his head. He didn't want to think about this now. He didn't want to think about her now.

Drawing several deep breaths, he tried to find a centre for his focus. It was time to prepare for the end-game.

==

Mr Jones looked up from a report as Nikita stopped in front of his desk. His attention was caught by her formal, parade rest stance.

"We need to talk," she said bluntly. Mr Jones raised his eyebrows and sat back, implicitly inviting her to continue.

"Not here," she said very softly, glancing down to meet his eyes. Mr Jones was intrigued. Nikita was aware of the security here in the Center, so the matter must be extremely sensitive. He couldn't think of anything like that which might arise in her current assignments however. He studied her, noting the tension, the life in her which had been lacking since her move to the Center.

"Alright," he told her briskly. He got up from his desk and led the way out of his office.

"I'm going out for a while," he told Monique as he passed her desk. A gesture brought his guards, identical twins, over to fall in behind Nikita.

"You have a meeting with the Near-East Policy Subcommittee in an hour," she reminded him.

"Fine, he said, already heading out of the door.

Mr Jones let Nikita drive. "Let's have it," he impatiently demanded when he thought they were clear.

"There's something I want to show you, but it might take a while."

Mr Jones frowned, displeased. "Show me what?"

"Treason," she said softly, but firmly.

"What?" Mr Jones was incredulous. "Who?"

Nikita's jaw clenched then relaxed. Did he imagine a flash of uncertainty? "I don't think you'll believe me, so I'm taking you to see for yourself."

Mr Jones didn't like the vagueness, but given the gravity of the accusation, he could understand her caution. He decided to go along with her, at least for now. This was important enough to make time for.

==

Nikita led the way from an underground carpark up into a deserted, single level building in a light industrial area. There had been six bodyguards eyeing each other near three other vehicles. At their arrival, two had been killed by the other four, who then nodded to them and left to secure the perimeter. Mr Jones watched this expressionlessly, then followed her, his guards keeping a tight formation around him.

She looked along the wall panels of the main corridor, then pulled one back. Mr Jones gave her an unreadable look, then stepped up to the observation window it had revealed. Nikita pressed the intercom switch, then moved behind him to watch over his shoulder as he stiffened in shock.

Inside the room were three men, one of whom was Mr Smith. One of the others was a middle aged Russian media baron, Victor Lerovsky. He had extensive legitimate industrial holdings, and influence throughout the Russian government. He also headed a mafia-style criminal cartel, to whom he was known simply as Glaba. The third man was known in narco-terrorist circles as Chimera. He was Sergio Gonzales, the patriarch of an extensive criminal organisation spread throughout South America.

Mr Jones stepped back from the window and made a phone call. After a short conversation, and a few words to one guard, who then left, he came back over to Nikita. The guard came back with a transmitting CCD camera, and started filming the meeting.

==

"Rossi was behind the decimation of Brusilov." Lerovsky's English was heavily accented, and his tone was cold.

"Brusilov was weakening anyway. They lacked close contacts with Putin and his people," commented Gonzales.

"It was a breach of the Accord," Lerovsky pointed out. "We do not interfere in each other's concerns. This has caused me significant problems."

"I'm sure appropriate reparations can be found," Mr Smith told him in a conciliatory manner.

"Are you in a position to make such promises?" asked Gonzales, his tone interested.

That gave Mr Smith pause. "Why would I not be?" he returned warily.

"It is said that instruments of your organisation are behaving... independently... of your control," Gonzales said evenly. Lerovsky was watching them both shrewdly.

Mr Smith's expression hardened. "There was a small problem, but it has been addressed. My organisation is under my control, and it will continue to work for our mutual benefit."

==

Nikita looked at Mr Jones, who was watching Mr Smith with a grim expression. "Take him," he ordered his guards, who immediately entered the room, with Nikita right behind them.

Mr Smith, startled at the intrusion, started to draw a gun, but before his hand had cleared his coat it was kicked away by an unexpectedly athletic Lerovsky. Gonzales simply stood, watching everyone calmly.

One of the guards swung his gun around to cover Lerovsky but Nikita, standing beside him, swatted it down. She recognised the move, if not the body that executed it. The guard glanced at her, uncertainly, then Mr Jones. At his superior's nod he went over to Mr Smith and secured his hands behind him.

Mr Smith said nothing, holding his head high as his hands were restrained behind him, but there was both dread and resignation in his eyes. They all knew what his organisation was capable of. His erstwhile colleagues would get no chance at retribution if he betrayed them. His only hope was for a relatively quick death, and everyone there knew it.

Lerovsky stepped away from Mr Smith and pulled off a padded latex mask, revealing Michael's face. Nikita's breath rushed out and she realised she had been holding it for nearly a minute. She shivered slightly as Lerovsky's dark brown eyes swept across the room then Michael carefully drew a small case from his pocket. A few moments later and the contact lenses were also removed.

Nikita could not take her eyes from Michael. Being told he was alive was not the same as actually seeing it for herself. Somewhere inside her, something came back to life. She realised it was hope. It was uncertain, and tenuous, but it existed nonetheless.

Mr Jones was staring stonily at Michael, who was returning his look directly, and without expression. Mr Jones looked at Gonzales with a raised eyebrow, and he obliged by removing a latex mask to reveal Paul Wolfe. Mr Jones' expression hardened further.

"What's going on here?" Mr Jones demanded icily.