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This story is a stand alone but there is a "prequel" called "Origins" that follows the same story from a different point of view. Tortured was written during Season One and has spoilers for the episode "Simone."

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Chapter 1

Pain.

Familiar. Eternal. Pain.

I can't remember when I didn't feel pain. Just vague recollections of a time before.... A time before....

There must have been a time when I didn't feel pain. At least sometimes I believe that. I cling to the idea of a life without pain. Not a future without pain. Gave up on that long ago. But there must have been a time before pain.

Sometimes I can get to that spot where the pain lessons. It never goes away. Gave up on that also. But sometimes it lessons. And then I can think. Like now. I remember ... something.

Section.

That's it. I can begin to remember the details. There was a place called Section. I was there. I think maybe I worked there. I think maybe it was a place where I did my job -- did it well.

But all I have are vague memories. Gray walls. Windows. Not windows to the outside. I can barely remember windows to the outside. But this place -- this Section -- had windows that I can remember. Windows into other rooms.

I just need to remember the details. The details will take me there.

One of the windows -- more like a wall of windows -- was set high into the wall. Inaccessible. Foreign. Dangerous. Something lurked behind those windows. Something powerful. I can't remember what was behind the glass. I remember always being aware that something lurked behind those windows. It was best not to look there. But it was best not to forget those windows -- the control that lurked behind those darkened panes of glass.

And there was another window, too. Lower down. Different. I have a feeling of being on both sides of it. And sometimes, when I think very hard, I get a sense of comfort there -- a sense of belonging.

Damnit! It's back. Pain. Ahhh! Pain. Damnit!

I ... can ... beat .. this.

I can beat this.

I can.

I am stronger than this.

I am stronger.

I am.

* * * * *

There.

That's better.

I was remembering something. I was almost there. If I can just remember the word.

Remember ...

Section.

Strange name for a place.

But different. Different than this place. This dark cell that has been my life for ... months? years? It used to be important to know how long. But I gave up on that, too. Does it really matter? Most of the time I'm not even here. It's only when I'm getting better that I remember this cold cement floor. My new home. These walls, this cage, this filthy mat on the floor.

Usually all I know is pain. It's funny really. The first hint that I'm coming back to whoever I really am is the recognition of this place.

I take inventory. Nothing changes.

Nothing ... ever ... changes.

Then I start to remember more.

I remember ....

Section. Not a place of comfort. No Mom. No Dad. No comfy room in a tract house in the suburbs. But a place where I knew who I was. What I was. Not like now.

He talks about Section. Sometimes. When he's not laughing. Or goading. Or getting off on his latest plans to break me.

He says that Section sent me here. He wants me to tell him about it. About these people who were the cause of all this pain. Or so he says.

I know I can't believe him. I know not to believe anything he says. At least I know that.

He says he's beaten Section. That I'm his prize for his triumph over Section. That I am the toy that Section gave him to prove he had won.

He plays with me. I am his toy. I am his.

Not like before. I remember belonging before. Not to him. Not to Section. But to someone else. Someone who made me feel. Someone who made me feel safe.

Sometimes I remember. Times when he's been gone for awhile. Times like this. When I can remember my life before. I almost remember another man. An entirely different man.

The first thing I remember is ... green.

Green. The color green. Was it his name? A nickname?

No ... I'm beginning to remember, now.

I just need to remember the details. The details will take me there.

His eyes.

His eyes were green.

Not always. Sometimes gray. Sometimes blue.

But when he looked at me. When he let down his guard. When we were together. When we were ... intimate. I remember his green eyes. A beautiful, deep, emerald green. Full of passion. Full of love.

Oh, God, I remember the love.

Love...

Yes, oh yes.

There was love, once. A long time ago, there was love. Not like now. That can never happen again. But it was there. It was real.

I'm never sure whether it's a good thing to remember the love. Sometimes it fills me with dread. Knowing I can never live in that love any more. That truth can fill me with despair.

But not today. Not now. Now I need that love. To give me strength. To remember my power. To remember to remain strong. To wait for my chance. For my chance to get back at him. The man with the green eyes would expect it of me. The man with the green eyes knows I can do it.

I can wait. I can survive. I can.

I can almost remember his name.

M... Mi...

Michael.

That's it.

I remember. That's good. It's a good sign.

Michael.

And me. Now I need to remember who I am.

He is Michael. He is love.

And I am...

I am...

Oh God. I remember. Michael. My love, my life!

My husband.

I am Simone.

Yes, I remember that, too.

I am Simone Samuelle.

Michael and Simone Samuelle.

That's good. Good enough for now. This will give me strength.

I'm tired. So tired. I'm going to sleep now. I'm going to rest. And maybe, when I wake up I will remember more.

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

Chapter 2

Laughter.

He's back.

Always the laughter.

He enjoys this. He enjoys hurting me. His laughter echoes down the long metallic hallways. The ceilings in this place are very high. The sound goes up and comes down again at different pitches creating a symphony of evil laugher.

"I'm coming for you, my little one," he sings.

I wait. I can wait for this. I've been waiting for months. Or maybe years. Probably years.

His boots beat a tempo along the cement floor as he comes toward me. Soon I will see his face again. The face of evil. The face that delights in causing me pain.

And I'll play the game again. The game he always plays. The game that I lose. Again and again. I lose.

But he doesn't win. I never let him win.

"Hello, my little plaything. Are you ready for the game?"

His face is at the door. I lay on my mat. Still. Not looking. Why bother? We both know what will happen next.

"I picked up a new toy. They tell me the blade is very sharp. But I'll have to be sure. I need someone to practice on. And I know just how much you'll enjoy helping me find out."

The door opens and he enters the room. He doesn't bother with bodyguards any more. I don't get fed enough to have any strength. I can't fight him physically. Don't even try.

He grabs for my hair. Pulling what little I have back. My head comes up and his face is inches from mine. If I had the strength I could spit on him. It won't stop him. He has the power now.

He holds the knife against my face. The blade is cold and hard. A tiny prick as he grazes my skin.

I flinch.

He smiles.

And then it begins again. He pretends he's an artist trying to sculpt my face. At first I try not to respond. But eventually, I cry out. I always cry out. Sometimes I scream.

Tonight I scream.

He laughs some more

And finally, I welcome the darkness.

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

Chapter 3

Pain.

Again the pain.

This time it's fresh. Instead of being out for days, it must be more like hours, even minutes.

I reach my hand up to my face. The blood is dry, beginning to heal.

I begin the inventory. Slowly I check for damages. The wounds feel fresh. The pain is still sharp. Sharp pain is good. It helps to clear the mind.

Wait.

This is different. Think. Think! Why is this different?

I remember! I can remember how far I got this morning (yesterday?). I made it back to Section, to Michael, to ... Simone. I am Simone.

This is different. Think! Details. Remember the details. That's what they taught. Day after day in Section. The details will take me there.

OK. I can do this.

I am Simone. Section One operative. Captured by ... Sparks. His name is Sparks. Sparks is ... shit! He's the devil incarnate for all I know. Argghh! I close my eyes as the memories of pain come flooding back.

Slow down. Slow down. Slow down.

I reach my hand up again to smooth my chopped hair back and that's when I notice it -- sharp pain flies through my hand and up into my arm. In shock, I hold my hand in front of me and see his latest creation. The tiniest cuts criss-cross my fingertips. Like paper cuts. Not deep, but everywhere. It takes a certain patience to carve up another human being so thoroughly. That's the Sparks I've come to know. Not content with intense pain, he always remembers to leave me with something irritating and annoying. But today it's just the fingertips. Not the entire hand. It's another clue...

I use my teeth to rip cloth from the neckline of the shift I wear. Slowly, painfully, I tie the fabric around my fingertips. The pain is still there, but at least I won't irritate the wounds whenever I touch something.

I need to rest. If only for a moment.

I am so tired.

* * * * *

My eyes fly open.

I remember. This is important. Different is important.

There's a reason why he left. A reason why I still remember. Something is happening. Something has distracted him. Something made this visit shorter than usual. He is distracted. Where there's distraction there is opportunity. Rule number one of hand-to-hand combat.

I take deep breaths. Calming breaths as I slowly begin to relax my muscles. I begin to think, to remember. A clue -- a clue.

I remember! Yes!

Slowly I move my aching body aside. I pull the ragged blanket back. Carefully, I lift the edge of the mattress cover and I find it -- the map. Drawn in dark red lines that have grown black over the years, I have carefully mapped out this hellhole I'm trapped in. Long tunnels, with stairs and ladders everywhere.

I know this because he has taken me out of my cell. Paraded me around. Bragged about me in front of his new recruits. Sometimes it was just him and me. He would show me some new acquisition. The walls full of computers. Some new equipment that would make him invincible. His failsafe against being captured.

Sometimes he gave me as a "gift" to the new recruits.

"Here, have some fun with a government agent. Screw her, like they've screwed with you all your life."

And they would lead me off to another area: the living quarters, the cafeteria. Always I would keep track of where I was, remembering the number of turns, the length of the hallways, the number of steps. Committing it to memory. While they were using my body, I was using my mind. Remembering. Mapping. Planning.

Planning for an escape. If not for my own escape, for a way to assist in a rescue mission. Not a rescue mission for me. For the new ones. The innocents who were brought here and dragged into Sparks' perverted plans.

It is too late for me. I gave up on being rescued. I've been gone too long. It only takes a week, maybe two, before Section feels you have been compromised beyond their ability to recall you.

After what I've been through, they'd never trust me again. Not even Paul.

Operations. We called him Operations.

No, I can't think of him now. Not now. I have to be alert.

But the memories come flooding back anyway. They take me away. I have no control over them. The memories come flooding back. Memories of my childhood. Memories of the first time I met Paul.

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Chapter 4

We were in Nam. I was a child working the streets. My brothers controlled me then. I was new enough that they could pass me off as a virgin to the GIs that remained at that late date. Most of them were so burned out, it didn't take much convincing. The only ones left by then were the ones too stoned to go home, too messed up by the war to go anywhere.

Paul walked as if in a trance as he perused the line of girls that night. Or so I thought. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He bought me for a week. $10 American. My brothers took the money and left.

I was used to it. It wasn't the first time for me. The family needed money. I was a second daughter. It wasn't uncommon at the time. Still isn't, I suppose.

I followed him back to his place. Tucked in behind a row of restaurants, his apartment was quite large. Three rooms altogether. More than I was used to, anyway. Most of the men I had known until then had only been renting rooms at flop house hotels.

But Paul had a pretty sweet set up. A small room that served as kitchen/dining room/living area, a separate bedroom and a private bathroom. That was very unusual. It was the first one I had ever seen in a private home.

I began to get undressed, but he stopped me. He sat down on the sofa, the only place to sit in the room and asked me, in Vietnamese, to bring him a drink.

He asked me. How strange! I began to wonder if he was one of the really crazy ones. The ones I'd heard of. The ones I was afraid of.

I brought him his drink and waited. He took a sip, then sat still. I tried to get undressed again, but he stopped me.

"No," he told me. "That's not want I want."

I began to get nervous.

"What do you want?" I asked in English.

It made me nervous that this foreigner could speak my language. I wanted him to know that I was no fool. "I don't need pimp. Already have pimp. You are not my pimp."

"I don't want to be your pimp," he said in English, then he reverted to Vietnamese. "I need someone to cook and to clean, maybe run a few errands."

"I can do that," I told him in English. "It cost you double."

He agreed, instantly. He pulled $20 from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. "This twenty is for you," he said. "This," and he placed another twenty on the table, "is for dinner. Bring me something good. Not that standard GI crap. Something local and good."

"Yes, Sir," I said and scurried out the door.

* * * * *

Later that night, he got up from the sofa and walked into the bedroom. He removed his clothes and got into bed. I watched from my perch on the kitchen counter. He hadn't even glanced at me.

I figured it was finally time. So I went into the bedroom. He was already asleep by the time I got there. I took off my clothes and pulled back the covers. He had curled up into a corner against the wall, so when I climbed onto the bed he was still far away from me. Slowly I reached out a hand and touched his back.

In an instant he was on me. But not in the way I expected. Instead, he had me pinned to the floor, his fingers wrapped around my neck as he slowly crushed the breath from me. His eyes were wild with anger. I stared into their icy blue depths as I felt the last remaining breaths leave my body.

Just as suddenly, he released me and I curled up into a corner, gasping for air. It took several moments for me to recover. By the time I could breathe again and look around the room, he was nowhere to be seen. I used the bed covers to pull myself up and I staggered to the door.

He was there in the kitchen. His eyes were wide in fright. He looked like a scared little boy. I stood and watched him and he watched back, his eyes bright and frightened and filling with tears, of all things.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't do that again."

"What's wrong, mister?" I asked him, my voice hoarse from the pain of breathing again.

"Just don't touch me," he said, his voice desperate. "Promise me you won't touch me."

I stared at him in disbelief. He was acting as if he was afraid -- of me. I didn't understand him. But I did understand the $20 in my pocket, and the change from the grocery run that he never asked for. They burned a hole in my pocket as I watched this strange man cower in the corner of his luxurious kitchen.

"OK, mister, I won't touch you. Whatever you say," I told him, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Thank you," he said. He stood then and transformed himself in front of my eyes. He had been a frightened little boy but now, suddenly, he was a charming man, fully in control.

"Please, make yourself comfortable on the couch," he said calmly. "I will see you in the morning." He walked slowly and calmly into the bedroom and closed the door firmly behind him.

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Chapter 5

I wake instantly, my eyes wide open. I must have slept again. No dreams this time. That's good.

I take inventory again. The cuts on my face have become crusty. They will heal. My fingers are still tender. I decide to keep the makeshift band aids in place.

I survey my cell. Someone has left my meal, such as it is. Stale bread, a cup of water.

I move slowly to sit up. My body feels strange. I can't remember the last time I used my muscles. They are weak and ache as I move my arms, my legs. But there are no broken bones to heal, no gashes left bleeding. All in all, I find myself in good shape. Comparatively.

I crawl slowly to the door and draw my dinner through the bars. I study it closely.

I don't check for poison any more. He got tired of poisoning me. Said he didn't like the smell it left in the cell. The smell it would leave on me. So I don't fear poison.

I study my dinner in order to make the most of it - to make it last. To value it. To enjoy it as much as I can. It's never enough food to give me strength; just enough to keep me alive another day. Sometimes that's all I need to do - stay alive another day.

I suddenly realize it's been a long time since I've felt this aware. It's because he hasn't been back. It's been several hours. Perhaps even a day.

Something's happening.

I've heard their footsteps, the sounds of people rushing to and fro. When you become an expert at listening, you can read the footsteps. It's the same sense I used to feel at Section, right before an important mission. Everyone walked just a bit faster, conversations got shorter, the air itself seemed clearer. That is what I sense now.

They have a new mission. Some new game for Sparks to play against the people he believes have wronged him.

I know his weaknesses. He wants to be appreciated. Oh, not like any ordinary human being. He considers himself a genius. All he needs is for the rest of the world to agree with his assessment. As long as they don't, he will continue to wreak his havoc.

I have come to know some of his associates -- worshippers would be a more accurate description. Hester, the shuffling fool to the king. Siobhan, the would-be queen. They dance to his tunes, begging for the scraps of his affection.

Fine with me. I prefer to be neglected.

Suddenly music comes blaring down the hallway towards my cell, the extreme volume distorting the chords, the metal walls creating strange echoes. As my ears become acclimated to the sound levels, I begin to pick out various passages - some kind of opera music that I don't recognize. Very German and triumphant.

I eat my dinner slowly and methodically. I continue to stretch my muscles between bites, checking my strengths and weaknesses. All part of the training. At times I stop believing I'll have a chance to use any of my muscles again. When it gets bad, I believe I'll never leave this cage.

But my training was very thorough. I always go through the motions. I stretch and flex each muscle in turn, assessing its strength and weakness, adjusting my attack plans based on my conclusions.

If nothing else, it passes the time.

I finish my meal and push my cup back outside the bars. I move to the back of my cell and sit with my back to the wall, my legs stretched out in front of me. I wait for more information to come filtering down the twisted hallways.

It only takes an hour or so. Then the sounds erupt and flood my cell. There is cheering, hooting and clapping -- the sounds assault my ears in waves that ebb and flow. The small gang of misfits and their tin god have scored another victory. And, with deep remorse, I realize that somewhere in the world, another set of innocent victims have been sacrificed at the altar of Sparks' ego.

I know what comes next. I do what I can to prepare.

He will visit me again soon. And he will tell me every detail. And then he will begin on me again.

And I will lose again.

But he will not win.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

If I can stay awake and focused, I may have a chance against Sparks when he comes. I am feeling stronger. I take deep breaths. I stretch and flex my muscles. Every few minutes, I do some easy stretches, some exercises.

He won't be expecting me to fight him. It has been so long since I've resisted. But should I resist? If I give away my strength too soon, he'll torture me back into submission.

Whatever Glass Curtain has been up to must be pretty big. He has been distracted from his usual habits. I am his usual habit. Seeing me in pain is one of his greatest pleasures.

It's been more than a day now. I'm sure he will return soon. If the cheers are any indication, he may even be in a bragging mood. That means he'll want to show off. Maybe even bring me down to the staging area to show me the tapes of his latest perversion. But if he suspects I am getting stronger, he won't take that chance.

If I can get him to take me out of the cell, I stand a better chance of bringing him down. It might be best to pretend to a greater weakness than I feel right now.

Slowly, I take deep breaths, counting quietly and going into a deep trance-like state. It's a way to build strength while I wait. And I've become an expert at waiting.

* * * * *

I come awake suddenly, painfully, a cry passes my lips and I clutch the edges of my tattered dress in horror. I had the dream again. The damn dream has come back.

I should have expected this. Becoming more aware has its consequences. When he's done his worst to me, I'm out cold afterwards -- no dreams, no nightmares -- just deep, uninterrupted sleep.

But if he keeps ignoring me, if I continue to heal and gain strength in body, my mind will do its best to betray me.

Ah, god, I don't want to have those dreams again.

"Michael!"

His name becomes one long scream in my dream as I watch the firefight continue. I hear bullets connecting with bodies, I see bullets ricochet all around me. We've taken out a few of them, but they are much better armed, much better positioned than we. And there's no retreat, they've cut off our retreat. There's nothing to do but to continue shooting in hopes of opening a pathway to freedom.

"Michael! Michael!" I shout as I continue to fire into the smoke-filled chaos around me.

I have no idea where he is. All around me are hostiles. And no back up. Absolutely no back up. I know he got hit. We both got hit. Mine is a graze on the thigh - not enough to bring me down, but I don't know how bad he is or even where he is. When the shooting started we both dove for cover and I haven't seen him since.

These crazy kids are firing around themselves in circles - probably bringing down several of their own in their search for us. The idiots haven't any idea what their doing. If I can't locate Michael, I run the risk of shooting him myself.

In my dream, Michael bursts through the fog and comes barreling toward me, guns in both hands blazing, like some crazed cowboy in a bad western film. I curse his foolishness, his need to be the hero as I raise my gun to provide what little cover fire I can produce.

But to no avail. Suddenly strange blossoms emerge from his chest, as cascades of red blood fill the air in front of him. He falls into my arms, covering me and bringing me to the ground with him. His mouth comes to rest close to my ear and I lie there, listening for a breath, for anything.

But it's too late. There is no sound. And so I scream his name over and over again until I come awake.

Damn! I hate this stage of recovery. The dreams take what little memory I have of that day and spin twisted tales of horror and despair.

I remind myself that I never saw Michael after the shooting started. I remember that we both got hit. We dove for cover. And that was the last I saw of him. Logic tells me that if he wasn't dead then, I would have seen him fight back. Michael would never give up. Never.

I'd been hit several times and they thought I was dead. I know I was out for several hours because it was daylight when I awoke. I was the last body to be removed. They had tended to their wounded first, of course. Then disposed of the dead. Michael's body was gone by the time they reached me. When the poor bastards on clean-up duty realized I was alive, they ran terrified from the room.

When they came back, Sparks was with them. He caressed my face tenderly. He lifted me gently and carried me back to their makeshift hospital where he cleaned and bandaged my wounds, and shot me full of antibiotics.

It was surreal. What was the point? Sparks knew about Section - that they'd never pay ransom for my return. What possible reason could he have for keeping me alive?

Those last few hours before I realized his purpose were the last few hours of my innocence. I had lived a difficult and strange life. Most of us thought of Section as a living hell or the closest thing to purgatory on earth. Little did I know.

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

Chapter 7

I'm getting edgy.

Why hasn't he come?

I may be an expert at waiting, but I don't have to like it. To calm myself I run through the exercises again. As I get better at standing up, I begin to slowly perform the katas we were taught as trainees.

Ah, the katas. Michael and I spent hours training together until we became like one body, each breath taken and expelled together as we moved slowly and confidently through the motions. We paced our deadly dance together and the feeling of confidence and beauty was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Even now, as I move through the stances, I can almost sense him at my side, matching me step for step. It's hard to believe he's really dead.

God, Michael, what a miracle you were in my life! I won't let my nightmares or even Sparks take away the good memories of you! You're free now - free from Section, free from the terrible demands they made on us, free from the nightmare life we lived.

I think back to the day we met - that crazy mission that Jurgen cooked up in his never-ending struggle to break his recruit's spirit.

Michael was sent on a training mission at a local bar. Jurgen had taken me off of Paul's team and brought me in for this one-time mission. Michael was to locate his target, place a mark on her, and leave without being noticed or remembered. Little did he know that Jurgen had ordered me to do everything in my power to see that Michael would not succeed.

* * * * *

I sat at the bar, nursing my drink and watching the action as young men and women circled each other and planned their approaches to ward off loneliness for one more night. I was dressed to kill -- a burgundy velvet dress that hugged my curves, the neckline plunging low, the skirt flaring out to end mid thigh. My spike heels added a few inches to my short stature and my hair was piled in an elaborate structure that added more height.

When he entered the bar, he nearly took my breath away. I'd seen the pictures, but they hadn't done him justice. The man could move like a hot knife through butter. He wore tight black jeans and a dark green shirt that hugged his body and highlighted his mesmerizing eyes. His hair curled around his face, going long in the back to tumble over the collar of the light-weight black jacket that completed his ensemble. I certainly wasn't the only one who noticed his entrance.

He headed toward the bar and ordered a drink then turned around and rested on his elbows as he slowly surveyed the room. I watched as his eyes traveled across me. Our eyes met for a second, he flashed a hint of a smile before continuing his perusal of the room. The target hadn't arrived yet. It was all part of the plan.

"OK, Si, time to strut your stuff," Chuck's voice whispered into the com unit behind my ear.

In one swift move, I dumped the half-finished drink into the sink behind the counter, then stood and moved slowly down the bar toward Michael. I hadn't taken two steps before his body language told me he had become aware of my approach, but he refused to meet my gaze, trying to signal his unavailability.

"Too bad, sweetie!" I thought to myself. "Your sense of unavailability is not gonna matter in this scenario."

As I came up beside him, I turned toward the bar and twisted around, managing to brush my arms and breasts against his elbow as he tried to remain motionless.

"I seem to be in need of another drink," I murmured, my lips close to his ear, my hand waving my empty glass between us. I inhaled deeply and was immediately filled with his wonderful scent. The man was practically oozing sensuality and I intended to make the most of it.

His lips curled up in the hint of a smile. "I'm sure I can take care of that," he said. He turned back to the bar, moving a step back from me as he did and signaled to the bartender to bring me another drink. "Another drink for ...." he looked at me in question.

"You can call me Simone," I whispered in answer. "And you are?"

"Michael," he said as he pulled some bills out for the bartender and subtly moved away from me again.

I moved in closer and leaned my hip against his side and let my right hand fall to the bar alongside his left. I ran my fingertips lightly and slowly across the back of his hand. He turned his head slightly and smiled down at me again. "You're very friendly," he said. "In another time and another place, I would like to get to know you better. But tonight, I am sorry to say, I am meeting someone else."

His French-accented voice was a delight to the ears and his eyes twinkled as he gazed into my eyes. He shrugged innocently and shook his head slightly, then began to pull away again.

"Ah," I said, hooking my arm through his and pulling him back around toward me. "Your lady friend -- she did not come here with you?" I let my accent emerge into my voice as I spoke and gazed up at him through my lashes.

"Uh-oh, here comes Suzie Wong!" I heard Chuck's laughing voice through the comlink behind my left ear.

"Cut it out, Chuck!" came Jurgen's order and the transmission was cut abruptly.

"I am meeting her here," Michael said, his voice still polite and uninterested. Already he was studying the room again, looking for his target.

"Then I demand a dance until she does arrive, in gratitude for your kindness," I said, indicating the drink he had bought me. Without waiting for an answer, I pulled him onto the crowded dance floor.

"But my lady friend may become jealous if she's sees me dancing with another beautiful woman," he protested.

"I'm sure she will be impressed by what a gentleman you are for keeping a lonely stranger company for a few minutes," I assured him as I wrapped one hand around his waist.

Reluctantly he began to dance with me. We kept our distance at first as our bodies got used to each other's rhythms. Then slowly I moved closer to him. He did his best to maneuver himself clear of my advances, but I was determined. Midway through the tune my hands had made their way up his arms and I was running my fingers through the silken chestnut curls at the base of his neck.

As the dance came to an end he dropped his hands from my waist, but I continued to hold his neck. "You are a very good dancer, Michael," I said. "I insist on at least one more."

"Just one more, then," he said as he placed his arms around me again.

The band struck up a slow-moving jazz piece. I moved my arms down his broad chest and slowly reached inside his jacket to wrap my arms around his hard, flat waist. To his credit, he never even flinched.

"Target has arrived on the scene. Expect her to be at your location in five minutes, Michael," we both heard Chuck's voice through our com units. "Better dump the girl and get into position."

"So, Michael," I began as I raised my head to gaze into his eyes again, my face inches from his. As I did so, I rubbed my hips against him slowly and felt his immediate response as I moved my hands down his back to cup his buttocks firmly. "I think maybe your lady friend doesn't appreciate you enough."

"Why is that?" he asked, somewhat distracted as he again surveyed the room.

"Well," I smiled up at him and moved my head closer to his ear. "If I was your girlfriend, I don't think I would let you out of my sight." Then I moved my mouth to his neck and with one long stroke, I licked from his neck to his earlobe, softly caressing his ear with my tongue as I suckled there.

To my delight, I felt his immediate response against my stomach and heard a groan arise in his throat..

"In fact," I whispered into his ear. "I'm not even sure I would let you out of the house."

I softly kissed along his chin line moving slowly towards his wide, sensuous lips.

"I believe you are entirely too tasty to be allowed to wander about on your own," I said as my lips finally found their goal and I kissed him deeply and passionately.

His lips on mine were like fire and I felt him surrender to my assault as his arms moved up my back to press me against him.

"Two minutes, Michael," Chuck's voice broke in, again.

He continued the kiss and moved me gracefully through the crowd on the dance floor until we were locked in a passionate embrace at the edge of the crowd.

Releasing my lips he pulled me into a tight embrace. "Simone! I shouldn't be doing this," he whispered breathlessly as he moved me further from the crowd. "Not here, not tonight."

"Yes, here, my sweet," I told him, my lips nipping at his, my hands moving along his waistband and lower to cup his arousal "It is kismet. We are fated to be together."

He moaned again and looked quite helpless. Searching around him in desperation, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into a short, darkened hallway at the back of the dance floor. Forcing my back to the wall, he leaned into me, pressing his body against me as his lips claimed mine again. His breath was heavy and strained and he moaned again as his tongue forced its way into my mouth and he continued his assault.

"Thirty seconds, Michael, get into position, now!" Chuck's voice was urgent.

Michael pulled me into his deep embrace. Smiling down at me, he turned me in his arms, his back now against the wall. He pulled us through an open door and shoved me against the back wall. His hands were on the move as they caressed up and down my body in wild abandon, cupping my breasts, my hips, my thighs in succession, sending chills through me as his lips moved along my neck to suckle at my shoulder.

"Simone, you feel so wonderful," he said passionately. He broke away from me to gaze into my eyes, his eyes full of passion. "You are so beautiful," he said and he stood back to let his gaze drift up and down, his eyes drinking in my clearly-excited body.

"I'm sorry," he said, then he stepped back quickly and closed and locked the door behind him.

I was slow to respond. I stared at the door in disbelief.

"Shit!" I screamed and let out a groan.

"Simone?" Jurgen's voice came in on Channel B. "Report."

"Shit, shit, shit!" I screamed and I kicked the door in frustration.

"A little more specificity, please," Jurgen's sarcasm was plain. "I need a report now! In English!"

"The bastard just locked me in a utility closet!" I yelled in response as I tried the door unsuccessfully

Through my comlink I could hear peals of laughter from my teammates.

"Well, get the hell out of there and complete the mission!" Jurgen yelled into my earpiece.

"I'm not exactly in mission mode, Jurgen," I retorted. "You saw this dress, I'm not carrying any tools! Now send someone in to get me out of here."

The laughter was floating through the comlink at near full volume now and I was seeing red. Even Jurgen was beginning to snicker.

"No can do," Jurgen answered, barely keeping his voice even. "I can't seem to spare anyone now. You're on your own."

"Jurgen!" I screamed again, but the com link disconnected.

I kicked the door in frustration again. Then began kicking in earnest as I felt the doorjamb start to give. It took me thirty seconds to get the door open and emerge onto the dance floor. Michael was gone.

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

Chapter 8

I wake again. Alone again. More food has been left.

I am tired of the waiting. And that is dangerous. One of the things Paul taught me best. Beware of the time when you start to relax, start to get edgy or anxious. It's the moment when you are most vulnerable.

So I go through the routine again: do inventory: check for injuries, stretch and test the muscles, run through sequences in my head to check my mental abilities.

Then I eat. I'm not hungry, but that's not important. I eat the food when I receive it because it may not be there when I want it. Another lesson from Section.

Then I move to examine the room. First, check the door. Still locked, still solid. I check the hinges again, in the same way I've checked them a thousand times before. Slowly I make my way around the cell checking to see if any new cracks have developed, or if something was left behind that I can use: a coin, a clip, a pencil - anything. Since I cannot remember the last time I searched the cell, I go very slowly and methodically, brushing my hand along the flat surfaces of the walls and the floor, inch by inch. As I work, I conduct breathing exercises to test my endurance.

I am halfway through my third circuit of the room when I hear him coming.

"Simooooonnnnnnneeee!" he calls out in a mocking tone. "I'm coming for you."

I crawl to the far wall of my cell, my back against the wall. I peer down the short hallway that leads to my cell, trying to sift through the light and shadows. I try to remain still, but I can't stop the tremors that seem to rise from my toes to the top of my head.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can do this," I tell myself. I am aware of the fear rising to consume me and do my best to put it aside and to reach for the strength that lies within.

Through the darkness an arm reaches out, an absurd top hat dangling from the fingertips. My throat closes in on itself and I find it hard to breathe. I catch the first whiff of him and my mouth fills with bile. "I can do this. I can do this. I can do this."

"Ju-u-u-u-ne? I'm h-o-o-o-o-o-m-e," he calls out sarcastically. Then he slinks around the corner and stares into my cell, his sunken eyes and scrawny face twisted into an obscene smile. "I put Wally and the Beaver to bed, my dear one. So we can have all night together."

He walks slowly down the hall, goose-stepping stiffly like a clown, while placing the hat on the top of his head.

In my mind I see visions of insanity -- of myself, lost and curled in a ball. "He is coming. Oh, god, he is coming again." A tiny voice in the back of my mind absurdly continues the chant, "I can do this. I can do this..."

Removing the key from his pocket, Sparks opens the door. He swings through the door and slams it shut behind him. In my mind's eye he becomes a giant, consuming the entire room with his presence as I fade into a tiny speck in the corner. A voice continues a sad refrain in the back of my head, but I can no longer hear it.

Dropping his ragged coat to the ground, Sparks bends at the waist until his face is only inches from mine and his acrid breath brushes against my skin. "Did you miss me, darling?"

His hand clutches my neck and his touch sends my mind reeling. Any hope of regaining my strength flies away as I recognize his cold, evil touch.

"There is no hope," my inner voice confirms my worst fears as my hopes and plans for recovery and escape have fade into nothing.

He has returned.

And I am lost.

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

Chapter 9

My mind takes me back to Nam. Saigon. The apartment with Paul.

I had been staying with him, working for him, for three months. No matter how much I raised the price, he would pay. I kept giving my brothers some of the money -- never telling them exactly how much I got so that I could put some aside for myself.

Paul seemed to do almost nothing at all. He would sit for long periods of time staring at the wall. I never watched him directly. It probably wouldn't have changed things if I had. He was wrapped up in himself -- in memories that would not leave him alone. Expressions flew across his face rapidly, yet his body remained still.

Once a week we had a visitor. Not always the same man. But always military. American military. They didn't wear uniforms but they stood out anyway -- the bearing, the confidence, the incredible sense they had that they were in control of the world and everyone in it.

They kept on asking Paul to do things. They wanted him to help them out in one project or another. But Paul always refused. He always said he didn't have the strength or that he was too tired. Maybe later. These strangers seemed to think they had incredible power. But they weren't able to control Paul. Not then, anyway.

My English was improving. Paul had an elaborate radio set. Not a tiny transistor radio like those that were common out on the street. This was military issue. He listened to it constantly. News, not music. The more he listened, the more English I learned.

One night he caught me with a confused look on my face.

"What's the matter?" he asked me.

I shook my head, embarrassed and worried that I had distracted him unnecessarily.

"You can tell me," he said. "I'm just curious. But if it's personal, I'm sorry I intruded."

Now I had to tell him. I didn't want him to feel embarrassed.

"It's just that word - on the radio. They keep saying a word that I don't get. Something about a fruit."

"A fruit?" he asked, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not sure at all. Because it doesn't make any sense. Something about your President Nixon and something to do with fruit. They want to put him in peaches, they keep saying."

Paul looked at me for a moment and then a smile broke out on his face. "Ah, you're talking about impeachment!"

"That's it!" I told him and smiled back at him. "Why do they want to put him in peaches?"

"The word is 'im-peach-ment'," he pronounced carefully. "It's a way for the Congress to put a president on trial and remove him from office."

"Oh, I see," I said, suddenly understanding. "Because he is a criminal for bombing our country?"

Paul laughed at that. "No, not for that! It's because he protected other criminals who were helping to elect him."

"Is that unusual in your country?" I asked.

"It's unusual to get caught at it," Paul said with a grim smile.

We were silent again for a while. Then Paul looked at me very seriously.

"I would like to help you learn English, if you don't mind," he said. "In return, perhaps you could help me improve my Vietnamese?"

I smiled at him. "I would like that very much."

Every night from that day on, as I would serve him dinner and sometimes after dinner, we would help each other learn.

* * * * *

I liked working for Paul. He left me alone. He made his expectations clear: I cooked, I cleaned, I did laundry, I mended clothes when necessary. And he left me alone. In fact, we never touched after that first day. Which was not at all what I had expected.

But my brothers were greedy. They always wanted more. I would slowly increase the amount I gave them -- a little more cash every week. But it was never enough. They figured if he could afford a dollar more, he could afford $10 more. They were probably right. I didn't know where Paul got his money. As far as I knew, he didn't keep it in the apartment. I had cleaned every square inch and never found a hiding place. He almost never left the apartment. If he needed anything, he would send me for it.

One night, my brothers were more demanding than ever. They liked the money I was bringing in. I suspected that only a portion of it was going to the family, since they seemed to have acquired a taste in finer clothes and jewelry. They were also drinking a lot. I told them I couldn't get any more, but they didn't believe me. They slapped me around a bit, but I stood my ground. Finally, they let me go.

I hurried back to the apartment. I was late starting dinner and I didn't want to upset Paul. He almost never got upset with me, but I was careful to never give him a reason to complain.

I was just setting Paul's meal down before him at the table when the door burst open. I whirled around in shock as Paul stood up and faced the intruders.

My brothers stood just inside the door. They had obviously had much more to drink and they both were waving guns in the air. In our native language, my brother started ordering me to gather up everything valuable from the place and to give him Paul's wallet and jewelry.

Paul looked at me, his expression worried. In English, he said, "What is it they want? Tell me what they are saying!"

I looked back at Paul in shock. He knew exactly what they were saying. He was fully fluent in the language. I had to help him with slang and conventions only. But when he met my gaze he looked perfectly bewildered. I thought he had lost his mind. But then, with his left hand concealed from my brother's view, he made a small signal that only I could see. I don't know how I knew what he was trying to tell me, but I went along with his subterfuge.

"These people robbers!" I said, my voice shaking and a bit frightened, returning to the poor English I had used before Paul began teaching me. "Want money and valuables! Now!"

"OK. OK," Paul said, raising his hands in front of him, palms forward in a gesture of appeasement.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Opening it, he removed the several large bills it contained and then began walking toward my brother Van, who seemed to be the least drunk of the two. Paul's step was unsteady and he looked genuinely frightened. Van smiled and held out his hand as Paul got near. In a move so swift, I barely saw it, Paul dropped the wallet and grabbed Van's arm, pulling him off balance. Paul flipped him to the ground, and twisted his arm mercilessly.

Phan watched in horror as our brother went down, but then held his gun in front of him shakily. "You stop! I shoot!" he screamed.

In that moment, I acted. Not to protect the family, as tradition demanded. But to protect the man who had given me a life I had never known before. I grabbed the still-sizzling pan from the fire and swung it -- hard -- catching the back of Phan's head.

The sound of his fall was sickening and the apartment filled with the acrid smell of blood mixed with the grease from the frying pan. Blood had begun to flow from Phan's head. Just as quickly, it stopped. He lay absolutely still. Somehow I new he was dead.

A crack broke the silence and I turned to look at Paul. Paul's arms were open, and Van's limp body slid slowly to the floor. Just like that, Paul had killed my brother.

I stared down at the horror surrounding us and knew what I had to do. They were my brothers. I was responsible. I reached for Phan's gun and brought it to my head.

"No!" Paul called out, his voice strong and powerful.

"I must," I told him. "The police will demand an accounting. You can tell them I killed my brothers and then myself."

"Your brothers?" he asked, his shock genuine.

"Yes," I told him, my eyes turned toward the ground. I owed him an explanation, at least. "They wanted more money. They kept demanding I get more. But it was never enough. So when I refused to ask for more tonight, they followed me. If it weren't for me, they would never have come here. You must allow me to make this right. Tell the cops I did it, then killed myself. Because I won't survive if they throw me in jail. Not anymore."

Paul had moved closer as I explained and now stood directly in front of me. I felt his hand on my wrist and jumped from the contact -- it was only the second time we had touched in the few months we had known each other. He pulled my hand away from my head gently and removed the gun from my hand.

"That won't be necessary," he said. "I can keep you safe."

I looked up at him in confusion. "How?" I asked.

"It was bound to happen," he said. "Now is as good a time as any."

I watched as he turned and walked over to the radio. Raising the microphone that had been unused all this time, he turned several dials and spoke a few words. Codewords, I assume, because they didn't make any sense to me.

In less than an hour, people arrived at the apartment. They removed the bodies and provided papers for Paul and me. Two days later we had settled into a new life in Hong Kong.

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

Chapter 10

Cold water splashes against my face as I return to the horror of my cell.

"That's better," Sparks hisses at me. "No more hiding in that crazy mind of yours, Dearie. Time to concentrate on making me a happy man."

I am handcuffed to the door of my cell, my feet shackled too, a few inches from the floor. Sparks is half dressed and obviously aroused at my situation.

I brace myself for the assault, as best I can. If it's sex he's after, I want him to get it over with. When he finishes, he'll be too tired to torment me any more.

He steps forward and pulls my dress up roughly, then, using his hand to guide him, shoves himself into me, deep and hard. I wince at the pain, and this delights him. He giggles insipidly as I close my eyes.

He slaps me hard and my eyes fly open again.

"Watch me, bitch!" he screams. "I own you! You belong to me. You are mine, now and forever!"

He begins to thrust against me roughly and the wires of the cage bite into the rough skin on my back. I suddenly realize that the knife attack from earlier must have included my back, because now I feel the scabs open up and begin to bleed. I stare at the man in front of me. Doing my best to keep my expression blank, I wince occasionally as he thrusts harder and deeper.

Now his hands reach up to grab my wrists and he uses the leverage to pull himself deeper inside of me. I refuse to respond.

"Do you know what tomorrow is, Simone?" he asks. "Tomorrow is the day we get a new visitor. His name is J.B. and he is going to take us to a level higher and faster than we ever thought possible -- just like you will do for me tonight."

He pounds against me, becoming more frantic. He is becoming breathless and losing control. "After tomorrow ... the whole world ... will know .... about Glass Curtain," he calls out between breaths.

Pounding into me with his hips and pulling against my wrists, I feel as if I'm being hammered back into the wire mesh door as blood continues to flow from my various wounds. He speeds up suddenly and just as he begins to come he digs his teeth into my shoulder, his bite sharp and hard and I groan in pain. After several moments, his thrusting finally stops and he relaxes against me.

"Hmmmm," he smiles and looks back into my eyes. "Sounds like you enjoyed it!" He laughs his insane cackle.

I meet his eyes but refuse to respond. He pulls himself from me suddenly and zips his fly.

"I'm so glad," he says. "Because tonight, you have a whole lot of people to entertain."

I continue to watch him as he takes the key from his pocket and opens the cell door.

"HESTER!" he screams. Moments later, his scrawny sidekick comes running down the hall. Sparks tosses him the set of keys. "Simone needs some company tonight. Clean her up and then take her down to the rec room. Make sure everyone leaves satisfied, okey-dokey?"

"Sure, man!" Hester laughs and watches as Sparks walks back down the hall, whistling a melody from one of his grandiose operas.

"Simone and the gang will have a great time," he whispers under his breath. Reaching a hand up he pinches and twists my right breast fiercely and I scream.

He smiles wickedly.

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

Chapter 11

Things have changed. I've changed. I'm stronger now.

Sparks has been too busy recently to seriously damage me. And so I use this sudden burst of strength and coherence to survey my surroundings and try to get a sense of what has happened since the last time I was brought out of my cell.

The men -- boys, really -- are incredibly hyper. There are about twenty of them gathered in what Sparks calls the "rec room." Ratty sofas and overstuffed chairs are scattered across the linoleum floor. Several coolers are filled with ice and overflow with soft drinks and beer. Cheap stuff, by the look of it. Boxes of junk food fill the side tables, their vibrant, multi-colored packaging adding the only hint of color to the drab furnishings. Computers and video games crowd each other for space along the walls, their neon pulses and brilliant hues causing a cartoon glare to creep along the edges of the room. It's pretty much how I remembered it.

There are additions since the last time I was here: video monitors have been mounted on brackets hanging from the ceiling and they appear to be set in a continuous looped tape. Soundless well-groomed narrators read the news against a background of explosions and images of despair. There has been another plane crash. Charred fragments are shown strewn across the landscape. Rescue workers work quickly as body bags pile up in the background. Numbers appear on the screen listing the hundreds of people believed to be missing and/or dead.

Hester pushes me into the room.

Before leaving my cell, he cuffed my hands behind my back and shackled my ankles together. He has been very careful around me ever since he underestimated my strength in our first encounter years ago. He shoves me into the center of the room and pushes me onto a broken-down couch, the center of which sags into the floor. He perches on the seat back, wrapping his legs on either side of me and pulling my head back to rest against his groin.

"Party time, everyone!" he calls as he takes a swig of beer and then bends his head down to kiss my forehead, spilling beer down my face in the process.

His announcement is met by nervous stares and a few catcalls.

This isn't the first time I've been presented to Sparks' cronies for their physical enjoyment. I know what to expect. In some ways, it is pitifully ironic. Madeline would enjoy the humor. As chief strategist for Section One, she spent months turning me into an expert Valentine operative, teaching me the difference between seduction and love, teaching me to tempt and tease. To use my Asian features and small stature to emphasize the "exotic" look that so many western men find particularly alluring. It's amazing what a silk dress and green eye shadow will do once you've been through Madeline's special training.

None of those skills will be in evidence tonight. Instead, I will be the object of the pathetic fumbling of inexperienced boys. In a way, they seemed trapped; not quite sure they want to participate in public displays of sex, yet too embarrassed to refuse. Half of them seem to believe this could be their only chance at intercourse.

These evenings tend to not bother me much. I realize that the anticipation of gang rape would fill a normal person with dread. But I can't even remember normal. So I tune out my body and concentrate on gathering intelligence.

I learn a little. Apparently, they have discovered a way to hack into air traffic information and have managed to cause a number of crashes. That's why Sparks is feeding them images from the news. To reinforce their sense of power over others.

And these boys expect to do more. I recognize their methods. It's the kind of hacking that can be easily detected and simple corrections will protect the agencies affected. Clearly, causing a few crashes is not their goal. They seem to think they will soon have the power to affect major airports -- to disrupt the "status quo" as they call it.

This new boy, J.B., is mentioned often. They seem to think he is the key to their future success. He arrives tomorrow. No wonder Sparks is absent. He is at a crossroads: his power may increase, but he also may be challenged. I need to prepare myself for whatever might happen tomorrow.

The party is winding down. The last of the boys is on me. He pumps away at me pitifully, unable to reach completion. Across the room, Hester is pumping away at a frightened little girl, barely into her early teens. There are times when I wish I had broken that toady's scrawny little neck when I had the chance. In his role as head slave he struts around, self-important and grandiose, yet I've seen him cower at a word from Sparks.

I almost feel sorry for the girl. But then I might begin to feel sorry for myself. And I won't allow that. The hell I live now is a direct result of decisions I have made and I won't deny that. Not even to Sparks.

Finally the boy above me rolls off and shuffles away, disconsolate. Hester takes a moment or two longer to satisfy himself, then rolls off, zips up and walks away without a backward glance at the girl.

"Come on, whore!" he says as he grabs my handcuffs and pulls me from the sodden couch.

I am too tired to struggle, so he is forced to drag me across the floor, down the hall and back to my cell. He dumps me onto the floor then turns and closes the door behind him.

"Tomorrow, we rule!" he hisses through the bars of my cell. I am already asleep before he has a chance to walk away.

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

Chapter 12

I wake up slowly. I have been dreaming of Michael and I want to prolong the feeling.

Michael's love. The immovable force. It took my by surprise.

* * * * *

Three years passed between the mission when he locked me in a closet and the next time we met. It was another training mission. Only this time he knew I was with Section. We'd been dropped in the wilderness and given a deadline to return to base. I had bet Chuck, a fellow operative, that I would beat the record time for returning. I considered Michael a hindrance at best.

I told him the score, then took off running, expecting him to keep up. For the most part, he did. We'd spent nearly 30 hours together pushing our way through tangled forests without a word between us. Reaching a ridge above the base camp, I decided we should get cleaned up before making our entrance, a full two hours ahead of the record. I was brushing away some leaves that had gotten caught on Michael's jacket when his eyes met mine. His eyes fairly burst with desire. And it made me smile.

"Now is not the time," I told him, then kissed him lightly.

I never knew what hit me.

* * * * *

Before Michael, I had never had a serious relationship in my life. I dated men on occasion. Had a few friends with whom I'd go to concerts or movies. I'd had casual sex and wild sex. But I kept myself aloof. Life in Section is so precarious, I viewed any involvement as a distraction.

And there was Paul. We had never been intimate but we were friends. He had protected me and I owed him my life. I belonged to Section but I would never do anything to betray Paul. Everyone knew that. It frightened most operatives. They didn't want to risk doing anything to anger him. And he was always quick to anger. Even when it became clear that Paul and Madeline were involved, men were still reluctant to get involved with me.

So I kept all my relationships casual. And that is what I fully intended Michael to be. A mere distraction.

He was so handsome. His curly chestnut hair and bright green eyes could make a Valentine target swoon in an instant. His strong, healthy body was tantalizing. So I decided to have some fun. After all, he was barely out of training. He'd go through a lot in the next few years, just like we all did. And I would soon be just another memory.

When we returned to Section after the survival training, I suggested we have dinner. We ate, we danced. The man could definitely dance. Then we went for a long walk along the docks. When I invited him up to my place, he was shocked. Not by the invite, but by the location. I was living in what looked like an abandoned factory. Taking the fire escape up the side of the building, I unlocked the fire door and led him to my apartments.

I had spared no expense in my living space. I wanted -- no needed -- to surround myself with comfort at home. I filled my loft with rich fabrics and soft, velvety furnishings. Everything invited one to come in and relax. I made tea and we sat together quietly, watching the harbor lights below.

When we made love that night it was exquisite -- not the rushed passion of two people desperate for contact, but the slow, intimate, erotic moves of lovers who appreciate the moments they have together. He was a talented, attentive lover and I found myself entranced by his devotion to my pleasure.

There were many more nights spent together. Not every night, for I was still being sent on missions around the world while Michael was being kept on a leash at headquarters by Jurgen. But whenever I would return to Section One we would meet again for dinner and that would just naturally lead us back to my place.

Michael never pushed me. Never asked for anything from me. He didn't want to know my story. Didn't need to know my background. Which was good, because I wasn't planning on telling anyone. He'd talk about his past a bit, but not much. Mostly we just lived in the moments that we were together.

But he surprised me. One morning, we were sharing espresso as we watched the sun rise from my kitchen window. Michael began quoting my favorite poet. I smiled in recognition and appreciation of the images before I realized in shock that he was speaking to me in Vietnamese. Keeping my face blank, I spoke in my native language and he was able to respond, up to a point. Then he managed to call my uncle a dog or some such thing and I burst out laughing. It nearly crushed him and he demanded to know what he'd done wrong. When I explained his mispronunciation he insisted I teach him the correct wording and inflection until he had it perfect.

* * * * *

That was Michael. Once he decided on doing something, there was no stopping him until he had it perfect. It impressed me. It exasperated me.

I had always had a high success rate. The blessings of an uncluttered mind, I suppose. I never troubled myself with the right and wrong of things. I had given up that right when I killed my brother. Big mistake in my culture. Not something the ancestors forgive. I knew I was damned. So it didn't really matter what I did after that. I was half dead, anyway.

Like everyone else, I made mistakes. People thought I survived because I had some kind of protection from Paul when he became Operations. Not true. He would have cancelled me in an instant if he believed I had disobeyed him or betrayed him in any way. I knew the score. If Section decided to cancel me, there wasn't going to be anything I could do about it. I had made mistakes and been sent to retraining any number of times. I just did my time and came back stronger. The way I figured it: as long as I wasn't cancelled, my mistakes could be forgotten.

But not Michael. He had to make everything right. The slightest mistake would cause him to retrace every step, over and over again. He'd practice, practice, practice. He was unstoppable.

He asked me to help him on the katas -- the practice workouts for martial arts training. Silly me, I agreed. We spent hours and hours at it. Time I would rather have spent kicking back, relaxing, drinking tea, or making love, was now spent going over every minute movement until we had it perfect.

I have a stubborn streak, too. So I always practiced just as long as Michael did. I wasn't about to let him see how tired I was getting. After all, I had more experience than he; I should be able to keep up. But I came close to giving out many times. Despite my reservations, all that practice improved my performance levels. Actual hand-to-hand combat in the field became much easier -- much smoother. It probably saved my life any number of times.

I never told him that. There are so many things I never told him.

* * * * *

We had been meeting at my place for several weeks. I finally asked to see his place. He didn't object. What I found just floored me. It was a dump. Empty and cold. I ordered him to grab his things and move in with me. Then I turned him loose. My place took up only about a third of the space on the top floor of the factory. I gave him free rein on the rest of the space.

At first he seemed dumfounded by the task. But, like everything else, he became obsessed with the idea of creating the perfect living space. Weeks went by when I barely saw him during the day. He would slip into bed with me at night, exhausted from his work on the loft. The nearly sound-proof walls kept the noise of his work to a minimum. And our need for privacy -- the abandoned building look was a deliberate discouragement to the curious passerby - meant that his comings and goings had to be relatively concealed from the outside world as well as me.

And, of course, we didn't want to advertise our relationship at Section. Not that we intended to keep it a secret. We just figured the less they knew about our personal lives, the better. Operations hadn't exactly banned relationships between his subordinates. But it was clear that nothing could interfere with our ability to do our jobs.

We had been spending most of our free time together for several months but I hadn't stepped inside his living space since the first day I showed it to him. Finally, he invited me to a late dinner the next weekend. At his place.

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

Chapter 13

Michael and I were working through a new kata in the training room at Section headquarters. A difficult series of kicks at the end was giving us trouble. Our different heights made it hard for us to time the kicks in sync. But that was the point of a team kata. Unity in motion.

We worked for nearly two hours before we came close to satisfaction. As we entered the last sequence, I immediately felt the difference as Michael lost his concentration for a second. Refusing to be distracted, I followed through with the sequence. He caught on again just before the final bow.

Raising up from the my bow, I looked around the room and spied the problem: Jurgen was leaning casually against the door frame. When our eyes met, he raised a hand and signaled for me to join him. I grabbed a towel and walked towards the doorway, glancing briefly at Michael who had turned his back and begun his warm-down stretches. Even though Michael was officially out of rookie training, Jurgen remained his mentor and their relationship was uneasy at best. Jurgen had a reputation for trying to break his recruits. Michael was one of the few who had not been broken.

"Jurgen," I said. "What's up?"

"I'd like your input on a mission," he said. "Get cleaned up and then meet me in systems."

"Sure," I answered. I turned back to Michael. "Thanks for the workout, Michael."

"You're welcome," he said, solemnly.

I left the room, but not before noticing Jurgen's wicked smile in Michael's direction. Michael seemed not to notice.

Jurgen kept me tied up for hours, running sims on a series of hypothetical missions. Technically, he was not my boss and I could have left at any time. But, as a rule, I didn't mind helping a fellow operative. You never knew when you might need the favor returned.

I returned home several hours later. Michael wasn't there. I figured he must still be working on his loft, so I went to bed early. When I woke up the next morning, I was alone.

* * * * *

From that day on, Jurgen kept finding ways to monopolize my time: bringing me in on training missions and asking me for advice. Four days in a row we worked late into the night. I thought perhaps he had heard about Michael and me and wanted to grill me for details. But Michael's name never came up.

I barely saw Michael that week. I had checked the boards; he wasn't on a mission. So I assumed he was finishing up details on his loft. I was looking forward to the weekend. However, when I came home late one night, I found a note on my kitchen table. "Must cancel dinner this weekend. Sorry, Michael."

No explanation. Well, Michael wasn't exactly the wordy type. But, it still seemed strange. I dialed his cell phone and he answered on the first ring.

"Yes," he said.

"Michael, it's me," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"I got your note. Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," he said.

"I just got home. Would you like to come over?"

"It's not a good time," he answered.

I paused for several moments and listened patiently. Something was wrong. But he wasn't talking. And we'd made it a habit not to press each other for details. We belonged to Section; sometimes things were just bad.

"Well, good night then, Michael," I said. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night," he said and he hung up.

* * * * *

Looking back on it now, I see how naive I was. How completely stupid I must have been not to see what was happening. But I still wasn't used to the idea of being loved by Michael. I had no idea how much power I had to hurt him. But Jurgen did. And, oddly enough, so did Paul.

Frustrated by the phone call, I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. I wanted to get out. The thought that Michael might be on the other side of the wall, refusing to be with me was too much to bear at the moment. As I flung open the door I was startled to find Paul - Operations - standing there.

"Hello," he said.

"Sir," I responded, quickly regaining a measure of control.

"Were you headed somewhere specific?" he asked.

"No," I said.

He waited a moment for me to continue, but I chose not to elaborate.

"Well then," he said, a slight smile lifting the corners of his lips. "Perhaps you would join me?"

"Of course," I said.

I closed and locked the door behind me. When I turned to put on my coat, he took it from me gently and held it out.

"Allow me," he said.

I turned again and slid my arms into the sleeves. He pulled the coat up, then turned me around and, as if I were a child, brought the front sections together and pulled the zipper up. I glanced up at him curiously. He smiled again.

"It's chilly out," he said. "Wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

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

Chapter 14

We drove through the semi-deserted streets. It was nearly midnight when Paul pulled the car onto a small country road that led to a small pond. A picnic table and benches framed a small garden area near the bright pool of water. Paul got out of the car and I followed suit. He came around to my side, then reached for my hand and led me to a bench hidden amongst a cluster of trees.

It's odd. In all the time we had lived in Saigon, Paul had been reluctant to be touched. But, once he brought me into Section, he took every opportunity to form some kind of physical contact with me. Not sexual contact. More like affection. As if he were an uncle or a cousin, concerned about my well-being. As we sat on the bench, he continued to hold my hand in his lap, my palm facing up, captured between his two, gloved hands.

"I have something I'd like to discuss with you," he began.

He paused and I waited. I began to worry. Perhaps there was something wrong with his health or his career. Always before, when he wanted to talk to me, it had been at Section or, on rare occasions, at my apartment. I had the sense he was about to say goodbye.

He had been staring off into the distance. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned to stare at me, his gray eyes piercing in the soft moonlight.

"It has come to my attention that you have become -- involved - with an operative by the name of Michael Samuelle."

I resisted the urge to flinch. He had trained me well. I met his gaze and waited for whatever was to come. But, my mind was running a mile a minute. Michael had seemed so distant on the phone. Had something happened? Was he injured, or worse?

"Because of our ... special ... friendship, I am somewhat reluctant to bring this up," he said, and he squeezed my hand between his. "But I must."

I swallowed and took a deep breath. "Go on," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Michael is a very special young man," he continued. "He is very important to me, and to Section."

I tried to read his eyes, but I couldn't. Finally, I stood, wrenching my hand from his. I walked a few steps away, looking into the dark night sky, my eyes beginning to water.

"Please," I began, my voice breaking a little. I took another breath. "Please ... Paul ... tell me what's happened to Michael." I hung my head, ashamed that I was unable to hide my fear.

Paul leapt from the bench and reached for me, turning me to face him. I looked into his eyes and was shocked to find that he was smiling.

"What?" I demanded, petulantly.

"Oh, Simone," he laughed. "Nothing's wrong with Michael. I'm sorry. I didn't realize. It must have sounded as if...." he broke off as he laughed again.

I looked at him amazed, shaking my head in confusion. "I don't understand!" I told him.

"Michael is fine. Truly he is," he told me again. "That's not why I'm having such difficulty talking to you."

"Then why?" I asked.

"It's just that, I am about to ask you to do something very difficult. And I want you to understand the reasons why."

I shook my head again, trying to chase away the dread that had filled me only moments before. And trying to prepare myself for whatever was to come. Finally, I looked back up into Paul's eyes.

"You are Operations," I said. "I will do whatever you ask of me. You can't doubt that, now, after all these years."

He gazed at me, and I recognized the admiration in his eyes. He nodded his head, slightly. "I know, Simone. I know."

"Then why all the mystery? Why bring me here in the dead of night?" I asked him, his confidence in me giving me the strength to press on.

"Because you might consider what I want you to do now to be rather distasteful," he said.

"That's never been a problem," I said, a bit too quickly.

"I've never asked this much," he answered just as rapidly.

I waited a moment, but he seemed to be waiting for a sign from me. Finally, I sighed and nodded my head.

"OK," I said. "Tell me."

"Walk with me," he said. He tucked my hand in the crook of his arm and we began to walk along a path that surrounded the small lake. I matched him step for step, feeling somehow comforted having his body next to mine.

"Michael is an amazing young man, as I'm sure you know," he said. "But perhaps you aren't aware of just how amazing he is. On every scale we have, he is off the charts: intelligence, perseverance, logic, strength. He has already surpassed most of the upper level operatives on all of our basic tests. We see a bright future for him, if he can survive."

I listened, but had difficulty taking it in. I knew Michael intimately, but I had never thought to compare him to other operatives. He was the first one - the only one - I had let into my heart. There was no other, as far as I was concerned. But what Paul was saying was true. I had seen it in his ability to learn Vietnamese, in his training in the katas, in his devotion to whatever task was set before him. I took it for granted that he would soon surpass me in all levels, and it had never occurred to me how unusual that was for a recruit as young and new as Michael.

"We have been aware of your relationship for quite some time," he continued. "All in all it has benefited you both -- you have each become stronger because of it."

I waited for Paul to continue. This was leading to something, but I was out of guesses.

Then Paul stopped and turned to me. He placed his hands on my shoulders and stared solemnly into my eyes.

"But Michael is still very vulnerable," he said. "Simone, this dalliance you are having with Jurgen could be very damaging."

"This what?" I asked him, my mouth actually dropping open.

"Look, you haven't exactly been keeping it a secret. Section can be a very small world and gossip travels fast. You should have known Michael would find out. And I believe you have hurt him more than you know."

I wrenched my arm away from him and stepped back. My mind cycled through the last few days. Finally, I focused in on that wicked smile I had seen on Jurgen's face the first day he approached me. It had all been another test. Another attempt by Jurgen to break Michael. And he was using me to do it.

In an instant, I was furious. Suddenly, I realized how I should have suspected Jurgen. This was Section! Of course there would be tests. Tests upon tests. And I had fallen right into Jurgen's trap.

A whirlwind of emotions played out on my face and I saw no need to hide them from Paul. Suddenly everything was beginning to make sense. I had been making Michael miserable with my actions and, like a fool, I had been totally unaware of my effect on him.

But there was something more. Something was prickling the back of my brain. I waited for my mind to process it through. Then, suddenly, I stared up at Paul again.

"I see now that I fell into a trap. Sir, I swear to you that I am not having an affair with Jurgen, but I'm not surprised that he let everyone think that we were."

I waited to be sure he believed me. After a moment , he nodded his head slowly.

"But that doesn't explain everything," I continued. "I can't quite believe that you've become involved in insuring your operatives have a successful love life. What is it you really want?"

Paul smiled at that. "Not much, really," he said.

I wasn't buying it. I waited.

He glanced away from me for a moment, then took a deep breath. He turned to face me again. He had regained his composure and authority seemed to flow from him again.

"Reports," he said.

"What kind of reports?" I asked warily.

"Nothing difficult," he said. "Just reports on how things are going between you two -- how Michael is handling the various challenges ahead of him."

It was out of my mouth before I even realized it: "And in return, will I get reports on your love life with Madeline?" I asked indignantly.

His response was immediate, his vicious slap tossing me to the ground. His mouth was inches from my ear when he hissed out, "You will never use that tone of voice with me again."

I nodded, weakly and waited for him to continue. Finally, he stood up slowly, then reached his hand down to help me back up. I placed my hand in his and he pulled me to my feet, then pulled me into his embrace.

"Ah, Simone!" he sighed as he held me tightly. "I think you are the only reason I am alive today. I do owe you that."

I shook my head against his chest. "Don't forget; I am also the reason you are in Section."

He held me tighter. "Never feel guilty for that, Simone. This is where I belong. I know that now. It was never your fault. You are not to blame."

"I'm sorry, Sir," I told him. "I was very rude. You didn't deserve that."

"Perhaps I did," he said. "I'm still not being clear."

He pulled me from his embrace and held me at arm's length. "I don't want to be a voyeur into your love life. I just want you to let me know if -- no, when -- Michael is in trouble. He is going to get a lot thrown at him in the next few years and he'll do his best to hide its effects. I need to know if I'm pushing too hard. I need you to tell me that."

"Paul," I said, meeting his gaze again. "I'm in love with Michael. I won't betray him."

He raised his hand to my face and slowly brushed away my tears. "I won't ask you to betray him," he said. "I'm asking you to be honest with me. Tell me when I've gone too far. You may be the only one who'll know."

Slowly, I nodded. A part of me rebelled at my obedience. Michael would be furious if he knew this conversation was taking place. Just moments before I had admitted to myself something I had yet to tell Michael -- that I was in love with him. Deeply and hopelessly in love.

But long before I met Michael, I had met Paul. And I had sworn I would never betray him. I couldn't do that now. Not for myself. Not even for Michael.