---

This story (when I get it finished) is dedicated to Eugene Robert Glazer and all those who served. He and they will know what I mean.

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

"Good morning, sugar."

"Walter?" Nikita opened her eyes and found herself in her bed, in her own bedroom.

Walter held a bed tray in his hands. "Hope you like scrambled eggs. It's one of the few things I know how to cook."

He waited until Nikita sat up, then placed the tray in her lap. That done, he pulled up a nearby chair, turned it around, straddled it, so he could lean his folded arms on the chair's back.

"How did I get here?" Nikita asked, ignoring the food in front of her.

"Madeline."

A shiver went through Nikita. Madeline.

"What happens now?" Nikita asked dully.

"You eat. You get better. You go back to work." Walter said, studying her face intently.

"That's all?" Her voice sounded on the edge of tears.

"That's all." Walter said gently.

"Where's Michael?"

"Back at Section, in medlab."

"How is he?"

"Lucky to be alive." Walter said plainly.

"Who are these people we work for, Walter? Are they even human? Do they think we're machines? That we have no feelings?" Nikita asked in anguish.

"I know it seems like that, sugar. But I've been with Section longer than you have. There are reasons for most things they do, even if we never are party to explanations."

"You know, don't you?"

"About what?" Walter frowned at her seriously.

"About the baby."

He nodded, "Yeah. I know. And I'm sorry, Nikita." He reached over and patted her hand.

"I can't do this anymore! I can't!" She started to cry harder. "Call Operations and tell him I ran--tell him! They can cancel me and it will finally be all over!"

Walter moved from the chair to the edge of Nikita's bed and took her in his arms.

After he allowed her to cry for a while, Walter spoke, "And what about Michael, Nikita? Do you want him canceled too? Because that's what will happen."

Nikita shook her head, but was too upset to speak.

"Nikita." Walter sighed. "There's an old saying, "That which doesn't kill you, makes you strong. There's a lot of truth in that. I know, from first hand experience. You think this is the worse that could happen to you--now. But it isn't. There are worst things--not by much, but there are.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Hell, no. But think about this for a minute. What about the baby? What kind of future would it have? Even if they let you have the baby, you wouldn't be allowed to keep it. They wouldn't even let you see it after it was born or know what sex it was."

"What about Michael's son? Why was Simone allowed a baby? They kept it!"

Walter was grim faced, "Yeah, and for how long?"

"What do you mean?"

"I MEAN, a lot of us five percenters wondered if little Etienne's death wasn't a case of Section flu."

"You mean murder?" Nikita's voice dropped on the last word.

"Look, I don't know! Nobody really knows! The autopsy said crib death. Either way, that little baby didn't last long. All I do know is, it nearly destroyed Simone and Michael."

"Walter, what was Simone like?" Nikita asked, pausing to blow her nose on a handkerchief Walter handed her.

"Simone?" He smiled faintly in remembrance, "She was a spunky, little China doll. She mooned me the first time I met her!" He laughed at the memory. "I accidently walked in on her in Madeline's office getting ready for a mission! She's the only person I ever met that could make Madeline giggle."

"How did she and Michael meet?"

"Well, that's a story in itself. I don't know if I ought to tell you," he said rather playfully.

"Please Walter. She meant so much to Michael--I want to know something about her-- about how Michael was, when they were together."

"Why now?

"I can't explain it really. I had the strangest dream while in the hospital--that Simone visited me and gave me a necklace. She told me to love Michael for her and for myself. She seemed to be so kind."

Walter had a strange expression on his face.

"What?" Nikita asked, in answer to it.

"What kind of necklace"

"Gold, I think."

"With an angel on it?"

"An angel? I don't know, really. It was only a dream, anyway."

Walter leaned closer to her, reaching for something beneath her hair.

"What is it?" Nikita asked, trying to see what he was doing.

"Did it look something like this?" Walter held up a gold chain he had just unhooked from Nikita's neck. At the end of the chain was an angel, with its wings curved into a teardrop shape over the angel's head--the wing tips almost touching. Clutched in its hands was a sword, point downward, as if the Angel was resting it on the ground while awaiting orders--or standing watch. Across its breast was a banner that read St. Michael.

"Where did it come from?" Nikita asked somewhat puzzled.

"I have no idea. You had it in your hand when they brought you back. I put it around your neck so you wouldn't lose it."

"But I've never seen it before." Nikita said, cradling it in her hand.

Walter began to mimic the theme to the Twilight Zone.

"Was Simone religious?"

"Very! I know, that sounds strange in our business, but she was. Catholic, I think, but I'm a heathen, so what do I know!"

"What else do you know about her?"

Walter sighed at her persistence, but he suddenly realized he'd managed to get Nikita's mind was off her troubles for a moment. "Okay. I'll tell you about her IF you don't waste my eggs! I laid them myself, and if you don't think THAT was a bitch!" He was pleased to see that she smiled at his joke and picked up the fork.

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

"Where should I start?"

"How did Michael meet Simone? Was he in Section first, or was she?"

"Simone was. I'm not sure how long, but she was a valentine op. It's funny, but she was never what you'd call a beauty, although she had the most beautiful hair I've ever seen on a woman--except for yours." Walter added with a grin.

"A valentine op? You mean she uh. . . ."

"You know what I mean. And she was good at it, too. Men fell for her in droves."

"And Michael--too?"

Walter laughed. "Especially Michael! He was a green recruit and she--uh--trained him in the finer arts of "l'amore." He wagged his shaggy grey brows.

Nikita smiled faintly, then averted her eyes to look at the medal she still held in her hand. "You know I've often been jealous of Simone--now I can honestly say I'm in her debt. She did an excellent job with Michael."

"Ahh, you're breaking my heart!" Walter gave her a mocking groan.

"And?"

"And---take another bite--that's my girl--well, it took months for us to wipe that silly grin off Michael's face!"

"Didn't it bother him--knowing what she did for Section?" Nikita's expression became serious again.

"Oh, I'm sure it did. I don't think any man likes to know the woman he loves is giving "it" away--but Michael's a realist and so was Simone. They lived two lives--one for Section-- one for themselves. When they were working--they worked. When they were together--the rest of the planet ceased to exist."

"Michael told me once, that he lived his life split in two," Nikita murmured, lost in memories. "Were they happy?" She asked at length.

"As happy as you CAN be in Section, but yes. It wasn't any secret that they loved each other--adored each other!. They couldn't have hidden it, even if they had wanted to."

"But why did Section allow it?"

Walter shrugged, "Who knows. I'm sure the Section powers-that-be had an angle, they always do. Maybe they realized that Michael and Simone were better as a team than they were separately. All I know is they worked well together and were extremely successful operatives."

"But then something happened to change things?" Nikita asked softly, looking at Walter with intent blue eyes.

"Yeah. They got married." Walter said with a frown.

"So? Why would that matter?"

Walter shrugged, "Again, who knows? My guess is the Section took it as a wake-up call that their operatives were getting "too close". Divided loyalties maybe. You know--the first commandment: thou shalt not have any gods before Section One!"

"And then the baby. . ." Nikita prompted.

"And then the baby. Rumor has it Operations nearly had a stroke over that one--but, for whatever reason, . . . well, they had the baby."

Nikita's face clouded over and Walter realized he had allowed the conversation to drift back to depressing territory again.

"Want anything else? Pancakes? Toast?" He asked, desperately trying to change the subject again.

Nikita realized it and gave him a weak smile of thanks. "Just a nap. I'm still kind of tired."

"Sure kid. Look," he said, reaching over to relieve her of the bed-tray, "I'm just down those steps. Call me if you need anything. Get some rest."

"Thanks, Walter. You're a good friend."

Walter rolled his eyes comically, kissed the air at her, and left her alone.

Nikita lay looking at the necklace for a long while, before she finally fell asleep.

* * *

It was late. Walter sat in the middle of Nikita's living room on a large throw pillow, in the lotus position. Candles flickered in glass holders all around him, and the light, smoky scent of incense permeated the room.

There was a knock on the door and Walter opened one eye in irritation. He waited hoping whoever it was would give up and go away, but there came a second knock. It was light, as if the person seeking entrance knew there might be someone sleeping and didn't want to wake them.

Walter got up grumbling, wondering who the hell it was at 11:30 at night. He opened the door to the length of the security chain and peered out.

"Michael?" He instantly closed the door, unchained it, and opened it again.

"What the hell are you doing up? Does Madeline know you're out of medlab?"

"I'm fine." Michael said softly, stepping inside. He was all in black as usual, but held one arm across his body, as if giving extra support to his chest. His face was gaunt and unshaven.

"Are you nuts? You got some kind of death wish or something?"

Michael ignored him, "How is she?"

"Sit down, before you fall down, and I'll tell you!"

Michael didn't argue. Frowning in obvious pain, he seated himself slowly on Nikita's couch.

"She's better than you are, I'll bet." Walter snapped, sitting in a chair across from Michael and folding his arms.

"Does she know about the baby?"

"Yeah. She knows."

Walter was shocked by the expression of total despair on Michael's face, even though Michael tried to hide it by tilting his face towards the ceiling. After several minutes, Michael seemed to regain control of himself.

"Can I go see her?"

"Are you asking my permission?" Walter retorted with mild sarcasm. Then he sighed. "She's asleep."

"I only want to see her. I won't wake her up."

"Be my guest," Walter gestured towards Nikita's bedroom.

Michael closed his eyes and got carefully to his feet, but not without Walter realizing he was running on sheer willpower. The words from a song floated past, "love hurts", and Walter murmured to himself, "Don't it though."

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

"Wait--you'll need a little light." Walter scooped up a candle and walked with Michael up the short flight of steps to Nikita's room.

"Don't stay too long--this ain't a hospital and I ain't a nurse. You pass out on me and I'll cancel you!" Walter whispered, as he placed the candle on the bed table. To soften his threat, Walter pressed Michael's shoulder gently, before leaving.

Michael sat in the chair next to Nikita's bedside and watched her sleep. He wanted to kiss her but knew it would wake her, so he didn't try. He did finger a lock of her hair as it lay against her pillow, although leaning forward to do so caused great strain on his broken ribs.

He was startled when Nikita opened her eyes and looked at him. They gazed at each other for a long moment before Michael leaned over and took her hand in his.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but he'd said it so many times before that he felt saying it again would be meaningless.

But Nikita beat him to it, saying with soft regret, "I'm sorry, Michael."

He couldn't utter a sound without freeing a sob, so he squeezed her hand instead. Nikita knew it was all he could do; she saw the glistening tracks of tears reflecting in the pale light of the candle. Of all the things he could have said or done, his tears spoke the loudest. This was the Michael of her heart, of Simone's heart as well. A Michael that, if even for a moment, allowed her to see his soul as it was, loving but wounded by life. She loved him all the more for the glimpse inside, even if she knew it would only be for a moment.

She carefully leaned forward and kissed his hand as she held it in hers. "You shouldn't be here, Michael, and you know it." She said quietly, sitting up straighter and wiping the tears from his face with her hands. "I'm all right. Really. I am."

She could tell by his expression he knew she was lying, but was grateful for the lie. He nodded and seemed to compose himself. "I'll come by again tomorrow, if that's okay." He said finally.

"No. I'll come see you. Walter!" Nikita called downstairs.

"Yeah?" She could hear his footsteps rapidly coming up the steps.

"Get Michael back to medlab. I'll be fine. Please. I won't be able to sleep otherwise."

Michael pressed his lips together, watching her with hungry eyes, wanting to shout his love for her, but afraid to make a sound. He nodded instead and allowed Walter to help him up.

"Night, Kita." He said finally, but Nikita heard the "I love you" he meant.

* * *

Operations walked briskly into the conference room, then stood by as the rest of Red team assembled for the briefing. Madeline followed him, with a pensive look on her face.

"All right, let's hurry up!" Operations snapped, as two operatives lingered in the doorway. They immediately realized Ops was talking to them and quickly made it over to the table and sat down.

"This," Operations said grimly between his teeth, "is retired General To Nhan." The overhead screen showed an elderly man of oriental descent seated at an outdoor cafe, drinking tea with a young woman.

"During the Viet Nam conflict in the 1960's, he was in charge of all American POWs in North Vietnamese interment camps and their interrogation, for the Red Chinese government. He has recently left the safety of North Viet Nam for the amenities of the West. Our mission, people, is to capture General Nhan alive. We believe he is the one man that can tell us all we need to know as to whether American POWs are still being held in North Viet Nam. Details of the mission are logged into your PDA's. I want four scenarios drafted and an equal number of back-ups. "

Operations stopped speaking for a moment as if to gather himself together, before continuing.

"I can't begin to stress what is at stake here. For thirty years, hundreds of American military men have been listed as POWs and MIAs, with the American government either unable or unwilling to secure their release, or account for what happened to them. General Nhan is probably our last best hope of getting the information we want on these missing men. I will not tolerate any failures in this assignment! Is that clear?"

"Yes sir!" Only one man spoke, Walter. The rest of the team nodded.

"Then let's get to it! Michael, I want you and Walter in my office in an hour. You're dismissed!" Operations turned on his heel and stormed out.

"Ole, General Nhan. I'll be damned." Water muttered aloud.

"You know him?" Nikita asked as she got to her feet.

"Yeah," Walter said with a frosty expression. "I know him."

* * *

Nikita sat on the mat in the exercise area to take a breather from her workout. She leaned back against the wall, then moved quickly forward again. "Ouch!"

"What is it, Nikita? Michael asked, suddenly appearing at her side.

She reached beneath her t-shirt, and pulled on a chain. "Nothing. I just leaned back on my necklace. She opened her hand to show him the angel in the palm of her hand.

Michael looked at the angel closely and frowned. "Where did you get that?"

Nikita shrugged her shoulders, "I don't know. Walter said I had it in my hand when I got back from Colorado. It's beautiful though, don't you think?"

"Yes." Michael said, then turned his head away, as if he were suddenly upset.

"Michael, is there something wrong?"

"No." He still faced away from her.

"Michael," Nikita reached around, took his chin, and drew his face to hers. "What's the matter--and don't tell me nothing."

"It's just, it looks like the medal that Simone always wore."

Nikita realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it. "Simone?"

"Yes. She said it was all she had of her father."

"But it couldn't be---" Nikita turned pale, thinking of the dream she'd had.

"No, it couldn't be Simone's. She had it buried with our son." With that, a visibly upset Michael, got to his feet and walked away.

It was late, but Michael couldn't sleep. He paced the floor in Etienne's room. He'd thought he would be over Simone by now and his son's death. He thought at least time would lessen the pain of it all, but recent happenings had raked up old and bittersweet memories.

He went downstairs and turned on some music, and dug out his son's photo album. Pouring a glass of red wine, he sat on the floor and visited old ghosts.

***********

"Your turn." Simone crooked her finger at Michael.

Michael stepped closer, looked over her shoulder and wrinkled his nose. "Now? Can't my first diaper be a wet one?"

"You made him; you change him." She said, dimples showing, as she handed Michael his son. "And don't forget powder."

Michael gingerly took his son's tiny squirming body into his arms and laid him carefully on the bed. Etienne looked up at him with slightly unfocused eyes and waved his tiny fists in the air, as if excited at seeing his father.

"Talk me through the sequencing?" Michael begged his wife.

Simone laughed. "Okay. Step one--get a clean diaper. Step two--undo the dirty one, but don't--

"Don't what?" Michael asked, uncovering his son and getting a startling eyeful of pale, yellow liquid.

"Umm, uncover him--yet." Simone mashed her lips together to keep from laughing. Her dimples gave her away however.

Michael first looked disgusted, then laughed. "Anything else I should know before I continue?"

Simone smirked and gave him a box of diaper wipes, "Just remember two things."

"What two things?" Michael asked, wiping his face before turning aside and carefully lifting the diaper once again.

"*It's* always loaded--and everything washes off."

* * *

Memories sweet and terrible. Michael fingered the wispy lock of his son's hair that Simone had put in the photo album. God, he missed them. Missed them both.

Everyone ever dear to him was lost. All except Nikita, and because of him, she grieved over a child of his making. A child most wanted, but who had had no future from its conception. He'd been a fool to take such chances with Nikita's happiness, not to mention, her life!

Michael closed the album angrily and tossed it on the couch. It hit the edge and fell on the floor, dislodging several photographs. Wearily, he reached over to fix the mess he'd made, only to pause upon finding a sealed envelope addressed to Operations, written in Simone's hand.

Fear and curiosity mixed in his gut as he unsealed the envelope and drew out a wrinkled photograph and a hand-written letter. It read:

Dear--scratch that. You aren't "dear" even if you are my father. However, after our discussion yesterday, I must at least say thank you for my baby's life. Sorry to have disturbed you with the news that you were ordering the death of your grand-child, but it couldn't be helped.

I've hated you most of my life. I hated that you never bothered to marry my mother. I hated you for leaving before I was born. I hated you for deserting us in Viet Nam and forcing Mama into prostitution. But these things can't be changed. They were bad times; bad years. They are over now.

Did you know Marie was murdered? It's all right. I murdered her murderer. Strange, isn't it? That's what put me into Section. God does have a sense of humor.

I remember the first day I saw you. Your hair wasn't brown anymore, but I had this picture of you and the face was the same. Grey eyes. It hurt that you didn't know me, but then why should you? You left before Mama knew she was pregnant with me.

This letter is to tell you not to worry, I won't let anyone know of your youthful indiscretions. (I'm not even sure I will get brave enough to send this to you.) All I want from you now are the lives of my husband and my child. No more. No less. I think you owe me that much, mon pere. For the sake of my mother, who died with your name on her lips, I forgive you. Go in peace. Simone

Michael stared at the photograph in stunned silence. Simone was Operation's daughter and he *knew it*! He knew it and still kept her in Section! He knew it and still sent her on missions! He knew it, and still allowed her to prostitute herself!

The photograph showed a much younger Operations with his arms around a Vietnamese woman, who looked like slightly plumper version of Simone. He wore the fatigue uniform of an American Army captain. On the back of the photo was an inscription in French: Captaine Robert Simon Rhodes et moi, Saigon 31 Mai 62.

‘Simone!' Michael thought in anguish. He remembered their last moments together. It had been such a shock seeing her so changed--her beautiful, long hair roughly severed; her once perfectly manicured hands, bent and broken by torture; her smooth, honey-colored skin scarred with cigarette burns and worse. ‘Oh, God! Simone!'

'And Operations knew!!'

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

(Warning: adult language and not for people with weak stomachs. This is a little intense, but it is based on facts. The Vietmanese is real, but spelled phonetically.)

Operations sat at his desk and stared at the face of his enemy--Lt Col To Nhan, now General To Nhan--and let the darkness of the past close over him as he remembered. . .

Thanh Hoa Prison, North Viet Nam, December 1963

It was the screams that woke him--his own. Robert had fallen asleep, something he had thought impossible to do, squatting naked in the three foot square bamboo cage. He had had no food or water for three days and no sleep for longer than that.

Someone had opened the cage dumping him into the slimy, fly infested pile of his own excrement that had collected beneath his hanging prison. The sudden rush of blood to his bluish legs was excruciating. He was kicked twice in the kidneys for good measure, to encourage him to be silent.

"Ang ten zee?" Came a question from the uniformed North Vietnamese officer, standing over him.

From behind, a gentle voice repeated the question in softly accented English, "He wants to know your name, sir."

Robert wrapped his bare arms around his bare legs to keep them from further unfolding.

"Who are you?" Robert asked of the voice behind him. He couldn't turn around, or bear to move.

"Lt Tran Quac Hung, Nimbus Team, South Vietnamese Army."

"Where are we?"

"Thanh Hoa prison."

Another kick, this time in Robert's ribs reminded him he had other guests.

"Tell that rat f--- my name is Robert S. Rhodes, Captain, United States Army, and he can guess my goddam serial number!" He groaned.

"I shall be most honored to tell him that," Tran replied, with a faint edge of humor to his voice, and did so.

The officer looked severe, "Toy kung hey-oh."

Robert smiled grimly. Tran had indeed addressed the officer as "rat f---", and the officer was saying he didn't understand.

"Do you think he would believe "rat f---" is a title of praise?" Robert asked, with a grim smile. He never heard Tran's answer. The next blow caught him in the back of the head and pushed him into unconsciousness.

"Sir?"

There was tapping on the wall. ‘Morse code?' Robert opened his eyes and was immediately sorry. The light from a single naked bulb overhead stabbed through his head like a shard of glass, so painful that he felt nearly overcome with nausea.

"Sir?" Came the voice again. Then the tapping continued.

"What?" He finally managed--anything to stop that tapping!

"Are you all right?"

Ignoring what he thought to be a totally stupid question, Robert asked, "How long have I been out?"

"Nearly a day."

Robert swallowed the saliva that kept filling his mouth, trying not to throw up. "Who's the senior officer?" He finally managed to ask.

There was a pause, then came the soft answer, "You are, sir. Now."

Even the pain couldn't keep an ironic smile from flitting across his face. "Great. Just f'ing great."

* * *

Burned into his brain by his senses, Operations remembered the sight of terribly young faces, gaunt and hopeless; the smell of unwashed bodies, urine and feces; the sour taste of fermenting rice and rotten fish heads; the sounds of screams, and prayers and the giggles of those long insane. And Lt Col To Nhan. His jailer and nemesis. A chess master as well a master SyOps tactician. The son of Satan himself! A re-match at last!

Back rushed the hours that were all the same, horrible for their mind numbing routine, broken only by torture and interrogation. Hours and days. Days and weeks. Months and Years. And always he and Lt Col To Nhan remained.

* * *

"I can't keep the flies away." The young Marine wept silently as he watched them swarming around the open, festering wounds on his chest and broken arms.

"You want them there, Greg." Robert said wearily, from his adjoining cell.

"Why, sir?" Pale blues eyes blinked back tears as he struggled to be brave.

"They'll lay their eggs in your wounds and when the maggots hatch, they'll eat away all the dead tissue. Keeps you from getting gangrene."

Robert listened to the nineteen-year-old Marine sob himself to sleep. . . and knew what it was to hate!

* * *

It had kept him alive and seared him to his soul. All those long, dark years ago. And now fate had arranged for his revenge! Operations smiled in savage anticipation.

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

So, tell me," Nikita said, sitting down at Walter's work bench. "How do you know the General?"

Walter rubbed the back of his neck and paced for a moment before he looked at Nikita. "I was a guest of his, in Viet Nam."

"You were a POW?"

Walter hesitated, then nodded.

"Was it very bad?" Nikita asked gently.

Walter didn't answer, but looked at her. His eyes told Nikita, the answer.

"This mission seems to be very important to Operations. Do you know why?" She asked to change the subject a little.

"He and the good General go way back. They spent eleven years in each other's company." Walter's voice had a sarcastic edge.

"Then you knew Operations, back during the war?"

"No. We never met while we were in Nam. But I knew of him. He was at Thanh Hoa; I was sent to the Hanoi Hilton."

"How did you know of him, then?"

"From transferring prisoners, mostly. He was notable for keeping the men in his command alive and their morale up. I heard one tale where the Gooks took a group photo of his men to use for propaganda purposes. Operations ordered them to cooperate and even to smile for the camera. It wasn't until the photo hit the wire services in the States that "Charlie" realized they'd been had!" Walter laughed briefly.

"Why? And who's Charlie?"

"Charlie--gooks--VC--all names for the North Vietnamese Army. And, well, along with the smiles, the men were all ‘shooting the finger' at the camera. It was private message to the folks back home not to believe the propaganda of good treatment. The treatment we got, sucked, to say the least." Walter's expression went from amused to bitter in seconds.

"What happened?" Nikita asked gently.

"Look, Sugar. I don't like to talk about it."

"Walter, I only asked because I care." Nikita touched his cheek.

"I know." His weathered hand cupped her's against his face. "But understand this, what happened over there was a waste. We fought a war with no rules, and no honor. We killed and died for objectives that were nothing more than lies and broken promises. Our government sent our best and brightest to their deaths, and betrayed some of the finest men I've ever known. It's done now and can't be changed. But I'll never forget as long as I live . . . " Walter's voice broke and his eyes filled with tears.

"What, Walter? Were you tortured?" Nikita put her arms around him and held him as he had done for her.

He squeezed her tightly once and broke away. Wiping the tears away with the heels of his hands, he sniffed once, then continued through grit teeth, "Tortured? That was the easy part. No, what I can't forget are the looks on the faces of the ‘Yards when we were repatriated."

"The yards?"

"Our allies, the mountain people; the Montagnards. They were the gentlest, kindest, most courageous people I've ever known. All they wanted was to be free of Communist oppression. They are a racial minority in Viet Nam and the Commies used them for slave labor. We told them we would help them get free and they gave us everything they had to give--they bet their lives on us and we simply left them to their fate. They pleaded with us to take them with us! They begged us to at least take their children. They ran to our helicopters holding up their babies, trying to hand them to us as we took off--but our government had signed a deal for our release at the Paris Accords and it didn't include the disposition of the Montagnards. We wrote them off! We just wrote them off, like equipment abandoned in place."

"I'm so sorry, Walter. I didn't know." Nikita felt overwhelmed, and started to cry.

"Yeah, well, like I said. It's over now and no one wants to hear about it anyway." He turned his attention to something on his workbench and Nikita knew it was time to leave him alone.

* * *

"Nikita!"

Nikita turned to see Birkoff in a broken run. "What Birkoff?"

"Have you see Michael? Operations is looking for him."

"No. I haven't seen him since yesterday." Which was odd, now that Nikita thought about it.

Birkoff looked worried, and ran a hand through his short hair, "Well, no one's seen him since yesterday."

"What do you mean?" Nikita asked with alarm.

Birkoff lowered his voice, "I've been trying since early this morning to raise him on his cell phone and he's not answering. I've been covering for him all morning--he has a briefing at 0900 and now Operations is looking for him."

"Did you check his quarters?"

"That's just it--he didn't stay in quarters last night." Birkoff said, looking around to see if anyone could overhear their conversation.

"But we were on close quarters standby--"

"Yeah, I know, but Michael went home."

"That's not like Michael."

Birkoff shook his head in agreement and shrugged helplessly. "What do I do?"

"Stall for time." Nikita said pulling on her jacket, "while I go look for Michael. He must be in trouble."

"Stall! What do you think I've been doing???" Birkoff blustered.

"I know you'll think of something, Birky, you always do." With that Nikita left, leaving Birkoff half pleased in her confidence in him, and half angry that she had asked him to do the impossible.

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

Nikita used caution as she approached Michael's house. His bike wasn't parked on the curb, but she thought it was possible that it was parked inside the detached garage.

It was a frosty, overcast winter morning. Nikita made her way as casually as possible down the sidewalk in front of Michael's house. The neighborhood seemed relatively deserted, most people probably already gone to work. As quietly as she could, she traversed the front porch and peered into the front window. She could see very little in the dim light, but there seemed to be no one home.

She tried the door, and again, as on her last visit, she found it unlocked. "Damn it Michael! How many lectures did you give me on security?" Nikita muttered, pushing it open and drawing her weapon.

"Michael?" Nikita stuck her head inside first. When she got no answer, she stepped inside and closed the door.

The living room was a mess. Paper and photographs littered the floor, and on the far side of the room, it looked like someone had spilled something red down the white wall. Nikita went closer to inspect it, worried it might be blood. Her boots crunched on broken glass as she got nearer, and she realized it was the remains of a wine glass--the stem had remained intact.

Either Michael had tossed his glass full of wine at the wall, or there had been some kind of struggle in the room. She continued the search into the dining room and kitchen, her gun raised and ready, but found them empty and undisturbed.

"Michael, Michael, where are you?" Nikita said softly under her breath. Slowly, she crept up the stairs, searching first the bedrooms then the bath, all to no avail. Either Michael had been there and gone, or he had been taken.

She went back outside, to search for his bike. If Michael had been kidnaped, it wasn't likely his captors would take his motorcycle as well.

When she found the garage empty, Nikita's heart began to race. Had he been in some kind of traffic accident on the way in to work? Puzzled and a little frightened, Nikita pulled out her cell phone and called back to Section.

"Birkoff?"

"Hel--" Birkoff's voice was cut short as if someone had snatched the receiver from his hand..

"Michael?" It was Operations and he was furious.

"No sir. It's Nikita."

"Now where the hell are you calling from! Everyone is supposed to be on close quarters standby! That was an order--not a polite suggestion!"

"I understand that--but something's happened to Michael. I'm at his house and it looks like it's been ransacked." Nikita lied, knowing that before anyone from Section could arrive, it would look that way. She would see to it personally.

"What was he doing away from Section in the first place?" Operations shouted.

"I don't know--but--"

"Never mind! Get back here. We have a mission to perform. I'll just have to lead it myself!"

"But what about Michael?" Nikita heard the hard click as Operations ended the conversation at his end.

With an irritated sigh, Nikita folded her cell phone, stuffed it into the pocket of her overcoat and returned to the house to make the appropriate adjustments to back up her story.

* * *

Michael sat in the quiet chapel and stared at the candle burning for Simone. He hadn't been here since her funeral, over four years ago now. They had been married here, at Simone's insistence, and Etienne had been both christened and buried here.

Michael's eyes moved to a woman genuflecting respectfully at the alter, before taking her seat. He looked at the figure on the cross hanging over the alter and wondered why, with all the pain in her life, Simone had still insisted there was a God that cared. So where was He?

Leaning back against the hard back of the pew, Michael stared at the high cathedral ceiling, searching it for some sign, something tangible, some proof! But there was no thundering voice or burning bush.

He used to believe. When he was a child, Michael went to church with his mother and siblings. Then he grew up and discovered that good rarely triumphed, and that bad usually did. It made no sense to believe in an all powerful God who seemed to be so powerless.

Michael turned and looked behind himself when he felt a hand press against the top of his shoulder. It was an elderly priest dressed in the traditional robes and sash, a crucifix around his neck.

"You look as if you need a friend." The man said kindly.

Michael shook his head and quickly got to his feet. "No. I was just going." As he started to push past the man, he heard him say, "You're Michael, aren't you?"

Michael froze in place, then slowly turned around.

"Who told you that?" Michael asked.

"You're Simone's husband. She told me a lot about you."

Michael stared at the man stonily; the priest returned it with a kindly smile and gestured to the pew. "Have a seat, I promise I won't try and convert you!"

Michael started to leave anyway, then heard, "Please. I would like to fulfill a promise I made to Simone."

Michael closed his eyes, then slowly turned back around.

"Please?" The priest indicated for Michael to take seat next to him.

Michael sat, but wouldn't look at the priest. He fixed his eyes on the back of the pew in front of them and hoped the man came to the point quickly.

"I don't know exactly how to begin--but no matter. It's been several years since I've seen Simone, but I've never forgotten her. Her confessions were heartrending, to say the least."

Michael's face blanched, as he turned to face the priest.

"What did she tell you?"

"Enough." The priest replied simply. "Enough to know she worried constantly about you and your need for forgiveness."

Michael got to his feet in a rush, but the priest blocked his exit.

"Wait. Please, let me finish."

Michael eased back down.

"I'll make this short, Michael. All you need to do is to ask for forgiveness. It's that simple."

"Simple?" Michael smiled coldly. "I've broken every commandment and then some."

"And so have I. And so has she--" he pointed to the woman kneeling at the front of the church. "And so did King David."

"There is no God!" Michael said, finally having enough of the conversation.

"Ah, but there is, " the priest said with a faint smile. "Simone knew that, and knew He was her only hope--and your's too."

"Are you finished?" Michael said his voice dangerously soft.

"Yes. I am actually." He smiled sadly. "You're too full of anger to understand God right now, but one day, you will and I will have made good on my promise to Simone. She loved you, Michael, and so does God. And love, is what everything is all about." He patted Michael on the shoulder, stood, and left the way he came.

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

"What's this about you leading this next mission?" Madeline snapped as she entered Operation's office.

"We can't find Michael." Operations frowned but never lifted his eyes from the computer screen on his desk.

"You haven't led a team in over eight years!"

"You think I've forgotten how?" Operations asked sarcastically.

"I think you are too emotionally involved over the subject of this mission to make the decisions necessary to make it a success!" Madeline planted her hands on his desk and leaned into his face.

Operations finally looked at her with an amused expression on his face. "Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are when you're angry?"

Madeline backed off in disgust and folded her arms. "This is not a game! And I am NOT amused!"

Ops wiped the smile off his face. "The situation is this: Michael can't be found--no one else is as familiar with the material or the profile as he was except for myself, and there is no time to get anyone else up to mission standards in the time we have left! You think I can't handle it?"

Madeline turned her back to him. If she told him the truth, that he couldn't handle it, it would only kick him into macho-first gear to prove to her, he could. She ignored his question and issued one of her own.

"Who do you have as back up?" She asked, turning towards him again.

"It's not necessary to have a back up. It's a simple kidnaping." He returned his attention to the data streaming across his computer console.

Fuming at his answer, she asked something else, "Does any one have a clue as to what happened to Michael?"

"Nikita said his house was ransacked. When I get back, I'll worry about it. Right now, I don't have the time. This wouldn't have happened anyway, if he had obeyed orders and stayed in Section!"

Madeline turned and left, knowing his mind was made up and wouldn't change. She'd have to do the best she could to protect him, without him being aware of it.

"Nikita! I need to see you in my office." Madeline said as she passed her in the hallway.

"Now?" Nikita stopped in her tracks.

"Now!" Madeline retorted, not breaking stride.

Nikita turned and caught up with Madeline as they reached her office.

"Sit!" Madeline ordered, pointing to the couch. Nikita reluctantly obeyed.

"Is this about Michael?" Nikita asked, half afraid it was, and half afraid it wasn't.

"Have you heard from him?"

"No. I was hoping you had." Nikita sighed and dropped her head back against the couch in disappointment.

"Yes and no. I need you to do two things for me."

Nikita lifted her head to give her full attention. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to get with Birkoff and Walter and start a search for Michael. His disappearance is too pat--I don't like it. You have the next twenty-four hours. If you can't find him in that time, then I want you to become very ill--so ill you cannot go on the mission with Operations. Then once he's left, you are to follow him and back him up."

"Of course." Nikita said, getting to her feet. The two women looked at each other briefly with a current of understanding passing between them, before Nikita gave a nod and left.

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

Nikita and Walter returned to Michael's house to look for clues. As she had described to Operations, she had done her best to make the house look like someone was searching for something.

"I wonder what they were looking for?" Walter squatted on his haunches to inspect the bottom of a closet.

Nikita longed to tell him the truth, but didn't want to involve him in anything that might get him killed later. "I don't know." She said simply, looking around for some clue she might have missed during her earlier visit. She was more sure than ever that Michael hadn't been abducted, but couldn't think of any reason Michael would be absent. She'd checked the hospitals for the random chance he'd been in an accident of some sort, but found nothing. The most disturbing thing was the fact that while his bike was gone, his cell phone was in his house, and he never went anywhere without it. Nothing made any sense, but all the signs seemed to point to a willful absence on Michael's part. But why? Why?

"Sugar, I hate to say it, but I've come up empty. Too bad we don't have surveillance on Michael's house like we did yours."

"What?!" Nikta spun in her tracks.

"Ooops." Walter said with chagrin.

"What surveillance? I told Section I didn't want cameras in my apartment!" Nikita was furious.

"Uhmm, well, it seems Michael thought it would be safer to have the cameras back after we lost the Directory. He was concerned for your safety."

"Who's going to keep me safe from Section!" She snapped. "Never mind! Damn it! When I find Michael, I'm going to kill him!"

Walter grimaced comically, "Please do it before he kills me for lettin' the cat out of the bag."

"Well?" Madeline asked, her face studiously hopeful.

"Nothing!" Nikita paced back and forth in front of Madeline's desk. "I have no idea where Michael is. Something's terribly wrong!"

Madeline frowned. "Well, Operations has set the mission for 1600 this afternoon. Time for Plan B--here, take these." She opened her hand to reveal two white tablets.

"What are they?" Nikita asked, taking them from Madeline's hand.

"Something that will make you look and feel deathly sick. Once Operations replaces you in the scenario, and leaves, I'll bring you the antidote."

"Poison?"

"A mild poison. Not fatal, if that's what you are worried about." She handed Nikita a glass of water. Nikita obediently swallowed the tablets.

"How long does it take to work---ohgod!" Nikita doubled over and fell against the couch.

Madeline let out a long sigh, "Not long." She called down to medlab for an emergency team.

* * *

"Damn it! What do you mean possible appendicitis?" Operations shouted.

"They don't know for sure yet, but she's not going to be able to go on the mission." Madeline's brown eyes and composure were calm before Operation's storm of anger.

"Well, we just change the scenario. Thank God for redundancies. This won't delay us for more than an hour." He stormed out of medlab and back to his office.

* * *

"Is that the antidote, I hope?" Nikita watched Madeline insert a needle into her IV bag.

"You should feel better in the matter of minutes."

"Next time, could you find something a little less painful?" Nikita bit her lower lip and rolled her head to one side.

Madeline ignored the comment. "I want you to take Birkoff with you and set up surveillance on the General's hotel in a nearby room. Operations is going to use the heart attack strategy. His food will be drugged--you know the drill.

"Ahhhh, that feels better!" Nikita sighed as the pain finally faded.

"Operations thinks this mission will be simple, which always worries me. He's breaking his own rule in his eagerness to get that POW information."

"What rule is that?" Nikita asked, sitting up and swinging her long legs over the side of the bed.

"The easy way, is always mined."

* * *

Nikita listened into the conversation in the next room. "Looks like a picture perfect mission, Birkoff." She said leaning back in her chair. "Maybe the easy way wasn't mined after all."

"Well General, it's good to have met you once again!" Operations grinned and turned to the two agents that stood in the doorway. "Take him away."

The elderly soldier suddenly realized there was more wrong than his heart and tried to struggle against his captors as they strapped him to the gurney. Drugged unconscious, two Section operatives dressed as ambulance personnel quickly ushered him out of the hotel and on his way back to Section.

Operations remained behind, walked over to the balcony to view the Eiffel Tower, bedecked in lights, that hung like jeweled necklaces against a velvet gown. He casually poured a glass of wine from the crystal decanter off the General's table and toasted the night sky.

"Checkmate!" He said pleasantly and aloud.

"Not quite." Came a soft, familiar voice from behind.

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

"Michael?" Operations said hopefully as he turned around.

"Yes." Michael stood in the doorway of the room, gun drawn and pointed at Operations. With his free hand, he tossed an envelope at Operation's feet.

"What's this?" Operations asked, not taking his eyes off of Michael.

"Read it. I'll wait." Michael said coldly.

"You going to kill me afterward?" Operations asked calmly.

"Yes." Michael's voice was lethally soft.

"Ohmygod!" Nikita said, cupping her hands over the surveillance earphones on her head.

"What is it?" Birkoff asked. He had to duck when Nikita tossed the earphones at him.

"Michael!" She ran to the balcony.

"Wait! Where you going?" Birkoff followed her.

"To stop him! Stay here!" She slipped off her shoes, dropping them as she ran.

Birkoff watched helplessly as Nikita slung one shapely leg over the railing of the balcony, to swing over to the adjoining room's balcony. He couldn't stand not knowing what was happening, and returned to listen in on the headphones.

He heard the tearing and rustling of paper and very little else.

"Is it true?" Michael said at length.

"That Simone was my daughter? Yes. At least, it's possible she was."

"Are you saying, she was a liar?" The tone of Michael's voice was enough to freeze the blood in Nikita's veins as she stood out on the balcony listening. She edged nearer the open balcony doors, her pistol slippery with sweat.

"No. I'm not. But all the proof she had was this picture and the word of her mother." Operations said calmly.

"It was enough proof to let her have Etienne!" Michael said taking another step into the room, his gun still trained on Operations.

Nikita could see what was going on in the reflection of one of the panes of glass in the open French doors. The curtains fluttered as a gust of wind caught them and pushed them inside the room a moment. Nikita used the cover to slip inside the door, and stand between the curtain and the door.

Operations was now so near she could touch him.

"So, you are going to kill me because I let you have your son?"

"Simone would be alive today if it hadn't been for you. She was your daughter! Why didn't you let her go! Why couldn't you have let her out of Section?"

"I offered--she refused." Operations replied quietly, dropping Simone's letter on top of the nearby table.

"Liar!" Nikita flinched, hearing cold rage in Michael's voice.

"It's no lie. I offered. She wouldn't take it. She wouldn't leave you behind."

"You bastard! You made it a condition? Her freedom or me?"

"The Agency made it a condition. It was the best I could do."

"No!" Michael's voice cracked, and took aim.

"No! Michael!" Nikita shoved Operations to the floor a microsecond before the bullet from Michael's gun hit her square in the chest.

She fell back, like a rag doll, knocking over the table before hitting the floor. Her blonde hair splayed in a golden arch around her head, as she lay on her back in perfect repose.

"Nikita!" Michael's shout was so agonized that Birkoff flung the headphones onto the floor. He didn't want to hear anymore.

Operations picked up Michael's gun. It fell from his hands when he ran to Nikita's side and gathered her in his arms.

"Kita! God, oh God! Please!" Michael held her close, buried his face against her neck, and wept.

Operations watched a moment, then turned as Birkoff skittered into the room.

Both turned their attention back to Michael, who raised his head and softly begged, "Do it. Please do it."

Operations hesitated, several expressions crossing his face, then raised the gun only to have Birkoff suddenly press the barrel of the gun downward.

"Wait! She's alive."

"Ow!" Nikita groaned and pressed her hand to her chest. "That hurts!"

Michael kissed her through tears. She was alive! But how?

Nikita slid her hand inside her shirt and something metallic slipped out and onto the floor. It was the lower half of the angel medal, broken off at the waist. Michael's bullet had severed it and been deflected.

"Take him!" Operations said grimly, as two more operatives arrived on the heels of Birkoff.

Michael didn't resist. Instead he gently laid Nikita on a nearby couch and put his hands behind his back for them to handcuff. As they led him away, she turned her face against the couch and sobbed, while Birkoff tried in vain to comfort her.

***********

"Michael."

Michael sat slumped in the chair in the middle of the white room, his hands locked in the armrests. He raised his head and looked at Madeline who stood before him in a neatly tailored suit. In her hand, she held a hypodermic injector.

He regarded her calmly, his face almost serene. His life was over but he had resigned himself to what must be. He only had one regret and that was leaving Nikita. But at least he was leaving her alive.

"Yes?" He replied. He couldn't even hate anymore and found that odd.

"If Nikita hadn't been successful in her mission, I wouldn't be very happy with you at the moment." Her voice was professionally firm, but strangely, not angry.

"Can I see Nikita?" He asked hopefully. There was so much he needed to tell her before he died. He smiled faintly, realizing the priest had told him the truth. Love was indeed, all that everything was about. Even knowing he was going to die, probably in the most painful way that Madeline's talents could devise, it paled in importance to the knowledge that he had been loved by two women such as Simone and Nikita. He'd been so wrong. There was a God and Michael was suddenly humbled by the knowledge that despite all he had done wrong in his life, God had still blessed him beyond anything he deserved. "Please. Can I speak with her?" Grey-green eyes pleaded with brown ones.

"No," Madeline said, stepping forward and pressing the hypodermic against his bare throat, "I'm afraid not." Immediately, Michael's head fell forward against his chest.

Madeline gazed at him for a long moment, waiting for the drugs to take affect. Even as she did so, she wondered if she hadn't lost her mind along with everyone else lately! She paced the floor debating if she shouldn't just cancel him; she knew Michael hadn't been abducted, despite Nikita's reports to the contrary. Michael had gone rogue and had tried to kill Operations. It was that simple. But. . . .with Michael gone, and Operations fresh from his successful mission to kidnap the General, what would prevent Operations from continuing to lead other missions? It would take time to replace Michael--and Operations would not last long in the field, no matter how well this last mission had gone. There were few things in this life that Madeline's cold heart valued, but Operations was one of them.

And with Michael dead, Section would certainly lose Nikita as well. Madeline knew if she canceled Michael, she'd also have to cancel Nikita--if Nikita didn't save her the trouble and do it herself.

She stood in front of Michael and gently cupped his chin and lifted it. No, Michael still had value to the Section. With a little reprogramming, Michael could be made to believe he really had been kidnaped, and through Nikita, Madeline would control him in the future. Her decision made, Madeline commanded, "Michael, I want you to listen very carefully. Do you understand?'

"Yes," came the soft, drowsy reply.

"You were kidnaped from your home, but you have no detailed memory of the event. . ."

* * *

Madeline came into Operations office. She closed, then leaned against the door.

"Well?" Operations said sternly.

"I found evidence of brainwashing. There were several drugs in his system, all of which could have caused this episode of paranoia."

"Will he recover?"

"Yes. Unless of course, you plan to cancel him."

Operations looked at the crumpled photograph and the accompanying letter on his desk. He'd read the letter through several dozen times. Simone had asked for the lives of her husband and child. He'd failed at saving one--he hoped he wouldn't have to fail her again.

"So none of this was Michael's fault?" He asked hopefully.

"None of it."

"Do we know who did this to him?"

"Not yet. We may never know. Michael has no memory of his abduction." Madeline paced slowly back and forth as she spoke.

"I see. Well, I'll leave his disposition up to you. If you feel he's a risk, cancel him, but if there's any way he can be salvaged, do it."

"Fine. I'll let you know my decision in a few days." She flashed him a brief smile.

"Good." Operations looked down at Simone's letter, picked it up and put it in his inside coat pocket. The photograph he would burn later.

"Now, how is the General? Have we gotten anything out of him yet?"

Madeline gave a deep sigh and folded her arms, "He's been a tough nut to crack."

"And?" Operations frowned.

"And he's an old man and not in the very best shape."

"Madeline, I need to know what's in his head and I need to know it now!" Operations said adamantly.

"If I go too quickly, he could die and you will have nothing." She said quietly.

"Tell him we have his granddaughter. He knows I can be as ruthless as he is. Let's see who remains standing--tell him knight takes queen--and it's his move."

Madeline nodded, locked her wrists behind her back and turned to leave.

"One other thing." Operations said quietly.

"Yes?"

"When you have the time. Would you like to explain how Nikita and Birkoff ended up in a hotel room in Paris?"

"Of course. When I have the time." Madeline said, with a faint smile and left.

***********

"Good evening." Madeline stood in the doorway of Michael's section quarters. "May I come in?"

Michael was seated on his bed. He nodded and gestured at a nearby chair. Madeline stepped inside, shut his door, and sat down.

"You said you wanted to speak with me?" Michael said.

"Have you remembered anything yet?"

Michael paused a moment, before shaking his head. "Nothing. Not even being in Paris. I remember the briefing on General Nhan and going home. . .and I'm not even sure why I did that. We were on close quarters standby. What reason did I have to do that? "

‘Why indeed?' Madeline thought to herself. "Chances are, you were compromised while you were in the hospital in Colorado and we may never find out by whom or why. Nevertheless, I'm satisfied there is no lingering programing and I'm returning you to duty."

"But I tried to kill Operations--" The idea still shocked him.

"And Nikita stopped you, and no one was hurt."

"Where is she?"

"I've had her confined to quarters. She's been very upset by what happened in Paris. I think she'd be pleased if you went to see her."

Michael nodded, puzzled at Madeline's seeming encouragement.

"Oh, one other thing. Since it's been compromised, I've had your personal things removed from your house. Get with me this afternoon and I'll have you reassigned to agency housing. I understand we've got a couple of very nice addresses to choose from." She smiled at him briefly and turned to leave.

Nikita closed her eyes tightly when she heard the knock on the door. Was it Madeline come to tell her Michael was gone--or Walter, there to try to comfort her? Whoever it was entered, but Nikita was too afraid to look. She had been crying on and off since they had returned to Section and Madeline had confined her to Section quarters. She had no more tears left.

"Nikita."

Nikita slowly raised her head off the bed and looked towards the door. Michael stood just inside it. He was alive--or she'd finally lost her mind and he was an apparition.

"Michael?"

"I've come to take you home," He said softly, then added, "Josephine."

Nikita understood that she couldn't throw herself into his arms--that he was warning her they were under surveillance again.

"Thanks, " she said with a tremendous smile. "I was going a little stir crazy." She slipped on her shoes and grabbed her coat. Michael helped her on with it. It was an excuse to touch her, if only briefly.

"Let's go." He said.

The drive to her apartment was the longest of Nikita's life. Michael drove her but made no attempt to touch her or even speak the entire distance, although his glances at her spoke volumes.

When they reached her apartment, Nikita opened the door and they both went inside.

Nikita heard him lock the door, then felt his hands lightly stroking up her arms from behind as he helped her out of her coat in the darkened apartment. She trembled at his nearness, then remembered with despair, that here too, they were under surveillance.

"Kita." Michael's lips kissed her name against her ear, and Nikita forgot all about surveillance or anything else. She turned in his arms and fell against him, hungry to touch him, to taste him. They kissed in a frantic rush, their bodies entwined in the darkness, touching at every conceivable point.

It was forbidden! But, oh so much more the sweeter for it! This was all worth dying for--all worth living for! Michael slid his eager hands up the smooth skin of Nikita's back, then down again, pressing her closer, as her hands mirrored the actions of his.

"Michael, Michael," she panted against his mouth as he began to undress her. His name was a prayer to her; she chanted it dreamily as he worshiped at her breast.

By mutual consent they ended up in her bedroom, but Nikita pulled away from Michael when he suddenly turned on the light next to her bed.

"Michael! Don't!" Nikita crossed her arms across her breasts with alarmed modesty.

"Why not?" He asked, smiling at her.

"You know why not!"she hissed back, remembering how angry she had been when Walter had told her about the cameras being back. "You put me back under surveillance!" She looked at the ceiling wondering where to stand to get out of the line of sight. She backed against the wall and Michael followed her over, moving with the grace of a panther stalking its prey. He took one of her wrists in his hand and kissed it, then the grasped the other and kissed it as well. Then looping her arms around his neck, Michael pressed her against the wall with a searing kiss. When he finished he gave her an amused smile and whispered, "Walter took them out again."

She smiled then, radiantly and gave him his reward, ""Oh, Michael, I love you so much!"

"Kita," he said tenderly in response and kissed her again. Words were inadequate to describe what he felt for her, so he showed her instead.

With reverence. . . he kissed the bruise on her breast, where his bullet almost took her life.

With gratefulness. . . he felt her body enclose his with her love.

With awe. . . he watched her eyes close as she arched against him in need.

With passion. . . he poured out his life within her and held her close.

With humility. . . he learned the true meaning of life: that love is all and all is love.

Michael knew ultimately they might be torn apart again--life in Section was unpredictable and he had no control over that. But he made one promise to himself--to treasure the moments, no matter how few they were given. Whatever else happened, they would at least have that to cling to.

The phone rang--Michael looked down with regret at Nikita face. It was Section and he would have to leave her now and they would have to go on as before.

Michael leaned down and kissed her disappointed face. "Come," he said softly, his voice conveying his regrets, "Josephine. . ."

The End

***********

I did a little research for this story, reading accounts of POWs and Green Berets in the field in Viet Nam. I'm glad I did, even though some of the things I learned made me cry. The small glimpses of POW life that I placed in my story were all based on true stories and actual occurences. I was and still remain, humbled by the sacrifices made by these men. I served in the Army, and while I never saw combat, I've served with those who did--an Army Major, who rode three helicopters to the ground in Viet Nam and who has a metal rod in his leg because of it--a Army nurse, who won her purple heart while walking on a beach with her fiance--he stepped on a land mine, and all she had left of him was his hand still clasped in hers when they were found. She has scars, both physical and mental, but would do it all again for love of country. To them, my thanks. To you who read the story, think kindly, the next time you see the flag, and remember the blood that the red represents. It was spilled for you.

Roxanne