---

"Michael, I'm lost. I don't know what I am anymore."

It was Helmut. He saw it in her eyes. The strained loyalties, the severed heart.

He saw himself. . . split in two. And withdrew.

Michael sat in the corner, on the floor and watched her sleep in the light of a full moon.

His love.

Asleep on a bed in a tenement, sung to in dreams, by the whisper of rats and the scratching of cockroaches.

His love.

Who would share his bed, but now shrank from his touch.

He watched her with eyes that burned and a heart that bled.

She grieved and he grieved to see it. The only thing he had left to give her was his love and what she wanted more. To see Helmut again.

* * *

Nikita was surprised when Operations decided to keep to the bargain. Surprised and dismayed. She wasn't ready to be with Michael. Not feeling as she was. It wasn't fair to him.

"You have fifteen days." Operations had said.

There had been a moment's pause. Nikita swallowed hard and looked at the wall of Operations aerie.

Oh, God! She couldn't do this. Not yet.

"We prefer to wait." Michael said simply, stepping in and ending the silence.

Somehow Michael had known her feelings and given her a reprieve.

Sickened, but relieved at the same time, Nikita heard herself say, "It would be better to wait."

Physically, the two left Operations office together, but never had they been so far apart in spirit.

A Month Later . . .

There was a knock.

"Michael?"

"Come."

"This just came for you." Birkoff's head and shoulder peeked tentatively into Michael's office, awaiting a further invitation to enter.

Michael waved him over and Birkoff placed the small disc in Michael's hand.

"It's from . . . "

Michael gestured for him to stop, then pulled open his drawer and tapped in the code to silence all the listening devices in his office. Having finished, he looked up at Birkoff expectantly.

"Um, it's from our contact in Interpol. They may have located Helmut Volker somewhere in the Caribbean.

Birkoff noticed that Michael's hand fisted tightly around the disk. It wasn't really surprising. Everyone in Section was aware that Michael was under a lot of stress lately. More than what was normal. What was surprising were Michael's next words, and the gentleness in which he said them.

"Thank you Birkoff. You've been a good friend."

"Uh, sure," was all Birkoff managed to reply before scrambling out of Michael's office to go back to his station.

An hour later Birkoff remained puzzled at Michael's kindness. They had never been what you could call friends, in fact the only thing they had in common was Section and Nikita's affection. Why Michael took that moment in time to thank him for his 'friendship' was odd. It hadn't been said with sarcasm either.

"What's up, amigo?" Walter's voice intruded. "You look confused. Lose something?"

Birkoff made a face and shook his head. "No. It's-well, it's something that Michael said-well maybe it was the way he said it-or I just don't know why he said it."

While Walter was patiently trying to ferret out what the hell Birkoff was talking about, Nikita drifted by without saying hello.

Walter sighed and folded his arms across his chest with worry.

"It's like someone pulled the plug on her and all the juices ran out." Birkoff commented, watching her wander down the hallway towards Madeline's office.

"Yeah," Walter agreed softly. "My poor Sugar."

Forgetting Birkoff's quandary over Michael, Walter strolled sadly back to his work area.

* * *

Operations clicked off his observation screen and turned to see his top operative arrive.

"You wanted to see me, Michael?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"I'm here to clear the fifteen days with you."

Operations pressed his lips together and gave a little nod of his head. He wondered what the delay had been about, but didn't comment.

"Inform Madeline. She'll need to reassign some operatives for the next mission."

"I have a better suggestion." Michael interjected.

"What is it?"

"Let Nikita and I take point on the upcoming mission. After it's over, we will simply not return for the allotted time. The other team members can be told we had a side mission-undercover. It will help explain our absence, and conceal the real reason for it."

Operations nodded. "I appreciate your willingness to compromise, Michael. Keeping your little sojourn with Nikita secret will certainly keep down any dissent in the ranks."

"Let it be known at the beginning of the mission that there is a side mission. Coming from you, there will be no doubts of its authenticity. " Michael continued quietly.

"Very well."

"Thank you." Michael said.

Operations shrugged. "No need. I'm just returning a favor."

* * *

"Ni-ki-ta."

Nikita looked up from her workstation. It was Michael.

"Would you review this, please?" He asked, handing her a mini-disc. On his face was his blank-stare, mission mode expression.

"Of course," she replied taking it.

She inserted it into her station and looked to see if Michael had any further instructions, but he had already turned and walked away.

The message on the disc was short and to the point.

"I would like to escort you to a formal dinner this evening, in honor of your birthday. I will be at your apartment at seven to receive your answer. Michael."

Nikita was slightly startled by the fact that she had not remembered her own birthday. Time in Section was counted by the number of days between missions, not by any reckoning of holidays or birthdays. It took another moment to remember how old she was.

But Michael had remembered.

Since that uncomfortable moment in Operations aerie nearly a month ago, Michael had kept his distance. He sensed she needed some space, and other than mission related conversations, had spoken very little to her.

She read his invitation again, searching for any nuance of meaning she might have missed and frowned. The wording indicated Michael wasn't sure she would accept.

"I will be at your apartment at seven to receive your answer," He had said. Not, 'I will pick you up at seven'.

Was he expecting a refusal?

Guiltily, Nikita erased the disc. Part of her wanted to refuse, for his sake, if only to save him from her vacant company.

She knew he had been hurt, was perhaps even angry at her recent reluctance to be with him. But to refuse this invitation would be cruel when he had been nothing but patient and solicitous of her feelings.

"All right, Michael," she whispered aloud. "I'll go to dinner with you."

* * *

Nikita had dressed with great care for her evening with Michael. She inspected her gown in her full-length mirror. It was a backless, pink, satin sheathe, with matching pumps. A crystal-beaded, pink stole and handbag finished the ensemble and she was pleased with the effect.

She had bought the dress on a whim, not knowing then if she would ever have an occasion to wear it. It was the only formal she owned that was solely hers and not from Section procurement.

A knock at her door startled her, even though it was expected. She looked at the clock-he was early-and gave her lips a quick blot before descending the stairs to open the door.

"Coooo-eeee! Please, darlin', tell me you're all dressed up for me!" Came a wide-eyed, open-mouthed comment out of her nearby neighbor.

Nikita huffed a weary sigh, "What is it, Mick?"

"Oh Cupcake! You look, . . . you look completely edible!" He leered his way into her apartment.

"Michael is coming to pick me up for dinner at seven."

At the sound of Michael's name, Mick did a near pirouette and skittered out again.

He tossed a bug-eyed look at his watch, and another down the empty hallway.

"I uh, well you see, I was hoping you'd do me a tiny favor-water me plants and such for the next few days. Section's sending me out to set up a mission."

"Do you have your key?" Nikita asked patiently.

He dug in his pocket, his eyes still glued to her face and figure.

"Here ya go, darlin'" he said, then taking another quick look for his rival he added, "Yep, absolutely yummy!"

He backed slowly towards his apartment, wagged his eyebrows at her and blew a kiss.

* * *

At seven precisely, there was another knock at her door and Nikita's pulse rate doubled with nervous anticipation. She took a deep breath, smoothed her dress with one hand, and opened the door with the other.

"Hi," Michael said, his jade eyes warming as they took in her outfit.

"Hi," Nikita answered with the faintest of smiles, and stepped back to allow him to enter.

Dressed in formal black attire, and a superbly cut jacket, he brushed her fingers with his lips, then enclosed them around a single, long-stemmed rose, the exact color as her gown.

Nikita took the rose and breathed in its subtle fragrance, as Michael gathered her stole and draped it carefully around her shoulders.

"Are you ready to go?"

"In a moment."

She walked over to the kitchen cabinet and withdrew a thin, fluted vase, filled it with water and slipped the rose into it.

"It's beautiful, Michael, thank you." After another whiff of its sweet scent, Nikita allowed him to escort her out the door.

A white limousine was waiting to take them to one of the landmark hotels in Paris, famous for its views of the city, and the cuisine of its penthouse restaurant.

For a moment, as the car traveled through the city lights, Nikita had the feeling of déjà vu. They had made a similar trip once before, one night, long ago--the night of her graduation from Section trainee, to operative. She had been nervous that night as well.

As if sensing her thoughts, Michael's warm hand slipped around hers and held it. His thumb rubbed across the top of it in a gentle caress, assuring her that tonight would be entirely different.

Nikita couldn't see his face in the shadows, but could feel his eyes watching hers. During the entire trip, except to speak to the driver and give him directions, Michael said not a word.

When they entered the lobby of the hotel, every head turned and every eye admired the dark prince and his radiant princess. Crowds parted for them and oblivious to everyone, they glided towards the elevators.

It was only after they were alone in the elevator that Michael attempted to kiss her. His lips brushed her cheek, very, very gently.

"Thank you," he said, "for coming." His eyes searched her face for acceptance.

"Thank you for asking," she returned, then kissed him just as gently on the mouth.

Nikita watched his face. By his expression, he hadn't expected her to return his kiss. It almost seemed that he felt unworthy to receive it. She wanted to tell him she was sorry and the words almost spilled from her lips, but the elevator door opened and the moment was lost.

The matre'd treated Michael as if he were a frequent and valued client. The two men held a short dialog in rapid and fluid French that Nikita struggled to follow, as they were escorted to their table.

They passed a dance floor, with music provided by a tuxedo-clad string quartet and pianist, before arriving at a secluded table near a window. Twelve stories below, the river Seine meandered like a dark snake between brightly lit cafes on both banks.

Adorned with snowy linen tablecloths, lead crystal candelabras, and bone china dinnerware, their table was a work of art. The wine goblets sparkled, and the place settings were symmetrically arranged with mathematical precision.

It was a place of fashionable conversation, quiet laughter, and soothing melodies. It was perfection and elegance, Nikita thought, just like Michael himself.

Nikita gazed at her reflection in the window, all rose and gold, in the aura of the candlelight and felt oddly content. All those painful lessons in deportment had been worth it. She smiled at the thought.

"Happy birthday," Michael said.

She turned towards him and saw that he was holding a small, beribboned box in his hand. It wasn't small enough to be a ring, or large enough to be a gun-she hoped.

She took it graciously, thanked him, and opened it.

Inside was a silver bracelet, wrought in delicate filigree. He took it from the box and carefully slipped in on her wrist.

"It's beautiful, Michael. Where did you find it?"

"In Morocco."

She admired it some more, while Michael ordered their supper. When he had finished, a long uncomfortable silence fell between them.

It was as if they were strangers meeting for the first time, both afraid to speak for fear of destroying the ambiance of the moment.

'Oh, Michael. Michael.' She thought sadly. 'How have we come to this?'

His fingers brushed against hers. She looked up expectantly.

"Dance with me?" He pleaded gently.

She nodded, and let him lead her to the floor.

At first, she held herself rigid and Michael cradled her against him like she was fine porcelain, his hands barely touching her. Then slowly, she began to relax.

Where words failed, their bodies communicated. They moved together like swans, poised, fluid, perfectly in tune.

Nikita felt Michael's hand, warm against her back, pressing her close and felt protected, . . . intimate.

"Michael."

She closed her eyes and breathed out his name, and he responded by pressing his face against hers.

He wanted to kiss her, wanted it so badly that his eyes misted with tears. But he couldn't-he mustn't. She still did not trust him. This moment was only a moment, and her feelings for him were still as fragile as glass.

They danced three dances together until their food arrived, before returning to their table to eat it.

Anyone witnessing the remainder of the evening would have commented on the lack of conversation by the two of them. Other than, "Would you like more wine?" or "Please, pass the salt," hardly a word was spoken.

Many would have guessed they were smitten lovers, communicating only with their eyes and their hearts, but Michael knew differently. Nikita had once commented that it could never be casual between them. They had no small talk, nothing really in common, other than Section, and their love for each other.

They couldn't talk shop, which included politics; to speak of the weather would be inane; and their love for each other was now too forbidden and painful a subject to broach in so public a place.

Michael watched her take the last bite of her dessert and fingered the slender stem of his wineglass. With the mildest expression on his face, he asked, "Read any good books lately?"

Nikita looked at him as if he had uttered an expletive in church then lifted her napkin to her lips to stifle a sudden case of the giggles.

Her laughter was reflected in his eyes, but he only allowed the merest twitch of his lips to convey his amusement.

When Nikita could finally contain herself, she wiped away tears of laughter, leaned back in her chair and smiled at him.

"Michael, just when I think I finally have you figured out . . ." She let the sentence remain unfinished.

He reached across the table, slipping his hand palm up, beneath hers, and lifted it to kiss. "May I have one last dance, before you do?" He asked with the faintest of smiles.

She answered by standing and they returned to the dance floor. This time, Nikita's body formed to his without effort and she felt comfortable in his arms again.

The music was beautiful. Interwoven melodies sung by piano, cello and violins.

"Michael, what's the name of this piece? Do you know it?" She whispered, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Yes. It's the love theme to Romeo and Juliet."

She hugged him tighter. Somehow it was fitting. Music for star-crossed lovers.

It brought her to tears.

* * *

She kissed him in the elevator on the way down. It was tentative at first, a brush of lips, a whispered thank you for a lovely evening.

It was when she looked into his eyes and saw the quiet desperation reflected there, that her heart broke and she kissed him again. This time she touched his mouth with her tongue, and with a sigh Michael opened to her, and pulled her close. They kissed with all the unspent energy and passion of the past month, parting only when the elevator pinged to a stop on the main floor.

* * *

Michael smiled bitterly, as the limo left Nikita's apartment, and wondered at the caprice of fate and the vulgarities of luck.

Looking back on the evening, perhaps he should have known it was doomed from the beginning. He should have waited for Nikita to come to him when she was ready and not tried to initiate things prematurely. But where she was concerned, he burned with impatience.

For a sweet moment Michael thought he had won. He closed his eyes and relived the unsolicited kiss she had given him in the elevator. His entire reason for existence seemed to center on her mouth and that moment in time. And only three minutes later, one word uttered by a stranger wrecked all his hopes.

She had promised him things in that kiss. Promises that he prayed she'd keep. But it was not to be.

He relived every detail of the emotional Armageddon. Standing in the cool evening air, preparing to leave the restaurant, she stood in his arms, about to get in the car. His fingers remembered the feel of her beaded stole as they stroked her back and pressed her into a curbside kiss. Her perfume he could still smell. It lingered inside the car and on his clothes where her arms had encircled his neck.

"Anna!"

Two syllables. Four letters in length. The stone that killed Goliath was probably not any larger than that name. Both destroyed equally well.

They both turned to see who had spoken, but the effect on Nikita was immediately noticeable. She dug her fingers into his shoulder and said, "Helmut?"

It wasn't Helmut of course, only a young man waving at a girlfriend he chanced to see across the street. He trotted over to her and they embraced. He would never know the emotional carnage he'd left in his wake.

Nikita's withdrawal from Michael was immediate, both physically and mentally.

She got into the limousine without a word, and refused to look in his direction during the trip home, although Michael sat and willed her to do so.

Shakespeare had Romeo shout that he was "fortune's fool." Michael's fingers rubbed against his mouth, as he watched Nikita in silhouette, and realized that truer words had never been written. He too, was "fortune's fool."

The final painful act in the night's play took place at the door to her apartment. Nikita struggled with her jangling keys, trying desperately to get it into the lock and turned. She wanted to escape and he knew it.

Resigned to his fate, Michael covered her hand with his and helped her turn the key in the lock. The door opened but he could see her immediate sense of relief dissipate with the fear that he would want to come inside.

And God forgive him, he did want to come inside! If just for a moment, to seek whatever forgiveness was necessary to mend the rift between them. But it was hopeless. He wasn't her noble Helmut. He wasn't her "husband."

That Nikita's four-week "marriage" wasn't any more real than his marriage to Elena had been was moot. There was a bonding that took place regardless of the legitimacy of words said over people. Michael had tried to ignore that fact, but time and Elena's unwavering love for him had finally convinced him otherwise.

Could he damn Nikita for her feelings for her husband, without damning himself for caring for Elena? No, he couldn't.

So it came down to who Nikita loved more, Helmut or himself. Tonight he had received his answer, bitter pill that it was to swallow.

For Nikita to be happy, he had to step aside for the better man. He had already planned for this contingency. Now all that was left to do was to initiate the final profile.

Nikita wanted to say she was sorry.

She was sorry--sorry, for everything. But the words would not come without tears.

If she only knew what to say-how to explain what she was feeling-but she couldn't, not even to herself. Perhaps her recent brain washing by Section had worked. Maybe she just thought she loved Michael, when she really didn't. But if that was so, why was her heart breaking over hurting him?

If there was a moment in her life that she wished she could change, it would be speaking Helmut's name that evening. Even uttered in the throes of passion, it could hardly have done more damage.

Any other man would have been angry, but with Michael it was impossible to tell what he was feeling. He said nothing-did nothing, except help her into the car and take her home.

Nikita made one attempt to salvage the damage.

"Michael, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't . . . "

He placed his hand over her mouth to silence her.

"Goodnight, Nikita," he said, letting his thumb brush across her mouth as he took his hand away. And without a backward glance or another word, he left.

* * *

Helmut Volker stood on the beach home patio of a friend, and stared out to sea. His self-imposed exile had given him plenty of time to brood over his fate and ponder the mysteries surrounding the woman who was his wife.

'Anna. Oh Anna, I miss you.'

He downed his third whiskey sour, but the pain remained the same.

He could cope with the lost of his profession. He could cope with his exile. He could even accept the probable loss of his inheritance from his embittered father. But what he couldn't live with, was not knowing what had happened to Anna or who she really was.

Was her name even Anna? Based on what he knew now, he very much doubted it.

Even though he had been expelled from the official ranks of Interpol, Helmut still had plenty of contacts in the underworld and in law enforcement. For the last several weeks, he had put out feelers for any information about his mystery bride. So far, every lead had been a dead end save one: Anna and Frederick, the drug-dealing lovers, did exist, or had existed at one time. From the moment that "his" Anna had entered his life, all information on the real Anna Guerna and Frederick Krause had suddenly ceased. It was as if they vanished off the planet.

Helmut wandered back inside the beach house, poured himself another drink, then picked up the glossy black and white photos of the real Anna and Frederick. The two people he had met, were approximately the same age, height, weight and coloring as the two in the photographs, but they were not Anna and Frederick.

So, who were they? And more importantly, why the masquerade?

His first thought had been they were part of Red Cell, then dismissed it. "Anna" had helped him foil the attempt of Red Cell to blow up The Hague. Besides, he already had plenty of contacts within Red Cell. They had dealt together for years. Why send an undercover operative into his house, unless they didn't trust him? If Red Cell didn't trust you, they killed you. End of story. And "Anna" had had plenty of opportunity to kill him if she had chosen to.

There had been the one attempt on his life, but the assailants were still unknown. But if they had been Red Cell, why would Red Cell have continued to give him information on their terrorist plot against The Hague? It made no sense.

So whom did "Anna" work for? And why her insistence that if he cared for her life, that he shoot her? Who did she work for that she feared for her life? Any legitimate law enforcement agency could throw the book at one of their own. Screwing up could mean expulsion and the loss of your job, or at worst, a jail term, but "Anna" feared for her life enough to take a bullet. Why?

All he had were questions and no answers.

Helmut tried to remember every conversation he had had with his wife, hoping to find some clue as to her identity. From what he remembered and could piece together, she worked for some organization that wanted Red Cell to succeed in blowing up The Hague. Whether that meant she was a terrorist herself, or was from a group that supported Interpol's wish that Red Cell succeed "for the greater good", he didn't know. Regardless, in the end, "Anna" had sided with him.

"I know how you feel." She had said in response to his comment about being a "good soldier" and the "ends not justifying the means". His cutting response about her drug dealing past and moral judgements had hurt her deeply, or had seemed to.

Helmut shook his head trying to clear it. But she wasn't Anna Guerna the drug dealer. So why had the remarks bothered her so?

Nor was she a drug user, he suddenly realized. Looking back, there had been no needle tracks on her arms that night he had tried to ply her with drugs. And she had been less than enthusiastic over the prospect. At the time, he thought it was because she was simply sleepy. Now he wondered at Freddy's timely intervention and her quick response to it. She had been relieved at Freddy's sudden appearance, not disappointed at being cheated of a quick fix.

And who was "Freddy"? Someone close to her, Helmut realized. Someone who loved her possessively. Had "Anna" returned that love? If she had, then why marry Helmut Volker and take a bullet to protect him?

"Did you come to love me, Anna?" He asked aloud. "I have to know. I have to find you. Somehow. . . somehow."

* * *

Michael studied Helmut Volker's file from Interpol. His credentials over the past twelve years had been impressive. Despite his cover assignment as a flippant playboy, he was well educated, skilled in business, had a black belt in several martial arts, and was fluent in three languages.

He had also been instrumental in getting several mole agents into Red Cell and at least one other minor terrorist organization. And despite Section One, and Interpol's explicit wishes, he had single-handedly thwarted the bombing of The Hague.

By Nikita's standards, Helmut had done the right thing.

Of course as predicted, Klastrom immediately disappeared from view. It might be months, perhaps even years, before he surfaced again. In the meantime, he was free to plot and carry out more terrorist acts.

Helmut had saved lives-but he had also put others at future risk. Did that make him a hero or a villain? Or did it matter, one way or another?

As far as Nikita was concerned, it made him a hero.

Michael's fingers stroked against his mouth as he sat at his desk. A hero was what Nikita wanted. A man she could trust and admire. But if Helmut was to give Nikita the life she deserved, Michael had to clear Helmut's name with Section, Helmut's father, and Interpol.

Two out of the three, would be easy fixes. Interpol didn't know of Kristophe's involvement with Red Cell, nor did the elder Volker know of his youngest son's perfidy. Michael would see that certain bits of information would be leaked to both. He would also allow Wolfgang Volker know the extent of his elder son's loyalty and affection.

Once Helmut's fences were mended, he could go home with his bride and live the life he had been meant to live. But only if Michael could solve the problem of Section One's edict to hunt Volker down and kill him.

If he failed to fix that not-so-minor problem, then he would have to arrange it so Section thought Helmut was already dead. Then Helmut and Nikita would have a life together, even if they would have to go into hiding to do it.

But first, he would have to deal with Helmut Volker himself.

* * *

Helmut wasn't sure what woke him, the subtle click of a semiautomatic pistol's safety being removed, or the cold pressure of its barrel pressed against his temple. Either way, he was certainly awake.

He looked up at the dark shadow standing over him, trying to decide if he could get his hands free of the blankets faster than the man with the gun could pull the trigger.

"Are you alone in the house?" The intruder asked softly.

Helmut frowned. The voice was vaguely familiar.

The pressure against his temple increased slightly.

"Yes. I'm alone."

Immediately the gunman removed the threat poised against Helmut's head and stepped away. A moment later, he had switched on the light next to Helmut's bed.

Helmut squinted at the sudden illumination and gazed over at his uninvited guest with dawning surprise.

"Freddy?"

'Freddy' tossed a large manila envelope into Helmut's lap.

"For you," he said. "Open it."

Helmut watched "Freddy" seat himself in a nearby chair, before he reached for and opened the envelope.

Inside he found photographs of his younger brother meeting with known Red Cell terrorists, and internal Interpol memos regarding The Hague bombing attempt.

"No, it can't be . . ." Helmut murmured, as he shifted through the pictures again.

"The attempt on your life, was set up by your brother. We had him eliminated."

Helmut bristled with anger. "You killed him?"

"Not personally, no."

Helmut was silent for a long moment, then asked, "Why are you telling me this now? What do you want?"

"Do you love your wife?"

"Anna? Do you know where she is?"

The man known as 'Freddy' nodded. "Answer the question."

"Yes, I love her. Is she here with you? Can I see her-speak to her?"

"Not now, but soon. When it's safe."

"Safe from whom? Who do you and Anna work for?" Helmut asked.

"I can't tell you that."

"Can you tell me Anna's real name?"

"She can tell you."

"I don't understand. Why are you here? What is it you want?"

"I want what you want," came the soft reply, "for her to be happy and safe."

"I was right. You do love her." Helmut said soberly.

Ignoring the comment, 'Freddy' got to his feet.

"Give me five days and I'll bring her to you. By that time I hope to have things arranged so that you can go back to Germany, return to your Interpol position, and the good graces of your father."

"My father hates me!" Helmut said with a bitter smile, "Don't waste your time."

"Once he sees the contents of that envelope," Freddy nodded at it, " he won't."

"No." Helmut said, shaking his head and setting the envelope aside. "Kristophe was his beloved son. I can't destroy his memory of him, even to save myself."

"Then preserve his memory if you wish. But your father will know of your position in Interpol. For you and Anna to be safe, you'll need your wealth and power around you. To do that, your father must know the truth. I will make sure of it."

Helmut nodded slowly, then got out of bed.

"Can I ask one more thing?" Helmut said, stepping towards his guest.

"What?"

"Will you allow me to . . . shake your hand?" He asked, offering his own.

Reluctantly, "Freddy" moved his pistol to his left hand, and took Helmut's to shake.

* * *

Long after 'Freddy' had gone, Helmut sat up thinking. He wondered what kind of man 'Freddy' was that he could give up the woman he loved to another man. Evidently an honorable man, to do so much for no reward. A man he would have liked to have called a friend in other circumstances.

In five days, he would see his Anna again. Helmut wondered. Would she be glad to see him? * * *

"Once the Neeley situation has been resolved, team one will go on to a secondary target; team two will return with the material. Are there any questions?" Operations raised an eyebrow at the seated operatives. No one raised their hand.

"Good. Dismissed."

The team members got to their respective feet and sauntered off in different directions, all except Nikita, who seemed to linger.

"Ni-ki-ta?"

She turned towards Michael.

"There is a secondary briefing in my office." He told her.

"When?" she asked.

"Now."

She gave him an uncomfortable nod and scooted her chair back.

"All right. I'm coming."

Nikita followed Michael into his office and sat in the chair opposite his desk.

He picked up a PDA, handed it to her, then sat down.

She waited for a moment thinking he would secure the room. He didn't.

With a sigh, she scanned the data on the PDA. It was a routine kidnapping.

"Who is Johannes Carnoff? I don't recognize the name." She asked.

"It's a code name. This mission has the interest of Oversight. That's all I can tell you at the moment." He said, his face completely without expression.

"When do we leave?"

"Immediately after the Neeley material has been obtained. I estimate around three, tomorrow afternoon, Zulu Time.

"Our destination?"

"It's on your panel."

Nikita nodded, sadly noting his answers were both clipped and cold. There was no warmth in him, not even in his eyes when he looked at her.

'Well, what did she expect?'

"Is that it?" She asked quietly.

"Yes. You can go." With that, he flipped open his laptop and began to type.

* * *

Michael sat in the driver's seat of the silver BMW and watched the beach house through a small set of binoculars. Nikita sat next to him, staring out at the warm tropical night. There was a sliver of moonlight and a million stars to light up the night sky. She leaned her head on her hand, braced against the car door, and stared out the open, car window.

"I've never been to St. Croix before," she said casually, breathing in a lung full of fresh sea air. "It's beautiful."

Michael made no comment except to say, "Switch to tranqs and let's go."

She sighed, and popped the ammo clip out of her weapon and replaced it with a clip of tranq darts. Michael kept his conventional ammo.

Nikita wanted to ask him what they were doing on such a routine assignment. Even if this mission had the attention of Oversight, it was still a simple kidnapping; Michael could have done it alone and in his sleep.

The profile was simple, break in, tranq the target, carry him to the car, and drive him to the waiting yacht for transport. It was so simple in fact, that Nikita read the profile through three times, looking for something unique that she obviously was missing; she found nothing.

They crept around a carefully manicured, tropical garden, to the house and saw there was a light on in the front room.

Michael caught Nikita by the arm before they reached the front door.

"Take this if you need to communicate. They've jammed our comm." He pressed a small transceiver into her hand, not unlike the one he had given her the night of her escape from Section, over two years ago. "I'll go around back."

Nikita nodded and pocketed the device. She gave Michael a few seconds to go around the building before picking the lock and entering the house.

There was one visible occupant in the living room. He was seated in an easy chair, watching television, his back to Nikita.

She frowned. Where were the bodyguards? If this man was so important, wouldn't he have at least one? She silently arced her raised pistol in front of her, side to side. There were no other targets visible.

To get a better shot, she walked to the side of the chair.

"My God, it's . . ." Nikita's gun arm dipped in surprise.

Helmut turned and smiled. "Anna! I've been waiting for you."

He jumped to his feet and embraced her.

"God, I've missed you," he said, leaning down and kissed her lavishly.

Nikita kissed him back for a moment then firmly pushed him away.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, suddenly agitated, and looking all around.

"Living here, for the moment. And waiting for you."

"How did you know. . . ?"

"That you were coming?" he finished for her. "It was Freddy-or whatever his real name is. I'm to get you safely out of the country. I have clearance to return home. I even have my father's blessing! We can go home, Anna."

Nikita shook her head, not able to take it all in.

"No-I can't. You don't understand. . . ."

"Maybe not, but Freddy has it all arranged."

He kissed her again, this time on the cheek. "I just want to know one thing." He said, stroking her hair out of her confused face.

"What?" Nikita asked.

"Your name. A man ought to know his wife's name." He chuckled pleasantly.

"It's Nikita-where's Michael?" She frowned. Michael should have made an appearance by now.

"Michael?" Helmut shrugged, puzzled.

"Freddy-Michael-where is he?" She went to the window and looked out.

Her pocket suddenly vibrated; Michael had activated the comm unit. Nikita dug it out of her pocket in a rush.

The message read: 'You have fifteen days to decide whether to stay with Helmut or return to Section. They won't list you as missing until then. Be free. Be happy.'

Nikita pressed the small comm patch behind her ear, "Michael! Michael! Answer me! Where are you?" He didn't answer.

"What's wrong?" Helmut asked.

Nikita shook her head, pressed the comm patch again. "Birkoff! Can you hear me?" Still no answer.

"Do you have a phone?" Nikita asked, with a sudden feeling of dread.

"There, on the table." Helmut said, pointing to it.

Nikita grabbed it and punched in several sets of numbers.

"This is Nikita, 31, J7-" there was a short pause, "Birkoff, I need Birkoff!"

"Nikita? What are you doing on a land line?" Birkoff asked when he got on.

"Never mind that-where's Michael?" She asked adamantly.

"With you-isn't he?" Birkoff sounded puzzled.

"Birkoff, this is important! Michael has a transceiver. I need you to locate him now! He can't be too far from my current position."

"Sure-hang on."

"Ann-I mean, Nikita. Is there something I can do?" Helmut asked, concerned over her agitation.

"Helmut, I don't have time to explain things, except to say, I can't go with you. Michael meant well, but I can't. I like you. I admire your courage, but Michael-God," She started to cry. "He loves me."

She suddenly remembered Michael's words-"I can't live without you."- and real fear pierced her.

"I love you too!" Helmut protested, taking her by the arms.

"You don't know me." Nikita argued tearfully. "And even if you did, it wouldn't matter. I can't leave him. I can't leave Michael. I love him."

Helmut gave her a sad, self-deprecating smile and nodded. "He's a lucky man. And I understand."

"Birk-off!" Nikita shouted frantically into the phone.

"I'm not deaf!" Birkoff snarled on the other end. "He's a quarter mile, south, southeast of your current position."

"I have to go-don't follow. Get away from here as fast as you can!" Nikita said, rushing toward the door.

* * *

Michael stood on the shore and gazed at the horizon. In another hour it would be dawn and Nikita would be free.

Several moments later he looked down to see that he was standing calf-deep in seawater. He was numb with despair and lost hope. And tired. So very, very tired.

He dropped to his knees in the incoming tide, his arms listless at his sides, his weapon still in his hand. He looked down at it, that deadly extension of his being, with faint interest. He lifted it. It seemed suddenly, unbearably heavy in his hand.

All around him, the water was as warm as blood and as salty as tears. What would it matter if he added a little more of both to the mixture?

He had one regret as he lifted his weapon higher-that he hadn't kissed her goodbye.

* * *

"Michael! Where are you!" Nikita panted, as she searched the beach.

Birkoff said a quarter of a mile. In the dark, she wasn't sure how far she had come. Had she some how passed him? Had she not gone far enough?

She stopped to catch her breath and did a slow, three hundred and sixty degree turn. And saw him.

"Mich-" She lost her breath as she saw his intent.

"Michael! No!" She screamed as she ran.

He couldn't hear her.

She skid to a halt in the sand, raised her weapon, and squeeze off one round. The tranq hit him at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He dropped in place like a stone.

She watched him topple into the water, then sprinted to his side in a panic. Tranq'd, he could drown in a moment!

"Michael!" His name was a sob as she found him facedown in the water. With every ounce of strength she had left, she managed to get him over one shoulder in a fireman's carry, and staggered to shore.

"Michael . . . Michael!" She touched his throat and thought she felt a pulse, but he wasn't breathing. She lifted his jaw-his head was a heavy, dead weight in her trembling hands. Checking his airway, she covered his mouth with her own.

"Breathe!" She pleaded between breaths. "Oh, Michael, please!" She kept on for nearly a minute, before she felt his body spasm with a cough and turned him on his side.

He was alive!

Nikita pulled him across her lap, cradling him against her breast like a child, and wept like her heart would break.

"Is he . . . dead?"

Helmut was suddenly kneeling at her side, one hand braced on her shoulder with concern.

"Almost . . . oh, almost!" Nikita sobbed.

"Here, give him to me. We'll get him to a hospital." He tried to pry Michael from her arms.

"No! C-can't. We can't take him to a hospital. Too many questions. I had to shoot him with a tranq. He was going to . . . oh, God! Michael . . ." She clutched Michael closer, unable to finish.

"All right. No hospital. Let's get him back to the house. Come. You'll be safe there."

"You should go," Nikita said looking at him numbly. "It's dangerous for you to be with us."

"Anna-" He gave her a brief smile and touched her face. "Sorry, but you'll always be Anna to me. I'm not leaving you out here all alone with him. Forgive me, but I'm still your husband," he touched the palm of his hand to his chest, " and my old-world upbringing demands that I take charge. So come, little wife. Let's get him up. It will be dawn soon."

Knowing that to be the truth, Nikita nodded gravely and allowed Helmut to pick Michael up.

* * *

Nikita sat on the edge of Helmut's bed, gazing down at Michael and stroking his hair. His curls were still slightly damp, and stiff with salt.

Helmut finished covering Michael, then gently pulled Nikita to her feet.

"Here," he said, draping his bathrobe over her shoulder. "Go get out of those wet clothes and take a hot bath. I'll go fix us something to eat. Then we'll talk."

She nodded, then leaned into his arms and briefly kissed his cheek.

"Thanks."

"How long will he sleep?" Helmut asked.

She shrugged, "Six, maybe eight hours."

Helmut sighed. 'Not long enough,' He thought sadly. 'Not nearly long enough.'

"Here," Helmut cupped Nikita's slender hands around a cup of steaming coffee as she sat at the kitchen bar. He noticed her hands were still soft and warm from her hot bath, and allowed his thumb the simple pleasure of rubbing itself briefly across the tops of then. He savored the moment and set it aside in his memory to save for the future.

"I know, there are many things you cannot tell me, but tell me what you can," Helmut began sitting on the barstool next to hers.

"Our marriage," Nikita began, "you went through with it at the behest of Interpol?"

He nodded then smiled faintly, "Best order I was ever given."

She returned the smile, briefly. "I was given a similar order."

"By, Red Cell?" He asked, with a slight frown.

"No. Not Red Cell, although the people I work for are just as ruthless."

"Terrorists?"

She gave a deep sigh. "Counter-terrorists. I can't get any more detailed than that. Suffice it to say there was a bureaucratic mix-up. We didn't know you were Interpol. We were watching you because of your Red Cell connections. I was ordered to marry you, so that I could be in a position to provide them information on your weapons deals."

"I see. Marvelous irony, at least. But if this marriage of ours was just for the sake of the mission, then why all of this-why did Freddy-I mean Michael, bring you here to me?"

"It's a long story."

"We have six to eight hours for you to tell it. Please. I want to know. I need to know."

"It's complicated, Helmut. To have you understand, I'd have to tell you things that could get you killed. I don't want that to happen."

"I'll take the risk." He said seriously.

Nikita knew she could trust him. Perhaps she owed him the truth. Besides, she desperately needed someone to talk to.

"I'm not sure where to begin.

"Simple. Begin at the beginning."

"Michael trained me. The organization we work for is extremely covert. It owns us, body and soul. If they ever learned of this conversation, we would all be dead. You, me, your father-anyone that interferes or has knowledge of . . . do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Michael and I have had a relationship for several years. In the framework of the organization we work for, it has been a forbidden one. The people we work for know we care for each other. They've tried so many times to destroy what we feel for each other-putting me under a blood cover-my marriage to you, was just their latest attempt."

"I take it you can't just quit your job."

"The only way out of this organization is through a morgue. You quit-you die. You screw up-you die. You disobey, . . . you die." Nikita had to stop a moment to wipe away an angry tear.

Helmut reached into his pocket and handed her a cloth handkerchief.

"So you married me . . ." he prompted, as she took it.

"Because I had no choice." She finished. "Michael thought he could stop it. He's succeeded in thwarting them in the past. That night you came home to take me to the airport . . ."

"You were surprised to see me." He nodded, remembering.

"Yes. I was surprised. And hurt. I thought . . . "

"Thought what?"

"That Michael had set me up."

Helmut frowned. "Why would you think that?"

"Because he's done it before." She bowed her head into her hands.

"But he loves you." Helmut said, confused.

"Yes. But he has weaknesses they exploit."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Michael was under a blood cover for four years during which he had a son. Once the mission was over, he was taken out from the cover, never to see his son again. He loves his son. They know it. They exploit it. He has a sister too. You do what they want, or else." Nikita emphasized the 'or else.'

"But you said he's thwarted them in the past."

"Yes. Michael's special." She got up from the bar and began to pace, rubbing her arms against a slight chill.

"He's probably the best operative they have. He survives because he's smarter than they are. But he walks a tightrope without a net---obeying as far as he can---disobeying, if he can find a way to safely do so. It's just I never know when he's doing what."

"Do you think he tried to stop the marriage?"

"Probably. I don't know. He's never said. He never explains-sometimes because he can't. It's just, he rarely fails at what he wants to do."

"Then perhaps he wanted you to marry me. To marry me and find some happiness for yourself." Helmut slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "Why else would he bring you back to me?"

She closed her eyes, shook her head and gently shrugged off his arm.

"Michael's fought to keep us together. He's lied for me, stood in harm's way for me, protected me from them and from my own mistakes. He's done all of it out of love, and because he thought I loved him in return."

"And do you?"

"Yes. But I've done a poor job of letting him know it." She sat back down, tugging on the ties of the robe to pull the material closer to her body.

"When we got back from our honeymoon, I had resigned myself to the fact that Michael had let the marriage go through. I felt abandoned. When I saw him again, and he offered no explanation, . . . I decided he had given up on us. I was hurt and angry and I let him know it."

"And had he given up?"

She shook her head. "No. All he did was accept what he could not change-and he expected me to do the same. I'm just not that strong. To him, you were simply a mission. He survived a blood cover assignment; he assumed I could too. But it just wasn't that easy for me."

"Dare I hope, you began to care for me a little?" Helmut lifted her chin with the edge of his hand.

She didn't answer directly. Instead she put her arms around him and stood there for a long time.

"You're a good man, Helmut. I went into the marriage thinking you weren't."

Nikita gently stroked the back of his neck as she spoke.

"You were simply a target and I was simply doing what I was ordered to do. That all changed when I found out the truth. I saw how much you loved your father and Kristophe and how much you sacrificed to keep them safe. And how kind you were to me. I'd be a monster, if I didn't feel something for you."

"But . . ." Helmut prompted, knowing there was more.

"But it's not love-not the kind a woman should have for her husband, anyway. Not the way I feel for Michael. When we're apart, I'm only half alive."

"I know the feeling," Helmut said sadly, against her neck before carefully kissing her there.

"And I'm so sorry that you do. I never meant to hurt you." She pulled back to look at him.

"So you'll go back to him, even if they may never let you be together?"

"Yes."

"Even if he wants you to come with me?"

"Yes. Because I love him, and because I'm all he has left in this world."

Helmut nodded his eyes filling with unshed tears.

"If," he said, with a lightness he didn't feel, "you change your mind, you know yours truly, will always be waiting."

"No, Helmut. You owe it to yourself and to your father to find someone and have a family. Put all of this behind you. Go home and be happy-for my sake. I couldn't bear it, if you didn't."

"All right." He said bravely. "All right, my girl. For your sake then." He rocked her in his arms for a long, long time.

* * *

"Michael told me about Kristophe," Helmut said gazing out at the morning sun. "Those men that broke into the house-Kristophe sent them.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I thought I knew him. He must have really hated me." Helmut said brokenly.

Nikita didn't know how to comfort him, so said nothing.

"Did you know Michael approached my father posing as an Interpol agent and told him all I had been doing for the last twelve years? Father called me three days ago, begging my forgiveness." Helmut's voice broke and he struggled a moment to contain himself.

"I'm glad something good has come from all of this." Nikita said, giving him a sad smile. "Your father deserves to know what kind of man you really are."

"I've also been invited to return to my previous status at Interpol. I'm not sure how he managed that, but Michael told me he would."

"So you'll be going back to work?"

Helmut shook his head. "No. Not after the Hague incident. I can't work for such people ever again. I shall content myself to run my father's business and care for my father. He needs me now that Kristophe is gone"

"What about Red Cell? Aren't you worried about them?"

Helmut shrugged. "I've lived with the threat of them for years. I've taken precautions. I have two moles in Red Cell that provide me with information. Whatever happens, I can't spend my life worrying about it."

"What will you tell your father about me?" Nikita asked. "Won't he wonder what happened?"

Helmut sighed. "I'll tell him the truth-that the marriage was part of the mission. No need to tell him anything else. It was the truth, . . . initially, anyway."

Nikita nodded.

"What kind of man is your Michael, that he would give you up?" Helmut asked, turning from the window. "When I look at you, I can't imagine having the strength to do that."

Nikita shook her head then answered. "I wish I could tell you, but the truth is, sometimes I'm not sure I really know Michael. I've met bits and pieces of him. He can be kind, and extremely ruthless. He functions in a world of lies, but always seems to know the truth. He feels things deeply, but never allows anyone to know how deeply. And just when I think I know him, he shows me another part of himself that totally baffles me."

"I never thought to ask, why did you shoot him?"

"He was going to shoot himself."

"Maybe he isn't as strong as I thought." Helmut said with quiet pity.

"Everyone that Michael has ever loved has been taken from him. Every friend, every family member . . . he thought I would be happier with you."

"He had the strength to give you up, but not to live without you." Helmet continued softy.

Nikita nodded, then broke down. "He never bloody well asked if I could live without him!"

Helmut guided her over to the couch and held her while she cried.

* * *

Michael began his slow ascent into consciousness, racked with nightmares . . .

"I said, I want her cancelled!" Operations ranted. "That's an order, Michael!"

'No' Michael whispered aloud.

"Then kill your son! Make a choice, Michael. Make a choice!"

Michael opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of a room he vaguely recognized. His head and right shoulder throbbed with pain. He knew the feeling well. He'd been tranq'd.

Holding his shoulder he struggled to sit up, and found himself in the throes of a drug-induced hangover. Wave after wave of pain seemed to divide his skull in half.

His bare feet touched the carpeted floor and he took several deep breaths to try and clear his head. Looking around he realized he was in Helmut's bedroom, and he hadn't a stitch on.

Spying his clothes lying on a nearby chair, Michael tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't yet support him. He fell to his knees, then on all fours.

Determined to find Nikita, he crawled to the chair and weakly dressed himself.

* * *

"Oh? A family quarrel, so soon?"

Helmut looked up in alarm. "Klastrom? How--what are you doing here?"

The two on the couch froze in alarm as four armed men entered the room.

The man known as Klastrom smiled. "Why, I came to kiss the bride!"

Klastrom seated himself, then ordered crisply, "Search the house."

Two men left the room to do as he requested.

"Now, we can have a little chat, can't we?"

"What about?" Helmut asked, pulling Nikita tighter against him.

"Oh, I think you know." Klastrom paused and pulled a cigarette from a silver case. He tapped the end of the cigarette against the case three times, then put it to his lips.

"You see, . . . I hate to fail." He paused again to light the cigarette and settle back into the chair. "Worse than that, I hate to be betrayed."

"I didn't betray you. I provided you with the bomb, just as you asked."

"Then why is it, it didn't go off? And why your . . . sudden disappearance?"

"Interpol-they found out about the attack and stopped it. I left before I could be arrested. I would have contacted you, but I was unable to locate you."

"Hmmm. Helmut, I have a problem." Klastrom took a long drag off his cigarette. "I'd like to believe you. I've got buyers waiting for arms that Red Cell has promised to provide. Arms from your factories. Now, I can't meet our orders. Do you know how tiresome unhappy customers can be?"

Helmut smiled faintly, "Yes, of course."

"Tell you what. I'm feeling generous. Being that you are a newly wed and all, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. I find it hard to believe you'd marry such a lovely creature, then doom her by pissing me off."

Nikita felt Helmut's hand tighten on her shoulder.

"Here's the deal, Helmut." He took another puff. "We all go home to Germany and continue as before."

"But Interpol . . ."

"Oddly enough, my contacts within Interpol tell me they aren't looking for you. You panicked for no reason, my friend." Klastrom grinned with evil intent.

"Tell your bride to get dressed. I have a plane waiting."

The two Red Cell operatives returned from their search of the house.

"All clear."

Helmut looked down at Nikita. They exchanged looks of suppressed surprise.

Helmut escorted Nikita into the bedroom under the watchful eye of one of Klastrom's men.

Nikita thought of her combat clothing balled in a towel in the bathroom. How would she explain the wet clothing? How would she explain all black in the tropics?

Helmut led her over to his closet and opened it.

"Wear this," he said softly, pulling out a hangar full of clothing. "I had your things sent here." He whispered in explanation.

Nikita gave him an one-armed, relieved hug.

"Hurry up!" Their guard interrupted.

"Anna, go into the bathroom and change." Helmut pressed her firmly in that direction.

The guard looked as if he was going to argue but realized the bathroom had no window, no way for her to escape. He waved her on.

Nikita closed the door and quickly sorted through her discarded wet clothing. She retrieved her comm device but her weapon was missing. It meant Michael had it. It also meant he knew what was happening. She nodded at herself in the mirror. She had to be ready for whatever Michael was planning.

* * *

"What's wrong?" Madeline asked upon seeing Operations' expression.

"George has called off the cancellation orders on Helmut Volker. It seems Interpol has forgiven and forgotten, at George's behest."

Madeline gave him a raised eyebrow. "Are they putting him back into play?"

"I don't know."

"Well, that's it then." She gave a little sigh of resignation.

"I'm getting tired of George's interference!" Operations glared at her.

"I seem to remember you telling me to pick my battles. I think I should offer you the same advice."

* * *

Michael lay in the shadows outside the bedroom window. He popped the clip out of Nikita's weapon. It still contained tranq's. His own weapon was lost somewhere in the surf. The only answer was to get to the car; Nikita had left her other clip on the seat.

He shook his head trying to keep alert. The drugs were still strong in his system. Twice his sight had grayed out, and he still could barely crawl, much less walk.

If he closed his eyes . . . even for a moment . . .

"Up! Get up! You sorry sonofabitch!"

"Jurgen?" Michael whispered.

"What did I tell you? Get up!"

Michael struggled to his knees to obey. To obey meant the beatings stopped.

"What have I taught you? Think, through the pain. Go through the pain. Break its back. It's just sensation. Ignore it and get up!"

An attempt landed him on all fours.

"Look sweetie, this isn't prison and I'm not your boyfriend looking for a good f**k!" Jurgen taunted.

Clinching his teeth in rage, Michael got to his feet in a rush.

"That's better." Jurgen said with a grin-and then he wasn't there.

Michael's hand touched something solid and warm from the sun. He realized he'd made it to the car.

* * *

The Red Cell hit squad fanned out of the beach house, their weapons hidden. Once they signaled an all clear, Klastrom exited with Helmut and Nikita in tow.

Two black Mercedes drove up to collect them. Helmut and Nikita were placed in the backseat of one of them, with Klastrom.

Nikita wished for a moment's privacy to take the comm link out of it's hiding place in the waistband of her slacks. Just for a moment try to tell Michael where they were going. But for the moment, she didn't dare. Her first attempt in the bathroom had failed to get any response.

The ride to the airport took fifteen minutes and not a word was spoken by anyone during the duration of the trip.

Helmut did communicate with Nikita if only by squeezing her hand and lending her moral support. She appreciated it, but put all of her hopes for their rescue in Michael.

Helmut could fight. From the performance he gave against the Red Cell operatives in his home, he could hold his own. But Helmut had too much to lose in the confrontation: his father, his business, and herself. Helmut would be cautious for her sake.

Michael had nothing to lose. Perhaps that's why he fought so well, she thought sadly. He had nothing to live for, therefore, nothing to lose.

Nikita closed her eyes and prayed she'd have a chance to convince him otherwise.

Settled into Klastrom's private jet, Nikita excused herself to go into the bathroom prior to takeoff. Using the comm link, she punched in their destination-Frankfort, by way of Miami.

There was no immediate response from Michael so she tried reaching Section. No one would respond on her channel so she assumed Michael had reconfigured the comm units to link only to each other, thus preventing Section from eavesdropping. She didn't know enough about electronics yet to reconfigure the unit herself.

"Ah, Walter, where are you when I need you?" She muttered.

Michael arrived at the airport moments after his quarry. From behind black shaded glasses, he scanned the airport for a way to get through security. Opportunity came in the guise of an airport worker, moving baggage from a cargo area. Michael tranq'd him and pulled on the man's airport overalls to cover his clothing.

Driving the small baggage carrier, Michael had easy access to the tarmac and the small area set aside for corporate jets. There were two being fueled when he arrived. He watched Nikita and the others board one; he boarded the other, coolly walking past the disinterested passengers, and tranq'd its pilot.

Michael locked the cockpit door and was going through his preflight checks when the comm unit in his breast pocket vibrated. He quickly read the message, then re-pocketed the device without answering. He was too occupied with getting the plane into the air, and staying halfway conscious to answer her.

"You're doing fine, Michael." A voice came out of the air. Michael turned to the pilot in the other seat. Jurgen leaned back and smiled. "Get this bird in the air."

Some part of Michael knew this was all a drug-induced hallucination, another part couldn't shake the feeling it wasn't.

"Don't think-react. Now's not the time to think." Jurgen admonished.

Michael nodded, and turned on the engines.

"You all right?" Helmut whispered, coaxing Nikita's head over onto his shoulder.

She nodded.

"Try and sleep a little."

"Can't."

"Sure you can," Helmut said, gently, hypnotically stroking her hair. "I'll wake you when we land."

There was nothing else to do, Nikita realized wearily and with all that had happened, her eyes slid shut and spilled her into dreams.

* * *

'I thought I'd lost you.'

"You never had me!'

Michael had kissed her before that moment on the boat, but never in such a hungered, insistent way. Perhaps she had never been ready for him to.

There was a momentary struggle for dominance between them. It was mostly eagerness on Nikita's part as she dragged him down to kiss her again. Or perhaps eagerness was too kind a word. She'd suffered too long in silence to be denied by him now. And yet, it wasn't lust that made her cling to him, although the softer feelings were cradled in it.

There was anger too. Why had he waited so long to show her how he felt? That lasted only until he whispered her name and suckled her breast in the same breath.

After the hasty removal of their clothing, Michael slowed down the proceedings with a vengeance. Nikita was frustrated at first, from wanting him inside. As if accomplishing that would keep him always her possession.

"Michael please," she pulled at him. He ignored her, pressing her arms firmly against the cot, while his mouth and tongue began their lingering exploration of her body.

In the fevered minutes that followed, Nikita thought she'd lose her mind with pleasure-at being touched and touching him. It seemed her entire body was alive with sensation, down to individual atoms and when she came, the intensity of it took her breath away.

'Le petit morte'--The little death-the French called it. And yet, Michael had not yet taken part in it for himself.

Nikita gazed up at him, her eyes full of tears at the emotional and physical gift he had given her.

"Michael, I want you."

He seemed to hesitate. Yet he wanted her too. His body wanted her at least.

Nikita's reached out and stroked him-warm, velvet, stone. She curled her hand tightly around him.

"Kiss me, Michael, kiss me," she whispered, guiding him inside her.

She watched him close his eyes and lose himself in her warmth before his mouth found hers.

In the heady, ancient rhythm and the boneless repose that followed, Nikita realized something she had never before experienced with a man: a profound sense of tenderness.

* * *

Helmut brushed away the tear that trickled down his wife's sleeping face and held her closer. No need to wonder the reason for her tears. She had murmured Michael's name twice.

As much as he wanted to, Helmut couldn't really hate Michael in all of this. In Nikita's eyes, it was himself that was the interloper, not Michael. And as long as Michael was alive, Nikita would never be his.

'And Michael, damn him,' Helmut thought wryly, 'was too noble a man to wish dead.' He would have to accept it and hold on to Nikita for what little time they had remaining.

Helmut leaned down and kissed Nikita gently on the forehead as the plane began to land.

* * *

Michael maneuvered his jet ahead of Klastrom's prior to landing. The half-hour flight had given little time to clear his head, but he managed a safe landing, and taxied to a private tarmac.

Getting off the plane without causing a disturbance was going to be a challenge. Once during the flight, one of the attendants knocked on the cabin door. Michael dissuaded that from happening again by turning on the seatbelt light and intentionally flying into turbulence. Now that the plane was on the ground, he'd have to pass passengers and crew to get off. There was no time to wait until everyone disembarked; he had to get to the other plane while it refueled in order to prevent it from taking off again.

'No guts, no glory,' the mental apparition of Jurgen teased. 'The bigger the bluff, the easier it is to sell.'

Michael opened the cabin door and pretended to end a conversation with the pilot.

"Thanks. I'll tell her." He said to the pilot as he shut the cabin door to hide him.

The stewardess looked at Michael in mild, but appreciative surprise.

Michael smiled winningly, "He's right," he said thumbing the cabin door. "You are a doll." He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before trotting down the steps of the plane.

"Who the hell was that?" Asked a second stewardess coming forward.

"I have no idea, but wow! He's gorgeous! I'll ask Jerry when we're done."

Michael headed for the nearest flight refueling station in the private plane area and immediately spotted Klastrom's jet as it taxied over to refuel. With a well-placed shot, he flattened the tire on the nose-gear.

Inside the plane, the pilot swore, slammed on the brakes and informed his passengers there would be a longer delay while the tire was replaced.

In a stolen tow-cart, Michael hitched up the plane and towed it into a private hangar. Now all that was needed was to wait until the passengers got out to see why the repairs were taking so long.

Klastrom's pilot was the first to alight. He examined the wheel damage and waved Michael over. "Have you ever seen one do this?" He asked looking at the exploded tire.

"No, can't say that I have. But I've sent someone for a replacement tire," Michael explained to the pilot. "It could be awhile. Your passenger's might like to get out and stretch their legs-there's a nice lounge at the main terminal. Or there's a pop machine in the corner over there." Michael pointed at it.

"Yeah. Okay. Good idea." The pilot returned to the plane.

Klastrom frowned. He didn't like delays and he especially didn't like "accidents".

"Who else is in the hangar?"

"Just the mechanic that towed us over here. He recommended the lounge at the main terminal."

Klastrom shook his head. "Not with these two."

"There's a pop machine here in the hangar-if you want to stretch your legs."

Klastrom looked out the window of the jet at Michael, who was busying working on some parts that were lying on a table inside the hangar.

"All right. It's a long damn trip to Frankfurt." He waved his security team leader over.

"Take two of the men and look around. If it's clear, we'll take a break."

Michael walked over to a nearby phone and dialed in Section's landline.

For the second time in a day's time, Birkoff was surprised.

"Michael? What the . . ? "

"I'll need housekeeping and containment at this location within the hour." He said softly, watching the three Red Cell operatives scouting their surroundings. He quickly gave Birkoff the location and hung up.

Nikita looked out the window of the jet and spotted Michael. She leaned over and whispered to Helmut, "Be ready."

He squeezed her hand in reply.

"Boss, says you can get out for a stretch. Stay near the plane, and there will be no problems." One of the Red Cell ops said as he approached holding an Uzi. He motioned for the two of them to get to their feet and ushered them towards the door of the plane.

Michael waited until he saw Nikita and Helmut coming out of the door of the plane. They were followed by the guard with the Uzi, then by Klastrom. The other three guards had positioned themselves casually around the plane, with their weapons concealed inside their jackets.

Michael stood near the table where he had been pretending to work. He briefly made eye contact with Nikita, then dropped a small metal box on the concrete floor of the hangar. It startled the guards for just a moment, but when they realized what the sound was, they looked away in annoyance at Michael's apparent clumsiness.

Michael dropped to one knee as if to pick it up, then fired twice with his silenced pistol. Two men dropped before the third could pull his weapon.

Just as Michael made his move, Nikita swung around with her shoulder bag, hitting the man with the Uzi in the face, then kicked him in the groin. She managed to dodge him as he knocked into Helmut and both men tumbled down the stairs.

The falling men distracted the third Red Cell operative on the floor of the hanger and he turned with his weapon to see what was coming his way.

Michael used that moment to roll to one side, firing as he moved and hitting the one remaining armed guard in the head.

From Helmut's uncomfortable upside down position on the plane's stairway, Michael's next move was beautiful to watch. He rolled completely over, ejecting one clip and slamming another home in one fluid motion, then leaped to his feet and fired at Klastrom, who had pulled his own weapon and was aiming to return fire.

Michael's shot seemed to startle Klastrom. His weapon fell from nerveless fingers before he slumped to one side and slid down the steps atop Helmut and the other operative.

Just as everything seemed to have ended, Helmut looked up at Nikita and saw the pilot coming from behind her with a pistol raised to fire. He looked down and grabbed the weapon of the unconscious operative lying beneath him.

"Anna! Duck!"

Nikita's training made her drop in place, as ordered, and Helmut put one round into the pilot's chest, killing him.

Nikita scampered down the remaining steps, hopped over Klastrom's body, and knelt to help Helmut to his feet. "Thanks," she said, nodding her head at the dead pilot.

"This sort of thing seems to happen a lot to us, doesn't it?" He quipped, getting unsteadily to his feet.

"You okay?" Nikita asked worriedly.

"A bit bruised, but I'll survive." He said, rubbing his ribs and grinning at her.

Michael suddenly appeared at their side, and Nikita felt slightly guilty for not noticing if he were all right as well.

Just as she was about to inquire, Michael leaned down and dragged Klastrom upright. He felt for a pulse, and finding it, nodded.