Madeleine lifted the tiny scissors, and gracefully made an alteration to one of her delicate bonsai. In the hum of the early evening, she was technically off-duty and stood patiently in front of the wall of diminutive trees, her expensive shoes slipped off and lined up neatly beside the desk. But even during her downtime she was a creature of habit: in the background, a surveillance tape played, fragments of conversations, gossip, briefings---a cacophony of everyday sounds.

Then, a familiar voice. A furious voice--

"It's not right, Michael---those were innocent people!"

Madeleine's hand stilled in mid air, her head cocked ever so slightly as she waited for Michael's murmured reply. How gentle he was with his protege when he thought no one was listening. How tender he could be when he thought no one was looking; how tender, and how true.

And how tragic--

They were a perfect complement; Nikita the outgoing, hopeful optimist, Michael the guarded, protective planner. Always businesslike when others were present, conversations kept to a minimum, so much unspoken.

Had two people's silences ever been so eloquent?

She took a deep breath, lowering her tired arm. Madeleine cared little for maudlin sentimentality, had never wondered "why me?" or "what if?", but she couldn't help comparing her situation to theirs. How well she knew the story: one always pushing, one always pulling, in an endless, fluid dance.

A hopeless dance--

Stop it, she admonished herself coldly, pausing to clear debris from the jaws of the miniature cutting tool in her hand. The tiny scissors flashed under the diffused brightness of the Gro lights. She stared, down, remembering. But for it's full-size brother, she would never have come to Section, all those years ago. How did that poem read--"For want of a nail-"? So many years now---it seemed impossible she had been so young. So naive. So infused with patriotism, idealism and an emotion she once blushed to name.

Yes, she could admit it after all these years---desire.

Lust for a man.

A man who was not, and would never be, her own.

A man she would be yoked to through betrayals, triumphs, unspeakable horrors. A man she once loved over her own life and yes, over her duty. With this man by her side, she would do things, say things, set into motion events she wouldn't have ever thought possible.

She gripped the tiny scissors, the rhyme repeating in her mind like a skipping record.

For want of a nail---
For want of a nail?
For want of a nail,

My soul was lost...

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

In Section One, we don't remove our masks in private. At least, not those of us who wish to remain sane.

You needn't recount for me the story about the thief who robs from the rich to give to the poor or the hooker with the heart of gold--- complete fiction. Remember the verse that warns, "Watch your actions, they become habits; Watch your habits, they become your Character".

It's true.

Nikita fascinates me. She still has faith in the purity of intentions. She does not yet understand that we can't say and do one thing and BE another.

Watch your Character, it becomes your Destiny...

We use this tenet to turn convicted felons into the most efficient anti terrorist organization in the world. Admittedly, the work that we do here is unpleasant, but it must be done. Society demands it. YOU demand it. Our methods may appear harsh, but they achieve results. Yes, to carry out our directives we torture and kill.

We are merely doing our job.

So were the Nazis, you say?

I agree. Do I believe I am less culpable than they for the people I've killed? No, but my ends are Just, and as such, I make no apologies for how I achieve them.

Of course, I concede that murder is immoral, no matter who pulls the trigger, but it's my job; and unfortunately, torture is an offshoot of the work that we do. Others may dwell on the downside, but I believe in accentuating the positive.

Do I disgust you?

I have no illusions about my character or my soul. I accept that my fate is the result of my choices. I don't ask your forgiveness or your understanding.

I know who I am.

I know what I've become.

Don't waste your prayers on me--the illusions of religion bring me no comfort.

And, as Hamlet said, "In thy orisons, be all my sins remembered"...

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

The year that I turned seven, my older sister Sara fell down the front stairs of my parent's home, and died. As one can imagine, my parents suffered terribly; my mother was beside herself with hysterics, and my father stayed drunk for a week.

To me, the younger, unpopular second fiddle, her death was a tragic shock, but as I had recently attained the age of reason, I comprehended that I had an additional, far more serious problem:

I was, you see, my own sister's killer.

Hard to believe, and I wanted to deny it, but my young conscience knew the truth.

The facts were these: MaTante had presented me with a new doll on the occasion of my seventh birthday. Enraged, Sara decided she wanted the doll, and Sara always got what she wanted. For the sake of clarity I must explain--my older sister was a bully, and my constant torment. In His infinite wisdom, the Almighty endowed her with shining Shirley Temple curls, a whip-smart mind and the temper of Old Scratch. I, too, desired the doll, and I never got what I wanted. It was my misfortune to be an ill-formed runt with frizzy brown hair and a hesitant, timid nature.

On this particular day, instead of my usual meek acquiescence, I tugged back on my toy in a burst of defiance. Shocked, Sara pulled away reflexively, overcompensated, lost her balance, and fell backward in a hideous, slow-motion arc.

The sound of her skull cracking on the landing I shall never forget.

My Goliath was felled, and for one shining second I felt an electric thrill of triumph.

And a darker, diabolical shiver of schadenfreude at my sister's expense.

But of course, that passed, and I was left with a practical worry: murder is a mortal sin, for which the soul burns in Hell for all Eternity. In fear of Divine retribution, I prayed for mercy constantly. After morning Mass, I stayed on my knees, chin pressed against bony chest, tiny hands clasped bloodless, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding in desperate dread of fiery torment. I had barely received the Sacrament of Holy Communion, yet I became as devout as the Ursulines who led us in daily prayer.

"Such a comfort to her poor Mother!" sighed the nuns. They gave me presents- a bookmark with prayers in French and Latin, a Mass card in shining blue and gold, a picture of the Holy Virgin. I tried to Confess, but Father Beaupre refused to believe me. Sara, you see, was so much taller, that it seemed ludicrous--impossible such a small girl could have pushed her to her death on a Saturday morning in September, while Pin cooked breakfast in the kitchen, and my parents sat on the loggia, drinking morning coffee.

And all over a doll--

A childish babydoll--

(A doll that I never cared for anyway)

According to the laws of my faith, I was an unshriven sinner; no Holy Water could purge my shame, no receiving of the Body of Our Lord could purify me. As the weeks passed, I became more withdrawn and obsessed. I had always believed our house was haunted, and after Sara's death, I knew it was true. Her eyes followed me everywhere, watching, recording. When I dared sit in Her chair or use Her cup, she shrieked like a banshee, "Murderer!" Sometimes I believed that if I covered my ears, the sound would not penetrate. But She only got louder.

Desperate, I was driven to cut off all my hair like a boy. My parents were horrified. When questioned, I could not explain why, even to myself. Soon, I could not leave the house until I had counted and arranged all her dolls, and after that, I was forced to sort them by height and color. When I wasn't counting, I was on my knees beside my bed, praying, always praying. After awhile, I could no longer keep down my food. I regurgitated like a little bird, nervous to hysteria.

In hushed tones, the Doctor advised, "Send her away."

The strain of my beloved sister's death was too much for me, they said.

I was pining away, they said.

I was sent to live up North, with distant relations, cousins of my mother, in Boston. Here were quiet people who left me alone, people who understood restraint. Cousin had married an Episcopalian---shocking, but just my first taste of the changes to come. I wouldn't be attending Catholic school, and, most appalling: I was forbidden to attend Mass. The Doctor was convinced that my "nervous spells" were the result of religious hysteria.

And so, with great apprehension, I began my life over.

I was enrolled at a private day school. Despite my misgivings, I adjusted to my new environment. To my surprise and relief, Sara's avenging fury seemed content to remain in my parent's home in far-off Louisiana. Over those next months, I eased into my new life, and slowly, my past evaporated away. My cousins were kind enough, but I felt no particular attachment to them. As soon as I was of sufficient age, I asked, and was granted permission to attend boarding school, preferring the austere discipline, the solitude and responsibility. There, I was able to devote myself to study and no one thought I was odd. Or, if they did, they left me alone, which suited me.

Several years passed in this fashion. At first, I returned home on holidays, but my parents rapidly disintegrating marriage drove me back to the comforting seclusion of school. After their divorce, my mother remarried and moved with my stepfather to England. My own father died suddenly soon after, leaving me a legacy, to be inherited when I reached the age of twenty-one.

At thirteen, I was sent to Miss Porter's where my favorite subjects were Latin, French, and mathematics. When it was deemed appropriate, I was sent for training in deportment, posture, and elocution. My unruly hair was brought into line and my teeth straightened. With little to distract me, I advanced rapidly and was able to graduate early and head straight to college. I was very young, very naive, and as my mother reminded me during her monthly trans-Atlantic telephone calls, an heiress. Easily a target for unworthy suitors or n'er do wells. But I was not interested in boyfriends, even in those wild, uncertain years of the nineteen sixties. My studies absorbed all my attentions, and despite my expensive education, I was a quiet girl lacking an easy wit. When confronted with a social setting, I preferred to retreat into silence and observe those around me. Rather than make me an object of scorn, my more worldly classmates, perhaps mistaking shyness for sophistication, were drawn to my reserve and came to me with their confidences. Although I was hardly a mature Ann Landers, I had the instinct not to repeat gossip, and soon became something of a house Confessor.

I was not unpopular, but preferred my own company to that of other girls, who I secretly pitied for their silly intrigues and vapid crushes. I had an alternate world--a local art house cinema that showcased all the old movies my generation sneered at. I spent hours in the flickering darkness, spellbound by women named Lana, Barbara and Rita. They were the antithesis of the ragged hippies my classmates emulated. With their hourglass figures, lush lipstick and penciled brows, they ensnared helpless anti-heroes with wicked double entendres and snappy comebacks. They were bad, beautiful, bold-everything I wasn't. The dark world of film noir fascinated me; the moral decay, the seediness---a lifestyle that as a privileged, sheltered schoolgirl, I could only imagine.

It was during my Senior year that a professor suggested I interview for government service, where my linguistic skills and spotless reputation made me an attractive candidate. To my surprise, I was accepted, trained, and soon began my first tour as an employee for the Directorate of Intelligence.

In my own way, I had moved on with my life, leaving that sad childhood "incident" behind me. As I grew older, I saw my sister's death through the more rational prism of maturity, but the uneasiness lurked. In darker moments, I caught glimpses of Sara amongst my acquaintances, in the wrinkle of a brow, a giggle, a lock of curly blonde hair.

And although I had long forgiven myself, I could not seem to forget.

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

Before the flickering blue strobe of the monitor, the darkness enveloping him with its illusion of order, he began his third pack of cigarettes, sipped from his fourth pot of coffee. It was quiet in the hallways, like it usually was this time of night, on this day of the week, allowing him a small respite from the chaos, a few precious moments for himself alone.

Sometimes, on nights like this, he removed the heavy mantle of responsibility and let himself wander, unfettered, along the avenues of his past. It was an indulgence rarely tolerated. Like Madeleine, he had little use for sentiment.

Madeleine..

They had been together so long. He knew her intimately---far better than she realized or cared to admit. He was more than well acquainted with those aspects which were elementally Her; the icy veneer, the brittle remarks, steely control, the hot and cold signals, and of course, the other men-an unpleasant reminder of the consequences of Section's legacy. He understood, now, of course, but it had taken more than a few years to bring his jealousy under control.

He'd be stretching the truth if he said he'd appreciated her talents from the first; in all the craziness, he simply hadn't had the time. After that night, he'd been too busy hiding her away from Adrian's venom; and to the last, Adrian never stopped hating Madeleine for what she was, and what she represented to Section One.

He'd sent her as far from him as he could, to the harshest sub-stations, indenturing her to the most difficult personnel. She earned her stripes with Section's finest---the prima donnas, the brilliant lunatics, the theory-obsessed dreamers, the sadistic monsters. If she could survive that experience, he reasoned, she would be ready for anything.

How could he have known his protege would blossom so completely? The sterile environment was like the lushest of hot-houses to Maddy, as she was called, and when they finally met again---on his watch this time---she had become Madeleine, and she couldn't have pleased him more than if she'd sprung fully formed from his own head.

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

I wish you could have seen her then, as she was---so beautiful, and she had a spark about her---

Well, I still see it sometimes.

It hasn't been smooth, our life together. But whose life ever turns out the way they expect?

You wouldn't know from watching us together what we have. We both learned long ago that there can be no personal life in Section, but she's better at hiding it than I am. After all these years I've gotten a little lazy, maybe a little self-indulgent--

Maybe a little tired of the monster I helped create.

It didn't start out that way. Section One, the people, the methods---we didn't anticipate what it would eventually become.

We were so young, so enthusiastic. So sure we knew it all.

I had just finished my final tour in Vietnam, and I hadn't spent all that time in a bamboo cage to end up licking some draft-dodger's boots when I got back stateside.

Take your anti-war demonstrations and SHOVE IT!---

You could say I was ripe for the picking. I got a call from George, my old Delta brother, who I'd kept in touch with sporadically. He was a spook and wanted out, he said. Why? I asked. I've got something better, and I want you to come in, he told me, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Goodbye military career, hello Department Section One Alpha---a new era in intelligence. A brand new organization-- bold, hard-hitting, streamlined. A place for people like me who could read the writing on the wall; men who were tired of the same bureaucrat horsesh!t. DSOA would be a fresh start, with young operative with big ideas, who weren't afraid to take risks. George said there was some bigwig from MI6 named Adrian who would be taking the helm. I hadn't met him yet, though-and wasn't I shocked as hell when I finally did!

We set off then, on the prowl, looking for the best people-if they didn't come to you---you had to steal them. George took the intelligence community, I trolled among my military contacts. The day I first met Madeleine, I'd just had lunch with an attache who I later recruited.

I had a lot on my mind when I walked into that office. In fact, when I think about it---if it hadn't been for that stupid button, I would never have noticed her at all.

One button.

Just one...

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

Time will determine if these consolations will be their reward...

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

~West Berlin, August 1972~

"Good afternoon."

Startled, Maddy jumped, carbon-stained fingers reaching back to tuck a lock of shining black hair behind her ear, correcting pencil clenched between even teeth. She was crouched over the ancient Smith-Corona in a vain attempt to unjam it's snaggled keys.

The voice seemed to come from behind her-impossible, because her back was to a window. She looked up slowly. In front of the desk stood a dark-haired man dressed in black, with pale blue eyes--wolf's eyes, she thought with a silent intake of breath.

His eyes focused somewhere over her left shoulder. "Where is Benedict?" He didn't bother looking--having already glimpsed her impeccable navy suit, Hermes scarf, and conservative pearls--just a little square for his taste. Not like his current mistress---now SHE was a tiger. His thoughts flashed to the wanton Vibeke, his lips curving unconsciously into a smirk.

Maddy bristled. Who was this man and why was he smiling at her like she had "coffee, tea or me" stamped on her forehead? Oh GOD--not ANOTHER rear-end-pinching Embassy playboy---

As if reading her mind, the man turned and swept her again, eyes halting abruptly just inches below her shoulders, arrested by a thrilling sight: the girl's shirt was unbuttoned, her full, ivory breasts on display. Wow. He did a double-take, looking up into her face in surprise, seeing Maddy for the first time. She was better looking than he thought, a LOT better looking.

(And man, was she STACKED!)

Maddy caught the direction of his gaze. She looked down and saw that an extra button had come undone, exposing her bosom in its modest slip and brassiere. She felt her face flaming with embarrassment. JERK! She composed herself and regarded him icily.

"Director Benedict has left for the day. Is there something I can help you with?"

Ah...another uptight recruit. Well, he was in the mood to have a little fun..

He raised an eyebrow "I see Benedict's taste in secretaries has improved."

Secretary? Her nostrils flared. "I happen to be an ANALYST," she corrected stiffly.

He nodded knowingly, "DI, eh? Well, they certainly make them prettier than they used to. Now, if you get tired of taking his `dictation', you just give me a call." He winked suggestively.

Her eyes blazed, "Haven't you ever heard of Women's LIB?" she retorted angrily.

"Honey, my Daddy told me there are only two places a woman belongs-and one of them's the kitchen." He reached calmly into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Silk Cuts. "Cigarette?"

Maddy's jaw dropped, speechless. She stared at his tanned, handsome face, customary sang-froid deserting her.

And then realized with a jolt---he was putting her on!

Well, of all the NERVE----

She steamed for a half-second, calculating her response.

This-This----MASHER--could sure dish it out---

Let's see if he could take it.

Her pulse slowed to a lazy crawl as she switched gears and smiled faintly, accepting the cigarette, "Thanks." She raised it deliberately to her lips and cast her eyes demurely downward, her eyelashes fluttering delicately, tilting her head to await his offer of a light. He extended his hand--flick---she sucked in on the end, meeting his eyes boldly, then lowering her gaze to his expensive leather shoes. She let her eyes hover and then begin to rise, ever so slowly, pausing just below his belt.

"Nothing like a good smoke" she breathed, keeping her eyes fixed on his groin area. Then she held out her hand in front of her, gazing at the cigarette critically.

"It's too bad these are so small," she said, voice heavy with regret. "I never feel quite satisfied after one of these little ones--do you ever have that problem with other girls, Mr.." her voice trailed off suggestively.

"No, actually," he replied, smile tightening a little.

Maddy put the tip of the filter to her lips and drew in languidly, giving him that slow, Mona Lisa smile that would later become her trademark.

They watched each other, the silence between them electric.

"Well, it's been...educational," he said finally.

"Knowledge is power." Her eyes glittered black in the blue swirl of smoke, she had to fight to keep from laughing.

He reached for her hand; this time the smile was genuine. "I look forward to my next lesson," he murmured, and, to his surprise, he meant it. He was gratified to see a pink flush moving slowly up her neck as the blast of his charm hit her full force.

She pulled her hand away, suddenly shy, and watched him stride out of the office, then moved to her window, observing as he melted into the crowd on the street below.

"Maddy!"

"What? Oh, hello Vera." She blushed, realizing the other woman had been trying to get her attention.

Vera laughed, "I see you've met our Mystery Man."

"Who IS he?" Maddy asked, resting her chin on hand, watching the crowds on the street below.

"Oh, he's so classified, he doesn't even HAVE a name," Vera replied, "But he sure is good-looking. Leslie practically throws herself at him whenever he shows up, but she's never gotten anywhere."

"Leslie?" Maddy sniffed. She was an analyst who had just transferred in from New York. Tall, glamorous, ice-blonde beautiful---just the kind of jet setter Maddy figured he'd go for---the type of woman who always got what she wanted.

"Well, maybe he's married." She tossed it out experimentally, but in fact had seen the tan line of a wedding ring outlined clearly around his finger.

Vera pulled out her compact and applied a fresh layer of lipstick. "They're all married," she replied absently, picking at her false eyelashes, "But I've heard he likes those Swedish stewardesses." She snapped the mirror closed. "See you Monday. Say, a couple of us girls are going out for drinks later-want to come along?"

Maddy gestured toward a stack of papers, "Thanks, but I need to translate and mimeograph these intelligence reports by Monday morning."

Vera shook her head, "All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl," she warned, sashaying out the door. Not that she was surprised by the refusal. Maddy was such a stick. She never socialized with the other girls. And her manner was, well, brusque. That didn't bother Vera-she got along with anyone. But she knew some of the other girls didn't like her. It wasn't that she was mean, or rude, she was just...odd.

Cold.

Maybe she was just shy. Or maybe her heart only beat twice an hour---

Who cared? It was Friday night, and Vera had the whole weekend to have fun. She tied her scarf under her chin and skipped on to the street, her new platform boots tapping across the pavement as she sauntered away.

Back in the office, Maddy continued to stare out the window, heart pounding against her breast, so loud, so loud, unable to concentrate, to think of anything except the dark-haired man--his shoulders, his eyes. She had been mesmerized--she hadn't known what to say, what to do. She'd pretended she was a femme fatale---they always got their man--and she wanted this one.

He was beautiful.

Dangerous---

For the first time in her life, she had a flash of understanding for the knowing glances, breathless confidences, whispers about losing control, about not being able to help one's self.

Predatory---

Frantic, feverish, obsessive stirrings of an emotion she refused to name, knowing it was wrong.

He was married and she'd never even had a serious boyfriend.

Seducer---

Her face burned hot with the implications.

It's not that she hadn't had offers, but she had never been interested, never been inspired to make that leap. She'd wanted to wait for Mr. Right and now she had---and he belonged to someone else. But, strangely, she didn't care, even though it was a Sin against everything she'd been taught.

She'd been Good, hadn't she? She'd stayed away from temptations, lived a quiet, moral life, never let emotions take precedence over logic and facts--no one could fault her character.

Now, finally she was ready to claim her due. She was young, smart, and on her way up---more than ready to handle a little summer fling.

An affaire de coeur. A minor dalliance.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

Simple.

So simple.

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

For her first tour with the Agency, Maddy's cover was downright nondescript: officially, she was one of three multi-lingual account representatives in the Overseas Operations Division of Consolidated Power and Petroleum, West Berlin office. CPP was, of course, a dummy corporation. The office she reported to every morning was located beside a bombed out brick shell. On the first floor was a tiny French pastry shop, legitimate; the rest of the building was CIA.

She spent her time analyzing intelligence, observing the other operatives come and go, writing assessments, listening to East German communiques. Once and awhile, when VIP's arrived on "fact finding tours", she was told to shepherd the wives on shopping trips and keep them occupied while the men enjoyed triple martini lunches at some of West Berlin's naughtier establishments.

This afternoon, the shops were uncharacteristically mobbed. Elderly British sightseers mingled amongst groups of wealthy Italians on holiday; hordes of students with rucksacks streamed through the divided city before continuing to hitchhike their way across Europe. The street was clogged with pedestrians, bicycles with basketed handlebars, small German cars. It was hotter than normal, with no cooling breeze to bring relief, and the auto fumes hung in the air, nauseating, unbearable.

She took refuge under an awning, wishing desperately for a cigarette-anything to cover the sickening smell of exhaust.

If wishes were horses---

Alas, a lady never smoked on the street, and Maddy, if nothing else, was always a lady.

So, she stood grimly on the sidewalk, like a sweltering packhorse laden with parcels, ordering herself to ignore the ticklish rivulets of sweat sliding down between her shoulder blades.

This was one of her least favorite assignments--entertaining a cadre of VIP wives from the Midwest. They had been to the Schloss Charlottenburg and were now on what seemed like an endless shopping expedition; to Maddy's chagrin, Senator Brown's vapid wife insisted on hitting every tourist trap this side of Checkpoint Charlie.

She sighed and shifted her weight onto her other sandaled foot.

"Hello again." The low, silky voice sent a shivering vibration down her spine.

It was Him.

Dressed all in black, pale wolf eyes boring into her own, the aura of power radiating from him like heat off a desert highway.

Oh God, she couldn't breathe---she felt the ragged pounding of her heart and was sure she would die--

"Good afternoon," she replied politely, her voice cool with disinterest.

"Shopping?"

"Not really." She leaned against the nearby lamp-post, fingering her clip-on earring, offering no further explanation.

He gazed around silently, then turned back toward her, undeterred, "You married?"

"No."

"Have a boyfriend?"

She stared into his wolf-eyes, challenging him, "Who wants to know?"

"Are you free for dinner?"

She didn't hesitate, "Sorry, I have other plans."

"A drink, then?"

"Persistent, aren't you, Mr.-----?"

He caressed her hand. "Call me Marcus."

"Is that really your name?"

"Do you really have other plans?"

She felt a muscle twitch in her left cheek. "Touche."

"Let me pick you up."

Maddy shook her head. "No, I'll meet you. Do you know Savignyplatz?"

"Is that where you live?"

She ignored the question. "Meet me in front of Cafe Sina at 1700."

He grinned, "I'll be counting the minutes."

Was he mocking her? She raised her chin defiantly, "Good day, Mr--"

"Marcus," he chided.

"Marcus," she echoed, "Now, if you'll excuse me-"

He remained under the awning, watching her march up the steps into the clothing store behind them.

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

Almost a decade passed before he saw her again after that terrible night. By then, his single-minded devotion to Section was legend and so was her ruthlessness. This time, he watched her entrance from above the common area, the observation deck his new domain. Section needed an overhaul and his housecleaning was swift and dispassionate. Out with old and in with the new. Madeleine was one of his first gambles. Although Section had changed in eight years, there were almost no women and most hadn't the temperament to advance very far.

She was different. She'd come along way from the green CIA agent he'd plucked from a West German prison.

Her latest assignment had been in South America under the tutelage of Franz Z----, the Czech who bragged to Operations that he had watched her stab a man through the eye with a ballpoint pen without breaking a sweat, and Operations believed him.

He'd seen something like it himself once.

Madeleine, as she was now called, was like a man--no, like a machine.

Heartless.

Ironic--the trait that once repulsed him now attracted him like an electron magnet.

Today, the eyes that bored into his were just as kinetic as her smooth face was serene, but the sight of her elegant figure raised no anticipatory interest, only a casual ambivalence. A pretty face no longer interested him. Results only roused his passions, and in those final years of Cold War espionage, her skills would be a formidable addition in his Section arsenal.

"Do you know why I requested you?" His critical gaze swept her impeccably clad form. Although she affected repose, he sensed her tensing, ready to spar. She was as sleek and unblinking as a big cat.

"I'm sure you'll tell me." She sat perfectly still, opaque eyes tracking him as he coolly lit a cigarette and paced across the room.

"You have an impressive dossier."

"Yes, I do." She flexed her claws unselfconsciously.

"You're not modest."

"What would be the point?"

He knew she knew why he had called her. Her demeanor was aloof and yet he sensed a quickening as she caught the scent of what he held before her; it seemed even the predatory Madeleine hungered for more than blood.

And this WAS more than blood--this was power.

More power than most men could ever imagine.

"No woman has ever held this job, but despite that fact, I'm giving it to you. You have one month to prove yourself."

She didn't move, merely stared at him with that eerie, unaffected gaze.

He turned his back. "I suggest you get to work."

She left without so much as a blink of a carefully mascara'd lash.

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

She didn't tell anyone. Not even Vera, who as merely a casual acquaintance was the closest thing she had to a friend. All day long, her eye wandered to the wall clock over the file cabinet, her leg jiggling nervously under the desk. It took her three times longer than usual to translate the field reports and type her assessments.

She was breathless, feverish, her face burning with excitement, her heart beating one million times faster than normal.

She'd almost laughed out loud when Leslie tried to draw her out with a catty remark, but instead, tossed off an indifferent reply, leaving her rival nonplussed.

She was meeting him tonight. Marcus.

Or whatever his name was--

She hadn't thought beyond their actual meeting, to what she would say, where they might go, what might...happen.

She was being uncharacteristically rash. She knew it was crazy, that she couldn't sustain it, that it wasn't really her. It was as if she was outside her body, watching herself put a foot down on the pedal, rev the engine, drive as fast as she could down the highway in a dangerous, oh so thrilling game of chicken. Even now, he was approaching her at top speed----

Would it be a near miss or would they collide?

She put a hand up to cool her blazing forehead, wondering.

Imagining--

Anticipating---

Her face flushed, she closed her eyes.

On the wall, the round face clock counted the time, second by agonizing second, mocking her with its unhurried, mechanical indifference.

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

He was early. He should have been late, he should have let her think he had people to meet, places to go and a full harem to boot, but he couldn't do it. There was something about her, something ineffable. Under that studied indifference was an ingenue who hadn't yet realized she was playing with the big boys--he could feel it. Not quite untouched, but perhaps close to it, and the thought of delving beneath that frosty exterior excited him.

He waited near the cafe, dressed in his customary black, watching for her over the pages of a German newspaper, his eyes hooded. At precisely the appointed time, Maddy approached. She moved toward him, and time slowed. Their eyes locked. She was as smooth as a skater, and every nuance of her motion dazzled his eye as though she were on display behind a brilliant crystal lens.

So beautiful---

"Fraulien." He bent over her hand.

She smiled shyly. "Hello, Marcus."

He offered an arm and they strolled, Maddy accepting his lead without complaint. There were still hours of light left, and the streets bustled with their usual capacity of shoppers, workers, tourists.

They drew to the side to accommodate a nurse pushing a man in a wheelchair. Maddy waited during the pause in their motion and asked, "Do you work for the Agency?"

Her question surprised him, he couldn't help smiling at her naivete. "No."

"Oh." She looked away, embarrassed by her gaffe, at a loss for the direction of any further inquiries. As if reading her mind he patted her arm reassuringly and then she remembered something else, something of greater import.

She halted her step again, forcing him to stop, and gripped his arm.

"You're married, aren't you." It was not a question, and yet no matter the answer, no one could say she hadn't faced it. She would at least be honest about chasing him.

He looked her full in the face. "We're separated," he told her, with no trace of irony, "My wife liked me better when I was MIA."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. While I was gone she found someone else and now we're just waiting for the papers to be signed. It's quite civilized, really." He looked away, clearing his throat, "I don't mean to be flip about it. I-- feel bad for my children. I never really got the chance to know them. But she tells me it's better this way." He laughed mirthlessly, then changed the subject. "What about you-anyone special?"

She kept her voice light, "I'm afraid I'm rather picky."

"Well, you're smart. It's better to find out now rather than later-trust me."

They made their way down the sidewalk, making casual, exploratory conversation; warm, early evening breeze accompanying them. Although they were ostensibly going for drinks, neither one thought to mention it or even remembered.

They headed toward a quieter side street, lined with small, elegant clothing stores. Beside the curb stood a flower cart, attended by a heavily rouged elderly woman with dyed black hair. They paused, waiting while the old woman greeted them with a few blossoms thrust forward in an attempt to catch their interest.

"Gardenias!" Maddy breathed, delighted. "My favorite." As she watched, the woman removed several and trimmed the wooden stems with a heavy pair of scissors, wrapping and presenting the bouquet with a smile.

"It's lovely, thank you." She shut her eyes and inhaled the familiar fragrance. Gardenias brought back only good memories of her childhood.

When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her. "I know you said you only had time for a drink, but I'd really like to take you to dinner." He smoothed a hand back over his dark hair, shifting his weight, almost as if he were----

Nervous?

She blushed. "I have no other plans..I-I.....just said that, before."

He knew he was smiling like an idiot, but didn't care, "You want to?"

She nodded, cheeks flushing deep pink at the sight of his enthusiasm, and they remained steady on their course, across three more streets, until they reached his favorite French restaurant.

Dinner was wonderful. She would remember every dish; the flavor of each morsel, the smells, textures, colors of every bite--everything about that night, in fact--

Especially what was to come.

It was late when they left the cafe, and Maddy gripped his arm with an easy familiarity as they headed back to their original rendezvous point. It was farther than she realized; they had walked a great distance. They entered the side street home of her beloved gardenias. Sure enough, the cart remained there still, covered with a tarpaulin now, sleeping silent for the night.

Suddenly she clapped her hand to her side, "My pocketbook!" Her voice rose a little, panicked, "I must have left it at---"

"It's ok," he soothed, "I'll go back and get it."

"I can go with you."

He looked up and down the street. It was deserted, and well lit. At either end were public bars, quite unassuming. He cast a critical eye toward his companion. It was late and he could see she was tired, beginning to limp a little.

He made a decision. "You stay here. I'll run back."

"Alright."

"Wait by the cart, OK?"

She watched him jog back to the main thoroughfare and when he was out of her sight, she limped toward a nearby doorway. She wanted to sit on the steps and remove her shoes, see what she could do about the blister forming on her right heel.

She reflected idly that she shouldn't have worn brand new pumps.

In the sky above her, a three-quarter moon slipped behind a high cloud and the stars were dimmed by the cold, glittering lights of the divided city.

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

I told the German psychiatrist that I didn't remember what happened next.

But that was a lie--

I remembered it all--in appalling, lurid detail.

I still do.

One of the things that perplexed me most about that night is that I had no warning; no sixth sense, no fine hairs tickling the back of my neck. That always bothered me, and I reproached myself for months afterward.

I don't now, of course, but I was younger then, and arrogant.

I waited for him on the steps of a darkened tobacco shop, the flower cart in my sight. After a time I became bored, so I picked up my new shoes and began making my way down the street. I was so intent on watching for his return that I blocked everything else out---a mistake.

I let my guard down, and it cost me.

He was so silent I didn't hear him until the very last, and then a massive weight collapsed upon me from behind, heavy arms smothered me in an obscene embrace, drunken slurring in my right ear, and the smell---to this day I cannot adequately describe it.

At first I didn't understand. I was so shocked, I thought it must be a joke--a prank. I couldn't move; I hung limp, like a rabbit, waiting. A voice mumbled unintelligible words, large hands reached for my breasts. I reacted then, as if I'd been shocked with a live current. My blood began to roar in my ears, my adrenaline started building; I began to rock back and forth, like a kettle ready to boil. With a burst of panicked energy, I broke free and made for the flower cart, desperate to find something of value under the canvas to fight back with, but he put a boot into the back of my thigh and I went down onto my hands and knees.

I crawled---my heart surging in fear, my own panting breaths the only sound I heard. Then--an incredible agonizing, hot burning pain as he yanked me back up off the street by my hair, his other hand squeezing around my throat, choking me, shaking me, throwing me against the wooden cart frame, till my breath was all but gone. I was writhing, twisting, my nails tearing at the canvas, my fingers flailing, curling around something sharp under the fabric--a pair of scissors--and then, as if it was only seconds ago-- my arm hurled forward--

I stabbed him.

I stabbed those scissors hard into his throat, my arm so strong, it felt like a battering ram. His jugular sprayed blood hot rain into my eyes and I could feel the flesh shudder and rip under my hand. I drove so hard that the tip of the metal barely recoiled when it smashed against the bones in his spine and I thought my hand would follow it all the way through. I heard the popping sounds of the sinews and tendons and veins as they were severed, but I kept going.

I kept going.

And when I finally looked up, there He was, wolf eyes watching me.

He didn't say anything. He just stood, frozen, staring at me with an expression of complete and utter horror.

Even today I don't know who was more shocked.

I thought he would speak, but he didn't. We just stared at each other like strangers; the tension between us----awful---I felt sick--

Then I heard the police sirens. Someone started shouting farther down the street, and it seemed from out of nowhere, witnesses began materializing.

I looked at him; I knew he had to disappear. My voice was ragged---"Get out of here!"--I didn't mean to sound so harsh, but my only instinct was to protect him. He shook his head at me--what was he thinking? He couldn't change what I'd done. He couldn't hold back the tide of consequences about to hit me.

I regret that the last words I spoke to him were in anger; a reiteration of my earlier order, but with an expletive attached. After what seemed like an eternity he reluctantly obeyed, and I watched him disappear into the crowd of dark figures beginning to advance on me.

Then, as it always does, my mind turned to more practical worries, and it occurred to me: I was a fright. My stockings were torn out, my knees and palms scraped and bleeding. I had a shiner of congealing blood around my eye, a ring of bruises around my throat. He didn't give me back my purse, I thought. At least I had a handkerchief in there---I could have used one. I wiped a hand across my face to clear the blood, trying to give myself some semblance of respectability.

It's ironic, the things we find to occupy our attentions.

I could see two policemen rushing down the street-soon they'd be upon me. I began to crumble then, the tension, the fear, the adrenaline rush beginning to subside into a collapse. I felt my knees trembling, buckling. It was all starting to hit me, you see. I couldn't think, couldn't make sense, couldn't understand what I'd just done.

I thought I'd faint when I saw him there, watching me. He looked so disgusted, so sickened. Revolted---

By ME--

By MY actions--

To my shame, my eyes filled, despite my best efforts my teeth started chattering. I began to break down in front of the crowd assembling around me. Tears of humiliation and despair rolled down my cheeks. I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe it.

That wasn't me-

That wasn't my hand-

That wasn't my hand thrusting, pulling, ripping, and deliberately twisting the scissors--

Tearing the wound even after I knew he was dead.

NO--

I didn't do it---

I didn't--

It WASN'T ME--

Please, God...it wasn't me...

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

He clutched the chic YSL handbag to his chest, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes had just witnessed.

She hadn't made a sound, quiet as the proverbial church mouse--slashing her attacker's throat without hesitation, without mercy, as if she had no regard for his humanity. Did she even know what she had done? Then, just when he thought he'd seen it all, she'd caught sight of him watching her and smiled, and he felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck.

That mysterious, Mona Lisa curve..

God, he needed a cigarette, needed one bad----

What kind of mental case was she? And what kind of animal did that make HIM? A wave of shame engulfed him. He'd felt it, God help him, he'd felt it--

When he watched her wield those scissors like a dagger, saw the bright red liquid drench her face, he'd felt it--

A heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping, blood-lusting thrill.

She might be crazy, but he was sick---a pervert-or something--

JESUS CHRIST! This couldn't have happened at a worse time--not when he and George had worked so hard! Shaking, he took another drag off his cigarette. He needed to think.

GODDAMN IT! She was crazy---CRAZY! Lord help him--if he ever became that way he hoped someone would shoot him.

But then---why was he blaming HER? HE was the one who left! HE was the one who should have known better than to leave an innocent girl alone at night, CHRIST----what was he thinking?

She was only doing what she had to, he could see that now. Poor girl--

No, not a girl---a beautiful woman, who could kill in cold blood.

But he would not think of that now--he had to concentrate on taking care of business. He had a crisis situation, George was unreachable and it was up to him.

So in a split second, he decided---

HE was the one who got her into this mess.

He would get her out.

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

And so, Gentle Reader, I was redeemed.

He thought I was a killer, he thought I was ruthless.

He came back anyway.

He came back and retrieved me and gave me an opportunity.

He thought I was a killer, but I knew the truth--

I was no conniving femme fatale, no cold-hearted vixen. I was just a girl; an analyst, a keeper of facts, figures--just an office worker who interpreted data. Pushed pencils. Typed reports. Watched from afar. But somehow, I killed a man; viciously, horribly. Despite my plea of self-defense, the inquiry and trial would have been enough to ruin my career. And if, God forbid, I'd been convicted, my life would have been spent in a German prison, disavowed by every official government spokesman.

But he had come back--

For me.

My past was gone. My whole life washed away in a rush of adrenaline that I rode like a tidal wave. For the second time I would be starting over, bringing with me nothing but the ghost of a girl I pretended to be, a ghost that as a result of my own folly, would haunt me forever.

I awoke to my new life on an eastbound train, under armed guard, with no idea of where I was going or what my purpose would be.

Whatever it was, I vowed, I would not fail him, but more importantly, I would not fail myself.

I would not let down my guard---

I would not let myself become weak---

EVER again.

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

She says Maybe these emotions are
As near to love as love will ever be..

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

She heard a knock on the door.

"Come in."

A young kitchen worker named Helena entered shyly, bearing a loaded tray. "Operations thought you might be hungry." The aroma of spices wafted through the stark office and Madeleine realized she hadn't eaten since their breakfast meeting together fourteen hours earlier.

Her face softened. She'd been especially withdrawn these past weeks, and despite it all he pursued her still, as he always had---

As he knew she needed him to. After so many years, the steps were as familiar to them both as breathing.

Helena set the tray down on a desk and left. Inside the silver serving dish was Madeleine's favorite dinner, accompanied by a pot of tea, a fresh baked custard, even a gardenia nestled gently beside the plate.

He was so thoughtful.

She raised the flower to her face, inhaling deeply, rubbing the soft petals against her cheek; for a minute her eyes closed.

And she remembered...a warm summer night in a divided city.

She looked at the tiny scissors still in her hand and set them reverently back into their velvet case.

Then, she sat down and began to cut into her food with precise, delicate motions, while the florescent lights winked overhead, bathing her pale skin in a familiar, translucent glow.

The road bends
The song ends
She moves on...

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

All Lyrics to "She Moves On" and "Hearts and Bones" by Paul Simon

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
-- OR --
If you would like to send a comment to Tn't click HERE.