(Author's Note - This is a serious story which attempts to explain the why two honorable men like Michael and Jurgen (and I'm taking Walter's word for Jurgen here) have such problems with each other. )

Simone was a princess. Her parents had always thought so, and raised her as such. So did her husband Michael, her dear, sweet Michael, who had sold himself body and soul to Section One for what she had come to this of as "her little mistake". An indiscretion. A wrong word to the wrong man at a bar. How could she have known eight people would die?

So it was only right and only proper that she should have what she wanted, and when she decided that Section One was failing to recognize and reward the efforts of her darling Michael, she resolved to remedy that situation.

And so she looked around, at the operatives, at the technicians, and even at Operations himself. She assessed the competition to what she had determined was Michael's rightful place, and when she chose, she, as they said in Section One, began sequencing.

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

She knocked at the door lightly, hesitantly. When he answered it he eyed her warily. "Yes?"

"Jurgen?"

"Yes."

She smiled, then bit it back shyly. She scanned the corridor. "May I come in?"

"Of course."

"My name is Simone."

"You're Michael's wife."

Simone bowed her head. "Yes."

"He's a good operative."

Simone looked away and did not answer.

"Is this about Michael?"

simone bit her lip, then looked at him shyly. "Ye--no. I--" She twisted the wedding band on her finger. Finally, "They say you are an honorable man." Then she met his eyes, dark wells pleading.

He guided her to a chair. "Please. Tell me. It's okay." His voice was gentle.

"You know Michael and I were brought in together, and we had a son." She refused to meet his eyes.

"Yes." He placed his hand on hers.

"And our baby died."

"Yes." That had been a blow to the whole of Section One. The loss of that tiny life in the torments of Section had torn at even the most hardened operatives.

"Since then--" She choked. "Michael--" Fat tears trailed down her cheeks. "Even before--" and she broke into sobs, tiny body heaving fiercely. She threw herself into his arms. Jurgen, unsure of what to do, embraced her gently, stroked her hair, and through fits and starts, she told him her story.

She told him--and truth be known, this was the one part of her plan which troubled her--about herself and Michael, how he had wooed and charmed her, the only daughter of a wealthy financier, she too parochial from her Catholic girls' school upbringing to see him for what he was. How he took her for long walks that netted him cash and cars, favors of her affections, booty from his latest raid. How he swept her away into an elopement, and when her parents insisted the marriage be annulled, he insisted on making a baby. How he coaxed and cajoled her, telling her that no grandparent woud ever deny their grandchild (and by extension, the grandchild's parents) any creature comfort. How when her parents did deny them, he flew into a rage, and killed them both with her father's hunting rifle, then shoved it into her hands and touched her face with their blood and told her that their fates were forever bound. And how, when Section One brought them in, and gave him a life of violence and danger, she found out that was what he loved more than her.

Yes, it troubled her a bit to tell things not quite true about her beloved. But it was for his own good, and it was just to Jurgen, and he soon would tell no one anything.

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

That evening the apartment was black and cold when Michael came home. He called for her and heard only the shower running. His breath fogged the air. He closed the window on the way to the bathroom.

"Simone?" Through the hiss of water he heard a sob. "Simone? Simone!" He found her curled on the shower floor, freezing water pouring over her. He shut off the water and pulled her to him. She whimpered, clutched at him, and Michael wrapped her into a towel and carried her to the bed. She curled in on herself and resumed sobbing while he dried her, wrapped her in blankets, and held her. When she was finally calm, he kissed her forehead and asked, "What's wrong, cherie?"

Simone pressed against him, not meeting his eyes. "Oh, Michael--" She huddled closer, blankets wrapped like an armor, like a shroud. "This afternoon I was working with some files in Madeline's office." He nodded. He knew Madeline had her doing clerical duties since their son died. "I found something---nothing really, just a note. I shouldn't---"

"It's okay, cher. Tell me."

"It was just a scrap, handwritten, a little note, but it said--" Her eyes filled with tears again. "It said they had suspicions about who--hurt--our baby."

"Who?" He tried to keep calm, keep his voice gentle.

"It said he was unaccounted for when--it happened. He was in that part of Section. That he had no alibi."

"Who?" He felt the rage bein to rise.

She looked up at him through heavy lashes. "Jurgen."

"Jurgen?" That made no sense. He barely knew the man.

"I looked in his file. Oh, Michael, he's insane! He's a murderer and convinced them he has multiple personalities, and then he killed someone else, and they brought him in, and now . . . our poor baby."

"Jurgen," he whispered. "Jurgen."

He held her and rocked her, and when he finally was asleep, she buried her nose in his hair and smiled.

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

Stage two was trickier. She found sparring gloves easily enough in the physical training rooms, but the other part was harder. It took a bit of doing, but with a hint here and a sly suggestion there, the boys in Surveillance saw fit to route their attention to a certain little-used corridor in the bowels of Section where a tantalizingly lurid tryst was said to be scheduled. So who could blame them for overriding the monitors in Madeline's office when it was just Simone doing paperwork?

So she took the gloves into Madeline's office and fitted one over the newl post of the stairs. Then carefully, after settling her mind with deep breathing and easing into the zen state the karate master had taught her, Simone began bashing her head into the glove.

The bruises took abou three hours to blossom, but when they did, they were spectacular. Like a variegated pansy, her right eye was magenta shading into deep purple. Her left cheek was the color of violets, her busted lip like rose petals on snow. Madeline herself could not have done better.

She touched her jaw and winced a little, delighted. Then, almost as an afterthought, she decided to add a little upper body and thigh work, just to be sure, for her beloved Michael.

After all, verisimilitude was everything.

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

Jurgen found her huddled in an alcove near his door. He went to her, thinking at first it was some laundry hidden by an errant opeative to be dealt with later. When he touched her and she looked up, he jumped back in surprise. "Simone! What the hell--Come on, we've got to get you to MedLab."

"No!" She jerked back from him. "It's because of you--"

"Who did this to you? Michael?"

She shook her head fiercely. "Stay away from me. If he finds out--"

"Michael did this." Jurgen put his hand under her chin and eyed her face appraisingly. Her china-doll chin trembled at his touch. "That son of a bitch."

"No. It's not like that!" Her voice was pleading. "Please don't tell. It's just--He can't help it. He just gets so angry at times." She buried her face in her jacket. "Please, please, don't tell anyone."

"Simone, he can't be allowed to treat you this way." He took her arm gently. "Come with me to the MedLab."

She pulled back. "It's not his fault. He can't help it. It's my fault, all mine. I know Section demands so much of him, and then my demands, and the baby . . ." She met his eyes. "He couldn't help it then, either."

"What are you saying?"

"He knows I talked to you yesterday. That I told you things." She pulled herself to her feet, shaking. "If he catches me with you again--neither of us will have to worry about cancellation."

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

When Simone got home to lie in wait for Michael, he was gone. A single red mug turned upside down on the counter signaled that his team had been called in. Simone dashed the mug to the floor. It made a satisfying crash against the kitchen tile. How dare he be gone! How dare he interfere with her plan! With each thought, her fury rose. She smashed all the other mugs drying the drainer. Then the glasses. Then plates, bowls, whatever she could find, all of it smashing ina cacophony of fury, fury at Michael, fury at Section One, fury, fury, fury. She picked a broom and went through the house, wielding it like a broadsword, lamps, knick-knacks, all of hit smashed. when she reached the aquarium, Michael's aquarium, with all his dear little fishes, she smiled. She hated fish. Like a steel driver, she began swinging, swinging, until it cracked. Then with one dainty foot, she kicked it over and watched as his fish flopped helplessly and died.

Hours later, when Simone sat peacefully in the midst of the debris, it occurred to her that perhaps this delay would help her plan. After all, Madeline was always chiding her to be more flexible. She flipped the possibilities over in her mind like dice. Yes, this would work quite well, and chasten Michael as well. After all, she realized, it would be a shame for Jurgen to die. He was a smart man, a good operative, and therefore, his gullibility made him all the more precious. So she decided, in an uncharacteristic moment of largesse, to spare him. He migh be useful later. That Michae would be thwarted from killing him was icing on the cake.

She pulled out the laptop, and, using skills perfected over years of scamming disciplinarians in the fine schools of her youth, she was able to forge a set of orders from George requesting a spec ops man fitting Jurgen's profile be reassigned to a listening post in Nepal. by the time Michael made it through their front door, Jurgen was cruising at 30,000 feet on his way to a six-year stay in a Sherpa camp half way up K-2 and such exciting life skills as learning to play go.

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

Michael thought they had been compromised. He scanned the apartment, gun up. "Simone," he hissed. "Simone!"

He found her lying on the bed, face down, in a tangle of covers. For a heart-stopping second he relived finding the baby, still warm, in his crib. Then her back rose with breath, and he fell upon her. "Simone!"

She awoke and raised her head languidly. "Michael?"

"Oh, God!" Horror at her face. "We've been compromised. We've got to get in."

"No." She shook her head. "Not compromised."

"Then what?"

She buried her head back in the blankets.

"Simone . . . "

She turned her head, looked up at him, pain in her eyes. "No . . . no more." she pulled the sheet over her legs, drawing Michael's eyes to the bruises on her thighs. He rolled her over, found the bruises on her chest and arms. "Cherie . . . who?" He surveyed the destruction.

She began to cry, lying on her back, real tears this time. He stroked her hair. After a while, she said, "You know. Him. Jurgen." Then she began sobbing. He held her.

"I will deal with him."

Simone shook her head. "He's gone. When he came here, he said they were sending him away. Somewhere he wouldn't have to live in your shadow. Bogata, I think. He was so jealous . . . he said he wanted--he wanted me to have something to remember him by . . ."

"Cher--" He held her while she cried, and promised her his eternal love. He promised her he would always protect her, he promised her he would always be there. He promised her they would be together forever. He promised himself that Jurgen would pay.

In the next month, Michael was promoted to team leader. He did everything he could to bring Simone love and joy, to help her heal both body and heart. The bruises faded, and Simone seemed to bloom again into his little tiger lily.

Until the month after that, when she died, and Michael wept, for Simone had been the one soul who had never moved to cause him pain.

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