The flu had come and gone like a fallen angel, and Nikita silently thanked God she and Michael had been on a prolonged mission. Three-quarters of section had been felled, and, from the whispers and looks, Nikita learned it was particularly vile strain. Several operatives had begged for cancellation two days into it. They, according to the scuttlebutt, were the lucky ones. They were well enough to ask.

So it came to be that at the Wednesday morning senior staff meeting, the senior staff was greatly reduced.

"Okay, now on to recruitment," Operations was saying. Birkoff's hand shot up. Operations closed his eyes and sighed. "No, Birkoff, we are not bringing in the Spice Girls."

Birkoff lowered his hand and looked dejected.

Walter raised his hand.

"No, Walter, we're not bringing in Ann-Margaret, either. Believe me, if we could, I would go and get her personally." He caught Madeline's glare out of the corner of his eye. "Purely out of respect for her as a professional and the joy she has brought to all mankind through her performances."

"Especially wearing that tight sweater in 'Viva Las Vegas'," Walter added.

Operations shuffled his notes and tried not to grin.

"Who's Ann-Margaret?" Birkoff asked.

"She," Madeline stated, "Is an actress who makes men who are old enough to know better--" and she glowered first at Operations, then Walter, "--think and act like foolish schoolboys."

"Oh," Birkoff said, following her gaze. "Why didn't you just say she was the 'Grumpy Old Men' babe?"

Michael nearly choked. Nikita repressed a giggle. Operations sighed and gave up. "Enough, all of you. Dismissed."

Nikita leaned over and whispered to Michael, "They still haven't got him completely off the pain medication, have they?"

"I think Madeline's kept a supply and is lacing his food." She giggled again, and they left.

Birkoff handed a disk to Operations. "Latest intel on that situation, sir."

Operations and Madeline headed up to his office to review the information and to make their plans.

Six hours later they were in another briefing. Madeline's eyes were red and swollen. Operations bore his usual gruff demeanor. "Mr. Birkoff has found information pointing to a new American terrorist group. They call themselves Green Thumb--"

"What the hell kind of terrorist name is that?" Walter demanded.

"Maybe all the cool terrorist names like Hizbullah an Sinn Fein were taken," Birkoff said defensively.

"May I go on? The leader of the group is this woman--" The artwork popped up. Nikita gasped. Walter's jaw dropped. A single tear ran down Madeline's cheek. "--Martha Stewart, noted author and, um, what is she exactly?"

"Hostess? Chef?" Nikita supplied.

"Entertaining expert," Walter added authoritatively.

"She is the grande dame of gracious living in these horrible times of plastic cups and paper napkins and junk food!" Madeline looked like she was ready to start crying again.

"Geez," one of the new operatives whispered to Nikita, "Terrorists sure ain't what they used to be."

"Madeline," Operations said gently, "Would you like some time to compose yourself?"

"No. Go on." She sounded firm, but her chin quivered.

"Okay." He proceed through the plan. "Tomorrow night, Stewart is giving a benefit cocktail party at her home--"

"Which one?"

"What?"

"Which one? She has several."

"Walter, I didn't know you were such an aficionado." Operations checked his PDA. "It on Turkey Hill Road in Connecti--"

"Turkey Hill! That's the one with the pool!" Walter beamed.

"And the gardens, all those beautiful gardens, full of azaleas, and roses, and irises this time of year. And the pergola. I've got to see the pergola." Madeline seemed much more chipper now. Both she and Walter turned back to Operations expectantly.

"Is the gardening report over? Good. Because of this damned flu, everyone goes. Gail and Mowen will monitor from here. This is our only opportunity to get both Stewart and the plans for a new long-range missile launcher before she goes on supposed book tour, during which we believe she will pass the plans to the Libyans. There will be two hundred innocents there, people, so we have to be on top of our game or risk heavy collateral damage. And these innocents aren't the kind that will go quietly into the night if we screw up. Think congressional investigation. Walter, Madeline, and I will be in the initial infiltration unit with the rest of the cold ops. Your covers are in your PDA's. Learn them."

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

The next night the operatives going out on the mission were lined up outside of transport. They wore black, but not their usual mission fatigues. They wore tuxedos and evening gowns, and Madeline was holding inspection. "Gilroy, straighten that cumberbund. Cheryl! Blue eye shadow! I don't care what New Woman says, not on my mission! Collins, get rid of that gum."

Operations approached, looking, he thought, quite dashing in his white dinner jacket. He smiled when he saw Madeline, wearing a little black dress that made the manufacture of any other little black dresses superfluous. Or maybe, he thought, eyes roaming down to her perfectly turned ankles, it was just the way she wore it. Madeline turned to regard him. "Eeeeeee! What are those?" She pointed to his ankles.

"Socks?" He was acutely aware all eyes were on him.

"One is cotton, the other is acrylic. Really." She turned back to the operatives. "We may be trained killers, but I will not have Martha Stewart thinking that we are slobs." She spun back to Operations. "Go. Change them."

"Now?"

"Now."

He turned and saw Walter approaching. He repressed a grin. Walter was wearing a starched white shirt and a black leather vest, with, of course, his ubiquitous jeans and Justin boots. His hair was loose and fell neatly over his shoulders.

"Walter!" Madeline called. Operations turned to watch. This should be good. "You look marvelous!" She fingered a silver talisman on the rope of beads he wore. "This is beautiful."

"Wait a minute, " Operations said. "You're making me change socks, and he's okay? He looks like a pit boss in an Indian casino."

Madeline glared at him, but Walter just grinned. "Martha says people should be honored for expressing their individuality. Style is just individuality raised to an art form."

"And before you ask," Madeline added, "Mismatched socks are not individuality, just tacky." She offered her arm to Walter. "Would you please escort me out to check the limousines?"

He beamed. "I'd be delighted."

Operations ordered the rest of the operatives to make the changes Madeline demanded, then trudged of to find a pair of socks. He met Michael in the stairwell.

"Madeline--"

"Sent me back to change socks."

Michael nodded. "She made me go back and have Sarah comb my hair." Operations looked closer. Michael's hair did remind him of Bart Simpson on the way to Sunday School. "Maybe you could get Medlab--"

"I've been putting Valium in her tea all day."

"Next time try Thorazine."

"Is that what you use on your women?"

Michael grinned. "Only the really wild ones."

Just before leaving, Madeline decided the newer operatives needed another course in etiquette. She rode with them in one limousine, Nikita, Michael, Operations, and Walter in the second. Birkoff and the backup team rode in the van.

The limousine was spacious, but even so, Nikita was still uncomfortable being in such close quarters. Michael still had not quite forgiven her for her part in Petrozian's coup attempt, and, while Operations showed her no resentment, she found him as inscrutable as ever. Even Walter had just begun warming up to her again. So she at bit stiffly, next to Michael, and across from one man who she had been asked to kill, and another she had spied upon.

Walter sensed her discomfort, and, to assuage her fears, began telling her stories. Soon both he and she were laughing, and Operations was shaking his had at some of Walter's reminiscences. Even Michael bore a hint of a smile.

"So," Walter said to Operations, "Do you remember that time in Omaha? When Madeline--"

"That was her first mission." He grinned. "Oh, yes, I remember."

"Mind if I tell it?"

"Fine with me, but if Madeline finds out, I was never here and I knew nothing about it. I want complete deniability."

"Okay." Walter turned back to Michael and Nikita. "This is great."

"Classic."

"Picture it: Omaha, the late seventies. Madeline's very first mission, and little Miss Vassar had never worn any heels higher than what her mommy let her wear to the debutante ball, and her first assignment out of the box is as a fan dancer named--"

"Venus du Mer."

"Yeah, Venus du Mer. He was tending bar, and I was on the door. Back then, the Old Man thought the only thing female operatives were good for was--distraction, to put it politely."

"And you've become much more enlightened since then, eh, Walter?" Nikita asked.

"I have. Anyway, they handed her these huge blue marabou fans, put her in this sea-green sequined g-string and spike heels--"

"She couldn't even walk in them--"

"--and shoved her out on the stage, where she proceeded to get ten seconds into a truly remarkable--"

"--stunning--"

"--rendition of "Somewhere Beyond the Sea" when she trips and falls ass over tea kettle right into the target's lap. Fortunately, in the confusion, we were able to grab the item we were after, but oh, God--"

"It became a riot."

"The target thought she had done it intentionally to come on to him, and so was thrilled to find that little bundle in his lap--"

"She came up swinging--"

"--and nearly took his head off before we got her, him, those fans, the shoes--"

"One of the heels got stuck in his pant cuff--"

"Jesus, she was mad! Standing there in nothing but that g-string . . ." Both dissolved into laughter.

When they finished, Operations, still unable to repress a grin, said, "Don't ever tell Madeline you know about that mission, or the four of us will only wish we were cancelled."

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

Soon they arrived at Turkey Hill Farm. Traffic was backed up on the road, and a rent-a-cop waved them into a field filled with cars. Their driver pulled in beside the van. When they got out, Madeline was giving last minute instructions. "--And do not, I repeat, do not touch, break, chip, or smudge anything. Birkoff! You have Oreo schmootz all over your face!" She whipped out a hankie and began dabbing at his chin and cheeks, while he tried to bat her hand away.

Operations stepped in. "Madeline, why don't we go on in? It's not good for all of us to be sen together ." He stopped. "Why are you wearing a tuxedo, Birkoff? You're running the mission from the van."

"Madeline made me. In case I get captured."

"I just wanted him to look nice."

Operations sighed. Maybe he had overdone the Valium. "Okay, everyone, take your positions." He offered his arm to Madeline and they began toward the white fairy lights covering the pergola's canopy. Walter offered his arm to Nikita, and they and the other operatives followed. Michael waited a few moments, then said, "Pay close attention. It's been a while since either Operations or Madeline have been in the field."

"And tonight they're loopier than hell," Birkoff finished. "I'll do what I can." He looked past Michael. "Somebody's coming."

"Etienne!" Michael turned. A little-known French artist as being detained by "Interpol" while Michael borrowed his identity. It surprised him anyone would recognize him as the artist.

"Etienne, how nice to meet you," the woman said. It was her. The target. He could take her now, call everyone in . . . "And this must be your companion, Bjork." She clasped Birkoff's hands warmly. "You must be so proud."

"Very," Birkoff replied, somewhat bewildered. He glanced at Michael.

"He's not feeling very well, the poor dear," Michael said smoothly. "He'll just be resting in the van . . ."

"Nonsense! I will not allow a guest to sit in a van." She took the ersatz-Bjork by the hand. "Come along, dear, a cold compress with some lovely lavender crushed inside and an exquisite blend of a green tea and mint, and you'll be feeling much better." Birkoff looked helplessly at Michael. Michael shrugged.

"We'll settle you in for a nice lie-down under this charming little Irish linen duvet in the study, and I'll start the tea." She took him firmly by the arm and directed him toward the house. "So, Bjork," she said as they walked. "I hear you're into body piercing . . . "

Under the tiny white lights woven through the canopy of the pergola, the team diffused through the crowd, seeking possible weak spots, feeling out their foes. When Michael entered, Nikita and Walter were sipping champagne and scoping retreat points. She waved him over. "Glad to see you finally made it. I believe you promised me this dance." She gave him her best come-hither look.

A smile played across his lips. "I'm sorry, Kita, but I'm afraid my date wouldn't like that."

She raised her eyebrow. "I thought I was your date."

He couldn't help but smile. "Plans change." He told them about Martha, Etienne, and Bjork.

Walter hooted, and Nikita shook her head. "Poor Birkoff."

About that time she spotted poor Birkoff wending his way trough the crowd. He saw them and made a beeline. "Thank God! That woman was getting ready to try her entire herb garden on me."

"So you're feeling better, mon petit lotus flower?"

"Shut up."

Michael put his arm around Birkoff. "He's still a bit frail." Nikita giggled.

Birkoff batted his hand away. "Stop it."

"Anything for you, mon cher."

Birkoff glowered at him. Operations was also glowering when he came up, Collins following. "Birkoff, what the hell are you doing in here? Who's monitoring?"

"I'm suffering, and I don't know. The backup team is in the van, maybe one of them is monitoring."

"The comm is down."

"Damn."

"Get back to the van now," Operations ordered.

"He can't," Walter said. "'Bjork' has a cover to maintain."

"What?"

"I'll go check on the comm," Collins said. He couldn't wait to get out of the tie and cumberbund.

"Who's 'Bjork', and why is that Birkoff's cover?"

"Never mind, sir, it's just their idea of a joke."

"Hardly," Michael interrupted. He explained the Bjork mix-up, in far too great a detail for Birkoff's comfort.

Operations rolled his eyes. "We have got to start doing more research on these covers." He spotted Madeline accosting a waiter for her third glass of champagne. "Okay, people, you're spies, go spy something," and hurried off to assist the waiter. Walter mumbled something about checking the electrical system and slipped off to the east. Michael asked Birkoff to dance.

"Very funny."

"No, but that is." Nikita nodded to where Operations was escorting Martha Stewart onto the dance floor and gliding into an elegant waltz. Walter reappeared at Nikita's side.

"Don't let that gruff exterior fool you, Sugar," Walter whispered. In his day, when he was in the field, he could charm anything in a skirt. Looks like he still has a few moves left." They watched the pair spin around the floor, reminding Nikita of the ballroom scene in Disney's "Beauty and the Beast". Only this time, she wasn't sure who was which.

"Look," Walter murmured. "Next he'll be whispering Cole Porter lyrics in her ear, an she'll give up every secret she knows." "String of Pearls" began, and they slid effortlessly into a slow dance embrace. Operations smiled at her as if she were the only woman in the world, and whispered something in her ear. She reciprocated with a throaty laugh and ruffling his hair.

"Damn," Walter murmured again. As the music faded, Martha led Operations into a cozy, barely- lit corner of the porch, heavily scented with fragrant lilac. "He is still good." Walter shook his head. "Look at him. He loves being in the field, and he's damn valuable there. I don't know why they ever promoted him. They should have left him in the field until he died." He caught Nikita's surprised glance. "Not that I mean that in a bad way."

"Of course not."

"I mean it. He has a lot of good qualities. He can't help that's also a hard-headed son of a bitch." Walter watched as Operations and Martha sat idyllically in the porch swing, chatting in low tones. "I checked the electric. We've got to get inside. Everything's run from there." He, Nikita, and Michael turned to Birkoff. "It's time Bjork had a relapse."

"Uh-uh. No. Nikita can faint, she's much better--" Michael grasped Birkoff's hand and twisted his thumb back. "Owww!" Birkoff crumpled, white as a freshly starched sheet. In an instant Martha was beside him.

"Are you all right? You must have come back out much too soon." She and Michael helped Birkoff up. Martha put her hand to Birkoff's forehead. "You are a bit warm. Let me take you inside and get you settled. My daughter Lexi will look after you to make sure you don't wander off prematurely again." She flashed a winning smile at Operations. "I'll be back in a jiffy, Senator. I hope you'll wait. "It wouldn't occur to me not to."

They watched as she lead Birkoff into the house yet again, then Walter murmured, "So you're a senator now. From where?"

"One of those "I" states in the middle of the country that all run together."

"Spoken like a true politician. Any idea where they're keeping the plans?"

He shot Walter a look. "I have done this before. They're in her office. First floor, right next to the study where she had Birkoff."

Michael gazed at Operations with an expression akin to awe. "She told you that?"

Operations tilted his head sheepishly and added, "In a floor safe under the marble-topped claw- foot walnut table with the Mystic Blue gladiolus arrangement. The combination is an abbreviation of her dog's birthday: three left, twenty-six right, eight left."

Michael's eyes widened. "She really told you all that? So quickly?"

Walter began to chuckled. Operations looked embarrassed. "And last night she wore an oversized football jersey to bed. Bills. Number 32."

Michael stared at him for a long moment, then said, "You are truly a master."

Operations shrugged. "Birkoff's given us the perfect excuse to get in and get the plans. Michael, you'll go in, pretending to hunt for Birkoff. Walter--"

"I know: pretend to get lost, find the electrical box, and put 'em in the dark."

"Excellent. Nikita, since the comm is down, you circulate to all our people. Make sure they have their night-vision glasses ready. When the lights go, we move."

This is like the good ol' days, Sugar." Walter winked and slipped off to the east. Michael was already gone when she looked back.

"She really didn't tell you all that, did she?" she asked. Nikita couldn't imagine Operations charming a rat, let alone a perfectly reasonable human being.

"I lied about the football jersey. She didn't say anything about the Bills or the number." He turned to her and smiled, blue eyes twinkling. The smile was the same one he had given Martha, sincere and easy, not the taut, caustic smile she was used to seeing in Section--usually when he had the better of her. She met those blue eyes and had to admit, just to herself, that her knees were beginning to feel a little weak. She broke the gaze. "I'll go tell everyone."

"And be careful," he said, but softly, and she did not hear him.

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

Walter followed a waiter down a path, around a corner, and into the kitchen. It was large and busy, and no one paid any attention in the least to him. H watched the chef and his assistance for a few moments, picking up pointers on how they prepared shrimp vinaigrette wrapped in snow peas, then wandered over to the built-in shelves displaying varied rows of Depression glass stemware. He had never been horribly impressed with Martha Stewart until he head that she and her former husband used to host nude swim parties here at the Westport estate. That an uptight WASP diva, a former fashion model, who, quite frankly, knew diddly about real-life cooking and less about gardening (He cringed when he recalled her show on planting spinach.) threw such bashes piqued his curiosity. When he read further about her alleged sexual imbroglios, he was hooked. He fantasized about being invited to the infamous black-bottomed pool, a full moon on a summer's night, bottles of Cristal and heaping trays of fresh fruit at the pool side, just the two of them in those deep, warm, black waters . . .

He found the main electrical box in a little room off the hall leading away from the kitchen. He opened it up and did his magic. The entire estate plunged into blackness. He reached for his night-vision glasses. "#@@$%^%$!!!"

He left them in the car.

The lights went off in the pergola. Only a few candles flickering in the darkness kept the guests from panicking. In the shadows on the porch, Operations grasped Martha's wrist. "Martha, you'll have to come with me." He put the muzzle of the gun low in her ribs.

"Why, Senator . . . " She began rubbing up against him. "Is that a gun in your pocket--"

"Yes. Come on." He pulled her over the side porch railing and was headed to the van.

"Now just a minute!" She jerked her arm out of his grip. "I may be liberal. I may even enjoy, every not and then, the occasional kinky interlude, but this--"

"Shut up, or I'll shoot you."

She poleaxed him with a garden rake, dropping him to his knees. She shook her head. The gardeners never put things away properly. Coolly, Martha bent down and picked up the .45, expertly popping the clip and pocketing it. "This Senator--if that is your real name--is NOT a good thing." She kicked him in the ribs once, with the sharp toe of her Ferragamo. "That's for leading me on."

But Operations didn't get to be the head of Section One by giving up. When she began the second kick, he grabbed her ankle and twisted. Martha landed with a whump.

"You #$$%$$# son of a bitch!" and she proceeded to let fly a string of obscenities the like of which Operations had not heard since his last visit to Camp LeJeune. "Watch your mouth, lady." He took back his gun, an struggled with her briefly while retrieving the clip. Operations caught her by both wrists and began dragging her to the van, Martha kicking and screaming all the way.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" she cried as he dragged her down the flagstone steps. "You'll pay for this you- --" and began again cursing him. So he was distracted when the black figure few over the garden wall, landing a perfect roundhouse kick to the side of Operations' head.

"It's about time you showed up." Martha stood, brushing herself off and looking down at Operations' prone body.

Michael slipped down the hallway. He felt like the Pink Panther. The cartoon, not Inspector Clouseau. Michael didn't like Inspector Clouseau. He thought it was a negative characterization of French people.

He slipped into the office. No computer. What was with this woman anyway? Hundreds of antique knick-knacks, combined with flowers, covered every nook and cranny in the room. He glanced around, found the only table that met all the requisite criteria, and crawled under it. He felt around, finally found the catch that popped up a section of the hardwood floor. He twirled the dial, and it popped open. It was stuffed with papers. He began shoving them into a shoulder satchel he was carrying (that Nikita had previously told was a really cute purse). He was worried about extracting Birkoff. He didn't want any more screw ups on this mission, especially one that might cost Birkoff his life. He looked at the mass of papers and decided to take 'em all and let Operations sort 'em out.

He zipped the satchel. The lights blinked, then went dark. He heard voices from down the hall. Then they got louder, hysterical. He steeled himself, drawing up his courage. He would rescue Birkoff, no matter what.

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

Birkoff lay on the daybed, and old-fashioned iron one painted country-cream white, the much afore-mentioned duvet tucked under his chin, and with a scowl that made him look like a grumpy cat. "You can't keep me here," he groused.

"Shut up," replied Lexi Stewart, daughter and now accomplice of Section's number one target. She wrung out a washcloth and slapped it on his forehead. "My mother said you were to rest." She gave the cloth a good thump with the palm of her hand, just to make sure it didn't slip.

"Ow!"

"Shut up. I hate it when people whine."

"I hate it when people smack me in the head."

"Then shut up and heal, you stupid fool." She leaned back and began to poke at the flowers in the bedside table arrangement. Then, slowly, precisely, with a small, unconscious grin, she began to pull the petals off, like a child pulling the wings off a fly.

"Do you normally do that?" Birkoff asked.

She stopped. "Why?"

"It's just --well, most people like the petals on the stem."

She resumed. "I'm not most people."

She was not. She was lovely, and well-educated, and obviously inured to the finest of material comforts. If only, he thought, her muted black, white, and beige ensemble didn't remind him more of urban camo than a Westport debutante, and if only, he thought also, she seemed, well, more at home. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he suspected that colder thoughts passed like trains through this woman's mind than even Madeline could imagine.

Finishing the daisy, she began denuding a rose.

"Wouldn't you rather be out at the party? Mingling with the guests, sipping champagne? Sitting with me has to be really boring."

she plucked a rose petal and watched it spiral to the floor. "Parties are like men and buses: another one will come along any minute. Especially with my mother." She sighed. "You have no idea what its like to have my parents."

Birkoff snorted. "Tell me about it."

She leaned closer. "When I was little it was go-go-go. My parents worked sixty hour weeks, then every weekend we packed up and drove to Middlefield, where they put in another forty. And when I got big enough, I was supposed to be right there beside them, up to my knees in whatever the project of the week was, whether it was cleaning the chicken house or plowing the garden. I hated it. Do you know what its like to live in a house that's half designer showcase and half dilapidated mess? And constantly moving from house to house to house?"

Birkoff sighed. "I didn't leave my building for seven years."

"Bummer. At least you weren't in hat building with my parents. Nobody has parents as manipulative as mine."

Birkoff grinned. "Let me clue you in on my 'parents'. My 'father' hired me to head his data systems division, and I usually have to pull 24 to 48 hour shifts."

"And your mom?"

"Made me rat out my--friend--for stealing from--uh, competitors, even though she knew all about it already, then yelled at me because I didn't find out sooner."

Lexi arched a brow. "Hmmm. I can top that: Right in the middle of this mondo horrid divorce, my mom crashed my dad's mother's funeral and had to be thrown out."

"My 'mom' can stop her heart at will."

"My mom claims she can orgasm at will, and she said it to the press." Lexi crinkled her nose. "Isn't that an awful thing for one's mother to say in public?"

"Way more than I ever needed to know."

"My mom keeps telling everyone all about how she's going to plan my wedding, even though I'm not even close to being engaged."

"Last summer my 'parents' put me on their short list of people to be killed. Literally."

"Wow. Major harshness. Still, they sound more normal than my parents."

"Right. They're normal if the screenplay of your life's being written by Quentin Tarantino. Then they're just your average mom and pop."

"At least your mom's not stalking your dad and telling national magazines he can't have kids due to cancer when he and his new wife just had a new baby."

The lights flickered once, then went out. With the sureness of someone used to, but not appreciative of, such inconvenience, Lexi found and lit a match. Soon the room was aglow with candles and oil lamps. "My mother is going to have such a stroke!" Birkoff wasn't sure if it was trick of the candlelight, but Lexi looked pleased. "Her big event is ruined." He was beginning to feel sorry for her, and he almost regretted the entire Green Thumb mission. Almost.

Another woman burst into the room. "Lexi! Where's your mother? This party is ruined!"

"I don't know, Susan."

"This is awful, we were going to get such good spin off this event, what with that awful book coming out in paperback now--"

"Susan is my mom's publicist."

"--and Kmart breathing down our necks, and that 'Jaclyn Smith's sooo sweet' crap, you know, 'Jaclyn's such a good spokeswoman, she doesn't run up our phone bill with personal calls', like Kmart can't afford a few calls--where is she, Lexi, I can't find her anywhere." Susan paced frantically.

"I don't know." While the publicist had Lexi distracted, Birkoff crawled out of the bed and began inching toward the French doors.

Susan suddenly stopped. A man stood in the doorway. "Have you seen Martha?" she demanded.

He smiled. "Non, ma cherie, I am looking for---Bjork! Mon cher! Mon petite fripoille!" Michael strode to Birkof and wrapped him in an effusive hug. "I have been soooo worried!" He pinched Birkoff's cheeks. "But this kind lady, she has taken good care of you, my love?"

"Stop it!" Birkoff hissed.

Michael smiled and threw up his hands. "He is sooo shy! That is why I love him so!" He put a commanding arm around Birkoff's shoulders. "Let's go, cher, people are waiting."

"Stop!" Lexi stood in front of them. "My mother said---"

"--That he could get up now, if he behaves himself." Michael waggled a finger at her. "Now let's not be disobedient to maman."

That was the wrong thing to say. Lexi grabbed his arm. "I don't believe you. I think you're fakes and crashers, and I'm going to call security."

"Please, darling, s'il vous plait, don't. You're right. You caught us. Bjork said we would be caught, but I sooo wanted to see this wonderful maison, and meet your maman, he agreed to this silly little charade." Michael shook his head remorsefully. "If only, mon cher, I could do something to repay the love you've shown me." He thought Lexi was buying it. She smiled wistfully at him. He had her, hook--

--Birkoff's eyes widened as he knew Michael's intent--

--line--

--He took Birkoff's face in his hands and kissed him passionately--

--and sinker.

Lexi beamed. Birkoff jerked out of his grip. "Outta here, NOW!!!"

Michael grabbed his arm and ran after Birkoff, shouting, "He's soooo romantic!" as they left.

A the end of the hall, Birkoff skidded to a stop, realizing he was lost in a strange house in the dark. Michael stopped next to him.

"What in the hell did you do that for?"

"We had to maintain our cover."

Birkoff got up in Michael's face. He punctuated each word by jabbing his finger in Michael's chest. "Don't ever do that again!" Don't ever, ever--" Rage boiled out of him, and he couldn't find the words.

Michael leaned against the wall, arms folded. "What are you going to do, beat me up?"

"No." Birkoff's voice was acid. "But---but---Gail will. Gail doesn't like people picking on me."

"I could go a couple rounds with Gail." Michael smiled.

"Don't talk that way about Gail. And don't smile about her, either!"

"So this is really serious with you and Gail? Should I be jealous?"

"Shut up! Don't you know what my life's going to be like back at Section when Walter tells everyone I had to pretend to be your lover, and then this--this---"

"Kiss."

"Kiss. Yes. sure, nobody'll say a word to you, Mr. Macho Stud Womanizer, but my life might as well be over. I'll never hear the end of it, and Gail will probably leave me, and then I'll get put in abeyance and die!"

"I'm sorry." Michael sounded sincere.

"Yeah, that and three bucks'll get me a cup of latte."

"No one will find out."

It was Birkoff's turn to fold his arms. "What about debriefing. You can't lie in debriefing."

"I won't. However, kissing you is not necessarily a salient detail in the mission profile. I'll also ask Walter to be--discreet."

"Oh. Okay." Birkoff sounded mollified. "But if anyone ever, ever hears about this . . ."

"I know. Gail will beat me up."

"Damned straight. Don't forget it. Now let's get to the exit point." Birkoff lead off.

Michael followed, trying not to look bemused. Birkoff was becoming quiet the little cold op.

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

The backup team deployed as soon as the lights went off. They came in low and mean, belly- crawling the last hundred feet. When they got to a perimeter of flower beds, the team leader signalled them to stop. Carefully, he examined the earth before him, one thing wire gleaming in the moonlight. Damn. Who would've thought she'd plant mines in the azaleas?

He signalled the demo man forward and wriggled back to the team. None of them saw the dozen black figures emerge from the shadows until the attack began.

Operations came to, the smell of earth in his nostrils, and his head aching. His wrists were bound, and when he struggled the plastic cord bit the skin. He opened one eye. "What is this, nylon fishing line?"

Stewart patted a roll of nylon line. "Weed whacker refill."

Operations opened both eyes. His wrists were bound together in a complex series of loops and knots, then tied to the steering column of a Snapper garden tractor. He glanced around. All the accoutrements of a well-dressed potting shed stared back at him, like the silent, witnessing statues of saints in a cathedral.

Operations regarded her evenly. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I," Martha began, "am making a citizen's arrest. Mr. Ueda has called the police." She hitched her thumb at a wizened little Japanese man in ninja blacks behind her. "Fortunately for me, Mr. Ueda is not only my gardener, but my head of security as well. His assistants are detaining the rest of your criminal band as we speak."

Operations rolled his eyes. "Look, lady, I don't know what your problem is, but I've been in real prisons all over the world. Don't think your stupid little potting shed can hold me."

A throwing star thwacked into the dirt beside Operations' left foot.

"Yoshi! Don't mar the finish on the Snapper!"

The little man bowed quickly in assent.

Martha stepped toward Operations. "And don't think you'll get away with this! Not only will I have you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, but I will sue you and every member of your crime family for every penny you'll every hope to be worth. The culinary elitists tried to keep me out of their little world, the publishing elitists tried to keep me out of their world, but by God the rose growers are going to accept me or die trying to keep me out. No one will stop me from registering "Martha Stewart's All-American Glory Rose"!" She spun on her heel and stormed out, Ueda following.

Operations sat for a moment, puzzled. Why in the hell was a terrorist mastermind so torqued about a rosebush?

Birkoff and Michael found Walter inching along a corridor.

"Walter?"

"Birkoff?"

"Yeah, me and Michael. We've got the plans. Where are your night-vision glasses?"

"I think I left them in the car."

"Oh, well, here." Birkoff placed a small cylinder in Walter's hand.

"A flashlight?" Walter flicked it on, swept the beam around, and promptly it struck Michael full in the high-resolution lens.

"AAAAaaaaahhhhhh!" Michael jerked off the glasses, writhing on the floor. "I'm blinded!"

Birkoff shook his head. "You're not blinded."

"I am," Michael insisted.

"Your eyes will readjust in a minute."

"It would help if you took your hands away from your eyes." Birkoff lifted Michael's hands away. "Better?"

"Not as long as he's waving that thing around."

"Fine. You take the flashlight, and I'll take your glasses."

They swapped, and Walter turned in a slow circle to get his bearings. Then he said, "Come on, the kitchen's this way."

Nikita had barely warned the furthest-most of the operatives to start getting the guests off the premises when the lights went out. The idea of Walter and Birkoff wandering a den of blood- thirsty terrorists in the dark frightened her. So she left the relatively safe path of the pergola and dashed through the yard, gun in hand, back to the house.

She tripped. The gun skittered out of her hand and landed with a liquid plop. The obstacle felt like stones forming a border, and she lay face down on an island of fine cobblestones. She inched forward, the smell of mud and wet, green plants filling her nostrils, and was rewarded with a deep, mellifluous, "rrrrrriiiiibbbbbiitt." She eased one hand forward, into the mud, into the water, into the slime. She slid her hands across the bottom, nothing but mud and plants and slimy things she didn't want to think about in her grasp, but her Colt was lost in the silt at the bottom of Martha Stewart's frog pond.

Aha! thought Operations, if I move here and--oof--get my leg there, then I can--yes! He was in the seat of the Snapper! Thinking back to long ago, to his own brief tour of duty in suburbia, he tried to remember--yes! It was an electric starter! Now just ease that speed lever into--No! Not high!

"AAAaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!"

The sounds of shorting, and a low distant humming finally convinced Nikita that no enchanted frog prince was going to come along and rescue her Colt from the bottom of the pond. She rose and started off again, looking for some kind of weapon along the way. She cut through the vegetable beds and near a shed on which it looked like an addition was being built. In the slim glow of the moon, she examined the tools, then smiled, hefting one in her right hand.

Oh, yes, this would do nicely.

In the kitchen Michael halted, still half-blind, an odd humming catching his ear. "Air support?"

Both Walter and Birkoff shook their heads. "None scheduled."

The humming became a thrumming, then a loud, annoying drumming. All three bolted for the door.

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

The backup team trudged in a short, straggling line, escorted on either side by gardener-cum- ninjas, hands clasped on the top of their heads in the tradition of p.o.w.'s the world over. At the house, the line dragged to a stop. Martha paced on the porch above them. "You are my prisoners," she declared, and fixed each with a gaze that had withered lesser caterers. "Mr. Ueda has called the police who will soon come and take you away. Until that time, however, we will be questioning each of you--name, address, Social Security number, prospective annual and lifetime earnings--for the lawsuits." She looked around. A distant thrumming was interrupting her carefully prepared speech. The thrumming, which was quite rude to begin with, got louder. So did she. "Failure to give complete and accurate information at this time may result in additional punitive damages at trial."

The thrumming was becoming drumming.

"Please form three lines and---"

"AAAAaaaaahhhhhhh!!!" The Snapper shot into the clearing. ninjas and cold ops alike leaped out of the way. The Snapper, worse for the wear of running down an entire bed of asters and cutting large swaths through both the endive and the radishes, ran up over the edge of a large, footed birdbath, one wheel caught, circling madly. Someone, no one knows who, threw a knife that neatly split the nylon line holding Operations onboard. He bailed. "Ooofff!"

"Stop him!" Martha shrieked, but the back up team had already begun fighting the ninjas in a whirling kaleidoscope of black on black. Michael, still half blind, shot out the kitchen door, tripped over a cat, and knocked Martha off the porch in a full-body tackle. They rolled briefly in a bed of geraniums, then under the porch, then back out, various odds and ends of gardening paraphernalia tangled with them.

Martha leaped to her feet, having retrieved (When were the gardeners ever going to learn to put things away properly?) a gas-fired Weed Whacker. "Don't move, anyone, or the pretty boy gets it." She revved the Weed Whacker at Michael's head ominously.

"Martha!" Nikita! Michael's heart leaped. "Martha Stewart, drop the Weed Whacker and step away from the Frenchman!"

"Never!" And arced the Weed Whacker close enough that one lock of Michael's curls was shorn.

"You bitch!" Nikita hefted the liberated nailgun and let fly a volley of tenpennys. The Weed Whacker coughed like an asthmatic cat and died. Martha screamed in rage and began cursing.

Operations struggled to his feet. "Lady, I told you to watch your mouth!" He ripped off a strip fro a roll of duct tape liberated from under the porch in the scuffle (When were the gardeners going to learn to put things away properly?) and slapped it on her mouth. "Take her away!"

The backup team, who were organizing the march of the prisoner ninjas, added Martha to their ranks.

Operations looked around. "Where's Madeline?"

"I haven't seen her," Nikita said. Michael shrugged. Walter and Birkoff hurried down off the porch.

"Pretty good shootin', Tex."

Nikita blushed.

"Where's Madeline?" Operations asked again.

No one had seen her. They fanned out, Walter restored the lights, and they found her shortly in one of the sitting rooms, curled up on a blue velvet settee, head snuggled deeply into a lacy pillow. She looked, Operations thought sentimentally, rather like a slightly long in the tooth Snow White.

"She looks peaceful, doesn't she?" he said.

"Uh-huh," Walter assented.

"Kind of a shame to wake her up."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, well." Operations sighed, bent down and hoisted her over his shoulder. Her arms dangled limply down his back and her right cheek bore the imprint of the pillow's lace. "I think I may have overdone the Valium a bit."

"Uh-huh."

Out on the porch, Walter stopped. "Is it okay if I ride back in the van?"

"Of course."

"Great!" Walter dashed off, yelling after the backup team, "Hey, guys, wait up! No, let's go this way, down by the pool . . . "

Operations let the others get in the limousine, then gently laid Madeline in. He climbed in and sat her up. She sighed and smiled, never waking, and nuzzled her nose close in his chest.

The car rolled off, and they rode in silence.

Until Madeline began to snore.

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

The next afternoon, debriefings had been done and the prisoners pretty well dealt with. It was found that Martha Stewart's greatest terrorist activity consisted of bullying a young horticulturist into virtually giving her the rights to the prospective "Martha Stewart's All-American Glory Rose". So Birkoff sat in his little techno-warren, Michael and Nikita on either side.

"What do you mean, made it up?" Nikita demanded. Michael frowned.

"Well, they always do whatever I put on the intel reports, and I just thought--"

"Nikita whapped him upside the head. "You could have gotten us all killed! And all those innocents guests!"

"Kita," Michael warned. "Don't be harsh with--"

"'Don't be harsh'! He made up intel. On an innocent person!"

Birkoff snorted. "Not that innocent."

Nikita drew back for another swipe, but stopped. Operations stood in the door. "Mr. Birkoff." If doom had a voice . . . "I believe we have a meeting scheduled."

"Yessir."

Birkoff stood, for several very long moments, while Operations paced. Birkoff could feel the eyes of everyone down on the main floor, staring at his back, wondering at just what point Operations would pitch Birkoff through the glass.

Finally, Operations went to the window and leaned on the railing. More time passed. Whole universes sprang into existence, blossomed, and died. Life forms crawled from the protoplasmic soup, stood upright, and conquered galaxies. Mail got delivered.

"So," Operations said, "Why'd you do it?"

"Sir?"

"Why? Why make up such nonsense?"

Birkoff sighed. "Well, Gail and I were watching this show and she came on and started showing how to make this really ugly wreath. And she had all this stuff and these pine cones and she took the pine cones--perfectly nice pine cones, you know, pine cones--and dipped them in this gold paint."

"So?"

"Well, they were pine cones-- and she was dipping them in gold and, and--she just had to be stopped!"

"So your reason is pine cones?"

"It sounds stupid when you say it like that."

Operations nodded. "I see. So to save the pine cones, you falsified data that resulted in a para- military invasion of a charity cocktail party, the burglarization of an innocent woman's home, and the dedication of the time and energy of an elite, secret agency to unravel this mess. To save pine cones."

"Now it sounds even more stupid."

Operations rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Birkoff, do you know how much the damages to Mrs. Stewart's estate are? Let's look at the itemized list." Operations pulled a very long sheet of calculator paper from his pocket. "One Weed Whacker, $250; one Snapper riding mower, $4000;gasoline for the Snapper mower, $3;one floral arrangement in the study, destroyed $250; one birdbath, $750; seventeen geranium plants, $85; an entire bed of asters, destroyed, $100; and endive and radishes, destroyed, $150; black-bottomed swimming pool, damage to--that was Walter's little escapade--$1200; draining, filling, and restocking the frog pond to retrieve Nikita's gun, $300; seventeen tenpenny nails, $1.70;rebuffing her office floor--apparently Michael scuffed the hardwood--$200;Weed Whacker replacement cord, $5; repairs to the potting shed door, $500;costs associated with replacing her gardeners, $1000; medical expenses of the chef and two waiters injured in the black-out, $3000;glassware breakage, $500; replacement of one Donna Karen gown, blue, $6000; replacement of 'lawn ordnance', $3000; replacement of chipped flagstone steps, $4000; resodding the lawn where the van drove in the grass, $2500; vet bills for the cat Michael tripped over, $322; and last but not least, $500 per head for each cold op to cover their food and beverage expenses for a total of $5500." Operations refolded the list and pocketed it. "Do you know how much that is? Let me explain it to you in Oreo-dollars. With what this little adventure will cost us, you could buy a package of Oreos roughly the size of the Air and Space Museum, and still have enough left over for milk to wash them all down."

"Oooohhhh."

"Yes. 'Oooohhh'." Birkoff winced. "And do you know what your punishment is going to be for this little episode?"

"Cancellation."

Operations sighed again. "I thought about it. In addition to the monetary costs, I got cracked in the head with a garden rake, kicked in the head by a seventy-five year old ninja, Madeline was drugged into a stupor--"

"--Hey! Not my fault!"

"--Michael was nearly blinded and decapitated, Walter--well, we're just lucky Mrs. Stewart's a good sport about some things; personnel from three substations are on the phones convincing people this was just another skirmish in the Stewart divorce war; and to top it all off, one of the actual guests is know to us by the name 'George'."

"Ooohhh."

"So cancellations would be far, far too easy a solution. Plus, I should add, we did benefit by picking up twelve new self-defense trainers. Mr. Ueda and his friends seemed delighted to leave Mrs. Stewart's employment and come to work for us."

"Then I'm in abeyance."

"No. From what Walter says, if we sent you out with a team and a gun, we'd probably lose 'em all to accidental friendly fire before they ever started the mission."

"So . . ."

"I have decided to make the punishment fit the crime. Do you know how hard it is to find good gardeners?"

"No."

"Well, you're going to find out, and why. Starting tomorrow you are grounded from all computers for one month--yes, even the ones in your quarters. If you so much as think about touching one--"

"But, but--"

"And you are to report to Mr. Gates the groundskeeper at 5 a.m. You will mow and trim the lawns, plant flowers, clean rain gutters, repaint the lines in the parking lot, sweep the sidewalks, water the lawns, in short, anything Mr. Gates tell you to do, you will do gladly, cheerfully, and with the full knowledge that your punishment can be prolonged at any time."

"But it's hot! I sunburn easily! I'll die!"

Operations smiled, picked up his jacket and put it on. "Your choice. Death by automatic gun fire or death by yard work." He locked his desk and shut down his computer. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date. Mrs. Stewart and I are going to the hockey game. Apparently she's a big Jersey Devils fan."

"But, but--who's going to run technical while I'm gone?"

Operations' smile broadened. "Gail."

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send a comment to Ursula click HERE.