Xerophyte (*n. Bot.*: a plant adapted to dry conditions of air and soil)

Buzzing, the insect climbed aimlessly over the plant. Suddenly the Venus Fly-Trap snapped its deadly mouth over the hapless bug. She sighed in pleasure. "Beautiful, don't you think?" asked the elfin psychiatrist, turning to look at her visitor. "I think it's another argument for the Divine." Doctor Bartlett ran her finger almost caressingly over the leaves of the plant. "The combination of such beauty and deadliness demonstrates great wit. I don't believe in accidents...of nature."

Feeling that theological arguments were tricky at best, Nikita made a vague non-commital sound. "What's this?" she asked instead, pointing to a star-shaped white flower with long sticky pistils. Just an instant before Nikita was going to touch the flower, Doctor Bartlett grabbed her hand as if waiting for the last possible moment to intervene.

"Mustn't touch," admonished the psychiatrist silkily. "Its venom causes severe muscle spasms, then death in thirty seconds. *Galliaflora mortua*. A favorite among master poisoners in the medieval ages. Native to Antibes."

"The French Riviera? How romantic." Nikita cleared her throat. To say this place was giving her the creeps would have been the understatement of the century. As she walked down the aisle, she carefully stepped over the vines and tried to avoid brushing against any of the dense green foliage. What had seemed like a verdant paradise was now a garden of peril. Watching Doctor Bartlett tend to her carnivorous plants reminded Nikita of someone familiar. Suddenly she thought of Madeline watering her twisted stunted bonsai trees. Nikita suppressed a shudder.

"Come with me," said Doctor Bartlett, swinging her snow white braid over one shoulder. Something unreadable flickered through her eyes as she opened the glass door to the conservatory. Nikita crossed the fingers of her pocketed hand as she entered the great glass house.

She felt as if she were suddenly on Mars, the heat so dry and searing. Her mouth was stuffed with cotton batting.

“These xerophytes are a former flirtation of mine,” said Doctor Bartlett, gesturing to the astounding array of cacti and succulents. Nikita eyed a saguaro, looming overhead like the giant organ pipes of a great cathedral. “I was so intrigued by how these plants have adapted to extreme conditions. Just imagine living where nourishment is more precious than platinum. And the defenses.” She stroked a particularly wicked looking cactus spine which resembled a hypodermic needle for an elephant. “We could learn a thing or two from them.”

“It’s quite a plant collection,” Nikita commented.

“A gift from my ex,” explained the psychiatrist. Her shoulders lifted slightly. “So like Harold, enduring but dull. Not like my babies out there. Much more deliciously...interesting.” Doctor Bartlett curved her lips as if enjoying a private secret. Nikita felt disturbed by that cold smile but refused to retreat. That was probably exactly what this psycho-piranha wanted. But Nikita had learned well from Madeline’s hard tutelage, each mental scar a badge of endurance. No shrinking violet, she set her shoulders back and determinedly followed the psychiatrist through the conservatory. She scanned the area. Nothing but rocks and sand and cacti. “All right, girl,” she thought to herself. “Look closer.” Awareness ramped up a few notches more, like increasing a microscope’s magnification. Tiny cameras were placed in the walls, noticeable only because the sunlight glinted off the lens. She didn’t suppose they were filming time-lapse photography for cactus nature movies.

“Shall we sit here?” invited Doctor Bartlett, gesturing to rattan furniture set under a large skylight. Doctor Bartlett coiled herself in the only chair under the parasol. Nikita cursed inwardly. She had hoped to get at least a view of the house’s ground floor. A thin line of sweat trickled down her back. She felt as if the top of her head was aflame from the concentrated sunlight. Casually she reached over and dragged the other chair under the parasol’s minimal shade. The heavy chair legs scraped over the gravel. Its sound reverberated loudly in the stillness of the conservatory. Head resting against a single poised finger, Doctor Bartlett watched her. Like she was an insect.

“Watch out, lady,” thought Nikita grimly. “This bug has a stinger.” Instead she said, "I hope you don't mind. I have to be cautious about the sun."

"You can never be too careful." Dr. Bartlett poured from a frosty pitcher. She handed the drink to Nikita who patiently waited for the doctor to drink first before gratefully sipping her own. It was sour and bitter. Nikita could barely refrain from puckering her lips and spitting it out on to the gravel. Instead she swallowed as if it were the nectar of gods. "Interesting flavor."

"Yes," returned Doctor Bartlett, amusement plainly gleaming from her pale eyes. "It's an acquired taste. Most people don't care for it. Shall we begin?"

Nikita concentrated on the blessed coolness sliding down her throat instead of her taste buds’ rebellion. She wanted badly to press the glass against her forehead and neck. It was so damned hot in here. The shade offered no respite. Consciously blocking out the heat, Nikita set her portable tape recorder on the rattan table. She checked to see if the reels were turning, and asked, "What drew you to your line of work, Doctor Bartlett?"

"I've always been intrigued by puzzles. The human psyche has always fascinated me."

"But what about your specialty, criminal psychiatry?"

Her brows lifted a fraction. "Do you mean 'what's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this'? Believe me, I have heard that before." She flapped a hand as if discounting those prejudices. "Normalcy is a dead bore. Neuroses only a shade more interesting. Only just. But the criminal mind..." she sighed. "Just like my babies," she continued, gesturing to the outer garden. "Nothing more mysterious than something broken or something gone rogue."

"Against the grain?" asked Nikita. She pretended to type a note on her PDA, trying to maintain her cover as an on-line journalist.

"Just so," nodded Doctor Bartlett. "And what about your work seduced you?"

"Me?" Nikita inclined her head, considering. "Travel, excitement, meeting interesting people." All of which were true, she thought. Not everyone was fortunate enough to rub elbows with despots and terrorists du jour. "It's a calling in a way."

"Ah yes, the fifth estate. How noble." Almost lazily Doctor Bartlett swirled her drink so that the ice cubes clinked against the glass. Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing. "I've down-loaded some of your articles in *Lilith*."

Nikita held her breath, knowing that this woman was not to be fooled easily. *Lilith* was a legitimate journal featuring news and feminist analysis, largely penned by Madeline. It had been started as a joke, then transmuted into a hobby. Later the magazine, like several other real enterprises, had been put to use as a cover for Section. Like keeping pets, those licit businesses required constant care and feeding. Sometimes the high maintenance paid off when the ventures could be used as a Trojan horse.

"They were really very good," commended the psychiatrist. "Not at all stupid like the rest, full of polysyllables but short on content. Or using seven exclamation points in a row. How terribly awfully earnest. This week’s radical is tomorrow’s Republican. Zealots do change their stripes, usually frequently. Anyway, I was impressed by your writing. That's why I agreed to this interview."

"Thank you." Nikita was relieved. Her cover was holding. She could honestly answer any questions about her articles because she had actually written them, each word like a drop of blood wrung from stone. She thought writing was sheer torture, but she had completed her assignments.

“I was particularly intrigued by your article on Luther Burbank’s housekeeper. I had no idea she was really the one who developed most of that botanist’s hybrids. ‘Behind every great man’,” quoted Doctor Bartlett. “Of course, since I have a green thumb myself, I was simply fascinated. Some plants graft well, others fail to transplant.” She waved a careless hand towards a small pot of daisies. “Those Marguerites, for example, adapt very well to all kinds of conditions.”

“Speaking of gardens,” said Nikita. “You might say you’re interested in the ‘weeds’ of human society yourself.”

“You’re referring to criminals?”

Nikita nodded.

“Are you hoping I’ll spout some liberal drivel about weeds being socially ostracized plants?” Doctor Bartlett leaned forward slightly, shifting in her chair. “That I won’t do. Every garden needs pruning, a judicious hand with the herbicides.”

Nikita was careful to conceal her puzzlement with the bizarre turn of the conversation. She tried for an academic tone. “And who would know better than a housekeeper? Everything has a cycle.”

“Exactly,” agreed the psychiatrist. “You’ve read my paper on women and urban seasons. How very gratifying.”

“But not everyone’s as appreciative of your work. *The New Republic* described you as a praying mantis in the guise of a psychiatrist. How do you respond to that?”

The corner of Doctor Bartlett’s mouth pulled slightly in what could almost be construed as emotion. With pale almost-invisible irises, she looked like a specter. When she finally spoke, she sounded almost bored. “Mine is a jealously guarded profession, not above pettiness. Sometimes testosterone closes ranks. What a marvelous hormone - responsible for so many of the world’s ills.” Setting down her glass, she folded her hands in her lap. “But,” she added, “keeps us both in business, wouldn’t you say?”

“Exactly.” Nikita twisted her face in what she hoped would pass for a smile of acknowledgment. “You say you’re intrigued by the workings of the criminal mind. Which patients have fascinated you the most?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about Boris Nedsky? Most people do.” Doctor Bartlett referred to one of her high profile patients. Nedsky was a notorious physician who had practiced under several pseudonyms and faked credentials in twelve different states. A serial killer of note, he had committed over thirty known murders in a three year period.

Nikita shrugged. “Only if he interests you.”

“Hardly,” drawled Doctor Bartlett. “Just a petty sociopath, granted a little more clever than the rest. But not much. Imagine being caught participating in a murder mystery writers’ chat-room. Stupidly projecting. Bragging really.” Her lids fluttered shut as she pressed a finger against her lips, considering. “My top ten clients...What an appalling popularity poll that would be. Well, I am rather fond of - let’s call her ‘Mary Magdalene’.”

“Tell me about Mary.”

She smiled as if recalling a favorite reminiscence. Leaning back in the cushions of her chair, Doctor Bartlett played with her glass. Despite the great heat, she did not appear to perspire. “Mary was a perfect trophy wife. Groomed at girl’s prep school, perfunctory performance at a small liberal arts college, a year abroad in Europe, then served up on a dish to a wealthy industrialist. She seemed to go meekly to her fate.”

“Only appeared?”

Doctor Bartlett nodded. “No one really notices heart attacks or strokes in her husband’s age group, only it was odd that they appeared to be either his competitors or his accomplices. Power was consolidated conveniently. Then it was her husband’s turn to die. Very poetic, really. Almost untraceable poison in his Viagra.”

“Viagra?”

“Pill for impotence,” informed Doctor Bartlett, openly smiling now into her glass. “You don’t appeared shocked.”

“No, it’s a hard world. Did he abuse her? Was this justice?”

“Absolutely...not. Just a touch of greed, but more importantly a lion’s hunger for power hiding in the body of a little mouse. You would never even bother to look twice at her. She’s very unassuming, can barely speak aloud. Yet this woman was the Delilah that lured all these men to their doom.” Intentionally she spoke in almost sepulchral tones.

“And the moral to the story?”

Doctor Bartlett’s brow creased. “None, except maybe ‘don’t get caught’. Well,” she said, abruptly rising from her chair. “We have to stop now. Our time is up. It’s been interesting.”

Murmuring that she knew her way out, Nikita viewed the video cams hidden in strategic places. So she wouldn’t get a chance to discreetly snoop around as she left. In fact, she rather got the impression that illicit inspection was exactly what Doctor Bartlett wanted. Even expected. Nikita decided to pass on the opportunity to have more surveillance of her life. Besides she wasn’t interested in brushing up against one of Doctor Bartlett’s woman-eating plants if such a botanical horror existed.

Nikita exited slowly, trying to absorb as much useful information as possible. Through the pane glass windows she saw a man lighting a cigarette by a fountain. As he half-turned to shelter the lighter in his cupped palm, she realized that he was carrying an automatic rifle tucked under his arm. He didn’t look like a gardener. So the plants weren’t the only deadly elements around.

As she stepped outside into the cool spring air, Nikita felt the last lingering bite of winter in the wind. Her body shook involuntarily. She told herself that the chills were caused by the sudden contrast between the conservatory heat and the outside briskness. But only half-convinced, she drove away, knowing that the psychiatrist, not the temperature, had caused her shudders.

***********

Dancing the mambo, the words jiggled before her tired eyes. Images doubled, then slowly re-focused into one. Wearily she stretched. Without a word, Birkoff offered her the bag of candy he’d been systematically working through all night long and into the pre-dawn hours.

“Brain food?” teased Nikita.

He nodded, gaze fixed on another monitor overhead. “Punch up the signal, Li-Huan,” he instructed.

Nikita reached into the bag and pulled out a butterscotch candy. Nose wrinkling, she tried a second, then a third time. “Birkoff, there’s nothing but damned butterscotch left.”

He shrugged. Even though his back was to her, she just knew he was smirking.

“I *hate* butterscotch,” she muttered petulantly. When she’d bribed him with a pound of Brach’s candy, she knew there had been some sour-balls and hard peppermints. Sliding out of her chair, Nikita prowled around the work station as the computer was running another analysis for her. She rolled her shoulders trying to work out the kinks after hunching over the monitor too long. Minutes had melted into hours as they’d hit one dead end after another. Comparing Doctor Bartlett’s patients with the terrorist directory had yielded nothing. Nikita stared at the list of Doctor Bartlett’s patients in the last five years. Perhaps concentration would re-arrange the letters of the names into the answer’s anagram.

Exasperated, Nikita shoved her hair behind her ears and reviewed what little they already knew. The psychiatrist had worked only with “lifer’s” and criminally insane murderers. A full third of her patients had died either by suicide or “natural causes.” Perhaps this unexpected death rate was the statistical anomaly which had drawn someone’s attention like a magnet. Or maybe not.

Nikita felt as if she were blindly fishing the ocean with a tiny tea strainer. During the briefing, Madeline had been even less informative than usual. Nikita had been vaguely ordered to observe Doctor Bartlett during their interview.

“Anything in particular?” Nikita had asked, hoping for at least a hint. Smiling like a Cheshire Cat, Madeline had replied, “Everything you need to know is in here.” She pushed the PDA across the desk. “I don’t want to skew your observations. I want all 360 degrees. Anything you can tell me.”

Nikita tried again. “Why the interest?”

“Everything interests me,” Madeline had answered. Dismissively she had turned to the laptop on her desk, already moving on to the next task at hand.

Nikita frowned at the monitor as the computer took another dip in the electronic sea of information. She hated this “need-to-know” credo, which re-inforced the feeling of being a pawn in some unspoken chess game. Reconnaissance exercises were a common enough part of training, but Doctor Bartlett had been no common subject. Nikita considered. Perhaps she was the one being evaluated, not the psychiatrist.

Thinking of the constant testing, Nikita suddenly felt more weary from the paranoid reminder than the physical lack of sleep. Suddenly she wanted to do something concrete like detonate a bomb or shoot a target. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Better get used to this brain-picking,” she thought, “if you want to move to Analysis Ops.” Even though Lucas’ job offer had sounded wonderful, she understood that so much of Analysis was endlessly sifting through shadows for information. Nikita gritted her teeth and threw back her shoulders. She would meet Madeline’s little test like she had met all the other challenges thrown at her. She’d figure out this puzzle until her brain exploded from effort.

“Nikita,” called out Li-Huan perkily despite the early morning hour, “it’s done. On screen two.” Almost triumphant, the cyber-op transferred the analysis to the larger monitor with one hand. The other hand she held aloft, allowing the hot pink fingernail polish to dry. Walking over to the screen, Nikita smiled at how the newly colored fingertips clashed outrageously with the cotton candy blue of Li-Huan’s hair. No matter how flaky her appearance, Li-Huan was a dedicated computer jockey. Her inventive quick thinking had saved Nikita’s teams on the last few missions.

Hand resting on Li-Huan’s shoulder, Nikita leaned over to look at the screen.

*Christian: 0 matches.* *Religiosity: 0 matches.* *Mary: 4 matches.*

But the mug shots of the four women looked more like runway models who’d be just as comfortable gracing a *Vogue* cover as sailing a luxury yacht.

“Just another damned pretty face,” muttered Nikita to herself. Li-Huan looked up at her curiously. “None of these women look anything like the ‘little mouse’ Bartlett described.”

They’d already tried running “Magdalene” and “prostitute” through the computer without success. Li-Huan tapped the end of a pen against her chin. Cocking her head to one side, she slowly spun around in her chair. “Are you sure it was ‘Mary Magdalene’?”

Nikita’s stony stare was an answer all its own. Fatigue either sapped her humor or made her slap-happy.

“Okay, okay,” laughed Li-Huan, hands out. “Just asking. Jeeze. Eat some candy or something...” she broke off suddenly, staring out into the room. “Nikita, what if it’s a different kind of Magdalene?”

“Like?”

“Like the kind without an ‘E’. Like the name of a college at Oxford.” Almost bouncing in her chair with excitement, Li-Huan typed in the words. In a few minutes, the new results were displayed.

“Eureka,” whispered Nikita, eyes blazing blue star-fire with excitement. The mug shot of one Margaret Exeter portrayed a non-descript woman with dirt-brown hair cut stylishly short. Born 1962, the only child of Muffy Exeter, neé Vanderloon, and B.W. Exeter, as in Forbes 500 Exeter Industries. Margaret had attended Landover Academy, then Hampshire College.

“Married to Ronald Sharp in 1984,” read Nikita out loud. “Convicted of twenty counts of first-degree murder in 1995. Typical over-achiever.”

“Self-inflicted death two days after sentencing,” Li-Huan finished. Nikita stared at the slowly rotating hologram of the round-shouldered thin woman. The plain hair and short sharp nose reminded her of a mud-hen. Appearing docile, she seemed like someone who couldn’t swat a fly. Yet she had killed in cold blood repeatedly.

Li-Huan whistled low. “Hey, talk about not judging a book by its cover.” Looking thoughtful, Nikita remembered how Section had selected her years ago for her lethal beauty. But Margaret Exeter was the exact opposite. Of average height and pedestrian looks, she could easily blend into any crowd, escaping notice. “Actually,” thought Nikita, “a perfect disguise for an operative.” Allure or camouflage was equally important in their world.

Ideas flashed in rapid succession like strobed images. Leaning over Li-Huan, Nikita typed in commands to cross-reference Margaret’s vital statistics with their index of terrorists, known or as yet un-identified. A single phrase blinked on the screen.

*One match.*

The women turned to each other, grinning widely, and gave each other a resounding high five.

“We just needed the right goddamed name.”

*Alias Meg Lincoln, Peggy Manchester. Picture unavailable. Profile Limited. Probable member of the Brigade, split faction of Red Cell.*

“God help us,” thought Nikita. “More radical than Red Cell?” Unconsciously she rubbed her face where the rat bites used to be. Her skin had healed over long ago but the terror still lurked at times in her dreams.

*Specialty: bombing, poisoning. Risk: Level Five.*

Li-Huan leaned back. “Well,” she said brightly. “Hello, Ms. Margaret Exeter, alias et cetera et cetera. How nice to have hobbies. Not exactly Junior League though.”

“No, not exactly,” agreed Nikita. “Not exactly dead either.”

Li-Huan started to chuckle, shaking her head. “Do you think...?” she said, catching her breath, “that she’s buried in the same cemetery as us? Row 30, Plot whatever?”

“Get out of here,” laughed Nikita, gently pushing Li-Huan’s shoulder. “Try cross-indexing mug shots next.”

Li-Huan moaned, “That will take hours.” At Nikita’s meaningful but implacable look, the cyber-op flexed her fingers and started typing. “You’re the boss,” she sighed. She stopped suddenly, swearing. “Damn, I chipped my nail.”

Smiling at Li-Huan’s eccentricities, Nikita walked through the catacombs of Section. Strong-spirited herself, she appreciated that quality in others. Li-Huan was a welcome jolt of wild energy. It was far too frighteningly easy to fade away into a drone, subsisting in the sterile world of Section. Black and white and all the shades of gray in between. Then there was in-your-face hot pink Li-Huan. Nikita let loose a throaty laugh, imagining Ops’ response to that bending of their dress code.

She paused at the door of her west-wing quarters. Her feet had naturally led her to the closest place where she could lay down and let her fatigue wash over her. But something nagged like a sore tooth. Sometimes easier wasn’t better. She needed a change of scenery. Badly.

Turning around, Nikita decided to walk home instead. When she entered the outside world again, she inhaled deeply as if trying to counteract Section’s mordant effects. The tartly sweet smell of plum blossoms tickled her nose. White-pink petals drifted down and scattered across the sidewalk like faux snow. Even though the calendar said that spring was officially months away, Nikita welcomed the early arrival of her favorite season. Turning the block, she watched the eastern sky lighten to the softest of baby blues, clouds gilt by the sun’s arrival.

The deep-throated buzzing of a thousand electric chain-saws greeted her as Nikita opened her front door. When she walked up the stairs to her bedroom, she could see from the lumps under the blanket that someone had already beaten her there.

“Hello to you too,” she whispered to the snoring bed-warmer. She had heard that he’d returned from Morocco just hours before. But she hadn’t had a chance to see him yet, and certainly didn’t expect him here. Black combat gear littered the floor in his usual haphazard fashion. Nikita tripped over a boot.

“You slob,” she thought, torn between annoyance and affection. She sat down gently on the edge of the mattress. He shifted, lifting the edge of the bed covers without ever opening his eyes. As she cuddled with him like nestling spoons, Nikita enjoyed the cozy feeling of his body heat seeping slowly into her tired bones. “Better than an electric blanket,” she sighed to herself.

“You’re cold,” he grumbled. Reaching behind him, he drew her arm over his hip and tucked her icy fingers under his warmer hands. Sleepily he chafed her fingers. “Like ice,” he muttered.

“Well, warm me up,” she challenged, whispering into the shell of his ear. ************

“Hey, you.”

Pleasure rolled in waves.

Then whispers of awareness. Knowing she was safe, she woke up in luxuriantly slow stages like a cat from her nap. “Hey, yourself,” she yawned, stretching. She turned her head a fraction and saw that he was watching her, his head propped on a hand.

He reached over and ran a finger down her nose, then gently touched her lips. “Missed you,” he said quietly.

Nikita lightly nipped his fingertip. “Same goes.” Groaning at the effort, she sat up, her hair like a blonde waterfall. She rubbed the grit from her eyes, then paused. “Oh yeah, that’s right. Does this mean we’re talking to each other again?”

Forest green eyes darkened a shade more. His hand stopped playing with the curtain of her hair. Brows raised, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Hello in there?” she called out mockingly, knocking her knuckles against the top of his head. “Lost a few brain cells on the last mission? Concussed?”

As a matter of fact, an unexpected implosion had knocked him down and he did have a moderate concussion. But he had willed the headache down to a dull buzz, and he wasn’t about to admit it. Nothing was wrong with his memory. A pity, amnesia would have been convenient. Michael grabbed her offending hand since she was still tapping on his head and he was tired of it. They hand-wrestled half-heartedly.

“Well?” she persisted.

“Well, what?” returned Michael, drinking in the sight of her. He had missed her, ached with it.

“What’s this all about then?” she asked, patting the mattress.

“What do you mean by that?” A conversational road sign flashed in his mind: “Proceed With Caution.”

“Let’s see what’s on the menu here.” Pantomiming, she pretended to open a large folder and scan its contents. “Nostalgia. Oh, here’s an old favorite - Persuasion with a heavy side order of seduction. Biological...Those crazy hormones,” she tsked. She listed a few more options on the “menu,” each more unflattering than the previous motive. All of which he had been guilty of in the past. The distant past, damn it. Wasn’t there a statute of limitations? Michael sat up and grabbed her shoulders. “Stop it, Nikita.” His lids drifted shut. When they raised slowly, he let her see the hurt flash through his eyes. She crossed her arms defensively and stared at the opposite wall, as if pretending he wasn’t there.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before he had left on this last mission, they had fought explosively. Their last argument had made Mount Saint Helen’s eruption seem like a little geothermal pouf in comparison. On the flight out, a brooding Michael had tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that their current way of battling was so much easier to live with than the icy distance of the past. He’d been nettled by her refusal to move in with him. At first Nikita had thought his home too big, then rejected the idea of finding a new place together. She finally admitted that she hated the idea of missing him, surrounded by his stuff when he was gone so often. Though he rationally understood her reasons for wanting separate homes, a stubborn part of him remained hurt. A pain which had fanned into a wildfire of outrage when she was considering a job transfer.

“It’s not a transfer,” she insisted. At his look, she had added hastily, “Well, not exactly. I’d still be doing Cold Ops from time to time. Besides it’s a promotion. Don’t you think I deserve it?”

He had side-stepped that particular land-mine. “Let it go for now, Nikita. Please. I’m leaving in a few hours.” Despite the softness of his voice, he stuffed his clothes in the duffel bag with all the violence he felt.

“No, I won’t drop it,” she said, stepping squarely between him and his closet. “You’ve been putting off this discussion for a week now with some excuse or another.”

He looked upward, trying for patience. The “excuse” she was referring to was the circumvented bombing of the United Nations. Did she ever fight fairly?

“So,” she was saying, “it’s your own goddamed fault if the timing’s not convenient. I have to let them know. Lucas has been...” She stopped abruptly. She hadn’t meant to let that information slip. Stepping back from the glacial glint in his green eyes, she looked at him curiously. “You don’t seem surprised. Damn it, Michael.” She wheeled around. “You knew all along.”

“That he called you? Yes, I did. And I’ve been waiting to see if you were going to share that interesting intell.”

“So you think I should refuse this great job because of Lucas? Do you think I slept my way into this offer?” They had never ever broached the subject of her relationship with Lucas, obviously more than a brief flirtation on the side of both parties.

The heat sizzling between Michael and Nikita ratcheted up a few degrees more. Hands on her hips, she looked ready to take down a battalion or two by herself.

“Of course not,” he bit out. But part of him wondered what attracted her more: the job or Lucas. He hated himself for wondering. Once accused of masculine arrogance, he realized the truth was far from that. He resented feeling this fumbling self-doubt like a teen boy at his first school dance. “Forget begging,” he thought angrily, knowing that he was just inches away from doing just that. He held on to his control by just fingertips.

He knew he was being hypocritical. Nikita had never questioned him about his past relationships or when he had to use sexuality as a weapon. All right. To hell with being open-minded, he was a hypocrite, and a deeply jealous one at that. “No, I don’t think you sleazed your way into it,” he said more firmly this time as if trying to convince himself. “You’ve been ready to advance for a long time. You could do that job. No one else I know could do it better.”

Which was the bitter truth, he’d reflected as he waited with his team in the shadow of the mosque. If Nikita transferred from Cold Op status to Analysis, Michael would finally be relieved of his greatest worry - that she would be killed on a mission. Even more than his own personal danger, he had always dreaded when she suited up and left for an operation. The transfer would also mean that they would no longer be living under Section’s magnifying glass. The current situation was like being supervised by snoopy in-laws.

More often than not, he found himself tiring of this arid existence, thirsty for their moments together. Once appeased by the occasional rendezvous, he was no longer content with stealing time whenever they could. They were trying to find an answer, but he didn’t want this transfer to be the solution. Although it seemed like a gift from heaven, the job promotion had a major catch as far as he was concerned. And that down-side was embodied by a dark-haired devil named Lucas. Even though Analysis Ops was a huge section in its own right, Michael’s instincts warned him that she would be seeing a lot more of Lucas. And he always trusted his instincts.

-------------------------------------------------------------

“Nikita, please.” Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. He softly traced the outline of her cheek, then cupped her chin lightly with his fingers. She let him turn her face towards him. Relieved, he saw that her eyes no longer blazed with suspicion. “What’s this?” A fingertip touched a salty drop which brimmed at the corner of her eye.

Not trusting her words right now, she settled for shaking her head.

“Je t’aime,” he rasped, voice twisted by feeling.

Her palm trapped his hand against her face. Turning her head slightly, she kissed his fingers. “Isn’t that the hell of it?” she said almost sadly, resigned. Infuriated. Touched. Closing her eyes, she blew out her bangs. “I’m taking a shower,” she announced. “You’re on breakfast duty.”

Michael nodded, gratified that she hadn’t offered to cook. He didn’t think his stomach could deal with the same kind of battering his heart had just endured. He heard the sound of the shower and was half-tempted to join her. “Patience,” he counseled himself as he rummaged through her cupboards and refrigerator. He peered cautiously into a tupperware bowl, which apparently contained a biological experiment at this point. The original food item was anybody’s guess. Resolutely he threw out anything fuzzy green or smelling like one of Walter’s solvents. “Mon dieu,” he muttered. The trash can was filling rapidly.

---------------------------------------------------------------

As she stepped out of the shower and toweled hair briskly, Nikita could hear the sizzling of something being fried, the occasional banging of a moved pan. Faint sounds of classical jazz wove its way into her bedroom while she pulled on a pair of jeans and tee-shirt like they were armor. Almost hypnotized, she follow the perfume of coffee to the table. She pretended to prowl, half-dancing and snapping her fingers to the thudding bass on *Night Train*. Michael walked around the kitchen bar, serving the omelette. He smiled inwardly. She was always just a little off the beat.

“Great timing,” she commented as she poured their coffee. He shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t remember having all this stuff in the fridge,” she said, eyeing the croissants and bowl of strawberries hungrily.

Michael dipped a chunk of croissant into his coffee. “You didn’t,” he replied shortly. “I wish I’d known I had to bring my clothes over too.” He pulled on a corner of her shirt he was wearing, left un-buttoned so that he could still fit it. Nikita pinkened slightly. She busied herself with meticulously spreading jam on her croissant with all the care of a Swiss watch-maker. She’d forgotten that when he had left for Morocco, she had driven over to Michael’s place with a box of his things. Nikita had thrown it angrily down the stairs so that the contents decorated the entire living room like wild confetti.

“Temper,” she muttered, half in apology. She dared to glance up from her pastry. His lips twitched slightly, then they laughed. “I’m sorry,” they both apologized at the same time.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Thank God for microwave ovens,” Nikita thought cheerfully as she re-heated her omelette. Oscar Peterson had long since finished, and the CD player had shifted to some old blues. “So,” she said over the beeping of the microwave buttons, “I don’t suppose you stopped at Med Lab.”

He shot her a glance which clearly said “Get Real.”

“You’ve got at least two broken ribs, Michael.”

“I’m glad someone’s counting. Would it make a difference if I went? It’s not like we get workers’ compensation.” They both smiled a little bleakly at the thought. Companionably they ate out on the terrace garden, trying to take advantage of the early afternoon sun. Nikita turned her face into the warmth. She sighed, her thoughts de-railing yet again.

“What?” she blinked just realizing that he’d been talking to her and she had no idea what he’d just said. Michael gave her a sidelong glance. Pre-occupation would have been an understatement.

Nikita cut off the corner of her omelette with the side of her fork. Equally firmly, she repeated, “I think you should go see Doctor Genova today. Please.” She had seen him wince with undisguised pain when he thought she wasn’t looking.

“You’ve healed me. Completely,” he joked in a quiet voice. She had kissed every bruise and gently stroked each contusion she had found. This time around, there had been more tenderness than passion. Bubbles raced in his blood at the memory. Her body trusted him completely in ways that her mind still did not.

“You’re stubborn,” she said fondly.

“Yeah. Love you too.” The corner of his lips tugged upward.

“Come here.” She beckoned him, one arm outstretched like a slightly scruffy golden-haired siren. Settling back on the chaise lounge, she cradled him in her strong embrace.

After a moment, he asked, “So what’s on your mind?” She sighed, formulating a diversion. “No, Nikita, the truth.”

“Someone once told me there are no truths in Section.”

He grunted. “I knew that statement would come back to haunt me. It served its purpose then.”

In retaliation she pinched him. Hard. After a moment, Nikita admitted, “It’s this woman I was supposed to scope out, a Doctor Bartlett.”

“The praying mantis?”

“That’s the one. Well, I didn’t exactly see the headless bodies of her lovers littering the grounds, but she was really...” Nikita couldn’t refrain from shuddering, didn’t want to hide the repulsion she had felt. Michael would have figured it out anyway. Sometimes she resented how easily he read her. Other times she wished he wouldn’t be so conveniently obtuse.

“Never let her in here.” Michael tapped his temple.

She rolled her eyes. “I know that. I thought this was just an exercise...” She broke off. By tacit agreement, they hadn’t yet talked about her possible transfer. She changed directions. “Have you bumped up against the Brigade? Or a brown mousy female terrorist?” She listed Margaret Exeter’s numerous aliases. She almost felt Michael’s body hum as he scanned through the mental encyclopedia compiled by his photographic memory.

“Yes,” he said slowly, nodding. “About five foot three. Slim, on the gaunt side. You almost wouldn’t notice her twice. Better show me the mug shot to be sure.”

“I will,” she promised. “So tell me.”

“Remember the Happy Burger bombings? Claiming to be some militant vegan group.”

“The Meat Liberation Front or something. ‘Free the Cows’, blah blah. But it was a fake-out, right?”

“A feint for something bigger. I remember seeing this woman who seemed out of place. Saw her hustled into the van with the guerillas. I thought she might have been kidnapped by the terrorists. Only I guess she was one of them all along.” Michael slowly sipped his coffee. Turning around slightly so he could see her, he added, “The Brigade’s bad news.”

“Aren’t they all?” laughed Nikita. “I’ve never met a benevolent terrorist yet.”

“No, I mean they’re like a destroyer ship without a rudder. Unpredictable course. Simulations virtually useless. Crazily crazy.”

Nikita digested his words. She had reached the same conclusion after reading what little information they had about the Brigade. Sometimes you just had to wing it.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked.

“I think that Doctor Bartlett is their talent scout.”

“And?” prompted Michael.

“I’m worried, but I can’t put my finger on it yet.”

“The only person that needs to be scared is Doctor Bartlett. If she gets on your bad side.” Michael pretended to shudder. In answer, she yanked gently on his hair.

***********

Snick. Snip. The shears lopped off the buds with the final certainty of a guillotine. Nikita carefully schooled her face to match her opponent’s mask of serenity. Madeline’s scrutiny had always made her feel like squirming in her seat. She stifled that impulse with iron resolve.

“Continue, Nikita.” Madeline pruned the bonsai branches like she conducted an interrogation. Ruthlessly.

“Our analysis showed no matches with Red Cell or any other main players. There’s a 98% probability that Doctor Bartlett is a recruiter for the Brigade. Margaret Exeter is the index case, mentioned by Doctor Bartlett herself. The disk lists the other matches.”

“All officially dead?”

“Officially,” affirmed Nikita.

Testing the soil with a finger, Madeline frowned. “No one’s original anymore. And...?”

“Motive for involvement - intellectual superiority. Weakness - the same. Pride of a powerful mind. Can’t resist a challenge, no matter how risky.” Nikita steepled her fingertips and thought, “I’m sure you could understand that, Madeline.”

“Did she mention anything else, Nikita?”

Closing her eyes, she re-played that encounter. She described everything again in detail: the unbearable heat, the carnivorous plants, each comment. Experience had taught her that nothing could be considered insignificant. When the recital ended, Madeline said only, “Recommendations?’

“We could go to the trouble of placing a prime candidate for the Brigade in prison, then let Doctor Bartlett recruit that person. Or...” She paused, waiting until Madeline had turned to look at her directly instead of playing games with the small mirrors lurking everywhere in this room. “Or we could just go ahead and use the mole Section already has positioned at the Brigade central location. Daisy, isn’t it?”

The time spent digging out that information from her contacts was repaid ten-fold by seeing Madeline’s eyes widen a fraction. Madeline curved her lips. “Very good,” she praised as if Nikita had just jumped up and caught a stick between her teeth. “And what should we have Daisy do?”

“Get the list of Brigade members, and we can start fumigating. If the purpose is housekeeping. Unless you’d like to tell me the real reason I had to write those articles for *Lilith*.”

“Everything has a purpose, Nikita. Everything in its own time.”

Taking that for a dismissal, Nikita rose from her chair to go. It had been worth it just to see if Madeline had decided to disclose anything more. Apparently not. Just as Nikita had opened the door, Madeline called out her name. Eyes shut in resignation, Nikita repressed a sigh. She had almost managed to escape. Almost.

“So what are your thoughts about the transfer?”

“What do you advise, Madeline?”

“Some doors close so that other doors open. Make sure you choose wisely.”

Even though Madeline sounded vaguely maternal, Nikita sensed a menacing undercurrent. She smiled her insincere thanks and exited quickly, wondering just what was twisting Madeline’s pantyhose this time. As she strode down the hallway, she decided that some mysteries were meant to be unsolved. Nikita checked her watch. She had twenty more minutes to reach the park for the next meeting.

---------------------------------------------------------

Her royal purple hair made Li-Huan look like an Easter egg amidst the park’s greenery. Li-Huan was chuckling to herself.

“What?” smiled Nikita.

As they walked to the cafe, Li-Huan told her about an old lady who’d sat next to her on the bench and commiserated about rinse jobs gone awry.

“Like this was an accident!” She fingered her blue-violet tresses indignantly. “I paid good money for this.” In-line skaters breezed by a finger-breadth away. She waited a beat before asking, “So what’s up?”

Nikita scanned the park. No one within fifty meters. Brows raised, she pointed a finger to her ear. Li-Huan shook her head.

“Stand right there by the tulip tree. Great colors.” As Li-Huan struck a pose, Nikita snapped a picture with her camera, which hadn’t detected any listening devices. “You’re clean. We can talk.”

“I’m dying, Nikita. Is this one of those Big Fat Secrets?” asked Li-Huan. Nikita nodded. “Oh good,” beamed her friend. “I love confidential stuff.”

“I need intell from a remote site, entirely untraceable. Can you do it, Li-Huan?”

“Piece of cake. Wrote the best packet-sniffer around. Pure stealth.”

“We need to know more about Bartlett. Any connection with Madeline?”

At Nikita’s question, Li-Huan’s eyes widened to saucers. “All right,” she nodded slowly, deciding. “I’m game.”

They walked down the worn steps to a basement apartment. Nikita was about to say the place looked closed when the doors swung, spilling the sounds of humanity at play. “This is the joint,” Li-Huan grinned, plowing through the crowd. “Isn’t it great?”

The denizens of the Virtual Cafe were all wildly colored like a flock of exotic birds. Three body piercings seemed to be the minimum. Nikita felt drab and unadorned by comparison. Her old street-punk nose-ring would have seemed conservative. Li-Huan grabbed two end seats at the long table and plugged her PDA into the hundred base-T connector.

“I am yours to command,” intoned Li-Huan like a genie of the computer. She folded her arms across her chest and nodded briskly once. “Abracadabra.”

“Pouf yourself,” laughed Nikita. “Go find that connection.” At Li-Huan’s look, she held out her hands placatingly. “All right. I’ll get the rocket fuel.”

When Nikita returned with the coffee, Li-Huan was still running an analysis on Doctor Bartlett.

“Trying a side entrance this time,” updated Li-Huan as she sipped her triple shots of espresso. Frowning, she ladled in four heaping teaspoons of sugar and stirred the slurry before drinking. “So far, no trick or treat.”

Hot pink fingernails flew over the keyboard. They pursued several different avenues when Li-Huan’s screen started flashing. “Hey.” She suddenly dropped her chair back on all four legs. Coffee splattered. Nikita dabbed at the brown splotch on her own tee-shirt.

“Not much about Bartlett yet. Just the usual resumé stuff bouncing around. But she gets mail from the most interesting people. Shall we?” offered Li-Huan, gleaming with triumph. Nikita leaned over and hit the return key.

Appearing on the screen, the message read: *Farmer’s Almanac: March is a good time for weeding. - M. Lincoln.*

“Same as our friend Ms. Exeter?”

“You bet.” Inwardly she flinched as she heard the phone ringing. Nikita scowled as she answered her cellular.

Li-Huan looked at her owlishly over the rim of her coffee mug. “Duty calls?” At Nikita’s nod, she commiserated.

“Save a little sympathy for yourself. You’ll probably have to go in at 04:00. Sounds like we’ll be hitting the road.” Nikita slipped on her jacket. “Meanwhile, keep the good stuff sterile. No transmission.”

“That’s me. Safer sex.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The water below was a wide pewter expanse as they flew through the wisps of clouds. Staring out the window, she wished vainly they were going to Antibes for any other purpose than this one. Simple exterminations left a sour taste.

“All weeds,” thought Nikita randomly. She sat up, blinking. Farmer’s Almanac. What was all this double talk about gardening? She and Li-Huan had never been able to find a direct connection between Madeline and Doctor Bartlett, but maybe Nikita had been their unwitting go-between.

As they waited in the van for the perimeter to be secured, Nikita leaned back. Just another abandoned warehouse, almost a breeding ground for nefarious activity. She hoped there were no toxins here since they weren’t equipped with any masks. Remembering an ugly encounter with hydrofluoric acid, she shuddered.

“Secured,” instructed Li-Huan, staring at her monitors. She pressed a button. “Start sequence.”

Pulling on their hoods, the teams slipped out, silent and elusive as shadows. A splinter of a moon hung in the sky. As they ran through the break in the chain link fence, the crushed brush underfoot released the haunting scent of old lavender. Whispers of footfalls. No more. The deadly game of hide-and-seek began.

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

Bullets sprayed like deadly hail. As she ducked and rolled just in time, the pipe behind Nikita exploded. A wave of white oily liquid arched over her. Hastily she swiped it off her face, blinked a small stinging amount out of her eyes. She sniffed the back of her hand. Paint. Michael gave a slight nod over to the right. Stepping out, he provided the steady barrage of cover while she ran around the corner flat out. Nikita blocked out the wailing descant of a tumbling unfortunate as she clambered down the stairwell towards the main office. The entrance door was propped open by a booted foot, twisted in an unnatural angle. Nikita looked closer. The trail wasn’t ketchup.

Her skin itched a warning. She jerked back behind a corner as a Brigade guerrilla ran past and threw open the door. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded of someone sitting at the computer. Apparently deciding not to wait for an answer, he raised his AK-47. Nikita quickly drilled a neat hole in the man as he was aiming at the computer operator.

Cautious, Nikita entered the room with Michael guarding her back. A female voice quietly asked, “Should I thank you or beg for my life?” Hands held up, she turned slowly in the chair. It was Margaret Exeter.

Looking over at the recently killed man, Margaret said, “That was Mister Jean-Claude. He always harassed me. You’ve saved me the trouble. You’ll find the rest of the leadership here, taken care of.”

Michael quickly checked each of the corpses littering the floor. She helpfully named each body, as he turned their heads with a impersonal booted foot.

“And the last is Mister Eagleton, our Number One. So you see, I always finish my assignment. Neat as a pin.”

What had Doctor Bartlett said? “Some varieties move better than others. The family Marguerite, the common daisy. They do rather well when transplanted.” Something clicked. Damn Madeline and her bizarre games. “Do you have the intell, Daisy?” asked Nikita.

Margaret looked vaguely surprised. “So they told you? Yes.” She tapped her front vest pocket. “We need to get out of here.” She glanced quickly at her wristwatch. “There’s a ten minute delay before the whole building blows.”

“Seven minutes,” corrected Michael quietly. “Package received,” he informed Li-Huan.

“Pull out,” breathed Li-Huan’s voice through the com-link.

“I’m not supposed to be here for this mop-up,” explained Margaret as they ran down the gangway. “There must have been some mix-up.” Michael and Nikita exchanged a quick look behind her back. They’d been instructed to cancel everyone.

Oozing paint made their retreat treacherous. Everywhere white footprints looked like a bizarre Arthur Murray instruction for a dance of death. Margaret led the way through the maze of storage tanks. The gunfire was only sporadic now. Fumes clogged Nikita’s lungs, making each step more of an effort. She concentrated, wrinkling her brow against the threatening headache from the noxious fog of spilled solvents.

“Almost there,” panted Margaret, turning to tell them. Eyes widening, she whipped her gun out and fired. The terrorist behind Michael tumbled into a paint vat below with a resounding splash, followed by a gruesome sucking sound. Michael grunted his thanks as they continued their exit through the smoking wreckage.

When they cleared the corridor, they could see that Section operatives were now controlling the south door. An agent lifted a hand in greeting, then pointed in alarm at the upper deck. Suddenly two operatives tumbled in the fusillade from above. A Brigade sniper on the balcony was aiming at Margaret.

“No,” shouted Nikita, shoving Margaret out of the way. White lightning bolts seared through her leg. Reflexively she grabbed where it hurt. Nikita stared at her hand, stupidly wondering why it was smeared with red paint. Trying to run, her treacherous leg gave out as if it were rubber. As she fell, she saw Margaret tumble before her in a geyser of scarlet. Michael appeared to be mouthing something at her.

“Can’t hear,” she thought dreamily. “Too noisy.” The room appeared upside-down as he hoisted her in a firefighter’s lift. Then she saw nothing at all.

As Michael dashed to the van, he could feel her head flop alarmingly like a rag doll across his shoulder. Hot sticky liquid flooded in rivers down his arm. “Nikita,” he willed silently as he vaulted into the van.”Don’t leave me now.”

“Go,” he barked as he laid her on the table. “Code Red.” Michael ripped open her pants leg and clamped his hand on her pressure point. “Medical divert now.” He stared down, watching her life spraying away between his fingers. It was too much blood and all the wrong color. Even after the vacuum tourniquet was deftly applied, he held her hand tightly as if trying to transfuse her with his living force.

“Please, Nikita,” he thought as he gave his routine orders out loud. He was only vaguely aware of someone starting two large intravenous lines in Nikita’s arms. The bags of normal saline were running wide open.

“Sinus tach,” muttered JP, the designated field medic. “Shocky. Let’s fill up her tank, guys.” Someone was handing Michael a towel. He shook his head, not wanting to release his grip.

“Li-Huan, connect me with Medical now,” JP demanded. “Got a bleeder. Straight shot to O.R.”

Conversation distantly buzzed around Michael. He stared at her waxen face. As the approached the sub-station, Li-Huan patted Michael’s shoulder. “If anyone can make it, it’s Nikita,” she tried to comfort, tamping down her own panic. “Ops wants...” She broke off at Michael’s glare, thankful she wasn’t the cause.

“Not returning yet,” he muttered. “Can’t.” Unintentionally he squeezed Nikita’s limp fingers tighter.

“Didn’t think you would,” replied Li-Huan. “Here’s the PDA. I’ll put it somewhere safe.” Grimacing at his soaked gear, she gingerly slipped it into his back vest pocket. Li-Huan poked him with a finger. “But you better keep me personally up-dated or I’m coming after you.”

At the sub-station, the corridor exploded into action. The transfer went as smoothly as an Olympic 440 relay race.

“Let’s go. Operating Room Two prepped and ready.” Tossing the IV bags on top of Nikita, JP rattled off vital signs as they raced down the short hallway. “Four liters normal saline in. Number five and six hanging. Probable right fem artery blown, shattered femur.”

Michael watched her disappear on a gurney through the double doors. He stood there, fingers clenched, feeling utterly lost. JP came back out, shoving back his sweaty hair. Worried, Michael’s eyes widened.

“No,” answered JP quickly. “It’s all right. They’ve started and they don’t need me any more. C’mon, Michael. Let’s go to the waiting room.” He sighed heavily. “It will be a while.” He knew there was no point in convincing Michael to change his clothes or rest. “She’s in good hands.”

How could Michael explain that the only hands he trusted were his own? “Show me where I can watch,” he commanded. When he saw JP’s hesitation, he insisted, “I need to be there.”

“You can’t scrub in,” warned JP as he lead him to the service corridor. Michael nodded, hadn’t expected that. “Here’s a chair.” JP pulled up a stool. “In case you decided to be human for a change. I’ll be in the waiting room.”

Michael didn’t even hear the last part of what JP had said, his entire focus on the odd ballet he could see through the large plate glass window. Anonymous in their gowns and masks, the surgical staff looked ironically impersonal as they did the most intimate work of all, saving a life. He watched the anesthesiologist look up in alarm. Michael squinted at the monitor whose line looked strangely erratic, then suddenly flat. A hurricane of activity swept through the room. “Not yet,” he pleaded silently, making secret deals. He ignored his cellular phone’s summons as he watched them charge up the defibrillator paddles, then her body arch horribly under the sudden jolt. “Nikita, not yet.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Utterly drained, Michael finished the de-briefing at the nurse’s station. He had refused to return to Section until Nikita had stabilized and could be transferred. If she made it at all. He quickly squelched that unwelcome thought. Ops’ displeasure was evident but Michael didn’t care. Even if priorities hadn’t been clear before, they crystallized when he had watched Nikita being resuscitated twice during the operation. Simone’s death had been imagined, then seen remotely. This witnessing was different in more ways than one.

“Hey, guy,” said JP. “I’ll sit with Nikita while you go shower and change.” Michael started to protest, when JP interrupted, “You’re a mess and you’re grossing out the nurses. Go wash up.” He pointed to the lounge. “You’re in ear shot in case anything happens. And it won’t. So far so good.” JP’s words were no false comfort. Every additional hour alive was another step gained.

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

Blistering hot, she wondered if she was on Mars or back in that damn conservatory. She was burning, mouth desert-dry. Turning her head slightly, she saw a bedside table with Michael half-leaning against it. Propped in an awkward position, he was snoring gently. His computer was perched on his lap, the screen casting a greenish light. He looked terrible, she thought. On his shadowed face worry-lines were etched so deeply that even sleep hadn’t erased them. Sensing her motion, his eyes snapped open suddenly. “Hey you.” He stroked her feverish face with the back of his hand. “You scared me. Welcome back.”

She tried to speak but her voice creaked. Clearing her throat, she attempted again. “Thirsty,” she croaked. Michael adjusted her pillow and spooned some ice chips into her mouth. Refreshing coolness trickled down her parched throat. She looked at him, questioning but too tired to speak.

“Three weeks,” he answered, smoothing her brow with his fingertips. It was like touching hot parchment. During his long vigil, he had sensed her leave and then come back again. “Rest. I’m here.” Her lids flutter shut, fatigued from just drinking. She was asleep but no longer comatose. He watched her face subtly alter. Where death had hovered, there was now endurance.

“Back soon,” he whispered, leaning over to kiss her. He brushed her hair off her face and saw her smile in the way that babies do in their deep sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Gradually she woke again, aware of being watched. The faint gardenia scent warned her that it was Madeline, but who else was there?

“Almost a perfect mission,” intoned a familiar chilly voice.

“*This* one is a little impulsive,” sniffed Madeline disdainfully. Nikita opened her lids barely a fraction. They were reading her chart. She prepared herself for a futile lunge if they came anywhere near her IV lines. Too weak to be able to stop them, she could at least make a hell of a lot of noise. Maybe that would be enough to warn someone.

“But not incorrect. Remember, I recommended keeping Exeter.”

So Margaret was still alive.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” replied Madeline calmly as if they were discussing furniture. She leaned over and spoke into the intercom. “Nurse, the patient’s pulse is tachycardic, pressure’s up.” The door slid shut noiselessly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Goddam it.” Her protesting arms refused to sweat through another biceps curl. Morose, she thumped down the weights, which mischievously rolled off the bed and on to the floor. Only three feet away, the dumbbells might as well have been on the moon.

“Take that away,” she grumbled irritably as the doors started to open again. Nikita hated the electro-stimulator even though she knew it was making her bone regenerate faster.

“Hey, sugar. Are you being naughty or nice?” asked Walter.

“What do you think?” Nikita was aching in muscles she didn’t know that she owned. “It’s so frustrating.” She hated how her body still balked at her commands. Simple things once taken for granted were now major struggles. Even her stupid feet disobeyed her. No strength of will could make a shattered nerve work until it was ready to do so.

“So you’ll never play piano with your toes again. We’ll have to cancel the concert tour,” Walter teased even as he laid a sympathetic hand on her fever-wasted arm. He knelt and picked up the runaway weights.

She was thankful he didn’t lecture her like the others. “I know I have to be patient.”

“We all do,” whispered Margaret as she was wheeled into the room. “Isn’t it the worse?”

Nikita smiled a welcome. In the last few weeks of recovery, Nikita had enjoyed her visits with Margaret who was clearly happy to be here. “Having fun?” asked Nikita.

Margaret nodded. “More than you,” she said as she eyed the intimidating equipment. Some of weight-resist devices looked straight out of the Inquisition’s torture chamber. “Walter’s been showing me around the workshop.”

“You seem to be fitting in,“ observed Nikita. “Making friends easily. Do you miss anyone from the Brigade?” She broke off, cursing as her weights dropped to the floor again. A shadow flitted across Margaret’s face but she said only, “Nobody important. No regrets, Nikita. You don’t know how lucky you are,” she confided.

Setting down the weights she’d just retrieved, Nikita looked at her curiously. A hundred responses, most of them rude, rushed to her lips, but she said only “What do you mean?”

Margaret glanced at her toes, then looked up almost shyly. “At first I was so glad to be out of prison. I thought the Brigade would appreciate my skills.” She sighed, staring away. Her fingers played idly with the IV pole. “But they were as narrow-minded as my husband’s corporate board. No matter how well I could handle plastique, I wasn’t born with the right equipment.” Bitterness laced her words.

“So you thought they’d be an equal opportunity employer?” Nikita inwardly smiled at the naivete. “It’s not any different here, Margaret.”

The unintentionally patronizing tone irritated Margaret. “Yes it is,” she argued fiercely, wheeling herself closer to Nikita. “You take it for granted. You were drafted right on to the A-Team, not wasting your time with the bush league players. Inferior material, piecemeal.” Frustrated, she closed her eyes, remembering. “When I think of all the times I worked at some shoddy kitchen table with fuses just as likely to blow off my finger tips as my target. Those cheap Singapore timers.” Margaret continued, “So when Doctor Bartlett offered me the chance to try out for Section, I jumped at it.” When her eyes opened again, they shone with a desperate fervent light.

Slightly disturbed by Margaret’s enthusiasm, Nikita wrapped the weights around her good ankle and started her repetitions. Section was far from anyone’s idea of heaven. “So how did you manage?” she asked as sweat was beginning to bead on the back of her neck. “It couldn’t have been easy being a double agent for so long. All that pressure.”

Shrugging, Margaret handed Nikita a towel. “It wasn’t too bad. I’m good at pretending. But I’m glad to be here. I feel pounds lighter. Liberated!” She flung out her arms, spinning in her wheelchair.

“You’re not exactly free here,” cautioned Nikita.

Margaret nodded. “I know that. All those endless debriefings, even though I already gave them the disc. I told them everything I knew. The same questions over and over again. The medicine makes me so sleepy that I can hardly think straight.”

Nikita remembered enduring the same incessant flow of questions, designed to flush away any hesitancies or resistance. Water wearing away stone. There was such a fine line between de-briefing and interrogation. “Well,” kidded Nikita, “At least you and Walter can compare notes on explosives.”

“Yeah, what was that you said, Walter?”

“Red wire means ‘Stop’. Green wire means ‘Go’,” repeated Walter, eyes twinkling. “In all things, simplicity. Bombing 101,” he whispered as he wheeled Margaret out of the room. “See you later, sugar. Be good.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

“Well, what about Margaret?” asked Doctor Bartlett as they watched the scene through one of the ubiquitous monitors. Madeline poured the Lapsang Souchong into fine-boned china cups. The tea’s smoky fragrance lingered in the room. She handed a cup to Doctor Bartlett, saying, “I believe it’s a slice of lemon, no sugar.”

Tilting her head in acknowledgment, the psychiatrist sipped her tea and sighed. “I think this has steeped sufficiently.”

“Timing is everything,” smiled Madeline.

“Indeed.” The psychiatrist’s answering smile was wide and toothy like a crocodile’s. Madeline gently stirred her tea, the spoon chiming against the lip of the cup. “And have you thought more about our offer, Helena?”

“The opportunities would be undeniable. So much intriguing pathology here.” Doctor Bartlett pretended to consider even though she had made her decision long ago. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. After all, they had approached her first.

The women drank their tea more for ritual than pleasure. Covertly hey assessed each other’s body language like fencers before the first furious engagement.

“How pleasant to be able to talk directly now,” the psychiatrist commented at one point as she accepted more tea.

“Sending Nikita was a necessary precaution at the time.”

“And a useful test, I suppose. Two birds, one stone I appreciate economy.”

Madeline smiled benignly at the praise. Tossing back her hair, she said, “You can still write articles for the magazine of course. I enjoyed reading them even though it was an oblique way of communication.”

Doctor Bartlett twisted her lips slyly. “Perhaps I will.”

“You know there’s still some untidiness with the Brigade matter,” mentioned Madeline as if in after-thought.

“Really?” Doctor Bartlett’s brow lifted in bored inquiry.

“Yes, Mister Birkoff says that the body count was inaccurate. One Brigade member appears to be missing.”

“Confirmed, I assume, by DNA.”

“Of course,” stated Madeline. “Is this name familiar?” She gestured to the PDA on the tea tray. Setting down her cup, Doctor Bartlett scanned the screen quickly.

“Fascinating.” A single line faintly creased the psychiatrist’s forehead. “Perhaps Margaret will have some insight. Hormones, I’m afraid, interfere with even the best operatives.”

Madeline nodded in agreement. “It can be a useful but volatile tool.” Reaching over, she offered the plate to Doctor Bartlett. “Cookie, Helena?”

------------------------------------------------------------

When the two women entered into the room, the physical therapist practically ran out like a guppy before sharks.

“Hello, Madeline. How nice to see you again, Doctor Bartlett.” Nikita didn’t reveal her surprise. “Well, ladies,” she thought, “I see we’re swimming in gangs today.” Deliberately Nikita continued to wipe the sweat off her face and neck. As humiliating as it was to have to learn to crawl again, she was pleased nevertheless. Every step was progress. Literally.

“Hard at work as usual,” smiled Madeline with that loving maternal expression which now raised Nikita’s hackles. Once she had been drawn to that false Madonna glow, no more warming than a video fireplace.

Muscles quivering from exercise, she sat ramrod straight, refusing even to lean against the chair’s back-rest. “What brings you to my neighborhood?” She thought longingly of the water bottle just out of reach. She would have killed for a drink.

“Sometimes it can be difficult to be so isolated in Med Lab. I’m glad you have friends.” Slowly circling around the room, Madeline admired the balloons and cheery hand-painted signs. On the bleak white-tiled walls Walter and Li-Huan had hung virtual-windows whose digitalized images were uncannily realistic.

“Amazing,” commented Madeline as she looked at the “window,” watching the ocean wave crest and then crash on to the beach pixels. “Sound too.”

“Yes,” smiled Nikita. “I can travel almost anywhere with my remote. Five hundred different places programmed.” She also loved how the special effects managed to interfere with the room’s monitors. Occasional moments of privacy had been the greatest gift of all.

“Good friends indeed,” stated the psychiatrist. “And you’ve gotten to know Margaret as well.”

“Tell us, Nikita. What do you think about Margaret?”

“From what point of view?” returned Nikita cautiously.

“Whatever comes to mind.”

“The debriefings have been hard on her. My assessment is that Margaret’s already told you everything she knows. She’s not the type to hold back.” Nikita slung the towel across her neck. “I think she’d make an excellent operative. A real Jane Doe-type. She could slip in and out of situations. You know,” joked Nikita, “we can’t all be blonde bait.” Being assigned the bimbo role was a longstanding argument between her and Madeline.

“Anything else?” queried Madeline softly. “Any secrets? Any old ties?”

“So here’s the crux of the matter,” Nikita thought as if Madeline’s questions were a warning flare, shot off the brow. There had been someone. Nikita was sure of it. She recalled Margaret’s brief expression, like a shadow falling over a heart’s desire. A flicker, quickly extinguished. “I don’t believe so,” Nikita said aloud, protection her first instinct.

“Thank you for your input,” said Doctor Bartlett, giving Madeline a meaningful look

“Yes,” nodded Madeline. “I’m afraid Margaret’s usefulness is at end. Her Brigade partner seems to be missing. Unlikely to be a coincidence. Margaret doesn’t seem to be as skilled with computers as she is with explosives. It’s a mistake to forget about the back-up system. Imagine thinking her partner could escape, undetected.”

Nikita kept her eyes widely innocent. Every bit of information was used either as bait or weapon. She had learned to present a face as smooth as a glass wall.

“And there’s a small matter of easy allegiance,” continued Madeline. “Anyone who can switch their loyalties so easily can hardly be trusted in the long run. As someone once wisely commented about zealots and stripes.”

“As you wish,” Doctor Bartlett assented. “I hope you’ll let me take care of it in my own way. It should be painless. It’s the very least I can do for her.”

“How very thoughtful. Have you had lunch yet?” The women’s voices faded as they left Nikita’s room. “I wanted to ask you about this new material you sent me...”

Nikita pressed her face against the towel hanging around her neck. She exhaled sharply, reminding herself that Margaret’s sentence wasn’t her fault. Slowly, reluctantly she welcomed the pain rushing through her heart. If she could still feel, she wasn’t a ghost. Not yet. Damn them.

***********

Epilogue

The drizzle dampened her hair. When her crutch slipped slightly on the wet sidewalk, Nikita swore. Michael gave her a look that just bordered on “I told you so.” All the way to the marina they had argued about using the wheelchair.

“And if you get pneumonia again?” said Michael stonily, angry at himself for letting her talk him into this escapade.

“That was months ago. It’s not me you’re worried about, it’s you. You’re such a baby,” Nikita teased as she eased herself on to the bench. Sighing with relief, she threw down her crutches. “Just pull up your hood. It’s only a heavy mist.” So maybe she wasn’t a meteorologist but she had needed to get out. “Look, it’s clearing up some.” Nikita pointed to the sole patch of sky visible between the clouds. “Oh,” she gasped, delighted. “Make a wish. Quick!” They watched a shooting star streak silver.

He was staring at her as if he was trying to decipher an ancient text.

“What?” she said. “Why don’t you just ask me?”

“Have you decided yet?”

She hesitated. “Now I don’t know, Michael. Some things have changed.” Tapping her bad leg, she knew that she was touching the wrong place. It was her heart that was giving her problems.

“Take the transfer, Nikita.”

She looked up at him, startled. “I’m getting better. It won’t be long before I’m 100%.” In geologic time, she amended privately.

“That’s not the point. Next time...” He didn’t want to say the words out loud, knowing that there might not be a next time. They’d been given a second chance and he wasn’t about to waste the gift. Instead he evaded. “I’ve been offered an opportunity elsewhere. A promotion really.”

He stared out at the water, watching the lighthouse signal. Silence lengthened, broken only by the occasional blare of the fog-horn. They listened to the water lapping against the shore.

“I see,” said Nikita finally. “Is it ‘Top Secret’?”

“Director, Pacific Coast sub-station.” He scrutinized her oddly calm face, surprised by her lack of reaction. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him. “All right,” he muttered, realizing suddenly that she already knew. “Who...?”

Nikita smiled gently. “A little bird told me.” Birkoff had spilled the beans last week. “Congratulations, Michael. You deserve it.”

He couldn’t deny he was pleased but he carefully hid his satisfaction. There was still business at hand. “So,” he continued as if they were still talking about the weather. “Go ahead. Transfer to Analysis.”

Her chin lifted slightly in the challenging look he knew so well. Eyes sparked with blue resentment. “I have your permission now, do I?

“Not permission, Nikita. A wish.” Exasperation plain in his face, he shoved an envelope into her hand. Nothing ever went as planned with her. “Just open the damned thing without arguing. For once.”

Lifting a curious brow, she ripped open the envelope. A set of house-keys fell into her lap.

“Those are for the Emeryville loft,” he explained.

“Your place?” Remembering Michael’s home made her feel as if she were basking in sunlight. She recalled stepping out on to the balcony and watching the city lights glitter like thousands of diamonds, the entire San Francisco Bay panorama spread before her.

“Our place,” he corrected.

She chewed on her upper lip, trying to hide her smile. “And how long have you known about my new assignment?”

“I have my sources.” The corner of his lips tugged upwards. Analysis Ops in the San Francisco sector would a good assignment for Nikita: busy, varied. Best yet, the area fit the right geographic requirement in more ways than one: close to him but far away from where Lucas was currently stationed, two continents and an ocean away. “A very large ocean,” he thought with satisfaction. The Bay Area was one of the few places where they could both be stationed in different departments but still live together. Convenient. Neat. And arranged after a lot of hard work. Lucas was effectively checkmated.

“Well?” he asked, calm voice concealing all of his jangling nerves inside. Failure was impossible, wasn’t it? He tried to swallow, feeling as if he just leapt off a building without a parachute. Free-fall.

Deliberately delaying, she let the moment spin out. She wanted to make him wait for a change. Nikita tossed the keys back and forth from palm to palm, as if literally weighing her decision. “That suits me,” she said finally, taking his hand. “That suits me right down to the ground.”

- FIN -

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send a comment to Wild Wahine, click HERE!