Chapter 1: Sound the Horn

...The grey dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill.
Anne Crawford: Kathleen Mavourneen

Teodorus sat in his dimly lit shop, half dozing in his hide covered wheelchair, his head with its full shock of bristling gray hair drooping on his bullish neck. One massive arm lay in his lap, the other dangled over the arm of the chair. From time to time an urchin came in from the raucous market outside his door and whispered in his ear. He would grunt, slip them a small coin, and drop back into apparent slumber. But Teodorus' mind never really slept, never took a day off, was never confined like his body. Teodorus was a hunter. Teodorus sought his prey, and her name was Nefar.

Unlike Teodorus she not only didn't know his name, she didn't know he existed. Far from his noisy street market in Athens, Nefar stepped silkily from the Paris showroom where she had just dropped a small fortune in pocket money. A bodyguard stepped along smartly behind her as the one in front of her stood on the curb. Men on the street turned to admire her, so did some of the women. Her strange exotic looks were stunning. Almost six feet tall and slender, she wore her ankle length close fitting green silk dress like a runway model, its slit revealing long bronzed legs. Her hair was straight, waist length, jet black and shining like the glint off freshly broken coal. Her skin was a darkly burnished bronze. Above high, angular cheekbones were starling almond shaped eyes, light amber, almost golden, an impossible color. Her appearance was the finest that could be produced with a maximum mix of races - and money.

She had no sooner departed the shop than her limo magically appeared before her. The shimmer of Paris slipped from her mind as she entered the car. She might be on the Champs Elysées, but in her thoughts she stood in a back alley in Istanbul staring up at a large empty townhouse behind a fortress wall, a townhouse which until recently had held two of her creatures, Karl and Marta. She would only go there again in memory, never again in person. It had been contaminated for her.

If only they had been just a little older, a little less conceited. Now, lost, lost. Taken by Section. By Michael and that blonde bitch. Damn! Look for new ones, I suppose. Where? That's the question, where to start?

"The hotel, Jessir," she said aloud to the driver.

As the driver slid the large limo silently through the Paris streets, skillfully evading the attack of Parisian drivers, Nefar's mind zeroed in on her target, Michael. Did he know he was hunted? He had all the right instincts to know. She had come so close in Istanbul, watched him from the shadows when he had glanced quickly around himself, seeking, seeking, what? Her? She had slipped back into the shadows and the taxi whisked him away. Opportunity lost. And after he had tried to kill her, and not just once. Why had he been kissing someone who looked so much like herself? She had delayed for months now thinking about that. The blonde must just be a convenience. Michael wouldn't do without for long. Not Michael. Focus, she told herself, focus. He had taught her that. It was her turn to do the teaching now, to do the hunting.

The driver glanced into the rear view mirror and saw the ugly mockery of a smile curve Nefar's lips. A trickle of cold sweat traced its way down his spine beneath the chauffeur's uniform. Thinking of pulling the wings off of flies, he thought. He glanced sideways at the bodyguard in the front seat with him. The bodyguard glanced back at Nefar. Thinking of skinning someone alive, he thought. He just shrugged at Jessir. At least the job paid well.

Nefar eased back into the glove soft leather of the limo's seat and began to plan. Touching a control panel on the center armrest, she activated a satellite link to her mobile computer and began entering search parameters. You don't know I jumped from the limo before your rocket blew it to bits. You don't know I am still alive. You'll never even see me coming, and I'm coming for you, Michael. I am the hunter, Michael. You are my prey, and I will taste your blood. I swear it. I will taste your blood.

Nikita sat in Michael's office. The laptop was open between them as they worked their way through a building diagram. Two cold cups of coffee sat untasted on the desk.

"Here, and here," said Michael, pointing to the screen.

"No. Wait." Nikita pushed her glasses up her nose. "Look. The wiring panel there, " she said pointing.

He studied it a while longer. "Then there."

Nikita thought about it. "Yes. I think so. I'd feel better if Walter looked at their wiring plan, though."

Michael suddenly shuddered.

"What is it?" Nikita asked.

"Nothing. A chill."

"Where I came from, we would have said someone stepped on your grave."

"How pleasant," he responded sourly, "fortunately I'm no more in my grave than you are in yours." He popped the CD out of the drive and stood, "Let's go find Walter."

In the dimly lit shop in Athens, a slight dark man entered and Teodorus reared his head back in a hearty laugh. The effect was like a bull flashing its horns, an effect not lost on his visitor who paused, a hesitant smile on his face. Perhaps had the laugh reached Teodorus' eyes this would not have been the case, but Teodorus' eyes had been those of a dead man for over a dozen years. The contrast with his apparent merriment was chilling.

"Mathias!" he roared. "Forgotten me not, have you?"

"Theodorus," the man answered, "can one forget a lion?" He approached the older man's chair and bowed his head respectfully. Theodorus nodded graciously at his due.

"And you have come because the dust in our market is finer than the dust in Tangiers?"

Attempting pleasantry, Mathias answered, "But of course, why else?"

Teodorus suddenly became serious. The effect was like the "command presence" of a long term officer of high rank. Mathias caught himself before he snapped to attention.

"Why else, indeed, Mathias?"

"I am forever in your debt, Teodorus, and can but repay it in small bits at a time."

"And the small bit today?" Teodorus asked.

"Nefar returns to Istanbul this week. It is said she seeks replacements for Karl and Marta."

Teodorus sat silently thinking for a moment, pulling on his lower lip. He studied Mathias. Mathias squirmed.

"And she is staying where?"

"Unfortunately, I do not know. Of course, I shall try to find out. Such information would be valuable."

"Valuable?" frowned Teodorus.

"To others," hastened Mathias. "To you, of course, all the information I have is given freely."

"Freely, and far in advance of its 'value' to others, I assume?"

"Naturally. Naturally. Far, far in advance."

Teodorus studied him a while longer, just enough to make the point clear. Then his mouth alone flashed a broad smile, "Ouzo?"

"Thank you."

A small boy appeared from nowhere with a tray bearing a bottle of ouzo and 2 small glasses. The child poured and offered the tray, first to the guest and then to Teodorus.

"Salude."

"Salude."

They each downed the ouzo in a quick gulp. There was a decent interval of silence and appreciative sighs at the quality of the ouzo.

"It was good of you to come and visit an old man," Teodorus said.

"It is always my pleasure and honor," said Mathias. He understood the dismissal and bowed his head slightly as he backed out of the tiny shop.

Teodorus sat staring through the dimness inside the store into the faint glow of an embryonic idea. The child reappeared and silently whisked away the glasses. He returned and sat next to the wheelchair on the oriental rug. Teodorus reached out and stroked the boy's head like a man absent-mindedly petting a cat. The boy nearly purred and settled in closer to the wheels.

The red lights flashed over the staging area announcing "Incoming Mission". As the automatic doors whooshed open, Nikita and Michael strode through them. Two other operatives followed, and then Birkhoff, hauling his equipment with him. Ops stood waiting for them, and Michael went to him immediately.

"Report," Ops ordered.

"Mission complete. We got in without detection and rewired their system From now on we'll know every move they make in the building," Michael responded.

Ops rubbed his hands. "Excellent. Clean up and have your team report for a full debriefing." Ops turned and left abruptly as the operatives all filed off to the showers. Nikita came up to Michael and he reached out to tuck a long strand of blonde hair that had escaped her braid behind her ear.

"Debrief now?" she asked.

"He said to clean up first."

"Doesn't like the way we smell, huh? He should try crawling around a rat infested basement."

Michael stared at her long and hard. "That didn't seem to bother you. Are you OK?"

Nikita thought about that for a minute. "No it didn't. Yes, I'm OK." She seemed a little surprised herself. "I think it must be like saturation conditioning. Nothing with rats is ever going to frighten me again. It couldn't be as bad as what Red Cell tried with them."

Michael leaned back against the doorway, watching her. She seemed very open and relaxed. "May I ask something? You don't have to answer if it bothers you."

She started to say something, then obviously changed it. "I was going to say 'Shoot', but with you that might get taken literally. Go ahead and ask."

Now he smiled slightly, then became serious. "Why rats? You've faced so many things so much worse."

"Did you ever sleep in a garbage filled alley and wake up with them crawling all over you, your fingers bleeding where they've bitten you?"

He grimaced. "No."

"I think they came to represent something more. Not just rats. Everything that led to being in that alley." She was very serious now, but still open. "When I saw a rat, I lived it all over again. I was so helpless, so 'victimized', so... Now I don't. I see the Red Cell. I see what we both went through. But I also see that we survived. I think...I know now that I can survive more than I had ever imagined."

Michael glanced quickly around at the now deserted staging area, then reached out and placed a hand on the side of her face. His thumb stroked across her cheekbone. She tilted her head to lean into his hand, closed her eyes, and smiled. "You are stronger, Nikita, than even you realize yet," he whispered. His voice sounded sad, and she opened her eyes to stare into his.

"What is it, Michael?" she asked softly.

"Nothing."

"Michael..."

"I hope you'll never need all the strength you have."

She reached her hand up to lay it against his cheek also and they stood there reading one another. Footsteps sounded coming down the hall and they dropped their hands to their sides. The mood broke. "To the showers," Michael ordered. Nikita cast him a naughty sideways glance as she turned and he smothered a smile as they departed.

After the debriefing, Michael returned to his office and settled in at his desk. He clicked on his private channel uplink and found a message waiting. He read through it once, then again before deleting it. He leaned back in his chair and stared off into space, the slightest of frowns registered before he automatically blanked it. He was still sitting there in that position 10 minutes later when Birkhoff entered with a readout he had requested.

"Sleeping with your eyes open?" Birkhoff asked.

Michael moved only his eyes to look at Birkhoff and remained silent, still thinking. Birkhoff shrugged, dropped the CD on Michael's desk and started to turn to leave. "Birkhoff," Michael stopped him, "Can you write some programs for me? Search programs."

Birkhoff sat down in the side chair. "What kind of search?"

Michael leaned forward in his chair. "If you wanted to locate a certain type of person from our databases, and everyone else's..."

"Everyone else's? That's a pretty broad search unless you've got tight parameters."

"I think I can give you tight parameters, but most of them will be 'soft' parameters. Personality traits as well as skill sets."

"Sounds like Madeleine's files," Birkhoff responded with his voice instinctively dropped to a very low volume.

"Whatever."

Birkhoff grinned, "You've been hanging out with Nikita too long." Michael looked at him without expression. Birkhoff straightened up. "I take it this is serious."

"Yes."

"I take it you don't want it on the record."

"Yes."

Birkhoff thought about this for a while and glanced back at the door. He rose and went to the door, closing it before returning to the chair. "What kind of parameters?" Michael began reeling off a list of personality traits and skill sets while Birkhoff listened intently.

It was half an hour later before they were sure everything was covered that needed to be and Birkhoff left to begin work. Michael returned to his computer and searched for "hot spots" near Athens which could justifiably require his attention, and Nikita's.

Michael clicked the remote one last time, and the blue rimmed viewscreen suspended above the conference table displayed the original map with which he had begun his presentation. Ops sat in the head chair, Madeleine at the foot, Nikita on one side. The map showed 4 highlighted spots: Budapest, Hungary; Sofia, Bulgaria; Athens, Greece; and Istanbul, Turkey. Michael sat down.

"It does sound like someone has taken over Nefar's old turf," Ops agreed. "Still, I'm not sure why Omar and Nicè can't handle it."

"Hungary and Bulgaria aren't their areas. Hillary and Trevor have some adequate contacts there, but then we'd be tying up 4 resources, not just 2," Michael responded.

"And your contacts with arms dealers is...." Ops let the unfinished sentence hang in the air as a challenge.

"adequate." Michael concluded Ops' sentence.

Ops snorted. "I guess so. And particularly any associated with Nefar." Michael declined the bait with silence.

Nikita sat quietly watching the unspoken by-play. She carefully schooled her features to not reflect the thoughts going through her mind. Am I ever going to get the rest of that story?

"I should think Michael's former contacts should prove valuable," Madeleine interjected. "I see no reason to not pursue this. Karl and Marta had very little information to give us. Apparently whoever is running Nefar's organization now kept them at arm's length, telling them only what they needed to know. Michael should be better able to judge who has taken over the territory than any other operative we have." She paused long enough to draw Michael's undivided attention and then looked him straight in the eye, "Although I fail to understand why Nikita's presence would be required."

Michael was fully prepared for this objection. "One of the contacts has met Nikita. She is completely taken with her. Frankly, she doesn't think much of me. I believe she will be a great deal more open with Nikita."

"Why would that be?" Madeleine asked.

"She prefers tall, blonde women."

Nikita rolled her eyes. "Great."

"You remember Tessa, Nikita?" Michael asked.

"Not likely to forget. My left breast still has the paw marks."

Ops laughed. "OK. Do it." They all rose from the table, Madeleine still watching Michael. As Nikita and Michael departed, Ops automatically added, "Good hunting."

"Thank you," said Nikita as Michael left ahead of her without speaking.

When they reached Michael's office and the door was shut securely behind them, Nikita rounded on Michael and demanded, "OK, Michael. Who the hell is Tessa? And what the hell are you up to?"

"Sit down," he said. "We need to talk." She sat.

"Tessa doesn't exist. I lied. Teodorus left me a message. He wants to see us."

"Me too?" she asked.

"The message said 'Make sure to bring your Lady Sunlight.'"

"That's me, huh?" she smiled.

"That's you. He likes you."

"I liked him." She paused. "Such a sad man, but kind." Michael remained silent. Nikita frowned, "But I'm glad he likes me. I don't think I'd want him for an enemy."

"Believe me, you wouldn't, " he said. Nikita waited for Michael to drop the other shoe. She knew it was coming. "Nefar is still alive."

"Then you were right. You know she's going to try to kill you, Michael."

"Right now she is trying to find replacements for Karl and Marta to take care of it for her. I'm trying to find them first."

"How?"

"Birkhoff wrote a program for me that I think has brought up the names of the people she is most likely to contact. I know what sort she would be looking for."

Nikita thought for a moment. "You surely don't care about them. We're hunting her through them?"

"That's the plan."

"And then what?"

"Kill her," Michael stated flatly.

"Wouldn't her intel be valuable to Section?"

"I don't care."

They sat in silence. "Kill her. Not, cancel her," Nikita thought. "This is personal for him." Nikita looked down at the floor and remembered Michael's face as he shot the unarmed Clavier. Judge, jury, and executioner. She looked up at him. He did not avoid her eyes, just as he had not after killing Clavier. She could read him clearly. His look then and now said, "This is what I am. I give you the right to judge me." And he would accept her condemnation as valid, she was absolutely sure. 'Michael is a killer,' she thought. There was a lot about Michael that was hard to accept. There was good also, even though he seemed unable to see it.

"When do we leave, Michael?"

Chapter 2: Gather the Riders

And there before my eyes was a white horse, and its rider held a bow.
He was given a crown, and he rode forth, conquering and to conquer ...
And out came another horse, all red.
To its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and make men slaughter one another;
and he was given a great sword ...
And there, as I looked, was a black horse;
and its rider held in his hand a pair of scales ...
And there, as I looked, was another horse, sickly pale;
and its rider's name was Death, and Hades came close behind.
To him was given power over a quarter of the earth,
with the right to kill by sword and by famine, by pestilence and wild beasts.
-- Revelations 6:1-6

Budapest so far was a blur in Nikita's mind, and she held little hope for Sofia. She and Michael had landed in the early morning. Although they had checked into the large tourist hotel on the former citadel in the old city of Buda, they had left so quickly to meet Michael's contact that her bag still sat unpacked on the bed next to Michael's. Two more contacts followed in very rapid order. Michael and his contacts spoke Hungarian. She was mystified and felt like a useless appendage. She remembered all too clearly his violent contact "meeting" Michael had made in Stockholm with shooters suddenly emerging from darkened doorways and blacked-out windows. The only thing she could do was watch his back, and worry. So far everything appeared peaceful even if obscure. Michael's latest contact shook hands and left.

"That covers it," Michael said.

"Covers what? So far you haven't translated a thing after the introductions."

He looked at her for a minute, took her hand and pulled her over to a small retainer wall which fronted the nearby building. They sat down. "Nikita, I know this has been frustrating for you. You've read all the briefing notes. There's little to add. My contacts have just confirmed what we already knew."

"Then why are we here?"

Michael paused for a minute and stared off into the distance and then looked back at her. "Nefar doesn't know Teodorus exists. I want to keep it that way. The only thing we have to do in Budapest and Sofia is to lay a false track for her to follow if she's watching."

Nikita thought about that, finally nodded, "So we can't go straight to Athens. We tuck it in the middle where it's less noticeable."

"Yes." He paused. "It's also less noticeable to Section."

"They don't know about Teodorus, either, do they?"

"No. And I intend to keep it that way." He paused again. "I also don't want them to know that I'm aware that Nefar is alive, and where she is."

They were silent until Michael glanced at his watch, "We have a little time left. Let's go to the lookout tower on János hegy. It's the highest point in the Buda hills. You can see the whole city."

Nikita looked at him and then smiled. "Why?"

Michael looked down briefly then up into her eyes, "You should have something from Budapest to remember." Nikita caressed his cheek with her hand.

"Thank you, Michael." He reached up and took her hand from his cheek and kissed it.

If Budapest had been a blur, Sofia was barely a smudge. They were there for only half a day. There was barely time to cross the city, make the contact, and get back to the airport. Her overall impression was that of a large modern city with few remnants of it's past. It's location was attractive, situated in a large basin with prominent mountains around it. Mt. Vitosha seemed almost to be a part of the town itself. Back in the Section's private jet, Nikita collapsed into the seat next to Michael and realized that she was too exhausted to have done any sightseeing anyway.

"Next time, we'll go out to the Iskur gorge," Michael promised.

Nikita's head dropped onto his shoulder as she mumbled, "Uh huh." She was immediately sound asleep. As the plane began to taxi down the runway for take-off, Michael reached across and buckled her seat belt, then his own. He leaned his head against hers, took a deep breath, and was asleep before he exhaled.

Once again they stood outside Teodorus' shop. This time they entered together. The old man still sat in his hide covered wheelchair in the semidarkness of the tiny crowded store. It was no tidier than it had been. An amazing accumulation of tourist lures, some genuine artifacts, and edibles were thrown together in disorderly array. Nikita was again aware of the scars that hid themselves among the deeply etched lines of his lived-in face and wondered at their origin. Even in the dimness of the shop she was aware of the sharp flash of his dark and haunted eyes.

"Teodorus."

"Michael."

Michael stepped toward the old man and held out his hand. Teodorus took it and they shook hands solemnly. Then, as before, Teodorus lifted his arms to Michael who bent to embrace him. This time, however, Teodorus then turned to Nikita and lifted his arms to her. Surprised, but pleased, she stepped forward and embraced him also.

"Hello, Teodorus."

"Lady Sunlight. It is good to see you are both still of a piece," Teodorus said.

The boy appeared from the back of the shop carrying two chairs which he managed to crowd in front of Teodorus somehow avoiding the detritus in the shop. Nikita and Michael both sat and settled comfortably into Teodorus' lair.

"You will have coffee with me," stated Teodorus. The boy reappeared with a tray of Turkish coffee and tiny cups. Before business could be conducted, they went through the elaborate ritual the coffee demanded. When the cups were down to their dregs, Teodorus said, "Regretfully, my friends, we must speak of unpleasant things."

"Nefar," said Michael, his voice flat.

"Yes."

"I have 2 sets of names of people she has likely hired, 1 here, 1 set in Istanbul."

"To kill you."

"Yes, to kill me." Michael confirmed.

"Stefan and Andreas here, I assume."

"Those are the names I have, yes."

Teodorus considered, "I think it unlikely, but they are certainly vermin. They have caused me personally some grief." He gave Michael a look that carried with it an entire set of information, directions, and approval of any action he might decide to take.

Whether they worked for Nefar or not, clearly Teodorus wanted them eliminated. Clearly, Michael understood that.

Nikita was amazed at what all he conveyed with a look. She realized that she was reading him in much the way she read Michael. The next step in her reasoning came rapidly. They were very alike, two men formed by battle and pain--hard men, capable of terrible things, and capable of great compassion. No wonder I liked him at once, she thought, he's an old Michael. She remembered Michael role-playing, Michael being outgoing, hail-fellow-well-met. How much of Teodorus is a role, she wondered, for underneath they are so much the same.

"One of my men, also a Stefan, will take you where you have need to go," Teodorus continued. "Please, Michael, do not confuse them. My Stefan is a most helpful fellow. I would miss him."

"I shall try to keep them straightened out," said Michael with a slight smile as he rose. Nikita rose also, but Teodorus immediately motioned for her to remain behind. She drew herself up to her full impressive height.

"I am NOT some shrinking violet to be protected. I guard his back and he knows it." She glared first at Michael then at Teodorus.

Michael started to speak, but Teodorus waved him off and replied instead, "I do not doubt you, Lady Sunlight. You are a warrior. I knew it when first we met. Michael would have no other, whatever he might think. Neither your courage nor your value are in doubt, but where he must go there are NO women. You could not hope to follow unnoticed. You would be a hindrance, not a help."

Nikita looked to Michael, Michael looked to Teodorus, "They are at the encampment?"

"Yes."

"Nikita, you can't go. He's right. Stay here."

Nikita was frustrated. That was on par for the entire trip so far. "I don't like feeling like a useless decorative accessory." Michael looked to the ceiling. This was a no-win scenario. If he said "You're not" it meant she wasn't decorative; if he said "You are" it meant she was useless. Women. He looked at Teodorus. Teodorus burst out laughing.

"One must love them, Michael. Otherwise one would go mad. Go. Go. Leave." Michael left.

Nikita watched his rapidly retreating back as Teodorus' man, Stefan, fell into step beside him. She clenched her fists at her side. "I'm worried, Teodorus."

"I know you are, Nikita. And afraid." She bristled, but he continued, "Afraid for him."

She glared at Teodorus. "He has a habit of walking into gun barrels."

Teodorus looked at her thoughtfully. "He also has a habit of walking away alive. Sit, Nikita, sit. There is nothing else you can do right now."

She took a deep breath and let it out, then dropped back into the chair. A minute passed. "It really is somewhere I would be noticeable?"

"Yes. Very much so."

"Did you send enough people to cover him?"

"More than he knows."

She looked him in the eye and accepted the statement as truth. "OK."

Teodorus leaned forward in his wheelchair, "Tell me about yourself, Lady Sunlight. I want to know what manner of woman has enthralled my young friend."

"Enthralled?" She laughed. "I think that might be overstating it."

"No."

"How well do you know Michael?"

Teodorus considered the question for a while. "I do not know all the particulars because they do not matter. I do know the man."

"You know what you need to know," Nikita quoted. "Sounds like Madeleine."

"I know his soul."

"He doesn't think he has one."

"We both know he is wrong."

"Yes."

"Tell me about yourself, Nikita," he repeated gently. She did, haltingly at first, but as she spoke the words came easier, and finally, in a flood. The light grew dimmer in the shop. Unnoticed, the boy lit a lantern that bathed them in a soft glow. She continued, unconsciously moving closer to the old man until she was leaning on the arm of his chair while he stoked her hair. She came at last to a halt, out of words. Her 'tough girl' exterior had cracked a few times during the recounting of her background, but remained intact. They sat in silence in the warmth of the lantern's light.

"Tell me about yourself, Teodorus," she said at last. The silence became heavier.

"It is not a pretty story."

"Neither was mine."

"I will tell you some of it," he said. "This is a difficult thing you ask, Lady Sunlight. But you have earned the right to do so."

He closed his eyes and the scars on his face seemed to grow deeper. At last he began to speak. And he spoke of daring deeds. He told her about being 16 and joining the partisans in the mountains of northern Greece, of sleeping on the frosty ground. He told her about the heroism of the children and old men among them, guerrillas fighting the Nazis against impossible odds. He spoke of the young girl, Maria, with the spirit of a lion and the courage of ten men, but whose heart was open to every wounded passerby. As he described her deeds, Nikita realized that he had been at Maria's side through it all and began to understand the young man Teodorus had been.

Somewhere during this a tiny table had been introduced by the little boy. On it sat two glasses and a bottle of retsina. Teodorus picked up a glass and the little boy poured both glasses full. "Drink," Teodorus said. "This is very good retsina."

"There is no such thing as good retsina."

He lowered his head and glowered at her through his bristly eyebrows. "It is an acquired taste. You will learn to like it. For me."

"Right." She picked up the glass and braced herself for the strange pine resin sting.

"Try it with the warmed pita bread and tzatziki," he suggested.

"What...," but before the words were out of her mouth a small basket of warm pita wrapped in a napkin and a bowl of tzatziki had appeared on the table. The boy left and returned with spanakopita, set aflame, then extinguished with lemon juice. They ate and they drank. Satisfied, they sank back into their former positions. The boy whisked away the basket and bowls.

"Tell me more," Nikita asked.

Teodorus closed his eyes again and cast his words before her like the flowing magic of a Greek epic. He could be Homer, and she his captivated audience. And he spoke of beautiful memories. He told her of his wife of 40 years and spoke of her as though he still saw her in the blushing youth of their wedding day when they had come down from the mountains after the war. He spoke of a daughter who died young and left them with her infant child. He told her of raising that child with his wife, Maria, of the delight they had felt in the daily antics of the young Josef. Then he fell into silence until she thought he had fallen asleep.

"And then Nefar came," he said, opening his eyes. "A local dealer had double crossed her and it was he that she sought. They had never met in person. She made a mistake. She came to the wrong farm, ours. When she discovered she had made a mistake, it made her angry. She took her anger out on us."

He stared into the past, the pain in his eyes deepened and he closed them. Then he began to speak again, but the epic became Greek tragedy. The furies ran wild, and a proud man fell before them, torn, his heart bleeding. He spoke of terrible things. Of his own helplessness, paralyzed and pinned by her armed men. Of torture, pain, and cruelty; of blood, and fire, and death. Of being left alive; of being left alone; of praying for death to come through that long and godless night.

"And then Michael came," he said. "They fought. Her forces divided between them. She left. I begged him to kill me. He refused. I hated him. I called him names I didn't even know I knew. He buried Maria and Josef and carried me away to somewhere that repaired me as best they could." He indicated the wheelchair. "I still hated him." He fell into silence again.

At last Nikita said, "What changed?"

"He came back," Teodorus said, pouring them both another glass. "He said that there was much I could do to change things. He told me how to do it. He made me a ghost. Nefar believes I died. There are three graves on the hill. He and Nefar parted then. For months afterward, underground Europe and the mid-east were a war zone. The polizei went mad; there were bodies everywhere. They had no idea why. Then it quieted somewhat, cease fire or exhaustion one."

"Why were they ever together?"

"Nefar handled armaments. Michael handled information, though he certainly knew enough about armaments. It was a partnership in a manner of speaking. I hope you hold no illusions that our Michael was some slightly erring knight."

"I tried to, it made it worse when I had to admit he wasn't."

"It is always best to deal with reality, Nikita." He paused and considered her. "You think you have accepted him as he is, but you have not. Michael has been a much worse man than he is today."

Nikita went pale thinking about it. She choked out the question, "Like Nefar?" but didn't want the answer.

"No," he almost shouted, startling her. "Not like Nefar. You must never think that." He patted her shoulder, quieting her after she had jerked upright. "Not at all like Nefar, my dear. She loved the blood, the pain, the killing. She did it to amuse herself. He takes no pleasure in killing. You must never think they are anything alike."

"Thank God." She laughed, a harsh mocking laugh. "He's only a killer."

"Yes, Nikita. He is. Do not pretend what is not." Teodorus reached his hand out and cupped it under her chin, lifting it to look into her eyes. "You must accept him as what he is or release him."

"He's not mine to release."

"Yes, Nikita, he is."

They were silent until Teodorus finally asked, "Do you want the rest of the story?"

"Yes."

"He shifted his information network to me. I run it from here," he said, then added arrogantly as he released her chin, "and I have improved upon it greatly." Nikita dropped her head to hide a smile and thought again about the parallels between the two men. Michael, too, was arrogant. Well, she thought, I guess they both have reason to be. It isn't conceit when you have something to be arrogant about.

"But you no longer hate him."

"No."

"Why?"

"Two reasons. He will never admit to it, but I saw him weep over my Maria's grave. He was so young, but despite the venom I heaped on him, he was as gentle with me as a father with a injured child. I came to know the man. He was changing then, and has changed more since. People can change, Nikita. You cannot change them, but they can change themselves. And Michael changed himself that year. I respected that. It is a hard thing for a man to do."

"Why did he get involved in it all to begin with?" she asked.

"What path led him to what he did, I know little of, just small bits. He had lived in Bangkok. His father was a diplomat. Something happened there. I do not know the details. I only guess: Too much money, too much intelligence, too much arrogance, too young, too injured in some way. I do not know, only guess. I will say this: whatever happened in Bangkok happened TO him; what happened in Europe happened FROM him. I do not know more, perhaps someday he will tell you. I think he would tell no other. Not very talkative is our Michael."

"I've noticed," she replied dryly.

"When did Section come in?"

"Not very talkative is our Michael," he repeated and shrugged. They smiled ruefully at one another.

Nikita realized there was a reason missing. "What was the other reason," she asked.

"He promised to kill me when I could no longer bear it."

Nikita's eyes widened slightly, then she reconsidered. Finally she said softly, "I understand."

"He is kind when he can be."

Nikita poured the next glasses of retsina. Teodorus' tale was finished and they fell into a comfortable silence, each with their own thoughts and memories. Nikita had many more parts now of the puzzle that was Michael.

When he returned, he found them still sitting there in companionable quiet.

"Michael."

"Teodorus. I fear Stefan, not yours, and Andreas have met with misfortune."

"Fatal misfortune?"

"Yes."

"Then it's Istanbul next?" asked Nikita.

"That would seem to be the case. Are you ready to leave?"

"No, she is not," said Teodorus. "You will not leave directly for Istanbul. You will both rest first. You would be fools to meet Nefar otherwise."

Michael dropped into the other chair. "You're right. We will leave tomorrow. Nikita?"

"Let's go back to that taverna we stayed in before, Michael."

That decided they took their leave of Teodorus. Teodorus caught Nikita's hand and kissed it. He burst into loud and dramatic poetry,

"Maid of Athens,
Ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before you go,
Zoe mu, sas aghapo. (Pronunciation only given)*

* Greek: My life, I love you.

Nikita laughed, "Oh, you are an impossible man, Teodorus." She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. She and Teodorus were both still laughing as Michael dragged her from the shop.

Nefar paced her rented villa outside Istanbul, back and forth like a tiger in a cage. The room was open to the terrace and her pacing led her outside. Warm sultry breezes blew in from the Bosporus, gently waving the palm fronds. As she paused in her circuit to look down at the harbor, a bodyguard entered.

"They are here," he said.

"Send them in."

He left and reappeared with a couple. "Manias and Isabeau, " he said by way of introduction, planting them in front of her.

They were about 30 years old. The man was short, stocky and muscular. The woman's frame was as compact as his. They were both dark-haired and dark-eyed. Their clothes were expensive, though not stylish. They were neat. They were clean. They did not look like anyone you would want to meet. It was the eyes, icy, hard, and mean. They stood silently in front of Nefar, two of her bodyguards behind them. Nefar looked at the couple coldly. Then like lightening, she whipped out her hand and slashed it across the man's left cheek, then back-handed across the woman's right cheek. Four long trails of blood appeared on the faces of them both where her nails had sliced. They went pale, but aware of the guns behind them stood still. Nefar watched the blood trickle down Manias' face, then down Isabeau's. Nefar smiled.

"When I say eight o'clock, I mean eight o'clock."

The sleek little plane landed in Istanbul and purred to halt at the far end of the runway well away from the terminal. While the pilot waited for terminal instructions, Nikita and Michael exited and walked quickly to an 8 foot chain link fence around the perimeter of the airfield. Michael went up and over it in a flash. Nikita tossed both their suitcases for him to catch. Before he had set the second one down, Nikita dropped to the ground beside him.

"This way," he said, walking toward a row of cars. She followed until he stopped at a small sports car. He went down on one knee and reached under the car, rising again with car keys in hand. "Compliments of Nicè," he said by way of explanation. The dumped their suitcases into the car and wasted no time leaving the area. They were out of sight before the plane parked at the terminal.

The car wound its way through the crowded streets of Istanbul, every sight and smell recalling to Nikita her previous visit there, the amazing combination of nationalities and languages assaulting her memories at each corner. It was late morning so the muezzins were not calling from the minarets, but from every hill crest she could glimpse the Bosporus where she and Omar had spent the day sailing. They drove to the better part of Istanbul and she began to recognize familiar landmarks.

"Where are we going, Michael?"

"To Karl and Marta's townhouse."

"Michael! That's crazy!"

"Not really," he thought for a minute about how to explain his reasoning. "Nefar is superstitious in some strange ways. If she loses a fight, she considers the place it occurred as 'bad luck', or something like that. It's as if the place itself carries the ability to harm her in some way."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. I never did. But that's the way she is. That townhouse is the one place in Istanbul she'll stay away from."

As he approached the entrance, he punched the remote, and the door in the wall slid smoothly open. As they entered the courtyard, the garage door also opened. He parked the auto as the doors closed behind them. The garage was off the large enclosed courtyard. The townhouse itself was enormous, 3 stories high, and surrounded by a fortress-like wall. It had a central door and looked more or less symmetrical. Although she could not see it from there, she remembered that it had a smaller rear courtyard. They entered the main house. They were both tense, the memories of the battle here combined with the knowledge that an even worse battle was coming set them both on edge.

"Where do we set up camp?" Nikita asked surveying the massive dining area, the parlor, the...her survey halted. Her background didn't even contain some of the words to describe the house.

"Logically, we should stay on the ground floor, it's easiest to defend with maximum exits."

She looked around and saw nothing that resembled a bed. The sofas were overly ornate Victorian pieces no one in their right mind would sit on, much less try to sleep on. "And your intui...instinct suggests?" she asked, rapidly amending her original question.

"Third floor bedrooms."

"Good."

They ascended the stairs with their bags, and dropping them at the upper landing, worked their way through the third floor. She liked Marta's feminine boudoir, he liked Karl's 'hunting lodge' decor. They compromised on the guest bedroom. The layer of dust, at any rate, was much the same throughout.

Nikita wrinkled up her nose and sneezed. "Lovely." She and Michael both fell to cleaning. The little burst of domesticity helped allay to some extent the tension level that had been building since they arrived at the townhouse. The room was soon habitable and they went back to the landing and retrieved their bags. "Michael, what's the first move? Teodorus was sure she was here in Istanbul. Listing agents?"

Michael froze and turned slowly to Nikita. He looked amazed, then laughed out loud. She looked startled, then embarrassed. He walked over to her quickly. "I'm sorry. Istanbul isn't Toronto. Things just aren't done that way here."

"Well, I don't know how they're done here."

"I know, you surprised me." He lifted her chin and then placed a hand on each side of her face. "You can still surprise me, Nikita," and in saying it he seemed surprised himself.

She hooked her arms around his neck. "Good...I think."

He smiled and pulled her closer. "We forgot to turn back the covers."

"I think I can handle that."

He dropped his arms lower and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He took a step backwards until the bed touched his calves and then simply fell gracefully onto his back, Nikita on top of him. She unhooked one arm and pulled the covers down.

"Told you I could handle it." Her playfulness was exactly what was needed by them both to break the remaining tension.

"What else can you handle?"

She placed a hand on the bed on each side of his head, leaned down, and blew softly across his eyelashes, forcing him to flutter his eyes. "A practical demonstration," she said. She began rotating her hips. He moaned.

He effortlessly flipped her onto her back laying on top of her, pressing into her as he started stripping off both their clothes. She edged her elbow under herself and levered him back over onto his back. She breathed deliberately into his ear, "I want to hear you beg." She moved her hips slowly back and forth as she scratched the nails on both her hands slowly down his now bare chest and abdomen.

"Please," he gasped.

"Say, pretty please," she managed to say as he tossed the last of their clothing to the floor.

He grabbed her hands and expertly shifted and she was on her back again. He held her hands firmly, one on each side of her head, pinning her. He whispered softly in French as he lowered himself. "What... ohhh .... does ... that ... mean?" she asked breathlessly.

"Pretty please."

Chapter 3: Loose the Hounds

Cry "Havoc" and let slip
The dogs of war.
William Shakespeare: Julius Caesar
Act iii, Sc. 1

It was early evening in Istanbul but the streets seemed almost as crowded as they had been in the morning. Now, however, they could hear the haunting sound of the muezzins singing evening prayers to Allah from the minarets around the city. The evening breeze was picking up, and the temperature had dropped, typical of the Mediterranean climate. The building they stood in front of had tiny blue glass tiles inlaid around it for about three feet up from its base. Larger blue tiles, bearing ornate script, were fixed around the building near the roof line.

Nikita and Michael walked further down the hill. On both sides of the street, businesses, cafes, tiny shops, and apartment buildings were set touching one another, no space between them. The daylight was rapidly fading. Finally a narrow street led off to the right, little more than an alley, but it too was lined cheek to jowl with doorways leading into more apartments, houses and small businesses. It was darker than the main thoroughfare they had been on, and considerably less populated. There were fewer people, and those who walked the little street seemed in a hurry to get to their destination, or in a hurry to get away from the street. Another, still smaller outlet went off again to the right. Nikita began to feel like she was in a maze. They seemed to be headed into the center of a still darker district. Although nearly lightless at this point, she could see doorway after doorway after doorway, none labeled or marked in any way. She and Michael were the only people on the street, Michael walking slightly in front since he seemed to know where he was.

"Michael?"

"Stay alert, Nikita. We're almost there, but I don't like the looks of it."

"That makes two of us. What bothers you?"

"There are usually at least prostitutes along here, and johns. Something has spooked them."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Nikita saw a tiny red targeting dot appear in the center of Michael's back. She threw herself forward, flattening him under her on the cobblestone pavement. As she moved the soft "phffft" of a silencer sounded. They simultaneously rolled, she off of him to the left of the alley, he to the right. They slipped into doorways, guns drawn, and silent. There was no sound, then the tiniest of rattles, loose gravel on a roof. They each peeked out spotting for ways to the roof, and reached the same conclusion at the same time. With a sharp kick, Michael smashed in the door of the doorway he had been hiding in. Nikita dropped her shoulder and rammed the door open in her doorway.

Inside the buildings they each made their way up, up through narrow stairways, up through crowded apartments with terrified occupants seeing deathly serious foreigners with drawn guns racing through their kitchens, and out their back doors. Nikita and Michael each reached the roofs of their respective buildings at almost the same time. The roofs also had occupants, considerably less respectable looking than the ones inside the buildings. Nikita carefully checked through the people, the makeshift tents, and bizarre building structures on the roof. Suddenly, she heard the "phffft" of another silencer and whirled around in time to see a man with a rifle tipping forward and falling dead about ten feet behind her. Michael stood, gun still pointing, on the roof opposite.

Nikita went over the body and crouched, frisking for identification, and found none. She looked warily around her and found herself in a circle of eyes, the roof occupants, some looking hungrily at the rifle. She removed the clip and left the empty rifle laying on the roof next to the body. She stood and walked through the circle. No sooner had she left them behind than she heard the mad scramble for the rifle, worth a month's food to the winner. She walked across the roof in the direction they had been going in the alley. Michael did the same across the roof tops on the opposite side of the alley.

The buildings were different heights as they made their way along, sometimes requiring them to drop down six or eight feet, sometimes climbing up to the next roof by about the same amount. On each roof the scene was the same, more tents, more ramshackle little buildings, all invisible from the street below--Istanbul within Istanbul, a hidden city. There were no more snipers. Eventually Michael motioned to her to go back down to the street. She went back down through the building whose roof she was on, feeling like she moved between Hades and Hell. They met back in the alley.

"This is where we're going," Michael indicated a doorway whose appearance was no different from the others. Nikita saw no reason to holster her gun, a 9 mil is a girl's best friend. Michael holstered his, but said nothing to indicate she should do the same. She turned her back to him and watched the street as he stepped to the door and knocked. A voice spoke in Turkish from the other side. Michael answered, also in Turkish. There was silence. Finally the door opened halfway. Michael spoke to the person in the darkness on the other side of the door. He turned, "Nikita, come." Nikita dropped back to the doorway still facing outward. She didn't turn around until she was inside the doorway, still holding her gun at ready. "Down," he said, indicating her gun. She let her arm fall to her side, acutely aware that he still hadn't indicated she should put the gun away.

They followed their silent tour guide down a hall to another door with an armed guard standing outside it. The guide went in, leaving the door open for them. The guard saw her pistol and stepped forward to stop her, but Michael stepped in front of him and stood silently staring him in the eye. Even from Michael's back, Nikita knew exactly what look the guard was receiving from him. The guard stepped back and let them pass. 'Smarter than he looks,' she thought.

Inside the smoke filled room were a couple of dozen men. Some sat on pillows on the floor, smoking from water pipes, some lay on the floor, doing the same with slow, lazy movements. In the center of the room there was a table game in progress that she didn't recognize. Men in suits and men in native dress sat around the table. There was an enormous heap of money on the table, in the currency of a dozen countries. Nikita moved to the side of the doorway, and leaned back against the wall. Around the perimeter of the room were five others, with guns out, but like Nikita, their arms down at their sides. One of them was a woman. She and Nikita exchanged curious looks, but then they both went back to watching the room's occupants.

"Don't take deep breaths," Michael said in a soft undertone for her ears only. She nodded. Michael walked to the table and took a seat, tossing a large roll of bills onto the pile as he did so.

The time passed slowly. Michael and the others in the game exchanged desultory comments from time to time. Nikita's head began to ache. She felt just slightly 'light', and wondered if she jumped if she would remain airborne. Concentrating on the occupants was becoming more difficult. She felt sleepy. Michael stood up and exchanged bows and handshakes with the others at the table. It seemed as though everything was moving in slow motion. He opened the door and left. She followed, feeling as though she walked through molasses. The guard stepped aside and they walked down the long hallway and stepped back out into the alley.

"Take deep breaths," Michael said. "The fresh air will help." He followed his own advice. It did help, a little. They wound their way back out of the maze, Nikita praying all the while that there were no other snipers. She knew she was not in good shape to deal with them.

Turning the last corner, they found themselves back out on the main thoroughfare beside the white building with its glistening blue tiles. Many people were strolling the street. The cafes were bustling. She looked up at the roof top and saw nothing except the edge of the roof. She glanced at her watch, 2 hours had passed since they entered the alley. It seemed like a dream.

"Put your gun away, you'll draw attention," Michael said, shielding her from view with his body. She was surprised to find she still held it. She holstered it. "Coffee," he added, and led her to a cafe.

Nikita considered using a knife and fork on the coffee but looking around her saw everyone was just drinking it. She sipped. It was thick, sweet, and delicious. Two cups later she had gone from drugged to wired.

"Feeling better?" Michael asked.

"Oh, yeah!" She tapped her fingers on the marble table top. "Who's next? Bring 'em on."

"I did tell you not to take deep breaths."

"That wasn't marijuana."

"No, that was an opium den."

"I can handle that, but what the hell's in the coffee?"

Michael dropped his head and tried to suppress a laugh. "I think we're ready to leave now."

They left the cafe, edging their way through the crowded streets, walking for blocks. The crowd thinned as the area grew increasingly residential. "Does this city ever go to sleep?," she asked.

"Never."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to check the place I found out about during the game."

"Does it belong to, who was it, Isabeau and..."

"Manias"

"Right."

"Yes, supposedly. If the information was good." He considered this while they walked. "I think it probably was."

"Looked to me like you lost a bundle, at least as long as I could follow it."

"It's courtesy to lose the amount the information is worth."

"I see," and she thought she did. 'Really need to find out what's in that coffee,' she thought.

It was now almost midnight. They made one turn after the other. Nikita tried desperately to keep her bearings. "Michael, stop."

He tensed, "What?" instantly alert.

"Repeat for me what turns we've made. I might have to get us both out of here."

He thought, and then carefully repeated their entire path, each turn, each landmark. She closed her eyes and repeated it back to him. "Perfect," he said. He reached out and lifted the collar of her jacket, tucking her long blonde hair inside it. In the dark, it made her hair look as though it were cut in a bob. "Leave it like that," he said. "It's less noticeable."

They continued their walk, coming at last to a moderate sized house behind a wall. As they walked past it, to all appearances ignoring it, he said quietly, "This is the place." In effect, they 'went around the block', although nothing in Istanbul was ever that simple. When they finished their circuit they had a fairly good idea of the exterior layout, although, of course, none of the interior. Whatever happened with Nefar, Manias and Isabeau would have to be eliminated, and this was their base.

"What next?" Nikita asked. "Up and over?"

"No. Let's get some troops together."

"From Section?"

He thought about this. "I don't think so. I'd rather they only know what I tell them." He was silent for a long time as they walked back. Finally he said, "This is cleaning up my own mess. The only ones I could ask for help, really, would be Omar and Nicè. I don't feel right asking them to risk their lives for a problem I caused." He was silent for another block, Nikita waiting, knowing that saying anything at all might stop whatever comments he would make. "I shouldn't have brought you."

She stopped and pulled him around to face her. Now she spoke up, "Michael, where else should I be, if not here?" They stood looking into one another's eyes. He took her face in his hands.

"I don't want anything to happen to you, and I constantly put you in harm's way."

"That's our life, Michael. You can't protect me from it, you can just share it." He pulled her face to his, and kissed her very gently. They held each other for a moment, then walked on.

During their journey, Michael pulled out his cell phone and made a series of calls. Some of the conversations were held in Turkish, some in French. Nikita understood none of it. She waited until it appeared that he had concluded the last call. "And?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night. One o'clock in the morning. We'll have about 10 people to back us up."

"Professional?"

"Yes, and no. Professional, not Section."

"Good?"

"Good to moderate. Not as good as you're accustomed to working with."

She nodded, considering the extra precautions that would be required. They walked on. Eventually they arrived back at the townhouse and slipped quietly in. They were careful about lights at night, since the house was supposed to be unoccupied. They checked through the house, found it 'clean', and went back to the guest bedroom. It was now almost three o'clock in the morning. "Rest," Michael ordered, and they went to bed.

She counted sheep. She counted uzis. She counted little Madeleines and little Ops. The thick Turkish coffee still raced her system. She finally punched Michael, waking him.

"I can't sleep."

"Ummph."

"Michael, have you worked with these people before? What do you mean by moderate?"

"Yes," he responded muzzily into the pillow.

"When?"

"Before."

"Before when? How long ago?"

Michael pulled himself up onto an elbow and looked glassily at her. 'Why,' he wondered, 'does any woman who can't sleep feel it's her duty to wake up the man sleeping beside her?'

"It's been a while," he admitted, "but the people my contact supply will be good, just not Section quality. Go to sleep." He laid back down.

"If it's been a while, how can you be sure?"

Michael sighed and sat up in bed. He reached out brushed Nikita's hair back. "Roll over," he ordered.

"What?"

"Roll over." She did. He began to give her a slow and sleepy back massage, working his way gradually up her spine, putting in the occasional kiss on her back. She sighed. Her breathing grew deeper and slower. She fell asleep. "Bon soire, mon amour" he breathed at her ear, and stretched out next to her. He was now wide awake and lay a long time watching her sleep, her long blonde hair turned gossamer silver in the moonlight.

There was an invisible line and Michael knew that somehow, somewhere he had crossed it. When she shot Stephan to save him, giving up her chance at freedom? When he stood over her unconscious form in the infirmary after the war? When he released her from Section? When she returned? When he waited through the long night that she was with Clavier? Looking back, he couldn't see the line, couldn't tell when he had stepped over it, but knew he had. Watching her sleep brought him a pleasure so intense it was painful. The dawn spread a faint rosy glow across her cheek before he finally fell asleep again.

The sun rose, moved along its appointed route, and centered itself in the sky while they slept. The day when they would have to face Nefar's henchmen was at hand. Nikita woke first.

Nikita had been watching Michael for almost an hour, her eyes caressing every contour of his face, the heavily arched brows, the high cheekbones, the dimple in his chin. She felt like someone had reached a hand into her chest, grabbed her heart, and squeezed. 'I know what you are,' she thought. 'I know you may be worse than I can imagine.' It just didn't matter. His hair during the night had returned to a mass of curls scrambled softly around his face. When Michael opened his eyes he was laying on his back. He turned his head to find Nikita laying on her stomach, a pillow scrunched up under her chin, her arms wrapped around it, watching him. His green eyes were bright from the rest. She smiled.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good afternoon," she countered.

"How long have you been awake?"

"A while." She continued watching him. He reached an arm out and slid it under her waist, pulling her closer. She turned onto her side snuggling into him and kissed the dimple in his chin. They nuzzled for short time before finding an unusually good wake up exercise. They lay holding one another for a long time afterwards, each occupied with the separate discoveries they had made, undecided what to do, neither of them revealing what they'd found to the other, but each aware that something, somewhere had changed.

They spent the afternoon making still more contacts, the people Teodorus had suggested and some that Michael knew from his former life. Thankfully, these meetings occurred in restaurants, a library, coffee shops, parks, and no opium dens. The men and women he talked with looked like ordinary business people on the surface. Only the years of Section training allowed Nikita to notice the sharp attention they paid to every movement around them, every passerby. She didn't feel useless, despite not speaking the series of languages she heard Michael employ. After last night she remained alert, discounting no possibility, missing nothing and no one. Watching, if for nothing else, for a tell tale red targeting dot. Somewhere during the last night and day she had become Michael's personal bodyguard - the only one he could fully trust.

The last of his contacts walked away across the beautiful little park which was dotted with fountain after fountain, each different, each exquisite, none depicting people or animals. "Let's take a little drive," he said. They strolled, still alert, back to the car. Michael opened her door then walked around and got in, Nikita canvassing the area all the while.

"Where are we going?"

"There's a very high hill at the central eastern part of town, an old acropolis. You can see almost all the eastern half of town from there, including most of the better outlying areas."

"Not sightseeing?"

"No. One of the contacts thinks he knows where Nefar is staying. We may be able to see it from there."

They drove for almost an hour, winding through narrow streets, wide decorated boulevards, and what looked like bicycle paths. Michael's speed seldom varied. Nikita learned not to let her white knuckles show where he could see them. He finally parked halfway up a large hill. The hill had the ruins of older buildings on it, and crumbling pieces of wall protruded from under their bases, indicative of still older ruins. There were a number of people strolling around, some with tour guides, cameras slung around their necks. Michael reached over and pulled field glasses and a digital camera with a scope attachment from the glove compartment.

"Compliments of Nicè again?" she asked. He nodded. They left the car and walked up the hill to the top. The view was breathtaking. Below them lay the full curve of the Golden Horne, the straits of Bosporus glistening as though strewn with sapphires. The entire water was dotted with tiny white sails, and at the edges, in the ports, were parked miniature cargo vessels. From the hill, the whole of Istanbul looked like a child's toy kingdom, picture perfect. "My God," she said, "this is beautiful." She was awestruck. It was easily the most amazing view she had ever seen. "I know we're working, Michael. But thank you anyway." He looked at her for a minute, picked up her hand and lightly kissed it by way of response before turning back to the city and raising the binoculars.

He scanned a particular section of the town, finally seeming to come to rest at a precise location. He studied it a long time, put the glasses down, and rubbed his eyes. "You look," he said, and indicated where she should be looking.

After a bit, she asked, "White, large, big terrace, on top of a hill. Low subwall, long open area, high wall, a heck of a lot of guards in the open area."

"That's supposed to be the place."

She watched a while longer, then added, "The one with Nefar strolling the terrace."

"What?!" He grabbed the glasses as she was handing them to him. He looked, put the glasses down. "Well, that confirms it."

They simultaneously stepped back from the edge, unconsciously feeling Nefar could see them. They sat on a boulder and thought. "That place needs an army, Michael."

"Only if you can find an army willing to attack a base where they can see you coming for miles."

"How about a sniper shot?"

He considered it. "Remotely possible." He picked up the field glasses and walked back to the edge, studying the house far below. "There's only one corner of the terrace you could get a clean shot at...a long clean shot at." He came back and sat next to Nikita.

"You're the best shot I know, Michael."

He thought about it longer. "If she came back to that exact spot on the terrace, if the visibility remained optimal, if there's no wind, if I were here just waiting, if there were no tourists around wondering why I had a sniper rifle..."

"Could we get the whole site here shut down? That would take care of the tourists."

"Yes, if we involved the local Section station."

"Omar and Nicè again."

"Yes. But it is worth considering. If nothing else works." They each took a turn once more with the glasses and snapped a number of pictures before departing.

By the time the reached the center of the city it was early evening, too long until the raid, too short to start another series of inquiries. They were both interested in a light snack and Nikita suggested they return to a small Greek style restaurant they had seen earlier, slightly off the tourist track, but still in a good area. They parked nearby and walked the half block to the cafe. Inside, Nikita picked up the menu, thoughtfully studied the totally incoherent script and told the waitress, "I'll just have some warm pita, tzatziki, spanakopita and retsina." The waitress nodded and turned to Michael who stared, wide-eyed at Nikita.

"Uh, the same." The waitress left. "You hate retsina."

"It's an acquired taste," she said casually. He was still staring at her, slightly amazed when the waitress returned with their food, poured brandy over the spanakopita and flambéed it. As the flames died, she quenched the last of the fire by squeezing fresh lemon over it, then split it between them, and left. "Try it," Nikita said, nudging his plate closer to him, "you'll like it."

"Uh huh... Yes. I do like it. Good choice." Nikita enthusiastically attacked the food and downed her retsina, pouring them both a second glass. Michael ate but kept watching Nikita as though he expected her to drop the act any minute. At the end of the meal, Nikita reached for the bottle to pour more retsina, and he finally had to concede that it probably wasn't an act. "No more, Nikita. Stay sharp." She eyed the remaining retsina longingly, but agreed.

He looked sideways at her again after they left the restaurant. A sudden barrage of automatic weapon fire erupted before they were halfway down the block. They ducked; they rolled; they took cover; they drew their guns; they were professionals, even if surprised ones. They were also both hit.

From behind a car Michael returned fire. From behind a different car, Nikita did the same. They were receiving return fire from two directions and considerably more than two shooters. Michael hugged his right arm near his chest and looked anxiously over to Nikita who had one leg tucked under her, leaning on it, putting pressure on it while she shot. She looked quickly over to him and saw that he, too was wounded. There was nothing either could do but keep shooting. Michael's clip emptied first. Before he could finish reloading, Nikita's ran out. The incoming fire seemed to intensify. Any glass remaining in the aging Ford Michael hid behind shattered over him like sharp rain. The shooters obviously realized what had happened. While Nikita chambered another clip, Michael glimpsed a dark figure moving quickly to change positions while they were at a disadvantage. Michael rapidly fired left-handed and was rewarded with hearing a cry and the clatter of a dropped gun. The shooting resumed, but it was clear that the other side had lost at least one attacker. Nikita saw a shadow, nothing more, but calculated where the owner of that shadow stood and fired at nothing she could see. No cry, but again the sound of a gun and a body hitting the ground. They were making progress. They were also running out of ammunition and still seriously outnumbered.

Michael saw no option available but to try and change positions. Even though the risk was ridiculously high, he knew it would draw some of the others out to where Nikita could get a shot at them. He waved to her indicating what he was about to do. She violently shook her head, 'NO!' He looked at her for a minute, and braced for a run. "Michael, NO!!" she yelled. He ignored her.

At that instant, more gunfire resounded. From the same directions, but from different guns, clearly different caliber than what they had been hearing. Startled, Michael ducked back down and noticed that Nikita had repositioned herself to take a run at HIM, wounded leg or not. The gunfire continued, but none of it seemed to be directed at them. 'Curiouser and curiouser,' thought Nikita venturing a peek through the shot out windows of the Mercedes she hid behind. Saw nothing. Ducked again and looked over at Michael. Michael shrugged. He hadn't a clue. They were getting aid from someone, certainly, but from whom?

From down the block, tires screamed on the pavement, and squalled nearer, laying rubber all the way, until brakes locked and the tires shrieked in protest, the little convertible slamming to a quivering halt, bashing the old Ford as it slipped sideways. "Get in!", yelled Nicè. "NOW!!" Gunfire was sporadic, but some of it was still directed at them as they scrambled into the car, heaped on one another in the back seat. They were still landing as the little car screamed off, weaving recklessly around pedestrians who had flattened themselves in the street when the shooting started and a car here, a truck there, stopped in place, their drivers quivering on the floorboards in fright. They clutched one another in the wildly moving open vehicle just to keep from being thrown out.

Somewhere along the line, they drove more slowly, Nikita guessed about 80 miles per hour; somewhere along the line, Nicè switched off the headlights and drove in the dark, never slowing. She aimed the car at a wall. The wall opened and the car skidded to a halt inside a garage. "Get out," she said. They did. "Can you both walk?"

"Yes." Michael said.

"Medicine in the first floor bathroom cabinet. I'll be back." She put the car in reverse and floored it. The wall opened in time and closed again behind her.

"Good to meet you," Nikita said to the empty garage. She turned to Michael, "Who was that masked woman?"

Michael's sense of humor was completely lacking. Nikita was standing on one leg, the other was still bleeding profusely. He started to pick her up and carry her, but she stopped him. "You've only got one good arm. I can manage, Michael" They helped one another and found the medicine cabinet.

Before long, they were both in considerably better condition. Nikita had stopped Michael's arm from bleeding and bandaged it. He had done the same for her leg. They were bathed, clean, and freshly clothed, having ransacked Omar's closet. Nikita had first gone through Nicè's, but determined that her fleeting impression had been correct - she must be a midget. Michael helped himself to Omar's best brandy and offered some to Nikita. She started to decline, knowing that the raid was still scheduled for one o'clock, then accepted. Her leg hurt a lot. She knew Michael's arm must also.

By the time Nicè returned with Omar, they found Michael and Nikita sitting in front of the fireplace looking like relaxed guests, assuming you discounted Nikita's bandaged leg propped on the ottoman and Michael's sling, made, Nicè noticed, from one of her best Hermes scarves with a black background and gold scrollwork. She and Omar, on the other hand, were dirty, their clothes scruffy and torn. Neither, Michael saw gratefully, were injured. The two dropped onto the other sofa, leaned back and closed their eyes at the same time. They stayed that way long enough that Michael and Nikita exchanged looks, wondering if their rescuers had fallen asleep. Omar had. Nicè suddenly sat bolt upright, then stood. "I'm Nicè. I wish we could have met under better circumstances, Nikita." She spoke with a French accent similar to Michael's.

"Actually, I can't think of any circumstances where you would have looked better to me," Nikita responded. She stood and hopped over to Nicè and hugged her. Nicè looked a little startled, then smiled almost shyly, and hugged her back. She barely reached Nikita's shoulder. Her hair was a tousle of golden blonde curls, her eyes were large and very dark with a mischievous sparkle.

"You certainly know how to arrange an exciting evening," Nicè laughed. Omar was quickly awake at the sound of her laughter and also stood.

"It's good to see you again, Nikita." He also hugged her, then walked over to talk with Michael. "Don't get up," he said as Michael started to rise. "We have to go get cleaned up. Relax. We'll be back down in a few minutes." As they left Nicè dropped a quick kiss on Michael's cheek. Nikita hopped back to the other sofa next to Michael and hauled her leg up onto the ottoman again.

"We need to talk," Michael called after them.

"Damn right, we do," Omar responded from the top of the stairs.

When they returned, they were both fresh, clean, and simply though expensively attired. If possible, Nikita thought, Nicè looked even smaller clean. Nicè looked up at Nikita and thought, she's even taller clean. They smiled at each other, then simultaneously cracked up. Their thoughts had been in their eyes and each instantly understood the other's amazement. The two men looked at one another in confusion. No one had said anything, much less anything amusing. Women.

"Michael, why don't you come in the library where we can talk?" Omar asked pointedly.

"I think we can all talk together," Nikita said.

Omar inclined his head graciously but said, "No. I'm about to start swearing at Michael and I'd rather we be alone so I won't feel constrained. I intend to be...proficient."

Michael stood and followed Omar to the library. They closed the door. In short order, male voices could be heard through the heavy carved wooden door.

"Let's go the terrace," said Nicè. She stood next to Nikita to prop her up. She could almost walk under Nikita's outstretched arm. Nikita shook her head.

"I'll hop."

"What's going on?" Nikita asked after they had settled into chairs on the terrace.

"Omar is going to swear at Michael." She hesitated then said firmly. "And I'm going to swear at you." She did. Nikita's eyes widened. Nicè had an excellent grasp of English. The gist of it was that Michael and she had entered their territory, started a war, and not even advised them. The scramble they had gone through to determine what was going on, who was involved, and why had stressed them both to the limit. The little 'meeting' that had occurred in the opium den produced a small side war between other factions, adding an extra layer of confusion. They had barely put it all together in time to intervene. They were both deeply offended. Having made that crystal clear, Nicè continued, and her voice changed remarkably. It grew softer.

She pulled her chair up to in front of Nikita, looking her in the eye, holding her hands. "We both love Michael. Omar thinks you're fantastic. He thinks you're the best thing that ever happened to Michael. If we don't help you, one of you if not both, will get killed. You can't take on Nefar alone. No one can. Michael barely survived losing Simone, and if Omar is right, and he usually is, you're a better woman. And better for Michael. He couldn't take it again. I know Michael. I've known Michael since he met Nefar. Don't do this alone, Nikita. It isn't fair to Michael. It isn't fair to us. He can't lose you, and we don't want to lose him."

Nikita's eyes misted over and she pulled one hand free and laid it over Nicè's. "Thank you, Nicè. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have agreed to it. Michael didn't want either of you hurt. Michael is almost always right, too, Nicè. Sometimes he doesn't just know how to define 'hurt'."

They still had their heads close talking when the men rejoined them. The men were clearly both still friends, having vented their frustrations and fears at one another in the only way men have - anger. The air was clear and the four friends sat down - together -- and began planning how to handle the scheduled raid on Manias and Isabeau's house which was rapidly approaching.

At some point, Nikita asked, "Michael, what about the idea of a sniper? I see why we couldn't close down the hill without Section involved. But now that Omar and Nicè are involved, why not go back to that plan? There's less risk."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Nicè and Omar exchanged looks. Omar and Michael exchanged looks. Nikita cleared her throat dramatically. "Hello, I'm still here."

Michael said, "I don't think Section is involved."

"They're not," confirmed Omar.

"We neglected to mention it to them," added Nicè.

Nikita rubbed her face and looked at the ceiling. "Oh, boy." She looked at Nicè. "How are you getting away with this?"

"Istanbul isn't headquarters. We don't have Madeleine and Ops breathing down our necks. It's a little easier to write your own agenda." She paused. "With care, of course."

They all sat and considered this development. "Well, forget the sniper thing then," Nikita said. "Back to trimming them down a piece at a time."

"Oui. The hard way," Nicè agreed. "Manias and Isabeau first. Nefar later. Perhaps we will get lucky and she will be with them."

The men were discussing the wall around the house itself, and Nikita motioned to Nicè with a nod toward the house. They rose, said they'd be back shortly and left, Nikita hopping along. Once inside the house, Nikita said, "Nicè, I've got to have something so I can walk on this leg easier. There's no way I can go over a wall with it like this, and there's no way Michael is going without me."

"Come with me," Nicè said. Between them they got Nikita to the second floor and into Nicè's boudoir where she sat Nikita on the bed. "Wait." She went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, pressed two screw heads in the back of it and opened a hidden interior. There was a small pharmacy behind the panel. She removed several items including a syringe, a small bottle, and some pills. She came back and knelt in front of Nikita, explaining exactly what she could do, and could not do, and what the cost would be. Nikita agreed.

When they returned, Nikita was walking although with a slight limp. The Hermes scarf was laying on the table, and Michael was stiffly using his right arm to point at the drawing he and Omar had made during their absence. The women sat back down, caught up, and began contributing their own suggestions. Michael looked at Nikita, then at Nicè. Nikita did the same to Michael and Omar. No one mentioned their miraculous recovery from their wounds. There was no point. You did what you have to do.

The plans formed as well as they could be without involving the resources of the local Section station, they went upstairs to prepare for the raid. Omar opened a hidden compartment in the back of his closet and began pulling out night gear and bullet proof vests, handing them to Michael and Nikita.

"I haven't seen this style," Michael said studying the vest.

"Nicè designed them. I had them made up. They aren't regulation." Omar fitted it onto Michael and pointed out some the advantages and disadvantages. "The tail in back is longer and covers the kidneys and spine better. The longer front does a better job of protecting the internal organs. The sacrifice is that to keep it flexible enough to move comfortably, you have this slit on the sides from the waist to the bottom hem, so there's some side vulnerability."

"Have they been tested by Section?"

"Not yet. They've certainly been 'field tested'." He pointed at a repaired hole in the one he was donning.

"How much impact can they take?"

"At least the standard, a little more, actually. Of course, if they're using 'cop killers' all bets are off."

Nicè entered, clothed and ready, carrying enough armament for a small regiment. They all hurried to help her, claiming and examining the variety of weapons she had produced.

"What are the odds on them having armor piercing bullets, Michael?" Nikita asked, strapping on the last of her equipment. "Nefar is a munitions dealer."

"Try not to get hit."

They parked about a block away from Manias and Isabeau's house and waited. Shortly two small vans drew slowly past them and parked nearby. Michael got out the car. Nikita started to follow. "Save the leg," Nicè whispered and jumped out instead, posting herself as Michael's guard. The van drivers met Michael in the middle of the street. They talked and everyone returned to their vehicles.

"So far, so good," said Michael. "Let's go."

They started walking down the street, one and then another silently dropping out of the procession to take up their appointed positions. Michael had considered pairing himself with Nicè and Nikita with Omar. In view of their respective injuries, it would probably be a wise decision, but they had all jointly decided otherwise. The final opinion was that they were stronger working with their accustomed partners despite the wounds. There was not going to be time to second guess one another.

Michael and Nikita paused before the wall. The wall to the left of the entry was about two feet lower than the right, giving the entire edifice a lop-sided look. They slipped past the entry to the higher wall, more difficult for Nikita to scale, but likely less heavily guarded than the more approachable one. Four men, two to a side, climbed the faces of the houses on each side, disappeared and then reappeared on their respective roofs. Ranged along the lower wall were five of Michael's back-ups. Everyone was looking at their watches.

Nikita and Michael moved into position. Michael squatted down cupping the hand of his good arm under the knee of Nikita's bad leg. She leaped from the ground on her good leg as Michael put all his strength into one-handing her up. It worked. She caught the upper edge of the wall and pulled herself onto the top of it. Michael jumped and easily caught the edge with one hand. Nikita grabbed his upper arm on his bad side, and pulled him up. The men who had placed themselves to go over the lower wall were already on top of it and firing.

The guards below were scrambling for cover and shooting. Chunks and chips of the wall blew away. Everyone the guards hit went down and stayed down. A bloom of red blood appeared in the middle of the bullet proof vest one of Michael's men had been wearing. His foot twitched once, again. Then nothing. 'Cop killers', armor piercing bullets. The vests would be useless.

From the rear of the house came the sounds of a pitched battle as Nicè and Omar threw themselves and the men with them into the fray. As other guards ran out of the house to help their comrades, the snipers on the adjacent roofs picked them off.

Nikita dropped to the ground inside the wall, firing all the while. She landed awkwardly, tripped and rolled. Her awkwardness saved her. A guard shot where she should have been had she not tipped over before rolling. The guard went down, and Nikita looked up to see Michael jumping down from the wall, shooting left-handed as he dropped, graceful and deadly as a fallen angel.

A clump of dirt jumped out of the ground in front of her face. She blinked and rolled again coming up onto her knees and took out the man shooting at her. Michael was crouched shooting the guards off his men. The body count was piling up. More men rushed out of the door and spotted Michael. Nikita picked them off before they could raise their guns.

All the guards in the front were down. Two more gunshots sounded from the rear of the building. Then there was silence. Michael and Nikita stayed low and worked their way to the house, crouching beneath windows when they arrived. The four remaining men from their group followed and arranged themselves appropriately. Michael nodded and the six of them crashed through windows and doors, dropping, rolling, and spraying the interior with bullets as they moved. Two more guards inside went down. One more of Michael's men did too. And then there were five. They heard gunfire from inside the building at the rear. Then silence again. Omar and Nicè were inside.

"We're taking the ground floor, " Michael said, "Omar and Nicè have the second floor."

They cleared the ground floor in rapid and deadly fashion. No prisoners, no nonsense. Kill them all and let God sort them out, thought Nikita. There was little choice under the circumstances. Every room held a menace. It took minutes, seemed like hours. She heard Omar's voice, "Coming down, don't shoot."

He, Nicè, and the three men remaining from their group of five descended the stairs. They all looked one another over quickly, everyone was still on their feet, that counted for a lot. They had lost four, taken out over twenty. "Manias and Isabeau were upstairs," Omar said.

Michael turned to one of his men, "Mussef, torch it."

They all returned to their respective vehicles, limping, feet dragging, some injured, but glad to be alive. The glow of the rapidly growing flames ate at the sky behind them. Nefar had not been among the bodies. She was still out there.

They retrieved Nicè's sports car where they had left it near the Greek restaurant a year or so ago, and drove slowly back to the townhouse. Michael drove, Nikita shifted gears. When they neared the wall gate, Nikita triggered the remote and the gate and interior garage door opened. The adrenaline rush was wearing off rapidly. Very soon the backlash from the drugs they had taken would set in. When it did, they would go through a day of pain and withdrawal. Everything has a price. They were both exhausted. They parked and Nikita went inside.

Michael remained behind to see how much damage the earlier firefight had inflicted upon Nicè's expensive little car. Not too much, he concluded. He shut the doors and began a circuit of the outside of the house as a precaution. The first floor windows on the east were still locked. There was no sign of entry. He rounded the corner and had just reached the front of the house when two shots fired from the darkness behind him. One creased his neck, the other struck his back just about the waist. A gush of blood flowed suddenly from his neck and poured over his vest as he went down, rolling onto his back.

"Good evening, Michael." Nefar stepped out of the darkness.

Michael couldn't move. He was paralyzed from the impact of the bullet's blow to his kidney and losing consciousness.

"You always told me, when you attack from behind, go for the kidneys. It disables a man and he can't fight back. You were such a good teacher, Michael. I'm grateful. Really I am."

Michael moaned, struggled to move, fought to stay conscious and pull himself up. Helpless. Nefar took a few steps forward and stood over him. "You won't die from these wounds, Michael. Your vest protected you from the kidney shot. This blood is from a vein, not an artery. You will die slowly, my dear."

She lowered her gun to her side and knelt next to him, caressing his cheek with her other hand. "Good help is so hard to find, Michael. If one wishes a job done right, one must do it oneself, it seems."

She drew one forefinger with its long polished nail through the blood pouring from his neck. She held the finger before his eyes so he could see it, then raised the finger to her mouth and slowly licked the blood from it. "I said I would taste your blood, Michael."

She rocked on her heels and tilted her head, gazing delightedly at Michael. Nefar smiled. The smile was sweet and chilling. Her eyes were mad. Michael lost consciousness.

Nefar heard a sound and looked up. Nikita's gun was leveled at her. In that instant, though only Nefar could see, and she would never tell, Nikita's eyes were as cold as Michael's had ever been. Judge. Jury. Executioner. Nikita fired.

Chapter 4: After the Hunt

The world in all doth but two nations bear,--
The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.
Andrew Marvell: The Loyal Scot.

Michael and Nikita were sitting up in bed in Omar and Nicè's spare bedroom. They were pale and each had lost weight. They had been through 24 hours of hell while the drugs wore off: sweats, tremors, and excruciating pain. Omar and Nicè had afforded them all the comfort they could, but little personal attention. They were needed at Section to dispel the last ravages of the war in Istanbul. Faction after faction fell out, whittled one another's ranks, reformed, merged, split, and fought again. The balance of power in Istanbul had been rocked and the fallout was fatal. For the most part they had been left to recover on their own.

After the ravages of the drugs had passed, their friends had brought in Section doctors, making sure first to put Nikita and Michael in separate bedrooms. The doctors had confirmed that their wounds were healing, that there was no infection, and that they might as well remain where they were while they recovered. The doctors left. Michael and Nikita returned to the guest bedroom. Section had been informed of everything the foursome felt they should know: Nefar had survived the first attack, she was now dead. The details were missing, and the devil was in the details.

Michael stared vacantly at the opposite wall. Even for Michael, he had been unusually quiet since the drugs wore off. Nikita turned her head to look at him. She knew he would recover; the arm wound was better, the neck wound healing, the horrendous bruise over his right kidney beginning to turn disgusting colors. It wasn't his physical well being that concerned her. "Michael, talk to me," she asked again, as she had earlier. This time he answered.

"Her name was Cynara when I knew her," he said.

Nikita waited. This was the first Michael had spoken for days outside the absolute necessities. The long silence that followed that one sentence seemed to last forever.

"She was very young when I met her, barely twenty." There was another silence. "Her father was an armaments dealer. She knew a lot about it, more than I did." Another long silence followed. "I knew quite a bit. That has to do with ... before. I don't want to talk that."

Nikita didn't respond. She waited for him to continue speaking. At last he did.

"I got her into this, Nikita. For Cynara, if for nothing else in my life, I'm bound to hell."

Nikita slid an arm under his waist and the other over him, snuggled into him and laid her head on his shoulder. "Listen to me, Michael. She had a choice. We all have a choice."

"She was young."

"She was what she was. She made herself what she became. We all have a choice. I could have refused to kill for Section."

"You would have been canceled."

"That's a choice. I made mine. So did Nefar."

"I introduced her to a world of corruption she didn't know existed."

"And for that you are to blame. That was your choice. For what she became, Nefar herself was to blame."

"I was wrong."

"Yes. So was she."

"You can't excuse..."

"I'm not."

He closed his eyes. He was shutting down again, moving away from her. "Christ, Michael. Don't be an arrogant ass!" His eyes flew open. "Michael, the Omnipotent! Michael, the Mighty! Michael, Captain of the Universe!"

"What?!" His voice rose instinctively at being attacked and his confusion was turning to anger.

"What, indeed. Who the hell do you think you are? Did you think Nefar was some kind of puppet? She didn't look like one to me. The woman ran an empire. Do you think I am? Do you, Michael? Do you?"

"Of course you're not," he snapped.

"Damn right, I'm not. Now think about it, damn you." She pulled her arm out from under him and sat up straight in bed, arms crossed across her chest. Michael thought about it.

"Nikita," he said more quietly. She did not respond. He tried again, "Nikita, I see your point, but I can't refuse to take the blame for what I've done."

"Take it, it's yours," she said without turning.

Finally she added, "Just don't take hers, or mine. You don't have a right to it."

They sat in silence for a while, side by side and very separately. "I've been worse than you know Nikita." His voice was soft.

"I'm sure."

The silence drew out longer. "There is nothing I will ever do..." He stopped. "I try to..." He stopped again. "Sometimes even the good turns bad. I think if I touch something it...."

Nikita turned her head to look at him. He was looking at her. His eyes looked ... sad ... lost. She couldn't take it. "Shades of gray, Michael. We all have them."

"Not gray."

"Yes. Some black, some white. Mix them together. All gray." She slipped her arms around him again. He held her closely, his good arm clenching her to him, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Michael, look at me." He opened his eyes. She looked at him and held his eyes with her own. "I know what you are. I know you've killed. I know you'll kill again. Sometimes you're right to do so. Sometimes you're not."

He raised the other arm and brushed the hair back from her face, stroking his fingertips down her cheek, a motion of wonderment. His eyes examined every inch of her face, caressed it in passing.

Nikita thought how closely she had come to losing him, time after time, over the last few days. A scrap of long forgotten poetry flitted ghostlike through her mind: "Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, Lady, were no crime." She braced herself for what must be said and took a deep breath. Some risks had to be taken.

"I love you, Michael."

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