Chapter Eight 1999 Madeline watched Paul�s back as he stalked from her office, furious. Moments before, she had made one final, desperate attempt to dissuade him from the Markali mission, to persuade him to back away from the crumbling cliff�s edge that they all stood on. But her personal plea -- and then her invocation of Section�s best interests, of keeping the machine running, as she had put it -- had only made him defensive and more determined. Now, she realized, there was no choice but to proceed -- and from this point on, regretfully, there would be no going back. As she stared blankly at her office door, her mood shifted from anxiety to anger -- anger that had no outlet and no means of dissipation. The situation that they found themselves in was, ultimately, Adrian�s fault -- a fact that caused Madeline a seething, unrelieved rage. While George, too, bore responsibility, Madeline had never been able to hate him for it. George, she knew, reacted to circumstance -- and although she wouldn�t forgive it, she did understand it. This rendered him no less an enemy -- and certainly no less dangerous -- but it made it pointless to hate him, like hating a cobra for its venom. Adrian, on the other hand, attracted the full focus of Madeline�s wrath. But now, there was no way to express her anger -- she had already taken her vengeance against the woman. Twice, in fact. The first time, everything had been carefully planned and meticulously executed. It had taken years to achieve -- time spent cultivating resentment among the ranks, planting evidence, encouraging betrayals. Undermined, set up, and then ousted from command in disgrace -- Adrian had been stripped of everything she cared about, including her reputation. Permitting her to live afterwards was part of the punishment -- she was sentenced to a life of humiliating powerlessness as a constant reminder of her sins. The victory had been total -- and yet somehow unsatisfying. For years, Madeline had been unsure why. Perhaps it was because of the almost passive role she had played, setting events in motion and then watching from a distance. Or perhaps it was because she had been merely one of several people in a complex, uneasy alliance. The battle hadn�t been truly personal, the success not truly hers. The second time, things were different. Of course, she hadn�t expected that there would be a second time. That had come about quite by accident, thanks to Adrian�s ill-fated attempt to destroy Section One. When, in the aftermath, Paul had instructed Madeline to take care of Adrian personally, she had at first been petrified. The thought of confronting and killing the only person who had ever truly terrified her revived all of her past nightmares, every old fear. But then an idea had seized her, a thought so irresistible that she became obsessed with carrying it out. It was a punishment so fitting, so perfect, that to describe it as cosmic justice was a ludicrous understatement. Paul hadn�t -- and couldn�t have -- understood why Madeline had insisted on using Adrian as the test subject for the Gelman process. He had pointed to the risks involved in keeping Adrian on Section premises -- risks that Madeline recognized were considerable. Rationally, she knew her actions were beyond reckless -- and yet she had been unrelenting until Paul, reluctantly, agreed. The triumph she felt while she watched Adrian�s face contort in pain and then go blank, as the older woman�s mind was tampered with and manipulated, had satisfied a dark, powerful need in her soul. Allowing her decisions to be dictated by her emotions was foolish -- and something that Madeline almost never indulged in -- but that once, taking revenge for a man who didn�t even know he needed avenging, it brought her a strange, almost bloodthirsty joy. Now, her only regret was that she couldn�t inflict the same punishment again. 1980 When the shock came again, Paul�s jaw clenched so tightly that he nearly bit his tongue off. As the spark crackled and roared in his ears, every muscle spasmed and trembled, every organ sizzled and threatened to explode. Released from the current, he closed his eyes and slumped weakly, unable even to hold up his head. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down his face and chest, drenching his shirt and causing him to shiver with cold. Then his head wrenched back up as Ohanian grasped his hair, and his eyes flew open in pain. �What are the coordinates for Section One?� his tormentor demanded, leaning in so close that Paul could feel the other man�s breath on his face. �Ninety degrees north,� Paul gasped, looking up into Ohanian�s dark eyes defiantly. The eyes narrowed, blinked, and then relaxed as the old man laughed and released Paul�s hair. �Very, very amusing,� Ohanian chuckled. �But you must have misheard me. I asked for the coordinates for Section One, not Santa Claus� workshop.� Ohanian pressed the button in his hand once more, delivering a shock even more violent than the last. Paul would have screamed in pain, but his muscles were locked in place. Ohanian started to circle around him, tapping a measured rhythm with his cane. The sound surrounded Paul with its hollow echo -- a steady loop of disembodied raps and footsteps that spiraled around him in dizzying slow-motion, until he felt that he was the one spinning out of control. Then it stopped, and the room fell into hushed silence. Paul waited, but there was nothing. Nothing but the heavy pumping of his heart, which grew louder. Faster. Deafening. Finally, a voice -- from nowhere, from everywhere -- cut through the panicked thumping. �The coordinates, Mr. Wolfe,� it said gently, soothingly. �And all of this will end.� Paul felt the pounding of his pulse start to slow, enticed by the promise the voice held out. How he wanted it to end, even in death. Oblivion would be peaceful, welcoming. It had to be, compared to this. As his head rolled weakly to one side, he stole a look at the corner of the room. There, Madeline stood attentively, as she had for the past several days, watching calmly as her mentor inflicted ever more brutal punishments on their captive. Her eyes never left Paul�s face -- she looked at him steadily, offering him silent support and encouragement. Not wanting to draw Ohanian�s attention to her, Paul limited himself to quick, furtive looks -- but each time their eyes met, he felt a burst of inner strength. Each evening, she visited his cell on the pretense of subjecting him to Ohanian�s experiment. Instead, she gave him detailed instructions for his behavior the following day. Ohanian would test him, she explained, by using trigger words -- Paul, in turn, would need to make a gesture or repeat some sort of cryptic phrase. She practiced with him to make sure he responded quickly enough, repeating the process until it became automatic, almost unconscious. The first evening, she had been all business and departed hurriedly thereafter. But the second evening -- after Ohanian had ordered two guards to pummel him so severely that he began to urinate blood -- she had lingered, sitting and talking to him for hours, trying to lull him to rest with a quiet, musical voice. Incredibly, it had worked -- he had drifted off to a deep sleep, free of his usual nightmares, her presence alone seemingly enough to buffer his pain. Now, his third day of interrogation, she supported him still. Taking courage from his glance in her direction, he took a deep breath and braced himself as Ohanian pressed the button one more time. With each shock inflicted by Ohanian, Madeline flinched inwardly. She had long since learned how to distance herself from the suffering that took place in interrogation rooms, but here, inexplicably, she seemed to have lost that ability entirely. She watched with horror as Paul Wolfe�s body convulsed and thrashed, and she grew dizzy and disoriented. To maintain her balance and keep her knees from buckling, she fixed her focus on Paul�s face. Even as he grimaced and shook in pain, he exuded strength and determination -- and periodically, with quick, cautious glances, he sent her messages of reassurance, signaling that he was indeed able to withstand anything. By observing his courage, she bolstered hers, enabling her to remain calm and even to look slightly bored whenever Ohanian turned her way. As she stood, trying to maintain a mask of disinterest, her mind returned to the details of Paul�s captivity, as described in the report that she by now had memorized. The author had noted -- with no small amount of admiration -- that Paul had repeatedly provoked the guards into punishing him, deliberately drawing attention away from weaker, more vulnerable prisoners. The other prisoners had responded to that sacrifice with an intense loyalty, an acknowledgement of his leadership and bravery. As she watched him, now, she began to understand how they felt. Many years ago, she had concluded that there were no heroes in the Sections -- only pawns. She was starting to reconsider that conclusion. Days. It had been days since Paul had been captured. Days since Madeline was summoned to interrogate him. She should have returned by now, duty fulfilled. But she hadn�t, and there was no word as to what was happening. George had prolonged his stay at Section One in Paris, putting off urgent work for Two and Three. Of course, he could call the handlers for news just as easily from Two�s headquarters in Brussels, but he felt the need to be present -- as if his departure would be an admission that things had gone horribly, horribly wrong. Protocol for an operative in Madeline�s position was clear -- until demonstrated otherwise, assume a captured agent was an intelligence risk, and take any step necessary to eliminate that risk. And Madeline was an operative who had proven to be extremely sensitive to protocol. So why was she still in the Ukraine -- and Paul, presumably, still alive? Not knowing the answer was maddening. Troubling. However, there was now a backup plan. As he walked through Section One, approaching that backup plan, George smiled. �It�s quite interesting how those soldiers showed up so suddenly,� George remarked casually, coming up to Richard from behind. Richard jumped in surprise. �Wh-what?� he stammered, turning to look at George with a startled, apprehensive stare. �During the mission in the Ukraine. One minute it was clear, the next it was chock full of guards. Funny, don�t you think?� Richard stared at George blankly, his mouth hanging open in a manner that George thought idiotic. George waited a few moments for the man to respond -- to do anything -- but then lost patience. �I�m well aware that you lied about the guards in order to avoid having to put yourself in danger,� he said sternly. As Richard finally shook himself into awareness and opened his mouth to speak, George held up his hand. �Please, spare me the excuses. I�m not going to report you to Adrian.� Richard gaped for several moments, and then frowned. �Then why--� �I�d like you to do me a small favor,� George interrupted. �Anything,� Richard said, his eyes round with fear. �Good.� George studied the other man, satisfied that he was suitably pliant, before he dropped his little bombshell. �By the way, you�re going to be leading the team going after Paul,� he said placidly. �No, I�m not,� Richard said, shaking his head. �That�s Charles� team.� �It�s Charles� team, yes,� George said, smiling, �but you�ll be leading it.� Once again, the muscles of Richard�s face loosened in a blank stare. �Huh? Why wouldn�t Charles be leading it?� �He�s indisposed.� The blankness gave way to nervous suspicion. �Indisposed?� �A sudden case of food poisoning. Nothing to be concerned about. But it means he needs to be replaced. And I�ve convinced Adrian that you�re the best person. After all, you�re one of Paul�s team members -- it�ll be helpful to have someone on the rescue team who knows him well.� Richard�s skin turned a sickly shade of grey. �But this mission is going to fail -- the odds are almost impossible�.� �Ah, but that�s the point, Richard. You�re going to make sure the mission fails,� George said coolly. �Sabotage it, sacrifice the team, get yourself captured, and cancel Paul. When you come back, I�ll see to it that you take over his team.� Richard frowned. �But if I�m captured, how do I get back?� �Offer your services as a double-agent. They�ll jump at the chance to have someone inside Section One and send you right back.� �I see.� Richard nodded, but then paused. �When I get back, what do I tell Adrian? She�s not going to be happy that the mission failed, and she�s not going to trust me if I tell her I escaped.� �You let me worry about Adrian,� George snapped. �The only person you need to worry about is me.� �Uh, yes sir.� Richard looked down at the floor. �And one more thing,� George added, giving Richard a hard look. �Sir?� �There�s a young woman at the prison where Paul is being interrogated. I�ll show you her photo before you leave so you�ll be sure to recognize her.� �And?� �She�s an undercover operative for Section Two. If for some reason you�re unable to get to Paul, I want you to pass her a message.� �What�s the message?� �That Paul is to be cancelled at all costs. All costs.� Madeline listened as the door to Paul�s cell closed behind her and bolted noisily shut, standing still for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her vision returning, she crossed the room to bend over the bench where he lay outstretched. He was asleep, the exhaustion obvious from the haggard look on his face. For a moment, she hesitated to wake him, watching as he breathed with short, shallow sighs, his eyes rolling under his eyelids as if in a restless dream. But then she touched his shoulder, and his eyes fluttered open. �I�ve brought you some painkillers,� she said gently. Slowly, laboriously, he sat up. She sat down next to him, handing him two pills and the flask of water that she had removed from her bag. He swallowed the pills without speaking and gulped down the water. He looked at her, smiled wanly, and said, �Thank you.� �I have some bread and cheese as well,� she said, removing the food from her bag. �And chocolate. It might taste a little better than what passes for meals in this place.� She watched as he ate ravenously. He tore rough pieces off the bread and chewed with great concentration; an entire chocolate bar disappeared in three successive bites. When he was finished, he took a deep breath and looked at her. Most of the fatigue had fallen away from his face. Incredible. His sheer physical strength amazed her. �That�s much better,� he said, and then grinned. She smiled in return, and then reached out to brush some breadcrumbs off his chin. But his hand caught hers before she could do so. He gripped her hand tightly as his smile faded into a solemn expression, his eyes full of gratitude and tenderness. With his other hand, he reached out and caressed her cheek. His touch -- light, lingering, and completely unexpected -- seemed to paralyze her, and sent her heart racing. With a slow inevitability that she had thought could only exist in dreams, he leaned forward, and his lips met hers softly. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the sensation -- lips, and then tongues, delicately touching and exploring. She cupped her free hand around the side of his face, feeling the sharp edge of his jaw move with their kiss, then drew her fingers down his neck to place her hand on his chest. Under her palm, his heartbeat pounded rapidly, its heavy beats keeping time with hers. As her hand pressed more firmly against him, he pulled back. Breathless, she opened her eyes -- and waited, as if in a trance. She was unable to speak, even if there had been words to say, unable to move, even if there had been anywhere to go. She could only look at him, hoping he could read in her silent gaze the invitation that beckoned there. Without a word, but with a flash of understanding in his eyes, he reached to trace a line with his finger down her neck, along her collarbone, and then back up with excruciating slowness. Up and down, almost too faint to feel, his fingertip brushed and then circled -- its contact was barely a touch at all, and yet it conveyed everything. Desire. Delight. Desperation. A desperation so painful it was crippling, full of loneliness, fear, and isolation. A desperation much like her own. From a man who led a life like her own. How many years had it been since she had met anyone, a single human being, who was neither a target nor a judge, whom she neither had to deceive nor fear? How many years had it been since she had met someone with whom she could be herself, if such a person still existed? It had been so many that now, faced with such a person, her relief was so intense as to be almost crushing, almost impossible to bear. He lifted his finger from her neck, his expression sharpening with a mixture of appetite and determination, and moved his hands to undo her blouse. Button by button, he pulled it open and then eased it off her shoulders, letting the silk graze her skin as it fell gently backwards. As his hands and lips began to explore her torso and tease her bare skin, she felt an overwhelming desire to clasp him to her, to hold him with all her strength. But with his injuries, she didn�t dare. Instead, she forced herself to remain passive, to let him take what he needed from her. She closed her eyes with the effort, allowing herself only the small privilege of stroking his hair. With a few tugs and quick motions, he disrobed her -- the clothes unfastened, unzipped and pulled away, rustling softly. And then she felt nothing. Opening her eyes in surprise, she looked for him. He stood next to the pile of clothes on the floor, watching her silently. She was on display, and the open appreciation reflected in his face made her catch her breath. Instinctively, only half-aware of her own actions, she leaned back on her hands, threw her head back slightly, ran her tongue along her upper lip, and flexed and turned her body for his enjoyment. And for hers, in turn. She enjoyed his reaction, enjoyed knowing she had caused it, enjoyed the release she felt in surrendering to her own sensuality. Observing her movements, his lips twitched and his eyes narrowed; then, he smiled, like a thief discovering an unguarded diamond, and began to remove his own clothing. As she watched in anticipation, he threw them aside and returned to her, panting. The air in the room was chilly, but he leaned across her and covered her with the moist heat of his mouth. Guiding her down onto the bench, he took possession of her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and his eyes -- she felt his gaze stroke her with a tangible, melting warmth. She began to breathe, deeply and rhythmically, pressing herself upwards against him, wishing he would place his full weight on top of her. Instead, he held himself up, biceps flexed, as he moved his lips from neck, to chest, to stomach, and then below. Although she tried to remain quiet, a small groan escaped as she felt his tongue slide back and forth and then turn in languid circles. He drew his fingers, light as feathers, up and down her inner thighs until she shuddered, then he stroked and spread her growing wetness. She released a slightly louder groan as she edged closer and closer to the precipice -- finally, she stopped him, lifting up his head. �Please,� she whispered, �not yet.� He smiled briefly and then ducked down to kiss her stomach, working his way back up again, plucking at her nerves with the tantalizing touch of his lips, teeth and tongue. She arched her back and sighed as he lavished her with attention; her breathing became irregular, ragged. Finally, he lowered the length of his body against hers, his skin smooth to the touch, and breathed her name faintly in her ear. He was warm, heavy, enveloping -- a presence that both controlled her and set her free, that restricted her movements and yet incited her into uncontrollable motion. When he entered her, she began to feel a desperate, clawing hunger that she couldn�t quite identify. It was more than just a physical need -- it burned so deeply that she couldn�t explain, even to herself, what she felt. Gasping for air, she placed her hands on his shoulders and searched the ocean-blue depths of his eyes, hoping to find an answer there. As he rocked back and forth inside her, every defense, every emotional barrier she had constructed to hide behind, fell away, until her very soul was open before him. At that moment, with only a single word or look, he could have completely destroyed her -- but didn�t. Instead, he gazed at her with such tenderness that she plunged into a place of infinite, immeasurable bliss. She wasn�t sure how long he made love to her. When she climaxed, she wasn�t even sure of who or where she was anymore. Afterwards, to her surprise, she found him still watching her, his face full of emotion. �I love you, Madeline,� he said softly. She returned his gaze and then, to her own profound shock, found herself speaking the words that she had never uttered to any person before. �I love you, Paul.� She trembled as she voiced her feelings, terrified at how emotionally exposed she was. Apparently thinking she was cold, he held her more tightly, and rested his head on her shoulder, kissing her neck. My God, she thought, I really do love him. What do I do now? Paul took long, slow breaths, enthralled with Madeline�s scent as he pressed his face into her neck and hair. Lying atop her, he pulled the thin blanket up to cover them and held her close to share his warmth. Never before had he experienced anything quite like the encounter they had just had -- after so many years in the Section, he hadn�t thought he could be moved to such emotion. What had started as a simple clasping of hands -- meant as a gesture of thanks for her kindness to him -- had pulled him swiftly into an irresistible current of passion. Everything about her had captivated him -- her sleek skin, her quiet sighs of pleasure, the subtle sensuousness in the way she moved, her faint, enigmatic smile. And then, toward the end, she had opened those unfathomably dark eyes, searing him with a look of raw desire and absolute devotion like nothing he had ever seen. It shocked him, tore at him, and seized at his heart until he thought he would stop breathing. And yet he sensed that the woman in his embrace had been holding something back, that there were depths and levels that he hadn�t yet reached. He had ignited a spark, perhaps even a flame, but suspected that it could be stoked into a roaring inferno. Infernos, of course, were dangerous, all-consuming things -- they were, after all, supposed to be the central feature of hell. But he no longer cared. He would invite his own destruction, his own immolation at her hands -- and he would welcome the consequences. �I�m beginning to worry about you,� Ohanian said, studying Madeline from across the breakfast table. Madeline looked up in mild surprise. �What do you mean?� �You seem distracted, worried about something.� �Not at all.� He observed her silently for a few more moments as she returned to her meal. �You�re not falling in love with him, are you?� he asked in a chiding voice. She froze, her knife and fork in midair, as she attempted to gain control of her thoughts, which had suddenly scattered in all directions. �That�s the worst thing you could do, you know,� he continued. He took off his glasses, folded the thin, gold frames carefully, and set them down next to his plate. He then leaned forward, and she felt his focus sharpen, pinning her in place as he examined every nuance of her demeanor. �What makes you think �� she started, her voice faltering. Ohanian smiled indulgently. �Come now, I may be an old man, but I�m not blind. I know what�s going on between you two. But do you love him?� She set down her fork and knife and sat back in her chair, staring at him, completely unsure how to answer. How could he know, and why did he seem so�understanding about the situation? While she sat, speechless, he reached across the table and clasped her hand, and his face filled with concern. �I�ve seen many men like Egran, my dear. Ambitious. Ruthless. Power-hungry. A man like that could do many things to help you, to take care of you. But he could also hurt you if you were foolish enough to fall in love with him.� She nearly laughed aloud in relief, finally realizing what Ohanian was talking about. Giving him a broad smile, she squeezed his hand in return. �I�m not that foolish.� �Good,� he nodded gravely. �Use him if you like, but you deserve better than a budding despot.� Time passed for Paul in sharply divided extremes. Days brought stoic suffering; nights unleashed shared ecstasy. He endured the first by anticipating the second, and the pleasure of the latter seemed to feed off the former. Each time Madeline visited him, he succeeded in coaxing more and more from her -- tonight, he believed he had finally achieved his goal. With a savage gleam in her eyes, she had clutched and clawed at him hungrily, demandingly, nearly overwhelming him with her onslaught until, calling on the same primitive need, he met -- and matched -- her ferocity. Now, he knew what the inferno felt like. All rational thought -- even his sense of separate self -- had been reduced to smoldering cinders in its path. It raged in him still, as he embraced its blistering heat. Still, he was human, and his body needed rest. Sighing, he nuzzled against the curve of her neck, her skin still damp with sweat, as he ran a hand through the soft curls of her hair. In response, she moved and pressed against him, fingers lightly stroking his back. He was exhausted, satiated, and yet still entranced by her inner mystery. Propping himself up on his elbow, he examined her. �Tell me about yourself,� he said teasingly. �What do you mean?� The corner of her mouth turned up in bemusement; an eyebrow twitched. �You said you read my file, so you know my life story. Now I want to hear yours.� He chuckled. �Somehow I expect it�s an unusual one.� Even as he leaned closer to kiss her forehead, an intangible distance seemed to appear. She stiffened faintly. �There�s not much to tell.� �Not much to tell? From the mysterious Madeline? I bet you have lots of secrets. Like how you found yourself in the Sections, for example.� She said nothing and stared into space. As her expression tightened, he felt a vague sense of panic, of impending loss. �What�s wrong?� he asked, touching her face, hoping the light caress of his fingers would relax her features, restore their life. �You wouldn�t understand. You�re a war hero. You were recruited because of your positive qualities. Not like me.� Her eyes took on a dull cast, as if she were looking inward and trying to blunt an unspoken pain. He looked at her thoughtfully. �I see a lot of positive qualities. Intelligence, bravery, creativity, dedication--� �I�m a murderer, Paul,� she interrupted, her voice low but bitter. �A murderer and a criminal. They recruited me because they figured I�d be good at torturing people.� There was a hanging silence, an awful stillness, and then she turned to look at him. The expression in her eyes was smooth, cool, like the surface of a lake in a deep, forgotten cavern -- where there was no wind to ruffle it into waves, no sun to warm its depths; where a traveler, such as himself, would not even dare to guess what swam within its darkness. Blinking, she sat up abruptly and started to gather her clothes. He watched in shock, powerless to halt the curtain of ice that suddenly started to descend between them. �Well, then, they recruited the right person for the wrong reason,� he said, blindly reaching for something, anything, that might bring her back. She ignored him and continued to dress. �Look, Madeline,� he continued, his voice desperate, �if you were as bad a person as you�re suggesting, you wouldn�t be here helping me. You could have just cancelled me, or even let the KGB brainwash me and simply told Section to cancel me when I returned. That would have satisfied your duty without putting yourself at personal risk. But you didn�t do that. Instead, you�re here. And you�d better believe I�ll never forget this.� She turned her head to look back at him, and for a moment, when a shimmering sadness shone in her eyes, he thought she had returned to him. But then her face settled into a cold, blank mask. �Don�t exaggerate,� she said dismissively. �You�re resourceful. Even without my help you would have found a way to survive this and make it out of here. After all, you didn�t get through seven years in that camp without being strong.� �Seven years?� He frowned in confusion. �What seven years?� Those words, such simple words, somehow accomplished what his pleading had not: her emotional distance seemed to shatter, almost violently, dropping away to reveal a look of complete bewilderment. She stopped dressing and stared at him. �The seven years you spent in the POW camp in Vietnam.� When he didn�t react, she frowned. �You know, being tortured, separated from your wife and son.� Now it was his turn to be bewildered. �I don�t know what you�re talking about. I was captive for fifteen days, not seven years. And I don�t have a son.�