Chapter Eleven 1999 It was easier to maintain a blank expression than she had expected. Madeline had thought that witnessing Christine�s final deterioration would be difficult, even painful. And yet watching the video feed of Christine as she cringed fearfully in her home, gunning down Markali in stark terror, Madeline felt nothing. The camera created a clinical distance that allowed her to react as if she were observing a routine mission -- not even Paul�s presence next to her triggered anything but detached appreciation for how well things had fallen into place. Now, it was over -- it was all, finally over, without repercussions, without disaster. The status quo was protected; everything would remain as it should be. She should have felt tremendous relief after the stress and uncertainty of the past few days, but she couldn�t conjure up even a single emotion. Perhaps the strain of so much unaccustomed mental turmoil had simply overwhelmed what was left of her ability to feel. So much the better. Emotions had always impaired her performance -- she had made her worst mistakes under their influence. She wished she could have been as numb earlier -- it would have eased the discomfort she felt while performing the grim tasks that had fallen to her. Not that she had allowed her feelings to get in the way of necessity. As always, she had simply done her job -- slipping real drugs to the unsuspecting Christine, exposing the woman to the subliminal suggestions that convinced her she really was Corinne Markali. Christine�s paranoia and jealousy over Nikolai were genuine; her mental collapse would be permanent. From now on, she would forever be Corinne Markali -- and life as Corinne would not be pleasant. Deluded, institutionalized, medicated -- even if, somehow, she remembered her former life, no one would believe her. No loose ends, no security risk -- she was neutralized as effectively as if she had been cancelled. Except that cancellation would have been kinder. Distasteful as Christine�s induced insanity was, it was also, unfortunately, necessary. Christine was useless now as an operative, and Paul could be expected to check on her from time to time. In a few years, once the public had forgotten the scandal, Madeline would arrange for a painless death by an overdose of medication. A small favor, maybe -- but it was the only act of mercy she could offer. She suspected that she owed Christine more than an act of mercy, however. In many ways, Walter -- in all his accusatory self-righteousness -- had been right. Christine hadn�t brought on what was happening to her -- she had done her job diligently, had never even been considered for abeyance -- and yet she had been sentenced to a hideous fate. All in order to protect a lie -- a lie that Madeline hadn�t created, but had perpetuated and -- even worse -- exaggerated. It was no comfort to Christine that Madeline had acted with the best of intentions -- indeed, that only made things worse. Madeline had allowed herself to be swayed by love and anger -- the two emotions most likely to distort rational thinking -- and, inevitably, there had been a price. Christine was only the latest person to pay. There was one final irony, as well -- a cruel joke that perhaps only Adrian could have appreciated. In order to ensure Paul�s future leadership of Section One, Adrian had stripped him of his memories; years later, Madeline sought to preserve his leadership by doing the same to someone else. Adrian�s motivation had become Madeline�s; now, so too had her methods. Eventually, you become your enemy, she thought, and closed her eyes in disgust. 1980 Paul took a final, lingering drag on his cigarette -- the last of the ones the guard had given him -- and ground out the butt against the wall. For a moment, he stretched back out along the hard mattress and stared up at the ceiling, but he was too restless to stay there long. Jumping up, he walked over to the small sink and gripped the tap. He twisted it on with a rusty squeal and dipped his hands into the frigid water, splashing it on his face. The temperature of the water took his breath away, but that was what he needed. He had felt feverish all day -- not with any illness, but with worry and anxiety. Gasping for air, he gripped the edge of the sink for balance, as the water continued to splash noisily. He stared at it as it swirled down the drain, his thoughts pouring out with it. It had been two days since he had last seen Madeline -- two days since he had been interrogated at all -- and the uncertainty of the situation was creating fears that rampaged uncontrollably through his mind. Had they discovered that Madeline was faking the mind control process? Had her true identity been exposed? Was she in danger -- or worse, already dead? When he had asked the guard who brought his meals whether his interrogation had finished, the man had merely shrugged. One of the interrogators was sick, the guard explained. The explanation only worried Paul more -- sick could mean sick, of course, but it could also be like the �colds� that disfavored Politburo members always seemed to catch. Paul wrenched the tap shut and straightened up, almost nauseated with guilt. What the hell had he been thinking? Madeline was risking her life in order to help him escape -- when, with his worsening mental disability, he would simply be condemned to an abeyance assignment upon his return to Section One. In reality, he was a lost cause, a wasted effort -- and it was insanity for her to continue to expose herself that way. He couldn�t allow her to endanger herself any further -- and yet he knew, by the fact that she had tried to lie to him about the extent of his condition, that she would refuse to stop voluntarily. As a result, rather than joining a Section One abeyance team, he would create his own �suicide mission� here. It would be easy enough to attack one of the guards in a hopeless �escape attempt�, provoking a fatal fight -- and when he died, Madeline would be freed from the burden of helping him. Her cover would remain intact, and she would be protected. He owed her that much. That is, if it wasn�t already too late to help her. He walked across the room and leaned against the wall in a spot where he would be hidden behind the door as it opened. It was nearly time for the evening meal -- when the guard arrived, he would attack and set events in motion toward their inevitable -- and fatal -- conclusion. The wait seemed endless, although it was probably less than a half an hour. Hearing a noise, he tensed in readiness as the door swung slowly open. As the door closed with a slam, a figure stepped inside -- hesitantly, since Paul was nowhere to be seen -- and Paul lunged in attack. But his opponent had quick reflexes -- his arms grasped empty air. Before he could even reorient himself, he felt a savage shove against his shoulder as his feet were kicked viciously out from under him. He flew backwards and landed with a hard thud on the rough cement floor. �Oof,� he grunted in pain, rolling into a crouch so that he could continue the fight. As he looked up to challenge his adversary, he froze in surprise. It was Madeline, her face a volatile mixture of shock and fury. �Jesus, Madeline, where have you been? I�ve been worried sick about you.� He climbed to his feet stiffly, grimacing after the blow of the fall. �Worried about me? That�s a funny way to show it.� Straightening his back with a wince, he forced a smile. �I thought you were someone else.� He laughed lightly. �That was one hell of a throw, by the way. Knocked the wind right out of me.� He had hoped that she would laugh in return. She didn�t. Instead, her expression turned even graver. �Paul, why don�t you sit down.� �What is it?� He frowned. Then, looking at her more closely, he saw dark purple marks on her neck. Instead of sitting, he marched swiftly to her and grasped her by the shoulders in alarm. �What�s happened? Who did this to you?� She shook her head. �That doesn�t matter. It�s been taken care of. But please, sit down -- I have something to tell you.� Reluctantly, he obeyed. She sat beside him, deposited the bag she had been carrying onto the floor, and twisted her hands nervously. After several moments, she stopped and looked him in the eye. �The other day -- I told you the results of the hypnosis were inconclusive.� �Yes, I remember.� �I lied.� A heavy silence hung between them. As the seconds passed, her expression grew more and more stricken, as her eyes seemed nearly to overflow with anguished regret. He reached for her hand and stroked it. Their fingers alternately intertwined, released, and intertwined again. �I know. I knew all along. You wanted to protect me. But it�s all right. I�m going to take care of it.� �What do you mean?� She frowned sharply. �I know what you found out.� She drew in her breath in shock. The sorrow in her eyes metamorphasized into a look of almost overwhelming fear. �How could you possibly--� she whispered. �I knew from the way you told me that you were lying. And that you were afraid of whatever you had learned. So I came to the only logical conclusion there was -- all the nightmares and memory lapses are a symptom of some sort of mental decline.� He smiled at her regretfully. �You should have just told me. I have to face the truth eventually.� She closed her eyes and shook her head. �No, no, no, that�s not it at all.� She opened her eyes again and looked deeply into his. Her eyes seemed to melt with tender affection; he felt himself pulled into their bottomless pools. �You did remember something. But I didn�t want to tell you until I verified it independently. I wanted to make sure it was real first.� A surge of energy pulsed through him; he leaned forward and squeezed her hand more tightly. �My God! What?� She reached out and gently placed her other hand on his cheek. �Let me put you back under so you can find out for yourself.� When Paul returned to full awareness, he looked at Madeline in astonishment. Slowly, the look of astonishment turned to wonder, and then to elation. �My God, I remember him,� he laughed, his face lit brightly with an expression of unbridled joy. �I remember him,� he repeated, beaming and shaking his head. �My own son, I remember him.� Tears filled his eyes, even as he continued to laugh. He grasped Madeline�s hand and squeezed it hard. �You don�t know -- you can�t know -- how much this means to me. There�s nothing I�ll ever be able to do to repay you.� He gave her a look of such boundless gratitude that her heart thrilled for a moment -- but then, with a stab of remorse, she remembered, glancing uncomfortably at the bag on the floor that held the used syringe and empty vial. She had returned to him only a fraction of what he had lost -- the rest, she had wiped away completely. Thus, no matter how precious the gift, it was wrapped in betrayal. An instrument of his continued deception, she didn�t deserve his gratitude. Perhaps she didn�t even deserve his love. �You�re the one who remembered him.� She shrugged, a bitter taste rising in the back of her throat. �I just helped speed up a recollection that would have come back to you sooner or later anyway.� �But why did I forget?� The question in his eyes, so innocent, so trusting of her to answer, was an unknowing accusation. A wave of guilt crashed and surged over her, dragging her under its roiling current. �I don�t know exactly,� she lied, fighting to maintain a calm demeanor even as she felt her spirit struggle and drown. �I would imagine, like you said, it was some sort of battlefield-induced trauma.� �And the rest of that file you read -- the seven years -- none of it was true?� �No,� she said, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. �As I suspected, your file was mixed up with someone else�s. I�m sorry I misled you.� �And the nightmares?� �Won�t trouble you anymore,� she said firmly. �What did they mean?� �We can never be sure. It�s possible the man you dreamed of killing might have represented repressed anger over your recruitment to Section One.� She paused and smiled reassuringly. �But it doesn't matter now.� She relaxed and allowed the guilt to carry her away -- it no longer hurt; instead, it had simply become a part of her. Or her a part of it. She couldn�t tell, but it didn�t really matter which. It suffused her, coursing through her veins, as her resistance to it turned to surrender and then acceptance. It was, after all, an old and loyal friend -- possessing her for years after Sarah died, it had been almost her only companion. Now, it appeared, it would be again. �In any event,� she continued, taking a deep breath as she felt a dull kind of serenity begin to grow, �I�ve done some things -- given you some suggestions -- that will make sure that you don�t have those dreams anymore.� �My God, you�re a miracle worker,� he said, shaking his head in admiration. But then he frowned. �But what about Corinne?� �What about her?� �Well,� he said, his voice uncertain, �I�ve seen surveillance of her -- I�ve even watched her myself. Stephen�s not with her. Why?� Her serenity shattered. She realized with a sickening shock that she had allowed a terrible flaw in her plan. So swept up in the thought of giving Stephen back to Paul, in allowing him to have something that belonged to him, she had completely forgotten to come up with an explanation for this discrepancy. The truth -- that Corinne was dead, and that the woman he had seen was a fraud -- was not an option. And what if now, armed with knowledge of Stephen, he started investigating and found Corinne�s death certificate? The entire fraud could unravel, he could learn what Section One had done to him -- and he would be crushed and destroyed. Or even worse, he could grow so enraged that he might do something rash, endangering his life. Thinking rapidly, almost in a panic, she blurted out the first explanation she could think of -- the only explanation she could think of, in fact. �Corinne�� she said with a frown, �Corinne abandoned Stephen.� �What?� His face darkened with shock and rage. �She must have wanted a new life, free from her old burdens. From the records I was able to find, it seems she faked her death, abandoned her son, and then started her life again in a new location.� Madeline was trembling as she finished the explanation. The lie was horrible, despicable, maybe even worse than despicable. It was also grossly disrespectful toward the late Corinne Wolfe�s memory. But there had been no other choice. Surely even Corinne herself would have understood that -- how could Stephen's mother disapprove of a lie that allowed Paul to be given his son once again, or at least the memory of him? If she did, Madeline could always apologize to her in the afterlife -- if there was one, that is. Or perhaps not. Corinne had probably been welcomed in heaven -- but Madeline suspected that her eternal destination might be someplace very different. �I should kill her,� Paul said bitterly, a look of lethal hatred locking the muscles of his face. �By God, one of these days I will.� Dear God, she thought, what have I done? The breeze ruffled Adrian�s hair as she strolled along the Parisian sidewalk. It was a beautiful day, the type of day that brought out happily gawking tourists with their bulky cameras and burdens of shopping bags. She hadn�t been able to stay inside Section -- the lure of the sunlight had beckoned her irresistibly, even in Section�s underground depths. Outside, it warmed her and energized her, enabling her to concentrate in a way she never could in her own office. The sunlight could cure many things -- but not all. It couldn�t relieve the uncertainty that plagued her as she contemplated the fate of her chosen successor. When the rescue team disappeared, she had been ready to give up all hope, resigned to the fact that she would need to start her search all over again, that the energy she had expended training and teaching Paul Wolfe had been an utter waste. But then it struck her -- George�s Section Two operative, that bloodless would-be Mengele who was the most likely instrument of Paul�s death -- hadn�t reported back to Paris yet. If Paul were dead, she would have returned already; hence, she had kept him alive. But why? George might be able to explain what was going on. He knew Madeline well -- indeed, he seemed inordinately fond of both her and her repugnant research. While Adrian recognized the value of gaining intelligence on even the enemy�s most inhumane activities, and thus tolerated the existence of the mission, George seemed morbidly fascinated with every detail their operative reported back. No, not their operative -- his operative -- Adrian would claim no responsibility for the creature. But where was George? Adrian had many questions, but he hadn�t returned her calls. He had been ensconced at Section Three for days -- in �meetings�, according to the secretaries who seemed to be screening the telephone for him. It was troubling -- no business at Three, no business of George's -- could possibly override a call from Adrian. There was a strict hierarchy of which he apparently needed to be reminded: Section One's needs came first, above all else. It had always been so; so it always would be. Madeline pushed the food on her plate mechanically -- eating without tasting, looking without seeing. When Petrosian asked for the butter, she handed it to him without a word; when Ohanian offered her bread, she took it silently. The pang in her stomach might have been hunger, but sensations were meaningless. Even the scarf that she wore around her neck to hide her bruises, which normally would have felt uncomfortable when she swallowed, was simply another thing to be ignored. From now on, she would simply do -- not feel. Feeling was too dangerous -- once one emotion slipped through, the others would come rushing back, stronger and more overpowering than ever. And all of them, in her case, would turn bitter and poisonous. It was better to have none than to suffer that. An abrupt clatter made her look up. Ohanian had set down his knife and fork and sat staring at her. Frowning, he removed his glasses and placed them on the table. �All right. You have some questions to answer.� A spark of anger lit his eyes. �Questions about what?� she asked mildly, too listless even to react to his expression of disapproval. His eyes narrowed. �I�ve been talking to the guards about your visits to our captive. I know all about what you�ve been up to.� A tendril of fear began to twist around her emotional defenses, and she straightened nervously in her chair. �She hasn�t been up to anything,� Petrosian interjected, glancing at her furtively before returning his gaze to Ohanian. �I�ve been observing personally.� His manner was calm and casual -- the perfect ally. If it were his word against that of the guards, she was in no danger. �Oh, yes she has,� Ohanian snapped, turning toward Petrosian with a withering look. �And if you�ve been �observing�, as you say, it�s your fault, too.� Ohanian leaned forward slowly, tensed in rage, his fury nearly exploding from his frail frame. Petrosian raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair. He swallowed visibly; his face paled. �What sort of a man are you?� Ohanian asked icily, mockingly. �What sort of a man would stand by and do nothing while his woman does something like this to herself? I hold you completely responsible for what�s happened.� Ohanian�s words registered in Madeline's mind, but didn�t quite make sense. Doing what to herself? �What are you talking about?� she asked, bewildered. �Look at you!� He swept a thin hand toward her. �You�ve been sick for days, and even now you look like you�re on the verge of collapse. You aren't eating; you probably haven't been sleeping.� His voice was tremulous and close to breaking; he had to stop to clear his throat. �And it�s all from overwork. The guards told me how many hours you�ve spent working on the prisoner. Egran should have stopped you -- or at least told me.� He looked back at Petrosian darkly. She relaxed in relief, feeling her heart rate drop by several beats. �But I was simply doing what was necessary to get the job done,� she explained. �No.� He sighed and shook his head sadly. His anger seemed to dissipate; his tone softened. �My dear, I understand how you must feel. You�ve never had a chance to do such important work on your own before, without my supervision. You probably think you have something to prove. So you�ve been overdoing it, pushing yourself too hard. But that�s foolish. The prisoner wasn�t going anywhere. It wouldn�t have mattered if it took a few more days to finish.� Madeline and Petrosian exchanged brief looks. �I�m sorry,� she said. �You�re right. I have been working too hard.� She smiled in mock abashment. �I just wanted you to be proud of me.� Ohanian smiled fondly. �I am. I�m angry at you for being so reckless with your health, but I�m very proud indeed.� His eyes glimmered with tears, but he quickly blinked them back. �In fact, from the tests I gave him this morning, it seems you�ve managed to finish the prisoner far ahead of schedule. He�s ready to be released.� �Released?� she asked, stifling her surprise. �When?� �Tonight,� he answered, and then picked up his glass of wine. �Congratulations. You�ve completed your first successful modification. Let�s toast to many more.�