Chapter One 1999 Madeline�s eyes followed the graceful sweep of the branch as it bent -- just so. To gaze at the delicacy of the bonsai was soothing, but, even more important, to contemplate the paradoxes they incarnated was profound -- beauty expressed through deformity; the essence of nature captured through artificial means; a tiny, confined space representing the universe�s infinite vastness. It was when events were at their most chaotic that she turned to the bonsai for comfort. Their balance was a reminder that a resolution of even seemingly irreconcilable conflicts was, in fact, possible; their harmony was proof that perfection existed and could be achieved. She wasn�t entirely certain how long she had been standing still, staring at the row of pots and plants. It was taking longer than usual for them to help her conquer her anxiety about the present situation. She tried to think of it as simply another mission -- and in a way, that�s all it was. But it was a mission that dredged up long-buried ghosts, bringing back feelings that she thought she had permanently vanquished. Those feelings were a discomfiting mixture of many things -- fear, love, disgust and anger among them -- but above all, seizing her in a painful grip, guilt. The longer she tried to focus on the tranquility of the plants behind the glass, the sharper and more relentless the guilt became. Admitting defeat, she closed her eyes and sighed. She then started as she heard her telephone ring. Fumbling with uncharacteristic nervousness, she picked it up and answered. �We have a problem.� George dispensed with his usual greeting. �Yes, we do.� With great effort, she kept her voice calm, acknowledging the situation without revealing her apprehension. �How did this happen?� �Markali�s name was on a list of Badenheim associates. As soon as he saw it, he became obsessed. There was no persuading him otherwise. Believe me, I�ve tried.� �As have I. Short of giving him a direct order to drop it.� �Don�t do that,� Madeline cautioned. �That will only make it worse.� �What alternative is there? He�s about to destroy years of work.� �There are other ways of getting at Badenheim�s inner circle. But if you deny him this, he�ll spend every waking moment studying Markali, trying to build evidence against him. Do you really want him engaged in that kind of scrutiny?� �Perhaps not. If he ever found out the truth�.� �It could be very ugly. For all of us.� There was a tense silence on the line for several moments before George spoke again. �So you think we should allow him to proceed.� �Give him what he wants, as quickly as possible, before he spends too much time looking into this.� �You�ll be handling it yourself?� It was an order as much as it was a question. �Of course.� �I�ll do what I can on my end. Forward me the mission profile and I�ll make sure everything is prepared.� �You�ll have it within the hour.� �Good.� George paused again. �You know, Madeline, it�s been quite some time since we worked directly together on anything. It almost makes one nostalgic.� �It has been a long time, hasn�t it?� �A lapse that perhaps we need to rectify.� 1971 The long oak desk, normally polished to a glossy sheen, overflowed with haphazard piles of papers and file folders. Adrian had cleared a small work area and sat reviewing the latest reports from Uganda, stopping occasionally to absentmindedly sip her -- now lukewarm -- tea. She frowned, studying the photograph of the tall general. According to her sources, Idi Amin was an unstable illiterate -- and yet the Western powers were unreservedly supporting his coup. She made a slight 'tsk' of disgust. Politicians and bureaucrats could be so short-sighted -- and short-sightedness, as she had seen so many times, led to compromises with evil. A light knock at her door interrupted her concentration. The door swung open, and a man peered inside. �Hello, George,� Adrian said warmly. �Do come in.� George entered the office, looked with a curious expression at the uncharacteristic mess on the desk, and took a seat. �You look rather busy,� he said hesitantly. �Is this a bad time?� �Not at all. In fact, I needed to speak to you.� Adrian removed a file folder from one of the piles on the corner of her desk. �I�ve approved most of your proposals for the other Sections. However, I did hold one for further discussion.� George raised his eyebrows in a silent query. �It�s the new recruit for Section Two,� she answered. �Ah yes, the young lady.� George smiled as if he anticipated her objection. �We rarely recruit civilians, George, and certainly not teenagers. Especially mentally unstable teenagers, I might add.� She kept her tone polite, but disapproving. �She�s not mentally unstable,� George countered. �She�s been tested thoroughly.� Adrian shook her head and withdrew a document from the folder. �She has a criminal record. Shoplifting, vandalism, auto theft, arson . . . .� George shrugged. �She�s a rebellious teenager. That�s part of why she was selected.� �She burned down an entire juvenile detention center. That hardly seems like mere rebellion.� Adrian was scornful. �She�s probably a sociopath.� �Quite the contrary. A sociopath would have let everyone burn to death. She made sure to pull the fire alarm first, and no one was hurt. The doctors say that she�s withdrawn, defensive, yes -- but not a sociopath.� �And then there�s what didn�t make it into her criminal record.� �The incident with the sister.� �Yes. How do you explain that?� �She was a young child. She couldn�t have known the consequences of what she was doing. I don�t think that should be an issue. She hasn�t hurt anyone since -- only property damage.� Adrian frowned, tapping a finger on her desk in thought. George might, technically, be correct. But Adrian trusted her instincts, and they told her that this recruit would be unpredictable, perhaps even dangerous. George leaned forward in his chair, his expression sincere. �I understand your reservations, Adrian, but she�s ideal for this mission. She�s young, has a high IQ, is estranged from her family, and is capable of committing violent acts. And have you looked at the photos?� �Not carefully.� George took the file folder from Adrian, opened it, and pulled out a photo. He placed it on Adrian�s desk. �This is Madeline.� He then removed a second photo and set it alongside the first. �And this is Dr. Ohanian�s late daughter.� �My God,� Adrian exclaimed, eyes widening. �The resemblance is striking, isn�t it? Not too perfect, or he�d become suspicious. But strong enough that he�ll be affected by it.� Adrian sighed. This girl was perfectly suited to the mission, and the mission, unfortunately, would be highly valuable. Swallowing her distaste, she spoke. �Well, George, I�ll trust your judgment on this one. But I do hope that you appreciate the risk involved. She�s going to be exposed to some very dangerous things by this doctor. If she�s unstable, we could be creating a monster.� �If so, all we have to do is cancel her.� �I wish it were that simple,� Adrian replied. George stood up, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the door to take his leave. As he turned the doorknob, Adrian called out to him. �Working here is hard on one�s moral code as it is. But I would prefer that our operatives at least start out with one.� It was the nausea that woke her. Its pulsing waves kept demanding her attention, despite her deep desire to sink back into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness. It prodded and stabbed at her insistently, leaving her trembling and coated in sweat. As Madeline instinctively curled up in the fetal position, clutching her stomach, she noticed the softness of the mattress beneath her: the softness, that is, compared to the discomfort of the bench she last remembered lying down on. In truth, the mattress was thin and lumpy, in that well-worn way that institutional beds always had. The mattress made no sense. Nor did the silence. The holding cell of the city jail had been full of noisy, complaining women. She had fallen asleep only because of her incredible exhaustion, the chattering voices fading into a muffled roar in the back of her mind. But now she heard nothing. Where was she, and how did she get there? As she shifted on the bed once again, she pondered the possibilities. There weren�t many. She had either been processed into her own cell at the jail, or she had been transferred to a mental hospital. She was intimately familiar with both types of institutions -- and much preferred the jail. It was odd, though, that she didn�t remember being moved. She tried to reach into the recesses of her memory, but her brain seemed encased in a thick, disorienting fog. A mental fog. Of course. She had been sedated -- she should have recognized the signs immediately. She now had the answer to her question: the jail wouldn�t have sedated her, but a hospital would. She slowly raised her eyelids and took in her surroundings: a drab, windowless room, empty but for her bed, lit by harsh fluorescent light. She was a bit surprised to find herself alone; she had never warranted her own room before. But then again, she had never burned down an entire building before, for that matter. Special privileges for a special patient, she thought with a twinge of grim amusement. She sat up weakly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Despite the lingering nausea and dizziness, she forced herself to stand and then walked back and forth along the room, inspecting every inch of the walls and floors. She was pleased to spot several cracks large enough to discard unwanted medication into. Keeping a clear head would be her top priority until she could figure out a way to escape. But escape would first require getting out of this room. It would probably be too much to expect for the door to have been left unlocked, but then again, the employees of such institutions weren't always the brightest people. She had slipped out of unsecured doors too many times in the past not to give it a try. Crossing her fingers for luck, she walked to the door, reached for the doorknob -- and jumped back, startled, as the doorknob turned of its own accord. She stepped back out of the way as the door pushed inwards and a figure appeared. She expected a nurse, but instead saw a tall woman in street clothes. The woman inspected her clinically, but then smiled and walked into the room, closing the door soundly behind her. �I see you�re finally awake.� Madeline looked at the woman without responding. Volunteering anything would give her no advantage. �Don�t you want to know where you are?� �Does it matter?� The woman laughed. �Oh, it matters a lot. Your life�s at stake.� Madeline kept silent. Whatever game this person was playing -- cop, shrink, or whatever she was -- Madeline had no intention of joining. The woman sighed in frustration. �Okay, sweetheart, I see you�re not the chatty type. So I�ll do the talking. You�re in a place called Section Two.� The wing where they keep the �difficult patients�, no doubt, Madeline thought. �We�re a covert government agency engaged in fighting terrorism. Because of your special skills, you�ve been recruited to join us.� My God, this isn�t a shrink -- I�m locked in with one of the patients. Her eyes widening, Madeline looked the woman up and down in disbelief. She wasn�t wearing hospital garb, and she looked more like a social worker than a lunatic. But the woman was clearly insane, so Madeline surreptitiously tensed her body for a potential attack. �My name is Tina, and I�ll be your trainer.� �Okay, Tina,� Madeline said slowly, hoping to placate her long enough to spot an intercom or a buzzer to summon a nurse for help. With a sudden movement that caused Madeline to flinch involuntarily, Tina turned back toward the door. �Come with me. I�m going to take you on a tour.� Tina pulled the door open vigorously and stepped outside, watching Madeline with an expectant expression. Madeline hesitated. �Come on,� Tina ordered impatiently. Lunatic or not, the woman was offering an exit from the room. That, at least, was progress. Madeline decided to follow for the moment -- she could ditch the woman when her back was turned. Madeline walked through the door and emerged into a hallway, making sure to keep a safe distance away from the other woman. The hallway was brightly lit but completely empty. There was no sign of a nurses� station or a guard, only a row of identical closed doors, their green paint a sickening contrast to the sterile white walls. Tina began to stride down the hallway purposefully. Madeline stood still, wondering if she should run the other direction, until Tina turned back to look at her. �There�s no place to run, you know.� Reluctantly, Madeline followed Tina through a maze of lookalike hallways. She tried to keep track of how many turns they had made, but eventually resigned herself to the fact that she was completely lost. Then, as they turned a corner, she stopped in her tracks, stupefied. Before her was an enormous room, full of desks and office workers. What kind of a hospital -- or prison -- was this? �This is the central administration room. We track all of the missions here.� As they walked farther into the room, Madeline listened to the din of typewriters and voices. Telephones rang; file cabinets slammed. Men and women walked past them hurriedly, none of them giving Madeline even the slightest glance. She looked up to see gigantic maps embedded into the walls, red and blue lights flashing at various spots around the globe. At the far end of the room, behind a thick wall of glass, stood a phalanx of monstrous computers -- more than she imagined even NASA would have. �This way,� Tina called to her, crossing the room and turning down another corridor. Moving slowly, like a sleepwalker, Madeline followed Tina down the hallway and toward a door. Tina opened it and ushered Madeline inside a small room. �This is my office,� Tina announced. �Have a seat.� Madeline sank weakly into a chair near the door, as Tina picked up a file folder from her desk and handed it to Madeline without explanation. Madeline looked down and opened the folder. Several loose news clippings spiraled out onto the floor; hands shaking, she gathered them and then, not quite sure what she was looking for, began to read. As she did so, the waves of nausea returned, magnified by the surreal nature of what she was seeing: her own obituary, as well as several articles describing her presumed death in the fire that consumed the juvenile facility. "But I wasn�t--" �Killed in the fire? We know that, but that�s not what the outside world thinks. To everyone on the outside, you�re dead.� �But there are witnesses,� she protested. �I went to the jail afterwards.� �There aren�t any witnesses who are willing to remember you,� Tina responded with an odd, almost sympathetic expression. Madeline looked down at the articles again, fingering them to convince herself that they were real. She hoped that she was dreaming, that she would wake up in the holding cell and have her life -- unpleasant, but familiar -- returned to her. But her heart began racing in fear; she had never experienced any sense of touch in her dreams, and the news clippings were frighteningly tactile. �Normally, we would have photos from your funeral service as well. But for some reason you didn�t have one.� Madeline blinked rapidly and swallowed a choking lump. Of course there was no funeral. Mother told me years ago that I was already dead to her. Taking a deep breath to maintain control over herself, Madeline looked up at Tina. It was better to focus on details -- the enormity of what was happening was simply too much to digest. �You said I was recruited because of my �special skills�. Just what might those be?� �I�m not in charge of selecting recruits,� Tina replied with a shrug. �I just train them.� �Train them for what?� �Undercover intelligence gathering. Our operatives are given false identities and live in the outside world. Some collect information and pass it back to us; others are just put in place somewhere in case we ever need to activate them.� �And that�s what I�ll be doing?� �Eventually.� Madeline pondered this information for a moment. She tried to filter it through her prior experience -- false identities and information gathering? Perhaps this was the police, after all -- it sounded like they were asking her to become a snitch or a narc. In her experience, people like that didn�t live long. Sitting up straight, she looked Tina in the eye. �What if I choose not to?� Tina broke eye contact briefly, as if uncomfortable with the topic. She shuffled some papers on her desk for a moment, but then looked back at Madeline. �There isn�t really a choice. You either cooperate, or you�ll be killed.� Madeline stared at Tina, slowly realizing that the other woman was entirely serious. �How can you get away with this? Police can�t just kill people. There's ... there's the Constitution, the Bill of Rights.� �We�re not police, and we don�t worry much about legalities. We�re not even under the jurisdiction of any one particular government.� Madeline sat in silence, trying to make sense out of the unreal situation she found herself in. Kidnapped by some out-of-control secret society and forced to work�as a spy? It was almost beyond belief. Yet it sounded more pleasant than jail, maybe even more pleasant than the life on the streets that she had been trying to escape to when she set that ill-fated fire. And there was something else. If she could believe this woman, she had been selected for some sort of skill that someone recognized in her. In her entire life, no one else -- not teachers, counselors, doctors, truant officers, or police, and certainly not her parents -- had ever thought she could accomplish anything of use. But these people, whoever they were, saw some value, some potentiality. This gave her a sudden thrill of pride. �Do you have any other questions before I take you to your new quarters?� Madeline considered the question for a moment. She might as well try to find out as much as possible about her situation. �You said that the name of this place is Section Two.� �Yes.� �Is there a Section One? Three? Ten?� Tina laughed. �Aha, you�re a sharp one! There are three Sections that are a part of the overall organization. And they�re developing more. Each one has a kind of specialty.� �What kind of specialty?� �Section One is the biggest. It does the complex, covert missions -- the big, life-saving stuff. Section Two, like I told you, covers long-term intelligence gathering -- we get the background intelligence that Section One needs to carry out its missions. And Section Three handles run-of-the-mill assassinations and bombings -- the kind of things it would be a waste of resources to have Section One deal with. To be honest, I�m a little surprised they didn�t assign you there. With your background, it would seem to be a fit.� Madeline blinked in surprise and then grew angry. The reference to her �background� could only mean one thing -- Sarah. Even in this place -- even �dead� -- she would never escape her past. Was that the skill she had been selected for? She stood up abruptly. �I have no more questions,� she said, her voice cold. Tina looked slightly taken aback. Almost frightened. �All right, then, let me show you to your quarters,� she said, eyeing Madeline warily. The whine cut through the darkness of the room, looping closer and closer until it swooped past Paul�s ear. He wrenched his head back and forth violently despite the pain it caused him to move. He wasn�t sure which was worse -- the heavy ropes twisting and contorting his body or the mosquitoes� bloodthirsty attacks. The whine ceased as Paul felt a sensation on his forehead. He tried to blow the mosquito off; his sharply forced breath felt slightly cool on his sweat-covered skin. But the effort failed. With a slight tickle, he felt himself being punctured and clenched his jaw in helpless agony. It was this subtle torture that was driving him mad, that caused him to curse and rave. The searing pain of the ropes that bound him was so all-enveloping that he could become one with it, embrace it. But the itch of each new welt, the sting as the sweat dripped into his eyes -- each fleeting sensation drove him closer to the edge of insanity. He began to count, in multiples of seven, in an effort to focus his mind on something, anything else. He faltered, over and over, and had to start again. He had reached 294 when the door swung open. The light of a flashlight playing on his face momentarily blinded him; he turned his head away, flinching from the pain. The familiar voice of his chief torturer, Phan Van Nahn, reached Paul from the doorway. But instead of the standard taunts to Paul in English, or the barked orders to subordinates in Vietnamese, Paul heard soft words in French. The interrogator was speaking to someone else, a tall, dark shadow hidden behind the glare of the flashlight. The figure then responded, equally softly, his gruff voice barely audible. Paul frowned as he tried to make out the conversation. His high school French was simply not up to the task. He had never liked the language, had never felt comfortable with its effete image and sissy nasal qualities. And he had had little use for it even in this former French colony. The ARVN liaison officers he dealt with all spoke English, as did the bargirls who provided R&R. But he did recognize one thing -- the tall man�s accent wasn�t French. It wasn�t Vietnamese, either -- and besides, Paul had never seen a Vietnamese that tall. Who the hell is this? Paul wondered. Maybe a Russian -- there had been many rumors of Russian advisors and support for the North Vietnamese. The thought that he was a piece of meat being displayed for some Red Army functionary on a tour incited an almost homicidal fury. Did the Russian want a show? Paul could give him one, all right. Paul looked directly at the dark figure and sneered. �You�re not going to beat us, you fucking commie bastards!� he shouted. "You and Brezhnev both can eat merde and suck my--" The man laughed loudly, interrupting Paul�s tirade. He spoke in elegant, British-accented English. �Well, I�ve never met Mr. Brezhnev, but if I do, I�ll send him your regards.� The man then spoke again in French. �Il est trop obstin�. Laissez-moi voir quelqu'un d'autre.� �Bien s�r.� The two men departed and closed the door, returning Paul to the darkness.