Chapter Ten 1999 Clicking her mouse, Madeline replayed the doctored video a fifth time. It was flawless -- thanks to Birkoff, Nikita's inability to seduce Markali would have no impact on the mission. But it had been a close call -- George's prediction of Nikita's failure had proven to be painfully accurate. Of course, it wasn't simply George's prediction -- in the back of her mind, Madeline had expected disaster all along. Nikita had more than lived up to that expectation. Nikita's continued resistance to valentine scenarios was an immense frustration. The young operative seemed to have learned to kill for the Section, and yet displayed an extreme aversion to an act that, to Madeline, posed far fewer moral dilemmas. Indeed, most operatives even considered such assignments a privilege -- they were considerably less dangerous than standard missions, with a much higher survival rate. And yet, to Nikita, they were anathema -- it truly defied logic. This behavior could not be allowed to continue. Friendly advice hadn't worked; warnings had had no impact. Madeline could no longer afford the luxury of waiting for Nikita's performance to improve -- the next time Nikita fit a valentine profile, Madeline would simply resort to coercion. Subliminal techniques would probably be sufficient, perhaps something involving displacement of Nikita's affection for Michael. With luck, Nikita would learn something from the experience and such techniques would not need to be repeated. Madeline pulled up Nikita's file and typed a quick note of the young woman's need for assistance with seduction assignments. As she was about to hit the key to enter the instructions, she paused, surprised by a vague feeling of discomfort. There was a time, far enough in the past that she no longer remembered exactly when, when she would have found such a tactic distasteful. How na�ve that had been. After all, what were the alternatives? Operatives who failed to meet minimum standards of performance were required to be cancelled or placed in abeyance -- these methods allowed her to find a way around that. In reality, she would be doing Nikita a favor. How could that be wrong? It wasn�t, she told herself firmly, and hit the enter key with extra force. Closing the file again, she frowned as another thought crossed her mind. It was also possible that Nikita's failure in this instance had less to do with an aversion to valentine profiles per se than with a suspicion that the mission itself was improper. If that were the case, it was likely that other operatives thought the same way. Perhaps some damage control was warranted. It would be easy enough for George to plant evidence of longstanding ties between Markali and Badenheim -- when the mission was over, Madeline could make sure those ties were well-publicized throughout the Section. Damage control. Madeline shook her head wearily. This entire mission was a form of damage control. But soon, thank God, it would be over. 1980 For a moment that seemed suspended in time, the skin on the operative's throat stretched back -- the metal pen that Madeline wielded wasn't sharp enough to slice through the flesh effectively. But as she drove the point forward, gripping the back of the man's neck with her other hand for leverage, the skin suddenly punctured and collapsed inward with an jagged tear. After that, there was no resistance, and the pen nearly disappeared into the gaping wound, stopping only when the edge of her fist slammed into contact with his blood-spattered skin. Motionless, she held her hand there, transfixed by the vacant look that suddenly filled his eyes and the wet strangling sound that emerged from the opening in his throat. She didn't blink as the warm blood spurted rhythmically into her face, nor did she flinch as the man's hands clutched her blouse in an unconscious but violent grip. She simply watched until he sank slowly to his knees, when she finally wrenched away with a shudder. He fell forward noiselessly and lay still, and a pool of dark crimson liquid began to encircle his head and stain the stark cement floor. She was drenched in blood; it enveloped her in a sticky coating that seemed to reach everywhere -- her clothes, her face and hands, even her hair. She felt a droplet run down her cheek and enter the corner of her mouth; gagging, she spit it out in disgust. This was the first life she had taken since that day so many years ago, that day she had tried so hard to drive from her memory. And that killing had been very different -- clean, even graceful, as Sarah spun and pirouetted in midair, tumbling into the distance. Her sister's death had looked so beautiful that Madeline had almost leapt off the edge of the landing after her, wanting to imitate the stunning acrobatics. It was only after Sarah landed on the gleaming parquet floor below that it had become ugly -- her eyes open, her neck twisted at an impossible angle, her body so very still. This time, in contrast, the killing was hideous from the start -- revolting in its sheer gore, terrifying in its near-intimacy. And yet it was the earlier death that haunted her, that had instilled in her a sense of self-loathing that she could never entirely vanquish. This act -- although much more overtly brutal and unquestionably volitional -- caused her no guilt at all. Instead, it left her feeling only satisfaction, relief, and a flushed sense of accomplishment. She admired the crumpled body as if in a trance, breathing slowly as a sense of deep calm began to relax her tensed muscles. She didn't turn immediately when she heard the door to the cell open -- at first, she didn't care. But then a semblance of rationality returned, and she spun around abruptly. Petrosian stood in the doorway, staring with a seething intensity - not at the figure on the floor, but at her. He showed no signs of shock; rather, his face was misshapen and dark with an explosion of rage, with a bloodlust comparable in its potential for violence to that which she had felt moments before. It was a murderous violence -- and it was directed toward her. He stepped slowly and deliberately into the room; instinctively, she began to back away. �You!� he spat. �I can't believe it.� �He attacked me,� she said, continuing to move away. �I had to defend myself.� He scowled in response and marched swiftly to the bench that stretched along one of the walls. Reaching under it, he pulled out a small transmitter and flung it at her. It hit her in the chest and then dropped to the floor, rolling several feet away. �I heard everything!� he shouted. �You work for the Sections!� Madeline's movement halted as her back collided with the wall. Positioning himself between her and the door, Petrosian glared at her balefully, fists clenched, breathing heavily. �That operative started talking the minute we captured him,� he said, glancing at the body on the floor. �He told me that he wanted to work for us, to be a double-agent. But it seemed just a little too good to be true. A little too convenient. So I put a gun to his head, and that�s when he started begging. He told me he could prove he was for real, that he could identify a Section agent in our own midst.� He smiled, the corner of his mouth twisting up sharply. �He said that agent was you.� He gave a coarse laugh and took a small step closer to her. �Of course, I didn't believe him,� he continued. �After all, the two of us have become so close.� He sneered as he emphasized the last two words. �Why, I was so offended that I punched him in the face for insulting you like that. But then he pleaded with me to put a transmitter in his cell and listen. I agreed without hesitation because I was so sure you would prove him a liar. I was even going to let you do the honors of executing him afterwards.� He laughed again. �Although I see you took care of that anyway.� Without warning, Petrosian lunged at her, slamming her head against the wall and seizing her neck in both hands. �You lying bitch,� he whispered through gritted teeth as he tightened his grip, �you thought you could use me to spy on the KGB, that I was a fool to be manipulated?� She tried to gasp, tried to fight back, but her agitated efforts only succeeded in accelerating the loss of oxygen. When her struggle failed, she panicked briefly, realizing she was going to die. But as she weakened, she stopped caring. There was nothing to be done -- the blackness would soon swallow her, and nothing more would matter. Then, just as she was poised to surrender, Petrosian unexpectedly released her. She wheezed violently, lungs burning, and slumped limply to the floor. �You deserve to have your neck snapped in two for this,� he said, his face an indistinct blur hovering above her. �But lucky for you, I have a better idea.� The session was inconclusive. Lying on the mattress, Paul repeated Madeline's words in his mind again and again. He shivered under the blanket, curling up tightly, as a horrible realization ate at him: she had lied. He had seen it in her face, in the way that she had trouble looking at him at first, but then stared at him defiantly, daring him to disbelieve her. The session had been anything but inconclusive, of that he was certain. Her expression had also revealed something else -- something even more worrying than the lie -- an emotion that he couldn't quite identify, but that had looked distinctly like fear. Whatever he had told her under hypnosis, whatever she was hiding -- it had frightened her severely. He could think of only one reason why she would lie to him, why she might be afraid -- the session must have confirmed that he was, indeed, losing his mind. His nightmares had nothing to do with reality; instead, they were delusions produced by mental infirmity. By lying, she was trying to protect him from that awful truth. He wished that he could have believed her lie. He even wished that he could have pretended to do so, that he could have ignored the significance of what he had learned. But now, with his worst fears confirmed, he knew he had a duty to fulfill. He couldn't allow his mental incapacitation to worsen, potentially endangering missions or his fellow operatives. He would have to come clean about his problem -- and, if necessary, to accept an abeyance assignment. There was nothing dishonorable about abeyance. It would at least allow him to die doing something useful. Without warning, a wave of sadness slammed into him with almost shuddering force. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, his muscles clenching in agony. But it wasn�t the prospect of his own death that pained him so -- that, he had come to expect, sooner or later. Instead, it was a sadness born of disappointment, of dashed hopes -- of hopes he should never have indulged in. When Madeline had mentioned an alternate life history for him, he had foolishly allowed himself to believe it might be possible. He had allowed himself to want it. To need it. To need it so much that, despite her warnings, he had insisted on finding out. But he should have listened to her -- now, after the hypnosis, knowing it was an illusion, he would rather be dead. Yes, he should have listened to her. But the temptation had been too much for him to resist. Madeline couldn�t have known that, couldn�t have understood it. She couldn�t have known that she had given him -- false, as it turned out -- hope that he had achieved his greatest wish: to have a child, a son. She had no way of knowing that, after all the lives he had taken, he had desperately wanted to create another -- even just one. To have his own flesh and blood legacy, a personal stake in the world he was protecting and the future he was building. To know that his efforts and sacrifices would benefit his own descendants instead of just those of other people. No, she couldn�t have possibly known how much he wanted that -- and how much it hurt to be reminded that it could never be. That he was the end of his line. A dead end. A dead end, soon to be dead myself, he thought, grimacing. �Here, let me help you up,� said Petrosian, reaching down to offer Madeline his hand. His anger had mysteriously vanished; the change in manner was jarring, almost frightening in its suddenness. She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. She stared at him blankly, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Her neck still throbbed from where he had throttled her; she rubbed her throat softly in an effort to ease the pain. �I'm sorry I lost my temper,� he said, smiling apologetically. �But you have to understand -- if anyone found out that I was having an affair with a Section spy, I'd be dead. Quite literally. So when I found out that's what you were, I became just a bit angry.� She nodded. What he said was indisputable -- she had put his life in danger. His reaction had been severe, but understandable. Indeed, standing here, drenched in the blood of her own victim, she could hardly criticize. �To be honest, my first instinct was to kill both you and the other operative, so that no one would know I had been compromised,� he continued. �It wouldn't have been personal, of course,� he added with another smile. �Of course,� Madeline murmured. How could it be personal? In their world, things like killing or sex, things that for ordinary people were driven by emotions like hate or love, were merely job duties to be performed when necessary, with neither malice nor attachment. No, it wouldn�t have been personal. Nothing was. �But then I began to worry -- if I killed you, even if I made it look like an accident, there would probably be an inquiry. What if somehow your real identity came up? If it did, I would have a lot of explaining to do. And so I've decided that the best way I can protect myself is to protect you -- to make sure that your cover isn't blown.� He gave her a friendly wink. �To sign on with your team, in essence. Isn�t that good news?� �I see,� she responded, frowning in an effort to make sense out of his statement. If he had already decided that he was going to keep her alive and protect her identity, why had he choked her nearly to death? She thought back to how he treated his employees, how he switched effortlessly from witty, charming -- even solicitous -- to brutal and sadistic, and then back again, and she knew the answer: it was because he enjoyed it. She suppressed a shudder. Over the years, not a small number of people had accused her of being a sociopath. At times, she had even wondered whether they might be right. Now -- with a real sociopath standing before her -- she knew better. �Here�s how I see it,� he announced. �I let you live and give you people first rate intelligence. In return, the Section helps me eliminate my rivals in the KGB and paves my way to the leadership position I so richly deserve.� He chuckled. �Why, it's perfect!� He beamed, thoroughly pleased with himself. Madeline stifled the urge to cringe in disgust and forced herself to smile at the man. Recruiting Petrosian -- whose only loyalty was to himself -- would probably be a horrible mistake, but with her cover blown, she had very little choice but to agree to his suggestion. Later, she could warn her handlers that he could never be trusted. For now, however, his assistance might actually be very useful. �Well then,� she said, �I think you've come up with a solution that works for both of us. The Section will be thrilled to have you.� �Yes, I am a great catch,� he agreed, puffing out his chest proudly. �I'm sure your superiors will give you a commendation for bringing me in.� �No doubt,� she said, pretending to be enthusiastic. She placed a hand on his arm. �But now, since we're partners, I need a favor. A very small favor.� �Oh, anything for my new comrade,� he said magnanimously. �Good.� She smiled at him warmly. �It�s quite simple, really. I just need you to use your sources to track down a few people.� Ignoring the buffeting wind, George took careful steps down the icy metal stairs propped against the body of the jet, descending toward the limousine that waited, idling, on the tarmac. He nodded at the driver, who stood stoically by the open door in a heavy overcoat and hat, climbed into the rear seat, and settled back against the leather cushions. When the door thumped closed and, moments later, the car pulled off smoothly, he breathed a sigh of relief. How good it was to be back in Brussels, back in his own territory -- and away from Section One. The relief was, he knew, premature. While Richard had sabotaged the rescue mission to the Ukraine exactly as George had instructed, the lack of news still troubled him. But he simply couldn�t wait in Section One any longer -- the other Sections needed him, couldn�t run without him. And in truth, he needed them. To George, Section One was a nightmare -- controlled chaos, kept from exploding only by the extraordinary force of Adrian�s personality. While she always maintained the appearance of regimented efficiency -- even decorum -- he could always hear the ticking time bomb in the background whenever he visited Paris. There were no rules, no protocols, nothing but Adrian�s -- admittedly -- brilliant mind to determine the proper course of action. But what if something happened to her -- or what if, God forbid, she made an error in judgment? She never seemed to appreciate that danger -- but it haunted George. And to think that she wanted to hand off command to someone even more individualistic than she was -- and a bombastic, arrogant American, at that -- it was dreadful, a disaster in the making. George could only tolerate the atmosphere in Section One for so long before he had to flee -- to escape to the saner environment he had created, where he merely had to pull a string for an entire bureaucratic apparatus to respond. And here he was, home again. Thank God. If only he could be certain about the situation in the Ukraine, to know that the last of his problems had been solved, things would be perfect. Still, he had covered every contingency -- how could anything go wrong? Madeline closed the report given to her by Petrosian and pushed it away, across the desk. She stared at the document blankly, trying to digest what she had learned. So now what? she asked herself, knowing there would be no answer. Burdened with knowledge, she was powerless to act. Helpless. Trapped. In only two days, Petrosian's far-flung sources had been able to provide independent confirmation of virtually all of Paul's recollections under hypnosis. What's more, they had enabled Madeline to keep her promise to Paul: she had found his family. Or, rather, she had found one member. Corinne, sadly, was dead -- had died years before, shortly after Paul failed to return from Vietnam with the other POWs. But Stephen -- placed in foster care afterwards -- was still alive, and Madeline now had his location. As gratifying as it was to locate Stephen, it was the other information that Petrosian's sources had retrieved that was the most revealing -- and damning, as far as Section One was concerned. One of the sources had located a second Corinne Wolfe, alive and well, happily remarried, and, oddly, an active terrorist sympathizer, known for pushing her politician husband into questionable alliances. The source had even provided a photo of the woman -- or at least a grainy photocopy of one. When she saw it, Madeline gasped aloud. It was Christine, an operative Madeline recognized from her days as a recruit. They had known each other quite well -- indeed, had been training partners for most of Madeline's second year in Section Two. Finding a 'fake' Corinne hadn't shocked Madeline -- she had already suspected as much. But discovering that it was someone she knew -- someone who could even be described as having been close to her -- was disconcerting. It made her feel almost complicit, unclean. Petrosian's Vietnamese sources had also been helpful. Phan, the interrogator whose report Madeline had read, was no longer to be found -- in Vietnam, that is. But he had turned up in America -- smuggled out at the war's end, the KGB suspected, by the Sections themselves. He had apparently joined a criminal netherworld, carving a small empire for himself -- but was still available to provide information or assistance if the Sections needed him to. Willie Kane, too, had been easily traced. According to the Vietnamese, he had been a traitor -- it had been his betrayal that had led to the capture of Paul's unit in the first place. While Willie, like Paul, had spent seven years in the camp, he hadn't been an ordinary prisoner; instead, he had lived in relative comfort with the guards, writing English-language propaganda for Vietnamese radio broadcasts. He had been smuggled back to America at the same time as Phan -- just in time to recreate Paul's captivity for fifteen days while Section One wiped his memory clean. The only information Petrosian's sources hadn't been able to uncover was the identity of the man Paul believed he had killed. No record of him existed with the Vietnamese, even though Paul had been certain he was working with Phan. But the report cited Vietnamese soldiers who remembered such a man -- he was not a figment of Paul's imagination, whoever he was. The mystery surrounding his identity made Madeline suspicious. No, more than suspicious -- certain. He was Section, without any question -- what else could he be? Doing what, and why, she didn't know. Perhaps she was better off not knowing. She knew too much as it was. Abruptly, she stood up and walked away from the harsh circle of illumination cast by the small desk lamp, returning to sit on the bed. As she stared at the dark shadows on her wall, she felt herself growing overwhelmed with a sense of seething, uncontrollable outrage. Until this mission, she had harbored an absurdly romantic view of the Sections -- seeing them as a latter-day French Foreign Legion, a refuge for criminals, misfits, and failures, where they could gain a second chance, no questions asked, and an opportunity to redeem themselves. That's what Section Two had been to her; that's what the Sections had been, in one way or another, to everyone Madeline had met throughout her career there. For every one of them -- except Paul -- recruitment had led to a more meaningful life than would otherwise have been possible. It was a fair deal -- even with the Sections' unforgiving rules -- and Madeline had never before questioned its morality. But Paul had had a better life in front of him -- he had had a loving family and, with his wartime background, a brilliant potential career in the military, business, or even politics. He hadn't needed the Sections to make a difference in the world -- he would have done it on his own. As far as Madeline could tell, Paul's only crime had been to serve his country too bravely -- for this, the Sections had stripped his life away. This knowledge destroyed all of Madeline's illusions about the nobility of the Sections, casting her into a mental state so bleak that she couldn't even make herself feel anymore. She wanted desperately to feel sadness and grief, to shed bitter tears for what had been done to him, but her soul had become a dark, bottomless pit from which nothing could be retrieved. Nothing except anger -- a cold, methodical anger that suffused every molecule of her being. But if rage was all she had left, she would accept it; it offered her a kind of power, and she would tap into it. Succumbing to its intoxicating embrace, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and made two vows -- vows that, if necessary, she would spend the rest of her life fulfilling, at any price, at any cost. First, she would ensure that Paul never again suffered the pain and hurt that she had witnessed when he had sobbed so desperately in her arms. He had been devastated, vulnerable, and weak -- a condition that she would not allow to recur. To survive in the Sections, he had to be strong; she would make him so again and make sure that he stayed that way. If he needed help, she would help him -- if necessary, she would even be strong for him. No one could be allowed to find or exploit any weakness -- by the time she was done with him, he would be invincible, untouchable. In order to fulfill this vow, however, she had a very ugly task to carry out. She stood from the bed and switched on the overhead light, blinking at its yellowish glare. She then pulled her suitcase from the closet, opened it determinedly, and began rummaging through its contents. She quickly retrieved what she was searching for: the mind-altering drugs that she was supposed to have been administering to Paul for Ohanian, but instead had been hiding until she could discard them discreetly. It was fortunate that she not yet found an opportunity to destroy them -- as it turned out, she would need them after all. Paul's nightmares were a sign of returning memories -- memories that, if recovered, would destroy and weaken him just as they had when he was under hypnosis. To keep him strong, to help him survive, she therefore had to obliterate those memories -- to do the job that his original programmers had failed to do. To bring his mind under total control. To allow the Sections to win. The Sections would have their victory -- they would get what they wanted, not just from Paul, but from her as well. For by performing the memory modification process on Paul, she would become the person they wanted her to be. She would accept her preordained destiny as the Sections' very own brainwasher -- and she would do so without complaint, without a struggle, and without regret. Paul would be the lucky one -- he would never know the truth, would never remember what had been done to him. But she would never escape it, would never forget. And out of that knowledge came her second vow: they would pay. They would pay for taking away Paul's identity, for taking away who he had been -- and they would pay for forcing an identity upon her, for taking away who she could have been. The Sections wanted the two of them to become certain people -- well, she would oblige. But only for a price. First, there would be a personal price, to be paid by the woman ultimately responsible, the woman who ran the Sections and dictated their activities. How she would pay -- and when -- didn't matter now. But someday, somehow, she would pay dearly. But it wasn't only Adrian who owed the debt. So did the Sections themselves -- as an organization, they had taken Paul's life away and forced him to submit to their will. In return, someday the Sections would submit to his will -- he would become their commander and run them as he saw fit. Only that way would his unknowing sacrifice become worthwhile -- maybe even justified. As she made this final vow, she smiled -- he truly would be a superb leader. Helping him take command wouldn't simply be a matter of obtaining justice for his sake, it would be what was right. Her anger had coalesced into determination, and the determination gave her an odd sense of calm. As she reflected on the promises she had made to herself, she realized that she was far from helpless. In fact, there was one additional thing she could do. It would be foolhardy beyond comprehension, but she was becoming used to taking risks. She couldn't turn back time, and she couldn't give Paul his old life back, but there was one memory she could allow -- one small gift she could bestow. She placed the drugs and a syringe in her bag, a fierce resolve engulfing her, and exited the room. She had spent the past two days feigning illness in her room, wanting to hide the marks on her neck from both Paul and Ohanian. They hadn't healed yet, but she didn't care. She had a visit to pay to Paul -- now, before she changed her mind.