Chapter Twelve 1999 The telephone rang only once before George heard the other line click on. �Yes?� Madeline answered. Even from the single word, George could hear the transformation in her voice. Today, she sounded like her normal self -- guarded, but pleasant. It was a distinct contrast from George's last telephone conversation with her, when her stress had been readily apparent. Not that George had blamed her. He too had suffered while the Markali mission had been pending -- the thought of the head of Section One learning the truth about his recruitment and going on a vengeful rampage had not been particularly comforting to contemplate. Especially since George would have been one of the first ones Paul would have been gunning for. �Things seem to have concluded satisfactorily,� he said. �Yes. Everything fell into place quite well. Thank you for your help.� �Not at all.� He smiled to himself and took a deep breath. �I seem to have underestimated Nikita, by the way. Apparently she�s learned some new skills since her last psych report was prepared.� �We�re always trying to find ways to enhance our operatives� performance,� she replied dryly. �Good. I�m glad to hear it.� He paused momentarily. �But it�s a shame we had to waste Christine like that. She was a very hardworking operative.� �So I understand.� �You knew her quite well as a recruit, didn�t you?� �Reasonably well. But we hadn�t seen each other in years.� Madeline�s voice was soft as velvet, showing no signs that she was in the least perturbed at her fellow-recruit�s fate. George frowned and leaned farther back in his chair. Something nagged at him, just out of reach in the recesses of his mind. Thinking aloud, he said, �You know, I think this episode ought to serve as a warning sign.� �What do you mean?� �About Paul. I think he�s becoming unstable.� The line was silent. �Don�t pretend you haven�t noticed,� he said. He waited to see if she would respond. She didn�t. �After all, you�re on the front lines,� he continued, trying to goad her. �I�m sure you see the worst of it.� �We�re all subject to stress at times,� she declared, finally. She sounded dismissive, as if they were discussing something trivial. But George suspected that the casual tone was forced. �You can keep your head in the sand if you like, Madeline,� he warned, �but I think it�s time you started thinking about your future.� Again, she said nothing. But after several seconds, she spoke, her voice low and smooth. �Well, I always take your advice very seriously, George. If I think there�s a problem, you�ll be the first person I call.� 1980 The door to the cell swung slowly open, and Paul glanced up in anticipation. He had grown used to only two types of evening visits: a guard bearing food or cigarettes; or, better still, Madeline. Spotting Madeline's elegant form, clad in a dark wool skirt and a blouse with a colorful scarf, he grinned, but then quickly wiped the smile from his face. This time, she had a companion: a ruthless-looking man in an ill-fitting dark suit. Jesus Christ, Paul thought, this guy�s got KGB written all over him. What the hell is going on? As the door closed behind them, the man and Madeline exchanged unreadable looks. Madeline then turned to Paul. �Paul,� she said, smiling, �this is Egran Petrosian. He�s an official with the KGB, but he recently started working with us.� So he was KGB. Paul was glad to see that his gut was still in good operating order. But working with them? Why hadn�t Madeline mentioned that she had an ally before? Walking toward Paul, Madeline continued. �Ohanian has decided that you�ve passed all of his tests. That means you�re going to be allowed to escape in the middle of the night.� Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise. So Madeline�s insane plan had actually worked. He was going to be allowed to walk right out of this place completely unopposed. It was amazing, really. If things had been left up to him, he would have attempted a straightforward escape attempt -- and probably would have killed himself trying. Her way had been much more subtle, had required more patience. It was something he never would have come up with in a million years -- and yet it had worked perfectly. She was truly a genius -- and a delightfully devious one, at that. God, I could use her help on missions, he thought, but then with a pang of sorrow remembered that he couldn�t. She would continue her undercover life, and he would go back to Section One. Their paths might never cross again. Finally, he had found someone he truly trusted, someone who, in Adrian�s words, balanced out his weaknesses, only to lose her forever. It was gut-wrenchingly unfair. But then he frowned as a fact, almost absurd in its very obviousness, occurred to him. Section One�s in Paris; Madeline lives in Paris. He pondered that fact for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. Why the hell can�t I just go see her? Discreetly, of course. �Egran is going to come by to let you out later,� Madeline explained, apparently oblivious Paul�s rapidly shifting thoughts. �I wanted to introduce the two of you ahead of time so you won�t jump him when he enters your cell.� She arched an eyebrow and gave Paul a sharp look. �I seem to remember that being a problem once before.� Paul chuckled, his mood suddenly light. �Well, I�m glad to meet you Egran. And I�m even more glad that I�m going to be getting out of this place.� �What?� Egran gave him a wry smile. �The hospitality of the Soviet Union isn�t to your liking? You decadent capitalist!� The two men shook hands. Egran had a strong grasp and held it just the right amount of time -- not too long, not too short. Paul approved -- he had an innate dislike of anyone with a weak or clammy grip, but Egran shook hands like a man. Paul straightened his posture a bit, sensing he was being sized up, and he returned the other man's assessing gaze. Were they enemies? Rivals? Allies? It was too soon to tell. Judging by Egran's intrigued expression, he had the same unanswered questions. Breaking their mutual inspection, Egran reached into a satchel he was carrying. With a flourish, he pulled out two large bottles of vodka and three glasses and set them on the floor. �I think we ought to toast,� he said effusively. �To your going home, and to my new life as one of Section One�s finest.� Madeline's brows wrinkled faintly. �I�m not sure that�s the best idea -- both of you have to be up in the middle of the night.� Egran gave her an exaggerated frown in return. �Don�t be so serious all the time!� He turned to Paul. �You know, she is always soooo serious. It's annoying sometimes. All work and no play -- oh, what is that English saying again?� �Makes Jack a dull boy,� Paul finished. �Makes Jack a dull boy,� Egran repeated. He shook his head. �I don�t understand this saying. Who is this Jack, anyway? And why do we care if he�s dull?� �I have no idea.� Both men laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw Madeline roll her eyes. With an undignified thump, Egran sat down cross-legged on the floor. He lined the glasses in a careful row, opened one of the bottles, and then looked up with a sly smile. �Come on, join me. I�ve made a major change in my life, and you two are the only ones I can celebrate with.� Paul shrugged. �No more electroshock sessions with the mad professor? Sounds like a good reason to have some Russian vodka to me.� He joined Egran on the floor, and the two men looked up expectantly at Madeline. She regarded the cigarette-stained floor with an air of disgust, but finally, with a sigh, sat, brushed the wrinkles from her skirt, and folded her legs delicately to one side. Egran poured each of them an overly generous amount of the clear liquid. �To many years of working together,� he said, raising his glass. They touched glasses and drank. Like Egran, Paul swallowed all of the liquid in one -- searing -- gulp. He shook his head, coughed a bit, blew out his breath in shock, and grinned. The grin grew even wider when he looked over at Madeline and saw her expression -- her face was tight, as if she had just swallowed hideous medicine but wanted to hide her distaste. Not a vodka drinker, apparently. He would have to find out what she did like. Probably something more...sophisticated. Drinking straight vodka was somewhat like being knocked on the head with a plank. �I hope it's not too strong for you,� Egran said, the corner of his mouth twitching. �It's a special brand.� Paul slammed the glass onto the floor with a loud clink. �Second round?� �Hmmm,� said Egran, pouring again. �This is going to be interesting.� A third round followed the second, and then a fourth. Eventually, Paul lost track of how many refills he had consumed, but judged it was too many by the fact that he and Egran started trading songs. Madeline refused to join in the singing, but her face was noticeably flushed. �Ah, you Westerners are so lucky,� Egran drawled, draping his arms over both Paul�s and Madeline�s shoulders. �In the West, all a man needs is brains and ambition, and he can build an empire. I could do so much there. But I had the misfortune of being born here.� Removing his arms from their shoulders, he poured himself another glass and threw it back. �Do you know who I wanted to be when I was a boy?� �Who?� Paul asked, smiling as a relaxing warmth enveloped him. �John D. Rockefeller.� Paul laughed out loud, and Madeline made a face. �Rockefeller?� Paul asked. �That doesn�t sound very patriotic for a young comrade.� �No,� Egran admitted. �We read about him in school as an example of the evils of capitalist oppression. But I always wanted to be him. He was a man who made his mark on the world and didn't let anyone get in his way. That�s the kind of man I admire.� �He was a bully,� Madeline said pointedly. �And a tyrant.� Egran gave her a strange, triumphant look. �Maybe. But the world remembers him as a philanthropist.� Feeling an uneasy current chill the atmosphere of the room, Paul frowned. Madeline stood up abruptly, brushed off her skirt, and folded her arms. �It�s late,� she said bluntly. �You need to get some sleep.� Egran grinned and stood up, wavering back and forth. He headed for the door and banged his fist against it. When the door opened, he started to exit but then hesitated, looking back at Madeline. �Aren�t you coming?� She looked at him intensely. �No.� Egran looked back and forth between Paul and Madeline and then stared at her for several moments. For a second, Paul thought he saw a dark cloud pass across the other man's face, but then Egran chuckled. �I should have known.� He shook his head, smiling. �You two enjoy your goodbyes.� He then looked over at Paul. �I�ll be back in four hours to get you.� �Well, he was entertaining,� Paul said with a short laugh. �Yes, I suppose.� Madeline frowned -- partly in distaste at the thought of Petrosian, partly because the room seemed to be tipping alarmingly off center. �Can we trust him?� Uncannily, Paul voiced her very thoughts. She blinked rapidly in an effort to clear her head of the alcohol-induced fog. After a few moments, the room stabilized; her vision cleared. She took a long, slow breath. �He�ll make sure you get home safely,� she answered, avoiding the true question. �Good.� Paul�s face then warmed in a wicked smile. �Speaking of which, where do you want me to take you to dinner when we both get back to Paris?� �What?� She stared at him in confusion. He couldn�t have possibly just said what she thought he had. The vodka must be affecting her even more than she realized -- which was already a great deal. �I�m going to come see you when we�re back in Paris,� he announced smugly. He wasn�t asking, he wasn�t suggesting -- he was telling her, as if the decision were his alone to make. Her opinion, apparently, didn�t matter. And yet instead of making her angry, his confidence -- his audaciousness -- actually thrilled her. Standing there, looking down at her with his hands in his pockets, he even looked slightly arrogant -- a look that oddly suited him, that enhanced the strength of his facial features. Entranced, she admired him for a few moments, but then reason pushed its way back into her consciousness and she shook her head. �Have you lost your mind? I�m supposed to be undercover. You can�t just show up at my doorstep.� �Why not?� He smirked, withdrawing his hands from his pockets and folding them across his chest with a self-satisfied air. �Your undercover persona doesn�t go out on dates? Somehow I�m sure I can blend in with the throngs of admirers who must be beating down your door every weekend. Even though I will be the best-looking one of the bunch.� �That�s not the point,� she said, trying to summon anger at him but not quite succeeding. �What if someone recognized you? What if Ohanian saw you?� �That�s easy. Just tell him that as a sideline to the programming you did, you turned me into your unwitting love slave.� Paul winked. �It�s a well-known fringe benefit for practitioners of the brainwashing business, you know. Didn�t they tell you that when they gave you your union card?� She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. �Don�t do that,� she protested. �What?� he asked in mock innocence. �Make me laugh. This isn�t funny.� �Why not? You look even more beautiful when you laugh.� He stepped closer to her, chuckling softly. �Except I see I have to get you drunk for it to happen.� He continued to examine her, his expression growing more and more amused. Then, lifting an eyebrow, he offered her his hand, his eyes bright with a silent invitation. Puzzled, she frowned. �Can I have this dance, milady?� he asked, a silly smirk twisting his face. She looked around the room pointedly. �I think you�re the one who�s drunk. Do you see any way to play music?� �Can�t you hear it?� He took a step back, looking surprised, even hurt. She shook her head. What was he talking about? �I do. I hear music in my head every time I see you.� Astonished by this unabashedly romantic statement, she felt her heart actually give a leap. But she was too embarrassed to reciprocate. Instead, trying to ignore the flush she felt rush up her face, she glared at him, or at least hoped that it looked like a glare. �If you get any sweeter, I�m going to need insulin.� He laughed and shook his head. �I see you�re not the sentimental type. Somehow that doesn�t surprise me. But please, I�m serious about the dance. Humor me. Just pretend there�s music.� At a loss for words, she simply stared at him, for a time that seemed almost infinite, and watched his expression transform from amusement to tenderness. He reached out and caressed her cheek, so slowly that his fingers left a trail of warmth on her skin. Combined with the effect of the vodka, it made her feel feverish. Dizzy, she was unable to resist when he pulled her into his arms and began to trace a slow, circular path around the floor. They swayed back and forth gently and steadily; occasionally, he paused, then turned or stepped to the side, pulling her along. He did indeed seem to move to a distinct rhythm, as if a song were playing in his mind -- as she rested her head on his shoulder, allowing his movements to guide her, she could almost hear it herself. When he shifted his arms to encircle her waist, she relaxed and sighed in contentment. He was a powerful man, a regal man, a man whose every gesture and movement exuded confidence and achievement. In another world, another lifetime, he could have been her protector -- here, wrapped in his embrace, she could at least pretend it was so. Savoring the moment, she had almost completely given herself over to its sweetness, when she heard a distant sound. Not the lush music of Paul's imagination, but something else, something jarring. It was faint, at first, like a muffled echo or a badly tuned radio. But it sharpened and amplified until it grew recognizable as a voice. Her own voice. You don�t deserve this, the voice told her. If he only knew what you�d done, he�d hate you. She tried to ignore the voice, to will it away, but it grew louder, deafening. Even as she pressed more tightly against him, it taunted her; as her body expressed her love for him, her mind cried out that she was a traitor. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she answered back. I did it to protect him. To keep him strong. But the voice wasn�t convinced. It continued its rebuke. He deserves to know the truth about what was done to him. No, he doesn�t, she countered defiantly. It would kill him. I�ve saved his life. With that, the inner voice fell silent. For the moment. She knew, deep down, it would eventually be back. But for now she would rejoice in its defeat. Taking a deep breath, she looked up, and her gaze met his eyes, glittering with a color like the sky on a brisk winter morning. Mesmerized by their clarity, she was taken by surprise when she felt his lips against hers. Abruptly, her senses shifted from the visual to the tactile, from a universe of crisp blueness to a world of soft touch. His mouth was moving, searching, circling, tasting, lingering, and then moving again, landing gently and then more and more deeply. One by one, the objects in the room seemed to disappear, then the door, the walls, the ceiling -- they all fell away into darkness, into oblivion. Nothing remained but sensations -- the slow brush of her scarf as it loosened and unwound from her neck; the wetness of his tongue as it outlined her jugular; the firm pressure of his hands as he grasped the small of her back to pull her against him; the tight stitches of his sweater as she ran her fingers along his shoulders and down his spine; the sharp edge of his belt buckle as it dug into her stomach; the surprising hardness of his thigh as it pressed against her more yielding one. Even these began to merge together into a single focused awareness -- not of self, not of surroundings, but of a hunger that emerged from somewhere beyond the bounds of consciousness -- powerful, primeval, consuming. Eventually, rationality departed completely, and she spun into a place where perception came in disjointed flashes -- where things simply happened, with no how, or why, or even who. Where clothes were removed and hastily discarded, dropping silently to the floor. Where limbs entwined and interlocked, sliding and moving in smooth friction. Where skin pressed against skin, growing hot and beaded with sweat. Where flesh stung, grazed by nails and teeth, and then was soothed by moist lips. Where hands alternately caressed and clutched, then clasped together, gripping with a ferocious strength. Where hips united in motion, driving forward in a jagged rhythm of need. Where sighs grew into gasps, and gasps grew into groans. Where names were whispered and then called out in rising fervor. All these things seized her consciousness in turn, driving all else out. There was no Section, no mission, no torture or prisons, no inner voice or guilt. There was only an act of love -- no separate actors, no existence beyond it. No present, no past, no future. No life and no death. No secrets, no betrayals. And no lies. Even after she left, Madeline�s presence continued to haunt the room. Paul stared at the ceiling, still dazed, unable to comprehend, much less describe, what had just happened. Their lovemaking had been intensely intimate, perhaps more than ever, and yet at the same time completely distant. Even as they burned together as a single entity, she seemed a million miles away -- embracing her had been like possessing a ghost: she was there, and yet she was not. He found it strangely, almost eerily erotic -- and deeply satisfying. Like an addict withdrawing a needle, he was already craving more -- another fix, a higher dose. Fortunately, he would have that dose soon. And often. As often as he could arrange it, at least. When he told her that he would find her in Paris, he had been uncertain how she would react. But then her face had lit up with a look of raw joy -- before she struggled to bring her reaction back under control -- and he had known that he had reached the right decision. Had she responded otherwise, he would have discarded the idea immediately, even at the cost of a shattered heart. Of course, he had phrased it as if it were his decision. Asked for her opinion, she would have denied herself everything -- so he freed her from making that choice. He would take responsibility for their relationship -- and the blame, if any. And there might very well be blame. For she had been right -- while nothing in Section One�s rules prohibited fraternization, per se, Section Two was a very different story. Undercover operatives, by necessity, had to be scrupulous in avoiding any behavior -- or associations -- that might betray their identities. By �showing up at her doorstep,� as she put it, he could thus be placing her life in danger -- from the KGB, if they figured things out, or from Section itself, if they found out how reckless she was being. The KGB could be dealt with, he decided, by inventing his own alter ego -- renting a cheap apartment near hers, pretending to be an ordinary neighbor. He had created enough fake identities for missions that another one shouldn�t be a problem. And he doubted that they scrutinized her life that carefully anyway -- they simply didn�t have that many resources, especially not to check on someone who had already been working for them -- without incident -- for years. Nor did he think that Ohanian would be a serious problem. Paul would stay away from the university -- the most likely place he might run into the man -- and make sure that -- in public, anyway -- he wore an adequate disguise. It was the Section itself that posed the biggest threat. How carefully did they watch their undercover operatives? He had no idea what the protocols were in Section Two, much less how to circumvent them. He suspected that there might be surveillance of some sort -- listening devices at her apartment, something like that. But it would be too risky for them to have her followed -- at least on a regular basis -- the watchers themselves might be spotted and risk blowing her cover. Well, a handful of listening devices could be deceived. He would have to convince Section�s listeners -- just like the KGB -- that her new boyfriend was some harmless neighbor, clueless about her more sinister activities, with whom she was having a shallow, superficial fling. It could be fun -- they could make up some sort of code, saying something innocuous, meaning something else. It would be a game -- like playacting. She might even enjoy the sheer complexity of it all -- pretending to fool him, but in reality deceiving someone else. Layers of deception, falsehoods within falsehoods -- yes, that was probably right up her alley. They would just have to remember to call each other by their alter egos� names -- at all times. That might be a challenge, he thought, chuckling to himself. He turned his eyes away from the ceiling and looked across the room at the door. There was one thing still troubling him -- courtesy of Madeline�s parting words. They had been warnings, whispered to him with a farewell caress. The first -- to keep Stephen a secret -- made perfect sense. He couldn't explain his sudden recollection of his son without first admitting to his memory problem -- and that was something that he resolved Section would never know. It was the second warning that chilled him. �Be careful of George,� she had whispered, her expression intense and worried. �He�s a danger to you.� And that was all. She refused to elaborate, to describe what she knew or how, but the look on her face had told him enough. George wanted him dead. It was something he had suspected all along -- but how Madeline could have known it was a mystery. As he pondered both the warning and his potential response, the door opened and Egran appeared. He wore a long, heavy coat and carried another on his arm. Paul stood up, caught the coat as Egran tossed it to him, and slipped it on. �Are you ready?� Egran asked. �If you are.� �Good. Let�s go.� Running late, Madeline hurried into the kitchen and grabbed her purse from the counter. Turning to exit the room and rush to her morning appointment, she spotted a dark blue jacket hanging on the back of a chair. A man�s jacket. Paul's jacket. He had forgotten it when he departed earlier that morning -- both of them having overslept, waking in a panic -- with him running late for a briefing back at Section One. We�re getting careless, she thought, snatching up the jacket to hang it in a closet. In the four months since she had returned from the Ukraine, Paul had come to see her at least once a week -- sometimes, when his mission schedule slowed, even more often than that. She knew it was foolish, knew it was reckless, but had been unable to turn him away. Each time he had managed to outdo himself with his grand, romantic gestures -- showing up with flowers, gifts, and, the night before, a hired carriage; each time she pretended to scoff, but secretly adored it. So far, their elaborate pretense -- complete with a false identity and their own code language -- had protected them -- her handlers had noted the appearance of the new man in her life, but without comment -- and without any instructions to stop seeing him. They seemed satisfied that this relationship was yet another in the series of meaningless -- and short-lived -- encounters she had developed the habit of engaging in. If things continued for much longer, however -- as she knew Paul wanted it to, as she wanted herself -- the Section might take more of an interest. It was that potential for increased scrutiny that worried her. They would have to be more careful from now on, or disaster would strike. She certainly couldn�t let their time together adversely affect his duties back at Section One, as had nearly happened this morning. Perhaps stricter rules were in order, maybe even scaling back the frequency of his visits. As she headed for the closet, jacket in hand, the telephone rang shrilly. She stopped, unsure whether to answer it and risk running even further behind, but then picked it up. Answering breathlessly, she listened to the bland voice of her handler, commanding her to go to the usual meeting place that afternoon. She frowned. �Is there something wrong? You usually meet me toward the end of the month.� �You won�t be meeting with me.� �Oh. George wants to see me, then?� �No. Adrian does.�