Chapter Two 1999 George set down his telephone and grunted with displeasure. Opening a drawer, he reached for his bottle of antacids and hissed in annoyance when he felt nothing rattle inside. Empty again. Ah, well, there were other forms of medication available. Distilled medication, that is. He crossed the room and reached for his decanter of Scotch, admiring the golden tone of the liquid as he poured his glass, sniffing the rich aroma. He took a sip -- and winced as it sent searing bolts of pain through his abdomen. I�m not going to have a stomach left at this rate, he thought, grimacing. Days like this made him wonder why he had ever wanted this job, why he had fought and schemed so hard to achieve it. After all of that struggle, his reward was to spend his time mediating between two utterly impossible men: his ivory tower superior at Center, forever pushing elegant but thoroughly impractical strategies; and his loose-cannon, power hungry subordinate, constantly undermining his authority and plotting coups. But as the pain in his stomach subsided and his body began to warm, he smiled. Yes, it was worth enduring both of them. Let Philip spin his grand theories up in Center, let Paul do the dirty work down in Section One -- he, George, would sit back in his power center and pull the real strings. George sipped his Scotch again as he made his way back to his desk. This time it didn�t burn his stomach quite so badly. He typed at his keyboard, bringing up the file on Nikolai Markali. He shook his head, resigned but disappointed. It had taken years of careful work to push the reluctant Markali into Badenheim�s embrace, and now -- just as Markali was about to join their inner circle and thus expose the entire leadership -- Paul�s personal agenda intervened. Except that it wasn�t just a matter of Paul�s agenda, of course. If Paul discovered the truth, he might well go on a rampage -- and things were unsettled enough at the Sections without that kind of disaster. No, as much as George would enjoy seeing Paul pushed over the edge, now was not the time. His computer beeped to indicate an incoming message. It was Section One�s profile for the Markali mission, only fifteen minutes after Madeline had promised to deliver it. Prompt, as always. It was indeed a pleasant change to have Madeline as an ally. Well, �ally� might be too strong a word -- one never knew quite where one stood with that woman. Yet he had only himself to blame -- Madeline was his misbegotten creation, just as Paul was Adrian�s -- both of them reflecting their mentors� worst qualities. There had once been a time when Madeline showed so much promise -- had indeed seemed to be a worthy successor -- but then time had passed, loyalties had subtly shifted. Their cooperation now, however, made him wonder whether all was not lost. Perhaps it was worth reaching out to her again -- testing the waters, so to speak. But he would have to think about that later. With a tired sigh, he clicked on the file and began to read the profile. It was time to see what hideous plan Paul had come up with -- and devise a way to work around it. 1972 Madeline tossed the book on her desk with a resounding thump. Another tedious Russian novel translated, full of dreary descriptions of tractors and heroic laborers. Tina insisted that reading them would teach Madeline about the mind-set of their enemy, but Madeline refused to believe her. Not even the most fanatically committed revolutionary would voluntarily read such things. She fell back on her bed and stared wearily up at the ceiling, wondering when her undercover work would finally begin. Her �secret agent� training had been, in many ways, a disappointment. Mundane, even. It was nothing more than an intensive prep-school education, seasoned with occasional exotic language study. The subjects hadn�t challenged her, nor had her tutors. Indeed, she frequently found herself correcting them. She did this out of boredom, rather than arrogance, and yet it seemed to intimidate them -- a reaction which she noticed with curiosity. In the past, adults had been frightened of her because of the shocking nature of her acts. The idea that she could intimidate by something as simple as the mere display of knowledge intrigued her. Beyond her studies, very little was asked of her. And with no one her age to socialize with, she spent her time alone. Observing. This, too, seemed to make those around her nervous. But she learned a great deal that way. Above all, she studied the organization and the people working in it. Among other things, she noticed that the administrative staff -- that army of women typists, file clerks and transcribers -- was shrinking. In its place grew a corps of young computer technicians, tending to the sensitivities of their electronic masters. The computer room was clearly the safe place to work in Section Two, although its denizens were underappreciated. Ostensibly, the glamorous jobs belonged to the undercover operatives. She saw how all eyes would turn to them when they visited the facility, striding through the halls like gunslingers or gladiators. Mostly men, and mostly ex-military, they behaved as if they were an elite group of heroes, saving the world out of a sense of chivalry and noblesse oblige. Madeline viewed them very differently. In her mind, elites were not expendable, and heroes were not to be lightly cast aside. And yet Section threw these men�s lives away without hesitation. In reality, she recognized, these operatives were pawns -- available for sacrifice at a moment�s notice. And the life of a pawn was far from glamorous. Or safe. The fact that the undercover operatives failed to understand their true insignificance demonstrated their foolishness. Madeline, in contrast, was no fool. She not only accepted that her life, as an individual, meant nothing here, she welcomed it. It made things simpler. In many ways, it was no different from her old life, with one great exception -- now, she served a larger cause. By recruiting Madeline, Section had thus given her something precious, irreplaceable. It had given her something to believe in. It had turned all of her faults into virtues. It had lifted her out of an aimless spiral of self-destruction and offered her redemption. The price Section demanded in return -- her life -- was one she was willing to pay. It wasn�t really very much to ask. After all, wasn�t she already dead? �Welcome back,� Bobby Lane, the dry-witted helicopter gunner, said, watching the guards usher Paul back into the cell and slam the door shut. �How was the spa?� Paul smirked. The �spa� was Lane�s nickname for the swamp at the edge of the camp where uncooperative prisoners were often forced to stand, tied to posts, as punishment. �Rejuvenating,� Paul replied sarcastically. �Why, my skin has never been softer,� he laughed, pulling up his damp pantleg to show his cellmates the yellow-green open sores. This time, he had only been subjected to the punishment for forty-eight hours, so his wounds had escaped the worst of the insect egg-laying. Other times he had not been so lucky. �God damn,� Franklin Fredericks, the medic, exclaimed. �Let me clean you up.� Paul joined Fredericks on the grimy rattan mat and pulled up his pantlegs to his knees. He leaned back on his hands and spread out his legs stiffly, wincing as Fredericks poked at the sores. �That doesn�t look very clean,� Paul said worriedly, eyeing the small shred of cloth Fredericks had ripped from his shirt. �It�s cleaner than that muck you�re covered in,� Fredericks replied, dabbing the cloth on Paul�s wounds. �It�s a miracle you haven�t gotten gangrene yet, as many times as they�ve sent you out there.� The pressure applied on Paul�s wounds burned savagely; he drew sharp breaths through gritted teeth until Fredericks was done. Then, looking around the room, he noticed something odd. Two days before, he had left five men in this cell. Now, there were only four. �Where�s Gallo?� Paul asked. The four men looked at each other nervously. �They took him last night,� Lane whispered. �Phan and some white dude. I think it�s the one we keep hearing about.� Paul tensed his body angrily. Ever since his first encounter with the tall, French-speaking stranger, rumors had been circulating throughout the camp -- stories of a mysterious Westerner, appearing in the dead of night and picking out men to be led away. No one knew the fate of the missing prisoners; however, speculation was rampant and increasingly lurid -- mass executions, medical experiments, brainwashing. Paul had dismissed all the stories as nonsense at first, assuming that the missing men had been transferred to other camps. But then he had started to notice a pattern -- the men who disappeared were invariably the weakest among them, the ones who had their spirits broken. Concerned, Paul had started attempting to protect those whom he saw as likely targets -- whenever a guard began to pick on someone vulnerable, Paul would create a distraction, drawing the wrath of their captors onto himself. But he couldn�t protect everyone, not all the time -- and this time, it was his frightened young cellmate who was missing -- a kid only three months out of high school, who barely even needed to shave yet. A kid who cried for his mother every night. You fucking Russian bastard, Paul thought, God help you if I ever get my hands on you. The soft knock at the door didn�t register at first, so engrossed was George in the efficiency ratings for Section Three. The results of his new recruiting program were beyond his most optimistic expectations; the quality of the assassins his source had procured was extraordinary. If only he could convince Adrian to maintain a similar hands-off attitude toward Section Two, George could work the same miracle there. He had spent the morning performing the annual reviews of Section Two�s first-year recruits -- most of them Adrian�s choices, the typical assortment of cowboys and adventurers, well adapted for Section One but completely unsuitable for Section Two�s undercover work. Adrian always insisted on selecting operatives with tendencies toward holding strong principles -- individuals who could be converted into true believers for the Agency�s cause. But in Section Two, Adrian�s true believers were always the first to have their covers blown -- they seemed incapable of the moral ambiguity necessary to lead false lives for years at a time. The tapping at his door grew slightly more insistent, and he realized that another recruit must have arrived. Glancing at the list on his desk to see who was next, he sighed in relief. It was Madeline, the troubled teenager he had personally selected the prior year. Finally -- a chance to assess someone who might actually have an aptitude for undercover work. He looked toward the door eagerly. �Come in,� he called, pushing away from his desk to lean back in his chair. The door opened and Madeline entered. Dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she stood stiffly at attention, her hands clasped in front of her like a soldier. Her stance looked slightly odd, given her youth and gender, but it matched the disciplined intensity of her expression. Nodding, George gestured for her to sit down; she took a seat in front of his desk, but remained rigid and formal. �Do you know who I am, Madeline?� George asked. He adopted a relaxed, almost indifferent attitude, the better to disguise his careful analysis of her demeanor. Putting recruits at ease was the best way to test them; when they let their guard down, they often revealed latent flaws. �I�m told you have some position of authority here, sir.� Her tone seemed calculatedly deferential, but she was otherwise unreadable. �Please,� he said, smiling, �call me George.� �Alright, George,� she agreed, matching his smile with one of her own. It was a faint smile -- polite, but not too warm. �I do indeed have a position of authority here,� George explained. �The commander of all of the Sections is a lady by the name of Adrian. I am her second-in-command.� �I see.� �While Adrian and I are jointly in control of all of the Sections, we have worked out an informal division of labor. Section One -- the busiest Section -- occupies Adrian almost full-time. As a result, she leaves day-to-day operations at Two and Three to me. That makes me, de facto, your boss.� Madeline nodded but said nothing. �I always wait until new recruits have completed their initial training before I see them. No sense wasting my time with someone who isn�t going to work out.� Madeline remained silent and utterly impassive looking. George smiled in approval -- he appreciated a good poker face. �Now, however,� he announced, �it�s time we got to know each other.� He looked down at her file and flipped through the pages, pausing to read some of the comments made by her trainers. �Superficially friendly, but evasive,� wrote one. �A strange mixture of intensity and coldness,� wrote another. The trainers had deemed these negative qualities; George, however, strongly disagreed. He scanned the file further, refreshing his memory regarding her background. He had forgotten the details of the numerous foster families, the repeated institutionalizations, the habitual running away to live on the streets, and the increasingly serious crimes. But one thing stood out clearly in his memory, as powerful as the first day he had read it. It was the report of the child psychologist who had interviewed her on the day of her sister�s death. The psychologist had found the young girl quite cognizant of the significance of what she had done -- fully aware of the meaning and finality of death -- but casually unremorseful. When asked why she had pushed her sister to her death, she had shrugged, and answered plainly: �I wanted the doll.� George had seen many evil things in his life -- deaths, betrayals, atrocities -- and yet that simple sentence had chilled him on a level he had never before experienced. It chilled him still, even though he knew that the other doctors who had examined the girl over the years were unanimous in the opinion that she was not a psychopath -- that her remark during the interview was a product of shock, not of her real attitude. He wasn�t certain whether to believe them -- or even if he wanted to. The possibilities of a truly amoral operative were quite intriguing. Setting the file aside, he looked back up at her. �You�ve had quite a career for someone so young,� he observed dryly. �It makes me curious, actually. Why would a bright young lady such as yourself do such very foolish things?� �It�s what people expected of me,� she answered bluntly. �Do you always do what people expect?� George smiled at her, wondering if she would fall into the trap that he had set. An affirmative answer would suggest that she was easily manipulated; a negative answer might indicate that she was unreliable. She seemed to recognize the dilemma, because it took her some time to answer. �I try to exceed people�s expectations.� He raised his eyebrows in surprise, quite pleased with the response. A direct answer, yet still evasive. Very, very neat. He studied her for a few moments, trying -- and failing -- to read any expression in her eyes, and then withdrew a checklist from her file. �Your records indicate that you�ve engaged in quite a number of petty -- and not so petty -- crimes. But I�d like to know if you�ve done other things -- things you weren�t caught at, that didn�t make it into the official records.� �All right.� He looked at the first item on his checklist. �Burglary, or break-ins?� �Yes.� �Robbery?� �You mean holding up a store, mugging someone, or something like that? No.� �Have you ever handled a weapon at all?� �No.� �Hmm,� he grunted, placing a checkmark on his list. �Drug use?� �No.� �Really? It seems to be the thing to do among people your age these days.� �I�ve had enough drugs forced on me in hospitals. I like to keep my mind clear, thank you.� �So you�re at least familiar with the effects of drugs?� �Very.� �Good.� He looked back at his list. �Prostitution?� She looked away, for the first time appearing disconcerted. �I take it that�s a yes.� She looked back at him with just a hint of belligerence. �Why do you need to know this?� �So that we can determine what you need training in, and what you are already experienced with.� �You would train me in those things?� Her eyes widened in genuine shock. �The skill sets for crime and espionage overlap to a large degree.� He watched her face as she took in this statement. Perhaps now she would know what was in store for her as an operative. It was better if she did -- the sooner operatives became reconciled to the more distasteful parts of their work, the easier things were. �Up until now, your training has been designed to help you catch up academically -- to overcome some of the limitations of your background. Now, however, your real training will begin.� With a flourish, Adrian initialed the bottom of the memo and handed it to her waiting secretary. �Please take this to George,� she instructed. The young woman looked down at the document, paled as she saw the contents, and nodded. �Yes, ma�am.� She walked out of the office hastily. Adrian stood and stretched, fatigued from the morning�s efforts. She had reviewed the latest intelligence reports from China, analyzed and approved a massive upgrade of Section One�s computer systems, and assigned twenty-seven operatives to abeyance status -- the last being the subject of the memo that had so frightened her mistake-prone secretary. She sighed, reaching out to adjust the roses in the vase at the corner of her desk. The younger operatives were such a disappointment these days, entirely lacking in both discipline and dedication. In her memo, Adrian had outlined a plan of action that she hoped would streamline the training process and weed out the weak operatives before too much time and resources were wasted on them. But she knew that would not be enough. It wasn�t simply a matter of poor training -- it was the inability to find the right sort of recruits. In the old days, operatives had believed in Section One�s cause even before being recruited, had believed in the values of democracy and Western civilization, and had known the difference between good and evil. But times had changed. Young people no longer believed in anything, or if they did, they turned moral values upside down -- idealizing violence and revolution and rejecting the cultural values of their own society. It was becoming almost impossible to rehabilitate them, to instill loyalty in them. Instead, she found it necessary to rely more and more on threats and punishments. That worked, to a degree, among lower-level operatives. But it was quite inappropriate for motivating potential leaders. And that posed a serious problem. The Sections were only the first in a series of Adrian�s dreams. The Sections existed to save the world from the grip of barbarism, but she also hoped to form institutions that were in the business of creating civilization instead of merely defending it. That, of course, would require a very different kind of organization from the Sections; in turn, that would necessitate passing on the stewardship of the Sections to a new generation. But without a prot�g�, someone she could train and mentor, it would all be impossible. And, sadly, there was no one in her organization that she trusted to protect her creation, no one who could be relied upon to preserve her vision and ensure that it outlived her. This haunted her, causing her to screen potential recruits obsessively, hoping to find that ideal candidate. But she was always disappointed. The newest recruit brought into Section One was a perfect illustration of the dilemma. On paper, Charles Sand was ideal: a Captain in the SAS, with distinguished service in Oman. But when she met him, she knew instantly that he would not do. Oh, he would make an excellent -- even outstanding -- operative. But there was something missing, a vague absence that evaded description. A lack of charisma, perhaps. To lead Section One, one would need to inspire immediate and unquestioning obedience. Sand simply did not. Indeed, so far, she had only known one person who had that quality -- herself. Madeline stood near the back of the room, hiding behind the other operatives in order to avoid showing her disappointment. When she had been told that she would begin martial arts training with a group of female recruits, she had expected the teacher to be some severe-looking Japanese man in a starched white uniform. Instead, she found herself staring at a fragile middle-aged woman in a pretty but conservative dress. The woman had introduced herself and announced with a pleasant smile that she would begin teaching them knife skills. Madeline had stifled a laugh -- she couldn�t imagine this demure lady with the soft voice knowing anything about knives, except perhaps which one went with which fork. So she had quietly moved to the rear of the class, bored and disdainful. Reaching into a pocket hidden in her dress, the woman pulled out a small, wood-handled knife. She held it out for the class to inspect. It was delicate, like its owner, with elaborate carvings on the handle. �A blade is a very handy weapon,� she explained. �You can�t always carry a gun, especially when you are wearing revealing clothing -- as some of you will be doing. But it is easy to conceal something sharp -- in a shoe, inside your sleeve, even in your hair. You�d be surprised what you can do with something as simple as a hairpin. Especially a Section-issued hairpin,� she added with a smile. Several of the women in the class laughed at the last remark. �With such a weapon, the best method of attack is to deceive. You don�t have to fight fair -- that�s for men in fistfights or duels.� The woman palmed the knife, hiding the edge flat against her arm so that, to those standing in front of her, she looked weaponless. She walked slowly toward them, her eyes cast down, her manner seemingly fearful and cringing. �Act weak and helpless. Or be friendly,� she said, straightening her posture and smiling warmly. �Then, when you are close -- too close for them to even see your weapon -- then you attack.� In an instant, she had the knife drawn against a terrified operative�s neck. She had moved so quickly that Madeline -- from her vantage point in the rear -- had no idea how she had moved from one position to the other. Startled, Madeline stepped forward to get a better view. �When you strike, you mustn�t hesitate or hold back. You must be vicious, bloodthirsty, and willing to maim and kill. But above all, you must never let them see it coming.� Madeline watched, entranced, as the woman demonstrated her attacks, again and again. They were beautiful in their sheer cunning, so much more elegant than the shooting techniques they had practiced the day before. And her words, too, resonated with wisdom. Enemies were best defeated by deception as opposed to brute force; an attack -- of any kind -- should never be signaled, should never even be visible until it was too late. Feigned weakness was the best strength; false kindness was the best cruelty. These were lessons that could apply to much, much more than fighting. They were a guide to life. Paul grasped the tiny shard of bamboo in his hand, hiding it from view of the guard who watched over him as he crawled out of the cage where he had been imprisoned for the past week. It was beginning to be a joke among his fellow prisoners -- hardly a day went by when his attitude didn�t annoy the guards and provoke a new punishment. But this time the punishment had offered a reward -- the rotting bamboo cage where he had crouched in solitary confinement had yielded bits of itself to his prying fingers. He wasn�t certain what he would use the bamboo for yet, but it could be a useful tool. It was strong enough to dig through the dirt, as long as he was patient, and sharp enough to poke or saw through restraints. It was a treasure, and he would guard it carefully. He shuffled slowly back toward the building holding his cell, his legs not quite stable after the long days curled up in the tiny cage. The guard prodded at him impatiently with the barrel of his rifle -- apparently, he wasn�t going fast enough. He cursed inwardly, and then moved aside on the path to allow a group of Vietnamese soldiers to pass the other direction. He looked down so as to avoid eye contact and a potential confrontation. Four men passed by, but then the fifth caused Paul to look up in surprise. The man was wearing boots several sizes larger than anyone else. When Paul raised his head, he found himself staring into a pair of piercing blue eyes. A tall, blond man in fatigues looked at him coldly and then began to step past him. Paul stared in horror, realizing instinctively that this was the mystery man -- the nighttime visitor who was thinning the prisoners� ranks, bit by bit, man by man. At first, Paul was paralyzed, standing helplessly as the man walked purposefully away. But then, with an explosion of adrenaline, Paul leapt after him. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spun him around, and plunged the bamboo piece into his throat. The blood spurted thickly into Paul�s face and soaked his chest as the man fell against him, gurgling and choking. Paul stepped backwards and watched the man fall to the ground, writhe briefly, and grow still. He looked up again to see at least ten guns turned on him, and he braced himself for the sting of the bullets that no doubt would cut him down. He jumped as he heard Phan�s shrill voice call out orders. The guns lowered, and Phan pushed his way through several of his men to stand, red-faced with fists clenched, in front of Paul. �You�ve just caused me a lot of trouble, lieutenant.� Phan leaned close to Paul as he spoke, and faint flecks of spit landed on Paul�s face. �The only reason I�m going to keep you alive is because the other men look up to you. If I killed you now, it would cause discipline problems in the entire camp. But believe me, you�re going to pay for this, one way or another.� �Do whatever you want,� Paul answered, half-dazed but defiant. �I wasn�t going to just stand there and let that Russian take my friends away.� Phan laughed. �That was no Russian.� �Who was he, then?� �Someone who wasn�t supposed to be here.� Phan smiled mockingly. �Someone who doesn�t exist.�