Chapter One Nikita sat, lost in thought, as images from the latest mission flashed across her computer screen. Bullet-riddled bodies in an alley. A burning car. A blood-soaked room. So much death, she thought. Why doesn�t this get any easier? It had been over two years since she took control of Section One. Two years of carefully implemented changes, designed to steer the organization back to some semblance of humanity. No more forced recruitment. No more abeyance pools. No more mind control or twisted medical experiments. And yet the average life expectancy of Section operatives hadn�t increased. Instead, mission death tolls had risen, while the bureaucrats Nikita answered to demanded results. Results, percentages, she thought bitterly, that�s all they care about. We�re not people to them, just numbers in their database. A noise from her doorway interrupted her thoughts. "Operations?" "Yes, Quinn?" Quinn walked briskly into the office. "There�s been another incident." Nikita stood, stiff after so long at the computer, and walked across the room to stand next to her subordinate. "What now?" "The August 12 Group�s North African headquarters. It�s been totally destroyed, with no apparent survivors." Nikita frowned. For almost a year and a half, terrorist organizations monitored by Section One had been the victims of sudden, mysterious attacks, often preempting Section missions by mere days. The pace of these unexplained attacks had increased sharply in recent months, but had failed to fit any discernable pattern. "We�ve got to get a handle on this," Nikita said, shaking her head. "I want a complete analysis of each of these attacks. Look for anything they might have in common, from potential motivation to the tactics employed. We need to know if this is friend or foe." "I�ll get right on it," said Quinn, who then turned and left. Nikita studied Quinn as she departed. Quinn was efficient and reliable, but something in her manner always conveyed a mocking challenge to Nikita�s authority. At times, Nikita wondered if she read too much into this -- after all, Quinn was curt and dismissive toward everyone as a rule. However, Quinn was also one of the few people remaining in Section who knew the circumstances of Nikita�s rise to power. In fact, she was the only one who knew the entire story. As agents for Center, Nikita and Quinn had worked together from the day Quinn arrived in Section, helping each other to carry out Center�s mandate for change. Their cooperation had been secret, even after both were revealed as Center agents, and had required a pretense of hostility. A pretense that Quinn had always seemed quite enthusiastic about, Nikita recalled wryly. In her own way, Quinn had taken on risks equal to Nikita�s, but unlike Nikita, she had not been rewarded. Nikita moved to the Perch; Quinn remained in Comm. Nikita couldn�t help but wonder if the other woman harbored some resentment. Nikita sighed. There was no time to engage in this kind of worrying. So long as Quinn did her job, Nikita would have to be satisfied. It wasn�t Quinn�s fault that she couldn�t be the partner Nikita needed. ****** A dark-haired man in a business suit sipped coffee from a disposable cup as he clicked through his morning email. The sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his modern office, gleaming off the glass and metal furniture. The telephone intercom on his desk beeped. "Mr. Wright?" "Yes?" "The Executive Director is on the line for you." "Thank you. Put her through, please." He turned away from his email and quickly straightened his tie. Funny, he thought, smiling to himself, she can�t even see me and I�m still compelled to do that. The telephone beeped again, and he picked up the receiver. "Good morning," he said cheerfully. "Good morning, David. How are you?" "Busy," he chuckled. "And you?" "Very pleased," his employer answered. "I understand our business in North Africa went well." Recognizing that the pleasantries were over, David became alert. "Everything took place exactly as planned. We brought back computer files as well as," he paused for a moment to find the right term, "selected personnel." "Have they been helpful?" His employer�s voice was disarmingly casual, yet laser-focused. "They were somewhat reluctant at first, but after experiencing our hospitality they�ve been quite enthusiastic about providing information," he replied, as blandly as possible. "We confirmed their plans?" The voice was cool, steady. "Yes. We intervened just in time. Had we waited another week it would have been a disaster." Pleased with his response, she lightened her tone. "Will you have a problem delivering a full report by the end of the day?" "Not at all." "Excellent. I�ll be in touch soon to let you know if we need to assign anyone to do follow up. Thank you again, David." "You�re welcome, Madeline." ****** The whine of a guitar solo pierced the air in the tiny kitchenette. Sitting at a chipped formica table, a thin middle-aged man grimaced and reached over to a CD player to lower the volume. The man, unshaven and dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, then returned his attention to his pepperoni pizza slice. Detaching a string of cheese dangling from his mouth, he looked up expectantly as a man in his twenties entered from the hallway. The young man slammed a manila folder onto the table. "The whole building was leveled," the younger man said angrily. "I don�t know if we�ll ever identify which bodies are which." The older man wiped his fingers on a paper towel, opened the folder, and began leafing through the photographs contained inside. "Damn it, Karl, this is going to set back our activities in the Middle East for at least a year." He continued looking at the photographs, scowling as he did so. Then he threw the folder across the room, spraying the photos in every direction. "Who the hell did this?" Karl scratched his beard. "Judging by the methods, I�d say Section One." "The bastards. They think they�re untouchable." Karl looked down at his colleague for a moment, and then straddled a chair to join him at the table. "You know, Barry, there may be a way to get to them after all." The older man cocked his head. "What?" "I�ve got sources who tell me that they�ve started letting agents go." "What do you mean?" "Setting people free. When someone gets old, or doesn�t work out, they�ve been letting them back out into the world. And I think I have a line on where some of them are." Barry chewed on a fingernail, thinking over this information. He made a face and shook his head. "That doesn�t make any sense. Section One kills their operatives for getting the flu, for God�s sake. If they�re leaving people vulnerable, it�s got to be a trap." "I don�t think so." Karl leaned forward and spoke intently. "Look, they had a bloodbath over there a couple of years ago. They don�t have any experienced leadership left. I think we can take advantage of that." ****** Walter sat back in his deck chair, eyeing the clouds on the horizon as he sipped his beer. Damn, he thought. It�s going to rain tonight and I haven�t finished painting this old rustbucket. Why the hell did I decide to retire on a houseboat, anyway? He looked at his watch. At least I get dinner with a lovely lady in an hour, he thought, smiling to himself. He stood up and took the steps down below to find a fresh shirt. Across the marina, a man lowered his binoculars and dialed his cell phone. "The target�s ready." Karl�s voice responded. "Proceed." The man ended the telephone conversation, made a hand signal, and watched as a white delivery truck moved into place at the entrance to the marina. ****** Jason and Quinn sat waiting at the briefing table. Jason fidgeted, tapping his palms on the table lightly and swiveling his chair, while Quinn looked at him with distaste. Noticing this interaction, Nikita approached the table and sat down across from them. "I hope you have something," she said, her expression expectant. "Well," began Jason, straightening in his chair, "our analysis hasn�t shown a whole lot." "What do we know?" Nikita tried to suppress her growing impatience. Jason and Quinn looked at each other as if neither wanted to answer. Quinn cleared her throat. "Each attack has been against a group actively planning an assault on a civilian target," she answered. "The attacks are thorough and ruthless. They don�t leave survivors, and they usually destroy the physical location as well. Because of that, they don�t leave many traces for us to go by." "Witnesses?" Nikita asked. Jason looked uncomfortable. "Some of the deaths seem to be innocent bystanders. I guess that�s what they do to witnesses." Nikita grimaced. This was worse than she thought. "What about motivation? Whose interests are the attacks serving?" "That�s the hard part," Jason replied. "The attacks have been all over the map. They can�t be narrowed down to any one country�s national interests. That�s why we don�t think it�s the CIA or any other friendly agency. In addition to the fact that they all deny being involved, of course." "What about another terrorist organization? Getting rid of rivals?" Quinn shook her head. "It�s possible, but not very likely. The timing of the attacks suggests that the motivation has more to do with preventing terrorist incidents than with eliminating the organizations per se. It would have to be a pretty altruistic terrorist group." Quinn paused, and looked Nikita in the eye. "So far as we can tell, whoever is behind this has the same motivation as Section One. Stopping terrorism." Nikita stood up, angry. "I can�t accept that." She looked back and forth from Quinn to Jason. "Maybe that�s just what they want it to look like. They could be staging things deliberately to make it look like us so that their identity isn�t revealed." She began to pace. "What if they had access to our system? They could find out who we were targeting and could use that to create this pattern you�re describing." "For what purpose?" Quinn asked, not even bothering to disguise the skepticism in her voice. "To throw suspicion on us, and avoid retaliation against them," Nikita answered, staring at Quinn. She then stopped pacing, and turned to Jason. "Jason, I want you to do a complete search of all communications to the outside over the past year. See if you turn up any leaks or other anomalies." "Will do." Jason smiled. "And Jason," she added, "next time, don�t wait for me to tell you what to search. If you were doing your job, you would have reviewed those communications when I first asked for this analysis." Jason�s smile vanished. Nikita gave Quinn one last cold look, and then departed. The meeting had infuriated her. Were Quinn and Jason that inept, or were they just lazy? Here a serious potential threat to Section One was developing, and they were content to believe that it was some mystery benefactor helping them out. Well, what they believed was irrelevant. Didn�t they realize that it was her job to do the thinking, and their job to follow orders? That last thought stopped her in her tracks. Good God, she reflected in horror, I�m starting to sound just like Paul Wolfe. ****** Madeline finished tying the wire on the bonsai and stepped back to examine it. Satisfied, she put away her tools and sat on a stool she had brought out onto the patio. She glanced down at the row of potted trees, admiring their diversity. Fifteen bonsai were perhaps a bit too much to train at once, she thought, yet she was pleased with their progress. Of course, she had only had a short time with them so far, and each would be a life�s work. They were developing slowly, but that was as it should be. Her organization, on the other hand, had progressed more quickly than her wildest hopes. To her delight, it was already larger than Section One had ever been. She had deliberately rejected Section�s bureaucratic administration, and instead had opted for something more intricate, less military. She operated through layers of front organizations -- businesses, charities, research institutes -- all comingling �legitimate� activities with the covert ones. Many of her operatives had no idea who they really worked for, and those who did had been thoroughly indoctrinated. Even their enemies didn�t know that they existed -- not yet, at least. Soon, they would, but by then it wouldn't matter. It was all thanks to George and Nikita, she reflected with amusement. If George hadn�t been so difficult to kill, or if Nikita had been better at hiding her relationship to Center, things might have been very different. She smiled, remembering the event that triggered it all -- an assassination attempt on George that had failed miserably. *** Paul and Madeline stood in the Perch, drinking their champagne silently. She avoided looking at him, intent on trying to calm the churning nausea in her stomach. George was still alive, and they might as well have signed their own cancellation orders. It didn�t matter that George would never be able to prove that the assassination attempt had come from them. He would know, and his retaliation would be swift. Staring out the window over Section, Paul mused aloud, "How did things come to this?" Madeline frowned slightly, puzzled by the question. The path to their current predicament seemed all too obvious to her. Paul sighed. "All I ever wanted was to be allowed to do my job. No," he corrected, "for us to do our jobs. Instead, we�re forced to spend our time fighting off one attack after another. Adrian trying to destroy Section. George trying to exact revenge. And then Center�s little spy trying to orchestrate a takeover by Michael." He looked down at his glass for a moment, and then looked at Madeline. His pale blue eyes were full of something she had never seen before, and had trouble identifying. Hurt? Disappointment? Defeat? His voice shook with barely controlled anger. "We�ve given our lives to this place. We deserve better than this." Madeline looked at him sadly. "I know." They fell silent again, while Paul refilled their empty glasses. Madeline looked out the window, observing operatives walking across the floor below. "The problem is that neither Adrian nor George could ever accept the possibility that someone else might do a better job running their creation," she said, and then took a sip from her glass. "They couldn�t get used to the idea that Section no longer belonged to them," Paul said, nodding in agreement. She frowned slightly. "But then it�s never truly belonged to us either." He looked at her, his expression perplexed. "We�ve had to work with what we inherited," she explained. "Their structure. Their rules. Their hierarchy. It�s held us back." She paused, and allowed a trace of wistfulness to enter her voice. "I�ve often wondered what we would have created had we had the luxury of starting our own organization." A sudden look of enlightenment rippled across his face, and he set his glass down. "It�s not too late to find out." Madeline blinked in surprise, but said nothing. Animated, Paul started pacing. "There�s nothing for us here. Even if we eventually deal with George, we�ll still be under the control of Center. And Nikita�s behavior toward us over the past few years makes it clear that Center doesn�t recognize our value. We�ll never be allowed to implement our plans for the Agency." Madeline knew the answer before she even spoke, but her shock at what he was suggesting compelled her to put it in words. "What are you saying?" He stopped pacing, stepped toward her, and gripped her shoulders with his hands. His eyes pierced hers. "We could leave, Madeline, and start over. We could create something even better than Section One." Madeline�s hand tightened around her glass as she slowly, almost imperceptibly, drew a deep breath. Paul released his grip and stepped back, studying her face for a hint of her reaction. But her expression remained blank. After a long pause, she spoke softly. "We would have to set it up very carefully." Paul grinned. He picked up his glass and took a long drink. "Of course," he said. "In fact, we�d have to convince everyone that we were --" "Dead," she finished for him. They looked at each other knowingly. "How hard would that be?" he asked. "That depends. We�ll have cooperation from Housekeeping. I�ve ensured that they're quite loyal -- to me personally." Paul smiled and raised his eyebrows at this remark. Ignoring his reaction, she continued. "And I can create some additional incentives to guarantee their silence afterwards. The challenge is in choosing a time and method that would be convincing." "Any ideas?" "We�ll have to go one at a time. It would look too suspicious otherwise." "Agreed. And you�ll be the first." Madeline frowned. "Why?" "Without you, I still have control over Section. But without me, you�re vulnerable. Besides, someone needs to start laying the groundwork for our new organization. You know I�m not good at that sort of thing." Conceding his point, she continued. "Well, then, for me there are several alternatives. It�s best if it takes place within Section, so that we can maintain complete control over all the variables. But it could be almost anything -- an illness, an accident, cancellation --" "Cancellation?" "On your orders, of course." She smiled softly. "And after an appropriate argument. There�s also suicide or murder. But it�s too early to decide on anything specific at this point. For you, in contrast, it�s better if it takes place outside Section. That way I�ll be able to provide assistance if anything goes wrong." She pondered the scenario further. "Once we�re both safely outside, however --" "We�ll need funds." This time he anticipated her thoughts. "Exactly." She nodded. "We certainly won�t be able to tap into Section�s sources." Her lips twisted slightly upwards in amusement. "Developing our own network of sponsors will be time-consuming." "We�ll need to develop relationships with like-minded people. Cultivate them, and win them over. But to build up to a viable level could take years." He took another drink of champagne, as she examined his expression. She could almost see his mind working. "There is a short-term solution," he said, with a mischievous smile. "Turn to our enemies?" Paul laughed. "We seem to be reading each other�s minds tonight." The doubt and disappointment that she had seen in his face earlier had vanished. In its place, she saw clarity, purpose, a spark of life. She hadn�t seen him look like that in years -- not since before he was Operations, not since the days when, with a look like that from him, she would follow him anywhere without question. Madeline smiled, this time warmly. "Yes," Paul continued. "Turn to our enemies, convince them we've switched sides, and then destroy them when we no longer need them." "Whom do you suggest?" "Red Cell. They�re extremely well-funded," he said confidently. "But Section monitors their financial transactions very carefully," she countered. "Moreover, if we approach Red Cell it could very easily leak back to Section. As you know, Red Cell is riddled with double-agents." "We could bypass them and go directly to their sponsors. As much as Section knows about Red Cell, I�m certain they have some financial sources that Section hasn�t uncovered yet. And Red Cell doesn�t have to know what we�re doing. In fact, it might be better that way. After all, Red Cell might get a little jealous if we start talking to their backers," he smiled slyly. "We�ll have to identify those sources without alerting Section to their existence, and without Red Cell learning what we�re doing." She was still dubious. Paul sighed. "Yes, it�s tricky." Bold ideas were his strong point, not details. Of course, she recognized, that was her job. She studied the bubbles in her glass, her mind busily turning over one option after another. She rejected each almost immediately. Then, as one idea floated into focus, she grew calm. "There might be a way." "Go on." He looked intrigued. "If we could find a way to get me to a Red Cell location -- for a legitimate Section mission -- I could search Red Cell�s system for information. Information that I would not share with Section when I returned." "That�s easier said than done. What kind of excuse could we use for sending you instead of a regular field operative?" "We could make sure that the nature of the mission was important or unusual enough to require my presence. And as for convincing Red Cell to allow me there, I could pretend to defect. Or we could contrive a reason for a temporary truce and negotiating session. Anything that would get me on site long enough to find something." "And as long as Section believed that you were on a legitimate mission, no one would suspect that you had a secondary purpose for being there." "Precisely." She glanced at him, with some humor in her eyes, before her expression grew grave. "I�ll need some time to develop an appropriate profile. It has to work perfectly." She refused to let her mind dwell on the consequences of failure. Such a mission, with the risk of discovery of her real activities by either Red Cell or Section, could be the most dangerous she would ever undertake. Paul regarded her thoughtfully. Although she had tried to hide her apprehension, her face must somehow have betrayed her. "It sounds too dangerous, Madeline." She looked at him calmly. "This whole idea is dangerous, Paul. For that matter, staying here and waiting for George to retaliate or Center to remove us is dangerous." "True." Despite his verbal agreement, he looked stricken, as if he had only just comprehended the full enormity of what he had asked her to do. He turned away to pick up the champagne bottle, noticed it was empty, and set it down. "We seem to have finished the bottle." He smiled faintly, trying to look casual. But then he caught her eye, and concern flooded his face. He stepped forward, took her chin in his hand, and looked deeply into her eyes. "Are you certain that you want to do this?" "Very." His hand moved to stroke her cheek, as she became acutely aware of her rising pulse. Then, as if in slow motion, he leaned in and kissed her softly. And for the first time in a long time, she found herself kissing him back.