Chapter Two Nikita paced back and forth in the Perch, berating herself for losing her temper with Jason and Quinn. You have to remember why you're here, she thought. You�re supposed to give Section back its humanity, bring about your father's dream. If she lost sight of that, her father's death would be in vain, as would the sacrifices of so many others. Including her own sacrifice: Michael. How she missed him. Her feelings went beyond anything she could put into words, almost beyond conscious thought. Rather, they coalesced into a dull ache that she carried with her every waking moment. She was so alone. It wasn't just Michael she missed. She missed having anyone to share her feelings and worries with, anyone to confide in. Years ago, when she couldn't talk to Michael, she had Birkoff and Walter to turn to. But no longer. Birkoff's death she had never fully recovered from. As for Walter, she had given him the only gift she had to offer -- his freedom. No matter how much she wished for his cheerful presence, she couldn't deny him that. There was no one else in Section who even came close to replacing these friends. Now, it was too late to make new ones. As Operations, she was feared by the operatives. Not in the way that Paul Wolfe had been feared -- as a tyrant arbitrarily wielding the power of life and death -- but rather as authority figures are always viewed: as someone with the power to render judgments, even fair ones. She didn't even have the support of a second-in-command. Although Oversight urged her to appoint one, and even suggested Quinn, Nikita felt that no one was truly qualified. Instead, in her absence, command rotated through all the Level 5 operatives. She realized that this made her isolated, perhaps dangerously so, but couldn't think of an alternative. Her intercom beeped. "Operations?" Quinn called. "Yes?" "There's an incoming message." Quinn�s voice registered uncharacteristic concern. "It's from the August 12 Group." ****** Paul settled back in the limousine as it pulled away from the airport and onto the rain-soaked highway toward his home. He smiled to himself, reflecting on how well his trip had gone. A few rounds of golf, some Cuban cigars, a bit of drinking and backslapping, and voila -- enough money to open a new substation. He was still a bit shocked at how good he was at this. These private benefactors never knew exactly what their money was going toward, and wanted to keep it that way. But there were always strings attached -- personal favors to be granted, business deals to be influenced. And Paul made sure to deliver what they wanted, within reason. If they ever became too demanding, or got too greedy, well, they could be dealt with. He suspected this latest financial backer might eventually grow too demanding. Paul had disliked him from the instant he met him. No, even before that -- from the moment he first heard the man's name: Leon Alberti. Leon -- a name Paul held a special distaste for. Like his namesake, this Leon was stupidly arrogant. Perhaps, Paul thought with a certain amount of grim satisfaction, Leon Alberti would someday meet his namesake�s fate as well. But not before the wire transfer, he laughed to himself. *** Leon. Paul still remembered how Madeline had proposed that insane idea. She brought it up during lunch -- taken, as had become their habit at the time, outside of Section. Once they discovered that George had reinstalled his bugs, the outside was the only place where they could still speak freely. But even there, they had to be cautious. That day, they chose to eat in a park, sitting on the edge of a fountain. The cascading water was noisy enough, they hoped, to interfere with any surveillance. But it was an uncomfortable choice. The breeze kept blowing the spray into Paul�s face, which irritated him tremendously. Unfortunately, the conversation did little to improve his mood. "I think I've found a way to get to Red Cell," Madeline said, fixing him with her dark gaze. Her expression betrayed nothing, but he knew from her voice that she was not talking about a mission for Section. "Really?" He took a bite of his sandwich, studying her carefully. "I've narrowed down the location of Red Cell's chief strategist. I think we're within days of capturing him." "Leon?" She nodded, looking triumphant. But Paul failed to see the significance of this information. "Eliminating him would cripple Red Cell, but how does it help us?" "I noticed something in his psychological profile. I think it opens up an interesting opportunity." She arched an eyebrow to emphasize the adjective. "How so?" "According to all of our sources, Leon is obsessed with me," she said, as she picked at her fruit salad fastidiously. Paul frowned. He didn�t like where this was going. "I've worked up a profile. Have a look." She handed him a PDA. He put down his sandwich and read the profile, growing increasingly upset. When he finished, he looked up at her in astonishment. "I can't allow this." "You see a flaw in the profile?" Her face was a mask, but her eyes sparked in anger. "Several." He stared back at her, refusing to back down. "First, the post-thalamic inversion idea is totally unworkable." "I won't actually be undergoing the procedure. That's just the cover story for Section's consumption." Her tone was slightly patronizing, as if she were explaining herself to a small child. "It's important that everyone be convinced I am totally irrational. That way no one will suspect that the purpose of my visit to Red Cell is to collect off-profile information. It won't occur to anyone that I am even capable of such a thing." "I understand that," he said, exasperated. "The problem is that no one will believe that I would allow you to undergo a surgical procedure with a 95% fatality rate." She blinked and looked away. After a moment, she took a deep breath and turned toward him again. The anger had vanished from her eyes, and she spoke more softly. "Perhaps they need to start believing such things." "What do you mean?" He was no longer exasperated, merely baffled. "We've got to kill the Siamese twin perception, Paul," she said intently. "Especially now, given what we're planning, it's essential that we appear to have grown more distant." She lowered her voice in emphasis. "Besides, I've come to the conclusion that cancellation or suicide would be the only workable means for my escape. Neither of those scenarios will be believable unless things start going terribly wrong between us. We need to start laying the foundation now for that kind of rift." He saw her point, so he moved on. "All right. Flaw number two. Even if you escape to Red Cell with Leon, there's no guarantee that he will give you enough freedom there to search for anything. Or that he'll even let you live. His 'obsession' might be more about defeating you than about possessing you." She smiled faintly in acknowledgement. "I recognize that possibility. This is a long shot, I know. And I'm still proceeding with the development of my original plan. But this opportunity has fallen into our laps, and it would be a waste not to try it." She took a bite of melon, chewed it thoughtfully, and then continued. "At the very worst, even if I don't get the information we need, I will have had the chance to see a Red Cell substation first hand. Knowing some of the layout, security, and procedures will be useful to me later if I need to visit another one." Paul squinted as spray from the fountain drifted into his eyes again. Drying his face with his handkerchief, he sighed, knowing that he would regret agreeing to this. "All right, Madeline, we'll proceed. But only with some modifications to your profile." She said nothing, waiting for him to explain. "First, I will personally participate in your extraction from Red Cell." "That's absurd." She locked eyes with him. "It may be, but that's my condition for approval." He stared back at her until she looked away. "Second, once you arrive at the Red Cell location, you will have an extremely limited window to make this a success. The extraction team will be dispatched within hours after your escape, maybe less." "I�ll need more time than that. It will take me days -- at best -- to gain enough trust to be allowed access to their systems." "You'll just have to be persuasive. Letting you stay there any longer is an unacceptable risk." She set down her salad and crossed her arms. "Well. You�re going to make it challenging." Her voice was icy. But she offered no more arguments. Sensing victory, he decided to lighten the atmosphere again. He smiled wickedly, and asked, "By the way, are you certain that the profile is really enhanced by you shooting me?" Her glacial expression melted. A little. "I�ll be careful." She stifled a smile. *** And so, with Paul�s restrictions, Madeline had proceeded with her scenario. Both Leon and the Section operatives responded exactly as she had predicted. And she did a masterful job of portraying herself as veering out of control. But in reality, she wasn't the one losing control. Paul was. And he knew it. Paul watched on his monitor as Madeline interrogated Leon. The man's conceit first disgusted and then enraged him. And the way that Leon looked at her, well, it made Paul want to wring the Red Cell agent�s scrawny neck. I'm going to blow your brains out when this is through, Paul thought as he stared balefully at the monitor, and then switched it off. He couldn�t stand to watch anymore. Instead, he began to smoke, one cigarette after another, thinking back to the times that he had inflicted violence on other men who had the presumption to desire Madeline. Thanks to Adrian, there had been many such times. Adrian's irrational dislike of Madeline had led to Madeline suffering more than her fair share of valentine assignments, generally with the most despicable and repulsive men Adrian could dig up. Fat Russian diplomats. Sadistic arms dealers. Cocaine-snorting dilettante revolutionaries. Third world petty despots. All of them, like Leon, arrogantly believing that Madeline was a piece of property to be claimed. Paul had been powerless to stop Adrian, but he had taken his vengeance on the men when the missions were over. He never killed anyone that he wasn't supposed to -- they were all valid targets or at least acceptable collateral -- but he made sure to dispose of them in the most brutal fashion he could. Bullets were too kind. He preferred knives, garrottes, or even his bare hands, so he could watch the terror and pain in their eyes. But it had been the beginning of the end of Adrian's mentoring relationship toward Paul. Paul's unrepentant bloodthirstiness shocked Adrian into rethinking Paul's suitability as her successor; Adrian's almost willful inability to recognize Madeline's potential to be anything more than Section's chief whore led Paul to question whether Adrian had lost her touch as a leader. The respect that they had built for each other began to ebb, never to return. *** In the end, Leon, like the others, met the end he deserved. But Madeline had been right -- she had needed more time at Red Cell to win Leon's trust and gain access to their systems. By extracting her too quickly, they lost their chance. Paul knew that it was his own discomfort with the nature of the scenario that had caused the opportunity to be wasted. Paul's protectiveness, ironically, thus forced Madeline to proceed with her alternate -- and much more dangerous -- profile. ****** Walter's arms ached. They had been in the same position for so long, tied behind him to the metal chair he sat on, that he could no longer feel his fingertips. He breathed in sharply, shifting position as much as he could. The damp, musty air irritated his nose and throat. He stole a look at the guard, who paced back and forth several feet away, smoking a cigarette. Finished, the man flicked the butt on the cement floor and ground out the ember. He looked over at Walter, spit, and walked across the room to lean against a wall. Both men looked up, hearing a noise coming from the other side of the door at the top of the stairs. The door opened suddenly, and three men clambered down the stairs. Walter remembered one of them from the van that had brought him to this place: the young, short one with the beard and the thin face. Karl, someone had called him. The other two he hadn't seen before. One was Karl's age, but taller and heavyset; the other was perhaps in his 50s, black hair, balding. Walter scanned all of them carefully, looking to see any sign of weapons. The older one walked over to Walter and stopped to examine him. "We'll have to use a pretty bright light to show those bruises," he said to his colleagues. "You should have done a better job roughing him up." He turned and looked at the guard. "What's with you anyway? I pay you good money to beat the crap out of people." The guard shrugged. "He's an old guy. You told me you wanted him conscious, and I didn't think he could take too much." The older man looked back down at Walter. Without warning, his fist slammed into Walter's face. "Shit, Barry, what are you doing?" Karl asked. "Drawing a little blood. I want to put on a good show for our friends at Section One." Walter felt the blood coursing down from his nose. The pain made him slightly dizzy. The heavyset man dragged several photographer's lamps from a corner of the room. He switched them on, aiming their light directly at Walter. Walter closed his eyes. He heard footsteps, thuds, and what sounded like suitcases being opened. Then Barry�s voice came again, right next to Walter. "Okay, are we ready?" Walter opened his eyes, blinking in the bright light. The heavyset man stood several feet away from him, aiming a portable camera. Karl and the guard stood behind the cameraman; Barry stood next to Walter. Barry cleared his throat. When the cameraman gave a hand signal, he spoke. "Good morning, Operations, I hope you're doing well." "Let's cut the small talk," said Nikita�s disembodied voice from a speaker somewhere in the room. "What do you want?" "Well, well, you don't have to be so touchy. As you can see, we have one of your people. We've treated him to a visit here as a thank you present for what Section One did to our Cairo headquarters. I'm not sure he's enjoying it though, the ungrateful son of a bitch," Barry laughed. "Anyway, he's just the beginning. We plan to keep taking your people until we reach the number of our comrades that you killed in Cairo. An eye for an eye, you know?" "And you're telling me this just to boast?" "Oh, no, I'm a modest guy. Boasting's not my style. No, I'm talking to you because I'm so forgiving, so decent, that I'm going to offer you a deal. We release your friend here, and refrain from taking any others, so long as you agree to pay us compensation for the loss of property and life that we suffered in Cairo. I think you'll agree that's only fair." Walter groaned inside. He knew that Section could never agree to such a thing. Not that it mattered. His only regret was that his stupidity in allowing himself to be caught off guard and captured would cause Nikita pain. He looked steadily at the camera. "Tell him to go to hell, sugar," he said, his voice cracking. "How much compensation would you require?" Nikita queried. "Oh, about five million US dollars," Barry said blithely. "I'll need 24 hours to consult with my superiors." "You've got 12." Barry grinned. "Bye now!" The cameraman switched off the equipment. The men burst out laughing. "Shit, she's going to agree to it!" Karl said, beaming. The hell she is! Walter thought. ****** At Comm, all eyes turned toward Nikita. The crowd gathered around her was silent, anxious. Looking around the room, she announced, "From this point on, our top priority is to find Walter's location and make a rescue. We only have twelve hours, so I'm postponing all other missions during that time in order to free up resources." Quinn turned in her seat to face Nikita. "Operations? May I speak with you in the Perch?" "Can it wait?" "No." "Then you can talk to me here. I want to stay down here to supervise the search personally." Quinn took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "You're making a mistake." The room hushed. Nikita looked at Quinn calmly. "Really?" "You're using resources needed for missions to rescue a single individual. I don't think we can justify that to Oversight." "That's for me to worry about." "It could also be a trap. How do we know they're not providing a diversion to distract us while they launch an attack somewhere else, or that they haven't set this up as a lure to kill our rescue team?" Quinn looked at Nikita pointedly. "Not only that, it sets a bad precedent. Once our enemies learn that we'll halt missions to recover hostages, we'll be overwhelmed with kidnappings." "These are all interesting points," Nikita conceded. "But what do you recommend?" "We have to give up on Walter. As sad as it may be, there's nothing we can do for him. The only action we can take is to improve our security so that other people aren't kidnapped in the future." Nikita stared at Quinn in disgust. "That's the most despicable thing I've ever heard. My decision stands. We'll begin a rescue attempt." "Then I would like my objection noted in the record." "By all means," Nikita hissed. Quinn stood, turned sharply on her heel, and walked away.