By Genevieve and JayBee

Part Four

Six Days

�Take him to Containment.� Michael handed the erstwhile arms dealer � a man responsible for thousands of deaths in the last year alone � over to the two waiting Level Three Ops, then watched as they swiftly manhandled him down the corridor.

�Good work.�

Michael turned to the white-haired man who�d come to stand beside him, and inclined his head in a subtle acknowledgment of the praise. �His people were not quite as loyal as he perhaps thought,� he said quietly.

A humourless smile appeared on Operations� lips. �Disloyalty is a common problem,� he replied dryly, looking at Michael with guileless blue eyes. �Even in Section.�

Long practice allowed Michael to quickly school his features into a neutral expression, but his pulse quickened at the other man�s words. He�d been out in the field for nearly a week, and the situation regarding the Type One Directive and his relationship with Nikita remained unresolved; a potentially fatal game of cat and mouse. �When would you like me to debrief?�

A barely there smile appeared on Operations� face, as though Michael�s bland dismissal of the subject of loyalty had somehow pleased or amused him. �As soon as possible, if you don�t mind. While you were away, George gave Section the rather odious task of compiling a comprehensive report on the resurgence of Crimson Fist in the European sector.� His smile grew slightly. �I�d like your input.�

The art of delegation at its finest, Michael thought with reluctant admiration. �Of course.�

~*~*~*~

Four hours later, Michael rubbed a weary hand across his gritty eyes. As well as garnering a huge amount of intel using one of Birkoff�s many encrypted search engines, he�d sent out several feelers into the shadowy world of informants and lowlifes. In twelve hours he should have enough information on Crimson Fist to placate even Oversight. He was now free to leave Section, but there was one more thing he wanted to do before he went home.

Home. The word tugged at his heart. The apartment to which he�d been relocated after the completion of the Vachek profile was no more his home than the hotel room he�d just left behind in Prague.

Abruptly pushing back his chair, Michael rose to his feet and left his office. Madeline was still interrogating their latest guest; Operations was ensconced in a video hook up with the Singapore sub-station. And, perhaps most importantly, Nikita wasn�t due in Section for another hour. It wasn�t that he didn�t want to see her. After all, they had been apart for nearly two weeks, and the longing to see her face, lose himself in the warmth of her smile was almost unbearable. But given what he was about to do, he didn�t want his already conflicted emotions further complicated by Nikita�s presence.

He walked quickly through Section. Operatives rushed past him, grimly intent on their destinations and tasks, the steady hum of electrical equipment mingling with the sharper sound of human voices. It could have been any time of the day, any day of the year. There was nothing around him to indicate one of the most widely celebrated religious festivals was only days away.

His own intended destination was a much more secluded area, a restricted floor only Level Five Operatives or higher could access. He may have turned down Madeline�s seemingly magnanimous offer to keep him informed of Adam and Elena�s status, but he had no intention of losing track of them. His refusal of Madeline�s offer had nothing to do with his feelings toward his deep profile family. The simple reason was that there was no such thing as a magnanimous gesture in Section.

The only elevator with access to Level Two was located in a narrow corridor directly beneath Operations� office. It had been months since Michael had walked this route. On that occasion, he had been tailing Nikita, vaguely concerned for her safety, completely unaware that she was doing both Adrian�s and Operations� bidding. Michael gave himself a mental shake as he keyed in the code that would summon the elevator. Now was not the time for such reminiscences.

Once on Level Two, Michael walked swiftly to the small room that housed Section�s most secure databases. As a rule, Section preferred to eliminate loose ends rather than participate in a bastardized form of a witness relocation program, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Michael knew that since the death of Salla Vachek, Adam and Elena�s details would have been updated on a daily basis, their every moment monitored.

The question was, however, how much did he want to know?

After he�d gained access to the room, it took a few minutes to locate the correct panel. Michael stood in front of the glowing screen, keying in the temporary access code that wouldn�t exist after he left this room, and his heart began to pound. After a few more keystrokes, the screen filled with unemotional, clinical facts and figures that made up his wife and child�s lives.

Their exact location was not recorded. Only Operations had the power to recall that information. If he was brutally honest with himself, Michael was relieved he didn�t have to face that particular temptation.

He scrolled through the initial psychologists� reports, his heart aching as he read of his son�s nightmares and Elena�s painfully slow adjustment to the state of widowhood. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to keep reading, knowing he couldn�t take the risk of accessing this database again for at least another six months. Michael lingered over the reports of his son�s progress in his first year of school, a smile touching his lips for the first time that day.

He swiftly scanned the most recent information. As of last week, Adam�s nightmares had decreased in frequency. Two days ago, for the first time since her husband�s �death�, Elena had left Adam with an elderly neighbour and gone for coffee with a girlfriend. Yesterday, she had taken Adam on a visit to Father Christmas at their local department store. His family was slowly healing, Michael realised. Perhaps it was time he did the same.

~*~*~*~

When he reached his office, Nikita was casually leaning up against the closed door, reading a paperback, looking for all the world as though she were waiting for a bus. She was dressed simply in narrow black trousers, a black polo neck sweater and a bright red overcoat. As he drew closer, she looked up and gave him a brilliant smile. �Hi there, stranger,� she drawled flirtatiously. �What�s your name again?�

It was obvious she had no idea Operations was deep in conversation with Davenport less than five metres away. �What are you doing here?� Michael asked softly.

Surprise flickered in the depths of Nikita�s bright blue eyes at his lacklustre response. �Well, I missed you too,� she shot back with faint sarcasm.

Michael didn�t reply. We have an audience, he silently implored her, holding her gaze with his. When he didn�t speak, Nikita glanced over his shoulder, and her irritated expression was replaced with one of understanding. �I wanted to let you know how Hanoi went,� she replied coolly, raising her voice slightly. �But I think I�ll come back when you�re in a better mood.�

Her tone was one of pure petulant resentment, but he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes. Hoping Operations was less astute than he when it came to reading Nikita�s expressions, Michael frowned at her. �Unless it�s urgent, it will have to wait until tomorrow. I�m leaving in a few minutes.�

One corner of her generous mouth tilted upwards in a secretive smile as she caught his unspoken message. Rolling her eyes, she turned to walk away. �Jeez, Michael, you should try lightening up one of these days. Try not to be so bah humbug, would you?� Giving Operations and Davenport a tight little smile, she stalked off.

Michael ignored her parting words, and - as much as he usually enjoyed the view - deliberately averted his gaze as she walked away. As he opened the door to his office, Operations came to stand beside him, his business with Davenport obviously concluded. �I see she�s in fine form,� he said dryly.

You have no idea, Michael mused silently as he let his gaze alight fleetingly on Nikita�s departing figure. Feeling the familiar twist of desire streak through him, he nodded to Operations and slipped quickly into his office.

As he shut down his computer and shrugged into his overcoat, he thought of Nikita�s veiled reference to the coming Christmas holiday. Bah humbug, she�d said. Even though it had been a comment made for Operations� benefit, Michael couldn�t help wondering if it had a basis in truth as far as she was concerned. He�d certainly never celebrated the holiday with her. Indeed, Christmas had never had a place in his Section Life.

Slipping his hand into the pocket of his overcoat to retrieve his gloves, his fingertips brushed something cold and smooth. He pulled out his gloves, and the small white candle he�d brought back from Prague fell into his palm. Curling his fingers around it, he remembered the sense of peace that had come over him in that small church. The feeling of hope, after so much grief.

Michael slipped the candle back into his pocket. Section One did not close over Christmas. Evil had its own agenda, and the terrorists of the world did not stop to observe December 25th. But perhaps he and Nikita could find peace in each other.

Knowing her as he did, he suspected Nikita would now rush through whatever task had brought her into Section in record time so she could beat him back to his own apartment. If she did, he would find her curled up in his bed, waiting for him, clad in little more than a mischievous smile. After two weeks of enforced abstinence, the mere thought sent a wave of pure lust surging through him.

Perhaps he should make certain she arrived at his apartment first. After all, even if he lost, he would win. Turning off the light in his office, he pulled the door shut behind him, making no effort to hurry. Bah humbug, he thought with a tiny smile.

Five Days

Operations made his way steadily along the sidewalk, stepping carefully in his polished dress shoes to avoid slipping on patches of ice. Glancing around at the snow-covered surroundings, he found himself surprisingly relaxed. The air was frosty, the sky was a crisp winter blue, and he was blissfully alone: no bothersome operatives tagging along, not even the usual coterie of beefy bodyguards trailing him from a discreet distance. To his immense satisfaction, he had managed to ditch them shortly after leaving Section. By now, they were probably in a state of panicked horror, trying to decide whether they should call Madeline and report that they'd lost him, or pretend that nothing was amiss in the hope that he'd quickly reappear.

He hoped they'd have the sense to choose the latter. The last time he disappeared, his now ex-bodyguards had been foolish enough to trigger a formal alarm: the priority ten protocol they'd set in motion had bypassed Madeline and gone straight to Oversight, causing no end of aggravation. Idiots. Why couldn't these people figure out there were times to follow procedures, and there were times to look the other way? If they didn't have the brains to recognize the difference -- even after the broad hints he kept dropping -- then abeyance was probably too good for them.

Still, as long as they avoided contacting Oversight this time, things would probably be fine. At least if they called Madeline first, she would know to keep a lid on it. While she'd be annoyed that he traveled without protection -- and would mince no words expressing her displeasure afterwards -- that was just too bad. Frankly, it was none of her business if he chose to forego his Section escort occasionally, anyway.

In any event, he only needed his freedom for a few minutes. Just long enough to take care of a little personal business. Then he could 'remember' to switch the tracking device in his watch back on, and no one would be the wiser.

Walking faster, he breathed deeply, allowing the cold air to fill his nose and lungs, steamy clouds spiraling away as he exhaled. In his tan overcoat and leather gloves, he adopted the attitude of an ordinary businessman on a mid-morning errand, indistinguishable from the other pedestrians hurrying along. Every so often one of them brushed past him or knocked his elbow; they would murmur a polite apology and move on without a second glance. Their indifference amused him: it was so different from Section, where operatives scurried out of his path like timid squirrels fleeing a hungry-looking dog.

It was refreshing to be anonymous for a change. A man of no consequence, instead of one who bore the world's problems on his shoulders. Well, refreshing for a while: in truth, it bored him rather quickly. But for a moment or two, it was more than pleasant to be Joe Average, out for a winter stroll.

Spying a pay phone at a corner, he slowed his pace. Casually, he glanced over his shoulder to ensure he wasn't being observed. No one. He grasped the telephone receiver, discreetly attached a tiny scrambling device, and rapidly dialed a number.

The line picked up on the second ring. "Guten morgen," said a bland male voice.

"This is Williams, from Baltimore," Operations said cautiously.

"Ah, Mr. Williams." The man switched immediately into precise, Swiss-accented English. "What can I do for you today?"

"I want to make a transfer into Mr. Kane's account."

"Certainly, sir. The usual amount?"

He hesitated. The usual amount was more than enough -- in fact, probably too much for someone like Willie to handle responsibly. As he pondered the question, his gaze fell upon a threaded silver wreath hanging in the storefront window across the street.

Another Christmas, and Willie had no one. Other than his buddies Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, that is.

"Double it," he ordered curtly.

"Very well, sir. Anything else?"

"No. That's all for now."

He pressed the lever to terminate the call, detached the scrambler, and returned the receiver to its cradle. Slipping the scrambler into a coat pocket, he walked swiftly in the direction of his car, snow crunching noisily underfoot.

As he turned onto a main thoroughfare, he fell in step with a procession of holiday shoppers. Immediately ahead ambled an elderly woman in a long fur coat. Clutching several shopping bags in one hand, she jerked periodically on a leash with the other, dragging a doddering poodle in a red knit sweater. She sauntered slowly, as if she had nowhere in particular to go, seemingly indifferent to the fact that she, her packages, and her dog were blocking the sidewalk completely.

He remained stuck behind her for several minutes, his patience rapidly ebbing. He tried unsuccessfully to find a way past without shoving her aside, while his perfectly shined Italian shoes squashed in the heavily-trod snow, slowly collecting a coat of sodden gray slush. He stepped to one side, then the other; somehow, she managed to meander into his path no matter which way he weaved. The poodle snuffled and wandered aimlessly as its owner peered at window displays; while they moved more and more slowly, his aggravation mounted.

Would you get a move on? he urged her silently. I have to get back to saving the world, you old biddy.

As if to spite him, the woman abruptly stopped. Juggling with her bags, she fumbled in her purse for several moments and withdrew a handful of change. Leaning over, she dropped the coins into a can resting in front of a homeless man who sat cross-legged on a battered piece of cardboard.

When the coins clattered noisily into the can, the man curled a scornful lip.

"That's all?" he asked belligerently. "Where's your Christmas spirit?"

A shocked expression filled her wrinkled face, her generosity quickly turning to anger. "Ingrate! You don't deserve even that, Christmas or no. A healthy young man like you should be working."

With a disdainful lift of her chin, she stalked off -- at long last moving briskly -- the leash jangling as the poodle trotted alongside her.

Relieved that he could finally progress at a normal pace, Operations took a step to leave, but then stopped short. There was something about the figure on the sidewalk that bothered him. Dressed in a grimy ski jacket and sporting a patchy blond beard, the young man looked about the same age he and Willie had been when on their tour of duty. Except that this kid was pathetic, whining and begging for money on the streets, at an age when he and Willie had been getting shot at for flag and country. What a disgrace.

"So," said the youth sharply, "are you going to give me some money, or are you just going to stare at me all day?"

Operations folded his arms, narrowing his eyes to examine the man with disapproval. "She's right," he announced sternly. "You ought to get a job."

A snort of disgusted laughter erupted. "Oh, fuck off, Mr. Big-shot Executive. I don't owe you anything."

Watching this scrawny societal reject regard him with a superior sneer, Operations felt a flare of rage well up from his stomach to his throat. Livid, he reached into his pocket, yanked out his wallet, and plucked several crisp bills with large denominations from the billfold.

Crumpling the money and flinging it into the can, he barked, "Now you owe me plenty, and you're going to listen to what I have to say."

The young man gaped at the wad of cash, his eyebrows raised in a look of astonishment.

Operations bent down and fixed him with a baleful stare. "I'm sure you've got all sorts of reasons for being out here," he said mockingly. "Your puppy died when you were three, or your Mommy didn't hug you enough, or you didn't eat your vegetables. Whatever they are, I don't want to hear them." He jabbed his finger toward the money. "See that? That's enough to get you into rehab, or find an apartment, or do whatever you need to do to clean yourself up. So no more excuses."

The man shook his head defensively. "Look, it's not like that. I'm not lazy -- I've just had some bad breaks."

"Well, then, today's your lucky day," Operations said caustically. He glared at the young man, fighting the sudden impulse to reach down and wring his neck. The ferocity of his response disconcerted him. This kid was nobody, of less importance even than the terrorist vermin he exterminated, but somehow it had become desperately important that he make him listen. With a controlled intensity that nearly made his voice shake, he demanded, "Twenty-five years from now, do you really want to be a drunken wreck, living off other people's handouts?"

"Of course not."

"Good," he snapped. "Because now you have a choice. You can take this money and try to turn your life around, or you can waste it on something stupid and stay out here on the streets. If you waste it, then you deserve to have little old ladies with overfed poodles turn their noses up at you." He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, and continued. "I, for one, don't really give a damn which choice you make."

"Then why'd you do this?" the young man asked, his forehead wrinkling with a bewildered expression.

Why? Good question. He frowned, puzzled by his own behavior, until the answer came to him, nauseating in its trite obviousness.

It was because he couldn't do it for Willie, that's why. He couldn't grab Willie by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, couldn't show up at his doorstep and yell at him until he agreed to go straight. All he could do was keep anonymously feeding his old friend money -- and watch helplessly as he destroyed himself.

I'm not going to let you become Willie, you sniveling little brat. That's why I'm doing this.

He shrugged, swallowing through the growing constriction in his throat. "Just call me Santa Claus," he said sarcastically. "Now, get out of my sight before I change my mind."

The youth scrambled to his feet and snatched up the can of money. As he turned to leave, he paused. "Hey, thanks," he said hesitantly.

"Didn't I tell you to go?" Operations snarled.

Paling, the man bolted, nearly tripping in his haste. When he had vanished down the street, Operations turned abruptly on his heel and marched in the opposite direction, his jaw clenched so tightly that he felt his muscle twitch.

The sorry bastard's lucky I didn't recruit him. I could find the little punk a job, all right.