By Genevieve and JayBee

Part Two

Ten Days

Michael stared at their Prague contact, fighting the urge to put his gloved hands around the man�s thick neck and squeeze. �You have nothing new.� It was a statement, not a question, and Michael saw a flicker of fear in the man�s pale blue eyes.

�Well, information can be scarce this time of year,� he began nervously, �so many people traveling to visit their families.� His voice trailed off as his gaze met Michael�s, his throat working as he swallowed compulsively. �I should have something tomorrow.�

�I hope so,� Michael replied blandly as he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. Their position behind the ornately carved gates of a cemetery in the Jewish quarter sheltered them somewhat from the biting wind, but it was still bitterly cold. �It would be a pity if the Section was forced to find a new source.�

The informant�s face paled. �I�m meeting Kasevich later tonight. He will have the information you requested.�

�Good,� Michael said quietly, automatically scanning the immediate area. He returned his attention to the other man. �Tomorrow morning. Eight o�clock. The Old Town Square.�

It was a command the informant seemed only too happy to obey. He nodded wordlessly, and disappeared swiftly into the night. Michael waited a few moments, then walked in the opposite direction. Snow crunched loudly under his boots; he could see his breath on the air. He walked quickly, more from the desire to stay warm than an eagerness to return to his Section-designated accommodation. He was staying in a particularly spartan hotel cum boarding house a few minutes walk from the main business district. However, comfort and location were of no concern to Section � more important was the fact that the owner was an elderly widow who showed an almost militant discretion when it came to her guests. If ever pressed by an outside source, she remembered no names, no faces. All bills were settled in cash. No records were kept.

Michael had been in Prague for three days. Three days spent waiting for information vital to the demise of a local arms dealer. Three days of seeing families, wrapped up in their winter coats, walking along the snowy streets, excited children pulling at their parents� hands. Three days spent thinking of his own son, of the family that was now lost to him.

Since Salla Vachek�s death, Section had provided Michael with infrequent reports that detailed Elena and Adam�s wellbeing. Those brief, unemotional recitals of facts and figures had only served to heighten his sense of loss. Finally, last month, he had informed Madeline he no longer wished to be updated on the status of his former family. She�d regarded him calmly, her expression sympathetic yet skeptical.

�I hope this means you�ve finally accepted the parameters of your deep cover mission, Michael.�

�Of course.� He forced the simple words out through tight lips.

Madeline lifted one dark eyebrow. �Because I�d hate to find that you�d done something as foolish as attempting to keep watch over Elena and Adam yourself.�

He didn�t speak but merely returned her gaze steadily until a knowing smile tugged at the corner of her well-shaped mouth. �Thank you, Michael, that will be all.�

Now, walking alone through the snow-encrusted streets, Michael felt a piercing loneliness so acute it was an almost physical ache. He forced himself to keep walking. Adam and Elena were gone, but for now, they were safe. They were alive.

He had reached a busy retail district and the streets were no longer empty. His senses kicked into high alert when a willowy form detached itself from the passing crowd and sauntered toward him. On closer inspection, it was a tall, Nordic blonde, her arms loaded with shopping bags. She was wearing pale gray furs and an expression of blatant feminine curiosity. Michael let his eyes meet hers for the briefest moment, subconsciously comparing her features to those of another willowy blonde. The hair is the right colour but her mouth is too thin, he thought automatically. Chin too weak.

The woman smiled at him flirtatiously, her hazel eyes regarding him with obvious interest. Michael merely kept walking, his stride increasing. The sight of the woman�s bright blonde hair, spilling over the soft collar of her coat, had filled him with an urgent need to contact Nikita. It had been a week since he�d seen her - she�d been in Dubrovnik when he�d left for Prague, and their contact since then had been sporadic at best.

Their newly resurrected personal relationship was still fragile, still fraught with so many emotional land mines. Nikita avoided the subject of Adam and Elena like the plague, as though she was afraid of hurting him. And while she couldn�t bring herself to speak of the past, Michael was reluctant to speak aloud of the future, as if by remaining silent they could avoid the attention of the gods.

He loved her. He loved her more than he�d ever loved any woman. He loved her even when he felt like shaking her for endangering her life for the sake of her damn rose-coloured principles. She�d twice restarted a heart and soul that had become catatonic with pain and sorrow, despite his best efforts to resist her. She�d been his last, desperate anchor in the blur of days that followed the end of his deep cover mission.

�You have to find a reason for living.� Her hand gripped his arm tightly, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

He could hardly bring himself to look at her. �Where?� he asked carelessly, wanting her to tell him the answer they both already knew. Even as he sought to push her away, he longed to pull her close, to lose himself in her soft warmth. Help me. Please help me.

Disappointment flickered briefly in her eyes, but she lifted her chin in a silent challenge. �Anywhere you can.�

And he had. He had found his reason in her.

But the joy they found in each other was always tempered with the grim knowledge that Section One was a cruel taskmaster. It neither rewarded nor cajoled but merely demanded and punished. Michael knew there would be a price to pay for their defiance of the recently issued Type One Directive - he only prayed he alone would be forced to pay it.

As lost as he was in his thoughts, he was still acutely aware of his surroundings. As he passed a small sandstone church, a stream of hardy fur-wrapped parishioners passed, obviously making their way to the evening service. Drawn by an impulse he couldn�t name, Michael turned and slowly retraced his steps until he was standing outside the church. A large nativity scene, festooned with twinkling fairy lights had been strategically placed outside the front door, and several children were clustered around the display, giggling and pointing excitedly at the wooden figures.

Michael lifted his head to read the church�s name, which was proudly proclaimed in ornate script. It was the church of the Sacred Heart, a Catholic church. The religion in which he�d been raised, the religion in which he�d found no answers when his parents had died. A religion he�d forced himself to forget after he�d been reborn into Section One and its doctrine of easy death.

His first impulse was to leave, but instead he found himself walking toward the front door of the church. The fragrance of incense and candles teased his nose as he hesitantly stepped inside, bringing back a rush of memories he�d thought long forgotten. As though on automatic pilot, he pulled off his gloves. Dipping the fingers of his right hand into the tiny silver bowl of holy water affixed to the wall, he made the sign of the cross, something tightening inside him at the familiar yet alien gesture.

The mass was yet to begin. Perhaps the parishioners had arrived early in order to avoid the snow Michael could still smell in the air. He stood at the back of the church, his gaze roaming the room. Families mingled with groups of teenagers, smartly dressed couples jostled for elbowroom beside elderly, dark-robed nuns. His throat tightened at the sight of a small, dark-haired, olive-skinned boy sitting at the end of a nearby pew. Secure in the circling embrace of his mother�s arm, the little boy was kneeling on the seat, facing backwards, studying the congregation with a child�s unabashed curiosity. When his dark eyes met Michael�s, he smiled hesitantly. Ignoring the sudden lump in his throat, Michael smiled back. The boy immediately wriggled back down into his seat to peer at Michael through the crook of his mother�s arm.

Michael blinked and looked away. Don�t think about him. He�s safe now. It�s better this way. In an attempt to deny the thought of his son, he resumed his scrutiny of the church. In a small alcove to his right, a well-worn statue of Mary of the Immaculate Heart stood guard over rows and rows of small flickering candles, watching with sightless eyes over the tiny flames that were someone�s pain, someone�s loss. Someone�s hope.

Michael stared at the candles, his vision blurring as his grief mingled with longing; despair battling with the instinctive drive to live, to survive. He had thought there was no place in his life for hope. Perhaps he was wrong.

He walked slowly toward the alcove just as a well-padded female parishioner rose from her kneeling position in front of the candles. Catching his eye, she smiled shyly, murmuring a quiet �Good evening, Sir,� in her native tongue. Michael responded in kind, vaguely grateful for her words of welcome.

There was a small box of unused white candles and a wooden donation box. Michael took a moment to find several gold coins, then turned his attention to the candles. One by one, Michael said a prayer for both the living and the dead. His mother. His father. His sister. Simone. Elena. Adam.

The flames flickered as he set the small candles in the tiny sconces, their feeble heat still managing to sear his heart. He didn�t kneel, as the other parishioners had done, but merely bowed his head, his eyes tightly closed. The faces of the dead were as vivid in his memory as those of the living, their voices still fresh in his ears. He wasn�t expecting to find peace or atonement. To his surprise, however, a burgeoning feeling of optimism stole over him. The past was done. The future was yet to be written. Nothing was impossible.

Michael looked down at the last candle - still unlit - in his hand, and his fingers tightened around the cold wax. He didn�t want to consign Nikita to the realm of the unattainable, someone to be mourned and regretted. Slipping the candle into the pocket of his overcoat, he quietly backed away from the alcove, blessing himself once more with holy water as he left the church.

Outside, the snow had started to fall. Michael pulled the woolen scarf a little tighter around his throat and increased his stride. Tonight was Nikita�s second night in Hanoi. She would have both her cell phone and her PDA with her, no matter where she was. He longed to hear her voice, even if was just to hear her complain about how much she hated doing �freaking surveillance�. With a heart considerably lightened by his unexpected detour, Michael strode quickly in the direction of the hotel.

Nothing was impossible.

Nine Days

Announcing its arrival with a soft ding, the elevator slowed to a gentle halt and its doors slid open. Madeline stepped out into a brightly lit foyer, brushing tiny flakes of snow off her wool coat as the elevator doors rumbled closed again, then carefully unwound the scarf wrapped around her neck.

But for a single doorway at the far end, the foyer was completely empty, its walls and floor a nondescript beige. The door was equally unremarkable: painted a dark, dull gray, it bore no distinguishing features aside from an embedded glass oval that resembled a slightly oversized peephole.

She began to cross the foyer, zigzagging along a precise path to avoid tripping a laser-activated alarm. When she reached the door she paused, leaned in toward the glass, and stood motionless while a glowing red beam flickered across her eye. She spoke her name loudly enough for a voiceprint to register, and waited until she heard three short beeps. Grasping the doorknob, she pushed the door open, stepped inside an entryway, and allowed the door to fall soundlessly shut behind her.

Home. Perhaps not so sweet, but home nonetheless.

She removed her coat and scarf and hung them neatly inside a small closet. She then made her way down a hall toward the living room, her shoes sinking into the plush carpet as she walked, the only sound the swish of her skirt.

When she rounded the corner, the living room was dark and silent, its furnishings amorphous shadows outlined by the faint glitter of the cityscape through the windows. Paler than moonlight, the city lights cast the room with a ghostly hue, ethereal but brittle, like a thin coating of frost.

She touched a pad on the wall to turn on the lights, and the shadows took shape and substance, emerging from the blackness as tables, chairs, sofas, shelves. Tapping the wall pad again, she dimmed the illumination to a soft, warm glow; another touch, and recessed spotlights revealed a series of paintings and sculptures. As she adjusted the brightness of the spotlights, the room filled with color, dimension, and depth. But it remained hushed and still, utterly devoid of movement.

Strolling toward the center of the room, she examined her environs, feeling uncomfortably like a tourist locked inside a museum after hours. She hadn't set foot in her own home for nearly two weeks. Not that it looked neglected: daily visits by Section staff ensured it remained spotless and well tended. If she ran a finger along the uppermost shelf, there wouldn't be a trace of dust; if she inspected the linens, she would find them soft and fresh; if she lifted the leaves of the plants, the soil would be moist.

Designed according to her very exacting specifications, the apartment was everything she could want in a residence: tastefully and extravagantly decorated, comfortable to the point of sumptuousness, equipped with every imaginable convenience. Yet, despite all of that, despite its near-perfection, she found herself there less and less often.

In fact, almost never.

After her abduction the prior year, she had developed a reluctance to spend time away from Section premises -- a reluctance that lingered, resisting all efforts to shake it off. She knew, logically, that such an incident was unlikely to recur: in fact, every conceivable step had been taken to ensure it could not. The first was the assignment of a new residence -- or rather, a series of them, as the location changed every few months to evade detection. The other was enhanced security: unobtrusive to the point of invisibility, but extreme even by Section standards. If she as much as sneezed without advance notice, ten bodyguards would come running from every direction, guns drawn.

Still, despite the luxury and the nearly impenetrable defenses, she never quite felt comfortable in her new domiciles. Wandering like a pampered nomad, she drifted from one opulent dwelling to the next, never left wanting for anything, but never settling in. Indeed, if she were going to live under armed guard, she might as well stay inside Section, which made no pretense of being anything other than a fortified bunker. As she grew older, she had begun to appreciate a certain virtue in the Spartan plainness of her Section quarters -- which was why she generally chose to remain there.

Nevertheless, she forced herself to return home -- if one could refer to her residence-of-the-moment by such a term -- every so often. It was healthy to leave Section periodically, even if only to witness the passing seasons and remind oneself that the outside world existed.

The outside world, however, looked particularly uninviting at the moment. She stared at the window, where crystals of ice were beginning to form in the corners, and mentally shivered. December. A time of lengthening nights and growing cold, of hibernation, scarcity, and desolation -- yet also, paradoxically, a time of merriment and celebration. The juxtaposition of gloom and cheer was no mere coincidence: no matter what mythology was attached to them, the midwinter holidays had originated as humanity's way of pleading with the sun to return. A futile act, despite its charming optimism, illustrative of man's miscomprehension of his place in the universe.

The holidays had their value, of course; they were an important coping mechanism, and even she wasn't wholly immune to the attraction of their rituals. The cluster of brightly colored poinsettias blooming on the coffee table was a telling reminder of that. She retained a sentimental attachment to the red-leafed plants even after she had learned their less-than-savory history: once prized by the Aztecs, they symbolized the blood sacrifices offered to the sun god. Not exactly befitting the Christmas spirit of comradeship and charity, to say the least. Then again, for someone whose job it was to send people out to battle, they had a certain, almost appealing, suitability.

But enough self-indulgent reflection. She glanced at her watch. Nine o'clock. Enough time for a light dinner, a brief review of substation reports, a bath, and then sleep.

She exited the living room, passing through the dining area to enter the kitchen. Compact and clean, it was crowded with gleaming appliances that, for the most part, she had never actually used. She continued to ignore them now, walking past the counters toward the far corner, where a large, stainless steel refrigerator loomed. Restaurant-sized, it dwarfed the rest of the room.

She pulled open the refrigerator door and peered inside. Its ample shelves were fully stocked, the contents freshened daily. A platter of freshly cut fruit. Five types of cheese. Two containers of soup. A selection of hot and cold appetizers. Four different pre-cooked dinner selections, and ingredients for several others on the unlikely chance that she would have the time -- or be in the mood -- to cook her own. Whatever she didn't use would be discarded and replaced the next day. And again the next, even if it took her another two weeks to return. It was absurdly wasteful, she knew, but a welcome convenience. It left her some choice: the ability to decide on the spur of the moment whether she would go home any given night. If she were honest with herself, she had little else left to be spontaneous about.

Spotting a silver beverage container with a shiny red bow attached to its side, she pulled it out to inspect it more closely. When she opened the lid and breathed in a heady whiff of rum and nutmeg, she allowed a faint smile to lift the corners of her mouth. Homemade eggnog, courtesy of Christopher -- his gift to her every December. Unfortunately, she despised eggnog, although it would be discourteous to tell him so. Therefore, each year she did the same thing, enacting a private ritual of gratitude for his well-intentioned -- but misplaced -- gesture.

Knowing that the staff would mention it to him if she left the eggnog untouched, she withdrew a glass from a cabinet and poured a generous serving. She lifted the glass into the air in a mock toast.

"Merry Christmas, Christopher," she said quietly, staring into space for a few seconds afterwards.

She then poured the creamy liquid down the drain and carefully rinsed out the sink, leaving the unwashed glass conspicuously on the counter for the staff to discover the next morning.

Another season observed. Until next year.