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jaybee65Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Nine
One by one, Adrian spread the satellite photos across her desk until the entire surface was covered. She examined them, eyes darting from picture to picture -- a frown starting, then growing, then deepening into a grimace of pure disgust.
The images could have been taken for those of a mining pit or construction site -- a gaping wound in the ground, lined with unidentifiable debris. Only the notes that accompanied the photos told what it really was: the remains of an apartment complex in Teheran. Once occupied by at least fifty families. But now….
So dreadful. In a horrifying escalation of hatred, Iran and Iraq had started attacking each other's capitals, targeting civilians indiscriminately. Adrian found herself obsessed with the carnage, even though she was powerless to stop it. Her sponsors had made it abundantly clear that her purview was limited to the small-scale incidents they defined as 'terrorism'. Such a narrow-minded approach they took. This, they claimed, was war: something she had no right to intervene in. But in reality, what else could the wholesale destruction of a city be called but terroristic? And who were people like Saddam Hussein but the worst terrorists of all, despite all their trappings of state power and international recognition?
At least she was doing her part to keep their hands off nuclear weapons. The operation against Demetrios would be a major victory in that regard.
The telephone rang shrilly. Good. It was probably Raymond with the updates from Egypt.
"Good morning," she answered.
"Adrian," said Phillip, his tone smoothly elegant. "Good morning to you."
A sour taste filled her mouth as she recognized his voice. Phillip's timing was, as always, impeccably poor. He seemed to have a sixth sense about the worst moments to call; invariably, it was when she was her busiest and most distracted.
"Phillip," she replied, forcing a pleasant-sounding demeanor. "What an unexpected pleasure. I hope all is well at Center."
"Oh, quite. And at the Sections?"
"Busy." She chuckled in an attempt to sound lighthearted, although her answer, in actuality, revealed her reluctance to speak with him.
He, too, gave a pseudo-merry laugh, and then he cleared his throat.
"I read an interesting story in the newspaper this morning. It seems an American businessman has turned up dead. A very well-connected American businessman. Ted Pierce. Perhaps you've heard of him?"
She frowned. He wouldn't dare interfere in this mission, she thought. Just let him try.
"Yes, I believe I have," she answered, remaining studiously noncommittal until she could ascertain his intent.
"A rather shocking story, I must say. A gangland style killing -- tortured, shot in the back of the head, and then stuffed into the boot of a car. They say he apparently had large gambling losses."
"So I hear."
There was a lengthy pause. When he spoke again, a touch of anger had crept into his voice.
"There's a disturbing rumor floating around that it wasn't a Mafia killing at all. I wondered if you knew anything about it."
He clearly knew the truth, but he'd rather play games than get to the point. Fine. She could oblige him as long as he liked.
"What is it that you want to know, Phillip?" she asked innocently.
"I want to know if Section One was responsible," he snapped, no longer bothering to conceal his hostility. "Don't be coy. I don't have the patience for it."
"Yes, we were. What of it?"
He sighed audibly. "This man had powerful friends, Adrian. It should have been handled differently."
"This man, as you put it," she said, "was selling radioactive material to killers and madmen. How, pray tell, should we have handled it?"
"You should have cleared it with me first."
So now he wanted veto power over missions. Completely intolerable.
"Why?"
"This isn't a private crusade of good against evil, however much we would like it to be. We have people to answer to. More specifically, I have people to answer to. And I can't give them answers if you don't tell me what you're doing."
Her back stiffened defensively. He had crossed a line -- a line that he had once promised never, ever to cross. It seemed he needed reminding of that.
"When this organization was founded," she said acerbically, "I was promised full autonomy to pursue our goals as I saw fit. Center exists to provide guidance on the nature of those goals, not to micromanage the Sections."
"You're saying that you won't cooperate."
"I'm saying nothing of the sort. I will, from now on -- and strictly as a matter of courtesy -- give you advance notice of any mission that might be construed as sensitive. I will, to the extent possible, comply with reasonable requests. But I will not compromise a legitimate mission every time you feel uncomfortable breaking the news to your colleagues. Quite frankly, your spinelessness is your problem, not mine."
She heard him suck in his breath.
"Well, then," he said, "do you have any missions pending that might be construed as 'sensitive'? Now that you've so generously agreed to inform me -- strictly as a matter of courtesy, of course."
She pondered her answer for a moment. He seemed angry, but he was quite clearly in retreat. She would thus give him something to allow him to save face.
"Yes, we do, in fact. An operation against Tassos Demetrios."
"Demetrios? How ambitious," he said, his tone patronizing. "To what end?"
"To identify his buyers and suppliers. To strike at them before they realize they've been compromised. And when that's done, to destroy him, of course." Adrian smiled at the thought.
He laughed dryly. "If you can accomplish that, I'll be most impressed."
"I'm sure you will be."
He paused.
"Since you made such a gracious offer to comply with 'reasonable' requests, I have one to convey."
"Please do."
"When you bring in Demetrios for interrogation, I have some matters I'd like you to ask him about."
"But we're not bringing him in for interrogation."
"How else are you going to identify his network?"
Adrian grimaced, glad that Phillip couldn't see her reaction. His question demonstrated his utter lack of practical knowledge about how people like Demetrios operated.
"Bringing him in would tip off his associates that something was wrong," she explained, struggling to maintain her patience. "The instant they couldn't reach him, they'd shut down their bank accounts and cut off all contact points. As a result, it's essential that we identify them while he still appears to be operating normally."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
"We have operatives planting surveillance and working their way into his network. In several months' time, we expect to have gathered enough information to track down most of his business partners. At that point, we'll strike -- against everyone, simultaneously."
"I see." He sounded perplexed. "Then at that point you can bring him in for questioning."
"That would be pointless," she said, growing increasingly irritated. "His network will be destroyed. There's nothing useful he could tell us."
"Useful in terms of conducting missions, no. But what I want from him is quite different."
What Phillip wanted from him?
"What is it that you want?" she asked cautiously.
"I'm building a database here at Center. I believe that by collecting historical data regarding past patterns of terrorist activity, we can create algorithms to predict the recurrence of those patterns in the future. Demetrios would be a veritable fount of information in that regard."
"I see," she said, her brows furrowing as she assessed the significance of his statement. "So you'd like him taken alive and brought over to Center for questioning."
"No, no," he said testily. "We don't have the facilities for that sort of thing. You know that, Adrian."
"Then what?"
"I'll forward you a list of the data I require from him. You are to interrogate him in the Section."
In other words, he wanted her employees to spend their valuable time collecting information for some pet project of his. No, worse than that. This database sounded like an elaborate excuse to tell her what missions to launch -- and he wanted her to help him build it.
On its face, however, there was nothing unreasonable about the request. Recognizing that she had probably antagonized him enough for one day, she set aside her reluctance.
"Very well. We shouldn't have a problem doing that."
"Good. I'm sure you'll keep me informed as to the status of this mission?”
"Oh, yes."
"Thank you. Goodbye, Adrian."
Without waiting for her to reply, he hung up.
***
Lisa poured herself a glass of mineral water and leaned back in her chair, eyeing the other customers in the restaurant with mild curiosity. Even at such a late hour, the lunchtime crowd was heavy. She had forgotten what a popular place it was -- it had been months since she had been able to persuade anyone from Section to join her there, and the half-hour wait for a table had caught her by surprise.
She was even more surprised by the identity of her lunch companion. She asked Madeline to join her on the spur of the moment -- but hadn't really expected her to accept the invitation. A couple of years before, they had been quite social, even if not exactly close. But as Madeline spent more and more time devoted to her profiling and interrogation duties -- and as Lisa spent every moment of her spare time sitting in front of a computer terminal -- the two women had been reduced almost to the level of nodding acquaintances.
It rendered the conversation rather awkward, in fact. Lisa no longer knew what Madeline was interested in, apart from work, and vice versa. After several abortive attempts to respond to the conversational gambits that Madeline threw out, Lisa gave up.
Fall back on the tried and true, she thought. Maybe that's all I know how to talk about anymore.
"So," she said, "when do you go back to Greece?"
"Tomorrow," Madeline answered, slicing a piece off her chicken.
"How many trips do you think there'll be?"
"To do all the transactions? Probably at least a dozen."
"God, that means you're going to have to spend a lot of time with that creep." Lisa wrinkled her face in distaste. "I don't envy you this one."
Madeline took a bite of her food and shrugged. "I fit the profile," she said, seemingly unconcerned.
"Yeah, well, you always fit the profile when this kind of thing comes up. I don't think it's exactly fair." Lisa laughed scornfully, shaking her head. "Listen to me. Fair? What was I thinking?"
Thinking of her own situation as much as Madeline's, Lisa had allowed a hint of resentment to color her voice. Madeline glanced up, an inquisitive expression on her face. She seemed to be about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it. Instead, she returned to her meal.
Lisa toyed with one of her carrots, idly pushing it around her plate. "You know," she mused, "I'm lucky to be plain looking. I don't have to worry about getting those kinds of assignments."
Madeline gave her a surprised look.
"You're not plain looking. You just don't present yourself in a way that brings out your natural beauty." She looked Lisa up and down. "I could help you with that, if you like."
Lisa searched the other woman's face for some sign that she was joking. But there was nothing -- no teasing smirk, no trace of humor whatsoever -- only a look of utter and almost touching sincerity. She squirmed in her seat, trying to suppress her distaste at what seemed to be a well-intentioned, if unwelcome, suggestion.
"Um, thanks for the offer, but I'm not so sure I want help in that area. I'm pretty happy being skipped over for valentine duty, you know?"
"You're depriving yourself of one of the most powerful weapons in your arsenal. That's foolish."
"Yeah, maybe," admitted Lisa, increasingly uncomfortable at the casual way Madeline spoke about the matter. "But I just can't imagine doing that. Besides, you have to know all those special techniques, and, uh, they didn't give me that sort of training."
Madeline's eyes widened, and then she burst out in an uncharacteristic peal of laughter.
"Special techniques?" She sounded incredulous. "Just what is it that you think you would need to know?"
Lisa felt her face flush a deep, burning red. She cleared her throat, but her voice still cracked when she spoke. "Uhh, you know, fancy moves or something. Or weird, kinky stuff." As Madeline's expression grew more amused, Lisa felt more and more stupid. "That's what everyone says the valentine ops have to learn, anyway," she added defensively.
Madeline set down her knife and fork, covered her face with her hand for a moment, and then looked back at Lisa with a broad smile.
"Lisa, ninety percent of men are extremely unimaginative. Most of the time, all that's necessary is that you show up."
Lisa drained her glass of water, too embarrassed to say anything in response. How had she managed to find herself in the middle of this discussion? Wasn't work supposed to be a safe topic?
Madeline took a bite of bread and chewed it with excessive concentration, making an obvious effort to stifle her laughter. By the time she finished the bread, she seemed to have it under control.
"Actually," she said, her manner suddenly thoughtful, "there is something you have to learn in order to do that type of work successfully. But it has nothing to do with exotic techniques."
"Oh yeah?" asked Lisa, relieved to know Madeline was dropping that topic, although she wasn't sure the new one would be any better.
"You need to be able to attract the target's attention, to flatter him and boost his ego -- to appear to be enthusiastic about an experience that you might actually find tedious or even disgusting. It's about acting, about learning to put on a performance."
That look of sincerity was back, an expression of almost sisterly concern and earnestness that caught Lisa off guard. She wanted to look away, but it pulled her helplessly in.
"If you can learn to act in those circumstances, you can do it in any situation," Madeline explained. "It's a skill that translates into many, many other settings, out in the field and elsewhere. It's a long-term survival skill. That's why I say you'd be foolish not to learn it -- not because I think we need more operatives doing seduction assignments."
"Oh," said Lisa, finally understanding. "I see what you mean. You have a point, I suppose." Madeline did have a point, Lisa knew, although it didn't make her any more willing to sign up for valentine duty. "But, you know," she said, seizing at the opportunity to change the subject to something that made her feel less idiotic, "I'm working on another long-term survival skill. One I hope will get me out of the field completely."
"Really? And what would that be?"
"Computers. I've taught myself to program, and I've spent the last two years studying Section's systems. I know it like the back of my hand," she announced proudly.
"Very impressive. Why haven't you put in for a transfer?"
"I have. Three times. Jules said no each time." Lisa rolled her eyes. "He doesn't think women understand computers."
"Hmmm." Madeline frowned. "There might be a way around that."
"Like what?" Lisa sat forward with interest. She had her own idea about how to get around Jules's opposition -- an idea she had shared only with Walter -- but wondered what Madeline might come up with.
"I could place an entry in your personnel file. About how your last evaluation showed a high level of computer aptitude. It's likely that Adrian would eventually reassign you herself, if for no other reason than to test you out, and Jules wouldn't have any legitimate reason to object to it."
"You have access to the personnel files?"
"For the field operatives. It's necessary for my profiling work."
So Madeline had clearance to access personnel files. The same ones Lisa had stumbled across, no doubt. It made sense when Madeline explained it, but the possibility hadn't occurred to Lisa before.
If someone accessed those files using Madeline's system password, nothing would seem amiss. No alarms, no suspicious logons -- no one would ever know.
The force of that thought made Lisa sit back suddenly in shock. It was a dangerous, stupid idea -- one that was better ignored and forced back into whatever insane recess of her mind it had emerged from. Still, it might just work. But then again, if it didn't….
Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, she told herself, gripping her napkin tightly.
But she knew she would.
***
Madeline nodded in thanks as the young man placed a tray of food on the coffee table. Shyly, he dropped his gaze to the floor and departed the room without a word. From out of the shadows in the corner of the room, a gray-haired man, frail and stooped with age, emerged to hand her a milky-looking glass of ouzo. She accepted it with a grateful smile; he inclined his head deferentially and then retreated again.
"You've had a long journey," said Demetrios, who leaned back in an oversized armchair. "I thought you might appreciate some refreshments."
"Yes, thank you," said Charles. He selected a slice of cheese. "Most thoughtful."
Wearing a dark suit and tie that looked uncomfortably formal compared to Demetrios's loose-fitting trousers and open-necked shirt, Charles perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Beside him, Madeline cradled her glass in both hands, sank back into the heavy cushions, and slowly crossed one leg over the other. Demetrios's heavy-lidded eyes shifted back and forth, watching one of them, then the other, his expression unreadable.
His gaze returned to Madeline.
"I read in the papers that you'd gone into seclusion in your grief," he said, not quite repressing a smirk. "You didn't even attend his funeral?"
"No," said Madeline. She shook her head in a parody of regret. "Those dreadful people who killed him have been sending me death threats. The police thought it would be better to keep a low profile."
"Have they?" Demetrios asked, raising his eyebrows. "Truly barbaric." He picked up a drink from the table beside him and sipped it, peering at her over the top of his glass. "Still, while you're the owner now, the company has already hired a new CEO. Isn't he the one I need to deal with?"
"I hired him to go about the business of running a power company," she answered coolly. "That's not something I'm interested in learning how to do. But as for our business," she paused and smiled knowingly, "he's been kept out of the loop."
He set his drink down and shifted forward in his chair, reaching toward the coffee table. He plucked a dolma from the tray and slid it into his mouth; his jaw circled slowly as he savored it.
"All right, then," he said, licking his fingers clean with a smacking sound, "since you two are the ones to reach an agreement with, here are my terms."
Madeline set down her drink and sat forward attentively, joining Charles on the edge of the sofa.
"I'm a high volume customer. I need to be certain that when I need the product, a supply will be available. As a result, I expect exclusive purchase rights. And you'll give me a fifty percent discount from what your other customers have been paying."
Charles sat back, his expression shocked. "That's quite a demand."
"I think it's more than reasonable."
Charles laughed uncomfortably, picked up his drink, and took a long swallow. He shook his head. "We'll need some time to consider it."
"No, we won't," said Madeline.
The two men turned toward her, their faces registering surprise. In Demetrios's case, genuine surprise; in Charles's, an excellent imitation.
"Those terms simply aren't acceptable," she said calmly.
Both men stared at her.
"I understand your concern about guaranteeing access to an adequate supply," she said. "But exclusivity goes a bit too far. Instead, we'd be willing to grant you the right of first refusal. That way, you're protected, but if you don't buy what we have, we'd be free to go elsewhere."
Demetrios's eyelids twitched, almost imperceptibly.
"As for a discount," she continued, meeting his gaze steadily, "that's probably warranted. But a fifty percent flat rate isn't feasible. We have fixed costs to meet -- employees and inspectors to pay off, that sort of thing. However, we could offer you a sliding scale based on volume."
She smiled brightly and picked up her drink. She took a demure taste, and then set the glass down. Demetrios gaped for a moment, and began to laugh in disbelief.
"I don't think you understand who you're dealing with," he said. "I don't negotiate. My suppliers accept the terms I give to them."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, that's too bad." Fixing him with an unwavering stare, she stood up. "I guess we'll be leaving, then."
She glanced down at Charles, still sitting on the sofa. He looked up at her as if she had lost her mind, but slowly, feigning reluctance, rose to stand next to her.
Demetrios snatched out a gun from the drawer of the table next to him. He jumped to his feet and aimed the barrel straight at Madeline's chest.
"I don't think you'll be going anywhere."
Madeline forced herself to keep her gaze directed at his eyes -- to look at the gun would be a sign of fear and weakness, and weakness, in front of this man, would mean immediate death. She suppressed the urge to swallow and concentrated on keeping her breath slow and controlled.
"Go ahead," she said, ignoring the painful thudding in her chest. "Shoot us."
He stared at her, unmoving, the gun still pointed at her heart. The sound of the breath through his nose was heavy with anger.
"Of course," she continued, "if you do, the company will fall into the hands of outsiders, and you'll lose access to the single largest, highest quality, and cheapest source of plutonium on the market."
He blinked but still remained silent.
"Now," she said, with a fleeting but regretful smile, "had you chosen to be reasonable with us, you could have provided the product, upon demand, to any customer, at any time, and in virtually any amount. With your right of first refusal, you could have even kept the supply out of the hands of your competitors. Why, if anyone wanted a bomb that could be relied upon to work, they would have come to you -- and paid a premium for doing so." She shrugged. "But if you want to throw that away, kill us. You'll be back to bribing Russian generals for whatever they can scrounge up at the moment."
As she spoke, she watched the look in his eyes shift gradually -- from lethal, to curious, to impressed. At her last remark, his mouth twisted sharply upwards as if he were trying to suppress a laugh. Finally, he lowered the gun. From beside her, she heard a relieved sigh from Charles.
"You raise some interesting points," Demetrios conceded with a gracious half-bow.
"I thought you'd recognize that. You are an intelligent man, after all."
"I think I might need to give the matter some further thought."
"Of course."
They held a look, not in challenge, but in mutual respect. Eventually, Demetrios broke it, glancing at a nearby clock.
"I'm afraid it's getting quite late," he said apologetically. "I think it would be better if we continued this discussion tomorrow."
***
When the door closed behind him, Charles glanced quickly around the guest room. So many hiding places, it was hard to know where to begin. He walked over to the table where the servant had placed his suitcase and flipped it open, dug under the folded garments, and withdrew a small electronic device disguised as a pen.
Device in hand, he moved through the room, tracing a slow path back and forth, going through the motions of unpacking and arranging his belongings. The green light flashed three times; inspecting those areas more closely, he spotted the tiny transmitters. One was on the underside of a lampshade; another clung to the back of a picture frame; the third was stuck behind a table leg. A red flash gave away the presence of a camera, mounted above the door. How unoriginal. Didn't Demetrios's suppliers even bother searching for these things? No wonder he took advantage of all of them.
Charles had no intention of removing the bugs, however. Instead, he placed the detector back in his suitcase and pulled out his own set of transmitters. Demetrios wouldn't be the only one eavesdropping on the conversations of his visitors -- gleaning their plans, gathering information on their activities. Keeping his movements as innocent-looking as possible, Charles hid the transmitters far from Demetrios's poorly placed ones, activated each one, and began to whistle cheerfully.
Hello there, Section, he thought. Anyone listening?
He started when, almost in answer to his question, he heard a knock at his door. He approached it, brushed out the wrinkles in his jacket, and pulled it open.
"Done unpacking?" asked Madeline -- meaning, as he knew, whether he had planted his transmitters.
"Yes."
"Good," she said, walking past him into the room without invitation. "So am I."
He closed the door and turned around to face her, and the adrenaline from earlier in the evening returned in a dizzying rush.
Demetrios almost killed us, he thought.
The profile called for Madeline to stand up to Demetrios, to provoke him into anger as a means of gaining his respect -- to raise her, in his eyes, to something more than just another supplier to be manipulated, something more than just a potential sexual conquest. Charles had known that, had even looked forward to seeing how Madeline chose to defy him, but he hadn't expected the man to react quite so dramatically.
When Demetrios pulled out his gun, every instinct Charles possessed demanded that he step in front of Madeline. The effort to resist that urge had left him shaking with nausea. Nevertheless, he had succeeded, forcing himself to remain rooted in place, fixated on her expression. The look in her face as she dared Demetrios to shoot her had been utterly enthralling: both relaxed and intense, both serene and fierce, it was the look of someone without fear. Someone who was ready to die. It was simultaneously terrible and beautiful to behold.
Now, however, she looked at Charles quizzically, lifting an eyebrow in a sharp reminder that it was time for him to play his part. How could he have forgotten? He was standing there, lost in thought, when Geoffrey was supposed to be livid. He shook himself out of his reverie and crossed his arms in a show of anger.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" he hissed. "What were you doing?"
"Making sure he didn't think he could rip us off."
"You don't do that sort of thing with a man like him! He's not some Mercedes salesman you can dicker over terms with -- he's a criminal, for God's sake. A murderer, an arms dealer, and a terrorist!"
"So are we," she answered with a short laugh. "We've become all of those things now. We might as well act accordingly."
"But he's a big fish, and we're in his pond. He kills nobodies like us without a second thought."
"If you act like a nobody, then that's who you'll always be." She smiled. "As for me, I intend to grow into a very big fish, and I don't really care whose pond I'm in."
He forced his voice into an exasperated tone. "You're not going to live long enough for that, at this rate. Nor am I, thanks to you."
"Oh, Geoffrey. You need to have more faith in me. I know what I'm doing. It's all about finding whatever leverage you have and using it. I understand that -- you don't. Just leave it to me."
"Well," he said, hesitating, "since you're such an expert, what do you need me for?"
"What do you mean?" Her voice lowered, a tinge of worry entering it.
"Am I going to meet the same fate Ted did, now that I've served my purpose?"
"Geoffrey! How could you say that?"
He said nothing.
She stepped toward him and placed her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs lightly stroking back and forth. "I need you, Geoffrey," she murmured, "I'll always need you." She began moving her hands -- along his shoulders, circling to his chest, and back. "I have the ideas, you take care of the details," she continued, her voice soft and reassuring. "That's how it's always worked. That's not going to change." She pressed up close against him. "Besides," she said teasingly, "you know the effect you have on me."
"I'm sorry, Annette," he said, and he slipped his hands around her waist. "I shouldn't have said that. Tonight was just a bit stressful."
"Well," she said, landing light kisses along his neck and chin, "now that you've stopped worrying over nothing, I think we should celebrate. We're about to become very, very rich."
"What kind of celebration do you have in mind?" he asked, laughing softly.
"I see you have no imagination whatsoever. You can leave that to me, too."
With that, she touched her lips to his in a lingering kiss that sent his heart into painful leaps. He tried to keep his thoughts in order, but found them spinning hopelessly out of control -- it was time, finally, to commence the part of the act that he had been trying not to think about. The part that had left him in dumbfounded shock when he had first read the profile, not sure whether to be thrilled or apprehensive. The part that was a dream come true, except for one thing. It wasn't real.
No, it wasn't real at all. Not any of it. He had no right to expect it to be. And yet a part of him couldn't resist indulging in the hope that somehow, on some level, it was. Or could be. If only she could see how much he cared for her, illusion could merge into reality. If only…no, he couldn't allow himself to think that way. This was a mission, nothing more. As they embraced and fell onto the bed, he repeated that admonition in his mind, again and again.
A mission, nothing more.
The night passed too quickly, and yet in exquisite slowness. Indeed, time seemed to vanish altogether, reappearing only in irregular moments when he remembered, reluctantly, that an audience was observing -- that the audience was the entire point. However, those moments came less and less frequently -- eventually, not at all. Gradually, everything outside disappeared -- the audience, the mission, their false personas -- leaving only a sea of sensation and emotion, a current that pulled him farther and farther out, until the waves broke over him and he sank beneath the surface.
So there was something, after all; he felt it in the tenderness of her touch, sensed it in the softness of her voice. He had found what he wanted -- something substantive, meaningful, permanent. Finally, with someone, there was something real. Overcome, he closed his eyes and held her tightly, pressing his face against the side of hers.
He stayed like that -- clutching her to him, unwilling to move -- for several moments. Then he lifted his head and reached out to stroke her face, and that's when he saw it. She had glanced -- briefly, discreetly, but very noticeably -- at the clock on the bedside table, her expression subtle, but clearly impatient.
My God, he thought, growing cold with horror, she was wondering when I would finally finish.
For her, this was a job. A duty. Nothing meaningful, not on any level. He had imagined it all. Mortified, he stared at her face; when she returned her gaze to him, her expression transformed into one of embarrassed recognition. She saw, he could tell. She saw exactly what he was thinking, what he was feeling -- and her eyes softened in a mixture of pity and silent apology.
Without a word, he pulled away from her, stood up, and walked into the bathroom. Hands shaking, he twisted the tap on and allowed the icy water to flow across his hands. He bent over the sink and splashed several handfuls of water on his face, then straightened and stared at himself in the mirror, disgusted.
What had he been thinking? He had been a fool, clinging to an impossible hope that she could somehow, eventually, be convinced to see something in him. But what was there to see? The reflection that gazed back at him showed nothing to admire -- he was too plain, too old, too…pitiful.
He had been reduced to an object of pity. Yet he hadn't always been that way. What had happened to the man he used to be? The adventurer who defied his parents' wishes to join the military, the man who had been secretly happy when he was recruited to the Section -- where had he gone? That man, apparently, had shriveled up and disappeared - too many years of living as a ghost had robbed him of his vitality. Too many years of following the rules had drained him of any character. Now, he was cautious, dull, dependable -- and desperately lonely.
He turned off the tap and looked back at his reflection, a question echoing in his mind.
Is this my life, then?
The hollow-cheeked face in the mirror stared back, unable to answer.
************
To go on to Chapter 10, click here.
Previous Chapters
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
One by one, Adrian spread the satellite photos across her desk until the entire surface was covered. She examined them, eyes darting from picture to picture -- a frown starting, then growing, then deepening into a grimace of pure disgust.
The images could have been taken for those of a mining pit or construction site -- a gaping wound in the ground, lined with unidentifiable debris. Only the notes that accompanied the photos told what it really was: the remains of an apartment complex in Teheran. Once occupied by at least fifty families. But now….
So dreadful. In a horrifying escalation of hatred, Iran and Iraq had started attacking each other's capitals, targeting civilians indiscriminately. Adrian found herself obsessed with the carnage, even though she was powerless to stop it. Her sponsors had made it abundantly clear that her purview was limited to the small-scale incidents they defined as 'terrorism'. Such a narrow-minded approach they took. This, they claimed, was war: something she had no right to intervene in. But in reality, what else could the wholesale destruction of a city be called but terroristic? And who were people like Saddam Hussein but the worst terrorists of all, despite all their trappings of state power and international recognition?
At least she was doing her part to keep their hands off nuclear weapons. The operation against Demetrios would be a major victory in that regard.
The telephone rang shrilly. Good. It was probably Raymond with the updates from Egypt.
"Good morning," she answered.
"Adrian," said Phillip, his tone smoothly elegant. "Good morning to you."
A sour taste filled her mouth as she recognized his voice. Phillip's timing was, as always, impeccably poor. He seemed to have a sixth sense about the worst moments to call; invariably, it was when she was her busiest and most distracted.
"Phillip," she replied, forcing a pleasant-sounding demeanor. "What an unexpected pleasure. I hope all is well at Center."
"Oh, quite. And at the Sections?"
"Busy." She chuckled in an attempt to sound lighthearted, although her answer, in actuality, revealed her reluctance to speak with him.
He, too, gave a pseudo-merry laugh, and then he cleared his throat.
"I read an interesting story in the newspaper this morning. It seems an American businessman has turned up dead. A very well-connected American businessman. Ted Pierce. Perhaps you've heard of him?"
She frowned. He wouldn't dare interfere in this mission, she thought. Just let him try.
"Yes, I believe I have," she answered, remaining studiously noncommittal until she could ascertain his intent.
"A rather shocking story, I must say. A gangland style killing -- tortured, shot in the back of the head, and then stuffed into the boot of a car. They say he apparently had large gambling losses."
"So I hear."
There was a lengthy pause. When he spoke again, a touch of anger had crept into his voice.
"There's a disturbing rumor floating around that it wasn't a Mafia killing at all. I wondered if you knew anything about it."
He clearly knew the truth, but he'd rather play games than get to the point. Fine. She could oblige him as long as he liked.
"What is it that you want to know, Phillip?" she asked innocently.
"I want to know if Section One was responsible," he snapped, no longer bothering to conceal his hostility. "Don't be coy. I don't have the patience for it."
"Yes, we were. What of it?"
He sighed audibly. "This man had powerful friends, Adrian. It should have been handled differently."
"This man, as you put it," she said, "was selling radioactive material to killers and madmen. How, pray tell, should we have handled it?"
"You should have cleared it with me first."
So now he wanted veto power over missions. Completely intolerable.
"Why?"
"This isn't a private crusade of good against evil, however much we would like it to be. We have people to answer to. More specifically, I have people to answer to. And I can't give them answers if you don't tell me what you're doing."
Her back stiffened defensively. He had crossed a line -- a line that he had once promised never, ever to cross. It seemed he needed reminding of that.
"When this organization was founded," she said acerbically, "I was promised full autonomy to pursue our goals as I saw fit. Center exists to provide guidance on the nature of those goals, not to micromanage the Sections."
"You're saying that you won't cooperate."
"I'm saying nothing of the sort. I will, from now on -- and strictly as a matter of courtesy -- give you advance notice of any mission that might be construed as sensitive. I will, to the extent possible, comply with reasonable requests. But I will not compromise a legitimate mission every time you feel uncomfortable breaking the news to your colleagues. Quite frankly, your spinelessness is your problem, not mine."
She heard him suck in his breath.
"Well, then," he said, "do you have any missions pending that might be construed as 'sensitive'? Now that you've so generously agreed to inform me -- strictly as a matter of courtesy, of course."
She pondered her answer for a moment. He seemed angry, but he was quite clearly in retreat. She would thus give him something to allow him to save face.
"Yes, we do, in fact. An operation against Tassos Demetrios."
"Demetrios? How ambitious," he said, his tone patronizing. "To what end?"
"To identify his buyers and suppliers. To strike at them before they realize they've been compromised. And when that's done, to destroy him, of course." Adrian smiled at the thought.
He laughed dryly. "If you can accomplish that, I'll be most impressed."
"I'm sure you will be."
He paused.
"Since you made such a gracious offer to comply with 'reasonable' requests, I have one to convey."
"Please do."
"When you bring in Demetrios for interrogation, I have some matters I'd like you to ask him about."
"But we're not bringing him in for interrogation."
"How else are you going to identify his network?"
Adrian grimaced, glad that Phillip couldn't see her reaction. His question demonstrated his utter lack of practical knowledge about how people like Demetrios operated.
"Bringing him in would tip off his associates that something was wrong," she explained, struggling to maintain her patience. "The instant they couldn't reach him, they'd shut down their bank accounts and cut off all contact points. As a result, it's essential that we identify them while he still appears to be operating normally."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
"We have operatives planting surveillance and working their way into his network. In several months' time, we expect to have gathered enough information to track down most of his business partners. At that point, we'll strike -- against everyone, simultaneously."
"I see." He sounded perplexed. "Then at that point you can bring him in for questioning."
"That would be pointless," she said, growing increasingly irritated. "His network will be destroyed. There's nothing useful he could tell us."
"Useful in terms of conducting missions, no. But what I want from him is quite different."
What Phillip wanted from him?
"What is it that you want?" she asked cautiously.
"I'm building a database here at Center. I believe that by collecting historical data regarding past patterns of terrorist activity, we can create algorithms to predict the recurrence of those patterns in the future. Demetrios would be a veritable fount of information in that regard."
"I see," she said, her brows furrowing as she assessed the significance of his statement. "So you'd like him taken alive and brought over to Center for questioning."
"No, no," he said testily. "We don't have the facilities for that sort of thing. You know that, Adrian."
"Then what?"
"I'll forward you a list of the data I require from him. You are to interrogate him in the Section."
In other words, he wanted her employees to spend their valuable time collecting information for some pet project of his. No, worse than that. This database sounded like an elaborate excuse to tell her what missions to launch -- and he wanted her to help him build it.
On its face, however, there was nothing unreasonable about the request. Recognizing that she had probably antagonized him enough for one day, she set aside her reluctance.
"Very well. We shouldn't have a problem doing that."
"Good. I'm sure you'll keep me informed as to the status of this mission?”
"Oh, yes."
"Thank you. Goodbye, Adrian."
Without waiting for her to reply, he hung up.
***
Lisa poured herself a glass of mineral water and leaned back in her chair, eyeing the other customers in the restaurant with mild curiosity. Even at such a late hour, the lunchtime crowd was heavy. She had forgotten what a popular place it was -- it had been months since she had been able to persuade anyone from Section to join her there, and the half-hour wait for a table had caught her by surprise.
She was even more surprised by the identity of her lunch companion. She asked Madeline to join her on the spur of the moment -- but hadn't really expected her to accept the invitation. A couple of years before, they had been quite social, even if not exactly close. But as Madeline spent more and more time devoted to her profiling and interrogation duties -- and as Lisa spent every moment of her spare time sitting in front of a computer terminal -- the two women had been reduced almost to the level of nodding acquaintances.
It rendered the conversation rather awkward, in fact. Lisa no longer knew what Madeline was interested in, apart from work, and vice versa. After several abortive attempts to respond to the conversational gambits that Madeline threw out, Lisa gave up.
Fall back on the tried and true, she thought. Maybe that's all I know how to talk about anymore.
"So," she said, "when do you go back to Greece?"
"Tomorrow," Madeline answered, slicing a piece off her chicken.
"How many trips do you think there'll be?"
"To do all the transactions? Probably at least a dozen."
"God, that means you're going to have to spend a lot of time with that creep." Lisa wrinkled her face in distaste. "I don't envy you this one."
Madeline took a bite of her food and shrugged. "I fit the profile," she said, seemingly unconcerned.
"Yeah, well, you always fit the profile when this kind of thing comes up. I don't think it's exactly fair." Lisa laughed scornfully, shaking her head. "Listen to me. Fair? What was I thinking?"
Thinking of her own situation as much as Madeline's, Lisa had allowed a hint of resentment to color her voice. Madeline glanced up, an inquisitive expression on her face. She seemed to be about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it. Instead, she returned to her meal.
Lisa toyed with one of her carrots, idly pushing it around her plate. "You know," she mused, "I'm lucky to be plain looking. I don't have to worry about getting those kinds of assignments."
Madeline gave her a surprised look.
"You're not plain looking. You just don't present yourself in a way that brings out your natural beauty." She looked Lisa up and down. "I could help you with that, if you like."
Lisa searched the other woman's face for some sign that she was joking. But there was nothing -- no teasing smirk, no trace of humor whatsoever -- only a look of utter and almost touching sincerity. She squirmed in her seat, trying to suppress her distaste at what seemed to be a well-intentioned, if unwelcome, suggestion.
"Um, thanks for the offer, but I'm not so sure I want help in that area. I'm pretty happy being skipped over for valentine duty, you know?"
"You're depriving yourself of one of the most powerful weapons in your arsenal. That's foolish."
"Yeah, maybe," admitted Lisa, increasingly uncomfortable at the casual way Madeline spoke about the matter. "But I just can't imagine doing that. Besides, you have to know all those special techniques, and, uh, they didn't give me that sort of training."
Madeline's eyes widened, and then she burst out in an uncharacteristic peal of laughter.
"Special techniques?" She sounded incredulous. "Just what is it that you think you would need to know?"
Lisa felt her face flush a deep, burning red. She cleared her throat, but her voice still cracked when she spoke. "Uhh, you know, fancy moves or something. Or weird, kinky stuff." As Madeline's expression grew more amused, Lisa felt more and more stupid. "That's what everyone says the valentine ops have to learn, anyway," she added defensively.
Madeline set down her knife and fork, covered her face with her hand for a moment, and then looked back at Lisa with a broad smile.
"Lisa, ninety percent of men are extremely unimaginative. Most of the time, all that's necessary is that you show up."
Lisa drained her glass of water, too embarrassed to say anything in response. How had she managed to find herself in the middle of this discussion? Wasn't work supposed to be a safe topic?
Madeline took a bite of bread and chewed it with excessive concentration, making an obvious effort to stifle her laughter. By the time she finished the bread, she seemed to have it under control.
"Actually," she said, her manner suddenly thoughtful, "there is something you have to learn in order to do that type of work successfully. But it has nothing to do with exotic techniques."
"Oh yeah?" asked Lisa, relieved to know Madeline was dropping that topic, although she wasn't sure the new one would be any better.
"You need to be able to attract the target's attention, to flatter him and boost his ego -- to appear to be enthusiastic about an experience that you might actually find tedious or even disgusting. It's about acting, about learning to put on a performance."
That look of sincerity was back, an expression of almost sisterly concern and earnestness that caught Lisa off guard. She wanted to look away, but it pulled her helplessly in.
"If you can learn to act in those circumstances, you can do it in any situation," Madeline explained. "It's a skill that translates into many, many other settings, out in the field and elsewhere. It's a long-term survival skill. That's why I say you'd be foolish not to learn it -- not because I think we need more operatives doing seduction assignments."
"Oh," said Lisa, finally understanding. "I see what you mean. You have a point, I suppose." Madeline did have a point, Lisa knew, although it didn't make her any more willing to sign up for valentine duty. "But, you know," she said, seizing at the opportunity to change the subject to something that made her feel less idiotic, "I'm working on another long-term survival skill. One I hope will get me out of the field completely."
"Really? And what would that be?"
"Computers. I've taught myself to program, and I've spent the last two years studying Section's systems. I know it like the back of my hand," she announced proudly.
"Very impressive. Why haven't you put in for a transfer?"
"I have. Three times. Jules said no each time." Lisa rolled her eyes. "He doesn't think women understand computers."
"Hmmm." Madeline frowned. "There might be a way around that."
"Like what?" Lisa sat forward with interest. She had her own idea about how to get around Jules's opposition -- an idea she had shared only with Walter -- but wondered what Madeline might come up with.
"I could place an entry in your personnel file. About how your last evaluation showed a high level of computer aptitude. It's likely that Adrian would eventually reassign you herself, if for no other reason than to test you out, and Jules wouldn't have any legitimate reason to object to it."
"You have access to the personnel files?"
"For the field operatives. It's necessary for my profiling work."
So Madeline had clearance to access personnel files. The same ones Lisa had stumbled across, no doubt. It made sense when Madeline explained it, but the possibility hadn't occurred to Lisa before.
If someone accessed those files using Madeline's system password, nothing would seem amiss. No alarms, no suspicious logons -- no one would ever know.
The force of that thought made Lisa sit back suddenly in shock. It was a dangerous, stupid idea -- one that was better ignored and forced back into whatever insane recess of her mind it had emerged from. Still, it might just work. But then again, if it didn't….
Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, she told herself, gripping her napkin tightly.
But she knew she would.
***
Madeline nodded in thanks as the young man placed a tray of food on the coffee table. Shyly, he dropped his gaze to the floor and departed the room without a word. From out of the shadows in the corner of the room, a gray-haired man, frail and stooped with age, emerged to hand her a milky-looking glass of ouzo. She accepted it with a grateful smile; he inclined his head deferentially and then retreated again.
"You've had a long journey," said Demetrios, who leaned back in an oversized armchair. "I thought you might appreciate some refreshments."
"Yes, thank you," said Charles. He selected a slice of cheese. "Most thoughtful."
Wearing a dark suit and tie that looked uncomfortably formal compared to Demetrios's loose-fitting trousers and open-necked shirt, Charles perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Beside him, Madeline cradled her glass in both hands, sank back into the heavy cushions, and slowly crossed one leg over the other. Demetrios's heavy-lidded eyes shifted back and forth, watching one of them, then the other, his expression unreadable.
His gaze returned to Madeline.
"I read in the papers that you'd gone into seclusion in your grief," he said, not quite repressing a smirk. "You didn't even attend his funeral?"
"No," said Madeline. She shook her head in a parody of regret. "Those dreadful people who killed him have been sending me death threats. The police thought it would be better to keep a low profile."
"Have they?" Demetrios asked, raising his eyebrows. "Truly barbaric." He picked up a drink from the table beside him and sipped it, peering at her over the top of his glass. "Still, while you're the owner now, the company has already hired a new CEO. Isn't he the one I need to deal with?"
"I hired him to go about the business of running a power company," she answered coolly. "That's not something I'm interested in learning how to do. But as for our business," she paused and smiled knowingly, "he's been kept out of the loop."
He set his drink down and shifted forward in his chair, reaching toward the coffee table. He plucked a dolma from the tray and slid it into his mouth; his jaw circled slowly as he savored it.
"All right, then," he said, licking his fingers clean with a smacking sound, "since you two are the ones to reach an agreement with, here are my terms."
Madeline set down her drink and sat forward attentively, joining Charles on the edge of the sofa.
"I'm a high volume customer. I need to be certain that when I need the product, a supply will be available. As a result, I expect exclusive purchase rights. And you'll give me a fifty percent discount from what your other customers have been paying."
Charles sat back, his expression shocked. "That's quite a demand."
"I think it's more than reasonable."
Charles laughed uncomfortably, picked up his drink, and took a long swallow. He shook his head. "We'll need some time to consider it."
"No, we won't," said Madeline.
The two men turned toward her, their faces registering surprise. In Demetrios's case, genuine surprise; in Charles's, an excellent imitation.
"Those terms simply aren't acceptable," she said calmly.
Both men stared at her.
"I understand your concern about guaranteeing access to an adequate supply," she said. "But exclusivity goes a bit too far. Instead, we'd be willing to grant you the right of first refusal. That way, you're protected, but if you don't buy what we have, we'd be free to go elsewhere."
Demetrios's eyelids twitched, almost imperceptibly.
"As for a discount," she continued, meeting his gaze steadily, "that's probably warranted. But a fifty percent flat rate isn't feasible. We have fixed costs to meet -- employees and inspectors to pay off, that sort of thing. However, we could offer you a sliding scale based on volume."
She smiled brightly and picked up her drink. She took a demure taste, and then set the glass down. Demetrios gaped for a moment, and began to laugh in disbelief.
"I don't think you understand who you're dealing with," he said. "I don't negotiate. My suppliers accept the terms I give to them."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, that's too bad." Fixing him with an unwavering stare, she stood up. "I guess we'll be leaving, then."
She glanced down at Charles, still sitting on the sofa. He looked up at her as if she had lost her mind, but slowly, feigning reluctance, rose to stand next to her.
Demetrios snatched out a gun from the drawer of the table next to him. He jumped to his feet and aimed the barrel straight at Madeline's chest.
"I don't think you'll be going anywhere."
Madeline forced herself to keep her gaze directed at his eyes -- to look at the gun would be a sign of fear and weakness, and weakness, in front of this man, would mean immediate death. She suppressed the urge to swallow and concentrated on keeping her breath slow and controlled.
"Go ahead," she said, ignoring the painful thudding in her chest. "Shoot us."
He stared at her, unmoving, the gun still pointed at her heart. The sound of the breath through his nose was heavy with anger.
"Of course," she continued, "if you do, the company will fall into the hands of outsiders, and you'll lose access to the single largest, highest quality, and cheapest source of plutonium on the market."
He blinked but still remained silent.
"Now," she said, with a fleeting but regretful smile, "had you chosen to be reasonable with us, you could have provided the product, upon demand, to any customer, at any time, and in virtually any amount. With your right of first refusal, you could have even kept the supply out of the hands of your competitors. Why, if anyone wanted a bomb that could be relied upon to work, they would have come to you -- and paid a premium for doing so." She shrugged. "But if you want to throw that away, kill us. You'll be back to bribing Russian generals for whatever they can scrounge up at the moment."
As she spoke, she watched the look in his eyes shift gradually -- from lethal, to curious, to impressed. At her last remark, his mouth twisted sharply upwards as if he were trying to suppress a laugh. Finally, he lowered the gun. From beside her, she heard a relieved sigh from Charles.
"You raise some interesting points," Demetrios conceded with a gracious half-bow.
"I thought you'd recognize that. You are an intelligent man, after all."
"I think I might need to give the matter some further thought."
"Of course."
They held a look, not in challenge, but in mutual respect. Eventually, Demetrios broke it, glancing at a nearby clock.
"I'm afraid it's getting quite late," he said apologetically. "I think it would be better if we continued this discussion tomorrow."
***
When the door closed behind him, Charles glanced quickly around the guest room. So many hiding places, it was hard to know where to begin. He walked over to the table where the servant had placed his suitcase and flipped it open, dug under the folded garments, and withdrew a small electronic device disguised as a pen.
Device in hand, he moved through the room, tracing a slow path back and forth, going through the motions of unpacking and arranging his belongings. The green light flashed three times; inspecting those areas more closely, he spotted the tiny transmitters. One was on the underside of a lampshade; another clung to the back of a picture frame; the third was stuck behind a table leg. A red flash gave away the presence of a camera, mounted above the door. How unoriginal. Didn't Demetrios's suppliers even bother searching for these things? No wonder he took advantage of all of them.
Charles had no intention of removing the bugs, however. Instead, he placed the detector back in his suitcase and pulled out his own set of transmitters. Demetrios wouldn't be the only one eavesdropping on the conversations of his visitors -- gleaning their plans, gathering information on their activities. Keeping his movements as innocent-looking as possible, Charles hid the transmitters far from Demetrios's poorly placed ones, activated each one, and began to whistle cheerfully.
Hello there, Section, he thought. Anyone listening?
He started when, almost in answer to his question, he heard a knock at his door. He approached it, brushed out the wrinkles in his jacket, and pulled it open.
"Done unpacking?" asked Madeline -- meaning, as he knew, whether he had planted his transmitters.
"Yes."
"Good," she said, walking past him into the room without invitation. "So am I."
He closed the door and turned around to face her, and the adrenaline from earlier in the evening returned in a dizzying rush.
Demetrios almost killed us, he thought.
The profile called for Madeline to stand up to Demetrios, to provoke him into anger as a means of gaining his respect -- to raise her, in his eyes, to something more than just another supplier to be manipulated, something more than just a potential sexual conquest. Charles had known that, had even looked forward to seeing how Madeline chose to defy him, but he hadn't expected the man to react quite so dramatically.
When Demetrios pulled out his gun, every instinct Charles possessed demanded that he step in front of Madeline. The effort to resist that urge had left him shaking with nausea. Nevertheless, he had succeeded, forcing himself to remain rooted in place, fixated on her expression. The look in her face as she dared Demetrios to shoot her had been utterly enthralling: both relaxed and intense, both serene and fierce, it was the look of someone without fear. Someone who was ready to die. It was simultaneously terrible and beautiful to behold.
Now, however, she looked at Charles quizzically, lifting an eyebrow in a sharp reminder that it was time for him to play his part. How could he have forgotten? He was standing there, lost in thought, when Geoffrey was supposed to be livid. He shook himself out of his reverie and crossed his arms in a show of anger.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" he hissed. "What were you doing?"
"Making sure he didn't think he could rip us off."
"You don't do that sort of thing with a man like him! He's not some Mercedes salesman you can dicker over terms with -- he's a criminal, for God's sake. A murderer, an arms dealer, and a terrorist!"
"So are we," she answered with a short laugh. "We've become all of those things now. We might as well act accordingly."
"But he's a big fish, and we're in his pond. He kills nobodies like us without a second thought."
"If you act like a nobody, then that's who you'll always be." She smiled. "As for me, I intend to grow into a very big fish, and I don't really care whose pond I'm in."
He forced his voice into an exasperated tone. "You're not going to live long enough for that, at this rate. Nor am I, thanks to you."
"Oh, Geoffrey. You need to have more faith in me. I know what I'm doing. It's all about finding whatever leverage you have and using it. I understand that -- you don't. Just leave it to me."
"Well," he said, hesitating, "since you're such an expert, what do you need me for?"
"What do you mean?" Her voice lowered, a tinge of worry entering it.
"Am I going to meet the same fate Ted did, now that I've served my purpose?"
"Geoffrey! How could you say that?"
He said nothing.
She stepped toward him and placed her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs lightly stroking back and forth. "I need you, Geoffrey," she murmured, "I'll always need you." She began moving her hands -- along his shoulders, circling to his chest, and back. "I have the ideas, you take care of the details," she continued, her voice soft and reassuring. "That's how it's always worked. That's not going to change." She pressed up close against him. "Besides," she said teasingly, "you know the effect you have on me."
"I'm sorry, Annette," he said, and he slipped his hands around her waist. "I shouldn't have said that. Tonight was just a bit stressful."
"Well," she said, landing light kisses along his neck and chin, "now that you've stopped worrying over nothing, I think we should celebrate. We're about to become very, very rich."
"What kind of celebration do you have in mind?" he asked, laughing softly.
"I see you have no imagination whatsoever. You can leave that to me, too."
With that, she touched her lips to his in a lingering kiss that sent his heart into painful leaps. He tried to keep his thoughts in order, but found them spinning hopelessly out of control -- it was time, finally, to commence the part of the act that he had been trying not to think about. The part that had left him in dumbfounded shock when he had first read the profile, not sure whether to be thrilled or apprehensive. The part that was a dream come true, except for one thing. It wasn't real.
No, it wasn't real at all. Not any of it. He had no right to expect it to be. And yet a part of him couldn't resist indulging in the hope that somehow, on some level, it was. Or could be. If only she could see how much he cared for her, illusion could merge into reality. If only…no, he couldn't allow himself to think that way. This was a mission, nothing more. As they embraced and fell onto the bed, he repeated that admonition in his mind, again and again.
A mission, nothing more.
The night passed too quickly, and yet in exquisite slowness. Indeed, time seemed to vanish altogether, reappearing only in irregular moments when he remembered, reluctantly, that an audience was observing -- that the audience was the entire point. However, those moments came less and less frequently -- eventually, not at all. Gradually, everything outside disappeared -- the audience, the mission, their false personas -- leaving only a sea of sensation and emotion, a current that pulled him farther and farther out, until the waves broke over him and he sank beneath the surface.
So there was something, after all; he felt it in the tenderness of her touch, sensed it in the softness of her voice. He had found what he wanted -- something substantive, meaningful, permanent. Finally, with someone, there was something real. Overcome, he closed his eyes and held her tightly, pressing his face against the side of hers.
He stayed like that -- clutching her to him, unwilling to move -- for several moments. Then he lifted his head and reached out to stroke her face, and that's when he saw it. She had glanced -- briefly, discreetly, but very noticeably -- at the clock on the bedside table, her expression subtle, but clearly impatient.
My God, he thought, growing cold with horror, she was wondering when I would finally finish.
For her, this was a job. A duty. Nothing meaningful, not on any level. He had imagined it all. Mortified, he stared at her face; when she returned her gaze to him, her expression transformed into one of embarrassed recognition. She saw, he could tell. She saw exactly what he was thinking, what he was feeling -- and her eyes softened in a mixture of pity and silent apology.
Without a word, he pulled away from her, stood up, and walked into the bathroom. Hands shaking, he twisted the tap on and allowed the icy water to flow across his hands. He bent over the sink and splashed several handfuls of water on his face, then straightened and stared at himself in the mirror, disgusted.
What had he been thinking? He had been a fool, clinging to an impossible hope that she could somehow, eventually, be convinced to see something in him. But what was there to see? The reflection that gazed back at him showed nothing to admire -- he was too plain, too old, too…pitiful.
He had been reduced to an object of pity. Yet he hadn't always been that way. What had happened to the man he used to be? The adventurer who defied his parents' wishes to join the military, the man who had been secretly happy when he was recruited to the Section -- where had he gone? That man, apparently, had shriveled up and disappeared - too many years of living as a ghost had robbed him of his vitality. Too many years of following the rules had drained him of any character. Now, he was cautious, dull, dependable -- and desperately lonely.
He turned off the tap and looked back at his reflection, a question echoing in his mind.
Is this my life, then?
The hollow-cheeked face in the mirror stared back, unable to answer.
************
To go on to Chapter 10, click here.
| Part One | Part Two |
|---|---|
| Chapter One | Chapter Seven |
| Chapter Two | Chapter Eight |
| Chapter Three | |
| Chapter Four | |
| Chapter Five | |
| Chapter Six |