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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 Five
Paul shifted sleepily, burrowing against the warm back next to him. Yawning, he drew the covers up and prepared to drift off once again, but then remembered where he was. He opened his eyes, suddenly alert.
Madeline lay sound asleep next to him, the light of the lamp from around the corner outlining her form in its diffused warmth. He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her, and squinted to read the clock on the bedside table. Four-thirty in the morning -- too early for him to have enough rest, but too late to go back to sleep. With a sigh, he pulled up a pillow and leaned back against the headboard. He could allow her a half hour longer before he woke her -- in the meantime, he would wait.
He watched Madeline sleep for several minutes. Her hair was spread haphazardly across her pillow, long dark strands tangling and curling against the pale blue fabric. Her breathing was steady and rhythmic, punctuated with occasional small sighs; her expression was soft, relaxed -- even vulnerable. He fought the urge to gather her in his arms, to hold her close to him while she unknowingly showed that side of herself that she hid so thoroughly while awake.
Years before, he had sometimes stayed up all night just to watch her. He had noticed, then, her frequent nightmares. When they came upon her, she tensed and thrashed to and fro, fighting off whatever enemies confronted her. The first few times, he had made the mistake of waking her, only for her to march off the bathroom and lock herself in, refusing to tell him what was the matter. Later, he simply stroked her face -- almost instantly, she would relax, the nightmares seemingly vanquished. He never told her that he did this; he knew that it would only anger and embarrass her. But it gave him a sad kind of satisfaction: he couldn't protect her from real-world dangers, but at least he could banish the imaginary ones.
This time, however, she slept quietly. So he contented himself with threading his fingers through the ends of her hair, turning them in idle circles, while his mind wandered back to Section.
Adrian had given him a punishing schedule: three more missions that month, at least. The first two would work, theoretically, with a four-person team, but the last, Tripoli, needed five. Which meant that he needed a replacement for Brad. Damn him -- why couldn't he have been competent? And damn Adrian for assigning Brad to him. She could have just left the nitwit on Charles's team, where, according to her, he seemed to be doing just fine.
Then the realization hit him. Brad was such a moron, he couldn't have been doing fine with Charles. Not unless Charles had been covering up for him. He pondered the thought for a moment -- would Charles have done something so foolish? It seemed pointless. Brad wasn't salvageable, and Charles was experienced enough to know that. Paul was ready to dismiss the idea, when he sat up, stung into anger. Of course. Charles wouldn't have been able to hide Brad's problems indefinitely, wouldn't have had any motive to do so. But he could have done it long enough to buy time -- time enough to convince Adrian to make the transfer, so that when Brad finally self-destructed it would be on someone else's team. On someone else's team, marring someone else's record.
Typical underhanded Charles. Paul had seen it time and time again. While Charles loved to play Mr. Nice Guy, underneath he was just as interested in covering his ass as anyone else. But unlike Paul, who wore his self-interest proudly and made no pretense of being anyone's benefactor, Charles cultivated this air of solicitous concern, of kindly interest in the welfare of his operatives -- even as he allowed them to die. Or shunted them off to someone else. God forbid that someone incompetent might blemish Charles's precious perfect record.
Well, this time Charles had picked the wrong tree to piss on. Paul now needed a fifth team member for Tripoli -- and he could just steal someone from Charles to fill that slot. Sergio would do very nicely. He was Charles's best operative, and he even spoke fluent Arabic: a convenient excuse for requesting his transfer. If the Tripoli mission went smoothly, Paul should be able to convince Adrian that Sergio should be a permanent addition.
Tit for tat, Charles -- screw with me and you'll regret it, Paul thought with a satisfied smile. Stick in the minor leagues where you belong.
Craving a cigarette, he glanced back at the clock. The half hour had passed. He reached over and shook Madeline awake.
"Madeline, it's five o'clock."
She opened her eyes, blinked several times in irritation, and rolled over.
"You're supposed to meet with Adrian at six. You'd better get ready."
She sat up abruptly. "Six o'clock? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"That's why I came here last night, actually." He chuckled. "But I got a little distracted."
She glared at him for several seconds, then, relenting, laughed wryly. "I've noticed you're quite easily distracted."
"Yes, but I know just the thing to restore my focus," he answered, leaning over to reach for her.
She pulled away and jumped from the bed, throwing him a scornful look. "I have to get ready, remember?" Then -- safely out of reach -- she smiled teasingly. "We'll work on that focus later."
***
Through the windows of her office, Adrian spotted Madeline approaching across the floor below. The young woman walked briskly but slowed near Comm, glancing at her watch and then taking an empty seat. How droll. Madeline was only five minutes early, but obviously intended to wait until precisely six to make her appearance.
Adrian turned back to the papers spread out on her desk. She had spent the past half hour reviewing Madeline's file, along with transcripts of the radio traffic from the mission. Madeline had shown a surprising amount of initiative -- disobeying orders to further the mission objective. Completely unexpected. George's descriptions of her, glowing as they were, hadn't done her justice.
Adrian heard steps approach, then a light knock against her open door. Looking up, she gestured for Madeline to enter.
"Come in, Madeline. Have a seat."
Madeline sat carefully, her posture rigid, resting her injured arm against her knee. She looked around the room but then stopped, her gaze captured by the vase in the corner of the room.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" asked Adrian.
"Very."
"I cut them this morning. Such lovely colors."
"You grew them yourself?" Madeline looked genuinely interested, not merely polite.
"I have a modest garden," Adrian answered. "I like to bring in something every day -- a bit of nature to remind me what season it is, even down here." She studied the red and violet blooms and felt a twinge of wistfulness. "We all need to stay connected to reality, one way or another."
She allowed Madeline to admire the bouquet for a few more moments before she spoke again.
"You're aware the intel on the Vienna mission was flawed?" She asked it casually, as if it were a trivial matter.
Madeline nodded.
"I knew that, of course, before you went in."
She watched Madeline's face pale as the significance of the words sunk in.
"I was never convinced of the reliability of our source," she said. "The interrogation was sloppy, hastily done." She paused for greater effect, straightening the papers on her desk into a neat stack. "And yet I sent the team anyway. Without warning Paul that there might be problems."
Madeline sat impassively, waiting for Adrian to continue, but her eyes never left Adrian's. Interesting. She wouldn't allow herself to be provoked -- or intimidated. At least not yet.
Adrian leaned back in her chair and folded her hands atop her desk. "Do you have any idea why I might have done that?"
"It was a test." Madeline spoke quietly but with an air of confidence.
"Close, but not quite." Adrian smiled. "It was a lesson, not a test."
The faintest trace of confusion crossed Madeline's face.
"You have highly developed skills in extracting information, my dear, but you've never had the opportunity to see first-hand how that information is put to use. Nor," Adrian added, "more to the point, what happens if it's flawed."
The confusion faded from Madeline's expression as understanding set in.
"I've always believed that there's no teacher like experience," Adrian explained. "This mission was intended as a vivid illustration -- something to bring the importance of your work home to you. To remind you that lives depend upon it."
"I understand that," Madeline said, defensively. "I've always understood that."
"Understood it in theory, perhaps. But from now on, when you do interrogations, you'll have personal experience regarding precisely what's at stake. How something as seemingly insignificant as the blueprint of a building being slightly awry can have disastrous consequences. I hope it will help you focus on your work."
"It will," Madeline answered. She sat utterly still, as if she were struggling to hold her reaction in check.
"But there was another lesson, as well." Adrian cocked her head to examine her subordinate. "Do you know what profiling entails?"
"Understanding the enemy. Planning out the best strategy to defeat them."
"In simplistic terms, yes. I was hoping for something more substantive."
Madeline accepted the rebuke in silence.
"Profiling isn't some dry ritual, diagramming steps on paper to be carried out by someone in the abstract. No. Profiling is a deadly serious game, pitting flesh and blood against flesh and blood. To do it well, you must know the operatives in Section as people, not just the skill sets listed in their personnel files."
"I see."
"Do you? Then you must realize by now that Brad, of course, was completely unsuitable. In fact, Charles, his prior team leader, had recommended him for abeyance." Adrian smiled, noting by Madeline's slightly sickened expression that she knew exactly where Adrian was leading. "I sent him on the mission as a means of demonstrating the importance of selecting the appropriate personnel."
"You knew he would disobey orders."
"I knew he would likely make some sort of critical error." Adrian shrugged. "The particulars didn't really matter."
"And you risked the mission to prove it?" Madeline's voice sharpened almost imperceptibly. She was getting braver: a reaction Adrian found amusing.
"I assigned the mission to Paul. He's usually rather good at adapting to unexpected developments." Adrian frowned. "Although this time, you reacted before he did. To be completely candid, it's more than I expected from you."
Madeline's face reddened.
"I didn't bring you into Section One to send you on missions. That would be a waste of your training and experience. But since you've demonstrated a certain flair for fieldwork, I've decided to modify my plans. You'll continue to participate in missions, at least on a part-time basis. However, your primary tasks, commencing now, will be intelligence gathering, analysis, and profiling -- and, as part of your profiling duties, personnel assessment."
Madeline nodded.
"By the way -- that demotion to Level Two."
Madeline raised her eyebrows -- a look flashed through her eyes so quickly that Adrian couldn't tell if it was curiosity or apprehension.
"Was never really a demotion. You're still Level Five."
"Another lesson?" To anyone else, the question would have seemed polite. Adrian, however, caught the underlying resentment.
Adrian stifled a smile. Despite Madeline's remarkable self-control, it seemed that there were still plenty of buttons to push. "No, a test. To see if you could accept discipline and still perform your job." She paused. "You passed, in case you're curious."
Madeline simply stared at Adrian, her eyes like black ice.
Adrian stood. "Now, let me show you to your workspace."
***
Charles turned the page slowly, absorbing the contents of each paragraph as he sipped his tea. He hated the tea from Section's cafeteria -- they used those vile bags, nothing like the Darjeeling he brewed in his own kitchen most mornings. But he had stayed up all night in the library reading the latest banking privacy regulations, and it simply hadn't made any sense to go home.
He set down his cup and continued reading. Nauru. He hadn't come across any terrorist group funneling funds through that country yet, but it was only a matter of time. The wars in Central America had rendered the Caribbean offshore havens far too dangerous. They were crawling with CIA spooks, Cuban diplomats, Colombian druglords, militia leaders and soldiers of fortune, all running amok -- and that on top of the usual collection of con men, tax frauds and other miscreants. It was only a matter of time before something exploded, before some horrific scandal embarrassed the local authorities into clamping down on the private banking industry. It was a house of cards, really - something that any terrorist group of any sophistication would stay far away from. But Nauru, on the other side of the world, had everything: complete secrecy, minimal set-up costs, and, most important of all, quiet. It was almost perfect. He would have to tell Adrian to place a closer watch on transactions taking place there.
He set aside the volume and picked up a slice of toast, biting down on it thoughtfully. How ironic that he would be spending his time this way. Years ago, he had joined the military to escape the family banking business, to seek a life of adventure -- and now, well, he had both, he supposed. A little too much adventure, in fact, for a man his age, which is why he had started to engross himself in regulatory minutiae. It was time he found a way to fight the enemy that didn't require him to carry a gun.
He looked up to see Paul passing by, clutching a coffee and looking exhausted. Apparently, someone else had pulled an all-night session. As Paul drew near, Charles started to smile in commiseration, but stopped when he saw Paul's expression. It was unsettling -- the other man looked both disgusted and bloodthirsty, as if he had spotted some sort of vermin that needed to be exterminated.
When he reached Charles' table, Paul leaned in close.
"Next time, find someone else's backyard to throw your garbage into." His voice was low, and his pale blue eyes swam with chilling menace. "I don't appreciate it."
Charles frowned, baffled. He would think that Paul was speaking in riddles, except for the fact that he seemed so angry. Beyond angry, really -- indeed, he looked, for all the world, like a cobra about to strike. Tired as Charles was from his lack of sleep, he felt a defensive burst of adrenaline that sent his heart pounding.
"What are you talking about?"
"That bozo you convinced Adrian to take off your team and put onto mine." Paul narrowed his eyes. Charles could feel the potential violence coiled below the surface, seething and broiling. "You know, the one who couldn't wipe his ass without an instruction manual."
Had Paul lost his mind? There was only one operative who had been transferred from Charles's team to Paul's recently, and Charles certainly hadn't recommended it. Quite the contrary: he had been shocked when Adrian put the man on another team instead of in abeyance where he belonged.
"You mean Brad?"
"Oh, so you're not going to play dumb after all. How nice."
"I didn't tell Adrian to transfer him to anyone's team, much less yours." Charles felt his own anger rising. He'd never had any dispute with Paul in the past, despite Paul's infamous temper, and he didn't want one now. But there was only so much of this that he would take.
"Sure you didn't." Paul sneered. "You know, Charles, just because you screw up training new team members doesn't give you the right to dump them on someone else afterwards."
That was quite enough. Whatever delusion Paul was suffering from was beside the point -- Charles wouldn't stand for that sort of insult. He took great pride in the mentoring he did for his team. Unlike Paul, he taught, he didn't bully.
"At least I try to take care of my people. Why, you didn't even notice that your new operative had broken her arm. I had to take her to Medlab myself." He curled his lip in disdain. "Perhaps I should ask Adrian to transfer her to my team. I seem to appreciate her more."
With a loud smash, Paul flung his coffee cup down on the floor and lunged at Charles. Instinctively, Charles jumped from his seat and stepped away; they faced off, glaring at each other, as the entire room hushed.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Walter exclaimed, running from a nearby table and stepping in between the two men.
Paul scowled darkly for a moment. "This isn't over," he growled, then turned and stalked away.
Walter shook his head. "A word of advice, amigo. That was the wrong topic to bring up."
"Why?" Charles was having trouble bringing his breathing back to a normal level; his nerves were still on edge.
"I think Paul's a little, um, possessive of Madeline."
"What, because she's on his team?" Charles scoffed. "His team members aren't his property. They belong to the Section."
"No, I mean something a little more than that. You know." Walter raised his eyebrows in emphasis. "Personally possessive."
As he absorbed Walter's meaning, Charles felt himself grow strangely offended. A taste of bile began to rise in the back of his throat.
"Then that's even more reason why he should have been looking after her."
Walter laughed. "Somehow, I don't think she's exactly the type that lets herself be looked after."
Charles drew himself up haughtily. He wasn't going to be lectured about women by some glorified mechanic. "She would, if one didn't try to force it upon her. A woman like that has to be allowed to choose to rely on a man -- too independent-minded for anything else." He made a face in distaste. "But I doubt someone like Paul can understand that. He just tries to overpower everyone."
Walter placed his hand on Charles' shoulder. "Don't do it. Don't even think about doing it. You're just asking for trouble. Trust me."
"I'm not going to do anything." Charles smiled calmly. "That, I'll leave entirely up to her."
***
Adrian led the way into the small observation room; Madeline followed and stood beside her as the door swung shut.
The room was a sterile white, empty but for two chairs facing a glass partition window, a panel of buttons and speakers lining the wall below it. The soft whir of the ventilation system was the only sound; its cool current stirred Adrian's hair as she looked through the glass into an adjoining room.
The other room was larger, but completely devoid of furnishings. In it, one of the captives from Vienna hung limply from manacles embedded in the wall, his naked back open to the air. Two other men, clad in black pants and sweaters, stood next to the prisoner. One held a police baton and wielded it against the captive's kidneys; the other leaned in toward him, his face angry and contorted as he screamed at the bound man. His words were inaudible, but his red-faced lividness burned even through the soundproof glass of the window.
Adrian turned to Madeline. "I'd like you to observe and give me your opinion."
"Of?"
Adrian made a face in surprise. Wasn't it obvious what she wanted an opinion of?
"My opinion of the prisoner?" Madeline elaborated. Her tone was clinical, her enunciation clipped and precise. "Of the information he discloses? Of your facilities and equipment? Of the interrogation process? Of the interrogators themselves?" An eyebrow arched upwards sharply. "Or of something else?"
Adrian was taken aback. While Madeline remained polite, there was a hint of impatience, almost annoyance, in her demeanor, as if she were speaking to a subordinate rather than a superior. In Adrian's office just a few moments ago, Madeline had been deferential, even nervous. Here, she was confident. At home. The recognition made Adrian's blood run cold.
"Of anything you like," Adrian answered, swallowing hard and forcing a smile. "This is your domain now. Everything in it is open for your assessment."
Adrian pushed a button to switch on the sound from the other room, and the two women observed, side-by-side.
The beating wasn't particularly brutal, that Adrian knew. Yet she had trouble forcing herself to watch; her stomach contracted in discomfort. This sort of thing was unavoidable, but so distasteful -- she had always tried to leave that work to others, preferring to know as little about it as possible. George never seemed to have a problem with it. He accepted it, as he did so many unwholesome necessities of their trade. Adrian, however, could never shake the feeling that the practice poisoned them. They, the defenders of civilization and progress, were supposed to be above such things: better, nobler than the monsters they fought.
But were they, really?
It was the sound of the torture that disturbed her the most: the dull thwack of the baton against the prisoner's back, the creak of the manacles as his weight pulled against them, his grunts and expelled breaths at each blow, the shouts and taunts of his captors. Wincing, Adrian stole a look at the woman next to her, and then wished she hadn't. Madeline showed no reaction, no expression, no sense of witnessing anything of significance at all.
One of the interrogators reached up and unclasped the manacles, and the captive collapsed onto the floor. The two men began kicking him savagely; he attempted to curl up in defense, but was too weak to fend off their stomps. When the toe of a boot landed directly against his abdomen, he shuddered, vomited, and lay still. The two men stepped back; slowly, trembling, the prisoner lifted his head.
"Enough," he gasped. "I'll tell you everything."
As the prisoner began answering questions, Adrian felt her muscles relax and her breathing deepen. The worst was over. Soon, they would have all the information they needed.
Madeline glanced at Adrian, then back toward the window. "He's making it up," she said.
That couldn't be possible. The man was completely broken -- one could see it in his eyes. He didn't have the energy to resist anymore.
"Are you certain?"
"Quite."
"Then I'll tell them to resume the beating," Adrian said reluctantly, reaching for the intercom.
"That would be a waste of time," said Madeline. "He doesn't know anything. He's inventing information out of desperation."
"How can you tell?"
"There are cues in his demeanor." Her tone was devoid of any emotion, almost bored-sounding, and yet utterly confident.
Adrian stared into the other room, searching for a sign -- anything -- that would give the prisoner's lies away. There was nothing. The man looked desperate, true enough, but no more so than hundreds of other captives who had given them accurate intel.
She pressed the intercom button. "Return him to Containment and bring in one of the others."
"Yes, ma'am," answered the voice over the speaker.
She released the button and turned to Madeline.
"The next one is yours."
Madeline did nothing to acknowledge Adrian's statement; she simply stared back, her eyes holding Adrian's gaze with their dark intensity. As Adrian watched, not sure whether to be fascinated or horrified, a mask seemed to settle on Madeline's face. The clinical detachment of moments before melted into something subtler -- something soft, yet calculating. It was as if a cloak of outer grace and calm had descended to wrap itself around a crouching predator.
"Thank you," said Madeline. "I'll do my best."
************
To go on to Chapter Six, click here.
Prior Chapters
Previous Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
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).
Paul shifted sleepily, burrowing against the warm back next to him. Yawning, he drew the covers up and prepared to drift off once again, but then remembered where he was. He opened his eyes, suddenly alert.
Madeline lay sound asleep next to him, the light of the lamp from around the corner outlining her form in its diffused warmth. He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her, and squinted to read the clock on the bedside table. Four-thirty in the morning -- too early for him to have enough rest, but too late to go back to sleep. With a sigh, he pulled up a pillow and leaned back against the headboard. He could allow her a half hour longer before he woke her -- in the meantime, he would wait.
He watched Madeline sleep for several minutes. Her hair was spread haphazardly across her pillow, long dark strands tangling and curling against the pale blue fabric. Her breathing was steady and rhythmic, punctuated with occasional small sighs; her expression was soft, relaxed -- even vulnerable. He fought the urge to gather her in his arms, to hold her close to him while she unknowingly showed that side of herself that she hid so thoroughly while awake.
Years before, he had sometimes stayed up all night just to watch her. He had noticed, then, her frequent nightmares. When they came upon her, she tensed and thrashed to and fro, fighting off whatever enemies confronted her. The first few times, he had made the mistake of waking her, only for her to march off the bathroom and lock herself in, refusing to tell him what was the matter. Later, he simply stroked her face -- almost instantly, she would relax, the nightmares seemingly vanquished. He never told her that he did this; he knew that it would only anger and embarrass her. But it gave him a sad kind of satisfaction: he couldn't protect her from real-world dangers, but at least he could banish the imaginary ones.
This time, however, she slept quietly. So he contented himself with threading his fingers through the ends of her hair, turning them in idle circles, while his mind wandered back to Section.
Adrian had given him a punishing schedule: three more missions that month, at least. The first two would work, theoretically, with a four-person team, but the last, Tripoli, needed five. Which meant that he needed a replacement for Brad. Damn him -- why couldn't he have been competent? And damn Adrian for assigning Brad to him. She could have just left the nitwit on Charles's team, where, according to her, he seemed to be doing just fine.
Then the realization hit him. Brad was such a moron, he couldn't have been doing fine with Charles. Not unless Charles had been covering up for him. He pondered the thought for a moment -- would Charles have done something so foolish? It seemed pointless. Brad wasn't salvageable, and Charles was experienced enough to know that. Paul was ready to dismiss the idea, when he sat up, stung into anger. Of course. Charles wouldn't have been able to hide Brad's problems indefinitely, wouldn't have had any motive to do so. But he could have done it long enough to buy time -- time enough to convince Adrian to make the transfer, so that when Brad finally self-destructed it would be on someone else's team. On someone else's team, marring someone else's record.
Typical underhanded Charles. Paul had seen it time and time again. While Charles loved to play Mr. Nice Guy, underneath he was just as interested in covering his ass as anyone else. But unlike Paul, who wore his self-interest proudly and made no pretense of being anyone's benefactor, Charles cultivated this air of solicitous concern, of kindly interest in the welfare of his operatives -- even as he allowed them to die. Or shunted them off to someone else. God forbid that someone incompetent might blemish Charles's precious perfect record.
Well, this time Charles had picked the wrong tree to piss on. Paul now needed a fifth team member for Tripoli -- and he could just steal someone from Charles to fill that slot. Sergio would do very nicely. He was Charles's best operative, and he even spoke fluent Arabic: a convenient excuse for requesting his transfer. If the Tripoli mission went smoothly, Paul should be able to convince Adrian that Sergio should be a permanent addition.
Tit for tat, Charles -- screw with me and you'll regret it, Paul thought with a satisfied smile. Stick in the minor leagues where you belong.
Craving a cigarette, he glanced back at the clock. The half hour had passed. He reached over and shook Madeline awake.
"Madeline, it's five o'clock."
She opened her eyes, blinked several times in irritation, and rolled over.
"You're supposed to meet with Adrian at six. You'd better get ready."
She sat up abruptly. "Six o'clock? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"That's why I came here last night, actually." He chuckled. "But I got a little distracted."
She glared at him for several seconds, then, relenting, laughed wryly. "I've noticed you're quite easily distracted."
"Yes, but I know just the thing to restore my focus," he answered, leaning over to reach for her.
She pulled away and jumped from the bed, throwing him a scornful look. "I have to get ready, remember?" Then -- safely out of reach -- she smiled teasingly. "We'll work on that focus later."
***
Through the windows of her office, Adrian spotted Madeline approaching across the floor below. The young woman walked briskly but slowed near Comm, glancing at her watch and then taking an empty seat. How droll. Madeline was only five minutes early, but obviously intended to wait until precisely six to make her appearance.
Adrian turned back to the papers spread out on her desk. She had spent the past half hour reviewing Madeline's file, along with transcripts of the radio traffic from the mission. Madeline had shown a surprising amount of initiative -- disobeying orders to further the mission objective. Completely unexpected. George's descriptions of her, glowing as they were, hadn't done her justice.
Adrian heard steps approach, then a light knock against her open door. Looking up, she gestured for Madeline to enter.
"Come in, Madeline. Have a seat."
Madeline sat carefully, her posture rigid, resting her injured arm against her knee. She looked around the room but then stopped, her gaze captured by the vase in the corner of the room.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" asked Adrian.
"Very."
"I cut them this morning. Such lovely colors."
"You grew them yourself?" Madeline looked genuinely interested, not merely polite.
"I have a modest garden," Adrian answered. "I like to bring in something every day -- a bit of nature to remind me what season it is, even down here." She studied the red and violet blooms and felt a twinge of wistfulness. "We all need to stay connected to reality, one way or another."
She allowed Madeline to admire the bouquet for a few more moments before she spoke again.
"You're aware the intel on the Vienna mission was flawed?" She asked it casually, as if it were a trivial matter.
Madeline nodded.
"I knew that, of course, before you went in."
She watched Madeline's face pale as the significance of the words sunk in.
"I was never convinced of the reliability of our source," she said. "The interrogation was sloppy, hastily done." She paused for greater effect, straightening the papers on her desk into a neat stack. "And yet I sent the team anyway. Without warning Paul that there might be problems."
Madeline sat impassively, waiting for Adrian to continue, but her eyes never left Adrian's. Interesting. She wouldn't allow herself to be provoked -- or intimidated. At least not yet.
Adrian leaned back in her chair and folded her hands atop her desk. "Do you have any idea why I might have done that?"
"It was a test." Madeline spoke quietly but with an air of confidence.
"Close, but not quite." Adrian smiled. "It was a lesson, not a test."
The faintest trace of confusion crossed Madeline's face.
"You have highly developed skills in extracting information, my dear, but you've never had the opportunity to see first-hand how that information is put to use. Nor," Adrian added, "more to the point, what happens if it's flawed."
The confusion faded from Madeline's expression as understanding set in.
"I've always believed that there's no teacher like experience," Adrian explained. "This mission was intended as a vivid illustration -- something to bring the importance of your work home to you. To remind you that lives depend upon it."
"I understand that," Madeline said, defensively. "I've always understood that."
"Understood it in theory, perhaps. But from now on, when you do interrogations, you'll have personal experience regarding precisely what's at stake. How something as seemingly insignificant as the blueprint of a building being slightly awry can have disastrous consequences. I hope it will help you focus on your work."
"It will," Madeline answered. She sat utterly still, as if she were struggling to hold her reaction in check.
"But there was another lesson, as well." Adrian cocked her head to examine her subordinate. "Do you know what profiling entails?"
"Understanding the enemy. Planning out the best strategy to defeat them."
"In simplistic terms, yes. I was hoping for something more substantive."
Madeline accepted the rebuke in silence.
"Profiling isn't some dry ritual, diagramming steps on paper to be carried out by someone in the abstract. No. Profiling is a deadly serious game, pitting flesh and blood against flesh and blood. To do it well, you must know the operatives in Section as people, not just the skill sets listed in their personnel files."
"I see."
"Do you? Then you must realize by now that Brad, of course, was completely unsuitable. In fact, Charles, his prior team leader, had recommended him for abeyance." Adrian smiled, noting by Madeline's slightly sickened expression that she knew exactly where Adrian was leading. "I sent him on the mission as a means of demonstrating the importance of selecting the appropriate personnel."
"You knew he would disobey orders."
"I knew he would likely make some sort of critical error." Adrian shrugged. "The particulars didn't really matter."
"And you risked the mission to prove it?" Madeline's voice sharpened almost imperceptibly. She was getting braver: a reaction Adrian found amusing.
"I assigned the mission to Paul. He's usually rather good at adapting to unexpected developments." Adrian frowned. "Although this time, you reacted before he did. To be completely candid, it's more than I expected from you."
Madeline's face reddened.
"I didn't bring you into Section One to send you on missions. That would be a waste of your training and experience. But since you've demonstrated a certain flair for fieldwork, I've decided to modify my plans. You'll continue to participate in missions, at least on a part-time basis. However, your primary tasks, commencing now, will be intelligence gathering, analysis, and profiling -- and, as part of your profiling duties, personnel assessment."
Madeline nodded.
"By the way -- that demotion to Level Two."
Madeline raised her eyebrows -- a look flashed through her eyes so quickly that Adrian couldn't tell if it was curiosity or apprehension.
"Was never really a demotion. You're still Level Five."
"Another lesson?" To anyone else, the question would have seemed polite. Adrian, however, caught the underlying resentment.
Adrian stifled a smile. Despite Madeline's remarkable self-control, it seemed that there were still plenty of buttons to push. "No, a test. To see if you could accept discipline and still perform your job." She paused. "You passed, in case you're curious."
Madeline simply stared at Adrian, her eyes like black ice.
Adrian stood. "Now, let me show you to your workspace."
***
Charles turned the page slowly, absorbing the contents of each paragraph as he sipped his tea. He hated the tea from Section's cafeteria -- they used those vile bags, nothing like the Darjeeling he brewed in his own kitchen most mornings. But he had stayed up all night in the library reading the latest banking privacy regulations, and it simply hadn't made any sense to go home.
He set down his cup and continued reading. Nauru. He hadn't come across any terrorist group funneling funds through that country yet, but it was only a matter of time. The wars in Central America had rendered the Caribbean offshore havens far too dangerous. They were crawling with CIA spooks, Cuban diplomats, Colombian druglords, militia leaders and soldiers of fortune, all running amok -- and that on top of the usual collection of con men, tax frauds and other miscreants. It was only a matter of time before something exploded, before some horrific scandal embarrassed the local authorities into clamping down on the private banking industry. It was a house of cards, really - something that any terrorist group of any sophistication would stay far away from. But Nauru, on the other side of the world, had everything: complete secrecy, minimal set-up costs, and, most important of all, quiet. It was almost perfect. He would have to tell Adrian to place a closer watch on transactions taking place there.
He set aside the volume and picked up a slice of toast, biting down on it thoughtfully. How ironic that he would be spending his time this way. Years ago, he had joined the military to escape the family banking business, to seek a life of adventure -- and now, well, he had both, he supposed. A little too much adventure, in fact, for a man his age, which is why he had started to engross himself in regulatory minutiae. It was time he found a way to fight the enemy that didn't require him to carry a gun.
He looked up to see Paul passing by, clutching a coffee and looking exhausted. Apparently, someone else had pulled an all-night session. As Paul drew near, Charles started to smile in commiseration, but stopped when he saw Paul's expression. It was unsettling -- the other man looked both disgusted and bloodthirsty, as if he had spotted some sort of vermin that needed to be exterminated.
When he reached Charles' table, Paul leaned in close.
"Next time, find someone else's backyard to throw your garbage into." His voice was low, and his pale blue eyes swam with chilling menace. "I don't appreciate it."
Charles frowned, baffled. He would think that Paul was speaking in riddles, except for the fact that he seemed so angry. Beyond angry, really -- indeed, he looked, for all the world, like a cobra about to strike. Tired as Charles was from his lack of sleep, he felt a defensive burst of adrenaline that sent his heart pounding.
"What are you talking about?"
"That bozo you convinced Adrian to take off your team and put onto mine." Paul narrowed his eyes. Charles could feel the potential violence coiled below the surface, seething and broiling. "You know, the one who couldn't wipe his ass without an instruction manual."
Had Paul lost his mind? There was only one operative who had been transferred from Charles's team to Paul's recently, and Charles certainly hadn't recommended it. Quite the contrary: he had been shocked when Adrian put the man on another team instead of in abeyance where he belonged.
"You mean Brad?"
"Oh, so you're not going to play dumb after all. How nice."
"I didn't tell Adrian to transfer him to anyone's team, much less yours." Charles felt his own anger rising. He'd never had any dispute with Paul in the past, despite Paul's infamous temper, and he didn't want one now. But there was only so much of this that he would take.
"Sure you didn't." Paul sneered. "You know, Charles, just because you screw up training new team members doesn't give you the right to dump them on someone else afterwards."
That was quite enough. Whatever delusion Paul was suffering from was beside the point -- Charles wouldn't stand for that sort of insult. He took great pride in the mentoring he did for his team. Unlike Paul, he taught, he didn't bully.
"At least I try to take care of my people. Why, you didn't even notice that your new operative had broken her arm. I had to take her to Medlab myself." He curled his lip in disdain. "Perhaps I should ask Adrian to transfer her to my team. I seem to appreciate her more."
With a loud smash, Paul flung his coffee cup down on the floor and lunged at Charles. Instinctively, Charles jumped from his seat and stepped away; they faced off, glaring at each other, as the entire room hushed.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Walter exclaimed, running from a nearby table and stepping in between the two men.
Paul scowled darkly for a moment. "This isn't over," he growled, then turned and stalked away.
Walter shook his head. "A word of advice, amigo. That was the wrong topic to bring up."
"Why?" Charles was having trouble bringing his breathing back to a normal level; his nerves were still on edge.
"I think Paul's a little, um, possessive of Madeline."
"What, because she's on his team?" Charles scoffed. "His team members aren't his property. They belong to the Section."
"No, I mean something a little more than that. You know." Walter raised his eyebrows in emphasis. "Personally possessive."
As he absorbed Walter's meaning, Charles felt himself grow strangely offended. A taste of bile began to rise in the back of his throat.
"Then that's even more reason why he should have been looking after her."
Walter laughed. "Somehow, I don't think she's exactly the type that lets herself be looked after."
Charles drew himself up haughtily. He wasn't going to be lectured about women by some glorified mechanic. "She would, if one didn't try to force it upon her. A woman like that has to be allowed to choose to rely on a man -- too independent-minded for anything else." He made a face in distaste. "But I doubt someone like Paul can understand that. He just tries to overpower everyone."
Walter placed his hand on Charles' shoulder. "Don't do it. Don't even think about doing it. You're just asking for trouble. Trust me."
"I'm not going to do anything." Charles smiled calmly. "That, I'll leave entirely up to her."
***
Adrian led the way into the small observation room; Madeline followed and stood beside her as the door swung shut.
The room was a sterile white, empty but for two chairs facing a glass partition window, a panel of buttons and speakers lining the wall below it. The soft whir of the ventilation system was the only sound; its cool current stirred Adrian's hair as she looked through the glass into an adjoining room.
The other room was larger, but completely devoid of furnishings. In it, one of the captives from Vienna hung limply from manacles embedded in the wall, his naked back open to the air. Two other men, clad in black pants and sweaters, stood next to the prisoner. One held a police baton and wielded it against the captive's kidneys; the other leaned in toward him, his face angry and contorted as he screamed at the bound man. His words were inaudible, but his red-faced lividness burned even through the soundproof glass of the window.
Adrian turned to Madeline. "I'd like you to observe and give me your opinion."
"Of?"
Adrian made a face in surprise. Wasn't it obvious what she wanted an opinion of?
"My opinion of the prisoner?" Madeline elaborated. Her tone was clinical, her enunciation clipped and precise. "Of the information he discloses? Of your facilities and equipment? Of the interrogation process? Of the interrogators themselves?" An eyebrow arched upwards sharply. "Or of something else?"
Adrian was taken aback. While Madeline remained polite, there was a hint of impatience, almost annoyance, in her demeanor, as if she were speaking to a subordinate rather than a superior. In Adrian's office just a few moments ago, Madeline had been deferential, even nervous. Here, she was confident. At home. The recognition made Adrian's blood run cold.
"Of anything you like," Adrian answered, swallowing hard and forcing a smile. "This is your domain now. Everything in it is open for your assessment."
Adrian pushed a button to switch on the sound from the other room, and the two women observed, side-by-side.
The beating wasn't particularly brutal, that Adrian knew. Yet she had trouble forcing herself to watch; her stomach contracted in discomfort. This sort of thing was unavoidable, but so distasteful -- she had always tried to leave that work to others, preferring to know as little about it as possible. George never seemed to have a problem with it. He accepted it, as he did so many unwholesome necessities of their trade. Adrian, however, could never shake the feeling that the practice poisoned them. They, the defenders of civilization and progress, were supposed to be above such things: better, nobler than the monsters they fought.
But were they, really?
It was the sound of the torture that disturbed her the most: the dull thwack of the baton against the prisoner's back, the creak of the manacles as his weight pulled against them, his grunts and expelled breaths at each blow, the shouts and taunts of his captors. Wincing, Adrian stole a look at the woman next to her, and then wished she hadn't. Madeline showed no reaction, no expression, no sense of witnessing anything of significance at all.
One of the interrogators reached up and unclasped the manacles, and the captive collapsed onto the floor. The two men began kicking him savagely; he attempted to curl up in defense, but was too weak to fend off their stomps. When the toe of a boot landed directly against his abdomen, he shuddered, vomited, and lay still. The two men stepped back; slowly, trembling, the prisoner lifted his head.
"Enough," he gasped. "I'll tell you everything."
As the prisoner began answering questions, Adrian felt her muscles relax and her breathing deepen. The worst was over. Soon, they would have all the information they needed.
Madeline glanced at Adrian, then back toward the window. "He's making it up," she said.
That couldn't be possible. The man was completely broken -- one could see it in his eyes. He didn't have the energy to resist anymore.
"Are you certain?"
"Quite."
"Then I'll tell them to resume the beating," Adrian said reluctantly, reaching for the intercom.
"That would be a waste of time," said Madeline. "He doesn't know anything. He's inventing information out of desperation."
"How can you tell?"
"There are cues in his demeanor." Her tone was devoid of any emotion, almost bored-sounding, and yet utterly confident.
Adrian stared into the other room, searching for a sign -- anything -- that would give the prisoner's lies away. There was nothing. The man looked desperate, true enough, but no more so than hundreds of other captives who had given them accurate intel.
She pressed the intercom button. "Return him to Containment and bring in one of the others."
"Yes, ma'am," answered the voice over the speaker.
She released the button and turned to Madeline.
"The next one is yours."
Madeline did nothing to acknowledge Adrian's statement; she simply stared back, her eyes holding Adrian's gaze with their dark intensity. As Adrian watched, not sure whether to be fascinated or horrified, a mask seemed to settle on Madeline's face. The clinical detachment of moments before melted into something subtler -- something soft, yet calculating. It was as if a cloak of outer grace and calm had descended to wrap itself around a crouching predator.
"Thank you," said Madeline. "I'll do my best."
************
To go on to Chapter Six, click here.
Prior Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four