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Fic: Succession, Chapter 7/31 (La Femme Nikita)
Title: 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).
Part Two - 1985
Chapter Seven
The warehouse echoed with fragmented sound: shattering glass, gunbursts, shouts. As if conjured by the noise, black-clad operatives poured inside through doors, windows, and even the skylight. They appeared everywhere, a swarm of invaders in bulletproof vests.
Automatic weapon in hand, Paul led the assault. He traveled with quick, evasive movements, assessing his surroundings and signaling his team. All clear, so far. Surprisingly so. The exterior of the building had been completely unguarded; the interior, too, seemed undefended. No cameras, no alarm, no guard.
Amateurs, he thought scornfully. Bringing so many operatives had been overkill. How could so-called revolutionaries -- holding a hostage, no less -- be so careless?
He rounded a corner, tightening the grip on his gun in anticipation, and stepped into the main room of the warehouse. Lisa and Sergio followed immediately behind, all of them ready for a firefight -- which didn't come. Paul scanned the room: enclosed by rusted metal walls, it was almost empty, with a long expanse of concrete floor, dusty and colored with the marks of prior use. Only the far end showed any signs of occupation. There, under a harsh fluorescent light, was a long table with benches, a collection of battered filing cabinets, a small refrigerator -- and a haphazard pile of weapons on the floor.
At the table sat a group of eight; lunch was set out before them. They gaped at the invasion taking place, until one man finally shook himself out of his stupor, rose, and snatched up a gun. In an instant, the sound of firing rang out in the emptiness. He spun around and fell backwards, pierced by Lisa's bullets. The others froze and stared at their colleague -- he was sprawled on the floor, eyes vacant, a dark stain spreading across the front of his shirt. The group looked up at the row of guns aimed their way, exchanged nervous glances, and raised their hands in surrender.
As Paul stood watch, Lisa gathered the weapons from the floor. Sergio strode to the table and pulled the captives away from their seats; he shoved them to their knees in the center of the room and forced their hands to their heads. Patrick joined Sergio, while the remaining operatives opened doors and rapped on the walls, searching for hidden rooms and exits.
"Fuck you, Dylan, I told you not to use the phone," hissed a thin, bearded man in wire-rimmed glasses to the youth kneeling next to him. "You brought the fucking Feds."
"I didn't use the fucking phone," Dylan retorted. "They followed Cynthia back from the store and you know it."
The bearded man scowled. "Oh, you always try to blame someone else! Nothing's ever your fault! You--"
Patrick stepped toward the first man and struck him in the head with the butt of his gun. "Shut up," he commanded, then glowered at them.
Paul smiled. If Patrick hadn't done that, he was about to. These terrorists, if one could even call them that, seemed sadly lacking in revolutionary fervor; they sounded more like bickering children. Well, bickering children with heavy weaponry, to be more accurate -- and a hostage who didn't seem to be anywhere in sight.
Paul approached Dylan, reasoning that as the youngest-looking one he might be the most likely to talk. He couldn't be any older than eighteen or nineteen -- so young to have ruined his life already. Young, but no doubt stupid, if he believed those nutty slogans gracing the posters taped to the warehouse walls. Humanity is a disease: Mother Earth needs a vaccination, read one, with a cartoon globe attached to a life support machine. No mercy! said another, emblazoned across an illustration of Uncle Sam swinging from the gallows.
Paul gave Dylan his most venomous glare. The boy gulped, his Adam's-apple bobbing.
"Where is he?" Paul demanded.
"I want a lawyer." Dylan stared up defiantly, even though he was trembling.
Paul backhanded him. "Where is he?"
Dylan glanced at his comrades, as if to seek reassurance. "Police brutality!" he cried. "Just wait 'til this hits the press. They're gonna take your badge and your pension, you stupid pig." With that, he started making oinking noises, which several of the other captives started imitating.
Paul looked around the room in exasperated bewilderment. The other team members stood watching the display, their faces exhibiting a range of reactions from surprise to irritation: Patrick tensed, as if he were poised to strike someone again but couldn't figure out who; Lisa, next to Patrick, tightened her lips, as if barely able to suppress her laughter.
For God's sake, how did these idiots manage to kidnap anyone? Especially someone with security like Ted Pierce? It must have been blind luck.
Paul turned back to Dylan. Without warning, he kicked the young man in the face. Dylan cried out and thrashed in pain on the floor; he spat out several teeth into a pool of blood and drool. His comrades' oinking stopped abruptly.
With a deliberately slow pace, Paul moved to the next person. He bent over, hands on his knees, to stare her in the face. She blinked rapidly.
"Where is he?"
The woman gestured toward the filing cabinets lining the back wall. Sergio and another operative pulled them aside, revealing a door set into the wall. They opened the door. Inside was a storage closet, where a middle-aged man in a rumpled business suit crouched -- blindfolded, gagged, and bound.
Sergio untied the man and helped him out of the closet. He staggered briefly, legs buckling, until Patrick stepped forward to catch him.
"Oh, thank God!" the man gasped, squinting at the light. "I was about to lose hope!"
As Patrick inspected his cuts and bruises, the man looked around at the gathered operatives. His eyes moistened in apparent gratitude.
"I'm going to reward you officers for this -- each and every one of you!"
"Yeah, with the money you get selling plutonium on the black market," one of the female captives muttered.
The man turned and gave her a withering stare.
"He's the one you ought to be arresting!" the woman ranted. "Champion Power Company's selling their spent fuel rods to arms dealers -- and we've got Mr. Bigwig CEO there admitting it on tape. But no, we're the criminals, just because we kidnapped the son-of-a-bitch to expose the truth! You cops make me sick."
The man shook his head. "They're insane. They forced me to say those things at gunpoint. They had a whole list of 'crimes' I was supposed to admit to."
"Of course, Mr. Pierce." Paul surveyed the row of captives with disdain. "They're just a bunch of crazy radicals. You won't have to worry about them anymore."
The two men laughed, and their eyes met. For a moment, Paul felt a strange sense of recognition -- a feeling that made him uneasy, like looking into a funhouse mirror, where the images were both familiar and distorted.
Shaking that feeling away, Paul gestured toward Sergio. "Now, Mr. Pierce, please follow Special Agent Morelli outside. He'll escort you to the hospital for treatment."
Pierce nodded and, helped by Sergio, exited the warehouse.
Paul turned back to the captives.
"Get up. Slowly."
They stumbled to their feet, except Dylan, who remained curled up on the floor. A burly operative lifted him up bodily and swung the young man over his shoulder.
"March, single file, hands on your heads, out the door, and get in the back of the van outside. And don't try anything stupid."
"Aren't you going to read us our rights first?" asked the bearded man with the glasses.
Paul sighed. These people were trying his patience. If only Adrian hadn't insisted on bringing them in.
"You don't have any rights."
"Look, I know how it works," the man insisted, growing bolder. "If you don't read us our rights and let us talk to a lawyer, you aren't going to be able to use anything we say as evidence."
"You aren't under arrest, and we don't want evidence."
The group exchanged looks of confusion.
"Then what is happening to us?" one of the women asked.
"Let's just say you've got a new employer." Paul smirked. "Call it a hostile takeover."
***
Madeline entered the room and breathed in the faint odor of disinfectant that was a permanent presence inside. Behind her, the door squealed and slammed shut with a metallic clang.
As always, the atmosphere of the room awakened her senses. The lights too bright; the temperature chilly; the surfaces hard so as to amplify sound: the interrogation chamber was designed to create discomfort, to subject Section's captives to a subtle but constant physical assault. But what was disorienting to the prisoner, Madeline found stimulating. The stark aggression of the environment heightened her perception, increased her awareness, and sharpened her focus. Its concentrated brutality allowed her to step outside herself, to shift into another plane of being while she performed her duties there, just as its contained sterility allowed her to leave that alternate existence behind when she walked out.
Wiping all traces of expression from her face, she directed her attention toward the center of the room. Restrained in a steel chair, Ted Pierce was the sole splash of color, encircled by curving white walls. His face was purple with contusions and red with gashes, courtesy of his kidnappers. Yet somehow, even in a business suit torn and stained with blood, he had a distinguished air about him. With his silver hair and broad shoulders, he looked like a captain of industry: the sort of man who was used to giving orders, not answering questions.
He sat up straight, his blue eyes flashing with defiance. Thanks to the swelling, it was hard to distinguish his features; even so, the resemblance was there. It disconcerted her momentarily, but she recovered and set it aside.
"Good morning, Mr. Pierce." She walked toward him, her movement leisurely, her tone gracious. "I've been looking forward to speaking with you for quite some time."
The defiance in his expression slowly turned to confusion. She smiled, recognizing the familiar reaction. The prisoners always expected to meet a stereotypical inquisitor hurling threats and abuse. In contrast, she was warm, even solicitous. Taunting and screaming, she had learned, undermined her objective. Such behavior only strengthened the subjects' resistance, provoking feelings of anger and hatred, giving them a burst of adrenaline that helped them endure pain longer. It was almost impossible, however, to remain angry at someone who was scrupulously polite -- the mental dissonance was simply too difficult to maintain.
"We've been observing your activities for the past several years," she announced. "But the time was never quite right for us to meet."
She continued her slow approach, step by deliberate step. His chest began to rise and fall more heavily; although there were no other surface signs, she could feel his heart rate surge, taste the fear in the back of his throat. The air between them was almost electric -- it set her nerves buzzing in readiness, hypersensitive to any sign of weakness, poised to strike the instant it appeared.
"But then Gaia's Army took you hostage," she continued. "That provided an opportunity too good to pass up." She gave him a coy smile, as if they were enjoying a mutual joke.
She stopped several feet in front of him and clasped her hands together. She stood there for several moments without speaking, waiting while his anxiety rose to an excruciating peak. Then she dropped her bombshell.
"Your company hasn't reported your kidnapping to anyone yet, you know. They're afraid that the public attention might lead to, well, all sorts of things coming to light. So I'm afraid no one's looking for you."
He blinked immediately after her last sentence, and she knew she had rattled him. She had just confirmed what he must have already feared -- that he hadn't been rescued by the authorities at all, and that the people holding him had something far more sinister in mind than prosecution.
He stared at her in shock, but then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
"You want to purchase some plutonium," he said slowly, as if thinking aloud. "But you don't like our prices. So you've brought me here to try to force me to give you a better deal." He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "Forget it."
She raised her eyebrows, stifling a laugh. She had never been mistaken for a terrorist before, although, in truth, his assumption wasn't entirely unreasonable. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of allowing him to continue believing that, to see if he would speak more freely. But no, she decided, such a game would merely slow the process down. In this case, it was better to be direct. First, however, his sudden show of courage needed to be dealt with. She would thus remind him of his vulnerability. Nothing blatant was necessary -- a subtle show of power would do.
She circled the chair, stopped behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was light, gentle, almost a caress. Then she leaned in to speak to him, her lips only inches away from his ear. She felt his body tense.
"Actually, I have a deal to offer you, Mr. Pierce."
She stepped back, taking care to remain out of sight behind him.
"What?" he asked, squirming in his seat to try to look at her.
Satisfied with his level of discomfort, she walked back into view.
"I want information. About you, your company, your contacts, and your buyers."
"Oh yeah?" he said, frowning. "And what's the deal?"
"That you won't suffer too much."
She smiled. He blanched.
Abruptly, she returned to the door. She opened it and allowed a white-coated lab technician to enter; he rolled in a gleaming silver surgical cart bearing several instruments, syringes and vials. He wheeled the cart next to Pierce, then stood by, waiting attentively.
"What the hell?" Pierce gasped.
Madeline allowed her face to harden and her voice to chill. "Let's start with your wife. Annette."
"What do you want with her? She doesn't have anything to do with my business."
She didn't answer or even change expression. "Where did you meet?"
"Why do you want to know that?" A touch of fear glazed his eyes. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"
"I don't like repeating myself, Mr. Pierce. Where did you and your wife meet?"
"On a ski trip in Vail," he answered breathlessly. The fear ballooned into panic. "For God's sake, you're not going to hurt her, are you? She hasn't done anything -- she doesn't know anything!"
"Tell me about the ski trip. When was it?"
He shook his head as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "I'm not answering any more questions unless you tell me what this is about." He gripped the arms of the chair and wheezed, hyperventilating.
She glanced at the technician. "He seems to be getting a bit distressed. A half dose, please."
The technician picked up one of the vials, inserted a syringe and drew up the liquid, then leaned over to inject Pierce in the neck. Pierce flinched and kicked his legs helplessly.
"That's a mild sedative," she said. "It should help you feel a little less anxious. We have quite a few questions to go through, and it doesn't help your memory if you're upset."
She waited until his breathing began to slow.
"Now," she said, softening her voice, "when was the ski trip?"
He shook his head again, and the tears continued to well up. "No. I'm not telling you anything. You're going to do something to her."
She sighed. Such marital devotion was admirable, but it wouldn't last long.
"The deal was that if you gave me information, you wouldn't suffer too much," she reminded him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to withdraw that offer."
She turned toward the technician. "Wait until the sedative clears his system."
"Where should I begin?"
"The soles of his feet, then the toes."
"Should I remove them?"
"One or two. Just to give him a taste of what we can do."
The technician nodded.
As the whimpering began, Madeline left the room.
***
Lisa hated mornings. Especially after staying up all night. The chit-chat of operatives arriving for the day, the clomp-clomp of their feet, the annoying I've-had-eight-full-hours-of-sleep freshness in everyone's faces -- it all made her head throb until she wanted to throttle the next person to walk by.
She needed sugar. In large quantities.
She rose from her chair, her joints stiff from lack of movement, and half-sleepwalked in the direction of the cafeteria. She was contemplating French toast floating in a golden ocean of melted butter and maple syrup when someone barreling down the hallway body-slammed into her shoulder. She bounced against the wall and swore.
"Watch where you're going, dickhead," she snarled. Then she looked up and saw that she'd collided with Walter. "Oh, God, Walter, I'm sorry!"
"No problemo, sweetheart." He winked. "You can talk dirty to me anytime you want."
"You just never quit, do you?" She shook her head in mock exasperation. "So what's the big hurry, anyway? You hit me like a football tackle."
"Oh, man, sorry about that. Three missions on standby today and I'm late getting in. If I don't have everything ready pronto, I'm going to have a little visit from the Queen Bee, and I do not want her buzzing around my stuff, you know?"
"No," agreed Lisa. "Definitely not." Walter had turned Munitions into a cozy little realm, stocked with a number of unauthorized luxuries -- luxuries that he shared with selected friends when he was in a generous mood.
"Say, Lisa," he said, the twinkle in his eyes giving way to a frown, "weren't you wearing that outfit yesterday?"
She laughed loudly in surprise. "Walter! You're a guy! You're not supposed to notice that kind of thing."
"I always notice what you're wearing." He grinned. "But seriously, you weren't here all night, were you?"
"Yeah, I was," she admitted. "I had a few things to do."
"Like what?" He gave her a stern look.
She glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one was approaching, then stepped closer and took hold of his arm.
"You remember a couple of years ago, I was teaching myself computer programming?"
"Sure. And it didn't get you anywhere, thanks to our 'friend' in Comm."
"Well, since then I've been learning our systems." She lowered her voice. "I hacked someone's password so Jules won't know I'm on, and I play around on the network every night."
He looked perplexed. "Okay, so you know the systems. Now what?"
"Now I can screw something up. I'll create a glitch Jules can't solve, and then go to Adrian and offer to fix it myself. I'll look like a miracle worker, and he won't be able to do anything about it."
"Why, you sneaky thing!" He beamed. "That's the way to fight dirty. It's about time one of the good guys struck back."
"You got it." She nodded enthusiastically. Then she leaned in even closer. "But you wouldn't believe what I found last night," she whispered.
"Well," he said, "I guess I won't know 'til you tell me."
She swallowed back a twinge of nervousness. "I was looking around, just seeing what was there, and I stumbled across some really strange directories."
"Huh," he said. "What are they?"
"I couldn't get into them to find out. The password I used doesn't have the right clearance. But they looked like personnel records for everyone in Section." She gave him a teasing poke. "I could find out everyone's deep, dark secrets."
"Shit." His face paled.
"Don't worry, Walter. I'd never blackmail you. Not for too much money, anyway."
He shook his head. "Don't even joke about that, Lisa. And don't go look. There's gonna be stuff in there you're better off not knowing. Stuff you don't even want to know."
"Yeah, I know." At his skeptically raised eyebrow, she insisted, "Really, I know."
He was right. But not looking would like opening a cookie jar and not taking a bite -- too much temptation for any mortal to take. Fortunately for her, she didn't have the right kind of password, so that jar would stay shut.
"Look," she said, "I'd better let you go before Adrian comes calling. I'll catch you later, Walter."
She gave him a friendly punch on the arm and began to walk off.
"Hey, Lisa."
She stopped.
"Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"That you'll be extra, extra careful. If they catch you mucking around in the network with someone else's password, well…."
Cheerily, she waved the warning aside. "Don't worry. Careful is my middle name."
***
Adrian took a seat at the head of the table, nodding at the three operatives who awaited her briefing. Three pairs of eyes gazed back at her, each watching patiently, attentively. She studied them in turn, taking her time, struck by what she saw.
All three individuals sat quietly, with equally neutral expressions. On the surface, their temperaments seemed identical. Within their eyes, the distinct elements of their personalities came to light. Facial expression, posture, tone of voice -- all of those things could be controlled, to some degree. But the eyes were the one place where one's true thoughts and emotions almost always revealed themselves -- and thus the one place she always made certain to look.
To her left sat Paul; to the right, Charles, then Madeline. Adrian examined the two men first. Superficially, they mirrored each other: both team leaders and senior-level operatives, they sat with a relaxed air that exuded confidence, competence, and professionalism. Both of them came from military backgrounds; both, because of that, shared a strong sense of duty and honor. Interestingly, the two men even had the same color eyes -- a similarity that Adrian had never consciously noticed before. And yet the expressions contained in those eyes couldn't have been more dissimilar.
Paul's gaze always held a kind of electricity, a crackling current of light blue energy. The moods varied widely -- proud, humorous, cunning, or angry -- but the spark never wavered. Now, as he waited for the briefing, it flashed in curiosity and anticipation. Charles, in contrast, sat patiently, his manner reflective, reserved and thoughtful. Slow to anger, but also slow to make decisions, Charles was the cautious diplomat to Paul's rash warrior -- a philosopher, not a man of action.
They balanced each other well, Adrian thought. She had hoped that they would see this, too -- that someday Charles would serve as Paul's right hand as Paul took over leadership of the Sections. Together, they had just the right balance of qualities to do the extraordinary. Unfortunately, however, the two men seemed to have developed an implacable -- and irrational -- animosity.
Perhaps it had been inevitable. Rivalry between team leaders could so easily develop into personal dislike, especially for men who both, in their own ways, possessed stubborn reserves of pride. Indeed, upon several occasions, Adrian had played upon that natural sense of competitiveness, comparing them to each other unfavorably in an effort to spur greater efforts. In retrospect, that might have been unwise.
But then again, perhaps it was not inevitable at all. There might, in fact, be a more direct catalyst for their enmity: a catalyst sitting at the table now. Adrian looked into that third set of eyes with curiosity -- and even a touch of apprehension -- wondering what they would reveal this time.
Madeline, paradoxically, was both the easiest and the hardest of the three to read. She tried, Adrian knew, to hide her emotions so thoroughly -- but those eyes, those deep pools of darkness, revealed everything to one who knew what to look for. The real problem was that they revealed too much. Where Paul and Charles were essentially consistent and predictable, Madeline was unstable, her expressions veering from deeply felt emotion to detached nothingness -- sometimes in a single instant. It was exhausting keeping up with the myriad changes, taking in the contradictory impulses and multiple levels of thoughts.
The only thing that was consistent -- that lingered no matter what else was showing -- was her hatred and fear of Section's leader. It revealed itself in every look she gave Adrian; deep, intense, and violent, it couldn't be hidden, not even behind the most emotionless of expressions. The hatred was unfortunate, something Adrian wished she could have avoided, but it was an unavoidable byproduct of the fear. As for the fear, Adrian had cultivated that quite deliberately. It was the fear that kept Madeline under control, that had molded her into the invaluable resource she had become. It was the only way, Adrian was convinced, to handle her.
Thanks to that fear, fed by relentless conditioning, by a calculated mixture of rewards and punishments, Madeline had matured considerably over the past two years. She was no less emotionally disturbed than before -- that, alas, was most likely a permanent affliction -- but she had become disciplined, obedient, and loyal to the Section almost to the point of zealotry. She was devoted to her work, throwing herself at it with a focused brilliance that at times amazed Adrian. Led by a strong hand, she could continue to be that way.
Unfortunately, however, the man Adrian envisioned running Section didn't show any signs of being able to impose the kind of discipline that Madeline needed. Two years after Madeline's transfer, Paul continued his affair with her, despite Adrian's expectation that he would have tired of her, the way he had every other woman with whom he'd been involved. It was time, then, to bring things to a head -- to cure him of this unhealthy attachment to a woman who could never be anything but a bad influence. Fortunately, the perfect course of action had now opened up. It was the choicest of ironies that it arose out of a profile written by Madeline herself.
Clearing her throat to command their attention, Adrian turned to Paul and Charles. "Have you both read the transcript of Pierce's interrogation?"
They nodded, neither changing expression.
"Thanks to Mr. Pierce's cooperation," she said, smiling at Madeline as she pronounced the last word, "we now know the full details of Champion Power Company's dealings in the black market for fissile material. We have bank account numbers, contact information for the buyers -- everything we need to target and eliminate the network of arms merchants that Pierce dealt with."
She watched both men, gauging their reactions. Charles looked distant, as if he were already calculating seized monies and inventorying assets. Paul, on the other hand, had grown more attentive -- anticipating, correctly, that there was more to come.
"We could, of course, leave it at that. What we've achieved is a major accomplishment. But, as I'm sure you know, I always believe we should strive for more. Our refusal to rest on our laurels is what makes the Section the best of the best, after all."
Paul cracked a smile, and Charles recovered his focus. Madeline remained impassive -- the author of the profile Adrian was about to distribute, she alone knew what was coming. Or so she thought, Adrian reflected with amusement. She, too, would soon be in for a surprise.
Adrian handed each of them a folder.
"Tassos Demetrios," she said, watching them as they opened the folders to flip through the papers and photographs inside. "The most notorious trafficker in contraband weapons in business today, although I hardly need to tell you that. If it exists, he sells it: germ cultures, toxins, the raw materials for chemical weapons -- and, needless to say, radioactive material."
"We've been after Demetrios for years," Charles remarked. "No one's been able to get near him."
"Precisely," Adrian said, nodding. "We've never managed to get entry into his network. He's suspicious of newcomers. He prefers to do business with well-established -- and well-connected -- players."
"Which is exactly what Pierce is," said Paul, a look of understanding filling his face. "He's been selling plutonium for several years now, and with his connections in Washington he's untouchable."
"Very good." Adrian beamed. "To date, Champion Power and Demetrios haven't done business together. However, that's about to change."
Paul and Charles sat up attentively.
"We recently contacted associates of Demetrios, purportedly on behalf of Pierce, and suggested that Pierce might be interested in initiating a business relationship," Adrian said. "Demetrios took the bait and has invited Pierce to meet with him. We're going to oblige him." She turned to Paul. "Of course, instead of Pierce, he's going to be meeting with you."
Paul's face lit up. He always enjoyed missions where he had the opportunity to play cat-and-mouse with their opponents. It was one of the qualities Adrian appreciated the most in him -- that savoring of impending victory, that enjoyment of the chase.
"With some hair coloring to age you a bit, your resemblance to Pierce will be quite remarkable," she mused. "Uncanny, almost. Once you memorize the details of Pierce's background, you should be able to fool Demetrios thoroughly."
He nodded. "So the plan is for me to infiltrate his organization and take it down."
Adrian smiled indulgently. Another one of Paul's qualities -- an endearing one, albeit sometimes problematic -- was his tendency to jump to conclusions. "Not quite. But I'll let you read the profile Madeline put together. That should explain everything."
She glanced at Madeline before continuing. The other woman continued to sit, hands folded on the table, the model of discipline.
Adrian turned back to Paul. "Demetrios has proposed that Pierce take a holiday in the Greek Islands. That will allow them to meet discreetly without appearing out of the ordinary. To maintain the cover, he has asked that Pierce bring along his wife." She gave Madeline a casual nod. "That's where Madeline comes in."
A sudden look of shock washed over Madeline. She frowned, but said nothing.
Adrian noted Madeline's reaction and pointedly ignored it. "As for you, Charles," she continued, "you'll be traveling along with them. You'll pose as Pierce's financial advisor -- the one who handles all the details of the transactions. We've created a plausible back story for you should Demetrios feel the need to investigate. The details are in the profile -- please familiarize yourself with it as quickly as possible."
Charles nodded, flipping through the file. So dutiful, Charles. Adrian had no doubt he would have his cover story memorized within the hour.
Madeline cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she started. "It seems likely that Demetrios might do some checking up on Annette Pierce as well. Even a cursory investigation will show that I look nothing like her."
Adrian waved her hand dismissively. "That's been taken care of. Annette hasn't been in the public eye as much as her husband. We've already planted false records wherever Demetrios is likely to look."
Despite Adrian's reassurances, skepticism and disquiet still filled Madeline's face. Most interesting. Adrian knew that Madeline wasn't really worried about being exposed; there was no real danger of that, given Section's ability to plant information. No, what must be making her uncomfortable was the prospect of being required to carry out this particular mission personally. Good. It would serve as a lesson for her as well as for Paul.
"My dear," said Adrian in her most gracious manner, "your choice of Connie to impersonate Annette would have made sense if this were an ordinary mission. However, given the rather complex nature of this matter, I thought it best that only our most senior-level operatives be involved. We need someone of your experience and talents to make this a success."
They held a look for several moments. Adrian watched with interest, noting the subtle progression of emotions in Madeline's expression -- first anger, then apprehension, and then, finally, surrender. When she recognized the latter, Adrian leaned back in her chair and smiled.
"I think all of you will find this to be a most interesting assignment. Good luck."
************
To go on to the next chapter, 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).
Chapter Seven
The warehouse echoed with fragmented sound: shattering glass, gunbursts, shouts. As if conjured by the noise, black-clad operatives poured inside through doors, windows, and even the skylight. They appeared everywhere, a swarm of invaders in bulletproof vests.
Automatic weapon in hand, Paul led the assault. He traveled with quick, evasive movements, assessing his surroundings and signaling his team. All clear, so far. Surprisingly so. The exterior of the building had been completely unguarded; the interior, too, seemed undefended. No cameras, no alarm, no guard.
Amateurs, he thought scornfully. Bringing so many operatives had been overkill. How could so-called revolutionaries -- holding a hostage, no less -- be so careless?
He rounded a corner, tightening the grip on his gun in anticipation, and stepped into the main room of the warehouse. Lisa and Sergio followed immediately behind, all of them ready for a firefight -- which didn't come. Paul scanned the room: enclosed by rusted metal walls, it was almost empty, with a long expanse of concrete floor, dusty and colored with the marks of prior use. Only the far end showed any signs of occupation. There, under a harsh fluorescent light, was a long table with benches, a collection of battered filing cabinets, a small refrigerator -- and a haphazard pile of weapons on the floor.
At the table sat a group of eight; lunch was set out before them. They gaped at the invasion taking place, until one man finally shook himself out of his stupor, rose, and snatched up a gun. In an instant, the sound of firing rang out in the emptiness. He spun around and fell backwards, pierced by Lisa's bullets. The others froze and stared at their colleague -- he was sprawled on the floor, eyes vacant, a dark stain spreading across the front of his shirt. The group looked up at the row of guns aimed their way, exchanged nervous glances, and raised their hands in surrender.
As Paul stood watch, Lisa gathered the weapons from the floor. Sergio strode to the table and pulled the captives away from their seats; he shoved them to their knees in the center of the room and forced their hands to their heads. Patrick joined Sergio, while the remaining operatives opened doors and rapped on the walls, searching for hidden rooms and exits.
"Fuck you, Dylan, I told you not to use the phone," hissed a thin, bearded man in wire-rimmed glasses to the youth kneeling next to him. "You brought the fucking Feds."
"I didn't use the fucking phone," Dylan retorted. "They followed Cynthia back from the store and you know it."
The bearded man scowled. "Oh, you always try to blame someone else! Nothing's ever your fault! You--"
Patrick stepped toward the first man and struck him in the head with the butt of his gun. "Shut up," he commanded, then glowered at them.
Paul smiled. If Patrick hadn't done that, he was about to. These terrorists, if one could even call them that, seemed sadly lacking in revolutionary fervor; they sounded more like bickering children. Well, bickering children with heavy weaponry, to be more accurate -- and a hostage who didn't seem to be anywhere in sight.
Paul approached Dylan, reasoning that as the youngest-looking one he might be the most likely to talk. He couldn't be any older than eighteen or nineteen -- so young to have ruined his life already. Young, but no doubt stupid, if he believed those nutty slogans gracing the posters taped to the warehouse walls. Humanity is a disease: Mother Earth needs a vaccination, read one, with a cartoon globe attached to a life support machine. No mercy! said another, emblazoned across an illustration of Uncle Sam swinging from the gallows.
Paul gave Dylan his most venomous glare. The boy gulped, his Adam's-apple bobbing.
"Where is he?" Paul demanded.
"I want a lawyer." Dylan stared up defiantly, even though he was trembling.
Paul backhanded him. "Where is he?"
Dylan glanced at his comrades, as if to seek reassurance. "Police brutality!" he cried. "Just wait 'til this hits the press. They're gonna take your badge and your pension, you stupid pig." With that, he started making oinking noises, which several of the other captives started imitating.
Paul looked around the room in exasperated bewilderment. The other team members stood watching the display, their faces exhibiting a range of reactions from surprise to irritation: Patrick tensed, as if he were poised to strike someone again but couldn't figure out who; Lisa, next to Patrick, tightened her lips, as if barely able to suppress her laughter.
For God's sake, how did these idiots manage to kidnap anyone? Especially someone with security like Ted Pierce? It must have been blind luck.
Paul turned back to Dylan. Without warning, he kicked the young man in the face. Dylan cried out and thrashed in pain on the floor; he spat out several teeth into a pool of blood and drool. His comrades' oinking stopped abruptly.
With a deliberately slow pace, Paul moved to the next person. He bent over, hands on his knees, to stare her in the face. She blinked rapidly.
"Where is he?"
The woman gestured toward the filing cabinets lining the back wall. Sergio and another operative pulled them aside, revealing a door set into the wall. They opened the door. Inside was a storage closet, where a middle-aged man in a rumpled business suit crouched -- blindfolded, gagged, and bound.
Sergio untied the man and helped him out of the closet. He staggered briefly, legs buckling, until Patrick stepped forward to catch him.
"Oh, thank God!" the man gasped, squinting at the light. "I was about to lose hope!"
As Patrick inspected his cuts and bruises, the man looked around at the gathered operatives. His eyes moistened in apparent gratitude.
"I'm going to reward you officers for this -- each and every one of you!"
"Yeah, with the money you get selling plutonium on the black market," one of the female captives muttered.
The man turned and gave her a withering stare.
"He's the one you ought to be arresting!" the woman ranted. "Champion Power Company's selling their spent fuel rods to arms dealers -- and we've got Mr. Bigwig CEO there admitting it on tape. But no, we're the criminals, just because we kidnapped the son-of-a-bitch to expose the truth! You cops make me sick."
The man shook his head. "They're insane. They forced me to say those things at gunpoint. They had a whole list of 'crimes' I was supposed to admit to."
"Of course, Mr. Pierce." Paul surveyed the row of captives with disdain. "They're just a bunch of crazy radicals. You won't have to worry about them anymore."
The two men laughed, and their eyes met. For a moment, Paul felt a strange sense of recognition -- a feeling that made him uneasy, like looking into a funhouse mirror, where the images were both familiar and distorted.
Shaking that feeling away, Paul gestured toward Sergio. "Now, Mr. Pierce, please follow Special Agent Morelli outside. He'll escort you to the hospital for treatment."
Pierce nodded and, helped by Sergio, exited the warehouse.
Paul turned back to the captives.
"Get up. Slowly."
They stumbled to their feet, except Dylan, who remained curled up on the floor. A burly operative lifted him up bodily and swung the young man over his shoulder.
"March, single file, hands on your heads, out the door, and get in the back of the van outside. And don't try anything stupid."
"Aren't you going to read us our rights first?" asked the bearded man with the glasses.
Paul sighed. These people were trying his patience. If only Adrian hadn't insisted on bringing them in.
"You don't have any rights."
"Look, I know how it works," the man insisted, growing bolder. "If you don't read us our rights and let us talk to a lawyer, you aren't going to be able to use anything we say as evidence."
"You aren't under arrest, and we don't want evidence."
The group exchanged looks of confusion.
"Then what is happening to us?" one of the women asked.
"Let's just say you've got a new employer." Paul smirked. "Call it a hostile takeover."
***
Madeline entered the room and breathed in the faint odor of disinfectant that was a permanent presence inside. Behind her, the door squealed and slammed shut with a metallic clang.
As always, the atmosphere of the room awakened her senses. The lights too bright; the temperature chilly; the surfaces hard so as to amplify sound: the interrogation chamber was designed to create discomfort, to subject Section's captives to a subtle but constant physical assault. But what was disorienting to the prisoner, Madeline found stimulating. The stark aggression of the environment heightened her perception, increased her awareness, and sharpened her focus. Its concentrated brutality allowed her to step outside herself, to shift into another plane of being while she performed her duties there, just as its contained sterility allowed her to leave that alternate existence behind when she walked out.
Wiping all traces of expression from her face, she directed her attention toward the center of the room. Restrained in a steel chair, Ted Pierce was the sole splash of color, encircled by curving white walls. His face was purple with contusions and red with gashes, courtesy of his kidnappers. Yet somehow, even in a business suit torn and stained with blood, he had a distinguished air about him. With his silver hair and broad shoulders, he looked like a captain of industry: the sort of man who was used to giving orders, not answering questions.
He sat up straight, his blue eyes flashing with defiance. Thanks to the swelling, it was hard to distinguish his features; even so, the resemblance was there. It disconcerted her momentarily, but she recovered and set it aside.
"Good morning, Mr. Pierce." She walked toward him, her movement leisurely, her tone gracious. "I've been looking forward to speaking with you for quite some time."
The defiance in his expression slowly turned to confusion. She smiled, recognizing the familiar reaction. The prisoners always expected to meet a stereotypical inquisitor hurling threats and abuse. In contrast, she was warm, even solicitous. Taunting and screaming, she had learned, undermined her objective. Such behavior only strengthened the subjects' resistance, provoking feelings of anger and hatred, giving them a burst of adrenaline that helped them endure pain longer. It was almost impossible, however, to remain angry at someone who was scrupulously polite -- the mental dissonance was simply too difficult to maintain.
"We've been observing your activities for the past several years," she announced. "But the time was never quite right for us to meet."
She continued her slow approach, step by deliberate step. His chest began to rise and fall more heavily; although there were no other surface signs, she could feel his heart rate surge, taste the fear in the back of his throat. The air between them was almost electric -- it set her nerves buzzing in readiness, hypersensitive to any sign of weakness, poised to strike the instant it appeared.
"But then Gaia's Army took you hostage," she continued. "That provided an opportunity too good to pass up." She gave him a coy smile, as if they were enjoying a mutual joke.
She stopped several feet in front of him and clasped her hands together. She stood there for several moments without speaking, waiting while his anxiety rose to an excruciating peak. Then she dropped her bombshell.
"Your company hasn't reported your kidnapping to anyone yet, you know. They're afraid that the public attention might lead to, well, all sorts of things coming to light. So I'm afraid no one's looking for you."
He blinked immediately after her last sentence, and she knew she had rattled him. She had just confirmed what he must have already feared -- that he hadn't been rescued by the authorities at all, and that the people holding him had something far more sinister in mind than prosecution.
He stared at her in shock, but then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
"You want to purchase some plutonium," he said slowly, as if thinking aloud. "But you don't like our prices. So you've brought me here to try to force me to give you a better deal." He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "Forget it."
She raised her eyebrows, stifling a laugh. She had never been mistaken for a terrorist before, although, in truth, his assumption wasn't entirely unreasonable. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of allowing him to continue believing that, to see if he would speak more freely. But no, she decided, such a game would merely slow the process down. In this case, it was better to be direct. First, however, his sudden show of courage needed to be dealt with. She would thus remind him of his vulnerability. Nothing blatant was necessary -- a subtle show of power would do.
She circled the chair, stopped behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was light, gentle, almost a caress. Then she leaned in to speak to him, her lips only inches away from his ear. She felt his body tense.
"Actually, I have a deal to offer you, Mr. Pierce."
She stepped back, taking care to remain out of sight behind him.
"What?" he asked, squirming in his seat to try to look at her.
Satisfied with his level of discomfort, she walked back into view.
"I want information. About you, your company, your contacts, and your buyers."
"Oh yeah?" he said, frowning. "And what's the deal?"
"That you won't suffer too much."
She smiled. He blanched.
Abruptly, she returned to the door. She opened it and allowed a white-coated lab technician to enter; he rolled in a gleaming silver surgical cart bearing several instruments, syringes and vials. He wheeled the cart next to Pierce, then stood by, waiting attentively.
"What the hell?" Pierce gasped.
Madeline allowed her face to harden and her voice to chill. "Let's start with your wife. Annette."
"What do you want with her? She doesn't have anything to do with my business."
She didn't answer or even change expression. "Where did you meet?"
"Why do you want to know that?" A touch of fear glazed his eyes. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"
"I don't like repeating myself, Mr. Pierce. Where did you and your wife meet?"
"On a ski trip in Vail," he answered breathlessly. The fear ballooned into panic. "For God's sake, you're not going to hurt her, are you? She hasn't done anything -- she doesn't know anything!"
"Tell me about the ski trip. When was it?"
He shook his head as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "I'm not answering any more questions unless you tell me what this is about." He gripped the arms of the chair and wheezed, hyperventilating.
She glanced at the technician. "He seems to be getting a bit distressed. A half dose, please."
The technician picked up one of the vials, inserted a syringe and drew up the liquid, then leaned over to inject Pierce in the neck. Pierce flinched and kicked his legs helplessly.
"That's a mild sedative," she said. "It should help you feel a little less anxious. We have quite a few questions to go through, and it doesn't help your memory if you're upset."
She waited until his breathing began to slow.
"Now," she said, softening her voice, "when was the ski trip?"
He shook his head again, and the tears continued to well up. "No. I'm not telling you anything. You're going to do something to her."
She sighed. Such marital devotion was admirable, but it wouldn't last long.
"The deal was that if you gave me information, you wouldn't suffer too much," she reminded him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to withdraw that offer."
She turned toward the technician. "Wait until the sedative clears his system."
"Where should I begin?"
"The soles of his feet, then the toes."
"Should I remove them?"
"One or two. Just to give him a taste of what we can do."
The technician nodded.
As the whimpering began, Madeline left the room.
***
Lisa hated mornings. Especially after staying up all night. The chit-chat of operatives arriving for the day, the clomp-clomp of their feet, the annoying I've-had-eight-full-hours-of-sleep freshness in everyone's faces -- it all made her head throb until she wanted to throttle the next person to walk by.
She needed sugar. In large quantities.
She rose from her chair, her joints stiff from lack of movement, and half-sleepwalked in the direction of the cafeteria. She was contemplating French toast floating in a golden ocean of melted butter and maple syrup when someone barreling down the hallway body-slammed into her shoulder. She bounced against the wall and swore.
"Watch where you're going, dickhead," she snarled. Then she looked up and saw that she'd collided with Walter. "Oh, God, Walter, I'm sorry!"
"No problemo, sweetheart." He winked. "You can talk dirty to me anytime you want."
"You just never quit, do you?" She shook her head in mock exasperation. "So what's the big hurry, anyway? You hit me like a football tackle."
"Oh, man, sorry about that. Three missions on standby today and I'm late getting in. If I don't have everything ready pronto, I'm going to have a little visit from the Queen Bee, and I do not want her buzzing around my stuff, you know?"
"No," agreed Lisa. "Definitely not." Walter had turned Munitions into a cozy little realm, stocked with a number of unauthorized luxuries -- luxuries that he shared with selected friends when he was in a generous mood.
"Say, Lisa," he said, the twinkle in his eyes giving way to a frown, "weren't you wearing that outfit yesterday?"
She laughed loudly in surprise. "Walter! You're a guy! You're not supposed to notice that kind of thing."
"I always notice what you're wearing." He grinned. "But seriously, you weren't here all night, were you?"
"Yeah, I was," she admitted. "I had a few things to do."
"Like what?" He gave her a stern look.
She glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one was approaching, then stepped closer and took hold of his arm.
"You remember a couple of years ago, I was teaching myself computer programming?"
"Sure. And it didn't get you anywhere, thanks to our 'friend' in Comm."
"Well, since then I've been learning our systems." She lowered her voice. "I hacked someone's password so Jules won't know I'm on, and I play around on the network every night."
He looked perplexed. "Okay, so you know the systems. Now what?"
"Now I can screw something up. I'll create a glitch Jules can't solve, and then go to Adrian and offer to fix it myself. I'll look like a miracle worker, and he won't be able to do anything about it."
"Why, you sneaky thing!" He beamed. "That's the way to fight dirty. It's about time one of the good guys struck back."
"You got it." She nodded enthusiastically. Then she leaned in even closer. "But you wouldn't believe what I found last night," she whispered.
"Well," he said, "I guess I won't know 'til you tell me."
She swallowed back a twinge of nervousness. "I was looking around, just seeing what was there, and I stumbled across some really strange directories."
"Huh," he said. "What are they?"
"I couldn't get into them to find out. The password I used doesn't have the right clearance. But they looked like personnel records for everyone in Section." She gave him a teasing poke. "I could find out everyone's deep, dark secrets."
"Shit." His face paled.
"Don't worry, Walter. I'd never blackmail you. Not for too much money, anyway."
He shook his head. "Don't even joke about that, Lisa. And don't go look. There's gonna be stuff in there you're better off not knowing. Stuff you don't even want to know."
"Yeah, I know." At his skeptically raised eyebrow, she insisted, "Really, I know."
He was right. But not looking would like opening a cookie jar and not taking a bite -- too much temptation for any mortal to take. Fortunately for her, she didn't have the right kind of password, so that jar would stay shut.
"Look," she said, "I'd better let you go before Adrian comes calling. I'll catch you later, Walter."
She gave him a friendly punch on the arm and began to walk off.
"Hey, Lisa."
She stopped.
"Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"That you'll be extra, extra careful. If they catch you mucking around in the network with someone else's password, well…."
Cheerily, she waved the warning aside. "Don't worry. Careful is my middle name."
***
Adrian took a seat at the head of the table, nodding at the three operatives who awaited her briefing. Three pairs of eyes gazed back at her, each watching patiently, attentively. She studied them in turn, taking her time, struck by what she saw.
All three individuals sat quietly, with equally neutral expressions. On the surface, their temperaments seemed identical. Within their eyes, the distinct elements of their personalities came to light. Facial expression, posture, tone of voice -- all of those things could be controlled, to some degree. But the eyes were the one place where one's true thoughts and emotions almost always revealed themselves -- and thus the one place she always made certain to look.
To her left sat Paul; to the right, Charles, then Madeline. Adrian examined the two men first. Superficially, they mirrored each other: both team leaders and senior-level operatives, they sat with a relaxed air that exuded confidence, competence, and professionalism. Both of them came from military backgrounds; both, because of that, shared a strong sense of duty and honor. Interestingly, the two men even had the same color eyes -- a similarity that Adrian had never consciously noticed before. And yet the expressions contained in those eyes couldn't have been more dissimilar.
Paul's gaze always held a kind of electricity, a crackling current of light blue energy. The moods varied widely -- proud, humorous, cunning, or angry -- but the spark never wavered. Now, as he waited for the briefing, it flashed in curiosity and anticipation. Charles, in contrast, sat patiently, his manner reflective, reserved and thoughtful. Slow to anger, but also slow to make decisions, Charles was the cautious diplomat to Paul's rash warrior -- a philosopher, not a man of action.
They balanced each other well, Adrian thought. She had hoped that they would see this, too -- that someday Charles would serve as Paul's right hand as Paul took over leadership of the Sections. Together, they had just the right balance of qualities to do the extraordinary. Unfortunately, however, the two men seemed to have developed an implacable -- and irrational -- animosity.
Perhaps it had been inevitable. Rivalry between team leaders could so easily develop into personal dislike, especially for men who both, in their own ways, possessed stubborn reserves of pride. Indeed, upon several occasions, Adrian had played upon that natural sense of competitiveness, comparing them to each other unfavorably in an effort to spur greater efforts. In retrospect, that might have been unwise.
But then again, perhaps it was not inevitable at all. There might, in fact, be a more direct catalyst for their enmity: a catalyst sitting at the table now. Adrian looked into that third set of eyes with curiosity -- and even a touch of apprehension -- wondering what they would reveal this time.
Madeline, paradoxically, was both the easiest and the hardest of the three to read. She tried, Adrian knew, to hide her emotions so thoroughly -- but those eyes, those deep pools of darkness, revealed everything to one who knew what to look for. The real problem was that they revealed too much. Where Paul and Charles were essentially consistent and predictable, Madeline was unstable, her expressions veering from deeply felt emotion to detached nothingness -- sometimes in a single instant. It was exhausting keeping up with the myriad changes, taking in the contradictory impulses and multiple levels of thoughts.
The only thing that was consistent -- that lingered no matter what else was showing -- was her hatred and fear of Section's leader. It revealed itself in every look she gave Adrian; deep, intense, and violent, it couldn't be hidden, not even behind the most emotionless of expressions. The hatred was unfortunate, something Adrian wished she could have avoided, but it was an unavoidable byproduct of the fear. As for the fear, Adrian had cultivated that quite deliberately. It was the fear that kept Madeline under control, that had molded her into the invaluable resource she had become. It was the only way, Adrian was convinced, to handle her.
Thanks to that fear, fed by relentless conditioning, by a calculated mixture of rewards and punishments, Madeline had matured considerably over the past two years. She was no less emotionally disturbed than before -- that, alas, was most likely a permanent affliction -- but she had become disciplined, obedient, and loyal to the Section almost to the point of zealotry. She was devoted to her work, throwing herself at it with a focused brilliance that at times amazed Adrian. Led by a strong hand, she could continue to be that way.
Unfortunately, however, the man Adrian envisioned running Section didn't show any signs of being able to impose the kind of discipline that Madeline needed. Two years after Madeline's transfer, Paul continued his affair with her, despite Adrian's expectation that he would have tired of her, the way he had every other woman with whom he'd been involved. It was time, then, to bring things to a head -- to cure him of this unhealthy attachment to a woman who could never be anything but a bad influence. Fortunately, the perfect course of action had now opened up. It was the choicest of ironies that it arose out of a profile written by Madeline herself.
Clearing her throat to command their attention, Adrian turned to Paul and Charles. "Have you both read the transcript of Pierce's interrogation?"
They nodded, neither changing expression.
"Thanks to Mr. Pierce's cooperation," she said, smiling at Madeline as she pronounced the last word, "we now know the full details of Champion Power Company's dealings in the black market for fissile material. We have bank account numbers, contact information for the buyers -- everything we need to target and eliminate the network of arms merchants that Pierce dealt with."
She watched both men, gauging their reactions. Charles looked distant, as if he were already calculating seized monies and inventorying assets. Paul, on the other hand, had grown more attentive -- anticipating, correctly, that there was more to come.
"We could, of course, leave it at that. What we've achieved is a major accomplishment. But, as I'm sure you know, I always believe we should strive for more. Our refusal to rest on our laurels is what makes the Section the best of the best, after all."
Paul cracked a smile, and Charles recovered his focus. Madeline remained impassive -- the author of the profile Adrian was about to distribute, she alone knew what was coming. Or so she thought, Adrian reflected with amusement. She, too, would soon be in for a surprise.
Adrian handed each of them a folder.
"Tassos Demetrios," she said, watching them as they opened the folders to flip through the papers and photographs inside. "The most notorious trafficker in contraband weapons in business today, although I hardly need to tell you that. If it exists, he sells it: germ cultures, toxins, the raw materials for chemical weapons -- and, needless to say, radioactive material."
"We've been after Demetrios for years," Charles remarked. "No one's been able to get near him."
"Precisely," Adrian said, nodding. "We've never managed to get entry into his network. He's suspicious of newcomers. He prefers to do business with well-established -- and well-connected -- players."
"Which is exactly what Pierce is," said Paul, a look of understanding filling his face. "He's been selling plutonium for several years now, and with his connections in Washington he's untouchable."
"Very good." Adrian beamed. "To date, Champion Power and Demetrios haven't done business together. However, that's about to change."
Paul and Charles sat up attentively.
"We recently contacted associates of Demetrios, purportedly on behalf of Pierce, and suggested that Pierce might be interested in initiating a business relationship," Adrian said. "Demetrios took the bait and has invited Pierce to meet with him. We're going to oblige him." She turned to Paul. "Of course, instead of Pierce, he's going to be meeting with you."
Paul's face lit up. He always enjoyed missions where he had the opportunity to play cat-and-mouse with their opponents. It was one of the qualities Adrian appreciated the most in him -- that savoring of impending victory, that enjoyment of the chase.
"With some hair coloring to age you a bit, your resemblance to Pierce will be quite remarkable," she mused. "Uncanny, almost. Once you memorize the details of Pierce's background, you should be able to fool Demetrios thoroughly."
He nodded. "So the plan is for me to infiltrate his organization and take it down."
Adrian smiled indulgently. Another one of Paul's qualities -- an endearing one, albeit sometimes problematic -- was his tendency to jump to conclusions. "Not quite. But I'll let you read the profile Madeline put together. That should explain everything."
She glanced at Madeline before continuing. The other woman continued to sit, hands folded on the table, the model of discipline.
Adrian turned back to Paul. "Demetrios has proposed that Pierce take a holiday in the Greek Islands. That will allow them to meet discreetly without appearing out of the ordinary. To maintain the cover, he has asked that Pierce bring along his wife." She gave Madeline a casual nod. "That's where Madeline comes in."
A sudden look of shock washed over Madeline. She frowned, but said nothing.
Adrian noted Madeline's reaction and pointedly ignored it. "As for you, Charles," she continued, "you'll be traveling along with them. You'll pose as Pierce's financial advisor -- the one who handles all the details of the transactions. We've created a plausible back story for you should Demetrios feel the need to investigate. The details are in the profile -- please familiarize yourself with it as quickly as possible."
Charles nodded, flipping through the file. So dutiful, Charles. Adrian had no doubt he would have his cover story memorized within the hour.
Madeline cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she started. "It seems likely that Demetrios might do some checking up on Annette Pierce as well. Even a cursory investigation will show that I look nothing like her."
Adrian waved her hand dismissively. "That's been taken care of. Annette hasn't been in the public eye as much as her husband. We've already planted false records wherever Demetrios is likely to look."
Despite Adrian's reassurances, skepticism and disquiet still filled Madeline's face. Most interesting. Adrian knew that Madeline wasn't really worried about being exposed; there was no real danger of that, given Section's ability to plant information. No, what must be making her uncomfortable was the prospect of being required to carry out this particular mission personally. Good. It would serve as a lesson for her as well as for Paul.
"My dear," said Adrian in her most gracious manner, "your choice of Connie to impersonate Annette would have made sense if this were an ordinary mission. However, given the rather complex nature of this matter, I thought it best that only our most senior-level operatives be involved. We need someone of your experience and talents to make this a success."
They held a look for several moments. Adrian watched with interest, noting the subtle progression of emotions in Madeline's expression -- first anger, then apprehension, and then, finally, surrender. When she recognized the latter, Adrian leaned back in her chair and smiled.
"I think all of you will find this to be a most interesting assignment. Good luck."
************
To go on to the next chapter, click here.
| Part One |
|---|
| Chapter One |
| Chapter Two |
| Chapter Three |
| Chapter Four |
| Chapter Five |
| Chapter Six |