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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 Thirteen
Paul fished his lighter out of his pocket and flicked it open, cupping his hand to shield the flame. He lit the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and inhaled deeply, then he leaned against the wrought-iron railing of Madeline's balcony to gaze out over the narrow street below. Aside from a single car that splashed through the puddles of the prior night's rain, the street was empty. But the cool air was full of distant noises: a city waking up, preparing breakfast, heading for work.
He turned his head to glance into the room behind him. The morning light pooled brightly on the polished floor, its cheerful warmth inching slowly toward the bed in the corner. There, Madeline lay completely still. Her back was to him, and the white sheets twisted around her haphazardly, a bare leg sticking out from underneath. It almost looked as if she weren't breathing -- as if she were frozen, waiting for the sunlight to touch her and bring her back to life. He had never seen her sleep quite so soundly -- and he had never slept so fitfully himself.
He had come to her the night before, not knowing quite what he wanted. At first, he thought it was to explain his actions, to apologize and ask forgiveness. But when she looked at him, her eyes full of disapproval and accusation, he had felt a strange compulsion to defend himself, to turn the tables and demand an explanation from her. To seize her by the shoulders and force her to acknowledge what they both knew: that what he had done was right, even though it was wrong.
It wasn't really forgiveness he had wanted, after all. It was understanding. And for a moment, he thought he had received it.
He had felt it when they clung together, clutching and grasping so fiercely that he was afraid they would tear each other apart. It was an instant of both terror and bliss, of complete recognition -- when they looked into each other's eyes and understood each other perfectly. When they saw the best and the worst in each other and accepted it, because they found the same within themselves. When their hurts, fears, desires -- and even their darkest rages -- merged and became one.
Then he blinked, and it was gone.
The next thing he knew, he was with a different person entirely: no longer raw and open, she was smooth, delicate, and evasive. Like a melody that shifted key halfway through, the change was subtle, but completely disorienting -- almost frightening, but hypnotically seductive. It had enchanted him, pulled him in and finally enveloped him, until he succumbed and forgot everything else.
Now, in the light of day, he wasn't sure just what had happened.
This is crazy, he thought, stubbing out his cigarette vigorously. He was imagining things, allowing his anxiety about what Adrian would do to spill over into everything.
Adrian had dismissed him from duty the moment they returned from Greece -- without explanation, without a reprimand, without even a chance to debrief. Her refusal to speak with him was unprecedented, and yet he had been allowed to go home, instead of being confined to quarters. Or cancelled.
Now, for the first time since he had arrived in Section, he didn't know what to expect.
What would happen when he returned to Section? There would be a punishment, certainly. He had interfered with the mission objective: a reckless and unforgivable act, even if that objective hadn't made any sense. Operatives were cancelled every week for far less. The fact that it hadn't happened immediately meant nothing; it was possible that Adrian was merely gathering documentation before she imposed that final judgment. So be it.
He had meant it when he told Madeline that he took responsibility for his own actions. He was a soldier, and he lived by the soldier's code; under it, disobedience of a command justified the harshest discipline. He could accept the consequences of his behavior without fear or resentment. So long as the punishment was restricted to him, that is. According to Madeline, Adrian blamed her for his actions. That, combined with the disparaging remarks Adrian had made to him about Madeline, troubled him immensely.
Adrian had always seemed unusually drawn to and repelled by Madeline. Why, he never understood. But for years, Adrian had targeted her with a singular cruelty -- and for years, he had stood by and watched.
How had he let things get to this point? When he first came to Section, over ten years before, he had been in awe of Adrian, wanting to do nothing but impress her. Somehow, that awe had blinded him to the fact that she was human, after all -- that, like anyone, she was subject to error, full of blind spots and vanity. He had assumed that her treatment of Madeline was part of some larger purpose: a trial by fire, of sorts. But what if it were just misjudgment? A symptom of a leadership in decline?
For a decade, he had been the respectful protégé, awaiting his time, studying and absorbing every tactic employed by his commander. There was no doubt that Adrian was a master strategist, and that his apprenticeship with her had been invaluable. But without him knowing it, it had dulled him to what ambition felt like -- until that moment when he slammed his fist into Demetrios's face and felt a giddying surge of power.
At the time, he had completely misinterpreted the source of that feeling -- it wasn't until now that he realized what it really was. It wasn't about exerting power over Demetrios -- the man scarcely warranted his attention. It was only partly about Madeline, as much as he wanted to protect or possess her. In fact, it was about him: about finding the strength to defy Adrian and what she wanted, about thwarting her commands when they didn't make sense.
It was about standing up and saying that he knew better. Choosing his own destiny, instead of waiting for Adrian to hand it to him.
But if he lived through this, what kind of destiny would he choose?
To that question, he had no answer. Yet.
***
Adrian and Phillip ate without speaking, the silence of the private dining room broken only by the steady clink of silverware and the occasional gurgle of water as the waiter refilled a glass. Phillip had abandoned his halfhearted attempts at small talk long before, stymied by Adrian's refusal to reciprocate. Still, he ate slowly, as if determined to drag things out.
Adrian flicked her eyes up to look at him then dropped her gaze back to her plate. His unannounced arrival in Paris had wrenched her away from critical work, and she wouldn't pretend to be pleased to see him. The sooner he stopped dancing around his reason for being there the better. They both knew what it was; she wished he would just get on with it.
"Alan sends his regards," he said tersely, throwing a rapid glance up at Adrian before he reached for a slice of bread. "He's been quite ill, you know."
"Has he?" replied Adrian, raising her eyebrows in shock, caught off guard by the unexpected news.
"Kidney problems," he said. He spread a thick layer of butter on his bread, then he stopped and looked at her questioningly. "No one told you?"
No. No one had told her. But she wouldn't allow Phillip the satisfaction of knowing that she was out of the loop -- or just how upsetting it was.
"I'd heard rumors," she lied, casually cutting off a piece of fish. "I just didn't know the extent."
He chuckled dourly. "They've already etched the tombstone for the old boy." He bit off a piece of bread and set the remainder down on his plate, bringing his napkin up to dab at the corners of his mouth. "How long have you known him? Quite some time, isn't it?"
"I've known him all my life," she said, struggling to keep the pain from her voice. "He was a friend of my father's."
"Oh, of course. How could I forget?" He gave a brusque laugh. "Alan was the one who got you into the business, wasn't he?"
"Yes," she said, eyeing Phillip grimly. He hadn't forgotten anything, she decided. He had dropped this little bombshell deliberately -- delighted to be the first to tell her that her family friend, mentor and closest ally on the Council was dying.
"Ah, well, then I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings." He shrugged, failing to disguise the satisfied smirk that flitted across his face, and took a sip of his wine. "Still, times change. That generation's nearly gone now. He's one of the last of the Old Guard left. Things won't quite be the same without him."
"No." She took a bite of fish, and the bitter taste of lemon filled her mouth. Despite knowing that Phillip was watching her, she found herself staring sadly at her glass. The Old Guard wasn't disappearing -- it was being replaced. They were becoming the Old Guard now.
How had that happened so quickly?
Phillip cleared his throat. "Rumor has it that Felix is up for Alan's Council seat," he said, his voice rich and conspiratorial.
"Felix?" She frowned, not recognizing the name.
"Felix Ortiz Correa."
She sat back in her seat, incredulous. "You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
"He's hardly qualified," she said with a disdainful sniff. "Unless you count being the underemployed son of fascist general a qualification."
He chuckled and sliced a potato in half. "The Americans like him. That's qualification enough."
"The Americans' idea of long-range planning is the next election year. Since when do we allow them to dictate anything?"
Phillip laughed. "Don't worry, he's had years of experience rounding up the ETA. He knows what he's doing." He bit his potato and chewed it thoroughly. "In fact, I rather like him," he added.
You would, she thought.
"But enough gossip," he said, his look turning suddenly stern. "I didn't fly to Paris for that."
She set down her knife and fork. She had been dreading this confrontation from the moment that he showed up in Section that morning -- no, from the moment she heard that Demetrios was brain-damaged beyond recovery. As much as she secretly enjoyed the fact that Phillip would be deprived of the intel he wanted for his absurd database experiment, she knew he would try to make her pay.
"I made a simple request, Adrian. One that you promised to carry out. Why didn't you?"
"Demetrios, you mean?" she asked innocently, pretending to be confused by his question.
"No," he snapped, "I mean that time I asked you to spin straw into gold." He glared at her. "Of course, I mean Demetrios. Let's not play games, shall we?"
She took a deep breath. "Demetrios attacked an operative during the attempt to extract him from his residence. He had to be restrained with force. Unfortunately, he was injured during the process." She smiled regretfully. "It was an unavoidable accident. But I'm sure you'll be able to find your data elsewhere, Phillip."
There. She had done it. She had lied so smoothly that he would never be able to prove it, even if he suspected the truth. She had already rewritten all the eyewitness debriefs, making certain that there would be no evidence of what had really happened. She had even refrained from imposing any punishment on Paul, as much as he had deserved it. A formal record of discipline against Paul would contradict her story to Phillip -- and that, in turn, would be an admission that she hadn't been able to control her own hand-picked successor. It was just the kind of lapse Phillip would seize upon and take to the Council: the Council where she would soon have one less ally.
Paul's loss of control would thus have to be dealt with informally. Informally, but harshly. While Adrian had found temporary solace in blaming Madeline for Paul's violent outburst, she knew that the truth was far more distasteful. In fact, Adrian had misjudged Paul severely -- so severely that it called into question her plan to transfer leadership to him at all.
Phillip crossed his arms and studied her with suspicion. "An accident? That's not like you."
"To have an accident? It happens to the best of us."
He snorted derisively. "I meant it's not like you to admit that anything was beyond your control. You must be getting humble in your old age."
"No one can control everything, Phillip." She smiled. "It's a lesson I think we all ought to learn, don't you?"
***
Charles stared at the paintings on the wall of the waiting room, trying to convince himself that he wasn't nervous. Nineteenth century landscapes, all of them -- and originals, no less. Priceless works of art with no one to appreciate them but distracted visitors like himself. What a waste.
What in God's name am I doing? he asked himself, casting his gaze about the room with growing anxiety. Coming here was almost certainly against protocol -- and he had never before circumvented the chain of command. Not for any reason, in all his years at the Section.
In fact, he couldn't recall a time that he had broken any rule. Ever.
Was he really that obedient? It was a dismaying realization. Even now, with the fate of the Section at stake, it had taken him an entire night nursing gin and tonics to work up the nerve to make his decision: to fly all the way to Brussels, behind Adrian's back.
Now that he was here, however, he felt his resolve harden. Enough was enough. It was time to rediscover his backbone.
The sound of the door opening made him look up in anticipation. A woman stepped inside the waiting room and smiled, gesturing for him to enter the room she had just departed.
"He'll see you now," she said pleasantly.
"Thank you," he said, rising to his feet and nodding as she held the door open for him.
As he entered the office he blinked, taken aback by its opulence. Adrian's office had its touches of luxury, but was essentially a Spartan workspace with a minimum of distractions. This room, in contrast, resembled an exclusive gentlemen's club: overstuffed chairs, wall-to-wall bookshelves, gilt-framed oil paintings, crystal decanters of port.
"Sit down," invited George, ensconced behind a massive mahogany desk. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you," answered Charles as he took a seat.
George studied Charles with an air of bemused curiosity. "This is somewhat irregular, Charles," he said, his voice a gravelly drawl. "Coming to see me here."
"Yes, I know." Charles leaned forward, fighting the temptation to sink back into the soft leather of his chair. "I've come to you because I don't know where else to turn."
Aside from a heavy-lidded stare, George showed no discernable reaction. After a moment, he nodded. "Go on, then."
Charles swallowed to relieve the dryness in his mouth. "Paul Wolfe seriously compromised a mission yesterday." He paused, his mood growing grim. "And Adrian is doing nothing about it."
"Indeed?" George narrowed his eyes, but his voice remained calm. "What happened?"
"Our objective was to capture a target and retrieve him for interrogation. Instead, Paul lost his temper and beat the man so severely he had to be euthanized."
"Did the target attack him?"
"No. He was secure and complying with orders."
Something unidentifiable passed across George's face, but before Charles could identify it, the blank expression returned. "Then why?"
Why? Because Paul couldn't handle his rage when Demetrios threatened Madeline's life. But explaining that would bring Madeline into the middle of things -- something Charles had resolved to avoid at all costs.
"I don't know. The man looked at him the wrong way, maybe. It doesn't take much to set Paul off." Charles grimaced. "He's done this sort of thing before, you know -- although never to the degree where he compromised a mission. Until now."
"This is troubling, I agree," said George, nodding somberly. "But you should speak to Adrian about your concerns."
Charles tensed, a surge of resentment flooding through him. "I did."
"And?" George blinked, sphinx-like.
"She thanked me for my input and dismissed me," Charles answered. "When I asked what would happen, she told me that personnel matters were none of my concern."
A corner of George's mouth twisted up. "She's quite correct. You did your duty by speaking to her, but she has no obligation to tell you how she plans to handle it."
Something in George's amused reaction offended Charles. This was a serious matter, and he wouldn't be patronized. "If it had been anyone else but Paul, Adrian would have ordered immediate cancellation," he countered frostily.
Charles stared at George, refusing to back down, until he saw a spark of approval light the other man's eyes. They held a look of mutual understanding for several moments.
"She intends to hand the leadership to him," Charles warned. "Imagine what a man like him would do with that sort of power."
George gave a sly smile. "I suppose you would wield power much more judiciously, then?"
Charles sat back in his chair, shocked. He hadn't intended that at all, although he now saw how he must have come across. He shook his head vigorously. "That's not why I'm here. I don't want it for myself."
"Then why are you here?"
Why was he here? He frowned, momentarily puzzled. He hadn't actually stopped to ask himself that question. His outrage over Paul's behavior -- and Adrian's failure to punish him -- didn't have anything to do with the fact that Madeline had chosen Paul over him, did it? He sat for a moment, clenching his jaw in reaction to the sour taste that welled up in his mouth, as he admitted the answer. Yes. Of course it did.
Maybe he harbored just a bit of resentment at the fact that, like so many other women, Madeline was inexplicably attracted to some chest-thumping, macho brute. What of it? That didn't mean he was wrong about the man. If anything, it made the situation even more urgent -- she needed protection from Paul, from his control and his toxic influence, as much as the Section did. He could easily destroy both of them. Would destroy both of them, unless he were stopped.
He straightened in his seat and looked George in the eye. "Because it's the right thing to do. For the Section."
George's smile broadened. "And if what's right for the Section just happens to benefit you--"
"No," interrupted Charles, his voice rising in frustration. "I meant what I said. This is not about me."
George sat for an uncomfortably long time in silence. Finally, he sighed. "What is it that you want me to do, Charles?"
"Speak to Adrian," Charles urged. "Paul is her protégé. I can understand that might affect her judgment." He looked at George pleadingly. "But you can be objective. You can reason with her. Convince her that he's wrong for the job."
"And if I can't convince her? What do you intend to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"If she won't change her mind, would you be willing to take the next step?" George gave him a strange, piercing look.
"What next step?" he asked, trying to ignore the sense of apprehension that plucked at his nerve endings.
"To do whatever it takes to protect the Section from Paul. Even if it goes against Adrian's wishes."
His apprehension blossomed into full-fledged fear. What had he just got himself into? But just as he was about to back away from the precipice he found himself perched upon, he had a new-found burst of courage. It was time to stop being hesitant. Time to do what was right.
"Yes," he said determinedly. "I'll do whatever it takes."
************
To go on to Chapter Fourteen, 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).
Paul fished his lighter out of his pocket and flicked it open, cupping his hand to shield the flame. He lit the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and inhaled deeply, then he leaned against the wrought-iron railing of Madeline's balcony to gaze out over the narrow street below. Aside from a single car that splashed through the puddles of the prior night's rain, the street was empty. But the cool air was full of distant noises: a city waking up, preparing breakfast, heading for work.
He turned his head to glance into the room behind him. The morning light pooled brightly on the polished floor, its cheerful warmth inching slowly toward the bed in the corner. There, Madeline lay completely still. Her back was to him, and the white sheets twisted around her haphazardly, a bare leg sticking out from underneath. It almost looked as if she weren't breathing -- as if she were frozen, waiting for the sunlight to touch her and bring her back to life. He had never seen her sleep quite so soundly -- and he had never slept so fitfully himself.
He had come to her the night before, not knowing quite what he wanted. At first, he thought it was to explain his actions, to apologize and ask forgiveness. But when she looked at him, her eyes full of disapproval and accusation, he had felt a strange compulsion to defend himself, to turn the tables and demand an explanation from her. To seize her by the shoulders and force her to acknowledge what they both knew: that what he had done was right, even though it was wrong.
It wasn't really forgiveness he had wanted, after all. It was understanding. And for a moment, he thought he had received it.
He had felt it when they clung together, clutching and grasping so fiercely that he was afraid they would tear each other apart. It was an instant of both terror and bliss, of complete recognition -- when they looked into each other's eyes and understood each other perfectly. When they saw the best and the worst in each other and accepted it, because they found the same within themselves. When their hurts, fears, desires -- and even their darkest rages -- merged and became one.
Then he blinked, and it was gone.
The next thing he knew, he was with a different person entirely: no longer raw and open, she was smooth, delicate, and evasive. Like a melody that shifted key halfway through, the change was subtle, but completely disorienting -- almost frightening, but hypnotically seductive. It had enchanted him, pulled him in and finally enveloped him, until he succumbed and forgot everything else.
Now, in the light of day, he wasn't sure just what had happened.
This is crazy, he thought, stubbing out his cigarette vigorously. He was imagining things, allowing his anxiety about what Adrian would do to spill over into everything.
Adrian had dismissed him from duty the moment they returned from Greece -- without explanation, without a reprimand, without even a chance to debrief. Her refusal to speak with him was unprecedented, and yet he had been allowed to go home, instead of being confined to quarters. Or cancelled.
Now, for the first time since he had arrived in Section, he didn't know what to expect.
What would happen when he returned to Section? There would be a punishment, certainly. He had interfered with the mission objective: a reckless and unforgivable act, even if that objective hadn't made any sense. Operatives were cancelled every week for far less. The fact that it hadn't happened immediately meant nothing; it was possible that Adrian was merely gathering documentation before she imposed that final judgment. So be it.
He had meant it when he told Madeline that he took responsibility for his own actions. He was a soldier, and he lived by the soldier's code; under it, disobedience of a command justified the harshest discipline. He could accept the consequences of his behavior without fear or resentment. So long as the punishment was restricted to him, that is. According to Madeline, Adrian blamed her for his actions. That, combined with the disparaging remarks Adrian had made to him about Madeline, troubled him immensely.
Adrian had always seemed unusually drawn to and repelled by Madeline. Why, he never understood. But for years, Adrian had targeted her with a singular cruelty -- and for years, he had stood by and watched.
How had he let things get to this point? When he first came to Section, over ten years before, he had been in awe of Adrian, wanting to do nothing but impress her. Somehow, that awe had blinded him to the fact that she was human, after all -- that, like anyone, she was subject to error, full of blind spots and vanity. He had assumed that her treatment of Madeline was part of some larger purpose: a trial by fire, of sorts. But what if it were just misjudgment? A symptom of a leadership in decline?
For a decade, he had been the respectful protégé, awaiting his time, studying and absorbing every tactic employed by his commander. There was no doubt that Adrian was a master strategist, and that his apprenticeship with her had been invaluable. But without him knowing it, it had dulled him to what ambition felt like -- until that moment when he slammed his fist into Demetrios's face and felt a giddying surge of power.
At the time, he had completely misinterpreted the source of that feeling -- it wasn't until now that he realized what it really was. It wasn't about exerting power over Demetrios -- the man scarcely warranted his attention. It was only partly about Madeline, as much as he wanted to protect or possess her. In fact, it was about him: about finding the strength to defy Adrian and what she wanted, about thwarting her commands when they didn't make sense.
It was about standing up and saying that he knew better. Choosing his own destiny, instead of waiting for Adrian to hand it to him.
But if he lived through this, what kind of destiny would he choose?
To that question, he had no answer. Yet.
***
Adrian and Phillip ate without speaking, the silence of the private dining room broken only by the steady clink of silverware and the occasional gurgle of water as the waiter refilled a glass. Phillip had abandoned his halfhearted attempts at small talk long before, stymied by Adrian's refusal to reciprocate. Still, he ate slowly, as if determined to drag things out.
Adrian flicked her eyes up to look at him then dropped her gaze back to her plate. His unannounced arrival in Paris had wrenched her away from critical work, and she wouldn't pretend to be pleased to see him. The sooner he stopped dancing around his reason for being there the better. They both knew what it was; she wished he would just get on with it.
"Alan sends his regards," he said tersely, throwing a rapid glance up at Adrian before he reached for a slice of bread. "He's been quite ill, you know."
"Has he?" replied Adrian, raising her eyebrows in shock, caught off guard by the unexpected news.
"Kidney problems," he said. He spread a thick layer of butter on his bread, then he stopped and looked at her questioningly. "No one told you?"
No. No one had told her. But she wouldn't allow Phillip the satisfaction of knowing that she was out of the loop -- or just how upsetting it was.
"I'd heard rumors," she lied, casually cutting off a piece of fish. "I just didn't know the extent."
He chuckled dourly. "They've already etched the tombstone for the old boy." He bit off a piece of bread and set the remainder down on his plate, bringing his napkin up to dab at the corners of his mouth. "How long have you known him? Quite some time, isn't it?"
"I've known him all my life," she said, struggling to keep the pain from her voice. "He was a friend of my father's."
"Oh, of course. How could I forget?" He gave a brusque laugh. "Alan was the one who got you into the business, wasn't he?"
"Yes," she said, eyeing Phillip grimly. He hadn't forgotten anything, she decided. He had dropped this little bombshell deliberately -- delighted to be the first to tell her that her family friend, mentor and closest ally on the Council was dying.
"Ah, well, then I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings." He shrugged, failing to disguise the satisfied smirk that flitted across his face, and took a sip of his wine. "Still, times change. That generation's nearly gone now. He's one of the last of the Old Guard left. Things won't quite be the same without him."
"No." She took a bite of fish, and the bitter taste of lemon filled her mouth. Despite knowing that Phillip was watching her, she found herself staring sadly at her glass. The Old Guard wasn't disappearing -- it was being replaced. They were becoming the Old Guard now.
How had that happened so quickly?
Phillip cleared his throat. "Rumor has it that Felix is up for Alan's Council seat," he said, his voice rich and conspiratorial.
"Felix?" She frowned, not recognizing the name.
"Felix Ortiz Correa."
She sat back in her seat, incredulous. "You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
"He's hardly qualified," she said with a disdainful sniff. "Unless you count being the underemployed son of fascist general a qualification."
He chuckled and sliced a potato in half. "The Americans like him. That's qualification enough."
"The Americans' idea of long-range planning is the next election year. Since when do we allow them to dictate anything?"
Phillip laughed. "Don't worry, he's had years of experience rounding up the ETA. He knows what he's doing." He bit his potato and chewed it thoroughly. "In fact, I rather like him," he added.
You would, she thought.
"But enough gossip," he said, his look turning suddenly stern. "I didn't fly to Paris for that."
She set down her knife and fork. She had been dreading this confrontation from the moment that he showed up in Section that morning -- no, from the moment she heard that Demetrios was brain-damaged beyond recovery. As much as she secretly enjoyed the fact that Phillip would be deprived of the intel he wanted for his absurd database experiment, she knew he would try to make her pay.
"I made a simple request, Adrian. One that you promised to carry out. Why didn't you?"
"Demetrios, you mean?" she asked innocently, pretending to be confused by his question.
"No," he snapped, "I mean that time I asked you to spin straw into gold." He glared at her. "Of course, I mean Demetrios. Let's not play games, shall we?"
She took a deep breath. "Demetrios attacked an operative during the attempt to extract him from his residence. He had to be restrained with force. Unfortunately, he was injured during the process." She smiled regretfully. "It was an unavoidable accident. But I'm sure you'll be able to find your data elsewhere, Phillip."
There. She had done it. She had lied so smoothly that he would never be able to prove it, even if he suspected the truth. She had already rewritten all the eyewitness debriefs, making certain that there would be no evidence of what had really happened. She had even refrained from imposing any punishment on Paul, as much as he had deserved it. A formal record of discipline against Paul would contradict her story to Phillip -- and that, in turn, would be an admission that she hadn't been able to control her own hand-picked successor. It was just the kind of lapse Phillip would seize upon and take to the Council: the Council where she would soon have one less ally.
Paul's loss of control would thus have to be dealt with informally. Informally, but harshly. While Adrian had found temporary solace in blaming Madeline for Paul's violent outburst, she knew that the truth was far more distasteful. In fact, Adrian had misjudged Paul severely -- so severely that it called into question her plan to transfer leadership to him at all.
Phillip crossed his arms and studied her with suspicion. "An accident? That's not like you."
"To have an accident? It happens to the best of us."
He snorted derisively. "I meant it's not like you to admit that anything was beyond your control. You must be getting humble in your old age."
"No one can control everything, Phillip." She smiled. "It's a lesson I think we all ought to learn, don't you?"
***
Charles stared at the paintings on the wall of the waiting room, trying to convince himself that he wasn't nervous. Nineteenth century landscapes, all of them -- and originals, no less. Priceless works of art with no one to appreciate them but distracted visitors like himself. What a waste.
What in God's name am I doing? he asked himself, casting his gaze about the room with growing anxiety. Coming here was almost certainly against protocol -- and he had never before circumvented the chain of command. Not for any reason, in all his years at the Section.
In fact, he couldn't recall a time that he had broken any rule. Ever.
Was he really that obedient? It was a dismaying realization. Even now, with the fate of the Section at stake, it had taken him an entire night nursing gin and tonics to work up the nerve to make his decision: to fly all the way to Brussels, behind Adrian's back.
Now that he was here, however, he felt his resolve harden. Enough was enough. It was time to rediscover his backbone.
The sound of the door opening made him look up in anticipation. A woman stepped inside the waiting room and smiled, gesturing for him to enter the room she had just departed.
"He'll see you now," she said pleasantly.
"Thank you," he said, rising to his feet and nodding as she held the door open for him.
As he entered the office he blinked, taken aback by its opulence. Adrian's office had its touches of luxury, but was essentially a Spartan workspace with a minimum of distractions. This room, in contrast, resembled an exclusive gentlemen's club: overstuffed chairs, wall-to-wall bookshelves, gilt-framed oil paintings, crystal decanters of port.
"Sit down," invited George, ensconced behind a massive mahogany desk. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you," answered Charles as he took a seat.
George studied Charles with an air of bemused curiosity. "This is somewhat irregular, Charles," he said, his voice a gravelly drawl. "Coming to see me here."
"Yes, I know." Charles leaned forward, fighting the temptation to sink back into the soft leather of his chair. "I've come to you because I don't know where else to turn."
Aside from a heavy-lidded stare, George showed no discernable reaction. After a moment, he nodded. "Go on, then."
Charles swallowed to relieve the dryness in his mouth. "Paul Wolfe seriously compromised a mission yesterday." He paused, his mood growing grim. "And Adrian is doing nothing about it."
"Indeed?" George narrowed his eyes, but his voice remained calm. "What happened?"
"Our objective was to capture a target and retrieve him for interrogation. Instead, Paul lost his temper and beat the man so severely he had to be euthanized."
"Did the target attack him?"
"No. He was secure and complying with orders."
Something unidentifiable passed across George's face, but before Charles could identify it, the blank expression returned. "Then why?"
Why? Because Paul couldn't handle his rage when Demetrios threatened Madeline's life. But explaining that would bring Madeline into the middle of things -- something Charles had resolved to avoid at all costs.
"I don't know. The man looked at him the wrong way, maybe. It doesn't take much to set Paul off." Charles grimaced. "He's done this sort of thing before, you know -- although never to the degree where he compromised a mission. Until now."
"This is troubling, I agree," said George, nodding somberly. "But you should speak to Adrian about your concerns."
Charles tensed, a surge of resentment flooding through him. "I did."
"And?" George blinked, sphinx-like.
"She thanked me for my input and dismissed me," Charles answered. "When I asked what would happen, she told me that personnel matters were none of my concern."
A corner of George's mouth twisted up. "She's quite correct. You did your duty by speaking to her, but she has no obligation to tell you how she plans to handle it."
Something in George's amused reaction offended Charles. This was a serious matter, and he wouldn't be patronized. "If it had been anyone else but Paul, Adrian would have ordered immediate cancellation," he countered frostily.
Charles stared at George, refusing to back down, until he saw a spark of approval light the other man's eyes. They held a look of mutual understanding for several moments.
"She intends to hand the leadership to him," Charles warned. "Imagine what a man like him would do with that sort of power."
George gave a sly smile. "I suppose you would wield power much more judiciously, then?"
Charles sat back in his chair, shocked. He hadn't intended that at all, although he now saw how he must have come across. He shook his head vigorously. "That's not why I'm here. I don't want it for myself."
"Then why are you here?"
Why was he here? He frowned, momentarily puzzled. He hadn't actually stopped to ask himself that question. His outrage over Paul's behavior -- and Adrian's failure to punish him -- didn't have anything to do with the fact that Madeline had chosen Paul over him, did it? He sat for a moment, clenching his jaw in reaction to the sour taste that welled up in his mouth, as he admitted the answer. Yes. Of course it did.
Maybe he harbored just a bit of resentment at the fact that, like so many other women, Madeline was inexplicably attracted to some chest-thumping, macho brute. What of it? That didn't mean he was wrong about the man. If anything, it made the situation even more urgent -- she needed protection from Paul, from his control and his toxic influence, as much as the Section did. He could easily destroy both of them. Would destroy both of them, unless he were stopped.
He straightened in his seat and looked George in the eye. "Because it's the right thing to do. For the Section."
George's smile broadened. "And if what's right for the Section just happens to benefit you--"
"No," interrupted Charles, his voice rising in frustration. "I meant what I said. This is not about me."
George sat for an uncomfortably long time in silence. Finally, he sighed. "What is it that you want me to do, Charles?"
"Speak to Adrian," Charles urged. "Paul is her protégé. I can understand that might affect her judgment." He looked at George pleadingly. "But you can be objective. You can reason with her. Convince her that he's wrong for the job."
"And if I can't convince her? What do you intend to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"If she won't change her mind, would you be willing to take the next step?" George gave him a strange, piercing look.
"What next step?" he asked, trying to ignore the sense of apprehension that plucked at his nerve endings.
"To do whatever it takes to protect the Section from Paul. Even if it goes against Adrian's wishes."
His apprehension blossomed into full-fledged fear. What had he just got himself into? But just as he was about to back away from the precipice he found himself perched upon, he had a new-found burst of courage. It was time to stop being hesitant. Time to do what was right.
"Yes," he said determinedly. "I'll do whatever it takes."
************
To go on to Chapter Fourteen, click here.
| Part One | Part Two |
|---|---|
| Chapter One | Chapter Seven |
| Chapter Two | Chapter Eight |
| Chapter Three | Chapter Nine |
| Chapter Four | Chapter Ten |
| Chapter Five | Chapter Eleven |
| Chapter Six | Chapter Twelve |