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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 Fourteen
Tapping her pen on her clipboard impatiently, Lisa squinted through her costume glasses at the woman standing before her.
"You received notice of the review three days ago," Lisa said briskly. "Claiming you aren't ready just isn't an acceptable excuse."
The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. "Look here," she said, her tone exasperated, "this review is going to be very disruptive for our residents. We're very careful about who we expose them to. Can't Section Four do its own research somewhere else?"
Lisa opened her mouth to give a frosty reply, but then hesitated, noticing the subtle look of hostility that flickered deep within the other woman's eyes. Perhaps she was using the wrong approach. If she continued to press for what she wanted, the woman might actually call Section Four -- or worse yet, Adrian -- to complain about the hoax "snap inspection" that Lisa had invented. If that happened, Lisa was dead before she ever began.
Unfortunately, she was at a loss for what to do next. The woman was completely unyielding, despite the official-looking memo from Section Four's own form database that Lisa had forged and now brandished. Nor were Lisa's business suit and officious attitude working; they only seemed to make the woman more obstinate in her refusal.
It was time to switch tactics -- time to stop threatening and start wheedling. Or begging, if need be. What had Madeline said? Something about finding out what people want or fear, and using that to control them. That's what Lisa had done with Jules, and it had worked beautifully. But he was easy to figure out; this woman posed more of a challenge.
What would the Director on Level 16 want? Lisa took a long, breath, and exhaled slowly to calm herself. Okay, she thought, let's try another direction here.
She moved a little closer to the woman and touched her arm. "Mireille," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "can you keep a secret?"
Mireille frowned. "I don't know."
"This review isn't really about the residents, although I need to see a sample of them." Lisa smiled reassuringly. "It's about you."
Mireille stepped back, her expression alarmed. "I don't think I follow you."
Lisa leaned toward Mireille and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Section Four is a massive failure. George is thinking about starting from scratch. New children, new trainers."
"Really?" The alarm in Mireille's face gave way to a look of curiosity.
"I'm here -- unofficially -- because George thinks you might be a good choice to head the team to rebuild the Section. The problem is, Adrian wants to keep you here. So he sent me to check you out surreptitiously. Under the guise of an inter-Section research project, you see. If he likes what he finds, he'll find a way to finesse Adrian." Lisa stepped back again, giving the woman a knowing smile.
God, is she going to buy this? Lisa's smile felt frozen as she waited for the woman to respond. She nearly closed her eyes in relief when Mireille seized her arm with an expression of delight.
"Oh, my God!" Mireille whispered excitedly. "That would be a huge promotion. And I hear that, uh," she said, hesitating, "that life is a little easier in the other Sections." An anxious look crossed her face. "Safer."
"You'd better believe it," Lisa said, nodding seriously. "But I need to take a look at a handful of your residents. Otherwise I can't give George any feedback about your results."
"Okay, you've got it." Mireille released Lisa's arm and took a nervous breath. "How many do you need to see?"
"Just three." Lisa withdrew a sheet of paper from her clipboard and handed it to Mireille. "Ten minutes with each."
"Only ten minutes?" Mireille gave her a puzzled look. "You aren't going to learn much that way. Why don't you spend the whole afternoon here? You could observe some of the classes. The more feedback for George, the better, right?"
Lisa felt her heart rate surge at the suggestion. If only she dared take more time -- it was bad enough she had to waste her limited time with two other children in order to cover her real reason for being here. But the longer she stayed, the greater the chance of detection.
"No," she said, shaking her head regretfully. "Like I said, this visit isn't entirely kosher. George doesn't even want Adrian to know I'm here, if you know what I mean." She smiled sadly. "So it has to be in and out fairly quickly."
Mireille nodded. "Got it."
"In fact," Lisa continued, "it's probably best if you don't mention this visit to anyone. If it gets back to Adrian that George is going around her, well, you can kiss your chances for a transfer goodbye."
"Okay," Mireille said. She glanced down at the list Lisa had handed her. "All right, the first one is just down the hallway here. Follow me."
As Lisa followed Mireille down a corridor, she gripped her clipboard and pen tightly. Her plan was actually working -- it amazed her how easy everything had been. There were so many ways she could have been caught, she couldn't quite believe that she was really getting away with it. Had Mireille bothered to call anyone at Section Four to verify the memo that Lisa had sent her earlier in the week; had the people in charge of surveillance actually tracked operatives' movements instead of simply monitoring the highest security areas; had Jules done a better job coding the elevator passwords so that she couldn't have hacked them -- if any of those things had happened, Lisa wouldn't have had a chance. But she had gambled that people would be lazy -- and she was right.
Mireille stopped outside a doorway, punched in a code to unlock it, and opened the door. "Here's your first stop," she said. "I'll be back in ten minutes."
Lisa gulped. "Thank you," she said, and stepped through the door.
The room was surprisingly tiny, even for one belonging to a child. The walls were white and completely devoid of decoration; aside from the small amount of furniture and a worn beige carpet, it looked more like a holding cell than anyone's living quarters. There was a bed with a plain blue cover. A small student desk with a hand-me-down Commodore computer. And a desk chair -- where a fragile-looking little boy with a crew cut sat, regarding her warily.
He was so pale he looked like a mushroom that had sprouted up after days of heavy rain. Did they even let him go outside? She felt her vision clouding with tears, and she blinked rapidly to control herself.
"Hi there," she said, her voice cracking.
He stared at her for several moments before speaking. "Who are you?"
"My name's Patricia," she said, regaining control over her voice. She crossed the room to sit on the bed. "You're Seymour, aren't you?"
He was only a few feet away -- within arm's reach -- and she struggled with a desperate urge to grab him and pull him toward her, or at least to touch his face. She had to glance away to suppress it.
"Yeah." He nodded. "But I don't like that name."
"Oh yeah? Why not?"
He shrugged. "It sounds dopey."
Oh, God, I'm sorry for saddling you with that one, she thought. He had been named for one of his grandfathers, just as his brother had been named for the other -- she had wanted each of them to have something connecting them to their family, even if they would never know it.
She forced a cheerful grin. "Hey, I've heard worse. You're lucky you aren't named Wilberforce."
His brow wrinkled. "That's a name?"
"Wilberforce, Egbert, Percival. There are all sorts of names much dopier than yours."
"Egbert?" He smiled shyly. "That's a stupid name." Then he frowned again. "But I still don't like Seymour."
"Okay, then I won't call you that. What do you want to be called?"
He cocked his head in thought. "I dunno. Nobody ever asked me before."
"Why don't you pick something?" She waited, but he said nothing. "Who's your favorite superhero?"
"Superhero?"
"You know. Like Batman's name is Bruce, or Superman's name is Clark. You could use one of their names."
"Who are they?" He looked at her in confusion.
"You don't know who Batman and Superman are?" She tried to keep from gaping.
He shook his head.
She looked around the room with growing anger. No posters, no books, no toys. Surely he wasn't being forced to work for Section yet?
"So," she said, "what do you do in here all day?"
"Lessons, mostly," he answered in a bored voice.
"Lessons?"
"Yeah." He looked at her like she had suddenly grown a second head. "Isn't that what you're here for?"
"Uh, no," she said hastily. "I'm, um, here to evaluate your teachers."
"Evaluate?" He looked puzzled.
"To find out if they're teaching you the right way."
"Oh, like last time." A trace of worry settled in his eyes. "Are you going to send them away again?"
"What do you mean?"
"Last time this man came and got really angry at the teachers. So they all got sent somewhere and I had to start with new ones." His voice was sad. "I don't want new teachers. The ones here are nice to me."
Got sent somewhere, she thought, repressing a shudder. I bet. No wonder Mireille didn't want me here. She must be scared shitless of being reviewed.
"No, no, I'm not going to do that," she assured him. "I just want to find out if…." She clenched her teeth, her mouth twitching with the effort as she clamped down on a surge of emotion. "I want to find out if you're happy."
He gave her an odd look. "Huh?"
She blinked again and took a gulp of air, regaining control of herself. "I mean, do you like your lessons? Are they fun?"
He nodded.
"What do you study?"
"Different stuff. Math, reading, languages. And games. I spend a lot of time playing games." At the last part, his face lit up in a broad smile.
"Really? What kind of games?" Maybe it wasn't as bad as she had thought. Maybe they were allowing him to be a child.
"Battle games, mostly. And MUDs. Those are my favorite. I get to kill all sorts of monsters."
"Computer games, you mean?"
"Yeah. What else?"
What else? Baseball, soccer, cops-and-robbers -- something that would involve going outside, or at least other children.
Then again, if he spent his time working on computers, he would never become a field operative -- the one fate she dreaded the most. How funny -- they're deliberately training him for the very thing that I've struggled so hard for.
When she heard a tap on the door she started. The ten minutes were up. Ten minutes, to substitute for a lifetime. Swallowing hard over the lump in her throat, she stood.
"Well, Seymour, or whatever you want to call yourself, it was nice meeting you." She extended a hand.
He took her hand to shake it. She held on for a few extra moments; his hand was small, hot, slightly sticky -- the prototypical hand of an eight-year-old boy. The contact was almost too much for her to bear; she felt a rush of tears well up in the corner of her eyes and let go of his hand abruptly. Turning sharply on her heel, she walked toward the door, until she heard him speak and stopped short.
"Bye," he said.
She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. "Bye. And good luck killing those monsters."
***
Madeline turned the page of the surveillance report, and reached for her pen to jot notes onto the pad of paper on her desk.
Target's father - liver treatment, Copenhagen.
5 visitors in past 3 weeks: wife, brother, brother's wife, nephew, employer
Scenario One: target visits surreptitiously
Scenario Two: family member contacts target
Scenario Three:
She looked up as the telephone rang, annoyed at the interruption. She set down the pen and picked up the receiver.
"Yes?" she answered curtly.
"Madeline."
The sound of the familiar voice prompted her to sit up straight before replying, her annoyance giving way to alert concentration.
"Hello, George. How are you?"
"I thought we might have lunch together tomorrow," he drawled. "I'll be in town, and it's been a while."
It had been almost four months, in fact. While she sent him status reports covertly, her face-to-face dealings with him were thankfully minimal. But every so often he wanted the opportunity to question her more thoroughly -- as much to read her own behavior, she suspected, as to find out any information she could convey about others.
"That sounds wonderful. I always appreciate having the chance to catch up." She slipped into the deferential but slightly casual tone of voice he had recommended that she use with him on the telephone -- her manner aimed at convincing potential eavesdroppers that their meetings were run-of-the-mill networking get-togethers between a former mentor and his ex-employee, and not anything untoward.
"One o'clock," he instructed. "The usual place."
"I'll see you then."
"Goodbye."
She heard George's phone click off, then the dial tone. As she placed the receiver back in its cradle, she reflected with mild curiosity upon the absence of a reaction on her part. Normally, the prospect of a meeting with George filled her with nervous queasiness, each contact an unwelcome reminder that he had induced her into committing a cancelable offense -- and that he, and not she, held all the power. If he ever lost faith in her loyalty -- even for a moment -- he could crush her. Would crush her, she had no doubt.
This time, that anxious feeling was absent. Instead, she felt nothing. Somehow, George had ceased to be anyone of concern. He was just a thing to be dealt with, yet another person she had to choose a role for. For him, she played the reliable subordinate, the junior conspirator. Then, at a moment's notice, she could shrug that persona off and take up another one -- selecting whatever was expedient for the next task she engaged in, the next person she interacted with, switching instantaneously, seamlessly, effortlessly.
In the past, her mistake had been in trying to hold on to her inner self while she did so. That self, full of doubts, worries, and attachments, got in the way -- it dragged along like a drowning person clinging to her, exhausting her with its dead weight until it pulled her under. But set aside somewhere, out of the way, it was no longer a burden. She didn't need to carry it around with her all the time, after all. She had pried its fingers from their grip around her neck and shoved it away, to wait until she felt like interacting with it. If ever.
Without it, she could do anything. Accomplish everything. She was everything, anything, nothing, and no one. There were no more restraints, no more boundaries, no more limits.
She was free -- and freedom was power.
The sound of a door slamming in the office next door startled her out of her thoughts. She shook herself mentally, preparing to return to her work, then stopped and glanced at her watch. She had been working thirteen hours without interruption. Perhaps it was time to stop. She stretched in her chair, trying to decide whether she should go directly home or stop to eat first. Then she frowned as an unexpected thought slipped into her mind, capturing her with its strange, compelling attraction.
She spent her time acting, performing, playing roles. How pleasant it would be to have someone perform for her for a change. How satisfying to be able to demand that of someone else.
There was nothing to stop her. It wouldn't really even be wrong: a harmless diversion to help her relax.
She turned to her computer and typed a command, waiting until a list of names appeared on the screen. She scanned through them one by one, browsing casually the way one would through a rack of clothes.
Intriguing, but no. Maybe. Definitely not. A possibility. No, not quite right.
Then she saw it.
Oh, yes.
She stared at the name, picturing the man: a young valentine operative so smarmy, so false and cloying, that he had always made her blood run cold.
He was perfect.
He was exactly what she wanted. Someone to perform for her. To engage in all the hackneyed, pathetic come-ons that women were supposed to like, to whisper saccharine phrases in her ear, to tell her that he loved her even though they both knew he didn't, to do as she told him, when she told him, how she told him. As many times as she told him. And to be tossed aside afterwards, like an empty chocolate wrapper.
Reaching for her phone again, she punched in his number and waited for him to answer.
"Lars," she said, using her smoothest, most sensuous voice. "I'd like to see you in my office. I have a few questions for you about next week's mission, if you don't mind."
***
George hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, lost in thought. Madeline's tone of voice during their brief conversation hadn't betrayed anything unusual -- there were no hints of nervousness that would have suggested she was withholding any information. And yet, thanks to his conversation with Charles earlier in the week, he knew she had.
Her status report on the mission in Greece, sent to him two days before, conflicted with Charles's description in several key respects. He suspected that both of them had omitted details about the event in question -- both spinning the story to suit their own purposes. George had spent the past day comparing the two accounts to the official mission log, trying to determine what parts of each could be believed.
It was very disappointing.
Of course, he hardly expected Madeline to be completely forthcoming with information. She would be a fool not to hold back certain things for her own advantage, and he wouldn't have selected her as his source had he thought she was that. But neglecting to mention that Adrian was covering up for an operative who had lost control of himself was a critical omission. One that she should have known better than to have made.
One omission like this was a red flag. A warning to keep an eye out on her, although not serious enough to cause him to abandon his plans for her altogether. Another incident like this, however, would be a different story. He would have to be very watchful from now on.
When he heard the telephone ring, he wondered briefly if it might be Madeline calling him back -- trying to find an excuse to beg out of their lunch meeting for the next day. Suspicious, he picked up the receiver.
"This is George."
"George. Phillip here."
He blinked at the sound of the unexpected voice. "Why, Phillip, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"
"I've been giving your structural suggestions some thought," the other man said brusquely, as if he were picking up where a recent conversation left off instead of raising a subject they hadn't discussed in over a year. "I'm beginning to come round to your point of view."
George was momentarily speechless, dumbfounded at Phillip's conversational gambit. He had long since given up trying to win over the head of Center to his vision for the Sections, reluctantly concluding that Phillip was simply too caught up in the theoretical concerns of policy to appreciate George's ideas.
"That's very gratifying," he said, finally, unable to think of anything else to say.
Phillip snorted. "Still the master of understatement, George? I expect as soon as I ring off you'll do a dance of joy."
You arrogant prick, George thought. No wonder Adrian despised Phillip. Alas, one couldn't always choose one's allies.
"And you're still quite the wit, Phillip," he said dryly.
"Yes, well, perhaps." Phillip laughed for a moment, then his tone grew more serious. "At any rate, Adrian's gone too far. She thinks she doesn't have to answer to anyone. It can't continue."
"That's what I've been telling you," said George, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. "We need a governing hierarchy that imposes control on the Sections. That takes the organization out of the realm of personal whim and into that of logic and order."
"Yes, yes, George, let me commend you for your foresight," Phillip said bitingly. "But the problem has grown in severity of late."
Had it? How interesting. "In what respect?" he asked, his interest piqued.
"I've made requests for support and intelligence. I believe she's deliberately inventing excuses to avoid providing them."
George smiled. In other words, Phillip didn't get something he wanted -- that was why the problem had "grown in severity" so suddenly.
"Cooperation isn't her strong point," he remarked blandly. "She probably thinks Center is encroaching upon her territory."
"That's ridiculous," huffed Phillip. "We're partners, not rivals."
George chuckled. "Adrian doesn't like partners."
Him included, he reflected, his amusement tinged with bitterness. He might never have considered taking this path -- turning toward a fool such as Phillip for help -- had she treated him as an equal instead of a subordinate. Had she listened to some of his ideas instead of dismissing them out of hand. Yes, she was the genius behind the creation of the Sections -- but he had worked just as hard to build them, and he deserved as much respect.
"In any event," said Phillip, "what you've proposed makes sense. Some sort of oversight entity to ensure that the Sections don't get completely out of control. A liaison to facilitate cooperation between Center and the Sections."
"Precisely."
"The problem is, she'll never agree to it."
"No."
"Which is why she's got to go."
George's stomach lurched -- both anxious and relieved that the other man finally said it. George had come to that conclusion years ago; still, he preferred to let Phillip think it was his idea.
"You don't have a problem with that, do you?" Phillip asked, his words heavy with unspoken meaning.
"Not if she's allowed to save face," George answered, his voice weakening as he tried to suppress a sudden stab of guilt. "A retirement with privileges."
"It would have to be forced."
"Of course."
"Regrettably, I don't have the clout to make it happen yet. Her support on the Council is waning, but it hasn't disappeared altogether." Phillip paused. "It's going to take time."
"Understood."
George closed his eyes. If Phillip could make this happen, it would all be so much easier. George could suspend his plans to orchestrate a coup, and simply look the other way while the inevitable played out. He could be a passive conspirator instead of an active traitor -- and one who, at least in a small way, protected Adrian's dignity in the process.
The strength of his relief shocked him. It left him weak, yet strangely energized -- and struck with the urge to fly straight to Paris and embrace the woman they were discussing: the woman he worshiped and resented, whom he loved and hated in equal parts. The woman he would no longer have to destroy -- because someone else would destroy her for him.
Phillip's voice rasped over the phone, startling George back into awareness.
"Good. Then we understand each other. I think we'll make a rather good team, don't you?"
"Yes," said George. "I do, too."
End of Part Two
************
To go on to Part Three, 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).
Tapping her pen on her clipboard impatiently, Lisa squinted through her costume glasses at the woman standing before her.
"You received notice of the review three days ago," Lisa said briskly. "Claiming you aren't ready just isn't an acceptable excuse."
The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. "Look here," she said, her tone exasperated, "this review is going to be very disruptive for our residents. We're very careful about who we expose them to. Can't Section Four do its own research somewhere else?"
Lisa opened her mouth to give a frosty reply, but then hesitated, noticing the subtle look of hostility that flickered deep within the other woman's eyes. Perhaps she was using the wrong approach. If she continued to press for what she wanted, the woman might actually call Section Four -- or worse yet, Adrian -- to complain about the hoax "snap inspection" that Lisa had invented. If that happened, Lisa was dead before she ever began.
Unfortunately, she was at a loss for what to do next. The woman was completely unyielding, despite the official-looking memo from Section Four's own form database that Lisa had forged and now brandished. Nor were Lisa's business suit and officious attitude working; they only seemed to make the woman more obstinate in her refusal.
It was time to switch tactics -- time to stop threatening and start wheedling. Or begging, if need be. What had Madeline said? Something about finding out what people want or fear, and using that to control them. That's what Lisa had done with Jules, and it had worked beautifully. But he was easy to figure out; this woman posed more of a challenge.
What would the Director on Level 16 want? Lisa took a long, breath, and exhaled slowly to calm herself. Okay, she thought, let's try another direction here.
She moved a little closer to the woman and touched her arm. "Mireille," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "can you keep a secret?"
Mireille frowned. "I don't know."
"This review isn't really about the residents, although I need to see a sample of them." Lisa smiled reassuringly. "It's about you."
Mireille stepped back, her expression alarmed. "I don't think I follow you."
Lisa leaned toward Mireille and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Section Four is a massive failure. George is thinking about starting from scratch. New children, new trainers."
"Really?" The alarm in Mireille's face gave way to a look of curiosity.
"I'm here -- unofficially -- because George thinks you might be a good choice to head the team to rebuild the Section. The problem is, Adrian wants to keep you here. So he sent me to check you out surreptitiously. Under the guise of an inter-Section research project, you see. If he likes what he finds, he'll find a way to finesse Adrian." Lisa stepped back again, giving the woman a knowing smile.
God, is she going to buy this? Lisa's smile felt frozen as she waited for the woman to respond. She nearly closed her eyes in relief when Mireille seized her arm with an expression of delight.
"Oh, my God!" Mireille whispered excitedly. "That would be a huge promotion. And I hear that, uh," she said, hesitating, "that life is a little easier in the other Sections." An anxious look crossed her face. "Safer."
"You'd better believe it," Lisa said, nodding seriously. "But I need to take a look at a handful of your residents. Otherwise I can't give George any feedback about your results."
"Okay, you've got it." Mireille released Lisa's arm and took a nervous breath. "How many do you need to see?"
"Just three." Lisa withdrew a sheet of paper from her clipboard and handed it to Mireille. "Ten minutes with each."
"Only ten minutes?" Mireille gave her a puzzled look. "You aren't going to learn much that way. Why don't you spend the whole afternoon here? You could observe some of the classes. The more feedback for George, the better, right?"
Lisa felt her heart rate surge at the suggestion. If only she dared take more time -- it was bad enough she had to waste her limited time with two other children in order to cover her real reason for being here. But the longer she stayed, the greater the chance of detection.
"No," she said, shaking her head regretfully. "Like I said, this visit isn't entirely kosher. George doesn't even want Adrian to know I'm here, if you know what I mean." She smiled sadly. "So it has to be in and out fairly quickly."
Mireille nodded. "Got it."
"In fact," Lisa continued, "it's probably best if you don't mention this visit to anyone. If it gets back to Adrian that George is going around her, well, you can kiss your chances for a transfer goodbye."
"Okay," Mireille said. She glanced down at the list Lisa had handed her. "All right, the first one is just down the hallway here. Follow me."
As Lisa followed Mireille down a corridor, she gripped her clipboard and pen tightly. Her plan was actually working -- it amazed her how easy everything had been. There were so many ways she could have been caught, she couldn't quite believe that she was really getting away with it. Had Mireille bothered to call anyone at Section Four to verify the memo that Lisa had sent her earlier in the week; had the people in charge of surveillance actually tracked operatives' movements instead of simply monitoring the highest security areas; had Jules done a better job coding the elevator passwords so that she couldn't have hacked them -- if any of those things had happened, Lisa wouldn't have had a chance. But she had gambled that people would be lazy -- and she was right.
Mireille stopped outside a doorway, punched in a code to unlock it, and opened the door. "Here's your first stop," she said. "I'll be back in ten minutes."
Lisa gulped. "Thank you," she said, and stepped through the door.
The room was surprisingly tiny, even for one belonging to a child. The walls were white and completely devoid of decoration; aside from the small amount of furniture and a worn beige carpet, it looked more like a holding cell than anyone's living quarters. There was a bed with a plain blue cover. A small student desk with a hand-me-down Commodore computer. And a desk chair -- where a fragile-looking little boy with a crew cut sat, regarding her warily.
He was so pale he looked like a mushroom that had sprouted up after days of heavy rain. Did they even let him go outside? She felt her vision clouding with tears, and she blinked rapidly to control herself.
"Hi there," she said, her voice cracking.
He stared at her for several moments before speaking. "Who are you?"
"My name's Patricia," she said, regaining control over her voice. She crossed the room to sit on the bed. "You're Seymour, aren't you?"
He was only a few feet away -- within arm's reach -- and she struggled with a desperate urge to grab him and pull him toward her, or at least to touch his face. She had to glance away to suppress it.
"Yeah." He nodded. "But I don't like that name."
"Oh yeah? Why not?"
He shrugged. "It sounds dopey."
Oh, God, I'm sorry for saddling you with that one, she thought. He had been named for one of his grandfathers, just as his brother had been named for the other -- she had wanted each of them to have something connecting them to their family, even if they would never know it.
She forced a cheerful grin. "Hey, I've heard worse. You're lucky you aren't named Wilberforce."
His brow wrinkled. "That's a name?"
"Wilberforce, Egbert, Percival. There are all sorts of names much dopier than yours."
"Egbert?" He smiled shyly. "That's a stupid name." Then he frowned again. "But I still don't like Seymour."
"Okay, then I won't call you that. What do you want to be called?"
He cocked his head in thought. "I dunno. Nobody ever asked me before."
"Why don't you pick something?" She waited, but he said nothing. "Who's your favorite superhero?"
"Superhero?"
"You know. Like Batman's name is Bruce, or Superman's name is Clark. You could use one of their names."
"Who are they?" He looked at her in confusion.
"You don't know who Batman and Superman are?" She tried to keep from gaping.
He shook his head.
She looked around the room with growing anger. No posters, no books, no toys. Surely he wasn't being forced to work for Section yet?
"So," she said, "what do you do in here all day?"
"Lessons, mostly," he answered in a bored voice.
"Lessons?"
"Yeah." He looked at her like she had suddenly grown a second head. "Isn't that what you're here for?"
"Uh, no," she said hastily. "I'm, um, here to evaluate your teachers."
"Evaluate?" He looked puzzled.
"To find out if they're teaching you the right way."
"Oh, like last time." A trace of worry settled in his eyes. "Are you going to send them away again?"
"What do you mean?"
"Last time this man came and got really angry at the teachers. So they all got sent somewhere and I had to start with new ones." His voice was sad. "I don't want new teachers. The ones here are nice to me."
Got sent somewhere, she thought, repressing a shudder. I bet. No wonder Mireille didn't want me here. She must be scared shitless of being reviewed.
"No, no, I'm not going to do that," she assured him. "I just want to find out if…." She clenched her teeth, her mouth twitching with the effort as she clamped down on a surge of emotion. "I want to find out if you're happy."
He gave her an odd look. "Huh?"
She blinked again and took a gulp of air, regaining control of herself. "I mean, do you like your lessons? Are they fun?"
He nodded.
"What do you study?"
"Different stuff. Math, reading, languages. And games. I spend a lot of time playing games." At the last part, his face lit up in a broad smile.
"Really? What kind of games?" Maybe it wasn't as bad as she had thought. Maybe they were allowing him to be a child.
"Battle games, mostly. And MUDs. Those are my favorite. I get to kill all sorts of monsters."
"Computer games, you mean?"
"Yeah. What else?"
What else? Baseball, soccer, cops-and-robbers -- something that would involve going outside, or at least other children.
Then again, if he spent his time working on computers, he would never become a field operative -- the one fate she dreaded the most. How funny -- they're deliberately training him for the very thing that I've struggled so hard for.
When she heard a tap on the door she started. The ten minutes were up. Ten minutes, to substitute for a lifetime. Swallowing hard over the lump in her throat, she stood.
"Well, Seymour, or whatever you want to call yourself, it was nice meeting you." She extended a hand.
He took her hand to shake it. She held on for a few extra moments; his hand was small, hot, slightly sticky -- the prototypical hand of an eight-year-old boy. The contact was almost too much for her to bear; she felt a rush of tears well up in the corner of her eyes and let go of his hand abruptly. Turning sharply on her heel, she walked toward the door, until she heard him speak and stopped short.
"Bye," he said.
She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. "Bye. And good luck killing those monsters."
***
Madeline turned the page of the surveillance report, and reached for her pen to jot notes onto the pad of paper on her desk.
Target's father - liver treatment, Copenhagen.
5 visitors in past 3 weeks: wife, brother, brother's wife, nephew, employer
Scenario One: target visits surreptitiously
Scenario Two: family member contacts target
Scenario Three:
She looked up as the telephone rang, annoyed at the interruption. She set down the pen and picked up the receiver.
"Yes?" she answered curtly.
"Madeline."
The sound of the familiar voice prompted her to sit up straight before replying, her annoyance giving way to alert concentration.
"Hello, George. How are you?"
"I thought we might have lunch together tomorrow," he drawled. "I'll be in town, and it's been a while."
It had been almost four months, in fact. While she sent him status reports covertly, her face-to-face dealings with him were thankfully minimal. But every so often he wanted the opportunity to question her more thoroughly -- as much to read her own behavior, she suspected, as to find out any information she could convey about others.
"That sounds wonderful. I always appreciate having the chance to catch up." She slipped into the deferential but slightly casual tone of voice he had recommended that she use with him on the telephone -- her manner aimed at convincing potential eavesdroppers that their meetings were run-of-the-mill networking get-togethers between a former mentor and his ex-employee, and not anything untoward.
"One o'clock," he instructed. "The usual place."
"I'll see you then."
"Goodbye."
She heard George's phone click off, then the dial tone. As she placed the receiver back in its cradle, she reflected with mild curiosity upon the absence of a reaction on her part. Normally, the prospect of a meeting with George filled her with nervous queasiness, each contact an unwelcome reminder that he had induced her into committing a cancelable offense -- and that he, and not she, held all the power. If he ever lost faith in her loyalty -- even for a moment -- he could crush her. Would crush her, she had no doubt.
This time, that anxious feeling was absent. Instead, she felt nothing. Somehow, George had ceased to be anyone of concern. He was just a thing to be dealt with, yet another person she had to choose a role for. For him, she played the reliable subordinate, the junior conspirator. Then, at a moment's notice, she could shrug that persona off and take up another one -- selecting whatever was expedient for the next task she engaged in, the next person she interacted with, switching instantaneously, seamlessly, effortlessly.
In the past, her mistake had been in trying to hold on to her inner self while she did so. That self, full of doubts, worries, and attachments, got in the way -- it dragged along like a drowning person clinging to her, exhausting her with its dead weight until it pulled her under. But set aside somewhere, out of the way, it was no longer a burden. She didn't need to carry it around with her all the time, after all. She had pried its fingers from their grip around her neck and shoved it away, to wait until she felt like interacting with it. If ever.
Without it, she could do anything. Accomplish everything. She was everything, anything, nothing, and no one. There were no more restraints, no more boundaries, no more limits.
She was free -- and freedom was power.
The sound of a door slamming in the office next door startled her out of her thoughts. She shook herself mentally, preparing to return to her work, then stopped and glanced at her watch. She had been working thirteen hours without interruption. Perhaps it was time to stop. She stretched in her chair, trying to decide whether she should go directly home or stop to eat first. Then she frowned as an unexpected thought slipped into her mind, capturing her with its strange, compelling attraction.
She spent her time acting, performing, playing roles. How pleasant it would be to have someone perform for her for a change. How satisfying to be able to demand that of someone else.
There was nothing to stop her. It wouldn't really even be wrong: a harmless diversion to help her relax.
She turned to her computer and typed a command, waiting until a list of names appeared on the screen. She scanned through them one by one, browsing casually the way one would through a rack of clothes.
Intriguing, but no. Maybe. Definitely not. A possibility. No, not quite right.
Then she saw it.
Oh, yes.
She stared at the name, picturing the man: a young valentine operative so smarmy, so false and cloying, that he had always made her blood run cold.
He was perfect.
He was exactly what she wanted. Someone to perform for her. To engage in all the hackneyed, pathetic come-ons that women were supposed to like, to whisper saccharine phrases in her ear, to tell her that he loved her even though they both knew he didn't, to do as she told him, when she told him, how she told him. As many times as she told him. And to be tossed aside afterwards, like an empty chocolate wrapper.
Reaching for her phone again, she punched in his number and waited for him to answer.
"Lars," she said, using her smoothest, most sensuous voice. "I'd like to see you in my office. I have a few questions for you about next week's mission, if you don't mind."
***
George hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, lost in thought. Madeline's tone of voice during their brief conversation hadn't betrayed anything unusual -- there were no hints of nervousness that would have suggested she was withholding any information. And yet, thanks to his conversation with Charles earlier in the week, he knew she had.
Her status report on the mission in Greece, sent to him two days before, conflicted with Charles's description in several key respects. He suspected that both of them had omitted details about the event in question -- both spinning the story to suit their own purposes. George had spent the past day comparing the two accounts to the official mission log, trying to determine what parts of each could be believed.
It was very disappointing.
Of course, he hardly expected Madeline to be completely forthcoming with information. She would be a fool not to hold back certain things for her own advantage, and he wouldn't have selected her as his source had he thought she was that. But neglecting to mention that Adrian was covering up for an operative who had lost control of himself was a critical omission. One that she should have known better than to have made.
One omission like this was a red flag. A warning to keep an eye out on her, although not serious enough to cause him to abandon his plans for her altogether. Another incident like this, however, would be a different story. He would have to be very watchful from now on.
When he heard the telephone ring, he wondered briefly if it might be Madeline calling him back -- trying to find an excuse to beg out of their lunch meeting for the next day. Suspicious, he picked up the receiver.
"This is George."
"George. Phillip here."
He blinked at the sound of the unexpected voice. "Why, Phillip, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"
"I've been giving your structural suggestions some thought," the other man said brusquely, as if he were picking up where a recent conversation left off instead of raising a subject they hadn't discussed in over a year. "I'm beginning to come round to your point of view."
George was momentarily speechless, dumbfounded at Phillip's conversational gambit. He had long since given up trying to win over the head of Center to his vision for the Sections, reluctantly concluding that Phillip was simply too caught up in the theoretical concerns of policy to appreciate George's ideas.
"That's very gratifying," he said, finally, unable to think of anything else to say.
Phillip snorted. "Still the master of understatement, George? I expect as soon as I ring off you'll do a dance of joy."
You arrogant prick, George thought. No wonder Adrian despised Phillip. Alas, one couldn't always choose one's allies.
"And you're still quite the wit, Phillip," he said dryly.
"Yes, well, perhaps." Phillip laughed for a moment, then his tone grew more serious. "At any rate, Adrian's gone too far. She thinks she doesn't have to answer to anyone. It can't continue."
"That's what I've been telling you," said George, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. "We need a governing hierarchy that imposes control on the Sections. That takes the organization out of the realm of personal whim and into that of logic and order."
"Yes, yes, George, let me commend you for your foresight," Phillip said bitingly. "But the problem has grown in severity of late."
Had it? How interesting. "In what respect?" he asked, his interest piqued.
"I've made requests for support and intelligence. I believe she's deliberately inventing excuses to avoid providing them."
George smiled. In other words, Phillip didn't get something he wanted -- that was why the problem had "grown in severity" so suddenly.
"Cooperation isn't her strong point," he remarked blandly. "She probably thinks Center is encroaching upon her territory."
"That's ridiculous," huffed Phillip. "We're partners, not rivals."
George chuckled. "Adrian doesn't like partners."
Him included, he reflected, his amusement tinged with bitterness. He might never have considered taking this path -- turning toward a fool such as Phillip for help -- had she treated him as an equal instead of a subordinate. Had she listened to some of his ideas instead of dismissing them out of hand. Yes, she was the genius behind the creation of the Sections -- but he had worked just as hard to build them, and he deserved as much respect.
"In any event," said Phillip, "what you've proposed makes sense. Some sort of oversight entity to ensure that the Sections don't get completely out of control. A liaison to facilitate cooperation between Center and the Sections."
"Precisely."
"The problem is, she'll never agree to it."
"No."
"Which is why she's got to go."
George's stomach lurched -- both anxious and relieved that the other man finally said it. George had come to that conclusion years ago; still, he preferred to let Phillip think it was his idea.
"You don't have a problem with that, do you?" Phillip asked, his words heavy with unspoken meaning.
"Not if she's allowed to save face," George answered, his voice weakening as he tried to suppress a sudden stab of guilt. "A retirement with privileges."
"It would have to be forced."
"Of course."
"Regrettably, I don't have the clout to make it happen yet. Her support on the Council is waning, but it hasn't disappeared altogether." Phillip paused. "It's going to take time."
"Understood."
George closed his eyes. If Phillip could make this happen, it would all be so much easier. George could suspend his plans to orchestrate a coup, and simply look the other way while the inevitable played out. He could be a passive conspirator instead of an active traitor -- and one who, at least in a small way, protected Adrian's dignity in the process.
The strength of his relief shocked him. It left him weak, yet strangely energized -- and struck with the urge to fly straight to Paris and embrace the woman they were discussing: the woman he worshiped and resented, whom he loved and hated in equal parts. The woman he would no longer have to destroy -- because someone else would destroy her for him.
Phillip's voice rasped over the phone, startling George back into awareness.
"Good. Then we understand each other. I think we'll make a rather good team, don't you?"
"Yes," said George. "I do, too."
************
To go on to Part Three, 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 |
| Chapter Thirteen |