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Fic: Succession, Chapter 17/31 (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).
Chapter Seventeen
Chilly Moscow air filled the cab of the parked truck. After sitting in it for forty minutes, Paul's feet were numb, even in his heavy boots and thick socks. Next to him, the driver blew in his cupped hands to keep warm, then he rubbed his hands briskly up and down his arms.
Eventually, the two men exchanged a look.
"Turn on the heater," Paul muttered. "This is ridiculous."
The driver started the engine and reached over to switch on the heater. Immediately, a blast of stale air hit Paul's face. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of scorched dust, he turned toward the passenger window and looked out over the park nearby. The driver coughed and cleared his throat with long, rasping hacks.
The truck engine idled loudly. It sent a bone-shaking vibration up through the threadbare seat cushion. Paul shuffled his feet and adjusted the position of his earphone, wishing there were a volume control. He stared out the window at the two figures he was monitoring, as if by concentrating on them he could somehow make them talk more clearly. Finally, he turned to the driver and scowled.
"Switch off the engine. I can't hear anything."
The driver grunted and turned the ignition key. Abruptly, the vibrations and noise ceased, and Egran Petrosian's voice again became audible over the earphone.
"--your cooperation in meeting with me on such short notice, Dr. Ulanova," Petrosian finished.
"Yes, you should be grateful, given that we both know this is a waste of my time," replied Ulanova peevishly, her voice so high-pitched it caused Paul to wince. "I only agreed to speak with you at all because I always walk here on my lunch hour."
Paul watched them in the distance as they strolled along a path near the edge of the park. They made an odd pair, both matched and mismatched: Egran ambled like an awkward giant next to the petite doctor, but their drab winter coats were nearly identical.
Arriving at a fork in the path, Egran headed left -- toward an isolated area, filled with tall bushes that would allow him to overpower Ulanova without attracting attention from stray passersby. However, it appeared she wasn't very interested in being led.
"No, not that path," she snapped.
"There are too many people on the other path," replied Egran, his voice soothing. "We need to speak in confidence, Doctor."
"But I always take this one."
"Why?" Even through the tiny earphone, Paul could hear Egran's exasperation.
"I don't like that other path. And I don't like people who ask me stupid questions."
Paul burst out laughing. He could just picture Egran's face, crimson with anger at the audacity of anyone calling him stupid. Paul had seen him resort to violence over lesser affronts than that.
"Fine," grumbled Egran. "We'll take your path."
As they headed down the path on the right, there were a few moments of silence. Paul fidgeted impatiently.
"I told you I would talk to you for forty-five minutes. You now have thirty-one left," Ulanova said. "What do you want from me?"
"As I told you on the phone," said Egran, the strain of controlling his temper becoming more and more apparent in his voice, "the KGB suspects that there is classified information being leaked by someone working at your Institute. That's why I wanted to speak with you off premises, away from anyone who might try to eavesdrop."
"Why are you repeating what you told me on the phone? Do you actually have questions for me, or not?" She made a noise of disgust. "You now have thirty more minutes."
"Have any of your colleagues have been putting in unusually long hours, or working at odd times?"
She laughed dismissively. "No. I'm the only one who works late -- but that's because I'm the only one who actually bothers to work."
"Are you certain? We're looking for someone who may be looking for an opportunity to copy classified files, or to sabotage test results."
"I already told you, no one at the Institute is a spy," she said. "Lazy idiots, sycophantic fools, hopeless incompetents, yes, the place is full of those. But no spies. None of them would have the nerve." She came to a sudden halt. "If you need to file a report on my interview for your superiors, why don't you just make up some answers? They'll do just as well. That way I can enjoy my lunch hour by myself."
Paul saw her turn and walk away, but before she could take more than a step Egran seized her by the arm. As he dragged her behind a row of bushes, she let loose a piercing shriek and a stream of curses that Paul feared would cause the entire population of the city to come running. Fortunately, they quickly vanished from sight. For a few seconds afterwards, Paul heard crashing and more cursing, and then a sharp yelp from Egran. Finally, the noise subsided.
"Paul?" Egran called out, breathing heavily.
"Report."
"Bring the truck. I'm thirty meters from the street."
Paul nodded at the driver, who restarted the engine, pulled off, and circled around the park. Within moments, they had arrived at the point closest to where Egran had disappeared. Paul jumped out of the truck, jogged to the rear, and banged with his fist on the side of the vehicle. Rumbling noisily, the rear door rolled up, and another operative clambered out, clutching a heavy canvas duffel bag.
The two men dashed into the park. They found Egran in a tall clump of bushes, one of his hands oozing blood, the other clutching the hypodermic he had used to sedate Ulanova. She lay sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, her face smeared with dirt and her black hair tangled with pine needles.
"She bit me, the little bitch," Egran exclaimed.
Paul stifled a laugh. The fact that Egran had trouble overpowering such a tiny female was vastly amusing -- but it was not the sort of thing it would be wise to gloat about too openly.
The operative with the duffel bag stuffed Ulanova into it. He quickly knotted it closed and hoisted the load over his shoulder. All three men hurried back to the truck, but as the operative prepared to swing the duffel bag into the back, Egran snatched it away from him. Grunting angrily, Egran tossed the bag through the air into the rear of the truck, where it landed with a heavy thud.
Paul and the other operative exchanged bemused looks.
"She's going to have a hell of a bruise from that," remarked Paul.
"I hope so," answered Egran, scowling darkly.
Snickering, the other operative climbed into the truck and pulled down the rear door behind him with a slam.
Egran turned to Paul, the tension in his expression ebbing as Ulanova disappeared from view. "You are going to regret recruiting her, mark my words. She has given the KGB no end of trouble over the years."
"How so?" Paul felt a twinge of worry deep in the pit of his stomach. This sounded even worse than what Madeline had led him to believe.
Egran made a face of disgust. "She is a complete egomaniac. She cannot work with anyone. And she thinks she knows better than her superiors." He snorted with dark-humored laughter. "Adrian is going to hate her."
God, it was going to be a disaster. Wonderful.
Paul smiled grimly. "Then we're in for some fun, aren't we?"
***
Lisa glanced up at the Perch the instant she crossed the threshold onto the main floor. It was dark and empty, just as she had hoped. She breathed a sigh of relief and scanned in all directions around her -- the standard complement of operatives walked busily back and forth, but with no missions live, everyone was headed somewhere else.
Except Jules, that is. He sat by himself at Comm, twisting his chair back and forth lazily, chewing on a thumbnail as he stared at his monitor. Lisa walked toward him, her boots thumping on the floor as she approached. When she neared, he looked up and his face lit expectantly. He sat up straight and stopped his nailbiting, a hint of anxiety in his eyes.
"Have you got it?" he asked in a low voice.
Lisa nodded wordlessly. After looking around to make sure no one was watching, she removed a floppy disk she had hidden within the pages of a report and offered it to him.
"Ah, merci beaucoup," he said, relaxing and smiling broadly. He took the disk and inserted it into his computer, then began to type on his keyboard as he whistled cheerfully. When his screen showed the contents of the disk, he grinned. "Oh, beautiful! You've saved me days of work." He looked back up at her and winked. "I'll probably have something else for you tomorrow."
Lisa regarded him without expression. "Fine."
He frowned, hesitant, and cleared his throat. "Uh, my shift ends in an hour. You want to--"
"No," she said abruptly. "I'm busy."
Without bothering to wait for his reaction, she turned and headed toward a nearby terminal. She slid into the seat and pulled the keyboard toward her. Typing rapidly, she logged onto the system; as she waited for the computer to respond, she glanced back over at Jules. He stared at her like a stray dog that had just been kicked; in response, she simply hardened her expression. He looked away, his face reddening.
She returned her attention to the monitor and began to scroll through directories: directories she had no authorization to access, no legitimate business viewing. Yet she browsed through them with impunity -- even with the head of Comm sitting mere feet away.
He knew exactly what she was doing, of course. In fact, he was probably monitoring her progress through the system as she typed. But it didn't matter. As long as she did work for him in secret, he looked the other way. The disk she handed him -- like the one she gave him week before, and the other the week before that -- was payment for his silence.
The payment was ongoing, the supply of assignments endless. Writing software programs, finding bugs in someone else's, patching security holes -- she did it all. Most of the jobs were ridiculously easy, although she never let him know that -- it would only encourage him to give her even more. As it was, he was more dependent on her than he was on his own staff. She was, de facto, his chief troubleshooter, and she had saved his sorry butt more times than she could count.
In all the ways that mattered, she ran Comm -- as Jules knew full well. Formally, however, she was still a lowly cold op, laying her life on the line week after week. And now, she knew she'd stay that way forever -- or until she met a bullet with her name on it.
It was amazing, really. She had struggled so hard and yet still failed. She had taught herself to be the best programmer -- and then the best network administrator -- ever to set foot in Section. Thanks to Madeline's assistance, her personnel file was overflowing with references to her computer aptitude. She had even managed to win over Jules, tossing aside her shame to hint she would happily trade sexual favors for his support. That, thankfully, hadn't been necessary -- when it finally dawned on him that she was willing to let him take the credit for her work, he submitted an enthusiastic request to Adrian for her transfer. She rejoiced, thinking she had it made -- out of the field, with its mounting death tolls, and into a cushy position at Comm.
It was the embarrassed expression on Jules's face that told her otherwise, even before he opened his mouth to speak. Adrian had denied the transfer request, even after -- so Jules claimed -- he had argued her case. Actually, she believed him: he had looked so ashamed, so humiliated to admit that he had less influence than he thought, that she knew he wasn't lying.
Incredible. Everything had gone right and had still managed to go wrong.
Fortunately, she no longer gave a shit. Not about Comm, not about Section, not about her own life expectancy. The only thing she cared about was protecting Seymour: making sure that his captivity -- while still enslavement -- at least was a comfortable one. So she did whatever it took to make that happen. Breaking into the network to give Mireille her little perks. Doing work for Jules so he'd look the other way when she accessed the system. Doing whatever the hell else was necessary to make sure her son got to live like a human being -- or as close to that as she could manage.
It was a strange web she was caught in: a collection of people who despised each other, exchanging favors in secret. But that was the way Section worked, it seemed. Maybe that was how the whole world worked, for that matter. It was a sad reality. But when confronted with reality, one really only had two choices: live in denial, or adapt. She had decided to choose the latter.
She sighed and returned her focus to the data on the computer screen. There it was: Level 16 Personnel Database. She opened the file, found the entry for Martin, Mireille L., typed in an upgraded rating, disguised the source of the upgrade, and then closed the file again. Boom! Done. It had taken all of three minutes.
Just as her hands were poised to hit the keys to log off the terminal, she hesitated, and a ripple of fear ran through her nerves. Small favors were one thing, but Mireille was getting too damned greedy. If anyone questioned this, they were all dead.
As her mouth grew dry, her heart began to thud. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply; slowly, the fear coalesced into resentment, then into bitterness, then into angry determination.
Mireille wanted a new apartment? Fine. But why should Lisa let the housing drones pick it for her, when she could do it herself? Yeah, she could give Mireille just what she deserved.
She pulled up the Accommodations database and browsed through the open listings. Walking distance from Section, hmm? There were three matching locations. She read through the descriptions for each one, and then started smiling.
Maintenance Report: Resident has complained about plumbing problems, including repeated toilet backups. Inspection revealed deteriorated pipes which were patched, but due to the age of the building, recurrence is inevitable. Resident has requested transfer to other location.
Oh, that was just too perfect. With a few swift keystrokes, Lisa assigned Mireille her new apartment.
Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart, she thought. I might just give it to you.
***
The car rolled smoothly through the early evening traffic -- slowing, accelerating, merging, and turning -- and headed out of the city toward Adrian's secluded estate. In the rear seat, Adrian allowed the report she had been reading to fall open in her lap, absentmindedly watching the uniformed driver as he reached with a white-gloved hand to start the turn signal. It blinked on and off with a faint clicking sound for several seconds; when the car changed lanes, the signal switched off and a hushed silence fell onto the car's interior.
Through the tinted windows, the streets took on an alien quality. It was as if far more than a few inches of glass and metal separated Adrian from the world outside -- as if that world were a projection, not entirely real. Only her immediate surroundings truly seemed to exist: the leather-padded bubble of the car, the rarified air within the Section, her heavily guarded estate and its carefully tended garden, her private jets with their deferentially attentive crews. Day after day, she moved from one sealed environment to another, uncontaminated by anything else.
Years ago, she used to try and escape to the outside -- to walk the streets, to go into shops, parks and restaurants, to talk to ordinary people. She thought it would help her stay grounded, that it could keep her from succumbing to that disease of superiority that so often afflicted those wielding power. Eventually, however, she realized that it accomplished nothing. Engaging in superficial small talk with random members of the public was about as meaningful as the Queen of England shaking hands with well-wishers outside the gates of Buckingham Palace: no real connection could be made when she lived in a completely different universe. And so she gave up.
Power didn't just corrupt: it isolated, and through isolation distorted reality. It was unfortunate, even dangerous -- but thoroughly inescapable.
She looked back at the document on her lap: the next quarter's budget, received from Center earlier in the day. She flipped through the pages to the end, where a series of colorful tables summarized the allocations. She studied them, her interest growing, then gripped the document tightly when she spotted the anomaly. Section One's allocation had declined -- ever so slightly -- yet again, making an eleven percent reduction over the past eighteen months.
She smiled bitterly. Did Phillip think she wouldn't notice? If so, he was a bigger fool than she'd realized.
There was no doubt that the overall funding available to the Agency was increasing. It had been throughout the decade, thanks to the aggressive, anti-communist stance adopted by the conservative administrations that dominated so many governments in the West. But Phillip, apparently, wanted to keep those funds all for Center -- to pay for his precious studies and think tanks and conferences. This, regardless of how his actions adversely affected the Sections' ability to run real-life missions.
It was so shortsighted. Even Phillip should have known better. Without missions -- without concrete results that they could show their sponsors -- where would they be in the long run?
Or rather, where would she be in the long run?
She closed the report with an angry snap. Phillip wasn't just hoarding funds because he was greedy -- he actually wanted her to fail.
So, he had finally reneged on his longstanding promise to leave the Sections alone. How gratifying to know that he had lived down to her expectations. The only thing that really surprised her was that it had taken him so many years to do so. That, perhaps, was because he was more of a coward than she had anticipated.
It was a nasty little game he was playing. A passive-aggressive ploy by a man who didn't dare challenge her directly -- by a man who had only a hundredth of her intelligence, and even less integrity.
With such a man, it wasn't sufficient to outplay him. She would have to destroy him.
She looked back out the window, her resolve hardening as she stared at the passing streets. She might be insulated -- even isolated -- from the hard world outside. But she hadn't forgotten how to fight.
***
Madeline made her way through Containment, turning a corner and dodging two stocky operatives as they dragged a struggling captive down the hallway. She passed a series of identical closed doors, glancing at small video screens embedded in the wall beside each one, and examined the grainy, black and white images from the interior of each locked room.
Eventually, she found the holding cell she was looking for. Inside, a woman with short, black hair paced relentlessly back and forth: Zinaida Ulanova, who had awakened from her sedation little more than an hour before. Her movements were angry; her steps jerky; her shoulders hunched and tense. She seemed ready to erupt with anxious energy, and her petite, birdlike frame almost shook with barely-contained rage.
When Ulanova happened to look directly at the camera, Madeline started. The other woman's gaze -- even filtered through the lens of the camera -- gave her an odd sense of disorientation. Those sharp features, that flare of arrogance in Ulanova's expression, were so familiar -- but so wrong. To see someone from her old, undercover life here in Section felt like she was caught between two parallel universes verging violently together. Two universes that were never, ever supposed to mix.
Swallowing uncomfortably, she put those thoughts aside. She wiped her face clean of all expression and pushed open the door. She walked in cautiously -- her demeanor non-threatening but alert, poised for a hostile reaction.
Ulanova whipped her head around to look toward the door, her expression angry and defiant. A split second later, the defiance froze into a look of profound shock.
"Julia?" she gasped, calling out Madeline's old mission name.
Madeline closed the door behind her. As it clicked shut, she felt a cold rush of memories swarm around her. She had answered to that name, twenty-four hours a day, for ten full years. Under that name, she had performed the unspeakable. Committed atrocities. Sat by and observed, calmly taking notes, as criminals and innocents alike suffered unimaginable agony and died.
She had survived mentally by segregating that person into a separate portion of her brain, constructing boundaries to keep "Julia" completely separate from Madeline, the Section operative, the person who still had a sense of right and wrong, who watched and reported on Julia's activities with horror and disgust. When her undercover assignment had ended, she thought that person had died forever. Her techniques survived, but only under tight control -- employed only against people who were clearly the enemy, who in some way brought it upon themselves. Never again against innocents, the defenseless, the blameless. Or so she assured herself.
But was that other persona really dead, or just lurking somewhere?
Ulanova gaped at her. "I thought you were dead," she murmured in Russian.
"I am," Madeline answered -- perhaps a little too forcefully, as if she were lashing out at the woman for inadvertently echoing her own thoughts. Forcing herself to relax, she folded her hands in front of her and smiled, switching to English. "But then again, so are you."
Ulanova gulped, but then her expression sharpened. "You're not KGB, are you?" she asked, following Madeline's lead by speaking in English. When Madeline shook her head, she frowned. "What is this place?"
"It's called Section One."
"So it does exist," Ulanova whispered, seemingly more to herself than to Madeline. A look of resigned but dignified sadness filled her face. "Are you going to kill me?"
"That remains to be seen."
Ulanova opened her mouth as if to say something further, but stopped. She dropped her gaze down toward the floor, her face turning a sickly white.
"Zina," said Madeline sternly, using the familiar form of her name. "Look at me."
Ulanova looked up. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her expression was angry and her mouth pinched in a tight line.
"You're here to continue your work," said Madeline. "We'll provide you with a staff and facilities far better than anything you had at home. As long as you comply, you'll be fine." Madeline tried to sound reassuring, but her words seemed hopelessly unconvincing. Ulanova, from what she remembered, was simply too rigid psychologically to adapt to being brought into Section. The only real question was whether her lifespan would be measured in months, or only weeks.
Ulanova exhaled loudly, the tension in her posture slowly easing. She looked around the room with a curious expression. "Is this what happened to you?" When Madeline said nothing, she continued, "That car crash you died in, that was staged so they could bring you here?"
It was true, but not the way Ulanova meant -- she had no idea that "Julia" never really existed in the first place. Deciding it would take too long to explain, Madeline chose to ignore the question.
"I've been assigned to supervise your work and to help you get settled in," she announced. "If you're ready, I can take you to your living quarters."
When Ulanova nodded, Madeline opened the door and led her from the room. They passed through a set of security doors, then approached a row of elevators. Stepping into an open car, they stood, silently, as Madeline pressed a button and the doors closed.
With a jerk and a noisy hum, the elevator began its ascent. Ulanova glanced sideways at Madeline.
"Will I be working with Dr. Ohanian also?" she asked, her tone cautious but friendly.
Hearing the name of her undercover target -- the man who had taught her everything she knew about torture and interrogation -- Madeline felt a literal chill, as if his ghost had placed his hand on her shoulder. She had managed to put him out of her mind for the last four years -- but now, hearing his name spoken aloud, it reminded her that in some disturbing way, she missed him.
"He's dead," she said brusquely, as if her vehemence could shove his memory away. When Ulanova frowned, she added, "Actually dead."
"What happened to him?"
She leveled a steady gaze at Ulanova and held it for several seconds. "I killed him."
Ulanova paled, taking a step backwards so that she bumped against the far wall of the car. Madeline stared at her, pinning her in place until the elevator finally halted. She stepped out and looked over her shoulder at Ulanova, who hung back.
"This way, please," she said, courteous but firm.
She led Ulanova along more hallways, stopping when she reached a nondescript door. She punched in a code to unlock it, swung the door open, and gestured for Ulanova to enter.
The quarters were simple but adequate, much like a generic hotel room. There was a table, chairs, a bed, a small bathroom through a side door, but no phone, no television, no radio -- all links to the outside world conspicuously absent.
"Make yourself comfortable. Someone will come by to bring you dinner in an hour."
Ulanova nodded slowly, looking around the room with a dazed expression.
Madeline placed her hand gently on Ulanova's arm. "I'm afraid that until you're better integrated into the organization, you're going to be restricted to quarters when you aren't under supervision. Is there anything I can bring you?"
Ulanova frowned and shook her head.
"Something to read?"
"No," she said, staring blankly toward the far side of the room. Suddenly, she gave Madeline a pained look. "Does my father think I'm dead?"
"Your father?"
"He's sick. I take care of him. I'm the only person he has…." Ulanova turned away, her voice fading.
For a second, Madeline considered inventing some sort of comforting story. She quickly thought better of it -- if she found out, Ulanova was not the sort to forgive being lied to.
"Yes, he thinks you're dead. I'm sorry."
Ulanova's expression tightened, but she managed to keep herself under control. "I see."
Madeline waited a few moments. When it seemed that Ulanova had nothing more to say, Madeline turned toward the door. "I'll leave you for now. I'll be back first thing in the morning to show you the lab."
"Wait," Ulanova called out.
Madeline stopped and looked back.
"There is something you can bring."
"What's that?"
"A chessboard and set. That is, if…." Ulanova hesitated.
"If?"
"If you'll play a game with me."
Madeline raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised that the notoriously antisocial Ulanova would want company, especially under the circumstances.
"We used to, back when you were visiting the Institute. As I recall, you weren't a bad player. Though not as good as me." Ulanova smiled weakly.
How interesting. Ulanova was reaching out -- to the only link to her old life, the only familiar person in this new environment. It was a surprisingly healthy coping mechanism for someone Madeline had expected to shrink into withdrawn isolation. Perhaps there was some hope for her after all -- and, more importantly, for the project that depended upon her expertise.
"I'd love to," Madeline said, carefully modulating her tone so that it conveyed precisely the right level of comradeship. "I'll be back in a few hours, after you've had a chance to relax and eat."
"Thank you," said Ulanova. "It's good to see you again, Julia."
Madeline repressed a flinch at hearing that name again. "I go by a different name here. From now on, please call me Madeline."
************
To go on to Chapter Eighteen, 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).
Chilly Moscow air filled the cab of the parked truck. After sitting in it for forty minutes, Paul's feet were numb, even in his heavy boots and thick socks. Next to him, the driver blew in his cupped hands to keep warm, then he rubbed his hands briskly up and down his arms.
Eventually, the two men exchanged a look.
"Turn on the heater," Paul muttered. "This is ridiculous."
The driver started the engine and reached over to switch on the heater. Immediately, a blast of stale air hit Paul's face. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of scorched dust, he turned toward the passenger window and looked out over the park nearby. The driver coughed and cleared his throat with long, rasping hacks.
The truck engine idled loudly. It sent a bone-shaking vibration up through the threadbare seat cushion. Paul shuffled his feet and adjusted the position of his earphone, wishing there were a volume control. He stared out the window at the two figures he was monitoring, as if by concentrating on them he could somehow make them talk more clearly. Finally, he turned to the driver and scowled.
"Switch off the engine. I can't hear anything."
The driver grunted and turned the ignition key. Abruptly, the vibrations and noise ceased, and Egran Petrosian's voice again became audible over the earphone.
"--your cooperation in meeting with me on such short notice, Dr. Ulanova," Petrosian finished.
"Yes, you should be grateful, given that we both know this is a waste of my time," replied Ulanova peevishly, her voice so high-pitched it caused Paul to wince. "I only agreed to speak with you at all because I always walk here on my lunch hour."
Paul watched them in the distance as they strolled along a path near the edge of the park. They made an odd pair, both matched and mismatched: Egran ambled like an awkward giant next to the petite doctor, but their drab winter coats were nearly identical.
Arriving at a fork in the path, Egran headed left -- toward an isolated area, filled with tall bushes that would allow him to overpower Ulanova without attracting attention from stray passersby. However, it appeared she wasn't very interested in being led.
"No, not that path," she snapped.
"There are too many people on the other path," replied Egran, his voice soothing. "We need to speak in confidence, Doctor."
"But I always take this one."
"Why?" Even through the tiny earphone, Paul could hear Egran's exasperation.
"I don't like that other path. And I don't like people who ask me stupid questions."
Paul burst out laughing. He could just picture Egran's face, crimson with anger at the audacity of anyone calling him stupid. Paul had seen him resort to violence over lesser affronts than that.
"Fine," grumbled Egran. "We'll take your path."
As they headed down the path on the right, there were a few moments of silence. Paul fidgeted impatiently.
"I told you I would talk to you for forty-five minutes. You now have thirty-one left," Ulanova said. "What do you want from me?"
"As I told you on the phone," said Egran, the strain of controlling his temper becoming more and more apparent in his voice, "the KGB suspects that there is classified information being leaked by someone working at your Institute. That's why I wanted to speak with you off premises, away from anyone who might try to eavesdrop."
"Why are you repeating what you told me on the phone? Do you actually have questions for me, or not?" She made a noise of disgust. "You now have thirty more minutes."
"Have any of your colleagues have been putting in unusually long hours, or working at odd times?"
She laughed dismissively. "No. I'm the only one who works late -- but that's because I'm the only one who actually bothers to work."
"Are you certain? We're looking for someone who may be looking for an opportunity to copy classified files, or to sabotage test results."
"I already told you, no one at the Institute is a spy," she said. "Lazy idiots, sycophantic fools, hopeless incompetents, yes, the place is full of those. But no spies. None of them would have the nerve." She came to a sudden halt. "If you need to file a report on my interview for your superiors, why don't you just make up some answers? They'll do just as well. That way I can enjoy my lunch hour by myself."
Paul saw her turn and walk away, but before she could take more than a step Egran seized her by the arm. As he dragged her behind a row of bushes, she let loose a piercing shriek and a stream of curses that Paul feared would cause the entire population of the city to come running. Fortunately, they quickly vanished from sight. For a few seconds afterwards, Paul heard crashing and more cursing, and then a sharp yelp from Egran. Finally, the noise subsided.
"Paul?" Egran called out, breathing heavily.
"Report."
"Bring the truck. I'm thirty meters from the street."
Paul nodded at the driver, who restarted the engine, pulled off, and circled around the park. Within moments, they had arrived at the point closest to where Egran had disappeared. Paul jumped out of the truck, jogged to the rear, and banged with his fist on the side of the vehicle. Rumbling noisily, the rear door rolled up, and another operative clambered out, clutching a heavy canvas duffel bag.
The two men dashed into the park. They found Egran in a tall clump of bushes, one of his hands oozing blood, the other clutching the hypodermic he had used to sedate Ulanova. She lay sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, her face smeared with dirt and her black hair tangled with pine needles.
"She bit me, the little bitch," Egran exclaimed.
Paul stifled a laugh. The fact that Egran had trouble overpowering such a tiny female was vastly amusing -- but it was not the sort of thing it would be wise to gloat about too openly.
The operative with the duffel bag stuffed Ulanova into it. He quickly knotted it closed and hoisted the load over his shoulder. All three men hurried back to the truck, but as the operative prepared to swing the duffel bag into the back, Egran snatched it away from him. Grunting angrily, Egran tossed the bag through the air into the rear of the truck, where it landed with a heavy thud.
Paul and the other operative exchanged bemused looks.
"She's going to have a hell of a bruise from that," remarked Paul.
"I hope so," answered Egran, scowling darkly.
Snickering, the other operative climbed into the truck and pulled down the rear door behind him with a slam.
Egran turned to Paul, the tension in his expression ebbing as Ulanova disappeared from view. "You are going to regret recruiting her, mark my words. She has given the KGB no end of trouble over the years."
"How so?" Paul felt a twinge of worry deep in the pit of his stomach. This sounded even worse than what Madeline had led him to believe.
Egran made a face of disgust. "She is a complete egomaniac. She cannot work with anyone. And she thinks she knows better than her superiors." He snorted with dark-humored laughter. "Adrian is going to hate her."
God, it was going to be a disaster. Wonderful.
Paul smiled grimly. "Then we're in for some fun, aren't we?"
***
Lisa glanced up at the Perch the instant she crossed the threshold onto the main floor. It was dark and empty, just as she had hoped. She breathed a sigh of relief and scanned in all directions around her -- the standard complement of operatives walked busily back and forth, but with no missions live, everyone was headed somewhere else.
Except Jules, that is. He sat by himself at Comm, twisting his chair back and forth lazily, chewing on a thumbnail as he stared at his monitor. Lisa walked toward him, her boots thumping on the floor as she approached. When she neared, he looked up and his face lit expectantly. He sat up straight and stopped his nailbiting, a hint of anxiety in his eyes.
"Have you got it?" he asked in a low voice.
Lisa nodded wordlessly. After looking around to make sure no one was watching, she removed a floppy disk she had hidden within the pages of a report and offered it to him.
"Ah, merci beaucoup," he said, relaxing and smiling broadly. He took the disk and inserted it into his computer, then began to type on his keyboard as he whistled cheerfully. When his screen showed the contents of the disk, he grinned. "Oh, beautiful! You've saved me days of work." He looked back up at her and winked. "I'll probably have something else for you tomorrow."
Lisa regarded him without expression. "Fine."
He frowned, hesitant, and cleared his throat. "Uh, my shift ends in an hour. You want to--"
"No," she said abruptly. "I'm busy."
Without bothering to wait for his reaction, she turned and headed toward a nearby terminal. She slid into the seat and pulled the keyboard toward her. Typing rapidly, she logged onto the system; as she waited for the computer to respond, she glanced back over at Jules. He stared at her like a stray dog that had just been kicked; in response, she simply hardened her expression. He looked away, his face reddening.
She returned her attention to the monitor and began to scroll through directories: directories she had no authorization to access, no legitimate business viewing. Yet she browsed through them with impunity -- even with the head of Comm sitting mere feet away.
He knew exactly what she was doing, of course. In fact, he was probably monitoring her progress through the system as she typed. But it didn't matter. As long as she did work for him in secret, he looked the other way. The disk she handed him -- like the one she gave him week before, and the other the week before that -- was payment for his silence.
The payment was ongoing, the supply of assignments endless. Writing software programs, finding bugs in someone else's, patching security holes -- she did it all. Most of the jobs were ridiculously easy, although she never let him know that -- it would only encourage him to give her even more. As it was, he was more dependent on her than he was on his own staff. She was, de facto, his chief troubleshooter, and she had saved his sorry butt more times than she could count.
In all the ways that mattered, she ran Comm -- as Jules knew full well. Formally, however, she was still a lowly cold op, laying her life on the line week after week. And now, she knew she'd stay that way forever -- or until she met a bullet with her name on it.
It was amazing, really. She had struggled so hard and yet still failed. She had taught herself to be the best programmer -- and then the best network administrator -- ever to set foot in Section. Thanks to Madeline's assistance, her personnel file was overflowing with references to her computer aptitude. She had even managed to win over Jules, tossing aside her shame to hint she would happily trade sexual favors for his support. That, thankfully, hadn't been necessary -- when it finally dawned on him that she was willing to let him take the credit for her work, he submitted an enthusiastic request to Adrian for her transfer. She rejoiced, thinking she had it made -- out of the field, with its mounting death tolls, and into a cushy position at Comm.
It was the embarrassed expression on Jules's face that told her otherwise, even before he opened his mouth to speak. Adrian had denied the transfer request, even after -- so Jules claimed -- he had argued her case. Actually, she believed him: he had looked so ashamed, so humiliated to admit that he had less influence than he thought, that she knew he wasn't lying.
Incredible. Everything had gone right and had still managed to go wrong.
Fortunately, she no longer gave a shit. Not about Comm, not about Section, not about her own life expectancy. The only thing she cared about was protecting Seymour: making sure that his captivity -- while still enslavement -- at least was a comfortable one. So she did whatever it took to make that happen. Breaking into the network to give Mireille her little perks. Doing work for Jules so he'd look the other way when she accessed the system. Doing whatever the hell else was necessary to make sure her son got to live like a human being -- or as close to that as she could manage.
It was a strange web she was caught in: a collection of people who despised each other, exchanging favors in secret. But that was the way Section worked, it seemed. Maybe that was how the whole world worked, for that matter. It was a sad reality. But when confronted with reality, one really only had two choices: live in denial, or adapt. She had decided to choose the latter.
She sighed and returned her focus to the data on the computer screen. There it was: Level 16 Personnel Database. She opened the file, found the entry for Martin, Mireille L., typed in an upgraded rating, disguised the source of the upgrade, and then closed the file again. Boom! Done. It had taken all of three minutes.
Just as her hands were poised to hit the keys to log off the terminal, she hesitated, and a ripple of fear ran through her nerves. Small favors were one thing, but Mireille was getting too damned greedy. If anyone questioned this, they were all dead.
As her mouth grew dry, her heart began to thud. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply; slowly, the fear coalesced into resentment, then into bitterness, then into angry determination.
Mireille wanted a new apartment? Fine. But why should Lisa let the housing drones pick it for her, when she could do it herself? Yeah, she could give Mireille just what she deserved.
She pulled up the Accommodations database and browsed through the open listings. Walking distance from Section, hmm? There were three matching locations. She read through the descriptions for each one, and then started smiling.
Maintenance Report: Resident has complained about plumbing problems, including repeated toilet backups. Inspection revealed deteriorated pipes which were patched, but due to the age of the building, recurrence is inevitable. Resident has requested transfer to other location.
Oh, that was just too perfect. With a few swift keystrokes, Lisa assigned Mireille her new apartment.
Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart, she thought. I might just give it to you.
***
The car rolled smoothly through the early evening traffic -- slowing, accelerating, merging, and turning -- and headed out of the city toward Adrian's secluded estate. In the rear seat, Adrian allowed the report she had been reading to fall open in her lap, absentmindedly watching the uniformed driver as he reached with a white-gloved hand to start the turn signal. It blinked on and off with a faint clicking sound for several seconds; when the car changed lanes, the signal switched off and a hushed silence fell onto the car's interior.
Through the tinted windows, the streets took on an alien quality. It was as if far more than a few inches of glass and metal separated Adrian from the world outside -- as if that world were a projection, not entirely real. Only her immediate surroundings truly seemed to exist: the leather-padded bubble of the car, the rarified air within the Section, her heavily guarded estate and its carefully tended garden, her private jets with their deferentially attentive crews. Day after day, she moved from one sealed environment to another, uncontaminated by anything else.
Years ago, she used to try and escape to the outside -- to walk the streets, to go into shops, parks and restaurants, to talk to ordinary people. She thought it would help her stay grounded, that it could keep her from succumbing to that disease of superiority that so often afflicted those wielding power. Eventually, however, she realized that it accomplished nothing. Engaging in superficial small talk with random members of the public was about as meaningful as the Queen of England shaking hands with well-wishers outside the gates of Buckingham Palace: no real connection could be made when she lived in a completely different universe. And so she gave up.
Power didn't just corrupt: it isolated, and through isolation distorted reality. It was unfortunate, even dangerous -- but thoroughly inescapable.
She looked back at the document on her lap: the next quarter's budget, received from Center earlier in the day. She flipped through the pages to the end, where a series of colorful tables summarized the allocations. She studied them, her interest growing, then gripped the document tightly when she spotted the anomaly. Section One's allocation had declined -- ever so slightly -- yet again, making an eleven percent reduction over the past eighteen months.
She smiled bitterly. Did Phillip think she wouldn't notice? If so, he was a bigger fool than she'd realized.
There was no doubt that the overall funding available to the Agency was increasing. It had been throughout the decade, thanks to the aggressive, anti-communist stance adopted by the conservative administrations that dominated so many governments in the West. But Phillip, apparently, wanted to keep those funds all for Center -- to pay for his precious studies and think tanks and conferences. This, regardless of how his actions adversely affected the Sections' ability to run real-life missions.
It was so shortsighted. Even Phillip should have known better. Without missions -- without concrete results that they could show their sponsors -- where would they be in the long run?
Or rather, where would she be in the long run?
She closed the report with an angry snap. Phillip wasn't just hoarding funds because he was greedy -- he actually wanted her to fail.
So, he had finally reneged on his longstanding promise to leave the Sections alone. How gratifying to know that he had lived down to her expectations. The only thing that really surprised her was that it had taken him so many years to do so. That, perhaps, was because he was more of a coward than she had anticipated.
It was a nasty little game he was playing. A passive-aggressive ploy by a man who didn't dare challenge her directly -- by a man who had only a hundredth of her intelligence, and even less integrity.
With such a man, it wasn't sufficient to outplay him. She would have to destroy him.
She looked back out the window, her resolve hardening as she stared at the passing streets. She might be insulated -- even isolated -- from the hard world outside. But she hadn't forgotten how to fight.
***
Madeline made her way through Containment, turning a corner and dodging two stocky operatives as they dragged a struggling captive down the hallway. She passed a series of identical closed doors, glancing at small video screens embedded in the wall beside each one, and examined the grainy, black and white images from the interior of each locked room.
Eventually, she found the holding cell she was looking for. Inside, a woman with short, black hair paced relentlessly back and forth: Zinaida Ulanova, who had awakened from her sedation little more than an hour before. Her movements were angry; her steps jerky; her shoulders hunched and tense. She seemed ready to erupt with anxious energy, and her petite, birdlike frame almost shook with barely-contained rage.
When Ulanova happened to look directly at the camera, Madeline started. The other woman's gaze -- even filtered through the lens of the camera -- gave her an odd sense of disorientation. Those sharp features, that flare of arrogance in Ulanova's expression, were so familiar -- but so wrong. To see someone from her old, undercover life here in Section felt like she was caught between two parallel universes verging violently together. Two universes that were never, ever supposed to mix.
Swallowing uncomfortably, she put those thoughts aside. She wiped her face clean of all expression and pushed open the door. She walked in cautiously -- her demeanor non-threatening but alert, poised for a hostile reaction.
Ulanova whipped her head around to look toward the door, her expression angry and defiant. A split second later, the defiance froze into a look of profound shock.
"Julia?" she gasped, calling out Madeline's old mission name.
Madeline closed the door behind her. As it clicked shut, she felt a cold rush of memories swarm around her. She had answered to that name, twenty-four hours a day, for ten full years. Under that name, she had performed the unspeakable. Committed atrocities. Sat by and observed, calmly taking notes, as criminals and innocents alike suffered unimaginable agony and died.
She had survived mentally by segregating that person into a separate portion of her brain, constructing boundaries to keep "Julia" completely separate from Madeline, the Section operative, the person who still had a sense of right and wrong, who watched and reported on Julia's activities with horror and disgust. When her undercover assignment had ended, she thought that person had died forever. Her techniques survived, but only under tight control -- employed only against people who were clearly the enemy, who in some way brought it upon themselves. Never again against innocents, the defenseless, the blameless. Or so she assured herself.
But was that other persona really dead, or just lurking somewhere?
Ulanova gaped at her. "I thought you were dead," she murmured in Russian.
"I am," Madeline answered -- perhaps a little too forcefully, as if she were lashing out at the woman for inadvertently echoing her own thoughts. Forcing herself to relax, she folded her hands in front of her and smiled, switching to English. "But then again, so are you."
Ulanova gulped, but then her expression sharpened. "You're not KGB, are you?" she asked, following Madeline's lead by speaking in English. When Madeline shook her head, she frowned. "What is this place?"
"It's called Section One."
"So it does exist," Ulanova whispered, seemingly more to herself than to Madeline. A look of resigned but dignified sadness filled her face. "Are you going to kill me?"
"That remains to be seen."
Ulanova opened her mouth as if to say something further, but stopped. She dropped her gaze down toward the floor, her face turning a sickly white.
"Zina," said Madeline sternly, using the familiar form of her name. "Look at me."
Ulanova looked up. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her expression was angry and her mouth pinched in a tight line.
"You're here to continue your work," said Madeline. "We'll provide you with a staff and facilities far better than anything you had at home. As long as you comply, you'll be fine." Madeline tried to sound reassuring, but her words seemed hopelessly unconvincing. Ulanova, from what she remembered, was simply too rigid psychologically to adapt to being brought into Section. The only real question was whether her lifespan would be measured in months, or only weeks.
Ulanova exhaled loudly, the tension in her posture slowly easing. She looked around the room with a curious expression. "Is this what happened to you?" When Madeline said nothing, she continued, "That car crash you died in, that was staged so they could bring you here?"
It was true, but not the way Ulanova meant -- she had no idea that "Julia" never really existed in the first place. Deciding it would take too long to explain, Madeline chose to ignore the question.
"I've been assigned to supervise your work and to help you get settled in," she announced. "If you're ready, I can take you to your living quarters."
When Ulanova nodded, Madeline opened the door and led her from the room. They passed through a set of security doors, then approached a row of elevators. Stepping into an open car, they stood, silently, as Madeline pressed a button and the doors closed.
With a jerk and a noisy hum, the elevator began its ascent. Ulanova glanced sideways at Madeline.
"Will I be working with Dr. Ohanian also?" she asked, her tone cautious but friendly.
Hearing the name of her undercover target -- the man who had taught her everything she knew about torture and interrogation -- Madeline felt a literal chill, as if his ghost had placed his hand on her shoulder. She had managed to put him out of her mind for the last four years -- but now, hearing his name spoken aloud, it reminded her that in some disturbing way, she missed him.
"He's dead," she said brusquely, as if her vehemence could shove his memory away. When Ulanova frowned, she added, "Actually dead."
"What happened to him?"
She leveled a steady gaze at Ulanova and held it for several seconds. "I killed him."
Ulanova paled, taking a step backwards so that she bumped against the far wall of the car. Madeline stared at her, pinning her in place until the elevator finally halted. She stepped out and looked over her shoulder at Ulanova, who hung back.
"This way, please," she said, courteous but firm.
She led Ulanova along more hallways, stopping when she reached a nondescript door. She punched in a code to unlock it, swung the door open, and gestured for Ulanova to enter.
The quarters were simple but adequate, much like a generic hotel room. There was a table, chairs, a bed, a small bathroom through a side door, but no phone, no television, no radio -- all links to the outside world conspicuously absent.
"Make yourself comfortable. Someone will come by to bring you dinner in an hour."
Ulanova nodded slowly, looking around the room with a dazed expression.
Madeline placed her hand gently on Ulanova's arm. "I'm afraid that until you're better integrated into the organization, you're going to be restricted to quarters when you aren't under supervision. Is there anything I can bring you?"
Ulanova frowned and shook her head.
"Something to read?"
"No," she said, staring blankly toward the far side of the room. Suddenly, she gave Madeline a pained look. "Does my father think I'm dead?"
"Your father?"
"He's sick. I take care of him. I'm the only person he has…." Ulanova turned away, her voice fading.
For a second, Madeline considered inventing some sort of comforting story. She quickly thought better of it -- if she found out, Ulanova was not the sort to forgive being lied to.
"Yes, he thinks you're dead. I'm sorry."
Ulanova's expression tightened, but she managed to keep herself under control. "I see."
Madeline waited a few moments. When it seemed that Ulanova had nothing more to say, Madeline turned toward the door. "I'll leave you for now. I'll be back first thing in the morning to show you the lab."
"Wait," Ulanova called out.
Madeline stopped and looked back.
"There is something you can bring."
"What's that?"
"A chessboard and set. That is, if…." Ulanova hesitated.
"If?"
"If you'll play a game with me."
Madeline raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised that the notoriously antisocial Ulanova would want company, especially under the circumstances.
"We used to, back when you were visiting the Institute. As I recall, you weren't a bad player. Though not as good as me." Ulanova smiled weakly.
How interesting. Ulanova was reaching out -- to the only link to her old life, the only familiar person in this new environment. It was a surprisingly healthy coping mechanism for someone Madeline had expected to shrink into withdrawn isolation. Perhaps there was some hope for her after all -- and, more importantly, for the project that depended upon her expertise.
"I'd love to," Madeline said, carefully modulating her tone so that it conveyed precisely the right level of comradeship. "I'll be back in a few hours, after you've had a chance to relax and eat."
"Thank you," said Ulanova. "It's good to see you again, Julia."
Madeline repressed a flinch at hearing that name again. "I go by a different name here. From now on, please call me Madeline."
************
To go on to Chapter Eighteen, click here.