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Fic: Succession, Chapter 18/31 (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 Eighteen
His muscles stiffening, Charles shifted in the rigid chair and cast his gaze around Adrian's office. Through the picture window to his right, he could see the main floor below; there, Adrian stood, engrossed in a discussion with Jules. Despite her command that Charles appear in her office at 15:30 sharp, she seemed in no hurry to come upstairs herself.
So he waited, patiently, and tried to ignore the man in the chair beside him.
He and Paul Wolfe hadn't spoken a word for a full twenty minutes. Instead, Charles engaged in a tremendous effort to look away from Paul at all times. It wasn't an easy task when sitting inches apart, but Charles was determined: he stared out the window, at the floor, at the polished surface of Adrian's desk, at the crystal vase full of bright pink flowers, at anything that didn't bring his line of vision in Paul's direction.
The more he tried to look elsewhere, however, the more aware of Paul's presence he became. A pent-up energy emanated from the other man, a strange magnetic force that drew one's gaze toward him even as one felt apprehensive of what one might see. It was something Paul carried with him constantly of late, as if he wore a cloak of seething, sublimated menace.
In the past, Paul had been prone to explosions of temper that flashed violently and then subsided, like sudden summer thunderstorms. Now, years later, he was colder, more controlled, and -- in Charles's opinion -- far more dangerous. His hostility was unremitting, his anger concentrated. Focused. Relentless.
He had even changed his style of dress to match this new persona. Gone were the quasi-military commando-style outfits of trousers, sweater, and boots that he used to favor. These days, when not on a mission, he wore suits or sportscoats. Tailored outfits that nearly shouted their inflated pricetags.
Charles had worn such suits for years. On him, they looked like the uniform of a lawyer or a stockbroker. On Paul, however, they conferred an air of arrogant authority. They made him look like a man who was accustomed to owning things. And to getting his way.
Charles blinked, startled, when Adrian swept past him toward her desk. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even heard her come in.
"Thank you for waiting, gentlemen," she said.
Charles sat forward as Adrian settled behind her desk. Paul, in contrast, folded his arms and leaned back insolently. His demeanor struck Charles as deliberately disrespectful -- enough so to be provocative, but stopping just short of insubordination.
If Adrian noticed Paul's body language, she ignored it. She smiled, her expression oddly distant.
"As my two senior team leaders," she said, "you need to be kept abreast of certain developments." Her gaze shifted from one man to the other, but seemed somehow out of focus, lacking its usual sharp edge.
At this statement, Paul finally sat up straight. Charles frowned, trying -- and failing -- to imagine what sort of announcement was forthcoming.
She paused for long enough that it began to become uncomfortable. "Section One has been facing budgetary cutbacks for more than a year now," she finally continued. "I have every reason to expect those reductions will continue."
Charles raised his eyebrows. In his fifteen years at Section, not once had Adrian ever shared such concerns with subordinates.
"Over the past few months," she said, "I have endeavored to operate as usual, despite these rather trying circumstances. However, I'm afraid the time has come to engage in some belt-tightening."
The two men exchanged concerned glances.
"Effective immediately," she announced, "we will be scaling back the manpower devoted to operations against Class 3 entities. You'll have to make do with reduced teams. I want you to start revising your profiles and training strategies accordingly."
Paul scowled. "Class 3 is the last place we should cut. That's where the threat is."
Adrian's smile was brittle. "Thank you for your input, Paul. However, I've weighed the options very carefully."
Charles watched with interest as Paul and Adrian held a long, frigid look. This wasn't the first time their interactions had grown tense; in recent months, it had been a more common occurrence than not. In fact, it was becoming harder and harder for Charles to remember the time when Adrian had treated Paul as her favorite, her most likely successor. Now, that was no longer an issue, as even she had apparently come to see he was unsuitable.
How things had changed. Only two years before, Charles had felt compelled to turn to George, taking an enormous risk by going behind Adrian's back to complain about her favoritism. All for nothing, as it turned out. If he had kept his mouth shut, the problem would have solved itself.
Unfortunately, he hadn't been patient enough. And his contact with George had brought unexpected -- and rather unwelcome -- consequences. Somehow, what he thought was a one-time appeal for help had turned into something else entirely: George kept contacting him, prodding him for information, demanding that he report surreptitiously on the activities of his colleagues. To what end, Charles wasn't certain. At first, it had seemed George was merely following up on Charles's warnings about Paul. But as Paul's standing with Adrian had fallen, George's interest hadn't waned; instead, his focus merely broadened.
But if George had a larger purpose, Charles wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Blinking, he forced himself to return to the present.
"We'll adjust to the smaller teams, of course," he said. "While I'd like to have better options, I understand that's not always possible."
"Thank you," said Adrian. She looked back toward Paul. "I do hope you can follow Charles's example."
As Paul turned to stare at him, Charles felt as if a bucket of icewater had been dumped on his head.
"Follow Charles's example?" Paul asked, his voice low and contemptuous. "I'll manage with smaller teams, if that's what you mean."
It took all of Charles's self-control not to stand and demand that Paul take his insults outside, man to man. Instead, he satisfied himself with returning the disdainful glare.
Adrian seemed oblivious to the hostility. "That will do," she replied. Once again, her attention wandered. "Now, gentlemen," she said, already looking away, "I have other pressing work. Thank you for your time."
***
Grasping the ice cube with a pair of tongs, George lifted it out of the ice bucket and dropped it into the glass. It fell with a sharp clink. He added another, then he set down the tongs and reached for a nearby bottle of gin. As he poured it, the ice cracked loudly; he filled the remainder of the glass with tonic water and added a twist of lime.
"There you are," he said, smiling as he handed Adrian the glass. "A double, just as you like it."
"Thank you." She took the glass and nodded gratefully.
He mixed his own drink and returned the bottles to the burnished mahogany liquor cabinet. He sat in the leather armchair beside her, leaned back comfortably, and swallowed a sip.
Ah. Crisp. Clean. Slightly bracing. Just the thing for late afternoon. Or, well, maybe not so late. He set down his glass and glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Perhaps a bit early for drinks, but with Adrian in town he wouldn't be getting any more work done anyway. Indeed, when she had called that morning to advise him of her arrival, he'd had to cancel three appointments to accommodate her schedule. God only knew when he would be able to reschedule them again.
One would have thought that the Commander of the Sections would have kept her Second-in-Command better apprised of her travel plans. But to her, such things had always been an afterthought.
The question was: why was she visiting? She rarely paid notice to the other Sections, so long as no problems were brought to her attention. In fact, she expressed her dislike of Brussels at every opportunity. It was so full of bureaucrats and pencil-pushers, she always delighted in claiming, that the streets were paved with red tape.
Nevertheless, here she was. Sloshing the ice around her drink distractedly, with a strangely apprehensive expression on her face. He watched and waited.
Eventually, she spoke. "You'll be happy to know I've given a promotion to one of your protégés," she said, adding a faintly mocking bite to her enunciation of the final word. "Or at least a security upgrade."
"Indeed?" He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a curious expression. He already knew what Adrian meant, thanks to Madeline's latest debrief, but forced himself to play innocent.
"I've given Madeline some additional responsibilities. She'll be handling more of One's research and support activities from now on."
He nodded sagely. "Very good. I've always thought she had the aptitude for a more supervisory role."
"So you keep saying." She looked him up and down, her expression amused. "We'll see how she performs."
He bit down on the urge to smile at that remark. He would be very anxious indeed to see how Madeline would perform, but not in quite the way Adrian meant. Madeline's security upgrade had been an unexpected but marvelous gift; now, between the two of them, Madeline and Charles had access to virtually everything within Section One. Furthermore, because neither of them knew that the other was an informant, they were a perfect check and balance against each other. Why, he probably knew more about what was really going on at One than anyone there, including Adrian herself.
Not that it mattered quite as much as it used to. Once he reached his understanding with Phillip about the future of the organization, his plan to oust Adrian had become unnecessary, and so had all the subterfuge that went with it. Still, he chose to maintain his relationship with her subordinates. Once developed, a good informant was like gold bullion -- something to hoard in case disaster ever struck.
Adrian sipped her drink again. She stared at the tapestry on the wall across the room, and the look in her eyes grew distant and reflective. After a long pause, she sighed and set down her glass.
"I didn't come all the way here to inform you about minor personnel changes, as I'm sure you've guessed."
He sat up, waiting for her to continue.
Her expression darkened. "It's Phillip. He's gone too far."
George's heart rate accelerated. "What's he done this time?" He chuckled sympathetically, struggling not to show his nervousness. "Don't tell me he's foisting another genetics experiment upon you."
"No, not like that. It's not anything specific, actually. Rather, it's his general attitude."
"What do you mean?"
The muscles around her mouth tightened as if she had tasted something foul. "He thinks it's a hierarchy, with him at the top of the pyramid."
"But it is," he said, shrugging.
"No, it's not," she snapped. "We were supposed to be autonomous. Sister organizations, but autonomous."
He tried to resist rolling his eyes. There she went again, off on her pet delusion. Sister organizations, with one controlling the other's budget? Preposterous.
"If that were the case," he countered smoothly, hoping he could calm her down, "we'd get our funding directly from the Council, not funneled through Center. Center has a certain priority. We have to accept that."
She regarded him with a look of appalled outrage, as if he had just denied the divinity of her chosen deity.
"That arrangement was made for the Council's administrative convenience, not as a reflection of each entity's status. I would never have agreed to it had I not been assured of that fact." Her voice was icy, her eyes glittering. "However, I believe you've hit upon the source of the problem. Phillip has started to believe that because he controls the purse strings, that he's in charge." Her jaw twitched slightly. "I believe it's time he was set straight."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I plan to approach the Council and request that our funding be severed from Center's, and that we be treated as the independent organizations we were always intended to be," she answered briskly. "It's the only way."
George hid his reaction by taking another sip of his drink; the cold liquid coated his suddenly dry throat. This was a complication, certainly, but not necessarily a disaster. While the Council wasn't wholly on Phillip's side, it was still unlikely to grant such a request. There was no need to panic just yet.
"Do you think they'll agree?" He kept his voice relaxed.
Adrian sniffed. "Unfortunately, the Council is packed with Phillip's cronies. Nitwits and baboons, the whole lot of them" she said. Then a sly smile crept across her face. "But I have something planned that might persuade them."
He took a moment to find his voice. "What?" he asked hoarsely.
"A graphic demonstration of the problems that Phillip's budget cutbacks are causing Section One. A failed mission, to be exact." She beamed triumphantly and reached for her drink.
Mortified, he froze, unable to do anything but stare at Adrian. What in God's name was she up to?
"First," she explained, "I'll send several detailed memos outlining my fears that this quarter's funding reductions will adversely impact our operations. Being a bureaucracy, the Council will of course ignore them." She chuckled. "However, the memos will provide the paper trail I'll rely upon later. After several such warnings go unheeded, I'll arrange for one of our missions to fail due to inadequate staffing -- which of course I will blame on the budget cutbacks."
"You'll arrange for a mission to fail?"
"Precisely. I want it to be controlled, so as to minimize the actual damage. It will be a disaster, but not so much of one that we can't recover. And because I will have predicted it, I won't be to blame."
"You're going to sacrifice a mission to make a point with the Council?" He knew he was repeating himself -- and probably sounded like an idiot -- but he simply couldn't help himself.
She gave him a patronizing shake of her head. "George, George, my dear, you should know how these things work by now. Bureaucrats never take action to fix anything until after a problem occurs. I'll give them one. But I'll make sure that it's a problem of my choosing, and that it occurs on my schedule."
Frantic, he tried to control his thoughts. He needed to know as much as possible about her plan, but couldn't appear overanxious. He forced himself to wait to speak, crossing one leg over the other, brushing a piece of lint off his trouser-leg. Then he looked up again.
"Have you chosen the mission?" he asked as calmly as he could manage, although he could swear his pounding heart must be audible a mile away.
"Yes," she replied, her smile brightening. "We've been tracking Cyrus Norasty, one of Red Cell's founders, for several months now. I believe we're quite close to pinpointing his location. When we launch the mission to eliminate him, I'm going to make sure it fails. Spectacularly." She looked gleeful, as if she were about to rub her hands together in delight.
"You'll let him escape?" he asked numbly.
"For the time being. We can intercept him later."
Bloody hell. If she succeeded in convincing the Council to sever the ties between the Sections and Center, she would be untouchable -- and he would never escape from underneath her shadow. Yet as infuriating as this development was, at the same time he found himself growing perversely angry that she didn't ask for his help first. She just went ahead and made up her mind: another reminder of what little esteem she held his opinion in.
"In any event," she added, her smile disappearing, "I came to warn you ahead of time. Once Phillip finds out I've contacted the Council, things could get ugly -- and you might get caught in the crossfire. You need to prepare yourself." She looked into his eyes, her expression full of concern.
"I appreciate the warning." He forced a wan smile.
Watching him, her gaze softened. Suddenly, she looked tired, sad, and rather unsure of herself. Not like Adrian at all.
"It's the least I could do, George. You've been a rock all these years. I haven't let you know often enough how much I depend on you."
His stomach filled with a nauseating surge of guilt. If only she had said something like that years before. If only she had backed up that sentiment with real action, with treatment that showed genuine respect, things wouldn't have come to this. He had been so willing to please her, if only she hadn't taken him for granted.
But now, it was too late. Tomorrow, he would call Phillip and betray her confidence. For which he hated himself -- which in turn made him hate her.
Look what you've made me become, he thought with loathing.
"Well," he said with false cheer, "I think it's time I freshened your drink. A dependable fellow like myself can't be a neglectful host, now can I?"
***
Madeline took her time as she proceeded through the corridors; her pace relaxed, she nodded warmly at the lab workers as they walked by. In her burgundy dress and gold jewelry, she was the only splash of color in a stream of white labcoats. But her atypical appearance wasn't the reason people stepped out of her way, falling aside like waves sliced by the prow of a ship. They drew back because of who she was: her clothing was simply a vivid illustration of her status.
By now, that status was well established. It hadn't taken long. When she first began to visit the labs, the staff had treated her cordially, but as someone irrelevant to their work: at most, a nuisance to be tolerated under Adrian's orders. Then, a few had learned the details of her other duties within Section. Almost overnight, their attitude shifted; now, their behavior toward her was a combination of obsequiousness and terror. Their reaction amused her in its excessiveness, but it also struck her as potentially useful. So she encouraged their paranoia by taking pains to appear to be assessing them, even when she wasn't.
As she passed open doorways, she glanced in, noting which rooms were quiet and which revealed flashes of activity. If a lab seemed too quiet, she paused and waited until one of the workers caught her eye. She then smiled and moved on, knowing that her watchful presence had been noticed and would linger intangibly long after she left.
She was, in fact, the closest thing to outside supervision the labs had had in years. As long as they produced what she wanted, Adrian took little notice of them: her interest, as always, was in the glamorous departments, the ones directly connected to missions or intelligence. The other parts of Section, those devoted to mundane activities like research and support, were neglected: receiving little to no scrutiny when things went smoothly; suffering sweeping and arbitrary purges when something went wrong.
It was a shortsighted way to treat the departments that, Madeline was coming to understand, were the real life force of Section. Supplies, accommodations, research, maintenance, surveillance, housekeeping -- without these ordinary or even distasteful things, the organization would cease to function. Yet Adrian took them all for granted, as if the personnel carrying out these functions were insignificant. As if they were somehow lesser beings, an underclass born to serve Section's elite without complaint. Much the way she apparently thought of Madeline herself, as illustrated by her remarks about Madeline's lack of qualification for leadership.
They were therefore the perfect constituents of a power base: an army, invisible yet everywhere, with the power to do almost anything and yet escape notice because of their very ubiquity. At the moment, they feared her. That was as it should be. Soon, she would get them to depend on her. She would cultivate them, win them over, become their advocate, benefactor, and protector. She would keep their secrets, dole out favors, and intervene on their behalf.
In return, she would ask for nothing. Yet.
Rounding a corner into the most isolated area of the labs, she heard the unmistakable sound of Ulanova's high-pitched voice.
"Stop standing around and work, you cretins!" Ulanova shrieked.
As the shriek echoed off the hard surface of the floor and walls, a smash of shattering glass sounded from the room at the end of the hall.
Alarmed, Madeline picked up her pace and hurried through the door. Inside, a lab assistant scrambled toward a shower and frantically yanked the pull-chain, releasing a powerful stream of water on top of his head. As he drenched himself, spitting out water while his soaked clothing clung to his thin frame, the other workers dashed around in a panic. One of them flung powder on the mess of broken glass and clear liquid strewn along the floor, sending a wisp of white gas into the air; another pulled a switch, starting a roar from a row of overhead vents. The other technicians coughed and milled around helplessly; seconds later, Madeline wrinkled her face as an acrid smell made its way across the room.
The air cleared, and the coughing subsided. Several of the lab assistants noticed Madeline, and the fear on their faces turned to relief. Others snuck nervous glances toward the far end of the room, where Ulanova stood glowering, arms folded across her chest.
"Zina," said Madeline, smiling as if nothing unusual were going on, "do you have a moment?"
Ulanova gave the assembled assistants a final glare, then turned her gaze toward Madeline, nodding.
"Your office, I think," Madeline suggested.
Ulanova disappeared into a small side office. Madeline smiled reassuringly as she passed the anxious-looking assistants, then entered Ulanova's office and closed the door behind her. Ulanova had taken a seat behind her desk; Madeline leaned against the door.
"What was that about?" She kept her voice soft and non-threatening.
Ulanova twisted her sharp features into a grimace. "Some of these assistants are so stupid. Where does Section recruit them? I've seen circus animals with better training."
Madeline shrugged. "We have to work with what we have." She held back a sigh. "Now, tell me what happened, please."
Ulanova's facial muscles tightened. "I might have thrown something at them," she answered sourly. When Madeline frowned, she added, "They weren't working hard enough. I have no use for people who are lazy."
"Zina," Madeline reproached.
Ulanova's expression turned defiant. "It worked. I've never seen them move so fast before."
"We can't go maiming people to make them work faster."
"Why not? We cancel people for making mistakes. What is the difference?"
The question stopped Madeline short for several seconds. There had to be a difference, and yet for a dizzying instant she couldn't think of one. A feeling of discomfort -- almost anxiety -- washed over her, as she struggled to find a way to justify the policy. A policy that she hadn't been responsible for creating. A policy that at one point in the hazy past had shocked her, but that she had lived under for so long it had come to seem like a law of nature. Adrian's policy -- but now, somehow, hers to defend.
Finally, to her relief, an answer came to her.
"Cancellation is an extreme measure, carried out with strict procedural safeguards, and only upon approval from Adrian herself," she explained slowly, as if she were tasting her words, testing out their sound. "It's not the same thing as arbitrary, on-the-spot corporal punishment. If we allowed that, everyone in a supervisory position would make his own rules, and Section would collapse into chaos."
When she finished, she took a deep breath. That was it. Control over chaos. Section made harsh -- even cruel -- demands, but so long as the rules were formalized, and applied impartially to everyone, they were fair. However, if that harshness were ever freed from procedural restraints, if its application became subject to an individual's whim or emotion, Section would become something monstrous. That was the difference, and it was a critical one.
Ulanova rolled her eyes. "Fine. I will handhold these imbeciles until the paperwork makes its way up to Adrian. And then I will wait until Her Highness gets around to approving it." She smirked. "After all, we would not want to do anything without the proper forms being filled out."
Ulanova's demeanor was annoyed, but she had clearly given in. As a reward for her compliance, she therefore needed a bit of an ego stroke. Taming Ulanova's temper was a delicate art form, but it was worth the effort if it enhanced Madeline's influence over the labs. Indeed, seeing the magical effect she had on the doctor, several lab operatives had already approached her for assistance with other personality conflicts among the staff. Like a snake charmer, she mesmerized them all into good behavior -- and the more often she intervened, the more skilled she became.
"I do understand your staffing problems," she said. "Section hasn't been giving the care to recruitment of research operatives that perhaps it ought to."
Ulanova tossed her head and snorted. "It might help if you started looking for homo sapiens instead of monkeys."
Madeline chuckled, pointedly demonstrating her appreciation of the joke. Then she lowered her voice, making it richly conspiratorial. "Until now, recruitment isn't an area I've had any responsibility for. However, based on your complaints, I was able to speak with Adrian and make some suggestions."
"Oh?" A look of hopeful interest lit Ulanova's face.
"I convinced her to approve the recruitment of five new researchers. Including the one you wanted so badly."
Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Not…?"
Madeline smiled. "Oh, yes. The one and only Dr. Gelman."
"Finally! Someone who knows what he's doing." Ulanova beamed. "Oh, thank you, Madeline. I'll repay you for this, I promise."
Madeline arched an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm sure you will."
************
To go on to Chapter Nineteen, 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).
His muscles stiffening, Charles shifted in the rigid chair and cast his gaze around Adrian's office. Through the picture window to his right, he could see the main floor below; there, Adrian stood, engrossed in a discussion with Jules. Despite her command that Charles appear in her office at 15:30 sharp, she seemed in no hurry to come upstairs herself.
So he waited, patiently, and tried to ignore the man in the chair beside him.
He and Paul Wolfe hadn't spoken a word for a full twenty minutes. Instead, Charles engaged in a tremendous effort to look away from Paul at all times. It wasn't an easy task when sitting inches apart, but Charles was determined: he stared out the window, at the floor, at the polished surface of Adrian's desk, at the crystal vase full of bright pink flowers, at anything that didn't bring his line of vision in Paul's direction.
The more he tried to look elsewhere, however, the more aware of Paul's presence he became. A pent-up energy emanated from the other man, a strange magnetic force that drew one's gaze toward him even as one felt apprehensive of what one might see. It was something Paul carried with him constantly of late, as if he wore a cloak of seething, sublimated menace.
In the past, Paul had been prone to explosions of temper that flashed violently and then subsided, like sudden summer thunderstorms. Now, years later, he was colder, more controlled, and -- in Charles's opinion -- far more dangerous. His hostility was unremitting, his anger concentrated. Focused. Relentless.
He had even changed his style of dress to match this new persona. Gone were the quasi-military commando-style outfits of trousers, sweater, and boots that he used to favor. These days, when not on a mission, he wore suits or sportscoats. Tailored outfits that nearly shouted their inflated pricetags.
Charles had worn such suits for years. On him, they looked like the uniform of a lawyer or a stockbroker. On Paul, however, they conferred an air of arrogant authority. They made him look like a man who was accustomed to owning things. And to getting his way.
Charles blinked, startled, when Adrian swept past him toward her desk. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even heard her come in.
"Thank you for waiting, gentlemen," she said.
Charles sat forward as Adrian settled behind her desk. Paul, in contrast, folded his arms and leaned back insolently. His demeanor struck Charles as deliberately disrespectful -- enough so to be provocative, but stopping just short of insubordination.
If Adrian noticed Paul's body language, she ignored it. She smiled, her expression oddly distant.
"As my two senior team leaders," she said, "you need to be kept abreast of certain developments." Her gaze shifted from one man to the other, but seemed somehow out of focus, lacking its usual sharp edge.
At this statement, Paul finally sat up straight. Charles frowned, trying -- and failing -- to imagine what sort of announcement was forthcoming.
She paused for long enough that it began to become uncomfortable. "Section One has been facing budgetary cutbacks for more than a year now," she finally continued. "I have every reason to expect those reductions will continue."
Charles raised his eyebrows. In his fifteen years at Section, not once had Adrian ever shared such concerns with subordinates.
"Over the past few months," she said, "I have endeavored to operate as usual, despite these rather trying circumstances. However, I'm afraid the time has come to engage in some belt-tightening."
The two men exchanged concerned glances.
"Effective immediately," she announced, "we will be scaling back the manpower devoted to operations against Class 3 entities. You'll have to make do with reduced teams. I want you to start revising your profiles and training strategies accordingly."
Paul scowled. "Class 3 is the last place we should cut. That's where the threat is."
Adrian's smile was brittle. "Thank you for your input, Paul. However, I've weighed the options very carefully."
Charles watched with interest as Paul and Adrian held a long, frigid look. This wasn't the first time their interactions had grown tense; in recent months, it had been a more common occurrence than not. In fact, it was becoming harder and harder for Charles to remember the time when Adrian had treated Paul as her favorite, her most likely successor. Now, that was no longer an issue, as even she had apparently come to see he was unsuitable.
How things had changed. Only two years before, Charles had felt compelled to turn to George, taking an enormous risk by going behind Adrian's back to complain about her favoritism. All for nothing, as it turned out. If he had kept his mouth shut, the problem would have solved itself.
Unfortunately, he hadn't been patient enough. And his contact with George had brought unexpected -- and rather unwelcome -- consequences. Somehow, what he thought was a one-time appeal for help had turned into something else entirely: George kept contacting him, prodding him for information, demanding that he report surreptitiously on the activities of his colleagues. To what end, Charles wasn't certain. At first, it had seemed George was merely following up on Charles's warnings about Paul. But as Paul's standing with Adrian had fallen, George's interest hadn't waned; instead, his focus merely broadened.
But if George had a larger purpose, Charles wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Blinking, he forced himself to return to the present.
"We'll adjust to the smaller teams, of course," he said. "While I'd like to have better options, I understand that's not always possible."
"Thank you," said Adrian. She looked back toward Paul. "I do hope you can follow Charles's example."
As Paul turned to stare at him, Charles felt as if a bucket of icewater had been dumped on his head.
"Follow Charles's example?" Paul asked, his voice low and contemptuous. "I'll manage with smaller teams, if that's what you mean."
It took all of Charles's self-control not to stand and demand that Paul take his insults outside, man to man. Instead, he satisfied himself with returning the disdainful glare.
Adrian seemed oblivious to the hostility. "That will do," she replied. Once again, her attention wandered. "Now, gentlemen," she said, already looking away, "I have other pressing work. Thank you for your time."
***
Grasping the ice cube with a pair of tongs, George lifted it out of the ice bucket and dropped it into the glass. It fell with a sharp clink. He added another, then he set down the tongs and reached for a nearby bottle of gin. As he poured it, the ice cracked loudly; he filled the remainder of the glass with tonic water and added a twist of lime.
"There you are," he said, smiling as he handed Adrian the glass. "A double, just as you like it."
"Thank you." She took the glass and nodded gratefully.
He mixed his own drink and returned the bottles to the burnished mahogany liquor cabinet. He sat in the leather armchair beside her, leaned back comfortably, and swallowed a sip.
Ah. Crisp. Clean. Slightly bracing. Just the thing for late afternoon. Or, well, maybe not so late. He set down his glass and glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Perhaps a bit early for drinks, but with Adrian in town he wouldn't be getting any more work done anyway. Indeed, when she had called that morning to advise him of her arrival, he'd had to cancel three appointments to accommodate her schedule. God only knew when he would be able to reschedule them again.
One would have thought that the Commander of the Sections would have kept her Second-in-Command better apprised of her travel plans. But to her, such things had always been an afterthought.
The question was: why was she visiting? She rarely paid notice to the other Sections, so long as no problems were brought to her attention. In fact, she expressed her dislike of Brussels at every opportunity. It was so full of bureaucrats and pencil-pushers, she always delighted in claiming, that the streets were paved with red tape.
Nevertheless, here she was. Sloshing the ice around her drink distractedly, with a strangely apprehensive expression on her face. He watched and waited.
Eventually, she spoke. "You'll be happy to know I've given a promotion to one of your protégés," she said, adding a faintly mocking bite to her enunciation of the final word. "Or at least a security upgrade."
"Indeed?" He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a curious expression. He already knew what Adrian meant, thanks to Madeline's latest debrief, but forced himself to play innocent.
"I've given Madeline some additional responsibilities. She'll be handling more of One's research and support activities from now on."
He nodded sagely. "Very good. I've always thought she had the aptitude for a more supervisory role."
"So you keep saying." She looked him up and down, her expression amused. "We'll see how she performs."
He bit down on the urge to smile at that remark. He would be very anxious indeed to see how Madeline would perform, but not in quite the way Adrian meant. Madeline's security upgrade had been an unexpected but marvelous gift; now, between the two of them, Madeline and Charles had access to virtually everything within Section One. Furthermore, because neither of them knew that the other was an informant, they were a perfect check and balance against each other. Why, he probably knew more about what was really going on at One than anyone there, including Adrian herself.
Not that it mattered quite as much as it used to. Once he reached his understanding with Phillip about the future of the organization, his plan to oust Adrian had become unnecessary, and so had all the subterfuge that went with it. Still, he chose to maintain his relationship with her subordinates. Once developed, a good informant was like gold bullion -- something to hoard in case disaster ever struck.
Adrian sipped her drink again. She stared at the tapestry on the wall across the room, and the look in her eyes grew distant and reflective. After a long pause, she sighed and set down her glass.
"I didn't come all the way here to inform you about minor personnel changes, as I'm sure you've guessed."
He sat up, waiting for her to continue.
Her expression darkened. "It's Phillip. He's gone too far."
George's heart rate accelerated. "What's he done this time?" He chuckled sympathetically, struggling not to show his nervousness. "Don't tell me he's foisting another genetics experiment upon you."
"No, not like that. It's not anything specific, actually. Rather, it's his general attitude."
"What do you mean?"
The muscles around her mouth tightened as if she had tasted something foul. "He thinks it's a hierarchy, with him at the top of the pyramid."
"But it is," he said, shrugging.
"No, it's not," she snapped. "We were supposed to be autonomous. Sister organizations, but autonomous."
He tried to resist rolling his eyes. There she went again, off on her pet delusion. Sister organizations, with one controlling the other's budget? Preposterous.
"If that were the case," he countered smoothly, hoping he could calm her down, "we'd get our funding directly from the Council, not funneled through Center. Center has a certain priority. We have to accept that."
She regarded him with a look of appalled outrage, as if he had just denied the divinity of her chosen deity.
"That arrangement was made for the Council's administrative convenience, not as a reflection of each entity's status. I would never have agreed to it had I not been assured of that fact." Her voice was icy, her eyes glittering. "However, I believe you've hit upon the source of the problem. Phillip has started to believe that because he controls the purse strings, that he's in charge." Her jaw twitched slightly. "I believe it's time he was set straight."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I plan to approach the Council and request that our funding be severed from Center's, and that we be treated as the independent organizations we were always intended to be," she answered briskly. "It's the only way."
George hid his reaction by taking another sip of his drink; the cold liquid coated his suddenly dry throat. This was a complication, certainly, but not necessarily a disaster. While the Council wasn't wholly on Phillip's side, it was still unlikely to grant such a request. There was no need to panic just yet.
"Do you think they'll agree?" He kept his voice relaxed.
Adrian sniffed. "Unfortunately, the Council is packed with Phillip's cronies. Nitwits and baboons, the whole lot of them" she said. Then a sly smile crept across her face. "But I have something planned that might persuade them."
He took a moment to find his voice. "What?" he asked hoarsely.
"A graphic demonstration of the problems that Phillip's budget cutbacks are causing Section One. A failed mission, to be exact." She beamed triumphantly and reached for her drink.
Mortified, he froze, unable to do anything but stare at Adrian. What in God's name was she up to?
"First," she explained, "I'll send several detailed memos outlining my fears that this quarter's funding reductions will adversely impact our operations. Being a bureaucracy, the Council will of course ignore them." She chuckled. "However, the memos will provide the paper trail I'll rely upon later. After several such warnings go unheeded, I'll arrange for one of our missions to fail due to inadequate staffing -- which of course I will blame on the budget cutbacks."
"You'll arrange for a mission to fail?"
"Precisely. I want it to be controlled, so as to minimize the actual damage. It will be a disaster, but not so much of one that we can't recover. And because I will have predicted it, I won't be to blame."
"You're going to sacrifice a mission to make a point with the Council?" He knew he was repeating himself -- and probably sounded like an idiot -- but he simply couldn't help himself.
She gave him a patronizing shake of her head. "George, George, my dear, you should know how these things work by now. Bureaucrats never take action to fix anything until after a problem occurs. I'll give them one. But I'll make sure that it's a problem of my choosing, and that it occurs on my schedule."
Frantic, he tried to control his thoughts. He needed to know as much as possible about her plan, but couldn't appear overanxious. He forced himself to wait to speak, crossing one leg over the other, brushing a piece of lint off his trouser-leg. Then he looked up again.
"Have you chosen the mission?" he asked as calmly as he could manage, although he could swear his pounding heart must be audible a mile away.
"Yes," she replied, her smile brightening. "We've been tracking Cyrus Norasty, one of Red Cell's founders, for several months now. I believe we're quite close to pinpointing his location. When we launch the mission to eliminate him, I'm going to make sure it fails. Spectacularly." She looked gleeful, as if she were about to rub her hands together in delight.
"You'll let him escape?" he asked numbly.
"For the time being. We can intercept him later."
Bloody hell. If she succeeded in convincing the Council to sever the ties between the Sections and Center, she would be untouchable -- and he would never escape from underneath her shadow. Yet as infuriating as this development was, at the same time he found himself growing perversely angry that she didn't ask for his help first. She just went ahead and made up her mind: another reminder of what little esteem she held his opinion in.
"In any event," she added, her smile disappearing, "I came to warn you ahead of time. Once Phillip finds out I've contacted the Council, things could get ugly -- and you might get caught in the crossfire. You need to prepare yourself." She looked into his eyes, her expression full of concern.
"I appreciate the warning." He forced a wan smile.
Watching him, her gaze softened. Suddenly, she looked tired, sad, and rather unsure of herself. Not like Adrian at all.
"It's the least I could do, George. You've been a rock all these years. I haven't let you know often enough how much I depend on you."
His stomach filled with a nauseating surge of guilt. If only she had said something like that years before. If only she had backed up that sentiment with real action, with treatment that showed genuine respect, things wouldn't have come to this. He had been so willing to please her, if only she hadn't taken him for granted.
But now, it was too late. Tomorrow, he would call Phillip and betray her confidence. For which he hated himself -- which in turn made him hate her.
Look what you've made me become, he thought with loathing.
"Well," he said with false cheer, "I think it's time I freshened your drink. A dependable fellow like myself can't be a neglectful host, now can I?"
***
Madeline took her time as she proceeded through the corridors; her pace relaxed, she nodded warmly at the lab workers as they walked by. In her burgundy dress and gold jewelry, she was the only splash of color in a stream of white labcoats. But her atypical appearance wasn't the reason people stepped out of her way, falling aside like waves sliced by the prow of a ship. They drew back because of who she was: her clothing was simply a vivid illustration of her status.
By now, that status was well established. It hadn't taken long. When she first began to visit the labs, the staff had treated her cordially, but as someone irrelevant to their work: at most, a nuisance to be tolerated under Adrian's orders. Then, a few had learned the details of her other duties within Section. Almost overnight, their attitude shifted; now, their behavior toward her was a combination of obsequiousness and terror. Their reaction amused her in its excessiveness, but it also struck her as potentially useful. So she encouraged their paranoia by taking pains to appear to be assessing them, even when she wasn't.
As she passed open doorways, she glanced in, noting which rooms were quiet and which revealed flashes of activity. If a lab seemed too quiet, she paused and waited until one of the workers caught her eye. She then smiled and moved on, knowing that her watchful presence had been noticed and would linger intangibly long after she left.
She was, in fact, the closest thing to outside supervision the labs had had in years. As long as they produced what she wanted, Adrian took little notice of them: her interest, as always, was in the glamorous departments, the ones directly connected to missions or intelligence. The other parts of Section, those devoted to mundane activities like research and support, were neglected: receiving little to no scrutiny when things went smoothly; suffering sweeping and arbitrary purges when something went wrong.
It was a shortsighted way to treat the departments that, Madeline was coming to understand, were the real life force of Section. Supplies, accommodations, research, maintenance, surveillance, housekeeping -- without these ordinary or even distasteful things, the organization would cease to function. Yet Adrian took them all for granted, as if the personnel carrying out these functions were insignificant. As if they were somehow lesser beings, an underclass born to serve Section's elite without complaint. Much the way she apparently thought of Madeline herself, as illustrated by her remarks about Madeline's lack of qualification for leadership.
They were therefore the perfect constituents of a power base: an army, invisible yet everywhere, with the power to do almost anything and yet escape notice because of their very ubiquity. At the moment, they feared her. That was as it should be. Soon, she would get them to depend on her. She would cultivate them, win them over, become their advocate, benefactor, and protector. She would keep their secrets, dole out favors, and intervene on their behalf.
In return, she would ask for nothing. Yet.
Rounding a corner into the most isolated area of the labs, she heard the unmistakable sound of Ulanova's high-pitched voice.
"Stop standing around and work, you cretins!" Ulanova shrieked.
As the shriek echoed off the hard surface of the floor and walls, a smash of shattering glass sounded from the room at the end of the hall.
Alarmed, Madeline picked up her pace and hurried through the door. Inside, a lab assistant scrambled toward a shower and frantically yanked the pull-chain, releasing a powerful stream of water on top of his head. As he drenched himself, spitting out water while his soaked clothing clung to his thin frame, the other workers dashed around in a panic. One of them flung powder on the mess of broken glass and clear liquid strewn along the floor, sending a wisp of white gas into the air; another pulled a switch, starting a roar from a row of overhead vents. The other technicians coughed and milled around helplessly; seconds later, Madeline wrinkled her face as an acrid smell made its way across the room.
The air cleared, and the coughing subsided. Several of the lab assistants noticed Madeline, and the fear on their faces turned to relief. Others snuck nervous glances toward the far end of the room, where Ulanova stood glowering, arms folded across her chest.
"Zina," said Madeline, smiling as if nothing unusual were going on, "do you have a moment?"
Ulanova gave the assembled assistants a final glare, then turned her gaze toward Madeline, nodding.
"Your office, I think," Madeline suggested.
Ulanova disappeared into a small side office. Madeline smiled reassuringly as she passed the anxious-looking assistants, then entered Ulanova's office and closed the door behind her. Ulanova had taken a seat behind her desk; Madeline leaned against the door.
"What was that about?" She kept her voice soft and non-threatening.
Ulanova twisted her sharp features into a grimace. "Some of these assistants are so stupid. Where does Section recruit them? I've seen circus animals with better training."
Madeline shrugged. "We have to work with what we have." She held back a sigh. "Now, tell me what happened, please."
Ulanova's facial muscles tightened. "I might have thrown something at them," she answered sourly. When Madeline frowned, she added, "They weren't working hard enough. I have no use for people who are lazy."
"Zina," Madeline reproached.
Ulanova's expression turned defiant. "It worked. I've never seen them move so fast before."
"We can't go maiming people to make them work faster."
"Why not? We cancel people for making mistakes. What is the difference?"
The question stopped Madeline short for several seconds. There had to be a difference, and yet for a dizzying instant she couldn't think of one. A feeling of discomfort -- almost anxiety -- washed over her, as she struggled to find a way to justify the policy. A policy that she hadn't been responsible for creating. A policy that at one point in the hazy past had shocked her, but that she had lived under for so long it had come to seem like a law of nature. Adrian's policy -- but now, somehow, hers to defend.
Finally, to her relief, an answer came to her.
"Cancellation is an extreme measure, carried out with strict procedural safeguards, and only upon approval from Adrian herself," she explained slowly, as if she were tasting her words, testing out their sound. "It's not the same thing as arbitrary, on-the-spot corporal punishment. If we allowed that, everyone in a supervisory position would make his own rules, and Section would collapse into chaos."
When she finished, she took a deep breath. That was it. Control over chaos. Section made harsh -- even cruel -- demands, but so long as the rules were formalized, and applied impartially to everyone, they were fair. However, if that harshness were ever freed from procedural restraints, if its application became subject to an individual's whim or emotion, Section would become something monstrous. That was the difference, and it was a critical one.
Ulanova rolled her eyes. "Fine. I will handhold these imbeciles until the paperwork makes its way up to Adrian. And then I will wait until Her Highness gets around to approving it." She smirked. "After all, we would not want to do anything without the proper forms being filled out."
Ulanova's demeanor was annoyed, but she had clearly given in. As a reward for her compliance, she therefore needed a bit of an ego stroke. Taming Ulanova's temper was a delicate art form, but it was worth the effort if it enhanced Madeline's influence over the labs. Indeed, seeing the magical effect she had on the doctor, several lab operatives had already approached her for assistance with other personality conflicts among the staff. Like a snake charmer, she mesmerized them all into good behavior -- and the more often she intervened, the more skilled she became.
"I do understand your staffing problems," she said. "Section hasn't been giving the care to recruitment of research operatives that perhaps it ought to."
Ulanova tossed her head and snorted. "It might help if you started looking for homo sapiens instead of monkeys."
Madeline chuckled, pointedly demonstrating her appreciation of the joke. Then she lowered her voice, making it richly conspiratorial. "Until now, recruitment isn't an area I've had any responsibility for. However, based on your complaints, I was able to speak with Adrian and make some suggestions."
"Oh?" A look of hopeful interest lit Ulanova's face.
"I convinced her to approve the recruitment of five new researchers. Including the one you wanted so badly."
Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Not…?"
Madeline smiled. "Oh, yes. The one and only Dr. Gelman."
"Finally! Someone who knows what he's doing." Ulanova beamed. "Oh, thank you, Madeline. I'll repay you for this, I promise."
Madeline arched an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm sure you will."
************
To go on to Chapter Nineteen, click here.