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jaybee65Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Twenty-Two
Adrian set down her teacup. Within seconds, the dark-suited young man dashed forward to refill it. She waved him off in irritation; bowing slightly, he withdrew.
Not just one, but three attendants hovered obsequiously around the table. They thrust trays of food under the noses of the Council members like streetwalkers flashing bits of flesh at prospective johns. Only Adrian seemed to find them annoying. The Council, in contrast, snatched at the hors d'oeuvres with the relish of Roman nobles feeding on grapes. The room filled with the sound of their smacking.
So unseemly. The last time Adrian had occasion to visit the Clubroom, as they called it, it was still ruled with an iron fist by Didier. An old-school Swiss from Geneva, he knew the true meaning of the word service -- when to be attentive, and, more importantly, when to fade gracefully into the background. He would not have approved, Adrian decided, as she watched the young men circle and the old men gorge. But Didier, like most of the men he had served, was the past -- his influence fading, soon to be lost.
At least the Clubroom itself hadn't changed. The same heavy drapes blocked out any hint of the sun; the same oil portraits stared dourly from the walls; the stiff-backed furniture sat in the same positions as in 1963. Not even the Americans had dared change that.
It was one of the few things they left untouched.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the Council members set down his fork. Simpson. The younger of the two Americans present, he was a retired mining company executive from Wyoming, or Oklahoma, or one of those anonymous states from the godforsaken North American interior -- she could never remember which. He had a singular lack of interest in the human dimension of Section's work -- in lives saved, suffering prevented -- but mention enhancing Western control over copper, or chromium, or manganese, or cobalt, and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. He called it realpolitik. She called it despicable.
He stared at her for several moments. Then he made a great production of clearing his throat; his cheeks and neck swelled, froglike.
"So, tell me, Adrian," he said. "You actually expect us to believe that you're too broke to catch a single guy in a limo? I could walk into a Dallas shopping mall and round up ten security guards who'd do it for 100 bucks apiece."
Such belligerence was not a good sign. She hadn't expected Simpson to be immediately receptive -- he disliked her too much for that. But he detested Phillip just as much, so she had hoped for a semblance of neutrality.
She forced a smile. "It wasn't the mission itself that was the problem. Relatively speaking, it was a simple one. It suffered because my resources are spread too thin."
"You had a number of other operations taking place that day, correct?" prompted Laplace, the French member. He gazed at her encouragingly, his large brown eyes somber but kind.
He'd asked a deliberately easy question, and she was grateful for it. He, at least, might be considered an active ally, in no small part because of her insistence on locating Section One in Paris. She knew, even if others didn't, the importance of such gestures to a country that often felt outnumbered by the Anglo-American alliance.
"Sixteen, to be exact," she replied.
"But ten of them weren't tied to a specific target date. They could have been rescheduled," countered Strickland, the lone British member. Phillip's sponsor. And a viper of the first order. "Perhaps the problem isn't funding, but poorly thought-out coordination," he added archly.
She looked him in the eye. "When I receive intel on the enemy, I use it before it goes stale. Otherwise I'd be functioning as a mere archivist of historical data."
Like Center, she almost added. But she didn't have to -- the words may have been unspoken, but they were still understood. Strickland tightened his mouth angrily.
"How much funding do you need for optimal performance?" asked Ortiz, the Spaniard.
He was one of the newer members -- she didn't know him, but disliked him by reputation. The question, however, seemed straightforward enough, perhaps even sincere.
"At a minimum, I need a restoration to 1985 levels."
Simpson laughed derisively. "Oh, come on. 1985? You had the TWA hijacking and the Achille Lauro! Not to mention the Soviet succession in chaos after Chernenko. They couldn't stop throwing money at us that year. I don't think it's reasonable to measure by the high-water mark."
"But the threat has only grown since then."
"Yeah, but the mood has changed, especially when it comes to covert activities. The current investigations in America haven't turned into the Church Committee yet, but believe me, this just isn't the time to ask for more funding for black ops."
Adrian stiffened. "The entire purpose of the Sections is to enable the protectors of liberty to avoid the petty vagaries of domestic politics."
Simpson rolled his eyes. "That's a nice speech, Adrian, but if you really believe that, you're living in Fantasy Land."
"Well now, Adrian," drawled Reynolds, the second American, "I don't believe this is about money at all."
The senior member of the Council, Reynolds was a courtly Southerner whose slow speech disguised a keen mind. With his shock of white hair and slight tremble of Parkinson's, he looked like a doddering grandfather; in reality, his sharp grey eyes missed nothing. He said little, but when he spoke it was usually decisive.
He took a bite of his food and chewed thoroughly, crumbs clinging to his lower lip. The others waited in silence, as if holding their collective breaths.
Finally, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
"I've been around long enough to recognize a pi--, spitting contest when I see one." He aimed a broad smile at Adrian -- for a moment, she thought he might even wink.
She started to respond, but something stopped her. The twinkle in his eye was that of someone amused by a naughty but precocious child. He wasn't taking her seriously. None of them were, she suddenly realized, looking around at the table and seeing a variety of patronizing expressions. They'd decided their response ahead of time, no doubt agreeing to the meeting just to humor her. She felt her face flush with anger and injured pride.
"I think the current arrangement works just fine," said Reynolds, and the others nodded in agreement. "Having to work with Phillip keeps you on your toes. A little rivalry never hurt anyone." With a shaky finger, he beckoned one of the attendants forward. "You really should try the canapé," he invited. "It's delicious."
***
Charles shifted his legs under the desk and flexed his lower back. Adrian kept her chair a great deal lower to the floor than he liked, and after all morning working in the Perch, it was beginning to be more than a little uncomfortable.
Somehow, though, the idea of adjusting the height seemed wrong: an overly familiar gesture, a usurpation of privilege by one who was only a guest. This was ridiculous, of course, and he knew it. Adrian had given him command in her absence, and he ought to be able to readjust the chair, move the vase away from where it kept knocking into his elbow, even toss out the rapidly wilting flowers if he wanted to.
And yet, he didn't. Couldn't.
Perhaps it was because he knew, in the back of his mind, that his "command" was a relative thing. Strictly speaking, George was still Adrian's second, and she had given Charles stern orders to call George immediately in the event of anything beyond the strictly routine. It was somewhat like being a dog on a leash -- while he could run all he liked, he couldn't stray far.
For all practical purposes, however, he'd been leader of Section for two full days. It was a strange sensation. He had, upon occasion, taken charge by default of the chain of command during odd hours, when he was the senior operative present. But it had never been an official transfer of authority before, never the formal handing over of the command key, never such an open endorsement of his qualifications. He didn't know whether to be flattered or worried that it was more of a test than an endorsement. Knowing Adrian, it was probably something of both.
Whatever the case, he was determined to do a good job. He'd been putting in 18-hour days since her departure, and was proud to say that each mission so far had been flawless.
He returned his attention to the pile of status reports on the desk and scanned the summaries of each. Most involved routine intel gathering; others set forth policy recommendations; two contained prep for missions scheduled later that afternoon. He flagged the intel for routing to the appropriate analysts and profilers, set aside the recommendations for Adrian's return, and began to review the mission outlines in detail. He'd be running tactical on both of them, and he needed to review the profiles before they went live. He would probably have to fine-tune the parameters of each -- he'd found several profiles seriously wanting the prior day. Too many inexperienced profilers. He would have to speak to Adrian about that when she returned.
A noise at the door made him look up. Konstantin, a chubby DRV analyst with a perpetual sheen of perspiration on his broad face, nodded tersely and approached the desk. He placed several floppy disks on a tray.
"The latest reports from the Central African Sector," Konstantin said, by way of explanation, then exited.
Charles looked at the pile with dismay. The new disks looked like at least two more hours of work. The volume of data coming in was overwhelming, even on a day when nothing in particular was going on. It was hard to imagine how Adrian coped, day after day, with the demands of the job. While she was quite obviously brilliant and capable -- something she had the somewhat tiresome habit of reminding everyone of at frequent intervals -- he wondered if it wasn't really a sort of insanity that kept her going. An obsessive-compulsive disorder or egomaniacal fixation -- whatever it was that drove one to spend every waking moment in a quest to remake the world in her own image.
It reminded him of his missionary uncle, in fact -- the one who'd spent thirty-five years in a malaria-infested jungle, engaged in a fervent but futile effort to convert "pagan idolaters." Charles had been forced to spend several summers there as a teen, reading scripture to listless villagers in the local schoolhouse, struggling to appear pious while sweat poured down his face and trickled under his starched collar. It was utterly fruitless and probably mad. Yet the mission also dug wells, treated the sick, and provided the only education available for miles around. Section was much like that: chasing an unachievable, maybe even imaginary ideal, but along the way accomplishing some things of genuine value. Charles believed in the cause less and less every day -- but he was content being one of the well diggers.
When he heard footsteps again, he sighed. Yet another delivery of data? It was never-ending.
He looked up wearily. To his surprise, Paul Wolfe stood at the doorway, eyeing Charles with a bemused expression.
So Paul had finally decided to show his face again, after making himself noticeably scarce for several days. Charles hadn't been present in Section to witness Paul's insubordination to Adrian, but what he heard of the incident disgusted him. Paul's actions were inexcusable and childish. Even if one disapproved of a commander's decisions -- even if that disapproval was justified, as Charles suspected it might have been -- insulting her openly was unacceptable behavior. Especially coming from a military man. It was a disgrace, really.
Paul strolled into the Perch, his pace and demeanor relaxed and confident. For someone who'd felt compelled to hide out for the past two days, he seemed in a strangely good mood. His pale eyes held a trace of mirth, as if he considered the whole world designed for his personal amusement. There was no shame in those eyes, no guilt or regret -- and looking into them, Charles realized just how much he despised the man. It wasn't just a matter of misunderstandings or even mere personal rivalry, but of completely clashing values.
"I'm looking for Adrian," Paul said.
"She'll be back tomorrow."
"And she left you in charge?" Paul raised his eyebrows; his mouth took a wry twist.
"That's right." Charles straightened his posture and gave Paul a hard look.
Paul walked around the desk, moving slowly, like a dog sniffing around contested territory. His gaze dropped to the mission prep that sat open on the desktop.
Charles stood. "Is there something you need?"
Paul ignored the question and continued to inspect the report. Finally, he said, "You should be using a staggered formation on approach."
The urge to take a swing at Paul seized Charles. That bastard. Waiting until Adrian was gone and then trying to show off in some sort of macho posturing game.
Trying to control his anger, he looked down at the report. As he stared at it, it struck him. Paul was right. A staggered formation would probably shave a few minutes off the estimated completion time -- and as he well knew, every minute counted. He should have seen it himself. But he didn't.
He swore to himself silently, then he swallowed his hurt pride. A gentleman would have the strength of character to admit his mistakes. No matter who pointed them out.
"That's a good suggestion," he said. "Thank you."
"Anytime." Paul looked him up and down. There was a smirk, just barely suppressed, but also a hint of disappointment that he hadn't succeeded in goading Charles. It was as if he'd girded himself for a duel only to find no one interested in accepting the challenge. After a long pause, he said, "I guess I'll speak to Adrian tomorrow. See you later, Charles."
***
The soup steamed in its china bowl, the aroma heavy with pepper and leeks. George stirred the liquid and lifted a spoonful, pursing his lips to blow it cool before he took a sip.
Dining alone, he finished quickly. The spoon clinked and scraped against the side of the bowl; the bread crunched as he broke it apart to spread on butter. When the bowl was empty, he moved it aside and sat back in his chair. He stared at the empty expanse of the table beyond him; its polished surface shone even in the dim light. Across the room, a clock ticked steadily.
The door opened and a gray-haired man entered. Instead of bearing the next course, he was empty-handed and apologetic-looking.
"Telephone, sir. A Mr. Phillip Jones."
Phillip. Finally.
George pushed back his chair and stood.
"I'll take it in the study."
"Very good, sir."
George walked down the carpeted hallway, halfway numb, like a sleepwalker. All day long, he'd been trying not to think about Adrian's meeting with the Council -- trying not to indulge his hopes, for fear they would be dashed; trying not to dwell on his worries, for fear they would be confirmed.
Now, it was time.
He entered the study and closed the door soundly behind him. He sat at the desk and took a breath of anticipation, then picked up the telephone receiver.
"Good evening, Phillip."
"George."
There was a long silence. It seemed to stretch on and on, building the suspense until George thought he might burst.
"Is it good news or bad, then?" he asked, unable to bear waiting any longer.
"Both. Or neither. Depending on one's perspective."
So typical of Phillip to give a cryptic answer.
"How do you mean?" George tried to hide the impatience from his voice.
"The Council declined Adrian's request for autonomy. They were most grateful to us for advising them of her plans in advance -- because of that, they weren't taken in by her manufactured crisis."
"That's a relief." But?, he asked mentally.
"Unfortunately," continued Phillip, answering George's unspoken question, "they didn't see fit to discipline her, either. They seem to think this is a trivial spat between the two of us. They told me we needed to 'work it out.'"
"So it's a stalemate." George felt both his hopes and fears collapse, as if the air had been let out of them.
"Alas, she'll remain the proverbial thorn in my side for the foreseeable future," Phillip said dryly. "And you'll remain her errand boy."
The remark stung, even though George knew Phillip was deliberately trying to provoke him. The problem was that Phillip was right. If things remained the way they were, he'd be living in Adrian's shadow forever. The thought was unbearable. The alternative, however, was something he hadn't wanted to face.
The alternative meant active betrayal, and tremendous risk. It was an enormous gamble -- and even a source of shame. Until now, he'd kept those plans to himself and, to a limited degree, Madeline. He had thought -- hoped -- that Phillip's intervention would render it all unnecessary. How foolish that had been. The question now was whether he should reveal his plans to Phillip and seek his assistance. Phillip's cooperation might make all the difference between failure and success -- but then again, sharing the idea with Phillip rendered him much more vulnerable.
Phillip couldn't be trusted. George knew that. Then again, there were very few options.
He picked up a glass paperweight. Rolling it in his palm, he watched the light reflect within it. Finally, he worked up his nerve.
"There might be another way," he offered cautiously.
"Really?" Phillip sounded skeptical.
"You tried to remove her from above. Perhaps the answer lies below."
There was another pause. "Explain."
"A mutiny of dissatisfied subordinates. A coup d'état, so to speak."
"That's been done," Phillip said dismissively. "Remember 1969? It only made her stronger."
"That's because she stopped it on her own. But what if she actually lost control of Section One for a few days? Had to be rescued? Do you think the Council would continue to support her then?"
Again, a long silence.
"And just how would this happen?"
"There are some operatives I believe can be encouraged in that direction," George said, careful not to reveal too much. Phillip didn't need to know who, or how, or even how long George had been preparing for this.
"It would have to be tightly controlled. We can't have the peasants running amok."
"I can assure you it would be."
Phillip took a long breath. "It might work, but it troubles me. I don't like the precedent."
No. That was indeed a serious drawback. If they allowed one coup to succeed, others might follow. Others that weren't under their direction and control. But George had anticipated that.
"I've considered that issue," he said. "I believe we can deter any would-be imitators."
"How?"
George smiled to himself. "By canceling the coup leader afterwards."
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Three, click here.
Previous Chapters
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Adrian set down her teacup. Within seconds, the dark-suited young man dashed forward to refill it. She waved him off in irritation; bowing slightly, he withdrew.
Not just one, but three attendants hovered obsequiously around the table. They thrust trays of food under the noses of the Council members like streetwalkers flashing bits of flesh at prospective johns. Only Adrian seemed to find them annoying. The Council, in contrast, snatched at the hors d'oeuvres with the relish of Roman nobles feeding on grapes. The room filled with the sound of their smacking.
So unseemly. The last time Adrian had occasion to visit the Clubroom, as they called it, it was still ruled with an iron fist by Didier. An old-school Swiss from Geneva, he knew the true meaning of the word service -- when to be attentive, and, more importantly, when to fade gracefully into the background. He would not have approved, Adrian decided, as she watched the young men circle and the old men gorge. But Didier, like most of the men he had served, was the past -- his influence fading, soon to be lost.
At least the Clubroom itself hadn't changed. The same heavy drapes blocked out any hint of the sun; the same oil portraits stared dourly from the walls; the stiff-backed furniture sat in the same positions as in 1963. Not even the Americans had dared change that.
It was one of the few things they left untouched.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the Council members set down his fork. Simpson. The younger of the two Americans present, he was a retired mining company executive from Wyoming, or Oklahoma, or one of those anonymous states from the godforsaken North American interior -- she could never remember which. He had a singular lack of interest in the human dimension of Section's work -- in lives saved, suffering prevented -- but mention enhancing Western control over copper, or chromium, or manganese, or cobalt, and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. He called it realpolitik. She called it despicable.
He stared at her for several moments. Then he made a great production of clearing his throat; his cheeks and neck swelled, froglike.
"So, tell me, Adrian," he said. "You actually expect us to believe that you're too broke to catch a single guy in a limo? I could walk into a Dallas shopping mall and round up ten security guards who'd do it for 100 bucks apiece."
Such belligerence was not a good sign. She hadn't expected Simpson to be immediately receptive -- he disliked her too much for that. But he detested Phillip just as much, so she had hoped for a semblance of neutrality.
She forced a smile. "It wasn't the mission itself that was the problem. Relatively speaking, it was a simple one. It suffered because my resources are spread too thin."
"You had a number of other operations taking place that day, correct?" prompted Laplace, the French member. He gazed at her encouragingly, his large brown eyes somber but kind.
He'd asked a deliberately easy question, and she was grateful for it. He, at least, might be considered an active ally, in no small part because of her insistence on locating Section One in Paris. She knew, even if others didn't, the importance of such gestures to a country that often felt outnumbered by the Anglo-American alliance.
"Sixteen, to be exact," she replied.
"But ten of them weren't tied to a specific target date. They could have been rescheduled," countered Strickland, the lone British member. Phillip's sponsor. And a viper of the first order. "Perhaps the problem isn't funding, but poorly thought-out coordination," he added archly.
She looked him in the eye. "When I receive intel on the enemy, I use it before it goes stale. Otherwise I'd be functioning as a mere archivist of historical data."
Like Center, she almost added. But she didn't have to -- the words may have been unspoken, but they were still understood. Strickland tightened his mouth angrily.
"How much funding do you need for optimal performance?" asked Ortiz, the Spaniard.
He was one of the newer members -- she didn't know him, but disliked him by reputation. The question, however, seemed straightforward enough, perhaps even sincere.
"At a minimum, I need a restoration to 1985 levels."
Simpson laughed derisively. "Oh, come on. 1985? You had the TWA hijacking and the Achille Lauro! Not to mention the Soviet succession in chaos after Chernenko. They couldn't stop throwing money at us that year. I don't think it's reasonable to measure by the high-water mark."
"But the threat has only grown since then."
"Yeah, but the mood has changed, especially when it comes to covert activities. The current investigations in America haven't turned into the Church Committee yet, but believe me, this just isn't the time to ask for more funding for black ops."
Adrian stiffened. "The entire purpose of the Sections is to enable the protectors of liberty to avoid the petty vagaries of domestic politics."
Simpson rolled his eyes. "That's a nice speech, Adrian, but if you really believe that, you're living in Fantasy Land."
"Well now, Adrian," drawled Reynolds, the second American, "I don't believe this is about money at all."
The senior member of the Council, Reynolds was a courtly Southerner whose slow speech disguised a keen mind. With his shock of white hair and slight tremble of Parkinson's, he looked like a doddering grandfather; in reality, his sharp grey eyes missed nothing. He said little, but when he spoke it was usually decisive.
He took a bite of his food and chewed thoroughly, crumbs clinging to his lower lip. The others waited in silence, as if holding their collective breaths.
Finally, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
"I've been around long enough to recognize a pi--, spitting contest when I see one." He aimed a broad smile at Adrian -- for a moment, she thought he might even wink.
She started to respond, but something stopped her. The twinkle in his eye was that of someone amused by a naughty but precocious child. He wasn't taking her seriously. None of them were, she suddenly realized, looking around at the table and seeing a variety of patronizing expressions. They'd decided their response ahead of time, no doubt agreeing to the meeting just to humor her. She felt her face flush with anger and injured pride.
"I think the current arrangement works just fine," said Reynolds, and the others nodded in agreement. "Having to work with Phillip keeps you on your toes. A little rivalry never hurt anyone." With a shaky finger, he beckoned one of the attendants forward. "You really should try the canapé," he invited. "It's delicious."
***
Charles shifted his legs under the desk and flexed his lower back. Adrian kept her chair a great deal lower to the floor than he liked, and after all morning working in the Perch, it was beginning to be more than a little uncomfortable.
Somehow, though, the idea of adjusting the height seemed wrong: an overly familiar gesture, a usurpation of privilege by one who was only a guest. This was ridiculous, of course, and he knew it. Adrian had given him command in her absence, and he ought to be able to readjust the chair, move the vase away from where it kept knocking into his elbow, even toss out the rapidly wilting flowers if he wanted to.
And yet, he didn't. Couldn't.
Perhaps it was because he knew, in the back of his mind, that his "command" was a relative thing. Strictly speaking, George was still Adrian's second, and she had given Charles stern orders to call George immediately in the event of anything beyond the strictly routine. It was somewhat like being a dog on a leash -- while he could run all he liked, he couldn't stray far.
For all practical purposes, however, he'd been leader of Section for two full days. It was a strange sensation. He had, upon occasion, taken charge by default of the chain of command during odd hours, when he was the senior operative present. But it had never been an official transfer of authority before, never the formal handing over of the command key, never such an open endorsement of his qualifications. He didn't know whether to be flattered or worried that it was more of a test than an endorsement. Knowing Adrian, it was probably something of both.
Whatever the case, he was determined to do a good job. He'd been putting in 18-hour days since her departure, and was proud to say that each mission so far had been flawless.
He returned his attention to the pile of status reports on the desk and scanned the summaries of each. Most involved routine intel gathering; others set forth policy recommendations; two contained prep for missions scheduled later that afternoon. He flagged the intel for routing to the appropriate analysts and profilers, set aside the recommendations for Adrian's return, and began to review the mission outlines in detail. He'd be running tactical on both of them, and he needed to review the profiles before they went live. He would probably have to fine-tune the parameters of each -- he'd found several profiles seriously wanting the prior day. Too many inexperienced profilers. He would have to speak to Adrian about that when she returned.
A noise at the door made him look up. Konstantin, a chubby DRV analyst with a perpetual sheen of perspiration on his broad face, nodded tersely and approached the desk. He placed several floppy disks on a tray.
"The latest reports from the Central African Sector," Konstantin said, by way of explanation, then exited.
Charles looked at the pile with dismay. The new disks looked like at least two more hours of work. The volume of data coming in was overwhelming, even on a day when nothing in particular was going on. It was hard to imagine how Adrian coped, day after day, with the demands of the job. While she was quite obviously brilliant and capable -- something she had the somewhat tiresome habit of reminding everyone of at frequent intervals -- he wondered if it wasn't really a sort of insanity that kept her going. An obsessive-compulsive disorder or egomaniacal fixation -- whatever it was that drove one to spend every waking moment in a quest to remake the world in her own image.
It reminded him of his missionary uncle, in fact -- the one who'd spent thirty-five years in a malaria-infested jungle, engaged in a fervent but futile effort to convert "pagan idolaters." Charles had been forced to spend several summers there as a teen, reading scripture to listless villagers in the local schoolhouse, struggling to appear pious while sweat poured down his face and trickled under his starched collar. It was utterly fruitless and probably mad. Yet the mission also dug wells, treated the sick, and provided the only education available for miles around. Section was much like that: chasing an unachievable, maybe even imaginary ideal, but along the way accomplishing some things of genuine value. Charles believed in the cause less and less every day -- but he was content being one of the well diggers.
When he heard footsteps again, he sighed. Yet another delivery of data? It was never-ending.
He looked up wearily. To his surprise, Paul Wolfe stood at the doorway, eyeing Charles with a bemused expression.
So Paul had finally decided to show his face again, after making himself noticeably scarce for several days. Charles hadn't been present in Section to witness Paul's insubordination to Adrian, but what he heard of the incident disgusted him. Paul's actions were inexcusable and childish. Even if one disapproved of a commander's decisions -- even if that disapproval was justified, as Charles suspected it might have been -- insulting her openly was unacceptable behavior. Especially coming from a military man. It was a disgrace, really.
Paul strolled into the Perch, his pace and demeanor relaxed and confident. For someone who'd felt compelled to hide out for the past two days, he seemed in a strangely good mood. His pale eyes held a trace of mirth, as if he considered the whole world designed for his personal amusement. There was no shame in those eyes, no guilt or regret -- and looking into them, Charles realized just how much he despised the man. It wasn't just a matter of misunderstandings or even mere personal rivalry, but of completely clashing values.
"I'm looking for Adrian," Paul said.
"She'll be back tomorrow."
"And she left you in charge?" Paul raised his eyebrows; his mouth took a wry twist.
"That's right." Charles straightened his posture and gave Paul a hard look.
Paul walked around the desk, moving slowly, like a dog sniffing around contested territory. His gaze dropped to the mission prep that sat open on the desktop.
Charles stood. "Is there something you need?"
Paul ignored the question and continued to inspect the report. Finally, he said, "You should be using a staggered formation on approach."
The urge to take a swing at Paul seized Charles. That bastard. Waiting until Adrian was gone and then trying to show off in some sort of macho posturing game.
Trying to control his anger, he looked down at the report. As he stared at it, it struck him. Paul was right. A staggered formation would probably shave a few minutes off the estimated completion time -- and as he well knew, every minute counted. He should have seen it himself. But he didn't.
He swore to himself silently, then he swallowed his hurt pride. A gentleman would have the strength of character to admit his mistakes. No matter who pointed them out.
"That's a good suggestion," he said. "Thank you."
"Anytime." Paul looked him up and down. There was a smirk, just barely suppressed, but also a hint of disappointment that he hadn't succeeded in goading Charles. It was as if he'd girded himself for a duel only to find no one interested in accepting the challenge. After a long pause, he said, "I guess I'll speak to Adrian tomorrow. See you later, Charles."
***
The soup steamed in its china bowl, the aroma heavy with pepper and leeks. George stirred the liquid and lifted a spoonful, pursing his lips to blow it cool before he took a sip.
Dining alone, he finished quickly. The spoon clinked and scraped against the side of the bowl; the bread crunched as he broke it apart to spread on butter. When the bowl was empty, he moved it aside and sat back in his chair. He stared at the empty expanse of the table beyond him; its polished surface shone even in the dim light. Across the room, a clock ticked steadily.
The door opened and a gray-haired man entered. Instead of bearing the next course, he was empty-handed and apologetic-looking.
"Telephone, sir. A Mr. Phillip Jones."
Phillip. Finally.
George pushed back his chair and stood.
"I'll take it in the study."
"Very good, sir."
George walked down the carpeted hallway, halfway numb, like a sleepwalker. All day long, he'd been trying not to think about Adrian's meeting with the Council -- trying not to indulge his hopes, for fear they would be dashed; trying not to dwell on his worries, for fear they would be confirmed.
Now, it was time.
He entered the study and closed the door soundly behind him. He sat at the desk and took a breath of anticipation, then picked up the telephone receiver.
"Good evening, Phillip."
"George."
There was a long silence. It seemed to stretch on and on, building the suspense until George thought he might burst.
"Is it good news or bad, then?" he asked, unable to bear waiting any longer.
"Both. Or neither. Depending on one's perspective."
So typical of Phillip to give a cryptic answer.
"How do you mean?" George tried to hide the impatience from his voice.
"The Council declined Adrian's request for autonomy. They were most grateful to us for advising them of her plans in advance -- because of that, they weren't taken in by her manufactured crisis."
"That's a relief." But?, he asked mentally.
"Unfortunately," continued Phillip, answering George's unspoken question, "they didn't see fit to discipline her, either. They seem to think this is a trivial spat between the two of us. They told me we needed to 'work it out.'"
"So it's a stalemate." George felt both his hopes and fears collapse, as if the air had been let out of them.
"Alas, she'll remain the proverbial thorn in my side for the foreseeable future," Phillip said dryly. "And you'll remain her errand boy."
The remark stung, even though George knew Phillip was deliberately trying to provoke him. The problem was that Phillip was right. If things remained the way they were, he'd be living in Adrian's shadow forever. The thought was unbearable. The alternative, however, was something he hadn't wanted to face.
The alternative meant active betrayal, and tremendous risk. It was an enormous gamble -- and even a source of shame. Until now, he'd kept those plans to himself and, to a limited degree, Madeline. He had thought -- hoped -- that Phillip's intervention would render it all unnecessary. How foolish that had been. The question now was whether he should reveal his plans to Phillip and seek his assistance. Phillip's cooperation might make all the difference between failure and success -- but then again, sharing the idea with Phillip rendered him much more vulnerable.
Phillip couldn't be trusted. George knew that. Then again, there were very few options.
He picked up a glass paperweight. Rolling it in his palm, he watched the light reflect within it. Finally, he worked up his nerve.
"There might be another way," he offered cautiously.
"Really?" Phillip sounded skeptical.
"You tried to remove her from above. Perhaps the answer lies below."
There was another pause. "Explain."
"A mutiny of dissatisfied subordinates. A coup d'état, so to speak."
"That's been done," Phillip said dismissively. "Remember 1969? It only made her stronger."
"That's because she stopped it on her own. But what if she actually lost control of Section One for a few days? Had to be rescued? Do you think the Council would continue to support her then?"
Again, a long silence.
"And just how would this happen?"
"There are some operatives I believe can be encouraged in that direction," George said, careful not to reveal too much. Phillip didn't need to know who, or how, or even how long George had been preparing for this.
"It would have to be tightly controlled. We can't have the peasants running amok."
"I can assure you it would be."
Phillip took a long breath. "It might work, but it troubles me. I don't like the precedent."
No. That was indeed a serious drawback. If they allowed one coup to succeed, others might follow. Others that weren't under their direction and control. But George had anticipated that.
"I've considered that issue," he said. "I believe we can deter any would-be imitators."
"How?"
George smiled to himself. "By canceling the coup leader afterwards."
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Three, click here.