![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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-Five
In Section that morning, there was simultaneously too much for Adrian to do and yet nothing at all going on of any genuine consequence. She reviewed reports, assigned follow-up, approved profiles, authorized payments -- all of it with the detached indifference of the tepid bureaucrats she had always despised. For a change of scenery more than from any conviction about the urgency of the task, she finally left her office at noon to go speak with one of the team leaders about an upcoming mission in Prague.
Rounding a corner, she spotted Paul at the far end of the corridor, engrossed in a conversation with an operative from DRV. If she recalled correctly, he was just back from China on one of his little junkets. Normally, she wouldn't bother debriefing him in person, but there was a rumor circulating that he might be able to verify.
"Paul," she called out. "A moment of your time, please."
He handed a file folder to the other operative and walked down the hallway to join her.
"I see you've made the arrangements in China," she said.
"Yes." He wrinkled his brow. "But there may be a complication."
"You mean Hu Yaobang? Rumor has it he had a heart attack."
He nodded. "He's not expected to recover."
"They're not canceling Gorbachev's visit?"
"No. Everything's going forward as scheduled."
"How very optimistic of them." Too optimistic. It was worrying. "They must realize what a problem this poses."
"It adds an additional element of instability to the situation. But it won't impede the mission against Red Cell."
"That's not what I meant."
Paul raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
"Do you remember when Zhou Enlai died?" she asked.
He cocked his head in thought. "That was in.... What was the year again?"
"1976."
"Ah," he said, "I was still a Level One. Back-to-back missions without a lot of downtime. Or a lot of sleep, for that matter. If it didn't impact my work directly, I didn't have the time to pay attention."
"Has it been that long?" She remembered it so clearly. He was young and energetic and the most committed recruit she'd ever seen. Somehow along the way he'd become a jaded cynic. Such a waste. "Zhou's funeral became an opportunity for the public to protest the ruling regime," she explained. "There were mass marches, political poster campaigns. It was the beginning of the end for the Gang of Four." She arched an eyebrow. "Surely that rings a bell? Or were you too busy romancing lonely secretaries at the Romanian embassy that year?"
"I do remember," he said. "Although those secretaries left me pretty exhausted, now that you mention it." He broke out into a broad smile, and she couldn't help but respond in kind. Cynic or not, he still possessed a certain wry charm.
"In any event," she said, "something similar could happen again. There's a great deal of dissatisfaction simmering under the surface."
Paul shrugged. "Possibly." He seemed utterly indifferent to the prospect.
His lack of interest fascinated her. In the old days -- the time they were just reminiscing about, in fact -- he would have been thrilled at the prospect of the weakening of a communist regime like this one. He would have come pounding on her office door with some half-cocked scheme to aid the dissidents. Something bold, aggressive, and quite thoroughly mad, like assassinating--
Like assassinating hardliners who stood in the way of reform. She caught her breath in shock at the thought.
The idea both excited and appalled her. Section One wasn't authorized to interfere in the internal governance of nations: the Council had made that quite clear from the very beginning. But then if the Sections were to be the ugly stepsister of Center, what did she care about hewing to authority?
This was an opportunity to free millions from despotism. And wasn't that the reason she'd struggled to create the Sections in the first place? She'd dreamt of changing the world, not wasting her time with internal political jockeying.
She would do it. Let Phillip gnash his teeth at her irresponsibility. Let the Council admonish her like the naughty schoolgirl they obviously thought she was. Let them all do whatever they liked -- by the time they found out what she had done, she would have altered the very course of history. And there would be no going back.
"I'd like you to prepare a new profile," she said to Paul. "A secondary mission while you're in China."
"The objective?"
"To eliminate key conservatives on the Politburo. A few well-time accidents, perhaps. We'll tip the balance towards a Chinese version of glasnost."
He blinked. "Are you sure that's wise?" he asked. "You could be unleashing something you can't control."
His face filled with that same uncomprehending look she always saw in Phillip. How disappointing. Whatever Paul's other failings, she would have expected him to appreciate such a bold gamble. Unfortunately, she needed access to his contacts within the Chinese military. On such short notice, there was no time to get another operative up to speed before the opportunity passed. She would have to rely on him, committed or not.
"I believe I've given you an order," she said. "Since when is it your prerogative to question it?"
He stared at her blankly. She'd never noticed how reptilian his eyes were before. Then his mouth twitched and he gave her a nod. "My apologies. I'll get right on it."
***
Twirling the room key in his hand, Paul stepped inside the hotel's ancient-looking elevator. He pressed the button for the fifth floor. There was a disconcerting jolt and then the whir of the cable as the elevator began its ascent. It traveled excruciatingly slowly. By the time it finally passed the fourth floor, Paul sighed in annoyance. He should have just taken the stairs, dark and narrow as they were, rather than bothering with this museum piece of equipment.
With another sharp bounce, the elevator halted. Paul exited and made his way down the corridor; the floor creaked underneath the frayed carpet as he trod. He found Room 5G at the very end. From the room opposite, he heard a man groaning. He smirked to himself. Someone else paying by the hour, no doubt.
When he entered the room, he was relieved to see it at least looked clean, albeit the size of a linen closet. He draped his jacket over the back of a chair, sat on the edge of the bed, and lit a cigarette to wait.
It was a clever idea of Madeline's; he had to give her credit. Every week or so, they met in one of these dingy, out-of-the-way hotels just outside the red-light district in order to strategize in private. If anyone from Section trailed them, it would appear that they were simply engaged in the most ordinary -- even pedestrian -- of sins: a married woman, cheating on her husband with a coworker.
It was the perfect cover, really -- something he hadn't properly appreciated when Madeline first announced her plan to marry Charles. Now, he more than appreciated it. In fact, he had improved upon it. It was his suggestion, after all, that they actually go through with the adultery, and in his opinion that was the crowning touch. He had challenged Madeline: what if they were interrogated? If they made the scenario real, they could pass even a lie detector test with ease.
To his surprise, Madeline didn't resist. Instead, she readily agreed. A little too readily, in fact. She seemed strangely enthusiastic during their trysts, revealing a side of herself he'd never seen during their prior relationship. Then, their passion had been intense, but also tender. This, though -- this was something darker. Hungrier. Maybe even angrier. As if they'd given themselves free reign because it no longer mattered if they hurt each other. Or even because hurting each other was the point.
He supposed it should have disturbed him. He'd be better off, he knew, with a woman who didn't insist on games, on convoluted excuses, on being with him only when she didn't truly have to belong to him -- on being with him only when she could claim it was in the line of duty and therefore disclaim all responsibility.
Then again, "better off" was boring. And he couldn't stand boring.
However, there wasn't time to dwell on that now. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. Where the hell was she? As if the very strength of his exasperation reached out and plucked her out of the ether, the door opened.
She dropped her sunglasses and scarf on the bureau. She approached him with that coy smile of hers, but then she stopped and cocked her head, frowning.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Adrian," he replied. "She has to go."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course. Why else do you think we're here?"
"No. I mean she has to go now."
Even in the yellowish cast of the single overhead light, he could see her pale. "We're not ready."
"I don't care." He stood and began to pace. "She's finally lost it. If I don't act now, then I don't deserve the leadership."
She crossed her arms. "If we act unilaterally, George may not support us. He wants to control the timetable."
"Too bad for him." He scowled. "I have more support on the outside than he might think."
She looked away. From the subtle tension in her expression he could tell she was reluctant. That was good. Far more than she knew, he valued her caution, her meticulous preparation, her almost compulsive need to think things through. Most of all, however, he valued her ability to recognize when she needed to stop doing all those things and just let him make a decision.
She looked back at him again, and the trace of a smile that lightened her face signaled her acquiescence. "We'll probably fail, you know." The words were serious, but the voice teasing.
He grinned. "Probably." He moved toward her and cupped her face in his hand. "Does it matter?"
"No." She held his gaze without blinking. "It doesn't matter."
***
"This is unacceptable." George's voice sounded even more rasping than usual. Madeline couldn't tell how much of that was due to the scrambler she'd attached to the payphone receiver, and how much was due to the fact that he was most likely furious. She had an uncomfortable feeling that it was mostly the latter.
"Paul's responding to Adrian's reckless behavior." To her surprise and relief, her own voice sounded steady despite the fact that her heart was racing fast enough to make her somewhat lightheaded. "It isn't an unexpected development. There was always the danger that she'd do something like this. Isn't that why you planned her overthrow in the first place?"
There was a long silence, punctuated only by the static-tinged sound of breathing. Cautiously, she glanced over her shoulder and inspected her surroundings. Only a few blocks from the hotel where she'd met Paul, the payphone wasn't located in the most pleasant of neighborhoods. On the one hand, it meant she was unlikely to run into anyone she knew. But it also meant there were distractions she needed to pay attention to. A few meters away, for example, an emaciated man paced anxiously back and forth, shooting her furtive glances. Judging by the marks on his arms, she assumed he was looking to score a fix. He didn't seem to be eavesdropping, but she gave him a hard look anyway just to warn him off.
Finally, George spoke again. "She still has supporters at higher levels. This is going to be a problem."
Of course it was going to be a problem. George hardly needed to tell her that. After all, he wasn't the one facing near-certain cancellation. But Paul had made his choice, and it was now her role to put a positive face on it. They would avoid disaster because they had to. It didn't matter how unlikely success was, because no other outcomes were acceptable.
"Adrian's deliberately inciting unrest in a country that possesses nuclear weapons," she said. It pleased her how glibly the optimistic rationalizations flowed from her tongue. If George noticed her wavering, even a little, he'd demand that they call things off. And that was something she knew Paul would never do. "Surely that's enough to justify her removal."
George laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "Don't underestimate how convincing she can be when she launches into a speech about democracy and progress. She can orate like Winston Churchill once she gets going."
"Then we'll have to--"
"Quiet! I'm thinking. Give me a moment."
She blinked at the interruption and fell silent. Down the sidewalk, the addict had found a seller. When he hurried off with his purchase, the dealer strolled toward Madeline. She opened her jacket just enough to flash her pistol, and the man stopped short. "Keuf," he snarled with a hint of menace, but he backed away nevertheless.
"All right," said George, and there was a new-found resignation in his voice that dampened his prior anger. "Here's what you must do. Open up a few bank accounts in her name. Switzerland, the Caymans, it doesn't matter. Set up a few more in Hong Kong in the name of some Taiwanese Nationalist organizations. Backdate everything and create a money trail from the latter to the former over, say, the past six months. Plant traces of the transactions in Section's system. When Paul seizes control, he can "discover" this data and present it as evidence against her. It's one thing if she's making rash decisions out of some ideological commitment, but quite another if she's being bought off. Even her supporters won't approve of that."
Madeline frowned. "She'll point out it's a forgery. Not to mention it's completely out of character. No one's going to believe it of her."
"Then you'd better make it look good," he snapped, and hung up.
She stood there for a moment holding the receiver, her eyes closed. Then she sighed, detached the scrambler, and slipped it into her jacket pocket.
Time to put a positive face on yet another impossible task. It was beginning to become a way of life.
***
With a sharp crack, the white ball struck the red one. George watched through the haze of smoke as the red ball rolled toward the pocket and dropped in.
"Well done," he said to Phillip in a loud voice, although the sentiment was only halfhearted.
Phillip walked around the table and lined up his cue again. "Green," he called.
George took a puff on his cigar and waited while Phillip fussed over the angle. He'd gone through two Dunhills already and his head was starting to throb, but the ritualized inhalations and exhalations helped keep his anxiety contained -- just barely.
After a hastily-arranged flight to England, George had been baffled to find himself ushered into Phillip's game room. They'd been playing snooker for nearly ninety minutes without once broaching the topic of the crisis they faced, and Phillip's determined obliviousness was starting to drive George mad.
Phillip finished his turn and George picked up his cue. He struck the black ball.
"Damn it," he muttered.
"Why so dour?" asked Phillip. He gave George a jovial clap on the back, and George fought off the urge to flinch. "It's just a game. We're not even playing for money."
George set his cue down and returned to the cigar. Inhale. Exhale. "Quite right," he said. "I'm just a bit preoccupied by the bad news I brought you."
"Bad news?" Phillip looked at George as if he'd broken into a sudden fit of glossolalia. "It's anything but bad news. It's a cause to celebrate."
George stared at Phillip in disbelief. How on earth could this turn of events be construed as anything but dire? Was Phillip in his right mind? Had he been drinking? There had been rumors, actually, of an unstable tendency in that regard. Stories of parties, gambling and women of ill repute. A few people even whispered about bastard children scattered around the globe like mementos. George had always dismissed such gossip as nonsense. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to do so, if Phillip's irrational reaction now was any indication.
Should he even try to reason with the man? It might be pointless, but then again it couldn't possibly hurt. "We need more time to gather influence on the Council," he explained. "You said so yourself."
Phillip shrugged. "I've changed my mind. This little uprising will appear completely spontaneous. It's far more effective that way. Adrian will be swept aside and all of our warnings to the Council will look prescient."
With that, Phillip aimed his cue and potted another red ball. His hands were steady. Maybe he hadn't been drinking after all. He was just basking in the knowledge that he -- unlike everyone else involved -- had nothing to lose. The mutineers risked losing their lives; George risked losing the woman he loved if she ever discovered his betrayal; but what risk did Phillip face? None whatsoever. No wonder he was so bloody cheerful. George would be too if he could get other people do all his dirty work for him.
"There's still the matter of her replacement," he said, deciding to change the subject.
Phillip glanced over. "I'm not sure I follow." There was a tinge of mockery in his voice and George didn't quite know what to make of it.
"We need to recommend her successor to the Council. I've given it a great deal of thought and believe I've identified an appropriate candidate."
"But her successor will already be in place."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Paul Wolfe."
George fumbled his cigar; several chunks of ash fell on Phillip's Persian carpet. "You told me you were opposed to allowing the coup leader to remain on as leader. Sets a bad precedent, if I remember your phrasing correctly."
"Did I say that?" Phillip chuckled. "I should really learn to be less hasty in my speech. If Paul has the sense to oppose Adrian in this misadventure of hers, he might have what it takes to run the place. At least for the time being. The long term, of course, is another matter entirely."
"You haven't met the man," George protested. "I have. It will be a constant battle to keep him under control. Why, he's another Adrian, except without the good breeding."
"Without the good breeding? Oh, my." Phillip rolled his eyes. "Heaven forbid the leader of Section One use the wrong fork for dessert."
There was no point engaging in a battle of sarcasm with Phillip -- the man was obviously a master of the art. Still, this couldn't go unchallenged. If Paul succeeded Adrian as chief of Section One, they'd be worse off than before they started. Why couldn't Phillip see that?
"I was going to recommend Madeline," said George. "She's highly capable. And considerably more reliable."
"She's also your protégé, isn't she?" Phillip asked pointedly.
"She worked for me in Section Two, if that's what you mean." When Phillip began to make a tutting sound, George added, "Yes, I know her well. That's how I know she's qualified."
"George, old boy, really. I'm not going to allow you to fill all the top positions with your cronies." Phillip's tone was biting. "Mind you, I don't especially trust -- or even like -- Paul. But you need a bit of rivalry to keep you honest. I think he'll do quite well on that score." There was another crack as Phillip potted the final red ball. "Speaking of scores," he said, his lip curling in triumph, "I believe I'm in the lead."
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Six, 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).
In Section that morning, there was simultaneously too much for Adrian to do and yet nothing at all going on of any genuine consequence. She reviewed reports, assigned follow-up, approved profiles, authorized payments -- all of it with the detached indifference of the tepid bureaucrats she had always despised. For a change of scenery more than from any conviction about the urgency of the task, she finally left her office at noon to go speak with one of the team leaders about an upcoming mission in Prague.
Rounding a corner, she spotted Paul at the far end of the corridor, engrossed in a conversation with an operative from DRV. If she recalled correctly, he was just back from China on one of his little junkets. Normally, she wouldn't bother debriefing him in person, but there was a rumor circulating that he might be able to verify.
"Paul," she called out. "A moment of your time, please."
He handed a file folder to the other operative and walked down the hallway to join her.
"I see you've made the arrangements in China," she said.
"Yes." He wrinkled his brow. "But there may be a complication."
"You mean Hu Yaobang? Rumor has it he had a heart attack."
He nodded. "He's not expected to recover."
"They're not canceling Gorbachev's visit?"
"No. Everything's going forward as scheduled."
"How very optimistic of them." Too optimistic. It was worrying. "They must realize what a problem this poses."
"It adds an additional element of instability to the situation. But it won't impede the mission against Red Cell."
"That's not what I meant."
Paul raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
"Do you remember when Zhou Enlai died?" she asked.
He cocked his head in thought. "That was in.... What was the year again?"
"1976."
"Ah," he said, "I was still a Level One. Back-to-back missions without a lot of downtime. Or a lot of sleep, for that matter. If it didn't impact my work directly, I didn't have the time to pay attention."
"Has it been that long?" She remembered it so clearly. He was young and energetic and the most committed recruit she'd ever seen. Somehow along the way he'd become a jaded cynic. Such a waste. "Zhou's funeral became an opportunity for the public to protest the ruling regime," she explained. "There were mass marches, political poster campaigns. It was the beginning of the end for the Gang of Four." She arched an eyebrow. "Surely that rings a bell? Or were you too busy romancing lonely secretaries at the Romanian embassy that year?"
"I do remember," he said. "Although those secretaries left me pretty exhausted, now that you mention it." He broke out into a broad smile, and she couldn't help but respond in kind. Cynic or not, he still possessed a certain wry charm.
"In any event," she said, "something similar could happen again. There's a great deal of dissatisfaction simmering under the surface."
Paul shrugged. "Possibly." He seemed utterly indifferent to the prospect.
His lack of interest fascinated her. In the old days -- the time they were just reminiscing about, in fact -- he would have been thrilled at the prospect of the weakening of a communist regime like this one. He would have come pounding on her office door with some half-cocked scheme to aid the dissidents. Something bold, aggressive, and quite thoroughly mad, like assassinating--
Like assassinating hardliners who stood in the way of reform. She caught her breath in shock at the thought.
The idea both excited and appalled her. Section One wasn't authorized to interfere in the internal governance of nations: the Council had made that quite clear from the very beginning. But then if the Sections were to be the ugly stepsister of Center, what did she care about hewing to authority?
This was an opportunity to free millions from despotism. And wasn't that the reason she'd struggled to create the Sections in the first place? She'd dreamt of changing the world, not wasting her time with internal political jockeying.
She would do it. Let Phillip gnash his teeth at her irresponsibility. Let the Council admonish her like the naughty schoolgirl they obviously thought she was. Let them all do whatever they liked -- by the time they found out what she had done, she would have altered the very course of history. And there would be no going back.
"I'd like you to prepare a new profile," she said to Paul. "A secondary mission while you're in China."
"The objective?"
"To eliminate key conservatives on the Politburo. A few well-time accidents, perhaps. We'll tip the balance towards a Chinese version of glasnost."
He blinked. "Are you sure that's wise?" he asked. "You could be unleashing something you can't control."
His face filled with that same uncomprehending look she always saw in Phillip. How disappointing. Whatever Paul's other failings, she would have expected him to appreciate such a bold gamble. Unfortunately, she needed access to his contacts within the Chinese military. On such short notice, there was no time to get another operative up to speed before the opportunity passed. She would have to rely on him, committed or not.
"I believe I've given you an order," she said. "Since when is it your prerogative to question it?"
He stared at her blankly. She'd never noticed how reptilian his eyes were before. Then his mouth twitched and he gave her a nod. "My apologies. I'll get right on it."
***
Twirling the room key in his hand, Paul stepped inside the hotel's ancient-looking elevator. He pressed the button for the fifth floor. There was a disconcerting jolt and then the whir of the cable as the elevator began its ascent. It traveled excruciatingly slowly. By the time it finally passed the fourth floor, Paul sighed in annoyance. He should have just taken the stairs, dark and narrow as they were, rather than bothering with this museum piece of equipment.
With another sharp bounce, the elevator halted. Paul exited and made his way down the corridor; the floor creaked underneath the frayed carpet as he trod. He found Room 5G at the very end. From the room opposite, he heard a man groaning. He smirked to himself. Someone else paying by the hour, no doubt.
When he entered the room, he was relieved to see it at least looked clean, albeit the size of a linen closet. He draped his jacket over the back of a chair, sat on the edge of the bed, and lit a cigarette to wait.
It was a clever idea of Madeline's; he had to give her credit. Every week or so, they met in one of these dingy, out-of-the-way hotels just outside the red-light district in order to strategize in private. If anyone from Section trailed them, it would appear that they were simply engaged in the most ordinary -- even pedestrian -- of sins: a married woman, cheating on her husband with a coworker.
It was the perfect cover, really -- something he hadn't properly appreciated when Madeline first announced her plan to marry Charles. Now, he more than appreciated it. In fact, he had improved upon it. It was his suggestion, after all, that they actually go through with the adultery, and in his opinion that was the crowning touch. He had challenged Madeline: what if they were interrogated? If they made the scenario real, they could pass even a lie detector test with ease.
To his surprise, Madeline didn't resist. Instead, she readily agreed. A little too readily, in fact. She seemed strangely enthusiastic during their trysts, revealing a side of herself he'd never seen during their prior relationship. Then, their passion had been intense, but also tender. This, though -- this was something darker. Hungrier. Maybe even angrier. As if they'd given themselves free reign because it no longer mattered if they hurt each other. Or even because hurting each other was the point.
He supposed it should have disturbed him. He'd be better off, he knew, with a woman who didn't insist on games, on convoluted excuses, on being with him only when she didn't truly have to belong to him -- on being with him only when she could claim it was in the line of duty and therefore disclaim all responsibility.
Then again, "better off" was boring. And he couldn't stand boring.
However, there wasn't time to dwell on that now. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. Where the hell was she? As if the very strength of his exasperation reached out and plucked her out of the ether, the door opened.
She dropped her sunglasses and scarf on the bureau. She approached him with that coy smile of hers, but then she stopped and cocked her head, frowning.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Adrian," he replied. "She has to go."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course. Why else do you think we're here?"
"No. I mean she has to go now."
Even in the yellowish cast of the single overhead light, he could see her pale. "We're not ready."
"I don't care." He stood and began to pace. "She's finally lost it. If I don't act now, then I don't deserve the leadership."
She crossed her arms. "If we act unilaterally, George may not support us. He wants to control the timetable."
"Too bad for him." He scowled. "I have more support on the outside than he might think."
She looked away. From the subtle tension in her expression he could tell she was reluctant. That was good. Far more than she knew, he valued her caution, her meticulous preparation, her almost compulsive need to think things through. Most of all, however, he valued her ability to recognize when she needed to stop doing all those things and just let him make a decision.
She looked back at him again, and the trace of a smile that lightened her face signaled her acquiescence. "We'll probably fail, you know." The words were serious, but the voice teasing.
He grinned. "Probably." He moved toward her and cupped her face in his hand. "Does it matter?"
"No." She held his gaze without blinking. "It doesn't matter."
***
"This is unacceptable." George's voice sounded even more rasping than usual. Madeline couldn't tell how much of that was due to the scrambler she'd attached to the payphone receiver, and how much was due to the fact that he was most likely furious. She had an uncomfortable feeling that it was mostly the latter.
"Paul's responding to Adrian's reckless behavior." To her surprise and relief, her own voice sounded steady despite the fact that her heart was racing fast enough to make her somewhat lightheaded. "It isn't an unexpected development. There was always the danger that she'd do something like this. Isn't that why you planned her overthrow in the first place?"
There was a long silence, punctuated only by the static-tinged sound of breathing. Cautiously, she glanced over her shoulder and inspected her surroundings. Only a few blocks from the hotel where she'd met Paul, the payphone wasn't located in the most pleasant of neighborhoods. On the one hand, it meant she was unlikely to run into anyone she knew. But it also meant there were distractions she needed to pay attention to. A few meters away, for example, an emaciated man paced anxiously back and forth, shooting her furtive glances. Judging by the marks on his arms, she assumed he was looking to score a fix. He didn't seem to be eavesdropping, but she gave him a hard look anyway just to warn him off.
Finally, George spoke again. "She still has supporters at higher levels. This is going to be a problem."
Of course it was going to be a problem. George hardly needed to tell her that. After all, he wasn't the one facing near-certain cancellation. But Paul had made his choice, and it was now her role to put a positive face on it. They would avoid disaster because they had to. It didn't matter how unlikely success was, because no other outcomes were acceptable.
"Adrian's deliberately inciting unrest in a country that possesses nuclear weapons," she said. It pleased her how glibly the optimistic rationalizations flowed from her tongue. If George noticed her wavering, even a little, he'd demand that they call things off. And that was something she knew Paul would never do. "Surely that's enough to justify her removal."
George laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "Don't underestimate how convincing she can be when she launches into a speech about democracy and progress. She can orate like Winston Churchill once she gets going."
"Then we'll have to--"
"Quiet! I'm thinking. Give me a moment."
She blinked at the interruption and fell silent. Down the sidewalk, the addict had found a seller. When he hurried off with his purchase, the dealer strolled toward Madeline. She opened her jacket just enough to flash her pistol, and the man stopped short. "Keuf," he snarled with a hint of menace, but he backed away nevertheless.
"All right," said George, and there was a new-found resignation in his voice that dampened his prior anger. "Here's what you must do. Open up a few bank accounts in her name. Switzerland, the Caymans, it doesn't matter. Set up a few more in Hong Kong in the name of some Taiwanese Nationalist organizations. Backdate everything and create a money trail from the latter to the former over, say, the past six months. Plant traces of the transactions in Section's system. When Paul seizes control, he can "discover" this data and present it as evidence against her. It's one thing if she's making rash decisions out of some ideological commitment, but quite another if she's being bought off. Even her supporters won't approve of that."
Madeline frowned. "She'll point out it's a forgery. Not to mention it's completely out of character. No one's going to believe it of her."
"Then you'd better make it look good," he snapped, and hung up.
She stood there for a moment holding the receiver, her eyes closed. Then she sighed, detached the scrambler, and slipped it into her jacket pocket.
Time to put a positive face on yet another impossible task. It was beginning to become a way of life.
***
With a sharp crack, the white ball struck the red one. George watched through the haze of smoke as the red ball rolled toward the pocket and dropped in.
"Well done," he said to Phillip in a loud voice, although the sentiment was only halfhearted.
Phillip walked around the table and lined up his cue again. "Green," he called.
George took a puff on his cigar and waited while Phillip fussed over the angle. He'd gone through two Dunhills already and his head was starting to throb, but the ritualized inhalations and exhalations helped keep his anxiety contained -- just barely.
After a hastily-arranged flight to England, George had been baffled to find himself ushered into Phillip's game room. They'd been playing snooker for nearly ninety minutes without once broaching the topic of the crisis they faced, and Phillip's determined obliviousness was starting to drive George mad.
Phillip finished his turn and George picked up his cue. He struck the black ball.
"Damn it," he muttered.
"Why so dour?" asked Phillip. He gave George a jovial clap on the back, and George fought off the urge to flinch. "It's just a game. We're not even playing for money."
George set his cue down and returned to the cigar. Inhale. Exhale. "Quite right," he said. "I'm just a bit preoccupied by the bad news I brought you."
"Bad news?" Phillip looked at George as if he'd broken into a sudden fit of glossolalia. "It's anything but bad news. It's a cause to celebrate."
George stared at Phillip in disbelief. How on earth could this turn of events be construed as anything but dire? Was Phillip in his right mind? Had he been drinking? There had been rumors, actually, of an unstable tendency in that regard. Stories of parties, gambling and women of ill repute. A few people even whispered about bastard children scattered around the globe like mementos. George had always dismissed such gossip as nonsense. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to do so, if Phillip's irrational reaction now was any indication.
Should he even try to reason with the man? It might be pointless, but then again it couldn't possibly hurt. "We need more time to gather influence on the Council," he explained. "You said so yourself."
Phillip shrugged. "I've changed my mind. This little uprising will appear completely spontaneous. It's far more effective that way. Adrian will be swept aside and all of our warnings to the Council will look prescient."
With that, Phillip aimed his cue and potted another red ball. His hands were steady. Maybe he hadn't been drinking after all. He was just basking in the knowledge that he -- unlike everyone else involved -- had nothing to lose. The mutineers risked losing their lives; George risked losing the woman he loved if she ever discovered his betrayal; but what risk did Phillip face? None whatsoever. No wonder he was so bloody cheerful. George would be too if he could get other people do all his dirty work for him.
"There's still the matter of her replacement," he said, deciding to change the subject.
Phillip glanced over. "I'm not sure I follow." There was a tinge of mockery in his voice and George didn't quite know what to make of it.
"We need to recommend her successor to the Council. I've given it a great deal of thought and believe I've identified an appropriate candidate."
"But her successor will already be in place."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Paul Wolfe."
George fumbled his cigar; several chunks of ash fell on Phillip's Persian carpet. "You told me you were opposed to allowing the coup leader to remain on as leader. Sets a bad precedent, if I remember your phrasing correctly."
"Did I say that?" Phillip chuckled. "I should really learn to be less hasty in my speech. If Paul has the sense to oppose Adrian in this misadventure of hers, he might have what it takes to run the place. At least for the time being. The long term, of course, is another matter entirely."
"You haven't met the man," George protested. "I have. It will be a constant battle to keep him under control. Why, he's another Adrian, except without the good breeding."
"Without the good breeding? Oh, my." Phillip rolled his eyes. "Heaven forbid the leader of Section One use the wrong fork for dessert."
There was no point engaging in a battle of sarcasm with Phillip -- the man was obviously a master of the art. Still, this couldn't go unchallenged. If Paul succeeded Adrian as chief of Section One, they'd be worse off than before they started. Why couldn't Phillip see that?
"I was going to recommend Madeline," said George. "She's highly capable. And considerably more reliable."
"She's also your protégé, isn't she?" Phillip asked pointedly.
"She worked for me in Section Two, if that's what you mean." When Phillip began to make a tutting sound, George added, "Yes, I know her well. That's how I know she's qualified."
"George, old boy, really. I'm not going to allow you to fill all the top positions with your cronies." Phillip's tone was biting. "Mind you, I don't especially trust -- or even like -- Paul. But you need a bit of rivalry to keep you honest. I think he'll do quite well on that score." There was another crack as Phillip potted the final red ball. "Speaking of scores," he said, his lip curling in triumph, "I believe I'm in the lead."
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Six, click here.