Fic: Succession, Chapter 6/31 (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 Six
With growing annoyance, Adrian read the last of Center's directives for the week, jotting down notes to incorporate into her response. Each year, the level of interference grew steadily worse; from simple monitoring in the early days, it had progressed to active meddling. The power Center held over the Sections' purse-strings had started to go to Phillip's head, convincing him that he was an expert in counter-terrorism despite his lack of experience on the ground.
She grimaced and pushed the documents aside. It was bad enough when all Phillip did was demand that she prepare meaningless bureaucratic reports or engage in esoteric research projects, wasting her already-limited time. But now -- now, he had 'suggestions'. Suggestions that she had to expend her energy responding to, explaining in painful detail why they were impractical or counterproductive. If she followed even half of them, the Sections would implode from mismanagement within a year.
It was getting more and more tiring fending him off. If only it weren't so important, she would delegate the entire mess to George, who excelled at paperwork and evasion. Unfortunately, resisting Phillip's dictates required her personal touch -- playing upon her friendship with key Council members.
Hearing a noise, she looked up in irritation, her head throbbing. When she saw Madeline in her doorway, she frowned and looked at her watch. It had only been a short time since Adrian had left Madeline in the interrogation room. For her to have returned so quickly meant there must be a problem. She sighed, exasperated. She had quite enough to deal with at the moment without yet another complication.
"What is it?"
Madeline entered the room and stood at attention. "The prisoner has provided some interesting intel, ma'am."
"Interesting. Quite an ambiguous word. I've always found that people resort to ambiguity when they're unsure of themselves." She waited for a response, but then, losing patience, snapped, "Well? Do you plan to elaborate, or am I to be left in suspense?"
Madeline blinked and drew a deep breath. "Their group is planning a massive bombing, two days from now. With the aim of maximizing civilian casualties."
"The target?"
"The Gare de Lyon."
Adrian's irritation gave way to shock. "Here? In Paris?"
The very thought of such an attack was horrifying, and not merely for the death and destruction it would cause. A bombing in Section One's own turf -- unanticipated, undetected -- would make Section look utterly incompetent, giving Center even more reason to interfere.
Madeline nodded. "But we now have a location for their Paris headquarters, as well as a list of their local operatives. It shouldn't take long to round them up."
Adrian sank back into her chair in relief. "Are you certain of the accuracy of the information?"
Madeline inclined her head. "Within an acceptable range of probability, yes."
"We'll prep a mission immediately," Adrian said, a surge of energy driving Center from her thoughts for the moment. "Prepare the information in detail and meet in the conference room in an hour to brief the team."
"Yes, ma'am."
Adrian turned away in a silent dismissal and reached for her telephone to call Paul, but looked up again when she heard Madeline clear her throat. The young woman remained standing in place, with her hands clasped and an expectant expression.
"Yes?"
"You asked me to give my opinion on what I observed."
"Ah, yes. Of course I did."
Madeline hesitated as a look of nervousness crossed her face. "May I ask how Section has selected its interrogators?"
Adrian pursed her lips in thought. "They're a mix of former intelligence officers and ex-police interrogators."
"I expected as much." Madeline pulled herself into a straighter posture and looked Adrian in the eye. "I recommend you stop using them."
"But they've spent years questioning people in all sorts of circumstances. Who else can you find with that sort of experience?"
Madeline shook her head. "That's precisely the problem. Before they even come to Section, they've developed ingrained habits that are almost impossible to correct."
"And so what do you propose instead?"
"Ideally, I'd like a staff with medical training. It doesn't have to be doctors. Nurses, medical technicians, even med students would do."
How interesting. Adrian had expected Madeline to recommend fellow psychologists for their insight into the human mind.
"Explain."
"Medical personnel have knowledge of anatomy and pharmacology. They can perform procedures with precision instead of brute force." Madeline arched an eyebrow on the last two words, with a subtle look of disdain that Adrian noted with amusement.
So even torturers have standards, she thought, biting back a smile. Pride of profession, no doubt.
"They know how to administer drugs," Madeline added, "and how to observe and interpret physical reactions and vital signs. They can even revive a prisoner if necessary."
"So you would train them how to question our captives?"
"No. Their function would be to provide support." She paused a moment, frowning in thought. "The interrogator wants answers -- it's easy to get frustrated if the process seems to be going too slowly. The staff members performing the procedures must remain free of such emotional distractions, so that they can focus on the details of their work."
"Then who would conduct the questioning?"
"I would, primarily. But I also think we should integrate the field operatives into that process. Or at least the team leaders." Madeline smiled again. "As your lesson to me made clear, it's those operatives who depend on the information to keep themselves alive who are the most motivated to make sure it's accurate."
Touché. Well done. Adrian chuckled. "This is all very enlightening," she said. "I'd like you to prepare a report so that we can discuss this further. But for now, I believe you have a mission to prep."
"Yes, ma'am." Madeline nodded, turned, and walked out of the room.
As she watched Madeline depart, Adrian drummed her fingers on her desk in reflection. That was a rather interesting performance. She now knew what George had seen in Madeline -- and she also knew that she had found the right place in the Section for her. Properly molded and conditioned, Madeline could reach her true potential, could become a resource of considerable value. But handled the wrong way…the thought made Adrian shudder.
It was an unavoidable paradox: to fight evil, one needed a bit of evil. To fight depravity, one needed to understand it -- and who better than someone who was also sick? Madeline, with her distasteful background and even more disturbing expertise, wasn't only useful, she was necessary. Critical, even. And anyone who became critical had a type of power -- which is what made her so dangerous.
In a sense, Madeline was much like nitroglycerine: useful, powerful, but highly unstable. Needing strict control. Needing, in essence, to be kept under lock and key. Fortunately, Adrian knew exactly how to do that. Ironically, it was the young woman's performance on the mission that had provided the answer, that had given Adrian the key to understanding her. To Adrian's surprise, Madeline had been willing -- even eager -- to risk her own life. Her disobedience of orders in the process made it clear that she wasn't like so many other Section operatives, accepting danger only when forced to. To the contrary, Madeline had sought it out on her own.
That act provided Adrian with a useful insight: Madeline wanted to be heroic, wanted to be self-sacrificing -- wanted, as Adrian now saw, to be someone better than the girl who had killed her sister in a fit of selfishness. Ultimately, Adrian realized, what Madeline wanted was forgiveness. Wanted it desperately. It was her motivation for everything -- and, therefore, her greatest weakness.
The Section could be presented to her as the vehicle for such forgiveness, to convince her that if she worked hard enough, accomplished enough, she would cleanse herself of that crime. Of course, it would never be enough. Adrian would dangle that forgiveness just out of reach, doling out praise in small doses, alternating with rebukes. With each successful mission, with each enemy destroyed, Madeline would inch closer to redemption -- only to see the goal recede before her. Eventually, she would become addicted to the Section, unable to function outside it, and thus under control. A loyal servant, content in her place; her assets fully exploited, but her threat neutralized.
That was the key to the future, really. Groom people for the appropriate station in life, for what they were born to do -- and teach them to not just accept it, but to be grateful. That was the way the world functioned best. Madeline didn't know it yet, but Adrian was acting in her best interests. Someday, perhaps, Madeline would gain the wisdom to thank her.
***
The subdued light of the Section -- usually so depressing -- was a welcome relief from the sunshine outside. Crossing the main floor, Lisa removed her sunglasses and rubbed her temple. Too many vodka shots the night before, followed by too much Scotch, followed by…ugh, she couldn't remember.
The several glasses of water she had downed didn't seem to be helping -- instead, it sloshed uncomfortably in her stomach as she walked, adding a seasick-like quality to her nausea. Food might help, but nothing seemed appetizing. The smell of the leftovers in her refrigerator that morning had sent her stomach into near rebellion; the mere thought of Section's cafeteria fare threatened to do the same.
What she really needed was sleep. In ten more hours, that's exactly what she intended to do. And with a week of downtime starting at the end of the day, she could sleep as long as she wanted -- which, judging by the way she felt now, might be for several days straight.
The hard sound of shoes echoing from above made her glance up; spotting Madeline descending the stairs from Adrian's office, she stopped and waited. At first, the other woman didn't see Lisa -- she looked distant, lost in thought. But when she looked up and caught Lisa's eye, her expression warmed and she smiled in greeting.
"She isn't giving you shit, is she?" asked Lisa when Madeline reached the foot of the stairs.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Adrian. Was she raking you over the coals about something?"
Madeline frowned. "No, not at all. Why?"
"You didn't look very happy just now. I call it the 'Adrian-just-blindsided-me-again' look." A corner of Lisa's mouth twisted up. "It's a common side effect of visiting that office."
"Oh. I'm just tired, I suppose." A faint smile crossed Madeline's face. "Too much celebrating last night."
Lisa laughed. "Tell me about it! Except I see I'm going to have to give you some partying lessons. You didn't even try to keep up with Patrick and me. And then you left early, you spoilsport!" She shook her head in mock disapproval. "Team One has standards you're expected to live up to, you know."
Madeline laughed in return. "I see. I'm sorry I let the team down."
"Next time you'll do better. Or else I'll tell Paul that you're making us look bad." She grinned. "Trust me, you don't want to know what kind of punishments he can dream up."
Madeline gave her an odd look, and a tinge of red crept into her face. "Well," she said, with a laugh that seemed almost uncomfortable, "I certainly wouldn't want that."
She looked away quickly, and when she turned back to Lisa that distant, distracted look had returned. "But I have some work to do. I'm afraid it involves a deadline." She smiled at Lisa apologetically.
"Oh, of course," answered Lisa, a bit taken aback by the abrupt shift in mood. "I didn't mean to hold you up."
Madeline walked off, and Lisa proceeded toward Systems, heading for an empty workstation. Her week of downtime might give her a welcome respite from missions, but she had no intention of spending the entire time at rest. Instead, she would print out the code for the program she had been working on, and use a large part of her week off reviewing and debugging it. When she was done, she would present it to Jules -- along with her formal request for a transfer to a programming assignment. Her third such request, actually, but the first one where she had a code example to submit with it. That, she hoped, would make all the difference.
Reaching the seat, she smiled to herself and typed the commands to bring up her files. Jules had been scornful of her interest in computers, but when he saw what she had come up with, he would be blown away. She was ten times better than anyone else he had working for him, not to mention a hell of a lot more motivated.
She sat back and waited for the program to load, but then frowned. Where was it? The directory was empty. She shook her head in confusion and tried again; the hangover must have really fried her mind if she couldn't keep the commands straight. This time, she typed slowly, concentrating, making sure each keystroke was correct.
When she saw that the directory was still empty, a wave of nausea surged over her -- and this time it had nothing to do with the prior night's drinking. Where the hell was it? Panicking, she checked for the backup file she had set up. It, too, was missing.
She sat for nearly a minute, staring at the screen and frozen in horror, before she could even begin to think clearly. Why hadn't she printed out a hard copy? She hadn't wanted to leave it at her apartment -- had been too paranoid about breaching Section's security if the document somehow fell into the wrong hands. So stupid!
Shit, shit, shit! she thought, wanting to groan aloud in despair.
Calming slightly, she began to think more clearly. The files might simply have been moved, and even if someone had accidentally deleted them, that didn't mean they weren't recoverable. She looked up and saw that Jules was standing nearby, talking to another operative as he worked. She stood up and walked over to him, and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Can I do something for you?" He was polite, but his voice held a trace of impatience.
"I'm really sorry to bother you, but I had a file that seems to be missing. I was wondering if you might be able to help me find it. I know that--"
He frowned. "What sort of file?"
She felt herself blush in embarrassment. "Um, well, I was working on some code for a program, and I only backed it up locally. I know you're busy, so maybe you could get someone else to help me?"
"You were working on some code? Code for what? You're a field operative, not a programmer."
His French accent, combined with the disdain in his expression, gave him an air of lofty superiority that made her feel even more foolish. He exchanged an amused glance with the other operative, who turned away to conceal a smirk.
"Whatever you were doing, you probably forgot to save," Jules said. "It's a common mistake with people who don't understand computers."
Lisa stared at him as realization slowly dawned on her.
"You deleted it on purpose, didn't you?" she said, almost as astonished as she was enraged. "You knew I was working on something after hours."
"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "Do you have any proof of that?"
"I've been logged in for hours at a time almost every night for months. I'm sure you can trace--"
"You can trace nothing," he interrupted. "I'm in charge of the network, you know. There's no record of any activity by you, you can be sure."
"Only because you deleted that, too. You don't want Adrian finding out that someone else can program as well as you."
They glared at each other in silence for several seconds. Then, Jules relaxed, a patronizing smile filling his face.
"This hobby of yours. It's charming, but it's a waste of your time. Adrian is not going to transfer you to Comm."
"Not if you have anything to say about it, right?"
He shrugged. "You don't have the aptitude for computer work. It's not your fault, of course. Most women don't."
With that, he turned away from her and resumed his conversation with the other operative.
She stood there for several moments, seething, but too outraged for words. Computers were her way out of fieldwork, her escape from the frontlines, her only real chance to stay alive for any decent length of time. She had placed all of her energy, all of her hopes, toward obtaining that transfer -- had believed that if she proved her ability, even Jules would be impressed enough to accept her. She had convinced herself that her hard work would be rewarded, that Section was, at least on some level, a meritocracy. Now, she saw how wrong she was, and hated herself for her naïveté even more than she hated the man whose back was turned arrogantly toward her.
This wasn't over, she vowed to herself. She had made a mistake, but it wouldn't be repeated. Her programming skills were more than adequate, but they hadn't been enough -- it was Jules' control over Section's systems that had enabled him to do this to her without fear of retaliation. It was time, then, to master that, too. To learn to protect herself. Maybe even to give Jules a taste of his own medicine.
With a grim resolve, she spun around to leave and nearly bowled over Paul, who was approaching behind her.
"Adrian's called a mission briefing," he said. "Meet in the conference room in forty-five minutes."
She shook her head. "I've got downtime starting this afternoon. I'm not supposed to be going out on any missions for the next week."
"It's local. We'll be back before the end of the day." He frowned. "And Adrian has revoked your downtime. Patrick, too. She thinks the body count in Vienna was too high."
Lisa grimaced. Her program destroyed, her downtime cancelled -- and a hangover on top of that.
This is turning out to be just a lovely day, she thought with disgust.
***
The Gare de Lyon was unusually crowded that afternoon, packed with travelers on their way south for the holiday. Tense with anticipatory energy, Madeline wandered through the station, retracing her path again and again. She circled by the ticket booths, stopped at a newsstand, and passed the entrance to the platforms, watching each person, each family, each group.
The noise of footsteps and voices echoed sharply off the hard floors and high ceilings, interspersed with laughter, yelling, a baby's piercing wail. In front of her, a boisterous group of teenage boys roamed, looking for girls to whistle at and tease. Behind her, an elderly couple argued heatedly about whether the wife had packed too much -- the man blustering, the woman shrill.
She looked at her watch. There were only two more minutes until the time that the explosion would have taken place: the explosion that she had played a large part in preventing. Driven by a curiosity that had almost become a compulsion, she had come to the station to see, in the flesh, the people whom she had saved. Now, they surrounded her, jostling her as they passed; she, in turn, studied them, intent on absorbing every detail of their appearance, determined to burn each individual into her memory.
In Section Two, she had known that her work helped fight terrorism, ultimately, but there had never been any direct connection to saved lives, had never been anything specific she could point to as justification for the acts of horror she participated in. It had all been amorphous, theoretical -- and unsatisfying. In Section One, things were different. Each person in the station that day was a living, breathing victory; each one was proof that she had accomplished something to be proud of, and that her existence mattered.
The thought that now she could actually see these people, speak to them -- even touch them -- had finally overwhelmed her. So she had slipped out of the Section and come to the station. Finally, after so many years, she would be able to look a person in the eye and say to herself: I saved that person; that individual wouldn't be here but for me. And not just once, but hundreds of times.
She checked her watch again. Twenty seconds. She stopped in place, counting down. When she reached zero, she inhaled in excitement and looked up, almost expecting time to freeze or things to start moving in slow motion -- hoping, illogically, that the moment would somehow linger in its significance. But it was gone in an instant of nothingness. As hurried travelers pushed their way past her, she felt no triumph, no sense of accomplishment. It was as if the moment held no significance at all.
Her lack of reaction puzzled her for a moment. After the mission, as she stood over her captives, she had felt intoxicated; after the interrogation, when the prisoner broke under her will, she had been elated. But this -- the real victory, supposedly -- gave her only a strange sense of emptiness. She stared at the face of each passerby, hoping to see something that would trigger the emotion she sought. Then it struck her. These people, these innocents she had protected, had no idea what she had done. To them, this moment was completely ordinary. Meaningless. Her lack of feeling mirrored theirs.
Confronting the enemy, in fact, had been far more rewarding. The enemy, after all, knew everything: they knew that she was alive, knew that she had triumphed, and knew that her victory mattered. When they looked at her, fear filling their eyes, they acknowledged her importance, appreciated her skills -- were forced to do so, even in their hatred of her. With them, she had significance. Here, however, she was nothing. No one. A shadow, lost and invisible.
As she continued to stand, motionless, the nothingness gave way to a feeling of anger: anger that at first she tried to suppress, but that proved too much for her. The people milling around her weren't evidence of accomplishment, after all; instead, their indifference, their complete ignorance, was a stinging insult. A reminder of how much they had been given, and at whose expense.
All of the risks and sacrifices were hers; all of the benefits theirs. She knew, logically, that it wasn't their fault; nevertheless, the unfairness of it began to eat at her, burning like a corrosive acid. She stared at several people passing by, a feeling of resentment tightening the muscles in her abdomen. How could she know that these 'innocents' were even truly innocent? She suffered, she imagined, so that that man could live to continue cheating on his wife, that woman continue being an alcoholic, that man continue embezzling from his employer, that woman continue beating her children. How were their lives worth more than hers?
She closed her eyes, struggling to control the surge of rage that threatened to drown her. Eventually, she found her answer. It was a mistake to weigh her life against any of theirs. No given individual was necessarily worth more than another. It was the numbers that mattered, the scorecard of lives saved versus lives lost. If she died to save ten people, that was a fair trade; if she killed ten people to save one hundred, that was a fair trade. If she saved more lives than she destroyed, that was all that mattered. Who specifically lived and died was immaterial -- deserving and innocent, or undeserving and corrupt; it was out of her control, hence irrelevant. The end result, in the abstract, was the only way to justify anything, the only way her sacrifice was even remotely bearable.
She opened her eyes again and turned to leave, but felt one last wave of nausea and dizziness. Her vision blurred and her legs weakened, forcing her to stop and close her eyes once more. With a burst of willpower, she forced the nausea down and took several slow breaths. When she opened her eyes a few moments later, she was suffused with a deadened calm, with a numbed acceptance, and she began to make her way out of the station. As she walked, the people rushing past her blended into the background, transformed into mere shapes and colors, dehumanized flashes of movement.
They had become as invisible to her as she was to them.
***
Exiting the station, Madeline walked away slowly, possessed by a strange feeling of heightened awareness: perception, mixed with detached indifference. Sounds were louder, the late afternoon light brighter -- and yet, she seemed to observe things from afar, rather than sense them directly. Around her, the wind was picking up; it blew her hair haphazardly and rolled stray pieces of litter across the sidewalk in front of her. She stepped around them and moved on, pushing her hair back behind her ears, only to feel the wind whip the strands back into her face again. Mechanically, she repeated the process, then gave up.
She was less than half a block from the station when, in the corner of her eye, she noticed a car slowing as it headed toward the curb. As she turned her head to look, a silver Mercedes pulled alongside her and stopped. So close to the station, it probably meant nothing sinister. Nevertheless, she stepped away cautiously, taking care to place other individuals between her and the car, ready to flee into a nearby shop at the first sign of danger.
Attempting to appear casual, she strolled closer to the shop's front door, watching the car intently even as she pretended not to. She tensed as the rear window rolled down, and then her eyes widened. Inside, staring at her gloomily, was George.
She approached the car. As she reached the door, he pushed it open and moved to the far end of the seat to allow her access. She climbed inside and closed the door behind her with a quiet thump, settling into the soft leather interior as the car pulled off.
They rode in complete silence for blocks. At first, to avoid George's unwavering gaze, she stared at the back of the driver's head; after a few minutes, she turned to the window and watched as they weaved smoothly in and out of traffic.
Hearing George clear his throat, she turned away from the window and looked at him warily.
"How are you settling in at One, Madeline?" He gave her a perfunctory smile, but his gravelly voice and dour expression always made him seem morose, even when he was trying to be pleasant.
"Very well," she answered politely. She matched his smile in both duration and intensity -- on guard, like a fencer taking position.
"I happen to be on my way past there. I'll drop you off nearby."
"Thank you."
As she sat, feeling him inspect her with his watery gaze, a sense of apprehension began to fill her. It started in the pit of her stomach, then seeped through her nervous system, until even her fingertips seemed to buzz with the urge to take flight.
He hadn't passed by the station -- just as she was departing -- by coincidence. That was impossible. He had had her followed. The question was why.
For several excruciating minutes, he engaged in small talk, seeming to take pleasure in drawing things out, in pretending that he had nothing more on his mind than trivialities -- that he was simply an employer kind enough to offer a ride to an employee whom he had chanced across. She forced herself to reciprocate, glancing repeatedly out the window as if she could will the traffic to move faster.
He paused, then smiled again.
"A few years ago, we had a conversation about the future of the Sections. I trust you haven't forgotten that."
His expression darkened; in response, her pulse surged.
"No, I haven't." She would never forget that conversation, even though she had tried. Every detail remained horribly vivid: the bitterness of the coffee as she pretended to enjoy it; the wooden slats of the table that she had stared at to avoid his gaze; the pained expression on his face as he confided his plan to betray Adrian; and, most of all, the fear that gripped her when she realized the danger he had put her in with his confession.
"Good," he said, continuing to stare at her attentively. "At the time, the discussion was purely hypothetical, as I'm sure you were aware."
"Of course," she answered, wondering if he were going to disavow his prior statements. The thought gave her a feeling of tremendous relief. She was prepared to go along, to pretend that she hadn't taken him seriously -- to engage in whatever face-saving game he wanted to play, if it would free her of the burden of complicity that he had placed upon her.
"Now, however, your arrival at Section One changes the situation. Things are no longer merely hypothetical."
His words hung heavily in the air; under their weight, her relief collapsed, replaced by a cold, enveloping dread.
He frowned thoughtfully and continued. "I was originally opposed to the idea of your being transferred to One. I wanted you to work with me running the other Sections, to help me establish a power base away from Adrian's scrutiny. It was Adrian's idea to have you moved."
She nodded blankly.
"But upon further reflection, I've come to realize that your being there provides us with an advantage."
Us. Not him. He was assuming that she had agreed to help him, that he had her support - even though she had never explicitly given it. That he -- obviously not one to indulge in blind trust -- had such confidence in her loyalty was unsettling.
"How so?" she asked, careful to sound interested as opposed to anxious.
"You're going to be my eyes and ears at One -- my informant, as it were."
"What information could I provide that you don't already have access to?" she asked, puzzled. "You have higher clearance than I do."
"We've opened several new Sections in the past few years -- all of them my responsibility," he explained, his voice a low drawl. "I rarely even visit One anymore. No time, frankly. Besides, I have certain reasons for wanting to distance myself from Section One as much as possible."
She shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the implications of his last statement.
"You will report to me in detail about everything that goes on," he said. "In particular, the intangibles -- those things one can't appreciate by reading personnel files and mission reports. The atmosphere, the interactions among people's personalities -- the things that make up the living, breathing Section, not the Section on paper."
She nodded. It made sense.
"You'll also need to cultivate relationships with the other operatives. Get to know them. Learn their strengths, their weaknesses, their ambitions. Identify the dissidents and troublemakers as well as the loyalists. And store that information away for future use."
"I understand." Instinctively, almost unwillingly, her mind began creating the categories of information she would collect -- sorting by type, rating by reliability and significance -- the attraction of the task gradually displacing her reluctance to cooperate.
"Of course you do." He regarded her almost warmly. "I have great faith in your powers of observation."
She smiled in return, accepting the compliment.
"For the time being, that's all I ask. I'll let you know when it comes time to do more." George slid open the glass partition to address the driver. "Drop her off here, please."
The car pulled to a halt. As Madeline reached for the door handle, George placed his hand on her arm.
"You'll be richly rewarded for your assistance, Madeline. Have no doubts on that score."
"I don't."
"Good." He paused, his grip on her arm tightening. "But just in case the thought of going to Adrian with this ever crosses your mind, you should know that there would be consequences."
They stared at each other, then he smiled.
"You were estranged from your parents before we recruited you, I know. But I think I know you well enough to guess that you wouldn't want to be responsible for anything unfortunate happening to them. It would be a bit much, wouldn't it, after the havoc you already wreaked in their lives."
She blinked in shock, as dizzy as if he had struck her in the face.
"I'll be in touch with you again shortly," he said, releasing her arm and nodding his dismissal.
She opened the door and exited, resisting the urge to run, not wanting him to see the extent to which he had unnerved her. She waited until she heard the door close behind her and the car drive off before she began to walk, unsteadily, heading toward the Section.
His threat hung over her darkly for several blocks. But as she walked along, the wind again blowing her hair into her face, that fear slowly faded. There was no real danger, she realized, because he would never have to make good on that threat. She knew, even if he didn't, that she would never go to Adrian with anything; that, as much as she distrusted George, she hated Adrian more.
Years before, after all, she had vowed to take vengeance on Section's leader, to dispense justice to the woman who had ruined Paul's life. While she would have preferred that vengeance to take a form of her own choosing, what George offered was an acceptable substitute. In some ways, it was even better, because -- with his backing -- it was more likely to succeed.
Her mind cleared in a way she hadn't experienced since her transfer; with each block that passed, she became more focused, confident, determined -- and somehow strangely grateful to George. He had given her a gift -- unintentionally, of course -- but no less priceless. Until now, each day at Section One had been torment: she had been confused and disoriented, unsure how she fit in, searching for some purpose, some motivation, some goal beyond mere survival. She had tasted it on the mission, sensed it in the interrogation room, but had been unable to identify it. Her misguided attempt to find it among the people at the train station had failed completely, leaving her more lost than ever.
But George gave her back her bearings. He had pointed out to her what she did best, reminded her who she really was. She wasn't a heroine or a martyr; her purpose wasn't to save or protect. Rather, she was an agent of destruction: a curse, a scourge, a dispenser of punishment -- lacking mercy, compassion, or pity. Her function was to serve as a relentless destroyer of sinners and criminals: the living nightmare of Section's enemies, of Adrian -- and of anyone else who deserved retribution. Maybe, in a sense, even of herself.
She squared her shoulders, ready to enter Section. She had a place there, after all. Maybe even a destiny. Now, it was time to fulfill it.
End of Part One
************
To go on to Part Two, click here.
Previous Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
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 Six
With growing annoyance, Adrian read the last of Center's directives for the week, jotting down notes to incorporate into her response. Each year, the level of interference grew steadily worse; from simple monitoring in the early days, it had progressed to active meddling. The power Center held over the Sections' purse-strings had started to go to Phillip's head, convincing him that he was an expert in counter-terrorism despite his lack of experience on the ground.
She grimaced and pushed the documents aside. It was bad enough when all Phillip did was demand that she prepare meaningless bureaucratic reports or engage in esoteric research projects, wasting her already-limited time. But now -- now, he had 'suggestions'. Suggestions that she had to expend her energy responding to, explaining in painful detail why they were impractical or counterproductive. If she followed even half of them, the Sections would implode from mismanagement within a year.
It was getting more and more tiring fending him off. If only it weren't so important, she would delegate the entire mess to George, who excelled at paperwork and evasion. Unfortunately, resisting Phillip's dictates required her personal touch -- playing upon her friendship with key Council members.
Hearing a noise, she looked up in irritation, her head throbbing. When she saw Madeline in her doorway, she frowned and looked at her watch. It had only been a short time since Adrian had left Madeline in the interrogation room. For her to have returned so quickly meant there must be a problem. She sighed, exasperated. She had quite enough to deal with at the moment without yet another complication.
"What is it?"
Madeline entered the room and stood at attention. "The prisoner has provided some interesting intel, ma'am."
"Interesting. Quite an ambiguous word. I've always found that people resort to ambiguity when they're unsure of themselves." She waited for a response, but then, losing patience, snapped, "Well? Do you plan to elaborate, or am I to be left in suspense?"
Madeline blinked and drew a deep breath. "Their group is planning a massive bombing, two days from now. With the aim of maximizing civilian casualties."
"The target?"
"The Gare de Lyon."
Adrian's irritation gave way to shock. "Here? In Paris?"
The very thought of such an attack was horrifying, and not merely for the death and destruction it would cause. A bombing in Section One's own turf -- unanticipated, undetected -- would make Section look utterly incompetent, giving Center even more reason to interfere.
Madeline nodded. "But we now have a location for their Paris headquarters, as well as a list of their local operatives. It shouldn't take long to round them up."
Adrian sank back into her chair in relief. "Are you certain of the accuracy of the information?"
Madeline inclined her head. "Within an acceptable range of probability, yes."
"We'll prep a mission immediately," Adrian said, a surge of energy driving Center from her thoughts for the moment. "Prepare the information in detail and meet in the conference room in an hour to brief the team."
"Yes, ma'am."
Adrian turned away in a silent dismissal and reached for her telephone to call Paul, but looked up again when she heard Madeline clear her throat. The young woman remained standing in place, with her hands clasped and an expectant expression.
"Yes?"
"You asked me to give my opinion on what I observed."
"Ah, yes. Of course I did."
Madeline hesitated as a look of nervousness crossed her face. "May I ask how Section has selected its interrogators?"
Adrian pursed her lips in thought. "They're a mix of former intelligence officers and ex-police interrogators."
"I expected as much." Madeline pulled herself into a straighter posture and looked Adrian in the eye. "I recommend you stop using them."
"But they've spent years questioning people in all sorts of circumstances. Who else can you find with that sort of experience?"
Madeline shook her head. "That's precisely the problem. Before they even come to Section, they've developed ingrained habits that are almost impossible to correct."
"And so what do you propose instead?"
"Ideally, I'd like a staff with medical training. It doesn't have to be doctors. Nurses, medical technicians, even med students would do."
How interesting. Adrian had expected Madeline to recommend fellow psychologists for their insight into the human mind.
"Explain."
"Medical personnel have knowledge of anatomy and pharmacology. They can perform procedures with precision instead of brute force." Madeline arched an eyebrow on the last two words, with a subtle look of disdain that Adrian noted with amusement.
So even torturers have standards, she thought, biting back a smile. Pride of profession, no doubt.
"They know how to administer drugs," Madeline added, "and how to observe and interpret physical reactions and vital signs. They can even revive a prisoner if necessary."
"So you would train them how to question our captives?"
"No. Their function would be to provide support." She paused a moment, frowning in thought. "The interrogator wants answers -- it's easy to get frustrated if the process seems to be going too slowly. The staff members performing the procedures must remain free of such emotional distractions, so that they can focus on the details of their work."
"Then who would conduct the questioning?"
"I would, primarily. But I also think we should integrate the field operatives into that process. Or at least the team leaders." Madeline smiled again. "As your lesson to me made clear, it's those operatives who depend on the information to keep themselves alive who are the most motivated to make sure it's accurate."
Touché. Well done. Adrian chuckled. "This is all very enlightening," she said. "I'd like you to prepare a report so that we can discuss this further. But for now, I believe you have a mission to prep."
"Yes, ma'am." Madeline nodded, turned, and walked out of the room.
As she watched Madeline depart, Adrian drummed her fingers on her desk in reflection. That was a rather interesting performance. She now knew what George had seen in Madeline -- and she also knew that she had found the right place in the Section for her. Properly molded and conditioned, Madeline could reach her true potential, could become a resource of considerable value. But handled the wrong way…the thought made Adrian shudder.
It was an unavoidable paradox: to fight evil, one needed a bit of evil. To fight depravity, one needed to understand it -- and who better than someone who was also sick? Madeline, with her distasteful background and even more disturbing expertise, wasn't only useful, she was necessary. Critical, even. And anyone who became critical had a type of power -- which is what made her so dangerous.
In a sense, Madeline was much like nitroglycerine: useful, powerful, but highly unstable. Needing strict control. Needing, in essence, to be kept under lock and key. Fortunately, Adrian knew exactly how to do that. Ironically, it was the young woman's performance on the mission that had provided the answer, that had given Adrian the key to understanding her. To Adrian's surprise, Madeline had been willing -- even eager -- to risk her own life. Her disobedience of orders in the process made it clear that she wasn't like so many other Section operatives, accepting danger only when forced to. To the contrary, Madeline had sought it out on her own.
That act provided Adrian with a useful insight: Madeline wanted to be heroic, wanted to be self-sacrificing -- wanted, as Adrian now saw, to be someone better than the girl who had killed her sister in a fit of selfishness. Ultimately, Adrian realized, what Madeline wanted was forgiveness. Wanted it desperately. It was her motivation for everything -- and, therefore, her greatest weakness.
The Section could be presented to her as the vehicle for such forgiveness, to convince her that if she worked hard enough, accomplished enough, she would cleanse herself of that crime. Of course, it would never be enough. Adrian would dangle that forgiveness just out of reach, doling out praise in small doses, alternating with rebukes. With each successful mission, with each enemy destroyed, Madeline would inch closer to redemption -- only to see the goal recede before her. Eventually, she would become addicted to the Section, unable to function outside it, and thus under control. A loyal servant, content in her place; her assets fully exploited, but her threat neutralized.
That was the key to the future, really. Groom people for the appropriate station in life, for what they were born to do -- and teach them to not just accept it, but to be grateful. That was the way the world functioned best. Madeline didn't know it yet, but Adrian was acting in her best interests. Someday, perhaps, Madeline would gain the wisdom to thank her.
***
The subdued light of the Section -- usually so depressing -- was a welcome relief from the sunshine outside. Crossing the main floor, Lisa removed her sunglasses and rubbed her temple. Too many vodka shots the night before, followed by too much Scotch, followed by…ugh, she couldn't remember.
The several glasses of water she had downed didn't seem to be helping -- instead, it sloshed uncomfortably in her stomach as she walked, adding a seasick-like quality to her nausea. Food might help, but nothing seemed appetizing. The smell of the leftovers in her refrigerator that morning had sent her stomach into near rebellion; the mere thought of Section's cafeteria fare threatened to do the same.
What she really needed was sleep. In ten more hours, that's exactly what she intended to do. And with a week of downtime starting at the end of the day, she could sleep as long as she wanted -- which, judging by the way she felt now, might be for several days straight.
The hard sound of shoes echoing from above made her glance up; spotting Madeline descending the stairs from Adrian's office, she stopped and waited. At first, the other woman didn't see Lisa -- she looked distant, lost in thought. But when she looked up and caught Lisa's eye, her expression warmed and she smiled in greeting.
"She isn't giving you shit, is she?" asked Lisa when Madeline reached the foot of the stairs.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Adrian. Was she raking you over the coals about something?"
Madeline frowned. "No, not at all. Why?"
"You didn't look very happy just now. I call it the 'Adrian-just-blindsided-me-again' look." A corner of Lisa's mouth twisted up. "It's a common side effect of visiting that office."
"Oh. I'm just tired, I suppose." A faint smile crossed Madeline's face. "Too much celebrating last night."
Lisa laughed. "Tell me about it! Except I see I'm going to have to give you some partying lessons. You didn't even try to keep up with Patrick and me. And then you left early, you spoilsport!" She shook her head in mock disapproval. "Team One has standards you're expected to live up to, you know."
Madeline laughed in return. "I see. I'm sorry I let the team down."
"Next time you'll do better. Or else I'll tell Paul that you're making us look bad." She grinned. "Trust me, you don't want to know what kind of punishments he can dream up."
Madeline gave her an odd look, and a tinge of red crept into her face. "Well," she said, with a laugh that seemed almost uncomfortable, "I certainly wouldn't want that."
She looked away quickly, and when she turned back to Lisa that distant, distracted look had returned. "But I have some work to do. I'm afraid it involves a deadline." She smiled at Lisa apologetically.
"Oh, of course," answered Lisa, a bit taken aback by the abrupt shift in mood. "I didn't mean to hold you up."
Madeline walked off, and Lisa proceeded toward Systems, heading for an empty workstation. Her week of downtime might give her a welcome respite from missions, but she had no intention of spending the entire time at rest. Instead, she would print out the code for the program she had been working on, and use a large part of her week off reviewing and debugging it. When she was done, she would present it to Jules -- along with her formal request for a transfer to a programming assignment. Her third such request, actually, but the first one where she had a code example to submit with it. That, she hoped, would make all the difference.
Reaching the seat, she smiled to herself and typed the commands to bring up her files. Jules had been scornful of her interest in computers, but when he saw what she had come up with, he would be blown away. She was ten times better than anyone else he had working for him, not to mention a hell of a lot more motivated.
She sat back and waited for the program to load, but then frowned. Where was it? The directory was empty. She shook her head in confusion and tried again; the hangover must have really fried her mind if she couldn't keep the commands straight. This time, she typed slowly, concentrating, making sure each keystroke was correct.
When she saw that the directory was still empty, a wave of nausea surged over her -- and this time it had nothing to do with the prior night's drinking. Where the hell was it? Panicking, she checked for the backup file she had set up. It, too, was missing.
She sat for nearly a minute, staring at the screen and frozen in horror, before she could even begin to think clearly. Why hadn't she printed out a hard copy? She hadn't wanted to leave it at her apartment -- had been too paranoid about breaching Section's security if the document somehow fell into the wrong hands. So stupid!
Shit, shit, shit! she thought, wanting to groan aloud in despair.
Calming slightly, she began to think more clearly. The files might simply have been moved, and even if someone had accidentally deleted them, that didn't mean they weren't recoverable. She looked up and saw that Jules was standing nearby, talking to another operative as he worked. She stood up and walked over to him, and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Can I do something for you?" He was polite, but his voice held a trace of impatience.
"I'm really sorry to bother you, but I had a file that seems to be missing. I was wondering if you might be able to help me find it. I know that--"
He frowned. "What sort of file?"
She felt herself blush in embarrassment. "Um, well, I was working on some code for a program, and I only backed it up locally. I know you're busy, so maybe you could get someone else to help me?"
"You were working on some code? Code for what? You're a field operative, not a programmer."
His French accent, combined with the disdain in his expression, gave him an air of lofty superiority that made her feel even more foolish. He exchanged an amused glance with the other operative, who turned away to conceal a smirk.
"Whatever you were doing, you probably forgot to save," Jules said. "It's a common mistake with people who don't understand computers."
Lisa stared at him as realization slowly dawned on her.
"You deleted it on purpose, didn't you?" she said, almost as astonished as she was enraged. "You knew I was working on something after hours."
"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "Do you have any proof of that?"
"I've been logged in for hours at a time almost every night for months. I'm sure you can trace--"
"You can trace nothing," he interrupted. "I'm in charge of the network, you know. There's no record of any activity by you, you can be sure."
"Only because you deleted that, too. You don't want Adrian finding out that someone else can program as well as you."
They glared at each other in silence for several seconds. Then, Jules relaxed, a patronizing smile filling his face.
"This hobby of yours. It's charming, but it's a waste of your time. Adrian is not going to transfer you to Comm."
"Not if you have anything to say about it, right?"
He shrugged. "You don't have the aptitude for computer work. It's not your fault, of course. Most women don't."
With that, he turned away from her and resumed his conversation with the other operative.
She stood there for several moments, seething, but too outraged for words. Computers were her way out of fieldwork, her escape from the frontlines, her only real chance to stay alive for any decent length of time. She had placed all of her energy, all of her hopes, toward obtaining that transfer -- had believed that if she proved her ability, even Jules would be impressed enough to accept her. She had convinced herself that her hard work would be rewarded, that Section was, at least on some level, a meritocracy. Now, she saw how wrong she was, and hated herself for her naïveté even more than she hated the man whose back was turned arrogantly toward her.
This wasn't over, she vowed to herself. She had made a mistake, but it wouldn't be repeated. Her programming skills were more than adequate, but they hadn't been enough -- it was Jules' control over Section's systems that had enabled him to do this to her without fear of retaliation. It was time, then, to master that, too. To learn to protect herself. Maybe even to give Jules a taste of his own medicine.
With a grim resolve, she spun around to leave and nearly bowled over Paul, who was approaching behind her.
"Adrian's called a mission briefing," he said. "Meet in the conference room in forty-five minutes."
She shook her head. "I've got downtime starting this afternoon. I'm not supposed to be going out on any missions for the next week."
"It's local. We'll be back before the end of the day." He frowned. "And Adrian has revoked your downtime. Patrick, too. She thinks the body count in Vienna was too high."
Lisa grimaced. Her program destroyed, her downtime cancelled -- and a hangover on top of that.
This is turning out to be just a lovely day, she thought with disgust.
***
The Gare de Lyon was unusually crowded that afternoon, packed with travelers on their way south for the holiday. Tense with anticipatory energy, Madeline wandered through the station, retracing her path again and again. She circled by the ticket booths, stopped at a newsstand, and passed the entrance to the platforms, watching each person, each family, each group.
The noise of footsteps and voices echoed sharply off the hard floors and high ceilings, interspersed with laughter, yelling, a baby's piercing wail. In front of her, a boisterous group of teenage boys roamed, looking for girls to whistle at and tease. Behind her, an elderly couple argued heatedly about whether the wife had packed too much -- the man blustering, the woman shrill.
She looked at her watch. There were only two more minutes until the time that the explosion would have taken place: the explosion that she had played a large part in preventing. Driven by a curiosity that had almost become a compulsion, she had come to the station to see, in the flesh, the people whom she had saved. Now, they surrounded her, jostling her as they passed; she, in turn, studied them, intent on absorbing every detail of their appearance, determined to burn each individual into her memory.
In Section Two, she had known that her work helped fight terrorism, ultimately, but there had never been any direct connection to saved lives, had never been anything specific she could point to as justification for the acts of horror she participated in. It had all been amorphous, theoretical -- and unsatisfying. In Section One, things were different. Each person in the station that day was a living, breathing victory; each one was proof that she had accomplished something to be proud of, and that her existence mattered.
The thought that now she could actually see these people, speak to them -- even touch them -- had finally overwhelmed her. So she had slipped out of the Section and come to the station. Finally, after so many years, she would be able to look a person in the eye and say to herself: I saved that person; that individual wouldn't be here but for me. And not just once, but hundreds of times.
She checked her watch again. Twenty seconds. She stopped in place, counting down. When she reached zero, she inhaled in excitement and looked up, almost expecting time to freeze or things to start moving in slow motion -- hoping, illogically, that the moment would somehow linger in its significance. But it was gone in an instant of nothingness. As hurried travelers pushed their way past her, she felt no triumph, no sense of accomplishment. It was as if the moment held no significance at all.
Her lack of reaction puzzled her for a moment. After the mission, as she stood over her captives, she had felt intoxicated; after the interrogation, when the prisoner broke under her will, she had been elated. But this -- the real victory, supposedly -- gave her only a strange sense of emptiness. She stared at the face of each passerby, hoping to see something that would trigger the emotion she sought. Then it struck her. These people, these innocents she had protected, had no idea what she had done. To them, this moment was completely ordinary. Meaningless. Her lack of feeling mirrored theirs.
Confronting the enemy, in fact, had been far more rewarding. The enemy, after all, knew everything: they knew that she was alive, knew that she had triumphed, and knew that her victory mattered. When they looked at her, fear filling their eyes, they acknowledged her importance, appreciated her skills -- were forced to do so, even in their hatred of her. With them, she had significance. Here, however, she was nothing. No one. A shadow, lost and invisible.
As she continued to stand, motionless, the nothingness gave way to a feeling of anger: anger that at first she tried to suppress, but that proved too much for her. The people milling around her weren't evidence of accomplishment, after all; instead, their indifference, their complete ignorance, was a stinging insult. A reminder of how much they had been given, and at whose expense.
All of the risks and sacrifices were hers; all of the benefits theirs. She knew, logically, that it wasn't their fault; nevertheless, the unfairness of it began to eat at her, burning like a corrosive acid. She stared at several people passing by, a feeling of resentment tightening the muscles in her abdomen. How could she know that these 'innocents' were even truly innocent? She suffered, she imagined, so that that man could live to continue cheating on his wife, that woman continue being an alcoholic, that man continue embezzling from his employer, that woman continue beating her children. How were their lives worth more than hers?
She closed her eyes, struggling to control the surge of rage that threatened to drown her. Eventually, she found her answer. It was a mistake to weigh her life against any of theirs. No given individual was necessarily worth more than another. It was the numbers that mattered, the scorecard of lives saved versus lives lost. If she died to save ten people, that was a fair trade; if she killed ten people to save one hundred, that was a fair trade. If she saved more lives than she destroyed, that was all that mattered. Who specifically lived and died was immaterial -- deserving and innocent, or undeserving and corrupt; it was out of her control, hence irrelevant. The end result, in the abstract, was the only way to justify anything, the only way her sacrifice was even remotely bearable.
She opened her eyes again and turned to leave, but felt one last wave of nausea and dizziness. Her vision blurred and her legs weakened, forcing her to stop and close her eyes once more. With a burst of willpower, she forced the nausea down and took several slow breaths. When she opened her eyes a few moments later, she was suffused with a deadened calm, with a numbed acceptance, and she began to make her way out of the station. As she walked, the people rushing past her blended into the background, transformed into mere shapes and colors, dehumanized flashes of movement.
They had become as invisible to her as she was to them.
***
Exiting the station, Madeline walked away slowly, possessed by a strange feeling of heightened awareness: perception, mixed with detached indifference. Sounds were louder, the late afternoon light brighter -- and yet, she seemed to observe things from afar, rather than sense them directly. Around her, the wind was picking up; it blew her hair haphazardly and rolled stray pieces of litter across the sidewalk in front of her. She stepped around them and moved on, pushing her hair back behind her ears, only to feel the wind whip the strands back into her face again. Mechanically, she repeated the process, then gave up.
She was less than half a block from the station when, in the corner of her eye, she noticed a car slowing as it headed toward the curb. As she turned her head to look, a silver Mercedes pulled alongside her and stopped. So close to the station, it probably meant nothing sinister. Nevertheless, she stepped away cautiously, taking care to place other individuals between her and the car, ready to flee into a nearby shop at the first sign of danger.
Attempting to appear casual, she strolled closer to the shop's front door, watching the car intently even as she pretended not to. She tensed as the rear window rolled down, and then her eyes widened. Inside, staring at her gloomily, was George.
She approached the car. As she reached the door, he pushed it open and moved to the far end of the seat to allow her access. She climbed inside and closed the door behind her with a quiet thump, settling into the soft leather interior as the car pulled off.
They rode in complete silence for blocks. At first, to avoid George's unwavering gaze, she stared at the back of the driver's head; after a few minutes, she turned to the window and watched as they weaved smoothly in and out of traffic.
Hearing George clear his throat, she turned away from the window and looked at him warily.
"How are you settling in at One, Madeline?" He gave her a perfunctory smile, but his gravelly voice and dour expression always made him seem morose, even when he was trying to be pleasant.
"Very well," she answered politely. She matched his smile in both duration and intensity -- on guard, like a fencer taking position.
"I happen to be on my way past there. I'll drop you off nearby."
"Thank you."
As she sat, feeling him inspect her with his watery gaze, a sense of apprehension began to fill her. It started in the pit of her stomach, then seeped through her nervous system, until even her fingertips seemed to buzz with the urge to take flight.
He hadn't passed by the station -- just as she was departing -- by coincidence. That was impossible. He had had her followed. The question was why.
For several excruciating minutes, he engaged in small talk, seeming to take pleasure in drawing things out, in pretending that he had nothing more on his mind than trivialities -- that he was simply an employer kind enough to offer a ride to an employee whom he had chanced across. She forced herself to reciprocate, glancing repeatedly out the window as if she could will the traffic to move faster.
He paused, then smiled again.
"A few years ago, we had a conversation about the future of the Sections. I trust you haven't forgotten that."
His expression darkened; in response, her pulse surged.
"No, I haven't." She would never forget that conversation, even though she had tried. Every detail remained horribly vivid: the bitterness of the coffee as she pretended to enjoy it; the wooden slats of the table that she had stared at to avoid his gaze; the pained expression on his face as he confided his plan to betray Adrian; and, most of all, the fear that gripped her when she realized the danger he had put her in with his confession.
"Good," he said, continuing to stare at her attentively. "At the time, the discussion was purely hypothetical, as I'm sure you were aware."
"Of course," she answered, wondering if he were going to disavow his prior statements. The thought gave her a feeling of tremendous relief. She was prepared to go along, to pretend that she hadn't taken him seriously -- to engage in whatever face-saving game he wanted to play, if it would free her of the burden of complicity that he had placed upon her.
"Now, however, your arrival at Section One changes the situation. Things are no longer merely hypothetical."
His words hung heavily in the air; under their weight, her relief collapsed, replaced by a cold, enveloping dread.
He frowned thoughtfully and continued. "I was originally opposed to the idea of your being transferred to One. I wanted you to work with me running the other Sections, to help me establish a power base away from Adrian's scrutiny. It was Adrian's idea to have you moved."
She nodded blankly.
"But upon further reflection, I've come to realize that your being there provides us with an advantage."
Us. Not him. He was assuming that she had agreed to help him, that he had her support - even though she had never explicitly given it. That he -- obviously not one to indulge in blind trust -- had such confidence in her loyalty was unsettling.
"How so?" she asked, careful to sound interested as opposed to anxious.
"You're going to be my eyes and ears at One -- my informant, as it were."
"What information could I provide that you don't already have access to?" she asked, puzzled. "You have higher clearance than I do."
"We've opened several new Sections in the past few years -- all of them my responsibility," he explained, his voice a low drawl. "I rarely even visit One anymore. No time, frankly. Besides, I have certain reasons for wanting to distance myself from Section One as much as possible."
She shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the implications of his last statement.
"You will report to me in detail about everything that goes on," he said. "In particular, the intangibles -- those things one can't appreciate by reading personnel files and mission reports. The atmosphere, the interactions among people's personalities -- the things that make up the living, breathing Section, not the Section on paper."
She nodded. It made sense.
"You'll also need to cultivate relationships with the other operatives. Get to know them. Learn their strengths, their weaknesses, their ambitions. Identify the dissidents and troublemakers as well as the loyalists. And store that information away for future use."
"I understand." Instinctively, almost unwillingly, her mind began creating the categories of information she would collect -- sorting by type, rating by reliability and significance -- the attraction of the task gradually displacing her reluctance to cooperate.
"Of course you do." He regarded her almost warmly. "I have great faith in your powers of observation."
She smiled in return, accepting the compliment.
"For the time being, that's all I ask. I'll let you know when it comes time to do more." George slid open the glass partition to address the driver. "Drop her off here, please."
The car pulled to a halt. As Madeline reached for the door handle, George placed his hand on her arm.
"You'll be richly rewarded for your assistance, Madeline. Have no doubts on that score."
"I don't."
"Good." He paused, his grip on her arm tightening. "But just in case the thought of going to Adrian with this ever crosses your mind, you should know that there would be consequences."
They stared at each other, then he smiled.
"You were estranged from your parents before we recruited you, I know. But I think I know you well enough to guess that you wouldn't want to be responsible for anything unfortunate happening to them. It would be a bit much, wouldn't it, after the havoc you already wreaked in their lives."
She blinked in shock, as dizzy as if he had struck her in the face.
"I'll be in touch with you again shortly," he said, releasing her arm and nodding his dismissal.
She opened the door and exited, resisting the urge to run, not wanting him to see the extent to which he had unnerved her. She waited until she heard the door close behind her and the car drive off before she began to walk, unsteadily, heading toward the Section.
His threat hung over her darkly for several blocks. But as she walked along, the wind again blowing her hair into her face, that fear slowly faded. There was no real danger, she realized, because he would never have to make good on that threat. She knew, even if he didn't, that she would never go to Adrian with anything; that, as much as she distrusted George, she hated Adrian more.
Years before, after all, she had vowed to take vengeance on Section's leader, to dispense justice to the woman who had ruined Paul's life. While she would have preferred that vengeance to take a form of her own choosing, what George offered was an acceptable substitute. In some ways, it was even better, because -- with his backing -- it was more likely to succeed.
Her mind cleared in a way she hadn't experienced since her transfer; with each block that passed, she became more focused, confident, determined -- and somehow strangely grateful to George. He had given her a gift -- unintentionally, of course -- but no less priceless. Until now, each day at Section One had been torment: she had been confused and disoriented, unsure how she fit in, searching for some purpose, some motivation, some goal beyond mere survival. She had tasted it on the mission, sensed it in the interrogation room, but had been unable to identify it. Her misguided attempt to find it among the people at the train station had failed completely, leaving her more lost than ever.
But George gave her back her bearings. He had pointed out to her what she did best, reminded her who she really was. She wasn't a heroine or a martyr; her purpose wasn't to save or protect. Rather, she was an agent of destruction: a curse, a scourge, a dispenser of punishment -- lacking mercy, compassion, or pity. Her function was to serve as a relentless destroyer of sinners and criminals: the living nightmare of Section's enemies, of Adrian -- and of anyone else who deserved retribution. Maybe, in a sense, even of herself.
She squared her shoulders, ready to enter Section. She had a place there, after all. Maybe even a destiny. Now, it was time to fulfill it.
End of Part One
************
To go on to Part Two, click here.
Previous Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five