Fic: Succession, Chapter 11/31 (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 Eleven
When the last recording hissed and came to an end, Paul ripped off the headphones and threw them onto the table. He switched off the equipment with an abrupt jab of his finger, then he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, tensing his abdomen in a vain attempt to control the spasms that erupted from deep within his gut. But they were beyond control; they coursed through his body like an electrical current, scorching everything they touched.
He should have stopped listening immediately. From the very first tape -- innocuous as it had turned out to be in comparison to the others -- he had known how bad it would be. Yet he ignored his instincts and forced himself to continue, convinced that he would find an answer if he kept listening long enough. He had been so certain that he would hear something that would explain Madeline's distance and depression -- that he would find something terrible that Demetrios had done to her. Something, he hoped, that he could fix or protect her from.
So he had listened to every meeting, every conversation, every encounter -- he sat for hours at the monitoring station, motionless, absorbing every moment, every word, every sound. In the end, he realized there was nothing. No violence, no abuse, not a hint of anything even remotely sick or twisted.
If anything, it sounded like she very much enjoyed the experience.
As he listened to her voice -- thick and suffused with sensuality -- he found himself simultaneously revolted and aroused. This woman on the tapes, so enflamed and consumed with ardor, was clearly Madeline -- but at the same time she was someone he had never met. She never, ever sounded like that with him: never gasped his name so fervently, never begged him for more so desperately, never whispered to him so provocatively, each word drawn out with exquisite slowness in that rich, low voice. No, she never did any of those things -- and now, he found that he wanted them. He wanted them violently, even as they disgusted him.
But before that, he wanted to tear apart every man who had ever enjoyed them.
His jaw clenched so tightly he could feel the vein in his temple throb. Opening his eyes, he took a slow breath, trying to relax. His reaction was irrational, he knew. She was supposed to sound that way -- she needed to in order to carry out the mission successfully. She was a marvelous actress, as he had witnessed many times, and acting was all that this was. And yet…and yet, he couldn't stop himself from being swept away by a seething, uncontrollable rage, by a searing, blinding jealousy -- and by a strange feeling of powerlessness. No matter how much he hated this, there was nothing he could do. It was part of her job -- an important part of her job -- and would recur as long as Adrian saw fit. The problem was that he didn't think he could stand to watch it continue.
Until now, he had dealt with Madeline's valentine assignments by ignoring them, secure in the assumption that she despised what she was doing, that she suffered through it out of a sense of duty. But what if she didn't? He had found many of his own seduction missions to be quite pleasant, after all. Diverting. Why should she be any different? Demetrios was a good-looking man; so were many of the others.
The thought made him sick. It was a double-standard, he supposed. But the idea of her enjoying the touch of another man, even on a casual level, repulsed him, crowding his mind with unwelcome images to match the sounds he had witnessed. Images of what her face would look like, images of bodies intertwining, images of--
Enough.
Rising abruptly, he walked away from the table, crossed the floor, and began the climb up toward Adrian's office.
She looked up with an expression of surprise when he appeared at her door, setting aside the document she had been reading.
"Yes?"
"The teams are ready for the nineteenth," he announced, stepping further into the room and standing stiffly at attention.
"Good." She looked at him with a trace of puzzlement in her eyes. "Did you want something else?"
He nodded. "I'd like to lead the team to capture Demetrios myself."
She narrowed her eyes in disapproval. "Madeline and Charles will already be on site. We don't need three Level Five operatives at a single location. You're better deployed elsewhere."
"The raids on the other locations will be routine," he countered, forcing his voice into an emotionless tone. "Anyone can handle them. But Madeline and Charles will both be unarmed. My participation will ensure that things go smoothly."
"Perhaps." She cocked her head, studying him. "Is that the real reason for your request? A desire to see that things go smoothly?"
"Of course."
They stared at each other; Adrian's expression skeptical, his -- he hoped -- blank.
"I hope so," she said. "I would be most disappointed if you let personal issues influence your professional behavior. I've taught you better than that."
He remained motionless, saying nothing.
Adrian held his gaze for several moments, then smiled knowingly. "She doesn't need defending, you know."
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Paul. Really."
"That's not what this is about," he said, unable to repress a scowl at her chiding manner.
"Good," she said crisply. "I'm glad to hear it. Still, I think you need to understand something very important."
"Which is?"
She looked away for a moment, as if not quite certain how to explain herself. When she returned her gaze to him, her face was filled with a concerned expression, one that somehow seemed both tired and beseeching.
"You and I base our actions on principles," she began. "Right and wrong. Good and evil. That's what motivates us, what makes us get up every morning to continue the fight." She frowned and hesitated, her voice softening. "But you can't expect the same from her. She's not like us. She's just not capable of that kind of moral judgment. Frankly, it's unfair even to ask it of her. That would be setting her up for failure."
He opened his mouth to reply, but she held up her hand.
"She does what she's been trained to do, and she does it very well," Adrian said. "She's talented, and I believe she takes pride in her work. I honestly admire her devotion to it. She's a tremendous resource for the Section. But that's all she is. If you continue to sentimentalize her, you'll be making a grave error."
He stared at her, not sure whether to be appalled or enraged. How could she be so completely blind about a person under her command? It was baffling, aggravating -- and worrying. If she were blind about this, what else might she be mistaken about?
He chose his words with care, hiding his thoughts beneath a façade of calm. "Don't worry. I don't intend to be making any errors."
***
It was early evening and the sun still lingered, warming the room with its fading glow. Madeline sat with her back against the arm of her sofa, a book propped open on her raised knees. She had been reading the novel -- halfheartedly -- for the past hour, growing increasingly bored with the author's self-indulgent philosophizing. The book was supposed to be recreation, distraction, relaxation -- something to take her mind off her work, even if just for an evening. But she found herself unable to keep from critiquing it as she read. With each page, she found a new fault: the characters lacked motivation; the plot lacked coherence; the writing lacked artistry or wit. It was a fantasy, she concluded, by someone who had never truly witnessed life. And fantasies held no interest for her.
She snapped the book shut and set it down on the coffee table. Swinging her legs off the sofa, she stood and stretched. As tired as she was -- and as much as she had wanted to spend the evening alone, away from thoughts of Section and her mission -- she found herself at a loss for what to do.
She looked around her apartment distractedly. She had gone to painstaking efforts to create an atmosphere of harmony and comfort, selecting just the right furnishings, artwork, lighting. She had placed them precisely, arranging and rearranging everything countless times until she was satisfied. Each element -- space, color, light, texture -- was balanced, in just the right proportions, with just enough contrast and variety. There was just one thing missing, she now realized: the apartment was designed perfectly for soothing the senses, but provided nothing to occupy the mind.
Until now, that hadn't mattered. She hadn't needed distractions; in order to keep mentally busy, she simply brought work home. But at the moment, work was exactly what she wanted to escape from. She wanted -- no, needed -- to find something else to concentrate on. Something to organize, or put together, or tend -- something that would require sufficient attention to detail that it would free her mind from the Section, at least temporarily. Unfortunately, no such thing existed.
Just as she was about to head into the kitchen to see if she could find something to clean, she heard a rap on her door. She froze in place, heart lurching. It wouldn't be Paul, as he had a key; it wouldn't be a neighbor, as she kept strictly to herself. It was too late in the day for a delivery -- and besides, she was expecting nothing. There was no one, in fact, with a legitimate reason to knock.
She crossed the room swiftly, taking care to be silent. At the door, she pulled her gun from a nearby alcove and peered through the peephole. When she saw the brown-haired woman standing alone in the hallway, she breathed softly in relief and slipped the gun back into its hiding place. She unbolted the door and swung it open.
"Hello, Lisa," she said, smiling to cover her surprise.
"Hi," Lisa answered. "Is this a bad time?"
"No, not at all." She stepped back and gestured inside. "Come in."
Lisa strolled past Madeline into the apartment and waited as Madeline closed and locked the door.
"I was in the neighborhood," Lisa explained, turning to look at Madeline with an apologetic expression, "and I realized that I hadn't been by here in ages. So I thought I'd stop by and say hello, if you weren't busy."
Madeline smiled reassuringly. "I wasn't doing anything very exciting." She glanced toward the kitchen. "Would you like something? Some tea or coffee?"
"Coffee would be great."
"All right. I'll be back in a moment. Please make yourself at home."
Leaving Lisa behind in the living room, she walked into the kitchen and busied herself preparing the coffee. As the liquid gurgled and hissed, filling the room with its rich aroma, she moved about the room, opening cabinets and removing a serving tray, cups, saucers, and spoons.
She placed everything carefully on the tray, smiling to herself in perplexed amusement. Lisa needed to work on coming up with more plausible excuses. Her lie about why she had come to visit was so transparent it was almost charming. But if she hadn't simply been in the neighborhood, then what? It was quite curious.
Setting that question aside for the moment, she reached into a container on her countertop and pulled out several pastries. She arranged them in a neat circle on a plate and added the plate to the items on the tray. She then poured the coffee into a serving pot, set it on the tray, and carried the tray into the living room.
"Oh, wow," said Lisa, sitting up in her chair upon seeing Madeline enter. "You didn't need to go to that much trouble. Just a mug of coffee would have been fine."
"This isn't any trouble," she answered, and she deposited the tray onto the coffee table.
She rounded the table to join Lisa on the sofa, then she picked up the coffee pot and poured a serving into each of their cups.
"Thanks," said Lisa.
Picking up her cup and saucer, Madeline leaned back against the sofa and crossed her legs. She took small sips, watching in fascination as Lisa dug her spoon into the sugar bowl and deposited a mountainous spoonful into her coffee. Then a second. Then a third, followed by as much cream as she could pour in without the cup overflowing.
Lisa set down the cream and examined the cup with a frown, clearly wondering how to pick it up without sloshing the coffee over the sides. Hunching over the coffee table, she gingerly raised the cup to her lips and swallowed several slurps to reduce the liquid to a safer level. She set the cup back on the saucer and then settled more comfortably against the cushions of the sofa.
"So, what brought you into the neighborhood this evening?" Madeline asked, trying to keep her smile from turning into a laugh.
Lisa blinked. "Um, I was running some errands. You know, this and that."
"Mmm hmm."
Lisa reached for one of the pastries and took a bite. "Oh, this is good," she said, sounding somewhat surprised. "Real strawberries," she added approvingly.
"It's from the patisserie around the corner."
"Mmmm. Nice."
Lisa finished the remainder and brushed the crumbs off her lap. She glanced over at Madeline, and a look of discomfort suddenly shadowed her face.
"You remember lunch a few weeks ago?"
"Yes."
"We were talking about appearances, how to behave around men, um, what you need to do on a valentine missions." A tinge of pink crept across her cheeks. "Stuff like that."
"I remember."
Lisa reached for her coffee cup, took a long gulp, and set it down. She stared at the cup for several seconds before continuing. "I'd like to take you up on your offer," she said, her gaze still fixed on the coffee.
"My offer?"
"To help me, uh, learn to present myself better." Her face flushed a deep scarlet.
Madeline moved forward on the sofa, set down her cup and saucer, and turned to examine Lisa thoughtfully.
"Okay," she said, nodding. "I'd be happy to."
Lisa looked up at Madeline, her face filled with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. "Thanks."
Madeline examined Lisa in appraisal. So she had actually decided to take Madeline's advice. It was surprisingly gratifying to be listened to -- to have someone acknowledge that she had wisdom to share. And Lisa was making a very wise choice: one that Madeline was determined that she wouldn't regret. Indeed, it would be almost absurdly easy to help her; Lisa could do so much more with herself with relatively little effort. It was a shame, actually, that Madeline hadn't made the suggestion to her long before.
"We can start small," she said, thinking aloud. "First, a new hairstyle -- something a little less plain, but still easy to take care of. And light makeup, to bring out your features. I'll take you tomorrow to get some."
"Oh, I have makeup. I'll just start wearing it more often."
"No," said Madeline hastily, recalling the unflattering-looking shades Lisa had worn on past nights out. Lisa's idea of dressing up was that of the teenager she had been when she was recruited, not the woman she was now. "We need to get you something better-quality. It'll be more expensive, but trust me, it's worth it."
"Okay," Lisa answered, her tone serious.
"As for clothes and shoes, we can tackle that later. One thing at a time."
"Okay." Lisa smiled self-consciously. "Thanks for doing this. But, you know," she added, hesitating, "learning about clothing and makeup and such wasn't the main thing I wanted help with. Although I guess that's part of it."
Madeline raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
The look of discomfort returned to Lisa's face. "Well, you were talking about how the most important thing is learning how to pretend. How to manipulate and mislead people into doing things by acting a certain way. That's what I'd like advice about. How to do that."
"How to manipulate and mislead people," Madeline repeated, staring at Lisa in disbelief. "You want me to teach you that."
"That seemed to me to be the most practical thing I could learn."
Madeline sat back against the sofa, a dull feeling opening up inside her. Lisa had certainly come to the right person. Who better to approach, after all, than the expert in pretense and performance?
"There's not much to it," she said. "Everyone has a weakness -- something they want or fear. All you have to do is find out what it is and exploit it. Use it as a means of controlling them, or of distracting them from what you're really up to."
"But how can you bring yourself to do it if it's something…unpleasant?"
Madeline felt herself stiffen, as her thoughts began to stray, against her will, back to the mission. "You can do anything if the goal is important enough," she said firmly.
"Yeah," said Lisa, her expression oddly sad. "I guess you probably can." She made a brief face. "Do you have to psych yourself up somehow?"
"No," Madeline answered, her voice unintentionally sharp. "Don't think about it at all. Just do it. You can indulge in the luxury of thinking afterwards." She paused. "If you do it long enough, you stop thinking altogether."
Or so she hoped.
***
The drone of the engine sent a subtle vibration through the plane's body; after several hours, it had almost lulled Charles to sleep. He leaned back into the cushioned leather seat, his head jerking every few moments as he struggled to remain awake.
One last trip, he reminded himself. The constant flights -- even on the luxuriously appointed private aircraft that they used as part of their cover -- were starting to exhaust him. Now, at last, they would be over. Two days earlier, Demetrios had finally divulged the last of the customer information they needed; this visit, then, would be to take him into custody. After that, there would be no more flights to Greece -- and no more forced companionship with Madeline.
He took a long breath and moved his legs, stretching. Without really intending to, he glanced across the aisle to where Madeline sat. She was staring, motionless and silent, out the window; if she noticed him looking at her, she chose to ignore it. They hadn't exchanged a word since they boarded the plane -- and even before then, they had spoken only when completely necessary. Uncomfortable, he looked away, afraid that she would look up and meet his gaze.
Within Section itself, he had been avoiding her as much as possible. But he hadn't been able to do so completely; each time he had to interact with her, he was overwhelmed with sickening feelings of anger, resentment, and shame. They never seemed to fade: the wound reopened, fresh, every time he saw her. But maybe now -- now that the mission was ending, and their grotesque and embarrassing parody of a love affair would soon be over -- he could concentrate on putting her out of his mind. He could find a way, somehow, to forget her, to forget how desperately he had wanted her -- still wanted her, even now, when he knew it was hopeless.
What a pathetic fool he was. Unable to restrain himself, he stole one more glance across the aisle. Madeline hadn't moved, hadn't changed expression; she sat with a stony look on her face that Charles, with a sudden start, recognized as matching his own. So absorbed in his own suffering, he hadn't paid attention before. But looking at her, it was obvious: she, too, was exhausted, uncomfortable, and miserable.
As he stared at her, a wave of guilt crashed over him. How could he be angry with her? This wasn't her fault, after all. She hadn't sought his affection, hadn't led him on -- hadn't done anything to mislead him or invite this upon herself. It wasn't her fault he fell in love with her, any more than it was her fault she didn't happen to feel the same way. Love didn't work like that: it simply happened -- or it didn't. Unfortunately, in her case, it didn't. But that didn't warrant him hating her for it, sulking like a spurned schoolboy, wallowing in bitter resentment.
I'm a better man than this, he thought, growing disgusted with himself.
She wasn't interested in his love. So be it. Perhaps, however, she would accept his friendship, if he were decent enough to offer it.
In any event, they couldn't go on not speaking to each other. Section was far too small for that. And as he had been the one chiefly responsible for what had happened between them, it was his responsibility to fix it. Now, before it was too late.
He took a deep breath, stifling his nervousness. "You look tired," he ventured hesitantly.
She looked up, a startled expression passing briefly across her face. Then she shrugged. "We've been doing a great deal of traveling," she said, her tone aloof.
"Yes, it does wear one down after a while." He suppressed a frown, concentrating on trying to sound normal. "Are you scheduled for any down time after this?"
"I don't know yet."
"I'm due to lead a team in Tunisia the day after tomorrow." He gave a wry laugh. "Apparently, Adrian considers sleep to be a luxury I don't need."
She smiled in return; it was faint, even weak, but it was the first smile he had received from her in weeks, aside from the sugar-coated ones she bestowed when pretending to be Annette Pierce. "You seem to get a disproportionate number of our Middle Eastern missions."
"I think that's a legacy of my past life."
She looked perplexed.
"My life before the Section, that is," he explained hastily, realizing that his choice of words had sounded a bit strange. "I served in the British military, you see. Mostly in that part of the world. Adrian seems to think it made me an expert. Bloody Lawrence of Arabia or something."
"I see." Madeline's smile grew broader. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. "And it didn't?"
"Not really," he replied. Then he chuckled. "Actually, I do have an interest in the region, but not in anything that would be useful for the Section."
"What do you mean?"
"Ancient Egypt. It's a bit of a hobby of mine. Started years ago, when I was doing my officer's training. I wrote a thesis on the military campaigns of Thutmose the Third, and I've been fascinated with the history ever since."
"Really? How interesting."
To his surprise, the look on her face seemed genuine. Most people he mentioned the topic to reacted with polite boredom -- at best.
"Most people think it's all about mummies and pyramids," he explained, growing more enthusiastic. "Cleopatra, King Tut, and mysterious curses. That sort of nonsense."
She laughed slightly. "I take it it isn't."
"Not at all. The history of the Egyptian dynasties is as rich and dramatic as anything in Shakespeare. War, conquest, murder, intrigue, betrayal -- all set against the flowering of one of the greatest civilizations in history. It…." He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. Surely she didn't want to hear him prattle on like this.
"It what?"
He cleared his throat self-consciously. "It helps me keep things in perspective. The Egyptians were the most advanced civilization of their time -- awe-inspiring in their grandeur and their glory. They struggled, and fought, and sacrificed; they subdued their enemies and built their monuments; they thought they could achieve immortality. But now…." He paused, frowning. "Everything they did is insignificant to us, except as a matter of curiosity or academic interest. None of their accomplishments really mattered in the long run."
Madeline listened to him quietly, her expression growing reflective. He smiled sadly.
"The two of us are just footsoldiers in the service of yet another civilization," he said. "Perhaps what we do is equally insignificant."
For a moment, she seemed stricken, her eyes widening with a look of dismay. Then she sat up straighter and her expression hardened, as if she had wiped all doubts away by sheer force of will.
"You can't allow yourself to think that way," she said.
"Why?"
She stared at him, her focus sharpening. "What we do has a global impact," she said. "It matters now, and it matters to future generations. We're influencing the course of world history. How can that be insignificant?" Her words were concentrated in tone, colored with an unsettling blend of determination, persuasion and accusation.
Watching her, seeing the fervent, almost zealous spark that lit her face, he recognized -- with shock -- that she truly believed what she was saying. She had bought into Adrian's grandiose vision, whether she realized it or not. That vision, once imposed from the outside, had become her own.
There were moments when he believed in it, too, although they came less frequently with age. Madeline, however, seemed to need to believe it -- she couldn't see the transience of their lives as a relief, as the lifting of a burden, the way he now did. To her, such a thought would have been demoralizing, devastating. Instead, she grasped at a faith -- wholehearted and unquestioning -- in the utter importance of their cause. It was a conviction that he envied -- and one that he didn't have the heart to challenge.
"You're quite right," he said, forcing a cheerful note. "I'm being gloomy. That happens when I'm tired."
He looked out the window and noticed that they had descended several thousand feet.
"We're close to landing," he remarked. "Time to take down that bastard Demetrios for good."
They held a look, and she finally smiled. "I can't wait."
************
To go on to Chapter Twelve, click here.
Previous Chapters
Part One
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Seven
Chapter Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Three
Chapter Nine
Chapter Four
Chapter Ten
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
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 Eleven
When the last recording hissed and came to an end, Paul ripped off the headphones and threw them onto the table. He switched off the equipment with an abrupt jab of his finger, then he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, tensing his abdomen in a vain attempt to control the spasms that erupted from deep within his gut. But they were beyond control; they coursed through his body like an electrical current, scorching everything they touched.
He should have stopped listening immediately. From the very first tape -- innocuous as it had turned out to be in comparison to the others -- he had known how bad it would be. Yet he ignored his instincts and forced himself to continue, convinced that he would find an answer if he kept listening long enough. He had been so certain that he would hear something that would explain Madeline's distance and depression -- that he would find something terrible that Demetrios had done to her. Something, he hoped, that he could fix or protect her from.
So he had listened to every meeting, every conversation, every encounter -- he sat for hours at the monitoring station, motionless, absorbing every moment, every word, every sound. In the end, he realized there was nothing. No violence, no abuse, not a hint of anything even remotely sick or twisted.
If anything, it sounded like she very much enjoyed the experience.
As he listened to her voice -- thick and suffused with sensuality -- he found himself simultaneously revolted and aroused. This woman on the tapes, so enflamed and consumed with ardor, was clearly Madeline -- but at the same time she was someone he had never met. She never, ever sounded like that with him: never gasped his name so fervently, never begged him for more so desperately, never whispered to him so provocatively, each word drawn out with exquisite slowness in that rich, low voice. No, she never did any of those things -- and now, he found that he wanted them. He wanted them violently, even as they disgusted him.
But before that, he wanted to tear apart every man who had ever enjoyed them.
His jaw clenched so tightly he could feel the vein in his temple throb. Opening his eyes, he took a slow breath, trying to relax. His reaction was irrational, he knew. She was supposed to sound that way -- she needed to in order to carry out the mission successfully. She was a marvelous actress, as he had witnessed many times, and acting was all that this was. And yet…and yet, he couldn't stop himself from being swept away by a seething, uncontrollable rage, by a searing, blinding jealousy -- and by a strange feeling of powerlessness. No matter how much he hated this, there was nothing he could do. It was part of her job -- an important part of her job -- and would recur as long as Adrian saw fit. The problem was that he didn't think he could stand to watch it continue.
Until now, he had dealt with Madeline's valentine assignments by ignoring them, secure in the assumption that she despised what she was doing, that she suffered through it out of a sense of duty. But what if she didn't? He had found many of his own seduction missions to be quite pleasant, after all. Diverting. Why should she be any different? Demetrios was a good-looking man; so were many of the others.
The thought made him sick. It was a double-standard, he supposed. But the idea of her enjoying the touch of another man, even on a casual level, repulsed him, crowding his mind with unwelcome images to match the sounds he had witnessed. Images of what her face would look like, images of bodies intertwining, images of--
Enough.
Rising abruptly, he walked away from the table, crossed the floor, and began the climb up toward Adrian's office.
She looked up with an expression of surprise when he appeared at her door, setting aside the document she had been reading.
"Yes?"
"The teams are ready for the nineteenth," he announced, stepping further into the room and standing stiffly at attention.
"Good." She looked at him with a trace of puzzlement in her eyes. "Did you want something else?"
He nodded. "I'd like to lead the team to capture Demetrios myself."
She narrowed her eyes in disapproval. "Madeline and Charles will already be on site. We don't need three Level Five operatives at a single location. You're better deployed elsewhere."
"The raids on the other locations will be routine," he countered, forcing his voice into an emotionless tone. "Anyone can handle them. But Madeline and Charles will both be unarmed. My participation will ensure that things go smoothly."
"Perhaps." She cocked her head, studying him. "Is that the real reason for your request? A desire to see that things go smoothly?"
"Of course."
They stared at each other; Adrian's expression skeptical, his -- he hoped -- blank.
"I hope so," she said. "I would be most disappointed if you let personal issues influence your professional behavior. I've taught you better than that."
He remained motionless, saying nothing.
Adrian held his gaze for several moments, then smiled knowingly. "She doesn't need defending, you know."
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Paul. Really."
"That's not what this is about," he said, unable to repress a scowl at her chiding manner.
"Good," she said crisply. "I'm glad to hear it. Still, I think you need to understand something very important."
"Which is?"
She looked away for a moment, as if not quite certain how to explain herself. When she returned her gaze to him, her face was filled with a concerned expression, one that somehow seemed both tired and beseeching.
"You and I base our actions on principles," she began. "Right and wrong. Good and evil. That's what motivates us, what makes us get up every morning to continue the fight." She frowned and hesitated, her voice softening. "But you can't expect the same from her. She's not like us. She's just not capable of that kind of moral judgment. Frankly, it's unfair even to ask it of her. That would be setting her up for failure."
He opened his mouth to reply, but she held up her hand.
"She does what she's been trained to do, and she does it very well," Adrian said. "She's talented, and I believe she takes pride in her work. I honestly admire her devotion to it. She's a tremendous resource for the Section. But that's all she is. If you continue to sentimentalize her, you'll be making a grave error."
He stared at her, not sure whether to be appalled or enraged. How could she be so completely blind about a person under her command? It was baffling, aggravating -- and worrying. If she were blind about this, what else might she be mistaken about?
He chose his words with care, hiding his thoughts beneath a façade of calm. "Don't worry. I don't intend to be making any errors."
***
It was early evening and the sun still lingered, warming the room with its fading glow. Madeline sat with her back against the arm of her sofa, a book propped open on her raised knees. She had been reading the novel -- halfheartedly -- for the past hour, growing increasingly bored with the author's self-indulgent philosophizing. The book was supposed to be recreation, distraction, relaxation -- something to take her mind off her work, even if just for an evening. But she found herself unable to keep from critiquing it as she read. With each page, she found a new fault: the characters lacked motivation; the plot lacked coherence; the writing lacked artistry or wit. It was a fantasy, she concluded, by someone who had never truly witnessed life. And fantasies held no interest for her.
She snapped the book shut and set it down on the coffee table. Swinging her legs off the sofa, she stood and stretched. As tired as she was -- and as much as she had wanted to spend the evening alone, away from thoughts of Section and her mission -- she found herself at a loss for what to do.
She looked around her apartment distractedly. She had gone to painstaking efforts to create an atmosphere of harmony and comfort, selecting just the right furnishings, artwork, lighting. She had placed them precisely, arranging and rearranging everything countless times until she was satisfied. Each element -- space, color, light, texture -- was balanced, in just the right proportions, with just enough contrast and variety. There was just one thing missing, she now realized: the apartment was designed perfectly for soothing the senses, but provided nothing to occupy the mind.
Until now, that hadn't mattered. She hadn't needed distractions; in order to keep mentally busy, she simply brought work home. But at the moment, work was exactly what she wanted to escape from. She wanted -- no, needed -- to find something else to concentrate on. Something to organize, or put together, or tend -- something that would require sufficient attention to detail that it would free her mind from the Section, at least temporarily. Unfortunately, no such thing existed.
Just as she was about to head into the kitchen to see if she could find something to clean, she heard a rap on her door. She froze in place, heart lurching. It wouldn't be Paul, as he had a key; it wouldn't be a neighbor, as she kept strictly to herself. It was too late in the day for a delivery -- and besides, she was expecting nothing. There was no one, in fact, with a legitimate reason to knock.
She crossed the room swiftly, taking care to be silent. At the door, she pulled her gun from a nearby alcove and peered through the peephole. When she saw the brown-haired woman standing alone in the hallway, she breathed softly in relief and slipped the gun back into its hiding place. She unbolted the door and swung it open.
"Hello, Lisa," she said, smiling to cover her surprise.
"Hi," Lisa answered. "Is this a bad time?"
"No, not at all." She stepped back and gestured inside. "Come in."
Lisa strolled past Madeline into the apartment and waited as Madeline closed and locked the door.
"I was in the neighborhood," Lisa explained, turning to look at Madeline with an apologetic expression, "and I realized that I hadn't been by here in ages. So I thought I'd stop by and say hello, if you weren't busy."
Madeline smiled reassuringly. "I wasn't doing anything very exciting." She glanced toward the kitchen. "Would you like something? Some tea or coffee?"
"Coffee would be great."
"All right. I'll be back in a moment. Please make yourself at home."
Leaving Lisa behind in the living room, she walked into the kitchen and busied herself preparing the coffee. As the liquid gurgled and hissed, filling the room with its rich aroma, she moved about the room, opening cabinets and removing a serving tray, cups, saucers, and spoons.
She placed everything carefully on the tray, smiling to herself in perplexed amusement. Lisa needed to work on coming up with more plausible excuses. Her lie about why she had come to visit was so transparent it was almost charming. But if she hadn't simply been in the neighborhood, then what? It was quite curious.
Setting that question aside for the moment, she reached into a container on her countertop and pulled out several pastries. She arranged them in a neat circle on a plate and added the plate to the items on the tray. She then poured the coffee into a serving pot, set it on the tray, and carried the tray into the living room.
"Oh, wow," said Lisa, sitting up in her chair upon seeing Madeline enter. "You didn't need to go to that much trouble. Just a mug of coffee would have been fine."
"This isn't any trouble," she answered, and she deposited the tray onto the coffee table.
She rounded the table to join Lisa on the sofa, then she picked up the coffee pot and poured a serving into each of their cups.
"Thanks," said Lisa.
Picking up her cup and saucer, Madeline leaned back against the sofa and crossed her legs. She took small sips, watching in fascination as Lisa dug her spoon into the sugar bowl and deposited a mountainous spoonful into her coffee. Then a second. Then a third, followed by as much cream as she could pour in without the cup overflowing.
Lisa set down the cream and examined the cup with a frown, clearly wondering how to pick it up without sloshing the coffee over the sides. Hunching over the coffee table, she gingerly raised the cup to her lips and swallowed several slurps to reduce the liquid to a safer level. She set the cup back on the saucer and then settled more comfortably against the cushions of the sofa.
"So, what brought you into the neighborhood this evening?" Madeline asked, trying to keep her smile from turning into a laugh.
Lisa blinked. "Um, I was running some errands. You know, this and that."
"Mmm hmm."
Lisa reached for one of the pastries and took a bite. "Oh, this is good," she said, sounding somewhat surprised. "Real strawberries," she added approvingly.
"It's from the patisserie around the corner."
"Mmmm. Nice."
Lisa finished the remainder and brushed the crumbs off her lap. She glanced over at Madeline, and a look of discomfort suddenly shadowed her face.
"You remember lunch a few weeks ago?"
"Yes."
"We were talking about appearances, how to behave around men, um, what you need to do on a valentine missions." A tinge of pink crept across her cheeks. "Stuff like that."
"I remember."
Lisa reached for her coffee cup, took a long gulp, and set it down. She stared at the cup for several seconds before continuing. "I'd like to take you up on your offer," she said, her gaze still fixed on the coffee.
"My offer?"
"To help me, uh, learn to present myself better." Her face flushed a deep scarlet.
Madeline moved forward on the sofa, set down her cup and saucer, and turned to examine Lisa thoughtfully.
"Okay," she said, nodding. "I'd be happy to."
Lisa looked up at Madeline, her face filled with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. "Thanks."
Madeline examined Lisa in appraisal. So she had actually decided to take Madeline's advice. It was surprisingly gratifying to be listened to -- to have someone acknowledge that she had wisdom to share. And Lisa was making a very wise choice: one that Madeline was determined that she wouldn't regret. Indeed, it would be almost absurdly easy to help her; Lisa could do so much more with herself with relatively little effort. It was a shame, actually, that Madeline hadn't made the suggestion to her long before.
"We can start small," she said, thinking aloud. "First, a new hairstyle -- something a little less plain, but still easy to take care of. And light makeup, to bring out your features. I'll take you tomorrow to get some."
"Oh, I have makeup. I'll just start wearing it more often."
"No," said Madeline hastily, recalling the unflattering-looking shades Lisa had worn on past nights out. Lisa's idea of dressing up was that of the teenager she had been when she was recruited, not the woman she was now. "We need to get you something better-quality. It'll be more expensive, but trust me, it's worth it."
"Okay," Lisa answered, her tone serious.
"As for clothes and shoes, we can tackle that later. One thing at a time."
"Okay." Lisa smiled self-consciously. "Thanks for doing this. But, you know," she added, hesitating, "learning about clothing and makeup and such wasn't the main thing I wanted help with. Although I guess that's part of it."
Madeline raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
The look of discomfort returned to Lisa's face. "Well, you were talking about how the most important thing is learning how to pretend. How to manipulate and mislead people into doing things by acting a certain way. That's what I'd like advice about. How to do that."
"How to manipulate and mislead people," Madeline repeated, staring at Lisa in disbelief. "You want me to teach you that."
"That seemed to me to be the most practical thing I could learn."
Madeline sat back against the sofa, a dull feeling opening up inside her. Lisa had certainly come to the right person. Who better to approach, after all, than the expert in pretense and performance?
"There's not much to it," she said. "Everyone has a weakness -- something they want or fear. All you have to do is find out what it is and exploit it. Use it as a means of controlling them, or of distracting them from what you're really up to."
"But how can you bring yourself to do it if it's something…unpleasant?"
Madeline felt herself stiffen, as her thoughts began to stray, against her will, back to the mission. "You can do anything if the goal is important enough," she said firmly.
"Yeah," said Lisa, her expression oddly sad. "I guess you probably can." She made a brief face. "Do you have to psych yourself up somehow?"
"No," Madeline answered, her voice unintentionally sharp. "Don't think about it at all. Just do it. You can indulge in the luxury of thinking afterwards." She paused. "If you do it long enough, you stop thinking altogether."
Or so she hoped.
***
The drone of the engine sent a subtle vibration through the plane's body; after several hours, it had almost lulled Charles to sleep. He leaned back into the cushioned leather seat, his head jerking every few moments as he struggled to remain awake.
One last trip, he reminded himself. The constant flights -- even on the luxuriously appointed private aircraft that they used as part of their cover -- were starting to exhaust him. Now, at last, they would be over. Two days earlier, Demetrios had finally divulged the last of the customer information they needed; this visit, then, would be to take him into custody. After that, there would be no more flights to Greece -- and no more forced companionship with Madeline.
He took a long breath and moved his legs, stretching. Without really intending to, he glanced across the aisle to where Madeline sat. She was staring, motionless and silent, out the window; if she noticed him looking at her, she chose to ignore it. They hadn't exchanged a word since they boarded the plane -- and even before then, they had spoken only when completely necessary. Uncomfortable, he looked away, afraid that she would look up and meet his gaze.
Within Section itself, he had been avoiding her as much as possible. But he hadn't been able to do so completely; each time he had to interact with her, he was overwhelmed with sickening feelings of anger, resentment, and shame. They never seemed to fade: the wound reopened, fresh, every time he saw her. But maybe now -- now that the mission was ending, and their grotesque and embarrassing parody of a love affair would soon be over -- he could concentrate on putting her out of his mind. He could find a way, somehow, to forget her, to forget how desperately he had wanted her -- still wanted her, even now, when he knew it was hopeless.
What a pathetic fool he was. Unable to restrain himself, he stole one more glance across the aisle. Madeline hadn't moved, hadn't changed expression; she sat with a stony look on her face that Charles, with a sudden start, recognized as matching his own. So absorbed in his own suffering, he hadn't paid attention before. But looking at her, it was obvious: she, too, was exhausted, uncomfortable, and miserable.
As he stared at her, a wave of guilt crashed over him. How could he be angry with her? This wasn't her fault, after all. She hadn't sought his affection, hadn't led him on -- hadn't done anything to mislead him or invite this upon herself. It wasn't her fault he fell in love with her, any more than it was her fault she didn't happen to feel the same way. Love didn't work like that: it simply happened -- or it didn't. Unfortunately, in her case, it didn't. But that didn't warrant him hating her for it, sulking like a spurned schoolboy, wallowing in bitter resentment.
I'm a better man than this, he thought, growing disgusted with himself.
She wasn't interested in his love. So be it. Perhaps, however, she would accept his friendship, if he were decent enough to offer it.
In any event, they couldn't go on not speaking to each other. Section was far too small for that. And as he had been the one chiefly responsible for what had happened between them, it was his responsibility to fix it. Now, before it was too late.
He took a deep breath, stifling his nervousness. "You look tired," he ventured hesitantly.
She looked up, a startled expression passing briefly across her face. Then she shrugged. "We've been doing a great deal of traveling," she said, her tone aloof.
"Yes, it does wear one down after a while." He suppressed a frown, concentrating on trying to sound normal. "Are you scheduled for any down time after this?"
"I don't know yet."
"I'm due to lead a team in Tunisia the day after tomorrow." He gave a wry laugh. "Apparently, Adrian considers sleep to be a luxury I don't need."
She smiled in return; it was faint, even weak, but it was the first smile he had received from her in weeks, aside from the sugar-coated ones she bestowed when pretending to be Annette Pierce. "You seem to get a disproportionate number of our Middle Eastern missions."
"I think that's a legacy of my past life."
She looked perplexed.
"My life before the Section, that is," he explained hastily, realizing that his choice of words had sounded a bit strange. "I served in the British military, you see. Mostly in that part of the world. Adrian seems to think it made me an expert. Bloody Lawrence of Arabia or something."
"I see." Madeline's smile grew broader. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. "And it didn't?"
"Not really," he replied. Then he chuckled. "Actually, I do have an interest in the region, but not in anything that would be useful for the Section."
"What do you mean?"
"Ancient Egypt. It's a bit of a hobby of mine. Started years ago, when I was doing my officer's training. I wrote a thesis on the military campaigns of Thutmose the Third, and I've been fascinated with the history ever since."
"Really? How interesting."
To his surprise, the look on her face seemed genuine. Most people he mentioned the topic to reacted with polite boredom -- at best.
"Most people think it's all about mummies and pyramids," he explained, growing more enthusiastic. "Cleopatra, King Tut, and mysterious curses. That sort of nonsense."
She laughed slightly. "I take it it isn't."
"Not at all. The history of the Egyptian dynasties is as rich and dramatic as anything in Shakespeare. War, conquest, murder, intrigue, betrayal -- all set against the flowering of one of the greatest civilizations in history. It…." He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. Surely she didn't want to hear him prattle on like this.
"It what?"
He cleared his throat self-consciously. "It helps me keep things in perspective. The Egyptians were the most advanced civilization of their time -- awe-inspiring in their grandeur and their glory. They struggled, and fought, and sacrificed; they subdued their enemies and built their monuments; they thought they could achieve immortality. But now…." He paused, frowning. "Everything they did is insignificant to us, except as a matter of curiosity or academic interest. None of their accomplishments really mattered in the long run."
Madeline listened to him quietly, her expression growing reflective. He smiled sadly.
"The two of us are just footsoldiers in the service of yet another civilization," he said. "Perhaps what we do is equally insignificant."
For a moment, she seemed stricken, her eyes widening with a look of dismay. Then she sat up straighter and her expression hardened, as if she had wiped all doubts away by sheer force of will.
"You can't allow yourself to think that way," she said.
"Why?"
She stared at him, her focus sharpening. "What we do has a global impact," she said. "It matters now, and it matters to future generations. We're influencing the course of world history. How can that be insignificant?" Her words were concentrated in tone, colored with an unsettling blend of determination, persuasion and accusation.
Watching her, seeing the fervent, almost zealous spark that lit her face, he recognized -- with shock -- that she truly believed what she was saying. She had bought into Adrian's grandiose vision, whether she realized it or not. That vision, once imposed from the outside, had become her own.
There were moments when he believed in it, too, although they came less frequently with age. Madeline, however, seemed to need to believe it -- she couldn't see the transience of their lives as a relief, as the lifting of a burden, the way he now did. To her, such a thought would have been demoralizing, devastating. Instead, she grasped at a faith -- wholehearted and unquestioning -- in the utter importance of their cause. It was a conviction that he envied -- and one that he didn't have the heart to challenge.
"You're quite right," he said, forcing a cheerful note. "I'm being gloomy. That happens when I'm tired."
He looked out the window and noticed that they had descended several thousand feet.
"We're close to landing," he remarked. "Time to take down that bastard Demetrios for good."
They held a look, and she finally smiled. "I can't wait."
************
To go on to Chapter Twelve, click here.
Previous Chapters
Part One
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Seven
Chapter Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Three
Chapter Nine
Chapter Four
Chapter Ten
Chapter Five
Chapter Six