Fic: Succession, Chapter 15/31 (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).
Part Three - 1987
Chapter Fifteen
With a booted kick that sent the door flying open, Paul forced his way into the bathroom. He stepped across the threshold and aimed his gun directly ahead -- straight at the forehead of the wide-eyed man quivering in the bathtub.
Paul scowled in disappointment. He had hoped to find his target, a Red Cell commander; instead, he confronted a mere flunky, a man he recognized from surveillance photos as a green recruit. Someone who would know nothing. Someone useless. Someone who was a waste of his rapidly ebbing time.
"Where's Norasty?" Paul demanded, fighting the urge to exterminate the man like a cockroach discovered scuttling in a cupboard.
The man gaped at him without response. Soapsuds dripped slowly down his thin chest.
"I said, where's Norasty?" Paul repeated, lowering his voice menacingly. "We know he lives here."
He glared at the man and began a silent count to ten before resorting to more severe means of persuasion. But before he could end his count, the other man's face twitched strangely. His lips trembled, and then he burst out in a sudden guffaw, his bony shoulders shaking in mirth.
A joker. Great. Paul could give him something to laugh about.
Stuffing his gun in the holster against the small of his back, he strode toward the tub and grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck. With an angry grunt, he shoved the man forward, pressing his full weight down as he thrust the man's face under the water.
The man thrashed in panic, clawing at the slick sides of the bathtub, but only succeeded in sloshing heavy waves of water over the edge and onto the floor. Paul held him down for nearly a minute before he yanked him back up by the hair.
"That was just a barrel of laughs, wasn't it? Now, where's Norasty?"
The man shook his head, coughing and spitting out water, and started to laugh giddily. "I don't know," he said, gasping out the words in between his sniggers. "He left for Turkey three days ago. He should have been back by now."
The sight of the man giggling like an idiot triggered a feeling of frustrated loathing. Paul lunged at him, seizing his neck with both hands as he pushed him backwards into the tub. He squeezed his thumbs against the fragile skin of the throat, and his nails drew a tiny cloud of red that spiraled through the water. Submerged, the man's blond hair swirled around his face, his eyes bugging, as a trail of bubbles escaped from his mouth and nose. He kicked, squirmed, and tugged desperately at Paul's hands; his motions splashed water wildly in every direction, drenching Paul in the face and chest. The more the man struggled, the tighter Paul's grip became -- until, slowly, the splashing subsided.
When the movement and air bubbles had almost ceased, Paul wrenched the man back to the surface. The man choked violently and retched. He sputtered and wheezed for air as water spilled thickly out of the corners of his mouth.
"Tell me where Norasty is," Paul said, kneeling by the tub in barely-controlled fury, "or next time you'll drown."
The man coughed for several moments, but then began to laugh again, tittering uncontrollably. "I don't know where he is, I swear."
Paul struck the man across the face. "What the hell is so funny?" he shouted. "You think this is a joke? You think I won't snap your scrawny neck if you don't tell me what I want?"
The man shook his head helplessly. "Nothing's funny. I just can't stop."
He erupted in gales of laughter again as Paul leaned back on his heels, no longer angry, just baffled.
"Are you on drugs?"
"No, I swear. I'm sorry. I can't help myself. Please, don't hurt me anymore."
Abruptly, the laughter ceased. The man began to blink rapidly, moisture filling his eyes -- then just as suddenly as he stopped laughing, he burst into tears.
"Christ," muttered Paul. He rose to his feet and looked down at the man in disgust. He pulled out his gun and waved it impatiently. "Get out of the tub."
Instead of responding, the man curled his knees up and covered his face with his hands, sobbing loudly. Paul stared, at a loss for what to do -- he was just about to reach into the tub to haul the man out when he heard a gruff voice from the doorway.
"The building is secure. Instructions?"
Paul looked over his shoulder to see Patrick standing stone-faced in the hallway.
"No sign of Norasty?" Paul asked.
"No."
"How many hostiles?"
"Three."
"Four, with this one. Get some clothes on him and bring him out with the rest."
As a wailing sound emerged from the bathtub, Patrick's face wrinkled in an odd expression.
Paul shrugged and stepped past Patrick to exit the door, dripping water along the way.
"He's either on something or he's a lunatic. We'll leave it to Madeline to find out which."
***
As she walked along the corridor outside Containment, Adrian was struck by the silence. Her visits to this part of Section were rare; each time, she somehow expected to hear screams of terror, even through the soundproof doors. Instead, there was always a surprising hush, as if the antiseptic sterility of the surroundings swallowed all noise.
Rounding a corner, she slowed her pace, spotting the figure seated at an alcove workstation. The soft clack of a keyboard grew louder as she approached; when she reached the woman's side, she waited several seconds to see if she would look up from her work, then cleared her throat.
"Madeline," she said. "May I have a moment?"
Madeline swung around with a surprised expression and started to stand. Adrian waved her back down, then she pulled over another chair and sat, clasping her hands on her knee.
"I just concluded Paul's debrief," Adrian announced. "Norasty wasn't at the Madrid safe house."
"Yes, so I heard."
"We had firm intel placing him there on Tuesday." She sighed wearily and stared down the long, empty corridor. "It's unfortunate, but he seems to have slipped through our fingers again."
Red Cell's leadership -- Norasty included -- had an ability to melt away that Section's other enemies had never achieved. At first, it hadn't mattered -- Red Cell seemed a minor player, a fringe group whose activities were overshadowed by the Cold War battles of the superpowers and their proxies. Recently, however, she had come to see it as the more significant threat. Unlike the older revolutionary organizations sponsored by the Soviets or China, this group was uncontrollable, irrational -- causing destruction not to serve the geopolitical ends of its masters, but for terror's own sake.
Adrian had always prided herself on her ability to predict -- and outwit -- the behavior of the enemy. But Red Cell, and the growing number of groups like it, posed a new challenge. It required a change in analysis she wasn't certain she was capable of making, a logic completely different from what she was accustomed to -- indeed, a kind of illogic, a willingness to consider actions so dreadful that they crossed the line into barbarism and inhumanity.
It required, in truth, the ability to think like a madman. An ability Adrian did not wish to cultivate. Fortunately, however, there were others in Section she could rely upon for that skill.
She returned her gaze to Madeline. The young woman sat patiently, her hands folded in her lap, awaiting her commander's instructions with an impassive expression -- like an engine on idle, whirring softly until brought to life by a tap on the accelerator.
"Do you have any input as to where he might go next?" Adrian asked.
"There's a sixty-three percent probability that he's heading to one of three locations we have under surveillance," Madeline answered quickly, her tone clipped and precise. "I'll have an updated profile factoring in that contingency within an hour."
"Good."
Adrian examined the other woman with approval. Madeline had made such progress from the old days, when she had to be constantly monitored and disciplined -- now, properly conditioned, she functioned with a smooth efficiency, like a well-oiled gear. She seemed to have accepted her designated place within the Section, had learned to live with the restrictions that Adrian had imposed -- perhaps had even come to respect her superior's reasons for doing so.
She was still deeply flawed, a moral cripple in certain respects, but that no longer posed any real danger. Her loyalty to -- and identification with -- the Section was so deeply internalized that her weaknesses had transformed into strengths. They gave her a unique view into the mind of the enemy. They enabled her to carry out the ugly but necessary tasks that Section depended on. They were the raw material that Adrian had forged into a powerful weapon -- sharp and cruel, cutting down the enemy without mercy, but carefully sheathed at home.
To her surprise, Adrian found herself growing more and more dependent on her.
She blinked, returning her thoughts to the present. "I take it the prisoners weren't useful."
"They told us what they knew about Red Cell's hierarchy, which wasn't much," Madeline replied, her tone apologetic.
"I see." Adrian rose to her feet to depart. "Thank you, Madeline. Let me know if you learn anything new."
"There is one thing," Madeline added, a faint mixture of worry and excitement seeping into her expression. "I was going to send you a report, but since you're here…."
Adrian frowned in surprise. It wasn't like Madeline to allow signs of concern to show so blatantly. "What is it?"
"One of the prisoners is quite curious."
The vague answer -- and the hesitant manner in which it was delivered -- triggered an instinctive sense of apprehension. She returned to her seat, filled with uneasy alertness, waiting for Madeline to elaborate.
"His behavior has been highly aberrant," Madeline explained. "Extreme displays of emotion: crying, laughing, cowering, screaming, all without any apparent relationship to what's going on around him at the time."
"He's in shock," Adrian said dismissively. "Surely you've seen that before."
"I thought that at first," Madeline continued. "But then we found unusual chemical residues in his blood."
"A drug addict?"
"I don't think so. The residues aren't consistent with any known recreational drugs."
As the implication of Madeline's words sank in, Adrian leaned forward, intrigued. "What then?"
Madeline hesitated, looking uncharacteristically nervous, before taking a deep breath. "They suggest the presence of a neurological conditioning process."
"Some sort of mind control?" Adrian asked, almost too astonished to believe what she had heard. Red Cell had never shown that level of sophistication before -- if they were adopting such techniques, it was an ominous turning point.
"To put it in simple terms, yes." Madeline glanced at a folder lying on the desk. "When Medlab gave me the bloodwork, I asked them to examine him further."
"And?"
"I'm awaiting the results."
Adrian stood again, her mood grim. "I'll be conducting briefings for the rest of the day. But I want to be interrupted the instant you know anything further."
Madeline nodded. "Understood."
***
The row of televisions blared out a deafening cacophony. Hyperactive sports play-by-plays competed with melodramatic movie dialogue and sitcom laugh tracks for the attention of wandering shoppers. The noise and flashing images were almost mesmerizing; Lisa stared blankly at the wall of screens for several minutes before moving on, circling toward the audio equipment for what seemed like the hundredth time.
The electronics department was large by department store standards, but after twenty minutes Lisa had retraced her path through the aisles so many times she had the prices memorized. She had pressed buttons, turned dials, read display cards -- fending off the inquiries of salespeople while she snuck anxious glances at the entrance.
Her impatience growing, she checked her watch once more. As she made an angry vow to leave in five minutes, she looked up again and started: a middle-aged woman with sharp features and a blunt, blonde bob had materialized inside the entrance. They avoided each other's gaze, but Lisa watched the other woman's progress out of the corner of her eye. The woman took her time, browsing with deceptive casualness, but gradually made her way into Lisa's aisle. When she was a few feet away, she looked over at Lisa and smiled politely.
"Excuse me, but do you know the difference between these brands? I want a portable tape player, but there are so many to choose from."
"I was looking at this one," Lisa answered, and she gestured toward an enormous combination radio/tape player with shiny, detachable speakers. "It got a good rating in a consumer review."
"Let's see how it sounds," the woman suggested, reaching for the switch and turning it on.
The latest pop hit began pulsing through the speakers: a droning bass, a thumping drum machine, a teenaged singer's studio-enhanced voice. The bubble-gum melody was excruciating to listen to -- but loud enough to shield their conversation from people in nearby aisles.
"What is it, Mireille?" Lisa asked grimly. "I had to make all sorts of excuses to get out this afternoon. I'm supposed to be prepping a mission."
The Director of Section's Level 16 pursed her lips daintily. "I've been thinking. About our arrangement."
Lisa swallowed hard in dismay. Once, their "arrangement" had seemed so simple -- a relationship that Lisa could control. It had started out that way, at least. But somehow along the way, she found herself the one under control -- her own power mysteriously turned against her by Mireille's jiu-jitsu-like maneuvering.
It was her own fault, unfortunately. She had allowed paranoia to rule her thinking, leading her to a decision that she regretted more and more each day. Almost two years before, plagued with the fear that Mireille would eventually contact someone to see if the transfer to Section Four Lisa had promised was imminent, Lisa had broken down and contacted Mireille surreptitiously.
There was no transfer, Lisa confessed. In fact, Mireille had allowed an unforgivable breach in security -- one that was in both of their interests to conceal. As Lisa explained the situation, Mireille was stunned, then horrified, then angry. But eventually, after she calmed down, she came round to Lisa's point of view -- and the arrangement was born. Mireille would keep quiet -- would even use her position to make Seymour's life incrementally better -- and in return, Lisa would use her hacking skills to do Mireille small favors.
So simple. So easy. So stupid.
The favors had stayed small for a time: higher credit card limits, an extra day of authorized downtime, minor changes that would pass unnoticed through Section's vast IT system. But one request led to another, then another; as Mireille's courage grew, so did her appetite for privileges.
"What do you want?" Lisa asked, bracing herself for the latest demand.
Mireille sniffed. "I'm tired of having to take the metro in every morning," she said with a self-pitying look. "Do you know it takes me forty-five minutes just to get to work?"
"You want a car?"
"No," said Mireille, smiling sweetly. "I want a new apartment. Something within walking distance."
Lisa gaped at the other woman in shocked outrage. "That's completely crazy. Just how do you think we'll be able to get away with that?"
"Go into Accommodation's database and upgrade my rating," Mireille explained, speaking in a tone one might use with a slow-witted child.
Lisa shook her head. "No way. That's too big. Someone's going to spot it."
Mireille's expression hardened, and her lips formed into a thin, angry line. "I received a favorable annual review last month. It's not completely unheard of."
Lisa held her breath in an attempt to calm herself, then responded in a low voice. "What next, Mireille? A vacation home on the Riviera?" She grabbed Mireille's arm and dug her fingers in. "When is it going to be enough?"
"It'll be enough when I don't have to risk my life giving your boy special treatment." Mireille gave Lisa an icy glare. "I didn't ask to be dragged into this little conspiracy, you know. Don't blame me for the mess you created."
The women stared at each other as the radio blasted another cheerful song. The repetitive melody drilled into Lisa's head, the insipid lyrics a mocking counterpoint to their strained standoff.
After a few moments, Lisa felt her shoulders sag in defeat. "Fine," she said, releasing her grip on Mireille's arm. "You're probably right. It's soon enough after your review that the housing upgrade won't look too suspicious."
Mireille's glare melted magically.
"Thanks, Lisa," she said. "I knew you'd come through for me. And really, I promise I'll never ask for anything unreasonable. I don't want to be caught any more than you do." She paused, and then a cheerful look flashed across her face. "Oh, I've got something for you," she said, smiling broadly and reaching into her purse.
Mireille withdrew an envelope from her purse and slid it onto the display table next to the radio.
"What's that?" Lisa asked nervously.
"I took some pictures of Seymour on his birthday." Mireille's eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. "We brought him a cake and made him wear one of those silly paper hats. He looked adorable."
"Pictures?" Lisa tried not to stare at the envelope, not wanting to draw anyone's attention to it.
"I thought you might appreciate them," Mireille explained, her gaze softening with a faint look of pity. "It's been two years since you saw him, after all -- he's a lot bigger now."
"That's only natural," Lisa said with forced casualness, unwilling to allow Mireille to see any sadness in her demeanor.
"He wears glasses now, too. Too much time at the computer, I'm afraid."
Lisa nodded. "Thanks, Mireille."
Mireille reached for the radio and switched it off. "That sounded pretty good," she commented loudly. "But the prices here are too high. I'm going to look across town."
With that, Mireille turned and walked away, leaving the envelope behind.
***
Charles rapped on the door, forcing himself to use a light touch despite his bounding energy. He waited, shifting back and forth from one foot to another, and broke out in a grin when he heard the muffled invitation to enter.
He swung open the door and stepped into the small office. Madeline sat at her desk, looking up at the door with an expectant expression. When she spotted Charles, her face warmed with a welcoming smile.
"Hello, Charles. What brings you here?"
Charles could barely repress his ebullient mood. "The Defense Minister cancelled his trip to Manila. That means the Pangalinan mission is postponed indefinitely."
He grinned, waiting for her to react to the good news as he had -- but to his surprise, she merely looked confused.
"Am I supposed to do the follow-up?" she asked, glancing distractedly at the report on her desk, then looking back up at him with a frown. "It wasn't my profile."
"No," he said, laughing and shaking his head. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"
The look of confusion in her eyes grew stronger, as did her frown. "Apparently, I have."
"I cancelled our concert date when the mission came up. But it looks like I'll be free after all." He hesitated. "That is, if you're still interested in going."
Her frown vanished, replaced by an embarrassed blush. She rose from her chair and rounded her desk to stand beside him, placing her hand on his arm.
"Of course I am," she said reassuringly. "I was looking forward to it." She gave him a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I didn't know what you meant. I've been lost in my work today."
He relaxed in relief. "Splendid. I'll go ahead and reserve tickets. Dinner reservations, too?"
"That would be lovely."
She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and then returned to her desk. He turned to exit, but then paused, looking back hopefully.
"Say, would you be interested in dinner tonight? There's a new place on rue Montorgueil I'd like to try."
She looked back up at him, still smiling -- but her face turned suddenly rigid, as if she had coated it with a glaze of politeness. "I'm sorry, Charles," she said evenly. "I have plans this evening."
Plans. Of course.
He knew exactly what those plans must be, although it was a subject they avoided discussing whenever possible. Her reputation for picking out vapid young pretty-boys for her private recreation was notorious -- and yet the two of them behaved as if it weren't an issue, as if he were completely oblivious to that side of her life.
Not that it was any of his business, really. Once he first began to invite her to join him on various outings, a year before, she had made it clear -- without being too blatant -- that their relationship could have been more intimate had he been willing to tolerate other men in her life. He had made it equally clear that he was unwilling to accept those terms. So they reached an unspoken mutual understanding that things would remain strictly platonic. He had accepted that, resigning himself to the role they both seemed comfortable with him playing: an escort to cultural events, a conversational partner, a well-educated companion with whom to indulge mutual intellectual interests. Something akin to an older brother or a favorite uncle.
He had even succeeded in convincing himself -- almost -- that such an arrangement was satisfactory. But moments like this -- reminders that she sought physical satisfaction elsewhere, in the well-chiseled arms of preening gigolos -- exposed the unpleasant truth. He would never be satisfied with things as they were -- could never be happy pretending to be a eunuch, conveniently available whenever she wanted to attend the symphony with someone whose IQ surpassed double-digits.
Then again, he couldn't walk away.
He cleared his throat. "Another time, then."
"Yes. Maybe next week," she added, seemingly in haste to smooth over any awkwardness.
"I'll let you know when I get the tickets."
"Good."
Masking his embarrassment with a quick smile, he retreated from the office.
************
To go on to Chapter Sixteen, 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 Eleven
Chapter Six
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
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).
Part Three - 1987
Chapter Fifteen
With a booted kick that sent the door flying open, Paul forced his way into the bathroom. He stepped across the threshold and aimed his gun directly ahead -- straight at the forehead of the wide-eyed man quivering in the bathtub.
Paul scowled in disappointment. He had hoped to find his target, a Red Cell commander; instead, he confronted a mere flunky, a man he recognized from surveillance photos as a green recruit. Someone who would know nothing. Someone useless. Someone who was a waste of his rapidly ebbing time.
"Where's Norasty?" Paul demanded, fighting the urge to exterminate the man like a cockroach discovered scuttling in a cupboard.
The man gaped at him without response. Soapsuds dripped slowly down his thin chest.
"I said, where's Norasty?" Paul repeated, lowering his voice menacingly. "We know he lives here."
He glared at the man and began a silent count to ten before resorting to more severe means of persuasion. But before he could end his count, the other man's face twitched strangely. His lips trembled, and then he burst out in a sudden guffaw, his bony shoulders shaking in mirth.
A joker. Great. Paul could give him something to laugh about.
Stuffing his gun in the holster against the small of his back, he strode toward the tub and grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck. With an angry grunt, he shoved the man forward, pressing his full weight down as he thrust the man's face under the water.
The man thrashed in panic, clawing at the slick sides of the bathtub, but only succeeded in sloshing heavy waves of water over the edge and onto the floor. Paul held him down for nearly a minute before he yanked him back up by the hair.
"That was just a barrel of laughs, wasn't it? Now, where's Norasty?"
The man shook his head, coughing and spitting out water, and started to laugh giddily. "I don't know," he said, gasping out the words in between his sniggers. "He left for Turkey three days ago. He should have been back by now."
The sight of the man giggling like an idiot triggered a feeling of frustrated loathing. Paul lunged at him, seizing his neck with both hands as he pushed him backwards into the tub. He squeezed his thumbs against the fragile skin of the throat, and his nails drew a tiny cloud of red that spiraled through the water. Submerged, the man's blond hair swirled around his face, his eyes bugging, as a trail of bubbles escaped from his mouth and nose. He kicked, squirmed, and tugged desperately at Paul's hands; his motions splashed water wildly in every direction, drenching Paul in the face and chest. The more the man struggled, the tighter Paul's grip became -- until, slowly, the splashing subsided.
When the movement and air bubbles had almost ceased, Paul wrenched the man back to the surface. The man choked violently and retched. He sputtered and wheezed for air as water spilled thickly out of the corners of his mouth.
"Tell me where Norasty is," Paul said, kneeling by the tub in barely-controlled fury, "or next time you'll drown."
The man coughed for several moments, but then began to laugh again, tittering uncontrollably. "I don't know where he is, I swear."
Paul struck the man across the face. "What the hell is so funny?" he shouted. "You think this is a joke? You think I won't snap your scrawny neck if you don't tell me what I want?"
The man shook his head helplessly. "Nothing's funny. I just can't stop."
He erupted in gales of laughter again as Paul leaned back on his heels, no longer angry, just baffled.
"Are you on drugs?"
"No, I swear. I'm sorry. I can't help myself. Please, don't hurt me anymore."
Abruptly, the laughter ceased. The man began to blink rapidly, moisture filling his eyes -- then just as suddenly as he stopped laughing, he burst into tears.
"Christ," muttered Paul. He rose to his feet and looked down at the man in disgust. He pulled out his gun and waved it impatiently. "Get out of the tub."
Instead of responding, the man curled his knees up and covered his face with his hands, sobbing loudly. Paul stared, at a loss for what to do -- he was just about to reach into the tub to haul the man out when he heard a gruff voice from the doorway.
"The building is secure. Instructions?"
Paul looked over his shoulder to see Patrick standing stone-faced in the hallway.
"No sign of Norasty?" Paul asked.
"No."
"How many hostiles?"
"Three."
"Four, with this one. Get some clothes on him and bring him out with the rest."
As a wailing sound emerged from the bathtub, Patrick's face wrinkled in an odd expression.
Paul shrugged and stepped past Patrick to exit the door, dripping water along the way.
"He's either on something or he's a lunatic. We'll leave it to Madeline to find out which."
***
As she walked along the corridor outside Containment, Adrian was struck by the silence. Her visits to this part of Section were rare; each time, she somehow expected to hear screams of terror, even through the soundproof doors. Instead, there was always a surprising hush, as if the antiseptic sterility of the surroundings swallowed all noise.
Rounding a corner, she slowed her pace, spotting the figure seated at an alcove workstation. The soft clack of a keyboard grew louder as she approached; when she reached the woman's side, she waited several seconds to see if she would look up from her work, then cleared her throat.
"Madeline," she said. "May I have a moment?"
Madeline swung around with a surprised expression and started to stand. Adrian waved her back down, then she pulled over another chair and sat, clasping her hands on her knee.
"I just concluded Paul's debrief," Adrian announced. "Norasty wasn't at the Madrid safe house."
"Yes, so I heard."
"We had firm intel placing him there on Tuesday." She sighed wearily and stared down the long, empty corridor. "It's unfortunate, but he seems to have slipped through our fingers again."
Red Cell's leadership -- Norasty included -- had an ability to melt away that Section's other enemies had never achieved. At first, it hadn't mattered -- Red Cell seemed a minor player, a fringe group whose activities were overshadowed by the Cold War battles of the superpowers and their proxies. Recently, however, she had come to see it as the more significant threat. Unlike the older revolutionary organizations sponsored by the Soviets or China, this group was uncontrollable, irrational -- causing destruction not to serve the geopolitical ends of its masters, but for terror's own sake.
Adrian had always prided herself on her ability to predict -- and outwit -- the behavior of the enemy. But Red Cell, and the growing number of groups like it, posed a new challenge. It required a change in analysis she wasn't certain she was capable of making, a logic completely different from what she was accustomed to -- indeed, a kind of illogic, a willingness to consider actions so dreadful that they crossed the line into barbarism and inhumanity.
It required, in truth, the ability to think like a madman. An ability Adrian did not wish to cultivate. Fortunately, however, there were others in Section she could rely upon for that skill.
She returned her gaze to Madeline. The young woman sat patiently, her hands folded in her lap, awaiting her commander's instructions with an impassive expression -- like an engine on idle, whirring softly until brought to life by a tap on the accelerator.
"Do you have any input as to where he might go next?" Adrian asked.
"There's a sixty-three percent probability that he's heading to one of three locations we have under surveillance," Madeline answered quickly, her tone clipped and precise. "I'll have an updated profile factoring in that contingency within an hour."
"Good."
Adrian examined the other woman with approval. Madeline had made such progress from the old days, when she had to be constantly monitored and disciplined -- now, properly conditioned, she functioned with a smooth efficiency, like a well-oiled gear. She seemed to have accepted her designated place within the Section, had learned to live with the restrictions that Adrian had imposed -- perhaps had even come to respect her superior's reasons for doing so.
She was still deeply flawed, a moral cripple in certain respects, but that no longer posed any real danger. Her loyalty to -- and identification with -- the Section was so deeply internalized that her weaknesses had transformed into strengths. They gave her a unique view into the mind of the enemy. They enabled her to carry out the ugly but necessary tasks that Section depended on. They were the raw material that Adrian had forged into a powerful weapon -- sharp and cruel, cutting down the enemy without mercy, but carefully sheathed at home.
To her surprise, Adrian found herself growing more and more dependent on her.
She blinked, returning her thoughts to the present. "I take it the prisoners weren't useful."
"They told us what they knew about Red Cell's hierarchy, which wasn't much," Madeline replied, her tone apologetic.
"I see." Adrian rose to her feet to depart. "Thank you, Madeline. Let me know if you learn anything new."
"There is one thing," Madeline added, a faint mixture of worry and excitement seeping into her expression. "I was going to send you a report, but since you're here…."
Adrian frowned in surprise. It wasn't like Madeline to allow signs of concern to show so blatantly. "What is it?"
"One of the prisoners is quite curious."
The vague answer -- and the hesitant manner in which it was delivered -- triggered an instinctive sense of apprehension. She returned to her seat, filled with uneasy alertness, waiting for Madeline to elaborate.
"His behavior has been highly aberrant," Madeline explained. "Extreme displays of emotion: crying, laughing, cowering, screaming, all without any apparent relationship to what's going on around him at the time."
"He's in shock," Adrian said dismissively. "Surely you've seen that before."
"I thought that at first," Madeline continued. "But then we found unusual chemical residues in his blood."
"A drug addict?"
"I don't think so. The residues aren't consistent with any known recreational drugs."
As the implication of Madeline's words sank in, Adrian leaned forward, intrigued. "What then?"
Madeline hesitated, looking uncharacteristically nervous, before taking a deep breath. "They suggest the presence of a neurological conditioning process."
"Some sort of mind control?" Adrian asked, almost too astonished to believe what she had heard. Red Cell had never shown that level of sophistication before -- if they were adopting such techniques, it was an ominous turning point.
"To put it in simple terms, yes." Madeline glanced at a folder lying on the desk. "When Medlab gave me the bloodwork, I asked them to examine him further."
"And?"
"I'm awaiting the results."
Adrian stood again, her mood grim. "I'll be conducting briefings for the rest of the day. But I want to be interrupted the instant you know anything further."
Madeline nodded. "Understood."
***
The row of televisions blared out a deafening cacophony. Hyperactive sports play-by-plays competed with melodramatic movie dialogue and sitcom laugh tracks for the attention of wandering shoppers. The noise and flashing images were almost mesmerizing; Lisa stared blankly at the wall of screens for several minutes before moving on, circling toward the audio equipment for what seemed like the hundredth time.
The electronics department was large by department store standards, but after twenty minutes Lisa had retraced her path through the aisles so many times she had the prices memorized. She had pressed buttons, turned dials, read display cards -- fending off the inquiries of salespeople while she snuck anxious glances at the entrance.
Her impatience growing, she checked her watch once more. As she made an angry vow to leave in five minutes, she looked up again and started: a middle-aged woman with sharp features and a blunt, blonde bob had materialized inside the entrance. They avoided each other's gaze, but Lisa watched the other woman's progress out of the corner of her eye. The woman took her time, browsing with deceptive casualness, but gradually made her way into Lisa's aisle. When she was a few feet away, she looked over at Lisa and smiled politely.
"Excuse me, but do you know the difference between these brands? I want a portable tape player, but there are so many to choose from."
"I was looking at this one," Lisa answered, and she gestured toward an enormous combination radio/tape player with shiny, detachable speakers. "It got a good rating in a consumer review."
"Let's see how it sounds," the woman suggested, reaching for the switch and turning it on.
The latest pop hit began pulsing through the speakers: a droning bass, a thumping drum machine, a teenaged singer's studio-enhanced voice. The bubble-gum melody was excruciating to listen to -- but loud enough to shield their conversation from people in nearby aisles.
"What is it, Mireille?" Lisa asked grimly. "I had to make all sorts of excuses to get out this afternoon. I'm supposed to be prepping a mission."
The Director of Section's Level 16 pursed her lips daintily. "I've been thinking. About our arrangement."
Lisa swallowed hard in dismay. Once, their "arrangement" had seemed so simple -- a relationship that Lisa could control. It had started out that way, at least. But somehow along the way, she found herself the one under control -- her own power mysteriously turned against her by Mireille's jiu-jitsu-like maneuvering.
It was her own fault, unfortunately. She had allowed paranoia to rule her thinking, leading her to a decision that she regretted more and more each day. Almost two years before, plagued with the fear that Mireille would eventually contact someone to see if the transfer to Section Four Lisa had promised was imminent, Lisa had broken down and contacted Mireille surreptitiously.
There was no transfer, Lisa confessed. In fact, Mireille had allowed an unforgivable breach in security -- one that was in both of their interests to conceal. As Lisa explained the situation, Mireille was stunned, then horrified, then angry. But eventually, after she calmed down, she came round to Lisa's point of view -- and the arrangement was born. Mireille would keep quiet -- would even use her position to make Seymour's life incrementally better -- and in return, Lisa would use her hacking skills to do Mireille small favors.
So simple. So easy. So stupid.
The favors had stayed small for a time: higher credit card limits, an extra day of authorized downtime, minor changes that would pass unnoticed through Section's vast IT system. But one request led to another, then another; as Mireille's courage grew, so did her appetite for privileges.
"What do you want?" Lisa asked, bracing herself for the latest demand.
Mireille sniffed. "I'm tired of having to take the metro in every morning," she said with a self-pitying look. "Do you know it takes me forty-five minutes just to get to work?"
"You want a car?"
"No," said Mireille, smiling sweetly. "I want a new apartment. Something within walking distance."
Lisa gaped at the other woman in shocked outrage. "That's completely crazy. Just how do you think we'll be able to get away with that?"
"Go into Accommodation's database and upgrade my rating," Mireille explained, speaking in a tone one might use with a slow-witted child.
Lisa shook her head. "No way. That's too big. Someone's going to spot it."
Mireille's expression hardened, and her lips formed into a thin, angry line. "I received a favorable annual review last month. It's not completely unheard of."
Lisa held her breath in an attempt to calm herself, then responded in a low voice. "What next, Mireille? A vacation home on the Riviera?" She grabbed Mireille's arm and dug her fingers in. "When is it going to be enough?"
"It'll be enough when I don't have to risk my life giving your boy special treatment." Mireille gave Lisa an icy glare. "I didn't ask to be dragged into this little conspiracy, you know. Don't blame me for the mess you created."
The women stared at each other as the radio blasted another cheerful song. The repetitive melody drilled into Lisa's head, the insipid lyrics a mocking counterpoint to their strained standoff.
After a few moments, Lisa felt her shoulders sag in defeat. "Fine," she said, releasing her grip on Mireille's arm. "You're probably right. It's soon enough after your review that the housing upgrade won't look too suspicious."
Mireille's glare melted magically.
"Thanks, Lisa," she said. "I knew you'd come through for me. And really, I promise I'll never ask for anything unreasonable. I don't want to be caught any more than you do." She paused, and then a cheerful look flashed across her face. "Oh, I've got something for you," she said, smiling broadly and reaching into her purse.
Mireille withdrew an envelope from her purse and slid it onto the display table next to the radio.
"What's that?" Lisa asked nervously.
"I took some pictures of Seymour on his birthday." Mireille's eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. "We brought him a cake and made him wear one of those silly paper hats. He looked adorable."
"Pictures?" Lisa tried not to stare at the envelope, not wanting to draw anyone's attention to it.
"I thought you might appreciate them," Mireille explained, her gaze softening with a faint look of pity. "It's been two years since you saw him, after all -- he's a lot bigger now."
"That's only natural," Lisa said with forced casualness, unwilling to allow Mireille to see any sadness in her demeanor.
"He wears glasses now, too. Too much time at the computer, I'm afraid."
Lisa nodded. "Thanks, Mireille."
Mireille reached for the radio and switched it off. "That sounded pretty good," she commented loudly. "But the prices here are too high. I'm going to look across town."
With that, Mireille turned and walked away, leaving the envelope behind.
***
Charles rapped on the door, forcing himself to use a light touch despite his bounding energy. He waited, shifting back and forth from one foot to another, and broke out in a grin when he heard the muffled invitation to enter.
He swung open the door and stepped into the small office. Madeline sat at her desk, looking up at the door with an expectant expression. When she spotted Charles, her face warmed with a welcoming smile.
"Hello, Charles. What brings you here?"
Charles could barely repress his ebullient mood. "The Defense Minister cancelled his trip to Manila. That means the Pangalinan mission is postponed indefinitely."
He grinned, waiting for her to react to the good news as he had -- but to his surprise, she merely looked confused.
"Am I supposed to do the follow-up?" she asked, glancing distractedly at the report on her desk, then looking back up at him with a frown. "It wasn't my profile."
"No," he said, laughing and shaking his head. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"
The look of confusion in her eyes grew stronger, as did her frown. "Apparently, I have."
"I cancelled our concert date when the mission came up. But it looks like I'll be free after all." He hesitated. "That is, if you're still interested in going."
Her frown vanished, replaced by an embarrassed blush. She rose from her chair and rounded her desk to stand beside him, placing her hand on his arm.
"Of course I am," she said reassuringly. "I was looking forward to it." She gave him a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I didn't know what you meant. I've been lost in my work today."
He relaxed in relief. "Splendid. I'll go ahead and reserve tickets. Dinner reservations, too?"
"That would be lovely."
She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and then returned to her desk. He turned to exit, but then paused, looking back hopefully.
"Say, would you be interested in dinner tonight? There's a new place on rue Montorgueil I'd like to try."
She looked back up at him, still smiling -- but her face turned suddenly rigid, as if she had coated it with a glaze of politeness. "I'm sorry, Charles," she said evenly. "I have plans this evening."
Plans. Of course.
He knew exactly what those plans must be, although it was a subject they avoided discussing whenever possible. Her reputation for picking out vapid young pretty-boys for her private recreation was notorious -- and yet the two of them behaved as if it weren't an issue, as if he were completely oblivious to that side of her life.
Not that it was any of his business, really. Once he first began to invite her to join him on various outings, a year before, she had made it clear -- without being too blatant -- that their relationship could have been more intimate had he been willing to tolerate other men in her life. He had made it equally clear that he was unwilling to accept those terms. So they reached an unspoken mutual understanding that things would remain strictly platonic. He had accepted that, resigning himself to the role they both seemed comfortable with him playing: an escort to cultural events, a conversational partner, a well-educated companion with whom to indulge mutual intellectual interests. Something akin to an older brother or a favorite uncle.
He had even succeeded in convincing himself -- almost -- that such an arrangement was satisfactory. But moments like this -- reminders that she sought physical satisfaction elsewhere, in the well-chiseled arms of preening gigolos -- exposed the unpleasant truth. He would never be satisfied with things as they were -- could never be happy pretending to be a eunuch, conveniently available whenever she wanted to attend the symphony with someone whose IQ surpassed double-digits.
Then again, he couldn't walk away.
He cleared his throat. "Another time, then."
"Yes. Maybe next week," she added, seemingly in haste to smooth over any awkwardness.
"I'll let you know when I get the tickets."
"Good."
Masking his embarrassment with a quick smile, he retreated from the office.
************
To go on to Chapter Sixteen, 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 Eleven
Chapter Six
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen