Sharing Secrets
By Diane
Chapter One
Nikita awakened to butterfly kisses on her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her mouth. The kisses became more demanding as his tongue begged entrance through the pink petals. Happily, she complied. The kiss deepened sensuously as the lovers sought the very core of each other’s being. She moaned as his kiss left her lips and continued down her throat, coming to rest in the hollow of her neck and shoulder. His hand began its journey toward her breast, aching to tease the perfect bud beneath his fingers.
They were both jarred into reality by the shrill notes of Nikita’s cell phone, and they groaned as one in mutual displeasure.
“Yeah?” said Nikita, none too cheerfully.
“Josephine,” replied Madeline.
“Yes,” Nikita responded.
“Come in.” The communication was broken.
Nikita flopped back on her bed and closed her eyes in regret. “Duty calls,” she said sardonically.
She headed for the shower and, as the warm water ran in rivulets over her body, thought back to the previous night and sighed. It had been…stupendous. No, that wasn’t the word, but damn it, she was running out of superlatives.
When she emerged from her shower, the only signs of an overnight guest were a coffee cup in the sink and the tea kettle boiling on the stove. Smiling at his thoughtfulness, she poured herself a cup of the herbal tea she favored and let it cool while she dressed.
++
When she arrived at the briefing, Operations, Madeline, Michael, Birkoff and Walter were already there, along with two other operatives named Jenkins and Washington. Nikita took the chair as far as humanly possible away from Michael, and refused to look at him. Ever since their public fight six weeks ago, the air between them was definitely chilly.
“Illya Bayrnokov is a high-level drug dealer in the Ukraine. He is meeting with his contacts tonight. You are to bring him back, along with a copy of his hard-drive, and destroy the compound. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Good. The mission loads in three hours. You are all on close quarter standby until then.”
They left the table one by one, and Nikita drifted over to Birkoff’s station for a chat.
As Michael walked passed them, he said to Nikita, “I need to see you in my office in ten minutes.”
“Whatever,” Nikita muttered under her breath.
Madeline watched this interplay with interest. She was beginning to believe that Michael and Nikita actually had broken up. Michael still went by Nikita’s apartment once or twice a week for a debrief or profile change, but never stayed longer than twenty minutes. Michael’s face was, as usual, unreadable, but Nikita was visibly annoyed and standoffish when it came to Michael. This had been going on for too long. It had to be real.
Six Weeks Ago
Nikita dashed out of Michael’s office, her fury barely contained.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think!” she was shouting. “It’s none of your damn business. You are such a control freak—I swear!”
Michael emerged in the doorway.
“Keep your voice down,” he cautioned.
“Is this better?” she asked, her voice deeper but her volume the same. “Geez. Now you’re even telling me how to talk. How pathetic is that, Mr. Control Freak?”
Michael just looked at her, his expression almost sad, before his blank mask came down.
“Operations was right,” he intoned. “You lack discipline.”
“Oh, we are SO over,” said Nikita threateningly.
“Fine,” Michael answered quietly.
“Fine!” Nikita shouted almost victoriously.
Chapter Two
Present Day
“You wanted to see me, sir? asked Nikita sarcastically.
“Sit down. Please,” returned Michael, indicating the chair.
Nikita glanced with distaste at what used to be “her” chair, then flopped down into it.
“I’ve made some changes to the profile. I wanted to discuss them with you.” He pushed the PDA over to her, indicating that she should pick it up.
With an exaggerated sigh, Nikita picked up the PDA and began to read. After a few moments, she looked at Michael quizzically. “You’re taking me off point and replacing me with Jenkins? Why am I in third position and not him? I run faster than he does.”
Michael countered, “He’s smaller than you, and his night vision is 3% better. Initial penetration will be quicker if we use Jenkins on point.”
“But he’s only a Level One. You need someone with experience on this type of mission.”
“It’s a simple retrieval, Nikita. Jenkins should be on point.”
“What’s the matter,” she spat, eyes narrowing. “Not good enough for you anymore?”
Michael looked at her for a few moments before responding.
“You’re an excellent team leader, Nikita. I’m not questioning your abilities. I’m simply reconfiguring the profile to obtain the highest POS.”
“Fine,” said Nikita, already bored with the conversation. She tossed the PDA back on Michael’s desk, where is began to hum.
“What’s that noise?” she asked curiously, forgetting that she wasn’t speaking to him.
“It needs to be adjusted.” He touched his intercom. “Birkoff, may I see you please?”
Nikita left Michael’s office as Birkoff entered. Michael handed him the PDA. “Please fix this humming noise. It’s driving me crazy.”
Birkoff took a look at the panel before deleting the text. “Sure—no problem. Have it ready in 10 minutes.”
In the perch, Operations nudged Madeline. “Did you see that? That’s how they’re doing it. They’re communication through PDAs.”
Before she could stop him, Operations flew down the stairs and over to Birkoff’s station.
“Is that Michael’s panel?” he asked breathlessly.
“Ah, yeah,” replied Birkoff, a bit confused.
“Give it to me,” commanded Operations.
He cursed silently when he saw that the screen was blank.
“Someone deleted the text,” he said accusingly.
“I did,” Birkoff replied. “The intel was obsolete.”
“What did it say?” demanded Operations, a feral gleam in his eye.
“Uh, I’m not really sure,” stammered Birkoff. “Something about Jenkins being on point instead of Nikita.”
Since this was exactly what their surveillance had recorded, Operations was deflated. He conceded that Madeline was right. The great Michael and Nikita romance was a thing of the past.
Chapter Three
Michael rubbed his temples and looked for his bottle of Aleve. He felt a Nikita-sized headache coming on.
He reviewed their argument of a few minutes ago, and put his face in his hands. After a few moments, he permitted himself a small smile. Damn, she was good.
++
Willing herself not to skip, Nikita walked to her office with a snarl on her face and a song in her heart. Michael’s PDA had said “JENKINS BEING MOVED TO POINT. ARGUE. I LOVE YOU ALWAYS AND FOREVER.” The rest of the panel was filled with heart icons.
Michael had initially been against letting Birkoff and Walter in on their plan, but he had soon seen how beneficial outside assistance could be. Between them, they had helped to circumvent security in Nikita’s apartment for so long that it had finally been removed.
Michael also thought Nikita’s demeanor should move from petulance to indifference. Both Walter and Birkoff agreed with Nikita that she could hold a grudge much longer than six weeks, so Michael had acquiesced.
++
Nikita and Jenkins, with cover from Washington and tactical help from Michael in the mission van, were able to capture their target alive, though the hard-drive had been damaged before they could get to it. Nikita and Washington lay the charges and, when they were a safe distance away, Michael pressed the plunger.
“We have closure,” intoned Nikita in her best Michael imitation.
The others, knowing how Michael and Nikita felt about each other, were determined not to laugh, so they stared at the floor instead.
They all debriefed, then headed to the elevator that would take them back up to the land of the living.
Once in the parking garage, Michael turned to Nikita and said, “You have two days downtime.”
“I know,” she responded warily.
“I wondered if you wanted to go get some coffee.”
Nikita just stared at him, while the others held their collective breath.
“I don’t think so,” she finally responded, and turned to walk to her Jaguar, shaking her head slowly.
Michael got into his Mercedes, and they both drove away into the night.
++
They spent most of the next two days in Nikita’s bed, emerging only for food and bathroom breaks. They played strip poker, which Nikita always lost, or won, depending on who was keeping score. They talked and they cuddled. They spun fantasy futures and they slept, always entwined with one another.
Nikita liked the Cubs. Michael preferred the Red Sox. Nikita backed the Predators. Michael was a diehard Canadiens fan. Nikita liked watching reruns of The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. Michael was content to watch CNN all day.
Nikita seldom wore bras. Michael never wore underwear. Nikita didn’t have a favorite color. Michael wore black for his “power suits,” but confessed that his favorite color was actually blue. Nikita told Michael he reminded her of a black panther. Michael told Nikita he saw her as a beautiful golden Labrador.
Michael liked pasta with lots of garlic. Nikita was crazy in love with shellfish. They both wanted to live on a deserted island, where no one could find them, and Section was a word that did not exist in their vocabulary.
They both relished every moment of their time together, and their passion was hot and desperate, slow and sweet, rushed and languid. When they were not making love, they held on to each other as if they never wanted to let go.
Chapter Four
“I’ve been going over Birkoff’s files,” Madeline began, watching Operation flick the last few drops of tea off of his upper lip with his tongue. She had long ago learned to stifle the inclination to shudder, and continued to smile pleasantly. God, he so often resembled a lizard. She reminded herself to focus.
“Why?” answered Operations, bemused. “Are his test scores falling?” He had never really cared for the prodigy, but conceded reluctantly that he was best suited for the job. However, if the boy genius was failing, and this was the opportunity to move Hillinger into Birkoff’s spot, he intended to take full advantage of it.
Madeline smiled serenely at Christopher as he came to remove the dishes and the unfinished portions of their late evening supper, a ritual she decided she would end very soon. Operations might get the idea he was entitled to sex again, and that decision would be on her terms alone, and only if she deemed it essential and advantageous.
She arose gracefully and lifted the Bonsai she had been working on earlier that afternoon. “Not at all,” she replied smoothly, eyeing her latest creation critically. “In fact, his Skills and Performance Assessment numbers are the highest they’ve been since the unfortunate business in the van at the art gallery.
“Then why pull Birkoff’s file now?” asked Operations, not bothering to mask his impatience.
Madeline continued to study the miniature tree, holding it up to the bright artificial light, pleased with the way she had forced her will against its natural inclination. “Birkoff’s social and psychological profiles need expansion. He needs to enroll in some university courses--mix with people his own age--interact with his peers.”
“Peers!” snorted Operations. “Birkoff doesn’t have any peers. At least, none on this planet!”
Madeline was not amused. “I believe Nikita benefited from the Philosophy course she audited last year. It gave me an idea.”
“Nikita,” Operations ground out, rubbing his temples. “I should have known.”
“Michael and Nikita are going under deep cover in Indiana as a college professor and his artist wife,” Madeline continued undeterred. “Birkoff can live with them as Nikita’s younger brother and actually take some classes while saving us the trouble and expense of having to set up in-house surveillance.”
Operations looked up, interest piqued. “So the sim did show that the leak does originate within the campus? With ties to Red Cell, of course.”
“Of course. And most likely within the Science department, which is where Michael--“
“--and Nikita--“ Operations breathed heavily.
“--and Nikita--“ Madeline echoed smoothly, “come in. The university is private, the town conservative. I think all three of them should blend in nicely there.”
“Where is this town in Indiana, again?” questioned Operations resignedly.
“Evansville.”
++
Michael was on his was to the briefing when he was stopped by Jurgen, who wanted to discuss his latest material, a potential profiler named Suzanne.
"What's the problem?" asked Michael, looking past Jurgen at the clock behind him. Almost seven.
"She keeps coming on to me," Jurgen said bluntly.
Michael wasn't sure how exactly he was expected to reply. Jurgen was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and good looking. Women came on to him. This was not news.
"She's not focusing," Jurgen continued. "Madeline won't allow her to work with anyone else. If I can't convince Suzanne that I'm some sort of disgusting slime, I'm supposed to have her cancelled."
Michael pretended to think for a moment. "Sleep with her," he said as he spun on his heel and walked away. "Problem solved."
++
Birkoff stood in Madeline's office, both confused and a little upset. "But I don't do deep cover," he repeated for Operations’ benefit, who had just entered the room. "I'm needed here. I can't possibly be gone for four months."
Madeline took her time, then measured her words carefully. "Are you saying that you've not adequately trained Gail and Mr. Hillinger to take over for you in your absence?"
"No. Of course not," he protested quickly. "It's just that I'm needed--"
"You're needed on this mission, Mr. Birkoff," Operations stated dismissively. "Walter has his panel," he continued, speaking to Madeline, then turned back to Birkoff. "You leave in twelve hours. I suggest you study your panel and stop annoying us with your petty little whining." Then he stared directly at the younger man, shooting him a look with those icy blue eyes that could freeze a flame-thrower. "You have exactly twelve seconds to adjust your attitude."
Chapter Five
Birkoff was in Weapons, bitching and moaning to Walter, who was getting a kick out of the entire situation and didn't care that Birkoff knew it.
"College Algebra? C'mon! I was doing Calculus in my head when I was seven. This is such a joke. I can't believe this. And Intro to French? Hell, we've spent the last twenty years in and around Paris! Who here doesn't speak at least high school level French?
Walter tucked his ponytail down the back of his shirt and picked up a jewelers loupe to examine the circuitry he was working on more closely. Even with his face inches from the board, Birkoff could see the grin on Walter's face, and he was not amused.
"Stop laughing," he scolded when the humor of the Birkoff's dilemma got the better of Walter and he let loose with a genuine chuckle.
"Look, kid," he said consolingly. "I'm sure there's a reason you're being sent into the field. Even money says you're there to baby-sit Michael and Nikita."
"Baby-sit? I don't--"
"Keep them from gettin' down and dirty. No hanky-panky. No horizontal mambo. No--"
"Oh, that's just gross," sputtered Birkoff. "No way am I going to spy on Nikita and Michael and report to Operations about their sex life." He lowered his voice. “We both know what’s going on in that department. Their doing it like bunnies.”
“But you and I are the only ones who know that,” he replied in a gravelly whisper. Then, in his normal voice, said "That's not what the betting pool says," a grin nearly splitting his face in two.
"Birkoff, I'd like to see you in Madeline's office in five minutes," said Operations, who had materialized behind Birkoff.
Birkoff turned ashen and started to shake.
"I'd stop by MedLab first if I were you," said Walter, winking conspiratorially. "You're lookin' a little pasty."
++
Operations opened the door for Madeline to lead the way as they descended from the Perch. "You still have time to change your mind about Nikita," he warned her. He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she preceded him down the stairs. "Teaming them for this mission could be a big mistake. You know what can of worms you'll be opening by throwing them together for four months."
"The can was opened once," she responded. "Let's just see how this worm turns."
She and Operations took their places at the consul, where Michael, Nikita, Birkoff and Walter were already seated.
"Except for Nikita, you've all seen your panels," said Operations without preamble. "Red Cell has infiltrated the University of Evansville Campus, and is transferring sensitive information about satellite positions regarding certain nuclear reactors to Afghanistan. Our job is to ferret out the source and method of communication, contain and interrogate, and then eliminate the problem once and for all.
Madeline continued. "We've narrowed the source to the Science and Health departments, and the following campus personnel.
Two holographs appeared on the screen before them, with Operations giving each a name and condensed bio as he paced opposite them.
"Larry McCoy." The group studied the small, thin face with bleached-blond hair, jug ears and pointed chin. "Head of the Science department since December 2000." Nikita disliked him on sight.
Another picture followed. "Bobbi Browne," continued Operations. "On staff at the student hospital as a chiropractor since 1998." The picture showed an attractive woman in her forties with short reddish-blonde hair and blue eyes. Her expression showed that she would rather be anywhere else but where she was when this particular photo was snapped.
"Our primary focus is McCoy, though both will be under surveillance. As this change of staffing is so sudden, there is a good possibility that your house is under surveillance as well.”
Madeline turned to Nikita. “You understand what that means. Remember the Armel mission.”
Nikita managed to look disgusted, while Michael simply looked at Madeline with his patented blank stare.
Operations continued. “Nikita, stop by MedLab before you pick up your panel. You all leave in one hour."
With that, Madeline arose from her chair gracefully, and Operations waited impatiently as Nikita touched his arm, asking him to stay for a moment. She gave him a perplexed look. "Why MedLab? I feel fine."
"It's on your panel," he snapped, shrugging off her hand and striding away. "Just do it."
"Why can't I have my panel before I go to MedLab?" Nikita insisted, turning to Michael.
Michael looked away. "It's not part of the profile," hating himself at that moment. When Nikita didn't move, he looked back into her bemused face, into those blue eyes that could see straight into the soul he now knew he still had. As they were relatively alone, his voice softened. "Nikita, just go, okay? We'll have time alone to talk later."
This was true. For once, Nikita agreed, and headed off to MedLab.
Michael hated deceiving her, and despaired of their new-found trust being ripped apart at the seams.
Chapter Six
It was a silent trio that deplaned at Evansville's Dress Regional airport.
After claiming their luggage, Michael rented their vehicles: a Miata convertible for himself and Nikita, and a Jeep Wrangler for Birkoff. It wasn't until the vehicles were brought to the pick-up area that Birkoff hesitantly confessed that he didn't "exactly" know how to drive a 5-speed, and would it be too much trouble to rent a Honda or Toyota instead. As it turns out it was, because the Car Rental clerk (there was only one) had just gone on break. Nikita noted that the Miata was an automatic, and suggested that they just swap vehicles for the time being. Seeing no other way out, Michael and Birkoff agreed.
The condo where they were to reside was a much more pleasant surprise. The building was a story and a half, with the master suite upstairs, a den/2nd bedroom downstairs, and a the large sun porch to be used as Nikita's studio connected to a spacious eat-in kitchen.
Nikita made no effort to help unload any luggage, and when their bags had been brought into the house, turned all the charm on Birkoff. "Could you pretty please take my things upstairs, little bro? I'd be ever so grateful." Birkoff rolled his eyes at Michael, but did as he was asked.
When he was out of earshot, Michael asked Nikita, "Is the pain that bad?"
Charm disappearing in a heartbeat, her head swiveled toward Michael as she snapped, "You could have told me. You could've given me some kind of warning."
Michael started to answer but Nikita beat him to it, even mocking his soft French accent. "'It wasn't in the profile.' I know. Do you know how sick and tired I am of hearing that?" No play-acting was necessary this time. Nikita was pissed, and they both knew why.
No answer seemed to be required, so Michael didn't attempt one. Instead, he picked up his bags and followed Birkoff upstairs to the master bedroom, but came back down looking rather ticked off.
"We need to go shopping," he announced flatly. "Apparently, "Fully Furnished" means furniture only, no bed linens, no towels--"
"No dishes, no napkins, no dishcloths--," Nikita picked up, having made her own survey of the living area downstairs. "Here," she said, handing a list to Birkoff as he emerged from the sun porch after unloading her art supplies. "I've started a list. I saw a Bed, Bath, and Beyond on the way into town. You and Michael can go pick up what we need."
"Why do I have to go?" said Birkoff with some surprise in his voice. "I don't know anything about table linens. Besides, you haven't done a thing since we got here. Why don't you and Michael go, and I'll sit down and have a nice, cold drink of water?"
"Birkoff," Michael warned, but Nikita jumped in before he could finish.
"I need to sign those canvases you’re going to uncrate for the viewing next week, and the only way you're getting a cold drink is by hanging your head over the sink until we have some glasses to drink from," she said sweetly.
Not finding fault with her logic, Birkoff worked quickly to uncrate her paintings before jamming his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants and following Michael to the Jeep.
While they were gone, Nikita took a hot steamy shower, refusing to use the pain medication Madeline had given her to dull the ache in her back. In lieu of a towel, she wrapped herself in Michael's big terrycloth robe, and picked up the phone to order a couple of pizzas. Dishes or no dishes, they were eating gourmet tonight.
++
As it happened, JC Penney's was having a white sale, and Michael and Birkoff actually did a pretty good job of accessorizing the house. Except for the master bedroom. Nikita did not know what possessed Michael to buy dark brown sheets, pillow cases and duvet, with cranberry glass lamps, a cranberry glass floor lamp, and dark pink pillow shams. Against the stark white walls, the room looked like a giant carton of Neapolitan ice cream.
She waited for some sort of explanation but, as none was forthcoming, Nikita gave up and wandered into Birkoff's room. What she saw here was no surprise--a futon for a bed, a naked bulb for a lamp and every conceivable extra space filled with audio, digital and computer equipment. She thought she'd better remind him to eat before his pizza got cold, forgetting for the moment that he preferred it that way.
Michael was already on his third slice when she found him in the kitchen, eating off sunny yellow dishes that actually matched rather than clashed with the sunny yellow walls.
"You'd better hurry up if you want to eat tonight," he cautioned with mock seriousness. "Shopping is hard work."
Nikita snagged a piece of the pepperoni and sausage pie, dragging the stringy cheese about two feet from the box before it finally snapped off.
"Here. Why don't you sit down?" asked Michael, using chivalry to make up for his earlier deception.
"It feels better when I stand," Nikita answered truthfully.
"Did you take your pill?"
"Yes," Nikita lied smoothly, smiling wryly as she remembered how she had flushed it down the toilet in case he'd been ordered to count them. "Maybe it takes a while to kick in, and the flight was long."
"Yes," Michael agreed, chewing absently. "Oh,” he added, as if just remembering. "I put dessert in the freezer."
Thinking *since when do they have dessert at Penney's,* Nikita walked somewhat stiffly over to the side-by-side unit and opened the left door. She laughed. So did Michael. They both laughed so long and hard that Birkoff finally tore himself away from his toys to see what was so funny.
He came to Nikita's side to look in the freezer.
"Cool! Neapolitan ice cream! I love this stuff." He got miffed when neither Nikita nor Michael could catch his breath long enough to let him in on the joke.
Chapter Seven
Michael seemed to be the only one who was settling in well. His teaching schedule was relatively light; he was well-liked by his students, well thought of by his peers, and just conceited enough to report this to Birkoff and Nikita on almost a daily basis.
Things were not going so smoothly for Birkoff. He discovered that life without a Comm unit in his ear was a bit unsettling to say the least, and the easiest of choices was becoming overwhelming.
He had avoided the bookstore crush for the first two days of classes but knew that eventually, to maintain his cover, he would have to turn in homework. He stalled the better part of the morning, then, giving himself a silent pep talk, entered the store. He bypassed the front desk and headed to the back of the room, schedule in hand, to pick out the books listed on the crumpled piece of paper. Piece of cake. He turned and saw folders and notebooks to the right, which he carefully color coordinated with his textbooks: red for Sociology, green for French, blue for Algebra, and yellow for Chemistry. His Psychology text was multicolored, so he chose to accessorize that course in purple. He was pleased to be able to find a TI85 calculator; these people may be primitive, but at least he wouldn't be working completely in the stone ages.
He immediately bypassed the selection of purple University of Evansville sweatshirts and t-shirts; he was not a complete dork. He pondered a while at the selection of tote bags and satchels. The satchel might blow his cover by giving away his true age, but the tote bag looked, well, a little feminine. He opted for the cordovan satchel, picked up a handful of highlighters and pens, and made his way back to the cash registers at the front of the store. After waiting in line until his arms had completely cramped up, he was greeted by a cashier who looked to be about 14 and was wearing a "Hi! My Name is Michelle!" name tag pinned to an impossibly small white halter top.
"That's pretty heavy-duty hardware for Algebra 101," she said, indicating the calculator. "Are you a math major?" She knew full well he wasn't if he was starting with beginning level math.
"Oh, uh, no," Birkoff stuttered. "I'm picking that up for Mich--, uh, my brother-in-law. He teaches in the Physics department. I've got a TI80 at home."
"So, what's your major?" pressed the elfin blonde, continuing to flirt. "Something in Econ or Accounting?"
"I'm, uh, Undeclared, officially," returned Birkoff, flattered at the attention, but growing a little uneasy at the barrage of questions.
"Then you *really* won't want this," Michelle said as she lifted the satchel with some difficulty and placed it behind the counter. "The cool freshman guys all carry backpacks. Black, of course. I knew you were cool the minute you walked in here." She stepped from behind the counter to the nearby backpack display and pulled off one that even Birkoff, were he not too cool to be cool, had to admit was, well, cool.
"Do you have a SCRIP card, or will this be cash?"
"MasterCard," said Birkoff, handing her his brand new bankcard with the Section approved spending limit. Michelle checked out his name, and Birkoff winced, waiting for her to say something. She didn't. He signed his name, S Birkoff, and it was then that she made her move.
"I'm in your French class this afternoon. See ya later, Birkoff."
Birkoff looked up and smiled, brown eyes peering into blue. "Yeah. See ya."
He left the store feeling carrying 10 pounds of books yet feeling 20 pounds lighter. This college thing might just be okay.
++
Nikita's resolve broke by the afternoon of the third day of classes, and she took one of the pills Madeline had given her, washing it down with a Pepsi. To her surprise, the pain was alleviated almost instantly, but the muscles in her back still seemed locked firmly into place. Not even a hot bath or heating pad helped. She discussed the situation with Michael when he came home for dinner before an evening class.
"So you actually took one of the pills," he said, without a hint of surprise in his voice. Nikita thought about bluffing him but, knowing how much she hated when he did it to her, remained mute. "You're not supposed to be in agony, Nikita. Just enough discomfort to see a chiropractor."
"I'll go tomorrow," promised Nikita, chastened. She swirled the ice around in her tea glass.
Michael laid his salad fork on the side of his plate and picked up her left hand with his right, drawing it to his cheek. "You have to follow profile on this, Nikita. Mandatory Refusal on any phase is not an option. Besides, the pills are part of the protocol. What if you get pregnant?"
Nikita's mind blanked. Of course--no Section meant no monthly shots, and with Michael and her living as husband and wife--well, duh. "I see what you mean," she answered when she had found her voice again.
Michael released her hand and went back to his salad. I know we’re supposed to have “intimate relations” twice a week, and if you want to--relax," he said, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face, "I can help. But you've been in so much pain I didn't want to force the issue."
Nikita filched a crouton from his salad. "And here I thought it was Birkoff interfering with our hot-and-heavy sex life," she responded in a voice raised just loudly enough for Birkoff to hear as he walked in through the front door. She and Michael both chuckled as they heard his bedroom door slam and the pulsing throb of Keoki emanating from the room loudly enough to rattle the silver.
Nikita started to get up to get the baked spaghetti from the oven, but Michael waved her back into her seat. This stiff back thing could be worth it after all, she thought with a smile.
++
Nikita found that going to see a chiropractor and getting to see one were two different matters entirely. For one, she had to see Dr. Browne--that was part of the mission profile. The problem was that Dr. Browne wasn't taking any new patients, particularly not spouses of staff members who could afford to see "real" doctors. Dr. Browne's calling, it seemed, made her and her colleagues the servants of the student poor.
Nikita filled out the necessary paperwork anyway, but declined the invitation to wait in the lounge for the next GP; if she hadn't been ill going into the student hospital, she surely would be by the time she came out with all the hacking and coughing going on in the waiting room.
Birkoff was just leaving for an afternoon class when Nikita arrived back home. "French or Sociology?" she asked.
Soc," answered Birkoff, rolling his eyes. "I've figured out if I read the book and show up for the mid-term and the final, I'll ace the class."
"What about the lectures? Won't the tests cover them as well?"
"The professor wrote the textbook," Birkoff explained. "Everyday, he reads aloud from his book while we do homework for other classes. It's a total joke." He took a few steps toward the more masculine Corolla he was now driving, then turned back as if just remembering something. "I won't be home for dinner. I have a, uh, study session for the French quiz tomorrow."
Nikita was puzzled. "Michael could help you with French if you need it, Birkoff. You know that."
"Yeah," he grinned, ducking his head shyly, "but Michael isn't five feet tall with wispy blonde curls and a face like an angel."
"Gotcha," said Nikita, grinning broadly. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
Birkoff tucked his head further into the collar of his flannel shirt as he drove off, but refused to dignify her with an answer.
++
Michael had plans for that evening as well--he had accepted an invitation to dinner at the home of the Dean and his wife for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.
"Several members of my department, as well as some of the medical staff will be there tonight. I can get closer to Dr. McCoy, and you can talk to Dr. Browne about your back. Don't take any aspirin or anti-inflammatory drugs before dinner."
"Does the Flintstone vitamin I took with breakfast count?" Nikita countered sweetly.
Michael just looked at her, then said, "Wear something sexy. I want you to create an impression." With that, he went upstairs to shave, leaving Nikita feeling a bit miffed.
Okay, the checked flannel shorts and paint splattered t-shirt she was wearing was not one of her better ensembles, but she *did* remember how to do sexy. In fact, she was pretty sure she remembered how to knock his socks off.
Chapter Eight
Oh, yes, breathed Michael. Nikita did sexy *quite* well. In fact, the two-piece turquoise number she was wearing covered just enough skin to keep his mind on the job, and had every female's claws out, according to the ladies room scuttlebutt he overheard later from their husbands. Nikita was ignoring most of the male glances, and all of the female ones, and had zeroed in on Bobbi Browne.
"Don't you hate these things?" she said, having cornered the good doctor at the punch bowl. "My husband insisted I come so he could get more money for a research grant. Which one is yours?" She pretended to scan the room.
"Which one is my what?" asked the doctor politely, ready to move on.
"Your husband. You look about as willing to be here as I am."
"Maybe so," Dr. Browne replied a little stiffly, "but I'm here on my own. I'm on staff at the hospital."
"Oh, God," said Nikita clumsily, holding out her hand. "How stupid of me. I'm Nikita Samuelle. Michael, my husband, is in the Science department. I really didn't want to come at all--my back has been so stiff lately--and I thought I recognized a kindred spirit. I never meant to imply..."
"No harm done," said the doctor, softening a little. "Bobbi Browne. And you're right--I hate these things, too, but the Dean insists."
"Browne," said Nikita, pretending to muse. "Of course. I tried to get in to see you today! You're the famous chiropractor."
"Not exactly famous," Bobbi said, forcing a chuckle, "But a chiropractor nonetheless."
"Well, I'm sure you don't want to talk shop at a party, particularly one neither one of wants to be at. But it was lovely meeting you all the same, and I'll keep trying you down at hospital."
"Here," said Bobbi, reluctantly handing Nikita one of her cards. "You'll have better luck calling my number directly. If it's just stiffness you're having, try sleeping on your side with a pillow between your knees, or on your back with a pillow under them."
"Thank you," said Nikita, truly grateful. "How much do I owe you for the consultation?"
"Just tell everyone I was here for hours and had a marvelous time, and cover for me as I sneak away," she said conspiratorially.
"Deal," promised Nikita solemnly, as she watched her new best friend leave the party through the back door.
++
Upstairs, Michael was listening to the pompous jackass Larry McCoy spout off on his theories about the Big Bang, black holes, super novas, and Judas Priest. There didn't seem to be anything Dr. McCoy didn't know about, and wasn't willing to lecture about at the drop of a hat. Michael was glad no one there that evening was wearing a hat.
He also noticed that Dr. McCoy kept his keys, and his right hand, in his right pants pocket at all times, though he gestured wildly and drank freely with his left hand. Picking his pocket might be a problem, unless Michael could drug him or get him drunk. They would have to invite him and his wife, Jerri, over for dinner.
Nikita chose that moment to walk into the room, and caught his eye, asking if they could please leave. He knew she was in pain, but signaled her to come to him. He slid his arm around her bare waist and, for once, Larry McCoy fell silent.
"Larry, Jerri, Megan, Jon," nodding to the others in the group, "I'd like you to meet my wife, Nikita." Jerri and Megan sheathed their claws immediately, noting the joined-at-the-hip claim Michael and Nikita seemed to have on each other. Jon nodded in pure admiration. Larry was his boorish self.
"Quite a piece of work you got there, eh, Mike?"
Neither Michael nor Nikita pretended to understand the question, and stood quietly with eyebrows raised until Larry's skin turned pink beneath the orange of his bake-and-fake tan. Jon and Megan faded quietly away, and Michael spoke. "We'd like to have you and your lovely wife for dinner sometime, wouldn't we, Nikita?"
"Oh, absolutely," Nikita agreed enthusiastically. On the hibachi. "Early next week? We'll call you."
"It's settled then," said Michael, and rescued Nikita from the party before any blood was shed.
++
Birkoff was trying to focus on his part of the mission, but it was difficult to try to remember how to speak as if he didn't know French, to play the part of a typical college student, and to hit on his study partner all at the same time. He gave up on objectives two and three for the moment, and forced himself back to the object at hand. So to speak.
"Marie est une fille, et Jacques est un fil," he droned dutifully without a hint of a French accent.
"Marie est une...une...une," coaxed Michelle, making the proper sound that Birkoff pretended not to hear. "’Jacques est un...un.’ Hear the difference?"
"I can when you say it, but it doesn't come out right for me," complained Birkoff. "Let's go over the vocabulary list again." They shuffled through their notes, Birkoff pulling his green folder from his black backpack.
For want of something better to say, he asked about their instructor. "What do you think of Professor Sartre?"
"Her teaching style or her legs?" Michelle shot back, teasingly.
"No," replied Birkoff, blushing, "I mean, in general. Do the kids like her? Is she fair?"
Michelle looked around the Commons, then back at Birkoff. "You know as much about her as I do. Check it out."
Birkoff looked around in the same direction as Michelle had and saw about half of the kids studying French text books.
"A lot of second-year students are cramming as well, so I'd say her exams are pretty tough. On the other hand, a lot of second year students are Econ and Accounting majors--notice the satchels--and are taking French as an elective, so she must be fair."
Birkoff had to agree with her assessment, and gave her extremely high marks for her powers of observation.
He would include this in his report to Section this evening.
++
Nikita and Michael came home to find Birkoff in his room, headphones on and music blaring--"Gun" by Gus Gus.
"Michael," Nikita said wearily, "Just tell him we're not having sex tonight before he goes completely deaf. I'm going upstairs to take another pill and a hot bath. My back is killing me."
"You shouldn't have worn heels tonight," he replied, then, nuzzling her neck, "but I'm glad you did. You looked amazing. I apologize for my previous remark."
"Yeah, yeah. Talk is cheap. Say something to Birkoff," she repeated as she made her way stiffly upstairs.
"Try a warm shower," Michael called up after her, toying with, then dismissing, the idea of joining her there. "It’s better for stiffness than a bath."
He walked into Birkoff's room without knocking, since he wouldn't have been heard, anyway. He walked over to the stereo and turned it down to a manageable level before unplugging the headphones.
"Hey," protested Birkoff. "I give you guys your privacy. What about mine?"
"That's my point," replied Michael smoothly. "We don't need privacy. You know we have sex on Tuesdays and Thursdays due to Section’s surveillance. Don't try to drown out what isn't there. You're damaging your hearing and giving Nikita a headache."
Birkoff sat slack-jawed, too stunned to answer. Well, that's what I get for being subtle, he thought.
As Michael was leaving, he paused, giving Birkoff one more thought to ponder, "But if the bedroom door is locked, don't even think about knocking." He grinned to himself as he walked up the stairs.
Chapter Nine
Operations had wrangled another meal with Madeline, breakfast this time, and she elegantly spooned her fresh melon as he went over the reports from Indiana.
"So the three of them have gotten absolutely nowhere after one full week," he grumbled, chewing a slightly charred piece of bacon. "Explain to me again why this was a good idea?"
Madeline put down her silverware, wiped her hands and mouth daintily, sipped her tea, and then spoke. "They are each establishing contacts. You realize this will take some time if they are to gain trust within the campus community. In the meantime, the latest sim shows an 84% probability that the leak lies within the campus. Last week the numbers were closer to 78%. The probability of Red Cell involvement has risen from 65% to 86%."
"What about McCoy?"
"Michael and Nikita are having him to dinner next week. In the meantime, Birkoff has established a relationship with a fellow student, a Michelle McCauley, who seems to have extremely impressive powers of observation. We're running a background check on her now but, oddly enough, she doesn't seem to have one."
Operations stopped mid-chew. "What do you mean, she doesn't have one? And why do we care?"
Madeline continued patiently. "Miss McCauley has attached herself to Mr. Birkoff, and she has no existence other than her present status as a university student. I think that's worth looking into, don't you agree?"
Operations waved dismissively. "Let's move on. I want to take another look at the situation in the Balkans, and I'm concerned about Jurgen's new profiler."
"Yes. Well. There is good news and not so good news on that front. Let's discuss the Balkans first, shall we?"
++
Jurgen saw only bad news for his material, Suzanne. Walter gave her high marks in Weaponry; she was at 97% in physical tactics, and her profiling abilities were off the charts. She had even beaten him twice playing Go. The problem was, she wouldn't stay focused on Section business. She flirted shamelessly with everything in pants, and had been caught on surveillance tape trying to seduce Simon from Comm, her long, lithe body practically wrapped around his, in workout room G5. But it was worse with Jurgen.
He knew that her behavior was designed to make him jealous, and it was getting more than a little annoying. Though he knew it might not actually be possible, he had just about decided to take Michael's advice and sleep with her himself, just so he could then treat her like crap so she would stop the childish games she was playing to get him into her bed. He checked her scores again. It would be a shame to cancel someone with potential this good just because of an itch.
Okay, he'd ask her out, anyway. Easy enough
Or not.
"I'm busy tonight," the redhead had rebuffed him, running her fingers through her spiked hair, when he suggested dinner after their karate session. "But thanks anyway. Maybe another time?"
Could he have misread her that badly? He would have to talk to Madeline.
++
Birkoff managed to score a B- on his French test, much to his disgust, since he had known every answer cold. His mood hadn't improved any when his Psych class consisted of watching pigeons pecking for pellets when a light turned on--Birkoff was way too familiar with conditioned response to find this fascinating. Instead of watching the screen, he did all the even numbered problems in Chapter 3 of his Math book, as he knew this would be the assignment for the following Monday, and schemed for a way to ask Michelle out this weekend.
He decided to risk bringing her home for a real meal to entice her out of her dorm room, and Nikita could actually cook. He would clear it with Michael this evening.
He had not yet seen the reports Madeline had emailed to Michael and Nikita regarding Michelle's status or, rather, lack thereof, as a citizen of Evansville. He did know that she had been evasive at his few attempts to make idle chatter but, as his own background would not stand up to heavy investigation, he had never pressed the issue.
When he got home from class, Birkoff found a note from Nikita telling him she was at the clinic and Michael was attending a lecture, so he would have to fend for himself. Great. Now he had no choice. God, he hated this part of his life.
He removed his boots and carefully walked upstairs, making sure to leave no footprints. He looked around Michael and Nikita's bedroom for something, anything, that would tell him whether or not they were being "intimate." How would he know? It looked like a bedroom. Michael had some National Geographic magazines on his side of the bed; Nikita had the TV remote and the remains of a bowl of ice cream on hers. He checked the bathroom. Nothing hinky in the medicine chest or under the sink. He held his breath and looked in the waste basket--cotton balls the color of Nikita's make up and a couple of Q-tips.
He crept thoughtfully back to his room, feeling like the biggest perv on the planet. He emailed Operations dutifully: no porn magazines or tapes, no condoms (new or used) or other birth control devices, nothing he could think of to indicate any sexual activity of any kind. He did not mention Michael's comment about the bedroom door, or that he would have lied if they had sex on any day other than the monitored Tuesday and Thursday. He did ask if Operations could please give him a clue as to exactly why he was here?
Birkoff would have been even more humiliated if he had seen Madeline's face when she intercepted his email. First, her mouth compressed, then twisted into what almost passed for a grin. Then, as she was completely alone, she laughed. Not a dainty twitter, but a full-out belly laugh. It was not a pretty sight.
She emailed back that Operations was redirecting Birkoff’s primary focus to getting to know more about his new young friend, Michelle McCauley.
After the initial embarrassment that his man-to-man email had been read by Madeline, Birkoff was relieved that he was able to concentrate more on the only thing he liked about Evansville so far, Michelle.
++
As they were getting ready for bed that night, Michael quietly asked Nikita, "Why was Birkoff in our room today?"
"I don't know. He was in our bathroom as well. Looking for clues?"
"About what? And for whom?" Michael countered, accessing Birkoff's email account from his laptop. "Ah. Apparently, we are not having sex."
"We're not?" said Nikita through a mouthful of toothpaste.
"No, replied Michael thoughtfully, "safe or otherwise."
"Why does Madeline need to know that? God, Michael! She is so perverted. I swear she watches the Armel tapes daily just for a little joy ride."
"No, apparently, this directive came from Operations," said Michael, equally puzzled, and annoyed with himself for being so. "Apparently he doesn't want Birkoff, or Madeline, to know what Birkoff's true status is on this mission."
"It *is* Thursday,” she reminded him. “Showtime.
Chapter 10 – NC -17
An initial scan of the house had revealed Section-issue surveillance cameras in the bedroom, dining room, and sun porch. Fortunately, they were video only, so Michael and Nikita could stop sniping at each other. An occasional scowl would do.
Nikita slipped off her robe and slid nude under the brown satin sheets. "I feel incredible after my session with Dr. Browne. Now, if only I could *relax,* everything would be fine."
"Nikita," Michael warned, "I can’t make love to you in here. This is pure Valentine sex for the cameras only.”
"There’s no camera in the shower, so lock the door and come to bed, Dr. Samuelle. Your wife wants you to make mad passionate love to her before the adjustment wears off, and time’s a-wastin’.”
Michael pulled off his boots and socks, then lifted his t-shirt over his head. With his eyes focused on Nikita, he peeled off his jeans and swiftly joined her under the covers. After a few perfunctory kisses and the correct amount of foreplay, they had quick and quiet missionary sex. When they were through, they pulled up the covers and rolled to opposite sides of the bed, pretending to sleep.
++
After a sufficient amount of time had past, Nikita “awoke” and went to take a shower. Michael heard the water running and buried his grin in his pillow. In a few minutes, she came out wearing his terry robe, and walked across the room to sit on her side of the bed. Her motions “awakened” Michael, who went to take his own shower.
After a few minutes, Nikita knocked on the door, telling Michael that she wanted to come in and brush her teeth. After getting no response, she walked into the bathroom and shut the door.
Dropping the robe, Nikita stepped into the shower, and Michael slipped his soapy body against hers, capturing her mouth with his and teasing her peaks with his broad chest. It had been so long. He was ready to take things slowly, but Nikita had other plans. She wanted him, and she couldn't take slow for an answer. She practically jumped, him, impaling herself on his turgid manhood—a moan escaping from both their lips. It was as it as always been, from their first time to the last. Their need for each other was too strong. They both climaxed too soon.
Michael backed Nikita into the wall, and slid his hand down her body to her golden mound, inserting one, then two fingers into her core. He suckled her right breast, while she arched her back and cried out in pleasant abandon. He slowly removed his fingers and used her own juices to play with the nub that stood as sentry to her womanly treasures. He kissed her deeply, than drew the neglected left breast into his mouth, slowly, steadily, causing Nikita such exquisite pain. She rubbed against him in earnest until she came in his hand, and collapsed against him with a sigh.
For a few minutes, they just stood holding each other, breathing in each others essence; letting the warm water mingle with the after effects of their love.
Michael turned the water off, and gently laid Nikita on the terry robe she had abandoned. He settled himself on top of her, his velvet shaft hard and throbbing between their two bellies. He took her hands in his and, interlocking their fingers, raised her arms above her head, effectively pinning her to the ground.
He moved his rod slowly against her nub; first slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. Nikita whimpered. “I need you, Michael. I need you inside me now!”
He teased her opening with his tip, and then pulled away, making her crazy with desire. Finally he entered her, bit by agonizing bit, until the full length of him was buried inside her. He began to move, not as slowly as he would have liked, but he was close to the edge himself. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed home. He did this again, and Nikita cried out with pleasure. She began to climax again, and with a few quick thrusts, Michael spilled his essence into her, his breathing ragged, his hair hanging in wild disarray over his face.
Michael pulled himself to the side of her, and gathered Nikita into his arms. Nikita heard Michael’s heart beat rapidly beneath his chest as his breathing returned to normal. She caressed his chest, and turned to suckle one of his nipples. Michael began to turn her back to the robe, but this time Nikita was in charge.
She straddled him, bending over to kiss him while teasing his chest with her aroused peaks. She slid back and forth over his manhood, eliciting a low moan from Michael. Nikita chuckled as she moved herself down his body to lick the underside of his shaft, then gently suck on the sensitive head. Michael held her buttocks as she gently lowered herself on to him, and closed his eyes as she began to rock back and forth.
“Look at me, Michael,” she commanded, and he opened his eyes to see utter bliss on her features. His hands reached out to caress her breasts as the rocking became more rhythmic--back and forth, up and down, in and out.
Michael couldn’t take is any longer. He flipped her over on her back and began to drive himself into her. Nikita was bucking wildly now, and within seconds, they climaxed together.
Michael went back to the bedroom first, a towel wrapped around his lean hips. He dropped his towel and got in bed, facing the bathroom door. Nikita followed a few minutes later, brushing out her hair, and lay down on her side of the bed. They were both asleep in minutes, mentally holding each other tightly.
Chapter 11
Nikita awakened before dawn, the by now familiar stiffness cramping her lower back, and she carefully maneuvered the pillows down under her knees to relieve some of the pressure. Michael lay facing her, his right arm thrown protectively over her even in his deep sleep. She longed to caress the unruly, chestnut curls and thought, *poor baby, you really didn't get much sleep last night*. She didn't regret one moment.
Instead, for the benefit of the camera, she lifted his arm with a faintly annoyed expression and placed it back at his side. She got out of bed, heading for a hot, hot shower before returning to bed.
++
Madeline, to Jurgen's surprise and dismay, thought his sleeping with Suzanne would be a marvelous idea. I bet you do, you perv, thought Jurgen, and you'll want the tapes as “part of the profile.”
"But, the accident," began Jurgen, red-faced. The total loss of his masculinity was one conversation he did not want to have with this horny bitch.
"Statistics show that an accident of the nature of yours is sexually debilitating only 44% of the time. Your inability to have an erection has not been proven to be a physical problem so much as a psychological one. Perhaps a date with Suzanne and the opportunity to have sexual intercourse is what you need to get you motivated," She laid aside the papers she had been looking through and looked directly at him then, dark eyes unblinking.
"We have a considerable amount of time invested in you as a Valentine Op. I would hate to think that you are unable, or worse, unwilling, to perform your duties for Section." She smiled sweetly at a dumbstruck Jurgen. "That will be all, Jurgen. You may go."
*Get it up or get cancelled. No pressure at all* he thought as he made his way shakily back to his office. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his throbbing temples. He needed a guy's opinion on this. He needed to talk to Walter.
++
Michael lie awake, his eyes closed, and thought about the first time that he and Nikita had made love on that filthy barge in Lyons. He was sure before their passion had fully ignited that what they had was not sex, but something far beyond. Their lovemaking demolished all walls between them. He had wondered then how her body that he had never seen, fit his so well and pleased him so perfectly, and that it was exactly the same for her. What they had felt then was a primitive hunger, a hunger that awakened again during the Armel mission. He had reviewed the mission tapes himself and, despite his attempts to 'play to the camera,' what was caught on film was not Valentine sex; it was lovemaking in its purest form.
Section could not be allowed to use their love against them. Section would exploit their relationship, the same way they had exploited his marriage to Simone. Section made surveillance tapes of their wedding night, for Christ's sake! They grew test-tube babies! Only one survived, and had died shortly after birth, but Michael would not jump through sexual hoops for Section again. He would not allow Nikita to be used the way Simone had. Simone was, had been, different. Tough. World-weary. She had sold her soul to the devil long before meeting Michael. Nikita had a chance to be saved, and Michael would not be the reason that chance was lost to her.
He arose to find Nikita beside him again and noted, with some irritation, that she had placed both pillows under her knees, and he cursed Section heartily under his breath. He had hogged all the covers as usual, so he covered her with his robe slipped downstairs to make coffee.
He was surprised to see Birkoff wander into the kitchen, dressed in sweats, at such an early hour; it was just past seven. Birkoff was equally surprised to find Michael in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of cut-offs. Michael decided the opening move was his.
"Nikita is having a bad morning," he said, indicating his lower back. "It helps if I'm not up there moving around." Birkoff nodded hesitantly. Michael poured water into the top of the coffee maker. "What are you doing up so early on a Saturday?"
"I, uh, didn't sleep that well," Birkoff admitted, his ears reddening. He felt like such a creep. Maybe he should just confess.
"Ah. Feeling guilty about having gone through our room?" queried Michael, not looking at Birkoff, who was praying for the floor to swallow him.
I don't do field work. I don't do field work. I told them. I told them.
"I know the directive came from Operations, but don't do it again, okay?"
Birkoff nodded inanely, like a bobble-headed doll. He was so relieved he forgot to ask Michael about having Michelle over for dinner, and returned to his room to shower and dress for the day.
++
Nikita didn't come downstairs until nearly ten and, when she did, it was obvious she was in a great deal of pain. Birkoff chose that moment to venture into the kitchen again and, seeing Nikita in Michael's robe, almost left again when Nikita called out to him.
"Birkoff," she said, almost pleading, "I need you to go upstairs and bring me one of my pills. I remembered it half way down the stairs, but I didn't have the fortitude to go back up and get it. They're in my medicine chest. Please?"
Birkoff took a closer look at Nikita, the pink in his ears fading away. My God, she was really sick. Her hair was matted with sweat, and her face was almost grey. "Sure," he stuttered, and took off on his mission, his initial thoughts of asking her to cook a gourmet meal for Michelle pushed way to the back burner.
Michael, now dressed in tan dockers and a navy polo shirt, walked in from the dining room. He blamed himself for the look on her face and the obvious pain she was in. Before he could say a word, she took his hand in hers and pulled it to her cheek.
"Don't," she ordered. "Don't say it--don't think it. Last night was lovely. I was feeling so good last night after my adjustment that I forgot to take my pill--that's why I'm so stiff this morning. It has nothing to do with you.
Michael pulled a chair close so he could sit down and look directly into her eyes. She wasn't lying. At least, she didn't believe she was lying. He felt a little relief.
"Nikita," he began, "I still think--"
"If you say that last night 'was a mistake,' I will clobber you, so help me God." She waited for Michael to smile. He didn't.
He stroked the side of her face, and was still doing so when Birkoff walked into the middle of a scene which sent out vibes so strong even he could feel it. He placed the pill next to Nikita, left her a glass of juice, then quietly faded out of the picture.
Michael stood. "Take your pill, then another warm shower, then try the pillow thing some more," he instructed. "I've got to finish grading these papers, then I'll come check on you."
"Sounds like a plan." Nikita swallowed her pill, and drank the rest of her juice before rising awkwardly from her chair. She passed the cookie canister on the way out of the kitchen, and Michael shook his head in amusement. Only Nikita would consider orange juice and Oreos a complete and balanced breakfast. Even Birkoff had eaten a bagel.
Chapter 12
Nikita visited Doctor Browne's office first thing Monday morning. She wasn't going to let a little thing like torturous pain keep her from another night like she had experienced the previous Thursday.
"Call me Bobbi," were the doctor's first instructions, then she showed Nikita where to disrobe. "Any chance you could be pregnant?"
"Wha-? Why do you ask?" stuttered Nikita, totally confused. She thought with panic about the missed pills.
"I'll be taking some x-rays," Bobbi explained patiently. "It's a standard question we ask all women of childbearing age."
"Yes. Of course," agreed Nikita, relieved. "I mean, no, I'm not," she continued hurriedly, blushing a little. "I wanted to thank you for seeing me on such short notice Thursday. The adjustment you gave me worked wonders, for a little while."
"Oh, that was just a massage," corrected the doctor. "I can't give you an adjustment, or really any kind of treatment, until we find out what's causing the pain and stiffness. We don't want to make it worse by doing any more damage."
"Yes, I see," said Nikita, nodding. She stepped out from the changing cubicle in a medical gown, and Bobbi guided her to the x-ray screen.
"Can you show me exactly where the pain is?" asked the doctor. Nikita indicated most of her lower back from the top of the hips down.
"It hurts most along the spine, but the stiffness radiates from there," she added helpfully.
"What caused this last episode?" Bobbi asked, concerned.
Nikita's answered honestly. "I had sex with my husband." She paused and smiled, thinking back. "Great sex, I might add."
"Well, if your husband was the gorgeous, dark-haired one with the accent, then I understand completely," returned Bobbi cheerfully. "There shouldn't be any reason you shouldn't be able to continue to have sex with your husband, as long as you're careful." She paused. "And no, I'm not going to define 'careful.' You're on your own, there."
Dr. Browne performed the standard tests, bending the spine backwards and to the right and left. With Nikita lying on her back, she raised each leg in the air to check the inflammation of the sciatic nerve. A ValSalva test indicated a possibly herniated disc.
Nothing was revealed by the x-rays, though something definitely was interfering with full range of motion, particularly in Nikita's lower back. Nikita knew that the plastique Section had inserted would be undetectable by conventional x-ray or MRI. Bobbi scheduled her for a session of adjustments three times a week, advised her to keep taking the medicine her previous physician had prescribed, and hopefully they could work through this together to bring her some relief.
++
Michael sat in his office going over the test scores from the quiz he had administered last Friday. If he graded on a straight scale, over half his class would fail. He decided to grade on a curve, and to allow more time for question and answer sessions after each unit. The material he covered was not that difficult, but he was not the best of Physics teachers, and he knew it.
While he changed the scores in his grade book, breathing a heavy sigh of resignation, Larry McCoy chose that moment to strut into Michael's office. "What's doin', Mikey?"
"Michael," came the reply, "my name is Michael, and I'm grading papers."
"Touchy, aren't we," teased McCoy in mock fear. "And how's that gorgeous wife of yours, Ni-ki-ta?"
"She's fine," came the terse reply. Thinking of the mission, Michael put on his amicable face and smiled up at Larry. "Her paintings are going to be shown at the museum Wednesday night. We were wondering if you and Jerri might join us for dinner before the exhibition."
"Uh, sure," replied McCoy, certainly not expecting a social invitation. "Of course, I'll have to check with the old ball and chain, but go ahead and pencil us in."
"The presentation is at 8:00. Why don't we say 6:45 at our house, if that's not too early."
"We'll be there," promised Larry, still bemused at Michael's sudden change in attitude.
"Then we'll see you Wednesday," said Michael, who went back to his paperwork. It wasn't until McCoy was back in the hallway that he realized he had just been dismissed by an underling. An underling with an attitude, at that. Yep, Wednesday night should be interesting.
Chapter 13
Birkoff hated Monday morning Psych classes. Instead of the lecture hall, the class met in smaller study groups called Recitations. Michelle was in his group, which was a plus. The minus was that the teaching assistant insisted on calling him Seymour. Twenty percent of his grade from Recitation came from participation, and Birkoff refused to raise his hand knowing that a 'Yes, Seymour?' would follow. So he sat and sulked, and waited until class was over before he broached the dinner thing with Michelle.
"I'd have to ask my sister first, of course, but she's a great cook, and I'd like you to meet her and my brother-in-law."
Her answer surprised him. "I don't think so, Birkoff. I mean, it's a sweet thought and everything, but I really don't do families."
Birkoff was crestfallen.
"I'd love to have dinner with you," she added quickly, "just not with your family, okay?"
Taking what he could get, Birkoff nodded mutely.
Michelle stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Hey. Cheer up. I'll see you in French this afternoon. Au revoir, mon ami."
"Hasta la bagel," he joked back, feeling much better, as he watched her walk away.
He had two hours before Algebra, so he drove home to see if Nikita had whipped up anything more spectacular than peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. She hadn't, but she gave him a great idea on how to get Michelle over to the house for dinner.
She would make enough extra lasagna for him and Michelle, and he would invite her over at 8:00, when the guests were gone and he had cleared the table. Nikita agreed as long as Michael did.
Michael didn't.
He decided to get the McCoys oiled up at dinner, pick Larry’s pocket, and have Birkoff search his office while they were at the exhibit. Birkoff had to agree that Michael's plan made more sense in terms of the mission, and shelved his idea of asking Michelle anywhere for the time being.
++
It was lunchtime in Evansville, but it was 7:00 in Europe. Jurgen and Suzanne had just finished their Tai-Chi work out in room G7, and Jurgen had decided to strike again. Again, Suzanne rebuffed him. He was confused. "Why do you keep leading me on, and playing the world's biggest flirt, if you have no intention of following through?" he asked her pointedly before they could leave for their respective locker rooms.
Suzanne had the courtesy to look a little embarrassed. "Look, Jurgen. I like you. I really do." She paused, weighing her next words. "You're--safe. Someone I can flirt with without, um, consequences." She hung her head, feeling miserable, and missed the tinge of pink that spread across Jurgen's face then quickly disappeared.
"You know about the accident," Jurgen stated softly. It wasn't a question.
Suzanne nodded, still not looking up.
"Then you also know not all rumors around here are true. If you find me attractive enough to flirt with me, to the neglect of your job and proposed cancellation--" at this her head jerked up in shock, "--then be prepared to follow through. Otherwise, focus on your work, and only on your work, and leave me out of your little mind games."
He strode off the mat to the men’s locker room and shut the door behind him.
Suzanne was truly shaken. She did like Jurgen, she even had a bit of a crush on him, but she had not considered him as dating material because of the rumor regarding his masculinity since his accident. Woah. If she was close to cancellation just for flirting, she had some serious soul-searching to do.
++
Birkoff looked with disgust at the ‘C’ he received on his French homework. Madame Sartre, catching the look on his face, smiled encouragingly.
"You’re doing fine, Monsieur Birkoff. Just take the time to double-check your work. The mistakes you make are careless errors--your class work tells me you know the material."
"Yeah. I get it." Birkoff replied, then, seeing her mock frown, changed his answer to "Oui, Madame."
"Please initial your papers and return them to me," said Madame as the clock signaled the end of class. "I've not recorded all the grades yet. And don't think you can fool me by changing an F to an A--I'm not that gullible."
The class laughed politely.
Birkoff looked at Michelle's paper, an A, of course, with initial MB written in the upper right corner. "Who's MB?" he asked as they headed to the commons together to grab a bite to eat.
"I give up," replied Michelle. "Who is MB?"
"You should know. You wrote it on your paper."
"Oh, that," Michelle giggled. "It's not a B, it's a 3, like cubed." Birkoff was totally lost. They found an empty table and sat down, balancing backpacks, Pepsis and soft pretzels. "My real name is Madeline."
Birkoff nearly spewed Pepsi out his nose.
"I know," said Michelle empathetically. "Not quite as bad as Seymour, but right up there. My middle name is Michelle. Madeline Michelle McCauley. M3. Get it?"
Michelle spread a napkin delicately over the teeny black stretchy material she called shorts, and began the process of dismantling her pretzel.
Needing desperately to change the subject, Birkoff brought up the subject of Madame Sartre's husband, who headed the Psych department. Neither of them had met him personally; their classes were taught by Associate professors and teaching assistants.
“Michael said he looks like a carp, and has the personality to match,” offered Birkoff.
“I can’t imagine Madame Satre with anyone like that,” replied Michelle, wrinkling her nose. “She’s more suited to, say, your brother-in-law.”
“When did you see Michael?” Birkoff asked in surprise.
“I’m taking Intro to Physics, duh, and he is in the same building and, well, kind of hard to miss. All that great, curly hair and grey-green eyes! Who wouldn’t go after him?”
“Michael can handle himself around woman,” boasted Birkoff, thumping his chest. “Taught him everything he knows.”
Michelle was not impressed.
“I heard that whoever Sharon Satre wants, Sharon Satre gets. Did you know she had an affair with Professor McCoy last semester?
Birkoff was stunned, but filed this tidbit away to share with Michael and Nikita later.
Chapter 14
It was Tuesday morning, and Birkoff was at his Chemistry class, Michael had office hours until noon, and Nikita was bored. She had had a chiropractic adjustment at 8:30 that morning, and was feeling a bit frisky. She decided to pay an unscheduled visit to Michael.
Michael, unfortunately, had a visitor, one Dr. Larry McCoy. It was apparent at once to Nikita that Larry was cruising way too close to the edge of Michael's temper, and she stepped in at once to defuse the situation.
"Why, Dr. McCoy," she gushed, "what a pleasant surprise to find you here." She touched his arm, then his shoulder. "Do you spend this much time with all your Associate professors, or should Michael feel especially flattered?" She made a point of picking some lint off his lapel, then brushing against him as she came to stand by Michael's side.
"Your husband just can't function without me," brayed McCoy, and he and Nikita laughed, while Michael smiled politely. "Looking forward to dinner and the museum thing tomorrow, Mikey," McCoy added as he turned to leave.
"We'll look forward to seeing you then," Nikita called sweetly after him.
When the door had closed behind him, Michael turned to look at Nikita. "What did you get?"
Nikita unloaded her stash. "Two pens--one blue, one black; a pack of gum; and a business card from a Lexus dealership."
"The trousers will be more difficult," mused Michael, "and he will definitely miss his keys, even if he's been drinking. We'll have to switch them out with another set so he doesn't notice their absence."
"I've already taken care of that," said Nikita as she perched on the edge of his desk. She produced a key chain similar in shape and size to the one McCoy constantly jingled, attached to an assortment of keys. "I went to see Bobbi again today," she added as he returned to his chair.
"She doesn't suspect anything?"
"No, Section was thorough," Nikita said bitterly. "Nothing at all shows up in the x-ray. But--I do feel pretty, um, relaxed, right now, if you can take a couple hours off."
Michael smiled. "I have office hours here till noon, then class till four o'clock. How long will your adjustment last?"
"I don't know. I never timed it before. I thought we might test it together."
Michael took Nikita's hand and looked directly into her sky-blue eyes. "Nikita, I know these adjustments mean a lot to you, but--"
Oh, God, thought Nikita, here comes the 'this isn’t making love, it’s Valentine sex’ speech.
"--remember that Dr. Browne is still under suspicion as a Red Cell operative until proven otherwise."
"Oh. Of course." In her blissful state of tranquility, she had almost managed to overlook that minor detail. "I'm at her office three days a week. I'll check her computer then, and after we become best friends, search her home."
"Just don't lose perspective, okay?"
"Of course not.”
++
Operations had not received any more intel from Birkoff regarding Michael's and Nikita's mating habits outside of the twice weekly obligatory couplings, which was just as well--Madeline had spurned him again in her oh-so-polite way, so he really wasn't in the mood to read about people who were getting some while he was not. He had also not yet read the growing file on Birkoff's little friend, Michelle...McCall, McCallum, McCauley...what the devil was her name?
He picked up that file, turned to the first page, and the name that he read kicked him in the stomach.
Michelle Marie Markali. Age 15. Daughter of Corrine Markali, former wife of Paul Wolfe--MIA since 1967. He scanned the file. Raised primarily in foster care due to mother's unstable mental health--extremely high IQ--gifted student at St. Francis School For Girls in Cincinnati, where she had last been seen in March of 2003 before surfacing at the university and calling herself McCauley. Apparently, she had hacked into the university's mainframe and created her own background file and transcripts. She had also siphoned money from her stepfather's accounts to pay for her education. At this, Operations had to laugh. Good for her.
Operations grew thoughtful. Section didn't generally recruit operatives this young, but there was always the odd exception. He would speak to Madeline. He was due for another dinner date.
Chapter 15
Jurgen's talk with Suzanne had the opposite effect than what he had hoped. Instead of concentrating more on her work, she wasn't concentrating on anything. Operations was pushing for her cancellation, and Jurgen was running out of ways to stall him.
"We're going out to dinner tonight," he told her after their last profile meeting. "A refusal is not an option. We're going someplace nice--dress appropriately," he added before he turned away and left her staring slack-jawed in his office.
Suzanne knew this was a test tonight, a test her very life depended on. She thought about Jurgen's potential as a lover, trying to disregard the rumor mill. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, had a mane of thick, blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. He was definitely doable material, all things considered. He also seemed to like her, as he had asked her out more than once.
She also knew about the accident that had almost killed him: a bomb that had not gone off, that he had hand-detonated to save Michael and Nikita's lives and that blew up, well, practically in his crotch. Suzanne wasn't squeamish. If the essential parts were there, as he implied they were, she would be the one to set them in motion.
++
Wednesday afternoon found Birkoff and Michelle in French class, surreptitiously trading Psych notes about sleep cycles and variations in consciousness for their upcoming exam; Michael grading papers and wondering if he truly sucked as a teacher or if his class was truly made up of morons; and Nikita putting together a pan of lasagna and chilling copious amounts of wine (as well as sparkling grape juice for herself and Michael).
Nikita had debated about asking Bobbi for dinner as well but, knowing how beloved the McCoys seemed to be, decided to defer her invitation for another evening. She was listening to one of Michael's CDs, "immobile" by autour de lucie, and it bothered her not to be able to dance along to the more upbeat tunes. She had scheduled her third appointment for Thursday, knowing that tonight would probably take a lot out of her, both mentally and physically.
She tasted the sauce, now simmering on the stove. Hmm. Maybe a hint more garlic. She knew Michael loved garlic--she didn't really care if the McCoys did or not. The noodles were also ready. She got out the ricotta cheese and started the layering process. Noodles, cheese, sauce. Noodles, cheese, sauce. She covered the top layer of meat sauce with grated parmesan cheese and set the pan in the refrigerator until later. She had already made the Caesar salad, which was chilling alongside the lasagna for now. She only planned to serve cheese and crackers for hors d'oeuvres; she wanted Dr. McCoy to fill up on wine as quickly as possible, but leave plenty of room for dinner. A sleepy, happy drunk was the best mark for a pickpocket.
Birkoff was to meander into the house at 7:00, shyly be introduced, then disappear to his room. Michael would stop in to give him "parting instructions," as well as Larry’s office keys when they left, and Birkoff would have one hour to search McCoy's office and download all his files. He would leave the keys in the kitchen in the fruit bowl, where Nikita or Michael would then make the switch upon their return.
++
Madeline was eating coq au vin in the Tower with Operations, and she was furious. Not at Christopher or his coq au vin, which was excellent, but at the fact that she had been summoned like the most menial of lackeys. She wore her dark auburn hair pulled tightly back in a French roll, instead of loose around her shoulders like Operations preferred.
Operations didn't care. He waited until Christopher had poured the wine before making his move. He brought out Michelle McCauley’s file and handed it to Madeline. "Just when were you going to tell me about this?" he said, his voice tightly controlled.
"I did tell you," she answered with equal timbre, "last week."
"Not that she was my wife's daughter!"
"No. That intel only recently became available."
Now that she knew what had prompted this command performance, Madeline relaxed a bit. "What do you think we should do about it?" she asked conversationally.
"She'll have to be brought in immediately."
"Brought in? For what purpose?"
"For evaluation. Look at her file. She obviously has incredible potential." Operations rose from his seat and began to pace. "She'd make an excellent profiler, or she would fit in well in Comm, or we--"
"Paul."
Madeline's use of his first name stopped him in his tracks.
"She's not your daughter."
"I know that," Operations snapped, beginning to pace again.
Madeline tried again. "She's just a street-smart young girl who happens to think well on her feet and knows her way around a computer. Her biggest sin is to have tapped into the bank accounts of Senator Markali, a man you couldn't stand even if he hadn't married your wife."
Operations muttered something under his breath.
Madeline continued.
"We have no indication that she would be a good operative. We can't justify bringing her in simply because of who she is." Madeline surprised even herself with this appeal, but for some reason, she was determined to win this one.
"Then dig deeper," Operations ground out, and returned to his meal, the rest of which passed in an uneasy silence.
Chapter 16
Birkoff was nervous, and it showed. He hoped Michelle was chalking it up to pre-exam jitters.
"Let's go over Chapter One again," she coaxed. "That's all memorization, you know, who thinks what and why. Then we can cover the parts of the brain. You were a little shaky on that before. God, Birkoff, you're still shaky! Look at your hands."
Birkoff looked down and was mortified to find that his hands were, indeed, shaking "Too much caffeine, I guess. Do you want a Sprite or something? I'm really thirsty."
"No, I'm good."
While he was up, she looked his notebook. He had scrawled the word "KEY" throughout their study notes. Must be some weird mnemonic device. She hoped that the key would unlock his brain and put it in gear. His mind seemed to be anywhere but here at the Commons and concentrating on his Psych exam.
++
Suzanne was suffering from her own case of the jitters, and Jurgen wasn't helping any by being silent to the point of rude during dinner. Attempts at levity, comments on the food, the weather, the current political regime, celebrity gossip; nothing stirred him to do more than grunt. She tugged on the nonexistent hem of her crimson dress and finally asked him pointblank, "Look, are we on a date here or what? You're obviously not enjoying yourself, and neither am I, so what is the point of this little exercise?"
At this, Jurgen did smile. "Actually, I just wanted to see if you'd really show up. If you would really go out with me."
Suzanne stared. "Didn't you order me to?"
"Asked politely."
"Weren't the words 'refusal is not an option' brought up?"
"I'm such a kidder," Jurgen grinned, then laughed at the expression of total shock on her face.
He quickly grasped both wrists as she quickly sought something, anything, to throw in his smug face. Her face was turning the same color as her dress and, though it was a becoming color, it obviously signaled danger.
"Listen," he said, his expression growing serious, "I wasn't kidding about your being cancelled. Operations thinks you would rather sleep with me than learn from me, and he believes that you can do only one or the other. It's important that we prove him wrong, and quickly."
He released his grip, and she rubbed her sore wrists gingerly. "What happens now?" she asked, subdued.
"That depends. Do you like me?"
"Do I like you? What is this, seventh grade? Yeah, I like you. I even *like* like you. Why?"
He smiled. "I *like* like you too." A pause. "Do you want to come over to my house? My folks aren't home."
She pretended to think about it, getting into the game. "Yeah, well I gotta ask my mom, but if she says I can, I can probably sleep over, too."
"Kewl."
++
Shaking hands poured two pills from the vial, then tossed them back to be swallowed dry. The pain was constant now—only relieved by these god damned pills. *How did I ever let myself get into this mess? I’m going to quit. Tomorrow. I swear.* An empty promise that had been made before. There was no way out. Was there?
Chapter 17
The McCoys showed up promptly at 6:45, carrying a chilled bottle of moderately expensive white wine. Jerri was wearing a stylish linen pantsuit which suited her short dark hair, while Larry had chosen a retro theme of turtleneck paired with a plaid jacket. Michael was wearing Versace--black shirt, tie, trousers and jacket, while Nikita's floor-length black dress had a slit that revealed most of her thigh and a scooped back that nearly revealed her buttocks. Her golden hair was tied up loosely in a knot—a style she knew that Michael particularly liked.
Nikita thanked the McCoys for the wine, and opened it to serve with the appetizers. Nikita made sure Larry had access to plenty of the sharp cheddar cheese, and Michael topped off McCoy’s wine glass several times before dinner.
At 6:55, Birkoff made his appearance, said his hellos, and disappeared into his room. At 7:00, dinner was served. Though it hardly seemed possible, the more he had to drink, the more loud and verbose Larry's speech became. Nikita tried to make sure Jerri was getting a warm, fuzzy feeling as well. She didn't want her to notice the moment that Michael made the key exchange.
At 7:45, there was some jostling in the hallway when Larry insisted on driving while Michael suggested the McCoys ride with Nikita and him in the limo they had hired for the evening. Nikita pulled Jerri aside, more to distract her than for any other reason, and suggested that since there would be wine at the exhibit, maybe it would be better if neither husband drove this evening. Larry finally acquiesced, and Michael stepped into Birkoff's room to give him instructions on washing up the dinner plates (and Larry's keys). The Samuelles and McCoys departed for the Museum.
++
Nikita's paintings were three of thirty being shown at the exhibit. Two had received positive notices and one (Madeline's favorite) had received mixed reviews. Since Nikita hadn't actually painted any of them, her feelings weren't affected in the least by the reviews or the comments made by the onlookers at the exhibition. She did study them carefully, as well as others in her "category," as she would be expected to paint at least one of the next grouping for the exhibit in October.
Michael kept a close eye on McCoy, bringing him wine to drink and making sure his right hand didn't leave his jingling right pocket holding the fake set of keys. Jerri, who was obviously not an art lover, sat near the entrance and tried to stay awake after too much wine and too much lasagna. Nikita tried to spend time with her, but kept getting called away by one art aficionado or another.
At shortly before 9:30, Nikita suggested they call it a night, and the McCoys willingly agreed. Both Larry and Jerri fell asleep in the limo on the way home--whether from the wine or from boredom it would be difficult to say. Michael led Nikita inside first, then insisted Larry give him his keys so the limo driver could take him home. Jerri, by now awake and sober, argued that she was capable of driving. Keys passed back and forth several times, but Jerri ended up with Larry's keys and agreed to take him home and put him to bed.
"Call us when you get home so we know you arrived safely," Nikita said in her best Mother Hen fashion.
"I will," promised Jerri, who pulled out of the driveway and promptly forgot.
Michael put his arm around Nikita's shoulder and walked her into the house. They went straight to Birkoff's room.
"What did you get?" Michael asked immediately.
"Nothing," Birkoff shrugged. "If he's feeding intel from Red Cell to Afghanistan, he's not doing it from his office. I made a copy of the key to his house--I'll try there next."
"That doesn't make a lot of sense, Michael," said Nikita. "The system at University would be much easier to access and more difficult to trace than a PC. Pompous bastard he may be, but he's not stupid."
"No," Michael agreed. "We're missing something."
++
Jurgen, to his immense relief and satisfaction, seemed to have made a complete recovery from his accident. On the sofa. In the shower. In the bed. Twice.
Suzanne was sympathetic to, but not at all put off by Jurgen's abdominal scars. If anything, they got her even more enthusiastic. On the sofa. In the shower. In the bed. Twice.
Exhausted now, they slept wrapped in each others arms, bliss and contentment on both faces until the jarring of Jurgen's cell phone snapped them into reality. He answered.
"Etienne," came the voice at the other end of the line.
He listened for a moment, then snapped the cellular shut. "We have to go in."
"Do we have time for a shower?" asked Suzanne, stretching lazily on his bed.
"Not the kind you have in mind," returned Jurgen. "Get dressed. We have a mission, and you're profiling this one."
Chapter 18
Nikita kept her chiropractic appointment with Bobbi at noon the following day. After she was dressed, she casually mentioned the pain pills given to her by Section.
"I've no idea what they're called," she said vaguely. "They're kind of longish more than roundish, with sawed-off off corners, and pink on one side and white on the other."
"That doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard of," said Bobbi, bemused. "Wait here just a minute while I look it up in the Physician's Desk Reference. There's one down the hallway--I won't be a minute."
Nikita listened until Bobbi's footsteps faded away, then dashed into her office. She swept the hard drive of her computer and had just finished and returned the disk to her purse when Bobbi returned.
"I didn't see anything that resembled what you described." *No kidding,* thought Nikita. "Why don't you bring in the bottle next time and I'll check the label?"
"Oh, I kind of put my pills in with Michael's allergy medicine, you know, to save space. But I'll let you know when I have to call in and get a refill."
Bobbi admonished her on the evils of mixing two drugs in one bottle, then set up three appointments for the following week.
++
Larry McCoy stopped by Michael's office to thank him for dinner again and to comment on Nikita's legs. Again.
"You're wife is some looker, Mike. I told Jerri she needs to get a dress like Nikita's even though she wouldn't look half as good in it."
*I bet she was thrilled to hear that,* thought Michael, not saying a word that would encourage McCoy to stay or to continue his monologue.
"Yep," McCoy went on, unabated, "I told Jerri we needed to have you two over to our house, just so I could get another look at those legs."
Gritting his teeth, but seeing the opening he needed, Michael agreed. "Nikita would like that very much, I'm sure."
"Great!" boomed McCoy. "Hey, Mike. Do you play poker?"
"No."
"Too bad. You've got the perfect face for it."
At this, Michael looked up at McCoy, who gave him a huge wink as he departed.
Michael mused, rubbing his jaw. He wondered how much of the buffoon act was just that, an act.
Chapter 19
Birkoff was pretty sure he aced his Psych test. He hadn't really studied, but he had read the material once and a photographic memory did come in handy. Michelle was feeling confident as well, so they went to the Commons to celebrate with soft pretzels and Pepsis.
Birkoff carried the tray while watching Michelle walk ahead of him in her teensy denim shorts paired with a baby-doll pink t-shirt that barely covered her abdomen.
"I know you don't do families," he began cautiously, "but do you ever do movies?"
"Sure," said Michelle, a little surprised. She licked some cheese sauce off her thumb. "When? Tonight?"
"If you want to."
"I work at the bookstore till 8:30, but we could catch something at the cheap theatre. What did you want to see?"
"You decide."
Michelle mulled for a moment, then her eyes lit up.
"Spy Kids."
Birkoff groaned.
++
When Nikita came home from the market, Michael was already at Birkoff's computer, scanning the disk she had left for him earlier.
"Find anything?" she asked, half hoping he wouldn't.
"No. It's clean." He swiveled in his chair to face her. "You'll have to get invited to her house."
"That could be tough. She's already turned down two invitations to ours. I don't think she socializes much."
"Then you'll have to break in."
"What happened to 'we'? There is no 'I' in 'team,' Michael."
"I have to go back to Section." He turned back to the computer and started putting things away, somehow making sense of Birkoff's filing system.
"When?" she asked. "For how long?"
"I leave for Louisville in an hour. I'll be back late Sunday night."
"So much for our romantic weekend," Nikita pouted.
Michael smiled and pulled her onto his lap. "We'll make up for it next weekend," he said, nuzzling her neck.
It was this scene that Birkoff chose to walk in on.
"Okay, okay! If you're gonna do this, would you at least rent a room?" he sputtered. "And not mine! Geez!"
"It's all right, Birkoff," Nikita said as she and Michael stood to walk to the kitchen. "We were just saying good-bye. Michael's going to Section for the weekend."
"Why? Did we find anything worth reporting?"
"No," Michael answered softly. "I'm leading a mission."
"Oh, yeah?" Birkoff answered, feeling a bit nostalgic. "Who profiled it?"
"Jurgen’s material—Suzanne."
++
The mission went well. Jurgen was pleased. Suzanne was ecstatic. Operations was disgruntled. Madeline was unreadable. Michael was injured. Not on the mission, but he had slipped on an oil slick in van access and wrenched his ankle, and was in a foul mood when he returned to Evansville.
Nikita's hope of picking up where they had left off were dashed when she heard him limping up the stairs late Sunday evening.
"Do you want anything to eat?" she said, pointedly ignoring his injury. He would talk when he was ready.
"I ate on the plane," was the terse reply.
"But that was over three hours ago."
"I just want to sleep."
Nikita listened to him fumble around in the bathroom, performing his necessary nighttime chores, and he came to bed wearing navy sweat pants and a white tank top. He lay on his side, not facing her.
"Do you need to relax?" she asked innocently.
Bad choice of words. She could see every visible muscle stiffen.
She backpedaled quickly. "Not like that. I meant, do you want me to rub your back so you can sleep? Even Section wouldn’t find that strange, considering that you’ve been injured."
He remained still for another minute or so, then slowly turned to lie stomach down on the bed, his face still turned away from her.
She ran her fingernails lightly up and down his back, then her fingers, then began a full-out massage, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and back release at her touch. After ten minutes, she heard Michael's light snore, and smiled. He had forgotten to take his allergy medicine. She shifted back to her side of the bed and fell quickly asleep.
Chapter 20
In the early morning hours, Michael awoke to find Nikita pressed against him for warmth, all the covers having made their way to his side of the bed as usual and the air conditioning blowing in high gear. He eased himself from her side and covered her with the comforter, needing his robe in the early morning chill.
He was sitting in the kitchen, leg elevated and ankle wearing a bag of frozen peas when Birkoff stumbled into the kitchen, ready as he could be to face his 8 a.m. Math class.
"Hey, how did the mission go--or should I ask?" he said, nodding at Michael's ankle.
"The mission went fine. This," he said, indicating his ankle, "was just my own stupidity."
Birkoff had no idea how to reply to such a statement, especially without coffee. He poured a cup and stalled for time.
Nikita solved his dilemma by making an appearance at that moment. She was already dressed in jeans and one of Michael's sweatshirts tied loosely over a skimpy tank top, and looked incredibly sexy with just-washed hair pulled back in a ponytail and a shiny face free of make-up.
She poured herself a glass of juice and sat down at the table. "I'd ask you what happened, but I already got it out of Walter. Oil slick, hm?"
Michael looked straight ahead, jaw locked.
"How long have you been on cold, and when do you start heat again?" she persisted.
"Twenty minutes, then I have to leave for class," came Michael's clipped reply.
"Okay, then I'll go plug in the heating pad, take a quick walk around the block, and be back in fifteen. Birkoff, will you be home for lunch?"
"I don't know yet. Why?"
"Don't be if you don't have to. I'm going to try to lure Dr. Browne over for lunch today so she'll invite me to her house for lunch one day this week."
"Yeah, okay. Whatever." Birkoff finished his coffee and rinsed his cup before putting it in the dishwasher. He put two Pop Tarts in his backpack and headed out the door for class. "See ya," he called over his shoulder.
++
Luring Dr. Browne was easier said than done, even with the promise of lasagna and no kids with sore necks or aching backs. She finally agreed, and Nikita breathed a sigh of relief, more from Bobbi's agreement than from the adjustment she had just had.
Nikita had driven the jeep, and stepped inside with one fluid motion. Bobbi eyed the jeep dubiously before pulling her much shorter, sturdier frame into the passenger’s side. Nikita noted her difficulty and apologized. “Michael and I are both so tall. I didn’t think about how high up the door would be for anyone else. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Bobbi retorted, “as long as you have a crane waiting at home to get me out of this thing.” They both laughed.
Bobbi was surprised when they pulled into the driveway of the small condo. Noting the expression on her face, Nikita asked her what was wrong.
"Nothing. Your house is lovely. I just pictured you living in some palatial estate like Dr. McCoy and his wife."
"Hardly," said Nikita, choking back a laugh. "Michael and I both have to work, and I have my brother to support. This rental is nice, but it was all we could afford."
"I didn't know you worked. What do you do?"
"I paint," said Nikita, leading her into the sunroom, where two half-finished canvases stood stretched on their easels. "I've been commissioned by the museum to paint three more by October, and I'm not feeling extremely artistic at the moment, so I'm stalling by inviting a friend to lunch."
"Glad I could help."
Bobbi looked closely at two of the canvases, which looked very similar at this stage. "What do you call your style?"
Nikita thought a moment. "Conflicted."
Bobbi smiled.
"Come on into the kitchen while I heat up the lasagna, and we'll talk about anything except work and the McCoys."
Nikita learned that Bobbi was divorced with no children, was originally from St. Louis, and had moved to Evansville because of an online romance that had fizzled once the two parties had actually met.
"I can't believe you would just up and move without even meeting the guy," said Nikita, incredulous.
"It was the first and only time I've ever been spontaneous. Believe me, it won't happen again." She took a swallow of her iced tea before speaking again. "I don't regret moving here, though. Evansville is a lot like St. Louis in miniature. It has a museum, a zoo, even a pro baseball team, but everything is smaller and slower paced. I like that."
"But what about your practice? It must have been hard to give up a private practice in exchange for what you do now."
"Not really," Bobbi answered wryly. "Oh, sure, I miss the money, but I like kids. I'd rather treat them than the idle rich any day."
Nikita looked at her watch. "I'd better get you back to campus."
Bobbi agreed, but stated "You'll have to roll me to the jeep. That lasagna was delicious."
"I'll email you the recipe. Give me your address at home--wait; let me get a pencil."
Bobbi waited, then innocently spelled out "Bbrowne105@aol.com."
"Got it," smiled Nikita. "Let's go.
Chapter 21
Birkoff was able to access Bobbi's home computer through her email address. Nothing showed up on the hard drive to indicate any kind of relationship with Red Cell. Nikita was relieved, yet this meant one less viable option. The pathways were narrowed to Larry's home PC, and possibly Sharon Sartre.
Michael spoke to Birkoff when Nikita brought him home that evening. His instructions were clear. "You must fail your next French quiz."
"But why?" exclaimed Birkoff. "I'm already faking a C average, and it's killing me."
"As your guardian, I will need to visit your French teacher to talk with her about your failing grade," Michael explained patiently.
*Well, crap. So much for my efforts to impress Michelle* thought Birkoff.
"You also need to fail your Psychology midterm."
"No way," protested Birkoff. "I have a 98 average in that class. There's no way I can fake a failing grade now unless I just don't show up."
"Okay. You don't take the midterm. Go and talk to the head of the department, Dr. Sartre. Explain that you will be out of town the day of the exam, and see what other options he can offer you. Check out the layout of his office, and get what we need to sweep his hard drive."
"No problem," muttered Birkoff, as if he had just been asked to take out the garbage.
++
Birkoff was puzzled. When he met Michelle a month ago, he swore he could look straight down and see the top of her head. Now, even though she was wearing flat shoes, she seemed, somehow, taller. Not only taller but, well, bustier. He reluctantly broached to subject with Nikita, and cringed at the expected answer.
"Most girls reach their physical maturity when they start their period, around 12 or 13." *God, he knew she was going to use that word.* "Some girls, just like some guys, are late bloomers. I can't believe an 18-year old girl would grow an inch, though I guess it's possible. As for her chest, there's always Victoria's Secret. How close are you two, anyway?"
"Not that close." Birkoff promised quickly.
Nikita thought for a moment. "What about her teeth?"
Birkoff thought Nikita had lost it. "Her teeth?"
"Even if she's really a late bloomer, she should still have her second set of molars by now. You have kissed her, haven't you?"
Birkoff hung his head. "We're just friends."
"Okay, you've got two possibilities," proposed Nikita. "If she's got her second set of molars she's a late bloomer; if she hasn't, she's only 14 or 15 and, therefore, off-limits."
"Great," moaned Birkoff. "I finally find the perfect girlfriend, and she's jailbait."
"Not necessarily." Nikita smiled and gave his buzz-cut a rub for old time's sake. "Check out the molars before you do anything rash."
"Piece of cake," shrugged Birkoff. "Flunk French, skip Psych, and count molars. Typical day in the life of your average college freshman."
++
Michael's advice, Jurgen hated to admit, had worked. Suzanne had settled down and was concentrating fully on her work now that they were sleeping together. Not because she thought he was slime, but because she didn't need to flirt with anyone else any more. Her profiling was outstanding. Even Madeline was pleased, if one could use that word to describe her.
Walter was the only one she still flirted with, but everyone flirted with Walter. It was just that no one (at least Walter wasn't talking) ever followed through.
Operations had stopped in Madeline's office to check Suzanne's latest numbers.
"Over 96%," replied Madeline.
"Tactical?"
"98.4%"
"Armed combat?"
"Only 94%, but she has a workout scheduled with Jurgen this afternoon. Overall, her scores are exceptionally good for a recruit. I was particularly pleased with the mission she profiled."
Operations was displeased. He didn't like Suzanne. He didn't like her pierced tongue, the tattoos of butterflies on her wrist and ankle, or the tattoo of a tiger on her upper arm. She didn't fit his ideal of “professionalism” when it came to operatives.
Madeline understood his concern. "She won't be doing any field work, so her personal appearance is really not a factor."
"That's what we always said about Birkoff. What if he had gotten an ear pierced or something?"
"Then he would have blended in perfectly at the Evansville campus. Why don't you worry about Suzanne's scores, and I'll talk to her about her appearance?"
It seemed like a fair tradeoff, and Operations left her office muttering about white trash and hippie chicks.
Chapter 22 – NC-17
Nikita was already in bed when she heard Michael coming up the stairs. He was walking without a hint of a limp now, but he hadn't seemed to have improved in temperament at all in the last week. It was Tuesday, and she was determined to fix that.
He removed his robe and sat down on his side of the bed and, almost before he had lain down, Nikita had moved over to his side and slid her hand up along his chest inside the stretchy material of the white tank shirt he wore to bed.
"What are you doing?" he asked patiently.
"Well, either I’m doing it wrong," she began, "or it's been way too long and you've forgotten how. I'm voting on the latter."
Michael sat without moving, then abruptly left the bed and walked over to the door. *So much for that,* thought Nikita. She was surprised when he locked it and turned back to her with a smile on his face. "I made a deal with Birkoff."
He tore off the shirt and left his sweat pants crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed. The fact that he hadn't folded either of them neatly first spoke more of his need for her than anything else could.
They came together almost at once--foreplay could wait for another day, another time. Michael questioned her with his eyes, dark grey with passion. She knew what they both wanted. What they both needed. The only word Nikita could think, let alone say, was yes. Yes, whatever he wanted. Yes, whatever she could give him. Yes to anything and everything. Michael managed to speak-- three syllables--"Ni-ki-ta"--before he, too, felt the release that they both had been yearning for.
Still joined, Nikita rolled Michael over onto his back and traced the contours of his face with her index finger, then rubbed her cheek against his, smooth against rough. She tasted his kiss-bruised lips with her own, then nibbled on his earlobe, his jawline, his shoulder. Groaning, Michael felt himself growing within her, and rolled her on her back, pinning her hands above her. He began to move within her, her naked breasts teasing his chest just as the light in her eyes teased him now. He could see her desire, her passion casting an aura around her. Their bodies trembled, meeting each other with a rhythmic motion as old as time.
Afterwards, Nikita fell asleep almost immediately, her body cradled in his arms. Michael cursed himself for his lack of control. In their haste, they had forgotten the surveillance camera. He cursed himself again as he extracted himself from Nikita’s grasp and rolled to his side of the bed. He also cursed the universe, for he loved her. With every fiber of his being. But he was not free to love. His soul was not free to give. It belonged to Section, and Section did not share.
He knew there would come a time when Section would make him choose. He thought he knew which path he would take, but he still wasn’t sure, and that scared him. He looked over at the silken blonde head sleeping peacefully next to him. He knew what her choice would be. He knew that her choice would get her cancelled. He also knew that she didn't care. Did he?
Not now. Not at this moment. One day at a time, that was all he could live for.
Chapter 23
Birkoff had copped a D+ on his last French quiz, and was stumbling in his class work as well. Madame Sartre and Michelle were worried, but not as worried as Birkoff. He was wondering how quickly he could start pulling failing grades without arousing too much suspicion. Michelle had offered to help tutor him, but was a bit put off by the way he kept concentrating on her chest and her teeth. He had to kiss her, and soon.
He also had to schedule an appointment with Dr. Sartre in the Psych department about the midterm he was going to miss. He was still waiting for Michael to give him a plausible excuse for that one. The Student Handbook listed Bereavement as the only acceptable reason for missing an exam, and one could hardly plan one’s grandmother's death a week in advance.
He sat in the Commons doing his Chemistry homework, having already read and outlined his entire Sociology book, when Michelle stopped by on a break from work.
"I'd be working on French if I were you," she lectured. "You've got the Maths and Sciences down cold."
"I told you, I suck at languages. I'm probably going to drop French if I fail the midterm."
Stunned, Michelle slid into the booth opposite him. "Birkoff, you have to have a language to graduate, regardless of your major."
"Yeah, well, I'm thinking about Latin," he returned. "There's no oral comprehension in Latin. It's like one big logic problem."
"But then we'll only have one class together," she pouted.
"You're right. We should probably see more of each other through the week. Like Thursday night. Wanna catch another movie?"
"Can't," she responded. "I work until 8:30, and I have Criminal Justice at 8:00 Friday morning. I'll never make it if I stay out late."
"How about a movie at my place?" said Birkoff, inspired. "I can have you home before 11."
Michelle reconsidered. "Okay. Pick me up at work, and you can drop me back at the dorm. What are we going to watch?"
"I don't know. Some chick flick my sister has. You can decide when we get there."
"Okay. I gotta go." Brushing her lips to Birkoff's cheek, she half walked, half ran back to the bookstore.
*Match point, Birkoff,* he thought.
++
Nikita looked at the two canvases in front of her. To the untrained eye, which included Nikita's, they were nearly identical. Both were shades of smoky gray, with undertones of lavender and white. Remembering her conversation with Bobbi, Nikita had an idea. She dipped one brush in black, the other in white, and painted mirror-image designs on each canvas. She would show them together as a set and title them "Conflicted." Pleased that she had finally emerged from her painting slump, she dashed primary colors on the third canvas in a haphazard fashion, titled this one "Clarity," and signed her name with a flourish to all three.
She was still cleaning brushes when Birkoff strolled in, or rather floated in, from his afternoon Sociology class.
"What's up, B?" she asked.
"Uh, can you and Michael be gone tomorrow night?"
"Hot date?" she asked, just joking.
"I hope so. I finally got Michelle to come over, and she doesn't do families."
"We can't be gone. Michael's expecting an email from Section. We can be unobtrusive, though. What were you planning to do? Or is that a loaded question?"
"We're just going to watch a movie. Do you have anything good on tape or DVD?"
"Sorry. I don't really watch movies that often. Why don't you rent something?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know," said Nikita, becoming a little exasperated. "I've never met the girl." She thought a moment. "What's her major?"
"Criminology. She wants to be a crime scene profiler."
"Okay. Rent 'The Horse Whisperer' in case she's into chick flicks, and 'Silence of the Lambs' in case she wants to go the other way. Oh, and 'The Sixth Sense' is pretty good, too--chilling but without the gore."
"Got it," said Birkoff as he headed back to his car to drive down to Blockbuster.
Nikita watched him go, shaking her head. The boy had it bad. She hoped for his sake that Michelle was really 18, and that he would be able to let her go when the mission was over. She had thought about reminding him about Gail, but decided against it. Birkoff would probably never feel this free again in his lifetime; she was not going to be the one to spoil it for him.
++
Michael was sitting in the dining room grading papers Thursday morning when a cup of coffee sailed past his head and broke against the far wall, leaving a caramel colored stain dripping down the pale blue painted wall. Michael turned to look at it, then at Nikita, one eyebrow raised.
“And that was for…?”
“For forgetting the cameras Tuesday night!” she yelled. “We need to have a fight, and it might as well be now!”
He had barely registered the croissants in her hand before first one, then the other buttery missile flew through the space where his head had been nanoseconds before.
He sat upright again, and said, “Do I need to throw something back now?”
“No!” she yelled, gesturing wildly. “Just stand up and yell something!”
Michael leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “Damn it, Nikita, I love you! I want to make passionate love to you on this table—right here and right now!”
“Fine, mister!” she retorted. “Just try it!”
She flounced into the kitchen, with Michael following right behind. The kitchen table worked just as well.
Chapter 24
Bobbi probed and kneaded the muscles of Nikita's back mercilessly. "If I were to guess, I would say you and Michael are definitely on more than speaking terms," she offered.
Nikita had the courtesy to blush. "How do you do that?"
Bobbi laughed. "Ancient Chinese secret," she intoned. "Hey, keep up the good work. I can always fix any fallout. A happy patient is a good patient."
"Speaking of--oof--happy," Nikita said as Bobbi rolled her to her side, "how much do you know about the Sartres? Doctor and Madame?"
"Not much. Why?"
"My little brother is failing French, and he needs to reschedule his Psych midterm. One of us is going to have to face “Madame,” and Michael is going to have to get Birkoff out of his exam. Family business. I figure forewarned is forearmed."
Bobbi pondered for a moment. "She's okay, I guess. I can’t say that I really trust her. She puts on a different face in the classroom than she does in the teachers’ lounge, but maybe that's just my opinion." She rolled Nikita to her other side. "I don't believe that I’ve ever even talked to her husband.”
"Well, I appreciate your input," stated Nikita as Bobbi helped her up from the table. "Maybe we'll invite the Sartre's to dinner and ply them with enough wine to pass my brother in both classes."
Bobbie smiled. "I'm sure it's been tried before. It might even work."
"Well, right now it’s time for me to go home and disappear." At Bobbi's quizzical expression, she whispered conspiratorially, "Birkoff's bringing home a d-a-t-e, and Michael and I aren't allowed to meet her."
"Ah, young love. Well, tell them not to do anything we wouldn't do," said Bobbi.
"Yeah, right," Nikita shot back.
++
Michael announced to his classes that he would not be giving his midterm exam until the week of October 4, a week after the regular midterms. This announcement was met with both cheers and groans, as this week coincided with the annual Fall Festival street fair.
"The exam will be Tuesday afternoon, so I will not be interrupting your festivities by more than one day. I will be out of town the previous week. A Teaching Assistant will be monitoring the class and handing out materials to help you prepare for the test. I suggest you attend classes on these days."
"Will the test be open book?" a voice rang out from the back of the room. A chuckle ran through the room, and Michael ignored the query. He knew who had asked the question, and he didn't think an open book and a preprinted copy of the test would net this individual more that a D at best. Her previous questions had been along the lines of ‘Are you married?’ and ‘Is your hair naturally curly?’ A real knowledge seeker, that one.
"Please get out your assignment from Tuesday. I will place the correct solution on the overhead projector. Please take a moment to check your work, then you may ask questions to see if and where you might have gone wrong." He flipped on the light of the overhead, and could already tell by the looks on their faces that, of those who had actually done the assignment, many had failed to come up with the correct answer.
He had seriously considered going back to the beginning of the text and starting over again for the majority of the class, except that about five students were keeping up and doing well, and it would be unfair to penalize them. Normally, he would discuss this dilemma with Dr. McCoy, but he didn't think he could stomach the man today, not after the morning he had had with Nikita.
He willed himself not to think of her, and the effect she had on his body. He refused to embarrass himself in front of his class. He did, however, make a mental note to send flowers to Dr. Browne.
Chapter 25
Michael wasn't home yet, and Nikita was in the sunroom crating her canvases when Birkoff brought Michelle to the condo. They went to the kitchen to arm themselves with cold pizza and Pepsis, then barricaded themselves in Birkoff's room.
Nikita knew that Michelle "didn't do families," but curiosity got the better of her. Besides, it would be rude not to just say ‘hello,’ wouldn't it?
She knocked politely at Birkoff's door, then popped her head through. Birkoff was loading "The Sixth Sense" into the VCR, but Michelle's head turned at the sound. "Hi, I'm Nikita," she introduced herself. "Birkoff's told us absolutely nothing about you."
Michelle smiled, nodded, and turned her attention back to the TV screen. *Well. Okay then.* The kid could definitely use a few lessons in manners, shy or not. Nikita returned to the sunroom and pounded nails with a vengeance.
Michael arrived home about 20 minutes later and, after checking his email, approached Nikita, now in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup simmering on the stove.
"What's the matter?" he said, tuning instantly to her mood.
"That little snot in there with Birkoff," she said in measured tones. "She was just too far on the wrong side of rude for my liking."
"What did she say?" asked Michael, curious.
"Not a damned thing," came the reply. "I introduced myself, she nodded to dismiss me, and that was that."
"Maybe she's just shy."
"No, she's just a rude little snot."
"Okay, she's a rude little snot. Can I have my dinner now?"
They ate in companionable silence, Nikita's temper cooling as her stomach warmed.
When Michael began to clear the table, Nikita stopped him. "No, let me. Why don't you go in and meet the princess?"
"Nikita--"
"No, just try it. We need to find out for Birkoff how old she is.
"How old she is? Eighteen, right?"
"Birkoff hopes, but he's having some doubts."
Now that he had a mission, Michael was more willing to meet Princess Rude, or PR, as he was already calling her. He knocked on Birkoff's door, and entered quietly. Birkoff looked up, annoyed. PR didn't take her eyes from the screen.
"Hallo, Michelle. It's nice to meet you," said Michael, his French accent stronger than usual.
Birkoff paused the action on the screen, but Michelle didn't look away. "Nice to meet you, too," she said, and waited for Birkoff to restart the movie. Birkoff shrugged, and Michael took the hint, leaving and closing the door behind him.
"Brrr," he said, pretending to shiver as he stepped back into the kitchen. "I see what you mean. However, she did talk to me."
"You're kidding," said Nikita, impressed.
"I don't think she's eighteen, though. Her voice isn't mature enough. I would say fourteen, fifteen at the outside."
"That's what I was thinking when Birkoff told me she is still growing taller. Let's tap into her academic records and see what we can pull up."
"I'll do it tomorrow from campus. I need to wait for instructions from Section, then we're free for the evening. Any ideas of what we could do?"
"Ah, watch a movie?" Nikita guessed. Michael shook his head.
"Go for a walk?"
"Maybe first."
"Take a shower?"
"Maybe after," he grinned.
"Then let's go start that walk." Nikita grabbed her sweater and sprinted for the door, nearly knocking down Michelle, who had come out of Birkoff's room to use the bathroom.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Nikita apologized. "I wasn't expecting to see you in the hallway."
"It's okay," said Michelle, who continued her trek to the bathroom.
Nikita stuck her head in Birkoff's bedroom door. "In case you haven't found out yet, the boobs are real," she whispered.
++
Ironically, the intel from Section concerned Michelle McCauley, implying that she was as important to the mission as Sharon Sartre and the original two suspects. Michael accessed her files from his office on campus and found, as Madeline had, that her transcripts and supporting documentation were bogus.
He pressed Birkoff to find out more about Michelle's background, and to bring her home more often when he and Nikita were here so that they could assess her. Birkoff was not happy about it but, of course, he would comply with the directive from Section.
For the first time, he was glad that their relationship had not become physical. The thought of being intimate with a 15-year old girl, was, well, a little hinky. Now, how to get her to talk to him about something other than school.
Chapter 26
Suzanne's two years in training were over. Operations wanted her cancelled. However, he remembered his history with Nikita and, although the two of them were still at odds more often than not, he wasn’t as hasty now to cancel new material simply because he didn't like them. He reluctantly gave his approval to promote her to Level One status.
Jurgen wanted to celebrate by taking her out to dinner.
"No way," said Suzanne, almost repulsed.
Jurgen was flummoxed. "Why not?"
"I heard what happened when Michael took Nikita out to “celebrate” her promotion. I do *not* want to go diving through any garbage chute with a missile launcher aimed at my butt, thank you very much."
Jurgen laughed. "I swear. Just dinner."
"Just...dinner?" she said coyly, running her fingers up and down the front of his sweater.
"And dessert," he promised.
++
Birkoff was having no success at all with gathering intel on Michelle. Any time he broached the subject, she managed to deflect it until they were chatting animatedly about something else and he had forgotten his question..
She sidestepped any questions about home and family, simply stating that they "weren't close" and didn't stay in touch. She didn't like to dwell on the past, and finally asked him pointedly to just stop asking.
He quickly learned to keep the subjects to French, which he was officially failing, and Psych, which he thoroughly enjoyed. They were studying the variations in consciousness, including sleep rhythms and dreams, and Birkoff found the material fascinating. He also took copious amounts of notes on altering consciousness with drugs and the effects on the body, just for future reference.
He wondered how Michael was coming with his excuse for getting him out of class during the midterm. This was one class he did not intend to fail.
Chapter 27
Michael had decided that it was best for Nikita to speak with Sharon Sartre about Birkoff, and he would tackle her husband, David, later. Nikita had made the appointment for Monday morning, and was waiting nervously outside of Sharon's office, having deja vu flashbacks to her own days in various primary schools when she had been involved in some altercation or another.
"Mrs. Samuelle?" Nikita looked up at the attractive blonde framed in the doorway. "Come inside, please." She pointed to a chair for Nikita, which wasn't difficult to miss since it was the only surface not covered with carpet samples and wallpaper swatch books. "Please excuse the mess," said Sharon apologetically. "My husband and I are redecorating, and I'm supposed to be making some decisions by this afternoon."
"I won't keep you long," promised Nikita. "I came to talk to you about my brother, Seymour Birkoff."
"Ah, yes," said Sharon, pulling the correct grade book from the pile on her desk. "He definitely seems to be having difficulty with his classwork, particularly with his oral comprehension." Nikita started to speak, but Sharon continued on. "His grades have slipped dramatically in the last two weeks. Is there a problem at home?" She asked this last question in a rather accusatory tone, staring directly at Nikita.
Nikita was taken aback. "No," she replied, a little shocked by the tone of the other woman's voice. "Birkoff's never done well with languages. In fact, that's why I came today, to see if you thought it would be in his best interest to drop French and take an Incomplete before he got a failing grade."
"I see. So you want him to just give up when the going gets tough?"
"No," said Nikita slowly after taking a deep breath. "I want him to do well in a class that will challenge him. I don't want him to beat a dead horse. My husband and I thought Latin would be a better fit for his language requirement."
"Well, you can do want you want, of course," said Sharon dismissively. "I hate to see someone with so much potential just bail when the waters get rough, but you do what you think is best."
Nikita stood, barely controlling her temper. "Is there a form or something that needs to be signed to make this a done deal?"
"You need to get a Drop/Add slip from the Registrar's Office. Have your brother bring it to me to sign and, once he returns it, he'll receive an Incomplete for the course. Now if you'll excuse me...?"
"Of course," said Nikita, baring her teeth and leaving the room without slamming the door, much to her credit.
++
Nikita was still angry that night when she was getting ready for bed. She didn't want to bore Michael by droning on and on, but she needed to take out her frustration somehow. Fortunately, Michael had the solution. He walked over to the bedroom door and locked it.
He looked at her eyes and watched the fire turn to smoldering desire. It wasn’t Tuesday or Thursday, so they made their nightly trip to the bathroom to have some privacy. Michael thought back to the statement Madeline had made to Nikita during the Armel mission about a couple being together less than five years having "intimate relations" an average of twice a week. Oh, well. He and Nikita had always been overachievers.
Later, as she lay drowsing in Michael's arms, she remembered that she had not seen a computer in Sharon’s office. "I don't know if it was buried under all the redecorating crap, or if she uses a laptop. We'll probably have to break in or--"
Michael cut off her next words with a kiss. "Nikita, let it go. At least for tonight."
"But the mission. We're running out of time, and Operations is already pissed that we haven't found one shred of--"
Another kiss. This one long and lingering. When they came up for air, Michael pronounced, "I can keep this up as long as you can."
"Promise?" grinned Nikita.
"Try me," was the solemn response.
"So where was I? Oh, yeah. Laptops.”
The gauntlet had been thrown down, and Michael was up to the challenge.
Chapter 28
Operations was reviewing two missions, the debriefing of the Balkans mission, and the file on Michelle Markali that was not growing at the speed he wanted it to. Naturally, he blamed Nikita.
Madeline reminded him that no one, even himself, knew of Michelle's existence before the mission, and that acquiring intel could be time-consuming when it was so well and completely hidden. "Rather than having Birkoff keep tabs on Michael's and Nikita's sex life, which you and I both know is now non-existent outside of mission parameters, I propose that you make it part of his profile to report to you his finding's on Michelle. Her comings and goings, her likes and dislikes, etc."
"Sure. It's not like Nikita has anything else to do--why should she be asked to keep tabs on Michelle and actually earn her keep?"
"Nikita must arrange a dinner out with the Sartre's,” she reminded him, “a difficult task after her discussion with Madame Sartre over Mr. Birkoff."
"Yes. Nikita lost her temper. That was inexcusable."
"We'll see how well she recovers," returned Madeline smoothly.
Operations turned and walked away in disgust.
++
Providence smiled on Nikita and Michael. The reciprocal dinner party being thrown by the McCoys included the Sartres, as well as three other couples, which would leave the Sartre home unguarded. Unfortunately, their security system was fairly sophisticated, and Birkoff would be on his own in trying to breach it.
Finding a “Protected by ADT” sign in the front yard, Michael had Suzanne run sims on all possible security systems Birkoff might encounter and the best ways to work around them. Gail would be on Comm, and the party was set for Wednesday evening.
Chapter 29
A colleague of Michael’s, Jon Lacer, and his wife, Megan, would also be at the McCoy's party. This brought some comfort to Nikita, as she remembered Megan from the Dean’s party and had liked her on sight. Nikita and Jerri had never really bonded, despite Nikita’s attempts. Party chitchat with Sharon was out of the question.
Nikita dressed conservatively this evening, wearing a linen pantsuit by Givenchy, ecru in color and trimmed in gold. Michael's Gaultier suit was black, as usual, but lightweight in deference to the still warm October evening.
They arrived at the McCoy's home promptly at seven, and Nikita was amused when she thought back to Bobbi's pronouncement of the home as a "palatial estate." It was simply a very nice house in a very nice neighborhood--about 3500 square feet with four bedrooms, a two-car garage and a pool in the back yard.
Jerri had hired caterers for the evening, and so was mingling among her guests. She approached Nikita, wine glass in hand.
"When is your next exhibit at the museum?" the brunette asked, trying to be chummy. "I'd really like to see it."
"Next week,” replied Nikita. "I'm showing three more paintings. I'll make sure you and Larry get tickets to the opening if you’d like."
"That would be great. Thanks."
Jerri stood quietly for a few seconds then, all out of small talk, wandered away again.
Nikita wondered how the McCoys and the Sartres could still be friends after Larry’s and Sharon’s alleged affair. Maybe Michelle had been mistaken. Or maybe Jerri and David didn’t have a clue. Nikita was willing to bet on the latter being true.
While guests strolled freely around the first floor, Michael made his way into Larry's study and did his own sweep of Larry's computer. Like Birkoff before him, he found nothing. He looked around for as long as he could before his absence might be noticed, but found nothing at all worth sending back to Section.
He tread softly back downstairs and found Jon and Scott Sherman engaged in a conversation about a new ice skating rink that was to be built near the campus. Jon and Scott had children who played hockey and Michael, being an avid Canadiens fan, stayed to follow the conversation. He also discovered that he and Scott shared an interest in motorcycles. Scott currently rode a Buell, while Michael favored his Ducati for its speed When the timing was right, he excused himself and zeroed in on the target.
Michael put forth his best effort to warm up to David Sartre, knowing that he would be paying a visit to him at his office tomorrow to talk about Birkoff's midterm. Though few people in Section knew it, or would have believed it, Michael could actually do "warm up to" quite well. But warming up to David Sartre was like warming up to a mackerel. The slight, balding man had one expression, solemn, and he spoke even less than Michael. His "happy to meet you" smile looked pained and forced, and his handshake was weak.
Dinner was finally served, eaten, and cleared away, and the Samuelles thanked their hosts before heading quickly for the sanctuary of their condo.
Chapter 30
Nikita headed directly upstairs while Michael knocked on Birkoff's door to see what he had found out. Sheepishly, Birkoff told him that the warning sign did not mention that the Sartre house was also “Protected by two Rotweillers,” and he hadn’t gotten past the entry hall. Michael sighed and stood for a moment, listening to the music. He recognized "Modern Crusaders" by Enigma coming from the stereo, a band he actually liked this time. Nonetheless, he motioned for Birkoff to turn down the volume before leaving and shutting the door behind him.
"Michael," said Nikita as he entered the bedroom, "did you take any of my pills out of my prescription bottle today?"
"Of course not."
"There are five missing," she said, sounding perplexed.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I don't know why, but for some reason, I counted them this morning before putting them in my purse, and now five are missing. All of your allergy pills are here, though."
"You can get those over the counter. Either someone wanted to analyze your pain pills, or someone we know is a junkie. Did you have them in your purse at your therapy appointment today?"
"Yes, but Bobbi never went near the changing room. At least, I'm pretty sure she didn't."
"This opens a whole new angle," Michael said thoughtfully. "Someone you saw today needed pain pills badly enough to steal them."
"When do you see David Sartre about Birkoff?" asked Nikita, a plan forming in her mind.
"Tomorrow morning."
"I know he’s an MD. See if he is still practicing psychiatry on the side, and try to access a list of patients over the past few years. Maybe one of the guests tonight is on prescription pain-killers"
"My thoughts exactly," replied Michael.
++
Nikita tried to imagine a conversation between Michael and Dr. Sartre, two men who spoke about 25 words a month. In the end, Michael did prevail, and he got permission for Birkoff to take his midterm the following day in Dr. Sartre's office at 2:30. He phoned Birkoff from his office with the information.
"That doesn't give me much time to study," protested Birkoff, who was further displeased when he was told the make-up exam was to consist of essay questions only.
"You've read the material," Michael answered. "You should be prepared. You also need to make sure he leaves his office long enough for you to sweep his computer."
"Sure. No pressure," said Birkoff sarcastically.
"I mean it, Birkoff," Michael said. "If we don't find anything here, we will have to resort to housebreaking, which has a much lower POS. Remember the Rottweillers."
"I get it, okay?" Birkoff said, subdued. "I gotta go now--I'm late for Soc."
Michael shut his cellular and looked with some interest at the memo on his desk. He had been invited to hear a guest lecturer, Dr. Jurgen, speak on "The Physiology of Full Moons and their Psychological Ramifications." He noticed Dr. McCoy had also been invited, and the date corresponded with Nikita's next museum exhibit. This was the back-up he had been looking for.
Chapter 31
Jurgen was studying like mad--astronomy was a hobby, not a passion, and Suzanne was feeling a bit left out.
"Look, I have to know what I'm talking about in front of these mucky-mucks," he said, trying to pacify her. "You know I'd rather be studying you any day."
"It's just that I have 48 hours down, and I don't want to spend it watching you play ‘What's Your Sign?'" pouted Suzanne.
"That's astrology, not astronomy. And I'm serious. I have to memorize these books tonight," he said, pointing to a formidable stack of volumes piled near the bed, "then these on psychology," gesturing to another pile, "over the weekend. I just don't have time for fun right now."
Suzanne wasn't happy, but she understood. She decided to go to the gym to work out her physical frustration and left Jurgen in relative peace.
++
Operations was complaining, and Madeline was letting him vent. "I don't like having to waste another Level 5 Operative on what was to be a simple in-and-out operation. Michael and Nikita were to find the leak, neutralize, and destroy. What was difficult about that?"
"Apparently the 'find' element is still eluding them. Michael is the one who asked for back-up on this mission. I think if he says he needs it, we should give it to him."
"He's distracted by Nikita. I knew we shouldn't have sent them out together."
"I disagree," replied Madeline. "They work well together as a team, and are very convincing as a young married couple. They're able to befriend couples this way, which should prove to our advantage."
Operations, who was still miffed about not being able to keep tabs on their sex life, changed the subject. "Have we learned anything more about the Markali girl?"
"No, only that she refuses to give any details of her personal life to anyone, and that her relationship with Mr. Birkoff has not progressed beyond the hand-holding stage."
"Tell him to try harder. On the fact finding, that is," he added.
++
Birkoff did well on his Psych exam, at least, as well as he could expect to do with a vulture sitting, staring over his shoulder the entire time. Despite his best efforts, including an Oscar-worthy coughing spell, Dr. Sartre refused to leave the office for any reason, even to bring him a glass of water.
He did try to look around as much as possible, memorizing the layout of the office and the placement of relevant files and disk holders. Eventually, this earned a frown (he thought--it was difficult to tell) from Dr. Sartre, so he concentrated on his test and handed it in at the assigned time.
Birkoff waited outside the office in case Dr. Sartre left for a few minutes now that he was alone, but to no avail. After 20 minutes, he gave up and headed to the Chem lab to work on a project, now that he had been officially relieved of French. He stopped by Michael's office first to give him the details he had gleaned from his observations.
"He only had the one computer, but about 100 diskettes. Some of them could have been patient files, but nothing was labeled. If what we're looking for isn't on his hard drive, we're in for a long night," he cautioned Michael.
"We'll take care of it," said Michael. "Go play student. Just don't blow anything up."
Birkoff smiled as he left.
Chapter 32
Nikita returned from her Monday morning therapy session with Dr. Browne and immediately counted her pain pills. None missing. Good. She liked Bobbi, and hated to think of her as a thief or, worse, a junkie. That left one of the McCoys, or the Sartres. The rest of the guests she dismissed mentally; they were not part of the original profile and she had only met them briefly. Jerri and possibly Sharon knew she was on pain medication for her back. The others did not.
Michael walked in the door a few minutes later. "It's a good thing Birkoff got over that nasty flu bug in time to take his midterm last Friday."
"What are you talking about?" Nikita said, brow arched.
"Poor Dr. Sartre. His office is just filled with Birkoff's flu virus germs, incubating as we speak."
"Oh, really?"
"Well, it will be tonight. By the way, I'll be late for dinner."
"Got you," responded Nikita with a wink.
++
Michael was very thorough. He sprayed the virus on the both sides of the doorknob, the phone (handle and mouthpiece), keyboard, mouse, and on every handle of the file cabinet. He also doused each pen in the pen holder on Dr. Sartre's desk and in his drawer. No way was this man not going to be sick.
He did take a few minutes to look at the diskettes and disk holders Birkoff had told him about and, as he had been warned, nothing was labeled. There did seem to be a color coding system, however, and Michael decided to start with the green disks when he had more time.
As is was, he barely escaped detection by climbing out of the first story window onto the parking lot outside before Dr. Sartre returned to do some last minute computer work.
*Ah-choo, mon ami,* thought Michael, as he strode to his car and, stripping off his gloves and mask and depositing them in the receptacle he had brought for that purpose, drove home to Nikita.
Chapter 33
Michael suggested to Larry that they go together to hear the guest lecturer, Dr. Jurgen, speak at the auditorium on Wednesday night. Meanwhile, Nikita invited Jerri to the opening of her next exhibit at the museum that same evening.
Wednesday afternoon, Michael "remembered" Nikita's exhibit, and called David Sartre at home to offer him his ticket. Dr. Sartre was battling the effects of a nasty cold, but was eager to hear Dr. Jurgen speak and so accepted the ticket.
Michael and Birkoff had been to David's office twice during his absence. A sweep of the computer had revealed some encrypted files that Birkoff had downloaded and was working on at home. Michael had scanned random green disks (stock market files), blue disks (budget plans for 2004) and was going to work on yellow disks that evening.
Michael escorted Nikita and Jerri to the exhibit. Nikita was wearing Givenchy again, and looked stunning, as usual. Michael was in his uniform black, Gucci this time, with a silver tie and handkerchief for a dash of color. Jerri looked a bit sallow in her lime-green cocktail dress, and Nikita meant to ask her if she was feeling all right.
As soon as they got to the museum, Birkoff paged Michael, who made his excuses and quickly caught a cab back to campus.
Hanging blackout curtains over the windows and doorway of Dr. Sartre's office, Michael and Birkoff went to work. Michael was rewarded to find out that yellow colored disks were patient files. Unfortunately, there were two full boxes of them. He gave them to Birkoff to download while he continued to check the other color-coded boxes. Finding nothing else out of the ordinary, they packed up and were ready to leave within the hour.
As Birkoff was driving Michael back to the museum, he observed that Michael hadn't been wearing gloves this time. "How long does that flu virus thing last, anyway?"
"It's dissipated by now."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course.”
++
Not only was Michael wrong, he was a lousy patient. Of all the times Nikita had wished to have Michael trapped in her bed for a week, she was hoping this was not the answer to her prayers. His inability to breath through his nose kept him awake most of the night and, when he did sleep, his snoring kept Nikita awake. Lack of sleep made them both short-tempered, and Michael was always a little on the surly side when he wasn't feeling well.
Birkoff had more bad news: none of the patient files he had downloaded had names on them, only numbers, so he couldn't tell if either of the McCoys had been a patient of Dr. Sartre or not. Also, he was still having trouble decoding the encrypted file he had swept from the hard drive.
"He's definitely hiding something. He's got a firewall matrix on here like I've never seen before, and I still can't find the code key."
"Well, do something," snapped Michael. "And find out what the numbers mean on the patient files so we can put names to them."
"Sure," said Birkoff, *whatever you want, Captain Bligh.* "Since I'm officially in France now, I’m skipping classes this week. I’ll work on it until I come up with the answer."
"Just do it quickly," said Michael before heading into the kitchen for more juice.
Nikita patted Birkoff on the shoulder, then rubbed his head for old time's sake. "He'll be back to normal in a few days. You know he's not a complete jerk."
"I know," replied Birkoff, his eyes already glazing over as he went into 'search and destroy' mode at the firewall matrix.
Chapter 34
Jurgen had returned to Section and was ready to celebrate with Suzanne when he learned that she was out for the evening with Simon. In fact, she had been out every evening with Simon while he had been gone, and her quarters had not been slept in.
"What did you think you were doing?" he snapped when he found her at the gym the following morning.
"Doing about what?" she said, truly confused.
"Simon. What's the deal with you and Simon?"
"Oh, that. I like Simon. We went out. What's the big deal?"
Jurgen stepped toe-to-toe with her and removed the weights she was holding from her hands. "I don't appreciate your sleeping with someone else behind my back," he ground out.
"Well *your* back was in Indiana, and Simon's was here. Besides, I didn't realize that we were exclusive."
"Well, we were," he said, emphasizing the last word.
"Look," said Suzanne, eyes narrowing, "just because you’re the one with the dick doesn't mean you get to make the rules. No one tells me who I can and can't see or sleep with, so get over it."
"It's over all right," he said walking away, dropping the weights with a thud onto the mat.
"That's not your decision to make, either," Suzanne called after him. "It's not over till I say it's over."
Rather than risk hurling a weight through the mirrored glass in front of her, Suzanne left them on the floor and went to go shower. *What a prick,* she thought. *What did I ever see in him?*
++
Birkoff was wondering if Michelle was thinking the same thing about him. They hadn't seen each other in a week, and Michelle acted like it was no big deal. Apparently, she hadn't missed him a bit. In addition to putting him in a crappy mood with her nonchalant manner, her cheerfulness over her 98% Psych midterm grade (as opposed to his 93%) was starting to get on his nerves.
"Look, my exam was all essay, not guesstimate and fill in the little bubbles," he explained loftily.
"I'm sure you did the best you could on such short notice," Michelle said consolingly. "Where did you have to go, anyway?"
"I told you, we had a family emergency."
"But whose family? Yours, your sister's, or her husband's?"
This was a valid question, as Birkoff had explained his family tree in this manner: Birkoff was the son of Nikita's ex-stepfather and a woman who had died in childbirth. He had been raised by nannies and in boarding schools until at age 12, when he ran away to Nikita who, at 18, was living with her boyfriend, Michael. Michael and Nikita got married so Michael could be appointed as his legal guardian until Birkoff turned 21. Until then, his father had completely written him off as Michael and Nikita's problem.
"Michael's. We actually had to go to Paris. I couldn't read a single freaking road sign," he added, hoping to change the subject.
"What about 'Arretez'?" said Michelle. The gambit had worked.
"Considering it was written on an eight-sided red sign, I figured that one out," admitted Birkoff.
"That's cause you're smarter than you look," teased Michelle, who punctuated her statement by sticking out her tongue.
Chapter 35
Between them, Birkoff and Michael had managed to crack David’s system, but that didn’t help much. There were at least thirty encoded files with the only identifying data listed including sex, month of birth, and random digits of the social security number. Nikita was to get Jerri's and Larry’s date of birth, and Birkoff would plug them in the files to see if any match showed up.
++
Jerri was surprised when Nikita called Tuesday morning to invite her out to lunch. "It's LobsterFest at the Red Lobster, and Michael can never take me. He has a terrible allergy to shellfish," she improvised. "Please say you'll go--I hate to pig out all alone."
Jerri answered in the affirmative before remembering to ask Larry, then told Nikita she'd call her back. She did in twenty minutes, positively beaming through the phone. "Larry said I can go, and he doesn't want to come with us."
Nikita didn't bother reminding her that he hadn't been invited. "Super. A girls’ day out is just what the doctor ordered."
"What doctor?" asked Jerri, sounding a bit concerned.
"It's just an expression," Nikita explained patiently. "I'll pick you up at 12:30."
++
Jurgen and Suzanne’s feud had become physical, and they were literally duking it out in the main gymnasium at Section. Their antics had drawn quite a crowd, and side bets were being made on who would come out with his or her dignity the least in tatters.
That Jurgen had the upper hand physically was a given. He was stronger, quicker, and simply better than Suzanne. She, however, had a razor-like wit and a fast-moving tongue to match. For every fall she took, she cast aspersions on members of his family tree. For every hold he broke, she whittled away at his masculinity.
Madeline was watching from the monitor in her office, and she did not like what she saw. Jurgen and Suzanne were not Michael and Nikita. They did not have that cosmic bond that sealed them together when external and internal forces would seem to force them apart. Jurgen and Suzanne were sparring like two disgruntled children over a favorite toy--something Madeline could relate to--and she was going to put an end to it.
"Jurgen," she paged. "Please come to my office immediately."
Jurgen released his hold on Suzanne at once, causing the redhead to lose her balance and fall to the mat with a bone-jarring thud. She cursed his ancestry gleefully, and her proponents high-fived each other while Jurgen's faction argued that he had won the fight.
++
*Four of the pills are gone. Only one left. These were much better then the prescribed ones, and they lasted longer—nearly eight hours. I can go eight hours with the other pills. I can kick this thing. I know I can. I can get my life back. I can do it. I just need a little more time.*
Chapter 36
Nikita was enjoying every minute of her lobster "pogging," despite Jerri's lack of charm as a luncheon companion, and had managed to clean her plate with only one discreet burp into her napkin. Jerri had ordered the popcorn shrimp, and had made some inroads, but didn't come close to Nikita's record for most seafood snarfed in a single session.
"Thanks again for coming with me," Nikita said to Jerri. "The only time I get to eat here is on my birthday, and that's not till March. I don't think they have LobsterFest then."
"I don't know," said Jerri, as if she were expected to. "I never noticed."
"When's your birthday?" said Nikita, as if suddenly inspired.
"August."
"So's Birkoff’s. What day?"
"The first."
"Oh, so you're a Leo."
"I guess so," Jerri shrugged. "I never really pay much attention to that horoscope nonsense."
"Oh, I dunno," countered Nikita. "I think it's kind of fun. When is Larry's birthday?"
"February 24"
"Ten days too late to be a Valentine baby, hm?"
"Right. He's a Pieces, if that means anything to you."
"It means that you and he should be very happy together," Nikita pronounced solemnly. She was speaking half in jest, and was surprised at the pain she saw in the other woman's eyes.
"Yeah, well, like I said. I don't put a whole lot of faith in horoscopes or astrology."
"You're probably right," said Nikita, who quickly changed the subject.
++
"No way. I can't. You're on your own," Nikita protested. "I had to eat my weight in seafood to get her birthday--there's no way I can casually get her social security number without looking like a total idiot." Larry had been eliminated as a patient of Dr. Sartre’s--his birthday was not on file.
"You'll think of something," said Michael, not bothering to turn away from his laptop. "Tell her you're into numerology, and we can eliminate the last of these files."
"Oh, yeah, like the astrology thing went over *real* well. Honestly, Michael, there's got to be a better way. Can't Birkoff tap into the mainframe at the Admin. Office?"
"I did," Birkoff piped up for the first time. "Jerri's not listed. Apparently she's too insignificant to be registered anywhere, and she's never joined any booster clubs or anything.
“How many files does that leave?” asked Nikita.
“At least six.”
“We are getting closer,” Nikita said optimistically.
Michael just stared at her and frowned.
Chapter 37
Jurgen was not surprised by his dressing down. In fact, he was relieved he had only been reprimanded, and in private. The fight in the gym had been way over the line, and he and Madeline both knew it.
Unfortunately, Suzanne was still his material, and it was his duty to make her understand why a public display like the one they had just had would not and could not happen again.
He left a message for her to come to his office immediately. He was not surprised when it was ignored. He was irritated when the second message was ignored. He was both angry and concerned with the third message was ignored. Insubordination was instant grounds for Abeyance.
He paged Simon, asking if he knew where she was. As it turned out, she was in Weapons, flirting shamelessly with Walter, who was flattered but a little put off by the extra attention. He was more than concerned when he got Jurgen's page.
"You need to go to Jurgen's office," he told Suzanne, a worried frown creasing his forehead.
"I'll go when I'm damned good and ready," Suzanne said, bored with the whole idea.
"Get ready now," said Walter, his gravelly voice sending out a warning. Something in his tone made her turn to look at him. "You didn't tell me you had been ignoring his pages. That's grounds for abeyance."
"Whatever," said Suzanne, but with a little less bravado. Jurgen wouldn't turn her in, would he?
"I mean it, Suzanne. Go."
"All right. All right."
Suzanne sashayed out of Weapons and over to Jurgen's office, taking her sweet time. Her footsteps got a little faster the closer she got to his door. Abeyance. Geez.
++
Birkoff dutifully searched Bobbi Browne’s files for intel on Michelle McCauley. She had been treated for a stiff neck earlier in the semester, he observed. He also found an interesting notation from Dr. Browne, disputing the validity of Michelle's given age, 18, and estimating her age to be closer to 15 based on what growth plates showed in her x-rays.
He also noted her file had been hacked into and this notation had been buried behind a firewall. It appeared that Michelle knew that Bobbi was on to her, and didn't want anything put in writing that might give her away.
Birkoff gave Michelle high marks for her attempts. A less interested party would probably have been fooled.
He found nothing on Jerri McCoy for the last 12 months, and Michael and Nikita were not pleased. This meant reading through each of Dr. Sartre's six remaining files, all 30+ pages in length, to determine if any of them belonged to Jerri. What this information would reveal, they didn't know, but they needed to find a link to Red Cell and they needed to find it quickly.
Chapter 38
Jurgen paced while Suzanne sat--already an unusual scenario--as it was Suzanne who usually bounced around a room burning off excess energy while Jurgen was content to watch. Suzanne decided someone had to speak, and it might as well be her. However, Jurgen beat her to the punch.
"Did you get my pages?"
"Yes, but I --"
"Did you get my pages?"
"Yes, but --"
"Did you get my pages?"
Suzanne just looked at him, not sure she would be allowed to answer. She nodded instead.
"Answer the question," he said coldly.
"Yes."
"And you ignored them."
"Well, I --"
"And you ignored them."
Silence. Then, "Yes
"You know that ignoring pages is insubordination, which is grounds for abeyance."
"No, I really didn't," Suzanne said desperately. "I never would have done it otherwise. I swear."
Silence again. This time from Jurgen. ."
Usually, Suzanne found Jurgan’s raspy voice quite sexy. Right now, it scared her to death. "Look," she began again, "I was just mad because you were mad. I didn't mean--"
Jurgen held up his hand to silence her.
"You are my material. As such, it is your obligation to obey me in all things, no matter how petty they may seem to be."
Suzanne opened her mouth to answer, but quickly closed it again when she saw the look on Jurgen's face.
"I take full responsibility for the argument in the gym. It was childish and idiotic, and never should have been allowed to continue to the degree that it did, let alone begin in the first place. Nothing like it will happen again. Agreed?"
Suzanne nodded.
"Answer me."
Suzanne swallowed. "Agreed."
"Good. You may go."
Suzanne left Jurgen's office, still angry, but much chastened by their talk. He had treated her like a petulant child, but then, she had behaved like one. Her attitude had nearly gotten her cancelled--she would have to thank Walter for the head's up.
Simon was the cause of this mess, and he wasn't close to half the man that Jurgen was. Why had she let herself be talked into sleeping with him? She had been lonely, and bored, but not brain-dead. She would see him one last time to break things off completely, and concentrate on being the best level-one op Jurgen had ever mentored.
++
"Give me one good reason why she shouldn't be put in abeyance?" Operations questioned Madeline.
Madeline heard the question, but took the time to compose her thoughts before answering. "She has the makings of an excellent Operative. Abeyance would be a mistake."
"She broke protocol. She was insubordinate, and these are just the things I know about. God knows what else she's done," Operations fumed.
"She's free-spirited," Madeline conceded. "Strong-willed. She needs to be bent, not broken."
"God. It sounds like you're talking about Nikita again."
"Not at all, though they both may benefit from similar handling. Suzanne will toe the company line--she just needs to be shown where it is. Nikita needs to be brought into line without actually knowing that a line exists."
"Semantics," ground out Operations. "What ever happened to 'train them or cancel them'? It worked just fine in the old days.
"Yes," agreed Madeline, her voice carefully modulated. "Nikita and Suzanne represent the new breed of Operatives. It's a learning process for all of us."
"Well, keep Suzanne away from me until she's a *genuine* Level Two."
"Agreed."
Chapter 39(Rated R)
Nikita was getting ready for bed, brushing her teeth and hair before taking her obligatory pill. From habit, now, she checked the number of tablets remaining in the amber vial, and still came up five short. Her back was feeling fine tonight and, not for the first time, she contemplated what would happen if she and Michael would have a child together.
Oh, she knew realistically that Section would terminate the pregnancy at once, but sometimes, every so often, she let herself dream. She always pictured a little boy, with white-blond curls and blue-green eyes, the cleft chin from both his parents, Michael's nose and her smile. They would christen him Denis Michel, but call him Aiden, after her favorite stepfather. She thought about Aiden from time to time, and pictured the three of them visiting him in Australia.
Nikita shook her head fiercely to clear the domestic cobwebs--'stuff and nonsense' her mother would have said and for once, her mother would be right. What right had she to dream these dreams when she and Michael belonged in body, if not in soul, to Section.
She swallowed the rectangular pill, shuddering at the bitter taste, rinsed her mouth again, and walked out into the bedroom. Michael was already in bed, wearing his usual sweatpants and a tank shirt, and scowling determinedly at his laptop.
"What are you doing?" she asked, intrigued.
"Trying to find a link from these files to the McCoys or Bobbi Browne. I just read 28 pages of a 29 page file before Sartre decided to mention that the patient was an obese African-
American."
"Ouch," Nikita sympathized. "How many more files do you have left to check?"
"We thought only six, but because his filing system is so haphazard, there may be as many as 18."
"Well, you can't do them all tonight, so shut off the light and let's get some sleep."
"No--I'm too keyed up to sleep now. I'm just going to check one more file."
Nikita walked over to the door and checked to make sure it was locked.
Michael looked up and blinked. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not going to waste a 'too keyed up' by going to sleep. I'll wait for you as long as it takes."
Michael turned off the laptop. "I just finished." He set the laptop and disks aside, stepped out of bed and removed his shirt and pants, folding both neatly on the chair beside the nightstand, and slipped back under the covers.
Nikita approached the bed from the other side and, removing her gown in one fluid movement, let it pool around her ankles. She reached up to pull the covers down to the bottom of the bed, where they would be out of the way.
She climbed across the bed like a lioness stalking its prey. Michael waited and watched, intrigued as to what her next move would be. He didn't have to wait for long. She lay full-length upon him, arms above their heads, fingers entwined, and he grew warm everywhere, blood pounding in his ears.
The first kiss was gentle, almost a whisper. The second kiss was a kiss; textbook and letter-perfect. The third was seeking, demanding, and Michael was ready to give whatever Nikita sought, cameras be damned. Her tongue left his mouth and traveled south--to his neck, his firmly muscled chest, his abdomen. He moaned with anticipation and was not disappointed.
When he could stand no more, he quickly rolled over, pinning her underneath him. She didn't seem to mind. His lips and tongue traversed the same trail as hers, and garnered the same response.
When he entered her, it was as if two souls had merged to become one. They moved as one, breathed as one, moaned and sighed as one. Time stood still when they found their release.
"Ni-ki-ta," breathed Michael.
"Mi-chael" sighed Nikita.
They lay entangled in each others arms, neither one willing to break the bond that had sealed them only moments before.
++
"Bingo!" said Birkoff, having a climactic moment of his own. He was 98% sure he had found Jerri's file, and Dr. Sartre had prescribed Hydrocodone in addition to an antidepressant. He could see that Michael's bedroom light was on, and bounded up the stairway to tell him the good news.
As he raised his fist to knock, he heard giggling. He blanched. The giggler was Michael. He glanced at the doorknob and saw that it was in the locked position. *Oh, man, I'm gonna be sick,* he thought. More giggling, Nikita this time, and laughter from Michael.
His face beet red and his heart pounding audibly, Birkoff tiptoed back down the stairs, shuddering to think what he had almost interrupted. His news could definitely wait until morning.
He went back to his room and, completely forgetting Operations’ directive, went to work on Dr. Sartre's firewall matrix. It wasn't as if he was going to be sleeping again anytime soon anyway.
++
"Hey, sleepy-head," Nikita greeted him the next morning. "You missed Michael--he had a staff meeting this morning."
*That was the plan*, thought Birkoff. "I didn't really sleep much last night. I was working on the matrix. I got through two more layers."
"Congrats. Anything else to report?"
"I think I found Jerri's medical file." He told her what he had found last night, including the information that Jerri had been taking strong prescription painkillers.
"That's great news, Birkoff," Nikita said sincerely. "Michael will be pleased."
*Not as pleased as he was last night*. The thought jumped into his head before he could stop it, and he felt his ears growing red.
"Yeah, well, I gotta go. Chem lab."
"Will we see you for dinner?"
"Yes. I want to work on the matrix some more. I really think I'm close and, if I find what I think I'll find, we've got our Red Cell source."
Chapter 40
Birkoff couldn't shake the image of Michael and Nikita in bed together from his head, and he nearly walked passed Michelle, who was sitting in their usual booth in the Commons.
"What's got you so fried?" she opened.
Deciding that the easiest lie to remember is the one that's closest to the truth, he told her. "I almost walked in on Nikita and Michael, you know, doing it, last night."
"Oh my God. They still do it after all this time together?" That wasn't quite the response he was expecting.
"Well, yeah," said Birkoff, confused. "Of course they do. But they weren't expecting an audience last night."
"I can't believe they'd still want to after what, almost 10 years? Haven't they gotten past all that?"
"Are you kidding?" replied Birkoff, astonished. "They're only 24 and 34 years old. They've probably got at least another 10 years of sex ahead of them."
"Gag me," was Michelle's response.
Birkoff sat down, removing his backpack and his gray flannel jacket. He wondered what it would be like if Michael and Nikita really were an 'old married couple' instead of two Section Ops.
"It's just weird, you know, thinking about people that you *know,* actually, well, you know--"
"I said, *gag me," Michelle said with emphasis, "TMI."
"What?"
"Too Much Information."
"Oh. Got it." He changed the subject.
"Are you going to the Fall Festival?" He was referring to the street fair on Evansville's West side, consisting of food booths, carnival games, and amusement park rides.
"Probably. If I can get a ride."
"We could go Monday night--see what all the fuss is about."
"Okay," said Michelle.
++
Michael looked at the final draft of the midterm he had prepared, knowing that at least half of his class would fail, despite his attempts to make it as easy as possible. He knew he wasn't the greatest of teachers, but his class had to be the most stupid, least ambitious on campus. Their questions consisted mainly of 'What cologne are you wearing?', and no one had ever attempted to do the extra credit work he had offered.
Oh, well. He planned to go over the exam today, question by question, as a review. It would not be his fault if they failed on Tuesday.
He thought about what Nikita had told him about Birkoff's findings regarding Jerri's file and the painkillers. It was possible that Dr. Sartre was Red Cell, and he was using Jerri by blackmailing her through her dependence on his prescription pad. He would put that information in his report to Operations this evening.
He let his mind wander back to Nikita, and he was nearly overcome with a feeling of tranquility and domesticity. He wondered what it would be like to really live with Nikita if there were no Section. If they had a child of their own. Thoughts came unbidden of a little girl, with white-blonde curls, a dimpled chin from both parents, and green-blue eyes. Then reality set in and his expression hardened. It would never happen. Such a child was never to be. He must not think of such things again.
Chapter 41
"We have to find the middleman. David sends the information to him, and he sends it on to Red Cell in Afghanistan."
Michael made this pronouncement without looking up from his coffee and brioche.
"But what about David's computer?" asked Nikita, dunking the brioche in her cafe au lait. "We've gone over every file in there, and he's clean."
"Sparkling clean,” announced Birkoff dejectedly as he entered the dining room, “at least as far as Red Cell is concerned.” He looked as though he had been up all night. "He's receiving, all right, but it’s not satellite positions. It’s kiddie porn.” He sat down heavily. “That’s why he has it so heavily encrypted. Something like that would definitely make him lose tenure.”
Michael and Nikita shot each other disgusted looks.
“But what about the drugs for Jerri?” persisted Nikita.
“One time deal back in 2001,” Birkoff continued. “He prescribed 30 days worth of Valium for an anxiety attack, and the Hydrocodone was for a toothache because Jerri’s dentist was out of town.” He added, “That doesn’t mean she isn’t hooked on Lortabs—they’re pretty addictive. I just don’t think that David Sartre is our man”
“So we’re back to square one. Larry McCoy and Bobbi Browne,” Michael sighed heavily. He thought for a moment. “There has to be another source of intel at Larry’s house—maybe a second computer or a laptop. Nikita, you need to get Jerri out of the house for at least 30 minutes, longer if possible, and do a thorough search of the house.” He looked at Nikita and Birkoff with a serious expression. “We cannot fail on this mission. We’ve wasted far too much time already.”
Nikita and Birkoff looked at each other and nodded soberly.
++
Nikita hated what she was about to do. She invited Jerri for lunch at an out of the way restaurant and said she'd meet her there. She called to make a reservation, then called the restaurant back 10 minutes later leaving a message for Jerri that she had a migraine and wouldn't be joining her after all. She figured this would give her at least thirty minutes to search the house--longer if Jerri stayed to eat alone, which she doubted.
Jerri didn't have a laptop, just an older model computer set up in what looked like was meant to be a sewing room. Several floppy disks that had been cut neatly in half lay in a waste basket beside the PC. Nikita scooped up several of these and put them in her purse. She swept Jerri's PC, and was out again in under 30 minutes.
She was home in time to lie down on the sofa with a cold cloth on her head when Jerri stopped by to see how she was feeling.
"A little better," Nikita lied. "I was really nauseated for a while, but that seems to have passed. I just need to lie down for a while and the pain will go away. It always does--eventually. I'm really sorry about lunch," she went on. "I tried to catch you at home but you had already left."
"Did you take anything for the pain?" asked Jerri, concerned. "What about the pills you take for your back?"
"No, I only take those twice a day. They're very strong--I don't want to get addicted."
She thought that Jerri’s face reddened just a schosh, but she could have been mistaken.
"Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to check on you."
"That's sweet of you to think of me. We'll do lunch another day," promised Nikita.
Jerri showed herself out, and Nikita swung her legs off the side of the sofa, throwing the damp cloth into the sink. She took the disk remnants out of her purse and into Birkoff's room to see if he could salvage any data from them when he came home, then went into the kitchen to find something to eat.
++
"Larry or Jerri is definitely receiving intel and passing it along, either to Red Cell in Afghanistan or to an intermediary. We assume there are drugs and blackmail involved. We must locate the point of origin, and the method of transferal of data to and from the McCoys. This profile is the only one to fit within these parameters." Michael made this pronouncement after speaking with Birkoff and reviewing the restored disks recovered from Jerri's house. "Neither Larry nor Jerri is Red Cell. They don’t fit the profile."
"I agree with Michael," Nikita chimed in. "Leaving diskettes in a waste basket is way too sloppy for Red Cell. We still need to find the missing links."
“They’re working with someone on campus. We’ll put surveillance equipment in his office and in Jerri’s sewing room to catch them in action," said Michael.
"I'm on it," responded Birkoff.
"In the meantime, what do we do about Jerri," pressed Nikita. "Do we treat her as an international spy, or an innocent pawn in a deadly game?"
"She's hardly innocent," said Michael after a pause. "She stole drugs from your purse to support her habit--who knows what else she is capable of doing. She may know exactly what are on those disks she's sending. She is just as culpable as the others who are involved."
"So who do we focus our energy on now?"
"Jerri McCoy, plus the original targets: Larry McCoy and Bobbi Browne," answered Michael. He waved his hand to cut off any protestations from Nikita. "They are all guilty--without exception--until proven innocent."
Chapter 42
They agreed to return to Plan A: Michael would schmooze Larry, Nikita would continue to befriend Bobbi, and Birkoff would, through Michelle, keep tabs on Sharon, just in case. D-day was fast approaching.
Both Michael and Nikita urged Birkoff to lean heavily on Michelle to get intel on Sharon as quickly as possible. Birkoff couldn't see any way to do his part without bringing Michelle at least partially into the loop. Michael adamantly disagreed to this plan.
"The less she knows, the safer she will be in the long run. The mission profile doesn't indicate the sacrifice of any innocents to achieve closure," said Michael flatly.
"Who said anything about sacrifice?" countered Birkoff edgily. "She doesn't need to know enough to *be* Section, just enough to help."
"I agree with Michael," Nikita said vehemently. "Any exposure is too much." Her tone softened. "I know you like Michelle, and I agree that she is extremely bright--maybe even bright enough to belong in Section, but that's not our call to make. Not on this mission, anyway."
"If she learns too much, Section will either recruit her or label her as ‘acceptable collateral,’” Michael warned sternly. The world "collateral" chilled Birkoff to the bone.
++
Suzanne was as good as her word. She had broken things off with Simon, except for occasional flirting, which she couldn't seem to help, and settled in to working her way toward a promotion to being a level two operative.
Simon wasn't the only one she flirted with, Jurgen observed from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, but decided that, for Suzanne, flirting was like breathing. She did it without thinking. Since he wasn't about to settle down with her in a little brick house in the suburbs, he let the flirting slide. Besides, they were dead-even in their running "Go!" tournament, and he was not about to concede defeat to a woman.
++
"I'm putting Wilkerson and Frank in Abeyance," announced Operations to Madeline as they shared dinner in the tower--Veal Parmagiana this time. "Wilkerson missed his mark twice in the Kinnaird situation, and Frank tried to cover for him in his debrief."
"I agree," said Madeline. "We could use more men in Afghanistan right now, and Abeyance Ops would fill the bill." She savored the tender veal and said a silent ‘thank you’ to Christopher for preparing something other than Coq au Vin. She knew it was Operations’ favorite, but she needed some variety in her life now and again.
"How are our new Level Twos performing?" he asked, ruining his dinner with copious amounts of salt.
"All at or above standard. I think you'll be pleased."
Operations finally came to the point. "Have you found out anything more about Michelle Markali? Who is her father? How did she escape our detection all these years?"
Madeline put down her utensils gracefully, stalling for time. The news she had was not pretty. "It seems that Michelle was conceived and born while Corrine was institutionalized. This makes her father likely to have been either her psychiatrist--or an inmate." She looked at Operations face for a hint of a reaction; there was none. She continued. "The child was placed in foster care and, when Corinne was pronounced "stable" and released, she was able to procure visitation rights. When Corrine married Senator Markali, she was allowed to have the child returned to her, though Michelle was sent away to boarding school almost immediately."
"So, her father is either a doctor or a madman. How comforting, knowing her mother's history," Operations said bitterly.
"Many 'madmen' are geniuses with chemical imbalances. I wouldn't write her off so quickly. We're still trying to get a list of all doctors on staff during Corrine's confinement so we can get a DNA match--Birkoff is getting a hair sample from Michelle on his end."
"What's her major?" Operations changed the subject abruptly.
"Psychology and Criminal Justice. She wants to be a crime scene profiler."
Operations nodded, appeased. "Definitely Section material."
Chapter 43
It was a cool, brisk night at the Fall Festival, and Birkoff was glad he had let Michelle talk him into wearing the 'geek' UE sweatshirt she had bought him. He looked around in amazement. One street, at least six blocks long, was lined end-to-end on both sides with food booths. At one end was a park, with every ride and carnival game known to man.
He and Michelle had decided to skip the rides and concentrate on food. Even this was a major chore, as the street and sidewalks alike were filled shoulder to shoulder with moving bodies. The smell of fried grease was so strong it literally made his mouth water, and smoke from a nearby booth made his eyes water as well. The noise was so loud he could barely hear himself think. He also barely heard Michelle, who finally caught his attention by tugging on his hand and leading him to the Elephant Ear booth. After realizing that this particular confection was, in fact, simply batter fried in the shape of an elephant's ear and covered in powdered sugar, he let Michelle set the pace for the rest of the evening.
He ate a sausage burger from the Corpus Christi Church Chuckwagon, a stromboli from the Tau Kappa Epsilon booth, and adamantly refused to try an Icky Licky (chocolate covered cricket on a stick) for love or money. He ate caramel apples, chicken and dumplings, and a slice of cinnamon kuchen from St. Paul's. He made a mental note to return to Sam the Ham Man when he didn't feel ready to throw up from so much food in such a short period of time.
One side of the street had a stage set up in the middle for an amateur talent show. They didn't stay to watch for long, as the sound was blared all up and down the street, and bad Patsy Cline is bad Patsy Cline whether you're watching it happen or not.
Close to ten o'clock, Birkoff reminded Michelle to go back to Sam the Ham Man to buy some sandwiches for lunch tomorrow. Unfortunately, several people had the same idea, and Sam ran out of ham before they reached the window. Michelle consoled herself by buying more apple slices with caramel, and was still licking the gooey stuff off her fingers when they reached Birkoff's car.
Neither spoke on the way home, and Birkoff was unsure if Michelle was even awake when he pulled in front of her dorm. She was, and totally surprised him by kissing his cheek when she got out of the car. She mumbled something about seeing him in Psych Wednesday, and disappeared inside. Birkoff touched his cheek, now sticky with caramel. Women.
++
Michael and Nikita decided that it would take them more than two months to wean Jerri off her pain meds without her noticing, and so discarded this plan. Nikita would have to get Jerri to quit without actually acknowledging that she knew Jerri was hooked. Without this leverage, Red Cell would have no hold over her, and would have to find a new source to send their intel to Afghanistan.
Michael planned a raid on Sharon's office with Birkoff--he had more of the flu virus available if necessary--and would be more cautious in its implementation. Tuesday evening found the three of them going over the plan for the following evening.
While they talked, Birkoff completed his math homework for the rest of the semester, Michael graded midterm exams with a grim expression on his face, and Nikita was making a meatloaf.
Suddenly, the absurdity of the seeming domesticity of the entire situation overwhelmed her, and she got the giggles. Badly.
Michael put down his red pencil and looked at her impatiently. "What is wrong with you Nikita?" he asked flatly.
"It's not me, Michael. It's us. It's all of us. Can't you see it?" She gestured weakly to the family tableau they presented. "We're plotting the demise of an Afghan reign of terror, and we look like extras on the Donna Reed show."
Neither man had a clue as to what she was talking about and, after a moment, got back to the subject at hand.
Michael spoke first. "I'll infiltrate Sharon's office, sweep her computer if she has one, and bring the files to Birkoff. You need to suggest to Jerri that Sharon has a party in her home; I'll do the same with David. Otherwise, we'll break in there by the end of the week. Birkoff, dig deeper into Michelle's files in Bobbi's office. Send all intel to Madeline."
"Michelle? To Madeline? Why would she care?" Birkoff was perplexed.
"New mission parameters. Just do it." To Nikita, "How long before dinner is ready?"
Nikita, back in control, answered, "Oh, uh, about 45 minutes."
Michael gathered his papers carefully. "I'm going to watch a show on the Discovery Channel about Super Novas and the disappearance of dinosaurs. Please call me when dinner is ready."
He headed upstairs to the bedroom, while Nikita saluted him with her spatula and stepped into ‘I Dream of Jeanie’ mode. “Yes, Master.”
Chapter 44
Nikita lay beside Michael, just watching him sleep. He was wearing his usual white tank shirt which rose and fell with each deeply measured breath. She looked at his face and wondered if he had any idea how beautiful he was. Not handsome--he knew that he was handsome. He suffered no false modesty regarding his Valentine training. But his features, now stilled and open to perusal, were exquisite. She could have gazed for hours had he not chosen that moment to speak.
"It's late, Nikita," he said softly, not opening his eyes. "You should try to get some sleep."
"I'm just restless," she covered lamely. "I'll go downstairs if I'm bothering you."
"No, you're fine. Do you need to relax?"
She didn't want pity sex.
"No, I'll be all right. I've just got a lot on my mind." Which was true.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He still hadn't moved or opened his eyes, something Nikita found a bit unnerving.
"No, you sleep. I'll think it through, and we can talk in the morning if I still need to."
He opened his eyes then, and reached out his left arm, offering his shoulder as a pillow. Nikita hesitated only a moment before accepting.
"Good night, Michael."
"Good night."
++
Michael awakened first, which was his custom. He lay on his side, facing Nikita, who was on her back with her head turned toward his, her right arm cocked behind her head. He wondered if she realized how beautiful she was. He drew his left arm up and propped his chin on his hand, studying her features. Though her remarkable blue eyes were closed, the rest of her face, from smooth brow to pointed chin, was exquisite. Not delicate, but determined, youthful, and very much desirable.
He leaned over to place a feather-light kiss on the sensuous mouth, when sea blue eyes fluttered open and stared into smoky green.
"Morning," he greeted her.
"Is it?" she asked, confused.
"Just barely," he answered and, foregoing the kiss, sat up to turn on his light. "Did you get some sleep last night?"
"Actually, yes." The moment she had nestled in his arms, all was right with the universe, and she had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep.
"That's good." He had been restless most of the night, having her near, wanting her, and not wanting to want her so. He must not let her become his weakness.
He stood up while pulling the chain on the lamp and plunged the room into semi-darkness again. "Why don't you go back to sleep. It's early yet. I'll be downstairs."
For an answer, Nikita scooted over to his side of the bed, wrapped her arms around his pillow breathing deeply the scent of him, feeling his warmth, and was already drowsing again.
Michael pulled on his robe and padded down the stairs, heading into the kitchen to make coffee. He was astonished to see Birkoff already up and dressed and coffee already made; it was just after six.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked the younger man.
Birkoff shook his head. "I'm worried about Michelle. I mean, not so much Michelle, but why Section is so interested in her." He stood and carried his juice glass to the sink. "I think about all the reasons, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach." He returned to the table to finish his bagel and coffee.
Michael had no means to allay Birkoff's fears. He had no insight as to Section's agenda, either. "It doesn't seem like they mean her any harm, but it looks like they might want to recruit her," he said cautiously, watching Birkoff's face carefully.
"I thought of that," Birkoff said, lowering his face into his hands. "That's the part that makes me sick. She's too young and full of life to be stuck in Section like the rest of us. I can't let that happen."
Michael sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "I would strongly advise against preventing it, if it's within the profile's parameters."
Birkoff's head snapped up. "You know something." The tone was accusatory.
"No more than you. But it makes sense. Just be careful." Michael picked up his coffee mug and went into the dining room where he had left his papers from the night before.
*I don't care,* Birkoff thought fiercely, *I won't let them take you, Michelle. I swear it*.
Chapter 45
Deciding that waiting for David and Sharon to invite them to a dinner party might take longer than the Second Coming, Michael and Nikita made plans to break into their home that weekend to scan their computers. The Philharmonic was playing Saturday, and Jerri had mentioned to Nikita that David and Sharon had tickets, though she wasn't sure to which performance.
Birkoff dutifully hacked into Bobbi's computer, but found no new information on Michelle other than what he had already provided to Section. For some reason, Section had still not answered his request and provided him with any information they already had on her to make his research any easier. He had questioned Simon about this, and was surprised and more than a little uneasy when he was told that Operations was handling Michelle's file personally.
He needed to talk to Walter. Badly. How to do it without Section finding out would be his biggest challenge.
++
Bobbi and Nikita met at the Commons for a quick lunch Thursday afternoon. Bobbi noticed that Nikita was moving was moving more carefully than usually, and asked her about her recent physical activity.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," was Nikita's reply. "I think I'm just becoming immune to my pain pills. They don't seem to be doing the job any more. They help with the stiffness, but not with the pain."
"As your doctor, I can prescribe pain medication for you if you think it will help."
"You're an MD?" asked Nikita, surprised.
"Yes. Chiropractic medicine was a late choice. Let me write you a scrip for Hydrocodone. I have my pad here in my purse."
"Thanks. I really appreciate this."
"Try taking only 1/2 a tablet at first and see if that works--take a whole one if it doesn't. Contact your regular doctor and let him know what new meds you’re on so he can adjust your other medication accordingly."
"Oh, I will," Nikita assured her.
++
"Birkoff," Nikita said thoughtfully as she was washing up dinner dishes. "Can you do me a favor?"
"I don't do favors," he reminded her, already immersed in his hand-held computer game. His encrypted message to Walter had not as yet been answered.
"Tap into Bobbi's files again and see if Jerri was ever a patient."
"Don't you mean David's files? I already did that.”
"No," Nikita said, the sinking feeling in her gut growing stronger, "Bobbi's files. Maybe several years back. I need to see if she ever prescribed pain meds for Jerri McCoy."
"You think Bobbi got her hooked--not David?"
"I'm not sure what I think yet. I'm just playing a hunch."
"Okay. I'll take care of it."
"Thanks, B."
Chapter 46
Michael and Birkoff broke into the Sartre house on Saturday night, armed with sedative filled hamburger patties for the Rottweillers. They scanned the hard drives on both computers, and returned within two hours. Nikita cursed the pain and stiffness that restricted her from going with Michael in Birkoff's place, but she refused to fill Bobbi's prescription and resigned herself to running Comm on this mission.
However, the mission proved entirely futile. Nothing on the Sartre home computers linked either of them to Red Cell in any way. Michael dutifully if reluctantly sent his report off to Section, knowing they would be displeased at the lack of evidence. This was taking much longer than anyone had anticipated.
He also requested that several Sims be run, within certain parameters, that might give him a new profile to work from. This was the most difficult request, because it meant that he was stumped and had to admit it. Reluctantly pressing the Send button, he closed his laptop and put it away.
++
Operations wasn't displeased. He was furious. "Almost eight weeks and nothing? Nothing! Not one shred of evidence. This is unforgivable. I've never encountered such sloppy work from Michael. It's Nikita. She's distracting him."
"I disagree." Madeline arose from her chair gracefully to pour herself more tea. "Michael and Nikita merely complement each other. There are variables we are all overlooking. Have Suzanne look at the data and come up with a reasonable profile."
"Suzanne? I thought we had her cancelled."
"No, we didn’t." Madeline declined to mention she had talked him out of this on more than one occasion. "She is turning out to be one of our best profilers. Let's bring her in to see what we're missing."
"Seventy-two hours. If they don't find something by then, I want that mission aborted. We need Michael here, not playing house in the suburbs."
"Agreed."
Chapter 47
Birkoff decided to wait for Michelle at the bookstore so he could walk her home. He knew that his team would be recalled to Paris soon, and he wanted to make the most of his time with her. He stayed well-hidden behind the satchels so as not to distract her from her work.
While he waited, a man in a three-piece suit walked in and handed three disks to Michelle, along with a $50 bill. Neither of them exchanged a word, and the man spun on his heel and walked out again, not looking back.
“What was that about?” Birkoff asked, flummoxed, totally blowing his cover.
“I have no idea,” Michelle shrugged, surprised to see him. “He comes in here every Tuesday and gives me these disks to give to Dr. McCoy, and I get to keep the money. Pretty sweet, huh?”
Birkoff’s expression turned from incredulity to ecstasy. He had found the source. And lost him. He didn’t even have a very good description.
“Is it the same guy every week?” he pressed.
“Yeah.”
“Why you? Are you the only one he gives disks to? How long has this been going on?”
“Chill out, Birkoff,” said Michelle, more than a little put off by his increasingly accusatory tone.
“Look,” Birkoff said, desperation in his voice. “I need those disks. I’ll give them back to you in half an hour.”
“No way,” retorted Michelle. “I get paid to give them to Dr. McCoy. I’m not going to screw up losing $50 a week by giving them to you.”
“Thirty minutes,” Birkoff begged. “You don’t know how important this is to me, and to a whole lot of other people. I-I can’t tell you. Not now. You have to trust me. I’ll bring them back before you get off work tonight. No one will know. I swear.
Michelle was wavering.
“What’s so important about these disks, anyway?”
Birkoff sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Look. All I can tell you is that the guy in the suit is a bad guy. Dr. McCoy may be a bad guy. There are other people involved. If I can find out what is on these disks before the bad guys do, I might be able to prevent something bad from happening.”
Michelle scoffed. “What are you, a cop or something?”
Birkoff put his glasses back on and looked her directly in the eyes. “Or something.” He wasn’t smiling.
“Here,” Michelle conceded, handing him the disks. “Thirty minutes or you’re toast—cop or no cop.”
“I’ll be back,” Birkoff fired over his shoulder as he ran for his car.
++
Madeline didn’t do gloat well. She didn’t even do self-satisfaction well, so she kept her face expressionless as Operations reviewed the data from the disks Michael had sent that Birkoff had intercepted from Michelle.
“About bloody time!” he snarled as he selected and briefed his team leaders.
“Yes,” Madeline permitted herself to comment. ”I should think the entire ring should be brought down in a matter of days now.”
“Forty-eight hours,” Operations ground out. “I’m giving Michael two days to contain the situation before I pull him and his little friends out of Indiana, including the Markali girl.”
“Very well,” Madeline conceded.
Chapter 48
Nikita was determined to find out about Jerri and the filched pain pills, and so had arranged a shopping expedition at Washington Square Mall. After two hours of mindless chatter and back straining bag-toting, Nikita was more than ready to call it a day.
She asked if Jerri would mind resting at the food court tables for a few minutes while Nikita took one of her pain pills. Of course Jerri didn’t mind, and even went so far as to buy Nikita a Pepsi to wash it down with. Nikita toyed with the pill before swallowing it, holding it to the light and viewing it from every angle.
“You know,” she said to Jerri conspiratorially, “I’m thinking of taking something different for the pain in my back. Something stronger.”
“Really?” Jerri asked. “Is the pain that bad?”
“Mm,” nodded Nikita, swallowing the tablet, “sometimes. Dr. Browne offered to write me a prescription for Lortab.” She watched for Jerri’s reaction.
“Oh, I’ve had prescriptions for those before. Once for a toothache, and once for a stiff neck. Made me sick as a dog. Larry keeps filling them, though. Said they help the arthritis in his knees.”
Nikita was blown away. Larry was the junkie, not Jerri. It was Larry who had stolen the pain pills out of her purse the night of the party. Was Bobbi blackmailing Larry into sending intel from Red Cell to Afghanistan? She had to talk to Michael.
“Do you mind if we call it a day,” asked Nikita, stifling a yawn. “I really am worn out, and I’d like to have a nap before Michael gets home this afternoon.”
“No problem,” said Jerri cheerily. “Here. Let me carry some of your bags to the car.”
“I really did overdo it, didn’t I?” chuckled Nikita. “Michael will kill me when he sees the Visa bill.”
As they walked to the car, a man in a three-piece suit spoke into his cell phone. “Everything is going according to plan”
++
“What’s wrong, honey?” asked Jerri as she came in through the front door. Larry was pacing in front of the fireplace—hands shaking and perspiration on his forehead.
“Those disks I give you every week. They didn’t come tonight,” he replied, his voice tense and more than a little stressed.
“Maybe they’ll come tomorrow. Or maybe the Dean doesn’t have anything to send to Purdue this week,” Jerri replied innocently.
*Or she’s reneged on our deal,* thought Larry, paranoid. *She’s going to tell Jerri and David about the affair, and blackmail someone else into sending her data.* He sat down with his head in his hands. *Why did I ever start taking those damned pills!* he screamed mentally. *She’s already got me in the palm of her hand. What the hell more does she want?*
Chapter 49
Bobbi was meeting with her superiors, and they were not affiliated with the University of Evansville.
“We’re very displeased with your performance,” said the shadowy figure at the head of the table. “You’ve been compromised.”
“In what way?” she asked, still confused about the reason for the summons.
“Your contact in the bookstore leaked valuable intel to Section One,” said a man wearing a three-piece suit.”
Bobbie blanched. She knew what this meant for her.
“Your link to Dr. McCoy was also exposed, and is no longer viable,” he continued.
“But how…” she stammered, stalling for time.
“That doesn’t matter. Your time with us has come to an end,” pronounced the man in the shadows.
The members of the panel were pleased. They had come to see Dr. Browne as a liability in recent years. She had become too “into” her role. Too soft. They had wanted her out of play for some time now, and this was their opportunity.
“I can fix this,” she pleaded desperately. “I can open a new link, and bring you Michael Samuelle as well.”
There was murmuring in the room. Delivery of Section One’s top operative could atone for a great many sins.
“You have twenty-four hours,” the figure said after some deliberation. “If you fail, you know what will happen.”
Bobbi swallowed convulsively. She knew very well what the stakes were. She did not intend to fail again.
++
Suzanne was jubilant. Not only was she profiling the Evansville mission, she was on one of the teams to take down the bad dudes. This was phat! Not only that, but Jurgen was her team leader. How kewl was that?
She would have sobered up quickly if she had known the truth—Operations had finally gotten his wish and put her in Abeyance.
Chapter 50
It was just after sunrise. Michael would be coordinating from inside the house. The mission was a simple retrieval—take Dr. Browne back to Section and *question* her until she revealed her source. They would also commandeer Jerri’s PC, and Birkoff could easily discover who was on the receiving end of her transmissions.
“Team One, you have the Health Center. Team Two, you have the McCoy house. Move in on my signal.”
Then he heard a signal of his own—the unmistakable sound of a P38 being cocked. He turned around slowly to see Bobbi Browne, who stood in the doorway of the dining room with a chokehold on Michelle McCauley and the gun aimed directly at the girl’s temple.
“Tell your teams to stand down, and then come with me, Michael Samuelle,” she said calmly.
Michael looked at Michelle. Her blue eyes were wide as saucers, and her lower lip was trembling. He spoke into his comm unit. “Team One, stand down. Team Two, stand down.”
A crackle was heard in Michael’s unit at the dining room table.
“Repeat, sir?” The voice on the other end was incredulous.
“Team One, stand down. Team Two, stand down.”
“Affirmative,” came the response from the leader of Team One, and then the leader of Team Two.
“Very well done,” Bobbi commended. “Now we’re going to go for a short drive. Walk to my car slowly, and get in on the driver’s side. Michelle and I will be on the passenger’s side. You will then follow my instructions to the letter. If you fail, I will not hesitate to paint the car in white girl.
At this, the unshed tears Michelle had been holding back tumbled forth, flowing in rivulets down the front of her windbreaker.
The trio got into the car and slowly pulled out of the driveway.
++
Team Three leader Jurgen, along with Nikita, Birkoff, and Suzanne, heard the entire exchange through their comm units. They had been waiting at Bobbi’s apartment, dressed in civvies, in case Bobbi was not at the Health Center. They had been hoping for an easy retrieval.
“What’s happening?” Birkoff asked with obvious fear in his voice.
“She knew she was busted, so she’s trading her life for Michael’s,” Nikita answered dully.
“But what about Michelle?” he pleaded.
Nikita looked away.
Jurgen put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “She’ll use her as a hostage until she doesn’t need her anymore.”
“She won’t let her go, will she?” the young man asked quietly.
“No,” Jurgen answered truthfully. “She won’t.”
Birkoff shrugged off the older man’s arm and walked several feet away.
“He’s blaming himself, you know,” Nikita told Jurgen while trying to get a fix on Michael’s tracker.
“It *is* my fault!” yelled Birkoff, spinning back around. “If she hadn’t been my friend, Bobbi wouldn’t have been able to use her as leverage against us!”
“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” said Nikita, eyes glued to the screen in front of her. “Let’s just concentrate on getting her back, okay?”
A few moments passed, then Nikita said triumphantly “We’ve got them. They’re heading downtown toward the river.” She switched to B Channel. “Team One, come down Fulton to Riverside and approach from the west. Team Two, take Hwy 41 to the Memorial Parkway and approach from the east.”
She turned to her team. “It looks like they’re headed for the museum. We might be able to beat them there. Let’s roll.”
Chapter 51
Bobbi instructed Michael to pull around to the back of the museum and park near the loading dock. They all got out of the car--Bobbi’s hold on Michelle still secure.
Bobbi looked over Michael’s shoulder for a moment and said in an undertone, “I assume you’re wearing a tracker?”
Michael’s face gave nothing away.
“Good,” replied Bobbi, lips barely moving. “Just stay close to me and follow my lead.”
She entered a series of numbers on a panel by a doorway, and then turned the knob. The door opened easily. Bobbi indicated that Michael was to enter first, and she and Michelle followed close behind.
“Well, we seem to be the first to have arrived,” Bobbi announced cheerily, as if they had just come to a Tupperware party. “Let’s just wait for the others, shall we?”
++
Four of the others were already there. Nikita and Birkoff were stationed on the roof of the museum, with an excellent view of who came in and out of the loading dock area. Jurgen and Suzanne were in the bushes behind the parking lot—both armed with sniper rifles and scopes.
++
It wasn’t long before a black limousine pulled up and four men, including the driver, emerged from the vehicle. They too punched in a code which granted them entry to the warehouse.
“Did you get that, Jurgen?” Nikita asked quietly.
“Three-oh-one-two-nine-four,” Jurgen replied in the affirmative.
Nikita motioned to Birkoff to hold his position, then climbed down on to the roof of the loading dock. With cat-like grace she landed on the loading platform, and made her way stealthily to the door. *Sloppy, sloppy,* she thought. *Not even a guard on the door.*
Chapter 52
Team Two had arrived, and Jurgen directed them to surround the perimeter. Nikita gestured for two ops to come with her, and she punched in the code Jurgen had given her into the panel near the door. Nikita looked around quickly and, seeing no one, stepped inside. The other ops followed suit.
As she rounded a corner, Nikita sensed rather than heard the sudden spray of gun fire that came from the direction of what looked like an elevator shaft. She got off two shots of her own before she tucked and rolled neatly away. She knew she had hit at least one of them. How many more were there?
She checked on the rest of her team—so far, so good.
“Jurgen, we have at least two on the main level. Neither of them was in the limo. There’s an elevator—I don’t know whether they’ve taken Michael up or down.”
“They’re underground, Nikita,” came Birkoff’s response. “I can see the elevator mechanics from here, and no one came up to the second level.”
Nikita risked another peek around the corner, and was rewarded with another volley of shots. She fired two more rounds and heard someone cry out and fall. She counted off thirty seconds, then tried again. Three dead men lay on the floor of the warehouse.
“Jurgen, is there another entrance to the basement of the museum?”
“Not on the south or east sides. Still checking per-“
She heard more gunfire, then was relieved to hear Jurgen’s voice again.
“Looks like there’s an in on the north side. I’m taking it. Suzanne—cover me.”
Nikita and her two ops pried open the elevator doors and began climbing down, hand over hand. Murmuring voices grew louder the lower they dropped.
Chapter 53
“So, this is the famous Michael Samuelle,” pronounced a middle-aged man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He did not rise to greet his visitor.
Michael inclined his head slightly, but said nothing, his blank mask firmly in place.
“I suppose you know you have interfered with more than one of our more…lucrative pursuits?” the man continued.
Again, Michael said nothing, but he shrugged slightly, as if to say, “Aw, it was nothing.”
“Take them away,” he said to two of his minions, indicating Bobbi and Michelle. Bobbi protested—a look of shock on her face.
“Oh, don’t worry,” the older man assured her. “You’ll have time to plead your case before we decide whether or not to dispose of you.”
“And the girl?” Bobbi asked before she was led away.
“Insurance. I think we can use her to ensure Mr. Samuelle’s cooperation.”
++
Michael had been confused, but recovered nicely. As Bobbi had prodded him with the gun into the elevator, she surreptitiously slid it into the waistband of his pants, under his jacket. Bobbi was obviously deep-cover Section, working as a mole inside Red Cell.
He knew this would make Nikita feel better, but now he had *two* hostages to rescue instead of one. It had obviously been a long time since Bobbi had been out in the field, and she was bound to be out of practice in both armed combat and target shooting. It was all up to him now.
++
Jurgen and another op quietly disposed of the two guards at the north entrance to the basement, and stepped into the corridor quietly, leaving Suzanne and Jenkins posted outside in case there were more sentries.
Suzanne waved in two more ops to follow Jurgen’s team.
Nikita and her team had reached the basement level, and were not visible to Michael or the members of Red Cell. They quietly pried open the doors and dropped silently to the floor, taking down two guards on the way.
Chapter 54
The Red Cell leader and his companions were heavily guarded. Michael counted at least 12 men without looking around behind him. He needed two teams of six to just even the odds. He hoped that Nikita and Jurgen weren’t planning anything heroic.
“So. Mr. Samuelle. May I call you Michael?” Michael didn’t respond. “Michael, then. So, Michael, what brings you to our sleepy little town?”
Naturally, Michael didn’t answer. One of the goons stepped over and back-handed Michael across the face.
“I believe my boss asked you a question,” stated the goon.
“That’s enough, Bill. Thank you.
The leader looked at Michael for a few moments. Michael’s patented blank-masked stare was firmly in place. The Red Cell leader tried a different tact.
“Where is Section One, Michael?”
Again, no answer.
Goon number two back-handed Michael, this time drawing blood.
“Not yet, Rich,” the leader admonished. “We’re only getting started.
++
From his vantage point on the roof, Birkoff could see that some Red Cell men had taken Michelle to one of the maintenance shacks on the grounds of the museum. What he couldn’t figure out was why they were holding a gun on Bobbi, too. Oh, well. Not his problem.
He shinnied down the roof of the museum to the top of the loading dock area, then dropped, not so quietly, to the ground. *Damn, that hurt,* he thought, examining his skinned and bleeding knee. He hadn’t a clue how he was going to rescue Michelle, but he had to get her free from Red Cell. And from Section.
Chapter 55
Four more men had climbed down the elevator shaft onto the basement floor. Jurgen had five men with him as well. *A baker’s dozen,* thought Nikita. Now, how to get Michael out without getting him and the others on their teams killed.
++
Michael sensed Nikita’s presence the moment she entered the basement through that cosmic essence that always flowed between them. He felt both relief and worry. He now knew that back-up was here, but he had no way to tell Nikita that Section was completely outmanned. He didn’t know that Jurgen and his team were slowly evening the odds.
Using garrotes, silenced weapons, and the element of surprise, Team One lurked in the shadows, stealthily making their way around the room, taking down guard after guard. When they were finished, the only guards left standing were the 10 still guarding the leader, and the two who had left with Bobbi and Michelle. The odds were definitely in Section’s favor.
++
On Nikita’s signal, Teams One and Three stormed the basement. Goons One and Two both drew weapons, but neither was a match for Section’s top operative. Michael used the ensuing melee to deliver punishing blows to both Bill and Rich. Shots were fired, and the man in the three-piece suit looked down in surprise at the dark red stain growing rapidly across his abdomen before he, too, succumbed. In a matter of seconds, the remaining Red Cell guards were either dead or disarmed, and Nikita had her gun trained on the leader.
“Where is the hostage?” she demanded.
The leader just smiled.
“Hostages,” corrected Michael, hauling the leader to his feet and handing him over for containment. “Bobbi Browne is Section.”
Chapter 56
Michael was wiping blood from his hands on to the thighs of his mission pants when he heard Birkoff’s excited voice outside.
Quickly, he, Nikita, and Jurgen dashed outside to the maintenance shed where Birkoff and Suzanne were standing.
“They’re getting away!” yelled Birkoff as he pointed at the disappearing speedboat. “Do something!”
Suzanne had her rifle up to fire at the driver, but Jurgen pushed the muzzle down. “It’s too far, too windy, and you’re not that good yet. We’ll have to find another way.”
On a hunch, Nikita went inside the shed. There was a ladder leading down to a lower level, where the boat had obviously been moored and ready to take off at a moment’s notice. She started to close the hatch when she heard a whimpering sound, not unlike an animal in pain. She started down the ladder.
“Nikita, be careful,” cautioned Michael.
Nodding, Nikita took out her gun and proceeded slowly down the ladder. What she found made her sick.
Bobbi’s body lie at the foot of the ladder. All four limbs were broken, along with several ribs. She also had a nasty bump on the back of her head, and one side of her face was already turning dark purple.
“Michael, help me!” Nikita called up the shaft.
“Too late,” Bobbi gasped. It was clear that every breath was causing excruciating pain.
“Don’t try to talk,” said Nikita soothingly. “Save your breath. Help is on the way.”
Bobbi shook her head painfully. “Forget me. Find Michelle. She’ll be at a cabin in Newburgh off Highway 662, about 8 miles passed the city limits.” She closed her eyes—it was clear what this tidbit of information had cost her physically.
Jurgen, Suzanne and Team Two took off and headed east, following Bobbi’s directions. Birkoff demanded to go with them, and Michael allowed it. He arranged for Bobbi to be flown back to Section on a MedLab plane and to be treated en route. He didn’t say anything to Nikita, but he agreed with Bobbi’s own assessment; it was probably too late.
Chapter 57
Michelle figured that she had been taken about three hours ago. She felt the sun on her face and, though blindfolded, knew that they were traveling east. The boat stopped after a short time, only about 10-12 minutes. Probably Newburgh. She was hauled into an ATV (or something with very high steps) and the vehicle continued east for another 10 minutes or so. Still Newburgh—though probably outside city limits. They were on a highway of some kind—smooth ride with no stoplights. Probably 662. Okay. So she was somewhere between Newburgh and Yankeetown off of Highway 662.
The ATV turned south down a dirt trail about 50 yards, and them stopped. A driveway? She was hauled unceremoniously out of the vehicle and on to a dirt road of some sort, and prodded to walk east. After a few yards, she was led into a structure, and was forcibly made to sit on the floor. Now what?
++
The “Feds” moved in swiftly on the McCoys, who were told that they were being placed in the Witness Protection Program. They were taken to Section, where they were quickly and quietly debriefed by a beautiful, soft-spoken agent named Madeline. Then they were cancelled. They were not missed.
++
Simon back-traced the transmissions from Jerri’s computer, and found the receiver of her missives, a low-level agent name Mohammed ben-Sir. A team was dispatched to Afghanistan. The compound was destroyed; Ben-Sir and his superior were brought in for “questioning,” then disposed of neatly and efficiently. Operations had reviewed the data that Bobbi had let be passed on to the McCoys to be transmitted to Afghanistan. Most of it only confirmed what was already proven to be false, or it was designed to do the least amount of damage as possible. He silently commended her for being able to maintain her cover for as long as she did.
Operations had received a report from the MedLab plane. Though Dr. Browne was still alive, her vital signs were weak and unsteady. He did not hold out much hope for her survival. No matter. She would be useless in the field, anyway.
Chapter 58
“How long to we have to wait in this godforsaken cabin?” griped one of the guards.
*I’m in a cabin,* Michelle added to her mental file.
“I don’t know, I told you!” said the other guard with exasperation. “Until we hear otherwise, that’s how long.”
*I’ve only heard two guard’s voices, and neither of them has gone outside. There are probably only two.* Another tidbit tucked away.
“I’m hungry. See if there’s any food.”
“You know there isn’t. I’ve already looked.”
Michelle silently agreed that she wouldn’t mind a little food herself. Like a soft pretzel. With cheese sauce. And a Pepsi. In the Commons. With Birkoff.
She began to cry.
++
“I can do it! You know I can,” pled Suzanne enthusiastically. “I’ll just say that my car broke down, and I need to use the phone. I can assess the layout and be out in two minutes.”
It was dusk now, and they were fast losing their light. Jurgen assumed Michael was waiting for a night assault, as he had given them no directions thus far.
“It’s too dangerous,” said Jurgen, shaking his head. “They have a hostage in there. How do you expect them to explain that?”
“I’ll just flirt with the guy at the door until they stash her away some place. You *know* I can flirt! Please let me do this.”
Jurgen had a bad feeling about the whole set-up. Section had the cabin surrounded, but they couldn’t make the first move without sacrificing the hostage. For some reason, Operations had demanded that Michelle be brought back to Section alive and unharmed. He also knew that the guards inside the cabin were not going to get further instructions, and that they were bound to be getting antsy.
“Michael?” he asked through his comm link. He waited a few moments.
“Do it,” came the response.
Chapter 59 – (language warning)
Understandably, the guards were a little jumpy when a knock sounded at the door. Even Michelle’s heart jumped in her chest. The guards looked at each other, not knowing what to do.
The knock came again, a little louder this time. One guard lifted Michelle to her feet and threw her behind the door, knocking her blindfold loose. “Not a word,” he said menacingly, and cocked his gun, aiming it straight at her. The other guard stood against the door jamb, ready to cold-cock the intruder. The first guard opened the door.
“Hi!” said Suzanne breathlessly. “Thank God. For a minute I thought no one was home.” She looked him up and down and smiled coquettishly. “But you certainly *are* home, aren’t you?”
As the guard didn’t speak, Suzanne continued her monologue. “My car broke down about a mile down the road, and I was hoping to use your phone.”
The second guard tucked his gun in the back of his jeans and stepped into view. “Well, of course, young lady. Please, come right on in.”
“Why, thank you,” replied Suzanne, a little surprised.
The second guard motioned for the first one to shut the door, then pulled his gun out of his jeans and aimed it directly at Suzanne’s head.
“Look who we’ve got here. A genuine Section sharpshooter. She was standing on the shore when we took off. I’d recognize those tats anywhere.”
++
“Shit! I knew this was a bad idea!” Jurgen was beside himself. “Michael?”
“Team Two, move to first mark. Team Three, stand down.”
“But Michelle’s in there,” Birkoff protested, about the same time that Jurgen was thinking about Suzanne.
“I repeat. Team Three stand down.”
Chapter 60
Inside the cabin, the mood was undeniably tense.
“I assume you didn’t come alone,” said the first guard, gesturing to Suzanne, “and it doesn’t look like we’re going to get any help from the outside. So here’s what’s gonna happen.”
“You two,” said the second guard, waving his gun between Suzanne and Michelle, “are going to be our passport out of the country.”
“That’s right,” the first guard chimed in, looking at Suzanne. “You’re going to step outside and tell your people what we want. If you make the tiniest move to escape, the princess here gets it.”
It was all Nikita could do to keep Birkoff at her side.
The guards walked to the other side of the cabin to discuss their demands, and Suzanne took the opportunity to reassure Michelle.
“The good guys have this place surrounded. They’ll never leave here alive,” she promised.
Michelle looked at her solemnly. “Will we?”
++
“They want a helicopter, with $1,000,000 in tens and twenties,” Suzanne shouted to the west, knowing that Jurgen and Nikita were two-hundred yards to the east. “They want safe passage out of the country. No police interference or—,“ she permitted herself to choke up, “the hostages will die.”
“That’s enough. Inside.”
“But what if they didn’t hear me?” she said plaintively, gesturing into the darkness.
“You know they did. Now we just sit back and wait.”
Chapter 61
A Section chopper already hovered over the river, just far enough away so it couldn’t be heard in the cabin. After twenty agonizing minutes, Michael gave the signal.
++
“Did you hear that?” the first guard said excitedly, punching the other one in the arm. “That’s our ticket out of here!”
Suzanne whispered to Michelle, “Keep your head down. When the spotlight comes on, run like hell to the darkest shadow you can find.” Michelle nodded, understanding the plan.
The guards opened the door and stepped outside. One called out, “let’s see the money first.”
The chopper, which was now directly overhead, obliged by opening a cargo door. A metal suitcase was lowered to the ground. The guards, forgetting the hostages for a moment, came forward to open it.
Suddenly, a brilliant white light filled the sky. Both men looked up and were temporarily blinded.
“Now!” shouted Suzanne, as she and Michelle dashed madly out of the cabin the moment the light was cut.
Both guards fired wild shots at their moving targets, but were still too blinded to see anything in front of them.
++
Michelle scurried around the back of the cabin, where she was caught by one of the Section ops and promptly fainted.
Suzanne zigzagged to the northwest, trying to draw fire away from Michelle and from her team. Unfortunately, she succeeded. One bullet hit her right knee, and she went down. The second hit her in the middle of the back and went straight through her heart. She was dead before her head hit the ground.
Chapter 62
Team Two took the Red Cell guards on board for questioning, but Michael doubted that they had any knowledge that would be of use to Section.
Birkoff was holding Michelle’s hand when she came to. She was embarrassed that she had fainted, but Birkoff reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day, and handed her a Power bar. She thanked him with a smile while chewing. Birkoff knew she would never speak to him again, let alone thank him, after she realized what was about to become of her life. He hadn’t been able to save her, and for that, he would never forgive himself.
Jurgen was on the ground with Suzanne cradled in his arms. Nikita touched his shoulder.
“What she did was terribly brave, Jurgen. I know that won’t bring her back, but she will be remembered as a hero.” Jurgen never acknowledged her presence,
Too soon, Housekeeping arrived to take Suzanne’s body, and Jurgen followed them onto the plane. She watched Birkoff and Michelle embark as well, but didn’t move.
++
“Nikita.” Michael nodded his head to indicate she was to come to him. She did, resting her head on his shoulder and slipping her arms around his waist.
“What happens now, Michael?” she asked.
“We go back to Section,” he said softly.
“You know what I mean,” she persisted, pulling away slightly. “What will we do once we’re back in Section?”
She looked him straight in the eyes. Michael blinked, but didn’t answer her.
Nikita sighed and looked at the ground. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending to hate you. It’s too hard.”
“I know,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand and placing a feather-like kiss on her lips. “Maybe we could try pretending to be friends.”
“But we’d still be pretending, Michael. We’ll still be sharing secrets.”
“But we can be together.” He looked her blue eyes, and she was astonished to see unshed tears in his. “I can’t lose you again.”
“Oh, Michael,” she said, pulling his head down to hers and kissing him deeply. After a moment she stepped away, extending her right hand and indicating that he do the same.
She shook his hand firmly as if sealing a deal.
“To sharing secrets.”
“To sharing secrets.”
fini