By Absinthe Additional Disclaimers: Ahem. We're adding some La Femme Nikita stuff in here, so I have to say that Section belongs to USA studios and maybe some French people, if they didn't sell the copyright. Chapter 10: Washington D.C., 0300 hrs, November, 1999 "Nadine, get out of there." Maia ordered, directing her rich, smooth voice into the microphone attached to her headset. She bent the wire a little closer to her mouth automatically. There was no response. "Control, what's going on?" Maia demanded, the headset deactivated transmissions automatically when she named an operative that sat diagonally across from her at a stainless steel encrusted computer terminal. "I'm getting some interference. Looks like she's down, she's being dragged down the hallway." A middle aged man watching an lcd intently replied. The display provided maps of the area, infrared images of the interior of the embassy in front of them, and tracking of all operatives involved. "Ops," Maia hissed into the mic, "We've got an agent down." A familiar, gruffly masculine voice replied, "Go in." Silently Maia stood up and leaped lightly out of the gray unmarked van. She was over the rear wall of the embassy grounds and into the building via the roof only a few seconds later. Following Control's directions, and her own memory of the building's floor plan she made her way through the darkened hallways. She passed four agents on her way in. Maia jerked her head in the direction of the stairs. She watched them proudly as they disappeared into the shadows, then sprinted on silent feet to the door of one of the lusciously appointed guest rooms. Moonlight in the shape of a window shone on the mauve carpet, so that Maia had the distinct advantage of being the one in the dark. She peered around the doorjamb cautiously. Nadine, her black face mask tossed aside, lay on the floor, a sizable bruise purpling the left side of her face. A flabby man in boxer shorts sat in an armchair watching his two bodyguards tie Nadine's hands and feet. One of them slapped her gently, trying to revive her. Maia groaned inwardly. Ops had forbidden her or any members of her team from killing any of the embassy's' occupants. This should have been a simple reconnaissance mission. Maia backed down the hall and filled Ops in on the situation. "Terminate the agent. Do not engage the Ambassador or his men. Get out." Came her orders. Maia didn't bother to ask why, even as the team's head, she knew nothing. It was not unusual. Maia padded back to the doorway and drew her gun, with its absurdly long silencer. Stepping into the open door, she aimed and fired. The shot took her team member under the chin and exited through the top of her, leaving a fan shaped splatter of blood and brains on the lush carpet. Three sets of eyes and two automatic weapons swung towards the darkness outside the safety of the guest room. Maia was already halfway down the hall when a hail of bullets rained down upon her. She ran faster, flinging herself up the stairs and at last outside to safety. Back in the van, the team was silent. Maia ordered the driver to get going. The others knew instinctively what had happened. They also knew better than to ask why. Maia sat, expressionless. She would have to choose a replacement agent now. Her mind ran through all the things she'd have to do, anything to avoid thinking about the color of Nadine's blood as it seeped into that mauve carpet. She had a dream that night about planting explosives in the headquarters of some terrorist group. The operation had gone off perfectly. The next week however, Maia bought a newspaper and read the casualty tally of the "accident." Fifty men, twenty seven women, and five teenagers. It hadn't been just a base of operations, but living quarters for the radicals and their families. They were a GreenPeace group, Maia found out. That wasn't in the papers, but Maia had discovered a lay-out for one of their brochures while she supervised the operation. She woke up angry. Maia had no problems with killing, but she wanted to know why she was doing it. As a base level agent, she'd been lied to, a fact she learned upon her promotion. That was, however, all she'd learned. Now she was one of the perpetrators of those lies, but the only advantage she had over the base agents was that she knew they weren't true. So she thought. Maia now clung to the pretense that Section worked with national governments for the good of the people. Whether or not this was true was uncertain. All operatives, in theory, were convicted killers, and all their missions, in theory, were beneficial to humanity at large. These were the two major ideas that Maia wished to be true. There was no way for her to prove what was real and what was not, so she lived her life in uncertainty that she was forced to hide from her superiors. When she was within Section's walls, her responsibilities centered around preparing operatives for their missions and evaluating their mental stability. Maia was highly valued by Ops and other members of the upper echelon of this strange organization for much more than her ability to escape the most dire of situations both victorious and unscathed. She wielded a mysterious power over her subordinates. They might not trust her completely, but they obeyed her unconditionally. Anyone who took the time to watch her work, could see that she knew just when to say or do exactly the right thing. Given a few weeks with a new agent or trainee, she could have them either so cowed that they would kiss a pistol if she yelled at them loudly enough, or so devoted to her in some way that was a mixture of lust and awe that they would not consider disappointing her. There was even talk of transferring her to another Section, Section I, where they were having difficulties controlling some of their agents. This was unheard of though, especially at Maia's relatively low clearance level. Move her and she might learn something dangerous to the organization. Like, who controlled them? What were their affiliations? What am I doing? She wondered. But, Section allowed her to indulge her blood lust and foist the guilt off onto her superiors. It was easier than freelancing in that respect, but the pay was not as good, and she had to be constantly on her toes to avoid termination. One slip, if it was large enough, could cost you your life. Maia sighed, the other problem was definitely in the retirement plan. Once you outlive your usefulness, termination follows. There is no getting out. Sighing again, Maia got up and began her morning workout. She could not afford to get out of shape. Sarah drifted around the room. The genteel murmur of voices rose a little in her proximity. She greeted her clientele enthusiastically, calling everyone by name. Not that they were easily forgettable people. Some were business people, others were television and movie stars or executives, and still others were authors and artists, but they were all rich. Tonight, Sarah was hosting a private opening for Ishtar Galleries' newest consigner. Rowan Austin was a surrealist, and the commission from the purchases made tonight would undoubtedly cover the gallery's expenses several times over. Sarah worked the crowd skillfully. She took offers on the paintings tactfully, making things feel more like a party than an auction. Rowan was doing well too. He had stationed himself at the front of the room, directly below the keystone of his display, a fantastical piece that was sparking a great deal of conversation. He was playing up to the stereotype of the wild artist. Sarah took a moment to watch the gesticulations that accompanied his breathless speech. They really were in the business of pageantry, just like any good advertiser. Smiling broadly, genuinely, Sarah sipped her champagne. She nodded her head emphatically in agreement to the commentary on prima donna actresses that she was half listening to. She politely excused herself and joined Rowan at the front of the room. Sarah proposed a toast to him, and the room responded heartily. Beneath her smile and apparent enjoyment of the evening was a tinge of irritation. Some of her clients were so artificial. They came to Ishtar so that they could feel like they were on the "edge." On the edge of what, Sarah refused to wonder. For all her skill in dealing with people, she felt like she would never truly understand them. Her naivete in this respect was part of her edge in her business. She liked to pretend that it wasn't business, which was exactly what her clients wanted in the "eccentric" owner of an art gallery. Just as Rowan was doing, Sarah played up to a stereotype because it was good for business. They liked to pretend to be eclectic, educated, wacky people, and Sarah knew just how to stay between too dull and too different. It was nearly midnight when Sarah locked up the gallery. She drove her Volvo home, always sure to use her turn signal and never exceed the speed limit by more than 3 m/hr. Sarah stripped off her shoes and wearily pulled her dress over her head when she finally made her way into her bedroom. She hated New York in many ways, but she loved the old high cielinged apartment that she rented at an exorbitant monthly rate. Flopping onto the firm mattress of her mahogany four poster, Sarah stared sleepily up at the painting that watched over her sleep. She never tired of looking at it. In the six years that she's had it hanging on her wall, the three men she'd brought here had complained that it gave them nightmares. One told Sarah that the woman in the painting reminded him of a female praying mantis about to devour its mate. Sarah had laughed at him. She found that having Maia there made her feel protected. Sometimes she had fantastical dreams, and woke with a strong sense of well being, but also of longing. Sarah had called her parents, hoping to find word of the Pappas family. To her dismay, that branch of the Pappas family was all but extinct. Their fortune was spent, and Maia was the last remaining descendent of Professor Mel Pappas. Sarah had even read some of his translations of the Xena Scrolls, the discoveries that had helped to build the family's financial security. Sarah despaired of ever finding the woman. Even if she did, Sarah wasn't sure that Maia would want to talk to her. Sarah certainly wouldn't, not about Gillian anyway. These were thoughts that ran through her mind every now and then ever since her hare brained trip to Trinity. They were pointless because Sarah felt that she would never find Maia. Why that fact bothered her so much, she did not know. Back to part 9 Back to The Beginning To My Fic Page
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