"Soft Landing"

DISCLAIMERS: LFN and its characters are the property of USA and TPTB - Jon Cassar, Michael Loceff, Chris Heyn and many others. No copyright infringement intended, all rights reserved.

Nikita sighed and sucked the last traces of gin off the plastic swizzle stick, noticing but not caring about the effect this had on the men around her at the bar. The walls and floor pounded with the techno beat, and the mingled scents of men's cologne and women's perfume, along with the mix of alcohol smells from the patrons around her, made her slightly nauseous. She didn't know why she still came here.

Men hit on her, the occasional woman did as well, but she rebuffed them all. She just didn't care anymore. It had been coming on gradually. This malaise had started first as a feeling of superior amusement at the pretensions of all these people desperate for love, affection, something resembling human contact. Always reaching, grasping, but never touching or holding that which they sought. It was impossible. There was no love here. No love anywhere. There was no good thing in the world.

She tossed some bills on the bar and headed for the door. She was almost through the throng making its way in when a set of arms grabbed her.

"Nikita," Birkoff cried.

"Hey, Birky," she replied softly, barely discernible over the blaring music. She spared him a brief smile. All her smiles were brief nowadays.

"Where're you going? Stay and dance with us." Birkoff gestured to the group of very young friends he had come in with, none of whom she recognized as Section. There was an infinitesimal look of longing in his eyes. She longed to reach out and stroke his soft cheek, still barely marred by anything but peach fuzz, but knew she could not touch anyone. Not anymore.

"No, thanks. I'm tired. I need to go home and get some rest."

"You sure?"

She only nodded, then pulled away from him, walking out without a backward glance. She strolled across the wet pavement, her breath fogging in the cool, mid-October evening air as she made her way to her car. She knew Michael would come to her tonight. It had been almost three weeks. Not a warm look or word had passed from him to her in that time, but she knew that tonight, soon after she returned home alone, there would be a knock on her door, and it would be Michael. Knew, too, she would let him in, despite the fact that the nights with him left her more empty than she was without him. She had her car key in the lock, and heard nothing, not even a muffled footstep, before the needle plunged into the back of her neck. The last thing she remembered was the pressure of strong arms surrounding her.

She awoke in a dark room. ‘Red Cell' was her first thought. Then she felt the softness underneath her. A featherbed. Cool sheets, still smelling of fabric softener, covered her. She shifted on the bed, and another scent came to her -- jasmine. She ran a hand along her stomach and felt the unmistakable traces of oil. Someone had stripped her of her clothes and rubbed her down with oil of jasmine while she slept. While she was unconscious.

‘Psycho,' was her next thought.

She took a deep breath, remembering to breathe steadily so that she would have the strength to attack when given the opportunity. Without moving her head, she scanned the room with her eyes, trying to make out forms in the near darkness. Something glittered in the corner. Something moved. She tensed.

"Nikita." The voice was rough, somewhere between a whisper and a growl. The accent was familiar, but her mind was still fogged. A form stepped out of the shadows.

"Jurgen," she cried. She sat up on her knees and pulled him to her, hugging him tightly, unmindful of the covers that had dropped away from her. She felt his warm hands along her back, caressing the smooth, scented skin, and his head dipped as he placed a soft kiss on her shoulder. His hands moved lower, down across her hips, pressing her to him, to the need that was already growing stronger. She pulled away.

"Where have you been? How . . . how did you escape?"

He smiled and pushed a strand of her long blonde hair out of her eyes, letting his finger trace the contour of her cheek before resting on her slightly parted lips. Her breath caught and held. "Red Cell," he answered. "They pulled me out before the bomb exploded. It didn't take me long to get away from them. Since then, I've been free. Like you were once."

His voice was rough and gravelly, like a kitten's tongue on her skin. His hands slid over her waist, thumbs caressing the soft indentations where her tight skirt had once been. His right hand moved up to cup her breast, and her mouth met his. Their tongues stroked and teased each other, exploring, tasting, as his left hand snaked down and between her legs. She gasped softly and spread them, allowing Jurgen to do as he wished. Earlier, she had been a desert. Now, she was an ocean, dripping with need for this man she had thought was lost to her forever.

He gently laid her down on the bed. His hands continued their gentle ministrations between her legs as his mouth began suckling first at one, then the other breast. His tongue traced each areola before pulling her nipples into his mouth, alternately sucking and swirling his tongue over them. She arched her back, pressing herself against his hand, her hips grinding with the need that was driving her.

"Please," she muttered, then began pulling his sweater up and over his head. He kneeled to unbuckle his pants and she sat up, unhasping the buckle herself and pulling his pants to his knees. Gently, she pulled the waistband of his boxers out and over his swollen cock, her mouth watering with desire at the sight of the huge member, the tip glistening with pre-cum. She couldn't restrain herself. She leaned forward and let her tongue lick it off, like honeysuckle from a stamen. It was sweet and salty, the feel of his hot flesh intoxicating. She swirled her tongue over his head, smiling at his groan of pleasure. Hungry for more, she took him in her mouth, until she could feel him pressing into her throat. He moaned in pleasure as his fingers stroked her hair, his hands pressing her mouth against him.

"No," he managed in a strangled cry. He pulled away. Grabbing her thighs, he flipped her roughly onto the bed. She smiled wickedly, spreading her legs in the air as he pulled his pants completely off.

"Fuck me, Jurgen," she whispered. "Fuck me hard."

Kneeling before her, he pulled her hips up and off the bed and slammed himself into her. She screamed in pleasure as she felt his huge shaft splitting her open, filling her. She loved the pain, loved the pleasure of his cock thrusting deeply in, then pulling almost completely out of her before hurtling deep inside again. God, this was what she had wanted, this passion, this fierce need. She put her hands behind her head to push herself up and into him, wanting, needing him to penetrate her completely, needing all of him. Too soon, she felt her slick walls tightening against his onslaught, not wanting it to be over yet, but wanting so much the fulfillment he could give her. Three hard thrusts, and she was over the edge, screaming his name in release and surrender as his cum filled her hot, wet pussy.

He collapsed next to her onto the bed, pulling her into his arms as they both gasped for breath. When their breathing had calmed, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. She lifted her head to meet his gaze, and saw love there. Real love, real humanity. She kissed his mouth, tenderly this time, stroking her hands across his face as his hands caressed her in turn.

She looked around the dark room with a new question. She turned to her lover.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"Out," he answered. "For good."

Michael felt in his pockets for the packet of cigarettes he knew wouldn't be there. He had given up smoking when he joined Section. He was 17 at the time. He still missed the habit occasionally. He sighed and shifted in his car seat, glancing at his watch in the dim light cast by a lamppost halfway down the block.

Three o'clock.

She wasn't coming home tonight. She must have found some stranger at the club, one of the many clubs she frequented. He had been tempted at times to go in search of her there, but he always quelled the desire. It was bad enough watching her with other men on a mission, but at least at those times he knew she had no choice. It was just a job. Watching her with someone else, to see her touching another man, smiling at him, of her own free will -- it could trigger some unpleasant reactions. He didn't want that.

He should go home and rest, but knew in his soul that rest would not come to him tonight without seeing her. He pulled the key from the ignition and got out, jogging across the street and into her building. He let himself in quietly, switched off the surveillance cameras, and flipped the light on. Her place was suffused with her personality. Open, inviting, warm. He let his fingers trail along the back of the living room chair as he strolled to the bedroom. Walking easily through the dark room, he switched on her bedside lamp. He took his coat off and laid it across the chair beside her dresser, then turned to possessively survey the room.

He could smell her here.

He opened the top drawer of her dresser and traced his fingers along the fabric of her underwear, cotton, satin, silk, then moved to the next drawer. Underneath a stack of sweaters, he found a small box with familiar pink and white stripes. He pulled it out and opened it. Wrapped in tissue paper was a floor-length peau de soie chemise the color of old gold. He draped it across his arm and studied it thoughtfully. She had never worn this for him. Apparently, had never worn it for anyone. He laid it out on the bed, on *her* side, then opened the flacon containing her favorite perfume and dabbed a drop at the vee of the gown's neckline.

Still gazing at the gown where it lay, he undressed slowly, letting his touch linger across his hardened brown nipples as he pulled his sweater off. He licked his lips as he undid his buckle, and let his trousers drop to the floor where he stood. He stroked his balls and his swelling cock through his black briefs before slipping them off as well. Pulling the covers back, he slipped into her bed and lay on his side, next to the empty gown. He closed his eyes and imagined her in it, there, lying next to him.

"Nikita," he whispered. His warm hand ran the length of his shaft, one long, smooth stroke, as he envisioned her soft, wet pussy surrounding him. He continued the movements, up and down, slowly, fantasizing the touch of her lips on his, the heat of her skin, the look of love in her eyes. He needed that love tonight. She should be here with him.

His free hand reached out to stroke the empty nightgown. Who had she bought it for? he wondered. Obviously not for him, since she had never worn it when they were together. Its hiding place, buried beneath her clothes, seemed to indicate it had been purchased some time ago, put aside for a special occasion, a special lover. Why not him?

As his strokes increased in speed and urgency, he pulled the nightgown to him, brushing its smooth, cool surface over his chest, hot with desire and jealousy. Who was she doing tonight? Was she telling that stranger the same words she had whispered to himself during their many nights together? Was she telling him, "I love you"?

The thought filled him with fury. He wanted to punish her with his mouth and his cock, to fuck her until she was black and blue, until she wept with sorrow for hurting him, until she begged him not to stop.

His hand slid rapidly up and down the length of his throbbing tool, building the pressure inside. His face and chest were covered in sweat, and his scent was already clinging to Nikita's clean cotton sheets. Just before he came, he pulled the gown down to cover his shaft, spurting his seed over its pure fabric, ruining it forever. He wiped himself off with it, then fell asleep in her bed.

When he awoke to a gray, dim dawn, he was still alone. The bedroom echoed with solitude. He was confused at first, not finding her in his arms. Then he remembered his night alone. In the cold gray of the morning, it seemed as if the apartment had been robbed of the warmth of Nikita's soul, which had been so apparent the night before. It felt vacant.

His cell phone was ringing.

"Yes?" he answered. "Yes, I can be there in 30 minutes."

After showering, he quickly dressed and let himself out, the nightgown stuffed into a plastic bag. He would buy her a new gown, in his favorite shade of blue.

When he arrived, the team had already assembled, except for him and Nikita. Ops raised an inquiring eyebrow, merely mentioning her name to Michael. Michael shook his head. Ops assigned Donna to take Nikita's place, and proceeded with the briefing. Red Cell had kidnapped a high-ranking Shin Bet agent, and they had to either get him out or terminate him. They discussed the plan and Ops dismissed the group, motioning for Michael to stay behind.

"Where is Nikita?" he asked without preface.

"I don't know."

"You weren't with her last night?"

Michael looked away. "No."

Ops let this denial settle in the room before dismissing Michael. The younger operative was almost out the door when Ops advised, "Find her, when you get back. We'll need to discuss this."

Michael gave the briefest of nods, and left the conference room.

Nikita awoke spooned against Jurgen, her arms wrapped around his warm, strong body. His chest rose and fell with the regular rhythm of his breaths, and she was amazed to discover a tear rolling down her cheek at the simple beauty of this truth: He was alive. She ran a hand across his chest, over the fragile flesh covering his heart, and thanked God or whatever fortune had brought him back to her. She nuzzled against the back of his head, her nose tickled by his hair, and placed a tender kiss on his neck, letting her tongue flicker there for just an instant.

His flesh was intoxicating, and addictive. She dipped her head to place a gentle kiss on his back, another on his shoulder. He awoke to the sensation of her soft lips on his skin, and turned to face her.

He smiled and cupped her face with his hand, pulling her near for a good morning kiss. A very good morning. Their tongues met, teased, entwined, as their hands renewed the memories of the previous night. Jurgen squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pull back the tears that threatened to spill over and onto his beard-roughened face. How long he had dreamed of this moment, holding her in his arms, knowing she was truly his. He ran his hands through her silken hair, deepening his kiss, growing hard with the need to feel her sweet, warm body wrapped around him. All those weeks he had been held by Red Cell, the torture, the beatings, it was his memories of her that had kept him alive, his need to find her again that had given him a reason to go on living. It was then that he realized that his act of surrender, when he had volunteered to stay and detonate the bomb, had been an act of betrayal. Not of Section, but of Nikita, the one warm and loving soul he had ever found there. It was knowing she was still alive, still needed him, that gave him the strength to endure, the determination to plot his escape. It was Nikita he had worked so long and hard for since his escape, pulling all his hidden bank accounts, accessing all his secondary, tertiary identities, calling in old debts, even from within Section. She had been his goal all along.

And here she lay, in his arms. He felt the heat of his tears rising in his throat, and suppressed it with a fierce kiss. He rolled her beneath him, and rained passionate kisses across her face, her neck, her breasts, up and down the length of her arms, licking the tenderest spot of her waist, grazing his teeth along her thighs, before spreading them to gain access to the part of her that still smelled of him.

She gasped as his tongue pushed between her swollen lips, lapping there for a full minute before penetrating yet deeper, into the same depths he had filled so perfectly last night. She felt herself growing even wetter than she had been, her hips moving gently with his rhythm. He lapped at her like a lion, pausing briefly to make gentle nips at her thighs, before returning his attention to the source of her need. As his tongue gently explored her depths, he let a finger find her swollen clit, rub there with the friction of her own juices. Within seconds, she was coming, her walls tightening around his sensitive tongue, her soft cries filling the silent, gray room.

He placed a few soft kisses along her inner thighs before pulling away, to find her staring at him lovingly.

"Take me, Jurgen," she whispered. "I need you."

He was more than ready. He gently eased his swollen shaft into her, his breath catching at the silken glissando of the movement. She wrapped her legs around him, and he placed a soft kiss on her full mouth.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She caressed his face and smiled. "I've been ready for you for longer than I can remember."

He buried his face in her neck, smelling the sweet scent of her hair, as he raised up and back in. With his first thrust, she sighed and arched her back, a murmured "yes" her only comment. He slid inside her, thrusting gently, glorying in the feel of her tight, wet body. His tongue stroked at her shoulders, her neck, her chest, as his hand squeezed and caressed her breasts. She raised her legs higher, tighter around him, as his pace increased, pushing against him, against his sweet, hard cock, fucking her like an angel. With fierce, animal-like cries, his strokes increased, pushing against her womb, harder and faster, until, with a scream of desperate need, he cried out her name and filled her with his seed.

In the afterglow, they lay together, he on top of her, wrapped in her arms. She stroked his hair, whispering his name from time to time, and placing gentle kisses on his brow.

"What now?" she asked him.

"We live our lives," he answered simply.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"They'll come looking for me."

"You mean, Michael will come looking for you."

She said nothing.

"Do you want him to?" His fear swelled his throat, closing off the words he longed to say, words that would convince her to stay with him.

She considered. She rolled onto her back and stretched, still feeling the ghost of his body inside her, the sensory memories of his lovemaking still living within each neuron, each nerve ending. She turned back to him, dangling a desultory arm across his ribcage.

"No," she answered simply.

She remembered one of the Nina Simone songs her mother used to play during the "dark times," the times when her depression outran all the medication the doctors loaded her up with. Nina's lush, heartbroken voice echoed through Nikita's mind.

That song always made her cry when she was a little girl, but she never truly understood what Bess really felt until now. Jurgen was Nikita's man; she would do anything to keep him.

"We'll have to move on, then," he said, his simple words belying the joy irradiating his features. "They'll be able to trace you fairly quickly, since we're not that far away from base."

"How far?" she asked.

"Just 200 miles." He grinned at her look of surprise. "I've brought some clothes for you. I think you should cut and dye your hair before we leave. We'll keep to ourselves as much as possible, but we can't avoid some human contact. Not to mention surveillance cameras. They're going to be scanning all possible sources for you."

"Do you think they'll know I've escaped?"

"They'll consider it. However, I left your purse and car keys by your car, to make it look like an abduction."

She smiled ruefully. "Which it was."

He traced his thumb along her lips. "Do you regret it?" He was afraid to hear her answer.

She caught and held his hand, opening it and kissing his palm. "No. Never. Let's go."

"What?"

Donna was shaking him.

"You were sleeping."

Michael shifted his stiff body in the cramped van, taking care not to brush any of the sensitive instruments surrounding him lest he incur the wrath of Walter and Birkoff. He'd been on this stakeout for 19 hours now, and the new operative, Donna, possessed no charms likely to keep him awake and alert.

"You kept saying, ‘Nikita.'"

His dream came back to him.

It was the 1940s, and he and Nikita were in the French Resistance. She was very brave, always volunteering for the most hazardous duty, and he loved her very much. He could not admit to anyone, however, his own dreadful fear. It gnawed at him. He became almost paralyzed with terror each time they were to go out on a mission, not only for her, but for himself. He cursed the war for interrupting his plans for the two of them. His father was a farmer, and had promised him a third of his land to farm for himself once he married. That was all he had ever really wanted -- his wife and his land. But then the war came, and everything was put on hold.

He always volunteered for the easier missions, although he would go along with Nikita when she went out, to protect her. It was on one of his easy missions -- delivering a message to a courier -- that he was captured by the Germans. He was held in a small, cold cell, tied hand and foot to a wooden chair. When he woke up there, he could feel the pain from the preliminary beating, the one the soldiers had said would "soften him up for der Fragesteller."

He saw the boots first, knee-length, covering gray wool pants. He raised his head to find himself staring at his interrogator. Jurgen. Over the course of the next three hours, he endured beatings and humiliations he had never even imagined. He wept as he thought of his farmhouse, his fields lying fallow, the Germans trampling over the tender shoots just beginning to push their way through the rain-damp earth.

Jurgen took a cattle prod from his briefcase, and Michael broke. He gave him the names of everyone he worked with in the Resistance, including Nikita.

The next day, a soldier came to his cell and untied his bonds, pulling him roughly to his feet. "Traitor," the young private spat at him. "Sie ekeln mich."

He led him down a long hallway of cells, the bars revealing the faces of his comrades, stark with disbelief and disgust at his betrayal. In the last cell, he saw Nikita's broken body lying on the floor. She wasn't dead yet, but soon would be. Jurgen stood over her, turning to Michael as he passed by and stopped.

"It's a shame," Jurgen said. "She was quite beautiful. In another life, I would have loved her."

Michael's face crumpled in pain and shame.

"But I never would have betrayed her," Jurgen concluded.

Michael swallowed the gorge rising in his throat. He had to get out of here. What was he doing in this goddamn van when he should be out looking for Nikita? He stood up, ducking his head under the low ceiling, and paced four steps before traversing the length of the field surveillance center.

Jackson's voice filtered through his headset. They had the Shin Bet agent, alive. They were bringing him in for debriefing. Donna heard a soft sigh of relief from the bearish operative standing above her, her gaze traveling up his black-clad thighs, lingering at his crotch. She had heard stories about this one. He was a "tester" for female ops thought to be unstable. She considered showing some signs of instability.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the van doors. Jackson and Boothe were supporting the agent between them, practically dragging him. He had been badly beaten. Michael placed his hands under the agent's armpits, lifting him like a baby into the van and laying him gently down on the pallet behind the front seat. He knocked on the window.

"Let's go."

He stared at the agent as they drove, his thoughts returning to his own dream. Had the agent violated the trust of his comrades? He considered the beating and the torture the agent, code name "Avi," had already suffered, and what was waiting for him in the white room with Madeleine.

Unexpectedly, the agent's eyes opened, staring directly into Michael's. In a voice somewhere between a croak and a whisper, the man said, "I did not betray them."

Michael shut his eyes.

As soon as he was debriefed, Michael headed out to look for her. He ignored Birky's call as he rushed past Communications, and almost struck the young man when he ran up and caught his arm.

"Michael, I'm trying to tell you." Birky lowered his voice. "I saw Nikita last night, at Les Branchés. She left alone around 12:30."

"Did you see which way she was headed?"

Birkoff shook his head. "I was just coming in. I tried to get her to stay with us, but she seemed really down. She said she was going home to rest."

Michael let this information sink in before thanking Birky for his help. He walked out. Birky was turning to return to his station when he noticed Ops watching from above. The Section chief smiled at the young man before turning away.

Michael sped toward the nightclub on his motorcycle, hoping the trail wasn't too cold already. He found her car parked nearby, stripped, her empty purse laying on the ground beside it. The stereo had been ripped out of the interior as well.

He knelt and picked up her small leather handbag. The only things still remaining were a pack of gum, a ticket stub from a play that Michael had taken her to, and a snapshot of Jurgen at Nikita's apartment. Jurgen lay sprawled on her couch, laughing, his face filled with light and joy. He knew that joy himself, but he never expressed it so openly. Nikita had obviously taken this picture. She was the one who had made Jurgen laugh, had given him that joy and release. Against his better judgment, he let himself imagine what had happened after this snap had been taken. Nikita putting down the camera, going to Jurgen, kneeling beside him, laughing with him as he embraced her and pulled her close. The two of them kissing lightly at first, then more passionately.

He crumpled the photo in his hand.

He had to concentrate. She had obviously been abducted, and the most likely suspect was Red Cell. The longer she was away, the greater the chance she would be killed. He couldn't waste any time. He hopped on his bike and raced back to Section.

He ignored Ops' offer of a seat, and strode up and down the observation deck, relaying his fears concerning Nikita's disappearance.

"Do you have any evidence to support that this was a Red Cell abduction?" the older man asked calmly.

"No. But we have to eliminate the usual suspects before moving on to other options. They had her once."

Ops smiled, his eyes leaving Michael's face to stare out over the command center. "Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten Nikita's previous disappearance. That, too, was under unusual circumstances, wasn't it, Michael?"

His cold, gray eyes held the younger man's gaze, piercing him. "We've had Nikita under surveillance for some time, now, Michael."

"Yes, I know." Confusion, accompanied by a cold fear that spread throughout his body, held Michael paralyzed in front of the man who so casually ordered death.

"No, not just the surveillance cameras. We keep someone posted on watch outside her apartment." He fiddled with a pack of cigarettes lying on his desk. "You were seen entering Nikita's building at 3:07 Sunday morning, leaving at 9:30 that same morning."

That was it. His blood warmed slightly, returning to his extremities. "Yes. I wanted to see her. I waited for her in my car, then decided to go in. She wasn't there. I fell asleep, and was awakened by your call. She never came home that night."

Ops opened his desk drawer, pulling out a familiar plastic bag. He set it on his desk. The bag was empty. "You had this with you. You dropped it off at your place before coming in."

Michael opened his mouth, then shut it. The fear was returning.

"I sent the gown to the lab, just to make sure my hunch was correct. It was," he concluded with a smile. "Take a lesson from the great statesmen of the world, Michael -- naked is better."

Michael forced himself to breathe normally, trying to calm his heartbeat. "I . . . I missed her. I took the gown out of her dresser, and . . ." He could feel the blush creep up from his neck, over his ears and across his face. "She wasn't there."

Ops reopened his desk drawer and slid the bag back in.

"That's all, Michael. You can go."

"What about Nikita?"

"We have instituted our standard search procedures. I'll keep you advised of our progress."

Michael hesitated at the threshold.

"You're dismissed, Michael."

The younger man left.

Nikita lay in bed, listening to the soft rhythm of flowing water as Jurgen showered. She had already finished her ablutions; her hair dyed a soft shade of brown, cropped boyishly short, she reclined naked on the sheets that still smelled of their passion, her hand idly stroking Jurgen's pillow. She hugged it close to her body and sighed. She couldn't bury her recurring thoughts of Michael, wondering what he was doing right now, if he was worried about her, if he cared. He had held so much back from her, the longer she knew him, the more she realized how little she knew him. Just when she seemed certain that he loved her, he said or did something perfectly revolting. Just when it seemed certain that he didn't love her, he would touch her in some little way -- a word or a look, so brief she was never certain one minute later it had ever happened -- that drew her back to him, hoping there was more there behind that mask than just a machine.

But the effort to hold on to what he seemed to promise, despite all of his come close, keep away games, had begun to cost her the last of her tenuous hold on reality, on her humanity. She didn't want to become like them, Maddy and Ops, and even Michael.

"You're one of the good ones, Sugar," Walter had told her.

She felt a lump growing in her throat at the thought of him, her one true, trustworthy friend in Section. Whatever Michael's feelings, she was sure that Walter missed her. After her first six months in Section, she had developed a little daydream to keep herself going in the face of her despair: she and Walter and Birky . . . and Michael, free from Section, in a world where it simply didn't exist anymore. Walking free in the world, without fear. What would it be like?

Jurgen told her it would be like that for them. He had the money and the resources to keep the both of them free for the rest of their lives. He had left no doubt, either, that it would be *their lives*, together. He had made his commitment, and it was to her.

She smiled and rolled over on top of the pillow, resting her head against it. It was strange. She realized now that he was the first person in her life who truly loved her and treated her well. No divided loyalties, no hidden agendas -- just love.

Jurgen stood in the bathroom doorway, a soft yellow towel wrapped around his waist, his body still damp and smelling of soap. He smiled at the reclining form of the woman who would be his wife. The past 24 hours with her had been happier than he had imagined, even when enduring the torture inflicted by the Red Cell interrogators.

"I thought you'd be dressed by now," he said gruffly, but his expression loving.

She turned and looked over her shoulder at him with a sly smile. "I had to rest. You really know how to wear a girl out."

He grinned and walked toward her, letting the towel fall to the floor on the way. He stretched out next to her on the bed, running his hands through her now short hair. "Everyone has a weakness," he said. "You just have to know which buttons to push."

"Is that so?" she asked archly.

He nodded, smirking. "Vee haff vays off making you talk."

She laughed hysterically, giggles bubbling up uncontrollably. He couldn't resist her. He leaned in for a passionate kiss, feeling himself grow hard again as her tongue slipped into his mouth. He ran his hands down her back and over her ass, alternately stroking with feather touches, and then squeezing and fondling her cheeks. When their kiss ended, she let her head loll back on the pillow.

"And what's your weakness, Jurgen?"

He traced a fingertip over her lips, his expression grown serious. "You," he whispered.

She ran a hand down his stomach, towards his groin, but he pulled it away. She looked the question at him.

"We have to get moving."

She nodded. She didn't want anything to jeopardize their future together, least of all her uncontrollable hormones. He pulled her to her feet and they quickly dressed. He helped her bind her chest, and carefully placed the spirit gum on her upper lip to hold the mustache in place. He sat her down in front of a bare wall, snapping her picture for the passport photo. She looked at the document once he was done with it, feeling her fingers grow cold at the thought it spurred. She and Jurgen would be traveling separately, flying from their present location to separate destinations, then meeting up in Portugal for the last leg of their journey. She knew the fear was irrational, considering all the things she had been through in the past two years.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that happiness and freedom were now within her grasp that made her focus on how easily it could all be lost. She felt his arms go around her from behind, felt his chin rest on her shoulder.

"We *will* be together. Have faith, Nikita."

She sighed, shut her eyes, and placed her arms over his as they encircled her waist. "I do, Jurgen."

Joey Johnson made it through customs in Prague without incident, caught a taxi to the train station, then traveled southwest to Lisbon, where he used a key to let himself into the villa in a middle-class suburb of the town. The place was empty, but clean, and pleasantly furnished. He trudged up the stairs and collapsed on the first bed he could find, falling into a sound sleep.

Laurent Valmont walked through the Auckland International Airport, and sat down at the gate to wait for his flight to board.

Ops strolled past the wall of video screens, before which sat a slew of watchers. They had been scanning live feeds from airports, depots and ports from around the world, trying to pick up a trace of Nikita. So far, no luck. The Section chief was beginning to resign himself to the fact that she might really be dead -- and Michael telling the truth for a change -- when a familiar figure on one of the screens caught his eye.

"My God," he whispered, then barked Birkoff's name. The young man ran up to him, then looked in the direction his boss was pointing. "Who is that?" Ops asked.

Birky's jaw dropped. "It's Jurgen."

"New Zealand. Assemble a team." Birky was already on his way to his station, to put out the alert. They had a team en route to Auckland within five minutes. In the meantime, Birky checked the flight information for the gate at which the operative formerly thought deceased was sitting. They had plenty of time to get there before his plane took off.

Ops watched Jurgen with satisfaction, gloating at the thought of disturbing the repose he displayed as he casually read his newspaper. The balls of the man.

Birky moved up next to Ops, unnoticed until he spoke. "Do you think he has anything to do with Nikita's disappearance?"

Ops smiled at him, a cold-blooded smile that sent ice through Birky's veins. "He vanishes for a year, then suddenly turns up just as Nikita goes missing? Yes, Birkoff, I think that's a reasonable proposition."

Michael strode into the monitor room. "What is it? You found her?" he breathlessly asked.

"I didn't send for you, Michael."

Ignoring the reproach, Michael sought the answer for himself, his survey stopping dead at the sight of his mentor, his rival, his nemesis on the video feed. He could feel the rage creep up from his loins, strangling him, shutting off his reason. His hands clenched into balls, squeezing until his knuckles and even his wrists were white.

Ops watched this reaction with interest, then turned back to the screen. "We have a team on the way. They'll be there 20 minutes before his plane is scheduled to depart."

He permitted himself a smile of satisfaction, a smile that disappeared as he saw Jurgen arise, fold the newspaper, place it under his arm, and board the plane. Birkoff was already speaking excitedly into his com set, demanding information that would explain this breach. Michael's face turned ashen as he watched the plane pull from the gate to begin its taxi. The three men stood dumbstruck before the video screen as the gate remained empty. The team never arrived.

"God DAMN it, Birkoff, what the hell just happened!" Ops shouted.

Birky finally got the explanation. They were watching yesterday's video. Somehow their "live feed" wasn't as live as they had thought. Birky couldn't explain it -- it had to be some malfunction from the Auckland airport surveillance system. Ops threw his coffee mug across the room in fury, and watched silently as the cold dregs dripped down the wall. He faced his people.

"I'm sorry."

He turned on his heel and left.