| Subject: Abandon Hope 1 |
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Rox
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Date Posted: 15:47:09 01/28/02 Mon
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "Abandon Hope" on 15:37:56 01/28/02 Mon
ABANDON HOPE
“Get out! I hate you! I hate you!”
Michael closed his eyes at the memory, then opened them again and surveyed the room. The mark had not yet arrived. Nikita sat languidly at the bar, dressed in an elegant, black-satin sheathe, with her long legs crossed at the knee.
It had been nearly two hours. Perhaps their intel had been faulty. Perhaps Ivanovich would not show. Another glance around the room, at the door, revealed he had still not arrived.
Michael let his eyes stray to Nikita. She sat with her back to him. It was almost symbolic of their current relationship.
“I hate you!”
“Michael.”
Michael blinked back to the present, and waited for Birkoff to continue speaking through the comlink.
“Ivanovich has arrived at the hotel. If he follows his usual routine, he’ll be there in about three minutes.”
“Fine.” Michael replied. “Nikita?”
He saw her back straighten slightly and knew she had heard, but wanted to be sure. “Get ready.”
Two Weeks Earlier:
“This,” Operations prefaced the holoslide, “is Anton Ivanovich. Some of you will remember Alec Chandler’s operation that we dismantled two years ago.” He looked pointedly at Nikita, before continuing.
“Mr. Ivanovich was Chandler’s point of contact in Russia and continues to control 75 percent of the slave trade in the former Soviet Union and most of the Pacific Rim. It’s taken two long years of searching to finally find Ivanovich—now that we have, we must shut him down. More so now, than before.”
Operations changed slides. “This is Lena Popovich. She is the great granddaughter of Mihail Popovich, a leading moderate member of the Russian government.”
The face of a young woman, with shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, floated above the ebony conference table. At first glance, her resemblance to Nikita was striking. Operations actually grinned at the reaction he received from those seated at the table. Everyone looked over at Nikita, who frowned and tried to act nonchalant. Operations grew serious again, and continued.
“Several days ago, she disappeared at a Sydney nightclub. Recent intel suggests she was kidnapped by one of Ivanovich’s procurement cells.”
Operations tossed down the holograph controller and whipped off his glasses.
“For those of you who are wondering, ‘so what?’-- Ms Popovich’s grandfather has been a staunch opponent of selling nuclear weapons to Middle Eastern terrorist groups. It hasn’t been an easy position to take, when you consider the terrorists are well funded and Russia is going through a near-depression. His greatest fear is that his great granddaughter has been sold to one of the terrorists in the Middle East. If this has happened, the terrorists will be able to silence Popovich, and that could entice the Russian government into a simple economic fix—‘bombs for butter’.”
“Are we sure the woman’s disappearance is due to a terrorist motivated kidnapping?” Michael asked.
“No. It’s possible she was just pretty, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and those who took her, have no idea who she is. The slave trade still flourishes and rich Arabs have a taste for blondes in their harems. Regardless of the reason, our job is to get Ms Popovich back safely, and destroy Ivanovich’s operation.”
Michael glanced at Nikita, and then regarded Operations gravely. “Do we have a profile written?”
Operations nodded. “Study your PDAs. The mission leaves in three hours for Sydney. This meeting is adjourned. Michael, I need to see you in my office.”
Michael stood to follow Operation, but hesitated a moment at Nikita’s side.
Nikita looked up at him, but could see no emotion behind those gray-green eyes.
“Nikita. . . .“ Michael began.
“Yes?” Nikita was puzzled at his delay.
“Wait for me in my office.” He left it at that and departed without waiting for her response.
SYDNEY, 2034 hours
“These are your old stompin’ grounds, aren’t they Nikita? Walter asked, climbing off the transport plane.
She gave a bit of a sigh as she followed him out into the evening air. “Yeah. It’s been a long time. Almost four years.” Nikita glanced around the tarmac then raised her eyes to the constellation of the Southern Cross as it twinkled overhead.
“You ever miss it, Sugar?” Walter paused to wait for her, linking his arm through hers.
“Naw,” she smiled slightly. “Nothing worth missing.”
“Still, it’s home. There’s always something about home.” Walter said with a sigh that verged on sadness.
Nikita hugged his jean-jacketed arm a little tighter, but didn’t speak.
‘Yeah, it was home--whatever that was worth. For her it had been a mother who didn’t give a damn, and a father who she’d never known. Big deal! Walter, for all his flirting, was more family than her own had ever been.’
“Where are we spending the night?” Nikita asked with a yawn, as she and Walter ducked into a waiting car.
“Section’s pulling out all the stops— you’re going to the Park Hyatt,” chimed in the driver. Ken Stillman’s smile shown brightly in the illuminated interior of the car as he answered.
“Ken!” Nikita smiled and tugged on one of Stillman’s neatly braided dreadlocks.
“Yeah, I roped my way into this mission because I’m used to driving on the left side of the road! Always wanted to visit Down Under!” Ken laughed and pulled the car onto an airport service road.
Nikita stood on the balcony of her hotel suite, overlooking Campbell’s Cove and breathed in the familiar night air. Cool, salt-tinged breezes from Sydney Harbor, lifted the ends of Nikita’s hair then continued on to scatter wispy clouds over the face of the setting moon.
It was nearly ten. She looked at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. Michael said to expect him about this time.
Nikita hadn’t spoken to him since he had briefed her on this assignment in his office. Even then, she sensed something was amiss. Michael had been agitated--glancing about the room, not making eye contact, rubbing his chin—all signs he was upset, yet he had told her very little more than had her PDA.
The mission was to decoy Ivanovich, draw him in, and gain his confidence, much as she had done with Alec Chandler. Like Chandler, Ivanovich was reported to be a lady’s man with a fondness for models. Once inside Ivanovich’s organization, Nikita might be able to learn where they were holding Lena Popovich. Failing that, Ivanovich was to be taken alive and returned to Section and Madeline’s tender care.
Nikita pressed the tiny button on her watch. The blue illumination told her it was ten o’clock on the dot. She returned to the opulent suite, closed the curtains and turned out the lights.
There was a faint knock on the connecting door between her suite and the one next door. Once—twice—three times. Nikita unlocked the door and allowed it to swing inside the room.
“Mi—“ Nikita whispered, only to have her words blocked by his hand pressed firmly against her mouth. She took it as a warning and remained silent as he entered the room and quietly shut the door behind him.
Just as quietly, Michael led her by the hand back onto the balcony and shut the outer door, effectively isolating them both from any surveillance equipment in Nikita’s room.
“What’s going on?” Nikita asked softly.
“Do you think you might still be known on the streets?”
“After four years? I doubt it. Why?”
“Good. Get changed into some street clothes and let’s go.”
“Has the mission profile changed?”
“No.” Michael answered briefly. He stared off the balcony in the direction of the Harbour Bridge, his back turned towards her.
“Then why . . . “ Nikita asked.
“Nikita, please,” Michael begged, turning to face her. “Just do it.”
With a sigh, she nodded and stepped back inside the hotel room to change.
Thirty minutes later, Nikita sat in a parked car on a familiar street corner in King’s Cross. Her old neighborhood had changed, but only slightly. New buildings had replaced two dilapidated ones, and the grocery store had closed down, but nearly everything else was as she remembered. King’s Cross remained the playful, gaudy, hedonistic, red-light district of her youth.
“Now what?” She asked Michael, seated to her right in the driver’s seat of the car.
“Where would you go to get information?” He asked, carefully watching the streets.
“Several places—the shelter, Doyle’s Pub—why?” Nikita asked with some trepidation. Michael was upset. All the signs were there—the lack of eye contact, the nervous stroking of his chin and mouth.
“We need more information.”
“Michael, what’s going on? The profile’s been set and this isn’t it.” Nikita reached over, placed her palm against his cheek and forced him to look in her direction. “What’s-going-on?”
“I told you, we need information. We need a contact within Ivanovich’s operation.” He looked away again, scanning approaching streetwalkers.
“Michael, that’s what the profile is supposed to give us—damn it! Just once, would you trust me with the truth!” She shoved away from him and pressed herself against the passenger door. Angry tears sprang up as she gnawed her lower lip.
Michael looked away, then turned his face to hers, his green eyes solemn. “The profile has a backup profile—if Ivanovich takes the bait, you are to be traded for Lena Popovich.”
He watched her face for understanding.
Nikita sat quietly for a long moment before asking, “What’s my exit strategy?”
Michael’s face was an emotionless mask when he answered, “There isn’t one.”
Stung by her impending betrayal, Nikita asked bitterly, “Then, why are we here?”
“To find another way.” Michael said softly, reaching for and catching her hand in his.
* * *
Nikita shoved her hands in her pockets and kept her head lowered as she skirted around the noisy crowd on the sidewalk in front of Doyle’s Pub. The fresh night air of Sydney’s harbor had given way to the stale smells of the back streets. She wrinkled her nose as she passed unwashed bodies, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the sickening odors of old urine and chundered beer.
Getting information—finding Ivanovich through a “back door” was going to be difficult. While the streets remained familiar, all of the people she knew were no longer around. Four years is a long time for addicts, alcoholics, pimps and prostitutes to survive. Even before Nikita had been arrested, many of her friends had met unpleasant ends. It was going to take some time to reconnect to this world.
Nikita slipped inside Doyle’s Pub, surreptitiously, trying her best to hide in the crowd. She needed time to think, and time to plan. A waitress offered her a stool at the bar; she declined in favor of a more private booth.
“What will you have?” The waitress asked, holding a small tray on her hip.
“Uh, Perrier with lemon, please.” Nikita made a show of digging in her small purse for money. “Ah, how much . . . ?”
“Three dollars.” The waitress pursed her lips, suddenly aware her customer was embarrassingly short of funds.
“Can you make that plain water, then?” Nikita asked, apologetically.
The waitress sighed, but nodded and went her way.
Michael found a seat across the room from Nikita and ordered a glass of wine. He watched her remove her floppy hat, and rake her fingers through her disheveled hair. Dressed in denims and a tank-top that bared her midriff, she looked a little lost, and some what vulnerable--hopefully, vulnerable enough that someone might want to take advantage of her.
Michael took a sip of his wine then scanned the room for possible marks. The bar was full of tanned, athletic types, both male and female. Several patrons were enthusiastically engaged in a drinking contest. Two of the men, both blond and well built, claimed they were lifeguards from Bondi beach. They were on their fourth beer in as many minutes, and were spilling more on themselves than they were drinking. It was quite evident they had been at it for longer than four minutes.
One of the men finished his beer with a flourish, and held up his empty glass in triumph. The simple act of raising his glass made him loose his balance and he tottered backwards, nearly landing in Nikita’s lap.
“S’orry—coo, you’re a beaut! What’s your name, sheila?” The drunk leaned one muscular elbow on the table and gazed at Nikita with rapt appreciation.
Nikita rolled her eyes, and pushed herself into the farthest reach of the booth.
“Oh? A bit of a Pom, are we?” The man laughed and reached out to grab Nikita by the arm.
Annoyed, Nikita started to resist until she spied Michael across the room, and remembered the purpose of their being there. She swallowed the mild obscenity she had planned to let loose, and did her best to act frightened.
“Please, I don’t want any trouble.” She began trying to pull her arm out of the man’s vise-like grasp.
He released her and laughed, “No--no trouble. Just trying to be friendly, is all. “Oy! Paulie!” He shouted across the way to the bartender. “Bring us a couple a’ Fosters!” The man made himself more comfortable in Nikita’s booth, while she tried to look disconcerted rather than irritated.
“Hi, I’m Don Otway.” He held out his hand and grinned with wicked good humor. His butter-blond hair slipped into his blue eyes as he leaned forward. He shoved it back quickly with the hand he had offered, then took Nikita’s.
“I’m . . . I’m Nikita.” She made sure she shook his timidly.
Otway was well tanned and smelled of beer and coconut butter. His large jaw had a dimple in the center. It reminded Nikita of the actor Kirk Douglas.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you? I know I’d never forget your face.” Otway scratched casually at his blond, five o’clock shadow.
“Yeah. Just got into town.” Nikita shifted her glance to where Michael sat. Gray-green eyes met blue for a moment. Michael’s expression told Nikita that Otway was not the person they needed to meet, and to get rid of him. Nikita’s expression told Michael that she agreed, but wanted to know exactly “how” she was to accomplish that.
“You interested in a job?” Otway ran a finger down Nikita’s forearm, drawing an invisible question mark on her skin with the tip of his fingernail.
“W-what kind of job?” She asked in return, suddenly alert.
Otway waited until the waitress dropped off the two bottles of beer he had ordered before continuing.
“Oy, well that depends what kind of job skills you have.” He opened one of the beers and handed it to her. “Can you type?”
“No.”
“Cook?” Otway raised an eyebrow and took a long swig off his beer.
“No.” Nikita allowed some exasperation to peep through in her voice.
“Well, do you got a place to stay for the night?”
“Not yet.”
“Tell you what—I’m a nice guy. If you want to bunk over at my Mum’s house, I’ll be glad to call her.”
“Your Mum’s?”
“Sure—I’m always bringing home strays. Last month it was a little Russian gal who was mad at her Dad.”
Nikita glanced at Michael, hoping he’d heard and saw him nod ever so slightly. It could be a coincidence, but then again, maybe it wasn’t.
Michael paid for his drink; it was the signal to bait the trap.
Nikita shook her head, not wanting to appear too easy.
“I hardly know you—I don’t think your Mum would appreciate you bringing home company this late at night.”
Don laughed aloud and shouted to his friends across the bar, “Fellas—vouch for me, would ya?” A few shouted back good-naturedly.
“See? I’m harmless.” Otway took another long drink of his beer.
“No, I’d better not.”
Otway sighed, looked over his shoulder and shrugged at his companions.
“Suit yourself.” He struggled to get to his feet, then sat back down hard.
Laughing, he leaned over. “I’ll give you a fiver if you could as least get me to my car.” Pulling his car-keys from his pocket, and the promised money, he waved them in front of her.
“All right. That I can do.” Nikita took the cash from his hand, and stood to help him to his feet.
“I knew you were as sweet as you look!”
“Where’s your car?” Nikita asked, holding Don upright as they left the pub.
“Back over there a bit. That red one over there—see it?”
Nikita spotted a red Toyota sedan parked in the alley behind a nearby building.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“Whoooo—I’m damned drunk, sheila.” Don giggled as Nikita shifted his weight to her other arm. As they walked towards the car, Nikita realized there was another man approaching, dressed in a white jacket. As he got closer, she realized he looked familiar.
Don waved at the man and called out to him.
“Hey Jerry—you buying or selling it tonight?”
Nikita suddenly stopped dead in her tracks and stared. ‘It couldn’t be’, she told herself, but it was. The man was older, but little else had changed. He looked at her and grinned. It was a smile of pure lust, not one of recognition. Nevertheless, Nikita felt overwhelmed with panic. The memories of that night in the alley were still vivid in every detail. The terror of fighting for her life, the bloody knife, her arrest—and all the accompanying emotions, came back with a vengeance.
It was him! The man who had killed the cop! The man for whom Nikita had taken the blame for murder!
As he approached, Nikita did what she’d wished she could have done all those years ago. She shoved Otway violently to one side, and ran.
Michael watched Nikita as she rushed helter-skelter towards his position. He recognized her panic even though he didn’t know its cause.
“Nikita!” He called to her through her comlink. All he got in return was hysterical weeping. Something had gone horribly wrong, but what?
Gun drawn, Michael stepped out of his position and snagged Nikita by the arm as she passed. At his touch, she screamed and struggled to get free.
Necessity made Michael slam her up against the brick wall of a nearby building and hold her there, out of sight of the street.
“Nikita! What’s wrong? Why did you break position?”
Abruptly, Nikita realized it was Michael speaking.
“It’s him!” She wailed, still trying to free herself.
Michael peered around the corner of the building and watched as Otway and the second man spoke to each other. Both men looked puzzled and somewhat amused at Nikita’s sudden exit.
“Silly bitch. . .” Otway threw up his hands as he turned to leave.
Michael holstered his weapon, grabbed Nikita by her upper arms and pushed her into a recessed doorway. Trying the door and finding it unlocked, Michael dragged her inside.
“Nikita!” Michael pressed her tear-stained face firmly between his palms and held her still. “Stop it!”
Nikita fell against him, limp from crying. Not since she had been brainwashed, had he seen her so thoroughly out of control.
“What happened?”
“It was him!” She repeated, dissolving into tears once more.
“Who?”
“He—he was the one!”
“The one, what?” Michael shook her once, and it seemed to get her attention.
“He killed the cop. I was on my way to the shelter that night—I saw him! He was stabbing the cop. He saw me and came after me!”
Michael frowned, but allowed her to continue.
“I didn’t kill the cop—he did it! I saw him—he’s still here!”
“’Kita,” Michael’s voice dropped substantially. “Which man—the one standing with Otway?”
Nikita nodded.
“Did he recognize you?” Michael’s expression was intense
as he asked the question. Nikita responded, with more tears, but they were calmer ones.
“No—I mean, I don’t know . . .I don’t think so.” She wrapped her arms around Michael’s waist, buried her face against his shoulder, and clung to him.
Michael held her until she quieted, while he pondered the situation. This profile would have to be scrubbed and there was no time left to plan another. And now, there was also the danger that Nikita had been exposed. If she had been recognized, and Section One became aware of it, she’d be canceled.
“Let’s go.” Michael said at length. He drew her away from him and studied her face.
“Michael, I’m sorry.” Nikita was now rational and contrite. “I panicked—it’s just—he’s the reason I’m in Section. I never killed anyone before coming to Section.”
Michael caressed her cheek, still hot and moist from her tears, with the backs of his fingers. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
“Michael.” Nikita caught his arm as he turned to leave. “Wait! If it’s him—I want to bring him in. Madeline can get the truth out of him.”
“What purpose would that serve?” He asked softly.
“What purpose?” Nikita pulled back abruptly, stunned that he couldn’t understand the simplicity of the situation.
“It would prove my innocence! I don’t belong in Section—I never have! Michael—if I could prove my innocence I could be free! Really free!”
“It no longer matters.” Michael’s voice was wistful, his eyes, gray with regret.
“It no longer matters?” She replied incredulously.
“No. Let’s go.” He grasped her wrist and started for the door.
Nikita jerked her arm free and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“It does matter! It matters to me!”
“You can’t go back, Nikita. None of us can.”
“You can’t go back!” She started to cry again. “I never killed anyone! It’s not fair!”
“Never?” Michael reminded gently.
His meaning took her by surprise.
“Not until Section!” She retorted angrily. “And what choice did I have?”
"None. It changes nothing.” He reached for her arm, but she shook him off.
“We have to go back before we’re missed.” Michael said quietly.
“I don’t give a damn!”
Michael looked at her for a moment, then reached inside his coat and drew his gun. With one fluid movement he cocked it, and placed the cold barrel against her forehead.
Ignoring her look of total disbelief, he replied softly, “I do. Go. Now.”
The trip back to the hotel was a quiet one, with Michael pensive and Nikita filled with cold rage.
Tomorrow, Ivanovich was scheduled to arrive and all other windows of opportunity were now closed. Without another way into Ivanovich’s organization, Nikita would have to play the hand that Section had dealt. She would be traded for Popovich’s granddaughter and abandoned in place—unless Michael could find another avenue of approach that would free the girl and shut down Ivanovich’s operation.
Michael stole a glance at Nikita. Whatever happened, once he had delivered Nikita to her room, he was going to have to return and tie up loose ends.
Nikita waited in her room for half an hour, before making her escape. She took a taxi back to King’s Cross and began her search. It was late, nearly one, but one was still early in King’s Cross. Hopefully, her quarry hadn’t gone very far.
Where Nikita had been terrified earlier, her anger at Michael had calmed her considerably. She realized that she was no longer that vulnerable seventeen-year-old girl of four years ago. She was a highly trained assassin. The man would confess his crime on video—and she would have proof of her innocence at last. Someone would listen and believe—they had to!
Michael fired twice. The soft pop-pop of his silencer covered the sound of his bullets finding their target—the first, in the chest, the second to the head, as he applied the coup de grace. Nikita’s mortal enemy was dead, and with him, any danger of her being compromised.
He stared down at the corpse for a moment. Had it not been for this man, Michael would have never known Nikita, and yet, he had caused her so much pain, that Michael could feel no regret at killing him. That he had done it without Section’s sanction, mattered little. He had killed to protect Nikita before, and would do so again, if necessary.
Michael holstered his weapon and left as quietly as he came, with no witnesses, save one . . .
Nikita stood in the doorway of the room and stared down at the man who had ruined her life. He was dead and all her cherished hopes of freedom had died with him.
Michael had killed him, quickly, efficiently--selfishly.
She left, suddenly aware that she could be caught at the scene and blamed once again for a murder she hadn’t committed.
Numbed by Michael’s betrayal, Nikita walked for several miles before deciding to call a cab to take her back to the hotel.
She unlocked her door and entered into the darkness of her room, feeling lost and devastated. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared out of the balcony window.
Something moved in the shadows. It was Michael. He stepped towards the bed, soundlessly.
“Where have you been?” His voice seemed to come from all directions. It startled Nikita, and she jumped to her feet and skittered backwards off balance.
“Get out!”
Michael’s arms went around her instead and pulled her tightly against himself, trapping her arms at her sides.
“Where have you been?” He repeated the question, firmly.
“To a murder scene!” She pushed against him, but he didn’t move an inch.
“You followed me? Were you seen?”
Nikita got a hand free and slapped him as hard as she could across the face.
“You killed him! I hate you! I hate you!”
Michael caught her wrist before she could hit him again.
“Were you seen?” Michael repeated, a little less calmly.
“No! You bastard. . . .get out!” Nikita’s voice broke.
Michael released her and stepped away. “I’m sorry, ‘Kita.”
“You’re always bloody sorry! Get out! Don’t ever touch me again!”
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