“See?” Andre gestured around the drafty old loft expansively.  “It’s perfect!”  He turned, his arms outspread, his face shining with excitement.  “Look, lots of windows, running water.”  He darted over to the stained, industrial sink in one corner and turned the water  on, watching in delight as the liquid gurgled and spat unevenly out of the ancient spigot.  “A little paint and, voila!  It will be wonderful, and it’s so cheap!”  He danced back to Tessa who had simply stood, staring in shock at the dilapidated space.  He grabbed her by the shoulders and swung her around.  “And you could paint it up, hang some curtains, give it that nice woman’s touch.  We could put a mattress in the corner, and…”

          “Andre,” Tessa spoke sharply yanking away, but her lover was caught up in his own vision of a perfect little love nest and prattled on about converting the old warehouse into a place to live.  “Andre!” she said again, this time with a real command in her voice, and at last he stopped, turning to her with warmth and love in his eyes that softened her determination to set the infuriating man straight once and for all.  “Look, I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, but I’m just not sure I’m ready…”

          “Tessa,” he interrupted, “I need to make a decision on this right away, and we’ve discussed this before.  Setting up in a space like this will provide a work area for my paintings, and since you’re going to have to move out of your apartment anyway…”

          Tessa threw up her hands to stop the smooth flow of words. “Just…just stop this, Andre. Stop trying to arrange my life, stop making my decisions for me!” she snapped.

          “Arrange your life?” Andre looked at her incredulously. “Tessa, I love you. I’m trying to make you happy, to find a way we can be together.” His tone softened and he took her by the shoulders.  “What is it, mon cher?  Are you scared to make such a change? I know it is a difficult time, but that is why I wanted to find a place where you will be taken care  of, where you won’t have to work at all those stupid jobs just to have a place to live.”

          Tessa gently extracted herself from Andre’s grasp.  “I’m not scared of anything except making a decision I will later regret.  If you want to live here, fine, but I will make my own decision about where I wish to live and who I wish to live with.  That is, if I choose to live with anyone at all.”  She found her voice rising a little, and saw that irritating look of condescension appear on her lover’s face, the one that said he thought she was being childishly, unreasonably stubborn.  She turned towards the door with a determined step.  “I’ll call you once I’ve made a decision,” she said bruskly, ignoring his frustrated “Tessa!” as she let her long legs carry down the trash-strewn hall, down the steps and out into the street.

          MacLeod watched the double-0 agent approach, carefully maintaining a façade of reading his paper, even though he had spotted the man at least 100 meters away, walking briskly up the walk, heading north from the Place de la Concord.  Mid-thirties, immaculately tailored clothes, a long, but close-fitting cashmere overcoat, white silk scarf and soft calf-skin gloves made him seem a bit of a dandy, but the body was whip-thin, the early-thirtyish handsome face slightly hard and closed.

          The man paused on the walk, then turned and casually sauntered over to MacLeod’s bench as though on a whim, and sat down beside him, arms carefully folded in his lap, one long leg crossed over the other.

          He looked over at the paper MacLeod  was reading.  “Anything interesting?” he smiled, speaking in English.

          “Just the usual,” Mac replied, as he was supposed to.  “Murder and mayhem seem to be the order of business.”

          The man turned, fixing hard, appraising blue eyes on him.  Mac wondered at the impression he made in his student persona but the agent gave nothing away in expression or body language.

          At last a gloved hand was extended. “Bond,” he said in his cultured Eton accent.  “James Bond.”

          He took the hand.  It was strong, but smaller than his own, but then his palms had been widened and callused from 400 years of sword work.  “MacLeod,” he responded.  “Duncan MacLeod.”  His lips twitched up in a smile, slightly relieved to see Bond’s expression relax a little at the mimicry.  So the man wasn’t utterly without humor.

          “I’ve heard a little about you, MacLeod,” Bond said, his focus now on the small parade of tourists and joggers passing on the broad path that ultimately led up to the Champs Elesee. “Your name is at the top of  the board of highest scores  in the agency field tests.  Has been for awhile.  I must say,” the intense gaze turned to rake over him once again, “you disguise yourself well.  I would never have guessed.”

          The comment came out as ambiguously insulting, and Mac smiled to himself.  “I’m flattered,” he returned, refusing to rise to the bait.  Tired of  sitting still, he stood.   “Let’s walk.”  He set off down the path, sensing Bond’s presence beside him after a moment. 

          “Our best information is that an assassin known to Interpol as Christoph Kuyler is involved,” Bond said.  “The local authorities have been alerted, mostly because they think Kuyler is responsible for the death of a wealthy banker, but they have agreed to stay at a distance since we don’t want our protection of Havel to be obvious.”

          “Do you have any photos or composites?” Mac asked.

          Bond shook his head with a frown.  “The man has been around for a long time, but no one has ever seen his face.  He uses a wide variety of techniques to get close – mime, juggler, acrobat – but specializes in attacks in public areas, with a quick getaway in the crowd.”

          “Havel is due here on Friday, and will be here through the weekend, leaving the following Tuesday,” Mac said. “The attempt on his life could occur anytime, but since it is specifically intended to capture world attention, my guess is that it will take place during, or immediately before or after some major event associated with the Festival.”  He saw Bond nod thoughtfully and continued. “I know Vaclav personally.  I suggest that I stay with him as a bodyguard while you keep an eye on the perimeter.”

          Bond stopped, taking Mac’s elbow to pull him up short.  “Look here, MacLeod, I am in charge of this operation.  Deployment is my decision.  I will place several agents on the perimeter, and both of us will stick close to the subject.  In the meantime, you will get in touch with Nazlimov and get him to find out more about the details of the assassin’s plans.”

          “We’ve already put Vitali in too much danger.  If we press, then all we will succeed in doing is blowing his cover, getting him killed, and losing an opportunity to show the Czechoslovakian regime for the Soviet puppet it is,” MacLeod insisted.

          Bond met his eyes for a moment, then pressed his lips together and turned, scanning the scenery around them for a moment.  MacLeod was certain the man would reject his advice, insisting on being ‘in charge’, intent on being the one to give orders.

          “That’s not what our orders are,” Bond said quietly, but there was a thoughtfulness to his expression that said volumes.

          “Orders can be interpreted a lot of different ways,” Mac ventured.  “And I thought double-0 agents were given a lot of latitude in the field.”

          Bond nodded.  “Contact your friend in the embassy, but tread carefully.  I don’t want to get another agent killed any more than you do.  Let’s see if we can kill two birds with one stone,” his hard gaze turned to look at him intently, then one side of his mouth quirked in a tiny smile.  “So to speak.”

          The two men regarded each other for a moment, each measuring the other’s discretion, ethics, intelligence and will.  Mac nodded at last, willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt.  For the moment.

          A similar nod was given by Bond, and the two men turned to walk toward the Louvre, steps matching, talking quietly about the specifics of ensuring the safety of the little Czech playwright.

          The end of the semester was looming all too quickly, and each time Tessa thought about her uncertain future, her stomach would flutter nervously.  She did her best not to think about it, to concentrate on her final projects, but it would intrude at odd moments.  Andre didn’t help at all, constantly chattering about the agent who wanted to represent him, the great works he planned to do, his plans for their future together.  Her roommates were caught up on their own post-graduation plans.  One seemed to have an interior decorating career well underway and was gone for long periods, while the other was preparing to marry some financier.

          Tessa felt like the only one who could not see beyond the end of the day, much less the end of the semester.  The annual spring floods of the Seine gave her a few days’ respite from her tour guide duties, time she desperately needed to put the finishing touches on the drawing, the multimedia piece and the sculpture she was working on for her senior jury panel.  The drawing and the multimedia piece were pretty much done, but it was the sculpture that was supposed to be the centerpiece, and it simply wasn’t going the way she wanted, the clay stubbornly uninspired under her hands.  It was missing something, and although everyone who looked at it told her it was wonderful, Tessa felt it fell far short of her expectations.

          She worked late into the evening in the studio, the huge space echoing with a sense of unnerving emptiness, the huge windows only reflecting back the bright interior lights like giant mirrors.  She stepped back again, flexing her tired, chapped hands to keep them limber in the poorly heated space, and shook her head in frustration and near despair.  So much hinged on this one piece and….she felt the slow slide of a tear dampen her cheek, brushing it away in irritation.  She grabbed a piece of wet cheesecloth and threw it over the clay.  Enough.  Her two lovers might as well be store manikins for all the passion and tension that was between their straining torsos.  Maybe Andre was right, she decided as she washed her hands and put on her coat.

          She stepped out into the damp night air, grateful that it had finally stopped raining.  If she moved in with him, she could get a job, maybe at an art gallery if she was lucky, doing some kind of administrative or even selling work.  She could keep a little corner of the loft Andre wanted to rent for her own work.  Keep her hand in, at least.  A huge lump formed in her throat and she swallowed her anger and her despair.  Maybe some things weren’t meant to be.

          Bond listened as each lookout checked in, pressing the small speaker to his ear, his eyes scanning the lobby hotel for anything out of the ordinary, waiting for Havel to descend in the elevator.  They were escorting Havel from his hotel to the theatre where the play festival was to open with a reception and a few speeches.  MacLeod had stayed close to Havel, conversing like old friends in fluent Czech.  Not for the first time, Bond narrowed his eyes in speculation as he watched the other agent step out of the elevator ahead of his charge, MacLeod making his own perusal of the area nearby even though Bond had already assured him the area was clear and safe.  The man had changed persona completely just by dressing in a suit to blend in with the other reception attendees.  There was something vaguely ‘off’ about MacLeod, Bond had decided. 

          It wasn’t really the dramatically different appearance, although the change was startling.  He had gone from a twenty-something, scruffy, practically invisible graduate student to an urbane, mid-thirtyish sophisticate in the time it took to change clothes, shave and tame back his dark, unruly hair.  The suit also emphasized the studied athleticism of MacLeod’s body, notably a pair of shoulders that were broad enough to require a special tailor’s touch in the expensively cut clothes.

          The clothes themselves caused Bond to raise a curious eyebrow.  Tailor-made, Armani designed, including a camel-hair overcoat.  All in all, MacLeod was a bit of a mystery, and Bond did not care for mysteries – not when his life might depend on the man’s reflexes, beliefs and motives. 

          He had read MacLeod’s file. It was all a little too pat, too neat.  An orphan with an eclectic European education, no living relatives, no significant ties to any place or time or people.  The man was too good at too many things -- martial arts of all kinds, covert operations, multiple languages, social awareness and flexibility that helped him blend into virtually any situation.  He had amassed skills rarely seen in an agent with twice his experience.  And there was an arrogant certainty and self-possession about the man that Bond found grating.  His instincts were trying to tell him something about Duncan MacLeod, he just had not figured out what – yet.

          MacLeod’s eyes met his across the lobby and the two men nodded almost invisibly, signaling their readiness.  The Scot stepped in front of Havel, who was almost entirely hidden by the agent’s larger bulk.  Bond simultaneously tracked their movements, converging with them at the front door, waiting for MacLeod to go through first, then Havel, then Bond covering the rear.

          Outside, the two agents immediately flanked their ‘client’, both sets of eyes scanning the sidewalks, the street, and the windows and buildings above as they moved quickly towards the dark car that waited under the hotel’s awning.  In seconds they were inside, the playwright tucked between Bond and MacLeod in the back of the dark sedan.

          There was a moment of tense silence as the car pulled away, then Havel murmured something in Czech, to which MacLeod chuckled.  When Bond looked at the two of them, eyebrow raised, Havel smiled.  “Like a spy novel, eh?  I especially like the dark suits,” Havel explained in heavily accented, but understandable English.  “I’ve been telling Duncan here that he never looked so good.  Back in our hippy student days, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit.”

          Bond looked at Havel, a small, mustached man with twinkling eyes and reddish hair, then let his focus wander almost casually up to MacLeod, who was studiously staring out the darkened window.  “Just how long have you known each other?” he asked.

          “I met Duncan at a literary seminar in the States over twelve years ago,” Havel affectionately patted the Scot on the knee.  “He dared to criticize my early work as too dense to communicate my ideas effectively, comparing my plays unfavorably to early Greek tragedies.”

          “That was a long time ago, Vaclav,” Duncan smiled, “You’ve gotten a little better since then.”

          “Just a little better?!” Havel huffed in mock indignation.  “You see how he insults me?” he turned to Bond.  “This man has no respect for great literature.”

          “Oh, I have a great deal of respect for great literature,” MacLeod replied blandly.  “And as soon as you produce some, I’ll respect it.”  A smile was twitching at the corners of MacLeod’s mouth.

          Havel glanced over at Bond with a small smile at Bond’s raised eyebrow.  “Don’t worry, Mr. Bond.  Duncan and I have been badgering each other about literature, moral issues and philosophy for a long time.”

          Bond watched as MacLeod looked over at the older man with what appeared to be almost paternal affection.

          The evening went by in a blur of faces and speeches.  Bond refrained from doing anything more than nibbling at the reception buffet to stave off hunger, and kept a glass of sparkling water in his hand just to blend in, noting that MacLeod did the same.  Each man kept a watchful eye on the crowd, their concentration entirely on their subject’s safety and not on the event itself.  The Chief even dropped by to check on how things were going, looking elegant in black and watching with MacLeod and Bond from the theatre wings as Havel gave a brief introductory speech.  She seemed amused as she examined her two agents, nodded tersely and disappeared without a word.

          At last they had the playwright safely ensconced back in his hotel room, with a guard on the door.  They left with a few words of caution and headed down the long, plushly carpeted hotel hallway, falling automatically into step with each other.

          Bond looked over at MacLeod, who had a small furrow of either worry or weariness between thick, dark eyebrows.  “Buy you a drink?” he offered.  It was time he got to know the enigmatic man a little better.

          MacLeod looked up in surprise, then nodded.  “I thought I’d hang around awhile in the lobby anyway until the traffic in and out slowed down.”

          “That’s not necessary.  I’ve got men covering the lobby, the hallways, even watching the outside from across the street.  You aren’t solely responsible for his safety.”

          The Scot shrugged.  “Vaclav is a friend, and a true hero.  Do you know he was a student of Patocka, and helped formulate Charter 77 that came close to convincing Dubchek to defy the Russians?”  When Bond just looked puzzled, MacLeod explained further as they got onto the elevator.

          “Jan Patocka was a philosopher just now gaining recognition outside of Czechoslovakia.  He was a real martyr to the cause of freedom of thought in that country.  He wrote something that has always stayed with me.  Let me see if I can translate it so it makes sense.”  MacLeod looked thoughtful for a moment before he spoke again.  “A moral system does not exist in order to help society function but simply so that man can be human. It is not man who defines a moral order according to the arbitrary nature of his needs, wishes, tendencies, and desires, but, on the contrary, it is morality which defines man.” 

          The two men walked in silence toward the lobby bar.  Bond ordered a vodka martini, strait up, shaken, not stirred, while MacLeod ordered a single malt scotch, neat.  They found seats facing the lobby so they could watch people arriving and departing.  After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Bond broached the question that had nagged at the back of his mind all evening.

          “So, you’ve known Havel for a dozen years?”

          MacLeod picked up his glass, staring into its depths for a moment, then took a sip.  “I hadn’t counted, actually.”

          “You must have barely been out of knee britches,” Bond observed, but got no response.  “And you know him pretty well?”

          “We spent a number of nights getting drunk and talking about philosophy and literature, if that’s what you want to know.  And we’ve been corresponding for some time.  He likes to practice his English on me, I think.  So few people take the time to sit down and write a long, thoughtful letter anymore.”

          “Quite the Renaissance Man, aren’t you, MacLeod?” Bond said over his glass, studying his companion carefully.  The handsome face was the picture of studied nonchalance.  “It just seems remarkable to me that, at your age, you had time to do all the things you’ve managed to do, learn all those languages, become an expert in so many different skills, travel all over the world, form friendships with such a variety of people.”

          MacLeod finished off his drink and set it down.  “I try to stay busy.”  He signaled the waiter for another round of drinks.  “By the way, Vasili Nazlimov has fulfilled his side of the bargain.  He’s given us enough information to establish that the assassin is a hired hit man, probably working alone.  I would like to get him and his family pulled out of there by the end of the week, given new identities and moved.  I know of a small hotel in a village in Switzerland…”

          “Lady Bulldog doesn’t want to act on that yet,” Bond interrupted.

          “But we have to act now, if we wait too long, especially after stopping Vaclav’s assassin, they will immediately move to tighten security under the assumption there was a leak.  That will only make getting him out safely that much more difficult.”

          “And if we act now, we will show our hand on the source of our knowledge of the assassination attempt,” Bond retorted.  “And let’s face it, in the grand scheme of things, Havel is more important than Nazlimov.”

          “So you’re prepared to sacrifice one to save the other?” MacLeod snapped.  “That’s not acceptable.”

          “It’s not up to you to decide.  The Ministry has ordered us to wait until Havel is back in Prague, and that is what we will do.”  Bond watched as the muscles twitched and clenched under the skin of the Scot’s square jaw, and was relieved when he received no more argument on the topic.

          The day had dawned bright and sunny for a change, and although the wind was crisp, it finally seemed like the cold end-of-winter rains had finally abated.  Tessa stepped out onto the stoop of her apartment building and breathed deeply, pulling in the unique atmosphere that was Paris.  She loved this city.  It wasn’t just the great art and architecture, the history and atmosphere.  It was the play of light and shadow, the sense of purpose and pleasure from the people streaming along the crowded sidewalks, the smell of the river.  The wonderful little sidewalk cafes, each having a unique little tradition of its own on who sat where and when.  No, she would not go back to her parent’s home in the country, retreating to safety like some frightened child.  This was her city and this was where she would stay.  She would find a way.

          With the sun in evidence and the river slightly down, no doubt she would be on her tour barge this afternoon.  She looked forward to it today.  Anything to be outdoors, to avoid the frustration of that damned senior project sculpture that was resisting all efforts at inspiration.  She quickly slipped back up the stairs into the apartment to grab the jacket, shirt and cap she was required to wear as a guide, and stepped out again to join her fellow students at the nearest bistro for morning croissants and some strong coffee.

          Today’s venue for the New Playwright’s Festival featured a small street fair, climaxed by an outdoor performance of several one-act plays.  A tent had been set up along the Champs Elysees, and the venue had attracted the usual plethora of ragtag street performers, including a young man with a Brooklyn accent juggling flaming torches, a man in his sixties, at least, demonstrating how one could use everything from a banana to a shoe as a percussion instrument, unicyclists, mimes – a wonderful, eclectic scene of near complete chaos, and one designed to drive any security-minded individual up the wall.

          Duncan and Bond had desperately tried to talk Vaclav out of attending, but the man would not hear of it.  He was to introduce the plays and was determined to not be held prisoner, especially on this wonderful opportunity to wander free outside his own country.  So, MacLeod had reverted to his scruffy-student guise to blend in with the street crowd, while Bond had ‘dressed-down’ for the occasion in slacks, a knit shirt, topped by an expensive leather jacket.  MacLeod had to smile at the other agent’s attempt to be casual.  The man personified sophisticated elegance and every scrap of clothing he wore reeked of style and money. 

          It wasn’t too surprising, actually.  The type of personality attracted to the dangerous life-on-the-edge existence of a double-0 agent would gravitate towards extremes, wanting to taste the best life had to offer since it could so easily be cut short.  A lot of  Immortals, living with the daily threat of combat and death, never grew out of that phase, and spent their entire lives in pursuit of the ultimate in luxury and the ultimate in thrill-seeking.  But despite his pretensions, Bond seemed to be a highly intelligent man, strong-willed and dedicated to his job.  And perceptive.  Perhaps a little too perceptive.  He clearly had an unhealthy curiosity in MacLeod’s history.

          Especially unhealthy when Duncan was planning to use his own resources to extract Vasili and his family, who were already motoring across the country, false passports secured in a hidden space in the boot of their car.  Once across the Czech border, they were booked on the train to Geneva, where they would transfer once again to a car purchased in the names on their new passports, driving into the foothills of the Alps to a secure spot.  And Vasili would join them no later than the following morning, having called in sick to his Embassy the day before. 

          If all went as planned, by the time Vaclav Havel was safely ensconced back in Prague, Vitali Nazlimov would be tucked away in a private Swiss hotel, owned by a very old friend, with no one the wiser.  Well, that wasn’t precisely true.  Bond and the Ministry would figure out pretty quickly who had orchestrated their disappearance, but by that time there would be little they could do about it.  Except fire him.

          And perhaps it was time for that, anyway.