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"How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Some day they may be scarce."
     -Captain Louis Renault, Casablanca

"Her love was life to me."
    -Charles Boyer, of his recently deceased wife, in his suicide note

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A warning to readers: This story deals bluntly with issues of unplanned pregnancy and abortion. If you are sensitive about these issues, please do not read this story. It also contains considerable (but not graphic) violence and fairly strong language. Although this story could air on prime-time television, it would have parental advisories after every commercial break. It may not be suitable for younger readers.

Historical note: The village of Teotecacinta does exist, and was a Contra stronghold throughout the Contra struggle in Nicaragua. Everything else is fiction.

A ton of thanks to Paige, for proofreading, editing, terrific advice and unflagging support; to Anna and Andrea, who helped make this clean enough to post, and to Adrienne and Barbara, for spirited and helpful philosophical debate.

Feedback Please, to lsoleksa@yahoo.com

Before the war, the village of Teotecacinta had been insignificant, a simple, rural community, home to just over two thousand people, mostly farmers. The only thing at all special about the village was its location Teotecacinte was in northern Nicaragua, a mere four miles from the border with Honduras.

When the Sandinista regime took power, and a Contra army rose against them, the little village suddenly became vitally important. It blossomed into a Contra base, home to native Nicaraguan freedom fighters, their mercenary supporters, and of course their American advisors. Teotecacinte became a cosmopolitan campground.

The Sandinista government reclaimed the village with a massive show of force. The troops were ordered to arrest all the rebels and foreigners, but by the time they arrived, all these undesirables were gone and only the resident farmers remained. The main body of the government forces retreated, leaving the village under martial law in the command of Enrique Santoro and his troops. As soon as his superiors were down the road, Santoro ordered the arrest of everyone who might have collaborated with the Contras. This order, of course, led to the arrest of nearly everyone in the village.

Santoro released the children and the old men and women. They were no use to him, and no threat. Men of military age were interrogated, tortured, then marched to the forest and shot. Women between the ages of fourteen and forty were questioned, sometimes beaten, frequently raped, and ultimately released.

Two dozen women -- those Santoro reported to his superiors were the most dangerous and those who might have further information -- were detained in the basement of the church, which Santoro had taken over as his headquarters.

After seven weeks, the Contras retook the village in a vicious and extraordinarily well-armed firefight.

The mercenaries looked around the village, shook their heads in familiar disbelief, and went to set up their camp again. The Contras looked at their shattered native land, buried the dead, and vowed revenge. The advisors moved into the church headquarters.

The women in the basement were, in some ways, more horrible than the rotting corpses in the forest. Their bodies spoke of the torture they had endured, but the women were as silent as the dead. They shuffled out of the basement, squinting in the sunlight, and wandered slowly back to their homes. They barred their doors and closed their curtains and in silence gave themselves into the care of their old parents and their young children.

All save one.

She shuffled, too, body bowed, wounds oozing, but she limped only across the street from the church. Then she hunkered against a garden wall, watching. Watching the Contras come and go, watching the mercenaries, watching the advisors. She seemed to be waiting for something, but no one cared to guess what it might be. Mad, they decided, and shook their heads. Damn shame. Happens, in places like this, in wars like this.

At the end of the day, the lead advisor came out of the church and walked to his waiting jeep. He planned to head back to Honduras, where he had a reasonably safe hotel with hot running water. He could always come back and run this war in the morning.

The woman lurched toward him, crawled into the passenger seat.

"Hey," he said, alarmed, disgusted, appalled, "get out. You can't be in here."

"Shut up and drive, Warnick."

There was not a trace of an Hispanic accent to her words. Warnick looked at her more closely. Her face had been beaten to a pulp. She wore rags, might have been a dress once, brown. Her feet were bare, her arms and legs covered with bruises and burns, cuts and old blood. Her hair was dark brown, long, matted with crud. She smelled horrible.

She could only open one eye; the other was swollen shut and crusted with yellow puss. But that one eye was not the eye of a madwoman. That eye was somehow familiar.

"Drive, Warnick," she said again.

He felt his mouth drop open. "Romanov?"

*****

At two a.m., Robert McCall was sleeping soundly. Yet he woke instantly at the light, insistent knock on his door. Grabbing his dressing gown and his gun, he hurried down the hall. It was McCall's experience that only bad news arrived at this godforsaken hour; good news could usually wait until morning. He checked through the spyhole, then dropped the gun into his pocket as he opened the door. "Control?"

"She's alive, Robert."

McCall decided he would have to reconsider his bad news theory. "Lily?"

"Yes." Control was smiling broadly, an almost unfamiliar expression on his normally stern face. "Yes, Lily."

"Come in," Robert said. "Come in, we'll have a drink."

Control entered the apartment, but stayed at the door. "I can't stay. I'm on my way to the airport. Tillman's got her in Miami. I'm headed there now."

"And what," McCall asked carefully, "does Tillman say?"

"That he's seen worse," Control answered solemnly. They both knew what that might mean. Dr. Douglas Tillman was the Company's leading trauma specialist; he'd taken the Soviet bullet out of Robert's chest, put Kostmayer back together after the KGB tried to brainwash him. Tillman was absolutely the best, and he'd seen everything. Control shrugged it off. "He says she's not in any danger." The grin returned. "She's alive, Robert."

Robert chuckled. "So you've said."

His friend turned as if to go, then turned back. "Robert," he said sincerely, "you've been . . . a true friend, through all of this. I want you to know . . . I want to say thank you."

McCall nodded, a little embarrassed. "Give her my best."

"I will. I will." Still grinning, Control went back into the night.

*****

Robert thought about going back to bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep. Instead, he went to the kitchen and put the tea kettle on to boil. So the girl was alive. After all this time. He shook his head in amazement.

She'd been missing since Labor Day. He remembered the date because he'd spent the day with Scott and Becky, teaching his son's latest girlfriend how to sail. Becky had a lingering fear of water -- she had drowned as a child -- and started the day huddled in the cockpit with her life preserver knotted around her neck. By day's end, she was scampering around the deck on her sure, bare feet, the life jacket forgotten in a corner, sunburned and laughing from sheer joy. It had been a very good day, the best that Robert could remember for some time. Spending time with his son had become so much easier of late. As if they had turned some unseen corner in their relationship, they could talk without boring each other, could disagree without arguing. He had always loved the boy; suddenly he was beginning to like him, as well.

He'd come back to his apartment late, tired, salty, and found Control sitting on his couch, smoking an evil cigar in the dark.

A Contra base in Nicaragua, Control reported, had been overrun. The American advisors -- most of them State Department, DoD, not regular Company men -- had been warned and had evacuated cleanly. But the person who had gone to warn them was missing.

"Missing," Control had spat. "She's missing, Robert."

Control had almost nothing to do with the Contra war. That was being handled over his head, in Washington, at the highest levels of the government, and he was glad of it. It was illegal top to bottom, against the explicit expressed wishes of Congress, and it had become so top-heavy that Control was sure it would soon fall apart. He had done what he could to keep his top agents out of it, to keep his office as clean as he could. But they had needed a courier, a good one, and fast, and one of the bigwigs in DC had snagged Lily Romanov out of her apartment in Langley and sent her.

And she was missing.

There were, of course, no plans for a rescue attempt. They weren't even sure she was alive; fighting had been especially intense in the area where she was last seen. Besides, and more importantly, there was no official American involvement in the region. They could not launch a rescue into Sandinista territory without admitting that she was there in the first place. The higher-ups in DC were not going to risk exposure and embarrassment to save the life of one woman, a simple courier at that, who was in any case probably already dead . . .

Robert had rarely seen Control as furious as he was that night.

He had listened to his friend rant for over an hour, denouncing everything and everyone from the White House on down. That they would put one of their people in harm's way, then abandon her out of political convenience, was simply incomprehensible to him . . .

McCall had elected not to point out that Control himself had done similar things. He just listened and nodded and filled the glass as needed and waited. In time, the tirade ran out of steam. Then he'd ventured, "When do we leave?"

Control had shaken his head. "We don't."

"If they won't go get her . . . "

"No. They're probably right, she's probably dead." Control had closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out that awful realization, though his training and experience told him it was almost certainly true. "And if she's not," he'd continued, "then she's gone to ground."

"Perhaps."

"If the Sandinistas knew they had an American agent in custody, it would be all over the news by now. They haven't said anything, so either they don't have her or they don't know they have her. If we go poking around down there and she *is* still alive . . . "

Robert had nodded, understanding the logic, agreeing with it -- and understanding, too, what it cost Control to do nothing.

Weeks later, he'd had to explain it to Mickey Kostmayer, who was devising a rescue plan of his own. He hadn't succeeded in convincing him, but Control had, not by reason or logic but by sending his teammates to Hungary. Kostmayer was furious, hurling any number of accusations at Control, there in Robert's living room -- but the reasons stayed the same. Either she was dead, or she was alive by her own wit, and in any case they could not help her until the situation changed.

Control and Robert had both known, from the start, that she was very likely dead.

But now -- Robert glanced at the calendar that hung on the wall over the telephone. Seven weeks, a little more. Seven weeks, and she was alive and she was safe in Tillman's care in Miami.

Robert shook his head. It was not the first time he'd been amazed by the world in general, and by Control's unfailing luck in specific.

The kettle whistled, and Robert made his tea. He carried it into the dark living room, to the window, and looked out at the silent street below. Wondering, now, what the future held for his friend and Lily Romanov.

They had been lovers, Control and Lily, in a brilliantly quiet affair that had lasted more than a year. But inevitably one of Control's enemies learned their secret, and shot Lily in an attempt to get back at Control. She'd survived, but Control had ended the relationship. He didn't want to risk any more harm to her. He wanted to protect her. He wanted her to be safe.

Robert shook his head. He had said then, and had continued to say, that Control was a fool. It was clear to him that his friend still loved the woman, and would until he died, and what was more, that he loved her in that unique way that Robert had loved Manon Brevard, entirely without reservation, without the need for secrets between them. He knew what it had cost him to lose Manon, and to learn only years later what he had missed, the life that might have been. He had tried to convince Control not to make the same mistake. Lily was half his age, but she was by no means a child. She understood perfectly the risks of the relationship, and she was willing to take them. If Control was to have any true happiness in his life, Robert had argued, then he would find it in the arms of that woman and no one else.

Control, of course, heeded none of this. He had sent her away for her own good, he insisted stubbornly, and he was standing by his decision.

McCall had never learned what Lily thought of that decision. He'd seen her a number of times, first at Pete's with Mickey, later on her own. They spoke cordially, like friends, which they quickly became -- but they never spoke of the affair. When Lily spoke of Control, it was as her boss. Not a single word from her, not the slightest intimation, the vaguest hint about her feelings, about the love that Robert had been sure she felt. It was as if the affair had never happened. As if it had vanished from her memory.

Which was, Robert realized, an act of love in and of itself. Because Lily Romanov might have raised a sea of trouble for Control, if she'd been so inclined. That she did not, Control maintained, was a testament to his ability to judge character. In Robert's opinion, it was another testament to Control's extraordinary luck.

And so things had continued for a year and a half, until her disappearance. And so things might have continued forever.

But her disappearance had brought a change in Control. From the moment the report came in, Control began to obsess about her, to reexamine his choice. From the day he knew she was gone, Control had decided to get her back.

It was not, in McCall's opinion, going to be as easy as Control seemed to think it would be. Lily Romanov could be stubborn in her own right, and fiercely independent. She might, he conceded, just run back to Control's arms at the first invitation. Or she might laugh in his face. Robert was not willing to bet money in either direction. He didn't know Lily well enough to make an educated guess -- and he doubted that Control, who had been her lover for a year, knew her that well, either.

All had been mere speculation while they silently assumed that she was dead. Only once, late after dinner and deep into brandy, had Control given any indication that he was unsure. "Do you think she'll forgive me, Robert?" he asked quietly.

"For not going to get her?"

"For all of it."

Robert had nodded. "She would forgive you anything," he assured his friend. He did not add, if she's alive, but they both heard it.

But she was alive -- badly injured, evidently, but alive -- and Robert was not at all sure that she would forgive.

He finished his tea with a sigh. Did it matter? Oh, in the long run, for Control's happiness, for Robert's peace of mind, but tonight? Did it matter tonight? Or was it enough that she lived? Against all ridiculous odds, against all of Robert's experience in such matters, she was alive. For tonight, that was enough.

He put his cup in the kitchen sink and went to back to bed, wishing them both Godspeed.

*****

"You can't see her."

"What?" Control asked with barely contained anger.

"You can't see her," Tillman repeated placidly. He was nearly eighty years old, a foot shorter than Control, and completely unimpressed by the display of temper. "She doesn't want to see anyone."

"She'll see me," Control said with assurance.

"She especially asked not to see you."

"What?"

Tillman patted the younger man's arm paternally. "She's hurt, she's ugly, and she knows it. Give a girl a little room for vanity."

"Vanity?" Control practically screeched. "She hasn't got a vain bone in her body. What is it? Does she blame me for this?"

"No."

"Then why won't she see me?"

The doctor poured him a nice cup of herbal tea, knowing full well he wouldn't drink it. "Control, I'm not a psychiatrist. I couldn't begin to tell you all of what's going on with her. But I tell you this she's badly hurt, she's very fragile, and she needs to be left alone."

Control took a long, slow breath. He had come in with such expectations, with his opening lines all rehearsed. Idiot. Why did this woman always make him behave like such an idiot? Why could he never think clearly where Lily Romanov was concerned?

Tillman was watching him. He sipped the tea and made a face. "New poison?"

"Good for the digestion."

"I want to see her medical file."

"No."

Control glowered at him. "No? Last time I checked, you were still on my payroll."

"Last time I checked, I was still a doctor and my patients were entitled to a certain level of confidentiality."

"She was injured in the line of duty . . . "

"I've made you a summary." Tillman took a single sheet of paper off his desk and offered it. "Take it or leave it."

"I want the whole file," Control snapped. He took the sheet and sat down, absently sipping the tea, making the same face, sipping it again. Reading the cold, hard words that should never have had anything to do with Lily.

The summary started at the head. Multiple abrasions and contusions to the face. Heavy blunt force trauma to the left occipital area, but no fractures. Dislocation of the jaw, self-corrected in the field. One tooth chipped, six loosened. Neck muscle strains consistent with mild whiplash.

She'd been beaten about the head. No surprise there. Unpleasant, but bearable.

It got worse.

Torso and limbs. More lacerations and contusions. Four cracked ribs, two on each side. Strap line bruises consistent with beating with a belt, probably leather; bite wounds of various sizes, primarily focused on her breasts; burns in puddle shapes that suggested melted wax; round char burns the size of cigarettes, bigger ones that indicated cigars. More burns and bruises on her arms and legs. Ligament damage to her left knee. Hyperextension breaks of both pinky fingers. More burns and strap marks on the soles of her feet. Malnutrition, dehydration, dysentery, strong evidence of food poisoning. Flea bites.

Evidence of sexual trauma consistent with rape and sodomy.

Control closed his eyes, trying to unread, trying not to know what he had known all along. Bad enough that anyone should have had his Lily at all. To have her this way, by force, to use sex as torture . . . against his Lily . . .

The rage rose like bile in him. They would die, every last one of them, they would die for this affront to his lady . . .

He threw the paper down and stood up. "I want to see her. Now."

Tillman shook his head. "No."

"Tillman . . . "

"Control. Think. Think about *her*, think about the woman. Can you do that? Can you just this once consider her as a person and not just as an asset in the field? Can you think about what she's been through?"

Control could think of nothing else. "I want to see her!"

"She needs to have control of her life right now," Tillman said flatly. "She needs to be able to say who she will see and when. I will not let you take that away from her."

Control sat back down. "She blames me."

"No."

"She must . . . "

"She thinks she failed you."

Control blinked. "What?"

"A good agent doesn't get caught," Tillman explained. "She is such a good soldier, she thinks she failed you."

"All the more reason . . . "

"No. When she's ready, she'll come to you. You're not talking to her."

Control sipped his tea, trying not to heave it back up. His Lily, his Lily . . . but God, she wasn't his anymore, was she? Because he'd sent her away. Because he hadn't known. He buried his head in his hands. "I have to see her," he whispered. "I have to know, Tillman . . . I have to at least know that she's really alive."

Tillman sighed, glanced at his watch. "Wait here."

*****

"If you wake her," Tillman warned sternly, "I will kill you." Nothing about his tone suggested that this was hyperbole.

Nodding his understanding, Control stepped into the room.

A basic hospital room, white, clean. No equipment in evidence, just the bed, a chair, a dressing table, but plainly a hospital room. He stepped closer to the bed, aware of the silent rustle of his leather shoes on the linoleum. Trying to keep his breath steady and quiet.

She slept on her left side, curled into a tight fetal ball. She had the blanket tucked up to her chin, her right arm on top, two burns visible on that arm, bruises or shadows everywhere.

Her face was still mostly purple, one eye so swollen that it couldn't possibly open, her jaw smooth over swelling. Her hair was darker than it had been the last time he'd seen her. But the woman in the bed was undeniably Lily Romanov.

Control almost wished it wasn't. Wished that he could still believe that she was somewhere in Nicaragua, safely hiding with some farm family, untouched. But she was here. She was safe. She was alive. Control let out a slow, deep breath. She was alive. While she lived, she would heal. And if she didn't want to see him -- if she didn't want him to see her like this -- so be it. Tillman was right. He could afford to let her have that, now that he knew. Now that he had seen her again, breathed the same air, felt her very presence around him. Now that he was sure.

And when she was better, when the bruises had faded and she had come to terms with some of what had happened to her, then she would come to him, then they would hash all this out. Then, then they would find a way to put back together what they had had. They would rekindle their love affair, and this time Control would be more careful and more caring, less callous, less neglectful. This time she would know what she meant to him. This time it would be different.

He ached to touch her, just to stroke her hair, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips, but he kept his hands locked behind him. Not because of Tillman, but because he knew the instant he made contact, she would wake, in the grips of that horrible full-adrenalin alertness that agents developed in their first year, if they were going to survive to the second. And she would know that he'd seen her, like this, when she hadn't wanted him to. No. He would not wake her, he would not hurt her this way.

This time, he vowed, this time he would be more careful. And this time he would not throw her away.

He stood and looked at her until Tillman came and took him away.

*****

McCall read the summary slowly, frowning. "Well," he finally said, putting the sheet down, "they weren't very creative, were they?"

Control scowled. "We've seen worse." He took a long slow drink of brandy.

Robert drank as well. There was nothing in the summary that he hadn't expected -- and Control must have expected, too -- but it was hard to be right. "How is she? Really?"

"She wouldn't see me," Control answered stonily.

"She what?"

"She wouldn't see me," his friend repeated. "Tillman says she doesn't want to see anybody -- but especially not me." He stared moodily at the liqueur in his glass, swirled it absently.

"She's been through a lot," Robert offered.

"Yes, she has."

"Perhaps, in a few days . . . "

"Perhaps," Control answered grimly. And perhaps she will always hate me."

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you."

"I should have gone after her."

"Control . . . "

"I should have gone after her, Robert. I should have gone that first night, and I should have gone when Kostmayer wanted to. I should have got her out of there. She was counting on me."

"She was counting on you to keep her alive," Robert argued. "And you did that, by maintaining your distance, by not giving away her identity."

Control just shook his head.

"Control, think. Nothing has changed. You did what you had to do. Lily's a professional. She will understand that. She probably does already."

"She wouldn't even see me, Robert!"

They sat in silence. The fire beside their table crackled warmly; a few of the last patrons in the restaurant wandered out. Pete came and refilled their glasses without a word.

When she was out of earshot, Control sighed. "I watched her sleep for a while."

"How did she look?"

"Terrible."

Robert snorted. "Don't you think that might be behind her refusal to see you?"

"She's not vain, Robert."

"She's careful of you. She must have known how seeing her that way would hurt you."

Control eyed him caustically. "You're saying she wouldn't see me because she's trying to protect me?"

McCall shrugged. "She knew it wouldn't be easy for you. She always makes things easy for you."

"That's not what this is."

"We don't know what this is, Control." Robert took another drink. "If there is anything I do know, it's that you and I will never understand what goes on in the mind of any woman. Especially this woman."

"That's very helpful, Robert. Let me make a note of that."

"Oh, come now," Robert demanded, irritated. "Did you really think you were just going to fly down there and sweep her off her feet? That you could say, sorry, I've made a mistake, and she'd come running back to you?"

"Of course not . . . "

"Yes, you did. You did, Control. You thought you only had to crook your finger and she'd land in your lap. Didn't you?"

"Damn it, Robert, you were the one who said she'd forgive me!"

"Yes, but when I said that I assumed she was dead. How was I to know she'd come back and prove me wrong?"

Silence returned.

Finally, Robert added, "I don't know that she won't forgive you, Control. I have no idea why she ever loved you in the first place, so I have no idea if she loves you still. You will have to ask her that, when you see her."

"If I see her."

"If nothing else," McCall answered, "she's still your employee, isn't she? Sooner or later you will see her."

Control sighed. "There is that."

"Don't give up on her now, Control. She was lost for seven weeks and you didn't give up on her, don't give up on her now. Give her time, let her find her feet again. You have time now, Control. You can wait."

"I don't want to wait," Control answered. But he nodded. "I know you're right, Robert, I just . . . when I saw her, she was so . . . broken, and I . . . "

"Wanted to comfort her," Robert supplied gently. "Wanted to hold her."

"Yes. God, yes." Control drank, bitterly. "But I couldn't, because we're not together. She has to get through this alone, at least she thinks she does, because I sent her away. Because she thinks . . . "

"She must know you still love her."

"I told her I didn't."

Robert chuckled. "And we both know she knows you're a liar."

Control sighed. "I just want her to be well."

"She will be, my friend. She will be."

*****

Two weeks passed, without another word about the woman. Control seemed to be avoiding Robert, but perhaps that was coincidental; he frequently went for longer periods without so much as a phone call, and McCall was usually just as glad. This time, of course, he wished Control *would* call. But he assumed, correctly, that no news was no news.

He sat in Pete's restaurant -- she insisted that it was his, as he was a major investor, but Robert gave that no credence Pete was the one who did all the work -- at a table near the front, waiting to meet a potential client. Pete brought her over and introduced her. "Robert, this is my friend, Angela Shirry. Angela, Robert McCall." She brought them both more coffee, and left them alone.

Robert studied the woman casually. She was at least his age, perhaps older, but a foot shorter and fifty pounds heavier, a kindly-looking little dumpling of a woman. In her softly wrinkled face, her eyes sparked with deep intelligence and concern.

What was more, she was studying him at the same time. Evidently she found him acceptable. But she didn't seem to know how to begin. "Pete says," Robert helped her along, "that you're concerned about a young patient of yours. Are you a doctor?"

"No. I'm the executive director of a clinic, Family Place."

Robert felt his back stiffen. He'd heard about Family Place; they'd been quite prominent in the news, a week or so back, something about protestors. "Go on," he said stiffly.

"The clinic provides family health services, and family planning. We've just moved our offices to . . . "

"I've heard," Robert answered shortly. He heard the chill in his own voice, and adjusted it. Whatever his feelings about this woman, and her profession, she was a friend of Pete's and he had said that he would help her. "There were some protests, I believe."

"A lot of protests," the woman answered. "We only moved ten blocks, but the neighborhood is a good deal more upscale . . . "

"Yes, and they did not want an abortion clinic just around the corner from a Catholic girls' school."

He had snapped at her, and should apologize, and knew it. But before he could speak, she had replied, not angrily. "We don't do abortions at the clinic. We do refer some of our patients to abortion providers, but we don't perform them at the clinic."

"You do provide contraceptives to school girls, though."

"Yes." Her answer was unequivocal, and unembarrassed. She had had this argument before, hundred of times, and she was more than willing to have it once more. "Because schoolgirls are having sex."

"Perhaps they wouldn't be if birth control were not so readily available."

Angela gazed at him steadily. "Have you talked to any schoolgirls lately?"

Robert made himself pause. He had not set out to have a philosophical discussion with this woman, and he was in no mood to defend his beliefs to her. "You said you were worried about a patient."

Graciously, she let him change the subject. "During the protests, there was a man who actually broke into the clinic. His name was John Laskey. He was very upset, and he made a lot of threats. Most of them were just standard rhetoric, but one in particular . . . he said that if he ever caught his daughter coming to the clinic, he'd kill her."

"And this daughter is a patient of the clinic."

Angela nodded solemnly.

"You need to call the police."

"I would if I could. But you have to understand our position. Our client's identities are kept strictly confidential. Especially our underage clients. We cannot reveal them to the police. I would not be telling you this, but Pete said that I could rely on your discretion."

McCall stared for a moment at nothing, over the woman's right shoulder. Frowning. Damn Pete, for telling her he was so reliable. He wanted to be unreliable. He wanted to back out of this problem. "Besides the father's threats," he finally said, "is there any indication that this young lady is in danger?"

"She had an appointment yesterday at the clinic. She didn't show up. This morning I called the school and they said that she'd been out all week."

"The school told you that?" Robert asked in surprise.

"I -- told them I was her mother."

"Ah."

"I don't know that anything's happened to her. She may just have the flu or something. But her father knows me, he'd recognize me if I went to check on her . . . "

McCall sighed. "What else?"

"What else what?"

"People have a way," Robert said, "of asking for my help, and then not telling me everything that I need to know in order to provide that help. There is obviously more to this situation, or you would have sent someone else from the clinic to drop by her house. You expect there to be trouble, well beyond the rambling threats of an angry father. Please, tell me the rest."

The woman considered for a long moment. "Patient information has to be kept confidential."

"Then I cannot help you." He moved to stand.

"Please . . . " Angela sighed. "Michelle -- that's the daughter's name, Michelle -- first came to the clinic two weeks ago. She wanted to have a pregnancy test."

McCall grimaced. "Is she pregnant?"

"No. Surprisingly, no. She said that she'd been having unprotected sex for some months. We advised her to obtain some kind of reliable birth control, and tried to explain to her about sexually transmitted diseases . . . "

"How old is she?"

"Fifteen."

"And you're giving her all this information without her parents' knowledge or permission?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

Robert frowned deeply. "Go on."

"She asked for birth control pills. We told her that she had to have a physical examination before they would be prescribed for her, and set up an appointment for yesterday."

"But she broke the appointment."

"Yes."

"Surely that's not entirely unheard of in these sorts of cases."

"No, of course not," Angela answered. She was beginning to be annoyed. "It happens all the time. But this young lady, in her initial visit, said some things that suggested . . . that suggested that she was being abused in her home."

"Sexually abused?"

"Yes."

Robert kept his face carefully neutral. "And the physical exam would have confirmed this?"

"Maybe. We also ask that our patients meet with a counselor. Michelle seemed as if she wanted to talk with someone. If she had kept the appointment -- she might have revealed a great deal more about her home situation." The woman shifted in her chair; the arms were just a little too close together for her ample figure. "Her father was so vehement at the protest. I didn't think about it at the time, but after I'd met the girl . . . "

"You think he has something to hide."

"I think that someone needs to go see if he does. If the girl's alive and well, fine. She'll come to the clinic or she won't. But if she's not . . . "

"Yes," Robert answered slowly. He was already mulling over possible approaches. Somehow banging down the door and asking if the girl were being molested didn't seem like the best choice.

"Will you help me?"

McCall thought about it for a long moment, twisting his ring quite unconsciously. "I will help you, yes. At least this far, I will go and look in on the young lady." He pondered further. "I must say, though, that I do not entirely approve of your organization."

Angela laughed. "Really? I never would have known." She looked him up and down. "Let me ask you something, Mr. McCall. Have you ever been a party to an unintended pregnancy?"

"No," Robert answered at once.

"You have children?"

"A son and a daughter." And just as quickly as he had answered, he realized that he'd lied. For what was Yvette, if not the consequence of an unintended pregnancy? He did not bother to correct himself aloud.

"They're out of their teens?"

"Yes."

"And they're sexually responsible?"

"I . . . of course they are." Were they? Scott was, or else he was damn lucky; for all the wild oats Robert was aware of him sowing, none had germinated. Yvette? He hadn't a clue in the world. "This is not a discussion about me and my family."

"But it is," Angela insisted. "It's all about you and your family, and me and my family, and . . . " she pointed to the next table, "her and her family. It's all about people and their families. You've been lucky, and you know it, you and your children. But not all families are lucky. Every schoolgirl that comes to our clinic is having sex with someone's son, if not yours then mine or hers or his. And they're not going to stop, no matter how much we lecture and disapprove. Now we can either protect them as best we can, with the right equipment and the right information, or we can look the other way and pretend it isn't happening -- as long as we're lucky. But those are the only choices."

Robert's eyes narrowed. Because everything she was saying was true -- and he didn't like it.

"I'm guessing, " she continued, "that you don't approve of abortion."

"In certain cases," Robert conceded, "but certainly not as a form of birth control."

"And yet you don't approve of my providing alternative birth control, either."

"I approve of abstinence."

"And do you abstain?"

McCall bristled. "I'm not a schoolgirl."

She nodded slowly. Then she dug in her purse and brought out a piece of paper. "This is the address we have for the Laskey family. And my telephone number."

Robert took them, glad to have this discussion at an end. "I'll speak to you after we've been there."

She stood up. "Thank you for your help, Mr. McCall."

He nodded graciously. He hadn't the first idea what to say.

*****

"Hey, McCall," Kostmayer said as he climbed into the Jaguar. "Guess who's back in town."

"Lily Romanov," Robert promptly guessed.

Mickey made a face. "You're no fun."

"How does she look?" Robert eased the car away from the curb.

"Not good. 'Course, it's hard to tell from a hundred yards away."

"So you didn't talk."

"Yeah, McCall, we yelled sweet nothings across the parking lot."

Robert frowned at him. "Why didn't you get closer?"

"Ah, these bastards from Washington have her. They brought her up from Miami this morning, marched her in the back door for interrogation -- sorry, for debriefing -- marched her right back out when they were done. They put out this memo, they don't want anyone from the office talking to her." The expression on his face made his feelings about the out-of-town agents abundantly clear.

"Why didn't they take her to Washington, then?"

Mickey shook his head. "They don't want her anywhere near anybody that looks like a Congressman."

"Why?"

"McCall, aren't you paying attention? They're running an illegal war in Nicaragua."

Robert shrugged. "They've done that before."

"Yeah, but usually the White House isn't directly involved. Their fat's in the fire on this one, big time."

"Surely they don't think Lily Romanov can pull it out for them."

"I don't know what the hell they think. I just know they're paranoid creeps and I don't like them."

"I might have gathered you didn't like them, Mickey." He drove for a bit in silence. "She spoke to Control, at least."

"Not that I know of. I get the feeling she doesn't have much to say to him."

McCall frowned. "Well," he mused aloud, "maybe when the interrogation is over."

"Debriefing," Mickey corrected sarcastically.

"Yes. Quite."

"Quite." Kostmayer snorted. "I just wanted to talk to her, McCall. I don't care about this Contra crap, I just wanted to see how she was, you know?"

"I know, Mickey," Robert answered gently. "You'll get your chance. They can't keep her secluded forever."

"They can't?"

"No, they can't. Not that one."

"I guess." Mickey rapped his knuckles absently against the side window. "I should have gone to get her."

"Oh, for God's sake, Kostmayer, let it go!" Robert exploded. "We have been over this a hundred times. Even if you could have found her, you couldn't have gotten her out safely. "

Mickey sighed. "Maybe."

Robert drove in silence for a time. He wasn't really angry with Kostmayer; on the contrary, he was highly sympathetic. The agent had come up with a clean and simple plan for the rescue of Lily Romanov, thirty days after her disappearance. It had lacked only precise intelligence on her whereabouts and her situation. Mickey had intended to lead a five-man team over the Honduran border west of the village, stick to the forests, locate the girl, get her out by going east back to Honduras. He'd had transportation lined up at each end, the team picked, the weapons they'd need, the supplies. It might have worked. They might have found her, they might have spared her at least some of the time in captivity, at least some of the torture . . .

"No," he said aloud.

Mickey glanced over at him. "No what?"

"It wouldn't have worked. Your plan. It relied on her being held somewhere separate, not with a group. There were twenty-three other women being held with her. You couldn't have rescued them quietly. You would have had to take on the entire Sandinista force. You would all have been killed."

Kostmayer glared. "I could have got just her."

"Do you think she would have left the others?"

"Maybe." Mickey stared out the window, sullen. It didn't help his mood any that McCall was right -- and that Control had been right, weeks ago, when he canceled the rescue. "We should have done something."

"We did something," McCall reminded him. "We kept our silence, and we let her keep hers."

"And look what it cost her."

"Look what it didn't cost her, Mickey. She's alive, isn't she?"

"We should have done something," Kostmayer repeated stubbornly. Then he lapsed into brooding silence.

When he finally spoke again, it was to change the subject. "Where we going, McCall?"

Robert smiled sardonically. "To talk to a man who's probably molesting his daughter."

"At least I'm in the mood."

*****

Kostmayer leaned against car, his arms folded. McCall stood beside him in the same posture. "Okay," Mickey finally said, "what are we waiting for?"

"Pizza."

"Pizza?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

They waited. In five minutes, a battered old Mustang pulled into the parking space behind them. The driver was covered with acne, skinny and lanky, wearing a Domino's shirt and hat, and carrying a pizza expertly on one hand. He came over to them, grinning broadly. "Hey, Mr. McCall."

"Hello, Donny. Thank you for coming."

Kostmayer reached for the pizza. "Thanks for lunch."

"Oh, it's not for you, Kostmayer," McCall said. "It's for Michelle."

"Who's Michelle?"

"You'll see, I hope. All right, Donny, on your way."

They waited together while the young man crossed the street to a tiny little house and rang the doorbell.

A teenage girl answered the door. McCall breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's Michelle," Mickey guessed.

"Yes. Good."

"So . . . exactly what am I doing here?"

McCall glanced over at him. "I miss your company, Mickey."

Kostmayer smirked. "Can we go home now?"

"Yes, I think we can."

"Hey!" a male voice bellowed from across the street. "You get away from her!"

Donny the pizza boy took a big step back and fell off the porch. He landed on his butt on the lawn, scrambling backward on his hands and feet like frightened crab.

The man -- blocky, short -- burst out of the house, sailed off the porch, and grabbed the boy by the collar.

"Oh, that's why I'm here," Mickey observed. He sprinted across the street and spun the man away.

McCall followed. He lifted Donny by the shoulders and steadied him on his feet. A glance told him that Kostmayer had the father well in hand, with his arm wedged firmly between his shoulder blades. But arm twisting didn't stop the man's mouth.

"You're the one, aren't you?" the man yelled. "You're the one who's been sleeping with my daughter!"

"I never even met her!" Donny spluttered.

"It's all right," Robert told him. "It's all right, Donny. It's just a . . . a misunderstanding. It's all right. Go on now." He slipped the boy a twenty-dollar bill. "It's all right. I appreciate your help, Donny. Now go on."

"No! Let me go! He's the one! He's the one!"

The girl, helpfully, screamed from the porch, "Daddy, shut up! Just shut up!"

"You shut up, you whore! That was him, wasn't it! That was your boyfriend! Traipsing up to the door in broad daylight like that! What the hell does he think we're running, a whorehouse? Just stop on by any time he wants to?"

Kostmayer pushed the arm a little higher. "Shut up."

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded, turning his anger on Mickey. "Let me go, you son of a bitch! Who are you?"

McCall waited until Donny's little Mustang had roared out of sight. Then he gestured to Mickey. "Let him go."

"Yeah, let me go!"

Grudgingly, Kostmayer released him. The man turned, his arm cocked back. "Oh, please do," Mickey said dryly.

The man reconsidered. He spun on McCall. "Just who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my yard?"

"Well, it appears that I'm preventing an assault," Robert answered calmly. "My name is Robert McCall. I have been sent here by a friend to check on the welfare of your daughter."

"My daughter?" the man spluttered. "You're checking up on my daughter? On my family? How dare you! How dare you!"

"She has been out of school all week, has she not?"

"She was at her aunt's house. And it's none of your business! You get out of my yard. Get off my property. Right damn now!" He stood practically on McCall's toes, his chest puffed out, like a rooster standing down a challenge.

McCall was utterly unimpressed. "When I know that your daughter is safe, I will go."

"You'll go now!" the man shrieked.

A small, dark woman pushed passed the girl and came down to the men. "John, what's going on?" she asked quietly.

"This guy, this guy here, he thinks he can check up on Michelle. He thinks he can just stick his big nose into our family, into our business. Go call the cops, Dora."

The woman looked between them, confused and clearly frightened. "But John . . . "

"Go call the cops!" he shouted.

"Dora," Robert said smoothly, "is your daughter safe here? Are you safe here? Or do you need help? Because if you need help, I am here to provide it."

"I said get out!"

"Dora, you can tell me. If you need help, I will help you."

"You bastard! You lousy bastard! Get off my property!"

"Daddy, shut up!" Michelle shrieked.

But Dora looked squarely at Robert, and she thought about it. "We're all right," she finally said.

"Damn straight we're all right! We're just fine, we don't need anybody poking around . . . "

"Robert McCall," Robert repeated firmly. "You will remember that name, won't you? In case things change?"

"We're fine," she repeated.

Robert turned and strode off the lawn.

"You, too, you bastard," the man shrieked at Mickey. "Almost broke my arm, you son of a bitch! I ought to call the cops."

"One more word," Mickey answered, "and you're gonna need to call the coroner."

The square man glared at him, thought about it, then turned and stormed into his house.

McCall reached the car and turned. "Coming, Mickey?"

The younger man was still staring at the house, watching while the daughter and the mother went back inside. He walked slowly across the street. "He needs his ass kicked, McCall."

Robert nodded. "I would guess, Mickey, that Mr. Laskey has already has his ass kicked, any number of times."

"Then once more wouldn't hurt."

"Get in the car, Mickey. You may yet get your chance."

*****

Control snagged the phone on the first ring. "Control."

"It's Robert."

"Damn." He sagged back into his desk chair.

"Nice to hear from you, too," McCall answered dryly. "I hear our young lady's back in town."

"Yeah," Control answered bitterly, "I hear that, too."

"You haven't talked to her?"

"The boys from DC don't want her visiting with the common folk." A pause. "I left a message at her hotel, but she hasn't returned my call."

"Call her again," Robert advised.

"I did," Control admitted. "Several times."

"Perhaps she's gone out to dinner."

"Right."

"Time, Control," Robert reminded him. "You have time. Wait."

"Easy for you to say," Control answered, and hung up on him.

*****

All the gin joints, Robert thought, in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

Lily Romanov stood just inside the doorway of Pete's, scanning the room. Looking for him, Robert knew at once. Their eyes met; she saw that he wasn't alone, and if he had not signaled, she would have slipped back out just as quietly. Into the night and gone, no fuss, no interruption.

But McCall wanted very much to speak with her. And Lily Romanov, who would not speak to Control or to Kostmayer, wanted to speak to him.

"Scott," he began, taking his napkin out of his lap, folding it neatly, "Scott, I'm very sorry . . . "

But he couldn't take his eyes off the woman. The way she moved, crossing the restaurant, made his heart ache. She limped a little, but it wasn't bone or muscle injury that Robert saw. She moved as if she were suddenly old. As if she carried the world on her shoulders.

As if something inside her was irreparably broken.

The last time he'd seen her, she had been a little spitfire, all nerve and defiance, confidence and youth. Now she just looked tired.

Scott twisted around to see what his father was staring at. "Who is that?" he demanded.

"A . . . a friend," Robert answered.

The boy twisted back. "A girlfriend or a Company friend?"

McCall scowled. "Neither. But a friend I need to speak with. Privately."

"Now?" Scott protested. "I'm right in the middle of dinner."

Lily had reached the three steps, and Robert rose, preparing to put his napkin down. "Scott, please . . . " The napkin swerved, of its own accord, to wipe a smear of sauce off the boy's cheek.

Scott reared back. "Come on, Dad, I can do that."

And then she was there. "Hello, Robert," she said simply.

"Hello, Lily," he breathed. She offered her hand and he took it, not with a shake but with a warm squeeze. He was shocked by how thin it was. She wore a light trench coat that covered most of her body, hid the worst, but the hands gave her away. He could trace every individual bone all the way back to her wrist.

But her eyes met his, and they were clear and calm. A good sign, Robert thought. A very good sign.

Scott was scrambling to his feet behind her, nearly upsetting his chair in the process. "Hi," he blurted, shoving his hand toward her. "I'm, uh, I'm Scott."

Lily released Robert's hand and took his son's. Don't squeeze, Robert urged mentally, don't hurt her. To his relief, the boy shook it very gently and let it go.

"Lily Romanov, my son Scott. Scott, Miss Romanov."

"Lily," she corrected gently. "It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry to interrupt."

"No, no," McCall assured her. "Scott was just leaving."

"He hasn't eaten yet," she observed.

"He's not hungry."

"You could join us," Scott said eagerly. Before she could demur, he grabbed a chair from the next table. Uneasily, she sat. "Are you hungry? Can we get you a drink?"

"No, I'm fine, I really just . . . "

And then, finally, Scott noticed the faded bruises. "What happened to your face?" he blurted.

"Scott!" McCall bellowed.

"It's okay," Lily purred. Her hand came across the table and rested on Robert's forearm. To Scott, she answered, "I got caught on the wrong side of a stupid little war."

"Are you okay?" he blundered on.

"I will be."

The boy grew suddenly solemn. He looked at his father, then back at Lily. "Look, whoever did this to you, whatever trouble you're in, my dad can help you. He's really good at it."

Robert devoutly wished he could crawl under the table and die. But Lily smiled gently at the boy. "I know." She took Scott's hand in her free hand. "I know. So can I borrow him for a little while?"

Scott nodded, suddenly breathless, entranced by her touch. "Sure." And then, quickly, "I'll go, I'll just go, uh, see Pete in the . . . "

"Stay," Lily urged. To Robert, "I was hoping we could go for a walk."

"Of course," McCall answered with great relief. He stood, drawing back her chair for her, and was relieved that his son had the manners to rise as well. "Scott, I am sorry. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Sure, no problem, Dad. It was nice to meet you, Miss -- Lily."

She took his hand again and squeezed it. "You, too, Scott."

On the sidewalk, Robert took his companion's hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. As they walked, two men in suits began to follow them, clumsily, obviously. "They're from DC," Lily informed him, before he could ask. "My bodyguards, I guess."

"You need bodyguards?"

"To keep me from being snatched up by some Senate subcommittee."

"Ah." They strolled casually. The men fell back to about twenty paces. "We could lose them."

"No, it's all right," Lily soothed.

Robert didn't like it; it was his impulse to lose them just as a matter of principle. But it wasn't his call to make. "I'm sorry about Scott," he said, putting the tail out of his thoughts. "He can be very . . . "

"I like him," Lily supplied quickly. "He's -- uncomplicated."

"Uncomplicated," Robert mused. "What a very diplomatic word. So much kinder than 'simple'."

"Give him a couple of years," Lily advised. "Let him outgrow the puppy phase. Two, three years, you'll be so proud of him you won't know what to do with yourself."

Robert smiled fondly. "I'm already proud of him."

"You should tell him."

"He knows."

"He needs to hear it."

Robert chuckled. "So. You've dragged me away from my dinner to tell me about my son, is that it?"

The young woman shook her head. "I'm sorry."

She fell silent then, and Robert waited, measuring the importance of this conversation in the number of strides they took before she spoke again. "How is he?" she finally asked.

"Who?" Robert teased. "Oh, Control. Well, he's the same as always, I suppose. Self-centered, self-righteous, you know him." More seriously, he added, "He's very worried about you."

Lily nodded. "I know he is."

"And he's frankly a little put out that you won't return his calls."

She nodded again and was silent. Twenty paces. Thirty. "Robert, I need a favor."

"Anything."

"You don't know what it is yet."

"It doesn't matter."

"It's a big one."

Robert chuckled. "You want me to break all his fingers so he can't dial the telephone to call you any more."

Lily actually laughed. "Well, there's an option I hadn't considered."

She seemed to relax a shade, which pleased McCall. "All right, then. Tell me what I can do to help you."

She sighed, tensing again. "I assume you know what happened in Nicaragua."

"Yes."

"You know I was raped."

Robert felt his chest go tight. "I heard. I'm very sorry, Lily, I can't . . . "

"Robert, I'm pregnant," she finished in a rush.

Quite involuntarily, he stopped in his tracks. The bands around his chest turned to ice. Ah, God. The woman turned to face him. Her eyes were uncertain, frightened -- as if she expected him to push her away, to reject her. His mouth was too dry to speak, and in any case he had no words. He wrapped his arms around her and held her very close. "Oh, my girl, I am so sorry, my poor sweet girl . . . "

After a long interval, they broke. "Thank you," Lily said warmly.

Robert nodded. "That wasn't the favor, was it?"

"No. But it helps, a lot."

He reclaimed her hand, and they resumed their walk. "As it happens," McCall said gently, "I have just made an acquaintance who runs a clinic here in . . . "

"No."

" . . . or perhaps out of the country, Toronto or . . . "

"No, Robert. I'm keeping the child."

Robert stopped dead again. "You're not serious," he blurted. Damn. He immediately wished he hadn't said that. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's, I . . . "

"Take your time," Lily advised mildly.

They walked again in silence. Finally, McCall managed to say, "You are serious about this, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Why, Lily? Why would you put yourself through this? No one would blame you if you . . . if you . . . "

"I know."

Twenty paces. Robert had to remind himself to breathe. It helped clear his head. She was so calm, so damn calm, and he felt like she'd dropped a bomb on him. Two of them, first the pregnancy, and then . . . He took another deep breath. "All right, then. You've decided to keep this child. And to raise it yourself?"

"Yes."

Another city block, while thoughts chased each other madly around Robert's mind. "I'm sorry," he finally stammered, aware of the silence. "I want to be supportive, I am supportive, absolutely, if this is your decision, I just . . . I just . . . "

"You can't get past the why," Lily provided evenly.

"I can't," McCall admitted. "And I know, I know it's none of my business, but I just . . . "

"Shhh," Lily soothed. "It's all right, Robert. I can't, and I won't, tell you the long answer to that question. But the short answer is, so as some good should come out of all this."

"I'm sorry, Lily, but I cannot see this as being good."

"I don't expect you to," she answered. "At least not right now."

They walked on, now in long silence. Robert's mind was in absolute turmoil. Issues that had been remote abstractions that very morning suddenly had a very real face. Lily Romanov was so sure of her choice -- but how reliable was her judgement? After all she'd been through, how could she think straight? How could she be so calm? Or was it the calm of deep shock, of mild insanity?

How could she choose to let a rapist's child grow in her body? How could she hope to bear the long months of such a brutal pregnancy? How could she want to keep such a child, to look on it every single day and remember how it came into being?

How could she even begin to think that she could love this child?

It seemed impossible to Robert.

But there, perhaps, was the key. Lily Romanov loved the impossible. She lived for the challenge, delighted in doing what no one else would even attempt. And, as improbable as it seemed to Robert, perhaps she could do it again. Perhaps she could find a way to love this child. After all, she'd found a way to love Control . . .

"Oh dear Lord," Robert blurted, "Control doesn't know."

Lily nodded. "And now we come to the favor," she answered quietly.

"Oh dear Lord," Robert repeated.

"He's going to be angry."

McCall laughed bitterly. "You simply have the gift for understatement, don't you? First Scott is uncomplicated, and now Control is going to be angry. He's going to be bloody furious, that's what he's going to be!"

"I know."

"And you want me to be the one to tell him."

"Yes."

" . . . why?"

"Because he won't let himself be really angry if I'm there. He won't let himself be angry at me."

"Well, of course not, why should . . . " McCall stopped himself. She was right, of course. In the face of his wounded lover, Control would have to remain calm. Whereas with Robert, he could give full vent to his fury.

It was not something Robert looked forward to -- but at least he could spare Lily this. "You're quite right," he admitted. "It's far better if I tell him. It's very . . . considerate . . . of you."

Lily sighed. "I don't know if it's consideration or cowardice. I just know I can't tell him myself."

"My dear girl, I don't think you have a cowardly bone in your body." He held her again, gently. "I will tell him."

"It has to be soon," Lily continued against his shoulder. "Tillman knows. He kept it out of the reports, but you know how the Company is, secrets don't last long. I don't want this coming to Control over the fence."

"No," Robert agreed, impressed at her perceptiveness even in these circumstances. "I'll tell him as soon as I can find him."

"Thank you."

McCall pulled back just enough to look at her. "What else can I do for you?"

Lily shook her head. "Nothing."

"You're sure?"

"Only this."

"All right. But I want you to know something." He looked at her very seriously. "Whatever Control says or does, whatever anyone else says or does, I will always, always be here for you -- and for your child. I give you my solemn word on that."

She bit her lower lips, hard, trying unsuccessfully to blink back the tears that sprang to her eyes. The tears escaped, rolling down her cheeks, and Robert brushed them away with his fingertips. It amazed him all over again that such awesome strength of will could come packaged in such a fragile-seeming body. Small wonder Control had loved her -- and loved her still.

"Thank you," Lily whispered.

Robert chuckled warmly. "Did you really think you were all alone in the world?"

She nodded solemnly. "I always have been before."

*****

"This better be good." Control stood beside Robert's table, the good table by the fireplace.

"Sit down, Control. Have a drink."

Control sat. "What, Robert?"

Robert poured him a deep Scotch. "Lily was here."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Earlier this evening."

"What did she want?"

"She needed to ask me a favor."

Control took a long drink. "What favor?"

"She wanted me to tell you something. Something that she didn't think she could tell you herself."

"Enough games, Robert."

McCall took a deep breath. Looked around the darkened restaurant. They were alone. There was no easy way to do this. "She's pregnant."

Control's face turned gray, stormy. "Ah, God . . . "

"She's keeping the child."

Ice. "What?"

Robert waited. As expected, Control threw himself to his feet. "What?" he demanded again.

"She's keeping the child."

"No."

"Control, please . . . "

"No!"

He headed for the door. Robert grabbed his arm and spun him around. "Control, don't do this. Don't take your anger to her. She has enough of her own."

"I have to see her," Control raged.

"You can see her. She will see you. Just calm down first. Just . . . think."

Control stopped struggling. "You're right, old son, you're right." Robert's grip relaxed. Control tore away from him and was gone.

*****

Control had rarely been more blind, more oblivious to his surroundings. His enemies would have found him easy prey. But his luck -- if that's what it could rightly be called -- held that night; there were no enemies in New York City that night, or at least none waiting between McCall's restaurant and Lily Romanov's hotel room.

He blew past the bodyguard at the end of the hallway and knocked politely on the door. Ten seconds later, he made a fist and pounded on it. "Damn it, Lily," he shouted, "open this damn . . . "

The door opened. Lily stepped back to let him in, chained the door behind him without a word. She was barefoot, wearing dark sweat pants and a plain white T-shirt. Her eyes were huge and dark, the deep purple circles beneath them unconcealed. Her arms were painfully thin, the bruises sickly yellow, the burn marks barely faded.

He took a step toward her.

She took a step back. "You've talked to Robert."

"Yes."

"I'm not going to change my mind."

Control sighed, rubbed his hand over his whole face. "I didn't come here to argue with you. I came to see how you are."

He advanced. She retreated. She had lots of room to avoid him, in this suite. The living room was only slightly smaller than Control's apartment.

"I'm tired," she answered at length. "Do you want a drink?"

"At least one," Control agreed. He followed her to the mini bar, watched as she poured a miniature Scotch over a single ice cube in a water glass. She held the drink up and considered, then opened a second tiny bottle, poured it in, and handed it to him. "You're not joining me?" he asked. "No, of course you're not."

"No," she answered evenly.

He reached for her hand. She moved away. Elusive, as always, and he could not get the slightest hint what she was thinking. "You're not really serious about this, are you?"

"I am keeping this child, Control."

"Why?" he snarled. He remembered Robert's words, and tried very hard to put a lock on his temper. "Why?" he asked again, more calmly. "To punish me?"

"This isn't about you," Lily answered flatly. "It has nothing to do with you."

"I don't believe you."

She went to the window. "Because you're a self-centered egomaniac."

Control took a slow drink. So they were down to name-calling already? This was not the reunion he had pictured. Not by a long shot. As calmly as he could, he answered, "If it's about you, it's about me. It's about us."

"Us?" She practically spat the word. "There is no 'us'. There has been no 'us' for a year and a half. Not since you dumped me."

"I let you go to keep you safe."

"And that worked out just fine, didn't it?"

"You blame me for not coming to get you," Control observed.

Lily shook her head. "No. If you'd come for me, I'd be dead now."

"Then what is it?" Control demanded. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want this child!" she shouted.

Her voice had taken a thin, hysterical edge. Control had run enough interrogations to recognize it it was the voice of a woman about to crack. Good, part of him sang, crack her and you'll find out the truth. But another part warned against it. Crack her, the man who had been her lover warned, and you will never get her back. She might forgive him anything else, but she would not forgive him this.

He ached to hold her in his arms and make it all go away. He moved. She retreated.

Control made himself stop chasing her, made himself sit down on the couch. "Lily," he said quietly, soothingly, "Lily, listen to me. I know you're lonely. I know you are, and I'm sorry for that. I know how alone you are, Lily, I know how I must have hurt you, and I'm very very sorry."

Words. Repetition, pattern, rhythm. He could have read her the phone book in that voice, and she would have uncoiled just the same. He knew this game very well, had done it hundreds of times. Even McCall was not immune to the words. And Lily --

She turned back to face him. "All right," she sighed. "I'm soothed, stop chanting at me."

And Lily was his adept apprentice at the charm of the voice. He abandoned the chant with a wry nod. "All right. Can we talk now? Just talk about this? Try to reason it out?"

She perched on the front edge of the arm chair across from him. "We can talk all you want. But I'm not giving up this child."

Control nodded, soothing still. "I understand why you want this child, Lily."

"No, you don't."

"I do. I've been to Langley. I've seen your apartment."

She snapped to her feet and retreated again.

"Lily," Control said, still calmly, still seated, "I understand. Believe me, I understand better than anyone. What it's like to live that way -- I know. I know. And when we were together, you must have thought, there, that's done with, that's behind me. And then I sent you away. I know. I'm sorry. If I'd had any idea . . . "

"What?" she snapped. "You would have taken me back out of pity?"

"I would have felt less like I was taking advantage of you." She turned away, looking out the window again. "But Lily . . . I was wrong. I was wrong when I sent you away. I was wrong to think that I could live without you . . . "

"You did just fine without me."

"I hated it. I hated being alone. Just as you do. Lily, listen to what I'm saying. I was wrong. And I want you back."

She turned and stared at him, her arms crossed in front of her. Not smiling. Not believing.

Control stood up and walked over to her, slowly. She did not, at least, retreat. "I know that you want to keep this child because you think you have nothing else. But you do, Lily. You have me, if you want me."

"Are you telling me," she asked, her voice low and freighted with venom, "that I can have you back if I agree to kill my child?"

"No!" Control protested quickly. "That's not what I meant at all. I'm just saying, you don't have to put yourself through this because you don't want to be alone. You don't have to be alone. You don't have to have this child."

She shook her head. "You don't understand this at all, do you?"

"I understand that I love you."

Lily laughed grimly. "Is there anything you would *not* say to persuade me to abort this baby?"

"That was not a con, Lily."

"Of course it was a con. Everything you say is a con. It always has been. Get this, Control. Get it now. I am keeping my child!"

"Fine! Keep it! Good for you. Do anything you want, I don't care."

"And you never have!"

"Don't," Control snapped, his voice going soft and dangerous. "Don't write off what we had. I loved you and you knew it."

"You loved me when I was convenient."

"You made yourself convenient!"

"I did. You're right. But I'm not convenient anymore. In fact, with this kid around, I'm going to be damned inconvenient. Is that the problem, Control? Is this child going to cut into your drive-by sex life?"

"Damn it, Lily . . . "

"Get out."

"I'm not leaving until we've settled this."

"Settled what? There is nothing to settle, Control. You dumped me, we're done, I'm having a baby and it has nothing to do with you. There is nothing to settle. Get out."

Control reached out and grabbed her arm. "I am not leaving until this is settled," he repeated firmly.

Her eyes changed. Nothing more, just the eyes, a subtle click, a shade, an expression. A tremble ran through her body. "Let go," she hissed, barely louder than a whisper, full of rage.

In that instant, Control realized what he'd done. He'd been stupid, careless. After all that she'd been through, he was offering to manhandle her again. He dropped his voice; his anger left in a wave of regret and tenderness. "Lily, it's all right," he answered gently.

Too late. "Let go!" she shrieked. Her free hand came around at his head, and he grabbed it. She struggled and his grip tightened, forcing her arms down to her sides, trying to contain her, not to hurt her . . .

She looked up again, and he watched her go mad.

Her pupils blew wide open in a rush a adrenalin. Goose bumps covered her bare arms, and her body vibrated like a tuning fork. Her arms pressed out against his restraining hands, and it took all his strength to hold her. Because he could not let her go now.

There was no reason left in those eyes. No sense, no consciousness, no recognition. Nothing but rage and terror. Lily was gone, and in her body was some wild animal whose only instinct was to protect itself.

If he tried to let her go, Control realized, she would kill him. Not with a weapon, but with her bare hands, with her claws, she would tear his throat out, or his heart -- and he might be able to restrain her, he had experience and body weight, but she had insane fury and the power of madness, and he was not sure he would survive.

His arms and hands burned with the effort of holding her overcharged little body. If he could just restrain her until her madness turned the corner, until she moved from fight response to flight, then maybe . . . maybe he would release her and she'd fly right out the window. Control shook with effort now, and she thrashed for freedom, strained to get her hands on him, kicked at him, tried to bite him, like an animal caught in a leg hold trap . . .

There was, Control remembered, a third side to the F-response. Fight, flight, and one other. He didn't know if he could induce it. He didn't know if he dared to try. But she was slipping out of his grasp, she was going to escape and spring at him, and he didn't know then if he could stop her without hurting her . . .

He took the chance. He drew her tighter, bent and put his mouth firmly over hers.

Her teeth sliced cleanly through his bottle lip.

He did not snap his head back, as was his instinct. Instead, he released her hands and slapped her ears sharply. She gasped, opening her mouth, and it let him escape. Her hands came at his head, and he caught them again. He didn't try to hold her this time; he pivoted on his left hip and shoved her backwards onto the couch.

Blood poured down his chin, and trickled down hers, and time stopped.

Lily slid to the floor, as if boneless, and rolled into a tight fetal ball.

Watching her warily, Control caught his breath. He took a towel off the mini bar, pressed it to his bottom lip. He explored the wound with his tongue. Perhaps a quarter inch below the lip, above the dimple, half an inch wide, and clean through. It hurt like hell, and it bled like crazy. He didn't care. He dipped the towel in the ice bucket and pressed it tightly against the wound. When he was calm, when he was sure he was calm, he walked over and sat on the couch.

Lily was silent, unmoving. He touched her shoulder lightly. She trembled at the touch, but made no other move. "Lily . . . " he said softly, mournfully. "Lily, please . . . "

"Go away," she wailed, very softly, from the bottom of her soul. "Go away."

He flattened his hand against her shoulder blade, willing her to feel the contact, feel the warmth. "I can't leave you like this. Let me call someone. Let me take you to a hospital."

"Go away," she cried again, a little stronger now, a deep keening sound. "Go away."

His eyes filled with tears. Control closed them. Felt her body tremble still at his touch. Someone needed to comfort her. She should not be alone. She should not have to be alone, not like this. Not the way she had been. Not always. Someone needed to comfort her.

But because of all he'd done to her, that someone couldn't be him.

*****

"It needs to be stitched," McCall said dispassionately.

"No."

"Control . . . "

"No."

Robert gave up. He went and got his friend a drink -- a tall one -- and after a moment of consideration, a swizzle stick to drink it through. "Lily's all right?"

Control nodded. He was wearing one of Robert's undershirts; his own shirt was soaking in the bathroom sink, pretending it would some day release the bloodstains. "I got her put to bed. Kostmayer's going over to stay with her." He turned the icepack over and put it against his chin again. "If she doesn't snap out of it in the morning, I'll have her hospitalized somewhere . . . "

"Oh, that will make Washington happy."

"Screw Washington. They should have gone to get her." He shook his head. "I've never seen her like that, Robert. I don't think I've ever seen anybody like that. Just . . . raw, animal, just survival."

"You have it in yourself," Robert reminded him quietly. "Why are you surprised that it's in her?"

"That stupid song, I got a tiger by the tail. I thought it was just an allegory."

McCall brought his own drink and sat down. "What did you say that set her off?"

"It's not what I said," Control admitted. "I grabbed her."

"You're an idiot."

"Frequently, and especially where she's concerned." He stood up and circled the room slowly, sipping through his little straw past the ice and his swollen lip. "The worst of it, Robert, is that I told her the truth. I told her the absolute truth, I told her everything . . . and she didn't believe a word of it."

Which only proves, Robert thought, that she's intelligent and learns from experience. Did he ever believe a word that Control said? Every conversation he had with his friend was filtered through his knowledge that Control would lie to him in a heartbeat. In every talk they had, no matter how innocuous, Robert found himself wondering not if Control was lying, but where and how much. So, Control had confessed his love for the woman and she hadn't believed him. Whose fault was that?

But none of this needed to be said, and Robert did not say it.

"She thinks," Control continued, "that I'd say anything to persuade her to give up this baby."

"Wouldn't you?"

"No. No. Robert, you know better. I don't care about this baby. If it was her new boyfriend's child, some one-night thing even . . . but this. This has got to hurt her. To carry this child, to raise it? To remember that pain, every single day of her life?"

"It's her choice," McCall reminded him.

Control shook his head. "She doesn't even know why she's choosing it."

"And you do?"

"She's lonely."

"We're all lonely, Control."

"No. Not like she is." He went and helped himself to a refill of Scotch. "While she was missing, I pulled her personnel file. I went to find her next of kin. Not to say anything, just to see what the situation was, how the land lay . . . "

"To satisfy your curiosity."

"Yes. There's a name in her file, an address in Langley. Same address as her permanent residence, different apartment number. Turns out her next of kin isn't kin at all. He's just her landlord."

"Her landlord?"

"Her landlord. That's it. Not even a friend, just the landlord. So I let myself into her apartment."

Robert raised one eyebrow, but didn't comment. "And?"

Control sat down again. "It's furnished. Everything there came with the place. There's an empty box under the sink in the kitchen, and everything that's hers, all the stuff in the cupboard, everything in the refrigerator, would fit in the box. And there's a trunk in the bedroom, a footlocker. Every time she leaves on an assignment, she packs everything that's hers into the locker. There's a label on the top, instructions on who to call at the Farm to pick it up. And a note for me."

"Which you read, of course."

Control frowned. "Of course. It's just instructions, how to find her investments, how to reclaim them. She wants me to give an extra month's rent to the landlord, and put the rest toward some good cause."

"She knows about Sandstar," Robert guessed.

"Yes."

"And that's all."

"That's all, Robert. That's all she has, in the world. No family, no relatives, no friends . . . "

"She has friends, Control."

"Does she? Are you one of them, Robert? Do you know when her birthday is? What her favorite color is? Or is she just somebody that's easy to talk to when she drops by? You don't know her. Nobody does." Control scowled deeply. "She lives like that. Inside her own head, all alone. Her stuff all packed up in a footlocker so nobody's inconvenienced if she gets killed. She has nothing, Robert. You and I, we think we have nothing, but she has more nothing than you and I together ever didn't have."

Robert nodded solemnly. "Frighteningly enough, Control, I understood that."

"She had me, Robert. She had me, and I sent her away. I didn't know."

"You did what you thought was best for her," Robert answered. "You were dead wrong, of course, but you had the best intentions."

"And now," Control went on sadly, "now she has this baby. And it's all she has. So she can't let it go, no matter how badly it hurts her. She's keeping this -- this thing -- because she doesn't have anything else."

Watching his friend sink into morose and drunken contemplation, Robert stood up. "All right, then, Control," he said briskly. "You've identified the problem. Now what are you going to do about it?"

"There's nothing I can do," Control protested. "I can't change her mind."

"Then you'll have to change yours."

"What?"

"You love this woman. You want her back in your life. At least that's what you've told me."

"I do, but . . . "

"No. The woman now has a child. You have tried to separate her from the child, and have been bloodied for your efforts. So now you must make a decision. You can accept the child and perhaps win back the woman. Or you can reject the child, in which case you will never have the woman again. But those are your only options, Control. You have to make a choice."

"I can't accept this child, Robert."

"Then leave Lily Romanov alone."

"I can't . . . "

"You cannot help her. You can only hurt her further. And I," Robert said, straightening further, "I will not allow that."

Control stared up at him. "You're as mad as she is."

"Perhaps. But you've put her through enough."

"I do so love it when you put your shiny armor on, old son." Control stood up. "Your advice is commendable, as always. I will take it under advisement. Can I have another drink?"

Robert considered. "If you hand over your car keys."

Control pointed. "In my coat pocket."

"Help yourself, then."

Control poured, refilled Robert's drink as well. "Do you remember the emeralds, Robert?"

McCall did not follow this sudden shift of direction. "The what?"

"The emeralds. The ones Garcias gave us. The Colombian emeralds, remember?"

"Yes." McCall remembered. He had sold his share of them, invested in stocks. He was probably paying his rent off the emeralds, even now. "What of it?"

"I kept one," Control answered slowly, quietly. "It's in a safe, in my office. The big one. I had it cut. It's perfect. Deep green. Beautiful stone." He took a drink. "It's this beautiful, beautiful gem, and no one ever looks at it. It just stays in the safe, in a little velvet bag. I haven't had it out in years. I don't even look at it. I just keep it locked away, where no one ever sees it."

"I'm not following you," Robert admitted.

"Lily loves emeralds," Control said, and finally McCall understood how the emeralds related to the current situation. "She can't walk past a jewelry store without looking in the window. Not diamonds, not for her. Emeralds. And I have this perfect stone, this beautiful stone, and it never even occurred to me to give it to her. I'd rather . . . keep it locked away in the dark."

"Where it's safe," Robert prompted gently.

"Safe," Control agreed. "And giving no pleasure to anyone." He shook his head. "Could you do it, Robert?" he asked. "Could you accept this child?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, old son, we both know you're a better man than I am. Far better. If you loved her -- if this were Manon, carrying this child -- could you accept it?"

Robert considered, very seriously. "At this moment, if Manon appeared at my door with a horned devil in a diaper in her arms, I would accept it. If it were hers, if she loved it."

Control sighed.

"Maybe that's the key," Robert continued slowly. "To you and I, Control, this baby is an abstraction, a symbol, of the torture, of the rape . . . but it's something quite different to Lily, isn't it? It's a living being to her. It's not a symbol of anything, it's her child."

"And some Sandinista soldier's," Control snarled.

"It doesn't matter. Oh, it matters to you, but it doesn't matter to her. It's her child, Control. You threatened her child, and she damn nearly tore your face off. That wasn't just self-preservation at work. She was protecting her young."

"Do you have some point, McCall?"

"I do, Control, and it's simply this. Right now, all you can see of this child is Lily's pain. And you want to remove that pain, and it drives you mad that you can't. But even if you could remove the child, the pain would still be there. Wouldn't it?"

"It would be behind her, not in front of her for the rest of her life."

"Listen to me. You can't accept this child right now in part because you can't see it. It's not alive for you, like it is for Lily. It's not squalling in your arms, it's not wrapping its hand around your finger, it's not smiling up at you."

Control's scowl deepened. "Listen to me," Robert insisted again. "You don't have children, Control, you don't know how the whole world can change when you take an infant in your arms for the first time. Everything changes, Control. Everything." He paced slowly. "You don't have to decide now. Wait. Wait for this child. See him, touch him, hear him. See him in Lily's arms. See how she looks at him. And if you still see something evil, something you can't bear, then walk away then. But you won't, Control. You will see Lily's child. And then you can love him."

Control threw away the swizzle stick and downed his drink without reply.

*****

Mickey opened his eyes and stared at the woman who was standing at the end of the couch, staring back at him. "Hey, Romanov," he observed, "you quit sleeping in the nude."

"I didn't figure your heart could handle it twice," she replied. "What're you doing here?"

Kostmayer sat up slowly, stretching as he went. It was one of the more comfortable couches he'd ever slept on -- but it wasn't a bed. "Control sent me to babysit. Said you were 'cidal."

"Cidal?"

"Yeah. Homicidal, suicidal, something. He wasn't real clear."

Lily shook her head. "Sorry, Mickey."

"Not a problem." He looked her up and down. She was wearing dark sweat pants, a white T-shirt, nothing else. The shirt was splattered with tiny rust-colored stains. Her face was clearing up pretty well, but her thin arms were still yellow with healing bruises, and there were four or five burn scars. "You look like hell," he observed kindly.

"I feel worse."

He patted the couch beside him. "Come. Sit. Tell me your troubles, little girl."

She sat, folding her legs under her. "I'm pregnant."

Mickey felt the air empty from his lungs in a rush, as if he'd been gut punched, hard. "Not very."

"Six, seven weeks."

It didn't take a math genius. Mickey opened his mouth, not sure what was going to come out, and she cut him off. "I'm keeping the baby."

Kostmayer shut his mouth, swallowed the words he hadn't yet considered, and brought forth better ones. "You want to get married?"

"What is that," Lily asked with a half-smile, "the standard Polish Catholic knee-jerk response?"

"Yeah," Mickey admitted, "but the offer stands."

She stared at him for a moment. "Damn, I love you, Kostmayer."

"It that a yes?"

"Nnnooo," she answered slowly. "But thanks for asking."

Mickey nodded. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Quit the Company, find a job that doesn't make me travel three hundred days a year. I've got some investments, and I speak seven languages. It shouldn't be a big problem."

"Okay. But you know, whatever you need."

"Thanks, Mickey."

"I mean, sooner or later, you're gonna need to call in an expert."

She raised one eyebrow at him, suspicious. "An expert?"

"Yeah. I know, I know, you're Miss Modern Girl, all independent and all, but let's face it, you've tried your best and you just can't do it. Sooner or later, you're gonna have to let me teach this kid how to fish."

The smile this time was full, with a trace of her old sparkle. "I will keep that in mind."

He eyed the spots on her shirt again. "Control's not dealing, is he?"

"Oh, Control is not dealing in spades." Lily stood up and paced to the windows and back, sighed. "And of course he pushed all my buttons until I wasn't dealing, either . . . "

"He's good for that. You two have it out?"

She rubbed her eyes. "I have never, ever, had a fight like that. I have never come that close to . . . to . . . aw, Christ, what have I done?"

Mickey stood up. "Whatever it was, you both survived it. Something to be said for that."

Lily shook her head. "I've got to get to the office. I've got to . . . " She paused, gathered herself. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Good." She handed him the room service menu. "Order me some French toast and a big glass of OJ. I've got to shower."

"One question?" Mickey asked before she could leave the room.

"Sure."

"Whose blood is that?"

She frowned, puzzled, until he pointed at her shirt. Then she looked down, shaking her head. "His."

Once she was out of earshot, Mickey answered, "Good for you."

*****

Room service was predictably slow; by the time breakfast got there, Mickey had had a shower, too, and Lily was in her oh-so-professional navy skirt and white blouse, her hair up, most of the facial bruises hidden under discreet make-up. They took the tray to the little kitchenette and ate quietly.

"Okay," Lily finally said, when she was done with her breakfast, "straight up, Kostmayer, do you think I'm crazy?"

"Absolutely," he answered at once. "Course, I've thought that for quite a while. First time I saw you, in fact, leading that mule with the beer cases on its back, I thought, damn, that woman is just stone crazy."

Lily chuckled. "That was good beer."

"Best beer I ever had," Mickey agreed. "You having second thoughts?"

"Not exactly." She took a long drink of her orange juice. "Questioning my motives."

"Hmmm." Mickey had eaten his three eggs and his flapjacks, and turned his attention now to the bacon and hash browns.

"I wonder if I want to keep this baby just so I have an excuse not to go back out there."

Kostmayer shrugged. "That happens."

Lily sat back, sighing. "I'm not quite as slick as I thought I was, Mickey."

He actually laughed. "Romanov, nobody's as slick as you thought you were."

She just stared at him, bemused. "Oh."

"Sorry, kid." He waited until she finally laughed, too. "The thing is, Lil -- you did okay. You kept your head, you kept your mouth shut, you got through it alive. That's what counts."

She wasn't convinced. "Maybe." She rubbed her eyes again. "I got so much stuff running around in my head, I can't even see straight. I just . . . I don't know."

"Little advice?"

"Sure."

"These bastards from DC? They're messing with your head. So is Control. Hell, even McCall's got his own agenda. Forget it, all of it. Get to the bottom line. Do you want this baby?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. "But . . . "

"No buts. You want the baby, keep the baby, to hell with the rest of it. Quit worrying about why and go with it."

Lily thought about this for a very long time, while Mickey ate the rest of the hash browns, the bacon, the grits, and half the sausage. "Damn," she finally said, shaking her head. "Who'd have thought it?"

"What?"

"That of all the people I know, you'd turn out to be the wisest."

Mickey grinned, embarrassed. "Hey, sometimes I say the right thing."

"I love you, Kostmayer."

"You said that."

"Yeah, but this time I mean it."

Mickey finished his coffee. "One more thing?"

"Hit me."

"These DC jerks. They can't afford to fire you, you know."

She looked at him, speculatively. "Go on."

"You make 'em too comfortable, they'll want to stick around."

"Ah." Lily glanced down at her staid and proper white blouse. "Your point is well taken." She stood up. "Call me in late, Mickey. We need to go shopping."

*****

"They're going to blame me for this," Mickey said as she climbed out of his van.

She smoothed her jeans down her thighs; they were too tight to straighten on their own. She wore them with a man's shirt, oversized, white, half-buttoned, under a black leather jacket. "Yeah," she grinned, running her tongue over her scarlet lips. "That's the best part." She came around to the driver's side of the van and leaned through the window to kiss Kostmayer on the cheek. "Thanks, Mickey."

"Any time."

He watched her walk into the building. The walk was worth watching. Oh, yes, they were going to blame him. Well, let 'em. Grinning, he put the van into gear.

*****

"Where is she, Control?"

"We know you were at the hotel last night, against directive. Where is she?"

"I don't have her," Control answered calmly. His mind raced. Kostmayer was supposed to call in this morning, if she wasn't better. And he had called, said that they'd be late. Nothing more. Which might mean anything. Control had thought it meant that she was all right, that she had recovered overnight, that she was steady enough to deal with these bastards again today. But where were they?

"You know where she is," Dugan insisted.

"Why isn't she here?" Horwood chimed in.

Control had tried to be fair with these men. They were, after all, technically working for the same government. But now they were in his office and in his face, and he was in no mood. He gave himself fully over to the delight of hating them. "You had the tail on her. If you lost her, it's your problem."

Kostmayer got to her, he thought suddenly, and they're halfway to Niagara by now, headed for the Peace Bridge and Canada . . .

Forgetful, he rubbed his lip, then snatched his hand away. It hurt. A lot. He'd told his staff he'd slipped in the shower. Whether or not they believed him was debatable, but they were too well trained to question him.

Where was Romanov?

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard her voice in the outer office. "Hey, baby," she said brightly to his secretary, "what's shaking?"

"They've been waiting for you."

"In here?"

And then she was in the doorway, all curves and leather, confidence and vamp. The impossible, irrepressible Lily Romanov of old.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dugan demanded.

"Shopping," she answered simply. "You like?"

"Let's get to work."

"Be with you in a minute," Lily answered. "I need to talk to Control."

"No," Horwood answered. "You're already late. We don't want you talking to anyone else."

"In a minute," she repeated.

"Look, we don't want any trouble with you . . . "

"Don't start none," Romanov answered bluntly, "won't be none. Five minutes."

They grumbled. They were not terribly smart men, but they were too smart to challenge her. They went.

Control stayed behind his desk, staring at her in frank amazement. Who was this woman? How had she managed to salvage anything out of the terrified animal he'd left last night -- much less this? Where in God's name did she get the strength?

Lily stayed in the doorway. "Can I come in?" she finally asked, formally, as if they were strangers.

Which they were. "Please."

She shut the door and stood in front of the desk. "You can sit down," Control offered, awkward in the emotional distance between them.

Lily shook her head. "I'm not staying. I just wanted to apologize. Are you all right?"

He shook his head. She'd been beaten to a bloody pulp, tortured, raped -- and she was worried about a cut on his lip. "It's not so bad."

"I'm really sorry."

"Don't be." Control stood up and went around the desk. "I had it coming."

"No. You didn't." She shook her head, sad, sincere. "I swore way back when that it would never come to that between us. I just . . . I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven. Am I?"

"For what?"

"All of it." She looked puzzled, and he waved it off, self-conscious. "We'll talk about it later. Are you all right?"

Lily shrugged. "All things considered, I'm okay."

"I can get rid of those two if you want."

"Not without stirring up the bottom. Don't worry about it. I can handle them."

Control nodded slowly. It was all front, this new confidence she had, but it was a good, solid front. A good start. "You need help, you let me know."

"Thanks." She turned to go.

"Lily." He had to put his hands behind his back again, to keep from reaching for her. "When this is done -- the DC guys -- can we find some neutral corner and talk about this?"

Her face darkened. "I'm not giving up this baby. You can't change my mind."

"I won't even try. I promise. I just don't want to leave things like this."

She considered, dubious. "I don't know."

"Please. Just talk, I swear. No coercion. Just . . . like we used to talk."

That comment hit home, and she shrank into her true self for a moment, lost, injured. "That was a long time ago."

"Too long," Control agreed.

She reached out, carefully, tentative, and brushed her fingertips across the wound on his bottom lip. "I never meant for this . . . "

It was the first that she'd touched him, willingly. "It's all right, Lily."

She drew her hand back. "We'll talk," she said uncertainly.

"Thank you."

She bowed her head, took a deep breath, and put the confidence back on like a costume. "Protocol question?"

"Go."

"Would you mind terribly if I vamped these guys right back to the Beltway?"

Control found a grin. "I would love that."

"Good."

"Romanov?"

"Sir?"

"Welcome back."

She smiled, briefly, turned and went, leaving the door open behind her.

"Hey, girlfriend," she said to his secretary, "you still not smoking?"

"Six months," the woman replied proudly.

"Still got all those suckers in your drawer?"

"Sure. How many do you want?"

"Two or three. Just red ones."

A drawer opened, plastic rustled. "Just red . . . you're not going to do what I think you're going to do."

"Watch me."

"Watch you, hell, I'm gonna go sell tickets."

*****

Angela Shirry was badly frightened, and also highly indignant. "The clinic is closed Wednesday mornings," she told Robert in her office. "I came in early, to catch up on some paperwork, and he was right here in my office!"

"Have you called the police?"

"I didn't know if I should." She glanced over at Mickey, who was wandering the office curiously. "Because of . . . that other matter. I will, if you think I should."

"You should," Robert answered. "In a few minutes, after we've had a look around. What was he doing when you came in?"

Angela walked across the office to a row of high filing cabinets. "He was here, trying to open this cabinet. The 'L' file."

"For Laskey," Robert noted. "But he didn't succeed?"

"No. We keep the cabinets locked at all times."

"Good for you. And when he saw you, then what?"

"Then he started screaming about you. How he knew that I'd sent you, to spy on him, how he was going to get even with us, he'd destroy this clinic like we were destroying his home. You didn't tell him, did you?"

McCall shook his head, looking around. "No. But we did confront him. He may well have deduced it. Or perhaps he's going around making the same threat to everyone he's had contact with recently. Mickey? Take a good look around, will you?"

"Sure, McCall." Kostmayer was glad to have something to do; even empty, this place gave him the creeps. "What am I looking for?"

"Something that ticks."

"Ah." Mickey speeded up his search considerably.

"You think he brought a bomb in here?" Angela asked with concern.

"I think it's possible, yes," Robert answered. "Mr. Laskey, I learned on the way over, works for a demolition company. It concerns me, in light of the type of threats he's made. We will take a look around, and then we will call the police."

"Michelle," the woman said, "you're sure she's all right?"

"Yes. I saw her, in person. And what's more, I saw her yelling at her father."

"That's a good thing?"

"It's a very good thing," Robert answered. "Children who have reason to fear for their lives do not offer that kind of antagonism. They are quiet, inconspicuous."

"Got it," Mickey called from up the hall.

"Stay here," McCall said, and went to join him.

In the reception area, Kostmayer was just setting the bomb on the counter. He gazed at the thing with undisguised disdain. "This?" he asked.

It was a bomb, of sorts -- a loose assembly of construction-grade dynamite, a travel alarm, some wires. "Will it detonate?" McCall asked.

"I doubt it." Mickey examined the thing critically. "I thought you said he worked in demolition. I did better than this in the third grade."

"That explains so much about you, Mickey. I said he worked for a demolition company. He drives a backhoe. Disarm the thing anyhow, will you?"

"Sure." Mickey gathered all the wires and detonators in his hand and yanked. The whole bundle came away cleanly, leaving a pile of explosives taped to a clock. "Done."

"Thank you." Robert went back to the office. "You can call the police now."

*****

"You have to come see this," his secretary said. Curious, Control left his desk and followed her to the basement. In the observation room to the side of the debriefing room, a crowd of his agents had gathered, watching the proceedings. "Unbelievable," someone said.

In the other room, Lily sat at the end of the conference table facing the one-way mirror, with her Washington-based interrogators at each side of her. She was eating a red sucker as they talked.

Not, Control corrected, exactly eating it. Rather more teasing it to death.

She put the candy-red candy all the way in her mouth and sucked, hard. Opened her mouth, pulled it halfway out, caught it between her pretty white teeth and held it there. Pulled it all the way out with an audible pop. Licked the red juices off her lips. Held the sucker in front of her and lapped at it with just the tip of her red-colored tongue. Turned it sideways, and ran the tongue all the way around the bright red circle, twice. Licked her lips again. Pressed it thoughtfully to her mouth and sucked the saliva off it. And all the while, she answered their questions thoughtfully, completely, innocently. As if she had no idea at all what impact her actions were having.

Dugan and Horwood were trying desperately to maintain their composure -- and failing utterly. They stammered, they blushed, they squirmed. And Lily pretended not to notice.

"Why don't they call a break?" one of Control's people wondered out loud.

"They can't walk away from the table," someone else answered.

"Are you kidding? They don't know which way's up at this point."

"Oh, I bet they do."

Control just watched. Not a single expression crossed his face, except perhaps one of grim satisfaction. But behind the mask he ran the through every emotion he owned, from a subtle, possessive pride, to annoyance, to arousal, to despair. Oh, Lily was back. She had turned some corner, somewhere in the night. She had her edge back, her wit, her confidence. Not entirely, of course, but enough to pretend that she did, and that was a start. It was a wonderous change from the broken girl she had been.

But Control could not help wishing that he had been the one to help her make the change, and not Kostmayer. Wishing that he could still at least have been her friend, could have been the one to sleep on her couch when she so painfully needed not to be alone . . .

And he hated that part of him that could be jealous, even now. Why couldn't he just be happy for her?

Dugan finally figured out a way to end his torment. He asked Lily to leave the room. She did, not quickly, toying with her confection all the way to the door. And as the group in the observation room began to break up, she came and stuck her head through the doorway. "She's baaaaack," she announced, waving the sucker.

And her home office greeted her with applause.

*****

At noon the next day, Angela Shirry called Robert at home. "Michelle is here, in my office. She wants to talk to you."

"Put her on."

"M-Mr. McCall," the girl said nervously, "I didn't know what else to do. They arrested my dad, you know, and now they . . . and now they're letting him go."

"Already?"

"His union, they have a bail fund thing, they got him out. My mom went to pick him up. And I just . . . I can't go back there, Mr. McCall. He's so mad at me . . . I didn't know where else to go. Ms. Shirry says you can help me."

"Of course I'll help you," Robert answered reassuringly. "I want you to stay where you are, for the moment. I'll come and get you, and take you somewhere safe. Can you think of a place?"

A pause. "My aunt's. She lives in Jersey. She hates him."

"Good. Good. All right, Michelle. You stay right there, all right? And don't worry. I am going to help you."

"Thank you."

"Put Ms. Shirry back on the phone now, will you?"

"Sure."

Robert made the arrangements with her quickly. Security was tight enough at the clinic, since the protests and the bomb threat. Angela would keep the girl until he got there. She would get the aunt's telephone number and call her.

He hung up the phone thoughtfully. A little drive to Jersey had not been on his agenda for the day, but at least it wasn't rush hour. But first, one small matter to take care of. Robert nodded grimly. Yes. One small matter.

*****

He'd just put the Jaguar into park when John Laskey came running out of his house, screaming. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The wife, Dora, trailed behind him, her eyes wide and nervous.

McCall climbed out of the car, unhurried. Then he walked across the street to address Dora. "Mrs. Laskey, your daughter is safe. If you want to come with me, I will take you to her."

As expected, John Laskey lunged for him. McCall grabbed his hand in mid-arm and twisted it hard to the left, forcing the thumb nearly out of joint, driving the man to his knees. Laskey screeched, "Where is she? Where is she?"

"I was not talking to you," McCall said coldly. "Shut up."

"What did you do with her, you pervert? Where is my daughter?"

Robert twisted the hand harder, not caring now that the thumb dislocated. "I said, shut up." He looked again at the wife, noticing that she made no attempt to intercede in her husband's behalf. "Mrs. Laskey. I ask again. Do you want me to take you to your daughter?"

"Shut up! Leave us alone!"

One further twist, and Laskey dissolved into whimpering agony at McCall's feet.

Dora looked at her husband, at McCall, at her husband again. "I sent her," she said faintly. "I sent her away this morning. I didn't want . . . him . . . near her. I was afraid . . . "

"You bitch! Shut up!"

"You did the right thing," Robert assured her. "But you must now continue to do the right thing. If you want your daughter to be safe, then you must be willing to leave this . . . man . . . forever."

John Laskey started up, started to say something. Robert looked down at him, loathing full in his eyes. Then he drew the man's hand toward him, bringing the man in close, and punched him in the temple.

Laskey fell as if pole axed.

"Now then." Robert straightened his coat. "We were discussing your daughter."

"I tried . . . " Dora began helplessly, dissolving into tears. "I tried to protect her, I fought him, I did, and he never . . . he never . . . "

"He hasn't yet," Robert guessed. "But he will, if you and Michelle remain here."

Dora nodded solemnly. "I won't let him do that to my daughter."

"Good for you." He looked once more at the man in the yard. "Shall we go?"

Dora licked her lips. Her eyes were still frightened. It was a big step she was taking, and into an uncertain future. But the alternative was clearly worse. She nodded. "Yes. Let's go."

*****

Dugan and Horwood lasted only one more day -- one more sucker, two cream-filled popsicles, and a banana. Then, with a variety of sternly-worded memos and warnings about confidentiality, they slunk back to the Beltway.

Lily went directly to McCall's apartment, and had a quiet cup of cup of tea with Robert before Control got there. Robert let his friend in, and then without comment retreated to his bedroom and quietly, firmly shut the door.

"That's . . . awkward," Lily observed.

Control shrugged. "I thought you'd feel safer if he was here."

"I'm not afraid of you," she answered sadly. "Not like that." She'd left her vamp at the office; she was back to being serious and quiet and careful.

"Good." Control sat at the opposite end of the couch from her. "Well. Now I've got you here and I don't know where to start."

She smiled wanly. "I know."

"It used to be the easiest thing in the world to talk to you."

"Long time ago." No heat, no anger. Just resignation.

"Yes." Control sighed. "Let's start with this I'm sorry for everything that happened in Nicaragua."

"None of it was your fault."

"I know. But I'm sorry anyhow. I'm sorry for what you went through. And I'm sorry I made it so much worse when you got back. What I did at the hotel . . . was stupid, and it was unforgivable."

Lily almost smiled. "At least you didn't bite me."

"Well, there is that." Control shifted, looking at his hands. "I want you to know that not everything I said at the hotel was a lie."

She sat back, waiting.

"I . . . " Control stopped, took a deep breath. "I love you. I have loved you since Budapest. I just . . . never got around to telling you."

Lily sighed patiently. "I am not giving up this child."

Control shook his head. "I'm not asking you to. I won't ask you to. I'm not going to tell you that I understand it, I don't. But it's your choice. And if you want to keep this child . . . then I'll do whatever I can to help you."

Her expression remained blank. "Why?"

"I told you why."

She shook her head. "Why, really?"

"Robert says . . . that once I see this child, once I can hold him in my arms . . . that it won't matter where he came from. Only that he's yours."

"Do you believe that?"

"I want to believe it."

"What do you want from me?"

Control hesitated. If ever there was a time for honesty, it was now. "I want you back in my life."

"Why?"

"I told you . . . "

"No."

"Lily . . . "

"I don't need your pity."

"This isn't about pity. It's about selfishness."

She waited.

Control stood up and paced. "I've lived with you, and I've lived without you. With you is better. It's that simple." He looked at her frankly. "If I wasn't selfish, I wouldn't even ask this. I'd throw some nice interesting man in your path and let you go make a life with him. A real life, with a home and a dog and a picket fence. A real father for your child . . . " He shook his head. "I can't offer you any of that. And if that's what you want, then go find it. I won't get in your way, I swear. You already know what kind of life I'm offering you. It's not what you deserve. It's not even what I want for you. But it's all I can give you."

Lily turned and stared into the empty fireplace. "I can't do this."

Control felt his shoulders sag. He summoned up everything he had left, spoke from his love. "All right. If . . . "

"No." She turned back to look at him. "Not no, just . . . I can't decide this. Not right now."

There was some hope, then. "I understand," he answered uncertainly.

She shook her head again. "You don't. I wake up every morning and I have to think, about where I am, about what happened -- it takes me five minutes to figure out who I am. I feel like I'm in a fog all the time, like I'm . . . " she rubbed her eyes impatiently. "I can't decide anything. Not right now."

Control nodded. "All right. That's fine." God, what was he doing? Hadn't Robert tried to tell him? After all she'd been through, and he couldn't wait a week, or a month? "You don't have to decide now, you don't have to decide anything. Just . . . think about it, when you're ready."

"Thank you."

Thank you, like he'd done her some favor. Control shook his head, furious at himself. "I'm leaving the country for a few days. Business. Why don't you go out to the cabin? It's peaceful there, you can . . . "

Lily laughed gently. "You never stop manipulating, do you?"

"I thought you liked the cabin."

"I liked it because you were there with me."

"Oh."

Lily stood up. "I might go out there." She shrugged. "I might stay somewhere with really good room service. I'll let you know."

"Good."

They stood for a moment, awkward, strangers in a mutual friend's living room who had run out of things to say. "I should go," Lily said.

"I'll get you a cab."

"I can manage."

She didn't move. Control looked up at her. Something in her face, something she wanted and couldn't ask for. "Anything," he whispered. "Tell me."

Lily shrugged uneasily, her eyes brimming with tears. "I've missed you."

He moved, covering the space between them and carefully, slowly, wrapped her in his arms.

It wasn't enough, it wasn't all that he wanted; it might have been Lily saying good-bye, as much as Lily saying hello. But for a moment, at least, he got to hold her. And then she pulled away and left.

After a time, he went and got Robert. "This time went better?" his friend guessed. "You're not bleeding, at least."

Control half-smiled. "It went better. I need one more favor, old son."

"Besides chaperoning your romantic rendezvous," Robert offered grandly, "what else can I do for you?"

Control took out his wallet, and removed a claim slip. "There's a jeweler, up by the office. He's mounting the emerald for me."

Robert raised one eyebrow, but didn't comment.

"I'm going on a . . . business trip," Control continued. "If for some reason I don't come back, I want you to pick it up and give it to Lily."

"Control . . . "

"No questions, old son. Just give it to her. She should have had it all along."

There was a long silence. In the end, Robert elected to respect his friend's wishes. "When are you leaving?"

"Tonight."

"I'll come with you."

"No." Control glanced over at him. "I have to do this. You don't. But if I don't come back . . . "

"I'll look after her, of course."

"After them," Control corrected quietly. "Thank you, Robert." Silent, now, Control walked out of the apartment.

*****

Control settled into his first class seat on the Miami-bound plane. He got a drink from the attendant -- plain ginger ale over ice -- and opened the grimy manila file for one more review. A man dropped into the seat next to him. Control ignored him, until he spoke.

"Told you it was a good plan," Kostmayer said.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Going with you."

"No, you're not." The attendant was already closing the door. "Damn it, Kostmayer . . . "

"Don't start, Control. Here's the deal. I know the plan top to bottom. I ought to, I made it up. Now you can ditch me in Miami -- maybe -- but if you do, I blow the whistle on the whole thing. And your little field trip is over."

"You wouldn't dare."

Kostmayer grinned unkindly. "Try me. Besides, it was a plan for a five-man team. Maybe you and I can do it, with some modification. But by yourself? With nobody to watch your back? Even you aren't that good."

Control glared at him for a full thirty seconds. "You do realize, Kostmayer, that this is completely illegal."

"Yeah, yeah."

"If we get caught, we'll be lucky to get a firing squad."

"Got that part, too."

"You've got no reason to go, Mickey."

"I got my reasons, Control. None of which are any of your business. But think about this. If you go alone, and you don't come back, who do you think'll end up raising Romanov's kid?"

"McCall."

"Me. And do you really want to meet the kid that Lily and I raise between us?"

"I'll be dead," Control reminded him.

"I'm going along."

Control thought about it until they reached cruising altitude. "All right, Mickey. All right."

"Knew you'd see it my way."

*****

They left the main terminal in Miami, caught a cab to a downtown hotel, then caught another back to the private airstrip behind the public airport. "You line up a pilot?" Mickey asked.

Control grunted. "There's the plane." He pointed to a small blue twin-prop. It was on the tarmac, ready to go. As they approached, a young black mechanic walked over to them. "All set to go," he said, handing over the log book.

"Thank you," Control answered, and kept on walking.

"Uh, Control? The pilot?"

"Don't need one," Control answered as he climbed into the pilot's seat.

Kostmayer stopped dead. He had planned on facing death on this trip -- hostile forces, jungle warfare, that sort of thing. He hadn't bargained on being in a plane that Control was flying. That was a whole different kind of scary.

Control slammed his door. The props fired. Shaking his head, sure he'd regret it, and probably sooner rather than later, Mickey ran for the passenger side.

*****

The takeoff was remarkably smooth. Mickey managed to unclench his fingers from the armrest. "There a meal on this flight?"

"Only if you brought one," Control answered. The plane dipped suddenly toward the ocean. "Radar," he explained, as Mickey clutched at the arm rest again.

"Sure," Mickey said, unconvinced. "Just out of curiosity, do you even still have a pilot's license?"

Control glanced over at him. "A what?"

"Never mind."

*****

His phone rang just as he was sitting down with his tea and his morning paper. "Robert McCall."

"It's Lily." Her words, her tone were casual, but there was something just -- wrong.

"What's wrong, love?"

Half a breath of hesitation. "Do you know where he is?"

"Our mutual friend? He's . . . out of the country, I believe. On business."

Another pause. "In Central America?"

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. "I don't know," Robert lied.

"Shit," she said, and hung up on him.

Robert took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't handled that at all well, but he didn't see how he could have done any better. Where was she? What was wrong? He felt the icy slide of intuition, that something was very wrong -- but what? How could he even find her?

Well, she might still be at the hotel. He reached for the phone, and it rang in his hand. "Lily?"

"Sorry," she answered. "I'm sorry, Robert. I just . . . I'm surrounded by idiot men. I suppose Mickey's with him."

"I . . . don't know."

"Of course you don't."

"Are you all right, Lily?"

"Yeah." Her voice was soft, but not unsure. "I'll be fine. I'm always fine."

"Lily . . . "

"When he gets back," she said, before he could ask any more, "tell him I went up to the cabin."

"All right. But Lily . . . "

"Thank you, Robert. For everything."

And then she was gone again.

*****

Santoro was either stupid or sloppy, Kostmayer decided, surveying the encampment at daybreak. All of the troops -- maybe twenty-five men -- were having breakfast. Together. There were sentries posted at the four corners. They had put down their weapons so they could eat.

Mickey glanced to his left. Fifty yards away, Control crouched in the weeds, also surveying the camp. Kostmayer had to admit, he was impressed with the older man. They'd made good time from the dirt runway in Honduras, stopping briefly to pick up the gear Mickey had had stashed for his rescue team, then moving across the border through the jungle. Once they got into the trees, Control moved almost silently. He didn't hurry; he didn't fuss with his gear; he just glided through the brush like the consummate phantom he was.

Besides, Mickey appreciated the complete lack of small talk.

This was, in a great many ways, easier than a rescue attempt. There was no intel to gather, no prisoners to take, nothing. Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out. Just revenge. Pure and simple and clean.

He wondered, briefly, what was going on in his companion's mind. Killing these men was not going to change what had happened to Lily. It wasn't even going to make her feel better about it -- if they ever told her. But it would make Mickey feel better, and Control, too. Never mind that it was illegal as hell, and possibly treasonous. If it went south, it would cost them their jobs, at least, and almost certainly their lives. None of which mattered. These were the men who had hurt Lily Romanov. And these were the men who would die for it.

Right about . . .

Now.

Control moved, and Mickey rose in unison with him. Machine guns, semi-auto, left to right sweep, ten-count on the sweep. Control swept back. Mickey shouldered his gun and threw four grenades into the camp.

Half, maybe two-thirds, of the troops were down before anyone returned fire.

Control moved forward, to the cover of the last tree before the clearing. Glanced at Mickey, reloaded while his companion did another machine gun sweep. Snapped his barrel up, waited while Kostmayer reloaded and moved up. Threw two grenades of his own. Then a smoke grenade, then another. The camp was full of shouting and blood and confusion. No organized resistance. No direction.

They moved into the camp itself, closing the distance between them to ten yards. Shooting everything that moved. Walking, slowly. No panic, no hurry. No need for cover, really, except the smoke. The government troops had been thrown into a panic; they didn't know who was shooting them, and they didn't know where to shoot back.

They covered the camp in three minutes. The smoke began to clear in a light breeze. The main tent smoldered from a grenade hit; the canvas was too wet to burn openly. At the far end of the camp they stopped and reloaded. "Find Santoro," Control said quietly. They began to walk back. Checking the bodies. Covering each other's backs. Not hurrying. Alert.

The latrine door swung open with a creak, and both men leveled their guns at it. The boy -- in army fatigues -- threw his hands up.

Mickey lowered his gun. Control did not.

"Control . . . "

"Come here," Control snapped at the boy. The boy just stared at him. "Here!"

The child moved. Stood in front of him. His eyes were wide and still, and he was completely silent.

Control still had his gun aimed. Carefully, slowly, Mickey reached over and pushed the barrel away.

"Go home," Control said sharply to the boy.

"No home," the boy answered.

"Where is your mother?"

"Dead."

"And your father?"

The boy looked around the smoking, silent camp. Then he raised one hand and pointed to a body.

"Shit," Mickey said under his breath.

Control nodded. "Go," he said to the boy. The child just stared at him. "Go!"

The boy ran into the jungle.

In silence, they found Santoro's body. Control put another bullet in his head, just to be sure. They moved back into the jungle, rearranged their gear, and headed for the border.

They took a rest break, ate a few granola bars at noon. "Okay," Mickey finally said, his first words since they'd seen the boy. "This is done now, right?"

Control turned to look at him. "What?"

Mickey gestured. "Back there. They're all dead. This is done now."

"Yes."

"And you're not going to give Lily any more shit about the baby. Right?"

"Ah." Control understood now. "Yes. It's done."

"Good."

*****

First class, Miami to New York. Kostmayer was stretched out, trying to sleep. Control working on some report, sipping a drink. "Kostmayer?"

"What?"

"She'd be better off with you. Her and the baby both."

Mickey opened one eye. "Yeah," he snorted. "You tell her that. I'm sure she'll come running right over."

Control considered this, then nodded. Kostmayer closed his eyes again. "Mickey."

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

This time he didn't bother opening his eyes. "Didn't do it for you, Control."

"I know. Thank you anyhow."

Mickey grunted and went to sleep.

*****

Control let himself into the cabin quietly. The lights were off; only the dying fire threw faint dancing shadows around the room. No sign of Lily, but her rental car had been parked outside. It was late, she was probably in bed. He decided that he would not wake her. He could sleep on the couch. He'd been planning to anyhow.

A deep sigh, the clink of glass on stone. Control shut the door and locked it before he went around the couch. She was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, slouched against the armchair and hidden in its shadow. The glass she'd been holding now rested on the hearth, empty. Next to it was a bottle of Glen Ord, nearly empty.

Control's body simply froze, while his mind raced. Lily was drinking? Lily was drunk? He'd never seen Lily drunk. Remotely impaired, from time to time, but never actually drunk. What the hell was she thinking? What about the baby?

And he knew. With horrible cold certainty, he knew.

He went around the couch and sat down on the floor next to her, on the deep soft rug where a thousand years ago they had made love for the entire duration of a fall thunderstorm, while the fire wrapped them in warmth --- but the fire was dying now. He touched her shoulder, and she shrank back from him. "Lily . . . "

"Food poisoning," she answered sluggishly. "Tillman says . . . maybe bot . . . bot . . . " She couldn't make her tongue get the word out.

"Botulism," Control supplied quietly, remembering the note in the medical summary about food poisoning.

Lily nodded, reaching for the bottle again. Her hand waved in the air six inches short. She tried again, then gave up. "The toxin," she said with remarkable clarity, "has a catastrophically detrimental effect on the developing nervous system of the fetus . . . " She stopped quoting Tillman and reached for the bottle again. She reached it this time, drew it back against her body, but she could not get the top off. "Open this."

"No." Control took the bottle from her and put it behind him.

Lily snarled. "Open the damn thing!"

"You've had enough."

"I've had enough." She laughed bitterly, the laughter very quickly turned to tears. "I've had enough," she repeated. "I've had . . . " her breath caught on a deep sob. "I . . . "

He reached for her again, and this time she bore the touch. "I just wanted him so damn bad!" Lily cried.

Control moved closer, wrapped his arms around her tightly as she sobbed. She cried hard, every breath a wracking sob, as if her soul had been torn out, as if she would never stop. The deep violence of her grief frightened Control; he wondered if he was watching her go insane, again, but this time permanently. How long had she been here, alone with her grief? She smelled of old sweat and old tears and old whiskey . . . all day? Two days?

There was no quieting her. He didn't even try. He just held her, stroked her hair, rocked her against his body. Murmured nothing. There was no other way to comfort her, nothing he could say, nothing that would take her pain away. Her child, who had been for a few weeks her world, was dead. And, Control realized, the child that he had accepted, that he had made his own by killing every man who might have been his true father, his child was gone. But he put that pain carefully away. He would deal with it some other time, when Lily needed him less. Or else he would lock it away and never look at it again . . .

The crying jag showed no sign of abating. If anything, it grew deeper. Control frowned with concern. He had never heard anyone cry like this, not so deeply for so long. And Lily, who was always so reserved, so in control of her emotions . . . of course, he realized, the alcohol had knocked down all her defenses. The woman in his arms was the very essence of Lily Romanov, just as she had been in the hotel when she attacked him. She was without any defenses, without even words.

The alcohol . . .

Easing one arm away from her, Control lifted the bottle and considered. A quart bottle, thirty-two ounces, ninety proof -- what was her body weight? How fast had she put away this much liquor? Worse, was there another bottle empty somewhere? Or two? He could not do the math fast enough to decide if she had poisoned herself, if he needed to drag her down the hall and force some of the alcohol back up . . . she'd hate him for that, but maybe she wouldn't remember it . . . he forced his mind back to the math, thirty-two ounces, ninety proof . . .

Before he came close to an answer, the liquor and the sobbing provided their own solution. Her body lurched suddenly upward, then relaxed. Lily stopped sobbing. Then she pushed against him, trying to stand up. Control rolled to his feet, then helped her up and followed as she fled to the bathroom. She staggered against the wall twice, hard, but she managed to keep the liquor down until she was kneeling in front of the toilet.

She made a gesture with her hand -- she wanted Control to leave. He ignored her. Instead, he swept her long hair up out of her way and held it behind her back, rubbing her shoulders lightly with his free hand.

Whiskey and bile, nothing else. In impressive quantity.

She held her hand up again. Control realized that she had a ponytail holder looped around her wrist. She'd been at this a while. He took it, tied her hair back. Patted her shoulder again and, as the vomiting finally subsided, retreated as far as the hall.

Lily stayed on the floor a long time, just resting. Then she staggered to her feet, pushed the door shut gently. Control heard the shower start.

He put his chin on his chest and closed his eyes, gathering himself for a moment, deciding what to do. Then he went into the bedroom and got her suitcase. He left it closed, and slipped it past the bathroom door for her, checking that there were also towels there. He went back to the living room and built up the fire. While it was catching, he put away the glass and the bottle. He didn't have to check the trash; the second empty bottle sat on the counter beside the sink. Control shook his head, putting both of them into the trash. She'd been here alone, with nothing but grief, while he was off in Nicaragua on his fool's errand of vengeance . . .

He went back to the living room and considered further. He took off his jacket and tie, and then shoes, put his gun under the armchair. Then he went to the bedroom -- noting as he passed that the shower had stopped -- and stripped the bed, hauling even the pillows out to the fireplace. He made a little pallet bed on the deep rug, then tended the fire a little further.

The bathroom door opened. Lily came and stood in the doorway. She was thin and bruised and pale, wearing a simple white nightgown that covered her to her wrists and ankles, her hair dark and wet over her shoulders, her face pale and weary. His battered angel. He loved her completely.

He got a dry towel and a hair brush, led her to the pallet and got her to sit down. Her body was completely relaxed, loose, drugged. Compliant. He toweled her hair gently, then brushed it out, letting it drape over his hand to dry in the heat of the fire. She sat absolutely still throughout, her little hands soft in her lap. But when he finally put the brush down, she looked up at him. Her hand came to his face, her fingertips brushing the bright scar on his bottom lip. "I am so sorry," she said, very quietly.

Control shook his head. "Don't be. It's done now."

She smelled better, but her breath was still heavy with alcohol -- now mint-tinged -- and her eyes were glassy, distant. Control guessed that she was actually in a black out, that she wouldn't remember much of what took place now, except maybe that he'd been there with her.

"How did things go in Nicaragua?"

He smiled indulgently. "I don't know what you're talking about." He took her by the shoulders and turned her, guided her down on the improvised bed. "Lay down here now. Get some sleep."

Lily gazed up at him, her eyes now preternaturally calm and vague. "I need to go back to work."

"When you're better," Control agreed, tucking the blankets around her.

"Soon," she insisted. "Something impossible."

"Something easy," he answered. "Something routine. You've had enough impossible for a while."

"Something impossible," she insisted, her words starting to slur with sleep.

"We'll talk about it in a few days."

The answer took a while to sink in. "We're staying here?"

Control nodded. "For a while. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Go to sleep."

Tears filled her eyes, rolled down each side of her face in silence. "Stay with me," she whispered frantically.

He reached to brush the tears away. "I'm right here, Lily," he assured her. "I'm not going anywhere."

She took his hand, then his wrist, and drew him down beside her. They shifted around until she was comfortable in his arms, her face nestled against his shoulder. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt, but she made no sound. This silent crying was somehow harder to bear than the wild sobbing had been. At least that had been cleansing. This was just raw grief, cutting deeper still into her wounds.

"Lily," Control began softly, "listen to me." He rubbed her back gently, choosing his words. "I know how much you wanted this child. And I am sorry that he's gone. I truly am." A little shudder ran through her as his words feathered across her grief. "I want to . . . I want you to think about something. In a while, when you've had some time to heal, your body and your heart, if you want a child, if it's this important to you, then you and I will have a child together."

She sniffed, then rolled her head back to look up at him. "What?"

"You and I. A child. Together." The words, now that they were out in the air, fascinated him, as if he could not have said them; certainly he never had before. He wanted to take them back just so he could say them again. He half-smiled, deflecting his own depth of feeling. "We used to have the mechanics down pretty well, I'm sure we could figure it out." He looked into her eyes, into such raw emotion that he could not mask his own. "If you want a child, Lily," he repeated, "then let me give you a child of our love."

He could see her trying to fight her way through the alcohol fog to understand him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." Control smoothed her hair back from her face, caressed her cheek with his thumb. "Understand, though, what I'm saying. I can't marry you, and I will never be much of a father to this child. I'll be there when I can, but it will never be when you really need me. I will love him, but I'll never be able to acknowledge him, for his safety and for yours. None of that has changed." She nodded her understanding. "What I can do -- what I will do, is get you out of the Company, and find you a place to live, and provide for the two of you, financially if not emotionally -- and spend as much time as I can with you."

He had gone this far, there was no turning back. "And I will love you, Lily, and I will be faithful to you, for a long as we both live."

Lily's eyes filled with tears all over again, filled with more emotion than she could deal with. She shook her head. "I . . . I can't . . . "

"I know," Control answered soothingly. "I know. Not right now, I know. Just hold that, just keep it. Later, when you can think about it, if it's what you want, it's always there."

She drew close again, hiding against his shoulder, holding him desperately, crying again. It didn't last, she was too exhausted to cry any more. She quieted in a moment, and he thought she'd drifted to sleep. Then she sighed deeply and turned, drawing him with her, so that she was facing the fire with Control at her back, his arms easy around her.

After a long time, she spoke again. "Are you," she asked drowsily, "planning to repeat all that when I'm sober enough to remember it?"

Control chuckled warmly in her ear. "Yes, Lily."

She sighed, drifting into sleep at last. "I love you," she murmured.

Control lay awake for a long time, gazing at the fire, feeling her breathe beneath his arm. He would not for all the world have had things take this path. And he abhorred that cold, logical part of him that was whispering, in the long run it's for the best, you could never have truly accepted this child . . . but he could, he wanted to argue, it was Lily's child, he would have loved Lily's child . . .

He closed his eyes. It was over, it could not be changed, it did not matter. The child was dead. But Lily lived. She was wounded and battered and heartsick to her very soul, but she lived. And while she lived she would heal, and while she lived there was hope. And she was here, safe in his arms at last, albeit in a drunken stupor, she was here with him, and she loved him.

Control opened his eyes and gazed into the fire for a moment. It was burning nicely, would keep them warm the rest of the night. Lily slept, her breathing deep and even now. It could not last, not like this; this perfect moment of connection was too fragile, too precious to last. In the morning she would be sober and they would have to talk, to reason things out, to come to some accommodation by the cold light of day. But for this moment, for this night, she was here in his arms, totally safe and totally his. And he, he realized with a little shock, was entirely hers. For all the pain, for all the healing left to do, he had never known such peace.

"I love you, Lily," he whispered. He stroked her hair, kissed her one more time, drew her closer, and drifted off to sleep.