On the Wall
An EQ Fanfic by Linda O.

***
Dedication: In celebration of the fifteenth anniversary of the Fall of the Berlin Wall, a brief fictional flashback. It has not turned out nearly as well as we had hoped, on those first days, but the hope remains. November 9, 2004

Disclaimer: All Equalizer characters belong to Universal. I'm borrowing them for entertainment purposes; no infringement is intended, and no profit is being made. Song lyrics borrowed, likewise.

Rating: PG-13 – some sex, some language, a little violence.

Type: Drama, with a little comedy, romance, music, and dancing. And a musical trivia game, if you want to play along.

Summary: When the Berlin Wall comes down, the Company celebrations in Berlin and New York include drinking, music, and a little light bondage.
Author’s Note: This story stands alone, but is a continuation of my EQ-verse stories. In the timeline, it follows “White Russian Roulette”. The historical portions are more-or-less accurate.

Special Thanks to everyone from the list who suggested songs for the soundtrack of this story. I appreciate your contributions! And as always, my deepest thanks to Anna, who keep me going with her encouragement, and to Paige, for her time and dedication, keen eye and friendship.

Feedback desired and welcomed, here or to lsoleksa@yahoo.com.

***
In November, 1989, in the midst of massive pro-democracy demonstrations, East Germany's government looked for ways to calm the revolt. Guenter Schabowski, their spokesman, announced that East Germany was lifting restrictions on travel across its border with West Germany. Asked by a reporter when the new regulation would take effect, Schabowski fumbled, then answered, "Well, as far as I can see … straightaway, immediately."

And the mother of all parties began.

***

All in all you're just another brick in the Wall …


Mickey Kostmayer watched the Gate intently. He didn’t need any night vision scope, not here: the two sides of the Berlin wall were lit up as bright as daylight, as always. There was a small crowd on the other side, milling, uncertain, and the East German guards seemed uncharacteristically uncertain as well. There was an awful lot of discussion going on. He could see one soldier in the guard shack, hanging almost frantically on the telephone. Whatever orders he was getting, he either didn’t like or didn’t understand.

Mickey lowered his binoculars and settled his shoulder against the brick chimney. He was on the roof of a Company safe house, two blocks from the main check-point in the Berlin Wall. Half a dozen other agents were with him, none with orders, all milling around like the civilians below. No one – no one – seemed to know exactly what was going on.

There was one thing, though, that Kostmayer was sure of: East German soldiers did not like uncertainty. It made them nervous. Which made them more likely to start shooting civilians. Which made Mickey nervous.

He raised the binoculars again.

The crowd of civilians was growing. The soldiers were becoming more agitated.

"Anything from the listening post?" he asked generally, without lowering the glasses.

"They’re still trying to sort out the orders." Ginger – it would be Ginger – had her own binoculars in one hand, a phone in the other. "They’re asking about a pass, isn’t there a pass, where do they get a pass."

Mickey sighed. C’mon, he thought, c’mon, go home before they shoot you all.

Trickle by trickle, the crowd grew. The soldiers stood a little closer together, held their guns a little higher. Kostmayer felt his own knuckles whiten on his glasses. There’s going to be a bloodbath, he thought grimly, and we’ve got no way to stop it.

The soldier on the phone gestured for the guard commander. The older man crowded into the shack and took the phone. It was a brief conversation. The commander came out and motioned to his guards to gather around him.

A young family came to the edge of the crowd, a father with a child by each hand and a mother with a babe in her arms. Go home, Kostmayer thought frantically. Take your children and go. Go now, while there’s still time.

The commander of the guard went to the Gate and opened it. On the Western side, the guards sprang to alert. The eastern commander waved to the nearest civilians. Waved them through. They hesitated, questioning. He waved again. The two stepped into West Berlin.

Kostmayer lowered his binoculars slowly. "Holy shit."

Then, from both sides of the Wall, the cheering started.

***

This is the world we live in
And these are the hands we're given
Use them and let's start trying
To make it a place worth living in.


Control’s phone rang. He scowled at it and went on talking. Walker and Simms sat on the other side of the desk, both on the edge of their seats. He’d been chewing their asses for the better part of an hour. They didn’t have much left to sit on.

The phone rang again, and Control growled audibly. He’d ordered all his calls held. Sue had gone home – he glanced at his watch; it was after six – an hour ago, and the main switchboard in the basement was supposed to be fielding calls for him. He had been very explicit about not being interrupted. He’d have to look up the shift supervisor and do a little chewing on him, too. Another ring, and viciously he snagged the phone. "Control."

"Priority one call from Berlin. Kostmayer."

Control took a slow breath. "Put him through," he said, his voice perfectly calm.

There were crackles and beeps and static. "Hey, Control?"

"Kostmayer. Short version, please, what is it?"

"They just opened the Wall."

Control took another deep breath. "The Berlin Wall?"

"Yeah. They’re just letting people walk through."

"You’re sure."

"I’m standing here watching it, Control."

"Long version, please."

"There was a press conference. They asked when the new travel laws would go into effect. Schabowski said, well, right away. They’ve just opened the gate. Look, there’s TV crews here already. Try CNN, see if they’ve got a feed."

The spymaster nodded thoughtfully. His face remained impassive, but he could feel his pulse racing. The Wall is open, the Wall is open, rolled over and over in his mind. We won the Cold War. We won the bloody Cold War …

… it’s too soon, we’re not ready for this, the plans aren’t in place, there’s going to be a bloodbath, and that right soon …

… but we won the Cold War …

"Thank you for calling, Mickey. I’ll put you back to the Ops Center. Keep us informed."

"You got it."

Control transferred the call back downstairs and hung up the phone. When he looked up, Walker and Simms were still staring at him, expecting the lecture to continue. He ignored them, stood and walked across his office. He opened the cabinet there and snapped on the television.

CNN was indeed at the Berlin Wall, and the gate was wide open.

Control stared at the screen and smiled.

"Is that …" Simms said at his shoulder, "…what’s happened?"

"We did it!" Walker crowed. "We finally beat the bastards!"

The smile left Control’s eyes, but stayed on his lips as he glanced at his subordinate. "Welcome to the brave new world, gentlemen." He turned back to the screen and watched, just watched, for a moment. People coming from the East, old people and babies and everyone in between. On the West, the streets were already full of people, hugging the newcomers, playing rock music, dancing. There were troops and police out in force, but they were calm, guns lowered.

Nodding to himself, Control turned away from the screens. "Everybody in, now," he said crisply. "Conference room, thirty minutes, no exceptions. Go."

They went. Control moved slowly to the door and closed it. He sat down behind his desk, his eyes drawn back to the TV screen, and reached for his phone. A new world, indeed. They’d seen it coming, but not this soon, not like this. A hundred new plans needed to be made, and a thousand more needed to be adjusted. But first, one moment, two phone calls.

One ring, and a calm, warm voice. "’lo?"

"I need you."

He could hear the smile in Lily’s voice. "At the office?" she teased carefully.

"At the office first, yes."

"On my way." No questions, not from her, not ever.

Five rings, and just before the machine picked up, a terse, "Robert McCall."

"Turn on your TV, old son," Control said warmly. "We’ve just won the Cold War."

***

Hold on, you have gambled with your own life
And you face the night alone
While the builders of the cages
They sleep with bullets, bars and stone
They do not see your road to freedom
That you build with flesh and bone


Mickey Kostmayer took to the streets.

Part of him wanted, badly, to go into East Berlin. It amused him to think he could just walk right through the gate and walk the streets at will, after all the times he’d had to sneak in there. But he was also aware that there would still be agents on that side of the Wall. They might not be avowed enemies any more, but they weren’t allies, either, and the East Germans had plenty of reason to want him dead. He wouldn’t get the same welcome a civilian did, he was quite sure of that.

He was also aware that if Control had to retrieve him from East Berlin now, he was likely to be pissy about it.

So he stayed sensibly on the West side of the Wall, but he roamed the streets, watching everything. There was music everywhere, most of it American rock and roll. There was beer everywhere, too. Or whiskey, or vodka, even fine old wine. On every street someone offered him a drink. There was increasingly food offered, too. Mostly, though, there were people. All the people in the whole city seemed to be on the streets. The further he walked, the more foreign languages he heard. It wasn’t just the city. The whole world was coming to Berlin.

No one seemed to care that it was three in the morning.

Mickey began to see photographers, too. They reminded him of Anne Keller. Cameras always did. But after the fourth or fifth one, it occurred to him that Annie ought to be here. This was a once-in-a-lifetime event. The pictures would be once-in-a-lifetime as well. Knowing Annie, she could milk a Pulitzer Prize out of this.

He paused to get his bearings, then started back towards the safe house.

It seemed likely, actually, that she was already on her way. If that was true, he’d never find her in this crowd. But maybe he could catch her before she left, set up a rendezvous.

As he strode through Berlin, it came to him that he was, at least technically, still on assignment. If Annie came and anything went down …

"Have a beer, friend!" The tall German thrust a mug in front of Mickey’s face.

"No, thanks," Mickey said quickly. "I’ve got to go find my girlfriend."

"Your girlfriend, you say! Better make sure your wife doesn’t find out!" The German slapped him on the back, hard. "Hurry, friend, go find her!"

Kostmayer hurried on, shaking off the slap. By sunrise the whole city, East and West, would be falling-down drunk. By noon it was likely to be most of Europe.

Annie in Berlin, with him, while he was working. Annie meeting his co-workers. Meeting Ginger. He frowned. Meeting Lily, he amended. That sounded better. A party like this, there was no way Romanov would pass it up.

Unless she was at a much more private party.

He shuddered, shook his head to scatter that image. Even her ill-considered affair with Control couldn’t keep her from this party.

Annie with him in Berlin while he was working. He expected it to trigger his alarms, but it didn’t. It felt right.

She’s be eternally grateful, whatever else happened.

He hurried up a back alley, short-cutting across the business district. He was not really even sure she’d want to see him. Oh, for the pictures, sure, but him? They hadn’t parted on very good terms, last time he’d seen her.

No, he admitted, they’d parted on very bad terms.

He’d been cold and silent, and leaving, and Annie had been screaming at his back. Something on the lines of, ‘Damn you to hell, Michael Kostmayer, don’t you dare walk out on me again! And don’t you bother coming back!’ Mickey flinched, remembering it. But she didn’t mean it. She never did.

Still …

But this was different. Surely for this she’d come.

He shook his head, ducked around another large group, another proffered beer. Someone held out a three-inch high ham and cheese sandwich, on pumpernickel. After a half-step of hesitation, he took it, nodded his thanks, and went on.

He took a bite at the corner. The heavy horseradish and spicy ham bit back. It was wonderful.

The problem with him and Annie, he thought as he moved, was that they never saw each other. He was in New York a lot, but he was also on missions for weeks at a time. When he was home, half the time she was gone. Jaime Sullivan, her mentor, had done a great job promoting her work. She had art shows, book signings, lectures. She’d even been on a national talk show with her sequel to his photo book. There just wasn’t enough time when both of them were home.

Some of what she’d said in their last argument was true. He did expect her to clear her schedule to meet his, at least once in a while. And, he admitted, he changed his plans at the last minute, either to go on assignment or to help McCall with one of his people. It wasn’t really fair, and he was more than ready to admit it.

If only she didn’t scream about it.

The other problem with Annie Keller was that, like her mother, she liked to yell. The louder she got, the less Mickey listened to her. He knew it made her mad as hell when he just walked away from her rants, but he didn’t see any other way. If he yelled back, what did that get them? Two people yelling. She’d yell louder, he’d yell louder, it wouldn’t get them anywhere.

Kostmayer knew how to yell. He saved it for when he was working. He didn’t see the point, in a personal relationship.

He finished the sandwich a few blocks from the safe house, wiped his hands on his jeans. He just wished things could be more settled with him and Annie. He wished he could be sure she’d at least be coming back to him when she left. He wished …

"Excuse me, sir?" an American accent said.

Mickey snapped around. A rather small, rather old man was at his elbow, with a rather small, rather old woman beside him.

His sudden turn startled them both. "I’m sorry," the man stammered. "I didn’t mean to … do you speak any English?"

"A little," Kostmayer answered, with a heavy German accent.

"We wondered, my wife and me, if you could take our picture." The old man held out a camera, a tiny pocket 110. "Please, a picture?"

Kostmayer shrugged, took the camera, and aimed it.

"No, wait," the woman said. "Here, over here." She pushed the man to the front steps of a largish brick house, probably a bed-and-breakfast. "Here, like in the picture."

"The picture?" Mickey asked.

"Here, see?" She dug into her triple-sized purse and came out with a very old cardboard picture folder. She opened it, showed it to Mickey. In the picture, a rather small, rather young, very happy couple stood on these same steps. It was black and white, faded with age, but it was undoubtedly this couple.

"Our honeymoon," the old man said shyly. "In 1961."

"The year the Wall was built," Mickey observed.

"Yes. Yes. So you see why we had to come back here."

"He was so nervous at our wedding," the old woman said, patting her husband’s arm. "So upset, all this turmoil would ruin our wedding. I promised him that our marriage would last longer than this Wall."

Kostmayer grinned. "And you were right."

The old man nodded. "She’s always right," he said, with a conspiratorial wink. "That’s how our marriage has lasted."

Mickey took their picture, took several of them. They offered to buy him breakfast or a drink, but he declined and went on his way. When he looked back from the corner, they were necking like newlyweds.

He grinned as he trotted towards the safe house. He’d remembered, with their help, a lesson he’d learned early on with the Company, and that often applied in civilian life: Sometimes the old ways were best.

***

If you need me, call me
No matter where you are
No matter how far
Just call my name
I'll be there in a hurry
You don't have to worry


Lily arrived half an hour after Control called her. Markland and Russo were in his office, and Jacob Stock as well. He barely glanced at the young woman. "Find this Scotch, and deliver it here," he said, handing her a half-size memo sheet. "Then this note to the address on the envelope. Only to his hand, understand. And then this."

She took the pile of papers from him. "On my way," she said. "When does the celebrating start?"

Control smirked. "We are celebrating."

"Oh." She caught his eye, just for an instant, with a look that said, if you think this is a celebration, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

He nodded, just once, understanding perfectly. He could not wait to get her alone.

Lily nodded back, and was gone.

"Who are you buying Scotch for?" Markland asked.

Control turned his blue eyes coolly on the man who had once voted to have him executed. Then he sat down and continued planning, as if the man did not exist.

***

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...


Robert McCall sat on his couch, his hands in his lap, and watched the television.

He rarely watched television at all, sports sometimes, news, but not network TV, not for hours on end as his son sometimes did. The advent of 24-hour news had encouraged him, for a time, but it quickly became as filled with tripe as anything else. But this …

He stared at the television and he could not look away.

He watched through commercials, watched through commentary that was at least half wrong, Watched talking heads babble, and watched politicians who had had no part in this triumph claim the credit. But mostly he watched the Wall. Watched the party, watched the people, the dancing, the hugging, the crying, the celebration.

He should, he thought, get something to eat. Go to the bathroom. Change his clothes. Go out and see old friends. Call someone. Move off the couch. Do something. But he could not tear his eyes away from the scene.

Finally, he gave himself permission to just sit there. This, he thought, this is what you worked your whole life for. This celebration. Sit, enjoy it. Enjoy every damn minute of it.

And so he sat back, his hands in his lap, and he watched.

***

Well she'd like you to think she was born yesterday
with her innocent looks and her little town ways
when she's smilin' at me she's got angels in her eyes


Hours of phone calls, hours of planning and congratulations, hours of trying to get his people to focus on the fact that there were a million new challenges at hand. Three top East German agents had shown up at the safe house in Berlin already, wanting to defect. No one was sure what to do with them. No one in Washington seemed willing to make a decision.

No one in Washington seemed especially sober, either.

Lily returned, and he sent her out again with new errands. When she returned the second time, she brought a Styrofoam container laden with eggs and sausage, and a bag of still-warm cinnamon rolls. He looked at her curiously. "Breakfast," she said, gesturing towards the window. The sun was just breaking over the horizon.

Control realized two things at once: that he’d worked all night, which was nothing new surprise, and that he was ravenous. Slower, he realized that he was finally alone with Lily, albeit in his office and with the door open. It was better than nothing. "Have you eaten?"

She nodded. "Becky fed me. You want some coffee?"

"I’m not sure I should drink coffee you bring me."

Lily dropped her chin and looked at him. "You can trust meeee, Control," she purred.

"Right."

She went out and came back with coffee, two cups, hot and black and apparently unadulterated. He was half-way through his breakfast. She sat across the desk from him, drank her own coffee and waited.

"What?" he asked.

"Next assignment?"

He considered, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "I don’t have one, at the moment. Take a break, but stay close."

"All right."

She sat still for another moment. Control looked up at her, and the look in her eyes – unguarded, unabashed – was enough to make his breath catch. He wanted, suddenly, desperately, to kiss her. He wanted to be truly alone with her, he wanted to celebrate this victory with her, he wanted to make love to her savagely and then slowly. Normal men with normal jobs got to go home to their lovers at the end of the day.

He was not a normal man with a normal job, and she knew it as well as he did. The look in her eyes was not reproach. It was patient anticipation. She would wait, for as long as it took him to get away.

She was his Lily, his salvation, and she would wait. Control had never hated his job more than he did at that moment, on the morning when he could claim the biggest victory of his career.

***
As soon as the shareef was chauffeured outta there
The jet pilots tuned to the cockpit radio blare
As soon as the shareef was outta their hair
The jet pilots wailed …

An hour or more later, Control heard voices in his outer office. One, he was immediately certain, was Lily’s. The others were male, three or four of them, and they were half-arguing, urgent and hushed.

Curious, he up and moved silently to his door.

An unlikely quintet was busily negotiating there: With Lily were Stock, Sterno, Jimmy and Teddy Roelen, who took up about half of the available space. The gist of the conversation seemed to be, ‘I’m not asking him, you ask him.’ Control folded his arms over his chest and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "Ask me what?" he inquired quietly.

Startled, the agents fell silent. Then as one they turned to look at Stock. "We, uh, we want to have a party."

Control shrugged a quarter of an inch. "So have a party."

"A … uh, a Company party. You know, for everybody. Field ops and office staff and everybody."

He raised one eyebrow. "Why not just have a photo shoot in front of the Soviet embassy?"

"I had nothing to do with this," Jimmy stated. "I said it wasn’t a good idea."

"We’ll take care of security," Stock answered quickly. "Somewhere out-of-the-way, concealed. That won’t be an issue."

"All right. And?"

"And?"

"And why are you asking me?" Control pursued.

"We want to expense it," Lily answered brightly.

"I see." Control nodded, unimpressed. "You want the Company to pay for it."

"It’s a Company party," Roelen provided.

"Yeah," Sterno added. "It’s not like we’d socialize with these people under normal circumstances."

Stock glared at him. "You have to admit, Control, something like this doesn’t happen every day. We deserve a little celebration. Nothing fancy, just, uh …"

"An open bar," Lily said.

"And lots of food," Sterno chimed in.

"And music," Roelen added. "Maybe a DJ, or a band?"

"And all of this should come out of my operating budget?"

Jimmy cleared his throat. "Well, none of us have an operating budget."

Control considered each of them in turn. Only Lily seemed unconcerned about his reply. "Loud music, excessive drinking, bad take-out food, all out of my wallet."

The assembled agents considered, and then nodded. "Yeah, pretty much," Lily confirmed.

"And you’re the planning committee, I suppose."

"No," Jimmy protested, "we just came up with the idea …"

"You’re the planning committee," Control repeated firmly. "Conditions as follows: No KGB photo ops. Nobody drives drunk. And I don’t have to make any speeches."

The members of the newly-formed committee exchanged glances. "Deal," Stock agreed.

Control nodded. "When is this debacle taking place?"

Another round of looks. "We’ll let you know," Roelen promised.

"And where, is the bigger question," Stock said.

"I might know a place," Lily answered. "Let me make some calls."

"I’ll be in charge of food," Sterno volunteered. "I know a couple great places."

"Good," Stock said. "Then we’re going to need music … I don’t know about live music on short notice. What if we got tapes or something?"

"People," Control said quietly, "plan somewhere else."

None of them ever heard him. He went back into his office and shut the door.

***

She’s totally committed
To major independence
But she’s a lady through and through
She gives them quite a battle
All that they can handle


"Annie?"

She juggled the phone, finally managed to set down the bag of groceries. "Mickey? Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I’m fine. I’m in Berlin. You should come."

Anne Keller sighed. "I’ve tried, believe me. Every contact I could think of. There’s no way to get there for the next three days."

There was a discernable pause. "Do you want to come?"

"Of course I want to. The pictures would be incredible." She shook her head impatiently. If she worked for a news service, or a network, she might have had a chance. As an independent, it wasn’t happening.

"Get your stuff together," Mickey said. "I’ll find a way to get you here."

Anne paused. "Are you allowed to do that?"

"Don’t worry about it," he said, conveniently ignoring the question. "Just pack. And bring all the film you can carry, it’s going to be hard to get here."

She grinned. "Really?"

"Really."

"I don’t want to get you in any trouble …"

"Annie. Just pack. Gotta run."

The phone went dead. Bewildered, Anne put the phone down and stared at it. They hadn’t spoken for three weeks – he never called when he was working, and the last time he’d been there they’d had a fight – no, she’d had a fight, he’d ignored it and gone home, as usual – and then this, out of the blue.

She was absolutely certain whatever he had in mind wasn’t legal, or at least not completely legal.

But she was going to Berlin, and she was going to get the pictures of a lifetime.

She swiftly put away the groceries, then went to pack every camera she owned.

***

Step by step, heart to heart, left right left,
We all fall down like toy soldiers.
It wasn't my intention to mislead you,
It never should have been this way. What can I say?


A quiet, firm knock at his door finally prompted Robert McCall to move. He knew that knock. As he stood up, stiffly, he ran a rueful hand over his chin. It was rough with stubble. His teeth felt slimy, and his breath smelled bad even to him. His clothes did not smell particularly fresh, either. But it did not matter. She had seen him in his morning splendor before. She would not care.

He opened the door. "Good morning, Mira."

"Good Lord, have you been up all night?"

Robert nodded, gesturing towards the television. "I couldn't turn it off."

Mira smiled knowingly, took his hand and led him back to the couch. "I thought as much." She watched the flickering images. "It really is wonderful, isn't it? You must be so proud of yourself."

"Proud?" Robert wondered aloud. "I don't know that I have anything particularly to be proud of."

"You helped this happen."

He shook his head. "In some small way, perhaps."

"You're being too modest. It doesn't become you."

Robert sighed. This woman knew him too well, read him too well. "What I did, in the course of my career … may have helped this along. Perhaps. But there are so many other forces at work here. Economics, for one. The Soviet Union simply couldn't sustain its control, once it was overextended in Afghanistan …" He paused. There was no point in going into all of that, though Mira, of all people, would have followed the logic and history easily. "It is a great day for them," he agreed. "For all of us."

Mira studied him. "But?"

McCall shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. "But there are many unresolved conflicts in the area, and I'm afraid many of them will emerge now that the Soviet control is breaking up."

"Are you saying we were better off with the Communists?"

"No, no. Of course not." He paused to consider. Perhaps that was true, but he could not admit that aloud, not ever. "I think it may be a professional hazard, Mira. For every positive event, I see a thousand possible negative results. It's nothing. I'm accustomed to seeing shadows where there are none."

Her eyes never left his face. "My specialty is Early American history, Robert, but I do know a thing or two about Central Europe. There are shadows there, and they are dark and deep."

"But they are not my problem any more," McCall answered firmly.

Mira allowed this dismissal of the topic, though she was clearly skeptical. She nodded towards the TV. "Are you going?"

"To Berlin? I think not. Large drunken crowds are really not my favorite venue." He considered. "Perhaps in a month or so, when things have quieted down. I think I would like to watch them tear down that Wall with my own eyes."

"You should go," Mira encouraged. "You deserve it."

"Will you come with me?" Robert asked impulsively.

"I … what?"

He grinned. The question had startled him as much as her. Their relationship had been wonderfully companionable, but thus far it had also been consciously casual. Traveling overseas together would change that. Take it to the next level, as it were. He had given this next step no consideration at all, but as soon as he'd spoken, he was sure of his decision. "Come to Berlin with me," he asked again.

Mira paused for a good thirty seconds. One of the things Robert was coming to like best about her was that she simply stopped to think about things, without apology, without pretense. She would even tell him, on occasion, 'Be quiet, I'm thinking.' He liked her forthrightness.

Thirty seconds, however, was plenty of time for him to wonder if he'd just irretrievably botched this new relationship.

Then Mira nodded. "All right. It sounds fascinating."

"Good," Robert declared, hoping he didn't sound too relieved. "We'll compare calendars over breakfast, shall we?"

"It's nearly lunch time, Robert."

"Is it?" He touched his chin again. "Well, that would explain why I'm so hungry, wouldn't it?" He stood up. "Give me fifteen minutes to clean up, will you? And then we'll go find something to eat. If you don't have plans."

Mira looked up at him, bemused. "My plan, Robert, is to spend the afternoon with you, unless you have other plans."

McCall grinned. He bent to kiss her, lightly, mindful of his breath. "That sounds like a most excellent plan indeed."

***

When you were young and your heart was an open book
You used to say live and let live
(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did)
But if this ever-changing world in which we live in
Makes you give in and cry
Say live and let die


The top of the sign in the elevator was hand-written in bold red marker. It read: ‘What’s James Bond Got That We Don’t?’ Below, in smaller blue letters, it continued: ‘We know, we know – an endless expense account, hot and cold running women, and those wonderful toys – but besides that? A GREAT SOUNDTRACK! You want music at your party? Tell us what you want.’

There followed a half-sheet of blank lines.

Control rolled his eyes. The signs were everywhere, and filling up fast with musical suggestions.

This one, he noted with dour amusement, had been embellished with an asterisk, and a note which read, ‘Don’t forget, he also has a license to kill.’ There followed a reply: ‘Yeah, because in Britain you need a license for EVERY DAMN THING.’ Control didn’t know where the original note had come from, but the smart-ass answer was undoubtedly Lily’s.

In an undistracted corner of his mind, he began to have grave apprehensions about this party.

There seemed to be no backing out of it.

He punched the ‘stop’ button on the elevator, and added his own suggestions to the list, carefully disguising his distinctive handwriting. It was just better, he reasoned, if his agents had no real idea how much modern music he’d been exposed to of late.

Satisfied, he put his pen away and let the elevator resume.

***

Five hundred little women
Are calling at their hero's door
Yes, their hero is working overtime
He's squirming on an empty floor
And the heads they are a rolling
Cause the conqueror is on his way


Hours more of dispatching agents, seeing to new communications lines, provisioning. The morning slipped by, devoured by details, interrupted by telephone calls, visitors, back-slapping, hand shaking. With meticulous planning, Control sent his lover on one more errand and then told her to go home. She did not argue. At lunch time, Control narrowly managed to escape.

He was reasonably certain that today, of all days, no one would be tailing him, but he took a circuitous route to her apartment anyhow. He was positively fevered with desire for her. But even now – especially now – he was careful.

She met him at the back door of the apartment, drew him in and locked the door. "I was hoping you’d get away."

Control drew her tight in his arms and kissed her fiercely.

"Are you hungry?" she asked when he finally lifted his mouth from hers.

"No."

"I got a really good steak, and Scotch … I could make a salad, if you want, it’s heavy, for lunch, but I didn’t know quite what the proper celebratory meal was …"

"No," he said again, quietly. He lowered his arms to her waist. Then he bent, moved forward, and stood up with the woman thrown over his shoulder.

Lily squealed, not in protest.

"No steak," Control announced, marching toward the bedroom. "Not now." He stopped at the side of the bed and half-dropped her onto it. He considered her for a moment, laying there, gazing up at him with her come-and-get-me grin. Then he went to the foot of the bed and turned on the small television.

He shut the blinds, and by the flickering bluish images of unfolding freedom, he both received and gave a proper hero’s reward.

***

Nuclear Arms in the Middle East
Israel's attacking the Iraqis
The Syrians are mad at the Lebanese
And Baghdad does whatever she please
Looks like another threat to world peace for the Envoy


Lily Romanov rolled over slowly and gazed impassively at the telephone ringing beside her bed. It had been ringing at precise twenty-minute intervals for two hours. She had been too involved in other things to answer before, and the caller had not spoken to her answering machine.

She stretched indolently, enjoying the feel of the heavy cotton sheets against her naked flesh. The phone continued to ring, and she continued to ignore it. There was something deliciously indulgent, she mused, about spending your lunch hour in bed with your forbidden lover. Something even better about seeing your lover off to work and then falling back into bed.

The phone persisted.

If it was him, he wanted her to work. If it wasn’t, it was nobody she wanted to talk to.

Unless it was someone calling to tell her he was dead in the street somewhere …

With sudden frantic haste, she snatched up the phone. "What?"

"About time. Did I wake you?" a man’s voice purred. The connection was fuzzy, implying distance.

Lily sagged back against the pillows. "You did, actually."

"So you’re in bed?"

"Yes."

"Are you naked?"

She giggled. "Yes. What are you wearing?" she leered.

He hesitated. "Uh … well, leather."

"Everywhere?"

"No, just a jacket."

"And nothing else?"

Kostmayer laughed. "Okay, you win."

"Whatcha’ need, sweetie?"

"Big favor."

"You got it."

"Big favor," Mickey repeated.

Lily sat up in bed, arranged the covers over her lap. "I got it. Talk to me. Where are you?"

"Berlin."

"Ah. Good party?" She glanced toward the TV at the end of the bed, where the coverage continued.

"You would not believe how good this party is. You should come."

"It’s tempting."

"I want to get married."

Romanov hesitated. "That’s sweet, Mickey, but you know I’m seeing somebody else, right?"

"Not to you, smart ass. I want to ask Annie to marry me. Here, at the Wall."

"Is Annie in Berlin?"

"No. She’s in New York. Which is why I’m calling you. I need you to come to Berlin, and bring Annie, and my mother’s ring."

"I suppose you want it all today."

"Yep."

"Where’s the ring?"

"My brother has it."

"Your brother the priest?"

"Only brother I got. I’ll call and tell him you’re coming for it. St. Christina’s."

"You really expect me to set foot in a church for you?"

Kostmayer laughed. "You can do this, Lily. I have faith in you."

"Yeah. Anything else you want?" she asked dryly.

"That’ll do it. I’ll meet you at the safe house."

"You’re assuming I can talk Control into this."

There was a discreet pause. "I’m sure you can persuade him."

"You’re asking an awful lot here, Kostmayer."

"Yeah, like it would be such a hardship," he smirked.

"Well, one can hope. All right. Call your brother. We’ll be there, some time."

"Thanks, Lil. I already called Annie, she’ll be ready when you get there. And, hey, Lily? Don’t tell her why she’s coming."

"Duh. Go party. I’ll find you."

"Thanks, babe."

"No thing."

Lily put down the phone and considered for a moment. Control first. On the phone or in person? Mickey was right; he wouldn’t put up much resistance either way. Half the office has already left for Berlin. It was the party of all time, and also, from an intelligence standpoint, the opportunity of the century. Commercial flights would be booked solid, but she could work around that. Anne Keller was the sticking point. How was she going to justify dragging a civilian with her on this little junket?

She climbed out of bed and stretched again. Shower first, she decided. She always plotted better when she was awake.

***

She's a natural law, and she leaves me in awe
She deserves the applause, I surrender because
She used to look good to me, but now I find her
Simply irresistible


Control got back to his office mid-afternoon, after a relatively bloodless and champagne-soaked meeting. Romanov waited at the elevator for him, fell into step beside him as he walked towards his office. He greeted her with a nod, an eyebrow raised in question. "What?" he asked.

"Can I go to Berlin?"

"Why?"

"Party."

"That’ll look good on my staffing report."

"I want to get some really good pictures for the museum at Langley."

Control shook his head. "Well, that’s better than half the excuses I’ve heard so far. Ask Simms, he’s your department head."

"Can’t. He’s already gone."

"To Berlin."

"Yep. Forty-eight hours. I promise."

He glanced at her. Forty-eight hours sounded like an eternity. But she so rarely asked for anything, job-related or otherwise. In this case, when everybody in the office was angling to go to Berlin, it wasn’t even out of the ordinary. He might have sent her even if he hadn't been sleeping with her.

There was a deeper reason, as well. He'd been there when they built the Berlin Wall. He'd helped the last few people escape before the route was closed, watched helplessly while others were trapped, and while some died. He could not be there now, when the Wall opened; it was much too risky for his exalted rank. But Lily could be there. She was an extension of him, the other half of his heart. It was fitting. It was right.

Besides, he mused ruefully, he could use the rest. He might not survive another lunch hour with her.

She saw the agreement in his eyes, and mischief danced in hers. "Besides, I’ve been very good lately."

"Or very bad," he answered quietly, "depending on your view."

Lily grinned. "Or very good at being very bad."

"Go," Control ordered, before the conversation could get completely out of hand.

***

He sang as if he knew me
In all my dark despair
And then he looked right through me
As if I wasn't there


Father Nick made his way quietly across the sanctuary to the young woman. She was standing at the back of the church, staring intently at the statue, an especially graphic life-size Crucifixion. As he drew closer, Nick hesitated. Though her back was to him, her posture was one of contemplation, if not actual prayer, and he was reluctant to disturb her. Also, she didn’t seem to have noticed his approach. He knew from experience with his brother that it was unwise to sneak up on these people.

He stopped ten feet away from her and called, quietly, "Miss Romanov?"

The woman turned and smiled warmly. "Lily," she corrected, holding an elegant hand out to him.

Nick moved closer and shook her hand. He understood now what Mickey had said on the phone: You don’t need a description; you’ll know her when you see her. Nick had long since foresworn the company of women, and yet this one, with a smile, a word, and a touch of her hand, had rendered him ever so slightly breathless. He did not want to let that hand go. "I’m sorry to keep you waiting."

She waved it off, gently disengaging her hand in the process. "No worries." She looked back to the statue. "This must scare the hell out of little kids."

"Well," Nick answered dryly, "that’s kind of the point."

Lily glanced over at him, twinkling. "I suppose so. You have something for me?"

The priest shook his head. "I’m sorry, I got caught up in this meeting and I haven’t been over to the rectory yet. Two minutes, I promise, I’ll be right back."

"No hurry," she assured him.

He hurried anyhow. He retrieved the little box from his living quarters, and then hurried back. The woman was where he’d left her. She was sitting down in the last pew, still staring at the statue. Nick studied her as he approached again. He was very aware of people’s sensitivities about religious matters – a professional hazard, that awareness – and he’d found people in his brother's line of work especially resistant to any form of proselytizing. But when a person was obviously seeking, questioning, when there seemed to be a willingness, he felt obliged to tender an invitation.

He sat down sideways in the pew in front of her, draped one arm over the back and handed her the box. "Tell him I said it’s about time," he said quietly.

Lily nodded, pocketed the parcel. "I’ll tell him."

"What is it about the statue?" Nick asked. He looked over at it. Nails, thorns, blood, agony. Why this one, for her?

She glanced at the statue, then back at him. "Don’t you ever …" she began, and then stopped short. "Never mind."

"Most of my job description," Nick prompted, "is about answering questions. Go ahead."

She shook her head. "I love your brother like he was my own. I’m not about to start a firefight with you."

"Knowing Mickey like you do," Nick answered, "do you really think you’re going to say anything he hasn’t already said?"

Lily considered this for a long moment. Then she turned back to the statue. "Don’t you think there’s something fundamentally wrong with a religion whose most powerful symbol is torture?"

"Yes."

She turned back toward him, surprised. "Yes?"

"Yes. In my opinion, yes, there’s something fundamentally wrong with that. Organized religions in general, and the Catholic Church in particular, have always put way too much emphasis on the suffering and not nearly enough on the grace."

The woman continued to study his face. Nick stood up. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

Lily stood and followed him toward the front altar. "The last time a priest said that to me …" she began lightly, and stopped.

"Go on," Nick encouraged. "Confession is good for the soul."

"This particular confession wouldn’t do your soul one bit of good," she assured him.

Father Nick considered this as he walked up the side aisle. Her tone was light, playful – but sometimes that was a cover for things too painful to say outright. "Was it abusive?" he asked carefully.

She did laugh then, quietly. "No," she promised sincerely, "I was very gentle with him."

"Oh." Nick hoped he wasn’t blushing. He stopped at the corner of the front pew. "That statue," he said, gesturing to the one in the back, "used to be here." He turned his gesture to the statue suspended over the front altar, a beautiful Christ in flowing robes, uninjured and whole, his arms open in welcome. "I had it moved. Because this is the Christ I want my people coming to, the God of love and redemption and grace, not the God of suffering and torture."

The woman studied the new statue thoughtfully for a long moment.

"It’s easier to fill the pews with threats and pain," Nick continued quietly, "but I don’t personally believe that that’s what God had in mind."

"But that one," Lily finally said, nodding toward the back, "is easier to understand. Everybody has their own torture. Everybody can connect. This one," she nodded to the front, "this one’s harder, in a way." She shook her head. "Not everybody knows grace."

"You do," Nick guessed. She looked at him, surprised, but didn’t deny it. "You’ve known some tremendous grace in your life, recently. It’s what’s allowed you to be open to these questions now."

An uneasy smile danced over her face. Nick could tell that she wasn’t used to being read this well, and also that his guess had been dead on. "But the grace I found …" She stopped again.

"Wasn’t from God?" Nick asked gently. "Are you sure?"

She considered him, now. The priest proceeded carefully. "The grace that men show each other, that is also a gift from God."

Her eyes shifted, just her eyes. Something about them made the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end. "But the evil is a result of man’s free will?"

Nick sighed. "Yes."

"So God wants the credit for man’s grace, but won’t take responsibility for man’s evil?"

"Lily," he answered, very gently, "He did take responsibility." He touched her shoulder lightly, turned her back toward the crucified Christ.

After a very long moment, she sighed, and her eyes turned human again. "Oh."

He leaned closer. "Every morning at six-thirty, Saturday evenings at seven, Sunday mornings at eight and eleven. Visitors are always welcome."

Lily glanced over at him, her eyebrows coming up in an uncanny imitation of Mickey’s look, the one that said, ‘yeah, right, like that’s gonna happen.’ Nick shrugged. "I had your foot in the door, I had to take the shot."

She smiled, uncertainly. "Thanks, Nick. I gotta go."

"Give Mickey my love."

"I will." She turned and walked out, unhurried, thoughtful.

Nick watched her go, then turned back to the altar, opened his hands in a supplicating shrug to the Christ. "I tried. Your turn. Oh, and about my brother? The usual, okay?"

***

When will I see you again?
When will our hearts beat together?
Are we in love or just friends?
Is this my beginning or is this the end?


Anne Keller paced her apartment impatiently. The floor plan was huge and open; it had been a warehouse once. She had lots of room to pace.

Her small suitcase and her huge camera bag stood beside the door, packed and closed up tight. She had thirty-seven rolls of film, of all speeds. She’d drafted two of the neighbor boys to buy every roll in a ten-block radius. She’d been afraid to leave the apartment, afraid whoever Mickey was contacting would try to reach her while she was gone. But that had been three hours ago, and still nothing. She’d watched TV until she couldn’t stand it any more. It would take half a day to get there; the party would be over by then …

No, it wouldn’t, and she knew it. It was just so damn hard to be patient. So many pictures were getting away while she waited here.

Plus, she would get to see Mickey again.

Anne paused, smiled to herself, and went on. His invitation was completely unexpected. He was working. He never let her within a mile of anyone he worked with, never said more than a clue about where he was going or what he was doing, and now he’d invited her to join him in Berlin, while he was on an … operation? Was that even the right word? Take your girlfriend to work day. He’d broken all the rules he’d set up for himself, just to let her get these pictures.

She loved the man. Oh, but she loved the man.

Even if he was so damn difficult sometimes.

Batteries, she should throw in some batteries for the cameras. She went and rummaged in the dark room drawer. She found six, and also an ancient roll of film. Well, why not?

As she was stuffing them in her overstuffed bag, there was a very quiet knock on the door.

Anne jumped, then laughed at herself. She had been expecting someone, hadn’t she? Well, she’d rather been expecting a phone call, some directions, but whatever. She snapped the lock off and opened the door.

"Hi," the woman said cheerfully. "I’m Lily. Mickey’s fine."

"Gurk," Anne managed to reply. It was all that would come out.

She’d known when she heard the knock that it would be one of Mickey’s colleagues – or maybe a cab driver, or a delivery man – in any case, she’d been expecting a man. Not a woman, and not this woman – this was Lily? Lily that Mickey said was ‘pretty’? Lily that Mickey hung out with, confided in, roamed the world with? This was Lily Romanov?

Her emotions split sharply, between raging jealousy and an intense longing to photograph this woman, in all kinds of light, color, b & w, filters, outdoors, maybe nude, that face, oh, God, that face … this woman was Mickey's courier pal?

"Are you okay?" the woman asked quietly.

Anne was suddenly aware that she didn’t know what the chaos in her mind was doing to her face. "I, uh, hi, come in, I’m Anne, I, uh, I was expecting … like, a messenger or something."

"Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you."

The woman came in, and Anne shut the door behind her. Belatedly, she considered the second half of her greeting. "Mickey’s fine?" she asked curiously.

"He surely is," Lily confirmed. "Especially his ass."

Anne laughed. "Yeah." The she sobered. It hadn’t occurred to her, until that moment, that some day one of these people would appear at her door to tell her Mickey was dead. No, that wasn’t quite true – she’d just always assumed that it would be Robert McCall. Probably it would be, but possibly, too, it would be this woman. "Thank you," she managed to say. "I just talked to him, so I didn’t think … but it must be … I mean, people’s relatives must hate to see you coming."

Lily considered her for a moment. "I hadn’t actually thought about it that way, but I suppose you’re right."

"I’m … uh, oh, crap. I’m not usually this much of an airhead. I just … I wasn’t expecting you, I wasn’t … can we just start over from the top?"

"Okay," Lily agreed. She stuck her hand out. "Hi, I’m Lily Romanov."

Gratefully, Anne shook. "Hi, I’m Anne Keller. Thank you for coming. I hear you have a way to get me to Germany."

"Well, yes, but. There are a few conditions."

Anne regarded her with reserve. "Like what?"

"One, we’re taking a military flight. It will be loud, uncomfortable, and cold. And you will be hit on by soldiers."

"You can get me on a military flight? Is that legal?"

"No."

"Oh." Anne added, "You’re coming, too?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Next."

"All of the pictures you take in Berlin will be reviewed, and any we – the Company – find unsuitable for publication will be confiscated."

Keller frowned. "That’s like censorship."

"It’s not like censorship," Lily answered, "it is censorship. But since you’ve got no other way to get there, you’re in no position to argue about it."

"I’m up against the wall, is what you’re telling me."

"You got it. But very mild, I promise. All we’re looking to do is keep someone like me off the front page of Pravda. Keep my associates out of print. No Company faces, the pictures are yours."

Anne considered for a long moment. She didn’t like it, but she could see the sense in it. And, as Lily had so bluntly pointed out, she didn’t have a lot of choice. "Agreed."

"Three, we get copies of all the pictures you take, and can use and display as many as we want at the Company museum and in recruitment literature and all the jazz."

"You don’t want much, do you?"

"My ass is hanging out on this. I’ve got to cover it with something."

Against her will, Anne had to grin. She could see why Mickey liked this woman so much – aside from the obvious. "Can I shoot you some time?"

"I kind of hope it won’t come to that."

"No, no," Keller laughed. "I mean will you sit for me, can I take your picture? A lot of pictures. You have a great face."

"You wouldn’t be able to publish them."

"I don’t care."

Lily considered. "We can talk about it. You ready?"

"I guess. Let me grab my jacket."

"If you’ve got a parka," Lily advised, "bring it."

"That cold?"

"Unless you’re willing to huddled with soldiers for warmth."

"I’ll get my parka."

***

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.


Another knock on his door.

McCall sat up, stiff, reaching to rub the left side of his neck. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, his head on the arm. How long ago had that been? A thousand years or so, according to the pain in his neck. He clambered up and shuffled to the door, peered through the peep hole, then opened it. Becky Baker, his son’s live-in girlfriend, had a grocery bag.

She kissed him on the cheek and went to the kitchen. "I didn’t know if you’d been out for food," she said, stocking his refrigerator from the bag. Single-serving containers. It didn’t matter to Robert what was in them; they would all be delicious.

"I went to lunch, actually. But that was rather a long time ago. I have become a hopeless couch potato."

Becky shrugged. "It’s hard not to watch it. It’s so … I don’t know. It’s going to be one of those days, forever. ‘Where were you when you heard?’ Isn’t it?"

"I suppose it is."

"You’re going to the party, right?"

"The … party?" Robert asked cautiously.

"The Company party. Lily’s organizing it. Or helping, anyhow." Becky looked at him curiously, then turned and gestured to his telephone. The answering machine light said it had six messages. "Sunday night. You should go."

McCall nodded. "I’ll think about it. But I’ve been out of the game for some years now. This party is for the young people."

"This party," Becky answered, with uncharacteristic firmness, "is for all of you. You’ve earned it, and you should go."

Robert eyed her with approval. When he’d met her, years before, she had been a shy, stammering, badly frightened young woman. She was still shy, sometimes, but not with him. She knew exactly where she stood with him. "As you wish," he promised.

"Good." She kissed his cheek again. "I gotta run."

He walked her to the door. "How do you know about this party, anyhow? They didn’t rope you into catering it, did they?"

Becky shook her head. "No. But Lily’s got Scott making tapes."

"Tapes?"

"Music. She's making a song list, and he’s putting them on reel-to-reel for her."

"Ah."

"Eat something," Becky prompted as she left.

McCall locked the door behind her. He reached for the message machine, then stopped. Whatever was on it, it would wait until he’d eaten something.

Though he had to admit, he was curious about this party.

***

So baby, here's your ticket, with your suitcase in your hand.
Here's a little money, do it just the way we planned.
You be cool for twenty hours
And I'll pay you twenty grand.
I'm sorry it went down like this, someone had to lose,
It's the nature of the business,
It's the smuggler's blues.


Anne Keller’s nose itched.

She half-woke and moved to scratch it. She couldn’t lift her arm. Grumbling, more awake, she tried the other arm. It wouldn’t move either.

In an adrenalin surge, she was wide awake. It was loud, she was too hot, her parka smelled musty, and she was completely immobile, her hands folded across her chest and strapped down.

Where the hell am I? she wondered frantically, thrashing.

"Help you, ma’am?" a kindly man’s voice said. A face appeared over her, a crew-cut black man of middle years. In uniform.

Anne took a deep breath, remembering finally where she was. "Yes, please," she said sheepishly.

The soldier – no, airman – no, corpsman – made no move to help her. Instead, he simply prompted, "Remember your hands are right by the releases."

She remembered. She turned her hands awkwardly and was able to release the belts that held her in the bunk. She sat up, barely avoiding the bunk above her.

"Don’t forget your feet," the corpsman continued.

Anne nodded. She had indeed been about to try to stand up without releasing the restraint across her shins. "Thanks."

"We’ve all done it, ma’am. Hitting the deck is no fun at all." He watched while she released her legs and swung her feet over the side of the bunk. "Head’s back that way," he finished, gesturing toward the back of the plane. Then he moved off toward the front.

"Thank you," Anne called after him, loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.

She sat still for a moment, swaying lightly with the plane’s motion, getting her bearings. C-140, medical transport plane, dead-heading back to Germany. Only four seats, for the four corpsmen traveling with the plane. Fifty or so bunks, three-high on the bulkheads. Stack the wounded like cordwood to fly them home. No one traveled until they were stable enough for it. Emergency medical aid up in the front, but they didn’t like to have to use it, no, ma’am. Strap in for take-off, the corpsman had said, stay put until we reach altitude, then you can stroll around. But the engine noise and vibration had conked her out for – she glanced at her watch – five hours.

Well, it wasn’t like there was much else to do, anyhow. She couldn’t even take pictures of the airplane. They'd been rather firm on that point.

She wondered how Lily had managed to get them on the flight. From what she’d seen, it had involved a lot more chatting with mid-level officers and handing out doughnuts than any official paperwork. ‘Your name is Nancy Campbell,’ Lily had told her, and she’d given Anne the papers to prove it. ‘If anyone asks any questions, cop an attitude and send them to me.’

Two things Anne Keller was sure of: This wasn’t legal, and Lily Romanov did it all the time.

No wonder Mickey liked her so well.

Anne frowned, bit her thumb, and then shook it off. They were friends, Mickey and Lily, nothing more. Why else would the woman go to all this trouble, take all these chances for her? What, they were going to fly her all the way to Berlin so Mickey could dump her? Sorry, babe, it’s over, but as a consolation prize you get great pictures of the Wall?

They were friends. Nothing more.

She looked around. Where was Lily, anyhow? When Anne was being strapped in, the spy was in the bunk across from her, fitting her own straps. Now there was no sign of her. Carefully, Anne slid to her feet, holding the upper bunk for balance. She looked up and down the aisle. The four corpsmen were playing cards at a make-shift table. No Romanov.

Anne made her way unsteadily to back to the head. It was roughly the size of a phone booth, and smelled peculiar. A hand-printed warning, written directly on the wall, helpfully advised against flushing while seated ‘unless you want your ass in the crack until we land’. Lovely, Anne thought, wrestling with her parka that seemed to take up the whole room. Just lovely.

When she emerged, Lily was coming off the flight deck, wearing a blue flight jacket and carrying a thermos. She flopped onto Anne’s empty bunk, gestured for the woman to join her. "Coffee?" she offered, pouring the lid half-full.

Anne considered. It would mean using the head again later; at least she’d know to take the parka off next time. Her hands were cold. The coffee smelled great. "Sure." She took a drink, handed the cup back, and was unsurprised when the other woman drank from it as well. "Nice jacket."

Lily grinned. "Yeah, it’s the captain’s. I’ll probably have to give it back later."

"How in the world did you do this?" Anne gestured at the plane.

"Medical transports are always way more comfortable than standard troop planes. Better for sleeping, anyhow."

"That’s not what I meant."

"I know." Lily handed the coffee back. "I can’t tell you." She considered a moment. "There are two kinds of people in the world. The ones who make the rules, and the ones who do the work." She plucked at her flight jacket. "If you can get to the ones who do the work, and convince them that the ones who make the rules won’t find out about it, you can get a hell of a lot done pretty easily."

Anne grinned. "Sounds like something Mickey would say."

"Yeah. Because I taught him that."

Anne could almost hear the two of them debating who taught who what. "Did you ever sleep with him?" she blurted, before she could bite it back.

Romanov wasn’t offended; she didn’t even seem surprised. "Who, Mickey?"

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …"

"… sure, lots of times."

"Oh." Anne took a big swig of coffee. She hadn’t meant to ask, and now she was sorry she had. She wanted to be angry, but she was so startled she couldn’t even think if she had any ground for it. "Oh," she said again.

"Sorry, did you mean to ask if I ever had sex with him?"

"What?"

"Sex?"

"Yes."

"No."

Anne blinked. "No?"

"No. Slept with him, yes. Sex with him, no."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Not even once?"

Lily laughed. "That would be covered by ‘never’, I think. No, never, not even once."

"Why not?"

The spy – Anne wondered if she should even think of her that way – took her coffee back. "You sound disappointed."

"No," Anne protested. "I’m just surprised."

"Because a man and a woman can’t have a relationship that doesn’t involve sex?"

"No, but … but look at you. You’re gorgeous, and you get to share his whole life …"

"No," Lily corrected gently, "just the ugly parts of it."

"But …" Anne made herself take a deep breath. "I’m sorry, I’m being an idiot. I didn’t even mean to ask in the first place, it’s none of my business."

"I think it’d be your business if the answer had been yes," Lily answered. "It’s not an unreasonable question." She considered. "If you’re going to be on the fringes of the community …" she raised one eyebrow, checking that Anne knew what community she was referring to, " … you’re going to hear rumors about us. Me and Mickey. We haven’t directly encouraged them, but we haven’t done anything to discourage them, either. People wondering about us serves a purpose. So it’s better if you know this now."

Anne stared at her. What purpose, she wanted to ask, but she knew she wouldn’t get an answer to that one. There was so much that went on in Mickey’s life that she didn’t know about, so many secrets that this woman got to share with him and Anne didn’t. Yet what had Lily said? ‘Just the ugly parts.’ That was probably true, too.

"You have brothers, right?" Lily asked.

"Many."

"When you were little, did you ever tongue-kiss one of them, just to find out what it was like?"

Anne flushed, but she also nodded. "Yeah," she admitted.

"I kissed Mickey once," Lily announced. "It was just like that."

"Like kissing your brother?"

"Yep. And that’s as far as it ever went."

Anne nodded. "Thank you for telling me that."

The other woman nodded, half-refilled the coffee mug. "Now Nick, on the other hand, I don’t have all this history with, he’s got possibilities."

"Nick the priest?"

"Yeah." Lily’s mischievous smile made it clear that she was just joking – mostly. "Well, you know what Protestant girls call priests, don’t you?"

"I’m afraid to ask."

"Fair game."

Anne laughed. "I’m going to hell just for talking to you, aren’t I?"

"Oh, yeah," Lily agreed. "But look at the bright side."

"I know, I know. All my friends will be there."

***

But who are the ones that we call our friends--
These governments killing their own?
Or the people who finally can't take any more
And they pick up a gun or a brick or a stone
There are lives in the balance
There are people under fire
There are children at the cannons
And there is blood on the wire


The print-out was literally hot off the press when it was delivered to Control. The ink on the "Eyes Only" stamp was still damp.

He read the teletype anxiously. They had only recently managed to tap the telephones in the DDR leadership offices in Germany. This call, he had been told, had come directly from the Kremlin. It had come, in fact, from Gorbachev himself.

The Soviet leadership could still screw this deal. Control was very, very afraid that he would tell them to close the Wall. If that happened now, this late, there would be riots, tanks in the streets of Berlin. Piles of bodies, gutters full of blood.

Gorbachev had asked the East Germans how they had behaved. Their speaker, tentatively identified as Hans Modrow, potentially the new Prime Minister, had told the Kremlin chief nervously that they had decided it was right to accept the will of their people, instead of acting against them.

Gorbachev replied, "You are right."

Control sat back and closed his eyes. Relief surged through his veins like a drug. There would be no blood, no innocents killed, not in Berlin, not today.

Then he opened his eyes, set the teletype aside, and turned his attention to Bulgaria, where Zhivkov was also being replaced as Prime Minister. After 35 years in power, Control considered it unlikely that the tyrant would go down without a fight.

***

Well there's too much traffic and I can't pass
So I try my best illegal move
A big black-and-white come an' touch my groove again
Go on and write me up for 125
Post my face Wanted dead or alive
Take my license and all that jive
I can't drive 55


"Oh. My. God." Anne Keller fumbled blindly for a camera, any camera. She didn’t want to take her eyes off the scene in front of her.

"Amen to that," Lily answered quietly. "What do you need?"

"Ah … the Nikon." Anne dug through her pack, stashing the Kodak she’d been using. Lily came up with the Nikon. The big camera pack had been too heavy; they’d divided up the gear when they left the car, hours ago and miles back. Anne took the camera gratefully, checked the speed and the film. Plenty of film. But this crowd, so many faces – a hundred rolls of film wouldn’t be enough. She brought up the camera and started shooting. "How close are we?"

"Twenty-three blocks," Lily answered precisely. "Your feet holding up?"

"They’re okay," Anne lied. Her feet, in fact, hurt all the way to her knees, but she didn’t care. They hadn’t had a choice about the car. The highway, seven lanes wide, all inbound, had looked like a parking lot, and still did. They’d made good time on foot. But now, closer to the Wall, the pedestrian crowd was almost impassible.

"Tell me when you’re ready," Lily said patiently, "and I’ll get us closer."

Focus, shoot. Focus, shoot. Anne nodded. Whatever else Lily Romanov was, she’d turned out to be a hell of a good tour guide and assistant. The question ‘how’ flitted across her mind and vanished. It didn’t matter how; if Lily said she could do it, she could. "See if you can find another roll of 200," she said, not taking the camera from her face.

An old woman in gray held two wriggling, tow-headed toddlers, one on each arm. They were too heavy for her, a larger man had to hold her up, but she wouldn’t let them go. Tears streamed from her gray eyes. They were beautiful.

"I wish we could get higher," Anne murmured.

Lily located the film, stuffed it in her pocket, slung her pack, and grabbed Anne’s hand. "Come on."

Grinning, Anne snaked through the crowd after her. She’d have lost her in ten seconds without that hand. It was like being a kid again, holding hands with her best friend and zipping through the crowd, unstoppable because they were together.

Lily led her up the steps of an apartment building and popped the security lock with barely a pause. Still leading Anne by the hand, she sprinted up the center stairway.

"But where … what …" Anne panted.

On the top floor, Lily charged to the front of the hall and rapped sharply on the apartment door.

"We can’t just …" Anne protested.

A plump, older woman opened the door. "Da?"

Lily held up a camera. "This is Anne Keller, the photographer. Can she use your balcony for a minute?"

The woman stared at them. Anne doubted she spoke any English; surely Lily spoke German, didn’t she? But then the woman smiled broadly and stepped back. "Come in, come in, welcome! This way, this way!"

She led them across her cluttered living room to the French doors that opened onto a tiny balcony. Anne couldn’t spare the time to be impressed by Lily’s latest accomplishment. She had exactly the shot she wanted. She checked her settings swiftly, shot several pictures in each direction. The street below was packed with people. "Perfect," she murmured, "perfect!"

"You will celebrate with me?" the German woman said.

Anne turned. The woman held a silver tray, dust still clinging after a hasty wiping. On it were three slender glasses of clear liquid.

"Sure," Lily said.

"Wait," Anne countered before she could take the glass. "Please," she said to the older woman, "please, may I take your picture?"

The woman hesitated, then nodded, smiling shyly. Anne brought her onto the balcony, turned her so that her back was to the crowd, and shot her from just inside the doorway. It was a perfect picture: The old woman, so obviously and typically German, offering hospitality to strangers on her best silver, against the backdrop of wild celebration in the streets. The look on the woman’s face, excited, hopeful, fearful, lonely. Anne knew, even as she shot it, that it would go on her apartment wall – and would probably pay her rent for a year. If she took no other pictures today, this was the one she’d come for.

Unless there were more out there, and there were.

"I have no one to celebrate with," the woman said when Anne lowered the camera. "I’m so glad you came." She offered the glasses again, and the younger women each took one. She took her own, lifted it, hesitated. "It seems too soon to drink to peace."

"To absent friends," Lily suggested.

The old woman nodded solemnly. "And to those who have gone before."

They tossed the drinks back.

The liquor was, Anne thought, almost tasteless. Then her tongue caught fire. Then her throat, and then all the way down to the fireball in her stomach. "Oh," she breathed, and was a little surprised that no flames came out of her mouth.

"Another?" their hostess offered.

"No, thanks," Anne panted.

"We have to go," Lily said.

The old woman nodded. "I know."

"Thank you so much for helping us," Anne offered, trying to ease the woman’s renewed loneliness.

The woman simply patted her arm.

"If you go down to your front steps," Lily added quietly, "the whole world will come and celebrate with you."

The woman thought about this for a moment. Then she nodded with resolve. "You’re right, of course. Of course. I will get my coat."

They waited while she locked her apartment, then walked her down to the street. The old woman stayed there, on her stoop, but even before her door closed the neighbors were calling to her from their own steps.

Lily grabbed Anne’s hand and they were off again.

At a corner, they stopped long enough to share a beer to drown the vodka’s fire. "Let’s hit the safe house," Lily said. "You can stash some of the gear until you need it."

"Okay," Anne agreed uncertainly. "Am I allowed to be in the safe house?"

"You’re big on rules, aren’t you?"

"I just don’t want to get you in trouble."

Lily grinned. "Don’t worry about it. I almost sort of have permission for you to be here. Come on."

She took off again. This time she led off the main routes, through side streets and alleys and twice through someone’s yard. Anne was hopelessly lost, except that she knew they were still headed mostly east. Though the crowd no longer threatened to separate them, she still held Lily’s hand. We’re like schoolgirls, she thought. She’s the troublemaker, and I’m the one she’s leading astray.

It made her giggle.

Lily led her back toward the crowd. It was thicker than ever. "Hold tight," she said. "We’re almost there." Through the crowd, up the steps of a perfectly ordinary-looking building, three stories high, brick. There was a copper address plate. Lily blocked it from view with her body, pushed it aside to reveal a keypad. She glanced over to make sure that Anne was watching. "If you get separated," she said, "you come back here and let yourself in. 777-69-50. Lucky numbers. Can you remember that?"

"Jackpot, oral sex, cops," Anne repeated immediately.

"I think I love you." Lily keyed the numbers, pushed the door open, and officially escorted Anne Keller into the world of international espionage.

The place looked like a frat house after a weekend bender. It smelled like it, too.

Lily caught Anne’s look and laughed out loud. "Glamorous, huh? C’mon, we’ll find you a room."

"Uhh …" Anne followed, looking around. Worn couches, a chair with half the stuffing pulled out of the arm, take-out containers everywhere. A scratched-up stereo, a brand-new TV set. A frat house, she confirmed to herself. Lily was already climbing the stairs, and Anne followed quickly.

"Here," Lily said, pushing a door open. The room had two sets of bunks, all bare mattresses. There was a heap of folded bedding on one. Two tall metal storage cabinets completed the furnishing. Lily opened the closest cabinet. It was empty, except for a padlock on the center shelf. "Stow what you don’t need in here," she said, "and lock it up. Just don’t forget to leave the key when you pack out."

Anne dropped her gear on a bunk and started sorting, still looking around. "I guess I expected a lot more James Bond-y stuff."

"Uh-huh," Lily answered vaguely. "There are steel doors on every floor of this building. Don’t go picking any locks, okay?"

Anne gulped. "Okay. How are we going to find Mickey?"

"He’ll find us," Lily promised. "There’s a head – a bathroom, sorry – at the end of the hall, if you want to clean up. I’m gonna go get a sit rep. I’ll be back."

Anne watched her go, sorting swiftly. She found her safari jacket and put it on, stuffed her parka into the bottom of the storage cabinet. On reflection, she took the jacket back off and dug out a heavy wool sweater. She’s stolen it from Mickey’s dresser; it had reindeer on it, and she couldn’t imagine him wearing it anyhow. She put it on, then put the jacket back on over it. She stuffed all of the smaller pockets with blank film. Then she bagged the exposed rolls in a lead-lined zipper pouch and put it in the cabinet. She checked her spare cameras and tucked them into their assigned pockets. Checked her lenses and pocketed them as well. She grabbed a spare set of batteries – and then another – and tucked them into her back pocket.

It was an afterthought to carry her wallet and passport as well.

She stowed the rest of her gear and locked the cabinet, tucking the key into the inside breast pocket of the jacket and zipping it. She was, she thought with satisfaction, ready to safari.

Almost.

With a sigh, she took off the jacket again, laid it on the bunk, and went down the hall to the head. This one also had a sign on the wall, but at least is didn’t warn of entrapment. It merely said, 'Your mom called. She’s not coming to clean up after you any more. Take a hint.'

Anne shook her head and made her way back to the bunk room. The whole place was so damn quiet it gave her the creeps. Just outside, the city was going crazy, but in here … she passed a closed door, steel, and resisted the temptation to see if it was locked. She was suddenly very aware of how precarious her situation might be. She was inside a Company safe house alone, unescorted – she had no idea where Lily had gone – and unauthorized. Anyone besides Mickey or Lily who found her here was likely to ask a lot of questions. For all she knew, she was being watched every moment. She glanced around, but saw no cameras, which probably didn’t mean a damn thing either way.

She had purposely not asked much about the organization her lover worked for. What she knew about the intelligence community, she realized, was what little she had learned from Mickey and Robert McCall, and what she’s learned from watching James Bond.

James Bond never hung out in frat houses, so he wasn’t much help.

Maybe the rooms with the steel door were soundproof. Maybe that’s why the house had such a weird, empty vibe to it.

Anne shook her head impatiently. Maybe it was just that everybody was out partying.

She turned the corner into the bunk room. "Hey, girl."

Anne jumped. "Mickey!"

He stood up and wrapped his arms around her. She nestled her face against his neck, holding him tightly, only half in relief. She took a deep breath. He smelled – well, not wonderful, that wasn’t the word, but warm and familiar and safe. Her apprehensions about the house vanished. So did her memories of their last argument – almost.

"Good trip?" Mickey murmured.

"Uh … interesting, anyhow," Anne answered. "Lily caught us a medical flight, so I got to sleep most of the way."

"Good." He released her enough to lean back and look at her. "You hungry?"

Anne thought about it for a split second. "I’m starving," she realized.

He nodded. "C’mon, we got time for a quick bite."

"Time before what?"

"The East Germans are sending a crane to start demolition," Kostmayer answered. "I figured you'd want pictures."

"Demolition of the Wall?"

"Uh-huh."

"Damn straight I want pictures. How close can we get?"

Mickey shook his head. "Not very, but I can get you a great angle from the roof."

"Telephoto," Anne thought out loud. She moved out of his arms, picked up her vest and put it on, patted her pockets for the giant lens. "Okay. Let’s go." She started for the door, then paused. "Where’s Lily?"

"She’s around," Mickey answered. "Don’t worry about it."

The woman nodded. It seemed a little rude to just go off without saying something, but maybe she’d run into Lily later. She hoped so; she had no clear idea how she was going to get home without her. "I like her."

"Lily? Yeah. She’s very likable when she puts her mind to it."

Anne cocked her head. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Mickey."

He shrugged. "I like her too, a lot. But there’s way more to Lily Romanov than meets the eye. And not all of it is nice."

"Like you," Anne said, before she could stop herself.

Just like that, the argument was back between them.

Kostmayer regarded her calmly. "Yeah. Like me."

Anne could see the muted pain in his hazel eyes, so well-hidden that no one who hadn’t known him a lifetime could see it. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, especially now. "I’m sorry."

He shrugged, carefully indifferent. "For what?" His arms came up, crossed protectively over his chest.

She could feel him pulling away from her, feel him shutting down his emotions. She hated it. He had been so glad to see her, so open, and then she opened her big mouth … this once, she thought sternly to herself, just this once don’t lose your temper. "Thank you for getting me here. You went to an awful lot of trouble."

"No, I didn’t," Mickey said, "I just made a couple phone calls."

Anne watched him, watched the wariness recede a little from his eyes, from his posture. "Yeah, but it’s all about knowing which phone calls to make. You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?"

"Probably not."

"Is Lily?"

Kostmayer smirked, warming now that the fight had been averted. "Not a chance. She’s bullet-proof."

"Why?"

"Can’t tell you. And you wouldn’t believe me if I did."

"Well, that’s good to know, anyhow."

Mickey uncrossed his arms. "C’mon, I’ll find you something to eat before the crane shows up. After that the crowd should thin out some and I’ll get you to the Wall."

Anne grinned. "Why does that sounds so dirty when you say it?"

"Because you know me too well."

She took his hand and squeezed it. "Yes, I do. Let’s go."

***

Can't you feel 'em circlin', honey
Can't you feel 'em swimmin' around
You got fins to the left, fins to the right
And you're the only bait in town


There were half a dozen agents – Anne assumed they were agents – on the roof of the building. Two of the men had radios and binoculars, and seemed to be actually working. Three more were clearly just observers; they all had mugs of beer. The sixth was a woman, a stunning, auburn-haired woman who kept glaring daggers at Mickey.

Anne stood at the very edge of the roof. Between the safe house and the gate, the people were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Mickey was right, of course; they’d never get any closer than this. She let the camera with the telephoto lens rest on its strap around her neck. It was too heavy to hold up for any length of time. She shot crowd pictures with her wide-angle on the Kodak. It was cold, but the sky was brilliant clear blue. The prints would be spectacular.

There was no one celebrating on top of the Wall at the moment. Instead, East German soldiers stood there, spaced out to about six feet or so, keeping them off. They had guns, but they seemed to have forgotten about them. Every so often a flower or candy would sail up to them from the crowd. They were relaxed, joking around.

Anne caught another glare from the half-tone redhead. "Who is that?" she asked Mickey quietly.

He growled. "That’s Ginger. Don’t talk to her."

"She wants you."

"Yeah. In a pine box."

Anne shook her head and went on shooting. Aside from Ginger, the other agents barely seemed to notice her. She wondered what the cover story had been.

"There," Mickey said, pointing.

On the far side of the Wall, up the road, a battered old crane rumbled around the corner and made its way slowly to the Wall. A wrecking ball hung from a rusty chain from the end of the crane. It stopped, burping a cloud of blue-black smoke, and stopped.

Anne raised her bigger camera, braced the lens with her left hand and settled her elbow against her ribs. She began a very disciplined shoot, no more than one frame every fifteen seconds.

The soldiers moved back on from the crane, staying on top of the Wall but giving it plenty of clearance. The guard commander went and spoke to the crane's driver. The two of them laughed, shook hands, and the operator climbed back into his cab.

The crowd went quiet.

The crane fired, loud and grating in the new quiet, and also wonderful. The operator pushed levers, and the wrecking ball began to swing. It was slow at first, swinging in a bigger arc with every pass. The crowd began to swing with it, both their bodies and their voices raising and lowering with the ball.

The crane turned just a bit, and the ball hit the wall with a satisfying 'thwack.' It didn't actually do much damage, but the people at the Wall went crazy.

Anne Keller shot frames as fast as her camera could wind.

The crane continued to batter at the Wall until a large chunk of concrete fell from the top. Then the operator stopped and retreated, making way for the bulldozers that would have to remove the wreckage before he could continue. The crowd moved into the very tracks of the machine, eager hands tearing at the broken rocks on the ground. People pocketed tiny parcels, or carried away hunks as large as they would carry.

The bulldozers would not be necessary, not for this piece.

Anne's camera stopped. Her film had run out. She became aware that she looking straight down into the street. That she was, in fact, leaning way out from the edge of the roof, and that she would have fallen if not for the fact that someone was holding the back of her jeans. With a startled giggle, she leaned back and fell against Mickey, whose chilly fingers tickled her butt before he released his grip.

"Glad you were here for that," she said, flushed.

"Yeah," Kostmayer answered dryly, "me, too. Nothing like falling right into your work."

"Sorry. I got carried away."

He considered her for a moment, something sneaky behind his eyes. "Want to go up on the Wall?"

"We can’t. The soldiers …"

Mickey gestured. Anne turned and looked; the soldiers were climbing down, giving the surrendering the top of the Wall to the party crowd again. She turned back and grinned. "Yeah."

"Let’s go."

***

Last year today seemed a long way away
And ahead of me (the memory)
A new face and street, people who meet you
Instead of me (remember me)
They bring you, they take you
They own you, they make you


The Berlin Wall was ten feet high. It should have been difficult to climb to the top – even without the threat of gunfire. But there was nothing to it. Mickey grabbed Anne by the waist and boosted her up, and the people already on the Wall reached down and dragged her up. Then they reached back for him.

Kostmayer stood there a moment, just looking around. Of all the places he thought he might end up in his life, this hadn’t even made the list. He was standing on the Wall. He was standing on the mother-loving Berlin Wall.

His whole career he had avoided or evaded this Wall. This Wall and all it stood for. Now the Wall was coming apart. There were people on the Wall, and people below, with hammers, tapping away little chunks of it. There was more heavy equipment coming in, jackhammers and cranes, bulldozers and dump trucks. The Wall was coming down.

Everything it had stood for was coming down.

Beyond the dust, Mickey could already see the clouds of new troubles. The unrest in the opened states. Ethnic rivalries, buried for decades. Grudges. Power vacuums and power grabs. The whole Eastern Bloc would go up like a tinderbox, if the Soviets folded too fast. It would become Eastern Hell. But right here, right now …

He turned, and realized that he’d been canting over the edge, that Anne had him by the belt, as he’d held her on the roof earlier. He caught his balance and caught her in his arms, kissed her thoroughly. "So, this is what I do at work," he said loudly.

"I like it," she yelled back. "Every day’s a party."

"Well, some days are better than others." Somewhere a boom box started again, American rock, naturally. The crowd cheered, and began to dance. People on the edge fell off, but it didn’t matter; the crowd below caught them and heaved them back up.

Anne got her elbows down and finally got her camera out. The people closest to her began posing, crowding each other to get in every shot, making faces, sticking their fingers in their ears, making bunny ears behind their friends. She obligingly took their pictures anyhow.

She moved along the Wall, through the crowd. Mickey followed her with some difficulty, sometimes falling behind, sometimes catching up. She glanced back. "This is great!" she shouted over the music. "These are going to be the best shots."

Mickey grinned. "I thought you’d like it."

"I love it!" She kissed him quickly, then turned back to the crowd shots.

"And me?" he asked, close behind her.

"What?"

"Do you love me?"

She glanced back again, distracted and a little confused. "What?"

"Do you love me?" Mickey asked again.

"Of course I love you." She turned again, her camera up.

Kostmayer caught her elbow with one hand, brought the jeweler’s box out with the other the popped it open. He waited until she looked back again. "Will you marry me?"

Anne’s mouth came open. "What?"

He grinned self-consciously, thinking that he might have found a quieter place to ask. "Will you marry me?" He stuck the box out towards her.

The crowd shifted and surged, and half a dozen partiers fell off the Western side, screeching in surprise and delight. Anne spun back around to shoot them as they fell, leaning out to capture the joyful catches below, the body surfing as the celebrators were set on their feet unharmed. She very nearly fell with them, and Mickey struggled to hold her up and keep his own balance.

She turned back, her eyes serious and sad. She reached for the box, but did not take it; instead, she snapped it closed and folded his hand over it. Then she answered his question. "No."

***

Let me hear your balalaikas ringing out
Come and keep your comrade warm.
I’m back in the USSR.


Lily Romanov moved along the top of the Wall carefully, weaving between the dancers. It would have been faster and easier to get to her destination on the ground, but she could not resist this chance.

"Beautiful comrade! Have some vodka!"

Lily barely glanced at the big Russian. She took his bottle, drank deeply, and handed it back, almost without breaking her stride. It was nothing, just strangers celebrating together, as were all the people of the divided city.

Another time, a quieter place, he could give her whatever documents he'd procured from the Soviet embassy. For the moment, the spies were off duty. He winked, as any man might wink at a pretty girl, and they went their separate ways.

***

Well, it ain’t no fun
Staring straight down a forty-four.
Well he turned and screamed at Linda Lu
And that’s the break I was looking for.
And you could hear me screaming a mile away
As I was headed out towards the door.


Kostmayer glided through the party that filled the streets of Berlin. He wanted to be angry, to be furious, but it wouldn’t come. Instead, he was just cold and empty. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He went back to the safe house because he didn’t know where else to go. The door was locked, as always; he pushed aside the copper address plate and keyed the combination into the pad. As he opened the door, a wall of sound hit him – ‘Dirty Deeds’ played at a volume that threatened the plaster on the walls. Swearing, he crossed the front room and snapped the stereo off.

The silence was a little unnerving. "Hello?" he called softly.

"Hey," Romanov answered from the next room, "who killed the jams?" She appeared in the doorway with half a sandwich in her hand.

"That crap’ll rot your brain," he answered. He went and took a bite of the sandwich. "Thought you’d be out partying."

"Yeah," she answered, "I thought I’d better soak up some of the vodka." She gestured with the sandwich. "Where’s your woman?"

"Ain’t got one," Mickey answered briskly. He took the rest of the sandwich from her. "She said no." He took another bite.

"Say what?"

He shrugged, chewing. "She said no."

"Why?"

"Don’t know." A third bite, and the sandwich was gone.

"Did you ask?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Mickey wiped his hand on his jeans. "Cause I don’t care."

"Okay," Lily answered. "I am suitably impressed by your muy macho show of nonchalance. Now give."

He shrugged, ran his fingers through his hair. "She says we never talk about stuff."

"You don’t," Lily agreed. She went back to the kitchen. Mickey followed her. Lily opened the refrigerator, and they both gazed into it forlornly. Finally she took out a can of Coke, opened it, and took a long slug.

"We talk," Mickey said, taking the Coke.

Romanov eyed him. "Can I get you a snack, Kostmayer, or are you just going to steal all of mine?"

"Yours are better."

She sighed and went back for another soda. "So what don’t you talk about?"

"How would I know?"

"You could ask Anne."

Mickey shrugged. "It doesn’t matter. It’s over." His voice was flat, emotionless.

"Uh-huh. So you had me enter a church, talk to a priest, scam Control and fly your girlfriend half-way around the world illegally, and now it’s just over."

There was a flash of pain in Mickey’s eyes and then it was gone, hidden. "Yeah."

"You are so full of shit."

"What do you want me to do, Lily? I can’t just talk her into it."

"Have you tried?" she challenged.

The pain returned, and this time stayed. "You know I don’t … I can’t … I’m no good at dealing with people that way. I’m, uh, you know, the action guy."

Lily smirked. She opened the refrigerator again, but there was still nothing she wanted in there. "Were you two having trouble before this?" She shut the door, moved to the cookie cupboard.

Kostmayer hesitated. "Some, yeah."

"What about?" She took an Oreo from an open bag, squeezed it, found it mushy, put it back in the pack, and put the whole package back in the cupboard. She got an unopened bag and tore it open, handed a stack to Mickey and got more for herself.

He hesitated through the whole cookie operation. "About … how our lives fit together. Or don’t. Between her going and me going …" He opened an Oreo and scraped the cream off with his top teeth.

"And you thought an engagement ring would fix that?"

"I thought it would … define the parameters of our arrangement."

Lily stared at him.

"I thought if we were married," Mickey explained desperately, "things would settle down."

"Ah." She took a big swig of Coke. "How?"

"What?"

"How are Mickey and Annie married different from Mickey and Annie dating?"

He shrugged, hesitant again. "I don’t know. We'd live together, for one thing. You know, have dinner, wash the dishes, help the kids with their homework …"

"When you’re both in town. What about when you’re both gone?"

"Uh …"

"Does Anne even want kids?"

"Of course she does. She … uh …"

Lily gazed at him again.

"I think she does," he finished lamely.

"That’s a deal breaker right there," Lily said. "One of a dozen I can see right off the top. You need to talk to her, Mickey."

"I can’t," he protested sadly. "I don’t even know how."

Lily reached out and cupped his cheek very lightly with her palm. "You talk to me, Mickey. How is it any different?"

"It’s different."

"How?"

Kostmayer sighed, covering her hand with his own. "Because I’m not in love with you. If we argue, I know you’re not going to just leave."

"And you think she is?"

"I … guess so."

"From where I stand …" she stopped, studied his eyes for a long moment. They’d known each other for years. They’d been under fire together, run together, slept huddled together for warmth more than once – and he’d finished every sandwich she’d ever made in his presence. She knew this man. Action guy, indeed. There was a time for talk, and this wasn’t it.

She drew her hand away gently. "C’mon," she said briskly, "I gotta find some body bags." She left the kitchen and trotted up the stairs.

Kostmayer frowned in confusion and went after her. "Why? You expecting casualties?"

"At the rate we’re drinking out there? You better believe it." She went into the storage room, rustled around, came back out empty-handed. "I’m taking part of the Wall back with me, and I need something sturdy to pack it in."

Lily went into one of the holding cells. It was a stark little room, windowless, white, a steel-frame bed welded to the floor, a stainless commode and sink, a steel door. Properly prepared, the room was escape-proof, or very nearly so. But it hadn’t been used in months. Spare linen was stacked on the foot on the bed, and boxes of supplies were stuffed underneath and piled against the wall.

"I don’t think they’re in here," Mickey gruffed.

"Yes, they are. They’re still in the case." She flopped onto the floor and started dragging boxes out from under the bed. "Sit," she said, gesturing to the bed. "Talk to me."

Kostmayer sat down. "There’s nothing to talk about. She said no. It’s over."

"So you don’t love her any more." She dragged out a long, flat box. "Ah-ha."

"Of course I still love her," Mickey protested. He fielded the body bag Lily tossed up to him, and then another.

"But not enough to try to talk it out."

"It’s not that simple." He caught a third bag; their combined weight threatened to bury him. "How many of these do you need?"

"One more." Lily clambered to her feet. "Fold this." She threw the fourth bag at his head.

Mickey pushed it away, his hands tangled in the fabric, the other three heavy on his legs. He felt cold on his left wrist, a snap, and when he tried to move his arm away, he couldn’t.

He shoved the body bag away and glared at the handcuff that bound his wrist to the bed frame, and then at Romanov, who had moved out of his reach. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" he demanded, his voice crackling like ice.

"You need to talk to Anne," Lily answered simply.

"Let me go. Right. Now."

"Talk to Anne. Then she’ll let you go."

Kostmayer yanked his arm savagely. All it did was hurt his wrist; the bed didn’t even rattle. "Romanov," he growled, "you know this won’t hold me." He yanked at the cuff one more time.

"I know." She backed away, toward the steel door that would hold him.

"Don’t do this," he warned one last time.

She backed another step.

Kostmayer drew his gun and aimed it at her heart. "Unlock the cuff," he ordered, very precisely, "right now."

Lily’s eyes never left him. "No."

"I will shoot you, Romanov."

She believed him; he could see it in her posture. But she didn’t back down. "I love you, Mickey. You know that. But from where I stand, you’re the one who always leaves. If you love her, if you want her, just this once, Mickey, don’t leave."

"Romanov!"

"And besides, if you shoot me, who’s going to make your sandwiches?"

She was two steps from the door.

"Lily!" Kostmayer bellowed.

Romanov turned and fled.

"God damn it!" he shouted as the door closed behind her. "I will catch you, Romanov! And I will break your neck!"

From outside, he heard the door’s multiple latches lock.

***

Friday night they'll be dressed to kill
Down at Dino's bar and grill
The drink will flow and blood will spill
If the boys want to fight, you'd better let them


Pete O’Phelan poured Robert a cup of coffee even before he reached the bar. "Are you going?" she asked without preamble.

McCall glanced up. The television over the bar, usually tuned to some sports channel, carried the on-going celebration at the Wall. "To Berlin?" He shook his head. "Perhaps in a few weeks when things settle down."

"To the party," Pete clarified. "Romanov called you, didn’t she?"

"Yes," Robert sighed. "Also Stock, and Jimmy, and Charlie McGuinn. I think Charlie’s afraid he’ll be the oldest one there."

"So? Are you going?"

"Are you?" Robert countered.

Pete shook her head. "I don’t think so. I’ve been out of the Company for a long time."

"So have I."

She raised a knowing eyebrow. "I’ve been really out, Robert." She glanced at the television. "Still … I bet it’ll be a hell of a party."

"A chance to catch up with old friends, at the very least." McCall considered the woman over his coffee cup. In his opinion, which he’d voiced on several occasions, Pete O’Phelan spent far too much time at the restaurant, and far too much time on her own. She needed to get out, to have some fun once in a while. This party was the perfect opportunity. But it was becoming obvious that, though she wanted to go, she wouldn’t unless he did. "Rock music," he said ruefully, "punk agents, way too much drinking, far too many old war stories."

"True."

Robert sighed. "I’ll go if you will."

Pete smiled, relieved. "I hoped you’d say that."

"I’ll drive," he offered. "That way you can get irresponsibly smashed."

"Oh, won’t that be fun?" she teased. "I’m sure Control will be glad to have us there, anyhow."

"Hmmm. Adult supervision." McCall nodded thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. Of course Control would be there; if nothing else, he’d never pass up a chance to see how his agents behaved when they were off the clock.

"Sundays are pretty slow for dinner," Pete said. "I could probably get out of here by eight, eight-thirty."

"I’ll pick you up here then, shall I?" Robert offered. "Unless you want to go home and change first."

Pete shook her head. "I don’t have the impression it’s a dress-up sort of party."

"No," McCall agreed. "More like clothing-optional."

She laughed. "Now there’s a visual that’ll stay with me all day."

As she moved off to ring out a customer, Robert shook his head. He didn’t want to go, really, but for Pete’s sake … and perhaps it would prove entertaining, after all. McGuinn would be there, and he and Robert always had a good time together. Other friends, too, were sure to show up. It would be bearable.

If nothing else, it would allow him to see Control and Lily Romanov together in a social setting together. It had been ages since he’d even seen them in the same room. No doubt they’d both be on their best secretive behavior, but it intrigued him, anyhow.

He took a deep drink of coffee. It was dark, but not bitter. Pete O’Phelan made the best coffee in the world.

When he’d first learned of Control’s affair with a much younger subordinate, Robert remembered, he had been furious. He’d assumed that his old friend was only using the girl for sex. It had taken time for him to believe that Control genuinely loved the young woman, and more time to believe that Lily wasn’t the helpless debutante she appeared to be. When she was captured and tortured in Nicaragua –

Robert shook his head. He could not, he supposed, be entirely faulted for being rather protective of her. After what she’d been through, it was natural for him to assume that she was perhaps not quite as strong or self-sufficient as other agents he knew. It was deeply ingrained in his nature to defend the helpless. But it was more than that, he had to admit to himself. Every protective instinct he’d had came into play where Lily Romanov was concerned, even after she’d recovered. He had never, in his mind, quite put her on the same level with Mickey or Stock, Ginger or any of the others. He had always presumed that she needed a little extra protection.

He had never truly considered Lily Romanov an equal until she had unequivocally betrayed him.

She had proven herself every bit as ruthless as Control, or as Robert himself. McCall had had to admit to himself, once he stopped being angry, that he greatly – if grudgingly – admired her for it.

That admiration had been easier to acknowledge, of course, once Gustav Freda and his family were safely established in a home outside Chicago.

Two months after they’d smuggled him out of Yugoslavia, Austria had opened its borders. If they had waited, they could have just walked him out.

McCall shrugged. Given what the old man had known, given the hands that had waited to snatch him up, things were better as they had been. The warheads had been recovered, the bad guys were dead or in custody, and Robert and Lily were on a solidly even, if mutually watchful, footing.

Which did not, Robert thought firmly, mean that he completely endorsed her relationship with Control. Far from it. He was still convinced that someday she would take a bullet – another bullet – from one of his many enemies. Still, the relationship had been undeniably good for both of them.

Robert shook his head, finished his coffee. Whatever else, this party ought to be damned interesting.

***

I went home with a waitress the way I always do
How was I to know she was with the Russians, too?
I was gambling in Havana. I took a little risk.
Send lawyers, guns, and money. Dad, get me out of this.


Mickey Kostmayer lay back on the bed, conserving his energy, seething, waiting. The handcuffs lay on the floor beside him in pieces. He probably could have picked them without breaking them, if he’d cared, but he hadn’t. He’d studied the door in a token manner, but he’d already known it was probably escape-proof. He’d known because he helped design it, and when it was done he’d helped test the final results.

Romanov had known all that, of course.

He turned his head casually and glared at the observation window in the west wall of the room. He couldn’t tell if he was being watched or not. If he was, he was damned determined not to put on a good show for them. He rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling again, his eyes narrowing to angry slits.

He let himself imagine, in delicious detail, the feel of Lily Romanov’s slender little neck under his hands. He didn’t usually kill people up close. A gun shot from ten yards was a sure bet and left them just as dead. But then, he usually killed as a part of his job, emotionlessly, impersonally.

This killing would be very personal, and it would be full of rage.

That Lily – Lily, of all people – would do this to him, that she would betray him so thoroughly, leave him so helpless, was much more than he could stand. After all he’d done for her, after they’d been through so much together. It could only have been more shocking if Robert McCall himself had betrayed him. It cut him right to the quick.

He should have expected it.

After the stunt she’d pulled on McCall with Freda, turning their defector over to the Brits, he should have known she was capable of anything. He could still hear the echoes of Robert’s rants. She was untrustworthy, she was devious, she had no conscience, no loyalty. She was Control’s creature, through and through, she would betray anyone at his command …

… well, that had turned out all right, in the end. Mickey could even see the logic to it, but the point was that she’d betrayed them all …

He should have listened to McCall. He should have expected it.

He was as angry about getting caught flat-footed as he was about what she’d done. He’d trusted Lily. Even after Freda, he’d trusted her. So here he was. Locked in a cell in his own safe house, a cell he’d helped to build, with East German agents wandering through the open Gate, maybe intent on taking over the safe house right now, and here he was, helpless, because of a courier half his size.

Well, no, he realized, not completely helpless. He had both guns, and two knives and a stiletto. God help anyone who came through that door after him.

Then again … he glanced at the observation window, then glanced away. He hoped it was East Germans who came through the door, instead of one of his colleagues. If they found out about this, he was never going to hear the end of it. If it was Ginger who opened the door … well, he might as well just shoot her, there’d be no living with her.

He glared back at the ceiling. Oh, the guys could ride him all they wanted, but the truth was, Lily could have done it to any one of them. Everybody trusted Lily, or at least discounted her as a threat. Even when Mickey should have known better, he’d trusted her. That would never, never happen again. She wasn’t his friend, and maybe she never had been. It hurt like hell to have to admit that.

He closed his eyes and heard McCall’s frozen, angry voice calling him a traitor from a drug-induced fog. The crisp, tight words from his friend ripped through him like razors, filling him with shame and outrage and grief over losing his friend …

But that had been lies. That hadn’t really happened. This had. This was real. Lily had betrayed and entrapped him. Whether he acted out of rage or embarrassment or grief, he was going to kill her for it.

He held that cold satisfaction to his heart and felt everything else freeze.

Anne gone. Lily gone. Maybe he needed to give up on woman entirely, as friends and lovers.

He opened his eyes narrowly again. Men as friends, great. Men as lovers? Not so great. Maybe Nick had been right all along. Maybe celibacy was the answer.

Mickey sighed.

Not that it probably mattered, anyhow. Once he’d killed Lily Romanov, he’d have to spend the rest of his probably-brief life waiting for Control to come after him. There was no doubt in his mind that the old man would avenge his lover, and Mickey’d been there to see first-hand just how cold and effective Control’s vengeance could be. He might stay alive for a while – Kostmayer was faster, younger, stronger, but sooner or later, if he killed Romanov, he was going to end up dead by Control’s hand.

He knew. He just didn’t care.

It wasn’t like he’d ever had much to live for, anyhow. A job he mostly hated, a brother he barely understood, a couple close friends and one great love, now gone.

Suddenly restless, he sat up and rubbed his hand over his face. Was that really it, then? Were he and Annie really done? After he’d loved her, near and far, his whole adult life, was it really ended?

And if it was, why?

In the dark corners of his mind, he realized, hiding behind his rage, he knew why. But he wouldn’t drag the answers out into the light. They didn’t matter. They would boil down to ‘all Mickey’s fault’, same as always, so why bother? He knew why well enough. Because he was an impossible bastard. Because no one would live with him. Reason enough.

The rage he felt at Lily, the shadows whispered, was really for Anne – no, for himself.

Mickey shrugged. It didn’t matter. It was settled. He’d kill Lily, Control would kill him, and none of it would matter for long.

Oh, yes, he could change things, he could be reasonable, but he didn’t want to. He wanted his rage, and then he wanted his death.

Without warning, the watch door set inside the main door opened. "Mickey?" Anne called nervously.

Kostmayer snapped to his feet. "Open the door, Anne."

He heard two of the four locks being worked. Then she stopped. "Open the door, Anne," he said again.

"Lily says I should make you talk to me before I let you out."

"You’re taking advice from a dead woman," Mickey answered under his breath. He walked to the door and put his face up to the observation hatch. Anne was close enough to grab, but she stepped back, looking at him nervously. "Open the door, Anne," he repeated, very firmly.

"Mickey, please, can’t we try to …"

"I am not," he announced, without heat, "discussing anything with you through a locked cell door."

"If I open it," Anne argued, "you’ll just go skulking off again, like you always do."

"Open the door, Anne," Kostmayer said for a fourth and final time.

"If I do, you have to promise to stay and talk with me."

Mickey stepped back and moved to the right side of the door, against the wall, where she couldn’t see him through the hatch. He did not answer.

"Mickey?" she called. Then, her voice very close to the window, "Mickey?"

He folded his arms over his chest, settled his shoulder against the wall, and waited.

"Damn it, Mickey! Talk to me!"

A sarcastic smile twisted at his mouth. He waited.

She didn’t last two minutes. With an audible growl of frustration, Anne undid the last two locks and opened the door.

Mickey smiled icily at her. "Thank you. Where’s Romanov?"

"She’s gone," Anne replied. "Damn it, Mickey, can’t we just …"

She reached to touch his arm. He grabbed her wrist firmly and held her hand away from him. "Gone where?"

"I don’t know. She asked me to give her a five-minute head start."

Mickey released her arm. "How long ago?"

"I told you, five minutes."

"She was here?"

"In there, watching over you." Anne gestured to the observation window. "What, you thought she’d just leave you locked up and defenseless? Here? Even I know better than that."

"Good," Kostmayer snarled. He turned and crouched beside the bunk, pulled out the boxes of gear. He didn’t need a body bag, not yet. But he’d seen something else while Lily was rummaging. With grim satisfaction, he drew out a shiny new pair of courier cuffs – handcuffs with a three-foot long chain. He snapped the chain experimentally. It would do just fine.

"What are you doing?" Anne demanded.

"I’m going," he announced, "to find Romanov." He coiled the chain into loops and put the cuffs in his pocket.

"Are you crazy? She was trying to help us!"

Mickey drew his gun, check its load grimly. "Help like hers, I don’t need." Satisfied, he put the gun away.

"You are crazy! Damn it, Mickey, you can’t …"

"Don’t tell me what I can’t do," Kostmayer snarled.

Anne took a step toward the door.

"Don’t even think about it," he warned.

She took a breath – a dead give-away – and then she bolted for the door. Mickey beat her by half a step and wedged his shoulder in the doorway, immovable. "What? You think you’re gonna lock me back in here?"

"If that’s what it takes!" Anne shouted. "You can’t hurt her, Mickey. She’s your friend, she’s trying to help you." She grabbed his arm. "Mickey, please …"

"Let. Go."

She flinched at his frozen, brutal tone, but she didn’t back down. "Mickey, please," she said more quietly, "please, forget about Lily. Talk to me."

Kostmayer glared at her hand where it touched him, then back at her face. "Let go."

Reluctantly, slowly, she took her hand away.

His expression did not soften. "We got nothing to talk about."

A change came over her. The anger disappeared from her face, and from her voice. Suddenly there was sadness and resignation. She nodded grimly. "Maybe you’re right, Mickey. Maybe we really don’t have anything left to say."

Her sudden retreat caught Mickey’s attention in a way her shouting had not. But time was slipping away, and so was Lily Romanov. "I gotta go," he said, his tone much more human than it had been.

"You always do," she answered sadly.

"I’ll be back," Mickey promised suddenly.

"I won’t be here."

"I’ll find you, then."

Anne shook her head. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice stayed even, calm. "Don’t bother. We got nothing to talk about." She pushed past him into the hall, turned the corner to the bunk room.

Mickey stared after her. A sudden, very loud instinct told him to go after her. While she was yelling, he understood her. The sudden quiet …

But Lily was out there, and his rage was still bright hot. Lily first, Lily first. Then he’d sort things out with Anne – if there was anything left to sort out.

He patted his pockets one last time, and he headed for the street.

***
An innocent bystander
Who forgets to look both ways
Who never tries to understand her
Won't feel the heat 'til it's too late

The instant Kostmayer stepped out the front door, he knew it was hopeless. The crowd had thinned some, but now the weekenders were arriving. The streets were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Lily Romanov was small, brunette, probably wearing a dark coat. She could vanish into the scenery better than anyone Mickey knew – himself included. This crowd was custom-made for disappearing. He wasn’t going to find her on the street.

His eyes narrowed as he glanced up. Maybe from above, if he could get high enough. It would still be a matter of dumb luck, but it was better than no chance. He wheeled and keyed himself back into the safe house, then ran up all the stairs to the roof.

Two men – Fletcher, who Mickey barely knew, and another he didn’t know at all – were watching the Wall and the crowd with binoculars. Naturally, given the way Mickey’s luck was running, Ginger was with them.

He grabbed a loose pair of binoculars and joined them at the edge of the roof. He scanned the crowd for a moment. Then, as casually as he could manage, he asked, "Anybody seen Romanov?"

The strange guy – Bailey? Bartie? – nodded. "She was up at the embassy, schmoozing with the Marine commander. But that was a couple hours ago."

Kostmayer nodded grimly. If she ducked into a shop or a bar, stood quietly in a doorway, he’d never find her.

"But your girlfriend’s right there," Ginger said.

Mickey followed her gesture with his glasses. Annie was easy to pick out of the crowd. The red hair, the tan jacket, the hundred pounds of camera. She was ten feet from the Wall, moving north with the throng. Her camera was everywhere. "She’s not my girlfriend," he muttered.

"Yeah, right," Ginger snorted. "Control’s personal photographer. Nice work if you can get it."

Mickey turned to glare at her, but his usual smart-ass retort wouldn’t come. He looked back through the spyglasses, watching Anne move. He didn’t like where she was in the crowd. Too close, too tight. No where to go if something went wrong, no way to retreat; therefore, in his calculation, dangerous. But not to her. Anne moved with the flow, perfectly at ease, calm. Taking her pictures. Living her pictures. They would be spectacular, and very personal, like all her other work.

She’s not my girlfriend, he repeated to himself. The subtle pride he felt in her accomplishments was no longer his to claim. Anne Keller was no longer his. She’s not my girlfriend.

He still had her engagement ring in his pocket. How the hell had they come unraveled so fast?

"You know," Ginger said with an arch, subtle sneer, "my boyfriend could use some extra bucks. Think Control could use him?"

Mickey regarded her narrowly. "Does he have any talent?"

She smirked suggestively. "He has loads of talent."

"Yeah. I don’t think Control swings that way."

"Asshole."

"Bitch." But it was a mechanical response, without heat. Annie through binoculars, floating through the crowd, talking, shooting, smiling. Unbelievable pictures. Moving away from him. She wasn’t his girlfriend any more.

He put the glasses down and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t going to find Romanov. He’d thrown Annie away. His anger lost its focus, grew cold, banked for the moment by reality. He couldn’t find Romanov here and now, but he knew where she lived and where she worked. He would find her. He would settle up with her.

The long-chained cuffs in his pocket had a satisfying weight to them.

Here and now, he didn’t know what to with himself.

Shaking his head, he went back inside.

***

Strange things happen to a man on the road
Strange things happen to a man who's alone
Back home you gotta solid life
That life don't mean a thing out here


Robert heard his phone ringing as he came up the hall, but ignored it. That was, after all, what he had an answering machine for. As he entered the apartment, he heard the caller hang up on the machine. As he hung up his coat, though, the phone began to ring again.

He snagged it. "Robert McCall."

"Hey. It’s me."

"Mickey," Robert said cheerfully. "How are you?"

"I been better."

"I thought you were in Berlin."

"I am."

"One big party in the street, how can you sound so glum?" Robert tugged his tie loose absently.

"Kind of a long story. Listen, McCall, I might need a favor."

"Oh. Go on."

"Anne's here, taking pictures. She’s kinda under the Company flag, and Control wants to look at all her pictures before they hit the magazines. So when she gets back, if they don’t want her to use her own darkroom, she might need to use your place to develop the prints. I don’t want her in the office."

"Of course. That would be fine."

"I’ll let you know when she gets back, how it’s going to play out."

"Fine, fine. I’d be happy to help. Now tell me why you really called."

There was a discernable pause. "I just did, McCall."

"No, you just told me your excuse for calling. Now the real reason."

"It’s nothing."

"Yes, of course it is."

Another pause, longer, and finally Mickey said, "I asked Annie to marry me."

Robert grinned at the phone. "That’s wonderful, Mickey. Congratulations."

"She said no."

"She what?"

"She said no."

"Why?"

"I don’t know."

"Did you ask her?"

Kostmayer began to sound exasperated. "Of course I asked her."

"Yes, and what did she say?"

"She says we never talk about anything."

"She’s absolutely right."

There was another long pause. "I gotta go, McCall."

"Michael Kostmayer, don’t you dare hang up on me!"

The next pause lasted perhaps ten seconds, and Robert could see in his mind’s eye Mickey standing there with the receiver halfway to the cradle, debating. But finally, reluctantly, the younger man’s voice said, "Yeah. What?"

"Where is Annie now?" Robert asked briskly.

"Out taking pictures of the Wall."

"And you’re going to go find her, and you’re going to sort this out with her, straightaway. Right?"

"What’s the point, McCall?" Mickey snapped. "She doesn’t love me. All the talking in the world is not …"

"Mickey, you’re being a dunce."

"What?"

"She doesn’t love you," McCall snorted. "Of course she loves you. You’re being a great dunce, and stubborn, I imagine, and you’re letting the woman who loves you get away."

"McCall, you don’t understand …"

"I understand perfectly, Mickey. Just because I’m a crusty old bachelor, don’t presume that I don’t know a thing or two about affairs of the heart. I was falling in love when you were still messing your nappies. So you listen very closely, young man. You will put down the telephone and you will go find Anne Keller and you will do whatever it takes to win her hand. Do you understand me? Whatever it takes."

Robert could hear Kostmayer’s glare in the silence. If looks could kill, he was bloody lucky there was an ocean between them. But no matter. He was right, and he knew his young friend knew it.

"You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, you know that, McCall?"

"Likewise, I’m sure. Good luck." McCall put down the phone, gently. Then he sighed, shook his head, and went to get a drink.

On to Part II