While She Lives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All save one.

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

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

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

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

"Shut up and drive, Warnick."

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

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

"Drive, Warnick," she said again.

He felt his mouth drop open. "Romanov?"

* * * * *

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

"She's alive, Robert."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert chuckled. "So you've said."

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she was missing.

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

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

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

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

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

"If they won't go get her…"

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

"Perhaps."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For not going to get her?"

"For all of it."

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

"You can't see her."

"What?" Control asked with barely contained anger.

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

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

"She especially asked not to see you."

"What?"

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

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

"No."

"Then why won't she see me?"

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

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

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

"Good for the digestion."

"I want to see her medical file."

"No."

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

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

"She was injured in the line of duty…"

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

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

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

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

It got worse.

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

Evidence of sexual trauma consistent with rape and sodomy.

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

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

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

Tillman shook his head. "No."

"Tillman…"

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

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

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

Control sat back down. "She blames me."

"No."

"She must…"

"She thinks she failed you."

Control blinked. "What?"

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

"All the more reason…"

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

Nodding his understanding, Control stepped into the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

"She what?"

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

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

"Yes, she has."

"Perhaps, in a few days…"

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

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

"I should have gone after her."

"Control…"

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

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

Control just shook his head.

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

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

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

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

"How did she look?"

"Terrible."

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

"She's not vain, Robert."

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

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

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

"That's not what this is."

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

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

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

"Of course not…"

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

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

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

Silence returned.

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

"If I see her."

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

Control sighed. "There is that."

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

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

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

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

"She must know you still love her."

"I told her I didn't."

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angela nodded solemnly.

"You need to call the police."

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

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

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

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

"I – told them I was her mother."

"Ah."

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

McCall sighed. "What else?"

"What else what?"

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

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

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

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

McCall grimaced. "Is she pregnant?"

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

"How old is she?"

"Fifteen."

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

"Yes. Absolutely."

Robert frowned deeply. "Go on."

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

"But she broke the appointment."

"Yes."

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

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

"Sexually abused?"

"Yes."

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

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

"You think he has something to hide."

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

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

"Will you help me?"

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

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

"No," Robert answered at once.

"You have children?"

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

"They're out of their teens?"

"Yes."

"And they're sexually responsible?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I approve of abstinence."

"And do you abstain?"

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

"Lily Romanov," Robert promptly guessed.

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

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

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

"So you didn't talk."

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Debriefing," Mickey corrected sarcastically.

"Yes. Quite."

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

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

"They can't?"

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

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

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

Mickey sighed. "Maybe."

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

"No," he said aloud.

Mickey glanced over at him. "No what?"

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

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

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

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

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

"And look what it cost her."

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

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

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

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

"At least I'm in the mood."

* * * * *

Kostmayer leaned against car, his arms folded. McCall stood beside him in

the same posture. "Okay," Mickey finally said, "what are we waiting for?"

"Pizza."

"Pizza?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

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

"Hello, Donny. Thank you for coming."

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

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

"Who's Michelle?"

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

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

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

"That's Michelle," Mickey guessed.

"Yes. Good."

"So… exactly what am I doing here?"

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

Kostmayer smirked. "Can we go home now?"

"Yes, I think we can."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I never even met her!" Donny spluttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, let me go!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go call the cops!" he shouted.

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

"I said get out!"

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

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

"Daddy, shut up!" Michelle shrieked.

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

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

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

"We're fine," she repeated.

Robert turned and strode off the lawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then once more wouldn't hurt."

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

* * * * *

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

"It's Robert."

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

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

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

"You haven't talked to her?"

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

"Call her again," Robert advised.

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

"Perhaps she's gone out to dinner."

"Right."

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

As if something inside her was irreparably broken.

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

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

"A… a friend," Robert answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He's not hungry."

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

"No, I'm fine, I really just…"

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

"Scott!" McCall bellowed.

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

"Are you okay?" he blundered on.

"I will be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You need bodyguards?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You should tell him."

"He knows."

"He needs to hear it."

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

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

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

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

Lily nodded. "I know he is."

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

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

favor."

"Anything."

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

"It doesn't matter."

"It's a big one."

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"You know I was raped."

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

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

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

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

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

"No. But it helps, a lot."

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

"No."

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

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

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

"Take your time," Lily advised mildly.

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

"Yes."

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

"I know."

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It seemed impossible to Robert.

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

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

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

"Oh dear Lord," Robert repeated.

"He's going to be angry."