McCall answered his phone on the second ring.  "Robert Mc—"

"Andrew’s been shot!" a woman screamed.  "You’ve got to help me!"

There was raw panic in the woman’s voice.  The hair on the back of McCall’s neck stood on end.  "Who is this?"

"It’s Lily!  Robert, you’ve got to help me!"

"I will," he said quickly.  "I will help you.  Calm down."  His mind whirled feverishly.  If this was Lily, then the Andrew who had been shot had to be – had to be – but it had been decades since McCall had heard him called that name. "Where are you?"

"I’m in Dayton," she said, still too fast, "but he’s somewhere in New York."

"Then how do you know..." 

"We were talking on the phone.  I heard the shot.  But now he won’t answer.  No one will answer.  Robert, you’ve got to find him!"

"All right," he said soothingly. "All right. Just tell me where he was …"

"I don’t know," Lily screeched.  "He had some secret meeting; they were setting the location at the last minute."

"Who was he meeting with?"

"I don’t know."

Robert grimaced.  "Was he alone?"

"No.  Simms was with him, and Walker and Russo.  And some muscle, I think."

"And you have no idea where?"

"I just said I didn’t.  They’d just gotten out of the car, they were about to go in – please, Robert …"

"All right.  All right."  He spoke with the soothing tone he’d use to a desperate woman on a high ledge.  "I’ll find him.  Just calm down."

She took a breath that even long-distance sounded like a sob.  "Robert …"

"I’ll find him.  Where can I reach you?"

Lily rattled off a phone number.  "That’s my portable.  I’m heading for the airport."

"I’m not sure that’s a good idea."  McCall knew before he spoke it was hopeless.  If Control was wounded, she wanted to be at his side.  If he was dead, then it didn’t much matter.  "Come," he conceded, "but be careful.  No more Andrew."

"What?"

"You called him Andrew."

There was a confused pause.  "No, I didn’t."

"You did, love."  He nodded to himself.  She wasn’t in from the ledge yet, not by any means, but she’d moved back from the brink.  "Get here.  I’ll call you when I’ve found him."

"Thank you," Lily whispered.  The line went dead.

***

The shooter dropped his rifle into a covered trash can as he fled.  It had been expensive and hellishly hard to get, but it was too heavy to carry.  He was not a young man, and years in a Soviet prison had broken his health. 

He had Control to thank for those years.

His eyes narrowed in rage as he ran down the noisy metal stairs. It had been a good shot.  But that son of a bitch still had the devil's own luck.  Control had turned at the last second, and as far as the shooter could tell, the bullet that should have pierced his heart had left him alive.

His bodyguards and aides had certainly scrambled as if the spymaster was still alive.  They'd dumped him back into the limo almost before he hit the ground.  The car had sped away, tailed by one of the sedans.  But the rest of the party had come looking for him.

They had admirable coordination.  They'd be on him at any moment.

He had not survived those many long months in prison to end up dead in a New York gutter.  He had nurtured and honed his hatred of Control to a fine edge; he vowed again that he would not die while that bastard still lived.

The would-be assassin stopped at the second floor landing.  If he went all the way to the ground and out the side door, Control's men were certain to be waiting for him in the alley.  Instead, he took several deep breaths, ran his hand through his hair, straightened his tie, and opened the fire door onto the corridor.  It should have been locked, of course, but his contact – the same voice-only contact that had told him precisely when and where to find Control – had arranged for his exit.  He walked down the hallway calmly to the elevators and pressed the 'down' arrow.  Just a businessman on his way to a meeting. 

The door to his left opened.  He moved toward it, but was pushed back by a man leaving the elevator.  The shooter tried to brush past; the man grabbed his arm.  "Not that way, Comrade," he said quietly.  "Come with me."

It was the voice of his contact.  The shooter looked up at the man's face and almost grinned.  Of course it would be one of Control's most trusted associates.  "Lead on, friend."

They moved back to the stairwell.  "This way.  I've got another escape route."

"Control's not dead, is he?"

The man snorted.  "Of course not."  He eased the stairwell door closed behind them.  "Should have known better than to trust an old Commie to get it right."

"I will get him next time, I assure you of that."

"Sure you will."  The man turned and the gun fired.

Silencer, Durkin thought, and yet in the concrete tower full of metal stairs it was loud, echoing.  The pain spread like a red flower over his chest, but it seemed distant.  Someone else's pain.  Someone else collapsed against the wall, his knees buckling and his hands surprised on his open chest.  Someone else had been fool enough to trust a man who could betray Control. Someone else was dying there on the cold metal stairs, with a curse unspoken on his lips.

"I said I had an escape plan," the man over him said.  "I didn't say it was for you."  

   ***

Robert paused for one moment, considering his options and his assets.  The direct approach was sometimes best, especially in times of great confusion.  He dialed Control's office number.

"Webster Expediting," a female voice chirped briskly.

It wasn't Sue's voice.  McCall swore under his breath.  It would have been much easier with Control's regular secretary.  He tried anyhow.  "This is Robert McCall," he announced grandly.  "I need to know Control's condition and location."

"One moment, sir."  There was a muffled voice in the background.  "I'm sorry, sir, you must have the wrong number."

Robert growled as she hung up on him.  But at least he had partial confirmation of Lily's story.  If someone was sitting in Control's office, listening in on his direct line, it meant that he was in no condition to stop them.

Alive or dead?  Or somewhere in between?  It sounded like the office didn't know yet. 

In any case, his full frontal bluff hadn't worked.  He was already moving on to his next approach, his fingers numbly following his mental list. 

He called Control's cell phone.  It was out of service.

He would have called next any of the foot soldiers on Control's security detail, but he didn't know them any more.  All the agents who had been muscle in his time had moved up in the ranks and been sent overseas – or killed.

Robert cast his net wider.  He called Jonah, who would only speak for twenty seconds at a time in a vain attempt to keep his calls from being bugged.  The computer tech promised to take a look.  Then McCall called several contacts in the police department.  The Company had its own means of dealing with incidents, of course, but if Control had been shot in the open, on a city street, there was some chance the local authorities had become involved before the curtain of secrecy had been drawn over the scene.

No one knew anything about a shooting, or at least not one that was out of the ordinary.

McCall hung up on his last hope, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes impatiently, trying to hold off a gathering headache.  He would go to the office in person, he decided.  Someone there would probably tell him something; in any case, he could tell by their faces and their postures how bad it really was.  One step inside that building would be enough to tell him if his old friend was dead or alive.

But it would take time.  And he had caught Lily's sense of terrible urgency.

There was nothing else to be done.  Robert got his jacket and loaded his pockets.  Wallet, keys, clean handkerchief – he hesitated over the gun only a moment.  He could always leave it in the car.

As he tucked it away, one more option occurred to him.  He dialed the phone quickly.

It rang only once before a brisk, pleasant male voice said, "Mailroom."

"Munchie," Robert said with forced calm, "it's Robert McCall."

"Hey, McCall, how's it goin'?  How's that grandbaby of yours?"

Robert bit back his impatience.  He was sure this line was monitored; the conversation would require finesse.  "He's fine," he answered cheerfully.  "Growing like a little weed already."

"They do that.  Mom and Dad doing okay?"

"For people who never sleep, they're well, yes."

"You give 'em my best, will you?"

"I will do that, Munchie."  McCall chose his next words carefully.  "I wondered if you knew where I might find Control."

There was a split-second of hesitance.  Then Munchie said, "Nope, sorry.  You know how it is, me in the basement in my little cave.  If he's not up in his office or standing right in front of me, I got no idea."

Robert nodded to himself, disappointed but not surprised. "Well, I thought I'd give it a try."

"Sorry.  I'd help you if I could."

"I understand."

"Hey," Munchie said, before McCall could hang up, "I hear Scott's wife and the baby got to stay in that new penthouse suite at the hospital.  How'd she like it?"

This time Robert hesitated.  "It's lovely," he answered carefully.  "Very spacious, comfortable.  Becky even complimented the food."

"Huh.  That's good to hear.  My wife, she's supposed to have some surgery end of the month.  Gall bladder.  And I was thinking I'd try to get her in there.  To that hospital, you know?  The penthouse would be sweet, but Control must have pulled some major strings to get you in, huh?"

"I believe he did," Robert agreed.  Everyone assumed that he had done so out of friendship for McCall; only a very few knew that Becky Baker McCall was Control's secret psychic.

"Well, I know it must be a good place, if it's good enough for Control's … friends."

Robert nodded firmly.  That little pause had been all the confirmation he needed.  "Yes.  Yes, it is.  Good luck to your wife, Munchie.  I'll talk to you soon."

McCall patted his pockets once more and strode from his apartment.

***

Lily Romanov glared at her watch again.  The second hand moved sluggishly.  Time had slowed to a crawl. 

Around her, people bustled through the airport.  They were in a hurry; they had a destination.  She didn't know yet if she did or not.  She was going to New York; she just didn't know if she cared if she ever arrived.

Why the hell hadn't McCall called?  How damn long could it take to track down one man?

In a city the size of New York.  When the man was likely trying to remain unseen.

She was being unreasonable.  Robert had barely had time to get his shoes on, much less track down Control.

He wouldn't tell her over the phone that Control was dead.  She was certain of that.  If he called at all, it would be with good news.  Or with a lie.  If Control was dead, she wouldn't hear about it until she stepped off the plane and Robert was there to meet her.

Lily thought very seriously about throwing up.

She looked at her watch again.  The seconds crawled.

Twenty minutes, roughly, until her plane boarded.  Nearly two hours in the air.  But delays on the ground, at either end, could easily double that time.  Then a taxi into the city, in traffic. 

She stopped trying to calculate how long it would take to reach him.

At least she wasn't on the far side of the world.

A teenager strode past, eating an enormous slice of pizza.  The greasy burnt cheese smell brought the spy to her feet, her stomach roiling.  But the teen kept moving, and her stomach settled uneasily as the smell faded.  

She was cold. 

The morning session of the peace talks had been deathly dull.  The major players weren’t coming in for another week; their delegates were arguing about tidbits of language.  Romanov and a dozen other advisors/observers had been drowsing through it.  No one asked them for advice or observations. 

They took a break at mid-morning.  The gathering strode towards the exit with the grim determination of men and women in dire need of cigarettes.  Lily stayed behind.  She was trying to quit, and she needed to report in.  As the room cleared, she brought out her portable phone.

She knew from an earlier call that he had a meeting.  Assuming he was on his way, she called his portable.  One of the benefits of being Control's personal observer at the peace talks was that she was able to call him directly without raising eyebrows. 

"Control," he barked.  The connection was full of static.

"Romanov," she barked back.

"Any progress?"

"Always one for small talk, aren't you?"

"On my way in to a meeting."

"So you're not alone," Lily guessed

"No."

"And you can't really talk."

"No."

"Do you want me to keep babbling at you?"

"Yes, please."

She grinned.  His single-syllable answers were all he could make, but that didn't have to stop her from having an entertaining conversation.  "Walker is with you?"

"Yes."

"Is he wearing that god-awful yellow tie again?"

"No."

"Let's see.  Who else?  Russo?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm … Simms?"

"Yes.  Very good."

"And you're all crammed into the limo together."

"Yes.  Well, not any more."

"The Company does have vans, you know."

"We need to make an impression."

"Ahh."  Lily nodded.  "Meeting with a big wig, then."

"Perhaps."

"I can't wait to hear the other half of this conversation.  Can I come home this weekend?"

"Yes.  Please."

She glimmered with mischief.  "Ah, good.  I'll start planning now.  It'll give me something to do."

"No progress?"

"Semantics," Lily answered.  "Formatting.  The order of the names on the documents."

"Unfortunate."  He knew she hated the trivial details of diplomacy; he was expressing as much sympathy as he could with his lieutenants at his elbow.

"I have an idea, but I'm going to need about five hundred dollars from petty cash."

"Why?" 

"Hookers."

There was a distinct pause.  "Explain," he said cautiously.

"To make any progress, we're going to have to give these diplomats what they need.  And what they all need, desperately, is a good professional blow job."

He started to laugh.  She heard it clearly, though the static, a surprised, startled laugh.

And then a bang.  Might have been a trash can lid falling, or a car backfiring, or someone hitting a dumpster with a stick.  But Lily knew the instant she heard it that it wasn't any of those things.

The phone at the other end dropped with a clatter.  There was a crunching sound.  Then silence.

Lily pressed her icy fingertips against her eyes. The cold was soothing.  She looked at her watch.  Nineteen minute until the plane boarded.  Roughly. 

Either he was alive, or he was dead.  If he was alive, he might still be alive when she got there, hours from now.  If he was dead …

If he was dead, there were a few things she needed to take care of before sunrise.      

***

The elevator door opened, and a hard, barking voice filled the corridor around him.  Robert McCall began to breath normally again. 

Control was not dead.  He wasn't even close.

The hallway was wide and white.  The open door to the treatment room was flanked by clean-cut young men, well-muscled and heavily armed.  They looked at him warily, but he'd already been cleared at the front door by Markland; Control's flunky was obviously in charge of guest relations at the moment. 

Through the doorway, he could see Russo inside the treatment room, visibly flinching under the verbal lashing he was getting.  McCall nodded to the watchful men and stepped into the corner, out of the way.  Casually, aware that they had nothing to look at but him, he drew out his portable phone and dialed it.

"Robert?" Lily asked urgently. "Did you find him? What's …"

"Shhh," McCall answered.  "Just listen for a moment."  He held the phone out in front of him and pretended, for the benefit of the guards, that he was looking for something in his pocket.

Control, still unseen, was bellowing, " … and I want the name of every man on the security detail, now.  There is no excuse for this.  It was supposed to be a secured area.  I want this shooter found and I want him in front of me.  Do you understand?" 

There was quiet murmuring, and then Control again, "I don't want your damn excuses, I want results!  In front of me, dead or alive.  Clear?"

Robert brought the phone back to his ear.  "Feel better, love?"

There was only the sound of quiet weeping.

"Come home" he said quietly. "I'll do what I can to save the underlings until you get here."

"Thank you, Robert," Lily said, very softly.

"It is my great pleasure.  But promise me, best face when you arrive, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Good girl."  McCall tucked his phone away, squared his shoulders, and approached the open door as he would the jaws of a tiger.

 ***

Lily put her phone away and rubbed her eyes roughly.  She looked at her watch.  Ten minutes until the plane boarded.  Time to find a bathroom and blow her nose.  Maybe grab a cup of coffee.  No time for pizza, sadly, unless the flight got delayed.  She was hungry.

***

James Simms looked down at the dead man in the stairwell.  He was an older man, gray-haired, thin.  Perhaps prematurely gray; his wrinkles looked somehow out of place, as if they were caused more by hardship than by time, and his hair was still thick.  His suit was expensive and nicely tailored, probably quite attractive before he'd bled all over it.  If he’d gotten into the lobby of the office building, he would have vanished into the crowd.  The bullet wound was directly over his heart.  He'd still had the gun in his hand when they'd found him.

Simms knew the faces of all the top spies and terrorists the Company was tracking at the moment.  This man wasn't one of them.  They'd checked his pockets, but of course the shooter carried no identification.

"Somebody get me a Polaroid," Simms ordered.  Behind him, one of the men clattered away.

They were going to have to move the body quickly.  They'd been lucky no one had reported the shot that had dropped Control.  There was a silencer on the handgun, so likely no one had heard it either, but a body in the stairwell in the middle of a business day wouldn't stay secret for long.  Civilian witnesses were not something Simms cared to deal with. 

He’d already screwed up enough for one year.

They could roll him in a tarp, he mused.  Roll a dumpster right up to the door in the alley, carry him down that last flight of stairs.  Yes.  Get a single cleaner up here to deal with the blood.  One hour, everybody out clean.  Stick some wet paint signs up outside.  It would work.

But first a picture.  Because it was highly likely that Control would recognize the man who had tried to kill him.

"That him?" Walker asked at his shoulder.

"Looks like," Simms answered quietly.

"Who is he?"

"No idea."

"You shoot him?"

Simms shook his head.  "He was dead when we got here."  He gestured to one of Control's security detail.  "Dixon found him."    

"Looks like he shot himself," Walker said after a moment.  "Control wanted him alive."

"People in hell want ice water," Simms answered grimly.

***

Russo said, with tremendous relief, "McCall's here."

"Good.  Get him in here.  Then get to work!"

Robert walked into the room as the hapless lieutenant slipped out.  Control was face-down on the exam table.  He was shirtless, but they'd let him keep his trousers, which McCall took to be a good sign.  He had a clear IV running into one arm, and they’d put a unit of blood in the other; the nurse was just taking that one down.  The doctor was young-looking, dark-skinned and dark-eyed.  His name was Bindra, and despite his apparent youth, he was in charge of the emergency department.  Accordingly, he was unperturbed by his patient's barking of orders.  A second nurse was assisting with the stitches, and she seemed a bit unsettled.  Robert smiled at her with warm familiarity.  "Hello, Jill."

She smiled back in relieved recognition.  "Mr. McCall.  It’s nice to see you again." 

"Lie still, please," the doctor requested patiently.  It was clearly not the first time he'd said it.

"I am lying still," Control growled. 

Robert moved closer to the head of the table.  "Hello, Control.  Who's trying to kill you this time?"

Control lifted his head and scowled at him.  "You mean it wasn't you?"

"If it had been me, I doubt very much that you would be here abusing these nice people."

"Are you about done?" Control demanded over his shoulder.

"Just about," Bindra answered soothingly. 

The spymaster did not flinch as the doctor resumed his stitching; Robert assumed he'd had a good dose of local anesthetic.  He looked closer.  The bullet had carved a deep crease along Control's left shoulder blade, perhaps six inches long.  The doctor has already stitched the muscle beneath back together, and was working now on the skin layer.  McCall knew from personal experience that the wound would hurt for quite a long time.  He also knew it was nothing close to fatal.  The spymaster would be back in his office in an hour, in pain and in a bad temper, but safe. 

Robert quickly reconsidered that last notion.  In his office, perhaps.  But almost certainly not safe.  He leaned close to Control's ear.  "We need to talk."

Control looked up at him, his blue eyes flinty.  "Really?"

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"There's no need for stating the obvious."  He twisted to look at the doctor, who pushed his shoulder firmly down again.  "Robert, I need you to make a phone call."

McCall sighed.  "Already done."

The annoyance in Control's glare was tempered with gratitude.  "Thank you."

Bindra finished his last stitch.  "You can sit up now."

"Somebody get me a shirt," Control barked towards the corridor as Robert helped him up.  "And have the car brought around." 

"Not a good idea," McCall murmured.

"What?"

"Bring the shirt," Robert ordered.  "Hold the car."

"What are you doing, old son?"

McCall looked around.  "In a moment."

Dr. Bindra finished taping gauze over the wound.  "We’ll need to immobilize the arm, at least for a day or two, so you don’t pull the stitches out."

"Just get me a sling," Control growled.

"If you use your arm …" the doctor began.  Then he shrugged and gestured to the nurse.  "Get him a sling.  And we can discontinue the IV."  She nodded.  "Wear the sling," he insisted to Control.  "Less pulling, less movement, less pain.  Faster healing."

"Yes, yes," Control said impatiently.

"You’ve had one dose of antibiotics, but you will need to continue to take them.  Morning and night for ten days.  Do not forget.  I’ll also write you a prescription for a painkiller.  You should not drive or use a firearm while you're taking it."

"I'll take aspirin, thank you."

"Doctor, would you excuse us for just a moment?" Robert asked.

The doctor looked at him, and then at Control.  Jill finished removing the needle from Control’s arm, pressed it with a cotton ball, then taped it down.  They retreated to the far side of the room. 

"All right, Robert, what is it?" Control asked.  "I need to get back to my office before they start cleaning out my desk."

"Your office isn't safe," McCall answered.  "Someone tried to kill you, Control." 

"Yes, I am aware of that fact.  You talked to … her?"

"Yes, I talked to her," Robert answered impatiently.  "I assured her that you were well enough to be abusing your staff.  She's on her way.  Now, can we please concentrate on the issue at hand?  It's very possible that one of your own people tried to have you killed."

Lisinger came in with a shirt and undershirt.  "I had these in my car," he said.  "They're kinda wrinkled, but they're clean …"

"Thank you," Control said coolly, taking the clothes.  "Wait outside."

"Oh.  Oh.  Of course."

As the man retreated, Control unfolded the white t-shirt and threaded his wounded arm carefully into the sleeve.  "You were saying?"

"The lady on the phone had no idea where the meeting was.  It was a secret location."

"We set it two hours before the meet and sent a team to secure the area."

"And yet an assassin knew exactly where to find you.  So either you were followed, there's a leak with the person you were to meet, or it's an internal matter. Which is more likely?"

Control considered, then shook his head.  "We weren’t followed.  And the person I was meeting has every reason to be cautious."  The spymaster shrugged into the t-shirt and pulled it down. 

"Does he have reason to wish you dead?"

"Old son, nearly everyone I know has reason to wish me dead.  But no, not at this time.  Right now he needs me."

Robert turned slowly and gave a meaningful look towards the lieutenants gathered outside the door.  "So, then.  We're down to a very few suspects, aren't we?  You can't go back to your office.  We need a secure location where we can limit access until we sort this out."

Control raised one eyebrow.  "I'm Control, Robert.  I can't be hiding from my own people."

"Ah, yes, right.  We'll just carve that directly on your headstone, shall we?"

"Robert …"

"We need time, Control.  We need to assess the threat, to locate the shooter, to look over the suspects.  I can't do any of that and watch over you at the same time.  You know that as well as I do."

Control slipped his injured arm through the sleeve of the dress shirt.  When he pulled it up to his shoulder, his wrist was clearly visible at the other end.  He scowled, then continued to dress.  "So you're taking on this assignment, are you?"

"I don't see that I have much choice.  You certainly can't rely on your own people."

"Robert, I don't want …"

"I don't care what you don't want," McCall snapped.  He caught the doctor looking at him and lowered his voice.  "Because I'll tell you what I don't want.  I don't want to drive to the airport and pick up a lovely young woman and tell her that you're dead.  I do not want to do that.  Do you understand?"

Control studied his hands as he buttoned the shirt.  "What do you propose, old son?"

Robert almost grinned.  "They have a lovely penthouse suite here, you know."

"I do know that, yes."

"You've lost quite a lot of blood, I imagine.  And a man your age …"

"Robert."

"Control."

The two seasoned spies turned as one to look at the young doctor.

***

James Simms paced the steel landing slowly while the cleaning crew worked.  They were quick and efficient, as always.  When they left, there would be absolutely no trace that a man had died in the stairwell.

The body was already gone.

Walker had taken the pictures to Control for identification.  The assassin’s weapon had been recovered and bundled away as well.  Simms already knew that it would be untraceable.  But there was something else bothering him, some piece that still didn’t quite fit.

He could not afford to leave unanswered questions.  His career was already hanging by a thread.  If he screwed this up, if he missed anything at all …

Control was not known for his forgiving nature.  Simms sensed that he’d already used all the grace he had.  He still had a job and he was still alive.  But if he screwed up one more thing – and especially now, when Control’s life was in danger – that could change very quickly.

As the cleaning crew packed up their gear, Simms began to climb the stairs.  He examined every step of the six flights to the roof.  There was nothing that they hadn’t already found.

At the very top of the stairs was a doorway to the roof.  The door had a panic bar on it, and a sign that read, ‘Emergency Exit Only.  Alarm Will Sound’.  But the shooter had gone out this door, and no alarm had sounded.

Simms stood against the door and scanned the wide landing slowly.  Nothing except the covered trash can where they had found the shooter’s rifle.  Simms peered into it.  The can was half-full of soda cans, food wrappers and crumpled cigarette packs.  He frowned. Then he returned to the safety door.   There was a wire from the panic bar into the wall, presumably the alarm, but it was cut.  The end had been wrapped in duct tape and tucked against the door frame.

The tape was old, dirty where the edges had lifted. 

Simms nodded to himself and went out onto the roof.  He stepped around the corner of the chimney and found two folding chairs and a considerable pile of cigarette butts, matches and ashes.

The door had been rigged a long time ago so that smokers could sneak outside for a break.  Building management knew about it; they’d provided a trash can to cut down on the debris.

But a casual observer would not have known that the alarm was disabled.  The shooter had scouted this location.

Or someone had scouted it for him.

Simms nodded grimly to himself and started back down the stairs.

***

"It's probably nothing serious," Dr. Bindra told the agents calmly.  "But he has lost quite a lot of blood and his blood pressure is unexpectedly high.  We're going to keep him overnight for observation."

McCall watched sardonically while Russo and Lisinger exchanged a look.  He knew what their only question was; it was only a matter of who would ask it.  So terribly predictable, these Princeton boys.

"Who's in charge, then?" Russo asked with badly-feigned disinterest.

The doctor shrugged.  "I'll ask once we've moved him to the penthouse.  It won't take long.  We're getting him ready for transport now." 

"We need to report this to Washington," Lisinger said tentatively.

"No, you don't," McCall answered firmly.  "Control is fully conscious and aware.  He is capable of making any necessary decisions."

"Yes, but …"

"That's now," Russo argued.  "What if something happens?  What if his condition … changes?"

He was, McCall thought, altogether too eager for that to happen.  "I don't believe it will."

"Yes, but you're not a doctor," Lisinger argued.

Robert looked to the young doctor.  "Keeping him here is entirely precautionary," Dr. Bindra assured them again.  "And the penthouse is equipped with all the latest communication technology.  I don't see any reason he can't fulfill his duties at this time."

"You can function without Control being physically present in the office, can you not?" McCall asked archly.

"Of course we can," Lisinger answered.  "But …"

Walker hurried off the elevator.  "We got the shooter."

"Alive?" Robert asked.

"No.  Shot himself."

"Who is he?"

"We don't know.  I brought pictures."

He brought three Polaroids out of his pocket.  Russo and Lisinger both moved towards them, but McCall snatched them away.  He studied them dispassionately.  "This is … unexpected," he pronounced calmly.

"You know who he is?"

"Oh, yes.  I know who he is." 

Robert turned to carry the photos in to Control.  The door opened, and Jill pushed the spymaster in a wheelchair into the lobby.  Control was trying valiantly to look unperturbed by his mode of transportation.

"We got the shooter," Walker announced eagerly.

"Alive?"

"He killed himself.  At least we think he did.  He was dead when Dixon found him."

"Who is he?"

McCall handed him the photos.  Control shuffled through them quickly.  "Ah.  Comrade Durkin."

"Who's he?" Walker demanded.

"Petrov Durkin," Robert scowled.  "Look it up.  I thought he was in prison."

"Well, the fall of the Soviet Bloc," Control answered, looking through the pictures again, more slowly.  "So many criminals walking the streets again."

"And getting passports and visas, apparently."

"Hmm.  He hasn’t aged well, has he?"  Control put the pictures in his lap and rubbed his neck.  He remembered, as Robert did, the painful nearness of poisoned needles while he was held prisoner, confined in a coffin.  Coble was long dead, but Durkin had returned to Moscow in disgrace.  And shortly thereafter been sent to prison on corruption charges. "This does make things interesting, doesn't it?"  He glanced up at his nurse.  "We can go now."

The lieutenants jumped as one.  "Control …" Russo said.

"Before you go …" Lisinger began.

"Wait," Walker added.

Control gestured, and his slow ride towards the elevator stopped.  "What is it?"

"In case something happens," Walker said slowly, "not that we think it will, but in case … who's in charge?"

McCall watched their eager faces, all three alike in trying and failing to hide their eagerness.  Walker looked a good deal more confident than the others. 

"Where's Simms?" Control asked.

"He's taking care of the clean-up," Walker answered.  "He said he'd come over when they were done."

"Good.  I want to see him when he gets here.  In the meantime, in the unlikely event that something happens to me, he's in charge."

Lisinger and Russo looked sharply to Walker.  Walker, Robert noted, had paled noticeably, and his mouth hung open.

"Simms?" Lisinger asked, incredulous.  "But … why?"

Control raised one eyebrow.  "Because he's the only one doing anything useful."  Robert detected a twitch at the corner of his friend’s mouth; the spymaster was amused by their disappointment.  "I want a sweeping crew in the penthouse immediately."

They looked at him blankly. 

"So call the office," he prompted, "and get one over here."

"I’ll do it," Russo said quickly.

Control sighed.  "Thank you so much."   He gestured, and the nurse pushed him away.

***

"I'll take him from here," McCall said to Jill when they arrived at the penthouse.

The nurse looked at him dubiously.  She understood that Control would have been released if not for the security concerns.  He didn't need a nurse.  Yet while he was within the hospital, she couldn't quite let go of her responsibilities.  "You know where all the call lights are, of course."

"I remember every one of them," Robert assured her.  It had been just over two weeks since his grandson had spent his first days in this suite.  McCall had spent enough hours here to be on a first-name basis with the staff, and to be completely familiar with the penthouse.

Times change, he mused.  When Scott was born, the hospital had let Robert spend a total of eight minutes with his wife and newborn son before they shooed him out.  Scott had been present when his son was born – an experience Robert did not envy him in the least – and had stayed with his new family here for two days before he took them home.  That experience Robert did envy, quite a lot.  

Of course, having the cash and the clout to stay in the VIP suite of a major hospital probably didn’t hurt, either.  The penthouse was enormous.  There were two conventional bedrooms, plus a third room that was actually set up for patient care.  The main room had windows on three walls and held both a living room and a conference table easily.  There were two full baths in the suite, and a full-sized kitchen, completely stocked.  It was far more apartment than medical facility.

"The doctor will be up in an hour to check on you," the nurse told Control.

"I'll look forward to it," he growled as nicely as he could.

"I'll … just … leave you then.  But if you need anything at all …"

"We'll buzz," Robert promised.  He pressed the elevator button for her, held the door open while she boarded.  "Thank you so much."

"I hate wheelchairs," Control announced.  He levered himself onto his feet, then reached ruefully for his shoulder.  He seemed paler once he was upright.

"You should sit down," Robert advised, amused.  "And use the sling." 

The patient was already easing his arm out of its confinement.  "Yes, Mother."  Control circled the room thoughtfully.  "This is ridiculous."  He opened a cabinet and turned on the radio inside, much too loud.  He gestured for Robert to join him at the window, faced the curtains and spoke softly under the annoying pop music.  "You spoke to her?"

"Control!" Robert exclaimed, exasperated.  "Yes, I spoke to her.  I let her hear you chewing on Russo’s rump.  She has been reassured.  She is on her way.  And you need to concentrate on other things."

His friend nodded.  "I’m sorry, Robert, I just … she made me laugh."

"What?"

"I was talking to her on the phone.  She said something colorful about diplomats and hookers.  She made me laugh."  His voice was quiet, serious.  "But Control doesn't laugh.  So I turned away from the car, so they couldn't see me …" He paused, and his hard blue eyes came up to meet Robert's.  "If I hadn't laughed, if I hadn't turned …" He opened his hands.  "You see?"

McCall nodded.  He understood.  For all of Control's brusque manners and steely exterior, for all that he tried to seem unaffected, the man had come dauntingly close to dying.  If he hadn't turned, the shot would have hit true:  Not grazing his shoulder, but piercing his heart.  He put his hand on his friend's uninjured shoulder and squeezed.  "I am very glad you found someone who makes you laugh at the right time," he said warmly.  "But unless you focus now on determining exactly who is trying to kill you, all her humor will be wasted."

Control smirked.  The moment, the only one there would be, was over.  "You're right, of course.  You’re right."  He ran a hand across his forehead.  "Well.  Here we are.  Durkin.  Damn it."

"He wouldn't have gotten that close to you without help," Robert reminded him. "I could use a cup of tea."

"I could use a drink."

"I doubt there’s any to be had here.  Do you trust Simms?"

"No."  Control frowned.  "He's the smartest of the bunch, and the most useful."

"Perhaps the most ambitious?"

"He's never done anything overt.  But he’s been very anxious of late."

Robert frowned.  "Then why did you put him in charge?"

"Because he wasn't here, where I could see him devoutly wishing for my untimely death."

"Not much of a reason."

Control shrugged.  "I want him where I can watch him.  Out front is the best place for that.  And we can’t discount the possibility that this shooting was part of an attempted coup.  Simms has fallen out of favor lately.  Walker is my presumed successor.  Not putting him in charge may stir up the pot a bit."

"It’s always layers with you, isn’t it, Control?  There can never be just one answer, one reason."

"It is who I am, Robert." 

McCall shook his head.  "Tell me about the meeting."

"After the cleaners get here."

Simms checked the landing one last time.  It was empty, spotless.  Clean as only the Company could make it.  Satisfied, he headed out to his car.

Before he got there, his portable phone rang.  Simms couldn’t help looking over his shoulder; it had been right after his phone rang that Control had been shot.  There was no one on the rooftop behind him.  "Yes?"

"It’s Walker.  Everything clean there?"

"Yes.  How’s the boss?"

"Alive.  They’re going to keep him overnight, some bullshit about his blood pressure.  He looks rattled." 

Simms found that unlikely, but didn’t comment.  "ID on the shooter?"

"Petrov Durkin.  We’re running him down."

"Russian diplomat and former KGB section chief," Simms answered promptly.  "Recalled to Moscow after the death of Coble.  He was in prison."

"Well, somebody’s been doing their homework," Walker jeered. 

And somebody hasn’t, Simms thought smugly. 

"Control wants you here as soon as the clean-up’s finished," Walker continued tersely. 

"I’m on my way now."

"And you’re in charge."

"I’m what?"

"Yeah, I don’t get it, either, but you’re in charge, bright boy, so get your ass over here."

The phone went dead.  Simms tucked it into his pocket thoughtfully.  He was in charge?  Whose idea had that been?  Well, Control’s, obviously, but why?  Control had barely spoken to Simms in weeks, and never except as a direct order.  Not since he sent Romanov back overseas …

Simms shook his head.  He had been an idiot. 

"Sit down, Simms," Control snarled.  His hands were clasped together on his desk.  His knuckles were white.

"Sir?"  Simms sat on the edge of his chair.

"Romanov," Control said by way of introduction.  "Two weeks ago she told you she was done with field work."

Simms’ heart sank.  It had been a straight-forward pick-up.  She should have been able to handle it.  "Something’s happened to her."

"No.  She returned safely."  The spymaster’s words were brittle.  He dropped a fat envelope on the desk.  "There’s your packet.  I hope it’s damn important, Simms.  Because she had this in her other hand."  He dropped a single sheet of paper next to the envelope.  "It’s her resignation."

Simms felt suddenly cold.  Lily Romanov was Control’s mole inside the Company, his spy, his confidant, and probably his personal assassin.  Simms was sure of that.  And now she was leaving, and Control was blaming him.  He was, without question, in deep shit.  "Sir, I …"

Control stood up abruptly.  "Damn it, Simms.  She told you.  She told you years ago she was wearing down, and she told you two weeks ago she couldn’t do it any more.  And you turned right around and sent her back out."

"It was just a simple pick-up."

"It was a pick-up that had already been botched twice, and Ted Roelen rated it Level One risk.  Anybody could have come after her."

"But you said no one did."

"I said she returned safely.  I didn’t say it was easy."

Simms took a deep breath.  Damn it, this was so unfair.  She’d been held captive, tortured, raped in Central America; she’d caught two bullets for Control; she’d been ground down to nothing in Bosnia. Those were just the things that were documented.  God alone knew what else Control had put her through.  And because Simms had assigned her to one last pick-up, he was going to take the blame for her leaving?  "I’m sorry, sir …"

"You’re sorry?  You’re sorry?  Do you realize how much experience will walk out the front door with her?  Do you have any idea how many details she has in her head that aren’t written down anywhere?  How many routes and contacts and safes we’re going to lose?"

"I didn’t realize …"

"She told you she was done in the field."

"She could have refused the run," Simms protested.  "I would have sent someone else."

Control glared at him.  "You told her agents in the field might be compromised if this information wasn’t retrieved."

Simms opened his mouth, then closed it.  Romanov had protested, a little; he had coerced her, a little.  It was the Company way.

"You knew damn good and well that was the one thing that would persuade her to go."

"It is critical information, sir."

"Then you needed to find some other way to retrieve it."  Control picked up the single page.  "She tried to quit the night she came back from Bosnia."  Simms felt his mouth drop open.  Control had never mentioned that he’d met with Romanov the night the massacre pictures hit the airwaves; Simms only knew about it because he’d secretly followed the spy chief.  He had always suspected Control knew he’d been followed.  And here it was, in black and white.  "I managed to talk her out of it," Control continued bitterly. "I promised her she’d never go into the field again.  And two weeks later you pull this."  He slammed letter and fist onto the desk. 

"I didn’t realize, sir.  I’ll … I’ll talk to her."

"You bet your ass you’ll talk to her.  You’ll talk to her, you’ll bribe her, you’ll beg her on your knees, but you’ll get her to stay.  Because if you don’t, you’ll follow her right out the door."

Again, Simms opened his mouth and closed it without speaking.

 Control sat down.  "Clean out your office," he said dismissively.  "Walker’s taking over your assignments."

"I … yes, sir.  And what will my new assignment be?"

 "I don’t know yet.  Talk to Romanov.  Let me know what she says.  And then take some time off.  I don’t want to see you for a while."  He waved his hand and moved on to another folder, another matter.

 Simms stood up.  "Yes, sir.  And I’m … I’m very sorry, sir."

"Tell it to her."

Simms had talked to her.  He had apologized, had promised it would never happen again.  Had confessed that his job was on the line if he couldn’t change her mind.  Lily Romanov listened in silence.  When he finally managed to shut up, she said, "I’m taking the rest of September off.  Then I’ll give you six months.  At the end of March, I’m gone." 

Simms still didn’t know if that six months would be enough to save his job.  Control had merely snarled at his report and sent him to the basement to work on budgets.  Walker had moved into this office.  The other lieutenants, the same men who had fawned over him when he was Control’s favorite, avoided him like a leper.  Honestly, Simms didn’t care.  He didn’t like any of them very much.  But it troubled him that he had lost Control’s trust, and that he had abused Romanov’s.  She’d always been incredibly decent to him. 

The others talked about their season in Purgatory, after they’d voted to have Control executed for treason in a mock trial staged to test their loyalty.  He wondered if this was his season.  If he would ever be in Control’s good graces again.

He wondered if he would turn some day just in time to see Control’s assassin fire the bullet that would kill him. 

Understanding the relationship between Control and Romanov hadn’t helped Simms.  It had made him paranoid, watchful, frightened.  He knew it showed, that he was too nervous when he was around them.  It would be obvious to a casual observer; to a spymaster and his gifted aide, it must be written on him like bold-face text.  I understand you, and I fear you.  Please don’t kill me.  It was probably the quickest way to provoke a sudden end to his life.

He wondered if he'd been put in charge now because a word from Lily had swayed the spymaster’s heart.  A little favor called in on his behalf, maybe.  Remember that guy I shot for you in Berlin?  I want Simms to have his old job back …   It was possible.  She still seemed to like him.  There had to be some reason for the sudden change of favor.

What had Stevens told him?  If you think you understand Control, you better look over your shoulder.  Simms had never forgotten.  He wouldn’t forget now.

He was still afraid, but he got in his car and headed for the hospital.

 ***

In his office in Washington, D.C., Jason Masur slammed down his phone.  He stood up, rubbed his eyes angrily.  Picked up a file and hurled it towards the wall.  It came apart en route and the papers floated down in a highly unsatisfactory way.

The man had the luck of the devil.   The luck of the damned devil, and he always had. 

He should have known it wouldn’t work.  He should have known that Durkin would botch it.  The old Soviet was soft.  Too much good living in New York.  Too many years in prison.  He was weak and he was a bad shot.  Control was still alive.

For the moment.

Jason stared at the blank wall before him and considered.  The directors needed to know.  Control had not called them, had not had his office report the assassination attempt.  That was in open disobedience to standing directives.

Still, if it went on a day or two more, it would make the breech that much more grievous.  And actionable.  If Control wanted to keep the incident quiet, in bald-faced defiance of the directors, who was Jason to interfere?

Control was still alive.  But that condition might be only temporary.

One could hope.

 ***

Simms could feel the shift in power the minute he got out of his car.  In the hospital lobby, Markland hurried over to greet him.  "Control’s waiting for you," he said swiftly.  "He’s up in the penthouse.  Robert McCall’s with him."

"How badly is he hurt?"  Simms had seen only the splash of red on his back as they’d whisked the spymaster back into the limo.

"Not bad, from what I hear.  They’re worried about his heart.  His age, you know."  Markland shrugged.  "Anyhow, he’s awake and aware.  But you get to run the show for a while."  He put a supportive hand on Simms’ shoulder.  "If there’s anything you need, let me know."

Simms nodded thoughtfully.  The day before, Markland had openly and obviously avoided sitting by him in the cafeteria.  Now they were great pals again.  "I better see what he wants," he said.

"I’ll let him know you’re on your way," Markland called after him.

"I bet you will," Simms muttered.

He passed a small waiting room.  Russo, Walker and Lisinger were all sitting there with their heads together, talking. Walker stood up, but Simms merely waved and continued to the elevators.  The surveillance sweep team was just coming off, with full gear.

Simms was sure there was a special by-pass code to get the elevator to the penthouse, but he didn’t need it; either Markland or someone upstairs had already arranged it.  The doors slid open silently, and he was in a blue-carpeted lobby, facing a wheelchair-wide door flanked by two heavily-muscled and well-armed men.  They were unsurprised and unimpressed by his arrival. 

Before he could knock, Robert McCall opened the door and gestured him in.

The old spy had his jacket unbuttoned, and his fabled Walther PPK was clearly visible at his waist.

Control was sitting in a big chair, very much like Brando in 'The Godfather'.  He was wearing a borrowed shirt with sleeves that were much too short.  He looked pale, tired; a hospital sling dangled unused around his neck.  But his blue eyes were as sharp as ever.  "Sit down, Simms," he said.

Simms sat on the edge of the couch.  He heard McCall move behind him and sit in a straight chair by the wall.  They don’t trust me, he thought.  Control put me in charge, but they don’t trust me …

It all clicked into place with terrifying clarity.

"You found the shooter," Control said.

"Yes, sir.  Dixon found him.  He was dead."

"Suicide?"

Simms hesitated.  "Maybe.  The handgun was with him.  But he was shot in the chest.  Most men would take the head shot.  It’s cleaner."  He shrugged.  "How are you?"

"Just a crease," Control answered.  "Took some stitches.  I’ll be fine.  You know who he was?"

"Walker said you identified him as Petrov Durkin," Simms answered promptly.  "I don’t know much about him.  He was a Russian station chief, with cover as a diplomat at the UN.  He returned to Moscow after Coble was killed.  I know that Durkin went to prison, but beyond that, when he was released and how he got here …"

"That’s your first order of business," Control interrupted.  "Find out those things.  He had to have help."

"Yes, sir."

"You recovered the rifle?"

"Yes, but it’s probably untraceable."

"Work on it anyhow."

"Already sent it to the shop."

"And the scene is clean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good.  Talk to the security detail, see if they remember anyone following us …"

"We weren’t followed, sir," Simms interrupted.

"How do you know?"

Simms took a deep breath.  "When we arrived at the meeting site, we didn’t wait.  We got out of the car and started walking.  Even with your phone call, there was barely a pause.  Two minutes, no more.  If Durkin had followed us, he would have had to shoot from street-level.  Not from the roof." 

Control leaned back in the chair, steepled his fingers in front of him.  "What did you find on the roof?"

"There’s a security door at the top of the stairwell.  It has a sign that says it’s alarmed, but the alarm has been disabled.  Some time ago, by the look of it.  Tenants go out on the roof to smoke.  But if he’d followed us, he wouldn’t have known that."

The spymaster’s blue eyes never wavered.  "Go on." 

Simms hesitated.  "The party you were meeting … has a reputation beyond reproach.  He would not have betrayed the meeting site."

"And therefore?"

From the corner of his eye, Simms half-saw McCall shift in his chair.  His forehead felt hot, but his arms prickled with goose bumps.  "And therefore the shooter received information on the meeting location from someone within the Company."

Control raised one eyebrow.  "And who within the Company had this information?"

"No one except the security detail and us …" Simms stopped.  "You knew all of this."

"Most of it," Control answered.  He almost smiled.  "Continue."

"The advanced team wouldn’t know Durkin.  It had to be one of the key staff."

"Yes."

"One of us."

"Yes."

McCall was on his feet now.  Simms sat very still, not wanting to alarm him.  His heart felt like lead in his chest.  He was very, very afraid.  "And you didn’t put me in charge because you don’t suspect me."

"No."

"You put me in charge because I’m your leading suspect."

Control nodded thoughtfully.  "Very good, James."

Simms desperately wanted to get his handkerchief and wipe his face.  But he didn’t want McCall to misconstrue that gesture.  He wiped the sweat away with his palm instead.  "But you’re not sure.  Or I wouldn’t still be talking."

Control did smile then.  "Correct."

"I don’t suppose – "  Simms stopped and licked his lips.  "I don’t suppose a denial would do me any good."

"It couldn’t hurt," McCall offered.

"I’m not trying to kill you, Control," Simms said earnestly.  "Or to have you killed.  I swear it."

"Thank you," the spymaster answered.  "Now prove it."

"Prove … the only way to prove it … is to find out who is trying to kill you."

Control looked over his shoulder to McCall.  "I told you he was the smart one."

"Oh, yes.  Very clever indeed."

Simms swallowed hard.  "Do the others know that they’re suspects?"

"Not yet," Control answered.  "Though they have all nearly the same evidence that you do.  They ought to be able to figure it out.  And they will, by and by.  But you have a little head start."

"Uh … thank you.  Sir."

"Of course, there’s some chance that whoever’s trying to kill me will now also try to kill you."

Simms stared at him.  It would be, he knew, very bad for his career to faint at this juncture.  And yet it seemed like the most logical thing to do.  "I’d like," he said vaguely, "a glass of water."

"Really?" Control said genially.  "See if you can find some Scotch while you’re up."

***

Lily scanned the arrival gate anxiously.  There was no one there to meet her.

She sagged with relief.  If McCall had been lying, if Control was badly hurt, Robert would have been there to meet her plane.  Since he wasn't, it could reasonably be assumed that her lover was safe. 

Hearing his voice had been reassuring.  But that was more than two hours ago, and a lot could happen with a gunshot wound in two hours.  Was he in surgery?  Going in?  Already out?  Was he bleeding to death from an undetected injury?  Was he in shock, slipping into a coma?  Was he asking for her?

Lily reached for her phone, then put it back.  Whatever he is, she told herself firmly, you are a damn idiot.  Get a grip. 

Whatever was happening, knowing about it before she could get there wouldn’t help.  She took a deep breath and strode towards the cab stand. 

The man walking ahead of her stopped suddenly and Lily bumped into his back.  She muttered apologies; so did he.  He moved away.  She stayed where she was, staring after him.  He was wearing a walking hat, brown suede, like Captain von Trapp in 'The Sound of Music'.  It was a little too big for his head, and it looked very odd with his black business suit.  But that was not what captured her attention about him.

Someone jostled her from behind and she moved – not towards the cab stand, but after the man in the hat.  Without hesitation this time, she brought her phone out as she walked.   Please stop, she urged the man silently.  Please stop somewhere.  If he got into a cab, she was screwed.

The man turned towards the baggage claim area.  He studied the information board, then joined the growing crowd around Carousel #3. The conveyor was empty and still off; their baggage hadn’t been unloaded yet.  The man crossed his arms over his chest and cocked one hip.  He was prepared to wait.

"Thank you so much," Lily said under her breath.  She melted into the crowd on the far side of the corridor, keeping him in sight, and turned her attention to the phone.

 ***

Robert jumped when his cell phone rang.  Then he ignored it.  He was watching Simms, and he refused to be distracted.

The phone rang three times, then went silent.   Perhaps fifteen seconds passed before it rang again.  Control looked at him sharply.  "Answer that."

"Of course," McCall answered dryly.  He pulled the phone out and spoke softly.  "Robert McCall."

"It’s Lily."

"I know.  Where are you?"

"At the airport.  Are you with himself?"  Her voice was also quiet; there was a lot of noise in the background.

"I am.  But not exclusively," he warned.

"Kendall Werner is here."

"What?" Robert exclaimed aloud.  Simms and Control both stared, but he no longer cared.  "Are you sure it’s him?"

"I’m positive."

"What’s he doing?"

"Waiting for his luggage."

"Bloody hell.  Hold on."  He held the phone away from his mouth.  "It’s Romanov," he told Control.  "She’s at the airport.  She’s just encountered Kendall Werner."

"What?  What the hell is he doing here?"

"I might hazard a guess," Robert said.

"Kendall Werner is a known terrorist," Simms said.  "He couldn’t possibly get a visa –"  He stopped as the senior spies both looked at him.  "You want to roll a team?"

Control took the phone.  "Romanov?  Are you sure it’s him?"  He listened for a moment, nodding.  "All right.  Hold on."  He looked to Simms.  "No time for a team.  Call Customs at La Guardia.  Tell them we have a known wanted at Baggage Three, description to follow.  Give them his name.  Tell them to consider him armed and extremely dangerous."

"Right away."  Simms had his own phone out.  After a two-second pause, he hit the single button that would link him to the Company switchboard and began to relay the information.

 ***

Even while she was staring at a killer, Lily found it tremendously comforting to hear her lover’s voice on the phone.  He wasn’t dead.  He sounded as brusque and terse as ever.    

She hung on the phone, apparently chit-chatting.  When the conveyor finally came on, she moved to the far side of the carousel, jostling just a bit through the crowd, politely impatient for her luggage.  She had given a complete description to be passed on to Customs.  Bless the traveling hat, she thought.  Rumor was that the assassin was going bald, and that he was ungraciously sensitive about it.  In any case, the hat made him damn easy to spot.

Werner had the constantly-moving gaze of a seasoned agent.  He never looked at one thing for more than a few seconds; he noticed everyone around him.  He looked over his shoulder, scanning the concourse.  When he turned back, he noticed Lily, recognized her as the woman who had bumped into him a few minutes earlier.  She saw it register, and then she saw him dismiss it.  It was the airport.  They were all waiting for their bags.  Nothing alarming about her continued presence, or her bored casual stare.

The first bags came down the chute to Lily’s right.  She glanced at them, then back at Werner.  They weren’t his. 

Behind him, a hundred yards down the concourse, she saw two cops talk into a single radio, then look her direction.  Werner had his back to them, his attention still on the bags.  

A dozen more bags spilled out.  The cops moved towards the baggage claim.  Two men in suits swung into the corridor ahead of them, and then two more.  They were all trotting.  They all had their hands on their guns.

They were as subtle as a herd of elephants. 

Werner was still focused on the bags.  But by instinct or habit, his shoulders turned.  He was about to look back again.  A golf bag came down the chute and he paused. 

His, Lily knew at once.  She studied it as it came closer.  It had a custom travel cover over the whole bag, black leather, zipped tight and locked with a small padlock.  Because of course it wouldn’t do to have your assault rifle spill out in the baggage hold of a commercial airliner.

Werner waited for his bag, but his shoulder was still turned; he still had time to check behind him before the bag was close enough to pick up.  They were close, six men, armed and running.  A big crowd, room to escape, to take a hostage …

She needed to keep his attention for five more seconds.

The bag was in front of her.  Lily Romanov tucked her phone into her pocket, reached down and pulled the golf bag off the conveyor.

Werner looked at her, startled.  "Hey!" he said.

She slung the bag over her shoulder.

"Hey, that’s mine!" he shouted. 

She backed into the crowd.  Werner pushed towards the end of the conveyor, coming after her.  He shoved his way right into the arms of the waiting Customs agents.

They took him firmly, politely, one on each arm.  Werner said something like, "There must be some mistake."  Then he flung one into the other and ran.

"Lily!" the phone in her pocket called.

Romanov shifted the weight of the bag across her shoulders and brought the phone out again.  "They had him.  He’s running."

"Don’t chase him," Control said sharply.  "You’re not armed."

"I know."  She shrugged her way out the crowd and walked swiftly the direction the chase had gone. 

"I mean it, Lily."

"I know."  It wasn’t hard to track them; they left a wide swath in the crowded concourse, confused, annoyed people looking the way they’d gone.  She moved up to a trot, taking advantage of their wake.  Whatever was in the golf bag did not shift or bounce.

Ahead was the cab stand.  Through the windows, she could see a crowd gathering in the curb lane.  There was a cab, stopped.  The agents were looking down.  She slid along the window and peered out.

"Lily?" her phone barked.

 "Mr. Werner is dead," she reported.

"Are you sure?"

She looked again.  Given the quantity of pink-gray matter smeared behind the cab’s front tire, there wasn’t much doubt.  "I’m sure.  But I do have some good news."

"What’s that?" Control said tightly.

"I have his golf bag."

"His … oh."  There was a brief pause.  "Bring it to me."

"Where are you?"

"The place where you met young Alexander."

"Ah.  Nice choice."

"Not bad.  Don’t try to open the bag."

"I have done this before, you know.  I’ll be there shortly."

 ***

Control handed the phone back to McCall.  "Werner’s dead."

"Damn."

"I don’t understand," Simms protested, rolling to his feet.  "Is his being here related to Durkin?"

"Very probably," Control assured him.  He took a deep breath, winced as his shoulder flared with pain.  "James, I want you to get back to the office.  Reassure the troops that I am not dead and will be returning shortly.  Then find out everything you can about how both Durkin and Werner got into the country."

"Yes, sir."

"I want the senior staff here tomorrow at nine.  Anybody who’s not here had better be dead.  And I want some answers.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir.  Should I send somebody to pick up after Romanov?"

"Miss Romanov is quite capable of finding her own way.  But you will need to send someone to meet with Customs.  Don’t tell them who spotted Werner; be vague.  Imply that there are deep cover implications."

"Make it seem," Robert interpreted for him, "that the Company had their eye on Werner all along."

"Precisely.  Find out everything they know about how he got here."

Simms nodded.  "Got it."

"Call me if you need me.  And tell them to send Romanov up as soon as she gets here."

The lieutenant took a deep breath.  "Of course, sir. 

McCall followed him to the door and closed it behind him.  "He’s too bright by half, isn’t he?"

"Yes he is, old son.  Yes he is."

 ***

Dr. Bindra came up to check on his patient before he went home, and was still there when Lily arrived.  Robert met her at the door, warned her with a glance, and took the golf bag from her.  She also had a large black duffle bag, her ever-present backpack, and a carrier with four large paper cups of coffee.  Though her eyes were serious, her outward manner was calm, almost playful.  Lily pretending to be Lily. 

She looked past him to where Control sat in the dining room, and he could see her relax for real.

Robert set the golf bag down, then claimed one of the coffees.  "Bless you," he said warmly.

"I know what boys like.  Hello, Dr. Bindra."

"Miss Romanov," he answered warmly.  "Nice to see you again."

McCall raised one eyebrow.  As far as he knew, the courier and the young doctor had met exactly once, in a corridor downstairs.  Obviously Lily had made an impression.  As usual.

Control caught their rapport as well.  "Doctor," he said tersely.  He leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

"Sorry, sorry," the doctor said.  "Ah, Miss Romanov, if you would excuse us for just a moment …"

"Let her see it," Control growled.  "Then she can report to the others that rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. 

"Of course."  He lifted the spymaster’s shirt, put on latex gloves, and peeled back the dressing over the wound.  "You’re not using the sling, I see."

Lily moved closer and looked over his shoulder.  Robert saw her grow pale; she looked away for a moment, swallowed, then looked back with her unconcerned mask in place.  "That’s gonna hurt for a while," she observed.

The doctor touched the wound very lightly.  "Yes.  It’s bone deep.  But it will heal, with time.  And care."

Control muttered under his breath.

"The bleeding is stopped.  I will change the dressing now, and have a nurse come again in a few hours.  I will send her with an ice pack as well. That will help with the swelling.  But immobilizing the arm is the best thing for it now.  And you should be resting."

"Yes, doctor," Control said dismissively.

"You will not be using those golf clubs any time soon if you do not care properly for this wound."

"I don’t golf."

Dr. Bindra looked at the golf bag, at Robert, at Lily. 

"It’s his big gun," Romanov explained. "He can’t sleep without it, you know."

"I … see," he answered uncertainly.  He was high enough in the hospital's organization to know that the Company had just signed a big new contract for services with the facility.  But he didn't know quite who was who, or if she was kidding.  Bindra re-dressed the wound with a certain haste.  "All seems in order here.  I am leaving the hospital, but if you need anything at all, you will let us know.  And the nurse will check on you in a few hours."

Control adjusted his shirt.  "Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor moved to the door, then stopped.  "Oh, Miss Romanov, I must not forget to tell you.  My wife completely loved that restaurant you recommended.  She said it was the best Hungarian food she has ever eaten."

"Your wife is Hungarian?" Robert asked in surprise.

"No, no.  But she loves Hungarian food."

"I’m glad she liked it," Lily said.  "I know a couple other places.  I’ll write them down for you."

"I would appreciate that very much."

McCall showed the doctor out.  He checked the elevator lobby from the doorway, and noted that the armed men at the door had been replaced by different but equally large and heavily armed men.  He ducked back inside and locked the door behind him.

Control was still sitting at the table, but he had turned and was looking at Lily, who stood beside him.  They were not speaking.

"Right," Robert said, mostly to himself.  "I’ll just … see about this bag, then …"

Control stood up and took Lily’s hand.  "We’ll be right back," he said, and led her into one of the bedrooms.

"I’m sure you will," Robert muttered.  "If she doesn’t kill you in there."  He retrieved her backpack from where she’d dropped it beside the table, opened the bottom compartment, and brought out a lock pick set. 

 ***

In a darkened room that hummed with processors and electronic heat, Jonah squinted at his computer screen.  What he was reading seemed highly unlikely.

McCall had called him to say that they’d found the shooter, and incidentally that Control was still alive.  Jonah really didn’t have to be looking any more.  But he’d caught one hint, and the more he looked, the more he found.  After the third hit on his query, he’d started a wide-scale search.

He did not like what he was finding.

He reached for his phone.  Then he hesitated.  Get all the information first.  At least get some more.  Verify his results.  Because what he was seeing couldn’t possibly be true.

 ***

"Is it clean?" Lily asked as he closed the door. 

Control nodded.  "Housekeeping just left."  He lifted his good arm and she slid under it, wrapping her own arms tightly around his waist, carefully below his wound.  She hid her face against his chest, and he lowered his over hers, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin.  Though his shoulder complained, he moved his other arm around her and pulled her even closer.

His soul had stopped breathing at the minute the bullet hit him, frozen in that instant, waiting.  Terrified not of death, but of never seeing her again.  Only now, as his lover’s warmth seeped into his body, familiar and life-giving, did it breathe again.  With Lily in his arms he was, finally, completely himself again.

She trembled, or perhaps he did.  "My poor girl," he murmured, stroking her hair.  It had grown some since her return to the States; it brushed against her collar now, straight and silky brown.  "My poor girl."

Lily made an impatient sound.  "I’m not the one with the big hole in my back."

"It will heal," he promised.  "It’s not that bad."

"It could have been.  If that had gone straight …"

Control smiled gently.  "But it didn’t, my love, because some smart-ass agent said she needed petty cash for hookers."

She leaned up and kissed him, her lips light and gentle on his, but insistent, as if she could tell the true state of his being by his kiss.  Perhaps she could.  After a long moment she drew away, apparently satisfied.  "I was so sure it would be me."

So was I, he thought.  "I’d much rather be hurt myself than have you hurt."

"I would have followed you, you know."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

He shook his head.  "Lily, don’t …"

"Of the very few things I am certain of in my life, I do know this. I cannot live without you."

She had said such things before, in passing, and Control had always managed not to quite believe her.  But here, in a dim room that could not help smelling vaguely like a hospital, looking into her eyes, he knew she absolutely meant it.  If he had died on the pavement, she’d be packing her damn red trunk right now.  Putting things in order.  And following him, into hell.

It crushed his heart, to think that she would die with him.  And in a perverse way, it made his soul rejoice.  He could not honestly say that he could – or would – go on without her, either.  It was madness.  But it was truth.

"I want you to live," he said.

"Then don’t let yourself die." 

"I will do my best."

"Promise?"

Too late, he saw the trap behind her concern.  The risks he might have taken on his own behalf were to be off-limits to him now.  She expected him to behave as if it were her life at stake, instead of only his.  It was true, he supposed.  But it rankled, too.  "So much for our tender moment."

"I know you," Lily answered.  "You don’t like to hide.  Don’t like to play it safe, to be protected.  But the shooter’s still out there."

"No," Control answered.  "He’s quite dead."

She blinked.  "Oh."

"But not his associates."

Lily took a deep breath.  "I can’t lose you."  Her voice, which had been calm and reasonable, suddenly cracked.  "Not now."

Control drew her closer again.  "All right, love.  All right.  I’m not going anywhere.  And neither are you."  He sighed.  "I suppose we ought to go try to sort this out."

"Not yet," she protested, snuggling against his chest. 

He grunted his agreement and simply held her.

It might have been two minutes before she finally leaned back and kissed him again.  The kiss was deeper this time, less tender, more insistent.  It was the sort of kiss that sometimes ended with them falling into bed.  But this was not, regrettably, one of those times. 

"About the sling," Lily said easily, tucking his arm into it. 

"I don’t need it."

"The more you use it, the faster your shoulder will heal."

He growled.

"And the sooner you get to be on top again."

Against his will, Control began to chuckle.  "You're a sneaky little thing, aren’t you?"  He swung the bedroom door open.

"I am," Lily agreed.

As she passed him to leave the room, he slapped her ass sharply. 

McCall glanced up at the sound and, predictably, frowned his disapproval.  But his attention immediately swung back to the contents of the golf bag which were spread on the table.  "Mr. Werner was evidently planning on a bit of hunting," he said dryly.

The rifle was a basic model, but the scope beside it was the latest in long-distance gun sites.  It was still in the factory box.  There were also two handguns, a matched set of heavy-caliber automatics.  The horn-handled Bowie knife completed the collection.

"Well," Control said.  "Very nice."  He claimed one of the coffees out of the carrier and downed half of it. 

"No ammo?" Lily asked.

 "Easy enough to get that here," Robert answered.  "And many less questions if your luggage happens to get searched." 

"Nobody looks twice at checked luggage," she answered.  "There’s not much question about why he was here, then."

"I would say not," Control agreed.  "How he got here, how he thought he was going to find me – lots of questions there."

"Do you think your Princeton boys are capable of coming up with the answers?" McCall wondered.

"They should be.  All except the one who’s trying to have me killed, of course."

"Wait," Lily said.  "What?"

The men looked at each other.  "We are reasonably certain," Control explained quietly, "that one of my lieutenants is involved." 

"Durkin shot from a rooftop over the meeting site," Robert added.

"Durkin … Petrov Durkin?  The Russian?"

"Yes."

She looked at Control, and then at Robert, and then back to Control.  Then she pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.  "I’m sorry, I’m way behind here.  Can I have it from the top?"

"Not until my shoulder heals," Control said.  He cleared his throat and quickly told her everything they knew. "It has to be one of my people," he concluded logically.  "We just have to figure out which one."

"Or kill them all and start over," Lily suggested immediately.

Her answer rather startled McCall.  "You’d kill a dozen innocent men to get at one guilty one?"

"None of them are innocent," Lily countered.  "If they were, they’d never have gotten this far.  And the Lord will know His own."

Robert appealed to Control.  "Please tell me she’s joking."

"She’s not," Control answered with certainty.  "But she will listen to reason.  My darling, it would be a major pain in my ass to have to replace them all.  I’m not saying your suggestion is completely off the table, but perhaps we can try some less radical interim measures."

Lily shrugged.  "All right.  But if anything happens to you before we sort this out, they’re all dead men."

Robert chuckled uneasily, as if he still believed she was jesting.  He pulled up his own chair.  "So what do we know about our mystery man?" he asked.  "We know that he knew about the meeting site.  That narrows the list significantly.  We know that he knows who Control’s enemies are."  He touched the rifle that lay on the table in front of him.  "And that he has the organizational skills to arrange for them to come into this country, even though they’re on the watch list."

"Money," Lily offered.  "It takes skill, but it also takes cash."

"True."

Control nodded.  "We can ask Jonah to take a look at their finances."

"I’ll call him," Robert said.  He looked at Lily thoughtfully.  "You know these men, and you’re quite a good judge of character.  If you had to guess, knowing no more than you do now, where would you look?"

"I know them all," Lily agreed, "and I’d kill them all.  But barring that, I know you like Simms for this.  I don’t see it."

"He’s been highly anxious," Control reminded her.  "Making mistakes, forgetting meetings, losing reports.  And he is not at all happy about being banished."

"Simms was banished?" Robert asked.  "For what?"

 Control glanced at Lily.  McCall would not take the true answer well.  "It doesn’t matter.  I needed to see how he’d respond to being out of favor.  His own personal season in Purgatory, as it were.  He’s been taken off Logistics and assigned to Budgets."

"Quite a step down for an ambitious young man," Robert mused.  "Would it make him angry enough to have you killed?"

"He knows it’s temporary," Lily argued.  "Or at least, he thinks he does.  Otherwise he would have quit by now.  He hates Budgets, but he’s doing the best he can there.  Trying to get back into your good graces."

"Perhaps he got tired of trying."

Lily shook her head.  "There’s something else.  He’s very much aware – more so than the others – that you’re better than he is.  He’s afraid of you."

"They’re all afraid of me," Control snorted.

"Yes, but … Simms is afraid of me, too." 

"If they were smart," Robert said, "they’d all be afraid of you, too.  Who do you like, then?"

The woman considered for a long moment.  "Walker would be my first choice.  He’s the most ambitious.  He feels most entitled.  But now that he’s been moved up to your right hand, I don’t see why he’d rock the boat."  She thought a little further.  "Stevens is still furious about the whole mock trial.  He’s bitter, humiliated.  But he doesn’t have the mind for this.  He hates details."

She picked up the third coffee, took a sip, made a face.  "Markland doesn’t have the patience.  He’d have to shoot you himself.  DeWitt’s the same way.  Poor impulse control."

"Lisinger?" Control prompted.

"Unlikely.  He’s not really a leader.  Wouldn’t come up with it on his own.  Same with Russo.  Born follower.  Good at taking orders, though.  Are we sure only one of them is involved?"

"No."

Lily threw her hands up.  "In combination, the possibilities are endless.  Walker and Russo.  Stevens and DeWitt.  Markland and Lisinger.  The only one who probably could do this by himself is Simms."  She shook her head.  "Can we go back to my plan?"

McCall said, "And then there’s the possibility that it’s one of them and someone higher up the food chain."

"Like Jason Masur," Control said, nodding.  "I had thought of that.  It would be like him, to strike from ambush from behind at least two other people."

"If he is involved," Robert said, "you can bet his tracks are very carefully covered."  He stood up and paced a slow circle around the table.  "We know that Durkin – and Werner – both had personal reasons to try to kill you.  But what does the person behind them hope to gain?  Your position?  Masur’s favor?  Or does he have some personal vendetta of his own?"

"Or all of the above," Lily offered.

 They were silent for a moment.  Control shuffled his lieutenants in his mind.  Their strengths, their weaknesses.  The possible combinations.  Any two of them – what about any three or four of them?  Not likely, that.  No three of them could reliably keep a secret, not from him.  Two, then.  Twelve men, alone or in combination.  Jason Masur on the outside, or someone else.  How many outsiders would help plan his assassination?  That list would fill a phone book.

His shoulder ached, not just at the wound but radiating down his arm and his back.  The strap of his sling hurt his neck, too.  He wanted to slip his arm out, though he knew it would make the wound hurt more in the long run.  And delay the time until he could be on top again.  Leave it to Lily to make medical compliance a matter of sexual positions. 

He needed an aspirin.   

He needed to go home and go to bed, with Lily at his side, and sleep until morning.  He was tired and hurt.  He had had a hellishly long day, and it was barely five o’clock.  He had, in truth, lost a fair amount of blood and they had not replaced nearly all of it.  He could not focus on the matter at hand.

Except that his life depended on it.

McCall’s phone rang, and all of them jumped.  He went to the far side of the room to answer it.

Lily gestured to the black bag she’d brought in.  "I brought you clothes," she said quietly.  "You know, a shirt that actually fits."

Control nodded, gesturing with his good arm.  "I didn’t realize Lisinger was so much shorter than me."

"I could talk to Munchie," she said.  "He knows everything.  Who’s talking to whom, about what."

"Quietly."

"Of course."

"Hold on, hold on," Robert told his phone impatiently.  He came back to the table.  "It’s Jonah.  He says he’s found something and he has to see me right away.  It’s urgent."

"Go," Control said.  "We’re secured here."

"Control …" Robert said.  He looked towards the door.  Outside, two Company men waited.  Downstairs, more.  Every one of them watching everyone who came and went from the spymaster’s penthouse.  "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Lily stood up.  "Tell Jonah I’ll come and get it."

"You don’t have to do that," Control protested.

"I think she does," Robert answered regretfully. 

"Will he trust me?" Lily asked.

"He will if I tell him to."  He turned back to the phone and moved away again.

Control touched his lover’s hand.  "Lily …"

"He’s right," she said sadly.  "If he leaves us alone here, even for an hour, it’ll be all over the Company.  We can’t afford to take that chance.  Especially now."  She shrugged.  "And besides, if something happens, he’s much better with a gun than I am."

He kept her hand, turned his face away.  Of all the times that he had loathed their secret relationship, the lives and careers that had kept them so often apart, this was perhaps the bitterest. 

"We’ll get through this," Lily promised.

He looked up, into her warm eyes.  She had been so frightened when she arrived, but now she was steady, calm.  Ready to get to work, to solve this new problem as if it were not a matter of their lives or deaths.  It was the only way to approach it, of course.  Work it as a case.  Just another assignment.

And when it was solved, she would still be there for him, with him.

His shoulder would heal, and he could be on top again – sometimes. 

He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.  "I know we will."

 ***

James Simms wished he had time for a shower.  He didn’t.  But he did take the time to swing by his apartment for a change of clothes.   He had one set at the office, of course, but to put it on was to leave no spare.  It was likely to be a long haul.

He picked up his mail and flipped through it in the elevator.  Phone bill, magazines, ads, a letter from his bank.  He frowned, tore it open.  He had to read it twice to understand what it said.

Simms sagged against the back wall of the elevator cab.  He felt cold, clammy.  He knew he was probably dead white.

With numb fingers, he folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.  Dead white, nothing. 

He was probably just dead.

 ***

"Gimmee."

Jonah paced the doorway behind his security gate.  He would adamantly not open it to let Lily any closer to his apartment.  "You have to get it to McCall right away.  Don’t open it, don’t look at it.  Why didn’t he come himself?"

"He’s with Control," Lily repeated, not patiently.  "Give me the damn data."

He slipped the envelope between the bars.  "Just for McCall.  Don’t look at it.  Promise?"

"I promise," Lily said.  She snagged the envelope away from him.  "Damn, Jonah, you need help, you know that?"

He looked around anxiously.  "I used to have a shrink.  They bugged his office."

"That was Daniel Ellsburg."

"They bugged my shrink, too."

"Sure they did.  I gotta go."

"Straight to McCall," he said again.  "Don’t look at it.  Just go.  And tell him I’m still looking."

"Yeah, yeah." 

Lily trotted down the street and around the corner to her Mercedes.  Once inside, with the doors locked, she tore the envelope open.

"Oh, fuck," she said softly.  She put the print-out down and looked fiercely out the window until the city stopped swimming in her vision.  Then she looked at the paper again.  "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She picked up her phone.

 ***

I have become, Robert thought ruefully, Control’s blasted social secretary.  He moved to answer the phone yet again.  It was Lily, and her voice, while not hysterical as it had been earlier, was edged with fear again.  "Hold on," he said, "I’ll put you on speaker."

Control came from the kitchen with re-heated coffee and sat at the conference table beside him.  "What did Jonah find?"

"Janos Tzersa," she answered.  "From Cyprus."

"We know him," Control confirmed.

"Ian Brick," Lily continued.

"From the IRA," McCall said.

"Yasmin Peng."

"North Korea," Control supplied.

"Katerina Czauderma."

"Poland," Robert filled in.  "What about them?"

"They’re all in the city."

"What?" Robert stood up, alarmed.  "All of them?  Is he sure?"  He looked across at Control.  The spymaster barely seemed surprised. 

"All of them," Lily answered tightly.  "And Lowell Whitman arrived in Toronto yesterday."

McCall whistled softly.  "Well, well.  You are the popular one, aren’t you, Control?"

"Does he have details?" Control asked.

"He has some," she answered.  "He’s still searching; there may be others.  I’m coming back in."

"No," Control said firmly.

"Don’t even try it," she began.

"Just stop," he barked.  There was silence over the phone.  Robert could picture the woman’s face, contorted with rage, and perhaps she was silent because she couldn’t choose which curse to utter first.  But she stopped and she listened.

"At the party at the King’s bar," Control said precisely, "there was a table in the back.  Remember who was sitting at it?"

She took a breath that was audible over the phone line.  "Yes."

"Go to the office.  Get blue sheet armament for everyone who was at that table.  Then go see the one who’s local and tell her I need her and her crate.  Understand?"

Robert nodded his approval of the plan – not that it would matter much to Control.  It was obviously the only way.

There was another discernable pause while Lily swallowed the remnants of her temper.  "I understand."

"Then come back here."

"The friend who arrived late," she said.  "With the chain."

McCall nodded again.  Oh, yes, it would be very useful to have Mickey Kostmayer around in the next few days.

Control hesitated.  "Difficult and probably unnecessary."

"Humor me," she snapped.

The spymaster drummed his fingertips lightly on the table, considering.  "Be discreet."

"When have I ever not been?  I’ll be there soon.  Keep the doors locked."

McCall heard the high growl of the Mercedes’ engine before the phone went dead.

He looked steadily at Control.  His friend seemed tired, and perhaps overwhelmed.  "Control?"