Blood Ties

Blood Ties
by Isabell Klein

A lone traveler walks along a secondary road to Prague. He occasionally tries to thumb a ride, but the few vehicles that pass ignore him. He shrugs and trudges on, the backpack he carries increasing in weight geometrically as each mile passes. Soon, he will have to stop for the night -- the next of many nights spent out in the open. Perhaps he will try to find a barn. There are clouds on the horizon and the feel of rain in the air. He would need shelter this night, but after dark.

Farmers are reticent to have unknown travelers sleeping in their barns. He smiles at the thought. Perhaps they fear he will scare the cows and the milk will turn sour. He'd been accused of many things in the last few years, but never curdling milk. If that ever became necessary, however, he'd find a way. He was discovering that he could always find a way, a quality his employers greatly appreciated. That quality and others had brought him to this lonely highway in a country that wasn't his own, using a name as bogus as the passport he carried. A strange man in a strange land.

He hides behind a haystack, watching as the lights in a small farmhouse move from room to room until no lights are visible. He waits another hour and then slips into the barn and climbs into the hayloft for the night. With luck, he will rise before the farmer and be gone before he has any adverse affect on the livestock.

The loft, partially heated by the breath of the cows below, is warm. The hay is soft, even if the occasional twig finds a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy to irritate. The night is dark. The young man, exhausted from his travel, sleeps.

His internal alarm clock deserted him and the sun was high in the sky when he awoke to find a pitchfork held inches from his chest. Slowly, his eyes traveled up the long handle to the hands which held it. Slender, ring-less hands, marred by the calluses of hard work, firmly grasped the pole.

She wore sturdy boots, a long woolen skirt and a jacket that appeared even older than she was. A scarf, tied behind her head, effectively covered her dark hair but a strand or two refused to be confined and escaped onto her forehead. Her eyes were somewhere between brown and golden, crowned by delicate brows.

She was not beautiful, not plain either, but somewhere in between.

She would, he guessed, have suitors, but not many. Her choices would be limited.

"What are you doing in my barn?" she demanded.

He answered in halting Polish. "I'm a traveler, who needed a place to sleep, but it was so late and there were no lights. I did not wish to rouse anyone. I know how hard farmers work."

"You are not Polish!"

"No," he answered, "Russian. I am a student."

"You are not welcome here." She gestured with the pitchfork. "Get your things and get out. If my father finds you here, he will be very angry."

The young man rolled over and began stuffing his things into his backpack. He stood slowly so as not to scare her. "I'll go," he said in his broken Polish and headed toward the ladder to the floor below.

As he turned to descend the ladder, she asked, "Are you hungry?"

He smiled at that, his eyes crinkling, the stern features relaxing. "Yes," he acknowledged.

"I'll get you some food," she said and turned away.

"Just a minute. What is your name?"

"Elena," she said, "and yours?"

He smiled again. "Michal. My friends call me Misha."

"Then I will call you Misha. Stay up here in case my father decides to come here before going to the fields."

Misha nodded. Elena was gone in a second; her feet quick and sure down the ladder. He watched over the edge of the loft as she left the barn, closing the door behind her. He climbed down the ladder, placed his backpack on the floor, and waited for her to return.

He knew she was taking a great risk by feeding him. Russians were not particularly popular in Poland, especially after forcing the current government into little more than house arrest until it changed its non-socialist ways. He would probably be more acceptable under his own name and nationality than he was with the cover story.

Elena was back with some bread and cheese and strong black coffee.

Misha ate quickly, aware of the danger of tarrying too long. At any moment Elena's father could appear at the door and would not take kindly to the idea of an intruder spending the night in his barn.

"Is there any work in the area?" Misha asked as he ate. "I would like to stay in one place for a while to study the folk tales of the region... for my work at school."

Elena shook her head. "Since the war, there are only very small plots to plant and a few cows to feed. The families take care of their own."

When he finished, Elena opened the door to look outside. Her father was not in the barn yard and she motioned Misha to leave.

He almost made it... almost... but not quite.

An old man stood at the front door of the house as Elena walked her guest to the road. "Elena!" a sharp, deep voice called. "Who is that with you?"

Elena touched a finger to her mouth and turned toward the house.

"A student, Father, looking for work," she called. "I told him there was no work here."

Elena's father limped quickly toward them. Sometime in the past his left leg had suffered an injury, perhaps in the war; perhaps during the Nazi occupation.

"You're looking for work?" the farmer asked, casting a glance at his daughter as he focused on Misha.

At the young man's nod, the farmer asked, "Have you ever worked on a farm?"

While Misha searched for an answer, Elena said, "He's a student father, from the city."

"You are too old to be a student."

Misha shrugged. "The war... " he answered, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"You're not Polish," the old man charged. "Russian?"

Misha nodded and the old man spit on the ground. "There is no place for Russians here."

"Please, Father," Elena said, "we could use the help. You can't blame all Russians for what has happened to Poland."

"I will blame who I choose to blame, daughter."

"Father!" Elena pleaded. "He has done nothing. You said you needed help. Give him a chance."

"He is Russian!" the old man spat.

"He is young and strong. We need the help. My brothers are away. You cannot farm the land alone."

Elena's father did not wish to be reminded he was no longer as young as he once was. "I will bring Nicholas home from the seminary until Stanislaus returns from the army. We need farmers more than we need priests. Nicholas can return to the seminary when Stanislaus comes home."

"Stash will be home in the fall," Elena reminded her father. "What harm can come from Misha's staying with us until Stash returns?"

"The neighbors... "

Elena stamped her foot. "I do not care what the neighbors think. And what they will think is that you are a very clever man getting a Russian to work for you for the summer for no pay. They will think you have successfully made a fool of the invader. That is what they will think!"

And so it was decided. Misha would stay for the summer, but when Stanislaus returned, he would have to go. Misha quickly agreed. It certainly suited his purposes to stay in one place and he doubted he would come under the scrutiny of the civilian authorities if he kept a low profile and did his research quietly.

For once, his mission was simple information gathering. When the United States first encouraged uprising in Eastern Europe and then deserted the Hungarians during their uprising against the Soviet Union, faith in America's commitment to Eastern European freedom fighters was badly shaken, if not shattered altogether. His mission was to assess the damage done to American credibility. Now he'd be able to mingle with the locals, listening. It would take them a while to get used to him and they would never totally accept him, he knew that. Recent experiences with first the Germans and now the Russians had instilled a deep suspicion of strangers of any kind.

Misha held the shovel rather gingerly, eyeing the pile of cow manure with distaste. Who would have thought cows eliminated so much and who would have thought he would be standing in this smelly enclosure, the blisters on the palms of his hands broken and bleeding. He leaned the shovel against the fence and pulled two rags from his pocket. Carefully he wrapped them around his hands, hoping he wasn't introducing some noxious infection into his blood stream. He suspected that any kind of antibiotic was in short supply in this rural area. He grabbed the shovel again, ignoring the renewed pain in his hands, and pushed the blade of the shovel into the steaming pile, lifted it, and dumped the contents into the waiting wheelbarrow.

Strained muscles in his arms, back and legs protested the movements. He couldn't remember ever hurting so much from work. He suspected that "Papa" was secretly enjoying his discomfort. Neither his upbringing nor his career choice quite prepared him for farm work.

He stood the shovel against the fence when the wheelbarrow was only half full. It all seemed so easy -- help around the farm, gather his information and leave as inauspiciously as he had arrived. Hah!

Though each trip to the field to spread the manure seemed longer than the last, he finally managed to move the stinking pile. This was the last chore of the day. Now, to put the tools away and hit the hay -- literally. A blanket spread over some hay in the loft constituted his bed. He couldn't have been more grateful this day for that pile of straw if it were a 5-star hotel.

He didn't know how long he slept, but he knew what awakened him.

Elena was calling up to him, a tray in her hands. "Your dinner!" she said, holding the tray a little higher. "Come down and eat. And, I've brought something for your hands," she added as she set the tray on a work table near a window.

Climbing up to his loft had been bad enough, but coming down was just a trifle dangerous since he couldn't really grasp the sides of the ladder.

"Can you make it or do you want me to come up?" Elena asked.

His ego suitably piqued, Misha declined the offer. He descended more slowly than he would have wanted, leaning against the ladder with his body, as he held lightly to the sides.

"See?" he said rather triumphantly when he reached the floor. "No problem."

"Hmmmph!" Elena snorted.

She removed the cover from the bowl of thick vegetable soup. The aroma floated across to Misha and he inhaled deeply as if it were ambrosia. "I didn't realize how hungry I was," he admitted, "only how tired."

There was warm bread and home churned butter along with strong coffee to complete the meal.

Spooning the soup with the rag still wrapped around his hand posed a problem and he spilled some of the soup as he ate. Misha smiled an apology at Elena, sitting across from him. "This is the best meal I've had in -- well, since the last meal," he said as he tore off a piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth. "You're a wonderful cook. You should open a cafe."

"In socialist Poland?" she asked scornfully. "I doubt the government would approve. Besides," she added thoughtfully, "no one has enough money to eat out."

"Just a thought," he said hastily to cover his gaffe. Private enterprise and Soviet-style socialism were incompatible.

Elena took a clean cloth from her pocket, along with a jar of salve. "I brought something for your hands. I'll get some water."

He stood quickly, offering to get the water for her, but she declined. "Just sit and enjoy your supper. I'll be right back."

Misha finished off the soup and ate the rest of the bread like the hungry man he was. He was finishing the coffee when Elena returned carrying a bowl of water.

"Give me one of your hands," she said softly. "This will hurt when I remove the rag."

As gently as possible, she eased the rag off the open sores in the palms of his hand. She was right; it did hurt, but he would not give her any reason to believe she was hurting him. She cleaned the raw wound with the water and then smoothed a homemade salve over the injury. It smelled awful, but eased the pain on contact with the torn skin. Then she wrapped a cloth around the cleaned wound and turned her attention to his other hand.

For all her gentleness, she was quick and efficient. She looked up at him when finished, smiling shyly.

"You do this often?" he asked, returning her smile with one of his own.

"For my brothers," she answered, still holding his bandaged hands in her own. "When they're away from the farm, their hands get soft, too. You'll be all right in a week, hopefully by Sunday."

"Why Sunday?" he asked, curiously.

"After church, some of us are going on a picnic." Her words stumbled over each other as if she was afraid that he might leave before she finished. "I thought maybe you would like to come with me. It's just some of us from the church."

"But I have work... "

"Not much. Just taking care of the animals. That won't take long. You will finish before church. We go down to the river and eat lunch. I thought it would be a chance for you to hear some folk tales." He was about to speak again, but she stopped him. "If you're worried about food, I'll bring enough for both of us." She smiled up at him. "Please come."

This time his smile reached his eyes. "It sounds like fun. I would be honored to accompany you," he responded gallantly.

That week established the pattern for the summer. Weekdays spent working on the farm; Sundays roving the countryside in the company of the young church people, Elena always at his side, companion and guide. When they returned, he would write up his notes in the form of folk tales.

Over the summer, calluses grew on his hands while his muscles grew strong from the hard work. And over the summer, an easy friendship grew between them.

"I have little chance of marrying," she told him one Sunday as they walked home along the side of the dirt road. He had asked her what she planned to do with her life. "So many young men - killed in the war. I will make the best life I can and if I am fortunate, I will find a man to give me a child who will take care of me in my old age." She smiled as she said the words, but he could see the sorrow in her eyes contemplating an empty future.

"I would change that if I could," he told her, even though he knew the difficulty involved in altering the future. "I would like to think of you surrounded by happy children and a loving husband."

She smiled, a little sadly. "What happens... happens," she told him. That first night, as the crops grew to maturity and the nights grew chilly, when she crept into the barn and joined him in his loft, he asked, "Are you certain?" He hesitated touching her without her verbal agreement.

"Yes," she answered simply and lay down beside him. When they made love it was as young people banishing loneliness and the uncertainties of the future in the arms of one another rather than with the blazing passion of young lovers.

Both knew there was no future in their relationship. He would leave when her brother returned and she would stay to keep house for her father and brothers and help with the farm.

Several weeks later, news of Stanislaus' return reached the farm and Misha prepared to leave.

New York, 1987

"McCall, did you like your father?"

The question was so unexpected, Robert was momentarily startled.

He looked sharply at his young friend, trying to find a hint of Mickey's reason for asking. But, Mickey was hiding his emotions well. It was only the slight hint of anger that McCall detected in the voice that suggested the young agent's deeper feelings.

"Like?" McCall repeated, never before considering the word "like" in terms of his own father. "I'm not certain. I loved him and I respected him and I wanted him to respect and be proud of me. But like? I don't think that came into the relationship. Why?"

Mickey took another long drink from his bottle of beer. He looked around O'Phelan's as he set the bottle back on the table. "I didn't like my old man. I didn't respect him and I didn't want to be like him. He didn't like me very much either."

Mickey so rarely spoke of his feelings that McCall knew whatever had driven Mickey to admit his dislike for his father had shaken the young man to the core.

Mickey stared down at the table. Before McCall could probe further, Kostmayer continued. "When you were up in Montreal a couple weeks ago, visiting Yvette, I got a call from Houston. My cousin Stan needed a bone marrow transplant and they wanted to test Nick and me as potential donors. Turned out Stan and I aren't related at all, but Nick and Stan are. That means that Nick's father isn't my father."

"You're older, aren't you?" McCall asked.

Mickey nodded. "When we got back from Texas, I asked Nick if he knew anything."

"And did he?" McCall prompted when it seemed as if Mickey would say no more.

"Yeah," the young man said quietly. "Ma told him before she died." Mickey took another swig from the bottle. This time, when he remained silent, McCall prodded him to continue, even though the retired agent had a very good idea what was coming. "And that was?"

"That my old man wasn't my old man." Mickey paused long enough to let the bitterness he felt creep into his voice. "And you know what, McCall? I'm glad. I hated the bastard. He made all our lives hell."

McCall didn't know what to say to that. "And Nick didn't tell you?"

"No," Mickey said, his voice a mere whisper. "Ma made him promise, but she gave him a letter for me if I ever found out." Mickey pulled a wrinkled envelope from a pocket inside his jacket. "He gave me this."

He handed over the letter to McCall, who took it reluctantly. "You're certain you want me to read this, Mickey?"

"Yeah, McCall. I'm certain."

Robert slowly withdrew the pages stuffed inside the envelope. They were covered in a neat European script. Though McCall's Polish was rusty, the meaning of the message was quite clear.

"My child," McCall read. "Tomorrow I marry the man who will be your father. The only one you will know. I believe he will care for you as if you are a child of his own body. It is not every man who has the generosity of heart to marry a woman who carries another man's child within her.

"George is a good man and I believe we will live well together -- the three of us.

"But if someday you start asking questions, I want you to know something of the man who fathered you. His name was Misha and he was Russian. He said he was in Poland to study the Polish peasant culture, but I didn't believe him. I think he was part of the army or perhaps even some kind of spy for he seemed far more interested in what people thought than in how they lived.

"There are so few young men that I had little hope of marriage. I wanted a child and we became lovers even though I knew that if my family found out, they would disown me for making love with a Russian. When I found out I was pregnant, I kept the knowledge from him and also from my family as long as I could. Misha was only in our town for the summer and he left before my secret became known.

"Somehow my family was able to send me to America and arrange a marriage. I am grateful to be here in this country where I can make a home for both of us. I will name you after your father so that you carry a part of him with you always.

"He was a kind man, gentle and understanding. The priest said it was wrong for us to be lovers, but I can't believe that. Nothing as beautiful as our time together or that produces a child that fills my heart with joy each time I feel you move inside me could possibly be wrong. I know he would love you as I do if he knew of your existence, but I do not even know where he lives or how to reach him.

"I hope and pray that if you ever read this letter you will understand and, in understanding, forgive any wrongs you may think I have done you.

"You have all my love, my child."

McCall put down the pages and removed his glasses, absently wiping away any dampness with the napkin. "I don't know what to say, Mickey, except that your mother obviously loved you very much."

"I always wondered why he preferred Nick. Now I know." Mickey was silent for a moment. Then he grinned his "psycho" smile and said, "I wonder what Control would say if he knew he had a Russian agent?"

"The same thing he said when he had a British agent," McCall offered. "'You're American by birth.'"

"But Russian by heritage. No wonder I learned the language so easily," Mickey said bitterly.

"That's enough, Kostmayer," McCall barked. "What are you angry at? The fact that your father isn't the man you thought he was, a man you didn't like? Or angry that your mother told Nick and not you?"

"I had a right to know, McCall!" Mickey exploded. "She had no right to keep it from me. None."

"As Manon kept Yvette's true parentage from her?" McCall suggested. "Yvette doesn't love her mother or her father less because she learned that he did not actually father her. Nor does she hate Control because he didn't tell her. She knows that the truth doesn't change the past nor poison the future. You can do no less."

"It's not same, McCall, and you know it," Mickey protested.

"No, it's not exactly the same, but it is similar." McCall leaned across the table until his face was near Kostmayer. "It doesn't change who you are and what you are. And it doesn't change your relationship with Nick or with anybody else. You are you, Mickey Kostmayer, and nothing, certainly no accident of conception, is going to change that!"

"Whatever you say, McCall," Mickey said as he got up from the table, but McCall knew Mickey neither believed nor accepted the sentiments expressed by the older agent's words.

"Where are you going?" Robert demanded as he, too, rose from his chair.

"I've got to see a man about a job," Mickey said cryptically. "You know what that's like, McCall. See ya!"

"Mickey!" the retired agent called after his young friend, but Mickey pretended not to hear and McCall's last sight of him was the dejected slump of his shoulders as he exited the restaurant.

Mickey Kostmayer was in "hide and watch" mode as he had been for the last three days. Three days of nothing but the ramblings of drunken patrons of the local gin joint. He was in the right place for "gin joints" - Casablanca hadn't changed all that much since the movie. Of course, the movie was Hollywood's version of the Moroccan city and reality was far grimier.

Finally, Mickey said to himself, as his target stood silhouetted in the doorway, the glare of the Mediterranean sun behind him. As Mickey watched, the target swaggered through the dimly lit café, loudly greeting friends and enemies alike. A man not afraid of his friends, Mickey thought, or his enemies. Mickey studied the target from under hooded eyes. No guards visible, but the man wasn't a complete fool or he wouldn't have survived as long as he had in the underbelly of Casablanca. There would be guards -- somewhere. All he had to do was spot them, neutralize them, and take out the target.

Mickey continued to stare into his drink, letting his posture slump just a little more -- a man drowning in 90 proof. Just over an hour and a half later, the target emerged from behind a beaded curtain and left the establishment. Mickey checked his watch. Right on the minute. A creature of habit, the target.

Thirty minutes later, Mickey slid off the barstool, stumbling a little. He reached into his pocket and put a wad of currency on the counter. He didn't bother counting the dirty bills. It was Company money.

He weaved his way through the tables, toward the door, seemingly bleary eyes taking in every movement. He pushed outside into the glaring sun, momentarily blinded by the brightness. He sensed the presence of others around him even before his arms were grabbed and a metal pipe descended onto his head. A last thought, as the blackness descended, was, Control's gonna be really pissed.

Robert McCall quietly sipped his scotch, enjoying the quiet anonymity of O'Phelan's and wondering just how long that anonymity would last. The restaurant was becoming too much of a hang out for Company types. Tonight, they were scattered about the restaurant -- Jimmy, Sterno, Brockie, several other agents McCall only knew by sight -- all lost in thoughts the nature of which Robert could only guess.

His own world was relatively quiet. Scott was busy studying and staying out of trouble, at least as far as McCall knew. Yvette was in Vancouver, setting up an art exhibit. He had last seen her at the airport in Montreal - she off to Vancouver, he to New York. And Kay? His ex-wife? McCall didn't know precisely her situation, but assumed all was well.

The only stormy situation was his relationship with Control. They had had another of their heated "disagreements" concerning one Mickey Kostmayer. Control claimed that Mickey's time belonged to the Company, even the time Mickey spent helping McCall. McCall countered with the observation that Mickey's time when not on assignment belonged to Mickey. Whatever Mickey opted to do with it was not the Company's concern.

"I pay his salary," Control thundered.

"Yes, you do, don't you," was McCall's answer, "but I was not aware that you owned him."

"There is where you are wrong, Robert. I do own him, body and soul."

That was the problem, McCall mused. Control does own Mickey as he owns them all... as he once owned me.

The door opened, letting in a chilly autumn draft, or maybe it was McCall's reaction to the man who entered. The conversation level, never very loud, disappeared entirely.

Control's demeanor told McCall that whatever message he was about to deliver was not one Robert wished to hear. The presence of the Company agents now acquired a more ominous meaning.

Control pulled out the chair opposite Robert and sat. "It's Kostmayer."

"What," McCall asked, "is that supposed to mean?"

"He's missing; presumed dead."

McCall squeezed his eyes closed and inhaled through his teeth, the hiss of his in-drawn breath uncommonly loud in the quiet alcove. The message was at the same time expected, yet unexpected. He had long ago come to the conclusion that someday Mickey would die in the service of the Company.

"Where?" McCall asked when he spoke, his voice deadly calm and soft.

"You know I can't tell you that," Control said, looking up for the first time into McCall's face.

"Where?" McCall demanded.

"Where?" McCall thundered, his fist making contact with the table loud enough to alert the agents in the room.

From all parts of the restaurant, Company men edged toward the table, hands reaching inside jackets for the weapons hidden there. Control waved them away.

"Listen to me, Robert," Control urged as McCall started to rise from his chair. "Just listen to me." Control put out a hand in seeming supplication. "You don't want to make a scene."

"Mickey Kostmayer is missing," McCall hissed, "and you don't want me to make a scene. How like you, Control, to put appearance before people. Mickey should never have been sent on a mission in his emotional state."

"What are you talking about? What emotional state?" Control hissed right back.

"He had some disturbing news," was all McCall would say. He couldn't tell Control the information Mickey shared.

"What?" Control demanded.

"That's for Mickey to tell you," McCall replied, "but he shouldn't have gone."

"Robert!" Control leaned closer. "If you know something that might affect the performance of one of my agents, I expect you to tell me."

"If I had known you were sending him out of the country, I might have!"

"Might have?" Control countered. "There is no 'might have' about it."

This wrangling was getting them nowhere, McCall knew. He and Control had an unlimited number of jibes available for hurling at each other. None of them would help Mickey.

"We can't talk here," Control continued.

"And if not here, where? Your office? I think not."

"Robert," Control was almost pleading now, but McCall knew that tone only too well. The Agency administrator knew how to use his voice and his words to get what he wanted. "Anywhere you say. Your place. The park. Any where you want."

Silently, McCall got to his feet and led the way out of O'Phelan's, Control following behind.

Mickey did not come to consciousness easily or quickly. It was a slow, painful ascent to a cold, dark, reality. He lifted his head slightly, only to lower it immediately as pain flared behind his eyes. He squeezed them tightly before the agony overwhelmed him. He lay still trying to make sense of the situation. He felt the cold metal against his wrists and the clink of a chain when he tried to move his arms. He opened his eyes to mere cracks attempting to avoid the pain he knew would come with the light, but there was only darkness.

Terrified by his inability to see, Mickey fought the panic rising inside him. Total darkness played upon primal fears at the core of the human soul. The fierce battle between Mickey's fears and his intellect was as intense as any fire fight. To lose this battle was to die as surely as if a bullet found its mark.

Cool it, Kostmayer, Mickey chided himself, one thing at a time. I'm alive -- one point for me. He carefully tested the bonds -- hands chained to something, probably the wall. Ankles - he could feel the cold metal against his skin. Gingerly, he tried to move one leg and found both attached together by a short chain, but he could move his legs around. If his legs were fastened to something else, it was a very long tether.

He could do nothing about the pain in his head but ignore it as best he could. Then there was the darkness that surrounded him and frightened him more than he ever remembered being frightened before. He worked on convincing himself that the darkness resulted from the lack of light entering his prison, but no room, logic told him, is totally without light. Then he remembered photographic dark rooms and the small revolving doors that allowed people to enter and leave without destroying the film.

Maybe he wasn't blind after all. Maybe the headache was just that and had no deeper meaning. Maybe he was in a photographic darkroom. Maybe he was given a drug that simulated blindness. Maybe he was going crazy and this was just an introduction to asylum life.

The minutes dragged by as Kostmayer lay still. Agency training taught him to "pigeon hole" pain and concentrate on resting for whatever was coming, but his inability to see raised terrors in his mind he wasn't equipped to cope with just yet. Maybe later, not just now. As he tried to put the situation in perspective, a small voice in his head kept repeating over and over that the lack of vision was probably the least of his worries.

The night was blustery with more than a hint of rain and there were few people about as they strolled around the perimeter of the lagoon in Central Park. As usual, pleasantries were ignored.

"Now," McCall said ignoring Control's protest, "I want to know what happened to Kostmayer and I want the truth."

"I don't know what happened, Robert," Control began. "We're still checking. He was on assignment in Morocco."

"Morocco?" McCall asked quietly, not totally convinced that Control was telling the truth. It wouldn't be the first time, more like the thousandth. "Where in Morocco?"

"Robert, you know I can't tell you," Control said.

"You're certain, Control? Absolutely certain?" McCall pressed on. Had his own silence contributed to Mickey's death, he thought. If there was a chance - any kind of a chance...

"As certain as I can be... he's missed three check-ins and his mark is still walking around. Missing agents in Morocco are usually fished out of the Mediterranean."

McCall stopped suddenly, closing his eyes against the sudden grief. He always hoped he would die first, but had never for a moment doubted that Mickey would earn a star on the Langley wall. "You'll have to tell his brother Nick." McCall glanced over at his friend. "I'll go with you," he offered. "I'll have to tell Scott."

They began walking again, more slowly this time, each man lost in his own thoughts. "He shouldn't have gone," Robert repeated. "You shouldn't have sent him."

"Why?" Control asked bluntly. "What was wrong with Kostmayer?"

"He had a letter from his mother-"

"-His mother's dead," Control protested.

"If you're not going to listen, why did you ask?" When Control said nothing further, McCall continued. "Nick gave it to him. His mother wrote it before he was born and told Nick to give it to Mickey if Mickey ever discovered that George Kostmayer was not Mickey's father. Seems she had an affair in Poland with a Russian student she assumed was a spy."

Control's disbelief was real. "Kostmayer's not Russian; he's American."

"By birth, certainly," McCall agreed, "but by heritage, he could very well be Russian."

"He's not Russian," Control repeated.

"And how would you know that?" McCall demanded.

With a quick intake of breath, Control blurted out, "His father was an American agent working undercover as a Russian student."

"You knew!" McCall charged. "You knew all the time!"

"Robert, it was need to know."

"Oh, of course... need to know." Sarcasm dripped from Robert's words. "The Company's convenient excuse for hiding unpleasant or damaging information. You didn't think his mother might 'need to know'?"

"It was a difference that made no difference," Control countered.

"It made a difference to Mickey."

"Leave it, Robert!"

"Why?" McCall demanded. "Why should I leave it? Answer me that!"

Control stiffened. "I told you, I can't answer that."

"Can't or won't?"

"Robert!" Control hissed softly. "Please don't ask."

Something in the voice made Robert look closely at his old friend and antagonist. Was Control pleading? If so, why? Robert kept walking, Control keeping pace. Neither said anything for several minutes. Then, as lightning streaked across the sky, Robert knew the answer.

"You!" he charged. "You were in Poland about the right time, posing as a Russian student, if I remember correctly. You told me that time we were trying to sneak out of Warsaw. You said you'd spent time on a farm one summer pretending to be Russian."

"Robert!" Control warned, but McCall ignored him and continued speaking as if he hadn't heard.

"It was you who sent me to get him out of jail. And, you were more than moderately interested in his training. But, once he'd proved himself in the field, you've hardly said a word to him that wasn't related to a mission. You've always kept Mickey at arm's length. You have a closer relationship with Jeremy at O'Phelan's than you do with Mickey Kostmayer. Now, why is that, I wonder?"

"Robert!'

If McCall needed further confirmation of the rightness of his conclusions, it was in the fleeting look of resignation which appeared on Control's craggy features.

"And, that makes you-"

Whispered words, never before uttered, were torn from Control's throat, as if the syllables themselves refused expression. "-his father!"

Unsure now what to say or even how to feel, McCall stared at the man he had known for over thirty years and now realized he didn't even begin to know.

"Go ahead," Control invited sarcastically. "I'm sure your vocabulary contains just the right words to flay me for presumed indifference."

"You kept an eye on my daughter," McCall said absently, "and I watched over your son, is that it?"

"No, it is not," Control angrily spit out. "Yvette has nothing to do with this and, frankly, neither do you."

"Oh, yes I do. You put me in the middle of this."

Control paused to stare across the lagoon as large raindrops began to mark the surface of the water, mindful only of the storm raging in his own mind. When he spoke, his words were so quiet McCall had to strain to hear him. "You were the one who was always there. I remained in the background... at best a shadow; at worst, the malevolent spirit who sent him into danger without weighing the consequences of my actions. But, I always weighed the consequences. I just couldn't let them affect my decisions."

Control turned away from the water and looked at McCall. "Any hint of any kind of relationship and he would have been marked for death and neither you nor I could have protected him. It was the only way to keep him safe."

"To risk his life until it is finally taken from him?" McCall asked angrily. "This is how you protect him?"

"I did the best I could, Robert. Leave it at that."

Where McCall expected to hear anger in Control's voice, he heard only profound sadness. Robert touched Control's shoulder to offer what comfort he could. "Mike... " Robert said softly, unconsciously using Control's given name, unsure what to say or if he should say anything at all.

"Enough, Robert!" Anger now replaced the momentary hurt in Control's voice. "Just go."

McCall hesitated but when Control said no more, he turned and walked slowly back the way they had come, leaving Control standing at the edge of the lagoon. Robert turned and looked back at the solitary figure. The steady rain flattened the graying hair and dripped down onto Control's face. Robert doubted the man even noticed. Control had never seemed as isolated and alone as he did standing there... in the rain... in Central Park.

The interior of the Ammo Dump bar was dark and crowded with men like him - men in khaki or camouflage jackets with hard, wary eyes. Mickey eased himself up to the bar, ordered a drink and swiveled on his stool, his back to the bar. With no mirror behind the bar, it was the only way to watch the room and it keep an eye on his fellow drinkers for any length of time.

He was content to be alone in the crowd. These were his kind of people, men and women living on the edge. They would see him as one of their own. As the night wore on, several fights broke out, apparently the results of long simmering animosity between the combatants. Mickey was able to ignore the first one, but the second spilled over onto the end of the bar where Mickey nursed his beer. When he tried to push the two sluggers away, the heavier of the two launched a punch at the ex-agent's face, and Mickey joined the fray, although still below his usual fitness level.

He relished the feel of the side of his hand making abrupt contact with the back of a neck of the first attacker. He quickly dispatched the second, but the third landed a haymaker left on Kostmayer's chin and stars danced before Mickey's eyes. He tried to fight off his assailant only to succumb to a karate chop delivered by yet another
bar patron.

Mickey lay sprawled on the floor when someone doused his face with ice water. He sputtered to consciousness a little too fast for his own liking.

"Come on," a voice said as a hand shook Kostmayer's shoulder. "Time to go home."

With the ease of too much practice, Mickey hid his quickening alertness behind vacant eyes. The man made the mistake of grabbing Mickey's arm. With lightening speed he grabbed the hand and twisted, flipping the man onto the floor.

As Mickey got into a crouching position, he heard some one clapping above and behind him.

"Bravo!" a feminine voice called. "Any time you want to book a trip, come see me!"

Slowly, Mickey stood, looking for the source of the voice. He found her standing on a catwalk above the room.

"And you are?" Mickey asked. He wasn't surprised to find a woman. McCall had told him about the Ammo Dump's connection with T. R. Stump and Company.

"I'm the Guide," she smiled. "And you?"

"Mickey."

"Just Mickey?"

"Yeah! Just Mickey."

"Well, Mickey Just, come on up and we'll talk."

Mickey watched as she turned and walked to the end of the catwalk, disappearing into a doorway. A slight sound alerted him to potential danger behind him. He turned quickly and raised one hand to deflect the bottle coming at his head wielded by one of the now conscious fighters.

"Haven't you had enough?" Kostmayer growled as he turned the man's charge to his own advantage and dropped the man onto the floor.

This time the man, though still conscious, stayed down.

The upstairs office was utilitarian in the extreme: a desk, a couple of chairs, and a filing cabinet. No personal items adorned any surface and the desktop was empty, save for a clipboard and pen.

T. R. Stump sat behind the desk, motioning Mickey to one of the chairs. Sharp eyes and a keen intellect assessed Mickey silently as he sat. He felt as if he were back in the principal's office, pulled off the playground for fighting. Here he was judged on his ability to fight and here that skill was a sought after asset, rather than a liability.

Mickey gave a truncated version of his experience, emphasizing his SEAL experience, adding the time spent in Leavenworth as an additional enticement. His immediate experience he dismissed as "special contract work".

Mickey was a little startled when she asked for references.

"References?" he repeated. "Why?"

"Most of our travel applicants have spent some time in specialized training out west."

Mickey understood. He'd heard of the paramilitary training camps in the mountains of the west. That was the kind of reference she was looking for and that was the kind of reference he couldn't provide.

Mickey shrugged, allowing the psycho smile to surface, as he wondered what Control would say if he gave the Agency administrator as a reference. "I'm the only reference I have."

Stump nodded. "You're not the first," she told him, "and I've often found that the fewer references, the better the tourist." Again, she subjected Mickey to laser-like scrutiny, apparently liked what she saw, and said, "Come back Thursday night. One of our largest tour operators will be signing up travelers. Have you ever been to
Africa?"

Mickey nodded.

"Anywhere else?"

"The Near East."

"Unfortunately, we don't book religious pilgrimages." She looked down at her notes. "Anything else I need to know."

Mickey was about to shake his head when a name popped into his head, one Robert told him had some standing within the mercenary community. "You might ask Father O'Donahue about me. Tell him I've worked with Robert."

"Robert?"

"Robert!"

* * * * *

McCall listened intently to the gray-haired woman sitting across the table from him. A teapot stood at the center of the table next to a plate of scones. High tea was an incongruous setting for a discussion of the woman's grandson's activities in the paramilitary underground.

"He loved being in the army, the fighting. He complained they didn't do enough fighting. He got out so that he could become a mercenary." She leaned across the table towards Robert. "He was such a cute little boy with sandy hair and lots of freckles. He just loved my cookies. Now it seems all he wants to do is kill people. Can you help me Mr. McCall?"

McCall sympathized with the woman's problem, but there seemed to be little he could do. "If your grandson wants to be a mercenary, I don't know how I could help, Mrs. Metria."

She looked disappointed as she pushed back from the table. "In that case, Mr. McCall, I'm sorry I bothered you."

He stood automatically as Mrs. Metria picked up her purse and began to turn away. The elderly woman had gotten under McCall's skin and, without thinking, Robert put out a hand to stop her.

"Perhaps I know some one who can help," he offered. He saw hope flicker in her eyes as he continued. "I can't promise anything. He may not even agree to meet with you."

"Oh, Mr. McCall, I'll be so grateful for any help."

Two days later, Robert was introducing Mrs. Metria to Father Martin O'Donahue at the former agent's rectory.

"And, how can I be of assistance, Mrs. Metria?" Martin said, spreading on the Irish charm. "It isn't often that Robert seeks my help in his work."

"It's my grandson, Father. He's a mercenary and I think he's missing."

Martin glared in Robert's direction. "I'll be happy to offer some prayers for your grandson." He turned toward McCall. "Robert, a word with ye... in private!"

"You know I can't help her Robert," Martin complained. "If I did and word got out, I'd loose the trust of the mercenaries and would be of no help to any one."

"There must be something you can do, Martin, make a few inquiries, ask a few people."

"Robert."

"Martin, just do me this favor."

"Now you're beginning to sound like Control!"

"Martin, there is no need to throw around insults," Robert quietly exploded. "Will you help the lady or not?"

Martin was thoughtful for a moment and McCall knew the priest would agree to help Mrs. Metria. Martin's "yes's" always took more time than his "no's."

"All right, Robert, but you owe me for this."

"And, I suppose you will continue to remind me of it for the rest of my life."

"And beyond!" Father O'Donahue assured him. "When she leaves, Robert, there something I've been meaning to talk with you about."

While Robert stood wondering what Martin was up to, the priest walked over to Mrs. Metria and spoke quietly to her. She nodded a few times and then allowed him to gallantly escort her out of into the hallway outside his office. "Robert will be out in a minute," Martin assured the elderly lady before returning to his office and closing the door.

"And now, Martin," Robert began as the priest sat behind his desk. "What do you want from me?"

"You took your own sweet time returning my phone call, Robert." At Robert's glare, Martin went on. "I've been asked to provide a reference for a friend of yours, a person named Just. I've never heard the name before and he says he's a friend of yours."

"I don't know anyone named Just that I can remember. Is there a first name?

"Mickey."

"Mickey Just? Unless... "

Martin leaned forward. "'Unless what, Robert?"

"It could be Mickey Kostmayer. I don't think you know him, Martin."

When McCall said nothing further, O'Donahue asked. "So you think this Mickey Just might be your friend Mickey?"

Robert nodded. "Do you know where he is? I'd like to see him."

"Well, so would I, but I can't help you."

McCall bristled. "Can't or won't?"

"Now, Robert. I was only asked for a reference you know, not invited to the interview, and that was weeks ago. If you'd called me back." Martin was silent for a moment, watching Robert before continuing.

Through Robert's mind flashed the highlights of the last two weeks. Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to have Control arrested. For his trouble, he spent several days at the company offices in New York and a further week at Langley reassuring the Princeton boys at the top that he was not in the habit of having senior agency executives arrested no matter how tempting the provocation. Robert promised "to go and sin no more" in exchange for his file remaining yellow. Thus far, he had managed to keep from twisting Control's tail.

Martin's voice called Robert back to the present. "I presume he's a very talented young man." At Robert's nod, he added, "I doubt he's even in the country right now."

Robert wasn't about to give up on Mickey's whereabouts. "Where are the hot spots these days?"

"Oh, the usual ones. Africa. The Near East. South America. He could be anywhere."

"There must be one or two that are hotter than the others," McCall said.

"There's always one or two," Martin agreed. "Eritrea would be one. Indonesia's becoming a bit dicey as well. And there's always Chechnya."

"Anybody in particular recruiting for those places?"

"T.R. had a couple travel agents looking for tourists. You might check with her. In fact," Martin said expansively, "I'll accompany you." At Robert's glare, he added, "Just to satisfy my own curiosity, of course."

"Of course," Robert agreed sarcastically. "Your curiosity is well known."

"Oh, Robert, you really must lose that cynical approach to life.

Mickey Kostmayer wished he was anywhere but where he was. Talk about going from a rock – Control – to a hard place – Tucci -- though there really was no comparison. Control wasn't the easiest person to work for and, though Mickey often questioned Control's tactics, his reasons for his actions were sound. Tucci, on the other hand, was just plain crazy.

Sometimes it seemed to Mickey that the "chores" Tucci assigned were just busy work. Mickey resented these tasks, knowing that the team needed to rest as much as possible in the heat so that they would be ready to act when the time came.

It was three days after the capture of the Company agents. The rag tag group was making its slow, deliberate way toward its rendezvous with a local group of diamond smugglers the mercenaries were to escort out of the country.

Blood Diamonds. The very name conjured glittering stones dripping red. Mickey had seen the pictures of mutilated men, women and children – arms, hands, noses cut off by thieves and rebels – all for the riches the diamonds bought on the black market – riches that could buy guns and weapons and machetes to better kill and maim.

How had he ever gotten involved with these people? Mickey asked himself not for the first time. Had he known the purpose of the “tour” he never would have signed on. He couldn’t leave now, not with Stock and his partner in jeopardy. The partner was holding up well, despite the minimal food and water Tucci allowed the prisoners. Stock, however, was growing weaker by the hour and Mickey wasn't about to leave Jacob to Tucci's tender mercies. Franklin, young and supremely confident of his own ability to survive, could fend for himself.

Mickey's plan was simple. He was still in charge of securing the prisoners each night and each night one of the others was in charge of checking the bonds several times to ward against any lapse on Mickey's part. All he needed was time to prepare and the opportunity to put the plan into operation.

They entered a small town moving directly to the town center. The sturdiest building served as a military headquarters of some sort, complete with armed guards and the country's flag attached to a pole outside. There was a communal well in the center of an open area, which Mickey guessed served as the town's market. There was even a church with a small schoolroom attached. Mickey watched the people as the group moved into the central area. The people, in turn, watched the mercenaries, eyeing them with curiosity, but with little apparent hostility.

Tucci went inside the military police headquarters while the others helped themselves to water from the well. As Mickey savored the cool water trickling down his throat, he took the time to scan the area, noting possible escape routes and defensive positions.

The prisoners sat on the ground, their backs against the well. Under the guise of checking Stock's bonds, Mickey whispered in the agent's ear. "Say you want to take a leak!"

"What?" Stock murmured, rousing himself from the stupor he had fallen into now that he could rest.

"You gotta go!"

Stock got the message this time and nodded slightly.

Just as Mickey stood up, Stock murmured his request.

"What was that?" Mickey demanded.

"I have to use the john," Stock repeated, just a little louder than before.

Again Mickey pretended not to hear, forcing Stock to speak loud enough for the others to hear him.

The mercenaries all laughed, Mickey included. Franklin glared at him, the hatred easy to read in the agent’s eyes. Good, thought Mickey. Let the others see there's no love lost between us.

Mickey called out, "Watch him!" and pointed at Franklin. Then, with just enough roughness to make it look real, Mickey pushed Stock toward some trees on the other side of the town center. Once out of sight and sound of the others, Mickey pushed a small knife into Stock's bound hands.

"Here. Take this. I took it off Scarface. He has guard duty later today. Tonight, you and Franklin cut yourselves free and get out of here. Leave the knife behind so they'll blame Scarface. I've got night duty tonight. I'll make it look good. Get word to Control. These guys are working for blood diamond smugglers and they've caused enough misery to last a lifetime."

Stock nodded, his fingers closing over the small cutting tool.

"Whatever you do," Mickey warned, "don't drop it before you get loose." With those words, he pushed Stock out of the trees. The agent stumbled, falling heavily to the ground. Against the background of laughter, Mickey pulled him roughly to his feet and pushed him again, this time a little more gently. Stock stumbled, but didn't fall. He managed to keep his fingers closed over the knife when Mickey pushed him to the ground beside Franklin.

When relieved, Mickey joined the other mercenaries in the building assigned to them. The aroma of ersatz coffee filled the room and Mickey eagerly poured the thick black liquid into his tin cup. His last cup of coffee was thousands of miles from this mud brick room. He had been in worst situations, but seldom with worse companions. Though the Agency often worked with people whose activities wouldn't stand up to scrutiny, the blood diamond trade was among the most depraved and violent in the world. And, the people in this room, Mickey included, were part of that evil.

* * * * *

"I'm glad you invited me to this fine place of yours, Robert," Martin O'Donahue said several days later, looking around O'Phelan's. "And I'm glad you’re picking up the check," he said opening the menu. "Let me see—" he said reflectively as he studied the entrée list.

"Let's just say I'm repaying the loan of the soap," Robert said, holding up his glass of wine and saluting his guest.

"No, you don't, Robert," Martin protested. "The circumstances are hardly similar. Let's just call this a reward for doing God's work among the less... shall we say... favorable members of society." O'Donahue lifted his own glass. "To friends!" he said as they touched glasses, "wherever they may be."

"To friends," McCall repeated. He refilled the glasses and asked. "Any word on Mickey?"

The sad smile on Martin's face alerted McCall.

"How bad is it?" he asked, fearing the worst – that Mickey had been killed somewhere in Africa.

"He's not dead, Robert," the priest said, "but—"

"But what? Out with it Martin!" McCall said impatiently.

"—but he's with a bad group."

"There are good mercenaries?"

"I seem to remember that we were more or less mercenaries ourselves, Robert." At McCall's obvious impatience, Martin continued. "The group he's with -- they are not on the side of the angels. More like the Devil. T.R. warned me there might be trouble."

More to reassure himself than Martin, Robert said, "Mickey can take care of himself, of that I am certain. Once he discovers what he's involved in, he'll get out."

"I hope you're right, Robert." Martin paused, and then asked, "Have you heard from Mrs. Metria?"

"She arrived home safely," Robert answered, "but I haven't any more information I can give her right now."

Martin sipped his drink. "Her grandson is with the Company, is he not?"

Robert smiled. "You know I can't answer that."

"Now you sound like Control!"

McCall huffed. "If you're going to insult me, I'll thank you not to drink my liquor!"

* * * * *

The escape was scheduled for that night. Mickey would relieve Scarface at midnight and stand guard until morning. As soon as Mickey came on duty, Stock started the laborious job of cutting his bonds. Mickey didn't know when the escape would come. He wanted his reactions to be natural, reflexive. The others had to believe that he did everything possible to stop the prisoners.

It came without warning. One minute the prisoners were slumped against the ropes holding them to trees and the next moment they were free. Mickey heard soft shuffling of feet, but decided the other guard, now at the far end of the compound, could not be aware that anything was amiss.

At the second noise, this one loud enough to alert the other guard, Mickey moved toward the prisoners, or rather to where the prisoners were supposed to be. As soon as he reached the empty poles, he gave the alarm, swinging his rifle up and looking through the sniper scope. He swept the area, finding Stock and Franklin still ten feet from the trees.

Taking careful, slightly off target, aim, he squeezed off a couple of rounds. Dirt kicked up behind the fleeing men and Mickey fired again. This time the bullets landed just in front of the Franklin who was in the lead.

The other guard was firing now. Mickey continued to come close with his shots and hoped the other’s aim would be equally inexact. He saw Stock go down as Franklin reached the trees and, with a backward glance at the downed agent, disappear into the undergrowth. Stock didn't move and Mickey feared the worst.

Kostmayer didn't stop to think. He ran to Stock, picked him up by the neck of his shirt and stumbled toward the trees. His one thought was to get as far away from the village as possible. He heard his pursuers, but ignored them, zigzagging through the undergrowth until dropping behind and partially beneath a fallen limb. He covered Stock with his body, held his breath, and prayed.

* * * * *

Franklin crashed through the undergrowth putting as much distance as he could between himself and the camp. He had turned long enough to see Stock go down from a bullet from Kostmayer’s gun.

Stock had trusted the wrong man and paid for that trust. Franklin vowed that Kostmayer would not escape the penalty for his actions. Franklin would happily carry out the sentence himself.

He heard movement behind him and scuttled away as rapidly as he could. He had to put enough as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuers to have a chance at getting out of this mess. His only regret was leaving his two companions behind. He believed fiercely in concept of bringing everyone home – the living and the dead. And, he’d had to leave two behind.

It would be a long time before he forgot the lessons of this mission, if ever.

Now, his one goal was to raise the alarm about Kostmayer and be in for the kill.

* * * * *

There was only one person with the resources to find Kostmayer and get him out of Africa and that was Control. The Company administrator always played things close to the breast and even if he did pull some strings to find Mickey, there was no guarantee that he would ever admit it. Robert knew Control was perfectly capable of effecting a rescue while denying he had anything to do with it. But Robert had to try.

McCall cornered Control in the latter's office.

"Well," Control said with more than a hint of sarcasm as he slowly lowered himself into his chair. "To what do I owe this visit?"

McCall felt a twinge of regret at Control's cautious movements. Control had been saving Robert's life when he took a bullet. The wound had healed decades ago, but when the weather changed Control often had cause to remember the event.

"Are you all right?" McCall started, hoping a touch of concern would somehow soften Control's attitude.

"You didn't come here to inquire about the state of my health," Control snapped.

"No," Robert acknowledged, "I didn't." Whatever Control had on his plate was not going well.

"What do you want, Robert. I'm busy."

"You are always busy," McCall replied testily. There was only so long he could hang on to his temper when dealing with Control.

"Robert…" Control interrupted Robert's thoughts.

"It's Mickey."

"I have no doubt that it is."

Robert leaned forward, hands resting on Control’s cluttered desk. "You're not making this any easier."

"I have no intention of making whatever it is any easier." Control leaned back in his chair. "Sit down, Robert."

Robert did so, though he longed to storm out of the office. However, that wouldn't help the situation and if he had to eat humble pie, so be it.

"Mickey seems to have gotten involved with some mercenaries that have a less than desirable reputation."

"Where is he?"

"Sierra Leone. Something involved with Blood Diamonds. Do you know about that?"

Control sighed. "They are becoming a curse upon the continent. Even DeBeers won't have anything to do with them."

Robert's eyebrows rose on that statement. "When it came to diamonds, I thought DeBeers controlled everything."

"Most of the blood diamonds go through Liberia to the Antwerp market. From there, they probably come here. Liberia exports more diamonds than they dig out of the ground. The profits go to fund the rebels who then terrorize the population, mutilate diamond miners, steal the diamonds, smuggle them out of the country, and the whole monstrous circle begins again."

"What is the world doing about it?" McCall asked, shocked at the barbarity even when he knew first hand the depths of depravity man was capable of achieving.

"Issuing the usual condemnation reports. Seeking international agreements on labeling diamonds with the country of origin. That sort of ineffective nonsense. As long as someone with power is making money, the blood diamond trade will continue."

Robert suddenly felt tired and old. "Why is it that someone somewhere always finds some new horror to inflict on the innocent?" he asked quietly. "And Mickey's in the middle of it." Robert looked up, straight into Control's eyes. There was a lightning flash of pain in Control's eyes that Robert almost missed. "I need your help to get him out of there."

Following that very brief show of emotion, the cold, analytical Company administrator was back in control. "You know I can't do that, Robert."

Robert came out his chair. "Why not, for god's sake?" he demanded.

"Kostmayer doesn't work for me any more. Even if he did, there is little I could do."

"You can do a damn sight more than sit in that chair."

Control's voice was flat and cold, matching the look in his eyes. "You know I can't, Robert," he said with finality. "Now, get out."

"If you won't do anything to save, him, I will!"

* * * * *

Something, Mickey was never sure what, sent their pursuers hurrying back toward the village. Even so, he and Stock remained hidden under the log. It could be a trick to lure them out of hiding. Hints of dawn were in the sky before Mickey felt it safe to move. He awakened the sleeping Stock, checked the wound, and shook his head. "It's not getting any better. I've got to get you to a doctor before the shoulder gets infected. I'll sneak back to the village and get a first aid kit."

"You crazy?" Stock's voice quivered. "You'll get caught and then where will I be? Stuck under a dead tree limb. I can think of better places to die."

Mickey grinned. "Always thinking of yourself, aren't you Stock? O.K.," Kostmayer said as he slowly got to his feet and pulled Stock up beside him. "If that's the way you want it." He looked around the jungle surrounding them. "You're the one who knows where we are. I don't even know what country we're in. Which way is out?"

"We were in Sierra Leone. I'd guess we're still there. We're near the diamond area, the Boro district. That means Liberia is to the southeast. We can either head there or go up the coast to Freetown."

"How were you supposed to get out?"

"We were to follow the blood diamonds to Liberia and track the shipment to its destination. I figure Franklin headed toward Freetown and the Embassy there. We probably should do the same."

"We need medical help long before Freetown. What's the closest big town to where we are?

"It would help if I knew where we are," Stock said testily, but at Mickey's glare continued. "I suggest we head for Bonthe, it's a port and we can probably get to Freetown from there."

"Then we head west and hope the grubs and water are plentiful."

"You know there's a civil war going on in this country?"

"I'm counting on it! Where there's war, they are soldiers and where there are soldiers there are weapons and food. As soon as we find some soldiers, we take what we need and high tail it outta here."

"That simple, eh?"

In the lightening darkness, Mickey flashed his psycho grin. "Yeah," he said. "That simple."

* * * * *

Three days later, Robert finished preparing for his trip to Africa. Those preparations had been complicated by Control's crack down on McCall's use of Company personnel and equipment. Robert's contacts, however, were as deep and as they were loyal, and though it took a little longer, he got the supplies he needed.

The final piece fell into place that morning and Robert returned home with a new passport safely tucked in his pocket. According to the document, he was a British resident of an Asian country in the United States on business. The original owner of the passport was indeed a British resident of an Asian country traveling in the United States on business who agreed with the aid of a rather immodest sum of money to postpone further travel for a few weeks.

As soon as he slid his key in the lock, Robert sensed danger. He slipped out his gun even as he pushed open the door, alert to the slightest sound or movement from inside.

He let his keys fall on the hall table with a bang. Let whoever was inside think Robert was unaware of their presence.

"Put down the gun, Robert!" Control's voice filled the apartment. "I surrender."

Cautiously, Robert turned into the living area. Control was seated on the couch, hands in the air in mock surrender, a decanter or scotch and two glasses on the coffee table in front of him.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" McCall demanded, holding the gun steady.

"Put the gun down, Robert, now!" Control repeated.

There was an edge in Control's voice that Robert recognized as extreme stress, though he doubted others would have noticed the slight difference in tone at all. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Robert lowered his weapon and placed it on the kitchen bar. "What are you doing here," he asked again.

Control leaned forward and poured a drink which he held out to McCall. "Here. Take this." Then he poured another.

"I often wonder why I let you make free with my liquor," Robert complained as he held the glass up to the light. "Are you going to tell me why you think I need this?"

Control sipped his own drink before replying. "One of my people in Africa reported in and the news is bad, very bad." When Robert said nothing, Control continued. "Two of my people were captured by mercenaries, a third was killed outright... Stock and a man named Franklin survived. Franklin escaped and was able to report in. He says that Stock was able to get a knife off one of the guards and cut them both loose. Stock was shot in the back while escaping. Franklin thinks he's dead. The person who shot him was Kostmayer."

"What?" Robert startled by Control's words. "I bloody don't believe it! He and Stock were never friends, but Mickey wouldn't kill him regardless of the situation. No, Franklin is wrong."

Control studied the liquid in the glass before setting the glass on the coffee table. "Robert, Franklin has no reason to lie. He doesn't even know Kostmayer. I'll know more when I have a chance to talk to him. He's flying home now."

Still unable or unwilling to believe that Mickey had turned rogue, McCall asked quietly. "How can he be sure Mickey did it? How can he be certain of anything?"

Control sighed as he rose and headed toward the door. "I know you're planning to head to Africa yourself," he said as he laid a hand on Robert's shoulder. "Promise me you won't do anything until I have a chance to talk with Franklin," he asked.

McCall silently shook off the restraining hand.

"Robert!"

"No! Delaying my departure will put Mickey at greater risk." He softened his tone slightly. "If you learn anything else, I'd appreciate knowing it."

Control was already at the door before he replied. "I’ll do what I can, but it may not be much. Oh, and Robert, tell you client, her grandson's on his way home."

The news that Franklin was his client's missing grandson raised contradictory responses in Robert. On the one hand he was pleased for Mrs. Metria. But that pleasure was overridden by Franklin’s belief that Mickey killed Jacob. If Franklin stood by the story, Control would have little option but to put out a termination order on Mickey.

Robert thought of Scott. There was nothing Scott could do that would make Robert issue a death order on Scott. Control’s first loyalty was to the country and, if that meant that Mickey's life was forfeit, then it would be. The man who saved Robert's life on more than one occasion, often at great risk to his own, would do nothing overt to save the life of his own son. Of this, Robert was certain. It would also be just like Control to work behind the scenes to save Mickey. Of this, too, Robert was certain.

* * * * *

They made it to the coast near Sulima still more than fifty miles south of Bonthe. Mickey set about searching for a medical clinic and transportation. He located a Red Cross facility staffed by volunteer doctors from around the world.

"My friend," Mickey said in haltingly French "was accidentally shot. Can you help him?"

"I am Dr. Marie Velvois. I will try, Monsieur," the doctor replied. "Your friend speaks French?" she asked.

"No," Mickey said shaking his head. "English."

"Then, perhaps you would prefer to use English, also."

The examination was quick though thorough. "You are in fair shape, Monsieur Stock. And a very lucky man. I'll give you an antibiotic for the infection, but you need a hospital.” The doctor glanced at Mickey and then back at Stock. "Where are you heading?"

Mickey answered. "We'd like to get to Freetown and then home. We can pay for our transportation," he added hurriedly as the doctor shook her head.

"You may have trouble getting to Freetown even with money. There's a war going on."

"Maybe we could tag along with one of your convoys," Kostmayer suggested. "We could provide additional security. I spent some time in the military."

The doctor was obviously skeptical. "Yours or some one else's?"

"American military," Mickey said and grinned. "I was in the Navy."

"That is not going to be of much help going overland."

"But I know which end of the gun the bullets go in."

"This is a Red Cross facility, Monsieur Kostmayer. We do not use guns!"

Eventually, she agreed to give them a lift to Freetown with the convoy that left the next day. "There is only one hotel," the doctor said. "The food is adequate, though mostly local dishes. I hope you like African cooking."

"Better than MRE's," Mickey replied. At the doctor’s confusion, he explained, "Meals Ready to Eat. The military's answer to fast food."

As they walked to the hotel, Stock voiced his doubts about their situation. "She could be cooperating with the rebels in order to keep the clinic open. Why do you trust her?"

"I don't, but we need help to get to Freetown. I'll scout around and see what other option

s are available."

"Where'd you get the money?" Stock asked, too casually Mickey thought.

"I got paid. Where do you get your money?"

"You have a problem, you know," Stock said. "Franklin. If he got out, he's probably reported in by now that you're with the mercenaries."

"As long as I have you with me, it doesn't matter what Franklin says. I plan to keep you in sight until we get home."

* * * * *

"There's no question in your mind?" Control asked, carefully masking any emotions that might try to surface.

Bright eyed, even though he had been back in the country less than ten hours, Franklin was almost at attention. "No, sir. None. Kostmayer shot Stock. I saw him go down."

"But you've never met Kostmayer."

"Stock told me who he was."

Control closed the file on his desk, his eyes never leaving Franklin's face. "You saw Stock go down. Are you certain it was Kostmayer that shot him?"

"The bullets came from behind us and Kostmayer was the only one firing from that direction."

"But you're not sure Stock is dead."

"No sir, but it does seem likely."

Control forced himself to relax. He waved Franklin out. "Get some sleep and be back in the morning. We'll go over this again." Franklin nodded and headed for the door. "Franklin!" Control said as an after thought.

"Sir?"

"Your grandmother... call her. She's been worried."

"My grandmother, sir?"

Franklin was obviously confused, doubtless wondering how Control could possibly know that Franklin's grandmother wanted to talk to him. Control did nothing to enlighten the young man. It always helped to have an omniscient reputation.

"Just do it, all right?" Control ordered.

"Yes, sir!"

As the door closed, Control allowed his emotions to surface. To anyone who knew him well, the pain in eyes and on his craggy face was plain to see. What he feared most since Kostmamer joined the Agency had happened.

How could he request a termination order on his own son? True, the final decision was not his, but he was the one with his hand on the switch which would start all the wheels turning. Even if Stock was alive, it was Mickey who prevented the agent from escaping. It was Mickey who pulled the trigger, wounding Stock if not actually killing him. Control had no choice. There were no extenuating circumstances. Mickey had taken the two agents prisoner, he shared guard duties with his companions, and finally had shot Stock. Franklin's words damned Mickey.

Maybe if he had acknowledged his relationship with Kostmayer, this day could have been avoided, but Control doubted it. He had done his best to protect Kostmayer from the many enemies garnered over the years, knowing that Kostmayer would have enough enemies of his own to worry about without those of his father's.

Father. Even the word seemed alien when he applied it to himself. Fatherhood was something he had shoved aside after Susan left him. He put all his energies into the job. And now the job forced, no demanded, that he initiate the termination order for the son whose existence he had not known and had not even known he wanted.

And, yet, he felt a kind of pride in the abilities and accomplishments of that very innocent appearing young man with the psycho grin. Control found himself smiling as he remembered Kostmayer's insouciant attitude toward authority and authority figures, most especially toward himself. Mickey had relished his free lance status and the freedom it gave him to thumb his nose at the Company whenever it suited him. Several of those times flitted through Control's mind. Still, those times were few. Kostmayer relished action too much to pass on many of the opportunities coming his way. Control understood those feelings very well. He, too, had experienced them at Kostmayer's age.

He knew a moment's regret for the shared experiences he could have had with Kostmayer. But such thoughts only led to more pain and uncertainty about the decision he had to make.

Ruthlessly, he crushed the feelings deep inside, taking on the persona of the calculating administrator. He had a job to do and he would do it no matter the cost.

He did not doubt he would mourn Mickey… in the cold darkness of the night when he could allow the pain and sorrow to surface… when he was alone… always alone.

* * * * *

The shrill ring of the telephone awakened Robert. He had fallen asleep on the couch while there was daylight outside. Now, the light from a nearby street lamp light illuminated the area beyond the windows. A newspaper slipped to the floor as he struggled to wakefulness.

"Robert?" Jimmy's voice called out to him from the answering machine.

"Coming!" Robert muttered. He reached for the receiver just as Jimmy spoke again.

"Robert? I don't want to leave this message on your machine. Call me—"

Robert grabbed the receiver. "What could possibly be that important at this time of night, Jimmy?"

"It's Kostmayer. There's a termination order out on him."

"Damn Control!" Robert cursed under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I'll talk to Control. There must be some mistake." Too angry to exchange any small talk with Jimmy, Robert said "Thank you" and replaced the receiver.

What had Control become that he would sentence his own son to death. This was not the actions of the man he thought he knew these past thirty years or more. True, they disagreed on many things, but he always believed that buried deep inside Control was a basic integrity that would temper his judgments and guide his decisions.

Robert picked up the receiver and dialed first number then another then another – always getting automated answering machines. With a "Bloody hell," Robert slammed down the receiver.

He quickly changed and went out into the night. He tried the Company offices, Control's apartment, and even stopped by O'Phelan's with no luck. With each stop, his anger with Control increased. Finally, his mission unfulfilled, Robert returned home.

As soon as he put the key in the lock, he knew precisely where Control was.

"I should have known you'd come here," he said as he closed the door.

"I thought I'd save you the trouble of hunting me down. I heard your 'bloody hell'."

"Well, since you heard that much let me finish that for you," Robert said. "Why in bloody hell have you put out a termination order on Mickey Kostmayer?"

"I had no choice," Control replied. "He killed Stock."

"I... I don't believe that!"

"My hands are tied, Robert. Kostmayer killed one of our people. I have to bring him in."

"Bring him in, yes. Kill him, no!" Robert shouted. "You're his father, damn it! You can save him!"

"That's the very reason my hands are tied on this. If it ever got out that I was his father and that I let him go, the next termination order would have my name on it."

Robert seethed, all his emotions churning and rising to the surface. “I should have let Paul Koval kill you."

"Robert! I don't like this any more than you do, but --"

"Get out!" McCall roared. "Get out of my home and don't come back. But know one thing. I'm going to find Mickey Kostmayer and I am going to get him out of this. And, after that, if he wants to go after you with a gun, I won't stand in his way."

* * * * *

The subject of the debate raging in the apartment in New York was on the other side of the world and feeling very satisfied with himself at that moment. The Freetown Red Cross facility was just ahead. Stock's condition had deteriorated during the journey and Mickey feared for the agent's life.

"We have a plane leaving for South Africa," Dr. Velvois told Mickey. "If your friend is to survive, we must get him to a proper hospital."

Mickey looked at Stock's pale face. "I think that's the best thing, Jacob," Kostmayer said. "You'll get home a lot faster. I've given the doctor my passport. The picture's really fuzzy and you can use it to get out of the country."

"What about you?" Stock asked weakly.

"Don't worry. I'll find a way."

Mickey turned on the charm for the doctor. "I'll try to get some help at the Embassy. Contact the American Embassy when you get to South Africa. They should be able to help."

He bent once more to Stock, placing one hand over Stock's. "I'm going to take off. If you get home before I do, tell Nick I'm O.K."

Stock nodded. "I'll tell everybody you're more than O.K. Thanks, Mickey. I wouldn't have gotten out without you."

"Just you remember that," Mickey admonished with a smile, "in case I need a witness!"

Mickey took his leave of the doctor and headed for the American Embassy and the assistance he hoped to find there.

The heavily armed Marine guards were as welcoming a sight at that moment as the Statue of Liberty to Mickey as he trudged down the street toward the building flying the American flag.

As he approached, the Marines promptly brought their automatic weapons to firing position barring his entry. "I'm an American agent," Mickey lied, "and I'm in trouble!"

"Of course you are," the sergeant of the guard said sarcastically. "Let me see your passport!"

Mickey shrugged, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "I lost it," he lied. "That's why I need help."

The sergeant wasn't buying the story. "On the ground, face down, hands on your head," ordered the Marine.

A whistle blew and Mickey found himself surrounded by Marines, all pointing rifles at his head.

The sergeant was rougher than Mickey thought necessary with the search. His arms were grabbed and pulled behind his back and he felt the cold metal as handcuffs snapped around his wrists.

Mickey lay quietly on the driveway, gravel eating into his face, a rifle caressing his neck. He heard the crunch of another pair of feet coming towards him. A pair of high-heeled shoes replaced the combat boots next to Kostmayer's head. Then he heard a gravelly, feminine voice say, "Get him inside. We'll know soon enough if he's one of ours," before the shoes moved away.

Mickey's field of vision increased as he was pulled to his feet by the Marines. Four burley guards with rifles drawn prodded him through the gate and up the driveway toward the Embassy building. Mickey wondered if he would, indeed, be able to talk his way out the Embassy and out of the country with the government picking up the tab.

* * * * *

McCall's answering machine clicked on once again. He paused in the midst of packing to hear Control's voice ordering McCall to pick up and if he couldn't do that, to contact him before he did anything.

Robert went right on packing.

Fifteen minutes later, another phone call; another message from Control.

When Control phoned for the third time within a half hour, Robert decided it was time to confront the devil.

"Robert?" Control's voice sounded harsh through the ear-piece.

"I am going and that's final," McCall said, cutting off any protest Control wanted to make.

"What flight are you on?"

"Now why do you want that piece of information, I wonder. Planning to meet me with a few friends and persuade me to miss the plane?"

"No, Robert, I plan to meet you to give you your cover story and the documents you'll need. I've had to call in a lot of markers to make this trip official."

"I do not need a cover story or your documents," Robert protested.

"Yes, you do," Control told him. "I'll see you at the airport. Now what flight are you on?"

Robert told him and hung up.

* * * * *

The interior of the Embassy was stripped of everything but the most utilitarian of furnishings, a chair here, a desk there. The great seal hung on the wall above an empty reception desk.

Kostmayer was taken to a small room by two Marine guards, assault rifles aimed at the back of his head. The leader of their little group called a halt. He walked around his prisoner and unlocked the cuffs only to re-secure Mickey's hands in front.

A Marine roughly shoved Kostmayer into the small room – empty of all contents. He hit the far wall face first with a grunt and slumped to the floor. He moved his legs slightly and, when there was no reaction from the Marines, he eased himself into a sitting position with his back against the wall for support.

There was only one guard now – framed in the doorway, rifle still at the ready. Mickey tried to look as innocent as possible, though the guard wasn't buying the effort. Mickey relished the opportunity to rest and regain some strength. They would get to him soon enough. He wasn't worried about that. It wouldn't be any more arduous than one of Control's more aggressive debriefings. Mickey could handle that easily.

He thought about Stock, hoping the agent was safe in a proper hospital. Jacob was not only a former colleague, but Mickey's defense against any accusations that might possibly come his way. He pushed such thoughts into the back of his mind, closed his eyes and fell into a light sleep.

He awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder. The woman from the courtyard stood before him.

"Suppose you start by telling me who you are?" she said softly.

"Suppose you tell me who you are," Mickey shot back.

The softness was replaced by granite hardness. "I ask the questions here. You claim to be a government agent. Now, tell me, who are you?" When Mickey remained silent, she added in a more conciliatory tone, "You're not doing yourself any good by refusing to answer my questions."

She must be the Chief of Station, Mickey guessed. Though there were women operatives in the Agency, he had never before met a woman COS.

More than one station chief had one eye on a quick trip up the power ladder and the other alert for situations that might stand in the way. They also tended toward contempt for the field agents who passed through their areas and down right belligerence towards any agent that might stir up trouble in the field and hence in Langley. This woman standing above him fairly reeked of upward mobility. Briefly, he wondered how much, if any, actual field experience she had before Langley, in its collective wisdom, assigned her to this African backwater post.

"I think you want me out of here as fast as you can ship me out," he charged, "'cause I might be an inconvenience you don't want to deal with. So, I suggest you report in and tell Langley you're got an American who wants to go home."

"And what name do I give Langley?" she asked with a hint of contempt in her voice.

"Better yet," Mickey countered, "call Northern Control and I'll talk to him."

"And if I do, who shall I say is calling?" she asked, once again trying to get Mickey to identify himself.

"Tell him it's someone he used to know."

"That's rather cryptic."

"I'm a very cryptic guy. And while you're at it, remove the cuffs. I'm not going anywhere."

"There is only one problem with your list of objectives . . . we've been out of contact for several days and it will be several more before we're once again in touch. Until then, you'll just have to stay where you are, as you are, with one addition."

With a turn on her heel worthy of a drill sergeant, the COS strolled out of Mickey's prison.