White Russian Roulette
by Linda O.

"Chess"

Each game

of chess

Means there's

one less

Variation

Left to be played.

Each day

got through

Means one

Or two

Less mistakes

Remain to be made...

Lily Romanov was not at all pleased to be in prison again.

She slouched in the middle of the bunk, her shoulders against the cold stone wall.  Her feet dangled over the side.  She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned fiercely. 

Her feet swung in random circles, then kicked straight out, then swung again, as she alternated between being bored and being furious.  Damn it, damn it, damn it.  She'd been in the country twelve hours when they picked her up.  Twelve hours.  She wondered bitterly if that was some kind of Company record.  It was probably in the top ten, anyhow. The schmucks back in New York would tell her when she got there, she was sure.  Probably repeatedly. 

She wondered who'd won the pool.  They'd deny it, but there was always a pool.  Schmucks.  She loved her co-workers – except when she hated them.  Right now she hated them.

Control would be climbing the walls, in his own tightly-wound way.  It didn't help, knowing that.  It didn't help, either, that she was half-listening for a Panzer division or an air strike to rescue her.  He'd promised he wouldn't do anything stupid, but if he thought she was in danger, she wasn't entirely sure he'd keep that promise.  Neither of them had expected to test it this soon.

She'd told them she wanted to go to Montenegro.  She'd told them she didn't want to go to Pristina.  All the smart boys in ties – him included – had overruled her.  Served him right if he was worried now.

She was not in any danger.  She was fairly sure of that. 

She'd had a bad minute or two, when the iron hand landed on her shoulder, when they'd put her in handcuffs, thrown her in the car.  A minute or two of sheer terror, and a fear that she was going to have a full-blown panic attack.  She'd fought it back, and the longer she was in custody, the more relaxed she became.  The local police had booked her into the jail on her fake passport – Laurie Webster, her old favorite, her lucky one – without a second glance.  They'd frisked her, but she'd had more thorough pat-downs in singles bars.  Then they'd shown her to a cell – with a window, no less – and left her alone.

One interpretation was that the locals were detaining her until the secret police arrived, when the real rough stuff would begin.  But they'd seemed much too relaxed for that.  The window in the cell was encouraging.  The alternative interpretation was that they'd picked her up for the jeans.  She'd had twelve pairs in her big pack, which she'd left at the youth hostel.  That weasely boy in the next bunk had turned her in; she'd put money on it.  Black marketeering, especially on a small scale, wasn't uncommon, and there was some chance they'd confiscate the jeans and kick her loose.  Lily was more and more inclined to take this second view.  Especially since they'd left her her shoes.

She kicked her feet straight out and considered her sneakers with satisfaction.  They were Nikes, a couple years old.  She'd found them at a resale shop, and they were without question the most comfortable shoes she'd ever owned.  The fact that she still had them – laces and all – said an awful lot about her current situation.  In the States, if they'd put her in a cell even for jaywalking, they would have taken the shoelaces.  The locals hadn't even looked at them, damn sure hadn't examined the shoes closely.  She wondered if Superglue wore off in body heat.

Lily let her feet swing again.  She twisted her hair absently, and the color startled her.  She kept forgetting that she'd had it dyed blond – California beach blond, to go with the suntan she'd gotten on the beach while she was rehabbing.  She wasn't going to pass for European, with that tan. She'd gone for all-out tourist instead.

He liked her blond. But he'd liked her as a brunette, too.  A man of truly eclectic taste.  It was probably better not to dwell on that just now.

Now that the terror had subsided, she was bored.  Really, really bored. 

She looked around the bare, gray cell. Welcome back, she thought, to the glamorous world of espionage.

* * * * *

Control sat absolutely still, his eyes closed, his hands folded.  He listened to the vein just behind his left eye throb.  He was quite sure that he could actually hear it.  "She has the plans on her?" he asked quietly.

"She met Shelby at nine a.m., local time," Simms reported. "She was in custody at nine-twenty.  She didn't have time to dump them."

"They're on microfilm," Walker offered.  "They should be pretty easy to hide."

Control opened his eyes narrowly and glanced at his watch.  Seven-thirty in New York now; half past one in Yugoslavia.  Four hours since her arrest.  Probably too soon for any news.  "Unusual activity?"

"The local police went to the hostel and got her pack."

"Prior to the arrest?" 

Papers shuffled.  "About the same time."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Hmmm."  He closed his eyes again.  Things were getting absolutely ridiculous in the Balkans.  He'd wanted to send Lily just to recon, to get a sense of the situation and recommend changes.  But Shelby still had those damn power plant plans, and they had to be retrieved.  Romanov, of all people, should have been able to snag the plans and get out. 

They'd been just too clever, to send her to Pristina, to make Shelby meet her there.  Lily'd argued against it, but they'd overruled her.  Now she was in a local jail.  In Pristina, a city she knew like the back of her hand.

Maybe the whole situation was impossible, after all. 

Or maybe she was just rusty.  Control was abundantly aware that he only pretended to be objective where Lily was concerned.

He opened his eyes and straightened up.  "All right.  Where's Roelen?"

Russo consulted his papers.  "About two hours out."

"Have him assemble his team.  Bring them in close.  Hold there."

They shared looks around the table.  Control could almost hear their thoughts: Here we go again.   It had been the same when Shelby and Jones were picked up.  Put together a retrieval team; have them stand around waiting for developments.  Hopefully this would end as well as the earlier incident had.  "We wait, gentlemen.  Wait and see."

They could wait in the office.  Control was heading out.  He had one more agent to dispatch, and one more source of information to check – one that his lieutenants must never, never find out about.

* * * * *

The little gray man opened her cell door and came in, pushing a rickety cart of books in front of him.  He closed the door behind him and locked it, then pocketed the ring of keys.  "Hello, I am Gustav," he said fluently, though with a heavy accent.

The girl looked him up and down.  His shirt was gray, and his pants, and his shoes – although they were ancient, they may have been a different color once.  His hair was gray, and his skin had a grayish cast.  He hadn't seen the sun in years.  Yet this prisoner – he was obviously a prisoner – had keys.  He was skinny, but didn't seem undernourished, and his posture, for his apparent age, was still good. 

Lily slid to her feet.  "I'm Laurie," she said, offering her hand.  "Laurie Webster."

He took her hand and bowed formally over it.  "It is a great pleasure to meet you."  He gestured to the cart.  "We thought that you might like something to read during your stay.  The selection is quite old, I'm afraid. I don't suppose you read Croatian?"

"No," she lied easily.  "I had a little French in high school, that's about it."

The old man nodded solemnly.  "In my country, children learn three, four languages in their primaries.  But it is different in America, is it not?"

"Yeah, I guess."  As the old man shuffled through the books, she shifted from one foot to the other.  "Look, am I going to be here a long time?  I was supposed to catch a plane like two hours ago …"

"You are in jail, you know."

"Well, yeah, I know, but can't I just … you know, post bail or something?  I mean, they can't just hold me here forever, can they?"

The old man's eyes pierced hers.  "I have been here twelve years," he said quietly.  "They can hold you for as long as they wish."

"But I'm an American citizen," she protested.  "Can't I call the embassy or something?  My dad has lots of money, he can get me a lawyer or whatever, if I can call him."

"Perhaps something can be arranged," the old man agreed slowly.  He drew out a battered little book.  "French, yes?"

Lily took the book and sat down heavily.  "Thank you."

"I do not mean to frighten you, miss.  You are not in my situation.  Far from it.  I am, in their eyes, a criminal of the worst sort.  You, on the other hand, are merely misguided."

"I've heard that before."

"I will tell the commissar of your wish to use the telephone.  Perhaps a meeting can be arranged, and we will see about getting you on your way.  All right?"

"But my plane tickets..."

"There's nothing to be done about that," Gustav assured her.  "Just try to be patient.  Be polite to the commissar.  He is not an unreasonable man.  Perhaps he could see his way to release you with just a fine."

"A fine?  You mean a br..."

The old man's hand shot up in warning.  "I do not know.  Perhaps, if your offense were minor enough, a fine would be sufficient.  It is for the commissar to decide that."

Lily nodded.  "I understand."  She looked down at the book.  It was nothing she'd ever heard of.  "Thank you for bringing this.  I'll try to chew through it."

"If the mice have not beaten you to it," Gustav answered encouragingly.  "I will see if there is anything in English in the library.  I believe I have some old magazines.  I'll try to come back later."

He turned to go.  "Hey, Gustav," Lily called, in full American naiveté, "if you're such a dangerous criminal, how come they let you have the keys?"

"Oh, I am not dangerous, miss.  I am only subversive."

"You're a political prisoner?"

He nodded.  "I suppose you would call me that, yes.  As you can see, I am no danger to anyone.  So, I have the library, I visit with the prisoners who pass through, meet lovely young women on occasion – in all, it is not a bad way to serve a sentence."

"But when will they let you go?"

"Perhaps tomorrow.  Perhaps never."

He left before she could ask any more questions.

* * * * *

Mickey Kostmayer, wearing only a pair of shorts, snapped his front door open.  "What?"

Control looked at him, at the hand that the younger man kept concealed behind the door, the gun hand.  "Lily."

"She ain't here."

"She's been arrested.  In Pristina."

"When do I leave?"  Kostmayer glared at him, daring him to tell him no.

"Tomorrow morning, if she's not out by then."  Control handed over a packet of papers: tickets, passport, visa, currency, sit rep. 

"Why wait?"

"It may be nothing, a local matter.  We wait and see.  For one day."

Kostmayer scowled at him.  "One day.  That's it."

"Yes, it is."  The older man spun on his heel and started away.  

"Hey, Control," Mickey called after him as he left, "I was a lot happier when I could pretend you didn't know where I lived."

Control walked away without comment. 

Mickey shook his head and carried the packet back to his kitchen.  He turned on the coffee pot – obtained as a concession to having overnight company – and tore the report open. 

Annie Keller drifted into the kitchen, wearing his t-shirt and nothing else.  "Mickey?  What's wrong?"

He folded the paper casually and shoved it aside.  "Nothing.  That was Control."

"You have to go."

"No.  Well, maybe, tomorrow.  It may be nothing.  Or not.  I'm sorry." 

She slid her arms around him.  "You don't have to be sorry." 

Mickey kissed her deeply.  "But I am sorry, believe me."

"Is it dangerous?"

"I don't think so," he answered.  It was a half-truth, at best; he hadn't read the sit rep yet.  But he knew about the other arrests in the region, strictly local stuff.  "Just your basic damsel in distress."

Annie dimpled at him.  "Is she pretty?"

"Well, yeah."

"You could have lied, you know."

Mickey shook his head.  "I try not to lie to you if I can avoid it.  Lily's pretty, and she's my friend.  But I'm in love with you."

Anne caught his face and kissed him, and asked no more questions.  "Come home safe."

"I will.  I promise."

* * * * *

Lily gave up on the French book halfway through.  It was a stupid book, a trite little romance about an insipid woman who couldn't decide between her respectable, suitable beau and the dark, dangerous rake who stirred her lust.  It was no decision at all, as far as Lily was concerned; she'd have gone for the dark one every time.  Dark men were so much more interesting.

She didn't know if she was being observed, so she had to pretend to stumble through the little book with her high school French.  In truth, she could have ripped through it in half an hour.  After a while, reading it grew more tedious than doing nothing.  She tucked the little book under the flat pillow on the bunk and sat back, kicking her feet again.

A guard brought her dinner.  She watched him quietly as he entered the cell.  He left the door standing open while he completed his task, turned his back on her to set the tray down.  She was sure, then, that this was a local matter.  They weren't afraid she'd try to escape, had no inkling that she maybe could take the guard out. 

Maybe.   She was a courier.  She'd had the basic Company training, but she hadn't used it in years.  Maybe, in a pinch, she could have gotten past him.  But this wasn't even close to that pinch.  For the moment, she simply observed. 

The food wasn't great, but it was acceptable, and probably the same thing the guards were eating.  As she finished, Gustav returned with his little cart.  Again he let himself in and pocketed the keys.  "You've finished?" he asked.

"Yes.  Thanks."

He put her tray on the top of the cart.  "And your book?"

Lily shrugged.  "About half.  I'm starting to remember my French, finally.  Do you need it back?"

"No, no.  You keep it until you have finished.  No one is waiting for it, I assure you."

"Not many prisoners, huh?  It's pretty quiet."

Gustav shook his head.  "Here below, only the holding cells for the local police.  A few drunks, one petty thief.  Above, where my cell is, there are thirty or so prisoners.  Not like in the old days.  There was a time when there were hundreds of prisoners here.  Now, it is just us few." 

"Did the others get set free?"

He considered her for a moment, and Lily could see what he was seeing:  pretty blond American girl, dumb as a post.  Well, that's what he was supposed to see, wasn't it?  "Some went free," he answered slowly.  "Others were moved to other places.  Some died."

"Oh.  I'm sorry."

"These things happen in life.  Now I have my choice of cells.  I have a lovely view of the back gate, my cell is just above it, and so I can see always who comes and goes."

Lily nodded.  "That must be, uh, nice."

"It is still a cell."  He bent, brought a stack of magazines from the bottom of the cart.  "I've found these for you." 

The woman took them.  Redbook, Good Housekeeping, McCall's.  American magazines, well thumbed, ten years old.  Not what she expected in a Yugoslav prison.  "Where did you get these?"

"My wife," Gustav told her.  "Her sister lived in Chicago, she would send them to her.  They've been gone through by the authorities, of course, and they are quite old.  History, for you.  But perhaps they will help you pass the time."

"Thank you.  Thank your wife for me."

"She has gone on now.  Last month, she passed."

"I'm so sorry."

"She was old, as I am."

"Did you get to see her?"

The old man nodded.  "Every week she would visit me.  She baked me pastries, brought me books.  I wrote to her, every day, and each week I would pass her my letter and she would pass hers to me.  It was not as a marriage should be, but it was much better than when I was first imprisoned."

"I'm very sorry," Lily said again.

"Well.  Well.  You read her magazines, it would please her.  The commissar has a budget meeting now, but perhaps soon you can make your telephone call."

"Thank you," Lily called after him as he left.

The old man didn't look back.

 * * * * *

Control glided up behind Becky Baker unobserved, unheard, no great feat in the noisy restaurant kitchen.  She was working with a pastry bag over a tray of absurdly elaborate tarts.  They looked to him like raspberry with some kind of yellow custard, topped with stiff whipped cream.  Entirely too sweet for his taste.  The tricky part, he observed, was getting the whipped cream just right, enough but not too much, and in perfect swirls.  She had her bottom lip between her teeth, concentrating intensely. 

He waited impatiently until she finished, then touched her arm.  As he'd expected, she jumped about a foot.  At least she didn't have a knife this time.

"Sorry," he said, not very sincerely.

"H-h-how do you d-do that?  Nobody else can do that."

He opened his hands in a shrug.  "It's what I do."

"W-what do you want?"

He brought the lighter out of his pocket.  "Please."

Becky nodded, touched a fingertip to the lighter.  Shook her head.  "I-I can't.  You're too w-w-worried."

"Would it help if I left the room or something?"

"N-n-no. It doesn't work that w-w-way."

Control frowned fiercely.  He tried to make himself think logically.  He had no reason to think that Lily was in any imminent danger.  Shelby and Jones had both been arrested in the same region and released, unharmed.  It was probably nothing more than a local shakedown; if anyone could have ditched the plans, it was her. He was overly concerned because of her last prison experience.  This was an entirely different situation, halfway around the world from the last one...

"T-there," Becky said encouragingly.  Her fingers touched the lighter again. "There it is."  She took her hand away, frowned, mildly puzzled.  "She's okay," she said.  "She's just bored."

"Bored?"

"Yes."  The girl walked down the galley to the walk-in cooler.  "She's fine."

"Good."  Control followed her into the cooler, watched as she scanned the over-stuffed racks, searching for something.  "Anything else?"

"Ummm."  Becky moved to another section and studied the racks again.  "She's kind of, um, um, smug?  About her shoes."

"Her shoes."

"Uh-huh."

Control grew impatient with the psychic's divided attention.  She seemed deeply concerned about whatever she was looking for.  "Can I help?"

"W-what?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Oh."  Becky looked at him vaguely, then back at the shelves.  "Cabbages.  I need to find the cabbages."

He raised one eyebrow.  Cabbages?  On tarts?  "Here," he said, pointing to a cardboard case.  "They're right here."

She peered into the box.  "No.  Red cabbages."

"Here, then."  The red cabbage was right next to the green. 

"Oh."  She took two out of the case, then turned and looked at him in confusion.  "What do I need these for?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Control answered.  "You were making tarts."

"Oh."  Becky replaced the cabbage and walked out of the cooler.

Peculiar, Control thought, following her.  She was a nice girl, but she was definitely peculiar.  Cabbages.  Not cabbage, cabbages.  Still, she'd been reassuring about Lily.  For whatever her reassurances might be worth.  "Shoes?" he pursued.

"Mmmmm.  Sneakers.  She likes them.  They're comfortable."

"She still has her shoes on?" Control persisted.

Becky frowned at him, shrugged.  "Yeah."

"Do they still have the laces?"

She looked at him like he'd completely lost his mind.  Shrugged bigger.  "I don't know, I guess so."

"Good."

"What's the big deal about laces, anyhow?"  Before he could start to answer, she held her hand up.  "Forget it, forget it.  Didn't mean to ask."

Control nodded in satisfaction.  "Thank you."

"Uh-huh."

He had the amusing notion, as he left, that she considered him every bit as peculiar as he considered her.

* * * * *

Control stood at his window, glaring down at the cloud-shrouded city, his coffee growing cold in his hand, the office growing quieter around him.  The afternoon passed with agonizing slowness.  He should go home, he told himself.  Pristina would be closed for business by now.  Besides, it might be days before they heard anything.  He'd done all he could; there was nothing left but to wait.

Simms came through the open door, grinning.  "Laurie Webster's on the phone," he announced.  "She's asking to talk to her father.  You want me to take it?"

Control strode back to his desk and sat down.  "I'll take it this time."  He flipped the profile open before he pressed the speaker button, then the flashing line.  It was unnecessary; he already knew the Webster profile.  He'd helped write it.

The speaker crackled with overseas static.  "Hello," Control barked at it.

"Um... Dad?"

Lily sounded nervous, but not in pain.  Control had to fight the impulse to slump in relief.  "Where the hell are you?" he snarled.  "If you missed your plane, the least you could do is call.  Do you know how long the car waited at the airport for you?"

"I'm, um, I'm in jail."

"What?"

"I'm in jail."

"Where?"

"In Pristina."

"Pristina?  You're still in Yugoslavia?"

"I'm sorry."

"What did you do this time?"

There was a little pause.  "I, uh, I had a bunch of jeans, and the police think I was going to try to sell them."

Control glanced up.  Simms was still hovering in the doorway.  He gestured impatiently to the chair, and the younger man sat quietly.  "How many pairs of jeans, Laurie?" he growled.

"About twelve."

"Twelve."

"Yeah."

"You had twelve pairs of jeans, for a four-day trip, and you're surprised the police thought you meant to sell them."

"They're just jeans, Daddy..."

"Because I don't give you enough spending money, is that it?  What were you going to spend it on?"

"I wasn't... I mean, I just..."

"Damn it, Laurie, I've warned you before, if you don't stop doing these irresponsible..."

"I just wanted some money I didn't have to account for, okay?  I just didn't want to have to tell you where I spent every damn dime!"  Her voice cracked, and Control could hear someone muttering to her at the other end.  He could see her in his mind, sitting in some hapless official's office with real tears in her pretty eyes, half a brave pout on her pretty mouth.  Playing them like a concerto. 

He sighed audibly.  "How much is this going to cost me?"

"I don't know.  They're talking about filing charges."  There was a brief pause.  "Can you... can you come and get me?"

"Can I what?  You know I can't come and get you, who would run the business?  Your brothers?  Damn it, Laurie, if we can't get you bailed out over the phone you're just going to have to rot in that jail.  I don't have time to be running halfway around the world because you want a little extra spending money!"

There was another pause on the line, and Control thought he caught muffled sobs.  Keep it up, girl, he thought, they'll be bringing you lobster for dinner.  Just as long as this unseen bureaucrat didn't try to offer some more intimate comfort...

"Laurie, stop crying," he said, more gently.  "Stop it.  We'll work something out.  Hold on a minute."

He pushed the mute button on the speaker.  "Have we got a covert in Pristina?  Anybody we can send in a suit?"

Simms shook his head.  "Roelen's there, but even dressed up he's not..."

"No," Control agreed.  Roelen was a fine, fine soldier, but you couldn't dress him up enough to pass him as a lawyer. 

"Shelby's still in the area.  But after Montenegro, I don't know."

Control closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the time pass, trying to remember who was on Roelen's team – too young, too crude, no, none of them.  A faint memory tickled his mind.  He did know someone in Pristina, someone eminently suitable.  Someone smooth.  Someone undoubtedly willing, though it would cost him.  He sighed, not liking the option.  Too much history there.  But at least it was an option. 

He opened his eyes, tapped the phone back on.  "Laurie, you still there?"

Sniffle.  "Yes, Dad."

"All right.  You just sit tight and keep your mouth shut.  The firm has a representative there in town.  I'll send him over; we'll get this cleared up.  But you keep your mouth shut, understand?  Don't make this worse than it already is."

"Okay, Dad."

"When you get out, you get on the next plane and come straight home.  Do you hear me?  No stops, no side trips, straight home."

"Okay."

"And then we are going to have a long, long talk about this."

"What are you going to do," she half-mocked, "ground me?"

"No, darling," Control assured her.  "You're too old to be grounded.  And maybe you're too old to be getting an allowance as well, hmm?"

"Daddy, you can't cut me off, it's not fair..."

"We'll discuss it when you get here," he warned.  He cut off the phone.

Simms looked at him across the desk.  "She does that very well."

"Yes, she does," Control agreed.

"So who are we sending in?"

Control scowled.  "An old... asset."

"Retired?"

"Fired."  He reached into his desk drawer for a slender black address book. "Update Roelen, will you?  Tell him to stand down, but stand by.  Shut the door on your way out."

"Got it."

As the younger man left the office, Control flipped open the book.  When the door finally shut, for the first time all day, he let himself grin.

* * * * *

Lily lay on her bunk in the semi-darkness of prison night.  The cellblock was nearly silent; across the hall, a couple guards played cards and several cells down a drunk snored occasionally, but otherwise it was quiet.  She'd always been able to sleep anywhere, but now she didn't even try.  To sleep, perchance to dream; she wasn't about to risk it.  She knew damn well what she'd dream about.

So she lay awake instead. This was much better, she thought calmly, than the last prison she'd been in.  That hadn't really been a prison, but a church basement, and the nights had been the worst.  Nights were when Santoro and his men came.  But here, the guards left her alone.  She was safe in the promise of her  'father's' money. 

She grinned wryly in the dark.  The phone conversation with Control had been fascinating, both for what was said and what wasn't.  She'd expected to talk to Simms, but it was achingly good to hear his voice.  Control had sounded very relieved.  But he'd also sounded angry, well beyond acting as the angry father really called for.  There had been just that subtle note about his words that told her – and no one else – the he was really, really pissed.

He'd get over it.  Eventually.  She had a notion or two how to make it up to him, if he'd let her...

Lily had to smile to herself at that thought.  He was back in her blood, there was no question about it.  It was worse than it had ever been before.  She wanted him, in the most basic, carnal of ways.  Her body wanted him, simmered with wanting him.  But there was more to it than that.  Her whole soul ached for him.  

They were back together, against all reason and against all possible odds.  Not only reunited, but committed.  I get to keep him, Lily thought, amazed and astonished all over again.  I get to keep him.

It should not, she mused, still be this much of a surprise.  He'd said as much at the cabin, from the time she drifted out of the Scotch-flavored haze, that he was hers.  He'd said it every time he came to Florida to see her.  But somehow she hadn't quite taken it in, until she got back to New York, until she could be with him completely, until there were promises and a heart-stopping emerald.  I get to keep him. 

The reunion continued to be wonderful – mostly.  Control remained unbelievably attentive, loving, tender.  He treated her as if she were some precious gem, some fragile porcelain doll, the greatest treasure of his life...

Which was all well and good, up to a point.  But, Lily thought, flopping over on her back, that point had come and gone.  He was still so maddeningly careful with her, in bed and out.  She couldn't get him to relax, couldn't get him to let his guard down.  She understood his caution, but understanding didn't make it any less aggravating.  She wanted her old lover back.     

Control had been the best lover she'd ever had.  She'd correctly guessed, when she first set out to let him seduce her, that his age gave him experience.  She had not expected that he'd be such a libertine.  There didn't seem to be anything he didn't know about lovemaking, and almost nothing, within the strict limits of their secret relationship, that he hadn't or wouldn't try.  He was utterly unshockable, unflappably open; what should have been depravity was distilled in his bed to erotic celebration.  She had learned more from him, that first glorious week in Budapest, than she'd learned from all her other lovers combined. 

The other surprise had been that he was an unabashed sensualist.  He had a taste for fine things – excellent whiskey, elegant cigars, sheets with heavy thread counts, fresh cream in his coffee, silk-blend shirts.  But there were other sensations that had no price, sensations that he reveled in just as joyously.  That third day of the blizzard, or maybe the fourth, when he'd thrown open the window so that the chill blast of the air drove their nude bodies close to the heat of the fire, and each other.  When he'd scooped a handful of snow off the windowsill and...

Lily thrashed onto her side.  She was not going to think about that, she told herself sternly.  Especially not knowing when she'd be with him, when she could revisit that particular sensation.  There was not usually snow in New York in May, but there were snow cones to be had, frozen daiquiris, other things...

Control would indulge that whim without hesitation, she was sure.  She need only say and it was hers.  He was still the best lover she'd ever known.  The problem was that while he was so carefully taking care of her, he wouldn't let her reciprocate.  He wouldn't let himself enjoy it, except in the most basic biological way.  He was so intensely concerned about her that he never let his own guard down for a minute.  Never let himself off his own leash.  The first time it had been, probably, necessary.  The second time it had been sort of sweet.  After that, it was simply maddening.  Knowing how much he'd enjoyed sex before, it drove Lily crazy that he wouldn't or couldn't enjoy it completely now.

It wasn't even anything she could talk to him about.  She couldn't see how a conversation about how self-conscious he was in bed was going to make him any less so.  If she told him that his caution only reminded her that she'd been raped, she was likely to render him actually impotent. But there had to be something she could do, some way to get through to him.   

Lily sighed, pondering.  She could go back and talk to her counselor again. The woman had invited her, had implied that she expected her back.  But Lily also knew that it wouldn't do much good unless she told the woman the whole truth, and that was out of the question.  If I tell her the truth, Lily thought, my lover could end up in Leavenworth, at best.  At worst...

At worst did not bear thinking about.  The risks he took to be with her were insane – his reputation, his career, his life.  Very possibly his life.  He was such a sensible man, the rest of the time.  Down-to-earth, practical, conservative even.  But he would not give her up, despite the risks.   Every man had at least one weakness, they taught down at the Farm, and she was clearly his.  I will not, Lily vowed to herself, let it be the one that brings him down.  I will protect him, no matter what it takes.  If I get to keep him, I will keep him safe.  And whatever else he needs or wants, whatever he asks, I will do that, too.  As long as I get to keep him.

She sighed, rolled over yet again.  Her thoughts had started chasing around in circles, and she still had no solution to her love life.

Well, she thought wearily, she might have days yet to think about it.

* * * * *

When Gustav returned, first thing in the morning, he had no cart.  Instead he carried Lily's small pack.  "Come, miss, please.  Here is your bag.  The commissar is waiting for you."

Lily took the bag.  It was much lighter than when she'd been arrested; no doubt the chocolate, the two Cokes, and all the cash had been confiscated.  She didn't care.  She was sprung.  "Here're your magazines," she said, quickly gathering up the stack.

"Just leave them on the bunk.  I'll get them later."  He nodded encouragingly as she straightened up her clothes.  "Perhaps, when you get home, you will tell your friends how kind Gustav Freda was to you in this place."

The girl paused.  "Gustav, would it be okay if I kept this?" she asked, selecting one magazine from the stack.  "I like this living room here, I thought I might try something like this in my apartment."  She flipped the page open and held it out to him eagerly.  "But I know it was your wife's, if you'd rather I didn't... "

"Oh, no, miss, no, I would not mind at all."  He reached out and grasped the page with his right hand.  "You're right, it's a lovely room.  You keep this."  He drew his hand away, watched as she carefully closed the magazine and tucked it into her pack.  "All ready?  Come, then, please.  This way."

The guards took little note as he hurried her up the corridor to the commissar's office.  He left her at the door.  "Safe journey, miss.  I hope you will remember me."

"I will.  Hey, if you ever get to Chicago to see your sister-in-law, look me up, okay?"

He smiled sadly.  At least this time he didn't look at her like she was an idiot.  "I do not travel much, miss, but if I ever do, I will certainly look you up."

On impulse, she reached out and squeezed his arm.  "Take care, Mr. Freda."

"And you, Miss Webster."

He knocked lightly, opened the door for her, closed it behind her.

Inside the office, the commissar sat facing a tall, dark-haired man.  Her big frame pack, she noted at a glance, was beside the door.  She was definitely about to be sprung.  Both men turned to look at her.  "Well, there she is, finally," the visitor said, coming to his feet. 

Lily did not, quite, laugh out loud.  "Hello, Mr., uh, Mr.... "

"Misek," Harley Gage prompted gently, taking her hand.  "Stan Misek.  Of course you don't remember, you were only a little thing last time we met.  At the opera?  You were with your father and your brother, I believe."

"We go to a lot of operas," Lily answered dryly.  She took her hand back, fought the urge to wipe it off on her jeans.  At least his accent was better these days.  "Am I out yet?"

"You see how it is," Harley said, turning back to the commissar, his hands wide in apology.  "She is the joy of her father's life, his only daughter, but she has no grace to her.  She is his joy and his nightmare."

"Yeah, yeah," Lily said, tapping her foot.  "Can we go?"

"Sit down," Harley told her firmly, gesturing to a chair against the wall, "and be quiet."

She glared at him, challengingly.

"Do you want to go home or not?  Sit down."

She sat, without grace.

"You see for yourself," the commissar said, "she is in good health, if not in good spirits.  We are not the monsters those in the West believe us to be."

"Of course not," Harley agreed.  "Mr. Webster's company has done business here for a number of years, and he has nothing but the utmost respect for the law enforcement in this country.  His daughter, unfortunately... well, you can see for yourself, she is young, quite headstrong.  She did not mean to break any laws, I assure you.  She is only being childish."

Lily stomped one foot down and crossed her legs, but remained silent.

"I understand completely," the commissar answered.  "But you must understand, Mr. Misek, as Mr. Webster must, that we cannot tolerate lawlessness in our city, either."

"Of course not.  And I can assure you, it will not happen again.  Will it, Miss Webster?"

Lily glared at him.

"Laurie," Harley said sternly, "tell the commissar you won't do it again."

"I wasn't doing anything wrong," she insisted defiantly.

"She won't do it again," Harley continued, as if she hadn't spoken.  "Her father will see to that, I promise you.  Laurie, tell him you won't do it again."

Grudgingly, she spoke.  "I'll never bring too many jeans into your country again.  I promise."

"Good girl."

If she'd been close enough, Lily would have slapped him.  She crossed her arms over her chest. 

"Well," the commissar said, shuffling papers, "as it is a first offense, I do have it in my discretion not to file formal charges."

"Mr. Webster would very much appreciate that," Harley answered earnestly.  He leaned forward confidentially.  "Between you and me, he's going to have a job on his hands getting that one married off, even without a criminal record."

"He's not going to marry me off," Lily protested.

"Quiet, dear."

"But there must, you understand, be some sort of penalty for attempting to break the law," the older man countered.

Harley reached for his briefcase, brought it into his lap. "Of course.  Mr. Webster has authorized me to pay whatever... penalty... that you think is reasonable."

The commissar eyed him, eyed the girl.  Reviewed once more her expensive, brand-new mountaineering pack, her Nikes.  "The fine is ten thousand dollars.  American."

"Ten..." Harley coughed, "ten thousand?  That's a little steep for a few pairs of jeans, isn't it?"

"Shut up and write the check, Misek," Lily snapped.

"Quiet!" he snapped back.  He turned back to the commissar, his hands open again.  "This is a first offense, after all.  Couldn't we, hmm, reduce the fine in relation to the time she's already spent in jail?"

"Ten thousand," the commissar repeated firmly.

Harley sighed.  "I'm very sorry, sir, but I'm just not authorized to pay that kind of fine.  Mr. Webster had no idea it would be so high when he wired the money over."  Sadly, Gage snapped the clasps on the briefcase and opened it, giving the official a glimpse over the top of the crisp American bills inside.

"Cheap bastard," Lily commented under her breath.

Gage ignored her.  So did the commissar.  The sight of the money had transfixed him.  "Still," Harley continued regretfully, "if that is the price, I suppose I can call him back and ask.  I'm just not sure he won't decide he'd rather fight this in court."  He moved to close the case.

"Wait," the commissar said quickly. 

Harley pushed the case back open, half-turned it toward the desk.  Waited.

"How much does Mr. Webster consider fair?" the commissar asked quietly.

"Two thousand."

"Seven," the official countered.

"Three."

"Six."

Harley shrugged.  "Five is all I've got."  The silence hung there.  "She did spend a night in jail."

The commissar shrugged.  "Five.  This time."

Gage shut the case and pushed it across the desk.

"Miserable cheap bastard," Lily muttered again.

The commissar opened his desk drawer, drew out her documents.  "Her passport," he said, handing it to Harley, ignoring the girl.  "She will, of course, leave my jurisdiction immediately."

"I will see to it personally," Gage assured him, taking the papers.  He shook the man's hand.  "It is a pleasure to work with you."

"And you."  The official looked at the girl, who was clambering to her feet.  "You will not, I trust, be visiting our city any time soon."

She sighed heavily.  "Who'd want to?" she asked.  She went over to her big pack and opened it.  "Hey, can I have my jeans back?"

"We're going," Gage announced briskly, "now."  He grabbed the girl by her arm, the pack with his free hand, and shoved her out the door.

One guard opened the front door for them.  A second opened the gate.  The minute they hit the sidewalk, Lily shook her arm free.  She rearranged her packs, shoving the smaller one in the bigger one, and slung it over one shoulder.  Harley watched her anxiously, keeping one eye on the guard.  "Can we go now?" he asked, when she finally seemed settled.

Lily flipped her hair free.  "Yep, let's go.  You got a car?"

"No.  But I'll walk you to the train station."

He took her by the upper arm again and marched her until they were out of sight of the prison.  Then, as they rounded the corner, they both relaxed.  "What took you so damn long?" Lily demanded.

"Nice to see you too," Harley answered.  He released her arm, slid one hand to the small of her back under the pack.  "How've you been, darlin'?"

"Don't darlin' me.  What the hell were you doing back there?"

"What was I doing?  I'm not the one who asked if I could have the jeans back."

"It was worth a try.  And it was in character."

"Yeah, great.  You nearly got us both tossed in a cell."  They crossed the street, his hand firmer on her back in the traffic.  "These guys have just started taking bribes.  If we start them at ten, they'll just go up from there."

"So you got me at a discount.  What if it hadn't worked?"

Harley shrugged.  "I have another briefcase at home."

Lily elbowed him sharply.  "Harley, we covered this years ago.  You touch me there one more time, I swear to God you'll pull back a bloody stump."

"Easy, easy," he soothed, his hand sliding higher on her back.  "You're out, sweetheart.  You're okay now.  You need to relax a little."

"If I do any 'relaxing' at all, it sure as hell won't be with you."

"I wasn't asking, Lily.  You're the last woman I'd relax with.  Just settle down.  I'm the one who got you out, I came out of my retirement as a special favor..."

"I thought you got fired," Lily countered.

"That was just a cover story."

She snorted.  "Right."

Gage sighed.  "All right, look.  You and me had some fun once, I probably didn't behave as well as I should have, but that's all in the past, right?  And I did come and get you out of prison.  So can you at least cut me a little slack here?  Just stop busting my chops for one minute?"

Lily turned to look at him.  He was older, and rather sadder, than he had the last time she'd seen him.  And he had come to get her, when no one else apparently could.  "You're right, Harley."  She stood on her toes, kissed him primly on the cheek.  "Thank you for bailing me out."

Being Harley, he took the opportunity to put his arms around her.  "Now that's more like it..."

"It's nothing like it," she answered, sliding out of his embrace. 

He sighed.  "All right.  Come on, I'm supposed to put you on a train right now."  His hand resumed in the small of her back, but went no lower.  "Of course, there is a later train."

"Oh, good," she said, looking at him squarely.  "Let's go back to your place and get naked."

He actually considered it.  "You are gorgeous as a blond, you know that?  But... I don't think so.  You might come up with another grenade."

Lily laughed.  "Harley, you told me that I was special, that I was the last woman you ever wanted to sleep with.  I took you at your word.  So naturally I was a little bent when I found you with someone else the next day."

"Bent I can see.  But a grenade?  I don't think rookies should have access to hand grenades."

"I don't think experienced covert ops should sleep that deeply."

"You could have killed me.  Or maimed me, at the very least."

The woman tried to keep a straight face, and failed.  "It was a dud, Harley."

"That's not what you said at the time."

"The grenade.  It was a dud.  It wouldn't have gone off even if the pin had gotten pulled."

Gage took a deep breath.  "I knew that," he lied.

"Of course you did," Lily chuckled. 

"It was still pretty damn mean-spirited."

"Stop bedding rookies, you won't have these problems."

"That's not the point."  He shook his head.  "It was a dud?"

"Yep."

"You're sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"You know it was a year before I could fall asleep next to a woman after that?  You about wrecked my love life... damn it, Romanov, it's not that funny."

Lily tried valiantly, but she couldn't stop laughing.  "My sweet Harley, so innocent and wounded.  You had it coming and you know it."

"It was a dud?  You're sure?"

"Get over it, Harley.  It was years ago."

"But the memory remains.  Vividly."

Lily made her way across another street, headed unerringly for the train station.  "What are you doing in Yugoslavia?"

"Looking for work.  Speaking of which, you don't have any swing with Control, do you?"

"Sure," Lily answered dryly, "about half of the asking price.  Why?"

"Well, maybe you could, you know, put in good word for me.  I could use a regular paycheck again.  Could you do that for me?"

"I could do that," she agreed.

"Because really, you do kinda owe me one.  Even if it was a dud." 

The girl shook her head and kept walking.  "Harley, I don't owe you a damn thing."

* * * * *

Control sat in another endless meeting.  Budget meetings were, in his opinion, the absolute worst part of his job.  He had to pay attention, lest they cut something vital from his piece of the pie, but he also had to listen to mindless bureaucrats ramble forever.  He wanted to be anywhere else.  He'd even have preferred a jail cell in Pristina.

The door opened quietly, and Sue, his secretary, came in.  The speaker glared at her, but she slid over to Control's seat and passed him a note, then sneaked back out.  The speaker turned his glare on Control, daring him to read the note during his presentation.  Control did so.

The note had only two words: She's out.

He folded it carefully, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and gestured to the speaker to continue.

* * * * *

Lily – still Laurie – struggled down the aisle of the train car past a pack of teenaged boys.  Her big backpack was not heavy now, but the frame was still bulky.  At the very back of the crowded car, a tall blond workman sat in the aisle seat, the window seat next to him empty.  "Can I sit there?" Lily asked, gesturing.

He looked up at her, questioning, as if he spoke no English, but the gestures were international.  He swung his knees into the aisle and waited while she shoved the pack under the seat and clambered in against the window.  Then he turned back around, settled back, and appeared to doze.

When they were well out of the station and the tickets had been collected, the workman spoke quietly without looking at her.  "You okay, flower girl?"

She continued to look out the window.  "I'm fine, Teddy," she answered, also softly.  "What're you doing here?"

Ted Roelen grunted.  "Oh, we were in the neighborhood, thought we'd see you out of the country."

Lily smiled to herself.  "Sorry, honey."

"No big deal.  We live to hokey-pokey."

"Hmm?"

"Stand up, stand down, stand by, stand around," he answered.  "That's what it's all about."

"Ahhh.  You got new crew, I hear."

"Second row from the front, on the left."

Lily shifted her gaze that direction for a moment.  "Damn, they're young."

"You all look like toddlers to me," Teddy told her.  "I like the hair.  You look all sixteen that way."

"Yeah.  Gage couldn't keep his hands off me."

"I noticed.  He does like 'em young."  The tall man shifted in the seat; there wasn't really room for his legs.  "So you back in the Balkans for good?"

"If I still have a job at all."

Roelen nodded.  "Good.  We need somebody with their head on their shoulders, instead of elsewhere.  The organization's going to hell.  Next time you're out, can you see about getting us our mail?"

Lily nodded.  "I'll take care of it."

"And ammo.  And something to read."

"Okay.  Anything else?"

Ted shook his head.  "I don't mean to dump on you.  But it's been five weeks."

"I'll take care of it," Lily promised.  "If I'm not back, I'll make sure somebody does.  Don't worry about it."

"Good to have you back in the game, Lil."

"Now if I could just stay out of jail." 

Ten rows ahead of them, a group of boys grew steadily louder.  It had been horseplay at first, but as the trip progressed, the shouting became more serious, the cursing more frequent.  Two of them finally stood up and yelled at each other, weaving precariously in the aisle.  Shoving followed, and the smaller one took a swing, which wove wide of the mark.

Roelen grunted.  "No," Lily said quietly.

"I know," he answered, folding his arms over his chest.

The bigger boy swung more accurately, leveling the smaller one.  Then the others got into it, pulling them apart, forcing the big one down into his seat.  The smaller one scrambled up and headed for the front of the car, screaming over his shoulder. "Dirty Serb!  Dirty Serb!" he cried in English, and then switched to his native tongue while he fled the car.

"Well," Ted said under his breath, as the rest of the boys settled back, "there's something you don't hear every day."

"Can you even do that with your mother?" Lily wondered aloud. 

"Maybe if she's a gymnast."

"That's the third time I've seen that this trip," she said, very softly.  "The ethnic thing.  It's strange."

"The Soviets wouldn't put up with it," Roelen told her.  "Now that they're pulling back, anything goes."

"I got a bad feeling about this.  This whole country."

He shrugged.  "Welcome to the Balkans, sweetheart."

* * * * *

Robert McCall gazed at the soup with admiration.  It was French onion, in a crock, the cheese thick and perfectly baked on top.  It smelled wonderful.  So did the slices of hot sourdough bread that accompanied it.  He broke the cheese crust with his spoon and took a bite.  The soup was hot and deliciously rich.  "Oooooh," he said warmly.

"I told you."  Control was halfway through his own soup. 

Robert looked around the tiny, dark restaurant.  "So you did."  He took another bite of soup.  "All right then.  What is it you want?"

His companion looked mildly surprised.  "Your bread, if you're not going to eat it."

"You know what I mean, Control.  Why the meeting?  What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," Control answered.  "Just lunch.  We haven't talked in weeks."  To Robert's unconvinced scowl, he added, "If I wanted something, we'd be in a dark alley or a dusty warehouse."

McCall considered, then nodded.  "I suppose we would, at that.  So.  How's business?"

"Booming, as always.  Unfortunately.  The Balkans are a mess.  We may have to prop up the Soviets just to keep a lid on things."

"Surely it won't come to that," Robert scowled.

Control shrugged.  "It's going to get very messy, very soon."

"Yes, well, freedom does have a way of being very untidy, doesn't it?"  They ate in silence for a moment.  "What I really want to know, Control, is what in blazes have you done with the woman?"

"What woman?"

"You know bloody well what woman.  I know she's back in the city; she left a message on my machine while I was with a client.  But now she's not returning my calls, and I think you're behind that."

Control chuckled.  "In a manner of speaking, I suppose.  She's overseas.  Working."

"You didn't waste any time throwing her back in."

"Her choice, not mine. She got arrested in Pristina."

Robert threw his spoon down.  "So there is something you want."

"No, no," Control answered quickly.  "She's out already.  It was just a local matter, we threw a bribe, she's on her way home.  She's fine."

McCall relaxed slowly, recovered his spoon, and took another bite.  "She must have been very frightened."

"Becky said she was just bored."

"You went to Becky about this?"  McCall demanded.  "Do you know what your superiors would say if they knew you were consulting a psychic at every turn?"

"I only consult her in emergencies," Control answered defensively.

"An emergency is now being defined as any time that woman is more than ten minutes overdue.  Is that it?"

His friend opened his hands.  "I just got her back, Robert, I couldn't... all right, all right.  I know you're right.  I'll try not to bother Becky again."

"I don't think you bother her," Robert conceded.  "But the things that child must read from you, and me... "

"I know."

Robert finished his soup in silence, set to wiping up the dregs with the bread.  "Jail aside," he finally asked, "how is she?"

"She's extraordinary," Control answered warmly.

McCall studied him.  There was a sudden glimmer in his friend, a light that was almost always absent.  "You know, Control, you have the most remarkable expression on your face.  I don't know that I've ever seen it before.  One might almost think that you were – dare I say it – happy."

Control grinned, which truly was an unfamiliar expression.  "She's... whole, Robert.  She's herself again.  She came back to life, and she came back to me."

"Ahh."  Robert smiled fondly.  "I told you so."

"You were the one who said I should send her away in the first place."

"Well, yes, but then I changed my mind.  You should have taken her back well before this.  You've only wasted your time being miserable."

Control stared at him, considered whether to take up the argument.  He let it go.  "I gave her the emerald."

"I'm a bit surprised she accepted it."

"It took a little persuading," Control admitted.  "She's different now, Robert.  The whole relationship is different."

"That's to be expected, isn't it?" McCall asked gently.

"She's much more complicated than I knew."

"A simple woman would bore you to death."

Control shook his head ruefully.  "I thought I knew her so well.  I thought I understood her.  And now... for every one thing she says, I can hear a dozen more she doesn't say.  She keeps so many things hidden." 

"Rather like someone else I might name."

"I suppose you're right there, old son.  It's a little unnerving, though. I'm used to knowing everything about people, and yet this one, who I should know so well – her whole past is just hints and shadows."

"Like Becky," Robert mused.

"Hmm?"

"Scott once said that as far as he knew, Becky had been born sixteen years old in New York City.  She never said a word about her life before that."

"But we found out why, with her."

"It wouldn't surprise me," McCall ventured carefully, "to find out that Lily had some similar experience in her background.  Some kind of abuse or betrayal, or both." 

Control lowered his spoon slowly.  "Where do you get that?"

"She's a tremendously strong woman, Control. Women her age – and men – don't have that strength, unless they're forged in some kind of fire."

"Nicaragua..."

"She had it before then.  Haven't you ever wondered about it?"

"I never considered it in that light. I'm starting to wonder if I ever thought about the girl at all before now."

"You didn't," Robert assured him helpfully.

Control glared at him narrowly.  "I know she's an orphan.  She grew up in a group home in the South."

"Perhaps the loss of her parents, then."

"Perhaps.  I have the impression they weren't close."

Looking at his old friend, Robert could hear the wheels of his curiosity beginning to turn.  "Control, let it be.  Whatever's in her past, it's her past.  Let her tell you about it when she's ready."

Control bristled; he didn't like being read so well.  But then he nodded in concession.  "And how are things on the outside?"

"Oh, the usual," McCall answered, relieved to change the subject.  "A few clients, a great number of fools."  He sighed.  "Scott's moving in with Becky."

"That was inevitable."

"It's not how we did things in our day," Robert observed.  "Still, I suppose it's better than rushing into a marriage neither of them is ready for."

"What's Kay think about it?"

"Haven't heard," Robert answered, smiling at the waitress as she replaced his soup bowl with a plate of grilled chicken.  "I don't think Scott's told her."

"I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation," Control commented.  As the waitress moved away, he added, "Sometimes I wish I still had her house bugged."

"You mean you don't?"

He shook his head.  "How are things with Cecelia?"

"Over," McCall answered definitely.  "She was much too needy."

"Ahhh."

"She wanted me to call her every night," he continued.  "She wanted to talk about her day, every day, in excruciating detail.  I was too distant for her. I didn't communicate my feelings well." He rolled his eyes.  "I think I shall end my days as a bachelor and be glad of it."

Control paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.  "Careful, old son.  I believed that once myself, and look what happened."

"Yes, well, I shall have to be more cautious than you were."  With a wry smile, Robert fell to his meal.

* * * * *

Romanov had telexed her field report from West Berlin, but she made her way from the airport to the office with only one brief stop.  Her beloved Nikes were starting to itch her ankles. 

She went in through the alley door and headed directly down the dingy stairs to the storage room.  She had her own cage, a four foot square space, enclosed by steel fencing and allegedly secured with a combination lock, in a room full of identical cages.  They were used by agents and couriers for storing travel gear, off-season clothes, and anything else they didn't care very much about.  Many, many things disappeared from the cages.

A folded sheet of paper was taped to the front of her cage.  Lily took Gustav's magazine and a bakery bag out of her big pack, then stashed it in her cage and locked it up before she took down the paper.  It was a computer print-out.  The header read 'Elapsed Time' and it had neat columns:  agent's name, city and country, arrival date and time, arrest date and time, elapsed time.  Her name and recent arrest, newly added, were highlighted.  She was twenty-third on the list. 

Lily growled at the paper, then scanned up to the top.  The first name on the list did a great deal to assuage her aggravation.  She would have to ask about that, some time.    

She phoned upstairs to let them know she was in, and then went to the mailroom.  The mail clerk was sitting behind his half-door, reading the paper, listening to NPR on the radio.  "Hiya, sweetheart."

"Hey, Munchie," she returned, handing him the bakery bag.  

"Ah, Lily, you didn't have to do this."  He peered into the bag.  Donuts, one glazed, one jelly filled, his favorites.  Hundreds of people in this building, and she was the only one who ever thought to bring him anything, one of only a few who knew his name. 

She shrugged.  "Gave me an excuse to stop.  What's new?"

"We're all talking about you, of course." Munchie knew tidbits of everything that went on in the building – people talked in front of the mail clerk, not thinking much about it.  "You okay?"

"I'm fine.  No big deal. Who won the pool?"

"Hmmm?  Oh, Vince Norris again."

"Oh, that hurts.  Wait'll I catch up with him."

"Be kind," Munchie advised.  "He's got a brand new froglet today."

"Looker?"

"Of course.  But Kermit green."

"Aren't they all?"

"Here, I got something for you."  Munchie set down the bakery bag and wheeled over to the worktable.  He had been a field agent once, briefly, a long time ago.  He'd made a rookie mistake, paid for it with both legs and three fingers.  He considered himself lucky.  He rummaged about a bit and returned to the door with a new ID badge for her.  "You need to initial here," he said, pointing to the sign-out sheet.

Lily signed and took the badge.  "What's this for?"

"New department configuration."

"Didn't we just reconfigure departments last year?"

"That was last year."

"This has Jason's fingerprints all over it, doesn't it?"  The clerk smirked and nodded.  "My department's been Masured again.  Do I get a raise with this?"

Munchie snorted.  "Honey, you don't even get fries with that."

"So who do I work for now?"

He shrugged.  "You probably got a memo.  The whole division's under Simms."

"Skinny guy, the one with the brain."

"That's the one.  The heir-apparent."

"Simms is the heir?  I thought it was Walker." Lily asked in surprise.

"Walker's just a kiss-up. The Old Man can't stand him."  Munchie wheeled back to the big rack to get her mail.  "Of course, Control will die in that office before he leaves it, so the heir could change again."

"I thought dying was the only way to get out of that office." 

Munchie shrugged.  "Dyson got out, didn't he?"  He pulled her mail down.  "Uh-oh.  Speak of the devil."

Romanov saw it too – on the top of the stack, the dreaded red sheet.  Just an ordinary sheet of colored printer paper, bright red, folded in half and stapled.  Nothing ever went on red paper unless it was dead urgent.  Her name was hand-written on the outside, in Control's familiar, precise print.

"Well," she said philosophically, "either I'm fired or they want their five grand back."  She took the whole stack.  "Thanks, Munchie."

"Sure thing, doll.  You be careful out there."

"Always am."

She walked down the hall to the lab, pulling the sheet open as she went.  The contents weren't typed, either.  Re:  Field report Pristina – request supplemental report all contact w/Gustav Freda verbatim ASAP my attention -- C  Lily cocked her head.  She hadn't actually expected him to say 'please', but at least he could have used some punctuation. 

So, she thought, the librarian was known to the community.  Known and of interest.  Well, good. That should make the five grand a little easier to forgive.   

Lily dropped off her shoes and the magazine at the lab, then wandered in her socks down to the bull pen and started on her report. Verbatim, hah – he thought she was freaking Archie Goodwin?  She'd always known she'd regret turning him on to the Rex Stout books. Once she'd started typing, though, she found she could remember nearly every word Gustav had said.  

She got the report done and printed, corrected and reprinted, then turned to the rest of her mail.  Nothing very exciting – a pay stub for her direct deposit salary; a copy of her reassignment papers, officially transferring her back from the DC office; a memo about the new department configuration; four different medical bills, stating that her coverage had been denied again; a notice from the housing office that they were unable to locate her an apartment in New York City; another memo stating that, as she was now permanently reassigned, she needed to vacate the transitory housing apartment.   And three separate copies of the 'Elapsed Time' print-out.  In short, Lily thought, shoveling the whole pile into a house mail envelope, the usual crap.   She kicked her feet up on desk, wriggling her stockinged toes absently, and went over the report once more.

"Hey, Twenty-Three!"

Lily glowered up at Vince Norris.  "Vince, you are a miserable bastard.  I can't believe you bet against me.  Where's my cut?"

The mocha-skinned man dug inhis pocket and came out with a roll of bills, which he handed over.  He turned and gestured to the young woman who stood behind him.  "Nancy, come on in here.  Nancy Campbell, Lily Romanov."

Lily smiled.  Vince's new trainee was very new:  she was wearing a smartly tailored blue suit and sensible shoes.  By day two he'd have her in jeans like the rest of the runners.  Munchie was right, too – she was a stone looker. "Hi.  Welcome aboard."

"You're Romanov?" Nancy said, extending her hand.  "You're the one who..."  She stopped dead and blushed.  "I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry about it."  Lily shook her hand without standing up.  "Whatever you've heard, it's probably true."

The woman stepped back awkwardly.  "I'm sorry," she said again. 

Lily shot a quick glance at the training agent, who shrugged.  They could teach these kids a lot at the Farm, but they couldn't teach them tact.  "You okay, Lily?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

He nodded.  "Want to get a drink tonight?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Lily saw the trainee tense.  She probably already knew that Vince was married.  What she didn't know yet was how married he was.  Vince Norris was the most devoutly married man Lily had ever met.  He was assigned all the pretty young girls from the Farm because the tie boys knew he could be trusted not to hit on them.  He wasn't offering to take Lily out in the hopes of taking her home.  He was offering comfort, consolation, or a designated driver.

She shook her head.  "Thanks, Vince, but I've got plans."

"Big date?"

"Yep.  I thought I'd have myself deloused and then burn my clothes."

"Okay.  But if you need me, you know where to find me, right?"

"Thanks, Vince."

He squeezed her shoulder, then moved away.  "Over here," he said to Nancy, "is the lounge.  I advise the you closely inspect anything that comes out of those vending machines, and be very careful where you sit."

The trainee moved after him, then looked back.  "It was, uh, nice to meet you," she said uncomfortably.

"Nancy, right?"  Lily kicked her feet down.  "You'll be okay.  Vince is the best trainer there is.  Trust me, I know.  He was mine.  Taught me everything I know."

The rookie considered, and then almost smiled.  "But... didn't you just land in jail?"

Lily sighed wryly.  "Oh, you're gonna fit right in."

Nancy did smile then, and trailed after her agent. 

Lily sat back, shaking her head.  Was there an agent in this building who wasn't a smart ass?  She caught herself scratching her head, snatched her hand away and inspected her nails.  She'd been kidding with Vince, but delousing probably wasn't a bad idea.  Of all the things she hoped to give Control in the near future, lice wasn't one of them.

She sighed.  She still hadn't come up with a solution for her love life. 

From the next room, she could hear Vince talking to his trainee.  "All that training at the Farm is fine.  You can learn a lot in a classroom, and a lot in demonstrations and scenarios.  But there comes a time when you need to just stop talking and use what you've learned."

Lily sat straight up.  Of course.  The answer was so simple.  Stop talking. Use what you've learned.  Of course.  "Bless you, Vince," she called.   

He looked quizzically thought the doorway.  "Uh... sure, Lil."

Grinning, Lily called back upstairs and made sure they weren't looking for her.  Then she took her stuff and wandered down to the Comm office.  There were eight operators there, all sitting at their computers and phone banks.  The shift head, Alpern, was pacing.  "Hey, Romanov.  Welcome back.  You come for your pager?"

"My what?"

"Your pager.  Didn't you get the memo?  You're supposed to sign out a pager and carry it 24/7."

Lily groaned.  "Um... no?"

"Jason's orders," he smirked.  He walked back to a storage cabinet and retrieved a pager from a vast rack of them.  "He wants to keep everybody in touch."

"I'm starting to think he's touched," the courier answered.  She accepted her pager, and its instruction book.  "This sucks."

"Tell me all about it."

"Can I borrow a line?"

Alpern gestured to a small closet at the back of the room.  "Help yourself."

Lily went in and shut the door.  The closet wasn't much bigger than phone booth.  She didn't really need a secure line, probably, and the budget jerks would beef if they found out she was using it.  But Alpern didn't care, and if she got caught she'd make something up.  Deftly, from memory, she dialed the number.

On the second ring, he answered.  "Kostmayer."

"Romanov."

"Hey, girl, how are you?  I thought I was gonna have to come get you."

"I'm sorry, hon. I try to keep him off the panic button, but you know how he gets."

There was a quiet beep on the line.  "Secure line?" Mickey asked in surprise.  "Where are you?"

"In the office."

"Oh," he said carefully.

"You got some free time this week?  Maybe over the weekend?"

"Yeah," he answered, still guarded.  "What'cha need?"

"Range time."

"Oh."  She could almost hear him rolling his eyes.  "I thought we had that fixed."

"Six months off, it went south again.  In a big way."

"I bet they have firing ranges in Florida."

"Yeah, but not on the beach."

Mickey sighed.  "I'll call you, we'll run out to the range."

"Uh... not the Company range.  Maybe Jersey?"

"That bad, huh?  Well, that explains the secure line."

"Uh-huh.  I'll buy you lunch."

"Dinner."

"Okay."

There was a brief pause "Does he know?"

"Probably.  But he can't say anything without admitting that he's clocking me 24/7, which he won't do.  As long as I fix it."

"You mean as long as I fix it."

"Whatever.  Thanks, Mickey."

She hung up the phone and popped the door open.  The room outside was quieter; Alpern was looking busy, and all the operators kept sneaking glances at her.  No, not at her.  Lily closed the door and found Control behind it, leaning on the wall, his arms crossed, his face expressionless.

"Done chatting, Miss Romanov?"

"Just calling my handler in Moscow," she answered meekly.

Control didn't bat an eye.  "Give him my regards.  Where's my supplemental report?"

Lily handed him the report off her stack.  "Verbatim, as per request."

He looked her up and down.  "Romanov, I know we're very liberal with the dress code where field ops are concerned, but we do generally require that you wear shoes in the office."

"My shoes," she reported, wagging her toes, "are in the lab, having the microfiche removed from the cuff."

"Good.  Any chance you got verification of the librarian's identity?"

"Full set of fingerprints, right hand," she reported.  "Also in the lab, being processed." 

"You're almost worth what it cost to get you back."

"Thanks so much."

"Conference B," he snapped, and headed for the door.

As Lily trailed him after him, Alpern held a fresh cup of coffee out to her.  "You need this more than I do."

"You are a true gentleman," she said, gratefully taking the cup.

Control waited for the elevator, still apparently engrossed in the report.  Lily kept a careful distance between them.  "So Mr. Freda is known to us?" she inquired quietly.

"He is.  How'd he break your cover?"

"I don't know that he did.  I'd love to ask him."

The elevator arrived.  Control held the door open, followed her in. Lily stood with her back to the wall, house mail in one hand, coffee in the other.  He ignored her, still reading the report, holding it in both hands.

Every elevator in the building was monitored, of course. 

"Harley Gage wants his job back.  He asked me to put in a good word for him."

Control turned another page.  "I'm waiting."

"Um... he still has perfect hair.  And his accent isn't nearly as bad as it used to be."

"That's it?"

"It was kind of a pro forma request.  I didn't expect to need specifics."

"I'll take it under advisement."

Control still wouldn't look at her, and Lily still wasn't sure what that meant.  Nothing in his gruff tone gave her a clue, either.  Yes, they could talk later, away from here, and yes, they had to be extremely careful in the office, where every move was recorded, but he could at least give her a hint of what he was thinking, whether he was furious or wanted to kiss her right there in the elevator. Lily sighed softly.  It was payback, she knew, for making him wait for the phone to ring.   

"They want me out of transitory housing," Lily said conversationally.

"I saw the memo."

"They haven't found me a new place yet."

Control turned over the next page of the report without looking up.  "Trying to defend the free world here, Romanov.  Don't really have time for your housing problems."

"I could probably stay with Kostmayer for a while."

That at least got him to glance up, though his voice remained flat. "Call Robert.  He knows everyone in town, he may have something.  Do you have his number?"

"I think I..." He already had his pen out, so she held out the house mail envelope and let him scribble on it. 

"Sooner is better than later," Control told her, "but he's sometimes hard to reach until after dark."  He finally looked at her, dropped his eyes to the number he'd written and back up.  Barely, barely smiled.

Lily glanced at the number.  It wasn't a phone number. 006-425-9968. Hotel, room number, access code.  She barely, barely smiled back her understanding.  Glanced at the number again.  006?  In the 1980 hotel guidebook, number 6 in the listing?  Everything above about 20 was a five-star hotel.  A five-star?  She glanced up again, with a tiny puzzled frown.

Control was back to reading the report, and wouldn't look at her again.

* * * * *

"Sexual favors," Control warned sternly, "are not going to get you back into my good graces."

"Of course not," Lily answered soothingly.  "But you have to admit it's a fine place to start."

"I admit no..." He stopped, gasped, unwilling to cry out, at least not yet.  When he could speak again, he growled, "I admit no such thing."

"You will," she predicted serenely.

She was right, of course, and Control knew it full well.  He made himself relax, enjoy.  Lily clearly wanted to take lead on this operation, and he was more than willing to let her.  They'd played this game before.  He was sure he could maintain a certain level of self-control.

She took him to the very brink, and then slowed to a crawl, let him recover. Began again.  Control groaned in protest and pleasure, made a half-hearted attempt to take over, but she pushed his hands away and he laid back, let her have her way.  There were worse things in the world than the zealous attentions of a lover.

She stopped a second time.  He would have admitted anything, anything, just to have her go on.  He reached for her.  She pushed his hands away again, definitively.

The third time she stopped, he thought he might die.  He was beginning to have serious doubts about his whole self-control premise.  She knew him too well, knew his body too well, and was clearly prepared to use every trick she knew.  "Lily," he moaned, "please." 

"Uh-uh," she answered, still maddeningly calm.  "Not until I get what I want."

Control felt one eyebrow climb.  This was a new twist on the game; she'd never asked for anything before.  "Wh-what do you want?"  Name the country; I'll start planning the coup just as soon as I can think straight.

Lily slid her body the length of his, until she lay entirely on top of him, her face inches above his.  "I want you to drop the leash."

At least she'd eased up enough to let him speak.  He tried to say 'I don't know what you're talking about,' but got only as far as "I don't kn..." before she started sliding away again.  He grabbed her frantically, dragged her back.  "Please, please."