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

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

"Priority one call from Berlin.  Kostmayer."

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

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

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

"They just opened the Wall."

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

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

"You're sure."

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

"Long version, please."

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

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

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

... but we won the Cold War...

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

"You got it."

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

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

Control stared at the screen and smiled.

"Is that..." Simms said at his shoulder, "...what's happened?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I need you."

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

"At the office first, yes."

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

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

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

* * * * *

     Hold on, you have gambled with your own life

     And you face the night alone

     While the builders of the cages

     They sleep with bullets, bars and stone

     They do not see your road to freedom

     That you build with flesh and bone

Mickey Kostmayer took to the streets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless she was at a much more private party.

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

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

She’s be eternally grateful, whatever else happened.

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

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

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

Still...

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

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

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

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

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

If only she didn’t scream about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kostmayer shrugged, took the camera, and aimed it.

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

"The picture?" Mickey asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Kostmayer grinned.  "And you were right."

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

Control smirked.  "We are celebrating."

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

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

Lily nodded back, and was gone.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

     Well she'd like you to think she was born yesterday

     with her innocent looks and her little town ways

     when she's smilin' at me she's got angels in her eyes

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

No one in Washington seemed especially sober, either.

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

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

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

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

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

"Right." 

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

"What?" he asked.

"Next assignment?"

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

"All right."

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

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

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

* * * * *

     As soon as the shareef was chauffeured outta there
     The jet pilots tuned to the cockpit radio blare

     As soon as the shareef was outta their hair
     The jet pilots wailed...

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

Curious, he up and moved silently to his door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All right.  And?"

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"An open bar," Lily said.

"And lots of food," Sterno chimed in. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

"Annie?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grinned.  "Really?"

"Really."

"I don't want to get you in any trouble..."

"Annie.  Just pack.  Gotta run."

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

     Step by step, heart to heart, left right left,

     We all fall down like toy soldiers.

     It wasn't my intention to mislead you,

     It never should have been this way. What can I say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You helped this happen."

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

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

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

Mira studied him.  "But?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I... what?"

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

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

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

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

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

"It's nearly lunch time, Robert."

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

There followed a half-sheet of blank lines.

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

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

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

There seemed to be no backing out of it.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

Lily squealed, not in protest.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

The phone persisted.

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

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

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

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

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

"So you're in bed?"

"Yes."

"Are you naked?"

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

He hesitated.  "Uh... well, leather."

"Everywhere?"

"No, just a jacket."

"And nothing else?"

Kostmayer laughed.  "Okay, you win."

"Whatcha' need, sweetie?"

"Big favor."

"You got it."

"Big favor," Mickey repeated.

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

"Berlin."

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

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

"It's tempting."

"I want to get married."

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

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

"Is Annie in Berlin?"

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

"I suppose you want it all today."

"Yep."

"Where's the ring?"

"My brother has it."

"Your brother the priest?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Duh.  Go party.  I'll find you."

"Thanks, babe."

"No thing."

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

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

* * * * * 

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

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

"Can I go to Berlin?"

"Why?"

"Party."

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

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

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

"Can't.  He's already gone."

"To Berlin."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No hurry," she assured him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick sighed.  "Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Give Mickey my love."

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

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

* * * * *

     When will I see you again?

     When will our hearts beat together?

     Are we in love or just friends?

     Is this my beginning or is this the end?

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

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

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

Plus, she would get to see Mickey again.

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

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

Even if he was so damn difficult sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you okay?" the woman asked quietly.

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

"Sorry.  Didn't mean to startle you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne regarded her with reserve. "Like what?"

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

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

"No."

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

"Yes."

"Okay.  Next."

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

Keller frowned.  "That's like censorship."

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't want much, do you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't care."

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

"I guess.  Let me grab my jacket."

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

"That cold?"

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

"I'll get my parka."

* * * * *

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

Another knock on his door.

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

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

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

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

"I suppose it is." 

"You're going to the party, right?"

"The... party?" Robert asked cautiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tapes?"

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

"Ah."

"Eat something," Becky prompted as she left.

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

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

* * * * * 

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

Anne Keller's nose itched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No wonder Mickey liked her so well. 

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

They were friends.  Nothing more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant."

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

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

"Yeah.  Because I taught him that."

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

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

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"... sure, lots of times."

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

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

"What?"

"Sex?"

"Yes."

"No."

Anne blinked.  "No?"

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

"Never?"

"Never."

"Not even once?"

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

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have brothers, right?" Lily asked.

"Many."

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

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

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

"Like kissing your brother?"

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

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

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

"Nick the priest?" 

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

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Fair game."

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Gorbachev replied, "You are right."

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

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

* * * * *

     Well there's too much traffic and I can't pass

     So I try my best illegal move

     A big black-and-white come an' touch my groove again

     Go on and write me up for 125

     Post my face  Wanted dead or alive

     Take my license and all that jive 

     I can't drive 55

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But where... what..."  Anne panted.

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

"We can't just..."  Anne protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure," Lily said.

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

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

Unless there were more out there, and there were.

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

"To absent friends," Lily suggested.

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

They tossed the drinks back.

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

"Another?" their hostess offered.

"No, thanks," Anne panted.

"We have to go," Lily said.

The old woman nodded.  "I know."

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

The woman simply patted her arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're big on rules, aren't you?"

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

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

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

It made her giggle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne jumped.  "Mickey!"

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

"Good trip?" Mickey murmured.

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

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

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

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

"Time before what?"

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

"Demolition of the Wall?"

"Uh-huh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing."

"Mickey."

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

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

Just like that, the argument was back between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Probably not."

"Is Lily?"

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

"Why?"

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

"Well, that's good to know, anyhow."

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

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

"Because you know me too well."

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She wants you."

"Yeah.  In a pine box."

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

"There," Mickey said, pointing.

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

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