By seven-thirty, Control had been in his office for more than an hour. He nearly always arrived very early. He liked the quiet: no phones, no voices, no interruptions. He liked to see who came in and when. Simms was usually in before eight, but worked quietly. Walker, that kiss-up, also came in early, but lounged around the break room, chit-chatting with everyone who came in the door, drinking up the coffee and never starting another pot. You could tell a lot about a man, in Control's opinion, by the way he behaved in the break room. This morning, so far, no one had arrived on the upper floors. It was Friday. They'd all be ten minutes behind schedule.

Control took the last cup of coffee from the pot. It was jet black; he always brewed the first pot double-strength. He started a second pot, normal strength for the mere mortals, then carried the cup back to his office. He still had reports to get through, but just for a moment he wheeled his chair around, put his feet up, and watched the sun come up over the city.

His phone rang.

Control glared at it mildly. It was too early for phone calls; it should have gone through the switchboard. That it was ringing meant it was coming in on his private line. He could count on his fingers the number of people who had that telephone number. And not one of them would call at this hour. Unless.

Unless, of course, was the sticking point. Unless something truly horrific had happened. Unless he was needed right now. Unless it was her, but she wouldn't call here unless it was terribly urgent. And nothing could go wrong with her; she was supposed to be back in New York before noon. Finally.

More apprehensive than annoyed, he kicked his feet down, gently lifted the receiver, and waited in silence.

Nervous breathing on the other end, a bit of shuffling. No background noise. Control frowned, listening intently. Someone in trouble? Tied up, managing to knock the receiver off the hook – and then dial his number? Not likely. He waited.

Finally, a small timid voice said, "Hello?"

Control grinned, relieved. A female, but not the one he'd half-expected, half-feared it would be. "Becky?"

"I … I … I … damn it."

"What's wrong?" he asked gently. He sat back, feeling relief wash through his body. He'd forgotten that he'd even given Becky Baker this number. He'd never expected her to use it, and the fact that she had was cause for alarm in itself. But it didn't sound like she was in mortal peril.

"Y-y-you have to go home," she stammered. "Go home right now."

"Why?" Control inquired mildly. He glanced around the quiet, dim office. This was his home, for all practical purposes. "What's happened?"

"Nothing, yet. But it will."

At least she had the stammer under control now. He was careful to keep his voice level and calm. "Go on."

There was a long pause, flustered breathing, and Control could almost see her free hand waving aimlessly. Becky Baker was a gifted psychic, but she wasn't a great communicator at the best of times – and this clearly wasn't the best of times. What was she trying to tell him? "G-go home," she repeated finally. "Go back to bed and stay there. Nothing good will happen today."

Control grimaced. "You called me at this hour to tell me I'm going to have a bad day?"

There was another long silence. "Not a bad day," she finally answered grimly. "I wouldn't have called you if it was just bad." And then, "Please, just this once, please listen, take a sick day or something. Just go home."

"I can't, Becky. I can't just walk out of here. I've got meetings, I've got … I can't just announce that my psychic says I should go home. Be reasonable."

There was a third silence, longer than the others. "Nothing you do today," Becky finally said, very quietly, "will end as it should. Don't do anything you can't take back. Not until after sundown."

Control made an effort to keep his impatience out of his voice. He did not want to discourage her from calling again, in the remote event that she had something sensible and concrete to tell him next time. "I'll keep it in mind, dear."

Becky sighed. "You don't believe me at all."

"I appreciate the warning," he answered smoothly, "but I can't let my actions be dictated by your … hunches."

Unexpectedly, she said, "I'm making dinner at my place tonight. Something simple, steak maybe. You should come over."

The invitation took Control by surprise. Miss Baker had never been unfriendly towards him, but she certainly never sought out his company, either. She was, to all appearances, scared to death of him. Given her gifts, that was probably for the best. "I'd like to," he answered, "but I have plans." Unbidden, his thoughts turned to his once-and-future lover, back from rehab finally, back in the city tonight, and the weekend without interuption ahead of them …

"She won't show," Becky predicted. "I'll make you a steak." She hung up.

Control put the phone down, frowning deeply. Damn it, how had she known, how much had she known? He was going to have to be careful with that one, with Becky. She didn't always see what she was looking for – she couldn't make predictions on request – but she could sometimes see right through the best lies and disguises in the world.

But if she didn't think Lily was going to make it to New York by dinner time, she didn't know Lily at all.

Distracted, he swung around, caught his coffee mug with his elbow, and dumped the dark hot liquid into his lap.

Robert McCall was also having problems with coffee – or, more specifically, a complete lack thereof – when his telephone rang. He ignored it for a moment, jiggling the plug and then the switch on his unresponsive coffee maker. Nothing. Not even the indicator light would come on. Snarling, he grabbed the phone. "Robert McCall," he barked at the receiver.

"Eeep."

"Good morning, Becky."

"Hi."

"Early for you to be calling." He took the decanter off the coffee maker. "What's wrong?"

"E-e-everything."

Curious, Robert touched the warming plate of the brewer. It was screaming hot. He snatched his hand back, put his seared finger reflexively in his mouth. "It can't be that bad," he told her absently. "What's Scott done now?"

"N-nothing. He's still asleep."

McCall raised one eyebrow. He'd known for months, of course, that Scott was sleeping with this young lady. But they'd always maintained a token level of discretion about it. There was a difference between knowing and being told. Then he shrugged it off. The coffee maker was heating, obviously; perhaps the reservoir was clogged somehow. He pulled the grounds basket out and set it on the counter, leaned over to peer at the tiny dispenser hole. "What can I do for you, love?"

"C-can – I know this sounds ridiculous, but can you – just – stay home today?"

"Hmm? Why?"

"Nothing is going to go right today. Nothing. You should just stay home and be very quiet."

Finding no obstruction, Robert straightened up. His free hand brushed the filter basket off the counter, dumping the dry coffee grounds all over his kitchen floor and his slippers. "Damn it!" he swore aloud.

"I – I'm sorry," Becky answered.

"Not you, dear," Robert shifted his feet, feeling the coffee sift down inside his slippers and begin to grind against his feet. He sighed. "I can't stay home. I have an appointment with a client."

"Move it to tomorrow."

McCall considered this in passing while he glared at the obstinate coffee maker. The woman had called late the previous evening – someone had broken into her apartment repeatedly, the police were having no luck – she'd sounded frightened and desperate. "I can't."

Silence at the other end of the line. Then, quietly, "Please?"

Giving up on the coffee pot, McCall finally gave her his full attention. "Becky, I'm sorry. I appreciate your gifts, I truly do, but I can't rearrange my life according to your hunches."

"Well, that sounds familiar," she answered tartly. Then, more gently, "Don't do anything you can't take back today."

"Sound advice at any time," Robert mused.

"Come for dinner. After sunset, at my place. Nothing fancy."

At least that sounded promising. "I'll be there if I can."

"Okay."

McCall hung up the phone, shaking his head. Becky was usually such a sensible girl, so level-headed. It wasn't like her to overreact like this. To call him out of the blue on such scanty information. Maybe she was spending too much time with Scott.

Well. On with the day; he'd find coffee on the way.

He got out the whiskbroom and cleaned up the coffee, then padded off to shower, the last elusive coffee grounds still grating on the bottom of his feet. As he closed the bathroom door, the brewing light clicked on, and the coffee maker dutifully dispensed its entire reservoir of water onto the empty warming plate.

Of all of them, perhaps, Mickey Kostmayer was the most likely to have heeded her warning. There was inborn in him a certain Old World penchant for listening to fortune tellers; besides, she'd given him winning lottery numbers. Twice.

But his phone only rang twice before his machine picked up, not enough to wake him. She left a message. His alarm clock failed. He woke, three hours later, two hours after he was supposed to meet his brother. He swore, then ambled sleepily to the kitchen and turned on the tap water, letting it run until it was hot enough to make instant coffee. While he waited, he glanced at the answering machine. Six messages. Nick, he thought blearily, yes, I know I'm late, keep your collar on. He pressed the "play" button. The tape door popped open, and the slender tape shot up toward him like a serpent's tongue, hissing and writhing until it fell to the floor in a little dark pile.

Mickey unplugged the machine, made his miserable coffee, and went to shower.

Becky crept back into bed as quietly as she could, but Scott was already awake. He wrapped his arms around her, drew her close. "Where you been?"

"Making phone calls."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. We need to just stay in bed today."

"Sounds good to me," Scott answered agreeably. He drew her closer, kissed her with intent.

Becky hesitated. There was no way, she was sure, this was going to work. But there was no point in telling him. He'd find out for himself soon enough.

To her pleasant surprise, it worked just fine. So fine, in fact, that neither of them heard the low knock at the apartment door, the key in the lock, the quiet, motherly voice calling, "Scott, are you still sleeping?" Neither of them heard a thing until Kay was in the room, saying, "Scott, honey you need to … aaaagggghhhh!"

There was a narrow diner on the ground floor of Robert's parking garage. He'd never been inside; it appeared somewhat disreputable, and he'd had enough lousy diner food during his career. But they ought to be able to make him a cup of coffee, he reasoned, ducking in.

The cash register was tucked up against the door, and a middle-aged woman with enormous hair stood there, counting singles. She was wearing one of those wretched waitress uniforms, pink with the white frilly apron, and far too much perfume. "Hey, there," she said, looking him up and down.

"Hello," Robert said. "I'd like …"

"Just grab a seat anywheres, sweetie."

"No, thank you, I just … "

She slammed the cash drawer and walked away. "Ralph, damn it, where them eggs at?"

"No, I just want …" She was already out of earshot, vanishing behind the greasy swinging doors to the kitchen.

Robert made himself take a deep, calming breath. He looked at his watch. He could still be on time for his appointment, provided he was on his way in the next five minutes, provided traffic wasn't terrible. He was quite worried about his newest client. Mary Cassidy, her name was. Someone had broken into her apartment a week ago. They hadn't taken anything of much value – some tapes, she thought, a portable radio – she didn't own anything of much value. Break-ins were common enough in New York. She'd filed a police report, thought nothing more of it. But then there was a second break-in. More of the same, trivial items taken. She'd reported this to the police as well, and they'd given her the usual advice, be cautious, change the locks, promised more patrols. And then last night, she'd come home from work and found that there had been a third break-in. She'd called Robert in a panic.

McCall pondered her story, waiting for the waitress to return. Miss Cassidy swore she had no idea who might be breaking in. She lived alone, worked regular day shift hours. All the break-ins had taken place while she was at work. Even a casual observer would have known when the apartment was empty. Given the value of the things taken, McCall was leaning toward truant teens as the culprit. One small detail bothered him: yesterday, according to Miss Cassidy, the robber had helped himself to two slices of cheesecake from the refrigerator. Teens still, perhaps, but if so, they were becoming dangerously bold …

The waitress shouldered through the swinging doors, deposited a plate of eggs to a customer at the end of the counter, and finally made her way back to him. She seemed perturbed that he was still on his feet. "Wassa matter? Can't find a clean spot?"

"No," Robert said, a bit tersely. "I just want a cup of coffee."

"Why didn't you say so? Park it, I'll bring you one."

"No, a cup to go, please. I'm in rather a hurry."

"I'm in rather a hurry," she mimicked, badly. "Just kidding, darlin'. Let me find you a paper cup." She bent over to look under the register, giving McCall a wholly unobstructed view of her cleavage. She straightened, winked at him. "Hang on, we got some back in the kitchen."

The waitress flounced off before McCall could stop her. At the end of the counter, the customer held out his plate. "These eggs are runny," he complained.

The waitress snatched up the plate and examined them closely. "They look okay to me."

"They're runny."

"Have it your way. Ralph! Damn it, Ralph, these eggs aren't done! Throw 'em back on the flattop, will you?" Then she was gone again.

McCall waited. He tried to think about the Cassidy woman again. He'd asked her to have a neighbor stay the night with her, but she refused, arguing that the burglar only came during the day. He'd had to settle for her promise that she would call the police again, that she would block her door, would not go out. An abundance of caution, perhaps, but nothing would have spoiled his day more than to read about her in the morning paper.

What in the world had gotten into Becky?

McCall shrugged it off. She was a nice young lady, Becky Baker, a very nice young lady, but she was young yet. Her prescience came and went in waves, it seemed, and frequently she knew things she didn't understand. It occurred to Robert that if the girl kept a little more mundane company, she might be happier – the things she read from him, from Mickey, from Control – Control, he thought angrily, and that damn ring, he could have throttled his old friend for that dirty little trick, and might yet … still, her warning might be worth something, at some point in the day. An abundance of caution for himself as well as for his client.

In the kitchen a phone rang. McCall heard the waitress's voice, loud and laughing. "How've you been?" she was saying. "I haven't heard from you in forever!"

The waitress was not, McCall realized, coming back.

He glared around the little diner. All he wanted was a cup of coffee. Was there some great conspiracy at work to keep him from getting coffee? Was that perhaps what Becky's warning had been about? He longed for the old days, when he could start his day without a cup of the vile stuff, when he could sip tea like a proper Englishman and be on his way … but damn it, he wanted coffee now!

He took out his billfold and left a dollar on the register. Then he went around the counter, fetched a ceramic mug, and poured himself a cup from the evil pot on the warmer. With a glance at the hungry diner still waiting for his eggs, McCall walked out, restaurant mug and all.

He was in the elevator of the parking garage, on his way to the third floor, and feeling rather smugly pleased with his acquisition of the coffee, when he looked down into the mug. The surface of the coffee was flecked with globs of grease.

"Bloody hell," he cursed. He stepped out of the elevator and set the cup down on the ground next to the door. He had intended to return the cup on his way back, but no more. They could just search for it, if they couldn't wash their dishes any better than that.

In a black mood, he set out down the row to his car.

It wasn't there. McCall's eyes narrowed angrily. Third level, second row, sixth spot, reserved and paid for a year in advance. What in blazes was that rusty red Sentra doing in his spot? And where was his Jaguar?

He stomped back to the elevators, past the abandoned coffee mug. He would damn well see about this, right now. He knew where the garage manager lived. And he was … he was …

McCall paused, his finger on the elevator call button.

He was on the second level.

Control's intercom buzzed.

He looked up from the report, scowled intently. This mission, this team in Montenegro, could be headed for big trouble. He was re-reading everything, trying to get a sense of the men, trying to decide whether they were over-reacting or giving him straight intel. Two of them had been picked up and released the week before, on general suspicion, by the local police. The Company had been having similar problems everywhere in the Balkans; the KGB was losing its iron-fist control, and every regional and local police body was starting to enforce its own rules and regulations. Now a third member of the team had been arrested, though it was very unclear whether the locals knew he was a spy or had some other less serious charge in mind. All of which would have been just a ripple in the intelligence pond, except for the nuclear power plant plans the team had secured nine days before.

Hold, sit, Control had decreed. State authorities knew the plans were missing and were scrambling to find them. Sit and wait, let the storm pass, hide the plans and wait. How difficult was that? And yet these four trained professionals had managed to screw it up. Shelby, the one under arrest, was the one who had the plans last.

The intercom buzzed again.

Control slapped at it. "What?"

There was a long pause, and then his secretary's voice. "Excuse me?"

"Why did you buzz me? I said I didn't want to be disturbed."

"I didn't buzz you, sir."

Control positively glared at the little box. "Well, someone did."

"Uh … there's no one here but me, sir."

He took a deep breath. "Fine. See that I'm not disturbed."

"Yes, sir."

He took his hand off the box. He could have had one of those hands-free models now, the Directorate had authorized them, but no one could convince Control that there wasn't a way to eavesdrop on his office with such an intercom. Call him old fashioned. When his door was shut, he didn't want anyone listening in. At least, not unless he knew about it.

Control tugged at his collar, going to loosen his tie. He scowled deeply when he remembered he wasn't wearing one. He had spare pants in the office, but of course they didn't go with his suit coat, so he'd abandoned it, and the tie, in favor of a wool sweater. Now, of course, all the idiots in the office would assume he'd instituted casual Friday. By next week they'd be wearing cut-offs and flip-flops. He'd have to remember to issue a memo. Later.

He turned back to the report. Shelby, right. Shelby had the plans, and he'd been picked up at his apartment in the middle of the night by the local police. Another team member, Sam Jones, was his roommate. He had not been arrested, but hadn't been able to find out what, if anything, Shelby was being charged with. Ah, Control thought, the inconvenience of working in a foreign country, where there was no automatic right to be charged or released.

His intercom buzzed. Cautiously, Control keyed it. "Yes?"

The secretary sounded genuinely concerned. "Yes, sir?"

"You buzzed."

"I swear, I didn't."

Very quietly, he said, "Thank you, Sue."

He released the button. What in the world was going on with that? If this was someone's idea of a joke …

His attention swung back to the report. Sam Jones. He knew Sam Jones, didn't he? Control tried to remember what the man looked like. His eyes narrowed. Ah, yes, there. Sam Jones was not a man, but a rather buxom red-haired woman, mid-thirties, a little loud. Very confident.

Control sat back and contemplated this tidbit. So Sam Jones and Shelby were sharing an apartment. Which was, of course, against Company policy for agents in the field. Unless they were posing as a couple as part of their cover. In which case it would be impossible to tell how much was cover and how much was inappropriate behavior. Control wouldn't even try to make that determination, unless it became more clear that somehow the relationship had botched the mission. Or contributed to said botching. It was, however, a speculation worth filing in his encyclopedic memory, against future developments.

Somehow, in his mind, it was always McCall's voice that pointed out the hypocrisy of criticizing such behavior, when Control himself had had, and planned to resume, an affair with a subordinate. But then, Control countered smugly, he hadn't been caught in it. It wasn't the affair that counted, it was the cover-up.

He smirked, recognizing this line of thinking as raw rationalization. He didn't care. She was coming home today. Sometime today, after lunch, he'd look up and find her standing in his doorway. Sometime tonight he'd be alone with her, he'd be able to hold her and kiss her and …

The intercom buzzed.

Control stood up silently, took his gun from his desk drawer, and walked to the door. As the intercom buzzed a second time, he checked that the safety was on and snapped the door open.

Sue was across the room from her desk, filing. There was no one anywhere near the desk. Her eyes got wide, seeing the gun in his hand, but she'd been with him six years; she didn't say a word.

He went behind her desk and checked the floor. There was, of course, no one there.

Control straightened and glared at her, daring her to speak. As they stood there staring at each other, the intercom on her desk buzzed.

Control exhaled, lowering the gun. "Call Internal Services," he advised. "Find out what's wrong with that thing." He went back to his desk.

A moment later, Sue was at the door, looking exasperated. "The phones don't work," she reported.

"Then walk down and find somebody."

As she left, Control lifted his own phone. It was dead. He hung it up slowly, an icy finger on intuition trailing down his spine. Phones, intercoms, what else wasn't working? He rummaged around his bottom drawer and found a holster. It looked like hell under the sweater, but he felt more comfortable with the gun snug against him. Then he went out to the wider office.