In November, 1989, in the midst of massive pro-democracy demonstrations, East Germany's government looked for ways to calm the revolt. Guenter Schabowski, their spokesman, announced that East Germany was lifting restrictions on travel across its border with West Germany. Asked by a reporter when the new regulation would take effect, Schabowski fumbled, then answered, "Well, as far as I can see … straightaway, immediately."

And the mother of all parties began.

All in all you're just another brick in the Wall …

Mickey Kostmayer watched the Gate intently. He didn't need any night vision scope, not here: the two sides of the Berlin wall were lit up as bright as daylight, as always. There was a small crowd on the other side, milling, uncertain, and the East German guards seemed uncharacteristically uncertain as well. There was an awful lot of discussion going on. He could see one soldier in the guard shack, hanging almost frantically on the telephone. Whatever orders he was getting, he either didn't like or didn't understand.

Mickey lowered his binoculars and settled his shoulder against the brick chimney. He was on the roof of a Company safe house, two blocks from the main check-point in the Berlin Wall. Half a dozen other agents were with him, none with orders, all milling around like the civilians below. No one – no one – seemed to know exactly what was going on.

There was one thing, though, that Kostmayer was sure of: East German soldiers did not like uncertainty. It made them nervous. Which made them more likely to start shooting civilians. Which made Mickey nervous.

He raised the binoculars again.

The crowd of civilians was growing. The soldiers were becoming more agitated.

"Anything from the listening post?" he asked generally, without lowering the glasses.

"They're still trying to sort out the orders." Ginger – it would be Ginger – had her own binoculars in one hand, a phone in the other. "They're asking about a pass, isn't there a pass, where do they get a pass."

Mickey sighed. C'mon, he thought, c'mon, go home before they shoot you all.

Trickle by trickle, the crowd grew. The soldiers stood a little closer together, held their guns a little higher. Kostmayer felt his own knuckles whiten on his glasses. There's going to be a bloodbath, he thought grimly, and we've got no way to stop it.

The soldier on the phone gestured for the guard commander. The older man crowded into the shack and took the phone. It was a brief conversation. The commander came out and motioned to his guards to gather around him.

A young family came to the edge of the crowd, a father with a child by each hand and a mother with a babe in her arms. Go home, Kostmayer thought frantically. Take your children and go. Go now, while there's still time.

The commander of the guard went to the Gate and opened it. On the Western side, the guards sprang to alert. The eastern commander waved to the nearest civilians. Waved them through. They hesitated, questioning. He waved again. The two stepped into West Berlin.

Kostmayer lowered his binoculars slowly. "Holy shit."

Then, from both sides of the Wall, the cheering started.

This is the world we live in
And these are the hands we're given
Use them and let's start trying
To make it a place worth living in.

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.