Each game

of chess

Means there's

one less

Variation

Left to be played.

Each day

got through

Means one

Or two

Less mistakes remain to be made …

"Chess"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prior to the arrest?"

Papers shuffled. "About the same time."

"Anything else?"

"No."

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

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

Maybe the whole situation was impossible, after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are in jail, you know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I've heard that before."

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

"But my plane tickets …"

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

"A fine? You mean a br…"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're a political prisoner?"

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

"But when will they let you go?"

"Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps never."

He left before she could ask any more questions.

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

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

"She ain't here."

"She's been arrested. In Pristina."

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

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

"Why wait?"

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

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

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

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

Control walked away without comment.

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

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

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

"You have to go."

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

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

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

"Is it dangerous?"

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

Annie dimpled at him. "Is she pretty?"

"Well, yeah."

"You could have lied, you know."

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

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

"I will. I promise."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. Thanks."

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

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

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

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

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

"Did the others get set free?"

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

"Oh. I'm sorry."

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you. Thank your wife for me."

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

"I'm so sorry."

"She was old, as I am."

"Did you get to see her?"

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

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

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

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

The old man didn't look back.

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

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

"Sorry," he said, not very sincerely.

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

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

"W-what do you want?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bored?"

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

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

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

"Her shoes."

"Uh-huh."

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

"W-what?"

"What are you looking for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Becky frowned at him, shrugged. "Yeah."

"Do they still have the laces?"

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

"Good."

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

Control nodded in satisfaction. "Thank you."

"Uh-huh."

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

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

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

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

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

"Um … Dad?"

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

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

"What?"

"I'm in jail."

"Where?"

"In Pristina."

"Pristina? You're still in Yugoslavia?"

"I'm sorry."

"What did you do this time?"

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

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

"About twelve."

"Twelve."

"Yeah."

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

"They're just jeans, Daddy …"

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

"I wasn't … I mean, I just …"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sniffle. "Yes, Dad."

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

"Okay, Dad."

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, she does," Control agreed.

"So who are we sending in?"

Control scowled. "An old … asset."

"Retired?"

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

"Got it."

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