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."