Yuriy Tereshchenko woke up in a small room, the door locked and reinforced on the other side. He wiped blood from his nose. His jaw felt broken, he could barely move it, and his tongue was swollen.

Just a few weeks ago, he had exited the plane onto the tarmac in New York in January with a broad grin, a grin that had diminished as the man that had greeted him took his passport. "We'll hold it for you - for safekeeping," the man had informed him in Ukrainian. "It's safer for you and for us. If you lose it - well, the Police here won't like it very much. And for us - it ensures that you will pay us back for your flight and all the trouble we went through to bring you here." Yuriy had been taken, wide-eyed, to a building in Brooklyn. Yuriy had so many questions - when would he start? Who would he work for? How much would he be able to send home? Could he call his mother?

Josep Mayko had greeted him in his native language when he arrived at the building. "Yuriy," he said, "I'm afraid that I've got some bad news. After we went to all that work to get you here, the American pulled out. You can always go home, but we will need the money we used to bring you here before we can send you back."

Yuriy was in a new land, and he didn't know anyone. His passport was gone, and he didn't know what to say. "I-I don't have any money," he stuttered. He had brought a small rucksack with all his belongings. He certainly didn't have any money in his pockets - that is why he came to America, to the land of opportunity.

"Look, Yuriy," Josep said, "I'm sorry, but this is business. I don't have money to send you back. How are you going to feed yourself? Where will you stay? No one is your mother here. Nothing is free."

"What can I do?" Yuriy realized this was quickly becoming complicated.

A woman entered the room and stood near Yuriy, drawing a finger over him. "Oh, don't be so mean, Josep. He can make a lot of money. Don't throw him onto the street - they will throw him into prison, and then how will he get home and help his little brother?

"Anichka, stay out of this," Josep cut her off.

"Wait," Yuriy stopped him, "please - my little brother needs heart surgery. I want to work. What can I do?"

"Well, we specialize in services," Josep shrugged. "There is one service people always pay for." He stared at Yuriy, not breaking his gaze. "You can make a lot of money, Yuriy, if you cooperate." Under his breath, he added, "And if you don't, you'll still make me a lot of money."

Yuriy took a step back, shaking his head. "I don't know what you mean," but he knew exactly what they meant.

"Look Yuriy, it's not that bad," Anichka draped her arm over his shoulder, whispering into his ear. "It can be very nice - and the money is even nicer."

Yuriy shook his head; this is not what he had come here for. "No."

"Yuriy, you don't really have a choice," Josep backhanded him into the wall and brought an elbow down on Yuriy's shoulder, dropping him to the floor. It was the beginning of several weeks of beatings until he was worn down, battered and bloody, reluctantly compliant.

After those first few weeks, he had been transferred to his little room, equipped only with an old bed and a bucket for urine. He never knew if it was day or night - there were no windows. His visitors would come at all times. He spent weeks curled in the corner, choking back his own tears. Now, after another month, his eyes had dulled, the fight draining from them. He had escaped once, but he had not made it far before Josep had caught him, dragging him back to the same room. That had precipitated his broken jaw.

Yuriy thought of the steel factories in his hometown, little curls of smoke rising from their stacks. Those factories were the offices of his father and uncles. He would trade anything to get back to those back-breaking hours spent in the steel factories.

What had happened to little Vadim and his mother? Would they know what had happened to him? His eyes were desolate as he thought of the world that seemed so far away.

He heard the door of his hell open again, and he inched into a tighter ball, refusing to look at the newest visitor.

Mickey Kostmayer had polled his Polish contacts for any information, but they didn't have any fresh leads on new human trafficking rings, especially Ukrainian ones. "There's a few Eastern European brothels here," an acquaintance had handed him a few Brooklyn addresses. Mickey had cased all of them except one, and none of them were anything but backyard establishments which certainly wouldn't have the network or means to traffic humans from Eastern Europe. But on arrival at the last address, he knew he had found a jackpot. The building reeked of high rollers. Mickey scoped a position on an opposite building and took out surveillance equipment, surreptitiously documenting the individuals who came and went throughout the day.

Later that afternoon, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his coat. He pulled his gloves off and flipped it out, seeing McCall's number on the caller ID. "Yeah," he said quietly.

"Any success?" McCall asked.

"Not exactly. I got a few leads on people to use as openers - but if we can't use the Company system to run their photographs, we might be out of luck unless you can get the Police to run them for you."

"Everyone in that business knows everyone else," McCall mused. "I have some contacts that may give us some insight on the people going in and out. Are you sure you found the right place?"

"I don't know," Kostmayer changed the digital chip in his camera as he talked, "but it looks like the kind of place where whoever is running it would know how to get a few new bodies for their business."

"Is it well-established?"

"Sure is."

"Good," McCall wrote down the address. "Bring the photos after you get them printed."

"Righto," Mickey flipped off the phone, zipping up his coat in the chilly March air.

McCall had returned home after a long and fruitless day out. He was happy to hear Mickey had more luck than he did, but his discussion with Mickey reminded him that the other communities that served sex tourists could be helpful in smoking out the Guraya ring. Although he'd had a few roadblocks thrown up in his search for Yuriy, he knew it would only be a matter of time before he located the boy. He updated Elena and told her they were making progress - albeit slow.

After dinner, she had been chatting with him over a glass of white wine on the couch when the doorbell rang, unexpectedly. McCall turned, distracted. Who could this be? "One moment," he turned toward the door, peering through the eyehole, his face showing surprise when he saw who was waiting on the other side of the door. His face broke into a tentative smile as he opened the door to a well-dressed woman on the other side.

"Hi, Robert!" came the enthusiastic greeting.

"Yvette," he turned in confusion, noting her suitcases, "come in, come in." He took the bags from his daughter and set them down for her.

"I was at an art show in Philadelphia, so I thought I would just pop over for a few days." She was beaming, and her smile was infectious.

"Yes," McCall gestured toward Elena, who had come to the living room in response to the doorbell, "please meet Elena Tereshchenko, one of my clients. She's staying here while we locate her son." He bit on the end of his glasses in thought.

"Oh," Yvette looked confused, her exuberance diminishing, "I didn't realize you had company; I didn't mean to barge in. If you are busy. . . ."

"No, no," McCall soothed her, "it's quite all right." His face wasn't entirely convincing.

"I-I heard what happened to my godfather. I'm so glad you all returned safely. I was going to stop over and see both of you while I was on the coast. I should have called."

McCall's face lightened immediately. Yvette had her godfather wrapped around her finger, and if anyone could get water from a stone, it would be her. Control's insistence on putting together an OSO board immediately was worrisome. It was entirely possible that his condition was not a "minor complication." She would, no doubt, be able to unearth the truth quickly. "Yvette," he put a conspiring arm around her shoulder, "you know he hasn't been feeling well since he got back. I've been meaning to get over to see him, but you can see I've been occupied with a few other things. You have indeed arrived at the perfect time – you could do both of us a tremendous favor."

"Sure," she smiled, "what can I do?"

Yvette settled into the broad couch in Control's living room. His Company penthouse had a spectacular view, and the lights of Manhattan twinkled through broad picture windows. In better weather, the picture windows folded back into a rooftop deck with a terraced garden and a tranquil but shallow reflecting pool. Since she had arrived, though, the weather had howled its disapproval. Unfortunately, the broad glass windows that formed part of the ceiling in places also revealed the weather's nastiness, but tonight, although the wind was blowing through the streets of New York, the sky was clear, and a few faint stars could be discerned in the evening sky, diminished only by the strength of the city's lights.

Control had offered Yvette the keys to his other residence when she had arrived, but she had declined, pointing out that half the reason she had ventured to New York was to spend some time with him. He had been unsettled by the request but generous when she had asked him for a place to stay. She was, after all, his goddaughter, and he'd been forced to admit, reluctantly, he was still having some medical difficulties, but he conveniently neglected to fill her in on any details. She had told him about walking in on McCall and Elena; he had seemed sympathetic. But there was something else – since he had first seen her, he seemed different, unsettled, on edge.

At first, Yvette attributed his tenseness to his ongoing medication schedule and his home-confinement (which he didn't seem to follow with any regularity, anyway). But she dismissed it as she tried to discern the reason he was getting regular visits from the Medical section. Yvette had noted that Adelaide would arrive twice a day, and although she was only in her twenties, Control demurely took instructions from her, albeit broodingly. After Adelaide's brief visits behind closed doors, he would almost immediately retire, and a sedation agent would knock him out for several hours. It saddened Yvette, his recent medical difficulties. It reminded her that he and Robert were getting older, and after her mother had been killed in the plane crash and her father shot down in cold blood, they – along with her aunt in Quebec - were really the only family from her parent's generation that she had left, and they, too, wouldn't be around forever.

After a few days, Yvette sensed acutely that it wasn't mere edginess that was making him uneasy but her presence. Several times, he had drifted into deep thought, his eyes on her, as if she had reminded him of something, but he had caught himself and snapped back into reality. And she noticed that his standoffishness was demonstrably unlike the warmness he had exhibited toward her since she was a child.

Near the end of her visit, she peeked into the master bedroom, noting he had passed out in the darkness, and she had briefly looked around for his medical file again. She suspected, after searching for it fruitlessly, that Adelaide had been taking it with her back to the office. She turned toward his study. His penthouse seemed so devoid of character – cold, antiseptic. His study was the one place he had departed from the Company's modern décor, and it felt warmer, more personal. She knew his use of the penthouse revolved around how much work he was doing – it was secured by Company guards, had Top Secret security systems, and was even equipped with fledging technology upgrades care of the Science & Technology Directorate.

She balanced on the edge of his leather office chair, opening the drawers slowly, soundlessly. She peered in without moving anything. Nothing stood out. There were a few files on his desk. She fanned them out in case his medical file was located on his desk. She uncovered a chart plotting his blood pressure against an average. She noticed it had steadily increased in the past two weeks, and it had peaked in the last week. She made a mental note of it and carefully slid it back between the files when she noticed a small handwritten note had fallen onto the desk. All it said was: Manon – (318)555-4037. It was the name of her mother who had been killed in the French Alps so long ago. She gasped.

Yvette glanced into the hallway, listening for any sounds. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed the number, wondering what it could mean. The phone rang twice. "King's Oaks Hospital," came the voice from the other side. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she hung up quickly. She had heard of it - it was one of the most expensive mental institutions on the East Coast. She swiftly dug through the files and finally located the one the note had fallen from. Her eyes grew even wider as she riffled through the folder. Even if this was the woman who had surfaced 11 years before – who Robert and Control had assured her wasn't her mother – why would Control write Manon on the paper. Yvette recalled that woman – the woman who had looked and sounded so much like her mother – had been terrified of Control. She tucked the file into her large purse, grabbed her coat, and took the elevator downstairs. She calmed herself with a deep inhale and exhale before she stepped out of the elevator. She smiled and waved at the guards in the lobby, and she flagged a cab as soon as she stepped out of the building. She gave the driver McCall's address.

Yvette tried to calm herself in the cab, but she could only come up with more questions. Her heart was beating faster and faster. She flipped out her cell phone and dialed McCall's apartment.

The ringing phone roused McCall from his sleep, and he groggily wandered to the phone. "Hello," he flipped on a light and immediately regretted it. "Hello, hello," he said again as his pupil's adjusted to the glaring light.

"Robert?" Yvette clutched the cell closer, "It's Yvette. Please, I need your help."

McCall's eyes snapped open; he was utterly awake, now. "What is it?"

"I'm on my way to your apartment. Can you meet me?"

"Of course." The phone clicked off. "Yvette?" He hit the receiver a few times. Damnit. He hadn't gotten her location. He took a breath as he checked his gun's location. He unlocked his front door, awaiting Yvette.

Less than 10 minutes later, she burst through it, unloading the file from her purse as she crossed the threshold. "What is this?" McCall asked, flipping open the file.

"I thought you could tell me," she searched his eyes for some clue as to what to believe. Was her mother really alive? Did Control have something to do with it? Did Robert?

McCall put on his glasses and stared intently at the file for several minutes, fingering the same handwritten note that had fallen out at Control's apartment. "Where did you get this?" his voice was calm, neutral.

"From Control's desk. He's sleeping - care of some sedatives from the Medical section. The number – it is a psychiatric hospital in Upstate, New York."

McCall frowned. "Sedatives care of the Medical section?"

"Yes," Yvette confirmed, "they send someone over every evening. He had a chart showing he has had high blood pressure lately - that's all I could find."

McCall took this piece of news in stride as he continued examining the documents. He needed some time. Taking the manila envelope into a back room, he quickly took copies of everything in the file. "Let me handle this," he looked into his daughter's eyes. "I will get to the bottom of it. Until then, I need you to return this to his desk in the exact place you found it. There may be a reasonable explanation, but I need a little time to investigate. He will notice if it is not in the same place. Put it back and do not mention it to him, do you understand?"

Her eyes wide, Yvette nodded. "I leave for Quebec tomorrow evening, but I could change my flight arrangements . . . ."

"No," McCall stopped her. "Pack your things tomorrow and have them sent ahead to the airport. I will investigate the veracity of this file tomorrow morning, and we will have a little chat with him before you leave." He looked at the woman before him, trembling with anxiousness. "Yvette, I don't want you to get your hopes up. It is unlikely that your mother is alive. Even if we turn up new information, it could take months to unearth what it means. Let me handle this from here." Yvette nodded, putting her trust in McCall. McCall drove her back to the Company apartments and dropped her off a block away.

A few minutes later, Yvette had snuck back into the quiet and dark apartment, replacing the file exactly as she had found it. She looked into Control's bedroom; the soft rise and fall of his chest convinced her that he had not awakened in the time she had been gone. She went to bed, sleeping fitfully, more and more questions surfacing in her mind.