Control threw his keys on the counter and relaxed as the low, sweet notes of Strauss' "Beautiful Blue Danube" floated through a networked surround system. He rubbed his aching brow. He hadn't had been home virtually all week, and the housekeeper was on vacation. It seemed abnormally quiet in his sparse, sterile apartment. He rubbed his temples and his eyes, trying to relieve the stress of the past few days. But, as always, something interrupted his thoughts. The phone's incessant ringing ended as it always did, with a Company computer figuring the time, checking the time zone against the listed origination of the call, calculating the appropriate response, and then answering, "Good evening. The individual you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone." The computer system logged the phone call into a database of every call Control received, including the time, the duration, and the originating number. The phone beeped red, indicating the number had been logged before, and the number had been cleared by Control for a non-recorded conversation line. The red light itself indicated he had five seconds to decide if he wanted the conversation recorded without losing any of it. He disregarded the incessant light – he rarely used the recording option; the conversations were usually imprinted in his memory.
"Sir?" The familiar voice of his personal secretary echoed over the speaker.
Control flipped the phone to speaker. "Go ahead, Nigel."
"Agent Michael Neelson for you. He has updates on the missions today." Surprising, Control thought. Brian Van Cavelson, his chief of staff, usually preferred to brief him in the evenings, but Brian must have headed home for the night already.
"Patch him through."
A new voice rang out, clearly nervous. "Uh…good evening, sir, sorry to disturb you at home. Kostmayer and the team have been located and retrieved."
Control rose quickly and grabbed the phone. "Mike? Yeah, where are they?"
"They were flown to Walter Reed, sir. We are trying to have the two hurt individuals moved back to New York as soon as possible, but the doctors have advised that they not be moved until tomorrow at the earliest."
"All right, arrange a CAT airvac to New York tomorrow night, but make sure it is clear with the doctor in charge there first."
The young agent nodded, scribbling the note down. The Civil Air Transport (CAT) was the Company's private air service, usually used to transport agents in foreign countries. They had a few ground aircraft manned and ready to fly at a moment's notice in and around the US home bases. "Yes, sir. Anything else?"
"Do you have a situation report on what happened?"
"Yes sir, I can have the sitrep faxed over right away. Um…I need your secure number . . . "
Control could hear Nigel in the background pointedly directing Neelson.
"Uh…sorry…I've got it now. I'll call you on that line immediately."
"Do that."
"Aye sir, Neelson out."
Control placed the receiver back on the hook carefully, thinking over the latest week's turmoil. Again, his thoughts were interrupted by the telephone, but this time it was his secure, black bulky telephone that was rarely used except when he needed to discuss secure information at home. He picked it up, "Yes?"
"Neelson here again sir. Shall I fax now?"
"No. Before you fax, I want a brief sitrep and a rundown on the team's condition."
"Aye, sir. After the team entered the embassy, security guards were quickly taken out by the team, but a surprise second assault team had been unexpectedly assigned to the documents. Since our surveillance team didn't pick up the second team, they must have been a special security team from the beginning. This probably pretty well proves McGuin's theory that the embassy was expecting the attack."
Control waved his hand dismissively, "We can debrief that later, what about the team?"
"Two agents killed, two hurt – one is unhurt but um . . . traumatized."
Control drummed his fingers on the counter. "I need names Neelson."
"Ah yes. Doner and Rhoads killed, Kostmayer hurt with a gunshot to the head. Netchet hurt with three broken ribs, and his right leg was broken in two places. Robinson unhurt. As I understand it, Kostmayer was leading the assault and when the second security team intercepted them, Netchet was hurt in an elevator shaft fall. When they were ambushed by the security team, two agents were killed in the gunfight. Kostmayer sustained a gunshot to the head and a severe concussion during the exchange."
"Goddamnit." Control shook his head, all of these agents had been damn good, Mickey was one of his best. It must have been one hell of a shootout. "And the papers?"
"The mission, as far as mission objectives, was a complete drop sir."
"Good."
"After the papers were retrieved, the agents were eventually able to get out – they were ambushed after actually getting the papers. Both bodies were retrieved. I believe the embassy was wiped clean of initial security guards which allowed them to get out, but they were using chemical bullets as planned. The second assault team continued their attack but ceased after the agents made it to the outside of the embassy."
Well, there was that at least. Control didn't need another incident on his hands to explain to the Director and the Secretary of State. Most of these operations were the director's ideas, but he got to clean up afterwards anyhow. Madame Secretary hadn't taken a liking to seeing him lately, seeing that he had brought news of two major jobs going wrong in the past seven months. Now that they didn't have any major enemies like the KGB, it turned out that their own agents were the biggest problem. If there were no American bodies on the premises, the opposing government's threats could be ignored. And with the papers being recovered, the President would have very little to worry about retaliation – all they could do now was spread rumors.
"Good. Fax that report now, Mike, and tell Nigel I want the supervising doctor on a direct line after it has come through. I want whatever you can gather on that second security team in tomorrow's morning meeting. Oh and ask Nigel to find numbers for Doner and Rhoads' next of kin and check the Director's schedule tonight." Control flipped the Voice Data button off so that the machine would pick up faxes and poured himself a bourbon.
"Yes sir," the young agent replied, sending the fax as requested. A few moments later, Nigel had patched Control through to Walter Reed Hospital.
". . . His condition is serious but not critical at the moment, and he has stabilized well in the past hour. He will be undergoing some minor surgery. He landed on his right side in the fall, and that is where most of the damage has occurred. There should be no problems with moving him to New York tomorrow afternoon provided surgery is completed and he is recovering well," the doctor concluded.
"And Kostmayer?"
"I'm holding Kostmayer pending a cat scan and a thorough evaluation. At this point, he seems to have sustained at least partial short term memory loss."
Control grimaced, "I was told he received a gunshot wound to the head."
"Yes indeed. But frankly it's minor, no more than a scratch. But the concussion was severe, and we are going to keep him under evaluation a little longer."
"Fine. Doctor Pohl, I'll have Nigel give you a personal number where you can contact me. I would like updates on the hour until they reach New York."
"Will do."
"Fine, thanks. Goodbye, doctor."
"Goodbye."
The line rang again immediately. "Nigel?"
"I've got the Director's schedule, sir. It's clear."
"I suppose that saves me from the dirty work tonight."
"It would appear so."
"Put him through on the secured line."
He heard a pause as the line connected then the Director's booming voice came on the line. "Jesus, Control, what the hell is it? It's almost midnight."
Control filled in the Director on the details of the mission and gave him the next of kin numbers. "I hate these calls, Control," he sighed. "Suppose it has to be done."
"They never tell you about the downside of the job during the confirmation hearings," he replied, sympathetically.
"Alright, alright, I'll get it done. Goodnight, Control."
"Goodnight." The line went dead. Control glanced through the faxed report. Carrying the phone, he looked at it for a moment, hesitating before dialing a number on his speed dial. He heard the familiar tones of an answering machine, and he sighed, "Robert, if you are there, then pick up." Waiting another moment or so, he heard the phone click and the answering machine automatically turn off.
"Control?"
"Can you talk?"
"Yes," McCall's voice held a note of wariness, sensing the news to come. "What else would I be doing at this time of night? I was bloody sleeping."
"How's the wedding planning?"
McCall narrowed his eyes. "It's fine. Skip the small talk; you don't normally call at this hour unless it's important."
Control took a deep breath before diving in, "There has been an incident, and I thought you would want to hear it from me first."
Control heard silence on the other end of the phone, but only for a moment. An accented, British voice answered, "Well, what is it this time?" The fine edge of irritation was already audible in his friend's voice.
Control despised making these calls to his old friend, but he knew that it would be wiser to call now instead of having Robert find out on his own. McCall could, and often did, yell a lot longer and a lot harder. McCall had recruited Kostmayer to the Company, and though McCall had been out of the business for some time, Kostmayer was still a good friend and associate. Control softened his tone, "Mickey was out doing a black bag job last night. He has sustained a few injuries. He's been taken out of commission for a while, at least for Company business."
"Is he all right?" McCall's mind raced. He was not fond of the latest Company tactics and missions, and it concerned him much more when a close friend was hurt.
"Yes, he's fine, Robert." A little white lie.
McCall paused, waiting for Control to continue. After a moment, he realized he shouldn't have counted on anything more from Control. McCall always had to pry to get anything out of Control. He bellowed, "Well, what the bloody hell happened, Control?"
"Now that's classified . . ."
"Classified be damned!"
"Robert, you know I can't talk about something like that on an unsecure phone line."
"Well then, where is it this time?"
"Where is what?" Control leveled his voice to meet McCall's.
"The meeting place, the meeting place! Whenever you have something to tell me and it is classified, you refuse to do it in any civilized place. Where is it?"
"I really can't leave tonight Robert, I'm monitoring the situation."
McCall held in his fury and refused to slam the phone down, but he was very close to losing his good humor. Taking a deep breath, McCall calmed himself and steadied his voice. "Well, what can you tell me?"
"He's absolutely fine. He'll be in New York tomorrow, and I'm putting him on medical leave until further notice. I just wanted to give you a heads up."
"I've never known you to put someone on medical leave because they are 'fine.' This sounds a hell of a lot like another mission."
Control closed his eyes, he knew that Robert was referring to a certain incident that had happened a few years earlier involving Mickey and a mind altering drug experiment performed by KGB double agents within the Company. That time, however, Control had been set up and four men had died when Mickey was taken hostage.
"Listen, Old Son, Mickey is not missing, and this is really quite different."
"Really," McCall commented dryly.
"What do you want me to do, Robert? You are welcome to come over here and monitor the situation if you like."
"What situation, Control? You still haven't told me what in the devil's foot is going on!" Robert was exasperated. It was so like Control to do this to him.
A little red light flashed on Control's phone. "Listen, Robert I would love to stay and chat, but I've got a call on the other line."
"How convenient."
"Really, Robert, I must go."
McCall dropped the phone back into its cradle and paraded around his kitchen. He was certain Control liked to lure him in like this and then fail to give the rest of the details so that he was left empty handed and open-mouthed. Now he was in the dark without any idea what had happened to Mickey. At these times, Robert almost wished Control told him nothing at all.
McCall's gray hair had thinned a little over the last ten years, but his attitudes toward the Company had softened more. He still ran his Equalizer ads in the paper, not quite feeling his debt to humanity for all the work he had undertaken during his time in the Company would ever be truly repaid. He was finally coming to terms with the shades of gray the Company worked in – not quite right, but not quite wrong. It had taken over ten years for the wounds the Company had created to heal. He could now face his ex-wife without immediately feeling like a deserter, and he could face his children without mentally kicking himself for the time he had missed with them. He could face them all now with a strong smile and proud eyes because he had used the time he had been given, the second chance he had made for himself when he had left the Company to mend the rifts that, at first, had seemed broken beyond repair. His equalizing work had helped him to feel as if he had made a contribution to society. And it had made him feel better about himself and the skills that he had learned in the Black Ops division of the Company.
Mickey had been absolutely vital in many of these ventures, and McCall had often "borrowed" his services from Control when he need an extra hand or two. There were other agents, too, that McCall used like Stock or Jimmy, but McCall had slowly been letting Kostmayer answer the calls of the helpless, frustrated people who left their names and numbers on his answering machine. Instead of the daily workout with his gun, he had been taking up a few more Shakespeare books and walks in the park. He wouldn't quite ever reach the Bingo stage, of that he was sure, but his love life was healthy and active for once.
He and Control had been friends for years, and McCall would not hesitate to call Control his best and oldest friend. Yet, he always felt a tingle of antipathy towards Control's occupation and position – perhaps not so much Control, but the reminder of the old life he, McCall, had led. Whereas McCall had strived to get out, Control had soldiered on in the Company. Without Control, McCall would have been hard-pressed to get out of more than a few jams. Control's position had been rather helpful in more than a few situations where McCall needed information and backup. Yet the favors had been returned in kind, for McCall had also saved Control's life on countless occasions. Nevertheless, he was never sure if Control was telling a version of the truth or a wholesale lie. McCall didn't like it, but he was used to it - that's how it had always been.
The two friends had been through much together, but in some ways, they were polar opposites. McCall's hot blood allowed his emotions to surface immediately upon incitement. Control's natural demeanor and position demanded that his emotions be buried, rarely advertised or provoked – which sometimes only served to further infuriate his comrade, though in tense situations it had a soothing effect upon McCall's burning anger.
McCall, although unhappy at the news, pulled off his shoes and sighed as he poured a hot cup of Earl Grey. He eyed his worn version of Keats and flipped it open. He sighed, making himself comfortable on the couch. He could do nothing for Mickey right now; he would just have to wait patiently.
Control paused a moment before picking up the other line. The only sign he had any emotion relating to his last phone call was a brief clenching of the jaws. The other phone call blinked red twice, indicating he had to pick it up on the classified phone. The classified phone could handle unclassified communications as well as classified, but it had its own number and so was usually used only for business purposes. "Yes?"
"Sir, Neelson, again. May I encrypt the line?"
"Yes." The blinking light flashed again, initiating the secure line sequence between the two secure equipped phones.
"As I was leaving the office, a report from Belgium came in. They have been monitoring our agents' communications in Serbia. Apparently, the latest communication was cut short in the middle of a message concerning troop movements. It happened this morning and contact has not been reestablished."
"Was this report scheduled?"
"No sir."
"What is their agent status?"
"The agents are Roger Kardes and Ty Simpson, sleeper agents inside FRY territory. If you remember sir, these are our agents assigned to the Yugoslav military ops."
"Weren't those two activated?"
"Yes, sir. They have been periodically relaying information when possible. Most of it has been verified and of use to the Company. Shall I contact the NSA and State to help monitor the situation?"
"No, no, no." Control shook his head. "We don't need the entire USG informed of two agents that may or may not be still inside an unsecure situation." What was Brian thinking leaving a junior agent like Neelson in charge for the night? There were a dozen other key senior agents on his staff that would have been more appropriate on an operation night. "Have Brussels try to establish contact within 72 hours. Keep me informed."
"Aye sir, Neelson out."
Control sighed as he hung up the phone again. It wasn't that he had ever really wanted to be on the job 24-7, but the job had yet to leave him alone. Even after he got home, his phone was constantly ringing. With the use of pagers, e-mail, and cell phones, he had increasingly found that his job was one harder to get away from.
He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to will his blood pressure down to an acceptable level. Since the courier drop, he had barely gotten more than four hours of sleep on any given day in the past few weeks. Tonight would be no exception. Instead of turning in, Control stood before his suite's broad picture windows and gazed at New York's glittering lights. He rested there, bourbon in hand, turning his thoughts over and over in his mind. A second security team. Surely there had been other things, over the years, that he had missed. If he was killed, this nasty business would be buried again. There was no doubt that his life was in grave danger. The only man he could trust with this information would be the last man to want it. Finally, decisively, he grabbed a fountain pen and a piece of heavy bond paper. He scribbled a quick note on it, sealed it in an envelope, and wrote "Robert McCall" on the front.