The shrink, Lichtenwald, was sixty and tiny, trim and precise. Nancy liked her. But she was reasonably certain that everything she said to the woman went right back to Control – or at least to Simms. She tailored her responses accordingly.
She didn't tell her about the man on the subway, and on her way out she wondered why. She'd handled the situation perfectly well. At least, she thought she had. Perhaps she shouldn't have spoken to him in the first place. Perhaps she should have resolved it without drawing her weapon.
Perhaps he was just another freak, the kind you passed on every corner in this god-forsaken city.
In any case, she didn't tell her.
When their fifty-minute hour was over, Nancy went to Simms' office. He wasn't there. On a hunch, then, she trotted down to the basement, to the warren of cubicles where Romanov had a desk.
Her training officer was swearing very softly, in several languages, at her computer screen.
"Problems?" Nancy asked.
Lily glared at her, then softened. "Challenges," she corrected. "We are the Company. We don't have problems."
"What's the challenge, then?"
"Making data and equipment flow through the Balkans," Lily answered. She saved her file and shut down her computer. "It's not happening. Want to go for a drive?"
"Sure. Where to?"
Romanov gestured with her head to the two paper boxes beside her desk. "Vince's house."
"You said I couldn't go."
"You can't go to the funeral. But Irena said you could come and see her. The kids will be at Grandma's."
"Oh. Okay." Nancy felt her heart in her throat. She had wanted so much to see Vince's wife, his family, to tell them how sorry she was, to try to make it right somehow. Now the reality hit her. She could tell them she was sorry, but she couldn't make it right. Nothing could make it right.
"You can stay here, if you'd rather," Lily offered.
"No, I'll go. I just, um, I need to … um …"
"Hit the head," Romanov interpreted. "Go on, I have to get some papers anyhow."
Nancy stalled in the bathroom for as long as she could. She splashed her face with cold water, dried it on the industrial-grade paper towels. It would all be fine, she was sure. Irena would be kind and loving. Lily would be supportive. It would be done, and she would feel better.
But at the moment, she felt like she was walking in the edge of a razor blade.
James Simms studied the print-out at his desk until the letters began to blur. He rubbed his eyes impatiently, glanced at his watch. Middle of the afternoon. He needed a nap. A siesta.
Control was right; he had to stop sleeping in his office.
He tried to read the document again, and again the letters swam away. Wearily, he gave up. He shut his office door, slipped off his shoes, and stretched out on the couch. Half an hour, he promised himself. His internal clock would wake him. It had never failed.
Horizontal and exhausted, he could not fall asleep.
The damn expense report still nagged at him.
Control had taken Romanov with him on a consolation visit, and on the way back they'd stopped for dinner. Control had picked up the tab and then expensed it, naming Romanov specifically. So what? It was all perfectly legitimate. Above board. On the up and up.
So why did it bother him?
Simms laid one forearm over his eyes. It bothered him only because of his suspicions about the true nature of Control's relationship with Romanov.
Suspicions of which he had absolutely no proof.
He had watched them, and he had very carefully poked around. He did not, above all, want Control to become suspicious of him. If the Old Man even thought that Simms was watching him … Control was not known for his tolerance for disloyalty. It would do Simms' career terminal damage. Or, perhaps, it would just be terminal.
So the most direct routes of obtaining information were out. He couldn't follow Lily Romanov and see where she went, who she met. Couldn't tap her phone or bug her apartment. Couldn't do anything that would lead back to him, under any circumstances.
The idea of eavesdropping on Control was even further out of reach. Thanks to Jason Masur, the man was fanatic about his anti-surveillance hygiene.
He'd reviewed Romanov's files thoroughly. If there was an affair, he reasoned, it had most likely started after she saved his life. A disgruntled employee named Reznick had tried to kill Control and Robert McCall, revenge for an incident long-since past. Romanov had stepped in front of the gun and been shot twice for her trouble. She should have died. The reports of the incident – filed by Control, McCall, and Mickey Kostmayer – were very consistent. Down to the last detail, consistent. Obviously cooked.
Sleep wasn't coming. Simms threw himself to his feet and paced, enjoying the freedom of his stocking feet.
Reznick had not been questioned because he was dead. Romanov did not file a report because she was recovering in a private hospital in France. She had been dispatched there by Control, personally.
Whatever the truth was about the shooting, it would never come out.
Control had not gone to France while she was recovering. When she returned, she'd been assigned to the Washington office. Control had gone to Washington often, but as far as Simms could tell, half of those times Romanov had been elsewhere. On her trips to New York, she was as likely to have been with McCall or Kostmayer as with Control.
At the time when their affair should have been starting, they had barely seen each other.
Eighteen months later, Lily Romanov had been taken captive in Central America. She had been held for seven weeks, raped and tortured by an especially brutal militia band. She was, at the time, declared missing and presumed dead. Control had done nothing to rescue her. Which was not, Simms imagined, how one normally treated one's mistress.
Since her return, she had worked out of the New York office. Control had been her champion against the bastards in DC, keeping her from the scrutiny of the Senate committee and the higher-ups in the Company, but he had done the same for others. He had, in fact, done the same for every person under his command who came to their attention. It was an expression for his loathing of the whole Central American operation, more than anything about an individual agent. There was nothing, nothing to indicate that she and Control were involved in anything beyond a working relationship.
Nothing except one dance at one party, and James Simms' gut instinct. And that damned expense report.
Even Control could not be so bold as to expense dinner with his mistress.
Could he?
Simms had no means of covert observation. He could only watch them together in the office. The two of them didn't even meet that often, and when they did, there were almost always others present. The time the three of them had spent talking Nancy Campbell down had told him nothing, except that Control had significant respect for Romanov's abilities. Hell, so did Simms. He wasn't sure he would have gotten Campbell to a safe house without her.
He still didn't know if the rookie was going to make it. Romanov's early reports were pretty luke-warm.
But Control was right, if there was any way to save her as a field agent, they needed her. He was five couriers short in the Balkans, minimum. Keep the information moving, keep the supplies moving. Control made it sound so easy. Simms was practically standing on his head to get it done, and it was still barely happening. Romanov had been a big help. She had creative ideas, fresh thinking. But what Simms really needed was more boots on the ground.
He felt the tickle of an idea, and he paced slowly, waiting for it to blossom. Find out about Control. Boots on the ground in the Balkans.
Can you expense your dinner with your mistress? Sure.
Can you send her to the most dangerous place on earth? When you know it's the most dangerous place on earth?
Simms stopped, and stood, and thought.
Sleep forgotten, he put on his shoes and went back to work.
"I recommend the turkey dinner," Lily said. "Lots of soft and comforting food."
Nancy nodded listlessly. She doubted she could have made even such a basic decision on her own right now. "You've been here before?" she asked, gesturing around the small restaurant.
"With Control. The first time we came to see Irena."
Control took her out to dinner. Nancy's jealousy flared, then dimmed and died. Of course he took Lily to dinner. She was the favorite, the golden girl. She was the tough one, the survivor. She deserved dinner with Control.
Nancy, on the other hand, was the failure, the near wash-out who might be salvageable. Maybe.
She had thought seeing Vince's widow would made her feel better. Instead, it had made her feel even worse.
Irena had been very kind to her. The woman had spoken gently, encouragingly. She had told Nancy how much Vince had liked her, how he'd praised her instincts and her intelligence. But somehow, sitting in that spotless living room, on the couch where Vince would never sprawl to watch a baseball game again, Nancy could not connect with her. She's said the right things, worn the right expressions. But she could feel an ocean of distance between them. This woman was the widow of someone Nancy had known, nothing more.
She couldn't, she recognized, allow herself to feel this woman's pain, or the comfort she offered. Either one would have broken her. So she'd shut down, gone through the motions, endured the visit, and longed to be back on the road.
Irena hadn't noticed, Nancy was sure. But she was equally sure that Lily Romanov had.
Romanov had seemed easy and natural, and if she was disconnected, Nancy couldn't see it. She had talked to Irena in quiet tones about Vince's body being returned, about making arrangements with the funeral home to receive him. She had agreed with the widow that Vince would far prefer to be buried in his golf shirt than in a suit. She had told her, gently but firmly, that there was no option of an open casket. She had delivered an envelope full of claim papers and information, and had promised to get answers to any questions Irena had as she completed them. She talked about finances, briefly, about health insurance and pension payments. She was very professional, business-like, but also compassionate.
I want to be just like her when I grow up, Nancy thought snidely. I want to be the golden girl.
I want to slap her pretty perfect teeth right out of her mouth.
Yet she couldn't wait to be back in the Mercedes and back on the road in Lily's comfortable silence.
"Turkey," she told the waitress.
"You okay?" Lily asked.
"Fine," Nancy answered dutifully. She sighed. "That just sucked."
"With Irena? You did fine."
"I thought it would make me feel better."
"And instead she's already fading into history."
Nancy nodded, surprised at her understanding. "Exactly."
Lily shrugged. "I think part of that is self-protection. We can't afford to feel other people's pain for very long. We know too many people who die."
"Doesn't that make us sort of … inhuman, though?"
"Yes."
Nancy frowned. "I was hoping you'd contradict me there."
"Sorry."
"I'm going to go use the ladies' room before dinner gets here."
Lily nodded and picked up the dessert card from the center of the table.
The restrooms were down a short white hall next to the kitchen, at a right angle to the exit. Nancy used the facilities, washed her hands and splashed her face again. It didn't really help. She still felt dull and disconnected. She wanted to go back to bed.
Dinner first.
She stepped out of the restroom and shut the door quietly behind her. When she looked up, there was a man standing at the entrance door. She glanced past him, then snapped back.
It was the man from the subway.
He grinned and stepped out the door.
"What the …" Nancy said under her breath. She checked her gun and followed him out.
He was gone.
She looked both ways, surprised. There was no one in the parking lot. No cars running. He might have ducked between the parked cars, she thought, or gone around the side of the building. But how could he have vanished so fast?
Maybe she hadn't even seen him at all.
Nancy hesitated, rolling up on the balls of her feet. Chase after him? Which way? Where did she start? Go back inside and get Lily? And tell her what? I think I saw a guy I shouldn't have spoken to on the subway this morning? And he smiled at me?
She sighed. She was imagining things. And she damn well wasn't going to let Romanov know it.
She returned to her table. The waitress brought their dinner.
"Something wrong?" Lily asked.
Nancy shook her head. "No. Everything's fine."
"She has such a crush on you," Lily teased gleefully.
"Of course she does," Control rumbled. "All my young subordinates fall for me, sooner or later."
"And you don't fall back, which leads her to believe that you might be gay."
Control frowned. "She thinks I'm gay, but has a crush on me anyhow."
"Nancy Campbell in a nutshell."
"Hmmm. And did you correct her misconception?"
"Well, I tried," Lily answered. "But since I couldn't give her a detailed rebuttal – something about multiple showerheads and snow cones – I'm not sure I convinced her."
"Ah, the snow cones," Control remembered fondly. "We really must do that again some time."
"Slushies next time," Lily agreed. "I tried to tell her about the ballerina, but she didn't buy it."
"Old news," he sighed. "I wonder where she is now."
"The ballerina? Artistic director in Cleveland."
"Really?"
"I looked her up. I like to keep track of the competition."
"Cleveland's on the way to Chicago," he mused. "I suppose I could stop over. Put some of these rumors to bed. As it were."
"Dangerous," Lily replied. "If Nancy's sure you're not gay, she's likely to be completely overcome."
"I suppose you're right." Control sighed. "Still, I feel the need to do something to assuage my wounded masculinity."
"Mmmmm," Lily purred. "Critical wound or merely insult?"
"Mild bruising, I'd say."
"Prescribed treatment for bruises is ice, then heat," she answered. "Stay there. I have just the thing." She left the room, came back with a cup-sized container, which she rolled vigorously between her hands.
"What have you got there?" Control asked, concerned and intrigued.
Lily grinned wickedly. "Souvenir from Yankee Stadium," she reported. "Lemon Ice."
"Ahhh." His whole body shifted in anticipation.
She peeled the foil top off the container and licked it slowly. "Not to worry, my sweet. I'll make it feel all better."
He sighed raggedly. "You always do."
Nancy walked towards the club slowly. The evening was cool, the sidewalk nearly empty. She'd been looking forward to seeing this jazz group for weeks, but that was before Prague. Now it seemed as uninteresting as the rest of her life.
Still, she'd mentioned it to Lily, and the senior agent had said she should go. "Don't sit around your apartment and brood," Lily said. "Get out, even for a little while. It helps, believe me."
Nancy believed her. So she changed and she went, if only for a little while.
The headline group was already playing when she got to the door. The sign said there was a five dollar cover, but there was no one taking money, so she kept her money and slipped inside.
The club was small and smoky. There were lights on the stage, and over the bar, but the audience was in half-darkness. All of the small tables were taken, but there was room at the bar and at a long counter on the other side of the floor.
Nancy went to the service area of the bar and got herself a draft. She was most definitely not going to get drunk again, not tonight, not alone. She took her beer and made her way across the back of the room to the counter.
The man turned and looked at her. He winked, then turned away.
Run, Nancy's first instinct said. Her second said, get this over with. She looked around. The bar was fairly full. People who would help her if she got in trouble. Maybe. She checked her gun, in a holster at her waist, under her jacket. This was as good a time as any.
She marched over to the man. "Why are you following me?" she demanded.
He turned towards her again. "I was here first, Pretty Girl."
"What are you doing here?"
"Well, I was listening to the band, but now I'm listening to you run your mouth."
"Yeah," a patron at the nearest table said, "shut up."
"I saw you at the restaurant in Jersey," Nancy insisted, lowering her voice. "I know you're following me."
The man grinned. "You're pretty, girl, but I wouldn't follow you to Jersey if you were the last piece of ass on the planet."
"Leave me alone. I'm warning you."
"Shut up!" the patron said again.
The man never stopped grinning. "You're kinda psycho, aren't you?"
"I am warning you," Nancy said firmly, "you stay the fuck away from me!"
"Such an ugly mouth on such a pretty girl." He tsk'd his tongue. "Damn shame." Then he turned and watched the band again.
Somehow the sight of his back was more infuriating than his careless grin had been. Nancy put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him around. "I am warning you," she said again. "I have a gun, and I know how to use it. If I see you again …"
The stalker grabbed her hand with terrifying speed and bent her fingers back. "Don't touch me, Pretty Girl," he said. His voice dropped; his eyes glittered dangerously, and still he looked amused. "When I want you to touch me, I'll let you know. Until then, keep your hands to yourself."
The bouncer came over, summoned by the annoyed patron at the nearest table. "There a problem here?" he rumbled.
"This guy's following me," Nancy stammered.
"I been here for an hour," the man answered, still holding her fingers. "She just walked in and started up with me. Says she has a gun, says she's going to shoot me if I don't stop following her." He made a circular gesture at his temple with his free hand.
"That true?" the bouncer demanded.
"He's following me," Nancy insisted, her voice growing louder and higher. "He was in the subway this morning, and he was at the restaurant in Jersey and now he's here …"
"I been here for an hour!" The man released her fingers finally. "You better get this psycho out of here."
"I am not crazy!" Nancy screeched.
"You need to go, lady," the bouncer said. He put his meaty hand all the way around her upper arm.
"But I … he …"
"Right now, lady." He steered her towards the door.
"I'm going," Nancy snapped. She pulled her arm away from the bouncer and stomped to the door.
On her way out, she stopped and looked towards her stalker again. He was watching her go. He raised his beer in a silent toast, grinned in his maddening way, and turned casually back towards the band.