I went home with a waitress the way I always do
How was I to know she was with the Russians, too?
I was gambling in Havana. I took a little risk.
Send lawyers, guns, and money. Dad, get me out of this.

Mickey Kostmayer lay back on the bed, conserving his energy, seething, waiting. The handcuffs lay on the floor beside him in pieces. He probably could have picked them without breaking them, if he'd cared, but he hadn't. He'd studied the door in a token manner, but he'd already known it was probably escape-proof. He'd known because he helped design it, and when it was done he'd helped test the final results.

Romanov had known all that, of course.

He turned his head casually and glared at the observation window in the west wall of the room. He couldn't tell if he was being watched or not. If he was, he was damned determined not to put on a good show for them. He rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling again, his eyes narrowing to angry slits.

He let himself imagine, in delicious detail, the feel of Lily Romanov's slender little neck under his hands. He didn't usually kill people up close. A gun shot from ten yards was a sure bet and left them just as dead. But then, he usually killed as a part of his job, emotionlessly, impersonally.

This killing would be very personal, and it would be full of rage.

That Lily – Lily, of all people – would do this to him, that she would betray him so thoroughly, leave him so helpless, was much more than he could stand. After all he'd done for her, after they'd been through so much together. It could only have been more shocking if Robert McCall himself had betrayed him. It cut him right to the quick.

He should have expected it.

After the stunt she'd pulled on McCall with Freda, turning their defector over to the Brits, he should have known she was capable of anything. He could still hear the echoes of Robert's rants. She was untrustworthy, she was devious, she had no conscience, no loyalty. She was Control's creature, through and through, she would betray anyone at his command …

… well, that had turned out all right, in the end. Mickey could even see the logic to it, but the point was that she'd betrayed them all …

He should have listened to McCall. He should have expected it.

He was as angry about getting caught flat-footed as he was about what she'd done. He'd trusted Lily. Even after Freda, he'd trusted her. So here he was. Locked in a cell in his own safe house, a cell he'd helped to build, with East German agents wandering through the open Gate, maybe intent on taking over the safe house right now, and here he was, helpless, because of a courier half his size.

Well, no, he realized, not completely helpless. He had both guns, and two knives and a stiletto. God help anyone who came through that door after him.

Then again … he glanced at the observation window, then glanced away. He hoped it was East Germans who came through the door, instead of one of his colleagues. If they found out about this, he was never going to hear the end of it. If it was Ginger who opened the door … well, he might as well just shoot her, there'd be no living with her.

He glared back at the ceiling. Oh, the guys could ride him all they wanted, but the truth was, Lily could have done it to any one of them. Everybody trusted Lily, or at least discounted her as a threat. Even when Mickey should have known better, he'd trusted her. That would never, never happen again. She wasn't his friend, and maybe she never had been. It hurt like hell to have to admit that.

He closed his eyes and heard McCall's frozen, angry voice calling him a traitor from a drug-induced fog. The crisp, tight words from his friend ripped through him like razors, filling him with shame and outrage and grief over losing his friend …

But that had been lies. That hadn't really happened. This had. This was real. Lily had betrayed and entrapped him. Whether he acted out of rage or embarrassment or grief, he was going to kill her for it.

He held that cold satisfaction to his heart and felt everything else freeze.

Anne gone. Lily gone. Maybe he needed to give up on woman entirely, as friends and lovers.

He opened his eyes narrowly again. Men as friends, great. Men as lovers? Not so great. Maybe Nick had been right all along. Maybe celibacy was the answer.

Mickey sighed.

Not that it probably mattered, anyhow. Once he'd killed Lily Romanov, he'd have to spend the rest of his probably-brief life waiting for Control to come after him. There was no doubt in his mind that the old man would avenge his lover, and Mickey'd been there to see first-hand just how cold and effective Control's vengeance could be. He might stay alive for a while – Kostmayer was faster, younger, stronger, but sooner or later, if he killed Romanov, he was going to end up dead by Control's hand.

He knew. He just didn't care.

It wasn't like he'd ever had much to live for, anyhow. A job he mostly hated, a brother he barely understood, a couple close friends and one great love, now gone.

Suddenly restless, he sat up and rubbed his hand over his face. Was that really it, then? Were he and Annie really done? After he'd loved her, near and far, his whole adult life, was it really ended?

And if it was, why?

In the dark corners of his mind, he realized, hiding behind his rage, he knew why. But he wouldn't drag the answers out into the light. They didn't matter. They would boil down to 'all Mickey's fault', same as always, so why bother? He knew why well enough. Because he was an impossible bastard. Because no one would live with him. Reason enough.

The rage he felt at Lily, the shadows whispered, was really for Anne – no, for himself.

Mickey shrugged. It didn't matter. It was settled. He'd kill Lily, Control would kill him, and none of it would matter for long.

Oh, yes, he could change things, he could be reasonable, but he didn't want to. He wanted his rage, and then he wanted his death.

Without warning, the watch door set inside the main door opened. "Mickey?" Anne called nervously.

Kostmayer snapped to his feet. "Open the door, Anne."

He heard two of the four locks being worked. Then she stopped. "Open the door, Anne," he said again.

"Lily says I should make you talk to me before I let you out."

"You're taking advice from a dead woman," Mickey answered under his breath. He walked to the door and put his face up to the observation hatch. Anne was close enough to grab, but she stepped back, looking at him nervously. "Open the door, Anne," he repeated, very firmly.

"Mickey, please, can't we try to …"

"I am not," he announced, without heat, "discussing anything with you through a locked cell door."

"If I open it," Anne argued, "you'll just go skulking off again, like you always do."

"Open the door, Anne," Kostmayer said for a fourth and final time.

"If I do, you have to promise to stay and talk with me."

Mickey stepped back and moved to the right side of the door, against the wall, where she couldn't see him through the hatch. He did not answer.

"Mickey?" she called. Then, her voice very close to the window, "Mickey?"

He folded his arms over his chest, settled his shoulder against the wall, and waited.

"Damn it, Mickey! Talk to me!"

A sarcastic smile twisted at his mouth. He waited.

She didn't last two minutes. With an audible growl of frustration, Anne undid the last two locks and opened the door.

Mickey smiled icily at her. "Thank you. Where's Romanov?"

"She's gone," Anne replied. "Damn it, Mickey, can't we just …"

She reached to touch his arm. He grabbed her wrist firmly and held her hand away from him. "Gone where?"

"I don't know. She asked me to give her a five-minute head start."

Mickey released her arm. "How long ago?"

"I told you, five minutes."

"She was here?"

"In there, watching over you." Anne gestured to the observation window. "What, you thought she'd just leave you locked up and defenseless? Here? Even I know better than that."

"Good," Kostmayer snarled. He turned and crouched beside the bunk, pulled out the boxes of gear. He didn't need a body bag, not yet. But he'd seen something else while Lily was rummaging. With grim satisfaction, he drew out a shiny new pair of courier cuffs – handcuffs with a three-foot long chain. He snapped the chain experimentally. It would do just fine.

"What are you doing?" Anne demanded.

"I'm going," he announced, "to find Romanov." He coiled the chain into loops and put the cuffs in his pocket.

"Are you crazy? She was trying to help us!"

Mickey drew his gun, check its load grimly. "Help like hers, I don't need." Satisfied, he put the gun away.

"You are crazy! Damn it, Mickey, you can't …"

"Don't tell me what I can't do," Kostmayer snarled.

Anne took a step toward the door.

"Don't even think about it," he warned.

She took a breath – a dead give-away – and then she bolted for the door. Mickey beat her by half a step and wedged his shoulder in the doorway, immovable. "What? You think you're gonna lock me back in here?"

"If that's what it takes!" Anne shouted. "You can't hurt her, Mickey. She's your friend, she's trying to help you." She grabbed his arm. "Mickey, please …"

"Let. Go."

She flinched at his frozen, brutal tone, but she didn't back down. "Mickey, please," she said more quietly, "please, forget about Lily. Talk to me."

Kostmayer glared at her hand where it touched him, then back at her face. "Let go."

Reluctantly, slowly, she took her hand away.

His expression did not soften. "We got nothing to talk about."

A change came over her. The anger disappeared from her face, and from her voice. Suddenly there was sadness and resignation. She nodded grimly. "Maybe you're right, Mickey. Maybe we really don't have anything left to say."

Her sudden retreat caught Mickey's attention in a way her shouting had not. But time was slipping away, and so was Lily Romanov. "I gotta go," he said, his tone much more human than it had been.

"You always do," she answered sadly.

"I'll be back," Mickey promised suddenly.

"I won't be here."

"I'll find you, then."

Anne shook her head. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice stayed even, calm. "Don't bother. We got nothing to talk about." She pushed past him into the hall, turned the corner to the bunk room.

Mickey stared after her. A sudden, very loud instinct told him to go after her. While she was yelling, he understood her. The sudden quiet …

But Lily was out there, and his rage was still bright hot. Lily first, Lily first. Then he'd sort things out with Anne – if there was anything left to sort out.

He patted his pockets one last time, and he headed for the street.

An innocent bystander
Who forgets to look both ways
Who never tries to understand her
Won't feel the heat 'til it's too late

The instant Kostmayer stepped out the front door, he knew it was hopeless. The crowd had thinned some, but now the weekenders were arriving. The streets were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Lily Romanov was small, brunette, probably wearing a dark coat. She could vanish into the scenery better than anyone Mickey knew – himself included. This crowd was custom-made for disappearing. He wasn't going to find her on the street.

His eyes narrowed as he glanced up. Maybe from above, if he could get high enough. It would still be a matter of dumb luck, but it was better than no chance. He wheeled and keyed himself back into the safe house, then ran up all the stairs to the roof.

Two men – Fletcher, who Mickey barely knew, and another he didn't know at all – were watching the Wall and the crowd with binoculars. Naturally, given the way Mickey's luck was running, Ginger was with them.

He grabbed a loose pair of binoculars and joined them at the edge of the roof. He scanned the crowd for a moment. Then, as casually as he could manage, he asked, "Anybody seen Romanov?"

The strange guy – Bailey? Bartie? – nodded. "She was up at the embassy, schmoozing with the Marine commander. But that was a couple hours ago."

Kostmayer nodded grimly. If she ducked into a shop or a bar, stood quietly in a doorway, he'd never find her.

"But your girlfriend's right there," Ginger said.

Mickey followed her gesture with his glasses. Annie was easy to pick out of the crowd. The red hair, the tan jacket, the hundred pounds of camera. She was ten feet from the Wall, moving north with the throng. Her camera was everywhere. "She's not my girlfriend," he muttered.

"Yeah, right," Ginger snorted. "Control's personal photographer. Nice work if you can get it."

Mickey turned to glare at her, but his usual smart-ass retort wouldn't come. He looked back through the spyglasses, watching Anne move. He didn't like where she was in the crowd. Too close, too tight. No where to go if something went wrong, no way to retreat; therefore, in his calculation, dangerous. But not to her. Anne moved with the flow, perfectly at ease, calm. Taking her pictures. Living her pictures. They would be spectacular, and very personal, like all her other work.

She's not my girlfriend, he repeated to himself. The subtle pride he felt in her accomplishments was no longer his to claim. Anne Keller was no longer his. She's not my girlfriend.

He still had her engagement ring in his pocket. How the hell had they come unraveled so fast?

"You know," Ginger said with an arch, subtle sneer, "my boyfriend could use some extra bucks. Think Control could use him?"

Mickey regarded her narrowly. "Does he have any talent?"

She smirked suggestively. "He has loads of talent."

"Yeah. I don't think Control swings that way."

"Asshole."

"Bitch." But it was a mechanical response, without heat. Annie through binoculars, floating through the crowd, talking, shooting, smiling. Unbelievable pictures. Moving away from him. She wasn't his girlfriend any more.

He put the glasses down and rubbed his eyes. He wasn't going to find Romanov. He'd thrown Annie away. His anger lost its focus, grew cold, banked for the moment by reality. He couldn't find Romanov here and now, but he knew where she lived and where she worked. He would find her. He would settle up with her.

The long-chained cuffs in his pocket had a satisfying weight to them.

Here and now, he didn't know what to with himself.

Shaking his head, he went back inside.

Strange things happen to a man on the road

Strange things happen to a man who's alone

Back home you gotta solid life

That life don't mean a thing out here

Robert heard his phone ringing as he came up the hall, but ignored it. That was, after all, what he had an answering machine for. As he entered the apartment, he heard the caller hang up on the machine. As he hung up his coat, though, the phone began to ring again.

He snagged it. "Robert McCall."

"Hey. It's me."

"Mickey," Robert said cheerfully. "How are you?"

"I been better."

"I thought you were in Berlin."

"I am."

"One big party in the street, how can you sound so glum?" Robert tugged his tie loose absently.

"Kind of a long story. Listen, McCall, I might need a favor."

"Oh. Go on."

"Anne's here, taking pictures. She's kinda under the Company flag, and Control wants to look at all her pictures before they hit the magazines. So when she gets back, if they don't want her to use her own darkroom, she might need to use your place to develop the prints. I don't want her in the office."

"Of course. That would be fine."

"I'll let you know when she gets back, how it's going to play out."

"Fine, fine. I'd be happy to help. Now tell me why you really called."

There was a discernable pause. "I just did, McCall."

"No, you just told me your excuse for calling. Now the real reason."

"It's nothing."

"Yes, of course it is."

Another pause, longer, and finally Mickey said, "I asked Annie to marry me."

Robert grinned at the phone. "That's wonderful, Mickey. Congratulations."

"She said no."

"She what?"

"She said no."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ask her?"

Kostmayer began to sound exasperated. "Of course I asked her."

"Yes, and what did she say?"

"She says we never talk about anything."

"She's absolutely right."

There was another long pause. "I gotta go, McCall."

"Michael Kostmayer, don't you dare hang up on me!"

The next pause lasted perhaps ten seconds, and Robert could see in his mind's eye Mickey standing there with the receiver halfway to the cradle, debating. But finally, reluctantly, the younger man's voice said, "Yeah. What?"

"Where is Annie now?" Robert asked briskly.

"Out taking pictures of the Wall."

"And you're going to go find her, and you're going to sort this out with her, straightaway. Right?"

"What's the point, McCall?" Mickey snapped. "She doesn't love me. All the talking in the world is not …"

"Mickey, you're being a dunce."

"What?"

"She doesn't love you," McCall snorted. "Of course she loves you. You're being a great dunce, and stubborn, I imagine, and you're letting the woman who loves you get away."

"McCall, you don't understand …"

"I understand perfectly, Mickey. Just because I'm a crusty old bachelor, don't presume that I don't know a thing or two about affairs of the heart. I was falling in love when you were still messing your nappies. So you listen very closely, young man. You will put down the telephone and you will go find Anne Keller and you will do whatever it takes to win her hand. Do you understand me? Whatever it takes."

Robert could hear Kostmayer's glare in the silence. If looks could kill, he was bloody lucky there was an ocean between them. But no matter. He was right, and he knew his young friend knew it.

"You're a pain in the ass sometimes, you know that, McCall?"

"Likewise, I'm sure. Good luck." McCall put down the phone, gently. Then he sighed, shook his head, and went to get a drink.