The radio is blastin', someone's knockin' at the door
I'm lookin' at my girlfriend - she's passed out on the floor
I seen so many things I ain't never seen before
Don't know what it is - I don't wanna see no more

Mama told me not to come …

Robert stopped the Jaguar at the end of the long gravel drive and considered the building dubiously. "This can't be the right place."

Beside him, Pete O'Phelan consulted the address she'd scrawled on a carry-out form at the restaurant. "It's what I've got, too," she answered uncertainly.

At the end of the drive, a three-story warehouse stood dark. Every window was boarded over. A single light shown yellow over the empty concrete lot beside the building. If there was a party here, it was starting late.

McCall suspected he had been sent on a great snipe hunt.

"They said to go around back," Pete offered.

Robert grunted, but he pointed the sleek car down the dusty drive. At the back corner he turned and was greeted by two more overhead lights, a wide garage door, tightly closed, and three men in dark clothes. Of its own accord, his hand strayed to his gun even before he stopped the car.

The hand returned to the wheel as Jacob Stock came to the side of the car. Robert rolled down the window. "Hey, McCall, glad you could make it. Hi, Pete."

"Are we early?" she asked.

"Early? No, lots of people here." He frowned, puzzled, then brightened. "Parking inside," he explained. "Take the service elevator up."

McCall nodded grimly. "Just another Control special."

Stock laughed. "You'll see, McCall. Go on in." He stood back and gestured; the garage door opened with mechanical smoothness, silent.

The parking area, the entire ground floor of the building, was a third full of cars. As soon as he opened the door, Robert could hear the pounding bass line of the music playing above them. Warily, he rounded the Jag and offered his hand to help Pete out.

She eyed the ceiling above them as well. "Maybe we could just put in an appearance."

"A brief appearance," Robert agreed. "You just say the word."

They walked to the elevator, which appeared as disreputable as the rest of the building, but ran with precision quiet. It opened onto a small lobby, where the music was louder than below but not as loud as inside. On the wall, a vast graffiti tag read, "Welcome to the Velvet Elvis."

"The … Velvet Elvis?" Pete asked carefully.

"I'm not sure I want to know," McCall answered. He walked to the push-through double doors to the main floor. There, a hand-written sign read, 'One night only, this area officially designated THE FIELD.'

Robert actually groaned.

"I don't get it," Pete said. "The field? What field?"

"The proverbial field," McCall answered. "As in, 'what happens in the field, stays in the field.'"

"Oh," his companion said, understanding completely, "it's going to be one of those parties."

Grasping her arm firmly, Robert pushed the door open and resolutely entered the fray

When I get lonely and I'm sure I've had enough,
She sends comfort coming in from above.
Don't need no letters at all.
We got a thing that's called radar love

Control, being Control, found the back entrance, a rusty set of stairs, and made his entrance nearly unnoticed. He lingered in shadow, taking stock. Who was here, and in what configurations. Where the exits were, and where one could shelter from gunfire. Where the bar was, and the bathrooms. It took him less than a minute, his long-honed instincts doing most of the work, bringing only the exceptional details to his conscious attention.

Item of note: At the small table nearest the door were five men with uniformly short hair, painfully good posture, and powerful self-assurance. They were not Control's, but he fleetingly wished they were. None of their beverages appeared to be alcoholic, and they were not mingling, not chatting up the available women. Whoever they were, they were there with a purpose. They were working.

Item of note: The bar had taken its name from the mural which hung behind the bar. It was, of course, a painting of Elvis on black velvet. From the quality of the painting, it might well have been a paint-by number – of mammoth proportions. It was made of four panels, each ten feet tall, and the whole portrait was perhaps forty feet long. The King was lying on his side, his head propped up on one hand, a glass of champagne in the other. He was nude.

It was not the young, fit Elvis.

A significant portion of his anatomy was highly improbable.

Item of note: There were two men working the bar, and neither of them belonged to Control, either. They were running their legs off. Three tip jars were half-full, but otherwise no cash changed hands. Open bar. Control felt his wallet groan.

Item of note: They had, as threatened, put Sterno in charge of the food. Three long tables near the wall away from the bar literally bowed under the weight of the buffet. He'd been to every carry-out joint in the city. Control's wallet gave up groaning and began to weep quietly.

There were small tables between the bar and the buffet, four chairs each, and some had already been put together. Beyond the bar, closer to where Control had come in, was a large dance floor, polished wood but with the annoying inset disco lights. Huge speakers hung from the ceiling on all four corners of the floor, blasting the dancers with sound.

Item of note: Of the two-hundred plus agents and supporters already present, perhaps six had any business trying to dance to rock music. The rest were enthusiastic but hopeless.

Item of note: Behind the buffet was a series of doors. They had doubtless been offices when this factory was serving its original purpose. Now they seemed to be private rooms for party-goers. Lovely. It would be instructive, Control mused, to see who went into the rooms with whom. Instructive, and quite possibly disturbing.

Item of note: At the rear of the club, where Control had come in, there were several larger tables which seated up to eight people. They were behind the speakers, where it was somewhat quieter, and they afforded a clear view of the entire room. My spot, the spymaster decided at once. For as long as I have to stay.

Item of note: The only person who had noted his arrival was the most beautiful woman in the room.

Lily Romanov stood at the bar, surrounded by young agents, and although she was listening to them, she frequently glanced in his direction. She could not possibly see him in the shadows, but there was no question in his mind that she knew he was there, and that he was watching her.

She wore a little black dress, the sort of dress that many women owned and few should actually wear, sleeveless, v-cut in the front and back just a little too far, just half an inch too short, half a size too tight. Stiletto heels on strappy sandals, and she should not have been able to walk, much less dance. Yet she did both with ease. Lily lived in her blue jeans, and he liked her that way. But cleaned up and dressed up, she was stunning.

Control reached instinctively to straighten his tie. He paused, with a grimacing smile, remembering that he didn't have one. He had gone as casual as he ever intended to with this particular crowd: black pants, black turtleneck, charcoal gray sport coat to cover the gun that he certainly was not attending without. He felt self-consciously underdressed, despite the fact that many of the others were wearing jeans. He was, after all, Control.

He ran his hand through his hair – which was longer than it had been in years; the woman was playing havoc with his personal grooming standards – and stepped into the light.

You might've heard I run with a dangerous crowd.

We ain't too pretty. We ain't too proud. We might be laughing a bit too loud,

But that never hurt no one.

Jacob Stock climbed onto the bar and gestured for quiet. He didn't, of course, get it. He turned around and spoke to the bartender, who turned off the tape deck. The background silence was a little disturbing, but people kept right on talking. Finally, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled at a volume that made dogs shudder twenty blocks in every direction.

The warehouse got quiet.

"Hi," he said, suddenly nervous. "Uh, before we get really started here, there's a couple rules and stuff I have to go over." There were general groans from the gathering. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be quick. The first thing is, uh, we have to thank Control," he gestured towards the spymaster at the back of the room, "for authorizing this party and more importantly, for signing off on our expense reports."

From the floor, Lily tugged at his pants leg. Stock bent and conferred with her, then straightened and cleared his throat again. "Uh, well, I hear he hasn't signed off on them yet. So if you love us, you'll be nice to him, okay? Otherwise I'm going to need a second job to pay for this bash."

The crowd giggled. Control nodded sternly.

"Anyhow," Stock went on, "when he agreed to this party, Control had three conditions. One, that he didn't have to make any speeches." There was applause, and Jacob shook his head. "You're killing us here, you know that, don't you? Two, that it had to be somewhere the KGB wouldn't be taking all our pictures." He gestured around the warehouse. "So here we are. And three, that nobody gets stupid and dead. So, the bar is open, drink all you want …" again he had to wait until the applause died down, "but there by the door, those large men? They are with the, uh, special unit of the Army Rangers which does not officially exist, and they're here to be our designated drivers. If you try to leave and they think you're drunk, they will take your keys and drive you home. And fair warning, if they think you're drunk, they're right. You can ride home in the back seat or they can fold you up in the trunk, but you're not driving."

There were scattered laughs, but the crowd understood.

"Uh, okay," he continued, consulting his notes. "So the bar is free, but feel free to tip your bartenders, and don't be ordering any girlie blender drinks, please. And Sterno was in charge of food, so there's lots of it." He gestured to the tables at the far side of the club. "Eat all you want. Really. He's outside watching cars right now, but feel free to tell him what you think. Music – some of you know Robert McCall's son Scott, he made the tapes for us from all your suggestions at the office – well, most of your suggestions. And we have another tape of songs used to torture various terrorists throughout the world. If anyone tries to make a speech, we will not hesitate to use it." He gestured to the bartender again, and the first strains of 'Muskrat Love' wafted over the floor. The crowd groaned, and Stock relented, gestured for it to stop before the words could start.

"What else?" Lily tugged his pants again, and again he leaned down to consult with her. "Oh, right. This place is the Velvet Elvis, for obvious reasons, and it is open after hours every night except Sunday. The owners are friends, sorta, so feel free to give them your business any time you're, um, out after hours. And thanks to Lily for setting this up for us." Another brief consult. "And if you're going to use the private rooms, for God's sake lock the doors, okay? Because, frankly, we don't want to know the details."

"Other than that, have a good time, and we'll see you all at work tomorrow."

There was a smattering of laughter; Jacob climbed down, and the music resumed.

Where have all good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where's the street-wise Hercules
To fight the rising odds?

"Robert!"

McCall grinned. "Charlie McGuinn. I might have guessed you'd be here first." He embraced his old friend lightly.

"Anywhere with an open bar, of course I'm here first. How've you been? How's the, what do we call it, the altruism business?"

"It goes as well as can be expected," Robert allowed. "There seems to be no shortage of bad men in the world, I'm afraid."

"You didn't think there would be," Charlie told him. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink. Well, I won't buy it, of course, but I'll pretend to tip for you."

Robert turned to check on Pete, but she was already off with a number of her old colleagues. Nodding, he followed Charlie to the bar. "I didn't expect so many of the old crowd," he commented, looking around.

"Open bar, remember?" Charlie prompted. "And why shouldn't we be here? We won the war. And this is the only celebration we'll get for it, probably. Scotch, two, top shelf," he ordered.

The drinks arrived. Robert accepted his, and they shared a wordless toast. "Won the war?" he mused. "Or just this incarnation of it?"

Charlie sighed. "You're right, of course. But for tonight, we're all going to pretend we won the whole war."

"A little group self-delusion?" Robert mused, not unkindly.

"And here's how," McGuinn agreed, raising his drink.

"Ah, good," Lily Romanov said as she joined them, "grown men at last. I'm so glad you're here. The little boys are boring me senseless."

"Hello, darling," Charlie said, kissing her cheek.

"I believe she was talking to me," Robert countered, kissing her other cheek.

"Both of you, actually," she said. "How've you been?"

"Busy," Charlie told her. "And about to be busier, I imagine."

Lily shook her head. "Tonight there is only good news and peace in the world."

"What, you've cut all the phone lines?"

"And taken the batteries from all the radios," she answered. She turned to Robert. "I have something for you. For Scott, actually – are you going to see him this week?"

"I usually do," he said. He watched with interest as she reached over the bar, retrieved a rather well-stuffed envelope, and handed it to him. "What's this for?" he asked suspiciously.

"For the music," she answered. "He made our soundtrack for us, on no notice."

"He won't accept this."

"I know. That's why I'm giving it to you." To Robert's scowl, she went on, "It's not like it's my money, it's …" she gestured towards the back of the room, where Control was holding court, "… well, the Company's. And it's half of what we would have had to pay some studio guy to make it for us, I know he stayed up all night finding this stuff, and it's not like he can't use the money."

There was, Robert allowed, no arguing that point. She was probably right, too, that Scott would accept the money from him. Still, "I don't know."

"Tell him if he won't take it, I'll just break into his apartment and hide it in his underwear drawer," Lily threatened. "And I will look through them while I'm there."

Robert laughed and tucked the envelope away. "I will tell him."

"Thank you."

From the elevator, Sterno rather stridently called, "Romanov! Hey, Romanov!"

"Gotta go," Lily said brightly. "Have another drink."

From where they stood, both senior agents could hear Sterno's next words. "Hey, Romanov, there's a squad of Marines outside looking for you."

"Uh-oh," Charlie said quietly.

But Lily practically bounced towards the elevator. "Excellent!" she called.

Now the man in the back

Is ready to crack as he raises his hands to the sky

And the girl in the corner is everyone's mourner S

he could kill you with a wink of her eye

The ripple of rumor carried swiftly to Control's ears and he excused himself, made his way uneasily towards the front of the club, wondering if he would need to go downstairs and rescue his lover from a bunch of jarheads. What in the world had she gotten herself into this time?

Before he could reach the elevator, Lily returned. As advertised, she was trailed by a squad of six Marines in BDU's. The men carried two body bags. At Lily's instruction, they placed the bags on two hastily-cleared tables. Neither bag looked quite long enough for an adult body, but both were obviously heavy enough. A chill fell over the room.

Control moved closer.

Romanov glanced around, smiled into the silence. "You people are so literal. Lighten up." She spoke more quietly to the men, directing them invitingly to the food and the drinks. Predictably, they headed for the food first, except for the squad leader, who lingered near the woman.

Control growled very quietly. The way the man acted with her, his posture, his voice, his physical proximity: He thought he was taking her home.

She wasn't doing anything to discourage him.

"Come, come children, gather 'round and see what I brought you," Lily called. A percentage of the crowd gathered around the table. Lily unzipped the smaller body bag. It contained fist sized-rocks – no, concrete, splattered here and there with bits of paint. There were also half a dozen small hammers. "Arts and crafts time. Make your own souvenirs. Have a piece of the Wall in your own home."

"All right!" Roelen said. "I didn't think you'd pull it off." Eager hands were already reaching to break up the rocks.

Control stood right behind her, trying not to glower too visibly at the Marine who still lingered.

Lily gestured. "Getting it was easy. Getting it home was the tricky part."

"What's in there?" Stock asked, pointing towards the larger bag.

The woman grinned, glanced back over her shoulder at Control. "This is going to the Farm, I think." She looked around for Robert, gestured him closer. Then she zipped back the top.

Inside the bag was a single flat piece of concrete, three feet square, coarsely hacked out of the larger Wall. Its graffiti was intact. The line, the nose, the curved head, the eyes, in faded blue paint. Below, in red, also faded, the words: Kilroy Was Here.

Control began to chuckle softly. He knew this piece of the Wall well. Very well indeed. It had been many years ago, when he and Robert were young agents. He'd told Lily about this particular incident on what he had come to call the Night of the Great Betrayal – what she called the Night of the Great Revelation. He would never have thought she could retrieve it for him.

He touched the small of her back, very lightly, very briefly.

The gathered agents laughed their appreciation. "I had to have it," Lily said. She looked to Robert. "Your artwork, I presume?"

He raised one eyebrow. "Why mine?" She pointed one slender finger to the edge of the art, where he had scribbled his initials in wet paint with his fingertip. McCall grinned, nodding. "Very observant, my dear."

Lily nodded. "And bonus points for whoever can identify this rather distinctive handwriting."

There was a pause, and then almost as one the agents got it. They'd all had notes from him. Lily looked back at Control again. "I'm shocked."

He shrugged, grinning. "We were young and not very bright. How did you get it?"

"I have my ways. You also sent a piece to the Smithsonian, one to the DCI, and one to the White House."

"Ah. Did I send nice notes with them?"

Lily nodded. "Positively poetic notes," she promised. Then she slid away, taking her uniformed admirer by the arm. "Tony, I've got somebody I want you to meet."

Control followed her with his eyes. She led the tall Marine to the bar, where she introduced him to Vanessa Wong, the New York recruiter. He nodded to himself, understanding. Lily was bringing another poor sucker into the fold. He glanced at the rock again, considered it with satisfaction. He would not have asked for this, but he was pleased past words to have it.

"Quite a remarkable accomplishment," McCall said conversationally at his elbow. "Quite a coincidence, her knowing exactly what piece to get."

Control looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "It is, isn't it?"

"And a Marine recruit as a bonus. Is there nothing that young woman can't do?"

"She can't shoot straight," Stock offered, brushing past him.

Robert and Control shared a long look. Then McCall shook his head in amused disapproval and walked over to obtain his own piece of the Wall.

Control watched Lily for a moment longer. She was working hard to land her young man, her hand on his thick forearm, her smile focused just on him. He wasn't resisting. Vanessa was wisely just waiting while they chatted. She knew well enough the boy was already in the boat.

Control couldn't decide whether to be proud or furious.

He slipped back into the shadows.