Irina sleeps, but not deeply. At sunrise she opens her eyes and feels as though she has been awake far longer.
Her palm rests in Jack's. His body is just a few inches away, and his breath flutters her hair across her forehead. The arm across his belly is Katya's.
As Irina has good reason to know, Jack often wakes up when she gets out of bed unless she takes precautions. Carefully, slowly, she slides each leg onto the floor, then stands up. His face doesn't shift; his body doesn't move. One corner of Irina's mouth twitches in amusement, realizing he's probably so tired an erupting volcano wouldn't disturb him.
She tucks the sheet in next to him and stands there for a few moments, naked in the dawn light. Katya and Jack are lying in bed together after making love, oblivious to anything else in the world. Irina takes it in, memorizing every detail - the way Katya's cheek rests against his shoulder, the way Jack's foot overlaps hers. It's important to Irina to know what this looks like; if she already knows, she won't have to torment herself by imagining.
Last night, when this possibility first flickered before her, Irina was genuinely aroused by it - and, she thinks with a lazy smile, her expectations had been more than fulfilled. But she had wanted more than the erotic pleasure. She had wanted a weapon, and now she has won it.
This is the last time she'll see Jack in a while. If the information she's going after is anything other, anything less, than what she's hoping for, it might be the last time she'll see Jack, period. (Although she acknowledges this possibility on an intellectual level, Irina refuses to really believe it. She will find Nadia first. Then she will be the one to tell Jack the truth, the full truth, and he will live without the pain and burden of her knowledge until that day. No other outcome is acceptable.) In any case, Jack and Katya are going to be left to each other's devices for some time to come.
Whatever happens between them now - however many months or years it may be before Irina can return - Irina will know: She started it, she shaped it, she brought it into being. Jack and Katya may be lovers after this or they may not. It doesn't matter. Knowing, as Irina now does, that they will never make love to each other without remembering Irina in bed with them, without knowing their relationship is Irina's creation -
That gives her the control she needs.
Jack shifts slightly, turning his face toward Katya. Normally, he awakens as early as Irina does, but she suspects he'll need his rest for another couple of hours yet. Katya won't be up for at least as long, the lazybones. That gives Irina some time to work. Without looking back, she walks naked through the corridor to her stateroom, showers, gets dressed. In the shower, she snags her fingers in her still-braided hair, but that shakes free in an instant.
**
An hour later, she's sitting in the mess, sipping coffee and reading reports from the days she spent in the Reyes compound when Jack walks in. He is dressed, his hair still wet from his shower, but he still looks a little worn out.
Their eyes meet. He's not sure how to handle this, Irina can tell. But he's smiling as he says, "Good morning."
"Sleep well?" Irina raises an eyebrow, and she doesn't bother disguising her grin.
"Absolutely." Relieved, Jack brushes his hand along her cheek, then leans down for a kiss. Irina closes her eyes, kisses him back deeply. The breeze blows in from the sea, and it's still early enough for the warmth to be welcome. Against her temple, he whispers, "Thank you."
"Just wanted to give you something new," she says, which he will never believe, but is about as much as she intends to discuss it.
Jack's face takes on a very odd cast. Irina experiences an emotion that's rare for her: surprise.
"You haven't."
"Well. Once. Once before, I mean."
Irina stares at him. "Tell me."
Jack pours himself coffee. "The early years of SD-6 - they sent us all over the world, constructing the network. I went on as many trips as I could, to get as much information as possible. But a lot of these trips featured - entertainment." He takes a sip and continues reporting. "One night in Japan, the night I met Anthony Geiger, as it happens, the local cell had brought in geishas. Not the traditional women - but courtesans, if that's the word I want."
"It works." Leave it to Jack to worry about his vocabulary when retelling sexual exploits.
"There was this woman with a clubfoot - she was this stunning woman, maybe the most beautiful I've ever seen. Perfect, except for the clubfoot. Geiger ended up with her. I ended up with these two girls, 19 or 20 or so, and they'd put together this role-playing thing for Americans." His forehead creases with annoyance as he pronounces the next word. "Cheerleaders. They had to think I was - happy. I had to make copies of some computer files that night, which was difficult enough without that nonsense."
Irina is shaking with laughter she can't fully suppress. "You make it sound as though you had a terrible time."
Jack just looks more irritated. "It was a logistical nightmare."
At this, Irina laughs out loud, longer and harder than she has in many months. At first, Jack scowls at her, but that makes no difference. She puts her coffee down, her elbows on the table, and her face in her hands. When she next lifts her head, tears are streaming down her cheeks, and Jack sits beside her smiling, somewhat sheepishly.
"It was," he insists, brushing the tears from her cheek with two fingers.
"I believe you." She takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out. "Did you get the job done?" Jack nods. Of course he did. "Last night was better, I hope."
"Much." They share a coffee-flavored kiss, sweet and bitter. For the first time, Irina finds herself counting the hours before he'll have to leave, asking herself if they'll go to bed together again in the brief time they have left. She wants that, and she fears it too.
When their mouths part, she murmurs, "Is Katya awake?"
His smile doesn't change. "Not yet. At least, not when I left." Jack's relaxed and happy, asking no questions about her motivations, or his own. She knows him too well to believe that this is all there is to it; even if he is basking in the afterglow at the moment, eventually, the sturdy analysis of his mind will begin. No matter. She can handle the rest of the morning, assuming Katya awakes in as good a mood.
She remembers Katya last night, the perverse thrill of watching her writhe in pleasure beneath Jack. Throughout their lives, Irina has known Katya to do many things, but never to lose control. But last night, she came close. Katya's heart is the variable here - the element that might seal Irina's fate, one way or the other.
Then Jack takes another sip of his coffee and rubs her arm, almost absent-mindedly. It's the way they spent mornings together for almost ten years, and his unconscious memory of that moves her more than she would have thought. Irina wonders if it won't be Jack's heart that determines their course after all.
Against the hull of the ship, something cracks.
Irina goes still; beside her, Jack does the same. For a few moments, there's nothing - and then another report, louder this time.
Gunfire.
"Reyes," Jack says, on his feet even faster than Irina. "Weapons?"
In an instant she pulls open a side door; there, mixed in with the footstuffs and some cleaning fluids are a few assault rifles, just in case. She throws one to Jack just has they hear the first extended burst of fire, the first shouts from on deck. Katya's team is good, but there's no telling how many men Reyes has brought. "Follow me," she says.
He doesn't argue; he does it, moving along the wall in one corridor as they head toward the deck. When a camouflage-clad figure ducks in, it's Jack's rifle that's slammed into his head. One down. Irina realizes that Katya would still have been asleep when this began, naked and unarmed. The urge to protect her sister is, for a moment, so strong that it almost overrides her good sense. Surprised by the impulse, Irina shoves it aside, continuing to move toward the door, and therefore toward potential escape. Katya can take care of herself.
But just as they reach the outer door - sunlight streaming around its outline, the salt tang of the air sharp - Irina hears a thump in the room behind them. Jack kicks in the door and they wheel in, rifles at the ready. Standing in the center of the room is Eduardo Reyes. He is holding only a pistol, and he doesn't even raise it as he stares at them.
Irina remembers the basement, and Jack's masquerade, and the German accent she's already begun to miss. There are still faint red welts around her wrists. Slowly, she lets the smile spread across her face. "Which one of us did you come looking for?"
"You." Eduardo answers her, as if on autopilot. "Ingo, you - No. You're not Ingo."
Jack doesn't respond to this, but when Irina glances over, she can see the light of challenge in his eyes.
Gunfire echoes on the deck, but Irina recognizes the sound of AK-47s - none of which she saw at the Reyes compound. Eduardo's team is already on the run. She remembers his smug, horsey face as he looked down and planned her rape, and anger gets the better of her. "No, he's not," she says. Jack glances over at her, perhaps startled, but says nothing. "He's my husband."
"Bullshit." Eduardo isn't covering his reaction; he doesn't buy it for a minute.
Irina laughs. "For 33 years now."
"Thirty-four," Jack clarifies. Did she forget an anniversary? Maybe she did.
"You know the key to a good marriage, Eduardo?" Irina takes pleasure in using her real accent, the lowest and hardest pitch of her voice. "Keeping things fresh. Never taking anything for granted. Allowing for the occasional surprise."
Jack gives her a look.
Eduardo doesn't catch it. "You're crazy, and this man you were working with is crazy, and I don't buy your crap for a minute."
Irina says, "I don't care if you -"
The blow catches her in the small of her back, and her knees hit the ground with jolting force as she topples forward. Even as she falls, Irina knows what's happened and damns herself for it. Gloat later, fight now.
She hears, rather than sees, Jack firing at whoever got her; a hot spray across her back is probably her attacker's blood. But when she hits the floor (arms out, catching her weight, already spinning around), Eduardo's boot slams into the side of her head so hard the world goes gray around the edges.
"Put it down!" Jack yells. Irina, awash in a wave of dizziness, can't see anything but the floor, but she knows Jack is talking about Eduardo's pistol, which she'd wager is pointed directly at her head.
Silence. Gasping for breath, Irina can feel herself begin to steady; she doesn't have a concussion. But she's still effectively a hostage, all because she hated this man so much, all because she tried too hard to prove what Jack was to her. A stupid impulse, her second in three days. Jack's proximity does strange things to her mind. She wants to help Jack, but she's not sure she can. Irina's not even sure she can sit upright, assuming Eduardo would allow that to happen. All she's sure of is that Eduardo has not put the pistol down.
Eduardo speaks quietly. "Where did that accent go, huh?"
"Your team's been beaten. You can hear that as well as I do." Jack is calm, reasonable. Irina wonders if he's done hostage negotiation; his words have that practiced sound. "This ends better if you leave now."
"You're not gonna let me leave." Eduardo is not a fool.
"You stand a better chance of it than if you hurt her."
Laughing, Eduardo says, "Holy shit. She is your wife, isn't she? You fuck your wife in front of strangers a lot?"
"Constantly. That's not the subject. Your continued survival is."
"It doesn't have a damned thing to do with survival." Eduardo's voice is becoming loose, unhinged, and for the first time Irina feels fear. "It's about pride, you son of a -"
The shot makes Irina jump, though she knows very well that if she hears it, she's safe. You don't hear a thing when you're really hit - all you know is pain. That's all Eduardo has left as he falls wetly to the ground beside her. His horsey face is gone; it's just so much meat, now.
Irina stares up at Jack. Jack is staring at the doorway. Standing there is Katya, wearing a satin robe and holding a shotgun. She lowers it, and through the smoke her face is unimpressed. "The situation's under control. Irina, are you all right?"
"I think so." When she pushes herself up, her head reels, but that might just be the ship.
"Thank you," Jack says.
"What else is family for? Leave that fool where he lies. The guards will take care of it." Katya stalks off, and Irina would swear that she's mostly angry at having been awoken early.
Jack sinks to his knees beside Irina, taking her face in his hands. "Are you sure you're okay? I saw that kick."
"I am. Or I will be." When he folds her against his chest, she allows it. It feels so good - the illusion of protection, of perfect safety, in a man's arms. She understands why weak women seek it. Irina snuggles into his embrace, and Jack makes a small sound as he pulls her even closer.
For a few moments, Irina knows nothing but him, nothing but the comfort he gives. But then she senses movement and opens her eyes; Katya is standing in the doorway again, and she's still got the shotgun. Irina says only, "Katya?"
"I wanted to know something," Katya says. Does she feel cheated? Used? Or was she playing them both last night, perhaps? Has desire corroded a lifetime's trust? Irina stares at her sister, and she knows Jack is doing the same. After a pause, Katya continues, "Is there any coffee left?"
"Yes." Jack is hesitant; Irina's glad to know she wasn't the only one who had second thoughts. "I think there was - half a pot? Something like that."
"Thank God. I killed the bastards quickly, and they'd deserve much worse if they'd made me miss my coffee." Katya's eyes meet Irina's, and she shakes her head and chuckles as she wanders off. "You two."
Once they're alone, Jack says only, "Is Sydney going to turn out like this?"
"Probably. I'm sorry."
He sighs. "As long as I'm prepared."
**
Irina has to direct Jack to her cabin. He hasn't been there yet.
It's a smaller room than Katya's, a smaller bed. The Lastochka is Katya's, not hers, a fact Irina doesn't mind reminding herself of. Jack helps her to her bed, then rinses out a washcloth for her. "No dizziness? No nausea?" he says.
"I'm better. That wasn't anything." It's more or less true. She'll have some ugly bruises tomorrow, but that's all. Of course, Jack is leaving in a few hours, and she'll have to deal with that pain when it comes. But that's then. This is now.
Jack pushes her back onto the bed and lays the wet washcloth on her forehead. His fear for her is still written on his face - his fear, and his love.
He brushes his fingertips along her cheek, across her lips. Irina kisses them, knowing the impulse for weakness, but she doesn't care. Slowly, he leans down, lowering his mouth to hers. When they kiss, it's gentle, almost tentative. She remembers the first time he ever kissed her, outside the college library, in the rain. A thousand years ago.
Once they've begun kissing, they can't stop. Irina feels something in her resisting this, trying to push away. She's not in control now; she can't define what this means to her, what it is and is not. If only she could get her head together, stop things for just a moment. But Jack's hands are unbuttoning her shirt, and his mouth is moving along her throat, and his body is above hers on the bed, and all Irina can do is hold him close, kiss him back.
This is the way they made love as husband and wife, the way she went to bed with him when she was Laura, they way they haven't been together since. In Panama they'd been too long deprived of one another to be gentle - or anything even close. Then, during the months they'd believed Sydney dead, their lovemaking had been desperate, even brutal: two wounded people trying to convince each other that there was some reason to stay alive. It has been more than twenty years since he whispered her name against her collarbone, since she made love to a man and felt tears springing to her eyes.
"Irina," he whispers as he lets the last of his clothing fall to the floor. It sounds wrong; he should be saying Laura. She wants so badly to believe that his love for her has not changed with the name he uses, but she cannot allow herself to believe it.
She draws her legs up, cradling him between her thighs. Jack kisses her once, softly, before he begins pushing inside her. He takes it slow, so slow it's maddening, and she wants to cry out, to claw at him, to force him to fuck her hard and rough. But oh, God, Irina wants this too. As many years as she has spent telling herself she doesn't want this, she does. Does this frighten him as much as it does her? Irina will never be sure. When at last he's completely within her, in so deep it almost hurts, Irina's eyes lock with his.
The words - I love you - are there, waiting to be spoken. She says nothing. Neither does he.
Jack kisses her again, and then they begin to move - slow and sweet, the way they did when they were young, like the first time they made love after Sydney's birth. It's as if he's afraid she would break. Irina almost wishes she could. But right now, all her fears and longings are going further and further away. All she can feel is Jack thrusting inside her, his belly on hers, her breasts brushing against the hair on his chest. He takes her hands in his, up against the pillow, but he isn't holding her down. He's only holding her hands.
They kiss every moment they aren't moving, and they kiss sometimes when they are; Jack keeps whispering her true name, over and over, as though it were some kind of incantation, as if he could weave a spell that would bind them together forever. Irina pulls her knees up further, trying to get him in even deeper, even though it's impossible.
If only, she thinks. If only I could believe, take it all on faith. If only he could too.
But they aren't like that, and they never will be. In their world, people like that get killed. She and Jack, they endure.
He pushes himself up so that he's above her, so that she can see there their bodies are joined, the base of his cock where it enters her. Irina's hand slides between them, her fingers brushing against his hardness, against hers. She's already so close that it takes just a few strokes - there, and again, and again - and then Irina comes, in slow, gentle waves that ripple through her.
Jack hears the soft moan, sees the change in her face. Two swift thrusts and he's with her, his orgasm rushing into him just as hers ebbs. Irina watches that fleeting expression on his face - that one instant when even Jack Bristow loses control - then pulls him down to her for another kiss.
For a long time they lie together, joined, gasping for breath. His body is heavy atop hers, but Irina doesn't care; she even likes it. She can feel his cock pulse inside her as his arousal fades. Only when he must does Jack pull away and draw her close. "I missed you," he says. "I missed this."
"Me too," she thinks. Thirty-four years. "I did too."
**
As noon approaches, Jack gets dressed and goes to his own room to prepare to leave. Irina garbs herself in different clothes; the ones Jack slipped from her body remain where they were on the floor. The tiny cabin is thick with the scent of sex, and she opens the window to let the sea breeze wash in. It's cooler today; perhaps the heat wave has broken.
When she emerges into the Lastochka's corridors, there's almost no sign that a gunfight took place. There's a bullet hole in the wall - Irina traces it with her finger, paint chips scraping her skin - but the blood's already been washed away. Katya has a good crew.
She goes up onto the deck, right by the gangplank. Either harbor authorities haven't been informed yet of the earlier fracas, or Katya paid them off to ignore such things a few days ago. Probably the latter. Irina could walk to Jack's room and stay with him these last few moments, but she remains here, watching the sunlight on the water. It's a beautiful day; she wishes she'd thought to bring her sunglasses.
After a while, she hears Jack's voice in the corridor, then Katya's low laughter. Irina resists the urge to go to them, even to eavesdrop. She lets their words fall as a blur into the ocean. This is their farewell, not hers, and she'd do as well to get into the habit of trusting her own instincts. She won't be able to monitor them for a long time to come. If Irina can bear it now - with the sweat from her last lovemaking with Jack still damp in her hair - she can bear it hereafter.
Jack walks out without a bag; this surprises her for no reason. Katya's not with him. Irina's arms are folded in front of her, and she doesn't change this posture as he comes close. She says only, "What will you tell the CIA?"
"That a splinter group attacked Reyes' compound, killing Reyes and most of his men." Jack continues, eyes steely, "I'm also telling them that the weapons in storage are still there for the CIA to retrieve."
"They will be." It's a small enough promise to grant. She and Katya don't really need them, anyway.
He steps nearer to her, his eyes seeking hers. "Should I even ask when I'll see you again?"
"When it's possible. You'll know."
Jack doesn't like that answer, but he knows better than to ask for another. He says only, "I'm glad this happened." After a pause, he adds, "All of it."
"Me too." Irina holds out her hand; he twines his fingers with hers. "Take care of Sydney, if she'll let you."
He looks surprised by her words. "Always. You know that." And she does.
They kiss briefly, as though it weren't goodbye. That's as much as Irina can stand right now, and Jack doesn't press for more. One more squeeze of her hand, and then he goes, walking down the gangplank, not looking back. Irina watches as he vanishes into the milling crowds of Rivas, becomes just one of the throng.
Almost as soon as he goes, the Lastochka begins clanging her bells. Irina steps away from gangplank so Katya's crew can pull it in. Apparently Katya's bribes can only buy them so much time, and it's as well they were leaving.
But still she stands on the deck, watching the crowd where she last saw him.
After they're moving out to sea, Katya comes and stands by her sister's side. "How are you?" Katya asks, brushing a finger along the side of Irina's face. The resulting ache reminds Irina how badly she'll be bruised tomorrow. "Reyes made his last blow count, didn't he?"
"Tell me something," Irina says. "Do you ever tire of it?"
"Group sex? Not really." Their eyes meet. "That's not what you meant."
"No." She stares at Katya. "Of taking my scraps. Don't you ever want anything of your own?"
The weapon misses the mark; Irina sees instantly that Katya was expecting this. Only to her sisters is Irina ever predictable. "Scraps? Who is it you're trying to fool? Not me, I should hope."
"You know me," Irina admits.
Katya sighs. "I know what you value."
She hasn't answered Irina's second question, and Irina will not press her. The Katya who shadows her, whose fingerprints are on all Irina's belongings, is the Katya she knows and, yes, loves. If their paths parted, if Katya defined her own trajectory, it might lead her too far away.
A few gulls swoop overhead, squawking in protest, as the Lastochka finally leaves the coast behind. The sisters stand next to each other, wordless. Irina's resentment and her gratitude are inseparable, braided together, a tie that binds them both.
Katya breaks the silence. "I'd tell him now. Soon, anyway. If I were you."
"You aren't." Katya has not led an easy life, not by anyone's standards, but there are pains and crimes that she thankfully does not know and cannot imagine confessing. Irina is prepared to say anything to Jack other than the fatal words I failed. She will tell him only when she is sure that she will never have to say that.
"It will be your decision. No one else's."
"I know." That comes out too harshly, and Irina turns to Katya and smiles a little. "I understand."
Katya brushes a hand though Irina's hair, reminding her of last night, and of sharing a bed when they were children. Then she leaves Irina alone, so she can take care of ship's business. Irina finds she doesn't want to linger on the deck. But she also doesn't want to go back to her room; the sheets are still rumpled. They'll still smell like him.
Instead she goes to the room Jack used, the one he spent almost no time in. Like any good agent, he's cleared it out completely; there's no sign he was ever here.
Irina sits on the bed and breathes in and out slowly, counting heartbeats, slowing them down. Autocircadian meditation doesn't require her to close her eyes, but she does so anyway. There is no danger that she'll fall asleep, and she has no need to dream.
**
THE END