September 29, 1972

Irina had always loved old books. In the heart of the university library, she breathed in deeply, enjoying the musty air; she rubbed one page between her fingers, careful with the fragile paper, relishing the soft dust against her skin. This was a Western book, English, and so it had a leather binding and endpapers patterned like red-and-gold marble. A finely etched illustration on the page portrayed a flaxen-haired woman sleeping, fully clothed, next to a man as ethereally pretty as she was. The drawing alone reached the quality of art. Taken as a whole, the book was priceless. Exquisite. Beautiful.

And so Irina tried very, very hard to concentrate on the pleasure she could find in this book, and in all the old books she now studied, because those books were the only aspect of her current assignment that she did not utterly despise.

Research! she fumed. Scholarly research! Irina was trained for deep-cover assignments, for psychological profiling and cultural infiltration, not for -- footnotes and translations. Frustrated, she breathed out and pushed the book back across the library table, ignoring the stares of the two girls studying at the far end of the hall, or the young man searching the nearby stacks. She could allow herself a moment to measure the distance between the place she was and the place she had expected to be.

To the best of her understanding -- and her understanding was generally quite good -- she had excelled in her K.G.B. training. Irina had been told to prepare for a long-term assignment in the United States; she'd plunged into the assignment with enthusiasm. Three years later, she could still list off the facts she'd memorized: the A and B sides of every album by the Beatles, ten different brand names of candy bars, the starting lineup for the '69 Mets. Her superiors had been on the verge of identifying a C.I.A. operative for her to target, and Irina had expected to receive a name and dossier within two or three months.

Instead, they had informed her that she would remain in Moscow. That her chance to travel abroad and fulfill the promise of her training was closed -- for the present, they said, but Irina suspected they meant forever.

They changed her from an operative into a researcher. They told her that she needed to learn ancient languages. Obsolete forms of clock-making and cartography. The mythology of the Greek and Romans, the Norse and the Hindustani, the Chinese and Japanese and Britons and Navajo. All to understand the work of a man who had been dead for almost 500 years.

Why, she'd asked, do we need to understand that?

Someday, you will know, they said. Irina understood her superiors' attitudes and her own position far too well to ask for any further explanation.

"Excuse me," said the young man in the stacks, whose Russian had a heavy American accent. "What time does the library close tonight?"

"Nine-thirty," she answered sourly, without ever glancing at his face. Irina forced herself back to the French legend she was studying today. It was the sort of sentimental tale with which she had little patience. The king's wife, not content with being queen, had made a traveling bard her lover, even though the bard was one against whom she had sworn vengeance.

Stupid woman, Irina thought.

This king had now found his wife in bed with the bard, but because they were fully clothed, and a sword lay between them, he thought them innocent. Stupid king, too. He and his queen were made for one another.

Irina fought her own skepticism and tried to understand the point of this chapter of the tale. Despite her excellent English, there were a handful of words she didn't understand; one of them described the queen's dress. Maybe the kind of dress she was wearing somehow proclaimed her innocence? She'd have to get an English thesaurus -- ought to have had it with her already, only she'd been too stubborn to admit she might need it.

As she prepared to rise, though, Irina's gaze fell upon the young man in the stacks. He was wearing blue jeans. Western-made, by the look of them. And she remembered his accent.

"You, there," she said softly, in English. He stared at her, startled. "You're American?"

"I -- yes, I am," he replied in the same language. He was tall, with dark hair that would be curly if he let it grow. Nice-looking in a bland sort of way. Pity, Irina thought, about the ears. "Why do you ask?"

She tapped her fingers against the page; when he stepped closer, she pointed at the word that confused her. "This -- what does this mean? Dee-ah --"

"Diaphanous," he said. "It means -- silky, translucent." Irina stared at him, and his forehead furrowed in concern. "Do you know what translucent means?"

"That one I know." He still looked so puzzled that Irina felt the unfamiliar urge to explain herself. "In this legend, the king 's looking down on the queen in bed with her lover, and he is convinced of their innocence. I thought maybe this word explained why. But if she's wearing a dress he can see through -- well, then, this king's a bigger fool than I thought."

The young man laughed; the sound of it seemed to surprise him. Quickly, he regained his composure and said, "He's placing a lot of faith on the sword between them in the bed."

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Not much of a barrier. I don't think that would stop anyone who was determined."

She had expected another laugh, but instead she saw only a glint of humor in his dark eyes. This one, she thought, doesn't give his reactions away easily.

"It's a symbolic obstacle, not a literal one. In medieval times -- at least, in legend -- if a knight was traveling with a lady whose honor he meant to respect, he would place a sword between them when they made camp for the night. That way, he was close enough to keep her safe, but he'd sworn to her -- and to himself, I guess -- that he wouldn't take advantage of the situation."

"So the sword's there for the woman. She can use it as a weapon if he breaks his word."

"Well -- I never thought of it that way before. But I suppose she could." The young man looked down at the illustration; his fingers brushed reverently along the edges of the page, and Irina suspected she had found another lover of old books. "Besides, in the story, the king loves both Tristan and Isolde. He trusts them because he loves them. In some versions, he knows that they've betrayed him, but he pretends to believe otherwise instead of giving them away. The love matters more than the betrayal."

"You're a student of literature, then."

"No." He held up his own book. "Aviation engineering. But I did the usual lit courses in undergrad, in the States." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "I'm John Leary. I moved to Moscow this summer."

"Irina Derevko." She didn't offer her hand, in order to see if he would do so instead. He didn't, though she was fairly sure he wanted to. "You grew tired of the capitalist system? You decided to join us here and rid yourself of Western corruption?" As much as possible, she kept the acidity from her voice.

"No." A small smile creased John's face. "You have me confused with the other American, one of my roommates. Gary tacks postcards of Lenin on the wall and stares at them at night -- like Lenin was a pin-up girl."

It was Irina's turn to laugh, and to be surprised by it. She hadn't expected an American expatriate to be so frank. After all, you never knew when you would meet a KGB agent. "Then why did you come here? You could study aviation engineering just as well in America."

"I was always curious about life here. After the latest round of fighting in Vietnam, I didn't want to live in the United States for a while. I wanted -- perspective. Different ways of living and thinking. So I came here."

"You'll have a hell of a time going back, if you ever want to."

"Maybe that's why I chose the Soviet Union. So I couldn't just drop everything and go back the first time it got difficult. Sometimes it's worth it, to burn a few bridges."

Only an American could move to Moscow for something as banal as a lifestyle change. Then again, she liked what he'd said about burning bridges. Sometimes she longed to burn a few.

Could he be an American agent? she wondered. But she dismissed the thought almost automatically. Students' backgrounds were thoroughly vetted before they ever received clearance to emigrate. No, this one was a wanderer. But even halfway around the globe from his home, John Leary seemed like a man who knew his place in the world.

She liked that too.

"We should go to a cafÈ tonight," Irina declared. "I can tell you what you need to know about Moscow life. And you can tell me about America."

John looked startled, and Irina wondered if the magazines she'd studied, the ones that told American girls it was now acceptable for them to ask men for dates, had been lying. But then he nodded and smiled. "That would be -- great. Where should I call for you?"

"Call for me? That's an old-fashioned custom, isn't it? Especially in America."

"I'm not that old-fashioned," he said, and it sounded like a promise. She liked that best of all.

Quickly she jotted down her address; he didn't sound wholly confident when he said he knew where it was, but she decided he'd find it eventually. "I'm looking forward to it," he said. "It gets old, staying in the dormitory with the guys."

Irina didn't echo the sentiment; she wasn't sure of the nature of her own interest in him, and she didn't intend to let him be any less uncertain than she was herself. "I'll see you tonight, John."

He paused. "I go by a nickname, usually. Most people call me Jack."

"Jack," she said, and smiled.

**

The KGB had broken their word about her overseas assignment, but they had at least allowed Irina to stay in Moscow and keep the privileged housing she'd been granted on her graduation from the Academy. She'd grown up in Leningrad, where Mama, Papa and Elena still lived in cramped quarters with Mama's parents; as much as she loved them all, Irina did not miss sharing a single bedroom with them, not in the slightest. Now she now lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a Stalin Tower -- her paternal grandparents shared one room, and she and Katya had the other. Katya was forever out and about with her friends, which meant that Irina sometimes had hours, even a whole night, when the bedroom was her space alone. The quiet was strange and even unsettling, but Irina was determined to get used to it.

Her sister was out that night, which was good. Irina needed to borrow Katya's short black skirt, which would be so much easier if she didn't actually have to ask Katya first.

Silly, she told herself, to go to the trouble of changing for an evening with a man you hardly know. A very average-looking sort of man, one you'll probably never see again. And where are the earrings Mama gave me?

Jack arrived on time, his Moscow navigation skills stronger than she'd thought. He complimented her on her appearance in only the simplest words, but she saw the way his gaze swept quickly down her bare legs. The poor man even managed to make some polite conversation with Dadushka and Babushka, who glared at him as though he were every capitalist oppressor ever born. 

Irina could have taken him to one of the better cafes, one she had the privilege and money to enter; however, doing that would have broadcast her preferred status. Perhaps Jack was not yet familiar enough with Soviet society to pick up on that instantly, but he was smart enough to figure it out, she thought. Instead, they went to a cramped place almost wretched enough to be frequented by Katya and her friends. But the coffee was strong, and they had a view of the street and the river, and before very long, Irina was having fun.

"Tell me more about the other American, Gary, I think you said."

"He's spent the last few years dreaming of becoming a real Soviet revolutionary. Before that, he told me, he wanted to be a priest. When he was a teenager in Oklahoma, he tried to join a local tribe of Cherokee. Apparently they said no. Can't imagine why."

"How lucky we are to have him. How many other roommates do you have?"

"Two, both Russian. Nikita is -- quiet. I can't say that I know him yet." Jack sipped his coffee, and Irina wondered if he'd already realized that Nikita was the agent assigned to keep his eye on Jack and Gary. Probably he did, and had the good sense to keep his mouth shut about it. "Oleg is an actor. He talks with his hands --" he gestured broadly, by way of demonstration, "and he always wants to run scenes."

"From the play he's working on?"

Jack 's mouth twisted in the gentle half-smile she'd already learned to like. "From any play he could ever imagine working on. I've already acted Horatio and Vanya and, well, Nora."

She didn't try to disguise her mirth. "Nora? From 'A Doll's House'?"

"I didn't say I was good at it." Jack started laughing at the same moment she did. He had a good laugh, an even better smile.

That moment, for whatever reason, froze in her mind, as unchanging and distinct as a photograph, but with sound and sensation and smell, too. She could hear the clink and clatter of plates and glasses, the low murmur of cafÈ conversation; could smell the fragrant coffee and the char of cigarettes; could feel the battered wood of the table beneath her hands. She could see Jack's smile, and the expression in his eyes as he looked at her.

Careful, she thought. You're well on your way to an infatuation. That's the last thing you need, least of all with an American. Your superiors won't be happy.

Then again, the perversity of it only made it more appealing.

After the cafÈ, they strolled along the river boulevard; it was a warm night for late September, which was, she told herself, the reason they took their time. Jack talked to her about holidays he'd taken in Maine and Florida and New Mexico. Although he chose his words carefully -- she could already tell that he was a man who said very little he did not mean to say -- Jack described each place vividly. Irina could imagine herself wandering along a rocky path lined with evergreens, eating a lobster roll; lying on white sands that radiated the sun's heat even in February; brushing her fingers against desert rocks that were striped purple and coral and gold. New Mexico lingered in her mind most of all; she'd dreamed of going there her entire life.

But the more she thought about it, the less it pleased her, and the more it began to grate at her-- the idea of herself, alone and free in the wide-open desert. That could have been hers. That should have been hers. Instead, what did she have?

Footnotes and translation and the scribblings of a forgotten mystic.

"Irina?" Jack's steps slowed as he studied her face. "You look -- are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said shortly. The spun-glass splendor of the evening's mood had shattered in an instant. "I should get back. Babushka will give me no end of trouble if I'm late." This was a lie -- her grandmother would moan about the decaying morals of youth even if Irina had returned before sundown -- but Irina could take no further pleasure in the company of an American who'd abandoned the future she'd been denied.

Jack didn't ask questions or protest. "Do you want me to walk you there?"

"No need. And it would take you far out of your way." Although he didn't visibly react, Irina could tell he was confused and dismayed. She didn't blame him, poor lost American with the funny ears. Probably he thought he'd been doing well. Irina took pity on him and leaned forward to give him a quick kiss.

Their lips brushed against each other lightly, so softly that it should barely have been a kiss. But Irina felt the touch rush through her like a shot of strong vodka -- warming her throat, glowing in her chest, making her aware of her pulse along every inch of her skin.

Jack's hands slid around her waist, pulling her in close. Irina opened her mouth against his, brushing her tongue against his lips, tasting him deeper and deeper as he responded. His hair was coarse against her palm as she held him there, his face to hers, willing the kiss not to stop. In only a matter of seconds, she had gone from dismissing him to wanting him -- no, she thought dazedly, needing him. And the urgency in his kiss, the surprising strength with which he crushed her to his chest, told her that Jack was reacting the same way. 

I can't control this, she thought. I must control this.

She broke off the kiss, turning her face away even as she moved deeper into his embrace. "I told you," she whispered. "I really must go." Hopefully, Jack would take it as coquetry; as he leaned back, she managed a flirtatious smile.

Jack, she thought, would probably protest or at least try to kiss her again; most men would. But Jack wasn't most men, she realized, as he brushed two fingers along her cheek, then slowly let her go. "You were going to tell me what I needed to know about Moscow life," he said softly. "Maybe next time?"

"I think you know what you need to know," she said, and now her smile was real. "You -- I don't think you miss much."

"No," he said. "I want to see you again."

"We're in the same university." Irina tucked her hair behind her ear and turned to go.

"Then I'll find you."

"I'll find you," she corrected him, over her shoulder. Irina meant for it to be a brush-off, but she suspected she'd fooled him no better than she'd fooled herself. She knew, despite her reaction to him, and because of it, she would find Jack Leary again.

**

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