June 2, 1973

Jack unfolded his pen and paper, ready to begin the third and - ideally - most visible layer of his CIA work for the day.

The second layer, the cover for his cover, he had executed a few hours ago, depositing a packet of (clumsily encrypted) notes into a designated drop spot in Leninsky Gory. When the KGB intercepted them, they would find talk about some unrest among the students with no real names attached, Jack's interpretation of what was between the lines in the last several issues of Pravda, and some notes on the workings of a utility plant that might actually be useful to the CIA, if they were ever allowed to read it. The rest was noise. Jack had included some griping about the unceasing surveillance of Nikita Ilchenko, for good measure; he figured it might earn Nikita some points at work, as well as suggest that the current level of surveillance was more than sufficient.

The third layer - the transfer of information on his real mission - had taken place immediately afterward. After his visibly furtive trip to Leninsky Gory, Jack had gone back and casually taken notes in the library for a couple of hours. A few of those notes had been invisibly slipped into an aviation text in French, one that hadn't been assigned by a professor in years and was now a decade out-of-date. Those notes (skillfully encrypted) read, in part:

"At some point within the previous three months, Derevko has been granted far greater access to top-level work on Rambaldi. As yet, definite proof is lacking, but the pattern of facts suggest that this access includes information about The Telling. Derevko has not yet made specific disclosures, but she has on several occasions hinted that she wishes to do so. She has also made reference to the fact that she, specifically, is believed to be the woman spoken of in one of Rambaldi's prophecies. This superstition is of less strategic importance, but may shed significant light on the direction of the Soviet work. It is my belief that, until very recently, Derevko did not know the specific contents of the prophecy, but that she now does. If past behavior is any indication, she will reveal the full prophecy within the next few weeks."

It was nothing but the truth, and yet Jack knew it was also a lie.

At this moment, sitting on front steps of the university, he prepared to write yet another letter to "Aunt Claudette." This was meant to be nothing but a lie even the Soviets didn't have to believe, banal words meant to reflect a generic romance, a letter that probably nobody would ever bother to read - and yet, now, Jack knew he was telling a deeper truth.

"You asked if I'm serious about Irina, and I guess it's past time I told you that I am. More than serious. I'm in love with her. I thought I'd been in love with girls before, but I hadn't been, not really."

("When you think of the future," Irina had said, "are you ever afraid?" Her dark hair had been whipping across her face in the wind, but she hadn't shouted so that her voice would carry over the howling. She'd whispered instead, shaken either by the prospect of being overheard or by the words themselves. Nothing ever made Irina afraid, and it was at that moment Jack knew: She'd learned about The Telling.)

Jack tried to concentrate on the air-mail stationery, on the pen in his hands. He squinted as the summer sun glinted off the metal clip.

"In fact, you should be the first to know - I'm going to ask Irina to marry me. I don't know for sure if she'll say yes, but I think she will."

("I thought the worst thing in the world was feeling powerless." Irina had been standing at the riverbank, holding a fallen branch upright in her hand as though it were a spear. "Maybe it isn't. Maybe the worst thing in the world is feeling powerful. Knowing that you have the power to destroy."

"Not all power is the power to destroy."

Irina had smiled bleakly. "But what if it is?")

"Aunt Claudette, I know what you're going to say, so let me say it for you. Yes, if I marry Irina, that means I'll live my entire life in the Soviet Union. I'll probably never come back to America again. But I was prepared for that before I ever left. I know you didn't agree with my reasons then, but I have different reasons now. Better reasons. My love for Irina is more important than anything else in my life, then, now, or in the future."

("I see how they look at me. They want to use me, and they're just trying to figure out a means of doing so without letting me know how, or why." Irina had let her head fall on his shoulder as they sat on a bench in Gorky Park; he had stared at their hands, clasped together tightly, the whole time she'd spoken. "There are so few people I can trust, Jack.")

Jack took a deep breath and finished the letter, sending love to the aunt he didn't have. Then he mailed the letter and went back to his dormitory room, to lie in his bunk and wonder how the hell he could stop feeling like complete slime. Even Gary would be better company than his thoughts.

**

The next day was Saturday, brilliant and sunny, hot even by Virginia standards. Jack rose early to ride out to the dacha with Irina. He'd learned to enjoy these getaways, even if they did involve spending hours digging in the ground with a spade. In the Soviet Union, a country house wasn't just a KGB perk or an opportunity to get away; it was land, on which food could and would be grown. But Jack didn't mind the outdoor work. The countryside was beautiful and inviting in its own right, especially now with the trees in full bloom.  On another level, he liked the idea that he was helping to provide for Irina and her family; absurd as it seemed, the CIA had sent him halfway across the world in part to learn how to be a farmer, and he was learning. Most appealing of all: The dacha was cozy and comfortable, a century-old structure with an honest-to-God thatched roof, a fireplace, two rooms -- and a wide, soft bed. No day of work was so tiring that it discouraged them from spending a few hours making love in it before they returned to Moscow.

But today, he and Irina rode out to the countryside in almost complete silence.  All around them, people were laughing and joking and even singing; they were drawn and quiet, hardly even looking at each other. Once they were finally alone at the dacha, and began working in the field, weeding around the tomato plants and onions, they talked a little, but only about the tasks at hand. Jack realized that any observer would believe they'd been fighting, and his heart was as bruised as thought they had been.

He was lost in his guilt, and she was lost in the burden of knowledge that apparently had a weight too great to bear.

Jack longed to know what it was that could hurt her so terribly, what in the world could do this to someone as strong as Irina. But asking her would fulfill his duty to betray her.

In the early afternoon, he spiked down into the earth with his spade; it hit a rock and jarred sideways, slicing into his thumb. "Dammit," he swore, lapsing into English.

Irina lifted her head; her heavy dark hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, but a few sweaty tendrils stuck to her forehead and temples. "Let me see."

He held out his hand for her. She winced in sympathetic pain, then pulled a kerchief from her pocket and wrapped it tightly around his hand. A faint line of red showed through the white.  "Thank you," Jack said.

Simple as the moment was, it broke through the unseen barrier between them. Irina sighed, as though she were the one whose pain had been tended to. When she leaned her head against his chest, he rubbed her back with his free hand, feeling the rise and fall of each breath. The air around them was warm and sweet, and the sunlight brought out the reddish glints in her hair, and he stroked his fingers through it to soothe her. Jack thought he had never been anyplace so beautiful.

I have to end this, he thought.

If he instigated a fight - it wouldn't be hard to do, given her current moodiness - Irina might even do the breaking up for him. Stubborn as she was, she'd never come back to him to apologize or work things out; perhaps "never" was too strong a word, but it would only take a month or two for his CIA superiors to become convinced that his assignment had ultimately failed. They'd extract him. By September, he could be back in Washington.

He would break her heart - Jack was not a proud man, but he understood that much of his importance to her. But it would be a normal heartbreak, not unlike any other romance gone wrong. Anyone as beautiful as his Irina would soon have other suitors, more handsome, more prosperous, and unquestionably more honest. He had met her nine months before; in another nine months, she could be happy again, free from the shackles of his love and deceit.

Failing to betray Irina would mean betraying his country. Could he bear to do that?

"I have to tell you something." Irina did not lift her head to meet his eyes.

This is important, Jack thought. Use it. Whatever the hell it is, use it.

"Remember - do you remember how, a few months ago, I told you that there was a kind of - prediction - about me?"

Guilt drove into him again, hard and sharp, for the one moment before duty took over. "A prediction in those old books," he said, answering almost by rote. "That sounds -well, not credible. They're hundreds of years old, you said."

Irina nodded; her hands clutched the thin cotton of his work shirt. "I didn't want to believe in it either. I fought it for years. But then, this spring, I started to see that it was all real. That it all made sense."

"The machines you were telling me about - the advanced ones you've been testing - they're from those books, aren't they?"

"They look like machines the patients would create in a madhouse, and they perform miracles. But Rambaldi - the man who wrote the books was called Rambaldi, and you mustn't ever say that name, promise me - he wasn't just an inventor. He didn't just describe the machines, but specifically how they would work the first time. Rambaldi knew the measurements we would get. One machine, a clock - he said it would sing until the bird's death, and it was chiming the hour when a blackbird flew into the window and broke its neck. The clock stopped that instant."

Jack put his hand under Irina's chin and lifted her face to his. "That's not possible."

"No." She wasn't crying, as he'd feared; instead, she looked manic, almost wild. "Not for anyone who cannot see the future. But Rambaldi could. And he saw me."

"Irina, just tell me - what did he see? What did he say?"

"He saw my face. Or a face that could have been mine. I've seen the portrait, Jack." Irina gulped in a breath before continuing, "And he said - 'This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks, signs that she will be the one to bring forth my works. Bind them with fury, a burning anger. Unless prevented, at vulgar cost, this woman will render the greatest power unto utter desolation.'"

As Jack tried to process what he'd just heard, Irina pushed herself away from him and stood up, staring at the pines on a distant hill. "I've known this prophecy for weeks. I've tried to pretend that, no matter what it was, it couldn't apply to me or to those I loved. But just this moment, when you hurt yourself and I saw your blood - Jack -"

He looked down at his own hand; with the pressure of Irina's hand gone, the cut was bleeding freely again into the kerchief.

"I still don't know how it is that I'm going to render power into desolation, or when. But it isn't hard to see that anybody who's near me when that comes to pass is going to be hurt." Irina turned to face him again, her face as set and determined as he had ever seen it. "So I don't want to be anywhere near you when that comes to pass."

She was doing his dirty work for him. All Jack had to do or say was - nothing, and he would have lost Irina forever. He could tell his superiors the prophecy, have them write it off as the complete bunk it no doubt was, and return home.

Instead, he rose to his feet and faced her. "I can take care of myself."

Irina laughed and brushed her damp hair from her forehead. "Jack. You can't even imagine where this begins, much less how far it goes."

He didn't tell her she was wrong about that; the truth about his background and his mission had never seemed more remote and trivial than it did in this moment, when Irina's vulnerability had been laid bare. At this moment, Jack felt as though he could kill for her, or die for her. Living a lie to stay by her side, to support her through whatever was to come - that was a small sacrifice by comparison. All it cost him was the blood of his own guilt, and he could bear that for Irina.

And if what she said was true, in any way whatsoever, then Jack knew which nation he would trust to protect the woman he loved. Maybe his duty and his heart weren't as divided as he'd thought.

"I don't care where it begins," he said. "Or how far it goes. I'm not leaving you."

"Let me do this," she whispered. "Let me save you."

Jack took her hands in his; blood trickled between their clasped fingers. He said the only thing he could think of: "Marry me."

Irina's dark eyes grew wide. Then she pulled her hands away, her face becoming a mask of anger. "How can you say that to me now?"

"Because I mean it. I want you to marry me." 

"You mean, you haven't heard me at all. You don't take this danger seriously. You're not taking me seriously."

"Irina, no." His protest only made her walk away from him, breathing hard. "That's the last thing I mean."

She made a small, hopeless shrug with her shoulders. "I know. But you don't understand. You can't understand."

"Make me understand. Explain this to me, and to hell with the rules." Jack caught up with her and managed to get her to stop stalking away from him. "Because you're not getting rid of me that easily."

Irina fixed her gaze on the horizon, perhaps only as a way to avoid meeting his eyes. "You must never repeat this."

"Of course not." The lie was purely a matter of instinct; Jack didn't weigh it at all.

"Rambaldi - this prophecy - they think it has something to do with a particular machine of his - his most powerful. Something called 'Il Dire.' The Telling."

Jack should have felt some kind of satisfaction, the realization that his duty to the CIA was finally being fulfilled. But all he could see was Irina's drawn face; all he could feel was her fear. "What does The Telling do?"

"They don't know!" She clenched her fists at her side in impotent rage. "They have bits and pieces, fragments that don't fit together or make any sense. Apparently it can erase memory. Apparently it can destroy the world. Apparently it can travel through time."

"What?" Jack frowned. "How is it supposed to do all of those things? How is it supposed to do any of them? And why?"

Irina shrugged. "Good questions. And that's not there is to it. There's more, and we don't understand what to look for. Only that this impossible machine could potentially be built, and I - Jack, I'm important to it, somehow. They think I'm the one who could make it work."

This sounded like madness, but Irina believed it. He said, quietly, "Maybe you're the one who can stop it from working."

"I'll find out eventually, if Rambaldi's telling the truth. But I don't ever want you to have to know. You know too much as it is."

"I only know that you're going to marry me. Regardless of all of this. I don't care. I just want you to be my wife."

"Oh, don't. Don't." Irina tried to pull her hands away, but Jack held her fast. A tear had made a track down the dust on her cheek, and her pale-blue shirt was streaked with dirt and sweat. Nothing could make her less beautiful. "You don't know what you're saying."

He pulled her closer. "I know exactly what I'm saying." Jack brushed his hand along her cheek, accidentally painting a faint stripe of blood beneath her eye. Every bit of hard-earned discipline he'd ever possessed seemed to have fallen away; he wanted to explain himself, to say things aloud he'd never imagined possible. "I know you, and I know what kind of person you are. I don't believe any -- doomsday prophecy about you."

"Rambaldi saw the future. Don't doubt that."

"I believe you. But I also believe in you. That means - they've interpreted the prophecy incorrectly. The Telling, too. There's something else to it, something more. You'll figure it out. And I'll be here when you do." He took her hands again, and this time she didn't pull away.

"You'd be better off with another girl," she said. Her face was set, but Jack could sense her resolve weakening. "In another place. Back home in the States, far from here."

"There's never going to be another girl. There never has been, not really. I was never somebody who - I didn't think I could feel like this. Fall in love like everyone else."

Curiosity got the better of her melancholy. "Why not?"

"Other people - it's as if they don't know to be scared." Jack had never put that into words before, and the sound of them was strange. But he continued, "Irina, if any of what you've just told me is true, then you need me as much as I need you."

"You're a fool," Irina said. But she was beginning to smile even as tears welled in her eyes. "You should run from me, as far and as fast as you can."

He knew he could answer her by telling her that she was the one who should be running from him. Jack felt another jab of guilt, but he accepted it as a simple necessity. "I won't leave you, no matter what you do. I love you."

They stood like that for a few moments, silent in the garden, hands still entwined. At last she said, "I love you too. You know that."

"I know." They'd never actually spoken the words before, but Jack hadn't doubted her feelings any more than his own. "And whatever battle it is you have ahead of you, you don't have to fight it alone."

She was gazing at him as though she'd never seen him before, as if lost in a kind of wonder. "Jack, I - for you to stand by me - I don't know what to say."

"Say yes. Say you'll marry me."

"Yes."

Irina stared at him, tears still trickling down her cheeks, perhaps almost as surprised to have given the answer as he had been to ask the question. Then she buried herself in his embrace, clinging to him as though he might be swept away at any moment. For a long time they held one another, and Jack's entire world was her warmth, her breath, the beating of her heart against his.

Against his shoulder, she murmured, "If anything happens to you because of me, I'll never be able to endure it."

"Nothing will happen to me," he promised, believing it completely. "Nothing can happen to me now, or to you. Not while we're together."

In the dacha, they undressed slowly, in silence. Jack felt as though he'd never seen Irina before, as though he'd never been seen by her. For the first time, when they made love, there was no battle, no contest of wills. Instead they were slow and careful of each other, their eyes open as they moved together, illuminated by the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Afterward, when she lay on his shoulder, he felt as though they were already married - as though this act itself had made everything complete between them. Maybe it had.

Jack could never abandon her now, and already the idea of leaving her seemed like something from another lifetime. No matter why they had met, or what other work he was there to do, he could love her. It was the only truth they could ever share, and he could give her nothing less.

**

CONTINUED IN PART II: "THE BETRAYAL"

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