June 8, 1980

Irina's desk was three feet by four feet. A very fine size, she thought, for a prison cell.

Piled high atop it were papers, papers and more papers - emigration requests, one and all. They were all from Jewish families, all claiming that they wanted to go to Israel. What Irina, the Jews and everyone else knew was that they would all fly as far as Austria, then take off for wherever they wanted to go in the world. Most of them would go to America. She wondered how many of the people whose names lay on the desk in front of her would someday see the New Mexico desert.

Her vitally important job was to make sure that none of the names corresponded with a list of those the KGB wished to watch, or their known aliases. As none of these people were fool enough to try to emigrate under their true names, or known aliases, Irina was essentially killing time. She had a formula to fulfill, a certain fraction to approve and another, larger fraction to deny, and she did it, stamping papers almost at random. In the same room were another dozen bureaucrats - a hateful word, and the only word for her, any more - who did the exact same thing, each of them with near-identical stacks of paper on their own desks. Sometimes Irina thought it looked as though each of them was building a funeral pyre.

"Just for a short time," Savitsky had said, his mustache bristling as he gave her an oily smile. "A year or so. Just until you are used to your new duties." Someday, he'd informed her, she might even be entrusted with a key to the copier. That was real responsibility.

This was her punishment. So be it. It demanded none of her mental energies, and therefore left her mind free to consider, and evaluate and plan.

Irina's first and most important goal: Reconnect with Rambaldi's work, through whatever means possible. She did not yet know which nation had taken the information; America seemed the most likely candidate, but she'd have to do some digging to get that information. When she knew for certain, she'd know more about her next steps.

I have skills, she thought: languages, photographic memory, fighting techniques, tactics, strategies, technological knowledge. Some of these were rusty, but Irina felt that they still lay within her, waiting only for practice and use to shine again. The KGB had no more interest in utilizing those skills, but that didn't mean that others wouldn't.

Others. Nobody in the Eastern Bloc, certainly; the Soviet grip would be too tight, and she doubted any of them were the recipients of Rambaldi's work. But Irina had spent the earliest part of her career thinking about the world beyond those borders, and she began to do so again. She couldn't go to the nation that actually had the Rambaldi work; they'd be looking out for her, undoubtedly, and she preferred the advantage of surprise. No, she'd need another base of operations.

Naturally, the United States government would be interested in the talents and knowledge of a KGB agent; so, for that matter, would be the French, the British, the West Germans and the Chinese. All of them had the money to make a transfer worth the risks; all but the Chinese offered a lifestyle she wouldn't mind trying. But the thought of handing her fealty over to another government stung, coming so soon after the betrayal she'd suffered from the U.S.S.R.

No, Irina decided, not another government. I am done being a plaything for the state, any state.

Time to think about the private sector. But wouldn't she just be another plaything there? One even more subject to the personal whims and tempers of her masters than she would be in government work?

Then she thought: Not if I'm the master.

"It's getting late, dear," said Tasya, a round-faced older woman who labored at the desk next to Irina's. She'd explained cheerfully that she had worked in this office for 29 years. "Didn't you say you needed to leave on time?"

"Yes, I do. Thank you for reminding me." Irina quickly began tucking her things into her briefcase.

"What's the occasion? Something with your daughter?"

"Valentina's spending the evening in her aunt's care. My husband and I are going out." The thought should have lifted her spirits more than it did.

"My Vladimir should be more like your Jack. He'd take me out of the house if it were on fire, and that's about it. Where are you going? Dinner?"

"The opera - 'Dido and Aeneas.' Our friend Oleg's wife is a costume designer for the Kirov, so we were able to get seats."

Tasya smiled. "Aren't you the lucky one?"

"That's me," Irina said, glancing down at another sheet of paper stamped DENIED. "I'm the lucky one."

**

On the balance, Irina thought she enjoyed opera.

The stories, of course, were just the sort that annoyed her most: one set of star-crossed lovers after another. They always thought love and fate would save them; they were nearly always wrong, and then they acted happy to be dying for their follies.

But the music - oh, she loved the music. This was more than singing; these were people doing battle with their own limitations, working to soar above the usual measure of what voices could do. When the thought of that struggle mingled with the extraordinary, the thrill of it would wash through Irina, as physical and as overwhelming as any passion.

It was best, Irina thought, when the operas were not in Russian. That helped her ignore the plot.

Just before the house lights went down, Oleg leaned into their aisle, a grin on his face. "Ah, nothing inspires the appreciation of fine art like free tickets."

"That's always the best way," Irina said, then gave Oleg a kiss on his furry cheek. He had long been a favorite of hers; she admired his humor, pitied him his ill-tempered wife.

"The company is going out for drinks after the show. Why don't you two join us? Just like old times, hah?" Oleg's eyes twinkled. "Except nobody is going to let you two onstage again."

Jack's jaw dropped. "You told him about that?"

Irina and Oleg shared a humorous glance at Jack's expense. "How can he still be shy, after years of marriage to you?"

"I've done my best." Irina had little desire to go out for drinks with any group that included Oleg's wife. She'd always been fond of Raisa, but foolish Oleg had married Galine instead. When Jack asked her once why she disliked Galine, she'd replied that Galine was obstinate, outspoken and blunt. Jack had commented that Irina's attitude was very ironic. The sexual drought she had imposed as punishment had lasted for two weeks.

On the other hand, she could use a stiff drink.

Interpreting her ambivalence correctly, Jack said, "We've had a long day. Catch up with us after the show, and we'll decide about going out then." The lights began to dim, and Oleg nodded as he hastily made his way to his own seat. Irina smoothed the skirt of her long gray dress and settled in for the performance.

"Dido and Aeneas" was in English; Irina could have followed that closely if she tried, but she didn't try. Instead, she held Jack's hand in hers, absent-mindedly brushing her fingertips against his as she continued refining her rudimentary plan.

She was far from the only disaffected agent within the KGB; speaking about such discontent was dangerous, but creating situations in which others might speak of it - that could be arranged. In other rooms of the office building where she now worked were files that might be of interest. Disgraced agents, reprimanded agents, others who, like her, were no longer allowed to operate at the top of their potential. Some of those would have worked outside the Soviet Union. They would have other resources and knowledge. Contacts. All of that could be useful.

As the queen sang a welcome to Aeneas and his shipwrecked sailors, Irina felt as though she could see her future shifting in front of her, the horizon liquid and brilliant, like the sea at dawn. All these resources had been lying around her all the time, she realized. She'd lacked only the reason to draw upon them. And nothing held her back but -

Irina squeezed Jack's hand. He half-turned to her and smiled, then faced the stage again. She kept studying his profile, imagining the way he'd laughed earlier that night when he let Valentina try, and try, and try to tie his necktie for him.

No, she didn't have to lead this safe, dull, confined life much longer. But could Jack and Valentina lead the new life she envisioned? Could she ask that of them?

Only one way to know, she finally decided.

While Dido and Aeneas sang of their newly discovered love, Irina quietly fished around in her purse for a pen and paper. Jack stole a glance her way, but she waved him off. This was as well done in writing, which could be destroyed; speech was temporary, but so easily overheard.

In English, she wrote: I Can't Take My Work Much Longer.

The piece of paper was easily dropped onto his leg. A few moments later, Jack tapped her hand, allowing her to surreptitiously hand off the pen. Irina was, as ever, grateful that she had a husband who could take a hint.

The answer came: I Wondered If You Were Ready To Make A Change.

Irina was glad for her training, because it let her conceal her surprise. Jack knew that people simply did not leave the KGB. For him to have realized that she was willing to make a break and strike out on her own - to take on all the sacrifices and danger that would entail - was astonishing. But then, she thought, who knew her better? She gave him a little smile, as though their notes were merely flirtation.

She continued: It Would Be Dangerous.

Another transfer of the paper and pen, but it took Jack longer to respond this time. Finally, he wrote: I'm Prepared For That.

Her foolish love. Was he really counting on his one little secret to save them? She finally wrote the words she'd been wanting to tell him for eight years:

Jack, You Must Realize That I Have Always Known You're With The CIA.

He read the note without his face changing expression in the slightest; Irina was both surprised and impressed at his control. But he could not take the pen from her, could not even look her straight in the face. He was shocked, of course. No wonder. Irina wrote another few lines to explain: The Work You Do - It's Trivia, Jack, And You Know It. Popular Songs And Public Mood. The KGB Has Watched You From Your First Week Here. They Don't Consider That Kind Of Thing A Risk; That's Why I Was Allowed To Marry You. The Danger I'm Talking About Is On Another Order Altogether.

For some reason, this disquieted Jack more than her earlier words. He covered his face with his hand for a moment, then stared at the stage, as though nothing could engross him more than the story now unfolding. Irina realized he would need more time to grasp what she'd revealed, so she leaned back in her seat and absently scratched lines and more lines through every word they'd written so far, cross-hatching them beyond legibility. After the opera, she'd burn the paper.

She was the one who had reported Jack to the KGB all those years ago; Nikita Ilchenko had received a severe dressing-down when she beat him to the punch. The more she'd known of Jack - his intelligence, his reserve, his uncanny memory - the more she'd asked herself what secrets he might have. One day in April, she'd followed him to Leninsky Gory and retrieved the document he'd dropped; when she'd read the cultural reports, minor and trivial as they were, she had wanted to laugh for joy. Down deep, Irina had known he had a secret - but this secret was so easy to contain and control. The KGB, pleased with her vigilance and assured of her loyalty, had left Jack in place and allowed her to marry him. Informing on Jack had been the right move, but she'd always felt a little irrationally guilty about it. She was grateful to finally have that off her conscience.

When the lights came on at intermission, all around them people rose and stretched and chatted. She and Jack sat next to each other, still not speaking a word.

Finally, he took her hand again. His voice was scratchy as he whispered, "I love you."

"And I love you." Irina kissed his fingertips. How much could she get away with saying in public? She ventured, "I know it's difficult, hearing things you don't want to hear. You may not believe me, but it's harder to say them."

Jack laughed, a sound so unlike his usual chuckle that it frightened Irina - more than any of the risks and dangers she'd considered all day. "I believe you." He kissed her then, a lingering kiss that was almost improper for the opera house; it felt less driven by desire than by desperation. Irina wondered if he was catching that from her.

They kept holding hands, saying nothing, until the house lights were down again. The gods began singing to Aeneas, urging him to return to his kingdom, as Jack kissed her palm.

Did Jack realize how much she was keeping from him, even now? Irina knew he couldn't have suspected the scale of the operation she now envisioned; the size of it would have astonished her, only a few weeks ago. But nothing smaller would do. You needed networks, nations, scope, reach. That was what was needed in this world, to be a master and not a slave.

Besides, the stronger she was, the safer her family would be.

Jack could be a part of this, of course. He had some CIA training; they'd never made him a top-level operative, but Irina was now convinced that was their error. Her husband had physical strength, intelligence, self-control - all traits that could serve him well in her new enterprise. If she taught him what he needed to know, she thought he would end up being a valuable asset. Katya, too. Once, long ago, when Katya had revealed her own dreams about the KGB, Irina had laughed at them; now that they were both adults, Irina could see that Katya would have been good at the work. She was smart, capable, balanced and driven; what had looked like triviality in a girl was now evident as a adult's vitality. Would Katya consent to come along? Irina suspected that she would. They could all do this together, as a family, sure of each other's abilities and loyalty.

You're trying to justify this to yourself, Irina thought. Can you do that? Be sure. Once you begin, there is no going back. Not ever.

Aeneas sailed away, and Dido sang her lament, a song so thrilling that Irina could forgive the woman for dying of a broken heart. No matter how foolish the cause, no death could be ignoble that sounded so glorious. She even found herself listening to the words, and liking them:

Remember me, but ah! forget my fate.

Jack squeezed her hand, and Irina smiled a little. Her husband was the sentimental one.

When the applause was over and the house lights rose, Jack put his arm around her shoulders. "Let's go home," she said quietly. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Irina -" Jack said, clearly uncertain what to say next, or even how to begin.

Just when she thought he would speak, Oleg came up to them, beaming and proud. "Fantastic, wasn't it? See, Irina, I told you that you'd enjoy it, tragedy or no."

"You were right, as usual." Irina smiled at him to keep herself from groaning aloud. At this moment, the last thing she wanted to do was go out drinking. But she also had no desire to sit up with Katya and Valentina for a couple of hours while she and Jack wished desperately to speak in privacy. Best to use the opportunity. "Jack, you should have a drink with the company. I'll go home and tuck Valentina in."

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but she could see him realizing her purpose even before he spoke. Valentina would talk less and go to bed more quickly if she only had one parent home, not both; for that matter, Katya would be more likely to accept a quick version of the evening and turn in herself. "Good idea," he said, as easily as though that was what he'd meant to say in the first place.

She touched his cheek briefly, then left on her own.

On the way home, she was doubly glad Jack wasn't with her; the combination of solitude and the quiet clacking of the Metro rails helped her to think, and she wanted to have thought through as much of this as possible before she spoke to her husband. No doubt he would find this shocking enough as it was, and the only way she'd be able to convince him that she was speaking reason was by making her case in detail.

How long would it take her to begin? Weeks? Months, more likely. Even in a best-case scenario, it was unlikely she'd be able to assemble a reliable core group in less time than that. Also, they'd need money to leave the USSR. To get money, they would need to trade information, which meant making contact with those who would want the information.

Plans whirring in her mind like clockwork gears, Irina rode the elevator upward. Only when she reached their floor did she realize that something was horribly wrong: The entire floor was perfectly silent. Nobody was arguing or laughing or shouting. No children could be heard anywhere.

Irina's hair rose on her head. Her hands balled into fists. The instincts telling her to run were outweighed by the instincts that wanted to find her daughter. Now.

If anyone is in there, they've already heard the elevator, Irina thought. Best to go in and be ready.

She walked through her front door. Five KGB agents stood in her darkened kitchen, guns at the ready. Five - too many to fight. The light from the hallway fell upon Katya sitting on Valentina's little bed, tears running down her bruised face; Irina knew her sister had been forbidden to scream out a warning.

Where was Valentina?

Savitsky stood near her sink; apparently he had been helping himself to a glass of their vodka. "Comrade Derevko," he said, as easily as though they were at the office. "I had hoped you would not be late."

In her heart, Irina wondered if they could read her thoughts, if they were arresting her for crimes she had not yet committed. In her mind, she knew that for nonsense, and determined to remain calm, no matter what. She squared her shoulders. "What do you want with me?"

"Always arrogant," Savitsky said. "It would never occur to you to ask who we were here for. You think it would have to be you. But you're wrong."

The agent's gun slammed into her gut so fast she couldn't tense her muscles to shield the blow, so hard that Irina crashed back into the wall. Then he struck her again at her temple, harder than before. The force of it wrenched a cry from her; she fell limply to the floor, her stomach cramping and her vision blurred.

As she gasped for breath, mind whirling, Savitsky walked closer, so that he loomed over her. "I have only two questions for you, Comrade Derevko."

"Go to hell."

"That pleasure will be yours, I think. But only after you tell me - where is your husband?"

Irina stared up at him. Her muscles clenched, and her head reeled, and the world seemed to be turning upside down. Savitsky leaned closer and asked his second question:

"Where is your child?"

**

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