December 3, 2002

Moscow, Russia

Jack had read about it in countless magazine articles, even seen it in movies, but nothing had fully prepared him for the sight of a McDonald's in Red Square.

He'd thought it would be startling, returning to Moscow, because of how familiar it would be - how much it would remind him of the life he'd left behind. Instead, Jack found himself thrown off balance by how different it all was. How new. Cars, once rare luxuries, now crowded the streets. Western music blared from radios in stores that were fully stocked with food, bright with labels and advertisements. A roughness to the place remained, a lack of polish; plain cement buildings, monuments to Stalin-era construction, still lined most streets. But he could feel a new energy, a vitality the city had lacked before.

For his own part, he knew he was a far different man than the one who'd come here as a young agent thirty years ago. Instead of blue jeans and brightly colored sweaters meant to broadcast his status as an American, Jack wore a business suit and a black coat - which wasn't really warm enough, he thought, clapping together his tan-gloved hands. He'd forgotten just how early the winters became sharp.

Either Irina had genuinely wanted him to follow her or, in the wake of The Telling's destruction, she'd grown reckless; Jack had been able to track her here with relatively little difficulty. The fashionable riverside apartment listed as the address for her most recent alias was empty, and the landlady said nobody had been home for a few days. He had an idea where to look next, but he wouldn't be able to pursue that particular route until tomorrow.

Jack also had an address for Katya, but he wouldn't pursue that yet. He owed her more of an explanation - and an apology - than she'd received in Iceland. But he'd talk to her only after he'd talked to Irina. He needed his focus now.

So that left him with an evening to explore Moscow, to count all the changes, and find what remained the same.

He returned to the university first; it was changed least of all, still layered with students, laughing and joking, draped over any bench or chair they could find. Jack debated going up to the library, but decided against it.

After that, he walked past the Stalin Tower where his family had lived. A blue curtain hung in what had once been their bedroom window. Did they still have that old elevator? Probably so.

Finally, in late afternoon, Jack decided to take a quick stroll through Gorky Park. Valentina had loved it so much as a little girl - when he thought of her at that age, he could only think of her as Valentina - and he wanted to tell her that he'd visited when he returned.

As easily as though it were yesterday, he found the footbridge she'd always called her fort, the one he'd walked over a thousand times. Smiling faintly, Jack strolled over it once more, looking out into the park where children played and a gray-haired man sat on a bench, reading his paper.

Then the gray-haired man tried to turn the pages, but there was something wrong with his hands --

Jack felt it like a kick in the gut; nausea welled up inside him, but he fought it back. The easiest thing to do right now, and perhaps the kindest, was for him to turn around and walk away.

Instead, Jack stepped forward, his pace measured, his direction deliberate. He studied the man on the bench - gray hair, curly gray beard, round spectacles, and a heavy fur hat that looked just like the one he'd had three decades ago.

Quietly, he said in Russian, "Hello, Oleg."

Oleg looked up, first in polite confusion, then in realization. Jack saw recognition flash in Oleg's eyes, but after that he could read no more. The newspaper fell to the snow-crusted sidewalk, forgotten.

"Jack Leary," Oleg said.

"The last name is actually Bristow. But 'Jack,' that's the same."

"Bristow. I think they told me that. I forgot." Oleg kept staring up at him; he made no effort to rise, either to fight or to flee. He just kept staring up at Jack with the same unfathomable expression. "There's something I've been meaning to say to you for a very long time."

Jack steeled himself. "You deserve the opportunity."

Oleg pushed his spectacles down his nose to stare at Jack over them. "No matter how hard I try -" The gray beard twitched once, as though he were fighting some strong expression he didn't want to reveal. "- I can't accept --that I ever believed - you were a terrible actor."

"What?"

To his astonishment, Oleg began to laugh. "I lectured you on method and motivation. And all the while, you were the greatest actor I ever knew! So good I never knew I was sitting in the front row."

"You're not angry." It was unbelievable, but looking down into Oleg's merry face, there was no denying it was true.

"At you? No, not at you. At least not any longer. After this -" He held up his hands, which were bent into crescents. "I was angry at the whole world for a while. But the people who did this to me? You were their enemy, Jack. I always knew this. If what you did gave them hell, then I'm glad."

Jack sat heavily on the bench next to Oleg. "I'm sorry you were drawn into this. I never meant for that to happen."

Oleg shrugged. "I didn't imagine it had much to do with me. Not unless American intelligence wanted vital information about theatre students."

"My assignment involved Irina." Jack studied Oleg's face, which seemed less aged and more familiar by the moment. "You must have realized that."

"They told me that much." Oleg seemed to be studying Jack in turn; they were an odd pair, sitting on a bench in a park dusted with snow, examining each other so carefully. "Your Russian accent is even better than it was when you lived here."

"My Russian accent was always good. The bad one was part of my cover."

"Accent work! The stage lost its greatest master." How could he have forgotten Oleg's cackling laugh? Maybe he just hadn't let himself remember. "Now, tell me about Valentina. How is she?"

"Amazing. Smart and strong and beautiful. She's getting her graduate degree in literature." Jack couldn't feel any guilt for telling Oleg one more lie, not when it was for Sydney's protection. "And Bronya? Galine?"

Oleg snorted. "Galine, my God. We divorced 16 years ago. Believe it or not, I look better now than I did then. Every day I'm away from her, I grow younger. But Bronya - ahh, she's still my angel. She's a nurse here in the city, married to a good man. In another four months, I'll have my first grandchild. Grandchildren! When did we become so ancient?"

"Speak for yourself." Jack couldn't quite believe the smile spreading across his face; Oleg's presence seemed to call forth the man he'd been when he lived here. Younger, less wise, and desperately confused - but happier.

"Oh, already you're able to make fun. Well, then, you should come to dinner. Meet my new wife, Svetlana. She thinks I invented you, some spy tale to add excitement to my history - as though I would ever exaggerate a story. My son, too - Mikhail, he's 13; you'd get the chance to watch him sulk, and how can you pass that up? Imagine their shock when I walk you through the door." Oleg raised his bushy eyebrows appraisingly. "What about you? A new woman in your life?"

"Well. Interesting question."

"Hmmm. Interesting lack of an answer. I'll give you an out, then. What brings you to Moscow?"

Jack sighed. "That's not an out at all. I'm here to find Irina."

Oleg stared at him over the tops of his spectacles. "Are you armed?"

"Might not be a bad idea." The clouds overhead scudded across the darkening blue sky; Jack hoped it wouldn't storm tomorrow. Country roads were difficult to travel in the rain, more so in the snow. "Irina and I actually worked together during the last year. A lot has changed. I think."

"You don't mind a challenge, do you?" Oleg shook his head. "That settles it. I'm certainly not sending you off to your death tomorrow without a good meal in your belly. And I want to hear more about Irina, but I suspect I'll need to get you a little drunk. You'll have dinner at my home, but first we'll stop in a bar on the way and have a vodka."

"Oleg - thank you. I'm aware I don't deserve this."

"May fate protect us against the day when we all get what we deserve."

Jack had to look back up in the sky for a moment, anywhere but at Oleg's face. "Still friends, then."

"Always." Oleg stumbled to his feet; when Jack realized that his ruined hands didn't allow him to grab the armrests, he quickly rose and helped. The sight of Oleg's hands - cramped into claws, clearly almost useless - cut Jack deeply, and for a moment he struggled to find something to say. But Oleg simply chuckled. "When we get to the bar? You're buying."

**

Jack had not traveled the road to the dacha in twenty years, but he knew the way. He felt as though he were being guided there, as if he were following a compass that pointed toward home.

Other country houses had sprung up in the area, new and modern - he'd even seen one with a hot tub in the back - but the Derevko dacha was the same. The thatched roof had somehow withstood another two decades of rain and ice; a thin trail of smoke rose from the chimney, blackening the gray-white sky.

And in the back, a lone figure was busy chopping wood.

As soon as he opened the door of his rental car, Jack heard the swish of the axe through the air, the thunk of splitting wood. She hadn't paused in her task for a second. No doubt she'd guessed who her visitor was.

His breath puffed out in trails of white vapor as he made his way to the back of the house. Irina was bundled up in a red plaid coat, black work pants and heavy boots; her hair was yanked back in a businesslike bun. She didn't turn her head toward him as she placed another log on the chopping block. "Hello, Jack."

"You haven't changed this place. I'm glad."

"Actually, we did install indoor plumbing." Irina hefted the axe up, then slammed it down, splitting another log into kindling. "A change for the better, I'm sure you'll agree."

Jack wondered how long she would act casual. Probably as long as it entertained her, which could be forever. "No arguments there."

It felt as though it had been far longer than a month since they'd been together. To Jack, it seemed as though the two decades he'd spent away from this dacha had settled between them, dividing them, like the wedges of snow that outlined the windowpanes. But the setting was becoming more familiar to him all the time. He had to hope the same would be true for her.

Irina swung the axe hard into the chopping block so that it stuck fast and began stacking up the firewood. Her boots crunched on the ice-crisp ground. "How is Sydney?"

"She misses you," he said, then added, "Sometime this week, she's going into the CIA to offer her services as an agent."

"What?" Irina jerked her head around to glare at him, and Jack was glad she no longer had the axe. "Sydney doesn't need to remain a part of this world."

"Personally, I agree with you. But it's not our decision."

"You could have talked her out of it."

"Yes, whenever I tell Sydney to jump, she asks how high. It's always just that simple."

Irina steepled her hands in front of her face, clearly working to maintain calm. "I'm going to talk to her about this."

"Good luck," Jack replied, meaning it. "Were you planning on asking why I'm here?"

"Were you planning on telling me?"

Obviously he was going to have to do all the work here, at least at first. Only fair, Jack supposed. "I wanted to find you," he said simply. "You made it easy enough."

Her soft laugh surprised him. "I thought I'd know what I wanted when I saw you again." Irina's eyes met his, only for a moment. "I prepared for you to find me. I should have prepared an answer for you when you did. I tried, but - well. It's been a confusing month."

"The Telling - I know how difficult that was for you."

She shook her head as she stripped off her work gloves and walked closer. "It was the right choice. I see that now. It's - hard - to accept that we'll only ever have the histories Arvin Sloane made for us. But this is the choice that set Sydney free. Nothing is more important than that."

In the lift of her chin, Jack saw as much courage as he'd ever seen from soldiers in battle. He wanted to touch her hand, her shoulder - just to touch her. But he said only, "It's one thing to understand that. Another to accept it."

"You're right." Irina was studying the horizon now, leaning against the split-rail fence he'd helped her build when Valentina was a baby. He still remembered their daughter dozing on a blanket in the garden while he and Irina sweated and swore and laughed. "But what's past is past. I've spent too much of my life looking backward as it is. No more."

This didn't bode well. Jack knew his role in Irina's past, and that few sane women would choose to make that a part of their futures. "When you look ahead, what do you see?"

"The view changes all the time." 

Time, at last, for him to take the initiative; if she turned him away, at least it would be a resolution. Jack glanced up at the snow-heavy clouds. "I'd like to be a part of it."

She was quiet for a long time after that, not rejecting him, but not accepting him either. He simply watched her. Tendrils of hair that had escaped from her bun tangled in the winter wind, cold and fresh with the scent of evergreens. Irina finally said, "You'll never leave the CIA - especially not if Sydney's there."

"No." His daughter needed him more than ever, and Jack knew that this was Irina's first concern as much as his own. "You could join us. You're one of the best operatives I've ever known; the CIA would be glad to -"

"To forgive me? Thank you, but no." Irina rested her chin in her hand. "I mean to make my own path, from now on."

"You could at least exchange information for immunity. Be free to come and go as you pleased."

"To come and see Sydney. And you. Perhaps." She studied his face carefully. "We've always had lies between us, you and I."

"There's always been truth, too. We just have to find it."

Irina tilted her head. "Truth takes time."

"Then we'll give it time." 

Their eyes met, and he leaned toward her, slowly, expecting her to pull away at any second. But she raised her face to his as he came closer, then brushed his lips against hers. The kiss burned through him, fire in the center of the cold. Their mouths met again, harder this time, and Jack knew - as little as he deserved it, as seldom as he'd dared to dream of it - he'd been given another chance.

When the kiss ended, she breathed out, as though she had been waiting to exhale for a very long time. "Come inside."

Wordlessly, Jack followed her into the dacha, not touching her, not able to do anything but watch her as she led him slowly into the house where they'd spent so much time laughing and cooking and talking and making love.

Silently they went through the motions, stamping the ice from their shoes in the doorway, hanging up their coats. He cast an appraising look around as he pulled off his gloves; this, too, was much the same, from the sweet smell of woodsmoke to the polished pine boards that lined the floor and walls. The kitchen was still a rudimentary affair, a battered old table and a wood stove, but there was a real sink now; on the other side of the half-wall, he could just glimpse the bedroom, and the wide, soft bed where he'd spent so many nights by her side. "I've missed this place."

"I haven't come here in so long." She loosened her hair so that it fell around her shoulders, soft and dark. "It's always been hard for me to be here alone."

He brushed his fingertips against her hand - her hand was so cold, but he could feel his touch warming her. "You're not alone now."

She clasped his fingers in her own, then pulled him toward her. When their lips met, the kiss was gentle, almost sweet. Jack slid his arms around her waist and drew her close; she responded, opening his mouth to his. He kissed her more intensely then, reveling in the taste of her - cool and fresh, like water to a thirsty man. Irina's body trembled in his arms, and he gripped her tighter, anchoring her. But then he realized that she was shaking from more than emotion. The dacha was cold, the glow in the woodstove down to almost nothing. He whispered in her ear, "Let's start a fire."

Irina laughed, then kissed him again, more slowly. "Yes. Let's."

They worked together in wordless harmony, placing logs in the fire, locking the door behind them. Jack found himself focusing on the oddest details: the exact position of his car keys on the table, the way her lips brushed against his forehead as he unlaced her boots, the snap and pop of burning wood as it glowed orange in the fireplace. It all seemed too vivid, too immediate, too real. Surely this had to be a dream, as many nights as he'd longed for her, as often as he'd awoken from dreams of being in her bed - nightmares of losing her, over and over again -

She took his hands and began leading him toward the bed, the same one where they'd spent so many lazy summer afternoons. The only light in the dacha was the soft glow of the fire - enough to keep them warm, enough to see by. Jack took the hem of her heavy gray sweater in his hands and lifted it up and away. Beneath, she wore a simple cotton bra that, at that moment, was the sexiest lingerie he'd ever seen. Perhaps glimpsing the heat in his eyes, Irina smiled, then began unfastening his shirt, working quickly and precisely, as though she were dressing him instead of undressing him, getting him ready. His jacket fell to the floor; her belt slipped through his fingers. They kept going, revealing one another, showing themselves the way they hadn't in years. Jack felt as though he'd never seen Irina before, as though he'd never been seen by her. But even as his need for her grew, Jack realized that they'd still left too much unspoken.

When they were all but naked together, at the last possible moment he could have exercised any self-control, Jack stopped and held her wrists fast. "Irina - I have to know that this isn't just one night."

She cocked her head, her smile contrasting with the sudden shadows in her eyes. "What if that's all I can offer you?" One step brought her so close to him that he could feel the heat of her body against his skin; her breasts brushed against his chest. "Would you say no? Walk away?"

"That's just it." He took a deep breath. "I had to walk away from you once. I don't intend to do it again."

Irina's smile left her lips and lit up her eyes. "I can't see the future any more than you can. All I know for certain is that you and I - we haven't reached our ending yet." She half-laughed, half-sighed. "God help us both."

He pulled her near, winding his hands in the heavy silk of her hair. "I love you," he whispered.

"Dorogoy." All the years they'd wasted and lost had fallen away from her now. "I love you too."

They became lost in their kisses, in their touches, in the sighs they could still win from each other after all this time. He removed the rest of her clothes slowly, reveling in every inch of skin he exposed. How could she still be as desirable as she'd been thirty years ago? She wasn't the same - she was thinner, her muscles harder, her skin painted with lines and shadows that hadn't been there before - but she was still golden and warm, still perfect. Even the marks of time made her beautiful. When Jack ran his hand reverently across her belly, he could feel a few faint ridges and know that they were stretch marks; Sydney had been here, created from them both, sheltered within the body he now cradled in his arms.

Irina ran her fingers down his chest, through hair that had turned steely gray, across skin that bore scars from missions and years she hadn't known. He couldn't imagine that he was as perfect to her as she was to him - it wasn't plausible, not even in the most fevered embers of his mind. But he could tell by the way she dipped her mouth to his chest, the strong strokes of her hands against his thighs, the quickening pulse he felt beneath her skin, that his body still had the power to give her pleasure.

Jack took his time exploring her reactions, discovering the other ways she'd changed. Her sensitive back was still somewhere she liked to be kissed, he learned, as he traced the tip of his tongue down her spine.

Her feet had once been a good place to touch, but she'd grown ticklish; still, it was good to hear her laugh.

And she'd never cared one way or the other about her earlobes before, but he found that now, just drawing one between his lips was enough to make her shiver.

Irina made her own explorations, her hands strong and sure as she tested him. He guided her where he wanted her to go, places he hadn't known he would want; he needed to feel her lips brushing the inner angle of his arm, her hair falling across his belly, her teeth sinking lightly into the skin where his neck met his shoulder. It was so good - anything would be good - all that mattered was that she was here with him.

At last, Irina pushed his shoulders down flat upon the bed, so hard that the feather mattress plumphed beneath him. Jack recognized the light of challenge in her eyes; she meant to conquer him, to make him beg for her, to be the one with the power once more.

He was happy to oblige. But he didn't mean to give in too quickly and spoil all her fun.

As he gripped the wooden bedframe in his hands, she kissed her way down his chest, brushing her tongue against his nipple, down into the hollow of his navel. Her broad palm cupped his balls, caressing him with just enough strength to make him tilt his hips up toward her, wanting more.

"Not yet." Her breath was hot against his belly.

Soon, he thought, shutting his eyes as she began planting slow, wet kisses everywhere but where he most wanted her to go. Please, God, soon.

Irina's tongue darted out, flicking across the shaft of his cock, too quickly. Jack groaned and was rewarded with a soft kiss just at the tip, just where every single nerve ending was on fire for her. He held out as long as he could, but when her tongue darted out again, teasing him, he bucked up toward her, needing her -

And she took him, deep in her throat, in one long stroke. Jack bit down on his lip, then started moving, matching the dip and glide of her mouth, shallow thrusts that provided no real satisfaction but at least let him move inside her, feeling the heat of her all around him.

She began sucking at him gently, a second here, a few more seconds there, never enough. "Irina - please -"

His only reward was a low chuckle that vibrated pleasantly around his cock. Jack could feel the sweat beading up across his chest as he let go of the bedframe and took Irina's head in his hands. He didn't guide her, just felt the movement of her jaw, the tautness of her throat. Irina kept going, giving him the most maddeningly slow blowjob since time began. Jack looked down at her only once. The sight of her, flushed lips curving around him in an O, her eyes meeting his with a teasing directness, was nearly enough to make him come by itself.

Just when he'd begun to accept her tempo, and he felt himself getting so hard it almost hurt, she pulled her mouth away; he slipped from between her lips with a soft, wet pop. The cool air against his cock made him groan, and he grabbed her shoulders to tow her up toward him.

"Now," he said, and it was a plea for release.

"Now," she said, and it was a gift.

Irina straddled him, giving him a view of her entire body, belly and breasts and thighs. Grasping her hipbone in one hand, he used the other to dip two fingers into the soft curls between her thighs. She gasped and gave him an open-mouthed smile as she took his cock in her hand, positioning him just the way she wanted.

And then she sank down upon him, oh, God, yes - that was it, what he'd wanted, what he'd needed. Jack had longed for this moment, to be enfolded within Irina once more, for almost half his life. She lowered her mouth to his, and they kissed hungrily, bodies trembling, lips meeting imperfectly in their eagerness and need.

"I missed you," he whispered against her open mouth.

Irina's eyes brightened with tears, but she smiled. "I missed you too." Slowly she pushed herself upright, changing the angle of their joining, letting him slide deeper into her. Jack breathed out in satisfaction as she raised and lowered herself, moving her hips in a soft circle.

He began moving with her, helping her as she rode him, slow and gentle - then not so gentle. Jack kept working her with his fingers, feeling his reward in the wetness that soaked his hand, in the low sounds she tried to stifle in the back of her throat. "Let me hear you," he whispered, pressing her harder, the way she liked it.

"Jack." His name was all she could say, all he needed to hear. She let her head fall so that her long hair was loose down her back, rippling as she moved. When Jack thrust harder, her breasts trembled, again and again, and he quickly found himself approaching the point of no return.

He stopped caring what he sounded like, what he expected, what the future might bring. Jack kept pumping up into Irina, letting himself groan in pleasure, feeling himself flush hot and cold when she cried out his name in return. Then her pulse was hard against his fingertips, and Irina's cries had no more words, and her contractions fluttered around him as he watched her come -

The world went white, then dark, swallowing him up so that there was no past, no future, only Irina, only now.

Irina shuddered in place atop him for a few more breaths, then sank down upon his chest. Jack somehow managed to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. When at last he had to separate from her, she kept him near, tucking both of them beneath the heavy coverlets so that they were cocooned side by side.

Jack kissed her hair once as he glanced at the window; it had begun to snow, heavy flakes as wide and flat as leaves. He had never been here in winter before, had never imagined how fierce it could be, or how beautiful. Ice prickled across the glass, and the wind buffeted the panes. Nobody would find them or interrupt them, not for days. He smiled, grateful for the gift of time, and kissed her again. "My wife."

"My husband." She stretched languidly beside him, tracing her fingers against his chest. "How did we endure twenty years without that?"

"I have no idea." At this moment, his body still damp with their sweat, it felt as impossible as going twenty years without breathing.

Irina laughed wickedly, wriggling one foot the way she did when she was very amused. "I believe you owe me two decades' worth of good sex, Agent Bristow. Let's see. A conservative estimate would be -" Her fingers tapped against his skin, calculating. "Would you say four thousand orgasms?"

Jack kept his face straight as he considered it, then gravely answered, "I'll need at least a week." Her laughter quieted only after he'd kissed her, over and over, until she had almost lost her breath. He stroked his hands down her back, feeling her breath rise and fall, in thrall to the knowledge that he would fall asleep tonight with Irina in his arms and wake up tomorrow morning by her side.

She murmured, "I can't help wondering -"

"What?"

"The other you, the other me - do you think they ever had this?" Irina's eyes met his. "Do you think they ever found their way back to each other again?"

Jack had considered this question too, during their month apart. But he was no closer to an answer than he ever had been, or ever would be. "We'll never know. Only Sloane could ever tell us, and I wouldn't trust his answer, no matter what it was." Her face darkened at the mention of Sloane, and he quickly kissed her forehead. "But if we got past this, we could get past anything."

She considered that for a moment. "It was hard, forgiving you. I'm still learning to forgive you."

"I know."

"The first Jack - do you think he was able to forgive his Irina? Or do you think he hated his past as much as I hated mine for so long?"

This, too, had haunted him, but here Jack had an answer. "I think that - if he could be with you - the rest wouldn't matter. If he was able to find you again, to love you - I think it would all have been worth it."

"Just like your king." Her words confused him until she snuggled against him and added, "In the story, with Isolde and Tristan. The love matters more than the betrayal."

"Always." Jack folded her body closer to his, willing them never to be any further apart than they were at this moment. "My love."

"My country," Irina whispered against his skin. "My home. My only truth."

**

The End

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