TITLE:          Perovskia "Little Spire"
AUTHOR:         David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY:       S, A
KEYWORDS:       Krycek	
RATING:         PG-13 (language - some coarse, some foreign)
REFERENCES:     Pre-XF
SUMMARY:        The problem with a life free from allegiance is 
                that, wherever you are, you're always on enemy 
                soil. 
ARCHIVE:        Be my guest. Please let me know where, though. 
DISCLAIMER:     His toys, my playground, and all the rides are free. 
                However, you must be at least *this* tall to ride.
FEEDBACK:       dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:        http://www.geocities.com/mattersofbelief
NOTES:          Curious? Perovskia atriplicifolia "Little Spire" -
                http://www.dutchbulbs.com/spring/z31980.74273.html

                Apologies to Deslea, Logan and others for messing
                about in a sandbox in which they've built castles.
****************

"We all have a life in our hands. I have yours. You have Mulder's. 
And Scully has her unborn child. It's who's willing to sacrifice." 
(Dead/Alive)

****************

What Alex remembers is that his mother tried to hide the bruises 
behind black silk scarves and dark sunglasses. To her young child, 
she looked glamorous this way, like a star in the Western films to 
which only the Party elite was permitted. "Ahnamanyanyeh" was as 
close as he could manage at such a tender age. "Ahnamanyanyeh" - 
one word, one name. An actress. A star. He has no direct memory of 
this, of course. Only those rescued from the derisive accounts of 
relatives.

Alex remembers his mother's voice as a sensation, very much like 
a caress. So different from his father's machine-pistol staccato, 
words ripping the air, leaving only the stench of tobacco and 
alcohol behind. Her accent provided such a cultured counterpoint 
to his father's guttural Muscovite drawl that, for a time, Alex 
believed that his mother might actually be a movie star; he hoped, 
quietly of course, that she might be Ahnamanyanyeh.

He recalls but cannot count the number of nights his mother sat 
staring at the grand door to their flat, waiting in vain for his 
father to return home. It is the only time he remembers her warm, 
dark eyes smoldering with bitter, incendiary rage. 

What Alex does not want to remember but cannot forget are the 
nights when his father did come home. Trailing jet fumes and a 
young stenographer from the Ministry pool, tunic gaping open, he 
entered the apartment shouting epithets at his wife, Alex' mother: 
"Guttersnipe!" "Traitor!" "Whore!" Despicable terms that, only 
years after, the young boy would recognize as applicable more to 
the girl and the man than to his mother.

Another night, another steno. His mother holding him, safe behind 
the locked door of his darkened bedroom, listening in terror as 
the old man careered drunkenly about searching for them, shattering 
the last remaining family heirlooms in the process. Reprieve, 
finally, as the old man found a distraction, bellowing his desire 
to the latest comrade in his arms.

Alex remembers a later time when his mother and father came to an 
accord, 'detente' not yet in anyone's vocabulary. The font of his 
father's secretarial pool had evidently run dry. In concession for 
this serendipitous fidelity, father and mother struck a bargain, 
his mother once again assuming the duties of a Russian wife. And, 
for a time, things at home were quieter, even if it was not quite 
peace. All too soon, however, the silk scarves and dark glasses 
returned. With them, a sense of dread settled upon the boy. 

His memories of the events that unfolded are a patchwork testament 
of bravery and bewilderment. One night, he lay awake, awaiting his 
father's return, watching and plotting. Through the cut lace 
curtains, Alex spied his father's Zil gliding up to the front of 
their apartment block, noted the driver lugging his inebriated 
charge out of the back seat and shouldering him into the building. 
Once off the street, Alex knew, the driver would not hesitate to 
dump his father onto the floor of the gilded elevator, push the 
button and be gone. The ride up would be brief, just time for his 
father to sober enough to be dangerous. Alex knew he must act, and 
quickly.

At one end of the great room, his mother stood calmly, waiting. 
Alex expected the ormolu to come flying off the door as his father 
crashed through. Instead, it opened quietly. The man he barely knew 
stood unsteadily in the entryway, taking his bearings. Finding his 
wife precisely where he'd expected, had demanded her to be, he 
moved forward, arms extended like a cinematic monster.

Unnoticed by either adult, Alex charged from the shadows directly 
at the larger man, loosing his most fearsome yell. His father, 
glimpsing just in time the assault of an extremely light brigade, 
brushed the boy aside with the swipe of an arm, brass sleeve buttons 
drawing blood on Alex' cheek. Alex rebounded quickly and set upon 
his father once more. This time, the man's retaliatory strike was 
direct and brutal. Alex was lifted by the collar of his nightshirt 
and flung against a chair, smashing it into birch splinters.

"Alexei!" His mother's scream seemed to come from far away. Then, 
she was kneeling over him, brushing the hair from his face, her 
eyes brimming with concern. Alex remembers struggling to get up, 
determined to find the weapon that would subdue this beast, their 
common enemy.  His mother's concern changed as she watched him 
gather resolve.

"Go to your room, Alex. Don't interfere. This matter is between 
a husband and wife. It is not permissible for a little boy to be 
involved. To your room, miserable mouse. Now!"

To this day, Alex can feel the dizzying confusion, and the 
shattering of his heart. He remembers a cancerous blackness 
welling up inside, directed at his mother. He doesn't remember 
spurning her in retaliation the following day, or the many days 
after that. Only the echo of her sobs that disturbed his sleep for 
far too many nights. He is ashamed not to have recognized them for 
what they were.

After a time, his father found a sturdy peasant girl, one of his 
drivers as it happens, and had little time for a wife. He 
remembers his mother attempting to explain her actions in a way he 
might understand, might accept. He knows now that it came too late 
to his calcified heart. 

Not long after that, he figures, his father took note of the 
estrangement between mother and son and, sensing advantage, 
drew him aside. The elder asked simple questions about his mother, 
planting seeds of doubt, whether she truly cared for him, cared 
for him at all. Once the man had loosened the boy's tongue, he 
asked other, more probing questions, suggesting appropriate answers. 
Alex came to learn of words as tools, weapons if need be, and was 
schooled on three in particular: corruption, collaboration, 
cosmopolitanism.

****************

It is a mercy, albeit a small one, that both memory and hindsight 
are myopic, tending to blur as the distance increases. The 
memories Alex has of the ensuing months are a pastiche of images, 
many of which logic dictates he cannot trust.

Sitting on a great, stone bench in front of impossibly tall 
curtains, flanked by white tree trunks? Fluted columns, he surmises. 
A hallway waiting area that must have seemed cavernous to someone 
only a meter high. He remembers, too, being led down a path through 
a dark olive forest, the trunks towering above, branches craning to 
sneak surreptitious glances at him. Rationally, Alex thinks, the boy 
he was must have understood that these "trees" were actually 
soldiers. Still, the memories that rise from the depths to grasp at 
him are suffocating and nightmarish, even now. He struggles through 
the fog to bring clarity to those long-ago visions. When it comes, 
he's met by the minions of the witch Baba Yaga. A fairy tale. From 
there, it becomes a simple matter to tease the fantasy from reality. 
The judges' podium - a relic replete with inlaid czarist eagles, 
their legs and claws bared - transformed into the hut on fowls' 
legs, the dour-faced presiding judge its bony sorceress. 

He'd outgrown these associations, left, as all childhood tales are, 
packed away and forgotten. But the pitiless years have preserved the 
accompanying emotions undimmed and sharp. Fear blistered his lungs 
then, and steals his breath even now. 

The court, he recognizes it now, waited impatiently for him to 
climb into the witness chair. As he sat, there was a shriek and a 
woman's voice crying out his name. And, suddenly, a commotion and 
admonitions from the bench. He sought but couldn't find the source 
of the trouble. The voice nagged at him, broken but familiar. It 
tugged at his chest and clenched his throat, although for what 
reason he didn't know. The prosecutor stepped in front of him then, 
and provided the settling rhythm of familiar questions. Alex 
answered each one dutifully, smartly. His final answers, just one 
name and one word, annunciated clearly as he'd been drilled to do, 
brought a swell of murmurs from the gallery, silenced only by the 
banging of a gavel. 

He remembers being ushered out through a sea of commotion by two 
guards, one of which gave him a reassuring smile. Relief washed over 
him then. He remembers feeling pleased to have done well. It sits as 
ash in his lungs now.

He was taken directly from the sickly yellow building on 
Dzerzhinsky Square to the Kremlin, and escorted to the suite of 
offices in the Secretariat, where his father presided. The man rose 
formally, and congratulated Alex for his part in punishing a 
counter-revolutionary. Modestly, the child explained that he was 
merely repeating things he'd been taught to say. His father 
interrupted gruffly. Alex owed a lifetime of service to the Party 
and to the motherland, he was told. When, his father challenged, 
did he think he might be man enough to start? Alex puffed his small 
chest out and declared himself ready that instant.  Surprise 
registered slowly on his father's thick features, followed by 
satisfaction. It was only then that Alex noticed his suitcases 
packed and waiting by the door. 

****************

Students at the prestigious Frunze military academy ranged in age 
from a cadet corps of children to beribboned generals sharing and 
honing their craft at the General Staff College. Routinely the 
youngest cadets were assigned tutors, senior in years and, if 
nothing else, political indoctrination. Alex chewed through several 
tutors during his first few months at the school. He grew to learn 
that his mind was sharp, perhaps more than most, and that, in those 
instances where he came up against a superior intellect, he was 
gifted with an innate cleverness, an almost feral cunning that 
enabled him to erase the deficit.

His tutorial carnage drew raised eyebrows among some on the school's 
staff but, because of his potential, allowances were made. Alex 
showed an appetite for learning that bordered on omnivorous, though 
it was the knack for overcoming obstacles that earned him the label 
of rising star. This talent also caught the eyes of others, less 
visible than the General Staff perhaps, but no less highly placed.

Soon, Alex' tutors began to come from outside the academy, apart 
even from the military itself. An unprecedented event in Frunze's 
recorded annals. These new tutors seemed to know him already, 
inside and out, his strengths as well as his weaknesses. They were 
young men, barely out of their teens. Nevertheless, some would prove 
more of a father, Alex would often reflect, than the man who had 
conceived him. From the start, Alex was awed, even a little in love 
with these men. His sentiments were not shared by the academy staff.

"Checkists," one spat, and others nodded soberly. All kept their 
distance.

***************** 

Alex' academic progress was meteoric, shooting four grade levels in 
the space of six terms. He began instructing an older student in the 
political arts. Eventually, upperclassmen in the corps of cadets 
began to take notice. At first they tried to belittle, teasing him 
about his age or size. Then they tried hazing, to instill a little 
humility. When these had little or no effect, they ignored him. In 
time, grudgingly, most came to accept the boy or, at least, to 
become accustomed to him. Some, correctly intuiting his career 
trajectory, even began to curry his favor. The astute stayed out of 
his line of sight.

In the country, the political weather was unstable. There was a 
new and fascinating openness in the air. The General Secretary had 
opened arms negotiations with the degenerate West. Soviet art, 
music and literature were being "exported," as well. There was even 
a soft trickle of Jews who had been permitted to emigrate to their 
self-styled homeland, though this was not widely talked about. At 
the same time, however, the ideological strings of Party membership 
were being pulled taut by a Politburo ideologist, the stone-faced 
Suslov. In numbers not seen since the Little Father's reign, people 
who did not toe the Party line for this or that mundane reason were 
disappearing, never to be heard from again.

One dreary April morning, while shepherding the son of a Marshal 
of the Strategic Rocket Forces through the thicket of political 
geography, Alex was called away to the bursar's office. This was a 
place to which he'd never given the least thought, let alone 
visited. He had only the vaguest notion of what went on there, and 
little inclination to find out more. It was curious, therefore, 
merely to be called to that office. More so to find his own tutor 
awaiting him, grim faced and flipping idly through files on a desk.

"Ah, Sasha, yes. Good, good. How goes the mentoring?" Before Alex 
could answer, his tutor barreled on. 

"We're pleased with your progress, you know." It was the first 
moment Alex had ever considered his tutors' use of the plural 
pronoun. "You should be, as well. The son of a Marshal of the 
Soviet Union! It's quite an honor." 

Alex pulled a sour face. Classmates had saddled the tutee with a 
nickname befitting his heavy-browed Georgian features, as well as 
his doddering intelligence; it was anything but an honorific. It 
was, however, the unvarnished truth about the boy, Alex knew. 

"I know you think 'the lummox' an idiot, Alexei." Alex looked up 
quickly, shocked and embarrassed to have been found out. "Between 
us?" his own tutor leaned nearer, "I agree." He smiled, noting the 
relief that swept the younger student's face. 

"Still, you've managed to coax measurable improvement out of the 
lumbering cow. His teachers are at a loss to explain how you've 
done it. And, believe me, Alexei, they are desperate to do so!" 
The man smiled to himself before continuing. "You see, we gave you 
the Lukashvili boy as a test. And you've passed, my young friend. 
You've passed." 

This information was positively dizzying to the eleven year old 
youngster. It was but a kopeck compared to the riches to come.

"We want you to keep working with him, Alex. He trusts you. 
Indeed, he feels indebted to you. Befriend him. Get him to open 
up. Learn all that you can of his life at home, of who visits 
his father and when." Alex nodded, and kept nodding. "We have 
such hopes for you, Sasha. Such hopes."

The tutor paused for such a long time that Alex rose, awaiting 
dismissal.

"How are you doing? School is good? The food, everything, to 
your liking?"

The boy nodded assent, his demeanor utterly at odds with the 
answer.

"Are you going to spend term break at the dacha with your 
father?"

The bursar's office had been carefully chosen because of its 
location, at the end of an ell, off the main corridor of the 
administration building. Rarely frequented, its air was stale 
with disuse. But if it had been otherwise, the miniscule flutter 
of the boy's voice might not have reached his tutor's ears.

"No."

The tutor regarded his charge for a moment, his expression gentle.

"Your father comes to visit, surely?" He had not. The tutor had 
known this from the start.

"You are angry with him, Alexei? It's all right. You can tell me. 
I'll understand." Alex could not remember hearing a kinder voice.

In the confessional of a clerk's space, Alex' marooned and angry 
heart poured out hot and acrid, unabated for a quarter-hour. 
Finally, his darkest and most private wishes were revealed. Alex 
was grateful, so very grateful, for the chance to speak.

"Mmmm, I see," the tutor responded at length. "But, he is your own 
flesh and blood, your family. Surely..."

"I have no family!" Alex shouted. He fought stubbornly against 
tears.

The tutor came and sat beside him, an arm bolstering Alex' small 
shoulders, both tutor and student staring off into different 
futures. "Oh yes, you do, Alexei. We will always be your family. 
Never doubt that." 

Hope shone amid the tears streaking the boy's cheeks and welling in 
his coal dark eyes.

"We can help you, Sasha. But we'll need your assistance, hmm?"

At that moment, Alex would have acceded to most anything he was 
asked to do. 

"Ah! It won't be easy, Alexei. It will take days, weeks even, of 
preparation and hard work. Think you can handle it?"

Alex was more than willing. And he was well prepared. From somewhere 
deep inside, he remembered the script most precisely.

*************

"Is there no one who will take you? Family?"

"No," Alex mumbled, spiteful toward the dour visages that came to 
mind.

"What? Speak up, boy."

The judge's eyes were distorted by bottle-thick lenses. Alex was 
distracted by the thought that the judge couldn't possibly see him. 
The sturdy frames of the old man's glasses reminded Alex of the 
birch trees around their dacha, darkened after a storm.

With a nudge from the procurator at his side, Alex looked up and 
enunciated strongly, clearly.

"No, Comrade Magistrate."

The judge harrumphed, but his voice and demeanor carried concern. 
It held a strange allure for Alex, though one barely remembered.

"It's true, you are better off without the corrupting influence of 
the man who was your father. But, a child must have a family. A 
child must." The old man's thoughts seemed to wander, but this was 
illusory.

"Procurator!" the judge snapped, motioning for the prosecutor to 
approach the bench. "Do I understand that the boy will pass through 
Frunze at an accelerated pace?" He received a curt but respectful 
nod. "And," the judge shuffled with difficulty through the relevant 
documents, "when he graduates, he will be how old?"

"Fourteen, Comrade Magistrate."

"Has a place within the official organs of the State been secured 
for him?"

"Yes, comrade. Of this I have been assured." The prosecutor dared 
share a conspiratorial smile with the jurist, who bore insignia of 
a colonel in the Interior Ministry.

"Is it your request, boy, to be placed at the service of the State, 
apart from all claims of family?" 

"Sir," Alex answered dutifully, "I want nothing more than to be a 
useful member of the proletariat. The State is my family, comrade; 
the Party my father," he looked for support to the hard-eyed 
prosecutor, "and my mother, Rodina." The Motherland. The procurator 
smiled approvingly and the judge's gavel fell.

He was officially an orphan, a ward of the State. And, for the 
first time in his memory, Alex felt supremely confident of his place 
in the world.

-end (1/3) -

2/3

************

"It's shocking, at first. The acceptance of the idea, it's...
it's something you thought only children and fools believed in. 
It undermines your belief in yourself, in the world. But then you 
come to understand...the responsibility that this knowledge demands 
of the men who have it. The great sacrifice by great men...like your 
father... The sacrifice of your mother."
(Two Fathers)

************

Years have passed and Alex is now a graduate of a quintessentially 
American high school, located 50 kilometers east of the Black Sea. 
His performance in all areas of training has been exemplary. His 
extra-curricular work, in particular, has been superior. 
Consequently, Alex has emerged one officer's grade higher than his 
peers. But this is not the most valuable of the assets he takes 
with him. He has a Potemkin family to go along with his education, 
parents whom he will remember with love, whose manufactured Jewish 
heritage will be his passport to the West. 

Prior to his upcoming emigration, his minders have given him a 
gift - a night at the opera. For the last time, he dons the full 
dress uniform of an officer in the organs of state security. The 
chauffer driven Zil draws stares as it pulls up to the Italianate 
opera house in Odessa. But it is the electric blue of Alex' collar 
flashes and shoulder boards which cause patrons to give him wide 
berth up the grand staircase and attendants in the foyer to fawn 
unabashedly.

The foyer is richly appointed in gold and midnight, limned in red. 
Alex shrugs out of his topcoat, quickly growing accustomed to the 
rank he now bears, sure that someone will attend the coat before 
it falls to the floor.  Still, he glances back to make sure. A 
young, dark eyed boy has draped it over one arm and dares an 
envious look up at Alex. The child is only just unrecognizable to 
Alex as an image of his younger self. Alex rewards him with a smile 
barely visible beneath his eyes, and turns, full of his own 
importance, to stride into the hall. 

The captain of ushers escorts him to a box on the left hand side 
of the guilt-walled space. Entering, Alex notes three other 
occupants, two superior officers and one civilian. He snaps to 
attention, addressing the lesser ranking officer - a major, the 
head of Alex' "school."

"At ease, captain. This is a social occasion! A final taste of 
mother Russia before you leave for the corrupt West." 

On a small stand to the rear of the box, there is a bottle of 
Georgian sparkling wine chilling on ice, with four champagne flutes 
to one side. The major pours four glasses and offers them around; 
only the civilian refuses. He hands the last glass to Alex.

"Harasho," Alex says softly.

"You're welcome, captain. Rodina!" the major toasts with verve. 
Alex raises his glass in response and smiles. He has a natural 
affinity for vodka, and has developed a knack with the alcoholic 
drinks popular in the West. He has learned from experience, 
however, that even a moderate amount of champagne will leave him 
with a debilitating hangover. 

The major holds his glass up to the light from the stage, observing 
its bubbles and commenting, "In the old days, this was the only 
sparkling wine it was permissible to drink. This is from Comrade 
Stalin's home region, and of course was his favorite."

"Ah," Alex thinks. "That might explain its effect." He takes a 
careful sip, holds the glass for a time, then a takes another, 
before setting the glass back on the table, just out of reach.

The major, Alex realizes, has made no introductions. Of the two 
other occupants in the box, only the civilian shows any interest 
in Alex, though it is unsettling in its intensity. The remaining 
officer, a colonel-general with the Order of Lenin on his chest 
and a potbelly below, has eyes only for a raven haired usherette 
on the floor beneath. He has managed to catch the girl's attention, 
raising his champagne glass in salute. Alex grins, though his own 
wolfish instincts are muzzled by a rigid personal discipline. His 
amusement is tinged with disgust for the pathetic weakness of 
character in the man, certain in the knowledge that the girl will 
grace the general's dacha this night, willing or not. This 
recognition is noted by the civilian, with satisfaction.

"Do you know opera, captain?" the major asks.

"Da, nemnogo. " Alex flushes when he realizes that he has been 
addressed in English. His correction is instantaneous. "Yes, sir. 
A little bit."

"What can you tell me of this one?"

"It's by Tchaikovsky - a deviant - homosexual - hopeless romantic, 
utterly dependent on the fortunes of a Czarist patron."

Ever a schoolmaster, the major prods "Oh, dear! Is that how you in 
the West see him, comrade?"

Alex smiles. For him, the Great Game is just beginning. 
"Tchaikovsky, major, is the musical embodiment of the Russian soul, 
something that not even godless Communism can eradicate. The Russian 
people, if freed from the tyranny of their masters in Moscow, will 
hold on to Tchaikovsky long after the Communist star has faded 
from the sky."

"His accent is really quite good, don't you think? Not quite 
California, not quite New York. Generic America." The major looks 
straight at Alex while speaking to others in the box. 

Receiving no response, the major glances sidelong at the civilian. 
He is pale, with wispy, sand colored hair and thin, tautly drawn 
lips. His face is built of sharp angles and points; that of a 
ferret, save for the dazzling gleam of his eyes. They are the color 
of thin ice over blue sea, and hold the same dangerous promise. The 
civilian returns the major's glance without a word.  

"You've told me of the composer, comrade captain. But, what do you 
know of the opera itself?"

Alex stiffens, embarrassed. "Sir! I do not know it, comrade major."

"At ease, captain." The major laughs softly, looking off and down. 
"It's nothing to be ashamed of. This is one of his lesser known 
works, after all. I'm sure your Me-tro-po-li-tan," he distorts the 
name comically, "wouldn't think of staging such a little known 
piece. They are not for the art, but only the money, yes?" To Alex' 
surprise, the major winks at him, acknowledging his role in this 
play within a play.

"The Metropolitan Opera is among the finest..."

"Yes, yes, your western propaganda organs trumpet this falsehood
loudly. We here in the worker's paradise derive much amusement 
from it."

This is the sort of training exercise that Alex has long since 
mastered. He begins to wonder what other dynamic is at work. Nothing 
in the face or the tone of his superior gives anything away.

"Look at the work's title, comrade captain. What can you tell me 
about the oprichniki?"

Alex searches his memory for only a second or two, then answers. 
"Bodyguards. They were the personal guard to the tsar."

"Good! I see you were not asleep in all of your classes." They 
turn to watch the action just begun on stage, while the major 
continues to lecture in a subdued voice. The civilian sits just a 
little behind them, observing everything.

"The oprichnik of the title is our protagonist, Andrei," the major 
begins. He speaks to his junior convivially, leaning near, 
occasionally gesturing toward the stage to underscore a point. 
"One can't truly call him a hero, not even a tragic one. It's 
difficult to know how to refer to him. So, we'll just call him 'A'." 

Alex and the major regard each other for a moment. Alex searches 
the other man's face for the merest clue to the "true" libretto - 
the subtext that will be his own story. He is careful to keep an 
expression of mild interest, as if musicology is precisely the 
reason he's been summoned this evening. And in this, he is 
successful. Nothing of Alex' suspicion is revealed as yet, but 
the major keeps watch for a moment he knows will come. 

"It is a simple story, as these things go." The major does not 
say whether he refers to the opera or to the human condition. 
"As we open, A stands by helplessly as his life is taken from him 
piece by piece, by the acts of a petty tyrant. First, his family's 
land and possessions are usurped. Then, his lover, the tyrant's 
daughter, is betrothed to another. He is angry, yes. But, mostly, 
he is gripped by a frustration suffered only by the powerless. A 
acts recklessly, the lure of power and fortune clouding his 
judgment. Against his parents' wish, he joins the oprichniki, 
enlisted by the enemy of his father, another prince. You sense an 
act of rebellion against his parents? Perhaps. But mainly, he is 
merely striking out at anything he can reach -something close by 
or the universe at large, it does not matter. He subscribes to no 
high ideal for which he must sacrifice loyalty. Indeed, he is in 
the grip of forces far greater than one individual, forces of which 
he has only the simplest understanding. Quite obviously, for A 
believes he is impervious to such things. He defies a warning to 
resign his commission prior to his wedding, and curses the tsar 
himself for claiming first rights to his bride. Like Icarus, his 
hubris brings him low and, in the presence of his mother, he is 
executed."

Alex makes no effort to hide his reaction, nor could he prevent it 
from becoming. He is appalled. Moreover, this story somehow applies 
to him, he's sure of it. How is still unclear. And that is as 
distressing to him as the story itself.

The major nods in empathy, but the specific circumstances of this 
tragedy are not the most important thing. Oh, there is a lesson to 
be learned here, a final lesson before his student is ready for the 
decisions and associations he will need to make in the harsh cold 
of the world outside. It is one that needs to be taught, to ensure 
that his student's ties home will remain the strongest of all. When 
it occurs, if it occurs, it will happen in an instant. It is not 
yet that moment, the major knows. Not quite.

"I have high hopes for the soprano who is singing the role of 
'Natalya' tonight, comrade captain. Gruberova has made quite an 
impression since leaving conservatory in Leningrad. Another sign 
of our superiority for the thieves at Covent Garden and your 
Lincoln Center to covet." 

The major turns as if expecting a response. But Alex only stares 
blankly ahead, apparently at the rolls of flesh on the back of the 
general's neck. Effort and confusion are plain on his face. This is 
good, the major thinks. Work hard on it for yourself for awhile, 
then I will help you the rest of the way.

"Ah, Alexei Borisovich!" Not even the deliberate use of the 
patronymic rouses Alex from his thoughts. "If you were only old 
enough to have heard Obraztsova in the role. There! There was a 
voice. Unparalleled anywhere. And with Arkhipova as the mother. 
God! You would weep." The major pauses to laugh at a memory. "Of 
course, that is largely what my father once told me, years before. 
'If only you could have heard Rhozdezventskia, and with Mark Reisen 
as the tsar!' I suppose that I, too, would weep."

With the end of his little reminiscence, the first act comes also 
to a close. People on the floor rise to escape temporarily to the 
foyer. The major turns his head toward Alex without deceit, but 
draws no notice. Now. Now! the major thinks. Now, Alexei Borisovich, 
you are ready to be helped toward understanding.

"Do you see that woman down there?"

It is several seconds before Alex responds. 

"What? Which woman? There are several about the floor," Alex says, 
dryly.

The major is greatly impressed with the way the young man rallies. 
"Do you see there, in the row right in front of us? Behind the fat, 
balding officer?" The general in their own box turns in annoyance. 
The major cants his head in meager apology and turns back to Alex. 
"There, with the fur collar?"

Alex spots a woman with elegantly coiffed white hair, sporting an 
expensive looking mink stole. She turns toward them to move down 
the aisle in the general's wake. Her face is a paradox of youth 
overlaid by impossible age. She must be young, Alex knows, for 
there is beauty there. But, the hair and the deep set, purpled eyes? 
The hollowed cheeks, and deferential gate? This is a person who 
has been aged by untold horrors and has survived, narrowly.

"You see her?" 

Alex nods impatiently. 

"And you don't recognize her? Alexei Borisovich, I am surprised at 
you." 

Alex stares hard at the woman until she is just about to turn away 
up the aisle. Recognition sweeps up, crests the balcony and 
overwhelms him. And the memories of dark glasses and scarves, of 
elegance and grace, of love and betrayal come flooding back.

*****************************

Alex' exit from the box is as dramatic as anything that has taken 
place on stage. Patrons are flung outward, scattered through the 
foyer as he bursts through the swinging doors. They do not regroup, 
but give the rampaging officer wide berth. And, although Alex likely 
will not remember some of the things said in anger, there is a 
souvenir of his rage that will stay with him for days to come. He 
looks at his hand with an abstract curiosity, and then examines the 
hole in the far wall. He feels no pain yet, but realizes that it's 
going to swell.

Rage. It is the only appropriate response to an affront of the sort 
just perpetrated on him, Alex rationalizes.

******************************

"Yes, I recognize her, comrade major." He has no idea of how much 
time had passed during his cavalcade of memories. "She is a 
subversive counterrevolutionary, and has no business being here!"

Alex had stolen a glance at the major and been seized by the sudden 
urge to wipe the smug smile from the officer's face. It was an 
impulse, he now knows, that was only going to grow stronger.

"But she's been rehabilitated, comrade! She's a party loyalist once 
again, a productive member of our worker's state. As deserving of 
your respect," the major crossed his arms and sat back in his seat, 
"as am I, or the butcher, or the General Secretary."

Alex has a memory of the words to follow, but no memory of having 
shouted them. "And your point, comrade Major?" He has no memory, 
moreover, of rising to his feet and looming over his superior 
officer while doing so.

"I've no need of a point, comrade." The major remained maddeningly 
calm. "I say this only because she is someone you once knew, someone 
for whom you might care. Aren't you pleased to see that she's no 
longer a criminal? Her slate is clean in the eyes of the state. 
Shouldn't you should afford her the same?"

Gradually, Alex became aware of the exaggerated rise and fall of 
his chest, felt tension grip his forearms, saw his hands flexing in 
response. The major made a show of examining a manicured hand.

"You did care for her at one time, did you not, comrade captain? 
Come, come! It's nothing to be ashamed of. You were quite young. 
A child!"

Following the major's line of sight, Alex realized that this woman 
who had been his mother had reentered the hall on the opposite side 
and was standing up against the wall, as if ordered to do so, for 
his inspection. As if ordered to do so!

The major rose, but only to continue speaking in a subdued voice. 
"She doesn't know you are here. We're not really certain that she 
even remembers you. Siberian winters have a somewhat corrosive 
effect on an individual's sanity. Inmates, we find, tend to develop 
amnesia as a coping mechanism. Still. She is your mother, 
undeniably. It must be a great relief to learn that she has come 
through her ordeal relatively unscathed, Alexei Borisovich? I would 
think she's suffered enough. Wouldn't you agree?"

A fog seemed to edge in then, around the periphery of his vision, 
with the major's head seen as through a telescopic sight. Alex 
wasn't sure whether this was a threat or another sort of loyalty 
test. He chose the less distressing option of the two and responded 
appropriately.

"No, comrade major, I do not. She acted against the interests of 
the state. There is no hope of rehabilitation for the like of her."

"Oh, but comrade captain! The state disagrees with you. She's 
doing quite well. Quite well, indeed. If it were up to me, based 
solely on her good behavior, she should continue to flourish."

Alex remembers with horror the relief that flooded up from 
somewhere deep inside him, remembers the furious struggle to keep 
this tell-tale emotion from reaching the surface.

The major flashed him an oily smile. "Of course, it isn't entirely 
up to me, is it?"

The background buzz of conversation and of people moving back to 
their seats had changed into static in Alex' ears, a drone which 
intensified with every passing word the major uttered.

"Well!"  the ranking officer said softly. "Something for you to 
consider while you are in America, hmm?" He turned his back on Alex, 
picking his gloves up off the seat as if preparing to leave the 
theater entirely.

It is the next instant in the reel of time that suffers Alex toward 
self-recrimination. He assaulted a superior officer.

In truth, Alex acted only to stop the man from leaving the box, to 
confront him; his hand on the major's shoulder an instinctive move 
borne of native curiosity and fueled by unanswered questions. In the 
event, the major spun round on his own, stunned by the outrageous 
impropriety of the younger man. Now it was the major's eyes that 
flashed sulfurously.

"How dare you!"

Alex' audacity had even drawn the attention of the colonel-general 
away from the smorgasbord of possible conquests below him. The man's 
porcine cheeks bloated with amusement.

"Comrade major," argument rushed out of Alex in lieu of an apology, 
"I am utterly loyal. I have sacrificed everything, everything, to 
the state. I stand ready, if asked, to sacrifice my own life without 
a thought. And yet, you bring me here," the veins on his neck stood 
in vivid relief, "and resort to cheap theatrics?" Unlike the other 
occupants of the box, Alex did not recognize his own play on words. 

The major's anger flared into wrath. He raised his right arm and 
let it remain cocked as if, with the next incendiary act, he would 
challenge the honor of his insubordinate junior with one slap of the 
gloves gripped tightly in his right hand. Alex never flinched, 
returning the major's barely restrained violence in equal measure.

"Captain, there are any number of ways to be disloyal." The major 
began to lower his arm, and Alex backed off to permit it.

"There is a war raging, comrade, an ideological conflict between 
East and West. It is not just a divide, but a chasm that can be 
crossed but not spanned. Soon, you will join the ranks of those 
few to have set foot in both East and West. Your loyalties, however, 
cannot be so divided. It is a war that we in the East must win. The 
inevitability of history demands it! You may think yourself loyal, 
comrade captain. And well you may be. But against the scale of 
history, such boasts are trivial."

Having, in a sense, re-entered the familiar surroundings of a 
lecture hall, the major began to relax, his tone softening.

"This was not a test of your loyalties, comrade captain. It was a 
night at the opera; a simple reminder that even men of the world 
such as you always have ties to the motherland." The major's thin 
smile returned with his equally tenuous composure. "Think of it as
a simple request, comrade: to remember your mother while you are 
away, and wish her well." 

"My mother," Alex spat, "is dead to me. I don't give a rat's ass 
for what happens to her. As for you and your dialectic, you can go 
fuck yourself." Alex turned to storm out of the box when, 
miraculously, he regained the least semblance of military propriety. 
"Sir!" 

Then, he'd spun on heel and, as the red haze abated, found himself 
out in the foyer with fist purpling, mumbling one phrase over and 
over. 

"She's dead to me. Dead to me."

-end 2 of 3-

3/3

************************

"There is a war raging. Unless you pull your head out of the
sand, you and I and over five billion other people are going
to go the way of the dinosaur."
(The Red and the Black)

************************

It is the merest tug on his uniform tunic that pulls Alex back, 
finally, into the here and now.

He turns to see naked terror on the face of the boy from the foyer, 
sent in by timorous, lily-livered elders to see what the troubled 
officer might need. Alex kneels, taking the boy gently by the 
shoulders, and whispers "some ice water, please. And a towel." He 
manages to draw a timid smile from the boy who, nevertheless, bounds 
off like a frightened fawn. Alex hopes the boy actually does return 
with the ice and towel. His fist is beginning to throb.

His anger is diffusing, beginning to steep in a brew of reflection 
and regret. Alex ponders the magnitude of the apology he must tender 
upon his return to the box. He will not grovel. He may call it 
something else, but he will not grovel. Alex settles uneasily upon 
a script and is heading back toward the box when the doors swing 
outward and someone exits. 

To Alex' surprise, it is the civilian who emerges. He's dressed in 
a non-descript black suit and tie, his complexion paler, if such is 
possible, in the warm lighting of the corridor. The civilian stops 
by the door and produces a sterling silver case, from which he 
withdraws a cigarette. The case alone detracts from the impression 
that this man is an undertaker. The scent of the smoke is fragrant, 
not acrid like domestic tobacco; the civilian's cigarettes, Alex 
concludes, are decidedly Western.

Alex is uncertain whether to acknowledge the man or pass him by, 
returning directly to the box for his to begin the second act. The 
burden of decision is lifted when the civilian finally speaks.

"It was rather an elaborate charade for such a small point. I'll 
give you that." The man's death's head smile causes Alex an 
involuntary shiver. "The major is proficient if rather crude. He's 
a relic, you see, from less evolved days."

Alex has had his fill of word games for one evening. However, he's 
also done more than enough damage to his career for one day, as 
well. This thought keeps him from firing a brusque fusillade at the 
civilian and moving on.

"Bravo, by the way. Brilliant response." Death's head exhales a 
leisurely draft.

"Who are you?" Alex demands, the venom of anger and annoyance still 
potent in his tone. 

The civilian's grin give off less warmth than the dying ash of his 
cigarette, and no comfort whatsoever. "I myself do not believe in 
such tactics. Either an operative is loyal or he is not." He reaches 
back to snuff the cigarette in an adjacent urn, extracting a second 
moments after. "Either way, he can be effective. One must simply be 
certain from the beginning which way he'll bend."

The man looks away in the intervals between sentences. Alex hasn't 
had enough contact with the man to know whether this is habit, or 
merely affect. It gives the impression of modesty and, perhaps, 
even candor.

"Your major was quite correct about one thing, I'll grant. It's 
quite impossible to have a foot in both worlds and be loyal to 
each. You will not survive."

Alex feels certain that modesty is immaterial to a man such as 
this, and that candor is a carefully rationed commodity.

"Better you should  plant your feet in neither world, and exist 
only on a stage of your own making."

Cigarette smoke seems to be a permanent part of the man's features. 
Alex wonders whether he cultivates the habit to achieve this precise 
effect. Alex looks furtively toward the door to the orchestra box. 
If he is to salvage his career, it must be done soon. His glance is 
noticed, followed, understood.

"There's no need to go back in there. And, no, I wouldn't worry 
about it. Whatever apology you could tender would only be 
interpreted as a sign of weakness."

"Who are you?" Alex asks again, curiosity and admiration now 
mingling in his voice.

"Furthermore, the opera truly is second-rate. You won't be missing 
much." His laugh is too brief, too soft to be openly derisive. 
Death's head launches himself off the wall, walks through the foyer 
and down the grand staircase. Alex follows without being asked.

Outside, they are caressed by the soft evening breezes of a Black 
Sea summer. Strolling idly through the curved forecourt, the 
civilian turns right onto the Ulitsa Yekatereninskaya, walks half a 
block then veers abruptly, apparently without purpose, turning onto 
the Mira Prospekt. 

It is not an especially warm night but, in the aftermath of the 
evening's events, Alex feels sticky and uncomfortable. He rips open 
the buttons of his uniform tunic and shucks it off, draping it over 
one arm. The other man takes note and smiles, but says nothing.  
In moments, a black limousine draws up beside them.  His traveling 
companion gestures for Alex to give up his jacket. Tossing it into 
the back seat, he takes off his own suit coat and tie and disposes 
of them in like manner. The civilian leans on the open car door and 
speaks briefly to whomever is inside. After a moment, a bundle is 
handed out to him. He unfurls two leather jackets and offers one to 
Alex, who declines. The civilian shrugs, puts one over his own 
shoulders and throws the other back into the car. Suddenly, he 
starts off toward the harbor, turning to make certain Alex is 
keeping up. The limo falls behind and is soon out of sight.

Their walk meanders past the narrow alley containing Alex' rooming 
house, a once grand affair whose yellow and white facade is flaking 
and discolored. They maneuver carefully across the grand boulevard 
named for the legendary field marshal Suvorov and pause at the top 
of the great, tree lined steps that descend nearly a half a 
kilometer down to the seaport. His companion looks casually this 
way and that, and, hands in pockets, starts down. 

They've not said a word to each other since the opera house. Alex 
is determined to break that silence. He quickens his pace, his boots 
clicking off the marble risers. His companion slows to let Alex 
overtake him.

"Why?" Alex struggles to conceal the fact that he is slightly winded 
from this brief exertion.

"Why what?" The man produces the silver case and flicks it open. In 
the gathering shadows, Alex sees a flame flicker and die, its mirror 
springing to life a moment later. A red glow lights his companion's 
features for a moment, replaced by a dark mask in the next. Alex 
prefers the latter, but not by much.

"You've led me on a tour of the old city without so much as a single 
word. I followed because I presumed you wanted to reach a place 
where we could talk unobserved." Alex struggles to stay still while 
his companion takes slow drags on his cigarette. The civilian peers 
at every person in the vicinity, save Alex.

"No such place exists. We can always be observed. Never doubt that," 
the man states pointedly. "One can only take measures to limit 
visibility. That is what I have done. Now," he says, reverting to a 
practiced, casual tone. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Bog!" Alex yells, stamping his foot and standing hands on hips, 
staring up, demanding patience directly from Heaven. "You brought me 
down here! You tell me!"

This display draws a grin from the other man. "Tell you what," he 
says archly, dropping his half consumed cigarette to the ground and 
crushing it under heel. "Why don't you tell me what were you 
thinking as you paced away the minutes, after storming out on a 
senior officer?"

Alex stares at the man in frustration, fighting to gather the least 
scrap of his true intent.

"I was...concerned," Alex starts carefully,"that I'd let my pride 
get the better of me. That the... perceived... slight to my loyalty 
was trivial in comparison to the possible damage to my career." 

His companion looks up from a freshly lit cigarette, brow furrowed 
dubiously.

"That's exactly what I was...!" Alex' objection begins and ends 
with those words.

His companion walks to the edge of the feeder road facing the 
cruise line docks. The street is busy, filled with the buzz of 
scooters and the belching roar of buses, even of the occasional 
passenger car. He sits on the curb, knees flexed, his head hidden 
between them. Instinctively, Alex follows suit.

"No? Then let me. I'll tell you exactly what you were thinking. Do 
you want to hear it?" he says. Alex turns to look at his companion, 
only then realizing that he can not see him speak, and that no one 
beyond Alex' own ears can possibly hear him.

"What? Oh, by all means! Yes," Alex says. "I'm very curious to hear 
you tell me what was in my head."

"As a matter of fact," the reply comes, "I don't believe that you 
are. But you will be."

In the interval that follows, Alex imagines he's gained an upper 
hand in their contest of wills.

"You knew, shortly after entering the box, if not before, that the 
invitation to this opera was mere pretext. I watched you trying to 
discern at every juncture what the genesis of this largesse might 
be. At the moment the major revealed his hand, however, you were 
only aware of the full implications on a sub-conscious level."

A feeling of unease steals over Alex, as chill as a wind off the 
steppe. He does his best to suppress a shiver.

"At first, true enough, you felt the sting of having your loyalty 
impugned. And, worse, being patronized by a fucking schoolmaster. 
As a final indignity, he throws your wretch of a mother at you. You 
were angry, of course. It's only human. You've suppressed a great 
deal of anger and suffering, for a long time. Fortunately, you've 
been handed a convenient hook on which to hang the blame for all of 
it - your mother's apparent betrayal. It's given you the wherewithal
to go on living."

It is the use of the word "apparent" that stuns Alex, knocking the 
bravado from his chest.

"You realize now that this anger was planned for you. It was meant 
to be a fuse, the primer for an eventual explosion nearly two 
decades in the making."

In that moment, his sense of defeat is palpable. It is a living, 
burdensome weight. Alex slumps over, hugging his knees and dreading 
the recitation that is to come. This man could easily be sorting 
through Alex' own thoughts.

"The truest anger, the towering rage, came when you realized the 
extent of the preparation for this lesson you'd just been taught. 
It wasn't simply this evening that had been orchestrated down to 
the last note, was it?"

Alex cocks his head, infuriated anew by the other's tortuous 
pedantry. But, there are tears on Alex' cheeks and hurt, the 
bastard stepchild of anger, shining from the depths of his eyes.

"No. The realization that caused you to put your fist through a 
thick plaster wall was something greater. You've been a project to 
them - raised like a cash crop, cultivated and trained, lovingly at 
times, pruned back harshly at others. And now, on the eve of its 
bearing fruit, you learn of the full, horrific scope of this 
project. Your life has been part of an opera in the theater of the 
real, and you have been manipulated to play a bit part, no more than
a boyar, a spear carrier, a starving Parisian waif."

"You can't figure out which is worse - having been manipulated like 
a puppet your life-long, or that, for all this indignity, you play 
a only small part. And tonight? Ah. Well, tonight, as you've 
discovered, is just the end of the first act for their creation. 
They are Great Men, Alex. And great men make great plans. Plans for 
a lifetime. Yours, as it happens."

Strangely, Alex takes comfort in this man's tone, in his capacity 
to remain apart from the forces which have latched their hooks into 
his own life.

"I came out just in time, didn't I? By then, you'd already decided 
to submit to the inevitable. True,  you didn't like the fact that 
your life had been, and would continue to be run by others. But 
you'd reserved for yourself a moral victory of sorts, hadn't you? 
Going forward, you would be aware of the play and of your role in 
it. And, better, they - the great men -  would be unaware that you 
knew."

"Bravo. Well fought. A great victory. Hollow, but a great victory 
nonetheless."

His companion pats him on the shoulder, but Alex is too numb to 
take offense. He just stares off into the distance, dispirited, 
his thoughts lost among the silhouettes of the sea-going vessels 
in the harbor. 

"Nothing is inevitable. You can fight that future. You must fight 
it. This has been the true purpose to which you've been directed. 
Not even the major or his people are aware of this."

Alex raises his head suddenly. He flexes the cramp out of his jaw 
and fists, too long clenched. He grasps at these words, replaying 
them in his head, gratefully.

"Now you are interested in what I have to say, young Alex, hmm? 
I'm not going to tell you much that you do not already know, 
somewhere inside of you. You are no longer a bit player in this 
work. You're an adult, and it is time that you take up a leading 
role. To date, your role has been predetermined, the libretto set 
by others. You know what you must do, surely? I've already told 
you."

Alex casts back trying to scan the entirety of the man's advice. 
When he remembers, it comes as an infusion of adrenaline. It is in 
no way a lightening of his spirit, but Alex now feels the strength 
to bear the burden with which fate has saddled him.

"You said," Alex begins tentatively, "that it is impossible to have 
a foot in two worlds," picking up speed as he goes, "and maintain 
loyalty to each. Better that I should plant my feet in neither and 
exist on a stage of my own making."

This draws the first genuine smile from the man that Alex has seen.

"You understand this, then?"

"Not completely. But it sounds... promising."

"Good!" His companion rises. "Good," he says again, scanning the 
area. Alex senses a stilling of the air, an easing of pressure when 
the other man's eyes are not focused on him. It is a respite quite 
welcome.

"You'll need to report from time to time, as any regular operative 
would. Use the tradecraft you've been taught.  It is expected, 
accepted."

Alex nods, then dares, "You're First Chief Directorate, then? Are 
you to be my controller?"

The man's face seems almost wistful, Alex thinks.

"You've been trained as a penetration agent. Their domestic security 
service is your eventual target. A regular control, even a minder, 
would be a danger to you, increase your risk of exposure 
exponentially. You must, however, appear to focus solely on that 
mission."

Alex' attention is drawn into the depths of the night sky. He's 
struck by the enormity of it all.

"Are you saying that this penetration is not my primary objective?" 

His companion only stares ahead, the lights of the harbor bobbing 
gently in his eyes.

"Then what is it? Tell me!" Alex' whisper is a hiss.

"That is your political objective. Officially, it is your only 
objective. But," the man pauses to look upward, sharing Alex' view 
of the cosmos, "there are colder wars than that between East and 
West. This is the arena in which you will operate."

"And my objective?"

His companion seems distracted, almost unnerved. Alex finds that 
he dislikes the idea.

"Comrade? My objective?"

"Hmm? Oh. Simple." He stoops against the breeze to light one of his 
infernal cigarettes. "Survival. Yours. Mine." A deep drag on his 
cigarette and another glance upward. "Ours."

Silence descends, more disquieting than before. Yet, Alex abides it. 
He suspects there will be a time when he will long for this evening 
and its quaint intrigues with nostalgia.  

"I would not return to your rooms tonight. They've had you watched, 
you know this, of course?"

It's not really a question. And, yes, Alex realizes, he does know 
of it. His boarding house, though it is really far too small and 
rundown to need an amenity of the sort, employs a concierge, a sour
crone dressed in the olive drab woolens of the Great Patriotic War. 
The service ribbons on her chest manage to increase in number from 
time to time, though her military service is now forty years past. 
She cultivates the soporific demeanor of a drunk but, when he passes 
her station, the air fairly vibrates around him. She watches.

"Yes," Alex confirms. "G.R.U.?" he asks of the pavement.

His companion nods once. "Not that it matters."

Alex is startled when the other man begins to walk away. "Wait!"

For the second and last time, the other man's features brighten, 
but darken quickly. As it is for him, so it will be for Alex.

"Head to the West at the earliest opportunity."

"But everything is back in my rooms. My papers, western currency, 
clothes!"

The breeze has picked up, no longer a warm caress. It blows a wisp 
of blond hair off of the man's brow, aging him.

"Here," he says, throwing his black leather jacket at Alex.

Alex is in no mood for jokes. "This is not what I meant! 
Preparations have been made: travel documents franked, accounts 
set up and already in use. I will need..." 

"Check the pockets."

As he moves to do so, Alex can already feel the weight of the 
contents. Passports, red, green, blue. Currency. Swedish Krona, 
Swiss Francs. Pounds Sterling. Impermissible possessions for a 
citizen of the Soviet Union. As he replaces the items, they seem 
weightier still. Earliest opportunity indeed. 

"You couldn't very well slip away using the major's provisions now, 
could you?"

Alex looks up at his companion, impressed by the foresight. "And 
clothes?"

"What d'you think the hundred bob are for, eh?" the man says in a 
mangled attempt at an East Ender's accent. He smiles, seeming 
sheepish at the poor quality of his imitation. Languages are not 
his forte. "Treat y'self to something from Marks and Spencer. 
Harrods is a bit too posh for the likes of us."

For the first time in what seems hours, Alex smiles. He is entering 
new territory, but is on completely familiar ground.

"One more thing to take with you," his companion says, reverting to 
his native tongue. He moves forward as if he has something tangible 
to hand over. "The problem with having no allegiance to either East 
or West?"

The words snap Alex' attention around sharply.

"Is that you are always on enemy soil."

Alex looks deeply into the other man's face. For a moment, 
something softens his features. If not kindness, then, possibly, a 
sense of kindred spirit? Before Alex can decide, it has gone.

His colleague backs a few steps away before turning and walking 
steadily east, the opposite direction from that which Alex must 
travel. It will be years until Alex sees the man again, on a 
vastly more visible stage.

Alex pulls the jacket pocket open, leafing through the passports, 
stopping at the familiar blue and gold of the United States. It 
opens to his picture and a new last name: Krycek.

He zips his jacket against the breeze and shoves his hands into 
the pockets, obscuring their contents. It also conveys the 
impression that he's a thug, and heavily armed. Expertly, Alex 
scans his surroundings, locating the landmarks and possible 
surveillance along his planned route. He takes a deep breath as 
his former life dissolves into the cold and black.

-end (3/3)-