Title: If And Only If
Author: Kayar
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up through Season 3, I suppose, although the entire story takes place before the show starts.
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters are not mine. It belongs to ABC, Bad Robot Productions, and a genius by the name of J.J. Abrams.
Summary: What exactly happened to Irina after she left the United States?
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The phone call came that day. An innocuous wrong number, a confused man looking for someone by the name of "Aaron Thomas." I should have left as soon as I hung up the phone, but I couldn't bear to leave just yet. I gave Sydney a hug and kissed Jack goodbye, telling him I was running out to the store to pick up a few things. I had to drive faster than I normally would to compensate for spending too much time at home. I hoped a police officer would pull me over, throwing off the extraction and giving me more time before I had to leave. But as the extraction point drew nearer, I realized I wouldn't be able to go back.
I held my breath as I started to drive over the bridge. I saw the car coming out of the corner of my eye, and although I was expecting it, my heart still stopped as we collided. We broke through the barrier on the side of the road and went into the river. As soon as I hit the water, I rolled my windows down to help the car sink faster. When the car was all the way under the water, I slipped out the window and pulled the hubcap off the closest tire. A few feet away, I could see Valenko doing the same thing at his car. We stayed underwater for about five minutes, long enough to convince any passers-by we were dead but not long enough for police or a rescue team to come looking for us. Carefully, we began to make our way downriver, still trying to stay underwater as much as possible. Finally, we crawled out of the river in a more remote area, making our way to a safehouse. After a change into dry clothes, some money, and new passports, we took a car provided by the safehouse to the airport. The flight to Moscow was long and made me queasy, but I slept through most of it. Besides, sleeping kept me from thinking too much.
Moscow was much colder than Los Angeles was. Although I had grown up in this weather, I still shivered as we stepped off the plane. Once outside the airport, we were met by two agents dressed in thick overcoats.
"Welcome home, Comrade Derevko," one of the agents greeted me with a sardonic smile and a mocking salute. The action threw me off-guard long enough for a third agent to come up behind me and land a clean blow on the back of my skull.
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When I awoke, I knew I was no longer in Moscow. Even being indoors, I could feel the warm, dry climate; quite unlike the chill and dreariness of Moscow in November. I surveyed my surroundings, taking special note of the iron bars surrounding my cell. Kashmir. A small country near India, known within the KGB as home of the prison that housed traitors to our cause.
At that exact moment, keys rattled the lock on the cell door, announcing the presence of Gerard Cuvee. I sat down on the steel cot and did my best to look bored with my current state of affairs.
Gerard left the door open and leaned against the bars, acting equally nonchalant. "I apologize for my men's actions in Moscow, but we didn't want you putting up a fight."
He chuckled suddenly. "Although, after the surprising results from the doctor's examination, I'm not sure you could have put up a fight." He straightened up and looked at me intently. "Tell me, Irina, how long have you known?"
I met his gaze but did not answer. After a moment, he smirked and briskly walked out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.
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Truth be told, I had known for the better part of three months. I had been in denial about it at first, brushing the morning sickness off as a touch of the flu. But the symptoms had been identical to when I was pregnant with Sydney. I scheduled a doctor's appointment, under an alias, to confirm what I already knew to be true. Knowing my superiors would order me to terminate the pregnancy, I had kept them in the dark, rationalizing my decision with the idea that another child would strengthen the image of a family. But thinking realistically, I knew my mission was almost over—after ten years, I had gathered all the information I needed, and I knew I would be called back to Russia soon. That was why I had not informed Jack, either; I did not want him to suffer the loss of a child as well as a wife.
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My time in Kashmir, although far from pleasant, was not nearly as bad as I had anticipated. Throughout my pregnancy, interrogations were limited to question-and-answer debriefings and lie-detector tests. My rations, although meager, were at least double the amount of food given to the other prisoners. Larger, looser-fitting clothes were given to me as my stomach swelled. Disregarding the bars around my cell, I could have just as easily been back in Moscow, living a normal life. I knew Cuvee and his men would not go out of their ways to make things easier for my sake. For whatever reason, he wanted my child to survive, and that thought was the most frightening aspect of Kashmir.
I went into labor a month before the baby was due, which was not all that surprising, given the circumstances. Although I knew what to expect, having given birth once before, the situation of this child's birth was as unlike Sydney's as possible. Instead of the sterile white hospitals of America, I was in a dank Kashmir prison. Instead of gripping a loving husband's hand for support, I had the cold iron bars of my cell. Instead of a doctor and nurses hovering over me, offering words of encouragement, my only visitor was a guard who deposited some clean towels next to my bed and left as quickly as he had come. Instead of anxious family members waiting outside, Cuvee and his men watched detachedly through the bars of the cell, turning the miraculous event into a crude spectator sport.
I lost count of the hours. All I knew was that it had been a long time. Finally, after what seemed like a very painful eternity, my daughter was born. Ten fingers, ten toes. Wailing, and most definitely alive. A little smaller than Sydney had been at birth, but as far as I could tell, completely healthy. I named her Nadia. A strong Russian name with an Americanized pronunciation was a good reflection on her background. Holding my daughter in my arms, I quickly fell asleep.
I was awoken the next morning by Cuvee and another man entering the cell.
"Good morning, Irina," Gerard greeted me, apparently in an uncharacteristically good mood. "This is Dr. Yubanov. He is willing to perform a checkup on your daughter, run some tests to make sure she is healthy."
Exhausted but still wary, I agreed on the terms that I could accompany them. Neither Cuvee nor the doctor answered me; they just simply walked closer to where Nadia and I rested on the cot. Maybe if I hadn't given birth mere hours before, I might have been able to fight them off, or at least react more quickly to the syringe the doctor pulled out of his coat pocket. The sedative was mild, but given my state, it could have been the most powerful tranquilizer available. My vision swam, I slumped back against the wall, and when I awoke, my child was gone.
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Just as I had suspected, Cuvee had only been worried about my health as it affected Nadia. The day after Nadia was taken, I realized that Kashmir really did live up to its notoriety within the KGB. Sensory deprivation, electroshock, and starvation went on for weeks at a time, all for an admission that I was a traitor to the motherland. When they failed to break me with physical torture, they tried to break me psychologically. Promises for an extra meal, promises to return to Russia…promises to see my daughter again. Whenever they mentioned her, I would bite my tongue until it bled to keep quiet. Logically, I knew this was an empty promise to get me to say what they wanted, but the emotional side of me just wanted to see my daughter again, regardless of the cost.
After one particularly grueling electroshock session, Cuvee took me aside and spoke to me privately. "I know you are worried about your daughter. But I can assure you, Irina, Nadia is safe with us."
My eyes widened in surprise as I asked Gerard how he knew her name. Despite my repeated questioning, Cuvee just looked away, as if he was embarrassed about revealing that information to me. Much later, I learned from Khasinau that they had heard me crying out her name in my sleep.
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I had to leave Kashmir. I no longer cared whether all of Russia thought I was a traitor, I just needed to get out of that place. Quietly, I began planning my escape. The fact that Cuvee had worked with me before I left for America, coupled with the fact that I was one of the few females at the facility, worked to my advantage. Cuvee began allowing me to visit him in his office from time to time. Even under his watchful eye, I was able to casually scan blueprints of the building. I formulated a plan that would allow me to escape through the sewer tunnels connected to the building into an unguarded mine field. The locations of the mines were rather evenly spaced, so it was not hard to memorize their layout as well.
Finally, the day came for me to leave Kashmir. My escape route was perfectly planned—after being escorted from my cell to Cuvee, I would knock him unconscious (or kill him, at this point I really didn't care either way) and quietly exit his office. The office was not far from the sewer grates, where I could slip away and finally be rid of Kashmir and all its memories.
As planned, I was taken to Cuvee's office. He was waiting for me at his desk with a folder in his hand. After the guard had left, Gerard handed me the folder, which I opened to find a passport, a handful of rubles, and a one-way ticket to Moscow.
"Good work, Comrade Derevko," Cuvee said. "You're free to go back home. Do you have any questions about the protocol?"
What I really wanted to ask about was the fate of my daughter, but I wasn't foolish enough to suggest I was anything but loyal. So I simply thanked him and allowed myself to be escorted out of the prison and out of Kashmir.
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Back in Moscow again, I unsure of what to do next. My apartment was the same as I remembered it, although a refreshing shower was the only comfort it offered me now. I had to go back to work eventually, but I had no desire to deal with anyone at the KGB, unless "dealing" referred to me extracting information on the whereabouts of Nadia. But I knew I would have to be smart about it. I didn't need another treason charge on my head. What I needed was someone intelligent enough to help me find my daughter, someone whom I could trust absolutely. I picked up the phone and dialed, praying the number was the same.
"Hello?" The voice that answered was groggy and thick from sleepiness, although understandable for 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
"Katya? Katya, I need your help."
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(1/1)
A/N: This has been on SD-1 for about a year and a half now, and in the process of working on some new fics I realized I never posted it here. It's far from perfect, I know, but I also knew it would keep bugging me until I created a final version and posted it. Please review and let me know what you think!