Everywhere the water's getting rough
Your best intentions may not be enough

I wonder if we're gonna ever get home tonight

But if you break down
I'll drive out and find you
If you forget my love
I'll try to remind you
And stay by you

When it don't come easy


Wheeler leaned back in his chair and pinned the phone against his shoulder, leaving his hands free to tug the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes.

I only smoke two or three a day, he thought, justifying the purchase of another pack.

Behind him, snow fell silently past the window, turning to slush in the street. His tiny apartment was toasty warm, closed against the misery of the bad weather. Christmas lights still decorated the streets, and post-Christmas sales ensured people would still be out and about once the sun came up, hurrying past with scarves across their faces and their hands deep in the thick pockets of their jackets.

"Come on," he muttered, listening to the phone ring and ring at the other end of the call.

He lit a cigarette, throwing the lighter back to the desk and glancing at the clock. Maybe it was too early.

"Hello?"

"Hey," he breathed, relieved at the sound of the voice on the other end. "It's Wheeler."

"Do you have news?"

It was always the first question, not matter which of them had called. The answer had always been the same. Until today.

"I think so," Wheeler said carefully, not wanting to raise hopes too high. "I think I've found a way in."

He could hear Mishka struggling to contain his excitement. "Tell me," he said.

Wheeler pinned his cigarette between his fingers and sorted papers on his desk. "I've found Viktor," he said. "An American company has been over here to strike a deal with some new software, and Viktor's the guy they've been dealing with."

"Is Linka still with him?" Mishka asked desperately.

Wheeler ran his hand through his hair and dragged on his cigarette again. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "My friend, Craig, recalled a woman present at the meeting, but she didn't speak any English." He paused and glanced at the cigarette smouldering in his fingers. "I guess it could be Linka. But Craig says this woman looked sick. Like she had cancer or something..."

"Cancer?" Mishka asked. His voice was ghostly and full of fear.

"Yeah." Wheeler stabbed the cigarette out and ran his hand over his face, fixing his eyes on Craig's email again and memorising the information. "I'm gonna try and get an interview about the deal and see if I can track her down."

"When will you have news?" Mishka asked desperately. "Should I come and –"

"No, not yet," Wheeler answered gently. "You're gonna know as soon as I do, man. I promise."

Mishka sighed. "Da, I know. I might be underground tomorrow, but leave a message?"

"Sure thing," Wheeler promised. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

"Thank you," Mishka breathed. "I am so worried about her..."

"Me too," Wheeler answered, turning in his chair and looking out at the dark sky. The sun wouldn't be up for another hour or so. "Listen, I'm gonna try and get hold of Viktor today. If things go right, I might be able to confirm the woman Craig saw was Linka. And if it wasn't, maybe Viktor can help us track her down anyway."

"He will not help," Mishka scoffed bitterly. "He is the one who took her away in the first place."

Wheeler pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything," he said. "Talk to you later."

They said their goodbyes and Wheeler was left alone with his thoughts again, trying to gather the courage to put in his next phone call.

He had never come this close to her. He had been in St Petersburg for three years now, chasing endless leads and stories. He had been crushed when he'd arrived in her tiny hometown in the Kuznetsk Basin to find she'd disappeared almost immediately after her return from Hope Island. Even more so when Mishka had told him he had not heard from her in years and didn't have a clue as to where she might be. He had searched, too, but she was hidden.

The only clue either of them had was Viktor Morozov. He'd come to Mishka's mine, investigating rights and championing for the people. Linka had fallen hard for his ideas and his strength and passion – Mishka had reacted angrily when Viktor had taken advantage of her obvious fragility and had offered her a place at his company.

She had followed him, desperate to replace the Planeteers with something new. What Viktor had offered her was glamorous and important, and he was charming and smooth. Mishka had begged her not to leave, but she had been skeptical of his suspicion and had assured him she could take care of herself.

Contact had dwindled ever since, until she finally stopped taking his calls altogether. When his letters and phone calls to her new address – and then her company address – went unanswered, he didn't know where to turn next.

Until Wheeler had shown up – seven years after the Planeteers had broken up and Linka had returned home. He'd told Mishka he needed to find Linka and he'd do so at any cost.

Wheeler smiled to himself as he picked up the phone again. He'd never have predicted himself becoming such close friends with Mishka. He just wished it was for a better reason than the one he had now.

He tried to prepare himself for the phone conversation he was about to have. It was early, but from what he could tell, the company Viktor worked for never slept. Worst-case scenario, he'd reach a machine.

He was quite fluent in Russian now, and could do quite well even in rapid conversation, but Viktor was a difficult man to track down. The company he worked for seemed unusually private, avoiding both publicity and advertising as though it would bring them bad luck. Something that would make his job even more difficult.

"Viktor Morozov, please?" he asked.

"Hold," came the weary reply.

He was left listening to dreary Christmas carols until another voice came on the line. He'd been expecting some sort of answering machine, but it sounded like he'd reached a secretary.

"Viktor Morozov's office."

"Nicholas Armstrong," Wheeler said, introducing himself and silently celebrating the fact he'd been transferred through to an actual person. "I'm a freelance journalist wondering if I could take a moment of Mr. Morozov's time today to ask him about his new software deal with Morgan and Echo Industries."

"Mr. Morozov is not giving out interviews," his secretary answered wearily.

"What about Polina Vetrova?"

The secretary snorted. "She is not giving out interviews, either."

I've found her. Oh my God, she does work there. I've found her.

"Could I speak with her anyway?" he asked daringly. "What time does she get in?"

"No, there are no interviews given. Sorry." She disconnected the call.

"Fuck!" Wheeler snapped, slamming the phone down. "Fine. Bitch." He got to his feet and pulled his jacket on, bundling himself into thick layers and winding his scarf around his neck. He glanced at the clock and figured he could make it to Moscow by early evening if he pressed the pedal hard enough.

No interviews, he thought bitterly, snatching up his keys. Let's see how they deal with visitors.


He'd never driven so fast in his life. Twice he'd nearly skidded off the road, the car sliding on patches of ice and snow and sending the car fishtailing across the pavement. It still hadn't been incentive enough to slow him down. He wanted to get to Linka's office before she left for the day, and time and distance were working against him. He'd made it, though. It was approaching dark, but he had every reason to believe Linka would be inside the large office building looming over him.

He sighed at the blast of heat as he entered the foyer and shed his jacket immediately, hurrying to the desk.

"I'm here to see Polina Vetrova," he said, approaching the receptionist at the desk.

"Who?" She clicked and tapped at the computer with a bored expression.

"She worked with Viktor Morozov on the deal with Morgan and Echo," he explained impatiently. "Polina Vetrova. Linka."

"Just a second," she answered wearily. She glanced at her computer screen and tapped a number into the phone, adjusting her headset carefully. "What is your business with her?" she asked, listening to the phone ring at the other end.

"Just tying up a few loose ends with the deal," he said, blessing his ability to lie so impulsively.

"Someone is at the front desk and asking for you," she said into the phone. Her manner or her bored tone didn't seem to improve, no matter who she was talking to you.

"Craig Wright," Wheeler said, pulling up his friend's name and hoping Linka remembered him from the meeting.

"It's about the deal with the American company. Craig Wright?" she said into the headset. She listened for a moment and then nodded and disconnected the call. "Take the elevator to the third floor and turn left. Her office is down the hall."

He barely resisted the urge to run. He could feel sweat on his skin and he couldn't remember ever being so nervous.

The elevator barely seemed to move.

"Come on!" he shouted angrily, tapping his foot impatiently as he travelled slowly upwards. Three floors had never seemed so high.


Linka stood at the window in her office, barely keeping bright tears back. She didn't know why she felt so betrayed – she should have seen it coming. Still, it was bitterly unfair. It had been her software. She had done every inch of work on it. She had written every line of code and abolished every error and tied up every loose end until the final product had been neatly scrolled away to a shiny compact disc, boxed up to be sold to the highest bidders.

And though Viktor hadn't been present at the meeting that afternoon, she knew it had been his decision to terminate her contract. She'd go home to him tonight and he'd have more control over her, and he'd have the benefits of her software and the deal they'd negotiated the previous evening.

She shook her head and pressed her forehead against her glass. She'd done nothing wrong. Five years she'd worked with this company, and now that they'd received their payout from the software she had developed, they were done with her.

Well – Viktor was done with her. She was certain it had been his decision, but he'd been suspiciously absent from the board that afternoon. She wondered what was going to happen when she went home.

She turned in surprise as the phone on her desk rang. Expecting it to be Viktor, she answered it quickly.

"Yes?"

"Someone is at the front desk and asking for you."

She blinked, recognising the front receptionist's voice but not knowing who on Earth would be requesting to see her – and certainly not this late in the day. She glanced nervously to the clock. She'd be expected home, soon.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"It's about the deal with the American company. Craig Wright?"

"Oh," Linka sighed. She remembered Craig. He had seemed a little nervous around her, as though she'd break if he let his gaze rest upon her for too long. She wondered what he wanted now. "Send him up," she said. "Third floor, and fourth office on the left."

She hung up and turned back to the window. She wondered if she should pack her desk. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, breathing out a slow sigh as she remembered the words of her superiors that afternoon. She shook her head in disbelief, heartbroken that she had been treated so callously by the people she had spent five years working with. She had thrown everything into her job, having nothing else to look forward to or enjoy. And now it had been pulled out from beneath her.

Again, the most important thing in my life has been torn away from me.


She had her back to him. Her arms were folded against her chest and she was gazing down at the slushy snow in the parking lot. It was almost dark and artificial lighting threw shadows across the ground, turning the snow blue-white and hiding the ugliness of the mud.

She was thin. Too thin. He recognised now what Craig had meant when he'd brought up the possibility of her suffering an illness. Her skin was pale and waxy and her hair was darker, as though she barely saw the sun, and it seemed lank and dull, coiled up and pinned against the back of her head.

He stepped into her office, afraid of her reaction. They hadn't exactly left things on good terms.

"Linka?" His voice sounded strange, and far away.

She turned, looking tired.

He thought she had looked pale, but if possible, her face seemed to drain of its colour even further. She went ghostly white, and she gasped and staggered. He kicked the door closed behind him and had her in his arms in two strides, catching her before she hit the floor.

"Hey babe," he whispered, sinking gently to the floor with her.

"Wheeler," she breathed. She stared up at him with wide eyes, and lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, touching him as though she needed to make sure it was really him.

"Yeah." He smiled down at her. "You okay?"

She seemed to realise, then, that she was on the floor, and she slipped out of his hands like a breath of wind, straightening to her feet and smoothing out her clothing and her hair, nervously checking her reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall of her office.

He stood by the wall, watching her, feeling anxious and not knowing what to say to her. He'd tried to plan this moment – over the past ten years he had imagined it thousands of times – but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.

"You said – I am expecting..." She glanced to the door and then back to him. "You said you were Craig?"

Her accent was much thicker than he remembered.

"Yeah." He gave her a small smile. "Surprise."

She pressed her palms over her eyes and sounded tearful when she spoke again. "I did not think I would ever see you again." She dropped her arms and gazed at him sadly.

"I've been hunting for you for years," he said. His voice was soft but there was a strong force of passion behind it. "You were always one step ahead of us, babe."

"I was not hiding," she said, folding her arms again.

"Could have fooled me," he said. "There's no trace of you anywhere."

"But you found me."

He grinned. "Guess I did." He reached for her hand, but she glanced nervously towards the door. He dropped his arm. "Mishka's worried about you," he said.

She stared at him in amazement and for a moment he thought she was going to faint again.

"You have spoken with Mishka?" she asked breathlessly.

He nodded. "He wants you to call him. Linka, he's so worried about you." He shook his head. "We've been looking for you for so –"

She burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. "I am so sorry," she sobbed. "I know it is all my fault."

"Don't apologise," he whispered. "Come here." He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.

"No, you must stop," she mumbled, reverting to Russian as she sank against him. "Someone could see us..."

"I don't care," he muttered, brushing his lips against her forehead.

"But..." She trailed off and pulled away from him slightly, looking up in confusion. She blinked at him and continued slowly, whispering softly. "I am speaking Russian," she said.

"I know." He dropped a kiss against her head. "I've been in St Petersburg for three years."

Her legs buckled again and he lowered her into her chair, kneeling in front of her.

"Do you want a glass of water?" he asked gently.

She gave a hollow laugh and rested her elbows on her knees, dropping her head to her hands. "I will be all right in a moment," she promised him. "I am just a little overwhelmed..."

He stroked her hair and watched her take three deep breaths. She looked up at him and ran her eyes over his face.

"You look the same," she said, switching back to English and brushing her fingertips against his cheek.

He closed his eyes at her touch. "I do?"

"Your hair is shorter," she whispered, stroking it with her fingers. "But you do not comb it..."

He laughed and opened his eyes to find her gazing at him. "Ten years," he sighed. He shook his head. "Too long."

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "Da, too long," she agreed. "And you have spent the ten years looking for me?"

"I've done a lot of things," he said. "I've been tracking you down, learning Russian, battling drug addictions..." He took her hands in his own and looked down at them.

"You should not joke about things like that," she said quietly, letting him stroke her slender fingers gently.

"Who's joking?" he asked. He gazed steadily back at her when she looked at him in surprise. "Heroin," he said.

She bit her lip and stared at him. "Heroin?" she asked eventually. "Wheeler..."

"I'm okay now," he said, moving his eyes away from her gaze. "Addicted to nicotine, but I figure that's a step up, really." He let go of her hands and dug around in his pockets, tossing his cigarettes onto her desk.

"It was because of me?" she asked timidly. "The heroin?"

"No," he said, horrified. "No, of course not. It was just – I was weak. I couldn't handle the loss of the Planeteers and –"

"It was my fault!" she cried, slumping in her seat and burying her face in her hands. "I sent everyone home!" She sobbed heavily and bent over, and he immediately wrapped his arms around her.

"Shh," he soothed. "Linka, of course it wasn't your fault." He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. He had always remembered her scent as soft and cool, floral and spice perfumes and frangipani salt scrub. Whatever the hell that was.

But now she smelled of tiredness and sickness. He clutched her and she was sharp and small in his arms.

"Linka, are you ill?" he asked timidly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," she answered immediately. "I am fine."

"Please don't lie to me," he begged. "I need to know what's wrong."

She shook her head and moved to her feet, pulling free of his arms. "Wheeler, I have to go," she said, looking at the clock. She started moving around her office, piling papers into her briefcase and pulling her jacket on.

"Have dinner with me," he begged. "We don't have to talk about anything bad if you don't want to, but –"

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes and snapping her briefcase shut. "Nyet, I cannot. I have to go home."

His heart sank and he clutched at his hair. "Okay," he breathed. "Look – tomorrow? Meet me tomorrow? Or later tonight!" He was begging now, but he didn't care.

She shook her head. "I cannot."

"Please." He literally sank to his knees and clutched at the bottom of her jacket. "Linka, I'm begging you," he said. "I won't leave here until we talk properly. I'll sleep in your office. On the floor. I'll move right in and I won't leave until you –"

"Wheeler!" She looked like she was about to smile, but her exhaustion prevented her. She put a hand to her forehead and looked down at him tiredly. She sighed. "I will see you tomorrow," she said.

"Do you promise?" he asked, not letting go of her.

"I promise," she answered. "Now let go of me." She looked at the door again and he staggered to his feet and pressed his lips against her forehead.

"I love you," he whispered, unable to help himself.

She gazed up at him and for a moment he wondered if she was going to give in and kiss him. It was a brave, useless thought, however.

Voices in the corridor disturbed them, and she tore her gaze away from his, touching her hair nervously and looking frightened and guilty as though she had committed some crime by just looking at him.

"Go," she whispered. "You must go."

"When can I see you tomorrow?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I am not sure," she admitted. "Where are you staying?"

"I'm not sure," he said, grinning at her. "Hadn't thought."

"Bozhe moy," she muttered.

He sighed and looked at her lovingly. "I've missed hearing that."

"Here," she said, scribbling a note in Russian. "Stay here. I will call tomorrow. Will you still be Craig Wright?"

"Try Nicholas Armstrong instead," he said, taking the note and tucking it into his pocket after glancing at it to make sure he could read it. "You promise you're coming?" he asked. "I swear to God, Linka, I'm not letting you go, now. If you don't show up –"

"I am coming," she promised. She glanced worriedly to the clock and scrabbled around in her handbag, drawing out her wallet. "I will come because I will want this back," she told him, handing him something that looked terribly battered and beaten. A playing card.

He pinched it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. "Bozhe moy," he agreed, breathing out a sigh and smiling at her. "I'll give it back." He leaned down and kissed her cheek gently. "You're still my Queen of Hearts, you know."


Linka closed the door softly.

"There you are!"

She jumped and turned to see Viktor standing in the foyer with a bunch of flowers.

"Am I late?" she asked, checking her watch. She braced herself for what would come if he said she was late.

But he laughed. "Late? No." He kissed her cheek. "The deal is all signed, Linka." He smiled. "We did it."

She relaxed a little. Maybe things were going to be okay, now. Maybe the software deal was all it took for him to be happy with her.

Though, that didn't explain the sudden termination of her contract.

She fought back her tears and smiled shyly at him. "I am glad the presentation went well."

"Me too." Obviously, they were both going to ignore the fact that she had been made redundant by their company that afternoon. He put the flowers aside and kissed her gently. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

She closed her eyes at the soft, intimate touch. "I do not mind," she breathed.

His hands moved over her shoulders and down her back, pulling her towards him. "Perhaps we could skip dinner," he murmured. "Perhaps we should have an early night..."

She felt familiar anxiety and fear start to tremble through her nerves. "If you want," she whispered.

She saw his eyes glint and realised that the software deal would not be enough to fix this. Nothing would be.

"Yes," he said. "That's what I want."


Linka watched the minutes crawl by on the digital clock on her bedside table. She could hear Viktor's deep breathing behind her and knew he was asleep. His hand still rested on her arm, as though he wanted to keep her there alongside him.

Wheeler is here, she thought. Her body felt weighted down and weary, but her mind was bright and clear, and for the first time in a long time she recognised the feeling of happiness. He came to find me.

She smiled to herself. Maybe tomorrow she could speak to Mishka. It had been so long. She hadn't realised, at the time, just how isolated she was becoming.

But then, Viktor was clever. They'd been in St Petersburg for almost two years before moving to Moscow, and in that short time, he'd managed to isolate her from everybody. She'd had no one left to turn to. She was alone, and had simply accepted it as punishment for what had happened during the final few weeks as a Planeteer. Breaking the team up had, ultimately, been her decision. Though she could hardly blame herself for what had happened between Wheeler and Gi, she felt guilt for what had happened after their return to Hope Island. She had been the one to send everyone away, and the search for something to dull her guilt and her sense of loss had led her to follow Viktor.

When that went wrong, she had simply incorporated her relationship with Viktor into her own need for self-destruction.

Maybe now things can finally be right again, she thought, closing her eyes and breathing a deep sigh. Maybe I will be okay.


Wheeler didn't know if it was excitement or nervousness keeping him awake. Perhaps a combination of the two. Either way, he had lain staring at the shadowy ceiling for hours, knowing that he needed sleep but simply feeling too wired to get any.

He tried working for a while, tapping away at his laptop until he realised none of his sentences were making sense and he'd been making frequent errors in both Russian and English. In the end he gave up completely and sat up flicking through television channels, remembering snatches of Planeteer missions and comparing the girl he remembered to the one Linka had become.

He felt a sick sort of worry and premonition in his gut when he remembered how thin and pale she was. She was gaunt and tired, and had seemed jumpy and nervous.

I'm gonna find out what's wrong, he thought. And I'm gonna fix it.