CHERNOBOG - The Black God, the god of night, the god of Hell, the bringer of evil luck, the god of infernal darkness.
He led her through the labyrinthine hallways of a building she hadn't seen in over a decade. People stared as she passed, obviously surprised to see the mythical Derevko back in their midst. So far as they knew, her mission had been a blinding success. Lauded as their most valuable agent, she set the bar high for long-term information gathering. Once her superiors were finished raking her ravaged soul across the coals, they would make her teach.
Bright-eyed girls, much as she had been, would come to her to learn.
How do I sell myself to the highest bidder? How do I lie, steal, cheat, kill, fuck and keep my soul?
You don't, she'd tell them. But if you're lucky, you'll find someone…or two someones…who will give it back to you. Then you'll be forced to leave, to save them from the poison in your love. You'll find that your ideology and your heart have become diametrically opposed. What you'll do with yourself in that dark place is anybody's guess.
Her long strides matched Khasinau's as he took her deeper and deeper into the heart of Russia's security agency. Irina straightened the tweed sport coat and smoothed at her hair as she walked. She had pulled the mass into a knot at the nape of her neck, completing the severe picture of a dedicated KGB agent.
She was, after all, a mistress of disguise.
"Fancy clothes won't change what you are." Khasinau hissed as he pushed her towards the room.
"A KGB whore?" She asked flippantly.
"A traitor."
She fought the urge to roll her eyes at him when they entered the room. A traitor. He never tired of saying that to her.
Yes, she was traitorous. She betrayed everything, every last thing, she had been taught to believe in. And some things she'd only recently learned to believe in.
She wasn't surprised to see a camera set up. They would, of course, tape the debriefing. At least, they would tape the parts of it they wanted to make sure they could use in the future. She knew the gloves would come off and the game would officially start when the camera went dark. She felt a thrill of anticipation for the battle set before her.
She seated herself primly at the table, allowing a small victorious smirk creep onto her face when her gaze settled on Khasinau.
He would conduct the first part of the interview. The easy questions. Details of when, where, why and how. The part that would be taped, stored and kept in case she was ever foolish enough to attempt to defect. The American government would adore the chance to put her away for her treasonous acts. She was being asked to provide all the evidence they would need to have her put to death if she ever returned.
Khasinau began by asking her to state her name. When she spoke, the words were heavily accented, almost unrecognizable as English. Khasinau shot her a strange look but she merely smiled beatifically and answered him.
"My Russian or American name?"
"Uh, why not both?" Khasinau was put off his stride by her obedience, her willingness to answer his questions so honestly. He had expected resistance from her, as she had been bordering antagonistic since her extraction. What he got was a woman playing the part of the dedicated Russian nationalist to perfection.
"Irina Derevko and Laura Bristow."
"When were you recruited for special duties?" The day was vivid in her mind, the flush of excitement still palpable. The thrill of power and domination easily won her over, a marginalized young girl in a sexist regime. She refused to acknowledge what she knew in her gut. She was a government sanctioned whore, useful only for what was between her legs. Her talent was in her curves, her feline smile, her toned muscles. The rest could be taught, but they needed her femininity.
"In 1970 I was recruited to the KGB by you, Alexander Khasinau." She'd thank him later, in various and sundry ways. She let herself briefly imagine her revenge. A garrot. A well-aimed blow. A single bullet to his heart.
"Describe the objective of your operation."
This was the meat of why she'd been brought here and she would not disappoint. She pulled the microphone closer and tried to bite back a smile. Her superiors would think she was simply proud of her work, eager to share her success. "Phase one – I was to pose as an American, a student of literature. Phase two – I was to make the acquaintance of a particular officer in the central intelligence agency. To insinuate myself into his life, to become his confidante, earn his trust."
"Please state the officer by name." A deft move and his eyes glittered dangerously. They dared her to say his name. They dared her not to stumble on the words, to have them catch in her throat. She met the stare in challenge.
"Officer Jonathan Donahue Bristow." She was proud that she didn't fumble, that her voice didn't catch in remorse. She felt her strength returning and she repositioned herself in the chair more comfortably.
"Phase three?"
"Phase three. I was to begin to acquire from various means, details about the CIA operation to which Bristow was assigned. Project Christmas."
"You have no reason to believe that anyone else became suspicious of you?" She was almost offended by the question. Her execution had been flawless, that they knew. Nobody suspected her. She'd made especially sure of that.
"Nyet. Of course, I would have told you." He grimaced at her words, not because they were lies but because they were truth. She had never once failed to provide the KGB with information. Not once.
"How did you acquire your intel?"
"Every night for ten years, I went through his briefcase. I eavesdropped on all his private conversations. I planted listening devices on his clothing. He was blinded by his emotions. He knew nothing." She paused, planning her next words. She knew where this tape was headed, who would eventually see it. She only prayed that it was sooner rather than later. His hatred would eat away his sorrow and he, too, would be free.
"I can tell you one thing. Jack Bristow was a fool."
There was silence in the room and Khasinau reached back to flip off the camera. Irina's eyes twinkled when she leaned back, a satisfied smirk on her face. It dimmed only a little when Khasinau stood and made his way around the table.
Her chair rocked back under the force of his blow, his signet ring making a deep gash when he backhanded her cheek. She bolted upward, knocking the chair over completely.
"Don't ever touch me again, Alexander. Or I will kill you."
"That will be difficult from where you're headed." He indicated to the man standing silently by the door. "Antics like this won't save your husband." He spit out the word vehemently. "Or that bastard child of yours."
Irina lunged and with power he hadn't realized she possessed, she placed a well-aimed blow in the dead center of his face. Blood gushed immediately, a crimson fall staining his shirt. He bubbled through a scream and fell backwards, falling hard enough to knock himself cold when his head slammed into the corner of the table.
Irina stood quietly as the two guards charged her and slammed her into the wall, using extra force to make their point. A waist chain and leg irons were pulled out and she stood by complacently as she was locked into them.
"Your interrogation begins tomorrow." One warned her, and they dragged her roughly from the room, ordering a medic for Khasinau.
It was the last thing she would ever do with passion, without forethought. And it was worth it.
***
A year later, she wouldn't recall with any kind of clarity what happened to her for the first month of her time in Kashmir. The Russian government was at the top of its field at finding effective interrogation techniques, leaning heavily towards psychological torture rather than physical. No guard touched her inappropriately, no man invaded her space. She was allowed to wash in privacy, being the only woman housed in the facility, and she spent her exercise period alone. She wasn't allowed, or forced, to mix with the male prison population.
Her meals were decent for what they were, although she rarely ate.
Their questions were always the same with small variations. Was she a traitor? Who did she tell? Who was she working for?
Her answers never changed. No, nobody, the KGB.
They began bringing in ghastly images of her hits, demanding details of each one. What information had she gathered? Had they screamed? Did she sleep with them? Those answers varied by hit, but they were always correct.
Her interrogations were conducted at all hours, from the middle of the night to midday. She functioned on little sleep and less food. Her resistance never wavered, but at times her sanity did. She thought about escaping, of running away. In a brief flash of delirium, she dreamed of running home to Jack.
By the second month, they pushed harder and her resolve strengthened even more. She began to understand what they wanted, needed, to hear from her.
It came during one particularly long session, in the third hour, when they'd asked for the fifth time who she had been working for. They didn't want to hear about her loyalty, about everything she'd done for them, whether they'd asked it or not.
They wanted her to lie to them, to become a victim of circumstance and a feminine delicacy called her heart. If she admitted to weakness, to being a silly female, the investigation would be dropped. A slap on the wrist and she would be free to go.
Dropping her lids and looking up through her eyelashes, she answered.
"Myself."
Her interrogator, Gerard Cuvee, rocked back in his chair and smiled approvingly.
"For what end, Comrade Derevko?"
"For my family." Her answer was purposely hollow and defeated, exactly what they desired from her.
"Your…family?" He allowed derision on the last word and disgust crossed her features. She did not want them to become a pawn in this twisted game, but now that the line had been crossed, he wasn't willing to go back. "Your target and that little whelp?"
"My husband and daughter."
"And did you love them?"
She wouldn't lie and say no, but she wanted to avoid the truth at all costs. In a game of wits, one should never give her opponent honest insight. It would increase her vulnerability in the face of an attack.
"I was planning to defect. To turn to the American government for protection against Russia."
It was enough of a lie to suit her purposes. The thought had, in all honesty, never crossed her mind. She never intended to save her doomed marriage, to stay longer than the KGB required of her. She loved them enough to refuse to saddle them with her mistakes. It was selfish of her to run away, she knew, but she was a selfish woman. She always had been, and always would be.
"You were?" Cuvee leaned forward and let his hand linger over hers in a caress. He felt, she was sure, he had made a breakthrough. "Did you think he could protect you?"
"The CIA would have." She pondered. "I would have handed them your head on a platter. With relish." A small truth she allowed herself, and he nodded, accepting the veracity of her claim.
"And Khasinau?"
"Khasinau as well." Cuvee nodded, turning to the guards. He ordered her punishment, a week in solitary confinement and limited meals, in exchange for her transgressions.
"You broke his nose," Cuvee called to her as she was led away. "In defense of your child."
Irina turned and smiled thinly at him, gave a small nod. She wouldn't make such a mistake again and he knew it.
***