When Ross returned, Spalko was ready. She had spent the morning mentally rehearsing, adding flourishes to make her change of heart more convincing. Jones was still with her, inspecting the polaroids under a magnifying glass and scribbling notes on the back of the folder. His presence made it easier to put aside her anxiety, and she quietly hoped he would stay when she announced her decision. In the meantime, his sporadic commentary on the contents of the folder provided a welcome distraction.

As Jones lifted up a photograph of a shattered stone pillar, intricately engraved with an alien inscription, there was the snap of metal on wood. Irina looked up to see Ross step into the room, flanked by two soldiers in unmarked uniforms. Again, the taller soldier swung his baton against the doorframe, commanding attention.

Ross came prepared for a confrontation, Spalko observed silently, grimly amused. She sat up straight as the men approached, taking places at either side of the hospital bed. None of the visitors acknowledged Jones.

Ross bared his teeth, but the expression bore little resemblance to a smile. "Good morning, Dr. Spalko. Have you made a decision?"

She nodded crisply. "Yes."

"And that is?"

"I will assist you." Her words were met with shock, and Ross waved his henchmen away, waiting for her to explain. "I have realized that my loyalty to the Soviet Union is not reciprocated. My comrades put me through hell, and I am ready to rain it on them in return."

The words left a bitter taste in her mouth, but Ross was beaming. "This is excellent news!"

Beside her, Jones snapped to attention. "What?"

Lying to him was painful, but she would never again let personal loyalties come before duty. "You know what happened to me at Chistilishche. Surely you understand why I'd change sides?"

He looked sober, nodding slowly. "I'm just surprised, is all."

Ross clapped his hands, interrupting the exchange. "You'll make a fine addition to my team, Doctor. Welcome to Project Amanita."

General Robert Ross was proud of his little kingdom. Over the past few months, he'd retrofitted the dilapidated laboratories with state-of-the-art equipment, collected stone and soil samples from the Akator site, and acquired two talented professionals to implement the project. Both were expendable, so there was no need to purchase filters or hazmat suits. At one time, Ross' conscience would have twinged at the idea. But now, after watching, white-knuckled, as the Russians acquired advanced technology, he was willing to ignore his scruples.

Ross had been deployed to the Pacific Theatre during the Second World War, and he'd watched many a friend bleed out or succumb to infection. Then there had been the POWs, whose mangled bodies reappeared after months or years, but whose sense of self never returned. These men had sacrificed for freedom and democracy, and Ross would be damned if he let the flame be extinguished now. His methods were sometimes ugly, but he was successful. And preventing that nightmare world, that future in which all bent a knee before the Soviet Union, was all that mattered.

Project Amanita was the most promising experimental weapon in a decade. After collecting the stories of witnesses, Ross had concluded that Spalko's experiences at Akator were attributable to a powerful hallucinogen. Harold Oxley, too, had felt the effects, but his death had made it difficult to probe further. His working theory was that the substance induced a kind of folie a deux, which would explain the similarities between Jones' and Spalko's accounts of the incident. Repackaged into a weapon, the hallucinogen could be a powerful tool for psychological warfare, inducing entire cities to believe whatever best served the interests of the American military.

Now, Spalko would analyze the samples brought back from Peru, isolate the substance, and test its affects in a controlled environment. Should the experiments be unsuccessful, he would send the two back to Akator. He had anticipated that he'd need to apply a great deal of force to get Spalko to cooperate, but her acquiescence was a happy surprise. He was sure that she had some ulterior motive, but so long as the work was done, Ross wasn't concerned.

Turning down a long hallway, he made his way to the first laboratory. Steel tables gleamed under fluorescent lights, and a row of lab coats hung neatly on the back wall. The space was to be kept sterile, and so Ross stopped at the doorway, admiring his handiwork. This weapon could change the outcome of the Cold War, and he was champing at the bit to see it developed.

Slipping the key into her pocket, Spalko flipped on the lights and scrutinized her new quarters. The room was cramped and dusty, crowded with rows of empty bunks. There was a pile of fresh uniforms on one cot, along with a few toiletries and a hairbrush. Moving from the hospital to the barracks had been simple – she had nothing to her name, save the tattered clothes from her time in the gulag. Someone had left a copy of Tolstoy's War and Peace on the pillow, probably in an attempt to mock her. Nonetheless, she was happy for a bit of quiet entertainment.

After changing clothes, she ran a brush through her cropped hair. Standing in front of the mirror, she could see a long, raised scar stretching across her forehead. Her nose was a bit crooked now, but she looked otherwise unchanged. There was perhaps a bit of bruising across her cheekbone, and when she grimaced, she spotted a chip in one tooth. Still, all things considered, she looked presentable.

Jones hadn't visited since her confrontation with Ross, and she'd only seen him during their time in the laboratory, poring over field notes under the watchful eye of a guard. She wondered if he knew she was up to something, and if it was yet another blow to their fragile peace. He was polite – solicitous, even – but there was no warmth behind it. Sometimes she wondered if her fixation on Jones indicated more than a desire to reestablish their partnership. Still, anything more between them would be ill-advised, and so she quashed these feelings before she could fully comprehend them.

Taking a seat and picking up the book, she flipped slowly through the pages. The text was in English, but she supposed her English needed work after months of speaking Russian exclusively. As a child, she'd spoken Ukrainian at home, peppered with Tatar phrases from her mother's people. Now, she remembered little of either language.

Turning to the first page, she heard the creak of hinges. Jones stepped into the room, swinging his hat in his hand. Catching sight of her, he paused:

"I didn't think you were being released today."

She shrugged. "The medic cleared me."

There was an uncomfortable tension as Jones walked to a bunk near the corner. She glimpsed a trunk half-hidden beneath the bedframe, and he kicked it aside, hanging his hat on a nail. He'd been staying here longer than she had, and Spalko felt suddenly like an interloper. Laying down her book, she sat on the cot opposite his, threading her fingers tightly together. As she readied herself to speak, Jones interrupted her preparations.

"Do you like the book?"

"I'm a bit insulted," she huffed, unable to stop her mouth from turning up in amusement.

"It's a peace offering. I don't know what Soviets like to read, and…" He shrugged.

She was reminded that, despite spending much time together over the past year, they knew very little of each other. She tapped the cover. "Thank you. Now – a peace offering for what?"

"For staying away these past few days." He rubbed the back of his neck and winced visibly. "I know you are planning something, and I know that Ross believes you've changed sides. Whatever it is, I don't want to know. I'll be obligated to tell Ross."

She stared at him, instinctively understanding his words. "I understand loyalty to country, Jones. That is why I cannot let you know of my plans-"

"—Like I said, that's fine with me." He smiled suddenly, deepening the lines around his eyes. His shoulders sagged in relief.

Returning to her bunk, she wondered if she and Jones were not so different after all. He had expected her to be angry, but she empathized with his predicament. Empathy did not come naturally to Irina Spalko, but it was difficult to avoid imagining herself in Jones' place. She respected his commitment to the West, even if it made her job more difficult.

Squinting at the frame of the bunk above her, Spalko listened to the footsteps of the guard in the hall. He made his rounds every half hour, and he'd passed six times since the beginning of the night shift. Across the room, she could hear Jones snoring softly, and the wind howled outside the barred window. Despite the late hour, she was wide awake and buzzing with nervous energy. Something about the dark and the wind made her body tense, and she swore she could hear the tinny melody of Varshavianka drifting over the prison yard. She caught a whiff of Russian tobacco, and the sweet smell of burning flesh as the end of a cigarette was extinguished on an unlucky arm. Freezing in her ragged gulag coat, she knelt still on the ground, listening to the crunch of footsteps on snow. The commandant, displeased with their progress, had threatened random executions. Now they were lined up and blindfolded, waiting for the first shot.

Behind her, someone struggled, but she kept stubbornly to herself, determined to remain invisible in the chaos. With all the strength of her thoughts, she repeated, I am nothing to notice. You do not see me. She stayed frozen as two shots split the air. Momentarily, there was the pressure of rough hands on her chin, and then the displacement of air as the guard moved along the line. With a crack, the man beside her crumpled, and she felt warm blood soaking into her boots. Someone moved towards her, and she smelled burning wool as the barrel of a gun, still smoking, was pressed against her hatted head. Blind and immobile, her instincts nonetheless screamed for her to run-

Somewhere in the distance, a claxon sounded, drawing Spalko back to the present. She balled the rough army blanket up in her fists, fighting down the nausea. Her heart thumped against her ribs, and her forehead was sheened with sweat. Sitting up, she glanced around the darkened room, slowly loosening her grip. She felt a sudden compulsion to talk to Jones and, before she could hesitate, she stood and walked across the room. Shakily, she sat down on the bunk across from his, grasping for an excuse to speak.

Looking down, she was startled to realize that he was already awake. In the dark, she could see only his outline. "Jones?"

He chuckled. "If you're going to sit there staring, you may as well get under the blanket. It's cold."

He moved slightly to the side, and she settled beside him, turning sideways so that they were face to face. They hadn't been in such close proximity since Peru, and she was conscious of his breath against her cheeks. The tremor in her limbs was beginning to abate, and she felt a sudden regret for her actions. Half-tempted to return to her own cot, she schooled her face into a neutral expression.

"You okay?"

"I am feeling a bit uneasy," she said stiffly, avoiding eye contact. "It is difficult to explain."

"I understand," he murmured. Inching closer, he laid a tentative hand on her arm. There was something strikingly intimate about lying together in the dark, and she idly wondered if he cared for her beyond what was expected of comrades-in-arms. Quashing the thought, she turned her gaze away.

"Nonfiction."

"What?"

"You asked what I liked to read. I am giving you the answer."

"Okay," he nodded, shedding his bewilderment. "What's your favorite book?"

A memory surfaced-

Sitting cross-legged in the barn, hunched over a book with the stub of a stolen candle, nine-year-old Irina felt safe in her little circle of light. She imagined a canopy of stars above her, the crash and spray of waves, the steady rocking of the ocean. She felt something mighty just beyond her fingertips, lurking at the edge of the candlelight, unknown and unknowable. Her mind was busy imagining drip stills and carved wooden fishing hooks, and she sketched absently in the dirt, making calculations in her head. Mentally, she built an escape from the dusty Crimean village, the grinding weight of poverty, the narrow mindedness of those who called her witch.

"A book from when I was a child. It was about a man who was lost at sea, and it described the things he did, the things he created to survive."

He hummed in interest. "Sounds fascinating."

"And yours?"

"That's a difficult question, Dr. Spalko."

"I gave you my answer," she countered brusquely.

"Fair enough. I'll go with History of the Kings of Britain. It's the only book I remember my father reading to me as a kid."

She shook her head, not recognizing the title.

He sighed. "We should rest. I'm sure Ross has plenty planned for tomorrow."

She nodded in agreement. Exhaustion weighed down her limbs, but she dreaded the nightmares that had plagued her since arriving on base. She concentrated on the weight of Jones' grip on her arm, the warmth of his skin against hers. She felt more secure here, with Jones quite literally at her back. And yet, the two of them were in a precarious situation, and Spalko felt the need to keep her wits about her. If she kept to her objective, if she didn't let the trauma of Chistilishche make her weak, perhaps there was a future for her in the Soviet Union.