The man waiting at the gate was short and round-bellied, with a fine rime of ice coating his moustache and eyebrows. His head was covered by a battered panama cap, completely unsuited to the frosty Alaskan weather. He staggered into the entryway, shaking snow onto the floor, and tore off a glove with his teeth.

He offered his hand. "Thanks for coming to my rescue, mate."

Ross stared at him critically. The face was vaguely familiar, and the rhythm of his voice suggested origins in London. Declining the hand, Ross shut the heavy door behind them.

"It was foolish to show up unannounced. Now, who are you?"

Still puffing from the cold, he retracted his hand. "George McHale, sir."

Ah. Ross stroked his chin, recognizing the name. "What brings you to Alaska?"

"You have a problem. I'm here to help you fix it."

"Problem?" Ross ushered McHale down the corridor, towards the interrogation room.

"That's what I said, yeah."

They entered the room, barely furnished with a metal table and hanging lightbulb. McHale toppled into a folding chair, whipping off his hat and placing it in front of him. Ross cleared his throat.

"Don't get too comfortable, Mr. McHale. Tell me why you're here."

McHale flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Well, to start at the beginning, I woke up buried in the rubble of Akator. You know what happened at Akator, right?" When met with a nod, he continued. "Took me five bloody weeks to reach civilization, and even longer to get in contact with my Soviet handler. I got my payment and went back to England. About a week ago, a Russian bloke turns up at my flat, and he's asking if I'm still peddling my services."

"What did he want you for?"

"Spalko. He told me she was alive and had been condemned to a labor camp in Siberia. He told me she'd disappeared, and he wanted me to find her."

"And your search led you here?"

"Yes." McHale wiped his nose with the back of his hand and replaced his hat. "My sources tell me that she's here."

Ross stood, pushing his chair back. He prepared to call for the guards but was interrupted by McHale's hand on his arm.

"For the right price, I'm prepared to switch sides."

Ross returned to his seat, wheels turning in his head. The Soviets were looking for Spalko, and if they successfully regained custody, she would tell them all the details of her research. He wasn't foolish enough to believe she'd shifted loyalties, and if Project Amanita fell into Russian hands, the results could be catastrophic. McHale would be an asset, indeed, and he might also be helpful if they needed to return to Akator.

Ross inclined his chin. "I'm listening."

Mac followed Ross through a maze of dimly-lit hallways, his boots dripping melted snow in his wake. Until a few moments ago, he had been congratulating himself for his own cleverness in coming to Alaska to sell his services. But now, as he prepared for a reunion with Jones, he felt a creeping sense of embarrassment. They had been heroes, back during the war, traipsing all over Europe and outsmarting Nazis at every turn. But years of near-poverty and a crippling gambling addiction had taught him that the world was an inhospitable place for heroes. It was better to keep your head down, to take every advantage and mind your business. He was only trying to make a living, but Jones would see his recent choices as a betrayal of the values they'd both held.

Ross came to a stop, nodding crisply at the two guards stationed outside the door. Mac gulped.

The room was a laboratory, shining chrome and fitted with expensive machinery. The door creaked, announcing their presence. Jones was seated at the table, hunched over a pile of polaroids with a magnifying glass. His hair was a bit grayer, and he'd lost some weight. He looked up, eyes locking onto Mac.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Ross stepped forward, lifting a hand to silence them. "Mr. McHale also survived Akator, and we have purchased his services for the foreseeable future."

Mac shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hello to you, too, Jonesy."

Jones scowled silently. Mac scanned the room until his eyes fell on Spalko. She was dressed in a lab coat and hairnet, and her eyes were shielded by thick plastic goggles. She looked pretty rough, with a thick scar stretching across her temple and a newly-crooked nose. She rolled her eyes in disgust.

"What service could McHale possibly have to offer?" she posed the question to Ross.

Ross gave him a nod, and so McHale answered. "Plenty, I can assure you. A few days ago, a Russian bloke contacts me. Says that you escaped from a work camp in Siberia, and they'll pay a pretty penny to get you back. I didn't fancy going to Siberia in the autumn, so I brought the information to Ross instead."

Spalko looked startled. Sinking into the seat beside Jones, she pulled off her cap and rolled in between her hands. Jones slapped a hand on the table.

"Did the Russian say why they wanted her back?"

Mac shrugged his shoulders. "I imagine that when a person escapes from the gulag, it warrants some response from the authorities."

Jones and Spalko exchanged a glance. Mac was interested to observe that they seemed to be on good terms. Ross broke the silence.

"McHale will be at my disposal for the duration of the project. If we make a return expedition to Akator, he will be a valuable resource."

Jones laughed bitterly. "Be careful, Ross. I trusted Mac once, too. It didn't turn out well."

"Jonesy-" Before he could finish his protestations, Ross herded him towards the door.

When Spalko entered the barracks, Jones was sitting at the edge of his bunk, framed by the flickering light of the kerosene lantern. He flipped quietly through a tattered book, squinting through a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. She hung her jacket and unlaced her boots, thoughts still in a jumble. McHale's appearance had thrown a wrench in her plans, and she was even more disquieted by the fact that the Soviets were looking for her. Part of her wanted to return to them willingly, to grit her teeth and serve out the rest of her sentence. On the other hand, she still indulged the idea that she could return in glory, armed with cutting-edge technology stolen from the Americans. For the time being, she would continue working on the weapon, in order to buy time to deliberate.

Jones patted the spot next to him, closing his book. "Good evening."

She shrugged off his greeting and took a seat, still distracted by her thoughts. "McHale is here," she reminded him quietly. "My countrymen are searching for me."

He chuckled slightly. "Straight to the point."

"His presence will make things rather…complicated."

"Things are already complicated."

She grimaced in silent agreement. Then: "What could McHale possibly have to offer? Is Ross only paying him for his silence?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Jones removed his glasses and inspected the lenses, then polished them against his shirt.

"But he was your partner during the war, yes?"

"That was a long time ago."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Spalko stared across the room, watching shadows flicker across the walls. Jones, too, seemed disturbed by McHale's sudden reemergence. She could feel a tension in the air, and a tight line appeared between his brows. She would never implicate Jones in her plans, but part of her wanted to share with him her dilemma. For all the harm it had done to her, the Soviet Union was her motherland, and she felt a pull to return. Living among the Americans, surrounded by enemies, Spalko felt ill-at-ease. Jones was a steady and reliable presence, and she respected his judgement.

"-But no sense dwelling on the matter," Jones concluded, retrieving his book. "I visited the base library, and they have quite a good collection of archaeological texts. This one is about the rediscovery of Angkor Wat in Cambodia."

His eyes flashed with excitement as he flipped the cover open. She moved closer, staring down at a hand-illustrated map of Southeast Asia. The colors were muted in the dim light, and as he turned the page, she looked down at a photograph of an intricately carved corridor. She had visited Cambodia once, in the early days of her association with the Science and Technology Directorate. They'd been searching for a solid gold scepter, apparently imbued with the power to cause earthquakes. As expected, the object had possessed no special capabilities, but her work had pleased the upper command.

"What's wrong?" Jones laid a hand on her back, interrupting her thoughts.

"I…" She struggled for the words. "I'd like to return to the Soviet Union."

"I know," he said wearily. "I understand patriotism, Spalko, but I don't think you owe them anything. Especially after Siberia."

"It isn't a matter of owing," she muttered.

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad you're here now." His tone was sincere, and she felt a sudden softness towards him.

Lifting a hand, he brushed a wayward strand of hair from her forehead. Tucking it behind her ear, he kept his hand pressed to her cheek, his fingers warm and calloused. Her thoughts slowed, and the white static in her head left no room for caution or practicality.

When he kissed her, his touch was surprisingly gentle, though his arm was tight around her waist. His chin was rough with stubble, and he smelled of kerosene and laundry soap. The embrace lasted only a few seconds, and then he pulled away, flushed and nervous.

"I'm sorry—"

"Do not apologize." She looked up at him, feeling a sudden awkwardness between them. She needed time to consider her next move, even if she wanted nothing more than to stay in his embrace. She stood up and walked to the lantern, stooping to twist the dial.

"—But it is late. Perhaps we can discuss this tomorrow."

In the last of the light, she saw him nod.