"McHale!" Spalko called out sharply, curling a finger in his direction.

Mac stepped out of the doorway and into the cool confines of the laboratory. Despite her change in fortune, Irina still had a way of frightening him to his core. She stood imperiously behind the counter, back perfectly straight and face composed. Almost timidly, he ran a hand over his bare head and asked, "Yes?"

"I wish to speak with you."

Mac composed himself, leaning an elbow against the counter with a studied nonchalance. "You're speaking with me now, love."

She glared. "About your dealings with my countrymen."

"Ah, yes. They didn't seem very pleased by your absence."

There was the same steely glare, but her cheek twitched slightly. Mac knew a tell when he saw one, and he quickly surmised that something about the statement had bothered her. Not allowing her time to respond, he pushed further. "—It's right shocking, actually. Your man told me you'd been sent to the gulag for attacking a Soviet patrol in Peru. Never thought you'd stab your comrades in the back-"

"—You misunderstand the circumstances," she interrupted, eyes wide with barely-controlled anger. "The Soviet presence in Peru was under corrupt leadership. I merely intervened."

Mac stifled a laugh. "Even the bloody gulag couldn't knock the arrogance out of you."

He watched her take a deep breath, smoothing her palms over her laboratory coat. "I did not summon you so we could bicker. I have questions."

"Yes?"

"Your Russian visitor…he wanted you to return me to Chistilishche, correct?"

"I got that impression, yes," Mac responded. The visit had been brief, with the Russian man settling in his living room only long enough to smoke a cigarette. He'd given Mac an envelope of cash and disappeared into the London rain. "He said they would settle for a location, but there would be a cash bonus if I delivered you to Siberia directly."

"Then why are you here?"

"Well, I didn't exactly relish going to Siberia at this time of year. It seemed easier to show up here and offer the Americans what I had."

Spalko nodded slowly. The twitch in her cheek returned, and she looked cautiously over her shoulder. Then: "I want to return to Russia. You can take me to Chistilishche, yes?"

Mac stumbled back in shock. He had no idea why she'd want to return to the gulag, but it didn't matter. He had already started to calculate the payout he could expect from his Russian handler. Ross had compensated him well, but if he could return Spalko to the USSR, he would stand to make more than twice that amount. A satisfied smile crept over his lips.

"Possibly. Although I'll need time to plan."

She nodded crisply. "See that you keep me informed."

Squirming under her gaze, Mac shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the door. As he ducked past the guards and reentered the hallway, his thoughts were spinning. He'd only taken the job for an extra bit of cash, but it was proving to be more interesting than he'd hoped. Spalko seemed to be laboring under the delusion that her relationship with the USSR was still salvageable, that she hadn't committed an unforgivable sin by attacking her own countrymen. She had to know that nothing was left for her in Russia, save a bullet to the head. McHale was not honorable enough to ruin his payout by forcing her to stay, but he winced a little at her stupidity.

It was an hour past midnight, and the laboratory was eerily quiet. As Spalko carried a box of slides to the microscope, she was strongly aware of the tap of her boots on the tile. The air smelled sterile, and glare of overhead lights on steel counters made her dizzy. Working in the underground room, Spalko often felt outside of time, disconnected from the short days and long, cold nights on the island above. She had been processing samples since dawn, hurrying to finish the analysis before McHale solidified his plans to return her to Siberia. She intended to come back with extensive information about Project Amanita and her findings, and she hoped it would be enough to earn her favor from the directorate. Spalko was not naïve enough to believe she could earn a clean slate, but she hoped for mercy.

Her late nights at the laboratory served another purpose. If Spalko let herself sleep, she knew she'd dream of Chistilishche. The place had been hell, but she was determined not to lose her nerve. These past few weeks, she'd had a reoccurring nightmare of standing in the prison yard, waiting for the fatal shot. Her trousers and boots were soaked with slush, and the prickling in her feet told her that frostbite was setting in. She could feel the heat of the gun barrel pressed against her head, and the smell of burning hair hung in her nostrils. The air felt permeated with dread, and when she tried to take a breath, her lungs didn't respond. The dream usually ended with the crack of a bullet, jolting her back to her body and the stillness of the barracks.

Snapping a pair of gloves onto her hands, she dropped a few slides onto the counter. Her eyedropper and vials of samples were already arrayed, the soil sealed in airtight glass. Taking the dropper, she carefully unscrewed the lid and withdrew a tiny amount of muddy liquid. Her hands shook with exhaustion, but she placed the dropper precisely at the center of the square of glass and finished assembling the slide. A morbid part of her wondered if she'd even survive another nine years at the work camp. She did not fear a bit of temporary pain, but the gulag had been something different. Her rational mind told her that it was the price of returning to Russia, that she could endure anything for the glory of the motherland. And yet, a few months in Siberia had shredded her dignity and left her hollow. She stared down at the microscope, idly repositioning the slide with her index finger.

There was a heavy banging on the door, and she jumped, flattening her hands against the counter to steady herself. Two guards entered the room, not bothering to cover their shoes or don hairnets.

Spalko glowered at the men. "Why do you disturb me?"

"Your plane leaves in twenty minutes. You will follow us."

"What?" Spalko wondered if McHale had somehow managed to bribe the guards into helping her escape. Her stomach dropped at the suddenness, but she pushed aside the nausea.

"You and Jones are going to Akator. General's orders," the taller man supplied.

"I object – I need time to finish my analysis."

"Too bad." The shorter man spoke with an American twang, and as she stepped back, he reached for her arm. "Don't waste your energy arguing."

His grip was strong, and she winced, snatching her arm away. The guards hustled her into the hallway, and she followed them wordlessly, lost in thought. The timing was suspicious, and she wondered if McHale had told Ross of her request. More likely, Ross had been listening in to their conversation, and he'd planned the trip to preclude her escape to Siberia. She had been so sure she wanted to return, and now that the possibility had evaporated, she felt ashamed of her own relief. Her mind spun, faster and faster, as she walked towards the plane and Akator.

Ross had requisitioned a bushplane to take them to the mainland, and Indy found himself sitting in the cargo hold, surrounded by crates of supplies. He'd been awakened from a dead sleep by the shouts of the guards, and he'd scarcely had time to dress before they'd hurried him to the hangar. Now, he sat on a low bench near the window, squinting in the faint moonlight that leaked through the glass. Spalko sat beside him, taciturn and still, hair still mussed from the plastic hairnet. She had been summoned directly from the laboratory, and he doubted she'd slept at all.

"What is Ross playing at?" he asked, filling the silence.

Spalko shrugged. "I was not informed."

"It was a rhetorical question," he responded, smiling weakly. She nodded detachedly, even more distant than usual. Her pale eyes were fixed on the ground, and her stare was empty.

He touched her hand. "Irina, is something wrong?"

He didn't know what possessed him to use her first name, and it felt strange on his tongue. They had always used surnames, and even after their kiss, using it felt uncomfortably intimate. Something in her expression softened however, and she spoke:

"I am just exhausted."

"Me, too," he said with a chuckle, gripping her hand. "But beyond that-"

She looked at him guardedly.

"-Whatever it is, just tell me."

She took a breath, pulling her hand away. "I refuse to implicate you."

"Look, I don't give a damn about being implicated."

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the bulkhead. She spoke softly, barely audible over the roar of the engine: "I asked McHale to help me return to Chistilishche."

"What?" Indy could feel his jaw go slack, and he blinked at her in astonishment.

"I want to go home – I can no longer live among enemies. But…"

"-Ross interrupted your plans," he finished. His mind was a tangle of anger and disbelief.

"Yes."

"You have to know that returning would be suicide," he muttered, shaking his head.

"I'd rather die in the Soviet Union than live in the west."

The words rankled him, and he gave in to the itch of anger. "That is insane."

"Yes?" She snatched up his hand, guiding his fingers to the back of her head. There was a shorn spot and a circular burn scar, small but raised at the edges. He brushed his fingers over the patch, looking at her uneasily.

"What is this?"

"From Chistilishche. They shot the prisoner next to me, then put the gun to my head while it was still smoking. I know what awaits me, Jones. But if I must die, it will be in the good graces of my country."

Indy didn't know how to respond. His hand was still in her hair, and her fingers dug into his palm.

"When Ross summoned me to the hangar, my relief made me feel guilty. I was terrified of returning to that hell."

He'd come to care for Spalko, and part of him wanted to beg her to stay. Underneath the anger and shock, he felt a desperate unease. The thought of her returning to Siberia made him panic, and he couldn't help but remember the scene that had greeted him when he walked into her cell. That day haunted his nightmares, and the thought of brought bile to his throat.

"I'm glad you told me," he murmured, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She let him pull her to his chest, her posture stiff and awkward. His heart thudded against his ribs, and he ran a gentle hand over her back. She relaxed a little, and he felt her exhale against his skin.

"I would have missed you, Jones." It was as close as she would get to a declaration of affection, and Indy felt a flush creep up his neck.

He scuffed a booted foot against the floor, listening to the hum of the engines and the rush of wind. It was quite a turn of events, and Indy found himself unexpectedly relieved to be returning to Akator. He hated the jungle: the insects, the heat, the lurking tropical diseases. But their trip had prevented Spalko from making a choice that he was sure would lead to her execution. Marion's death still weighed on him, a constant weight in his chest, like a wet rag stuck to his ribs. Indy had outlived many a friend, but the previous year had brought a barrage of losses. He was eager for a respite, even if it involved muggy forests and vicious mosquitos.