When Linka walks into Wheeler's living room, there are two men sitting on his sofa, stiff and uncomfortable in grey, nondescript suits. They glance at her and then at Wheeler, before giving each other a knowing, sideways look. Instinctively Linka flushes, wrapping her arms around her middle protectively, and she looks to Wheeler almost helplessly. But he isn't looking at her at that moment, instead, his eyes are directed on the men, and Linka sees them both swallow nervously. Because even half-dressed as he is, Wheeler cuts an intimidating figure. He's standing over the men, clad in only in his sweatpants, his arms crossed tightly over the broad expanse of his chest. His face is set into firm, protective lines, and Linka knows that if either of these men were to try anything, Wheeler wouldn't think twice about killing them.

She suspects the men must realise this too, because they continue to glance from Wheeler to Linka, and then back at each other, in a prolonged display of awkward silence. It's only when one of the men's eyes drifts down the length of her bare legs, before flicking knowingly back to Wheeler that she stiffens, caught in a moment of horrifying clarity.

She glances down, and instantly sees what these two men must see. She's only wearing a shirt- Wheeler's shirt, the one which matches his sweatpants- and it's clearly obvious what they have just been doing. Her hair is mussed, her lips bruised, and she must look exactly as she feels: blissfully and mind-numbingly fucked out.

She shifts her legs, completely mortified, and one of the men clears his throat awkwardly.

'We're sorry to intrude,' he finally says, in a clipped, British accent. 'I'm Thompson, and this is Brody. We're with British Intelligence.'

'Really?' Wheeler asks tightly. 'Got any proof of that?'

'No,' Thompson replies. 'We don't advertise it, normally.'

'We're here for Miss Orlova,' the one called Brody chips in. 'We need to talk.' He eyes Wheeler warily, taking in his broad shoulders and the thick, ropy muscles of his arms. 'In private, if that is at all possible.'

'That's Doctor Orlova to you,' Wheeler says, his voice hard. He comes to stand by Linka, pulling one of her hands into his and stroking her fingers. 'And no, it ain't. Anythin' you got to say to her you're sayin' in front of me, got it?'

Linka nods wordlessly, squeezing Wheeler's hand. The agents glance at each other again, exchanging a look, before turning back to Linka.

'Doctor Orlova, we aren't here with good news, I'm afraid.'

'That much is evident,' Linka replies. 'What is it?'

Brody clears his throat. 'Well, we were given the details of your current predicament early this morning by the British consulate, who were given the details by U.S immigration.'

'Russia has rescinded my passport,' Linka confirms. 'They froze all my bank accounts, both in Russia and the U.K. I need the U.K embassy to provide me with an emergency travel document, and...'

'Yes, yes, we're well aware of the situation,' replies Brody with an unimpressed, almost dismissive wave of his hand.

'Well,' Linka smarts, standing taller. 'You did not need to come here. I was just getting ready to visit the consulate.'

Both Brody and Thompson give her half-nakedness a pointed look yet again, and Linka bites on her lip.

'Actually,' Thompson intones. 'That's why we're here.'

'Yes,' Brody agrees. 'Your visiting the consulate this morning... well, let us just say that it would not have been a wise move.'

Linka stares at him. 'What do you mean?' She asks, her voice cool.

'Does the name Volkov mean anything to you, Doctor Orlova?'

Linka freezes, and she hears Wheeler suck in a deep breath.

'Yes,' she finally admits. Brody nods.

'He's been following you for... how long now?'

Linka swallows. 'Too long.'

'You'll know the basics of his story then,' Thompson interjects. 'Former KGB, a real hardliner. Has quite the body count behind him.'

Wheeler squeezes Linka's hand, though she hardly feels the gesture. Her fingers are numb, her hand cold, and there is a sickly, queasy feeling to her stomach.

'I still cannot believe a man like that represents the government of Russia,' she whispers, and sees a sharp look pass between Brody and Thompson. 'What?' She asks them. 'What is it?'

Brody clears his throat, glancing at the hulking figure of Wheeler by Linka's side. 'I really would prefer it if we could conduct this conversation alone, Doctor Orlova.'

Wheeler stiffens. 'And I'd prefer it if we didn't have to have this conversation at all,' he snaps. 'But sometimes you can't get everything you fucking want.'

Linka looks up at Wheeler, sending him a silent plea to stay calm. He blinks at her, clearly still on edge, before acquiescing to the quiet request in her eyes.

She turns back to the men. 'What do you know?' She asks in Russian, testing a theory.

'Lin -' Wheeler begins, but Brody suddenly smiles, cutting him off.

'He doesn't work for Russia,' Brody replies, his Russian perfect. Unsurprised, Linka nods.

'Who does he work for, then? And who do you work for, while we're being honest?'

Wheeler's hand is like a clamp around her own, but Linka ignores his discomfort. She needs these answers. This is her life, her work, and her freedom on the line, after all.

'Volkov went rogue... about eight years ago now. Whoever he is working for... it isn't Russia, or any of her associated states.'

'Ah,' abruptly, Linka sits on the opposite sofa. Wheeler follows her, standing behind her so that she can feel the reassuring warmth of his skin against her back. 'Brody? Thompson?' She queries, with a raise of one eyebrow.

Thompson licks his lips. 'Tyomkin,' he admits. 'And this is Brusilov.'

'You work for Putin? For Russia?' Linka asks.

'No,' Brusilov shakes his head.

'The British?'

Tyomkin shrugs. 'Let's just say we work for an independent organisation who have a large investment in the Cold War staying cool for the interim.'

Linka sighs, trying to feel surprise, disgust, or fear, but failing miserably at all three. There's money to be made in war. There's money to be made in peace. And there's money to be made somewhere in the middle too. For some, a world in turmoil is a profitable enterprise, and as a Russian, she's immune to shock where corruption and greed are concerned.

'So,' she says, her voice even. 'If Volkov isn't working for Russia, who is he working for? And why does he have an interest in me?'

Brusilov frowns. 'We aren't one hundred percent certain. Not yet. But we traced one of his smaller financial transactions recently. It came from an account registered in the Philippines, which in turn came from an account registered in the Cayman Islands, which in turn came from an account which originated in Venezuela.'

'That's quite the journey for a small financial transaction,' Linka remarks, and Tyomkin glances at her.

'It was three million American dollars,' he says.

'Three million?' Linka's mouth falls open. 'But you said it was one his smaller transactions, you said-'

Tyomkin shrugs. 'The amounts he's been banking usually go into the tens of millions. This particular transaction was small by comparison.'

'Millions. Whatever number you put in front of it, it is still so much money,' Linka exhales deeply. 'Where is it coming from? Who is he working for? I still don't understand...'

'The last transaction was traced to a Barbara Blight.'

Tyomkin's words, spoken bluntly into the quiet of Wheeler's living room, hits Linka hard in the chest. She feels the air knocked out of her lungs and her stomach drop. She feels Wheeler's hand, firm and demanding, on her arm.

'Babe?' His voice is hard. 'Why the fuck are these guys talkin' in Russian and why the fuck did they just mention Barbara Blight?'

She turns to him, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her hands trembling. 'I do not know yet, Yankee. I do not know what is going on here.'

She's shaking with fear, her eyes filling with tears. Of all the people in the world, she never wanted to see or hear of Barbara Blight again. She bites down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the urge to vomit is strong. Abruptly, Wheeler reaches over to kiss her forehead, leaning down afterwards to whisper into her ear.

'I got you,' he says softly. 'I'm here. I ain't gonna let anythin' happen to you, Babe.'

She nods, still pale and queasy, trying desperately to push away her nausea.

Wheeler turns to Tyomkin and Brusilov, his fury undisguised, his hands clenched into tight fists.

'Last time Doctor Orlova and I met with Barbara Blight, she had us locked in little glass coffins that were rapidly fillin' with water. She drowned one of our best friends, right in front of us. So, you had better tell us what the fuck is going on, you hear?'

Brusilov stares hard at Wheeler, his face unmoving and impassive. Finally, he gives a resigned sigh.

'It's our belief that Volkov is working for Barbara Blight. In what capacity, we don't know. For what purpose, we don't know. But we do know Volkov has been following the work and life of Doctor Orlova very carefully for many years now.'

He looks at Linka, switching to Russian. 'He has been hacking into government systems in order to make your life difficult. Cancelling your passports, freezing your bank accounts, watching your correspondence.'

'Why?' Linka asks, her mouth dry. 'Why me?'

'We don't know,' Tyomkin replies. 'But the last transaction- the three million dollars- came with instructions. It said, and this is a direct quote, Doctor: 'Capture the wind if you want the rest of the money. I will double the amount if Fire and Earth follow.''

'Wheeler and Kwame,' Linka whispers. With trepidation, she turns to Wheeler, who is looking at her intently.

'Volkov is working for Barbara Blight,' she says, her English as shaky as her trembling hands.

'Fuck,' Wheeler exhales. 'Fuck.'

'It is our belief that what happened on Friday was a trap for Doctor Orlova,' Tyomkin adds. 'Volkov arrived in New York on Thursday. Once he'd hacked into the border database and cancelled Doctor Orlova's passport, he assumed she'd be arrested and handed over to the proper Russian authority- which, at that point, he'd made himself. He was probably then going to whisk you out of the country.'

'We don't know where,' Brusilov interjects, seeing the question on Wheeler's lips. 'We don't have any information on what he planned to do with Doctor Orlova once he had her, or any information on flights he might have booked onwards.'

'Fuck,' Wheeler swears again, and Linka lays a hand against his.

'The American border agents who recognised you and took pity on you, bringing you here instead of arresting you, in all likelihood saved your life, Doctor Orlova.'

'Yes,' she agrees, squeezing Wheeler's hand. 'Yes.'

'What now?' Wheeler asks. 'Linka here hasn't got access to a passport, or money, or anythin', really. And she sure as hell ain't leavin' here now that I know Blight's after her-'

'She's after all of us,' Linka says quietly, and Wheeler turns to her, shock in his eyes. 'I am to be... how do you say it? Bait?'

'Bait,' Wheeler repeats, his voice unusually level. 'Why though? Why not just bust in and grab us in our beds, or-'

But Linka shakes her head, thinking quickly. 'She doesn't want there to be any... any scandal, or drama, or news reports. You are well known- if you went missing, there would be questions, accusations and media interest. Kwame has a family, and is well known in immigration circles. If she took you both unwillingly, there would be attention on the two of you, and your movements.' Linka pauses, looking at Wheeler softly. 'But if I went missing, taken by a Russian agent, there would be no questions. People would expect it. And if the two of you followed me, quietly and without fuss, there would be no attention.'

Brusilov and Tyomkin, listening intently, nod at her words.

'You reckon she wants all the Planeteers together again?' Wheeler asks Linka seriously.

She nods. 'Yes. Whatever she is planning, she needs us all.'

Wheeler's face falls into hard and angry lines. 'Ma-Ti first, now the rest of us.'

'Perhaps.'

'Too bad for her Gi already disappeared off the face of the Earth,' Wheeler adds, a bitter laugh behind his words. 'If she wants the remaining Planeteers, she'll need to find Gi too, and-'

'Wheeler,' Linka interrupts him, looking at him deeply, reaching up to cup his cheek. 'In all likelihood, she already has Gi. You know that.'

He sucks in a deep breath, and in his eyes Linka sees his reluctance to admit the truth battling with his desire to remain ignorant. She watches as he mentally considers Gi's absence of many years, her zero contact with any of them, the complete and utter lack of any discernible information about her or her whereabouts. Finally he nods, leaning his face into her hands with a sad sigh. 'Yeah,' he admits quietly. 'Yeah, I know.'

She stands, linking her arms around his neck and kissing him. She needs this, and she needs him, just for a moment. His lips are warm against hers, his skin smells lightly of soap and smoke, and she inhales deeply. When their lips part, she turns back to Tyomkin and Brusilov.

'What now?' She asks them. 'What do we do?'

Brusilov clears his throat, glancing at Linka and Wheeler, still locked in an embrace. 'You won't like it,' he says, a warning tone to his words.

'Try us,' she replies coolly. Wheeler's face is stricken with fear and uncertainty, but she stands taller, calm and controlled as always under stress. She keeps her arms wrapped around Wheeler's neck as Tyomkin begins to speak, laying out plans for their situation.

And this position gives her the perfect vantage point to see Wheeler's face crumple when Tyomkin finishes. She sees his eyes close, watches the sad fall of his chest as he exhales against her, and sees, with perfect clarity, the bereft expression in the depths of his eyes when he opens his eyes again to look at her.

'What do you think?' Tyomkin asks, and Linka stares deep into Wheeler's eyes, searching for his thoughts. Wheeler nods, ever-so-slightly so that only she can see it, before his head falls onto her shoulder, holding her close.

'Yes,' Linka says clearly, running her hands through Wheeler's hair. 'Yes, of course. It is the only way.'

There's twenty minutes left before Linka needs to leave for her flight. She's dressing in Wheeler's room, running a brush through her hair, while he sits on the bed next to her.

'I don't like this,' he confesses softly. 'Bad things happen when we're apart.'

'I do not like it either,' she replies. 'But it makes sense. You stay here, living your life as normal, while I return to the U.K, and plant a false trail of my whereabouts. In six months, we will meet somewhere, and be together again.'

'Six months,' Wheeler muses bitterly. 'It's gonna feel like a fucking lifetime.'

Linka sighs, putting the brush down and going to stand before him. His arms encircle her waist and he presses his forehead against the softness of her stomach. 'It is not a lifetime, Yankee,' she says gently. 'It is six months. Enough time for me to go home, and have Cambridge put it out that I will be going on a year-long research trip to Brazil. I will pack up my office, pack up my home, and get my UK residency. And then, instead of getting on the flight to São Paulo, I will get on a flight to you, and wherever you will be.'

'What about Gi?' He asks, and she feels a dart of pain.

'I do not know what to do about her,' she admits.

'We should be goin' after her, findin' her and bringin' her home,' Wheeler says fervently, and Linka sighs.

'How? It is you and me and Kwame. No Gaia, no Hope Island, no rings, no Captain Planet,' she swallows hard. 'No Ma-Ti. No Gi. How can we ever hope to rescue her? We are just three people.'

'It just feels wrong,' Wheeler spits. 'Barbara fucking Blight has her, Lin. Barbara Blight. The woman who killed Ma-Ti. And what? We're going to go on an extended vacation, you and me, while leavin' Gi to rot?'

Linka feels tears sting her eyes. 'I do not know what to do, Yankee. Eventually Volkov or Blight will slip, Brusilov and Tyomkin seemed confident they could get Gi out, eventually, and-'

'I don't trust them either,' Wheeler interrupts, his voice sharp. 'Fucking Commie spies, the both of 'em, and-'

Linka pulls away from Wheeler instantly, throwing his hands off of her and turning to her bag. She throws a few items in, the bottles and brushes rattling with the violence of her movements, and Wheeler blanches.

'Babe, God, I'm so sorry, I-'

'You know what, James? You sound just like your mother. Hateful and hurtful and... and...' she pauses, sighing as she looks down at the passport in her hands. It's thin and blue, an emergency document issued by the UK consulate, valid for a one-time trip to London. She turns back to Wheeler, looking into his pale face sadly. 'I do not know what to do for the best here, Wheeler,' she says again. 'I love Gi, I want to help her... but we cannot rush into this. The last time we rushed into a mission Ma-Ti ended up dead.'

Wheeler stares at her, his face hard. 'Yeah. And that was my fault, right?'

She pales. 'I did not say-'

'You were thinkin' it though. I can always hear you thinkin', didn't I already tell you that?'

For a moment they stare at each other, a thousand unsaid words crossing their minds, but not quite reaching their lips.

Finally, Linka sighs. 'I have to go soon,' she says quietly.

'You don't have to,' Wheeler suggests, suddenly desperate. 'You and me, we could smuggle ourselves over the border, into Mexico or Canada or...'

'James-'

'No, listen, we could. Transfer all our savings into a cash account, live in the sunshine for the rest of our days.'

Linka takes one of his hands. 'And what about Kwame?'

Wheeler brings her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips of each one tenderly. 'He's got his happy ever after, Lin. It's time we claimed ours.'

She slides into his lap, nestling her head against his shoulder. 'If we go off the radar, we will be entirely at the mercy of Volkov. When he finds us- and he will, if he is working for Blight- there will be no police or government interference in our case. Brusilov and Tyomkin- however little we trust them- are right. We go about our lives like all is normal. And then, when Volkov is not expecting it, we disappear into Europe. Whoever Brusilov and Tyomkin are working for, they have an interest in Blight being apprehended. Eventually, she will be. We will work this out, Yankee,' abruptly, she looks up at him, feeling the hint of tears forming in her eyes. 'We have to work this out, Yankee.'

'You could still marry me,' he tries, one final time. 'You could stay here with me.'

'The US government will never give me residency,' she sighs. 'My drugs offence, for one thing-'

'That wasn't your fault!' Wheeler protests, but Linka shrugs.

'The details will not matter. To all intents and purposes, I was once a drug addict, and it will be used against me. More than that, I am still a political dissident. If I stay here, the US government will deport me to Russia. And going back to Russia would be the same as walking straight back into Volkov's arms. Somewhere down the line, Blight will have cut a deal with Putin or one of his people. Brusilov and Tyomkin might believe Volkov is merely rogue, but I do not,' Linka nods, even as she thinks. 'He is working for Blight and Russia at the same time. The money he is transferring- it will almost certainly have origins in Moscow. I do not know what Blight is planning, but I honestly believe Russia will have a part in it.'

Wheeler sighs. 'Sometimes it feels like the world is workin' against us, doesn't it?'

'Sometimes,' Linka agrees. 'Sometimes I feel like I keep holding out for a Navsegda which might never come.'

'Hey,' Wheeler stops her, wrapping his arms around her once more. 'Hey, don't talk like that. It's you and me, remember? I'm gonna see you in six months. And in that time, we'll work out what to do about Gi, okay?'

'Yes,' Linka agrees. 'Yes, of course.'

'Lin, Babe,' when Wheeler speaks, his words are sincere, hot against her cheek. 'I'm on the cusp of gettin' the only thing I've ever wanted since I was seventeen years old. You think Russia's gonna stop me from loving you? Or Blight? The only thing that ever came between you and me was you and me. And we're okay now, aren't we?'

At that, Linka smiles. 'Yes,' she whispers. 'Yes, we're okay.'

'When you get to London, you buy yourself a new cellphone, okay?' Wheeler grins. 'I'm already planning six months worth of filthy thoughts and pictures to send you.'

'Yankee,' Linka admonishes, but she's smiling too.

Smiling, and then crying all at once.

'Babe,' Wheeler exhales, hugging her.

'I am fine, I am fine,' she brushes the tears away with a hand. 'I will miss you, is all.'

'I'm gonna miss you too,' he sighs into her hair. 'Six months, right?'

Linka smiles, but says nothing.

'Six months,' he repeats, 'Six months, and then it's you and me.'

'I have to go,' she whispers sadly. She pulls out of his arms, zipping up her bag and throwing it over her shoulder. Wheeler watches her, his face pale but still. She smiles down at the emergency passport in her hand, checking the details once more.

'Good picture?' He queries, nodding at the document with a sad smile.

'No- but given that they organised this passport and my flight home within four hours, I should not complain.'

'What name are you travelling under? I take it Linka Orlova is off the table?'

Linka nods. 'Yes, they told me to choose a name I would respond to instantly, if questioned. Something that would make my ears flick up.'

'Prick up,' Wheeler corrects her, with a woebegone smile. 'What did you pick then?'

She hands the passport over wordlessly, and watches as Wheeler glances over it, his eyes filling, swallowing hard.

'James,' he says heavily. 'Helena James.'

He stares at the passport in his hands, and when Linka reaches over to take it, she squeezes them gently.

'It's always been you, Yankee. It will always be you.'

He hauls her into his arms, kissing her hard. 'I love you,' he whispers. 'Six months, okay?'

She nods.

She kisses him.

And then she leaves.

Brusilov and Tyomkin escort her to the airport. Brusilov watches Linka occasionally brush tears from her cheeks, and clears his throat awkwardly.

'Your man will be fine, you know,' he says in Russian.

Linka shrugs. 'Of course, he is always fine.'

'Did he believe you?' Tyomkin asks.

'Of course,' Linka shrugs again. 'Why would he not?'

'Good. It will be easier for him this way, in the long run.'

'If you say so,' Linka says tiredly, closing her eyes.

'You cannot be together, obviously,' Brusilov sighs. 'Keeping the remaining Planeteers apart and out of Blight's hands is of high importance to our organisation. And this way, you can guarantee his safety. And that of your African friend.'

Linka says nothing, only sighing, and looking out the window.

She watches the New York skyline recede without saying another word.

Three weeks later, at home in Cambridge, Helena sits surrounded by piles of paper. Exams and projects and thesis submissions. She balances the test on one of the papers, an application for a grant to study the breeding habits of puffin colonies, trying her best not to look at it, counting down the seconds until she will know for sure.

Officially know, that is.

Because in her heart, she already knows.

There is still so much to organise. Cambridge accepted her resignation with surprise, but remarkably good grace. There will be an official announcement in the next few weeks, but for now, she is trying to wrap her work up quietly, and without fuss.

She feels cold all the time. She's numbed herself to feeling anything, and even when the messages come through on her phone, optimistic, loving, and full of hope.

Miss you, babe. Love you always.

She picks up the test after the demanded 180 seconds and inhales sharply.

She's numb still, and doesn't know what to feel. She supposes she ought to tell the father. She supposes she ought to tell her friends. Her work.

But then her phone rings, saving her from all thought.

She glances at the caller, and sighs.

'Hello,' she says coolly.

'Is this a bad time?' The voice asks.

'No, not a bad time,' she replies. 'Actually, I needed to talk to you.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Can you meet me for coffee today, Richard?'

She can almost feel his smile down the phone line. 'For you Helena? Of course.'