You were never supposed to last this long in the business.
Being the risk-taker you are, and seeing as you joined the KGB at eighteen, you sometimes wondered if you would live to see thirty or forty.
You were half-right, you concede to yourself now as you wait for the plane to land. Irina lived past forty. Laura didn't.
Over the years you've accumulated more broken bones, more concussions, more gunshot wounds than most people can ever imagine. You've used up your store of nine lives and then some—sometimes you wonder if you get a new set of nine each year, you've had so many close calls and just-misses in your career.
You are still cataloging your ongoing list of injuries when the aircraft taxis to the ground and you are finally allowed to remove your seatbelt. You remain in your seat as everyone rushes around you, trying at once to grab their suitcases and dash away to waiting colleagues or friends or family.
It's been a long time since you had someone waiting for you at the airport that you actually cared about. Hell, it's been a long time since you even traveled with someone you cared about. The last time had to be when you and Jack traveled around the world at the CIA's expense. Bangkok, Hong Kong, Panama . . . as much as you enjoyed getting out of that cell, truly working with Jack for the first time, you still think your favorite part was your conversation on the plane.
"I never thanked you for everything that . . . for raising our daughter."
Jack obviously remembered your exchange as well as you did. Thirteen months ago—the last time you saw him, a small voice points out worriedly inside your head—he reminded you of what you had said, told you his latest plan to exchange intel. You had teased him that you weren't sure two Cold War spies could truly jump into the twenty-first century but relented when you saw his stony glare. So much for a moment when you could forget all that was wrong in your lives.
Not that you ever forgot who you were, just how many obstacles you faced every day. How much you love your daughter.
Sydney was always forefront in your mind, even though you kept yourself from her for twenty years, even though a part of you always hated yourself for abandoning your baby. She was your first and last thought, and many in between, as you fought for your life in Kashmir. Finally broke free from the KGB once and for all. Began your own syndicate. Defeated your friends—if they could be called that—and enemies as you worked your way to the top. Christened yourself "The Man."
Read a copy of Sydney's CIA statement that a liaison forwarded to you.
It really was Tolstoy long.
Being Sydney's mother is your proudest accomplishment, even though you haven't truly been her mother in years. The way your heart skipped a beat when you felt that first flutter in your stomach, the determination that helped you stay awake for forty-eight hours as you cared for your sick little girl, the rush of love you felt when she snuggled in your arms—it surpassed any assignment you ever had, any interest you ever had. It was the best time of your life.
It's unfortunate that time and circumstance kept you away from her for so many years.
But perhaps your luck is changing, you think to yourself as you finally exit the plane and confidently walk down the terminal, your bright red wig firmly in place. It causes people to stare at you, but their eyes focus on your hair, not your face. You know you will slip through security undetected. Just like you always do.
You wheel your carry-on towards one of the newsstands that populate LAX, searching for a particular newspaper. It's a long shot, you know, but you can't risk not checking for even one day. You can't afford to lose any window of opportunity you may have.
And then you see it.
You quickly close and open your eyes, certain you are dreaming. But no, there it is, in black and white for all the world to see. Your hair falls down over your face as you allow a grin to overtake your features.
This will fit nicely next to the refrigerator collection once you get home.
You slowly, methodically hail a taxi and travel to your hotel suite. You tip the bellboy, close the door soundly behind you, and rush to unpack your laptop. You press the power button, and minutes later you are logged on. And then you wait.
And wait.
And begin cursing the day you were ever given the assignment with this bast—
You interrupt your own tirade as you hear a once-familiar ding. It's about time, you silently scold him. You suppose you should give him a break, but really, why bother? Instead, you merely right-click your mouse to chat with him privately.
It's sad the two of you have been reduced to this. Although this is more contact than you've had in the last year, you remind yourself.
You allow yourselves mere moments to chat, to become more than shadows of yourselves, before he gets down to business.
"Our daughter is alive."
You gape at the computer screen. Those words—you've been waiting two years for them. He didn't type "Sydney is alive," for that would have told you what you already knew, that she was physically alive, regardless of her persona.
But calling her "our daughter" . . . those are the words you have longed for. Your baby, your little girl, your smart, fiercely independent grown daughter is finally herself again. You find yourself choking back a sob as you conclude your IM and log off the computer.
You have made many mistakes in your life, too numerous to count. But you've always been punished for your choices in some way, always had to face the consequences. Perhaps now you are being granted one wish for the things you did right in your own way.
You lean back and reread your brief chat. "Our daughter is alive." This is your reward. You allow the tears to slip down your cheeks unnoticed as you absorb the good news.
This is your reward, you decide, for saving your family by leaving them, even as it killed you; for accepting the devil's outstretched hand one morning in Panama; for turning their worlds upside down by coming back from the dead.
After twenty-four years you know your family will finally be reunited.
And to you, this is paradise.
~~~fin~~~
Thanks to everyone who's read and commented. I appreciate it! And always, huge thanks to the three who see the rough versions—Becky, Steph, and Ciara32.