Eleven—Doomed
Same song, different verse, Madison thought to herself the following Thursday afternoon. I spend way too much time in the floorboard of cars these days.
"You okay back there?" the driver called.
"I'm fine," she said cheerfully, masking her impatience. She needed something to distract her. She could think about Burke—but really, that was unnecessary. She wasn't going to see him until the next night, or maybe sometime over the weekend. And it's not like she wanted to think about him . . . right?
Right, she told herself firmly. Moving on. She thought for a moment. Maybe it would be best to think about what I'm going to say to Irina. She clutched the expandable brown envelope, thinking of the many contents it held. After all, I have a bone to pick with her . . .
It had been during one of their first meetings that Irina tried once more to dissuade her.
"Refuse the mission? But why?"
Irina had looked at her, almost as a mother would look at her daughter—something that should have frightened Madison, but it didn't.
"Because once you're in . . . the rest of your life will be altered. Permanently."
"No, it won't," Madison had protested. "It will be time-consuming and challenging, yes, but only for a short time. It's not going to affect my life five, ten, fifteen years down the road."
"Won't it?" Irina had placed her hands up on the glass that separated them, leaning her head forward. "You think that this will be a short op, one that you can escape from in a few months. It won't be. It takes time for people to develop the kind of trust in each other that this mission requires. Time where you will be in the presence of a man you now consider your enemy. But in a few months, a few years, how will you feel? Where will your loyalties lie? With your country . . . or with your heart?"
"We're here," the driver interrupted her thoughts.
Madison glumly sat up and exited the car, slowly walking towards the guarded door.
Damn Irina. Ugh.
She never had liked it when someone else was right.
Madison straightened her back and entered the building, walking with only one destination in mind.
"Hey stranger," a voice from the past said behind her.
Madison whirled around. "Iz!" she exclaimed.
Isabel groaned. "You two have got to stop calling me that."
"Oh, you love it," Madison said breezily. "You just can't admit it."
"Well, what should I call you these days, Miss Greene?"
"Ugh." Madison wrinkled her nose. "Definitely Grace. I hate my new last name," she confided.
Isabel laughed as she steered them down a hallway. "Not one of the CIA's brighter moments. Every time I read your alias I think you must be related to Rachel from Friends."
Madison snickered. "I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who thinks that." She stopped and leaned against a wall. "So Ash told me that the two of you know everything that's going on?"
Isabel nodded seriously. "We just wish you weren't the agent pulled in. But I'm sure you already knew that."
"Yeah, I know. But it could be worse. This guy could have been some old, creepy, smelly man. But he's not. He's okay," she assured her friend.
"You know, I think I wish that he was old, creepy, and smelly. I'd feel better about this then," she commented.
"Whatever. So where's Ashley?" she asked, changing the subject.
"She got called out to the East Coast early this morning. She was on a flight within an hour." Isabel frowned. "She didn't look too good when she left here."
"Let me know how she's doing as soon as you hear, okay? Page me to come back here or pass it on to my handler or something."
"Don't worry, I'll let you know." Isabel twisted a lock of hair with her fingers. "Which reminds me—Devlin wanted me to tell you that he needed to meet with you as soon as you got here."
Madison groaned. "Again? I swear, if he's making me see another doctor, I will kill the man."
Isabel laughed. "I heard about your adventure the other day. Hell, all the women here were laughing at your rants. I'm sorry I missed the live show."
She stuck her tongue out. "I'll deal with him later. I need to talk to someone else first."
"Derevko?"
She nodded.
"Did you hear that they're letting her out again?" Isabel said conspiratorially.
"You're kidding."
"Nope. They just got back sometime late last night or early this morning, and they're leaving again in a few hours."
"I guess the trip to Bangkok was successful then," Madison surmised.
"Bangkok? I take it you didn't know about Hong Kong then."
"Huh?"
"After Bangkok they rerouted them to Hong Kong for almost a full 24 hours. Then they flew back here."
Madison's eyes grew wide. "Oh, that had to be interesting."
"You're telling me. Although, to be honest, I just kept feeling sorry for . . ."
"The pilot. I know," she finished. "Me too."
The two exchanged a look and began laughing. "Are we ever going to grow up?" Madison giggled.
"I hope not," Isabel sputtered, fanning her face. The laughter slowly died as they looked away from each other, staring at the blank walls around them. When they finally felt it was safe, they looked at each other again—and immediately began laughing.
"I am not going to be able to walk into that cell with a straight face," Madison finally said. "I'm doomed."
Isabel took a deep breath. "Well, you could always go talk to Devlin first."
"Hell no." She sighed and glanced at her watch. "I guess I'd better go before she leaves on another trip. I'll see you later, Iz."
She rolled her eyes. "'Bye, Gracie," she replied, then disappeared into an office.
Madison shook her head and looked at the bulging folder she still held. She sighed. It was now or never . . .
Several minutes later she was speaking to the same guard who was always there to admit her into Irina's cell. She quickly walked down the hallway, not even noticing the familiar gates rising and falling around her.
"Welcome back," she said to Irina.
"Thank you," she said softly, not looking up from her desk. She had a book and a notepad in front of her, scribbling furiously. She turned a page, read for a moment, then made a notation. At last she looked up. "We do not have much time today. Jack and I are leaving soon . . . and I am expecting another visitor before I go."
"Sydney," Madison realized.
Irina stood up and walked over to the glass. "What do you know about her?"
She gestured at the expanding envelope. "Plenty." At Irina's questioning gaze, she continued. "I realized something the other day—I know a lot about your life in the last twenty years. Well, as much as the CIA has discovered, at any rate. I know about your organization, your contacts, your SOP. I know lots about Irina Derevko—post-swallow mission.
"But other than your 'how we met' story, I knew nothing about your years as Laura Bristow. You have spent the last month berating me, calling me Grace so that I will stay focused on my true identity, warning me to back away before it's too late. So I started to wonder—what was Laura Bristow like?"
Irina stared at her. "What would you like to know?"
"Would you really answer my questions, even if I asked them?" Madison countered, her voice rising.
"Yes. But only one."
"One question," Madison repeated skeptically. "How generous of you." She unwound the string on the expanding envelope and opened the cover, pulling out stacks of papers and photographs. "I have spent the last two days studying Laura Bristow—after all, I suppose she should be my true mentor, right?"
Irina tilted her head; no sound escaped her lips.
"It's amazing how much I was able to get my hands on," she continued as if she were speaking aloud to herself. "I have copies of your engagement announcement and wedding announcement from the newspapers. And we can't forget Sydney's birth announcement either. Then, of course, we also have your obituary." She waved a piece of newsprint in front of the glass. "Brilliant work of fiction, don't you think? Or did you ever take the time to read it, seeing as you were on your way back to Russia and all?
"I knew two days ago that you not only married your subject but had a child with him. I'm not that stupid. But somehow I never realized exactly what your timeline in America looked like. I didn't know that you dated Jack for a year before you finally gave in to his proposal, or that you were engaged for eight months—longer than Jack wanted, but he gave in because he loved you so much—so that you could have the perfect dress made for your wedding."
She took a breath. "And then two years later you got pregnant . . ." She dug a photograph out and waved it in Irina's face. "Somehow I never realized that Sydney was six when you left." She watched as Irina took in the image of a young Jack and Laura, an even younger Sydney. "You were here for ten years. Years."
"That is correct, Grace," Irina said softly.
"That was not a question!" Madison shot back. "You spent a decade on your swallow mission. I was up all of Tuesday night thinking about this—how did you survive that long? My only conclusion was that you must have been miserable, surrounded by people and an ideology that you loathed. I envisioned that you were able to fake love and devotion long enough to finally marry Jack, then used a pregnancy to keep him. Jack Bristow seemed like too honorable of a guy to leave his poor, defenseless, pregnant wife. I was sure that the two of you were living two separate lives, only merging occasionally when Sydney had a birthday party or dance recital or something.
"Unfortunately, a part of me kept arguing that that was too simple. That in order for you to stay ten years, in order for the KGB to not extract you, you must have been brilliant at your job. So maybe you faked happiness occasionally, looked like the perfect wife at any CIA office parties where you hung on Jack's arm adoringly, smiled for the cameras, and then continued to send intel back to Russia." She gave Irina a pointed look. "Or maybe you weren't just acting. Maybe it was something more . . . "
Madison took a deep breath and tried to focus. Slowly, carefully, she retrieved a piece of paper from the folder. "The week after your car accident, the university published a tribute to you. About your years on campus, about your tragic death, but also about your family. It seems that your colleagues and students alike loved you. They saw a beautiful, intelligent woman who could analyze anything and everything to death. But they also saw glimpses of a working mother who sometimes had to bring her daughter to class with her. They observed a young couple madly in love; in fact, most of the girls hoped that someday they could live your fairytale lifestyle. There's stories about you and Jack and you and Sydney in this article—did you know that?"
Irina shook her head. "When I left, I was immediately debriefed and . . . by the time I was finally out, I focused on Jack and Sydney. Not on what was said about Laura," she said softly.
"It's a wonderful article. Made me want to nominate you for Woman of the Year," Madison continued sarcastically. "But even as I read this, I thought surely some of this is fake, just written to make her look good in death." She looked at her squarely. "So I contacted someone who was quoted in the article."
Madison watched with satisfaction as Irina's eyebrows rose. "Do you remember a young woman by the name Leslie Bishop?"
"She was in one of the first composition classes I taught," she began. "She had just begun her graduate studies in English when I left. Nice girl."
"Cut the crap, Irina. You and I both know that she wasn't just a student of yours."
"Really," Irina challenged, her eyes flashing.
"You had her in class, yes, but you also served as a mentor of sorts for her. Even urged her to attend graduate school and wrote quite the glowing recommendation for her, I must add." Madison smirked. "Young, brilliant—and she had quite the way with children, didn't she? Which certainly helped you out, seeing as she was your nanny for four years."
She could tell she had scored a victory there by the way Irina's expression changed, if only for a moment. "Yes. Yes, Leslie baby-sat for Sydney on occasion. She came from a large family, seven children, I believe. Jack and I often thought that she knew more about being a parent than the two of us put together."
"That's almost verbatim what Leslie said to me yesterday," Madison agreed. "She had lots of stories to tell about the Bristow family. Talked my ear off for several hours."
"Really."
"Yup," Madison grinned triumphantly. "I heard all about your home life from the time Sydney was two until she was six. Turns out your daughter had a tendency to talk more than she should."
Irina gazed at her evenly. "That is obviously something that has not changed over the years."
Madison's smile faded. "The more she talked, the more I realized that my earlier presumptions were false. You were not two distinct people during that time, were you. There was not a line that could separate your professional personality from your alias. I guess it was a bitch when you left, right? And maybe that's why you didn't want me to take this job? After all, if KGB Assassin of the Year couldn't compartmentalize, who's to say that I could?" Her voice broke slightly as she continued. "Not only does it seem that you betrayed your country, and Jack and Sydney, but . . . but . . . you betrayed yourself." Her eyes glistened with tears. "It scares me that you were able to do that."
Madison stepped back from the glass and swallowed. "I know our time is limited, so I guess we'll just continue this when you get back." She turned to walk away.
"Grace, wait," Irina pleaded, and she froze. "About Leslie. How is she?"
Madison thought for a moment as Irina gazed at her profile. "She teaches high school English, seems to be very well regarded."
"And her family?"
She glanced back at Irina, a strange expression on her face. "She didn't mention her brothers and sisters."
"No, not them. Did she every marry or have children?" Irina appeared surprisingly hopeful as she recalled the young woman she had known so many years ago.
Madison shook her head. "She told me that she never met a man who looked at her the way Jack looked at you—I mean, at Laura." She squared her shoulders and walked over to the first gate, waiting for it to open.
"You never did ask your one question," Irina called out, reminding her. Madison paused and looked at the ceiling for a moment. Did she dare ask the one question that had been tormenting her?
"Fine," she spat out, turning back around to face her. She slammed her hands against the glass that separated them. "It's simple really. How do you endure ten years undercover, pretending to love someone you're supposed to hate?"
Irina's lips curved into a small smile. "You don't."
tbc
