Part One, Chapter Six:

She heard the knock at her door, and opened it to see another nameless face. This one was bearing her order from room service. She thanked the man, tipped him, and was left alone once more. Her life was one of loneliness, without familiar faces, without love, without joy, without happiness. It was if she had been chewed up and then spit out by the world, leaving only a bittersweet feeling. She lounged on her bed, staring at her plate. It was breakfast, and there were two pieces of toast lying on her tray. She studied the toast for minutes, before putting the lid back over her food. She wasn't hungry anymore.

The toast had stirred the stew of memories that swirled around aimlessly in her head, dredging up images of times past. One image, however, remained in her sight, refusing to leave. She sat down at the desk in her room, and drew out a sheet of paper from her traveling bag, and grabbed the pen that she had left on top of her books. She looked at the paper for a few minutes, the image still filling her mind, but she shook her head as if to shake loose the thought, and turned to her paper.

Dearest love,

I had toast for breakfast.

Always yours,

Irina

She stared at what she'd written and grunted. She angrily crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the nearby trash bin. Pulling out another sheet of paper, she immediately began attempt number two.

Dearest love,

I miss you and I want to come home.

Before writing another word, again, she took the paper, ripped it in half, and sent it over to the graveyard of unsatisfactory letters.

My Jack,

I was thinking about our little family. I wish it hadn't been so small. I wanted Sydney to have siblings, to have a little brother to torment, to have a little sister to advise and lend her clothes to. I wanted to feel that joy of seeing our baby for the first time, again. I nearly did.

When I was forced to leave, I was 8 weeks pregnant. I didn't know it at the time. I don't know what I would've done if I knew. There wasn't much of anything I could do. When I arrived back in Russia, I was lauded as a hero and an example for other young KGB agents to follow. I was allowed to return to my home, return to my mother and father and younger sister. My brother had left home to continue his education in Leningrad at the university, but my sister was still living in our tiny little house. Months went by as I reacquainted myself with my but somehow, it didn't feel like home. I wandered around the town where I grew up, and felt utter confusion and loneliness in the familiar sights of my youth. Without you and Sydney, my world was shattered.

About two months after I had returned, I noticed the swelling of my stomach, and completely broke down. I locked myself in my tiny room in the attic, and sobbed for hours. I was so afraid that the KGB would try to take this away from me too. I confided in my family, who had no love for the KGB or the government, deciding to keep this secret from the world.

Talking to my mother, I realized that this baby was a blessing. While the government had taken away my husband and my daughter, I had a chance to keep a part of my heart alive. After that, I allowed myself to enjoy my pregnancy, talking to our baby, telling him about his daddy and older sister.
When I felt him kicking for the first time, I cried, wishing you were with me. When I was pregnant with Sydney, you were the happiest man alive. You used to lay with your head on my stomach, listening for the tiny heartbeat within me. I patted my stomach, whispering words of comfort to myself.

I gave birth to our son on a rainy night in September. He was tiny; smaller than even Sydney was when she was born. We didn't have the same medical care or food as I had with Sydney. I was so afraid he wouldn't make it, but he was your son; he was a strong little baby. I named him Jonathan, after his Daddy, but we decided to called him Ivan so that his name wouldn't stand out. When I looked down at the tiny bundle in my arms, I smiled sadly, wishing my Jack was there with me, wishing my baby girl was at my side, peering over at the new little addition to our family. Our son looked up at me with his little brown eyes and stared at me. We studied each other, and he opened his little mouth and yawned. I cradled him, and sang him to sleep with the same lullaby I always sang to Sydney.

The next week brought the KGB banging at our door. A jealous neighbor had sold us out to the local officials. My parents and sister were imprisoned. I was taken to Kashmir. Our son, they killed him. They killed him in front of my eyes. I tried to stop them, but they kicked me and held me back. My heart died that day. When they tortured me in prison, there was nothing left for me to lose.

I know now I was wrong.

I can't bare to lose you again, Jack. You and Sydney both. I need you. You make me whole again, you make me feel loved and needed, you keep me sane. It's time I gave up on my silly pride.

Jack, I'm begging you to believe me. The truth is all I have. My lies have left me alone and cold. I can't bare this pain much longer. Rambaldi can go to hell. He doesn't hold me, kiss me, tell me that he loves me; he doesn't throw his hands in the air, wanting to be picked up, he isn't my beautiful baby girl who's become a beautiful young woman. He isn't my husband, my heart.

Jack, you are what keeps me alive. You are my lifeblood. I cannot lose you again. I don't deserve you, I don't deserve another chance. But I am asking for it anyways.

Lyubov' moya, pridi ka mne; come to me, my love.

Always yours,

Irina

A slight smile came over her face as she read the letter; she completely approved of the possessiveness with which she addressed Jack. Sealing her letter in an envelope, she opened the book that was sitting next to her, and opened it to the pages where she had left her last three letters.

She stood up and put on her long overcoat, slipping her letters inside the inner pocket of her jacket. Almost carelessly, she left her hotel room, venturing out in the open. She walked two blocks down the busy street, and stopped in front of a post office. Minutes went by as she analyzed her choices.

Her decision was made.

She entered the post office, and placed her four letters inside a larger envelope. Addressing it neatly to Mr. Jonathan D. Bristow, she handed it to the clerk and paid for its postage, sending it first class to his home in Los Angeles.

She walked back to her hotel, a spring in her footstep, and she smiled to herself; The game is afoot, she thought, and now the ball is in Jack's court.