Irina checks her reflection in the mirror, making sure that none of her real hair is sticking out from under the wig. She's not sure who is in charge of choosing her disguises, but while she questions the need for bright red hair, she's not going to argue. She knows too well the cost of arguing with the KGB. Some things are worth the fight; the colour of a wig is not.
Satisfied that the wig is on properly, Irina picks up her eyeliner and begins to add kohl to her eyes. When her make-up is done, she steps back and studies her reflection. The woman in the mirror wears a short black leather dress and fishnet stockings. She looks more like a whore than a mother.
You're not a mother anymore, Irina tells herself. Her life as Laura seems so long in the past, but Irina can't forget. She has learned to hide her heart, to make them believe that she never cared but sometimes she remembers. Just a little, just for a moment, and it is enough.
And she can handle another day, another night.
She smiles at her reflection, a cold bitter smile, before sliding a knife into her boot.
The KGB thinks they have broken her. They think she is their perfect soldier again. She will let them believe that for as long as she needs them to. For now, she is waiting for the right moment to take her life back.
She has learned patience, and she will wait as long as is necessary.
She glances at the photograph of the man she was sent here to assassinate. He will be at the club soon. Irina doesn't let herself wonder who he is or what he has done. She doesn't think about children he may have, or a wife who might miss him. She must remain objective, or she will fail.
Failure is not an option.
"Allo," she says to her reflection. "Je m'appelle Lola."
Paris is cool at this time of year, but Irina doesn't feel the chill. She enters the night club and heads straight for the bar, ignoring the admiring looks that she attracts. Her target is already there; she glances at him once, then ignores him.
She waits. After fifteen minutes, she looks around as if expecting someone. Half an hour later, she stands as if to leave. Her target has been watching her all along. He approaches her, smiling.
She lets him talk her into joining him and pretends to find him interesting. When he offers to drive her home, she smiles and accepts.
In the hotel room she rented for the evening, she imagines that he's someone else entirely, and killing him is easier than it should be. She leaves his body on the blood-soaked sheets and thinks about Kashmir as she walks into the night.
She is what they have made her, and it will not be long before she shows them just what she is capable of.