The Motel Room
Mischa closed the door of the motel room gingerly, setting down his suitcase by the entrance.
I am Philip, he reminded himself, over and over again. I am Philip Jennings. This is my wife, Elizabeth.
It didn't feel real, not yet. Then, with a little start, he realized that expecting it to feel real, ever, was enormously stupid of him.
It never would.
His name, his identity, his family, his relationships, his entire life from here on out would only be an illusion, maintained solely for the purpose of executing his very real work. His work would be the only real thing.
Elizabeth, who had walked into the room ahead of him, sat down on the seemingly undersized double bed. It creaked miserably in the way that decrepit motel beds do, in a way that spanned and united the continents.
Mischa shook himself out of his self-remonstrations and looked at her, again. He had been looking at her constantly on the way over.
She was real, in a way. There was someone real, like him, behind the front. He wondered again who that might be.
He knew, very well, that they were forbidden to discuss their pasts. In all likelihood, Mischa would never learn her real name. He would never hear her speak a single word in their native language, refer to a single childhood memory, make any reference he might recognize to the homeland they both shared and had given their lives to defend.
Yet, he also knew himself well enough by now to understand that he would never stop wondering about her. He would never escape the keen sense of curiosity that overwhelmed him in her presence. No competent KGB agent could be satisfied while missing out on such a huge well of potentially critical information, so close at hand.
But, he reflected ironically, you did make a good agent if you could resist ever truly satisfying yourself.
Elizabeth was taking off her shoes. She glanced up at him briefly, then glanced away again. Her long, silky hair fell across her face as she bent over her shoes. Her fingers, working the straps, were long, pale, and slender. He could make out the tensing muscles in her forearms, revealed by the pushed-up sleeves of her thread-worn cardigan. She was very thin, almost alarmingly so, but he could tell with his own training that she would be deceptively strong. And, he thought once again, as he had thought each time he had looked, she is quite pretty.
Mischa had been looking at her constantly, for hours, but she hardly looked at him. Or, he supposed, she could have been very good at being subtle about it. He hadn't bothered.
This is my wife, Elizabeth. I am Philip Jennings. I am Philip.
Philip sat down next to her. He left some space between them. The bed felt very small. It squeaked in protest at his weight.
She's still so young, he thought. But then, so am I.
He wondered, as he had wondered in the plane, in the taxi, whether she had left someone behind too. Whether she had desperately wished she could build a life with someone else, someone specific. Whether she had been in love.
And then, swiftly and unbidden, he wondered whether she had made love. It struck him with a sudden immediacy, for the first time since they had met in the colonel's office, both that she might have done so, and equally striking, that she might never have done so. He could be the tenth, or the first.
He turned his head to stare at her again, vaguely aware that his face and neck felt very warm.
This time, she lifted her eyes to gaze back at him defiantly.
"Welcome home, Philip."