of light. As he approached them, they became dazzling bursts, like flashbulbs going off.
And then he was within the winking galaxy of lights, illuminating shards of his recent past: the sudden death of his daughter, Emma; his acrimonious breakup with his wife; meeting Annika for the first time in a hotel bar in Moscow; saving her in a nearby alley as she was assaulted by two men; finding out that she was an agent, working for her grandfather; hooking up with her when their missions overlapped; meeting Dyadya Gourdjiev, her grandfather; discovering what a brilliant tactician he was …
The lights flashed, more scenes burst upon him in a conflagration that caused his heart to contract: Annika’s note, telling him how she had lied about everything, that, at her grandfather’s behest she had spent six months researching him before they had ever met, that the meeting had been planned, the assault in the Moscow back alley staged, that they could never see each other again. He was already in love with her by then, ready to shed his old life like a snake sheds its skin. But, despite what she had written, he had seen her again; they could not stay away from each other, and their love had burned ever brighter, fusing them together:
“Why? Why are you with me?” The tip of her tongue traced the outer whorls of his ear. “I am a Russian, and a murderer.”
“We’re all murderers.” His voice was thick with desire.
Her palms pressed against his shoulders as he pinned her to the wall. “You know that’s not true.”
“But it is. For us, killing is as much a part of life as eating or breathing.”
“Or making love.”
“No. Making love is entirely different.”
“How is it different? Tell me.”
“When we’re together, making love, we’re different. We’re better people.”
“Only for a time—the space of a breath.” She took his hands, placed them on her buttocks. “Or a sigh.” She sighed deeply, an ecstatic sound.
“Even that is enough.” He pulled the fullness of her hips to him. “My fear is that we’ll become like those before us. Living in the shadows, at the edges of society, gives us certain privileges, privileges that feed our egos, inflate them, until we believe that we’re beyond the law.”
“But, darling, we are beyond the law.”
“I don’t believe we are. These moments together, no matter how brief, prove to us that we can go on with this life we’ve chosen.” His hands sought her bare breasts. “Without them, there’s only a descent into a perpetual dark from which we’ll never return.”
She looked up at him. “Do you think we’re criminals, that we kill without remorse?”
“I hope not.”
“But you don’t know. You can’t because it’s unknowable.” She put her fingers across his lips. “We do what we have to do. There is no choice.”
Then the last, blinding flash overtook him, and he relived another searing moment, from a year ago, in a lavish villa outside Rome:
“I can’t go with you, Jack.”
“What are you talking about? Come on, Annika, the Syrian is coming.”
“I know he is, Jack. That’s why I have to stay.”
Anguish gripped him just as it had then. “I don’t—”
“Get out of here.” Annika shoved him toward the front door. “Now!”
“Annika—”
“Good-bye, Jack.”
At that moment, he got it, his reality collapsed like a house of cards, and his heart shattered. She wasn’t coming. She didn’t love him. Like her mysterious grandfather, she had aligned herself with the enemy. She had gone beyond the law, above it. It seemed incredible, and yet he was confronted by the truth.
He had fought with the Syrian, but in the end, outnumbered and already in mourning, he ran and had only escaped the villa through the inexplicable intervention of Annika’s half-brother, Radomil Batchuk.
The flashing ceased, the lights dimmed, and Jack’s dream slid away from him, falling faster than even he was, into the inky
And then he was within the winking galaxy of lights, illuminating shards of his recent past: the sudden death of his daughter, Emma; his acrimonious breakup with his wife; meeting Annika for the first time in a hotel bar in Moscow; saving her in a nearby alley as she was assaulted by two men; finding out that she was an agent, working for her grandfather; hooking up with her when their missions overlapped; meeting Dyadya Gourdjiev, her grandfather; discovering what a brilliant tactician he was …
The lights flashed, more scenes burst upon him in a conflagration that caused his heart to contract: Annika’s note, telling him how she had lied about everything, that, at her grandfather’s behest she had spent six months researching him before they had ever met, that the meeting had been planned, the assault in the Moscow back alley staged, that they could never see each other again. He was already in love with her by then, ready to shed his old life like a snake sheds its skin. But, despite what she had written, he had seen her again; they could not stay away from each other, and their love had burned ever brighter, fusing them together:
“Why? Why are you with me?” The tip of her tongue traced the outer whorls of his ear. “I am a Russian, and a murderer.”
“We’re all murderers.” His voice was thick with desire.
Her palms pressed against his shoulders as he pinned her to the wall. “You know that’s not true.”
“But it is. For us, killing is as much a part of life as eating or breathing.”
“Or making love.”
“No. Making love is entirely different.”
“How is it different? Tell me.”
“When we’re together, making love, we’re different. We’re better people.”
“Only for a time—the space of a breath.” She took his hands, placed them on her buttocks. “Or a sigh.” She sighed deeply, an ecstatic sound.
“Even that is enough.” He pulled the fullness of her hips to him. “My fear is that we’ll become like those before us. Living in the shadows, at the edges of society, gives us certain privileges, privileges that feed our egos, inflate them, until we believe that we’re beyond the law.”
“But, darling, we are beyond the law.”
“I don’t believe we are. These moments together, no matter how brief, prove to us that we can go on with this life we’ve chosen.” His hands sought her bare breasts. “Without them, there’s only a descent into a perpetual dark from which we’ll never return.”
She looked up at him. “Do you think we’re criminals, that we kill without remorse?”
“I hope not.”
“But you don’t know. You can’t because it’s unknowable.” She put her fingers across his lips. “We do what we have to do. There is no choice.”
Then the last, blinding flash overtook him, and he relived another searing moment, from a year ago, in a lavish villa outside Rome:
“I can’t go with you, Jack.”
“What are you talking about? Come on, Annika, the Syrian is coming.”
“I know he is, Jack. That’s why I have to stay.”
Anguish gripped him just as it had then. “I don’t—”
“Get out of here.” Annika shoved him toward the front door. “Now!”
“Annika—”
“Good-bye, Jack.”
At that moment, he got it, his reality collapsed like a house of cards, and his heart shattered. She wasn’t coming. She didn’t love him. Like her mysterious grandfather, she had aligned herself with the enemy. She had gone beyond the law, above it. It seemed incredible, and yet he was confronted by the truth.
He had fought with the Syrian, but in the end, outnumbered and already in mourning, he ran and had only escaped the villa through the inexplicable intervention of Annika’s half-brother, Radomil Batchuk.
The flashing ceased, the lights dimmed, and Jack’s dream slid away from him, falling faster than even he was, into the inky
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