The valley was blanketed with fog, obscuring the ruins and half-submerged structures below. The lake had receded a bit since their last visit, and the entrance to the tunnels was intact and visible above the water line. Starting down the hill, Indy wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Spalko walked just behind him, uniform jacket knotted around her waist. Her head was uncovered, and she cupped a hand over her eyes, looking downwards.

"If the tunnels have flooded, we'll need to find an alternate route," she commented.

He shrugged. "We're in no hurry."

It was not exactly true. Both of their injuries were healing nicely, and they'd managed to make good time the previous day. However, Ross expected them back in Iquitos at the end of the month, and they were still behind schedule. He hoped to collect their samples quickly and depart Akator within a few days. Glancing back at Spalko, he scrambled down the steep incline and stopped at the mouth of the tunnel.

The space was dark and damp, and he could hear the drip of water in the distance. A pile of fallen stones and rotting leaves partially blocked the path, but the floor of the passage itself was relatively clear. Climbing inside, Jones drew his handgun and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Spalko kept her rifle strapped across her back, and she scaled the debris pile nimbly. She had been oddly quiet since arriving at Akator, and she shivered a little as she walked into the darkness.

"I am uneasy."

Truth be told, Jones felt it, too. "You're jumping at shadows," he said, with a confidence he didn't really feel.

"No." She swung her rifle around, pressing the stock to her shoulder. "Something is wrong here."

They kept walking, and Indy felt a chill creep up his back. Spalko stopped suddenly, holding up an arm.

"Look."

A few yards ahead, something metallic caught the light. Gesturing for him to be quiet, Spalko picked up a rock. Letting his finger hover over the trigger, Indy gripped his weapon, backing up a bit. Spalko tossed the stone and it hit the ground with a thud.

There was a sudden crack, and then a wall of flames was rushing towards them. They both hit the ground instantly, and Indy could smell burning hair as the shockwave passed over his body. The air was hazy with smoke, and a bright light emanated from the explosion point. Indy counted to twenty and put his head up.

The corridor was empty, the walls singed and smeared with ash. The flames had nearly died out, and so Indy got to his feet, offering Spalko his arm. She groaned.

"You're bleeding," she observed, brushing cinders from her fatigues.

His chin stung a bit, and he dabbed at it gingerly. His fingers came back bloody, and he wiped them on his jacket.

"What was that?'

She strode ahead until she reached a pile of crumpled metal. She kicked it. "RG-42 grenade. Soviet manufacture."

Their eyes met, and he could see the dismay in her expression. The tunnels branched out to the left, and he could hear the patter of running footsteps. There was a chorus of shouts in Russian.

Heart pounding, Indy pointed in the opposite direction. "Run!"


Gripping her rifle, Spalko crept back towards the wall, eyes focused on the passageway ahead. They had reached a dead end, and she knew that their pursuers were only a few minutes behind them. The shock that her countrymen had attacked her, had tried to kill her, hadn't yet registered. She kept a tight grip on her thoughts, focusing on the cold of the trigger against her finger. Far below, she could hear the rush and churn of the water, and through a gap in the ruined wall, she glimpsed gray and roiling waves.

Beside her, Jones was reloading his handgun. The cut along his jawline had stopped bleeding, but there was a streak of dried blood on his neck. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and he squinted down at the weapon, sliding the stock back into place. His expression was tense, and his eyes were widened slightly.

"Start firing as soon as you see them. Irina, please don't hesitate because they're-"

Because they are my countrymen. Spalko couldn't promise such a thing, but the fear in his eyes prompted her to nod. She hoped that there would be time to negotiate, that they would see that she still lived and breathed for the Soviet Union. She wouldn't allow herself to consider the alternative scenario. Gulping down the rising nausea, she scanned the darkened passageway for movement.

There was the crunch of footsteps on broken stone. Irina moved forward a bit, squinting into the shadows. Her rifle was pressed against her shoulder, and she inclined her head, gazing through the sight. There was a rush of air behind her, and she whipped around, too late to react.

A large figure dove from the top of the wall behind them, knocking Jones cleanly to the ground. He shouted, struggling with the much taller man for control of the handgun. Spalko brought her rifle to bear, as Jones' handgun went flying towards the opposite wall. Her hand hovered on the trigger, and the man stood up, keeping one boot on Jones' shoulder.

There was a chorus of shouts as reinforcements began pouring through the tunnel, all dressed in Soviet gray fatigues. Spalko hesitated for a moment, glancing between Jones and the amassed troops. Jones thrashed and struggled under the soldier's foot, shouting curses.

A voice addressed her in Russian. "Dr. Spalko, please drop your weapon."

Automatically, she loosened her grip. The gun clattered to the ground. She started to get to her knees, but the speaker stepped into view, gesturing for her to remain standing. He was thin and red-headed, and she recognized the man who had accompanied Jones to spring her from Chistilishche.

"Danil?"

He nodded curtly, turning to address Jones. "Your friend McHale was too craven to come here himself. However, he pays well-."

Still pinned to the ground, Jones growled, "-He's not my friend."

Spalko cleared her throat, drawing Danil's attention. "Why have you come here?"

He switched fluidly back to Russian, turning his back on Jones. "To kill you. Your escape from the gulag was a great embarrassment to the Union."

She didn't react to the words. "I did not leave of my own volition. You know this."

He nodded. "It hardly matters. The Union wants a bullet in your head, and it shall be done."

She flinched involuntarily. "My loyalty to the Soviet cause has never faltered. If I may-"

"—No. There is not enough proof in the world to convince us you are not a threat."

Spalko felt the desperation rising, and she clenched her fists. She was not afraid of death, but the thought of going to her grave hated and distrusted by her motherland was agonizing. She tried again.

"At least let me return with you to Russia. I will serve out the rest of my sentence."

He adjusted his spectacles, and she wondered for a moment if he was considering her proffer. Then his lips curled upward. "I have an idea."

"Yes?"

He waved towards the ground. "Pick up the rifle."

She nodded stiffly and obeyed. She didn't understand the purpose of his command, but it hardly mattered.

"Now…"

As if prearranged, the soldier pinning Jones to the floor stepped away. Two men dragged him to his feet, and he spat out a mouthful of grit and blood, glowering defiantly.

"Tell him to stand up straight," Danil commanded in Russian, pointing to Jones.

Jones snorted. "My Russian's pretty rusty, pal. You'll have to say it in English-"

"-Shut up."

He returned his attention to Spalko. "You may return to Russia on one condition. We have a task that must be completed."

"Fine." She bowed her head slightly.

"You must conduct an execution."

"Of?"

"Your friend there." He pointed to Jones, and Spalko was suddenly cold.

Danil continued to pontificate, but Spalko heard nothing but a high-pitched whine. Her chest squeezed tightly, and she struggled to draw breath. She watched herself as if from afar, hands wrapped around the rifle stock, staring at Danil in abject horror. She saw herself step forward, raise the weapon, lower it. Far away, Jones was yelling, but she didn't understand the words.

Danil was offering her the chance to return home. Through every freezing night and savage beating, through every day spent laboring under Ross' tyrannical eye, she had wished this moment into being. She would be restored to her former glory as a colonel in the KGB. She would continue researching novel weapons in Moscow, with all of the knowledge in the world at her fingertips. The thought made her eyes sting.

And yet, what they were asking of her was impossible - Danil had to know this. Jones was the last obstacle to obliterate before she could rejoin the ranks of the Red Army. As a soldier, she had killed hundreds of enemy operatives. She was not squeamish. But Jones had become her ally in a time when she had nothing to offer. For months, she had been drifting in a dark ocean, and he had been the map of stars above her head. Spalko didn't believe in romantic love, but what she felt for Jones went beyond infatuation.

Setting her jaw, she tightened her grip on the gun. "Step aside, Danil."

He stretched out his hand, grinning.

Jones gaped at her, seemingly having understood the gist of Danil's order. Averting her eyes, Irina glanced at the two men flanking him. The man to the left stepped aside a few centimeters, brushing a bit of dirt from his coat.

Spalko seized the moment.

Everything exploded into a blur of gunfire and smoke. Spalko had managed to hit the man to the right cleanly in the head, and he fell instantly. She saw Jones dive for the door, and then heard a guttural yell as Danil realized what had happened. Something hot brushed over her cheek, and then there was a stabbing pain in her thigh. Rolling cleanly towards the ruined wall, she stayed below the smoke. A third bullet slammed into her knee, and she dragged herself towards the gap in the bricks, adrenaline masking the pain of the wounds.

The water was at least ten meters below, cloudy and full of debris. Her leg was strangely heavy, and she heard another volley hit the wall above her head. Sensing that her time to hesitate was over, Spalko pushed herself through the gap. Her fingers gripped the cold brick as she gathered her courage. Just as her grip loosened, she felt the impact of a body slamming into her back. Off balance, she lurched forward and the water rushed up to meet her.


Indy felt a shock of cold as the water closed over his head. The lake was brackish and cloudy, and he felt his boot sink into the muddy lakebed. There was a faint glow of sunlight somewhere above, and he clawed upwards, lungs already burning. He broke the surface with a splash, gulping air and flailing to keep himself afloat. His hat was gone, and he kicked off his waterlogged shoes.

He spotted Spalko a few feet away. She floated on her back, limp and barely moving. With a jolt of terror, he hooked an arm around her shoulders and began dragging her towards shore. Swimming with one arm slowed him down, and his heart beat painfully against his ribs. When he finally felt the sand of the beach beneath his feet, he stumbled out of the water, collapsing in exhaustion.

Beside him, Spalko coughed. Her eyes were open but glazed, and her hair stuck to her face. Her uniform trousers were soaked with blood, and he spotted two neat bullet holes in the vicinity of her knee. The shot to her thigh seemed to have missed the femoral artery, but he still tore a strip from his undershirt, fashioning a tourniquet.

He shook her shoulder gently. "You're losing a lot of blood. I'm going to apply a tourniquet, okay?"

There was no response, and so he set to work, tightening the wrapping. She winced.

Wrapping his hand in the remains of his undershirt, he applied pressure to the wounds. His hands were sticky with blood, but he tried to remain calm. As he worked, he spoke to her.

"Just try to stay conscious. You know, there was a moment when I thought you were really going to shoot me. But the fact – the fact that you chose to save my life-"

There was a tightness in his throat. Using one hand to retain pressure, he shrugged out of his jacket and tore the lining. Folding it haphazardly, he replaced the dressing.

"—I love you, Irina."

She startled. Then, with great effort, she moved her fingers to brush his arm.

There was a humming in the air above, then a flash of metal. Across the lake, he spotted an American transport helicopter descending towards the beach, stirring up clouds of dust. Jones sprang up, waving his arms. He felt a spark of hope as the craft landed and half a dozen men climbed to the ground.

He shouted across the water, "Hurry! We need medical attention!"


Spalko stayed as still as possible, blocking out the hum of voices above her head. She was lying on something soft, and the pitch and rock of the surface beneath suggested that she was aboard the aircraft. Her wet and bloodied fatigues had been replaced with a thermal blanket, and there was a slight sting in the crook of her elbow. She guessed that she had been given a sedative – the pain in her leg had faded to a dull ache, and her memory was fuzzy.

About the events at Akator, however, a cold clarity remained. When she'd pulled the trigger, she'd obliterated any chance of returning to her homeland. She did not regret the choice – nothing would have induced her to harm Jones – but the Soviet Union had been her raison d'etre. A dark and ugly part of her wished she hadn't survived the confrontation. She had the sense of existing in a world in which she no longer belonged, and her chest ached with dread.

There was the tap of boots against the flight deck, and she forced her eyes open. The medic sat on a bench near the window, rifling through a plastic first aid kit. Jones had settled on the floor beside her, holding her hand. Her limbs were still largely numb, and she hadn't noticed his presence.

He brushed her forehead with his free hand. "How are you feeling?"

She grimaced. "Tell the medic to put me out again."

"That bad, huh?" He glanced down at the bandages in concern.

"No. I just-" She felt a roughness in her throat, but she wouldn't allow herself to weep.

Jones reached out to stroke her hair. "Shh."

She blinked hard. "I'll never go back to the Soviet Union."

He sighed. "No, probably not."

"That is a…difficult pill to swallow." She struggled for the words.

"I know."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Spalko watched beams of sunlight shiver against the ceiling. The rotors whirred steadily, and the wind rocked the transport upwards. Jones kept his hand against her hair, and his touch was gentle.

"You know," he ventured carefully. "I have a friend at the University of Buenos Aires. He's offered me work before."

Irina nodded slightly, waiting for him to elaborate.

"The problem is, they're usually two-man jobs. I've always refused, but I'm sure he'd be happy to hear from me."

"Oh?"

"Argentina is a non-aligned country. We'd both be safe there."

She suddenly understood. "Ross will never let us free."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Her strength fading, Spalko let her eyelids fall. Now that her break with the USSR was complete, she had little conception of what her future would hold. The country had owned her, body and soul, and the idea of doing exactly as she pleased was frightening. Still, Jones was excellent company, and the idea of working together more permanently lifted the weight of anxiety a bit. As she drifted into the dark, she heard a faraway voice ask:

"So what do you say?"

Yes.