CODE NAME CLAYTON—THE UNIVERSE NEXT DOOR

By DixieHellcat

(It is said, by mystics and physicists alike, that every choice creates its own reality. Some folk don’t believe that, of course. They insist the path of life is set and immutable. Others, however, hold that as the flap of a butterfly’s wings in a rainforest can bring a storm crashing down upon a great city half a world away, so too can the decisions we make, however insignificant we think them to be, alter the very fabric of our existence. Most make only a very small change. A few have the power to reset the course of history. And some fall somewhere in between, their impact neither negligible nor earth-shaking. They may, however, shake the worlds of a few people.

This is one of those stories. In one place and time, a man took a woman to himself, feeling almost possessed by the spirit of another man—a man she loved—a man she believed him to be—a man he had killed. One night of love fulfilled, at least fulfilled in her mind, was the only gift he felt he could give her, before his own seemingly inescapable situation forced him to end her life as well.

That’s how it happened in one world. But what about in another? Is it even possible to change the line of time, or will it relentlessly reassert its primacy over puny humankind? What subtle variation in events would it take to set those three people on course for a totally different future?

Well…maybe something like this…)

She couldn’t shake the feeling. The assignment to protect Mr. Akido and get him to the Hague to testify against the Russian mob had gone thus far perfectly—too perfectly. The worst would be yet to come, and what form it would take unsettled her with its very formlessness. Whatever it was, though, it wouldn’t be something two Elite agents couldn’t handle, especially two as well matched as she and Clayton. She kept telling herself that as she followed his advice and lay down to try and get some rest.

When she woke an hour or so later, she saw Clayton in the mirror, sitting in a chair across the room, watching her. It had been over a year since she had admitted to herself that her feelings for him went far beyond respect and fondness for a good partner and a good man. She had never spoken of it to him, though she suspected he knew; when called upon to kiss while in disguise, it had gotten quite amorous on more than one occasion. The Elite code forbade acting on her heart’s promptings, though, and with good reason, she realized. In only a few months, when their ten years in the field were up, then she could dare it, and dare hope he felt the same. So she had always told herself.

The aventurine eyes that met hers tonight, however, burned with intensity, with a look that said he might not be so interested in abiding by the regs. “Better, Butterfly?”

She smiled. Even her alias, the only name he had ever known her by, sounded better from his lips than anywhere else. “Some. I still feel antsy though. We never know what’s next.”

“No, we don’t.” He sat quietly, his gaze never leaving her. “Have I mentioned how glad I am you didn’t really have to throw your body in front of Akido last night to defend him from some assassin disguised as a lady of the evening?”

“I—“ She stopped. With this strange foreboding gripping her, was this the right time for telling secrets? “I did, once. Several years ago.”

A part of her was happy he didn’t look quite appalled; it was only her job, of course. Another part of her was not as happy that he took it all in stride. “How’d you get through it?” he finally asked.

“I imagined it was you.” Now that was too far, and too late to unsay it!

“You know I’ve always loved you,” he said softly. She nodded, her heart in her mouth. “You don’t have to imagine. We don’t.” She almost got up from the bed and went to him…almost. “You don’t feel that way now?”

“No—I mean, I do, but…I just don’t think this is the time. This uneasiness I can’t shake…”

“Isn’t that all the more reason?” His voice dropped, low and husky. “You said it yourself—we don’t know what is coming at us next.”

“I’d feel like I was using you to calm my nerves. That’s the last way I’d want this to happen. You deserve more than that, Clayton. I want more than that.”

”What do you want?”

She had never thought on it consciously, to put it into words, but when she opened her mouth the words were there all the same. “I want to be with you without looking over my shoulder. It’s been nine years and then some. We’ve only got a few more months to abide by the code we both swore to, and then—then we can have that. If you want it, that is. You asked what I want—I’ll tell you what I don’t want, too. I don’t want to be with you out of despair, seizing the moment because tomorrow morning one or both of us might be dead—“ She caught her breath, afraid now to look at him. “I want my honor, and yours, and I want to hope. I want to believe we have a chance at a future, a place where you can tell me your name, and I can tell you mine and hear you say it back to me.”

When she finally looked, his face was strangely unreadable. She didn’t know what she had expected from him in response: disappointment at her determined adherence to principle, maybe; or amusement at her dogged optimism; or a gentle confession that he had no interest in a relationship. Instead, his small smile was tight and ironic, but his eyes were decisive. “Let’s both hope you get that chance.”

That didn’t make a lot of sense, but on this night she let it pass. She did get up, now, and went over to the chair, and put her hands lightly on his fair cheeks. “Don’t look so grim,” she said. “We were talking about hope, weren’t we?” His smile widened a fraction, and her heart lifted. “Your turn to rest. I’ll watch.”

He resisted, typically; he hated to be seen tired or weak, even by her. She persisted, though, until he kicked off his shoes and lay down across the bed. In the other room, she turned the TV on at a low volume, and flipped through the channels until she came across a Russian movie with subtitles. She left it on for background noise while she watched out the windows, and glanced over at the screen now and then; it wouldn’t hurt to brush up her language skills. Like many Russian productions, though, the plot turned out to be pretty dense and morose, so she switched it off after a while, picked up a small can of nuts from the table and absently munched a few. A little extra protein was always welcome.

She was considering doing some yoga to stretch her muscles and rein in her gathering anxiety when Clayton appeared in the bedroom doorway with his shoes in his hands. "Your turn,” he grinned.

‘You’ve hardly had time to close your eyes!” she scolded.

“It was enough.” He certainly looked it; the tension she had sensed in him earlier was completely gone, and his face and body were calm. Reluctantly, she stood from her seat by the window, out of sight of any prying eyes outside. “C’mon, B. I’m fine, and neither of us wants to slip tomorrow—“ He glanced at his watch. “Correction—today, because of fatigue, right?”

“You always know how to hit me where it hurts, don’t you?” she grumbled. He did not reply as she made her way into the bedroom and stretched out again. The mattress was still warm where he had lain, and she smiled foolishly to herself as she positioned herself in that exact area, and schooled her mind to relax and sleep.

When she opened her eyes again, she thought at first that he had turned the movie back on, until she woke enough to identify his voice. One look at the clock told her she had slept far longer than she should have. She scrambled to her feet, wishing vainly for time for a shower, and ready to kick his ass for his misguided good intentions in letting her sleep. Halfway to the door, she froze.

“I could not kill him last night,” Clayton said in Russian. “Tell me exactly where the shooters will be, so that I can position myself properly…No, it’s none of your goddamn business why not. The opportunity did not present itself, that’s all. Now tell me what I need to know, and I’ll get the job done…She hasn’t slept a minute. Wired, crazy—American women get that way, and you can’t do anything with them. It’s like she has eyes in the back of her neck. There’s no way I could have removed her last night. Besides, if the snipers remove Akido, I can remain in place without being suspected, and be a greater asset to the mafiya…Well, it’s about fuckin’ time. The back entrance, you say? That is sensible. Fine.” She barely dared breathe as she crept to the half-open door. In her head, she frantically searched for her gun. It was out there, in her bag—out there, where he was, and she swore silently at herself.

The cel phone beeped as he disconnected and then dialed again. The voice she heard now asking for the head of Court Security was perfect, uninflected, Middle America English, what they all had been taught in Elite training. A few times over the years, when he had been tired to the point of exhaustion, she had caught a hint of a Southern drawl, but that was the only clue she had ever had to his past. She had looked forward so much to finding out about that, and everything else about him that she didn’t know. Now, her hope crumbled to dust and ash as he spoke. What had made him betray his oath of service? And how could she stop it and save Akido, short of—She gasped despite herself at the nightmare vision that opened before her, and then let its cold sweep over and around her, shielding her from the pain. It didn’t matter who he was or how she felt—had felt—about him. Her duty was all that mattered now.

“Hello?” the voice stabbed her from the other room. “Hello, we need to make one change in plans. We can’t bring him in the back way—we’ve just gotten information that an ambush may be waiting. Two shooters in buildings across the street, from our intelligence…yes, I’m aware the front will be more obvious, but maybe that’ll work in our favor. Do you know the saying ‘hide in plain sight’?” He laughed. “Good, then we understand each other. My partner’s resting, I’ll tell her when she gets up in a few minutes…No, nothing else will need to be changed. We’ll still bring Mr. Akido to you shortly after ten…Absolutely. Thank you.” He disconnected, and let out a long sigh.

She slipped from the room. He was standing in the middle of the room, and turned. ‘Morning,” he grinned when he saw her. At that moment, she hated the sight of that bright smile, and the sound of that voice, more than any atrocity she could imagine. ‘We’ve got a few minutes to get a bite to eat.” She did not answer, or even look at him again. Instead, keeping him in her peripheral vision, she went straight to her small tote and opened it, wondering why he had told the truth to the security chief. What kind of twisted game was he playing? She saw her gun, a plain and deadly chunk of metal, at the bottom of the bag, and steeled herself to use it, to destroy the thing that had meant the world to her. I’m not destroying it, she told herself. He did that, when he lied. Perhaps she could at least make him tell her why…or would it hurt even worse if he laughed in her face and scorned everything she had thought he believed in? She tried to feel anger; she really did, but creeping around the rim of the cold she found only a devastating grief.

Her fingers closed around the pistol, and at that moment she heard a sound that changed everything. She whirled, no longer hesitant, and brought the gun up, and pointed it at the man holding the can of nuts and crunching a handful. “Who the hell are you?” she snapped.

He looked suitably startled. “B, what—what’s wrong—“

“Cut the bullshit!” she hissed in Russian. Her skills in that tongue were rusty, but the movie the night before had refreshed them just enough, and she silently thanked whatever fretful insomniac angel had guided her hand on the TV remote. “Clayton’s allergic to nuts.”

His mouth quirked, and he set the can down with care. “Something had to slip by me, sooner or later,” he said softly, his English now tinged with a soft Russian lilt. “Two snipers are posted across the street from the back entrance of the Courts Building, where we were to take Akido in. I called the security office and—“

“I know. I heard you. Maybe the snipers are out front, and this is a ruse. Maybe there aren’t any snipers. Maybe it’s a car bomb, or who knows what. I think I’m taking him in the back, as originally planned.”

“No, no!” He ran his hands through his hair in an authentically distressed gesture. “You don’t believe me? How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

“If you heard Russian, which you clearly did, then you heard me get the information from—my controller.” His lip curled as if in disgust at the word. “You also heard me lie to him to save your life. I was to kill Akido last night. Barring that, I was to kill you, go to him this morning, and kill him in his room. I told them I could do neither. Did you hear that?”

She had, but in her shock, thinking Clayton had betrayed her, it hadn’t registered. Now, faced with an obvious imposter, she was more confused than ever. “Why?”

He shook his head slowly. “I am not mafiya,” he said, “though I eat their bread. As we say, ‘all are not cooks who walk with long knives’. I am not sworn to their precious Vory v Zakone.” She recognized the Russian mob’s code of loyalty. “I am merely, as you would say, a hired gun. I served in the Army, and you may know it is not famous for its generosity. The woman I was to wed died. I had no skills to recommend me for employment, other than the art of killing. I was sent to do this task because of those, and because of my resemblance to the American.”

It wasn’t exactly the answer she sought, but just now she was more interested in something else. “How long?”

“Five months.”

“Five months.” So long…She felt a part of herself detach, as it had last night, but this time it screamed silently. “Clayton’s been dead for five months.” The words sounded like dirt falling on a grave, and she wept frozen tears inside, around the edges of the ice in her soul. At least she could cling to the scant comfort that he had died in action, that he had not been false to his honor, or her.

“Not exactly,” her captive surprised her by saying. “It is—well, not so long a story that I cannot tell it now, but—may I sit?”

“All the moving you’re doing is to lie on the floor, face down, arms and legs apart. If you so much as scratch an itch, I will blow your brains all over this nice neat Dutch carpet.” She stood over him and frisked him thoroughly, finding a Swedish Mora knife in a sheath strapped to his leg. The black enameled handle and razor-sharp carbon steel looked eager to drink blood.

“You might want to reconsider killing me,” he said, his voice slightly muffled in the carpet. “I could be very useful, I hope, and I pose no threat to you.”

“So I see.” She flung the knife across the room; it landed some feet from his head, too far for him to reach but close enough for him to see if he lifted his head slightly. “You’re obviously harmless.”

The small laugh that answered her was one of recognition, not amusement. “I was to have killed Clayton with that knife, five months ago, in Cairo.”

“Cairo?” She poked him with her toe. “You’ll have to do better than that. We haven’t had any assignments in Cairo.”

He laughed quietly again. For a fleeting instant she wanted nothing more than to kick the shit out of him. When he started to turn onto one side, she did do more than just prod his ribs with her foot. “Stay right where you are.” He grunted at the impact of her kick, then acquiesced. That way, she didn’t have to see his face…Clayton’s face…oh, God, Clayton…

“Your Clayton had more assignments than even you knew, apparently. He has spent much time in the last three years in the Middle East, since the attack on New York City, searching out those linked to Al-Quada. The area, I understand, has always been of interest to him, an intellectual hobby, if you will, and the opportunity to delve into its secrets was no doubt too tempting to pass by.” That was true enough; she remembered him being engrossed in Lawrence of Arabia or The Arab Mind or Desert Queen on the occasions when he could steal a few minutes to read, and he had taken advanced training in Arabic and spoke it as if he had been born there. “I was ordered to Cairo six months ago to shadow him, remove him, and assume his place, to resolve the mafiya’s concerns about Akido. I followed Clayton into an alley and was about to strike when he fell. I confess I was almost as surprised as he! A fundamentalist political party loosely affiliated with Usama bin Laden, the Sons of Ali, had drawn his notice, and he, unfortunately for him, theirs. One of their marksmen had taken him down with a tranquilizer dart. They wanted him alive, of course, in order to interrogate him, and determine what he had learned about them and passed on to America. So long as my assumption of his identity was not hindered, the mafiya did not care. They are a pragmatic lot, and cooperating with the Islamists would, they hoped, ingratiate them with the militants of the region.”

She crouched beside the man, and suppressed a shudder. Which was worse, the thought of Clayton bleeding his life out in some filthy Egyptian alley, or being tortured without hope of escape? “I visited the various hidey-holes where he was held, at the Sons’ invitation,” he continued. “They hoped that seeing me taking over his life, and hearing my reports of the plans to undermine his work, would make him despair and break.”

“Like hell,” she said flatly, with a sick taste in the back of her throat. “He’d die first.”

“Indeed.” Now his voice held a hint of something akin to—admiration? “He remained strong, very strong under their, uh, persuasions, and defiant. He has given them a scrap of information here, a crumb there, and countless promises of more, to, as you say, string them along. It was clear to me how he was using their own expectations against them, to keep himself alive and with a chance, however illusory, of escape. How it could not be so to them, I do not know; but I would not give them what they were too ignorant to see. Some of the Arab groups have legitimate protests, yes, but these—they are thugs, and nothing more.” He almost spat the words.

She was dizzied, but fought to keep her composure. “So, what am I going to do with you?”

He turned his head and his arm just enough to look at his watch. “We are scheduled to pick Akido up in twenty minutes. I suggest we eat some breakfast and get going.” He looked up, not at the gun steadily aimed between his eyes, but at her face.

She laughed, but even as she did she realized taking him with her might well be her only real option—where could she leave him? “Why should I let you anywhere near him?”

The directness of his gaze, unfazed by her weapon, was equally unfaltering when confronted by her scorn. “I have no particular fondness for the man, but his words will harm the mafiya. That is what they fear. Remember last night, when I asked you what you wanted?” He paused, as if finding words for some new thought. “The Arabs with whom I am dealing have no honor. The mafiya, for all their talk of vows that bind, they have no honor either. I liked the money they paid me, but I despise what they have done to my country. Russia had such promise, and now she has been made a whore. She is a den of thieves again, except now of capitalistic gangsters instead of Communist apparatchiks. They lie, constantly, as easily as drawing breath. I heard nothing from them but how venial Americans were, how willing to sell their grandmothers for the best deal, to throw over principle for their own benefit.

“When I looked at Clayton, fighting a hopeless fight, I saw the lie at last. You were correct; he would die before compromising his sworn word. And you, you are the same. I’ve watched you these months, and last night…I wondered if you would yield, even for him, and so I asked, and got my answer.” Again, he was quiet for a moment, his eyes holding hers. “You both have reminded me of what I once wished to be, and forced me to see what I want—or rather, as you said, what I do not want. I do not want this life any longer. I look at what I loathe, and then at myself, and they are one and the same. I want to—to redress the balance, in some small ways, and I want my freedom.”

Her mind reeled. The hell of it was, she wanted to believe him. “What were you planning just now, when I walked in?”

“Standard procedure.” Suddenly the accent fell away. It was Clayton’s voice now, again, coming out of Clayton’s face, and it took all her hard-won discipline not to moan aloud with grief. She clutched the gun like the last rung on the ladder down into hell. “Pick Akido up at ten and get him to the prosecutors. I was going to tell you I’d been out early and spotted some suspicious activity around the back of the Courts Building. You were already on edge, so it wouldn’t have been hard to convince you to take him in front instead. Then I’d just disappear. Give you the slip, don some disguise, and high-tail it to Cairo.”

“Why Cairo? You can hide from the mafiya much easier in any of a hundred places. Better yet, if you really want to make some amends for your past, you could defect. Our government will protect you. What you know could be invaluable.” He didn’t deserve a chance, any more than he had given Clayton one, but he could be useful...and a second wrong could not correct the first, could not bring Clayton back to her.

The familiar forehead puckered in a frown, and the accent crept back. “Perhaps, but I confess it surprises me that you of all people would suggest such, unless your Elite care less for their agents than I have gathered. The Sons of Ali still trust me with their locations, and only me. If I were to go over, it would be quickly found out. That would spell a swift end for your partner, and protective custody would likely drive me mad—“

“Wait.” Now she was baffled anew. Something didn’t quite fit, and her mind struggled to make it so. “You—you’re saying—Clayton’s alive?”

“Did you not understand that?” The pale eyes crinkled at the corners with actual amusement now. “Certainly he was when last I saw him a few weeks ago, and I have had no word to the contrary. Somewhat the worse for wear, I fear; but he is, as my Scandinavian cousins say, tougher than boiled owl. I told you how he was manipulating them, and quite deftly, I might add. As I said, his captors keep me abreast of their whereabouts. I think I am the only one who might be able to secure his release, and I have an idea how; but I must be free in order to do so.”

“Fine.” She stood, hoping her legs would hold her. The knife went in the back waistband of her jeans. “Prove it. Get up, and let’s get Akido to his appointment intact. Then we go to Cairo.”

Slowly he pushed himself up onto one foot and one knee. “It may be unwise for us both to go there. If I go alone it will appear to any observer that 1 am…that Clayton is returning to his other current assignment.”

“It’s unwritten Elite policy. We don’t leave a captured agent in enemy hands.”

“Ah. We return to honor, then.” His eyes brightened, then held hers again. “He loves you, very much,” he said softly. “When they brought him down, he must have thought he was dying. The last words he spoke before he slipped into unconsciousness were ‘I love you, my Butterfly’.” Clayton’s voice again, for only those few words, made her throat tighten. “I have come to respect him, though he may not return the favor. I definitely think he would not thank me for putting you in harm’s way.”

“I’m his partner. He’s the one in harm’s way, not me. And just in case the past months haven’t taught you better, I can protect myself from anyone, including you.”

He laughed more freely now, holding his hands up as he got to his feet. “As you say, I have seen too much. I would never underestimate you, madam Elite.” He put out a hand as if to shake.

She just looked at it. “What do you suggest I call you?” she asked. “I could use a generic Ivan, but that smacks of prejudice.”

“Thank you for your consideration,” he said dryly, and pursed his mouth in thought. “Call me Sergei,” he said at last. “It is not my name, of course, any more than Butterfly is yours, or…Well, it will serve. My mother was a pianist, and Rachmaninoff one of her favorites.”

That might or (more likely) might not be true, but right now she didn’t care. “Sergei,” she said. Somehow, calling this man by that name made this muddle suddenly, horribly real. Her Clayton was gone: perhaps in grave danger, a captive of brutal and fanatical men, and she was about to make a deal with the devil to get him back. ‘Let’s go, then.”

“Breakfast first.” He strode to the hotel room’s tiny refrigerator and pulled out fruit and protein drinks she didn’t recall seeing there earlier. “I’m not having you pass out on me.” The accent vanished again, and the familiar voice, so casually cheerful, made her fight back tears. I must be crazy, she thought, but she ate, and drank, and walked out the door with the man who had been sent to kill her.

The handover of Akido was flawless. They walked him right in the front door of the Court, in full view of tourists and beggars and hookers and all, and he welcomed the appearance of the security guards and prosecutor with obvious relief. She exchanged a look with the man who called himself Sergei, and stepped into the women’s room to slip into a new disguise. When she emerged, with short bleached hair, purple eye makeup, and a large fake tattoo on her shoulder, she fully expected to be alone, and she was, at least at first glance. At second glance, she spied him, leaning against a pillar in the marble lobby, in the clothes Clayton should have been wearing: a conservative pinstriped suit appropriate for a lawyer, with an orange shirt and striped tie to add a touch of style. Horn-rimmed glasses obscured his eyes, and his auburn hair was slicked straight back. He put away the cel phone he held to his ear, as she walked over to him with the step of a youngster in over her head, part cocky and part pouty. “So, you got me off on the drug charge,” she sneered in Dutch.

“Thanks to your rich papa,” he returned with hardly a blink. “Now, let’s get you home to the Zuider Zee.” They walked out the back of the Courts Building. She studiously maintained a sullen focus on the ants on the sidewalk, while monitoring him to see where he was looking. He glanced around at the buildings across the street, then took her wrist and started toward the curb as though to watch for a bus. She jerked free with a petulant glare that suited a rich Dutchman’s rebellious daughter, and hopefully also conveyed the fact that she would not let him lead her like a lamb into the crosshairs of his comrades. His grin was suitably salacious for a high-priced, slightly sleazy legal mouthpiece, and if it had resided on Clayton’s face she would have been hard pressed not to giggle…or to respond in kind. “I see them,” he said through his teeth, “but if they see us, they only find our antics amusing. Keep it up.” She flounced off in a huff.

In a few moments she heard a bus approach, and felt his hand on her shoulder. She climbed aboard with him, more sure than ever that she had taken total leave of her senses. She had never even been tempted to go rogue before. It’s not rogue! she argued with herself. We’re Elite. We don’t leave each other behind. I’d do the same for any other agent I was partnering with. Of course, she would; but would she trust herself to a hit man to accomplish it? The simple truth, which no one but her might ever know, was that while she would do much for any fellow agent, she would do whatever it took for Clayton. She sat bolt upright on the uncomfortable bus bench, and hoped her inner turmoil, if it showed at all, came across only as a surly sulk.

Sergei, it appeared, wasn’t fooled a bit. “You still don’t trust me.”

“Why should I?” She continued to stare straight ahead. The few people seated near them edged away; unable to hear their words, they clearly registered the low tightness of their voices, and the simmering emotion beneath. “You’ve lied to me for months. Convenient, this eleventh-hour attack of conscience.”

“Ah, yes, it would seem so to you. We have a saying, ‘once burned by milk, you will blow on cold water’. Yet you are here.”

The reserve she had wrapped herself in like a poncho began to fray at its edges. “If you’re telling the truth now, you’re the only chance I have,” she whispered. ‘You’re the only chance he has. I have to risk it.”

“”Ptica i zwestna ee poletom’. A bird is known by its flight.”

“You’re a regular dictionary of proverbs, aren’t you?”

“I am told that the average Russian of twenty years of age or more knows at least eight hundred,” he responded, with another flash of dry wit. “You see what I do now, and you will see what I will do. Judge me by that, in the end. May I ask that much of you?” She did not reply, only sighed as the bus pulled up to the train station. “You have some clothing in that backpack suitable for an archaeological vacation, do you not?” he asked as they got off.

She nodded curtly and headed for the loo. By the time she came out with scrubbed face and ponytail, in khaki walking shorts and sturdy sensible shoes, he was similarly dressed and had bought two tickets on the next train to Amsterdam. “A small Egyptian charter airline flies regularly into Luxor,” he explained en route, “with a stopover in Cairo. I had already booked a seat for myself. They are short of cash just now, and given the instability of the region they are in dire need of business; so getting a second passage should not pose difficulty.”

“Good thinking,” she admitted. “Less obvious to disembark there and just not re-board. Damn, you would’ve been great Elite.” She wasn’t sure, but she thought he almost blushed with pleasure at the compliment, however begrudging.

They spoke little after boarding the plane. Sergei seemed to fall into a deep sleep almost before the pilot retracted the landing gear. She sat for a while looking at him, and castigated herself for not seeing through the façade—but she couldn’t honestly blame herself much. She had seen what she expected to see, just as his masters had hoped. Was she seeing what she wanted to see now, too? Finally, wondering just how mad she was, she settled back in the marginal comfort of the plane’s flat-cushioned seat and dozed off to the grumble of the cantankerous little jet’s engines.

When the plane stopped in Cairo, they strolled off with the other eager European tourists and lost themselves in the noisy polyglot bustle of the airport. They rendezvoused at the Metro station and rode the train into the city. At Ramesses Station, they rented scooters and wound deeper into the maze of narrow streets. She followed his lead, but her stomach clenched as she realized where he was headed. Every Elite operative memorized the rotating locations of safe houses all over the world, and he finally stopped in front of one, a small flat-roofed house crammed between more just like it, on a nondescript side road.

“He is good. It took me three weeks to follow him here,” he said to the question on her face. She got off and started to walk the scooter up to the door. He did not. “Wait here,” he said, and shook his head sharply when she started to turn and protest. “I must make contact, alone. Even without that consideration, given the mood of the areas to which I must go, you would not be welcome or safe, no matter how skilled you are.”

She scowled, but he was right and she knew it. Still, she paced inside the cool plaster walls before he returned with groceries, a full burqa for her, and scant news. “I reached them.”

“And now?”

“Now we wait.”

The next three days were intolerable. She must have walked to the Pyramids and back a dozen times inside the little house. Periods of tense energy were interspersed with stretches of lethargy, slumped in front of the TV staring at a constant parade of very bad things on Al-Jazeera network. At least it sharpened her less than stellar ear for Arabic.

Sergei coaxed her to eat, and to sleep. Sleep, when it came, was in fits and starts, punctuated by half-recalled flashes of dreamed horror. On the third afternoon after their arrival, she tossed and turned in the heat, sprawled across a bed. Drowsing, she dreamed she knelt between two graves. One bore no name, the other her own. Before she saw more, the sound of Sergei’s phone woke her. She sat up as he entered the room. “I am going,” he said.

“We’re going.”

“No. I have told them a don is coming from St. Petersburg to meet with them, and that I am acting as his advance, to prepare them. That belief will keep them in one location. Once I see how that place is, then we can proceed. This first time I cannot raise suspicion by appearing with a stranger of any sort, and most especially not a woman. Stay here and rest.”

Her nerves felt fragile and burnt, like over-processed frizzy hair. Unbeknownst to him she had slipped out of the safe house twice, clad in the robes he had gotten her, but neither time for long. The atmosphere of the city was so negatively charged, unwelcoming of her very existence. Even in full dress and veil, the looks she got from men were chilling. However this galled her, she could not sacrifice Clayton’s life to her impatience with the culture or the situation. “Damn you. I hate it when you’re right.”

When Clayton really laughed, it was a full-on guffaw, a head-back assault on hilarity. Sergei’s laugh was its polar opposite, low and controlled, but, she had to concede, pleasant in its own way. “May I ask something of you? One more expression of trust.”

“What?” she asked, instantly wary.

“The knife you took from me in Holland,” he said. “I would not go into this pit of snakes unarmed.”

He crouched, no longer above her eye range where she sat up in bed. “The girl you were going to marry,” she said suddenly, surprising herself. “How did she die?”

His eyes, she had decided after several days’ analysis, were somewhat lighter than the lush tropical green of Clayton’s; or perhaps she was only desperate to find some overt difference between the two men. Comparison was difficult, since she hadn’t looked into Clayton’s eyes in months…Now Sergei’s half closed, a vestigial flinch as if he had been slapped. “She had rheumatic fever as a child. Her family were not suitably doctrinaire Communists, so the drugs that would have quickly cured her were not available, and her heart was damaged. It stopped some weeks before I mustered out of the army.” It might have been yet another lie; but she reached in the waist of her pants and handed him the Mora knife. “Thank you,” he said and looked it over with a fond half-smile. “My older brother was killed in combat in Afghanistan when I was young. He left this for me.”

He pulled up his pants leg and strapped the sheath to his ankle. “Won’t they search you?” she asked as he stood.

“Of course, and they will find this. If I had no weapon to be found, however, they would think me either foolish, or weak, or better prepared than they would find comfortable. I’ll be back soon, and I hope with good word.” He started for the door, then paused. “I have not played your trust falsely, madam Butterfly, nor will I."

After he left, she went out into the main room and turned on the TV again. In a shabby hotel in London a couple of years before, she had been channel surfing and stumbled upon a documentary on the Scorpion King, the warlord who united Egypt thousands of years ago and became its first pharaoh. Clayton was immediately fascinated and hung on every word, despite her teasing about his geekish interest in old bones and pots. Now, she wished she could take those mocking words back. Instead, she wished she had told him how she loved his quick mind, and his crazy laugh. If I got a second chance I’d even confess I got used to his snoring years ago. It was so comforting to hear at night, and I only cracked on him about it because he was so cute when he’d sputter and turn red…

She stared at the screen, at footage of car bombs, of men shaking their fists at the camera, at women indistinguishable in black cloth wound around their bodies like shrouds. When she switched channels, she found, of all things, grainy video of some American talent show. Lulled by the sound of English and some familiar old songs, she had almost nodded off when the door clicked.

Sergei walked in with a string bag, and spilled figs and flatbread and smoked fish out onto the small dining table. ‘I saw him. Only briefly—he was asleep, and I persuaded them to leave him so. I argued a different tactic might be to their advantage, since their current ones have not broken him. Instead of parading myself before him, I put it to them to exacerbate his uncertainty by taunting him when he woke, telling him he had missed me.” He grimaced. “I could think of no better ploy to secure him a bit of rest. I have learned to manage on little sleep, but I do not enjoy it, and would not wish it on another.”

His unexpected consideration for Clayton strangely moved her. She got up from the sofa and walked over to stare directly into his eyes, as if she could see what he had. “How is he?” Her mouth was dry.

He shrugged. “Clearly weary. Grimy. Hard to say much else. Better in appearance than I expected, to be honest. It would have been heartening if I could have spoken with him, to tell him movement was being made on his behalf. I doubt he would have believed me, though,” he added with a sardonic half grin.

“Probably not,” she agreed. “Now what?”

“They are expecting this fictional don from Russia to arrive soon. If we move too quickly, however, we risk rousing suspicion.”

“So what, we wait around with our thumbs up our asses some more?” she burst out.

“I do not intend to do it in that position; but yes, we wait, more.” His look was almost sympathetic, and he put out a hand as though to reassure her, then let it drop and walked away.

If the preceding days had been torment, the days that followed were pure hell itself. The image of Clayton alive in this warren of a city, alone and tired and hurt, drove her insane. Sergei seemed to sense it, and left her to herself for the most part, except for regular entreaties to eat and sleep. She did so automatically, and stretched and exercised, to keep herself ready for the moment, whenever it came.

Finally, four days later, she emerged from a lukewarm shower to find Sergei standing in the bedroom she was using. She clutched the towel around her, but he only thrust the burqa at her. “It’s time.” His pale eyes glittered as if he had been as restive as she, whether she had noted it or not. “This afternoon. I am going to get a car and driver. Be ready when I return.”

She was, except for the chador; the heavy veil with its tiny mesh window to peep through she rolled up and tossed on the sofa beside her, for now. Underneath the robes she wore a tank top and shorts. Her gun was tucked at the small of her back, where Sergei’s knife had ridden. It occurred to her she had never asked for it back. Too late to back out now.

Sergei returned after a while, and gave her a brief smile before he vanished into the safe house’s other bedroom. She debated for a few moments before following him. When she walked in he was tucking a dark green dress shirt into light linen pants. They hung loosely on his lean frame; she had rarely seen him eat in the past week. He wore no undershirt, and the shirt was half unbuttoned, exposing his chest. “Looks rather macho,” she said. “You know macho, right?”

“I know macho,” he said, oddly cheerful now, “and as you would say, this ain’t it. I would look like a Moscow pimp.”

She repressed the disloyal urge to smile. He buttoned the shirt and added a tie, striped in green and tan and gold, then the jacket to match the pants. It looked good on him, but she ached to think how handsome Clayton would be in it, how the colors would make his green eyes leap from his chiseled face. “How are we doing this?” she asked. “How close can I get to him?”

“You are not. When we arrive you must remain in the car.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He did not raise his voice, but his tone was uncompromising. “They cannot even know anyone else is with me, or the plan will collapse.”

“You haven’t even told me your ‘plan’.” He did not answer. “Damn you.” She wasn’t sure she could bear sitting free outside the place, knowing she could not go in after Clayton and he couldn’t come to her. This way, though, she could concentrate on memorizing the way, and maybe go back later, under cover of night. “One more leap of faith.”

“It will not be unjustified, I promise you.” His grin was small and tight. “A kiss for luck, perhaps?” She looked at him as if he were the one who had gone mad. “I thought not.” He went into the bathroom. She went out into the main room and got the chador, but still did not put it on. Instead she sat with it in her lap and took several deep breaths, to calm and center herself. It only worked a little.

Outside, a horn brayed hoarsely like a sick donkey. Sergei emerged from the bedroom, his hair an artful mess, his face unshaven as it had been since she had found him out. “Say nothing while in the car. I have led the driver to believe you may not even be female.” He straightened his jacket. “Come on.”

She tossed the veil over her head and trudged toward the door. I feel like Pigpen at Halloween, she thought and wished with a sudden pang that Clayton were here—he would totally understand such a silly thought on the brink of possible ruin.

An elderly Buick sat idling in the middle of the street. She moved up to walk beside Sergei, rather than behind, to keep the car’s driver guessing. When they reached the car she pulled the back door open and got in without pause. She thought she spied a glint of amusement in Sergei’s eye as he followed.

The driver was skinny, scruffy and nervous-looking, and cast an anxious and displeased look behind him. “I did not agree to take a woman in my car!” he blustered in French, the common second language of many Arabs.

“Don’t make such assumptions, my friend,” Sergei shot back in kind. “Not every wearer of a turban is a mullah.” He even adapts his pearls of wisdom to the culture, she thought and again struggled not to smile. “Do not offend my companion, if you wish to continue living.”

He sat back in the seat dismissively. The driver gulped, turned around and floored it. He drove, like most Cairo drivers, like a NASCAR washout. She held her breath at times at near misses, until the stomach-twisting ride ended with a tortured screech of tires on a narrow back alley lined with small warehouses and storage buildings.

Sergei reached toward her, his hand sliding under the chador, and she felt the knife before she could pull away. He pressed the sheath into her hand, his fingers curling around hers for a few beats. His eyes narrowed, intent as though he could see through the layers of cloth that swathed her, or as though he wished to. Then he got out, strode across the dusty street, and rapped on a door.

It opened into blackness, and he was gone while she still sorted through surprise. She traced the outline of the knife with her fingertips. He must have another weapon, and been unsure if she were armed, though he should have known better. Or maybe it really was his dead brother’s gift, and he hoped she would keep it safe for him. She was reluctantly moved by the idea that he had put some trust in her.

Silence stretched like a cat. The old car was a sweatbox, and the black robes even worse. The driver muttered under his breath in Arabic, glancing warily around as though expecting the vengeance of Allah to descend on him for allowing a female body to profane his vehicle. Suddenly, he reached for the keys and the gear shift with a string of oaths.

The Mora knife hissed from its sheath. She reached over the back of the seat and grabbed the man by his hair with one hand. With the other, she touched the edge of the blade to his throat. In the rearview mirror his eyes bulged. He squirmed a little, then froze when she pressed just a bit harder, still not enough to break the skin. She did not say a word, and drew back beneath the veil so her eyes were not even visible. After several tense seconds, she let him go. With a faint squawk he slumped in the seat and made no further moves to depart. She didn’t think she would have killed him. In her nine-plus years in the Elite, the times when such force had been needed had been mercifully few. Still, she wasn’t quite sure. She parked the knife beside her gun, tried to calm her racing heart, and waited, and waited some more. Sergei had implied this was another planning meeting for the fictional mafiya boss’s visit, time he could spend mapping out plans to retrieve Clayton, but should it take this long? She started to worry, and not just about deceit from him. Had they seen through the charade, and maybe taken him hostage as well? She tried to tell herself he only mattered as a link to her partner, but she had to admit to herself that he had begun to grow on her as a person as well—

The door across the street opened. Sergei stumbled a step as he emerged, righted himself and stopped, squinting hard in the glaring Egyptian sun. What kind of spy comes to the desert without sunglasses? she thought, foolish with relief, and decided she just might rag him a bit about that oversight, once back at the safe house. His suit was rumpled, his tie loosened, and his hair an even greater disaster than before. He shook his head and peered around him as if lost; the interior of the building was probably a labyrinth and he had gotten turned around.

His notice fell on the car then; he took a deep breath, drew himself up to his full height and started toward it. His walk held a studied casualness, as if he were concentrating on each step—trying not to run? He paused at the open driver’s window, and the Arab jerked his head angrily toward the back. “You took long enough, infidel. Get back there with your crazy friend. The sooner I drop you two and never see you again, insh’allah, the happier a man I will be…” He muttered on as his passenger opened the back door. She inclined her head slightly, but true to their agreement remained silent, though she was bursting with questions.

Cautiously, he took his seat beside her and the car lurched forward on another psycho thrill ride even wilder than the first. As they careened through Cairo’s chaos, her companion’s strange behavior set her already raw nerves even more on edge. Did he fear they were being followed? No, he wasn’t looking behind, exactly, but in all directions, turning his head to stare out the windows. He studiously avoided looking directly at her, although she caught him watching her several times out of the corner of his eye. Had something happened to Clayton, something he feared telling her? Or perhaps some harm had been done to him—she noticed him wince as the old car jounced through potholes that would have swallowed a camel, and his continuous scan of their surroundings gave him a dazed air. She told herself he was probably just wondering what sort of craziness she had perpetrated on their hapless driver, and thought she might actually enjoy telling him about it.

Finally the Buick jolted to a halt on the next street over from the safe house. She got out accompanied by a torrent of praises to Allah, but noted with concern that her companion was breathing heavily and still looked confused. It seemed to take him a moment to realize they were at the rear of the safe house, and he moved stiffly as he followed her in the back door. “All right, what happened in there?” she burst out as soon as they were inside, jerking the veil off. “And what’s wrong with you? Are you hurt? You act like somebody hit you over the head or—“

The chador was stubborn, but she defeated it at last and tossed it aside. The first sight that met her eyes when she turned was his ghostly white face, with huge glassy eyes taking up most of it, and his jaw slack. “Butterfly—“ he gasped, with no trace of accent. He took one unsteady step toward her, reaching out, before his legs buckled and he crumpled to the floor.

She yelped and dove for him. Still tangled in the damnable burqa, her movement was awkward, but she caught hold of him in time to ease his fall. He cried out faintly when she grabbed him around his middle, and his face twisted as if in pain. “What the hell, Sergei—“ She wrestled free of the sweaty black robes and knelt beside him. His pulse and breathing were fast, and his skin sweaty and sticky, though a brief touch showed no fever. She loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, wishing he were alert enough to appreciate a Moscow-pimp joke.

The torso beneath was a horror show of bruises and cuts, welts and burns. Good God, was he really in there long enough for them to do this to him? Her mystification only deepened as she examined the injuries and the body itself. His ribs stuck out like fence slats; he hadn’t eaten well, true, but she just didn’t recall him looking this emaciated. There were no fresh wounds, either. The newest were several days old, and many were half healed. The oldest were only scars, some faded, in quantities she simply could not recall seeing only a few hours before. They had to be months old, at least…

Months old?

How many months?

Five months, maybe?

“Clayton?” she whispered, and then yelled it. “Clayton??”

Her shout roused him from stupor with a start, and he recoiled into a tight ball on his side. “No, no,” he mumbled, “can’t lose it now…ohh God, help me keep my mind…”

“Clayton!” she cried again and put her hands on his shaking shoulders. Her touch was light, but he flinched as if from a blow, and all semblance of her professional detachment was shattered. “It’s all right, Clayton,” she pleaded. “It’s all right. You’re here. I’m here. You’re safe.” He shook his head and made a small frightened noise, his face hidden behind his clenched fists. “Look at me, Clayton, please! You’re not crazy. It’s real, I don’t quite know how, but it is.”

Slowly, the tense forearms moved down, just enough for her to glimpse him peering out. The naked terror in his wide eyes broke her heart, coming from a man so steadfast in maintaining a front of cool strength; but it began to fade as she met his gaze, replaced by a flicker of weary, bewildered hope. When he moved his hands down a little more, she shifted one hand to his cheek, the stubble on it oddly only days old. He licked his lips. “Either these guys got some really great new drugs...” he croaked.

“Or?” She tried to keep her tone light, though the image of his tormentors drugging him tore at her.

His rapid anxious breathing began to calm. Slowly his fists relaxed, and he lifted a hand to cover hers on his face, wonder building in his eyes now. On the back of her hand, she felt his fingers tremble. “Or something kin to a miracle just happened.”

“I vote for the miracle.” She felt herself start to smile. “You probably know more about how this went down than I do, though.”

‘Not really.” His face creased in renewed puzzlement. “There was a Russian…I never knew his name…”

“He went by Sergei, though that probably isn’t his name.” Surprise joined the perplexity in his look now. She could have knelt there on the floor for the rest of the day, happy just to be touching him, but that wouldn’t be too good on his battered body. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

He tried to stand and move to the sofa, but his shaky legs would not hold up and he ended up sitting on the tile floor. “Do we have anything to drink?” he panted, and she ran to the fridge for protein shakes. “So,” he asked after slugging down two, “how’d you get on a first-alias basis with this guy?”

He swayed slightly and put one hand on the floor to steady himself. She sat down behind him and slipped her arms around him gently, supporting his body with hers. Briefly she explained what had happened, only the facts and nothing more. As her shocked relief and joy mellowed, she strove to re-establish professionalism. Sure, Sergei had said Clayton had called her name with what he thought was his dying breath, but now, she could assume nothing.

When she finished, Clayton was quiet. “You trusted him way too much.”

Sitting behind him, she couldn’t see his face. “Probably,” she agreed, “but it was the only chance I saw to get you back safely. I pretty much had to take his word that he wanted out and was willing to cooperate. And apparently, something happened just now that proved it right.”

Silence greeted her for a few more moments. “He told them to bring me into a room with him, alone,” he said finally. “I thought, okay, here it goes again. He was always asking me questions, so he could be better at being me, I figured.” She felt a building wave of guilt, for taking Sergei at face value for so long. “Asking me about myself, or about you.”

That last item surprised her a little, though she supposed it shouldn’t have. “What’d you tell him?”

“Not a thing. Well, except about you. I told him you were gay. Said you had a big ol’ ex-roller derby girlfriend named Marge who’d beat the hell out of him if he even looked at you funny.”

She started to giggle helplessly, and somewhere along the way the giggles turned into sobs, and Clayton had turned and was holding her instead of the other way around. “I was so scared,” she managed, “so scared I’d never see you again.”

“Me too,” he murmured and hugged her close. “And now I already broke a promise I made to myself. I swore if I did get back to you, no matter what kind of hell was breaking loose, the first words I said would be I love you.” She lifted her head from his shoulder to stare at him in disbelief. “Crappy timing, granted, and no ambience, and it may not even be welcome, but—“

“I love you,” she whispered. “I always have. I hate myself for taking so long to see through him—it’s my fault that they had you for so long, that they could hurt you so badly…”

“Shh. It was not your fault! He was damn good. Don’t blame yourself, B.” They sat and held each other quietly for a while before he resumed his account. “As soon as they closed the door he said ‘take your clothes off’, which was somewhat unsettling, especially when he started pulling his off and throwing them at me.” He moved out of her embrace just long enough to slide out of the wrinkled linen jacket. “I didn’t budge at first, and he said ‘do it you idiot, if you want to get out of this rats’ hole alive!’” His imitation of Sergei made her chuckle, and then wonder what the Russian had been thinking. “He talked a mile a minute, while he was tossing on my clothes, or what was left of ‘em: telling me what to say to Ali’s boys, and which way the door was. There was a car waiting outside, he said, a ’64 Buick.” He grinned; he loved old cars, she remembered. “Get in the back, he said, and don’t speak until you get someplace safe. Follow the person you will find waiting there.”

“And you did,” she said, “not knowing who I was. You trusted him pretty far too.”

He shrugged, the spark of hope in his eyes kindling into a steady fire. “Like you said, it was my only shot to get back to you.”

The blaze of emotion leaped into her heart, and she let him draw her closer. “Sweat and dirt never smelled so good,” she sighed, her face pressed against his neck.

“Maybe to you. I think I can manage a shower now.” She helped him stand and walk into the room where Sergei had slept. While he showered she went through his things, the things Sergei had taken from this house when he had taken over Clayton’s life, and then brought back. She got out some loose comfortable pants and a shirt for him, then knocked on the closed bathroom door to ask if he needed any help. She could support him, or see to his wounds. Predictably, he declined. She ran to toss some frozen meat pies in the microwave, cheer rising in her heart; things were already returning to normal.

When she brought the pies back into the bedroom Clayton had dressed, and sat on the bed toweling his hair. “At least there wasn’t five months’ worth of crud to scrape off,” he said wryly. “They let me clean up, a few days ago, even whacked at my hair and let me shave. They quit knocking me around, too, sort of, and got me some food. I can’t imagine why, but it was a little encouragement. They aren’t the kind to bother with prettying up a soon-to-be corpse.”

She was baffled too, although the timing suggested Sergei’s hand yet again. “Here,” she said, handing over the pies. “You know I’m no cook, but maybe these will hold you a while.”

“They’re fine.” He tore into the food. “Although I could sure go for a big pot of koushari…wonder if there’re any lentils in the kitchen…I’ll check in a minute.”

“Slow down or you’ll get a stomachache.”

“Mother hen,” he grumbled with his mouth full. “So this Sergei, what do you suppose he’s got up his sleeve?”

“I don’t know. He reconnoitered the place they were holding you; probably he found some escape route, a way he thought he could use, but in your condition you couldn’t. He had some plan, I’m sure of that.”

“Something suitably convoluted and Russian, no doubt.” Clayton snorted and polished off the last pie, then all but fell over onto the bed in sudden overextended exhaustion. While he dozed she stayed by his side. His damp hair dried in auburn ringlets, and she wound them around her fingers, and stroked them to soothe him when he began to twitch and mumble fearfully in his sleep. He woke with a jerk, then looked almost embarrassed when he registered her presence. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be. I’d be more worried if you weren’t rattled.” He looked unconvinced. “You’ve never let me in like this, Clayton. It’s okay. You don’t have to be Superagent all the time.”

“You’re pretty good at it. Being Superagent, I mean.”

“Ha. If you knew how sick I get of living lies, of being invisible—all the times I’ve wished for a regular job, a honeymoon at Niagara Falls, a little townhouse where we—“

She caught herself, but he just lay and looked at her with those fathomless eyes. “Niagara Falls?”

“Okay, I know it’s cheesy, but…”

She shrugged, and he smiled slowly. “You’ve never let me in like this either.” No, I haven’t, so what right do I have to ride you about it? “Let’s go see what’s in the kitchen. I could still eat a sheep.”

“None of those in there, guaranteed.” She doubted he would find much of use there at all, but he pulled out a bag of lentils and a pot. While they boiled, he found some onions and garlic cloves, cut off the sprouts they had grown from long neglect, and chopped them up, then rummaged around and dug out paper packets of spices whose fragrances made her mouth water. “Where did you learn to do this?” she gaped, her skepticism turning to amazement. “I mean, I knew you were into the Middle East, but—but I never imagined you could cook!”

“Remember three years ago when you spent two months in an obscenely short miniskirt waiting tables at that Sicilian trattoria while we staked out Giovanni Leone and his mob pals?” He drained the lentils, dumped them into a bowl and refilled the pot with macaroni. “If you’ll recall, I got stuck in the back, washing dishes, at least at first. I got drafted one night when the saucier called in drunk, and surprisingly, I found out I liked it. I was pretty good at it too, good enough that when we left the sous-chef told me I could come work for him anytime.” He wiped out a shallow pan, poured a little olive oil in the bottom and started to fry some rice. “He was opening his own place—clean, he swore, no mobsters in his kitchen! Maybe I’d better look him up. I’ll have to have some way to earn an honest living.”

“What?”

He gave an elaborate shrug as he drained the pasta, tossed it in the bowl with the lentils, and replaced them with the rice set to simmer. “I screwed up,” he said simply. “I got caught. Yeah, maybe I didn’t break; or maybe I did. How can the Elite administration know for sure? They can’t trust taking me back.” He sprinkled spices in the leftover oil, dropped the onions and garlic in and sauteed them quickly. “A part of me hates it, washing out this close to retirement…but at least if you don’t mind being associated with a disgraced ex-op, we can be together a little sooner without the guilt.”

Her head spun. She had not told him what she had said to Sergei about this same topic, and hearing him say something so similar took hold of her heart; but the rueful sadness in his tone when he spoke of being discarded by the Elite, as sturdily as he tried to hide it, gripped her in a far more painful way. He was far too good at this for her to let him throw it away out of false self-reproach, even with the promise of getting what she had dreamt of out of it. Frantically she searched her mind for the words to persuade him—and what came out of her mouth, in a voice so calm it almost scared her, was “Who’s gonna know?”

Halfway into dumping a can of tomato paste in with the fragrant garlic and onions, he halted. “What did you just say?”

“Who’s going to know?” she repeated, quite reasonably. “As far as any outsider can tell, you and I finished our assignment with Mr. Akido, and you came back to Cairo to pick up where you left off. The worst thing Admin could accuse you of is telling me about the job here and letting me come along.” He looked at her almost as he had after he collapsed, with disbelief and a little fear and hesitant hope. “Come on, Clayton! The Sons of Ali aren’t exactly going to give an exclusive interview to the Middle East Observer. ‘Yeah, we had this American, but, uh, he slipped out on us.’ Beyond them, only we two, and Sergei, know any different. If he tells our debriefers the mafiya sent him to take your place, but he approached us instead because he was fed up with the dons, nobody is going to contradict him, right?”

He wanted to argue, she could tell, but in spite of himself he was listening, while his hands continued stirring sauce and tossing the stew together. “What makes you think the Russian would be so concerned with us? Or that he’d even come back?”

“It has nothing to do with being concerned with us. Assuming he told the truth—and I haven’t found anything otherwise since I caught him out—he wants out, and only our people can help him do that safely. I suspect he’ll be back, probably right here at this house in fact, as soon as he gives the Sons of Ali the slip.” Clayton handed her a bowl of stew. She took a bite. “This is heavenly,” she said, “but I don’t think you need to worry about paying your bills this way.”

He still looked decidedly uncertain, but hope mingled with the doubt. “I hope not,” he admitted softly, and sat down at the table, as though the burst of energy that had carried him into the kitchen was spent. “I’ve seen a lot, done a lot, including some shit that wasn’t exactly high-principled, but…I still like to think it’s the right thing, that I’m doing it for the right reasons. I want what I wanted when the Elite recruited me out of college. I want to think I can make a difference.”

“So do I,” she agreed. “We both know the truth. We know you’re not any kind of liability to the Elite. And I know you’re not a quitter. So let it go.”

She dished him up some food and threatened to spoon-feed him, which led him to threaten to flick the spoonful at her, which had them both giggling before long. The stew vanished quickly, and she scooped up a bowlful and put it in the fridge in case Sergei was hungry. “You really expect him back?” Clayton said.

“I think so.”

Clayton’s answering look was inscrutable. He stood, still a little unsteady. She took the dishes to the sink and returned quickly to put her arm around him for support, and he let her. They walked into the bedroom. When she turned the covers back on the bed, a scrap of paper floated free and across the sheets. Clayton picked it up and sat down on the mattress with it.

“’Fairest Butterfly’,” he read aloud. Sergei’s attempt at Continental charm amused her. She reached for the letter, but Clayton ignored her outstretched hand and continued. “’If you are reading this, then hopefully I have accomplished my objective, and Clayton has returned to you. You are, I suspect, wondering, however, how, and why, I chose to effect his release in such a manner. Allow me to try to explain.

‘The how is simple. Before we left Holland, I was able to contact the Sons of Ali, and gave them a false report that a high-ranking mafiya figure would shortly visit them. I advised them to treat their captive more humanely, if they did not wish to be thought barbarians. This created a situation in which I could easily take steps to minimize the differences between my appearance and Clayton’s which had occurred as a result of his captivity’.”

“Yes,” she said. “He didn’t shave, and I noticed he didn’t eat much either.”

His sidelong glance at her was opaque, and he continued to read without comment. “’The why is simple to say as well, but not so simple to explain. You are nothing like my Yelena’—“ He paused with a small frown.

“Sergei told me he was engaged once. She died while he was in the army. That must be her he’s referring to.”

“Lots of unburdening of secrets went on while I was gone, did it?” he said cryptically, then resumed, but only briefly. “’Nonetheless, it seems’…” Clayton’s voice faltered. “—‘it seems I have fallen in love with you’.”

The look he turned on her now was one she could readily identify, though she had never seen it on his face or even imagined to. “You’re jealous,” she breathed. “You—you—oh my—“ She burst into ridiculous peals of laughter and threw her arms around him.

He did not reciprocate. “No, I’m not jealous. I’m not. I—I—“ He stuttered a bit as if fishing for words. “Maybe I’m suspicious. This has all been too easy, too pat, too good to be true. Maybe I’m wondering if this is some setup. Maybe I’m asking myself just how tight you got with this guy, and how safe I am right now—“

“You are not!” Laughter took her breath like a stiff wind in her face, and she gasped to speak. “You’re jealous!” She pulled away just far enough to look marveling at his face and touch it. “I never was the sort of woman who wanted to make a man jealous. I never tried to. It seemed so mean-spirited. I never occurred to me that a man being jealous could feel this good! It…it means you care.” His features tightened, but clearly with the effort to keep an unyielding expression, and giggles over took her again. “You-are-jea-lous!” she almost sang.

He sputtered, then erupted. “Okay, dammit! Okay! What man wouldn’t be? I loved you the day we met in orientation. I’ve never thought of another woman. I’ve counted the years, then the months, till we could be together, scared to breathe a word for fear you wouldn’t feel the same. And then, there I was rotting in filth—my dog’s house when I was a kid was bigger than the box they locked me up in—while he—he was damn good, I knew you’d be taken in.” Unexpected emotion welled up in his voice, and his magnificent eyes. “God, it was unbearable. Not just from not knowing when they’d get fed up and shoot me…but I didn’t know what he might do to you, and I couldn’t stop him. I felt so helpless, and so afraid. I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to harm you; or—or make you feel—something—for him, and I’d never have a chance—“

She caught her breath, amusement evaporating, as he pulled her into a crushing embrace. “You want to know what I feel for him?” she whispered fiercely in his ear. “Honestly? I think I’ve come to like him, a little. And I am very grateful to him, for opening a way for you to come back to me. That is all.”

“He never had much use for Ali’s boys,” he admitted. “Sometimes he’d act like it was him and me against them. And sometimes when he talked about you, he’d get this look…” He shuddered a little in her arms. “He took my life, my work, and that was bad enough, but the real torture was the fear he’d take you from me,.”

“No,” she said softly, and sitting on the bed holding him she told him everything she had not said before: how Sergei, still in his guise of Clayton, had propositioned her, and how she had gently rebuffed him in the name of honor.

When she finished there was dead silence in the room, and for a terrible moment she feared she had lost him, until he moved, and looked up at her and said simply, “Yeah. That’s what I want too.” He moved forward until their lips met. She tasted her own tears, and not until they parted did she realize his had mingled with them. She brushed his damp cheeks with her thumbs and smiled, and was quietly overjoyed when his tremulous lips curved to match hers. He held up the letter. “Okay, so let’s hear him out, shall we?” he said.

“’My countrymen have a tradition of grand hopeless loves, into which it seems I have fallen’,” he resumed. “’On that night in Holland, when I spoke of romance to you, a part of me hoped I might take the place in your heart which your partner held. At the least, perhaps, I could give to you one night of love before circumstances forced me to a terrible step. You made it clear then that not only was your love no longer for the taking, but neither was your integrity. I knew then I could not continue as I had, and so set myself to this course. I have done precious little good in my life. By this means, I can leave at least one done. If I cannot possess your heart, I can give to you a gift no one else can give: the life of the man you love’.” Clayton paused, with a wry half-smile, almost as if he were touched himself. “’I must confess my foolish heart prompted me to one more overture just now, when I asked for a kiss for luck. I knew better, of course. Now I sit down to complete this message, and try to explain why I will not see you again’.”

“What?” She was shocked.

“’When I told the Sons to expect a don, I told them his purpose was to take Clayton back to Russia a prisoner. If, however, it was decided he was not worth the mafiya’s effort, the trip would be cancelled and they would be free to kill him when he was no longer of use to them.‘” Clayton blanched. “Oh, my God. That’s exactly what he told me to say to them, before I left. ‘L’homme ne vient pas. Faites comme vous souhaitez’.“

“’The man is not coming’,” she translated, numbness sweeping over her. “’Do what you wish.’ No. He can’t mean…”

Clayton bent to the letter again. “’Their patience has run thin on numerous occasions, though I have persuaded them from that ultimate resolution. Now, I will no longer do so. I cannot live, as you said, looking over my shoulder, for one with the same skills as I, sent by my old masters to hunt me down. Protection by your government would madden me like a wild thing caged. I am, however, including with this letter directions to several drop sites where sensitive information of mafiya operations can be found, so as to be of a bit more help to you. This is, I believe, the best way out for me. I will play the role for which I was trained, one last time, and the Sons will never even know they have executed the wrong man.

‘If, as I hope, my plan has met with success, then Clayton is with you now, perhaps nearby as you read. Should this be the case’—“ his voice lifted, questioning, “—‘these words are meant for him.

‘I salute you, sir. In my country we have a saying—and merely those words may make your Butterfly laugh’—“

They did, despite her shock. “One of at least eight hundred.” She shook her head at Clayton’s curious look. “Never mind. What else?”

He continued to read, his voice low now. “—‘we have a saying, ‘A hammer shatters glass, but forges steel’. I have seen the steel of which you are made, and have no doubt you are stronger after this ordeal, although I now regret my part in it. Your courage was a mirror in which I saw reflected my own cowardice. Though the crossing of our paths was meant for ill, it has resulted in good for me. It has freed me, and made of me a man with whom I can live and die at peace. For that, I thank you.

‘I would not presume to be the egg that teaches the chicken, but I must say as well that I hope you know how fortunate you are. Your partner is beautiful and fearless, and her heart is tender and true. Once set, her will is unbendable, her mind unchangeable, and her loyalty and love unshakable. It will comfort me to think she might mourn for me a little, but do not let her mourn much, assuming she would at all. My Yelena’s family were deeply religious—thus why the Communists did not entertain them gladly. If her beliefs were true, perhaps now I have some small chance of reunion with her.

‘Of you two I would ask only this. Use the information I have left you against the mafiya. Perhaps my homeland is not beyond wresting from their grasp, and yours not beyond preserving. And when your time is served, go back to America and be happy together.’”

The note was signed. The name was not Sergei. She touched the paper, incredulous. “We can’t let him—“

“We can’t do anything about it.” Clayton looked as shaken as she felt. “They’ve been itching to kill me for weeks, when I wouldn’t break. He did talk them out of it, just like he says here. I overheard it, but I thought he still figured there was a chance he could get to me, or else he just got his jollies from prolonging my agony. Now…he’s probably already dead.” He bit his lip. “And I gave the word,” he muttered. “Damn.”

Almost in unison, they reached for each other, and lay down and held each other close, unnerved by the awareness of the price a stranger had paid to secure their love. “Butterfly,” Clayton breathed after a while. She stirred, and was quiet for a moment more before she whispered in his ear a word: a word that had not passed her lips in the company of another human being in nearly a decade; a word she said only to herself in the stillness of lonely nights, to remind herself of what her true name sounded like. For a few beats there was no reply; then he sighed, “Yes,” and her heart swelled to bursting with the simple acceptance. He turned his head just a hair, until his lips brushed her ear, and he whispered a word in return, one that made her laugh out loud. “Hey, it’s not a funny name!” he protested.

He sounded so indignant, as if he had had to defend it for years, as if perhaps leaving it behind had been in some small manner a relief. “No, it’s not,” she agreed. “It’s perfect. It suits you.”

His embrace tightened. “So does yours.”

They slept the night away there. The next morning, they used the leftover plane tickets to travel on to Luxor, to another Elite safehouse. When they made contact with their superiors, Clayton explained his cover had been blown; he had been beaten but escaped with his life. There was no criticism. Such things happened, but good agents got out with their skin relatively intact, and without leaving secrets behind, and Clayton was a good agent. She in turn described her encounter in Holland with a Russian, a disillusioned flunky of the mafiya, who had slipped her information and then vanished. After two weeks of recuperation (using the term loosely—Clayton was a most uncooperative patient) they returned to the States. By then, the Elite had checked out the name signed to the letter they had not and would not see. The background of the man matched in every detail what Sergei had told her.

Since she and Clayton had procured the info, they were assigned to monitoring the mafiya drop sites, lifting the missives and packages left there, and switching or copying or altering them. It created much chaos in the crime organization, and was, they both had to admit, great fun too.

The process also took up all of their remaining months as field agents. Before they knew it, they were being called in for full debriefings, for which the word exhaustive was nowhere near sufficient, and were then released for a short vacation before taking up their new assignments to train the next generation of Elite.

Their vacation was a honeymoon in Niagara Falls. The town was, she was forced to concede, damn cheesy, but the falls were every bit as beautiful as she had dreamt since girlhood. At least they appeared so from the few glimpses she got from the window of their hotel room, which was where she spent the vast majority of the trip getting acquainted with her partner on a whole new level.

There was, a bus driver told her, a point overlooking the falls with a local tradition of pitching coins into the rush and making wishes. On the day before they left she went there with three coins. Two were shiny new American pennies. She smiled when she recalled the small chapel where they had exchanged vows, and the bus ride back to the hotel. She had thought she would burst with joy, and desire: in the best old-fashioned manner, they had come to an unspoken agreement to wait. She was ready to jump all over him, and from the easy caresses of his hand on her leg and the seething sidelong cut of his green eyes he felt the same. Then the door closed behind them, and they both turned and just stared at each other in open-mouthed amazement, as though now that it was finally okay neither had a clue how to proceed!

That had lasted only a few moments, until they both burst into laughter and fell into each other’s arms. They proceeded just fine after that, and repeatedly, and creatively. She tossed the pennies into the water with a heart full of love and anticipation.

The third coin was a ruble she had found at a local collectors’ shop. She held it for a minute, then let it drop. She still thought of the Russian as Sergei, and when she thought of him now it was with a hope for his happiness and peace.

They left the next day, two grinning newlyweds, roles they had played numerous times. This time, the roles were real, as real as the touches and kisses that made onlookers chuckle, as real as the rings they wore. The rings were simple gold, unembellished, but each inscribed inside with initials and one other word. The words meant so much more to them, now that saying them was a choice and not an order, a choice they made to honor the memories of their past life.

His ring bore the initials of her name, and the word Clayton; hers was etched with his initials, and the word Butterfly.

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~Posted 4.11.2005~

You can contact the author at theleewit@mindspring.com

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