CHAPTER 11. LOVE COMES UNEXPECTEDLY

One day, she met him right after his lessons, said he looked unwell, offered a massage, and hauled him into their debriefing room. There she laid him naked on his stomach and began rubbing oil on his shoulders and back.

“This is my last gift to you,” she stunned him.

“I don’t like massage,” he replied.

“Shut up, wretch. Shut up and listen. I do you, you do me. Everything fair and square. I want massage—so you’ll get it too. So here’s the thing. Today they’re sending me to the Far East to oversee our participation in Chinese exercises on behalf of headquarters. Dark business. I can’t refuse. High probability I’ll have to make a run for it from there. Others will take care of you. No one knows about your wrestling, shooting, and women training. Only one person knows about your genetics—Banquet Guy. He’s the one who could get genetic material for treating your non-existent cancer. You’ll have exams in all other subjects.”

“Furthermore. You know nothing about the Tower. For you, it no longer exists. Forget about Ms Lyudmila forever. The FSO officer who tortured you—you’ll see him and show no sign of recognition. Banquet Guy will want to befriend you. Be a good comrade to him. Just be human in all circumstances. No need to work for American intelligence. It’s enough that you try to benefit your country. This is called being mothballed. Just eat well, sleep enough, watch your series, read the Bible cover to cover, and prepare for our flight.

“Only three people can unmothball you: Banquet Guy, that FSO officer, or a person from me. You’ll recognize him by the phrase ‘family reunion.’ You’ll ask: ‘with children?’ In his answer he’ll necessarily tell you the child’s gender and give you a printed publication with a letter to you from me on page 23. By the way, if family reunion truly seems like a good idea to you, then finding yourself in the USA, locate the top boss over the intelligence university and request a meeting about family reunion. At the meeting say you’re looking for the woman who has your child. He should name the child’s gender in response. If this doesn’t happen—it’s not the right person, or I haven’t returned.

“I want a child not from a test tube but from my beloved, from love, understand? Until this moment I didn’t know how much I love you. I don’t care if it’s a boy or girl. What matters to me is that you do this now. Intelligence agents are always very lucky in love, but we don’t always manage to live together long. So what! The main thing is to live brightly. Now it’s your turn to massage. Massage me to the core.”

He rose, took her by the waist, and began swaying, quietly singing in her ear:

“Tango by a knocked-out tank, at a whistle-stop where crows caw... Fellow countrywoman, let’s leave these remains, go left to the dugout and rest...”

She kissed him on the lips and, pulling away, objected that for her this wasn’t “left” because he was her lawful husband, her only beloved, whom she treasured greatly and would always love and wait for. And he was pleased to believe all these beautiful words. He thought neither of sin nor consequences. He only felt the heat he wanted to release. He felt that he too had truly fallen in love only now, before parting that might be forever. They climaxed in perfect harmony, their cry rising to a single, clear note... then it all fell silent. He went limp, falling into sleep, while she made an effort over herself, dressed, and quickly left.