Page 158 of Enemy Within
He found two unbroken glasses—mismatched, of course—and a half-full bottle of whiskey.
It had been hours. Hours since he’d left the Kara Sea, and hours since he’d come back to the Kremlin. He’d addressed the nation, reassuring the Russian people that their government was back in power, back at work for them. Ilya had, helpfully, of course, left him a four-foot-high stack of reports and folders to pore through. His first day back at the Kremlin sprinted from six to ten to twelve to eighteen hours.
And still no sign of Sasha.
Before he and Ilya dropped from exhaustion, he’d asked Ilya to check around, see where he’d gone. All of the transports had returned from the Kara Sea hours before. Maybe Sasha was resting. Or seeing Dr. Voronov, who’d driven right up to the Kremlin gates like it was any other workday.
Sergey sipped his whiskey and watched the flames flicker in the fireplace. Exhaustion tugged on his aching bones. Christ, he was old. A month-long insurgency, and two weeks on the run with Jack. He felt like a submarine had run him over. Everything hurt. Every piece and part of him ached. Even his hair. Even his toenails. His shoulder ached. All he wanted was to curl up with Sasha and sleep for a decade. Perhaps make love again. Explore Sasha’s body slowly, like he’d yet to. They’d been too wound up, too strung out onHonolulu. Too little space, too little time. Too much they still had to say. A desperate fumble, like they were still schoolboys sneaking into a hall closet for a furtive grope and rub. He wanted more. So much more. What did Sasha taste like? What did he sound like, writhing in ecstasy? What would Sergey’s name sound like falling from Sasha’s lips as he came?
Would Sasha take him? He could picture it. Their bodies, rocking together. Sweat-slick skin and kisses pressed to shoulders. Sasha’s hands running down his skin. Him, pushing Sasha back. Watching his chest heave, that splotchy flush staining his pale flesh. Straddling him. Seeing that look in his eyes, that one that made Sergey feel like he was the sun, and Sasha the moon. Their lives were orbits of each other. Gravity and inevitability had pulled them together. It had only been a matter of time.
What would their future look like? They’d keep their love quiet, at least for a while. Rebuild Russia together. He’d wake up every day with Sasha by his side, listen to his ideas and his dreams all day long, until they tumbled back into bed together. Was this what Jack experienced? Was this Jack’s life in Washington DC, living with Ethan in the White House?
How could he be so lucky?
Knocking broke his reverie, heavy pounding against the thick wood. “Finally!” He rose, carrying his whiskey with him as he sauntered to the entrance. He’d dressed down, flinging away his suit jacket and unbuttoning his dress shirt. His suit pants were rumpled from the day that never seemed to end. But he didn’t care. “Sasha,zvezda moya, these apartments are also yours now, you do not need to knock—”
He opened the door.
Ilya stood in the doorway, stiff. He squinted at Sergey.
“Ilya?” He frowned. “What are you doing? Where is Sasha?”
Ilya pressed his lips together. His eyes slid sideways. “He is not in the Kremlin. He’s not even in Moscow.”
Reality seemed to flush away, his hopes, his dreams vanishing in an instant, torn out of his heart. Unsteady, Sergey leaned into the thick door, stumbling as he shook his head. “No, no, no, he said he was coming back with Anton and Aleksey. You must go talk to them. They will tell you where he is. Go, Ilya, go to—”
Ilya grabbed his hand and stopped his wild gesturing. “Sergey. I already spoke to them. Sasha told them he was taking a different flight. I checked everything. No one remembers seeing him.” Ilya exhaled softly. “He’s gone.”
You must focus on what you need to do. You are the president again, Sergey. Your duty is to the Russian people. They need you now, more than ever.
Sergey squeezed his eyes closed as his breath left him, rushing out in a great whoosh. Curling forward, his forehead hit the door.Sasha, you fool. It is you I need now, more than ever.
He should have seen this coming. Sasha’s fanatical dedication to Sergey’s presidency and his dreams of what could be changed. He was a Russian’s Russian; Sasha would have made a fantastic Communist. Sacrifice for the state. Live an empty life. Give up all your dreams. Take nothing for yourself. He should have seen this coming from the night on the beach. Sasha’s stricken expression, as if him returning Sasha’s love was the worst possible thing that could happen in the world.
“That answers my next question.” Ilya’s voice was soft but gruff. “When did you…”
He wouldn’t keep this from his friend. Sergey waved him in, plodding back to the sitting room and the roaring flames. Ilya stared at him when he sat in the middle of a nest of blankets that had obviously been made for two. “How do I answer that?” Sergey closed his eyes. “While hunting Madigan with Jack. After Sochi, when we were building the insurgency. Here, in the Kremlin. A thousand different times. A thousand different ways.” He tipped his head forward, letting it dangle between his shoulders.
“It was obvious to me how he felt. The way he looked at you. You are the center of his world.”
“And he became the center of mine.” Agony stabbed him deep in his heart. Sasha wasgone. Again. “Ilya, what must you think of me? This is an old man’s middle-aged crisis, yes?” He swallowed hard. “Tell me I am delusional. Tell me I am mad. Tell me I was taken in by a pretty face. Tell me this isnothing.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “Tell me I should not feel this way.”
Ilya stayed quiet. His eyes lingered on Sergey. “I think,” he finally said, “you have not gotten close to anyone in a long time. Not even your wives. I was there for both.” Ilya leaned forward, pushing into Sergey’s shoulder. “If he was the one who got your blood pumping again…” His hands spread wide as he shrugged. “Who am I to judge, if he makes you happy?”
“I was happy.” His voice was barely a whisper. He stared at the flames. “I thought—”
I thought I was in love.
No, hewasin love. He’d already fallen in love with Sasha, had embraced that love, and he’d thought Sasha had finally,finallyembraced his own love in return.Ya lyublyu tyeba.Hadn’t Sasha said it? The last thing he said to Sergey.I love you.The first time… and the last time.
He should have heard it for what it was. A goodbye, and not a promise of happiness to come.
The fire blazed, almost too hot to endure when combined with the roar of his own shame, his own soul’s furious wailing. He burned from the inside, his heart going off like a nuclear reactor gone critical, a meltdown of what felt like his entire world. His anchor had come undone; he was adrift at sea.
What now? What did he do when faced with the loss of the one person who meant everything to him…again? What did he do when Sasha kept cutting out his heart and taking it away with him?
Well, Sasha would keep it this time. Keep Sergey’s heart and all of his dreams, all of what they could have become.
