Page 58 of Enemy Within
24
Russian Far East
FINALLY, THEY’D LEFT SIBERIA BEHIND.
Descending from Siberia, the convoy had passed through the Sakha Republic, the tribal lands of Russia, and then into the Far East, some of the most distant lands of the Russian Federation. They’d also turned south, heading for Sakhalin Island and the Sea of Okhotsk. From there, it was only a boat ride to Simushir Island.
The snows had tapered out, and only patches of ice and muddy slush clung to the pockmarked and potholed roadways. It was just above freezing, hovering in the balmy spring temperatures of the upper thirties. The Russian members of the convoys had shed their jackets and sweaters and were just in shirtsleeves. Jack, Ethan, and Scott were still bundled up.
The miles wore on. Sergey insisted on driving most of the way, in the jeep he shared with Scott and Sasha. Rain slicked their windows, washing away the muddy snowpack. Dilapidated buildings and broken factories dotted the distance. Overhead, the sky was lead-colored, soaked with ever-present Russian rain. Vladivostok, and the region around the formerly grand naval port, had fallen into disrepair, abandoned to the winds and the rain. No wonder the regiments there had fled during the coup. A few mothballed squadrons of Sukhois and a handful of destroyers that nervously watched the Chinese, surrounded by daily reminders that ‘New Russia’ was a joke. Vladivostok was nothing like what she once had been, back in the days of the Soviet Union.
But bitterness about the “good old days” was what Moroshkin fed his troops with. The Soviet Union was gone. The oligarchic kleptocracy that had followed was gone, too, thanks to his anti-corruption purge. ‘New Russia’ was still trying to find herself. He’d tried to guide her forward, but…
Enough.Sergey couldn’t keep thinking this way, his thoughts swirling down the drain of self-recrimination.Think of something new.
He scowled into the rearview mirror. Sasha sat in the backseat, his head tipped back, mouth open. He was snoring, just faintly.
If he wasn’t so furious, so torn to pieces, so deeply, irrevocably conflicted, he’d probably think it was endearing.
Who was he kidding? Not himself, not any longer. His heart did soften at the sight, at just the knowledge that Sasha was back. Alive. Near to him again.
So close… and yet, so incredibly far.
No, don’t think of this. Not this.
Sasha hadn’t said a word to him since the temper tantrum he’d thrown leaving Ust’Ilga. Scott had offered up the front seat of their jeep to Sasha, and before Sasha could say anything, Sergey had jumped in. “He sits in the back!”
Scott had stared. Sasha had gone still.
“I thought you’d want to—”
“No. No, you will stay in the front.” He’d glared at Sasha. “Someone who stayed when they said they would. Kept their word.”
Sasha hadn’t met his gaze or looked him in the eye since. Not once.
He’d grumbled something about Sasha also needing to catch up on his rest when they were on the road, but it had been a poor cover for his outburst.
He just didn’t know what to feel, or what to think. Or how to do anything about something he didn’t—couldn’t—understand. Whenever he tried, his thoughts lurched to a halt, or plummeted into a blackness that eclipsed any of the self-hatred he piled on himself due to his failed presidency.
Sasha wasback. The one thing he wanted, more than anything else. More than even being president again. Sasha,alive. And there with him.
But he wasn’t with him. Not at all. And Sergey only had himself to blame for that.
Hewanted. Heachedwith want. His bones burned with the pull of his desire, his body and soul desperate to go to Sasha, confess everything in the worst sort of babble, and beg for another kiss. Beg for Sasha’s hands on him again. For Sasha to look at him that way that he used to.
But how? How did he even begin to reach out? How did he change fifty-two years of ingrained experience, a lifetime’s worth of conditioning? If Sasha were a woman, he’d know what to do. Flirtation was his currency. He’d charmed both his ex-wives into and out of his life. But Sasha was no woman. And he didn’t succumb to witty repartee or childish displays of machismo. He deserved more than that.
And even the thought, the impulse to act on his desire, had Sergey scurrying away, scrambling to find excuse after excuse to not act. He had no idea what he was doing. He would only screw it up, screw everything up. Hadn’t he ruined Sasha’s life enough? Sasha probably didn’t even care for him the way Jack claimed he did. One kiss, one emotionally-fraught kiss, did not true love make. Jack was probably wrong.
After all, Sasha hadlefthim. When he’d promised,promised, that he never would. What did that portend?
All of his thoughts were in disarray. He couldn’t imagine it, even if he tried. And he did try. Behind the wheel as he drove, or when Scott insisted on taking a turn, and he sat slumped against the passenger window, glumly staring as rain-soaked Russia passed him by. He tried to picture going up to Sasha and saying something—anything—to confess the state of his heart. But even his imagined words fell flat, a senseless, rambling mumble, and he shamed himself in his own imagination. He tried to recall their kiss, tried to remember every moment, every touch and sensation of Sasha’s lips against his own, his body pressed tight to Sergey’s. Remembrance turned to dissection, and then brutal self-vivisection. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t what he thought it was. Certainly, wasn’t what Jack insisted. No, no, Jack was definitely wrong.
How could he be what Sasha desired? The idea was laughable. Fifty-two, the first Russian president to be objectively poor thanks to his commitment to anti-corruption. He had nothing to offer Sasha. No fancy house, no beautiful sports car. He’d been deposed. And he was too skinny. He’d always been rail thin in the FSB, a joke for his friends and colleagues. Too gray. Middle-aged. Sasha was young, in his thirties, and gorgeous. Well-built, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, and with a muscled body he took care of, maintained through dedicated exercise. Sergey could remember the last time he smoked more easily than remember the last time he purposely exercised. Sasha could have anyone, anyone at all. He’d never pick an old, skinny, poor man like Sergey. The whole thing was a joke.
He should be focusing on their mission. On the duties at hand. His responsibilities. One thing, and then the next, he’d always said. Buteverythinghad been consumed with Sasha, every action, every thought, every hope for the future. He was everywhere, in his mind, in his dreams, and before him, even. Slumped in the same jeep, softly snoring away.
Part of him wished he’d never realized the depth of his feelings. Of all that he was capable of. This, whatever it was he felt for Sasha, was different than falling for any of his other loves. His wives had been beautiful, wickedly smart, and dangerous. Emotionally and verbally. Talking to them was like navigating a minefield, and sometimes he plowed right in just to see the explosions. For all that, he’d enjoyed being with them. It had been fun, and he’d been loved, and he’d loved in return. Or at least he thought he had. The love he’d felt hadn’t burned as deeply as this.
