Why Russian agents who seemingly defected insisted on spending winters somewhere as cold as the country they had defected _from_was beyond Jemima. Certainly it couldn’t be from homesickness, the entire reason MI6 had had its back up was because of the clandestine visit, the Russian Oligarch had made to St. Petersburg the previous week.

Why couldn’t he have spent winter in the Bahamas? It was what Mischa tried to do at least twice a year. Jemima glanced at her phone and looked at the photograph her smug godfather/handler had sent her only a short time before of himself in Trinidad.

Biting back a curse, and pulling her coat tighter around herself, Jemima leaned on the doorway of the closed bakery. The small step into the doorway gave an excellent view into “The Commissary” where on one of the back tables, oligarch was eating a late dinner.

She had been playing the part of somebody either awaiting a lift, or waiting for somebody only for a brief time. She had switched surveillance with the bartender coming off duty. Apparently, from her observational notes, for a multi-millionaire  the guy was a bad tipper. Go figure.

“Sorry I’m late, doll,” came a loud Boston voice, breaking through her idling thoughts.  She looked slightly down the street at where a tall man in a camel coat was climbing out of a car. “Car troubles.”

“I believe you,” she said, dryly. “Not sure anyone else will but I do.”

The bearded man gave her a rueful smile as he began walking towards her, a Styrofoam cup in his left gloved hand. “Cappuccino, extra hot and two sugars.”

“From Loretta’s?”

“Where else? Best Coffee in the whole city of Boston,” he stated as she took it from him and took a sip. “Forgiven?”

She let out a hiss of sheer satisfaction. “Forgiven.” He leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek and followed by wrapping a black scarf around her neck. “Thanks. I thought you were in Istanbul?”

“Would you believe I got called back?” she cocked an eyebrow at him and he chuckled. “No I wouldn’t either. Our plans were terminated early.”

“Terminated?” A stiff nod . “Sorry Bishop. I knew how you wanted the Line to end, but not like this.”

“Thanks.” Bishop turned and leaned on the doorway. “But it’s nice to be home too... talking of which – how come he hasn’t made you yet?”

Jemima huffed and pulled the collar up of her coat again, attempting to hide herself from the cold and damp. “The man was in the business and still is. He knows somebody’s hunting him, and I have no doubt that your Langley boys are around the place too.” She shrugged. “He’s been in the game long before I was born and started around the time you were born.”

“I’m only ten years older than you, Jem,”

“According to Mischa he has socks as old as that,” Jemima said, raising her eyebrows. “Which raises the question how were you able to track me down?”

“Somebody was honest on their ESTA... James Buchannan – with the espionage question.” He let out a chuckle at her groan. “You know us being senior agents in the crèche means very little to these agents.”

“Apologise to the Langley boys for me and by the way tell them to split up when delivering Pizza? Most conspicuous,” she said, tossing the last bit of coffee back and handing him the empty Styrofoam. He huffed and threw it to one side. “Cheeky and I was right.”

“I hate junior agents.” He said, deciding to put his arms around her and pull her closer. She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re getting Spy-related dementia – forgetting the lessons that the crèche taught you?” she mocked.

“Open spaces are the best places to meet, talking in the street is okay – and the only time you speak in a hotel room and a car and speak about a plan is for the benefit of the enemy,” he said, putting n an exaggerated accent before returning to his Bostonian. “Yes Mischa’s lesson stuck in. Hence why we are not in a nice bedroom now enjoying a glass of champagne.”

“We can talk about your fantasies later,” Jemima said, firmly. “Made my other members?”

“Couple kissing, the homeless man – and two old men.”

“The guessing game is such fun, no wonder we keep it secret,” she said, smiling when he slid his hand around her back. “And none out eight.”

“I made you?” He said, kissing her softly.

“I let you.” She spotted movement and realised that the oligarch was going for the back door. “Find me later. Ciao.”

He didn’t have time to speak, nor did she give him the chance to as she walked off into the drifting snow, her once British accent now turned into a pale Bostonian.

It wasn’t a strange relationship, not to them at least. With Bishops secondment to CIA for training the CIA version of Crèche, the training for future MI5 & MI6 agents, this had provided an ample time to test her own junior agents on one of Mischa’s enemies. She had hoped to bump into him, purposefully doctoring her least favourite students marks jut because the man was so arrogant he deserved to be taken down a peg or two. She had the strangest feeling even _without_ that mistake, he would’ve tracked her down. She expected him to find her soon enough, make love and then in the early morning light make plans.

They never talked of the work they did in the shadows. Not the bloody assassinations or the all too brief moments – they spoke of wedding rings they couldn’t wear and what would happen when they finally got out of the game.

They never talked of the work they did in the shadows, because it was all too easy in this game, for that brief candle of hope to be snuffed out and for the shadows to consume them.