29. Katya
Katya
Anya shows up twenty minutes early for our session, which is the first sign that tips me off that something is different about today.
“Sorry, I’m a bit ahead of schedule,” she says before she takes her usual chair. “Traffic was lighter than expected.”
Bullshit. Anya’s never early for anything unless there’s a reason. In fact, she’s usually late.
“No problem. Dmitri’s on a business call, anyway.”
“How have things been since we last talked?”
“Better. More settled.” I watch her face carefully for micro-expressions that might reveal her true agenda for today’s visit. “Pavel’s security upgrades have helped a lot.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Any new dreams or memory fragments?”
“A few. Nothing dramatic.” I trace my crescent moon tattoo on my wrist with my index finger, a gesture I know she’s been documenting. “Just flashes of places and faces.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Images of training facilities. Government buildings with multiple flags. People in suits who look nervous when they see me.” I pause. “The kind of things I assume someone might dream about if they worked in intelligence.”
Anya’s pen stops moving across her notepad. “What makes you think these dreams involve intelligence work?”
“The details are too specific. Too procedural. Like I’m remembering protocols instead of random experiences.”
“Dreams often incorporate elements from movies or books we’ve consumed. Spy films, action thrillers, that sort of thing.”
“Maybe. But when I dream about disarming attackers, my body knows which moves to use. When I dream about conducting surveillance, I understand the technical terminology.”
“Dreams often create vivid scenarios that feel meaningful but aren’t real.”
Every answer comes too smoothly, like she’s rehearsed responses for these questions. The question is why she’s deflecting. She should be thrilled that my memories are returning. Why is she acting like she wants me to stay in the dark?
“Dr. Sokolova, in your experience, have you worked with other patients with similar gaps between their supposed background and their physical capabilities?”
“Every case is unique, but certain patterns emerge.”
“What kind of patterns?”
“Patients whose trauma involves professional activities often retain skills while losing personal memories. It’s the mind’s way of preserving functional abilities while protecting against emotional pain.”
“Professional activities like what?”
“Medical professionals who retain diagnostic skills, teachers who remember educational techniques, athletes who maintain physical conditioning.”
“What about military or security personnel?”
“Those cases can be more complex because the training is so comprehensive and deeply embedded.”
Anya’s acknowledging specialized training without quite admitting she knows about my FSB background. She’s dancing around the truth while providing enough information to test my reactions.
“Have you ever worked with security personnel?”
“I’ve consulted on cases involving law enforcement, military contractors, and corporate security specialists.”
“What about intelligence operatives?”
“Patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing specific cases, but psychological trauma affects people in similar ways regardless of their professional background.”
“Even when their professional background involves activities they’re not supposed to remember?”
“Memory suppression can be protective when experiences are too traumatic to process normally.”
“Or when remembering those experiences would compromise ongoing operations.”
Anya sets down her pen and looks at me. “Katya, why are you asking these questions? Have you remembered something specific about your past?”
The question feels like a test. She’s probing to see if I’ve recovered enough memory to be useful or dangerous.
“I keep wondering if there are people who knew me before the accident. People who might be looking for me or wondering what happened.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Abandoned. Like maybe I wasn’t important enough for anyone to keep searching.”
She swallows hard and drops her eyes back to the book as a look of guilt overtakes her face. Good. She should feel guilty. She’s the one who abandoned me.
“That’s also common in amnesia cases,” she claims. “The feeling that you should remember people who remember you.”
“But what if those people do know where I am? What if they’re choosing not to make contact for reasons I don’t understand?”
“Such as?”
“Maybe my previous life involved activities that would be dangerous to reconnect with. Maybe staying hidden is protecting me from something worse than memory loss.”
Anya picks up her pen again. “Do you feel like you’re in danger from your past?”
“I feel like I’m in danger from not knowing my past,” I admit. “Like there are things about myself I need to understand before I can make real decisions about my future.”
“What kind of decisions?”
I shrug and answer, “Whether to accept this life Dmitri’s given me or try to find out who I was.”
“And if finding out who you were meant losing what you have now?”
“Then I’d need to decide which version of myself is more authentic. The version that’s based on truth instead of carefully constructed fiction.”
Anya glances at her watch. “These are complex philosophical questions, Katya. Perhaps we should focus on more immediate concerns.”
“Such as?”
“Your relationship with your husband. Your adjustment to current circumstances. Practical aspects of your daily life that you can control.”
“What if I don’t want to adjust to circumstances that might be built on lies?”
“Then you’d need to consider the consequences of pursuing truth versus accepting stability.”
“What kind of consequences?” I ask, cocking my head.
She looks into my eyes and replies, “Discovering information that’s more painful than ignorance. Finding out that some questions don’t have answers you want to hear.”
The warning is subtle but clear. Stop digging or face consequences.
“Dr. Sokolova, hypothetically speaking, if someone recovered memories that contradicted everything they’d been told about their identity, what would you recommend?”
“Careful evaluation of those memories before taking any action based on them. A professional evaluation would be essential to distinguish between genuine recollections and trauma-induced fantasies.”
“Who would conduct that kind of professional evaluation?”
“Specialists in memory recovery, psychological assessment, and debriefing.” Anya shifts in her chair, crossing her legs in the opposite direction.
“What if someone didn’t trust the specialists who were supposed to help them?”
“Then they’d need to find professionals they felt comfortable working with.” She smooths her skirt with both hands, a gesture that looks more nervous than necessary.
“And if those professionals had agendas?”
“That’s why it’s important to have multiple perspectives and independent verification.” Anya’s fingers drum once against her notebook before she catches herself and stops.
“From people outside the situation?”
“From people qualified to provide objective assessment without conflicts of interest.” She uncrosses her legs and leans back, creating more distance between us.
“Do such people exist in complex situations involving security concerns?”
“Every situation has stakeholders with different priorities. The challenge is finding advisors whose primary concern is the individual’s well-being rather than other objectives.”
“What if the individual’s well-being conflicts with those other objectives?”
Anya closes her notebook and sets it aside. “Katya, these hypothetical scenarios seem to be creating anxiety rather than helping your recovery. Perhaps we should schedule more frequent sessions to work through these concerns.”
“Actually, I think I need some time to process things on my own. Maybe we could space out our sessions for a while.”
Anya’s pen stops moving midsentence. “Are you sure? Consistency is important during recovery periods, especially when new information is surfacing.”
“I’m sure. I need to figure some things out independently before continuing therapy.” I sit back in my chair and cross my arms.
“What kind of things?” She closes her notebook but keeps it balanced on her lap, ready to reopen.
“Whether I trust the version of myself I’m becoming or if I need to find the version I used to be.”
Anya eyes my face for several seconds, tapping her fingers against the notebook cover. “That’s a significant decision. One that could affect every aspect of your current life.”
“I know.” I maintain eye contact, not backing down from whatever she’s looking for.
“Including your relationship with your husband.”
“I know that, too.”
“And you’re prepared for those consequences?”
“I’m prepared to face whatever truth I discover, even if it’s not what I want to hear.” I uncross my arms and place my hands flat on my thighs, grounding myself.
“Truth can be more complicated than people expect. Sometimes, the reality is messier than the official story or the alternative theories.”
“I’ll take messy truth over comfortable lies.”
“Even if the truth means losing people you’ve grown to care about?” She tilts her head, watching my reaction carefully.
“Even then.”
Anya nods and gathers her materials. “If that’s your decision, I respect it. But please call if you need support working through whatever you discover.”
“Thank you.”
“And Katya?” She pauses with her hand on her briefcase handle. “Be careful who you trust with sensitive information. Complex situations often involve people with competing loyalties.”
After Anya leaves, I watch through the kitchen window as she walks to her car. She sits in the driver’s seat for several minutes, making phone calls, probably checking in with Viktor and his team.
Pavel arrives one hour later, carrying a manila envelope instead of his usual briefcase.
“Mrs. Kozlov, I have some paperwork that requires your signature. Administrative details related to your housing situation.”
I eye the envelope and ask, “What kind of paperwork?”
“Dr. Sokolova recommended we update your documentation. She mentioned your therapy session was quite productive today. Standard documentation in case of emergencies. Nothing complicated.” He sits across from me and opens the envelope, pulling out several official-looking forms. “Your lease arrangements, insurance policies, that sort of thing.”
I glance at the documents, and my chest constricts as I recognize the government letterhead. She knows. Anya knows that I’ve gotten my memories back, and she told Pavel.
Pavel points to signature lines on the first form. “This one confirms your current address and contact information.”
My hands shake as I read the fine print. Emergency contact authorization. Medical decision-making authority. Legal representation agreements.
This isn’t about housing arrangements.
“Who would be my backup contacts?”
“Professional associates who understand your situation. People qualified to handle complex circumstances if they arise.”
My throat feels like it’s closing. They’re preparing to extract me, and these forms give them legal authority to make decisions I might not agree with. Including decisions about testifying against Dmitri.
“What if I… don’t want to sign these?”
Pavel cocks an eyebrow, and I can tell by the look on his face that he understands what I’m asking.
What if I want to stay with Dmitri?
“Then you’d be choosing to operate without proper documentation. Which could create difficulties if assistance becomes necessary.”
His meaning is crystal clear: Sign the forms or face consequences without legal protection.
I think about Dmitri in his office, unaware that the woman he’s fallen for is about to destroy his life. The man who’s shown me a tenderness I never knew I could feel. The man whose touch makes me forget I was ever anyone else.
The man I will be forced to testify against.
“Think about it,” Pavel urges before he stands to leave. “These ensure you’ll have authorized advocates if circumstances become challenging.”
After he’s gone, I stare at the unsigned documents spread across the table. My signature on these papers means accepting my role as a government witness. It means embracing my identity as Agent Katya Sidorov and abandoning any possibility of remaining Katya Kozlov.
It means betraying the only person who’s ever made me feel like I belong somewhere.
But refusing to sign means facing whatever consequences my handlers have planned for uncooperative assets. I know enough about FSB operations to understand those consequences won’t be pleasant.
Dmitri has no idea he’s living with a time bomb that’s about to explode his entire world.
And I have no idea how to stop it without destroying myself in the process.