Let us say there was, from the first, an unspoken understanding between Aleksei Krycek and myself, the kind of pact that can exist between two men who are observant enough to understand the substance of what is not said.

I was young, barely seventeen when Krycek rescued me from the danger I'd put myself in by hacking the files of the Czech military. Oh, I meant no particular harm by my actions, my little sortie really nothing more than a test of my abilities. But I knew my protests of innocence would carry little weight among powerful men who crave security. And Krycek, yes, he did see a use in me. His plan was to come to America eventually; I could be a convenient ally, a docking post in the turbulence that is his life. I understood that he was dangerous.  It was obvious from his intensity and the from influence he wielded without raising his voice. His whisper is perhaps his most chilling feature.

But when he spoke unwisely to Maria Ivanova at the Prague gala where I met him and was quickly rebuffed, I saw another man inside Aleksei Krycek, a much more complicated and interesting man than the one who would find me a way to America for the purpose of his own gain. Perhaps it was my refusal to expose what I saw there that cemented what continues between us.

Three years ago Krycek spent a week with me, hiding, after he'd twisted his ankle running from an exploding car intended to dislodge him from this mortal coil. He was very angry, and I must say, extremely discouraged as well. I gave him the gift I knew he would value most: I left him alone with his thoughts and pretended to overlook his anguish. I made noodles from scratch, and sauce, and cake--things my mother had made at home--and he ate in silence, but eat he did, and he didn't accuse me of trying to coddle him, though he knew very well that this was not my usual fare. I deliberately neglected to mention the number of hours he spent staring blankly out between the curtains of my living room window or the number of times in an hour he'd clench his fists.  He, in turn, declined to glare when he knew I'd caught him doing it.

I said, "I hear the Canadian prairies can be quite beautiful this time of year," because I knew that was where he would go as soon as his ankle healed.

In response he only looked down, the sudden emotion in his eyes not meant for me. But he didn't turn away. When he looked up, his face was different, uncharacteristically softened.

"Am I naked here?" he said quietly. If he were capable of such a thing, I would have said he was blushing. "I seem to be naked."

I looked at him a moment and shrugged. "You seem quite adequately clothed to me," I offered. "Jeans have become a universal expression, have they not, the uniform of individuality? However contradictory that may be." And I went back to my computer.

So it goes. I do Krycek's electronic errands and he supplies me with useful information, or money, which can come in very handy when the rent is due or you're been eating barley gruel for entirely too many days. We are, I suppose, very much like the rhinoceros and that little bird who rides on his back, picking ticks and other nuisances from the rhino's skin: mutually beneficial.

On Monday, a red-haired woman appeared on my doorstep, come to tell me Krycek was downstairs in the back of her van. He'd had an accident, she said, but the things that befall Krycek are rarely accidents. He was obviously in pain, but I could see that more than just his body was affected. He'd killed the old man, he said in a way that indicated that the deed had not been premeditated--not for this scenario, at least--and that the consequences hadn't fully sunk in. But there was more that he was not ready to share, some task or obligation of his own choosing that the woman was taking him to fulfill. Out of respect for his shaky state, I kept my visit brief, but at the end we embraced. It is, after all, a European custom.

This evening--Thursday--I received a phone call from Krycek. 'Sorry about missing your dinner the other night,' he says by way of greeting. But then the story comes out. He is on the run, without computer or prosthesis, injured with a wound he cannot take care of, in need of the assistance of a doctor he knew once. Can I find her contact information? He does not say, 'My situation is critical,' but of course he would never be so direct. So I will do what I do best: I will find Dr. Phillips' phone number and whatever related information he may need. I will check on the availability of prosthetic clinics. I will make sure there is enough money in the bank account that accompanies the fake ID he is currently using. I will not say, "I'm afraid for you, my friend."

But Aleksei, too, reads between the lines. He will understand.