The Perfect Weapon Chapter 10: Part 2
Chapter 10: Part 2
“From now on, I’m willing to talk to you, too.”
Hadn’t she already done enough talking since they returned from Kashmir? Starting with her opening gambit, “How are your wounds healing?”
How are your wounds healing? He mimicked silently to himself. For the love of….There was nothing he could think of to say to that - well, nothing that would advance his game strategy anyway. His gut wanted him to yell, “Which wound? The minor shrapnel cuts, the bruising from your pistol whipping or the hole in my chest where my heart used to be?” But, sigh, that would not be productive. Enjoyable, cathartic, but not productive. He had to maintain control, for now, anyway. One of these days though, one of these days…
Instead he ignored her comment, an added advantage to which is that it would irritate the hell out of her. Now, he had to prick her little balloon of self-confidence, which would throw her off of her stride…
So, he went on to say, to show that she still had a ways to go on her ‘trust me, Jack’ game plan, "Our previous…dealings would indicate that your strategy here may be long-term, so for now I trust that your behavior is predictable." He saw the faint flicker in her eyes at the pause, the word ‘dealings’. Good. She got the coding. She was always a master at decryption, wasn’t she?
Dealings? Dealings! That...cut. We were married, we loved each other, you…jerk! She had to put them, their relationship back where it belonged - in the personal realm. Not as if it had been just a job, another deal. He had to think that the connection between them was real for her professional and personal goals to succeed and he had to know that, deep down, anyway. Did he honestly think she could have pretended for so long, that she had been lying when she had said the illusion was as real for her as it was for him?
What had happened since they got off the plane? She thought she had made so much progress, but where had it all gone? Where had the slowly-burgeoning trust gone? Where had the moments in that plane bathroom gone? She needed…more time with him, more time to access those feelings she knew were still there, as strong for him as they were for her. More time…alone together, doing anything, even…working on something. She needed an ‘in’.
“You know, technically, we may still be husband and wife,” she said as if she had just thought of it, willing to try that card. Jack had so much honor, was such a good man, such a good husband, had felt that tie so deeply - maybe she could draw on that. Maybe if the technicality existed, it might help access the feelings. Even if that look he just gave her was…less than conciliatory? She wanted to laugh, but apologized instead.
He had clearly upset her applecart by indicating that she had a way to go to win his trust, by likening their marriage to a deal, a job. But what the hell was all this about? What game plan was this? They could still be married? What? Oh, s***. She could be right. Why hadn’t he realized that? Because he was a damn idiot, that’s why! She distracted him from the details. He needed to get his head into the game. And speaking of which, why had she thought of it, why bring it up?
Perhaps, she hoped to use that legal tie for some game point. What could it be? Hmm, hmm, hmm. Oh, gee, perhaps the fact that in the United States a spouse could not be compelled to testify against their husband or wife. Forget it, Irina, he wanted to say. He’d slap his hand on the Bible so hard that he’d send it sailing into the next courtroom to have a chance to send her where she belonged.
Although, he sighed internally, Sydney would not be pleased if he testified against her mother.
And oh, wait. There was a potential play number two here with the marriage card. Yeah, let’s play on Jack’s vulnerabilities, his foolishness, his emotionality. Reconnect that tie he had considered, once upon a time, indissoluble. Then he had woken from that fairy tale. Perhaps she did not realize that. But she probably did know he was trapped again. Apparently she had forgotten how he did not like being backed into a corner. Well, he had another choice, after all, didn’t he? His perfect weapon.
While he looked at her debating what to say next, to his momentary astonishment, she apologized. That was rich - if she was apologizing that indicated, to someone who knew her well - that she did not really mean it. And apologize for what, exactly? For bringing up something he might consider painful? Why would she consider that painful for him? That would indicate that she might have a glimmer of an inkling of a doubt that her behavior had been hurtful. Since when did she feel guilt? How could she have known - she had no empathy so, how? Had that…he stopped, had he shown pain…hat it been in his eyes? Well, better pain than anger. Anger would not win him his prize.
But now, she had flung a grenade his way. He needed to fling one back. Gee, which one should he choose? Choices, choices. Okay, how about this one? That he knew her game plan. Thinking last night, at home, without her there to distract him, allowing his mind to wander and then to access that complete coldness necessary to handle these dangerous games, it all became crystal clear. Irina’s ‘surrender’ and Sark’s offer to Sloane could not be mere coincidence. Watching her face carefully as he said that he knew that she and Sark were working together, that they were coordinating efforts to infiltrate the CIA and SD-6, he could not quite tell…maybe there was some element he was missing. If he could keep his contact with her to the minimum necessary to achieve his plan, he could figure it out.
Damn him! He was too good. He had already discovered, surmised, her plan, or at least a portion of it. He had to be distracted. Sloane and Sark had to do their parts. She had to do hers. She could not be the failure. She could not let her weakness for him, for Sydney, stand in the way of her plans. She needed to have time with him, how….
Jack looked at her. Well, he had been busy, had an additional ploy of his own. One more tactic, just to show Sydney he was being fair. He offered her a deal for house arrest, a house in Puget Sound, far enough away from Sydney that regular visits would not be possible. Far enough away from him that temptation would wane by the time he would get to her door. “Illusion of freedom?” Why not? Hadn’t she thought the illusion of their life together had been good enough? Weren’t illusions her stock in trade? But of course, she was not about to accept the offer - she needed to be here, in CIA custody and apparently, near him and Sydney for whatever plan it was she was hatching to work.
That… ridiculous offer! She admitted it, he surprised her. He kept surprising her today. She had forgotten in Kashmir just how formidable an opponent he could be. First the surprising analysis of her game plan. Now this. S***. It seemed so reasonable. On the surface. That if she told all she could be ‘free’ under house arrest at some place in Puget Sound? Puget Sound. Why not, say, Maine? Oh, but that would have been too obvious, wouldn’t it, Jack? Too obvious that you wanted me out of close proximity to Sydney? Madagascar and its mistakes were over, there was no offer of a cottage in Maine. He was back to his forte - subtle gamesmanship. She would have to be careful. What had he just said?
“The illusion of freedom is better than none at all.”
Left hanging in the air, unsaid, unspoken, was the reference, the corollary that sometimes the illusion of love was better than none at all.
But was it a statement or a question?
Who knew the answer?
He walked away, down that corridor, that stinking corridor he was coming to hate with a passion.
But at least when he was walking away from her in that corridor, he wasn’t hearing that stinking song in his head the way he did when he walked toward her, toward the light of her cell. He was here now to see if she would accept his offer. As if there was any question. Wow, what a surprise, she turned down the offer. Okay, play this hand, he thought and said, “You were right. Although our marriage contract was founded on fraudulent pretenses, it’s still valid until it’s annulled. Which means, technically, we are still married.” What would she do with that? She looked sad, but….1, 2, 3…
“Jack? Thus far I’ve agreed to be debriefed only by Sydney. From now on, I’m willing to talk to you too.”
Well, isn’t that interesting? To what purpose? Let’s see, could it be for the fun of waxing nostalgic over the good old days? Somehow, he doubted it. Or, gee, could it be to use him to obtain information? Or to distract him with our ….relationship, whatever the hell that is? She’s gotten what she wanted from Sydney. Sydney called her ‘mom’, arranged for outdoor rec time, gave her a hug - that’s about all she can expect from Sydney at this point. But from me - what does she want from him? And why did she say that after he ascertained that our marriage was still valid? It had to be for the emotional and legal ties that marriage created, as he had surmised before.
And talking to her? Oh brother, what would she con him into now? And he didn’t have to wait long. That Echelon quicksand computer virus. Too, too convenient. But…they were trapped. To prevent the Alliance from obtaining it, they had to use it. There was some hidden quid pro quo. He knew it. There was no such thing as a free lunch with Irina Derevko.
Come to think of it, early in their relationship that had been true of Laura, too. This woman in front of him, Irina, was more like the young woman, nearly a girl, he had first met. No wonder his memories had been so strongly tied to their early years together for a time - Irina reminded him of his first love. No wonder he was confused. It was not just the Laura/Irina dichotomy, but the young Laura and ‘his’ Laura, truly the love of his life.
And for some reason he had never known, she had changed. Why? What was it she had needed to change? Or had it not been a change, but a deepening? Did it matter? Whatever it was, he could not give it to her. No one could. Change came from within, not without. How, he pondered, had she changed? Had it just that she become more…giving? Was that the correct word? Less self-absorbed. More mature.
More…the woman he had never forgotten.
The woman of the night of the necklace and the toaster fire; the woman who had devised countless little rituals for just the two of them; the woman who had met his every demand, his every need with her own on the night they conceived Sydney. The woman in the photo on their bureau -- the photo with which she herself had replaced their wedding photo, an image that she had always disliked. The woman in that photo that Dave had taken casually one day in their kitchen - the woman who had looked at him with such love and joy that her face shone with it.
And his face - but he would not think of that man, who had looked at that woman with such innocent happiness, such wonder.
The woman who had brought him to his knees, brought tears to his eyes, caused him to thank God for the gift of her in his life.
Not this woman, who had to want something.
But he also had a quid pro quo. By urging that they accept Irina’s help, he appeared rational, reasonable, even - he wanted to gag, perhaps even vomit - vulnerable to Sydney. A perfect set up, really. He had no way out of the mess, okay -- the quicksand in which he found himself. If he argued against her help, when Syd would of course argue for it, he once again put himself in opposition against Sydney, who would then be aligned with Irina in a defensive posture. But by agreeing, he cut that sand out from under her and yes! He had to bite his lip to keep from smiling when he saw Sydney tell her mother, “Dad stuck up for you. Don’t make him regret it.” Thankfully, their daughter was no gamesplayer, he breathed a sigh of relief.
The last one he would have for quite some time. He knew she had used Echelon somehow. He wished Marshall were here, wished that they had been able to extract Marshall to run diagnostics. Sigh. SD-6 was always getting the best people; they paid better than government service, after all. Better planes too. He needed to talk to Devlin about that - the next time he and Irina went out, he was not sitting on the hard floor of a cargo plane without any alcohol available.
But now, he needed to talk to Irina, test her responses. What had she done with the Echelon opportunity?
On his way to see Irina, Jack saw Vaughn sitting at his desk. Walking over, sitting on the edge of it so his size would be less intimidating, he asked softly, “Vaughn, I meant to ask, what happened in the plane, when you cocked your gun and made Irina move?”
“You heard?”
“When I hear someone unholster their gun, yeah, I wake up.”
“She was reaching out to touch you.”
”Me? Not Sydney?” He had to be sure. He still could not quite believe what his eyes, his instincts had told him.
“No. You,” Vaughn said firmly. Looking at Jack, he said defensively, “ I could not allow-“
“Of course. Of course. You did the right thing. That’s why I had you on watch, knew you wouldn’t sleep anyway. “ Vaughn looked down and nodded. Jack had to ask, “But, where was she reaching? My throat?” He gave a dry chuckle, causing Vaughn’s head to snap up in shock. Hmm, it was almost worth unbending just to see how many forehead wrinkles the kid could get at one time.
“Your… head, maybe your hair, I’d guess. Syd said something about how she commented on your hair in customs…” Vaughn said softly
“Oh.” Oh! He wanted to exclaim. She really still has a thing about hair? Now, the comment in customs about his hair length made sense. How odd….that she would still have that little peccadillo. He had thought she brought it up initially to remind them of their past, but if she had been reaching for his hair - again in an unobserved moment - it could only have been to appease her own longings. What other desires, memories, longings could he use against her, he wondered, staring off.
“Oh, what?” Vaughn asked, the beginnings of a smile on his face.
“Nothing,” Jack muttered and began to rise.
“When you were young…she was one of those women who likes hair?” Vaughn asked, biting his lip.
Honestly, if the kid laughed at him, he’d cut his own throat. “Drop it,” he said gruffly.
Vaughn said quickly, “Jack, the implications… Can I say that I’m starting to think she may have had feelings, real---“
“You worry about your own….issues, Vaughn,” Jack said blandly, “And I’ll worry about my….past.” They looked at each other. Nodded and turned away, each wondering incredulously if they were actually starting to have some kind of relationship. Both men shuddered.
Walking down the corridor, trying not to hear the voices in that song, he tried first to distract himself by pondering what intel she had needed CIA computer access to acquire. He knew, knew she had just used that ever-so-convenient computer disaster to access something. She had to have done so. It could not be a coincidence that Cuvee and Sark were both involved in the SD-6 mission to obtain Echelon. What Cuvee knew, Irina knew. What Irina knew, Sark knew. But…he had to allow her to play out her hand, it was the only way to call her bluff. Okay, you’re obsessing, Jack, being too linear. You need to let it go, let your brain just find the answer. Find something else to think about. He looked down at his feet. Hmm. He could use a new pair of shoes, he supposed.
Walking down the hall to her cell, he felt as always his anxiety increase with each step. There were 20 steps from the main entrance to the door of her cell. He knew, he counted them each time he walked to or from her. Counting, using numbers to relax himself, the way the repetition of numbers helped when one was being anesthetized. “Patient, start counting backward from 100. By the time you reach 90, you will be asleep.” Or was supposed to help. How many times had he counted all the way back to negative 50 and had still been wide awake?
Finally, one anesthesiologist had sighed and told him, “Agent Bristow, the problem is that you have an overdeveloped control center in your brain.” He had burst out laughing. Then laughed again at the looks on the medical team’s faces when he responded, “No s***, Sherlock.”
The anesthesiologist had smiled and said, “I guess the anesthesia is working a little.” He had shrugged, knowing the doctor was correct, then frowned when he continued, “You have to trust me, us. No one here is going to hurt you or steal your secrets. We are here to help you, to repair the problems caused by--”
“I know why I’m here, you’re here, doctor. I do remember being shot and tied down and…..” he swallowed and continued, “I know that I need the operation. I know but….”
“The key here is that you can choose to allow yourself to go under. Make it your choice. Whenever you want, whenever you’re ready. We will wait.”
But he had still been unable to relax. Finally, they had broken the rules and had Laura come in and sit next to him. With her there, he had been able to allow himself to go to sleep, surrender his control, hearing her say as he went under, “I’ll be waiting for you, right here, when you wake up, Jack. It’s okay. I’m right here.” And she had been. He had opened his eyes and there she was, leaning over him, giving him a---
Okay, that had been a good distraction, he thought as he walked in front of the glass of her cell. Better than his usual estimation of a 5% increase in anxiety with each step. But then, there she was. And there she was waiting. Waiting for what? Him to choose to go under again? The difference was that he had, in the end, trusted the medical team - after all, they had worked on him before. And she, she had worked on him before, but had hardly repaired the damage, had she? No, she had caused the damage. And she was waiting, waiting, he knew, for the right moment. So was he.
Wasn’t she cold in just that tank top? He felt cold in his suit jacket and long sleeve shirt, how could she….She turned and smiled at him. His ‘wife’. He really needed to start those annulment proceedings. Thinking of it, he grimaced at her. She rolled her eyes. Then he stood aside, looked away, as two guards came down the hall. There were two plates, two cups…. Oh, wasn’t this….cute. They could have lunch together and talk over their work, just like the old days. Who had….? Oh, Vaughn, ever watchful on the monitors. Ha, ha, Vaughn. Very funny. Who did he think he was, Weiss? The kid would pay for that, there was an assignment in Botswana with his name written all over it.
Standing there, watching the guard put the lunch tray down on the table, Jack noted an anomaly. Brushing past the guard posted outside the door in the hallway, he jerked open the glass door and in two strides, was at the table. Hauling Irina back by the arm, ignoring her protests, he speared the young guard with a glance. “You want to explain why the tray has a glass and metal utensils?”
“For you. She has the plastic. I…I…”
“You are an imbecile who cannot follow the posted protocols on this prisoner, which clearly state that she is allowed only plastic or paper cups and plastic forks and spoons, no knives. Explain yourself. Or rather, don’t bother, collect that tray and get out. Go to personnel and check yourself out. This is your last day on this job.”
“Jack!” Irina began, “I think you’re being-“
“Excuse me? Did I ask your opinion?”
She mumbled, “Someone’s got a stick up their-“
Involuntarily he began to loosen up at her quip, then forced himself to ignore it, to concentrate on the guard in front of him who needed to learn a lesson about the dangers hidden within seemingly-innocuous packages. Gently shoving Irina down on her cot, he walked quickly over to the table, where the guard was still standing. Picking up the glass of water, he dropped it on the floor where it shattered into countless pieces. Swiftly reaching down, and in one fluid motion, snagged a large sliver and had it poised at the guard’s throat.
“I would not gulp, if I were you,” Irina suggested softly to the young man, who stood there nearly trembling.
“Gulping or swallowing? Bad idea. She’s right. As always, ever so helpful for an international terrorist.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched her roll hers, and cross her legs, swing the top leg back and forth.
He turned his attention back to the guard, said softly with deliberate menace, “Do you feel that the point of this piece of glass is right on your jugular? No, don’t nod, you fool.” Jack rolled his eyes, wondering where they were recruiting these days. The Sunglass Hut in the mall? “Do you see how easily she could have killed you? Or held you hostage? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”
The sweating young man blinked once.
”Good. Now step back slowly, keeping your back to the door, your eyes on me - remember, I’m dangerous even with just a slim shard of glass - and get the hell out of here with that tray. Come back with a dustpan and broom. Hell, bring a vacuum in. Oh and a new tray, appropriately dressed this time for one person. Ask one of the agents on her monitors for help - you’ll need to justify why you need a new one.”
“I’ll ask Agent Vaughn-“
”You will not ask Agent Vaughn to carry in a tray. His days on KP are over.” He glared at Irina. That whole coffee incident still irritated him. He hoped Vaughn had spit in her coffee, her black coffee, before handing it over. Hell if it had been him he would have found the people in the office with the worst colds and had them spit in that coffee. Or sent around an instant messenger asking if anyone had a staph infection, perchance? But, he sighed, that was him, always looking for enjoyment in those small life moments. Vaughn was looking for larger rewards, not having learned yet to take his payback in those little, more available, doses. “Find someone else. Now, get out.”
Watching the guard leave, he almost smiled, looked at the long sliver in his hand. Amazing how something so relatively small could be such a useful tool. Intimidating that young fool had been enjoyable. Frankly too easy, but he’d take his fun where he could find it these days and that guard needed to learn a lesson, anyway…He looked down, ready to toss away the piece of glass, looking for a waste basket, when he felt her eyes on him.
Oh, no, she wanted to moan, but with great difficulty restrained herself. Not that memory. No, not now. Not here. They had both, she knew, avoided the last part of the memory of the night they conceived Sydney. It was too dangerous to remember, too…intense to experience without an outlet. She wanted to whimper. Wanted him to look up, at her, but was half afraid that if he did….Jack, she pleaded silently, I need your control. Because I don’t have any. Remember, I never did with you. Remember? If you let go, for even one second, I’ll fly across this room into your arms, damn everything, everyone, the monitors, anything, just for one more time. Please….
Without even looking up, he knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Bracing himself, he raised his eyes. Saw hers, wide, the pupils dilated, staring at that sliver of glass winking in the light. He dropped it, saw her eyes go to the glass around his feet, then travel back up his body until she reached his face. They both hissed in a breath as their eyes met. She dropped both feet to the floor, gripped her knees, hard he could tell, with both hands and began rocking, very slightly, back and forth on her cot.
Staring at her, seeing everything in her eyes, he could not move except to put both of his hands on the back of the chair. He gripped it hard, with all his strength, knowing that like her he had to hold onto something or they would be in each other’s arms in mere seconds, the force of the memory pushing them together. Ignoring everything around them, the monitors, the repercussions, even the broken, dangerous glass, just to be together once more.
She moaned, so softly only he would ever be able to hear it.
He said, seemingly irrelevantly to anyone watching, “The glass shattered.”
TBC at Chapter 10 Part 3 section 1 of 3