The Perfect Weapon Chapter 8 Part 2

[camillecarelli]

Chapter 8: Part 2

The relentless glare of the sun turned the crimson fabric, swaying and shifting in the hot breeze, into living flames. Coughing as the wind blew in little whorls of dust, Irina stared absently at the saturated colors of the fabrics that formed the walls of Mr. Zamir's booth, this changing room with just the two of them in it. Did Jack remember too? He must.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched Jack slough off the black field clothes. As he completely ignored her presence, her determination to obtain his attention hardened. Looking around, she debated about the wisdom of drawing his attention to the odd coincidence of the colors of the booth, the magentas, the reds, the yellows, the oranges. All that was needed was a green and a blue and it would be creepily evocative of ... No, that would be too obvious. A slightly-more subtle approach was needed with Jack. Hmm. How about that one game? But had he known what she was doing with that game and just played along with her? Or had she really fooled him with it? She had nothing to lose, did she? 
Sifting through the cabinet of saris, Irina pulled a brightly-hued length of fabric in warm tones close to the top. First, what would he do with a personal, wifely comment? Looking over at Jack, watching him change into the local dress, she said softly so that Sydney could not hear, "I liked you better in the---"

"Black. I know," he said calmly, but with a small smile, as he buttoned his cream shirt.

Her own smile faded instantly. She hissed, "What? How?" How had she---

"I saw your face in the train cabin when I'd changed -- when you looked me up and down. That m.o. of yours has not changed in thirty years - perhaps you'd like to consult a more recent KGB manual on…'working' -- shall we say -- with male American agents?" His point.

While she debated what rejoinder to make, he smirked again and said, "And too, I know you personally liked the black on me. I'm neither blind nor stupid, Irina. I know all the signs. Some…reactions apparently don't change with time." His eyes flicked downward on her body and when he looked back up, he smiled condescendingly at her in the mirror Mr. Zamir had provided. He got her that time, she admitted it was his point. Again. He was so irritating; it would feel so good to smack his face.

Pointing at the cabinet, he continued, "You need to get dressed. Stop hesitating and just pick a sari. Sydney's dressed and all ready. She can be ready to go on an op in three minutes; clearly she did not inherit that ability from you. As I remember…" He stopped suddenly and looked down at his own shirt, checking his buttons.

She relaxed, he had made an allusion to the past, made a mistake. She had gotten him without saying a word, and she would do it again. One point to her, and now, if she was lucky, an easy second point.

Watching him watch her, she aimlessly examined the fabrics, held them up to her face in the mirror, waiting, waiting…. Felt, rather than saw his annoyance, his impatience, grow. Ha. She could still irritate him. He had hated it when she'd vacillate in their closet, making them late. So, dither it would be. How long would it take before - ah -

"Move it! We're not going to an embassy ball, for godssakes. And since when have you been vain? They're all beautiful, as if that matters on an op." When she just continued touching the saris without any sense of urgency, he growled. "Just pick one!"

That did not take long today, she thought with satisfaction, relieved that this long-ago game, called 'procrastination in the closet', still worked on him. A little marital manipulation -- so very much fun as a way to get the answers she needed.. Then and now. Nothing had changed, she thought with an internal smile. No one ever said you could not enjoy yourself on an op.

It had always been so enjoyable to watch him grow more and more irritated with her vacillation over what to wear to a dinner, a party, dancing, until he'd just come in and pull out a dress and throw it at her. To be accurate, she should not say 'always'; that tactic, that game was something she had begun after…that day when she had to confront herself in the mirror. If he would just have told her what he liked on her when she asked, but oh no, not Jack, who excelled at the answer that was no answer at all. When she oftlineasked him, he would just say, "I like everything you wear because it's on you. And very soon it will be off of you anyway, so what difference does it make?" Then he would leer, or pinch her, or give her a hint about what trick he might use to undress her…and…those were good times, she thought with a smile.

Without looking at him, she commented, "Pick only one? That's the problem. What do you think? I can't decide…It's been so long since I've worn anything so…"

But now, what color would he choose? If she was betting, she would gamble on that warm-toned sari she had planted near the top.

"A long time since you've worn what? Something feminine? I cannot imagine why." Oh no, sarcasm was dripping from his voice. She tensed as he continued, "Dinner dates and dancing not in your recent past, not part of your current lifestyle? What sacrifices you've made," Jack said snidely. She wanted to smack him again. She actually had to hold herself back from slapping at him as she did in the past, as he had allowed her to do. Without that outlet, she felt…off balance. His point. Was it one or two points? One for the crack and one for setting her askew? Although at least he was showing emotion -- that was infinitely better, more usable than the monotone, the mask that hid everything.

He walked over to her and began sifting through the fabric. "Here, take this one. The color will be good on you," Jack said as he pulled out the fabric she expected. She wondered if he realized what he had just done, said, how he had so easily fallen into old patterns.…. Her point. Smiling blandly to hide her triumph, she took the sari from him and began to wrap it around herself, occasionally hitting him lightly with the fabric, until he stepped out of reach and looked away.

"Is there any jewelry?" she asked slyly when she was finished, then watched his face color very slightly. Good, got him. Another point for her. Truly, was there a more enjoyable game in the world than that between a man and a woman? More important certainly, but not more enjoyable, not when the other player was Jack.

"I don't know," he said with no inflection whatsoever, shrugged. She watched him, knowing…then bit her lip as he began applying the beard, covering his face.

A few minutes later, catching sight of her amused face in the mirror, he muttered, "Oh, shut up." When she covered her mouth to keep from laughing aloud, he rolled his eyes.

Sydney popped her head in, but before she could say anything, Irina asked eagerly, "Where did you find that jewelry you are wearing?" Jewelry, she needed jewelry. The ideal prop to meld the perfect tool to access the past, her trump card.

Sydney told her, "Oh, Mr. Zamir has boxes of jewelry. Dad, he said you should be picking it out for us, that you know so much about---"

Jack snapped. "Sydney, it doesn't matter. This is not prom night or…" Then sighing, he continued more softly, "Please, go get a piece of jewelry for Irina. She can't seem to decide on anything today."

"Okaay," Sydney said slowly, "But I came in to ask what is taking you two so long anyway?" Then she noticed the beard and bit her own lip hard, but her eyes twinkled.

Jack rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. You two look…beautiful." Irina felt her eyes widen in surprise at that comment. That was...unexpected, she felt a little off balance again. His point. But he was probably just being sincere; Jack had always been generous, lavish in his compliments. Then both Sydney and Irina smiled as he said, "And I look like a reject from some B movie."

Irina looked at him speculatively, then hid her face as she wondered why he was being so…affable. too affable. Was he trying to - what was that funny American word - discombobulate her? Or had he decided, also as Americans say, to go with the flow? Had the toaster story, the colors of the booth and her sari, begun to release the man she knew was hiding just beneath the surface, the way they had helped to do in the past? She needed to maintain the light conversation, soften him up…

"Well, not yet," Irina said, "You don't have the turban on yet."

"Don't remind me," he groaned.

"I wish I had a camera. But then again, I don't really need one, do I? As if I would ever forget this!" Irina said, teasingly.

"Going right into your memory book?" Jack asked, she could tell, without thinking. Her point or his?

Sydney looked quizzical, then said slowly when no one elaborated, "Well, I've worn far worse disguises than this sari."

Nodding his head, Jack agreed, "Don't remind me of some of the outfits you've worn or rather not worn. And this one --- well, I've worn worse disguises too."

"That's hard to believe," Irina said dryly. "Although I have to admit, it's a good one. I don't know if I would have recognized you walking down the street toward me in that disguise."

Sometimes her mind boggled at the notion that in twenty years in the same business they had not met again. Sometimes she wondered that fate had not intervened and that they had not walked into the same bar in some two-bit country…but perhaps she had seen Casablanca too many times. Sometimes she wished that fate would have just taken it out of her hands. Sometimes in the dead of night, she wondered if she should slacken her care in preventing that meeting, drop her guard, just allow it to happen. It would eventually, if she stopped trying to prevent it, she would think, hope, as she stared at the ceiling somewhere. Sometimes she just wanted to see his face, feel his arms around her. Sometimes she just wanted to hear his voice and her hand hovered over the telephone. Sometimes she wondered, if they met, how long it would take before they would end up in bed together - if, that is, he did not play that interminable game of teasing her as he had done thirty years before. But in the light of day, her guilt and her fear and her goals were always stronger than her desire. She closed her mind to those thoughts, those wishes, concentrated on the present where her goals and her desires melded for the first time in twenty years.

Nodding in his direction, she noted, "That beard alone should be in the intelligence costume hall of fame."

"It would need its own case," Jack commented. Giving it a disgusted look, he asked, tugging on it, "How big does it have to be, anyway?"

"Well…." Irina began. Jack's lips began to quirk upward, then he glanced at Sydney and gave Irina a hard look. She pursed her lips together and looked upward.

Sydney cleared her throat and made an inconsequential comment or two, watching her father as if….what? About what was she worrying? Jack was acting perfectly normal, just as she remembered him. He had been angry, she knew that, any fool could have seen that. But as usual, he did not stay angry with her long, just as she could never stay angry with him. Although in her case, her anger or irritation always turned to desire, while his…only once had that been true. Just once. She glanced over at Sydney.

Then looking back at Jack, she watched him work. Watched his mouth, as always, knowing she should probably not be giving that particular weakness away. But he no doubt remembered it. Perhaps showing her attraction to him could be a good strategy - perhaps it would help in obtaining his trust by tapping into the truth of their shared attraction. Using the truth - that had worked before -- when she'd had to improvise because her game plan had failed utterly and completely before it had even begun. It was always easier to use the truth in the game; the fewer lies to remember, the more seamless the play. Especially when you were playing the game with someone like Jack who could sense danger so instinctively. She still could not believe how he had sensed the danger of that ambush before she had.

But, of course, using the truth was dangerous. Doing so was precisely how she had become lost in the game before, lost in the game between the two of them -- by being herself, instead of the persona she had intended to play. Sometimes truth was not the best choice, but sometimes…sometimes, there was no other choice if your goal was success. Then and now. But now she was not improvising, now she was planning on using the truth. She could control it…

Remembering the scene in her cell when he had placed the necklace around her, she thought honestly, that she might not have a choice about showing her attraction to him. She had never been able to control it before, especially when he smiled a true smile, a grin. When would she see that again?

Suddenly, she thought to ask, "Jack, where, when did you get that scar on your lip?"

"I fell down," he said succinctly, as he began to gather up his supplies, having finished with that blasted beard that hid his face.

"Fell down? What? What?"

"I. Fell. Down. Do I need to speak in Russian for you? I fell down. Big deal," he shrugged. "We tend to get cuts and scrapes in this business, Irina, to say nothing of gunshot wounds." Thank you, Jack. Point to him. Her gaze went to Sydney, who had looked down. She had to explain, somehow - but just how do you explain a mother shooting her own daughter?

Deciding to ignore the jibe for the moment, sensing that he had just gone on the offensive to prevent her from learning something, Irina pressed, "You fell down? Did someone push you? I've never even seen you stumble."

"Everyone stumbles," Sydney said softly.

"Not your father. Remember dancing with him? He was so light on his feet…."

Sydney stared at her in stupefaction.

What kind of look was that? Didn't Sydney remember when Jack would dance her, Laura, around the kitchen, humming some tune until Sydney yelled, "My turn, my turn"? Then he would grab their daughter up in his arms and practically fling her around the room as they danced, until Laura yelled, "Careful, careful! Don't fall! You'll lose points." That was Jack's cue to start throwing Sydney in the air, to teach her a flip or two, as they pretended to be an ice skating pairs team, with Laura laughing, gasping, clapping in the audience. Then Sydney would squeal, "Kiss the judge! Earn extra points!" And Jack would grab her and dip her over his arm and give her a kiss while Sydney would giggle. He would lift his head and Sydney would ask, "How many points for that one, Mommy?" She would always say, "A perfect ten!" Sydney would clap and laugh. She closed her eyes remembering how every time Jack would hug her close and whisper, "Perfect - that is us together, perfect." How could Sydney forget that? She had never forgotten, the moments were tucked away in her memory book. Did Jack remember? He must. 
"Irina? Lost in your thoughts this time?" Jack asked with a noncommittal expression on his face. His point.

"I, no. I'm just puzzled about this tumble, that fall. You are always so physically coordinated..." And she would refrain from making any sexual innuendo this time, she would.

"Not always," he said, with self deprecation, "When you're three sheets to the wind, you're likely to stumble on occasion."

"You were drunk? That drunk? I've never seen you like that…."

"You have not seen me in twenty years. I've been drunk a few times in twenty years, Irina," he said tonelessly.

"But, when we were married, I never saw you--" Irina began, curiously.

"Dad!" Sydney exclaimed. "I came in here to see what was taking you two so long, remember? We need to keep moving, don't we?"

"Yes, we do," Jack agreed. "If only Irina would just finish getting dressed. She did not take this long getting ready for….But of course, that did not matter, did it?" He stopped and turned his face back to the mirror. What was he talking about? Irina frowned at him, barely noticing that Sydney had left to pick a piece of jewelry.

Damn him, there were so many loose threads whirling around - which one to pick, which should she try and tie up in this limited time they had right now? Oh, just pick one, the one least likely to have anything to do with her.

So, she asked, "What story was that, about you being drunk? Were you trying to hide the truth from Sydney?" Jack, the control freak, as Dave used to say, being that drunk? Unlikely to say the least.

He rolled his eyes. If he kept doing that, they would become stuck up there - isn't that what she used to say to Sydney? Then she paid attention as he asked, "What is this fixation? I fell down. Give it a rest."

"But--your mouth," she blurted out. His point. Although displaying her attraction to him might work.

"Ah. I see," he said softly, with a sideways glance at her. "Don't worry, it still works just fine." And then he looked surprised at himself. Got him. It worked. Her point.

She smiled. "I hope so." Smiled again when he looked down. This was the man she knew. 
Sydney came back and handed a piece of jewelry to Irina. "It's for your head, you hang it---"

"I know how to wear jewelry, Sydney," Irina said archly, giving Jack a look. She almost laughed aloud at his studied nonchalance, at the bland expression on his face. "But, Jack, can you help me with this? If I remember correctly, this is easier to apply if---"

"I'll do it," Sydney said flatly.

"Don't you need to call Vaughn?" Jack asked, before Sydney could touch her mother.

"I need to call Vaughn," Sydney said, giving her parents a puzzled look as she left the area.

Watching Sydney leave, Irina gave her an exasperated glance. Why was she so puzzled? Didn't she remember how they used to tease each other all the time? Why was Syd so surprised at these interchanges? Certainly they had been arguing before on the train, on the walk here, but they had argued in the past, too. Usually when Jack wanted to irritate her, just for the fun of it or to well, Sydney would not know about that, of course. Is that what that argument had been about before he pushed her out of the train car? Had he been truly angry or was it just to irritate her for the fun of it, as payback, to….But there had been moments - the toaster story, the walk, in this curtained area that had to evoke the same memories for him that it did for her --- moments when she felt that connection between them, when she felt relief - that he was still the man she had known. Perhaps when he had stopped on that walk toward the tent he had reached some sort of decision, had decided to trust her.

"Irina, stop it. It's not going to work," Jack said, jerking his chin toward the jewelry, as he picked up his pack.

Irina snorted and walked over to him. With the gold piece in her hand, she held it out to him. He stared at it. "It's not going to bite, Jack," she said softly, watching his face carefully. She knew he was thinking that she had maneuvered him into a no-win situation. If he took the jewelry, memories might assail him. If he refused, he proved that he was susceptible to the memories. Which would it be? She would win a point this time.

He paused, so briefly anyone else might not have noticed. Laid down his pack and then motioned for her to lean toward him. She felt his hands on her head, in her hair and closed her eyes. Remembered the times he had shampooed her hair, massaged her scalp, his hands were…Then her eyes opened abruptly as he jabbed her.  
e "Ouch!" she said jokingly, then laughed at him, at her, at them, the game. His point, not hers, not the sure thing she had expected. She needed to remember that the Jack of his KGB and CIA portfolios was a dangerous man when cornered. He never took choice 'a' or 'b', but created his own choice 'c'. "You didn't have to poke the bobby pin that hard in my head," she complained, thinking she was probably lucky that his weapon of choice was just a bobby pin. At least a bobby pin was not sharp.

"Oh, yes, I did," Jack said dryly. She grinned, knowing he could not see it, wondering if he was smiling too. She was anticipating the next few months with pleasure. Really, she had missed playing the game, any game, with him. She'd even take the game of this mission. She felt him fumble in her hair and sigh in exasperation. He said a moment later, "My fingers are too big to do this properly anyway. Do it yourself or ask Sydney. The mirror's over there," he gestured with his chin as he went back to his pack.

She watched Jack ignore her as she fitted the piece to her hair. Then he began to walk toward the exit, turned toward her, his eyes briefly on the gold jewelry. Her point. Then he stopped suddenly and said, "It's not going to work, Irina."

She whirled around, knowing it would send the folds of the fabric flying, catching his attention. Perhaps it would trigger a memory, a very potent memory, the way the colors neof Mr. Zamir's booth had evoked for her. Waiting a moment, waiting for the garment to settle, she asked, "What's not going to work?"

"These….allusions to the past."

"Work in what way? We were just making casual conversation about…our shared past, about the present…we have to work together," she protested, thinking that if he bought that, well, he was not the man she knew.

"Do you think you're playing this game with an amateur - someone who does not know your tactics? I already lived through them once already, remember? Try to find the commonality and proceed from there? This time it's memories? Last time it was games, the game--" He stopped, shrugged.

He was so wrong. Or rather, only partially correct. Why was he ignoring the truth, that the game had been truth, that Laura and Irina were the same person?

"I know, remember, but…."

"But what? We're are on an op, this is no time to take a waltz down memory lane to fulfill some …agenda item on your list. If you have…an issue with the past, take it up again when you are back in your cell."

She said quickly, wanting the answer before Sydney returned, "Speaking of which, is it my imagination or does Sydney not seem to remember much about our life together?" She spoke softly, watching his face. He would not have hypnotized Sydney into forgetting, would he?

"No, I did not manipulate her mind into forgetting, Irina. That would have been cruel, to take her memories away from her." He said flatly and then smiled as her jaw dropped slightly. "Yes, I knew what you were thinking - trying to find something else to use against me?"

"No, I wanted to know. She is my daughter, too. I worry--" And then she stopped, this was not productive, would not win her points. She swallowed and said, honestly, "Memories are important. Sometimes they are---"

"All one has? Yes. That is why I would never have done that to her. I think it was…." He stopped speaking abruptly and motioned her toward the exit.

"No, I'm not moving yet," she said calmly. "Tell me. She is my daughter, that was our life…"

"I think you should stop. The truth…."

"Just say it. I can handle it." What could he possibly say that--

"Fine. I think it was the trauma of losing her mother. She had a difficult time accepting that her mother was really gone, not to return. It was not…." He stopped and looked away.

Luckily, she thought, luckily he looked away so he could not see the guilt she knew suffused her face, it had to - she felt saturated with it. He was correct, confronting the truth was…not easy. But, she had to ask, "It was not what?"

"Easy persuading her to accept the truth about her mother," Jack said levelly, looking her in the eyes now.

"You were the one who told her, who…"

"Yes, of course. That was my…job." He stopped abruptly and flattened his mouth. Then said, "She blamed me for a long time. But that's irrelevant. The point is that I think the shock, then the pain of accepting the reality, followed by the fact that I was sent away on a long mission - her whole life changed. I think the trauma of that has repressed her memories. I suppose I could suggest she have regression therapy, but…that's neither here nor there right now." He shrugged, but looked at her carefully. Could he see the guilt?

"But--"

"I'll say this one last time," Jack said fiercely, coldly. But at least it was not that deadly monotone that could make her cringe. He was angry. Anger was good, could be used. He continued, "Come up with some new tactics, stop relying on the past, to win my trust. Stop wasting your time and just prove, if you can, that you can be trusted now. That's what this mission is about - not only those damn nukes - but whether or not you can be trusted." e Damn him. He had seen through her strategy of using the memories straight to her goal. If this continued, her entire game plan would be toast. Think, think, improvise. What were his weaknesses? Quickly, quickly.

"Jack," she said heatedly, trying to find her own arrows. "The issue here is less about trust than about the fact that you cannot stand it when you are not in charge on an op. You feel out of control. You're afraid that I've led you and Sydney into a trap and---"

"Can't guess why I'd feel like that!" he snarled.

"Shut up! You've behaving like a child, like a two year old who cannot have his own way! I should smack---"

Sydney hissed from the other side, "Stop it. Both of you. Get out here now."

Glaring at each other, they exited into the main portion of the booth.

Glaring at each other, she slid inside the grain barrel, he slammed it on her.

The minute he could no longer see her, she smiled. Shoving her in this barrel - such a Jack moment. Confining her, putting a lid on her. Was he even aware of the symbolism? Probably not. She had always had more of an interest in symbols, decryption, than he did. Although….she had never deciphered the meaning of that key charm on her waist chain. It had haunted her, teased her, for thirty years. It was the ultimate riddle, one she could never solve, far worse than any cryptic Rambaldi code. She wondered if Jack would tell her the answer now, if she asked. Would it still matter? Would he give her the chain if she asked? At least show it to her, take it out of that box and bring it into the holding cell, let her see it?

She wondered just how long he would like to keep her locked away? Forever, would be her guess. But, those filters of his would cease working in, oh, about five hours and then she would be free to…irritate him again. But she needed a better plan than just annoying him, angering him. That would not serve in the long term.

It appeared she had more than enough time to devise another plan, thanks to Jack's pigheaded stubbornness. Why was he being so obstinate? Why was he doing this? Jack had never been stubborn, obsessive. Those had been her character flaws, not his. Why was he insisting? But perhaps she had put him in a no win situation. If he did what he 'should' - not take her advice--the filters would clog and they would not have the right equipment. If he followed her advice and she betrayed them…of course, he was protecting Sydney.

But when the filters clogged and she was proven correct - what then would he have achieved except his own embarrassment? He must know that she would use his failure, her turn, for everything she could. The longer he was out of control, the more he would feel offbalance and the greater the chance of success. If his mind was occupied with the present and the past, it would have less opportunity to run game theory about her intentions for the future. So, why would he give her this opportunity? Did he have some plan of his own? What was more important to him than just getting to the site? Did he not want to reach the site? What did he want? Ascertaining what Jack Bristow wanted - there was the conundrum of a lifetime! Just when you thought you knew, you realized you knew nothing, nothing. Or rather, someone told you that you knew nothing and you looked in the mirror and realized a painful truth. Damn him!

Then she wanted to smack herself - he wanted to be in control. Control. With Jack it was always about control, always. Ever since she had appeared in Taipei, she had set his world spinning, she knew, out of his own power. And when she walked into the CIA and had demanded to speak only to Sydney - well, she knew part of her demand was designed solely to attract his attention, to distract him. Well, she had his attention now, didn't she, she thought with satisfaction. But she had not seemed to distract him, he had seen through her strategy quickly. This would require more time than she had anticipated.

Smiling again, she thought that she could just not wait until the moment those filters clogged and he would have to lift the lid. She started to laugh and nearly choked on the dust in her throat already.

Although it was probably less dusty in this barrel than in the truck's seats. But….he had taken all the water bottles upfront with him and Sydney. She slapped her hand against the side of the barrel in annoyance, then smiled. Hoping she would die of dehydration before they reached their destination, was he? She had seen those looks of his as they had walked through the night; knew he was contemplating, for his own amusement, pushing her down a hillside when Sydney wasn't looking. Knew he had enjoyed pushing her out of that train car a little too much. Had seen his grin as she looked back up at him. He owed her for that. She would repay him, after all, she knew his weaknesses, too. She resolved not to dwell on her own debts.

She needed to concentrate on the future and what she needed. He was correct -- this mission was all about trust, about her need to win his trust again for the long term it was essential. How should she do it? What was the best way? It had been easy, so easy to obtain his trust originally.

Then she wanted to smack herself. It would have been equally easy to lose. If it were not for Dave, if not for his warnings, she might have continued to make mistakes. In her complacency, in her youthful arrogance, in her joy in having someone love her so completely, belong to her and she to him so totally, she had made mistakes.

She had almost made another mistake right now. She had underestimated what Jack would require to trust. It was always so easy for her to forget Jack's trust issues. He had hidden them so well from her, she had never had even a glimmer of them until the night of Dave's party. She still only understood them intellectually, not emotionally. If Dave had not intervened she would probably have never known, might have ruined her marriage. Sometimes she realized what she had accomplished by winning his trust, sometimes she realized she had not won it so much as been given it as a gift. Sometimes she wondered what else he had hidden from her, that even after ten years she did not know. Sometimes, she wished that she had had more time to unlock the puzzlebox of his mind. But how long would that have taken? A lifetime?

She did not have a lifetime. She had approximately five hours in this grain bin to discover the key to obtaining his trust. It would have to be enough. Wiping a hand across her damp brow, she realized she would probably be melted by the time Jack opened that lid again. But the perspiration of heat was better than the cold sweat of fear. As she knew. Needing to breathe air that was not hers, she reached up and poked the lid slightly askew.

Chapter 8 part 3 section 1