The Perfect Weapon Ending 2 Chapter 2002 Part 1
Ending 2: 2
Tap.
Tap!
TAP!
"Irina, might I inquire if you...require anything?" Sark asked cautiously, his eyes on the rigidity of her posture as she sat in her seat immediately after the near-debacle in Stuttgart.
"Yes," Irina said softly, modulating her voice with great effort and seemingly forcing herself to stop beating a tattoo on her armrest of the car. "I need a phone. A secure phone." She decided against ordering him to give it to her now.
"Of course. One is available in the case in the back seat. Do you wish to use it immediately or---"
"There is no emergency." Irina shrugged nonchalantly. "I merely wished to ascertain that you had one available for my own use at the earliest opportunity. We have been so rushed ever since my extraction and unable to talk privately, you and I..."
Sark inclined his head. "I understand. Our partnership with Arvin does not preclude, I would assume..." He trailed off and looked at her carefully.
She looked back at him and not for the first time contemplated slapping him for the ridiculous formality of his speech or rather, his tone. He had come to her speaking like that, so... afraid, she had thought. And the more nervous he had been, the more he had covered his fear with cold bravado and formal speech patterns. Then. In those younger years. The fear had long since gone, but the remnants remained, in his speech only. So long, so very long, he had been with her. It was a shame, almost, to use him like this. But... lesson learned, long ago.
"In this business, nothing precludes protecting oneself. A lesson I was quite certain you had learned long ago," Irina commented, looking out the window of the car. And a certain husband of hers had better have learned that lesson long ago, because when she found herself in his company again, they were going to have a discussion about information withheld and small, undetectable pieces of electronica known as passive transmitters.
Sark opened his mouth to make what she knew was a...the Americans would call it a smartass comment, but seeing the look on her face wisely decided to snap his mouth closed. She nodded approvingly. Sark had good instincts. Something else she could use.
Snap.
Snap!
SNAP!
Everyone in the Op Center looked up and then away, quickly, as Jack Bristow once again decimated a pack of pencils. No doubt, he thought, as he opened his desk drawer looking for a fresh pack, they were wavering between fear that he might explode any moment, grudging respect that he had correctly predicted Derevko's behavior and dismay over what they saw as a debacle in Stuttgart yesterday. There was probably also an element of shock that he had been such a... prick as to plant a passive transmitter during an intimate moment -- thanks to Marshall's comment, now everyone, including Sydney knew. And wasn't that special?
And, equally special, he thought, was the surreptitious glance Vaughn threw his way before he ever so casually ambled away, while flipping open his cell phone. What was next? He'd bet, he looked down -- a box of pencils -- that next he'd get a call from Susan. Which was not the call he needed. He forced his fear down and stood up to walk over toward Vaughn.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Irina paced back and forth, looking at her phone longingly. But not yet. She needed to think first. Her mind had been racing with options ever since racing away from the scene in Stuttgart yesterday.
People have patterns. And Jack's behavior in Panama, after she had seen herself in that mirror, as confusing as it had been, had to fit some pattern. Some pattern that included not telling her about the passive transmitter. That had been a just-in-case, of course. A just in case, he could not trust her. Sitting down with a deep sigh, she rubbed her temples. That puzzlebox of his mind. Thirty years later and....She smiled wistfully, remembering that young man who had advanced, then retreated, so ...careful. She rolled her eyes at herself. That was it. The pattern. Of course. Then, thirty years ago, he had been protecting his heart. Offering up little pieces of it, seeing what she would do. Baiting the trap in the game between a man and a woman to see how careful she would be in extending herself. And that's just what he had done, unconsciously she knew, this time. Then he had been protecting his heart. Now, now, he had much more to protect. Not only his heart, but Sydney.
But then again, the next time she saw him, he'd be wise to be protecting something else. Passive transmitter indeed. Looking at the phone Sark had given her, she smiled. Ha. The punishment could begin. He could wait for a phone call. Then she glanced at her watch. But then again, not too long. After all, she didn't intend to punish herself. Wait too long and it could backfire; Jack would worry. But, then again... She sighed. Damn it. He was right. The timing must be precise. She picked up the phone and looked at her watch again.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Jack sighed as he stopped in mid-stride to answer the phone. Looking at the caller id, he answered, "Hello, Susan. Let me guess. Dr. Barnett wants to see me to discuss my...feelings about Panama and the latest attempt--"
"How'd you know?" Susan interrupted to ask.
He threw a cold glance in Vaughn's direction, having rejected the notion of grinning at him. He didn't want to kill the kid after all, just...scare him. Slightly. Vaughn looked startled, his forehead wrinkled and then he looked nervous. He was, apparently, not as stupid as he appeared.
Jack stopped at Vaughn's desk on his way out and threw a box of pencils on it.
"What's this for?"
"You need to go back to spy school."
"I...what?"
"Close your mouth. Pick up a pencil. Take notes. Ready? Good. When you're setting someone up, don't look at them as you do it, don't walk away while flipping open your phone and have the person you're employing for your op wait a decent interval before setting up the meet."
"I've seen you look someone right in the eyes while you set them up and---"
"I hesitate to point out the obvious---" Jack sneered. Why not, he thought, he was good at that anyway. And a person had to play to their strengths, after all. Like compartmentalizing. Compartmentalizing was what allowed him to torment Vaughn and ignore the tension in his body that threatened to tighten his muscles into hard knots.
"No, you don't," Vaughn said sullenly, tapping the pencil box in front of him. "You live to point out the obvious and to say I told you so."
"Well, true." Jack forced himself not to smile. Then noticed that he'd had to force himself not to smile. Since when did that happen? Hmm, tormenting Vaughn was apparently a good way to relieve tension. He shook his head. "What I was about to say, when I was so rudely interrupted -- something you might want to avoid when the person to whom you're speaking is already irritated with you -- "
"But you're always irritated and you're always talking to Vaughn...." Marshall interjected from behind Vaughn. "Although talking is perhaps not the correct word. Not that I'm a wordsmith, mind you. Nope, not me. My expertise is in mechanicals and electronics, which doesn't mean, of course, that I can't do decryptions with the best of them. I admit that it's easier these days with computer programs that assist in decryption, not like the old days when you were learning it, Jack. Although I have to admit that I've read some of the codes you wrote and..." Marshall held up his hand and nodded his head. "Very good, very good indeed. Especially that code that...oops, I guess I shouldn't have brought that up. That code you and your..wife? Ex-wife? Well, that code. That one was...genius, for its time, I have to say, Jack. Mr. Bristow? Assistant Director? "
"It's quite irrelevant to me---" Jack began. Looking at his watch, he started to think that sitting on Barnett's couch trying to find ways to dissemble -- now that was a good word -- seemed preferable to the torture of this conversation. "And did you have a point?" Then he groaned inwardly. Why the hell had he asked that question? Why was he in the middle of this conversation anyway?
"Yes, I did actually!" Marshall held up his index finger and pointed it at Jack. "You're always lecturing Vaughn about something and if he didn't---"
"Good point, Marshall," Weiss agreed as he bit into a snack bar. "If Vaughn didn't interrupt, when would he ever get a word in?"
"The question is, why would anyone want him to do so?" Kendall asked with a smirk as he joined the group. "What are we talking about here, anyway?"
"It's amazing, isn't it?" Jack said to no one in particular.
"How Kendall feels free to interject a comment even when he knows nothing about the conversation? Yeah, amazing, alright," Vaughn said, picking up the box of pencils. Then setting them down with a snap, he looked up at Jack and said, "I thought you were on your way somewhere?"
"How...remiss of me to have nearly forgotten this exciting and ever-so effective addition to my daily plan. Excuse me!" Jack said sarcastically. "Thanks to Vaughn, I must hie myself over to Barnett and discuss my..." His lip curled as he began to walk away. "Feelings."
The disgust in his tone made everyone laugh. Until Jack paused, looked over his shoulder and gave them each a slow look. The group disbanded. Stalking into the hallway, Jack paused once again and flipped open his phone and dialed.
Ring.
Vaughn picked up his phone as it rang moments later. He sighed as he saw the caller id. "Jack?"
"I almost forgot to point out the flaw in your argument that if I have set people up while looking them straight in the eye, so can you."
"Which is..."
"You, Agent Vaughn, are not me." Then his finger on the 'end' button, Jack said softly, "And you can thank your lucky stars for that, can't you?"
"Yes, actually I can...." Vaughn said softly into dead air.
"What's up?" Weiss asked, around a full mouth.
"Jack... Can you imagine what it's been like for him?" Vaughn smiled as Sydney approached.
"Nope. Can't." Weiss took a last bite out of his snack bar and threw the wrapper out. "He needs a good---" He bit his words off as Sydney reached their desks.
"Needs what?" Sydney asked curiously.
"Your dad needs to... He's very stressed, don't you think?" Vaughn asked.
"My dad?" Sydney shrugged. "I suppose so. Hard to tell though."
"Hard to tell?" Weiss asked incredulously. "Seen the pile of pencils that met an untimely demise in his wastebasket lately?"
"What do you do to relieve stress?" Vaughn asked Weiss.
"Eat too much. Drink too much. What else is there besides oral gratification?"
Bite.
Bite.
Bite.
Aggravated at herself, Dr. Barnett put the half-chewed pencil down and met Jack Bristow's amused eyes. He was...infuriatingly opaque today. Admitted willingly enough that he was tense. "Of course, I'm tense," he had shrugged.
Admitted willingly enough that Derevko's loss in Panama was a blow. "Of course, I'm disappointed," he admitted.
"Disappointed?" She had asked. "I'm disappointed when the ice cream shop doesn't have Double Chocolate Fudge. Not bringing home Derevko, to say nothing of Sloane and Sark... that would seem to be a little higher on the frustration scale than having to chose my second favorite flavor--"
"Which is?"
"I'll ask the questions, Jack," Barnett sighed and picked up the pencil again and looked at it longingly.
"Are you going to bite that or throw it at me?"
"I'm still deciding."
"Personally I prefer to snap them into pieces."
"So I hear. Which would be a sign of stress."
"I already admitted to feeling stressed."
"So you did." Barnett refrained from the urge to cross her eyes. Jack hadn't been this difficult in...she sighed, days. "But tell me in your own words exactly why you're stressed."
"Let's see. My ex-wife entered into an agreement with the Agency, entered into a plan by which originally she would only speak with our daughter, gained my daughter's trust -- all for the express purpose of betraying us. Again. For Rambaldi, of all things. Rambaldi."
"And what else?"
"I, we don't have Sloane in custody."
"Yesterday, in Stuttgart, it's my understanding that you did not want to proceed with the op without a chance to acquire Sloane."
"No. He's the...big fish I want to reel in. The man behind the curtain. Sark..." Jack shook his head. "He's a little flying monkey. He needs someone to give him orders, he's nothing without someone giving him directions on where to fly next."
"And Derevko?" Barnett asked softly, watching him carefully. Regret was in his eyes. Concern. Anxiety. Determination. What did that all mean? "Derevko, Jack?"
He blinked and willed his eyes to opacity, hoping that the truth he had allowed his eyes to show would work here. "I wish, of course, that she had not betrayed us. Then. Now. But I did predict that she would. And I have no doubt that I'll be able to find her again."
"No doubt?"
"None." He nodded. The best lie was, as always, the one closest to the truth. Or in this case, the truth itself. Or the truth as long as Irina held up her end of the... No, she would, he told himself. Jack began to stand up.
"We're not done yet." Barnett pointed at the couch. "Just a few more moments. I want to talk about some stress management techniques for you. I know you're busy running game strategies."
"Am I?"
Barnett picked up the pencil and tapped it into her hand several times, refraining from the urge to slap a patient.
Slap.
Slap. Slap.
As Irina lightly slapped her brush against her thigh in restlessness, she contemplated herself in the mirror. Remembering the last time she had looked, truly looked at herself in the mirror, she shuddered. Putting the brush down, she shook her head. No, no breaking glass this time. This time... She touched her chin and ran her fingertips up to her eyes. This time she saw a whole person, not bits and pieces in fragments of silver. Or rather, the person she was becoming.
She rolled her shoulders impatiently, then raised her hands above her head and began stretching exercises. What she wouldn't give to be outside. Running. Running. She did her best work, often, while running. Shrugging, she began to jog lightly in place, closed her eyes and imagined herself on her favorite beach in Malta. Imagined running toward the endless horizon of bright blue Mediterranean sky, the sand gritty and warm under her feet. Moving, moving.... But this time, an end in sight. A true ending, that... she smiled suddenly, imagining Jack running next to her. A true ending that was merely a beginning. This time.
But first.
Game plan. The goal was, of course, Sloane. How she would like to just kill him outright. Neat. Clean. No fuss. Quick. But terminating him that way, right now, was really, she sighed, far too kind.
The means would be, as she and Jack had already determined, using his weakness against him. Which was, of course, not Rambaldi. No. Too easy. Too predictable. It was never wise to be predictable.
Except of course, when it was.
What was predictable about her was her obsession with Rambaldi. Sloane thought, Sark thought, that she was as obsessed with Rambaldi as Sloane himself. And...until recently that had been true; she frowned as she forced herself to stop in her mind's eye and look into the glassine mirror of the ocean at her feet and remember the whirlpool into which she had fallen. Forced herself so that she would not replicate that descent again. She could not, would not, be predictable in that way. At least not truly so. A little deception, of course, might be a useful weapon in this game.
What was also predictable to those who knew her or had known her as Laura was her love for her family. She shrugged, it was also known to her interrogators, their superiors, whoever had somehow procured that infinity charm and whoever had intercepted or received that message originally. That widened the scope of possible targets for the deployment of that particular weapon of predictability, should it prove necessary. But then again, she thought, feeling that little niggle at the back of her head, perhaps not. Perhaps it did not widen the scope, perhaps the scope was growing ever more narrow.
Perhaps she should use a scope to shoot Sloane in the head? Which gun? She preferred--
Focus, Irina, focus, she told herself. And right now, you need to narrow your focus. She concentrated on turning around on the beach and heading back home. Two predictable desires on her part. Rambaldi and her family. Always at war, at odds with each other. Just as....Sloane's same obsession and love for Emily were at war within him as well. How to use that?
Should she use those desires as apparent weaknesses? Did she have a choice, thanks to Jack? The passive transmitter had proven a weakness on her part if one's ultimate goal was Rambaldi. Could she turn a weakness into a strength in this game? It was, after all, a weakness Sloane would find utterly believable based upon what he knew. Or what he thought he knew and could predict. How to use that?
She jogged and thought. Then came to a stop. Bending over, putting her hands on her knees, she knew that Sark and Sloane would dissect her behavior, analyze it. Hopefully her honest surprise, combined with her subsequent behavior would lead Sark to conclude that she bore watching, that he needed to find some form of protection. And being aligned with Sloane or more importantly, finding out how Sloane intended to protect himself from Jack would make Sark a valuable commodity in the game. The game in which the ultimate power came from information. Could she use that against Sloane? Who seemed almost reckless in his lack of fear of Jack's anger. Who must have something... But fear of Jack. Could she use it to facilitate Sark's search for that something that Sloane must have? That something that Sark would need when Jack inevitably located him? She would have to separate from Sark, make him vulnerable, make him need to play that card....
But right now...
She needed to make a call. "Sark..." Irina said softly when he answered. "I find myself... exhausted and not ready, at the moment, to meet with Arvin to review Stuttgart. Would you mind--- I thought not. Please inform me of the entirety of the conversation...Certainly, I know I can trust you." Irina rolled her eyes. "No, I'm fine. I... just had to make a sizable incision to remove that transmitter and combined with a lack of sleep recently--" She bit her words off as if in embarrassment and then continued quickly, "I just want to lie down for a moment or two and I know Arvin is anxious...Yes, thank you." She flipped her phone closed and after setting it down, pulled open her shirt. She supposed she should cut that transmitter out.
How, she thought as she opened her kit and pulled out a scalpel, she wished she could call Jack and tell him, "The game's afoot."
Kick.
Kick.
Kick.
"You know, Jack, it might be a good idea for you to play a... racquet sport," Dr. Barnett had suggested when he sat back down on her couch. When he had said nothing, absolutely nothing, she had begun kicking her toe against the leg of the coffee table. "Tennis or racquetball or squash..."
"Unnecessary," he had gritted out, willing himself not to shift around on her couch. As distastefully necessary as it had been to deceive Sydney to protect her should Irina not prove trustworthy, deceiving Barnett had always proven much more difficult. "I go to the target range to relieve my stress. That works quite well. Thank you, however---"
"Perhaps tennis--" Barnett had begun. He had clenched, then unclenched his hand. If she began, she would continue. She always did. Sure enough, there she went. "I saw on your records that in the past you played tennis. Why not take that up again?"
"I... No. Not alone."
"You played doubles, then?"
"We played doubles. Before. Laura and I played doubles with Dave and his girlfriend of the moment. Doubles."
"Doubles..." Barnett had repeated. "Not singles, but doubles."
"In those days, I...liked partner games."
"Partner games?" She asked calmly, as if they weren't discussing... But he reminded himself, for all she knew, that's what they were discussing. Games. The garden variety kind. The kind on which a few dollars rested, at most. Not life and love and... hope.
"Yes. Like Bridge. Pinochle. Now, I find it's better to play... poker. My hand, my odds, my bet."
"Your bluff." She waited, but he merely nodded. "Well, then. Try racquetball."
"Because I can play that alone, if I had to?"
"If you had to. Or you could find a partner or..." When he just stared at her she sighed and shrugged. "Just think about it. After all, major muscle activity can help alleviate stress. If not a racquet sport, I also noted on your files that you skated?"
"Yes. I haven't in two decades, however."
"Jack, you've spent your life on thin ice. Somehow I doubt you've forgotten how to shoot the puck into the net."
"True. One doesn't lose long-developed skills, does one?"
"You tell me. Just what happened in Panama?" Judy shot at him. "Did you use skills that you had forsaken years before that night?"
His eyes flashed and he turned toward the window, but not before she had seen that hint of the predator he could be in them. After a second, he turned back to her and shrugged. "I did what was necessary to allow me to advance the mission as I thought best. And to move on with my life."
"I see you still know how to block a shot."
"Defensive skills are at least as useful as offensive ones."
"But I'm sure you excelled at that too."
"I excelled at stealing the puck."
"Is that what you did in Panama?"
"I'll leave that determination to others," Jack shrugged and reached for the glass of water in front of him. "And the test of time."
Scring.
Scring.
Scring.
Sloane's fingertip went round and round the rim of the glass.
Sark winced and turned, trying to tamp down his irritation as he attempted to analyze Irina's behavior since her extraction. It had been...odd. Not that he always comprehended her behavior or her motivations. But then again, since she never explained either...
Scring.
"Must you do that incessantly?" Sark asked. "It's quite irritating."
Sloane tapped the glass edge before putting his hand down on the desk. "Must I? No. There are many actions that are necessary. And many that are not. The key is to know the difference."
"If that is a recent translation of some Rambaldi hieroglyphics, I do wish you would---"
"Did Irina explain how Jack planted that passive transmitter on her?" Sloane interrupted and steepled his fingers before him.
"No. And under the circumstances, I did not feel it prudent to make inquiries." Sark frowned as he remembered Irina's...anger in the car. Or was it truly anger only? There had been something else there. Hurt? Embarrassment? And now, this... hiding in her room. It was embarrassment. Curious? Certainly. A cause for concern? That remained to be seen.
"Under the circumstances....?" Sloane prodded when Sark fell silent.
"Her obvious surprise, followed later by chagrin, for lack of a better word, at discovering that transmitter coupled..." His discretion, he thought, at refraining from smirking at that word choice really should be applauded. Alas, no one here would appreciate it. He sighed and continued, "With its...location indicate that the implantation must have occurred during a moment of marital reconciliation between the Bristows."
Sloane did smirk. Sark stared and did not allow his lip to curl in disdain at the sight. Truly that was most unattractive on the man; he should refrain from that expression. Perhaps he needed to look upon himself in a mirror occasionally. "Why that facial expression, sir?"
"Irina forgot one of Jack's favorite maxims. People have patterns." Sloane began to laugh. "Jack, Jack...You never change. But then again, why change what works? And a symmetry play?" He shook his head in appreciation. "You must be quite pleased with yourself, old friend." Sloane lifted the glass in a mock toast.
"I'm not---"
"Jack was just using an old trick on Irina." Sloane took a sip of his drink. "Quite effectively too, apparently."
"Trick?"
"The...what did he and Dave call it? The....screw and skedaddle. That's it. The screw and skedaddle. Or as some of us referred to it, the seduction and snatch or as the Soviets called it--"
"The in and out? Jack Bristow?"
"Yes. Jack actually...wrote the manual, at the time, on the method. Then he refused those missions. A mistake, really. A setback to his career."
"Why did he refuse the missions, then?"
"For his wife. She wasn't even his wife, yet. Nor his fiancé yet, if I remember correctly the timeline of his first refusal."
"He gave up those missions for...Irina? Deliberately sabotaged the speed of his career trajectory?"
"Yes. But not for Irina. No. For Laura. To Jack, there is a difference."
"But.. The irony. Irina was sent to perform a long-term version of the swallow mission and he was the one who wrote the male version---"
"Yes. A blow to his pride, certainly, when he discovered the truth which would---"
"Make employing the same technique on her, now, a truly delicious revenge." Sark smiled and ran a hand through his hair. "I must say, I approve. In the abstract, of course. On a practical basis..."
"We have the intel," Sloane shrugged. Then he frowned. "I wonder, however. Could she be working with Jack? Did she participate knowingly in the implantation as a way to flush me out?"
"In which case her behavior, the chagrin, the surprise was merely an act---"
"Of which she is fully capable, of course. She is a master of deception." Sloane nodded. "After all, she deceived Jack Bristow for ten years."
Sark opened his mouth to say, 'As well as you," but refrained. Pointing out such errors in judgment would not further his own career path, after all.
"Jack's heart was engaged, of course." Sloane shrugged and pushed the computer mouse idly from side to side. "It made him blind. And perhaps she was too, that night in Panama."
"That is the option two. As... inexplicable as it seems to me, that makes more sense than option one, believing she participated in Bristow's plan to capture you."
"Why do you say that?"
"Option one would presuppose that we would not discover the transmitter before Sydney and Vaughn discovered us. Too risky. Not the way Irina works."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Sloane mused. The kid might be correct. Laura had never been much of a risk-taker. That was why she would occasionally cheat at cards.
"I have spent more time with her in recent years than you, if you will permit me to continue?" Sark asked, refraining from sneering. Sloane waved his hand, indicating permission. Sark wondered if he was supposed to kiss the ring on it or merely bow from the waist. He bit back his irritation and continued. "I may not always understand Irina Derevko's motivations, but this I do know. As you said, people have patterns. And for the entirety of the time I have known her, she has been obsessed with Rambaldi. What I do have trouble understanding is why she would make the mistake of ...consorting with the enemy that way."
"Ah yes. Machiavelli. Chapter 10, I believe. If you consort with the enemy, always be prepared for a surprise attack."
"Yes. As she knows full well." Indeed, she could recite sections of that chapter, Sark knew. They had all had to memorize sections of Machiavelli. American teenagers were reading Catcher in the Rye, they were reading Machiavelli. How, they had always wondered, had America achieved such preeminence when their children were so ill-prepared for global domination? It was so illogical. Speaking of which, "Why would she, at this late juncture, jeopardize all for which she has worked for...a moment of lust?"
"She wouldn't. Not for lust. For love. Or what she believed to be love on his part."
"That would be an.. inexcusable weakness." Sark shook his head. And the Irina Derevko he had known all these years had no such..womanly weakness. Or was it, he wondered, thinking of everything Sloane had done for Emily, merely a human weakness? If so, he wanted no part of it whatsoever. These kinds of emotions were, clearly, untidy in the extreme. They clouded judgment and--
"Weakness?" Sloane shook his head. "We are all weak in the face of love. All of us."
Sark refrained from sneering. Love had nothing to do with his life and if it made one weak, he would make absolutely certain that it never did. Not this kind of love anyway. If Sloane were to be believed. Which was quite debatable. "But... that would presume that Irina loved Jack, which is impossible."
"Improbable, not impossible. Love him? She did." Sloane took a drink, then moved the computer mouse around in a random pattern on his desk.
"That is patently ridiculous. He was her mark and she would not have allowed herself, should she have actually begun to feel emotions for him. Or at least the Irina I know would not have."
"Yes. And therein lies the tale, Sark. You do not have the benefit of my knowledge, so I will forgive the insult -- this time -- of my analysis."
"Knowledge? Your relationship with them as a... couple before Laura Bristow disappeared?"
"Of course. Of course." Sloane sat up straight, tapped his fingers absently on his keyboard and then looked up at Sark. "But you believe her surprise to be real? Is that what your instincts tell you?"
Sark thought. "Yes. I do. My instincts tell me her shock and anger were real. In which case, of our two options, it would seem that Irina's loyalties ultimately rest with Rambaldi. Even if she had a momentary lapse of weakness. Jack did, however, score a point with his trick."
Sloane nodded. "Yes. Although Irina also scored a point, subsequently, by making away with the intel. What worries me now is...What will Jack's next volley be?" He stared at the clock on the wall. It could happen in the next minute or next month. With Jack one never knew. But he was ready; Jack had been right, there was no substitute for exhaustive background preparation.
And Sark wondered as he turned to stare out the window, would he survive the next volley in the game between Jack and Irina? He stared at the reflection of Sloane's hands on the keyboard in the window before him. Then he looked at his watch. Would he run out of time? Was this truly a war, of the most deadly kind -- the kind between lovers turned enemies? Or was this a chase game, that chase game of which she'd spoken years before as the basic game between a man and a woman? Either way, he needed to find a way to make himself valuable enough to save his life. Or perhaps he needed to find a way out of the line of fire.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
"Major muscle activity can help alleviate stress..." Jack said sotto voce, in a mocking tone. Which was ridiculous, he decided, since he was all alone. He could yell the words and no one would know. Or care. Or... maybe he should make an early exit from the pity party and just hit the damn ball again, he decided, twirling the racquet in his hand and picking up a ball from the basket. He'd try it again. Judy was correct, he did need to find a way to relieve stress. And without his lovely wife here to...assist in that endeavor, perhaps he'd bang the ball into the wall. Again.
"Jack?" came a voice from above stopping him in mid serve.
He looked up at the balcony overlooking the racquetball court. Well, he wasn't dead and that wasn't the voice he thought he'd hear then anyway. "Yes?"
"What are you doing?" The voice asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm throwing a ball against a wall." Great, he had rhymed. And been seen in sweatpants. Could this day get any worse?
"Ookay," a second voice floated over the railing. "No need to get all...agitated. I thought you were doing this to relieve stress, but seems to me that---"
"My question is hereby answered in the affirmative," Jack groaned and leaned against the wall. "Yes, this day can get worse. And hereby does."
The second voice continued in a whisper -- or thought he did, Jack decided with a roll of his eyes -- "Jack wears sweatpants?"
"What else would he wear in a gym? Suit and tie?"
"Well, I know the guy's gotta exercise, but sweatpants on Jack Bristow? Does not compute. Even if they are black."
"He probably owns a pair of shorts too, you fool. In black."
"Black? Sure. Shorts? No way. Noabsofrickngway!"
"Yeah and he probably looks better in them than you do, the way you keep snarfing down those snack bars."
"You have a problem with my legs, Mike?"
"I have a problem with this conversation!" Jack barked up at the Gruesome Twosome. Had he and Dave ever been quite this idiotic? Did Vaughn and Weiss know how lucky they were? And how little time they, no, no, he had? "It's wasting---"
"Your valuable time, right?" Vaughn asked with a small smile.
Jack straightened, picked up a ball and after a second's calculation, slammed it into the wall and up and over the balcony it went. Weiss swore and ducked. Vaughn burst out laughing as he reached out and snagged the ball.
"Let me guess," Vaughn commented, tossing the ball back to Jack. "Barnett suggested you beat a ball against a wall to relieve stress?"
"Yes. Thanks to your timely interference. And let me assure you that I intend to tell her that..." Jack picked up the racquet and once again slammed the ball into the wall and up to Vaughn. He sighed unhappily. "That this is not, in any way, shape or form as satisfying as going to the target range and shooting holes in paper people."
"Paper people that you pretend are...." Vaughn trailed off, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
"Kendall, would be my guess," Weiss commented. Searching his pockets, he pulled out a piece of gum and began unwrapping it. "I admit that's exactly who I often pretend I've shot in the head. The bald head."
"Whom," Vaughn corrected. It was somewhat...surprising to see Jack in sweatpants and tshirt, but they were black, after all.
"Whom? Whom what?" Weiss asked, chomping on his gum. Jack rolled his eyes and turned back to the basket of balls and picked one up.
"It's whom," Vaughn asserted. "Not who I shot in the head. Whom I shot in the head."
"No, it's not." As Weiss argued, Jack slammed the ball into the wall.
"It's who, Vaughn. Who." Jack sighed. Looking upward again, he asked, "Speaking of which, who sent you two out here?"
"And why are we invading your privacy?" Vaughn asked.
"You asked," Jack said, picking up another ball. If this continued much longer he was going to wing a ball directly at one of their heads. Now, that would be a truly excellent way to relieve stress. He stood there and contemplated the trajectory. No, he sighed regretfully, Sydney would be angry. And she was going to be angry enough at his deception -- assuming Irina came through -- that he didn't need to court additional hours of the silent treatment. Because, really, wasn't twenty years enough? "Who sent you out here to invade my privacy?"
"No one," Weiss shrugged. "Vaughn thought that---"
"Suddenly Vaughn can't speak for himself?" Jack asked sarcastically as he slammed another ball into the wall. "He seems to have quite a bit to say. Oh, but wait. That's on his phone, isn't it? Not face to face."
Ignoring the comment, Vaughn straightened his shoulders and tried again, "If racquetball didn't work for you, maybe you should---"
"I intend to go out to the target range," Jack said as he picked up the bucket of balls. He stopped as Weiss nudged Vaughn.
"You said you were going to invite..." Weiss began softly to Vaughn, then swallowed and shut up when Jack looked at him curiously.
"You do realize, Weiss, that it is incumbent upon...." Jack rolled his eyes. "Spies that they be able to whisper?"
"Yes, I'm aware of that!" Weiss protested. "However---"
"If either of you have something to say spit it out. I'm done here. This just may be one of the most stupid sports ever invented. You hit the ball and it doesn't stay there, it bounces all over the court."
"When you hit something, you like it to stay hit, right?" Weiss guessed.
"What would be the point otherwise?" Jack asked, shrugging his shoulders.
"I was on my way to the hockey rink," Vaughn blurted out, when Weiss elbowed him.
"Hockey?" Jack nodded slowly. "Barnett and I... Slamming a puck would be--"
"Do you play, Jack? Really play?" Weiss asked. Vaughn was dead if---
"Of course." Jack looked up and smiled slowly at Vaughn. "I'm from Canada originally. Remember? Or did you forget to do your background research?"
Yup, Vaughn was dead, Weiss thought, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. Heel to toe, heel to toe, he told himself, concentrate on that and not on the look of horror on Mikey's face. Laughing at this juncture was probably not advisable. Mike would punch him and Jack looked like he was just waiting for an excuse to slam a ball into someone's face.
"You played hockey?" Vaughn asked, feeling his heart sink. Was this proof of the maxim that no good deed goes unpunished?
"Not for many years. But..." Jack smiled again. "Judy is right. Hockey will be the perfect way to relieve stress."
"I'm glad," Vaughn said dully.
"Thanks for the invitation. It's been so long since I've been on the ice, but I think it's a skill one never really loses. Don't you agree?" Jack waved and took off quickly to return the balls and racquet to the desk.
Vaughn and Weiss began to walk down the stairs. Vaughn sighing again. It had seemed like a good idea, a nice idea when Sydney had mentioned that her father had told her he was going to the gym. Racquetball and Jack Bristow were just not a likely combination, he had thought. Thought he'd offer to show Jack how to shoot a puck into a net. Thought he'd.... Live to see another die, he meant day. How very foolish.
"Make sure you wear your mouth guard, man. That's all I'm sayin'." Weiss nodded as if, Vaughn thought, he had imparted some unique bit of wisdom. "Or maybe you want to wear double cups, tonight."
"Double..."
"Yeah. Perfect opportunity for Jack to make sure your family jewels never again get into the jewelry box of his family. Sydney. Ouch!" Weiss rubbed his arm where Vaughn had punched it.
"Geez!" Vaughn groaned as Weiss moaned. "I'm dead. Dead."
As they approached their cars outside the Agency gym, Vaughn noted, desperately hoping for an escape, "Jack, you'll have to rent some skates at the rink. My spare pair wouldn't fit you."
As Jack opened his car door, he looked down at Vaughn's feet and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose not. Your feet are substantially smaller than mine, are they not? But perhaps you have other skills to compensate for that deficiency. Or perhaps not." And he slammed the car door closed.
Vaughn stared at him, then turning to Weiss hissed, "How did he just turn a comment on skates into a disparagement of my...manhood?"
"I don't know. But the fact that you use a word like manhood, makes me want to make disparaging comments about it too."
"Hey! At least I have a girlfriend!"
"And apparently you've been reading the romance novels she keeps on her nightstand. I mean, really, Mike. Manhood?"
"Oh...get over it. Go home and take Alan for a walk."
"I will. Hey, you know what?"
"No..." Vaughn said, feeling tired already as Jack honked his horn at them.
"Maybe I should take Alan to an obedience class. Women would be there. Women who like dogs."
"Great idea, Eric," Vaughn sighed.
"But then again..." Weiss said, nodding in the direction of Jack's black car. "I'm not gonna complain. Look at Jack. The first time he's with the wife in twenty years and she runs off the next morning? That's gotta suck."
"No kidding. And the next time they see each other?" Vaughn asked as he opened his car door.
"Someone's gonna end up dead. Sooner or later. That's all I'm sayin'." Weiss jiggled the car keys in his pocket. "So, give me a call if Jack kills you."
"I can't call you if I'm dead!"
"In the world we live in, getting a call from a dead man would not surprise me in the least." Weiss then shook his head. "But then again, nah. It's the women who die and come back to life, right? And a call from the dead? Would that be the real definition of anytime minutes?"