Irina's on her knees in the floor of a basement that might as well be a dungeon. Her body hurts in a dozen places, both from the fight she was in an hour ago and the beating she's pretending to take right now. The metal bracelets of the handcuffs around her wrists chafe at her skin, and it's so damn hot she feels like she's going to melt, or burn.
She looks up at Jack, who's standing above her with his fists clenched. None of the rest matters, because it's Jack.
"We can end this quickly," Jack says. His German accent's quite good; Irina can even hear the influences from growing up near the Polish border, the way Ingo Krauss did. He grips her chin, hard, and she winces enough for the guards to believe it. "You - I don't care about you. Do me a favor, tell me who you're working for, and I'll let you live. It doesn't matter to me."
For a few moments, Irina considers inventing a name, a backstory, all of it. Improvising on short notice is one of her specialties, almost a hobby. It would be interesting to see how Jack would play along; she suspects his own skills in this area are considerable, and this is one game they haven't yet shared.
But no. This scenario doesn't need to be embroidered upon, so there's no point in complicating their roles more than necessary.
Jack strikes her, hand open but hard, so that her head snaps back and she wobbles, off-balance, before falling onto her side. Shit - that hurt.
Of course, she reminds herself, some of the blows have to be real; there's no way to feign a beating without taking some damage. And Jack has chosen well. When she tries to breathe in, hot blood has filled her nose, slicking the back of her throat and spilling out onto her lips. A nosebleed will make this messy, and Irina will look as though she's in far worse shape than she is. All the same, this part is much less enjoyable.
So be it. It's Jack's hand closing around her shoulder and hauling her upright again; it's Jack's face so close to hers, his eyes dark with concern the wretches around them can't see. This moment is well worth the price of admission.
"Do you work for yourself, perhaps?" Jack squats next to her, studying her face with care. Irina can tell he's trying to see just how badly he hurt her. "These men believe a woman couldn't be in charge. I know differently."
Irina has to bite her tongue to stop from smiling. Baiting her like that - oh, she thinks, not fair, Jack. Not fair.
Maybe he sees that slight wavering in her composure. Maybe he's just continuing the charade. Regardless of his reasons, Jack shoves her to the floor, hands around her neck. He grips her very loosely, though his hands are appropriately tense. It's not even uncomfortable, and with the blood still flowing thick from her nose, Irina has little trouble pretending to cough and choke and struggle. It's mindless playacting, and she's able to use the opportunity to turn her thoughts to other things.
A few hours ago, Irina had little idea she'd actually get to be with Jack again. They'd received word that Ingo Krauss was in U.S. custody, and had expected this group to have fled soon afterward. It seemed like a good chance to pick off some abandoned wares. So it had come as an unexpected and delightful surprise when she'd scanned the armaments-storage chambers and recognized Jack's old code. At that point, she'd thought the CIA had already moved in. That made stealing the weapons a hazard, but still worthwhile. Besides, it would make a nice reminder for Jack. Forget-me-not.
Her eagerness made her move before fully calculating the possibilities; CIA custody for Krauss plus a CIA agent's involvement had made Irina assume that it was the CIA she was dealing with. An amateur's error, one only desire could lead her into - and one that Irina doesn't plan on making again anytime soon. She'd gone in expecting that the perimeters would be guarded by CIA agents, with standard-issue equipment and standard-issue minds. Instead, she'd run into a pack of half-drunk teenagers with Uzis, less predictable and more trouble than any professional force. Irina put up the fight she knew they'd be expecting, but all the while planned on talking her way out of this after getting to headquarters - and, of course, finding out just how Jack was involved in the first place.
Now that she's here, Irina thinks it's in her best interest to stay put for a while. She can handle this scenario; so can Jack.
And if worse comes to worst, Katya will take care of it. Katya is so very close by.
Irina opens her eyes, as if in a last desperate plea for air. Jack's face is near hers, his expression set, his lips pressed together in a pale line. Oh, yes, Irina remembers - Katya is very close indeed.
Jack gets up and dusts himself off; he looks a wreck, his pale suit dirty and sweaty, his hands dark with her blood. Irina curls into a ball, as if trying to protect herself. Coolly, he says, "Put her in the back room. Leave her there."
"You giving up?" says the tall one, the one who seems to be the leader.
"This one," Jack says, nudging her feet with one of his own, "won't be beaten down. She'll be worn down. Time is what she needs, Eduardo. Time to think about just what can happen to her here."
Good. Jack gave her the name, Eduardo. Never know when that might prove useful.
Eduardo steps closer; he has a long, horsey face, handsome in its way, arrogant to the core. "Why does she have to think about it? We can show her. You don't want to do it? I can do it." The tip of his tongue flickers at the corner of his mouth.
"I told you before, we're doing this my way. Or we can end our business here and now." Jack folds his arms, just the way Krauss does. It's a delight, really, watching him play the games she normally thinks of as her own.
"Your way, then." Eduardo isn't happy; Jack's pushing him right to his limit - but, so far, not past it. He gestures at a door that seems to lead to some kind of storage area or closet; there's a reinforced glass panel in the door, so probably they'll leave her hands bound. Damn.
Jack hauls her to her feet and shoves her toward the doorway as one of the young, gun-toting men opens it. She makes sure to stumble a few times, as if disoriented. When he pushes her inside and forces back down onto the floor, his hand is on hers. He brushes his thumb along the curve of her palm, the smallest and most gentle caress imaginable; Irina is startled to feel her throat tighten.
"Later," Jack says, slamming the door behind him.
Irina stretches out on the floor; no furniture in here save for one metal table that would make an even worse resting place than this. She rests her heavy, aching head on her arms and wonders if she should cry, as part of her disguise. Finally she decides there's no point.
**
"I'm glad I bargained for the pillow and mattress," Irina tells Jack. "Now you can use them."
Jack nods. He is pacing the edges of the glass cell like a cougar in a zoo. "Why am I in here?"
"Because I'm not." Irina feels as though there should be more to the explanation than that, but nothing comes to mind. "I'll visit you sometimes. Bring you Chinese food."
"I'm hungry," Jack says. He pauses in front of her, then leans against the glass the way he used to, the way that tells her so much.
Irina says, "I'm hungry too." She splays her hands out on the glass, palm to palm with him, and she wills the wall between them to melt like ice. It's as cold as ice.
Then Katya steps up behind Jack, sliding her arms around him - one over his shoulder, the other around his waist. Jack breathes out in a sigh, and Irina can't tell if it's a sigh of resignation or of relief.
Katya says, "I'll take care of everything." Her hair is long and silky, the way it was when they were girls. Some of it falls over Jack's shoulder, and it shines in the light.
"Why are you in there?" Irina asks her sister.
It's Jack who answers her. "Because you're not."
Irina jerks awake with a start. For one moment, she is disoriented and upset; then she tries to breathe in, feels a jab of pain in her injured nose, and remembers where she is. She also remembers all the good reasons she has not to sleep.
Some of the henchmen who've worked with Irina whisper, behind her back when they think she cannot hear, that she never sleeps. This is untrue.
No, she never has to sleep; it's not a necessity. Autocircadian meditation allows her to rejuvenate mentally and physically in only a couple of hours, during which she is conscious enough to be alert to potential trouble around her. So when she's on a mission where time is tight, or in company she doesn't trust, that's what she relies upon.
But when she has the luxuries of time and safety, she also indulges in the luxury of sleep. Sleep is more purely pleasurable than any activity besides eating or sex; Irina often wonders if people who have to sleep ever fully realize this.
The only other time when she sleeps is when she's trapped. During her months of confinement in Los Angeles, Irina slept nearly every night; it ate up some of the endless hours during which she couldn't talk to Sydney or Jack. And so she allowed herself to catnap this afternoon as she lies on the floor.
Dreams - Irina could do without dreams. Usually she doesn't remember them. But now the image of Katya with her arms around Jack is painted in her mind, indelible and unchanging.
The image doesn't disturb her. Maybe it should. Irina closes her eyes and begins the cycle of breathing that will lower her into a meditative trance, where she will be beyond the reach of memory, or of dreams.
**
Jack doesn't come back until just after sundown. By that time, Irina feels like herself again.
He comes through the door with a bag that she suspects contains something to eat - a rumbling in her stomach underlines this hope - and a large plastic tumbler of water. He hands it to her without the slightest change in his stony expression, but he says, "Are you all right?"
So. They're being watched, but not listened to. Irina keeps a blank, frightened expression in place. "Fine, except for wanting a bath."
"I know how you feel." He's still speaking with the German accent; sometimes, once you've nailed a difficult speech pattern, it's best to keep it every second until it is no longer necessary. But it renders his conversation slightly surreal.
Irina unwraps her dinner, which seems to be strips of beef wrapped in a tortilla - better by far than she was hoping for. Greedily, she wolfs it down; her mouth is still sore from the blows, but the hunger outweighs the pain. "Tell me, Jack." She talks through a mouthful of food. "How badly have I wrecked your plans?"
"You've done enough," he says, which tells her nothing at all. Smart man. "How badly have I wrecked yours?"
He doesn't realize that she came here primarily to be near him - or, if he does, he's not going to admit it. Just as well. They need to discuss logistics first. "I don't need anything but an exit. When can you get me out?"
Jack breathes out heavily. "Not sure. I'm going to have to engineer a distraction without CIA resources, and I'm not going to be able to do that today."
"How long do we have?"
"Three days, maybe four. I don't have an exact arrival time." Then he relaxes, his posture shifting as he drops the indifferent mask. "We're alone. Irina, I'm sorry."
"For what? For this?" Irina points at her nose as she gulps down some water. "Really, Jack. It's not as though I didn't have it coming."
That hits him every bit as hard as she'd hoped. "I didn't like doing that."
Or he didn't want to like it. The former is more likely, Irina thinks, but she wouldn't mind getting in touch with Jack's darker side again. An experiment for another time. "Tell me - how is Sydney?"
"Better, I think." Jack is never more handsome to her than when he thinks about their daughter. Something in his face changes, becomes softer and yet stronger. "She misses Vaughn badly. Other than that, I think she's getting her bearings. Knowing that she was the one who erased her own memories - it doesn't make up for the lost time, but I think she doesn't feel as powerless anymore."
Irina doesn't react in surprise the way she ought to, doesn't ask the questions she should. That particular charade is over. She says only, "I'm glad."
"You were with her, in Rome."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"I found out after you were imprisoned, not before." He must believe this - if he never believed her before, if he never believes her again, Irina needs him to know that this much is true. "I would never let you think that Sydney was dead, not if I knew otherwise."
"I realized that." Jack kneels beside her, examining the damage he's done to her face. "When we talked on the computer - she'd asked you not to say anything, hadn't she?"
Irina nods. Jack's understanding surprises her, perhaps more than it should. "She made me swear never to reveal it. Not even to her."
"I suspected as much." They're so close now. Irina longs to kiss him, and knows he wants the same, but they can't afford to relax their guard that much; they may be unobserved for the moment, but there's no telling when someone will walk up to that glass-paneled door. Instead, Jack dabs a handkerchief with some of her water, then strokes the dried blood from her face. Each cool touch makes her shiver. "During those years - when Sydney remembered what they did to her -" Jack's eyes are hard now, and Irina knows that members of the Covenant will see his dark side someday. "Did you - did she let you take care of her?"
She closes her eyes, so he can't see how much his question moves her, or how much the answer hurts her. "No."
Sydney was so damaged. So broken. They spent more time together than they had since her daughter was six years old; they even lived together for a month. April in Rome. Sunshine on the cobblestones, church bells chiming on the hour, a stone angel that guarded them during the night. Those should have been among the happiest days of Irina's life. But the only times Sydney even seemed alive were when they talked about the past, when they were all a family. And she wouldn't talk about those days often. "Jack, when I looked into her eyes, I couldn't find her there. A stranger stared out at me."
"Jesus." Jack breathes out heavily. "She doesn't remember any of it. Sometimes she dreams - but that's all."
"Good." Irina found the doctor for Sydney; she went with her to Hong Kong, hating every moment of the journey, knowing that most of the few memories Sydney had of working with her mother were about to be destroyed forever. But it was the last thing she could do for Sydney, so she did it. "Now - does she let you take care of her?"
"A little. She doesn't talk to me about what's on her mind very often, but - she talks to me. We spend more time together." Jack's face has taken on a light Irina never saw during her seven months of captivity in Los Angeles; it reminds her of when Sydney was tiny, and she and her father shone in each other's orbit like twin stars. That tells her more than his words do. Irina is both grateful for the love Sydney and Jack have and jealous of it; then again, those warring emotions aren't new. Then he says, "I got you into this mess."
"That doesn't matter, as long as you get me out of it." Irina is still fairly sure she could remove herself from this situation on her own, though the means might be distasteful; Eduardo didn't bother disguising his interest in her. Far easier and more enjoyable to watch Jack do the work, in an attempt to exorcise his ill-founded guilt. "What kind of distraction are you going to create? I'll do my part when the time comes, but it would help to have warning."
"I'm still working on that."
Irina considers her next move carefully as she finishes her water. On the most basic level, it's the prudent thing to do: safe, reliable, certain. On another level altogether, it's a very risky play - high stakes and uncertain odds. But that gives it a certain luster, in Irina's opinion; whenever she's in Monte Carlo, baccarat is her game. "I have an idea."
Jack smiles. "Thought you might."
She watches that smile very intently as she says, "We should bring Katya in on this."
God, the way his face changes. The smile's gone in an instant, but not because he's upset or dismayed. Instead, Jack's face is blank, the way he thinks is unreadable. It tells her too much. "Katya's here?"
"Our base of operations is a ship, the Lastochka, docked at Rivas. Tell the guard that you're part of the Portuguese network, and the password is 'Lindisfarne.' They'll take you up to her."
"And she can bring your resources in on this. We can plan, get you out of here long before the CIA shows up." He's so businesslike that it's almost convincing.
"Katya will be very surprised to see you," Irina says. "Of course, she won't let it show."
"I'll go tomorrow, early, before most of these men wake up." Jack's eyes meet hers, and for the moment at least, his attention belongs to her alone. "While I'm gone, I won't be able to protect you."
Irina allows her hands to brush against his; the chain between the handcuffs clinks. "I'll take care of myself until you come back."
"As soon as I can," Jack says. "I should go. Much longer and this will be suspicious."
She nods as he rises to leave. Just before he opens the door, she whispers, "It's good to see you."
"And you." He watches her for one moment more, stone mask already in place. But his voice is still human as he says, simply, "Irina."
Then he's gone, and she's alone in a room that's becoming darker by the moment.
The next time Irina sees Jack, he will be coming to her from Katya. And then she'll know more. So much more.
When Irina sent Katya to Jack, she knew they would be attracted to one another. In fact, she had counted on it. Katya's help was necessary to ensure Sydney's safety, and Katya has been recalcitrant lately, impatient to destroy Sloane, chafing under Irina's orders. Best, Irina thought, if Katya felt that she was doing it for her own reasons - even that she was doing it for Jack's sake. As for Jack, Irina knows well the effect long-term solitary confinement has on the mind. Freedom returns long before control, and if the right woman showed up at the wrong time, there could be - inconveniences. Nothing Irina couldn't handle, but she'd prefer not to handle it. Best, she thought, to engineer an infatuation for him with someone she knew well and had some control over. Jack and Katya had similar personalities; she thought they'd strike sparks, and she intended to use those sparks for her own fire.
As far as it went, the plan worked. But as Irina knows, her problem is never that her plans fail to work. The problem is when the plans work too well. Jack and Katya - that may have worked too well.
Setting her thoughts aside, Irina pushes back so that her back is against the wall, the stucco hot even after dark, even through the fabric of her tank top. Sweat beads up along her forehead and her arms; she welcomes the cool moisture and concentrates on it, becoming only her skin. Only a shell, something that cannot hurt or think or plan or dream.
**
Read on to the next chapter.