May 29, 2002

Kagoshima City, Japan

Jack held a pair of binoculars up to his eyes, like any other tourist wanting a better view of Mt. Sakurajima. Very few observers would ever notice that his binoculars were aimed lower, at street level, specifically at a young woman striding confidently through the crowds.

Her hair - to be more precise, her wig - was blue-black, long and straight; Jack wondered if OpTech had chosen it so she might blend into the mostly Asian crowd lining the busy street. If so, he thought, they would have done as well to forgo the skintight red top and white-leather pants. He made a mental note to discuss the issue with Marshall, who could, and would, be made to see that his fantasy life shouldn't include using young female agents as his personal pinups.

Maybe he couldn't do a damn thing about his daughter working as an SD-6 agent, putting her life in danger every day for no greater purpose than making Arvin Sloane a richer man - but Jack could at least make sure Sydney didn't spend every other mission dressed like a hooker.

"You should stop watching her so closely." The voice struck pain in his heart, as it had for the past seven months. "She's been through all the training. She knows what she's doing. You have to believe in her."

Jack didn't bother turning around. "If you're as concerned about her as you claim, you'd be concerned about her first mission in the field."

"And you believe I'm not concerned about my own daughter?"

"You endangered Sydney's life and betrayed her loyalty to her country. It's not exactly a heartwarming display of devotion."

A hand pressed on his binoculars, forcing them down, and Jack had no choice but to look over at Irina.

To any casual observer, she probably looked like a typical American wife on vacation - sleeveless denim dress, a parasol and a tolerant smile on her face. A woman indulging her husband's tourist instincts: That was the idea. But Jack was close enough to see the eyes behind her sunglasses, close enough to feel the cold.

"I will only say this once." The smile never left her face. "You long ago forfeited the right to question me about anything I do, for any purpose whatsoever. I understand that, to defend your tenuous position in our daughter's life, you'll still question me whenever you see the chance. But don't ever make the mistake of questioning my love for Valentina again."

She always used that name. It made him remember times that he couldn't afford to think about too closely.

"Sydney," he said, stressing the name, "has entered the museum."

Irina took his arm; her fingers jabbed into his skin like talons. "Showtime."

It was amazing how angry you could be at someone you had wronged, for the most part simply because they reminded you of how you'd wronged them.

Together they turned and walked easily toward the Reimeiken, the museum in the ruins of the ancient Tsurumaru castle. The museum was a small local attraction, of interest primarily to historians and packs of schoolchildren, but among its many exhibits was a certain jade sculpture of a young maiden. In her hand was a scepter of gold. While Sydney took care of the museum guards - through a series of precision-timed movements that, in Jack's opinion, left far too many variables open - he and Irina were to retrieve the scepter.

("Our intel is limited," Sloane had said, his hands wide in a gesture of apology and helplessness. "At this time, we can't tell you precisely how to remove that scepter or what it means. That's why we need two Rambaldi experts on this - and nobody knows more on the subject than you and Irina -- I mean, Agent Derevko."

Jack had sworn, at that moment, that as soon as the CIA had shut down SD-6 for good, Jack was going to be the very first visitor to Arvin Sloane's cell, and he knew how to persuade the guards to look the other way.)

During the past few months, Jack had managed to exist largely apart from Irina; Sloane kept them separate at SD-6 as much as possible, obviously considering this a major favor. Jack kept tabs on her through his preferred methods: phone records and computer logs, all of them remote and solid and still. His work at the CIA absorbed as much of his supposedly "free" time as ever - more, for a while, as he'd had to convince them not to move independently against Irina. Jack had argued that a CIA capture of Derevko could only endanger his cover; he had never tried explaining to Devlin that he couldn't bear the thought of Irina being jailed again, not if he could prevent it.

As for Irina, he supposed she spent much of her free time with Sydney. Certainly Sydney no longer spent any of her free time with him.

But he hadn't been able to avoid Irina completely, and today -

"Try to look relaxed, Jack." Irina dug her nails harder into his arm. "Remember, we're a very happy family."

They slipped into the museum. The chill of the air-conditioning and the dimmer lighting made him blink for a moment, but then it was easy enough to take stock - as anticipated, the museum was quiet, sparsely attended. Irina folded up her parasol and took an English-language map, purely for show; each of them had memorized the layout before the mission began.

Together they made their way through the museum, pausing briefly to look at an ancient scroll or a Shimadu sword, as any tourists would do. But Jack's mind was clicking off the seconds as precisely as any stopwatch, calculating exactly the moment when they needed to be in position. Irina hesitated for a while before a brilliant blue kimono, embroidered with multicolored birds of paradise. Her bright eyes and slightly parted lips suggested that her attention was more than show, that she genuinely liked it -

--his mind flashed to a vision of her wearing the kimono, her dark hair falling over the silk shawl collar-

--but she soon turned and moved along, knowing their cue as well as he did.

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, She isn't the woman you knew. She hasn't been that woman in years. She's endangered Sydney - your daughter, your little girl - and handed her over to Arvin Sloane. You cannot afford to let your guilt and your - weakness - lull you into forgetting who you're dealing with.

His reverie was broken by a low, deep rumbling; the earth shook almost imperceptibly beneath their feet. Everyone paused, but most people just raised their eyebrows and laughed. After a moment, Irina smiled. "It's only the volcano. Let's keep going."

When at last they arrived at the statue, Jack cast an appraising eye over it; the pale-green jade was intricately carved upon every inch of its surface, save for the maiden's flawless oval face. In one slim, stylized hand gleamed the golden scepter; that hand bore the mark of Rambaldi, described in the museum's guidebook as "graffiti from unknown date."

"Isn't it lovely, dear?" Irina gave him a smile not unlike the one she'd worn when she bore down on his broken ribs in Latvia.

"Absolutely. Let's get a picture, shall we?"

Irina pulled the camera out of her tote bag and shooed him playfully toward the statue; Jack posed in front of it, which gave him a chance to scout the room. Only a handful of other tourists and one drowsy guard, none of whom looked too young, too elderly or too frail. Good.

"Big smile," Irina urged, still in character. She seemed to be going for some sort of Midwestern accent. Beneath the camera he could see her mouth twisting in a wicked grin. "Bigger!" Jack complied as best he could, which suspected wasn't very well.

In the far corner, the red light on the security camera blinked off. Jack felt a surge of pride and relief; Sydney had done her job.

He touched his left ear quickly. Irina cried, "Cheese!" Everyone else in the room, by instinct, turned to see who had shouted out so loudly. She spun around so fast that Jack barely had time to close his eyes -

("The human brain is only equipped to handle a certain intensity of visual stimulation - I mean, you can extend the brain's capacity temporarily, like, with certain drugs, most of them of the controlled variety, if you know what I'm saying. Not that I know this from personal experience, except, okay, college, might've smoked a few - not a few, I mean, one or two - okay. The point is, through flashing a beam that pulses at a certain wavelength, across a broad enough band of the UV spectrum, you can effectively shock the human nervous system into unconsciousness for five, maybe even ten minutes. No permanent damage, either, unless, you know, the fall, because if you just see this pulse and go 'Whoa!' and fall down, that's gotta hurt, at least when you wake up. So, um, loaded that up as the flash in your new Nikon DL100 - and all you have to do is be sure to close your eyes when the picture's taken or else, you know, nighty-night."

Irina had been staring at Marshall unabashedly throughout the entire explanation; and for the first and only time since her return, looking at her face had made Jack want to smile.)

--before hearing the soft thud of falling bodies on the floor. That same second, the fire alarm began to sound, and the emergency doors designed to protect the exhibits from fire or theft began sliding shut. Normally the guard would have shepherded everyone out before they closed, but he was sprawled beneath an antique shield.

"I told you Valentina could handle it." Irina dropped the camera in her bag.

Why in the name of God couldn't Irina understand that he didn't doubt his own child? Why didn't someone with her training and her experience realize that no agent was strong enough to avoid every potential danger that could ever come along? How could she stand there and smile at him, as though she'd proven a point, when Sydney's life was still at risk?

He said only, "Translate the inscription. We have to move."

Irina thrust her bag into his arms and stepped up to the sculpture's podium. Jack watched for a few seconds as her fingers brushed over the intricate carvings on the maiden's robe - actually an inscription in stylized Coptic, not a language that Japanese historians were used to looking for. Then he pulled out Irina's parasol and began unscrewing the handle and top.

"It's one of her hairpins," Irina murmured. "But this figure's unclear - could be a two or a four." After only a moment's deliberation, she said, "Four," and pulled out the fourth hairpin. He heard a click - a grinding of stone on stone - and then the scepter fell from the maiden's hand.

Quickly, he handed Irina the fake scepter as she handed him the real one. While Irina put the replica in place, Jack drew the sheath down over the genuine article. As he'd calculated, she didn't notice the strip he'd pulled from his pocket and now wrapped around the scepter as he worked. The strip would record the imprints of the real scepter for the CIA. SD-6 would still receive the genuine article; Jack had been unable to formulate any scenario that would prevent it.

The hairpin replaced, the statue grasped its fake scepter once more. Irina turned back to him just as Jack finished reassembling the parasol. Without a word, he went to the only window in the room - a narrow panel in the far corner - and smashed the parasol into it, shattering the glass. The alarm system, already wailing, gave no additional signal.

Is Sydney still upstairs? Jack thought. The guards would have been alerted to trouble in the security HQ first - the police should be on their way now, and even local cops are trouble if you have to deal with too many of them -

"What are you waiting for?" Irina stared at him from outside, her face framed in broken glass. "Or should I go to the bay without you? It would be a shame to tell Valentina I lost her father en route." She cocked her head. "Of course, according to you, she gets over that sort of thing very quickly."

She'd be the death of him yet.

**

They made it through the crowds of confused curiosity-seekers and evacuated museum guests easily enough, and began their walk to Kinko Bay. The day had grown overcast, not with clouds but with the eruption of volcanic ash from Mt. Sakurajima. Feathery gray flakes drifted down like snow; the locals paid little attention, merely shielding their eyes or ducking beneath the galleries that fronted nearly every shop on Tenmonkan Street for exactly this reason. Irina pulled out the scepter-parasol and unfurled it over their heads, pulling him a little closer so that they'd both be shielded.

It was part of their cover, no more, but the proximity of her body to his brought up memories that clouded his mind. Irina seemed completely unaffected.

For her, he thought, the past is meaningless. She sees the lies and thinks that's all there ever was.

Jack envied her that belief, its purity and its simplicity. His own epiphany about his marriage had come far too late. The woman he'd loved twenty-two years ago was, in effect, murdered by the KGB; the Irina Derevko who stood in her skin now resembled her only in appearance. He had done that to her as much as the KGB had - for better reasons, he told himself. Certainly he had believed so at the time.

In the years since, Jack had become far less secure in that knowledge. He could never ask for forgiveness; what had happened to her went beyond forgiveness. But he would have expressed sorrow for his wife's pain, if he thought there was any way she'd listen.

Perhaps there was one issue he could make clearer. If he was going to be forced to work with Irina Derevko for a long period of time - and it appeared that he would - this might bear explaining sooner rather than later.

"You've never asked me why I took Sydney with me when I left Moscow."

Irina's steps didn't falter, but her arm went rigid in his. "A tactical note for you, Jack: When you steal a woman's child, she doesn't really care what your reasons were."

"As soon as my cover was exposed, I knew you would be arrested. I knew the KGB was perfectly willing to use Sydney to try and get information from you, information you didn't have." He glanced sideways at her; her profile was emotionless, silhouetted in the falling ash. "You knew the people you worked for, Irina. You knew what they were capable of even better than I did."

"You're very brave. The noble protector."

"I need - I want you to know that I didn't plan for events to unfold that way. I never intended to take her from you. I wouldn't have done that, not if I'd had any other choice."

"I know you didn't plan it," Irina said. "Valentina told me all about that night; I realized as much then. That's the main reason I've left you alive. But believe it or not, Jack, your motivations don't matter that much. Not compared to the years I spent without her."

Jack took a deep breath; his eyes were stinging, no doubt from the haze of ash in the air. Kinko Bay stretched before them, lined with yachts and sailboats and Jet-Skis for rent. "All I'm saying is that, regardless of what you may choose to believe, I didn't do it to hurt you."

Irina was mad almost beyond her ability to hide it, now. Jack remembered the signs, the pressing together of her lips, the way her gaze darted too quickly from place to place. "Everything you did, all the lies you told - none of it was meant to hurt me. Imagine what you could do if you set your mind to the task."

He'd begun this conversation to soothe Irina, not to anger her - but any chance to shake her formidable control was too valuable to waste. So Jack pressed harder. "I acted for the best. I gave Sydney a good life, one she couldn't have had any other way. And I think you know that, but you'd never admit I was right."

"You've never understood the most important fact of all. Valentina's life is not entirely her own."

Jack understood her instantly; he'd wanted to have this discussion with her for seven months, but he'd known he would have to wait until she raised the subject. By making her furious, he'd finally gotten her to do just that. "You mean -- the Rambaldi prophecy."

He could tell that Irina was already mad at her own slip, but she answered him, "Did you believe I brought her to Arvin Sloane for the pleasure of his company?"

"No. But forgive me if I can't bring myself to believe that you sold our daughter into this life so she could chase after 'The Telling.'" He spat out the words as though they were a curse. That damned machine - a work of fiction, one that had set all this pain and betrayal in motion to begin with. "Or do you still believe in fairy tales?"

Irina's lip curled in a sneer. "No, not everything Rambaldi predicted turned out to be true. 'The Telling' is the prime example of that. But the prophecy is different. It tells Valentina's future. She needs to be in position to understand that future, and to change it, if that's possible."

"Change it? That goes against the entire idea of a prophecy, doesn't it?"

"Kovalenko didn't think so. And that's as much as I care to explain to you."

"The prophecy could refer to a thousand different women," Jack retorted. "Assuming it's true - which I never accepted and still don't -- I'll believe it refers Sydney when somebody proves it to me. I suspect that day is a long time in coming."

"You don't trust my judgment. Obviously."

"After thirty years of blind alleys, I don't trust anybody who puts much stock in the work of Milo Rambaldi. Or who turns Sydney's life over to Sloane."

Now livid, Irina whirled on him - but just as quickly, the anger in her face faded, replaced by a stillness Jack recognized as deep concern. "The ship's not docked."

Jack didn't turn to look; he knew she was telling the truth. "Can you see it? At all?"

"No, everything's hazy now. Give me your binoculars." Without waiting for a yes, she put her arms around his neck and lifted the strap over his head. He pretended to be consulting a map while she checked the horizon. "Not within visibility."

"We'll break radio silence," he said.

"It's not worth the risk. We're out of the museum free and clear. If Dixon's not here now, chances are he was only briefly delayed, and we have more exit options."

Sydney would be arriving at any moment, maybe free and clear of the police, but maybe not; there was no way Jack was going to endanger her getaway from her first mission. "We have the breathing room. We should attempt contact now rather than later, when we might not have the chance."

Irina, unconvinced, glared at him as he lifted up his watch, as though checking the time. "Bald Eagle, this is Blackbird. Confirm location."

Dixon's voice, tinny and small, instantly said, "K Directorate agents detected. Holding position offshore. Maintain cover."

Instantly, Jack shut off the radio contact; he'd transmitted their presence, but no doubt K Directorate was already looking for them - and for Sydney.

His eyes met Irina's, and he knew she was thinking the same thing; seeing her fear for their daughter, as bone-deep and sure as his own, surprised him. He wanted to reflect on that later. "You were mentioning exit options."

"The airport," Irina said. "We have alternate IDs and credit cards we could use to fly out to Shanghai. We could move more easily there."

Traveling publicly was often good emergency strategy in any scenario where your opponent wanted to avoid exposure as much as you did. He nodded. "We just need Sydney."

"She's coming. I know it." Irina's voice was low and soft, and there was a note in it he almost didn't recognize. She was comforting him - no doubt only by force of old habit, but Jack had never imagined the impulse was still there.

"Excuse me?" A female voice called out in English, bewildered but slightly humorous, too - like any lost tourist. "You guys look like Americans - as far as I can tell, in all this!"

Jack recognized the voice a split-second before the form became visible in the ash, tall and dark and powerful. He grabbed Irina and threw them both off the edge of the dock; even before they landed in a low boat, he could hear gunfire.

They ducked under the dock; no matter how flimsy the protection, it was all they had. "Anna Espinoza," he muttered as he held out his hand for the gun Irina had in her tote bag.

"Everything they said she'd be." Irina pulled out her own weapon. As one, they lifted their guns and fired up through the dock.

A splash, and Anna was in another of the rowboats, all of them rocking and shifting for balance. Anna fired again, and Jack barely had time to duck behind a post before a bullet whizzed by.

This is a turkey shoot, he thought. No strategy, no advantage, nothing.

"We have to get back onto the dock," Irina whispered, from her flat position in the boat, before holding her gun over the side and firing blind.

"Agreed. Any ideas?"

"No."

"Same here." He damned himself for his gut reaction; instead of saving them, he'd probably just postponed their deaths for about three minutes.

Irina said, "Next time, I devise the exit strategy."

A heavy splash indicated that Anna had leapt into a nearer boat. The water kept splashing against the dock, the boats, chopping up faster as a Jet-Ski got closer to the dock -

--and didn't slow down-

Jack turned just in time to see Sydney emerge from the haze, standing up on the Jet-Ski, one hand on the controls and the other holding her gun. She fired once, twice, then again - then dropped the gun and revved the engine even faster.

Sydney ducked the instant before the Jet-Ski met the dock; the machine powered beneath the low beams and straight into Anna's boat, sending Anna flying through the air and into the water with an outraged shriek.

Instantly, Sydney turned the Jet-Ski around, stalling the motor just as she went past the floundering Anna and delivering a hard chop to the back of the neck. Anna slumped into unconsciousness. Sydney draped her over a rowboat, a novice's act of charity.

But nothing else had been the work of a novice. Her confidence, her aim, her improvisation, her ingenuity - all those of an experienced agent. Even a great one.

"Well done, Valentina." Irina now sat upright in the boat. "Good thinking."

"We have to get out of here!" Sydney said. "Dixon's stuck out in the bay; he's a sitting duck. Grab a Jet-Ski and move, okay? They hotwire easy." Without another word, she started the engine again and took off, a rapidly vanishing shape in the water.

"I told you she could handle it," Irina said, and for once Jack was too relieved to argue.

They stole only one of the Jet-Skis, to minimize the noise and potential attention; Irina drove, and Jack took his place behind. Hands on her waist, legs bent behind hers, back against belly, thigh against thigh -- they hadn't been this close to each other in two decades. Jack found himself measuring the rise and fall of her breath beneath his fingers. His face was near her hair, which was tangled with flakes of pale ash that looked like snow. All in all, the effect was - stimulating. In ways he couldn't afford to acknowledge.

Almost purely for distraction, he said, "Our daughter can't be the woman in the prophecy."

"Believe what you want." Irina revved the engine and drowned their voices in noise, as they sped forward above the sea.

**

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