The Perfect Weapon Chapter 9 part 2
Chapter 9: Part 34 (2)
"Irina, we need to get going! What are you doing in there?" Jack asked testily. Irina smiled mildly at him, knowing it would just annoy him further. Hoping she would make him angry. Angry was good, angry would get her to the truth. A reference to the past would add fuel to the fire, be a way to test her fear that Jack had removed Sydney's memories. Perhaps it might even serve as a means to jump start her ability to remember. A what was it Jack used to call it, a tripleplay? So….
"Sydney, don't these colors remind you…."she began, as she smoothed the fabric of the two saris before placing them carefully under the seats of the truck. She felt rather than saw Jack's head snap to attention.
"Of what?" Sydney asked curiously, looking up from her pack.
"These colors - the colors of my sari? Don't they look just like…" She paused, waiting, hoping Sydney would feel a flash of…something. She needed Sydney to remember, just as she needed Jack to remember. How could they have forgotten? She had not, could not, never wanted to. If they had lost or chosen to misplace their memories, she had lost them.
Sydney looked from one to the other parent, then asked slowly, "Look like what? What do you mean, I don't understand…"
"Don't these colors remind you of our house? I assume that's why your father chose them - he always loved these hues." Without looking at him, she could feel Jack's attention, his glare on her. Point to her.
"Our house? These colors?" Sydney asked quizzically, then shrugged and said, "No."
Irina stared at Jack. He stared back, started to say something, then clamped his lips shut. Why had he done that? He was letting her play this hand out. Why? The only way to know was to call his bluff.
"You don't remember? How can that be? The inside of our house was painted in bright colors like this - yellow, magenta, reds…warm colors…"
"It was? I don't remember that. Maybe you're thinking of before I was born? The house had a lot of wood, but all the walls, curtains were white," Sydney said firmly.
"White…? The outside of the house was white, but inside…." But Jack had liked, loved the colors…No, no….She wanted to stop this train and jump off herself. She didn't need Jack to push her out, she'd do it on her own. Anything to stop the memory of why she had redecorated, anything…. This interaction, she could tell, was about to become painful enough without opening the compartment containing the memory of Dave's visit.
Damn it! Now she was stuck. Unable to move, knowing there was a mine everywhere she stepped. She looked up at Jack, willing him to help.
Jack jumped into the breach, picked up the cue, as always. He said softly, "The bathroom upstairs - remember it was a deep blue and one day you painted fish on it with your paints?" Thank god, he did remember this at least. He did. So…he must not have hypnotized Sydney if he was willing to assist her like this. He must be the man she had known. A part of her sighed in relief, while another part of her still cringed intuitively at what lay ahead.
Her forehead creased, Sydney murmured, "No…"
"The kitchen - those different shades of saturated yellow?'' Irina asked.
"No…"
"Your bedroom. That deep purple, you had to have it? " Jack asked, grimacing at the memory.
Sydney shook her head.
In desperation, Irina asked, "Remember our bedroom? It was a red, a deep deep red, really a burgundy. You said one time it looked like the inside of my---"
The words snapped out, "Your jewelry box. The big one I was not allowed to go into. The red. Or…Burgundy and the curtains and…. Wait, I remember now. The gold and silver trim…." Sydney stopped, her face looked as though she was going to get a headache concentrating. "After you….left…" Sydney stopped and stared at her father. His face softened and he nodded at her as he moved, one little step, closer to his daughter, their daughter.
Syd nodded back at him, clearly her father had given her permission to continue…Irina tensed, sensing danger. What truth was she about to hear that she did not want to hear, that he wanted her to hear?
"Dad spent weeks and weeks painting all the walls white, replaced everything. Said we needed to make a fresh start. I helped him, a little…." She trailed off, looking away, then focused on her father. " I… remembered something," she said in surprise.
"Of course," Jack said softly. "Colors are quite…evocative, emotional, aren't they?" Looking over at Irina, he commented without inflection, "That was a good idea to use those colors, to try and help her remember something. Thank you."
That…that…that…! Words escaped her. He had set her up, using her own ploy. And he had complimented her in front of Sydney, thanked her! A good move. He had always been so good at bluffing. He had just taken her chips. Damn him!
The truth was why he had allowed her to play out the hand. So, he, or rather Sydney, even better, could lay out the cards one by one and allow her to see, slowly, just how badly she had lost. She had wanted Sydney to remember, but had not expected that the memory would cost her.
Stab. Point to him.
She looked up, slowly, to see his face. No mask this time. Complex emotions were there. Love and concern for his daughter. Triumph. And was that -- sorrow, too? But it had come and gone so quickly, she might have misread his expression. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him.
As they walked to the site, he watched her carefully. Finally, as he expected, she dropped back and speared him with a glance. Looking at her as blandly as possibly, he raised his eyebrow. "Yes?" he asked.
"You painted over all those walls? Even the dining room - that red you said you loved? Our bedroom?"
Jack wanted to stare at her in amazement, but looked straight ahead. Sometimes he thought that she believed that he and Sydney had been like flies trapped in resin, turned to amber in the instant she chose to leave them. As if nothing would change, that after twenty years she could waltz back in and just pick up. That she had a right to be hurt because he had redecorated? And our bedroom?
"I hesitate, so very much, to point out the obvious, but I no longer had a wife at the time, so it was my bedroom to do with as I saw fit," he corrected. "You have a problem with that?"
"The problem I have with that is…" She trailed off as Sydney looked back at them, no doubt expecting them to come to blows at any minute. They both smiled innocently at their daughter, which only made her look more suspiciously at them.
"You were saying…. you have a problem? I'm sure you have many…so why not start a list and we'll work our way through? I mean we have time, Irina---"
"Yes! Thanks to your idiotic stubbornness we have time!" God, it was truly so much fun to irritate her. He had missed…Oh no, he needed to stop that thought in its tracks.
"Your point?" he sighed melodramatically. 1, 2, 3…
"The paint! Why did you paint over the house? White?! You said that the Chinese thought of white as the color for funerals, when you said you loved what I had done. And I know you weren't lying to be polite - you're just not that polite. So don't give me that crap about making a fresh start! " She stopped and grabbed him by the arm.
"But that is the truth," he said softly, looking her in the eyes. "Those colors reminded me of…you. And let's face it - why would I want to be reminded of the woman who had probably used the excuse of redecorating to plant bugs everywhere in the house?"
A part of him winced at the memory of coming home from prison to see the house, automatically beginning to relax as he felt enveloped in the warmth of the interior and the memories of her obsessive work on painting every room in the house some richly saturated color. She had said it was a gift for him, to help him feel warm ….No, he would not remember what she said, just what she had done.
All of a sudden, she had gotten this notion and had been relentlessly single-minded. Every time he had come home from a trip a new room had been done. She had insisted that she did not want his help except for occasionally hanging draperies, had insisted that she was doing this for him….No, he would not remember that, that…lie, he had thought standing there, throwing off his clothes so that he could wash away the stench of prison, the stench of his foolishness. He had thought about ripping every wall open, sure he would find bugs everywhere, that hardwiring the house had been her goal, not…what she had said. Even their bedroom, he was sure, the bedroom that had been last on her list. She had laughed every time he asked about it, told him she was saving the best for last. And she had, or so he had thought; he would never forget that night…
On his way to the shower, he had had to sit down on their bed, his bed now, looking at those walls, seeing that jewelry box…it had been too much. He had practically raced out of the room, straight to the bar in the living room. Anything to avoid the pain, the truth. And the next day had bought gallons upon gallons of plain white paint.
"That's not why I did that and you know it," she protested.
Looking over at her, watching her brain work as she digested his words, seeing what appeared to be genuine distress, Jack was astonished that he had just spoken the truth with his last words. To her of all people. And it upset her? Go figure - the truth worked. Wasn't that a kick in the pants? Oh well, truth had its uses. Sometimes, anyway.
He wondered, idly, if she had believed him before about the scar on his lip, about not removing Sydney's memories. He was halfway appalled that she believed him capable of stealing his own daughter's happy memories. Okay, he had thought about it, he admitted it. But in the dark of night, he had been honest with himself, allowed himself to feel the pain of having his own memories stolen, transformed into sharp-edged knives of bitterness and humiliation that cut him from within. He had known that he could never do that to her, steal her memories. No, Sydney's memory loss was truly the result of the trauma. Sometimes he wished he had been so lucky. Lord knows, he had tried with the drinking, hoped it would help him forget. That hadn't worked. All he had to show for the drinking was his shame at his weakness at his use of alcohol to try and control the pain. Oh, and the scar.
So, he shrugged and replied, "What do I know?"
"I swear, Jack, if you step on a mine, I won't help you out!"
"Sure you will. You have to." He smiled complacently.
"No, I don't. I…." She trailed off. She looked at him, realizing belatedly the trap she had set for herself. Not realizing hopefully, that he was caught in the same trap, courtesy of their daughter, walking ahead of them, looking back every few feet. She was, he told himself, their only connection.
"Yeah. If you, who profess to know every stinking mine for miles after nineteen years, allows me to die, Sydney will think you planned it that way. Won't she? And then, your supposed goal of bonding with your daughter will probably be…somewhat difficult, will it not? Not that I'd ever try and tell you how to play a game, of course."
She would like to swipe that smug look right off of his face.
Well, he had not been so smug later, when he had fallen on that mine, had he? He had certainly looked frightened when she told him he was on a mine after that firefight. And how had he sensed that ambush? How ironic that he was the only one to sense the danger and he was the one to end up on the mine.
She was shocked that he had made that mistake, telling Sydney to use the uncoated scissors. He knew better…But, he had seemed scared, which explained…. Which explained nothing! Which should have warned her. Stop, stop, stop. She was a fool! Jack Bristow showing fear, showing fear in front of her, Sydney? Not bloody likely. So, what game had that been? Of course. She nodded in his direction, one master gamesplayer to another, acknowledging the win. He was waiting to see if she would catch the error. If she would save him. If she had not caught it, he would have told Sydney at the last minute. God, he was good at this game. She, however, would be better. She had to. Her goals depended upon it.
And then she smiled in relief. Actually, that save had netted her one of her goals. It had to have proven, or at least help prove, that she was trustworthy. They were even. Unless he thought that she had saved him merely to prove that she was trustworthy. Damn him! Maybe they weren't even.
They walked side by side through the sewer, Sydney following them, covering them. Irina stumbled on a rough spot, felt his hand grab her arm, catching her, preventing her from falling. Feeling his gaze on her, she looked over at him, nodded her thanks. He nodded in return. They both turned their eyes ahead, trying to pierce the darkness of the tunnel.
Hours later, he stared at the back of her head, trying to pierce the darkness of her mind. He had long since given up the idea, the practice, of piercing the darkness of her soul because he was not certain she had one left. Moreover, given the fact that he was sure he had lost - no, that was not correct - he had traded his soul away long ago, unwittingly to be sure, when he had fallen for the temptation she represented. Without a soul of his own, he was not certain he would recognize another's if he saw it.
Feeling the shackles at his wrist, he forced his mind to analyze her game plan, which must be more complex than he had been willing to imagine earlier. If she wanted to infiltrate both the CIA and SD-6, this step made no sense. The game was too elaborate to achieve the relatively simple goal of eliminating or interrogating the Bristows, Sydney and Jack Bristow. Had their capture been an error? After all, he and Sydney had been easily available the last twenty years if she had wanted to kill or capture them. Or…. a little voice whispered softly, afraid of being smothered and stuffed into that tiny compartment where hope once resided if it spoke too loudly…. or if she had wanted to contact them.
Surreptitiously she looked back at him, gave him a fierce glance. What was that? Had she just warned him? Warned him of what? He sighed. Oh, for the love of god, she had a plan. Sighed again, thinking, it might have helped, Irina, if you had let me in on your little Plan B before Cuvee walked into the room. Communication, teamwork…oh, what the hell was he thinking. She was a lone wolf. She would not tell him or anyone the entire story unless she had no other option. Just…just like him. If they got out of this mess alive, he had to devise a way to push her to point non plus in this little game of hers, to reduce her choices to one: telling the truth. Without giving away any of his own truths, of course. He snorted to himself. She looked back again, her eyes flashing, irritated. He felt his spirits rise. Okay, this was almost worth it, knowing he could still annoy her so easily.
Later, sitting in his cell, looking at her lying face, he felt…what was that feeling? He stared at her, feeling - more than any other feeling - sadness. That this woman, who was at least in part Laura -- whom he had loved, adored, cherished, considered truly extraordinary -- that this woman, the mother of his only child, had whored herself with this….piece of slime to further her goals. That she had taken what could be the most transcendent experience and turn it into an exchange of bodily fluids and coldness. But who was he to talk? What had he done after she left but the same? And what did he know - maybe she had thought she had whored herself with him? Maybe she had feelings for that man. Maybe her heart was not frozen. Probably not, she had been the agent of their lives, not the victim. Any coldness she had within was her own choice.
Looking at her husband, she felt a wave of coldness trickle up her spine. Why did Jack look like that? Surely he was not buying the line Cuvee believed in and was selling, was he? So, why did he look so sad? What game was he playing? Was he trying to mute the threat he posed? Not a bad notion, actually…Well--there went that idea! she thought as Jack exploded and clipped Cuvee in the face. Great, Jack, great. Now she would have to dig their way out of this deeper hole. Damn that quick temper of his.
This time she was not certain what his anger meant. Had he been angry about the derogatory comments Cuvee had flung at him? Unlikely. Jack had too much self confidence - in himself, in what he had meant to her - to be taken in by that blatant baiting. It could not have been possessiveness. He had loved to tease her about her possessiveness. Aside from that one time, he had never exhibited any, had always been perfectly confident in their connection to each other. Why not? He hadn't known the truth, her truth, well her professional motivations And the real truth, the important truth was that he was the love of her life, which he knew, obviously. So, what was this about now? She hated that she could not predict his behavior. God, he irritated her!
Although - she found the displays of temper on this trip, well, odd. At his age, no, their age she corrected with an internal eye roll, she would have thought…And all of the intel she had painstakingly acquired about him had spoken of his coldness, his calmness, so deep, so nearly unshakable, so unnatural in certain of the situations in which he had found himself, that it served to unnerve his opponents. So..what the hell was this about? Why had he allowed his anger to surface? What purpose did it serve him? There had to be an advantage to it…He would not act that way without an advantage…What could he think it was?
Sliding the keys into his palm, she stalked out, plucking the shirt away from her warm body. Stopping momentarily, she debated about looking back. Decided not to, he was probably glaring at her, no doubt disgusted that he was in debt to her. No doubt shocked beyond belief that she had actually used the words, "I'm sorry." And she did not want to even imagine the look on her daughter's face, even knowing that Jack would shortly tell her the truth that she was helping them, she could not bear to see the disgust on it…
Then trying to decipher that outburst of anger, her mind turned to a better moment, similar yet so different to the last few minutes. Another time when anger had ruled him, when she had leaned over him, pressing him into a seat. A time when anger had allowed her to see Jack Bristow as he really was. Not the man he pretended to be.
Watching her walk away from his cell, he could not take his eyes off of her. Wondering if he could trust her, deciding he really had no other option. Knowing too, that he had to go after her. That if he did not, Sydney would blame him, just as she would have blamed Irina had she screwed up when he had landed on that mine. He wondered if she had already realized that he had known perfectly well that uncoated scissors could not be used on those wires. Until she realized that it had been a test of trust. One she had passed. Unless, of course, she had realized what he was doing. Oh, what did it matter right now?
This whole op had to be about her need to win their trust. It made no sense otherwise. It made no sense that she had wanted to trap him and Sydney. And if she had wanted that Rambaldi artifact, clearly she could have bargained with Cuvee for it and….
He grimaced, feeling once again that potent combination of sadness and rage wash over him. Watching her with Cuvee had been torture. Knowing, knowing, that she had whored herself with that….floppy-haired Frenchman to achieve her goals. Even knowing that she would do anything to achieve her goals, seeing the evidence before him, before Sydney for the love of God, he had still felt a stab in the region where his heart used to be. Cuvee was good with the ice pick as a weapon, he admitted it.
He admitted he had lost control. He had not been thinking about the fact that she had cheapened herself, that he knew what that was like and that was why, in empathy, he had hoped she had never done that. Nor had he been running game theory, trying to ascertain a means of escape. No, then he had simply reacted viscerally, emotionally to the evidence that…here his thoughts faltered, not wanting to acknowledge the truth but knowing that he could not win without honesty, at least to himself….that she had clearly been with another man.
And that man was taunting him. He had reacted like a schoolboy whose marbles had been stolen by a bully. Even as a rational part of his brain noted in shock that she must have hidden the truth about the reality of their marriage from Cuvee, another part of his brain, his thoughts had ground to a halt. Had he…Did he accept completely in that moment that their relationship, their personal relationship had been real, utterly real? Anger had filled him, heat had begun to melt the ice in his heart, anger that she had given even a small part of that away to anyone else. And….in that moment, shocking himself with his weakness, she was, became again…his wife… In that moment, he had forgotten that she had not ever been his wife, truly. In that moment, the legalities had hardly mattered. She was just…his. His.
Looking back, feeling his gaze on her, she faltered when she saw the look on his face. Only once before…she glanced over at Sydney, then away, not wanting to see again the look of disgust, horror and fear on their daughter's face…she looked back at Jack, and sucked in a breath. It was still there, that look that she had seen only once before. The look she knew she had given him so often when they were together, the look that screamed possession, that yelled, "Mine. You are mine."
She felt her mouth drop open slightly in shock. Shock that he was showing that emotion. To her. At this point in the game. Now, at this moment, so fraught with the potential for danger. He must know that they all could die. Then understanding flooded her. He did know, of course. Of course. That knowledge freed him to do as he wanted. The gamble was all or nothing now. That demonstration of violence in his cell had not been a ploy. He was angry, furious, livid. Somehow whatever he had been feeling that had caused that look of sadness to cross his face had transformed into rage and now into this…. He had decided he did not care about control - was that it?
He had lost control. Oh…my…She licked her lips, felt her breath hitch. She had to stop herself from running back to him.
God, he still had such power over her. With just a look, just a single look…. years, lies, goals, everything…extraneous just fell away and it was just the truth, the two of them again. Vying for dominance, possession, control. Then, quickly, so quickly, finding passion, an endless circle of connections. Finding an unbroken chain and adding a link in the form of their daughter. Finding the freedom only available to those willing to be truly equal, to be truly honest, to be truly open, to truly accept the ties that encircle them, to surrender to each other. He was still hers. Hers.
He nodded at her, she nodded at him.
Had a promise just been made? A truth realized? Or was it two gamesmasters acknowledging each other? Did they even know, as they stared at each other in that dimly-lit concrete-encased bunker? Or were they just remembering the past?
And in the end, would it matter?
Chapter 9 part 3