Svetlana Sokolov saunters into the embassy, a calculating smile gracing her lips. Just inside the entrance, a messenger hands her a note. Skimming it, her pulse quickens. She knows he is in there somewhere, watching her. She's never met him, but she has studied him extensively.
The KGB files had been efficient, concise, but it hadn't taken much imagination to read between the lines. The Bristows - such a tragic story. It was the cold war, though. War is full of tragedies, even seemingly bloodless ones. In Rambaldi's new world order, however, war would be a thing of the past. Perhaps because of her sacrifice, families would never again be torn apart by opposing ideologies. No child would be forced to grow up without a parent, and a man would never again be pitted against his wife.
Her breath catches in her throat. The grainy photos don't do him justice. His eyes track her as they move casually towards one another.
"I was pleased to get your note," she says. "This party looks…insufferable."
"I would prefer not to spend the little time we have together in idle banter," he says.
"Well then, what do you suggest?" she asks coquettishly.
"A dance?"
He is taller than she had imagined from the photos, and his hand is much larger than hers. Even in heels, she feels tiny, fragile. She is overwhelmed by his presence, but she knows her purpose here. She has not forgotten…how could she? Briefly, however, she allows herself to savor the moment. After all, it will be one of her last.
"You didn't feel a thing, did you? How is that possible? Were Sydney and I nothing to you, merely strategic alliances to be disposed of once we'd outlived our usefulness?"
Svetlana watches sadly as he struggles with her betrayal. All those days spent reading and rereading the files, she had found herself falling in love with the characters in the story. But this is no fairytale, and Jack Bristow is no hero. Right before her eyes he is leaking anger and despair from every fissure in his rapidly cracking armor. He will not forgive or forget. But then, forgiveness is not what she seeks.
"After all we've been through, Irina, I deserve an explanation. Why? I need a reason!"
"Because it had to be done," she answers, knowing full well what impact her words will have.
In an instant his gun is drawn, his face a mask of fury.
Fear grips her, but her faith is unshakeable.
"Jack…"
"Damn you!"
The gunshot echoes in her ears. She feels nothing, and is only vaguely aware of falling backwards into the pool. She gazes up as her vision begins to cloud. She sees him standing over her, but there is no satisfaction in his grim expression. Instead his eyes are filled with grief and regret. She knows him well enough to know that he will suffer for this, but it is a small price to pay. Once Rambaldi's prophecy is fulfilled, no one will ever have to suffer like this again. She smiles. Her sacrifice will not be in vain.