The visitor arrived at half past two, knocking with restrained politeness on the thick oak door. At the sound, Indiana Jones tossed his book aside and stood, rubbing his temples wearily. Halfheartedly smoothing his rumpled clothes, he slid his glasses into his pocket and tugged the door open. Before he could say a word, a rain-drenched figure had forced its way past him and into the foyer, muttering apologies. Indy pivoted to give the man a withering look, and stepped forward to block his way.
"What's this all about?"
The man put up his hands, looking Jones in the eye. Indy took in his bland features, the tailored black suit half-concealed beneath his dripping coat. One eye was twitching; he was clearly trying to hide his unease. CIA or FBI, Indy thought to himself, feeling a mix of curiosity and annoyance. I wonder what he wants? With that twitch, he's not exactly the ideal agent—
"Once again, Dr. Jones, I do apologize." The man shifted a little from foot to foot. "I have come on the behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have a…sensitive matter to discuss with you." He slowly lowered a hand, extracting a slim leather wallet from his coat pocket. He handed it to Jones. "My credentials are inside. Now if you will come with me-"
"Wait just a second. Leave, now?"
"Yes, Dr. Jones. They warned me that you might not be willing to comply. However, I assure you that resistance would be a very bad idea." The slight quiver in his voice undermined the threatening quality of the statement; Indy almost chuckled. Instead, he curled his lips into a half grin and leaned against the wall.
"I'm a tenured professor – I can't just pick up and go without making arrangements. Besides, I'm supposed to leave for the Yucatan next week…"
"Your trip is the reason that we wish to speak with you."
"Why can't you just talk to me here? I'm all ears!" Indy cocked his head.
"It is a sensitive problem, as I said. Highly confidential. As the matter concerns your…personal safety, you would be wise to come along."
"I can take care of my own enemies…" Even so, Jones felt a creeping sense of unease. It's better to be prepared, I suppose. I hate bad surprises. He looked down at his hand, still clutching the billfold.
"…But, I guess I'll go with you. No reason to make trouble. Just let me gather a few things-"
As he turned to leave, Indy heard a faint metallic click. He whipped his head around to see the man level a small handgun at his head.
"Come now, Dr. Jones."
Indy blinked, and shrugged. "As you wish."
The agent had bundled Indy into a nondescript car, parked on the street. The windows were tinted, and as Indy had settled into the back seat, the man had tied a blindfold securely around his head. "Feel lucky that we decided not to drug you," the man had muttered, motioning for Indy to keep his head down.
Now, Jones had been confined in the car for several hours, listening to the patter of rain on the roof. The air was stuffy, and he could feel a stiffness creeping into his limbs. He considered trying to steal a glance out the window, but decided that it didn't matter. This whole affair would be cleared up presently, with little trouble. At least, he hoped so. These people are on my side, right? Nothing to worry about… Still, he felt a nagging nervousness. As the vehicle began to slow, he breathed a sigh of relief. The agent spoke from the driver's seat.
"We will arrive presently."
Indy felt the car swing into a sharp turn, then suddenly stop. A moment later, his door opened. Still blindfolded, Indy was dragged out into the pouring rain, wincing at the soreness in his limbs. A moment later, he passed through what he assumed to be a doorway. He suddenly felt his stomach drop; Indy realized that he was in an elevator, headed downward. It continued descending for what felt like an eternity, then came to a jolting halt. Indy stumbled forward as the blindfold was removed from his eyes.
"Dr. Jones." Indy cast his eyes warily around the room, a bare, bunker-like chamber walled in concrete. In the center sat a folding table and four aluminum chairs. At the back wall, a door stood open. Indy glanced to the side, realized that his escort had already disappeared. From the doorway, an unfamiliar figure stepped into the light. Broad-shouldered and bespectacled, with immaculately styled dark hair, the man greeted Indy with a haughty jerk of his chin.
"Sit down - we have much to discuss."
Colonel-Doctor Irina Spalko leaned against the cell's wall, arms crossed. The retreating footsteps of the guard grew faint; she sighed, relaxing a bit. Her body still buzzed with pain, from the "questioning" she had undergone the day before. They had, apparently, taken offense to her complete lack of cooperation; nonetheless, she would continue to resist them. Willfully ignoring the chill of the concrete floor against her bare feet, she surveyed her new living space.
A sheetless mattress covered in sturdy blue plastic was pressed up against one wall. In the corner opposite were a sink and toilet, thoroughly bolted down. A single lightbulb filled the cell with vague, yellow light. Spalko had the feeling that she was far underground; the space was windowless, cold, and unnaturally still. If her supposition was correct, escape would prove difficult.
As her gaze flickered back to the pallet, she stepped forward. Stooping, she jabbed it with one finger and shrugged. Serviceable. The motion, however, redirected Spalko's attention to her injuries. The ribs on her left side burned, possibly broken, and there was the metallic warmth of blood in her mouth.
A sudden surge of dizziness swept over her. She grimaced and eased herself onto the mattress, the crinkle of plastic thunderous in her ears. She shifted, struggling to find a comfortable position. As she let her eyes fall shut, she heard the faraway slam of a door, and several sets of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Irina was beyond caring; she paid the noises no attention.
The failure of her mission, however, still troubled her. En route to Mexico, she had been intercepted while attempting to board a flight to the Yucatan. Multiple escape efforts had proved fruitless. Now, she found herself detained in a secret, maximum-security facility, unable to inform her superiors of what had come to pass. Henry Jones, Jr. was no doubt preparing for his trip to southern Mexico, blissfully unaware of the trap he had nearly fallen into. The Roswell specimen remained housed in a dusty warehouse, unstudied, unexploited. And the American government had an invaluable new intelligence source, if she could only be convinced to talk.
Spalko saw clearly the danger of her situation. If they managed to break her resolve, a significant amount of classified information would come into their possession. It followed, then, that they would use any means necessary to wear away at her determination to remain silent. Already, she had endured a significant amount of mistreatment. No matter. Spalko had received extensive training on the topic of resisting interrogation; they would almost certainly be unsuccessful in breaking her will. Still, it would be prudent to flee as soon as possible.
Spalko opened her eyes and sat up, frustrated. This feeling was tempered, however, by a strong inkling that something significant was about to occur. Intuitive by nature, Irina felt a certain tension in the air, an electricity that left her exhilarated. Whether it was an opportunity to escape, or something else, she wasn't sure. A nervous excitement was stirring within her, setting her on edge. She licked her lips and, trying to ignore the pain, pulled her knees to her chest, resting her head against the wall. Then she sat still, waiting for something to happen.
The burly agent scowled at Jones, leaning forward in his seat. "You expect me to believe that you had…no idea what was going to happen?"
"Yeah, actually. An old war buddy and I were meeting up with a team of researchers to investigate some Mayan ruins. We did hire security; the entire area is politically unstable-"
"This friend of yours…George McHale, is that correct?"
"Yes," Indy said dryly, "I hope you've warned him, as well."
"No need." The agent's brow lifted. "He's in league with the plotters."
"Impossible. Mac would never betray me…" Indy slapped a hand down on the table, exasperated.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Jones." The man's voice dripped insincerity; he slowly opened a file on the table before him, extracting a neatly typed report. He held it in front of Indy's face for a moment; the heading in re: George McHale was clearly visible at the top. "Our sources have confirmed that Colonel George McHale is currently working for the K.G.B. He gambles heavily, as I am sure you know…"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
The man held up an impatient finger. "…And, after falling deeply into debt, he sold his services to the Russians. For reasons that we will, ah, know presently, you had been deemed useful by certain Soviet agents. Thus, they decided to take you into custody."
"But you beat them to it." Jones gave a world-weary sigh. "I'm still not buying this story. What do you mean, 'know presently'?"
"We have detained one of the conspirators."
Indy blinked, surprised. He had been reasonably sure that this whole affair was a mix-up, the result of faulty intelligence or bureaucratic overreaction. Now, he wasn't so certain. He didn't want to think badly of Mac; the middle-aged Brit had his vices, but he would never sell out a friend. Indy stared at the tabletop, lost in thought. He reached absently for his glasses, found them gone. Ah, yes. They had taken them from him when he was searched. At that moment, the irrationality of the situation hit Indy; he lifted his head to glower at the agent.
"I don't have time for this idiocy. Let me go home."
"I'm afraid that's impossible. Actually, your association with McHale makes your personal activities suspicious. Your lack of concern and cooperation also troubles me." His eyes met Jones. "Were they really going to kidnap you? Or was there some sort of rendezvous planned-"
"That's nonsense, and you know it."
The man shrugged. "Until we have obtained definitive answers, you will remain here. Before I show you to your new quarters, however, there is someone I would like you to meet."
"The Soviet agent?"
He nodded, lips stretching into a mirthless smile, and stood.
As he was conducted down a dim, nondescript hallway, Indy's thoughts raced. He knew they would be looking for a reaction, some sign that he was acquainted with the conspirator. But whoever the man was, Indy certainly wouldn't know him. Jones had connections in some very odd places; none, however, were within the K.G.B. Squaring his shoulders, Indy focused on the test before him.
Soon, they entered into a cell block, so cold that Indy could see his breath in the air. The corridor was lined with doors of reinforced steel. A few yards away, two guards leaned against the wall, muttering to each other. At the sound of footsteps, they snapped to attention.
"What is it, Colonel Smith?" The one who spoke was thin, and stood with a stooped posture.
"We want to visit the prisoner."
"Yessir." The other guard produced a ring of keys and turned to a door on the left, bolted sturdily.
As the two guards struggled with the door, Smith remained silent. Indy gave the agent a sideways glance.
"Smith, huh?"
Finally, the door swung open and Smith stepped forward, motioning for Jones to follow. Ducking into the cell, Indy squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, he nearly gasped in surprise.
"Well…" The woman glanced at them from where she sat, perched on a flimsy pallet. She was dressed in faded prison garb; short black hair, matted and dirty, was cropped at her chin. The unnatural stiffness of her posture suggested injury. With dismay, Indy noticed the faint shadow of a bruise across her cheekbone, the half-healed laceration just below her eye. She'd obviously been treated with less courtesy than Indy. As the professor prepared to speak, Smith stepped forward, prodding the woman with his boot.
"The prisoner will stand." His tone was icy.
Instead of flinching back, the woman lifted her chin haughtily, giving Smith an openly reproachful glance. She had started to answer when her eyes lit on Jones. There was a momentary flash of surprised curiosity; then she dropped her gaze, speaking quickly.
"Can you not be civil, Colonel Smith?"
The agent had noted her brief reaction to Jones' presence, and he capitalized on it. "You recognize Dr. Jones, then."
She shook her head and leaned casually against the wall. "No. This man is unfamiliar to me." The words were pronounced with a heavy accent.
Smith shook his head in displeasure. "Stubborn, as always. I see that I need help in getting you to cooperate." He made for the door, ducking his head out into the passage beyond.
"Guards!"
While his back was turned, Indy locked gazes with the woman.
How do you know me? He mouthed the message, hoping she would understand. The chilliness in her eyes told him that she understood perfectly.
If not Smith, why would I confide in you?
The moment ended as the two guards entered, sliding through the door with weapons at ready. Smith smiled sourly. "Help the prisoner to her feet."
She didn't struggle as a guard pulled her roughly upwards; the second guard drew his gun, providing cover. Once finished, the man drew back his hand, intending to strike her. Lightning fast, her fingers closed around his wrist, and she threw a roundhouse punch, catching his cheek. As he gasped in pain, the woman shoved him aside and darted forward. The gun-wielding guard was caught by surprise; he hastily raised his weapon, too late to block the kick she delivered to his jaw. His head snapped back, and he blindly swung the gun around, grazing her forehead. She stumbled, turned, and dove for the door.
The first guard had recovered, and he stepped in front of her, drawing his own gun. The woman froze; finding herself trapped, she raised her hands in reluctant surrender. Smith clapped his hands, drawing her attention.
"You will pay for that…foolish display."
She didn't bother to answer, one eye still glued to the gun.
He looked around. "Guards?"
Smith glanced back at Indy, who had been watching the altercation warily, hands in pockets. Now, Jones plastered an unconcerned expression on his face. As one guard clouted the prisoner with the butt of his gun, Smith watched Indy carefully. He didn't blink, even when the woman collapsed, throwing her arms over her head protectively. She didn't attempt to fight back, likely realizing that she was outnumbered.
Minutes later, Smith appeared to grow frustrated. He motioned the men away and stepped forward, crouching down beside the woman.
"Do you regret your resistance yet?" he asked sharply. She frowned, fingers going to the gash across her forehead, now bleeding profusely. Her eyes flashed with anger. Smith scowled at her for a moment, deliberating, then shrugged.
"We'll move on."
The agent stood, carefully straightening his clothing. Pausing for a moment, he adjusted his glasses thoughtfully, face impassive. Then:
"I have changed my plans." His tone was decisive.
"What plans?" Indy's voice was even, as if he hadn't just witnessed a vicious beating. Inside, however, he was unsettled. He felt a tad guilty, although the pragmatist in him was quick to voice what would've happened if he had tried to intervene. Besides, he reasoned, the nameless woman was a Soviet agent. She had received what she deserved. Plenty of time to think this over later, he told himself conciliatorily.
Smith cleared his throat, and gestured to the woman. "You two are cellmates."
"Great."