Chapter 3
Carmelita sat beside her patient, her nimble fingers knitting a coarse woollen blanket. The grey of dawn crept across the sky, and the old woman put down her knitting and checked on Jack She noted with satisfaction that he was resting comfortably. The heart monitor beeped steadily and all the equipment was in place. As she moved about the room cleaning and organizing, she heard him moan softly.
Carmelita washed her hands and stood at the head of his bed. "Juan? Juan el Toro," she said gently as she laid a hand on his forehead.
"Irina?"
"No, no she is not here. It's Carmelita. You had Laura call me and bring you here."
"Laura?" Bleary eyes snapped into focus. "Laura's not here," he said in a chilling whisper.
"She is on the roof, keeping watch," Carmelita said, wary of what seemed to be a brewing storm.
"The hell she is," Jack said bitterly.
"Juan," Carmelita said forcefully. "Juan. You are not to argue, or grow angry or rage and stomp and swear. The woman upstairs saved your life. I will allow you to argue with her when you are well. Right now you must rest."
"Can't...rest," Jack insisted. He moved to get up, but groaned and fell back on the table.
"You will rest," the doctor insisted. "And I will give you morphine so that you will sleep past next week if you do not lie down."
Jack swallowed and reluctantly nodded. "Tell me... she brought me here?"
"Si."
"She's not to be trusted."
"She can be trusted with the most important things, Juan," Carmelita leaned close to him and held his gaze. "Your life was in her hands. She worried for you, I have seen it many times in the eyes of loved ones. I know the look."
"It was a lie."
"No! I may be an old woman, but I have seen many things. You may trust her with your life, Juan. She is a panther, fierce to protect." She placed her hand on his shoulder, urging him to lie back down. "You do not believe me, but think on it and consider the old woman's ramblings. You will find I am right."
Jack looked up at her. "I'm too tired to argue, Tia. Can you do something for me?"
"Si."
Jack frowned in deep thought. Carmelita knew that his memories had been jumbled in the shock of his injury. "I have a bag. There's a small box inside, a black box the size of your fist, with some lights and three switches. Can you bring it to me? Keep it safe, yes even from Irina. Or Laura, whatever she calls herself now. You may trust her with my life," he added. "But that box is more important than my life."
"Your priorities, Juan, are strange to me as always, but si, I will do this for you just as you ask. And now will you sleep?"
"Thank you, yes. I'll go back to sleep."
Carmelita laid a gentle hand across his eyes and adjusted the morphine drip. In a minute, he had fallen asleep again. The old woman sighed and left the room to do as he asked.
Pain greeted Jack with the morning. His leg burned and throbbed, and his mouth was dry. But pain was a good sign; it meant he was still alive. He prised his eyes open, blinking in the late-morning sunlight. He immediately focused on Irina, sitting in a chair by the bed, intently reading a worn copy of a tourist magazine.
He was surprised she was still here. She could have easily left at any point last night. Her actions were not significant, he reminded himself. Irina had her own reasons for everything she did, and was capable of any type of behavior as long as it furthered her own purposes. And she didn't share her agenda with anyone.
He bitterly recalled the Panamanian fiasco some months earlier. He had expected her to betray him, but dared hope that she wouldn't. Hope was no longer an emotion in his repertoire.
Irina put aside her magazine and eyed him critically. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Jack said flatly.
As he half-expected, Irina ignored the implicit demand for privacy in his tone and began unwrapping his bandages. Knowing that she wouldn't be deterred from examining his wound, he steeled himself for her probing. Her fingers were surprisingly gentle, and he released the breath he had been holding.
Unwilling to look at her, he stared at the ceiling and considered his options. Asking her intentions was futile, but Jack opted for it regardless. If nothing else, her evasion should prove instructive.
"You're still here."
"You thought I wouldn't be." She paused to look him in the eye. "I'm not your enemy, Jack," she said.
"Fascinating," Jack said in clipped, precise tones normally reserved for reciting geometry proofs. "You're right, an enemy would have killed me on sight; a neutral adversary would have let me die. You did neither. What are you then? An opportunist. You need me for something, but you won't tell me why, preferring, no doubt, to manipulate me in some fashion. But you know what? I don't care anymore. There is nothing that you or anyone else can do that could make matters worse."
Irina frowned, her eyes narrowing. "That's what this comes down to? /You're/ hurting? I see. How convenient," she said dryly. "I'm sure Sydney would love to know that you're using her death as an excuse to give up."
Jack's eyes flashed with anger, "Don't." He bit off his words. "Don't presume to know what I am planning."
"And don't assume you know what I'm feeling!"
Jack closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. "Then why are you here?"
"You needed my help," she said simply.
Jack paused, momentarily disarmed by her candor. "Thank you for that."
"You're welcome. What were you doing at that compound? Besides trying your best to get yourself killed?"
"Obtaining intel. Did you destroy a Rambaldi artifact?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Sydney." Her voice tripped over her daughter's name. "Her death is a result of Sloane's obsession. I told you once that I...lost myself in Rambaldi. Now, I wish to God I hadn't heard of him." She sucked in a breath. "Arvin loves the Rambaldi myth more than anything. More even then Emily, I think. It's the only thing I can take from him that he still gives a damn about."
Jack inhaled deeply, and asked hoarsely, "You can connect Sloane, definitively, to Sydney's murder?"
"Not definitively, no. I do have my suspicions, though."
"Which are?" Jack prompted. Here they were, coolly discussing Sydney's death. He had spoken about it with so few people, and even those conversations were cut to monosyllables. But now, speaking to Irina about Sydney brought it all home with a finality he had not allowed himself to accept.
Irina returned to her chair. Closing her eyes briefly to gather her thoughts, she said, "When I escaped CIA custody, I learned Sark had made a back-door deal with Sloane. This deal included the placement of an operative within our daughter's home."
Jack's lips pressed into a thin line. "So Sloane and Sark placed Francie's murderer. Sydney's murderer?"
"I believe so, yes." Her tone was hard.
Jack let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And your current arrangement with Sloane?"
"Finished."
"Glad to hear it," Jack said bitterly. He waited, but she did not respond. "And your current scheme is...?"
"Does it matter? Sloane will be dead soon. Beyond that, who knows?" Irina sounded weary.
"You're going to kill him?"
"Of course."
"Not if I get there first."
Irina's information further cemented Sloane's guilt in Jack's eyes. He did not require reasonable doubt to condemn the man who had once been his best friend. Jack knew Arvin's patterns better than anyone alive. Sydney's death was merely the cumulation of Arvin's madness; and he would never forgive himself for not neutralizing Sloane long ago, before the worst damage could be done.
Jack had circled the globe a dozen times in the last six months, tracking every hint, every rumor, of Sloane. It had finally led him to this tiny corner of Peru, to the data stored in the plant's computer. And to Irina.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not going anywhere in your current condition."
"Not now." Jack stared up at the ceiling, chafing at his own infirmity. Inactivity was maddening; it lead to introspection, and he did not care to examine himself or his life in any detail. Constant motion and his drive for vengeance were the only things holding him together. "Soon."
"No." The word was harsh, dropping between them like a stone. "I won't let you take this away from me. It's the only thing I can do for her - the only thing I have left."
Jack craned his neck to look at her. Her face was a study in harsh angles, her beauty overshadowed by tension, anger. By pain, he realized. Guilt. If that was indeed the face of his wife, then he knew the expression. And he knew the emotion.
"If you get him before I do, I want proof."
"Oh? I'll be sure to send you his head in a box, then," she snapped. "Can I expect the same of you?"
"That would suffice. And yes, I'll do the same if you leave a forwarding address. Or shall I simply leave it on a pike outside Moscow?"
Irina's lips twitched. "There's no need for that. I'll leave a contact address with Carmelita. Simply send a note. With a finger." She grinned, and it was not entirely pleasant.
Jack shook his head. "He faked Emily's death by sending himself her finger."
"Ironic, is it not?"
"Only if you plan on letting him live."
"I don't." She replied flatly.
"I'm not arrogant enough to assume I will kill him before you do. But I will hold you to it, Irina." His voice was like broken glass.
She nodded. Her fingers twitched, as if to reach out for him. Rising, she rounded the bed to check the IV drip. "You'd better get some rest. Sloane is waiting."
Jack watched her with mild curiosity. She could kill him, her fingertips hovering over his morphine drip. Oddly enough, he found he didn't care. Was it because he trusted her, or because it would be a relief if she decided to kill him here? He decided that he ought to at least protest. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Off his look, she said, patiently: "I'm making sure you have enough sedative. Unless you'd rather I leave it like this?"
Jack looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "I don't want to feel anything," he said wearily.
"I know."
To Be Continued
