Ross worked quietly in the office that had once belonged to Smith, brow furrowed with anxiety. Before him, a sheaf of papers, a pen, and two notebooks were set out carefully; the door behind him was locked securely. The air was stifling, and Ross was uncomfortable in his stiff dress jacket. Pulling at the collar, he stared at the document before him, deep in thought.
He didn't understand why Jones had fled (with a known Soviet agent, no less) rather than waiting a few days for his release. The details didn't add up. He had believed that Indy trusted him, appreciated the efforts made on his behalf. That he would flaunt the government he'd once served, and betray Ross, his old friend, was simply outrageous. More frankly, it was hurtful.
Over the past days, Ross had constructed a rough timeline of events, arranged as follows: With Smith's help, the escapees had made their way to the loading dock, and stowed away on a cargo truck. The vehicle had been traveling south, when the engine had stalled in rural West Virginia. Hours later, the truck had been abandoned in Northern Pennsylvania. The driver had been found inside, bound and gagged. Ross expected that the stowaways had found an alternative mode of transportation; he had contacted several local police departments to inquire about stolen vehicles. Three had been reported in the past two days, though one automobile had already been located, in a desolate area near the Canadian border. He was especially interested in the recovered vehicle, but would investigate each matter carefully.
If Jones and Spalko had indeed left the United States, the situation would become more complicated. He was reluctant to share certain details with Canadian law enforcement; all information about the detention program was sensitive, classified. A covert operation in a foreign country wasn't ideal for locating runaways. For the time being, Ross focused his energies on the American Northeast.
Indy's home in Bedford was under constant surveillance, and his associates were being monitored closely. Indy apparently owned other properties, mostly on the East Coast; these would also be checked by Ross' agents. In a few hours, a group of investigators would be arriving in Ferndale, where Jones had apparently inherited an estate. Another was headed for Fairfield, where Jones had lived until fairly recently.
Ross hoped the case could be closed soon. The fact that Jones and Spalko were still at large filled him with apprehension. Spalko was manifestly dangerous; she was a high-level operative with connections to Soviet leadership. Jones posed no real threat, but Ross hoped to question him as to his motives for abetting Spalko's escape. He remembered a conversation they'd had about interrogation procedures; Ross hypothesized that he'd acted out of aversion to the brutal questioning his cellmate had endured. At least, that was one explanation.
Still, conjecture would get him nowhere. Focusing on his task, Ross stretched, and then pulled the stack of papers towards him. The top document was halfway finished, covered with a scrawl of marginal comments. With a heavy sigh, Ross picked up his pen and resumed reviewing the report before him.
By the rusted clock above the stove, it was just after dawn. Seated alone at the kitchen table, Spalko pulled her overcoat more tightly around her, fingers brushing the knife she had stashed in her pocket. Outside, a freezing rain was falling steadily, coating the windows with a thin layer of ice. The air was cold and, despite her heavy clothing, she shivered convulsively.
Spalko glanced behind her, into the adjacent living room, and saw that Jones was still asleep. She had been irritated, but not particularly surprised, by his earlier display of outrage. His reaction had been entirely typical of someone who'd been betrayed by an ally. She did not empathize, exactly, but she understood. In most situations, she found Jones incomprehensible, defying the psychological principles she'd always held as true. This situation was an exception.
Jones had reacted as expected; his grief had been palpable, sudden and intense. Irina almost pitied him. She was at a loss in regards to other emotions, but rage was fathomable, and she appreciated his need to air his grievances. Still, he had made the dubious choice to associate with McHale; consequently, he had only himself to blame. She assumed that he would soon realize this fact.
Suddenly restless, she got up from the table and crossed to the foyer, stopping to retrieve the handgun from a shelf near the doorway. She has begun her watch with a feeling of impending danger, an intense unease she could not set aside. To a certain degree, she had felt this way since fleeing the detention facility; she had always attributed it to her traumatic experiences under interrogation. Still, this particular feeling was different, in a way she could not identify. Spalko frowned deeply, and glanced around the room.
Through the thick pane of glass set into the door, she saw a flash of movement. Startled, she gripped the knife and approached the door. She could see the blurry figure of a man, in uniform, standing drenched on the step. There was the hollow sound of knuckles on wood, a long pause, another knock. Spalko exhaled sharply, and turned to find Jones arriving behind her. His eyes were wide with alarm.
"Stay put," he muttered, motioning for her to get down. She crouched near the wall, drawing her pistol. Jones dropped to one knee, eyes glued to the door. She handed him the knife, and he took it, fingers stiff. After a moment, the sound of angry voices leaked through the door.
"-I say we force the lock." The voice was harsh and guttural.
There was a cough, and someone else spoke, softer and more deliberate. "Why? No one's here. There'd be footprints leading to the door; it's been raining unceasingly for days."
Spalko glanced at Jones, who looked satisfied. After arriving, he had taken care to conceal their footprints; to all but the most astute observer, the yard would appear undisturbed.
"You're right, I guess. Let's just check the perimeter." There was the sound of receding footsteps.
Another man spoke up, tone nervous. "General Ross will want us to check insideā¦"
"Tell him we did! I'd like to get back to base before the road ices over."
There was a tense pause. Fingering her gun, Spalko hissed, "Are you sure we should stay?"
Jones' expression darkened, and he shook his head. "If they break in, we'll try to conceal ourselves."
"And if that proves impossible, we will fight."
He gave her an approving look, their earlier animosities apparently forgotten. Irina smiled thinly. Just then, there was a shout, and something hit the door.
"All right, Whitney. He and I are at a standstill. Do you vote we go in?"
The rasping voice responded: "No. The perimeter looked fine. If Ross asks, we can always lie." He laughed humorlessly.
Spalko relaxed a little, but kept her gun leveled at the door. A ruse was always possible.
"Yeah, I suppose we can."
"Okay, boys, let's go. I don't want to drive all the way back in a storm."
The voices faded; then, on the street, an engine revved. Straightening up, she cast a cautious glance into the empty yard. "It appears they have departed."
Jones wrinkled his nose. "I wonder what the hell they were doing?"
Irina shrugged, troubled by the encounter. "Looking for us, I suppose."
Jones stood, flicking the knife closed. "It didn't sound like they suspected a thing. Didn't even leave someone to watch the house."
"As far as we know."
"Right."
Indy sat on a bench near the door, fingers steepled thoughtfully. Nearly an hour had passed since the incident, but his nervous energy hadn't yet subsided. Spalko was perched beside him, firearm resting across her knees, eyes darting uneasily around the foyer. Her hands were laced tightly before her.
The frightening visit had chased all thoughts of McHale from his mind, at least temporarily. The betrayal had cut deep, but it was hardly significant compared to the threat of recapture. If Indy returned to the detention facility, he guessed it would be for good. He had, after all, aided a KGB agent in escaping from government custody. Spalko, he was sure, would be tortured and executed.
Grimacing, Indy turned to Spalko. "Think they'll be back?"
She nodded, mouth twisting into an angry scowl. Indy watched as her fingers traced the ragged scar across her cheekbone, barely healed. "Eventually."
"Then we'll make sure to be somewhere else."
She dropped her hand. "I cannot be recaptured."
"I know." Indy fell quiet, deeply disturbed by the idea of returning to prison. A memory surfaced, vivid and painful. He pinched his eyes shut.
Spalko addresses Smith, voice steely. "No. There would be no advantage for Jones-"
Smith cuts her off, clapping his hands. "I'm afraid I'll have to insist. If Jones stays behind, I will halt the release processā¦Ross' opinion notwithstanding."
A sudden swell of nervous anger pushes Indy to his feet. He's not sure if Smith has the power to detain him any longer, and he doesn't want to find out. If he's honest, the threat scares him. "You don't have the authority to hold me any longer-"
"How do you know?"
Jones is preparing an answer when Spalko interjects, "It does not matter. I am perfectly capable of escaping without help."
"I would dispute that." Smith's arms are crossed, in an inflexible manner. "I am trying to make amends; can't you see? If Spalko fails, she'll be returned here and executed."
Smith and Spalko continue arguing, but Indy blocks them out. As much as he hates to admit it, the man has a point. His cellmate is in poor shape; Indy can't imagine her getting very far. Still, Indy has himself to think of. He imagines refusing Smith, abandoning Spalko, walking free. The chatter of his conscience has gone silent. Indy is about to open his mouth, when he glances at Spalko.
There is a flicker of something, deep inside him. He closes his mouth.
"Jones, we are leaving now. Decide."
Indy stands, lifting his hands resignedly. "You win. I'll go."
Indy forced the memory away, and along with it, the unanswered questions it posed. At the time, he hadn't considered why he chose to help Spalko, and forfeit his authorized release. Yes, he'd grown to care for his standoffish cellmate, despite the circumstances of their meeting. But what he'd felt was not compassion, exactly. It was something less precise, something unfamiliar. Indy couldn't put it into words.
In any case, it wasn't immediately important. He glanced at Spalko, found her staring expressionlessly at the door. She gripped the handgun, so tightly that her knuckles were white and bloodless. She apparently dreaded a return to prison as much as he did. Indy hesitated, then touched her hand. She flinched, eying him guardedly. Indy stood up.
Stepping to a nearby table, he retrieved the tiny radio, and switched it on. There was a burst of tinny music, and then a news broadcast began. Adjusting the dial, he addressed Irina. "With any luck, Ross still thinks we've gone north."
Author's Note:
Hello! Relative visits, summer classes, and crazy work hours have been conspiring against me; thanks for your patience! Also, don't forget to leave a review! I really enjoy getting feedback. :)
