I do not own Irina Spalko. Irina Spalko and related Indiana Jones characters and media are property of Lucasfilm and Paramount Pictures.

Chapter 13: Qumran

The plane ride from Manila to Jerusalem aboard the tiny cargo plane was long and cramped. Every time Irina tried to get some sleep in her own corner she'd end up rolling over into Mac's lap when she tossed and turned trying to get comfortable. McHale couldn't help but find himself almost on top of her in his own futile attempts for shuteye. A few socks in the crotch dissuaded him from any further coincidences. She put her back against one of the crates accompanying them on the journey Irina believed were there just to make the trip more unbearable. She was using her duffle bag as a pillow and propped herself up a bit. Her rapier sat dutifully at her side. She eyed Mac, whom had retreated to the only elevated place to sit or rest in the entire cargo area, a wooden pallet that had been bolted to the side of the hull and had crated rocks underneath it for support. The surface had a bed of straw and musty pillow atop it, likely where the pilot, a tanned Filipino who's name she couldn't recall or pronounce in her thick Ukrainian accent, slept. Mac had claimed the makeshift bed the second they came abroad, insisting his back problems required he be made completely comfortable or it might interfere with his reliability.

"A few more hours until we land!" The pilot scream was deafened in the thin air. Though, it was clear enough for Irina to believe that his English might have been better than hers. He barely sported an accent, likely on purpose. The CIA had probably used him before in missions that required him be a tad more involved than just a step and fetch it. What exactly, she couldn't guess, but something. She was sure of it. A spook knows another spook when they see one. People in the business, no matter what side they played could spot each other easy, that is if they were smart enough.

She gave a single nod while Mac complained about the time. Spalko would use the time to sleep…

The day was bright and hot. It was the kind of day where if you had no shade the sun felt like someone's giant flashlight perpetually in your face. Unfortunately for Irina, dressed in a tank top and dark khaki pants, she had no umbrella with her as her boat glided along the transparent water. The boat was no different that a small fishing vessel meant for one or two people. However, it had no motor or paddles to move her. Yet it did move, floating gingerly along despite there being no breeze whatsoever. No sound. She squinted through the bright rays of the sun to see any kind of land on the horizon. There was none in sight. She was completely stranded in the middle of the ocean. Alone.

Just when she was convinced of her solitude, she saw a small mass floating out in the distance, like a person, facedown. They were wearing a blue collared shirt, a few shades darker than the crystal clear ocean around them. Whatever was propelling the boat was headed straight for it. It was moving a little bit. They were alive. Spalko shifted onto her knees and leaned over the side of hull. As if aware of Irina's intentions, the boat slowed to a stop as it came upon whoever it was. Irina grabbed them by the collar and pulled them up. As she turned them over to tug them inside the boat, Spalko gasped. She stared into the bloated, swollen face of Harry Sanders. His skull was warped out of shape from repeated shots from the shovel Irina used to kill him. The skin on his face was in the process of turning to mush and his eyes were already gooey lumps sunken into the sockets. She dropped him back in the water in wide-eyed terror. In the suddenness of it, his jaw fell open, agape. Her eyes moved down to his clothed chest. Plastered across it was an American flag.

"Why was this all you saw?" His gritty voice fought through the water in his lungs.

She stood straight up in the boat wanting anything but to be there. Just as she prepared herself to dive in the water and swim any direction having no idea how many miles it would take to reach land, other decomposing refuse…dozens of them… started floating around the water, all identified with a flag plastered across their chests, signifying where'd they'd come from…what side they represented.

German, American, British, Peruvian.

After all that's what had mattered. Where they were born and what the battle lines clearly defined as distinction between friend and enemy was the only thing that mattered, not that they had been somebody's father, mother, brother sister, son, or daughter. Not to Spalko when she murdered them.

"The people I killed deserved to die! They vould have done the same—"

"I offered you assistance," Sanders cut in. "I didn't care if you were a Soviet. I was a person before I was an American. Not everyone is cut from the same cloth of hatred you are."

Her eyes turned to Pierce, that lifeless piece of meat that had kept living, tortured and mutilated. He had a paper bag on his head to cover the gaping hole he had instead of a face. On it, an unhappy smiley face had been drawn on it. "Stop carrying a flag."

Spalko looked down at herself. She was dressed in her gimnasterka, covered in blood, a hammer and sickle burning its way into her chest, a product of an invisible iron.

Spalko felt herself strain against an unseen force to maintain control of herself. Her right hand came alive and upholstered her sidearm, the Tokarev pistol. Pierce fell into its sights. Her left hand clamped down her right wrist. She couldn't force it down. It was like mashing on steel. The shot fired off, spreading Michael's brains across the ocean surface, providing a nice meal for the seagulls.

Another familiar pair swayed into her view. It was Michael's family. His wife's hair was patchy and grotesque, his daughter, a tattered and malformed rag doll.

"Why isn't daddy coming home?" The girl's lips slurred through her inquiry.

"I…didn't vant him to suffer…I owed him…"

"Where's my daddy…"

"I'm sorry…"

Again the gun fired unchecked. Twice. Goodbye to the annoying Pierce family. Maybe they'd say hello to Michael for her.

"No!"

"Sorry for what?"

Mac…

Spalko sat up aboard the cargo plane. Mac was gawking at her curiously from his straw and wood throne.

Quickly regaining her composure, Irina scoffed and turned her back to him. She didn't sleep again for the rest of the flight.

…………………………………………

It was such an odd experience standing in a place considered by many to the birthplace of it all. Jerusalem was one of the earth's oldest cities with evidence of permanent settlements going as far back as the copper age. As Irina stood in the densely populated market place in the hot midday sun, she couldn't help but admire the unparalleled majesty. It was like the people had built the entire city out of sand and rock. She had always wanted to visit the Old City sector, which until the 1860's was Jerusalem, and see the Western Wall and the Dome of the Rock. However her active duty in the Union prevented any such leisure. Of course, she was not here to admire the sights this time either. She couldn't forget her purpose.

Irina found some shade near an unoccupied street vendor kart just outside the grogshop where Mac was negotiating with a friend of a friend for information about the Soviet activity in the area. She was certainly not incognito in her gimnasterka. It was the first time she'd been in full uniform since entering incarceration. It fit a tad loosely on her. She'd yet to completely regain her normal weight and was likely never to because of the massive purging she'd been put through. After her vivid nightmare onboard the plane she felt dirty in it like she could still feel the blood that had stained it and smell the smoke of the branding iron that had burned into it. Whoever or whatever transmitting thoughts into her head were pulling out all the stops it seemed. Terrifyingly enough, she was beginning to think it was working. She'd been thinking a lot about Michael recently, so much so that it made her sick to her stomach with guilt. It made the fact that she needed her full concentration more difficult.

"Alright." Mac reappeared with an open bottle of cheap booze, still in his sweaty khaki getup. After a taking a hardy swig and wiping his mouth off on his sleeve as he took a big breath of fresh air, he continued his unraveling. "My friend in there said there's an improvised Soviet airfield a few miles outside of the city. Minimal personnel and equipment, flights go straight to the caves. Got a couple of jeeps too."

"And just how do ve get to the airfield," Irina questioned. "Camels?"

"We're hoofing it. Couldn't afford any transportation. I spent the last penny I had on getting that information."

"And on cheep liquor." Irina tapped the bottle hanging at his side with the tip of her sheathed rapier. "Have a drink, Mac." She snatched the bottle and took a long swig off of it before tossing up against the wall of the grogshop shattering it into thousands of tiny jagged pieces. Mac knew better than to argue. Instead he brought up an interesting observation, probably his first and last ever.

"Weird," he said. "How you figure Mossad hasn't figured out something fishy's going on around here."

"They know," she replied matter-of-fact.

"How ya figure?"

"I stick out like a sore thumb around here." This was true. After all she was a pale bob haired woman in a Russian World War Two uniform sporting a sword. "Yet, every one is ignoring me. Purposefully. They know. Everyone knows. They being quiet about it for a reason."

"Uh-huh." Mac was under impressed. "Why?"

"I don't know. Fear maybe. Maybe something else."

Next Chapter: Spalko Vs. Maslov coming soon