In The Air Tonight, Part 21
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Michael Vaughn was what some people would call a morning person, an early riser. While he set his alarm nightly, there was rarely a morning that he wasn't up before it went off. There was something about the city in the early morning that rejuvenated him, that got his heart pumping. Normally, morning was the time that Michael's mind was the sharpest. Today, however, was not a normal morning.
This morning, while Michael Vaughn's brain wanted to be awake, nothing else was cooperating. Actually, even thinking was a struggle; it was like swimming through warm, thick molasses.
Hovering on the edges of consciousness, Vaughn's mind pondered the meaning of what had to be the most bizarre nightmare ever dreamt: Being ambushed in his bedroom by Irina Derevko—who was both his father's murderer and his lover's mother—while he was naked. And if that weren't enough, add the indignity of being handcuffed to his own bedpost…
Freud would be having a field day with this dream, he thought distantly. It's like an entire Oedipal complex…or was it an Elektra complex? Vaughn suddenly pondered. This detail seemed incredibly important to get right for some reason, but his brain just wouldn't cooperate. Finally, he gave up. Anyway, it was like a whole Oedipal/Elektra complex collided with the 'being naked in a public place' dream and became this… Vaughn decided dazedly.
He didn't want to think about it anymore. He didn't want to think at all, in fact…it took too much effort. Why? a part of him wondered, Why is this so hard today? What's going on? But before he could latch onto them, the ideas slipped away like a gossamer cloud and he found himself floating in pleasant nothingness once again.
Then, as if from far, far away, there came a curious noise. It sounded like the buzzing of bees, but it echoed as if he were listening from underwater. He turned his head away, trying to ignore the irritating sound. No! his lethargic mind protested, Make it go away! It's so calm and warm here…. But the insistent bees grew louder and closer, seeming almost to be swarming around his head…no, inside his head…
Whap! Vaughn's right arm shot—as if on instinct—across his body, hitting the snooze button on his alarm clock. His arm knocked into something on his bedside table, which went clattering to the floor, but he just didn't care enough to find out what it was. Groaning, he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. If his headache was this bad and he hadn't even opened his eyes yet…not to mention he had a terrific crick in his neck. Vaughn went to run his other hand through his already bedraggled hair…but for some odd reason, it wouldn't move.
Reluctantly peeking one eye open, Vaughn feebly flopped his head in the direction of his hand… and what he saw jolted him awake. His hand was cuffed to the bed…for real! Looking down quickly, he realized he was wearing the same terrycloth bathrobe Derevko had presented him with in his dream. A pinch in his neck that felt quite like a bee-sting made him reach up and extract something with his free hand: a tranquilizer dart.
Suddenly it sank in. Irina Derevko had really, truly been in his bedroom, and had seen him naked. Vaughn shuddered, remembering the degrading, assessing once-over he'd gotten. He supposed that was for effect, to unnerve him to gain the upper hand…well, it had certainly worked. And worse yet, her forcing him to handcuff himself to his bed while she relayed what she'd said was vital Rambaldi information to him before shooting him with the dart he now held. And apparently, he'd spent the remainder of the night in a drugged stupor in the same hunched half-sitting position, because half the muscles in his body now cried out in protest.
Pushing his legs over the side of the bed, Vaughn struggled into a sitting position, facing his bedside table. "I don't suppose Irina would be kind enough to leave the key…" he pondered aloud while searching his table, the bed linens and the folds of his robe for any signs of said key. He didn't find one. "Damn it!" he swore, pounding his right fist on the bedside table. Then he began searching the top for something he could use to pick the lock, but there was only his lamp and clock on it, and he doubted either would be of any use. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the telephone resting in its cradle on the table at the other side of the bed, taunting him with its closeness, but too far away for him to possibly reach in his current state.
"Think, Vaughn, think…" he told himself, trying to force his sleepy mind to focus. He reached over and was barely able to pull open the drawer in the table. He had to shove stuff around one-handed and blind, twisting himself into a rather awkward position to do it. Muttering aloud as he searched, he catalogued, "Pencil…no. Legal pad of paper…no. Scissors…" He pulled out the scissors and surveyed them, but the points were much too large and thick to be used for picking even something as simple as a handcuff lock. "No…" he said, dropping them back in the drawer. "Tape…no. Letter opener…." He pulled it out of the drawer and examined it thoughtfully. It might work… he thought as he tried inserting it into the lock for the cuff around his wrist. After a moment, Vaughn realized it was still too big. Sighing, he placed this back in the drawer and rooted around at the bottom, underneath the papers.
Finally, his hand closed upon something useful. "Aha, a paper clip!" he exclaimed, and grabbed a small handful of them, setting them beside him on the bed. He spent the next several minutes using his teeth to help unbend the clips and rebend them into useful shapes. Then, he set one paper clip in the lock, holding it in position with his teeth while using another in his right hand to pick the lock. After a few clumsy tries (after all, he was left handed…), he heard the lock click with satisfaction. Pulling the cuff apart, he slid his wrist free and massaged it, trying to rub away the indented mark left from several hours wedged in the tight metal ring. He shook his hand to resume blood flow, feeling his numb hand tingle with painful needles.
Standing up, Vaughn placed both hands at the small of his back and stretched the kinks out. Then he lurched to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, trying vainly to clear the cobwebs out of his head. Clumsy from lack of sleep and from remnants of the drug, Vaughn stumbled back toward the bed. He ended up grazing the bedside table with his knee, putting him off balance. He stepped sideways quickly to regain his footing…. Crunch!
Something sharp jabbed Vaughn in the soft underside of his foot. "Sh*t!" he cursed, annoyed, and plopped gracelessly onto the bed to inspect the damage. Underneath his foot was the object that he had apparently knocked over in his rush to shut off his alarm: a data CD housed in a case with its front now splintered into clear plastic shards.
Bending over, he picked up the CD case, not recognizing it. Then he noticed it: in writing that he unfortunately recognized as Irina's, it said simply Rambaldi. Underneath the mass of broken plastic was a yellow post-it note. Brushing the mess aside, he read: Keep this data safe. Sloane cannot be allowed to access the contained intel. Do not view on CIA computers; use your personal laptop. If I find a lead on the Storyteller, I will contact you.
"What does she think…that I'm working for her now!?" Vaughn scathed aloud with a scowl. "I refuse to become her little lap dog like Sark…" Picking up the piece of paper, Vaughn crumpled it viciously and whipped it toward the wastebasket by his desk. It bounced harmlessly off the wall and landed about eight inches from the receptacle. Vaughn wanted to trash the disc too, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Regardless of how much he hated Irina, he could not, in good conscience, dispose of what could turn out to be the intel that saves Sydney's life.
Sydney… Suddenly, memories of everything from the night before crashed upon him like ocean surf: the horror he'd found at Sydney's apartment, the trip to the emergency room, Sydney lying so still and pale, his subsequent breakdown, Irina's visit…
He tried to find a fault in the line of thinking employed by Sydney's mother regarding the Prophecy, but his mind was still too clouded by the remaining effects of the tranq dart to consider it clearly. He needed someone to brainstorm with; someone else who no longer trusted anything Irina Derevko said either. He needed Jack Bristow.
Jack! Yes, Jack was a master at game theory…if anyone could see through Irina's scheme it would be him! Or at least that's what Vaughn hoped. Besides, Jack was currently sitting at Sydney's bedside. He could discuss his "meeting" with Irina and find out how Sydney was doing all in one fell swoop. Sliding off the foot of the bed to avoid the broken plastic, he ambled out to the living room, trying to recall where he left his CIA issued cell-phone.
He bent down and fished into the plastic bag that contained his belongings, feeling around blindly until he located the phone. Vaughn couldn't bring himself to actually look down at the bag, knowing his bloody clothes were inside. It would be too painful, and right now he didn't have time for pain. He needed to talk to Jack, find out if Sydney could indeed be in more danger.
Fighting a wave of exhaustion, Vaughn headed back down the hallway to his bedroom. Stopping just inside the doorway, he yanked open the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a pair of blue boxers. Then, turning on the cell phone, he speed dialed Jack's number. Cradling the phone between his left shoulder and ear, he balanced precariously as he slipped one leg into the shorts. He was about to slide the other side on when Jack answered his phone on only the second ring.
That was not very unusual for Jack Bristow… however his greeting to Vaughn was. "If you ever contact me again, I will kill you!"
Vaughn was so taken aback by this response that he actually lost his grip on the waistband of his boxer shorts. He held the phone away from his ear and looked at it for a moment as if to say What the hell!? and then brought it back to his mouth and replied, stifling a yawn, "Well, that wasn't exactly the reception I was expecting…" Then he reached down to retrieve his forgotten underwear, now bunched around his ankle, and hastily slid them up into place before Jack could shock him into dropping them again.
Jack Bristow blinked, confused. "Vaughn!?"
"Yeah," Vaughn replied. "Who did you think it was!?"
Jack's tone was immediately cool and businesslike. "Never mind. What do you want?"
"Two things. First… how's Sydney?"
Jack's voice was flat and emotionless. "The same. Unchanged."
Vaughn didn't know whether he felt more worried that Sydney hadn't woken up, or relieved because she hadn't yet fulfilled the Prophecy. He let out a long sigh, then untied his robe and tossed it away. It landed haphazardly draped off the bottom edge of the bed.
"And, second," Michael continued as he shuffled through his closet to choose a shirt and suit for the day, "did Irina Derevko call you last night?"
Vaughn could practically see Jack's spine stiffen at the question. "Why do you ask?" Anger bristled beneath the surface of Jack's query.
Vaughn deposited a blue shirt and gray suit across the top of his dresser. His tone hardened considerably as well. "Just answer the question, Jack," he demanded.
"Yes," Jack bit out at last. "I did receive a call from Derevko, but I had nothing to say to her. What business is it of yours?"
"You made it my business by not talking to her," Vaughn replied.
"What are you talking about?" Jack demanded impatiently.
"What I'm talking about," Vaughn answered slowly, deliberately, "is because you wouldn't listen to her, she went looking for someone else who would…Me."
"That's absurd," Jack scoffed. "You were one of the few agents that remained consistently skeptical of her motives while she was in CIA custody. I hardly think you a likely candidate for Irina to approach."
"Nevertheless, she was waiting for me in my apartment when I got home last night," Vaughn said simply. "The intel she shared with me was….enlightening."
"And you believed her!? You? After everything she's done? To your father…your family? Why in hell did you even bother listening to her!?" Jack fumed.
"You don't need to regale me with anecdotes from my own history, Jack; I am well aware of what she did. I wasn't thrilled about it, either, but I wasn't exactly given a choice," was Vaughn's sardonic answer.
"What do you mean?" Jack asked.
Vaughn sighed heavily. "You better sit down, Jack, because it's a long story."