Christmas found them in Venice, still chasing Rambaldi in the desperate hope that their search would lead them to their daughters. Jack left Irina in the hotel and went for a walk around the city.
He thought of the turns his life had taken over the past year, and wondered how different things would be if he had turned down that last assignment. It had been a last-minute decision to go. The agent who had been supposed to go had fallen ill, and Jack volunteered to replace him.
In a perfect world, they would still be in Los Angeles. The house would be decorated for Christmas, Sydney would be compiling a list for Santa and he and Irina would playfully argue about how much they were going to spoil her.
No. She would still be Laura.
His footsteps slowed. This was Nadia's first Christmas, he realized.
And Sydney's second Christmas without her father.
He suddenly wondered what last Christmas had been like. Had they celebrated it? He had no idea if Christmas was even a Russian holiday.
And Irina . . . what must she be feeling?
He thought of her as he'd left her in the hotel room, a solitary figure sitting staring at the window. Was she as lonely as he was?
He tried to recall the last time they'd talked without arguing, and couldn't. Then he tried to remember the last time he'd held her, and realized he couldn't do that either. Now he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms again; maybe if they could connect with each other, perhaps some of this constant ache would go away.
He turned around and headed back to the hotel.
It was hopeless, Irina thought. They would never find the girls. Sydney and Nadia – if they were even still alive – were lost to her now.
She had Jack, but even he was still lost to her. Over the last few months that had become painfully clear. Was this her punishment for betraying him?
She glanced around the hotel room and for a moment couldn't even remember what city she was in. The hotel room looked just like one of the countless other rooms they'd stayed in. She saw her future as an endless series of hotel rooms, sharing a bed with a husband who no longer loved her, getting caught up in mad prophecies and a search for lost children.
It seemed unbearable.
But what were the alternatives? Giving up the search would mean admitting that Sydney and Nadia would not be found. Irina couldn't go back to Russia either; the moment she set foot in Moscow she would be arrested and most likely executed.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and crossed the room. From the small closet she took out her gun then sat on the edge of the bed. She ran her fingers lightly over the barrel before raising the weapon and pressing the muzzle against her temple. It would be so easy to pull the trigger, to end it all. If she died, Jack would be free at last.
Her hand was shaking too much. She moved the gun, placing the barrel in her mouth. There could be no margin for error. She closed her eyes.
She thought of Sydney; a gap-toothed smile and dimples. She imagined Nadia, her tiny fist curled around Irina's finger.
And Jack, looking at her with an expression of love she hadn't seen in months.
She wanted to pull the trigger, but she knew she wouldn't. She couldn't.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Rough hands pulled the gun away from her and she opened her eyes to look into the panicked face of her husband.
"I—" The words wouldn't come, and she bent over, clutching her stomach as she started to cry.
"What were you thinking?" Jack sat next to her and after a moment, he put his arms around her. "Irina, look at me."
She hugged herself tighter.
"Sweetheart, please."
It was the 'sweetheart' that did it. She turned her face towards him. "Jack—"
"Why – why would you – we'll find them, okay? Just don't give up on me."
"Jack, I—"
"Promise me you won't – just promise!"
"Promise."
He pulled her into a hug and held her tight.
"What happened?" Jack asked a while later. Irina noticed he seemed calmer.
"I don't know."
"I can't lose you, too."
Irina moved out of the embrace. "But – you can't mean that."
"Why not?"
"You don't love me."
He stared at her, incredulous. "I don't love you?"
"How can you? This is all my fault." She started to stand; he grabbed her wrist and forced her to sit down again. "Jack, let go."
"How can you possibly think I don't love you?"
Now it was her turn to stare in disbelief. "Jack, I see how you look at me, like you wish I was dead. You can't even stand to touch me anymore—"
Jack pushed her backwards onto the bed, pinning her in place with his body. "If I wanted you dead, I would not have stopped you from pulling the trigger. Yes, it hurts to look at you, but not because I don't love you. You walk around, your body language screaming 'don't touch' but I know you're in pain, and I don't know how to help you."
He kissed her then, tenderly, tentatively, as if this was the first kiss they had ever shared. She felt something break deep inside her, felt it spill free and cover every part of her. She felt so far removed from the woman who had put a gun in her mouth, felt that she was someone else entirely.
"I can't remember a time when I didn't love you," Jack said, and she believed him.
Jack held the gondola steady while Irina stepped out. Then they hurried down the cobbled street. At the end of the road was a narrow staircase leading to a small bookshop; one Jack and Irina had been told served as a front for the Knights of Rambaldi. They were about to climb the stairs when the door at the top opened. Jack pushed Irina against the wall and started kissing her; they could have been any young couple looking for privacy on a moonlit night.
Jack and Irina continued kissing as they heard footsteps descend the stairs, then amused chuckles as the other people passed them. He kept kissing her until the street was silent again, and even then, it was with reluctance that he pulled away.
When he noticed Irina's flushed cheeks and erratic breathing, he gave a smug smile. She scowled and swatted his chest.
"You expect me to concentrate after that?"
"I didn't notice any complaints at the time."
She shook her head, but she was smiling too.
"Come on." Jack started up the stairs.
The lights in the bookshop were now off, and it didn't take long for him to pick the lock. If this really did belong to the Knights of Rambaldi, their security could do with an upgrade.
Once inside, Jack and Irina turned on their flashlights and began looking around. Jack still wasn't sure whether or not he actually believed all this Rambaldi stuff, but Irina seemed to be taking it seriously. She was right about one thing, he had to admit; it didn't really matter whether they believed. Other people did, and that meant they had to take it seriously.
"Over here!" Irina said.
Jack hurried to her end of the bookshop. She'd gone into the backroom, one hidden from the main room by a curtain. Jack pushed the curtain aside, then froze as he looked at what she'd found.
Old, yellowed documents were spread out over a large round table. Jack was familiar enough with the spidery writing on the pages to know that these were Rambaldi documents. Irina's attention was fixed solely on the sheet of paper in her hands, and the look on her face was one of horror. She turned it to show Jack, and he felt his gut twist.
"That's impossible," he said. "It can't be you."
Irina carefully rolled up the sheet of paper.
Jack was still reeling from the shock of seeing his wife's face on a five-hundred-year-old document that he didn't hear the other person until it was too late. As he turned, he felt something hard connect with the back of his head and he fell to the floor.
"You shouldn't have come here," his attacker said in Russian. "You were never supposed to see this."
He glanced up to see a man standing over him. In the corner of his vision, he saw Irina pointing her gun at the man.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
Jack noticed a small tattoo at the base of the man's right thumb: the mark of Rambaldi. He also noticed the man was unarmed, and wondered what he'd been hit with.
"Who are you?" Irina repeated.
The man smiled. "Arkady Nikolaevitch Derevko."