***
But I'll try everything a man has got to try
Until the well runs dry
***
"I think we're done," Jack said as he tossed down the pencil. It was almost midnight, but he and Sloane had finally finished planning the break- in at the Chinese Embassy in Spain. They would get the intel they needed, hopefully without any loses. Jack could still remember looking at the faces projected on the wall years before, and he was determined that they would do all they could to prevent loses during this mission. It was his goal for every op he planned.
Jack yawned as he rubbed his eyes. Sloane looked over at him and picked up a glass of water. After taking a sip, he said, "Tired, Jack? It's still early."
Smiling, he explained, "Sydney had a tummy ache last night; I stayed up with her most of the night." He stood up to stretch before walking over to the window and looking out into the LA night. Sydney had cried as he left that morning, and he'd wanted to stay and hold her like she'd wanted.
"Did you hear about Portman?" Sloane asked.
Jack turned to look at him. "Portman? You mean Billy?"
"Yeah, Billy."
"No, I missed the briefing this morning. What happened?"
Jack expected to hear how he died. Too many of their friends had been killed over the years. Instead he heard, "Burnout. Got four of his own agents killed."
"Damn."
"He gave so damn much he didn't have anymore to give," Sloane said.
Jack was surprised by the bitterness in his friend's voice. "They don't ask for more than we're willing to give."
"Really?" Sloane's grin was not a happy one. "You mean you wanted to leave Sydney this morning after she'd stayed up all night sick?"
Leaning back against the window, he studied his friend. "You know what I mean, Arvin. All fathers make those types of sacrifices, even if they're only going to the Golden Arches to work."
Sloane shook his head. "I'm sorry. Bill Portman was a good man. He deserved better than what they did to him today."
Uncertain exactly what his friend's fate at the CIA had been, but certain that he knew the basics, Jack winced. "They needed to protect other agents- -"
"Jack," was all Sloane said, but Jack lowered his head at the censor there. While he understood the CIA's policy on burnout, he knew exactly what Sloane was upset about. Good agents were often tossed out like yesterday's garbage.
Sloane finished his water and stood. "They keep asking us to give, never noticing when we no longer have anything else to give them. At least not until we make a mistake."
Jack watched his friend walk from their office, and struggled to ignore the whispers of doubts about Sloane's loyalty he was starting to have, had been having since the Burma mission.
***
Until the well runs dry
***
Jack watched as Billy's wife dropped a handful of dirt on her husband's casket. He felt Laura's hand slip into his, and he felt the muscles in his neck start to relax. He was glad that she'd insisted on finding a sitter for Sydney and attending with him. He needed her here. Especially for this funeral.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Remember how he laughed and laughed with us as we watched that silly, old movie?"
After nodding, Jack leaned his chin on her head. "Yeah," he whispered. It had been the last time Billy had been to their house. Had it really been almost a year ago? Time had flown so fast.
"He always had a great sense of humor," Laura mumbled.
"Yeah," Jack sighed, struggling to remember the laughing man. Struggled to remember Billy telling jokes instead of seeing Billy sitting behind his desk at home, a gaping hole in the back of his head from where he'd decided to swallow a bullet from his own gun.
Burnout. He'd given until he had nothing left to give to anyone. Not even to his wife and kids.
Jack wrapped his arms around Laura and listened as the service ended. He looked across the grave to where Arvin and Emily were talking to the widow. He remembered Arvin's words from last night's impromptu wake, remembered how the hairs on the back of his neck had shivered when Arvin said Billy should have used his talents for his own benefit. Then, later, Emily had unwittingly revealed that Alain Christophe had become a frequent visitor to the Sloane household. Christophe was a fellow agent, on his way to the top by all indications, but Jack didn't trust him, and Arvin used to feel the same way.
"I need to go into the office," he told Laura as they started walking away from the flower-covered grave.
"Jack--"
"It'll just be for a little while. I need to talk to some people," he told her.
"You need to take some time for yourself."
He stopped and looked at her. "I'm taking the rest of the week off." She looked surprised. "I want to spend time with you and Sydney. Forget about the office."
Looking back over her shoulder to where a crying Lisa Portman stood by her husband's grave, Laura nodded. "I understand. But why go in today?"
Because if I don't, I may never find the courage again. Because I'm having to give more than I ever wanted to give to the CIA. Because I don't want to believe that my best friend may be a traitor, and by tomorrow I may have talked myself out of doing what I know has to be done.
"There's some information that I need to give to Andrews," was all he told her.
***
Now I had a lover
And she led me to the slaughter
***
"What the hell is this all about?" Jack yelled, finally fed up with all the questions. He had a grieving daughter at home he needed to be with, and honestly, he would be okay with the CIA and everything connected with it going straight to the devil right now.
Andrews, a man he worked with for years, looked at him with a glare that could freeze a man's soul, but Jack was too tired, too numb, and too angry to care. "I want answers," he said to the men in the room. "You've been questioning me for hours about things I don't give a damn about right now."
"You don't give a damn about dead agents, Agent Bristow?"
Jack ran his hand through his hair. "Of course I do, Sir. But right now, I can't help you. I need to be with my daughter. My wife is dead, and I just haven't got anything to give you tonight."
Agent Mark Watson, a man Jack had called a friend until he'd hauled him out of his own house without an explanation, tossed a book down in front of him. "Do you recognize this?"
Jack reached down and picked up the book. He opened the cover and saw his own writing. "Yes, I do. Since you got it from my house, I don't see why you even need to ask," he said as he tossed it back down on the table. It hurt to see the words of love written to Laura back when he thought life was always going to be perfect. He wanted to cry; he wanted to hold his little girl.
"Where did you get the book, Agent Bristow?" This question came from one of the strangers in the room. Jack wasn't sure what agency the man worked for, but he wasn't CIA. He was certain of that fact. Maybe FBI? But why would the FBI be asking him questions?
"This is a waste of my time and yours. I'm going home." Jack turned to walk out the door, but Mark stepped in front of him. "Don't make me hurt you, Mark," he growled.
"Answer the question, Jack," Andrews said from behind him.
Jack spun on his heels. "It's a book, sir!"
"Answer the question."
"It's a standing mail order that I have. The CIA needed me to handle an assignment before I could enjoy a honeymoon with my wife." Jack managed not to choke on the word. Wife. Dead. The words didn't fit together. "So they sent--" He hesitated. "Laura with me during a stint in Europe. We found a book store in Poland. My wife loved literature, and liked reading the stories in the original language. I had them ship books to us, and that is one of them. Can I go now?"
Jack stared at Andrews as the man from whatever agency did something to the book. Resisting the urge to hit him for harming one of his wife's books, he reminded himself that spending the night in jail for assault would not get him home any quicker. And Sydney needed him.
The agent laid the book back down in front of him; this time it was open. Jack about snapped something at him when he noticed the writing in the margin of the book. He recognized the style of code immediately. "Why would the KGB be sending codes in books to me?"
"It was a good way to send orders to their agent."
"I don't work for the KGB, Sir," Jack said as he looked at the man from the FBI. Now he knew what agency the man was with and why they were questioning him. "It's some kind of set up."
"Your wife was the agent, Mr. Bristow," another FBI agent who was standing next to Jack said.
He didn't even think. His fist connected with the man, sending him flying into the wall. "That's a lie, you son of a bitch!"
Mark stepped in front of him. The man behind the table set a large file down next to the book he'd set down earlier. "That's not what months of investigation tell us, Agent Bristow."
Jack stared at the file folder. "It's a lie."
"No, Jack," Mark said, putting his hand on Jack's shoulder. "It's not."
He sank down into the chair he'd spent hours in already. "You think she killed those agents. That's why you were asking me about them."
"No," the FBI agent said, barely paying attention to the man that had come with him; he was now getting off the floor and trying to stop his nose from bleeding. "We don't think she killed them, Agent Bristow. We know she did."
The man slid the file directly in front of Jack. With shaking hands, he opened it and read every page. Read every piece of paper that said his married life had been a lie from the first. Read the truth and felt himself slowing dying inside.
***
End 4/5
But I'll try everything a man has got to try
Until the well runs dry
***
"I think we're done," Jack said as he tossed down the pencil. It was almost midnight, but he and Sloane had finally finished planning the break- in at the Chinese Embassy in Spain. They would get the intel they needed, hopefully without any loses. Jack could still remember looking at the faces projected on the wall years before, and he was determined that they would do all they could to prevent loses during this mission. It was his goal for every op he planned.
Jack yawned as he rubbed his eyes. Sloane looked over at him and picked up a glass of water. After taking a sip, he said, "Tired, Jack? It's still early."
Smiling, he explained, "Sydney had a tummy ache last night; I stayed up with her most of the night." He stood up to stretch before walking over to the window and looking out into the LA night. Sydney had cried as he left that morning, and he'd wanted to stay and hold her like she'd wanted.
"Did you hear about Portman?" Sloane asked.
Jack turned to look at him. "Portman? You mean Billy?"
"Yeah, Billy."
"No, I missed the briefing this morning. What happened?"
Jack expected to hear how he died. Too many of their friends had been killed over the years. Instead he heard, "Burnout. Got four of his own agents killed."
"Damn."
"He gave so damn much he didn't have anymore to give," Sloane said.
Jack was surprised by the bitterness in his friend's voice. "They don't ask for more than we're willing to give."
"Really?" Sloane's grin was not a happy one. "You mean you wanted to leave Sydney this morning after she'd stayed up all night sick?"
Leaning back against the window, he studied his friend. "You know what I mean, Arvin. All fathers make those types of sacrifices, even if they're only going to the Golden Arches to work."
Sloane shook his head. "I'm sorry. Bill Portman was a good man. He deserved better than what they did to him today."
Uncertain exactly what his friend's fate at the CIA had been, but certain that he knew the basics, Jack winced. "They needed to protect other agents- -"
"Jack," was all Sloane said, but Jack lowered his head at the censor there. While he understood the CIA's policy on burnout, he knew exactly what Sloane was upset about. Good agents were often tossed out like yesterday's garbage.
Sloane finished his water and stood. "They keep asking us to give, never noticing when we no longer have anything else to give them. At least not until we make a mistake."
Jack watched his friend walk from their office, and struggled to ignore the whispers of doubts about Sloane's loyalty he was starting to have, had been having since the Burma mission.
***
Until the well runs dry
***
Jack watched as Billy's wife dropped a handful of dirt on her husband's casket. He felt Laura's hand slip into his, and he felt the muscles in his neck start to relax. He was glad that she'd insisted on finding a sitter for Sydney and attending with him. He needed her here. Especially for this funeral.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Remember how he laughed and laughed with us as we watched that silly, old movie?"
After nodding, Jack leaned his chin on her head. "Yeah," he whispered. It had been the last time Billy had been to their house. Had it really been almost a year ago? Time had flown so fast.
"He always had a great sense of humor," Laura mumbled.
"Yeah," Jack sighed, struggling to remember the laughing man. Struggled to remember Billy telling jokes instead of seeing Billy sitting behind his desk at home, a gaping hole in the back of his head from where he'd decided to swallow a bullet from his own gun.
Burnout. He'd given until he had nothing left to give to anyone. Not even to his wife and kids.
Jack wrapped his arms around Laura and listened as the service ended. He looked across the grave to where Arvin and Emily were talking to the widow. He remembered Arvin's words from last night's impromptu wake, remembered how the hairs on the back of his neck had shivered when Arvin said Billy should have used his talents for his own benefit. Then, later, Emily had unwittingly revealed that Alain Christophe had become a frequent visitor to the Sloane household. Christophe was a fellow agent, on his way to the top by all indications, but Jack didn't trust him, and Arvin used to feel the same way.
"I need to go into the office," he told Laura as they started walking away from the flower-covered grave.
"Jack--"
"It'll just be for a little while. I need to talk to some people," he told her.
"You need to take some time for yourself."
He stopped and looked at her. "I'm taking the rest of the week off." She looked surprised. "I want to spend time with you and Sydney. Forget about the office."
Looking back over her shoulder to where a crying Lisa Portman stood by her husband's grave, Laura nodded. "I understand. But why go in today?"
Because if I don't, I may never find the courage again. Because I'm having to give more than I ever wanted to give to the CIA. Because I don't want to believe that my best friend may be a traitor, and by tomorrow I may have talked myself out of doing what I know has to be done.
"There's some information that I need to give to Andrews," was all he told her.
***
Now I had a lover
And she led me to the slaughter
***
"What the hell is this all about?" Jack yelled, finally fed up with all the questions. He had a grieving daughter at home he needed to be with, and honestly, he would be okay with the CIA and everything connected with it going straight to the devil right now.
Andrews, a man he worked with for years, looked at him with a glare that could freeze a man's soul, but Jack was too tired, too numb, and too angry to care. "I want answers," he said to the men in the room. "You've been questioning me for hours about things I don't give a damn about right now."
"You don't give a damn about dead agents, Agent Bristow?"
Jack ran his hand through his hair. "Of course I do, Sir. But right now, I can't help you. I need to be with my daughter. My wife is dead, and I just haven't got anything to give you tonight."
Agent Mark Watson, a man Jack had called a friend until he'd hauled him out of his own house without an explanation, tossed a book down in front of him. "Do you recognize this?"
Jack reached down and picked up the book. He opened the cover and saw his own writing. "Yes, I do. Since you got it from my house, I don't see why you even need to ask," he said as he tossed it back down on the table. It hurt to see the words of love written to Laura back when he thought life was always going to be perfect. He wanted to cry; he wanted to hold his little girl.
"Where did you get the book, Agent Bristow?" This question came from one of the strangers in the room. Jack wasn't sure what agency the man worked for, but he wasn't CIA. He was certain of that fact. Maybe FBI? But why would the FBI be asking him questions?
"This is a waste of my time and yours. I'm going home." Jack turned to walk out the door, but Mark stepped in front of him. "Don't make me hurt you, Mark," he growled.
"Answer the question, Jack," Andrews said from behind him.
Jack spun on his heels. "It's a book, sir!"
"Answer the question."
"It's a standing mail order that I have. The CIA needed me to handle an assignment before I could enjoy a honeymoon with my wife." Jack managed not to choke on the word. Wife. Dead. The words didn't fit together. "So they sent--" He hesitated. "Laura with me during a stint in Europe. We found a book store in Poland. My wife loved literature, and liked reading the stories in the original language. I had them ship books to us, and that is one of them. Can I go now?"
Jack stared at Andrews as the man from whatever agency did something to the book. Resisting the urge to hit him for harming one of his wife's books, he reminded himself that spending the night in jail for assault would not get him home any quicker. And Sydney needed him.
The agent laid the book back down in front of him; this time it was open. Jack about snapped something at him when he noticed the writing in the margin of the book. He recognized the style of code immediately. "Why would the KGB be sending codes in books to me?"
"It was a good way to send orders to their agent."
"I don't work for the KGB, Sir," Jack said as he looked at the man from the FBI. Now he knew what agency the man was with and why they were questioning him. "It's some kind of set up."
"Your wife was the agent, Mr. Bristow," another FBI agent who was standing next to Jack said.
He didn't even think. His fist connected with the man, sending him flying into the wall. "That's a lie, you son of a bitch!"
Mark stepped in front of him. The man behind the table set a large file down next to the book he'd set down earlier. "That's not what months of investigation tell us, Agent Bristow."
Jack stared at the file folder. "It's a lie."
"No, Jack," Mark said, putting his hand on Jack's shoulder. "It's not."
He sank down into the chair he'd spent hours in already. "You think she killed those agents. That's why you were asking me about them."
"No," the FBI agent said, barely paying attention to the man that had come with him; he was now getting off the floor and trying to stop his nose from bleeding. "We don't think she killed them, Agent Bristow. We know she did."
The man slid the file directly in front of Jack. With shaking hands, he opened it and read every page. Read every piece of paper that said his married life had been a lie from the first. Read the truth and felt himself slowing dying inside.
***
End 4/5