Chapter 17

Jack had planned to eat a late snack when he returned to the hotel, but found he wasn't very hungry. Snatches from their conversation played in his head - ...chromosome....La Scintilla...cell regeneration....Rambaldi. His mind reeled as he tried to absorb everything Irina had told him, tried to rework all the options, all the angles.

He had not asked her, of course. What she was planning to do with 'La Scintilla' once she had it. Did she even know? And if she did, would she tell him the truth? Had she decided that her heritage would become her destiny? Not 'our destiny' he thought sourly to himself. It all made sickening sense - her headlong obsession for 15 years, her willingness to work with Sloane, despite the cost. Even her keeping him at arm's length. Perhaps she did have a conscience after all, and wouldn't sleep with him if she were planning to leave him again. And if she activated that chromosome - became 'immortal' - she would be leaving him as surely as she had done 20 years ago. Jack slammed down his suitcase and looked for something to break.

It wouldn't change the plan. Irina had manipulated him into doing this for Sydney. It was still important to get the device for Sydney's sake, and he'd finally have his hands on Sloane. She'd just neglected to mention that she had a personal stake in the outcome as well. He lay down on the bed, exhausted and heartsick, searching for oblivion.

**

Snick. Having picked the lock, Irina quietly slid in the door of Jack's hotel room, and waited for his challenge. He had always been a light sleeper, particularly on missions. Surprised when there was no reaction, she waited for her eyes to adjust the darkness in the room before recognizing the problem. On the other side of the room, Jack tossed restlessly, tangled in his sheets, occasionally uttering a cry.

Irina sighed and stepped closer, watching him carefully. A nightmare. She wondered how many he had had, how much sleep he was getting. No wonder he had looked tired. Carefully she deposited the manuscripts and artifacts she had promised him on the table by his bed. She had hoped to talk with him further, but didn't have the heart to wake him. He looked like he needed all the rest he could get.

She turned to go, then paused with her hand on the doorknob, indecision slowing her progress. She was counting on him, she told herself. She needed to make sure he was well-rested and sharp. Quietly laughing at her attempts at rationalization, she turned back, quickly stripped off her clothes, and climbed into bed, careful not to disturb him. Gently she curled behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, making sure not to hold his arms down. She'd found through long practice that restraining him when he was in the midst of one of these night terrors just panicked him more. Instead, she gently massaged his back and chest, trying to soothe the muscles tensed with fear. Slowly she felt him relax beneath her touch, heard his breathing slow, as he drifted off into dreamless sleep.

Jack woke in the morning to sun streaming through the window. He yawned and stretched - he had slept soundly, and felt more refreshed than he had in weeks. He looked over to the table and saw with a start that Irina had left the items she promised. Why hadn't she woken him? He couldn't remember - suddenly suspicious, he looked more closely at the bed. Two long brunette hairs lay curled on the pillow next to his.