Irina patted her wig in place. It was good to be out in the field again. She hadn't realized how much she had chafed at the lack of control she had had in her life in CIA custody. Already this week she had traveled to 4 different countries and started up cells that had lain dormant while she was gone. Only one of her lieutenants had been stupid enough to challenge her on her return. He was now at the bottom of the Aegean Sea.

Word that she was back had traveled fast. She could sense the adjustments being made, the shifts in power structures, the realignment of alliances. In the old days, that knowledge alone would have sent a thrill through her. Twenty years ago, without Sydney, without Jack, there had been an emptiness in her life, which she had replaced with an insatiable thirst for power and control. And then Rambaldi. She shivered. She well remembered what it had been like in the grip of that particular obsession. She could almost feel sorry for Sloane.

Now, the thrill was gone. She had started up her network ruthlessly and efficiently, but with no great pleasure. It was a means to an end. It was not the end.

She placed her hand on Sloane's arm, twitched her skirt, and strolled with him into the Sistine chapel. Once past the information desk, they both put on headphones. They looked just like all the others worn by tourists as they toured through the site. Her team had just excavated into the Vatican museum next door. She was monitoring their transmissions.

She paused to admire a particular section of the ceiling fresco, concentrating on the team's commentary as they searched through the archives of the museum. The Catholic Church had been the major repository for art in the 16th century; the Rambaldi artifact she had identified had been part of the estate of a wealthy patron, donated to the Church on his death. It had been catalogued into the collection more than 400 years ago and forgotten. Until today.

The code word was transmitted. The artifact had been located. The team was clearing the building. They had not been detected. She strolled over to Sloane, and they meandered their way out of the building.

***

Sloane was exuberant when Irina handed him the artifact. He had not been convinced that she would hold up her end of the deal; and once he had understood the difficulty in attaining this particular object, he hadn't been confident she could pull it off. He studied her through narrowed eyes, weighing the value of her partnership against the risks of keeping her. He needed to shift the balance a little.

***

At the end of his week off, Jack sat at breakfast at his favorite restaurant, reading the paper. His attention was caught by an article on page 47, detailing a break-in of the Vatican museum. The break-in was significant, but authorities had not been able to identify anything missing of importance. Just some minor 16th objects. He grimaced. Security at the Vatican, home to the treasures of the Catholic Church, was renowned. Irina had not lost her touch.

Betty, the regular waitress, approached his table as he finished, ready to refill his coffee. She prided herself on knowing her customers, and was surprised to see Mr. Bristow looking so disheveled. He was usually quite careful about he way he dressed. She saw him carefully applying a dab of egg to his tie. She cleared her throat, and he looked up guiltily. "Will you be wanting anything else, sir?"

***

Jack walked into Devlin's office. He looked terrible, Devlin thought. Like he had slept in that suit. And what was that on his tie? Rumor was that, the first time his daughter had visited him, he had been passed out drunk on his apartment floor. Being setup twice by Irina Derevko would do that to anyone. He appeared sober enough now, although slightly hung over.

"Jack," said Devlin cautiously. "Welcome back. Have a seat."

Jack sat down heavily.

"How are you feeling? Fit to return to duty?"

"Fine," mumbled Jack, not meeting his eyes.

Devlin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Bristow had been assigned to a joint taskforce with the FBI. The two agencies, while cordial with each other in public, had an intense rivalry. Bristow's exploits on his last assignment, and the resulting ramifications for the taskforce, had been a huge embarrassment to the CIA. Devlin had spent most of the last week repairing the damage. Devlin needed to make Bristow someone else's problem soon, or it would start affecting his own career.

"Have you given any thought to where you'd like your next assignment to be?" he asked. Preferably someplace far away, thought Devlin. His wish was granted.

"Is there still a posting available in Algeria?" Jack asked shakily.

"Algeria?" Devlin asked incredulously. "As in the French Foreign Legion?" He hurriedly corrected himself, as he realized the implications of what he had just said. "I'm sorry, Jack. Did you say Algeria?"

"Algeria," replied Jack, a little more firmly. "I had heard that there was a need for some experienced CIA operatives to assist with joint training exercises."

"Aren't you a little, um, overqualified for that assignment?"

"Devlin, I just need some time away. From here. From everything," Jack said, with a trace of desperation in his voice.

The man looked like a wreck. He was obviously devastated by his wife's betrayal. His vaunted reputation was in tatters - the CIA was not an organization that tolerated the same mistake twice. And frankly, it didn't appear that he was emotionally or mentally fit to handle anything more challenging than driving himself to work.

Devlin smiled. Algeria might be just perfect.