The guard pulled back the tent flap and waved Irina and her entourage in.
She stopped as she crossed into the interior, her eyes adjusting to the dim
light within. Silks adorned the walls, pillows and cushions the floor.
Another guard moved up to her and patted her down, ensuring that she was
bringing no weapons into the presence of the rafir. As her eyes continued
to travel around the tent, she discerned a cluster of men grouped around a
table, eating and drinking. The elderly man in the center appeared to be
the leader. She studied him carefully. Face shrouded in fabric, dark
skinned, lined with age, but still emanating an unmistakable aura of power
and command.
Rumors about this man were vague. A nomad, with no permanent home, traveling the arid wasteland of the Sahara. A collector of antiquities. A man of considerable means, based on the richness of his surroundings. The owner of a journal reputed to have been written by a Rambaldi protégé. A connoisseur of beautiful women.
Sloane had made contact through intermediaries, and been rebuffed. He had offered the opportunity to Irina, who had snatched it with alacrity. The CIA thought she had been dangerous before? She hadn't even started. She had always been honest with herself - it had kept her sane, during the traumatic years after she had left Sydney and Jack. But she knew that she had not yet begun to deal with the pain of Jack's betrayal. His willingness to have her killed in cold blood. She had saved his life. What had changed? And what did Sydney now believe?
The emptiness yawned within her once more. She was alone again, as alone as she had ever been. She struggled to fight off the darkness, the temptation of absolute power offered by Rambaldi. The ability to control the fates of men. She had only wanted to control one man's fate, and now he stalked her, seeking her death.
The guard coughed twice, and Irina mentally shook herself. The rafir looked up, apparently noticing his visitors for the first time. With a wave, he motioned for them to take places around his table. Irina noticed his eyes wander over her appreciatively. At least one part of their intel had been right, she sighed to herself. Perhaps she could use it to her advantage.
After the niceties had been observed, Irina broached the topic of her mission.
"Discussions on such a topic are, of course, quite delicate. Perhaps we should continue them.alone?" inquired the rafir. He snapped his fingers and his companions rose immediately to leave. He spoke hoarsely in Arabic to his guards.
Old goat, thought Irina impatiently. A rough translation of what he had said was "If we are disturbed for any reason, I'll have your balls cut off and fed to the camels." She saw the hesitation on the faces of her men. With a slight nod, she indicated her assent. She was in no danger from this doddering old man. In short order, they were alone.
"Come closer, my dear," he whispered hoarsely. "I am old, and I no longer hear so well."
She moved closer, gracefully sitting next to him on a cushion, almost touching. He reached out and placed his hand on her thigh. Irina's brows snapped together in irritation, then she froze. That hand. It was familiar. Hands are one of the most difficult parts of the body to disguise.
With a curse, she leapt to her feet, and in one smooth move drew a slim dagger and lunged. "You bastard. You decided to do it yourself?"
Jack rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being gutted. He swore as the knife sliced against his arm. This was not quite the reunion he had envisioned. He jumped to his feet and backed away slowly, at a disadvantage with the voluminous robe he was wearing. "Irina, what are you doing?" he hissed. "It's me!" Where had she hidden that knife?
Irina was shaking with rage. She had trusted this man, and he had tried to kill her. And now she had walked into a trap again. She wouldn't give him another chance. She feinted, then lunged, narrowly missing him. Slowly she circled, looking for an opening. Jack saw the murderous gleam in her eyes and pulled his gun. He had seen her with a knife before. He needed to buy some time.
"Irina, what are you talking about?" he said as she paused, reassessing her odds.
She sneered. "Marseilles. Assassination team. *You* chose the meet. Ring a bell?" She began to circle again. "Pull that trigger and my men will rip you to shreds."
"Irina," Jack pleaded, struggling to make sense of her words. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't been to Marseilles."
"Liar. I was almost killed." And I saw you there, she said to herself.
"By whom?" said Jack, sweat beading up on his forehead. He was concentrating on her every move. If she threw that knife, he'd stand very little chance.
"The CIA assassination team. You. It had to be you. No one else would have been able to authenticate that message. Who else would have known where we first met? What your first gift to me was?"
"What?"
"You don't think I would just blindly walk into a meet before verifying that it was you? No one else would have known."
With sudden clarity, Jack understood. "You're wrong," he said tightly. "Anyone who had watched my interrogation tapes would know the answers to those questions. And almost anything else about our life together."
He stood up straight, suddenly weary. He couldn't go on this way. They had been manipulated so long by others - would they ever be able to trust each other again? He tossed his gun to her and put his hands in the air. "Trust me or shoot me. It's your choice."
Rumors about this man were vague. A nomad, with no permanent home, traveling the arid wasteland of the Sahara. A collector of antiquities. A man of considerable means, based on the richness of his surroundings. The owner of a journal reputed to have been written by a Rambaldi protégé. A connoisseur of beautiful women.
Sloane had made contact through intermediaries, and been rebuffed. He had offered the opportunity to Irina, who had snatched it with alacrity. The CIA thought she had been dangerous before? She hadn't even started. She had always been honest with herself - it had kept her sane, during the traumatic years after she had left Sydney and Jack. But she knew that she had not yet begun to deal with the pain of Jack's betrayal. His willingness to have her killed in cold blood. She had saved his life. What had changed? And what did Sydney now believe?
The emptiness yawned within her once more. She was alone again, as alone as she had ever been. She struggled to fight off the darkness, the temptation of absolute power offered by Rambaldi. The ability to control the fates of men. She had only wanted to control one man's fate, and now he stalked her, seeking her death.
The guard coughed twice, and Irina mentally shook herself. The rafir looked up, apparently noticing his visitors for the first time. With a wave, he motioned for them to take places around his table. Irina noticed his eyes wander over her appreciatively. At least one part of their intel had been right, she sighed to herself. Perhaps she could use it to her advantage.
After the niceties had been observed, Irina broached the topic of her mission.
"Discussions on such a topic are, of course, quite delicate. Perhaps we should continue them.alone?" inquired the rafir. He snapped his fingers and his companions rose immediately to leave. He spoke hoarsely in Arabic to his guards.
Old goat, thought Irina impatiently. A rough translation of what he had said was "If we are disturbed for any reason, I'll have your balls cut off and fed to the camels." She saw the hesitation on the faces of her men. With a slight nod, she indicated her assent. She was in no danger from this doddering old man. In short order, they were alone.
"Come closer, my dear," he whispered hoarsely. "I am old, and I no longer hear so well."
She moved closer, gracefully sitting next to him on a cushion, almost touching. He reached out and placed his hand on her thigh. Irina's brows snapped together in irritation, then she froze. That hand. It was familiar. Hands are one of the most difficult parts of the body to disguise.
With a curse, she leapt to her feet, and in one smooth move drew a slim dagger and lunged. "You bastard. You decided to do it yourself?"
Jack rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being gutted. He swore as the knife sliced against his arm. This was not quite the reunion he had envisioned. He jumped to his feet and backed away slowly, at a disadvantage with the voluminous robe he was wearing. "Irina, what are you doing?" he hissed. "It's me!" Where had she hidden that knife?
Irina was shaking with rage. She had trusted this man, and he had tried to kill her. And now she had walked into a trap again. She wouldn't give him another chance. She feinted, then lunged, narrowly missing him. Slowly she circled, looking for an opening. Jack saw the murderous gleam in her eyes and pulled his gun. He had seen her with a knife before. He needed to buy some time.
"Irina, what are you talking about?" he said as she paused, reassessing her odds.
She sneered. "Marseilles. Assassination team. *You* chose the meet. Ring a bell?" She began to circle again. "Pull that trigger and my men will rip you to shreds."
"Irina," Jack pleaded, struggling to make sense of her words. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't been to Marseilles."
"Liar. I was almost killed." And I saw you there, she said to herself.
"By whom?" said Jack, sweat beading up on his forehead. He was concentrating on her every move. If she threw that knife, he'd stand very little chance.
"The CIA assassination team. You. It had to be you. No one else would have been able to authenticate that message. Who else would have known where we first met? What your first gift to me was?"
"What?"
"You don't think I would just blindly walk into a meet before verifying that it was you? No one else would have known."
With sudden clarity, Jack understood. "You're wrong," he said tightly. "Anyone who had watched my interrogation tapes would know the answers to those questions. And almost anything else about our life together."
He stood up straight, suddenly weary. He couldn't go on this way. They had been manipulated so long by others - would they ever be able to trust each other again? He tossed his gun to her and put his hands in the air. "Trust me or shoot me. It's your choice."
