Signals crossed,
Love gets lost,
And time passed makes it plain.
Yellow blades of sunlight fall across the shallow water. A couple boats drift slowly back toward the docks, fishermen bringing in their lines. Jack passes the once-familiar forms of the marina: the shabby, still-functioning office, the neat row of new docks with their shining speedboats. The surroundings gradually grow dingier as he walks toward the old end of the marina, rotting planks of the old docks sagging toward the dank water as the green algae creeps higher and higher up the pilings. The few boats tied there are small, weathered, perhaps abandoned. He passes the old office and original bait shop, half of its cracked windows boarded, the roof sagging down, a rusting padlock securing its only door. He walks down to the very end of the row, where a tiny pier juts out, its soggy, half-rotten wood stretching out a few meager feet over the water. He takes in his surroundings, eyes sweeping from side to side. He is early, quite early. He will not be surprised.
-----
Stars glint on the surface of the lake, black and smooth. It laps almost imperceptibly around the pilings of the dock, a sound as soft as falling snow. It smells slightly of fish and greasy black mud. The last fishermen have left for the evening, no one dangles fruitless filament lines off the mud-caked dock. Jack sits, alone, his feet dangling off the aging pier.
A weathered cleaning-board stands nearby, littered with dry fish-scales and sticky entrails, and his eyes rarely leave its surface. He can see the ridge of the hill over its top, the most direct approach to the shore. He watches for any sign of movement.
He fights to keep his eyes from sliding closed, to keep his body rigid with awareness. He remembers the last time he saw her, disappearing into deepening darkness; the last time he dreamt of her, drawing the cool knife across his throat.
His head throbs, his eyes burn, he wishes he had not skipped his evening routine.
Countless minutes crawl by, and he sees her. A shadow slinks over the edge of the small hill, holding its body close to the horizon. His back stiffens, his eyes snap wide. His hand reaches involuntarily to the small box in his pocket. He can feel the worn edges of the little jewelry box, cheap cardboard filled with cotton wadding. The sensation is familiar; he tries not to remember why.
"I know you didn't forget my birthday, Jack. Even you aren't that absent-minded."
"We've only been dating three weeks. I didn't know a gift was required."
"You're telling me you forgot regs and protocol?"
"I didn't know protocol included a gift."
"Are you going to give it to me, or do I have to come after it?"
"That's up to you."
He jerks to attention at the slight snap. A twig cracks, just twenty yards from where he stands. She's moving faster than he expected. He reaches for his belt, hand brushing a flat metal plate on its side.
The form creeps closer, moving swiftly. It takes shape and size. She's no more than thirty feet from him when the warning bells go off. He jumps to his feet, spinning around. He takes two steps toward the shore, instinctively moving away from the black water.
"Stop right there." His voice is a loud hiss.
A pair of shadowy hands lift in the air. "All I have is a paper, I promise."
Jack nearly jumps at the unfamiliar voice.
"Who are you?" He whips a penlight from his pocket, its narrow beam revealing the face if a frightened teenage boy, squinting in the sudden light.
"Who are you?"
"I'm – I – nobody. The lady told me to give this to Jack. Are you Jack?"
He stalks to the end of the pier, stepping off on the soft ground. He rips the envelope from the teenager's hand.
"Who gave this to you? Where is she?"
"Look, I don't know anything. She handed this to me yesterday, at – at this place I go downtown. Said she'd pay me to come here and give it to Jack. I didn't open it, I promise. I don't know anything."
"Do you have any idea how much danger you've put yourself into? That the woman you met with yesterday is a wanted assassin?"
The kid shrinks back, stepping cautiously away from the light.
"Look, I don't know what this is, I'm just gonna go, okay? Okay?" He stares at Jack, green eyes going wide. Hearing no answer, he spins on one heel and runs, not stopping until long after he disappears from site, over the hill where he came.
The trees come alive with rustling and movement, seven agents stepping into the clearing. Jack does not wait for them to approach before he rips open the envelope.
"Empty." He spits the word.
The agents exchange various forms of irritated sighs and muttered profanities. Jack crumples the envelope in his hand, eyes snapping shut in frustration. He tries to remember how many hours it has been since his last drink. Too many.
The sound of retreating footsteps squelch through the soft mud. He turns to follow them back to the van, back to a dingy bar and an empty home. He steps forward slowly, feeling every year hanging on his heavy limbs.
He walks thirty yards before he sees it. Against the backdrop of shadows, something white flutters in the light breeze. He steps closer; a small piece of paper has been folded and stuck through a broken pane in the window of the old bait shop. He walks to the rickety structure, every nerve on edge, every sense alert. He scans the blackness, but sees only dark water reflecting the pale stars. He cannot see inside the structure; the dirt-smeared panes hide the shadows behind. He grasps the paper slowly, as if it were a blade. It slides easily out of the pane; he flattens out its three folds. Even in the near-black, he recognizes the small, precise letters. Pulling out the penlight, he reads the single line.
Backup? I'm disappointed in you, Jack.
*********
Jack looks away from the computer, rubbing his forehead. The familiar throb that began behind his eyes has spread through his entire skull. He counts the hours until he can walk out the glass doors and down the gravel-covered sidewalk to his nightly haunt. He lets his hand fall to the desk, and his eyes flick across it, coming to rest on a white cardboard box lying to one side. He picks it up, removing the lid, lifting the tiny earring from inside. He remembers her look of disgust when she took it off, the way her eyes narrowed in the half-light. It was the perfect insurance, and she knew it; she knew he had found a way to make her comply. And she will comply; he is certain of it.
He holds the tiny earring too tightly; the angular edges prick his fingers. A half-remembered couplet floats across his consciousness. [i]By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.[/i] He tosses the earring back into the box, disgusted with it, disgusted with this menial job, disgusted with the fact he hasn't had a drink all day and has forgotten every reason why. He shoves his chair away from the desk and grabs his jacket from the back, checking to make sure he has his wallet.
The sound stops him. An odd scratching, a pulse, like the sound of one piece of paper being drawn across another. He freezes, standing there, uncertain what he's just heard. Just as he is about to walk away, it comes again. The same noise, longer this time, like the vibration of a cell phone but far too quiet. He sits back down, hands running across the desk, looking for any bug, any anomaly, anything out of place. His eyes narrow as he grabs the cheap white box, pulling the earring from inside. He holds it for a moment, the sharp edges digging into his fingers. The sound comes again, louder, the vibrations coursing through his hand. He wraps the tiny earring in his fist, feeling rather than hearing the transmission. It comes again, two short pulses followed by two long ones, and two short pulses again. A question mark. How appropriate.
Three question marks later, she apparently decides she has his attention. The numbers start -- 2015. Then the words: tomorrow. marina. no friends. The earrings go silent.
Jack leans back in his chair, palm open, studying the tiny device. He shakes his head slowly.
"Oh, they're -- earrings. Thank you, Jack."
"Laura?"
"They're lovely. Thank you."
"Laura? Were you wanting something else?"
"No, these -- these are perfect. You shouldn't have done so much. "
"I can see something is bothering you. What is it?"
"Nothing. It's nothing."
"Am I going to have to drag it out of you?"
"No, no. It's just, you've seen these?"
"Yes, you always wear them. That's why I thought -- I thought you liked earrings."
"My mother left them to me -- it was what I had, after she was killed by the KGB. It's why I always wear them; I never take them off."
"Laura, I'm so sorry."
"No, no, it's alright. You never would have known. Like I said, it's only been three weeks."
"Laura, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. Here, I'll take these back, we can go tomorrow and pick out something you'll like."
"Jack...thank you. Thank you. I don't deserve you."
"Nonsense."
Nonsense. He clenches his fist and tightens his jaw. Nonsense. He drops the earring back into its cheap box, shoving it across his desk.
She's summoning, and he knows he will go. Nonsense.
********
He passes the again-familiar structures of the marina, long after twilight has deepened into blackness. The breeze is stronger tonight, whipping the black water against the pilings, the small boats bumping their docks with a rhythmic sound.
He follows the long pier down, past the shining new boats, past the half-rotted, near-empty spots, down to the old bait shop. He stops there; it's as good a place as any. He has an hour to spare, no point in sitting on an empty dock. He peers in one of the cracked windows, but its blackness reveals nothing. His ears strain for any sound as he nears the flimsy wooden door. He reaches for the rusted padlock; it swings open at the touch of his hand. He pushes on the door to no avail. The bloated wood sticks in the doorposts. He puts his weight against it, pushing, and stumbles forward a step when it gives. The room beyond is pure black, with a few moonlit rectangles beneath the eastern windows. He pulls the penlight from his pocket, sweeping the beam slowly across the room. It freezes on the barrel of a gun.
"You're early."
He sweeps the light up her arms and onto her face. "Drop it."
She lowers the gun slowly to her side, but does not set it down.
"Bring any friends today?"
He snorts. "Do you think I would inform you if I did?"
"Of course not. Are you armed?"
"Of course."
"Fine. You can keep that flashlight on me while I walk to the corner. There's a light there."
The penlight follows her until she lights a small camping stove, illuminating the dark room with a soft orange glow. Jack blinks in the sudden light.
"What is it you want to know?"
"Taking the direct approach?"
"I'm not here to make small talk, Jack. This is business."
"Which you always manage to keep separate from your personal life."
"As do you. Have you told Sydney about our meeting? Because I'm certain she would be happy to know you're using information about her to blackmail me."
"Somehow, I doubt you're in a position to discuss that with her."
Irina glances to the side, away from the amber light, away from his glare. "What is it you want to know?"
"What is Sloane looking for in the genetic database?"
"A specific DNA signature. A man. He's connected to Rambaldi, but I don't know exactly how. A descendant, perhaps."
"And what does he hope to accomplish with that DNA?"
"If it's connected with Rambaldi, Sloane wants it."
"He's not the only one." He continues to glare at her; he hasn't dropped his gaze since the amber light first illuminated her face. She looks away again, just for a moment, then meets his eyes.
"What I've given up, what I've taken -- I can offer Sydney something else. A life, something she's never envisioned --"
[i]"You will not try to drag our daughter into this."[/i] His voice is deadly, full of controlled fury. "Justify it to yourself however you want, Irina, but [i]do not[/i] use Sydney as an excuse."
"She's not an excuse, Jack; she never has been. I am just what I am. You of all people know that."
Without a word, Jack turns to go.
"You're forgetting something."
He pulls a cheap box from his pocket, without bothering to turn around. He tosses it behind him, letting it land on the rotting wood floor.
"I wasn't talking about that."
This time, he turns around.
"You said you were my only link to Sydney. It's true. If I'm going to give you information, I want something in return. I want to know about her life."
"Sydney is not a bargaining chip."
"Don't play the saint, Jack. We both know better."
"What is it that you want?"
"A deal. We meet, like this. I'll give you enough information to avert unnecessary casualties and keep Sydney out of danger. In return, you'll keep me apprised of her life. I want to know how she's doing, whether she's happy."
Jack's jaw clenches and unclenches twice, his face impassive. The minutes draw out, long and silent.
"The locations will be arranged in advance. No deviations from protocol, no sudden changes in plan. I will not bring the CIA and you will not bring your associates. If you attempt to deviate from the plan, even once, I will see to it you are back in confinement by the end of the day."
A slow smile spreads across her face, her dark eyes glittering. "Very well."
He gives her a short, curt nod and turns again to go.
"Jack."
He sighs, resting one hand on the doorframe. "What?"
"You've already forgotten our deal. I have a question for you."
He turns around, waiting for her to continue.
"When I -- left -- it seemed that perhaps Sydney -- she and Agent Vaughn..." She trails off, but Jack offers no help. He crosses his arms and continues to stare at her.
"I just want to know, is she happy?"
He's the one to glance away this time, speaking without meeting her eyes.
"Yes. She's happier than I've seen her."
Irina smiles, the warm, easy smile she'd given him on the plane, when everything was different.
"Is that all?" His voice is not as gruff as he intended.
"Yes. Thank you." He turns to go, and she follows, stopping to extinguish the small lamp. Just as he steps out onto the pier, she passes him, her hand brushing his. She presses something small into his palm. He knows the cheap cardboard box by touch.
"It looks familiar, doesn't it?" she asks.
"No," he says. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He cannot read her face in the darkness, but his eyes follow her as she walks away from him, disappearing into the still night.