He spends his nights hovering over an ever-dwindling glass of scotch, his days over the black-and-white glow of a closed circuit television. The prisoner, for his part, sits on the steel bench, legs dangling over the side, knees set wide, chin thrown back toward the ceiling. He appears cool as the steel bed and more arrogant than the guards surrounding him. He reminds Jack of someone he used to know.
Jack blinks at the static display, rubbing his hands over his eyes and all the way back to his neck, rubbing the tense muscles there. He must be sleeping wrong.
He straightens up when he hears the turning of the door handle, assuming a professional attitude of attention. Footsteps cross the room, the heavy clomp-clomp of a man who makes no effort to hide his weight, or soften his approach. He stops just behind Jack, breathing audibly as he leans closer to study the monitor. Too close.
"Is the prisoner to your satisfaction?" Jack makes no effort to hide the edge in his voice.
"Is there anything you don't understand about your current duties?" Kendall snaps back.
"Yes, actually." Jack swivels around I his chair, facing his boss. Far too close. "I'm having difficulty determining why, after capturing one of the CIA's primary targets, I find myself relegated to watchdog duty."
"Well, maybe you could explain something to me, Jack," Kendall straightened up, out of Jack's face, crossing his arms. "Maybe you could explain to me how you knew about those explosives."
"The explosives fit perfectly into Sark's profile. We have already...discussed...this question at length."
"You sounded pretty certain for a hunch based on a profile."
"Agent Bristow was in the van with him. I wasn't wasting time on uncertainty."
"Or perhaps you know more about those explosives than you let on. It wouldn't be the first time."
"Nor would it be the first time you pursued an investigation against an agent without any hint of proof."
"What exactly are you insinuating?"
"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm saying it straight out."
"Agent Bristow, you would do well to watch your accusations."
"You would do well to drop yours."
Neither man dropped his gaze for several moments, until after they heard the echo of heels down the hallway and the click of the doorlock as someone entered an access code.
Sydney stepped into the room, her brown eyes taking in the scene. Before she had a chance to speak, Kendall turned toward the door.
"I'm checking Marshall's progress on DNA analysis. Inform me of any changes with the prisoner."
Jack didn't respond. Sydney crossed her arms, waiting only long enough for the door to close behind Kendall.
"You can't keep baiting Kendall."
"What gives you the impression that was what I was doing?"
Sydney continued to give him what can only be described as a look.
"Sydney, I don't believe I have to remind you Kendall is an ass. He's threatened by the idea any of his agents could run a mission without his supervision."
"I just don't want him breathing down your neck again."
"Again?"
A slow smile spread across her face. "Have we found out anything from Sark?"
"Nothing."
"No surprise there."
"No."
******
The next time he sees her, she's dressed in black, severe suit almost hiding the curves of her figure. Almost. Her hair is pulled into a knot so tight it seems it might tug at her eyebrows, but those are hidden, too, behind thick-rimmed glasses. She's waiting for him when he arrives, alone at the long table of polished wood, tall stack of books obscuring her hands. He takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, two chairs down, and flips open a leather notebook and an impressive-looking book he pulled off the shelf. It's apparently about the mating habits of African dung beetles. Perhaps he should have read the title first. He begins scanning the third chapter, which is, unfortunately, illustrated, and waits a full six minutes for her to begin.
She speaks almost without moving her mouth, a skill he never knew she possessed. Her head is bent over, close to the desk, from this angle he can see she's holding a silver pen and a lined blue legal pad.
"There's a sheet of paper placed between pages 378 and 379 of a book with this call number." She subtly taps the top sheet of the legal pad in front of her. "Give it to Mr. Sark, and he will give you more information about the DNA."
"Irina, I am not your courier." She's not the only one who can speak without moving her lips.
She does not look up at him. "You wanted information, I'm giving it to you."
"With an encrypted message for your associate, I'm certain."
"Read the paper yourself, Jack. You'll find nothing but a simple memo."
"I think we both know something about hidden instructions."
She rips the top sheet from the legal pad, not bothering to mask the noise. "Goodbye, Jack." She stands up and strides out of the room, heels echoing behind her. He sits at the table for four minutes before rising to leave, hand trailing across the table as he goes, grasping the single blue sheet.
The page is where she said it would be, the message both straightforward and cryptic: "You may release the pertinent DNA information to Agent Bristow. We have determined that doing so will strengthen your bargaining position and will not compromise our projects."
His hand convulses in anger as he steps out onto the street, crushing the flimsy sheet of paper in his fist. He releases it, not bothering to watch as it's caught by the wind, swirling and tumbling toward a grate nearby.
******
The call wakes him three nights later, cell phone beating out an obnoxious tune in the most shrill tone imaginable. His emergency phone. Damn.
He curses, one hand groping blindly at the bedside table, head already ringing with his customary morning headache.
"Bristow."
"Jack, we need you at Ops Center right now." Of all the voices to wake up to, Kendall's is certainly the most unpleasant.
"What's happened?"
"The prisoner has escaped."