The mid-day rays slanted through the study window, dancing with the dust motes before lighting the face of the woman taking notes from a small parchment. She looked older now, the signs of tension and worry more prominent on her face. The desk at which she sat was a particular favorite of hers, its smooth dark patina a testament to generations gone by. A reminder that the passage of time, which eased all pain and revealed all truths, was her most trusted ally.
Except for the past year. She paused in her writing and glanced over at the calendar out of habit. Her grip on the pen tightened, then slowly eased. October 4, 2005. 372 days. Solitary, she knew from her sources. No visitors.
She had not wept, anytime in that past year. Not for him, not for them. Weakness, even for a fleeting moment, was not a luxury she could afford. His last, hasty coded message - "Alive. Find her" followed by their emergency symbol - had told her all she needed to know. He believed their daughter was alive. He had been compromised. He trusted her to do it alone.
Alone.
Together they lay tangled on the bed in the late afternoon sun, their thirst temporarily quenched, his hand slowly tracing small circles on her skin. Even now, she sensed with sorrow, he was restless. The fires of his anger and despair were banked for the moment, but the haunted look in his eyes remained.
She reached up and lightly stroked his face, trying in vain to erase the lines that grief had formed. Reading the far-away look in his eyes, she said softly, "We'll find out what happened. I promise."
At her words his eyes refocused on the woman in his arms. For all that separated them, rage at their daughter's death bound them as never before. He gazed at her pensively, wondering when their business arrangement had become something more. If she knew the desperation he felt when they were apart. The darkness of his soul that threatened to overcome him, which only she could lighten. For without his daughter, without her, he had. . ..nothing. "Irina, I -,"
She placed her fingers on his lips, willing him to stop. Words uttered now, in the depth of their anguish, when their need for each other was greatest, might be regretted later. Shared rage was not enough. Time enough for words once they had discovered what had happened to their daughter. And buried the person responsible.
He sighed in acceptance. "When can we meet again?" he asked instead, softly tracing the outline of her jaw.
"Jack, I don't think - ,"
"Since when were you the cautious one?" They made such a good team, the two of them. She, impetuous and daring; he cautious and thorough; both brilliant and ruthless. A shame they had come to that realization too late. Too late to make a difference in the only thing that mattered.
"I'm not exactly flavor-of-the-month at the CIA, Jack," she reminded reprovingly. "You need to be careful."
"Don't worry," he'd said in quiet confidence. "The CIA doesn't have a clue."
Something had happened, something he had not foreseen. Which had left only one of them to help their daughter. And she had.
But every hour she had spent frantically searching, every hour spent trying to reverse the damage done to their daughter, had been another hour he had spent alone in his cell. Staking his sanity on her ability to save Sydney. On his belief that he could trust her in this, if nothing else.
That trust, given easily the first time, more grudgingly the second, had shaken her to the core. It was a measure of their relationship, she thought to herself despondently, that each time he trusted her he went to prison. It's done, she wanted to scream. She's safe. Cooperate now, you stubborn fool. Give them what they want. She bowed her head, knowing the key that kept him in prison.
Give them me.