Jack sat in the reception area of the Joint Task Force building, freshly showered and changed. He had managed to find a suit in the back of his closet that still fit him; the rest he'd have to take to a tailor.
His mind wandered back cautiously to the episode in the shower. Shock, he told himself firmly. Just a delayed reaction, exacerbated by lack of sleep. It meant nothing, and he was fine now. He straightened his tie, his expression studiedly casual, although inwardly he seethed. He glanced once more at the clock. Forty-five minutes.
"They're ready to see you now, Agent Bristow." The receptionist, who Jack did not recognize, waved to a security guard.
"I can find my way there," Jack interjected.
"My instructions were that you were to be escorted," replied the receptionist neutrally. Jack gritted his teeth and nodded. Wordlessly he followed the guard to the Director's office.
"Director . . . Dixon?" asked Jack as he entered the office, a hint of surprise in his voice.
Dixon looked up from his desk. "Agent Bristow," he said coolly, indicating a chair in front of his desk. As he gestured, his hand flipped up, then down. Without any sign of recognition, Jack took a seat. 'Play along' had been Dixon's field signal. Jack's back stiffened as he noticed that they were not alone. Lindsey leaned proprietarily against the wall, smirking.
"You requested to see me?" said Jack formally, adapting rapidly.
"Yes." Jack sat unflinching under Dixon's silent scrutiny. "The NSC has authorized your release from prison as a compassionate gesture to your daughter. Your persistent failure to cooperate with their investigation has been noted on your record."
Jack nodded curtly and waited.
"As you were never formally charged, you are still employed by the CIA. There are, however, ongoing concerns about your. . . reliability. As a result, I have been authorized to offer you an early retirement package that I'm sure you will find generous."
"I'm being *offered* this package?" asked Jack guardedly.
"Yes. You can't be forced to accept it," replied Dixon, giving Jack a significant look.
"And my alternatives are?"
"If you remain with the CIA," interrupted Lindsey nastily, "I'll do everything in my power to make your life miserable."
"If you don't mind, Director Lindsey," ground out Dixon. "If you choose to remain with the CIA, the NSC has insisted on several conditions."
"And they are?" asked Jack with foreboding.
"First, you need to pass a psych profile to regain your security clearance."
Jack's eyes flashed angrily, but his only reply was, "And?"
"Second, you need to requalify for your field rating."
"I need to what? Requalify as a field agent? After 35 years?" asked Jack incredulously, unable to restrain himself.
"Marksmanship. Hand-to-hand combat. Ordnance," enumerated Lindsey helpfully. "It *has* been more than a year, you know. Wouldn't want to endanger the other CIA operatives," he finished sanctimoniously.
"I know what's required," said Jack, barely restraining his temper. "I trained all but two of the evaluators." He turned towards Dixon. "What else?" he asked, jaw clenched.
Dixon met his gaze levelly. "Finally, any field missions to which you are assigned require preapproval by the NSC. You won't be able to leave the country without their signoff."
"I see," said Jack slowly. "So those are my choices?" Dixon nodded with a hint of expectation in his eyes. Lindsey watched him complacently.
"I'm staying," said Jack flatly.
Lindsey stared at him open-mouthed, then slammed his hand against the wall and stood upright, face flushed. "Goddammit, you lying, traitorous, sonovab*tch. How stupid are you? The CIA might take you back but. . . ," his voice trailed off as Jack rose to his full height and took a menacing step in his direction.
"Thank you, Director Lindsey for your assistance this morning," said Dixon rapidly. "I'm sure you have a number of important appointments that you need to attend to. Would you like me to find someone to escort you out?" he added, flicking a glance at Jack.
"That won't be necessary," said Lindsey, stalking to the door. He turned back towards Jack. "Your ass is mine, Bristow," he said, as his parting shot. "Kiss that pension goodbye."
Jack's lip curled. How quaint. Lindsey actually thought that he was going to retire on his government pension. Of course, he thought to himself reminiscently, so had Irina.
Moodily Jack stared at the papers in front of him. All this effort, he thought bitterly to himself, to find out how his daughter had died. To find. . . closure.
"Jack?" asked Irina tentatively.
Jack had looked up in surprise. Tentative was not an adjective he normally associated with Irina Derevko.
"This plan of yours," Irina swept her hand across the table at the maps and scraps of paper, "won't be cheap. $800,000 at least."
Jack had scanned the table, quickly doing the math in his head. "At least," he agreed, wondering where she was heading.
Irina shifted uncomfortably, knowing that she was entering dangerous territory. "I know you're not wild about the sources of my income, but I could have the amount wired to you tomorrow. In the Caymans, so it wouldn't be traceable."
"That won't be necessary," replied Jack offhandedly, returning to studying the map in front of him.
"Won't be necessary?" asked Irina, puzzled. "I'm not sure what the CIA's paying these days in salary, Jack, but. . . ," her voice trailed off as she saw the small smile playing about his lips. "Jack?" she asked dangerously.
"Hmmm?"
"How much?"
"How much, what?" he asked nonchalantly.
"How much did you skim?" she asked through clenched teeth.
"$20 million, plus or minus."
"$20 million," Irina repeated, eyes widening. " Twenty. Million. Dollars." Her hand reached out to grasp the closest heavy object and encircled a ceramic figurine, which hurtled towards Jack's head. It crashed harmlessly against the wall as Jack, anticipating her move, jerked out of the way just in time. "You. B*stard." she spit out. "You sanctimonious, hypocritical b*stard."
"Excuse me?"
"*I'm* the criminal?"
"I was maintaining my cover," said Jack with dignity. "It's what any self-respecting arms dealer would do." Mood lightening, his eyes twinkled appreciatively. Face flushed, chest heaving. God, she was beautiful when she was angry.
The smile playing around Jack's lips was not the reaction Lindsey had expected, and he slammed the door behind him.
As the door closed, Jack looked over at Dixon, eyebrow cocked inquiringly. Dixon's face relaxed. "Sorry about the hardass routine, Jack, but the NSC's breathing down our neck. Welcome back."
"Yeah, nice welcome," sighed Jack. "I gather congratulations are in order?"
Dixon's amused glance swept his desk and office. "Right. I'm just trying to outlast your record in this job."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Won't be difficult." He shot Dixon an appraising look. "What's the real reason I was released?" Jack asked, tensing for news about Irina.
"Sydney." Dixon grinned. "She grabbed the NSC by the - well, let's just say that she successfully convinced Lindsey that it was in his interest to free you. And she did it in classic Sydney fashion. A bit impetuous, your daughter."
"You've noticed?" drawled Jack, hiding his relief. "Where is she, by the way?"
"In the bullpen. As far as I know, she doesn't know you're out yet. Lindsey wanted as little fanfare as possible about the actual timing of your release. He was hoping it might take a while before you recovered and made it into work." Dixon shot a sympathetic look at Jack, noting his pallor and weight loss. "Not the first time he's underestimated you."
"Hopefully not the last," said Jack reflectively.