A/N: The chess moves used in this fic come from two famous games – The Immortal Game (Anderssen v Kieseritzky, London, 1851) and The Immortal Zugzwang Game (Samisch v Nimzowitsch, Copenhagen, 1923). They were chosen for a reason, but if chess is not your thing, don't worry. Any linkages of chess to the plot will be obvious.
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Chapter 16Jack's mood had not noticeably improved by the next morning. He had puzzled over Irina's response for most of the night. He felt vaguely unsettled; as if having opened a brightly colored present, he had found an empty box inside. She missed him. As a colleague? A friend? A lover? But not enough, apparently, to meet with him again.
How would he find out what had happened to Sydney? Or what Irina had been doing the past year? And how would he -
His phone rang and he answered it with a snarl of frustration. "Bristow."
"Yes, Mr. Bristow? I've heard from the guard at San Carlos. The codes were there just as you said. Two of them. 'Nf6' and 'Qxb2'." The voice of Jack's contact sounded mystified through the phone. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"Mr. Bristow?"
Jack shook himself out of his reverie. Irina was missing, he had no idea where Sydney had spent the last two years, and Sloane was a world charity figure. At least there was one thing in his life that remained constant. "Be at this number for the next 30 minutes," he said shortly, and rang off. The Abbe, he thought with affection. His lifeline.
He took a deep breath, trying to relax and visualize the chessboards in his head. He wouldn't stoop to using physical boards now that he was out. A point of honor. The Abbe was still working from memory; so would he. He lost himself in contemplation of his options for several minutes.
"Yes?" he heard through the phone when he rang through.
"Write 'c4' and 'Bd6'. I expect to hear from you tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," came the puzzled voice at the other end of the phone.
**
Jack entered Dr. Barnett's office with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Silently he catalogued to himself all the things he'd rather be doing than discussing his relationship with Irina. He wondered if Barnett was aware that the NSC had used her notes from his previous sessions during his interrogations. One of the more unpleasant surprises of the past year.
"Welcome back, Agent Bristow." Barnett waved him towards the all-too-familiar couch. Jack's depression deepened as he saw the look of anticipation on her face. "I've had the opportunity to study your file since our last discussion. I see that you actually interacted with your wife a number of times over the year prior to your incarceration."
"Please refer to her as Irina Derevko, Doctor."
"She *is* your wife as well?"
"Yes, but I find it. . . complicates the discussion to confuse our relationship with a normal marriage."
Barnett made a note on the pad in front of her. "As you wish. Would you cover the high points of your interactions over the year in question with Irina Derevko?"
"I think all the relevant information has been documented," he pointed out in a vain attempt to deflect her.
"In your own words, please, Agent Bristow," said Barnett, unmoved.
Jack sighed in defeat, collecting his thoughts. "Very well. My first interaction with Irina was immediately following Sydney's death. I mean," he corrected himself automatically, "after we thought she had died."
"In person?"
"No. By phone. It was too dangerous for her to return to the US. It was. . . hard for her to not be at Sydney's funeral."
"And how would you characterize the tone of that call?"
"Devastating, at first. For both of us." Jack swallowed uncomfortably, momentarily reliving his despair. "I think the act of telling her finally made it real for me. Then. . . ," his voice trailed off.
"Yes?" Barnett prompted.
"Then bitter. Recriminatory. Both of us just reacted in the moment. Things were said that," he paused, taking a deep breath, "well, I just hung up. Actually," he amended, reminding himself that sticking close to the truth was always the best strategy, "I smashed the phone against a brick wall. And we didn't speak to each other again. Until. . . ,"
". . . until Sarajevo?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't a CIA mission, was it?"
"No," Jack admitted. "It was off the books. The CIA had closed Sydney's case after two months, pulled back resources. I was obsessed, though, with finding her killers. I had broadcast widely through my different networks that I would pay well for any lead, no matter how small. Sarajevo was just one of many contacts I received. It did not," he said reflectively, "go well."
Thunk.
Jack staggered to his knees as the rifle butt slammed into his ribs with a sickening crunch. Reflexively he tested the ropes around his hands one more time, with no success. He stared up at the man in front of him, vision blurred by the steady flow of blood dripping from a gash above his right eye. Even with one eye, the crazed expression of his attacker chilled him.
A trap. Obsessed with finding Sydney's murderers, he had become careless. Out of the countless enemies he had made over the years; one had seen fit to lure him in.
Jack lurched sideways, successfully dodging a blow aimed at his head and deflecting it to his shoulders instead. His assailant had said nothing. Needed to say nothing. Jack had recognized him instantly. Eight years ago Jack had led a mission that had resulted in the deaths of two of the man's sons, and life imprisonment for the third. Any attempts at negotiation had died stillborn on Jack's tongue; in this part of the world, only his life was acceptable repayment for the debt. The brutal efficiency of his beating was just a prelude, he knew.
Jack's head snapped back as his assailant's boot connected with his jaw and he crumpled to the floor with a groan, fighting to remain conscious through the haze of pain. He felt the cold steel of the gun barrel placed against his head and closed his eyes in resignation. To all intents and purposes, he had died three months ago when Sydney's remains had been positively identified. Perhaps it was best that it ended here. He tensed for the shot, and flinched as the sound of a gun firing filled the room.
Flinched? He should have been dead. Carefully he opened his eyes.
"Hello, Jack."
"It says here in your report that Irina contacted you during the course of the mission."
Irina. Jack's shoulders sagged in relief. "I had him right where I wanted him," he gasped shakily.
"I could tell," Irina agreed, surveying the battered form of her husband. She bent down and swiftly sliced through the ropes around Jack's wrists. "Friend of yours?"
"Not any more," he replied, looking at the corpse lying next to him.
"Can you stand?" she asked curiously.
"I'll be fine," he answered stiffly, slowly getting to his feet. With effort he stood upright, slowly swaying. "I don't need any hel--." He slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Irina rolled her eyes.
"Yes, she did. Apparently, she was also aware that this contact was offering information on Sydney's death, and had arrived shortly after I did."
"Your report states that you made an attempt to apprehend her, but failed."
When Jack awoke next, he found himself in a large comfortable bed. He rolled over to get a closer look at his surroundings and groaned aloud. Footsteps sounded and Irina came into view. Noting the creases of pain on Jack's forehead, she silently handed him a glass of water and a large white pill, standing over him until he swallowed it.
Jack sank back down into the pillows. "Where am I?" he asked wearily.
"Does it matter?"
"No," he conceded. "I guess it doesn't." Tentatively he flexed his arms and legs. "Anything broken?"
"A couple of ribs," Irina replied matter-of-factly. "Thirty-eight stitches, assorted bruises, and one gorgeous shiner. It is," she said with asperity, "better than you deserve. Honestly, Jack, you can't go into that kind of situation without backup. What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking about our daughter," he replied with an edge to his voice. "What do *you* think about these days?"
Irina's lips tightened in anger. "Don't start, Jack," she said warningly, turning to leave.
"Running away again?" he jeered with his remaining strength.
Irina turned back, her eyes flashing. "You -," she halted, taking in his white face and the bleak expression in his eyes. She took a deep breath and, reaching out, squeezed his hand. "I miss her too," she said quietly.
Too tired to fight, Jack felt oddly comforted.
Irina smoothed the hair back on his head. "I need to leave," she said softly.
"You can't," Jack said from the depths of the bed, starting to become drowsy from the effects of the pain medication. "You're under arrest."
"Oh?" responded Irina with a quirk of her mouth.
"Yeah," Jack said sleepily, his eyes heavy. "Don't go anywhere. When I wake up, I'll take you in."
"Whatever you say, Jack," she said, pulling up the blanket.
"She drugged me. When I woke up, she was gone."
"I see," said Barnett making a few notes. "Unplanned encounter," she wrote. "Limited interaction. Failure to apprehend." She studied Jack, who was waiting patiently for her to finish. His face was open and sincerity was written across his features. "Assessment of subject veracity: High," she added, then looked up. "The next time you saw her?"
"Manila."
"Hmmm, yes," she said absently, scanning the page in front of her. "You were freelancing again."
Stealthily Jack crept down the alley, careful to stay within the shadows clinging to walls. Up ahead he could just make out two figures. He slid his frame into a doorsill and watched as money changed hands. The larger of the two was his target, a possible source of information.
A shot rang out and his target dropped to the ground. Jack cursed as he looked up and saw the shooter on the roof, but held his fire. Frustrated as he was by the loss of intel, this wasn't his fight. He pulled back further into the shadows and saw the second figure turn and sprint out of danger. As he ran, Jack noticed a lock of hair loosen from under the hat and stream behind. With a start, he recognized Irina. He reached behind him and jiggled the door handle, finding to his surprise and relief that the door gave way. As she sprinted by he reached out and grabbed her, hauling her with him as he leaned backward against the door.
"You spotted Derevko while on a stakeout, and attempted to apprehend her." Her eyebrow rose. "She eluded you again." A tiny wisp of disbelief hung in the air between them.
"She pulled a knife," said Jack pointedly. "No one in their right mind takes on Derevko with a knife." Close to the truth again, he thought to himself.
They tumbled together into the darkened room and Jack kicked the door closed with one foot before seeing the glint of a knife blade slashing towards him. Throwing his arm up in a delayed block, he hissed in pain as the blade sliced through his shirt and slid along his arm. "For God's sake, Irina, it's me!" he breathed in an urgent undertone.
"Jack?" came her stunned voice, arm poised to descend again. They both froze as they heard steps running by the door.
"Yes," he said bitterly once the steps had receded. "You're welcome." His hand was clamped over his arm.
"You shouldn't have gotten involved. I was doing just fine."
"Yeah, that was pretty obvious. And where was *your* backup?"
"I didn't want to spook the source. He was nervous about being seen."
"With some reason, apparently. I don't suppose you got his intel before he was shot?"
"No."
"Do you know who killed Sydney?" he asked bluntly.
"Not yet."
Jack eyed the knife in her hand warily. "Well, then, I guess I'd better be going."
"Let me look at your arm first."
"It's fine."
"Shut up, Jack. Move your hand and let me see."
With a gesture of disgust, Jack pulled his hand away. The cut was shallow, but bleeding freely. Irina shrugged off her coat, then lifted her blouse over her head. Jack raised his eyebrows.
"Bandage," Irina said shortly, efficiently shredding the blouse into lengths. With an effort, Jack shifted his eyes to her hands, which were now competently tying up the wound. When she was finished, she sat back and scanned her handiwork critically. "Better." She looked up and saw Jack watching her, eyes unreadable. "I've got to go," she said neutrally, buttoning her coat. Standing up, she reached down and offered him her hand.
"Irina," he started, not letting go..
"Now," she said, a tinge of regret in her voice. His grip loosened, and her fingers slid through his as she slipped out the door.
"And then," said Jack steadily, "she slipped through my fingers a 2nd time."