Jack strode to the office door and forcefully hauled it open, ignoring the ineffectual protests of Sloane's personal assistant. Sloane was half-turned away from him, talking on the phone. Jack jerked the phone out of his hand and slammed it down.
Sloane scanned Jack appraisingly, then turned to his assistant, who had chased Jack in. "It's alright, Arlena. An old friend. Give the Secretary my apologies and tell him I'll call back later." She rapidly backed out of the office, closing the door behind her.
"A world relief organization," sneered Jack. "The sheer audacity of your alleged turnaround would be laughable, if you weren't so dangerous."
"I was wondering when you'd come to see me, Jack," said Sloane calmly. "Do you have a permission slip from Lindsey?"
"Lindsey?" Jack's sneer became more pronounced. "Do you think he could stop me? Do you think he even knows I'm gone?" Jack looked pointedly around the office, taking in the pictures of Arvin shaking hands with world leaders, the plaques, the magazine clippings. "You don't really expect me to believe that you've changed."
"I expect you to believe in the consistency of my obsessions, Jack. I pursued the Rambaldi puzzle across the world for over 30 years. It never occurred to me that when the artifacts were finally assembled, that they would produce nothing more than a message...of peace."
"Personally, I would have found it anticlimactic...that after expecting to assemble a weapon of ultimate power, you ended up with a revelation you could have acquired from a fortune cookie."
Sloane smiled patiently. "Always the atheist, Jack."
"I'll come to the point," Jack snapped. "I believe you're responsible for Sydney's disappearance. Tell me why, right now, so I can give her the peace of mind she deserves. In exchange, I'll halt my efforts to invalidate your pardon agreement."
"Jack, don't go digging; you won't find anything. I investigated Sydney's death, too." Sloane slid a disk across the desk toward Jack. "This file contains all the leads I pursued...mostly dead ends. I'm hoping you'll find something in it that's useful. I trust that you will look at it...before you dismiss it outright."
"Should I take this as your official denial of any involvement in Sydney's disappearance?"
Sloane nodded.
"Then you've just made the worst mistake of your life. I'm going to *bury* you."
Sloane shook his head sadly. "Jack, I've missed you."
"Missed me?" repeated Jack incredulously. "Touching. Given that you put me away."
Sloane shrugged. "I assume you're talking about these." He reached into a drawer and, pulling out two pictures, slid them across the table. "Here. They're yours. Your efforts to block my pardon were. . . troublesome. I needed to serve up a major terrorist, and cast doubt on your reliability." A small lie, he thought to himself. There had never really been any doubt that Lindsey would come through. "But never for a moment, Jack, did I think that you would be so misguided as to go to prison to protect Derevko," said Sloane earnestly. "Particularly given that - ," he stopped abruptly, but observed Jack through half-closed eyes to see if he would take the bait.
"Given what?" prompted Jack frowning, his mind focused on the pictures. There was something about them. . .
Sloane felt a surge of satisfaction. This, he thought to himself, was better than sex. "Jack," he said sympathetically. "It must have been a shock to see those pictures. Irina's villa, I presume? One would have thought that the two of you would have had privacy there."
Jack's focus shifted back to Sloane and his jaw tightened. "Do you have a point, Arvin?"
Sloane shook his head sadly. "One of the best analytical minds in the business, and you're refusing to admit the obvious. What are the odds that either you or Irina was sloppy enough to be followed? That *both* of you missed video surveillance placed inside her home? Sloane leaned back in his chair, eyes glittering. "Come on, Jack. Look closely at those photos. There's only one person who could have supplied them to me."
Jack's face paled as the import of Sloane's words became clear.
"Irina," said Sloane smugly.
Jack's hand snaked out and grabbed Sloane by the collar, yanking him halfway across the desk. "You're lying!" he hissed.
Sloane, making no attempt to struggle, shrugged carelessly. "Whatever you say, Jack. Ask her yourself. You'll be seeing her soon?" That should do it, thought Sloane happily. He wouldn't trust a word she'd say.
A meeting is not possible.
"Yes." Jack dropped Sloane on to the desk, turned on his heel, and left.
**
Morosely Jack swirled the scotch in his glass, watching the flickering reflections of amber light. A small amount of the precious liquid spilled out of the glass; an unsteady hand corrected the glass's angle. Love, loyalty, affection, trust.
Sloane had, of course, been right. Any objective assessment of the pictures' provenance pointed directly to Irina. That Jack had effectively ignored this conclusion for more than a year in prison was a testament to the degree of his self-delusion.
She must have known that Sydney was alive all along. Must have activated her. Sought out the intel on her death to keep him from finding out. Worked with him to steer him in the wrong direction. And when he had discovered her deception…unconsciously his hand tightened on his glass.
Love, loyalty, affection, trust. The pressure of his hand increased. Betrayal. The glass shattered, spraying glass shards and liquid over the floor.