Chapter 22
"Bristow."
"Dad. . . ," Sydney's voice sounded strained over the phone connection.
"Sydney. Are you all right? You sound upset."
"Yeah. . . no, I'm fine. Did you receive my transmission?"
"Yes," Jack affirmed. "Sloane gave you a key, which he claims was sent to him some time before you woke up in Hong Kong. "
"Yeah, his claim was pretty convincing...it was written in my handwriting."
"The cyphertext as well?" asked Jack, trying to keep his tone neutral.
"Yes. Why?"
"Remember I told you I worked with your mother while you were missing? That ciphertext was encoded using a method that she devised."
"What does this mean? That I was in contact with Mom during the two years I was gone?"
"If that's true, she failed to mention it during our last communication," said Jack, struggling to keep the fury out of his voice. As if he needed more proof, he thought to himself bitterly.
"Can you break the code?"
"Yes, I learned the code from your mother last year. It's an address in Rome: 1124 Piazza Barberini, the penthouse apartment."
**
Well, *that* had gone well, Jack thought to himself sarcastically as he let himself back into his apartment one week later. Sydney captured by the NSC, Sloane shot, he and Vaughn imprisoned. Jack's lips tightened as he contemplated Lindsey's words when he and Vaughn had been released. "Absence of proof is not the same as absence of guilt, Agent Bristow. There will come a time when you make a mistake. And I will find you." Better bring an army, muttered Jack to himself.
And what had they gotten for all that effort? Lazarey's decomposing hand. Who had buried that hand? Sydney? Someone else? And more important, why?
A stack of mail sat on his counter, forwarded to him by his lawyer on his release from prison. Indifferently he riffled through the bills when his fingers suddenly stilled. There was a letter in Sydney's handwriting, addressed to him. He immediately dropped it onto the table and went to put on some latex gloves. He'd try to lift prints from it later.
Carefully he sliced the envelope open. Out fell a. . . key envelope. He grimaced. On the outside was written "For Sydney." He pondered it for a moment, then made his way to the kitchen to start some water boiling. Sometimes the simplest spycraft was the best.
Several minutes later he scanned the message inside with frustration. A coded message. Which he couldn't decipher. But he had a suspicion.
*
"Dr. Caplan, thank you for meeting with me. I have some follow-up questions for you on your capture by Sloane and Derevko."
"No problem at all," replied Neil Caplan, puzzled, "but it's been almost 3 years. I'm not sure I'll remember too many details."
"Don't worry," said Jack easily. "I'm just looking for an impression." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "Tell me what you see."
"Hmmm. . . the paper appears to be -,"
"Not the paper. The writing."
"I don't recognize the handwriting, if that's what you're asking. And I certainly can't read the message, because it's clearly in code. . . .," Caplan's voice trailed off as he pondered the message in front of him.
"Yes?" asked Jack encouragingly.
"I'm not sure, but I think I recognize some of these patterns."
"From what?" Jack prompted.
"I had access to a number of documents that Sloane and Derevko were sharing. There were coded notes on the bottom - a fairly unique cipher. Yes, I'm fairly confident that this is part of the same family."
"Thank you, Dr. Caplan. You've been most helpful."
**
Jack rubbed his head in exasperation. The last envelope had almost gotten Sydney killed; he didn't think he'd be sharing this one with her any time soon. And he certainly was not eager to provide her any other information about her missing two years. But he wouldn't be able to translate the message inside himself unless he went to either Sloane or Irina.
Well, it wouldn't be Sloane. Sloane had certainly proved himself during Sydney's rescue, but Jack wasn't stupid.
Inna. High time he found her. And had a chat.
**
Irina slowly put down her phone.
Jack had been spotted at her villa. Combing it for clues, no doubt, as to her location. Not very subtle, Jack, she thought to herself. Although she suspected that having already seen Sloane, subtlety was not the number one thing on Jack's mind.
She wondered if Jack had found her note.
**
Methodically Jack ran his hands over Irina's desk, willing it to yield some trace of its owner's location. They had spent so much time in this room - listing contacts, scanning maps, planning operations. She had been fond of this desk, he knew. An image of her pressed up against it, his hands tangled in her hair, was rigorously suppressed. A lie. The whole thing had been a lie.
With a small grunt of satisfaction, he found what he was looking for. A small depression on the side which, when pressed, slid open to reveal a hidden drawer. He exhaled in satisfaction when he saw a piece of paper inside, something that must have been left behind in her hurry. He hastily reached down and pulled it out.
He reread the note twice, to make sure.
"Truth takes time?"
With a snarl of frustration he ripped it into tiny pieces, hurling them into the air.
B*tch.
**
Sloane hung up the phone. Jack had led them to Irina's villa, the one in the pictures. He shook his head admiringly. She had been thorough. Although it appeared that she and her staff had departed in a rush, his men had combed it after Jack had left and found nothing. Except, of course, the hidden heliport, 2 escape tunnels, and an underground weapons cache. Quite the home designer was Irina.
And Jack's next move would be? Sloane puzzled to himself. Well if he knew that, he would have found Irina himself. He'd just have to wait and see.
It was difficult to suppress a certain smug satisfaction. Jack was so predictable. Of course he'd been carrying the pictures with him. He'd want to wave them in Irina's face. How was he to know that they'd been coated with a substance visible in the infrared wave spectrum? And that Sloane's men trailed him 24/7 from a distance of a 1/4 mile?
"Bristow."
"Dad. . . ," Sydney's voice sounded strained over the phone connection.
"Sydney. Are you all right? You sound upset."
"Yeah. . . no, I'm fine. Did you receive my transmission?"
"Yes," Jack affirmed. "Sloane gave you a key, which he claims was sent to him some time before you woke up in Hong Kong. "
"Yeah, his claim was pretty convincing...it was written in my handwriting."
"The cyphertext as well?" asked Jack, trying to keep his tone neutral.
"Yes. Why?"
"Remember I told you I worked with your mother while you were missing? That ciphertext was encoded using a method that she devised."
"What does this mean? That I was in contact with Mom during the two years I was gone?"
"If that's true, she failed to mention it during our last communication," said Jack, struggling to keep the fury out of his voice. As if he needed more proof, he thought to himself bitterly.
"Can you break the code?"
"Yes, I learned the code from your mother last year. It's an address in Rome: 1124 Piazza Barberini, the penthouse apartment."
**
Well, *that* had gone well, Jack thought to himself sarcastically as he let himself back into his apartment one week later. Sydney captured by the NSC, Sloane shot, he and Vaughn imprisoned. Jack's lips tightened as he contemplated Lindsey's words when he and Vaughn had been released. "Absence of proof is not the same as absence of guilt, Agent Bristow. There will come a time when you make a mistake. And I will find you." Better bring an army, muttered Jack to himself.
And what had they gotten for all that effort? Lazarey's decomposing hand. Who had buried that hand? Sydney? Someone else? And more important, why?
A stack of mail sat on his counter, forwarded to him by his lawyer on his release from prison. Indifferently he riffled through the bills when his fingers suddenly stilled. There was a letter in Sydney's handwriting, addressed to him. He immediately dropped it onto the table and went to put on some latex gloves. He'd try to lift prints from it later.
Carefully he sliced the envelope open. Out fell a. . . key envelope. He grimaced. On the outside was written "For Sydney." He pondered it for a moment, then made his way to the kitchen to start some water boiling. Sometimes the simplest spycraft was the best.
Several minutes later he scanned the message inside with frustration. A coded message. Which he couldn't decipher. But he had a suspicion.
*
"Dr. Caplan, thank you for meeting with me. I have some follow-up questions for you on your capture by Sloane and Derevko."
"No problem at all," replied Neil Caplan, puzzled, "but it's been almost 3 years. I'm not sure I'll remember too many details."
"Don't worry," said Jack easily. "I'm just looking for an impression." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "Tell me what you see."
"Hmmm. . . the paper appears to be -,"
"Not the paper. The writing."
"I don't recognize the handwriting, if that's what you're asking. And I certainly can't read the message, because it's clearly in code. . . .," Caplan's voice trailed off as he pondered the message in front of him.
"Yes?" asked Jack encouragingly.
"I'm not sure, but I think I recognize some of these patterns."
"From what?" Jack prompted.
"I had access to a number of documents that Sloane and Derevko were sharing. There were coded notes on the bottom - a fairly unique cipher. Yes, I'm fairly confident that this is part of the same family."
"Thank you, Dr. Caplan. You've been most helpful."
**
Jack rubbed his head in exasperation. The last envelope had almost gotten Sydney killed; he didn't think he'd be sharing this one with her any time soon. And he certainly was not eager to provide her any other information about her missing two years. But he wouldn't be able to translate the message inside himself unless he went to either Sloane or Irina.
Well, it wouldn't be Sloane. Sloane had certainly proved himself during Sydney's rescue, but Jack wasn't stupid.
Inna. High time he found her. And had a chat.
**
Irina slowly put down her phone.
Jack had been spotted at her villa. Combing it for clues, no doubt, as to her location. Not very subtle, Jack, she thought to herself. Although she suspected that having already seen Sloane, subtlety was not the number one thing on Jack's mind.
She wondered if Jack had found her note.
**
Methodically Jack ran his hands over Irina's desk, willing it to yield some trace of its owner's location. They had spent so much time in this room - listing contacts, scanning maps, planning operations. She had been fond of this desk, he knew. An image of her pressed up against it, his hands tangled in her hair, was rigorously suppressed. A lie. The whole thing had been a lie.
With a small grunt of satisfaction, he found what he was looking for. A small depression on the side which, when pressed, slid open to reveal a hidden drawer. He exhaled in satisfaction when he saw a piece of paper inside, something that must have been left behind in her hurry. He hastily reached down and pulled it out.
He reread the note twice, to make sure.
"Truth takes time?"
With a snarl of frustration he ripped it into tiny pieces, hurling them into the air.
B*tch.
**
Sloane hung up the phone. Jack had led them to Irina's villa, the one in the pictures. He shook his head admiringly. She had been thorough. Although it appeared that she and her staff had departed in a rush, his men had combed it after Jack had left and found nothing. Except, of course, the hidden heliport, 2 escape tunnels, and an underground weapons cache. Quite the home designer was Irina.
And Jack's next move would be? Sloane puzzled to himself. Well if he knew that, he would have found Irina himself. He'd just have to wait and see.
It was difficult to suppress a certain smug satisfaction. Jack was so predictable. Of course he'd been carrying the pictures with him. He'd want to wave them in Irina's face. How was he to know that they'd been coated with a substance visible in the infrared wave spectrum? And that Sloane's men trailed him 24/7 from a distance of a 1/4 mile?