Chapter 28
"Congratulations, General. You've apprehended an enemy of freedom-loving people everywhere," intoned Lindsey, barely keeping the smirk out of his voice. "You'll find that this man is a pathological liar. He'll tell you anything - including that he works for our government. Please make sure your people are not influenced by these. . . fabrications."
"Do not worry. We have methods to obtain the truth."
"Yes, I believe you do," replied Lindsey with satisfaction "We need answers to three questions. First, and most important, where is Irina Derevko?"
Jack tensed. He'd be damned if he was going to take the fall for her this time. It was high time he sacrificed his queen. His priority was protecting Sydney.
". . . Second, what has Sydney Bristow been doing for the past two years? And finally, who assisted with Sydney's escape from NSC custody?"
As the general jotted the questions down, Jack stared grimly at the inside of the hood. He might be willing to cough up Irina, but it would be a cold day in hell before he volunteered answers to the last two questions. And the implications if he didn't were clear. The situation had gotten very serious, very quickly.
"Given the gravity of the situation, and our commitment to fight terror, we are more interested in obtaining the answers than in. . . well, than in this prisoner's well-being, to be honest. Your men may employ whatever means they deem appropriate."
"Very well. We will begin immediately. The general handed Lindsey a small bag. "Here are the items we found on the prisoner. They may be helpful to you. As for the rest - you should have your answers by the end of this week."
"Thank you. Now, if you don't mind," said Lindsey thoughtfully, "I think I'd like to interview the prisoner. Alone."
The general inclined his head. It was not an unusual request. Sometimes these pursuits became. . . personal. "You have 15 minutes before the guards return. When you are done, return to the motor pool. I will instruct the drivers there to return you to Damascus." He turned and headed down the hallway, once more stepping around the hag scrubbing the floor.
**
Jack listened, alert, as the general left his cell. There was little doubt in his mind about what was to come next.
"You've been a naughty boy, Jack," Lindsey purred softly, moving around the room so that Jack had to concentrate to determine where he was. "Leaving the country, meeting with Derevko. . . not to mention that little escapade breaking your daughter free."
"Enough games, you b*stard. What do you want?" Jack spat, his hands twisting futilely against the handcuffs.
"Newsflash, Bristow. The game's over for you. This is what happens when you try to screw with me," Lindsey gloated, still prowling. "But first, I have some unfinished business." Lindsey aimed and swung.
Behind me, thought Jack. Kidneys. He prepared himself but was unable to restrain a groan as Lindsey's fist landed and a white streak of pain lanced through him. The next landed in his gut; as he struggled for air, two more rained onto to his jaw. Helpless and blind, Jack absorbed the blows. He tensed for the next one, but it didn't come.
"You!" snarled Lindsey in fear, making it sound like an oath. Jack heard scuffling, a loud crack, and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.
"Just like you to be hanging around when there's work to be done," he heard in a familiar tone. "Can't I leave you alone for 5 minutes?"
"Irina?" Jack's voice through the hood cracked in disbelief.
He felt the pressure ease on his hands as she lowered the hook that had suspended him from the ceiling. He sagged to the ground in exhaustion. "Sloane's been tailing you to find me," she said tersely. "He must have called Lindsey." Irina swiftly untied the knot and removed his hood.
Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light, he took several deep breaths. He found himself peering up at his wife, clothed head to toe in rags. "New style?" he asked, as she began massaging his hands to restore circulation.
"Best I could do on short notice," she said, shrugging.
He studied her hands gently moving over his, and swallowed. "Why did you come?" he blurted out.
"Would you believe me if I told you?" asked Irina curiously, pressing handcuff keys into his hand.
At that moment Jack's eye fell on the photographs, poking out of the bag the general had given to Lindsey. His face hardened. "No," he said flatly. "Truth won't take time with you, Irina. It will take a miracle."
"Thought as much," replied Irina in a light tone, quickly turning her face so that he would miss the wistfulness in her eyes. "I'd like to stay and chat, but our last talk didn't inspire much confidence." She stood and took a last long look at her husband. "Take care of Sydney."
"Irina wait, dammit!" called Jack as he heard her feet running down the hallway. He fumbled with the keys, cursing, but his nerveless fingers balked for several minutes before he could unlock the handcuffs. Stumbling to his feet he scanned the corridor, but it was empty.
Bewildered, he shook his head. Yet another piece of data that made no sense. Turning back, he spied Lindsey sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Here, at last, was something he understood. His jaw tightened as he considered his options.
**
A short time later, a man emerged limping from the concealed entrance of Tadmur prison. Clad in an overcoat, with a hat pulled low on his head, he approached the motor pool and instructed the nearest driver to convey him to Damascus.
**
"All units are GO!" Sloane listened to the radio as messages flashed back and forth between his men. In short order, the facility was secure. Sloane checked his watch. 36 hours to the minute since the first phone call. He waited a moment more.
"Red Leader, come in," crackled the radio.
"Red Leader," responded Sloane.
"Sir, we've found the prisoner, but there's a problem. You'd better come."
Frowning, Sloane stepped out of the car and made his way into the prison, escorted by his bodyguards. What kind of problem?
"Down here, sir." The team leader waved him down to the cell. Sloane stepped around a bucket and sponge that had been carelessly left in the hallway. His nose wrinkled at the smell - a combination of blood, urine, feces, sweat, and vomit. "I'm afraid he's dead."
Sloane stood somberly as the lifeless, hooded body was lowered to the floor. He felt an unfamiliar tug of regret at the thought that Jack Bristow had died here in agony. Their relationship, both personal and professional, had spanned decades; while they had had their differences, the utter futility of his lonely death created an unexpected sense of loss. Professionally he scanned the abused corpse and catalogued the torture techniques that had been applied; crude, but effective. Only thirty-six hours. Jack's will had always been strong, and Arvin would have forecast that he would have lasted much longer. Perhaps the combination of solitary confinement and Irina's newest betrayal had finally broken him. Perhaps he had no longer cared.
"Hang him back up," snapped Sloane crossly. "There's nothing we can do for him now." He turned to leave, pausing as first one, then the second shoe fell off the corpse as it was raised back into the air. Odd, that the shoes were too big. His forehead crinkled in thought. "Wait," he barked. He eyed the corpse more closely. "Take the hood off."
The team leader reluctantly complied. "Put it back on," said Sloane, the corners of his mouth turning upward. He walked out of the prison feeling unaccountably lighter.
He'd just paid his last respects to Robert Lindsey.
"Congratulations, General. You've apprehended an enemy of freedom-loving people everywhere," intoned Lindsey, barely keeping the smirk out of his voice. "You'll find that this man is a pathological liar. He'll tell you anything - including that he works for our government. Please make sure your people are not influenced by these. . . fabrications."
"Do not worry. We have methods to obtain the truth."
"Yes, I believe you do," replied Lindsey with satisfaction "We need answers to three questions. First, and most important, where is Irina Derevko?"
Jack tensed. He'd be damned if he was going to take the fall for her this time. It was high time he sacrificed his queen. His priority was protecting Sydney.
". . . Second, what has Sydney Bristow been doing for the past two years? And finally, who assisted with Sydney's escape from NSC custody?"
As the general jotted the questions down, Jack stared grimly at the inside of the hood. He might be willing to cough up Irina, but it would be a cold day in hell before he volunteered answers to the last two questions. And the implications if he didn't were clear. The situation had gotten very serious, very quickly.
"Given the gravity of the situation, and our commitment to fight terror, we are more interested in obtaining the answers than in. . . well, than in this prisoner's well-being, to be honest. Your men may employ whatever means they deem appropriate."
"Very well. We will begin immediately. The general handed Lindsey a small bag. "Here are the items we found on the prisoner. They may be helpful to you. As for the rest - you should have your answers by the end of this week."
"Thank you. Now, if you don't mind," said Lindsey thoughtfully, "I think I'd like to interview the prisoner. Alone."
The general inclined his head. It was not an unusual request. Sometimes these pursuits became. . . personal. "You have 15 minutes before the guards return. When you are done, return to the motor pool. I will instruct the drivers there to return you to Damascus." He turned and headed down the hallway, once more stepping around the hag scrubbing the floor.
**
Jack listened, alert, as the general left his cell. There was little doubt in his mind about what was to come next.
"You've been a naughty boy, Jack," Lindsey purred softly, moving around the room so that Jack had to concentrate to determine where he was. "Leaving the country, meeting with Derevko. . . not to mention that little escapade breaking your daughter free."
"Enough games, you b*stard. What do you want?" Jack spat, his hands twisting futilely against the handcuffs.
"Newsflash, Bristow. The game's over for you. This is what happens when you try to screw with me," Lindsey gloated, still prowling. "But first, I have some unfinished business." Lindsey aimed and swung.
Behind me, thought Jack. Kidneys. He prepared himself but was unable to restrain a groan as Lindsey's fist landed and a white streak of pain lanced through him. The next landed in his gut; as he struggled for air, two more rained onto to his jaw. Helpless and blind, Jack absorbed the blows. He tensed for the next one, but it didn't come.
"You!" snarled Lindsey in fear, making it sound like an oath. Jack heard scuffling, a loud crack, and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.
"Just like you to be hanging around when there's work to be done," he heard in a familiar tone. "Can't I leave you alone for 5 minutes?"
"Irina?" Jack's voice through the hood cracked in disbelief.
He felt the pressure ease on his hands as she lowered the hook that had suspended him from the ceiling. He sagged to the ground in exhaustion. "Sloane's been tailing you to find me," she said tersely. "He must have called Lindsey." Irina swiftly untied the knot and removed his hood.
Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light, he took several deep breaths. He found himself peering up at his wife, clothed head to toe in rags. "New style?" he asked, as she began massaging his hands to restore circulation.
"Best I could do on short notice," she said, shrugging.
He studied her hands gently moving over his, and swallowed. "Why did you come?" he blurted out.
"Would you believe me if I told you?" asked Irina curiously, pressing handcuff keys into his hand.
At that moment Jack's eye fell on the photographs, poking out of the bag the general had given to Lindsey. His face hardened. "No," he said flatly. "Truth won't take time with you, Irina. It will take a miracle."
"Thought as much," replied Irina in a light tone, quickly turning her face so that he would miss the wistfulness in her eyes. "I'd like to stay and chat, but our last talk didn't inspire much confidence." She stood and took a last long look at her husband. "Take care of Sydney."
"Irina wait, dammit!" called Jack as he heard her feet running down the hallway. He fumbled with the keys, cursing, but his nerveless fingers balked for several minutes before he could unlock the handcuffs. Stumbling to his feet he scanned the corridor, but it was empty.
Bewildered, he shook his head. Yet another piece of data that made no sense. Turning back, he spied Lindsey sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Here, at last, was something he understood. His jaw tightened as he considered his options.
**
A short time later, a man emerged limping from the concealed entrance of Tadmur prison. Clad in an overcoat, with a hat pulled low on his head, he approached the motor pool and instructed the nearest driver to convey him to Damascus.
**
"All units are GO!" Sloane listened to the radio as messages flashed back and forth between his men. In short order, the facility was secure. Sloane checked his watch. 36 hours to the minute since the first phone call. He waited a moment more.
"Red Leader, come in," crackled the radio.
"Red Leader," responded Sloane.
"Sir, we've found the prisoner, but there's a problem. You'd better come."
Frowning, Sloane stepped out of the car and made his way into the prison, escorted by his bodyguards. What kind of problem?
"Down here, sir." The team leader waved him down to the cell. Sloane stepped around a bucket and sponge that had been carelessly left in the hallway. His nose wrinkled at the smell - a combination of blood, urine, feces, sweat, and vomit. "I'm afraid he's dead."
Sloane stood somberly as the lifeless, hooded body was lowered to the floor. He felt an unfamiliar tug of regret at the thought that Jack Bristow had died here in agony. Their relationship, both personal and professional, had spanned decades; while they had had their differences, the utter futility of his lonely death created an unexpected sense of loss. Professionally he scanned the abused corpse and catalogued the torture techniques that had been applied; crude, but effective. Only thirty-six hours. Jack's will had always been strong, and Arvin would have forecast that he would have lasted much longer. Perhaps the combination of solitary confinement and Irina's newest betrayal had finally broken him. Perhaps he had no longer cared.
"Hang him back up," snapped Sloane crossly. "There's nothing we can do for him now." He turned to leave, pausing as first one, then the second shoe fell off the corpse as it was raised back into the air. Odd, that the shoes were too big. His forehead crinkled in thought. "Wait," he barked. He eyed the corpse more closely. "Take the hood off."
The team leader reluctantly complied. "Put it back on," said Sloane, the corners of his mouth turning upward. He walked out of the prison feeling unaccountably lighter.
He'd just paid his last respects to Robert Lindsey.