Part 2 – Paris … Retrieving the Box
Jack arrived in Paris early Monday afternoon. He quickly located a famous couture shop and walked inside. The outer room was coolly elegant. A gentleman approached him and Jack quickly explained what he needed. The man looked him over regretfully and motioned to one of the other ladies.
He was seated in a private room, while several women modeled their most chic outfits. After the fifth dress, he told the model to have the hostess return. "She's only fourteen. Do you something a little less…provocative?" he asked her when she arrived.
"Fourteen, monsieur?" She gave him a disapproving look.
"It's for my daughter. Her school is having an awards banquet."
"Your daughter?" she asked, still suspicious.
"Do you want to see her baby pictures?" he countered.
"Ah, very well. I do need to see a photograph for her coloring."
He handed her the three photos he'd copied in anticipation of her request. "She has the same coloring as my wife. That's her in the third picture."
The hostess studied the pictures carefully. "There is much of you in her, too. Let me think a moment. Yes. I have just the outfit." She turned to the model standing by the door. "Number 47, please."
The model nodded and returned moments later. The dress was a deep shade of mauve. The bodice was beautifully designed with a crisscross pattern weaving intricately down the front. It fell softly from the models hips and down to the floor. When she moved, the material shimmered. It was exactly what he was looking for. With the addition of matching shoes and purse, his daughter's outfit was complete.
He gave the hostess Sydney's measurements and paid for his purchase. He added a generous tip and left the store with a guarantee that the dress would arrive at his home by Friday morning. He had intended to pick it up before he left on Wednesday morning, but was told there was no way the dress would be ready by then.
Later that evening, he changed into dark clothes and scoped out the research facility he would be accessing the next evening. He'd already studied the blueprints carefully, but had always found a visual surveillance to be more effective.
The building was on the outskirts of Paris. Thick clouds hid the moon and stars and there was a heaviness to the air that often signaled rain. He found shelter in a grove of trees just outside the perimeter and quietly watched the activity through his night vision binoculars.
Shortly after midnight, the first drops drifted down from the clouds. He put his notes containing the names of all the trucks making deliveries into his bag, he headed back to his hotel room. The phone book provided him with the necessary addresses on the delivery companies. He would wait until the next afternoon before he 'borrowed' one of their trucks.
He stretched out on the bed and checked the time. It was a quarter past three in the morning. Back in Los Angeles, it was still daylight and Sydney would just be getting home from school. He wanted to call her, but knew it was too dangerous. If anything went wrong, they could trace him back to the hotel. A phone call would needlessly put her life at risk.
She had been furious when she found out he was being called away on another business trip. She was still angry with him when he left late Sunday. He had gone home that Friday afternoon and waited for her to arrive from school. She was surprised to see him and even more surprised when he told her where they were going out to dinner. The evening had gone well. Cautiously, she shared small bits and pieces about what was happening in school and with her friends. He listened, happy to be making this small connection with her. It wasn't until the ride home that she realized he was holding something back.
"But Dad, you told Mrs. Devon you would be there." She glared at him angrily.
"And I will be there, Sydney. I'll only be gone for three days this time."
"That's what you always say. Then your secretary calls me and tells me you've been delayed. Never mind Dad. I hadn't planned on going anyway."
"Sydney, I'll be there. I promise or I will die trying."
"What good are your promises? I don't care about the dumb award, anyway." She turned her face from him and stared mutely out the window.
She continued her silence throughout the weekend, responding only when necessity required it. Every overture on his part was an exercise in futility. He could plan sophisticated and complicated missions, but couldn't come up with even one that would break through the stony barriers of his teenage daughter.
He took a shower and climbed back into bed, hoping to retrieve the data box quickly and be home before Sydney was out of school on Wednesday.
The next day, the first part of the operation went off without a hitch. Once in the facility, he disabled the security and placed the box in his backpack. It wasn't until he started for the truck that security was alerted. Several shots ricocheted around him and he felt a hot flame as one of the bullets found its mark. Another round of shots were aimed at the truck and he heard a dull ping as a bullet punctured the gas tank. He dived for cover just as the truck exploded. The flames brightened the area, making his getaway more difficult, but he managed to sprint undetected to the copse of trees he'd hidden in the night before.
He did a quick check of his wounds and realized more than one bullet had lodged in his ribcage. Pain washed over him. He felt dizzy, but managed several small breaths to keep from passing out. The search teams were heading in his direction. There would be no time to rest. He hoisted the backpack over his shoulder and walked quickly and quietly toward the city.
Flagging down a taxi, he asked to be transported to the Opera district. Once away from the cab, he boarded the Metro, exiting near the drop. He found the bar ten minutes later, exchanging backpacks with his contact. A wave of dizziness washed over him. He barely managed to give the contact an 'agent in trouble' code. He walked two blocks before hailing another taxi. Each breath brought an explosion of pain and he wasn't sure he would make it back to his hotel. He considered having the taxi drop him close to the hotel, but his training was too ingrained. A taxi was far too easy to trace. Instead, he got out near a busy downtown Metro station.
He walked for several blocks, before entering the Metro. He went two stops past his exit and then walked the remaining blocks to his hotel. Bypassing the lobby, he gained entrance through the service doors, before finally stumbling into his room.
……………………………………………..
Irina surveyed the busy cafe before entering it. Spotting her contact, she slipped into a booth opposite him. He poured a cup of coffee for her and shoved a plate of French pastries across the table.
"You have news for me?"
"Sloane received and 'agent in trouble' transmission early this morning."
"Jack?" The muscles in her stomach knotted in fear. The contact nodded. "Sloane has sent in an extraction team?"
"No. Bristow already made the drop. According to the reply, Sloane deemed retrieving him an unnecessary risk."
"That b*stard." Sparks flared from her eyes. "Where is he?"
The contact raised his eyebrows. "Sloane?"
"I'll take care of him later. Where is Jack?"
"There's a piece of paper under the plate. That's where he checked in on Monday. We have no information on his current location, but I'm sure you could start there."
She nodded. "Thank you."
When he left, she slipped the paper from under the plate and headed to her car. She gasped in surprise at the address. They were staying at the same hotel. Then she laughed. It was not really that surprising. In their ten years of marriage, she had often been struck by how alike they thought.
She slipped into the laundry area and stole a passkey. Unlocking his door, she breathed a sigh of relief. The privacy lock blocked further access, which meant he was in the room. She opened her bag and pulled out her pocketknife. With the ease of practice, she popped the metal prongs open.
He was passed out on the bed, his breathing shallow and light. There was slight sheen on his forehead and upper lip. She went into the bathroom and soaked a towel with cold water. Wiping the sweat from his face, she made a visual check of his body. There appeared to be two bullet wounds in his chest and one that grazed his arm. Carefully, she pulled his shirt off. He stirred and mumbled incoherently for a moment before losing consciousness again. The wounds were already puffing with infection. He would need a surgeon for the bullets and antibiotics. She also needed to get him out of the room. If she was able to find him so easily, so too would his enemies. Her mind began formulating a plan.
……………………………………………..
Four hours later, Jack was out of surgery. She had taken him to a Russian expatriate, who had helped her after her prison escape from India. He asked no questions when she knocked on his door. Once the surgery was completed, the doctor worried about his patient's blood loss, but felt the recovery would go well.
"He is important to you, Ira?"
"My husband," she said simply.
He nodded. "You will need to keep him sedated at least until Friday. He will be sore, that one, but he will be good as new before too long."
"Thank you." Irina hugged him gratefully.
She drove away from the city, looking for a hotel that would provide a greater degree of privacy. He rested quietly until the sedative started to wear off. Several times he called for Sydney, then later and more urgently, for Laura. Had he sensed her presence? She couldn't be sure. Pulling off to the side of the road, she stopped long enough to give him another dose. Four hours later, she found a hotel suitable for her needs. He was still sound asleep and it took all her considerable strength to move him from the car to the room.
Searching his bag, she located a pair of pajamas and began stripping his clothing. Her hands found the familiar planes of his body and gently caressed him. She loved the feel of his skin against hers. Her fingers had a will of their own, as they moved from shoulder to hip to groin. Regretfully, she picked up the pajama bottoms and began dressing him for bed.
Irina froze as he began to mutter. "Sydney, I promise. I'll be there for Friday." He groaned in pain. "Promise. Governor's award. So proud of you."
She lifted one leg, then the other, listening carefully to his incoherent ramblings. By the time she snapped the button above the fly, she'd pieced together most of what he'd said. Their daughter was receiving an award on Friday. He'd ordered a dress ensemble for her, but had not yet ordered the flowers. And he probably didn't even think of perfume, she thought. He'd promised her to be home in time for the function. She looked at her watch. It was still Wednesday morning in California. She would have to hustle to make all the necessary arrangements by Friday. She pulled a cell phone from her suitcase and made three calls.
Sydney would need to be told about her father. Calling the house was out of the question. Sloane would have that number bugged. She called another of her operatives and he easily located the school's phone number.
She dialed the number and spoke in French accented English. "I'm calling long distance for Mademoiselle Sydney Bristow. It's imperative that I contact her. Her father has been in an accident."
"We can have her in the office in fifteen minutes. Would you like to call back?"
"Very well." Her hand shook slightly, knowing she would soon be speaking with the daughter she hadn't seen in eight years. While she waited, she checked on Jack, who began stirring restlessly in his sleep.
"It's okay, Jack. Everything has been taken care of. Sydney's flowers have been ordered. I even ordered a tux for you. I'm sorry, honey, but your old one won't do. And just in case, I checked your bank account to see if you could afford it. I'm glad that b*stard Sloane is at least paying you well."
"Laura?" The sedative was wearing off again. He needed to eat, so propped him up in the bed. The soup she'd ordered from Room Service had grown cold, but she brought it over to him anyway. "I had a bad dream. You were dead."
"Shhh, honey. It's okay. See, here I am, alive and well." She placed the soup in his lap. "But you are not well. I don't think you're strong enough yet to feed yourself, so I'm going to do it for you." She spoon-fed him, watching the clock as she did. Her fifteen minutes were rapidly ticking away. When he was finished, she gave him another injection and settled him back under the covers.
"Love you," he told her softly.
"I love you too, Jack. With all my heart. Don't you ever forget that." He sighed and was once more sound asleep.
She dialed the number once more and got the same receptionist. "Mademoiselle Bristow, please."
"One moment." The woman covered the mouthpiece and Irina strained to hear her muffled conversation. "Sydney, it's the same person who called earlier."
"Hello? Mrs. Herndon? My teacher said you were calling for my father. It's all right. I knew he wouldn't make it back by Friday."
She pinched her nose to disguise her voice. "Mademoiselle Bristow, did they not tell you your father has been in an accident."
"Oh my god. Is he…is he okay?"
Irina cursed silently. She hadn't thought her excuse through clearly enough. Sydney was probably having flashbacks to the 'death' of her mother.
"Oh, god, he's dead. Daddy…" She whimpered into the phone. "It's my fault."
"No, he's not dead. I apologize…" She couldn't think. "He was injured in an accident and was concerned that you might worry. His flight back has been changed to Friday. He will be there in plenty of time for the banquet."
"Oh." Irina heard the relief in her daughter's voice. "Can I talk to him?"
"May I…" She coughed. Had she really started to correct her daughter's grammar? "He was awake when I called earlier. They gave him a sedative a few minutes ago. The pain…I'm sure you'll understand."
"Of course. How bad…" Sydney's voice trailed off.
"His ribs will be very sore for a while and his right arm. Since he's left handed, it shouldn't bother him too much."
"Thank you for letting me know. I always worry when he's away. Dad's secretary usually calls me. Are you new?"
"No. I am a nurse at the hospital," Irina lied. "I almost forgot. Your dress will be arriving Friday morning from Paris. They are also shipping a tuxedo for your father and another carton containing a bottle of perfume for you. The limousine will arrive at you house promptly at five."
"Wow. Dad ordered all that stuff?"
"Yes. He, err, suffered a slight concussion, so he may forget some of it. You may have to remind him about the tuxedo and the limo."
"Okay. Tell Daddy I love him and will see him on Friday."
Irina clicked the off button. "Goodbye, sweetheart, I love you." she whispered softly to the phone. Tears flowed quietly down her cheeks. She made no attempt to stop them, allowing them full reign. Her Sydney was on the verge of womanhood and she was missing it. She watched as Jack stirred in his sleep. He'd always been a restless sleeper.
She took a relaxing bath and changed into her nightgown. With a happy sigh, she nestled next to her husband and fell soundly asleep for the first time in years.
For two days she had Jack to herself. And he was asleep most of the time. In his more lucid moments, she could see the heat in his eyes. She could feel the flame of his need and the fire of her own response. She wanted him, longed for him, desired him. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to satisfy her needs, their needs. On Thursday evening, she gave in. In celebration of their birthdays, she decided.
"Jack, you've been seriously injured. You'll need to lie still and let me…" her voice caught. "…let me love you." He nodded and watched as she slowly undressed in front of him. She slid over to the bed and tugged at his pajama bottoms. Carefully, she pulled them down, sliding them until they were completely off. She could see he was ready for her, ready as she was for him, but she made love to him slowly, being careful not to put too much stress on his injury. Her body told him in every way, how much she loved him and when she was done, he fell asleep without the sedative.
"Happy Birthday, Jack."