"That's right," he murmurs to the live feed flickering against the wallscreen. "Make nice to the sad man." He watches pretty Lauren Reed move in like a parasite claiming a weakened host. If they'd had him made to spec, Michael Vaughn couldn't be more perfect.

No audio till they're inside. Grocery bags shift as she kisses Vaughn, opens the door, turns back to smile at him. It's an interesting echo of Vaughn's past: home cooking and sex. He'll be staying the night, no question. She's done her homework.

He studies her image, washed-out and a little vague in the footage here; she's pure gold, a traitor in situ. Michael Vaughn will find himself married inside six months, if she's as good as he thinks she is, and Vaughn's the shell she'll occupy till they've used her up or her masters learn she's blown-—for decades, barring screw-ups. Dying was the best thing Sydney Bristow ever did for him.

And that reminds him. He taps the keypad, waits for a response through the earpiece.

"It's Kendall. Check the schedule; Jack Bristow's next contact is what? Sixty days out? I want him in custody the minute he shows." A pause. "Hell, no. Sell it to that sonofabitch Lindsey."

Another call lights up the display, right on schedule. "Yes?"

"I'll do whatever you want," he hears. Onscreen, man follows woman inside and shuts the door. "Anything," says Sydney Bristow in a metallic voice, his come-home dog, coming back to heel.

[End]

April 7, 2004