Title: Chronic Vertigo
Chapter: Chapter Three, Part C
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

Chapter Three: Antebellum
Part B

Bogotá, Columbia

The heat was suffocating. As a man who had traveled the world over on more than a few occasions, Arvin Sloane found himself in a tropical location he didn't agree with him. Partly attributed to the fact that he always wore a suit (no matter where he was going), the heat seemed to overwhelm him, and he hoped for an air-conditioned room as soon as possible. The driver, a middle aged Spanish woman who Sloane assumed was the contact's wife, told him it would only be a few minutes before they arrived and left it at that. At least she had a nice car, a bi-product of the contact's successful import business.

Joseph Mitchell, age 51, last known location Bogotá, Columbia. Irina had been most forthcoming with the information as soon as he requested the meeting, and even volunteered to send Sark along with him for protection. But Sloane's experience with hiding contacts had taught him that bringing someone with on the first round wasn't the best idea. If he showed Mitchell his trust, that feeling might be reciprocated. Business always went smoother when there was the understanding that each was there to do their job and do it without betrayal.

So, Sloane had directed that Sark was to come and join him for transport of the item at his signal and not a moment before. The boy had agreed before walking off to ice his knee. Sloane smiled at that – he had taught Sydney well, and despite her new (or old?) allegiances he still tracked her movements, analyzed her missions. Still as strong as ever, with or without Dixon.

The car turned down a dusty road. At the end he could see a large home, in the classic Spanish style of white, large, and red clay. Mitchell had done himself well, with a few armed guards walking around at the edge of the expansive grounds. With that many men, why send his wife out to retrieve him instead of an employee? The woman swooped into the large circular drive, stopping in front of the stairs. A man, Mitchell, was standing there in a black suit, crisp and pressed just like Sloane's own. He smiled. A man like himself would be easier to negotiate with.

As soon as the car stopped, he stepped out and pulled down on his lapels to straighten his coat. Mitchell descended the stairs and held out his hand as part of the introduction rite known the world over.

Mr. Sloane, I presume, he spoke, his words even and precise. He seemed cold, detached, calculating, just like Irina, a good reason for them to be in connection with each other. The wife had, by now, turned off the car and come up to her husband's side, slipping an arm through his.

He's clean, she stated. Understanding dawned on Sloane as she smiled up at the older man. She'd checked him for Mitchell. Who would question her about her husband's business? It must have been in the car; that was why she kept looking at something on the other side of the steering column. They must have put something in the passenger seat, and ingenious invention to be sure. Or she'd checked him at the airport. The mere idea that he couldn't pinpoint where she had scanned him unsettled him a bit, but he clasped Mitchell's hand firmly and shook.

Mr. Mitchell, you have a beautiful home.

Thank you. It is much better than my last home. Why don't we go inside? It's a little warm out here, Mitchell smiled. He turned, wife still on his arm, and lead Sloane inside.

The interior was even more impressive than the exterior, even as it was juxtaposed against the Spanish outside. Mitchell seemed to be a fan of Italian vineyards, with beautiful paintings and furniture that must have cost a fortune to import. Sloane eyed antiques as they passed a large mirror in the main hall, but was allowed only glimpses of the home as he was led through a pair of thick mahogany doors into Mitchell's office. This was where his wife departed, leaving them to their business.

He stepped down into a thickly carpeted room walled with bookcases filled with old books and treasures collected over the years. Mitchell rounded the large old-style desk as Sloane walked around the room, examining the small knickknacks and such he could see. The man certainly had good taste and a love for Italy, but nothing connected him to Rambaldi. What a shame, Sloane thought.

Why don't you take a seat? the man offered, motioning to one of the wingback chairs facing the desk. Sloane smiled and took a seat, his eyes looking at everything, taking in the surroundings as well as Mitchell. Now, why don't we get down to business. I haven't spoken to Irina in years and I get this call out of the blue.

We're interested in a computer that contains specific information, information on an encryption code once used by the CIA, Sloan said slowly. Mitchell nodded, leaning back in his seat.

I was wondering when someone was going to come asking.

What can you tell me about it? Sloane asked. Irina hadn't been that forthcoming with details.

There were 11 agents searching for it, Mitchell recalled. We were never told what was on it, only that it was a matter of utmost national security that we get it back. We didn't ask any questions, just went on with our search.

Wait, you were one of those agents?

I was. Of course, if you looked up my name in any of those CIA computers, I would be marked as dead at the hands of Irina Derevko, a star on a wall with other stars who weren't smart enough to get out in time. There is no way to win this game, Mr. Sloane, it kills all its players, sooner or later. All one can do is lie low when the means for escape presents itself and stay that way for as long as possible. Mitchell leaned forward and grabbed a cigar from the humidor on the desk, holding it out before him as to offer Sloane one. He took it as the man pulled out another, lighting it with the lighter provided.

From Cuba, the best. Although I do prefer the Davidoff's myself, Mitchell told Sloane. A man who knew his cigars was a man to be respected. And with the quality of the one he was smoking at the moment, a rich man. You've come and pulled me back into this game, Mr. Sloane. And I wonder why, after all these years, I've been called back in.

We can't keep away, Sloane said, a hint of humor making its way to his eyes. He saw the humor in the situation, in what the man across from him was saying. Leaving the CIA was one of the best decisions he had ever made, and from what he had observed of Mitchell's lifestyle, it was the other man's as well. For this reason, Sloane felt a kind of kinship to this man, a relationship he felt bolstered the degree of trust in these proceedings.

You speak the truth. The game is always there, always calling. This Great Game, he laughed. I should have expected your call.

Why do you say that? Sloane inquired, his eyes narrowing a bit.

No reason. You do know the conditions of this, do you not? Mitchell brushed off Sloane's shift in temperament, not wanting to deal with it. He was never a man of much emotion past his contentment with life as he knew it now, and was known to disregard the emotions of others. The truth was, he never really saw the point in him wasting time caring about what other people where thinking. Confrontation between those you were supposed to be allied with was the worst; he'd seen himself the disasters that resulted. So Sloane, sitting across from him and reconsidering the deal didn't bother him one bit. In a few hours, Sloane would be gone and Mitchell would be out next to the pool with his beautiful wife, enjoying the sun and the afternoon.

I do not have the computer here, on the property, Mitchell started, leaning forward. His hands formed a steeple in front of his mouth as he leaned on his thumbs. The small show of surprise on Sloane's face revealed he had not been told. Also, it requires a disk of some kind in order to boot.

Information is sketchy on that account; there were only four agents who knew about it, and all of them are dead. I've been looking for this disk for years, Mitchell had continued, standing and walking to the large windows overlooking his wife's garden. My own personal quest, but have come up empty handed.

Sloane sat, dumbfounded almost. What was he here for, if he didn't have the means to access the information? And speaking of that, he didn't even have the computer! He cursed in his head – what was Irina playing at? And did she have the means to acquire the disk herself, leaving until later to tell him where it was? But it was a prize to valuable to abandon. Sacrifices had to be made if he were going to achieve his goal, and sitting in this ex-CIA man's home in Columbia was a small one in the larger scheme of things.

Is it possible the disk has been destroyed? he tested, shifting in his chair to face Mitchell. He turned, cigar still in hand, the smoke spiraling up into nothingness.

I don't believe so.

And what makes you think that?

Faith, Mr. Sloane. There are things put in motion that must be completed, that will be completed no matter what happens, he responded. This is one of those things, one of the large chips in the game of life. You must understand – men died for this. It is no trivial thing.

I understand that, Sloane said. Which is why I'm here. I'd like to buy this computer from you.

Of course, Mitchell smiled. But first, lunch?

That would be nice. May I call my associate first? Sloane asked, standing. This was going easier than he originally thought, and the more he heard, the wetter his appetite became for the answer to this new riddle. A chaise worthy of his downtime.

. .

How long will it take you to get here?

Sark's voice came back at him through the phone: 8 hours. I can be on a plane in an hour.

Good. Oh, and Mr. Mitchell wanted to ask Irina something. He wanted to know if everything was going as planned. Do you know anything about that?

No, sir, I don't.

All right. I'll see you in 8 hours.

The phone clicked off as Sark disconnected. Sloane frowned. Something was going on behind his back. He hated being used as a pawn in his own game. Across from him, Mitchell ate hungrily. Sloane did the same.