Chapter 3

"Neil!  Over here!"  Richards looked up with pleasure and headed toward a table in the Langley cafeteria.  Seated at it were several of the graduates from his training class, a welcome relief on his first day.

"Can you believe this place?" asked Richards in a low tone, sitting down.  Hundreds of voices hummed around them.  "When did you guys start?  Where are you?"

"Last week."  Rodriguez jerked his head at his companion.  "Ned's working in Counter-terrorism; they've got me in working on a joint DEA taskforce."

Richards ground his teeth together.  Both his friends were in their early 20's and had been placed in field ops upon graduation from training.

"What about you, Neil?"

"Analysis," Richards muttered.  "Over in one of the annex offices."

His friends exchanged glances.  "Uh, that's great, Neil," said Rodriguez with forced enthusiasm.  "What are you doing in Analysis?"

Richards bit his lip.  "I'm…," he cast about in his mind for a way to spin transcription.  "I'm reviewing a raven mission," he announced triumphantly.

"No sh*t!" 

Richards could see they were impressed. "Yeah.  Audio.  Video.  The works."

"Video?  Man, you're barely old enough to rent porn films!"  The rest of the conversation rapidly degenerated into ribald humor, and Richards relaxed.

**

Richards stared in horror at the image in front of him on the monitor.  Brown tweed jacket, frayed at the elbows.  Brown plaid shirt.  Rumpled corduroys, at least two inches too short, with white socks peeking out underneath.  Scuffed oxfords.  Bristow was wearing *that*?  For a raven mission?  He had been warned about the many dangers that lay ahead in his career as a CIA field agent.  Being disguised as an uber-geek was one they had failed to mention.

"Figures.  When I go to Wardrobe they talk to me about lingerie.  When you go, they talk about pocket protectors."

Jack spun away from the mirror to see his daughter leaning casually against the doorframe to the CIA's wardrobe facility.  Clothing hung in long neat rows, catalogued by size and purpose.  Two specialists hovered around him, finalizing his mission outfits.  Ruefully Jack looked down at the offending article and smiled.

"Men wear underwear too, you know.  And in my time they used to discuss it plenty," he replied without thinking, then froze.  Dear god, what was he saying?  This was his daughter.

"You've done this kind of mission before?"  Sydney's eyes widened.

Jack hesitated.  "Yes," he acknowledged unwillingly.  "When I was much younger.  But I stopped when I married your mother."  A shadow crossed his face, so quickly Sydney thought she might have imagined it.  "Because I felt the commitment was important."

Refocusing on his task, Jack carefully wrapped a small piece of adhesive tape around one of the arms of the eyeglasses, giving the appearance of a casual repair.  Putting them back on his face, he looked up at her.  "What do you think?"

Sydney examined him critically for a moment. "Don't you think," she observed tentatively, "that you're overdoing it a bit?"

Jack glanced back over his shoulder at the mirror, then turned back, satisfied.  "The Countess will target me regardless," he replied evenly.  "I have no interest in making it easy for her."

Again, thought Sydney to herself.  "In that case," said Sydney out loud, "I think you're missing something.  I'll be right back."  Minutes later she returned, hand outstretched.

Jack stared in loathing at the object in her hand.  "Where did you get *that*?"

Sydney grinned as she gestured for him to take the tie.  "Marshall."

Jack put the tie on and groaned.  "Just promise me.  No pictures."

"Yeah, if Mom saw you like - ,"

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Never mind," said Sydney hurriedly.

"Not to worry," replied Jack neutrally, turning back to the mirror to make adjustments.  "She's successfully avoided me for almost two years."

"But I thought you two - ,"

A year of prison.  Nine months of evasive emails.  "Right now, Sydney, the best you could characterize our relationship is 'pen pals'."

"Yes, but -,"

"But, what?"

"Wouldn't she…mind?"

"Mind?  That I'm in close physical proximity to a stunning 30-something bent on seducing me?"  Jack absently fingered his tie.  "I'd like to believe so, but the evidence points to the contrary."   

**

"Audio check."

"You're 5 by 5, Watchtower."

"Visual check."  Jack put on the glasses and scanned his hotel room, littered with the standard trappings of a traveling academic.  Conference papers were scattered on the bed, their margins filled with handwritten notes.  A badge with the name "Dr. Frederick Bartholomew, Speaker" was on the nightstand.  And a remarkably tacky plastic satchel, emblazoned with the words "Biogenetics Are Our Future – Worldwide Conference, February 13-17, 2006" was propped up on the floor near the desk.

Richards grinned.  When Bristow wore those glasses, it was just like it was Richards himself in his place.  He might not be on field duty yet, but this was the next best thing.

"Visual confirmed."

The contact had proceeded exceptionally smoothly.  Jack, his head crammed with biogenetics buzzwords, had spent two days at the conference and successfully delivered his paper without being exposed as a fraud.  The Countess had lost no time in zeroing in on him, her dedicated and flattering attention to him impossible to ignore.  His fumbling response had, as predicted, not deterred the Countess from inviting him to her yacht for dinner that night.  With luck, there would be a return to her villa. 

He stepped into the bathroom and reached for the can of shaving cream.  With a firm twist at the bottom, he opened a compartment and removed a small pill.  Blood tests on previous targets showed that the Countess had used a sedative in the benzodiazepine family to enhance her results; within 20 minutes of ingestion her targets were semi-conscious and remarkably cooperative.  He swallowed the pill, a stimulant that was supposed to counteract the effects, and hoped the intel was correct. 

A soft snick, so quiet as to be barely noticeable, caused him to freeze.  Someone was picking the door lock to his hotel room.  Swiftly scanning the bathroom, he grabbed his razor out of his shaving kit and positioned himself behind the door.  He waited, coiled to spring, as the door to his hotel bedroom slowly opened.  A quiet footfall could be heard on the carpet, then all motion ceased.

"Jack," came the soft voice, "don't shoot."

Fumbling for his glasses, Jack cut off the transmission back to the support base.

"Watchtower, come in.  We have lost transmission.  Repeat, Watchtower, come in."

Richards watched, puzzled, as Vaughn stared at a blank screen in the support base.  Had the glasses malfunctioned?  He still had a clear picture from the micro-recorder.

Muttering, Jack tossed the razor back into his shaving kit and came around the corner.  "Don't you ever knock?" he demanded irritably, but he was unable to suppress his feeling of exhilaration.  It had been two very long years.

"It's nice to see you, too," said Irina, a tight smile playing on her lips.  Tilting her head upwards, she drew his lips down to hers.  "I missed you," she whispered before capturing his mouth with her own.

Richards sat back, startled, as a woman's face filled the screen in front of him.  Who the hell was this? He knew from the tapes that Bristow hadn't notified anyone of his itinerary.  Was this the life of a field agent, he wondered?  Beautiful women showing up in your hotel room wherever you went?

Several satisfying moments later, Jack pulled back to take a breath.  Closing his eyes, he sighed deeply.  "I missed you, too."

"Then what the f*ck are you doing with that slut?"  Jack's head snapped back as Irina's hand connected full force against his face.

Uh-oh, thought Richards.

"What?!"

"If this was your way of getting my attention, you succeeded.  You may regret it."

"Irina - ,"

"Is your mission plan to get laid?  Or is that just a fringe benefit?"

"I-,"

"Will you be 'penetrating the enemy's defenses'?  'Going under covers'?  'Getting your cover blown'? 'Debriefing her'?"  Irina switched to Russian, hurling obscenities at him.

"Dammit, Irina, enough!" roared Jack.  "I've waited to see you for two damned years!  And one of those was in prison protecting you!  Now you're doing a loyalty test?" 

"Surely it hasn't escaped your notice that she's a swallow?" Irina stepped back, her gaze raking her husband's attire.  "No, of course not," she said caustically.  "You're the damned target.  So when do you plan to feed her the dummy intel?  When she's peeling your clothes off?  When you're in her bed?  Or," her eyes had narrowed to slits, "are you going to wait until her mouth is around your cock?"

Jack breath hissed inward.  "What. gives. you. the. right?" he spit out.  "You.  Of all people.  You did this for ten years.  To me, as I recall, as my wife.  What gives you the right to question what I need to do on a mission?"

Irina whitened.  "Obviously, nothing.  Clearly I expected too much of you."

"Nice feeling, isn't it?" 

They faced off, each trying to regain control.  Irina looked away first.

"Jack -,"  Irina had spotted the wilted carnations and the cheap chocolate on the bed, waiting for delivery to the Countess that evening.  "Don't do it.  Forget the mission.  Stay here with me tonight."  Her face could have been made of porcelain; the brittle edge to her voice a minute crack in the veneer. 

"I can't do that, Irina.  This is too important."

"More important than us?"  The crack widened, allowing her simmering rage to leak through.  "Don't walk out on me, Jack." 

"Good night, Irina."  Jack swept up the flowers and the chocolate and headed out the door, not looking back.  "Don't wait up."