Chapter 5
Jack carefully adjusted his bow tie and stepped back from the mirror, professionally assessing the reflection. A snort echoed over his comm link.
"Was there something of value you cared to contribute, Agent Weiss?" he asked evenly
"Nothing," choked Weiss, wondering how Jack had located a tux in such an improbable shade of purple at short notice. With the sleeves too short and a clip on bow tie, he looked – "It's just you remind me of my high school prom."
"Except I've got a date," responded Jack with deadly intuition. Direct hit, he thought to himself with satisfaction as the comm link fell silent. Unsporting, perhaps, given the ease of the target. But after the fiasco the previous evening, followed by a full day of tedious roundtables and presentations, his temper was frayed. Irina's fit of pique had cost him a day; his assignation that night had to be a success.
As anticipated, the Countess had been in touch to invite him to an embassy reception, a venue choice that had been accepted by the Professor with relief. Security would be tight; he would be able to execute his mission without any fear of interference.
He gave one last look at himself. Black tie, the Countess had said. Well, he thought smugly, the tie *was* black.
**
"Dr. Frederick Bartholomew," the footman announced in stentorian tones to the room at large.
As Jack made his way down the stairs to the glittering formal ballroom, shoulders rounded and with a tentative step, he peered around owlishly. Resplendent in custom tailored tuxedoes and jewel-colored gowns, the stylish throng swirled around him. "I make 4 people packing," he muttered quietly.
Five rewinds later, Richards had found 3 of them. He punched the play button again in irritation.
"Roger, Watchtower."
Jack stilled. He sensed he had missed something on his first sweep; his subconscious had issued a warning that his brain refused to accept. He reached up and switched off the glasses transmission and turned to look more carefully.
"Watchtower, we've lost your signal again."
He sucked his breath inwards, furious. There she was, in a short blonde wig and a uniform that was at least two sizes too small, part of the event's catering staff. If he hurried, perhaps he could steer her out of the ballroom; he yearned longingly for a pair of handcuffs that would allow him to park her somewhere safely for the night. Adroitly he allowed the ebb and flow within the room to slowly move him in her direction.
"Would you like an hors d'oeuvre, sir? Irina's eyes peered up at him guilelessly through her bangs.
Richards looked carefully at the waitress. She looked famil- it was his *wife*. Again. He looked over at Weiss in the support base, frantically running diagnostics on the transmission. He was beginning to have a suspicion about Bristow's transmission failures.
"I suppose you think that was funny last night?" Jack hissed as the crowd around them momentarily thinned.
"I don't know what you're referring to," replied Irina airily. "As I recall, you spent last night with another woman. I'm sorry if the experience wasn't everything you had hoped." Her voice lowered mockingly. "There are pills, you know - ,"
"Dammit, Irina. Stop being such a ...,"
"Oh, Professor," a voice cooed behind him. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you." The Countess came up to Jack and proprietarily threaded her arm through his. "I was devastated that our tête-à-tête was so rudely interrupted last night. I felt I was just getting to know you better."
Gritting his teeth in frustration, Jack's hand went to his glasses as he turned his attention to the Countess.
"Base to Watchtower. Reading you now."
"Countess. What a pleasure to see you again after our terrifying ordeal. Why, I could barely sleep a wink." Jack smiled weakly.
"There, there," she said, patting his hand. "You were so brave, Frederick. I may call you Frederick? And you must call me Margit." She turned to Irina, who had transformed into a faceless servant. "Bring us two glasses of champagne," she ordered imperiously. "I think we should celebrate our rescue," she resumed in honeyed tones, smiling blindingly at Jack as she pulled him away.
Several moments later Irina returned with the champagne. Eyes lowered, she offered a glass first to the Countess, then to Jack. "Thank you," said Jack stiffly. He watched her depart, a small frown on his face.
"A toast!" said the Countess gaily. "To our rescue!" She raised her glass to her lips, only to have Jack reach across and stop her before it reached her lips.
"We have a custom," Jack improvised rapidly, "to exchange glasses before a toast." The Countess looked at him oddly, but acquiesced with a gracious nod. "A toast!" he repeated, lifting her glass to his lips.
What custom was that? Puzzled, Richards rewound. The champagne volume in Jack's glass was the same before and after the toast. A very small scratch could be seen at the base. Surely, his wife wouldn't have...
Surreptitiously Jack poured a small amount of champagne into the potted plant behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Irina watching him, smirking.
"Is something the matter, Professor?"
Jack hesitated, distracted. Had Irina put the drug in the marked glass? Or had she assumed he'd see the mark and switch glasses? Or had she guessed that he would guess that…he swore to himself in aggravation. He searched the Countess' face carefully, but could see no trace of any ill effect. He relaxed. "It's nothing. It's just that I've never been very comfortable at large parties," he replied.
The Countess leapt at the opening this provided her. "Oh, how remarkable. I feel the same way. I've always preferred a quiet chat to this noisy chaos." Her hand gestured dismissively at the elegant crowd surrounding her, normally her favorite milieu. "I know of a cozy little spot...," she winked invitingly at Jack. "Follow me."
Richards swallowed. They certainly hadn't covered this in training.
Show time, Bristow, Jack reminded himself as he reluctantly followed her to a dark and secluded alcove. "What a lovely place to…talk," he offered.
"Oh, Frederick, say something. I do so love listening to your voice."
Jack cleared his throat. "The length of the hypotenuse on a right triangle is the square root of the sum of the squares of the sides of the triangle."
The Countess leaned closer. "Oh, that was so…sexy. Say it again," she breathed.
"The length of the hypotenuse on a right triangle is the square root of the sum of the squares of the sides of the triangle."
"Say it," whispered the Countess, her lips a millimeter away from Jack's, "one more time."
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Jack unwillingly opened his mouth, only to have the Countess launch herself at him.
Richards dragged his attention away from the image in front of him and switched to the seasoned professionals in the Ops Base.
"Line drive down the middle. Runner on first," smirked Weiss over Vaughn's shoulder. Vaughn was on duty, monitoring Jack's progress on the mission.
Vaughn studied the scene in front of him professionally. "Do you think he'll have any tonsils left when she's - Syd!" Vaughn jumped up in front of the monitor as Sydney entered the room.
"Oh, hey Vaughn, I just wanted to talk to you about – what's going on?" she asked worriedly. "Dad's alright, isn't he?"
"Just fine," squeaked Vaughn, elbowing Weiss hard. "Weiss, why don't you take over while Syd and I go get some coffee," he said, shoving his headset at Weiss. "Nothing much to see." He glared at Weiss, who was consumed with a coughing fit.
"Come on Syd." Vaughn grasped Sydney's arm and firmly towed her out of the room.
"Agent Weiss replaced Agent Vaughn at support base," typed Richards.
Jack pulled himself free from the Countess with effort. "Countess," he gasped in a stunned voice, "I don't know what to say." He suspected the real professor had never have been so thoroughly kissed in his entire life.
"Don't say anything," she purred. He braced himself for another onslaught as she leant back towards him, only to see her stop abruptly. Her face began to turn a delicate shade of green.
Jack watched her with a sinking sensation. "Is – is something the matter?"
"I…don't…feel…very…," she leapt to her feet and lunged for a waste can, vomiting thoroughly.
"Oh, dear," said Jack in an ineffectual voice, while raging inwardly. Damn Irina. "Is there anything I get you?"
"Get. my. driver." As it looked like the Countess was going to be sick again, Jack sped away hastily.
"And at the end of the inning, the runner is stranded on first," announced Weiss through the eyeglasses as Jack located the driver and sent him on his way.
"Shut up, Weiss," snapped Jack in aggravation. Weiss's adolescent scorekeeping was not what he needed right now. What he really needed was a neck to snap. He searched purposefully for Irina, but she had vanished. A prudent move, he thought to himself grimly.
**
"You know, Weiss, I'm not sure Jack appreciates your commentary," observed Vaughn a short time later.
"I'm just trying to help him relax," came Weiss's cheerful response.
"No, I mean, he might start to dislike you," said Vaughn. "And that might be… hazardous, if you know what I mean."
"Give me a break. Name one person he really likes."
"You mean as a friend?" Vaughn concentrated for a moment, then shook his head. "Can't. I don't think he has any now."
"Now? Or ever? I'm having a hard time imagining Jack at happy hour."
"Oh, I think he did at one time. Some of Syd's pictures when she was little show him with a group of guys." Vaughn looked embarrassed. "When we thought he was a KGB spy I had them investigated."
"And?"
Vaughn shook his head grimly. "Not good. One of them – Revesz, I think his name was – he drowned during a nighttime amphibious landing in North Korea. Another died in a firefight on a mission to the Ukraine that was compromised." He looked meaningfully at Weiss. "Compromised to the KGB."
"Oh."
"Yeah, while he was married to Irina. And then, of course, there was his best friend, Sloane."
Weiss made a rude noise. "Now there's a friend to be proud of. World-class terrorist who murders your daughter's fiancé, kills her best friend, and sets you up to be tortured, if not killed."
"Perhaps it's not a surprise that he doesn't invest much effort in making new friends?" suggested Vaughn.
Rodriguez and Thomas, laughing over lunch, swam across Richards' vision. "Support team reviewed appropriate protocol for communicating with field agent," he typed, suppressing his disquiet.