Part 7: Confutatis
Jack Bristow lay on his back on his prison bunk, hands behind his head. Aside from twice-weekly perfunctory interrogations, in which he was always asked the same questions and gave the same responses, and a daily visit to the frozen exercise yard, he spent all his time in this small cell. As in his previous imprisonment, that time as a guest of his own government, he had little to do but think. Then, his thoughts had been filled with anger and fear—anger at the KGB and the woman who had betrayed him, and fear that they would take away the only consolation he had left, his daughter. During one of the impossibly long nights, the horrifying thought had come that maybe, just maybe, Laura had survived. His worst fear had been that she didn't love their daughter, but would take her away just to spite him. He had nightmare visions of his daughter in Russia, alone, frightened, not knowing the language, with a mother who would teach her how to lie, kill, and hate the country of her birth.
His current imprisonment was different. Instead of anger and fear, he felt mostly dull resignation. Strangely, though, there was also the tiniest seed of hope, he supposed born of the knowledge that things couldn't possibly get any worse. What had previously been his greatest fear was now his greatest hope—that Laura had, indeed, come for their daughter and faked Sydney's death just like she'd faked her own. Now he imagined his daughter in Russia, smiling, playing in the snow she'd always wanted to see—alive.
The sound of the food slot in his door opening brought him out of his thoughts. He got up, went to the slot, and looked through it to see a pair of brown eyes. Strange; the guard who normally delivered his dinner had blue eyes. He thought little of it, though; he just took the tray and hungrily ate the watery soup and stale bread.
Twenty minutes later, he felt a sudden, stabbing pain run across his chest and down his left arm. Moments after that, everything went black.
Elena placed her fingers on Jack Bristow's neck and was relieved to find a pulse—it was faint and slow, but steady. The drug that Katya had slipped into his food to make him appear dead had worked very well, so well that Elena had been a bit worried for the past several hours that they had in fact killed him. "He's got a pulse," she said over the rumble of the moving train, turning to face Katya on the other side of the boxcar.
"I told you he would be fine," Katya answered, sounding rather bored. "He'll probably wake up around noon; the drug usually lasts about eighteen hours. That will give us time to tell Irina what's going on." She took a sip from the bottle of vodka she'd brought, then passed it to Elena.
"She's going to be furious with us," Elena said after taking a long drink. She had always enjoyed some good vodka after a mission; she'd missed this since she'd been taken out of the field and given a teaching job several years ago.
"For breaking him out of prison, or for not bringing her along?"
"For not bringing her along, of course. You think she'd want the father of her child to rot in a Siberian gulag?"
Katya shrugged. "She hasn't said a word about him in the time I've been home. Are you sure she doesn't hate him?"
"Positive." Elena took another drink, then handed the bottle back to Katya. They lapsed into silence, both wondering what their sister's reaction would be when she saw the man they had rescued.
Jack Bristow lay on his back on his prison bunk, hands behind his head. Aside from twice-weekly perfunctory interrogations, in which he was always asked the same questions and gave the same responses, and a daily visit to the frozen exercise yard, he spent all his time in this small cell. As in his previous imprisonment, that time as a guest of his own government, he had little to do but think. Then, his thoughts had been filled with anger and fear—anger at the KGB and the woman who had betrayed him, and fear that they would take away the only consolation he had left, his daughter. During one of the impossibly long nights, the horrifying thought had come that maybe, just maybe, Laura had survived. His worst fear had been that she didn't love their daughter, but would take her away just to spite him. He had nightmare visions of his daughter in Russia, alone, frightened, not knowing the language, with a mother who would teach her how to lie, kill, and hate the country of her birth.
His current imprisonment was different. Instead of anger and fear, he felt mostly dull resignation. Strangely, though, there was also the tiniest seed of hope, he supposed born of the knowledge that things couldn't possibly get any worse. What had previously been his greatest fear was now his greatest hope—that Laura had, indeed, come for their daughter and faked Sydney's death just like she'd faked her own. Now he imagined his daughter in Russia, smiling, playing in the snow she'd always wanted to see—alive.
The sound of the food slot in his door opening brought him out of his thoughts. He got up, went to the slot, and looked through it to see a pair of brown eyes. Strange; the guard who normally delivered his dinner had blue eyes. He thought little of it, though; he just took the tray and hungrily ate the watery soup and stale bread.
Twenty minutes later, he felt a sudden, stabbing pain run across his chest and down his left arm. Moments after that, everything went black.
Elena placed her fingers on Jack Bristow's neck and was relieved to find a pulse—it was faint and slow, but steady. The drug that Katya had slipped into his food to make him appear dead had worked very well, so well that Elena had been a bit worried for the past several hours that they had in fact killed him. "He's got a pulse," she said over the rumble of the moving train, turning to face Katya on the other side of the boxcar.
"I told you he would be fine," Katya answered, sounding rather bored. "He'll probably wake up around noon; the drug usually lasts about eighteen hours. That will give us time to tell Irina what's going on." She took a sip from the bottle of vodka she'd brought, then passed it to Elena.
"She's going to be furious with us," Elena said after taking a long drink. She had always enjoyed some good vodka after a mission; she'd missed this since she'd been taken out of the field and given a teaching job several years ago.
"For breaking him out of prison, or for not bringing her along?"
"For not bringing her along, of course. You think she'd want the father of her child to rot in a Siberian gulag?"
Katya shrugged. "She hasn't said a word about him in the time I've been home. Are you sure she doesn't hate him?"
"Positive." Elena took another drink, then handed the bottle back to Katya. They lapsed into silence, both wondering what their sister's reaction would be when she saw the man they had rescued.