It was not until 8:00 p.m. that Vaughn and William were able to disentangle themselves from the tediousness of intricate planning and organizing for the upcoming mission, which once again, entailed a high chase after an especially unique Rambaldi artifact that Irina Derevko and Sark were particularly interested in. Vaughn had been strangely intrigued by the latest artifact and had studied it after Dixon's presentation with Marshall's help. He had most generously magnified the photo of a bronze statue of a woodland faun, towering over an imperceptible object. Marshall had fiddled with the computer system to simultaneously enlarge and focus the picture, which finally allowed Vaughn to see that the second object was of a smaller faun, although a decapitated one. The head seemed to have been melted away purposely as if by an intense fire. The way the second faun seemed to be cowering beneath the shadow of the taller faun, made Vaughn observe the latter's expression. Expecting an expression of wrath, he was surprised to discover that the elderly faun wore a face of compassion and love. In his absorption with the art piece, he failed to note that Marshall was observing him with a mystified expression on his face.
"Agent Vaughn, I never knew you to be an artsy type of person. For a long time there you looked just like my art history professor back at the university, all scrunching up your face and all, except he wore these funny little spectacles and was a little shorter and maybe a little stouter, and he always was saying things like, "ahhhhhh.....ooh....now Marshall, stop fidgeting, art is like fruit to your soul." Anyways, I have a basement full of artsy things if you'd like to take a look sometime...."
As Marshall babbled onwards, Vaughn's mind had strayed away once again to the mission at hand. He had reason to go over it repetitively. The truth was, he was nervous. The idea of two field agents on operation at the same time unnerved him. Also, the communication factor would also make his self-proclaimed job of protecting Sydney, hectic. Not only was he going to have to communicate with Sydney, the handlers were to communicate also. When it came to Sydney, he could not multi-task. Vaughn was unsure of whether Agent Ron had been notified of his tendencies to go against protocol to protect Sydney.
Despite all his nervousness, he had not had any objections whatsoever with the way this mission was to be carried out. Although only Jack and Dixon knew why this mission was particularly important, Vaughn had sensed their urgency and knew that the operation was being dealt with in the best possible way.
The piece was secured in a glass vault in a bustling train station in Rome, Italy. To passer-bys, the piece was nothing. In fact, the owners of the train station had unwittingly, and therefore, foolishly, placed a very coveted piece of art in the most conspicuous place: right beneath the ornate clock tower which stood in the midst of crowds of families leaving and arriving to Rome; right where most people could see it, and yet, where most people would not even give it a second glance.
Although the mission seemed easy enough, unknown enemies, perhaps an estimate of six different organizations would be present that day, being that this particular Friday was the weekend of the Wine Festival in Tuscany, which guaranteed that many passengers would be seeking out train as a means of transport to the country. All in all, it was a race, and an extremely dangerous one at that because the CIA knew nothing of its enemies except for Sark and Irina.
The drive home had been a silent one with Agent Ron in the driver seat. He had insisted that Vaughn looked like hell, and that he wasn't taking a risk on his own life by allowing a sick agent run both of them into a truck, two days before the mission. Vaughn had managed to smile wryly at his fellow agent's forced liveliness, but even that little task seemed to take the utmost strength out of his already fatigued mind and body.
The silence finally seemed to lull Vaughn into a light sleep, and as he sank deeper and deeper into a pleasant slumber, he suddenly jerked awake and moaned, "My mother is going to be there." At first, Agent Ron was puzzled, but when he realized what Vaughn meant, he appeared to pale a little. He was glad that it was dark outside, or else, he was sure Vaughn would have noticed the horrified expression on his face. Clearing his throat, Agent Ron asked pleasantly, "And is that necessarily a bad thing?" Vaughn sighed. "Yes, it is very bad because my house is a mess and I haven't anything in the refrigerator, and I'll probably receive a wonderful harangue about nutrition and hygiene and getting 8 hours of sleep every night." Agent Ron stifled a laugh as he glanced at his flustered looking son and assured him, "Don't worry. Perhaps she'll reserve all of that for later when I'm gone." "I hope so," Vaughn retorted, sighed again, and stared out the window for the remainder of the trip, as Ron stared at the road ahead, trying to capture in his mind, what his wife would look like now that twenty five years had gone by since his supposed death. He was most worried, however, that being the shrewd woman that she was, she would know him the instant he stepped into the house, despite the fact that he was "dead."