Part Two, Chapter Five:

The man, cloaked in shadow, slowly trudged up the front steps of a large, dark house. He entered the security codes and pulled out his keys, the lock popping open with a click. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and dropped his things on the floor, resting his forehead against the heavy slab of maple. He sighed, letting out a long breath, and stood, leaning against the wall for several minutes. The man then moved from his doorway to the floor. He sat, his knees bent, his arms wound around them. There he sat, his papers spilling out of his briefcase, his suit jacket discarded in a heap of wrinkles, his shoes flung across the hardwood floor. Time passed, and he was still in the same position, staring with a vacant and empty gaze, unseeing, at the door. Unwanted, unnecessary images conjured up by his mind, flashing in front of him, his brown eyes bleak and cold.

His stupor was broken as he pulled his briefcase closer. Opening it properly, he pulled out the thick file folder that laid on top of the work he brought home. He stared at it.

Slowly, he gathered his things, and picked himself up off of the floor. He walked to his den, and hung up his coat on the coat rack, sat his briefcase on his desk, and kicked his shoes under his desk.

Again, he took out the file folder, but this time, he opened it, gazing at its contents.

Inside was the personnel file of Bristow, Jonathan Donahue, ID-Class USS-CI-2300682. Inside was the record of his interrogation. Inside was information about every mission he had been assigned. Inside was proof of his breakdown.

The man flipped through the files, arriving at the official report about his emotional state post-Laura.

The man thought for several moments, and then drew out a sheet of paper from a drawer inside his desk. He took the pen that was clipped to the folder, and began to write.

Irina,

The past never goes away, does it. It keeps lurking, waiting for the moment when it makes its ugly return. Memories always float around, echoes of things that once were, shadows of the life that used to be.

We have quite the past, don't we. Ten years of deceit. Twenty years of pain, confusion, and anger. Over thirty years we've known one another. Over thirty years of memories.

When I think about it, it appears as though you and I have more in common now than we did before. Perhaps that is what allures me so. You are much more my equal now.

Even our experiences are similar.

I took my file from the CIA today. I wanted to remove some things to prevent Sydney from seeing them. I had Marshall, our Op Tech person, delete the files from the server as well. Hopefully Sydney will never be subjected to the knowledge of how her father failed her. I don't want her to know. I didn't realize what a risk it would be until this morning. Agent Vaughn is a busybody. He does too much clandestine investigation for our daughter. If Sydney did not find it herself, Vaughn probably would.

Looking in my file, I saw the photographs of my interrogation. It reminded me that I wasn't the only one to be ripped apart by my own government. I remembered how you spoke of Kashmir, saying, You know what this place was when I was here, Jack? A prison. Where the KGB interrogated suspected traitors, and no, I wasn't an officer here. I was a prisoner. Why do you think I learned the sewage tunnels or memorized the mine locations? So I could escape, you idiot.

We've both suffered.

I thought you should know about my behavior after I was released from solitary confinement. Only because I want you to understand why I withdrew from Sydney. I don't want your pity. So I'm including the only record of my as the agency termed it. I trust you know what to do with it after you have gone through it.

I've done a great deal of thinking lately. About you. About me. About Sydney.

It's hard to explain, but I suppose the best thing to do would be to flat out come forward with it; I miss you.

I never thought I'd find myself feeling that way about you. We both know, all too well, about my desire to kill you, to see you punished, to remove you from both my life and Sydney's life. Even after you returned, sitting in your glass cage, I tried to destroy you and the things you represented to me.

But now, there's something inside me that I thought was long gone, long dead. I enjoyed our banter. I found myself thinking of you when I was supposed to be doing other things. Working together with you made things and ideas much clearer. You're something of an enigma. For the life of me, I cannot figure you out. But somehow, that doesn't matter. In fact, I do believe it entices me even more. And you're as beautiful as ever.

So perhaps we should meet.

Just to coordinate our efforts to bring down Sloane, of course.

I'm sure you'll find a way to contact me.

Jack

The man sat down his pen and looked down at what he had written. He looked up, thinking for a moment, and turned to his briefcase, searching through it for some unknown item. Triumphantly, he looked up, and pulled out a bunch of cocktail napkins, a folded scrap of paper and a tape recorder. He ejected the tape, and put it, along with the other objects, into a brown envelope. He slid his new letter inside, along with a group of papers from his file folder, and closed the envelope carefully, sealing it. On the outside, he scribbled down a name; Irina, and placed the envelope in a hidden drawer underneath his desk.

I'll save that for her, he thought, as he left the room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind him.