TEN, REVERSED
OAD DOC #4/63/C – NOT FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTION
RELEASE AUTH TO INTEL COMM: 4 Jun
DOC NOTE: What follows is a transcript of secure internet communications between Special Agent George Mackey, FBI, and Special Agent Catherine Sterling, FBI, dated 30 Oct, at 1345 GMT. 'Item One' refers to Oversight Exhibit # 172-A (one 1 black fountain pen). 'Item Two' refers to Oversight Exhibit # 172-B (one 1 men's titanium wristwatch). Also be advised that certain portions of the communication have been censored per agency security regulations regarding on-going operations. (See DIR2002.21.4a-d)
remote access requested
request pending – enter password
password entered
password approved – open or closed?
closed access requested
secure transmission
encrypt v. CENSORED
authorization code: CENSORED
answered
secondary
answered
STERLING: How's Halloween in Tokyo?
MACKEY: As thrilling as Arbor Day. But only two days left. Then LA, then home to DC.
STERLING: How's your temporary partner doing?
MACKEY: Not too shabby. Helps that she can speak the language.
STERLING: Is that a shot?
MACKEY: Don't be so sensitive. CENSORED doesn't speak English. Insists on Japanese. And mine is lousy.
STERLING: Back to Berlitz for you.
MACKEY: Sydney's handling all the questions. Thank Jack for making sure his daughter learned Japanese dialectic variations.
STERLING: I'd guess she did that on her own.
MACKEY: Speaking of, Sydney just walked in. She says hi.
STERLING: Hi back. Anything to report?
MACKEY: Nothing on Item Two. We're close on One. CENSORED is meeting us in about four hours.
STERLING: Is overwatch in place?
MACKEY: Negative. No overwatch.
STERLING: Very funny.
MACKEY: No joke. CENSORED is a nervous type. Keeps threatening to vanish.
STERLING: Used my Full Faith and Credit of the US Government speech yet?
MACKEY: Sydney's dealing with the contact, remember?
STERLING: Then give it to her. Works every time with the edgy contacts.
MACKEY: Sounds like you've dealt with those before.
STERLING: Ask my current partner.
MACKEY: Ha-ha.
STERLING: CENSORED
MACKEY: CENSORED
STERLING: CENSORED
MACKEY: I don't want any part of that.
STERLING: Seriously. Get the details on Item One and get home. Partner's orders.
MACKEY: See you in LA, Cath.
STERLING: Bye, George.
disconnect
end communication
SEVEN
Baltimore, MD
16 December
Gilchrist studied himself in the mirror. He hadn't realized that he looked as fatigued as he did. He had always tried to give the appearance of a man aware and alert. It was usually successful because it was usually true. Nearly thirty-five years of service, and he hadn't failed to be that man. In Stalingrad, Peking, Havana. He was the one that was respected, even feared. The dark suit he was wearing now, it was almost the same as one he'd worn in East Berlin in 1983, smuggling microfiche that would give the free world an upper hand in the Cold War. The memory of that brought a rush of warmth to his cheeks.
But as he noticed the spidered redness of the blood vessels, and the sagging skin under his eyes, and the frown lines that pulled at the corners of his mouth, he discovered the man he'd become. Martin Gilchrist was just another worn out body, set in motion by forces he could have avoided - or at least deflected - when he was younger and stronger. Now he was acting in desperation, struggling to prop himself up on a reputation that should have been deflated a decade ago.
He straightened his tie. Enough navel-gazing, he decided. Time for work.
Gilchrist reached into his overcoat and found the pistol. He dropped the clip into his hand, and eyeballed it. "Three bullets," he muttered. "Hope that's enough." Then he snapped the clip back into the weapon, and put it away. He gave his face one last look in the mirror, and then he left his room, taking nothing else with him.
Jack pretended to read the editorials again, giving the appearance to most passers-by that he'd found a particular paragraph that he wanted to absorb. Nearly four-thirty in the afternoon, and Gilchrist still hadn't come down from his hotel room. What was he waiting for, Jack thought, an engraved invitation?
No earpiece, no handler. No net. Just me and my wits, he thought. Like the good old days. He could feel his heart beating. Always a good sign. And when the elevator doors opened, and he saw Gilchrist striding across the lobby, he almost smiled. Almost.
Gilchrist was buttoning his overcoat as he stepped into the cold, clear December air outside the hotel. As he disappeared from sight, Jack rose from his seat, and tucked the newspaper under his arm. Then, after a quick glance back at the door, he made his way to the elevator.
Sydney pushed open the diner door. The warm inside air washed over her, and her nose caught the scents of coffee and various fried meats. There was music playing – a bluesy Christmas tune that fit the environment. With a slight turn of her head, she found Weiss, sitting at the lunch counter, overcoat draped across the stool on his right. His head shifted just as she was finding him. "Come on in, Sydney. It's Hot Dog Day," he said, to no one in particular.She walked over to the counter, around the inconveniently placed cardboard Santa Claus, a less-than-jolly HO-HO-HO scrawled across a speech balloon attached to his hat. Sensing her approach, Weiss moved his coat onto his lap. "I'm not sitting," she said.
"If you found the time to come, you have time to sit," Weiss said. He drummed his right hand on the red vinyl seat.
Sydney groaned a bit, but acquiesced. "Why did you ask me here?" she asked, leaning close to him.
"Thought you might want to eat," Weiss said flatly. "Being on a stakeout, keeping an eye on Gilchrist for me and all. Which is damn decent of you, by the way. You sure you won't have something? My treat." He took a loud slurp from his coffee cup.
Sydney snorted. "I can't believe this. I had to tell my dad that your call was urgent office business; that was the only way he'd let me leave. And since I'm not hungry, and you're pissed at me for God-knows-whatever, would you mind telling me what I'm doing here so I can get back?"
Weiss finished his hot dog, then grabbed a paper napkin from the dispenser in front of him, jostling it. He wiped mustard from the corner of his mouth, then balled the napkin and dropped it on the countertop like it disgusted him. "Your dad's fucking with me. And I'm really quite tired of it," he said.
"What do you mean? How's he fucking with you?"
"You were there. How he pushed me and Webber out of the meeting yesterday. 'The agency doesn't need loose cannons,' he said. Sorry to stoop to mixed metaphors, Syd, but your dad calling me a loose cannon, that's the old pot and kettle discourse." Weiss grabbed for his coffee cup, shaking his head.
"He's trying to keep the circle small. In case something goes bad."
"Like Tokyo? Or Dublin? Keeping the circle small did nothing for them."
Sydney sighed. "Things happen in our line of work that we can't predict. Or change."
"I heard that speech before. Mike tried to give it to me after Cathy and Rick got blown to the four winds. But he's only got words. Same as you, or anybody else in that small circle. Webber, on the other hand, has a solution. He knows that two-faced bastard has to die. And he's ready to get it done. Unlike the rest of you." He looked straight into his empty plate.
"What two-faced bastard? Who are you talking about?" Sydney asked.
"God damn Gilchrist."
"Gilchrist?" Sydney frowned. "There's no proof that he's the traitor."
Weiss grimaced. "Who was it that set up Cathy and Rick, then, huh?"
Sydney scowled. "There's no proof of that, either."
"Well, aren't you fine and upstanding," he said sadly. He tapped the American flag pin on her collar. "Talking about proof like you can't see it right in front of you. Equality and liberty and justice for all. I swear to God, Syd, the things that make you so damned lovable also make you really damn annoying," he sneered.
Sydney chuckled humorlessly. "Look, Eric. I get that you're not happy. I'm not happy, either. But going rogue is not the answer."
Weiss growled, but Sydney was not to be interrupted. "Dad and I, we are this close to getting the evidence that Gilchrist is the double. This close," she said, indicating with a thumb and forefinger. "But if anyone interferes, he'll vanish, and we'll never bring him in." She looked him square in the eye. "And in case you forgot, I was in Dublin, too. And I've got the x-rays to prove it." She stood up as the waitress approached with the coffee pot. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back before my father suspects anything."
As the door chimes rang behind him, Weiss watched the steamy stream of rich brown liquid pour into the beige mug. Then he said, with a small smile not intended for anyone he could see, "Someone owes me a steak."
Jack slipped the fake key card into the lock, and watched the light change from red to green. He pushed on the handle, and the heavy door opened, just like it should. He pocketed the card and let the door close behind him. He checked his watch by the shaft of light coming through the edges of the curtained window. Forty-five minutes until he was supposed to meet up with Sydney. About an hour-and-a-half until they grabbed up Gilchrist. And then this nonsense would be finished.As long as there was a watch in the night table, he thought. Jack grabbed the textured metal and pulled the drawer open. He ticked the items off, like they were on a list: one Gideon bible, one room service menu, and one men's titanium watch. He rolled up the left sleeve of his dark overcoat, and released the clasp of the watch he was wearing.
In the seconds that it took him to switch his watch for Gilchrist's, he thought about all the people who had died for it. For a God damn watch, he thought. He felt the twinge of regret he knew he'd eventually have to deal with. It wasn't just survivor's guilt. It was knowledge: he could have, probably even should have, done more. And sooner. Should have fought harder. Should have talked louder.
He looked at the watch he'd been wearing, and compared it for a moment to the one from the drawer, which was now fastened around his wrist. Then he slammed the drawer shut before he lost himself in contemplation, and found the door.
Webber pulled into a space down the street from the hotel. Jack's car was four stalls away. A small grin crept across his face. Thank you, Agent Weiss, he thought. He pulled a flip phone from his pocket and dialed. "Tell Arvin Sloane that I want to talk to him," he said, sliding his pistol from its holster.A pause, as Webber watched the revolving door. He set the pistol on his lap, and connected an earpiece. Then he laid the phone on the passenger seat, and picked up the gun once more. As he dropped the clip into his hand, and began to load it, Sloane's voice came through the speaker. "Mr. Webber, this is not a good time."
Each round snapped into place as he spoke. "No, it isn't. I'm sitting outside a hotel in Baltimore, waiting for Jack Bristow to pop his pompous mug in front of my crosshairs. So if you want to bid on the device, you need to do it now."
Sloane's voice was cold. "How do you intend to retrieve it? I doubt Jack will just give it to you."
"You're right, Arvin." Webber slipped the clip back into the Beretta. "If all else fails, I'll just cut off his hand."
"Then you're planning on killing him?"
The corners of Webber's mouth turned upward. "Call it a fringe benefit."
"You'd better also kill Sydney, then. Because if you kill one and not the other, it won't matter how much money you have, or where you choose to hide, or how good a shot you think you are. You will never be safe again." Sloane's voice was almost sing-song toward the end.
The little smile went away. "So glad you're concerned about me. Are you bidding or not?"
"You have my bid. Ten million dollars for each item."
Webber sighed in frustration. "Don't try to low-ball me. Twenty's the lowest I'll consider, and everybody knows that."
"Then you'll price yourself right out of the market."
"I've already got three offers of twenty-five or better," Webber said.
"Then I suggest you take one of those, and stop wasting my time," Sloane said. Then a soft click, and the earpiece was silent.
"Fine, Arvin," Webber said. "I'll live." Then he opened his door, and strolled over to Jack's car.
"Agent Vaughn?" a voice was asking as Michael stirred. He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep on a puddle-jumper. He rubbed his eyes and saw the scrubbed boyish face of an analyst whose name was escaping him just now. "Agent Vaughn? Your pocket's buzzing," the younger man said.
Michael yawned as he fished a phone from his coat. "Vaughn here," he said.
"It's Dixon. My office just received an encoded transmission from someone claiming to be Arvin Sloane."
"Sloane? Was it him?"
"I think so. According to Marshall, it was sent through an SD-6 server that's been inactive since the CIA raid, and the encryption was one that was specifically designed for Sloane, so only he could have accessed it."
"So it is him, then. What did he want?" he asked.
Dixon was quiet for moment, then said, "To give you his phone number."
"Why would I want to call him?" Vaughn barked.
"Apparently, he knew you'd say that. He left a message for you."
And then, Dixon began to read.
Vaughn's face turned ashen as he listened, then he grabbed the analyst by the arm. "Get your phone. Dial this number right now. Nine-oh-nine. One-three-five. One-eight-two-two."
"One-eight-two-two. Why am I doing this?" the smooth-faced man asked as he pressed buttons.
"Because a lot of people are about to die."
The other man froze. "Die? What?"
Vaughn handed his suddenly nervous colleague his own phone, and pulled the other from the man's grip. It was beginning to buzz on the other end. He leaned forward to the pilot. "Call Langley right now," he said. "Tell them I need to have a strike team assembled and ready to roll as soon as we arrive."
Then Michael looked over at his new best friend. "What's your name?"
"My name?" His eyes danced for a moment, like he had been asked the meaning of life. "Henry. Henry Long."
Vaughn listened to the phone buzz. "Well, Agent Long, I need you to do two things."
The man still seemed dazed. "What?"
"First. Go through my Frequent Numbers list. Find Sydney Bristow and Eric Weiss. Call them both. And the second thing I need you to do is hold on to this." With that, Vaughn pulled a black fountain pen from the inside of his coat and slid it into the other man's shirt pocket. "If you let it out of your sight, I will kill you," he said. "And I am not kidding about that."
Jack had barely made it to his car when he heard Webber's voice. "Gee, Jack, I'd have thought you'd be more observant. Especially so close to the holidays."
He turned his head to see Webber, his back against the cold brick of the building's front. He was smirking, his weapon held low and pointed toward Jack. "I bet you want to check my aim. Go for your gun, and we'll find out how good I am," Webber said.
"I don't have a gun," Jack said. "But I do have witnesses galore in that lobby. Eventually, they will see you, whether you have the balls to shoot me or not."
"I guess we should find a more private spot for a conversation." Webber gestured at the car. "You drive."
"Agent Vaughn," Sloane said. "I'm glad you called me back. I half-expected you to ignore me."
Smug bastard, Vaughn thought. "I'm still tempted to. But your message – "
"No matter our differences, we both have a vested interest in keeping certain people alive. I know the mind of your mole; he's greedy and cocky and ruthless. I also know that the last time you thought you had him cornered, some of those certain people were needlessly endangered. I've been reverse-tracking him through his cell phone, and in a moment I'm going to transfer that information to you."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I can't do anything to help them."
The phone in Vaughn's hand beeped. He stole a glance at the viewscreen. It was a map of Baltimore with a small blip moving gradually over a represented street.
"Do you see it?" Sloane asked.
"What am I looking at?" Vaughn asked.
"Your traitor." Sloane's voiced darkened. "Hurry, Mr. Vaughn." And then he was gone.
Sydney stalked down the sidewalk to her car. She was still steamed at Weiss. No one understood how he felt about Dublin? He didn't know what Sydney did. Hell, he hadn't been standing twenty feet from Cathy when her cab was ripping apart in an explosion. Weiss had been eight blocks away. Sitting at a monitor, completely out of harm's way. He didn't see a damn thing. Not like she had, anyway. The jackass had no right to whine.During the middle of her inner monologue, Sydney's heel caught the edge of a crack in the concrete, causing her to stumble a bit. She gritted her teeth as one of her ribs shifted.
She stopped in her tracks, and put a hand on her side. She pushed a breath out through her teeth. Sydney shook her head, a bit ashamed. Why was she angry with him? Eric and Cathy had been friends for nearly ten years. And Richard, too, for about the same amount of time. And he had been there. No, not at the epicenter of the tragedy, but close enough to hear it. Close enough to know that people he cared about were dead. That there was nothing he could do about it.
But it was his attitude that worried her. If he was working with Webber, then he was putting his career – and maybe even his life – squarely in front of a speeding train. Travers had made it clear that the agency wasn't going to let Webber run riot much longer. Revenge is not CIA business, he'd said. And for once, she had agreed.
It was then that her phone rang. "Yeah," she said.
"Sydney," Vaughn said, his voice trying to wade through pops and crackles.
"Vaughn? What's going on?"
"...oh...eb...need to...stay...." The noise was worsening, and his words were even more garbled the more he tried to say.
"Michael? Michael?!"
The noise subsided for the briefest moment. "Syd? I hope you get this." His throat sounded tight.
"Get what?" she asked, just as her phone beeped.
"...you see it?" he asked.
"What?" she asked. Then she took a look at the viewscreen on her phone, and felt a shot of pure terror race up her spine, and began to race to her car. Her ribcage creaked and whined, but she didn't really feel any physical pain at that moment.
"Sydney?! Sydney?!" Vaughn shouted into the phone.
"Did she get it?" Long asked.
"I don't know. I lost her. Did you get through to Weiss?"
"No. The system said he's out of the calling area, whatever that means. But there's a message on your voice mail, and it's from his number."
Vaughn snatched the phone from Long's fingertips and punched in his passcode. Weiss's voice was clear as day. "Mike. I'm meeting Sydney. Check your e-mail, see if she got her present."
Vaughn scrolled through the menu. Then he opened the e-mail Weiss had sent. It was a map of Baltimore, similar to the one Sloane had sent. But this one was of a different section of the city. And this blip had Sydney's ID number next to it.
He bolted forward toward the pilot again. "Get us on the ground!" he shouted over the engines, as he dialed again.
"What do you want me to do?" Long asked, the cobwebs appearing to clear.
Vaughn slapped a two-way radio into Long's hand. "Handle the mission! If an agent calls, you're the controller!"
Long swallowed hard. "But Agent, I've never – "
Vaughn grabbed the other man by the neck. "Just do the fucking job – "
"Or you'll kill me. Got it." With that, Long pressed the receiver into his ear, and Vaughn loosed his grip, leaving long impressions on the other man's trachea.
Jack's car rolled to a stop next to an abandoned warehouse. Webber shook his head. "You always pick the nicest locations for covert rendezvous."
Jack snorted. "So when do you get past being a punk, and just pull the trigger?"
"Jack, Jack, Jack. That's no way to talk to a man who's led so many others to their maker. You really ought to be more polite." Webber leaned forward. "Where's your little angel?"
"I don't know." Jack scanned the outdoors for a moment. "She got a phone call from Langley, then took off. Promised to meet me here."
"When?"
"Five-thirty, and no later." Jack's eyes met Webber's via the rearview mirror. "But I wouldn't be worrying about Sydney at this moment."
"I'm not. See, Jack – I'm only going to kill you," Webber replied, a dark smirk on his lips.
Jack didn't see the muzzle pressed against the back of his seat. Didn't hear the hammer strike. But he did feel the searing heat and sharp pain of a bullet piercing his back, and tearing through his ribcage, and finally popping through his chest, just below his sternum. He watched it exit him, spiraling in slow motion, as if it were a naturally-occurring chunk of lead going its merry way into the dashboard. He felt his bladder give, and tasted nothing but his own heavy, hot blood.
Webber pulled Jack from the car and tossed him onto the ice-cold sidewalk. Jack moaned as he hit the ground. "Get used to the slab, Jack," Webber said. "You're going to be dead a long time."
He trained his weapon squarely between Jack's eyes as he reached down and pulled back Jack's coat sleeve. Webber's eyes met the gleaming watch, and all the blood drained from his cheeks. "You fucking liar," he said. "Where is it? Where's the device, you lying sack of shit?!"
Jack's body wheezed and groaned, but no words came out.
Webber was beginning to foam at the mouth. "Tell me where it is, you fuck, or I'll wait right here for Sydney. I swear that I'll splatter Sydney's brains all over your soon-to-be corpse."
Jack was drooling dark blood on to the gray of the sidewalk. "Gilchrist," he managed to say.
"Arrogant asshole," Webber spat. "Tell me where he is, Jack. Tell me or as soon as she shows, she dies. And you'll get to watch."
A buzz from Jack's pocket interrupted Webber's lupine rage. "Holding out on me, Jack?" he shouted. Webber patted Jack's overcoat, and found a PDA in one of the pockets. "Very pretty," Webber snorted. "Always loved the little CIA presents myself." Webber tapped the spinning "M" on the corner of the screen to activate it.
And there was Sydney's blip, no more than two blocks away. Webber's head snapped to attention. He suddenly became aware of the sounds of squealing tires and screeching brakes, terrible noises echoing all around him.
He turned back to see Jack, the older man's face grayer now. ," Jack half-gurgled. "...sn't...she...?"
Webber sneered. "She sure is." He pulled the hammer back on his pistol, then snapped the safety into place. "You stay right there, Jack. Sydney'll be here any second. Then I'll come back, just like I was never here, and you'll tell me. Won't you, Daddy? For your baby girl?" And then he took off like a shot.
As he heard Webber's feet collide with the sidewalk as he ran away, Jack felt a strange, warming calm. Maybe he was being left to die in the street. Maybe Webber was just going to come back and finish him off. All Jack knew was that Sydney was going to get the son of a bitch at last. And that one thought put a small smile on Jack's lips. At that very moment, Jack Bristow didn't really care if he lived another minute or not. The books were about to be balanced, once and for all, and nothing else mattered.
Nothing at all, Jack underlined. He was feeling a blanket of dark floating over him, and his eyes wanted to close, but Jack forced himself to stay awake. No sense checking out until he knew Webber was good and dead. Even while bleeding to death on a sidewalk, Jack Bristow was still a logical man.