Joakim had come through at last. Irina looked out over ominous clouds and an even more ominous sea. Slate gray waves rocked the boat beneath her, but she barely noticed.
"Simon Walker," she murmured.
"One of those fancy types, like I said," Joakim continued. She could hear the relentless beat of techno music behind him.
"Anything else?"
"He works with a team, never stays in one place for too long. He's from the UK somewhere. A Brit, or maybe Irish. Some say one thing, others say something else. You know how it is." She could practically hear Joakim's shrug over the phone line. "I have a phone number, though I suspect it's to a burner phone."
"Of course."
Joakim rattled off the number. "And if he asks-"
"-I don't know who you are. Thanks, Joakim."
Irina confirmed the Swede's account information and hung up.
The ferry pitched, and she shifted her weight to compensate for the movement. The rain was a steady drumbeat against the windows. She strode to the table she and Jack shared, sliding into the chair across from him. "That was my contact in Stockholm." She relayed the information to him.
The large ferry swayed violently, and the ever-present rumble of the engines caused the deck and tables to vibrate. They had opted for a ferry rather than an airplane trip to the mainland; easier to move the more questionable gear they had collected across international borders.
The dining room was a large space furnished with clean Scandinavian decor, but not to be confused with a luxury liner. A waiter came by to pick up the remains of lunch, leaving them to nurse two suitably strong coffees. Outside the paned glass windows, the Baltic churned, foggy grey and ice-cold.
"Simon Walker," Jack repeated. "Is he primarily a thief, or assassin, or?"
"A thief. High-class. Or at least, not your typical street-level thug. The Vory sometimes hire these people, if they want to look legitimate. A lot of businesses use them for stealing plans, prototypes. That sort of thing."
"And Sydney is working with him. Or at least she worked with him once."
"She could be gathering intel on him."
"Very likely," Jack mused. He looked off into the distance, then started rapidly typing on his laptop.
Irina arched an eyebrow. "An idea? Please, share."
"I'm engaging a contact," Jack said. "Not CIA, you needn't worry about that. If Walker is as prominent as you suggest, he will have left evidence of his activities. My contact is an expert in open source intelligence."
"Ah. Let me guess: Sydney's friend. The reporter."
Jack stopped typing, his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He looked up at her, his face unreadable, for a long moment.
A tight ball of unease settled into her stomach. "What?"
Jack swallowed, uncharacteristically unsettled. "There is an alarming possibility," Jack said. "You are familiar with Project Helix?"
"I am. Dr. Marcovik's pet project." Pieces of the puzzle snicked into place. "Jack, you can't mean...It's not possible." Oh, but it was. It was.
"I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier," Jack said.
"You're suggesting that our daughter may be a clone." Irina's tone was flat..
"I'm suggesting the cloning technology may be related to Sydney's disappearance," Jack said. "We don't know, but all things considered, we can't eliminate it." He drew his hand over his face in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.
Everything within her wanted to reject the idea, but she knew Jack had a point. She reached out and touched his hand. "Jack, I–It has to be her. It has to be." The words were pinched, desperate. "Wait–Jack, look at me." She squeezed his hand and he held on just as tightly. When he met her gaze, she said: "They could have used the clone to fake her death. It makes sense. Yes." Irina said firmly. "That has to be it." And what kind of sick world did they live in that a dead copy of their daughter was the better option?
"It's possible." She could see Jack parse through the options, filtering out probabilities. "If Helix isn't related, then our original assumptions still stand. If we are dealing with some kind of cloning technology, the more likely scenario is that the clone was created to fake Sydney's death. We can't entirely rule out, however, that the Sydney we saw in the vault was a clone."
"No." Irina didn't know if she was agreeing with him, or denying the possibility. She took a deep breath. "I know we can't. The question is, once we find her, how can we tell if it's the real Sydney?"
He considered this, his eyes fixed on the window, gazing out over the gray, foaming sea. "I can make that determination, when we find her," he said.
Project Christmas, again. Irina withdrew her hand from Jack's. "I'm sure you can."
"The protocol included a failsafe question-and-answer sequence. I will be able to tell if it's Sydney." Jack cocked his eyebrow, daring her to argue with him.
"And I assume you'll share this information with me?" She looked around them. There were four others in the dining area. "Not here. In a secure location, and sooner, rather than later."
"Yes."
She took a sip of coffee, eyeing him over the edge of her mug. After setting it down, she said, "On the subject of Simon Walker, how do you propose we proceed?" I've spent so much time with Jack, I'm starting to sound like him, she thought ruefully.
"If Walker is a thief-for-hire," Jack said, '"Then it stands to reason we should try to hire him."
Irina was silent for a moment, thinking. "I don't know if Scatola di Pace was a one-off or if Walker specializes in obtaining Rambaldi items. I suggest we look for another Rambaldi target. Sydney's in play. We don't know how long she's been working with this man, but if Sydney is involved we have to assume Rambaldi is, as well."
Jack eyed her sharply across the table.
She noted the look, but was too tired to take the bait. If Jack was pissed off at her again, that was his problem, not hers. She didn't have the energy to figure out what was going on in his cypher of a mind.
"Rambaldi," he said carefully, "Is your field of expertise. I propose we hire Walker to steal something from your collection."
Irina tensed, and almost snapped, "No!" With effort, she shoved the instinct aside. "Jack, Sloane suspects what I have in my collection, and Yelena probably does, too. If, as we surmise, either of them are involved, and the item is associated with me, they would both suspect a trap. They could devise a counter-operation to ensnare us. It has to be an item that can't be traced back to me."
"Then what do you propose?" Jack asked.
"Let's go through the data you got at the plant. There might be something there. If not, I can reach out to someone in my network of antique dealers."
Jack turned his gaze back to the laptop, and called up the database they had been working since Lima. "The server download included several hidden containers," Jack said thoughtfully. "Marshall sent me a program to decode them. It might take a few hours on this machine. I'll get it started now."
Later, in their cabin, Jack balanced the laptop on the tiny glass table. The hum of the engines and the swell of the sea provided a droning, rocking motion that threatened to lull him to sleep. The porthole outside was dark. Ten hours to go.
He settled on the sofa, leg propped up and reading a paperback book.
Irina swept into the cabin, and a wave of humidity wafted in with her. She was wrapped in a fluffy white robe, and her hair was damp. "You should try the sauna."
"Some other time." It was honestly tempting, but he couldn't manage it with his bandages. "The decryption should be finished soon."
Irina nodded. She slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. She emerged twenty minutes later, freshly showered and clothed in a set of cream satin pajamas, her hair combed neatly away from her face.
Jack idly watched her move around the small cabin, but his eye caught text scrolling on the screen. He sat up straight. "It's ready."
Irina sat beside him on the sofa, keenly alert. "Show me."
He typed out the boot instructions for Marshall's search program and swiveled the table so Irina could use the laptop.
Her fingertips hovered over the keys for a moment, and then she rapidly tapped out a search string. He watched as she worked, starting with a general search and gradually increasing in precision. A flood of information scrolled rapidly down the screen. "It's a log," she said. "See?"
The data resolved into a grid, a list of Rambaldi artifacts and their characteristics, locations, and other data. Irina ran her finger down the screen, noting rows with missing entries, where the location or other information was apparently unknown. Her finger stopped at one entry. "Here," she said. "L'arca del cielo.The Arc of Heaven. That's the one they're going after next."
Jack watched her, noticed her intensity, her... excitement. He tore his eyes from her to focus on the screen. "The item is being transported from Lithuania to Turkey. We only have a portion of the itinerary. A train in Romania. What is this item?"
"No one knows for certain. The prevailing theory is that it's a cypher unlocking an unlimited power source."
"Of course it is," Jack murmured. "Who is moving it? I'd like to hire Walker to steal this, and see if Sydney participates in the operation. We can develop a plan to separate her from Walker and his team."
"A good idea. It says here that Arca di Cielo is known to be in the possession of the Guild of Orvieto."
"A criminal organization?" Jack asked.
"Not exactly. It’s a very old order. More religious than political. They see themselves as the guardians of Rambaldi’s vision. I’m sure you’ve seen their symbol." Picking up a pen, Irina found a napkin and drew an image on it quickly. She pushed it toward Jack.
< o >
"The Eye," Jack said quietly. He did not want to get involved in a Rambaldi treasure hunt. However, if this were any other valuable item, he would be approaching the op from the same angle. At least for now.
Irina smiled, and he could hear a tinge of - was it satisfaction? - in her tone. "The Guild uses the Eye as a form of recognition between members. It's usually tattooed here–" she rubbed the web of skin between her thumb and index finger–" but not always. The Guild sees themselves as the guardians of Rambaldi's legacy. They aren't collectors, really. More like caretakers. The Guild is old, and not a lot is known about them. If an artifact is being moved, it's because the Guild believes its location is no longer a secret."
Jack frowned. "Are you aligned with this order?"
"No. Oh, I considered joining when I first learned of Rambaldi. But, the life of the faithful has never really appealed."
"I see," Jack said dryly.
Irina cocked her head to the side inquisitively. "Do you?" She waved the question away. "In any case, it appears that the venerated Guild has a mole."
"That I do understand. Considerably more concrete than metaphysics. What are the Guild's capabilities, their reach?"
"Global. Some locations have a higher concentration of Guild activity, like Rome, for obvious reasons. But they make a point to seed bases around the world. They style themselves as preservationists, but their methods can be brutal. They are completely devoted to Rambaldi's vision, and will protect the artifacts at any cost. In that way, they are like any other organized crime syndicate." Her lip curled. "They like to portray their ideals as pure, but assassination is justified if Rambaldi's legacy is threatened."
"In that case, both SD-6 and the CIA have interacted with them," Jack said. "They're something of a rogue element."
"Yes and no. The Guild is easy to understand, as long as you keep in mind that their loyalty–their only loyalty–is to Rambaldi. Everything else is secondary, and there is nothing they won't do to keep his works safe."
Was the flush in her face a result of the sauna, Jack wondered, or did it echo the Rambaldi fever Jack often saw in Arvin Sloane's countenance? Seeking Rambaldi items was a logical progression to their goal of finding Sydney, but he could not entirely discount the possibility that Irina was steering him towards Rambaldi. Yet, at this juncture, there was nothing else he could do. Aside from remaining aware of the implications.
"In that case," Jack said, "Our next move is to hire a thief."
September 2003
Los Angeles, CA
Joint Task Force Headquarters
The memorial to fallen operatives stood in the hall at Joint Task Force HQ, across from the conference room entrance. The name at the bottom of the list was carved into gleaming black marble. It read: "Sydney Bristow."
Jack had to walk past the memorial every time he attended a meeting. He wasn’t in danger of ever forgetting, but the physical reminder was jarring, and not conducive to his focus or his equilibrium, two characteristics he needed during staff meetings.
He wasn’t the only one affected, he knew. He had caught Dixon and Marshall glancing at the slab and looking away. Vaughn had, more than once, simply stood and stared in the long quiet between shifts.
Jack eased into his seat in the conference room, the first to arrive. He tapped his stack of notes onto the desk to align them. The notes were a formality, he was well versed in the contents. Field reports, closed and open intel, personal connections all came to the same conclusion: Arvin Sloane was off the grid, seemingly.
Marshall Flinkman entered, gave Jack a tight smile, and settled in next to the AV controls. The rest filed in behind him: Michael Vaughn, Eric Weiss, Marcus Dixon, and Carrie Bowman. They sat, acknowledged each other, and waited. It was quiet except for the occasional shuffling of paper and Marshall's tapping on his keyboard.
Kendall was late.
Jack didn’t feel the need to continually check his watch, the others were doing that already. After five minutes of awkward silence, Jack began: “In the interest of expediency, let‘s get started with report outs from the last meeting. International partners, Vaughn?”
“I have contacts both on and off the books at Interpol, Five Eyes, and the FSB,” Vaughn began. “If anything develops, I‘m confident we’ll get a heads up.”
“Jack, did Kendall give you any indication when we'd be able to debrief Julian Sark?” Dixon voiced the concern that had been foremost on everyone’s minds for the last two months.
“Without Sark,“ Weiss spoke up, “It feels like we’re just picking at the edges of our problem.“
“Kendall's working,” Jack said, “to get DSR to release Sark to us–.”
“No, he’s not.” A man entered the room. Balding, in an ill-fitting suit, and soft around the middle in the manner of men who spend too much time behind a desk. In spite of this, however, his green eyes were sharp, his manner crisp.
“I’m Director Robert Lindsey, NSC. I am replacing Kendall at the Joint Task Force." He sat on the edge of an unoccupied table. Calculated casual, Jack thought. Establishing dominance. Jack assessed the reactions of his co-workers. None of them were buying it any more than he was.
"I realize you all have been through some difficult, and often unproductive operations,” Lindsey continued. "In light of recent setbacks, it has been decided that this task force needs to take a new direction."
He shifted tone to that of a benevolent superior gently chastising a wayward underling. "But I want to assure you that you have my personal commitment to elevate the performance of this task force. You all have a clean slate with me,” he said. “There will be no recriminations or blame shifting. I firmly believe there is a great deal of untapped potential here. The first item on my agenda is to shape this team into a world-class task force. We'll start by refreshing the psych evaluations of the entire team.“
Silence. Then Marshall gave a gentle cough and raised his hand. “Um, sir, we’ve already done that.”
“It needs to be redone." Lindsey changed his tone to one of poorly-feigned sympathy. "You lost a team member. Not just a team member, but a family member," he directly eyed Jack. "And a close... friend," this time he eyed Vaughn. "This has no doubt affected everyone's work. Let's start from scratch, assess where we are, so we can build a solid foundation moving forward."
"With all due respect, Sir," Vaughn said, his voice tight. "This team has made significant progress in the search for Arvin Sloane, and stopping work for redundant testing would only waste precious time. We owe it to Sydney and the other victims to continue this work as expediently as possible."
"And that's the problem," Lindsey said pointedly. "Sydney Bristow is not here, and in order for you to function as a team, you need to stop living in the past. All of you."
"Director Lindsey," Dixon cut in. "Agent Vaughn's heart is in the right place–"
Vaughn shot Dixon an incredulous look
"But the wounds are still fresh, as you note." Dixon's gaze swept the room, including them all. "We need time to heal. I think these tests would give us that."
"Good. Excellent," Lindsey seemed surprised for the argument to end, and shifted gears. "We're all here for each other, that is the important thing. The bad guys will still be there once we've regrouped. Bristow," he said to Jack.
Jack didn't reply, merely tilted his head minutely.
"Before your psych eval, report to medical. You're slated for a 360 medical exam, after which you'll need to physically recertify for field status. Dismissed." Lindsey surveyed the room, before stepping out.
As soon as the door shut and Lindsey was out of sight, Weiss hissed, "Dixon! I can't believe you agreed with that guy!"
"I don't. But it was the quickest way to get him out of the room. Do you agree, Jack?"
"Yes," Jack said. "We need to determine what happened to Kendall. Lindsey's transfer here is no accident."
"It conveniently blocks us from debriefing Sark," Vaughn said. "And that only confirms Sark has critical information."
"Critical information we can't access," Weiss added.
Marshall raised his hand, tentatively. Across the table, Carrie Bowman shot him an encouraging smile.
"Go ahead, Marshall," Jack replied.
He straightened in his seat. "Well, it just occurred to me. Assistant Director Kendall isn't gone gone, is he? You know...ah...permanently transferred?"
Or dead, Jack thought. "I'll find out."
"We need more information on Lindsey," Dixon added. "I've never heard of him. Has anyone else?"
"I have," Carrie said. "He's NSC. I can ask around, see what department he's in, what he's doing here.." She trailed off, leaving the others to complete her sentence.
"Good," Jack said. "Everyone should continue to work their contacts, discreetly. With precautions, we can continue our investigation. Off the books."
"One minute we're working the case, the next minute we're conspiring against the new boss. That escalated quickly," Weiss observed. He looked up at everyone, "I'm in."
"There's too much at stake," Dixon said. "Let's just get these tests out of the way, and we'll move on from there."
There was general consensus on this point, and the group exited the conference room. Dixon waited until he and Jack were alone. "Forcing you to recertify? That's a deliberate waste of your time," he observed.
"I agree. But at this juncture there's no point in overt insubordination." Jack looked out the glass conference room door to the black marble slab beyond it. "I won't be deterred," he said quietly.
"I know," Dixon replied. Sloane had murdered Dixon's wife. This was intensely personal... for all of them. "Neither will I."
