In Indicator Irina was suddenly and without warning chained and removed from the Op Center in L.A. and sent to Camp Harris...just as Will was being taken in "Second Double"...So let's explore what might be meant by the ominous words...Unrestricted interrogation. The characters are the property of JJ Abrams and his writers. Enjoy Part 1 of DON’T KNOW WHY… Irina sat on her bunk in a meditating pose. Her hands were lying flat on either side of her body, her eyes closed. Sydney had gone to Madagascar to recover her “Bible.” When she heard that Klaus was in the hands of SD-6 she knew that wherever he put it, it was not in Madagascar. Klaus was one of her original cartel. He knew her from the beginning. He had sent them on a wild goose chase, as the Americans would say. She, therefore, had been comfortable decoding the map cipher and telling Sydney the house was safe. She thought she was about ready to “go away” when the doors to the cell block opened. She wondered whom it was…Jack? The cell door opened. Her eyes flew open as four men stormed into the room. Two held guns, the other two pulled her into a standing position from her bunk. What was going on, she thought? She was totally confused. One man took a belt with handcuffs dangling from it. He quickly put it around her waist, then locked free cuffs to her wrists. They pulled Irina out of the cell and then out through the hall. The outside door slammed open. The Van! It was backed up to parking space. One marshal opened it, the other two on either side of her, pushed her inside, slamming her against the wall. They then put the ankle fetters on as before, removed the belt and cuffs and then secured her to the cuffs on the wall of the van. This was the way they had brought her to the operations center almost three weeks before. They said nothing to her and probably wouldn’t have even if she had asked. So Irina said nothing. The marshals left her alone. She couldn’t move. What had happened? She had done nothing to break the immunity agreement with the CIA. Had she underestimated Mr. Devlin? She went over everything from the time she turned herself into CIA, nearly four weeks ago. She had made a phone call from Madrid. She had just sent Klaus out to get rid of the book before she called the U. S. “You know what to do?” She had asked. “Yes, Irina, perfectly. As we discussed.” She kissed him on both cheeks. “Take care, Klaus! If you get caught..?” She left the thought unsaid. “Yes,” he smiled up at her. “And you are willing—“ “Yes, for you and for the motherland.” He kissed her hand. As soon as he left, she picked up her cell phone and dialed the CIA in Langley, Virginia. The reception of her offer was stunned silence. She knew she had to extract the promise from Director Devlin before she set foot in the United States again. She flew into Dulles, using her married name, Mrs. Laura Bristow. It had been twenty years since Laura had fled. The chances of that name being on the wanted list were small, but still she had the fax from Devlin. She had the original safely put away. She had made a copy, which she had with her now. The passport was perfect as always. She left Dulles and took a taxi. When she told the driver where she wanted to go, he was surprised. She told him there was a large, substantial tip, if he got her there by noon. He was there by eleven-thirty. She gave him her last hundred dollars. Irina turned and looked at the building. Her future and that of Sydney’s depended on the next few days. The receptionist had been startled to see her, especially when Irina told her that Director was expecting “Irina Derevko.” Two agents appeared within minutes of the receptionist’s call. They arrested her on the spot, handcuffed her, and led her to the interrogation center where she was stripped, searched and all personal items removed. She was given CIA prison garb: underwear, blue pants with a matching jacket, a black sleeveless tee, slip-on shoes. Then they handcuffed her again, leading her to a room with a table and three chairs. They put her into the chair facing a wall with a one-way mirror. She knew she was being observed. She didn’t know by whom. She sat with her hands in her lap, waiting. The door opened an hour later to admit the man she knew to be Director Arthur Devlin and one other man. They took the two chairs opposite her. They didn’t say anything for a moment, then Devlin spoke. “So you want to help us take down The Alliance and SD-6?” “Yes.” “May I ask why?” Devlin was curious. Irina Derevko had disappeared off the U. S. map twenty years ago. The CIA knew about some of her activities outside the States. They had an extensive file. Still there was a lot they didn’t know. “My daughter.” Devlin looked incredulous. “But, but you shot her!” “Did I kill her?” He shook his head, “No, but—why?” “That’s something I will tell her when I see her.” “I wasn’t aware you planned too!” She looked at him. “We have an agreement. I will help the CIA, but I will be debriefed only by her.” She lifted her hands up onto the table in front of her. “Do you think I put myself in the hands of the CIA and wear these,” she indicated the handcuffs, “on a whim? I want to help you destroy The Alliance and the only way is to send me to wherever Sydney is.” There wasn’t much else he could say. She had the original agreement. He had hoped to get information before he sent her to Los Angeles, but she had not said more. So he made the arrangement and she was flown to L. A., put into a van, and delivered to the U. S. Intelligence Joint Task Force operations center. …Irina examined everything that had happened to her from the moment she had been brought inside. She had been careful. Sydney was beginning to trust her. Vaughn hated her, but he knew the Intel she had given the CIA was helping…a lot. She caught her breath…Jack! That had been a shock, seeing him standing there, staring at her with absolutely no emotion. Twenty years had changed him…she shook her head…no, she had changed him to be totally honest. He told her he would kill her if she involved Sydney in any way in, what was it he said, “your endgame.” She knew he meant it. Was this his way of getting her out of Sydney’s sight? She wondered how long it had been since they put her in the truck. It had been late morning she thought. The van was hot and, of course, there was no air conditioning. She couldn’t move. She closed her eyes and began tracking her mantra. Meditation had been her way out of intense situations before. There were several levels her mind and body responded to whenever it was needed. It was needed, now… The van’s driver jammed on the brakes. Irina’s head banged against the wall. Her eyes opened. She heard the doors slam. A moment later, the rear door to the van opened and two marshals were inside unlocking the cuffs on her wrists and ankles. They pulled her up and out of the van, marching her over to a post in the center of a yard. They backed her up, put the belt around the post and her waist then locked her wrists to the belt cuffs. They turned and walked over to what seemed to be an office, disappearing inside. Irina looked around. There were two undistinguished buildings facing each other. They were built of plain cement blocks and painted a dull white. One was larger than the other. It had no windows that she could see. The other, because the two marshals went inside, was probably an office of some kind. The post she was tethered to was in the center of the space between the two buildings. In the open areas at either end, she saw desert landscape in both directions. Behind the building she faced, there were the tops of trees that looked a little forlorn. And it was hot! She thought it might be about three o’clock Behind her, the door to the office opened and the two marshals came out, each with what looked like a coke. They passed by her without saying a word, climbed into the van and drove off. Irina waited, thinking whoever was in the office, would be out. No one came. Four hours passed. The sun had finally dropped low enough behind the building in front of her so it didn’t beat down at her. She was thirsty, very thirsty. She had made her mind up four hours ago that they had done this deliberately to get her ready for whatever it was they were going to do. She was about to be interrogated and it was not going to be pleasant. However, she had survived twice previously in circumstances just like this. The door to the office slammed open. A lean, tall man stalked out toward her holding a piece of paper in his left hand. As he came closer, she saw he had irregular features including rather muddy-colored eyes. The eyes were not kind. “I’m Mark Hanson. I am going to be your own worst nightmare,” he looked at the paper, “…Irina Derevko.” He looked at her. “DOJ has authorized the toughest interrogation needed to get the information it wants. Do you understand what that means?” She looked at him calmly, but didn’t answer. Evidently this had happened before, because he didn’t look surprised. “Tough lady, huh? Well, there’s been a few tough ladies and a lot tough guys here and in the end they all spilled their guts.” He chuckled. “So we’ll start now.” He snapped a hard right fist into her abdomen. She gasped, as the air left her body and she tried to bend over, but couldn’t. The belt held her to the post. Her knees buckled and she started to slide down, gasping and struggling for her breath. He turned and walked back to the office. “Have a nice night,” he called over his shoulder. The door closed behind him. Irina’s head fell forward. Tears rolled out of the corners of her eyes. She was struggling with the pain and the frustration of trying to breathe. “Sukin sin – son of a *****,” she thought in Russian. She hadn’t expected the suddenness of the blow. It looked like she was going to spend the night chained at the post. The next morning Hanson came out of his office. The prisoner was sitting now back to the post, legs straight out. She didn’t move. He had a water bottle in his hand. “Morning, Derevko!” She didn’t answer and didn’t move. “I said, Morning!” He kicked her on the ankle. She shook her head and looked up at him. “Is this your usual wake up call?” He laughed. “Want some water?” “Yes. I’m sure the DOJ wouldn’t want me to die of thirst.” Her voice was dry and hoarse. He pulled at her right arm, lifting her up onto her feet. He unscrewed the top of the bottle, holding it to her lips. She drank it all without stopping. He hit her again just as she finished. The water and air from her lungs came out of her at the same time. He grinned, watching her as she slid down the post again, gasping for air, struggling and in pain. He went back to his office, leaving her alone. It took Irina thirty minutes to recover. Every time she took a breath, the pain from the blows Hanson had given her was reflected in muffled groans. “That son of *****!” She was furious at herself. If he left her out here another day, she was going to be very thirsty. She had to do something. She made herself calm down. At six that evening, Mark Hanson came outside. He stood looking at the prisoner. He had another water bottle with him. He walked slowly toward her. He knew he wasn’t going to surprise her again. She would be wary of him. He chuckled softly to himself. “Ms Derevko!” He looked down. She was hunkered over away from the sun as much as she could manage. Tethered to the post made it impossible for her to hide her face. He kneeled in front of her, putting the bottle down. “Derevko!” he snapped. She didn’t move. He took her chin and pulled it up so her face was to him. He frowned. She looked asleep. Mark took both shoulders and shook her. She moved like a rag doll. He stood up and looked at the office, calling, “Hey, Johnson, get out here.” His assistant came on the run. “Yeah, what is it?” “Help me get her up and unlock the cuffs.” The two men dragged Irina to the large, windowless building. They went up the steps. There was a steel door that Hanson stopped at and looked inside. “Hey, Marconi, let us in.” A man appeared at the door. Seeing who it was, he opened it. “Help Johnson get the prisoner into a cell,” he directed. He turned to leave. “Cell 4 will do just fine. Put her in the bunk.” Johnson and the guard dragged Irina to the fourth cell, dumping her into the bunk. “Boy, she’s a tall one,” said Johnson. “Not bad looking,” said the guard. “Yeah, but she’s supposed to have killed 12 CIA agents.” Johnson locked the cell. “She’s one bad ass woman.” The next morning, Hanson appeared in the cell’s doorway and entered, carrying a bucket. He dismissed Marconi, who left. Johnson was following, watching his boss walk over to the bunk. He dumped the bucket’s contents over Irina’s body from head to toe. She woke up instantly, sputtering. The water was ice cold. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her erect. “Morning Ms. Derevko!” She watched him warily. “I like to exchange pleasantries with my guests each morning. How are you?” He sounded concerned. She stood back, her clothes were sopping wet and clinging to her body. Her long hair was dripping. Water was running down her legs and seeping into her shoes. She was shaking. “F-fine,” she answered. “Well, now that you’ve had your water for the day, we’ll be taking you to the interrogation room.” He nodded to Johnson. He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and snapped them around her wrists. They marched Irina back down the hall, turning to the right down a short hall with two rooms on either side. Johnson opened the door on the right and pushed her inside. Irina looked at it. It was like all other interrogation rooms, sparsely furnished with a table and a couple of chairs. The room was painted a hideous yellow green. There was a stapled ring in the wall. She almost laughed out loud, but thought better of it. “Sit down.” Johnson handcuffed her to a ring that was drilled into the table in front of the chair. That was something she’d never seen. He left the room. Hanson took the chair opposite her. He had another sheet of paper, which he placed on the table in front of him. What she couldn’t see was a voltage control box. The table and chair were wired. He looked at her and she looked back waiting. “I have here a list of questions the DOJ would like answered.” He looked at her. “I don’t suppose you’ll be cooperative and answer them right here and now?” She shrugged, saying, “I don’t know what the questions are?” “It seems like the house in Madagascar you sent your daughter to, blew up big time. A couple of people were killed.” She gasped, stunned by his words, “Is my daughter…” “Yeah, she escaped your trap. A couple of other guys though didn’t escape.” “I did not do anything to that house.” She snapped. “They figured you would say that.” He smiled expectantly. “I don’t suppose you would consider changing your answer?” She shook her head. Almost immediately she felt a moderate shock to her body. She tried to rise up to escape, but couldn’t. She was tethered to the table, which, in turn, was bolted to the floor. The wet clothes she had on didn’t minimize the shock they increased it. Hanson gave her two more jolts, each one a little worse than the one previous. She was gasping, shaking her head with the pain. The trouble was she was feeling the after effects still from his hitting her earlier. “Are you considering a change in your answer?” He asked. “I didn’t do anything to the house. How could I? I was locked up.” She answered quickly. “Have you seen the op center’s holding cell? I never got a phone call. How could I get anyone to wire a house I’d never seen.” Her voice was low and insistent. He frowned. He looked at her and then at the paper. “DOJ wants to know who did wire it?” “I have been in custody for a month. I have talked with no one outside of the CIA. I didn’t even know about the house in Madagascar until my daughter told me. So, what the hell does the DOJ think I am, psychic?” Hanson looked at her. She was serious. Derevko’s voice was calm and sounded truthful. Her eyes didn’t leave his face. “Why would I jeopardize my immunity agreement?” She said. Hanson stared at her. “Immunity agreement?” Now she had him interested. “I told the CIA I would help them get rid of an enemy of the United States. I wanted to see my daughter who is a CIA agent. Look, what else does the Department of Justice want to know?” “How you found and killed each agent,” he looked paper. “Am I going to be tried?” “Yeah, before a military tribunal.” Irina’s heart sank. Sydney! God, she didn’t want her to know everything and a trial …it was why she had run twenty plus years ago. She had to think. Hanson slammed the table with his fist, startling her. “Why did you kill them?” “I didn’t!” She said. She screamed as she was jolted again with an even higher voltage than before. Every nerve in her body was effected. She fell face down onto the table, groaning. Her body heaved in an effort to control its functions. The bottoms of her feet burned. The top of her head felt as though it would explode. She gripped the edges of the table in front of her. She was sweating. Her chest heaved again. Christ, she thought, he’s going to kill me. “Do you want to re-think your answer?” asked Hanson, smiling. Irina could barely lift herself off the table. She stared at him. She’d better be careful how she answered. “It’s been over twenty some odd years. I can’t remember now who they were and when—they were killed.” He got up, brought a piece of paper over and lay it down in front of her. “Here’s the list. Read it.” Irina stared down at it. The names, all but one, were unfamiliar. But Bill Vaughn…1983, that name she knew all too well. There was no location for his place of death. She could tell them that. She had to tell him something concrete. “Vaughn was executed at a secret KGB prison in Kashmir.” “You admit to this?” “Yes.” She nodded slowly. She saw the room, similar to this one, in Kashmir. She saw the interrogators, the gun and Bill. “And the others?” He was persistent. “DOJ wants to know who gave you your orders.” “Ivan Valenko, he was my handler.” She answered, knowing Ivan had not ordered her to assassinate the agents. Ivan was dead. “Who would have given him the orders?” She knew she could keep the answers honest as long as he asked in terms that she did not need to fabricate. “Nickolay Petroffskiy, my case supervisor.” Where he was now, she did not know, although he had assumed an alias, Gerard Cuvee. “Where is he?” “I don’t know.” She saw him smile as the jolt of electricity shocked her again. She screamed and collapsed. Irina came to in the chair, her head down on the table. “I don’t know,” she whispered over and over…”I don’t know…” She was exhausted by the pain her body had absorbed. She coughed, winced as even that hurt. She pulled her head up and looked toward the other side of the table. Hanson was gone. A moment later, Johnson and the other guard entered. They took off the cuffs and helped her up, her legs buckling as she almost fell. They supported her down the hall to her cell. They left her there on the bunk. On the floor near the door, was a bottle of water and a sandwich. She looked at it warily. She needed the water and the bottle was capped. She saw the video camera was on, so that meant Hanson could be watching. She wondered where—in his office, or in the guardroom nearby. Still, she was thirsty, very thirsty. She would have to chance it. She gripped the edges of the bunk trying to get the strength in her legs to stand up and move. Her body was shaking. She took a step, then another. She bent down and picked up the water bottle. She examined it turning it upside down squeezing to see if there was a minute pinprick that would reveal it had been tampered with by someone. There were none. Irina uncapped the plastic seal. She turned and took two steps back to her bunk. She sat crossed legged and slowly sipped. Her body wanted her to gulp it down, but she resisted. As she sipped, she examined her cell. It was the first time she had had time to do so. It was standard, somewhat worse and starker than the one at the op center. There was no pillow, and now, she realized, no blanket. That had been removed and no mattress. It was a no frills cell. That didn’t matter now. She had lost track of time. They had taken her watch away when she turned herself in at Langley. Here, there was no window. There had not been one in the interrogation room either. So she had absolutely no concept of the day or night. How long she had been here could only be a guess. Three days, maybe, she thought. Irina finished the water. She wondered about the sandwich. She could do without the food, although her stomach thought otherwise. It might be a risk. Prisoners in this place obviously were not treated as regular prisoners elsewhere. This was interrogation by the CIA. She knew what the KGB did to spies and traitors. She expected nothing different here and so far, she was right. She looked at the sandwich again, then up at the camera. The red light showed.. She stood and walked over to the plate. She picked it up, turned and walked back to the bunk. Again she sat crossed legged and regarded the sandwich. She hadn’t eaten since they took her out of the op center. She tried to think, but was at a loss. What time was it? How long had she been here? She looked at the plate. Sighing, she decided she wasn’t hungry. Irina put the plate on the floor. “Go away,” said her mind. She closed her eyes. She was remembering the Master’s techniques he’d taught her. Irina smiled, thinking about him. What she had learned was incredibly valuable to her. That year she had spent with him in the Urals had been worth it. She needed to find a way to relieve her stress, the intensity of her work and of her life. She had found him in a stark, hidden monastery. A priest in small town near the Urals had told her about a wise man who lived somewhere in the mountains. He was a teacher of and about Life. “He is at peace with himself and with the world. You could learn much from him.” The priest had been a friend of her mother’s, before she married. They had known each other from childhood. Irina had gone to tell him of her mother’s death. There was one technique, however, that had eluded her—a way to completely disassociate her from outside world until she dissolved into a restful, deep, absorbing sleep. No thoughts, no activity, and absolute silence inside her mind. No one or anything would be able to penetrate the depths of her “wandering.” She needed to call upon her memory. “You can,” the Master said, “disappear from the reality of Life. But you need to practice, my dear Irina, in order to let it happen.” She hadn’t had time to practice until the last few weeks while in the custody of the CIA. Little by little, she was going over and over the technique. She hoped she could teach this to Sydney.