This is a WHAT IF story.
I’m always trying to fill in the nooks and crannies left open by the writers and JJ or where I can, insert a story within the episodes. This time I thought I would write a story with Dr. Judy Barnett as the main supporting character in a Jack and Irina story. The premise here is that as part of the agreement with the CIA, Irina would talk to the CIA psychologist who would try to ascertain if she could be trusted. Think of it as a boxing match.
A part of this story was written earlier for another story, but I made some changes, so if it seems familiar it is, just go with the flow.
I’d also like to dedicate this to my editor who combs my stories for every flaw she comes across. Thanks…Edie.
Finally, thanks to JJ Abrams who found such great characters in his devious mind, so we could write about them. Naturally, he owns all of them except the one’s I made up.
THE DOCTOR AND THE SPY
THE SPY
She was attractive and well dressed. Joan Small mentally assessed the woman walking toward her. She had on a Liz Claiborne black suit and a white blouse. Must have cost seven hundred, she thought. Tall too, over six feet with the high heels she was wearing, and she had gorgeous chestnut brown hair. There was a long streak of gray on the left side. She had dark brown eyes that looked at Joan with some amusement in them. Small antique earrings, a matching necklace, and what looked like a Rolex watch on her left wrist. She must have money and a lot of it.
“May I help you?” asked Joan.
“Yes,” the voice was slightly exotic, but rich in volume, “I have an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“Director Devlin. My name is,” she smiled, almost wickedly, “Laura Bristow.”
“Just a minute.” Joan looked at the list posted on her desktop. Sure enough, one appointment was listed for Director Devlin, a Laura Bristow. She remembered that there had been a buzz going on in the office when she got to work. After she had punched the time clock and gone to get the appointment list, they had still been talking. It must have been about the woman in front of her.
“Just a minute, please,” she said. She picked up the phone, dialed the Director’s office. “Yes, Laura Bristow is here for her appointment.” She listened for a moment, and then turned back to the woman. “Someone will be down to take you up.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, and then turned her back on Judy, looking at a wall beyond the entrance. “No names?”
“What? Oh yes, those stars represent agents who were killed in the line of duty.”
“Interesting!”
At that moment, elevator doors opened. The woman turned to see two men approaching. Joan smiled at them and then nodded at her. “Laura Bristow.”
“Could we see some identification?”
Laura Bristow smiled, “such as? Gentlemen, please. I have no driver’s license and no social security card. I am Russian. My real name is Irina Derevko.”
Joan, who had been listening, froze as she stared into the face of the woman who had been placed at the top of the CIA’s most wanted list after she had been identified as being in Barcelona during a shoot-out when an agent had been seriously wounded. She was the suspected shooter. She glanced at the wall in front of her and swallowed. This woman had been the cause of twelve stars. She was an assassin, a cold-blooded killer, yet she was so beautiful. Joan didn’t look at her again. She couldn’t.
The two agents nodded. “You have to go thru security first.” They walked her to Security’s metal detector. She passed through after taking off her watch and other jewelry. They did not give them back, placing them in a brown manila envelope. The three of them entered the elevator, one man on either side of her.
At the top floor, the three exited, walking to the double doors facing the elevator.
The two agents led her through the doors, which opened up into an office where a secretary sat. She looked up, saw them and pushed the button on her intercom. “She’s here.” She looked at the two men. “The Director wants you to wait out here.” To the woman she said, “Go on inside.”
Laura Bristow opened the doors and found three men inside. Director Devlin was behind the desk. Standing at his side was someone she didn’t know and sitting in one of the two chairs facing DDO Devlin was her lawyer, Aaron Tchaikov. She sat down in the empty chair.
The man she didn’t know stared at her openly hostile. She ignored him. “You have accepted my offer?” She asked Arthur Devlin.
He didn’t look happy, but when he received the phone call from Irina Derevko, he had consulted with the DOJ. They said it was a good deal if she produced. He looked at her. The woman had balls. She smiled, waiting. Devlin leaned back in the chair and studied her. She had something about her, something almost charismatic. This woman was the most dangerous operative the CIA had ever faced and she had stayed out of their hands for over twenty years. Of course, they had had no idea she was alive until Sydney Bristow, her daughter, had revealed her current identity as The Man; the head of a world- wide crime cartel.
“Yes. The Department of Justice has authorized it.” Devlin answered.
“Aaron?” She looked at her attorney, who seemed nervous.
“Everything is fine. I checked everything. You have a deal, immunity so long as you keep your word.”
“Okay and as I promised, I am here. I will help the CIA bring down the Alliance and their subgroups, especially SD-6.
“One thing more, a condition from us,” said the man standing beside Devlin.
“And you are,” Irina asked.
“Sorry,” said Devlin, “Johnstone Fleming, the Deputy Director of Intelligence.”
They didn’t shake hands. Irina watched him and asked, “the condition?”
“We want to set up a series of interviews with our Los Angeles psychologist, Dr. Barnett, to ascertain if you are to be trusted. Your track record,” he said stiffly, “indicates that there is a serious risk of you lying to us. She will not ask you any questions about your operations.”
“She?” Irina glanced down at her hands, thinking. Then she shrugged and nodded her assent.
“Then officially,” said Fleming, “you are now our prisoner. You will be processed through the system. You will be flown to L. A. and incarcerated at the operations center there. We also agree that Sydney Bristow is to be the only debriefing officer.”
She stood up, her heart pounding, as she was now in the hands of the CIA. They would no doubt follow protocol for handling high-risk prisoners. Devlin pushed a button on his desk and requested the agents outside to join them.
The door opened and the two agents entered. “Yes?”
“This is Irina Derevko. Process her as a high-risk prisoner. Full protocol is to be used while she is being processed and transported to Los Angeles. She is your responsibility until she is put into a cell in Los Angeles. Come back here as soon as she is in the medical department. There are some papers I want you to deliver to the head of the op center, FBI Assistant Director Kendall.”
The two agents, Miles and Derry, escorted her to the elevator. They went down into sub-basement three where the processing center was, which included holding cells, interrogation rooms, and a medical department. She was placed in a chair in the first interrogation room they came too. They put handcuffs on her right wrist, snapping the other end to a ring on the table. Irina said nothing wondering if the KGB/SVR and CIA were the same. She was going to find out fairly soon. She felt her heart pounding again. This was the biggest gamble she had ever taken and she was in grave danger of losing everything, including her life. The next few hours were critical. Then, if all went well, she would see Sydney again. She feared her daughter, whom she had seen for the first time after twenty years just three weeks ago, just might refuse.
The door opened in front of her and a small, thin man entered. He unlocked the handcuff from the table. “We are about to process you into our system.” She shrugged, saying nothing.
He was a little non-plussed by her attitude and looked at her coldly. Like everyone else at CIA Headquarters, he was well acquainted with the history of Irina Derevko and that she was accused of assassinating twelve CIA agents. They walked over to another room where she was fingerprinted and pictures, front and side, taken. He turned her back over to the other two agents.
“She’s all yours.” He said as he returned and then exited the room.
Agent Miles pulled her out of the chair and took her to a larger room. A moment later, a female agent entered, wearing a white lab coat.
“I’ll be outside. Call me when you are finished.”
The female agent turned to Irina. “Take off everything you’re wearing. Put this white gown on, opened to the back.”
As Irina disrobed, she took the clothing and placed it in a large plastic bag. Miles had given the agent the manila envelope, which held her earrings, necklace and watch. As she finished, the other door opened and a man wearing a white jacket entered. He had a stethoscope around his neck.
“I’m Dr. Mark Jones. I’ll be conducting a complete physical examination including an MRI scan. The MRI will be used to identify you and will also tell us whether or not you have secreted anything on your body.”
“Now why would I do that?” She asked.
“It’s been tried before,” he commented dryly, indicating she should get up on the table.
When the doctor finished the examination, the female agent gave her standard CIA prisoner garb: black sleeveless tee, blue denim pants cut above her ankle, a standard blue jacket, and slip on shoes. Next, Irina was taken to another room where she was measured for a tether chain that would lead from her wrist chain to the ankle shackles. This would inhibit walking fast or running. It was protocol for high-risk prisoners. She could only take small steps. Her normal three-foot stride was cut to about eighteen inches.
Agents Miles and Derry returned and walked her back to the interrogation room, sitting her down in the same chair. She looked at them. “Could I have something to eat? I haven’t eaten for about eight hours.”
“See what I can do,” said Miles. “John, buzz the Director and tell him she’s ready to go. I’ll see if the cafeteria has a sandwich.”
He was back shortly with a wrapped sandwich and bottled water. Irina drank and ate hungrily. She didn’t even notice what kind of sandwich it was, just that it was food and she was hungry.
Just as she finished, Derry returned with a thick folder. “We’ve got a plane waiting at the field.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get moving.”
Six hours later, Irina Derevko, her wrists chained to rings imbedded in the large van’s side panel and her ankles shackled to rings in the floor, felt the vehicle come to a stop. It was raining hard. She had been soaked getting out of the plane, now there would be more. Somehow, she didn’t think they would give her an umbrella this time either. The doors were pulled open. She looked out. Two armed U. S. Marshals jumped up, came inside, and released her wrists and ankles and installed the tether chain. She moved awkwardly to the edge of the door. There were bright lights pointing at the van and in front of them were several men with guns, all pointing at her. A guard dog was barking in the background.
Those certainly made her feel empowered. All these men and guns for her! She almost laughed. The two Marshals helped her down. The rain pelted her, but she couldn’t run. They marched her toward a set of doors and through them, leaving the rain behind. Besides the two men on either side of her, there were two more behind. They walked her down a corridor with three steel doors that opened and closed as they went through them.
Finally, they stopped in front of a small door that opened into a room beyond. They pushed her inside and removed the shackles. She didn’t move, but looked around at her new home. It was a sparsely furnished room by any prison standard, although larger than most. There was a steel bunk to her left and to the right of that, a small table with a plain chair. To her right in the corner was a toilet and washbasin. Neither was out of sight of anyone coming to visit. There was a window to the right and left of the toilet. At least she thought she had a view. She turned around; the Marshals had already left. She heard the steel cellblock doors come down as they retraced their steps. Well, she’d have some warning of future visitors. There was some kind of window over her bed. She looked up and found there were two light bulbs. She looked outside the cell and saw a camera facing her. No secrets, she thought, and no privacy. Someone would no doubt be monitoring her every movement and conversation of every day. Of course, she was planning to talk to only Sydney and the psychologist. Now what was her name?
I’m always trying to fill in the nooks and crannies left open by the writers and JJ or where I can, insert a story within the episodes. This time I thought I would write a story with Dr. Judy Barnett as the main supporting character in a Jack and Irina story. The premise here is that as part of the agreement with the CIA, Irina would talk to the CIA psychologist who would try to ascertain if she could be trusted. Think of it as a boxing match.
A part of this story was written earlier for another story, but I made some changes, so if it seems familiar it is, just go with the flow.
I’d also like to dedicate this to my editor who combs my stories for every flaw she comes across. Thanks…Edie.
Finally, thanks to JJ Abrams who found such great characters in his devious mind, so we could write about them. Naturally, he owns all of them except the one’s I made up.
THE DOCTOR AND THE SPY
THE SPY
She was attractive and well dressed. Joan Small mentally assessed the woman walking toward her. She had on a Liz Claiborne black suit and a white blouse. Must have cost seven hundred, she thought. Tall too, over six feet with the high heels she was wearing, and she had gorgeous chestnut brown hair. There was a long streak of gray on the left side. She had dark brown eyes that looked at Joan with some amusement in them. Small antique earrings, a matching necklace, and what looked like a Rolex watch on her left wrist. She must have money and a lot of it.
“May I help you?” asked Joan.
“Yes,” the voice was slightly exotic, but rich in volume, “I have an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“Director Devlin. My name is,” she smiled, almost wickedly, “Laura Bristow.”
“Just a minute.” Joan looked at the list posted on her desktop. Sure enough, one appointment was listed for Director Devlin, a Laura Bristow. She remembered that there had been a buzz going on in the office when she got to work. After she had punched the time clock and gone to get the appointment list, they had still been talking. It must have been about the woman in front of her.
“Just a minute, please,” she said. She picked up the phone, dialed the Director’s office. “Yes, Laura Bristow is here for her appointment.” She listened for a moment, and then turned back to the woman. “Someone will be down to take you up.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, and then turned her back on Judy, looking at a wall beyond the entrance. “No names?”
“What? Oh yes, those stars represent agents who were killed in the line of duty.”
“Interesting!”
At that moment, elevator doors opened. The woman turned to see two men approaching. Joan smiled at them and then nodded at her. “Laura Bristow.”
“Could we see some identification?”
Laura Bristow smiled, “such as? Gentlemen, please. I have no driver’s license and no social security card. I am Russian. My real name is Irina Derevko.”
Joan, who had been listening, froze as she stared into the face of the woman who had been placed at the top of the CIA’s most wanted list after she had been identified as being in Barcelona during a shoot-out when an agent had been seriously wounded. She was the suspected shooter. She glanced at the wall in front of her and swallowed. This woman had been the cause of twelve stars. She was an assassin, a cold-blooded killer, yet she was so beautiful. Joan didn’t look at her again. She couldn’t.
The two agents nodded. “You have to go thru security first.” They walked her to Security’s metal detector. She passed through after taking off her watch and other jewelry. They did not give them back, placing them in a brown manila envelope. The three of them entered the elevator, one man on either side of her.
At the top floor, the three exited, walking to the double doors facing the elevator.
The two agents led her through the doors, which opened up into an office where a secretary sat. She looked up, saw them and pushed the button on her intercom. “She’s here.” She looked at the two men. “The Director wants you to wait out here.” To the woman she said, “Go on inside.”
Laura Bristow opened the doors and found three men inside. Director Devlin was behind the desk. Standing at his side was someone she didn’t know and sitting in one of the two chairs facing DDO Devlin was her lawyer, Aaron Tchaikov. She sat down in the empty chair.
The man she didn’t know stared at her openly hostile. She ignored him. “You have accepted my offer?” She asked Arthur Devlin.
He didn’t look happy, but when he received the phone call from Irina Derevko, he had consulted with the DOJ. They said it was a good deal if she produced. He looked at her. The woman had balls. She smiled, waiting. Devlin leaned back in the chair and studied her. She had something about her, something almost charismatic. This woman was the most dangerous operative the CIA had ever faced and she had stayed out of their hands for over twenty years. Of course, they had had no idea she was alive until Sydney Bristow, her daughter, had revealed her current identity as The Man; the head of a world- wide crime cartel.
“Yes. The Department of Justice has authorized it.” Devlin answered.
“Aaron?” She looked at her attorney, who seemed nervous.
“Everything is fine. I checked everything. You have a deal, immunity so long as you keep your word.”
“Okay and as I promised, I am here. I will help the CIA bring down the Alliance and their subgroups, especially SD-6.
“One thing more, a condition from us,” said the man standing beside Devlin.
“And you are,” Irina asked.
“Sorry,” said Devlin, “Johnstone Fleming, the Deputy Director of Intelligence.”
They didn’t shake hands. Irina watched him and asked, “the condition?”
“We want to set up a series of interviews with our Los Angeles psychologist, Dr. Barnett, to ascertain if you are to be trusted. Your track record,” he said stiffly, “indicates that there is a serious risk of you lying to us. She will not ask you any questions about your operations.”
“She?” Irina glanced down at her hands, thinking. Then she shrugged and nodded her assent.
“Then officially,” said Fleming, “you are now our prisoner. You will be processed through the system. You will be flown to L. A. and incarcerated at the operations center there. We also agree that Sydney Bristow is to be the only debriefing officer.”
She stood up, her heart pounding, as she was now in the hands of the CIA. They would no doubt follow protocol for handling high-risk prisoners. Devlin pushed a button on his desk and requested the agents outside to join them.
The door opened and the two agents entered. “Yes?”
“This is Irina Derevko. Process her as a high-risk prisoner. Full protocol is to be used while she is being processed and transported to Los Angeles. She is your responsibility until she is put into a cell in Los Angeles. Come back here as soon as she is in the medical department. There are some papers I want you to deliver to the head of the op center, FBI Assistant Director Kendall.”
The two agents, Miles and Derry, escorted her to the elevator. They went down into sub-basement three where the processing center was, which included holding cells, interrogation rooms, and a medical department. She was placed in a chair in the first interrogation room they came too. They put handcuffs on her right wrist, snapping the other end to a ring on the table. Irina said nothing wondering if the KGB/SVR and CIA were the same. She was going to find out fairly soon. She felt her heart pounding again. This was the biggest gamble she had ever taken and she was in grave danger of losing everything, including her life. The next few hours were critical. Then, if all went well, she would see Sydney again. She feared her daughter, whom she had seen for the first time after twenty years just three weeks ago, just might refuse.
The door opened in front of her and a small, thin man entered. He unlocked the handcuff from the table. “We are about to process you into our system.” She shrugged, saying nothing.
He was a little non-plussed by her attitude and looked at her coldly. Like everyone else at CIA Headquarters, he was well acquainted with the history of Irina Derevko and that she was accused of assassinating twelve CIA agents. They walked over to another room where she was fingerprinted and pictures, front and side, taken. He turned her back over to the other two agents.
“She’s all yours.” He said as he returned and then exited the room.
Agent Miles pulled her out of the chair and took her to a larger room. A moment later, a female agent entered, wearing a white lab coat.
“I’ll be outside. Call me when you are finished.”
The female agent turned to Irina. “Take off everything you’re wearing. Put this white gown on, opened to the back.”
As Irina disrobed, she took the clothing and placed it in a large plastic bag. Miles had given the agent the manila envelope, which held her earrings, necklace and watch. As she finished, the other door opened and a man wearing a white jacket entered. He had a stethoscope around his neck.
“I’m Dr. Mark Jones. I’ll be conducting a complete physical examination including an MRI scan. The MRI will be used to identify you and will also tell us whether or not you have secreted anything on your body.”
“Now why would I do that?” She asked.
“It’s been tried before,” he commented dryly, indicating she should get up on the table.
When the doctor finished the examination, the female agent gave her standard CIA prisoner garb: black sleeveless tee, blue denim pants cut above her ankle, a standard blue jacket, and slip on shoes. Next, Irina was taken to another room where she was measured for a tether chain that would lead from her wrist chain to the ankle shackles. This would inhibit walking fast or running. It was protocol for high-risk prisoners. She could only take small steps. Her normal three-foot stride was cut to about eighteen inches.
Agents Miles and Derry returned and walked her back to the interrogation room, sitting her down in the same chair. She looked at them. “Could I have something to eat? I haven’t eaten for about eight hours.”
“See what I can do,” said Miles. “John, buzz the Director and tell him she’s ready to go. I’ll see if the cafeteria has a sandwich.”
He was back shortly with a wrapped sandwich and bottled water. Irina drank and ate hungrily. She didn’t even notice what kind of sandwich it was, just that it was food and she was hungry.
Just as she finished, Derry returned with a thick folder. “We’ve got a plane waiting at the field.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get moving.”
Six hours later, Irina Derevko, her wrists chained to rings imbedded in the large van’s side panel and her ankles shackled to rings in the floor, felt the vehicle come to a stop. It was raining hard. She had been soaked getting out of the plane, now there would be more. Somehow, she didn’t think they would give her an umbrella this time either. The doors were pulled open. She looked out. Two armed U. S. Marshals jumped up, came inside, and released her wrists and ankles and installed the tether chain. She moved awkwardly to the edge of the door. There were bright lights pointing at the van and in front of them were several men with guns, all pointing at her. A guard dog was barking in the background.
Those certainly made her feel empowered. All these men and guns for her! She almost laughed. The two Marshals helped her down. The rain pelted her, but she couldn’t run. They marched her toward a set of doors and through them, leaving the rain behind. Besides the two men on either side of her, there were two more behind. They walked her down a corridor with three steel doors that opened and closed as they went through them.
Finally, they stopped in front of a small door that opened into a room beyond. They pushed her inside and removed the shackles. She didn’t move, but looked around at her new home. It was a sparsely furnished room by any prison standard, although larger than most. There was a steel bunk to her left and to the right of that, a small table with a plain chair. To her right in the corner was a toilet and washbasin. Neither was out of sight of anyone coming to visit. There was a window to the right and left of the toilet. At least she thought she had a view. She turned around; the Marshals had already left. She heard the steel cellblock doors come down as they retraced their steps. Well, she’d have some warning of future visitors. There was some kind of window over her bed. She looked up and found there were two light bulbs. She looked outside the cell and saw a camera facing her. No secrets, she thought, and no privacy. Someone would no doubt be monitoring her every movement and conversation of every day. Of course, she was planning to talk to only Sydney and the psychologist. Now what was her name?