“This is felgercarb and you know it.” Arvin Sloane glared at the two FBI agents, Henderson and Springsteen, seated across the large table in the conference room from him. Jack sat rigid and silent beside him.
“Nevertheless, we are taking him into custody,” Springsteen said. “Mr. Bristow, you are under arrest for espionage and treason against the United States. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you desire an attorney but cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court. Do you understand these rights?”
Jack nodded numbly.
“Now, you mentioned you have a six-year-old daughter,” Springsteen continued. “You will have to appoint a guardian for her.”
“Jack, Emily and I will be more than happy to do that,” Sloane said. “And I’ll get you a lawyer.”
“Thanks, Arvin.” Jack’s voice was just a hoarse whisper.
“Here are forms to that effect, then. Sign at the bottom, and Mr. Sloane will sign as well.”
With a trembling hand, Jack filled in the proffered forms and signed. As Sloane took them, Henderson and Springsteen stood Jack up and placed shackles on him. As they started to lead him out of the room, Sloane shouted out so forcefully that even these veteran FBI agents stopped in their tracks.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing?” Sloane angrily pointed to the door in the back of the room. “That door leads out to a stairway that will take you directly to the parking garage. You don’t have to drag him out of here in shackles in front of God and everybody. What’s the matter with you?”
He stood there, pointing and glaring, until the two FBI agents finally decided that one picks one’s battles and left by the back door, their prisoner in tow.
* * *
Jack picked listlessly at the unappetizing breakfast they had brought him. Rubbery eggs, greasy hash browns, lukewarm coffee so strong it could almost walk out of the Styrofoam cup – no wonder he estimated that he must have lost about twenty pounds since his arrest.
He still remembered that day as if it had just happened. He remembered leaving the ops center in shackles, walking through the parking garage, and being shoved into the back of a waiting van. They took him to the Thrall Federal Building on Moorpark. They interrogated him for hours once his lawyer once arrived, then finally took him to a safe house for the night. The next day he was transferred to Lompoc Federal Prison outside of Los Angeles and placed in solitary confinement. Guards brought him food and took him to the showers, but other than that he saw no one unless someone came to interrogate him, which happened fairly frequently. It was always the same questions, asked in different ways. He, of course, always had the same answer: He had no idea what they were talking about.
They took great delight in filling him in: His wife’s real name was Irina Derevko, and she was a KGB operative. Since before their marriage she had eavesdropped on his phone conversations, planted listening devices in his clothing, and rummaged through his briefcase. She had also assassinated twelve CIA operatives along the way. The FBI could not believe that a ranking CIA officer like Jack Bristow could be so blind, and he had to admit that he really couldn’t blame them. He had asked himself that same question more times than he could count.
And so it went – sitting day after day in a chilly, windowless cell with only a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling for light, trying to make sense of what had happened. Most people didn’t realize what solitary confinement could do to a person, he thought. There was good reason why it was a time-honored technique for breaking someone. He was never beaten or starved, but it took its toll. The days ran together, his sleep cycle became erratic, every sound became amplified, and the walls didn’t actually close in – they vibrated.
Lately, though, the questioning had become less frequent and less insistent. He wondered what, if anything, that meant . . .
The door to Jack’s cell opened, and he looked up to see his old friend Arvin Sloane. He was carrying a small duffle bag; and, incredibly, he was smiling.
“Jack . . .” He set down the bag and the two men embraced warmly.
“Is Sydney all right?” It was all Jack could think of to say.
“She’s fine. They didn’t tell you anything?”
“Not about her.” Jack’s mouth twisted wryly. No letters, no phone calls, and not even a photograph of his six-year-old daughter had been allowed.
“Listen, Jack, the FBI has completed their investigation. You’ve been cleared. I’m here to take you home.” Sloane chuckled at the bewildered look on Jack’s face. ‘Yes, it’s true. I take it no one warned you about that either?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. I guess things were just moving too quickly.” Sloane indicated the bag. “I brought you some clothes from home. Get changed, and we’ll get out of here.” He turned to go. I’ll wait for you upstairs. Just let the guards know when you’re ready.”
* * *
“So what exactly happened?” Jack’s eyes were unaccustomed to bright sunlight, and he blinked as he gazed out the car window.
“Since your lawyer has been fairly useless, Thompson finally put his foot down the other day. He told the FBI to either file charges against you or let you go. After this long, if there was evidence against you, they should have found it, he said. He threatened to go public with this unless they moved.”
“How long has it been?” Jack asked.
“Six months. It’s August 20.” Sloane glanced sympathetically at his friend. “I guess it was pretty hard to keep track of time in there.”
“It was.” Jack hesitated for a moment, then asked, “What have you told Sydney?”
“Emily and I told her that you had to go away for a while but would be back,” Sloane replied. “Don’t worry; she knows you’re coming home now. She’s very excited. Wait till you see the new dress Emily got her. She missed you, Jack.”
‘I missed her, too.” Jack wondered if his daughter would ever know the debt he owed her. She was the only reason he hadn’t gone stark raving mad months ago.
Sydney was sitting with Emily on the front steps as the car pulled into the driveway of the Sloanes’ house. She was wearing a pale blue dress with matching ribbons in her hair. When Jack got out of the car, she jumped up and ran to him.
“Daddy!” She laughed as he picked her up and spun her around. “Do you like my new dress? I picked it out myself.”
“It’s beautiful.” Jack held her close, his voice husky with emotion. “I missed you, sweetheart.”
“I missed you, too, Daddy.”
After a long moment, he set her down; but she clung to his hand, gazing up at him thoughtfully.
“Daddy, are you all right?”
Jack smiled at her serious expression. “I’m fine, Sydney. Just fine.”
* * *
Jack and Sydney spent the day with the Sloanes. After dinner, Sloane drove them home.
“Arvin, tell Emily thanks again . . . for everything.”
“I will.”
“What was that all about, Daddy?” Sydney asked as he unlocked the front door to his own house for the first time in six months.
“Nothing, Sydney. It’s okay. Come on, it’s getting late. Time for bed.”
After a bath, Sydney settled expectantly into bed, waiting for her father to read her a story, just as she always had. How easy it was, he thought, to fall into the old, familiar patterns, even after everything that had happened.
He rifled through the books on the shelf above the bed. “Which one?”
“’Green Eggs and Ham,’” Sydney responded without hesitation. It was her favorite; and even though they had both long since memorized it, her father’s rendition of “I do not like green eggs and ham/I do not like them, Sam-I-Am” never failed to make her laugh.
As he placed the book back on the shelf and pulled the covers over her, she asked, “Daddy, do you miss Mommy? You haven’t talked about her at all.”
“Yes. Yes, I do, Sydney.” It was not entirely a lie, he told himself. He did miss her – or at least, he missed Laura Andrews Bristow. Irina Derevko, on the other hand . . . “It’s just hard for me to talk about her, that’s all.”
“It is for me, too, Daddy. But Aunt Emily says she’s in heaven, so we shouldn’t be sad.”
How do you explain something like this to a six-year-old, Jack wondered. With luck, he would never have to.
“That’s right, sweetheart; she’s in heaven. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow we’re going to the beach, like I promised.”
Obediently Sydney closed her eyes. Jack sat with her for a while, until he was certain she had fallen asleep, then went into the master bedroom. Like the rest of the house, except for Sydney’s room, it seemed different somehow – and not just because this was the first time he had seen it in six months. He imagined that he could still smell Laura’s – Irina’s – favorite perfume in the air, and he could see through the open closet door that her clothes were still hanging there. The Sloanes had warned him about that, explaining that they had been unsure what to do with them since they had been unable to communicate with him. He would take care of it, he had told them. Her jewelry box was still in its place on the dresser; he would keep it for Sydney. Next to it were a few framed photographs wedding pictures and a portrait of the three of them taken shortly before the accident – those would have to be put away. He was tempted to burn them; but that would be difficult to explain to Sydney later, when she was old enough to start asking questions.
He went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and studied his reflection in the mirror. Pale, gaunt face; haunted, red-rimmed eyes, clothes hanging from a frame grown much too thin – no wonder Sydney had expressed concern. I look like a POW, he thought.
He showered and slipped into bed. The sheets were freshly washed – Emily Sloane had been coming to the house regularly to keep it up – but still his wife’s scent seemed to linger. The pleasant memories that should have evoked seemed tainted now. She had never loved him. To her, he had been nothing but a mark – and an easy one at that. Maybe that was why he had been chosen.
How had she managed to avoid suspicion for so long, he wondered. And how was it he had remained so oblivious? As many times as he had asked himself these questions, he still had no answers and probably never would.
After a while he fell asleep, but not for long. He sat up in bed – he still kept to his side, he noticed – and saw that the clock on the nightstand read 2:13 am. He lay back down, but found himself merely staring at the ceiling. After about an hour of that, he got up with a sigh and went into Sydney’s room.
A streetlight shone through the window, and he realized that he had forgotten to close the blind. He stood there for a moment, gazing down at her. How innocent she was, he thought, lying there sound asleep with her arms around the teddy bear he had bought her for her fifth birthday. He kissed Sydney gently on the forehead. She stirred slightly in her sleep, murmuring almost inaudibly, then lay still again. Jack closed the blind and went back to bed.
* * *
“Daddy, you almost forgot this!” Sydney came running out of the garage toward the car in the driveway, clutching an enormous beach ball.
“Here, put it in the back.” Jack opened the back of the station wagon and Sydney tossed the ball inside. “Is that everything?”
“I think so, Daddy.”
“Then let’s go.”
He locked the garage door, secured Sydney in her seat belt, and they were off.
A few blocks from the house, they stopped at a traffic light.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Don’t you wish Mommy could be with us?”
Jack closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Well, she can’t be,” he said, more brusquely than he had intended. He reached out and fiddled with the radio dial. “Let’s find some music, shall we?”
* * *
TBC