On a good day, the paper bags take less than an hour to reach Vaughn's desk. Seconds after an agent drops them into one of a number of predetermined trash cans, they are snagged by another agent posing as a janitor or grounds crew worker. From there, they go into the backpack of a new recruit, in this case a sophomore at UCLA, who rides the bus downtown. The bag is brush-passed into the hand of a typically-dressed businessman a block away from CIA headquarters. From there, it goes into a plastic bag and upstairs via a courier.

It still amuses Vaughn that they use a plastic bag to enclose something that was just in a trash can, and when one arrives on his desk at 9:46, he gives it the usual ironic half-smile. Sydney has done the writing today:

The location is important, he knows, not only to the SD-6 team, but also the rest of the Agency. The name Nikolai Marusov "raised red flags from here to Moscow" as someone who might have information on the location of the nuke, according to the memo Kretchmer sent him earlier.

Kretchmer raps on his doorframe before Vaughn can start the walk to his office. He enters, followed by an agent Vaughn does not recognize.

"Understand you got something?"

"Yes, SD-6 placed Marusov in Helsinki. Bristow and Dixon fly out tomorrow morning."

"Okay. Why don't we call a meeting, say 10:30?" Vaughn nods, and Kretchmer glances at the man standing behind him. "This is Scott Robertson, also here with us from Russia. He'll be on the SD-6 case, at least temporarily. Agent Robertson, Michael Vaughn."

Robertson offers a slight smile, shifting the deep crevices in his face around, and moves — wiry and efficient — toward Vaughn, hand outstretched. "Nice to meet you."

"Same here." The crevices remind Vaughn of sand after heavy winds, lines all winding around dark brown eyes, wedged beneath short salt-and-pepper gray. A sharp contrast from Wakins' trust-me face, he realizes, and decides not to ask if Robertson knows her.

———

No cane today, and she does not protest when Vaughn suggests they take the stairs to the conference room, but the muscles in her arms bulge as she grips the handrail.

"Did you ever work with Agent Robertson?"

The muscles pop a little more, and the rest of her body halts when the hand locks at its position on the rail. "Scott Robertson?"

"Yes."

"He was my handler." Short a little volume, but she makes up for it in venom.

"He's been assigned to the SD-6 team."

She laughs — a little bitter thing, "son of a bitch" under her breath — and starts on the next step. "Of course. It would figure."

"Anything I should know?"

"He's an ass, but obviously they cleared him." She pauses, rolls top teeth over bottom lip. "Then again, you don't see him walking around with his guts sewed in."

———

The SD-6 team — minus Jack Bristow, plus Robertson — automatically assembles ten minutes early. They have watched SD-6 wander through Rambaldi artifacts for weeks, and the urgency of this mission is a respected, if not welcome, change.

Kretchmer begins the meeting by slapping a pile of photocopied pages down on the table. Grainy black-and-white photos, most likely shot from a telephoto lens, and what sparse data the CIA has on Marusov.

"Nikolai Marusov. Age 45. Birthplace Kiev, Ukraine," Kretchmer says. "KGB through '91, then went freelance. Apparently he's hooked up with Derevko's network. Name popped in our system a couple times, and the Russians had a field day with it. Apparently Red Balloon was in his jurisdiction when he was KGB."

Kretchmer pauses and looks out over the wire rims to gauge comprehension. "The folks upstairs agreed to let us keep the op within SD-6 to maintain our agents' covers, but they want Bristow and Dixon to do whatever it takes to get intel off the guy."

"Are they trained in...torture?" McClure asks, still green enough to use the word, instead of more ambiguous terms. Not torture, kid. We don't do torture, here at the CIA. Try "information extraction" instead. We do plenty of that.

"Marusov is KGB-trained. He's not going to break under interrogation in the amount of time Bristow and Dixon have. SD-6 will expect this to be a quick snatch-and-grab mission," Kretchmer explains. "Actually, what they suggested was a, uh, swallow op."

The term is rarely used, and a stagnant pause almost always follows it. A swallow is a female operative who seduces for secrets, and a surprising number of them exist. The Agency's dirty, quiet little secret.

For Vaughn, shock quickly spins into anger, and he snaps the silence. "You can't be serious! Sydney isn't trained to do that, and she certainly didn't sign on for it."

His eyes dart a quick circle. No one is eager to respond.

"Agent Vaughn, I understand your concern for your agent," Kretchmer finally says. "But that was the operation they drafted. They feel Marusov would be particularly...vulnerable...to that approach." That was the op a bunch of men that didn't give a damn about Sydney drafted. He longs for the glowering presence of Jack Bristow, who, he thinks, would shoot this down with a few choice words and maybe a twitch of emotion. Instead, he gets a room full of blank faces and eyes on the laminate.

Am I the only person who has a problem with this? Eyes dart again, but there is no Jack Bristow, no support. His mind begins slipping, grasping for contingencies, loopholes — anything to keep from going to the warehouse tonight and telling her to do that. Finally, the blankest face speaks.

"Vaughn's right." Watkins starts softly — reluctantly, he thinks. But her voice grows louder, more assertive, as she continues. "It's a high risk op like this. You send Bristow in with no training, she screws it up, and you get nothing. Try to pull something like this at the last minute, double agent with no preparation, things go badly, you might push her triple. Not to mention the fact that regs state clearly it's a last resort."

Thank you, Chris. He tries to catch her eyes, but she is staring down Kretchmer. And her words are working, he realizes. The argument is logical, perhaps given more weight by her status as the only woman in the room.

Until Robertson steals her momentum. "You did it."

Holy fuck. He snaps to her and realizes the reason for her ramrod focus on Kretchmer. Old fears. Old words. Robertson's response sucks the noise out of the room; eyes turn back to the laminate.

Except for ice eyes. "That — "

They slide slowly into a glare. Tiny, tough little blue slits as she shifts her focus to Robertson.

" — was a last resort. And it doesn't mean it should be done."

Asshole. He feels strangely drawn to jumping across the table and defending an old love's honor. Strangely hollow with old fears realized. This even before Robertson's response, which loosens every jaw in the room.

"Or maybe you're a whore and she's not."

A strange feeling, at that. Choking, anger tight in his throat. Stabbing, clutching rage.

And still she will not look at him.

———

And so Vaughn gets his desired outcome, though not in a desirable manner. The operation is redrawn; they will try drugs instead.

First, Kretchmer asks Robertson — his voice a new precedent in cold — to leave. He turns to Watkins, as well, probably to ask if she'd like to take a minute, but the question never reaches the air. She pops her eyebrows upward and gives a little half shrug: I can take it.

Vaughn is not so sure, but when they adjourn, she flees the conference room — confident but quick — and disappears into the maze of cubicles. Not that she would ever want you to follow.

He gives it serious consideration, but returns instead to his office. Weiss walks in a few minutes later, tense and stompy.

"You're doing it again." He closes the door and stands, arms crossed.

"What?"

"Do I have to say what? You back there. Freaking out over that op. Putting Sydney before the Agency."

"What the hell is wrong with you? That operation was bullshit and you know it. Watkins was right."

"You were emotional. Watkins was rational." Weiss uncrosses his arms. "A little too rational, considering the circumstances, but — "

Well fuck off, Eric. Vaughn rises, slams his palms on the desktop. Glares, glowers for a moment before slowly striding around the desk. Moves a few feet away, seethes a little, and wonders if perhaps four years of friendship will end in fisticuffs.

Decides he doesn't care.

"Get out. Get the hell out of my office. This has nothing to do with being emotionally involved. It's called not following stupid orders like some little sheep. Maybe you should try it some time."

No fisticuffs. Weiss merely pivots and leaves. The door clicks shut with a peculiar finality.

———

The air has taken a humid turn, gray skies threatening thunderstorms, when Vaughn arrives at the warehouse. Sydney's Land Rover is the only vehicle parked outside, and his insides stew a little. He is not sure if she has done an interrogation before and isn't looking forward to doling out this countermission. Not that the alternative wouldn't have been a thousand times worse.

She is sitting cross-legged on a large metal table, novel of late. The last few times they have met here, she has paced like a tiger at the zoo — a little feral, a little perturbed. He borrows that feeling today.

"Hey." A smile, mostly soft brown eyes.

"Hello." Vaughn waits one beat, then launches, more adept at the businesslike tone of late. "Marusov raised all kinds of red flags. The CIA and FSB think he may be able to give us some intel on the location of the nuke. Have you or Dixon done an interrogation before?"

She sharpens her face, eyebrows scrunching. "I haven't. I think Dixon has. We're both trained, but — "

"Marusov was KGB. Roughing him up won't work, so you don't have to worry about that." He hands her an envelope, syringe and vial. "Sodium Pentothal. Anything you can get. Locations, possible locations, groups, individuals. There's information in the envelope on dead drop procedure if you get anything."

"Okay."

"If you can get the manuscript, fine. But the CIA needs the nuke to be your first priority on this one. Do you have any questions?"

His mind moves toward the door, but he forces himself to hold for her response.

"Yeah. Are you all right?"

"What?" Not all right. Definitely not all right. But I can't even begin to tell you why.

"You seem a little agitated," she smiles, trying to tease, but he can see her slide away the hope in her eyes. Finds he enjoys it, even now. "Is this about...Agent Watkins? Is that her name? You two seemed chummy."

"A long time ago, maybe." He glances at the floor for a moment, then returns his focus to her face. Noah Hicks. Will Fucking Tippin. "Chris and I dated for about a year before she went to Russia."

He hasn't answered her other questions, but the interrogation ends there. Sydney shifts her eyes to a distant pile of boxes. Forces out one soft word. "Oh."

He knows exactly how she feels.