The Prisoner's Dilemma

Chapter 2

January 2004

Yauyos, Peru

Through the noise of gunfire, shouting, and sirens, Irina heard Jack stumble and fall.

She was at his side in an instant, crouching beside him. He was still conscious, moving purposefully, trying to rise. She was relieved in the short term, but she knew it would complicate their escape. She hissed at him, "Have you been hit? Dammit, Jack! When were you going to tell me?"

In the starlight, Jack looked drawn, his face gone pale with pain. His lips were pressed in a tight line, his teeth clenched. When his eyes met hers, the expression was quickly suppressed and he glared up at her defiantly. His anger bolstered her spirits. If he was snarling at her, it meant he was awake, and present. She'd better keep him that way. 

"Left leg," he spat out. 

There was a shout, and the searchlights flickered in their direction. "We've got to move, they won't be confused for long," she said. "I've got a vehicle parked just beyond that rise. Can you make it?" 

He struggled to his knees, then to his feet. "I'll make it," he grunted. He took a step and shivered as his weight bore down on his injured leg. Irina winced in sympathy. She was just about to assist him when he took another step and started haltingly up the hill. 

An admirable attempt, but he was too slow.

Ignoring his protests, she stepped up to his side and drew his arm around her shoulder. She felt him stiffen immediately. Irina growled in frustration and fought the urge to hit him.

"Come on, Jack. Stop being so damn stubborn. Relax. Look, either you trust me, or you don't." She took a step forward.

"Just move," Jack gritted between his teeth. Irina led him across the field as quickly as she dared. Sporadic gunfire could still be heard behind them, and spotlights criss-crossed the ground, but never targeted their location. The terrain was difficult; they stumbled over rocks, large and small, that slid under their feet and impeded their progress.

At last, they crested the ridge, and Irina saw the dark hulk of her vehicle, parked in an arroyo below them. Jack lost his footing and slid down the rocky slope, forcing her to grab his tactical vest in order to stop his slide. She heard him gasp. "We're almost there," she said.

They made it to her battered but sturdy Explorer. As she helped him into the car, she mentally went down her list of medical supplies. It wasn't enough. She slid into the driver's seat and glanced over at him. His eyes were closed, his head was tilted back against the headrest. "Jack? We can't stop now. Will you be alright?"

"It's nothing," he said through gritted teeth.

"We both know that's a lie. Details, Jack!"

"No time, just go," Jack said.

Irina turned the key in the ignition and threw the truck into gear. Jack was notorious for playing down just how injured he was. For now, she'd have to take his word for it. If he was bluffing, she could hit him later.

There was no moon and she had only starlight and her memory to guide her over the hills and valleys. She didn't dare switch on the floodlights, at least not for several miles yet, and she simply could not entirely avoid obstacles. She could see Jack in her peripheral vision, holding on to the hand grips and dashboard as the truck lurched in the uneven terrain.

As she picked her way down the slope, her mind drifted to the man sitting beside her in the car. Jack Bristow. Of course. How could it be anyone else? The irony was exquisite. He must know of her role in Sydney's death. Irina felt hollow, used up. Her daughter was dead. Revenge was all she had left. She glanced in Jack's direction. She could see Sydney in him, in the set of his chin, the ferocity of his gaze. A wave of longing hit her. Foolishly, she still thought of him as her husband, even after all this time. She'd lost her daughter, she couldn't lose Jack, too. 

After a steep descent, they struck upon the wide, dry riverbed -- her planned escape route. She picked up speed to put time and distance between them and pursuit. Irina glanced over at Jack.

He was slumped in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window. She frowned. "Jack!" Can you hear me?"

She took her foot off the gas, and the car slowed to a stop. She took it out of gear. "Jack!"

"Irina?" Jack asked quizzically. He swallowed dryly and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window. "I think I need some help," he slurred.

Irina grabbed a flashlight and leaned over him. The light marked their position, but she had to see what was going on. Blood pooled under Jack's thigh. Why the hell hadn't he said anything? This wasn't a flesh wound -- it was death. Irina noticed he had retained the presence of mind to attempt a tourniquet, using his own belt. But it was too loose, blood still trickled from the wound. So much blood, on the seat and staining his clothes. A knot formed in her stomach.

She saw his eyelids flicker, then slide shut again. "Dammit, Jack! Stay awake. Look at me!" She gave the ends of the tourniquet a final tug, and he cried out. 

"Here," Jack said, suddenly alert again. "I'm here." His eyes opened and he regarded her. "Call Carmelita."

Her eyebrows shot up. Carmelita? She didn't have time to consider the odd request. Instead, she said: "Where's your phone?"

His brows knitted together. "My bag," he said thickly. "No... it's here, or in the bag. She's a doctor."

"All right." Irina kept her voice low, and matter-of-fact. She reached into the back seat and rifled around in his gear until she found a small, black cell phone.

She turned back to Jack. His eyes had slid shut again. She nudged him. "Jack," she snapped. "Wake up!" She raised her hand so he could see the phone. "Tell me how to contact Carmelita."

"Call her," Jack supplied. "Number's in there. Borges. Tell her I said hello. Nice lady."

Irina hit the speed dial and put the phone to her ear. She waited as the call rang through, not at all sure what to expect. She kept an eye on Jack. The bleeding had slowed, but it had not stopped. She bit her lip. This "doctor" had better know what she was doing.

A voice came over the line and spoke in Spanish. "Hola. Juan? You call twice in one week, I'm hoping you're not in trouble again."

"This isn't Juan." Irina replied tersely. "But he is in trouble. You are a doctor?" She had no idea who this woman was, but Jack seemed to trust her. It was all she had to go on at the moment. She hoped it was enough.

"Si," the woman replied crisply. "And who are you and why do you speak for Juan?"

"A friend. Jack's been injured. He's bleeding out." The words were harsh. Her own voice seemed distant, and cold. "I don't have time for this. Are you going to help, or not?"

"Si, si. But I am in El Tigerito. Can you come?"

Irina did a couple of quick calculations. The town wasn't far, however, given the nonexistent road system it may as well have been fifty miles. But it was as good as she was going to get. She glanced over to Jack, gauging how much time he might have before the blood loss became critical. "Yes." Quickly, Irina gave the doctor a description of Jack's injury. 

"Give me twenty-five minutes." Irina finished and hung up. She flicked on the flashlight again and scanned her map. She'd have to risk the road. Jack couldn't wait. She put the car into gear. Jack moaned, and Irina's hands tightened on the wheel. "Focus, Jack," she commanded. "What is the square root of 94?"

"Nine," Jack bit out, "point six nine... five."

She nodded sharply, and the tightness eased in her chest. She took a deep breath and continued to pepper him with mathematics questions as she sped towards El Tigerito.

The night descended into an eerie silence as Irina turned off the main road, leaving the sound of the rushing waters of Río Cañete behind them. In the darkness she could feel the presence of the nearly sheer mountain slopes and tiered fields that ringed the settlement, and the starry sky narrowed to a small ribbon of twilight above them. 

Only two points of exit, Irina thought grimly. A terrible place to be cornered by pursuers.

She slowed the Explorer to a crawl to keep the noise down, while also navigating the narrow one-way road into town. They passed under a small stone archway into the main plaza, a square lined with the larger and more well-kept structures in the town. The frontages were painted in cheerful, bright contrasting colors: a government office in blue and red, the church in yellow with murals, and a green, white, and blue building with a placard reading "Carmelita Borges, MD."

Irina was contemplating where to park and how to keep the vehicle hidden when she saw a brief flash of light from an archway in Carmelita's building. Realizing it was a wrought-iron gate, Irina steered towards it and the gate swung open on well-oiled hinges. The SUV was a tight squeeze, but the side mirrors folded closed and she drove over the cobblestone into what appeared to be a narrow garage. As soon as she was through, the gates shut again, followed by a large wooden door. The lights came on.

She parked in front of a tiny sedan and jumped out of the car, circling to the passenger side and opening Jack's door. After unbuckling the seatbelt, he gave a strangled cry as she helped him swing his legs out of the car. 

In the light, Irina could see his pale, sweating face, and the sticky mess of blood on the upholstery. She was about to get Jack on his feet when a nearby voice urged in Spanish: "No, no, use this."

When Irina turned she saw a diminutive woman, barely five feet tall, and in her seventies at least. Her long grey hair was tied back in a braid, and her small, round glasses were very thick. She wore light green scrubs and a determined expression. She steered a wheelchair along the cobblestones and lined it up beside the car. "Slide him on this," she insisted. "He's an ox, we can't carry him."

Irina nodded her thanks, and the two of them managed to help Jack pivot on his good leg and settle in the wheelchair. As they wheeled him through the back door, Irina said: "He's been hurt badly. I did the best I could, but he needs more than field medicine." .

She reiterated the basics, but skated over the circumstances that had led up to the injury. Irina watched the doctor's reaction closely. She could detect no deceit in the woman, no maliciousness. At first glance, the doctor appeared calm, competent, and decisive. Beyond that assessment, Irina decided to reserve judgment. Carmelita was an unknown quantity; Jack seemed to trust her, yet Irina couldn't afford to do the same. Not yet.

They hurried down the narrow corridor and emerged into a small surgery with medical equipment that ranged from rudimentary to fairly advanced. Surgical trays, bags of saline, and monitoring equipment stood ready. The doctor had clearly used her time wisely.  

Carmelita laid a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Stand for us one more time, Juan, and you can rest." He obliged, and Irina helped him pivot onto the waiting exam table. He gasped and groaned in pain as she guided his legs onto the table. 

The doctor turned to Irina and asked, "You can help me, yes? I see you don't faint at blood. We need his boots off, the vest, everything." She attacked his pantleg with utility scissors. Carmelita peppered them both with questions, assessing Jack's status, looking for hidden injuries.

Irina quickly followed the doctor's instructions, hooking Jack up to the monitor and starting the oxygen. That done, she set up a saline drip that was laid out and ready for them. She adjusted the tubing and slid the needle into the vein at the juncture of Jack's forearm and elbow. He'll have a hell of a bruise in a few days, she thought. Still, it got the job done.

Carmelita muttered as she administered local anesthetic and explored the wound. She made a tsk-ing sound several times. "Too much blood. However, the femoral artery is undamaged." She gave Irina a series of instructions, as if she were a surgical nurse: oximeter, oxygen, saline drip, light, irrigation. All the while the doctor's wizened fingers efficiently cleaned and repaired Jack's thigh.

With fluids and a little morphine, Jack was soon resting quietly. "Gracias, Senora," the doctor said as she finished with the last stitch and then stripped off her gloves. "He will be all right, do not worry," she added with a smile. "As I said, he's an ox. I call him Juan el Toro.  A very sore toro tomorrow though."

Irina laughed, surprising them both. "Si, Senora. El es un toro muy obstinado!" She shook her head. Glancing at Jack's prostrate figure, she allowed a small smile to tug at her lips.

Carmelita laughed, "Yes, but I take care not to tell him he's stubborn. Or he will glare at me." She eyed the digital heart monitor, and nodded, seemingly pleased with the results. "Too big to move to a bed, so we'll put some blankets on him until he wakes up and can move himself."

"How long will he be out, do you think?"

"Some hours I hope," the doctor replied. "Longer is better for him." She reached out and smoothed Jack's hair from his forehead in a curiously maternal gesture. "You two are in danger, no?"

Irina tensed and fell silent. With the threat of death temporarily averted, Irina's suspicious nature resurfaced. 

"Do not worry," Carmelita replied breezily as she pulled several woolen blankets from a cabinet. "I do not ask Juan too many things, and I won't ask you. But perhaps your name? So I may invite you to breakfast and coffee?"

Irina released a breath. "My name is Laura." It wasn't the truth, but it was a truth, the only one she could give at the moment.

"Laura." Irina felt the older woman's keen gaze. She lifted her chin and met Carmelita's eyes without flinching. "Well then, Laura," Carmelita handed her a blanket. "Let us tuck in our bull and then look to breakfast."

They worked in silence, folding the blankets around Jack as he slept. Irina followed Carmelita down a hall into her cramped kitchen and watched as she put a pot of coffee on to boil.

Irina leaned against the edge of the counter and viewed Carmelita speculatively. The woman had a quickness to her movements that belied her age.

A sharp mind, as well, she thought.

Carmelita hadn't wasted time asking unnecessary questions, something Irina was grateful for. The very fact that Carmelita hadn't questioned her meant that emergency visits from Jack weren't all that uncommon.

"How long have you known Jack, Senora?" Irina asked casually. She moved toward the cabinets and located two coffee cups, setting them on the counter.

Carmelita began preparing breakfast, humming to herself as she worked. "I have known Juan many years. He saved my son from the Shining Path. My boy is now very successful in business in Lima. And I see Juan from time to time, and sometimes sew him up. He is a good man."

Irina ran a finger along the rim of her coffee cup. "Yes, a very good man," she agreed.

Carmelita placed a plate in front of her. It was a simple breakfast of rice pudding, papaya, and a large tamale wrapped in banana leaves. "When the shops open I shall go into town and see if anyone is looking for you."

"Gracias, Senora." Irina poured them both a cup of strong coffee. Irina hadn't realized how hungry she truly was until the food was placed in front of her. She dug into her breakfast with relish. "This is very good."

"I think you are hungry enough to eat anything, Senora," Carmelita said with a lilting laugh. "But thank you for enjoying my humble meal."

"Thank you for your hospitality," Irina replied.

Carmelita smiled and picked up her own fork and they enjoyed a companionable silence. Soon, Irina had finished her breakfast and Carmelita was on her feet beside her. "Would you like more, Senora? Coffee?"

"No, thank you. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to take a shower."

"Of course, of course, my friend. You are tired, I can see. And not just from danger, but from worry."

A smile flashed briefly over Irina's face.

Excusing herself, Irina went to retrieve her travel bag from the truck. She wondered again at the doctor's willingness to help. Whatever debt Carmelita felt existed between herself and Jack had to have expired long ago. The incident with the Shining Path must have dated back to the 1980s. Yet, it was obvious that Jack trusted her, and Irina sensed no duplicity in her.

How much had Jack told her about himself, about what he did? Carmelita didn't seem to know any details, but she had first-hand knowledge that his work was dangerous. Irina shook her head. Well, whatever she suspected, it was clear that Jack hadn't told Carmelita about her. There had been no recognition in the woman's eyes at the name Laura.

Irina returned to the clinic, carrying her travel pack. "If you could point me to the bathroom..."

"Si, si," Carmelita said. "Follow me." She walked Irina up a steep flight of stairs to the living quarters above her practice. "Please, use this. And there is a bed if you wish to sleep."

"Thank you." Irina responded. The room was small and simply furnished. It had a rustic charm that Irina found appealing. There was no shower, only a bathtub. The handles squeaked as she turned on the faucet.

Shedding her torn black garments, Irina stepped into the hot water, hissing as the liquid met abraded flesh. Quickly, she washed away the night's accumulated grime and blood.

Not mine, a tiny voice whispered. Irina took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Jack was safe and resting in the surgery downstairs. Another breath, then two. "Survive this moment," Irina murmured to herself. "And then the next, and the next." She remained in the tub for a time, letting the warm water relax her tense muscles and soothe her damaged skin. 

The water was tepid by the time she stepped out of the tub. She wrapped a towel around herself  and went into the adjoining bedroom. The room was modest, with a small twin bed in the center. The walls were painted cream. An old, battered dresser sat in one corner. Clean, fresh air blew in from the open window to her left, and the curtains billowed with the early morning breeze.

Irina discarded her towel and reached for her duffel bag and the extra set of clothing there.

Her mind wandered to the surgery, where Jack was still fast asleep. She'd been shocked to see him at the compound, and not just because of his sudden appearance.

Jack looked brittle, broken. The man she remembered from a year ago had been angry, but not defeated. Irina's lips thinned. She wondered how she'd looked to him. Did she have the same hollow-eyed gaze, the same frailty?

She brushed the thought aside, too exhausted to follow it any further. She stretched out on the small bed and gazed out the open window. The first glimmer of dawn shone behind the shoulders of the Andes. She lived beneath these mountains once, and she often watched the sun set over their peaks. She idly wondered if Jack had been here on the western slopes, when she lived in the east. 

And then sleep soon pulled her down into a warm cocoon.

September 1984

San Francisco De Tilcara

Jujuy, Argentina

Green surrounded her, in the canopies of trees above her, and in the shoots of new growth just peeking out of the soil around her feet.  Somewhere nearby a macaw called out joyfully  .  Yet, Irina was aware of a growing restlessness within her, an urge to just go -- somewhere, anywhere else. 

It's time to move on, Irina thought. Long past time.

She turned her face up to the warm Argentinian sun. In the distance, the peaks of the Andes were capped with snow. But here it was muggy and the air was fresh and clean, unlike the fetid, rank odor in her cell in Kashmir. At night, she could still smell it. She could still hear the screams and moans of pain of the prisoners around her, boxing her in as surely as the walls did.

She opened her eyes. She wasn't in Kashmir any longer. She was free. Wasn't she? Irina picked up a handful of loose dirt and watched as it ran through her fingers. Her body was healed, flesh knitted imperfectly over bone. Yet she found herself lingering at Gregor's inn, like a child hiding under a blanket. Grateful as she was, she chafed at her old friend's kindness. She owed him a debt she could not possibly repay, and that was the problem. She was safe here, in this idyllic place, because of Gregor. She had clothes and food to eat, because of Gregor. The claustrophobia was stifling. Well, no more. It was time for her to find out who she was, unrestrained by others. Unconstrained.

She could not go home, and she didn't want to. Any ties that had bound her to the Motherland had snapped, one by one, as she wasted away in a prison cell. And her family...

Ah, her family. Her sisters, who had not come to her sham of a trial. Yelena, who denounced her outright, and Katya, who hadn't bothered to come to Moscow at all. And her parents? Dead. Her father had passed years ago. Gregor had told her of her mother's death, shortly after she'd been sentenced to Kashmir. A heart attack, he'd said.

Sometimes, in dreams, her mother appeared, and scolded her for not being Russian enough. If she'd only done as she was told, her mother said, she would have come home a hero. Irina didn't want to be a hero. She didn't even want revenge. She felt empty inside, hollowed out and used up.

She heard Gregor's heavy tread a few moments before he sat down beside her. "Do you need help?" Irina rose to her feet, but he waved her back down

"The restaurant can take care of itself for a few minutes." He lit a cigar. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then: "You've healed well, Ira."

Irina's smile was bitter. "Physically, yes." 

Gregor gave her a sharp look. "But?"

She sighed. "I can't stay here forever, Gregorovich."

The old man blew out a stream of smoke. "I have said you may stay here as long as you like."

"Yes. And I'm grateful--"

"Grateful? Pah! Do you say 'I'm grateful' to friends, to family?"

Irina winced. Now she'd hurt his pride. She tried again. "Gregor, old friend, your hospitality has been welcome, and needed, this past year. I would not have survived without your help. But I can't continue to hide here, like a child."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet." She nudged him playfully. "But I always land on my feet."

"You'll need money. We can go to the bank tomorrow. I live a simple life, but I have enough to help you get by."

"Nyet!" Panic gripped her. I can't let him drain his savings, she thought. "That's not necessary. I'll work for it. I have several promising leads."

"That's a lot of money, Irina." Gregor took a puff of his cigar." He waved at the trees around them. "Do you see any rich people here? Who can pay you so much?"

She met Gregor's gaze steadily. "I think you know."

Gregor turned and spat into the ground. "The cartels. What, then? Drug smuggling? Assassinations? Common criminals." 

Irina drew herself up. "What do you call the KGB?"

"That was different," Gregor huffed. "We were serving our country."

"A country that condemned me to rot in prison! They made me who I am, Gregor." Irina's voice shook with rage. "I'm using what they taught me to survive. If you're too sanctimonious to see that--"

He surged to his feet. "Enough! If you want to destroy your life working for those prestupnik, I can't stop you. But I won't help you, either." He took a deep breath. "You have three months to get the money. And then I want you to leave."

"Gregor--" Irina reached out a hand. 

"Nyet! You wanted this, yes? To be self-sufficient. Here you go."

The bolt hit home. "What do you suggest? That I forgive? The KGB took everything from me."

He turned toward her, eyes sad. "Live, and live well. If your anger doesn't poison you first."

Irina touched his arm lightly.  "I'll be fine, old friend. I always am."