He is late to work today. He'd turned onto the entrance ramp to the freeway, his old route to the JTF, driving out of habit. It had been another exit and 15 minutes gone before he'd been able to get his route righted.

He walks into his office determined to work through the operational files before he leaves. Find some clues, move this case along. Get an accomplishment in his file, in front of the official reprimand and transfer order.

Computer on, startup security, thinking of the day before — grocery shopping with Sydney in the afternoon, once she'd finished her paper. Oddly domestic, especially since they've barely been together three weeks, but it still felt right.

Two secure messages, one a reminder from Brooks that they're to meet this afternoon. The second from Devlin, requesting a status brief on Munich by the end of the week.

Pulse racing briefly, fear of failure.

He unlocks his desk drawer and pulls out the pen and legal pad, clicks open records and starts pulling Station Munich's operational files from the last six months. A total of 43, enough to stack from floor to ceiling if he opted to print them. He'll read on screen, instead.

He opens the first file. Operations are what he's skilled in — at least from the other end, the planning end, before the mission's run. One year at Station Rome, two in India, and then yanked — or so he'd felt — back to Los Angeles. Devlin had explained it there, said the station chiefs were impressed with his abilities in mission planning and review. Spend some time in operational planning, and then they'd see if perhaps there was an opening for a case officer.

He'd been upset at first, despite the praise. Field agent was glamorous. Field agent was Sydney. Operational planning meant pushing a pencil and never lifting something heavier or more dangerous than a stack of files or a headset for comms. He'd started to change his mind once he'd realized he was thriving. A few years and they'd assigned him to Sydney, and it had all, oddly, worked out.

Pen poised, he begins to read.

———

His cell phone, dropped on his desk when he arrived, is ringing when he returns with his third cup of coffee on the day. One at Sydney's, one here when he'd started to feel groggy about an hour into the files, and now this one, from the same pot and smelling vaguely like burnt popcorn.

He sets his mug down and grabs for the phone, not sure how close it is to the end of 12 rings.

Sydney.

"Hey, Syd."

"You talked to Dixon, didn't you?"

He's known her long enough not to be shocked by the abruptness. "Yeah, I did. Why? Did he talk to you?"

"He talked to me and he came back. He said he'd reconsidered the CIA's offer." She pauses. "I don't know what you said to him, but obviously it had an impact."

"I don't think it was anything I said. From what you've told me about Dixon, I think he was headed there regardless of what anyone said."

"Still, thank you."

"Did you have a chance to talk to him?"

"Yeah." A longer pause. "Things still aren't great between us, but at least we're talking now."

"Good. Just give him time, Syd."

"I know," she says. "Vaughn, that's not the only reason I called. They're sending me on another mission."

His stomach lurches, and he knows they will keep coming, that he's going to keep hearing that from her. And every time it's going to kill you.

"Is Weiss going?"

"No, actually. They're sending Dixon with me."

"That soon?" A little relieved. One more person she can depend on, one more person she trusts. And she has been working with Dixon longer than any of them.

"Yeah. They were ready to activate him Friday if he wanted it. All he had to do was say so. We're obviously a little short-handed with you gone."

"That's their own fault." He is surprised by how bitter it sounds. "I'm stuck over here chasing vague leads, and meanwhile you're short men on the search for Sloane. All so Kendall could prove a point."

"I've told them that," she says. "Weiss has, too. But Kendall's not budging."

"He wouldn't be Kendall if he did."

She laughs softly. "Hey, Vaughn, I've got to get going."

"When will you be back?"

"Maybe tomorrow, but more likely Wednesday."

"Okay. Call me," he says. "And good luck."

"Bye." She ends the call.

———

Mission number 16 he actually remembers. Sydney had reported that SD-6 was planning to steal several computer files from an office building in Bonn, but she'd been assigned to another operation. Without time to send a team from Los Angeles, they'd asked Station Munich to copy and then replace the files with decoys before SD-6 arrived, a failed operation.

One agent in, one on comms, he reads. Separate statements from each.

Agent on comms, Rees, reports scene clear as the point agent, Wolford — number eight on Vaughn's list of nine — makes his way into the building. Wolford disables a security guard with a spray anesthetic, the formula for which the Agency had stolen from SD-6, courtesy Sydney.

Wolford into the company's server room, Wolford accessing the files. Wolford announcing he's got everything. Keychain USB drive, no special op tech needed.

And then Rees loses comm contact. Vaughn flips over to Wolford's account. Out of the server room, into an ambush. At least two, maybe three agents, Wolford writes, he can't really remember.

Wolford didn't have a chance, found unconscious by Rees, who chose to rush the building. Keychain USB gone.

He flips to the back of the file. Wolford declined medical attention. Welcome to the top of my list, Agent Wolford.

He's interrupted by a knock on his door, closed this time. 1:35, already.

"It's open," he calls out, then stands when it seems there's no response. It drifts open, and Brooks walks in, followed by Morse.

"Afternoon, Agent Vaughn," Morse says.

"Good afternoon."

They sit, and he feels the need to do something hospitable. Offer them water, coffee, something. Maybe it would help loosen Brooks up.

No. Brooks would just see the time required to walk across the floor and pour a cup of coffee as a waste. Vaughn sits, instead, and waits for them to settle.

"Since we last met," he says, "I've been exploring a potential leak in the CIA's Munich office. I've looked through agent profiles, bank accounts, and I'm starting on operations right now."

"Did you check customs declarations?" Brooks, condescending.

"No. I thought there might be more in the operational files." Asshole. I haven't been doing this very long, but I'm not an idiot.

"I assume you've got a list of suspects going?" Morse asks.

"Yes. It's still pretty big, right now, but I'm working on narrowing it down."

"Let us know when you do," Morse says. "We can pull anything we might have on those agents. It's not likely we'd have a file on any of them, but you never know."

"Thank you."

"As for us, we're working primarily on resolving three cases." Brooks nearly cuts him off. "Two DOD contractors that like to talk too much, and a CIA agent out of Langley. I doubt you'd have anything on him, but I'd like you to pull whatever you can. Name is Jim Sinclair. S-i-n-c-l-a-i-r."

Vaughn scrambles to pick up the pen and write down the name on a fresh page of the legal pad. "Okay."

"Beyond that," Brooks says, "We're just on the regular watches. We'll let you know if anything noteworthy comes out of them."

Brooks and Morse seem like they've been doing this too long. Too settled into their jobs, too far gone to try to think outside of the box. He wonders if Morse has some good ideas, if he defers to Brooks too much because Brooks is older. He finds himself feeling sorry, again, for the younger agent.

"Is that all?" Brooks asks.

"I think so."

"Then we'll be leaving. Good afternoon."

Brooks stands and strides out, but Morse stays behind, rising and hovering in front of Vaughn's desk. Maybe he's stayed behind to apologize for Brooks. Wonder how much he has to do that.

"Bristow's your girlfriend, right?" Morse asks. "Sydney Bristow?"

"Yeah. Why?" I'm not about to help feed the gossip mill for you, Morse.

"Somebody pulled her DNA profile from FBI records last week. We don't usually check into things like that — file that's a year old being accessed — but her records still had a flag on them because of her double agent status. We like to know when people are looking into double agents, you know?"

Vaughn nods. "Do you know who pulled the file?"

"No. It was somebody with Omega-17 clearance, but the access records were incomplete."

"Incomplete? Does that mean someone tampered with them?"

"Not necessarily. We've been having problems with the electronic access software. About one in every 30 requests turns up blank. IT assures us they're working on it."

"Doesn't that leave you open to security breaches?"

"Let's just say I wish IT was working on it a little faster." He reaches down and clacks open his briefcase, pulls out a manila envelope. "This is a copy of what they pulled. I'm sorry I don't know anything else about it, but I figured you'd want to know."

"Yes. Thank you."

———

He rips open the envelope as soon as the door clicks shut behind Morse. DNA profile. Why would someone want her DNA profile? Why would someone want any of her files, but especially that?

He stands, stalks across the office, considers what to do now.

Take it to the JTF? Take it to them and he won't have access to the investigation. No, he needs to know.

Tell Sydney? It's nothing concrete, and she's got so much going on already, whatever's bothering her. If he tells her and it's nothing, it's just needless worry. But what if it's not nothing?

Jack. He could take it to Jack. He knows what's going on in the JTF, and he would know if this was somehow linked to anything there. And he's on Sydney's side.

He picks up his cell phone, thumbs through the directory until he finds Jack's number. What if he's not here? What if he's on a mission somewhere? What if he tells you to fuck off? No, that's not Jack's style. He'd just sniff and dismiss you.

Jack answers quickly. "Yes?"

"Jack, it's Michael Vaughn."

"I'm well aware of that."

Perhaps this was a bad idea. "Are you in town?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Agent Vaughn, but yes, I am."

"Look, I was wondering if you were free tonight. Could we maybe go out and get a drink? There are a few things I'd like to talk to you about."

A pause. Jack must be surprised, as surprised as Jack Bristow gets. "Certainly. The bar down the block from central headquarters, would that be acceptable?" Curt, blunt.

"Yes. I'll meet you there, say, seven?"

"Yes."

He presses end, walks back to his desk and sits down.

Who else besides Sloane would want her DNA profile? What else could they need it for besides the Prophecy? It couldn't have been someone from the FBI, CIA, doing something routine. There's nothing routine about needing that information.

But how could Sloane know about the Prophecy? It is classified Omega-17, locked away in records. He would have to have a mole in the Bureau, or the Agency.

———

It is nearing twilight as he approaches the bar. The sky laced with vapor trails from planes long gone, and maybe one of them is hers. One heading east, New York and on to Europe. West, Japan, or maybe Hong Kong. South, Mexico.

Ten minutes early and no doubt Jack will already be there. He opens the door and doubles the light inside momentarily.

This bar is good place to hide in the corner and keep watch over a warming tumbler full of something from the top shelf. Dim faux-Tiffany lamps over the tables, dark wood, black mesh screens drawn down over the windows. A place that thrives because so many men have to keep so many secrets not far away.

Jack is already waiting, sipping scotch in a booth off to the side. Chosen well — Jack can see the front door from his seat, and probably reach the rear exit in under a minute.

Vaughn walks to the bar first and orders. Harp, off tap. The place is far from full, and it's in his hand promptly. Ten on the bar, keep the change, leave us alone. He walks over to Jack's booth, beer in one hand, briefcase in the other. There is a Zippo lighter flipped open on the table, one of op tech's latest bugkillers.

Vaughn sits, takes a sip. "Thank you for coming out here — "

"Agent Vaughn, if this is to inform me that you're dating my daughter, some sort of ploy to get into my good graces, you can stop right now. I don't operate that way, and we're well past the point where I'm going to change my opinion of you." Strong, but level.

Just what is his opinion of you? "I wouldn't think of it." Vaughn reaches down into his briefcase, snaps it open, pulls out a file folder. "This is Sydney's DNA profile. Someone pulled a copy of this from FBI records last week. They don't know who."

"Did you tell Sydney about this? Or anyone else?"

"No. I wasn't sure who to take it to. That's why I called you. I wanted someone who was on her side."

"Good." Jack pauses, stares straight at Vaughn. "I pulled those records."

"What?"

Jack takes a thin sip of scotch. "Over the years, Arvin Sloane has said things to me, never outright, but he has insinuated that he is Sydney's father. I didn't believe it at first, but eventually, I came to think that if I could not trust my alleged wife, perhaps I could not trust her faithfulness. So I pulled Sydney's DNA profile to run a paternity test. I needed to know, but I couldn't ask her to have blood drawn. I scrambled the access records so that Sydney and the Agency wouldn't know I'd had my doubts. I didn't want her to become any more of a target for gossip than she already is." He finishes with a pointed look at Vaughn.

"You cannot tell anyone this," Jack says. "Especially Sydney."

"Wait a minute. I think she has a right to know."

"Tell me why, Agent Vaughn? Give me one good reason why my daughter needs to know any of this. The test showed I was Sydney's father. Greater than 99 percent match."

"You accessed her records. Didn't you think that would get back to her eventually?"

"The only way it's going to get back to her is if you tell her. And if you tell her, you'll only be causing her unnecessary pain. While I appreciate that my daughter's boyfriend — " Jack half spits the word — "places such high import on the truth, all you'd be telling her is that I let Arvin Sloane get me to the point where I doubted what I should have known to be true all along. What possible benefit would knowing that have for her?"

Jack lifts his glass, tosses the rest of his drink. "Thank you for your concern. I trust you'll keep this quiet?"

"Yes."

A big swig of his beer as Jack rises, walks out. It bothers you because your first allegiance is to Sydney, not Jack. But what's right for her here is to protect her. Like Jack said, there's no reason to cause her unnecessary pain.

———

Lesson learned, or more remembered from the old days, he starts this night with a run. Walks back inside on rubber legs, upstairs for a quick shower.

Fresh T-shirt and sweatpants, back to the living room. He picks up the remote, tries the on button once, twice, three times. Nothing. Dead batteries. Shit.

To the kitchen, junk drawer. Donovan's collar sitting on the top; he'd forgotten it was in there. He picks it up, listens to the tags jingle, looks just beyond the kitchen, to the back door and the dog door cut out of the bottom. Remembers when the sound was common around the apartment.

He grabs a beer from the fridge before returning to the living room. Following the formula tonight: run, drink, and hope the television lulls him to sleep. A hockey game on ESPN, and at least this is something he's supposed to be interested in. On any other night, perhaps, he would be.

Stop. He tries to watch the game, tells himself to follow the action, focus on the puck.

———

Tiny little white house with the field of tall grass in the back, rippling through the strong wind. Past that to the cliff, where his mother had said to never, ever, go, and he had always obeyed.

His bedroom, small, second story. Pale blue flowers on the wallpaper, simple wooden toys. Bookshelves filled with books he'd outgrown and those he was supposed to grow into, and a few in between.

Big old black Mercedes in the driveway. He watches from the window, hands folded on the sill, foggy, disjointed.

The driver's side door opens. Black shoe, black pant leg. Weiss steps out.

The hands are adult hands, one wearing a wedding ring. It looks like his father's, the same serpentine pattern etched in the gold.

He runs, now, through the hall, down the steep, narrow staircase. Running, running, running, to the front door.

It creaks open under his hand. Weiss is already waiting, Dixon standing behind him.

"Mike, we're so sorry — "

"No."

"Mike — "

His knees buckle and he is kneeling on the floor, head in hands, sobbing. No. No. No. No. She was the best. She was not supposed to die. Even as much as he feared it, she wasn't supposed to die.

"Mike, I know this is hard, but you have to stay strong."

"Why? There's no reason. She's gone. I can't — Weiss, what am I going to do without her?"

"For her, Mike. For her."

Weiss looks beyond him.

Little girl, standing in the hallway behind him. Brown hair, pigtails. Six, seven, eight, maybe. "Daddy, why are you crying?"

"Sweetheart, Mommy isn't coming home."

He wakes violently, the near-empty beer bottle sliding from his hand, thunk on the floor. Gasping, sweating under the blanket he'd pulled over himself. Calm down, calm down.

Sportscenter on the television: "The Lakers won again tonight..."

He rights the bottle, reaches back to the end table, picks up his Economist. He'll read, now, try to stay occupied, awake.