SUMMARY: He could've sworn he was cheerfully minding the government's business in a pretty kickin' hotel room in Switzerland, but this wasn't his room and these certainly weren't his handcuffs. Structure blatantly pilfered from Joss Whedon and The Zeppo.

SPOILERS: Early/mid-season three timeline.

DISCLAIMER: These guys belong to Jabrams.

THANKS: To the usual suspects, my fabulous betas Em, Lu, and Philateley. And extra tasty crispy thanks for language assistance to sternel, riarambles, and lulabo, and random musical assistance from megwriting.

When Weiss woke, groggy, on a dirt floor, his first clear thought was, I'm not supposed to be here.  His second clear thought was, where is here?

Jerking upright, Weiss scanned his surroundings.  He was alone in the room.  In the small, dark room lit by a single light bulb hanging from an appropriately grungy string.  And he was slumped on a dirt floor.  Huh.  He could've sworn he was cheerfully minding the government's business in a pretty kickin' hotel room in Switzerland, but this wasn't his room and these certainly weren't his handcuffs.

Weiss decided it was a good time to engage in a little panicked sweating.

The door opened, and Weiss realized he hadn't been panicking nearly enough.

Irina Derevko sauntered into the room, in a black tank top and camos, and crouched gracefully in front of him.  "Is my daughter in Rome?"

Weiss reminded himself to breathe.  "I'm pretty sure revealing the location of an American agent to an escaped terrorist is a federal offense."

Her serene expression never wavered.  "I'm not a terrorist."

"Actually," Weiss began, "under 18 U.S.C.--"

"I don't seek the downfall of America," Derevko interrupted.  A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips.  "Anymore."

Weiss swallowed hard and told himself to ignore the phantom throbbing in his neck.  "As reassuring as that is, I'm going to stand by my original answer."

"Is Sydney in Rome?" Derevko interrupted.  It was a demand, not a question.

Weiss lifted his chin.  "I'm not going to prison so you can satisfy your curiosity about your daughter."

"Curiosity," Derevko echoed, almost smiling.  "Is that what you think this is?"

"I don't really care what this is," Weiss corrected her.  Yup, concentrating on his latent anger toward this woman really helped control the panic.  A little.

Derevko rose in a quick, fluid motion and glared down at him.  "Perhaps you should."  She moved to door and called out something in Russian.  The steely glance she gave Weiss as she paused in the doorway reminded Weiss of her husband.  Ex-husband.  Whatever.  Derevko could be just as freakin' scary as Jack Bristow.  "Reconsider," she ordered.

Scarier than Jack, Weiss decided.  Definitely scarier than Jack.

As Derevko stepped out, a large, ugly, Nordic-looking guy lumbered in carrying a very anachronistic club.  Weiss bit back an inappropriate Fred Flintstone joke, then swallowed an unmanly whimper when the guard let his giant club clatter to the floor.

Okay, Weiss thought, we're moving right along from the intimidation to the physical brutality.

Being captured by the enemy was bad, but Weiss had gone through rigorous training with the agency.  Being up against Irina Derevko was bad, but Weiss had lived through it a few times before.

But being captured by Irina Derevko?

So very, very bad.

***

"Are you ready to go in?" Sydney demanded, straightening her blue velvet evening gown.  It was form-fitting, but the fabric stretched enough to give her room to maneuver.

Vaughn grimaced, tugging a little at his bow tie.  "I guess so."

The look Sydney gave him was not a happy one.  "Are you ready or not?  I need backup in there, and if you're not--"

"I'm ready," Vaughn interrupted, his hands raised in conciliation.  "Let's go."

Sydney gave him a critical once over.  "Okay," she answered finally.  "Let's do this."

***

"Have you changed your mind?"

Had he fallen asleep?  Weiss blinked blearily up at Irina Derevko, who had her arms crossed and an almost amused expression on her face.  Weiss squirmed, trying to sit up straight and face her like a man.  A man with his hands tied behind his back, but still.  A man.  "Nope."

Derevko raised an eyebrow, just a millimeter or so.  "Even knowing I'll kill you if you're of no use to me?"

Weiss tried to sound just as nonchalant.  "Nope."

"You are either brave or stupid."  Derevko tilted her head, her long locks dangling over one well-muscled shoulder.  "Are you in love with my daughter?"

The question was so unexpected that Weiss spluttered, "No!" before he could stop himself.

"You're lying."

Weiss glared up at her.  "Do you just ask every single CIA agent you meet if he's in love with your daughter?"

Derevko's smile actually seemed genuine.  "Only those I know will react the way you have.  The way Agent Vaughn once did."

That barb was designed to elicit information, Weiss knew.  She wanted Weiss to justify his own feelings -- not that he had those kinds of feelings for Sydney, just hypothetically if he did -- or defend Vaughn's loyalty to her daughter.

Weiss said nothing.

"A loyal friend," Derevko observed.  "But Agent Vaughn has married."

That statement didn't require any sort of response.  Still, her expectant gaze was weighty enough to pull a reluctant "hmmmm" from Weiss.

"Interesting," Derevko said after another lengthy pause.  "I wonder whether this will persuade you to answer my question:  whoever the CIA sent after the Rambaldi artifact has been either captured or killed."

Weiss froze.  "How do you know that?"

Derevko waved an impatient hand.  "I know Arvin Sloane's methods."

Self-preservation kicked in a nanosecond before Weiss made a crack about Derevko's precise methods of acquiring such knowledge.

Still, she gave him a penetrating look before continuing.  "I've been monitoring the Covenant, just like you have."

"Pretty easy to do from the inside," Weiss observed flatly.  He shifted a little, testing the handcuffs.  Still metal.  Still securely fastened.  Still forcing him to hold his arms at a very uncomfortable angle.

"I'm not Covenant," Derevko answered, her tone betraying nothing.  "I work for myself."

"Sure," Weiss agreed, wondering if there was anyone on earth who could tell when Irina Derevko was lying.  Because he was damned if he could figure out whether she was working for the Covenant to confirm that the CIA sent agents in or whether she was actually concerned for her daughter's safety.  "Whatever."

"Consider this, Agent Weiss:  if I could simply alter events from the inside to save my daughter, why would I go to the trouble of kidnapping you?"

"My irresistible charm?"

Derevko's expression darkened a little.  "If my daughter is in Rome, I can tell you how to avert disaster.  If she's not, you're of no use to me and you know I will not simply let you leave."  Derevko stepped closer.  "Will you refuse to answer my question again, Agent Weiss?"

"Um," Weiss answered eloquently.  Think of something, he ordered himself.  Say something to stall for time.

"Is my daughter in Rome?" Derevko repeated, each word pronounced slowly and deliberately.  

Weiss considered his options and concluded they were limited.  To just the one option, really.  "Yes," he answered through gritted teeth.  Rome was a big city, he rationalized.  Syd and Vaughn wouldn't be compromised.  Not really.  Plus, she'd already guessed.

Derevko gave a curt nod.  "I presumed.  Her father designed the mission, yes?"

Weiss kept resolutely silent, refusing to divulge anything more.  

"Fine," Derevko said.  "Keep your details, but listen to me:  you can't call off your agents.  Sloane allowed you to hear the chatter about Chechnya and WMDs.  He wanted to know that the CIA would figure the Rambaldi connection and send someone."

Shaking his head slowly, Weiss commented, "But that doesn't make sense.  Why would he want the CIA--"

"To draw out the agents," Derevko interrupted with an impatient wave of her hand.  "This way, he has control over where they're sent and he can capture them easily."

Weiss scowled.  "And keep some dusty old machine for himself, am I right?"

Derevko didn't seem to care for his characterization.  "I've told you enough."

"Whoa," Weiss objected with a flash of real irritation, his lack of leverage notwithstanding.  "No way.  You haven't told me anything.  I need more information if I'm going to pull Sydney and Vaughn out."

"You can't pull her out," Derevko commanded.  "I told you, I believe they've already been captured.  Sloane can't know that his plan has been discovered or--"

"Or your plan will be foiled?" he practically spat.  Every time he started to believe Derevko might actually care more for her daughter than Rambaldi, he was proven wrong.  No wonder Jack was such a cynical bastard.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Derevko sauntered over and stood, towering over him.  "I am losing patience with you."

Weiss told himself that he was not terrified and his voice was only the tiniest bit squeaky when he answered, "I still don't know what you expect me to do."

"It's simple," Derevko said, that mysterious half-smile making a reappearance.  "Sydney has tracked the Rambaldi artifact to a location in Rome by piecing together the intell on the Chechen WMDs.  That is where the trap has been laid.  You must find the location and disable the device."

"Device?" he echoed, already knowing just how much worse his day was about to get.

"Would you prefer 'bomb'?"

"I'd prefer a large, angry beast, I think."  Because Weiss had been shot and it had sucked, but the thought of being blown to pieces by a bomb kept him up nights.

"Just think, Agent Weiss -- my daughter might look at you differently if you save her life."  She leaned closer, her smile fading.  "And know that if you fail, I will hold you responsible for any harm that comes to Sydney."

Oh, shit.

***

"Vaughn," Syd whispered, "hand me that -- oh, no."

Beside her, Vaughn froze.  "What?"

Sydney grimaced, withdrawing her hand very, very slowly from the centralized heating vent.  She reached up to activate her comm. device.  "Mountaineer to base ops."

"Base ops, go," Jack answered.

Sydney met Vaughn's gaze.  "We've got a problem."

***

Weiss stared at Derevko.  "You're kidding."

"Time is of the essence, Agent Weiss.  Do I have your agreement?"  She was crouched opposite him, displaying an unnerving ability to remain in the awkward position for what felt like hours without appearing to experience any discomfort.

She'd make a great catcher, Weiss thought absurdly.  Shit.  Focus.  Sydney.  "My agreement?"

"Yes," Derevko asked, her expression placid.  "You will do exactly as I've told you."

Weiss started to shake his head, "Wait, wait, wait -- I have some objections."

A frown appeared.  "I don't have time for your objections.  My daughter's life is in danger."

"Two objections," Weiss conceded, narrowing down his incredibly long list to the most important points.  "One, why should I trust an operation you've designed when you're not willing to go yourself?  And, two, this is not a one-person job.  I'll need--"

"You can't call anyone," Derevko ordered, her tone harsh.  She leaned forward a little, her gaze intense.  "If you choose to ignore any of what I've told you, don't let it be that.  You cannot contact the CIA.  You cannot contact Sydney.  You must do this yourself."

This is a nightmare, Weiss decided.  It was the opposite of those lovely dreams where he handily saved the world from some vague, undefined threat and won the love of The Girl (usually embodied by Sydney, but that was a whole 'nother can of worms).  This nightmare was setting him up for certain failure.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up.

"Agent Weiss," Derevko ordered sharply.

"Shit," Weiss muttered, opening his eyes.  "Okay, why the radio silence?"

She actually smiled at him.  "You'll have to trust me."  Derevko blithely ignored his derisive snort.  "And to answer your first question, I would gladly go myself, but I have a prior engagement that requires my attendance."  Her expression hardened.  "Before you conclude that I would not willingly die for my daughter, I will tell you this much:  If I do not show up at this meeting, Arvin Sloane will know.  Do you understand?"

Weiss took a moment to evaluate all that she'd said and all that she'd implied.  He came up with this:  Sydney and Vaughn were in trouble, and Arvin Sloane had a mole inside the CIA or, alternatively, had hacked into their communications.  Tipping off Syd and Vaughn, or even Jack, would tip off Sloan, and things would not end well.

"Shit," he said again.  "Yes, I understand," he admitted grudgingly.  

"And you agree?"

Weiss glared at her.  "You haven't given me much choice."

Derevko nodded.  "There's not much time.  When I leave, you will wait fifteen minutes and then make your escape."

Wait a second -- escape?  Weiss shook his head.  "How--?"

She held up a hand for silence.  "My men believe that I captured a CIA agent to extract information."  Weiss winced, imagining how much fun that wouldn't be.  Derevko continued, "I cannot simply let you go; you will have to escape out from under the nose of my guard."

Weiss's jaw actually dropped.  "Your guard?  The one with the club?"

Derevko nodded.  "I've been looking for an excuse to..." she tilted her head, "terminate him.  Your escape will give me the reason I need."

Before Weiss could protest, before he could really process just what the hell she expected him to do, Derevko was moving.  She rose and crossed to his side, dropping down to a crouch beside him.  

Weiss followed her with wide eyes, bracing for the move that would end his life and prove that she'd been toying with him.  Up close, she was beautiful, but in a very fierce, intimidating kind of way.  Not unlike her daughter, though Derevko lacked Sydney's obvious warmth and caring.  Derevko's shining locks smelled, incongruously, like vanilla.

Weiss felt the handcuffs loosen, and a cool, rough object being pressed into his hands.

"Good luck, Agent Weiss," Derevko murmured as she stood and turned to leave.

"Wait," Weiss called.

But she didn't.  She opened the door and gestured for Fred Flintstone to resume his position, then glanced over at Weiss for the briefest of moments.

Weiss watched, frustrated, as she slipped out of his cell and disappeared.

Shit, he thought as Fred stared balefully down at him.  Shit, shit, shit.

***

"Base ops, we made it into the basement, but there's nothing here.  Over," Sydney reported, frowning.  She had a really bad feeling about this.

Vaughn looked spooked, too.  He had his small pistol out and was covering the door.

"Mountaineer, is it a trap?  Over."

"Base ops, I'm not sure.  I think there might be--"  Sydney stopped when she heard the distinctive sound of a grenade rattling its way across the floor.  "Vaughn!" she shouted, tackling him seconds before the world exploded.

***

Okay, Weiss thought.  Okay.  No problem.

He had a rock, courtesy of Irina Derevko, and he had the element of surprise.  He could take Fred Flintstone.  He could.  So what if Fred was 6'7" and 250 pounds?  Weiss just needed to get Fred to turn around so he could attack, because he'd been a decent pitcher back in high school, but he wasn't about to trust his aim if he was only gonna get one shot at this.

And since he had fifteen minutes to make his escape, Weiss figured he'd dedicate ten minutes or so to doubting his abilities and cursing Derevko's name.  Maybe twelve minutes.  Because he wasn't sure he'd be able to do any single task she'd outlined for him, never mind get them all done within the time constraints she'd given.  Add to that the thought that his only way out of this dank, dirty prison was physically overcoming a bulky representative of Early Man complete with pre-Bronze Age hardware...

Well, it didn't look good.

Weiss eased his hands from the open cuffs, letting them fall to the dirt floor.  He covered the small thud with a groan of pain.  If this wasn't all an elaborate ruse leading up to his death-by-club -- and Weiss remained unconvinced about Derevko's motives -- Derevko was supposed to have been torturing him for intell.

Shifting as if he were in extreme pain, Weiss brought his legs in toward his body.  "Ow, ow, ow," he muttered, feeling Fred's disinterested gaze.  He rolled up onto his knees, letting his head droop down.  "Please," he muttered, "get her.  I'll talk."

Fred didn't make a sound.

"Oh, great," Weiss grumbled to the indifferent dirt floor, "she leaves me with some guy who doesn't speak a word of English."  Why the hell hadn't he ever taken Russian?  The Cold War wasn't that far in the past when he'd begun his training -- why hadn't the CIA insisted upon it?

Weiss lifted his head and stared up at Fred, who was still standing, immobile, by the door.  "Please.  Derevko.  Get Derevko."

Now Fred looked interested.  His heavy brow lowered and he said something unintelligible in Russian, accompanied by a finger over his lips, the universal sign for "shut up before I beat you to death with my ridiculously large club."

"Deutsch?" Weiss asked.  "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

"Ja," Fred answered, a little reluctantly.  He shifted on his giant feet, studying Weiss more closely now.

Weiss reminded himself he was supposed to be beaten down and in pain.  Also desperate.  He could easily do desperate.  He was desperate.  He let out another moan.  "Krieg' Sie Derevko.  Bitte."

Fred frowned, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at Weiss.

"Ich bekenn', ich bekenn'," Weiss said, trying to slump convincingly.  He was a damn good field agent, but there was a reason he didn't do the undercover assignments.  His role as Honore Lachaille in his high school's production of Gigi notwithstanding, Weiss was a horrible actor.  Especially when he didn't have a good amount of time to prepare an accent, a backstory, the whole nine.  His lowest marks in CIA training were the stupid cover improvisation classes; that grade was the reason Weiss ended up a desk jockey, instead of operating in the field.

Right now, he wished like hell he was safely in the electro-magnetically shielded, heavily protected headquarters in L.A.

He shifted again, getting ready, and tossed in a pitiful moan for good measure.

With a curt nod, Fred turned toward the door.

Weiss sent up a quick prayer and lurched to his feet, crossing the dirt floor in three quick, nearly silent steps.  With both hands, he brought the rock down on Fred's skull.  The impact jarred Weiss all the way to his shoulders, but Fred crumpled like a felled tree, landing in a heap at Weiss's feet.

"Well," he said, tossing the rock toward the corner of the room.  "Okay, then."  He rolled Fred over, trying to ignore the bloody wound on his scalp, and patted him down for a gun.  No luck.  "Jesus, what the hell kind of guard doesn't carry a gun?" Weiss muttered to no one in particular.  He did find a large wad of euros in Fred's jeans pocket.  With a shrug, Weiss tucked the bills into his pocket and kept searching for a useful weapon.  Nothing.  Reluctantly, he grabbed Fred's club and headed for the door.

He had no idea how many people were in... wherever the hell he was, so he moved slowly, straining to hear signs of other guards.  Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Weiss held the club like a baseball bat, ready to swing at the first sign of trouble.  He really, really missed his gun.

The hallway was short and led to a rickety wooden staircase, heading up.  Weiss swore under his breath, not wanting to stick his head out the small trapdoor into a roomful of Derevko's best guards.  That could end up like a really bad version of Whack-a-Mole.  Weiss shuddered.  He really resented having to entrust his life to her; if she'd left guards behind, he'd never get out of this place alive.  Holding his breath, Weiss slowly lifted the trapdoor, waiting for a hail of bullets or a shout of warning or something.

Silence.

"Huh."  Weiss flipped the door open, wincing a little at the crash it made, and vaulted out of the hole, sweeping the empty room as he clambered into the corner with his bat.  He stopped, listening.

Still nothing.

Feeling a little less exposed, Weiss moved quickly through the small, sparsely furnished flat.  No sign of anyone else.  Stepping out of the apartment, Weiss found himself in the small, interior courtyard of an old, four-story building.  He caught sight of an old hitching post and sighed.  "Well, I'm still somewhere in Europe.  Probably."

He reached the oversized double doors that led onto the street and hesitated.  Should he take the stupid club?  He'd be a little noticeable wandering the streets of Rome (assuming he was in Rome) with a club.  But if he left it, he'd be weaponless going into what was already a suicide mission.

Shit.

Weiss's jeans and maroon Henley -- not to mention his extra twenty pounds -- marked him as an American.  Carrying the club would make him more conspicuous.  Taking a deep breath, Weiss tossed the club behind him and twisted the latch, opening the small door cut into the larger doors and ducked out onto a narrow sidewalk.

Cobblestone streets.  Restaurants and tobaccoria intermixed with centuries-old apartment buildings like the one he'd just emerged from.  The signs were in Italian, so he wasn't that far from Rome.  Maybe this was Rome.

Weiss didn't see any recognizable landmarks when he glanced around, so he headed up the street, hoping high ground would help him see the top of St. Peter's, or maybe the giant white monument to Vittorio Emmanuel that looked disconcertingly like a wedding cake.

High ground didn't help.  The buildings all around Weiss were too tall for him to see anything much.  He ducked into a tobaccoria and adopted his best, oblivious American tourist persona.  This particular cover he didn't need to practice.  "Howdy!" Weiss boomed, his voice echoing around the tiny store.  "You speak English?"

"English, yes," the middle-aged shopkeeper grinned good-naturedly.  "American?"

"Yeah, I'm American," Weiss answered, puffing up his chest a little.  American tourists were supposed to be insufferable, right?  "I need to get to Piazza Venezia.  You know where that is?"

Gesturing around the store, the shopkeeper answered, "Trastevere.  You cross river."

Weiss blinked.  "Huh?"

"Map?" the shopkeeper offered, tapping a rack displaying maps of various cities.

"Yes," Weiss nodded vigorously.  "Where are we?"

"Ahhh," the shopkeeper answered with a knowing smile.  Slowly, he turned the rack, eyeing its contents before pulling one out and unfolding it.  When the map lay across the cluttered counter, he gestured Weiss closer and pointed to a spot on the map.  "Piazza Venezia."  He looked up, waiting for Weiss's nod.  He pointed to a neighborhood across the Tiber River and tapped it twice.  "You."

So he was still in Rome.  Excellent.  

This time, Weiss's grin was genuine.  "Grazie," he said, gesturing at the map.  "How much?"

After paying for the map and refolding it in some approximation of its original, neat state, Weiss emerged onto the street and checked the sun.  He angled northeast toward the river, walking calmly until he saw a cab.  He flagged the taxi down and slid into the backseat.  "Piazza Venezia."

As Weiss settled back in his seat for the short ride, he let himself breathe a small sigh of relief.  The first part was over.  Now he just had to find Syd and Vaugh, disarm a bomb, lay the groundwork for their escape, and get out without being detected.

Weiss closed his eyes and groaned.

***

Sydney woke slowly, her throat dry and burning.

"Sydney?" Vaughn asked.

A hand landed on her shoulder and she opened her eyes.  She was lying on the floor, Vaughn leaning against the wall to her left.  "What hap--"  But she remembered.  A flash-bang, closely followed by some sort of gas.  No wonder her throat ached.

"It was a trap," Vaughn stated unnecessarily.

Sydney nodded, more concerned with how they were going to extricate themselves.  "Where are we?"

Vaughn grimaced.  "In trouble."

***

Breathing hard, Weiss climbed the gazillion steps of the Vittorio Emmanuel monument.  When he was nearly at the top, he turned and looked out over Rome.  It really was a beautiful city.  Too bad he didn't have the time to really appreciate it just now.

Eyes narrowed, Weiss walked to the southwest edge of the massive monument and glanced out over the ruins of the Forum and, beyond, the crumbling Colosseum.  His eyes tracked the awkwardly rebuilt section, the part that Mussolini had haphazardly reconstructed using original stone from other portions of the structure.  Weiss closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall with precision the intell from which Syd and Vaughn were operating.

Using the Colosseum as 12 o'clock, Weiss turned 90 degrees and stared at the green balcony Mussolini had used to pontificate to the adoring -- or possibly fearful -- crowds below.  Looking past, his gaze refocusing further down the Via Nazionale, looking for -- there.  Three story white building, strange blue roof.

Probably that was the starting point on Weiss's journey.  He sent up a small prayer that Derevko wasn't sending him on a wild goose chase -- or an elaborate setup.

At the steps of the monument, Weiss stopped at a vendor's cart and bought an incredibly overpriced disposable camera.  He clutched the bright green camera in his hand and started down the street, making a quick mental list of things he'd need for his little excursion.  Looping in and out of a series of tourist shops, he ended up with a gaudy plastic bag full of seemingly innocuous souvenirs that would have to serve as the necessary super-spy-guy-rescuing-his-captured-compadres equipment.  

Weiss's fingers tightened around the bag.  He was so totally screwed.

Concentrate, he told himself.  Think strategically.

Probably being Annoying American Tourist Guy would let him do a whole lot more than he'd be able to if he'd posed as a European.  Americans, after all, were rude and stupid.  Weiss figured he could rude-and-stupid his way right up to the door of that blue-roofed house to see what was what.

And hope they weren't expecting him.

Weiss stayed on the opposite side of the street from the target, running through every possible scenario he could come up with as he approached.  Two blocks away, Weiss stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the streams of Italians and tourists moving past him, and aimed the camera.  He pretended to snap pictures, turning in a slow circle before digging out his new map.  It was folded wrong, and he moved to lean against the stone wall of a bank before opening it to its full size.

Bringing the map up, Weiss scanned the front of the house, looking for open windows, for a conveniently placed homeless person, for the flash of sunlight on glass that would betray surveillance.  Nothing.  On one side was another townhouse; on the other was a bank.  He didn't remember anything from the mission meeting about breaking into a bank, but the proximately couldn't be coincidence.

He stepped out into pedestrian traffic once more, straining to look back the way he'd come, then the opposite way, pasting an exaggerated frown on his face.  Yup, that's me, he thought.  Lost tourist.

Weiss scanned the buildings across from him, starting at the indigo roof and studying five buildings in either direction.  Like many European cities, the buildings sat wall-to wall, with no alleys between them, so Weiss figured lookouts could be posted several buildings down.  

Still nothing.

More concerned than relieved -- why the hell wasn't anyone guarding the house if Syd and Vaughn were being held inside? -- Weiss forced the map back into some approximation of its original shape.  He rejoined the flow of pedestrians, keeping an eye on the building as he moved past.  

Two blocks down, Weiss again stopped to peer intently at his map.  When the traffic light changed, he crossed over to the other side of the street and started moving slowly back toward the target, studying the buildings opposite for signs of surveillance.

Weiss started to wonder if the building were booby-trapped, set to explode if Syd and Vaughn tried to get out, or if anyone tried to get in.  Trust Derevko to leave out a pesky little detail like that.

Inhaling slowly, Weiss drew even with the door and stopped once more, giving his map an exaggeratedly frustrated glance.  He shoved it angrily into his plastic bag o' goodies, and stomped over to the large wooden door.  With three sharp knocks, Weiss threw caution to the wind.

If they had a file on the CIA, if they'd studied agents assigned to Rambaldi, he might be knocking on the door to his impending murder.  

After several long moments, the door inched open and a small, elderly woman peered out.  "Sì?"

"Hi," Weiss began, a little thrown off by her small stature and faded floral shirt.  She certainly didn't look like she was involved in some sort of plot involving kidnapped CIA agents.  "Do you speak English?"

"No English," she answered, her words heavily accented.  She smiled at him and pointed down the block.  "Ècco là."

Weiss tried to look non-threatening and held up one finger.  "Wait!"  He dug the crumpled map out and showed it to her.  "See?"

The door opened wider, and she reached for the map, unfolding it with gnarled fingers.  As she smoothed the heavy paper, Weiss peered over her head into the dimly lit house.  It was lovely and obviously quite expensive.  He saw no sign of guards or kidnapped CIA agents or booby-trapped explosive devices.  He did see a tabby cat stalk across the hall, sparing him a single haughty glance.

The woman tapped lightly on the map.  "Go," she said, pointing at what appeared to be a small tourist kiosk a few blocks down.  "English."

"Thank you," Weiss answered, mustering up a grin.  "Uh... Grazie."

"Ahhh," she answered with a kind smile.  "Ciao, ciao."

"Ciao," Weiss answered, accepting the map she handed him.  He moved away from the door with a jaunty wave, which she returned before closing the door.  Weiss wandered toward the kiosk, running over the intell the CIA had gathered, the information Derevko had given him, and the lack of anything resembling two tied-up CIA agents in the blue-roofed house as he walked.  

"Well, shit," Weiss muttered.  "Now what?"

***

"Our weapons are gone?" Sydney asked, already knowing the answer.

Vaughn nodded.  "And our comm. devices.  Your father knows--"

"He knows where we *were*," Sydney interrupted.  "Do we know where we *are*?"

Frowning, Vaughn shrugged.  "No," he admitted.

She scanned the small room, noting the lack of windows, the stillness of the air, and the very faint line of light around the only door.  "What's the situation?" she asked, knowing Vaughn would have done recon while she was out.  When he didn't answer, Sydney turned to study him more closely.  "Vaughn?"

He gestured to the door and grimaced.  "It's wired," he explained grimly.  "We're trapped."

***

Weiss turned before he reached the information kiosk and headed back down the street, weaving his way through the crowd until he reached the bank beside the blue-roofed house.  He walked inside, rude-and-stupid demeanor still in place as he scanned the place for anything suspicious, anything that would indicate a robbery or a paramilitary assault on the vaults or anything at all out of the ordinary.

An armed guard stood discreetly by the door, his placid gaze following Weiss as he gaped at the gorgeous tiled mosaic on the wall behind the teller's counters.  Pretty fancy for a bank, he thought, lifting the disposable camera.

"Excuse me, sir," the guard said, stepping to Weiss's side and placing a hand on his arm.  "No pictures inside the bank, please."

"Oh," Weiss answered, modulating his voice to something a little too loud for a bank.  "Oh, gee, I'm sorry about that."

"May I assist you with something?" the guard asked.

Weiss tugged out his wallet.  "I'm running a little low on Euros and I was looking for an ATM.  Uh, a money machine?" he tried, wondering what they called it in Italian.

"Ah, yes," the guard answered, ushering Weiss toward an alcove.  "Please, right this way."

Weiss withdrew 100 Euro and left the bank, a little disappointed that he hadn't, say, bumped into Sloane with a Rambaldi device clutched in his evil little hands.  Would've made things so much simpler.  

Instead, Weiss was left with the same lack of information as before.  Carefully counting his steps, he walked to the end of the block and turned, heading for the next street over.  He hesitated at the mouth of the alley, but he wasn't comfortable enough with the situation yet to go blundering into a narrow alley.  He couldn't do much for Sydney and Vaughn if he got himself ambushed.

Weiss crossed to the far side of the street and walked back up, counting steps until he stood directly across from the building that backed up against the blue-roofed building.  Stopping beside a streetlight, Weiss placed his bag of makeshift tools and weapons at his feet and unfolded the map once more, scanning for guards.

Just before he was about to pack it in and just walk up to the front door, he noticed a flash of light in the window of a house two doors down.  "Interesting," Weiss muttered, again wishing he had his damn gun.

He loitered a bit longer, making exaggeratedly confused faces at the map and butchering the Italian names of various plazas.  Just in case they had directional mics or video surveillance.  Eventually, he caught another flash of light in the building one door to the right of his target, which was all the confirmation he needed.

Wherever Syd and Vaughn were, Weiss had to get into the guarded house or he wouldn't get any further.  Before he drew too much attention, Weiss carelessly re-folded the map and shoved it into his plastic bag, continuing down the street until he came across a gelato shop.

Minutes later, Weiss was standing by the window of the shop, absently devouring a really damn good coneful of stracciatella and watching the target for movement.  Still nothing.  Either Weiss had managed to stumble across this place during a lull in the action, or the guards were simply on lookout.  He was fairly confident that the building was guarded on this street, and from that, he assumed that the alley would be guarded as well.

But as long as they only had guards posted in this row of buildings, he should be able to get to the target via the alley, if he stayed glued to the wall.  They couldn't see straight down unless they stuck their heads -- and guns -- out the window.

It wasn't the brightest plan Weiss had ever had, and under normal circumstances, he'd never allow another agent to head into a guarded alley alone, betting their lives on the laziness of armed guards.  But given his lack of resources and ridiculous time limit, it was about the best he could come up with.  He wondered if he should leave some dramatic, "in case I don't make it back" message for the CIA, but decided that would be a little too much like conceding defeat.  Besides, what would he say?  Tell my dog I love him?

Weiss took another bite of his gelato for good luck, then tossed the rest and headed out onto the sidewalk.

***

Sydney lay flat on the floor, her check pressed to the grimy floorboards as she eyed the hair-thin tripwire on the other side of the door.

"Syd, it's no use," Vaughn told her.

She couldn't see how the wire was attached, and she didn't have many tools with her, after what she assumed must have been a pretty thorough pat-down by whoever captured them, but she wasn't about to sit there in their prison and wait for something to happen.  "Are you sure you don't have tweezers or," she shrugged as best she could, given her position, "a pen?"

"What could you do with a pen?"

"I could pick the lock," Sydney answered shortly.

"I could pick the lock, too," Vaughn retorted, "but that doesn't solve the problem of the bomb awaiting us when we open this door."

***

The alley was narrow and drab and reeked of trash.  Weiss heard small rustling noises more than once on his slow, arduous journey down the alley, but he told himself it must have been a cat.  Cats, not rats.  He shuddered, picturing long, skinny tails on fat ratty little bodies.  

No, cats.  Rome was famous for its cats, right?

Cats.

Weiss sidled past another window, holding his breath and waiting for the inevitable shriek in Italian.  He'd been lucky so far -- either no one was home in the houses he was slinking past, or no one had noticed some crazy American sneaking down the alley with random souvenirs sticking out of his pockets.  He'd ditched the garish plastic bag on the corner, hiding it behind a trashcan in case he needed some cover on his way out.  

Assuming he survived, of course.

Creeping forward, Weiss stepped over a large, stinky puddle and stopped.  Another bag of trash.  Weiss cursed under his breath and wondered why the hell these people couldn't move the trash just a little bit farther away from the buildings.  Thanks to the piles of trash, Weiss made torturously slow progress, since he had to stop every few feet and carefully shift a trash bag or, in some cases, a metal trash can, out of his way.

If guards were watching carefully, they'd probably be able to see the bags moving into their line of vision, and logic would dictate that they'd simply lean out the window and shoot him.  But if he skirted around the bags, darting in and out of their vision, he could very easily get shot without so much as a warning.  Pretty much either way, he'd get shot if anyone noticed him, but he was hoping to at least hear a shout or a curse in Italian before the rain of bullets.

Not that he'd be able to do anything about it, since there was absolutely no cover in this alley.  But at least he'd have a half second or so for some profound last thoughts.  (Not that he'd experienced any great revelations last time, but he was hoping maybe next time he'd see some white light or have a killer slideshow of his best moments or something.)

Weiss continued on, sweating with exertion and nerves, inching trash out of his way and keeping himself pressed as closely against the brick and the stone as he could.  He could feel the scratches and scrapes along the skin of his arms, but ignored the small bites of pain.

Nearly twenty minutes after he started down the alley, Weiss stopped two rowhouses down from his target, forcing his breathing to slow down.  No need to announce himself with asthmatic panting.  He patted the makeshift tools in his pockets:  Keychain, check.  Bottle opener, check.  Collapsible umbrella with a rendering of the Sistine Chapel on it and an unusually sturdy shaft, check.

Leaning against the wall, Weiss gave his surroundings one last, careful sweep.  Not a soul in the alleyway, though he could hear the chatter of the crowds passing by at either end.  

Okay, Weiss told himself.  Let's do this thing.  No problem.  In and out.  Sweep for captured agents, or stolen artifacts, and then get the hell out.  Simple.

As Weiss started forward again, he had the insane urge to sing something appropriately brave and foolish.  Or give a war whoop.  Maybe recite the St. Crispin's Day speech.  (Not that he knew the St. Crispin's Day speech, but whatever.)  Something to break this unbearable tension, since no one was around to appreciate some good black humor.

"Dammit, Mike," he muttered.  "You owe me."

He reached the target building and crouched beneath a window, tilting his head back, half-expecting to see someone lean out the top floor and aim a gun down at him.  No movement.  Weiss eased his kid's vanity mirror (featuring a picture of the Colosseum and a red-robe-wearing Roman Emperor) from his back pocket and lifted it toward the window, holding it loosely in case it got shot out of his hand.  At least the alley was in full shade, so he didn't have to worry about a bright beam of sunlight bouncing its way into the house and announcing his presence.

Weiss swiveled the mirror slowly, trying to make out the features of the dimly lit room.  He didn't see movement, but that didn't necessarily rule out any hostiles.  Stifling a sigh, he moved to the next window, and the next.  Same outcome.

Do or die time, he told himself.  Stealth until it doesn't work anymore, then full speed ahead.

Weiss slid the mirror back into his pocket and reached for the slender pens decorated with Italian flags.  Taking a deep breath, he moved to the back door and crouched in front of the door handle.

***

"There has to be a way out," Sydney decided, pacing the small confines of the room, stepping gracefully around Vaughn.

"We need to prepare for when they come back," Vaughn answered.  "I don't think there's any surveillance in here.  I've checked as thoroughly as I can."

Syd gave him an irritable look.  "If they have anything half as sophisticated as Marshall can produce..." she pointed out, not bothering to finish the thought.

Grimacing, Vaughn reached for her hand and tugged until she sat down beside him.  "We need a plan," he said.  "This room isn't soundproofed.  They'll have to disable the tripwire; we'll hear them."

"You're assuming," Sydney answered balefully, "that they're planning to come back for us."

***

The door opened without sounding an audible alarm, and Weiss exhaled slowly.  He stuffed the pens back in his pocket and retrieved the umbrella, extending the collapsible metal rod to its full length.  Briefly, he considered holding it by the tip, since the handle was a nice, solid wood and would probably do some damage.  But the canvas was slick and, knowing him, he'd lose it mid-swing and send the umbrella sailing end over end, leaving him utterly defenseless.  Not that a damn umbrella was much of a weapon, anyway.

Positive thoughts, he reminded himself.  At least there aren't four guys with guns greeting me at the door.

Methodically, Weiss moved through the rooms, clearing each like he was at one of the model homes at Quantico, undergoing agent training.  Only it was much less effective holding a damn umbrella instead of a gun.  If he did stumble across a goon with a gun, probably the shock of someone coming at him with a Sistine Chapel umbrella wouldn't last long enough for Weiss to charge and knock the gun free.

Positive thoughts, dammit.

When he'd cleared the entire first floor, Weiss stood at the foot of the stairs and considered his options.  If there were guards in the house, they'd be upstairs.  But if there were prisoners, logic -- and Weiss's own experience in Derevko's clutches -- suggested that they'd be secreted downstairs, where the earth itself could absorb any possible noise they'd make.

Weiss moved back toward the kitchen, stopping when he noticed the small latched door in the side of the stairs.  Probably just a cupboard, but Weiss scanned the edges for alarms and then unlatched it, swinging it open slowly, waiting for the hinges to creak.

He'd guessed right -- a single light bulb shined down, revealing a rickety set of stairs leading down to a cellar.  Weiss swallowed the annoying little voice that told him he was walking into a dead end (or, worse, a trap) and ducked through the entryway, pulling the small door shut behind him.

The wooden stairs were old, and protested every time Weiss shifted his weight.  He forced himself to move as slowly as possible, counting to ten as he transferred his weight from one foot to the other, straining his ears all the while for telltale signs that he'd been detected.  Every minute he was in the house, his chances of being discovered (and summarily killed) grew worse and worse.

Like the small room he'd awoken in earlier, this cellar featured a dirt floor and probably once served as a wine cellar.  Now it was bleak and damp and cold and lit only by the bulb hanging at the top of the stairs.  And there were two doors, one that stood open, leading into a dark chamber that Weiss decided to explore later, time permitting, and another that was closed and locked and booby-trapped to explode if opened.

"Well," Weiss breathed, "look what we've got here."

He edged closer, wishing like hell Marshall could talk him through this from L.A.  Weiss wasn't an expert in bombs, despite the two-week "How to Disarm a Bomb without Losing an Important Limb" classes he'd taken at the academy.  He hated bombs, in fact, and had to force himself to get close enough to look at the wiring.

What if he breathed on it wrong and it blew up on him?  What if this bomb was guarding the Rambaldi artifact that Derevko wanted and he managed to destroy it?  What if he cut the wrong wire and ended up killing himself and Syd and Vaughn?  (Of course, the very tiny upside of that particular scenario was that Irina Derevko couldn't hunt him down and kill him if he was already dead.)

Swallowing hard, Weiss hunkered down in front of the small device, laying his umbrella on the floor beside him.  It was attached to the wall beside the doorknob, its incongruously cheerful display blinking green at him as he scanned it for hints.  Sliding the small Forum Flashlight out of his pocket, Weiss leaned closer, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he examined the device.

Looked pretty simple, as far as bombs went.  But he didn't trust himself to disarm it completely.  He'd be the guy in the teaser of the blockbuster action movie, the one that advocates cutting the red wire, when everyone in the audience just knows that the scruffy, troubled antihero is going to cut the blue wire and be right.  Only Weiss's scruffy, troubled antihero partner was quite possibly trapped on the other side of this door, unable to tell Weiss to cut the blue wire and not the red.

Instead, Weiss traced the air alongside the filament-thin tripwires crisscrossing the door.  Whoever had set the bomb hadn't bothered to run separate tripwires, choosing to string a single wire back and forth from the door to the doorjamb and the floor, so any movement on any portion of the door would set the bomb off.

"Ingenious," Weiss muttered.  He turned his attention to the spot where the tripwire met the trigger.  If he could just figure out a way to keep the pressure on the trigger the same, attaching it somehow to the wall while cutting the rest of it free...  well, he'd be a damn genius.

Rocking back on his heels, Weiss quickly ran through his mental checklist of "tools" he had on him.  Nothing remotely string-like, or at least nothing nearly thin enough for the job.  Okay, so back to the tripwire-cutting plan.  He located a perfectly good nail to attach the wire to, but keeping the tension on the wire steady while he somehow managed to fasten the wire... That didn't seem like anything he could do.

Of course, he didn't seem to have much of a choice.  "Why me?" he grumbled to himself.  "Why can't Syd's crazy-scary mom kidnap and threaten someone else?"

Carefully, carefully, Weiss removed the faceplate of the bomb, letting the molded plastic dangle.  He dug out his Swiss army knife (ironically, with a bad line-drawing of Caesar on the handle) and unfolded the tiny scissors.  Exhaling slowly, Weiss wrapped his free hand around the tripwire and steadied his grip, reaching several inches below to snip the wire.

No explosion.

Good.  Weiss moved the wire slowly, grimacing as he kept the same, steady tension.  He'd wrapped it around the chosen nail and was trying to figure out how to tie it without losing tension when he heard the creak of wood.  Freezing, Weiss glanced over his shoulder at the staircase, eyes widening as he registered the increasing light, and then the human-shaped shadow on the wall.

Someone was coming.  And crouched there holding a tripwire for a bomb, Weiss was a sitting duck.  Frantically, he turned his attention back to the bomb itself, scanning the multicolored wires and trying to recall anything Marshall had ever said about bombs.

Cut the power source.

The power source.  Right.  That made sense.  Weiss searched desperately for the battery, as the stairs creaked under the weight of the approaching hostile.  In about three seconds, Weiss would be within view -- and within the sights of a gun, no doubt.  

Spotting what he thought was probably the battery, Weiss sent up a quick prayer and snipped the blue wire.

***

Syd straightened up, bringing one hand up to warn Vaughn to stay quiet.  She moved closer to the door, laying her hands flat against it as she pressed her ear closer.

Vaughn moved to stand beside her, mimicking her posture.  He wrinkled his brow, wordlessly asking the question.

"I heard something," she mouthed.  "Someone's out there."

Vaughn's expression darkened, and he tensed, readying himself to fight.  But Syd held up one finger, telling him to wait.

***

Holy shit, he was alive.

Weiss's relief was short-lived, and he grabbed his umbrella and scooted across the floor, thankful now for the dirt that muffled the sound of his shoes.  He heard an exclamation in Italian that probably translated into something like, "Bring your big guns down here and help me kill this stupid intruder!" and then the hostile descended into view, moving quickly toward the disabled bomb.

For the second time in as many hours, Weiss lunged across a cellar and took aim at someone's head.  This time, he swung the umbrella, which bent slightly on contact, but still felled the shouting Italian.  But his fellow bad guys had probably heard him, so Weiss lunged forward and liberated the felled goon's gun.

He had to get upstairs.  He had to get to the others before they called for reinforcements.  Weiss didn't bother with stealth, taking the creaky stairs two at a time, leading with the gun.  He stepped carefully out into the small hallway, clearing his immediate surroundings even as footsteps pounded down the stairs from the second floor.

Backing toward the kitchen, Weiss listened for more.  He could hear voices upstairs, and more footsteps, too many to count.  Shit, shit, shit.  If he could reach the kitchen and clear it before they arrived, he could at least guard the cellar door, picking them off one-by-one as they tried to get downstairs.  

Just as he reached the archway to the small kitchen, the first hostile rounded the corner, headed for the cellar door.  Weiss leaned around the archway and fired, noting with grim satisfaction that he'd fallen mere steps from the entrance to the rickety old staircase.  The shouting from upstairs grew louder and more alarmed, and Weiss told himself not to panic, even as he imagined the upstairs as some sort of bad-guy clown car, disgorging more and more and more armed gunmen, until Weiss ran out of bullets.

Shit, he thought, staring wide-eyed at the gun he'd inherited from the unconscious guy in the cellar, what if the clip's not full?

Unexpectedly, the front door burst open, letting in blinding sunlight and more armed figures.  Weiss eased back behind the archway, glancing at the back door.  He could retreat entirely, and he might even make it alive out of the alleyway to call in for backup.  But that would mean leaving Syd and Vaughn -- assuming they were what was behind that armed door -- to their fate, and stupid or not, that wasn't something Weiss was prepared to do.  

Taking a deep breath, Weiss brought his gun up and leaned around the doorway, taking aim, his finger increasing tension on the trigger even as the newcomer's gun swung towards Weiss.

Weiss blinked.  "Jack?"

Jack's gun tilted slightly away from Weiss's forehead (but not nearly far enough for Weiss's comfort) and he frowned, just a little bit.  "Weiss?"

"What are you--?"  

But Jack turned to the staircase and fired, moving quickly toward Weiss as two other agents followed him into the house.  "Later," Jack ordered curtly, his gaze raking coldly over the body on the floor before the cellar door.  "Cover me."  With that, he ducked into the small passageway that led down to the cellar.

Weiss nodded to the two CIA agents, thankful he recognized them and, more importantly, that they recognized him.  "Hostiles upstairs," he said, rather unnecessarily.  "But this floor should still be clear."

They nodded and efficiently fanned on, one covering the stairs and one moving silently through the ground floor to clear it.  Weiss kept the cellar door covered, feeling more than a little useless now that the cavalry had arrived.

***

"That's gunfire," Sydney said, rather unnecessarily.  She dropped to the floor and examined the tripwire again.  They had no idea what was going on outside their small, dank prison, but there'd been a shout, then the sound of a body falling, and now gunfire.  Whatever it was, she had no desire to be trapped in here when it ended.

Syd studied the tripwire, frowning slightly.  "Vaughn, look at this.  I think there's slack in the wire."

He dropped to the floor beside her, pressing his cheek to the dirt.  "I think you're right."

They exchanged puzzled looks.  "Should we risk it?" Sydney wondered aloud.  "Whatever's going on upstairs might be cover enough for us to escape--"

The door swung open, and Syd and Vaughn jerked backwards, clambering to their feet.  Then Sydney froze.  "Dad?"

***

"And then," Sydney continued, leaning toward Dixon and giving him a slightly tipsy grin, "my dad flings open the door!"

Vaughn nodded enthusiastically, a little red-cheeked himself from the beers he'd consumed.  "And there's this guy, unconscious, on the floor next to the disabled bomb.  And beside him, there's," he stopped, momentarily losing his battle with laughter, "there's an umbrella with a reproduction of the Sistine Chapel on it."

Dixon raised his eyebrows, a grin breaking out on his features.  "No!"

Laughing, Sydney slumped back into the couch's embrace.  "I swear.  It was bizarre."  She nudged Weiss with her foot.  "You were there.  Back us up."

Weiss leaned back in his armchair and nodded.  "They're right, Dixon.  It looked like someone knocked the guy out with the umbrella."

Amused, Dixon turned his attention back to Sydney.  "Are you sure your dad didn't do it?"

Sydney's skeptical expression was priceless.  "Can you picture my dad whacking somebody over the head with an umbrella?"

"Good point," Dixon conceded.  "Jack is somehow too... dignified for that."

*Just call me Eric the Clown*, Weiss thought acerbically.  Not that he had any plans on admitting -- ever -- to being the guy wielding the killer umbrella, but still.

He drained the rest of his beer, uncomfortable listening to Sydney's recounting of his Roman holiday.  Somehow, while Weiss was dumping his souvenir-weapons into a trashcan on the Via Nazionale in Rome, the story had become about Jack.  Jack had miraculously determined where his daughter was being held, and he'd led just two agents into the building to secure her safe release.  Weiss's unexpected appearance was never really questioned; everyone seemed to assume that Weiss had made the same deductions and arrived there just before Jack.

It had never seemed quite right to set everyone straight.  That would've felt too much like bragging.

"That's it for me," Weiss announced, groaning a little as he pushed himself to his feet.  Spending an hour or so at Sydney's after returning from a particularly adventuresome mission had become something of a ritual.  A ritual with wine and Chinese food or pizza.  Most times, Marshall and occasionally Dixon would join them.  Usually, Weiss enjoyed the hell out of the impromptu parties.  "I need some sleep."

Syd gave him the puppy eyes and tried to convince him to stay, but he really was exhausted.  They'd spent an extra day in Rome, dealing with the local authorities and investigating the bank.  Whoever was responsible for capturing Syd and Vaughn had also, it appeared, been digging their way into the bank vault.  Or at least trying to.

Not surprisingly, when Jack bullied his way into the targeted vault, it'd been empty.  A cursory examination of the bank's security tapes showed them Arvin Sloane -- his hair dyed jet black and sporting an ugly cashmere sweater and some serious bling -- waltzing out of the bank with an oversized briefcase at about the same time that Weiss and Jack had been pointing guns at each other the next block over.

Weiss had watched the tape very, very carefully, but he'd seen no signs of Irina Derevko.  Still, he wasn't entirely convinced that she hadn't masterminded the entire thing, just to get the CIA out of the way during Sloane's little heist.

That was another subject Weiss didn't care to examine too closely.  He gently rebuffed Sydney's pleas and said his goodbyes, trudging a few feet down the hall to his apartment.  Weiss stopped short when he saw the postcard peeking out from under his welcome mat.  Crouching down, he carefully lifted the mat to reveal a nighttime view of the Colosseum.

It could only be from one person, and Weiss instinctively scanned his hallway for her.  Nothing.  He inspected his door for tripwires or other telltale marks of impending death, but found nothing.

Lifting the postcard with two fingers, he flipped it over, holding his breath.

     Well done.

Just two words, no greeting, no sign off.  More worrisome, no postmark.  Someone had hand-delivered the postcard, but Weiss knew if he had it analyzed, it would reveal no matches with Irina Derevko -- no prints, no handwriting analysis, nothing.  He wondered if she'd paid someone to write it for her, or if, among her other talents, she was an expert forger.  Somehow, it wouldn't surprise him.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Weiss jerked upright, the postcard clutched in his hand as he turned, expecting Irina Derevko.

Jack halted two feet from him, his inscrutable gaze dropping to the postcard.  "Agent Weiss," he greeted.  "She sent you a postcard?"

Weiss blinked, surprised that Jack could still surprise him.  "Huh?" he asked, stupidly.

"Irina Derevko," Jack clarified.  "She sent you after Sydney and Vaughn in Rome.  Am I correct?"

"Yes.  The umbrella was mine," he added unnecessarily.

Jack gave a brisk nod.  "I suspected as much.  We received intell from eastern Europe this evening," Jack continued, lowering his voice and stepping closer, even though Weiss knew he must have a bug killer in his pocket.  "Arvin Sloane is allegedly in possession of a Rambaldi device that is not authentic."

Weiss let that sink in for a moment.  "He has a fake," he surmised, "and you think that Irina Derevko--"

"Used the chaos she created to get her hands on the original and leave Arvin Sloane holding a copy," Jack interrupted smoothly.  "Yes, I do."

Weiss dropped his gaze, staring at two words written on the back of a postcard.  He wasn't sure what to make of this new information.  Had Derevko played him -- played them all -- from the start?

"Agent Weiss," Jack said, waiting until he looked up to continue.  "Remember that Irina Derevko is a very skilled actress."

Nodding slowly, Weiss offered Jack the postcard.  "Do you want to have this analyzed?"

Jack glanced at it.  "Do you honestly think it will tell us anything?"

"No."

With a curt nod, Jack said, "Precisely."

As Jack turned to leave, Weiss said, "Wait.  Jack.  Do you think she set us all up?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder, a small frown on his lips.  "I honestly don't know."

"Man," Weiss muttered, reaching for his door.  "I need a drink."

"That is a common reaction to Irina Derevko," Jack answered, and if Weiss didn't know better, he'd think he heard a note of humor in Jack's voice.

THE END

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