iago

She is no Desdemona.

She's no Sydney Bristow either. But no one is, not even Ms. Bristow, these days.

He pauses before her car, waits for her to meet his eyes, then activates the sensor on the bomb he wired onto the undercarriage before she arrived. Her hands are locked on the top of the steering wheel. Her eyes are wide and dark with fear and disbelief. If he had touched her wrist, leaning forward from the backseat as he gave her the file, he would have felt her heartbeat hammering like a trapped bird's.

She didn't panic, though. He admires that. Michael Vaughn is a very lucky man, though that luck is about to run out.

He smirks at her and walks away.

He absently pockets the remote detonator and holsters his Glock. The CCTV cameras will come on line again shortly. He'll be gone, though. He pulls out the keys to his rented Mercedes. He always tries to drive something with speed and power. Drive fast enough, long enough, and it feels like you're free.

He'll have to move fast from now on. Irina won't be happy, though if she expected undying loyalty she should have exhibited some herself. No one ever asked him if he wanted to be what he's meant to be.

Perhaps his little wedding present will be the destruction of the Vaughns' marriage. He would consider that a small bonus, an amusement, collateral destruction in addition to his primary aim.

He can predict what she'll do. Has already, but seeing and speaking with her has confirmed his estimation of her. Her naivete will be the death of something, he thinks. Ms. Bristow, her own marriage, her career ... so many possibilities it makes Sark smile.

He did promise Allison that Bristow would pay.

He didn't say how.

He would know those eyes in any guise. Mrs. Vaughn recognized her rival as well. Oh, what a lovely, shocked gasp she gave.

The pictures in the file didn't need to be enhanced; Allison supplied them. He knows they're courtesy of the Covenant, meant to distract him from what they've cost him with what Sydney Bristow took from him. It's a miscalculation, but he played to it, with Allison, and with Mrs. Vaughn. Money's rather more real to him than any familial fantasies. Lazeray abandoned him and, if anything, he resents Ms. Bristow for denying him the pleasure of putting an end to the man himself.

He's doing this to flout Irina, to pretend he can derail destiny, but perversely, he knows it will convince Allison and their Covenant masters that he can be 'managed.' That he won't run.

Perhaps Ms. Bristow will have time to run. It won't matter. He found 'Julia Thorne's' bolthole in Rome–the Covenant has eyes everywhere–and made sure to include it with the file. She has no experience as a true fugitive; all her contacts will be under watch. She'll be completely isolated.

He hopes she'll enjoy the NSC's hospitality once Mrs. Vaughn turns those photographs over to Robert Lindsey.

As much as he enjoyed his two year stay with the CIA.

He hopes his old acquaintances at the CIA enjoy being hamstrung and powerless once Lindsey shuts them down, too.

He's certainly enjoying the prospect; damage will done, no matter the ultimate outcome for Ms. Bristow.

He doesn't mind playing Iago. Better to act than to be acted upon.