Summary: What happened when Bill Vaughn kidnapped Nadia from the KGB?
Timeline: Prequel to the entire series, but written after the events of episode 21, Legacy.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone Television and related entities. Made-ups are mine and mine alone.
“I have to do this,” William Vaughn told his partner Brill resolutely.
“Bill, you’re out of your fucking mind. You’re going to kidnap a child from the KGB?”
“Yes.” Bill was wringing his hands, pacing the floor, in the CIA safehouse. “Everything is in place. And the girl that I’m taking from them, they’re doing terrible things. A child shouldn’t be subjected to whatever the KGB is doing to her.”
Brill grabbed his arm and looked angrily into his friend’s eyes. “If they find out, CIA or KGB, your career could end. Your life could, for God’s sake. You couldn’t leave Michael behind, could you?”
Bill paused momentarily, softening at the thought. His only son was just a young boy himself. He would do the same thing if Michael was being subjected to KGB experiments. It was the right thing to do. Vaughn believed in the Greater Good, and everything that went along with it. Rambaldi had taught him that much. “You’re not gonna report me, are you?”
Brill eased his grip on Vaughn’s arm. “No. But if anything happens to you, I can’t back you up. You understand that right? It’s not just your career on the line, it’ll be mine and I can’t afford that.”
“Yes. I’ll be back in forty-eight hours. I promise.”
Bill made a move to the door before Brill’s voice stopped him again.
“It’s Rambaldi, isn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question.
Bill couldn’t turn to look at him. “No.”
“Vaughn, don’t lie to me. We’ve been through too much. I know you. Just tell me. Is it because of Rambaldi or not?”
Bill cast a dark gaze over his shoulder. “Yes.”
Brill shook his head. “It’s not worth dying over some dead prophet’s words. You’re smarter than this, Bill.” He sighed, knowing what he was going to say next would have no effect. “Don’t go. Think about Michael!”
But Vaughn’s mind was set. He adjusted the small traveling pack on his back and left without another word.
Infiltration of Novgorod 21, the KGB compound, was not easy. They had guards pacing the perimeter every fifteen seconds. Vaughn’s skin crawled at the sight of the KGB uniforms, when an idea popped into his head. Hiding in the shadows of the harsh lamp light overhead, he removed a tranquilizer gun and aimed at the neck of the latest patrolling KGB officer. He fell to the floor in a heap and Vaughn dragged him into the shadows, quickly changing uniforms with the man.
“Thank you comrade,” Vaughn muttered under his breath in Russian, as he picked up the sedated guard’s weapon and entered the facility.
“Hello,” called another KGB uniform (major by the medals on his chest).
“Hello,” Vaughn replied, saluting, hoping his Russian sounded okay.
Finding the room where they were keeping the child was easy, considering the security protocols the KGB had in place. Fingering the tranquilizer, he moved into the dark, cold room, the last one in the singular hallway of Novgorod 21. He watched in horror as he saw a female child scribbling something with a unique-looking pen. She appeared to be under a trance.
“Hello,” said the short Asian looking doctor in an almost offhand way. He was used to the KGB guards making sporadic stops to check up on him and his work. The doctor was monitoring the child’s progress in the room walled off with glass that separated the child from the rest of the room. A crude video camera machine was set up overlooking the child.
“Hello,” Vaughn replied.
This was too much. Every scribble the child made his heart break with the alightness of the girl’s small hand. Thinking fast, he subdued the guard that was watching over them and the doctor as well. Vaughn made his way to the child’s side in seconds. Untying the binding, he watched as the child left the trance she was in and began to speak broken English.
“Help me,” she said, tears quickly forming in her brown eyes.
“I’m going to,” Vaughn replied, picking her up in his arms and spiriting her away into the night.
Vaughn and the girl landed in Buenos Aires, Argentina in no time. She was confused by her kidnapping from the “bad people,” as she called them, but she understood immediately that Vaughn had taken her from the “bad people” for a reason. His handler, Jack Bristow, ordered that he put the girl, whom they named Nadia Santos, into an orphanage run by Rambaldi followers. In his Americanized Spanish, leaning heavily on the French verbs and nouns his wife Amelie used in their day-to-day conversations, Vaughn explained who he was, who the child was, and the orphanage owners accepted the girl immediately, promising to guard her until she turned eighteen.
As he had promised Brill, forty-eight hours later, William Vaughn landed at LAX in one piece, not to banners and fireworks and ticker tape parades, like a war hero would. Anonymity was part of the spy life as he had come to accept. But he slept easily that night knowing that Nadia Santos would be in good hands, protected from the one person who wished nothing but harm on her: her mother, Irina Derevko.