Stockholm (post two)
Title: Stockholm
Summary: see entry below
MADRID
Irina is quietly furious upon learning how the Jakarta mission went. She dismisses Sydney almost absently, but asks Sark to stay behind.
The door closes. Irina doesn’t speak at first, as though deciding what to say. Sark surmises that something of magnitude must have happened while he was away.
She passes him two slim folders. “These are the mission specs for Argentina. Read it over; if Sydney chooses not to take it you can either go solo or assign it to a team of Class A’s.”
This can’t be all.
It isn’t. “We-believe-we have a plan for Doren’s escape.”
He feels a sort of sickened lurch in his stomach. He had nearly forgotten. But he recovers in an instant.
“Will it require my assistance?” he asks briskly.
Irina shakes her head, and again, Sark senses an absence.
He ventures to ask. “You seem . . . off. Is there something . . .” He trails off.
She’s put her defense up, Sark realizes too late. There will be no getting it out of her now.
“I might ask you the same question,” Irina says gently.
“No,” he says, with a half-hearted smile, “I’m just as . . . normal as ever.”
She leans forward a little. “Aidan,” she says. “I know what Doren means to you.”
Sark feels a little jarred. He hasn’t heard his name in over six years.
And for another thing, he isn’t really sure what he feels about Allison anymore.
“I appreciate your concern,” he says, rather stiffly, “and the fact that we have a plan is also quite reassuring.” He rises. “You know where to reach me.” He turns and leaves.
Once outside the office, he breaks into a jog.
He reaches Sydney on the verge of entering her room. Sark notices her uncertainty under her normal, cold exterior.
“Sydney-” he begins. “I really think there are some things-last night, in particular-that we should discuss.”
Clearly she’s been expecting this, because she sighs and says, “I know, and I just-there’s nothing to say.”
“Are you sure?”
Silently she nods.
He knows why-why she wants to forget . . . Suddenly everything comes into perspective. It was a one-time thing, for the both of them. He had Allison-not a certainty, he admits-and Sydney . . .
Sydney had Agent Vaughn.
“Oh, and-here . . . this details a mission to Argentina. It concerns, predictably, retrieving another Rambaldi page.” He hands her the copy. “It’s not mandatory.”
She takes it but continues to look at him, expecting something else.
“That’s all.”
“So does this involve Sloane?”
Sark considers. “No-well, not directly at least. If you want to prevent him from getting the page himself . . .”
Sydney flips through the pages, taking it in rapidly. Finally she says, “You’ve forgotten the reason I am here in the first place and that reason is, to take down Arvin Sloane. And as far as I can see, this mission has no relevance to him at all. Assign it to someone else.” She holds it out to him.
“As I said, it’s not mandatory,” he replies coolly, taking it. He strides away, not even bothering to look back at her.
Five minutes later, he is speeding through Madrid, automatically taking the turns and twists of the street.
He needs a glass of Merlot. A large one.
* * *
The glass feels smooth and strangely comforting in his hands. He slowly raises it and takes one long sip.
He doesn’t want to think tonight, nor does he want to feel. He smiles bitterly and takes another drink. Feeling. In training, you weren’t supposed to feel. You weren’t allowed to feel.
Odd Irina would be the one to teach him that.
He leans back onto the cool leather and gazes around. These walls had been blank when he’d first found the apartment. He’d filed them.
He had decided against red paint for the walls, instead gone for a new, modern style of purple. Not a bright shade, much more muted.
There is a silver, circular mirror directly across from the leather chair. He stares into it, at himself. Nothing different. Perfectly normal.
The slim black folder is lying on the coffee table. He leaves it there. Matthews could take it . . . send him along with Knightley and Crowe . . . oh, to hell with it, I’m not dealing with this now . . . Missions could wait, for the moment. He needs this time, for himself.
He drains the glass and goes to his room to change.
He keeps his pajamas simple: a pair of boxers, sometimes a shirt . . . he’s resolved never to buy himself a robe, never. He glances at the clock. A little past midnight.
The doorbell rings. He blinks. Irina? Allison?
He walks quickly to an abstract painting above his dresser, presses the upper left corner, and uncovers the security cameras. Reassuring to have, although he doesn’t really expect that the CIA would take the time to ring his doorbell . . . now . . . front door . . .
Sydney.
He hesitates for a minute before throwing on his shirt and pants again and walking quickly to the door.
Sydney is standing there, looking rather rueful. Somehow he can’t get his mouth to move, or say anything.
Sydney seems to be finding it difficult to talk also. “Hi,” she says finally, abruptly. “I was harsh, today, after the debrief, to you. And I’ve thought it over, and I guess, I will go to Argentina . . . I guess I just realized . . . that even a small blow to Sloane . . . is still a blow.” She takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t really matter if you’ve already organized a team-”
Sark finally finds his voice. “No, I - I haven’t. It’s still open.”
There is a long pause.
“I . . . I know, I really shouldn’t be here . . .”
“No.” Her eyebrows go up a notch. “I mean, you know, it’s all right . . .” he continues hurriedly, “it’s just obviously not . . . the best . . . idea.”
Sydney is looking at him with a certain concern. “Are you okay?”
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. Not at his best. Disheveled to say the least.
He turns back to her. “I’m all right. Really.”
Her eyes travel back until they rest on the empty wine glass on the coffee table.
“I appreciate your coming to tell me all this before I’d arranged a team,” Sark says, bringing her focus back around to him. “It certainly makes things easier.” He feels a tinge of color enter his face. He is making a fool out of himself and in front of Sydney Bristow.
There is the barest trace of a smile on her face. “I should go.” After a second, she turns and enters the elevator at the end of the hallway.
He closes the door, and looks across the room at the half-empty Merlot bottle. A few seconds pass before he walks past the table and enters his room.
He sees his cell phone lying on the dresser. He turns it off. He doesn’t care who needs to call him. In fact, if anyone called him right now he would probably tell them to go to hell. The change was amazing. Like someone had just taken away a huge bundle full of things you were carrying.
He collapses under the sheets and smiles to himself. Aidan. God, it has been so long. “Aidan,” he says out loud. “My name is Aidan.” Aidan Sark, how odd that sounds. It’s better than his old name. He doesn’t even want to think about it.
There’s a song in his head. Piano music. Someone singing. A woman. He doesn’t know what it is or where he’s heard it. He listens.
. . . brings such misery and pain . . . I know I’ll never be the same . . . Why can’t he recognize it? It’s so familiar . . .
I guess I’ll never see the light . . . I get the blues most every night . . .
He draws in a sharp breath.
Since I fell for you . . .
Too much wine, he thinks haphazardly. There would be hell to pay in the morning. Irina was not lenient when it came to hangovers.
He smiles a little, lying there, listening to the distant memory of the song.
Since I fell for you.
LOS ANGELES
TRANSMISSION: LOS ANGELES CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER
RECIPIENT: CAMP HARRIS
ALLISON GEORGIA DOREN, NUMBER 45879, HAS BEEN ORDERED TO ARLEN CENTER FOR INTENSIVE QUESTIONING. TRANSFER WILL TAKE PLACE AT 4:00 AM TOMORROW.
DIRECTOR WILLIAM KENDALL
Jack Bristow did not hesitate before hitting “send."
* * *
NEVADA
A van pulls up into a gas station in southern Nevada. The air is cool, and the moon is still visible on the far side of the sky.
There is another van, waiting.
Two men step out of the car, between them a cuffed and half-drugged woman. The three of them proceed to the second, stationary van.
The back of the van opens, and the woman is thrust inside. It closes.
One man gets out, shakes hands with the two men, and re-enters the van.
Within ten seconds, both vans are gone.
* * *
A static-filled voice sounds on the radio.
“We got her.”
Jack Bristow responds. “Copy that. Proceed to landing base.”
“Copy.”
* * *
MADRID
“I tried to call you on your cell last night. I couldn’t get through.” Irina gazes at Sark questioningly.
“Battery failure. I replaced it this morning,” Sark replies.
“And you were late.”
“I apologize.”
“It had better not happen again.”
He had downed three cups of coffee before he could bring himself to drive over to the office.
He had tried, through his burning headache, to make sense of the night before. Sydney had come . . . apologized . . . the mission. The mission.
“Sydney and I are taking Argentina,” he says.
Irina seems pleased. Then her face becomes serious again. “We’ve just confirmed-Doren is on a private flight headed for Madrid.”
There is silence. Sark finally speaks. “If you don’t mind my asking-how has this been planned? How exactly did you bring this all about?”
Irina looks away, and back. “Now is not the time.” And Sark knows he’ll just have to stay content with that answer.
* * *
CIA OPS CENTER
“Uh, Mr. Kendall, there’s something I think you-really should . . . see, here.” Marshall tentatively holds out a piece of paper to Kendall, who eyes him incredulously.
“Make it quick.”
Marshall looked considerably more nervous. “Okay . . . um, you’ll see a message transcript here, supposedly sent from us, the CIA, to Arlen Center. And you were the one that sent it.”
Kendall looked up at him and frowned. “I don’t recall sending any messages to Arlen Center-”
“You see, sir, that’s my point - if you didn’t, who did? Now, you see, there - in the second row? A series of numbers. CIA official transcript number. Very classified, high-level, secret, top-secret-anyway one of the numbers . . . is not a match. Thirty-third across.”
Kendall snatches the paper, scans it, and throws it down on the desk. “Tell security section to get on this right away,” he barks at Marshall. “Contact Arlen Center and Camp Harris to check on the prisoner’s status. I want tails put on every high-level member in this office. Now!”
* * *
Jack glances out the rearview. He’s said he’s taking a few days off, just for some time. And they understood. At least he thought they did.
He feels almost on edge. Everything seems to be going along well, and yet he can’t help but feel he was reckless. The letter was risky. He had moved perhaps too quickly . . . He glances out again.
Before he realizes it, he’s turned left. Would’ve been faster to keep going straight . . .
How could they get on to him? And then he thinks of a million solutions, and he feels the sickened sensation in his chest. He could take a risk-just not one this foolish.
That gray car-still behind him. He turns right.
Within a few seconds, it’s there again.
Damn it, Jack thinks furiously. He drives faster now, picks up speed-takes turns that have no logical path.
Within ten minutes, the car is gone.
The plane is waiting for him.
He apologizes for the delay.
* * *
“Mr. Kendall, we think we have the source of the letter.” The young agent can barely suppress his proud smirk. “Jack Bristow.”
* * *
24 Hours Later
“Sydney . . . there’s someone I’d like you to see.” Irina rises from her desk and walks across the room. She opens the door.
Sark stands off to the side. It seemed so incredible to him when he first learned of it, a few hours ago . . . but now . . .
In walks Jack Bristow.
And for once, his steely reserve is thrust aside. He holds his daughter tightly to him. She hugs him back.
Sark looks away. He feels as though he is intruding on something sacred, something that he knows he should not share in.
Quietly, he exits, without a glance back.
* * *
MADRID
The next morning, Sark steps into Irina’s office and is instantly met with the unexpected.
Allison is there.
He feels a rush - of not knowing what to say - what to think - he has tried to prepare himself for this, planned out the scenarios in his mind.
Gone blank.
Luckily, Allison speaks first. “It’s been a long time.”
“So it has.” Her hair is a little longer - it could be because it wasn’t styled in the likeness of Franc - someone else. She’s also a little thinner, and has abandoned the bright makeup her alias had required her to wear. For the first time in months, she looks - almost like herself.
But not quite.
Irina rises and quietly leaves the room.
As soon as the door clicks, Sark breaks in. “What happened to you?”
Her whole face is one of pure fury. “What happened to me? You really want to know? You care enough now to ask me that?”
“I could be asking you the same thing-”
“-I was nearly killed-”
“-If you really cared about me or your loyalties to Irina-”
“-I have no loyalties! And you should have pulled me out before Stockholm instead of-”
“-You should have killed Tippin-”
“-abandoning me and leaving when the CIA-”
“-You had the opportunity and you didn’t take it, you should have called-”
Allison’s ice-cold stare ends it. “There wasn’t time,” she hisses. “You weren’t there, you don’t know how - conflicted I was, and I just . . .” She looks away from him.
It takes a few seconds for Sark to realize she’s staring at the door. He whips around. It’s Sydney.
How much did she hear? Sark wonders.
But she’s wearing an expression to rival Allison’s. And the two women won’t take their eyes off each other.
“I was looking for the Kenan Patrel file,” Sydney says to Sark, still looking steadily at Allison. “I was wondering if you knew where to find it.”
“Top drawer on the left,” Sark answers automatically. He’s awed by the sheer intensity between the two. It’s like a force field.
Allison turns to Sark. “I’ll be downstairs.” She whips past Sydney and disappears into the corridor.
Sydney immediately turns her attention to Sark, and he waits resignedly for the outburst.
“What,” she asks very pointedly, “is that woman . . . doing here. I was under the impression that the CIA had her.”
“Sydney, this was news to me, too, a couple of days ago. I had no idea about the plan-”
“But you knew she was going to get out, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know it would be so soon. I was given the impression that it would be months before she was extracted.”
Her expression is so full of confusion and incredulity. “How? What was the plan?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been wondering that myself.”
Silence. Then it hits them together. It’s the only possible way.
“Oh, God,” murmurs Sydney. “He wouldn’t . . .”
“He would.” He watches her closely.
Sydney shakes her head, over and over, and then looks up at Sark, with tears in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything.
She seems about to leave, but remembers the file and retrieves it first. “I’ll see you,” she says.
Sark hesitates. “See you,” he says. The casual expression feels strange to him, foreign. A little too American for his British tongue.
He could swear he sees Sydney smile a little.
Irina’s back. Sark prepares himself for the third female-led dispute of the hour.
Luckily, she isn’t in the mood. “How is Sydney taking things?”
“As well as can be expected, I would say.”
“I want to know. She won’t talk to me,” and Sark sees the hurt in those brown eyes, “and she sees the most of you.”
Sark sighs. “Obviously seeing Bristow was reassuring to her. But I really don’t think that having Allison so close . . .”
Irina nods. “I’m sending her to Germany. They’re going to try to alter the procedure, and after that, I think,” she nods again, “I think she’ll go deep cover. But it’s not confirmed.”
Sark changes the subject. “Any word on Sloane?”
“Jack has a couple of new leads; other than that, he’s doing an excellent job of staying hidden. But I’m not saying he’s given up.”
* * *
Allison feels the arm around her neck, choking her. She strains for air.
“Nobody told me you were coming to join us.” Sydney’s voice cuts into her ears.
Allison gathers her strength and thrusts her elbow into Sydney’s stomach, whips around and twists Sydney’s arms into a painful position. “I didn’t know I was myself. You, of all people,” with a harder twist, “should know how it feels to be used.”
Sydney’s leg swings around with a high kick and hits Allison between the shoulder and head, releasing her arms. She ducks from the incoming punch and sends one directly into Allison’s stomach. Allison clutches her stomach, barely able to breathe or move.
“If you think that I am just calmly going to accept your presence here,” Sydney whispers, her voice leveled, “then you have a lot to learn about me.”
She sends one more kick out. Allison sinks to the ground.
“Considering you spent half a year living in my house, I’m a little surprised.”
She turns and exits.
* * *
BARCELONA
Sydney strides into the park and sees her father seated on a bench next to a large weeping willow. She reaches him, and instead of sitting beside him, she merely stands there.
Jack immediately realizes she’s discovered him. “Sydney, there are a few things we need to talk about, and this place is the most private I could find.” He had whispered the name of the street and city into Sydney’s hair when they had first greeted each other.
Sydney can hardly keep herself from tears. “Dad,” she says, a gasp caught in her throat, “I don’t know whether to thank you right now or kill you.”
Jack watches her fragile struggle with an unreadable expression. Finally he says, “Sydney, I know. What I did was foolish, selfish, and far too risky, and there were a thousand other ways I could have done what I have done . . . but Sydney, I had no idea before I contacted your mother. I didn’t know if you were dead, or alive, or hurt . . . When I came to see your mother, she asked that I take steps to release Allison Doren from custody. And I told her I would, and I lived up to it.”
Sydney stares at him, hard. “She killed my best friends. And you think that you can-”
“She won’t be out for long.”
Sydney stops in mid-sentence.
Jack continues. “I’m taking steps, to insure that that woman will be either dead or in solitary by the end of the month.”
She sighs and turns her head away for a second. Then she lets it out. “What would happen if we just went back to the CIA? You haven’t even told me-”
“Will’s alive.”
Stunned, she seems stuck between a smile and more tears. “Will . . . how is that even . . .”
“And Vaughn is no longer with the CIA.”
She is silent again.
It’s an odd silence, Jack thinks, watching her closely. Not the reaction he would’ve expected - at all. Then again, he isn’t sure what to expect from his daughter anymore.
He finally breaks it by saying, “We can’t go back to the CIA. They seem to have caught on to the fact that it was me who helped Doren, another indication of my thoughtlessness, and everyone there believes you to be dead. If you go back, they may suspect you of being in collaboration with me, and Sydney, that could mean the end of both of us. You can’t go back.
“I may not see you for a long time. I’ll be out, freelancing. Working with your mother. She’s decided that Sark will have a stronger role in the organization now.”
She nods slightly.
“Sydney, I believe you to be the one in the Prophecy.” He despises himself for bringing on the vulnerability in her eyes. “And I know, that by killing Arvin Sloane, you can fulfill it, and then, Sydney, you will be out. You’ll be free. Just think about it. Peace.”
Now she seems thoughtful, and he can begin to see, gradually, her old resolve building up inside her. Good girl, Sydney, he thinks.
He rises. Gently, he runs a hand through her hair, and she gives him a small smile.
As he walks away, he doesn’t look back.
Then it hits him. Sark. It was Sark.
He can’t quite believe himself at first. Sydney detested Sark. He was the opposite of everything she believed in, everything she wanted.
And yet, her silence. Unexplainable any other way.
It is so incredible. But the more he reflects on it, the less incredible it seems.
With his hands on the wheel of the car, he sighs. A quick, short sigh.
He realizes that he will never fully know his daughter.
* * *
ARGENTINA
“We’re about half a mile off from here,” Sark says, checking his GPS. Sydney nods. They have been walking for over ten minutes.
Sark takes a quick look at her. He isn’t quite sure what it is, but something is different. She seems in a good mood, like she’s in her element, doing what she’s done for so many years.
It makes him feel as though he’s doing something right.
Sydney’s voice takes him out of his reverie. “So . . . Mr. Sark. Are you still sure you refuse to tell me your first name?”
Sark offers her a half-grin. “I’m still sure.” He goes on, “I can’t understand why people are so concerned with my background. It isn’t really one of much interest.”
“You think so?”
“I suppose it depends on your perspective.”
She turns to look at him. “How about you start with when you met my mother.” A clear statement, not a question.
Sark inwardly sighs. He knows her persistence. “I was eight when she found me. It began then.”
“Your training.”
“One would say that.”
“And then what?”
“My career.” He senses her dissatisfaction, and he smiles.
Sydney gives him a look. “What about before she ‘found’ you? How did she find you?”
“I was at boarding school for a time . . . I found out later that I was being observed there. When the time was right, I was - extracted, you might say. And that’s all, really. I warned you . . . quite uninteresting.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Shall I thank you for that?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I would pry you for your history, but I’m afraid I know far too much about it already.” He could swear he sees her roll her eyes.
“How far will the safe house be?” she asks.
“Not far, really . . . about one hundred miles. Considering the size of South America, it’s not that terrible. We have the car.”
“The file didn’t mention what the page might contain. Any ideas?”
“I don’t know for certain, but yes, I have an idea.” He hesitates. “Part of a prophecy.”
“A part of which one?” she asks softly.
Sark gazes at her. “I don’t know.”
The GPS sound grows louder as they approach the coordinates. At the mouth of a small cave, the noise becomes a consistent monotone.
Sydney draws a breath. “This is it.” She turns to Sark. “Are you ready for this?”
Sark gives her a quick nod, and without a word, begins the next long walk into the dark cave.
* * *
Some ways through, he hears Sydney’s voice crackle through on the comms. “How’s it going?”
“Marvelously,” he replies. “Not much air, no light except for mine, and several bizarre insects. Not bad at all.”
“I’m saying you might want to get it as quickly as possible. Scanner detected movement within the radius. We might not be the only ones here.”
He shakes his head slightly. Always. There was always something, always some competition.
“Copy that,” he murmurs, increasing his stride.
Five minutes later, Sydney’s voice returns, a little more stressed. “Sark, they’re coming. I’m not sure who it is, could be CIA, could be K-Directorate, could be anyone.”
Sark’s lip twitches in irritation. “I can’t be far off from the page. As soon as I get it, I’ll run. The best thing for now might be to lay low, but don’t let yourself get on the defensive.”
“I know.”
“Be careful.”
She doesn’t answer.
After several more minutes, he comes to the end of a wall. This had to be it. Somewhere in the wall. He takes out a special sifting device and runs it up and down the wall.
Suddenly he hears something in his comm. Some yells, noise, the beginnings of a fight.
No, Sydney, not now . . . He, almost desperately, continues to search the wall.
How was she doing? He strains to hear.
Rough edge. This has to be it. As carefully and quickly as he can, he removes the leather-bound single page and places it in his backpack.
And then he begins to run.
Runs, runs, turns into a sprint, and there is the light. Light at the end of a tunnel. He slows his pace. He isn’t sure of how many there are, or where they are, or -
The flicker of movement catches his eye, and he delivers a hard kick to the stomach of the man who had blended with the wall. He barely pauses to watch him fall.
He reaches the outside, gun at the ready now, and sees Sydney, bruised and slightly bloodied, fighting off two men at the same time. She’s doing well, but her weary eyes tell the real story. She is about to give out.
Sark watches - one has his back turned - and he shoots.
Sydney and the other man stop, for just a moment, surprised, watching the man fall. Sark throws himself out of view.
Silence is only temporary. He hears someone fall. Was it a ploy to get him to show himself . . . He decides to take a chance.
Sydney, her hand clamped around the man’s wrist, his knife pointing at her throat.
Without stopping to consider, he shoots again.
He hits the man squarely in the arm.
Sydney, now back in control, jumps to her feet and gives a spinning kick to her adversary. He falls to the ground and lies still.
She turns to look at Sark, who was watching her dust herself off. “You can’t always have the last say.”
* * *
“Do you have the page?”
Sark nods. “Let’s go.”
They begin the long walk back to the car.
After a few minutes, Sark notices Sydney’s breathing - stilted and ragged. “Are you all right?”
Sydney stops. Gingerly she lifts up a corner of her shirt.
A large cut, raw and running freely, reveals itself on her stomach. Sark and Sydney both wince. “I can’t believe it hasn’t bled through,” says Sark, taking off his pack and rummaging through it. “Or that you haven’t noticed it.” He takes out a long medical bandage. “Or perhaps your pride prevented you from informing me of your injury.”
Sydney sighs, exasperated. “You think I would ignore something like this?” She takes the bandage from Sark and begins wrapping it around. When finished, she looks up. “Thanks.”
Surprised, he replies, “Of course.”
“What time is it?”
Sark takes out his cell and glances at it. “About a quarter to seven. We have about two hours to get to the safe house. Are you sure you’ll be-”
“I’m good. Really.”
They continue to walk.
* * *
The safe house is small, with a kitchen/dining room, a bathroom, and a general common area.
The first thing Sydney does is announce that she is going to take a shower. Sark doesn’t argue with this - she’s so worn that one might guess she’s been through a cyclone.
He takes the time to explore the place - he’s never been here before. He finds a small supply of food, along with which comes a bottle of wine - not a bad vintage, he notes. Chessboard in the cabinet, several pillows and blankets, candles, clothes, basic survival items.
It’s been nearly an hour, and Sark manages to keep his mind from straying by imagining Sydney’s reaction if she found out what he was thinking. He feels considerably more like a teenager than a high-profile assassin.
Finally, Sydney leaves the bathroom, leaving Sark to discover that all the hot water seems to have disappeared. After a good period of alternate scrubbing and shivering, he gets out and changes into black, casual attire.
Upon leaving, he sees Sydney in the kitchen, wearing a white tank top and loose black pants, her hair in a ponytail. She’s making something - Sark isn’t sure what. He crosses into the kitchen with the comment, “You could’ve taken a bit longer in there - you wouldn’t want me to have all the hot water.”
“I’m just going to assume,” she replies without turning around, “that I’m doing both of us a favor right here.”
Sark smiles a little. “I have to admit that I haven’t had much opportunity to perfect my culinary skills.” Francie fills his mind suddenly. A restaurateur. He immediately moves on. “What’s the main entree?”
“Cinnamon toast.”
“That actually sounds appetizing,” he says lightly. “About how long will it be?”
“Just a couple minutes, I have to use the toaster oven.” She turns and gestures around. “Make yourself at home.”
Sark drops onto a dark red leather sofa with an afghan draped over it. “Have you made contact with Irina?”
“I left her the message. You know,” she continues, “you didn’t really give me much detail.”
Sark, in the middle of arranging the chess pieces, is puzzled. “About what?”
“I still don’t know your first name or where you’re from, or where my mother found you-”
“I believe you once said that I couldn’t bait you with stories about a woman you never knew.”
“In Paris? You remember that?”
“Of course I do. I thought you were aware of the fact that I can recall every second of the time I’ve ever spent with you. The world, indeed, does revolve around Sydney Bristow.”
“Shut up - do you want to get some of this or not? Because I think there’s some peanut butter and saltines around here somewhere if you’re interested-”
“I take it back, I take it back. No need for threats.”
The toaster beeps. She opens the drawer and takes out the tray, her hands in oven mitts. She sets it down on the stove, takes off the mitts, and pulls out a chair with a piece of toast in her hand. “You never answered my questions.”
Sark grinned, “Ah, I was hoping I could divert you. Didn’t work.” He heads for the tray and takes a piece, and slides in across from Sydney. “My first name - off-limits. My home country - again, off-limits. Where your mother found me . . .” He takes a bite, and after swallowing he says, “England.”
“So you’re not British?”
“I might be. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in one place long enough to consider it my own.”
“Do you have to be so enigmatic?”
“It does have its benefits, doesn’t it?” Very good toast, here. “It’s a good conversation topic . . . there isn’t much worry about passports . . . it can build confidence in certain compromising situations . . .”
“It gives you a bit of an ego, you mean.”
“I can’t ever remember being accused of arrogance before.”
“Now that’s surprising.” After a second, she asks, “Did you see the Merlot?”
“I did.” He half-smiles. “Were you interested in it?”
“Unless you have something better, then yes.”
“As am I.” He finishes off the toast and heads to the cabinet. He takes out the bottle, along with a knife and corkscrew.
Sydney watches as he removes the cork with ease and sets out two glasses, filling them. His motions are smooth and swift. Sydney rises and crosses over to where he stands. Sark hands her a glass.
“To our continued survival,” he says, slightly raising his glass.
With a small smile, she raises hers. The glasses make a quiet tap, and they drink.
They are so close together now, and he can feel the almost electric connection between their eyes.
Sydney breaks it by a short glance away, with a small smile. “At the risk of sounding slightly juvenile . . . do you want to play chess? Come on,” she says with a laugh, as he gives her an incredulous look, “you have to know how to play.”
His blue eyes gaze at her, daring her, challenging her. “It’s not a question of whether or not I can play . . . it’s more an issue of whether you can.”
Sydney gazes right back at him. “I can play.”
* * *
“Checkmate.”
“There’s no way,” Sydney replies instantly, scanning the board. After a second, she comes back with, “Damn.”
Sark laughs. “I thought you said you were good at this.”
“I am! I just - I didn’t put in enough effort. I could beat you any time I wanted.”
“You couldn’t beat me even if you tried.”
It’s quiet. Both are looking at the other, brown eyes locking with blue ones, both waiting.
“Maybe I could.”
Her words hang in the air - everything is still.
There is no time for thought.
Her lips hit his, and he responds with the same intensity - they grasp it - feel they can never get enough as he takes in the scent of her hair - everything is revealed and nothing is secret - she begins to take him in, let his soul fill hers and giving hers to him, feeling that at once, at last, she’s found the truth with him - just the pure, the sweet and beautiful truth.
There, lying in the dark, feeling his arms around her, enclosing her, surrounding herself in his presence, she feels all that is peace.
Summary: see entry below
MADRID
Irina is quietly furious upon learning how the Jakarta mission went. She dismisses Sydney almost absently, but asks Sark to stay behind.
The door closes. Irina doesn’t speak at first, as though deciding what to say. Sark surmises that something of magnitude must have happened while he was away.
She passes him two slim folders. “These are the mission specs for Argentina. Read it over; if Sydney chooses not to take it you can either go solo or assign it to a team of Class A’s.”
This can’t be all.
It isn’t. “We-believe-we have a plan for Doren’s escape.”
He feels a sort of sickened lurch in his stomach. He had nearly forgotten. But he recovers in an instant.
“Will it require my assistance?” he asks briskly.
Irina shakes her head, and again, Sark senses an absence.
He ventures to ask. “You seem . . . off. Is there something . . .” He trails off.
She’s put her defense up, Sark realizes too late. There will be no getting it out of her now.
“I might ask you the same question,” Irina says gently.
“No,” he says, with a half-hearted smile, “I’m just as . . . normal as ever.”
She leans forward a little. “Aidan,” she says. “I know what Doren means to you.”
Sark feels a little jarred. He hasn’t heard his name in over six years.
And for another thing, he isn’t really sure what he feels about Allison anymore.
“I appreciate your concern,” he says, rather stiffly, “and the fact that we have a plan is also quite reassuring.” He rises. “You know where to reach me.” He turns and leaves.
Once outside the office, he breaks into a jog.
He reaches Sydney on the verge of entering her room. Sark notices her uncertainty under her normal, cold exterior.
“Sydney-” he begins. “I really think there are some things-last night, in particular-that we should discuss.”
Clearly she’s been expecting this, because she sighs and says, “I know, and I just-there’s nothing to say.”
“Are you sure?”
Silently she nods.
He knows why-why she wants to forget . . . Suddenly everything comes into perspective. It was a one-time thing, for the both of them. He had Allison-not a certainty, he admits-and Sydney . . .
Sydney had Agent Vaughn.
“Oh, and-here . . . this details a mission to Argentina. It concerns, predictably, retrieving another Rambaldi page.” He hands her the copy. “It’s not mandatory.”
She takes it but continues to look at him, expecting something else.
“That’s all.”
“So does this involve Sloane?”
Sark considers. “No-well, not directly at least. If you want to prevent him from getting the page himself . . .”
Sydney flips through the pages, taking it in rapidly. Finally she says, “You’ve forgotten the reason I am here in the first place and that reason is, to take down Arvin Sloane. And as far as I can see, this mission has no relevance to him at all. Assign it to someone else.” She holds it out to him.
“As I said, it’s not mandatory,” he replies coolly, taking it. He strides away, not even bothering to look back at her.
Five minutes later, he is speeding through Madrid, automatically taking the turns and twists of the street.
He needs a glass of Merlot. A large one.
* * *
The glass feels smooth and strangely comforting in his hands. He slowly raises it and takes one long sip.
He doesn’t want to think tonight, nor does he want to feel. He smiles bitterly and takes another drink. Feeling. In training, you weren’t supposed to feel. You weren’t allowed to feel.
Odd Irina would be the one to teach him that.
He leans back onto the cool leather and gazes around. These walls had been blank when he’d first found the apartment. He’d filed them.
He had decided against red paint for the walls, instead gone for a new, modern style of purple. Not a bright shade, much more muted.
There is a silver, circular mirror directly across from the leather chair. He stares into it, at himself. Nothing different. Perfectly normal.
The slim black folder is lying on the coffee table. He leaves it there. Matthews could take it . . . send him along with Knightley and Crowe . . . oh, to hell with it, I’m not dealing with this now . . . Missions could wait, for the moment. He needs this time, for himself.
He drains the glass and goes to his room to change.
He keeps his pajamas simple: a pair of boxers, sometimes a shirt . . . he’s resolved never to buy himself a robe, never. He glances at the clock. A little past midnight.
The doorbell rings. He blinks. Irina? Allison?
He walks quickly to an abstract painting above his dresser, presses the upper left corner, and uncovers the security cameras. Reassuring to have, although he doesn’t really expect that the CIA would take the time to ring his doorbell . . . now . . . front door . . .
Sydney.
He hesitates for a minute before throwing on his shirt and pants again and walking quickly to the door.
Sydney is standing there, looking rather rueful. Somehow he can’t get his mouth to move, or say anything.
Sydney seems to be finding it difficult to talk also. “Hi,” she says finally, abruptly. “I was harsh, today, after the debrief, to you. And I’ve thought it over, and I guess, I will go to Argentina . . . I guess I just realized . . . that even a small blow to Sloane . . . is still a blow.” She takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t really matter if you’ve already organized a team-”
Sark finally finds his voice. “No, I - I haven’t. It’s still open.”
There is a long pause.
“I . . . I know, I really shouldn’t be here . . .”
“No.” Her eyebrows go up a notch. “I mean, you know, it’s all right . . .” he continues hurriedly, “it’s just obviously not . . . the best . . . idea.”
Sydney is looking at him with a certain concern. “Are you okay?”
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. Not at his best. Disheveled to say the least.
He turns back to her. “I’m all right. Really.”
Her eyes travel back until they rest on the empty wine glass on the coffee table.
“I appreciate your coming to tell me all this before I’d arranged a team,” Sark says, bringing her focus back around to him. “It certainly makes things easier.” He feels a tinge of color enter his face. He is making a fool out of himself and in front of Sydney Bristow.
There is the barest trace of a smile on her face. “I should go.” After a second, she turns and enters the elevator at the end of the hallway.
He closes the door, and looks across the room at the half-empty Merlot bottle. A few seconds pass before he walks past the table and enters his room.
He sees his cell phone lying on the dresser. He turns it off. He doesn’t care who needs to call him. In fact, if anyone called him right now he would probably tell them to go to hell. The change was amazing. Like someone had just taken away a huge bundle full of things you were carrying.
He collapses under the sheets and smiles to himself. Aidan. God, it has been so long. “Aidan,” he says out loud. “My name is Aidan.” Aidan Sark, how odd that sounds. It’s better than his old name. He doesn’t even want to think about it.
There’s a song in his head. Piano music. Someone singing. A woman. He doesn’t know what it is or where he’s heard it. He listens.
. . . brings such misery and pain . . . I know I’ll never be the same . . . Why can’t he recognize it? It’s so familiar . . .
I guess I’ll never see the light . . . I get the blues most every night . . .
He draws in a sharp breath.
Since I fell for you . . .
Too much wine, he thinks haphazardly. There would be hell to pay in the morning. Irina was not lenient when it came to hangovers.
He smiles a little, lying there, listening to the distant memory of the song.
Since I fell for you.
LOS ANGELES
TRANSMISSION: LOS ANGELES CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER
RECIPIENT: CAMP HARRIS
ALLISON GEORGIA DOREN, NUMBER 45879, HAS BEEN ORDERED TO ARLEN CENTER FOR INTENSIVE QUESTIONING. TRANSFER WILL TAKE PLACE AT 4:00 AM TOMORROW.
DIRECTOR WILLIAM KENDALL
Jack Bristow did not hesitate before hitting “send."
* * *
NEVADA
A van pulls up into a gas station in southern Nevada. The air is cool, and the moon is still visible on the far side of the sky.
There is another van, waiting.
Two men step out of the car, between them a cuffed and half-drugged woman. The three of them proceed to the second, stationary van.
The back of the van opens, and the woman is thrust inside. It closes.
One man gets out, shakes hands with the two men, and re-enters the van.
Within ten seconds, both vans are gone.
* * *
A static-filled voice sounds on the radio.
“We got her.”
Jack Bristow responds. “Copy that. Proceed to landing base.”
“Copy.”
* * *
MADRID
“I tried to call you on your cell last night. I couldn’t get through.” Irina gazes at Sark questioningly.
“Battery failure. I replaced it this morning,” Sark replies.
“And you were late.”
“I apologize.”
“It had better not happen again.”
He had downed three cups of coffee before he could bring himself to drive over to the office.
He had tried, through his burning headache, to make sense of the night before. Sydney had come . . . apologized . . . the mission. The mission.
“Sydney and I are taking Argentina,” he says.
Irina seems pleased. Then her face becomes serious again. “We’ve just confirmed-Doren is on a private flight headed for Madrid.”
There is silence. Sark finally speaks. “If you don’t mind my asking-how has this been planned? How exactly did you bring this all about?”
Irina looks away, and back. “Now is not the time.” And Sark knows he’ll just have to stay content with that answer.
* * *
CIA OPS CENTER
“Uh, Mr. Kendall, there’s something I think you-really should . . . see, here.” Marshall tentatively holds out a piece of paper to Kendall, who eyes him incredulously.
“Make it quick.”
Marshall looked considerably more nervous. “Okay . . . um, you’ll see a message transcript here, supposedly sent from us, the CIA, to Arlen Center. And you were the one that sent it.”
Kendall looked up at him and frowned. “I don’t recall sending any messages to Arlen Center-”
“You see, sir, that’s my point - if you didn’t, who did? Now, you see, there - in the second row? A series of numbers. CIA official transcript number. Very classified, high-level, secret, top-secret-anyway one of the numbers . . . is not a match. Thirty-third across.”
Kendall snatches the paper, scans it, and throws it down on the desk. “Tell security section to get on this right away,” he barks at Marshall. “Contact Arlen Center and Camp Harris to check on the prisoner’s status. I want tails put on every high-level member in this office. Now!”
* * *
Jack glances out the rearview. He’s said he’s taking a few days off, just for some time. And they understood. At least he thought they did.
He feels almost on edge. Everything seems to be going along well, and yet he can’t help but feel he was reckless. The letter was risky. He had moved perhaps too quickly . . . He glances out again.
Before he realizes it, he’s turned left. Would’ve been faster to keep going straight . . .
How could they get on to him? And then he thinks of a million solutions, and he feels the sickened sensation in his chest. He could take a risk-just not one this foolish.
That gray car-still behind him. He turns right.
Within a few seconds, it’s there again.
Damn it, Jack thinks furiously. He drives faster now, picks up speed-takes turns that have no logical path.
Within ten minutes, the car is gone.
The plane is waiting for him.
He apologizes for the delay.
* * *
“Mr. Kendall, we think we have the source of the letter.” The young agent can barely suppress his proud smirk. “Jack Bristow.”
* * *
24 Hours Later
“Sydney . . . there’s someone I’d like you to see.” Irina rises from her desk and walks across the room. She opens the door.
Sark stands off to the side. It seemed so incredible to him when he first learned of it, a few hours ago . . . but now . . .
In walks Jack Bristow.
And for once, his steely reserve is thrust aside. He holds his daughter tightly to him. She hugs him back.
Sark looks away. He feels as though he is intruding on something sacred, something that he knows he should not share in.
Quietly, he exits, without a glance back.
* * *
MADRID
The next morning, Sark steps into Irina’s office and is instantly met with the unexpected.
Allison is there.
He feels a rush - of not knowing what to say - what to think - he has tried to prepare himself for this, planned out the scenarios in his mind.
Gone blank.
Luckily, Allison speaks first. “It’s been a long time.”
“So it has.” Her hair is a little longer - it could be because it wasn’t styled in the likeness of Franc - someone else. She’s also a little thinner, and has abandoned the bright makeup her alias had required her to wear. For the first time in months, she looks - almost like herself.
But not quite.
Irina rises and quietly leaves the room.
As soon as the door clicks, Sark breaks in. “What happened to you?”
Her whole face is one of pure fury. “What happened to me? You really want to know? You care enough now to ask me that?”
“I could be asking you the same thing-”
“-I was nearly killed-”
“-If you really cared about me or your loyalties to Irina-”
“-I have no loyalties! And you should have pulled me out before Stockholm instead of-”
“-You should have killed Tippin-”
“-abandoning me and leaving when the CIA-”
“-You had the opportunity and you didn’t take it, you should have called-”
Allison’s ice-cold stare ends it. “There wasn’t time,” she hisses. “You weren’t there, you don’t know how - conflicted I was, and I just . . .” She looks away from him.
It takes a few seconds for Sark to realize she’s staring at the door. He whips around. It’s Sydney.
How much did she hear? Sark wonders.
But she’s wearing an expression to rival Allison’s. And the two women won’t take their eyes off each other.
“I was looking for the Kenan Patrel file,” Sydney says to Sark, still looking steadily at Allison. “I was wondering if you knew where to find it.”
“Top drawer on the left,” Sark answers automatically. He’s awed by the sheer intensity between the two. It’s like a force field.
Allison turns to Sark. “I’ll be downstairs.” She whips past Sydney and disappears into the corridor.
Sydney immediately turns her attention to Sark, and he waits resignedly for the outburst.
“What,” she asks very pointedly, “is that woman . . . doing here. I was under the impression that the CIA had her.”
“Sydney, this was news to me, too, a couple of days ago. I had no idea about the plan-”
“But you knew she was going to get out, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know it would be so soon. I was given the impression that it would be months before she was extracted.”
Her expression is so full of confusion and incredulity. “How? What was the plan?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been wondering that myself.”
Silence. Then it hits them together. It’s the only possible way.
“Oh, God,” murmurs Sydney. “He wouldn’t . . .”
“He would.” He watches her closely.
Sydney shakes her head, over and over, and then looks up at Sark, with tears in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything.
She seems about to leave, but remembers the file and retrieves it first. “I’ll see you,” she says.
Sark hesitates. “See you,” he says. The casual expression feels strange to him, foreign. A little too American for his British tongue.
He could swear he sees Sydney smile a little.
Irina’s back. Sark prepares himself for the third female-led dispute of the hour.
Luckily, she isn’t in the mood. “How is Sydney taking things?”
“As well as can be expected, I would say.”
“I want to know. She won’t talk to me,” and Sark sees the hurt in those brown eyes, “and she sees the most of you.”
Sark sighs. “Obviously seeing Bristow was reassuring to her. But I really don’t think that having Allison so close . . .”
Irina nods. “I’m sending her to Germany. They’re going to try to alter the procedure, and after that, I think,” she nods again, “I think she’ll go deep cover. But it’s not confirmed.”
Sark changes the subject. “Any word on Sloane?”
“Jack has a couple of new leads; other than that, he’s doing an excellent job of staying hidden. But I’m not saying he’s given up.”
* * *
Allison feels the arm around her neck, choking her. She strains for air.
“Nobody told me you were coming to join us.” Sydney’s voice cuts into her ears.
Allison gathers her strength and thrusts her elbow into Sydney’s stomach, whips around and twists Sydney’s arms into a painful position. “I didn’t know I was myself. You, of all people,” with a harder twist, “should know how it feels to be used.”
Sydney’s leg swings around with a high kick and hits Allison between the shoulder and head, releasing her arms. She ducks from the incoming punch and sends one directly into Allison’s stomach. Allison clutches her stomach, barely able to breathe or move.
“If you think that I am just calmly going to accept your presence here,” Sydney whispers, her voice leveled, “then you have a lot to learn about me.”
She sends one more kick out. Allison sinks to the ground.
“Considering you spent half a year living in my house, I’m a little surprised.”
She turns and exits.
* * *
BARCELONA
Sydney strides into the park and sees her father seated on a bench next to a large weeping willow. She reaches him, and instead of sitting beside him, she merely stands there.
Jack immediately realizes she’s discovered him. “Sydney, there are a few things we need to talk about, and this place is the most private I could find.” He had whispered the name of the street and city into Sydney’s hair when they had first greeted each other.
Sydney can hardly keep herself from tears. “Dad,” she says, a gasp caught in her throat, “I don’t know whether to thank you right now or kill you.”
Jack watches her fragile struggle with an unreadable expression. Finally he says, “Sydney, I know. What I did was foolish, selfish, and far too risky, and there were a thousand other ways I could have done what I have done . . . but Sydney, I had no idea before I contacted your mother. I didn’t know if you were dead, or alive, or hurt . . . When I came to see your mother, she asked that I take steps to release Allison Doren from custody. And I told her I would, and I lived up to it.”
Sydney stares at him, hard. “She killed my best friends. And you think that you can-”
“She won’t be out for long.”
Sydney stops in mid-sentence.
Jack continues. “I’m taking steps, to insure that that woman will be either dead or in solitary by the end of the month.”
She sighs and turns her head away for a second. Then she lets it out. “What would happen if we just went back to the CIA? You haven’t even told me-”
“Will’s alive.”
Stunned, she seems stuck between a smile and more tears. “Will . . . how is that even . . .”
“And Vaughn is no longer with the CIA.”
She is silent again.
It’s an odd silence, Jack thinks, watching her closely. Not the reaction he would’ve expected - at all. Then again, he isn’t sure what to expect from his daughter anymore.
He finally breaks it by saying, “We can’t go back to the CIA. They seem to have caught on to the fact that it was me who helped Doren, another indication of my thoughtlessness, and everyone there believes you to be dead. If you go back, they may suspect you of being in collaboration with me, and Sydney, that could mean the end of both of us. You can’t go back.
“I may not see you for a long time. I’ll be out, freelancing. Working with your mother. She’s decided that Sark will have a stronger role in the organization now.”
She nods slightly.
“Sydney, I believe you to be the one in the Prophecy.” He despises himself for bringing on the vulnerability in her eyes. “And I know, that by killing Arvin Sloane, you can fulfill it, and then, Sydney, you will be out. You’ll be free. Just think about it. Peace.”
Now she seems thoughtful, and he can begin to see, gradually, her old resolve building up inside her. Good girl, Sydney, he thinks.
He rises. Gently, he runs a hand through her hair, and she gives him a small smile.
As he walks away, he doesn’t look back.
Then it hits him. Sark. It was Sark.
He can’t quite believe himself at first. Sydney detested Sark. He was the opposite of everything she believed in, everything she wanted.
And yet, her silence. Unexplainable any other way.
It is so incredible. But the more he reflects on it, the less incredible it seems.
With his hands on the wheel of the car, he sighs. A quick, short sigh.
He realizes that he will never fully know his daughter.
* * *
ARGENTINA
“We’re about half a mile off from here,” Sark says, checking his GPS. Sydney nods. They have been walking for over ten minutes.
Sark takes a quick look at her. He isn’t quite sure what it is, but something is different. She seems in a good mood, like she’s in her element, doing what she’s done for so many years.
It makes him feel as though he’s doing something right.
Sydney’s voice takes him out of his reverie. “So . . . Mr. Sark. Are you still sure you refuse to tell me your first name?”
Sark offers her a half-grin. “I’m still sure.” He goes on, “I can’t understand why people are so concerned with my background. It isn’t really one of much interest.”
“You think so?”
“I suppose it depends on your perspective.”
She turns to look at him. “How about you start with when you met my mother.” A clear statement, not a question.
Sark inwardly sighs. He knows her persistence. “I was eight when she found me. It began then.”
“Your training.”
“One would say that.”
“And then what?”
“My career.” He senses her dissatisfaction, and he smiles.
Sydney gives him a look. “What about before she ‘found’ you? How did she find you?”
“I was at boarding school for a time . . . I found out later that I was being observed there. When the time was right, I was - extracted, you might say. And that’s all, really. I warned you . . . quite uninteresting.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Shall I thank you for that?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I would pry you for your history, but I’m afraid I know far too much about it already.” He could swear he sees her roll her eyes.
“How far will the safe house be?” she asks.
“Not far, really . . . about one hundred miles. Considering the size of South America, it’s not that terrible. We have the car.”
“The file didn’t mention what the page might contain. Any ideas?”
“I don’t know for certain, but yes, I have an idea.” He hesitates. “Part of a prophecy.”
“A part of which one?” she asks softly.
Sark gazes at her. “I don’t know.”
The GPS sound grows louder as they approach the coordinates. At the mouth of a small cave, the noise becomes a consistent monotone.
Sydney draws a breath. “This is it.” She turns to Sark. “Are you ready for this?”
Sark gives her a quick nod, and without a word, begins the next long walk into the dark cave.
* * *
Some ways through, he hears Sydney’s voice crackle through on the comms. “How’s it going?”
“Marvelously,” he replies. “Not much air, no light except for mine, and several bizarre insects. Not bad at all.”
“I’m saying you might want to get it as quickly as possible. Scanner detected movement within the radius. We might not be the only ones here.”
He shakes his head slightly. Always. There was always something, always some competition.
“Copy that,” he murmurs, increasing his stride.
Five minutes later, Sydney’s voice returns, a little more stressed. “Sark, they’re coming. I’m not sure who it is, could be CIA, could be K-Directorate, could be anyone.”
Sark’s lip twitches in irritation. “I can’t be far off from the page. As soon as I get it, I’ll run. The best thing for now might be to lay low, but don’t let yourself get on the defensive.”
“I know.”
“Be careful.”
She doesn’t answer.
After several more minutes, he comes to the end of a wall. This had to be it. Somewhere in the wall. He takes out a special sifting device and runs it up and down the wall.
Suddenly he hears something in his comm. Some yells, noise, the beginnings of a fight.
No, Sydney, not now . . . He, almost desperately, continues to search the wall.
How was she doing? He strains to hear.
Rough edge. This has to be it. As carefully and quickly as he can, he removes the leather-bound single page and places it in his backpack.
And then he begins to run.
Runs, runs, turns into a sprint, and there is the light. Light at the end of a tunnel. He slows his pace. He isn’t sure of how many there are, or where they are, or -
The flicker of movement catches his eye, and he delivers a hard kick to the stomach of the man who had blended with the wall. He barely pauses to watch him fall.
He reaches the outside, gun at the ready now, and sees Sydney, bruised and slightly bloodied, fighting off two men at the same time. She’s doing well, but her weary eyes tell the real story. She is about to give out.
Sark watches - one has his back turned - and he shoots.
Sydney and the other man stop, for just a moment, surprised, watching the man fall. Sark throws himself out of view.
Silence is only temporary. He hears someone fall. Was it a ploy to get him to show himself . . . He decides to take a chance.
Sydney, her hand clamped around the man’s wrist, his knife pointing at her throat.
Without stopping to consider, he shoots again.
He hits the man squarely in the arm.
Sydney, now back in control, jumps to her feet and gives a spinning kick to her adversary. He falls to the ground and lies still.
She turns to look at Sark, who was watching her dust herself off. “You can’t always have the last say.”
* * *
“Do you have the page?”
Sark nods. “Let’s go.”
They begin the long walk back to the car.
After a few minutes, Sark notices Sydney’s breathing - stilted and ragged. “Are you all right?”
Sydney stops. Gingerly she lifts up a corner of her shirt.
A large cut, raw and running freely, reveals itself on her stomach. Sark and Sydney both wince. “I can’t believe it hasn’t bled through,” says Sark, taking off his pack and rummaging through it. “Or that you haven’t noticed it.” He takes out a long medical bandage. “Or perhaps your pride prevented you from informing me of your injury.”
Sydney sighs, exasperated. “You think I would ignore something like this?” She takes the bandage from Sark and begins wrapping it around. When finished, she looks up. “Thanks.”
Surprised, he replies, “Of course.”
“What time is it?”
Sark takes out his cell and glances at it. “About a quarter to seven. We have about two hours to get to the safe house. Are you sure you’ll be-”
“I’m good. Really.”
They continue to walk.
* * *
The safe house is small, with a kitchen/dining room, a bathroom, and a general common area.
The first thing Sydney does is announce that she is going to take a shower. Sark doesn’t argue with this - she’s so worn that one might guess she’s been through a cyclone.
He takes the time to explore the place - he’s never been here before. He finds a small supply of food, along with which comes a bottle of wine - not a bad vintage, he notes. Chessboard in the cabinet, several pillows and blankets, candles, clothes, basic survival items.
It’s been nearly an hour, and Sark manages to keep his mind from straying by imagining Sydney’s reaction if she found out what he was thinking. He feels considerably more like a teenager than a high-profile assassin.
Finally, Sydney leaves the bathroom, leaving Sark to discover that all the hot water seems to have disappeared. After a good period of alternate scrubbing and shivering, he gets out and changes into black, casual attire.
Upon leaving, he sees Sydney in the kitchen, wearing a white tank top and loose black pants, her hair in a ponytail. She’s making something - Sark isn’t sure what. He crosses into the kitchen with the comment, “You could’ve taken a bit longer in there - you wouldn’t want me to have all the hot water.”
“I’m just going to assume,” she replies without turning around, “that I’m doing both of us a favor right here.”
Sark smiles a little. “I have to admit that I haven’t had much opportunity to perfect my culinary skills.” Francie fills his mind suddenly. A restaurateur. He immediately moves on. “What’s the main entree?”
“Cinnamon toast.”
“That actually sounds appetizing,” he says lightly. “About how long will it be?”
“Just a couple minutes, I have to use the toaster oven.” She turns and gestures around. “Make yourself at home.”
Sark drops onto a dark red leather sofa with an afghan draped over it. “Have you made contact with Irina?”
“I left her the message. You know,” she continues, “you didn’t really give me much detail.”
Sark, in the middle of arranging the chess pieces, is puzzled. “About what?”
“I still don’t know your first name or where you’re from, or where my mother found you-”
“I believe you once said that I couldn’t bait you with stories about a woman you never knew.”
“In Paris? You remember that?”
“Of course I do. I thought you were aware of the fact that I can recall every second of the time I’ve ever spent with you. The world, indeed, does revolve around Sydney Bristow.”
“Shut up - do you want to get some of this or not? Because I think there’s some peanut butter and saltines around here somewhere if you’re interested-”
“I take it back, I take it back. No need for threats.”
The toaster beeps. She opens the drawer and takes out the tray, her hands in oven mitts. She sets it down on the stove, takes off the mitts, and pulls out a chair with a piece of toast in her hand. “You never answered my questions.”
Sark grinned, “Ah, I was hoping I could divert you. Didn’t work.” He heads for the tray and takes a piece, and slides in across from Sydney. “My first name - off-limits. My home country - again, off-limits. Where your mother found me . . .” He takes a bite, and after swallowing he says, “England.”
“So you’re not British?”
“I might be. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in one place long enough to consider it my own.”
“Do you have to be so enigmatic?”
“It does have its benefits, doesn’t it?” Very good toast, here. “It’s a good conversation topic . . . there isn’t much worry about passports . . . it can build confidence in certain compromising situations . . .”
“It gives you a bit of an ego, you mean.”
“I can’t ever remember being accused of arrogance before.”
“Now that’s surprising.” After a second, she asks, “Did you see the Merlot?”
“I did.” He half-smiles. “Were you interested in it?”
“Unless you have something better, then yes.”
“As am I.” He finishes off the toast and heads to the cabinet. He takes out the bottle, along with a knife and corkscrew.
Sydney watches as he removes the cork with ease and sets out two glasses, filling them. His motions are smooth and swift. Sydney rises and crosses over to where he stands. Sark hands her a glass.
“To our continued survival,” he says, slightly raising his glass.
With a small smile, she raises hers. The glasses make a quiet tap, and they drink.
They are so close together now, and he can feel the almost electric connection between their eyes.
Sydney breaks it by a short glance away, with a small smile. “At the risk of sounding slightly juvenile . . . do you want to play chess? Come on,” she says with a laugh, as he gives her an incredulous look, “you have to know how to play.”
His blue eyes gaze at her, daring her, challenging her. “It’s not a question of whether or not I can play . . . it’s more an issue of whether you can.”
Sydney gazes right back at him. “I can play.”
* * *
“Checkmate.”
“There’s no way,” Sydney replies instantly, scanning the board. After a second, she comes back with, “Damn.”
Sark laughs. “I thought you said you were good at this.”
“I am! I just - I didn’t put in enough effort. I could beat you any time I wanted.”
“You couldn’t beat me even if you tried.”
It’s quiet. Both are looking at the other, brown eyes locking with blue ones, both waiting.
“Maybe I could.”
Her words hang in the air - everything is still.
There is no time for thought.
Her lips hit his, and he responds with the same intensity - they grasp it - feel they can never get enough as he takes in the scent of her hair - everything is revealed and nothing is secret - she begins to take him in, let his soul fill hers and giving hers to him, feeling that at once, at last, she’s found the truth with him - just the pure, the sweet and beautiful truth.
There, lying in the dark, feeling his arms around her, enclosing her, surrounding herself in his presence, she feels all that is peace.