Stockholm (post three)
Title: Stockholm
Summary: (see posts below)
He feels the coolness of the dawn, and warmth beside him. He lies still, in blissful enjoyment, taking in his surroundings.
The first face he sees is that of Sydney Bristow.
Has she ever been told how beautiful she looks asleep? He guesses he would not be the first to realize it. Her long brown hair spills over her face, her features completely unblemished.
He smiles when her eyes open.
After a few seconds, she turns over on her side, facing him, her face a picture of pure contentment.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
He hesitates before venturing out with, “Hey.”
She moves under the warm blanket, snuggling in closer. “I like it.” When Sark doesn’t answer right away, she goes on. “Your name. Aidan.” She smiles. “It fits.”
“I’m glad.” He gives a slight laugh. “Although knowing you, you’ll probably persist in using the name ‘Sark.’”
“Which is probably the wisest thing to do, considering our lives.”
“Just consider it my gift to you. It’s somewhat of a rarity nowadays.”
Suddenly, in the silence, he realizes. Irina had known. An evening, so very carefully constructed. She had guessed, perhaps . . .
There may be changes now, he realizes. Many.
Sydney yawns. “How much time before we have to leave?”
“Maybe two hours.”
He is struck by the force of an idea, an insane hope, something he could never create in reality - “What if we didn’t?”
Sydney looks at him questioningly.
“What if we didn’t leave? We could just leave completely, think about it, Sydney. We could go off somewhere and just leave completely, and be out. Out. No more - no more wild Rambaldi scavenger hunts, no Sloane, no - no anything. Start over somewhere else without this.”
Sydney gazes at him. “There’s just no way . . . it’s impossible. I mean . . .”
“No, really.” He sits up, leaning against the leather of the chair as his headboard. “I mean, really think about it. It’s the perfect opportunity. We could just go. There’s nothing stopping us.”
She follows his lead, also sitting up and letting the blanket slide off of her. “What about the Prophecy? I mean, that could be me.”
“It could also be someone else. Yours is not the only profile it fits.”
“But my mother -”
“There’s a chance, isn’t there?”
“What about this new page?”
“That I don’t know,” he admits. “But it could be part of any Prophecy, now Sydney, listen. We leave the page and go off, I have a hundred contacts to get us anywhere, it doesn’t have to be through Irina. We can go.”
Indecision fills her face. She looks away.
Come on, Sydney, he prays silently, willing her to say something, anything, yes she would, they could escape, finally, they could be free -
At that moment, bullets spray the kitchen window.
Immediately they are both up, Sark throwing on his shirt without stopping and Sydney likewise, while Sark opens the cabinet to pull out two loaded pistols. He tosses one to Sydney, and they split - Sark crawls to the kitchen door and Sydney to the general area’s single door.
Sark cautiously slips through the door, gun ready and eyes darting all over.
It happens all at once - their fire and his return. His adrenaline flows, feverishly watching for any sign, any movement - more fire. He fires off several more shots, not sure of where they land - it’s too difficult to see among the trees . . .
He hears equal noise from the opposite side of the house. He sends a few more shots out before darting to the back of the house and beginning again.
It takes him a second to notice the sound on Sydney’s side has stopped.
In fact, it’s almost completely silent.
He considers for a second, and then silently makes his way to the place where Sydney had begun.
She is nowhere.
He is hesitant to call out; instead, he circles around the building - still no sign of Sydney.
Suddenly, searing pain through his right leg - deeply shot through - he almost cries out, but rallying himself, he sends a shot towards that direction.
His last shot. He has to get back in the house. Somewhere, anywhere. But they could be inside. Sydney could be inside. He isn’t sure. His blood throbbing, he slides around to the kitchen door and looks in. It appears to be empty.
Glass litters the floor - he treads carefully - he recovers his cell phone, and staying low, away from windows, he dials a number.
“Hello?”
“We were ambushed,” he tells the other line quietly. “Someone knew we would be here, found us, I’m not sure. Could be anyone, the ones who attacked us yesterday. I can’t find Sydney, I don’t see her anywhere and I figure she would have somehow made contact with me. I myself was just shot in the leg. We need some kind of back-up, now.”
“Are all targets down?”
The pain in his leg increases. “If I knew, I would’ve told you, now I need back-up.”
“You’ll get it. For now, just find her.” His phone clicks off.
Again, Sark thinks bitterly. Never mind the fact I may bleed to death. He half crawls to the cabinet of ammunition and finds a good clip. He inserts it inside the gun and sets off again for the first aid. The pain has escalated to an all time high, and his every fiber burns with the effort. Dragging himself now, he sets about putting on a bandage. He begins to see the black just as he’s finishing, and it grows, until he sees nothing, and the pulsing drums harder and harder until all at once, he feels nothing - only the black as he falls back onto the floor.
* * *
With a start, Sark opens his eyes.
He is lying on a bed with white sheets.
He sees Irina’s relieved face looking over him, and suddenly he remembers.
“Did you find Sydney?” he asks, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, and begins again. “Where’s Sydney? Have you discovered who the ambushers were?” Sark sits up and tries to ignore the sharp stab of pain in his leg.
Irina takes a long look at him and says, “We don’t know. We’re following a lead now, but we’ve got nothing so far.”
“Sloane.”
Irina says nothing.
He stares at her, trying to penetrate her immobile mask. He realizes, and he says quickly, “It couldn’t have been the CIA . . . that’s just not even a possibility.”
“The fact is . . . it is a possibility. And you’ll have to accept that.”
Sark shakes his head. “She wouldn’t.”
“She might.”
“And what is Jack Bristow’s take on the matter?” he asks, a slight edge in his tone.
“He told me he’d spoken to Sydney. And judging by what he said, it’s doubtful she would turn to the CIA - then again, she might have been withholding the truth from him because of Doren’s escape.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Close on twenty-three hours.”
Sark inwardly curses. Excellent, really, how well he lived up to his training. Out for nearly a day, and wounded nowhere serious. “Describe this lead that you have.”
“Bucharest. There’s a team heading there in the next twenty-four hours. We got an intercept regarding ‘the clock’ being delivered.”
Only Sark could sense her initial hesitation in speaking. He knows her. “You can’t prevent me from joining that team, Irina.”
She gives him one of her Mona Lisa smiles. “I wasn’t going to try.” From behind her back, she pulls out a folder and hands it to him. “These are the specs,” she says quietly. “For now, you can go. But if-”
He cuts her off. “Irina . . . I’m going.”
She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. With one last smile, she turns and leaves the room, with Sark looking after her.
BUCHAREST
It is a small place, grey and dark and old. And so very Sloane. The team moves with quiet caution and stealth, ready at a second’s notice. Sark blocks out his pain and instead, concentrates on his goal.
There is something missing, however, as the team discovers, while splitting and moving throughout the building. The only thing wrong is the absence of human life. The place is completely free of all people.
It becomes increasingly clear to Sark, once he’s covered almost half of the grounds. And there is not much left to search.
With a feeling of frustrated resignation, Sark pushes open a door, and he is instantly confronted with a picture.
Il Dire is there. Along with two other people.
Sark has seen death. But never, never in a thousand times, has he seen death like this.
He winces in sickened revulsion at the bloodied, crumpled and lifeless body of Arvin Sloane on the ground. The end of a blade can barely be seen, buried deep within the man’s chest.
Sark turns away and sees Sydney, lying spread out against a chair, eyes closed. He walks quickly towards her, taking her wrist in his hands and checking for the slightest hint of a pulse.
The pulse is there, at a slow but normal rate. Thank God, he breathes silently.
She appears to be breathing, too.
In fact, everything appears to be normal. Except for the fact that she hasn’t awakened yet.
Sark speaks her name, softly to her. “Sydney.” She doesn’t respond. “Sydney,” he says, slightly louder, even though he’s gradually realizing that she won’t wake up, no matter what he says or does.
Two members of the team run in from behind him. “Is she alive?” one asks him.
Sark can’t answer at first. “She’s alive,” he replies quietly, after a second. “She isn’t responding.”
The other man takes a look at Sloane. “From what I can see, Bristow took a pretty clear stab at him.” He radios into a walkie-talkie, “Send medics to east wing, third room.”
Sark turns away, not looking at them, not looking at her, looking away until the others arrive, taking Sydney out of the room.
He doesn’t follow. Instead, he approaches Il Dire.
It isn’t small. It isn’t massive, either - yet an aura of dignity and importance surrounds it. Sark studies it hard . . . so this is what they had been seeking to build - here, in the flesh. It was real. And yet so surreal.
Several wires with circular caps on the ends are hanging down off of it. Sark runs his fingers through them, feeling the smoothness and perfection of five hundred years of discovery. Suddenly he feels a break in one. He touches it again.
There is a splice in the center of a wire. He isn’t sure - had she ripped it off and caused it to break? He takes a closer glance at it.
“Sir, we’re going to have to take this,” a voice says behind him, and he turns to see a few members of his team. He steps aside and watches them carefully take the machine up and across the room, going out.
Sark is alone in the room. Sloane’s body is also gone - it is only himself.
With one final, desperate glance around, he approaches the doorway and follows the last of the team down the hall.
* * *
MADRID
“How’s Sydney?” Sark asks the minute he swings through the door, his steps quicker than usual.
Irina glances up from her laptop. “She’s in our Hong Kong medical base - still unconscious but stable.” The pain on her face is so clearly visible that Sark wants to turn away - he senses exactly how she feels. She continues. “It’s unclear what’s actually wrong with her - there’s no internal damage, no bleeding, no viruses - she’s almost in a coma, but there’s no reason why she should be. It’s just . . .” She breaks off and starts again bluntly. “We’re checking the device. There’s a wire that looks-”
“I saw it,” Sark replies. “Like it was strained. Almost split in two.”
“I’ve got people on it right now.”
“Are they good?”
Irina exhales. “They’re good.”
Sark follows her eyes as they trail away. “Is there anything I can do?”
She looks back up. “I’ll give you a few days to rest up, if you need it. Come back when you’re ready.”
“I don’t need it.”
Her voice is gentle but firm. “Then it’s an order. Come back in a week. You’ll be better for it.”
Their gazes meet, until Sark breaks the silence by saying, “I understand.” He turns away and leaves Irina alone in the room.
AUSTRIA
He’s always liked it here - it’s quiet with enough energy and sights to save it from monotony. It’s so unlike Italy - the beauty of it is not so flamboyant.
He takes a long walk around the city, just enjoying the crisply fresh wind on his face, watching all the people walking to their normal jobs, with their normal families and meeting their normal friends, never glancing once at him and knowing who he really is. He feels welcomed, in that respect. He enjoys the feeling of freedom for once. Perhaps Irina was right.
He knows he could be spotted. For once, he doesn’t seem to care. He could spend all day like this, walking, free, with no one calling him, no one to steal a life away from so casually, as he does, no one wanting things for their own greedy, pointless purposes. When he thinks about it, it all does seem so pointless, so useless. He doesn’t know what he’ll get in the next life.
With a pang he remembers, asking Sydney to come away, so she could enjoy the freedom he feels now. If she had come - but this was not a week of things that could have been.
“Sydney.” He runs his fingers through her long, beautiful brown hair. Her arms encase him, radiating heat and closeness all through him. God, they’re so alive together. A smile plays on her lips.
He smiles back at her, and they turn together, herself so close to him, her lips so close.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she whispers.
His blue eyes glint at her innocently, before he murmurs back. “Aidan.”
Her face is charmed, and she repeats, “Aidan.”
His touch moves her, and he hears her moan of pleasure. “Are you satisfied now, Agent Bristow?” he asks with a light grin.
“Not quite,” she breathes back, pulling him in closer for another kiss.
“Sark.” Irina’s voice takes him back to the present. “I thought I was doing you a favor when I gave you a week off.”
Sark shifts. “Athens. Catacombs of St. Athanasius. You want to recover the coordinates of the Rambaldi vial from a certain resting place, the name on which is Ana Karteles.” He pauses, unsure if there is more.
Irina tucks her hair back. “And you’ll have a partner.” She looks directly at him. “Allison.”
Sark blinks. “I was under the impression that she was being sent to Germany.”
“They’re still trying to recover the material from Marcovic’s lab. It would be useless to send her there when she could be assisting the organization in field work.”
“Surely you’ve noticed our recent - animosity to one another as of late.”
“And I know it won’t affect your performance. You work well together.”
Sark’s mouth tightens a little. “I truly don’t think this is a good idea.”
Irina briefly closes her eyes. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
“If this mission fails, the blood is on your hands, Irina.”
She looks at him with weary eyes. “Aidan . . .”
That has done it. Sark rises.
“No. Not Aidan,” he says, his voice rising. “You’ve passed the time when you ever had the right to use my given name. I’ll be taking the mission with Allison. Just remember what I’ve said. We’re past that level now.”
He turns, strides out of the room, and quickly pulls the door shut behind him.
* * *
ATHENS
Sark is driving the car, looking straight ahead at the lightly crowded streets, avoiding meeting Allison’s eyes. She, in turn, isn’t facing anywhere near him.
“There are so many things we should talk about,” Allison says quietly, her eyes still on the road.
Sark makes a smooth turn around the corner. “What is there left to talk about?”
“Everything.”
After a moment’s pause, Sark says abruptly, “So. Let’s talk. We’ll start at the beginning. When did you first fall for Tippin?”
He can sense her irritation and embarrassment and says, “There’s really no point in denying it, Allison. I’m merely curious.”
“The hour after I had extracted the first of our intel from him.”
Sark can almost feel the old wound rising up in him. At least she is being honest.
“I see. Would it be correct to assume you still harbor these emotions for him?”
He hasn’t been this cold in awhile - but then, cold is all he’s been lately. Nothing but cold and distance. Even with Irina.
She finally looks at him, a steely, stubborn look in her eyes. “I care nothing for Will Tippin anymore. And I will swear to that.” When he doesn’t respond, she adds, “And I know you’ve been sleeping with Bristow.”
Sark also breaks his stare and turns to her. “Unlike my former relationship with you, I define my relationship with Sydney as something more than a mere evening pleasure every couple of months.”
“There was something else there with me, and you won’t admit it, no matter what I say.”
Sark makes a tight swerve around the bend. “I won’t admit to what never existed.”
He pulls the car to a sudden stop. The old church of St. Athanasius looms over them, the unseen catacombs being borne upon.
Sark glances back at Allison. “Are you ready?”
“What makes you think I’m not?” She opens the car door, steps out wearing a conservative black coat and dark clothing, and begins to walk in the church. Sark had half-heartedly objected to going in the catacombs himself, for a number of reasons. He just wasn’t feeling up to it.
Allison will send the pictures of the code to Sark, once she has taken a clear image of it. It is fairly straightforward. Easy enough to be done solo, Sark thinks, waiting in silence for her to send in. The only reason he can think to have two agents is that they’re tightening their servers’ security - there hasn’t been word on how Sydney and Sark’s location in Argentina was discovered.
An image flashes on the small screen he holds in his hand - a series of numbers and several letters. Coordinates, definitely.
Allison makes it back in less than ten minutes, sliding into the car with the air of someone who knows just how good they are.
After a look around, Sark suddenly starts the car with a jerk, and they head off to the road.
The place they choose for the night is small but respectable, with a few rooms on several floors. They check in under Sylvia James and William Masters - a couple, sharing a room.
Allison calls Irina around nine, to confirm what they have. She then leaves to take a quick shower.
It is then Sark hears a drone - a quiet, high-pitched, rattling drone. He isn’t sure where it is coming from - somewhere on Allison’s bed, perhaps - he crosses over and picks up her cell phone, listening. The drone is louder there. It’s coming from the phone.
Sark frowns and makes a move to turn it off - and then he stops. He drops the phone and goes to pick up his laptop, opening it as he walks. He takes the telephone cord from the wall, along with a small scrap of wire he reserves for lock-picking. Using the materials, he makes an insert into the cell phone’s inner side and plugs it into his computer. Then he begins to type.
Five minutes later, he’s staring at a screen. A screen of something his mind doesn’t understand.
* * *
Allison walks out of the bathroom, hair slightly damp still, not too badly.
“I’m out now if you-”
She is grabbed from behind with a hard, wrenching grasp. Sark’s cool voice and the equally cool silver barrel pressed to her head are all she can feel.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Allison - who are you working for, really? Tell me the truth, and I’ll let this go, I promise you.”
He watches her futile struggle to get out - he has an iron grip, however, and there is no way she can escape from him.
“I swear, Sark, I’m only working for us. For Derevko and the organization-”
Sark’s voice wavers a little. “Allison - I don’t want to do this, Allison. Just say it and I’ll let it go.”
Allison makes another lunge to get out. “I SWEAR, Sark, I’m not working for anyone else!”
“Sloane? Is that who it is?” He can feel her desperation - “I’ll let it go! Just say the words!”
Allison breathes hard. “Aidan, I swear to God, I don’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .”
Sark is losing his confident tone now. “Just say the damn words, Allie! That’s all I need to hear! Just tell me!”
“But I’m not!” she screams, not caring who hears.
“Say the words!”
She turns as much as she dares and looks at him pleadingly. “Aidan . . .”
The shot rings out.
He drops the gun.
He slowly releases her in numb disbelief as he watches the blood come from her neck, feeling her warmth on his hands, just coated in her blood. He catches sight of her eyes, startled, desperate, teared brown eyes that stay staring at him long after her body touches the ground.
He was wrong. He knows it. He can only stare at her still, lifeless body, as if he is willing her to stand up again and brush it off like nothing has happened. Her blood is everywhere now - his hands feel taut, sticky. Blood - Allison’s blood - he never thought her death would come, never like this, never would he have expected it.
He wishes he could take back the shot - his inside is as filled with regrets and holes than the room is with the blood of Allison.
* * *
Without reactions, without emotion, he plans a scene. He barely remembers what he has done - it’s almost done in a dream-like state. But his training is automatic - her death is not a murder, because he has presented it another, better way. No one would ever know - it’s likely no one would ever even care, or give second thought to one more person on the earth, one more tragedy.
Irina’s gaze is constant and everywhere, and she knows, she has to, he thinks dully. She knows everything. He could turn to her - he could, but he doesn’t because he’s afraid. He’s so afraid. It’s all a haze - someone’s going to the spot where the coordinates of the vial are - he doesn’t know who it is, but it isn’t him. It isn’t Allison, not Sydney either, or Jack.
Jack.
The only thoughts his mind haven’t visited the last weeks are with Jack. He has almost forgotten the steely, reserved character - he was Sydney’s father and he didn’t notice him around.
And God, he was Sydney’s father.
Jack. Always Jack.
And with this thought in mind, he feels as clear as he has in a long, long time.
* * *
SEVILLE
“Mr. Sark. You wanted to see me.”
Sark holds his gaze with the impeccable Jack Bristow and finds it much easier than he expected. It’s only the second time he’s spoken with the man, face to face, with no restricting glass between. “I did, and the reason being - I believe you set Allison Doren up.”
Jack allows his face to shift a bit. “I was under the impression that she committed suicide,” he says dryly, “unless you’re suggesting that something else happened.”
Sark knows he doesn’t know what he could possibly be getting into by telling Jack this, confronting him like this - it is the only think he can think of. “I am, actually - I admit to being the one who murdered Doren. But for a reason - her cell was on, and I discovered something a bit strange - her cell was pulsing out a signal. Without her knowledge I hacked in and found there was a second line connected on - at the time, I assumed she was working for another organization. She wouldn’t confess to it. In the moment, I shot her - and I regret that.” His blue eyes stare, hard, at Jack. “And now I suspect it was you who engineered this. Convenient, really,” he goes on. “You work through me, get rid of Allison, and thereby remove yourself from guilt entirely, your guilt to Sydney and to yourself.”
He sees a slight reaction at Sydney’s name, but it vanishes instantly. “Your suspicions, Mr. Sark, have been wrong before, and frankly, they’re wrong now. I appreciate your honesty in confessing.”
Sark pauses, before going on, “You know, I admire you a lot. In many ways - your devotion to your job - to your family - your abilities as an agent, altogether - and your mastery at game theory. But you’ve never been, as far as I have seen, all that much of a liar.”
Jack only gives him a cold glare. “You may not realize the damage this woman has caused - maybe you do. Perhaps you know what she’s done to Sydney, or whatever she’s done in the past you seem to have had with her. Maybe you do. And, to let it be known, I respect you. You’re the youngest and, nearly, the most talented agent I’ve ever come across. But you have many, many things to learn, when it comes to trust, and relationships, and doing what you think is best for the people that you most care for. And we have a common goal.”
Sark is suddenly pushed into understanding.
“If you care for Sydney, like I think you do, and like she cares for you - you must agree with me that this really is the best possible situation for everyone.”
Sark is silent, taking in the words again.
He seems to come to a decision.
“I agree,” he says finally.
He could swear he sees a trace of compassion. “Trust me when I tell you that I won’t reveal our conversation to anyone.”
Sark can feel the calmness now - not the fury he had begun with. Without another word, he nods to Jack, and turns to disappear, walking back to his car, back to go home.
* * *
Eighteen Months Post - Telling.
LONDON
Sark opens the door and steps into the lobby of the bank, box in hand, avoiding the two unconscious bodies of employees slumped behind the desk in the room. The sleeping chemical had worked well, as always.
With a wave of his hand, he turns the OPEN sign on the door to CLOSED, and walks out onto the busy sidewalks.
Being in London again . . . every time, it brought back memories. Memories of people, a family he’d wanted . . . the family he’d gotten . . . He shakes his head as his cell phone goes off.
“Hello?”
“I think we have an answer.”
Sark looks puzzled as he continues to walk. “To what?”
“Reviving Sydney.”
His heart involuntarily skips a beat, then resumes with fervor. “Talk to me.”
“Some type of wire, thin, transparent, best described as spider’s web thread - it broke when Sydney stabbed Sloane. We’ve just figured out how to reassemble it.”
“Are they working on it? Are you with Jack?”
“Jack knows, but he’s not here. Sark - this could be it. But we’re working with things we don’t understand here.” Sark’s head is racing as Irina goes on. “Also. We discovered the genuine liquid for the page you got in Argentina. It’s a continuation of another prophecy, like you suspected. It’s the one about Sydney.”
He stops dead. “What did it say?”
Irina takes a deep breath. “Having received these marks at the forty-seventh minute, of the sixth hour, of the country in which this page shall be concealed, the woman in question will have found the strength necessary to fulfill her duties and bring about the prophecy that I have chronicled. In this I lay my trust and hope - Milo Rambaldi.”
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.”
About a quarter to seven.
Six forty-seven.
Sydney got her scar at six forty-seven.
“Sark?”
He begins to walk again. “That’s when Sydney got her scar.”
“Six forty-seven.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“They’re hooking her up in two hours. They believe it will revive her to her conscious state.”
Sark arrives at his car, slides in the seat, and starts it up. “I’m coming.”
* * *
Oh, my God . . . God, just let me sleep . . . God . . . wait. I’m Sydney.
Sydney . . . I have to wake up, cause I could be anywhere . . . Francie - she wasn’t Francie, she was Allison. Will’s dead.
Will, no no no no, Will’s not dead. Goddammit, Francie. She killed him.
Where the hell am I?
What - wires. Am I - hospital? Could be - doesn’t look hospital.
Oh my God, Sark.
What - why is he just sitting there. Is he waiting for me to wake up - close my eyes, he won’t notice. I can wait - I can wait for him to go away.
Stay awake, Syd. They’ll leave. He’ll leave. He’ll kill you if you . . .
There he goes. Door, door, door, just go . . .
I’m alone, I think. Door’s closed - there’s a window. Half-open.
Come on, Syd, all you have to do is climb through it and you’ll be safe. It isn’t that hard.
Then you can call Vaughn and cause I miss Vaughn.
God, I want to go to Santa Barbara.
OW, God. My head - my muscles - my head feels so heavy. Just - crawllllll . . . Effort - come on, Sydney. You’ve been through worse.
Hands on ledge. Now just push . . . through . . .
Hurts. Wait, doesn’t. I can’t feel it.
Run Sydney - don’t stumble - stop it - run, run, run, run, run, run . . .
* * *
“Where the hell is she?!”
“Sir, I don’t know! Five minutes after you left the room, we came back and she was gone. I swear, sir-”
Sark doesn’t even wait for him to finish and almost runs into Irina and Jack in the hallway.
“Sydney’s not here! She just vanished and no one knows where she is.”
Irina looks stricken. Jack immediately asks, “Have you started searching? Have you looked everywhere in the building, asked all the employees if they’ve seen her?”
“All of it, yes, it’s going on right now. I knew it - we shouldn’t’ve - it was a bad plan-”
Irina speaks. “She couldn’t have gone far. She just left, and if she did return to consciousness, she would’ve been disoriented, not known where she was, somehow wandered off. We don’t know what state her mind is in right now.”
Jack looks at Sark. “Make sure you tap into all likely intelligence networks, see if they’ve configured a plan to abduct her.” Sark feels the emotion underneath as Jack continues, “We’ve waited months now. There’s not a chance we’ll lose her again.”
With a nod, Sark turns and quickly leaves the building.
* * *
He leans back from the program-packed computer screen. There has to be a solution to all of this. He begins to visualize…
Sloane, about to begin using Il Dire on a drugged Sydney. He runs his fingers through her hair and smiles at her, believing what he is about to do is all about to be for the better. Sark grimaces at the thought of this. What does Sloane believe?
He believes that this is the beginning. He thinks that he can remove all the hate and disgust built up against him by Sydney and Jack will disappear when he alters the past. He thinks that - he thinks Emily will come back.
But with Arvin Sloane the master of time and space, nothing could be safe. Il Dire in the hands of anyone could not be safe. Sark gazes back at the whirring screen and wonders why he’d ever assisted in this endeavor, this quest to build a machine of such destruction. Just a few short months ago, he would have taken great interest in it. Now, Sydney was too important.
He checks the screen again. No leads, no results. No Sydney Bristow.
Sydney - half-asleep next to Sloane, grasping for the knife she has concealed in her pocket. Sloane turns away - she slips it out. Seconds later, Sloane leans over her and she strikes.
Breaking the spider-thread wire in the process.
He reflected. Sloane had already selected a single, small portion of her brain - all the previous memories she’d had up until the day she was recruited to SD-6. Once those were deleted… she’d be back, back to that one point in the past, in the flesh. They would all be back - he’d be back - but they wouldn’t realize they were back, because if time hadn’t passed, they wouldn’t really be back from anywhere - it was an interesting puzzle, but one he couldn’t ponder for the moment. And only Arvin Sloane would know what had been altered.
But suppose that the memory deletion process had hit a milestone - a bump, if you will, on one traumatic event, that Il Dire had used more energy trying to release. Shooting Allison, for instance. A point where the deletion process had slowed, something the brain had trouble forgetting. The wire breaks, and -
He sits up. Sydney then gets lost in a coma, a limbo between space and time - the past might not have altered, but Sydney’s mind certainly had. Sydney might not ever remember anything from the time she’s worked with us. That’s why she ran off - disoriented, and on top of that, she might have awakened enough to enough to see me in the hospital room - and if she doesn’t remember anything, she probably thinks I’m still trying to kill her.
Oh, hell.
However, he tries not to let this thought throw him off focus. Sydney, though once again his opponent (or so she thought), had to be found. Abruptly his phone rings.
“Yes?”
Silence for a moment. “We have reason to believe that Sydney turned herself back into the CIA.”
He closes his eyes. Cold. “I see.”
A sigh on the other line. “I know.”
He is about to protest this - then thinks better of it. He is not the only one who feels the loss. So he says, “I’m fairly sure that she won’t be a risk to our operation. She won’t pass along any intel on us or what’s happened to her because I believe-”
“She doesn’t remember a thing. I believe that, too. We can’t know exactly how Il Dire malfunctioned on her - at least for the moment, she’s safe.”
“What action will the CIA take?”
He hears Irina’s tenseness. “I don’t know. If I knew, I would-”
“I’m going back to Madrid tonight. We’ll discuss this then.” He hazards a suggestion. “Perhaps we both need to rest.”
He hears her phone click off.
Irina does not want to rest. Neither does Sark, yet it seems sleep is his only hope of forgetting how the Sydney he has come to know, grown to care for, maybe even love, is suddenly never going to be that Sydney again.
He stands up. He is on his way to Madrid. He doesn’t have much time before the next flight departs.
EPILOGUE
Sydney Bristow, in full tactical gear, sits tensely in a corner of the plane, staring down at the floor. She was sure that her first mission back out in the field since her missing two years would be a slightly more welcoming one. Yet infiltrating a nuclear lab is not the usual nightclub/wig/seduction scenario she has almost come to enjoy.
Agent Weiss sits down beside her and puts his arm around her shoulder. She looks at him and smiles.
“Picture this, Syd. We focus on the mission, get the job done well, and go to my place and order a pizza. Cosmo’s Fine Pizza Pies. Sound any good?”
“What about Tasty Joe’s?”
“Too spicy.”
“You can get the cinnamon sticks.”
“I’m supposed to be dieting.”
She grins. “Okay. Cosmo’s is good.”
He nods. “You’ll be fine, Syd.”
She nods slowly. “I know.”
“Really.”
She sighed. “We need another lead. I can’t sleep at night knowing that I’ve lost…”
“We’ll get there someday, Syd. We’ll get there.”
* * *
Down in the depths of the lab Sydney feels she is finally coming into her element. The familiar wave of coolness settles over her as she slips in and out of corridors in search of one elusive room.
Finally, she comes to it. “Going radio-silent,” she breathes into her comm, and steps inside.
Once inside, she finds herself surrounded by tables and tables of chemicals and delicate equipment. Sydney silently approaches the table at the far right, scanning it for any signs of - there it was. She picks up a small brown box, which she finds suspiciously light. But before she can open the box, she hears a slight flick of a door handle. Whipping out her gun, she turns and aims at the figure. “Freeze!”
Sark.
He stops and turns to stare at her. A strange expression has alighted his features… yet she keeps the gun aimed squarely at his chest, approaching him slowly.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much choice; the door handle appears to be firmly stuck,” he says quietly.
“Sucks to be you, then, doesn’t it? Hand over the core. Hand it over!”
“Answer a question first, would you?”
“What’s that?”
“Aidan. Have you ever contacted anyone named Aidan?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Give me the core.”
“Think about it. Hard. It’s just a simple request.”
“I said I haven’t, and if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. No, I have never had a contact named Aidan. Hand me the core now.”
His silence implores her to think. Sydney does.
She has a flash, a glimmer, of a burnt piece of toast. Yet nothing else. Nothing Aidan-related in Sydney’s mind. “I haven’t, Sark. Give me the core and I let you walk out of here alive.”
He looks somewhat tired. “Take it,” he says, tossing it behind her. Instinctively she turns to grab it, yet he is already out the door by the time she turns around. A swift kick has repaired the problem of the handle, and Sydney scrambles to reach him - yet she flicks on her comm first. “Weiss, I’m outside room 665. Sark’s here.”
“Come back to the plane. We just received a transmission - they know we’re all here. There’s no time to chase Sark.”
Inwardly she curses. “Copy that. Moving to extraction point.”
Aidan… Aidan, Aidan, Aidan…
She shakes her head, starting up a quick run. What a weird request. Still. She has the core, and that’s what matters.
Maybe he knows something about her two years.
Sydney stops short.
“Sydney?” comes Eric’s voice. “You’ve got about a minute left.”
“Copy that.”
Someday.
* * *
Sark’s truck, located somewhere behind the mass of trees, takes off.
She really doesn’t remember, he thinks.
Yet she now at least has a scrap. She knows a name. His name.
He could swear he saw a hint of recognition in her eyes, but he knows this is just wishful thinking. Maybe someday it will all come back to her, or she’ll find a surgery to repair the damage that’s been done. Maybe someday she’ll come back.
He contents himself with this thought. He’ll see her again. The memories will remain.
Stockholm Syndrome (n): A phenomenon in which a hostage begins to identify with and grow sympathetic to his or her captor.
Summary: (see posts below)
He feels the coolness of the dawn, and warmth beside him. He lies still, in blissful enjoyment, taking in his surroundings.
The first face he sees is that of Sydney Bristow.
Has she ever been told how beautiful she looks asleep? He guesses he would not be the first to realize it. Her long brown hair spills over her face, her features completely unblemished.
He smiles when her eyes open.
After a few seconds, she turns over on her side, facing him, her face a picture of pure contentment.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
He hesitates before venturing out with, “Hey.”
She moves under the warm blanket, snuggling in closer. “I like it.” When Sark doesn’t answer right away, she goes on. “Your name. Aidan.” She smiles. “It fits.”
“I’m glad.” He gives a slight laugh. “Although knowing you, you’ll probably persist in using the name ‘Sark.’”
“Which is probably the wisest thing to do, considering our lives.”
“Just consider it my gift to you. It’s somewhat of a rarity nowadays.”
Suddenly, in the silence, he realizes. Irina had known. An evening, so very carefully constructed. She had guessed, perhaps . . .
There may be changes now, he realizes. Many.
Sydney yawns. “How much time before we have to leave?”
“Maybe two hours.”
He is struck by the force of an idea, an insane hope, something he could never create in reality - “What if we didn’t?”
Sydney looks at him questioningly.
“What if we didn’t leave? We could just leave completely, think about it, Sydney. We could go off somewhere and just leave completely, and be out. Out. No more - no more wild Rambaldi scavenger hunts, no Sloane, no - no anything. Start over somewhere else without this.”
Sydney gazes at him. “There’s just no way . . . it’s impossible. I mean . . .”
“No, really.” He sits up, leaning against the leather of the chair as his headboard. “I mean, really think about it. It’s the perfect opportunity. We could just go. There’s nothing stopping us.”
She follows his lead, also sitting up and letting the blanket slide off of her. “What about the Prophecy? I mean, that could be me.”
“It could also be someone else. Yours is not the only profile it fits.”
“But my mother -”
“There’s a chance, isn’t there?”
“What about this new page?”
“That I don’t know,” he admits. “But it could be part of any Prophecy, now Sydney, listen. We leave the page and go off, I have a hundred contacts to get us anywhere, it doesn’t have to be through Irina. We can go.”
Indecision fills her face. She looks away.
Come on, Sydney, he prays silently, willing her to say something, anything, yes she would, they could escape, finally, they could be free -
At that moment, bullets spray the kitchen window.
Immediately they are both up, Sark throwing on his shirt without stopping and Sydney likewise, while Sark opens the cabinet to pull out two loaded pistols. He tosses one to Sydney, and they split - Sark crawls to the kitchen door and Sydney to the general area’s single door.
Sark cautiously slips through the door, gun ready and eyes darting all over.
It happens all at once - their fire and his return. His adrenaline flows, feverishly watching for any sign, any movement - more fire. He fires off several more shots, not sure of where they land - it’s too difficult to see among the trees . . .
He hears equal noise from the opposite side of the house. He sends a few more shots out before darting to the back of the house and beginning again.
It takes him a second to notice the sound on Sydney’s side has stopped.
In fact, it’s almost completely silent.
He considers for a second, and then silently makes his way to the place where Sydney had begun.
She is nowhere.
He is hesitant to call out; instead, he circles around the building - still no sign of Sydney.
Suddenly, searing pain through his right leg - deeply shot through - he almost cries out, but rallying himself, he sends a shot towards that direction.
His last shot. He has to get back in the house. Somewhere, anywhere. But they could be inside. Sydney could be inside. He isn’t sure. His blood throbbing, he slides around to the kitchen door and looks in. It appears to be empty.
Glass litters the floor - he treads carefully - he recovers his cell phone, and staying low, away from windows, he dials a number.
“Hello?”
“We were ambushed,” he tells the other line quietly. “Someone knew we would be here, found us, I’m not sure. Could be anyone, the ones who attacked us yesterday. I can’t find Sydney, I don’t see her anywhere and I figure she would have somehow made contact with me. I myself was just shot in the leg. We need some kind of back-up, now.”
“Are all targets down?”
The pain in his leg increases. “If I knew, I would’ve told you, now I need back-up.”
“You’ll get it. For now, just find her.” His phone clicks off.
Again, Sark thinks bitterly. Never mind the fact I may bleed to death. He half crawls to the cabinet of ammunition and finds a good clip. He inserts it inside the gun and sets off again for the first aid. The pain has escalated to an all time high, and his every fiber burns with the effort. Dragging himself now, he sets about putting on a bandage. He begins to see the black just as he’s finishing, and it grows, until he sees nothing, and the pulsing drums harder and harder until all at once, he feels nothing - only the black as he falls back onto the floor.
* * *
With a start, Sark opens his eyes.
He is lying on a bed with white sheets.
He sees Irina’s relieved face looking over him, and suddenly he remembers.
“Did you find Sydney?” he asks, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, and begins again. “Where’s Sydney? Have you discovered who the ambushers were?” Sark sits up and tries to ignore the sharp stab of pain in his leg.
Irina takes a long look at him and says, “We don’t know. We’re following a lead now, but we’ve got nothing so far.”
“Sloane.”
Irina says nothing.
He stares at her, trying to penetrate her immobile mask. He realizes, and he says quickly, “It couldn’t have been the CIA . . . that’s just not even a possibility.”
“The fact is . . . it is a possibility. And you’ll have to accept that.”
Sark shakes his head. “She wouldn’t.”
“She might.”
“And what is Jack Bristow’s take on the matter?” he asks, a slight edge in his tone.
“He told me he’d spoken to Sydney. And judging by what he said, it’s doubtful she would turn to the CIA - then again, she might have been withholding the truth from him because of Doren’s escape.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Close on twenty-three hours.”
Sark inwardly curses. Excellent, really, how well he lived up to his training. Out for nearly a day, and wounded nowhere serious. “Describe this lead that you have.”
“Bucharest. There’s a team heading there in the next twenty-four hours. We got an intercept regarding ‘the clock’ being delivered.”
Only Sark could sense her initial hesitation in speaking. He knows her. “You can’t prevent me from joining that team, Irina.”
She gives him one of her Mona Lisa smiles. “I wasn’t going to try.” From behind her back, she pulls out a folder and hands it to him. “These are the specs,” she says quietly. “For now, you can go. But if-”
He cuts her off. “Irina . . . I’m going.”
She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. With one last smile, she turns and leaves the room, with Sark looking after her.
BUCHAREST
It is a small place, grey and dark and old. And so very Sloane. The team moves with quiet caution and stealth, ready at a second’s notice. Sark blocks out his pain and instead, concentrates on his goal.
There is something missing, however, as the team discovers, while splitting and moving throughout the building. The only thing wrong is the absence of human life. The place is completely free of all people.
It becomes increasingly clear to Sark, once he’s covered almost half of the grounds. And there is not much left to search.
With a feeling of frustrated resignation, Sark pushes open a door, and he is instantly confronted with a picture.
Il Dire is there. Along with two other people.
Sark has seen death. But never, never in a thousand times, has he seen death like this.
He winces in sickened revulsion at the bloodied, crumpled and lifeless body of Arvin Sloane on the ground. The end of a blade can barely be seen, buried deep within the man’s chest.
Sark turns away and sees Sydney, lying spread out against a chair, eyes closed. He walks quickly towards her, taking her wrist in his hands and checking for the slightest hint of a pulse.
The pulse is there, at a slow but normal rate. Thank God, he breathes silently.
She appears to be breathing, too.
In fact, everything appears to be normal. Except for the fact that she hasn’t awakened yet.
Sark speaks her name, softly to her. “Sydney.” She doesn’t respond. “Sydney,” he says, slightly louder, even though he’s gradually realizing that she won’t wake up, no matter what he says or does.
Two members of the team run in from behind him. “Is she alive?” one asks him.
Sark can’t answer at first. “She’s alive,” he replies quietly, after a second. “She isn’t responding.”
The other man takes a look at Sloane. “From what I can see, Bristow took a pretty clear stab at him.” He radios into a walkie-talkie, “Send medics to east wing, third room.”
Sark turns away, not looking at them, not looking at her, looking away until the others arrive, taking Sydney out of the room.
He doesn’t follow. Instead, he approaches Il Dire.
It isn’t small. It isn’t massive, either - yet an aura of dignity and importance surrounds it. Sark studies it hard . . . so this is what they had been seeking to build - here, in the flesh. It was real. And yet so surreal.
Several wires with circular caps on the ends are hanging down off of it. Sark runs his fingers through them, feeling the smoothness and perfection of five hundred years of discovery. Suddenly he feels a break in one. He touches it again.
There is a splice in the center of a wire. He isn’t sure - had she ripped it off and caused it to break? He takes a closer glance at it.
“Sir, we’re going to have to take this,” a voice says behind him, and he turns to see a few members of his team. He steps aside and watches them carefully take the machine up and across the room, going out.
Sark is alone in the room. Sloane’s body is also gone - it is only himself.
With one final, desperate glance around, he approaches the doorway and follows the last of the team down the hall.
* * *
MADRID
“How’s Sydney?” Sark asks the minute he swings through the door, his steps quicker than usual.
Irina glances up from her laptop. “She’s in our Hong Kong medical base - still unconscious but stable.” The pain on her face is so clearly visible that Sark wants to turn away - he senses exactly how she feels. She continues. “It’s unclear what’s actually wrong with her - there’s no internal damage, no bleeding, no viruses - she’s almost in a coma, but there’s no reason why she should be. It’s just . . .” She breaks off and starts again bluntly. “We’re checking the device. There’s a wire that looks-”
“I saw it,” Sark replies. “Like it was strained. Almost split in two.”
“I’ve got people on it right now.”
“Are they good?”
Irina exhales. “They’re good.”
Sark follows her eyes as they trail away. “Is there anything I can do?”
She looks back up. “I’ll give you a few days to rest up, if you need it. Come back when you’re ready.”
“I don’t need it.”
Her voice is gentle but firm. “Then it’s an order. Come back in a week. You’ll be better for it.”
Their gazes meet, until Sark breaks the silence by saying, “I understand.” He turns away and leaves Irina alone in the room.
AUSTRIA
He’s always liked it here - it’s quiet with enough energy and sights to save it from monotony. It’s so unlike Italy - the beauty of it is not so flamboyant.
He takes a long walk around the city, just enjoying the crisply fresh wind on his face, watching all the people walking to their normal jobs, with their normal families and meeting their normal friends, never glancing once at him and knowing who he really is. He feels welcomed, in that respect. He enjoys the feeling of freedom for once. Perhaps Irina was right.
He knows he could be spotted. For once, he doesn’t seem to care. He could spend all day like this, walking, free, with no one calling him, no one to steal a life away from so casually, as he does, no one wanting things for their own greedy, pointless purposes. When he thinks about it, it all does seem so pointless, so useless. He doesn’t know what he’ll get in the next life.
With a pang he remembers, asking Sydney to come away, so she could enjoy the freedom he feels now. If she had come - but this was not a week of things that could have been.
“Sydney.” He runs his fingers through her long, beautiful brown hair. Her arms encase him, radiating heat and closeness all through him. God, they’re so alive together. A smile plays on her lips.
He smiles back at her, and they turn together, herself so close to him, her lips so close.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she whispers.
His blue eyes glint at her innocently, before he murmurs back. “Aidan.”
Her face is charmed, and she repeats, “Aidan.”
His touch moves her, and he hears her moan of pleasure. “Are you satisfied now, Agent Bristow?” he asks with a light grin.
“Not quite,” she breathes back, pulling him in closer for another kiss.
“Sark.” Irina’s voice takes him back to the present. “I thought I was doing you a favor when I gave you a week off.”
Sark shifts. “Athens. Catacombs of St. Athanasius. You want to recover the coordinates of the Rambaldi vial from a certain resting place, the name on which is Ana Karteles.” He pauses, unsure if there is more.
Irina tucks her hair back. “And you’ll have a partner.” She looks directly at him. “Allison.”
Sark blinks. “I was under the impression that she was being sent to Germany.”
“They’re still trying to recover the material from Marcovic’s lab. It would be useless to send her there when she could be assisting the organization in field work.”
“Surely you’ve noticed our recent - animosity to one another as of late.”
“And I know it won’t affect your performance. You work well together.”
Sark’s mouth tightens a little. “I truly don’t think this is a good idea.”
Irina briefly closes her eyes. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
“If this mission fails, the blood is on your hands, Irina.”
She looks at him with weary eyes. “Aidan . . .”
That has done it. Sark rises.
“No. Not Aidan,” he says, his voice rising. “You’ve passed the time when you ever had the right to use my given name. I’ll be taking the mission with Allison. Just remember what I’ve said. We’re past that level now.”
He turns, strides out of the room, and quickly pulls the door shut behind him.
* * *
ATHENS
Sark is driving the car, looking straight ahead at the lightly crowded streets, avoiding meeting Allison’s eyes. She, in turn, isn’t facing anywhere near him.
“There are so many things we should talk about,” Allison says quietly, her eyes still on the road.
Sark makes a smooth turn around the corner. “What is there left to talk about?”
“Everything.”
After a moment’s pause, Sark says abruptly, “So. Let’s talk. We’ll start at the beginning. When did you first fall for Tippin?”
He can sense her irritation and embarrassment and says, “There’s really no point in denying it, Allison. I’m merely curious.”
“The hour after I had extracted the first of our intel from him.”
Sark can almost feel the old wound rising up in him. At least she is being honest.
“I see. Would it be correct to assume you still harbor these emotions for him?”
He hasn’t been this cold in awhile - but then, cold is all he’s been lately. Nothing but cold and distance. Even with Irina.
She finally looks at him, a steely, stubborn look in her eyes. “I care nothing for Will Tippin anymore. And I will swear to that.” When he doesn’t respond, she adds, “And I know you’ve been sleeping with Bristow.”
Sark also breaks his stare and turns to her. “Unlike my former relationship with you, I define my relationship with Sydney as something more than a mere evening pleasure every couple of months.”
“There was something else there with me, and you won’t admit it, no matter what I say.”
Sark makes a tight swerve around the bend. “I won’t admit to what never existed.”
He pulls the car to a sudden stop. The old church of St. Athanasius looms over them, the unseen catacombs being borne upon.
Sark glances back at Allison. “Are you ready?”
“What makes you think I’m not?” She opens the car door, steps out wearing a conservative black coat and dark clothing, and begins to walk in the church. Sark had half-heartedly objected to going in the catacombs himself, for a number of reasons. He just wasn’t feeling up to it.
Allison will send the pictures of the code to Sark, once she has taken a clear image of it. It is fairly straightforward. Easy enough to be done solo, Sark thinks, waiting in silence for her to send in. The only reason he can think to have two agents is that they’re tightening their servers’ security - there hasn’t been word on how Sydney and Sark’s location in Argentina was discovered.
An image flashes on the small screen he holds in his hand - a series of numbers and several letters. Coordinates, definitely.
Allison makes it back in less than ten minutes, sliding into the car with the air of someone who knows just how good they are.
After a look around, Sark suddenly starts the car with a jerk, and they head off to the road.
The place they choose for the night is small but respectable, with a few rooms on several floors. They check in under Sylvia James and William Masters - a couple, sharing a room.
Allison calls Irina around nine, to confirm what they have. She then leaves to take a quick shower.
It is then Sark hears a drone - a quiet, high-pitched, rattling drone. He isn’t sure where it is coming from - somewhere on Allison’s bed, perhaps - he crosses over and picks up her cell phone, listening. The drone is louder there. It’s coming from the phone.
Sark frowns and makes a move to turn it off - and then he stops. He drops the phone and goes to pick up his laptop, opening it as he walks. He takes the telephone cord from the wall, along with a small scrap of wire he reserves for lock-picking. Using the materials, he makes an insert into the cell phone’s inner side and plugs it into his computer. Then he begins to type.
Five minutes later, he’s staring at a screen. A screen of something his mind doesn’t understand.
* * *
Allison walks out of the bathroom, hair slightly damp still, not too badly.
“I’m out now if you-”
She is grabbed from behind with a hard, wrenching grasp. Sark’s cool voice and the equally cool silver barrel pressed to her head are all she can feel.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Allison - who are you working for, really? Tell me the truth, and I’ll let this go, I promise you.”
He watches her futile struggle to get out - he has an iron grip, however, and there is no way she can escape from him.
“I swear, Sark, I’m only working for us. For Derevko and the organization-”
Sark’s voice wavers a little. “Allison - I don’t want to do this, Allison. Just say it and I’ll let it go.”
Allison makes another lunge to get out. “I SWEAR, Sark, I’m not working for anyone else!”
“Sloane? Is that who it is?” He can feel her desperation - “I’ll let it go! Just say the words!”
Allison breathes hard. “Aidan, I swear to God, I don’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .”
Sark is losing his confident tone now. “Just say the damn words, Allie! That’s all I need to hear! Just tell me!”
“But I’m not!” she screams, not caring who hears.
“Say the words!”
She turns as much as she dares and looks at him pleadingly. “Aidan . . .”
The shot rings out.
He drops the gun.
He slowly releases her in numb disbelief as he watches the blood come from her neck, feeling her warmth on his hands, just coated in her blood. He catches sight of her eyes, startled, desperate, teared brown eyes that stay staring at him long after her body touches the ground.
He was wrong. He knows it. He can only stare at her still, lifeless body, as if he is willing her to stand up again and brush it off like nothing has happened. Her blood is everywhere now - his hands feel taut, sticky. Blood - Allison’s blood - he never thought her death would come, never like this, never would he have expected it.
He wishes he could take back the shot - his inside is as filled with regrets and holes than the room is with the blood of Allison.
* * *
Without reactions, without emotion, he plans a scene. He barely remembers what he has done - it’s almost done in a dream-like state. But his training is automatic - her death is not a murder, because he has presented it another, better way. No one would ever know - it’s likely no one would ever even care, or give second thought to one more person on the earth, one more tragedy.
Irina’s gaze is constant and everywhere, and she knows, she has to, he thinks dully. She knows everything. He could turn to her - he could, but he doesn’t because he’s afraid. He’s so afraid. It’s all a haze - someone’s going to the spot where the coordinates of the vial are - he doesn’t know who it is, but it isn’t him. It isn’t Allison, not Sydney either, or Jack.
Jack.
The only thoughts his mind haven’t visited the last weeks are with Jack. He has almost forgotten the steely, reserved character - he was Sydney’s father and he didn’t notice him around.
And God, he was Sydney’s father.
Jack. Always Jack.
And with this thought in mind, he feels as clear as he has in a long, long time.
* * *
SEVILLE
“Mr. Sark. You wanted to see me.”
Sark holds his gaze with the impeccable Jack Bristow and finds it much easier than he expected. It’s only the second time he’s spoken with the man, face to face, with no restricting glass between. “I did, and the reason being - I believe you set Allison Doren up.”
Jack allows his face to shift a bit. “I was under the impression that she committed suicide,” he says dryly, “unless you’re suggesting that something else happened.”
Sark knows he doesn’t know what he could possibly be getting into by telling Jack this, confronting him like this - it is the only think he can think of. “I am, actually - I admit to being the one who murdered Doren. But for a reason - her cell was on, and I discovered something a bit strange - her cell was pulsing out a signal. Without her knowledge I hacked in and found there was a second line connected on - at the time, I assumed she was working for another organization. She wouldn’t confess to it. In the moment, I shot her - and I regret that.” His blue eyes stare, hard, at Jack. “And now I suspect it was you who engineered this. Convenient, really,” he goes on. “You work through me, get rid of Allison, and thereby remove yourself from guilt entirely, your guilt to Sydney and to yourself.”
He sees a slight reaction at Sydney’s name, but it vanishes instantly. “Your suspicions, Mr. Sark, have been wrong before, and frankly, they’re wrong now. I appreciate your honesty in confessing.”
Sark pauses, before going on, “You know, I admire you a lot. In many ways - your devotion to your job - to your family - your abilities as an agent, altogether - and your mastery at game theory. But you’ve never been, as far as I have seen, all that much of a liar.”
Jack only gives him a cold glare. “You may not realize the damage this woman has caused - maybe you do. Perhaps you know what she’s done to Sydney, or whatever she’s done in the past you seem to have had with her. Maybe you do. And, to let it be known, I respect you. You’re the youngest and, nearly, the most talented agent I’ve ever come across. But you have many, many things to learn, when it comes to trust, and relationships, and doing what you think is best for the people that you most care for. And we have a common goal.”
Sark is suddenly pushed into understanding.
“If you care for Sydney, like I think you do, and like she cares for you - you must agree with me that this really is the best possible situation for everyone.”
Sark is silent, taking in the words again.
He seems to come to a decision.
“I agree,” he says finally.
He could swear he sees a trace of compassion. “Trust me when I tell you that I won’t reveal our conversation to anyone.”
Sark can feel the calmness now - not the fury he had begun with. Without another word, he nods to Jack, and turns to disappear, walking back to his car, back to go home.
* * *
Eighteen Months Post - Telling.
LONDON
Sark opens the door and steps into the lobby of the bank, box in hand, avoiding the two unconscious bodies of employees slumped behind the desk in the room. The sleeping chemical had worked well, as always.
With a wave of his hand, he turns the OPEN sign on the door to CLOSED, and walks out onto the busy sidewalks.
Being in London again . . . every time, it brought back memories. Memories of people, a family he’d wanted . . . the family he’d gotten . . . He shakes his head as his cell phone goes off.
“Hello?”
“I think we have an answer.”
Sark looks puzzled as he continues to walk. “To what?”
“Reviving Sydney.”
His heart involuntarily skips a beat, then resumes with fervor. “Talk to me.”
“Some type of wire, thin, transparent, best described as spider’s web thread - it broke when Sydney stabbed Sloane. We’ve just figured out how to reassemble it.”
“Are they working on it? Are you with Jack?”
“Jack knows, but he’s not here. Sark - this could be it. But we’re working with things we don’t understand here.” Sark’s head is racing as Irina goes on. “Also. We discovered the genuine liquid for the page you got in Argentina. It’s a continuation of another prophecy, like you suspected. It’s the one about Sydney.”
He stops dead. “What did it say?”
Irina takes a deep breath. “Having received these marks at the forty-seventh minute, of the sixth hour, of the country in which this page shall be concealed, the woman in question will have found the strength necessary to fulfill her duties and bring about the prophecy that I have chronicled. In this I lay my trust and hope - Milo Rambaldi.”
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.”
About a quarter to seven.
Six forty-seven.
Sydney got her scar at six forty-seven.
“Sark?”
He begins to walk again. “That’s when Sydney got her scar.”
“Six forty-seven.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“They’re hooking her up in two hours. They believe it will revive her to her conscious state.”
Sark arrives at his car, slides in the seat, and starts it up. “I’m coming.”
* * *
Oh, my God . . . God, just let me sleep . . . God . . . wait. I’m Sydney.
Sydney . . . I have to wake up, cause I could be anywhere . . . Francie - she wasn’t Francie, she was Allison. Will’s dead.
Will, no no no no, Will’s not dead. Goddammit, Francie. She killed him.
Where the hell am I?
What - wires. Am I - hospital? Could be - doesn’t look hospital.
Oh my God, Sark.
What - why is he just sitting there. Is he waiting for me to wake up - close my eyes, he won’t notice. I can wait - I can wait for him to go away.
Stay awake, Syd. They’ll leave. He’ll leave. He’ll kill you if you . . .
There he goes. Door, door, door, just go . . .
I’m alone, I think. Door’s closed - there’s a window. Half-open.
Come on, Syd, all you have to do is climb through it and you’ll be safe. It isn’t that hard.
Then you can call Vaughn and cause I miss Vaughn.
God, I want to go to Santa Barbara.
OW, God. My head - my muscles - my head feels so heavy. Just - crawllllll . . . Effort - come on, Sydney. You’ve been through worse.
Hands on ledge. Now just push . . . through . . .
Hurts. Wait, doesn’t. I can’t feel it.
Run Sydney - don’t stumble - stop it - run, run, run, run, run, run . . .
* * *
“Where the hell is she?!”
“Sir, I don’t know! Five minutes after you left the room, we came back and she was gone. I swear, sir-”
Sark doesn’t even wait for him to finish and almost runs into Irina and Jack in the hallway.
“Sydney’s not here! She just vanished and no one knows where she is.”
Irina looks stricken. Jack immediately asks, “Have you started searching? Have you looked everywhere in the building, asked all the employees if they’ve seen her?”
“All of it, yes, it’s going on right now. I knew it - we shouldn’t’ve - it was a bad plan-”
Irina speaks. “She couldn’t have gone far. She just left, and if she did return to consciousness, she would’ve been disoriented, not known where she was, somehow wandered off. We don’t know what state her mind is in right now.”
Jack looks at Sark. “Make sure you tap into all likely intelligence networks, see if they’ve configured a plan to abduct her.” Sark feels the emotion underneath as Jack continues, “We’ve waited months now. There’s not a chance we’ll lose her again.”
With a nod, Sark turns and quickly leaves the building.
* * *
He leans back from the program-packed computer screen. There has to be a solution to all of this. He begins to visualize…
Sloane, about to begin using Il Dire on a drugged Sydney. He runs his fingers through her hair and smiles at her, believing what he is about to do is all about to be for the better. Sark grimaces at the thought of this. What does Sloane believe?
He believes that this is the beginning. He thinks that he can remove all the hate and disgust built up against him by Sydney and Jack will disappear when he alters the past. He thinks that - he thinks Emily will come back.
But with Arvin Sloane the master of time and space, nothing could be safe. Il Dire in the hands of anyone could not be safe. Sark gazes back at the whirring screen and wonders why he’d ever assisted in this endeavor, this quest to build a machine of such destruction. Just a few short months ago, he would have taken great interest in it. Now, Sydney was too important.
He checks the screen again. No leads, no results. No Sydney Bristow.
Sydney - half-asleep next to Sloane, grasping for the knife she has concealed in her pocket. Sloane turns away - she slips it out. Seconds later, Sloane leans over her and she strikes.
Breaking the spider-thread wire in the process.
He reflected. Sloane had already selected a single, small portion of her brain - all the previous memories she’d had up until the day she was recruited to SD-6. Once those were deleted… she’d be back, back to that one point in the past, in the flesh. They would all be back - he’d be back - but they wouldn’t realize they were back, because if time hadn’t passed, they wouldn’t really be back from anywhere - it was an interesting puzzle, but one he couldn’t ponder for the moment. And only Arvin Sloane would know what had been altered.
But suppose that the memory deletion process had hit a milestone - a bump, if you will, on one traumatic event, that Il Dire had used more energy trying to release. Shooting Allison, for instance. A point where the deletion process had slowed, something the brain had trouble forgetting. The wire breaks, and -
He sits up. Sydney then gets lost in a coma, a limbo between space and time - the past might not have altered, but Sydney’s mind certainly had. Sydney might not ever remember anything from the time she’s worked with us. That’s why she ran off - disoriented, and on top of that, she might have awakened enough to enough to see me in the hospital room - and if she doesn’t remember anything, she probably thinks I’m still trying to kill her.
Oh, hell.
However, he tries not to let this thought throw him off focus. Sydney, though once again his opponent (or so she thought), had to be found. Abruptly his phone rings.
“Yes?”
Silence for a moment. “We have reason to believe that Sydney turned herself back into the CIA.”
He closes his eyes. Cold. “I see.”
A sigh on the other line. “I know.”
He is about to protest this - then thinks better of it. He is not the only one who feels the loss. So he says, “I’m fairly sure that she won’t be a risk to our operation. She won’t pass along any intel on us or what’s happened to her because I believe-”
“She doesn’t remember a thing. I believe that, too. We can’t know exactly how Il Dire malfunctioned on her - at least for the moment, she’s safe.”
“What action will the CIA take?”
He hears Irina’s tenseness. “I don’t know. If I knew, I would-”
“I’m going back to Madrid tonight. We’ll discuss this then.” He hazards a suggestion. “Perhaps we both need to rest.”
He hears her phone click off.
Irina does not want to rest. Neither does Sark, yet it seems sleep is his only hope of forgetting how the Sydney he has come to know, grown to care for, maybe even love, is suddenly never going to be that Sydney again.
He stands up. He is on his way to Madrid. He doesn’t have much time before the next flight departs.
EPILOGUE
Sydney Bristow, in full tactical gear, sits tensely in a corner of the plane, staring down at the floor. She was sure that her first mission back out in the field since her missing two years would be a slightly more welcoming one. Yet infiltrating a nuclear lab is not the usual nightclub/wig/seduction scenario she has almost come to enjoy.
Agent Weiss sits down beside her and puts his arm around her shoulder. She looks at him and smiles.
“Picture this, Syd. We focus on the mission, get the job done well, and go to my place and order a pizza. Cosmo’s Fine Pizza Pies. Sound any good?”
“What about Tasty Joe’s?”
“Too spicy.”
“You can get the cinnamon sticks.”
“I’m supposed to be dieting.”
She grins. “Okay. Cosmo’s is good.”
He nods. “You’ll be fine, Syd.”
She nods slowly. “I know.”
“Really.”
She sighed. “We need another lead. I can’t sleep at night knowing that I’ve lost…”
“We’ll get there someday, Syd. We’ll get there.”
* * *
Down in the depths of the lab Sydney feels she is finally coming into her element. The familiar wave of coolness settles over her as she slips in and out of corridors in search of one elusive room.
Finally, she comes to it. “Going radio-silent,” she breathes into her comm, and steps inside.
Once inside, she finds herself surrounded by tables and tables of chemicals and delicate equipment. Sydney silently approaches the table at the far right, scanning it for any signs of - there it was. She picks up a small brown box, which she finds suspiciously light. But before she can open the box, she hears a slight flick of a door handle. Whipping out her gun, she turns and aims at the figure. “Freeze!”
Sark.
He stops and turns to stare at her. A strange expression has alighted his features… yet she keeps the gun aimed squarely at his chest, approaching him slowly.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much choice; the door handle appears to be firmly stuck,” he says quietly.
“Sucks to be you, then, doesn’t it? Hand over the core. Hand it over!”
“Answer a question first, would you?”
“What’s that?”
“Aidan. Have you ever contacted anyone named Aidan?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Give me the core.”
“Think about it. Hard. It’s just a simple request.”
“I said I haven’t, and if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. No, I have never had a contact named Aidan. Hand me the core now.”
His silence implores her to think. Sydney does.
She has a flash, a glimmer, of a burnt piece of toast. Yet nothing else. Nothing Aidan-related in Sydney’s mind. “I haven’t, Sark. Give me the core and I let you walk out of here alive.”
He looks somewhat tired. “Take it,” he says, tossing it behind her. Instinctively she turns to grab it, yet he is already out the door by the time she turns around. A swift kick has repaired the problem of the handle, and Sydney scrambles to reach him - yet she flicks on her comm first. “Weiss, I’m outside room 665. Sark’s here.”
“Come back to the plane. We just received a transmission - they know we’re all here. There’s no time to chase Sark.”
Inwardly she curses. “Copy that. Moving to extraction point.”
Aidan… Aidan, Aidan, Aidan…
She shakes her head, starting up a quick run. What a weird request. Still. She has the core, and that’s what matters.
Maybe he knows something about her two years.
Sydney stops short.
“Sydney?” comes Eric’s voice. “You’ve got about a minute left.”
“Copy that.”
Someday.
* * *
Sark’s truck, located somewhere behind the mass of trees, takes off.
She really doesn’t remember, he thinks.
Yet she now at least has a scrap. She knows a name. His name.
He could swear he saw a hint of recognition in her eyes, but he knows this is just wishful thinking. Maybe someday it will all come back to her, or she’ll find a surgery to repair the damage that’s been done. Maybe someday she’ll come back.
He contents himself with this thought. He’ll see her again. The memories will remain.
Stockholm Syndrome (n): A phenomenon in which a hostage begins to identify with and grow sympathetic to his or her captor.