Sydney rappelled down the side of the building, stopping on the 28th floor. She carefully cut a circular hole in the thick glass. As she reached in to unlock the window, she glanced up and saw a man standing in the room. She froze. Crisp white shirt, stylish gray Armani suit, Raybans. She would have found him attractive, if he hadn't been grinning smugly at her and holding the Rambaldi artifact – HER Rambaldi artifact – like a prize catch. Before she could react, he gave her a little wave and took off.
The second time Sydney saw that same man, she was chasing him down a narrow flight of stairs. She was fast, but he was faster. When she finally burst into the parking garage, she heard the roar of an engine igniting. She hurried to her own car, only to find the tires slashed. She turned just in time to see his car speeding towards the exit. A flash of a toothy smile in the rearview mirror, a wave, and he was gone.
The third time Sydney saw him, they were in Belfast. He had a Browning aimed at her head, and she had a Glock trained on his heart.
"Hey, listen, I don't know who you're working for, but you should be working for us," he said.
"I don't work for terrorists," Sydney retorted.
His condescending smile was infuriating.
"Sure you don't."
Sydney heard a click behind her and whirled. Before she could squeeze off a shot, however, something slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Her shoulder burned, and when she touched it, her hand came away bloody. She'd been shot, she realized dimly.
"Why did you do that? I was handling it!" the man said.
"You know, a little appreciation wouldn't kill you, Michael!" snapped a woman's voice, thick with an Irish brogue.
When Sydney woke, she was in the hospital, with no idea how she had gotten there. She often wondered about that man and who he worked for, but she never found out because that was the last time she ever saw him.
Jack sighed as he contemplated the mostly fictional CIA file in his hands. He really didn't want to do this, but he'd been left with very little choice. The CIA didn't know that his daughter was working for SD-6. He had chosen not to share that little tidbit with them. He had done it to protect her, but now it meant that he couldn't stop them from treating her like any other bad guy/terrorist agent. If he wanted to protect Sydney, he'd have to make a choice. A brilliant young agent's career, or his daughter's life? When he put it like that, it was really very simple.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
"Come in!" Devlin said.
Jack entered Arthur Devlin's office and shut the door behind him.
"We have a problem."
"Jack!" Devlin exclaimed, clearly surprised to see him. "What can I do for you?"
Jack tossed the file onto the desk.
"We have a mole."
Devlin opened the file and frowned.
"Westin? Are you sure?"
"See for yourself," Jack said as he drew Devlin's attention to one of the surveillance photos. (It's amazing what you can do with Photoshop.)
Devlin shook his head sadly.
"I'll be honest with you, Jack. I will never fathom why they do it."
"I'm sure he had his reasons."
"They always do. Anyway, good work. I'll pass this along to counterintelligence."
Jack walked out of Devlin's office feeling satisfied with himself. Sydney was safe. Everything else was immaterial.