The
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Sark is a good lad. Right now, I'm watching as he chats on his silver cell phone, giving directions to our operatives in Los Angeles. He's normally not this animated - his hands are making fast, annoyed motions in every possible direction, his voice is slightly more clipped than usual. His blue eyes dart around this red-carpeted room in Taipei, focusing first on burgundy silk drapes, then a cherry-wood coffee table, and finally on me, here in the corner of the room. "Yes, I am well aware of that," he snaps, his accent smoothing over the words. "And we intend to make this work - yes - pardon me if I interrupt, but -" He closes his eyes, emits a ragged sigh and places a hand on his forehead, rubbing. He's not easily frustrated - just one of the reasons we hired him. But now, as he turns his expensive gray suited back to me, I know he's more than irritated. And with just cause, I'm sure - our L.A. counterparts can sometimes be sothick-headed, I believe the English word is. "Listen to me," his voice suddenly becomes softer, slick with malice. "If you do not follow these orders to meet our exact specifications, the consequences will be quite unfortunate." He pauses, turns again to face me, straightening his dark tie. "Or at least your family will think so." I don't know how he does it, making that last sentence so dark, so threatening without changing the calm tone of his voice. I hold in an appreciative chuckle and tilt my head in approval. He's a natural in this business. And this is when the man on the other end of the line gives in. I can tell the exact moment because Sark's shoulders relax and he resumes eye contact. I cross my legs and reach for my cup of green tea. My doctor has advised me on numerous occasions to give up coffee (one of my last remaining vices) in favor of this tea, which doesn't taste too bad provided it's made in the proper way. My heart, you see, is getting older and just can't take the caffeine anymore - and so I drink this special decaffeinated green tea, which is supposedly rich in antioxidants (or so my doctor says) and will help prevent cancer. I don't know if it's complete bullshit or not, but I do know it can't hurt. Sark sometimes joins me for a cup of tea, even though he'd rather drink wine. The boy, so young, is quite the connoisseur and has become quite an asset in running my Paris nightclub. Our clientele has come from around the Continent to sample our rare wines - the word spread fast following Sark's touch-up of the wine list. He's currently in search of an extremely rare French wine known only as L'embrassement du Diable, or "The Devil's Embrace," of which he became aware a few weeks ago in my nightclub. You should've seen the look that sprang into his eyes - pure enthrallment! He pulled out his cell phone and immediately began calling contacts, trying to find a lead on this mysterious vintage. He does love a challenge, yet another reason Irina and I hired him. "I take it everything is going to plan?" I say, sipping the hot liquid, feeling it scorch my tongue. He sits on the scarlet couch, careful to not sit on his suit jacket. He detests wrinkles or imperfections of any kind. "Yes, yes, the obstinate bastards in L.A. have finally agreed to see things our way," he murmurs. "Sometimes I wonder why we don't just exterminate the whole branch." I can't tell if he's serious, but a smirk is now upon his lips. I let out a low chuckle, downing the rest of my tea in one gulp. "Perhaps we should organize a meeting in L.A. to, uh," my mind searches for the English words, "boost morale?" Sark purses his lips thoughtfully. "Yes," he starts, leaning back against the couch's intricate tapestry. "That's quite a good idea." We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound detectable is the distant pound of techno music. This room, I realize, is too red. It's covered in scarlet and burgundy and maroon and a shade I can only describe as a blood red. Made to look decadent and rich, I suppose, it looks like more like an Asian brothel. My wife would definitely cringe upon seeing the décor, although this isn't the kind of place an executive businessman, the kind of man she thinks I am, would visit in a million years. My alter ego, a powerful representative for a German automotive supplier, would be staying (and attending countless meetings) at the Grand Formosa Regent, not hiding out in a secret room behind a techno nightclub. "Shall I check on Bristow?" Sark asks, adjusting his shirt cuffs. He picks a tiny piece of lint off his lapel and looks at me. I dismiss the question with a wave of my hand. I notice that my dry knuckles could use some lotion. "No, don't worry about her. Irina has it all under control." "Right." Another few minutes of silence pass before I open my mouth to say, "Poor child, this must come as quite a shock to her." Sark shrugs. "Honestly, you'd think she would've had a clue about her mother." He pauses, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. "She is a spy, after all." "Yes," I say, feeling my chest constrict as memories jostle in my mind. "But sometimes we are so intent on seeing one thing that we do not see what is, uh, right under our noses." His eyebrows rise and he shakes his head slightly. "I don't know. This whole situation seems blatantly obvious to me." I nod slowly, reaching for a nearby humidor. "Yes, but you are not emotionally attached to it." I sift through the box until I find my favorite cigar, a spicy, stubby Cuban variety. "Indeed," he admits reluctantly. I tilt the open humidor toward him, offering a cigar. He shakes his head politely. His lips part as if he's about to say something, but he stops. I can't help but run the fat cigar under my nose, inhaling with pleasure. There's nothing quite like an expensive, well-made cigar. A good Russian vodka comes close, maybe, but it's been years since I've tasted that - on doctor's orders, of course. "Go ahead?" I slice the head off the cigar with my platinum-plated single-blade cutter and reach for my matching cigar lighter. "You say that an emotional attachment can be blinding, of which I'm in complete agreement, but let's not forget that the golden rule in our business is to not become emotionally involved in the first place. And in this instance, especially -- too many lives hang in the balance." "That is very true," I say, trying to keep my thoughts on lighting my cigar instead of on things in my past that cannot be altered. My hands visibly shake and I silently curse myself for having a heart.and a conscience. We both steal a glance at the surveillance monitors in the corner cherry wood cabinet. There are a dozen of them, but only two show anything of interest. In black and white, with a pesky two second delay, is Sydney Bristow -- bound to a chair, looking defiantly to her right. No doubt the object of her fiery glare is Irina, standing just out of view. "I wonder what Irina is saying," Sark murmurs, his eyes intent on the mildly grainy moving image. My throat makes a deep, gravely noise and I focus on a different monitor. "I would think it might have something to do with Ms. Bristow's friend." The waterlogged man is unconscious on the cement floor of a different holding room, one with padded, soundproof walls. His arms are bound behind his back with industrial strength plastic ties, which we find work better than handcuffs in most instances. Top-notch spies, Sark in particular, can escape standard metal handcuffs in under thirty seconds. Those plastic ties, though, they are more tricky. "Oh yes, my friend from Denpasar," Sark mutters, amusement in his voice. He rubs his chin, which brings about another wry smirk. "Why is it that I don't buy his new leathery grunge look?" I chuckle appreciatively. "It's not quite as bad as Ms. Bristow's blue hair," I comment dryly in between cigar puffs. "I quite like that dog collar," Sark quips, biting his bottom lip. "So very naughty." Our subtle laughter is cut short when we see motion on one of the monitors. A split second later, Sark is at the door with gun in hand. "I'll take care of him," he says in that serious, quiet voice. And he's gone, only to appear on the monitor a scant twenty seconds later. His gun is now pointed at the head of Ms. Bristow's friend. I can't be sure of what Sark is saying, if anything at all, but whatever he is doing appears to be working. Ms. Bristow's friend is nodding slowly and Sark is lowering his weapon, bringing it waist-level. Suddenly, he spins, the butt of the gun making contact with the captive's right temple. The man crumples to the cement floor once again, motionless. Sark turns, nods to a guard and leaves the room. I sigh, smiling inwardly, puffing again on my cigar. Yes, Sark is a good lad. **** |
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