Sark set the timer on the Rambaldi bomb for ten minutes, giving the ornate device a resigned and regretful look. From the moment Sloane had given this particular order, Sark had been struck by an uncharacteristic bout of uncertainty. It was unnecessary, to his mind, to give a show of force this great in order to convince a petty Pashtun leader to join the cause. Convincing Kabir that Sloane truly did want to be his 'Arhat' was all well and good, but surely Kabir was not intrinsic to the end result Sloane sought; surely this act was not necessary either. Aside from this, this exhibition was also wasteful- this Rambaldi device should not be used for so trivial a reason- and more potentially dangerous than Sloane acknowledged. Sloane had placed his unwavering trust in Neil Caplan's abilities and having had little to do with the man, obviously perceived him as a faithful captive genius who'd do what was he was told, within the margins of error.
It was so easy for Sloane to be nonchalant about this device and its planned detonation, Sark thought, annoyed. All he knew about it came from the writings of a half-mad Renaissance prophet, who couldn't possibly have any real conception of nuclear physics, and the brief look he'd taken at the report Sark himself had given him. Having performed the trial himself and also having written the report, Sark knew that what this apparatus could do exceeded the bounds of belief. It would seem almost too good to be true to anyone of Sloane's nature- a machine that could target beings composed primarily of water and destroy them with little impact on the surrounding environs. While Sloane was not a man who was usually blind to the potential for failure in a plan, his lack of knowledge of the intricacies of explosive devices left him unaware of the fragility of the Rambaldi bomb and the danger it posed if Caplan had been only a fraction off in his calculations.
More than this though, Sark felt uncomfortable with the idea that a cathedral full of people were going to die so that Ahmad Kabir could avenge himself on his ex-wife. As he closed the back double doors of the van and walked away, committing himself irrevocably to this plan and its execution, Sark's discomfort reached its peak and the nausea that had been present since Sark had realised the capabilities of this Rambaldi bomb made itself known. His stomach turned violently as he let himself into the waiting rental car, and turning away quickly, Sark managed to get himself to some nearby bushes just in time. He retched for three precious minutes before he got himself under control. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief as he got behind the wheel of the rental car and was wiping the sweat from his brow as he reached the point where he'd be safe from the bomb.
Pulling over, Sark made himself get out of the car and he leant against it, checking his watch. One minute to go. As self-inflicted penance, Sark dragged his eyes towards the embassy cathedral, mentally counting down the seconds. There was no outward sign of the detonation of the bomb when the seconds eventually ticked away, only an awful sense of having committed an unalterable sin that impinged on Sark's suppressed conscience. His stomach lurched again, thankfully empty now. He took a deep breath of the heavy Mexican air to quell his sudden trembling, holding it until he felt more steady.
He retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket as he got back into the car, just staring at the phone. His fingers, visibly shaking, began to dial a number of their own volition. He put the phone to his ear, listening to it dial. From the corner of his eye, an SUV approached, heading towards the cathedral. Hearing the rhythmic double ring now as if from a distance, Sark made out Agent Vaughn in the darkened interior of the SUV, driving. Next to him, an older blond woman, dressed for church; veiled hat on despite the fact that it was night time, pearls, shawl and gloves. He knew it had to be Sydney. The feeling of intense unease amplified. The ringing at his ear abruptly stopped and he jumped, a voice telling him that the number he called was out of range for calls. The SUV passed right by him and he slowly removed the phone from his ear, disconnecting the call.
As furtherpenance, Sark forced himself to watch the news coverage of the discovery of the charred bodies at the cathedral on a television at the airport. With each close-up of a pile of ash and bone that had earlier been a person, Sark fought back waves of nausea that sapped his strength, dried his mouth and made his head pound. On receiving Sloane's praise earlier for a job well done, he'd been sickened. He'd been in the bathroom and while Sloane clinically questioned him as to the success of the plan, he'd watched himself in the mirror, noting his own increasing unhealthy pallor, sweat-dampened brow and emotionless expression as he shared the details of his horrific crime with his employer.
Having replaced the cell to his pocket and splashed his face with water, he looked up from the basin and met his own eyes in the mirror. It was hard to reconcile the face he saw; the blank, humourless but still handsome mask, with his own external countenance. He knew very well what he'd done- all of it- and until now, he'd been able to put the consequences out of his mind, to forget the victims, to wash the blood off his hands without gagging, to get on with what he had to do. Now however, he was literally sick with remorse and painfully ashamed and disgusted by his own conscious actions.
In his seat on the plane, Sark politely declined the stewardess' offer of a meal, citing an upset stomach, also refusing the offer of something that would make his nausea subside, knowing full well that nothing, not ginger ale or herbal tea, could exorcise due blame.
"I'm afraid that in my case," he told the attractive blond, "you can treat the symptoms but not the cause."