III

Much as she hated working for SD-6, Sydney had to admit there were some aspects of the job that she still got a kick out of.

Like this. She shook out her long curly blonde wig and wriggled herself into a more comfortable position in the skin-tight sleeveless top. "In position," she murmured almost silently into the mike.

She could hear Dixon tapping away at his laptop keyboard over the comms. "All right, Bluebird, I'm almost in... Okay, go."

Sydney trotted towards the main gates of the villa, perky tourist persona in place. Dexter, probably due to his own camera-dodging expertise, preferred to have on-site guards using their own eyes than rely solely on monitors. But there were ways around those too, for the determined professional.

Especially the determined professional with a curly blonde wig and skin-tight top. She beckoned the guard out cheerfully and asked directions to the nearest town in deliberately broken Italian. She leaned forward a little too far as she did so, offering him a distracting view of cleavage.

A strategically placed elbow ensured it was the last thing that he saw for some time.

Propping the guard back up in a position that would fool his patrolling buddy provided he didn't stop in for a chat, Sydney slipped inside the guard post and shut off the laser tripwires that criss-crossed the grounds. The program Marshall had given them to hijack the computer system allowed Dixon to keep all the status lights reading green at the other guard stations.

"I need that camera down now, Dixon," she said into the mike.

"Camera is down," he confirmed. "Be quick." Sydney estimated she had about fifteen seconds; enough time for an alert guard to notice that the feed was on the fritz, tap a few keys and think about radioing somebody, but not actually get around to doing it before the problem cleared.

She was across the lawn and at the nearest window in eight.

Dexter had electronic locks on his windows, but SD-6 had Marshall. She stuck the lock decoder - disguised as a powder compact, because Marshall liked to do these things even when the plan didn't call for her belongings to pass spot checks - to the glass. Three, two- click. She shoved the window up and rolled inside.

"Clear!" she said to Dixon, just as her mental countdown hit fifteen.

The inside of the villa was ostentatiously furnished, with plush carpets and antiques displayed in alcoves and glass cases. There were no cameras, but there were more laser defences, controlled by cardkeys held by the patrolling guards. Visible lasers, this time - not just as a deterrent, but so the villa's occupants would see at a glance if the whole system were shut down.

Fortunately, Marshall had come through again. She swiped the dummy card he'd given her in the nearest slot. It didn't deactivate the lasers, but it sent a signal to Dixon's computer, letting him know which of the numbered sections she was in.

"I see you, Bluebird," he said in her ear, and a second later the grid of lasers in front of her flickered out. She sprinted through and swiped the card at the next post. Damn, did the guards have to stop and do this every dozen steps when they were on duty? She would never understand how anyone could stand to do such a boring job.

Sydney liked a little more excitement in her life.

And she usually got it.

"Syd, a card indicator just lit up two sections behind you!" Dixon warned when she was just outside the vault. Sydney looked around wildly. There wouldn't be nearly enough time to get through the vault door before the guards arrived, and even if she did, she'd be trapped more effectively than if she'd broken into a prison cell.

Her eyes fell on the large antique vase displayed opposite the vault. Not nearly large enough to hide behind - but it was set into an alcove less than four feet wide. She hastily braced herself between the walls and walked her legs up until she was wedged in an awkward position near the ceiling. "Dixon!" she hissed into the radio. "Switch the lasers back on!"

An instant later, the criss-cross of red beams reappeared beneath her.

A little too close beneath her. The tresses of her lovely blonde wig were a quarter of an inch away from breaking one of the beams. One sudden twitch or an unexpected breeze, and it was game over. She hunched her shoulders awkwardly, trying to raise her head without losing her braced position.

Jason Dexter's voice drifted up from below. "Our guest is going to be arriving an hour earlier than planned. Make sure you double security. I'm not letting that little bastard cheat me."

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn! If Sark was early, that meant Dexter was here to retrieve the manuscript from the vault right now. And she didn't dare try to get word to Dixon with the two men so close below her. The only thing hiding her was the advantage of the unexpected: if they bothered to look up, she'd be instantly and plainly visible.

She could drop down and knock them both out - but she'd set off the alarms, and the rest of the guards would be on her before she had the chance to get into the vault. Her only choice was to let Dexter get the manuscript and try to steal it from him afterwards.

It was just as well improvising was her strong suit.

Her muscles trembled as she held her position much longer than her body wanted to. How long did it take to open a damn vault? She could have been in and out faster than this, and that was with the added effort of cracking the vault security. Finally, Dexter emerged with the manuscript and moved on. He and the guard split up, headed in opposite directions.

Sydney unclenched her teeth enough to speak into the mike. "Dixon, I need to get down," she said urgently. An instant later, the lasers cut out again and she gratefully dropped to the ground.

"That was Dexter," she explained as she dashed across to the next card post. "He's got the manuscript. Sark's pushed the meet up by an hour."

"We should abort," Dixon said, even as he flipped off the next set of lasers. "Wait for Sark to get the manuscript and then take it from him."

Which would greatly reduce her chances of substituting the CIA fake. "Negative." She hustled after Dexter. "We don't have intel on what kind of backup Sark's bringing to the meet. If he's coming by helicopter we'll lose him and the manuscript."

Dixon's unhappy sigh crackled in her ear. "Syd, I want to pay Dexter back for what he did as much as you do-"

Poor Dixon had no idea. "This is not about payback." The fact Dexter had almost shot her was down to her own reckless mistake. The fact that he had shot Sloane was cause for a reward of some kind, not vengeance. She peered around the next corner, then retreated. "I have a visual on the manuscript." It was lying on a glass table, tantalisingly close, while Dexter paced nearby, talking on his cell phone in rapid-fire Italian.

An idea presented itself. "Dixon, this place has broad-spectrum jamming, right?"

"If I trigger it off, it'll kill our communications as well as theirs," he pointed out.

"I only need a short burst. Enough to kill Dexter's cell phone conversation. Give me thirty seconds."

Dixon's silence was radiating unhappiness, but he trusted her instincts in the field. "Thirty seconds," he reluctantly agreed.

A moment later, Dexter wrenched his cell phone from his ear with a sharp curse. He jabbed several buttons before tossing it aside and stalking from the lounge to the adjacent office to pick up the landline.

Leaving the manuscript momentarily unattended. Sydney darted silently over to scoop it up and thrust it into the back pocket of her bag. In the front pocket, the CIA's fake waited. If she substituted that for it, Dexter would never even know that he'd been robbed.

But that would mean she'd have to hand the real one over to SD-6, and that was too high a price to pay for an easier escape.

Oh, well. If stealth wasn't going to be an option... Sydney slipped up behind Dexter and tapped his shoulder just as he was lifting the phone to his ear.

"Bloody hell! Can't you see I'm-?"

She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in recognition just before her blow knocked him down for the count.

She dragged the unconscious Dexter behind his desk where a cursory glance into the room might miss him. A quick rifle through his pockets yielded his master cardkey. No more security issues. "I'm headed out," she told Dixon as the comms cut back in.

"Sark's on his way," Dixon warned.

Sydney dashed back out to her tourist alter-ego's motor scooter, and climbed aboard. A pair of broad sunglasses, a helmet that left enough of her wig showing to give the impression of curly and blonde... As she zipped up the road, she passed Sark in an open-topped sports car.

He gave her outfit an appreciative glance, without the slightest hint of recognition.

Francie groaned and flopped back against the couch as she drank her wine. "Would you stop pacing?" she said to Will. "You're making me dizzy."

"I can't help it. I'm nervous. This is a big story for me. They never assign stories like this to me, I, I get soccer playing beagles." He threw his hands up.

Francie raised her head and squinted at him through a haze of alcohol. "Beagles?"

Will gave her a twitchy grin as he scruffed a hand through his hair. "It was terrible. He was carrying the ball in his mouth. And this woman - in her pink, fuzzy sweater - kept telling me that Archie was sensitive to negative vibes..."

"It's good that they let you write this," Francie said, punching the air. She'd lost the thread of Will's conversation, but frankly wasn't too bothered about it. "They had to let you write this. It's your story."

Will came over and sat beside her. "I really didn't see that much," he admitted. He snorted and shook his head, wobbling slightly as he did so. "I didn't notice that much. I mean, Mr Sloane's wife, she knew it was a gunshot before I did. I thought it was a car backfiring. Some investigative reporter I am."

"I think it's good," Francie said. Had she said that before? "Your story's going to make Mr Sloane a hero. Because he is. A hero." She could feel herself getting weepy at the thought of how he'd saved Sydney from certain death. Of course, she was weepy all the time anyway, what with the Charlie situation. And, right at this moment, the wine.

"I wish I could have spoken to Syd before it went to press," Will said. He let out a huff. "Can you believe it? Another bank trip. The day after her boss got shot. That bank is crazy."

"Crazy awesome," Frankie said. She got maudlin thinking about who in her life would possibly do the same for her. "My boss wouldn't jump in front of a bullet for me." She considered. "Of course, I'm my own boss." She let her head flop sideways to look at Will. "Did I tell you I'm thinking about opening a restaurant?"

Will was still wrapped up in his own story world. "It was so close," he said, bringing his hands close together. "I mean, you don't realise that there's all this, all this danger in the world and it can come in and get you. Step right in, and, and come at you with ski masks. I could have been killed. Sydney could have been killed. Two seconds later, two seconds earlier... It's all random chance. If Mr Sloane hadn't gotten up to go after Syd's dad, if you hadn't called her at dinner..."

"Whuh?" Francie said vaguely, trying to figure out where that last part had come from. "I called what now?"

"The phone." Will gave a squinty frown. "Syd said she got a phone call from you."

She shook her head muzzily. "Nuh-uh. I didn't call anybody last night. I spent the night in with my good friends Mr Ben and Mr Jerry and Madam Julia Roberts."

Will sat up abruptly. "Sydney didn't get a phone call from you?"

Francie shook her head and tried to focus on him. "Not me."

"Then who was it?"

Francie tried to think of who or what Sydney might have reason to lie about. "Boyfriend?"

Will pouted. "Why would Sydney hide her boyfriend from me?"

"From her dad," Francie corrected. She had no trouble believing Sydney would want to hide a boyfriend from her dad. She still remembered Sydney's horrified recounting of the Prom Date Lecture of Doom. Thank God her dad had never been that overprotective.

Although maybe he should have been. Maybe then she wouldn't have been dumb enough to fall for a slug like Charlie.

Will slumped back into his seat. "That doesn't make me feel better," he decided.

Francie mutely offered him the bottle. Wine made everything better. Thank God.

This was far from the first time Arvin had been shot. He'd received many worse injuries, in less sanitary conditions, and often times gotten up and fought for his life minutes afterwards. He'd been tortured only weeks ago, and his right hand still bore a splint to support his recently reattached finger.

Nonetheless, privately, he could admit to being... a trifle uncomfortable. Not least due to the fact that he'd refused any pain medication. He much preferred to keep a clear head, and even in an Alliance run hospital it was all too easy for a tragic accident to be arranged. Especially if one had a highly inconvenient allergy to morphine.

He was glad to have opted for alertness over comfort when Ramon arrived to see him. Such a high-ranking member of the Alliance was not one to receive in a state of drug-induced fogginess.

"Arvin," he said, the intimacy of the name doing nothing to add warmth to the address. "I see that your heroism has made the front pages."

He held up a newspaper: Tippin's, no doubt. The news story was a minor inconvenience, but certainly not harmful. "The publicity can only be good for Credit Dauphine," Arvin said. They were technically able to speak freely here, the hospital swept for listening devices other than the Alliance's own, but a lifetime's professional habit made them fence in verbal circles.

"Perhaps." Ramon discarded the newspaper onto a chair with little further thought. "One might question why a journalist was on the scene in the first place."

One might question the reason for this childish sniping. Ramon didn't believe Arvin had been talking to Tippin, and certainly couldn't think that Arvin would believe he did. "My wife encouraged Sydney to bring a friend," he said, with an airy wave of the hand.

"Then perhaps it is... Sydney who should have known better." He said it with a beat of hesitation that implied dubiousness over such a familiar term of address for an employee. Sloane would quite agree, under ordinary circumstances, but Sydney - well, Sydney was special. "As should your wife," Ramon added meaningfully.

His wife should know nothing at all. Arvin narrowed his eyes. He had little patience for these games right now, but to directly demand an answer was an admission of being in the weaker position.

"My wife has no reason to believe that she needs to protect information about our lives," he said.

"Indeed? Then perhaps that explains this." Ramon produced a digital recorder and pressed the playback button.

Arvin's heart clenched as he heard his wife's voice over the tinny speaker. "Do you think I really believe my husband left the intelligence world to go and work in a bank? I always knew he'd go back to the CIA eventually. I know all about SD-6."

Oh, Emily.

"She believes the cover story," he said, betraying no trace of the fact he hadn't realised she knew even that much. "She knew I worked for the CIA before, and she believes that I still do."

He couldn't feel angry, only ruefully disappointed in his own foolishness. He should know better than to believe he could keep secrets from Emily. The day-to-day grim details of the life he led - those weren't secrets, merely unpleasantness that he had no wish to darken their happy home with. But the secrets of his heart - those had always been an open book to her. Of course she would understand that he could never have been happy working in a bank.

She would understand, too, if he explained to her why he had been forced to leave the CIA, and the difficult compromises he had made in his quest to make the world a better place. But it would be a cruelty to expose her to so much evidence of the corruption that beset the systems she had faith in. Emily so wanted to believe the best of people.

"Nonetheless, it is still a breach of Alliance security," Ramon said implacably. "And you know the procedure in such an eventuality."

Termination. Never. Arvin shook his head, feeling tears spring to his eyes at the thought, though he would certainly not show them in front of Ramon. "There's no need to take such drastic action," he said forcefully. "My wife has lymphoma. She's already dying."

"No, Arvin," Ramon said flatly. "She is already dead."

Arvin felt every part of his body go numb, all at once.

Ramon allowed a faint flicker of compassion to show, all the more brutal for the news that it followed. "I truly am sorry, my friend," he said. "And I wish this had not been necessary. But you were made aware of the rules when you joined our organisation."

He turned and walked away.