7. Father Knows Best

The sense of relief when she came back after two years was palpable. Even after each mission, no matter the risk profile, were I praying man I would have thanked any and all the powers that exist. But, in my line of work, we realize there is no higher power than our own will. I cannot help this reflexive concern for her, though I know she is the most capable, the best trained operative the CIA has. I made sure of that twenty years ago. Still, I had hoped she could avoid all this.

Then again, it is hard to imagine her as the college professor, giving lectures, leading discussion groups, grading papers. There's too much of her mother in her, and of me, I suppose, for her ever to be happy with that life. A spitfire. A live wire. I wish I could have seen Lindsay's face when she threatened to torch the microchip if he didn't set me free.

Now she's gone again.

It was months, the first time, before I uncovered hard evidence proving she was alive. I had suspected, of course. Why burn the body if she was really dead? I've faked a number of deaths with a charred corpse and DNA injected into the teeth. Why kill her if she could still be useful alive? Her knowledge, her expertise, and her face in Rambaldi's manuscript. Such macabre ideation—even as I watched Vaughn scatter someone's ashes to the sea.

I play my part, with a poker face. It all has been a role since Laura Bristow died, and Irina Derevko took her place. Sydney is all that matters.

Lindsay thought that solitary would break me. He didn't realize I was already broken, in a way. His agenda, anything anyone could do to me, was trivial. Its only consequence was to interfere with my search for my daughter.

Footage of her in Rome, leaving a known front for the Covenant—an investment firm—arrived in the mail a year after her disappearance. She was alive, and I threatened and bribed and killed as necessary to find out more. I used contacts considered dangerous and untrustworthy even by SD-6. I provided arms to terrorists in exchange for scraps of intel. I used up every favor I had ever collected, and indebted myself to men whose idea of payment can be barbaric. I knew she was working for the Covenant. Soon after, I knew she had escaped them.

This time there's no body, no collateral, not even any damage to her apartment. Had I not heard Weiss's debrief, I could almost belief she left of her own volition.

Days pass and no matter how many contacts we bully and threaten, the well seems to be dry. No one has seen her. No one has heard anything. I hate to supply them with even this much intel: that she is gone again, and the CIA has no idea what happened. How incompetent we must look, that we keep losing her over and over again.

I would consider contacting Irina, the crime for which I was falsely accused two years ago, but she remains a suspect in our daughter's first abduction. And the woman is a masterful liar. I wouldn't trust a word that came out of her mouth were she quoting me the weather report.

Irina, Sloane—with his preposterous makeover as the world's finest humanitarian, Sark—who seemed to take a sabbatical from the game during the last half of Sydney's own absence. Either singly or together, with or without aid of the Covenant. Is the same party responsible for both disappearances? There are a number of individuals and lesser criminal organizations that certainly have grudges against her, but with neither a body nor a list of demands, I find this option less likely.

I have a key to her apartment, copied from her own, without her knowledge, while she was in Spain on a mission. There is no police tape across the door, which would only raise too many questions. After dark, I let myself in, stand in the entrance-way and turn on the lights. It's much more sterile than her old apartment. Sparse furnishings, muted colors, almost nothing on the walls.

There were always posters, when she was younger. Then art fair finds and photos of friends, cheap art prints in dark wood frames. Colorful fabrics on the windows, mismatched garage sale and antique store dishes and cups.

Thankfully, someone—probably Weiss—disposed of the meal she had been making when she was taken. All the broken glass was gone, but dried red wine still crusted the hallway floor. The linen closet contained one set of sheets, white, two beige towels and several washcloths. In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet was almost empty, except for rubbing alcohol and bandaids, Advil and Trazodone. Apparently, she had been suffering some insomnia.

Her bed was unmade, a pair of pants and a shirt hanging over the edge. I recognized it as what she had worn to work that last day. The closets and dresser were unrevealing. Several books and a small jewelry box rested on the nightstand.

Sydney had never worn much jewelry, even before. I had seen her with simple earrings at the JTF, occasionally a necklace. Never a bracelet or a ring: nothing to interfered with her grip on a gun.

Curious, I opened it.

Inside was much as I had expected. Until I pried up the false bottom and among the fake passports and money in four different currencies, found a ring set with an impossibly large red stone. Not garnet. Couldn't be a ruby. Unless…no, the idea was too ridiculous even to consider. Still, I would check. I pocketed the ring, and let myself back out.

"Marshall, what can you tell me about the Rambaldi ruby?"

I've startled him. He jumped up quickly almost knocking whatever project he was fiddling with onto the floor.

"The…the one we tried to steal from Bennett? Not steal….I don't mean steal, 'cuz hey, CIA here? We were just going to obtain the gem and—"

"Marshall."

"Right, right. The babbling. Carrie is always telling me to—"

"Marshall…the ruby?"

The man is a genius, but lacks the social skills of a day-old baboon.

"Why are you interested?"

"I have a contact who claims he's seen it. I need to know how to verify it really is the Rambaldi ruby," I lie smoothly.

"Oh, okay…well…as you ruby is corundum with chromium impurities. That's what gives it the red color. The Rambaldi ruby is supposed to be a Burmese ruby. They have this wicked fluorescence in daylight, see, and only rubies from that area have it. And the color is a true ruby red…not that I've seen it, since, well…we didn't actually get it. You think Syd's alright?"

"We're using every resource we have to look for her."

"It's just…I feel like we just got her back and now she's gone again already."

I waited for him to pull himself back together.

"What does it look like?"

"Huh? Oh, the ruby. It's a cabochon cut ruby, by report nearly twenty carats, though no one has ever taken it out of the setting to weigh it properly. Which they really should, for insurance purposes, right? The star isn't that distinct, but the clarity is excellent, and the color is just amazing…or, err, so we've heard. If you can really believe the Rambaldi manuscript and what Sloane has told us. It was mined in the 1400's and stolen several times, disappeared for a hundred years before resurfacing—"

"Thanks, Marshall. That's all I need."

"So, what can I help you with, Mr. Boyer?"

Mr. Solomon led me into his private office, bypassing the displays of ornate jewels and watches in the front of the store. He was reputed to be a very respectable dealer, both in new jewelry and estate pieces.

"My mother recently passed away," I began.

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

"She was sick for a long time. It was a blessing, really, that she did not suffer much."

I paused for a beat.

"There is some jewelry among her effects. But I am not familiar with this piece in particular. I would very much appreciate an appraisal."

"Of course."

I handed the requisite black velvet box to him. Upon opening it, he nearly gasped.

"If this is authentic, Mr. Boyer, this is…incredible."

With a loupe he examined the ring, murmuring to himself all the while.

"Mr. Solomon?"

"This is most definitely a ruby, sir. Burmese, though it must be years since a ruby this fine came out of Burma. Oval cut, and it is cut beautifully: nice ratio of crown to pavilion, maybe a touch shallow, but that works to show off the color saturation…I would estimate fifteen, maybe sixteen carats, give or take. This ring is worth over a million, probably two or three. I don't deal in jewelry of this quality. I'm sorry, Mr. Boyer, but you will have to take it to someone with more experience in the auction market. I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you more. I can remove the ruby from the setting to weigh it, if you wish."

"That won't be necessary right now. Thank you."

We stood, and shook hands.

"No, really I should thank you. I have never handled such a fine stone in my career."

I left, managing to maintain my bereaved façade until I was out the door. There could be no doubt: this was the famed Rambaldi ruby, recut and reset. How else could Sydney have come by such a ring? The very same ruby we lost to the Covenant—except there was no confirmation it was ever delivered to them. And who had the Covenant sent to retrieve it? Their very own boy wonder.

Finally, I could see the answer forming.

A glass of Lagavulin in my own sparse living room, light glinting off amber liquid through the cut crystal glass. A wedding gift, ironically.

Circumstance had led her, somehow, to Sark. My instinctual reaction was one of disgust, disapproval. Upon further analysis, though, what did I find so objectionable about him? He was a killer, but so was she. A liar, but Sydney was more than capable of that herself.

And really, ideally, who would I wish for her—another Danny Hecht? His was a dying breed. A dashing young man to marry and betray her, as my own wife had me? Hardly. Vaughn? He was just a boy following in his father's footsteps for lack of a better path.

Sark's moral expediency matched my own. The difference was this: any morally questionable act I have performed has been either for my country, or more frequently, for my daughter. His motives have not been so transparent.

I placed the ring in my office safe. Sark was the link to Sydney, my only clue. It was time to found out what he had been doing last year.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing!