Part Ten

Seven hours earlier . . .

Nightclubs, Sydney thought with a sigh as she glanced out into the squirming press of scantily-clad late-night revelers, always nightclubs.

When she'd first started running missions for SD-6, the spy world's propensity for doing business in nightclubs had seemed glamorous, exciting, sexy—though largely because, as a not-very-social college student just barely of legal drinking age, she hadn't been in many. Now it just annoyed her. They were crowded, badly-lit and mostly just tacky. Those first two, of course, would work to her advantage this time.

"I used to meet Sanko here," Sark murmured as he took a drink and surveyed the room from his seat at the bar.

"I'm touched you've chosen to share," Sydney replied acidly.

She was making a point of not noticing him beside her, but she'd have done that even if it weren't part of their security measures. Or at least she could have before.

He smiled into his cup. "Ah, Sydney, I've missed you."

She was fairly certain she was supposed to take offense at that—or at least should have, just on principle—but she couldn't muster up the energy. She settled for taking a long, cover-sanctioned swallow of her Cosmo—her mission-with-Sark drink of choice, apparently—and hoping he'd take her lack of answer as intentional.

Sark wore charcoal slacks, and a muted olive dress shirt. ("You look good," she'd told him neutrally when he'd emerged from the airplane bathroom. His mouth had merely quirked. "I'm so glad you think so.") She was in low-slung white jeans and a bronze-sheened drape-necked tank, a gold belly chain fastened across her midsection. She'd chosen the latter for its ability to double as a garrote in a pinch. They didn't look as if they'd come in together—which was, of course, the point. They were mismatched. She could sit next to him and not necessarily be expected to make a play, no matter how attractive he was. She could ignore him with impunity.

"I'd recommend the second balcony," Sark said as she smiled for a man across the bar. He had a sulky well-dressed girl already on his arm—a safe mark, relatively. "You'll have a clear view of our table from the railing."

"And my surround sound?"

"Our transmitters have already been activated." He lifted his arm to expose the glint of his cufflinks.

"Great." She tossed the rest of her drink back and signaled the bartender for a second. She gave him a flirty wink before sliding off her bar stool—and, as she turned, bumped her hip against Sark's long, trim thigh.

His glance flickered up at her, and she smiled at him sweetly. "Pardon moi," she simpered, laying a hand on his shoulder before sashaying off through the crowd. A reason for him to watch her. A way for him to be sure he knew what her position would be.

She dropped the drink off at a table by the stairs, and activated her own electronics as she climbed.

"Still with me?" she asked, and he returned, "Most assuredly." The sound as always was so close, so clear, that it seemed as if he were standing right behind her. "The bartender, incidentally, had some quite complimentary things to say about your appearance in those pants. Colorful man. It nearly moved me to defend your honor."

"You're talking a lot for someone who's not supposed to be drawing attention to himself," she said, but she was smiling.

It was wrong to be smiling while her sister was missing, but she was. It was something about the act of taking on an alias—sometimes it was hard to remember even the mission specs, much less the concerns of her own life. Being with Sark made it twice as surreal, as if she were twice removed from herself, or at least who she should be.

She flirted her way airily up the staircase, following the raising as it circled up and around the main floor, until she reached the place Sark had suggested—from there, she had an excellent view of the door as well as a large subsection of the tables scattered throughout the main area.

She said, "I'm in place."

"Excellent timing," he replied, the murmur of his voice intimate in her ear as he raised a hand to the man just coming through the door. "Arvin's here."

As she watched, the two clasped hands, and Sloane gripped Sark companionably on the shoulder in greeting, a gesture intended to intimate comradeship and closeness. After the barest of hesitations, Sark did the same.

She recalled a similar scene between Sark and Khasinau, the night Sark had betrayed SD-6—she'd watched from the wings of the small stage, waiting for her cue—and for a moment she remembered to wonder if he was doing the same to her. But no, he'd chosen this, working with her. There'd been no coercion. If he were going to double cross her, it wouldn't be like this. It wouldn't be for Sloane, and it particularly wouldn't be yet. Because whatever he'd hoped to get from agreeing to help her—and he was Sark, so he had to be hoping for something—he couldn't have gotten already.

Also, she'd seen him place the tracker on the shoulder of Sloane's sport coat.

"Shall we?" Sark suggested, gesturing to a table clearly in Sydney's line of sight, and she thought, Good boy, as the two men sat and ordered drinks.

Sloane's voice, faint but still audible, asked, "Have you given any more thought to my offer?"

"I have," Sark said, and Sydney couldn't help narrowing her eyes, wondering what exactly Sloane's offer had been. She hadn't expected full disclosure from Sark, but this at least seemed like something he should have mentioned. "I regret to say my first answer still stands."

"You should reconsider," Sloane said, the easy, oily arrogance in his tone familiar. "An intelligent young man like yourself I'm sure has noticed the signs, and having worked for Irina, you would have recognized them for what they are."

Signs? Sydney wondered.

"That is true," Sark acknowledged. "However, I have also noticed that involvement with Rambaldi has lead to nothing but trouble for me. I enjoy an occasional coming out of retirement, granted, but I do not wish to return, particularly to the search, full time."

Rambaldi. It had been a long time since she'd been forced to listen to Sloane talk about Rambaldi. She hadn't missed it. Not the glimmer of madness in his eyes (which she could not see from her perch above them but could picture all too well), not the tremble of awe in his voice. Not, either, the way his gaze had always fixed on her as a kind of messiah.

"And yet you used the number I'd given you for that reason." Sloane's expression was deceptively mild.

"If you'd given me another," Sark said, "I'd have been happy to use it instead."

Sloane took a sip from his tumbler, swallowed, and then made a face as if the drink had turned (or Sark had)—his eyes squinted, his teeth showed as he winced. "Where did you find this place?" he asked.

"An old . . . colleague of mine used to meet me here."

"Used to," Sloane repeated, as if rolling the answer around in his mind. "Indeed. Tell me, Julian, what did you call me for, then?"

Sark cleared his throat, briefly raising a loose fist politely to his mouth. "While I do not desire a full return to my previous manner of employment, I do, as I said, enjoy an occasional vacation from retirement. Quite frankly?" Though Sydney could not see his face, she could easily picture the grimace he would use to punctuate his words. "I'm bored."

This was the key moment, the lie on which the rest of their plans hinged. If Sloane bought it, odds were they would succeed. If he didn't, they had a few embedded alternatives (including tranq-ing him, questioning him, then turning him over the CIA—unfortunately a last resort, considering her personal goals since she had last seen him), but the likelihood of their success was low. He had to believe Sark was here for nothing but his own amusement. Because a suspicious Sloane was one they'd have no hope of tracking, one from whom they would learn nothing they could use.

Despite the tension, so thick it was nearly audible, both men looked perfectly at ease, perfectly casual—Sark, perhaps, more than Sloane. But of course, Sloane had nothing to prove, no one to convince.

Well," Sloane said. "There is one thing I could use some assistance with. I'll have to check on a few things first, naturally."

"Splendid." She saw Sark's hand reach for his glass and take a sip—a concession, breaking eye contact first. "I'll look forward to receiving the details."

"Yes," Sloane murmured, seeming momentarily far away. He looked up then, taking a wide sweep of the club, and Sydney tensed but it was routine, unconscious on his part, nothing to concern her. He didn't pause. He asked Sark, "How should I get in touch with you?"

Sark slid his hand into his inside jacket pocket—she could tell by the movement of his elbow and shoulder, the pull of the fabric between his shoulder blades, and because they had outlined the plan for this ahead of time—and held a card out. "This number. Day or night."

"I'd expect nothing less." Sloane smiled, crinkling at the eyes, and stood. He extended his hand to shake, and Sark took it as he, too, got to his feet. "A pleasure, Mr. Sark, as always."

"For myself as well."

Sydney snorted in laughter from the second balcony. "You are such an ass-kisser," she told him as Sloane walked away.

"Meet me out back in two minutes," Sark said in reply, startling her. He had already begun to make his way through the ever-thickening crowd.

"Got it," she said automatically, though she was frowning, and started immediately down the steps. She was quick, but he was already pacing erratically, waiting for her, when she pushed open the alleyway door.

"What?" she asked, descending the three concrete stairs and approaching him cautiously.

"The signs Sloane mentioned? That he intimated I would recognize? I hadn't." His eyes were large and—worried. Deep-down, end-of-the-world worried. She hadn't even imagined he could look that way. He almost looked scared. "I do now."

"And?"

"Rambaldi. Naturally." His face was drawn. "There's been movement, lately, among the more serious of his followers. Preparations, one might be tempted to say. For Rambaldi's second coming."

Sydney gritted her teeth, and managed only by extraordinary force of will to keep herself from rolling her eyes. But Sark barely looked at her. She didn't know why she'd expended the effort anyway.

"Your sister, the Passenger, is to be his vessel."

"Old news," Sydney said. She crossed her arms. "What else do you have?"

"Sloane has her. Or at least access to her. He must. He was too unconcerned, knowing the signs, not to." Sark's eyes were narrowed, his gaze far away as he rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. "But then why attempt to sway me to his side? And why give up so easily?"

Sydney offered, "Maybe he could tell you weren't going to bite."

"Perhaps. But why approach me to begin with? I'm good, but I'm not that good. And I've hardly proved a particularly loyal lieutenant in the past. What about me in particular would cause him to covet my assistance?"

Before Sydney could interrupt his musing and get him to the point—not that she didn't appreciate the impromptu foray into the inner workings of Sark's brain—the door behind Sark opened, its bottom scraping on the concrete.

Their eyes locked, and even as she told herself there were far, far better solutions than this, she dropped to her knees, raked her hands through her own hair and then slid them around his hips to splay her fingers across his ass. Which was just as firm as she'd remembered.

She'd thought she and Sark had been on the same wavelength, but he seemed astonished. Not offended, though. She couldn't help but, in her current position, notice that he had become suddenly, emphatically hard. It was reassuring.

"Hey!" The person behind the door's opening was a disgruntled, pudgy man with a sweat-stained shirt and a mealy, disagreeable face. Apron tied around his waist. Kitchen worker. The building next door must have been a restaurant. "Y'know the rules. No soliciting," he scolded, "unless the boss is getting a cut."

"Oh," Sydney said with a breathy laugh, poking her head out from behind Sark's hip and hoping the hard bite she'd administered to her lower lip had made it visibly swollen, "I'm not getting paid."

The man snorted, and the door banged closed behind him, leaving Sydney and Sark alone again.

Silently, he offered his hand to help her up off the ground. She took it.

Standing, she cleared her throat and tried to push her back into some kind of respectable shape with her hands, feeling awkward. She had grime stains on the knees of her slacks. "So you think Sloane has Nadia."

"Yes. And thanks to the disc we provided him with last year, we can also assume he has the serum that will allow your sister to channel Rambaldi." His voice was tighter than it had been before they'd been interrupted, and she felt warmth rush into her cheeks.

Should have thought that through a little better, she thought, but every other scenario she'd been able to come up with involved kissing him, and she wasn't . . . she couldn't . . . . It wasn't a good idea. This hadn't been either, but there were only so many things for a woman and man to be doing in an alley outside a nightclub. And you always went for the simplest, most believable scenario; it was Spy 101. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to apologize for. And certainly nothing to feel guilty about.

She asked, "So we track Sloane?"

"We track Sloane," he confirmed. "And if we're very, very lucky, he'll lead us right to her."

"And if we're not?"

He looked at her for a long moment. And then he said, "Come on. The equipment's in the car."