Barely Breathing

From Russia, Part II

© 2002

Rating: PG

Spoilers: basic stuff

Pairing: V/S, although this part is more adventure than romance

Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.

-Sydney's POV-

For two minutes Jean-Claude tells me all about Engle's private book collection. I act interested, and he seems to believe my fake enthusiasm. Knowing the explosive will go off soon, I pull out my reading glasses from my bag. I tell Jean-Claude I will have a look around now. He consents and retreats to one of the couches in the centre of the room.

I put my reading glasses on. The lenses are tinted a very pale blue, hardly noticeable at a casual glance. These are no ordinary reading glasses. In fact, they are Marshall's newest invention, given to me at my last briefing. The codes are hidden inside a fake book with space for a secret compartment. Sifting through Engle's entire collection is hardly a practical option. These glasses provide me with a certain x-ray vision: I will literally be able to see through the books, and be able to tell if they are solid or not.

I climb onto the wooden ladder and start methodically scanning the room. So far, all the books look the same. I climb higher to get a better view of the room. Meanwhile, I shift uncomfortably at the thought of Jean- Claude getting a better view. Up my skirt, that is.

Thirty seconds before the explosion is set to go off, I detect the hollow book from across the room. As casually as possible, I slide my ladder down the wall and across to the other side. Chances are Jean-Claude does not know that Engle has codes stored here. Engle's motto has always been the less you know, the better. Which is why he is such an elusive criminal. None of his captured goons ever know anything because they are all on a need to know basis.

My entire body is stiff in anticipation as I reach out for the book. Crime and Punishment. How ironic. The book is well worn and in decrepit condition. No book dealer in his or her right mind would ever consider buying such a piece of trash, although the novel itself is a classic.

My guide says nothing. Suddenly a loud thud comes from downstairs. Jean- Claude leaps up at the sound.

"Mademoiselle Clozier, wait here please," he says before rushing from the room.

His absence gives me the opportunity to grab the book, open it, take out the codes, and replace it without any incident. I keep my back to the camera across the room. To a casual observer, it only looks like I'm carefully studying the contents of the book. I slip the codes down the front of my dress into my bra. The security tapes are reviewed once every week on Friday. Today is Tuesday. By Friday, I will already be in the Caribbean, thousands of miles from here.

I slide down the wall just as Jean-Claude walks back into the room. I plant what I hope is a natural expression on my face. I look up, as if just noticing his presence.

"Is there a problème?" I question innocently, raising an eyebrow.

He looks flustered, but he doesn't suspect me in the least. "Oui," he frowns, "a pipe burst in the downstairs bathroom. I shall have to get it fixed before Monsieur Engle returns."

I lower my head to hide a smile. Now all I need to do is to get out of this villa and back to my hotel room. I look at my white gold watch in an exaggerated motion. "Ah non!" I exclaim dramatically, bring a hand to my red, open mouth. "I must leave at once for my appointment."

Looking up at Jean-Claude, I give him an apologetic smile. "I'm very sorry. Excusez-moi." Inside, I am prematurely rejoicing at the success of the mission. Tonight I will fly back to Los Angeles, where I will be able to relax in a hot bubble bath, chat with Francie, and get some real rest. The jet lag has left me consistently exhausted, although my make-up hides the evidence well.

Jean-Claude offers me his hand as I step down from the ladder. "Merci," I say, "please tell Monsieur Engle I will be in contact shortly. Some of his books greatly interest me."

Jean-Claude acknowledges my request with a small nod. He gestures with his hand, and I follow him as he shows me the way out. At the door, he pauses for a moment and looks at me like he has something to say.

"I was wondering if you would like to join me at the opera tomorrow evening," he murmurs, looking at his feet. "I have two tickets, front row, centre."

I cough to cover the giggle that escapes my pursed lips. I do believe Jean- Claude is asking me out. Somehow, the prospect seems hilarious, if not downright ironic.

My blushing guide seems aware of my silence. He hurries to add, "Courtesy of Monsieur Engle, of course." Right. I feel genuinely sorry for the young man. I am not who he thinks I am. Deception has always been a part of my life, but I have never enjoyed its presence. I end up hurting innocent people even when I try my best not to. This here is a perfect example.

I look him in the eye with a beguiling smile on my bright red lips. "Of course," I repeat playfully, "but Monsieur Engle will not be joining us, I presume?"

Jean-Claude averts his eyes from my piercing glance. He knows I will say no. So I do not say it for him. Instead, I offer him a tiny bow before waltzing out of the villa on my three-inch white stilettos, the codes in my dress.

---

Stepping out of the luxurious, steaming bath Francie drew for me, I grab my green silk robe and wrap it around my wrinkled body. I stand in front of the vanity mirror, wiping away a small patch of condensation in order to better see my reflection.

Gone now are the chic clothes of Sonia Clozier. The tight, white dress is sitting in a dumpster somewhere in downtown Paris. The white handbag is buried somewhere in my yet unpacked suitcase. The expensive jewelry is on its way back to a contact in France. The three-inch white stilettos are discarded for shoes far more comfortable. My long, brown hair is freshly washed; the blond wig left as a surprise in my Paris hotel room.

I am once again Sydney Bristow.