Sark glanced up as the door opened. Finally. It would commence.
He had been waiting ever since his capture for it to begin.
The interrogators sent previously were clearly just the prep team.
Whoever was assigned to him - to perform the real interrogation - would not have been as amateurish as the agents who had questioned him, hit him, and left him without food or water for stretches at a time. He did wonder who the agent was that had pulled him off the transport vehicle upon arrival and promptly punched him so hard in the gut and then in the face that he had been unconscious for several hours. He had not seen him again, anyway. In the endless hours when he had nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him he tried to remember if he had met the man before - his green eyes were remarkable, truly - but honestly did not recall a prior meeting. Ah well, in his line of work one would make enemies out of people one never met. An unfortunate casualty of the job.
As the door opened, he wondered, idly, if he was about to become a casualty of the job.
First a dark-haired male agent, in the usual nondescript and ill-fitting American suit, came in with a cart. He unloaded from the cart a large black case, a smaller green zippered soft case, a medium-size blue zippered case, a bottle of wine (here Sark strained to see the vintage), and 2 glasses. The agent never said a word and neither did Sark. What was the point, after all? What would be, would be.
Then, after a while, a second agent, also in a nondescript suit, came in and proceeded to open the cases. In the silence of the room, the snick and click of the clasps of the large black case and the metallic hiss of the zippers loomed large. Very good, Sark thought to himself. Whoever is setting up this scenario is a professional. Just the right intervals to increase the tension, just the right silence to make the sounds of the torture instruments opening seem more ominous. Very good. If the whole scene weren't being organized for his benefit, he would have applauded. That is, if he were not bound to the chair with black rubber strips at the feet, knees, wrists, elbows and shoulders, he would have applauded.
He wondered, idly, what would happen if he told them he needed to visit the little boy's loo?
Again, the perfect interval of time passed - at least the time he would have used - and he expected the door to open again. But no. Now, he reluctantly began to wonder just what was in those cases. Then, stopped himself because that would be what "he" wanted. He was assuming the interrogator would be a man, possibly Jack Bristow himself, assuming he had survived Sark's double-cross. But then, the Americans were very into the gender equality business and really for this kind of work, women were-
Ah, yes. It was a woman coming through the door. That was not a good sign for his continued well being. The female of the species was always more deadly. He had reason to know.
At least this woman knew how to dress. That suit was not off the rack at any department store in the States. Milan, if he had to guess. The dark red was a perfect foil for her black hair, a true black with almost blue highlights. He said, "Beautiful suit. Lovely color, that red. I assume you chose that color for a reason ----- what is your name?"
Without looking at him, she replied softly, "You can call me ma'am. And yes, I find that using red for this work does cut down on the dry cleaning bills."
"Very amusing - ma'am."
"I try."
When no more words were forthcoming he continued his assessment of her. After all, his life was now in her hands. Her hair was cut, well, in a surprising style - very loose and flowing down her back in a wavy, feminine, Rita Hayworth style. Very high maintenance hair. She wore a black top under the jacket with a deep vee. The skirt was soft and flowing and ended slightly below mid thigh. Hosiery so sheer as to be nearly invisible encased a truly remarkable pair of legs - he did not make the mistake of thinking the shape was entirely natural - only years of conditioning gave muscle tone like that. To say nothing of the ability to walk in those heels. Who knew that 3" heels were de rigeur for CIA interrogations these days? But then again, Sydney wore high heels on missions all the time. Perhaps the CIA gave women classes in wearing heels and kicking ass? Americans, who knew? They could be so unpredictable.
She did not look at him, just walked over to the rectangular table in front of him and began examining the contents of the cases. She was somewhere in her forties, probably late forties he guessed, but so expertly had the cosmetics been applied that she could pass for someone much younger. Especially with those delicate features. He was sure her appearance was deceptive. He was not being arrogant when he thought that he was too important a catch to have any one but an expert interrogating him. No expert at "persuasion" would be delicate.
She was comparing the cases and their contents to what appeared to be a checklist in her hand and frowned. She flicked open a cellphone and said quietly into it, "Jack? My red case is not here." Then flipped the phone closed.
"Excuse me?" He had to ask. He wanted to kill himself for having to ask, but, "Is that Jack Bristow you called?"
"Why yes, Mr. Sark. Is there anything you wanted to say to him when he comes in?" She never even looked up. That was really rather rude.
When she laughed he realized that he had said it aloud. "Rude, Mr. Sark? I imagine you are going to get quite tired of looking me in the face by the time this is over. Consider this a little break in the festivities."
Several moments passed before the door opened and Jack Bristow came in. He flicked a glance over at Sark and handed a small, very small, red leather case to the woman. The glance from Bristow began to raise Sark's anxiety level. It had seemed almost sympathetic. Almost. If Jack Bristow felt anything close to sympathy for him, well, this was not going to be pretty. But then again, maybe Jack and this woman (whose name he still did not know, which was beginning to irritate him) were a team and this was part of the good cop-bad cop style the Americans liked to utilize.
The woman was speaking again, in a very different tone, than before. "Thanks, darling. I don't know why Weiss forgot this case. It was on my checklist, after all."
"I think he thought it wasn't really necessary."
"Oh, it's necessary. Well, I need to get to work. Dinner, tonight?"
"Absolutely." With a smile at the woman and another glance at Sark, Jack left the room.
Sark realized suddenly that the woman and Jack seemed to have a more-than- professional relationship. 'Dinner tonight? Darling?' He had to ask, "You called Jack Bristow 'darling'?"
"Why yes, we have known each other for many, many years. I have worked with him before when my special talents were needed."
"But 'darling'?"
"Of course, that is what one calls one's fiancé, even in your circles, I would imagine, Mr. Sark."
"Fiancé?"
"Yes, in a variety of ways, this is going to be a little family affair, I am sorry to say."
He thought. "Why did you tell me that Jack is your fiancé?"
"Mr. Sark, do you really imagine that any information I give you could possibly come in handy in your limited future?"
And with that she looked up.
And Sark now began to sweat - just the tiniest bit. For the woman's green eyes had such a blend of coldness and fury in them, like the coldness of hell, he would imagine. Irina's eyes were cold, always, but she never really had any personal passion to anything she had done. He had thought that coldness was frightening, but now he realized that he was wrong. Coldness combined with a passion? He began to realize that in double- crossing Sydney Bristow his greatest enemy was perhaps not Jack, but this woman. Or perhaps this woman working in conjunction with Jack -- that combination was really quite frightful. And here he sat, trussed like a turkey for that American holiday, Thanksgiving.
"Double-crossing Sydney was not your brightest move, Mr. Sark." My word, could she read his mind? She sat on her chair - a nice, comfortable padded leather chair, he noted, while feeling his butt go numb on the hard wood seat to which he was tied.
"I'm beginning to realize that," he answered.
"Let's reminisce, shall we?" she asked in a tone of voice so perfectly pleasant that they might have been long-last acquaintances meeting over sherry. In fact, she began to pour the wine the second agent had decanted. One glass in front of her and another in front of him. He noted, "That's very civilized of you, but as you know, I cannot reach the glass."
"Well, I didn't want to be rude - you seem to have an issue with that. Since you are my guest for the foreseeable future, I should serve you a drink. Those are the rules of etiquette. However, the rules of interrogation trump the rules of etiquette, and I don't have to let you drink until I feel you've earned it. I have to keep you alive, but I don't have to keep you comfortable. Isn't that what you said to Mr. Tippin? And after all, we've only just begun, haven't we Mr. Sark?"
She took a sip. "As I said, let's reminisce. I believe you enjoy doing that - isn't that what you suggested to Sydney after she found you at SD-6 with Sloane after she thought she had had him killed?"
"Yes, that is what I said. It was a little joke."
"Hmm, yes, you like your little jokes, don't you? Somehow, I don't think you thought it was quite so amusing when we captured you though, did you?"
"I am still wondering how that happened."
"Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Sark."
"I have a feeling that curiosity is the least of my problems."
"Ah, good point. Well, the simple story, Mr. Sark, is that when you poisoned Sydney and Jack and what you referred to in your communications as 'their unknown companion' with that room-service dinner, you did not know the whole story. You and your associate had not done your research. A tragic mistake, really."
She waited. He had to ask, "How so?"
"The unknown companion has a biological anomaly that renders most poisons ineffective."
"How is that possible?"
"The unknown companion's stomach immediately rebels and well to be crude, she vomits so quickly that the poison does not have a chance to enter the system. Also, the anomaly is tied to her immune system in such a way that even the fastest acting poisons render her merely uncomfortable, rather than unconscious or dead."
"That's a handy biological irregularity in this line of work."
"Yes, it has come in handy more than once."
"Do you mean..."
"Yes, I was the unknown companion."
"So, you were the one who shot me when I came in?"
"Yes, that was me."
"Another point of curiosity. How did you see so well in the dark? I'd had all the power cut off to that part of the hotel so that their rooms would be blackened." "I was a Girl Scout, Mr. Sark. We are always prepared. I had my travel-size night-vision goggles in my evening bag. One never knows, does one?"
When he said nothing, she continued, "Good, you recognize a rhetorical question when you hear it. The poison did indeed work very fast on Sydney and Jack - I barely had time to give them some ipecac - yes, Mr. Sark, that was also in my bag - before they became unconscious. I realized that whoever did it was probably going to come into the room. They would either gloat over their death or, assuming it was not a fatal dose, capture them. Simple deductive reasoning told me to expect someone's arrival. Knowledge of you told me that you had probably double-crossed them. Girl Scout training, really much better than the CIA's in terms of life preparation, told me to get myself ready for any eventuality."
"So, when I and my associate came through the door, you were ready - even to the point of having a silencer?"
"Absolutely - we wouldn't want to upset the other guests. Although I imagine that those guests who saw your associate leaving in a body bag might have been, shall we say, a little discomfitted by the sight."
Silence. Finally he asked, "Irina? Irina's dead?"
"Ah yes, Mr. Sark, I had forgotten you did not know that, did you? All evidence to the contrary, Irina was just an ordinary human of flesh and bone. She lived and, then, she died." She shrugged dismissively. "Such is the way of all flesh. Ashes to ashes and all that."
"But you did not kill me?"
"No, you still may prove useful. Irina, however, had outlived her usefulness to anyone. Moreover, her life's work seemed pointed in the direction of a personal goal - destroying Jack and Sydney Bristow. I simply could not have that."
"You could not have that?"
"Why no, Mr. Sark. Irina had to go. And I was the appropriate person to do the job. It would have been hellish for Sydney to kill her own mother, even if that mother was a psychopath. And for Jack or... well, whomever might be close to Sydney - well, that person would always wonder if Sydney could forgive them for doing the necessary job. I, however, can live with the situation. After all, family comes before everything."
And what was he going to say to that? Well, he thought he would shut up for a while. The coldness in her eyes was getting deeper - the green was getting darker. That green looked familiar. Where had he seen it before?
Before he could make the connection, she continued. "As long as Irina was alive she had the potential of ruining Jack and Sydney's lives. Not an acceptable risk. Not at all." She calmly shook her head and took another sip.
"As you are aware, the person holding the power in a given situation in our line of work does hold the power of life and death. Irina thought she had the power by poisoning Jack and Sydney. But she had not done her homework on me, had she? She did not bother to ascertain the identity of the unknown companion and learn my strengths and weaknesses. And that is one way in which Irina and I differ. Or should I say 'differed', since she is no longer with us? She was arrogant in the extreme. And that is why I knew she would come through the door first and aimed accordingly."
"So now, Mr. Sark, you are on your own. Do you wish to talk?"
Apparently, she was not waiting for his answer. She swivelled the large black case around and he saw, gleaming in the overhead light, the sheen of numerous knives. "No comment, Mr. Sark?" She then swivelled around the blue case - needles, this time, in various sizes. "Still no comment, Mr. Sark?" The green case now, with a vial and syringe.
"What about the red case?"
"Oh, I'm not ready to open the red case, yet, Mr. Sark. What shall it be, the knives, the needles or the syringe?"
"Can I answer 'none of the above'?"
"Very amusing, Mr. Sark. How about we start with just talking? And how about you start talking? It would be in your best interests. Also, if I don't have to dry clean this suit, it will make my day."
"Well, I live at your pleasure."
"So you do. To begin, I know your name is Ian John Sark."
"How do you know that?"
"The CIA is not as incompetent as you think, Mr. Sark. We have our informants. Money does buy lots of information, especially in poverty- stricken Irish villages."
"Bah. You Americans think money can buy anything."
"Almost anything. But not the kind of determination you will find that I possess, Mr. Sark."
And so it went, on and on and on. A conversational game of cat and mouse. He was the mouse. Her patience seemed endless, inexhaustible. Hours went by, he thought. She would drop little tidbits of information about him and Irina and their organization that made him realize that she knew much more than he could have ever expected. He was sure he gave away information of which he was not even aware. She was that good.
Finally he asked, he had to, and again wanted to kill himself for the need. "Just how do you know so much?"
"On Irina's body we found several disks. Frankly, I cannot get over how that woman never understood the need for backing up one's documentation. Carrying around one's only copy is just not good business. In any case, those disks - ah, I see you swallow, Mr. Sark - gave us so much wonderful intelligence that we were able to track down your various seconds--in- command. Now, let's call the first man I interrogated Mr. One, since his name is after all totally irrelevant. Mr. One held out until I used this knife." And here she fondled a long, thin, stiletto and held it up for him to see.
"One of my personal favorites, I admit. Now, Mr. Two - he was more, shall we say, recalcitrant? We had to use several knives in a certain combination. Let's see, they were in this order." And now she laid out a number of knives on the table, holding each one up and naming it for him. Caressing the knives, talking.
And on and on it went. The knives were rearranged over and over as she described how each of his associates had been "persuaded" to talk. It became numbing. As did the amount of intel she possessed. He was not aware that his eyes gave away a significant amount of intel. She did not appear to be looking at him at all, but he realized suddenly that she was in fact aware of everything. The almost-sexual movements as she stroked the knives had stopped and she was giving him an amused stare. She began putting away the knives in the case.
"Is this numbing you or boring you, Mr. Sark? I see I need to grab your attention." She quickly pulled two needles from the blue case and put them in her mouth crosswise, like a flamenco dancer's rose. To his astonishment, she slithered onto the table and began crawling toward him on hands and knees. He could not help his instinctive jerk of shock backward. It was like the kind of wet dream that men in his line of work had - the deep cleavage shown by the vee of her shirt, the garters and tops of her stockings showing where the skirt fell away from her strong thighs, the knife strapped to her right thigh, and of course, the needles in her mouth. Only, this was no dream where the woman pretended to torture you to get you to share your body with her. This was a nightmare, the kind from which one wakes up drenched in sweat. And he was getting there -- at least the sweating part..
She stopped as she reached the edge of the table in front of him, sat and swung her legs forward until her feet rested on his hands. Damn, those heels hurt where they were digging into the soft tissue between the bones in the tops of his hands. Involuntarily, he looked down.
"Yes, Mr. Sark, these heels do have a purpose. Men always wonder why we wear them. As you can imagine, the pressure per inch on these heels is staggering. I could puncture your hands with them, in fact, if I chose to do so. So, let's be clear - it's time to get down to brass tacks. I've already told you what I need to know. Start talking. " And she began to apply pressure. This was not good, not good at all. The woman was brilliant - she knew how to use her own strengths - most women would not necessarily have thought to use the female's superior thigh muscles to apply this excruciating pressure through the stiletto heels of her shoes.
Just as blood had begun to appear, she stopped. Of course, his body was so relieved his brain wanted him to gasp out everything he knew. The hand was so exquisitely sensitive that torture to it was usually quite effective. So why had she stopped? He hated, absolutely hated to look up into those eyes.
Once he did he wished he hadn't. She pulled out a needle from her mouth and began running it up and down his right hand and then his left. Stopping every so often to prick the skin, which caused him to tense, much against his will, every time. And then she tossed away that needle. A metallic ping as it hit the table behind her and then rolled. She pulled the second, skinnier, needle out of her mouth and ran it over and over around the outer edge of his ear and then the inner edge, darting in and out of the canal of his ear. He struggled not to show panic. She said, quietly, "You know, Mr. Sark, I am reluctantly impressed. You have held up quite well so far. Many of your compatriots never made it to this point. Mr. Five, for example, sadly lacking in courage. Tsk, tsk. But what you have in courage, you seem to lack in intelligence. What, after all, is the point of holding out now?"
She seemed to feel that the question required no answer, for she swung her legs over and stood up next to him. She shoved his chair to the side at an angle and then sashayed back over to the table. Her flowy red skirt swung back and forth. As scrupulously as she had earlier replaced the knives, she now replaced the needles in the blue case. She opened the black case again "Snick, click" went the clasps. She extracted a knife. She held his gaze the entire time and when she walked back over he realized that the green of her eyes seemed totally eradicated by black. Was that the effect of her irises darkening or were her pupils that dilated? Good God, was she excited?
She calmly reached out and began flicking the buttons off his black shirt, one by one. Slowly, languidly, again almost like one of his wet dreams. Against his will and against all good sense, he felt his body tighten and hoped she would not notice. But of course she did. She would notice every weakness. She ran the blunt edge of the knife across his left nipple and purred, "So, Mr. Sark, the hardness of your nipples tells me that you are either scared or excited or perhaps, both? Is this like the wet dream you have in your bed when you are alone and lonely?" My God, how did she know? He licked his lips, they were so dry.
"Ah, you must be thirsty. Would you like a drink of wine before we commence?" He nodded. She reached out with her left hand, while her right kept running the knife across his nipple. She held the glass to his lips and let him drink as long as he wanted. Which was a long time - he was trying to think. What tactic was this? Was she a "swallow" as well as an interrogator - female agents willing to screw their contacts to get information? Whatever it was, it was working. She apparently knew that men were at the mercy of their libido, even or especially in these situations. When you should be concerned about survival, all too often your body was telling you to screw the next available female.
"Are you hoping, Mr. Sark, that I am a 'swallow' and can give you some temporary oblivion in the midst of all this?"
"Well, if you would be so kind, I would not have any objections."
She laughed. "I bet not. And it would be all in the family wouldn't it, Mr. Sark?" She placed inordinate emphasis on the word "Sark." What did that mean? He had learned by now that none of her words were chosen without care.
"After all, I've slept with the father, why not the son? Is that what you are thinking?" As she asked in sibilant whisper, she slid the knife up his throat to rest right outside his jugular vein.
That effectively stopped him from jerking his head up. Only his eyes looked up. His libido vanished. "You know?"
"Know that Ian John Sark is really Ian John Bristow? Know that the Mr. Sark who double-crossed Jack and Sydney Bristow was prepared to hand over his own father and sister? Of course. As I said before, money buys lots of information in poverty-stricken Irish villages. Especially from ancient Irish mid-wives with no American Social Security or pension fund. Especially when I am the one asking the questions." He could believe that. If her eyes looked anything like they did right now, that midwife would have been spilling her guts whether or not money was on the table.
Suddenly the door was flung open. A tall thin agent with a buzzcut rushed in. "What are you doing? You know the rules, we don't torture prisoners!"
She laughed. Laughed. "Ah, Agent Kendall, so nice of you to join us. Comic relief is always welcome. However, perhaps it might occur to you that it's not a good idea to startle me when I am holding a very sharp knife at my guest's jugular vein?"
"I don't notice any blood. You always did have nerves of steel. Viv - get over here."
She arched an eyebrow. Just like Jack.
"Please," this Kendall person gritted out. She stuck the knife in the table.
"Ah, you see, Ian, I have to agree with you - good manners are always important." To Kendall she said, "Why certainly, always a pleasure to converse with you." Did that woman never get upset or rattled?
She sauntered over as slowly as possible and Sark could see this Kendall's ire rise. He almost called out to him, '"Forget it, you're not getting anywhere with her." And then figured, what the hell, let him figure it out.
This Kendall and the woman - Viv - he guessed her name was, were having a conversation. Kendall was getting upset, Viv appeared bored. She used her left hand to fling some of that magnificent hair over her shoulder. Sark moved his head slightly, trying to hear better. Suddenly with a movement so fast it was a blur, she pulled the knife out of her thigh holder and flung it at him with barely a look. It slammed through the shoulder of his shirt and into the chair, effectively pinning him. Without even glancing at him, she snarled, "Sark, it's not in your best interests to move."
"So, I gather." He glanced down at the knife still vibrating in the wood.
Kendall stared at the knife and suddenly said, "Well, get on with it then." He left, slamming the door.
"Well, Mr. Sark, or should I say, Mr. Bristow, it seems that the other members of this team are getting restless. Unfortunately, not everyone has my patience. And Kendall tells me that Jack is concerned that we'll lose our dinner reservation. And that would be unfortunate."
She sashayed over to the table and pulled out the green case with the syringe. He could see his father's attraction to her. Loyalty, passion, beauty, deadliness in one package. Irina had everything but the passion, he now saw, a fatal flaw in a relationship. To say nothing of loyalty. This woman, however, was the real thing.
In a conversational tone, she said, "Actually, it would be too confusing to call you Mr. Bristow, now wouldn't it? We wouldn't want you to have any more ideas about your daddy's woman, now would we?" How did she do that? How did she know what he was thinking? He wouldn't be able to stand that in a woman - it would leave one too vulnerable. But then, his father may be different. Maybe he had finally reached the point where he did not mind being vulnerable if it meant he could have a woman like this one.
She pulled out a pair of latex gloves and smoothed them on. She stuck the syringe in the bottle and filled it. All done quite slowly. Such a professional. "So, Ian, did you know that I am also a chemist? No, of course not. You and Irina weren't prepared for me, were you? That biological anomaly that I have? Well, the doctors had trouble identifying and treating it, so in desperation I began investigating it myself. During the course of my research, I became quite an expert on the impact on the body of various drugs. And then when I began to specialize my work at the Agency, I was given my own lab."
She walked over, syringe in one hand. She pulled the knife out of the chair and slashed his sleeve away, then stopped. "Ooops, forgot the alcohol prep. Wouldn't want to give you an infection or anything, now would we?" She was a regular laugh riot.
Back she went, putting the knife away. Pulling out the small towelette and walking back over. God, she was good at the torture. He could really admire her work, that is, if he weren't the beneficiary of it. She opened the packet with her teeth and swabbed his upper arm and tossed the towelette aside. With the syringe just pricking his arm, she looked him in the eyes and said with apparent regret, "The only problem with my work, Ian, is that mind-altering drugs don't really work well on rats. Of if they do, there's no way to ask them about it. This is a problem. So I must use humans as my test models. Unfortunately for you, you are subject number one with this particular serum, which is a form of, to use layman's terms, a truth serum. Good luck. Let's hope it's a good trip." The last thing he saw was her smile and those green eyes. Where had he seen them before?
The next thing he knew, his body was covered, no, swimming in sweat. He hoped the wetness in his groin was not from pissing on himself. He was still tied to the chair. If he had not been tied, he would have surely slid to the floor. His mouth felt like he had been vomiting for hours. His head hurt beyond anything he could have imagined.
"Good morning, Ian." With great effort, he opened his eyes and looked into her green ones and her smiling mouth. Suddenly, he knew. But his mouth was so dry he could not speak. She poured some liquid into a glass, "Gatorade" she said succinctly, stuck a straw into it and brought it over. "Sip slowly, or you'll become sick. Well, sicker."
"Your eyes," he rasped out.
"Yes?" she said with some amusement.
"They are the same as those of the agent who mowed me down when I had just arrived here."
"Ah yes, my nephew."
"Your nephew? What does he have against me?"
"His name is Michael Vaughn. Ring any bells?"
"Vaughn - that is the name Sydney has said in her sleep from time to time, when we were on a plane." "Somewhat foolish of her to fall asleep around you, wasn't it? But then again, she thought since you were her little brother that she might be able to trust you. A little, anyway."
His head jerked up. "She knew I was her brother?"
"Yes, of course. You see you have the same birthmark on the upper left thigh that her father does and some similar mannerisms. That and the way you behaved around her -- like a little brother trying to get his sister's goat, if you don't mind the American vernacular. It made her wonder. She mentioned her concerns to me and I asked Jack if it were possible that Irina could have been pregnant at the time she supposedly died. In fact, the day of her death, Jack had found a pregnancy test in the trash. That was part of what sent him over the edge when he thought she had died -- that a baby had died with her. Well, we put two and two together and then I took my little trip to Ireland. Lovely country, isn't it? Lovely people - so very helpful. Unfortunately, Sydney made the mistake of overestimating your sense of familia or underestimating Irina's enmity."
"Familia? The way you pronounce that word -- Are you Italian?" That would explain a lot -- clearly she saw herself, in some small way, as acting as Sydney's mother -- the real mother who loves and cherishes the child. And Vaughn was her nephew? Never mess with an Italian mother. He was surprised he was still alive.
"Half Italian, half French. But basically, American. Do you need more to drink?"
He nodded and looked at her eyes again as she held the glass of that vile drink, Gatorade, to his lips.
Not surprisingly, she heard the unspoken question. "Yes, Michel Vaughn is Sydney's handler and a bit more. With the intel you so generously gave while you were under the influence, we'll be able to bring down SD-6 very quickly - in fact simultaneous raids are planned for just 2 days from now. Once that is over, Sydney can retire from being a double agent, as can Jack. And we can all go on to lead normal lives - as normal as the lives of agents can be." She laughed. He was so sick of her laughter.
"Jack and I are hoping that Sydney and Michael will have a double wedding with Jack and I, as a matter of fact. We're thinking of Hawaii. The weather is always reliable. We all can appreciate reliability."
They sat in silence.
"So, when you referred to this as being a family affair in a variety of ways, you weren't kidding."
"No, Ian, although I do have what Jack refers to as an over-developed sense of humor, I was not kidding. Just think, if Michael and Sydney have children, you'll be related to me and Michael. This is SO dysfunctional, isn't it?"
"Dysfunctional is too mild a term. Well, at least I know why Mr. Vaughn gutted me when I came in. I had betrayed Sydney."
"Well, you are just lucky that Jack was not here."
She reached across the table and opened that last case - that very small red case. His muscles were too exhausted to even tense.
She said, "Now comes the question of just what to do with you, Ian. You are too dangerous to release, but now that you were so helpful while under the influence of my little drug, your usefulness to us may have come to an end."
He remembered that she had killed Irina in part because her usefulness had come to an end. And then there was the fact that Irina had potential to harm Jack and Sydney. Where did that leave him?
The sound of the zipper seemed loud. If this was the end, he was not going to flinch, he promised himself. He would look straight at whatever instrument was going to bring about his death.
She reached into the case - her hand, he noticed, irrelevantly, was surprisingly slender and delicate - and pulled out - he tensed - a nail file.
She calmly sat back and began filing her nails. Meeting his astonished gaze she said, "I find giving myself a manicure relaxing after an interrogation, Ian. Now, give me a reason you should live. Start talking."
And he did.
He had been waiting ever since his capture for it to begin.
The interrogators sent previously were clearly just the prep team.
Whoever was assigned to him - to perform the real interrogation - would not have been as amateurish as the agents who had questioned him, hit him, and left him without food or water for stretches at a time. He did wonder who the agent was that had pulled him off the transport vehicle upon arrival and promptly punched him so hard in the gut and then in the face that he had been unconscious for several hours. He had not seen him again, anyway. In the endless hours when he had nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him he tried to remember if he had met the man before - his green eyes were remarkable, truly - but honestly did not recall a prior meeting. Ah well, in his line of work one would make enemies out of people one never met. An unfortunate casualty of the job.
As the door opened, he wondered, idly, if he was about to become a casualty of the job.
First a dark-haired male agent, in the usual nondescript and ill-fitting American suit, came in with a cart. He unloaded from the cart a large black case, a smaller green zippered soft case, a medium-size blue zippered case, a bottle of wine (here Sark strained to see the vintage), and 2 glasses. The agent never said a word and neither did Sark. What was the point, after all? What would be, would be.
Then, after a while, a second agent, also in a nondescript suit, came in and proceeded to open the cases. In the silence of the room, the snick and click of the clasps of the large black case and the metallic hiss of the zippers loomed large. Very good, Sark thought to himself. Whoever is setting up this scenario is a professional. Just the right intervals to increase the tension, just the right silence to make the sounds of the torture instruments opening seem more ominous. Very good. If the whole scene weren't being organized for his benefit, he would have applauded. That is, if he were not bound to the chair with black rubber strips at the feet, knees, wrists, elbows and shoulders, he would have applauded.
He wondered, idly, what would happen if he told them he needed to visit the little boy's loo?
Again, the perfect interval of time passed - at least the time he would have used - and he expected the door to open again. But no. Now, he reluctantly began to wonder just what was in those cases. Then, stopped himself because that would be what "he" wanted. He was assuming the interrogator would be a man, possibly Jack Bristow himself, assuming he had survived Sark's double-cross. But then, the Americans were very into the gender equality business and really for this kind of work, women were-
Ah, yes. It was a woman coming through the door. That was not a good sign for his continued well being. The female of the species was always more deadly. He had reason to know.
At least this woman knew how to dress. That suit was not off the rack at any department store in the States. Milan, if he had to guess. The dark red was a perfect foil for her black hair, a true black with almost blue highlights. He said, "Beautiful suit. Lovely color, that red. I assume you chose that color for a reason ----- what is your name?"
Without looking at him, she replied softly, "You can call me ma'am. And yes, I find that using red for this work does cut down on the dry cleaning bills."
"Very amusing - ma'am."
"I try."
When no more words were forthcoming he continued his assessment of her. After all, his life was now in her hands. Her hair was cut, well, in a surprising style - very loose and flowing down her back in a wavy, feminine, Rita Hayworth style. Very high maintenance hair. She wore a black top under the jacket with a deep vee. The skirt was soft and flowing and ended slightly below mid thigh. Hosiery so sheer as to be nearly invisible encased a truly remarkable pair of legs - he did not make the mistake of thinking the shape was entirely natural - only years of conditioning gave muscle tone like that. To say nothing of the ability to walk in those heels. Who knew that 3" heels were de rigeur for CIA interrogations these days? But then again, Sydney wore high heels on missions all the time. Perhaps the CIA gave women classes in wearing heels and kicking ass? Americans, who knew? They could be so unpredictable.
She did not look at him, just walked over to the rectangular table in front of him and began examining the contents of the cases. She was somewhere in her forties, probably late forties he guessed, but so expertly had the cosmetics been applied that she could pass for someone much younger. Especially with those delicate features. He was sure her appearance was deceptive. He was not being arrogant when he thought that he was too important a catch to have any one but an expert interrogating him. No expert at "persuasion" would be delicate.
She was comparing the cases and their contents to what appeared to be a checklist in her hand and frowned. She flicked open a cellphone and said quietly into it, "Jack? My red case is not here." Then flipped the phone closed.
"Excuse me?" He had to ask. He wanted to kill himself for having to ask, but, "Is that Jack Bristow you called?"
"Why yes, Mr. Sark. Is there anything you wanted to say to him when he comes in?" She never even looked up. That was really rather rude.
When she laughed he realized that he had said it aloud. "Rude, Mr. Sark? I imagine you are going to get quite tired of looking me in the face by the time this is over. Consider this a little break in the festivities."
Several moments passed before the door opened and Jack Bristow came in. He flicked a glance over at Sark and handed a small, very small, red leather case to the woman. The glance from Bristow began to raise Sark's anxiety level. It had seemed almost sympathetic. Almost. If Jack Bristow felt anything close to sympathy for him, well, this was not going to be pretty. But then again, maybe Jack and this woman (whose name he still did not know, which was beginning to irritate him) were a team and this was part of the good cop-bad cop style the Americans liked to utilize.
The woman was speaking again, in a very different tone, than before. "Thanks, darling. I don't know why Weiss forgot this case. It was on my checklist, after all."
"I think he thought it wasn't really necessary."
"Oh, it's necessary. Well, I need to get to work. Dinner, tonight?"
"Absolutely." With a smile at the woman and another glance at Sark, Jack left the room.
Sark realized suddenly that the woman and Jack seemed to have a more-than- professional relationship. 'Dinner tonight? Darling?' He had to ask, "You called Jack Bristow 'darling'?"
"Why yes, we have known each other for many, many years. I have worked with him before when my special talents were needed."
"But 'darling'?"
"Of course, that is what one calls one's fiancé, even in your circles, I would imagine, Mr. Sark."
"Fiancé?"
"Yes, in a variety of ways, this is going to be a little family affair, I am sorry to say."
He thought. "Why did you tell me that Jack is your fiancé?"
"Mr. Sark, do you really imagine that any information I give you could possibly come in handy in your limited future?"
And with that she looked up.
And Sark now began to sweat - just the tiniest bit. For the woman's green eyes had such a blend of coldness and fury in them, like the coldness of hell, he would imagine. Irina's eyes were cold, always, but she never really had any personal passion to anything she had done. He had thought that coldness was frightening, but now he realized that he was wrong. Coldness combined with a passion? He began to realize that in double- crossing Sydney Bristow his greatest enemy was perhaps not Jack, but this woman. Or perhaps this woman working in conjunction with Jack -- that combination was really quite frightful. And here he sat, trussed like a turkey for that American holiday, Thanksgiving.
"Double-crossing Sydney was not your brightest move, Mr. Sark." My word, could she read his mind? She sat on her chair - a nice, comfortable padded leather chair, he noted, while feeling his butt go numb on the hard wood seat to which he was tied.
"I'm beginning to realize that," he answered.
"Let's reminisce, shall we?" she asked in a tone of voice so perfectly pleasant that they might have been long-last acquaintances meeting over sherry. In fact, she began to pour the wine the second agent had decanted. One glass in front of her and another in front of him. He noted, "That's very civilized of you, but as you know, I cannot reach the glass."
"Well, I didn't want to be rude - you seem to have an issue with that. Since you are my guest for the foreseeable future, I should serve you a drink. Those are the rules of etiquette. However, the rules of interrogation trump the rules of etiquette, and I don't have to let you drink until I feel you've earned it. I have to keep you alive, but I don't have to keep you comfortable. Isn't that what you said to Mr. Tippin? And after all, we've only just begun, haven't we Mr. Sark?"
She took a sip. "As I said, let's reminisce. I believe you enjoy doing that - isn't that what you suggested to Sydney after she found you at SD-6 with Sloane after she thought she had had him killed?"
"Yes, that is what I said. It was a little joke."
"Hmm, yes, you like your little jokes, don't you? Somehow, I don't think you thought it was quite so amusing when we captured you though, did you?"
"I am still wondering how that happened."
"Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Sark."
"I have a feeling that curiosity is the least of my problems."
"Ah, good point. Well, the simple story, Mr. Sark, is that when you poisoned Sydney and Jack and what you referred to in your communications as 'their unknown companion' with that room-service dinner, you did not know the whole story. You and your associate had not done your research. A tragic mistake, really."
She waited. He had to ask, "How so?"
"The unknown companion has a biological anomaly that renders most poisons ineffective."
"How is that possible?"
"The unknown companion's stomach immediately rebels and well to be crude, she vomits so quickly that the poison does not have a chance to enter the system. Also, the anomaly is tied to her immune system in such a way that even the fastest acting poisons render her merely uncomfortable, rather than unconscious or dead."
"That's a handy biological irregularity in this line of work."
"Yes, it has come in handy more than once."
"Do you mean..."
"Yes, I was the unknown companion."
"So, you were the one who shot me when I came in?"
"Yes, that was me."
"Another point of curiosity. How did you see so well in the dark? I'd had all the power cut off to that part of the hotel so that their rooms would be blackened." "I was a Girl Scout, Mr. Sark. We are always prepared. I had my travel-size night-vision goggles in my evening bag. One never knows, does one?"
When he said nothing, she continued, "Good, you recognize a rhetorical question when you hear it. The poison did indeed work very fast on Sydney and Jack - I barely had time to give them some ipecac - yes, Mr. Sark, that was also in my bag - before they became unconscious. I realized that whoever did it was probably going to come into the room. They would either gloat over their death or, assuming it was not a fatal dose, capture them. Simple deductive reasoning told me to expect someone's arrival. Knowledge of you told me that you had probably double-crossed them. Girl Scout training, really much better than the CIA's in terms of life preparation, told me to get myself ready for any eventuality."
"So, when I and my associate came through the door, you were ready - even to the point of having a silencer?"
"Absolutely - we wouldn't want to upset the other guests. Although I imagine that those guests who saw your associate leaving in a body bag might have been, shall we say, a little discomfitted by the sight."
Silence. Finally he asked, "Irina? Irina's dead?"
"Ah yes, Mr. Sark, I had forgotten you did not know that, did you? All evidence to the contrary, Irina was just an ordinary human of flesh and bone. She lived and, then, she died." She shrugged dismissively. "Such is the way of all flesh. Ashes to ashes and all that."
"But you did not kill me?"
"No, you still may prove useful. Irina, however, had outlived her usefulness to anyone. Moreover, her life's work seemed pointed in the direction of a personal goal - destroying Jack and Sydney Bristow. I simply could not have that."
"You could not have that?"
"Why no, Mr. Sark. Irina had to go. And I was the appropriate person to do the job. It would have been hellish for Sydney to kill her own mother, even if that mother was a psychopath. And for Jack or... well, whomever might be close to Sydney - well, that person would always wonder if Sydney could forgive them for doing the necessary job. I, however, can live with the situation. After all, family comes before everything."
And what was he going to say to that? Well, he thought he would shut up for a while. The coldness in her eyes was getting deeper - the green was getting darker. That green looked familiar. Where had he seen it before?
Before he could make the connection, she continued. "As long as Irina was alive she had the potential of ruining Jack and Sydney's lives. Not an acceptable risk. Not at all." She calmly shook her head and took another sip.
"As you are aware, the person holding the power in a given situation in our line of work does hold the power of life and death. Irina thought she had the power by poisoning Jack and Sydney. But she had not done her homework on me, had she? She did not bother to ascertain the identity of the unknown companion and learn my strengths and weaknesses. And that is one way in which Irina and I differ. Or should I say 'differed', since she is no longer with us? She was arrogant in the extreme. And that is why I knew she would come through the door first and aimed accordingly."
"So now, Mr. Sark, you are on your own. Do you wish to talk?"
Apparently, she was not waiting for his answer. She swivelled the large black case around and he saw, gleaming in the overhead light, the sheen of numerous knives. "No comment, Mr. Sark?" She then swivelled around the blue case - needles, this time, in various sizes. "Still no comment, Mr. Sark?" The green case now, with a vial and syringe.
"What about the red case?"
"Oh, I'm not ready to open the red case, yet, Mr. Sark. What shall it be, the knives, the needles or the syringe?"
"Can I answer 'none of the above'?"
"Very amusing, Mr. Sark. How about we start with just talking? And how about you start talking? It would be in your best interests. Also, if I don't have to dry clean this suit, it will make my day."
"Well, I live at your pleasure."
"So you do. To begin, I know your name is Ian John Sark."
"How do you know that?"
"The CIA is not as incompetent as you think, Mr. Sark. We have our informants. Money does buy lots of information, especially in poverty- stricken Irish villages."
"Bah. You Americans think money can buy anything."
"Almost anything. But not the kind of determination you will find that I possess, Mr. Sark."
And so it went, on and on and on. A conversational game of cat and mouse. He was the mouse. Her patience seemed endless, inexhaustible. Hours went by, he thought. She would drop little tidbits of information about him and Irina and their organization that made him realize that she knew much more than he could have ever expected. He was sure he gave away information of which he was not even aware. She was that good.
Finally he asked, he had to, and again wanted to kill himself for the need. "Just how do you know so much?"
"On Irina's body we found several disks. Frankly, I cannot get over how that woman never understood the need for backing up one's documentation. Carrying around one's only copy is just not good business. In any case, those disks - ah, I see you swallow, Mr. Sark - gave us so much wonderful intelligence that we were able to track down your various seconds--in- command. Now, let's call the first man I interrogated Mr. One, since his name is after all totally irrelevant. Mr. One held out until I used this knife." And here she fondled a long, thin, stiletto and held it up for him to see.
"One of my personal favorites, I admit. Now, Mr. Two - he was more, shall we say, recalcitrant? We had to use several knives in a certain combination. Let's see, they were in this order." And now she laid out a number of knives on the table, holding each one up and naming it for him. Caressing the knives, talking.
And on and on it went. The knives were rearranged over and over as she described how each of his associates had been "persuaded" to talk. It became numbing. As did the amount of intel she possessed. He was not aware that his eyes gave away a significant amount of intel. She did not appear to be looking at him at all, but he realized suddenly that she was in fact aware of everything. The almost-sexual movements as she stroked the knives had stopped and she was giving him an amused stare. She began putting away the knives in the case.
"Is this numbing you or boring you, Mr. Sark? I see I need to grab your attention." She quickly pulled two needles from the blue case and put them in her mouth crosswise, like a flamenco dancer's rose. To his astonishment, she slithered onto the table and began crawling toward him on hands and knees. He could not help his instinctive jerk of shock backward. It was like the kind of wet dream that men in his line of work had - the deep cleavage shown by the vee of her shirt, the garters and tops of her stockings showing where the skirt fell away from her strong thighs, the knife strapped to her right thigh, and of course, the needles in her mouth. Only, this was no dream where the woman pretended to torture you to get you to share your body with her. This was a nightmare, the kind from which one wakes up drenched in sweat. And he was getting there -- at least the sweating part..
She stopped as she reached the edge of the table in front of him, sat and swung her legs forward until her feet rested on his hands. Damn, those heels hurt where they were digging into the soft tissue between the bones in the tops of his hands. Involuntarily, he looked down.
"Yes, Mr. Sark, these heels do have a purpose. Men always wonder why we wear them. As you can imagine, the pressure per inch on these heels is staggering. I could puncture your hands with them, in fact, if I chose to do so. So, let's be clear - it's time to get down to brass tacks. I've already told you what I need to know. Start talking. " And she began to apply pressure. This was not good, not good at all. The woman was brilliant - she knew how to use her own strengths - most women would not necessarily have thought to use the female's superior thigh muscles to apply this excruciating pressure through the stiletto heels of her shoes.
Just as blood had begun to appear, she stopped. Of course, his body was so relieved his brain wanted him to gasp out everything he knew. The hand was so exquisitely sensitive that torture to it was usually quite effective. So why had she stopped? He hated, absolutely hated to look up into those eyes.
Once he did he wished he hadn't. She pulled out a needle from her mouth and began running it up and down his right hand and then his left. Stopping every so often to prick the skin, which caused him to tense, much against his will, every time. And then she tossed away that needle. A metallic ping as it hit the table behind her and then rolled. She pulled the second, skinnier, needle out of her mouth and ran it over and over around the outer edge of his ear and then the inner edge, darting in and out of the canal of his ear. He struggled not to show panic. She said, quietly, "You know, Mr. Sark, I am reluctantly impressed. You have held up quite well so far. Many of your compatriots never made it to this point. Mr. Five, for example, sadly lacking in courage. Tsk, tsk. But what you have in courage, you seem to lack in intelligence. What, after all, is the point of holding out now?"
She seemed to feel that the question required no answer, for she swung her legs over and stood up next to him. She shoved his chair to the side at an angle and then sashayed back over to the table. Her flowy red skirt swung back and forth. As scrupulously as she had earlier replaced the knives, she now replaced the needles in the blue case. She opened the black case again "Snick, click" went the clasps. She extracted a knife. She held his gaze the entire time and when she walked back over he realized that the green of her eyes seemed totally eradicated by black. Was that the effect of her irises darkening or were her pupils that dilated? Good God, was she excited?
She calmly reached out and began flicking the buttons off his black shirt, one by one. Slowly, languidly, again almost like one of his wet dreams. Against his will and against all good sense, he felt his body tighten and hoped she would not notice. But of course she did. She would notice every weakness. She ran the blunt edge of the knife across his left nipple and purred, "So, Mr. Sark, the hardness of your nipples tells me that you are either scared or excited or perhaps, both? Is this like the wet dream you have in your bed when you are alone and lonely?" My God, how did she know? He licked his lips, they were so dry.
"Ah, you must be thirsty. Would you like a drink of wine before we commence?" He nodded. She reached out with her left hand, while her right kept running the knife across his nipple. She held the glass to his lips and let him drink as long as he wanted. Which was a long time - he was trying to think. What tactic was this? Was she a "swallow" as well as an interrogator - female agents willing to screw their contacts to get information? Whatever it was, it was working. She apparently knew that men were at the mercy of their libido, even or especially in these situations. When you should be concerned about survival, all too often your body was telling you to screw the next available female.
"Are you hoping, Mr. Sark, that I am a 'swallow' and can give you some temporary oblivion in the midst of all this?"
"Well, if you would be so kind, I would not have any objections."
She laughed. "I bet not. And it would be all in the family wouldn't it, Mr. Sark?" She placed inordinate emphasis on the word "Sark." What did that mean? He had learned by now that none of her words were chosen without care.
"After all, I've slept with the father, why not the son? Is that what you are thinking?" As she asked in sibilant whisper, she slid the knife up his throat to rest right outside his jugular vein.
That effectively stopped him from jerking his head up. Only his eyes looked up. His libido vanished. "You know?"
"Know that Ian John Sark is really Ian John Bristow? Know that the Mr. Sark who double-crossed Jack and Sydney Bristow was prepared to hand over his own father and sister? Of course. As I said before, money buys lots of information in poverty-stricken Irish villages. Especially from ancient Irish mid-wives with no American Social Security or pension fund. Especially when I am the one asking the questions." He could believe that. If her eyes looked anything like they did right now, that midwife would have been spilling her guts whether or not money was on the table.
Suddenly the door was flung open. A tall thin agent with a buzzcut rushed in. "What are you doing? You know the rules, we don't torture prisoners!"
She laughed. Laughed. "Ah, Agent Kendall, so nice of you to join us. Comic relief is always welcome. However, perhaps it might occur to you that it's not a good idea to startle me when I am holding a very sharp knife at my guest's jugular vein?"
"I don't notice any blood. You always did have nerves of steel. Viv - get over here."
She arched an eyebrow. Just like Jack.
"Please," this Kendall person gritted out. She stuck the knife in the table.
"Ah, you see, Ian, I have to agree with you - good manners are always important." To Kendall she said, "Why certainly, always a pleasure to converse with you." Did that woman never get upset or rattled?
She sauntered over as slowly as possible and Sark could see this Kendall's ire rise. He almost called out to him, '"Forget it, you're not getting anywhere with her." And then figured, what the hell, let him figure it out.
This Kendall and the woman - Viv - he guessed her name was, were having a conversation. Kendall was getting upset, Viv appeared bored. She used her left hand to fling some of that magnificent hair over her shoulder. Sark moved his head slightly, trying to hear better. Suddenly with a movement so fast it was a blur, she pulled the knife out of her thigh holder and flung it at him with barely a look. It slammed through the shoulder of his shirt and into the chair, effectively pinning him. Without even glancing at him, she snarled, "Sark, it's not in your best interests to move."
"So, I gather." He glanced down at the knife still vibrating in the wood.
Kendall stared at the knife and suddenly said, "Well, get on with it then." He left, slamming the door.
"Well, Mr. Sark, or should I say, Mr. Bristow, it seems that the other members of this team are getting restless. Unfortunately, not everyone has my patience. And Kendall tells me that Jack is concerned that we'll lose our dinner reservation. And that would be unfortunate."
She sashayed over to the table and pulled out the green case with the syringe. He could see his father's attraction to her. Loyalty, passion, beauty, deadliness in one package. Irina had everything but the passion, he now saw, a fatal flaw in a relationship. To say nothing of loyalty. This woman, however, was the real thing.
In a conversational tone, she said, "Actually, it would be too confusing to call you Mr. Bristow, now wouldn't it? We wouldn't want you to have any more ideas about your daddy's woman, now would we?" How did she do that? How did she know what he was thinking? He wouldn't be able to stand that in a woman - it would leave one too vulnerable. But then, his father may be different. Maybe he had finally reached the point where he did not mind being vulnerable if it meant he could have a woman like this one.
She pulled out a pair of latex gloves and smoothed them on. She stuck the syringe in the bottle and filled it. All done quite slowly. Such a professional. "So, Ian, did you know that I am also a chemist? No, of course not. You and Irina weren't prepared for me, were you? That biological anomaly that I have? Well, the doctors had trouble identifying and treating it, so in desperation I began investigating it myself. During the course of my research, I became quite an expert on the impact on the body of various drugs. And then when I began to specialize my work at the Agency, I was given my own lab."
She walked over, syringe in one hand. She pulled the knife out of the chair and slashed his sleeve away, then stopped. "Ooops, forgot the alcohol prep. Wouldn't want to give you an infection or anything, now would we?" She was a regular laugh riot.
Back she went, putting the knife away. Pulling out the small towelette and walking back over. God, she was good at the torture. He could really admire her work, that is, if he weren't the beneficiary of it. She opened the packet with her teeth and swabbed his upper arm and tossed the towelette aside. With the syringe just pricking his arm, she looked him in the eyes and said with apparent regret, "The only problem with my work, Ian, is that mind-altering drugs don't really work well on rats. Of if they do, there's no way to ask them about it. This is a problem. So I must use humans as my test models. Unfortunately for you, you are subject number one with this particular serum, which is a form of, to use layman's terms, a truth serum. Good luck. Let's hope it's a good trip." The last thing he saw was her smile and those green eyes. Where had he seen them before?
The next thing he knew, his body was covered, no, swimming in sweat. He hoped the wetness in his groin was not from pissing on himself. He was still tied to the chair. If he had not been tied, he would have surely slid to the floor. His mouth felt like he had been vomiting for hours. His head hurt beyond anything he could have imagined.
"Good morning, Ian." With great effort, he opened his eyes and looked into her green ones and her smiling mouth. Suddenly, he knew. But his mouth was so dry he could not speak. She poured some liquid into a glass, "Gatorade" she said succinctly, stuck a straw into it and brought it over. "Sip slowly, or you'll become sick. Well, sicker."
"Your eyes," he rasped out.
"Yes?" she said with some amusement.
"They are the same as those of the agent who mowed me down when I had just arrived here."
"Ah yes, my nephew."
"Your nephew? What does he have against me?"
"His name is Michael Vaughn. Ring any bells?"
"Vaughn - that is the name Sydney has said in her sleep from time to time, when we were on a plane." "Somewhat foolish of her to fall asleep around you, wasn't it? But then again, she thought since you were her little brother that she might be able to trust you. A little, anyway."
His head jerked up. "She knew I was her brother?"
"Yes, of course. You see you have the same birthmark on the upper left thigh that her father does and some similar mannerisms. That and the way you behaved around her -- like a little brother trying to get his sister's goat, if you don't mind the American vernacular. It made her wonder. She mentioned her concerns to me and I asked Jack if it were possible that Irina could have been pregnant at the time she supposedly died. In fact, the day of her death, Jack had found a pregnancy test in the trash. That was part of what sent him over the edge when he thought she had died -- that a baby had died with her. Well, we put two and two together and then I took my little trip to Ireland. Lovely country, isn't it? Lovely people - so very helpful. Unfortunately, Sydney made the mistake of overestimating your sense of familia or underestimating Irina's enmity."
"Familia? The way you pronounce that word -- Are you Italian?" That would explain a lot -- clearly she saw herself, in some small way, as acting as Sydney's mother -- the real mother who loves and cherishes the child. And Vaughn was her nephew? Never mess with an Italian mother. He was surprised he was still alive.
"Half Italian, half French. But basically, American. Do you need more to drink?"
He nodded and looked at her eyes again as she held the glass of that vile drink, Gatorade, to his lips.
Not surprisingly, she heard the unspoken question. "Yes, Michel Vaughn is Sydney's handler and a bit more. With the intel you so generously gave while you were under the influence, we'll be able to bring down SD-6 very quickly - in fact simultaneous raids are planned for just 2 days from now. Once that is over, Sydney can retire from being a double agent, as can Jack. And we can all go on to lead normal lives - as normal as the lives of agents can be." She laughed. He was so sick of her laughter.
"Jack and I are hoping that Sydney and Michael will have a double wedding with Jack and I, as a matter of fact. We're thinking of Hawaii. The weather is always reliable. We all can appreciate reliability."
They sat in silence.
"So, when you referred to this as being a family affair in a variety of ways, you weren't kidding."
"No, Ian, although I do have what Jack refers to as an over-developed sense of humor, I was not kidding. Just think, if Michael and Sydney have children, you'll be related to me and Michael. This is SO dysfunctional, isn't it?"
"Dysfunctional is too mild a term. Well, at least I know why Mr. Vaughn gutted me when I came in. I had betrayed Sydney."
"Well, you are just lucky that Jack was not here."
She reached across the table and opened that last case - that very small red case. His muscles were too exhausted to even tense.
She said, "Now comes the question of just what to do with you, Ian. You are too dangerous to release, but now that you were so helpful while under the influence of my little drug, your usefulness to us may have come to an end."
He remembered that she had killed Irina in part because her usefulness had come to an end. And then there was the fact that Irina had potential to harm Jack and Sydney. Where did that leave him?
The sound of the zipper seemed loud. If this was the end, he was not going to flinch, he promised himself. He would look straight at whatever instrument was going to bring about his death.
She reached into the case - her hand, he noticed, irrelevantly, was surprisingly slender and delicate - and pulled out - he tensed - a nail file.
She calmly sat back and began filing her nails. Meeting his astonished gaze she said, "I find giving myself a manicure relaxing after an interrogation, Ian. Now, give me a reason you should live. Start talking."
And he did.