Chapter Thirteen---The Key
Her fair face seemed to pale even more in comparison to the dark gray sweater it was nestled against, her thick eyelashes sweeping down to form shadowy crescents on her cheeks, her breath drawing in and out in a peaceful counter rhythm to his. He was awed by that one simple gesture of absolute trust, and he felt his soul singing in answer to hers, spilling out lullabies in a voice akin to the one his mother used to croon to him with. He stirred a hand to glide his fingertips gently down the side of Laramie's face, scooping a hair back into place, reverent hands moving like you might touch a dream you were afraid would break apart. But she was still whole, still there with him when he drew back.
He was so careful not to wake her as he shifted them both farther back into his seat; she deserved her rest after the long day before.
His job had been to clean the warehouse, sweep it for any object that could be traced to them--fingerprints, pieces of clothing--and set the scene to make it appear like a cult suicide; it was an easier course than disposing of all the bodies. To save Laramie from having to watch, Sydney had taken her outside and presumably taught her how to hotwire a car.
That car they had driven straight to the American Embassy where he had used a phone to call the CIA. He had strained his patience as he was passed along a line of frantic, screechy underlings to the smooth, refined intonations of the senior officers before making his one request: he would not speak to anyone but Agent Weiss. Weiss had been complaining that he needed a promotion, and this sudden growth in his importance might just get him one. Michael had sat back in the hard-backed wooden chair he had collapsed into with a little hint of satisfaction at the ensuing flurry his appeal had created. He decided he liked being on this end of the negotiations, making the demands instead of meeting them.
The only curious thing was that the CIA seemed to have not known of any of their actions of the last few days, which meant that Jack had purposely withheld the information from the organization. Jack was practiced at keeping secrets--and discerning who to keep them from--which led him to believe that there must have been someone or something in the CIA that Jack didn't trust.
"Mike!" the voice on the other end had greeted him jovially. "We were starting to worry about you. I mean, you didn't show up for work, and Sydney's car abandoned by the side of the road...it didn't add up to anything good. I was starting to think I might have given you the wrong advice, and she had murdered you after all."
Michael had smiled, a smile he was sure Weiss saw despite the miles between them. "I hope it didn't bother your conscience too much. But I can assure you she won't killing me anytime soon."
"Really?" Weiss asked, his interest peaked, and Michael could envision him leaning earnestly forward over the top of his desk.
"Weiss," Michael had sternly reprimanded him, "you do have a job to do here."
"Right, right. But when you get home, we're having a serious heart-to-heart talk. Now, um, tell me exactly what happened..."
Relating his tale and arranging for transport out of Taipei had taken far longer than he had expected and it had been full dark before the dragging trio had arrived at the airport hotel, but their day still hadn't been over yet. The three of them had piled into the small, sunken bed while outside the storm that had been threatening finally was released, running nosily down the window and drowning the city lights burning beyond the glass. With the rain beating in the background, Michael and Sydney twined their voices as they began their explanations; it was long story and never easy to understand, especially since Laramie had so many questions that they didn't have the answers to. One of her most in insistent questions was about her grandmother, but they could only tell her what Irina had been, not what she was, since she had escaped CIA custody over eight years before. She called, of course, from time to time on a secure line to check on her daughter and granddaughter, but Jack Bristow was the only one who knew where she was, a location which he planned on taking to the grave with him.
Laramie took it all surprisingly well, a few tears and a few fits, but nothing earth shattering. And she didn't ask the pivotal question 'Why?' because she had already had her answer in the form of her last few days, the less she knew the safer she had been. He supposed, though, that he shouldn't have been so surprised by her composure, when he remembered the kind of women she had come from, women like Sydney and Irina. She would simply lay the details away, absorbing them into herself, until she could slowly piece them together for herself, bit by bit. Which left no doubt that this wasn't the last sleepless night they would spend over this topic.
The rain had not ceased in the morning when they rose, yawning and blinking heavily under the burden of a few hours sleep; it had continued on all through the early hours, but they couldn't see it now from the private jet above the clouds.
He lifted his eyes from Laramie to find Sydney observing him with a strange intensity, her head inclined somewhat to the side as she chewed something over. He had thought she was asleep too in the seat next to Laramie, but there wasn't the least trace of drowsiness about her, so he must have been wrong. "What are we going to do when we get home?"
He groaned and sunk his head farther into the cushion, "Anything but a family vacation!"
Amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she refused to let him deter her from her serious train of thought. "That's not what I meant," she scolded him lightly. "I meant what do two people in our situation do?"
"I don't think there have ever been two people in quite the same situation as us, Syd. We'll just have to do what we always did: make up the rules as we go."
She seemed satisfied with his response and launched her next concern on him, "Do you think the CIA would take me back?"
"You can't possibly be thinking of--"
"Going back to work for the government," she finished for him. "Yes. There's someone out there with a Rambaldi manuscript, and it's my fault--"
"Our fault."
"My fault," she reiterated as if he hadn't interrupted her. "I want to put things to rights."
He shook his head, recognizing that unwavering resolve in her tone, "We'll discuss it later...But speaking of the CIA, I've been meaning to ask you, Sark said something about information they gave you about Rambaldi. What did they tell you?"
She took her eyes off his for the first time, refocusing on the carpet-covered floor in front of her. "It was about a week before I left--you might remember they called me in for some sort of routine check, right? Wrong. They decided they had been correct with their first ideas about the Prophecy. I did hold the key to it."
His brow knotted in confusion, "But we took you Mount Sebacio. I don't understand...What key? Sydney, where is the key?"
"The key?" She whispered the words to draw his attention to her, expanding on the gravity of what she was going to say; he couldn't have done anything but follow her eyes as they trailed down to their daughter, tucked along the side of his body.
"I keep it close to my heart."
----Fin----
A/N: I get reviews, therefore I am! Thanks so much for your support and occasional criticism, the response to this story was great. The thing is, I've been throwing around an idea for a sequel: Syd and Vaughn have their 2nd 1st date, Laramie gets kidnapped--again!--but not by who you think, and the perfect villain I don't think anyone has used before, plus a little Jack and Irina to get the whole Spyfamily involved. What do you think? I will do it based solely on the kind of response I get from you.
Her fair face seemed to pale even more in comparison to the dark gray sweater it was nestled against, her thick eyelashes sweeping down to form shadowy crescents on her cheeks, her breath drawing in and out in a peaceful counter rhythm to his. He was awed by that one simple gesture of absolute trust, and he felt his soul singing in answer to hers, spilling out lullabies in a voice akin to the one his mother used to croon to him with. He stirred a hand to glide his fingertips gently down the side of Laramie's face, scooping a hair back into place, reverent hands moving like you might touch a dream you were afraid would break apart. But she was still whole, still there with him when he drew back.
He was so careful not to wake her as he shifted them both farther back into his seat; she deserved her rest after the long day before.
His job had been to clean the warehouse, sweep it for any object that could be traced to them--fingerprints, pieces of clothing--and set the scene to make it appear like a cult suicide; it was an easier course than disposing of all the bodies. To save Laramie from having to watch, Sydney had taken her outside and presumably taught her how to hotwire a car.
That car they had driven straight to the American Embassy where he had used a phone to call the CIA. He had strained his patience as he was passed along a line of frantic, screechy underlings to the smooth, refined intonations of the senior officers before making his one request: he would not speak to anyone but Agent Weiss. Weiss had been complaining that he needed a promotion, and this sudden growth in his importance might just get him one. Michael had sat back in the hard-backed wooden chair he had collapsed into with a little hint of satisfaction at the ensuing flurry his appeal had created. He decided he liked being on this end of the negotiations, making the demands instead of meeting them.
The only curious thing was that the CIA seemed to have not known of any of their actions of the last few days, which meant that Jack had purposely withheld the information from the organization. Jack was practiced at keeping secrets--and discerning who to keep them from--which led him to believe that there must have been someone or something in the CIA that Jack didn't trust.
"Mike!" the voice on the other end had greeted him jovially. "We were starting to worry about you. I mean, you didn't show up for work, and Sydney's car abandoned by the side of the road...it didn't add up to anything good. I was starting to think I might have given you the wrong advice, and she had murdered you after all."
Michael had smiled, a smile he was sure Weiss saw despite the miles between them. "I hope it didn't bother your conscience too much. But I can assure you she won't killing me anytime soon."
"Really?" Weiss asked, his interest peaked, and Michael could envision him leaning earnestly forward over the top of his desk.
"Weiss," Michael had sternly reprimanded him, "you do have a job to do here."
"Right, right. But when you get home, we're having a serious heart-to-heart talk. Now, um, tell me exactly what happened..."
Relating his tale and arranging for transport out of Taipei had taken far longer than he had expected and it had been full dark before the dragging trio had arrived at the airport hotel, but their day still hadn't been over yet. The three of them had piled into the small, sunken bed while outside the storm that had been threatening finally was released, running nosily down the window and drowning the city lights burning beyond the glass. With the rain beating in the background, Michael and Sydney twined their voices as they began their explanations; it was long story and never easy to understand, especially since Laramie had so many questions that they didn't have the answers to. One of her most in insistent questions was about her grandmother, but they could only tell her what Irina had been, not what she was, since she had escaped CIA custody over eight years before. She called, of course, from time to time on a secure line to check on her daughter and granddaughter, but Jack Bristow was the only one who knew where she was, a location which he planned on taking to the grave with him.
Laramie took it all surprisingly well, a few tears and a few fits, but nothing earth shattering. And she didn't ask the pivotal question 'Why?' because she had already had her answer in the form of her last few days, the less she knew the safer she had been. He supposed, though, that he shouldn't have been so surprised by her composure, when he remembered the kind of women she had come from, women like Sydney and Irina. She would simply lay the details away, absorbing them into herself, until she could slowly piece them together for herself, bit by bit. Which left no doubt that this wasn't the last sleepless night they would spend over this topic.
The rain had not ceased in the morning when they rose, yawning and blinking heavily under the burden of a few hours sleep; it had continued on all through the early hours, but they couldn't see it now from the private jet above the clouds.
He lifted his eyes from Laramie to find Sydney observing him with a strange intensity, her head inclined somewhat to the side as she chewed something over. He had thought she was asleep too in the seat next to Laramie, but there wasn't the least trace of drowsiness about her, so he must have been wrong. "What are we going to do when we get home?"
He groaned and sunk his head farther into the cushion, "Anything but a family vacation!"
Amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she refused to let him deter her from her serious train of thought. "That's not what I meant," she scolded him lightly. "I meant what do two people in our situation do?"
"I don't think there have ever been two people in quite the same situation as us, Syd. We'll just have to do what we always did: make up the rules as we go."
She seemed satisfied with his response and launched her next concern on him, "Do you think the CIA would take me back?"
"You can't possibly be thinking of--"
"Going back to work for the government," she finished for him. "Yes. There's someone out there with a Rambaldi manuscript, and it's my fault--"
"Our fault."
"My fault," she reiterated as if he hadn't interrupted her. "I want to put things to rights."
He shook his head, recognizing that unwavering resolve in her tone, "We'll discuss it later...But speaking of the CIA, I've been meaning to ask you, Sark said something about information they gave you about Rambaldi. What did they tell you?"
She took her eyes off his for the first time, refocusing on the carpet-covered floor in front of her. "It was about a week before I left--you might remember they called me in for some sort of routine check, right? Wrong. They decided they had been correct with their first ideas about the Prophecy. I did hold the key to it."
His brow knotted in confusion, "But we took you Mount Sebacio. I don't understand...What key? Sydney, where is the key?"
"The key?" She whispered the words to draw his attention to her, expanding on the gravity of what she was going to say; he couldn't have done anything but follow her eyes as they trailed down to their daughter, tucked along the side of his body.
"I keep it close to my heart."
----Fin----
A/N: I get reviews, therefore I am! Thanks so much for your support and occasional criticism, the response to this story was great. The thing is, I've been throwing around an idea for a sequel: Syd and Vaughn have their 2nd 1st date, Laramie gets kidnapped--again!--but not by who you think, and the perfect villain I don't think anyone has used before, plus a little Jack and Irina to get the whole Spyfamily involved. What do you think? I will do it based solely on the kind of response I get from you.