Chapter Eight: Intentions

During dinner, Sydney made a show of proving to her mother that their conversation hadn't bothered her, flirting with Sark, touching him whenever possible. She could feel Jack's eyes on her the entire time, and when she dared spare a glance at him, she found that he looked nearly ready to vomit.

Oh, Jack, you don't understand, she thought despairingly. He didn't understand that in order for her to survive without his father, she needed to attach herself to a man who was his opposite in every way. To live a life that was as different as possible as the life she'd lived with him.

That night, she invited Sark into her bed. Sex with him was unlike sex with Michael had been. All the passion and intensity, none of the love. While she was relieved that Sark had never claimed to care about her-- she certainly didn't care about him-- it made her feel a little empty. Whit every man she'd gone to bed with in the past, there had always been at least the illusion of love.

And much as she tried to pretend that the conversation with her mother hadn't bothered her, the truth was, it had. The idea that the man she'd been sleeping with for the past six months might have had something to do with the death of her beloved plagued her to no end. She had to find out the truth, she just had to.

"So," Sark said as they lay in bed that night. "What did your mother want to talk to you about this evening?"

This was it. The chance to test him a little. "Oh," Sydney said, hoping she sounded nonchalant. "It seems she isn't terribly happy with the direction the Organization has taken since Michael's death."

She felt Sark tense up beside her. "What is she displeased about, exactly?"

"Oh, you know how Michael was," Sydney said, letting her fingers dance across Sark's chest. "The type of man everyone fell in love with at first sight, everybody's best friend. He made so few enemies during his time at the Organization."

"And I've been amassing nemeses left and right, is that it?" Sark demanded.

"Oh, I didn't say that," Sydney said, feigning innocence. "It wasn't a comparison." Because you could never in a million years hope to compare to him, she added silently. "I wouldn't have even said anything, but it's just that what she said got me thinking, you know?"

"Thinking about what, darling?" Sark asked, planting a kiss on top of her head.

This was it. His reaction to what she would say in the next few minutes could potentially really tell her something. "About Michael's death."

Again, Sark tensed beside her. "What about it, Sydney?"

"The CIA agent who killed him," Sydney said. "I just don't see why he would have fired."

"You and Michael were considered enemies of the United States, Sydney," Sark pointed out.

"But we weren't armed." Sydney was bringing this up for a purpose now; it was something she'd forced herself not to think about for the past year. "And the CIA wanted to bring down our organization, Sark. All they accomplished by killing Michael was losing the knowledge he had. That, and cementing my loyalty to the Organization."

"What are you suggesting, Sydney?" Sark demanded.

Sydney sat up, interested less now in his demeanor than in the idea brewing in her head. "I'm saying that somebody had a reason to want Michael dead. Maybe the man who killed him, maybe someone else, but someone." There was no doubt in her mind about that now.

"Who?" Sark asked.

Well, you've certainly benefited from his death, haven't you, Sark? "I don't know," she said aloud, looking him dead in the eye. "But I intend to find out."