Chapter Nine: Putting Questions to Bed

Sydney threw open the door to her mother's office the next morning without knocking, making her demand before she so much as said hello. "I need to know what happened to my father."

Irina arched one eyebrow, regarding her daughter with a mixture of interest and irritation. "Good morning to you, too, dear."

"I'm serious," Sydney insisted, determined not to be intimidated by her mother's cool, condescending attitude. "You said he'd been taken care of-- what does that mean? Did you have him killed?"

Irina cocked her head to one side, frowning. "Why do you want to know, Sydney?"

Impatience bubbled up in Sydney's stomach, but she was determined to keep it under control. "Because I don't believe Michael's death was an accident," she said, her voice low. "And if anyone would know anything about the agent that killed him, Dad would."

"He's not the only one who would know," Irina said, leaning back in her black leather chair. "The other agents that were there that day might. So might others at the CIA."

"I believe I have the best chance of getting my father to talk," Sydney said.

Irina smiled. "You know as well as I do that we have ways of making any of the agents there that day talk."

Sydney felt a chill run down her spine. Yes, she did know. She'd played a part in getting many to talk over the years, and though she couldn't say she was proud of such accomplishments, she had enjoyed the control, the power involved in such activities. "I just need to know," she whispered. "Whether my father is alive or dead."

Irina regarded her for a long moment before speaking. "He's alive."

Sydney felt a momentary surge of relief. "Where is he?"

Irina paused for another long moment. Deciding how much I deserve to know, Sydney thought bitterly. Though supposedly she and Sark were in charge of the Organization now, everyone knew who was really pulling the strings. No escape, never an escape... "He's a prisoner, Sydney." Irina smiled a cold, thin-lipped smile. "Our prisoner."

Another chill ran through Sydney. "You've seen him?"

Irina continued to smile the smile that had had many, over the years, shaking in their shoes. Including Sydney. As tough as she'd tried to act, the truth was, she'd never for a minute stopped being terrified of her mother. "Yes, I've seen him," Irina said, her voice low. "Daily."

Sydney shuddered to think of the torture her father had undoubtedly endured at the hands of her mother. Who are you to judge? a tiny voice inside her head whispered. Haven't you tortured dozens of others? What does it matter if this particular prisoner is your father?

But it did matter, and Sydney knew it.

"I want to see him," Sydney told her mother.

Irina regarded her for another endless moment. "Sydney, I don't know for a fact that Sark had something to do with Michael's death."

"But he could have," Sydney challenged.

Irina paused, then nodded her assent. "He could have."

"And he certainly had a lot to gain by eliminating Michael."

"Yes." Something very close to pain crossed Irina's face. "But Sydney, what if he did order Michael's death, or even somehow manage to be the one to pull the trigger himself? Could you live with that?"

Sydney looked away, biting her lower lip. Could she? "I don't love Sark," she whispered. "So I wouldn't be hurt if I learned something that would make it impossible for me to continue my personal relationship with him, no."

"It wouldn't hurt you to lose him, no," Irina agreed. "But how would you feel about yourself if you learned you'd been fucking your husband's killer?"

Sydney should have been shocked by the comment, offended. She wasn't. She'd wondered the same thing. Could she live with herself if she learned she'd been sharing a bed with the man who had ended Michael's life?

"I-- I never would have slept with him if I'd have known, or even suspected, Mother," Sydney said, tears springing to her eyes.

"Yes, I know."

"And I needed someone. Him." The tears started flowing down Sydney's cheeks. She didn't make a move to stop them. "I don't know if I could have made it through the last few months without him."

"I know."

Sydney waited for the tears to subside before she spoke again. "I don't know, Mom," she finally said. "I don't know if learning that he killed Michael would make that any less true. I don't know if I could feel guilty for needing him."

Her mother was around the desk by the time the next stream of sobs hit, holding her, cradling her. And then she whispered the words Sydney had needed to hear:

"You can see your father."