Chapter Ten: How They Appear

Sydney took a deep breath before turning down the hallway where she knew her father was being kept, terrified of what she was about to do. Back in her days at the CIA, if she were going to question a prisoner of the United States government, she knew that she would stand on one side of clear glass or bars in some state of the art facility. She would never lay a hand on the prisoner. Here, at her mother's Organization, things were different. She was entering something that resembled a dungeon. She would enter the prisoner's cell, and she would carry a gun. And there would be no consequences if she decided to use it.

You can do this, she coached herself. You've done it before, with other prisoners.

Not with your own father, a tiny voice taunted her.

She told the little voice to shut up and continued down the hall to the cell.

What she found when she reached it, though, almost took her breath away. She had visited a prisoner during her CIA days once; the woman had been so well-kept Sydney had almost wondered if the CIA was allowing her a personal makeup artist and hairstylist. She wondered no such thing about Jack Bristow. Her father's hair had grown longer, and he had grown a beard; both were so greasy Sydney wondered if he had been allowed to wash himself in the past year. He was so gaunt she almost wondered if he had even been allowed to eat in the last year, though of course she knew that he had. Her mother had personally delivered each meal. Watched as he'd swallowed every bite. The thought made Sydney's skin crawl, though she knew it shouldn't.

You're going to have to be just as hard, she told herself. Just as cold if you want to get what you want from this man. Just forget that he's your father. Remember that he played a part in Michael's death, that it was a man from the CIA that killed him.

Unless it wasn't.

"Hello, Jack," she said, in what she hoped was a reasonable facsimile of her mother's cool tone. She would not call him Dad. She would not let her emotions show.

When he looked up at her, though, it was with such hatred and disgust that Sydney had a hard time not vomiting.

"Mrs. Vaughn," he responded as she entered the cell. "Or all you calling yourself Mrs. Sark, now?"

"I'd appreciate it if you would refrain from speaking unless I ask you a question," Sydney said coolly, though the question rattled her. Undoubtedly her mother had been sharing details of her personal life with him. Torturing him with news of the woman she'd become. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way," she continued, pulling her gun from her holster casually, as if she used it every day. You've used it more than you'd like to admit, you cold, unfeeling bitch, a voice whispered in Sydney's ear. Sydney pushed the voice away. "As you know, I take my orders from Irina Derevko, and I think you and I both know how expendable your life is to her. Though I'm sure she'd miss the daily opportunities to torture you," she said, twisting her mouth into a wicked smile. "She'd get over it quickly, let me assure you. You're a prisoner of the Organization, not the United States government. You have no personal freedoms."

"Thank you for clearing that up."

Before she had time to second-guess what she was doing, she struck him with the butt of her gun. "You will not speak unless asked a question. Is that clear?"

Her father looked up at her, the hatred in his eyes even more obvious. "Crystal."

"Good," Sydney said with a satisfied nod. On the outside, she was the picture of cool confidence. On the inside, she was shaking. "I want you to tell me about the agent who killed Michael Vaughn."

For a moment, something odd flashed in Jack Bristow's eyes, something very close to pride. As if after a year, she was finally asking the right questions, and it pleased him. Then the look was gone, and his dark eyes were all steely contempt. "Though I certainly fear the consequences of asking this question--" The look Jack gave her gun was one that showed he was about as frightened of it, of her, as he would be of a child waving around a water pistol. "Why are you asking about him?"

Sydney lowered her eyes, just for a split second. Even if she wasn't fooling her father for one minute with her tough act, she could at least make an effort to keep up the pretense. "I have reason to believe that the person who killed him did so for a less than obvious reason, that he had a personal agenda against my husband."

Something like mirth shone in Jack Bristow's eyes. He didn't even attempt to hide the emotion. "Let me guess. You believe that the person who shot Michael stood to benefit personally from his death, that the person may even be someone close to you."

Sydney looked away, then quickly looked him in the eyes again. "I like to know who my enemies are," she said, struggling to keep her voice even.

"And whether you're sharing a bed with one of them, is that it?"

Sydney had the sudden urge to strike him again. She kept it in check. "Yes."

Jack nodded, looking somewhat pleased that she'd been willing to admit such a thing without defensiveness or anger. "Well, you're right to ask questions, Sydney." Not Mrs. Vaughn. Sydney. "The person who shot Michael did have an agenda in doing so, but it wasn't a personal agenda. That agent was, in fact, carrying out the agenda of the United States government."

Sydney took a step back. Her head was spinning, spinning... "You keep saying shot, and not killed," she gasped. "Why?"

"How very observant of you to notice," Jack said drily.

Another step back. The tears welled up in Sydney's eyes before she could stop them, and her gun clattered to the floor without her even noticing. "But I-- I don't understand," she managed. "Michael died in my arms."

Jack offered her a wry smile. "Things aren't always how they appear, Sydney."

"What are you saying?" Sydney knew good and well what he was saying, but she needed to hear the words come out of his mouth.

"Michael's alive."