Entering the club my footsteps subconciously matched the throbbing pulse of the too loud techno music.
"I'm in," I murmered to Sark through my comm. and when his voice sounded in my ear I couldn't fight the paranoid fear that one of Sloane's men might hear him too and recognize his voice.
"Take a seat at the table in the far east corner," he instructed me, and I did so without question, "There's an operative- female- two tables over. The man standing by the door is Sloane's as well."
I coughed twice to show that I saw each person he spoke of. Ignoring mission protocol, I was about to order a drink, suddenly feeling that I needed one, when there was a light tap on my shoulder. A waitress.
"Take it," Sark whispered, so I reached for the drink from the slightly amused waitress. I could already see a note written on the cocktail napkin underneath.
"The man at the bar sent this," she told me in Russian, tilting her head towards the bar before a puzzled look flashed across her face, "Well, he was there a minute ago..."
I nodded, wishing she would leave, and sipped the drink while folding the napkin into the palm of my hand.
Scanning the room as I thanked the waitress, I momentarily locked eyes with the woman Sark had identified as an operative. She showed no emotion but turned away after a moment and said something into her hand that made the man at the door glance in my direction a beat later. Well, if the objective was to get noticed by Sloane's men, Sark would be glad to know I succeeded in that task.
"Unfold the napkin. Be sure she see you," Sark instructed evently, and I found it oddly difficult to complete such a seemingly simple task when I had been trained for so long not to be caught.
Written in a blocky print, void of personality and nothing like Sark's elegant script, were instructions written in one of the CIA's numerous codes. It told of a chance of plans and instructed me to deadrop the artifact (hidden in my purse) on the third bathroom sink to be retrieved by another agent.
It was in that moment that I fully realized the purpose of this seemingly pointless mission. I was mere seconds from being "caught" by Sark. A peace offering coupled with proof of his loyalty to Sloane. The Rambaldi artifact I clutched in my purse- that I'd nearly died for- was nothin more than authenticity. A bonus that Sloane would greedily accept and hopefully be blinded by.
I'd pulled the same stunt just a few years earliar whn I'd stormed into Sloane's office with hair that matched the blood on my sweater and thrown a model of the Circumference before him.
As I worked my way through the crowds of dancing people, the thought of betrayal briefly crossed my mind just to be crushed by the memory of Sark's sleepy smile and the emotion in his eyes when he'd first woken and found me in his arms just that morning. The love there was impossible to feign.
An inner voice chided me and pointed out that this was Sark and listed all of the horrible, cold heared things he'd done for his own personal gain, and then it felt the need to laugh at me further for thinking that such love could even form over the course of three days- remind me that I hadn't even mourned Vaughn. It was a voice that sounded remarkably like my father's, and I fought it down with the belief that nothing in my life was conventional. That time spanned oddly during extreme circumstances.
I would not believe that Sark was betraying me, I told myself when I set the purse on the soapy, white sink and studied my reflection.
A woman barely recognizable stared back at me. A brunette with jagged, chin length hair and golden makeup wearing a black silk dress with a high oriental collar that was made revealing only by its cling to her body and the slits that went just too high to be classy. Sydney Bristow never would have worn it, but the woman I faced wore it boldly.
Sydney Bristow would have escaped silently threw the window and called her father for backup, but this woman- there was no telling what this woman would do.
Taking a deep breath I spun on my heel and left the washroom, heading for the exit as I would have normally done after a deadrop, just to be stopped by Sark's hand on my wrist.
"Miss Bristow," he addressed me cooly, and I immediatly noted the female operative standing at his side.
I moved to wrench my hand away, but he tightened his grip and nodded towards the upstairs bar, seperate only by the staircase and balcony.
"I wouldn't make any sudden movements," he advised, "You have five men with guns trained on you upstairs, just waiting for the word." He tapped the comm. in his ear- our comm.- for emphasis.
"What do you want?" I asked in a voice that was truly strained. The deadly way he spoke made it difficult to stick with my previous belief that this was no betrayal. If that was a case and there were men in the rafters, what would I do then?
"You have something I want," he tells me, the same cool calculating tone in his voice, "Hand it over and you may leave unharmed."
I held my hands up to show I was hiding nothing, and told him so- explicitly.
"I believe you left a purse in the washroom, Miss Bristow. Retrieve it for me, and you can go."
"Because you're a man of your word," I tell him with icy sarcasm, spinning on my heels to retrieve the purse, aware of the blonde female operative following behind.
Purse in hand, I decided that I would not fight this woman as I would have in any other situation. It wasn't the handgun she held that made this decision, as I could have easily disarmed her, but the overwhelming desire for this to just go as smoothly as possible for Sark and myself.
"I'm sorry," Sark's voice murmered in my ear, and looking up I saw with some suprise that the operative's gun was about to come down in a well placed blow to the back of my head. There was a dull pain in the back of my head, and my last thought before everything faded to black was that I wondered if Sark had ever before said that he was sorry...
"I'm in," I murmered to Sark through my comm. and when his voice sounded in my ear I couldn't fight the paranoid fear that one of Sloane's men might hear him too and recognize his voice.
"Take a seat at the table in the far east corner," he instructed me, and I did so without question, "There's an operative- female- two tables over. The man standing by the door is Sloane's as well."
I coughed twice to show that I saw each person he spoke of. Ignoring mission protocol, I was about to order a drink, suddenly feeling that I needed one, when there was a light tap on my shoulder. A waitress.
"Take it," Sark whispered, so I reached for the drink from the slightly amused waitress. I could already see a note written on the cocktail napkin underneath.
"The man at the bar sent this," she told me in Russian, tilting her head towards the bar before a puzzled look flashed across her face, "Well, he was there a minute ago..."
I nodded, wishing she would leave, and sipped the drink while folding the napkin into the palm of my hand.
Scanning the room as I thanked the waitress, I momentarily locked eyes with the woman Sark had identified as an operative. She showed no emotion but turned away after a moment and said something into her hand that made the man at the door glance in my direction a beat later. Well, if the objective was to get noticed by Sloane's men, Sark would be glad to know I succeeded in that task.
"Unfold the napkin. Be sure she see you," Sark instructed evently, and I found it oddly difficult to complete such a seemingly simple task when I had been trained for so long not to be caught.
Written in a blocky print, void of personality and nothing like Sark's elegant script, were instructions written in one of the CIA's numerous codes. It told of a chance of plans and instructed me to deadrop the artifact (hidden in my purse) on the third bathroom sink to be retrieved by another agent.
It was in that moment that I fully realized the purpose of this seemingly pointless mission. I was mere seconds from being "caught" by Sark. A peace offering coupled with proof of his loyalty to Sloane. The Rambaldi artifact I clutched in my purse- that I'd nearly died for- was nothin more than authenticity. A bonus that Sloane would greedily accept and hopefully be blinded by.
I'd pulled the same stunt just a few years earliar whn I'd stormed into Sloane's office with hair that matched the blood on my sweater and thrown a model of the Circumference before him.
As I worked my way through the crowds of dancing people, the thought of betrayal briefly crossed my mind just to be crushed by the memory of Sark's sleepy smile and the emotion in his eyes when he'd first woken and found me in his arms just that morning. The love there was impossible to feign.
An inner voice chided me and pointed out that this was Sark and listed all of the horrible, cold heared things he'd done for his own personal gain, and then it felt the need to laugh at me further for thinking that such love could even form over the course of three days- remind me that I hadn't even mourned Vaughn. It was a voice that sounded remarkably like my father's, and I fought it down with the belief that nothing in my life was conventional. That time spanned oddly during extreme circumstances.
I would not believe that Sark was betraying me, I told myself when I set the purse on the soapy, white sink and studied my reflection.
A woman barely recognizable stared back at me. A brunette with jagged, chin length hair and golden makeup wearing a black silk dress with a high oriental collar that was made revealing only by its cling to her body and the slits that went just too high to be classy. Sydney Bristow never would have worn it, but the woman I faced wore it boldly.
Sydney Bristow would have escaped silently threw the window and called her father for backup, but this woman- there was no telling what this woman would do.
Taking a deep breath I spun on my heel and left the washroom, heading for the exit as I would have normally done after a deadrop, just to be stopped by Sark's hand on my wrist.
"Miss Bristow," he addressed me cooly, and I immediatly noted the female operative standing at his side.
I moved to wrench my hand away, but he tightened his grip and nodded towards the upstairs bar, seperate only by the staircase and balcony.
"I wouldn't make any sudden movements," he advised, "You have five men with guns trained on you upstairs, just waiting for the word." He tapped the comm. in his ear- our comm.- for emphasis.
"What do you want?" I asked in a voice that was truly strained. The deadly way he spoke made it difficult to stick with my previous belief that this was no betrayal. If that was a case and there were men in the rafters, what would I do then?
"You have something I want," he tells me, the same cool calculating tone in his voice, "Hand it over and you may leave unharmed."
I held my hands up to show I was hiding nothing, and told him so- explicitly.
"I believe you left a purse in the washroom, Miss Bristow. Retrieve it for me, and you can go."
"Because you're a man of your word," I tell him with icy sarcasm, spinning on my heels to retrieve the purse, aware of the blonde female operative following behind.
Purse in hand, I decided that I would not fight this woman as I would have in any other situation. It wasn't the handgun she held that made this decision, as I could have easily disarmed her, but the overwhelming desire for this to just go as smoothly as possible for Sark and myself.
"I'm sorry," Sark's voice murmered in my ear, and looking up I saw with some suprise that the operative's gun was about to come down in a well placed blow to the back of my head. There was a dull pain in the back of my head, and my last thought before everything faded to black was that I wondered if Sark had ever before said that he was sorry...
