CHAPTER SIX – THROUGH DOORS

Jack wasted no time in getting to the abandoned villa where Sloane was found.  When he left the church, it took him 20 minutes to walk back down the mountain, across the river, and through the rapidly darkening city.  When he arrived at the train station, he impatiently waited in the taxi queue, wondering why he hadn't bothered to rent a car.

Once his cab had left the city and was winding up the road to Fiesole, his apprehension began to intensify.  She's alive… or was few days ago.  The prints were the first solid piece of evidence anyone had found belonging to Sydney since Tijuana.

But where is she now?  She could still be in Italy, but I doubt it.  Sydney knows enough to keep moving when she's in danger.  And if Sydney did, in fact, kill Arvin Sloane, then she was definitely in danger.

The car was approaching the isolated restaurant they were headed for, so Jack collected his things.  He paid the driver and got out.  After watching the cab drop from sight, he turned and began walking back down the sloping road – off to the side, just out of the overgrown brush. 

About 50 meters past a bus stop, Jack saw the narrow gravel entryway he was searching for and turned in.  The villa was set far back from the road, obscured from view by a mass of tall, thin trees that rustled in the night breezes.  The house itself was large and imposing with no lights showing either the interior or the scaffolding-covered façade.  Jack moved around to the side of the building and entered through the gardener's door.

It didn't take long to find the room from the photographs.  Jack's small flashlight illuminated the dried blood that was splattered on the walls and pooled on the floor.

The body had been taken to the morgue, and the gun was now in a plastic bag in Jack's canvas briefcase, but nothing else in the place had been moved.  Thank God for the Carabinieri.  Italy's notoriously-corruptible police had "conveniently" left the house untouched at his contact's request. 

Jack wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, but he knew he had to find something.  After pulling open every drawer in the desk next to the spot where Sloane had died and finding nothing but landscaping blueprints and directions in Italian for the renovators, he moved to the other portions of the house. 

Most of the other rooms were empty, including the expansive kitchen.  Jack noticed this was the only room with wood floors instead of tiles made from the local marble.  Upon closer inspection, it was apparent that the cracks of the floor barely concealed a trap door.

Wedging his fingers into the open space and yanking the flooring up, Jack was greeted by the scent of cool earth and aging oak.  He swung the door all the way back and laid it flat on the ground.  Ducking his head through the door as he cautiously descended the creaking staircase, Jack swung the flashlight's beam around what appeared to be a root cellar.

Directly at the bottom of the stairs sat several bushel baskets containing shriveled potatoes, turnips, and what appeared to be onions.  Jack's feet landed on the solid dirt floor and he slowly moved to his left, inspecting the six raised barrels lining the walls.  He ran his fingers over the dusty labels… Brunello, 1956…  Chianti, '58…  Riserva, '56…  He moved past the aging wine and finally found what he had been searching for.

Tucked against the wall behind the last barrel was a small wooden table and chair.  Ignoring the glass oil lamp on the table, Jack used his flashlight to inspect the heavy pages, covered in a familiar handwriting, that were stacked neatly on the chair.  He picked up the stack and set it on the table as he took the chair. 

Page after page of antiquated Italian and corresponding English translations – poems, drawings, narrations – but none appeared to be of any immediate consequence.  He stopped on a page that was slightly longer than the others.  Its ends were torn and it looked like the paper had been forcibly flattened – as though it had been ripped from an old-fashioned scroll. 

This is impossible!  Jack's eyes were wide, staring at the page in front of him. 

He suddenly shook his head and stood up straight.  After shoving the papers into his briefcase, Jack grabbed his cell phone and turned to leave.  He climbed back through the trap door, closing it behind him, and dialed a long-memorized number as he walked out of the house.

"Director Kendall's office…" came the high-pitched, feminine voice through the line.

"This is Jack Bristow I need…"

"Mr. Bristow, Director Kendall has been trying to locate you all morning.  I'll put you right through."

Why would Kendall be contacting me? Jack wondered.  He didn't have long think about it.

"JACK!" came a familiar roar, "Where have you been?  Retiring is one thing… but not leaving us a way to find you… that is not acceptable…"

"Excuse me, Director Kendall," Jack settled into his familiar steely tone, "but I no longer feel the need to meet every beck and call for the Agency that gave up on my daughter.  I only called to let you know that Arvin Sloane is dead and that Sydney appears to be alive."

A small crackling was the only response Jack received, until...

"We know."  Kendall spoke quietly now, "Well… we weren't aware of Sloane's death, but Jack…"  He sighed heavily into the receiver.

"Sydney has been found.  She phoned us from Hong Kong.  We sent Agent Vaughn to retrieve her and put her on a plane back to L.A., but they both went missing from the safehouse and we haven't heard from either of them in almost 12 hours."

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For the second time in 10 hours, Vaughn stood outside the Sydney's holding cell, watching her on the monitor.  He felt a small amount of relief that she appeared to be sleeping.  Before leaving last night, he had made sure she was taken care of – as much as someone who was being held prisoner could be – with food, a shower, new clothes, blankets and a pillow. 

Last night, all he had wanted was to lock himself in the room with her and beg until she forgave him.  He had not looked in her eyes since explaining to her his… situation… with Jie.  There was no need, really.  He knew exactly what he would find – her soft brown eyes would turn to stone when she saw him.  She would not be able to forgive him… certainly not now… maybe not ever.

So, after En Kai had come and gone, instead of facing Sydney and her stony glare, Erik Vargas went home to his wife.  He slipped into their bed just before 2a.m.  She barely mumbled as he whispered in her ear that he was home.  Physically being at home, however, didn't keep his mind from returning to work and the person waiting there.

By 5:30 in the morning, he was back – now alone – in the hallway.  I couldn't just stay here, and it was too late to call Jie.  I don't want to blow my cover by raising suspicions about my fidelity.  But, even the most compelling excuses – claims of concerns for Sydney's safety… and his – were just excuses.  He knew the real reason he had not walked through that steel door last night. 

"I am completely spineless."  He admitted under his breath. 

With a rub of his forehead, Vaughn flipped the monitor off, closed the panel door and locked it.  No need for anyone else to see this.  He silently slid back the deadbolt and placed his hand on the doorknob.  After two quick, puffed breaths, he yanked back the door and stepped into the room.  As the heavy metal slammed shut behind him, Sydney's sleeping form shot upright.

As the confusion cleared from her face, her eyes widened, filled with surprise and curiosity.  A moment later, however…

Ah-ha… stone… He knew the look, although she had rarely bestowed it on him.  She usually reserved it for people she truly despised… like Sloane… or, occasionally… Kendall.

"Vaughn."  Sydney's low growl finally broke their silence.

He stepped directly to the center of the room.  Without moving his head, Vaughn looked pointedly first at her, then shifted his eyes directly above him, where the camera was located.  Get it, Syd?

"Sydney… you know very well who I am.  We've been over this.  My name is Erik, remember?"

Sydney slowly nodded her understanding, but said nothing.  Vaughn took another step closer and knelt so they were eye-to-eye.

"Sydney, I'm trying to locate your father.  When I do, I'll let him know that you are safe and that he can come pick you up.  Until then, you're going to stay here, with me.  Is that alright?" 

Vaughn's placating tone was enough to let Sydney know something was up.  She again nodded softly and spoke tentatively, "That's fine.  I'd like to see my father."

"We'll let you know as soon as he arrives.  In the meantime, is there anything else you'd like?  Water?  More blankets?"  He quickly asked, glad she was playing along.

She paused, lips pursed and mind racing, "I could use a trip to the restroom, if you don't mind."

Vaughn's only visible reaction was a strong blink when he realized what she was doing.  Smart girl… she must have checked the bathroom for cameras last night.  He knew there was no surveillance in the crude restroom, and assented.

"I'll take you there now, if you like."  He stood and offered her a hand up.

After a moment's hesitation, Sydney slid her slender, smooth fingers across his palm.   Her legs wobbled beneath her as she stood, and Vaughn instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist to steady her.

For a moment they were face-to-face, lips just inches apart, each feeling the shallow breaths of the other on their face. 

"Steady there…" he whispered, sliding his hands to her hips, "You alright?"

Sydney nodded timidly and stepped back, lowering her gaze.  "I'm fine.  Just a little tired, that's all."

Vaughn straightened himself and turned, moving towards the door.  He held the door open and turned back to where Sydney still stood.

"Shall we?"

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