Part Two:
They have no idea.
No idea as to why an apparently experienced assassin would wish to shoot Annie Ellison.
My mother.
I may as well have pulled the trigger.
* * *
They have placed me in an orphanage.
They are searching for relatives. As far as I know, both of my parents were only children. My grandparents are long dead.
They are trying to locate my father. His name is Colin Reilly.
He left when I was five. We lived in Galway then.
We tied him down, I suppose, my mother and I. He was always restless.
After that, we came here. Where my mother was from.
And now, here I am. Being spoken to like a child, eating cold soup and hard bread, being deaf to my own thoughts as the screams of the younger ones reach my ears.
How long will it last?
They cannot trace it back to Savanoff. He will be too elusive.
If he is traced, then chances are, I will be, too.
And as much as I care about my mother, I cannot be exposed as a criminal.
But if I am held here for two more years: Will it really matter?
A prison is the same as this.
Suddenly, I remind myself. I am Sark.
* * *
Two A.M. I slip down to the second floor hall.
One vacant office on the very end of the hallway contains a window, large enough for me. I had devoted the afternoon and evening to exploration.
Honestly, I think, as I insert my pin into the knob, I don't understand why people bother with locks.
The door softly clicks open. I peer inside- no one- then quickly go in and shut the door behind me.
I twist the window latch, and it opens just wide enough for me to squeeze through.
I know that the bricks of the building are uneven here, so I put one leg out and find the first ridge. Then the second. Third ridge. Fourth. As I make my way down, I reflect on the simplicity of it, and wonder why I am the only one to have discovered it.
My foot hits the cement hard.
The only telephone within the building is in the director's office, and she is prone to working late.
I have come out to use the telephone booth on the other side of the road. With change from my wallet, I make one phone call- to my contact's cell.
"62503047219... Yes, it's me. Emergency. Yes.. He had my mother murdered..I- I've been placed in the Abbott Orphanage, on Oxford- Yes......Right...And I'll be met by you after?......... Good. I'll be ready."
Climbing back up the wall is not nearly as easy. I almost lose my footing several times, and when I reach the open window, I fall through it with a clunk.
I freeze as I hear voices down the hall.
I don't even breathe until I hear their steps down the stairs.
Then, it is back up to the fourth floor, back to the room I share with four others, back to await the outcome of my call.
* * *
My wait lasts two days.
I am summoned after dinner by the director. Her appearance makes it difficult to take her seriously. She has red hair, she's very curvy, and along with her sweaters and baggy pants she is usually wearing dangling earrings and a cheap gold medallion of some kind on her neck.
I am enthusiastically informed that I have a visitor.
The director takes me down to the first floor.
A woman is standing, smiling, waiting for us. She has dark brown hair arranged into an intricate bun at the back of her head. One strand hangs by her face, next to her rectangular glasses. She wears a white shirt and black coat and pants.
And there is an aura about her- graceful. confident. charming. Almost royal.
"Hello, Andrew," she says. Her voice is British- not entirely so- something else underlies it. "I doubt you'll remember me- Angela Barlow- your godmother-"
"Oh, of course," I say, giving off what I hope is a look of recognition. "How could I forget you?" Which isn't much of a stretch.
She steps back a couple of times and surveys me. "You couldn't have been more than nine since I saw you last." She pauses. "I was just- crushed- when I heard about Annie." She actually looks a bit teary, and closes in on me for a hug. "How are you doing?"
"I- I'm all right," I reply. I am captivated by her scent.
"Well, it's all over now," she says quietly. "I've come to take you home. That is-" she releases me and looks at me questioningly.
"Of course- yes, of course, I would love that."
The director's smile grows wider. "Well, this won't be difficult. Ms. Barlow, I'll have you sign a few forms today, the rest will be sent by post and Andy will be free to go by the end of the week." It's Andrew. I am not Andy to you.
"I wondered if it might be possible- since I live rather a distance away, Liverpool, you know- if Andrew could come with me today and you could send the forms to my address."
The director considers, then shakes her head. Her earrings shake. "But he certainly could leave with you today. I'll just find the forms for you- you can fill them out in my office. Andrew, you can go on up and start gathering your things.
"Angela Barlow" pauses before following the director.
"As soon as we leave," she says to me in a low tone, "we'll drive to Birmingham. There's a jet there waiting to take us to Paris. It's too much of a risk the normal way. We'll meet your contact. We have a lot to discuss." I notice that she has dropped her British accent for an American one. Again, something underlies it.
I nod, and she turns and follows the director into her office.
I watch her go, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The door shuts behind them.
I am still staring at the door a minute later. Finally I tear myself away. I rub my forehead.
Then, feeling lighter, I begin to climb the stairs to pack up the few possessions I have left.
I start to wonder, for the thousandth time, what will happen to me once I am out.
For many reasons, it is not a good idea for me to stay in England. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, especially with my account in Switzerland. Maybe my contact has a place for me. Perhaps I could work for him.
None of the others even notice me quietly collecting my things. I haven't shown an interest in knowing them, and so they haven't shown any in me, either.
I'm done already. There is nothing more for me to do except go down and wait for my new guardian.
* * *
There is no conversation during the car ride, or the flight. At the beginning, though, she does speak to someone- presumably Khasinau. She lightly touches one of her diamond earrings and speaks. "I have him. Yes. Of course not." Her lips tighten. "ETA, thirty minutes." She touches the other earring and sighs.
* * *
We are immediately picked up by a black Mercedes, and we arrive behind what looks like a nightclub.
It is only eight or so, and there are only a couple of people sitting at the bar.
She guides me around to the back, up wooden stairs, and down a dark, dim hallway, all the way to the end, where she gives two sharp raps on the door.
I hear my contact's thick, Russian voice call "Enter."
The woman pushes it open, and there is Khasinau, sitting placidly at his desk in a leather seat.
Everything in the room is dark. scarlet.
"Ah, Irina- and Mister Ellison." He motions for us to take seats in two black chairs beside the desk. "I trust," he adds to Irina, "that you ran into no difficulties?"
"I'm careful."
Irina. A perfect name.
Khasinau merely smiles and takes a drink from his glass. He rises and taking out a bottle of wine, he pours out two more and places them down in front of us. Irina takes a sip. I stare at mine.
Irina begins.
"My name is Irina Derevko, and you know Mr. Khasinau. He works directly under me." She hesitates for an instant before continuing.
"I am the head of an organization- not one with allegiance to a particular country or group of countries. With the exception of you, Khasinau, and several other highly placed operatives, everyone refers to me as 'The Man.' It would be inconvenient for me if Irina Derevko is discovered to be alive and active.
"We're involved in trade.mostly for weapons, codes, information. artifacts. Rare items.priceless treasures." Her brown eyes are burning for a moment.then they calm.
"We recruited your father when he was twenty-one."
She what?
She notices my confusion, but goes on. "He was an exceptional operative. he rose high. He spoke of you- you and your mother. He often said how brilliant you were.
"He left your family because he didn't want to continue endangering your lives. He realized that his position might leave you at risk to be kidnapped." Or, I think cynically, he just chose the job over us. Irina's eyes tell me nothing.
"He was killed five years ago in Berlin- car accident.
"We had continued keeping tabs on you, and around that time, we noticed you were obviously involved in something. We discovered you had begun hacking into bank servers and small government offices. Selling security codes. Khasinau offered to quietly step in, make sure you were safe.
"And then came your mother's death.
"We'd been considering employing you as an adult for some time. But things change. With two years training you could be one of our highest- ranked operatives by sixteen.
"We want to give you the opportunity."
My head is spinning with questions, information.
"Artifacts. what kind?" I get out.
I see the spark in Irina's eyes again, but it is Khasinau who speaks.
"Objects, models, manuscripts- all remnants of a man named Milo Rambaldi. He lived in the fifteenth century, he was a prophet."
I shake my head. "I haven't heard of him."
"Few have. His designs and ideas were considered.radical. and so, his work was ignored and forgotten."
"What sort of training would I go through?"
Irina answers. "Self-defense and martial arts, arms usage, endurance for withstanding torture and psychological tests, strategy. that type of thing. Most of it will come naturally to you."
And suddenly, an idea occurs to me. of something I want, badly. I'm sure it could be done. oh, if I could.
"I need assistance," I say. I describe my sudden aspiration. When I finish, Irina says, "I see."
There is a couple seconds silence.
"It's plausible," she finishes. "But I'm going to advise you to wait until you've concluded your training. I understand, but you aren't prepared." And I know she is right.
She changes the subject. "Khasinau tells me you go by 'Mr. Sark.'"
I give her a half smile. "I don't have to-"
"Actually, I was about to suggest that you keep it. That after your 'adoption' is legal and the authorities believe you've adapted, we erase all of your old records, files, photos even. Andrew Ellison will never have existed."
"So. just Sark, then." Just Sark. Mr. Sark. Not Andrew, or Andy or Andrew Ellison. Just Sark. I bite the corner of my lip.
"All right."
Khasinau looks at my untouched glass, and with a trace of amusement he says, "So, Mr. Sark. I see you are not a wine drinker."
I allow myself a grin and admit that no, it's not something I've tried.
"Well, go ahead. It may appeal to you. Chateau Petreuse."
I pick up the glass and take a sip. I let it rest on my tongue for a moment before swallowing.
Not sure how to respond, I say, "It's not bad."
"Yes, expensive wines generally are 'not bad.'"
Irina smiles at me. It is different than the one she wore when we first met. This one is quieter, more subtle, more secretive.
"The car you arrived in is waiting to take you back to the jet," she says. "You'll be flown to Yeniseysk, it's a city in Russia. Our man will meet and brief you. Your training will begin in three days." She watches me as I pick up my suitcase and begin to exit. "Good luck."
The door closes behind me.
Just Sark.
They have no idea.
No idea as to why an apparently experienced assassin would wish to shoot Annie Ellison.
My mother.
I may as well have pulled the trigger.
* * *
They have placed me in an orphanage.
They are searching for relatives. As far as I know, both of my parents were only children. My grandparents are long dead.
They are trying to locate my father. His name is Colin Reilly.
He left when I was five. We lived in Galway then.
We tied him down, I suppose, my mother and I. He was always restless.
After that, we came here. Where my mother was from.
And now, here I am. Being spoken to like a child, eating cold soup and hard bread, being deaf to my own thoughts as the screams of the younger ones reach my ears.
How long will it last?
They cannot trace it back to Savanoff. He will be too elusive.
If he is traced, then chances are, I will be, too.
And as much as I care about my mother, I cannot be exposed as a criminal.
But if I am held here for two more years: Will it really matter?
A prison is the same as this.
Suddenly, I remind myself. I am Sark.
* * *
Two A.M. I slip down to the second floor hall.
One vacant office on the very end of the hallway contains a window, large enough for me. I had devoted the afternoon and evening to exploration.
Honestly, I think, as I insert my pin into the knob, I don't understand why people bother with locks.
The door softly clicks open. I peer inside- no one- then quickly go in and shut the door behind me.
I twist the window latch, and it opens just wide enough for me to squeeze through.
I know that the bricks of the building are uneven here, so I put one leg out and find the first ridge. Then the second. Third ridge. Fourth. As I make my way down, I reflect on the simplicity of it, and wonder why I am the only one to have discovered it.
My foot hits the cement hard.
The only telephone within the building is in the director's office, and she is prone to working late.
I have come out to use the telephone booth on the other side of the road. With change from my wallet, I make one phone call- to my contact's cell.
"62503047219... Yes, it's me. Emergency. Yes.. He had my mother murdered..I- I've been placed in the Abbott Orphanage, on Oxford- Yes......Right...And I'll be met by you after?......... Good. I'll be ready."
Climbing back up the wall is not nearly as easy. I almost lose my footing several times, and when I reach the open window, I fall through it with a clunk.
I freeze as I hear voices down the hall.
I don't even breathe until I hear their steps down the stairs.
Then, it is back up to the fourth floor, back to the room I share with four others, back to await the outcome of my call.
* * *
My wait lasts two days.
I am summoned after dinner by the director. Her appearance makes it difficult to take her seriously. She has red hair, she's very curvy, and along with her sweaters and baggy pants she is usually wearing dangling earrings and a cheap gold medallion of some kind on her neck.
I am enthusiastically informed that I have a visitor.
The director takes me down to the first floor.
A woman is standing, smiling, waiting for us. She has dark brown hair arranged into an intricate bun at the back of her head. One strand hangs by her face, next to her rectangular glasses. She wears a white shirt and black coat and pants.
And there is an aura about her- graceful. confident. charming. Almost royal.
"Hello, Andrew," she says. Her voice is British- not entirely so- something else underlies it. "I doubt you'll remember me- Angela Barlow- your godmother-"
"Oh, of course," I say, giving off what I hope is a look of recognition. "How could I forget you?" Which isn't much of a stretch.
She steps back a couple of times and surveys me. "You couldn't have been more than nine since I saw you last." She pauses. "I was just- crushed- when I heard about Annie." She actually looks a bit teary, and closes in on me for a hug. "How are you doing?"
"I- I'm all right," I reply. I am captivated by her scent.
"Well, it's all over now," she says quietly. "I've come to take you home. That is-" she releases me and looks at me questioningly.
"Of course- yes, of course, I would love that."
The director's smile grows wider. "Well, this won't be difficult. Ms. Barlow, I'll have you sign a few forms today, the rest will be sent by post and Andy will be free to go by the end of the week." It's Andrew. I am not Andy to you.
"I wondered if it might be possible- since I live rather a distance away, Liverpool, you know- if Andrew could come with me today and you could send the forms to my address."
The director considers, then shakes her head. Her earrings shake. "But he certainly could leave with you today. I'll just find the forms for you- you can fill them out in my office. Andrew, you can go on up and start gathering your things.
"Angela Barlow" pauses before following the director.
"As soon as we leave," she says to me in a low tone, "we'll drive to Birmingham. There's a jet there waiting to take us to Paris. It's too much of a risk the normal way. We'll meet your contact. We have a lot to discuss." I notice that she has dropped her British accent for an American one. Again, something underlies it.
I nod, and she turns and follows the director into her office.
I watch her go, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The door shuts behind them.
I am still staring at the door a minute later. Finally I tear myself away. I rub my forehead.
Then, feeling lighter, I begin to climb the stairs to pack up the few possessions I have left.
I start to wonder, for the thousandth time, what will happen to me once I am out.
For many reasons, it is not a good idea for me to stay in England. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, especially with my account in Switzerland. Maybe my contact has a place for me. Perhaps I could work for him.
None of the others even notice me quietly collecting my things. I haven't shown an interest in knowing them, and so they haven't shown any in me, either.
I'm done already. There is nothing more for me to do except go down and wait for my new guardian.
* * *
There is no conversation during the car ride, or the flight. At the beginning, though, she does speak to someone- presumably Khasinau. She lightly touches one of her diamond earrings and speaks. "I have him. Yes. Of course not." Her lips tighten. "ETA, thirty minutes." She touches the other earring and sighs.
* * *
We are immediately picked up by a black Mercedes, and we arrive behind what looks like a nightclub.
It is only eight or so, and there are only a couple of people sitting at the bar.
She guides me around to the back, up wooden stairs, and down a dark, dim hallway, all the way to the end, where she gives two sharp raps on the door.
I hear my contact's thick, Russian voice call "Enter."
The woman pushes it open, and there is Khasinau, sitting placidly at his desk in a leather seat.
Everything in the room is dark. scarlet.
"Ah, Irina- and Mister Ellison." He motions for us to take seats in two black chairs beside the desk. "I trust," he adds to Irina, "that you ran into no difficulties?"
"I'm careful."
Irina. A perfect name.
Khasinau merely smiles and takes a drink from his glass. He rises and taking out a bottle of wine, he pours out two more and places them down in front of us. Irina takes a sip. I stare at mine.
Irina begins.
"My name is Irina Derevko, and you know Mr. Khasinau. He works directly under me." She hesitates for an instant before continuing.
"I am the head of an organization- not one with allegiance to a particular country or group of countries. With the exception of you, Khasinau, and several other highly placed operatives, everyone refers to me as 'The Man.' It would be inconvenient for me if Irina Derevko is discovered to be alive and active.
"We're involved in trade.mostly for weapons, codes, information. artifacts. Rare items.priceless treasures." Her brown eyes are burning for a moment.then they calm.
"We recruited your father when he was twenty-one."
She what?
She notices my confusion, but goes on. "He was an exceptional operative. he rose high. He spoke of you- you and your mother. He often said how brilliant you were.
"He left your family because he didn't want to continue endangering your lives. He realized that his position might leave you at risk to be kidnapped." Or, I think cynically, he just chose the job over us. Irina's eyes tell me nothing.
"He was killed five years ago in Berlin- car accident.
"We had continued keeping tabs on you, and around that time, we noticed you were obviously involved in something. We discovered you had begun hacking into bank servers and small government offices. Selling security codes. Khasinau offered to quietly step in, make sure you were safe.
"And then came your mother's death.
"We'd been considering employing you as an adult for some time. But things change. With two years training you could be one of our highest- ranked operatives by sixteen.
"We want to give you the opportunity."
My head is spinning with questions, information.
"Artifacts. what kind?" I get out.
I see the spark in Irina's eyes again, but it is Khasinau who speaks.
"Objects, models, manuscripts- all remnants of a man named Milo Rambaldi. He lived in the fifteenth century, he was a prophet."
I shake my head. "I haven't heard of him."
"Few have. His designs and ideas were considered.radical. and so, his work was ignored and forgotten."
"What sort of training would I go through?"
Irina answers. "Self-defense and martial arts, arms usage, endurance for withstanding torture and psychological tests, strategy. that type of thing. Most of it will come naturally to you."
And suddenly, an idea occurs to me. of something I want, badly. I'm sure it could be done. oh, if I could.
"I need assistance," I say. I describe my sudden aspiration. When I finish, Irina says, "I see."
There is a couple seconds silence.
"It's plausible," she finishes. "But I'm going to advise you to wait until you've concluded your training. I understand, but you aren't prepared." And I know she is right.
She changes the subject. "Khasinau tells me you go by 'Mr. Sark.'"
I give her a half smile. "I don't have to-"
"Actually, I was about to suggest that you keep it. That after your 'adoption' is legal and the authorities believe you've adapted, we erase all of your old records, files, photos even. Andrew Ellison will never have existed."
"So. just Sark, then." Just Sark. Mr. Sark. Not Andrew, or Andy or Andrew Ellison. Just Sark. I bite the corner of my lip.
"All right."
Khasinau looks at my untouched glass, and with a trace of amusement he says, "So, Mr. Sark. I see you are not a wine drinker."
I allow myself a grin and admit that no, it's not something I've tried.
"Well, go ahead. It may appeal to you. Chateau Petreuse."
I pick up the glass and take a sip. I let it rest on my tongue for a moment before swallowing.
Not sure how to respond, I say, "It's not bad."
"Yes, expensive wines generally are 'not bad.'"
Irina smiles at me. It is different than the one she wore when we first met. This one is quieter, more subtle, more secretive.
"The car you arrived in is waiting to take you back to the jet," she says. "You'll be flown to Yeniseysk, it's a city in Russia. Our man will meet and brief you. Your training will begin in three days." She watches me as I pick up my suitcase and begin to exit. "Good luck."
The door closes behind me.
Just Sark.