You never thought you and Sydney would grow so far apart.
In your first six years together, you shared such a close father-daughter bond that it scared you. What if you did have a second child? Would he or she be able to compete with the connection you and Sydney already had? And what about your wife? Were you stifling her bond with your daughter?
One cold night in November erased those questions from your mind and left you with an array of new ones. What am I going to do when I'm out of town on assignment? How will I explain the birds and the bees someday? Who's going to distract Sydney while I pull her loose tooth? How on earth do I braid pigtails? The list was endless.
The list was one of the few things that kept you going while you were incarcerated for six months. For the list was a direct tie back to Sydney, your precious daughter, your reason for sanity. Over time you felt you had a game plan that answered most, if not all, of your questions. A nanny could stay with her when you were out of town. The birds and the bees could be sternly explained in a single lecture; you would have to focus and make sure you did not blush as you had this talk with your little girl someday. Perhaps television could suitably distract her while you tried to pull out another loose tooth; if that failed, you were willing to consider bribery.
Braiding pigtails still befuddled you though.
When you were finally released, you rushed back to your daughter, who instantly vaulted herself into your arms. She tearfully clung to you, refusing once again to leave your side. She demanded that you be with her at all times. She made you keep talking to her when you were in the bathroom with the door closed; she sat on the toilet while you were in the shower; she fell asleep propped up against you every night.
As the first year drew to a close, things began to change.
The CIA reluctantly began to send you out on missions again. Knowing you had something to prove, you focused so much time and effort into your job that it put the zeal of your younger days to shame. You would never again give the Agency a reason to mock you. Since you couldn't track down this Irina Derevko who had betrayed you, you vowed to bring down the organization she had worked for. And in the coming years, it seemed as if perhaps it was a possibility. Your standing with the CIA had never been better, the six month incarceration becoming only a dim memory in the eyes of most agents.
But for the Agency's newfound respect, there was a price. A dear one.
Sydney.
*****
She wasn't supposed to be a field agent.
You had trained her as a child, you admitted, but only as a means of protecting her. Your plan, which you later confessed to her—you wish you could go back and change that moment, wipe away the pained expression on her face that day—was to recruit her after college into the CIA, the real CIA.
As she progressed through high school and college, you watched her from afar, observed not only her schoolwork but her friends, who she interacted with, why she chose the friends that she did. You were struck with the realization that she was becoming more and more like you by the day. She might look like the image of her mother, who, preserved in death, would forever be young. But on the inside, she was mostly you. Closed off, detached even from close friends, analytical. She was never the strategist that you are, but she was always better than you with languages. Who else would take classes in five different languages before she was twenty-one?
You winced as the image of another dark-haired woman came to mind. Perhaps, you conceded as you recalled the impulsiveness they shared, she had grown to be like her mother too.
Sydney's high IQ, coupled with her strong analytical and linguistic skills, made her the perfect candidate for a career in intelligence. Your plan, the one you had crafted since her childhood, was that an agent would approach her during the spring of her junior year of college. The agent would discuss with her the possibilities of being a desk agent—perhaps translating intel as it came in from various parts of the world, or maybe planning missions for field agents.
One thing you were certain of—you did not want her to be a field agent. While the agent in you argued that she could be brilliant, the father in you staunchly refused to see that as a possibility.
You closely held your dreams for your only daughter, waiting for the leaves to turn green again in that appointed year, when a meeting with SD-6 proved to be your downfall. Someone else, someone you once called a friend, had beaten you to the punch. And not only was she unknowingly working for the enemy, she wasn't a desk agent.
She was out in the field.
You hadn't been this devastated since you learned the truth about Laura.
You didn't know you'd feel this way again a few years later.
*****
You were never supposed to tell her the truth about SD-6.
For years you wanted to, although you knew it was for the best that she did not know the truth. If she did, she might do something rash like confront Sloane. Or become a double agent.
Either choice was suicide.
So you watched and waited as she graduated from college, then began her masters program. As she continued to follow the path her mother supposedly had taken, you were further convinced that ignorance would be bliss. You instinctively knew that if she learned your true identity, the truth about her mother would not be long in coming.
Neither one of you needed to deal with that.
Instead you continued your role as an aloof, standoffish father, the kind of father her best friend Francie hated. Life was surreally normal until one summer day when you received a phone call at your office.
"Hi. It's Danny Hecht. Sydney's boyfriend."
Your stomach dropped to the floor. There were only two reasons her longtime boyfriend would be calling you.
"Is Sydney all right?"
"Oh, yes, she's fine. Nothing to worry about."
While this should have relieved you, it didn't. Because if he wasn't calling to discuss her well-being, it meant . . .
"I'm calling because I'm planning on asking Sydney to marry me and . . . I was hoping to get your approval."
That.
As you reprimanded the future Dr. Hecht, reminding him that this was, in fact, a courtesy call, you wondered what Sydney's answer would be. Obviously, if they had been dating for two years, he was fairy confident that she would say yes. But he did not know what you knew, that her bank job was much more than a way to pay the bills. You could only hope that Sydney would not take the high road and clue him in.
"Good. Then welcome to the family."
You should have known your well-meaning daughter would be unable to keep a secret of this magnitude from her fiancé.
You sat in Arvin's office a few short days later and quietly read the file given to you. It killed you to hear Arvin—it's hard to believe he was once your best friend—offer his apologies for what he was ordering. It killed you more to dismiss his hollow words and remind him that you were loyal to him, to the Alliance, and not your own flesh and blood.
You left Credit Dauphine that day as quickly as possible. You already knew that Sydney was in Taipei on a mission for SD-6. Your first priority had to be Danny. Sydney was safe until she completed her mission; Dixon would not let anything happen to her, would not hand her over to Security Section. For now, you had to find Danny.
You raced through Los Angeles, talking a mile a minute on your CIA-issue cell phone, calling in favors people had forgotten they owed you. At last you had a ticket booked from LAX to Singapore, a separate ticket for Sydney, and new papers for both of them—birth certificates, passports, a marriage license. After today they would be Josh and Hannah Parker, a medical technician and a librarian. You were confident in Sydney's ability to conform to play a part; you could only hope that her new husband would learn quickly.
Agents had already been sent to scour the hospital; when they reported that he was not there, you did a u-turn and sped away to his apartment complex. Even as you saw the trees and buildings fly past you, you found a moment to ironically note that this was the way you were seeing your future son-in-law's home for the first time. You barely remembered to put the car in park before you jumped out of it, walking as fast as you dared, not wanting to make the elderly woman on her balcony look at you suspiciously.
The lock on his door was ridiculously easy to pick. You held onto a shred of hope, noticing that the door did not appear to be damaged in any way; perhaps you had beaten Security Section. As soon as you opened the door, however, you knew otherwise.
Furniture was turned over, papers were strewn everywhere . . . but there was no blood. Maybe, just maybe, Danny was out for a jog, walked down to the corner market to pick up a half gallon of milk, went to the florist down the street to pick up flowers for your daughter's return.
And then you walked into the bathroom.
You cautiously knelt down and searched for a pulse. You searched for a full five minutes before finally conceding defeat. If only you had been a few minutes faster—but you weren't. You had failed.
You had failed her.
Again.
You heard the accounts of how she stormed into SD-6, how she confronted Sloane. You witnessed her quiet despair at the funeral home. You watched from your car as Francie tried her best to comfort her at the cemetery. You knew you should have been there, offering a shoulder to cry on, but you instinctively knew that your presence would do more harm than good. Maybe if things had turned out differently, if you really did just export airplane parts, the two of you would be comfortable with something as basic as a hug. But then, things hadn't been that simple and safe with the two of you in years. Not since the car accident.
You kept your eye on her, as you always did, over the following three months, knowing Sloane would be anxious for her to return to work. You overheard Dixon's conversation with Sloane one afternoon—"I don't know if she ever plans on coming back"—and immediately began to worry even more. It was just a matter of time before Sloane called Security Section to handle the matter.
You always knew that Sloane held a special place for Sydney, whether you liked it or not. This time, you were hoping to use his affection to her advantage, to buy her enough time so that you could have an escape plan. You were sitting in your office at Jennings Aerospace, waiting for a messenger to deliver Sydney's new papers, when the phone rang.
"Jack? Sloane's ordered a hit on Sydney."
You heard the click of the receiver as Ben hung up his phone; the call had to be as short as possible to reduce the chance of it being traced. Your mind refused to focus on what you had just heard. Sloane . . . the bastard, the one who suggested the name for your only child, had just set in motion a plan to kill her. You blinked, your eyes slowly coming back into focus. You had just wasted two minutes. One hundred twenty precious seconds that could have been used saving Sydney . . .
You were out of your chair and through the door seconds later. "I'll be back in an hour," you said in a level tone to your secretary as you rushed through the reception area.
You reached for your seat belt and dialed a familiar number on your CIA cell phone. "Where is she?" you barked as you put the key in the ignition and took off. "Are her papers ready?"
Ben paused for a moment, probably annoyed at you for interrupting him, and began to answer your second question.
"Not for another few hours."
"Hours? Unacceptable. She needs to be pulled now."
"I know that, Jack. How about this. I can have an agent waiting to escort her to LAX. We can have her out of the area by ten o'clock at the latest."
"I want agent protection on the flight as well," you intoned as you rushed to your destination.
"Done." You heard a rustle of papers and sensed that Ben had covered the phone with his hand as he ordered his assistant to make the arrangements. "We're booking the tickets right now, Jack. How's her French?"
"Fair," you admitted begrudgingly. Her Spanish was better.
"No problem. One of the agents is practically native. She'll be fine," Ben quickly smoothed things over.
"And the car will be waiting when I get there?"
"Yes. The flight leaves for Orly at 9:55." He quickly outlined a few more details. "Where are you now?"
"Five more minutes," you muttered, driving as fast you dared down the highway.
"Jack? Make it in three." The phone clicked and you tossed it aside, pushing your foot down on the accelerator. Several days later you learned that Ben had just received word that gunshots had been heard inside the garage. Every second counted.
You sped up to ninety as you weaved through traffic, finally seeing the entrance to the parking garage come into sight. You could only hope you still had a living, breathing daughter to rescue.
You raced through the garage, going as fast you dared, whipping around corners as you frantically searched for her. And suddenly you saw her, a flash of red, and slammed on your brakes. She was pointing a gun towards your head; a body was slumped on the ground next to her. You were certain bruises were already beginning to form and that her mind was already racing ahead to the next action she should take.
Sometimes, she was so much like you and Irina it scared you.
"Get in!" you ordered.
She stared at you, the shock and confusion evident on her face. She never did learn to school her features while under duress. "Daddy?"
You heard more cars coming and knew you had to act fast. You leaned over and grabbed the door latch. "Now!"
You saw her lean down and grab something before rushing into the car. You saw her shock—or was it terror?—as you brandished your revolver and told her to hang on. You shifted the car into reverse and began shooting and driving simultaneously. Many long seconds later you were pulling out of the garage and onto the street. You looked over at Sydney and without even thinking, ordered her to put her seatbelt on. She obeyed you without a word, and for an instant you flashed back to earlier, simpler days when you made a game out of buckling her seat belt, when you had a song that the two of you sang as you would strap yourselves in. You wondered if she even remembered the song.
In a flash you were back to the present, beginning the explanation that you had been dreading for the last seven years. You explained that you worked for SD-6, that you had never sold an airplane part in your life, that she had to leave immediately to catch her flight.
You pulled into a parking lot and turned to face her. She stared at you as if she had never seen you before. In a way, she hadn't. "Who are you?"
Did she really think you had time for a discussion right now? "Sydney, get in that car! They're only waiting two minutes, then they leave. With or without you."
She leaned forward and grabbed your face. You quickly turned your head and began your conversation again, this time steering it towards the topic you dreaded. You had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but knowing Sydney—and more to the point, knowing how her parents reacted to news—you knew that she would demand the full story.
At the moment, though, you only had time for the highlights version.
"About a decade ago, a pool of agents went freelance," you began. Her eyes instantly flashed with recognition, then horror as she learned that not only were you working for the Alliance, but she was as well.
You urged her one final time as you watched the headlights in the distance. "Sydney, this is your last chance. You have to go."
She remained, unmoving, in your car. The car, filled with agents that you had worked so hard to assemble on such short notice, quietly drove away, disappearing from sight.
Her parting shot, her last words to you before exiting the car, continues to haunt you to this day.
"Who are you to come to me and act like a father? If you want to help me, stay away from me."
Remembering that now, you wonder if perhaps you should finally follow her advice.
After nineteen months of searching, she apparently doesn't want to be found.
tbc