* * * *
"You know we can't let her back in the field, Jack. Not like this," Kendall said. "We just don't know enough about what happened to her yet and what we do know doesn't seem to be very encouraging."
"I'm well aware of that," Jack replied, making little effort to mask his irritation at being accosted in the hallway.
"Then maybe you could enlighten your daughter, because I've run out of ways to explain it to her and she still keeps asking me when she can get off desk duty. I don't know. The doctors don't know. There's no way we're going to clear her for fieldwork until we can figure out exactly where she's been and who's been messing with her head for the past two years. If she could make some sort of breakthrough we might be able to give an estimate, but if the investigation and her therapy sessions continue at their present pace..." Kendall shrugged in exasperation. "It could be years, if ever. Look, Jack, I know this is difficult for her," he continued in a lower tone. "I know it's difficult for you. She's just going to have to be patient. We all are."
"You could always allocate more resources to the investigation." It was a discussion they'd had many times before and Jack wasn't surprised to see Kendall's face crease into a pained frown once again.
"If we had more to go on," Kendall said, repeating his habitual response to Jack's equally habitual suggestion. "But we don't."
* * * *
It had been three months since Sydney had returned. She spent her mornings in regression therapy, chipping away at the formidable shields of her memory and trying to decipher the fragmentary glimpses of lost days. She spent her afternoons catching up on current affairs, sitting in on mission debriefings, and proving her still sharp skills on the firing range and dojo mats. And she spent her evenings curled up in an armchair in the corner of Jack's living room reading and rereading comforting classics.
It grieved Jack to see how withdrawn she had become, though he understood why she did it. Trying to lead a normal life in their line of work was impossible. Part of him wished that she had learned this lesson long ago, before it ever had a chance to hurt her so deeply. Mostly however, he wished that she had never had to learn it at all. He wished that she'd been able to have a life where lies weren't the only way to protect those she loved and truth didn't mean death, where friendships weren't liabilities or weaknesses to be exploited. He wanted to help her but realized that she was already emulating the only coping mechanism he knew.
So he watched her throw herself into her reports and analyses and physical training with a fierce single-minded intensity. He watched her smile at co-workers, at Dixon and Tippin, and turn down their invitations to coffee or dinner with a wistful shake of her head. And he watched her night after night draw her feet up into the overstuffed chair and wrap herself around an old familiar novel, tucking the ever-errant strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that made his heart ache.
"Where did you get this book?" she asked him one evening. He glanced up from his own reading to look at the volume in question - a thick dog-eared paperback. "It has an odd bookmark."
He couldn't see what the bookmark was until she abruptly threw it at him. It soared gracefully across the room and landed lightly on the book in his lap. He picked it up - a minor engineering marvel crafted in thick stationery paper - and imitating an action he'd observed many months ago, he made another small fold. Sydney's burst of laughter was as delightful as it was unexpected as she watched the little paper airplane wheel over her head and return to Jack.
"Where did you get that?" she asked again, this time referring to the plane.
"That book..." he replied. "Tom Jones?"
"Yes."
He turned the small plane over in his hands, studying the carefully creased lines and soft-edged tears that ought to have been made by scissors but weren't. "Sark," he said. "That was one of the books he requested while we detained him."
"And the airplane?"
"I suspect that he was simply extraordinarily bored."
"Why do you have them here?"
"After his escape we went through everything left in the cell. It was a long-shot. We never did find any evidence of outside communications. That book must have gotten mixed up with some of my other paperwork." It was a specious explanation, but he could think of none better. Honestly, he wasn't sure why he had brought the novel home. He glanced up to see that Sydney was studying the book as thoughtfully as he'd been looking at the plane.
"Dixon said that you spent a lot of time with him that last year or so that he was in custody," she said without looking up. "Did he ever explain... why Francie...?"
"No, he didn't." Using the plane to mark his own page, Jack set his book down. "But your mother and I... discussed it." Sydney looked up at him sharply and he could see the shine of unshed tears in her eyes. "That had not been part of her plan. She said that it was Sloane's decision to keep tabs on you after the fall of the Alliance and to use Doren as a possible means of infiltrating the Agency."
"Do you believe her?" she asked softly.
"I don't know. Sloane makes an easy scapegoat, but it is plausible."
"And Sark? He had to have been involved somehow. He and... Doren came out of the same junior-psycho spy program, didn't they?"
"Yes. Your mother said that he was her handler on this assignment, but that he was ambivalent about it at best. He definitely wasn't happy about the level of risk to Doren in such a situation."
"Why would he care?" she asked, then grimaced at Jack's silence. "You're kidding, right? You think that little blond assassin might have had 'feelings' for her?"
"It's possible."
She shook her head disbelievingly but stopped as another thought apparently occurred to her. "Does he know that I'm the one who killed her? Could that be why he kept looking for me after he escaped? An alternative explanation to your 'making a point' theory?"
"Possibly," he admitted. "But I'm inclined to believe him when he said that he didn't blame you. I suspect that Sloane is much higher on his list."
"You're inclined to believe an awful lot about him," she frowned and looked down at the book still in her hands. "He specifically asked for this one?"
"Yes."
"Why? Another point to make?"
"I don't know," he lied. "Leave it on my desk. I'll take it back to the office tomorrow."
"Why bother?" She settled back into her chair still frowning pensively. "There's nothing else in it and I doubt anybody there wants it. It's been a long time since I've read this one. Maybe I'll find your point for you."
* * * *
"What other books did he ask for?"
Jack looked up from his menu, momentarily puzzled by Sydney's question. It had become their habit to eat out at least once a week, neither of them being overly fond of cooking. A small family-run Szechwan restaurant had quickly become one of their favorite places. The owner and his wife had just as quickly warmed to the subdued father and daughter who began frequenting their establishment on a fairly regular basis.
"Why do you bother looking at that?" Sydney asked with an almost indulgent smile as she took the menu from him. "You order the same thing every time. They don't even ask you anymore. And I meant Sark - what other books did he request specifically?"
"You're still looking for other points?"
"After reading 'Tom Jones' I thought that there might be some other hints about his mind-frame in the rest of his selections." Her tone was almost careless, but considering the topic, Jack couldn't help wondering at her interest.
"What did you get from the Fielding book?"
"Not much," she admitted. "Assuming it was Tom that he identified with, maybe he was feeling a little misused. Nearly everything that Tom did, regardless of his motivation, turned out badly for him. His actions were always being misinterpreted and the people who were supposed to protect him, to believe in him didn't. It all turned out well in the end, of course," she said with a shrug. "But it was a rough life along the way. If someone were analyzing Sark's requests, they might think he was trying to indicate that he felt he was being misunderstood."
"That's one interpretation," Jack said. "It could also indicate that he was just amusing himself by trying to play mind-games with us. One of the first books he asked for was Dostoevsky, 'Crime and Punishment'. General consensus was that the boy was attempting to be funny." He permitted himself a wry smile as Sydney rolled her eyes. "He asked for Tolkien's trilogy and plowed through it in about three days. Marshall is the one who noticed that he'd requested it the week that movie opened. Not much point to be made in that selection except maybe irritability at his lack of liberty."
Jack paused as their soup was delivered, resuming only after the waitress had gone.
"He asked for an Umberto Eco book once - a new release, I can't recall the title. The point of that one was perhaps counterproductive. He shouldn't have known about the novel considering how limited his access to outside information was supposed to have been at the time. This was before Kendall had started allowing him out on assignments and presumably his purpose in requesting it was to annoy us, make us wonder how he knew it had been published."
"Did you give it to him?" Sydney asked as she picked at the noodles in her bowl.
"No. It hadn't been translated into English yet and getting an Italian copy was deemed too much effort on behalf of a federal prisoner no matter how cooperative he was being."
"And telling the arrogant bastard "no" is a lot more fun."
"Kendall wouldn't engage in petty one-upmanship over something so trivial," he said dryly. "I'm sure it was a very difficult book to obtain."
"Right," she agreed in the same tone. But Jack nearly didn't hear her.
His attention was caught by the woman at the back of the restaurant. She stood half-hidden by the ornamental screen that shielded the kitchen from the dining area. When she was certain that she'd been seen, she vanished behind it. Jack returned his gaze to Sydney and nodded absently at her comments on the tea as he pondered what Irina's presence meant. With a deliberately inattentive gesture he moved his cup slightly as Sydney began to pour.
"Oh! Dad, I'm so sorry!"
"Not your fault," he assured her as he dabbed at the cuff of his shirt.
"If you run a little water over it quickly the stain shouldn't have time to set." She fluttered one hand toward the restrooms off the hallway in the back. He rose obediently, still wiping at the sleeve, and headed in the direction she indicated.
"That was a very blatant trick," Irina said when he rounded the corner.
"What are you doing here?"
She gave him a mildly reproving look. "I would have thought that you'd be a little more understanding about this... now that you know how it feels."
"You went twenty years without seeing her before."
"But I always knew where she was. I just needed to see her for myself this time." She risked a glance through the lattice and an amused smile played across her lips as they watched Sydney discreetly picking shrimp out of Jack's soup and adding them to her own. "May I talk to her?"
Jack frowned. A stern "absolutely not" and a more sympathetic "why not" vied for precedence in his brain. She had never asked for his permission before any of her previous contacts with Sydney and he knew that if she wished, she could undoubtedly still manage to arrange a private meeting with her daughter without his prior knowledge. Her approach and her query puzzled him.
"I needed to speak with you as well," Irina said, her smile broadening as his frown deepened. She knew precisely how much it disturbed him that she still found him so easy to read. Her expression dimmed slightly as she continued. "Have you seen Stephen recently?"
"You've lost him?" he echoed her words from Warsaw.
"I wasn't trying to keep him prisoner," she said wryly. "I assume that he hasn't been in contact then?"
"How long has he been gone?"
"I haven't heard from... or of him in a little over two months."
There were two options that Jack could think of off-hand. "He's either dropping out completely or he's restructuring." He looked down at Irina and knew they both realized the only choice that the boy could make. "He couldn't quit this even if he wanted to."
"No." It was nearly a sigh. "I think he's grown accustomed to the autonomy though."
"Will you let him go?"
Her smile was faint once again. "It's funny, but somehow I don't seem to have the leverage over him that I once did. He understands what we are now..."
"That you'll use him if you can and shoot him if he crosses you."
"And that if he stays out of my way, I'll do everything in my power to protect him otherwise."
They stood staring at one another in silence as a waiter pushed suddenly through the swinging door beside them.
"May I talk to her?" she asked again.
He nodded in resignation and she followed him back to the table.
* * * *
"You know we can't let her back in the field, Jack. Not like this," Kendall said. "We just don't know enough about what happened to her yet and what we do know doesn't seem to be very encouraging."
"I'm well aware of that," Jack replied, making little effort to mask his irritation at being accosted in the hallway.
"Then maybe you could enlighten your daughter, because I've run out of ways to explain it to her and she still keeps asking me when she can get off desk duty. I don't know. The doctors don't know. There's no way we're going to clear her for fieldwork until we can figure out exactly where she's been and who's been messing with her head for the past two years. If she could make some sort of breakthrough we might be able to give an estimate, but if the investigation and her therapy sessions continue at their present pace..." Kendall shrugged in exasperation. "It could be years, if ever. Look, Jack, I know this is difficult for her," he continued in a lower tone. "I know it's difficult for you. She's just going to have to be patient. We all are."
"You could always allocate more resources to the investigation." It was a discussion they'd had many times before and Jack wasn't surprised to see Kendall's face crease into a pained frown once again.
"If we had more to go on," Kendall said, repeating his habitual response to Jack's equally habitual suggestion. "But we don't."
* * * *
It had been three months since Sydney had returned. She spent her mornings in regression therapy, chipping away at the formidable shields of her memory and trying to decipher the fragmentary glimpses of lost days. She spent her afternoons catching up on current affairs, sitting in on mission debriefings, and proving her still sharp skills on the firing range and dojo mats. And she spent her evenings curled up in an armchair in the corner of Jack's living room reading and rereading comforting classics.
It grieved Jack to see how withdrawn she had become, though he understood why she did it. Trying to lead a normal life in their line of work was impossible. Part of him wished that she had learned this lesson long ago, before it ever had a chance to hurt her so deeply. Mostly however, he wished that she had never had to learn it at all. He wished that she'd been able to have a life where lies weren't the only way to protect those she loved and truth didn't mean death, where friendships weren't liabilities or weaknesses to be exploited. He wanted to help her but realized that she was already emulating the only coping mechanism he knew.
So he watched her throw herself into her reports and analyses and physical training with a fierce single-minded intensity. He watched her smile at co-workers, at Dixon and Tippin, and turn down their invitations to coffee or dinner with a wistful shake of her head. And he watched her night after night draw her feet up into the overstuffed chair and wrap herself around an old familiar novel, tucking the ever-errant strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that made his heart ache.
"Where did you get this book?" she asked him one evening. He glanced up from his own reading to look at the volume in question - a thick dog-eared paperback. "It has an odd bookmark."
He couldn't see what the bookmark was until she abruptly threw it at him. It soared gracefully across the room and landed lightly on the book in his lap. He picked it up - a minor engineering marvel crafted in thick stationery paper - and imitating an action he'd observed many months ago, he made another small fold. Sydney's burst of laughter was as delightful as it was unexpected as she watched the little paper airplane wheel over her head and return to Jack.
"Where did you get that?" she asked again, this time referring to the plane.
"That book..." he replied. "Tom Jones?"
"Yes."
He turned the small plane over in his hands, studying the carefully creased lines and soft-edged tears that ought to have been made by scissors but weren't. "Sark," he said. "That was one of the books he requested while we detained him."
"And the airplane?"
"I suspect that he was simply extraordinarily bored."
"Why do you have them here?"
"After his escape we went through everything left in the cell. It was a long-shot. We never did find any evidence of outside communications. That book must have gotten mixed up with some of my other paperwork." It was a specious explanation, but he could think of none better. Honestly, he wasn't sure why he had brought the novel home. He glanced up to see that Sydney was studying the book as thoughtfully as he'd been looking at the plane.
"Dixon said that you spent a lot of time with him that last year or so that he was in custody," she said without looking up. "Did he ever explain... why Francie...?"
"No, he didn't." Using the plane to mark his own page, Jack set his book down. "But your mother and I... discussed it." Sydney looked up at him sharply and he could see the shine of unshed tears in her eyes. "That had not been part of her plan. She said that it was Sloane's decision to keep tabs on you after the fall of the Alliance and to use Doren as a possible means of infiltrating the Agency."
"Do you believe her?" she asked softly.
"I don't know. Sloane makes an easy scapegoat, but it is plausible."
"And Sark? He had to have been involved somehow. He and... Doren came out of the same junior-psycho spy program, didn't they?"
"Yes. Your mother said that he was her handler on this assignment, but that he was ambivalent about it at best. He definitely wasn't happy about the level of risk to Doren in such a situation."
"Why would he care?" she asked, then grimaced at Jack's silence. "You're kidding, right? You think that little blond assassin might have had 'feelings' for her?"
"It's possible."
She shook her head disbelievingly but stopped as another thought apparently occurred to her. "Does he know that I'm the one who killed her? Could that be why he kept looking for me after he escaped? An alternative explanation to your 'making a point' theory?"
"Possibly," he admitted. "But I'm inclined to believe him when he said that he didn't blame you. I suspect that Sloane is much higher on his list."
"You're inclined to believe an awful lot about him," she frowned and looked down at the book still in her hands. "He specifically asked for this one?"
"Yes."
"Why? Another point to make?"
"I don't know," he lied. "Leave it on my desk. I'll take it back to the office tomorrow."
"Why bother?" She settled back into her chair still frowning pensively. "There's nothing else in it and I doubt anybody there wants it. It's been a long time since I've read this one. Maybe I'll find your point for you."
* * * *
"What other books did he ask for?"
Jack looked up from his menu, momentarily puzzled by Sydney's question. It had become their habit to eat out at least once a week, neither of them being overly fond of cooking. A small family-run Szechwan restaurant had quickly become one of their favorite places. The owner and his wife had just as quickly warmed to the subdued father and daughter who began frequenting their establishment on a fairly regular basis.
"Why do you bother looking at that?" Sydney asked with an almost indulgent smile as she took the menu from him. "You order the same thing every time. They don't even ask you anymore. And I meant Sark - what other books did he request specifically?"
"You're still looking for other points?"
"After reading 'Tom Jones' I thought that there might be some other hints about his mind-frame in the rest of his selections." Her tone was almost careless, but considering the topic, Jack couldn't help wondering at her interest.
"What did you get from the Fielding book?"
"Not much," she admitted. "Assuming it was Tom that he identified with, maybe he was feeling a little misused. Nearly everything that Tom did, regardless of his motivation, turned out badly for him. His actions were always being misinterpreted and the people who were supposed to protect him, to believe in him didn't. It all turned out well in the end, of course," she said with a shrug. "But it was a rough life along the way. If someone were analyzing Sark's requests, they might think he was trying to indicate that he felt he was being misunderstood."
"That's one interpretation," Jack said. "It could also indicate that he was just amusing himself by trying to play mind-games with us. One of the first books he asked for was Dostoevsky, 'Crime and Punishment'. General consensus was that the boy was attempting to be funny." He permitted himself a wry smile as Sydney rolled her eyes. "He asked for Tolkien's trilogy and plowed through it in about three days. Marshall is the one who noticed that he'd requested it the week that movie opened. Not much point to be made in that selection except maybe irritability at his lack of liberty."
Jack paused as their soup was delivered, resuming only after the waitress had gone.
"He asked for an Umberto Eco book once - a new release, I can't recall the title. The point of that one was perhaps counterproductive. He shouldn't have known about the novel considering how limited his access to outside information was supposed to have been at the time. This was before Kendall had started allowing him out on assignments and presumably his purpose in requesting it was to annoy us, make us wonder how he knew it had been published."
"Did you give it to him?" Sydney asked as she picked at the noodles in her bowl.
"No. It hadn't been translated into English yet and getting an Italian copy was deemed too much effort on behalf of a federal prisoner no matter how cooperative he was being."
"And telling the arrogant bastard "no" is a lot more fun."
"Kendall wouldn't engage in petty one-upmanship over something so trivial," he said dryly. "I'm sure it was a very difficult book to obtain."
"Right," she agreed in the same tone. But Jack nearly didn't hear her.
His attention was caught by the woman at the back of the restaurant. She stood half-hidden by the ornamental screen that shielded the kitchen from the dining area. When she was certain that she'd been seen, she vanished behind it. Jack returned his gaze to Sydney and nodded absently at her comments on the tea as he pondered what Irina's presence meant. With a deliberately inattentive gesture he moved his cup slightly as Sydney began to pour.
"Oh! Dad, I'm so sorry!"
"Not your fault," he assured her as he dabbed at the cuff of his shirt.
"If you run a little water over it quickly the stain shouldn't have time to set." She fluttered one hand toward the restrooms off the hallway in the back. He rose obediently, still wiping at the sleeve, and headed in the direction she indicated.
"That was a very blatant trick," Irina said when he rounded the corner.
"What are you doing here?"
She gave him a mildly reproving look. "I would have thought that you'd be a little more understanding about this... now that you know how it feels."
"You went twenty years without seeing her before."
"But I always knew where she was. I just needed to see her for myself this time." She risked a glance through the lattice and an amused smile played across her lips as they watched Sydney discreetly picking shrimp out of Jack's soup and adding them to her own. "May I talk to her?"
Jack frowned. A stern "absolutely not" and a more sympathetic "why not" vied for precedence in his brain. She had never asked for his permission before any of her previous contacts with Sydney and he knew that if she wished, she could undoubtedly still manage to arrange a private meeting with her daughter without his prior knowledge. Her approach and her query puzzled him.
"I needed to speak with you as well," Irina said, her smile broadening as his frown deepened. She knew precisely how much it disturbed him that she still found him so easy to read. Her expression dimmed slightly as she continued. "Have you seen Stephen recently?"
"You've lost him?" he echoed her words from Warsaw.
"I wasn't trying to keep him prisoner," she said wryly. "I assume that he hasn't been in contact then?"
"How long has he been gone?"
"I haven't heard from... or of him in a little over two months."
There were two options that Jack could think of off-hand. "He's either dropping out completely or he's restructuring." He looked down at Irina and knew they both realized the only choice that the boy could make. "He couldn't quit this even if he wanted to."
"No." It was nearly a sigh. "I think he's grown accustomed to the autonomy though."
"Will you let him go?"
Her smile was faint once again. "It's funny, but somehow I don't seem to have the leverage over him that I once did. He understands what we are now..."
"That you'll use him if you can and shoot him if he crosses you."
"And that if he stays out of my way, I'll do everything in my power to protect him otherwise."
They stood staring at one another in silence as a waiter pushed suddenly through the swinging door beside them.
"May I talk to her?" she asked again.
He nodded in resignation and she followed him back to the table.
* * * *