1977, she decides immediately, is the year of Sark's birth. Making him a
mere five years old the year of her play - 1982.
1982 - it seems the far more significant year. Lauren is sure there has to be something more to it.
Marston, she discovers, never accepted children younger than seven. She is left with Brownstone and Harrisfield.
She's gradually forming a picture of Sark's past, but what Lauren least understands is why. Why he would give her these suggestions, these hints, these clues . . . she can only speculate that there is something he wants.
* * *
Lauren takes a flight to England on Sunday. She feels slightly excited, despite the jet lag after her arrival - she's always wanted to experience the thrill of being a Nancy Drew, or a Harriet the Spy - albeit one about thirty years old, she thinks, smiling.
"I apologize if I'm disrupting any of your classes," Lauren says, facing the head of Harrisfield Academy.
"Oh, no, not at all - how can I help you?" the woman asks pleasantly.
"A friend of mine is putting together a memoir, and as I'm here on business, she asked if I could do her a favor. She wants the 1982 yearbook for a visual touch - she would really appreciate it if I made her a few copies." Lauren holds her breath.
The woman only looks thoughtful - "1982, you said?"
Lauren, with relief, nods, and follows the headmistress into her office.
* * *
Repeating the scenario at Brownstone, she heads back to her hotel room with satisfaction.
She spreads out the pages of grainy black-and-white photos, looking for any sign of a small, blond child with a crooked smile. As far as the NSC and CIA's tests have indicated, Sark's features have never been surgically altered.
Lauren finally narrows it down to one child from Brownstone, Nicholas Rowan, and one from Harrisfield, Evan Keifer.
* * *
She's spoken to Evan Keifer's wife - he's CEO of a fairly well-known electric corporation.
But by Tuesday, she hasn't been able to reach anyone by the name of Nicholas Rowan. After 1982, he seems to have vanished completely. In addition to that, Lauren can't find much of a file on him. Nothing says he left, or where to. Anything remotely factual about him seems to have been carefully erased.
So, Lauren wonders, who were his parents? When had he become a operative of Irina Derevko? And where had the name "Sark" originated from?
The lack of leads and abound of questions frustrates her. She's scheduled to meet Sark Thursday.
The strange thing is, Lauren's almost anticipating it.
* * *
"How is the investigation coming?"
Lauren, her hands resting on her binder, replies coolly, "We're following a promising lead now - I can't go into detail. You'll understand, of course."
Lauren's having a hard time hearing herself secretly collaborating, with a terrorist, right under the NSC's nose. But then, she rationalizes, she isn't really collaborating - she still has the power to turn him in whenever she wants.
"You are familiar with the name Sydney Bristow," she begins.
Sark cocks his head, for once, seeming vaguely interested in the topic. "Yes."
As Lauren recites the details of Bristow's death, her interest in the agent revives itself. She's heard all about it, of course - it was the talk of the office for nearly a month. The woman was the CIA's best field agent, it was said.
She sees Sark, eyebrows creased, looking thoughtful. "How is her death being handled?"
Lauren replies, "I was just getting to that. The CIA has decided-"
"I don't mean among the agency. I mean among her colleagues, her fellow agents, her friends. Her father."
Lauren matches his eyes. "Considering your prolific record in hired murder, I wasn't aware that you would care about the emotional aspect of her death."
"I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward."
Lauren frowns slightly, and, changing the subject, says, "Describe your first meeting with Agent Bristow."
* * *
She sticks her keys in the ignition without starting the car, and she takes a long sip of her latte.
She is disappointed - the last page of the notebook hadn't held any sort of message. Instead, she reviews their conversation over and over in her head.
The one part that sticks out most clearly in her head is this: "I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward." It is definitely an oddly phrased sentence. And it's also uncharacteristic - Sark's grammar and sentence structure is nearly flawless.
It stays in Lauren's head all day, and all the next day, until she is approached by Lindsay at her desk and is told she's being moved to the Sydney Bristow interrogation.
Lauren stares at him in disbelief. "Why?"
Lindsay looks surprised. "Ms. Reed, this is a promotion. And unless you're suggesting you have some sort of personal attachment to Mr. Sark-"
"No, sir, I don't. I was just startled."
"Okay, then. Tomorrow you'll be speaking with Jack Bristow and Michael Vaughn. Get prepared." He walks off.
At home, she looks at the yearbook pages again. She's at a dead end, and she knows it.
And suddenly, without any forewarning, it hits her. He has given her a clue after all.
She lets the revelation sink in a little, before resuming her thoughts.
She has no way of knowing for certain, of course - she isn't even sure of why he's told her.
But she is certain that she knows what he wants. She is certain she is once again, heading in the right direction.
Except for one simple problem. Lauren will likely never meet Sark again.
1982 - it seems the far more significant year. Lauren is sure there has to be something more to it.
Marston, she discovers, never accepted children younger than seven. She is left with Brownstone and Harrisfield.
She's gradually forming a picture of Sark's past, but what Lauren least understands is why. Why he would give her these suggestions, these hints, these clues . . . she can only speculate that there is something he wants.
* * *
Lauren takes a flight to England on Sunday. She feels slightly excited, despite the jet lag after her arrival - she's always wanted to experience the thrill of being a Nancy Drew, or a Harriet the Spy - albeit one about thirty years old, she thinks, smiling.
"I apologize if I'm disrupting any of your classes," Lauren says, facing the head of Harrisfield Academy.
"Oh, no, not at all - how can I help you?" the woman asks pleasantly.
"A friend of mine is putting together a memoir, and as I'm here on business, she asked if I could do her a favor. She wants the 1982 yearbook for a visual touch - she would really appreciate it if I made her a few copies." Lauren holds her breath.
The woman only looks thoughtful - "1982, you said?"
Lauren, with relief, nods, and follows the headmistress into her office.
* * *
Repeating the scenario at Brownstone, she heads back to her hotel room with satisfaction.
She spreads out the pages of grainy black-and-white photos, looking for any sign of a small, blond child with a crooked smile. As far as the NSC and CIA's tests have indicated, Sark's features have never been surgically altered.
Lauren finally narrows it down to one child from Brownstone, Nicholas Rowan, and one from Harrisfield, Evan Keifer.
* * *
She's spoken to Evan Keifer's wife - he's CEO of a fairly well-known electric corporation.
But by Tuesday, she hasn't been able to reach anyone by the name of Nicholas Rowan. After 1982, he seems to have vanished completely. In addition to that, Lauren can't find much of a file on him. Nothing says he left, or where to. Anything remotely factual about him seems to have been carefully erased.
So, Lauren wonders, who were his parents? When had he become a operative of Irina Derevko? And where had the name "Sark" originated from?
The lack of leads and abound of questions frustrates her. She's scheduled to meet Sark Thursday.
The strange thing is, Lauren's almost anticipating it.
* * *
"How is the investigation coming?"
Lauren, her hands resting on her binder, replies coolly, "We're following a promising lead now - I can't go into detail. You'll understand, of course."
Lauren's having a hard time hearing herself secretly collaborating, with a terrorist, right under the NSC's nose. But then, she rationalizes, she isn't really collaborating - she still has the power to turn him in whenever she wants.
"You are familiar with the name Sydney Bristow," she begins.
Sark cocks his head, for once, seeming vaguely interested in the topic. "Yes."
As Lauren recites the details of Bristow's death, her interest in the agent revives itself. She's heard all about it, of course - it was the talk of the office for nearly a month. The woman was the CIA's best field agent, it was said.
She sees Sark, eyebrows creased, looking thoughtful. "How is her death being handled?"
Lauren replies, "I was just getting to that. The CIA has decided-"
"I don't mean among the agency. I mean among her colleagues, her fellow agents, her friends. Her father."
Lauren matches his eyes. "Considering your prolific record in hired murder, I wasn't aware that you would care about the emotional aspect of her death."
"I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward."
Lauren frowns slightly, and, changing the subject, says, "Describe your first meeting with Agent Bristow."
* * *
She sticks her keys in the ignition without starting the car, and she takes a long sip of her latte.
She is disappointed - the last page of the notebook hadn't held any sort of message. Instead, she reviews their conversation over and over in her head.
The one part that sticks out most clearly in her head is this: "I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward." It is definitely an oddly phrased sentence. And it's also uncharacteristic - Sark's grammar and sentence structure is nearly flawless.
It stays in Lauren's head all day, and all the next day, until she is approached by Lindsay at her desk and is told she's being moved to the Sydney Bristow interrogation.
Lauren stares at him in disbelief. "Why?"
Lindsay looks surprised. "Ms. Reed, this is a promotion. And unless you're suggesting you have some sort of personal attachment to Mr. Sark-"
"No, sir, I don't. I was just startled."
"Okay, then. Tomorrow you'll be speaking with Jack Bristow and Michael Vaughn. Get prepared." He walks off.
At home, she looks at the yearbook pages again. She's at a dead end, and she knows it.
And suddenly, without any forewarning, it hits her. He has given her a clue after all.
She lets the revelation sink in a little, before resuming her thoughts.
She has no way of knowing for certain, of course - she isn't even sure of why he's told her.
But she is certain that she knows what he wants. She is certain she is once again, heading in the right direction.
Except for one simple problem. Lauren will likely never meet Sark again.