[The following chapter takes place following Sark's release from CIA
custody, post-Succession.]
Several Months Later
On an impulse, Lauren takes her latte to one of the tables by the piano player, sits down, and breathes in the combination of caramel and hazelnut coffee before sipping.
She doesn't feel like going home yet - she needs this time for herself, before going home, to see Michael. She wonders what she'll say when she tells him she's met Sydney Bristow for the first time. She wonders what he'll do. She wonders what he'll say.
She watches the deft fingers of the man fly across the piano. She is so entranced that it takes a few seconds to notice the man directly across from her.
"Ms. Reed - pleasure to see you outside the office."
Lauren almost drops the cup. She manages to cough out, "You do realize what a compromising situation this is, don't you?"
Sark offers her half a smirk. "And of course, I've provided for it. You can't use your cell phone - it was disabled, as were the others in the building - there are some of my own people armed, outside, more than ready to fire at you if you exit within forty-five minutes, and the piano player is not really a piano player."
Lauren darts a sharp, subtle glance at the older man seated on the velvet bench. With another look at Sark's face, she remarks, "Nice bluff."
"Now, Ms. Reed," he says, with almost a full smirk, "down to business. What did you find out with the information I gave you?"
Lauren takes a deep breath and looks at him squarely. "Before I tell you a word, I would appreciate an explanation."
"Very well then." He looks to be composing himself, and begins, "I'll try to make this as clear as it's possible to do.
"I was kidnapped in 1982 at the age of five, from Brownstone, and I was forced to begin training as an agent for a certain rogue Russian group. Part of the training was the removal of memories of our families and homes. You can understand, perhaps, why this subject was never a concern for me, until about two years ago - my conscious mind presented a memory of someone named Aleksandra, only the name."
Lauren waits for him to continue.
"I began a search for answers, on my own time - until I was captured by the CIA, thus halting my investigation. The reason I remembered your name - Lauren Reed - was because I was taken the night after viewing the performance. I had kept the program - it was my only entertainment for several days."
Lauren can see the boy in the photograph - the one with the innocent eyes and tousled hair - alone in a room, reading a small white paper and memorizing the names just for something to do.
"When I met you for my interrogation, aside from recognizing you, I had an instinct, almost, that you might be of use in finding Aleksandra. I had no idea, quite honestly, when I would be out of prison, if ever. So I relayed to you what I already knew and just hoped you might follow through with it."
She has only started to realize the unseen role she's played in his life, and how long it's taken to notice. Slowly, she says, "Aleksandra Rowan was the older sister of Nicholas Rowan. Rowan was not their real surname - it was, in fact, Lazarey. Their father had wished to secure their identities, due to their Romanov ties."
Sark looks at her curiously. "You use the past tense - for a different reason?"
"When I discovered the existence of your sister, I searched a bit more, to find her current status - not knowing about the Lazarey connection until recently. I assume you didn't know either."
"True. Go on."
"Aleksandra Rowan was murdered. Without a will, all her shares in the inheritance would pass over to you after Andrian Lazarey's death." Making it $800 million total. "There was a dead trail after that. No ideas as to who might have killed her or why."
"And I suspect, if you had persisted, it might have been traced back to the Covenant. Mere speculation on my part."
They sit in silence together as the piano plays a few more lines and comes to a finish.
Sark looks thoughtful and almost serious as he rises with his steaming black coffee. "I appreciate it, Ms. Reed, I do. I owe you a favor." He glances over his shoulder. "Your drink's been paid for. Good afternoon."
Lauren gives him an imperceptible but curiously sincere nod.
She watches him as he leaves the café, and, sighing with the knowledge she'll be here for the next three-quarters of an hour, she turns to watch the piano player, just beginning a new song.
4/4
Several Months Later
On an impulse, Lauren takes her latte to one of the tables by the piano player, sits down, and breathes in the combination of caramel and hazelnut coffee before sipping.
She doesn't feel like going home yet - she needs this time for herself, before going home, to see Michael. She wonders what she'll say when she tells him she's met Sydney Bristow for the first time. She wonders what he'll do. She wonders what he'll say.
She watches the deft fingers of the man fly across the piano. She is so entranced that it takes a few seconds to notice the man directly across from her.
"Ms. Reed - pleasure to see you outside the office."
Lauren almost drops the cup. She manages to cough out, "You do realize what a compromising situation this is, don't you?"
Sark offers her half a smirk. "And of course, I've provided for it. You can't use your cell phone - it was disabled, as were the others in the building - there are some of my own people armed, outside, more than ready to fire at you if you exit within forty-five minutes, and the piano player is not really a piano player."
Lauren darts a sharp, subtle glance at the older man seated on the velvet bench. With another look at Sark's face, she remarks, "Nice bluff."
"Now, Ms. Reed," he says, with almost a full smirk, "down to business. What did you find out with the information I gave you?"
Lauren takes a deep breath and looks at him squarely. "Before I tell you a word, I would appreciate an explanation."
"Very well then." He looks to be composing himself, and begins, "I'll try to make this as clear as it's possible to do.
"I was kidnapped in 1982 at the age of five, from Brownstone, and I was forced to begin training as an agent for a certain rogue Russian group. Part of the training was the removal of memories of our families and homes. You can understand, perhaps, why this subject was never a concern for me, until about two years ago - my conscious mind presented a memory of someone named Aleksandra, only the name."
Lauren waits for him to continue.
"I began a search for answers, on my own time - until I was captured by the CIA, thus halting my investigation. The reason I remembered your name - Lauren Reed - was because I was taken the night after viewing the performance. I had kept the program - it was my only entertainment for several days."
Lauren can see the boy in the photograph - the one with the innocent eyes and tousled hair - alone in a room, reading a small white paper and memorizing the names just for something to do.
"When I met you for my interrogation, aside from recognizing you, I had an instinct, almost, that you might be of use in finding Aleksandra. I had no idea, quite honestly, when I would be out of prison, if ever. So I relayed to you what I already knew and just hoped you might follow through with it."
She has only started to realize the unseen role she's played in his life, and how long it's taken to notice. Slowly, she says, "Aleksandra Rowan was the older sister of Nicholas Rowan. Rowan was not their real surname - it was, in fact, Lazarey. Their father had wished to secure their identities, due to their Romanov ties."
Sark looks at her curiously. "You use the past tense - for a different reason?"
"When I discovered the existence of your sister, I searched a bit more, to find her current status - not knowing about the Lazarey connection until recently. I assume you didn't know either."
"True. Go on."
"Aleksandra Rowan was murdered. Without a will, all her shares in the inheritance would pass over to you after Andrian Lazarey's death." Making it $800 million total. "There was a dead trail after that. No ideas as to who might have killed her or why."
"And I suspect, if you had persisted, it might have been traced back to the Covenant. Mere speculation on my part."
They sit in silence together as the piano plays a few more lines and comes to a finish.
Sark looks thoughtful and almost serious as he rises with his steaming black coffee. "I appreciate it, Ms. Reed, I do. I owe you a favor." He glances over his shoulder. "Your drink's been paid for. Good afternoon."
Lauren gives him an imperceptible but curiously sincere nod.
She watches him as he leaves the café, and, sighing with the knowledge she'll be here for the next three-quarters of an hour, she turns to watch the piano player, just beginning a new song.
4/4