Like Walking On Knives

by auburnnothenna

Even Sark doesn't know who he really is. AU. 37 parts in four sections, complete.

3. Section Three

XXI. Dividing Loyalties

Bristow had appeared outside his cell, opened it, and tossed him a tailored suit. Not one of his own, but very good---Bristow had good taste and an eye for sizes---Sark noted as he stripped off the prison jumpsuit.

"Two minute window," Bristow told him, "before security catches the camera loop."

He nodded and moved faster. The clothes felt good.

"Shoes," Bristow said and produced them from the briefcase that had held the suit. Sark put them on. Not quite as good a fit as the suit, but he didn't care for the moment.

Bristow handed him a laminated ID tag to clip to his lapel. The photo showed someone young, medium brown hair slicked back, eyes hidden behind a set of heavy, black framed glasses. Alexander Sorenssen. Sark went to the stainless steel sink to wet his fingers and then slicked his hair back to match the photo. Bristow handed him a set of glasses with a faint brown tint as he stepped out of the cell for the first time in three months.

Even in the corridor, the air felt different, and adrenaline began pulsing through his veins. He casually finished knotting the gray tie as he fell into step at Bristow's shoulder.

The two armed Federal Marshals that had stood guard outside his cell were on the floor. He didn't know if they were dead or drugged. He spotted the telltale head of a trank dart on one man's neck. Knocked out, then. They'd wake up with headaches, nausea, and no idea what had happened.

Considering that Sark would have shot them dead if he had been the one planning this extraction, he hoped they would be suitably grateful.

Bristow didn't look good. He'd lost weight, traded it for haggard lines and eyes full of regret since the day he'd demanded that Sark tell him where Sydney was. In the time that Sark had spent in a cell, no one had found any trace of what had happened to the man's daughter. Sark had figured out that much from the questions he was asked and the wild accusations Agent Vaughn shouted at him one day. Kendall was subtler---just---but every one of his interrogators had worn that tight, tired look of worry when they asked what Sloane's plans for Sydney were.

Sark had answered when it was expedient, kept most of what he knew to himself, and used that silence to hide what he didn't know. What he did pick up alarmed him.

Sloane had disappeared, along with the assembled Rambaldi device, Il Dire.

Irina had gone deep underground, though there were indications the Organization was once more at war with Sloane's minions.

And Sydney had vanished.

He actually quite liked Sydney Bristow. If Sloane had her---that wouldn't be good for her. He doubted it would serve Irina's plans either, what he knew of them, but for once he found himself considering someone before Irina's orders. If he could have supplied something helpful to Sydney, he would have. ---As long as it didn't cost him personally.

The barred gates along the corridor gaped open in sequence. More guards were down. Tranked, too. The security monitors showed a scene of Sark simply sitting in the center of his cell. A tape loop, he assumed, recorded on another day. His routine of exercise, meditation, tai chi, and more meditation made the static scene unremarkable to any observer in another part of the Ops Center.

Bristow led him out of an elevator and into the underground parking garage. They walked fast to a black-painted SUV parked in a camera blind spot. Sark ducked inside while Jack sedately rolled them out of the parking garage. Two minutes later Bristow handed him the keys to a pre-situated vehicle, while he answered his cell phone.

"Bristow."

Sark paused with the keys in his hand, looking inquiringly at the CIA agent.

"Right. I'm coming in," Bristow said, sounding clipped and angry. "Do you know how he got out?"

A wide smile of admiration lit Sark's face.

"I'm on my way. We need to lock down all the airports and airfields. The docks too."

Well, that told him where not to go, didn't it, Sark thought, laughing silently.

"He'll head south. Close the border."

North then.

Bristow pointed at the glove box in front of Sark. Sark obligingly opened it and withdrew a laminated map of the California coast. A meandering route up the valley had been highlighted, one that would take him all the way into Oregon. A private airfield was marked there. A credit card, also in the name Sorenssen, along with a set of ID, had been tucked into the maps folds. Sark pocketed all of it.

Bristow grunted into the cell phone, then said, "I'm surprised there were no casualties. Sloane and Derevko aren't usually so careful."

Sark bit his lip. Like his daughter, Bristow liked to skate as close to the edge as he could. He'd probably missed the rush of playing double agent and fooling Sloane and all of the Alliance. He'd taken Sark out right under everyone's nose and no one in the CIA had a clue. He wondered what leverage Irina had used to force the man into cooperating.

Bristow cut the call off and turned to Sark. "The ID is solid. The credit card and bank accounts are real. There's enough there to get you out of the country. What you do after you drive away from here is up to you. ---I have to go."

"My thanks for expediting my exit, Agent Bristow," Sark said lightly. "I'll take care of myself. And if something goes wrong---"

Bristow waved his hand. "Just get out and go."

Sark left the SUV and got into the Mercedes sedan. It purred to life with a turn of the key. The gas tank was full. He kept the heavy glasses on, knowing they changed the shape of his face, along with his profile, and drove north. Behind him, Bristow returned to the Operations Center, to lead the hunt.

Sark thought of that and laughed out loud. Khasinau would have loved the irony.

XXII. The Mercenary
though my face remained changelessly there.

The picture had thrown his plans off track. Sark didn't want Sloane to see the Rambaldi folio before he made sure it contained nothing more to draw that madman's interest toward him. Under more normal circumstances, he would have availed himself of his own network's resources to provide a set of false papers for the man. But that would alert Derevko at the center of her web of Rambaldi interests, and he had even less desire to turn the pages over to her.

Sark checked into a businessman's hotel with a much lower profile than the Swissôtel, using one of his back-up identities.

The room smelt of industrial cleaners and old cigarette smoke. It held a bed, a dresser, a small table and one chair. Sark had pulled the curtains over the window and snapped on the yellow tinged over head lamp. Its light proved faintly uneven, distorted by shadows of insects drawn to it and left within the frosted glass shade.

He dropped his pack on the burnt-orange bedspread, pulled out his laptop and set it on the table. Next he took out the folio. He left it on the bed. Finally, he drew the piece of parchment from beneath his shirt and unrolled it.

"Bloody hell," he muttered.

He laid the torn piece on the table next to his laptop, just to stare at it. He'd had photographs taken of him that bore less resemblance. Lines of sepia ink showed a young, hard face, with a dissolute mouth and cold, determined eyes.

Now he could see a scrawled line of words that he'd missed in his first, shocked look while in the tunnels.

Sark stared at it, then opened the cipher program on his laptop and transcribed the coded words into it. While it worked, he checked through the other pages of the folio, growing more and more rattled. The sharp beep that signaled the completion of the program's efforts drew him back to the laptop to read what the words meant.

It was another bit of damning prophecy.

Il Condottiere may turn the key to all my works and loose the fury; unless reined to another's duty and bound by more than silver and glass, by my work he will burn all in the house of God.

"Bloody, bloody hell."

He considered his options carefully. The monks' translations were harmless, though they referenced the drawing, there were no descriptions. But the rest of the folio was exactly what Sloane wanted: directions to utilize Il Dire, even without---Sark shuddered---the Children. He had to assume that meant Sydney and, considering the new bit of prophecy, himself.

He had to wonder if Rambaldi wasn't the reason Derevko had taken such an interest in him after his mother's death. Did she know of Il Condottiere? At least it would be an explanation.

With a hand that wanted to shake until he disciplined himself into stillness, he took out his cell phone and tapped in Jack Bristow's number.

He hadn't even thought to consider the time; he was too disturbed. Bristow picked up on the third ring once more.

"Yes?"

Noncommittal, as always, Sark noted. He was too off balance to care much. His voice wanted to shake just as his hand had. "This is---" He stopped and gathered himself.

Bristow's voice was sharp, intent. "What is it?" He'd recognized Sark just from those two words.

Sark almost choked on the words.

"I need your help."

Bristow was silent for so long, Sark began to wonder if he hadn't gone mad in that holy ossuary. The older man's words, when they did come, were cautious. A frown would be pulling his brows together. "What sort of help?"

Sark swallowed hard.

"The counter missions Sydney used to work," he said. "She would switch out items, turning over fakes provided by the CIA to SD-6. I need a false folio, something Sloane won't detect, and I can't use my contacts."

He looked at the papers spread over the table and the still made bed. "I just recovered the real thing---"

"Rambaldi," Bristow interrupted.

Sark nodded jerkily though Bristow couldn't see. "Sloane expects me to turn it over as soon as I have it." He recovered some of his composure and added, "I realize this doesn't materially aid your pursuit of Sydney, but from a casual perusal of the folio I am quite certain this is information the CIA does not want to fall into Sloane's hands. It references Il Dire and appears to be an operating manual."

"Why can't you use your own people?" Bristow asked shrewdly.

"Because Derevko would hear of it," Sark snapped. "Believe me; neither of us wants her to have this information."

"I'll need the real thing," Bristow said abruptly. "Marshall can use it as a template for the counterfeit. Bowman can rewrite the critical sections."

Sark looked at the papers again.

"All right."

Bristow must have expected an argument. "Obviously, this is a time critical exercise. I'll dispatch a courier to pick up the folio."

Sark laughed sardonically. "What, you can't come yourself?"

"Sloane probably keeps tabs on my movements."

"Probably," Sark agreed wearily. "He appears to be doing to same to me---for what reasons I'm not sure. I thought his obsessions were strictly with Rambaldi and you Bristows."

Bristow drew in a harsh breath, the sound distinct even through the cell phone speaker.

"Your association with Derevko makes you a valuable piece on the chessboard," Bristow said.

A hiccupping laugh escaped Sark. Il Condottiere. Something more than a mere pawn, indeed. A key. Silver and glass. He felt sick and lightheaded and rattled. He hadn't been so unsettled since his first seduction, the one that ended in him killing the target in the kitchen instead of the bedroom. He hadn't started shaking until it was done and he was alone again, as he was now.

Bristow zeroed in on the uncharacteristic slip the way Sark would normally have pounced on the man's own odd reactions. "What's wrong with you?"

"I don't---" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm tired. I'm just tired."

If that had been some odd species of concern Sark had heard, Bristow shifted and hid it behind business. "Where and when?"

"If I leave Lima, Sloane or Derevko will know. Get your courier to the Pantanos de Villa, in the Chorillos District," Sark said, thinking quickly. "Tomorrow, four o'clock. ---Who will you send? I'll be watching the entrance."

"Marcus Dixon," Bristow said. "I know he isn't doubling for Sloane or your employer."

"No, but he might shoot me on sight," Sark remarked. Dixon had never approved of Sark, even before he learned of Sloane's deceits when they were both putative members of SD-6, but Bristow did have a point. If any man was immune to being suborned, it was Marcus Dixon.

"Not as long as he believes this may lead us to Sydney."

"This isn't---"

"Keeping those papers out of Sloane's hands is a good enough reason," Bristow interrupted. "Dixon won't jeopardize that."

"All right."

"Sark---"

"Yes?"

Bristow hesitated. "Get some rest or you'll begin making mistakes." He hung up.

Sark decided he would try to interpret Bristow's quick agreement to his request later. He was too tired to make sense of it. Instead, he took the man's advice and, after restoring the folio to its original order and tucking the drawing into a hidden compartment in his laptop's case, lay down on the scratchy bedspread. He set his pack next to him and hid his Glock beneath it, within easy reach. Then he went to sleep.

XXIII. Such Men Are Dangerous

"Have you lost your mind, Jack?" Dixon hissed.

Jack had been waiting for him in the parking garage when he arrived, drawing him aside to ask for the favor.

"You can't trust Sark."

"You can trust Sark to do exactly what it takes to survive," Jack said.

"Since when has that included working for you?" Dixon asked. His dark eyes widened as he put everything together. "Since you got him out of custody? Do you have any idea what sort of charges you'll face if that's discovered?"

"It was a calculated risk," Jack said indifferently. They were standing next to a concrete support pillar, hidden from anyone exiting the elevators. The distant sound of LA traffic echoed through the half empty reaches of the garage. More cars were arriving with the day shift. Dixon had pulled in early, as Jack himself usually did.

"I still don't like it."

"Liking doesn't matter."

Dixon threw up his hands in disgust. "Fine. Where am I going?"

"Peru."

"Kendall is going to have my balls."

"Not when you come back with a genuine Rambaldi folio and make sure Sloane gets a fake," Jack pointed out. No reason to tell Dixon that Kendall already unofficially knew what Jack had done.

"How do you know what Sark's turning over is the real thing?" Dixon asked suspiciously.

"I don't, but what he wants is to feed fakes to Sloane, so it doesn't matter what he's providing in exchange," Jack replied. He thought of how Sark had sounded on the phone in the middle of the night. Raspy. Exhausted. Shaken. Why had he called Jack? None of that had been an act and he didn't like contemplating what could have thrown Sark so completely that he saw a cold CIA agent as his best option.

Sark still didn't know the truth and Jack wasn't sure how he would react to it. He understood that Sark would find it out eventually. Sooner or later, Irina or Sloane would use that knowledge, either to lever something from Jack or from Sark. He'd almost said something when Sark's bright mind had turned to Sloane's fascination with 'you Bristows.'

"Maybe," Dixon admitted, drawing Jack's thoughts away from the past and the possibilities.

Jack pulled a set of papers out of his coat and handed them to Dixon. "It's a chartered jet. You should be in Lima with sufficient time to rendezvous with Sark at four o'clock. Go to the Pantanos de Villa. He knows you, let him make the approach."

"You're asking a lot, Jack," Dixon said, taking the paper work and checking it. The passport and ID papers were the best available. The jet would wait at the airport, ready to return Dixon and the folio to LA. "I don't want to lose my job."

"I know."

Dixon looked at him solemnly. "But it's for Sydney, isn't it?" he said. "Even this, working with Sark, is for Sydney."

"How far would you go for your children, Marcus?" Jack asked him.

Dixon nodded and said, "As far as I had to."

Jack scrubbed at his face wearily. He hadn't slept since Sark's phone call, putting together Dixon's travel plans and worrying what it meant that Sark was working with Sloane again.

"Thank you, Marcus," he said.

Dixon lifted the passport and papers in his hand in an aimless gesture, obviously slightly embarrassed. "I'd better go."

"Yes, he can't stall too long."

Dixon headed back for his car. Jack hesitated, then walked after him, speaking in a low voice. "Be careful, Marcus. Sark sounded like Sloane had him under pressure---"

"And even the best operatives get unpredictable under too much pressure," Dixon interrupted. "I'll watch my back."

Jack opened his mouth to tell him---what he didn't know---he couldn't tell Dixon to look out for Sark, couldn't tell him to watch Sark's back. In the end, he could only say, "I need what he can tell us about Sloane and Derevko's operations. One of them has Sydney. Sark can help me get her back."

"I've got it, Jack," Dixon assured him, got into his car, and drove away.

Jack stood in the hollow expanse of the parking structure, breathing in the scent of oil and exhaust, concrete, and the last phantom traces of the night's coolness still lingering in the deeper shadows. Where the ramp exited into the street, the morning sun turned the opening into a square of white light.

He watched Dixon's car disappear into the light, then turned back to his own duties. As he walked toward the elevators, he patted his pocket absently, checking that the cell phone Sark had called into was there.

XXIV. Migration

Dixon didn't recognize him. That's how good Sark was. The college kid in the backwards Cubs baseball cap, a day's growth of golden stubble, baggy jeans, and black and green Triage T-shirt, slid right under Dixon's radar. The kid looked like he probably had something annoyingly raucous playing on his Discman and a couple of joints stashed somewhere on him.

He did not look like the lethal little bastard they'd tangled with repeatedly.

He was sitting on a rock in plain sight along the hiking trail, wrestling with a map. Dixon walked right past him, along with the rest of the group of tourists he was following.

A moment later, the kid from beside the trail was loping up beside him, calling out in a surfer accent, "Hey, man, you American?"

Dixon turned back, realized the boy was Sark, and schooled his features into curiosity and interest.

"Yes," he admitted.

Sark grinned. "Great. Maybe you can figure this map out for me. My Spanish sucks, no one gets what I'm asking half the time." Then he was next to Dixon, handing him the map---and something else folded within it---and stabbing a finger at something on the map. "So, like, can you make sense of this thing for me? "

Dixon paused and pretended to check the map. Sark smoothly moved forward a step, using his body to block anyone from seeing Dixon slide the folio into his pocket.

"What's the problem?" Dixon asked.

"Is that---" Sark pointed at something on the map still held in Dixon's hand, "---a train depot or a bus line?"

"Bus," Dixon said, straight faced. He'd almost laughed. One thing he'd noted during Sark's tenure at SD-6: the bastard was a polymath linguist just like Sydney. They hadn't once run across a language Sark didn't speak.

They had paused along the trail long enough that the other bird-watchers had drawn well ahead of them. No one paid attention to two tourists trying to make sense of a map. Only a Japanese with a Nikon could be any more invisible.

Sark took back the map and shoved it messily into the backpack he'd hooked over one shoulder. Reverting to his usual silky accent, he said quietly, "Tell Agent Bristow I need the counterfeits by the day after tomorrow at the latest. I can't stall Sloane or excuse my continued presence in Lima to my employer any longer than that."

"What's your agenda, Sark?" Dixon demanded in a low voice. "You're not helping the CIA for nothing."

Sark smirked. "I'm not helping the CIA, Agent Dixon," he said patiently. "You're helping me."

"And I want to know why."

Sark pulled off his sunglasses and looked straight at Dixon. Eyes like blue ice, Dixon had thought from the first, but today there were emotions shifting behind them; nothing he could identify but they were there. Looking at him closely, Dixon could see Sark was drawn too taut, with a pale, bruised look reminiscent of Sydney during her double agent missions. Dixon supposed double crossing Derevko and Sloane might push any man---even an arrogant SOB like Sark---to his limits.

"Sloane has something that belongs to me," Sark said in a clipped voice. "He expected me to act like a performing dog to get it. Since it has nothing to do with Derevko, I can't rely on her help, but I have no intention of giving Sloane what he wants."

"If you double cross---"

"Grow up, Agent Dixon," Sark snapped. "It's how the world goes round."

Dixon felt a flash of anger, a desire to punch the cynical brat, but it passed quickly. What did Sark know anyway? Only what he'd been taught, what he'd seen done and done himself. He just had to believe Jack wasn't playing frog to the blond's scorpion. Still, he couldn't resist a dig.

"I feel sorry for you."

Sark's eyes widened fractionally and Dixon knew the satisfaction of having scored on him. But Sark had paled too and backed away a fractional step, far more of a reaction than he'd ever betrayed before. Shot at, beaten to a pulp, barefoot and cuffed to a chair while at Sloane's nonexistent mercy, locked in a cell or bleeding in Siberia, Sark had always been annoyingly poised. Seeing the façade crack, even slightly, Dixon realized what Jack had meant. Much more was going on than a counter-mission against Sloane. Sark was on the edge.

The mask snapped back into place and with it, a vicious retort. "At least I can hit who I aim at."

Dixon's hand shot out and grabbed Sark's shoulder. He shook him and growled, "Shut the fuck up---"

The knife, its tip already through his shirt and pricking just under his ribcage, stopped Dixon.

"Hands off," Sark said, all ice again.

Dixon lifted his hand away, fingers spread ostentatiously. He kept his movement slow. The knife point still rested against his flesh, perfectly steady.

"I think it's time we went our separate ways, Agent Dixon. I'm sure you have a plane to catch," Sark finally remarked, withdrawing the stiletto and deftly making it disappear.

"How do we contact you?" Dixon asked, forcing himself back into professional mode.

Sark appeared unbothered by the sudden threat of violence. He recited a cell code and said, "Call me."

Then he slapped Dixon on the shoulder, said loudly, "Oh, hey man, muchas gracias, like. And take a look at the egrets, they're totally cool. See ya around." He slipped his sunglasses back on and strolled away, hands shoved in the deep pockets of those loose jeans, like he hadn't a care in the world beyond buying his next beer and getting laid sometime before he headed back to college.

Dixon finished his walking tour of the wetlands, admiring the various migratory birds in residence, and noting that the white plumed egrets were, indeed, cool.

XXV. Damn the Past

Dixon strode into the lab and handed the folio over to Marshall. The diminutive tech genius looked like Santa had brought just what he wanted, leafing through the brittle pages. He practically bounced as he studied the folio.

Rambaldi held no delight for Jack Bristow, Dixon noted. The older man looked worn. He'd picked Dixon up at the airport and driven him through the shattered-light spectacle of nighttime LA straight back to the Ops Center with little more than a grunt.

Now he stood upright as always, darkened eyes focused on Marshall, silhouetted against a bank of flickering blue-toned monitors. He inclined his head toward Marshall and the Rambaldi pages he was laying out over a light table. "Thank you."

Dixon shrugged uneasily. He could never read Jack. The man was too still. Jack never doffed his game face; emotions didn't run across his features the way they did Sydney's. Sometimes it was hard to grasp that she was Jack's daughter, not when she looked so much like Irina Derevko, not when she let herself smile. Jack never let anything slip.

Jack withdrew a fountain pen from his pocket, unscrewed it, and activated the bug jammer hidden within it. One of Marshall's toys, Dixon thought. Marshall looked up and shook his head. "Oh, hey, Mr. B, you don't need that in here. I run an anti-surveillance blitz every two hours, plus this whole lab is jammed," Marshall said, waving his hands around at the various pieces of equipment filling his electronic den. "Don't want the baddies getting hold of anything I put together here, you know?"

"Procedure, Marshall," Jack said grimly.

"Oh, okay."

"Just get started. We need a false version made up before tomorrow."

Marshall blinked, glanced at Dixon, opened his mouth, then closed it. "Yeah, okay, I'm on it, Mr. B."

Jack turned back to Dixon. Dixon returned his look, exhaustedly.

"How did it go?"

"He got the drop on me from the first, threatened me with a knife, and gave a number to call when you want to make contact," he said.

Jack pursed his lips.

"How did he look?"

Dixon gave his head a tired shake. Why the hell would Jack Bristow sound concerned over Sark? It was there though, that note, Dixon recognized it from debriefing after some of Sydney's missions. Maybe Jack was cracking under the stress of Sydney's disappearance. Maybe Dixon was hearing something that wasn't there and he was the one doing the cracking.

"Strung too tight and pissed at Sloane, I'd say," he answered.

"Curious."

"He can take care of himself."

Jack nodded. "He has to, doesn't he?"

Marshall looked up from the parchments. "This stuff, this is just incredible, I mean, it's almost too good to be true. I don't know where you got it, but it's just, wow."

Jack said, "I was told it looked like an operating manual."

Marshall's head bobbed. "Exactly. It lays out how to make Il Dire work and the stuff it'll do without, um, something or someone Rambaldi calls the Children. There are references in the manuscript pages Carrie, that's Ms. Bowman, I mean the NSA, translated, that talk about the, um, the woman with the marks. . . " Marshall trailed off. No one felt comfortable mentioning Sydney and Rambaldi together in front of Jack. "So, um, anyway, the latest pages that have been decoded are talking about her and her brother, which you know, means that the woman on Page 47 can't be Sydney, because she, well, obviously you're her father, and she doesn't have any brother, because you'd know---ah, I'll just shut up."

"Dear God."

Marshall was staring at Jack and looking frightened. Dixon swiveled to look at Jack and was shocked. The man was white, a grimace of pain on his face. His hands had curled into fists.

"Jack?"

He ignored Dixon.

"Marshall, get me those counterfeits, and make sure there is nothing---nothing---in them about the Children or the woman on Page 47, much less anyone else," Jack commanded harshly. "No mention, no brother, understand?"

"I---Yeah, I got it, Mr. B," Marshall said.

"Good. ---Notify me as soon as they're ready." Jack swung back to Dixon, his gaze like a gun barrel tracking to a new target. "Dixon. I need the number Sark gave you. I'll deliver the counterfeits, myself."

He walked out of the lab.

"I guess I said something that got him, ah, sort of upset," Marshall mumbled.

Dixon sighed.

"I doubt it had much to do with you, Marshall," he said. "He's worried about Sydney."

"So'm I," Marshall muttered.

Dixon didn't know what to say then, because as the months passed, he'd begun to give up hope. He understood why Jack couldn't, but Marshall's blind faith was beyond him. "Just get this done as fast as you can, okay?" he said, heading for the lab's door.

"Got it."

He stepped into the corridor and stopped. Jack was leaning with his shoulders against the wall, his head dropped back and eyes squeezed closed. He looked like a man at the end of his rope. He was whispering under his breath.

"Damn you, Irina. Damn you, Arvin. Damn you."

Quietly as he could, Dixon turned and walked in the other direction, away from Jack, giving him that much privacy at least.

XXVI. Close Your Eyes

Marshall and Bowman had done an outstanding job, using period parchment and artificially aged inks, creating a set of fakes that would pass even a carbon dating test. The man really was a genius, one with a strangely good heart. He'd delivered the false folio to Jack's office himself, entering after a diffident knock.

"The only way anyone will ever know this isn't real is if they see the original, Mr. B," Marshall assured him, handing the counterfeit folio over.

Jack glanced at the parchments incuriously. He'd grown to hate the very name Rambaldi over the years. Today, that hate only burned hotter.

"Well, ah, I'll just, um, go now. Back to the lab," Marshall blurted. "Stuff to do, always stuff to do, not, not that I mean I have better stuff to do than---"

"Thank you, Marshall," Jack cut him off. Sometimes interrupting Marshall's blither seemed the kindest thing for both parties.

"Oh, ah, sure. No problem." Marshall backed toward the door and ran into it. He fumbled for the knob. "I'll just get out of your hair. Right." He managed to get the door open and started out, then paused. "You haven't got any news about Sydney, have you, sir?"

"No."

"Sorry, sir."

Jack grimaced. At least Marshall still thought she was alive. "It's all right, Marshall."

"O--okay."

He let the door swing shut behind the technical agent and gathered up his suit coat, an overcoat, and the passport he would be traveling under. He'd spent the long night and morning making arrangements so that he could slip into Lima and out without alerting the Agency, Derevko's organization, or Sloane.

He placed the false folio in his briefcase, made sure his CIA issue cell was charged and in his pocket, added a ceramic knife that could pass any metal detector to an ankle sheathe, and started out.

He nodded at Agent Vaughn in the corridor, not bothering with a greeting. The younger man had given up hope for Sydney all too quickly, earning Jack's personal enmity. He still worked with the agent sometimes, but it took an effort to hide his contempt. He didn't speak with him if he didn't have to.

Dixon was at his desk. His dark eyes followed Jack. He knew Dixon would say nothing to interfere. Dixon's loyalties couldn't be shaken; he couldn't imagine Jack doing anything truly against the interests of the CIA or his country, either. He was uncomfortable bending the rules, but he'd done it for Sydney. He was too decent at heart to refuse. He was too decent a man for this business and Jack sometimes regretted recruiting him into SD-6, even before Sloane had had the man's wife murdered.

He felt other eyes on him as he made his way through the maze of desks to where Kendall stood over another agent seated at a computer. Craig. Weiss. Reed. Others who had worked under him on the ops they'd run trying to find Sydney or catch up with Derevko watched, too. Jack ignored them.

"Kendall," he said quietly, coming to stop next to him. The plasma screen computer showed a satellite view of rough country, the infra-red hot spot of a vehicle moving along a road toward another set of hot spots. Venezuela. It looked like an ambush.

"Jack."

Kendall had on a headset and was obviously listening to a transmission from the ground. "Just hold," he commanded to team leader through the downlink. "Hold until you have a visual identification of the target. We only have one chance at this."

He turned sharp, pale eyes to Jack. "All right, I've got a minute before Larsen has to make a move. What is it, Jack?"

"I'm taking the weekend."

Kendall surveyed him, cataloging the lost weight, the shadows under his eyes, the gray color of exhaustion. "Good idea. You look like shit."

"I could use some rest." Not a lie, he just wasn't going to get it. Jack shrugged. "I'll be back Monday."

Kendall's eyes unfocused, listening to something from Agent Larsen. He waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, get out of here." Then he brought the mic back to his lips. "---Not you, Wrangler. You stay in place, do you hear me?"

Jack gave him a brusque nod and walked away. He had forty-five minutes to make it to the charter jet waiting for him.

XXVII. Effigy

Sark was startled to receive the call from Jack. He sounded vaguely, ever so faintly relieved when Jack assured him he had the counterfeits. He mentioned a cantina off the Plaza Mayor as a meeting place. Jack agreed.

He had to have been watching it. He fell into step next to Jack several doors ahead of the cantina's entrance.

"I think we'll try some place else," Sark said.

"It's your play," Jack agreed and followed him.

Sark surprised him by leading him to a low-end business hotel. The room showed no signs of occupancy, but something told Jack Sark had been there for more than one day.

He turned to Jack in the middle of the room, head tipped back, eyes alive with adrenaline. "Well? I'd like to see it," he said.

Jack withdrew the folio from a pocket inside his suit coat and held it out. Sark's eyes narrowed as he had to take a step closer to grasp it. He took it over to the small table and pulled the curtains open so that a shaft of light fell across it. Deft, long fingers fanned through the folio; blue eyes studying Marshall's work in the unforgiving sunlight.

"This is excellent, really quite excellent." Sark looked up and flashed a brilliant, almost heartbreaking smile at Jack. "Mr. Flinkman's work, I assume? Do give him my compliments." He stopped and laughed. "Or perhaps not."

"I doubt he'd appreciate them," Jack said dryly. "You make him nervous."

"A shame. I have nothing but admiration for his skills and intellect." Sark grinned at him and gestured to the only chair. "Really. I would recruit him instantly, were he on the market."

Jack shook his head, wanting to smile. Sark could be quite charming when he exerted himself, but there was a frenetic edge to him this time. Had he read enough of the original folio to guess at what it meant? Had that rocked him off balance? He shrugged off his overcoat, draped it over the back of the chair and sat.

"He takes a little getting used to," he said.

Sark closed the folio and carefully retied the string around it. His gaze stayed on it and one fingertip moved nervously along the edge. He looked abstracted. Jack decided to take a chance.

"Something in the original spooked you."

The blue eyes jerked up to meet Jack's look and widened.

"The operating manual references a second person who can activate Il Dire," Jack said. "You."

Sark shook his head. "That's mad. There was nothing in it that would lead you to---"

"Not without some prior knowledge," Jack said.

Sark stared at him, shocked. No, horrified, Jack decided. "The CIA knows it's me?" he said hoarsely.

"No. Only I do."

He could almost see Sark calculating whether his safest course wasn't to kill Jack right there and then. It surprised him a little, when Sark obviously decided against trying it. Instead, Sark paced around the room.

"I don't want this," Sark murmured, almost to himself. He shot another look toward Jack, a look full of suspicion and near panic. "No one could want this. Look what's happened to your daughter---"

"It's a lucky thing you didn't turn that folio over to Sloane," Jack said quietly. He wanted to get up, to put his hands on Sark's shoulders and make him sit down, and he knew better. It would be like trying to touch a trapped leopard. "He has the same information I have."

"Shit. ---My employer? Does she, did she know this?" Sark asked. The self-possession had fallen away, leaving only a bright young man who knew exactly how dangerous his situation had become. He didn't trust Jack; he simply had no one else to turn to. And Jack had no idea how to answer that question.

All he could say was, "It's always wisest to assume Irina Derevko knows more than you do."

Sark laughed raggedly and sat down on the burnt-orange covered bed. He wrapped his arms around himself in a transparently vulnerable posture, bright ruffled head bowed. Jack waited patiently and as he had known he would, Sark's training reasserted itself. The cool control coalesced again.

"I've always been unconscionably lucky," he said, voice lilting.

He bent and fished a pack from beneath the bed, taking out a sleek laptop. Opening it, he triggered a small, hidden compartment and pulled out a single, torn sheet of parchment. With a wry smile, he extended it to Jack. "I pulled this from the folio when I recovered it. I thought without it, no one would read anything into the rest of what was written."

Jack looked at the pen and ink drawing and pulled in a harsh breath. Like the Page 47 portrait of Sydney, the eerie accuracy was disquieting out of all measure. No one could look at it and not know that it was Sark, only seen and drawn by a fifteenth century genius-prophet. He noted the words along the ragged bottom of the sheet, where it had been torn from the rest of the page.

"Do you know what it says?"

Sark told him.

Jack looked at the page a little longer, then decisively began ripping it into shreds. If Sloane or Irina were ever to see it, or even anyone else in the CIA, there would be no safe place for Sark to run. Jack couldn't protect him. He couldn't protect Sydney and Sark was in a far more vulnerable position. Sark just watched him, biting one side of his lip unconsciously. When the picture was no more than confetti, Jack cupped the pieces in his hand, took them into the bathroom and flushed them.

Sark followed him, whether watching for some sleight of hand or just amazed that anyone might destroy a Rambaldi artifact, Jack didn't know. The swirl of rusty water took the shredded paper's bits into the Lima sewers with a slow gurgle. A few pieces clung to the side of the bowl and Jack waited then flushed again, draining them away too.

"That," Sark said raspingly, "never occurred to me."

"You've been around Derevko too long."

Sark hovered in the door way, clearly unsure of Jack and himself. "You aren't going to say anything about that, are you?" he asked.

"No."

"I don't even know why I showed it to you."

Jack knew. Sark had been desperate to share the frightening burden with someone---anyone---reaching out to keep from drowning in the sudden, sucking vortex of the Rambaldi madness. Instinct and logic had brought him to Jack, because Jack alone hadn't succumbed to the obsession. Jack didn't want Rambaldi's power or his secrets, he just wanted to protect his child, and in doing so might provide the same for Sark. He had no way of knowing that the danger came from being Jack's child too.

He didn't know.

Jack couldn't tell him, either. He had to let Sark think he kept the secret to keep a leash on him.

Jack looked at him steadily. "Pull yourself together."

Sark straightened indignantly and glared at Jack. His eyes swept back to the false folio sitting on the little table. "I have to get that to Sloane."

"Why are you working for him?"

"Let's just say he has something I want."

"Then watch your back," Jack said, picking up his overcoat and preparing to leave.

Sark smiled again, though his eyes were shadowed. "I always do, Agent Bristow."

XXVIII. Bloodless
Your skin changed,
your hair and your memory: you were never that other.

Sark was working at Irina's desk, in Irina's office, as he often had in the last few months. It had simply become more efficient to use her accesses. He had his own laptop plugged into the main system and had stripped off his suit coat and even folded back the sleeves of his dark blue dress shirt.

He was going over the security report from a private hospital he'd acquired in Singapore. It would require upgrading, but even with a significant investment, it promised to garner a satisfactory profit margin, once the correct interests became aware of the degree of discretion available there---for a price.

He felt Irina enter the room with that electric awareness that always alerted him to her. He lifted his head and watched her silently. She wore her typical travel gear: low heeled boots, black jeans, and a moss-green turtleneck that molded to her torso. She'd already shed her coat, if she'd had one. Her hair was pinned up carelessly. Two chunks of carved jade, dark green, adorned her ears, her only jewelry other than the gold wedding band.

He couldn't see her the way he had before, but Sark acknowledged she was still exotically, fascinatingly beautiful. The light from the glass-block wall behind him was kind to her, soft enough to erase years, and her bones were timeless. She was smiling the way Lilith might have smiled at Adam.

He thought he should hate her, but she hadn't changed, only his image of her had.

"Sark."

He lifted a brow.

"I wasn't aware you were returning from---" he paused, "---wherever, so soon."

"Some ventures," Irina murmured, looking pleased, "performed beyond my expectations." She ducked her head and walked over to the desk to stand behind him. "I was able to move my schedule forward."

Sark closed the program he'd been using. "And your schedule brings you back here," he said.

Irina laughed.

"Perhaps I missed you," she offered.

He wouldn't have believed that, even before. Never now. He couldn't believe she felt any affection for him at all. "Perhaps you have something you want me to do," he replied.

Irina ran her fingers over Sark's shoulder and murmured into his ear, "It's been too long."

He caught her hand and lifted it away.

"No."

Surprise, frustration, anger, calculation---he watched closely and saw all of them flicker in her eyes. Her expression turned cold. "You've never touched my daughter and Doren's dead. Aren't you feeling . . . lonely, Sark?" she said.

He shrugged. "No." He could go in to Larnaca and pick up a bed partner any time he wanted, if he wanted. Companionship would be harder to find, but Irina had never provided it in any case.

She ghosted her fingertips over his lips. "No?"

He didn't shiver at her touch, didn't incline his head or draw in a breath.

He still felt that pull toward her, desire, but no more than that. It was distant and merely physical. She didn't want him as more than a willing and well-trained body, not in any real way that would let him forgive her. That hungry ache to please, to make himself mean something to her, had gone.

It was a relief.

He'd been physically, violently sick, after reading the file Sloane had given him the first time. The clear pictures of his mother's body had brought every bad dream and nightmare back. Shot once in the head, in the middle of a park, in the middle of a summer day, the report said. She'd died instantly.

The report had been written by Alliance security, investigating the death of one of their agents. Something else he hadn't known. His mother had worked for the group he'd helped Derevko and Sloane sabotage and the CIA ultimately destroy.

He'd almost heard Khasinau's dry chuckle in his head. But that hadn't been what Khasinau had meant him to learn.

"No," he said indifferently and bent his attention to the work on his laptop again. "Business before pleasure."

"Join me for dinner on the terrace, then," she directed and left the office.

Sark acknowledged that with an absent nod, returning to his work.

The Alliance report speculated that the shooter had been a dark haired woman seen in the park earlier. A woman answering the description of a KGB assassin named Derevko.

The report was thorough, giving enough evidence to convince Sark. But then he knew Irina had been there, she'd been the one who took him away. Took him all the way to Kiev and the Project School, where the trainers molded him into a tool shaped just to her hand, and he forgot he'd been Alexander once and not Sark.

He had to work harder to keep the mask in place around her now. This was what she'd never meant him to know and if she suspected he did . . . . She might decide he was too unpredictable to keep around.

He wanted the rest of Khasinau's files. He wanted to know how Jack Bristow had known to give him an ID for Alexander Sorenssen. With the codes Sloane had provided, he could access the bank where the files were stored, but he'd need to go to Stockholm himself. Once he did that, he wouldn't be returning to Derevko's side.

It meant making arrangements to strike out on his own, to watch his own back as he'd told Bristow. He'd begun working on it on the plane out of Lima. Portions of his exit strategy had been in place for some time, but the rest of the arrangement had to be moved forward. When he left, he needed to damage the Organization so deeply Irina couldn't afford to come after him; she needed to be occupied with damage control.

He didn't mind that it would hurt her, a little, to see her carefully crafted empire brought down or at least crippled. She had cost him things he hadn't even known he had once had to lose.

He understood Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn as he hadn't been able to before. Nothing could make restitution for the dead, but he couldn't bear knowing Irina wasn't ever going to pay something for what she'd taken away.

He had already decided to feed most of the information to the CIA through Jack Bristow. Sloane didn't need more power and Sark didn't want the man gaining any more Rambaldi artifacts or information. Only Bristow knew about Il Condottiere and Sark wanted it to stay that way.

He smiled to himself, knowing that he'd succeeded in puzzling Irina by refusing her. He hadn't before, even when he'd been involved with Allison. He had only returned to Cyprus a few days before, reporting the successful sale of a weapons package to the Peruvians and nothing else. Irina had left for Marseille immediately. Since then he'd been combing through the computer networks, hunting out weaknesses in the Organization. If she asked, he was doing a security review.

Irina didn't ask. She'd been distracted, intent on matters that she refused to let Sark access. He'd been able to construct a picture from the holes in the information he did have, though. Something---or someone---had been moved from Marseille to Glasgow.

He hadn't been able to figure out where in Glasgow yet, but once he had location, it would be time to set his own plans in motion. Stockholm was waiting; the rest of his answers were there. Irina would realize then that he'd slipped the leash for good, but by then it would be too late.

XXIX. Other Hands, Other Eyes

"Does everyone have the mission briefing?" Kendall asked. Heads nodded around the table, eyes scanned the short summary displayed on their monitor screens. Jack watched Kendall, then let himself survey the group. He'd picked most of them, except where Kendall had overruled him and insisted Vaughn play a part. Will Tippin, Marshall, Craig, Henstall, Reed, Taylor and Mackenzie.

"Agent Bristow will be in overall charge of this operation, so I'll let him go over the plan," Kendall said, nodding to Jack to take over and seating himself.

Jack stood.

"We've received an anonymous tip that Irina Derevko will be running an operation in Stockholm five days from now."

Reed was frowning.

"How reliable is this information, sir?" she asked.

"We have independent confirmation from two other sources that Derevko is on her way to Stockholm," Jack said. He did his best to deal with Vaughn's wife fairly and dispassionately. Reed made it easier by never pushing. She was a good, smart agent. She seemed to have a good marriage with Vaughn. It was simply ironic that she'd been brought in to replace.

Reed nodded. The fluorescent light slid along her ice-pale hair, reminding Jack of another blond.

"No clue to what she's up to?" Will asked from the opposite side the conference table.

"None," Jack confirmed.

"What about Sark?" Vaughn questioned. His green eyes glittered.

"If he's there, take him down," Kendall said before Jack could answer. Jack glared and Kendall raised his eyebrows at him.

"Alive, if possible," Jack amended. He couldn't make it an order, he couldn't tell these people to take that chance when he knew Sark would kill them without blinking.

"Don't try too hard," Will muttered.

"I'm not afraid of Mr. Sark," Reed commented, smiling at Will. Her hand, graced with a gold band, reached over and squeezed Vaughn's. "He's just one man, no matter how good. We've caught him before." She inclined her head toward Vaughn.

"In Stockholm," Jack said. "He'll be doubly alert in the circumstances."

Will made a grumbling sound.

"Will, I want you and Vaughn to go over the information we have and draw up an ops plan. Marshall, you're in charge of making sure we get whatever op tech we need to support the plan. Reed, Taylor, Mackenzie, I want you inside the building. Derevko may have photographs of you, but she's never actually seen you. Craig, Henstall, you two will be outside."

"We don't know if Sark will be there," Jack went on. "The mission is to capture Derevko. We've already rolled up her operation in Cairo. She's coming out into the open because she's low on resources. It's time to take advantage of that."

The thought of taking Derevko down, of forcing her to turn over Sydney if she had her, of finally---just once---beating her, made Jack's heart trip. He couldn't let himself worry that Sark might get in the way. If the boy stayed loyal to her, then he would pay the price.

He had no idea what Sark would do though or what loyalties held him to Derevko. His ties to her seemed to be eroding, yet he returned to her time and again. Sark had certainly been wary of her learning of his part in Rambaldi's prophecies, though.

Sark was the wildcard.

XXX. Because It Is Bitter

An old, imperial capital, is Stockholm, a city on an archipelago. Water is a constant presence, with its bridges, boats, ferries; the taste of it in the air, Lake Mälaren and the Baltic.

Cobbled streets twist unexpectedly in the Old Town, constricted between buildings that predated the Great War, benefits of neutrality. No bombs ever fell on Stockholm. In the Gamla Stan, five and six story buildings face into the church square, red brick, yellow, browns, grays, narrow faced, with symmetrical rows of dark, rectangular windows paced across the facades.

The surveillance van is in place as the day slips into early evening, monitors showing the Sveavägen barely a block from where someone with an old Mauser left Olaf Palme dead on the sidewalk. It's too dim now, but earlier Jack could have squinted and---just---seen the plaque set into place to mark the scene of the assassination.

Some people walk right over it. Others carefully step to the side. Few acknowledge it though. Interesting.

The cross street is the Tunnelgaten, renamed Olaf Palma Gata where it crosses Sveavägen and widens, offering quick, easy access to the main artery of the Torsgaten north out of the Norrmalm into Vasa Staden. Jack's placed cars ready to follow in either direction. He has people from the local CIA station in place at the Hötorget entrance to the underground. It's difficult putting watchers in place; the area is commercial and heavily trafficked, the people mostly solitary and single minded, on their way somewhere, not loitering. Standing still stands out.

Palme isn't the first Swede to be shot. King Gustavus III was killed by one of his own noblemen, coming out of the Opera. A while back, that, 1792, but the parallels bear noting. A learned man, patron of the arts, Gustavus III, who wrote plays and poetry, and defeated the Danes' alliance with Catherine the Great. Shot down in the street, perhaps because of his involvement in the French Revolution.

Sark would appreciate the irony, Gustavus III and Palme, both killed in this clean, polite, cultured city with a carelessness that would rival any Wild West legend. So would Irina.

The monitors showed everything in blue and gray, blurred and faintly jerky. The human eye is good at pattern recognition though, the reptile brain is drawn to movement, it knows the hunting predator from the sated one. Jack had no trouble identifying Sark among the other blonds on the street, as the assassin approached the gilt and glass doors of the bank branch sandwiched among the brindled concrete commercial buildings.

He followed Sark's progress from the monitor showing the exterior to the hacked feed from the bank's security system. Sark was in one of his dark, elegant suits, carrying a slim briefcase, casually checking the watch on his wrist and making his way straight to his destination.

A slim, spectacled woman rose from her desk and greeted him, then guided him toward the manager's office. Even at the extreme camera angle and in black and white, Jack could see her discreet appreciation of the young man's looks and carriage. Her body language softened into restrained friendliness and she moved a half step closer to Sark's personal space than she probably did with most clients.

Beside him, Vaughn leaned closer to one of the monitors. His voice echoed in the van and the radio ear piece Jack wore.

"Heads up, Insider. Target Two is in the bank. Over."

Sark had disappeared into the manager's office. The security system didn't extend to personal offices, so he was out of coverage. The woman appeared through the doorway and made her way back toward the vault.

Jack scanned the rest of the monitors, checking the street again.

"Everyone check in," he murmured into the mic by his mouth. "Miner? Over."

"Miner, status green, out," replied the agent at Hötorget station.

Jack ran down the list, eyes shuttling between the exterior shots and the monitor focused on the bank manager's office door.

"Alpha car? Over."

"Alpha, green and ready. Out."

"Beta car? Over."

"Beta, good to go, out," the driver replied with a Texas twang.

"Outsider One? Over."

"Roger, Outsider team is in place, we're ready, over," Henstall radioed.

"Insider? Over." Jack asked.

Lauren Reed's voice replied immediately. "Insider has a visual on Target Two's last location. We are ready. Out."

"We should move, we should grab the little bastard," Vaughn said.

Jack swiveled in his seat and stared at Vaughn, giving him a look he'd been told was colder and less forgiving than the North Sea.

"May I remind you, Agent Vaughn, that we are here to apprehend Irina Derevko, not her lieutenant, no matter what personal antipathy you feel toward him," Jack stated flatly. Jack took a certain dark satisfaction in thwarting the agent since he had abandoned the search for Sydney almost a year before. Vaughn had taken Sark's escape as a personal affront. Losing him here would be a blow, one Jack wouldn't mind delivering. "Catching Sark is a secondary objective at best."

"Do you really think we're going to catch Irina Derevko this easily?" Vaughn asked, his voice filled with skepticism. Not unwarranted, either, Jack admitted. The anonymous tip bothered him, despite the confirmations. It hadn't come from Sark, he knew, the way the Maadi information had.

Vaughn was drumming his fingers against the console in front of him. Jack stifled the impulse to smack the man's hand.

"If he hurts Lauren . . ."

"Agent Reed is capable of watching out for herself," Jack said. Vaughn's wife was more than competent---not in Sydney's and Sark's realm---but as good as Marcus Dixon at least.

A burst of static in their ears preceded a transmission, snapping their attention back to the monitors.

"Outsider Two. I have a visual on four individuals in a black Mercedes moving north. Front passenger side is a match for Klaus-Peter Dietrich. The car appears to be moving into position on the bank entrance. Over."

Jack's gaze flicked from the monitor facing Sveavägen south and the Mercedes and back to the bank interior. The manager's assistant was returning to the office, carrying a flat black case. She disappeared into the office.

"Dietrich's ex-Stasi. He's worked for Derevko before," Jack said. "Be on the lookout for others. Out." He didn't like the way the Mercedes was waiting. Four people. It wasn't there to pick Sark up.

Vaughn's thoughts must have been running in the same direction. "There's something wrong here," he muttered.

Static crackled through the radio push. "Outsider Three, I've got two, no, three hostiles triangulating on the bank. Over." The transmission was muffled, the man making it keeping his voice low, trying to keep from attracting attention to himself. "Fuck, if these guys were any more obvious they'd be wearing signs."

"Well, it's hard to get good help these days. Out," Vaughn replied. He was working the surveillance camera, trying to zoom in on Outsider Three's hostiles. "Gotcha." Jack glanced over. The men in their long, heavy winter coats and chunky suits did have that East European, hired-thug appearance. Big men, not young, not old, muscle with carefully blank faces and dark, cruel eyes that swiveled and tracked through the crowds like gun turrets. "Not like Sark."

Jack chuckled dryly. Vaughn was more right than he knew.

The manager's assistant had seated herself at her desk and picked up a phone. Jack watched her, noting the stiff, taut set to her shoulders. Something about her posture was furtive; it screamed that she was doing something questionable.

He didn't like the look of this.

"Check the rooflines," he ordered. "Over."

Vaughn frowned.

"You think this is a set-up?"

Jack was staring at the monitor as Sark exited the manager's office, stopping to shake hands with man, a small smile on his face. The manager's assistant fumbled the phone and put it down, moving with a jerky nervousness that set off all of Jack's alarms.

"Sniper on the east side," Outsider One's voice broke in excitedly.

"No . . . ," Jack breathed. What had Sloane said? That Irina burned Sark to the Agency, to Sydney, to feed them information they'd believe, but something else too . . . Christ. To stop Sark from retrieving something Khasinau had left for him. Something in Stockholm.

Gustavus III. Palme. It was a fucking Swedish tradition. Step out onto the street and die.

Jack tore off his radio headset and tossed it on the console. On the monitor, Sark was still making small talk with the bank manager. "Vaughn. She's here somewhere. Maybe the sniper. Get someone up there and take whoever it is out," Jack snapped. He jerked open the back door of the van. "Now!"

"Where the hell are you going?!" Vaughn yelled as Jack jumped out. Jack ignored him, walking swiftly toward the bank.

Jack picked up speed, feeling that urgent sense of an op going bad that had saved him so many times. He cut across the traffic ruthlessly, ignoring the sudden squeal of brakes and the brush of a mirror that tore at his jacket.

He knew something was going wrong.

He knew what he was doing was drawing attention, probably making the situation worse. He was out of place, movement where there should be none, a dead giveaway to a knowing eye. He didn't care. He had to get into that bank and stop Sark stepping out onto that sidewalk killing ground.

He reached the opposite curb and broke into a sprint. Behind him, he heard a cry of protest, thudding feet, and didn't know if it came from one his team or the opposition. It didn't matter.

It was all a setup. It had Irina's fine hand written all over it. She wouldn't just take out a treasonous lieutenant, she had to make a production of it, show the world no one crossed her. Typically, she'd chosen to use Jack and his Agency as the medium for her message. Another way of demonstrating her power, manipulating her enemies into doing her work for her.

Oh, it was more than that too. It was showing him what she'd taken away from him. It was breaking her toy rather than letting anyone else play with it. It was a vicious slap at Jack himself and cold revenge on Sark for his very existence.

She was here. She was somewhere close. Irina liked to get in close for her kills, liked to see her victims' eyes. She'd want to see Jack's eyes, he knew. If she couldn't pull the trigger, she would still want to see it herself . . . .

Dear God, he should have told the boy, should have warned him, stopped him from returning to her. Jack cursed himself. He'd had the chance, in Peru, he could have done it, done what Sloane had suggested, and turned him. Sark had been open, he would have accepted it, would at least have known to never trust Irina Derevko.

Jack reached the glass doors; his hand was reaching for the gilt door handles. The roar of a big engine accelerating warned him. He jerked back against the wall and just dropped as the Mercedes roared onto the curb, swiping away two pedestrians. One of them was flung into a lamppost with a sickening crunch Jack heard through everything else; the other was caught under the big car's wheels.

Dietrich and two others were vaulting out of the Mercedes, black-knit balaclavas pulled over their faces, black leather gloves on the hands that held submachine guns that were pouring fire into the bank. The doors shattered into a razor-edged white cloud under the barrage; the glass settled over Jack like a thousand cutting particles of ice. Dietrich tossed something dark---grenade! the analytical part of Jack insisted---inside. Jack rolled his face to the wall and cringed as the concussion blew out the rest of the bank's glass in a shower of debris.

One of the Mercedes' back tires blew out. Jack rolled to his knees and pulled the SIG Sauer he carried from his shoulder holster. Instinctively, he used the two handed Weaver stance he'd learned thirty years ago at the Farm. He aimed at Klaus-Peter Dietrich's head. Jack favored hot hand-loaded bullets. He shot and the man was finished, the bullet entering the East German's temple and exiting in less than a nanosecond, taking most of the back Dietrich's skull with it.

Someone from Henstall's Outsider team was firing at the Mercedes, forcing the driver to keep his head down and cutting off the two others' line of retreat to it.

There was no cover. There was no cover on the sidewalk between Jack and the two killers. He saw them turning toward him and knew there were no options left. He brought the SIG up, lining up the sights on the closest man's head---the gunmen looked bulky enough they might be wearing body armor---and fired again.

No time to aim again, no time, he knew the third man would have a shot and take it before he could move again . . . Jack's lungs locked up, expecting the bullet. His eyes tracked to the black muzzle of the submachine gun.

How long does it take, to take up the slack on a trigger? Forever, if you're the man staring up the spout, waiting to see the muzzle flash before everything goes dark.

Jack was still waiting when time started again and the last gunman crumpled sideways to the accompaniment of two bullets firing from inside the bank. Nine-millimeter NATO standard some part of Jack's mind noted. All of his people were carrying standard CIA issue .45s.

The stutter of another submachine gun came through the air distantly. Outsider Three's hostiles exchanging fire with the rest of the team, somewhere up the Sveavägen toward the Adolf Fredrikskyrka park. The Mercedes was rolling forward aimlessly and drifting right, the glass on the driver's side punched out; the driver slumped over the steering wheel.

Jack staggered to his feet, ears ringing, fumbling the clip free of the SIG and slapping a full one into place.

He stepped through the blown-out doorway, scanning the lobby. Bodies on the floor, not moving, furniture torn, twisted, tossed around, broken glass scattered everywhere, raw white scars in the polished marble columns along the walls; take it all in, dismiss anything that isn't a threat. Jack kept moving. Someone was crouched under a turned over desk, sobbing and keening, cringing away as Jack stalked past. He kept his eyes moving, kept close to whatever cover he could find.

Where was his inside team, Taylor, MacKenzie and Reed? Where was Sark? He had to remember that Sark would see them and him as hostiles.

Nothing. No one.

Jack headed back toward the manager's office, the last place he'd seen Sark on the monitors.

He found the manager's assistant sprawled in the hallway. Her spectacles were just a foot away from her, one lens cracked in two. Jack knelt and tried to find a pulse at her neck, only to have his fingers sink into bloody, raw flesh and brush a chunk of shrapnel buried in her throat. Ruthlessly, he suppressed any reaction, wiped his hand on the carpet and rose. Nothing he could do for her, he told himself.

He ducked his head around a corner. Bodies on the floor, a blond head bent over one, a voice using English, intent rather than incoherent. Reed. The door opposite him was open and he could see the bank manager, whispering wildly into a cell phone. The man's eyes widened in fear as he saw Jack.

Jack nodded at him and kept moving.

Around the corner and it was Reed on the floor. He ignored the screaming and crying of the bank's customers and staff. All three of his inside people were down. One look told him Taylor would be going home in a body bag; Sark had gone for the headshot this time.

Reed was on her knees beside MacKenzie, drenched in blood. A dark stain was seeping through the blue carpet. She had the downed man's shirt ripped away and the blue plastic cover off a computer manual pressed over a wound in his chest. Trying to keep air from entering through the wound and collapsing the lung, Jack diagnosed. MacKenzie started to convulse, throwing Reed back.

Jack caught her shoulders and yelled in her ear. "Use your weight! Keep the wound sealed." Reed scrambled forward and set her knee onto MacKenzie's chest, holding the plastic in place. Blood bubbled from the wounded man's mouth as he fought to breathe.

She lifted her face to Jack.

"Medics?"

"On the way," he assured her, not knowing, but certain Vaughn would have made the call. They might even get there in time to help MacKenzie.

The blood on her was Taylor's. Splatters of it marked her suit, but most of it had hit her face and hair. All that blond hair had tumbled out of its knot and was soaked in red on one side.

"Sark---Sark got away," Reed choked out. She pointed to the rear of the bank and an emergency fire door. "I---I couldn't, I had to help David---"

Jack eyed her. "Stay here."

Reed nodded jerkily and he left her. He pushed past several hysterical clerks and out the fire door, ready for anything. It exited into an empty alley.

An almost empty alley . . . there, a few steps before it opened onto Olofsgaten, were Irina and Sark. Irina had that little Russian PSM she favored. Sark still had his briefcase in one hand and a 9mm automatic aimed at Irina in the other.

Jack tightened his grip on the SIG Sauer he carried, suddenly aware of the slick sweat on his palm, the tightness in his chest. One breath, one word or sudden noise, and either or both of them would pull the trigger.

Sark's eyes were narrowed; he was breathing hard, riding an adrenaline rush Jack knew well. Irina's pose was as serene as ever, but the flat look in her eyes gave her away along with the flare of her nostrils. Both of them were steady as rocks, though, the guns never wavering.

"I should have shot you in Firenze," Irina breathed.

"Probably," Sark agreed. His voice was a touch hoarse.

Jack started down the alley as silently as possible.

"Shoot me now though and you won't walk away either," Sark stated.

"You won't shoot me," Irina purred.

Irina was watching the Sark's eyes; did she see the white knuckled grip he had on his pistol tightening? The boy was in operational mode, his well-honed instinct for survival telling him to pull the trigger and get away. Jack tensed, waiting for it.

Irina smiled that slow, lethal smile in response when Sark didn't shoot. Without taking her eyes off Sark for even an instant, she said, "Hello, Jack."

Sark didn't shift and the arm at full extension didn't waver. "Ah, Agent Bristow," he greeted Jack coolly. "I thought you might be around when I spotted the CIA people inside the bank."

"If he won't shoot you, I will," Jack said to Irina, somehow not surprised she'd known he was there. He had no words for Sark right then. Taylor was dead and MacKenzie was fighting for every breath and Sark had done that.

"Never."

He aimed the SIG Sauer at her. "Put the gun down, Irina. ---You too, Sark."

"So very ironic," Irina murmured, "you and I and Sark all here."

Jack narrowed his eyes. She was up to something, about to say something that would shift the balance of this confrontation. It would be aimed at Sark, because Irina had to know there was nothing she could do to sway Jack from his purpose.

Sark began stepping sideways, toward the mouth of the alley. Eyes locked on Irina. Irina turned her back on Jack, following Sark, raising her gun. There was a rip in Sark's coat, a loose flap of fabric held tight to his ribs by the elbow of the arm still retaining the briefcase. The cloth there steadily darkening into a bruised purple, the blue shaded by red: blood.

"You're just like your father, Sark," she said.

Sark flinched.

"Damn it," Jack breathed. She was in his sights. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Not even shoot to kill, wounding her would be enough and he could take her in. She was going to do it; she was going to shoot his son. He couldn't shoot her in the back, though. He couldn't.

"A shame you never got to know him," Irina added.

The ululation of approaching sirens echoed against the high concrete buildings; the medics Jack had promised Reed would be coming. The fire door behind him slammed open and Vaughn rushed through, shouting Jack didn't know what.

Irina fired, but the noise had thrown her off. Sark emptied the 9mm in her direction while sprinting for the street. Jack threw himself into the cover of a remarkably clean dumpster and Vaughn came skidding to a stop next him, ducking as bullets whined and ricocheted through the alleyway. Jack's shoulder was against the dumpster and he felt it shudder under several impacts.

"God damn it, Vaughn," Jack snarled.

"Sark---"

"Derevko's the objective!" Jack shouted furiously. He ducked his head around the edge of the dumpster, low, as soon as the firing stopped.

The alley was empty. Irina was gone.

Sark was gone.

"God damn it."

Jack stood up and pulled Vaughn to his feet, then slammed him against the dumpster. "We just lost Derevko, thanks to you!" He was furious, furious with Vaughn, with Irina, with Sark for shooting his agents, and most of all with himself. "Why the hell aren't you in the van? You're oversight! You abandoned your post!"

"I thought he'd hurt Lauren!" Vaughn yelled back at him, batting at the hands Jack still had locked on his shoulders.

"Leaving your post is a damn good way of seeing she does get hurt!"

"You left," Vaughn argued.

Jack let go of Vaughn abruptly.

"You need to maintain your objectivity, Agent Vaughn, or get out of this job. Understand?"

"Like you're objective about Irina Derevko?" Vaughn demanded scornfully.

"Take my advice," Jack said, already turning away. God, this was going to be a mess to clean up. The Swedes were going to be incensed over the Agency's involvement. "Get out while you can." He headed back into the bank, wanting to see if MacKenzie was going to make it.

Irina and Sark were long gone.

Vaughn looked down the alley.

It was bad. The whole operation had gone bad and they had nothing and no one to show for it. "Damn," Vaughn said tiredly, then he pulled himself together and headed back into the bank. Lauren might need him.