Chapter 2
Sark wondered about the woman every day. He never asked Henry about her or about her meaning in continuing. But that sparring session showed Sark that Henry wasn't a do-gooder, trying to help a struggling thief. He had a specific goal in mind, and if Sark didn't live up to it, Henry would ditch him.
Sark started to hold back verbally, giving up the mini-arguments he and Henry used to engage in. Instead, he pushed himself to learn. To Sark, it was a matter of continuing survival.
Somewhere along the way, he started to forget the person he was before. Not just Fabian Ross in name, but in every way. He realized this, but didn't try to thwart the change. Surviving Henry's goals and expectations became paramount.
His lessons with Henry started focusing more on image. He continued to train in fighting and shooting, but Sark started to learn about the finer items.
On most days, there were language lessons. One month it was German. The next it was Italian. After that, Mandarin, Russian, Spanish, and Portuguese followed. Amazingly he didn't get them mixed up when speaking aloud, although when Sark thought about it, he could swear he was throwing in fragments of each language. At the very least, he was speaking Chinese with an Irish accent.
Accompanying language lessons were lessons on proper behavior. They bothered him actually. He wasn't raised in a barn or anything, but evidently Henry thought it necessary for Sark. Table manners, choosing wines, refining accents, pouring drinks, eating, even how to walkâSark saw no boundaries to what Henry would choose to teach him about.
Technology was actually interesting. Sark thought he knew about computers enough, but Henry's lifestyle afforded much grander things in the technological world. Sark ate it all up, feasting on the knowledge.
But he couldn't figure out what exactly was eventually to be expected of him.
Henry was waiting with a coat in hand one morning as Sark came for breakfast.
"Let's go out," Henry instructed. Sark obediently followed.
He was intrigued; he had been outside the house since his arrival, but only for very specific reasons, like a test or a field trip to some facility housing a new technology. Sark got the impression this was more relaxed.
It ended up being pretty formal. Henry's driver stopped in front of a men's clothing store. As they walked in, Sark knew everything was richly designed and expensive. The floor was a mixture of marble and wood designs; the ceilings housed crystal chandeliers.
Henry was unfazed, as always. He walked directly back to a specific salesman.
"A new wardrobe, if you please," he said politely. Sark almost rolled his eyes, annoyed that he'd been brought along to help Henry pick out a new clothesline for himself.
Suddenly, the salesman came what Sark thought was dangerously close to molesting him as he was measured. The clothes were for Sark.
Three suits, a tux, four pairs of slacks, 8 shirts, 6 ties, and 4 pairs of shoes later, Sark couldn't help but grin. It felt good, to grin like an idiot, as if he were a son being spoiled by his father. The sobering reality made Sark fall back in line.
There had to be a reason for this splurge in clothing. So far he hadn't any need for such fancy things; he had stayed mostly in the house and out of contact with others. He let his eyes bore his questions into Henry.
Henry finally answered, several hours later as they refreshed Sark's Russian.
"You're wondering where you are going now," Henry said. Sark didn't answer. "I have an assignment for you, something that requires you to be more properly dressed than in black tactical gear." He tossed a folder at Sark.
"You're going to London. You're to steal something at the British Museum. All the information you need should be in that folder," Henry said. "There's a gala, which you'll attend. Start packing tonight. You leave tomorrow afternoon."
The tux and one of the new suits hung in his dress bag, which was compliments with the purchase. Better be after all the money spent there, Sark thought. Thrift was something Sark was accustomed to, and blowing lots of money on overpriced clothing was not. But the overpriced clothes added to his image.
It was slowly coming together for him. Bit by bit, he started to understand and accept what were parts of his image. And bit by bit, he understood what was expected of him. For now, it was to become a high-class person who could blend in and yet appear above the law. As he read over the information Henry gave him, Sark understood that the thief would still be part of him.
The target was some artifact at the museum. He was to go to the museum as Perry Smith, the son of some high-end ambassador. The ambassador, of course, would not be attending.
Sark shook his head and added some shirts and casual items to his bag.
Henry gave him a solemn nod as Sark stepped up to the jet.
"Be careful. Remember your profile," Henry cautioned in one more lecture. Sark nodded.
"I will." He turned to board.
"Sark," Henry started, "You're above everyone else. Don't forget it." Sark chewed on that for a moment, then disappeared into the plane.
He had never flown before. His whole life was spent in Ireland, mostly in Galway. He'd seen planes in films and all, but this jet was very plush. Sark sat down, cautiously, gingerly. A sharply dressed woman emerged from a cabin.
"Choose any seat you'd like. We're starting our taxi and will take off shortly," she said with a tight smile. "There's a bar up front if you'd care for anything. Help yourself." With that, she disappeared into the cockpit.
Sark tried out his seat, slowly sitting back into the soft chair. His body was tense. A reflection in the window pane caught his eye. It was his own, but looked so much different. Dressed in a dark navy suit with a simple white shirt and no tie, he noticed his thin neck barely filling the collar. The tension in every inch of his body wore heavily on his face. He looked scared, he admitted to himself. A scared boy in the body of almost a man, about to enter a dangerous world.
He had stolen most of his life. Never had anything been so nerve-wracking. Previous jobs were thrilling for him. But now he felt like he had something to prove. Something to prove to Henry, or maybe not.
The jet started to accelerate. Sark hadn't even noticed the taxi. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the plane, and his body, tilt back and lift into the air. A faint rush went through his head, and for a paranoid moment, Sark thought he'd been drugged. But it passed, and Sark tried to relax.
He wondered about what Henry meant. Being above everyone else. . . was that praise?
Sark ordered breakfast to his hotel room. He had checked in to the designated hotel and stayed in all night. Now he prepared for the day ahead.
He dressed casually, yet the attire was stiff compared to a favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt. A pair of khakis, a french blue shirt, brown Docs . . . he looked himself over in the mirror, shrugged, and headed out the door.
The museum, Sark discovered, was a short walk from his hotel. He felt foolish as he paid a meager fee to the cabbie. He should have known better, Sark scolded himself.
The museum could have been Buckingham palace for all he knew. Sark tentatively walked to the entrance, ever aware of the guards present in the corners.
He played the part of an art-conscious tourist, walking around from one movement to another. What a waste, he thought. Why such swirls of paint were worth so much, he didn't understand. That's why he stuck with banks before; cash was all that mattered.
The finer gentleman that Henry tried so hard to beat into Sark took over. The art was priceless; Sark allowed silent respect to overcome his features.
It provided the cover he needed, so another part could overtake him. As he made his way to the artifact, he scoped out the security. The guards wore blue blazers with a seal over the heart. Cameras were in every corner. But the artifact was in the center of a corded-off section, and surrounded by other items of no concern to him. There had to be an alarm triggered to it, but Sark couldn't see how with so much attention focused around it. He walked past the artifact, glancing quickly at it, and moved on to another exhibit.
Sark soaked in a bath, willing some solution to come to him as the afternoon wasted away. Henry hadn't given him any idea on how to get the artifact. No weapons, cool gismos, nothing.
Was it a test? Was Sark supposed to come up with a brilliant plan?
Maybe he could plant something around the artifact that would allow him to circumvent the security system after the gala.
Maybe he could cause some distraction elsewhere during the gala, and then swipe the artifact and make off with it.
Maybe he could act drunk and conveniently fall into the case.
Sark shook that idea off, and slid down beneath the surface of the bubbly water. He was going to need something, and soon.