Chapter 6
It took Sark awhile to steer the car back to the facility. He felt weighed down and flooded with mixed emotions. Anger seemed to dominate.
Khasinau and Derevko were waiting for him when he drove into the garage. He didn't want to face them, not yet. He knew his feelings were too hot to control. Quickly, he fought back the rage that threatened him.
"You succeeded?" Khasinau asked. Sark threw him the disc in response, not trusting his mouth. He slammed the car door and headed for the elevator up to his room.
"Sark." It was Derevko. Sark stopped, but did not turn to face her or Khasinau. "What happened?"
That rage was boiling now. As if you don't know. With a suppressing swallow, Sark turned to them.
"I got the information. It's all there. Mission completed." He moved to leave again.
"Were there casualties?" Derevko asked. The question surprised Sark, coming from her of all people. Sark clamped down on his tongue hard and stared ahead. "It is always a possibility, Sark."
That did it.
"Not on a training mission," he said. His voice was low and forced. Derevko blinked and turned to Khasinau.
"Training?" she asked simply. Her face, which was concerned before, now turned disturbingly passive. Sark had seen enough to know she was controlling herself.
Khasinau sighed.
"Every mission is training for him. There was no need to add pressure with the reality of the situation," he said.
That just about blew Sark apart. But he held it together, willing himself to leave without striking his superior.
"May I make a request, sir?" Khasinau barely nodded. "Never send me on another mission without all the facts." A thousand choice phrases surfaced in his mind, but he cut off their contact with his mouth. He gave a pointed look to both Khasinau and Derevko, and then left them.
He shouldn't have requested anything; by doing so he was almost asking for his execution. But Sark couldn't resist, which added to the list of things bothering him.
He killed someone. Not just one, but probably several. Sark made it to his room before the shaking started. He leaned against the door, shutting it with his weight as he slid down to the floor.
It started with his hands, and spread like fire to his other limbs. He grasped his head, pulling at his hair. He held back the cries he wanted to release, knowing they would be wails if they surfaced.
His thoughts turned to the guards, who probably were unaware of the real risk in what they guarded. He thought of their families, now deprived of their brother, father, son . . . . What have I done? The question tore at him as he laid himself down on the marble floor. There never would be any turning back now. He could only look forward. Forward.
When he woke up, he was on his bed, still dressed in his mission gear. Derevko sat at his feet.
She smiled when he looked at her. Sark immediately sat up, realizing she or someone had moved him from the floor.
"You look tired," she commented generally. Sark glanced at a clock. It was 5 a.m.
"It's early," he stated. His voice was hoarse. "Have you . . . have you been here long, Ms. Derevko?"
His nervousness made her smile. "Call me Irina. In private anyway," she added. "And I just stopped by to look in on you before I left."
He waited for more information.
"I'm leaving for the U.S. today. I wanted to make sure you're all right."
Sark knew she saw weakness. He considered what to say, but she continued.
"The first time you kill someone is always hard. Especially when things aren't as you expected. Khasinau failed to mention a pretty significant piece of information. He won't do that again." Her voice was harder when she spoke about the man. "It'll take some time, but you'll get back on your feet. It's how you overcome this that determines who you are."
Sark stayed silent, considering what she was really telling him. Part of him doubted Derevko, or Irina, had ever felt how he did, though he was sure she had killed her share. It was becoming clear though: this was the norm. Death was now a part of him.
"I have a cottage on a beach in Africa. Why don't you take some time off?" she said. That made Sark stare at her. After a moment of silence, he responded unwaveringly.
"Thank you, Irina, but I best continue my training." His voice was low and his resolution undoubtable. Sark could tell she was pleased. She smiled and nodded, and left for her flight to the U.S.
No turning back. His future was in place and already decided. Sark threw away the remorse, the doubts, and calmly went to sleep for another hour.
Sark's training always continued, whether it was formally from Khasinau or by his own initiation. Mixed in were missions, operations to recover whatever file, artifact or person needed. Sark excelled at it all.
He'd been heavily vaccinated with various diseases, some unknown to most of the world. Sark trained his body to fight off the effects, and with that he grew stronger in immunity and in mind. He could withstand any torture, but preferred other alternatives. Just the knowledge though that he could survive made him stronger, more confident.
The facade was no longer a temporary mask, but a permanent personality. He mastered a smirk that often annoyed others to the point that they were putty in Sark's hands.
He changed.
Irina put him on salary, which didn't mean he got a paycheck or stub so much as it meant he received an allowance. With it, Sark improved his tastes in clothes and food beyond what Henry taught him.
Henry. He hardly thought of him anymore. It was past. Sark buried that away and focused.
"How did things go last night?" Irina asked him. Sark smiled, almost seductively.
"Perfectly." An annoyance to Irina's organization was no longer around, thanks to Sark. He had swiftly entered the target's lair, and executed him brazenly in front of his guards. The target fell before the guards could react. Once they saw Sark and his resolve, they chose not to react.
He was the best at what he did, which was everything. He never failed; Sark had encountered his share of close calls, but nothing that had ever resulted in his demise. Everyone noticed. Irina's right-hand man was still Khasinau, but Sark was her pit bull. Sark's orders still came from Khasinau, but Sark knew who was really commanding what he did.
It suited him fine. Someday, when Khasinau succumbed to his uselessness, Sark would be Irina's right-hand man.
"I have something new for you," Irina said. Her pleasure in Sark's growth and confidence was evident partly by the number of assignments she gave him.
"Get what you need, and leave as soon as you can. There may be competition on this," she said. The file she handed Sark was thin and to the point. Sark nodded, and left for the supply room.
After checking the specs, Sark loaded up what he needed. He checked each weapon, even test-firing it. That was the only thing that ever threatened to remind him of that night long ago. He viewed it as a lesson that he would not forget. He never blindly trusted any weapon, and he never trusted any person.
Except for Irina, which was a gamble at times. But he knew from her tells when something was more than it seemed, and Sark knew she let him see those hints. In her way, she was telling him the truth. That was good enough for Sark, as long as he always analyzed the woman.
The jet left as soon as Sark was ready and on board. His destination was Jerusalem, of all places. Ever since he was of any understanding, the place had been in turmoil. It easily outdid Ireland's troubles, even with the IRA and all. In the last few years, it grew worse in the Middle East. He was almost 20 now, and they were still fighting.
Sark pushed away politics and global awareness. The only thing that mattered about that geopolitical situation was the reminder for him not to get caught in the crossfire.
There was a contact in Jerusalem, in the Old City itself, who had something of value to Irina. It was another artifact, made by someone named Rambaldi. Sark had heard of the man from Irina and Khasinau, but knew nothing beyond that.
Irina already set up a meeting with the contact; Sark had a nice some of cash to deliver in exchange for the artifact.
There was some risk involved; for example, walking around with 10 million dollars wasn't exactly street-smart. So Sark divided off 1 million to take in person, and had the rest ready to transfer. Sark would authorize the transfer as soon as he verified the artifact. Of course, there always was a risk of a contact getting greedy, but most of them knew not to mess with Irina's organization. Besides, no matter what, Sark could take care of himself.
The cab driver dropped him off at the West Gate. He walked confidently through the gate, past the Wailing Wall. In his right hand he held a briefcase with the money. It swung as he walked.
Sark cut through the diminishing crowds. It was getting dark, and most of the shops in the Old City were closing. He turned through the narrow passageways, all made out of cobblestone.
His leather dress shoes clicked against the stones, and Sark straightened a sleeve of his black suit. The air was cooling down with the absence of the sun.
He was almost there. The shop was surrounded by tourist items, like carved olive wood and trademark leather sandals. Long scarves and skirts hung for display at the open doorways of the shops. Some shopkeepers beckoned Sark; others wisely ignored him for more likely customers.
The contact sold various jewelry at his shop. Sark stepped in as the man finished someone's purchase.
"May I help you sir?" the contact asked. Sark glanced around the small shop for any threats. Satisfied, he responded.
"Yes, I'm picking up a specialty item you have on hold. Under the name Sark," he added. The name alone had the effect. The contact nodded and immediately motioned for Sark to join him in back behind a cloth partition.
The contact brought out the artifact, which Sark examined carefully. Just then, both heard someone stepping in the shop. The contact left for the front.
Sark overheard them speaking. The customer was a woman, and her Arabic was foreign. He listened in, catching only bits of their conversation. Their voices grew closer to the back; Sark moved his right hand closer to his gun, hidden in his jacket.
The contact reappeared with the woman behind him. She had the tip of a gun pressed to his head.
"The artifact, please," she said. Sark momentarily froze with the sound of her voice and the look of her eyes. Her voice was confident but light. A hint of an American accent seemed present. Her eyes . . . so large and round, a vibrant brown, if there was such to be said about the color. She was dressed in typical female garb, a loose robe-like dress with a headcovering. Maybe that's why her eyes stood out.
Sark snapped himself out of his daze.
"Or what?" he challenged. Business, Sark. Focus! The woman responded merely with more pressure against the contact's head. Sark held back a laugh, then whipped out his gun and shot the man. The contact fell instantly, leaving the woman and Sark facing each other.
A second passed as each considered the opponent in front of them, and then the woman fired above Sark's head. He dove for the woman with the artifact in hand. He tackled her to the ground.
She nailed him in the stomach with her elbow and reached for the artifact. Sark held it just out of reach as he tried to get up. The woman grabbed his ankle.
As he fell down again, he snagged the headcovering. He just lay on the floor for a moment as he looked at her. He started to inventory her appearance when she aimed her gun at him.
Sark didn't move, though he still had his gun in hand. There was something about her, something familiar and awe-striking. Maybe it was her brazen intrusion and robbery attempt. Or maybe because she didn't seem scared of him.
"Who are you?" she asked, gun still pointed at his chest. She was young, close to his age, but like himself, she wasn't to be underestimated.
"I was going to ask you the same thing. Care to answer?" he said. She smirked at him, which made Sark smile. "Guess not."
With that, Sark lashed out his leg and connected with her hand. Her gun flew off to the side. Sark flashed her his own smirk, and quickly left the shop, artifact in hand.
He heard her follow him, her footsteps quickly behind him. Sark darted down an alleyway, and connected to another street as he tried to evade her.
There was an issue with being inconspicuous. Running through the streets of Jerusalem guaranteed some attention, and not necessarily good. Sark had his gun back inside his jacket, but the briefcase was left at the shop. The artifact was in his bare hands.
He was getting closer to the West Gate. Outside any gate was a slew of taxis, and Sark just needed one to get to the airstrip.
He snagged one as he heard his opponent yell out. Sark jumped in the cab and looked back. She looked frustrated, but not done. She hailed a cab.
Sark ordered the driver to go faster, and passed him an American bill that automatically earned him respect. Then Sark grabbed his cell phone.
"Get the jet ready, now. I'll be there in 10 minutes," Sark said. He ended the call, and turned his attention to the artifact. It was a small ball with intricate carvings on it. Sark put the ball in his suit coat, the shape and size of it creating a noticeable lump. But he needed his hands free, just in case . . .
The woman, or girl, was behind him still. She's persistent. Sark logged that fact into his brain. He would have to face her again if he was going to get out of here with the artifact.
The taxi was coming to the airstrip. Sark looked behind him. The following cab was gone. That worried Sark; he'd rather have her close and know where she was than have her come out of nowhere.
With that thought, Sark was jolted into the back of his seat as the taxi rammed into another car. The car was the woman's cab. It had cut in front of him. Sark tried to fight off the shakiness from the wreck quickly before—
She was out of the car already. Sark stumbled out onto the pavement, knowing it would be over if he was trapped. She quickly came to him, a fiery look in her eyes. Sark fended off her first hit, but not the second. Her fist rammed into his face, slinging his head back. She followed-up with a kick to the side of his leg, making it buckle.
Sark barely caught himself before his whole body landed on the road. He readied himself, and successfully dodged her next blow. She swung wide, and he easily hit her when she was off-balance.
The jet was 50 meters away. Sark could hear its engines whirling, ready to go as soon as he was on board.
She swung again, making him lean back to dodge. Just then she kicked him in the side and he fell.
When Sark looked up, she was standing over him, her gun aimed at his chest.
"It's a good thing I fell on my back," Sark said, lightly. "I would have broken it otherwise."
"Give me the artifact," she commanded. Sark smirked.
"Would you?" he asked. With that, he kicked at her feet, making her trip and fall back. Sark sat up and lunged for her, pinning her down with his weight.
"It's not too smart to be waving your gun around. This may be a private airfield, but don't think that security is any less rigid." Sark nodded to three guards headed their way. "Can I introduce you to them?" With that, Sark got up and pulled her with him.
He shouted to the guards in Arabic. They immediately came running and took positions around the girl.
"I'll ask them to release you, if you promise not to follow me. If not, I'll just make sure they strip-search you," Sark said. Her glare was burning into him, but Sark just smiled back.
He was bluffing, of course. The guards were nervous about Sark too. But if he played everything right, she wouldn't know that.
A guard spoke to him in Arabic. "You'll both need to come with us," he said. The girl smiled. Sark's bluff was blown apart. He sighed as he quickly drew his gun.
Calmly, he fired one shot at each guard. He stopped on the girl but didn't lower the weapon.
"What's your name?" he asked in his soft British accent. She maintained her silence. She had this fierce look in her eyes like she was about to go down heroically. "I won't shoot you if you tell me your name."
She didn't answer at first, but her forehead crinkled in confusion. Sark sighed and shrugged as if resigned to killing her.
"Wait!" she said, holding up her hands. Sark waited. "Sydney. My name is Sydney." Sark smiled at the success, and tried to ignore the quickened heart beat inside of him.
"Pleasure to meet you, Sydney," he replied. He paced toward her slowly.
"I didn't catch your name," she said. Pretty bold considering I still have control over her fate, Sark thought.
"No, you didn't." With that, he hit her in the head with the side of his gun. She fell to the ground in a heap. Sark admired her in the glow from the headlights. She'd have a heck of a headache when she awoke, but she would be fine.
Sark walked triumphantly to the jet, quite content with himself and the evening's results. But one thing happily dominated his mind: who is Sydney?
On the flight back, Sark analyzed his actions. Why didn't I just kill her? He had plenty of opportunities, but instead let her live. And she had seen him quite clearly, both at the shop and at the airstrip. She was now a risk, a liability. Well, at least until he knew more about her. It wasn't like Sark was completely anonymous to those he dealt with. No, that was Irina's part. But something was still plaguing him about the mission.
She was gorgeous, Sark had to admit. She had long chestnut hair, straight and falling past her shoulders. At the airstrip, as they fought, it had whipped around in the air. Something about that made Sark feel . . .
What is wrong with you!! This sudden flood of emotions was sending him near out of his mind. She was his opponent, enemy! He never let any of his enemies live, especially not in the field. But those eyes . . . Sark shook his head. He was getting soft, and Sark didn't like that. He had worked hard for the last two years to get where he was, and he was a perfectly oiled machine. Until tonight.
Sark sighed aloud, and shifted in the leather seat. He leaned back and went to sleep.
Irina knew something was different, even though Sark handed over the artifact as if nothing went wrong. She smiled at him, unnerving him enough to want to spill all.
"What happened?" she asked. Sark loosened his tie and began unloading his supplies.
"Competition," he replied simply.
"Who? FTL? K-Directorate?" she persisted. Sark shook his head.
"I don't think so. She was American."
"She?" Sark chided himself silently. He hadn't meant to let that slip. "There aren't too many active female operatives that I'd expect sent on this mission. Who was she?" Irina asked.
Sark sighed and looked up from his supplies. And something hit him.
That long brown hair, the dark eyes and smooth skin. Irina saw something was spooking him.
"What?" she persisted. Sark swallowed and barely muttered:
"She was you."