Chapter 7
"What?" Irina asked. Her face showed honest confusion, something Sark had never seen.
"Her name is Sydney," Sark said. He searched Irina's face for answers. Instead, she started to pace around the room.
"Sydney," she repeated. That was the last thing she said for three minutes. Sark's eyes followed her as she made circles around the room.
Why . . . how . . . no, it couldn't . . .
"Who is Sydney?" Sark asked, breaking the long silence.
Irina looked at him. She was considering what to tell him, Sark knew. Would it be the truth or mere clues? Sark leaned toward a mixture of the two.
"Sydney is my daughter. She lives in Los Angeles, last time I checked," she started. The alarming idea that Irina reproduced made Sark momentarily feel that the world would be shred to pieces. A daughter, Sark thought. That explains her abilities.
"Why was she after the artifact?" Sark asked.
Irina sighed.
"I'm not sure. She was going to school and working at a bank this time last year."
"It seems she's in the industry now," Sark observed aloud. Irina nodded.
"But which part?" she asked to no one. She turned to Sark. "Go to L.A. Find her and find out who she's working for."
Sark nodded, but didn't leave. Both he and Irina stood still, pondering the latest.
"Good you didn't kill her," Irina added. They both nodded, staring at the floor.
The last time Sark was in California, he assassinated a man who tried to go back on a deal with Irina. But that was in San Francisco. Los Angeles had a different air to it.
Not just the smog, but it was more upbeat. Sark felt at home.
He was surprised to find out where Sydney lived from the phone book. After Irina, Sark just expected a week's worth of investigating to figure out where she was.
It was an apartment, something off of UCLA campus. She lived with a roommate, quite the socialite judging by her constant comings and goings. Sydney left early and came home late, Sark guessed. He only caught her coming home the first day he staked them out.
Sark decided to plant a couple of bugs the next day. Sydney left at 7 a.m., and headed for classes. After following her to her first class, Sark turned back and waited outside the apartment for the roommate to leave.
She left at 10 a.m. Late riser, Sark thought.
There were simple locks on the door, nothing beyond the standard deadbolt. Sark easily got in, and started searching for places to plant the bugs.
The decor was mature for college students. Sark attributed that to whatever it was that Sydney was involved in.
The living room and kitchen were open to each other–Perfect. Sark put a bug in the smoke alarm covering the rooms. He moved on to find out which bedroom was Sydney's.
Which wasn't hard. The roommate's room had all the tells of a normal college student. A movie poster, vintage clothing strewn everywhere, an answering machine full of boys asking her out—her name was Francie, according to the machine.
So Sark went to the other bedroom.
It was neat and simply elegant. Her bed was made and straightened in almost an anal way. Her clothes were all folded neatly in drawers or hung in her closet. It was exactly the control he expected from Sydney.
Sark was placing the bug on her nightstand when he heard the front door open.
Footsteps walked back to the rooms. Sark silently scrambled for the closet.
It was her. Sydney. Well, Sark couldn't see her, but he knew it was her. Sark buried himself in the back of the closet, and held his breath as he waited to be discovered.
I can't be discovered, he thought. For one, well, she would probably recognize him and not be too pleased, especially after that hit to the head. Second of all, he couldn't tip his hand without knowing who she was and worked for. And lastly, Sark never got caught. He intended to keep it that way.
That, of course, depended on what Sydney was doing home during the day.
He could hear her rummaging around, opening drawers and zipping something up. Suitcase. She was going on another mission.
A cell phone rang, and for a brutal second, Sark thought it was his. He forced himself not to jump, and listened as Sydney answered.
"Hi." She paused. "Yes, I got your page. I'm just packing and I'll be right in." Another pause. "Thanks, Mr. Sloane."
Sloane? He wasn't familiar with anyone by that name.
Sydney was coming to the closet. Sark's control over the situation diminished as he struggled not to panic. Knock her out, he told himself. The closet door was opening; Sark froze.
The phone rang again, this time the land line. The door remained ajar, showing Sark the open hallway. He could slip out, if her back was turned away.
He moved a millimeter at a time as he listened to her conversation.
"Oh, I totally forgot about that." She sighed. "Can we work on the presentation when I get back?" A pause. "I'm leaving for an overnight trip for my job."
Sark peaked around the closet door. Her back was to him. He thought about how beautiful she looked; she was wearing black dress pants and a blue button-down—
Sark!!!!!! He stopped his staring and moved to the hallway. He silently praised himself for wearing casual Docs, which were much quieter than his usual slick-soled dress shoes. He retreated down the hallway and headed for the door when he heard something.
"Oh, I work for a bank," he heard Sydney say. A bank? It had to be a cover company. Sark stopped to listen for more when he hit a loose floorboard.
The creak was like a car crash to him. Sark froze.
And Sydney stopped mid-sentence. "Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow," she finished. Sark heard her hang up.
She walked out into the living room.
"Francie?" she called out. From Sark's spot, he could see her holding a gun. She's making sure she doesn't kill her roommate. Or reveal who she really is, Sark analyzed.
She swept the room, and headed his direction. Sark was crouched behind a couch, of all things. It was only a matter of time.
He whipped out his cell phone, and quickly dialed the number he'd seen in the yellow pages. He held his breath as he waited for the home phone to ring.
It did. Sydney stopped. She was facing his direction, probably checking everything in general. He didn't dare look; he imagined if he popped his head out, she'd instantly shoot it. Her mother would have.
After the third ring, she sighed aloud. Sark heard her click on her gun's safety as she moved for a phone.
By a stroke of luck, not the first he'd experienced today, Sydney went back to her bedroom. Sark counted to three before moving. He cautiously peeked around the corner down the hallway, making sure she was there.
"Hello," he heard her say. Sark quickly hit the 'End' button and moved for the front door.
Of all the stupid things he'd ever done, this ranked up there. Sark almost thought his bank robbery when he was 17 was better than that sloppy infiltration of Sydney's apartment.
He had to rely on luck—of all things!! Luck wasn't something Sark sought out or a theory to which he subscribed. It went hand-in-hand with destiny, fate. Sark only relied on actions; whatever happened was because he or someone else made it so.
Except today, when he had to admit he was lucky. He started to feel ill.
Ordinarily, he would have followed Sydney to whatever bank, but frankly, now was not the time.
Well, it was, except he felt so clumsy and incompetent, he didn't dare test the situation any further.
He knew enough to start finding answers. That was a quest he would start later though. For now, he drove to his hotel and took a long bath.
The luxury of a bath was something comparable to a fine wine. Though baths were just scented and bubbly water, they held a special place for him. Maybe it shared something of importance to him because he often enjoyed them with a good glass of wine.
Sark just about shot something when the hotel room service questioned Sark on the wine. Was he old enough? the man had asked. Sark wasn't about to be carded like an American teenager, though technically he was a teen. Sark threw in the rich card to get the wine he desired. The fact that he was near the top floor in a $1000/night suite promptly shut out any questions.
Sydney. Her name randomly popped into his mind as he sipped the wine. She looked so professional but yet so vulnerable. That blue shirt, the slimming pants . . . not like she needed to look slimmer, Sark justified in his mind. She was stunning, and in top form. He knew that from Jerusalem.
Sark had been in her house. He was less than a foot away from her at one point. He'd been that clumsy.
He changed the course of his thoughts, not wanting to berate himself any more for the night. Sloane. Who was this Sloane? Sark grabbed his cell phone, which was by his gun. Both were within reach from the bathtub.
"Yes. Find out what you can about someone named Sloane. The front could be a bank," Sark ordered. "Call me as soon as you know anything."
Delegation. It elated him to avoid research. He wasn't an analyst/research-type; he was the point-man.
The point-man threw back the rest of the wine and chucked the glass at the bathroom wall. It shattered onto the marble floor. With that, Sark closed his eyes. And the first image his mind threw at him was Sydney.
Sydney. She was the first female subject to distract him so much from an assignment. Granted, she was the assignment. But she was messing with his head.
Sark never got distracted. He'd followed other women before, trying to get some sort of info from them or as cover for access to some goal. But he never felt anything. He never cared how they would feel later. Women were beautiful, sure, but nothing distracted Sark from the objective.
Until now. He lay in the plush bed of a five-star hotel, and instead of thinking about who her employer was, he thought just about her.
In Jerusalem, she had the upper hand. She could have shot him the moment she demanded the artifact. But instead, she let him live.
Maybe she let me live because she's attracted to me, Sark thought. His reaction to that thought was a firm mental slap that made him shake his head against the hotel pillow. Or maybe, she isn't the killing sort. Sark chewed on that for a bit.
She had threatened death but never delivered. Instead, Sark had shot the human shield she used. He replayed that moment in his head.
Was it just his softening imagination, or did she disapprove of that?
Of course she disapproved! You called her bluff! But then she was bluffing.
Sark shook his head, trying to gain some clarity. Where am I going with all this? he asked himself.
Their fight later at the airstrip was quite heated, he thought. She was frustrated and showed it openly. Her reserve and control broke when he threatened a strip-search. Moments like that were proof of the game both were involved in. Sark had to admit that he even enjoyed the encounter. She was even a bit of a challenge. Irina's daughter—of course she was a challenge!
He froze as a new realization came together. Irina. Sydney was her daughter, but Irina would have won in the Jerusalem situation. She would have killed and conquered. Sydney didn't.
Sydney had lines she didn't cross. And that means . . . She was softer than Irina, than him. She was human.