Chapter 8
He ditched the suit and tie for the day and went with some khakis and a black dress shirt. Sark wore it untucked and buttoned-down.
As he dressed, Sark kept thinking about his conclusions. She's human. That was rare, in this business. Maybe that humanity stems from a belief that she believes she's doing what's right.
Government. She had to be with some government agency. Sark picked up the phone.
"What have you found?" He listened for several minutes, then hung up and quickly left his room.
He parked across the street from Credit Dauphine. It was a pretty ritzy bank. There was a parking garage underneath the building. The building itself was about 5 stories high; not enough to run any decent operation. It has to be underneath the building too.
Sark started the engine and moved the car to beneath the building.
The garage looked normal enough. Sark drove through it, but stopped suddenly. There was a concrete wall that would have seemed like just a wall if there weren't an access keypad in front of it. That, and there were lines on the pavement going beyond the wall.
He noticed the cameras, and moved on. It's there.
"What do you know?" Irina's voice over the phone was just as authoritative as in person. Sark was in his hotel suite, sprawled out on the bed as he analyzed what he knew.
"The bank is a cover for a division of the Alliance. Sydney said something about Sloane, who is the director at the division SD-6," Sark said. He waited for Irina to ask how he heard what Sydney said, but thankfully she didn't.
"You've confirmed the existence of the operation at the bank?" she asked.
"Yes, as much as I can without getting caught," he said. He waited for Irina's next words, knowing what would follow from it.
"The SD cells have few members who know about the Alliance. Part of their success comes from the efforts of people who don't know about the Alliance at all." She paused, and Sark continued her thought aloud.
"The agents of the SD cells are supposedly under the impression that they work for their country. Based on what I've observed, Sydney believes she's a covert operative for the U.S. government." Sark could guess what Irina was thinking. It involved some degree of revenge and liberation of Sydney's ignorance. No one messes with Irina, or her daughter.
"Should I continue following her?" Sark asked.
"No. I have an assignment for you. You'll probably encounter Sydney on it anyway. Come back," Irina said and promptly hung up.
Sark stared at the vaulted ceiling over the bed. You'll probably encounter Sydney . . . There was a degree of professional nervousness that came over him. Either that, or he was excited about the idea. He wouldn't admit to either reaction.
Sark rolled off the bed and began packing.
He was in the training room at Irina's facility. Sark already knew the details of his mission, and it was nothing he would normally worry about. But the idea of coming up against Sydney made him want to brush up on his skills.
Three target sheets were already shredded by his practice. He moved on to freestyle fighting with a punching bag.
His white shirt was already damp from exertion, but Sark continued a tirade of creative kicks and punches. His muscles burned; he pushed himself harder, connecting with each hit. The impact didn't faze him, or he didn't let it.
He spun on one foot, whipping around his other leg and slamming it hard against the bag. As it swung back, Sark switched legs and did a roundhouse kick. He followed up with several punches.
It wasn't just physical training; inside he was prepping himself for the game-face mode. He was imagining facing Sydney and not faltering again. He couldn't allow her to get so close on this one.
His senses kicked in as he punched. Someone was watching him. Sark continued to punch and kick for another minute, then stopped and faced the intruder.
Irina.
"You're just purchasing the formula, Sark. You shouldn't have to fight at all," she said lightly.
Sark wiped some sweat off his forehead as he gained control over his breathing.
"I'd rather be prepared," he said.
"For Sydney," Irina added. Sark gave a short nod.
"She had several opportunities to kill me last time. That won't happen again," he said strongly. He paced around the floor mats, shaking a limb here and there to keep himself loose. Irina watched, her eyes reading into him.
"Her abilities unnerve you," Irina said. "Or it is more than that?" Sark looked directly at Irina.
He thought about challenging her on that, but frankly didn't want to go into the analysis of Sydney or himself.
"You should rest. The jet leaves in a couple of hours," Irina said, backing off mercifully. She turned to leave, but stopped and said over her shoulder: "She's not to be hurt, Sark."
Sark watched as Irina left after that. One thought entered his mind, an expression he heard frequently on UCLA campus: Duh!
The jet touched down in London, and Sark immediately left for the Thames river. A spot of bad weather had made the plane late in landing, and that made Sark rush to get to the meeting.
Lucas Pierson was selling a nice little formula for a chemical weapon, and knew enough to offer it to Irina's organization first. However, that didn't mean other offers didn't come in. The price increased, and Sark carried instructions to an account with $15 million in it.
Pierson was selling it during a party aboard his yacht. Sark boarded it close to midnight via water taxi.
His mask was in place; Sark wore an impeccable black suit with a burgundy shirt. No tie was necessary. He had to admit he looked pretty intimidating. That was the idea, anyway. Instant respect, by whatever means, was necessary to avoid being swindled or killed.
Pierson should know better, but one can never be too careful.
The yacht moved at a leisurely pace, which was wise considering how drunk many of the partygoers were. Any faster, and they undoubtedly would fall overboard.
A waiter offered him a drink, which he took but didn't sip. Sark held the glass in hand and walked around calmly, looking for Pierson.
There. Pierson was at the bow of the yacht, talking with a beautiful blonde woman. Sark approached them, but didn't interrupt.
Pierson recognized him instantly and dismissed the blonde.
"Mr. Sark," he greeted. Sark thought he saw the blonde glance back. "I trust your journey here was pleasant."
Sark nodded.
"Yes. Do you have my purchase?" Sark asked, immediately cutting out the bull and getting to business. Pierson nodded, and started to the interior cabins.
"You have the money, of course," Pierson said, but Sark knew it was a question.
"After I see the formula, you'll get it," Sark said with just a touch of harshness to remind Pierson who was in charge.
They stopped in front of a cabin door, and Pierson paused, fishing through his jacket.
"Where is the key?" he muttered to himself. Sark pursed his lips together, annoyed by the man's incompetence. "I had it in here, I thought . . ."
Then it hit Sark.
"The blonde," he said aloud. Sydney. Sark stepped back, and kicked the door in.
He caught a glimpse of her dress and legs slipping out a window to the deck. Pierson checked his laptop.
"She erased it!!"
Sark felt an instant headache come on. He kept a cool but controlling look on his face.
"Is there another copy?" he asked. Pierson didn't answer, which was an answer in itself. "Then we're done."
Sark really wanted to shoot the man, but he had other business.
By the time he got on deck, Sydney was on a little motorized raft, heading in the opposite direction from the yacht.
Sark looked where he boarded, and spotted another boat. He ran to it, and threw the man guarding it into the river.
The boat was small but fast. It definitely had more power than Sydney's. He was only 50 feet behind her, and by the look on her face when she glanced over her shoulder, she knew it. Sydney approached a bridge.
She stopped underneath it. Sark couldn't see what else.
When he pulled along side Sydney's raft, she was gone. Sark looked up at the bridge, but didn't see any evidence of her climbing. There were no other access points.
The water. Sark leaned over the edge of the boat. The water was broken, with air bubbles surfacing from below. Sark even saw a flashlight beam.
She was swimming underwater. Sark groaned. His suit was going to suffer for this. He removed his jacket, chucking it to the side. He rolled up his sleeves, and for a brief moment wondered if chasing after Sydney was a good idea.
You have to. He failed, and he wanted to correct that, immediately.
He dove in head first, following the light.
The water was murky. Rivers in the middle of the city never were clean. But Sark could see Sydney kicking her way down towards . . . some sort of tunnel.
She slipped through a grate, into the tunnel system.
Sark went through 30 seconds later. His lungs were starting to burn. He hoped there was air on the other side of the grate.
He could see light above him, and kicked furiously up to the surface.
The air was damp and less than pleasant, but Sark drank it in like water. He was in the tunnel. It was made of stone, and he could see some sort of plants struggling to grow through the cracks. Light from the street lamps shone down on him, but it was too high up to access the street.
That means she's trapped here too, Sark thought.
There was splashing ahead of him. Sark started to swim after the noise. The tunnel curved, and Sark followed it around.
There she is! Sydney was swimming quickly through the tunnel, which was impressive considering she was wearing the dress still.
"Sydney!" Sark yelled out, partially in warning her not to mess with him. Her wig was gone now, floating back to him as he continued his strokes after Sydney.
She ignored him and just swam harder.
Then suddenly she slowed her pace. Sark almost stopped too, wondering what her reason was for letting him catch up.
That's when he heard it.
The storm that had delayed his flight was now moving in on London. Thunder pounded above and reverberated throughout the tunnels.
What's that? Sark thought. It sounded like someone swimming after them, or—
Crap.
Water rushed at him, spilling from drains from the street. The rain was pouring down above them, and now fell through to the tunnels.
The force of the water coming was like a flood wave, and it pushed him under and forward. His body hit against the stone walls; he almost heard the tear of the stone into his clothes and flesh.
He hit something else, something softer. Sydney? He thought about swiping the formula off of her, but the rushing water was making it difficult to breathe. Stealing at this point was out.
He kept being pushed forward, but he desperately needed to move up. The tunnel had to be filling up, but until it leveled out, Sark knew he'd just be at the water's mercy.
Finally, he kicked hard to what he thought was the top of the wave of street and rain water. He broke free for a moment, and quickly took a breath before he fell under again.
Sydney was doing the same.
They bumped into each other again, and Sark took the opportunity to grab on. He felt her struggling, or maybe that was just the water.
Suddenly, Sark's leg got caught, stopping the rest of him and Sydney as he held her. He felt for whatever stopped him. It was hard, metallic.
Ladder, he thought. The water kept rushing by, but it was starting to slow down and level off. Sark reached up with his free hand, and pulled himself up by one of the rungs.
Sydney started to struggle, but stopped when she realized this could be their way out.
Sark climbed the best he could, but his scrape with the wall made things painful. His left arm was torn up and the left side of his torso. He also still had a hold on Sydney behind him. The water whirled by them, but he was close to the top of the tunnel.
Why am I helping her? he suddenly thought. Oh yeah—she has the formula. And she's the boss's daughter.
"Let me go–I can climb myself," Sydney said above the noise. Sark didn't answer but kept climbing.
"I'm just dragging you down, Sark," she said. Sark's head snapped down at her at that. She must have picked up my name when Pierson greeted me.
"I don't trust you," he answered rather softly, especially considering the loud roar of the water around them.
The drain above them still poured down water and whatever debris lay on the streets. But Sark reached the top of the ladder.
The drain cover was barely in his reach, and Sark stretched to try and move it.
Just then, the rain water dropped a rat on him.
Sark was proud that he didn't shriek out loud, but he did quickly retract his hand.
And in that process, he slipped. He fell with a yelp into the cold tunnel's water, with Sydney in tow.
He never let go of her, despite their situation. But moments later they suddenly fell, again.
The tunnel opened up and drained out into the river. It was a 7-foot drop, but it still surprised Sark.
His injuries stung as he side-crawled to the riverbank. His grip on Sydney was weak, but she didn't fight. She seemed exhausted too, to Sark's relief.
They both crawled on the riverbank, still heaving from their ordeal. The rain continued to fall heavily, which Sark enjoyed. Anything to wash off that stench from the tunnels. Sark gave himself a second before beginning the confrontation.
"Give me the formula, Sydney," he said, pinning her shoulders to the ground. He tried his best intimidation face, but he must have looked pathetic. She started laughing.
"Why, Mr. Sark? Because you said so?" She laughed again. Sark mentally inventoried his appearance. He must look pathetic—his shirt was ripped, his arm and side were bleeding, he was drenched in river water and whatever else, and he had no weapon.
"Besides, my backup's here," she added. Sark whipped his head up just in time to see an arm swinging down and feeling the crash on his head.