Chapter 10
The Sydney subject rested for a few weeks. Though Sark knew Irina was scheming, there was other work to be done.
That work was interrupted one day by a simple phone call.
"Yes," Sark answered. The voice on the line was direct.
"I've been monitoring Bristow's apartment, but nothing of importance has surfaced," the person said.
Sark wasn't surprised. He hadn't been sent away for any important business since the last mission.
"Very well. Keep monitoring the audio, and contact me immediately if anything arises," Sark instructed. He was ready to hang up when his asset continued.
"Do you want the audio files I have so far?"
He paused to consider that. "Yes, send them over."
Sark turned to his computer and logged into a particular site. After it loaded, he opened up an decryption program. The files lay before him.
He downloaded each one, knowing they were long and most likely pointless. But Sark couldn't resist the temptation to learn more about Sydney.
He played them in the background as he continued to work. His asset was good enough to edit out the meaningless audio when no one was home.
Just hearing Sydney's voice made Sark sit up straighter in his chair. It seemed that she always greeted her roommate, Francie, as soon as Sydney walked through the door.
They talked about meaningless things at times—Francie's latest date and loser boyfriend, some friend named Will, and just catching up on events whenever Sydney came home from a trip.
Which made Sark listen carefully to the audio from after his escape.
Sydney didn't speak of it in any detail (real or made-up) until the next morning at breakfast.
Francie: So how was the trip?
Sydney: (Pause) I ran into a competitor.
Sark's heartbeat sped up. That's me!
Sydney: He was very annoying, egotistical . . . cocky! That's the word for him!
Sark wasn't sure if that shrinking in his chest was pain or pride in himself.
Francie: (laughs) So what, did he steal a client with a better interest rate or something?
Sydney: Almost. The client was swayed by him, but stayed with me in the end.
Sark smiled at her clever elaborations. Then he froze. Who is the client? For a moment, Sark thought only of the formula. Unless she's speaking of herself being swayed . . . .
Francie: He's cute, isn't he?
Sydney: (pauses) Yeah, but he's still obnoxious.
Francie: I meant your client, Syd!
Sydney: Oh, him too!
There was clanking of silverware or whatever other ambient noise as they finished up, but Sark barely registered it.
Cute. His ego swelled at that and he couldn't help but grin widely. He was glad he had the privacy of his own office now to hide that grin from anyone. I can work with 'cute.'
Months went by. Sark's asset continued surveillance on Sydney's apartment. Every now and then her "trips," which signaled another mission, made Sark go to Irina, but most of the time the mission wasn't of great importance to the organization.
Sark was actually pretty amazed at how often the missions were irrelevant. SD-6 and the Alliance weren't on top of things as much as they should be. Irina's organization was often weeks ahead of any competition.
And that kept him busy. He didn't have time to think about Sydney.
Well, that didn't mean he didn't think of her. Occasionally he would listen to the audio files from her apartment. But she never mentioned him.
Nothing seemed to indicate that she took him seriously about who she worked for. Then again, he hardly gave her much to go on. She needed more, a push in the right direction. But Irina didn't want to do that yet. For whatever her reasons, Sark knew he couldn't do anything without Irina's authorization on the Sydney matter.
That authorization finally came, but not until after the right circumstances.
Sydney was injured on some mission. Based on the intel, Sydney went to Portugal to obtain a weapon of sorts. The people she stole it from were . . . barbarians, at best.
"I'm sure Arvin Sloane said it was all to protect the United States," Irina had said, fuming as she relayed the details to Sark.
He had the presence of mind to not say anything, although inside he was starting to get riled up.
"The next time Sydney goes out for SD-6, intercept her." Irina's voice was icy. Sark cleared his throat.
"Am I offering her a new job?" he asked.
Irina nodded. "Yes. But don't mention me yet. It's too soon for that." She paused. "Make sure she's not hurt."
Sark waited for a second, then asked the question that he had been eager to ask. "How badly was she hurt in Portugal?"
"She was shot in the shoulder. She'll be fine," Irina stated. "Are you still monitoring her?" Sark nodded. "Let me know about her next trip." She started to leave, but stopped for a moment. "Sark. Be convincing with her. I expect her to be on our side."
Sark called his asset, preparing for the coming operation. He started typing down tentative plans, alternate contingencies and possible scenarios.
"I need you to monitor Sydney Bristow's apartment around the clock," Sark said. "As soon as she says anything about leaving for a trip, let me know. You have my number." With that he hung up.
How am I going to convince her to work for Irina? Sark thought. Sydney was . . . pure. Well, first of all, she wouldn't believe him about SD-6 being part of the Alliance. Hurdle number one. Then she would question who he was and if his employer was any better. I could tell her I'm with British intelligence. That wouldn't work either—Sydney, no matter what lie Sark gave her, would try to verify anything he said.
So honesty . . . That would be a first for him, in a long time. On a mission anyway–he was almost always honest with Irina. But she had that effect on him. Like mother, like daughter.
Think, Sark! Suddenly, he recalled what Sydney had said from the audio files. Cute. He would have to use that.
The call came insanely early one morning. Sark's asset said Sydney was leaving immediately on a trip, supposedly to Atlanta. Sark rolled out of bed, ignored his unusually spiky hair, and threw on some clothes.
After speaking with Irina and going over new intel, Sark was on a plane to southern Brazil. Based on the daily intelligence brief, they figured out that SD-6 was sending Sydney to a town called Livramento, in Rio Grande do Sul. The Alliance was apparently after some electronic files.
Sydney had a head start on him, partially from being in the Western Hemisphere already. He took a flight on a faster plane, but it was going to be tight to execute any sort of advancement on Sydney.
He landed in Uruguay, and then took a commuter flight across the border to Brazil. The small town could only accommodate small propeller planes, which were far less reliable by his standards than the nice jets he normally used. By the time he arrived in Livramento, Sark estimated that Sydney was already in town, rested and ready.
Sark immediately drove to the building. He circled it twice, and then he saw it. There was a rope hanging down the building's side. Sark leaned over across the passenger seat and peered out the window. Up at one of the top floors was a nice sized hole. Probably used a laser cutter and punched the glass in, Sark thought.
She's up there.
Which meant she'd be coming down soon.
Sark hadn't seen any evidence of backup. But it was still possible they were out there. So he parked in the shadows, sat back, and waited.
It took three minutes, and then she came dropping down from the building. Sark watched as her slim figure bounced off to her car. She got in on the driver's side. She's alone. Sark waited for her to disappear down the road before starting the engine.
The streets were relatively empty, but the sidewalks were full. People from both sides of the border were mingling, eating at churrascarias and sorveterias. Sydney's car slowed down for some wayward, and most likely drunk, people. Sark also suspected they were getting close to her hotel. He doubted she was flying out tonight. It was too late, and flights were limited out here.
He stayed as far back as he could without losing her. When she turned into a hotel's underground parking lot, Sark drove on by and parked on the street.
He was still dressed in whatever he threw on himself in the morning. He'd chosen black slacks and a black polo shirt. He was grateful for his black leather jacket; Livramento was often quite windy, and the chill in the air tugged at his bones.
The chill subsided as he walked into the garage. He listened as he stepped carefully. He heard her walking to the elevators.
Sark leaned against a column, hiding from her until he was sure she was unaware of his presence. Then he hurried to follow her.
She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the elevator to arrive. Sark hid behind a car, just twenty feet from her. His gun was out and ready. As the elevator dinged, Sark rushed from his spot and jabbed the gun in Sydney's back.
Sark saw her body tense and freeze. He knew she was waiting for an opening to take him out, but he changed the stakes by merely speaking to her.
"Don't be alarmed, Miss Bristow. My business here is short and simple," he said. He pushed her to the elevator. "After you."
Sydney reluctantly stepped in, her back to Sark. "Which floor?" she asked testily.
"Yours, please," Sark replied. "We're headed to your room."
The elevator was old and slow, which gave Sark plenty of time to remove any weapons Sydney had. He felt somewhat nervous as he frisked her. Focus! He steeled himself against the threat of weakness, and replace his overly cool look on his face.
They stepped off the elevator, and Sark followed Sydney cautiously. He didn't think she had any backup or traps in place, but he was not going to be caught off guard.
Sydney took her time opening the room door. Sark knew she was testing him, but didn't open up any opportunities for her to surprise him.
As soon as she cleared the door, she yanked open a closet door, right into Sark. Sark quickly leaned back, effectively dodging the blow but losing control of Sydney at the same time.
She dove across the king-sized bed for cover. Sark regained his balance and aimed both his gun and hers in her direction.
"Stop right there, Miss Bristow," Sark ordered. "You're trapped in your own room with no way out but that dirty window." The window was quite dirty, and not very big either. Obviously the hotel was not into the balcony-type of luxury.
Sydney's head peaked up behind the bed."What do you want, Sark?" Her tone was already heated, and Sark couldn't help but find that really attractive.
"Cooperation, Miss Bristow. Please sit on the bed, against the headboard," he said, motioning with one of the guns. Sydney glared at him, but complied.
Sark approached her, dropping one gun and getting out a pair of handcuffs from his jacket. Her eyes were fiery, and he held that look, trying to read into any sudden movements.
He almost died when he touched her hands. He wound the cuffs between the headboard bars, and then locked in her wrists. But that didn't stop her feet. She lashed out a kick as he moved away from her. It connected with his jaw, and made him fall against the cheap TV and stand.
His jaw felt hard yet tender. It twitched with pain. Sark steadied himself and casually leaned against the TV stand as he composed himself. He glanced at Sydney but didn't glare. If she knew how much the kick hurt or annoyed him, he would lose some control.
Sark put the safety on the gun and laid it on top of the TV. "Can I get you anything? Dinner or a drink?" he asked politely.
She only narrowed her eyes at him.
"Maybe just the mini-bar then," Sark said. He turned and opened the little fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. He took off the cap, and was about to take a sip when he stopped.
"Would you like some?" he asked. She didn't answer, but Sark saw her eye the bottle. He walked slowly to her. "Here." Sark put the bottle to her lips, and she tilted her head back. She drank greedily at first, and then seemed to remember her situation. Sark tried not to smirk as she controlled her gulps.
When she finished, Sark turned and went back to leaning across from her. He drank from the same bottle, hoping to prove some sort of bond with her. He needed any help he could get.
"I hope your current position isn't aggravating your shoulder," Sark said. She was surprised, he knew, and so he continued. "I've been keeping track of you. SD-6 should never have sent you on that mission, especially since they'll turn around and sell the weapon."
That got her started, which was a vast improvement for Sark from her stony silence.
"SD-6 protected millions by getting the weapon out," Sydney defended violently. "How can you accuse my agency of wrong-doing when you have murdered innocent people!"
That stung, but Sark couldn't place why. Of course he'd killed people. That was part of his job, part of the industry.
"The work we do, Miss Bristow, requires the death of those in our way. You, I know, have killed your fair share."
She shook her head.
"I'm talking about the driver you killed in L.A. He had a family. He was innocent—"
"Obviously he wasn't," Sark cut in. He felt his face getting hot, and order his body to calm down. "He knew there was danger. I had two armed guards with me and I was bound. Those are pretty big clues that something's amiss."
"You killed those guards as if they were nothing. They—"
"—planned on taking me to your employer, an enemy. You would have done the same, Sydney, to avoid capture." Sark hadn't meant to use her first name yet, but the forceful need of justification made it slip out. He couldn't tell if he was feeling guilty and hence needed to rationalize his actions, or if he was just reacting to Sydney.
"If you worked for the US government, you would see the difference between avoiding capture and cold-blooded murder." Her words froze in the air with her tone. The way she said "cold-blooded murder" unsettled him. She really believes what she's saying. She thinks I'm a monster.
That didn't sit well with Sark either. He looked down at the floor, thinking.
"I'm not referring to the U.S. government," Sark said quietly.
Sydney's hard gaze suddenly filled with confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"SD-6 is not a part of the CIA," Sark said. She stared at him.
"Sure. Then they're part of what?" Sydney asked with a sarcastic tone. Despite that, there was doubt in her eyes, and Sark saw it.
"The Alliance." When she laughed, Sark continued. "You know there are more cells than SD-6. Hence, why they are numbered. So, 12 SD cells . . . the Alliance of twelve . . . are you getting the picture?"
"Why should I trust you? You've basically kidnaped me by gunpoint and have offered nothing more than your word!"
Here it is, Sark thought. He knew she'd want some proof. And she knew she'd fight any proof. He tried a shortcut.
"Have you ever actually seen Langley? Trained at The Farm, as they call it? Just think about it, before you shoot down the truth," Sark said. "You really have no proof that SD-6 is part of the CIA."
"There are other people who—" she started.
"—who have been told what you've been told. It's time to wake up, Sydney," Sark pushed. He watched as she bowed her head, thinking and also hiding her confused looks.
"Why would you tell me this?" It was the first question to address why Sark came to her. And he knew, based on their conversation thus far, that she would fight him.
"I want you to work with me."