Chapter 14
Sark wasn't crazy about setting himself up for rejection again, but it was a means to an end. He had money in all the right places with no trail, and he could disappear at any moment. But not yet—not with Sydney so close.
He didn't know why he couldn't walk away now. Something with Sydney . . . he just couldn't leave yet. Not until she didn't think of him as a monster.
It was almost insecurity. Her approval meant nothing in the world he lived in. But to him, it would be . . . relief. Forgiveness. For what he had become.
She brought out the innocence of Fabian Ross from the intelligence and skill of Sark. But that naivete threatened Sark. It was making him weak now, in not wanting to do what he was capable of and had been doing for the last few years. It made him weak in seeking Sydney's approval.
Just a few more weeks.
Sark decided that the best way to contact Sydney wasn't going to be face-to-face this time.
But he flew to L.A. anyway. Not for the confrontation, but just to see her. And leave her the dangling carrot.
After some debate between him and Irina, he took the original page 47 and put it in an envelope for Sydney. He also included a letter that explained the prophecy. Can't rely on CIA analysis.
Now for the opportunity.
Sark sat outside her apartment, waiting for the perfect moment. Sydney came out at 7:15, dressed in a very flattering pinstripe suit. As she went for her car, Sark stepped out of his.
He slammed the door just a little loudly, catching Sydney's attention. She froze when she saw him.
"Good morning, Sydney." No more 'Miss Bristow.' Sark was determined to make things personal.
He walked across the street, stopping on the sidewalk. She met him the rest of the way.
"Give me one reason not to call the CIA right now," she said threateningly. Sark smirked.
"You've betrayed me once and don't really want to do it again." Perfect. She took a step back with that. "I'm not here to give you a guilt trip, Sydney. But I'd like to speak with you, if you have a moment," Sark said politely. He stood tall, with his hands behind his back, almost like a waiting suitor. It was partially to hide his banged up hands from his boxing episode.
She nodded for him to continue.
"Do you know about Milo Rambaldi?" he asked.
"I've heard the name," was her indifferent reply. Sark smiled at her stubbornness.
"Well, I'm sure the CIA has their sub-agency that would be interested in him. Some sort of X-Files division," he mused. "Anyway, here's a page of one of his manuscripts that I recently acquired." He gave her the envelope. As he did, the sight of his torn knuckles made Sydney do a double take.
"Nice hands," she commented. She was curious, but didn't press him. "Why are you giving this to me?" Sydney asked. She was starting to realize that Sark wasn't here just to torment her.
"You're on the page." She blanched at that, and Sark couldn't help but smile. "You're mentioned in his works, Sydney. I've come here today to offer you a chance to figure out what its all about."
"What, join you? You just don't give up, do you?" She sighed in frustration. "You're like that good-looking guy in high school who won't take no for an answer." She froze after she realized what she said.
Sark couldn't resist. He flashed her a charming smile.
"Well, at least you find me good-looking." His accent purred, which he knew tore at her resolve. This is working! he thought.
Sydney rolled her eyes, just a second too late to be convincing.
"Hardly. I think you're—"
"—a monster, murderer, terrorist—thank you, Sydney, you've made that all painfully clear before. No need to get all defensive because you let your true feelings show," he commented arrogantly. That flustered Sydney even more.
"Sark, what do you want?" she asked, moving on from her embarrassment.
His forehead wrinkled with his confusion. "Have you not been paying attention, Sydney?"
She shook her head. "What do you really want? You've asked me to work with you several times now, and frankly, I'm bored with having to constantly say no. You're not stupid, so you understand what I say. You must have another reason."
"Did you complete that whole analysis by yourself? Syd, I'm impressed," he mocked.
"What did you just call me?" she asked with heat in her voice. Sark froze, unsure of what he said. "You just called me Syd—only my friends can call me that."
"Terribly sorry, Sydney. I just thought we were close enough that I could call you by a pet name," he retorted. He took a deep breath. "We're digressing. Look at the page, Sydney. If you don't believe me, have your CIA analyze it. And when they sick their dogs on you, you'll see that joining up with me is a viable option."
She glared at him, still upset from their banter.
"I have to go now. I've lingered too long," Sark said. He stepped back from her, vaguely aware of how close they were. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Sydney. Please believe that." With that, he turned and walked to his car.
As he opened the door to get in, she called out to him.
"Sark." He stopped. "You know I can't." Her voice had just a touch of sorrow, and it gave him hope.
"I know you can, Sydney. But will you?" His words hung in the morning air. Sydney looked down, and Sark got in his car and drove away.
Sark returned to a hotel room, listening to live audio. His asset broadcasted the feed with only a thirty-second delay. He hadn't left the room since.
As he waited for any sort of indication of what was going on, he thought about their meeting. It had gone better than he'd hoped, and yet he was confused.
His priorities were out of line. He didn't know if he wanted Sydney to come with him, or come to Irina's organization. Regardless of what he wanted, Sark knew that Sydney would never stay with Irina. Based on what he'd discovered, Irina betrayed her American family and the US government. But that was mainly classified information. Sydney probably still didn't know since she was studying to be a teacher of literature, just like Laura Bristow.
I wonder if Jack and the CIA even knows Irina is alive and well.
Either way, when the truth was discovered, the emotional turbulence could directly impact Sark. And if that created a division between Irina and Sydney, who would he go with?
Well, not Sydney. That would mean the CIA, Sark thought. Or maybe that'd be an opportune time to get out.
Get out and do what? That was a valid point.
"Sydney." Did he imagine that or—
"What did they find out?" The bug was picking up something. Sark went to his computer and listened.
Jack: The CIA wants you to come in for some tests.
Sydney: Tests for what?
Jack: The page Sark gave you mentioned specific signs. The signs, if right, supposedly confirm that you are the woman in Rambaldi's writings.
Sydney: Why is the CIA putting so much stock in this page and Rambaldi?
Jack: The FBI has a team that has known about and investigated Rambaldi for over a decade. The page is real.
Sydney: Well, what does it say about me, if it is me?
Jack: (pauses) It says that the woman will bring about Rambaldi's most terrible work.
Sark heard someone pacing around, probably Sydney.
Sydney: Dad, Sark said something else. He said that the CIA would sick its dogs after me once they analyzed the page. (Pause) What if he's right?
Jack: I don't know.
Sark mentally patted himself on the back. The CIA was very predictable. And Sydney was already fearing what they would do with the page and her.
Sydney: When am I supposed to go in?
Jack: Tomorrow morning. I've already arranged the time off with Sloane. He thinks you have papers to write.
Sydney: I do, but that'll have to wait.
Jack: Sydney. It'll be all right.
Sure it will, Jack, Sark thought. Things were playing out perfectly. Sark picked up his cell phone and called Irina.
Based on his assumptions, and instinct, Sydney would be very close to considering running away with him.
Running away to the organization, I mean.
Sark had been slipping up like that lately and it was getting on his nerves. Or making him hope.
He watched Sydney's apartment from a house across the street. The owner was not in at the moment, which was convenient for Sark. He hadn't been waiting long when he saw Sydney's car screech to a halt in front of her place.
He stood up, watching her. She ran for her front door, leaving it open as she hurried in. The CIA has turned on her.
Sark calmly crossed the street and walked into her apartment. He remembered the last time he was inside, hiding behind a couch and hoping she wouldn't find him. This time he announced his presence when he got to her room.
"Sydney," he said. She had been rifling through her closet, but quickly faced him.
She whipped her gun out, leveling it with his head. Sark smirked at the reaction. She lowered her gun with a sigh when she realized it was him.
"What, Sark?" she said, turning back to throwing clothes onto her bed.
"Leaving in a hurry?" he replied. Sydney shot him a look, and Sark knew the answer. "How close are they behind you?"
"The CIA? Who knows, but I'm not waiting around to find out," she said, zipping up a bag of belongings.
"Where are you going to go?" Sark asked. He tried to play innocent about it, but she knew what he was getting at.
And that made her drop her bag on the floor and sigh.
"I don't know if I can trust you, Sark," she said. Sark walked to her bag and picked it up. He turned in the direction of the front door, and held out a hand to her.
"Give me a chance to prove myself to you," he said. She stared at him.
"You, or your employer?"
Sark didn't answer, but dropped his hand.
Out front they heard cars coming to a stop.
"Let's go," Sydney said, moving for her bedroom window. They slipped out the window and circled around a few houses before reaching Sark's car, and driving away from the CIA, SD-6, and any sense of normalcy Sydney had.