Chapter 16
"Sydney." Sark noticed that her normally light Russian accent was hidden. She's being Laura Bristow.
Irina moved to hug Sydney, but the daughter sidestepped the embrace and started pacing. Sark stood rooted to his spot, a bit unsure of his place in this decidedly awkward situation. He looked to Irina, tilting his head to the door. She nodded.
Sark closed the doors of the dining room behind him. As curious as he was about how things would play out, he knew this was the most comfortable place to be for him.
He wondered if Irina would tell Sydney the truth. He supposed she would; Sydney was smart enough to figure out that her mother obviously had some involvement in the spy world. Sark went to the kitchen, swiped himself a glass of wine, and went back by the doors. He sat, sipped and waited.
The voices inside got louder, and Sark suspected the emotional dam had broken. He took another sip from his glass.
A half-hour had passed by the time he checked his watch. His patience was wearing thin. Not to mention that my stomach is empty. He stood to go to the kitchen when the doors suddenly flew open.
Sark barely caught a glimpse of Sydney as she took the stairs two at a time to the residence rooms. Well, at least no one got killed.
He entered the dining room quietly, and found Irina quiet and staring at the cold food.
"How did it go?" As if you don't know—you were listening the whole time. Irina gave him a look that said as much. "It's not like I had my ear pressed against the door," Sark said defensively.
Irina sighed.
"She's . . . shocked. This will take some getting used to. She has thought I was dead all these years," she said.
"That, and she thought you were a literature professor," Sark added. That earned him a glare. Sark cleared his throat apologetically. "She looked lovely, I thought."
Random U-turn in conversation, Sark, he scolded himself. Irina smiled.
"I noticed the dress she picked," Irina said. Sark couldn't help but smile.
"Yes, so did I."
They stood in momentary silence after that. Sark watched Irina's smile fade.
"Will you take her something to eat?" she asked. Sark nodded. "Good. I'm relying on you to help her adjust."
"Of course," Sark answered. He spun on one heel and headed for the kitchen.
His knock was quiet, just in case she was sleeping. When she answered the door, it was obvious she hadn't been.
Her dress was replaced with yoga pants and a tank top and her eyes were puffy and pink. She stepped aside and let Sark in.
"Your mother thought you might be hungry," he said, placing a tray of food on a small decorative table. She eyed the food, but obviously her mind was elsewhere.
"You knew, didn't you?" she said. Her voice was low, but it definitely had a menacing tone. Sark took a deep breath.
"Yes."
"And you recruited me for her," she said. Sark nodded. "Was anything you told me true?"
Sark opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off.
"You claimed the CIA would turn on me. Did they really, or did you just orchestrate that, you deceiving, self-centered—"
"Sydney, before you say something you regret, please know that I had nothing to do with how the CIA reacted to the Rambaldi prophecy."
"Was that page even real?" she shot back.
"You know it is. You have the signs," he said. "Don't doubt me because you've discovered the truth about your mother."
"The truth," she said, almost snorting. "The truth that my mother didn't die when I was six, wasn't a teacher, wasn't loyal to the United States, but the exact opposite!"
He waited for a moment. As he opened his mouth to finally say something, she cut in again.
"And you helped her!!!"
Sark sighed, and walked over to the food. He bit his lip and hastily buttered a dinner roll.
"As much as I love being accused of everything but the Kennedy assassination, I'm actually hungry," he said. "If you didn't notice, your reunion with your mother cost me dinner."
Sydney fumed at that. "Get over yourself, Sark."
"You first," Sark shot back. He took a bite of the bread, chewing furiously. "You think you're the only one who's ever been deceived?" He swallowed to avoid bread crumbs spewing as he spoke. "This business is all about deception. So what if Irina lied to you, faked her death, and betrayed your country? She still loves you and obviously cares enough about you to rescue you from the bureaucratic imbeciles of the CIA, FBI, and NSA!"
He punctuated that last sentence with another bite.
"If you have doubts," he began again, "you should just leave. You're already planning on it, what with your iron-clad sense of justice. Go ahead—good riddance. It's hard enough with one Dereveko around here."
He stopped but only because her fist came flying at him. It landed on his left jaw, sending him stumbling back into a chair.
"Don't you dare call me that! I'm a Bristow," she said with clenched fists. Suddenly, a thought hit her or something, because she relaxed for a moment. "And I'm part Derevko." She turned away form Sark, who was still slammed back in the chair, massaging his jaw.
"Sydney," Sark started. "Your mother is a part of you, yes. But she doesn't determine completely who you are. Nor does some prophecy.." She faced him when he said those words. Seeing that he was making some dent into her emotional wreck of a facade, he continued.
"You've heard this before, but we can find out what Rambaldi wrote and—"
He was interrupted. She stalked to him until she was inches away. He saw the emotion in her eyes, but it wasn't doubt or fear. It was sudden desire. What just happened?
He didn't question anymore. Sark placed his hands on her face and quickly moved in for a kiss. It was soft, tentative. He pulled back, gauging her reaction. Then she kissed him back, hard.
A little too hard. Sark's jaw screamed in protest.
A groan escaped, unmistakably pain and not enjoyment. Sydney pulled back.
"My jaw's a little sore," he whispered. Sydney laughed lightly.
"I'm sorry I hit you," she said. Sark shook his head.
"Don't worry about it." He stared at her, those big brown eyes, and started to lean in again.
And as unfortunate timing would have it, his cell phone rang.
He sighed and pulled away.
It was his L.A. asset.
"Yes?"
"There's been some interesting audio. The bugs have been found, but don't worry. I've severed any connection to us. But the last files recorded are . . . interesting."
"Forward them to me immediately." He hit the end button on his cell phone.
"Business?" Sydney asked. Sark nodded, stepping back from her.
"Always," he said. He paused, considering what was next. You just kissed her about 20 seconds ago. You can't pretend it didn't happen. "I apologize if I've overstepped any boundaries, Sydney."
She laughed at him, but Sark couldn't figure out why.
"You really are the gentleman, aren't you?" she commented. She quieted down, and then said with some reflection: "You weren't kidding when you said you weren't a monster."
"Not anymore," he said. That silence, packed with emotions and thoughts, surfaced again. Business! his mind reminded him.
"Um," he started, probably the first time in two years he'd said such an unintelligible thing, "I better see to that call." She looked at the ground as he said that, and knew she was disappointed. "Please enjoy your dinner."
With that, he turned and walked very self-consciously out of the room.
As soon as he hit the hallway, he ran down to his office in the lower levels of the facility. If the audio recordings weren't incredible, he planned to kill the asset for interrupting that kiss.
He found the files and started downloading them onto his laptop.
The first voice he heard sounded like Jack Bristow. The second he'd never heard before, but it was someone from CIA.
Jack: Look for anything that might help us find her, Vaughn.
Vaughn? Sark had heard the name before, but from old files involving Irina. Plus, Irina had killed that particular Vaughn.
Vaughn: Do you think Sark kidnaped her? Or did she run?
Jack: Either way, we need to help her. I'm not crazy about the CIA making the mistake of thinking she is a traitor, nor am I fond of some assassin taking her.
There was rustling noises as the two agents seemed to rifle through Sydney's apartment.
Vaughn: Jack, back here. It looks like someone packed a bag in a hurry.
Jack: Either Sark came in here himself and packed a bag, which would suggest he doesn't intend to kill her, or Sydney packed a bag . . . .
Vaughn: And used him to escape the CIA.
Jack: If she's hiding, obviously she doesn't know what we've discovered.
Discovered? What had they discovered?
Vaughn: Do you really believe Derevko is alive?
Oh hell and damnation, Sark cursed in his mind.
Jack: The mere fact that it was already an option the CIA considered years ago tells me that it's a strong possibility. I just wished they had told me then.
Vaughn: Instead they persecuted Sydney so she was vulnerable enough to be kidnaped by Sark. You think they'd have realized already that she is too good to turn on the country.
Sark stopped the recording. She really was too good to turn on the United States. But now that she knew so much about Irina and at least something about the organization, she was a threat when she returned. When? It was almost predetermined in his mind. She would never stay, once she learned that we're no better than the Alliance. Well, Irina's organization was better, but not any more moral or ethical.
Either way, Sydney could turn over damaging intel to the CIA. And that concerned him.
Sark stood up from his solid cherry wood desk, pushing the leather chair back as he did. He had to speak with Irina.
Irina opened her office door, and Sark didn't wait for an invitation to enter.
"We may have a problem."
"Do we tell her, and let her go?" Sark asked after explaining it all.
Irina sat calmly behind her desk, fingers pressed against each other in a pensive position.
"You think she'll want to go back, even though the CIA tried to jail her,"she summarized.
Sark nodded.
"And she'll then confirm that you are alive, and send the CIA our way."
Irina turned in her chair, thinking deeply.
"Tell her what you've learned. And then tell her we have a mission you two are going on," Irina said. Sark's eyes narrowed, exposing his forehead to wrinkles of confusion.
"Mission?" Sark repeated. Irina tilted her head to the side.
"A test. If she tries to leave or set us up, we let her go. If not, she proves herself to us."
"If she leaves, you're not worried about the CIA?" Sark asked.
"Worried, no. Concerned, maybe. But the CIA is hardly a match for us," Irina said confidently. "Besides, Sydney will stay."
Sark smiled. "I wish I had your confidence."
"You should. She likes you," Irina said. Sark froze, suddenly feeling like he was in grade school and the rumors were flying.
"She wouldn't choose me over her conscience," Sark objected rationally. Irina nodded.
"We'll see," she said. "Come up with a mission. Leave as soon as you can." Sark got up to leave.
"Do I tell her about the recordings?" he asked before leaving.
"Tonight."
Just telling Sydney about the new recordings easily led to the fact that Sark bugged her apartment.
Sydney glared at him and punched him again—in the same spot on his jaw.
He rubbed it gingerly.
"Obviously, you're upset," he said calmly.
"Did you figure that out by yourself, Sark?" she said, huffing with the exertion of anger and her punch.
"We leave on a mission tomorrow afternoon, Sydney. I need to know you won't try killing me en route," he pointed out.
"What makes you think I want to work with you anymore?" Sydney challenged.
Here it is—the moment of truth.
"Optimistic thinking that the kiss we shared not long ago was more than an impulse, and at best an indication that you wanted me." He knew he shouldn't have said that. Sydney jumped off one foot, swinging her other leg around at his head.
He ducked at the last moment, crouched to the floor and swept his leg around to kick her off her feet. Her body made a loud thud on the floor, so much that Sark winced for her.
But she was back on her feet instantly, and dove for him. He didn't have any time to dodge.
They both crashed back into the table, the leftover food and dishes falling over and on top of them. Sydney sat on top of Sark, effectively pinning him on his back. Then she started punching him relentlessly.
He half-heartedly warded off her blows, but some got through. His chest and sides were starting to ache as she continued to wail on him.
She was strong.
Sark finally successfully blocked a hit, then landed one of his own squarely in her diaphragm. It threw her back for a moment, and Sark used that opportunity to push her off of him.
Both struggled to catch their breath, more because of the pain than tiredness. Sark's hand rested protectively over his chest and torso.
"Feel better?" he asked between gasps. She glared at him.
"How could you?"
Sark almost rolled his eyes. "Get over it, Sydney. If you want to leave, leave. It's not like I'm stopping you. You know the CIA's rescinded its order to find you. You can go help them track us down or you can stay and work with us." He tried to stand up, but stopped as he noticed the condition of his body and suit.
There was food bits and water all over him.
"Do you know this is the second suit you've ruined?" he said.
"I trusted you, only to find out you were spying on me," Sydney said, ignoring his complaint. Sark gave her a rare incredulous look.
"You always knew I was spying on you. You just didn't know to what extent," he said. Suddenly an alarmed look came over her face, and Sark instantly knew what she was thinking. "No, it was only audio surveillance."
Sark started flicking away the bits of food. He sighed when he came to a grease stain.
"It's a suit, Sark—not the end of the world," she said. She handed him a napkin, which he snatched from her. He started dabbing at the grease.
"So I take it you don't want me," he said with some levity. She glared at him again, making him hold up his hands in surrender. "As a mission partner, I mean."
"What mission?" she asked cautiously.
"Vatican City. The Vatican, actually."
"What's there?"
"The actual decoder for Rambaldi's works," Sark answered. Sydney squinted her eyes, wrinkling her whole forehead in the process. "We've been using a simulated decoder, but obviously the real thing would help to make sure we're interpreting Rambaldi's works correctly."
"When do we leave?" she asked. Sark cocked his head to the side, giving her a questioning look.
"You're not leaving?" he asked.
She shook her head, and for the first time in a while, she threw him off.
Of course, in the event she was playing him, Sark was prepared. He had three men near the museum, patrolling indiscreetly. A tech team was monitoring frequencies in case any suspect transmissions showed up.
Sark followed Sydney into the Vatican, both dressed as repairmen. They were hardly questioned.
The plan was to infiltrate the basement, blow a hole in a wall, and enter a hidden area. The only trick was the alarm system.
There was a 20 second delay to deactivate it, but from their vantage point, that was incredibly tight.
Sark set the explosive, while Sydney hid in position behind a wall. He joined her, detonator in hand. After exchanging a look, he hit the button.
The blast was loud, but hopefully unheard, given their position below the building. Sydney ran ahead into the hole, armed with what tech he gave her. Sark counted off the seconds in his head.
He was on 16 when they arrived at the alarm. Sydney quickly hooked up the code breaker. It broke the code at 21 seconds.
"Find artifact 4747, quickly," Sark ordered. Frantically they searched, racing against the coming guards.
He could hear them coming. Sark pursed his lips, pressing harder until—
"Over here," he heard Sydney say. She was in front of a large painting, by Rambaldi of course.
"Where's the code?" he said aloud. He peered closely at the painting. Nothing stood out. Frustrated, he pulled out his knife, ready to slice into the painting and analyze it later.
"Wait," Sydney said, stopping his knife mid-air. "It's on the frame."
She was right.
"Take photos," Sark said. "I'll hold off the guards." With that, he started out the way they came.
And ran right into the muzzle of an automatic rifle. The guards, two of them, ordered him to the floor in Italian.
Sark played dumb, though was quite disappointed with himself that he didn't already have his gun ready. One guard took a step toward him, about to hit him with the rifle. Sark instinctively stepped forward and yanked the gun away.
He spun around on one foot, and landed it in the other guard's torso. But in focusing that kick on him, Sark failed to see the first guard pull out a knife.
It sliced his left side. Sark yelled out and pulled away. The second guard, having recovered from Sark's initial blow, kicked him in the side. Sark groaned as the pain and impact made him fall to the ground. Both guards stood over him, and for a moment, Sark wondered if Sydney had conveniently taken the opportunity to betray him.