Chapter 20
He tried to hide his surprise. That deadliness in her look was almost annoyance.
"Miss Bristow," he greeted. "If anyone should look miffed, I assure you it's me." Sark rolled off the cot slowly and stood gingerly. She watched every move, scrutinizing him.
"You look sore," she commented. Sark smirked.
"Your NSA doesn't seem to have any qualms about questionable interrogation techniques," he said, trying to be neutral about it. "I guess they're very motivated in finding Irina Derevko."
She studied the floor, suddenly finding it more fascinating than him. Is that guilt I'm seeing?
Sark cleared his throat.
"So you're back, I take it," he said. She nodded.
"I brought back what I learned from the organization," Sydney said.
"Nice play," Sark said softly.
"The CIA has exonerate me, given what I've brought back."
"The least they could do," said Sark. "How'd you get away?" That wasn't the question he wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her for the truth . . . about him.
"My mother sent me on an op," Sydney said. "I completed it, but brought the spoils back to the CIA."
"In some twisted way, I'm sure she's proud." His blue eyes gazed at her. He looked silently for several moments.
"What?" she asked. He looked away and paced around.
"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "So the NSA and CIA got all the info they wanted?"
Sydney shook her head. "I only knew so much. But we have enough to start planning a takedown."
The gates down the hall started squeaking, and suddenly Agent Vaughn appeared.
"Sydney," he said, eying Sark, "your dad wants to speak with you."
Sark gave Vaughn his smirk. Vaughn just glared at him.
"Okay." With that, Vaughn whisked her away. Sydney glanced back at Sark, who stood as indifferent as he could.
Who am I fooling?
The routine began again the next afternoon.
The sounds of the gates lifting interrupted Sark's thoughts. He looked for the newcomer.
It was that Kendall man, as well as one of the NSA guys. Sark suppressed a groan of anticipation.
"Agent Bristow has provided us with crucial intel about Irina Derevko's operation. Which makes you—"
"A devalued commodity," Sark finished as if bored. "So when do you raid Derevko's headquarters?"
"Derevko undoubtedly knows Sydney left. So she's probably on the run. Where would she go next?"
Sark smirked. "What happened to the devalued commodity bit?"
"I don't think you want to be devalued. It could cause your death."
Sark laughed, which obviously threw off Kendall.
"Then kill me already," Sark dared him. Kendall just stared at him, with his extended forehead wrinkling.
"The NSA would like to speak with you," he said, pointing to one of the NSA men. As if on cue, two guards came into Sark's cell. They cuffed him roughly and jostled him down the hall.
Sark woke up later, probably around his usual 8 p.m. His body was sprawled out on the cold floor. His shirt lay discarded by him.
Sark coughed, then automatically clutched his torso. The session was worse than most. As usual, Sark gave them nothing; to him, it was the principal of the matter. No one forced anything from him. It did help, though, that this time his resolve was strengthened by knowing Sydney was back.
And she was apparently good, which again threw him. But he felt . . . betrayed. Again.
He stumbled to the shower, wincing as the hot spray seared his chest. He was bleeding again.
Surprise, surprise.
Sark wrapped a towel around his waist, and went to the sink for a drink of water. The cool water soothed his throat, which was raw from the screams he let loose against his will.
Something caught his eye. Sark looked to the glass.
Sydney. She looked immaculate, in another dark suit and her hair shining down past her shoulders.
She also looked . . . sympathetic.
That bothered Sark. Without appearing too hasty or uncomfortable, he grabbed his pants. He slid them on underneath the towel, miraculously maintaining a little bit of modesty.
He moved for his shirt, still left on the floor, when she spoke.
"That cut still hasn't healed," she said, indicating his wound from the Vatican. Sark didn't look at her, but tried to bend over and get his shirt.
The movement sent pain shooting through him. He gasped before he could stop himself.
"Your friends have been digging around in it," he said between breaths. "What do you want, Sydney?"
"I thought I owed you an explanation," she said carefully. Sark smirked at that.
"Owe me an explanation?" He huffed at that. "Me, the terrible assassin and monster." He gave up on his shirt for now, while well aware that the sight of the injuries on his chest put a guilt trip on her. He used his towel and rubbed it through his hair.
"I know you didn't have a choice."
Sark froze.
"I beg your pardon?" he said just a touch too politely to keep up his anger.
"Henry. He basically sold you to Irina. And Irina would have killed you if you left," Sydney explained.
"And how did you come to that conclusion, Sydney?" Sark asked with dwindling sarcasm.
She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. "Deductive reasoning."
"Intriguing," Sark mocked. He couldn't help but be angry. Seeing her, scot-free and not suffering . . . He didn't want her to suffer, but part of him wanted her to realize what she'd done—to him.
"Are you . . . angry?" she asked softly, a little perplexed. Sark shot her a look and chucked his towel toward the shower.
"Deductive reasoning again, Sydney?"
She sighed in response.
"I have to hand it to you," Sark started. "You had me completely fooled. I thought you would have betrayed me at the Vatican. I fully expected it, especially after our meeting at the zoo."
"That was—"
"But then," Sark cut her off, "you surprised me. You murdered that guard. That threw off any understanding I thought I had of you." He stopped to catch his breath.
"Why, because I acted like I thought you would have?" she shot back. Sark paced to the sink. He gulped down some more water.
"Enough with condemning my actions!" He wiped his mouth. "I've had enough things hanging over me without your help."
"Like you have a conscience," she spat back.
Sark glared at her. "Evidently, more than you do." Sydney took a step back. Her face looked shocked, as if he just hit her.
Both settled into a moment of silence. Finally, she spoke.
"I had to be convincing," she said. Her voice grew stronger as she continued. "And if that meant I had to kill in front of you, save your life, and get close—"
She stopped there. The cat was out of the bag. Sark nodded slowly, and tried to ignore the pain where his heart used to be.
"You had to get close to me," Sark finished. He tried not to show anything, any pain or emotion.
Sark sat down on the metal cot.
"Was it your idea or Irina's to set me up in Stockholm?" he asked.
"Mine," she answered. That pain stabbed at his chest again. "But she planned on removing you for awhile anyway."
"And you already had the contacts," Sark filled in, trying to be indifferent. "You just sent the word along."
It was settled; she had betrayed him.
"There was another reason," Sydney said.
Sark suppressed a laugh. As if all the reasons justify it. "What reason was that, Sydney?"
"By giving you to the CIA, I got you away from my mother. Given your background, I thought that's what you wanted."
She sounded meek when she said that. Sark laughed at her.
"My background? I might have been recruited without any say, but I can take care of myself. I planned on disappearing soon, but your little setup got in the way," Sark ranted. "And now, I'm in the custody of the CIA, with the NSA ripping me up every day!"
His chest heaved with exertion from the interrogation session and his ravings with Sydney.
"Nice try at justification, Sydney," he said when he calmed down enough. "But I was better off on my own."
She was quiet, studying the floor and avoiding his piercing eyes.
"I'll have some bandages sent in," she said. With that, she left, and Sark slumped onto the metal cot.
He couldn't sleep after that. He kept thinking about Sydney and what she said.
Yes, she betrayed him. She set him up. But she claimed to do it to help him.
What twisted logic that was, he thought. But didn't that show that she cared? He debated that for a few hours, until he realized it didn't matter.
He was in a glass cage, at the mercy of the CIA and anyone they authorized. His escape from the world of espionage and life of deserved rest were on hold, possibly eliminated altogether.
And he would never be in a position to be with Sydney.
He'd tried to not admit it, but that's what he wanted more than anything.
At 9 a.m., Jack Bristow showed up. Sark had just begun to drift off to sleep, but Jack got his attention by banging on the glass.
Sark did well enough not to fall off the cot.
"Mr. Bristow," Sark started with a smidgen of sarcasm. "What brings you here this morning?"
Jack threw something into the two-way slot in the wall. Sark got up slowly and went to the slot. Inside the drop box were bandages and an antibiotic cream.
"Sydney requested these on your behalf," Jack said. His voice was strained, and Sark knew a warning was coming next.
"Thank you."
He had never put his shirt back on last night, so started to spread the ointment on the long cut and other abrasions. He unrolled the bandage, but stopped.
"Should I bother with this, or is the NSA planning more fun and games today?" Sark asked. Jack almost smiled.
"I'd keep it off until after 2 o'clock."
Sark nodded.
"I came here to warn you to stay away from Sydney," Jack said. Sark laughed.
"Of course, especially since I have such easy access to her," he said. Jack just stared at him.
"I'm aware that she has come to you. But you will stop manipulating her," Jack said, "and answer any of her questions directly."
"Have you actually watched the surveillance tapes, Mr. Bristow?" Sark said. "There were hardly any questions. As for manipulations, they were all done by her."
Jack continued his death stare.
"You know what that's like, don't you, Jack?" Sark pushed the right button, though he had to commend Jack for not losing it.
"I would appreciate it," Jack began, "if you did not compare my daughter to Irina Derevko."
Sark capped off the ointment, rubbing the excess off on his pants.
"There are many similarities between the two," Sark said, pushing his boundaries. "But I apologize if any of them offend you."
Jack didn't say anything, but just walked away from the cell.
He couldn't place his finger on it, but something about that conversation didn't seem . . . normal. It wasn't just the setting, but . . . it was almost civil.
Hhmmmm.
Sydney showed up later that afternoon. Sark's favorite NSA goons didn't show, so by 2:30, Sark wrapped his torso with the bandages.
He had his shirt on just as Sydney showed up.
Pity. I could show off so more.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
Sark gave her an incredulous look "Peachy," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"We're going after Derevko. I leave tonight." She let that hang in the air.
"You want me to go over the mission specs, and make sure you're on the right track," Sark said.
Sydney nodded. "I know you probably will say no, but I thought I'd ask anyway." She had a file in her hands.
Sark eyed it, then her, then the file again.
He nodded. "Show me."
She passed him the file, and he began reviewing it. Right off the bat, he saw problems.
"There are several flaws here, and some not easily remedied," he said.
"Like what?"
He pointed to a section of the mission brief. "This access point—you need proper clearance. And the tentative schematics of the building are completely off." He paused as he read on.
"What are you after?" he asked.
"Derevko, and any intel and artifacts at this location," Sydney said. "And we have reason to believe there is a weapon there that shouldn't be in her hands."
Sark smirked at that.
"There are few weapons that should be in her hands. But you're right," he said. "This location would be beneficial to the CIA, given its objectives."
He passed the file back to her.
"So how do we get around the problems?"
Sark sighed. "You need voice, code, and fingerprints for access. And the building layout—well, you just have to know it."
Sydney looked at him, hard. Her eyes searched his face for something—he didn't know what—but he held her gaze back.
"I've been authorized to ask you to come with us," she said finally. Sark was half-surprised at that.
He didn't move. "I'd like to say I'm flattered, but I don't know why your agency would take that risk, especially since they've been ticking me off with their bedside manner."
"We'll have precautions in place," she answered. "Will you help us?"
Sark looked her directly in the eyes. "I'll help you."