Title: The Parchment
Author: Becca
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. I wish I did. Then maybe I could actually afford to go to school! Oh well, c'est la vie.
Author's Note: Thanks to Kelsey and Superagent! You guys rock! Jack Ryan is from the series of Tom Clancy novels including "The Sum of all Fears." The lines from Alias are from assorted episodes in the third season, and are the property of the writers of Alias, and possibly J.J. Abrams too! This is set around Remnants and ends before Full Disclosure.
Part One
This was the only place that had ever felt like home to him. The peacefulness of the land spoke to a side of him that had been lost long ago. He liked the solitude and took the time to remember what his life had once been like. Once upon a time he had been a normal boy. Once he had had a mother who loved him. Maybe she was still alive somewhere, but in his world she no longer existed. He knew that relationships could never amount to anything in his life. He didn't feel that he was built to be emotional anyway. One day he had been filled with sorrow. For a long time now that sorrow had been replaced with coldness, a complete emptiness that touched every part of his being.
He was a rich and resourceful man. He knew how to take what was given to him and use it to his best advantage. Some people called him a genius though he never thought of himself as one. He was confident enough to look his rival in the eye and laugh at her misfortune. His newfound freedom had allowed him to begin again. He had established new contacts and managed to start over. He had truly been granted the opportunity of a lifetime.
People thought that he was only a lackey; the infamous Miss Bristow described him as "a dog looking for a new master." It was shocking to him how little she comprehended considering her intelligence. He understood that the trick to getting people to do what you wanted them to do was to let them believe they were in charge. Most people had no idea how to forge their knowledge into a weapon. He, on the other hand, was gifted with that talent and he knew it. People assumed that his confidence was really arrogance. He would not disagree with them. He did his job well, why should he not take pride in his work? He never bragged about his accomplishments. In fact, he found as time had progressed, he didn't need to. His reputation preceded him. But none of that existed on the Island of his home.
This place along the coast was his sanctuary. The house was small, bought under an untraceable alias, but he didn't need much room. Despite the image he projected as a man who possessed many of the finer things in life, he appreciated simplicity in all its forms. Although the house was beautiful in its own right, the property's main appeal to him was the cliff. The waves broke roughly up against the rocks but somehow still managed to comfort him. He liked to walk alone out there to think, and to plan.
He was dressed impeccably, casually if you were to ask one of his associates, but still more formal than most would be on a Saturday afternoon. Even though he was the only person around for miles he maintained the façade of Mr. Sark. His enemies would be quick to exploit the weakness of his true self. He was reminded daily of the consequence of weakness. Every time he looked in the mirror and saw Sark staring back at him he remembered who he had been, and why he had become who he had become. His eyes reflected the coldness in himself reminding him why he had chosen to live without feeling, why he would never let himself for any attachments again.
He walked alone along the cliff, pausing to listen to the sounds of his heart and the land. The two melodies combined and clashed in his head forming a powerful and indescribable rush. Then as quickly as it began, it ended. In its wake he felt warmth and a sense of belonging that Mr. Sark could never feel. This portion of his soul would always reside there in Ireland and never anywhere else.
He returned to the house, packed up his things and got into his car knowing that the time had come to go back to work. No one knew about this place and he intended to keep it that way. It was the only thing that was completely his and he refused to give it up.
Hours later he arrived in Galway and turned on his phone and completed his return to civilization. It rang almost immediately.
"Yes." He answered it without identifying himself because he knew that the few people who had this number would not need him to do so.
"Sir, we've found him."
After a brief pause he asked, "Where?"
"In Poland. Warsaw."
He ended the call with a look of great concentration of his face. This was the moment he had been waiting for. His father, the man who left him, the man he had really never had a chance to know, was alive. The man had information and Mr. Sark was going to retrieve it.
His youthful appearance caused people to underestimate him, to think he was inexperienced. They didn't see the power and determination behind the face. The control he had worked for years to achieve had gotten him where he was today. They had no idea what he had done to become Mr. Sark. They had no idea of the plans that he had put into motion, the actions he had taken in order to get where he was. They had no comprehension of his emptiness. The rumors were true, the mysterious Mr. Sark did not feel. It was something that he just did not do. Perhaps his emptiness was he flaw, or perhaps it was his greatest strength.
He flew to Poland on a chartered jet. It was safer for him to travel that way instead of getting his own plane. There were too many complications involved in the buying process. Still he didn't want to have anyone else interrupting his thoughts as he flew towards his destiny - to meet with his father had been his sole purpose since realizing that Julia Thorne hadn't assassinated him. He supposed that Miss Bristow was not truly to blame for these circumstances. From what he understood she'd had even less control over herself a year ago then she did now, and she hadn't possessed much restraint the last time he had crossed her path. Her passion was both her greatest weapon and her most fundamental weakness. She allowed her confusion to overrule her naturally exceptional abilities.
Moreover, he thought to himself as he turned on his laptop to continue with his work, she was so confident that he had become incompetent during his incarceration, that she'd come within mere feet of him and still believed that he didn't sense her presence. She obviously didn't have the same high regard for him that he had for her. She thought so little of his abilities as an operative that she forced him to prove himself every time they competed.
He remembered the first time he came into contact with her. Moscow, on the "destroy K-Directorate" mission, he smiled to himself, remembering the meeting quite fondly. Did she honestly believe by dressing inconspicuously he wouldn't have seen her hanging outside of the window? Sometimes he wondered how she'd escaped but realized knowing the answer would spoil the fun.
Their second meeting was in Denpassar where she had been in elaborate costume. To a lesser agent she might have appeared to be what she claimed to be, but he knew better. He knew as soon as he looked into her eyes that she was not what she seemed; it was just his luck that their little party had broken up and he'd been captured.
Then in Paris, after his tentative release, everything changed. She was no longer just the woman who had interrupted his missions, or an agent who would likely kill him without a moments pause. She was desirable, yet still dangerous. She had turned into a worthy adversary and there was nothing he could have done to prevent that. More importantly she presented him with a challenge, because no matter how many flaws she had, she was good at her job. Yet, every time he seemed to catch up to her, she walked away unscathed and invariably with the upper hand. He could still remember the grin he'd worn after she'd left Khasinau in that Paris nightclub. She definitely had a gift. You could call it feminine wiles, charm, sex appeal or any number of things. Whatever you named it, it boiled down to one thing alone; She was exceptionally good.
He turned his thoughts back to his computer, reminding himself to focus on Andrian Lazarey. He would be going in alone, so he had to prepare himself for every possibility. Sydney Bristow would undoubtedly make an appearance so he had to be in top form.
He gave up trying to work, closed his laptop and willed himself to fall asleep. He would need a clear and sharp mind for the confrontation that was sure to take place the next day. After a few more minutes of studying the darkness behind his eyelids sleep finally overcame him.
Part Two
After the plane landed he slipped back into Mr. Sark's cool and professional demeanor. Mr. Sark is all business. He confirmed that the meeting was scheduled for 11pm, waited for Lazarey to enter the building before he pulled up his own van to the factory. Lazarey was over an hour late, which threw off some of what he had planned. Precision was crucial in this operation. The tranquilizer gun was for Lazarey; Will Tippin would not have that same courtesy from Mr. Sark. For Tippin, Sark had chosen his favourite CZ-100 9mm, the very same that he had used at the Russian Science Ministry as his second weapon. Sark was a little surprised when shots were fired back at him after Lazarey fell to the ground unconscious. He needed to kill Tippin now that he knew whatever his old contact had said. It was imperative that Tippin be eliminated.
It was priceless really. Tippin's back was turned. He had absolutely no idea that Mr. Sark was right behind him. If Will had known that he was in the sights of the same man who had tortured him, knowing he didn't have the intel, he probably would have been much more tense. Mr. Sark had a clear shot and was standing not even two feet behind him with his gun aimed, ready to fire. He wouldn't have missed his target if Sydney hadn't been as skilled as she was. He'd be damned before he'd lower his standards for her just because he respected her. He was not so detached from his work that he couldn't appreciate the way that she saved her friend so swiftly. Still, he had enough control over Mr. Sark to make sure that she wasn't killed. He believed that she possessed the same control over herself. Sydney Bristow was an admirable marksman. He had no doubt that if she'd really been trying to kill him, he would not have been able to return for his quarry.
It was almost comforting for him to know that Sydney hadn't lost her edge after her two-year stint as Julia Thorne. All in all, the mission had been a success and he'd had the added benefit of seeing Agent Bristow back in action.
As he drove Lazarey to the airport he pondered his reaction to seeing Tippin again. Strangely, neither part of him had reacted as he had predicted. He'd expected to feel anger because of Allison's previous attachment to Tippin. He hadn't. He'd expected to feel some kind of recklessness because of the fact that Allison had been in love with him. He had prepared himself to feel and overcome his feelings at a moments notice, guarding himself behind his cold exterior. But the truth of the matter was, he hadn't felt anything at all when facing the man who had once touched Allison.
He reached Moscow and was immediately greeted by a group of Covenant employees. Truthfully they were his employees now, and they all knew better than to question any move that Mr. Sark made. The men strapped Lazarey to a chair inside the safehouse and waited for him to regain consciousness. It was nice to have people to do things for you, but Mr. Sark knew from experience that if you wanted something done correctly you had best do it yourself. He was well aware that this particular job would be his, and his alone. He wouldn't have trusted anyone else to extract the intelligence that Andrian Lazarey had anyways. Mr. Sark would enjoy using any means necessary to make Lazarey talk even if Julian did not.
The interrogation was nothing exceptional. Lazarey, like so many others before him, underestimated Mr. Sark's cruelty. He believed that being related to Julian would save him. After twenty years of being an absentee father he still had expected their blood to be a bond between the two of them. Sark had almost laughed when Lazarey had said, "You would not do something like this, not to your own father," after seeing the lit blowtorch flare threateningly in his face. It was almost laughable how clueless he was. The man had the nerve to call him pathetic and then question how far he was willing to go to get what he needed. Lazarey thought that Julian would show mercy to him, but Julian wasn't in control, Mr. Sark was. Mr. Sark made sure to prove to Lazarey that he was a force to be reckoned with.
Going to Graz was just fun. He knew that he was bound to run into Sydney and that made him work harder to win this time. He put the magnet through the hole he'd created in box 23 and grabbed the object. He couldn't resist leaning his head down so that he was visible through the hole and winking at Sydney. It was as if he was saying to her, "You won last time, but this one's mine." When she caught up to him and got the object it wasn't as fun anymore. She had been dressed in one of her ridiculous costumes, a pink micro-mini dress, and matching pumps. She shouldn't have been able to catch up to him. Interestingly, she didn't bind him in anyway, either she was in a great hurry or for reasons he couldn't fathom, she didn't want him to be caught. Either way, she had ended up with the upper hand this time but he promised himself that their next meeting would end differently. He would not wake up in the basement of a hotel with the biggest headache conceivable to man again.
Part Three
The chartered flight back to Moscow was uneventful. Allison was not with him as prior to departure for Graz they had arranged separate flights back to Russia. He felt no need to call and check in on her as he once had done. Perhaps, once upon a time he had loved her. At times, he may have even put her welfare before his own, and that of his employer, but that was no longer the case. She was now nothing more than a tool for him to use when he wanted to. Their history together preempted any questions she may have had about his motives. He knew that she believed that he would never lie to her, never leave her in the dark as to what his true intentions were. She didn't seem to realize that his two years in captivity had changed him. He wouldn't fully trust anyone, not now, probably never.
Normally, sinking into the leather seats of the plane relaxed him, but on this particular flight, he found himself unable to get comfortable. He could not settle himself. His thoughts continually drifted back to the fight with Sydney. How had she won? He'd had a good head start and the run should have been no problem at all if he'd been running full out. So what had happened? Why hadn't he run as if his life depended on it?
The simple answer was that he hadn't wanted to win. He didn't want to get away from her. This was a dangerous revelation. This had not been a conscious decision that he had made, and that made Sydney Bristow a liability. He couldn't afford to treat her differently from any other adversary. If he kept giving her special treatment he would undoubtedly end up dead. Admiration could lead to sloppiness in his business and that was unacceptable to Mr. Sark as well as Julian.
During the car ride back to the Moscow safehouse he was finally able to relax. After two years without his Mercedes, he enjoyed the sense of control he got from being behind the wheel of any car. He rolled down the windows and speed along the highway, refusing to notice the small droplets of water falling from the sky until the clouds opened up and the downpour began. He rolled up the windows of the car to lock himself in as much as to lock the rain out.
When he arrived he went straight to the room where Lazarey was being held. The man now had severe burns down the left side of his body from head to toe. Mr. Sark had taken care to inflict a great deal of pain on the stump where Lazarey's left hand should have been. Nothing hurt more than reopening up old battle wounds. Sark had been stunned how quickly Lazarey had broken. Three good hours of torture and he was ready to spill whatever Sark wanted to know. He had been quite disappointed.
"What was the item in Julia Thorne's hotel safe-deposit box?" He asked knowing fully well that the blowtorch would no longer be necessary. The man was in such excruciating pain that Sark could feel it radiating off of his now useless body.
Lazarey did not move a muscle to answer and stared blankly at Sark. As the silence crawled on millisecond-by-millisecond it became increasingly clear that Mr. Lazarey was going to require some additional persuasion before he gave Sark any more information. Sark smiled at the though of getting to use the torch again after all. Mr. Sark was very fond of playing with toys. He lit the torch again and held it threateningly in front of Lazarey's face giving him another chance to answer his question. The older man still made no attempt to respond. Sark, knowing that backing down was not an option, slowly lowered the torch to the stump of skin where Lazarey's hand should have been, the flames burning through the already blistered skin. The pungent smell of re-burnt flesh filled the room and reminded Sark of a crematorium. The seemingly neglected bottle of vodka was then put to use as Sark poured it over the fresh wound. Lazarey screamed once, a long, high-pitched sound of anguish and defeat.
"Living tissue," he said suddenly. The torch was immediately extinguished.
"Whose tissue?" Sark asked impatiently as he held the half empty bottle of alcohol threateningly over his father's broken skin.
"Milo Rambaldi." Sark poured the liquid over the burns again. Lazarey yelled out, "It's the truth, I swear it to you."
After a pause Sark began, "You expect me to believe that a man who has been dead for five hundred years left some of his living tissue for Julia Thorne to find and store?" He looked questioningly at his father before saying, "Not likely," and continuing to pour.
"Rambaldi." Lazarey stuttered, "Rambaldi is alive." There is a limit to how much pain the human body can withstand before it finally gives into the temptation of darkness. Under normal circumstances Sark would have kept Lazarey awake but he needed time to digest this new information. Lazarey's body gave into unconsciousness swiftly after enduring such anguish for so long. Sark replaced the cap on the bottle and put the torch back in its place.
Rambaldi was alive. It was unbelievable; yet, he thought to himself, Rambaldi was rumored to have been working on procuring immortality. Maybe he had succeeded. Anything was possible at this point in time. One thing was for certain, both Mr. Sark and Julian had a lot to think about now.
Part Four
Sark thought about Lazarey's revelation. It consumed his every waking thought. If what Lazarey had said was true, then proof of Rambaldi's existence could change the course of the future. If a cure could be found for aging, it could be found for aging diseases. If immortality was possible then all of mankind's problems could be solved.
Sark was startled out of his thoughts by the high-pitched squealing sound that was his cell phone ringtone. He frowned as he fumbled in his pocket for the phone. He had specifically told all employees not to bother him, who would dare disobey his orders? The incessant ringing of his phone was starting to bug him so he finally flipped open the phone and hit talk. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up with such an annoying ringtone and decided to look into a new one as soon as he was done exacting his revenge on whatever employee had so blatantly disregarded his orders.
"Yes."
"The object contained Rambaldi's tissue. He's alive."
"What else can you tell me?" The voice on the other end of the phone was quiet, hushed with secrecy. It was a hurried voice, but concise, not wasting time with gibberish.
"The tissue's DNA strand had an abnormality, an unidentifiable nucleic acid. Analysis of the acid confirmed the sequence of numbers was a series of encoded coordinates. 43° 18 minutes 32.5 seconds North, 5° 23 minutes 5 seconds East."
"Thank you." He ended the call knowing full well that the informant had not stayed on the line long enough to hear the pleasantry. He was going on another trip, this time to Marseille. For a moment, he briefly wondered where Allison was, but that thought was short lived. Allison was more than capable of taking care of herself. Even if she had been captured, she understood the protocol. He would be able to get whatever Rambaldi had left without outside assistance. Not knowing what he was looking for only added to the mystery of it all. He was actually excited.
He boarded the plane and prepared for the trip to France. He had so many very fond memories of La France, most of them circling around Sydney and her stage show. He hadn't been lying when he told Jack Bristow that he'd enjoyed her performance. She did have a lovely singing voice. It was very unfortunate for him that the one time they might have profitably collaborated he was trapped inside a glass cage where every move he made was being watched by multiple cameras. Together the two of them would have made an unstoppable team. Sydney's style would have complimented his own perfectly. But something's were not meant to be and he feared their collaboration would never again be possible.
His Palm Pilot had precision GPS on it to facilitate the retrieval of Rambaldi's item, whatever it may be. If the intel was accurate, and he had no reason to suspect it would be otherwise, then he would soon be in possession of the greatest clue towards finding the formula for immortality.
He checked his 9mm once before placing another two clips on his person. It always paid to be prepared for anything. He vowed that he would be ready and waiting for anything, or anyone he came across, especially if that someone was Agent Bristow.
He arrived at the coordinates in Marseille at 11 that night. The coordinates indicated that whatever he was looking for would be found on the statue of the sphinx standing regally above him. Unless his insider had been completely mistaken, which Sark dismissed almost immediately, there must be some kind of clue on or in the statue. After a thorough scan of the Greek mythological figure's details he accepted that there must be some kind of compartment. His fingers trailed expertly along the granite quickly and capably looking for any irregularity in the stone.
He found it just as he heard the unmistakable click of the safety being removed off of a glock. When you've been in the business as he had you knew the different sound of the different makes. He didn't have to turn around to know that it was her. He could feel the heat from her body, even as the cold metal of her gun pressed against the back of his head. It was really too bad he'd put his gun against his back because there was no way for him to read it as she stared him down. He slowly removed his fingers from the stone in front of him and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Agent Bristow, It's always a pleasure running into you." He kept his voice playful as he mentally berated himself for not hearing her approach. Considering the number of times he'd snuck up on her it seemed only fair that he be the disadvantaged one this time. But right now Sark's main concern was to get the item without being shot or captured by Agent Bristow.
He turned around quickly and looked at his captor. Sensing Sydney was a little distracted, Sark took advantage of her moment of weakness. He brought his arm around and down on to her gun, effectively knocking it out of her grip. She retaliated by throwing a punch at his stomach, which he easily blocked. They traded jabs and kicks for a few more minutes before Sark finally got the better of Sydney and connected with a hard right hook to her gut, knocking her out, at least for the time being. He would have to work quickly, but that was not abnormal. He walked back to the statue and replaced his fingers where they had been prior to Sydney's interruption. He felt the panel give and managed to pull it out. Inside was a blank piece of aged parchment very similar to the ones that Milo Rambaldi had used for his journals.
He carefully placed the parchment inside his leather jacket and zipped it up to protect against the brisk air. He picked up Sydney's discarded gun and put it back where the parchment had been only minutes before. He replaced the panel and silently wished Agent Bristow luck in finding her weapon. In all honesty, it would probably take her no more than five minutes to find it, but at least this way she would not be able to shoot him in the back as he walked away. He wasn't expecting her to wake up for the next few minutes, but he felt it was best to always be prepared.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, trying to regain the feeling in his fingers that he had lost while searching for the hidden piece of parchment. Sark walked casually and confidently towards the alley where he had hidden his car. Even at Sark's unhurried gait, the walk back to his car only took him three minutes. He knew that it would take a miracle for Sydney to have recovered from their fight, but he still felt compelled to check for any signs of both Sydney and any possible CIA back up before he seated himself in the driver's seat of the rented sedan. Satisfied he was truly alone, Sark floored the gas and drove away at record speed.
Since deciphering the text would require the use of Rambaldi's infamous ampule, Sark decided that his next mission must be to retrieve that. This mission would be much harder than the one he had just completed as the ampule in question was currently located in one of the CIA's sub-level storage facilities. He was going to need a flawless plan to retrieve it, or help from someone on the inside to get it for him. It would be too risky to use his informant; he would just have to find someone else to do this particular job.
It looked as if Sydney Bristow had not outlived her usefulness.
Part Five
His was certain that his employer had no inkling of his current plans. Rambaldi was his personal quest. The wok of Milo Rambaldi had always fascinated him because the man had unlimited genius and his prophecies had never been proven wrong. The problem with prophecies though, was that their many possible interpretations meant that a prophecy could seem destined to be true for every person. Still, Rambaldi had yet to be incorrect, though he was constantly misinterpreted.
Rambaldi had foreseen several major events that would happen over the new few years. Mr. Sark was entirely prepared to risk everything to find out exactly what Rambaldi knew. Right now, getting that ampule from the CIA was the highest priority, so he called up a contact of his that he knew would be reliable.
"Hello" the voice on the other end of the line spoke with an accent that indicated the speaker was likely a native Spanish speaker. Even Mr. Sark did not know where the man came from, nor did he care to find out. All that mattered was that this contact would get the job done without asking unnecessary questions.
"I need you to do a job for me." The man paused. Sark could hear his breathing on the other side of the world, knowing that this phone call was coming as a bit of a shock to the man.
"Where?"
"Tomorrow, 10:00am, Café Especiale, Montreal."
"Bueno." Again, the conversation was ended abruptly. With the Echelon System constantly listening to his conversations he couldn't afford to stay on the line for very long. He had also learned to choose his words very carefully, he never knew who was listening to his phone conversations.
Sark was never careless. He'd once been captured by SD-6 after he was ambushed during a buy in Denpassar. The only other time he had been captured was when Irina Derevko had turned him in to forward her own cause. He had always known that she had no sense of loyalty directed towards her employees, even when those same employees worked to free her from custody and saved her life on many occasions. He harboured no illusions that Irina was a kind and motherly boss, she had always been exactly what she was and not anything more. She hadn't pretended to be his mother. He'd known from the beginning that she was not his friend and that no matter how much he wanted her to be, she would never be his ally. She had no allegiances, she had never been loyal to anyone besides herself not even the KGB. She had done what they'd requested of her, but it had served her own purposes as well. Irina had taught him well, and he would use that knowledge to succeed where she had failed.
The plane would need to be ready for take off in the next few hours and he needed some time to pack before his trip.
Part Six
Montreal was a pleasant city with a rich heritage and a beautiful landscape. The Habitants of Quebec were polite enough if you understood their language and could converse with them fairly accurately. He was fluent in French, though he had a Francophone accent as opposed to the Canadian Quebecois. Briefly he considered the fact that his contact may not speak French at all, but luckily Canada was a bilingual country. Given that Spanish wasn't all that different from French, he figured that his contact might be able to get along quite well without any assistance. Every sign in Montreal could be read in both French and English, the official languages chosen by the government, so Sark figured his contact wouldn't encounter much difficulty in finding their meeting point.
The Café was small and intimate, but busy enough to insure that any meeting remained inconspicuous to the outside eye. Sark had discovered this café on a previous business trip when he had taken the opportunity to explore the city purely for his own pleasure. He was pleasantly surprised to discover this café served a charming cup of Matte tea. Normally he would not have indulged himself in something like the imported leaves from Argentina, especially outside of the country where the leaves were produced, but on this occasion, he felt like indulging himself a bit extravagantly.
His contact was a few minutes late and Mr. Sark was annoyed. He was a stickler for punctuality. He reasoned that if you couldn't be on time for a meeting, you would not likely be on time for anything else. Senor Riveres was the one person Sark exempted from his strict expectations of punctuality because of the great respect and admiration he had for the man. Riveres hailed from a small town outside of Buenos Aires where he lived on a farm with his wife, Alicia, and his two daughters, Camilla and Amelita, age 16 and 12 respectively. He had been married for 16 years to the same woman, who either had no idea what her husband did for a living, or who did not disapprove or question her husbands business dealings. He was the perfect husband; in sixteen years he had always remained faithful to his wife, and still managed to attend Mass with his family every Sunday morning. He kept his family safe, he never double-crossed anyone, he always did exactly what was requested of him, and he never asked unreasonable questions of his employers. He was quite possibly the best freelancer that Mr. Sark had ever had the pleasure of doing business with. Sark felt that Senor Riveres was worth every penny of his fee and probably much more than that, but he would never tell the freelancer that.
Five minutes late, Riveres arrived in the small café. He looked completely out of place with his dark hair curling madly around his head and his permanently tanned skin. Riveres quickly sat down at the corner table that Mr. Sark had chosen specifically for the purpose of this meeting. He sat silently and waited for Sark to request whatever he needed from him.
"I need information on a Julia Thorne, assassin, last known address Rome, Italy."
"Give me two days."
"I can only give you twenty-four hours. I need as much intel as you can get for me, I know that you can't recover everything in the time I'm giving you. I'm not expecting perfection, just enough to get by."
The Hispanic man paused as if seriously considering the implications of the time constraint. "Twenty-four hours, I'll do what I can. Tomorrow morning Mexico City, Café Meringue, 10 AM local time."
"Thank you" Mr. Sark said as he shock the older man's hand. He knew that whatever information could be quickly recovered about Julia Thorne he would have in his hands by tomorrow morning at 10am. Then the first stages of his plan could be put into motion. Sydney's number had undoubtedly changed over her two missing years so he would have to find out what the new number was, but that shouldn't pose a great impediment.
He sipped at his tea, the cooling water did not diminish the tea's potency in the slightest. He had a great deal of work to do and very little time to do it in, but he would take this moment to relax, though he could never completely forget who and where he was.
Part Seven
The next morning arrived too quickly for his tastes. He realized that most people functioned under the assumption that Mr. Sark did not sleep. Sometimes he forced himself to believe it as well, but the truth of the matter was that he did. He'd spent the night in Montreal and was now required to wake up at the crack of dawn to be in Mexico City for later that morning. He could have chosen to fly out last night, but he'd found over the years that it was better to spend as little time as possible at any meeting place. He would be flying into Mexico at 8 AM local time, and flying out again at noon. He had chartered a flight to Los Angeles from Mexico City so that he could get the ampule of Rambaldi's invisible ink from Sydney Bristow.
Overnight he had decided that given the sensitive nature of the discussion he wished to have with her, meeting her in person would be the best course of action. He decided to approach her some time before she went into work.
When he arrived at Café Meringue he found that Senor Riveres was already waiting for him. Riveres pulled a manila envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket, put the information on the table and proceeded to walk out without a word to Mr. Sark. Sark sat down at the same table that Riveres had just vacated and carefully opened the envelope. There were incriminating photographs, documents of all kinds, and newspaper clippings. The clippings were the things that grabbed the most of his attention. He flipped through them slowly taking the time to carefully read each headline, and when he finished he considered the implications that these would have on an already disturbed woman. For some reason keeping Sydney involved was important to him. She made each time he got away from her a greater accomplishment then the last time. She was the only active agent who challenged him at all.
His flight to L.A. would be leaving in a few hours, he needed to gather up the intel that he was going to give to Sydney as insurance. He needed to make sure that she got the ampule from the CIA and he was certain that she would not do that without the proper motivation.
Sark was aware that his employers would know from their surveillance of the CIA's databases that he had been seen in France. He would have to rationalize that to them as well. The Covenant didn't care about Milo Rambaldi or his prophesies. They didn't care that this six hundred year old man could possibly be alive, or that he had the answer to immortality. If they knew all that Mr. Sark knew maybe they would care, but, luckily for him, they didn't.
This was the path that had been preordained for him hundreds of years ago. Arvin Sloane had been chosen by Rambaldi to fulfill his prophecy as well. Sloane didn't understand that he wasn't the only person on this quest. Neither he, nor Irina Derevko had ever really understood Mr. Sark's involvement. They both believed that he was just there to further his career, to serve those above him and that he had no personal stake in the answers Rambaldi could give. It was not entirely their own oversight that allowed his personal business to remain his alone, he did have some skills. Lying happened to be one of his greater talents. Lying to his employers, lying to his paramour, even lying to himself, though the occasions he did that were few and far between. Lying to himself was only done when absolutely necessary for survival.
He supposed that it was the gift that he had been given. Perhaps, if he had been left to lead a normal life he would have been an actor on the stage. He could make any character believable and real, partly because his identity was buried so deeply inside of himself that it seemed not to exist at all. If he could make people believe in Mr. Sark, he could do anything.
Part Eight
Though a major portion of his life had been spent on board planes he was still stunned by the amount of travel required for his job. He realized that hopping from place to place would be a necessary part of who he was to become, but that didn't mean that he had to like spending the majority of his life in a pressurized cabin. Sucking in filtered air until it felt like there was no clean air left to breathe in the world didn't have to be enjoyable. The best moment of his day was when he finally got to step off the plane and into the smog that surrounded the Los Angeles area.
Two hours later he was sitting in yet another rental car, waiting for the opportune moment to present itself. Patience had been a skill that he'd cultivate at an early age out of necessity and, at this point in his life it was invaluable. He couldn't count the number of times when being patient had saved his life. Waiting an extra few seconds before pulling the trigger, hiding for an extra second while a guard was standing close enough to hear him breathe. Patience was definitely a virtue for him.
Suddenly the hum of his blood raised itself to a fevered pitch. He could feel the adrenalin rush into every part of his body from his toes straight to his fingertips. He'd always had an innate sense of timing; that was one of the things that set him above the rest. Not that there was necessarily a "rest" to speak of. He believed that Mr. Sark was completely unique and the best at what he did. The only person who came remotely close was Sydney, and even she hadn't done half the things the Sark had done. Assassinations, for example, were one of his specialties. They were also something that Sydney had never done willingly. With all of this in mind he stepped out of the car and crossed the street to Sydney's apartment building. It took him roughly thirty seconds to pick the lock on her door and to notice that this apartment was very different from her last one. Instead of the vibrancy and life that had been an integral part of the home she shared with Miss Calfo, and later Allison, there was an emptiness that filled these rooms. He made a quick sweep of his surroundings and was contented that Sydney was nowhere to be seen. He knew that she hadn't left for work yet, it was only 7 in the morning, but he could hear her humming in her bathroom. Funny, he'd never thought that Sydney Bristow would be the type of person who would hum to herself while she was doing her makeup.
The humming didn't stop as the door swung open and Sydney stepped out in a black pantsuit. He saw her tense ever muscle in her body when she looked straight at him and froze.
"Why bother with locks?"
"They're supposed to keep unwanted terrorists outside," she replied angrily.
"That didn't work out to well for you then."
"I guess not." Neither one of them had moved at all since the initial contact. Sark knew that if he did make any hostile movements that he would probably be on the ground bleeding before he could say "blood hell." The yellow envelope he held in his hands was all that could help him now. Well, the information inside it and his 9mm.
"Please have a seat, Sydney," Sark gestured to the chairs at the kitchen table.
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
"I didn't think you would, but for the purposes of this meeting I think that it would be best if you were seated."
"I don't give a damn what you think is best and there is no meeting. There has never been a meeting, there will never be any sort of meeting between the two of us." The disgust that she obviously felt for him resonated through the room, bouncing off the empty walls before finally coming to rest beside him.
"I didn't want to have to do this," he said quietly before reaching with his free hand to the back of his pants to grasp the 9mm. He pulled it out quickly, never taking his eyes off her, watching for even the slightest tell of what course of action she was planning. "Please sit," he commanded as he pointed the gun at her head.
She walked over slowly increasing the tension in his body with every step that brought her nearer to him. She pulled out a cushioned chair and sat down gracefully. He placed the manila envelope on the table and carefully slid it over to where she was sitting.
"What do you want Sark?" She looked up at him with fearlessness in her eyes, a trait that she had obviously inherited from both Irina and Jack.
"I want your help."
He hadn't expected her to react well to this request, but it was a request. He hadn't expected her to burst out laughing.
"Oh, that's rich. You want my help. Oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, it's just I'm speechless."
The sarcasm laced in her words didn't amuse him at all. He kept the gun trained on her he moved closer to her seat at the table. "Open it."
She stared at him for a few more seconds before complying. She pulled out the glossy photos first. When she reached the final clipping contained in the envelope, she stopped and looked up at him. "What do you need me to do?"
"I need you to get Rambaldi's ampule for me."
"And in exchange?" Her tone was all business now. Mr. Sark would never understand why this was so important to her. She had been trained for years never to let her emotions get in the way and, yet, here she was trapped in an awkward situation and all in the name of love. It appeared as if his ploy was going to work beautifully though.
"You'll get the rest of the information that I have withheld." He knew that it was dangerous to give her so much information before going on a mission for him but it couldn't be helped. She needed the proper motivation before she would even consider doing what she was about to do, he'd always known that. He understood more about her than she might ever realize.
She paused and stared into space as if she was thinking about how to go about the retrieval before she turned back to him and nodded her agreement. "I'll have it for you by tomorrow morning," she replied without hesitating.
"I'll call you with the details of the exchange." He hesitated and chose his next words very carefully, "If you cross me, I won't hesitate."
"I know. Neither will I."
He admired her in that moment. She was unarmed, had just agreed to work for her mortal enemy, and she was still as tough as ever. She wouldn't hesitate to shoot him. Maybe she couldn't kill him, but shooting him would be of no consequence and he couldn't afford to take that chance with his life. He picked up the envelope off the table, replaced the gun and casually walked out of the apartment. He walked to his car and drove to his hotel knowing that the last link in the chain had now been forged.
Part Nine
Time was passing by excruciatingly slow. Hour after hour, all he could do was wait until it was time for his meeting with Sydney. Sleep wouldn't come to him this night. He had called Sydney and arranged for their next meeting at 6am that morning. He had three more hours of torturous waiting before he could actually find out what his purpose in all of this was.
Figuring it would help pass the time, he picked up a book and began to read. When he had been younger he'd always loved books, now he hardly had time in between jobs to fit in 100 pages of fiction. He liked to read suspense and mysteries, but mostly he loved to read books with action in them. He immersed himself in page after page of hand to hand combat and gun fights as Jack Ryan tried to save the world yet again. Will he succeed? In the books he read, the protagonist always saved the day with minimal harm to himself. Sark didn't have any modesty; if Jack Ryan had come up against him in battle Ryan wouldn't have walked away as unscathed as he always seemed to be.
His day had not been spent idly. Trust was not something that came easily to him, so he had spent him day monitoring Sydney's every movement. Her cell phone had been tapped; he had a record of every call she'd made. He had watched her every movement while at the CIA. He saw where she was and whom she had talked to. It was astounding that with the ample supply of security the CIA had, he had found it surprisingly easy to hack into their system. He supposed, as he drove to the park, that he would have made a very good security advisor. He would certainly be able to inform companies of where hackers would mostly likely breach their systems. But that was a job for another lifetime, one where he hadn't already been corrupted by ambition and power.
He got out of the car once he'd reached his destination and slowly his thoughts digressed back to their original point. Sydney had been thoroughly watched and it appeared on all accounts that she had taken him at his word. In the twenty hours he had spent watching her, she had done nothing suspicious at all. Perhaps that was where his distrust of her was stemming from. He expected her to try to doublecross him so he prepared himself for that betrayal. If he prepared for the worst then nothing could go wrong, if she didn't try to betray him there was no harm done. Either way, he was playing to win.
If Allison had been with him he wouldn't have had to hire a sniper. But she wasn't with him now, so some nameless, faceless woman with quite a reputation for accuracy was sitting on top of the grey apartment building to his right. She was under explicit instructions to shoot only if he was shot at directly. They were also on the same com frequency to facilitate the trade in the event that something should go awry. Briefly he wondered where Allison was. He hadn't heard from her since they had been together in Graz. Then again, it wasn't unusual for them to be sent on missions solo. He would not waste anymore time wondering about where she was. Allison wouldn't approve of him worrying anyway.
Then he spotted her dressed in jogging pants and a t-shirt. He assumed that she had run over from her apartment, as she wouldn't want to jog back to her apartment with the large packet of information that he was about to give her. She handed him the small vial of golden liquid and started off their conversation as soon as she was within speaking distance. "I'm assuming this will have to be tested."
"If you wouldn't mind." He couldn't believe how courteous they were being to each other considering the circumstances surrounding their acquaintance in the past. He sat down on a park bench, making sure that the sniper had a direct view of Sydney on the off chance she tried anything while he was vulnerable, and started testing the liquid on a small piece of Rambaldi's parchment he had taken years earlier from Irina.
"You know this meeting is going quite well in comparison with some of our others," he said smugly as he paused for dramatic effect. "Osaka, for instance." Though the look on her face was blank, he knew that he had shocked Sydney Bristow, super-spy. He was proud of himself. "Did you think I wouldn't know," he continued with his trademark smirk firmly in place. He was satisfied that the vial was legitimate and he reached with his free hand into his jacket to grab the large envelope. Sydney stood in silence as he handed the information over to her.
"Your father was right, Michael Vaughn was just a boy who was never good enough for you." With that he walked away, leaving her holding all of the answers she would ever get from him.
Part Ten
The sniper had been paid in full for her services he had been sitting on a plane bound back for Ireland for the past four hours. He sat on the plane knowing that the parchment rested in his bag along with the small ampule of Rambaldi's liquid. The anticipation of finally reading words of Rambaldi's that no one else had read flowed through his body, gaining speed with every passing minute.
He made a point of turning his cell phone off again. He was taking all of the normal precautions to ensure that he was not interrupted, as that would be most unpleasant. He found as he began to lose interest in his book that planes seemed to be the only places where he could ever sleep properly. Even then, he was only able to sleep for brief snatches of time. He'd never slept through an entire flight home before, this time would be no exception.
It was wonderful how once his eyes closed they didn't open again until the plane had begun its descent. Suddenly Mr. Sark was no longer necessary, and Julian reappeared in his place. Mr. Sark, the man of efficiency and coldness, was replaced with a man who could feel pride for his country. Julian was a man who could love the country that was his true home. Julian was a man who could feel sympathy for what Sydney Bristow was currently going through. It could not be easy risking everything for a father who had done the things her father had done. Then again, Julian understood that better than most.
He enjoyed the long drive back to his house. The sky was a beautiful cerulean blue, the air was clean and clear, and it seemed to purify his soul. He felt clean for the first time in weeks, and it had nothing to do with dirt. He let the silence wash over him calming the part of him that craved excitement.
He reached the small house within hours of leaving the airport and grabbed the small black bag that carried both the parchment and the ampule. He unlocked the door and walked straight to the kitchen table where he dropped the bag and quickly unzipped it. The parchment and the ink were placed ceremonially beside one another in preparation for this event.
It was time to discover his destiny. Slowly he started to drag the brush with the ink on it over the page. As the brown words started to appear he realized that he was completely unprepared for the implications of what was written on this piece of paper.
He read over the page once, and then again. He couldn't believe what was written on the parchment. It seemed that he was now at the beginning of something new and extraordinary, not only for him, but also for Sydney.
Julian, You have been chosen; you must have realized this by now. You were meant to find me. And one day, I'm confident that you will. Today is not that day. You must believe that Sydney also has an important part to play. She is necessary and you must make sure that she remains safe. As I sit and write this, knowing that you won't find it for years to come, I realize that I will have to impart news of something that you will not know has occurred. Julian, Allison is dead, but your journey has only begun. Keep searching for me, and eventually I will find you. MR
Author: Becca
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. I wish I did. Then maybe I could actually afford to go to school! Oh well, c'est la vie.
Author's Note: Thanks to Kelsey and Superagent! You guys rock! Jack Ryan is from the series of Tom Clancy novels including "The Sum of all Fears." The lines from Alias are from assorted episodes in the third season, and are the property of the writers of Alias, and possibly J.J. Abrams too! This is set around Remnants and ends before Full Disclosure.
Part One
This was the only place that had ever felt like home to him. The peacefulness of the land spoke to a side of him that had been lost long ago. He liked the solitude and took the time to remember what his life had once been like. Once upon a time he had been a normal boy. Once he had had a mother who loved him. Maybe she was still alive somewhere, but in his world she no longer existed. He knew that relationships could never amount to anything in his life. He didn't feel that he was built to be emotional anyway. One day he had been filled with sorrow. For a long time now that sorrow had been replaced with coldness, a complete emptiness that touched every part of his being.
He was a rich and resourceful man. He knew how to take what was given to him and use it to his best advantage. Some people called him a genius though he never thought of himself as one. He was confident enough to look his rival in the eye and laugh at her misfortune. His newfound freedom had allowed him to begin again. He had established new contacts and managed to start over. He had truly been granted the opportunity of a lifetime.
People thought that he was only a lackey; the infamous Miss Bristow described him as "a dog looking for a new master." It was shocking to him how little she comprehended considering her intelligence. He understood that the trick to getting people to do what you wanted them to do was to let them believe they were in charge. Most people had no idea how to forge their knowledge into a weapon. He, on the other hand, was gifted with that talent and he knew it. People assumed that his confidence was really arrogance. He would not disagree with them. He did his job well, why should he not take pride in his work? He never bragged about his accomplishments. In fact, he found as time had progressed, he didn't need to. His reputation preceded him. But none of that existed on the Island of his home.
This place along the coast was his sanctuary. The house was small, bought under an untraceable alias, but he didn't need much room. Despite the image he projected as a man who possessed many of the finer things in life, he appreciated simplicity in all its forms. Although the house was beautiful in its own right, the property's main appeal to him was the cliff. The waves broke roughly up against the rocks but somehow still managed to comfort him. He liked to walk alone out there to think, and to plan.
He was dressed impeccably, casually if you were to ask one of his associates, but still more formal than most would be on a Saturday afternoon. Even though he was the only person around for miles he maintained the façade of Mr. Sark. His enemies would be quick to exploit the weakness of his true self. He was reminded daily of the consequence of weakness. Every time he looked in the mirror and saw Sark staring back at him he remembered who he had been, and why he had become who he had become. His eyes reflected the coldness in himself reminding him why he had chosen to live without feeling, why he would never let himself for any attachments again.
He walked alone along the cliff, pausing to listen to the sounds of his heart and the land. The two melodies combined and clashed in his head forming a powerful and indescribable rush. Then as quickly as it began, it ended. In its wake he felt warmth and a sense of belonging that Mr. Sark could never feel. This portion of his soul would always reside there in Ireland and never anywhere else.
He returned to the house, packed up his things and got into his car knowing that the time had come to go back to work. No one knew about this place and he intended to keep it that way. It was the only thing that was completely his and he refused to give it up.
Hours later he arrived in Galway and turned on his phone and completed his return to civilization. It rang almost immediately.
"Yes." He answered it without identifying himself because he knew that the few people who had this number would not need him to do so.
"Sir, we've found him."
After a brief pause he asked, "Where?"
"In Poland. Warsaw."
He ended the call with a look of great concentration of his face. This was the moment he had been waiting for. His father, the man who left him, the man he had really never had a chance to know, was alive. The man had information and Mr. Sark was going to retrieve it.
His youthful appearance caused people to underestimate him, to think he was inexperienced. They didn't see the power and determination behind the face. The control he had worked for years to achieve had gotten him where he was today. They had no idea what he had done to become Mr. Sark. They had no idea of the plans that he had put into motion, the actions he had taken in order to get where he was. They had no comprehension of his emptiness. The rumors were true, the mysterious Mr. Sark did not feel. It was something that he just did not do. Perhaps his emptiness was he flaw, or perhaps it was his greatest strength.
He flew to Poland on a chartered jet. It was safer for him to travel that way instead of getting his own plane. There were too many complications involved in the buying process. Still he didn't want to have anyone else interrupting his thoughts as he flew towards his destiny - to meet with his father had been his sole purpose since realizing that Julia Thorne hadn't assassinated him. He supposed that Miss Bristow was not truly to blame for these circumstances. From what he understood she'd had even less control over herself a year ago then she did now, and she hadn't possessed much restraint the last time he had crossed her path. Her passion was both her greatest weapon and her most fundamental weakness. She allowed her confusion to overrule her naturally exceptional abilities.
Moreover, he thought to himself as he turned on his laptop to continue with his work, she was so confident that he had become incompetent during his incarceration, that she'd come within mere feet of him and still believed that he didn't sense her presence. She obviously didn't have the same high regard for him that he had for her. She thought so little of his abilities as an operative that she forced him to prove himself every time they competed.
He remembered the first time he came into contact with her. Moscow, on the "destroy K-Directorate" mission, he smiled to himself, remembering the meeting quite fondly. Did she honestly believe by dressing inconspicuously he wouldn't have seen her hanging outside of the window? Sometimes he wondered how she'd escaped but realized knowing the answer would spoil the fun.
Their second meeting was in Denpassar where she had been in elaborate costume. To a lesser agent she might have appeared to be what she claimed to be, but he knew better. He knew as soon as he looked into her eyes that she was not what she seemed; it was just his luck that their little party had broken up and he'd been captured.
Then in Paris, after his tentative release, everything changed. She was no longer just the woman who had interrupted his missions, or an agent who would likely kill him without a moments pause. She was desirable, yet still dangerous. She had turned into a worthy adversary and there was nothing he could have done to prevent that. More importantly she presented him with a challenge, because no matter how many flaws she had, she was good at her job. Yet, every time he seemed to catch up to her, she walked away unscathed and invariably with the upper hand. He could still remember the grin he'd worn after she'd left Khasinau in that Paris nightclub. She definitely had a gift. You could call it feminine wiles, charm, sex appeal or any number of things. Whatever you named it, it boiled down to one thing alone; She was exceptionally good.
He turned his thoughts back to his computer, reminding himself to focus on Andrian Lazarey. He would be going in alone, so he had to prepare himself for every possibility. Sydney Bristow would undoubtedly make an appearance so he had to be in top form.
He gave up trying to work, closed his laptop and willed himself to fall asleep. He would need a clear and sharp mind for the confrontation that was sure to take place the next day. After a few more minutes of studying the darkness behind his eyelids sleep finally overcame him.
Part Two
After the plane landed he slipped back into Mr. Sark's cool and professional demeanor. Mr. Sark is all business. He confirmed that the meeting was scheduled for 11pm, waited for Lazarey to enter the building before he pulled up his own van to the factory. Lazarey was over an hour late, which threw off some of what he had planned. Precision was crucial in this operation. The tranquilizer gun was for Lazarey; Will Tippin would not have that same courtesy from Mr. Sark. For Tippin, Sark had chosen his favourite CZ-100 9mm, the very same that he had used at the Russian Science Ministry as his second weapon. Sark was a little surprised when shots were fired back at him after Lazarey fell to the ground unconscious. He needed to kill Tippin now that he knew whatever his old contact had said. It was imperative that Tippin be eliminated.
It was priceless really. Tippin's back was turned. He had absolutely no idea that Mr. Sark was right behind him. If Will had known that he was in the sights of the same man who had tortured him, knowing he didn't have the intel, he probably would have been much more tense. Mr. Sark had a clear shot and was standing not even two feet behind him with his gun aimed, ready to fire. He wouldn't have missed his target if Sydney hadn't been as skilled as she was. He'd be damned before he'd lower his standards for her just because he respected her. He was not so detached from his work that he couldn't appreciate the way that she saved her friend so swiftly. Still, he had enough control over Mr. Sark to make sure that she wasn't killed. He believed that she possessed the same control over herself. Sydney Bristow was an admirable marksman. He had no doubt that if she'd really been trying to kill him, he would not have been able to return for his quarry.
It was almost comforting for him to know that Sydney hadn't lost her edge after her two-year stint as Julia Thorne. All in all, the mission had been a success and he'd had the added benefit of seeing Agent Bristow back in action.
As he drove Lazarey to the airport he pondered his reaction to seeing Tippin again. Strangely, neither part of him had reacted as he had predicted. He'd expected to feel anger because of Allison's previous attachment to Tippin. He hadn't. He'd expected to feel some kind of recklessness because of the fact that Allison had been in love with him. He had prepared himself to feel and overcome his feelings at a moments notice, guarding himself behind his cold exterior. But the truth of the matter was, he hadn't felt anything at all when facing the man who had once touched Allison.
He reached Moscow and was immediately greeted by a group of Covenant employees. Truthfully they were his employees now, and they all knew better than to question any move that Mr. Sark made. The men strapped Lazarey to a chair inside the safehouse and waited for him to regain consciousness. It was nice to have people to do things for you, but Mr. Sark knew from experience that if you wanted something done correctly you had best do it yourself. He was well aware that this particular job would be his, and his alone. He wouldn't have trusted anyone else to extract the intelligence that Andrian Lazarey had anyways. Mr. Sark would enjoy using any means necessary to make Lazarey talk even if Julian did not.
The interrogation was nothing exceptional. Lazarey, like so many others before him, underestimated Mr. Sark's cruelty. He believed that being related to Julian would save him. After twenty years of being an absentee father he still had expected their blood to be a bond between the two of them. Sark had almost laughed when Lazarey had said, "You would not do something like this, not to your own father," after seeing the lit blowtorch flare threateningly in his face. It was almost laughable how clueless he was. The man had the nerve to call him pathetic and then question how far he was willing to go to get what he needed. Lazarey thought that Julian would show mercy to him, but Julian wasn't in control, Mr. Sark was. Mr. Sark made sure to prove to Lazarey that he was a force to be reckoned with.
Going to Graz was just fun. He knew that he was bound to run into Sydney and that made him work harder to win this time. He put the magnet through the hole he'd created in box 23 and grabbed the object. He couldn't resist leaning his head down so that he was visible through the hole and winking at Sydney. It was as if he was saying to her, "You won last time, but this one's mine." When she caught up to him and got the object it wasn't as fun anymore. She had been dressed in one of her ridiculous costumes, a pink micro-mini dress, and matching pumps. She shouldn't have been able to catch up to him. Interestingly, she didn't bind him in anyway, either she was in a great hurry or for reasons he couldn't fathom, she didn't want him to be caught. Either way, she had ended up with the upper hand this time but he promised himself that their next meeting would end differently. He would not wake up in the basement of a hotel with the biggest headache conceivable to man again.
Part Three
The chartered flight back to Moscow was uneventful. Allison was not with him as prior to departure for Graz they had arranged separate flights back to Russia. He felt no need to call and check in on her as he once had done. Perhaps, once upon a time he had loved her. At times, he may have even put her welfare before his own, and that of his employer, but that was no longer the case. She was now nothing more than a tool for him to use when he wanted to. Their history together preempted any questions she may have had about his motives. He knew that she believed that he would never lie to her, never leave her in the dark as to what his true intentions were. She didn't seem to realize that his two years in captivity had changed him. He wouldn't fully trust anyone, not now, probably never.
Normally, sinking into the leather seats of the plane relaxed him, but on this particular flight, he found himself unable to get comfortable. He could not settle himself. His thoughts continually drifted back to the fight with Sydney. How had she won? He'd had a good head start and the run should have been no problem at all if he'd been running full out. So what had happened? Why hadn't he run as if his life depended on it?
The simple answer was that he hadn't wanted to win. He didn't want to get away from her. This was a dangerous revelation. This had not been a conscious decision that he had made, and that made Sydney Bristow a liability. He couldn't afford to treat her differently from any other adversary. If he kept giving her special treatment he would undoubtedly end up dead. Admiration could lead to sloppiness in his business and that was unacceptable to Mr. Sark as well as Julian.
During the car ride back to the Moscow safehouse he was finally able to relax. After two years without his Mercedes, he enjoyed the sense of control he got from being behind the wheel of any car. He rolled down the windows and speed along the highway, refusing to notice the small droplets of water falling from the sky until the clouds opened up and the downpour began. He rolled up the windows of the car to lock himself in as much as to lock the rain out.
When he arrived he went straight to the room where Lazarey was being held. The man now had severe burns down the left side of his body from head to toe. Mr. Sark had taken care to inflict a great deal of pain on the stump where Lazarey's left hand should have been. Nothing hurt more than reopening up old battle wounds. Sark had been stunned how quickly Lazarey had broken. Three good hours of torture and he was ready to spill whatever Sark wanted to know. He had been quite disappointed.
"What was the item in Julia Thorne's hotel safe-deposit box?" He asked knowing fully well that the blowtorch would no longer be necessary. The man was in such excruciating pain that Sark could feel it radiating off of his now useless body.
Lazarey did not move a muscle to answer and stared blankly at Sark. As the silence crawled on millisecond-by-millisecond it became increasingly clear that Mr. Lazarey was going to require some additional persuasion before he gave Sark any more information. Sark smiled at the though of getting to use the torch again after all. Mr. Sark was very fond of playing with toys. He lit the torch again and held it threateningly in front of Lazarey's face giving him another chance to answer his question. The older man still made no attempt to respond. Sark, knowing that backing down was not an option, slowly lowered the torch to the stump of skin where Lazarey's hand should have been, the flames burning through the already blistered skin. The pungent smell of re-burnt flesh filled the room and reminded Sark of a crematorium. The seemingly neglected bottle of vodka was then put to use as Sark poured it over the fresh wound. Lazarey screamed once, a long, high-pitched sound of anguish and defeat.
"Living tissue," he said suddenly. The torch was immediately extinguished.
"Whose tissue?" Sark asked impatiently as he held the half empty bottle of alcohol threateningly over his father's broken skin.
"Milo Rambaldi." Sark poured the liquid over the burns again. Lazarey yelled out, "It's the truth, I swear it to you."
After a pause Sark began, "You expect me to believe that a man who has been dead for five hundred years left some of his living tissue for Julia Thorne to find and store?" He looked questioningly at his father before saying, "Not likely," and continuing to pour.
"Rambaldi." Lazarey stuttered, "Rambaldi is alive." There is a limit to how much pain the human body can withstand before it finally gives into the temptation of darkness. Under normal circumstances Sark would have kept Lazarey awake but he needed time to digest this new information. Lazarey's body gave into unconsciousness swiftly after enduring such anguish for so long. Sark replaced the cap on the bottle and put the torch back in its place.
Rambaldi was alive. It was unbelievable; yet, he thought to himself, Rambaldi was rumored to have been working on procuring immortality. Maybe he had succeeded. Anything was possible at this point in time. One thing was for certain, both Mr. Sark and Julian had a lot to think about now.
Part Four
Sark thought about Lazarey's revelation. It consumed his every waking thought. If what Lazarey had said was true, then proof of Rambaldi's existence could change the course of the future. If a cure could be found for aging, it could be found for aging diseases. If immortality was possible then all of mankind's problems could be solved.
Sark was startled out of his thoughts by the high-pitched squealing sound that was his cell phone ringtone. He frowned as he fumbled in his pocket for the phone. He had specifically told all employees not to bother him, who would dare disobey his orders? The incessant ringing of his phone was starting to bug him so he finally flipped open the phone and hit talk. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up with such an annoying ringtone and decided to look into a new one as soon as he was done exacting his revenge on whatever employee had so blatantly disregarded his orders.
"Yes."
"The object contained Rambaldi's tissue. He's alive."
"What else can you tell me?" The voice on the other end of the phone was quiet, hushed with secrecy. It was a hurried voice, but concise, not wasting time with gibberish.
"The tissue's DNA strand had an abnormality, an unidentifiable nucleic acid. Analysis of the acid confirmed the sequence of numbers was a series of encoded coordinates. 43° 18 minutes 32.5 seconds North, 5° 23 minutes 5 seconds East."
"Thank you." He ended the call knowing full well that the informant had not stayed on the line long enough to hear the pleasantry. He was going on another trip, this time to Marseille. For a moment, he briefly wondered where Allison was, but that thought was short lived. Allison was more than capable of taking care of herself. Even if she had been captured, she understood the protocol. He would be able to get whatever Rambaldi had left without outside assistance. Not knowing what he was looking for only added to the mystery of it all. He was actually excited.
He boarded the plane and prepared for the trip to France. He had so many very fond memories of La France, most of them circling around Sydney and her stage show. He hadn't been lying when he told Jack Bristow that he'd enjoyed her performance. She did have a lovely singing voice. It was very unfortunate for him that the one time they might have profitably collaborated he was trapped inside a glass cage where every move he made was being watched by multiple cameras. Together the two of them would have made an unstoppable team. Sydney's style would have complimented his own perfectly. But something's were not meant to be and he feared their collaboration would never again be possible.
His Palm Pilot had precision GPS on it to facilitate the retrieval of Rambaldi's item, whatever it may be. If the intel was accurate, and he had no reason to suspect it would be otherwise, then he would soon be in possession of the greatest clue towards finding the formula for immortality.
He checked his 9mm once before placing another two clips on his person. It always paid to be prepared for anything. He vowed that he would be ready and waiting for anything, or anyone he came across, especially if that someone was Agent Bristow.
He arrived at the coordinates in Marseille at 11 that night. The coordinates indicated that whatever he was looking for would be found on the statue of the sphinx standing regally above him. Unless his insider had been completely mistaken, which Sark dismissed almost immediately, there must be some kind of clue on or in the statue. After a thorough scan of the Greek mythological figure's details he accepted that there must be some kind of compartment. His fingers trailed expertly along the granite quickly and capably looking for any irregularity in the stone.
He found it just as he heard the unmistakable click of the safety being removed off of a glock. When you've been in the business as he had you knew the different sound of the different makes. He didn't have to turn around to know that it was her. He could feel the heat from her body, even as the cold metal of her gun pressed against the back of his head. It was really too bad he'd put his gun against his back because there was no way for him to read it as she stared him down. He slowly removed his fingers from the stone in front of him and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Agent Bristow, It's always a pleasure running into you." He kept his voice playful as he mentally berated himself for not hearing her approach. Considering the number of times he'd snuck up on her it seemed only fair that he be the disadvantaged one this time. But right now Sark's main concern was to get the item without being shot or captured by Agent Bristow.
He turned around quickly and looked at his captor. Sensing Sydney was a little distracted, Sark took advantage of her moment of weakness. He brought his arm around and down on to her gun, effectively knocking it out of her grip. She retaliated by throwing a punch at his stomach, which he easily blocked. They traded jabs and kicks for a few more minutes before Sark finally got the better of Sydney and connected with a hard right hook to her gut, knocking her out, at least for the time being. He would have to work quickly, but that was not abnormal. He walked back to the statue and replaced his fingers where they had been prior to Sydney's interruption. He felt the panel give and managed to pull it out. Inside was a blank piece of aged parchment very similar to the ones that Milo Rambaldi had used for his journals.
He carefully placed the parchment inside his leather jacket and zipped it up to protect against the brisk air. He picked up Sydney's discarded gun and put it back where the parchment had been only minutes before. He replaced the panel and silently wished Agent Bristow luck in finding her weapon. In all honesty, it would probably take her no more than five minutes to find it, but at least this way she would not be able to shoot him in the back as he walked away. He wasn't expecting her to wake up for the next few minutes, but he felt it was best to always be prepared.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, trying to regain the feeling in his fingers that he had lost while searching for the hidden piece of parchment. Sark walked casually and confidently towards the alley where he had hidden his car. Even at Sark's unhurried gait, the walk back to his car only took him three minutes. He knew that it would take a miracle for Sydney to have recovered from their fight, but he still felt compelled to check for any signs of both Sydney and any possible CIA back up before he seated himself in the driver's seat of the rented sedan. Satisfied he was truly alone, Sark floored the gas and drove away at record speed.
Since deciphering the text would require the use of Rambaldi's infamous ampule, Sark decided that his next mission must be to retrieve that. This mission would be much harder than the one he had just completed as the ampule in question was currently located in one of the CIA's sub-level storage facilities. He was going to need a flawless plan to retrieve it, or help from someone on the inside to get it for him. It would be too risky to use his informant; he would just have to find someone else to do this particular job.
It looked as if Sydney Bristow had not outlived her usefulness.
Part Five
His was certain that his employer had no inkling of his current plans. Rambaldi was his personal quest. The wok of Milo Rambaldi had always fascinated him because the man had unlimited genius and his prophecies had never been proven wrong. The problem with prophecies though, was that their many possible interpretations meant that a prophecy could seem destined to be true for every person. Still, Rambaldi had yet to be incorrect, though he was constantly misinterpreted.
Rambaldi had foreseen several major events that would happen over the new few years. Mr. Sark was entirely prepared to risk everything to find out exactly what Rambaldi knew. Right now, getting that ampule from the CIA was the highest priority, so he called up a contact of his that he knew would be reliable.
"Hello" the voice on the other end of the line spoke with an accent that indicated the speaker was likely a native Spanish speaker. Even Mr. Sark did not know where the man came from, nor did he care to find out. All that mattered was that this contact would get the job done without asking unnecessary questions.
"I need you to do a job for me." The man paused. Sark could hear his breathing on the other side of the world, knowing that this phone call was coming as a bit of a shock to the man.
"Where?"
"Tomorrow, 10:00am, Café Especiale, Montreal."
"Bueno." Again, the conversation was ended abruptly. With the Echelon System constantly listening to his conversations he couldn't afford to stay on the line for very long. He had also learned to choose his words very carefully, he never knew who was listening to his phone conversations.
Sark was never careless. He'd once been captured by SD-6 after he was ambushed during a buy in Denpassar. The only other time he had been captured was when Irina Derevko had turned him in to forward her own cause. He had always known that she had no sense of loyalty directed towards her employees, even when those same employees worked to free her from custody and saved her life on many occasions. He harboured no illusions that Irina was a kind and motherly boss, she had always been exactly what she was and not anything more. She hadn't pretended to be his mother. He'd known from the beginning that she was not his friend and that no matter how much he wanted her to be, she would never be his ally. She had no allegiances, she had never been loyal to anyone besides herself not even the KGB. She had done what they'd requested of her, but it had served her own purposes as well. Irina had taught him well, and he would use that knowledge to succeed where she had failed.
The plane would need to be ready for take off in the next few hours and he needed some time to pack before his trip.
Part Six
Montreal was a pleasant city with a rich heritage and a beautiful landscape. The Habitants of Quebec were polite enough if you understood their language and could converse with them fairly accurately. He was fluent in French, though he had a Francophone accent as opposed to the Canadian Quebecois. Briefly he considered the fact that his contact may not speak French at all, but luckily Canada was a bilingual country. Given that Spanish wasn't all that different from French, he figured that his contact might be able to get along quite well without any assistance. Every sign in Montreal could be read in both French and English, the official languages chosen by the government, so Sark figured his contact wouldn't encounter much difficulty in finding their meeting point.
The Café was small and intimate, but busy enough to insure that any meeting remained inconspicuous to the outside eye. Sark had discovered this café on a previous business trip when he had taken the opportunity to explore the city purely for his own pleasure. He was pleasantly surprised to discover this café served a charming cup of Matte tea. Normally he would not have indulged himself in something like the imported leaves from Argentina, especially outside of the country where the leaves were produced, but on this occasion, he felt like indulging himself a bit extravagantly.
His contact was a few minutes late and Mr. Sark was annoyed. He was a stickler for punctuality. He reasoned that if you couldn't be on time for a meeting, you would not likely be on time for anything else. Senor Riveres was the one person Sark exempted from his strict expectations of punctuality because of the great respect and admiration he had for the man. Riveres hailed from a small town outside of Buenos Aires where he lived on a farm with his wife, Alicia, and his two daughters, Camilla and Amelita, age 16 and 12 respectively. He had been married for 16 years to the same woman, who either had no idea what her husband did for a living, or who did not disapprove or question her husbands business dealings. He was the perfect husband; in sixteen years he had always remained faithful to his wife, and still managed to attend Mass with his family every Sunday morning. He kept his family safe, he never double-crossed anyone, he always did exactly what was requested of him, and he never asked unreasonable questions of his employers. He was quite possibly the best freelancer that Mr. Sark had ever had the pleasure of doing business with. Sark felt that Senor Riveres was worth every penny of his fee and probably much more than that, but he would never tell the freelancer that.
Five minutes late, Riveres arrived in the small café. He looked completely out of place with his dark hair curling madly around his head and his permanently tanned skin. Riveres quickly sat down at the corner table that Mr. Sark had chosen specifically for the purpose of this meeting. He sat silently and waited for Sark to request whatever he needed from him.
"I need information on a Julia Thorne, assassin, last known address Rome, Italy."
"Give me two days."
"I can only give you twenty-four hours. I need as much intel as you can get for me, I know that you can't recover everything in the time I'm giving you. I'm not expecting perfection, just enough to get by."
The Hispanic man paused as if seriously considering the implications of the time constraint. "Twenty-four hours, I'll do what I can. Tomorrow morning Mexico City, Café Meringue, 10 AM local time."
"Thank you" Mr. Sark said as he shock the older man's hand. He knew that whatever information could be quickly recovered about Julia Thorne he would have in his hands by tomorrow morning at 10am. Then the first stages of his plan could be put into motion. Sydney's number had undoubtedly changed over her two missing years so he would have to find out what the new number was, but that shouldn't pose a great impediment.
He sipped at his tea, the cooling water did not diminish the tea's potency in the slightest. He had a great deal of work to do and very little time to do it in, but he would take this moment to relax, though he could never completely forget who and where he was.
Part Seven
The next morning arrived too quickly for his tastes. He realized that most people functioned under the assumption that Mr. Sark did not sleep. Sometimes he forced himself to believe it as well, but the truth of the matter was that he did. He'd spent the night in Montreal and was now required to wake up at the crack of dawn to be in Mexico City for later that morning. He could have chosen to fly out last night, but he'd found over the years that it was better to spend as little time as possible at any meeting place. He would be flying into Mexico at 8 AM local time, and flying out again at noon. He had chartered a flight to Los Angeles from Mexico City so that he could get the ampule of Rambaldi's invisible ink from Sydney Bristow.
Overnight he had decided that given the sensitive nature of the discussion he wished to have with her, meeting her in person would be the best course of action. He decided to approach her some time before she went into work.
When he arrived at Café Meringue he found that Senor Riveres was already waiting for him. Riveres pulled a manila envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket, put the information on the table and proceeded to walk out without a word to Mr. Sark. Sark sat down at the same table that Riveres had just vacated and carefully opened the envelope. There were incriminating photographs, documents of all kinds, and newspaper clippings. The clippings were the things that grabbed the most of his attention. He flipped through them slowly taking the time to carefully read each headline, and when he finished he considered the implications that these would have on an already disturbed woman. For some reason keeping Sydney involved was important to him. She made each time he got away from her a greater accomplishment then the last time. She was the only active agent who challenged him at all.
His flight to L.A. would be leaving in a few hours, he needed to gather up the intel that he was going to give to Sydney as insurance. He needed to make sure that she got the ampule from the CIA and he was certain that she would not do that without the proper motivation.
Sark was aware that his employers would know from their surveillance of the CIA's databases that he had been seen in France. He would have to rationalize that to them as well. The Covenant didn't care about Milo Rambaldi or his prophesies. They didn't care that this six hundred year old man could possibly be alive, or that he had the answer to immortality. If they knew all that Mr. Sark knew maybe they would care, but, luckily for him, they didn't.
This was the path that had been preordained for him hundreds of years ago. Arvin Sloane had been chosen by Rambaldi to fulfill his prophecy as well. Sloane didn't understand that he wasn't the only person on this quest. Neither he, nor Irina Derevko had ever really understood Mr. Sark's involvement. They both believed that he was just there to further his career, to serve those above him and that he had no personal stake in the answers Rambaldi could give. It was not entirely their own oversight that allowed his personal business to remain his alone, he did have some skills. Lying happened to be one of his greater talents. Lying to his employers, lying to his paramour, even lying to himself, though the occasions he did that were few and far between. Lying to himself was only done when absolutely necessary for survival.
He supposed that it was the gift that he had been given. Perhaps, if he had been left to lead a normal life he would have been an actor on the stage. He could make any character believable and real, partly because his identity was buried so deeply inside of himself that it seemed not to exist at all. If he could make people believe in Mr. Sark, he could do anything.
Part Eight
Though a major portion of his life had been spent on board planes he was still stunned by the amount of travel required for his job. He realized that hopping from place to place would be a necessary part of who he was to become, but that didn't mean that he had to like spending the majority of his life in a pressurized cabin. Sucking in filtered air until it felt like there was no clean air left to breathe in the world didn't have to be enjoyable. The best moment of his day was when he finally got to step off the plane and into the smog that surrounded the Los Angeles area.
Two hours later he was sitting in yet another rental car, waiting for the opportune moment to present itself. Patience had been a skill that he'd cultivate at an early age out of necessity and, at this point in his life it was invaluable. He couldn't count the number of times when being patient had saved his life. Waiting an extra few seconds before pulling the trigger, hiding for an extra second while a guard was standing close enough to hear him breathe. Patience was definitely a virtue for him.
Suddenly the hum of his blood raised itself to a fevered pitch. He could feel the adrenalin rush into every part of his body from his toes straight to his fingertips. He'd always had an innate sense of timing; that was one of the things that set him above the rest. Not that there was necessarily a "rest" to speak of. He believed that Mr. Sark was completely unique and the best at what he did. The only person who came remotely close was Sydney, and even she hadn't done half the things the Sark had done. Assassinations, for example, were one of his specialties. They were also something that Sydney had never done willingly. With all of this in mind he stepped out of the car and crossed the street to Sydney's apartment building. It took him roughly thirty seconds to pick the lock on her door and to notice that this apartment was very different from her last one. Instead of the vibrancy and life that had been an integral part of the home she shared with Miss Calfo, and later Allison, there was an emptiness that filled these rooms. He made a quick sweep of his surroundings and was contented that Sydney was nowhere to be seen. He knew that she hadn't left for work yet, it was only 7 in the morning, but he could hear her humming in her bathroom. Funny, he'd never thought that Sydney Bristow would be the type of person who would hum to herself while she was doing her makeup.
The humming didn't stop as the door swung open and Sydney stepped out in a black pantsuit. He saw her tense ever muscle in her body when she looked straight at him and froze.
"Why bother with locks?"
"They're supposed to keep unwanted terrorists outside," she replied angrily.
"That didn't work out to well for you then."
"I guess not." Neither one of them had moved at all since the initial contact. Sark knew that if he did make any hostile movements that he would probably be on the ground bleeding before he could say "blood hell." The yellow envelope he held in his hands was all that could help him now. Well, the information inside it and his 9mm.
"Please have a seat, Sydney," Sark gestured to the chairs at the kitchen table.
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
"I didn't think you would, but for the purposes of this meeting I think that it would be best if you were seated."
"I don't give a damn what you think is best and there is no meeting. There has never been a meeting, there will never be any sort of meeting between the two of us." The disgust that she obviously felt for him resonated through the room, bouncing off the empty walls before finally coming to rest beside him.
"I didn't want to have to do this," he said quietly before reaching with his free hand to the back of his pants to grasp the 9mm. He pulled it out quickly, never taking his eyes off her, watching for even the slightest tell of what course of action she was planning. "Please sit," he commanded as he pointed the gun at her head.
She walked over slowly increasing the tension in his body with every step that brought her nearer to him. She pulled out a cushioned chair and sat down gracefully. He placed the manila envelope on the table and carefully slid it over to where she was sitting.
"What do you want Sark?" She looked up at him with fearlessness in her eyes, a trait that she had obviously inherited from both Irina and Jack.
"I want your help."
He hadn't expected her to react well to this request, but it was a request. He hadn't expected her to burst out laughing.
"Oh, that's rich. You want my help. Oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, it's just I'm speechless."
The sarcasm laced in her words didn't amuse him at all. He kept the gun trained on her he moved closer to her seat at the table. "Open it."
She stared at him for a few more seconds before complying. She pulled out the glossy photos first. When she reached the final clipping contained in the envelope, she stopped and looked up at him. "What do you need me to do?"
"I need you to get Rambaldi's ampule for me."
"And in exchange?" Her tone was all business now. Mr. Sark would never understand why this was so important to her. She had been trained for years never to let her emotions get in the way and, yet, here she was trapped in an awkward situation and all in the name of love. It appeared as if his ploy was going to work beautifully though.
"You'll get the rest of the information that I have withheld." He knew that it was dangerous to give her so much information before going on a mission for him but it couldn't be helped. She needed the proper motivation before she would even consider doing what she was about to do, he'd always known that. He understood more about her than she might ever realize.
She paused and stared into space as if she was thinking about how to go about the retrieval before she turned back to him and nodded her agreement. "I'll have it for you by tomorrow morning," she replied without hesitating.
"I'll call you with the details of the exchange." He hesitated and chose his next words very carefully, "If you cross me, I won't hesitate."
"I know. Neither will I."
He admired her in that moment. She was unarmed, had just agreed to work for her mortal enemy, and she was still as tough as ever. She wouldn't hesitate to shoot him. Maybe she couldn't kill him, but shooting him would be of no consequence and he couldn't afford to take that chance with his life. He picked up the envelope off the table, replaced the gun and casually walked out of the apartment. He walked to his car and drove to his hotel knowing that the last link in the chain had now been forged.
Part Nine
Time was passing by excruciatingly slow. Hour after hour, all he could do was wait until it was time for his meeting with Sydney. Sleep wouldn't come to him this night. He had called Sydney and arranged for their next meeting at 6am that morning. He had three more hours of torturous waiting before he could actually find out what his purpose in all of this was.
Figuring it would help pass the time, he picked up a book and began to read. When he had been younger he'd always loved books, now he hardly had time in between jobs to fit in 100 pages of fiction. He liked to read suspense and mysteries, but mostly he loved to read books with action in them. He immersed himself in page after page of hand to hand combat and gun fights as Jack Ryan tried to save the world yet again. Will he succeed? In the books he read, the protagonist always saved the day with minimal harm to himself. Sark didn't have any modesty; if Jack Ryan had come up against him in battle Ryan wouldn't have walked away as unscathed as he always seemed to be.
His day had not been spent idly. Trust was not something that came easily to him, so he had spent him day monitoring Sydney's every movement. Her cell phone had been tapped; he had a record of every call she'd made. He had watched her every movement while at the CIA. He saw where she was and whom she had talked to. It was astounding that with the ample supply of security the CIA had, he had found it surprisingly easy to hack into their system. He supposed, as he drove to the park, that he would have made a very good security advisor. He would certainly be able to inform companies of where hackers would mostly likely breach their systems. But that was a job for another lifetime, one where he hadn't already been corrupted by ambition and power.
He got out of the car once he'd reached his destination and slowly his thoughts digressed back to their original point. Sydney had been thoroughly watched and it appeared on all accounts that she had taken him at his word. In the twenty hours he had spent watching her, she had done nothing suspicious at all. Perhaps that was where his distrust of her was stemming from. He expected her to try to doublecross him so he prepared himself for that betrayal. If he prepared for the worst then nothing could go wrong, if she didn't try to betray him there was no harm done. Either way, he was playing to win.
If Allison had been with him he wouldn't have had to hire a sniper. But she wasn't with him now, so some nameless, faceless woman with quite a reputation for accuracy was sitting on top of the grey apartment building to his right. She was under explicit instructions to shoot only if he was shot at directly. They were also on the same com frequency to facilitate the trade in the event that something should go awry. Briefly he wondered where Allison was. He hadn't heard from her since they had been together in Graz. Then again, it wasn't unusual for them to be sent on missions solo. He would not waste anymore time wondering about where she was. Allison wouldn't approve of him worrying anyway.
Then he spotted her dressed in jogging pants and a t-shirt. He assumed that she had run over from her apartment, as she wouldn't want to jog back to her apartment with the large packet of information that he was about to give her. She handed him the small vial of golden liquid and started off their conversation as soon as she was within speaking distance. "I'm assuming this will have to be tested."
"If you wouldn't mind." He couldn't believe how courteous they were being to each other considering the circumstances surrounding their acquaintance in the past. He sat down on a park bench, making sure that the sniper had a direct view of Sydney on the off chance she tried anything while he was vulnerable, and started testing the liquid on a small piece of Rambaldi's parchment he had taken years earlier from Irina.
"You know this meeting is going quite well in comparison with some of our others," he said smugly as he paused for dramatic effect. "Osaka, for instance." Though the look on her face was blank, he knew that he had shocked Sydney Bristow, super-spy. He was proud of himself. "Did you think I wouldn't know," he continued with his trademark smirk firmly in place. He was satisfied that the vial was legitimate and he reached with his free hand into his jacket to grab the large envelope. Sydney stood in silence as he handed the information over to her.
"Your father was right, Michael Vaughn was just a boy who was never good enough for you." With that he walked away, leaving her holding all of the answers she would ever get from him.
Part Ten
The sniper had been paid in full for her services he had been sitting on a plane bound back for Ireland for the past four hours. He sat on the plane knowing that the parchment rested in his bag along with the small ampule of Rambaldi's liquid. The anticipation of finally reading words of Rambaldi's that no one else had read flowed through his body, gaining speed with every passing minute.
He made a point of turning his cell phone off again. He was taking all of the normal precautions to ensure that he was not interrupted, as that would be most unpleasant. He found as he began to lose interest in his book that planes seemed to be the only places where he could ever sleep properly. Even then, he was only able to sleep for brief snatches of time. He'd never slept through an entire flight home before, this time would be no exception.
It was wonderful how once his eyes closed they didn't open again until the plane had begun its descent. Suddenly Mr. Sark was no longer necessary, and Julian reappeared in his place. Mr. Sark, the man of efficiency and coldness, was replaced with a man who could feel pride for his country. Julian was a man who could love the country that was his true home. Julian was a man who could feel sympathy for what Sydney Bristow was currently going through. It could not be easy risking everything for a father who had done the things her father had done. Then again, Julian understood that better than most.
He enjoyed the long drive back to his house. The sky was a beautiful cerulean blue, the air was clean and clear, and it seemed to purify his soul. He felt clean for the first time in weeks, and it had nothing to do with dirt. He let the silence wash over him calming the part of him that craved excitement.
He reached the small house within hours of leaving the airport and grabbed the small black bag that carried both the parchment and the ampule. He unlocked the door and walked straight to the kitchen table where he dropped the bag and quickly unzipped it. The parchment and the ink were placed ceremonially beside one another in preparation for this event.
It was time to discover his destiny. Slowly he started to drag the brush with the ink on it over the page. As the brown words started to appear he realized that he was completely unprepared for the implications of what was written on this piece of paper.
He read over the page once, and then again. He couldn't believe what was written on the parchment. It seemed that he was now at the beginning of something new and extraordinary, not only for him, but also for Sydney.
Julian, You have been chosen; you must have realized this by now. You were meant to find me. And one day, I'm confident that you will. Today is not that day. You must believe that Sydney also has an important part to play. She is necessary and you must make sure that she remains safe. As I sit and write this, knowing that you won't find it for years to come, I realize that I will have to impart news of something that you will not know has occurred. Julian, Allison is dead, but your journey has only begun. Keep searching for me, and eventually I will find you. MR