It had been another year now and she still had not been able to settle
down.
It wasn't the CIA; she'd lost them long ago. If her sources were correct, they were still searching Italy, scouring every building in every city, and every barn in every golden countryside.
Something else in her made it impossible to stay in one spot too long. It was as if she was searching for something, but she had no idea what it was.
Meanwhile, she had gone from Sardinia to Paris to Munich to Madrid to another Spanish Cruise to New York to Chicago to Aplington to Waterloo to LA, with hair every shade of the rainbow everywhere she went. Next on the agenda: the Keys.
But in her masochistic mood, she had to stop. Had to stop in LA. Gaze into the window of the former residence of the former Sydney Bristow. She had been hoping to see a family with children erasing the blood that had spilt on those floors with toy trucks and cracker crumbs. She should Have known that the CIA would have sequestered it for investigation. You would think that after 3 years they would have realized that nobody left any intentional clues behind.
And now, the end all be all, it was pouring down cold reminders of things she tried hard to forget.
Before she could remember other places to visit, she ran to the airport and didn't stop til she had boarded the plane. She had known when she had landed here that this had been a mistake.
********************
It was the fourth time that Lennox had knocked on Kendall's office door this week. Nobody seemed to share his suspicions. Suspicions that Bristow was no longer in Italy, and perhaps she had never been there in the first place.
But then, it seemed that nobody really shared his interests in the case at all. He had long ago been assigned to other assignments, but he still pondered obsessively over this one. Vaughn had once shared the obsession, but now he had a wife and child to worry about. Lennox didn't blame him.
Jack Bristow might have been on his side, had he not been sent to isolation. A tiny little island paradise owned by the American Government housed him, since his breakdown at the loss of the only thing left precious to him. Sydney.
In the end it was all about Sydney. The Prophecy. Rambaldi. All pointing towards Sydney.
But again, nobody really cared anymore. Sloane had disappeared completely a year after Sydney vanished, as well as Irina and Sark. No trace of them in 3 years, and eventually the CIA had just given up. No need to worry about threats no longer prevalent.
So Lennox had been left with his instincts and no backup.
And for the fourth time, Kendall dismissed his concerns.
"Look, Agent Lennox-- we've done everything we can. We have all exits from Italy manned. If she tried to leave, we'd have her. She's still in Italy." He said in a finalizing tone. Undertones of "Do not argue or I will snap you neck".
It had been like this ever since he had returned from Italy.
"You need a vacation Lennox." Kendall continued. "I can't use you in this state. Why don't you go down to the Caribbean? Maybe visit your wife's grave. . . ." This was Kendall's way of telling him that he wasn't allowed to turn to a workaholic obsession to replace his dead wife's memory.
Three years and still he sometimes sat up nights with sharp pangs running through his body, just remembering what it used to be like. Dejectedly, he walked out the door and to the airport, hoping his wife could give him some sound advice when he visited her. He would need it after the mess he had made of his life.
*******************
Somewhere in Moscow, an aging man sat waiting behind a desk. Waiting for the final piece of the Rambaldi puzzle, which seemed to have disappeared 3 years ago without a trace. Sloane wanted his dream to be realized before he died, but looking at the incompetence around him he was unsure if his dreams would come true.
Sark sat across the desk looking at him, with the same nonchalant stare he always wore. But Sloane could tell that the boy was nervous. Impatience was a trait one did not like to see in their bosses.
"Any more news on her whereabouts?" He asked bluntly. What was this kid doing in the business anyways? He wondered. He couldn't be more than 23. He was the only employee Sloane had working for him whose past was still a mystery. Sloane normally liked to know everything about his employees, but Sark was so good that he didn't care.
"No." he answered simply. Sark eyed the wine bottle on the side table.
"Feel free." Sloane sighed. Sark obliged, and poured two wine glasses with the rich maroon liquid.
"If there is no more news, why did you insist on seeing me?" he continued.
"Apart from your wine?" Sark smirked. Sloane didn't smile back, and Sark continued.
"I was requesting permission to look more outside Europe for Miss Bristow. I am beginning to believe that the CIA wasn't quite as sure of her whereabouts as they thought they were." Sloane translated the statement as: The CIA are imbeciles that shouldn't even be considered as espionage group for all they're good for, and we were even bigger imbeciles to follow their lead in the search.
The funny thing was, Sark was probably right. Sydney and Jack had been their only assets, and they'd effectively driven both parties away.
He was still angry about losing Sydney. Irina had been livid. A year ago they had still had her, and the prophecy was as good as fulfilled. He would have finally had his ultimate power. But ineffective transportation of the weapon had led to its loss. Sydney had fought tooth and nail in the truck in Afghanistan, and she had gotten away. Next thing he knew, Sloane's CIA contacts were telling him that she had showed up in Hong Kong with no memory and no friends.
And then like that, she was gone again.
They needed to get her back before November, or else all will have failed.
"Request granted." Sloane said finally. The boy had good instincts, Sloane would trust them for now.
"Where are you planning on looking first, Mr. Sark?" He added as an afterthought.
"I thought I'd start in the Caribbean." He said with a smirk.
*************************
Blonde curls now to go with the Caribbean sun, that is what she wore. That and little else. Her barely-there red bikini left little to hide, but she didn't care. After the emotional hangover she was going through, the only cure was the numbing feeling of being daring and careless.
She still wasn't sure she liked the blonde though. The first chance she had here, she resolved to go back to maroon. That had been her favorite hair color by far. Rolling her eyes at the sunbathers, she waded in to the bright blue water and began swimming to a nearby sandbar. What was the point, she mused, of sitting on a beach if you do not admire the water?
The water lapped up against her sides and cooled her baked skin. The ring she wore around her neck hung limp in the water as she swam.
Standing up on the sandbar at last, she looked out at the crowd in the distance. A few had looked up to view her insanity, and more than a few men had looked up to view her bikini. Unabashedly, she laughed out loud at all of them, and then turned again.
Farther out on the horizon was another island, this one slightly larger, but not large enough to build a hotel on, so it had been left alone. This was her prize.
Jumping in the water once more, she dove down beneath the blue waves and started swimming underwater towards the island. Her blonde swam around her face. Don't get your hair wet after you perm, she remembered hearing. Oh well.
It didn't matter anyways. She hadn't really liked the blonde. Back to maroon it is then.
Just then she spotted something glinting underneath he white sands. Descending even further, she reached out for it. If she hadn't been underwater, she might have gasped. A man's diamond ring shone in the palm of her hand, exquisitely cut. Probably a wedding ring, she thought. This would make a good buck at the pawn shop. Or maybe a jewel dealer, if I can find one unofficial enough to not ask for I.D. Clenching it tightly, she continued swimming until she reached the shore.
It was a beautiful island, probably only twice the size of her old house. Walking the perimeter, she looked out to the mainland again, now only a distant speck on the horizon. No matter. She knew she'd have the energy to make it back.
On the opposite end of the island, she suddenly spotted something she had not seen before. It was a just a tiny corner of gray, almost completely hidden by a palm tree. No wonder she hadn't seen it from the sandbar.
Looking closer, she was surprised to see it was a gravestone. Wet blonde sticking to her sun-dried face, she bent down to read the epitaph.
"No man is an island. To those whom I have loved who lost me, I will continue to love you from afar."
She took a step back when she read the name.
"Here lies Emma Marie Lennox 1978-2003. Rest In Peace."
She'd heard that name before, but didn't want to know where. Before she could stop them, memories flooded in. A woman, strapped to a bomb-Emma being forced to walk to her doom in the middle of a crowded square. Being forced to walk by a man she had thought was her husband. Genetic Engineering. Emma's doubled husband, crying for the loss of his wife and the loss of his identity. He had kissed her, though it had been more out of panicked loneliness than attraction, she knew. What was his name? Jim. Jim Lennox.
A twig snapped behind her.
With a crazed look on her face she whirled around, and came face to face with him. What was he doing here?
Lennox looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Too surprised to try and capture her, as most likely the CIA would have wanted.
"Sydney. . . ." He started, but couldn't finish his sentence.
"That isn't my name anymore!" She ran, and panic stricken, dove into the water and paddled back to shore as fast as she could. Looking back only once, she could just see Lennox standing still on the shore, watching her go. He didn't even try to come after her.
She had a pretty good idea now whose ring that was that she'd found in the sand.
It wasn't the CIA; she'd lost them long ago. If her sources were correct, they were still searching Italy, scouring every building in every city, and every barn in every golden countryside.
Something else in her made it impossible to stay in one spot too long. It was as if she was searching for something, but she had no idea what it was.
Meanwhile, she had gone from Sardinia to Paris to Munich to Madrid to another Spanish Cruise to New York to Chicago to Aplington to Waterloo to LA, with hair every shade of the rainbow everywhere she went. Next on the agenda: the Keys.
But in her masochistic mood, she had to stop. Had to stop in LA. Gaze into the window of the former residence of the former Sydney Bristow. She had been hoping to see a family with children erasing the blood that had spilt on those floors with toy trucks and cracker crumbs. She should Have known that the CIA would have sequestered it for investigation. You would think that after 3 years they would have realized that nobody left any intentional clues behind.
And now, the end all be all, it was pouring down cold reminders of things she tried hard to forget.
Before she could remember other places to visit, she ran to the airport and didn't stop til she had boarded the plane. She had known when she had landed here that this had been a mistake.
********************
It was the fourth time that Lennox had knocked on Kendall's office door this week. Nobody seemed to share his suspicions. Suspicions that Bristow was no longer in Italy, and perhaps she had never been there in the first place.
But then, it seemed that nobody really shared his interests in the case at all. He had long ago been assigned to other assignments, but he still pondered obsessively over this one. Vaughn had once shared the obsession, but now he had a wife and child to worry about. Lennox didn't blame him.
Jack Bristow might have been on his side, had he not been sent to isolation. A tiny little island paradise owned by the American Government housed him, since his breakdown at the loss of the only thing left precious to him. Sydney.
In the end it was all about Sydney. The Prophecy. Rambaldi. All pointing towards Sydney.
But again, nobody really cared anymore. Sloane had disappeared completely a year after Sydney vanished, as well as Irina and Sark. No trace of them in 3 years, and eventually the CIA had just given up. No need to worry about threats no longer prevalent.
So Lennox had been left with his instincts and no backup.
And for the fourth time, Kendall dismissed his concerns.
"Look, Agent Lennox-- we've done everything we can. We have all exits from Italy manned. If she tried to leave, we'd have her. She's still in Italy." He said in a finalizing tone. Undertones of "Do not argue or I will snap you neck".
It had been like this ever since he had returned from Italy.
"You need a vacation Lennox." Kendall continued. "I can't use you in this state. Why don't you go down to the Caribbean? Maybe visit your wife's grave. . . ." This was Kendall's way of telling him that he wasn't allowed to turn to a workaholic obsession to replace his dead wife's memory.
Three years and still he sometimes sat up nights with sharp pangs running through his body, just remembering what it used to be like. Dejectedly, he walked out the door and to the airport, hoping his wife could give him some sound advice when he visited her. He would need it after the mess he had made of his life.
*******************
Somewhere in Moscow, an aging man sat waiting behind a desk. Waiting for the final piece of the Rambaldi puzzle, which seemed to have disappeared 3 years ago without a trace. Sloane wanted his dream to be realized before he died, but looking at the incompetence around him he was unsure if his dreams would come true.
Sark sat across the desk looking at him, with the same nonchalant stare he always wore. But Sloane could tell that the boy was nervous. Impatience was a trait one did not like to see in their bosses.
"Any more news on her whereabouts?" He asked bluntly. What was this kid doing in the business anyways? He wondered. He couldn't be more than 23. He was the only employee Sloane had working for him whose past was still a mystery. Sloane normally liked to know everything about his employees, but Sark was so good that he didn't care.
"No." he answered simply. Sark eyed the wine bottle on the side table.
"Feel free." Sloane sighed. Sark obliged, and poured two wine glasses with the rich maroon liquid.
"If there is no more news, why did you insist on seeing me?" he continued.
"Apart from your wine?" Sark smirked. Sloane didn't smile back, and Sark continued.
"I was requesting permission to look more outside Europe for Miss Bristow. I am beginning to believe that the CIA wasn't quite as sure of her whereabouts as they thought they were." Sloane translated the statement as: The CIA are imbeciles that shouldn't even be considered as espionage group for all they're good for, and we were even bigger imbeciles to follow their lead in the search.
The funny thing was, Sark was probably right. Sydney and Jack had been their only assets, and they'd effectively driven both parties away.
He was still angry about losing Sydney. Irina had been livid. A year ago they had still had her, and the prophecy was as good as fulfilled. He would have finally had his ultimate power. But ineffective transportation of the weapon had led to its loss. Sydney had fought tooth and nail in the truck in Afghanistan, and she had gotten away. Next thing he knew, Sloane's CIA contacts were telling him that she had showed up in Hong Kong with no memory and no friends.
And then like that, she was gone again.
They needed to get her back before November, or else all will have failed.
"Request granted." Sloane said finally. The boy had good instincts, Sloane would trust them for now.
"Where are you planning on looking first, Mr. Sark?" He added as an afterthought.
"I thought I'd start in the Caribbean." He said with a smirk.
*************************
Blonde curls now to go with the Caribbean sun, that is what she wore. That and little else. Her barely-there red bikini left little to hide, but she didn't care. After the emotional hangover she was going through, the only cure was the numbing feeling of being daring and careless.
She still wasn't sure she liked the blonde though. The first chance she had here, she resolved to go back to maroon. That had been her favorite hair color by far. Rolling her eyes at the sunbathers, she waded in to the bright blue water and began swimming to a nearby sandbar. What was the point, she mused, of sitting on a beach if you do not admire the water?
The water lapped up against her sides and cooled her baked skin. The ring she wore around her neck hung limp in the water as she swam.
Standing up on the sandbar at last, she looked out at the crowd in the distance. A few had looked up to view her insanity, and more than a few men had looked up to view her bikini. Unabashedly, she laughed out loud at all of them, and then turned again.
Farther out on the horizon was another island, this one slightly larger, but not large enough to build a hotel on, so it had been left alone. This was her prize.
Jumping in the water once more, she dove down beneath the blue waves and started swimming underwater towards the island. Her blonde swam around her face. Don't get your hair wet after you perm, she remembered hearing. Oh well.
It didn't matter anyways. She hadn't really liked the blonde. Back to maroon it is then.
Just then she spotted something glinting underneath he white sands. Descending even further, she reached out for it. If she hadn't been underwater, she might have gasped. A man's diamond ring shone in the palm of her hand, exquisitely cut. Probably a wedding ring, she thought. This would make a good buck at the pawn shop. Or maybe a jewel dealer, if I can find one unofficial enough to not ask for I.D. Clenching it tightly, she continued swimming until she reached the shore.
It was a beautiful island, probably only twice the size of her old house. Walking the perimeter, she looked out to the mainland again, now only a distant speck on the horizon. No matter. She knew she'd have the energy to make it back.
On the opposite end of the island, she suddenly spotted something she had not seen before. It was a just a tiny corner of gray, almost completely hidden by a palm tree. No wonder she hadn't seen it from the sandbar.
Looking closer, she was surprised to see it was a gravestone. Wet blonde sticking to her sun-dried face, she bent down to read the epitaph.
"No man is an island. To those whom I have loved who lost me, I will continue to love you from afar."
She took a step back when she read the name.
"Here lies Emma Marie Lennox 1978-2003. Rest In Peace."
She'd heard that name before, but didn't want to know where. Before she could stop them, memories flooded in. A woman, strapped to a bomb-Emma being forced to walk to her doom in the middle of a crowded square. Being forced to walk by a man she had thought was her husband. Genetic Engineering. Emma's doubled husband, crying for the loss of his wife and the loss of his identity. He had kissed her, though it had been more out of panicked loneliness than attraction, she knew. What was his name? Jim. Jim Lennox.
A twig snapped behind her.
With a crazed look on her face she whirled around, and came face to face with him. What was he doing here?
Lennox looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Too surprised to try and capture her, as most likely the CIA would have wanted.
"Sydney. . . ." He started, but couldn't finish his sentence.
"That isn't my name anymore!" She ran, and panic stricken, dove into the water and paddled back to shore as fast as she could. Looking back only once, she could just see Lennox standing still on the shore, watching her go. He didn't even try to come after her.
She had a pretty good idea now whose ring that was that she'd found in the sand.