Sydney waited impatiently at the entrance to the alley, shifting from foot to foot, trying to blend in with her surroundings. A rundown section of a once proud city, the gray walls melted into the gray snow on the ground; gray people shuffled by, heads down, anxious to be home out of the bitter cold. Pursuing leads on Lazarey, she was scheduled to meet a contact. A friend of a friend of a friend.
"Sydney." The voice was a soft whisper, softer than the snow lightly drifting downward.
"Mom?" asked Sydney, whirling around in astonishment.
"Sydney," said her mother reprovingly, aggrieved at this lapse in protocol, "I don't suppose that you could look straight forward and pretend to not be talking to me?"
"Oh. Right." Sydney pretended to admire the architecture of the aging apartment building next to her. "Nice hair."
Irina gave a quiet snort. Clad mostly in rags, her long straggly white hair hung in tangles about her face. She was rummaging through a nearby garbage can. "How are you?" she asked her daughter, her tone concerned.
"Fine," Sydney lied. "Not fine," she admitted with a sigh after receiving a sharp glance from her mother. "I can't remember anything that happened for the past two years. And everything is so different. . . ," her voice trailed off.
"Different, how?" Irina focused on a particularly shiny can, struggling to keep herself from hugging her daughter.
"Sloane is good. Vaughn is married." Sydney swallowed. "To someone else. I don't know who to trust."
"Your father?"
"He was in solitary for a year. He's…it was pretty tough, I think. He won't really talk about it." Studying the stonework, Sydney missed the slight tremor as her mother lifted a tattered glove from the trash and carefully placed it in her pocket.
"I see," said Irina evenly.
"Mom? Did you see me at all over the last two years?"
"Why do you ask?" Irina stalled.
"I sent a letter to Sloane. In a code that only you would know. Dad says you taught it to him when you were working together."
"You sent a letter to Sloane?" repeated Irina. "How curious." She dropped the glove from her pocket onto the ground. "Inside that glove is a letter you mailed to me. I couldn't decipher it. I think it's an SD-6 code."
"Thanks. But you still didn't answer my question."
Irina was silent for several minutes before finally replying. "Yes, Sydney, I saw you. You went by the name of Julia Thorne."
Surreptitiously Irina crept forward through the underbrush, careful not to make a sound. Her target was rumored to be a professional assassin, and any mistake on Irina's part could be fatal for one or both of them. An outcome that was not acceptable. She reached the edge of the clearing, giving her a clear view of the red sports car parked by the side of the road, and pulled out her field glasses. Her target came rapidly into focus – 5'11", long dark hair, athletic build. Her father's ears; her mother's eyes.
Irina briefly lowered the binoculars to impatiently brush away the tears that inconveniently blocked her view. She had guessed right – Julia Thorne and Sydney were the same person. Sydney was alive. She picked up her cell phone to call Jack, imagining his reaction, then paused and crouched lower as a black sedan approached. A meet.
She put the binoculars back up to her eyes and watched as a small man emerged from the sedan. Her chest tightened as her face contorted in rage. Sloane. She prayed Sydney would kill – her mind froze. Sydney was* hugging* Sloane? What the h*ll was going on?
"You *did* see me. I knew my name was Julia Thorne, but what was I doing? Why did I send letters? Why would I have sent a letter to *Sloane*?" Sydney's questions tumbled over each other; Irina had no doubt that there were hundreds more bottled up inside her daughter.
"Sydney," her mother said regretfully. "Julia Thorne was a professional assassin. One of the people she ran missions for was Sloane. She. . . trusted him."
Irina watched as Sydney and Sloane talked, waiting until Sloane departed. Carefully she picked her way down to the red car, reaching it just before Sydney climbed in.
"Sydney."
Sydney froze, her hand on the door of the car. Irina's antennae started quivering, and she sensed rather than saw a knife slip into Sydney's hand.
Sydney turned around slowly. There was no flicker of recognition in her eyes.
"Who the f*ck are you?"
"Sydney?" Irina's brow furrowed. "I'm your mother."
"My mother died when I was six. And my name's not Sydney. How much did you see?" asked Sydney threateningly.
"Would you like me to call you Julia?" asked Irina carefully. "Your father will be so relieved that you're alive."
"My father? My father knows I'm alive."
"He does?" hissed Irina ominously.
"He just left. But you know that, don't you? You were watching us." Julia began advancing towards Irina.
"Arvin Sloane?" asked Irina aghast. "You think that scum is your father?" Warily she backed away from Julia.
"Do. not. insult. my. father." replied Julia in a low snarl. And without warning she had leapt.
Had Julia wished to kill her that day, Irina had no doubt she would have died. Instead, Julia stepped back, wiping her blade on her pants leg as Irina stared at her left forearm, watching a long thin line of blood form. The speed and fluidity of Julia's movement bespoke a lifetime of training. Russian training.
"Next time it will be your throat." Stiffening in shock, Irina remained immobile as Julia drove away. That look in Julia's eyes. She'd seen it before.
Sark. An emptiness of emotion, an absolute indifference to pain and suffering in others, a lack of remorse that was chilling. A programmed response from childhood. Because his childhood had been different in a very special way.
Irina staggered to the nearest tree, her knees suddenly weak. *Her* daughter? Had the KGB tapped her daughter as well for their version of Project Christmas? A program that was darker, more focused than anything the CIA had envisaged. Developed to create a generation of ruthless killers in deep cover.
No, she shook her head numbly. She couldn't be so lucky. It had been Sloane. The specter of an innocent 6 year old, face reproachful, rose up in front of her. "Oh, god Sydney, I'm so sorry," she choked out. If she hadn't left her….if she hadn't passed on the Project Christmas research…if she'd killed Sloane when she had the chance…she turned and retched into the grass, emptying herself until all that was left was dry heaves.
And what would she tell Jack? She stared at the phone in her hand. 'I've found our daughter and she's a cold-blooded assassin?'
"I *trusted* Sloane?" repeated Sydney, bewildered. "What about Lazarey? How does he fit in?"
"What do you know about Lazarey?" asked Irina sharply.
"I found his hand. I – Julia – left clues for how to find it with the letter she mailed to Sloane. I think it's important, somehow, but I don't know how."
Irina nodded slowly. "Lazarey's important," she affirmed. "He's the one that - ," she paused.
"The one that what?"
Irina stared pensively at the trash bin in front of her. "That's about all, I think."
"About all you're going to tell me? Or about all the gems you're going to find in that rubbish bin?" asked Sydney waspishly.
"Both," said Irina unperturbed. "Julia clearly wanted you to figure this out for yourself. She trusted you, even if she trusted none of us in the end. And she wants you to talk to Lazarey. I'll arrange it for you, and let you know the details. It will take me a little time. Andrian is a trifle gun-shy these days."
"He's alive?"
"Despite Julia's best efforts. Very resilient, is our Dr. Lazarey."
"So, I just wait to hear from you again?"
Irina nodded.
"But," Sydney began desperately, "Mom, what if I need you?"
"You have your father, Sydney. Trust him," said Irina wearily. She turned away from the stricken look in Sydney's eyes, heart tightening. Against her better judgment, she volunteered, "If you *must* reach me, call this number," and quickly recited a 12 digit string. "Leave a message, and I'll get back to you. But Sydney," she added warningly, "this number is for you only. Not your father."
Sydney looked puzzled. "But I thought you and Dad -,"
"It was only a business arrangement, Sydney. Nothing. . . more."
Sydney opened her mouth, prepared to argue, but halted as she realized Irina was shuffling away, hauling her finds with her in a battered wooden cart. She gave a sniff of disgust. She could scarcely go chasing after a tramp and maintain her cover. Besides, it would be pointless. Truth, she thought reflectively to herself, took time.