NSC DIRECTOR MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD
"NSC Director Robert Lindsey, close confidant of the President, was reported missing by his plane crew 4 days ago in Damascus, Syria. Last seen departing the airport with a local driver, the Director failed to return on schedule. Despite an intensive search, no trace of him has been found. General Ghazi Kanaan, head of Syrian military intelligence, assured the international community in a press conference yesterday that, despite Director Lindsey's failure to notify the Syrian government of his presence, every effort would be made to locate the individuals responsible. The investigation is currently focusing on reports that Director Lindsey may have been abducted and murdered by elements of a radical Islamist. . . ,"
Jack put down the paper and sipped his coffee, brooding. No question about it. His ability to end relationships far exceeded his ability to maintain them.
Why the hell had Irina rescued him? It was inconsistent with everything else he knew to be true. With the facts. There must be something she needed him for, he thought bitterly. He couldn't *wait* to find out what it might be this time
Sydney had barely acknowledged him when he had returned to the Joint Ops bullpen two days ago, and had not made any attempt to contact him since; the loss of her trust hurt more than he'd care to admit. He was back to transmitters to keep an eye on her. He shifted uncomfortably as he heard Irina's voice. "Are you sure you're ready for the truth? How about Sydney? Have you told her the truth lately?" What a lovely family tradition this was becoming. Irina lied to him. He lied to Sydney. Sydney lied back. And for all his vaunted expertise in game theory, he felt singularly inept at finding a solution.
His phone rang, and he eyed the clock in relief. The Abbe.
**
"Andrian, you must do this."
"Or what? You'll chop off the other hand?" he jeered, lip curling.
"We both know that it was the only way to throw Sloane off the scent. You'd be dead now otherwise."
"Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad alternative."
"I've explained this to you. Repeatedly. Once this is all over, Sloane will no longer be a threat. You'll be able to return to your former life. . . ,"
"Return to my former life? Are you kidding? As a pauper?"
"Enough," snapped Irina, losing patience. "You owe her this much. Do it, or suffer the consequences."
Lazarey's complaints subsided for a moment, as a calculating look came into his eyes. "Ten million," he said firmly.
Disdain flashed over Irina's face. "Five."
"We have an agreement," replied Lazarey. "You'll be handling the security arrangements?"
"Yes." Irina neglected to mention that it would be her alone. She couldn't afford to draw attention to this meeting.
"Very well." Lazarey inclined his head, as if he were royalty dismissing her. Irina gave a snort of disgust and handed him the phone. She hoped Jack had had the sense to tell Sydney what he knew before she heard it from Lazarey.
**
Sydney desultorily wandered through her apartment, making a half-hearted attempt at straightening up the mess from Weiss's last visit. She had not been very good company, she knew. She had barely spoken to her father over the past four days; his absence in her life gnawed at her.
It was all his fault, she thought to herself for the hundredth time. If only he'd trusted her. And *forbidding* her to meet with her mother? What was she? 12? That meeting had gone just fine, thank you very much, without his assistance. She could hardly wait to throw that in his face. When they talked again. After he apologized.
Her cell phone rang, and she reached for it quickly. It was about time he called.
"J- Sydney Bristow?" inquired a well-bred voice with a trace of a Russian accent.
"Yes?" she replied puzzled, ignoring a stab of disappointment.
"Andrian Lazarey. We will meet. In two days time," and Lazarey proceeded to give her the details. Sydney hung up, apprehensive. It was one thing to meet with her mother without a backup; another entirely to meet with Lazarey. But if she asked her father with help for the Lazarey meeting, she'd have to tell him about her meeting in Damascus.
She chewed her lip, indecisive for a moment. Was there anyone else she could take? That she'd rather have covering her back? No.
The phone rang again.
**
One thing the Abbe was good for, thought Jack reflectively, was to remind him to concentrate on the long-term. That focusing solely on his short-term moves could cripple any chance of long-term success. Which he'd forgotten in dealing with his daughter. How could he have imagined for one minute that he would be able to prevent her from finding out what had happened for those two years? Or that she wouldn't eventually discover that she'd been activated? With Sloane and Irina involved, one of them would be bound to tell her, at the worst possible moment for Jack.
Time to get it over with. At least one of them could stop lying.
He picked up the phone and called Sydney.
**
Sydney and Jack eyed each other uncomfortably. They had arranged to meet at dusk at a fishing pier on the harbor; the screeching of sea gulls the only remaining signs of activity from the day. Neutral territory. Neither met the other's eyes.
"There's something I need to tell you," they said in unison.
They both paused and gaped at the other, then each turned serious.
"Mine's worse," they both confessed simultaneously.
Both rolled their eyes.
Jack raised his hand, and noted in relief that his daughter did not mirror his action. "Stop," he said, "you're scaring me."
Sydney grinned. "If mine's worse, you need to buy dinner."
"Done," said Jack promptly.
Sydney wrinkled her nose. "You're pretty sure," she said cautiously.
"Yes," he said soberly. Have you told her she was activated, Jack? That her loving father created a tool for anyone with the right trigger phrase? That she's a f*cking robot in disguise? "You first."
Sydney bit her lip. "I met Mom again," she offered, shooting an uneasy glance in his direction. "I know you told me not to trust her, and to trust Sloane, but I *couldn't*. And I had to get the message translated. I have to find out what happened to me, and Lazarey's contacted me" she paused as the words tumbled out to take a breath. "And I don't know what's going on between you and Mom, but she says there's a reason you don't trust her, but you're wrong, and that you're my father. . . " Sydney's voice trailed off as she realized what she had just said.
Jack raised an eyebrow enquiringly. "Let's just go back over this slowly, shall we?" he said dryly, pretending not to notice her flush. "You met your Mother. . . ," he prompted.
Sydney took a deep breath. She was *not*, after all, 12; he wasn't going to send her to her room. "I contacted Mom. I have an emergency phone number, but she's asked me not to share it with you. I don't plan to," she stated, giving him a level look.
Jack nodded. "Fine," he said evenly. "Use your judgment."
Sydney relaxed. "She translated the 3rd message for me. It's. . . ,"
". . . a location?" Jack hazarded.
"Yes. And she arranged for Lazarey to contact me. Which he did. We're scheduled to meet in two days.
"Fine. I'd like to come with you, if you don't mind."
He was *asking* her? Sydney's eyes flew to her father's. She saw respect there. And faith. "I'd like that," she said simply.
"And your mother said that there's a reason I don't trust her. . . ,"
"That's right. That she knows there's a reason, but you're wrong." Sydney watched as her father's face shut down. "Dad?"
He still carried the pictures in his pocket. A reminder that facts don't lie. "There's a reason, Sydney. More than one. But I'm not wrong. I've had some communication with your mother myself over the past couple of days…and she confirmed it."
"I think maybe you should tell me the reasons now, Dad. I thought the two of you worked together while I was gone."
"I thought so too," replied Jack dully, looking away. "She's. . . the reason I went to prison." The ache, which he had successfully overlaid with anger during the past few weeks, came rushing back as he was forced to say the words aloud.
"But I knew that," said Sydney impatiently. "You were protecting her. So that she could protect me."
"You don't understand. Sloane provided the NSC with evidence that I was working with your mother. Pictures. Your mother. . . Irina Derevko gave those pictures to Sloane."
"What?!"
"The day I was arrested, Julia Thorne was on a flight to LA. You were coming to see me. The only possible conclusion is that she gave Sloane those pictures so that we wouldn't have a chance to meet."
"How did you find this out?"
"Sloane first. Then when I – talked - with your mother, she agreed."
"She didn't say why?"
"What could she possibly say, Sydney? It was a year of my life!" Jack exploded. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said in a quieter tone. "The facts just don't support my placing trust in anything she says." Would you believe me if I told you?
"I'm sorry, Dad." Sydney reached out and squeezed his arm.
Jack shook his head. "I was. . . a fool," he said quietly. "You'd think I would have known better." He took a deep breath. "Can I ask how the question of your paternity came up?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Oh," said Sydney, coloring again. "I've been having these dreams. Where Sloane's my father."
"You asked her if your father was *Sloane*?" asked Jack incredulous. "Gutsy."
"Mom told me to wash my mouth out with soap."
"One step ahead of me," Jack said with feeling. He patted her shoulder. "I can assure you, based on my own personal. . . interest in the matter 20 years ago, that modern science asserts that I am your father. For better, or for worse. Anything else in these dreams?"
"Well," said Sydney hesitantly, "I'm young. And being taught how to use a knife. And. . . ,"
Jack's face was grave. "And?"
"Killing animals. And attacking dummies."
Jack studied her for a moment, his face impassive. He reached down and pulled a knife from a sheath on his calf. "You had knife training with SD-6?"
"Yes," said Sydney with puzzlement, taking the knife from him. "Just basic skills training."
"And how would you characterize your skill level?"
Sydney shrugged. "Okay. Nothing special."
Jack nodded at the wall of a shack on the end of the pier, 15 feet away. "See the knot in the wood? About 4 feet up on the left?"
Sydney nodded.
"Hit it."
"With this?" asked Sydney in disbelief. "I'll be lucky to hit the wall."
"Do it."
Sydney rolled her eyes and took a step back. Jack watched as she unconsciously balanced the knife in her hand then fluidly pulled back and released. When the knife hit the knot with a twang, Jack had his answer. The KGB, or one member in particular, had indeed come for his daughter.
Wordlessly they walked up together to remove the knife from the wall. Sydney turned to give it back to her father. "How did you know?" she asked somberly.
"Sydney, I -," Jack stopped as words failed him. She's a robot She's a robot She's a robot. . .
"What is it, Dad? Is this what you needed to tell me?"
Jack nodded mutely, his face crumpling. He looked out to the sea, composing himself for a moment before turning back. "I. . . I've failed you, Sydney. I did something desperately stupid, when you were small, because I loved you. And it's caused you unbelievable pain."
"Dad, what are you talking about?" asked Sydney worriedly, taking her father's hand as she sensed his distress.
"Sydney – Julia Thorne was your Project Christmas code name."