Chronic Vertigo
Chapter Six: Circe [Part A]
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.
Author's Note: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation.
Volgograd, Russia
Volgograd was a proud city.
Created in the 16th century as a guard post for the crossroads settled in the south of the country, Tsaritsyn was named for the river that flowed through it, a 'Golden River'. It morphed through the centuries, bringing in foreigners, becoming one end of the first railroad in Russia, and finally, brought in investors from the west. In the late 1920's, the city became home to Russia's first tractor factory, an investment of Ford's that stands to this day.
But the city of Volgograd is most famous for the battle of Stalingrad (as it was called in that day). Attacked by the Germans in World War II, the city became a playground of death and suffering as the city was almost completely destroyed, many buildings lying in ruin. But Volgograd came back from the ashes, near distruction not able to hold the city down. And in the coming years, the city saw innovation and business spring from shattered ruins.
A proud city indeed.
Currently named for the river who's banks it sits on, Volgograd is the longest city in it's motherland, an impressive 5 miles long while only being a few miles wide. It can be said it looks like a pencil from space, a long center of business and industry that has quickly re-carved a name for itself in the annuals of time.
Alksandr Zhuravlev was expecting a quiet dinner that night, and meeting or no meeting, he was going to get what he wanted. As a titan of Volgograd, he was recognized wherever he went; a poor side effect of earlier business deals that had landed him on the side of a building, posters framing his face covering every space. But most establishments respected his desire for animosity, his favorite being Korona, a beautiful establishment serving Russo-European cuisine while being attached to a somewhat fashionable club of the same name located just off Chuikova Street.
A perfect venue for a meeting that was not to take place.
It was somewhat ironic that Zhuravlev had first considered going to a place called Irina, another popular eatery famous with the American crowd that came through the city on what seemed like a daily basis. His own sense of irony, while firmly developed, had swayed him from the small, hard to find restaurant and brought him to his current establishment, where the noise from the club leaked over into the restauraunt, making it hard to overhear conversations taking place at the adjacent tables.
"Mr. Zhuravlev," came Irina Derevko's smoky voice from beyond his view. He turned, surprised, and wondered why he had not the flicker of recognition in his guards eyes as she approached from behind. But one look at her, dressed seductively in a tight, short cranberry dress, proved to be too much, the guard infatuated to the point of impairment. She had gifts of the flesh and certainly knew how to use them to her advantage.
"Ahh, Irina. Please, call me Alks. Sit, sit," he greeted jovially, motioning for her to take a seat across from him. She complied, slowly crossing her legs before sliding them under the table. Zuravlev smiled, his face large and puffy with rosy red cheeks like that of a young child being caught in the act.
Zuravlev wasn't exactly a thin man. In fact, he had been known to grow quiet large from his fatty diet, something he said was a byproduct of his luncheons and dinners with wealthy American investors. He had just come off a 6 month diet, the results of which had been published in the local newspaper, proclaiming that the diet was effective - he had lost over 50 pounds, his image cleaner (an improvement his publicist thanked God over, being that he no longer had the energy to retouch all his photos). Yet he was still large and intimidating, commanding with his mere presence.
"Beedon bi khotyehtb ookhod hac? (can you please leave us?)" Zhuravlev asked of his guard, waving a dismissive had to him. He paused, hesitating, then turned a left, moving off into the club's entrance to the restaurant.
"You speak Russian with your guard yet English with me?" Irina mused, leaning on her hand.
"English is best if we do not want to be heard. Children these days, they do not know the importance of English in the world."
"Lucky for us," Irina smiled. He had a mind on him, Zhuravlev, a mind for this life. A waitress came along, a smile plastered on her face most likely influenced by the drugs running through the club next door, a cheery disposition her employer enjoyed, no, tolerated. Children of Russia were not cheerful and gluttonous as those of America, a curse from their early days. They were strong, but not smiling. The over-excited waitress bounced as she placed a drink before both Zhuravlev and Irina, then spun on her heels and headed back towards the kitchens, most likely to speak with friends and neglect her duties.
The perfect waitress, to be brief.
"I took the liberty of ordering you a drink," he confessed, lifting his glass of clear alcohol to his lips. She followed, taking a lesson from the geishas of Gion, wetting her lips only and placing the glass back down. It gave the appearance of enjoying the intoxicating drink with the drinking partner while maintaining a level head. It placed her conversation partner at a slight disadvantage.
"Now," he said, his voice raspy from the drink. "What is it you need to see me about?"
"It has come to my attention that you may have something that originally belonged to the CIA," she explained.
"I have many things that were once toys of the CIA," he spat, as if that would spit on the name of the CIA and all their agents.
"This was a computer. A prototype, from the 1970's."
Zhuravlev leaned back in his chair. "Yes, I do believe I know what you are talking about."
Another mission, another ridiculous outfit with matching wig.
Despite her change of permanent employer, Sydney Bristow found herself in the same tight, skin-revealing clothes that suction-cupped to her body and drew in the eyes and lust of breathing men everywhere. While her mother used her gifts for her own gain, exploiting them as she drew on this sexual energy, Sydney was almost shy, using them only in extreme situations.
She strutted through the bouncing Russian club, long blond hair swaying behind her. Every so often, the end of one of the long braids would hit against the back of her legs; she was sure she would have large angry welts there by the end of the night. A few men's heads turned as she passed, but she paid them no mind. By the end of the night she would just be another face, another memory, a story to tell buddies. Remember that girl with the long braids… they would say, and launch into laughter over a good beer.
Her eyes were sharp, looking for any sign of her mother, of something of value she would be able to bring home. So far, all she had seen were hyped-up Russian teenagers and young adults; a few older people left to mingle near the bar, quietly attempting old pick up lines and forgotten conversations.
"See anything?" Dixon's voice echoed in her ear. She forced back a smile. His voice had become her compass, her stress relief, if you will. Her nerves settled as soon as he spoke, her mind becoming clearer.
"Not yet."
"Keep looking. She has to be there somewhere," he replied, his sentence ending with a click of a closed connection. Where was she?
"It is useless, you know, without this...this disk thing. I do not even know what they looked like back then, in the time when this was created," Zhuravlev said to Irina, taking another drink of his vodka. He was nervous.
"I can acquire that," she replied coolly. His eyes widened just a bit, a reaction to her statement or the drink in his hand, she did not know.
"You can? How?"
"You know as well as anyone that I cannot reveal my sources," she told him, "I was told you would have some information for me, something to aide me in my hunt."
"I have materials. Documents. Shipping records, sales receipts," Zhuravlev replied, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms, the previous air of nervousness gone. Irina smiled. He was good, a worthy opponent.
"May I see them?"
"Of course." His smile was too wide - something was up.
He thought he had won the game.
A poor assumption on his part. Irina's eyes flickered to the top of the far staircase in the club as Zhuravlev motioned for his guard to retrieve the documents.
There!
Sydney turned her head after catching the movement out of the corner of her eye. Braids flew into the crowd, but the didn't care, she didn't care. A guard, clearly a guard, opened the door that lead to the adjoining restaurant, giving her a clear view of some of the tables inside. A sliver of brown hair was all she saw before the door shut behind him, brown hair she would know anywhere.
"Dixon, she's here," she said hurriedly to him, rushing through the sea of moving bodies to a side, to the stairs. The restaurant was only one story, but it extended up to meet the second floor, allowing servers to bring food out to the balcony tables over the dance floor. If she could only get up there, she could get into the restaurant undetected by her mother.
"What? Syd, where?"
"The restaurant! I'm going up to the second story, going to try to get in that way."
"Good luck. I'll keep an eye out here," he replied. She could see him in her mind's eye, sitting hunched before a panel of small monitors, watching everything around her. She put a hand on the railing and swung up onto the stairs, running up them, her feet pounding on the metal in rhythm to the music blasting her ears. She rushed to the top, breath exploding from her lungs in harsh gasps as she moved to find the side door.
She moved to the side, inches from the door.
"Hello, Agent Bristow."
Her hand froze on the knob.
//
The papers were spread all around her on the white tablecloth, the center candle pushed to the side, various table-dwelling items gathered closely around it. The waitress had come and gone, leaving them to their papers as she put in their order, giving the papers only a passing glance. They were written in Russian and English, and her muddled mind was too tired to read the foreign words. She brushed her hair back and left.
"Why did you get rid of it?" Irina asked suddenly, looking up from the onslaught of information.
"Desperate times, dear Irina. I needed to settle a certain…debt. This settled it."
"I see," she responded, turning her attention back to the folders and their contents.
"Those are copies. You can take them," he spoke suddenly, almost catching her off-guard.
"Thank you."
"Just promise me one thing," he said, leaning forward, head resting on hands. His eyes, a light brown, blazed. "Let me bask in the glory of this secret, Irina."
"Alks…"
"Let me see their ruin."
Her eyes were wide. An old saying came to mind at this moment, a line dredged up from her elementary days and Saturday morning jingles.
Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.
If Sark had been an officer in the Revolutionary War, he would have taken his enemy down already, so close he could be sure there was no wasted ammunition. Instead, they were in a Russian nightclub, and he stood coolly just beyond the shadows, his face half-illuminated by cycling, multi-colored pulse lights hanging just beyond her field of view. The music changed, the tempo rushing, increasing, just like her heartbeat. Her heart rattled in her chest. How could she be so stupid? How could she think Irina would come to see Zhuravlev without Sark, without back-up of some kind? He had perfect access - a view, a door.
"Sark."
"I wish I could say I was surprised to see you," he commented, moving around her to block her escape. Her only path now was off the edge of the balcony seats or through the door. She was sure he wouldn't let her through that door. "I thought our meeting here was confidential, but it seems some people aren't as trust worthy as we original surmised."
"I thought you'd take care of all those kinds of people," Sydney spat. He smiled.
"Such fire. We do. It's just a matter of time until we find out who spoke out of turn."
"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a mission to complete," she remarked. Her hand had not moved from the doorknob, still frozen to the warm metal. She started to turn it, surprised to find Sark unmoving across from her. She turned it more, finally pulling it open.
In a flash, Sark kicked it close, his movement barely heard over the pulsating music. She whirled around him to the right, bringing up a leg for a high kick. He ducked, spinning around to grab a chair, using the momentum from said chair to pull himself back to face her. With the chair as a shield, he faced her, easily deflecting her various kicks and punches. She needed to get around him, around this, but it couldn't draw Irina and her companion's attention.
Sydney spied his glass - a tall thin glass heavy on the bottom. Giving up a fake kick to distract him, she flipped over to the table and picked up the glass, throwing it up at his head. Unexpected, the heavy end hit him in the forehead, causing him to momentarily stumble backwards and drop the chair. She took advantage of her momentary lead and dashed for the door. There had to be a lock on the inside, if only she could get to it.
Sark wasn't that weak, and ran for her as she made her way for the door. His arm came around her midsection, yanking her back from the door and throwing her against the wall. She hit with a sharp exhalation of breath, folding a bit, but not long enough to keep her down, and as he came in for another shot, she launched up and got him in the nose the old fashioned way, a sharp right hook that sent him stumbling back into the railing. Sydney quickly reached into her bag, and, not one to think the past would always repeat itself, handcuffed him to the railing and made her way for the door.
She was not going to let Irina escape her this time.
Irina smiled. Zhuravlev was exactly where she wanted him. Despite all his moves, all his plans, he still was a fly who had, for a short time, been able to fly around her web. But he was caught now, struggling against that which he did not know. Her long hands closed up the folders and scooped them from the table just as the waitress was approaching.
"Ahh, finally. Won't you stay for a meal, Irina?" he asked of her as a large platter of food was placed before him. She smiled but declined, objecting to taking both his files and his food. "It's too bad. It was nice to see you again."
"Likewise," she replied, standing. Her eyes flickered to the stairwell but did not see what she wanted.
The Russian titan ate.
Irina, sensing something wasn't going right, decided to take the front way out instead of snaking through the club. Sark was completely capable of taking care of himself, and when she didn't come out at the appropriate time, he would head to the rendezvous point alone. Files tucked in a satchel, Derevko's step was fast as she headed for the door.
"Ma'am?"
She turned. The waitress stood outside the doors to the kitchen, leaning against the wall.
"Da?"
"Mr. Zhuravlev appreciates the fact that you are going to forget where that information comes from and hopes to do business with you in the future."
She stood there, shocked as the waitress returned to the kitchens. The fly still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
Motionless for only moments, she continued to the door. Feeling this was too easy, she pulled open the front door and stepped into the vestibule.
"Sydney. How nice it is to see you again."
She had spotted her as soon as she entered the restaurant. It was amazing how easily she got around the tables, thankful for the large wall that served as a partition between a smoking and (newly added) non-smoking section. For once, she was thankful for the tourists who swept through cities, reforming them to their own tastes. If not for them, she would have been out in the open, there for her mother to see before she had her chance to corner her.
She would not get away this time.
It was a miracle she had gotten from the empty section to the host's stand; with the large open space between them, she had to be careful - fast. But she had, and entered the vestibule with the intent to wait, knowing Irina would spot, or rather, not spot Sark drinking somewhat bored at the top of the stairs, that she would make her way to the front. Sometimes, the relation to her mother was a valuable tool.
A moment before she would have left in search for the tardy matriarch, the door opened and she slid it, her head turned slightly to the side, watching her back with one eye as one focused before her.
"I believe you have something I want," she told her mother.
"You don't know what you want."
"There are several things I want," she retorted, unable to believe she was having this conversation. "But at the moment, those papers there would be nice."
"You're always fighting against me," Irina said simply, "and ever time, you fail to understand that there is no need."
"It's not my fault. You have, you have a record of deceiving people."
Irina didn't reply - Sydney had a point there. There was something she could never fight against no matter how much she tried against the contrary. In the eyes of her only child she would be a traitor, a woman not to be trusted, a woman to always be questioned. While most mothers possessed their child's trust without question, without hesitation based on love passed through years, Irina had left in the middle of this building, of this foundation, leaving her child hanging with nothing to hold on to other than a distant father. But why couldn't Sydney recognize the inherent trait of all mothers, no matter their political affiliation - protection?
"Please, Sydney, you have to believe me when I say I am not working against you with this," she almost pleaded, taking a step towards her. Sydney's reflexes came into play, causing her to step back towards the front doors. She would have seen Irina frown if it weren't for the group of loud, boisterous 20-somethings who crashed through the doors, arms slung lazily around one another as they stumbled onto the impromptu family reunion. One stumbled into Sydney's back, pushing her forward and to the side, behind her mother and shoved into a corner.
"Hey!" she called out in surprise, taking the moment of confusion to pull her gun from where it was tucked in the back of her pants. The group laughed and passed through without a second thought to those they had just walked through, their minds on other matters. Sydney jumped out, gun drawn, ready to take the files from Irina, if not with civility, then with force.
But Irina was gone.
"Dixon, Dixon, she's gone!"
"Who, Syd?"
"Irina! She was here. I'm going back to where I put Sark. Can you find her out there? She fled from the front door," she paused, catching her breath for a moment as she ran through the restaurant, not caring if she were seen as she headed for the doorway between here current position and the club next door. "Going east."
"Okay, Syd. I'm on my way," his voice cut out, and just before his side cut, she could hear the commotion caused by him getting up from his chair and leaping out the double doors in pursuit of Irina. She raced past the obnoxious group, almost tripping over outcast legs. Her graceful leap over them drew their attention for only a moment, but by the time they turned to the less attentive members of their party, she was gone, a slamming door the only sign she had ever been there.
The street was dark. Black. Bleak. A country and city can change with the years, pull itself from the brink of starvation and ruin, re-establish itself in the world community, and yet, even now, the depression, the bleakness, the sadness radiated from the very soil into the soul of those who walked upon it, threatening to pull them down until they no longer had the desire to walk on.
Marcus Dixon was running too fast down drizzle-slickened streets to notice its pull, his shoes only hitting against the ground with the slightest of pressure as he raced down the street, having seen the glint of brown hair in the dim streetlamps just moments ahead.
She would not outrun him. He would not let her.
"You are going to tell me what you were here for, and you're going to tell me now."
For once, Sark had stayed put, a bruise developing where the glass had hit him, a swollen patch of skin that would be a tell on him for weeks. Her voice was low as she held Sark by the collar of his pressed shirt, his face inches from her as she demanded for information. He smiled.
"Or what, Agent Bristow. I doubt I've made the CIA's list," he retorted bravely. She growled and banged him back against the metal railing, then pulled his head forward harshly.
"What. Were. You. Here. For?" she demanded.
"You don't have Irina, or else you wouldn't be here harassing me," he replied, his eyes rolling up to lock with hers. "Our last meeting was not one of chance, nor is this one. Do you believe Irina would waste a chance to attempt to reason with you?"
"Reason with me?"
"I told her it was a wasted opportunity. Nevertheless, she continues on with this futile effort to get you to see her true character."
She banged his head back again, this time, disorienting Sark for just a moment.
"You are going to tell me everything."
He wasn't going to shout out to her. Doing that would only alert her to his presence, as if his footfalls through puddles and gravel hadn't already. She was still running as though she was being chased, a flat-out run as if her life depended on it. But -
Dixon caught up to her, a large hand yanking back her shoulder revealing her face to him.
"I'm sorry! She paid me! Paid me to run!" the woman babbled in Russian, her voice squeaking as she kept going on and on. Dixon was blindsided, his head rushing with the severity of the situation. He raised his hand off her shoulder and sent her on her way, whirling around to face the other direction.
"Sydney, she's gone. I'll meet you back at the van!" he yelled, running back to his field op van. Was it possible that she would no only pay a woman to distract him, to lead him astray, but sabotage the CIA equipment inside the van? It could not fall into her hands - no -
He reached the van, his breath rough and ragged; he was tempted to lean over and put his hands on his knees. His eyes were wide, instead, a hand coming to the back of his head.
The van was gone.
"Sydney, Sydney, get out of there!"
Dixon's voice crackled through to her ear, interrupting her interrogation of Sark. She had him pressed against the railing, his face mere inches from hers, warm breath covering him. She paused mid-sentence, Dixon's concern and worry causing her to re-think her current motions.
"Did you hear me! Get out of there!"
Her head rose. She got all the information she was going to get from him.
"Foolish, as always," he commented.
She promptly knocked him out before rushing down the stairwell through the sweat soaked bodies, slipping past them as her blond braids thwaped against her back. This time, she paid them no mind as she ran, pushing against them in the hyper-eurhythmic pulse of the club. The lights flashed as she disappeared through them, giving Sark one glace over her shoulder before she did so, her eyes filled with pity for a boy caught in a game he should never have been entraped in.
Chapter Six: Circe [Part A]
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.
Author's Note: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation.
Volgograd, Russia
Volgograd was a proud city.
Created in the 16th century as a guard post for the crossroads settled in the south of the country, Tsaritsyn was named for the river that flowed through it, a 'Golden River'. It morphed through the centuries, bringing in foreigners, becoming one end of the first railroad in Russia, and finally, brought in investors from the west. In the late 1920's, the city became home to Russia's first tractor factory, an investment of Ford's that stands to this day.
But the city of Volgograd is most famous for the battle of Stalingrad (as it was called in that day). Attacked by the Germans in World War II, the city became a playground of death and suffering as the city was almost completely destroyed, many buildings lying in ruin. But Volgograd came back from the ashes, near distruction not able to hold the city down. And in the coming years, the city saw innovation and business spring from shattered ruins.
A proud city indeed.
Currently named for the river who's banks it sits on, Volgograd is the longest city in it's motherland, an impressive 5 miles long while only being a few miles wide. It can be said it looks like a pencil from space, a long center of business and industry that has quickly re-carved a name for itself in the annuals of time.
Alksandr Zhuravlev was expecting a quiet dinner that night, and meeting or no meeting, he was going to get what he wanted. As a titan of Volgograd, he was recognized wherever he went; a poor side effect of earlier business deals that had landed him on the side of a building, posters framing his face covering every space. But most establishments respected his desire for animosity, his favorite being Korona, a beautiful establishment serving Russo-European cuisine while being attached to a somewhat fashionable club of the same name located just off Chuikova Street.
A perfect venue for a meeting that was not to take place.
It was somewhat ironic that Zhuravlev had first considered going to a place called Irina, another popular eatery famous with the American crowd that came through the city on what seemed like a daily basis. His own sense of irony, while firmly developed, had swayed him from the small, hard to find restaurant and brought him to his current establishment, where the noise from the club leaked over into the restauraunt, making it hard to overhear conversations taking place at the adjacent tables.
"Mr. Zhuravlev," came Irina Derevko's smoky voice from beyond his view. He turned, surprised, and wondered why he had not the flicker of recognition in his guards eyes as she approached from behind. But one look at her, dressed seductively in a tight, short cranberry dress, proved to be too much, the guard infatuated to the point of impairment. She had gifts of the flesh and certainly knew how to use them to her advantage.
"Ahh, Irina. Please, call me Alks. Sit, sit," he greeted jovially, motioning for her to take a seat across from him. She complied, slowly crossing her legs before sliding them under the table. Zuravlev smiled, his face large and puffy with rosy red cheeks like that of a young child being caught in the act.
Zuravlev wasn't exactly a thin man. In fact, he had been known to grow quiet large from his fatty diet, something he said was a byproduct of his luncheons and dinners with wealthy American investors. He had just come off a 6 month diet, the results of which had been published in the local newspaper, proclaiming that the diet was effective - he had lost over 50 pounds, his image cleaner (an improvement his publicist thanked God over, being that he no longer had the energy to retouch all his photos). Yet he was still large and intimidating, commanding with his mere presence.
"Beedon bi khotyehtb ookhod hac? (can you please leave us?)" Zhuravlev asked of his guard, waving a dismissive had to him. He paused, hesitating, then turned a left, moving off into the club's entrance to the restaurant.
"You speak Russian with your guard yet English with me?" Irina mused, leaning on her hand.
"English is best if we do not want to be heard. Children these days, they do not know the importance of English in the world."
"Lucky for us," Irina smiled. He had a mind on him, Zhuravlev, a mind for this life. A waitress came along, a smile plastered on her face most likely influenced by the drugs running through the club next door, a cheery disposition her employer enjoyed, no, tolerated. Children of Russia were not cheerful and gluttonous as those of America, a curse from their early days. They were strong, but not smiling. The over-excited waitress bounced as she placed a drink before both Zhuravlev and Irina, then spun on her heels and headed back towards the kitchens, most likely to speak with friends and neglect her duties.
The perfect waitress, to be brief.
"I took the liberty of ordering you a drink," he confessed, lifting his glass of clear alcohol to his lips. She followed, taking a lesson from the geishas of Gion, wetting her lips only and placing the glass back down. It gave the appearance of enjoying the intoxicating drink with the drinking partner while maintaining a level head. It placed her conversation partner at a slight disadvantage.
"Now," he said, his voice raspy from the drink. "What is it you need to see me about?"
"It has come to my attention that you may have something that originally belonged to the CIA," she explained.
"I have many things that were once toys of the CIA," he spat, as if that would spit on the name of the CIA and all their agents.
"This was a computer. A prototype, from the 1970's."
Zhuravlev leaned back in his chair. "Yes, I do believe I know what you are talking about."
Another mission, another ridiculous outfit with matching wig.
Despite her change of permanent employer, Sydney Bristow found herself in the same tight, skin-revealing clothes that suction-cupped to her body and drew in the eyes and lust of breathing men everywhere. While her mother used her gifts for her own gain, exploiting them as she drew on this sexual energy, Sydney was almost shy, using them only in extreme situations.
She strutted through the bouncing Russian club, long blond hair swaying behind her. Every so often, the end of one of the long braids would hit against the back of her legs; she was sure she would have large angry welts there by the end of the night. A few men's heads turned as she passed, but she paid them no mind. By the end of the night she would just be another face, another memory, a story to tell buddies. Remember that girl with the long braids… they would say, and launch into laughter over a good beer.
Her eyes were sharp, looking for any sign of her mother, of something of value she would be able to bring home. So far, all she had seen were hyped-up Russian teenagers and young adults; a few older people left to mingle near the bar, quietly attempting old pick up lines and forgotten conversations.
"See anything?" Dixon's voice echoed in her ear. She forced back a smile. His voice had become her compass, her stress relief, if you will. Her nerves settled as soon as he spoke, her mind becoming clearer.
"Not yet."
"Keep looking. She has to be there somewhere," he replied, his sentence ending with a click of a closed connection. Where was she?
"It is useless, you know, without this...this disk thing. I do not even know what they looked like back then, in the time when this was created," Zhuravlev said to Irina, taking another drink of his vodka. He was nervous.
"I can acquire that," she replied coolly. His eyes widened just a bit, a reaction to her statement or the drink in his hand, she did not know.
"You can? How?"
"You know as well as anyone that I cannot reveal my sources," she told him, "I was told you would have some information for me, something to aide me in my hunt."
"I have materials. Documents. Shipping records, sales receipts," Zhuravlev replied, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms, the previous air of nervousness gone. Irina smiled. He was good, a worthy opponent.
"May I see them?"
"Of course." His smile was too wide - something was up.
He thought he had won the game.
A poor assumption on his part. Irina's eyes flickered to the top of the far staircase in the club as Zhuravlev motioned for his guard to retrieve the documents.
There!
Sydney turned her head after catching the movement out of the corner of her eye. Braids flew into the crowd, but the didn't care, she didn't care. A guard, clearly a guard, opened the door that lead to the adjoining restaurant, giving her a clear view of some of the tables inside. A sliver of brown hair was all she saw before the door shut behind him, brown hair she would know anywhere.
"Dixon, she's here," she said hurriedly to him, rushing through the sea of moving bodies to a side, to the stairs. The restaurant was only one story, but it extended up to meet the second floor, allowing servers to bring food out to the balcony tables over the dance floor. If she could only get up there, she could get into the restaurant undetected by her mother.
"What? Syd, where?"
"The restaurant! I'm going up to the second story, going to try to get in that way."
"Good luck. I'll keep an eye out here," he replied. She could see him in her mind's eye, sitting hunched before a panel of small monitors, watching everything around her. She put a hand on the railing and swung up onto the stairs, running up them, her feet pounding on the metal in rhythm to the music blasting her ears. She rushed to the top, breath exploding from her lungs in harsh gasps as she moved to find the side door.
She moved to the side, inches from the door.
"Hello, Agent Bristow."
Her hand froze on the knob.
//
The papers were spread all around her on the white tablecloth, the center candle pushed to the side, various table-dwelling items gathered closely around it. The waitress had come and gone, leaving them to their papers as she put in their order, giving the papers only a passing glance. They were written in Russian and English, and her muddled mind was too tired to read the foreign words. She brushed her hair back and left.
"Why did you get rid of it?" Irina asked suddenly, looking up from the onslaught of information.
"Desperate times, dear Irina. I needed to settle a certain…debt. This settled it."
"I see," she responded, turning her attention back to the folders and their contents.
"Those are copies. You can take them," he spoke suddenly, almost catching her off-guard.
"Thank you."
"Just promise me one thing," he said, leaning forward, head resting on hands. His eyes, a light brown, blazed. "Let me bask in the glory of this secret, Irina."
"Alks…"
"Let me see their ruin."
Her eyes were wide. An old saying came to mind at this moment, a line dredged up from her elementary days and Saturday morning jingles.
Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.
If Sark had been an officer in the Revolutionary War, he would have taken his enemy down already, so close he could be sure there was no wasted ammunition. Instead, they were in a Russian nightclub, and he stood coolly just beyond the shadows, his face half-illuminated by cycling, multi-colored pulse lights hanging just beyond her field of view. The music changed, the tempo rushing, increasing, just like her heartbeat. Her heart rattled in her chest. How could she be so stupid? How could she think Irina would come to see Zhuravlev without Sark, without back-up of some kind? He had perfect access - a view, a door.
"Sark."
"I wish I could say I was surprised to see you," he commented, moving around her to block her escape. Her only path now was off the edge of the balcony seats or through the door. She was sure he wouldn't let her through that door. "I thought our meeting here was confidential, but it seems some people aren't as trust worthy as we original surmised."
"I thought you'd take care of all those kinds of people," Sydney spat. He smiled.
"Such fire. We do. It's just a matter of time until we find out who spoke out of turn."
"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a mission to complete," she remarked. Her hand had not moved from the doorknob, still frozen to the warm metal. She started to turn it, surprised to find Sark unmoving across from her. She turned it more, finally pulling it open.
In a flash, Sark kicked it close, his movement barely heard over the pulsating music. She whirled around him to the right, bringing up a leg for a high kick. He ducked, spinning around to grab a chair, using the momentum from said chair to pull himself back to face her. With the chair as a shield, he faced her, easily deflecting her various kicks and punches. She needed to get around him, around this, but it couldn't draw Irina and her companion's attention.
Sydney spied his glass - a tall thin glass heavy on the bottom. Giving up a fake kick to distract him, she flipped over to the table and picked up the glass, throwing it up at his head. Unexpected, the heavy end hit him in the forehead, causing him to momentarily stumble backwards and drop the chair. She took advantage of her momentary lead and dashed for the door. There had to be a lock on the inside, if only she could get to it.
Sark wasn't that weak, and ran for her as she made her way for the door. His arm came around her midsection, yanking her back from the door and throwing her against the wall. She hit with a sharp exhalation of breath, folding a bit, but not long enough to keep her down, and as he came in for another shot, she launched up and got him in the nose the old fashioned way, a sharp right hook that sent him stumbling back into the railing. Sydney quickly reached into her bag, and, not one to think the past would always repeat itself, handcuffed him to the railing and made her way for the door.
She was not going to let Irina escape her this time.
Irina smiled. Zhuravlev was exactly where she wanted him. Despite all his moves, all his plans, he still was a fly who had, for a short time, been able to fly around her web. But he was caught now, struggling against that which he did not know. Her long hands closed up the folders and scooped them from the table just as the waitress was approaching.
"Ahh, finally. Won't you stay for a meal, Irina?" he asked of her as a large platter of food was placed before him. She smiled but declined, objecting to taking both his files and his food. "It's too bad. It was nice to see you again."
"Likewise," she replied, standing. Her eyes flickered to the stairwell but did not see what she wanted.
The Russian titan ate.
Irina, sensing something wasn't going right, decided to take the front way out instead of snaking through the club. Sark was completely capable of taking care of himself, and when she didn't come out at the appropriate time, he would head to the rendezvous point alone. Files tucked in a satchel, Derevko's step was fast as she headed for the door.
"Ma'am?"
She turned. The waitress stood outside the doors to the kitchen, leaning against the wall.
"Da?"
"Mr. Zhuravlev appreciates the fact that you are going to forget where that information comes from and hopes to do business with you in the future."
She stood there, shocked as the waitress returned to the kitchens. The fly still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
Motionless for only moments, she continued to the door. Feeling this was too easy, she pulled open the front door and stepped into the vestibule.
"Sydney. How nice it is to see you again."
She had spotted her as soon as she entered the restaurant. It was amazing how easily she got around the tables, thankful for the large wall that served as a partition between a smoking and (newly added) non-smoking section. For once, she was thankful for the tourists who swept through cities, reforming them to their own tastes. If not for them, she would have been out in the open, there for her mother to see before she had her chance to corner her.
She would not get away this time.
It was a miracle she had gotten from the empty section to the host's stand; with the large open space between them, she had to be careful - fast. But she had, and entered the vestibule with the intent to wait, knowing Irina would spot, or rather, not spot Sark drinking somewhat bored at the top of the stairs, that she would make her way to the front. Sometimes, the relation to her mother was a valuable tool.
A moment before she would have left in search for the tardy matriarch, the door opened and she slid it, her head turned slightly to the side, watching her back with one eye as one focused before her.
"I believe you have something I want," she told her mother.
"You don't know what you want."
"There are several things I want," she retorted, unable to believe she was having this conversation. "But at the moment, those papers there would be nice."
"You're always fighting against me," Irina said simply, "and ever time, you fail to understand that there is no need."
"It's not my fault. You have, you have a record of deceiving people."
Irina didn't reply - Sydney had a point there. There was something she could never fight against no matter how much she tried against the contrary. In the eyes of her only child she would be a traitor, a woman not to be trusted, a woman to always be questioned. While most mothers possessed their child's trust without question, without hesitation based on love passed through years, Irina had left in the middle of this building, of this foundation, leaving her child hanging with nothing to hold on to other than a distant father. But why couldn't Sydney recognize the inherent trait of all mothers, no matter their political affiliation - protection?
"Please, Sydney, you have to believe me when I say I am not working against you with this," she almost pleaded, taking a step towards her. Sydney's reflexes came into play, causing her to step back towards the front doors. She would have seen Irina frown if it weren't for the group of loud, boisterous 20-somethings who crashed through the doors, arms slung lazily around one another as they stumbled onto the impromptu family reunion. One stumbled into Sydney's back, pushing her forward and to the side, behind her mother and shoved into a corner.
"Hey!" she called out in surprise, taking the moment of confusion to pull her gun from where it was tucked in the back of her pants. The group laughed and passed through without a second thought to those they had just walked through, their minds on other matters. Sydney jumped out, gun drawn, ready to take the files from Irina, if not with civility, then with force.
But Irina was gone.
"Dixon, Dixon, she's gone!"
"Who, Syd?"
"Irina! She was here. I'm going back to where I put Sark. Can you find her out there? She fled from the front door," she paused, catching her breath for a moment as she ran through the restaurant, not caring if she were seen as she headed for the doorway between here current position and the club next door. "Going east."
"Okay, Syd. I'm on my way," his voice cut out, and just before his side cut, she could hear the commotion caused by him getting up from his chair and leaping out the double doors in pursuit of Irina. She raced past the obnoxious group, almost tripping over outcast legs. Her graceful leap over them drew their attention for only a moment, but by the time they turned to the less attentive members of their party, she was gone, a slamming door the only sign she had ever been there.
The street was dark. Black. Bleak. A country and city can change with the years, pull itself from the brink of starvation and ruin, re-establish itself in the world community, and yet, even now, the depression, the bleakness, the sadness radiated from the very soil into the soul of those who walked upon it, threatening to pull them down until they no longer had the desire to walk on.
Marcus Dixon was running too fast down drizzle-slickened streets to notice its pull, his shoes only hitting against the ground with the slightest of pressure as he raced down the street, having seen the glint of brown hair in the dim streetlamps just moments ahead.
She would not outrun him. He would not let her.
"You are going to tell me what you were here for, and you're going to tell me now."
For once, Sark had stayed put, a bruise developing where the glass had hit him, a swollen patch of skin that would be a tell on him for weeks. Her voice was low as she held Sark by the collar of his pressed shirt, his face inches from her as she demanded for information. He smiled.
"Or what, Agent Bristow. I doubt I've made the CIA's list," he retorted bravely. She growled and banged him back against the metal railing, then pulled his head forward harshly.
"What. Were. You. Here. For?" she demanded.
"You don't have Irina, or else you wouldn't be here harassing me," he replied, his eyes rolling up to lock with hers. "Our last meeting was not one of chance, nor is this one. Do you believe Irina would waste a chance to attempt to reason with you?"
"Reason with me?"
"I told her it was a wasted opportunity. Nevertheless, she continues on with this futile effort to get you to see her true character."
She banged his head back again, this time, disorienting Sark for just a moment.
"You are going to tell me everything."
He wasn't going to shout out to her. Doing that would only alert her to his presence, as if his footfalls through puddles and gravel hadn't already. She was still running as though she was being chased, a flat-out run as if her life depended on it. But -
Dixon caught up to her, a large hand yanking back her shoulder revealing her face to him.
"I'm sorry! She paid me! Paid me to run!" the woman babbled in Russian, her voice squeaking as she kept going on and on. Dixon was blindsided, his head rushing with the severity of the situation. He raised his hand off her shoulder and sent her on her way, whirling around to face the other direction.
"Sydney, she's gone. I'll meet you back at the van!" he yelled, running back to his field op van. Was it possible that she would no only pay a woman to distract him, to lead him astray, but sabotage the CIA equipment inside the van? It could not fall into her hands - no -
He reached the van, his breath rough and ragged; he was tempted to lean over and put his hands on his knees. His eyes were wide, instead, a hand coming to the back of his head.
The van was gone.
"Sydney, Sydney, get out of there!"
Dixon's voice crackled through to her ear, interrupting her interrogation of Sark. She had him pressed against the railing, his face mere inches from hers, warm breath covering him. She paused mid-sentence, Dixon's concern and worry causing her to re-think her current motions.
"Did you hear me! Get out of there!"
Her head rose. She got all the information she was going to get from him.
"Foolish, as always," he commented.
She promptly knocked him out before rushing down the stairwell through the sweat soaked bodies, slipping past them as her blond braids thwaped against her back. This time, she paid them no mind as she ran, pushing against them in the hyper-eurhythmic pulse of the club. The lights flashed as she disappeared through them, giving Sark one glace over her shoulder before she did so, her eyes filled with pity for a boy caught in a game he should never have been entraped in.
