The Morning After
The birds chirping outside his window was very odd. The absent-minded joyfulness of it almost made Sark nervous. He quickly sat up.
And clutched his leg almost immediately. It was bandaged up in white gauze. The left pantleg was cut off to accommodate the wound.
He'd been resting in a nice bed, ornately adorned in a bronze headboard. His sweater and shirt were gone, but fresh clothes waited for him at the foot of his bed.
Sark glanced towards the birds. The trees which they perched on were white. The rest of the scenery beyond the trees was semi-familiar.
France. He'd been here before. In fact, he had stationed himself at this particular chateau for awhile when he worked for Irina.
Irina. Sydney. The plans.
Ilene!
Sark stumbled out of bed, and almost to the floor when pain shot through his left leg. He gasped and grabbed at anything he could to steady himself.
His chest heaved with exertion.
Exertion?! You call that exertion? You are so weak.
He told his
mind to shut up. Being out of shape is
the least of my worries.
A door opened before him, and Sark
breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Ilene. She carried a tray of food, and
gasped when she saw him.
"Julian! You should be in bed," she said, half-scolding him. "Lie down right now!" She stormed towards him, forcing him to hop backwards and flop on the bed.
"Are you okay?" he asked, trying to ignore her commands. Ilene pursed her lips together, nodding unconvincingly as she placed the tray of food before him. Sark sat up in the bed again, and poked at the soup and assortment of breads on the tray.
Ilene started to pace at the foot of the bed, but didn't say anything.
"Ilene," he called, getting her attention. "Would you stop pacing please?" That got her attention, but a familiar fire lit up in her eyes. He'd ticked her off.
"That man," she began, "he wasn't lying about you, was he?"
Sark muffled a groan. He picked up a roll, creatively munching on it without answering.
"Julian," Ilene said. "You've avoided this long enough. Tell me the truth."
Sark swallowed the bread, and it scraped his throat as it went down. He glared at the roll and tossed it at the closed window by the birds. The birds scattered at the noise from the impact.
"I never wanted to drag you through my past," he said, almost whispering. Ilene's eyes pressed him for more. He cleared his throat. "Years ago, after I . . . left you all, I became Mr. Sark."
"Julian Sark?"
He smirked at that. "No, just Sark." He paused, taking a deep breath. He didn't know how to admit what he was without showing emotion he rarely showed. So he buried it all, and spoke like himself. Like Sark.
"I was a spy, working for my interests. I stole, killed, blackmailed, anything to achieve my objectives. And I was good at it, all of it."
Ilene stopped pacing and just stared at him. The horror on her face didn't go unnoticed. She blinked.
"How can you be so cold, even just telling me about this?" she said in whispers. "You're like a machine, not my brother."
Sark sighed and bowed over the bed, stretching out the pain in his mind and body. He ran a hand through his salty hair.
"Ilene, it was who I was for those years—"
"Julian," she cut him off. "You were that same person just yesterday." He sat upright again, looking into her eyes for what she meant. "I saw you kill those men on that yacht."
"Ilene, they would have killed—"
"I know, but you enjoyed it."
Sark froze, unable to think through that and yet unable to contest it.
"You shot those men with such . . . I've never seen you hate that much. You thought nothing of their blood on your hands." She went to his side, pointing a finger at him accusingly. "Who are you anymore, Julian?"
His eyes flashed with anger, and Sark pushed away her hand. He wanted to lash out, argue, make her feel bad, but he knew she deserved better. He sighed, letting the anger subside for her benefit. Sark got to his feet, half-hopping towards the bathroom.
"If you'll excuse me, I should wash off the salt from your rescue," he said. His voice held no emotion, though his words and meaning did. He almost rebuked himself for not hiding more.
The steam in the shower was partially from the hot water and partially from the rage that ran through him.
Sark wasn't angry at Ilene; she was right.
Who are you anymore? He least of all didn't know.
Julian. Sark.
Brother. Murderer.
Son. Thief.
The water ran over his face, washing away the saltiness. He ignored the stinging in his leg and just let the water cleanse him.
Sydney. He was used to these internal debates being triggered by her, but she'd finally accepted him. She knew there were acceptable times to kill, to steal, to blackmail.
But does she enjoy it?
Do you?
The new clothes were pressed. It was a suit, completely black with a French blue shirt. The tie left out was red, which to him didn't really go with the ensemble, but he didn't mind.
He had found more bandages on the bathroom counters, and changed them on his leg. He hobbled around to get the suit pants on, wincing as he hopped.
He silenced his mind. His only thoughts were on getting dressed without killing himself.
The tie was adjusted perfectly in length. Sark straightened the collar on the suit jacket before moving for the door.
He needed to see Irina.
Sark tried his best to hide any semblance of a limp, but knew it still showed. He hid the pain well though, something he was proud of himself for; he hadn't done so well with pain of late. Maybe I'm getting back to my old self. That thought almost scared him.
It was early afternoon. The chateau was quiet. Sark started down the stairs to the studies and lounges.
He heard whispering from one room. Sark slowed his already painfully languid pace. He crept closer, but stopped short of the doorway when he recognized the voices.
It was Sydney and Ilene.
"Burma?" Ilene asked.
"Yeah," he heard Sydney say. "The same group that kidnapped you, took us there. It was . . . they did a lot to your brother."
"I saw the scars," Ilene said.
Sark self-consciously ran a hand over his chest.
"He protected me. He let them torture him, so I wouldn't be hurt," Sydney said. "I didn't appreciate that at first."
"How long were you there?"
"Several days." There was a pause, as if Sydney was collecting herself before continuing. "Sark was unconscious more than he was awake while we were there. The beatings, the torture . . . they were relentless. And yet somehow he still managed to protect me."
"I'm surprised he cared about anyone other than himself." Ilene mumbled it, but that didn't deaden the effect it had on Sark. He shut his eyes, trying to steel himself from that candid statement.
"Ilene, he does care," Sydney said. "He just doesn't know how to show it."
Ilene sighed loudly at that. "I don't understand why not. Growing up, he was a very kind brother. He was quiet, but I never thought he'd . . . I never imagined he would be this cold criminal."
Sark started to back away. He didn't want to hear anymore.
"This life changes you. What Sark did was stupid. But what you don't know is that he hates himself for choosing it," Sydney said. Sark halted his retreat. "I've seen Sark endure physical torture that few highly trained operatives could ever get through. What really hurts him is knowing what he gave up, and knowing he missed so much because of his choices. His life will never be what it used to be, never be as simple as it is for you."
Ilene hadn't said anything for awhile, and Sydney pressed ahead.
"I condemned him early on without even trying to understand. Don't make the same mistake," she said. "He's suffered more than you'll ever know or understand."
Sark heard someone move within the room. He knew he'd be caught eavesdropping, and started to stumble in his haste.
"Sydney," he heard Ilene call out. Sark caught himself from falling. "Thanks."
Sark continued his retreat, slipping into another study.
He stayed in the study, trying to catch his breath as he waited for Sydney and Ilene to move on.
"That wasn't the best audio surveillance you've ever conducted," came a voice. Sark snapped his head towards the source. Irina sat catfully poised behind a desk, her hands neatly folded in her lap and a coy smile dancing on her lips.
Sark smirked in response.
"Well, I haven't been at my best lately," he said. "Blame it on being rusty." Irina waved him in. Sark shut the study door and limped to a chair in front of the desk.
"What will it take to get you in shape?" Irina asked. Sark raised an eyebrow.
"You want me to do something?" he asked, skeptical. He didn't think she would be so blatant in trying to persuade him to come back. But he knew she was up to something. "Why do I have a feeling this has to do with the plans you took?"
She smiled, that familiar look of quasi-maternal pride spreading over her face.
"Yes, I took the plans. Sydney was concerned you'd be forced to give them up, and might have to risk her loyalties," Irina said. Sark just sat and listened. He wasn't surprised that Sydney was concerned about that—she'd said as much on the plane.
"But that's not the only reason you took them. I doubt Sydney even knows you have the plans," Sark replied. "To be honest, your relationship with your daughter has improved, but she hardly trusts you implicitly."
Irina's dark eyes glowed at that. The smile spread to her eyes. "You're right. She doesn't know I have the plans. I took them when you kissed her in Zurich."
There was no inflection or awkwardness when she blatantly said the word, but that didn't stop Sark from feeling blood rush to his head anyway.
"Sydney's in danger."
Sark's eyes darted back and forth at Irina.
"What do you mean?" There was no concern in Irina's voice, which immediately elevated his suspicions.
"We can prevent this, but we have to act somewhat quickly," she continued.
"Prevent what?" Sark's muscles tightened; his whole body was rigid.
"There may be others who know about the vault," Irina said. "Some of the data within it directly affects Sydney."
"The Retract files," Sark mumbled, seeing where this was headed. "What, the technology on it?"
Irina nodded. "It'll affect Sydney in two ways if it gets out. One, she'll be sent to retrieve it. And who knows who she'll be up against. Two, the technology in the Retract files can be used against her."
Sark shot Irina a look that challenged her borderline melodrama. "It could be used against anyone. What makes you think it'll target Sydney?"
Irina took a deep breath while tucking her hair behind an ear.
"I received some intelligence awhile ago about these files. Nothing concrete, but there's rumor that the files have a program that can break through any intelligence network. Everything the CIA has about her would almost be public knowledge."
Sark shot her another look.
"Sark, there's more. There's a surveillance system that can penetrate anywhere. No one would be safe—no security for, say, intelligence operatives going undercover to save the world every day," Irina said. She stared through him. "Add on retroviruses and a half-dozen other catastrophic inventions, and Sydney doesn't have a chance. None of us do."
Sark sighed. "What are you suggesting?"
Irina took another deep breath. "We get the data and destroy it."
Sark didn't respond but just stared at her. A million curses and thoughts went through his mind. When he finally silenced them, he spoke.
"Irina, do you honestly think I would risk my life, Sydney's inevitable anger at us going after the data, and the life I've tried to rebuild, all by doing this?"
Her eyes darted to the side, and suddenly Sark knew something was dreadfully wrong.
"What haven't you told me?" he demanded. He didn't raise his voice, but there was ice in his tone. Irina almost glared at him in response, but softened her features.
"Your family has gone missing."
If he hadn't been Sark, he might have ignored his bad leg and just leap over the desk for Irina's throat. His teeth clenched together, grinding as he controlled the rage within him.
"What do you mean, my family is missing?" he said.
"I had a man moving them constantly, just to be safe," Irina started to explain. "But they left him early this morning. It appears they were afraid, and didn't trust him."
Sark's first emotion was relief that they weren't kidnapped. His second was frustration for such incompetence from the man who was supposed to be taking care of his family. His third was distrust.
"You've gone from asking me to help save Sydney to telling me that you've lost my family," Sark said, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. "You've connected them together. Why?"
"Sark, I've already ordered that your family be found and protected immediately. We'll find them—they're just scared right now. But I need your help, to stop Strachen."
His eyes blazed.
"I was under the impression that Strachen is dead," he seethed between a clenched jaw.
Irina shook her head. "No, he survived. He isn't singing much, but he's alive. And with you escaping and thwarting him again, he'll be even more ambitious in getting into the vault."
Sark suddenly stood, favoring his left leg but trying to ignore the pain through his anger. He hobbled around the room, fuming to himself and trying to clear his head.
How did he live? I slit his throat. Sark sighed. But I didn't see him die.
He stopped his rough pacing and steadied himself by a liquor cabinet. "The Hierarchy has been around too long. And every time I think I've eradicated the world of them, another one pops up, alive and well." He sighed again, and ran a hand through his blonde hair.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Irina stand and walk to the cabinet. She poured herself a drink, and one for Sark.
"Strachen is alive, but hardly well. He was seen leaving Zurich in a medical escort."
"Where is he now?" Sark asked. Irina shook her head, and he bit the inside of his cheek.
He grabbed the drink she poured him, downing it with one gulp. As he slammed the glass onto the cabinet, it shattered in front of him, slicing his fingertips and palm.
He held his hand up to his face, completely unfazed by the blood that spilt.
"I'll help you get rid of the data."
Irina nodded with a slight smile. "What about your sister? I can keep her here if you'd like."
Sark glared at his former boss. "My family's been lost in your care. Ilene will come with me."
He shook his hand out, sending little droplets of blood on the cabinet. With plenty of disdain evident on his face, Sark wiped his hand on the black suit, and limped out of the study.