Jack was sitting in his office, studying the daily situation reports. SD-6
had received intel, confirmed by reliable sources, that Sark had boarded a
plane in Taipei the previous evening headed for the United States, but the
sources could not confirm the flight plan. In the likely event that Irina
was sending Sark to LA to obtain Sydney's answer to the ultimatum, Jack had
tasked Dixon with staking out her apartment.
The CIA had wasted no time recruiting Dixon to be their next double agent inside SD-6. His assignment was to protect Sydney's identity as a triple agent and to assist her in executing future counter-missions. He was one of only a handful of people who knew that Sydney was currently in a remote, undisclosed location, strategizing a response to Irina's threat. Jack had briefed him early that morning.
"I'm sorry I can't give you more specifics about the op," he had stated, but Dixon had dismissed his words with a shrug.
"The fewer specifics I know, the less potential there is for me to compromise Sydney. Just tell me two things. Is Agent Vaughn with her now?"
Jack had nodded and had seen Dixon visibly relax. "Good."
"And the second thing?" Jack had inquired.
Dixon had eyed him. "Jack, you know this woman and what she's capable of better than anyone else. Would Irina Derevko really kill her own daughter?"
"There is no doubt in my mind that Sydney's life and the lives of Agent Vaughn, Ms. Calfo, and Mr. Tippin--perhaps even yours and mine--will be in jeopardy if Derevko feels that Sydney is not cooperating with her," Jack had replied. "Therefore, Irina Derevko must never doubt Sydney or her loyalty."
"All right," Dixon had stated, his features resolute, and left to take up his position in front of Sydney's apartment.
Jack could not have been more grateful for Dixon's assistance. So far, they had stayed one step ahead of Irina and succeeded in keeping Sydney out of harm's way.
"If you're looking to make contact with my daughter, Mr. Sark, you won't find her in L.A.," Jack thought smugly.
Then he frowned, his satisfaction short-lived. There was no denying the heightened danger of the situation, now that Sark was on the move. He did not expect to hear from Sydney, considering the nature of this particular mission. He could only assume that she had rendezvoused with Agent Vaughn earlier in the day and that, at least for the moment, they were both safe.
Jack checked his watch. It was now quarter to twelve--France was nine hours ahead. That would make it almost 9 o'clock in the evening there--Sydney and Vaughn's first evening together on Île Mariette.
He thought back to the flight coming home from Taipei, recalling how Sydney had cradled Vaughn's feverish head in her lap, and the fear and helplessness he had seen in her eyes. Had he made the right choice, giving them the protection of a CIA cover and his own tacit approval to embark on a romantic liaison? Jack sighed. Whether downfall or salvation, they would each have to deal with the consequences.
He grabbed his coat and headed out of the office, telling Seth that he was going to lunch and that he would be back later, after an afternoon appointment. As soon as he stepped out of the parking garage elevator, he took out his CIA cell phone and punched in the code name 'Sentinel.'"
"Dixon, update me on your surveillance," he ordered, heading towards his Town Car.
"Your instincts were right," Dixon reported. "Sark went straight from the airport to Syd's apartment and made contact with Francie. I have surveillance photos of her getting into a car with him and driving to an empty building in Silver Lake---the former Café De Lorca. Does this make sense to you?"
"Francie told Sydney she was opening a restaurant--a new backer offered her money unexpectedly--not much of a leap," Jack explained tersely, unlocking his car door and getting in. "Were you able to continue surveillance once Sark and Francie arrived at the Café De Lorca?"
"No audio, just visual. It looked like they were entering into some sort of business agreement. There was a written contract, which they both signed. Francie took one copy; Sark took the other. They shook hands. Francie called for a cab, and Sark drove off. I've been tracking him for about 15 minutes."
"Where's he headed? We'll rendezvous," Jack said, leaving the parking garage.
"North along the 1100 block of Elm, driving a green Jaguar XK8 convertible, license plate XLS17."
"Did you say Elm?" Jack slammed on his breaks and executed a swift u-turn, amidst the heavy traffic of the intersection. "Agent Vaughn lives in an apartment building at 1638 Elm. I'll be there as soon as I can. And, Dixon, don't lose Sark," he said with unmistakable menace.
He floored the accelerator, his thoughts speeding ahead. If Sark knew where Vaughn lived, it was possible he knew much more. Sydney and Vaughn's mission may already have been compromised.
He pulled up a few minutes later, parking a safe distance from the ivy- covered brick apartment building, but close enough to monitor Vaughn's third floor corner apartment. It was a familiar spot--one he had staked out on a regular basis early on, getting to know the young agent's habits, noting the hours he kept, and monitoring who came and left his apartment.
"Dixon, what's your location?"
"I'm on the north side of the building," Dixon reported. "Sark just went inside. What do you want to do, Jack?"
Jack sighed. "We watch, and we wait. If we apprehend Sark, Irina will know the CIA is monitoring her actions. Our best course of action is to try to discover what he knows and use it to strategize our next move."
Just then he spotted a figure move behind the half closed blinds of Vaughn's apartment. There was a flash.
"Jack--"
"I saw it. Wait five minutes. If Sark, doesn't appear, follow me in."
Jack took the stairs two at a time. When he reached Vaughn's apartment, he found the door ajar. Without a sound, he pulled the 9mm Glock from its holster. Glancing around the corner, he saw the window open and the blinds bouncing slightly in the breeze.
He stepped warily around the corner, safety off, ready. Checking the room in a glance, he saw Eric Weiss lying on the floor, a large pool of blood seeping into the carpet beneath him. Jack was at the young agent's side in two strides. Weiss was coughing, his eyelids fluttering in shock. Jack gently lifted his head, and Weiss struggled to speak.
"Sark," he wheezed.
"I know. Lie still," Jack commanded. "I'm calling for backup."
"Jack, I didn't--Tell Vaughn--I didn't--betray--" Weiss said, fighting to get the words out.
"Look at me, Agent Weiss," Jack ordered. "Good. You'll get a chance to tell him yourself. Just lie still now," he said, more gently, examining his injuries.
It was a chest wound, point-blank range. Jack shook his head, shocked that anyone could survive such a direct hit. With one hand pressed hard to the wound, he ripped open Weiss's shirt with the other, to find that the bullet had pierced a light, silvery, Kevlar-like material.
Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed CIA ops. "Homebase, this is Merlin. I need a medical team at 1638 Elm. Agent down. Requesting immediate backup."
"Copy that, Merlin. Med team ETA 5 minutes."
"Hold on, Mr. Weiss, just a few more minutes," Jack relayed.
Weiss nodded, his breathing heavy, calmed by the steady voice of the older man by his side.
Jack's thoughts returned to the Kevlar-like material Weiss wore under his suit. He recalled Devlin sending around a memo instructing desk agents to wear protective clothing made of an experimental and highly-classified material. Marshall had been working on a similar material after McKenas Cole's raid on SD-6 earlier that year.
"In the Middle Ages, you know King Arthur? Guinevere? Lancelot? Knights of the Round Table? Courtly love?" Marshall had murmured hopefully, looking eagerly around the conference room. "Camelot!--Camelot!--you know, 'Rain may never fall 'till after sundown; By eight the morning fog must disappear,'" he had sung, becoming increasingly chagrined when the others had failed to join in.
Looking importunately at Jack, but receiving nothing but a cold stare in return, he had continued, somewhat abashed.
"Ah, okay, right, you're not big Lerner and Lowe fans. Well, a knight wouldn't be caught dead, heh-heh, without his chain mail. But chain mail was expensive, not to mention, ah, cumbersome. Okay, jump to present day. Forget the chain mail. What we have here is 'chain-lamé,'" Marshall stated proudly, unbuttoning his white oxford, to display a silvery t-shirt underneath. "Metallic micro-fibers, interwoven for superior tensile strength--three thousand strands per inch of cloth, making it 100 times stronger than Kevlar and as lightweight as silk--not to mention very smooth to the touch--woo, woo!" he tittered, running his hands down his own chest. "Now if Guinevere had ever gotten her hands on this--"
It was at that point that Sloane had cleared his throat and cut Marshall off.
Jack shook his head once more. Whatever this particular material was, it hadn't been designed to sustain a shot at point blank range. It had, however, succeeded in changing the bullet's trajectory. There was no telling what internal damage Weiss had suffered, but very probably, the vest had saved his life.
Jack turned to see Dixon enter the apartment, his face registering shock at finding Weiss splayed out on the ground.
Jack glanced at him questioningly, and Dixon shook his head.
"He just disappeared. I can't explain it," he said quietly.
Jack gave a stiff nod and returned his attention to Weiss.
Dixon came and knelt by Weiss's side. Taking off his jacket, he placed it under Weiss's head, and then went into the kitchen, bringing back a handful of towels. Together, he and Jack pressed them to Weiss' chest and side to staunch the bleeding.
Weiss gave him a weak smile. "Dixon--"
"Yeah, didn't think we'd meet again quite like this. Just hold on. We'll get you to the hospital as soon as we can. You'll be up and around and harassing the nurses in no time," Dixon said giving him a wide, reassuring smile.
Dixon kept Weiss alert until the medics came. Then he and Jack stood back and watched as Weiss was stabilized.
Jack looked down at his blood-encrusted hands. A young agent handed him a handkerchief, and he wiped his hands automatically, deep in thought.
The agent watched him, and then after several seconds, cleared his throat.
"Agent Bristow--the task force is here. They're waiting for your orders."
Jack glanced at the agent for the first time, and his features hardened once more. "Sweep the apartment--the usual precautions. Most importantly, check to see if anything has been removed--get someone in here who ferrets, I want the best. And clean up the blood. If the stain can't be removed, rip up the carpet and replace it. And keep me posted on Agent Weiss' condition," he said looking down at the blood-stained handkerchief.
"Yes, sir."
He did not want Weiss' blood to be the first sight to greet Vaughn upon his return from Île Mariette. It would be hard enough to convince him that he was not responsible for his friend's fate. Jack knew that, like Sydney, Michael Vaughn tended to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and would, no doubt, add this burden to the weight he already bore. The blame for this tragedy, however, rested elsewhere.
"Jack, are you alright?" Dixon asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Jack looked up to find the other agent studying him.
"You think Sark knows where to find Syd and Vaughn," Dixon said gravely. It was more a statement than a question.
Jack shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure. Go back to SD-6, while I try to find out. Write a normal mission brief detailing your surveillance. Tell security section you contacted me and, despite our pursuit, Sark evaded capture. I will corroborate your story. But make sure SD-6 does not learn that Sark came to Vaughn's apartment."
Dixon gave a curt nod. "Let me know if you need anything else. About Agent Weiss's condition--"
"I'll keep you posted," Jack said, as Dixon turned to leave.
Jack moved away from the frenzy of activity to let the specialists do their jobs. When the task team finally departed, he looked around the room, seeing it for the first time as Michael Vaughn's home, not a crime scene. Although he had staked out Vaughn's apartment on several occasions, this was the first time he had ever been inside.
He took note of the Mission-style furniture; the muted earth-tone color scheme; the neat stacks of CD's of Jazz greats: Bill Evans, Ella Fitzgerald, Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis; the bookcases filled with a mix of dog-eared paperbacks and scuffed hardcover editions, obviously read and thumbed-through many times. With an odd sense of discomfort, Jack thought back to the suspicions which initially had prompted him to stake out the apartment of Sydney's young and somewhat brash handler.
He had considered Vaughn callow and naïve back then--a mere boy playing at things better left to men who could do what had to be done and could live with the consequences. Convinced that Vaughn would one day make a mistake that would jeopardize Sydney's life, Jack had observed his behavior, trailed him on occasion, monitored his meetings with Sydney, and double- checked the counter missions he assigned her. His concern had been justified: Vaughn's initial response to the Dinatti Park showdown would most certainly have blown Sydney's cover and cost her her life, had he not convinced Vaughn to allow Sydney to make the drop and regain Sloane's trust.
Subsequent events, however, had made him revise his opinion of the young agent. Vaughn had demonstrated an ability to think well under pressure and a willingness to take calculated risks, both in the midst of the McKenas Cole crisis, and during the imbroglio over the Rambaldi prophecy. The final proof had come after Tippin's abduction. When Vaughn had broken completely with CIA protocol in order to accompany Sydney to Taipei, Jack knew he could trust him to protect his daughter--no matter the cost.
He made his way over to the row of bookcases and found his attention drawn to a framed picture of a group of hockey players crowded together to congratulate a teammate. At the center of the group, he recognized Michael Vaughn, his left eye bruised, and his bottom lip bloodied, brandishing a hockey stick in the air, a wide, happy smile lighting up his face, the brightness of which Jack had heretofore thought only Sydney could elicit.
In spite of himself, he smiled. He had received his own formal education in game theory at MIT. Perhaps Vaughn had learned his on the ice.
He began to scan the bookcase. For a CIA agent, Vaughn was exceptionally well-read. The collection ran the gamut from Dante, Proust, and Tolstoy in foreign editions, to DeLillo, Wolfe, Calvino and Eco. Perusing the titles, he paused, and took a slim volume from one of the shelves: The Lais of Marie de France. He flipped through it until he found "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight," and smiled once more.
The Arthurian legend had flourished in France, cultivated by Breton storytellers for centuries. In fact, tradition had it that the renowned isle of Avalon was one of a chain of islands off the coast of Brittany. An island perhaps not unlike Île Mariette itself. No doubt Vaughn had grown up immersed in such tales.
Jack frowned. He had ridiculed Vaughn for his ideals, chastised him for his simplistic moral code, and reprimanded him for his volatile emotions-- watching with serious misgivings as the relationship between his daughter and her handler deepened. But the truth was, he remembered all too well, how it felt to be young, idealistic, and in love--able to trust, willing to be vulnerable--and it had led him to make the worst mistake of his life. Now, almost thirty years later, he was still enduring the consequences, condemned to watch the endless circles of pain widen to encompass more and more lives. But Sydney was not her mother, and Vaughn had not been forced to make the decisions he, himself, had had to make--at least not yet.
He stepped away from the bookcases and turned his attention to the matted and framed black and white photographs which hung over the couch, pausing to savor the quality of the work. Whoever the photographer was, he had talent. Such a well-documented tourist site as the Champs Élysée captured from a fresh perspective. A shot of the Los Angeles skyline at night, demonstrating the photographer's mastery of working in low-light. However, the middle photograph, a small, thatched-roof cottage perched on top of a windswept coast, struck him as the most artful of the three. He studied its composition and tone, admiring the balance between sky, ocean, and jagged cliffs, and then froze, his blood chilling in his veins, certain that Sark-- trained by Irina Derevko, a master of observation and psychology--would know exactly how to find Sydney and Vaughn.
A whimper arose behind him. Jack wheeled around--Glock pulled, safety off-- and aimed directly at the source of the sound, only to find a small, white bulldog peering up at him, his shiny black eyes mournful. Jack gave him a baleful look, but the dog simply wagged his tail timidly back and forth and made a plaintive sound, somewhere between a sob and a whine. Jack replaced the gun in his holster, bent down and scratched him behind the ears.
"Well, Donovan," he said, reading the name off the silver medallion hanging from the dog's red collar. "What the hell do I do with you?"
***
Once again settled in the Town Car, Donovan seated beside him, Jack called Mrs. Zhang, his housekeeper.
A familiar reedy voice answered, "Bristow residence."
"Yes, Mrs. Zhang. I'll be stopping by briefly to drop off a houseguest, who will be staying with us for a short time," Jack said amiably, anticipating, with amusement, the reaction this statement would make on his usually unflappable housekeeper.
There was a short silence on the other end of the line. In the twenty-two years she had worked for Mr. Bristow, he had never once entertained a houseguest. "Shall I prepare blue room?" she asked uncertainly.
"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Zhang. The houseguest in question is a bulldog. He belongs to a friend of Sydney's. We'll be looking after him while the owner is out of town."
"Bulldog?" Mrs. Zhang paused again.
"Yes, a bulldog, a little white bulldog, about the size of toaster." Jack could imagine her consternation. She was a disciplined woman whose love of order rivaled his own. She cared for his home with scrupulous attention. An animal in her domain might not be easily accommodated. However, Mrs. Zhang was also exceedingly fond of Sydney.
"Friend of Sydney's?"
"Yes, a very good friend of Sydney's."
She then exclaimed warmly, "Of course, of course! Little white bulldog most welcome."
"Alright, I'll see you in a few minutes," Jack said, smiling to himself.
"Few minutes," Mrs. Zhang repeated, and Jack heard the sharp click of the receiver being returned to its cradle.
***
After depositing Donovan in the somewhat dubious, but capable hands of his housekeeper, Jack headed to Dr. Barnett's office. He knocked at her office door and awaited her response.
He checked his watch. It was precisely three o'clock-making it midnight on Île Mariette. Sydney and Vaughn's first night together, spent oblivious to the fact that Sark was now on their trail.
He shifted uneasily, and the door opened.
"Jack, come in, sit down," said Dr. Barnett, greeting him with a smile that remained in her eyes longer than on her lips.
For a moment, they studied each other. She was a handsome woman. Others might consider her long blonde hair most worthy of remark. For Jack it was her keen intelligence, so apparent in her piercing blue eyes. She was a formidable opponent.
He took the seat across from her, folding his arms across his chest and tapped his fingers. This would not be an easy session. The stakes were exceptionally high, let her make the first move.
"You seem particularly on edge today," Dr. Barnett observed, peering at Jack over her glasses. "Is it Sydney?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.
He did not answer immediately, and Dr. Barnett waited patiently for his response, her eyebrows lifted. When none came, she pursed her lips.
"Jack, I know Sydney's--situation--has changed--as a result of the confrontation with her mother in Taipei," she prodded gently.
Jack gave her an appraising look.
"Then you know I had to do something--unanticipated," he replied. "I suggested that Sydney appear to acquiesce in her mother's--proposal."
Dr. Barnett simply nodded, expressing neither surprise nor condemnation.
"Sydney is aware of your involvement?" she inquired in a reflective tone.
"I believe that Agent Vaughn has informed her of it, yes."
"But you have not spoken to her yourself?"
"My daughter and Agent Vaughn are in a remote location, strategizing. Irina will be keeping Sydney under close surveillance. We cannot risk contact.
His voice harsh, Jack continued, "This is not a tact we are employing blithely, Dr. Barnett. There is not a less dangerous strategy with as high a probability of success--in this scenario--with this enemy."
Dr. Barnett paused to allow him a moment to consider his last statement, and then cocked her head.
"Did you design the rendezvous as part of the op?" she asked quietly.
"No. Agent Vaughn demanded that he and Sydney meet as a condition of his involvement," Jack answered evenly.
"And your respect for him has increased as a result," she surmised, giving him a penetrating look.
"It is what I would have done in his place," he averred.
It was much more revealing an answer than she expected from a man as guarded as Jack Bristow--more revealing than if he had answered the question directly. Dr. Barnett looked thoughtful.
"You and the Deputy Director, as well as others, have expressed concern about the nature of Vaughn and Sydney's feelings for each other," she said, choosing her words carefully. "However, the mission you designed sanctions their involvement in what appears to be a romantic relationship--something that the CIA would normally prohibit. Why?"
Jack glowered at her in stony silence. Dr. Barnett matched his gaze. After a minute or more, Jack looked away.
"I love my daughter, Dr. Barnett. If you have children, you know what that means," he answered, his voice shaking with emotion. "There is nothing I would not do to preserve Sydney's safety or vouchsafe her happiness. Too often I find the two exist in conflict."
Jack swallowed. "My life with--Laura--which I believed to be founded on mutual trust, was, in actuality, a pretense based on lies," he said, stumbling over his wife's alias, his words strangling him as he choked back tears.
He paused to compose himself, and then said quietly, "Ironically, for Sydney and Agent Vaughn, lies can create a foundation for the truth. A haven."
"So, you would give Agent Vaughn and your daughter an opportunity to be together, even if it means putting their lives at risk in the process?" Dr Barnett asked gently.
Jack's eyes flashed dangerously. "Their lives are at stake no matter what course of action we pursue. Sydney will either defeat her mother and take down SD-6, or she will die trying. Her mother," Jack spit out, filling the word with all the venom and loathing it could hold, "has seen to it there are no other alternatives."
Dr. Barnett gazed at him, her blue eyes challenging, and Jack stared back at her coldly.
"If you think there is another way out of this situation, you do not understand either my daughter or my wife." His words were precise, clipped, the sarcasm honed to perfection.
"And Agent Vaughn?" she queried.
Jack hesitated, and his expression changed. "In Taipei, I realized that the only thing that rivals a father's devotion is a man's willingness to sacrifice for the woman he loves," he answered, the anger slowly ebbing to resignation. "Michael Vaughn loves my daughter, and I believe he would give up his life before he would see her hurt. If I do not succeed in protecting Sydney from her mother, Agent Vaughn will find a way to do so."
He paused, thinking of how he and Dixon had held Weiss' head only hours ago and staunched the blood pouring from his chest. "He must--I have staked her life on it."
***
He was sitting in his Town Car, watching the sun go down, lost in thought, when his cell phone rang once more. It was Devlin.
"Jack, I don't like how this situation is developing," the Deputy Director said, his voice grim. "You know I had my doubts about this operation. The attack on Weiss makes Derevko's intentions clear. It's not too late. There's still time to call off the op, Jack, and put them both in witness protection."
Jack took a deep breath and steeled himself. "That would be foolhardy, Ben. You know that if Sydney goes into witness protection, she'll blow both our covers at SD-6," he stated evenly. "By pretending to do what her mother wants, Sydney secures her own safety and the safety of those she loves, while giving us the leverage we need to defeat Derevko and bring down SD-6. She's safer as a triple than she'd ever be in witness protection with both Derevko and Sloane gunning for her."
"Not if Sark follows them to Île Mariette and decides to shoot first and ask questions later!" Devlin replied heatedly.
"Irina didn't send Sark to execute Weiss!" Jack shot back, growing more impatient. "She was hoping to use both Francie and Weiss as pawns, but that's not how it turned out. Sark duped Francie, but Weiss didn't play along, so he shot him."
"You've lost me, Jack."
"I believe Sark approached Weiss about becoming the new CIA mole," Jack explained, irritated that he should have to state something so obvious. "Weiss knew that Sydney's op is contingent on Agent Vaughn posing as the mole, and he was willing to sacrifice his own life in order to protect theirs."
"That's a nice theory, Jack, but the risks of waiting are too high. We don't know whether Sark's working for Derevko or pursuing his own agenda. I'm going to contact your daughter and Agent Vaughn," Devlin stated obstinately. "We need to prepare them for a confrontation with Sark."
"Do that and you'll be signing their death warrants!" Jack shouted angrily. "The only way this works, is if Derevko and Sark believe Sydney and Vaughn broke CIA protocol and went to Île Mariette for a lovers' tryst. Any contact with them right now puts the whole operation in jeopardy. Tell them nothing!"
"I've got another call, hold on," Devlin interrupted. Jack sat back in his seat, fuming.
"Jack, someone broke into the CIA storage facility early yesterday morning and stole Page 47. The breach was only discovered a few minutes ago, and agents reviewing the surveillance footage think it was Sydney. Can you explain what the hell is going on here? And don't tell me you authorized this--not after what you pulled in Taipei!"
Jack swore underneath his breath. "Sydney thinks that by showing her mother Rambaldi's prophecy, she can redeem her and convince her to abandon her work--she couldn't be more deceived."
"You'd better hope Sydney's right, or it won't matter what we do on our end," Devlin remarked, ominously. "It's your call, Jack. I just hope it's not too late." With that, he hung up.
While they talked, day had faded into early evening. Headlights of passing cars briefly illuminated the interior of the Town Car. Shadows played across Jack's visage, alternately illumining and darkening his features.
He stared at the road before him. Instead of seeing a parade of cars, Jack's mind fixed upon the photograph hanging above Vaughn's sofa, the small, thatched-roof cottage perched on top of a windswept coast. The same photograph Sark had seen. Fear wrapped icy tendrils around his heart.
He rested his head briefly against the steering wheel. Though he had lost all faith in a loving, benevolent God long, long ago, he found himself praying.
"Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, and all for your love's sake. Amen."
"Dear God," he said softly. "What have I done? Have I forfeited their lives merely to grant them two days of happiness?"
The CIA had wasted no time recruiting Dixon to be their next double agent inside SD-6. His assignment was to protect Sydney's identity as a triple agent and to assist her in executing future counter-missions. He was one of only a handful of people who knew that Sydney was currently in a remote, undisclosed location, strategizing a response to Irina's threat. Jack had briefed him early that morning.
"I'm sorry I can't give you more specifics about the op," he had stated, but Dixon had dismissed his words with a shrug.
"The fewer specifics I know, the less potential there is for me to compromise Sydney. Just tell me two things. Is Agent Vaughn with her now?"
Jack had nodded and had seen Dixon visibly relax. "Good."
"And the second thing?" Jack had inquired.
Dixon had eyed him. "Jack, you know this woman and what she's capable of better than anyone else. Would Irina Derevko really kill her own daughter?"
"There is no doubt in my mind that Sydney's life and the lives of Agent Vaughn, Ms. Calfo, and Mr. Tippin--perhaps even yours and mine--will be in jeopardy if Derevko feels that Sydney is not cooperating with her," Jack had replied. "Therefore, Irina Derevko must never doubt Sydney or her loyalty."
"All right," Dixon had stated, his features resolute, and left to take up his position in front of Sydney's apartment.
Jack could not have been more grateful for Dixon's assistance. So far, they had stayed one step ahead of Irina and succeeded in keeping Sydney out of harm's way.
"If you're looking to make contact with my daughter, Mr. Sark, you won't find her in L.A.," Jack thought smugly.
Then he frowned, his satisfaction short-lived. There was no denying the heightened danger of the situation, now that Sark was on the move. He did not expect to hear from Sydney, considering the nature of this particular mission. He could only assume that she had rendezvoused with Agent Vaughn earlier in the day and that, at least for the moment, they were both safe.
Jack checked his watch. It was now quarter to twelve--France was nine hours ahead. That would make it almost 9 o'clock in the evening there--Sydney and Vaughn's first evening together on Île Mariette.
He thought back to the flight coming home from Taipei, recalling how Sydney had cradled Vaughn's feverish head in her lap, and the fear and helplessness he had seen in her eyes. Had he made the right choice, giving them the protection of a CIA cover and his own tacit approval to embark on a romantic liaison? Jack sighed. Whether downfall or salvation, they would each have to deal with the consequences.
He grabbed his coat and headed out of the office, telling Seth that he was going to lunch and that he would be back later, after an afternoon appointment. As soon as he stepped out of the parking garage elevator, he took out his CIA cell phone and punched in the code name 'Sentinel.'"
"Dixon, update me on your surveillance," he ordered, heading towards his Town Car.
"Your instincts were right," Dixon reported. "Sark went straight from the airport to Syd's apartment and made contact with Francie. I have surveillance photos of her getting into a car with him and driving to an empty building in Silver Lake---the former Café De Lorca. Does this make sense to you?"
"Francie told Sydney she was opening a restaurant--a new backer offered her money unexpectedly--not much of a leap," Jack explained tersely, unlocking his car door and getting in. "Were you able to continue surveillance once Sark and Francie arrived at the Café De Lorca?"
"No audio, just visual. It looked like they were entering into some sort of business agreement. There was a written contract, which they both signed. Francie took one copy; Sark took the other. They shook hands. Francie called for a cab, and Sark drove off. I've been tracking him for about 15 minutes."
"Where's he headed? We'll rendezvous," Jack said, leaving the parking garage.
"North along the 1100 block of Elm, driving a green Jaguar XK8 convertible, license plate XLS17."
"Did you say Elm?" Jack slammed on his breaks and executed a swift u-turn, amidst the heavy traffic of the intersection. "Agent Vaughn lives in an apartment building at 1638 Elm. I'll be there as soon as I can. And, Dixon, don't lose Sark," he said with unmistakable menace.
He floored the accelerator, his thoughts speeding ahead. If Sark knew where Vaughn lived, it was possible he knew much more. Sydney and Vaughn's mission may already have been compromised.
He pulled up a few minutes later, parking a safe distance from the ivy- covered brick apartment building, but close enough to monitor Vaughn's third floor corner apartment. It was a familiar spot--one he had staked out on a regular basis early on, getting to know the young agent's habits, noting the hours he kept, and monitoring who came and left his apartment.
"Dixon, what's your location?"
"I'm on the north side of the building," Dixon reported. "Sark just went inside. What do you want to do, Jack?"
Jack sighed. "We watch, and we wait. If we apprehend Sark, Irina will know the CIA is monitoring her actions. Our best course of action is to try to discover what he knows and use it to strategize our next move."
Just then he spotted a figure move behind the half closed blinds of Vaughn's apartment. There was a flash.
"Jack--"
"I saw it. Wait five minutes. If Sark, doesn't appear, follow me in."
Jack took the stairs two at a time. When he reached Vaughn's apartment, he found the door ajar. Without a sound, he pulled the 9mm Glock from its holster. Glancing around the corner, he saw the window open and the blinds bouncing slightly in the breeze.
He stepped warily around the corner, safety off, ready. Checking the room in a glance, he saw Eric Weiss lying on the floor, a large pool of blood seeping into the carpet beneath him. Jack was at the young agent's side in two strides. Weiss was coughing, his eyelids fluttering in shock. Jack gently lifted his head, and Weiss struggled to speak.
"Sark," he wheezed.
"I know. Lie still," Jack commanded. "I'm calling for backup."
"Jack, I didn't--Tell Vaughn--I didn't--betray--" Weiss said, fighting to get the words out.
"Look at me, Agent Weiss," Jack ordered. "Good. You'll get a chance to tell him yourself. Just lie still now," he said, more gently, examining his injuries.
It was a chest wound, point-blank range. Jack shook his head, shocked that anyone could survive such a direct hit. With one hand pressed hard to the wound, he ripped open Weiss's shirt with the other, to find that the bullet had pierced a light, silvery, Kevlar-like material.
Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed CIA ops. "Homebase, this is Merlin. I need a medical team at 1638 Elm. Agent down. Requesting immediate backup."
"Copy that, Merlin. Med team ETA 5 minutes."
"Hold on, Mr. Weiss, just a few more minutes," Jack relayed.
Weiss nodded, his breathing heavy, calmed by the steady voice of the older man by his side.
Jack's thoughts returned to the Kevlar-like material Weiss wore under his suit. He recalled Devlin sending around a memo instructing desk agents to wear protective clothing made of an experimental and highly-classified material. Marshall had been working on a similar material after McKenas Cole's raid on SD-6 earlier that year.
"In the Middle Ages, you know King Arthur? Guinevere? Lancelot? Knights of the Round Table? Courtly love?" Marshall had murmured hopefully, looking eagerly around the conference room. "Camelot!--Camelot!--you know, 'Rain may never fall 'till after sundown; By eight the morning fog must disappear,'" he had sung, becoming increasingly chagrined when the others had failed to join in.
Looking importunately at Jack, but receiving nothing but a cold stare in return, he had continued, somewhat abashed.
"Ah, okay, right, you're not big Lerner and Lowe fans. Well, a knight wouldn't be caught dead, heh-heh, without his chain mail. But chain mail was expensive, not to mention, ah, cumbersome. Okay, jump to present day. Forget the chain mail. What we have here is 'chain-lamé,'" Marshall stated proudly, unbuttoning his white oxford, to display a silvery t-shirt underneath. "Metallic micro-fibers, interwoven for superior tensile strength--three thousand strands per inch of cloth, making it 100 times stronger than Kevlar and as lightweight as silk--not to mention very smooth to the touch--woo, woo!" he tittered, running his hands down his own chest. "Now if Guinevere had ever gotten her hands on this--"
It was at that point that Sloane had cleared his throat and cut Marshall off.
Jack shook his head once more. Whatever this particular material was, it hadn't been designed to sustain a shot at point blank range. It had, however, succeeded in changing the bullet's trajectory. There was no telling what internal damage Weiss had suffered, but very probably, the vest had saved his life.
Jack turned to see Dixon enter the apartment, his face registering shock at finding Weiss splayed out on the ground.
Jack glanced at him questioningly, and Dixon shook his head.
"He just disappeared. I can't explain it," he said quietly.
Jack gave a stiff nod and returned his attention to Weiss.
Dixon came and knelt by Weiss's side. Taking off his jacket, he placed it under Weiss's head, and then went into the kitchen, bringing back a handful of towels. Together, he and Jack pressed them to Weiss' chest and side to staunch the bleeding.
Weiss gave him a weak smile. "Dixon--"
"Yeah, didn't think we'd meet again quite like this. Just hold on. We'll get you to the hospital as soon as we can. You'll be up and around and harassing the nurses in no time," Dixon said giving him a wide, reassuring smile.
Dixon kept Weiss alert until the medics came. Then he and Jack stood back and watched as Weiss was stabilized.
Jack looked down at his blood-encrusted hands. A young agent handed him a handkerchief, and he wiped his hands automatically, deep in thought.
The agent watched him, and then after several seconds, cleared his throat.
"Agent Bristow--the task force is here. They're waiting for your orders."
Jack glanced at the agent for the first time, and his features hardened once more. "Sweep the apartment--the usual precautions. Most importantly, check to see if anything has been removed--get someone in here who ferrets, I want the best. And clean up the blood. If the stain can't be removed, rip up the carpet and replace it. And keep me posted on Agent Weiss' condition," he said looking down at the blood-stained handkerchief.
"Yes, sir."
He did not want Weiss' blood to be the first sight to greet Vaughn upon his return from Île Mariette. It would be hard enough to convince him that he was not responsible for his friend's fate. Jack knew that, like Sydney, Michael Vaughn tended to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and would, no doubt, add this burden to the weight he already bore. The blame for this tragedy, however, rested elsewhere.
"Jack, are you alright?" Dixon asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Jack looked up to find the other agent studying him.
"You think Sark knows where to find Syd and Vaughn," Dixon said gravely. It was more a statement than a question.
Jack shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure. Go back to SD-6, while I try to find out. Write a normal mission brief detailing your surveillance. Tell security section you contacted me and, despite our pursuit, Sark evaded capture. I will corroborate your story. But make sure SD-6 does not learn that Sark came to Vaughn's apartment."
Dixon gave a curt nod. "Let me know if you need anything else. About Agent Weiss's condition--"
"I'll keep you posted," Jack said, as Dixon turned to leave.
Jack moved away from the frenzy of activity to let the specialists do their jobs. When the task team finally departed, he looked around the room, seeing it for the first time as Michael Vaughn's home, not a crime scene. Although he had staked out Vaughn's apartment on several occasions, this was the first time he had ever been inside.
He took note of the Mission-style furniture; the muted earth-tone color scheme; the neat stacks of CD's of Jazz greats: Bill Evans, Ella Fitzgerald, Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis; the bookcases filled with a mix of dog-eared paperbacks and scuffed hardcover editions, obviously read and thumbed-through many times. With an odd sense of discomfort, Jack thought back to the suspicions which initially had prompted him to stake out the apartment of Sydney's young and somewhat brash handler.
He had considered Vaughn callow and naïve back then--a mere boy playing at things better left to men who could do what had to be done and could live with the consequences. Convinced that Vaughn would one day make a mistake that would jeopardize Sydney's life, Jack had observed his behavior, trailed him on occasion, monitored his meetings with Sydney, and double- checked the counter missions he assigned her. His concern had been justified: Vaughn's initial response to the Dinatti Park showdown would most certainly have blown Sydney's cover and cost her her life, had he not convinced Vaughn to allow Sydney to make the drop and regain Sloane's trust.
Subsequent events, however, had made him revise his opinion of the young agent. Vaughn had demonstrated an ability to think well under pressure and a willingness to take calculated risks, both in the midst of the McKenas Cole crisis, and during the imbroglio over the Rambaldi prophecy. The final proof had come after Tippin's abduction. When Vaughn had broken completely with CIA protocol in order to accompany Sydney to Taipei, Jack knew he could trust him to protect his daughter--no matter the cost.
He made his way over to the row of bookcases and found his attention drawn to a framed picture of a group of hockey players crowded together to congratulate a teammate. At the center of the group, he recognized Michael Vaughn, his left eye bruised, and his bottom lip bloodied, brandishing a hockey stick in the air, a wide, happy smile lighting up his face, the brightness of which Jack had heretofore thought only Sydney could elicit.
In spite of himself, he smiled. He had received his own formal education in game theory at MIT. Perhaps Vaughn had learned his on the ice.
He began to scan the bookcase. For a CIA agent, Vaughn was exceptionally well-read. The collection ran the gamut from Dante, Proust, and Tolstoy in foreign editions, to DeLillo, Wolfe, Calvino and Eco. Perusing the titles, he paused, and took a slim volume from one of the shelves: The Lais of Marie de France. He flipped through it until he found "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight," and smiled once more.
The Arthurian legend had flourished in France, cultivated by Breton storytellers for centuries. In fact, tradition had it that the renowned isle of Avalon was one of a chain of islands off the coast of Brittany. An island perhaps not unlike Île Mariette itself. No doubt Vaughn had grown up immersed in such tales.
Jack frowned. He had ridiculed Vaughn for his ideals, chastised him for his simplistic moral code, and reprimanded him for his volatile emotions-- watching with serious misgivings as the relationship between his daughter and her handler deepened. But the truth was, he remembered all too well, how it felt to be young, idealistic, and in love--able to trust, willing to be vulnerable--and it had led him to make the worst mistake of his life. Now, almost thirty years later, he was still enduring the consequences, condemned to watch the endless circles of pain widen to encompass more and more lives. But Sydney was not her mother, and Vaughn had not been forced to make the decisions he, himself, had had to make--at least not yet.
He stepped away from the bookcases and turned his attention to the matted and framed black and white photographs which hung over the couch, pausing to savor the quality of the work. Whoever the photographer was, he had talent. Such a well-documented tourist site as the Champs Élysée captured from a fresh perspective. A shot of the Los Angeles skyline at night, demonstrating the photographer's mastery of working in low-light. However, the middle photograph, a small, thatched-roof cottage perched on top of a windswept coast, struck him as the most artful of the three. He studied its composition and tone, admiring the balance between sky, ocean, and jagged cliffs, and then froze, his blood chilling in his veins, certain that Sark-- trained by Irina Derevko, a master of observation and psychology--would know exactly how to find Sydney and Vaughn.
A whimper arose behind him. Jack wheeled around--Glock pulled, safety off-- and aimed directly at the source of the sound, only to find a small, white bulldog peering up at him, his shiny black eyes mournful. Jack gave him a baleful look, but the dog simply wagged his tail timidly back and forth and made a plaintive sound, somewhere between a sob and a whine. Jack replaced the gun in his holster, bent down and scratched him behind the ears.
"Well, Donovan," he said, reading the name off the silver medallion hanging from the dog's red collar. "What the hell do I do with you?"
***
Once again settled in the Town Car, Donovan seated beside him, Jack called Mrs. Zhang, his housekeeper.
A familiar reedy voice answered, "Bristow residence."
"Yes, Mrs. Zhang. I'll be stopping by briefly to drop off a houseguest, who will be staying with us for a short time," Jack said amiably, anticipating, with amusement, the reaction this statement would make on his usually unflappable housekeeper.
There was a short silence on the other end of the line. In the twenty-two years she had worked for Mr. Bristow, he had never once entertained a houseguest. "Shall I prepare blue room?" she asked uncertainly.
"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Zhang. The houseguest in question is a bulldog. He belongs to a friend of Sydney's. We'll be looking after him while the owner is out of town."
"Bulldog?" Mrs. Zhang paused again.
"Yes, a bulldog, a little white bulldog, about the size of toaster." Jack could imagine her consternation. She was a disciplined woman whose love of order rivaled his own. She cared for his home with scrupulous attention. An animal in her domain might not be easily accommodated. However, Mrs. Zhang was also exceedingly fond of Sydney.
"Friend of Sydney's?"
"Yes, a very good friend of Sydney's."
She then exclaimed warmly, "Of course, of course! Little white bulldog most welcome."
"Alright, I'll see you in a few minutes," Jack said, smiling to himself.
"Few minutes," Mrs. Zhang repeated, and Jack heard the sharp click of the receiver being returned to its cradle.
***
After depositing Donovan in the somewhat dubious, but capable hands of his housekeeper, Jack headed to Dr. Barnett's office. He knocked at her office door and awaited her response.
He checked his watch. It was precisely three o'clock-making it midnight on Île Mariette. Sydney and Vaughn's first night together, spent oblivious to the fact that Sark was now on their trail.
He shifted uneasily, and the door opened.
"Jack, come in, sit down," said Dr. Barnett, greeting him with a smile that remained in her eyes longer than on her lips.
For a moment, they studied each other. She was a handsome woman. Others might consider her long blonde hair most worthy of remark. For Jack it was her keen intelligence, so apparent in her piercing blue eyes. She was a formidable opponent.
He took the seat across from her, folding his arms across his chest and tapped his fingers. This would not be an easy session. The stakes were exceptionally high, let her make the first move.
"You seem particularly on edge today," Dr. Barnett observed, peering at Jack over her glasses. "Is it Sydney?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.
He did not answer immediately, and Dr. Barnett waited patiently for his response, her eyebrows lifted. When none came, she pursed her lips.
"Jack, I know Sydney's--situation--has changed--as a result of the confrontation with her mother in Taipei," she prodded gently.
Jack gave her an appraising look.
"Then you know I had to do something--unanticipated," he replied. "I suggested that Sydney appear to acquiesce in her mother's--proposal."
Dr. Barnett simply nodded, expressing neither surprise nor condemnation.
"Sydney is aware of your involvement?" she inquired in a reflective tone.
"I believe that Agent Vaughn has informed her of it, yes."
"But you have not spoken to her yourself?"
"My daughter and Agent Vaughn are in a remote location, strategizing. Irina will be keeping Sydney under close surveillance. We cannot risk contact.
His voice harsh, Jack continued, "This is not a tact we are employing blithely, Dr. Barnett. There is not a less dangerous strategy with as high a probability of success--in this scenario--with this enemy."
Dr. Barnett paused to allow him a moment to consider his last statement, and then cocked her head.
"Did you design the rendezvous as part of the op?" she asked quietly.
"No. Agent Vaughn demanded that he and Sydney meet as a condition of his involvement," Jack answered evenly.
"And your respect for him has increased as a result," she surmised, giving him a penetrating look.
"It is what I would have done in his place," he averred.
It was much more revealing an answer than she expected from a man as guarded as Jack Bristow--more revealing than if he had answered the question directly. Dr. Barnett looked thoughtful.
"You and the Deputy Director, as well as others, have expressed concern about the nature of Vaughn and Sydney's feelings for each other," she said, choosing her words carefully. "However, the mission you designed sanctions their involvement in what appears to be a romantic relationship--something that the CIA would normally prohibit. Why?"
Jack glowered at her in stony silence. Dr. Barnett matched his gaze. After a minute or more, Jack looked away.
"I love my daughter, Dr. Barnett. If you have children, you know what that means," he answered, his voice shaking with emotion. "There is nothing I would not do to preserve Sydney's safety or vouchsafe her happiness. Too often I find the two exist in conflict."
Jack swallowed. "My life with--Laura--which I believed to be founded on mutual trust, was, in actuality, a pretense based on lies," he said, stumbling over his wife's alias, his words strangling him as he choked back tears.
He paused to compose himself, and then said quietly, "Ironically, for Sydney and Agent Vaughn, lies can create a foundation for the truth. A haven."
"So, you would give Agent Vaughn and your daughter an opportunity to be together, even if it means putting their lives at risk in the process?" Dr Barnett asked gently.
Jack's eyes flashed dangerously. "Their lives are at stake no matter what course of action we pursue. Sydney will either defeat her mother and take down SD-6, or she will die trying. Her mother," Jack spit out, filling the word with all the venom and loathing it could hold, "has seen to it there are no other alternatives."
Dr. Barnett gazed at him, her blue eyes challenging, and Jack stared back at her coldly.
"If you think there is another way out of this situation, you do not understand either my daughter or my wife." His words were precise, clipped, the sarcasm honed to perfection.
"And Agent Vaughn?" she queried.
Jack hesitated, and his expression changed. "In Taipei, I realized that the only thing that rivals a father's devotion is a man's willingness to sacrifice for the woman he loves," he answered, the anger slowly ebbing to resignation. "Michael Vaughn loves my daughter, and I believe he would give up his life before he would see her hurt. If I do not succeed in protecting Sydney from her mother, Agent Vaughn will find a way to do so."
He paused, thinking of how he and Dixon had held Weiss' head only hours ago and staunched the blood pouring from his chest. "He must--I have staked her life on it."
***
He was sitting in his Town Car, watching the sun go down, lost in thought, when his cell phone rang once more. It was Devlin.
"Jack, I don't like how this situation is developing," the Deputy Director said, his voice grim. "You know I had my doubts about this operation. The attack on Weiss makes Derevko's intentions clear. It's not too late. There's still time to call off the op, Jack, and put them both in witness protection."
Jack took a deep breath and steeled himself. "That would be foolhardy, Ben. You know that if Sydney goes into witness protection, she'll blow both our covers at SD-6," he stated evenly. "By pretending to do what her mother wants, Sydney secures her own safety and the safety of those she loves, while giving us the leverage we need to defeat Derevko and bring down SD-6. She's safer as a triple than she'd ever be in witness protection with both Derevko and Sloane gunning for her."
"Not if Sark follows them to Île Mariette and decides to shoot first and ask questions later!" Devlin replied heatedly.
"Irina didn't send Sark to execute Weiss!" Jack shot back, growing more impatient. "She was hoping to use both Francie and Weiss as pawns, but that's not how it turned out. Sark duped Francie, but Weiss didn't play along, so he shot him."
"You've lost me, Jack."
"I believe Sark approached Weiss about becoming the new CIA mole," Jack explained, irritated that he should have to state something so obvious. "Weiss knew that Sydney's op is contingent on Agent Vaughn posing as the mole, and he was willing to sacrifice his own life in order to protect theirs."
"That's a nice theory, Jack, but the risks of waiting are too high. We don't know whether Sark's working for Derevko or pursuing his own agenda. I'm going to contact your daughter and Agent Vaughn," Devlin stated obstinately. "We need to prepare them for a confrontation with Sark."
"Do that and you'll be signing their death warrants!" Jack shouted angrily. "The only way this works, is if Derevko and Sark believe Sydney and Vaughn broke CIA protocol and went to Île Mariette for a lovers' tryst. Any contact with them right now puts the whole operation in jeopardy. Tell them nothing!"
"I've got another call, hold on," Devlin interrupted. Jack sat back in his seat, fuming.
"Jack, someone broke into the CIA storage facility early yesterday morning and stole Page 47. The breach was only discovered a few minutes ago, and agents reviewing the surveillance footage think it was Sydney. Can you explain what the hell is going on here? And don't tell me you authorized this--not after what you pulled in Taipei!"
Jack swore underneath his breath. "Sydney thinks that by showing her mother Rambaldi's prophecy, she can redeem her and convince her to abandon her work--she couldn't be more deceived."
"You'd better hope Sydney's right, or it won't matter what we do on our end," Devlin remarked, ominously. "It's your call, Jack. I just hope it's not too late." With that, he hung up.
While they talked, day had faded into early evening. Headlights of passing cars briefly illuminated the interior of the Town Car. Shadows played across Jack's visage, alternately illumining and darkening his features.
He stared at the road before him. Instead of seeing a parade of cars, Jack's mind fixed upon the photograph hanging above Vaughn's sofa, the small, thatched-roof cottage perched on top of a windswept coast. The same photograph Sark had seen. Fear wrapped icy tendrils around his heart.
He rested his head briefly against the steering wheel. Though he had lost all faith in a loving, benevolent God long, long ago, he found himself praying.
"Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, and all for your love's sake. Amen."
"Dear God," he said softly. "What have I done? Have I forfeited their lives merely to grant them two days of happiness?"