Syd awoke to the rhythmic sound of rain striking the windowpanes of the
cottage and the cloister bells tolling in the distance. The misty gray
light informed her that it was still very early in the morning, The
realization that she had spent the entire night in Vaughn's arms dawned
inside her, filling her with its glow.
He was still asleep, and she lifted her head from his chest, marveling at this wondrous man before her, trying to memorize everything about this moment. The way his tousled brown hair fell over his brow, the long lashes which brushed his cheeks, the cleft in his chin, and his lips parted slightly in slumber.
"Vaughn?" she said softly.
"Hmph?" came his muffled reply.
"I love you."
"Hmmm," he sighed contentedly, drawing her back into his arms.
She once more laid her head on his chest, and the next time she awoke, it was to the smell of coffee brewing. Vaughn stood by the stove, his back turned, chopping bunches of dill and parsley and basil for an omlette. He was wearing the bottom half of the Brooks Brothers pajamas she had given him--the drawstring tied loosely, so that they hung low on his hips, and she smiled appreciatively at the sight.
He had left the top half for her, draped at the foot of the bed. Slipping the soft linen pajama top over her head, she silently got up from the bed and quietly walked over to where Vaughn was standing. She put her arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. His skin smelled fresh and clean.
"Hey," he said softly, turning around and pulling her into his arms. "How did you sleep?"
"Unbelievably well!" she answered, dimpling, thinking how wonderful it felt to wake up in his arms. "Did you hear the rain this morning?"
He nodded. "I doubt we'll be able to go to the lighthouse today. The coast of Brittany gets more rain than any other part of France. Sorry--I should have warned you."
Syd smiled. "I've always loved the sound of rain. I can't think of anything nicer than spending the afternoon here with you--preferably in front of a huge fire."
Vaughn gazed at her, a shy, bemused smile playing on his face. "Syd, last night was--"
"Truly amazing," she said softly, looking up into his eyes. "How are your ribs?"
He laughed. "A little sore, but I'm okay--really."
They smiled shyly at each other, and Vaughn reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Syd," he said, turning serious, "if Weiss or Barnett had asked me two weeks ago whether I thought I would ever have the chance to fall asleep in your arms and wake up beside you in the morning, I would have told them it was impossible--more than I could possibly hope for in this lifetime."
He swallowed. "Now I can't imagine doing anything else."
Syd nodded, tears pricking at her eyelids. She bit her lip, a sudden wave of dread seizing her. She began to shiver and Vaughn rubbed her shoulders.
"Are you warm enough? It gets drafty in here," he said, concerned. "I can stoke up the fire."
Sydney shook her head, her attention caught by the tattoo on his left arm. It was an intricately detailed coat of arms. A visored helmet, facing left, rested on top of a shield, depicting an avenging angel dressed in armor. Flaming sword in one hand and shield in the other, with his wings spread out behind him, the angel was shown crushing a writhing devil, in the guise of a dragon, beneath his right foot. The scene was inked in black against an azure background, and the colors were repeated again in the blue plumes of the mantle which unfurled on either side of the shield. Above the visored helmet appeared the motto "Fide et Fortitude."
"Is it a military insignia?" she asked, tracing the pattern with the tip of her finger.
"No, it's a family crest--the Delorme coat of arms," he answered, coloring slightly. "The Delormes were--are--an old aristocratic French family. Louis XI awarded the Ordre de Saint-Michel to Jean-Luc Delorme back in 1469. He named his son Michel, and it's been a family name ever since. In fact, I'm named after my grandfather, Michel Delorme. My grandfather came from one of the less well-to-do branches of the family that lost most of their money and land in the intervening centuries. But there's still a house and a small vineyard in Fleury that my mother inherited. That's where I grew up."
"This is the first time you've mentioned your grandfather," Sydney observed.
"That's because I never got the chance to get to know him, and neither did my mother," Vaughn answered. "He died before she was born, but she never tired of telling me stories about him. My grandfather was in the Resistance- -he and Jean-Luc Brochet, the captain of the Bihan Gouelanig, were good friends. He came to ÎIe Mariette on covert missions to exchange intel with Brochet, and that's how he met my grandmother."
"How did he die?" Syd asked softly, already intuiting the answer.
"He was captured while conveying intel to the Allied forces about the disposition of German troops, tortured, and then killed. You wouldn't believe what effect those stories had on my childhood, knowing my grandfather had died fighting in the French Resistance and that my father had done the same while working for the CIA."
Sydney thought again of Vaughn as a small boy, brandishing a stick sword. "I can imagine," she said quietly. "When did you decide to get the tattoo?"
"When I was eighteen--the year I put in the ten months of military training necessary to keep my dual citizenship. I was young, and all my buddies were getting them--the French flag, the name of a girlfriend. I chose the Delorme coat of arms--in honor of my grandfather. Kinda quixotic, I know," he said giving her one of his lop-sided grins. "But, hey, if you have any dragons that need slaying, I'm your man."
Sydney laughed. "It suits you," she said simply, glancing once more at the avenging angel dressed in armor emblazoned on the coat of arms. Vaughn was her guardian angel, her knight errant, her confidant. If the Delorme motto "Faith and Fortitude" applied to anyone, it applied to Michael Vaughn.
"Syd, if I could slay dragons, I'd start with Arvin Sloane," he stated quietly, studying her intently.
Sydney glanced up at him, and her heart ached. "You told me once that it's not about cutting off an arm of the monster, it's about killing the monster. That's what we're doing--slaying the dragon," she replied. "We just have to earn our happily-ever-after, that's all."
Then she smiled. "Do want help chopping? I can finish that while you work on the galettes."
Vaughn shook his head and waved her away. "I've got things under control here. You can go take a bath, if you want. There's no running water, but I set up a tub in the corner behind the screen. I have one more kettle of water heating on the stove. Once I add that, the water should be ready. I left some towels and soap on the chair. Is there anything else you need?"
Sydney smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. "No--you've thought of everything--except, well, I didn't bring a change of clothes."
Vaughn smiled. "Look on the chair. There's a pair of jeans, a sweater, and some other things. I hope everything fits. I went to Macy's, and walked around cluelessly until a sales clerk asked me if I needed help. I explained I was taking my girlfriend on a surprise getaway to Great Britain, described your dimensions, and she helped me approximate your size."
Sydney kissed him appreciatively. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Go soak. Breakfast will be on the table by the time you get done."
Sydney shed her pajama top and stuck a toe into the large aluminum tub. The water was perfect. She stepped in and discovered there was just enough room to sit down, if she bent her knees. There was a bar of handmade honey and oatmeal soap on the chair next to the tub, and after she had lathered her entire body, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the sloping sides of the tub, marveling at how many kettles of water it had taken to fill it only a few inches. Vaughn must have been boiling water all morning just so that she could have a bath.
Without meaning to, she dozed off, and when she awoke, she found that the water had cooled. Vaughn was at the side of the tub, pouring a new kettle of heated water into the bath. He was no longer dressed in the bottom half of the Brooks Brothers pajamas, but in a pair of jeans and a charcoal turtleneck.
"Hey,"
"Hey," she said smiling. "The water felt so good, I fell asleep."
"Nothing like a tub to take a nap in. Sit up and I'll wash your hair. I've got just enough hot water left to help you rinse it."
"Vaughn, you're spoiling me," she protested.
"Somebody should," he smiled. "Sit up."
He took the bottle of shampoo from the chair and poured a generous amount on her hair. The scent of lavender and freesia evoked French gardens, as Vaughn's strong fingers massaged her scalp. She let out a soft moan, and he laughed.
"I thought I had discovered all your erogenous zones last night."
"You've got me. The secret's out. I have a tub fetish," Syd sighed, blissfully. "We need to get a bigger tub, so you can join me."
The implication of the words did not occur to her until the statement was out of her mouth. One night on Île Mariette, and she was already planning joint purchases! She felt herself blush, thankful that Vaughn was behind her and couldn't see her face.
"I'll put that at the top of my list of improvements to make to the cottage," he told her seriously, hoping his voice didn't betray the goofy grin that had spread across his face. "I've been meaning to find out how much it would cost to put in electricity and plumbing, but it never seemed worth it, when my mother and I are hardly ever here."
"Close your eyes," he said, and poured the last of the hot water from a pitcher over her head.
"Vaughn, don't change a thing. I love everything just the way it is," she replied sincerely, when she could speak again. "That way it will be always be like it was when your grandmother was alive--the way it is for us now."
She stood up and the water cascaded down her body in rivulets, coursing around her breasts and undulating over her hips and thighs and the flat plane of her stomach.
"God, you're beautiful!" Vaughn breathed, and Syd knew that the hunger in his eyes had nothing to do with breakfast.
She smiled and grabbed the soft oversized towel from the chair.
Reluctantly Vaughn went to check on the food, and Syd pulled on the t-shirt and briefs, along with the pair of jeans and the blue cashmere sweater Vaughn had purchased. She chuckled, thinking of his expedition to Macy's, and stepped from behind the screen to find the table laid. She sat down delightedly, and Vaughn flipped a perfectly formed Mingaux cheese and herb omlette onto her plate. She took one of the galettes smothered in honey and passed the plate to him.
"Vaughn, this is delicious!" Syd exclaimed. "If Francie only knew, she'd steal you and make you her sous-chef! She wouldn't be shocked at all if I told her you're from the CIA, because she'd think I meant the Culinary Institute of America."
"Well, at least I've got an 'in' with Francie. I don't think my first meeting with Will went so well," he said ruefully. "How's he doing?"
"He's decided to come work for the CIA. Truthfully, I'm worried about him. He looked like he hasn't slept at all since he got back from Taipei. Oh, Vaughn! They're going to discredit him by making him look like a heroin- addict. His reputation will be ruined, and he'll have to give up his job at the paper."
"I know. Weiss told me," Vaughn replied grimly. "But I think it's for the best, Syd. We don't want Will to be any more of a target than he already is."
He sighed heavily and his brow furrowed. "I guess we shouldn't put off the mission planning any longer. Let's finish eating, and then we'll begin strategizing our response to your mother's threat. As much as I'd like to pretend we're here for pleasure, you and I both know that isn't true. Which reminds me--I think I would have found the Rambaldi documents last night if you had concealed them on you" he said with the grin she had grown to love. "The only thing you brought with you was that straw hat. Where'd you stash them?"
Sydney smiled mischievously.
He raised an eyebrow. "They're in the hat?"
"I sewed them into the binding. If there is one thing I've learned from Marshall it's the importance of accessorizing when planning a mission," Sydney laughed, as she went over to the door to pick up the article in question. It still lay where it had slipped from her hand, moments before Vaughn had kissed her the day before.
She pulled at the seam around the band and slowly slid a sheaf of tightly rolled documents out onto the table Vaughn had just cleared of dishes. He stepped away from the table and returned with books to pin down the edges.
"Were the documents simply part of the cover mission, or was there a reason you wanted me to bring them to Île Mariette?" Syd asked.
"I wanted to get another look at them--see if there was anything that might clue us in to Irina's next move."
"In that case, there's something else you might want to see," Sydney said hesitantly, unfurling another sheet of tightly rolled parchment on the table, from which gazed a face uncannily like her own.
"You stole Page 47 and brought it here?" Vaughn said running a hand through his hair until it stood up in spikes. "Syd, we should have discussed this!" he exclaimed, his words coming out in a rush.
"Vaughn, when were we going to talk about it? You were in the hospital--"
"You could have told Weiss--"
"I didn't trust Weiss!" Sydney cried.
He stared at her.
Sydney sighed. "When you were delirious you told me about the argument you had with Weiss after Denpassar. About following protocol. I couldn't go to him--not about this!"
"Syd, I don't think--"
"Vaughn, my mother knew about the prophecy," Sydney interrupted urgently, her words tumbling over each other. "She thinks it's a hoax--something perpetrated by the CIA to keep us on opposite sides. But the possibility that it could be true--that she's the one Rambaldi prophesied would render utter devastation--it scared her, because she knew it would mean that she had misinterpreted Rambaldi and betrayed and killed for a utopia that would destroy the world, rather than save it. Don't you see? If we can prove that the prophecy is authentic, she might abandon her work. My mission was to come to Île Mariette and have the the Rambaldi pages analyzed by Prof. Vinneaux. I figured it was my only chance to get the prophecy independently verified, by a source outside of the CIA--someone she might trust."
"So instead of infiltrating Irina's organization and bringing it down from the inside, you think you can convince her to turn herself in voluntarily?" he said, shaking his head. "Syd, that's a hell of a chance to take. Say we do convince her that the prophecy is authentic; that doesn't mean she'll believe she's the woman Rambaldi spoke of. If we fail to bring her in, that's it; the entire mission fails. We'll lose our best opportunity to take down her organization. Are you willing to risk that, with everything that hangs in the balance? Risking both our lives, not to mention the lives of Francie and Will, Dixon, and your father?"
"She's my mother," Sydney stated simply. "I have to try."
Vaughn gazed at her, troubled, his forehead creased with worry.
Her eyes filled with tears. "When I saw my mother in Taipei, she told me everything she had done was to keep us safe from the political machinations of the world's superpowers. She called herself a citizen of the world, just like her father, and said she would do anything she had to do, so that her father's sacrifice was not in vain."
"Her father?" Vaughn asked.
"Yuri Alexseivich Suvin, a nuclear physicist. She said the Soviet government discovered he was spying for the United States and sent him to Siberia, where he was later put to death without a trial."
"Yuri Alexseivich Suvin? Are you sure?" Vaughn repeated. "Syd, Suvin was a nuclear physicist sent to the gulag and executed for being an American spy-- that much is true. It made the international news at the time. I researched Suvin as a part of my honors thesis at Stanford. But Suvin was turned in to the KGB by his family. If Irina Derevko is really Irina Suvina, it means she denounced her own father."
Sydney looked stunned, and Vaughn grabbed her hand.
"I know this has to be unbelievably hard for you," he continued, "but you have to realize something. Irina Derevko may be your mother, but she is also a master of manipulation--she knows you've been lied to and betrayed. Everything she said about Suvin and the faked Rambaldi prophecy was calculated to win your trust and make you doubt the CIA so that you'd come to work for her willingly."
Syd countered swiftly. "But if we appear to acquiesce too easily to her ultimatum, without questioning the CIA's role, or simply reject her explanation of events without due consideration, she'll suspect the whole operation is a set up, and there'll be nothing preventing her from killing us on the spot!" Sydney cried. "If we play it right, bringing her the prophecy so that she can authenticate it herself will look like an act of good faith on our part!"
"You sound as if you really believe there's a chance the CIA would fake the Rambaldi prophecy!" Vaughn replied, irritation evident in his voice.
Sydney's lips trembled. "How would we know? You and I aren't Rambaldi experts. If the CIA can dupe Sloane with their fakes, who's to say they're not duping us?" she asked more softly this time. "I can't bear to be lied to again. Not by the CIA. I worked for SD-6 for seven years, thinking I was working for the good guys. I don't want to make the same mistake again."
Vaughn looked at her in open disbelief.
"Syd!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Stop and think about what you're saying- -"
"I'm not saying I am convinced the CIA faked the prophecy," Sydney replied, her voice shaking now. "I am saying that the prophecy is the key to persuading my mother to abandon her work, and for that to happen, she needs to believe the prophecy is authentic. But if she's right and the prophecy's not authentic, we need to know what the CIA's true agenda is!" she cried angrily.
"We know what the CIA's true agenda is!" Vaughn yelled, no longer able to contain his exasperation.
"Then why are you upset by the fact that I want to authenticate the prophecy?" she shouted back.
They stood nose to nose, glaring at each other for several seconds. Finally, Vaughn turned away. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, and when he faced her again, his expression was pained.
"Why am I so upset? Because by doubting the CIA, you doubt me by extension, and that--hurts," he stated quietly. "Don't you think I'd come to you immediately if I suspected that the CIA was trying to play you--play us?"
Sydney immediately felt abashed. "Vaughn, I didn't mean--"
"Syd, you spend ten minutes with Irina Derevko, and you're already suspicious of the CIA's motives," he said coldly. "How long do you think it will take her to drive a wedge between us, so that you doubt me, too?"
"Oh, God, Vaughn!" Sydney gasped, the full horror of their situation washing over her anew. The mission had barely begun, and she and Vaughn were already at each other's throats, only hours after making love for the first time.
She felt battered by the emotions that engulfed her.
How had it come to this? Had she been playing straight into Irina's hands-- the same hands that had held the gun which killed Vaughn's father in cold blood?
"Vaughn, how are we going to get through this?" she whispered brokenly.
"We'll get through it," he answered, grasping her shoulders, his voice firm. "But, Syd, you've got to know one thing: I'd never lie to you," he said, gazing at her steadily, his green eyes never leaving her face. "I've seen too many people deceive you and play on your loyalty, and I swore a long time ago that even if everyone else failed you, I would never betray your trust. Doubt everything else, but never doubt that."
Sydney nodded. She sniffed and ran her hands through her hair, her features growing more resolute. "How do you want to play this?"
Vaughn looked at her questioningly, and she met his gaze.
"We're in this together--you've got as much say in how this plays out as I do."
He sighed. "I don't know. I need more time to think it through. It never occurred to me that we might be able to bring your mother in willingly. I think better when I'm warm. Let's continue this conversation after we stoke the fire."
A few moments later they were kneeling side by side near the hearth, arranging kindling and firewood. Sydney struck a match, and the kindling burst into flame, licking the logs above them. Vaughn left and returned with the quilt from the bed. He swept her up in its folds and pulled her back, until they were both seated on the rag rug before the fire, engulfed in the quilt. Syd leaned back until her shoulders rested on his chest, and her cheek rested near his chin. For at time they were both mesmerized by the orange and gold flames, dipping and weaving around the chinks in the logs.
Syd was the first to break the silence.
"Do you believe Rambaldi could foretell the future?"
"I guess that depends on what you mean by 'foretelling,'" Vaughn said slowly, "Say he really did see into the future. If what he saw in his vision was only one of many possible futures, we still have a chance of altering it by our response to the prophecy, and the answer would be no. But if everything is predetermined, I guess it doesn't matter--no matter how we respond to the prophecy, the result will be the same. Who knows? Our response to the prophecy itself may have been predetermined and instead of thwarting it, our actions will help bring it to pass. I guess it all comes down to whether you believe in free will or fate."
"What do you believe?"
Vaughn did not answer immediately and jabbed meditatively at the fire with an iron poker, releasing a shower of variegated sparks from the log, which swirled up the chimney, and then floated down, glowing upon the hearth, until they cooled to ash.
"If you'd asked me a few years ago, I would have said I agreed with Tolstoy: our freedom to act is constrained by the choices made by ourselves and others. Within the grid of possibilities still open to us, we have the opportunity to act freely, with no way of knowing how inconsequential or significant any of our actions will turn out to be in the future. But now I am not so sure. I think fate may play more of a role than I originally thought."
"What made you change your mind?"
"Meeting you."
His answer took her breath away.
Vaughn glanced at her.
"I never told you this, but see this watch?" he said lifting his wrist, so that the silver links in the watch band glinted in the firelight. "It belonged to my father. It's broken now. But it used to keep perfect time, and when he gave it to me, he said that you can set your heart to this watch. It stopped October first, the day we meet. You don't know how many times I've looked at it and wondered what brought you into my life," he continued. "Was it divine intervention?--destiny?--a stroke of luck? If you think of all the things that had to fall into place for us to meet, it's hard to believe it was chance."
They were both quiet for a time, thinking of alternate lives, alternate fates.
"What career would you have chosen, if you hadn't decided to go into the CIA?" Sydney asked.
"You mean besides goalie for the Kings?" Vaughn joked.
"Besides that," Sydney said, hiding her smile in the quilt.
"I thought about law for a time, but I guess I would have gone to Princeton, got my PhD in Russian Literature."
"Seriously?"
"You sound surprised. How could you be surprised after buying me War and Peace, in Russian no less?"
"It just means we could have met any number of ways," Sydney answered.
"At an MLA conference, you mean."
"Or at a lecture, or a bookstore--a coffee shop, even."
"I could have been engaged to Alice; you might have married Danny," he cautioned.
"I don't think it would have mattered," Syd answered in a low voice.
"You don't know that. We'd be different people, leading different lives--" he protested, but it physically hurt him to think that there were alternate lives, alternate fates, that did not include a moment like this, the two of them wrapped together in his grandmother's quilt, in front of the warm glow of the fieldstone fireplace.
"Perhaps you're right," he sighed. "Syd, I never told you the full story about my break up with Alice. It was messy--she accused me of having an affair with a co-worker, and I couldn't deny it, because the fact was, I was in love with another woman--that woman was you. It didn't matter that I hadn't acted on it yet.
"After we broke up, I didn't see Alice again for several months, but we met up again at friend's house shortly after you returned from Arkhangelsk on your mission with Noah. I knew something had happened between the two of you, and it tore me up inside. I had no claims on you, but still, it hurt-- a lot. I wanted it to be me--not Noah--you turned to when you wanted someone--needed someone--in that way."
"Vaughn, you don't have to explain," Syd said in a low voice, knowing what was coming and trying to forestall it, to spare them both.
"No, I promised you a few minutes ago that I wouldn't lie to you, and I meant it," he said, stubbornly ignoring her protestations. "It's better to get everything out in the open, so we can go forward without any questions or doubts.
"I used to dream about taking you to a hockey game or going out for pizza," he declared. "Even though I knew it wasn't realistic to expect you to wait for SD-6 to fall so that we could find out what we meant to each other, I just hoped you would wait--wait for me--I mean. And I had every intention of waiting for you. There was no one I wanted to be with more than you, but, after Noah, I realized that maybe you needed something else-- someone else--in your life, and that I should try to move on."
Vaughn swallowed. "So I got back together with Alice. Even then I knew I had made a mistake. I wasn't being honest with myself, Alice, or you. Deep down I knew I wasn't trying to move on because I thought it was best. A part of me wanted to get back at you for sleeping with Noah. As soon as I admitted that to myself, I knew I couldn't continue the relationship with Alice, so I broke up with her again, shortly before we left for Denpassar."
Sydney blinked. His words stung, and guilt washed over her anew for having hurt him. "I can't blame you for getting back together with Alice, after I slept with Noah. The truth is, I wanted to be with you, and when that seemed impossible, I used Noah as a substitute. When we got back to LA, and you asked about the trip, I knew I had betrayed something precious and unspoken between us, and it made me sick inside," she said her voice low, dipping her head, so that her hair fell in front of her face, and went on quickly. "There's something you should know, though."
Vaughn glanced at her, steeling himself for whatever she might say next.
"Noah asked me to go away with him. He said he had money in a Swiss bank account that he'd siphoned off from K-Directorate--enough money to live on a remote island somewhere and never be heard from again. I told him no, and when he asked why, I told him there were personal reasons. What I didn't tell him was that I was in love with you, and even though I couldn't be certain there'd ever be anything more between us, especially after what happened in Arkhangelsk, I couldn't leave, never knowing for sure. Noah wasn't the one I wanted to run off to a deserted island with--it was you. Who knew it would all lead here--to Île Mariette."
Vaughn gave a short laugh and shook his head. "We have your father and Irina Derevko to thank for that."
He wrapped her more tightly in his arms and kissed her hair. They both gazed into the fire. Sydney watched the embers burn a ghostly white around dancing blue and orange flames and thought about the relationships she had for models--Sloane's relationship with Emily, her parents' marriage--they were all based on deception and lies. Only Dixon and his wife Diane had given her a glimpse of what a happy committed relationship might be like. Except Dixon was also systematically lying to his wife about the nature of his work, just as she herself would have had to lie to Danny. It didn't matter that Dixon had switched sides and was now working for the "good guys" as a double agent for the CIA. The lies and the cover stories he told Diane were still the same.
Vaughn's relationship models seemed no less tragic: a father he idolized, murdered in the prime of his life, a mother left widowed, so young. A grandfather who never got to see the daughter he had fathered or the grandson who would bear his name.
A log popped, and then cracked in half, revealing a core of glowing orange.
"Tell me more about your grandparents," Syd said softly, nestling against him.
Vaughn smiled. If he was surprised at the change of subject, he didn't reveal it. He enjoyed talking about his family, and relished the opportunity to share this part of his personal life, once forbidden by protocol, with her.
"Well," he began, "my grandmother grew up here on the island, as I told you. From the stories the islanders tell, she was a spitfire--didn't take any guff from anybody, stubborn and independent as hell, and liked to charm her way out of things, if she got in trouble. She was 19 when she met my grandfather. I think he was 34, so there was quite an age difference. I guess it didn't matter that much back then. From what my grandmother said, it was love at first sight."
"It's funny," Vaughn continued. "I doubt my grandparents would have met, if it hadn't been for the war and the fact that my grandfather was in the Resistance. Like I told you, the Delormes were a rather well-to-do family, well-respected at the time, and my grandmother was a girl from a Breton fishing village. But the class difference wasn't the main issue. My grandfather was already estranged from his family when he met my grandmother. He was the youngest of three sons, and despite his parents' wishes, he refused to go into politics like his brothers, who held important positions in the Vichy government by that time. Needless to say, my grandfather didn't share their Nazi sympathies, but he pretended to, and was therefore well positioned to exploit theirs. From the declassified documents I've been able to dig up, he provided the Allies with valuable intelligence," Vaughn said, with evident pride. "And from the sound of it, my grandmother helped him."
"It makes me think of 'Casablanca.'" Sydney said, smiling. "What was the name of Ilsa's husband--the French Resistance leader?"
Vaughn laughed. "Laslo. Victor Laslo. He was played by Paul Henreid. I remember watching 'Casablanca' for the first time and thinking they'd based the character on my grandfather, because that's exactly how my grandmother described him: calm, cool, principled, and aristocratic."
"So how did your grandparents meet?"
"My grandfather was helping Jean-Luc Brochet load contraband onto a boat in the harbor, when they were almost caught by a patrolling Nazi soldier. My grandmother was passing by, figured out what was going on, and distracted the soldier long enough for them to finish loading the cargo and escape undetected. My grandfather asked Brochet who she was and took a real risk to make contact with her the next time he came to Île Mariette. It was quite romantic," he said, giving her a sideways glance and smile.
"When did they marry?"
"Shortly before my grandfather left on his last mission. He told her if all went well with this particular mission, the war would be over in a matter of months. They were married secretly in the convent chapel. He left the next day, and she never saw him again. Nine months later my mother was born."
Sydney was silent. By marrying, Marie Arnault and Michel Delorme had defied the dangerous circumstances they found themselves in and made a bid for a future together. Were she and Vaughn so very different, embarking as they were on a clandestine romance, in defiance of CIA protocol and the threats posed by both SD-6 and her mother? Then, as now, the possibility of loss was real--after all, Michel Delorme had not survived his final mission. However, Sydney doubted Vaughn's grandparents would have chosen differently, even if they had known their time together would be cut tragically short.
"Vaughn, if you knew this weekend would be all we'd have--would it change anything?"
Vaughn glanced at her. "Do you remember what Ilsa told Rick in 'Casablanca'?"
Sydney smiled, through her tears. "'We'll always have Paris.' "
"I guess--at the very least--we can say we always had Île Mariette," he said softly.
He turned her head towards him and kissed her. The kiss deepened, until they sank down onto the rag rug. One by one, layers of clothes were discarded, and they made love in the firelight, the orange glow flickering across their bodies, their union filled with a new and passionate desperation. Much later, they fell asleep in front of the fire, wrapped in the quilt, exhausted but content after winning another momentary respite from the danger they faced.
Vaughn woke up with Sydney curled at his side, her hair, lacquered and burnished by the flames, spread out around her. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he arose and arranged the quilt around her shoulders. He dressed in the firelight and then walked across the room to the bookshelf. Taking down a small wooden box, he carried it over to the table and laid it on top of the Rambaldi documents which still lay unfurled on its surface.
He opened the lid of the box, and inside were layers of family memorabilia: a stick figure drawing of a man sitting astride a horse, holding a lance, which he had made for his grandmother the summer he turned six; letters tied with a faded blue ribbon that his mother had written to his grandmother when she was studying at the Sorbonne; a sepia-toned picture of his mother as a baby; and another of a man in his thirties, with an aquiline nose and strong, determined gaze. Vaughn held this last photo for a long time, studying it intently. Then he glanced at the parchment on the table, and Irina's enigmatic gaze seemed to mock him.
Two generations of his family had sacrificed love for duty and honor. His father and grandfather had died to defend their ideals and their countries. His mother and grandmother were strong women who had known love and had learned to survive its loss. He himself had grown up in the shadow of their grief. He'd be damned if he'd let the pattern continue to the third generation.
Turning over his grandmother's box, he removed the false bottom, revealing a hidden compartment, containing a small velvet bag. He opened the drawstring, removed what was inside, and slipped it into his left hip pocket, with the peculiar and mystifying object he had carried with him since Taipei. Going over to his dufflebag, he removed his Sig Sauer and checked the cartridge.
He was ready.
He was still asleep, and she lifted her head from his chest, marveling at this wondrous man before her, trying to memorize everything about this moment. The way his tousled brown hair fell over his brow, the long lashes which brushed his cheeks, the cleft in his chin, and his lips parted slightly in slumber.
"Vaughn?" she said softly.
"Hmph?" came his muffled reply.
"I love you."
"Hmmm," he sighed contentedly, drawing her back into his arms.
She once more laid her head on his chest, and the next time she awoke, it was to the smell of coffee brewing. Vaughn stood by the stove, his back turned, chopping bunches of dill and parsley and basil for an omlette. He was wearing the bottom half of the Brooks Brothers pajamas she had given him--the drawstring tied loosely, so that they hung low on his hips, and she smiled appreciatively at the sight.
He had left the top half for her, draped at the foot of the bed. Slipping the soft linen pajama top over her head, she silently got up from the bed and quietly walked over to where Vaughn was standing. She put her arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. His skin smelled fresh and clean.
"Hey," he said softly, turning around and pulling her into his arms. "How did you sleep?"
"Unbelievably well!" she answered, dimpling, thinking how wonderful it felt to wake up in his arms. "Did you hear the rain this morning?"
He nodded. "I doubt we'll be able to go to the lighthouse today. The coast of Brittany gets more rain than any other part of France. Sorry--I should have warned you."
Syd smiled. "I've always loved the sound of rain. I can't think of anything nicer than spending the afternoon here with you--preferably in front of a huge fire."
Vaughn gazed at her, a shy, bemused smile playing on his face. "Syd, last night was--"
"Truly amazing," she said softly, looking up into his eyes. "How are your ribs?"
He laughed. "A little sore, but I'm okay--really."
They smiled shyly at each other, and Vaughn reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Syd," he said, turning serious, "if Weiss or Barnett had asked me two weeks ago whether I thought I would ever have the chance to fall asleep in your arms and wake up beside you in the morning, I would have told them it was impossible--more than I could possibly hope for in this lifetime."
He swallowed. "Now I can't imagine doing anything else."
Syd nodded, tears pricking at her eyelids. She bit her lip, a sudden wave of dread seizing her. She began to shiver and Vaughn rubbed her shoulders.
"Are you warm enough? It gets drafty in here," he said, concerned. "I can stoke up the fire."
Sydney shook her head, her attention caught by the tattoo on his left arm. It was an intricately detailed coat of arms. A visored helmet, facing left, rested on top of a shield, depicting an avenging angel dressed in armor. Flaming sword in one hand and shield in the other, with his wings spread out behind him, the angel was shown crushing a writhing devil, in the guise of a dragon, beneath his right foot. The scene was inked in black against an azure background, and the colors were repeated again in the blue plumes of the mantle which unfurled on either side of the shield. Above the visored helmet appeared the motto "Fide et Fortitude."
"Is it a military insignia?" she asked, tracing the pattern with the tip of her finger.
"No, it's a family crest--the Delorme coat of arms," he answered, coloring slightly. "The Delormes were--are--an old aristocratic French family. Louis XI awarded the Ordre de Saint-Michel to Jean-Luc Delorme back in 1469. He named his son Michel, and it's been a family name ever since. In fact, I'm named after my grandfather, Michel Delorme. My grandfather came from one of the less well-to-do branches of the family that lost most of their money and land in the intervening centuries. But there's still a house and a small vineyard in Fleury that my mother inherited. That's where I grew up."
"This is the first time you've mentioned your grandfather," Sydney observed.
"That's because I never got the chance to get to know him, and neither did my mother," Vaughn answered. "He died before she was born, but she never tired of telling me stories about him. My grandfather was in the Resistance- -he and Jean-Luc Brochet, the captain of the Bihan Gouelanig, were good friends. He came to ÎIe Mariette on covert missions to exchange intel with Brochet, and that's how he met my grandmother."
"How did he die?" Syd asked softly, already intuiting the answer.
"He was captured while conveying intel to the Allied forces about the disposition of German troops, tortured, and then killed. You wouldn't believe what effect those stories had on my childhood, knowing my grandfather had died fighting in the French Resistance and that my father had done the same while working for the CIA."
Sydney thought again of Vaughn as a small boy, brandishing a stick sword. "I can imagine," she said quietly. "When did you decide to get the tattoo?"
"When I was eighteen--the year I put in the ten months of military training necessary to keep my dual citizenship. I was young, and all my buddies were getting them--the French flag, the name of a girlfriend. I chose the Delorme coat of arms--in honor of my grandfather. Kinda quixotic, I know," he said giving her one of his lop-sided grins. "But, hey, if you have any dragons that need slaying, I'm your man."
Sydney laughed. "It suits you," she said simply, glancing once more at the avenging angel dressed in armor emblazoned on the coat of arms. Vaughn was her guardian angel, her knight errant, her confidant. If the Delorme motto "Faith and Fortitude" applied to anyone, it applied to Michael Vaughn.
"Syd, if I could slay dragons, I'd start with Arvin Sloane," he stated quietly, studying her intently.
Sydney glanced up at him, and her heart ached. "You told me once that it's not about cutting off an arm of the monster, it's about killing the monster. That's what we're doing--slaying the dragon," she replied. "We just have to earn our happily-ever-after, that's all."
Then she smiled. "Do want help chopping? I can finish that while you work on the galettes."
Vaughn shook his head and waved her away. "I've got things under control here. You can go take a bath, if you want. There's no running water, but I set up a tub in the corner behind the screen. I have one more kettle of water heating on the stove. Once I add that, the water should be ready. I left some towels and soap on the chair. Is there anything else you need?"
Sydney smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. "No--you've thought of everything--except, well, I didn't bring a change of clothes."
Vaughn smiled. "Look on the chair. There's a pair of jeans, a sweater, and some other things. I hope everything fits. I went to Macy's, and walked around cluelessly until a sales clerk asked me if I needed help. I explained I was taking my girlfriend on a surprise getaway to Great Britain, described your dimensions, and she helped me approximate your size."
Sydney kissed him appreciatively. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Go soak. Breakfast will be on the table by the time you get done."
Sydney shed her pajama top and stuck a toe into the large aluminum tub. The water was perfect. She stepped in and discovered there was just enough room to sit down, if she bent her knees. There was a bar of handmade honey and oatmeal soap on the chair next to the tub, and after she had lathered her entire body, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the sloping sides of the tub, marveling at how many kettles of water it had taken to fill it only a few inches. Vaughn must have been boiling water all morning just so that she could have a bath.
Without meaning to, she dozed off, and when she awoke, she found that the water had cooled. Vaughn was at the side of the tub, pouring a new kettle of heated water into the bath. He was no longer dressed in the bottom half of the Brooks Brothers pajamas, but in a pair of jeans and a charcoal turtleneck.
"Hey,"
"Hey," she said smiling. "The water felt so good, I fell asleep."
"Nothing like a tub to take a nap in. Sit up and I'll wash your hair. I've got just enough hot water left to help you rinse it."
"Vaughn, you're spoiling me," she protested.
"Somebody should," he smiled. "Sit up."
He took the bottle of shampoo from the chair and poured a generous amount on her hair. The scent of lavender and freesia evoked French gardens, as Vaughn's strong fingers massaged her scalp. She let out a soft moan, and he laughed.
"I thought I had discovered all your erogenous zones last night."
"You've got me. The secret's out. I have a tub fetish," Syd sighed, blissfully. "We need to get a bigger tub, so you can join me."
The implication of the words did not occur to her until the statement was out of her mouth. One night on Île Mariette, and she was already planning joint purchases! She felt herself blush, thankful that Vaughn was behind her and couldn't see her face.
"I'll put that at the top of my list of improvements to make to the cottage," he told her seriously, hoping his voice didn't betray the goofy grin that had spread across his face. "I've been meaning to find out how much it would cost to put in electricity and plumbing, but it never seemed worth it, when my mother and I are hardly ever here."
"Close your eyes," he said, and poured the last of the hot water from a pitcher over her head.
"Vaughn, don't change a thing. I love everything just the way it is," she replied sincerely, when she could speak again. "That way it will be always be like it was when your grandmother was alive--the way it is for us now."
She stood up and the water cascaded down her body in rivulets, coursing around her breasts and undulating over her hips and thighs and the flat plane of her stomach.
"God, you're beautiful!" Vaughn breathed, and Syd knew that the hunger in his eyes had nothing to do with breakfast.
She smiled and grabbed the soft oversized towel from the chair.
Reluctantly Vaughn went to check on the food, and Syd pulled on the t-shirt and briefs, along with the pair of jeans and the blue cashmere sweater Vaughn had purchased. She chuckled, thinking of his expedition to Macy's, and stepped from behind the screen to find the table laid. She sat down delightedly, and Vaughn flipped a perfectly formed Mingaux cheese and herb omlette onto her plate. She took one of the galettes smothered in honey and passed the plate to him.
"Vaughn, this is delicious!" Syd exclaimed. "If Francie only knew, she'd steal you and make you her sous-chef! She wouldn't be shocked at all if I told her you're from the CIA, because she'd think I meant the Culinary Institute of America."
"Well, at least I've got an 'in' with Francie. I don't think my first meeting with Will went so well," he said ruefully. "How's he doing?"
"He's decided to come work for the CIA. Truthfully, I'm worried about him. He looked like he hasn't slept at all since he got back from Taipei. Oh, Vaughn! They're going to discredit him by making him look like a heroin- addict. His reputation will be ruined, and he'll have to give up his job at the paper."
"I know. Weiss told me," Vaughn replied grimly. "But I think it's for the best, Syd. We don't want Will to be any more of a target than he already is."
He sighed heavily and his brow furrowed. "I guess we shouldn't put off the mission planning any longer. Let's finish eating, and then we'll begin strategizing our response to your mother's threat. As much as I'd like to pretend we're here for pleasure, you and I both know that isn't true. Which reminds me--I think I would have found the Rambaldi documents last night if you had concealed them on you" he said with the grin she had grown to love. "The only thing you brought with you was that straw hat. Where'd you stash them?"
Sydney smiled mischievously.
He raised an eyebrow. "They're in the hat?"
"I sewed them into the binding. If there is one thing I've learned from Marshall it's the importance of accessorizing when planning a mission," Sydney laughed, as she went over to the door to pick up the article in question. It still lay where it had slipped from her hand, moments before Vaughn had kissed her the day before.
She pulled at the seam around the band and slowly slid a sheaf of tightly rolled documents out onto the table Vaughn had just cleared of dishes. He stepped away from the table and returned with books to pin down the edges.
"Were the documents simply part of the cover mission, or was there a reason you wanted me to bring them to Île Mariette?" Syd asked.
"I wanted to get another look at them--see if there was anything that might clue us in to Irina's next move."
"In that case, there's something else you might want to see," Sydney said hesitantly, unfurling another sheet of tightly rolled parchment on the table, from which gazed a face uncannily like her own.
"You stole Page 47 and brought it here?" Vaughn said running a hand through his hair until it stood up in spikes. "Syd, we should have discussed this!" he exclaimed, his words coming out in a rush.
"Vaughn, when were we going to talk about it? You were in the hospital--"
"You could have told Weiss--"
"I didn't trust Weiss!" Sydney cried.
He stared at her.
Sydney sighed. "When you were delirious you told me about the argument you had with Weiss after Denpassar. About following protocol. I couldn't go to him--not about this!"
"Syd, I don't think--"
"Vaughn, my mother knew about the prophecy," Sydney interrupted urgently, her words tumbling over each other. "She thinks it's a hoax--something perpetrated by the CIA to keep us on opposite sides. But the possibility that it could be true--that she's the one Rambaldi prophesied would render utter devastation--it scared her, because she knew it would mean that she had misinterpreted Rambaldi and betrayed and killed for a utopia that would destroy the world, rather than save it. Don't you see? If we can prove that the prophecy is authentic, she might abandon her work. My mission was to come to Île Mariette and have the the Rambaldi pages analyzed by Prof. Vinneaux. I figured it was my only chance to get the prophecy independently verified, by a source outside of the CIA--someone she might trust."
"So instead of infiltrating Irina's organization and bringing it down from the inside, you think you can convince her to turn herself in voluntarily?" he said, shaking his head. "Syd, that's a hell of a chance to take. Say we do convince her that the prophecy is authentic; that doesn't mean she'll believe she's the woman Rambaldi spoke of. If we fail to bring her in, that's it; the entire mission fails. We'll lose our best opportunity to take down her organization. Are you willing to risk that, with everything that hangs in the balance? Risking both our lives, not to mention the lives of Francie and Will, Dixon, and your father?"
"She's my mother," Sydney stated simply. "I have to try."
Vaughn gazed at her, troubled, his forehead creased with worry.
Her eyes filled with tears. "When I saw my mother in Taipei, she told me everything she had done was to keep us safe from the political machinations of the world's superpowers. She called herself a citizen of the world, just like her father, and said she would do anything she had to do, so that her father's sacrifice was not in vain."
"Her father?" Vaughn asked.
"Yuri Alexseivich Suvin, a nuclear physicist. She said the Soviet government discovered he was spying for the United States and sent him to Siberia, where he was later put to death without a trial."
"Yuri Alexseivich Suvin? Are you sure?" Vaughn repeated. "Syd, Suvin was a nuclear physicist sent to the gulag and executed for being an American spy-- that much is true. It made the international news at the time. I researched Suvin as a part of my honors thesis at Stanford. But Suvin was turned in to the KGB by his family. If Irina Derevko is really Irina Suvina, it means she denounced her own father."
Sydney looked stunned, and Vaughn grabbed her hand.
"I know this has to be unbelievably hard for you," he continued, "but you have to realize something. Irina Derevko may be your mother, but she is also a master of manipulation--she knows you've been lied to and betrayed. Everything she said about Suvin and the faked Rambaldi prophecy was calculated to win your trust and make you doubt the CIA so that you'd come to work for her willingly."
Syd countered swiftly. "But if we appear to acquiesce too easily to her ultimatum, without questioning the CIA's role, or simply reject her explanation of events without due consideration, she'll suspect the whole operation is a set up, and there'll be nothing preventing her from killing us on the spot!" Sydney cried. "If we play it right, bringing her the prophecy so that she can authenticate it herself will look like an act of good faith on our part!"
"You sound as if you really believe there's a chance the CIA would fake the Rambaldi prophecy!" Vaughn replied, irritation evident in his voice.
Sydney's lips trembled. "How would we know? You and I aren't Rambaldi experts. If the CIA can dupe Sloane with their fakes, who's to say they're not duping us?" she asked more softly this time. "I can't bear to be lied to again. Not by the CIA. I worked for SD-6 for seven years, thinking I was working for the good guys. I don't want to make the same mistake again."
Vaughn looked at her in open disbelief.
"Syd!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Stop and think about what you're saying- -"
"I'm not saying I am convinced the CIA faked the prophecy," Sydney replied, her voice shaking now. "I am saying that the prophecy is the key to persuading my mother to abandon her work, and for that to happen, she needs to believe the prophecy is authentic. But if she's right and the prophecy's not authentic, we need to know what the CIA's true agenda is!" she cried angrily.
"We know what the CIA's true agenda is!" Vaughn yelled, no longer able to contain his exasperation.
"Then why are you upset by the fact that I want to authenticate the prophecy?" she shouted back.
They stood nose to nose, glaring at each other for several seconds. Finally, Vaughn turned away. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, and when he faced her again, his expression was pained.
"Why am I so upset? Because by doubting the CIA, you doubt me by extension, and that--hurts," he stated quietly. "Don't you think I'd come to you immediately if I suspected that the CIA was trying to play you--play us?"
Sydney immediately felt abashed. "Vaughn, I didn't mean--"
"Syd, you spend ten minutes with Irina Derevko, and you're already suspicious of the CIA's motives," he said coldly. "How long do you think it will take her to drive a wedge between us, so that you doubt me, too?"
"Oh, God, Vaughn!" Sydney gasped, the full horror of their situation washing over her anew. The mission had barely begun, and she and Vaughn were already at each other's throats, only hours after making love for the first time.
She felt battered by the emotions that engulfed her.
How had it come to this? Had she been playing straight into Irina's hands-- the same hands that had held the gun which killed Vaughn's father in cold blood?
"Vaughn, how are we going to get through this?" she whispered brokenly.
"We'll get through it," he answered, grasping her shoulders, his voice firm. "But, Syd, you've got to know one thing: I'd never lie to you," he said, gazing at her steadily, his green eyes never leaving her face. "I've seen too many people deceive you and play on your loyalty, and I swore a long time ago that even if everyone else failed you, I would never betray your trust. Doubt everything else, but never doubt that."
Sydney nodded. She sniffed and ran her hands through her hair, her features growing more resolute. "How do you want to play this?"
Vaughn looked at her questioningly, and she met his gaze.
"We're in this together--you've got as much say in how this plays out as I do."
He sighed. "I don't know. I need more time to think it through. It never occurred to me that we might be able to bring your mother in willingly. I think better when I'm warm. Let's continue this conversation after we stoke the fire."
A few moments later they were kneeling side by side near the hearth, arranging kindling and firewood. Sydney struck a match, and the kindling burst into flame, licking the logs above them. Vaughn left and returned with the quilt from the bed. He swept her up in its folds and pulled her back, until they were both seated on the rag rug before the fire, engulfed in the quilt. Syd leaned back until her shoulders rested on his chest, and her cheek rested near his chin. For at time they were both mesmerized by the orange and gold flames, dipping and weaving around the chinks in the logs.
Syd was the first to break the silence.
"Do you believe Rambaldi could foretell the future?"
"I guess that depends on what you mean by 'foretelling,'" Vaughn said slowly, "Say he really did see into the future. If what he saw in his vision was only one of many possible futures, we still have a chance of altering it by our response to the prophecy, and the answer would be no. But if everything is predetermined, I guess it doesn't matter--no matter how we respond to the prophecy, the result will be the same. Who knows? Our response to the prophecy itself may have been predetermined and instead of thwarting it, our actions will help bring it to pass. I guess it all comes down to whether you believe in free will or fate."
"What do you believe?"
Vaughn did not answer immediately and jabbed meditatively at the fire with an iron poker, releasing a shower of variegated sparks from the log, which swirled up the chimney, and then floated down, glowing upon the hearth, until they cooled to ash.
"If you'd asked me a few years ago, I would have said I agreed with Tolstoy: our freedom to act is constrained by the choices made by ourselves and others. Within the grid of possibilities still open to us, we have the opportunity to act freely, with no way of knowing how inconsequential or significant any of our actions will turn out to be in the future. But now I am not so sure. I think fate may play more of a role than I originally thought."
"What made you change your mind?"
"Meeting you."
His answer took her breath away.
Vaughn glanced at her.
"I never told you this, but see this watch?" he said lifting his wrist, so that the silver links in the watch band glinted in the firelight. "It belonged to my father. It's broken now. But it used to keep perfect time, and when he gave it to me, he said that you can set your heart to this watch. It stopped October first, the day we meet. You don't know how many times I've looked at it and wondered what brought you into my life," he continued. "Was it divine intervention?--destiny?--a stroke of luck? If you think of all the things that had to fall into place for us to meet, it's hard to believe it was chance."
They were both quiet for a time, thinking of alternate lives, alternate fates.
"What career would you have chosen, if you hadn't decided to go into the CIA?" Sydney asked.
"You mean besides goalie for the Kings?" Vaughn joked.
"Besides that," Sydney said, hiding her smile in the quilt.
"I thought about law for a time, but I guess I would have gone to Princeton, got my PhD in Russian Literature."
"Seriously?"
"You sound surprised. How could you be surprised after buying me War and Peace, in Russian no less?"
"It just means we could have met any number of ways," Sydney answered.
"At an MLA conference, you mean."
"Or at a lecture, or a bookstore--a coffee shop, even."
"I could have been engaged to Alice; you might have married Danny," he cautioned.
"I don't think it would have mattered," Syd answered in a low voice.
"You don't know that. We'd be different people, leading different lives--" he protested, but it physically hurt him to think that there were alternate lives, alternate fates, that did not include a moment like this, the two of them wrapped together in his grandmother's quilt, in front of the warm glow of the fieldstone fireplace.
"Perhaps you're right," he sighed. "Syd, I never told you the full story about my break up with Alice. It was messy--she accused me of having an affair with a co-worker, and I couldn't deny it, because the fact was, I was in love with another woman--that woman was you. It didn't matter that I hadn't acted on it yet.
"After we broke up, I didn't see Alice again for several months, but we met up again at friend's house shortly after you returned from Arkhangelsk on your mission with Noah. I knew something had happened between the two of you, and it tore me up inside. I had no claims on you, but still, it hurt-- a lot. I wanted it to be me--not Noah--you turned to when you wanted someone--needed someone--in that way."
"Vaughn, you don't have to explain," Syd said in a low voice, knowing what was coming and trying to forestall it, to spare them both.
"No, I promised you a few minutes ago that I wouldn't lie to you, and I meant it," he said, stubbornly ignoring her protestations. "It's better to get everything out in the open, so we can go forward without any questions or doubts.
"I used to dream about taking you to a hockey game or going out for pizza," he declared. "Even though I knew it wasn't realistic to expect you to wait for SD-6 to fall so that we could find out what we meant to each other, I just hoped you would wait--wait for me--I mean. And I had every intention of waiting for you. There was no one I wanted to be with more than you, but, after Noah, I realized that maybe you needed something else-- someone else--in your life, and that I should try to move on."
Vaughn swallowed. "So I got back together with Alice. Even then I knew I had made a mistake. I wasn't being honest with myself, Alice, or you. Deep down I knew I wasn't trying to move on because I thought it was best. A part of me wanted to get back at you for sleeping with Noah. As soon as I admitted that to myself, I knew I couldn't continue the relationship with Alice, so I broke up with her again, shortly before we left for Denpassar."
Sydney blinked. His words stung, and guilt washed over her anew for having hurt him. "I can't blame you for getting back together with Alice, after I slept with Noah. The truth is, I wanted to be with you, and when that seemed impossible, I used Noah as a substitute. When we got back to LA, and you asked about the trip, I knew I had betrayed something precious and unspoken between us, and it made me sick inside," she said her voice low, dipping her head, so that her hair fell in front of her face, and went on quickly. "There's something you should know, though."
Vaughn glanced at her, steeling himself for whatever she might say next.
"Noah asked me to go away with him. He said he had money in a Swiss bank account that he'd siphoned off from K-Directorate--enough money to live on a remote island somewhere and never be heard from again. I told him no, and when he asked why, I told him there were personal reasons. What I didn't tell him was that I was in love with you, and even though I couldn't be certain there'd ever be anything more between us, especially after what happened in Arkhangelsk, I couldn't leave, never knowing for sure. Noah wasn't the one I wanted to run off to a deserted island with--it was you. Who knew it would all lead here--to Île Mariette."
Vaughn gave a short laugh and shook his head. "We have your father and Irina Derevko to thank for that."
He wrapped her more tightly in his arms and kissed her hair. They both gazed into the fire. Sydney watched the embers burn a ghostly white around dancing blue and orange flames and thought about the relationships she had for models--Sloane's relationship with Emily, her parents' marriage--they were all based on deception and lies. Only Dixon and his wife Diane had given her a glimpse of what a happy committed relationship might be like. Except Dixon was also systematically lying to his wife about the nature of his work, just as she herself would have had to lie to Danny. It didn't matter that Dixon had switched sides and was now working for the "good guys" as a double agent for the CIA. The lies and the cover stories he told Diane were still the same.
Vaughn's relationship models seemed no less tragic: a father he idolized, murdered in the prime of his life, a mother left widowed, so young. A grandfather who never got to see the daughter he had fathered or the grandson who would bear his name.
A log popped, and then cracked in half, revealing a core of glowing orange.
"Tell me more about your grandparents," Syd said softly, nestling against him.
Vaughn smiled. If he was surprised at the change of subject, he didn't reveal it. He enjoyed talking about his family, and relished the opportunity to share this part of his personal life, once forbidden by protocol, with her.
"Well," he began, "my grandmother grew up here on the island, as I told you. From the stories the islanders tell, she was a spitfire--didn't take any guff from anybody, stubborn and independent as hell, and liked to charm her way out of things, if she got in trouble. She was 19 when she met my grandfather. I think he was 34, so there was quite an age difference. I guess it didn't matter that much back then. From what my grandmother said, it was love at first sight."
"It's funny," Vaughn continued. "I doubt my grandparents would have met, if it hadn't been for the war and the fact that my grandfather was in the Resistance. Like I told you, the Delormes were a rather well-to-do family, well-respected at the time, and my grandmother was a girl from a Breton fishing village. But the class difference wasn't the main issue. My grandfather was already estranged from his family when he met my grandmother. He was the youngest of three sons, and despite his parents' wishes, he refused to go into politics like his brothers, who held important positions in the Vichy government by that time. Needless to say, my grandfather didn't share their Nazi sympathies, but he pretended to, and was therefore well positioned to exploit theirs. From the declassified documents I've been able to dig up, he provided the Allies with valuable intelligence," Vaughn said, with evident pride. "And from the sound of it, my grandmother helped him."
"It makes me think of 'Casablanca.'" Sydney said, smiling. "What was the name of Ilsa's husband--the French Resistance leader?"
Vaughn laughed. "Laslo. Victor Laslo. He was played by Paul Henreid. I remember watching 'Casablanca' for the first time and thinking they'd based the character on my grandfather, because that's exactly how my grandmother described him: calm, cool, principled, and aristocratic."
"So how did your grandparents meet?"
"My grandfather was helping Jean-Luc Brochet load contraband onto a boat in the harbor, when they were almost caught by a patrolling Nazi soldier. My grandmother was passing by, figured out what was going on, and distracted the soldier long enough for them to finish loading the cargo and escape undetected. My grandfather asked Brochet who she was and took a real risk to make contact with her the next time he came to Île Mariette. It was quite romantic," he said, giving her a sideways glance and smile.
"When did they marry?"
"Shortly before my grandfather left on his last mission. He told her if all went well with this particular mission, the war would be over in a matter of months. They were married secretly in the convent chapel. He left the next day, and she never saw him again. Nine months later my mother was born."
Sydney was silent. By marrying, Marie Arnault and Michel Delorme had defied the dangerous circumstances they found themselves in and made a bid for a future together. Were she and Vaughn so very different, embarking as they were on a clandestine romance, in defiance of CIA protocol and the threats posed by both SD-6 and her mother? Then, as now, the possibility of loss was real--after all, Michel Delorme had not survived his final mission. However, Sydney doubted Vaughn's grandparents would have chosen differently, even if they had known their time together would be cut tragically short.
"Vaughn, if you knew this weekend would be all we'd have--would it change anything?"
Vaughn glanced at her. "Do you remember what Ilsa told Rick in 'Casablanca'?"
Sydney smiled, through her tears. "'We'll always have Paris.' "
"I guess--at the very least--we can say we always had Île Mariette," he said softly.
He turned her head towards him and kissed her. The kiss deepened, until they sank down onto the rag rug. One by one, layers of clothes were discarded, and they made love in the firelight, the orange glow flickering across their bodies, their union filled with a new and passionate desperation. Much later, they fell asleep in front of the fire, wrapped in the quilt, exhausted but content after winning another momentary respite from the danger they faced.
Vaughn woke up with Sydney curled at his side, her hair, lacquered and burnished by the flames, spread out around her. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he arose and arranged the quilt around her shoulders. He dressed in the firelight and then walked across the room to the bookshelf. Taking down a small wooden box, he carried it over to the table and laid it on top of the Rambaldi documents which still lay unfurled on its surface.
He opened the lid of the box, and inside were layers of family memorabilia: a stick figure drawing of a man sitting astride a horse, holding a lance, which he had made for his grandmother the summer he turned six; letters tied with a faded blue ribbon that his mother had written to his grandmother when she was studying at the Sorbonne; a sepia-toned picture of his mother as a baby; and another of a man in his thirties, with an aquiline nose and strong, determined gaze. Vaughn held this last photo for a long time, studying it intently. Then he glanced at the parchment on the table, and Irina's enigmatic gaze seemed to mock him.
Two generations of his family had sacrificed love for duty and honor. His father and grandfather had died to defend their ideals and their countries. His mother and grandmother were strong women who had known love and had learned to survive its loss. He himself had grown up in the shadow of their grief. He'd be damned if he'd let the pattern continue to the third generation.
Turning over his grandmother's box, he removed the false bottom, revealing a hidden compartment, containing a small velvet bag. He opened the drawstring, removed what was inside, and slipped it into his left hip pocket, with the peculiar and mystifying object he had carried with him since Taipei. Going over to his dufflebag, he removed his Sig Sauer and checked the cartridge.
He was ready.