A willowy young man entered the York Gentlemen's Club, and after greeting
the maitre d', threaded his way purposefully through the tables towards the
slight figure of a middle-aged man expertly swirling a wine glass, his
greedy eyes savoring the garnet liquid in anticipation. The young man sat
down, and a sommelier appeared to pour a glass from the bottle of Chateau
Petrus '82 that rested on the table to the left of the older man.
The young man smiled with sincere appreciation. "You remembered. How truly thoughtful."
Raising the glass to his nose, Arvin Sloane inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in reverence. "It's a pleasure to share a passion with someone so...promising." He tilted the glass to his lips and inhaled a stream of radiant liquid with a swift sure breath of air. The wine flowed over his palate, quickening every taste bud with penetrating flavors of ripe mulberry, black currant and spicy vanilla oak. "Petrus was the first great Bordeaux I tasted from my father's collection--the inimitable Vintage 1947. I shared the bottle with him just before I left for school in 1965. Sublime. Unbelievably, he still has 2 bottles from the case."
Sark settled into the deep plush seat, repeating the actions of the older man with a dancer's grace, as he too savored the moment. "It's pleasant to share a bottle of wine with one's father, Mr. Sloane. A most inviting memory."
"Yes," he concurred pensively.
Then his gaze refocused on the sardonic face of the man across from him. "I trust recruitment was successful?"
"Mr. Weiss proved uncooperative and had to be neutralized. There was progress with Ms. Calfo, but the operation was compromised. Sadly, Edward Sorenson can no longer pursue a business relationship with Ms. Calfo, who no doubt believes she was a victim of fraud."
Sloane frowned briefly, "You warned me about the imminent fall of SD-6, and for that I am grateful." Replacing the glass on the table, he leaned in, "But I am wondering, Mr. Sark, if you can live up to your promise."
Smiling only with his eyes, Sark said, "What promise would that be?"
"You promised me Irina Derevko. I have seen nothing yet that suggests you have followed through on your end of the--arrangement."
Sark withdrew a red velvet bag from his pocket and handed it across the table. "There were complications."
Sloane quirked an eyebrow and removed the contents. It was the Delorme ring. The ruby glowed vermilion, while the pearls on either side of it shone iridescent in the soft light of the green banker's lamp on the table.
"Things took an unexpected turn on Île Mariette. My--late--employer was a casualty of her emotions and a misdirected shot. I made my escape expeditiously. If you think I've made the wrong choice, return the ring, and I will make good on my original promise."
"Late?" A momentary expression of shock passed across Sloane's face. Trying to seem casual, he slipped the ring back into its velvet bag and placed it in his breast pocket.
"Tragically, yes," replied the young man who showed no discernible emotion.
"That won't be necessary. You acted wisely. It is still possible to acquire what we need to construct 'Il Dire.' It will simply take--finesse."
He raised his glass for another appreciative sip.
Sark looked amused. "Finesse is a relative term, Mr. Sloane."
Sloane smiled. "Indeed. I assume Irina gave you the ring, when you threatened to kill Sydney?"
"I took the ring from Sydney. Let's just say when given the choice whether to sacrifice the life of Michael Vaughn or the ring he gave her, she chose the latter."
"Michael Vaughn gave Sydney the ring?" Sloane asked sharply, putting down his glass.
"Yes." Sark narrowed his eyes. "It seemed to shock my late employer, as well. Irina spoke of a second prophecy--one involving a Red Lady and her Azure Knight. She seemed to believe that it referred to none other than Sydney Bristow and the valiant Mr. Vaughn," he mocked. "This surprises you?"
"It does. It changes--everything. Absolutely--everything," Sloane replied, stroking his chin and staring long into the glistening crystal of the Waterford flower vase.
Sark watched the older man as he pondered the implications of the news. He was a patient man but he had his own agenda to pursue. "Having spent the better part of your life pursuing the arcane, Mr. Sloane, I'm sure this revelation is of vital significance. However, for the benefit of someone not so--adept--in spiritual matters, would you care to illuminate?"
"There are two prophecies--or more accurately--two variants of the same prophecy, each involving the same key figures, but predicting vastly different outcomes. There was such acrimonious debate over which prophecy was authentic, it caused a schism among the followers of Rambaldi. A group of adherents of the second prophecy fled to France in the 15th century and found asylum in the courts of Louis XI. It was believed that one of these followers had absconded with Rambaldi's signet ring, an artifact purported to be a catalyst in bringing the second prophecy to pass. Some believe Louis XI founded the Ordre de Saint-Michel and gave the ring to one of the knights for safe-keeping. The identity of this knight and the whereabouts of the ring were never discovered and some doubted the ring was ever brought to France. It appears, Mr. Sark, that you have discovered what many Rambaldi devotees consider to be the Holy Grail."
"Knights, damsels, prophecies--a medieval romance to rival le Morte d'Arthur," Sark said, with an ironic arc of the eyebrows.
"You mock, but you yourself look as if you've--crossed swords--with someone," Sloane replied, a smug smile appearing on his lips.
Sark touched the crescent-shaped cut on his right cheek, still livid and tender to the touch, and frowned, not deigning to reply.
Instead, he shifted position and cleared his throat.
"Since you seem to have reassessed the value of my service, perhaps you will entertain a certain proposition I have in mind," he queried. "As Irina's second-in-command, I stand to acquire not only her position as The Man, but the largest collection of Rambaldi artifacts in the world, second only to your own. Therefore, I propose that we merge our resources. We will accomplish far more as allies, than we will as rivals. Consider the ring a gesture of good-faith, if you will."
"Such a partnership would seem to have its advantages."
Sark smiled. "One could even say that it was--fated."
"You are a man of many surprises, Mr. Sark," Sloane said approvingly. "You remind me of myself when I first started out. I predict you'll go far. A toast to our partnership," he said, raising his glass
Sark tilted his head in acknowledgement and raised his own glass in turn. "Then let me take this opportunity to make you aware of something I have only just discovered myself that might help--cement--our future relationship."
He withdrew a file from his jacket and handed it to Sloane. Enclosed was a copy of Irina Derevko's KGB file and a Russian birth certificate, dated March 11, 1981, issued to a child born within a high-security Russian prison and signed by the warden. The third set of documents was a series of genetic tests.
"A son!" Sloane murmured. "Who is the father?" he queried, thinking of the men in Irina's life at that time: Jack, Alexander Khasinau--who knew which others?
"I narrowed the possibilities to two men--her husband or her KGB recruiter." Something indefinable flickered in the young man's eyes for a moment and then disappeared, replaced by his usual cool demeanor. "When I dug a bit deeper into her past, however, a third possibility, later confirmed by genetic tests, came to light."
Sloane lowered his wine glass, his hand shaking, and he looked at the insolent young man across the table, as if for the first time. Sark stared back, his piercing blue eyes revealing just a hint of droll irony.
"Who?"
"Shall we order?" asked Mr. Sark as he raised the over-sized menu to a position concealing his face.
Sloane counted back nine months from the date given on the birth certificate. Late June. 1980. Paris. The intense excitement of their secret discoveries, bursting into a passion they could never acknowledge for fear of hurting the people they most loved. She disappeared 6 weeks later. He never knew.
A son.
The young man smiled with sincere appreciation. "You remembered. How truly thoughtful."
Raising the glass to his nose, Arvin Sloane inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in reverence. "It's a pleasure to share a passion with someone so...promising." He tilted the glass to his lips and inhaled a stream of radiant liquid with a swift sure breath of air. The wine flowed over his palate, quickening every taste bud with penetrating flavors of ripe mulberry, black currant and spicy vanilla oak. "Petrus was the first great Bordeaux I tasted from my father's collection--the inimitable Vintage 1947. I shared the bottle with him just before I left for school in 1965. Sublime. Unbelievably, he still has 2 bottles from the case."
Sark settled into the deep plush seat, repeating the actions of the older man with a dancer's grace, as he too savored the moment. "It's pleasant to share a bottle of wine with one's father, Mr. Sloane. A most inviting memory."
"Yes," he concurred pensively.
Then his gaze refocused on the sardonic face of the man across from him. "I trust recruitment was successful?"
"Mr. Weiss proved uncooperative and had to be neutralized. There was progress with Ms. Calfo, but the operation was compromised. Sadly, Edward Sorenson can no longer pursue a business relationship with Ms. Calfo, who no doubt believes she was a victim of fraud."
Sloane frowned briefly, "You warned me about the imminent fall of SD-6, and for that I am grateful." Replacing the glass on the table, he leaned in, "But I am wondering, Mr. Sark, if you can live up to your promise."
Smiling only with his eyes, Sark said, "What promise would that be?"
"You promised me Irina Derevko. I have seen nothing yet that suggests you have followed through on your end of the--arrangement."
Sark withdrew a red velvet bag from his pocket and handed it across the table. "There were complications."
Sloane quirked an eyebrow and removed the contents. It was the Delorme ring. The ruby glowed vermilion, while the pearls on either side of it shone iridescent in the soft light of the green banker's lamp on the table.
"Things took an unexpected turn on Île Mariette. My--late--employer was a casualty of her emotions and a misdirected shot. I made my escape expeditiously. If you think I've made the wrong choice, return the ring, and I will make good on my original promise."
"Late?" A momentary expression of shock passed across Sloane's face. Trying to seem casual, he slipped the ring back into its velvet bag and placed it in his breast pocket.
"Tragically, yes," replied the young man who showed no discernible emotion.
"That won't be necessary. You acted wisely. It is still possible to acquire what we need to construct 'Il Dire.' It will simply take--finesse."
He raised his glass for another appreciative sip.
Sark looked amused. "Finesse is a relative term, Mr. Sloane."
Sloane smiled. "Indeed. I assume Irina gave you the ring, when you threatened to kill Sydney?"
"I took the ring from Sydney. Let's just say when given the choice whether to sacrifice the life of Michael Vaughn or the ring he gave her, she chose the latter."
"Michael Vaughn gave Sydney the ring?" Sloane asked sharply, putting down his glass.
"Yes." Sark narrowed his eyes. "It seemed to shock my late employer, as well. Irina spoke of a second prophecy--one involving a Red Lady and her Azure Knight. She seemed to believe that it referred to none other than Sydney Bristow and the valiant Mr. Vaughn," he mocked. "This surprises you?"
"It does. It changes--everything. Absolutely--everything," Sloane replied, stroking his chin and staring long into the glistening crystal of the Waterford flower vase.
Sark watched the older man as he pondered the implications of the news. He was a patient man but he had his own agenda to pursue. "Having spent the better part of your life pursuing the arcane, Mr. Sloane, I'm sure this revelation is of vital significance. However, for the benefit of someone not so--adept--in spiritual matters, would you care to illuminate?"
"There are two prophecies--or more accurately--two variants of the same prophecy, each involving the same key figures, but predicting vastly different outcomes. There was such acrimonious debate over which prophecy was authentic, it caused a schism among the followers of Rambaldi. A group of adherents of the second prophecy fled to France in the 15th century and found asylum in the courts of Louis XI. It was believed that one of these followers had absconded with Rambaldi's signet ring, an artifact purported to be a catalyst in bringing the second prophecy to pass. Some believe Louis XI founded the Ordre de Saint-Michel and gave the ring to one of the knights for safe-keeping. The identity of this knight and the whereabouts of the ring were never discovered and some doubted the ring was ever brought to France. It appears, Mr. Sark, that you have discovered what many Rambaldi devotees consider to be the Holy Grail."
"Knights, damsels, prophecies--a medieval romance to rival le Morte d'Arthur," Sark said, with an ironic arc of the eyebrows.
"You mock, but you yourself look as if you've--crossed swords--with someone," Sloane replied, a smug smile appearing on his lips.
Sark touched the crescent-shaped cut on his right cheek, still livid and tender to the touch, and frowned, not deigning to reply.
Instead, he shifted position and cleared his throat.
"Since you seem to have reassessed the value of my service, perhaps you will entertain a certain proposition I have in mind," he queried. "As Irina's second-in-command, I stand to acquire not only her position as The Man, but the largest collection of Rambaldi artifacts in the world, second only to your own. Therefore, I propose that we merge our resources. We will accomplish far more as allies, than we will as rivals. Consider the ring a gesture of good-faith, if you will."
"Such a partnership would seem to have its advantages."
Sark smiled. "One could even say that it was--fated."
"You are a man of many surprises, Mr. Sark," Sloane said approvingly. "You remind me of myself when I first started out. I predict you'll go far. A toast to our partnership," he said, raising his glass
Sark tilted his head in acknowledgement and raised his own glass in turn. "Then let me take this opportunity to make you aware of something I have only just discovered myself that might help--cement--our future relationship."
He withdrew a file from his jacket and handed it to Sloane. Enclosed was a copy of Irina Derevko's KGB file and a Russian birth certificate, dated March 11, 1981, issued to a child born within a high-security Russian prison and signed by the warden. The third set of documents was a series of genetic tests.
"A son!" Sloane murmured. "Who is the father?" he queried, thinking of the men in Irina's life at that time: Jack, Alexander Khasinau--who knew which others?
"I narrowed the possibilities to two men--her husband or her KGB recruiter." Something indefinable flickered in the young man's eyes for a moment and then disappeared, replaced by his usual cool demeanor. "When I dug a bit deeper into her past, however, a third possibility, later confirmed by genetic tests, came to light."
Sloane lowered his wine glass, his hand shaking, and he looked at the insolent young man across the table, as if for the first time. Sark stared back, his piercing blue eyes revealing just a hint of droll irony.
"Who?"
"Shall we order?" asked Mr. Sark as he raised the over-sized menu to a position concealing his face.
Sloane counted back nine months from the date given on the birth certificate. Late June. 1980. Paris. The intense excitement of their secret discoveries, bursting into a passion they could never acknowledge for fear of hurting the people they most loved. She disappeared 6 weeks later. He never knew.
A son.